miserycanary

[miserycanary]

yandere caleb x reader — toxic babytrapping <3

Content warning: dubcon, toxic dynamics, babytrapping, possessive/obsessive behavior, power imbalance, degradation/praise mix, breeding kink, and yandere themes, caleb calls you meimei, you call him gege.

Do not continue if you’re uncomfortable with dark content.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Caleb breathes against the shell of your ear, his voice warm, almost syrupy—too soft for the way his hips are pinning you down, grinding slow and deep. “Not when I’ve worked so hard to get you like this… all dumb and messy for me.”

Your nails scratch at the sheets, legs trembling from overstimulation, but he just laughs gently—like he’s proud. Like he planned this.

“Poor little pipsqueak,” he coos, lips brushing your temple as he presses another thrust into your fluttering cunt. “Told you not to run from me, didn’t I? Told you what would happen if you kept acting like you didn’t need me.”

You can’t even speak. You’re too full, too stretched, his cock battering against your cervix like it’s knocking on heaven’s door and dragging you back down to hell in the same stroke.

“Aww, look at you,” he hums, voice sweet as poison. “So fucked-out and perfect. My little angel. Gege’s perfect little meimei.”

His hand cradles your lower belly then—there. Pressing right there.

“Right here, baby,” he whispers, smiling against your cheek. “Gonna make it take. Gonna fill you up and make sure you’re mine forever. You hear me?”

You whimper, try to twist your hips, but his other hand slides under your thigh and hooks it high around his waist, locking you in deeper.

“No more running. No more being difficult.” His breath hitches, and his next thrust is brutal—sharp and punishing—but his voice stays so heartbreakingly soft. “You’re gonna give gege a baby. You want that, don’t you, pips?”

You sob—helpless and shaking—as he presses kisses along your neck, sweet nothings dripping off his tongue like venom.

“I’ll take care of everything. You don’t need to think anymore. Just be mine. Just lay here like this, pretty and full, while I fuck a future into you.”

He’s close now—his rhythm stuttering, a low, desperate growl curling into his chest. And then, with your name on his tongue and madness in his voice, he spills inside you with a moan like worship.

“My meimei. Mine forever.”

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[miserycanary]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Didn’t Want a Family… But I’ll Fuck One Into You Again.

(Toji’s not soft about your pregnancy. Not at all.)

Toji didn’t want you pregnant.

He never said it.

But you could tell—

The first few weeks? He barely touched you. He was restless. Distant. Hated how vulnerable you looked. Hated the idea of family sprouting from his cock.

Until your belly popped.

And then?

Something snapped.

Now he fucks you like you’re a feast.

Bent over the mattress, belly cradled in a pillow, ass up, tits leaking and bouncing while Toji rails you like it’s a punishment.

“Look at this body,” he growls, pressing a palm to your stomach. “S’not right how good you look like this.”

“You’re ruined. Full of my fuckin’ kid and still tight around me—God, you’re disgusting.”

You moan. You drool. You try to run—he grabs your hips and slams you back down on him.

“Nah. You wanted this. Gotta finish what I started.”

He stares at your belly while he’s inside you.

Sometimes presses on it. Just to feel how deep he is.

Rubs your swollen bump and talks to it.

But not sweetly. Not like a dad.

Like a man taunting his own addiction.

“You feel that, kid? That’s your old man rearranging your damn house.”

You slap his shoulder.

He smirks.

“What? Can’t lie. You love this too.”

And you do.

Because he fucks you until your legs don’t work.

Until your tits are dripping. Until you’re crying and babbling please, please, Toji—too much— and he still doesn’t stop.

He eats your pussy like it’s soaked in sin.

Worships it. Tongue buried deep, one palm under your belly to hold it up like it’s holy, the other around your thigh like you might float away.

“Tastes sweeter when you’re knocked up,” he mutters, mouth wet, voice dark.

He growls when your thighs shake.

“Fuck. You clench more now. You wanna be bred again, don’t you?”

You whine.

He laughs.

“Oh, I know you do. You’re perfect like this. Dumb little bitch with my baby in her and still beggin’ for more.”

When you’re lying in bed—bare, swollen, sleepy—he fucks you then too.

Doesn’t ask. Just pulls your legs apart and slides in slow.

One hand on your throat.

One hand on your belly.

“You made this,” he whispers against your ear.

“I made you like this. You think I’m ever lettin’ you go?”

And when you try to tell him to take it easy?

He slaps your ass. Growls in your ear.

“Too late to take it easy now, mama.”

“You’re already carrying my kid. Might as well carry my cum, too.”

You can’t even argue. You’re moaning too hard.

And he loves it.

[miserycanary]

You know what would be cathartic? A man who lets you cry it out while he fucks comforts you.

Whether it’s lying on his chest, huddled into his soft sweatshirt, his fingers running through your hair, and tickling down your back. He’ll grab food, set up a movie, and let you be sad and distracted until it doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Or when he lets you bury your face into the pillows, surrounding you in a nest of them so you’re nice and cozy while he massages and kneads your back, ass, and thighs. He’ll strip you from the waist down - covering your feet with a blanket so they don’t get cold - and run his thumbs firmly up the insides of your thighs until they part.

Unhurried and confident, he reaches down and slides along the wetness gathered between your folds. Working small circles into your clit until your hips twitch, then he’d go back to teasing your entrance. Building a soothing rhythm back and forth between stimulating your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers gently agaisnt the resistance.

When he sees the tension relax in your shoulders, that’s when he would carefully press two fingers inside. Just a few times, only to see if the give was enough. His lips would kiss along your shoulder, long presses of his mouth to ground you. He could make you finish that way, he’d love to, any other day, but something tells him you need more.

So instead, he’ll hook his sweatpants below his balls. Make everything nice and wet, with extra lube if needed, just so there’s nothing for you to worry about. He’ll press in slowly. Carefully stretching your walls out. Barely half your face is visible from where it’s buried, but your soft whines and sniffles encourage him to seat his cock deep inside you.

When he bottoms out, he lets out a moan as well, and new tears well up in your eyes. He has kept you warm, fed, fucked, and loved. Allowing you to just feel. Feel sad, feel safe, feel him.

And fuck, that’s all you were beginning to feel. His warmth draped over your back, his hands searching to find yours under the pillows, his lips kissing anywhere on your face he could reach. Building slow, rhythmic thrusts of his hips against your ass while you hiccup. Encouraging your eyes to shut, even as tears trickled out. He presses kisses to your temple and cheek, resting against the back of your neck when your pussy sucks him in on each backstroke.

You don’t need to chase the feeling in your stomach when he’s already set on giving it to you, precisely drilling into your sweet spot. A sob rips from your chest when you cum, orgasm washing over you in waves as his hips stutter from your grip. He lies against you, weight trapping you flat to the bed in floaty, blissful peace.

You fall asleep that way, with him still inside. Clean up forgotten, but he’d do everything for you - anything you needed.

[miserycanary]

whenever it’s your turn to do the laundry, caleb never fails to keep you company — though “keeping you company”, it usually just means distracting you entirely.

he just couldn’t help himself — watching you move around the laundry room, focused on such a simple task, wearing shorts that are way too small to wear outside the house. the fabric clinging to you, riding up with every movement, your ass peeking out from underneath just enough to throw him off.

it’s not your fault that you’re trying to stay cool in the summer heat without walking around completely naked. for caleb, it’s torture. blood rushes south before he even realises it. his thoughts already overtaken by the need to touch you. what a perv.

you didn’t even hear him come up behind you, until you felt his big hands grab at your waist, pulling you flush against him. he couldn’t help but think with his cock. his erection straining against his shorts, catching you off guard when it presses just above your ass. you’re barely able to process anything before he’s already grinding against you, hips rolling into you slow but with intent. his uneasy breaths cutting through the silence of the room.

what started as an easy task of sorting white laundry quickly took a sharp, filthy turn.

your hold on the washing machine is tight, bracing yourself against it as caleb drills his cock into you. the sting of your walls accommodating to his size and what felt like he was rearranging your guts was overwhelming. you’re completely sucking him in. every thrust rocks your body forward, if it weren’t for the appliance holding you up, you probably would’ve collapsed.

“fuck- if you keep squeezing me like that…” he’s breathless, completely lost in you. “‘m gonna fill you up.” your sweet moans, your tight walls and the way your pussy practically speaks to him only spurs him on — it’s all too much. his movements grow sloppy and desperate.

caleb watches himself sink into you, admiring how your cunt drools all over him. a white ring prominent at the base of his cock from your orgasm earlier, now chasing his own.

“you want it, pips? want me to breed this pretty pussy?” his dirty words make your brain turn to mush. you’re totally cock drunk, quick to answer him with a long whiny “yeeessss” and that’s all it takes. he thrusts one final time, hard and deep, with a guttural moan. spilling his seed into you — coating your insides white.

he grunts incoherent nonsense and all you can do is take everything that he gives as you slump your weight onto the machine. laundry is long forgotten and so is your ability to think straight.

a/n - take the relationship w/ caleb as you will (husband? boyfriend? roommate? whatever floats your boat i couldn’t decide :P

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[miserycanary]

Margaritaville

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort. Or: the knocked up on vacation au Part 1 masterlist

-

A familiar voice rouses you from a daydream that was just getting good. “Are you going to spend our entire vacation by the pool?”

“…Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?”

You lift your sunglasses to meet your friend’s eyes, no need to squint against the sun because the way she’d stood in front of you blocks it from blinding you with your sunglasses off, inadvertently blocking the one thing you’d been hoping to keep your eyes on. 

Irritation prickles at the base of your spine, but you resist the urge to snap no matter how tempting it is. You’ve been getting away with murder these past couple days and throwing a fit won’t get you anywhere but in more hot water. 

“You’re supposed to be spending time with your friends,” she says, emphasizing the last word to communicate that you’ve been slipping in your duties. 

“Oh, sorry,” you apologize begrudgingly, leaning up on your elbows. “Were you, um…do we have plans that I’m forgetting about?”

“We’re taking the shuttle down to the beach,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder to where the rest of your friends are waiting with their flip flops and tote bags by the archway leading into the resort, the shuttle just through the double doors at the other end of the main building. “Are you coming?”

If you give yourself any time to deliberate, you’re worried that you’ll end up saying no, so instead you sigh, pushing yourself up from your elbows onto your hands. “Alright, give me a sec. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

She nods, appeased, heading back to the rest of the group with a thumbs up. 

Leaning over the side of the chair, you gather up your belongings, stuffing everything into your tote apart from the greasy, half-finished bottle of sunscreen that you keep in your hand, conscious of how it keeps leaking from where the lid broke the other day. 

It takes you a second to muster up the willpower to stand up and join them, your id screaming at you to turn around and plant yourself back in that pool chair to keep admiring the view. You have to be strong though. No breaking now after you just gave her your word that you’d come. 

One last surreptitious glance over your shoulder is all you allow yourself, biting your lower lip when you catch him stretching his arms over his head to grab the back of his pool chair, hairy pits on full display and lats stretching with the movement of his arms. 

Fuck, you nearly whimper, teeth pressing deeper into your lip. He slings one leg over the edge of the chair so his foot is planted on the floor, making his shorts pull tight across the thick bulge of his crotch.  

Fuck. 

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort in various states of undress, your stomach a mess of both butterflies and knots every time you see him on the treadmill when you pass by the fitness centre or getting breakfast at the buffet in the morning.

Typically though, you can find him lounging on one of the poolside canopy beds with his boonie hat pulled down over his eyes, hands folded just under his pecs, clearly using his vacation to actually relax instead of running all over the resort like you and your friends. It affords you ample opportunity to stare unabashedly, eyelids going heavy the longer you stare at his strong chest and legs, thigh muscles making his swim trunks seem almost a size too small. 

Your friend wasn’t wrong to call you out for being less than attentive. You’ve been a lost cause since you first laid eyes on him, your thoughts a thick slurry of pent up horniness, tongue all but swollen in your mouth from how little you’ve been using it this trip. 

(if only you could pull down those shorts of his and use your tongue on him instead—)

In your defence, you haven’t been making an active effort to pick him up because you know that you're supposed to be enjoying your vacation with your friends. You’re well aware of how shitty it would be of you to try and hook up with another guest when you’re supposed to be spending time with them. 

But you also can’t help but linger when you realize that the same man (the one that has to be a decade your senior—the one that's built like a man, hirsute and tall, always a head above anyone else in the room) is nearby. It’s like he has some kind of magnetic pull on you.

You’re not proud of it, but at least part of your attention has gone towards figuring out whether he’s on vacation alone or with someone. No ring on his finger could mean anything. Lots of people commit without the ring; he could have a girlfriend and two kids back in his hotel room and you’d be none the wiser.

Then two days become three and you’re almost positive that he hasn’t come with anyone else. He eats alone and poolsides alone and you’ve never seen him so much as smile at someone who wasn’t wearing a resort uniform. The false hope that thought imbues you with is downright delusional. 

Your daydreams become increasingly oriented around following him back to his hotel room and slipping inside after him. You’ve never had a vacation fling before, but you think he’d make it good. Something about the way he walks like it’s heavy between his legs makes you think that he’d treat you right. 

You sit up and wipe the corner of your mouth, catching yourself drooling again. 

There are plenty of other things to do besides ogling the hot guy trying to enjoy his vacation alone though, so you force yourself to do things with your friends before one of them finally lays into you for zoning out the whole trip. Beach excursions and karaoke after dinner; you spend two hours dancing with two of your friends at the silent disco while your other friend goes upstairs for a shower and nap. Anything to show up and be present with your friends instead of languishingly in daydreamsville. 

Despite your best efforts though, you’re clearly not as subtle as you’d tricked yourself into believing. 

Rain is coming down in buckets outside. The four of you play Uno in the hotel room to wait it out when one of your friends asks if you’d be down to go on a snorkeling tour with the rest of them when the weather clears up. 

You open your mouth, about to respond, when your other friend cuts you off. “No, she’ll be busy making moon eyes at that guy with the weird hat.”

Your other friends cackle. Your cheeks flood with heat, so caught off guard that you can barely defend yourself, sputtering out something that only confirms her words. 

One of the others shrugs, putting a +2 down. “I get it. He’s really hot.”

“He’s like forty.”

“So what?” you sputter.

“You two want to fuck an old man?”

The friend that supported you rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, grow up. Forty’s not that old. Also I only said that he’s hot. No one’s getting married to him.”

The four of you share a laugh at that. If your laughter happens to come out strained, borderline forced, no one calls you out on it. 

The ribbing gets under your skin more than you’d like to admit, but instead of throwing a fit, you tap your nails impatiently against the back of your cards and roll your eyes, stacking the +2 with one of your own. “I can’t wait to get rid of you bitches and get home to the package that I’m waiting on.”

“I know what package you’d like to wait on,” someone mumbles.

“Shut up!” you shriek, mortified, snatching a pillow from the couch behind you to launch at her head and sending the others into hysterics. 

The problem is that he’s just always there. 

It’s a small resort—of course you’d cross paths with him every now and then, but somehow it feels like no matter where you go, he’s somehow nearby, either already there before you arrived or not long after. You’ve come to almost expect him because of that, meaning that on the rare occasion where an hour goes by without him pulling up a chair across the pool from you, your thoughts start to spiral and your mood goes sour. 

Glancing around the pool for the umpteenth time elicits no new sign of him though, much to your frustration. Not that you’ve made a habit of keeping tabs on his movements or knowing where he might be at any hour of the day (your conscience whispers staaaaalker under her breath and looks pointedly away), but it’s unusual not to see him sleeping in one of the free cabanas or sitting in the pool with both arms braced behind him on the coping. 

Greedy. You’ve grown so used to him always being around that it’s made you spoiled. 

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” you announce to the group, already toying off your flip flops and getting ready to slip into the pool. “Anyone wanna come?”

A couple of them let you know that they’ve heard you, but no one offers to join. Makes sense; it’s somewhere between two and three in the afternoon and the sun is at its highest, the air so hot that it’s an effort to not doze off in your chair, the heat making you lethargic. Your skin reminds you when to reapply sunscreen, the last layer sloughing off with the sweat constantly dripping down your body, ever in need of replenishment. You smooth a little more into your legs and arms before throwing the bottle back onto the floor next to your sandals, skin nice and sheeny again. 

The only swim-up bar is on the other side of the pool, so you float over slowly, wading through deeper and deeper waters until you almost have to cling to the side of the pool. It’s slow going, giving you ample opportunity to scan the poolside for your mystery man’s telltale red pinstripe swim trunks.

No dice. Just chairs and cabanas filled with people that you swear you’ve never seen in your life (not like you’ve been paying attention to any of the other guests). 

At the bar, you order a margarita and sit on the stool welded into the bottom of your pool with your elbows planted on the damp counter, your lower half still submerged. Frustration ebbs only for a dejected mopishness to flow back in.  

It might’ve been easier to push your disappointment down if any of your friends had bothered to join you for a drink, but you can’t blame them for taking advantage of the beautiful weather. 

The resort is nothing short of heaven. Thick palm fronds dangle over the pool chairs and sway back and forth with the gentle breeze. Light chatter from the people on the other end of the swim-up bar is just barely discernable over the sound of the music playing from the speaker overhead. 

The clientele at this resort is a mixed bag: some small groups of folks roughly your age and a multitude of families, the buffet practically a warzone with kids chasing each other around tables and through the halls, excited screeches following you all over the resort. There’s another pool a short shuttle ride away more geared towards kids though, thankfully, so this pool is relatively quiet apart from the music blaring from speakers placed strategically throughout the property, a mix of acoustic covers and lounge beats in the morning, and upbeat pop in the mid-afternoon to liven things up.  

It’s nice. Definitely worth the fifteen hundred dollars and definitely worth coming back next year if your friends don’t boot you from the group chat the second you touch down back home. 

That’s what you’re thinking about when you casually glance around the pool again and feel your heart nearly jump out of your chest when you spot him. 

He appears from around a palm tree like the red sea parting, so sudden that all you can do is stare wide-eyed, discretion the last thing on your mind. It’s not that you don’t care if he sees you staring unabashedly, it’s just that you physically can’t look away from him. 

He must have set down his stuff on one of the pool chairs nearby because he walks over barefoot, slipping into the water almost gracefully for a man his size, biceps bulging when he lowers himself from the edge into the pool. You spend so long staring at the faint pink sunburn on his shoulders and the undulating muscles of his chest that it takes a second for your eyes to meet his, a jolt going through your body when you find him staring right back at you, his gaze even heavier.

You go stock-still when he wades over to the swim-up bar where you're waiting on your drink and takes the seat directly beside you. The seats are arranged close together to fit as many as possible in front of the bar, so it’s not totally his fault that his thigh presses against yours. 

But you also can’t help but notice the three empty stools beside him. All that space, free for the taking, and yet he sits so close to you that anyone swimming by would naturally assume you were here together.

The smell of his skin is like sun and salt; if you inhale too deeply, you know it'll just make you dizzy. This close, you can make out every mind-numbing detail: the dense brush of hair on his forearms, the old school anchor tattoo on his shoulder, the thick band of a watch on his right wrist. The drawstrings of his trunks floating in the water, aglet the most buoyant. 

Your hands shake in your lap when he turns to the bartender and orders a drink too, the sound of his voice rolling over you, gruff in a way that almost makes you melt. 

A voice that makes you look up at him all doe-eyed and dumb when he finally looks down and says something to you for the first time.

“Haven’t I seen you around?” 

The shudder you manage to suppress, but the way your skin goes tight with goosebumps is out of your control. In all of your daydreams, he’d been more of the silent, grunting type—the type to huff and puff through every thrust, no appetite for sweet, sugary words. You never thought to imagine a voice to go along with his face. 

He’s handsome in the way that some men are—almost effortlessly. Sea blue eyes and strong nose; thick neck and bristly jaw. He wears his age well. 

And then his question registers, the gears in your brain slow to start chugging along again, overwhelmed by his proximity and attention, neither of which you ever expected to be on the receiving end. 

“Um…” you start, tripping over your words and swallowing them back up. “Maybe. Have you?”

His lips stretch into a fond, crooked grin, cheeks dimpling with his smile. “Yeah. Pretty sure I have.”

“Probably. I mean, I’m, um—I’m staying here. At the resort, I mean.”

“Here alone?” he asks. 

“No, I’m with them—” You turn and point over your shoulder towards your group still lounging in the cabana. “My friends. We got here a few days ago.”

“Right,” he says, not bothering to look over to where you’re pointing, eyes not shifting from your face. “Liking it so far?”

You’ll have to check later for burns because your face feels like it's on fire. The shock of the cold glass in your hand when the bartender passes you your drink helps to ground you at least. 

“It’s been nice,” you croak, smile feeble when you finally coax your slack lips into working again. “…How about you?”

You wish your conversation would come out less stilted. Hard to play it cool in a hundred degree heat.

“Getting better every day,” he replies, as smooth a line as you’ve ever heard. 

You take a sip of your drink, hoping the alcohol helps settle your nerves. You’re conscious of the way his eyes follow your tongue as you lick the salt off the rim of your glass. Someone off in the distance shrieks and there’s a splash from the other side of the pool, but it barely registers as background noise, all of your attention focused on the blue of his eyes.

“That any good?” he asks, voice gruff. 

“You want some?” you ask, instantly mortified when you hear what just came out of your mouth.

“Kind of you, love, but I can’t take what doesn’t belong to me.”

You don’t know what he means by that until the bartender puts a beer down in front of him, a lime garnishing the rim. The man thanks him, big hand wrapping around the bottle and fingers easily overlapping. The mental image of that goes straight into your spank bank for later. 

The lime gets dropped somewhere on the countertop and he takes a long pull from the neck, eyes locked on you the whole time. 

You’re not so naive as to not know what this is, but—

Someone calls your name from the other end of the pool and you turn instinctively at the sound, grasping onto the edge of the countertop and leaning back until you see one of your friends standing at the edge of the pool, waving you towards her. 

“Friends want you back?” he asks, sounding vaguely disappointed. You’re not sure if that’s just in your head or not. 

“Uh…I’m not sure—” you answer uncertainly. 

The same friend calls your name again, louder this time, garnering the attention of some of the other people sitting around the pool, and a surge of annoyance rushes up your chest. Weren’t they dozing off just a few minutes ago? Now all three stand at attention, sandals on and tote bags slung over their shoulders, the brims of their hats shading them from the sun as they gesture for you to join them. You nearly groan out loud. Of all times to call you back. 

You made a promise though, at least to yourself. The possibility of good dick, while tempting, is not enough to get you to switch your allegiances. 

(just yet, something in you whispers)

(give it enough time)

The smile you give him is rueful, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry—I should get going. They probably planned something at the beach. It was nice to meet you though…” There’s room at the end of your sentence for him to wedge his name in, a little dangling participle of pleasantry. 

A chuckle flows out of him like the chuff of a bear. “John.” He gives his name like a gift, offers his hand the same. 

You think it’s an offer anyway, until John just takes your hand, his damp, warm palm practically swallowing yours. Doesn’t wait for you to give him what he wants—just takes it like he’s owed it. The thought makes your head spin. Coarse, callused fingers wrap around the underside of your hand, long enough to nearly engulf your wrist as well. The hair on his knuckles is as dark as the pelt on his chest, and you wonder what it would feel like for him to drag a knuckle down the line of your jaw. 

Your throat pulls with a swallow, breath shaky on the way out. 

“Nice to meet you, John,” you say, all raspy-voiced, giving him your name as well like he pulled that from you too. 

It takes him a beat to let go of your hand, the intent in his hold so clear that he might as well say it right to your face. You have to leave before your resolve crumbles like papier-maché. 

“Since you’re not sticking around,” John says, finally letting go of your hand, “think I will have a taste.”

A taste. The word makes you clench up but you don’t register what he means until he curls his fingers around your margarita and brings it to his mouth, taking a sip from where you last had your lips. 

Oh god. You’re smart enough to get it. You’re smart enough to see that gesture for what it is. 

You send him one last thin, watery smile before beating a hasty retreat, his invitation still at the swim-up bar with him. Water sloughs off your body as you take the stairs out of the pool instead of swimming back to your friends, swimsuit damp in more ways than one, and you swear you can feel the heat of his gaze on your back as you walk over to where your friends stand. 

One of your friends peeks over your shoulder while handing you your stuff, eyes going wide when she notices him sitting where you just left. “Oh, did you see the hot guy was sitting at the bar too?”

“Yeah,” you reply, shaky hands slipping your sunglasses on. “I noticed.”

[miserycanary]

he always grumbles about how tight you are every time as if his massive dick isnt the real issue.

people often say you are lucky to have your husband, because of his impressive size.

his cock.

its as big as they say, thick and heavy stretching you to your limit as he pushes in, inch by agonizing inch.

you’re soaked, dripping but the tightness makes you both groan, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

“goddamn, you’re too tight,” he mutters, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open.

“every fucking time, its like you’re trying to kill me.” you gasp, half laughing, half moaning your hands braced against his chest as he bottoms out, the stretch burning so good you can barely think.

“maybe you’re just too big, kento,” you tease voice breathy but sharp, knowing itll rile him up.

his eyes narrow and he thrusts hard, deep, making you cry out, your nails digging into his skin.

“too big?” he repeats, a smirk tugging at his lips as he pulls back, then slams into you again, the headboard rattling.

“you’re the one squeezing me like you want me to lose it.” his words are clipped, frustrated.

your pussy flutters, and he groans, his rhythm faltering for a second.

“fuck, do that again, and im not gonna last.”

“kento, cmon,” you whine your hips rocking to meet his thrusts, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room.

“dont stop—fuck, you’re so big.” your praise slips out and he groans, deep and guttural, his hips stuttering as he fights to keep control.

“say that again,” he demands voice husky, one hand sliding to your clit, rubbing firm, quick circles that make you see stars. “tell me how big i am, love, you started this.”

“so big, kentooo...” you moan, voice high and desperate,

“can barely take you—fuck, you’re wrecking me.” the words spill out, and hes done for, his groans turning to curses as he thrusts once, twice, then comes, spilling hot and deep inside you, his body shuddering as he grips your hips like you’re his anchor.

you’re right behind him, your orgasm crashing through you, a sharp, shuddering wave that leaves you gasping, clenching around him as he rides it out, still murmuring, “too tight, too fucking tight.”

[miserycanary]

the first note appears on your fridge.

"don't forget to eat today. or i'll cry. seriously. i'm very sensitive.” it's signed with a doodle of satoru's sunglasses and a dramatic stick figure with tears.

you roll your eyes, toss it in the junk drawer, and forget about it.

but then you find another one. this time it’s on your bathroom mirror.

“you look hot today. but also brush your teeth please.” there’s a tiny cartoon of you with... vampire fangs?

you groan. “gojo…”

oh, it escalates fast.

within days, you’re finding sticky notes in increasingly stupid places. inside your cereal box “good morning, cereal thief 🥣^_^ ”, on your shampoo bottle "your hair smells really good, but i promise i'm not a weirdo about it.”, on the ceiling above your bed "dream of me or else >:( "

you confront him the next time he pops by unannounced, which is basically every other day.

“why,” you demand, shoving a handful of neon sticky squares at his face, “are you turning my apartment into a scrapbook?”

he feigns innocence, pushing his sunglasses up dramatically. “aw, you found them all? you’re so diligent, baby!”

“i'm serious!” you sputter. “one of these was inside my shoe.”

“hah- oh yeah, that one said, ‘don't step on my heart.’ cute, right?”

you threaten to throw him out. he refuses to stop.

but you start saving them.

you tell yourself it’s just because they’re funny, who wouldn’t keep a note that says “drink water or you’ll shrivel up like a sad raisin 💧” next to a crude drawing of a raisin with your face?

but some start to get weirdly sweet.

"hope today’s nice for you, even if i'm not there to annoy you.” or, “if you’re sad, open the freezer.” (inside your freezer was a note that said, "there, now your sadness is frozen.”)

then one night, you find the motherlode.

you drop your phone behind your tv stand and when you drag it out, there’s a single sticky note stuck to the back of the screen.

different handwriting. rushed, messier than his usual.

“if you ever get bored, piece them together.”

you spend the whole next day on your floor, surrounded by neon scraps of satoru's idiocy. it's like building a conspiracy board. arrows, tape, strings of doodles.

it hits you- numbers hidden in the corner of some notes, a doodle that matches another, words that line up when you overlap them.

hours later, your living room looks like a detective’s office and you’re staring at a single final message, pieced together from a dozen random half jokes.

“hey dummy. i love you. don't throw this one out, okay?"

you sit there for a minute, cheeks burning, surrounded by all his stupid doodles, and for once, you can’t even find it in yourself to be mad about the mess.

you hear your door unlock (he made himself a spare key). he pokes his head in, grinning.

“so?” he calls out. “did you figure out my puzzle, sherlock?”

you launch a sticky note at his face. he catches it in his mouth.

“you’re an idiot,” you say, heart hammering in your chest.

he crosses the room in two strides, scoops you up like you weigh nothing, and spins you around until you squeal.

“yeah,” he says, burying his face in your neck, “but i'm your idiot, huh?”

on your wall, the final note stays up for good.

even satoru doesn’t dare peel that one down.

[miserycanary]

THE MOMENT I WAS WAITING FORRRRR.

★ Roommate!Sukuna when he finally asks you out on a date.

You were the only one who could soften him up. Really.

Not just in bed — though, yeah, that too. But in the quiet, dumb moments. When you handed him your keys because you always forgot your wallet. When you kicked him under the table to stop him from roasting the waiter. When you said good morning and eat something and you look tired like you actually meant it.

It drove him insane.

All this back-and-forth — fighting, teasing, sleeping together, pretending not to care — it wasn’t doing shit for his mental state. He hated it. Hated not knowing if you’d be there when he woke up. Hated pretending the jealousy didn’t eat him alive when you mentioned other guys. Hated not being able to just grab you, kiss you stupid, and call you his.

So he did what any deeply unhinged man would do. He asked Gojo for advice. Yes. Satoru Gojo. He’s standing in the middle of the apartment like someone dragged him there at gunpoint. Flowers in one hand — the slightly-wilted kind you get from a corner shop because he didn’t know what the hell people usually buy — and the other hand jammed in his pocket like he’ll punch a wall if he doesn’t hold something.

The apartment looks... nice.

Cleaner than it’s ever been, at least. There are candles, flickering soft golden-orange across the walls. And strung up overhead — awkwardly looped, like someone too tall tried to reach a ceiling too high — are fairy lights.

The culprit? Gojo.

Sukuna will never admit it, but the bastard had helped. Sort of. After talking in circles with himself for days, wondering how the fuck people go from roommates-with-benefits to something actually real, he did the unthinkable and asked Gojo Satoru.

Gojo had lit up like Christmas. Told him he had exactly the lights for this. Said he'd pick up candles. That it’d be “soft boy hour.”

Sukuna had flipped him off no less than three times. Still, the guy left the apartment looking like a discount Pinterest date. And before leaving, Gojo slapped a box of matches into Sukuna’s hand and shouted, “Go get your girl, lover boy!”

Now it’s quiet, and Sukuna’s standing there, flowers clutched like a threat, trying not to look like he’s about to bolt.

The door opens.

You walk in— hoodie hanging off one shoulder, phone in hand, keys jingling— and the second you look up, your steps stutter.

“Oh.”

Sukuna blinks at you. “Yeah. Oh.” You glance at the apartment. “What… happened?” He shrugs, a little too stiff. “Nothing.”

“Why does it look like we got robbed by a Jo Malone pop-up?”

“…Dunno what that is.”

Your eyes drop to the flowers in his hand. “Those for me?”

He grunts. “No. For the trash.”

You raise a brow. He exhales, then shoves them at you. “Yeah, they’re for you, idiot.”You laugh, but it fades quickly as you look back up at him — really look — and see something tight in his jaw. A flicker of nerves.

“Sukuna,” you say, quieter now. “What’s going on?”

And that’s when he starts talking... sort of.

“I don’t do this shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “The lights. The candles. The… flower crap. I don’t date. I don’t do promises. I don’t—fuck, I don’t even text people back.”

You blink.

“But you—” his voice wavers, just barely. “You’ve been in my bed. My space. My head. For months now. And this back and forth thing? It’s not cutting it. I don’t wanna pretend anymore.”

He swallows. His eyes find yours— serious, scarred, dark around the edges.

“I wanna kiss you whenever the fuck I feel like. Call you mine. Be the guy who shows up for you, even if I suck at the soft parts.” He steps forward. A breath between you.

“And yeah. I asked Gojo. And yes, that was a terrible fuckin’ idea. But this? You? It doesn’t feel that bad.” Finally, his voice drops — still rough, still Sukuna, but something gentler laced in the gravel, “It’s okay to be this soft… for you.”

You’re quiet. Then he holds something out. Not the flowers — you’re already clutching those. Not a ring, either. Just a question. A hope, wrapped in his gritted-teeth delivery.

“Will you go out with me?” You don’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, you throw your arms around his neck, flowers crushed between you, and kiss him like you’ve been waiting to say yes for months.

And Sukuna?

He doesn’t pull away. Not once. He just grumbles into your hair, “Took you long enough, dumbass,” before kissing you again, arms tight around your waist — and for once, nothing about it is complicated.

It’s just him, and it’s just you.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie. @after-laughter-come-tears. @minasuniverse, @chewiebee @ilovebeansya @drowsysausagedog, @shroomysstuff, @angel4-miba @paperalphys. @eyeless-kun @etsuniiru @inzayneforaj @domainexpansionmypants @bloodb3nders @toesucker59, @qsidrea @spidergirlnr1

notes, fucking finally right???? are we gonna move on from this or are we gonna keep dragging this series?

[miserycanary]

IF U WANT MY BABY—U KNOW IMMA DRIVE U MAD.ᐟ

꒰ა NANAMI KENTO X BIMBO!READER ໒꒱

꒰ა summary ໒꒱ : is it really baby-trapping if you both want a baby?

꒰ა cw ໒꒱ : heavy manipulation, heavy smut, edging, begging, breeding, baby trapping, slightly yandere Nanami, drugging kinda lol, cock drunk, pussy drunk, bunny/bimbo reader. ꒰ა a/n ໒꒱ : been getting alot of asks here and ao3 about p3 of the nursery. with everything going on, i dont have the focus to write it cause the next part is gonna be gaggy and theres alot of loose ends to be tied. but i've been thinking about baby trapping too much lately, actually non-stop and since i can't write toji baby trapping, nanami is the next best thing! ꒰ა wc ໒꒱ : 3073

Baby-trapping Nanami...so you don't care when he can't find the condoms that are usually in the bedside table—especially when your body is currently vibrating with the aftershocks of his skillful tongue from what seems like hours of tortuous foreplay.

Yet, ever the gentlemen, Nanami pauses, asking if you want him to stop and see if he left them downstairs.

Instantly, tears well in your eyes and you're sputtering, groping the air at him with grabby hands.

"J-Just forget 'em— n-need you b-bad K-Ken!”

Maybe a little too eagerly, you manage to sit up, hands reaching for the firm flesh of Nanami’s muscular hips—too broad to fully grasp in your small palms. Your sweat-slick fingers nearly slip off his skin as you weakly tug him closer, guiding him toward you with a soft, breathless urgency.

Fuck. The. Condoms.

To be honest, they weren't in the drawer anyway.

And you know that.

You know that because you're the one who tossed them outside earlier—into your neighbors trash bin two doors down of all places too, for good measure.

A fleeting thought occurs in this moment though, that you might have caused irreconcilable problems if either the husband or wife of the couple found them and accused the other of cheating.

But again, the thought truly is fleeting as holding a single thought is much too difficult when Nanami is tentatively dipping his swollen cockhead in and out of your pussy. Gathering up the syrupy nectar already flowing from your cunny, his thick bulbous tip swipes back up through your folds to forcefully push into your clit.

"H-Hurry n'put it in raw, K-Ken!"

Because that's exactly what you wanted.

TAP!

TAP!

TAP!

Yet the only answer you receive is the wet squelching slaps of Nanami continuously bullying your soaked puffy bud with his length. Each sharp, soggy tap making a random limb of yours twitch in pleasure, you stomach knots up in anticipation as you wither underneath the shadow of his hulking form over you.

Simply put: You're a mess.

Already teetering on the edge, your body thrums with need. You whimper, hips wiggling upward in a silent plea, hoping his slick, precum-slicked cock—already glistening with your juices—might catch on your fluttering entrance and slip inside. But to your dismay, one of his massive hands—easily strong enough to pin you down—holds you firmly in place, denying you even that.

"Aht-Aht... That's a bit reckless... don't you think, my sweet doll?"

The way your face immediately crumbs into a petulant pout causes rich, dark chuckles to spill from Nanami's lips which only deepens your dismay.

Fuck!

Your plan was to get him too turned on, too eager to sink into your open, wet, and willing hole that he wouldn't be the perfect-cautious-selfless boyfriend and just raw you. However, your plan spectacularly backfired—because now he’s just aching to take his time and ruin you thoroughly instead.

The sheets dampened dark with your arousal is proof enough. Instead, you're the one on your back, too wound up from his probing fingers causing your slick to overflow and pool on your thighs countless times already tonight.

You’re so lost in the pleasure-drenched stupor clouding your senses that you completely miss the sly glint buried beneath the stormy lust in Nanami’s eyes.

Nanami is well aware you are so desperate for his hard pulsing cock inside of you that protection is the furthest thing from your mind, even if he hadn't gotten you so spectacularly fucked out on foreplay alone.

Frankly, Nanami had known since last week that his deceitful, slutty little princess was trying to get pregnant. To his surprise, you’d been attempting it all on your own—sneaking extra prenatal vitamins behind his back like a brat.

Keyword: Extra.

Nanami who is also baby-trapping you...because he'd already been slipping you a daily dose of prenatals in your morning smoothie he makes you before you'd run out the door for work.

You hate breakfast so early in the morning, so Nanami makes you an extra caloric nutrient-dense smoothie in order to prepare your body for the baby. Breakfast, of course, is the most important meal of the day and what kind of responsible family figurehead would he be if he let you skip it?

However what frustrates Nanami is he'd truly have no idea how desperate you aref or his kids if he hadn't taken it upon himself to peek inside your weekly pill dispenser to make sure none of the vitamins you were already taking were harmful to pregnancy.

To Nanami's utter shock, you'd actually wanted his children.

You were sly, he'd give you that.

You never outright bought a prenatal vitamin.

But you had enough of the various individual supplements inside of one. Of course, it would simply look like you were just overly health-conscious to anyone who hadn't done extensive research on the nutrients and hormones needed to succeed in getting pregnant—which of course Nanami had done, going to the best pharmacist in the area for a special compound blend.

Nothing but the best for the future mother of his children.

Nevertheless, Nanami still relishes in this moment.

Drawing out agonizing cries from you with just his cock prodding in and out your twitching cunt that's desperate to be plugged and filled. Your fluttering muscles grip him eagerly, just short of being able to suck him in, thrills him just as your needy whimpers do.

"But K-Kennnnnn!"

"Shhh, now quiet, my love... you'll know I'll satisfy you even if its not with my cock."

Nanami's threats are empty of course, but you didn't know that.

You needed a taste of your own medicine.

Did you even know what you put him through?

This was your punishment.

How could you know badly he wanted to openly breed you?

How much he'd been fiending to throw you in to a mating press and repeatedly fuck his seed into you?

Nanami had always gritted his teeth to keep from growling the filth he truly wanted to say when your silky cunny gripped his cock just right, milking him like it was made for it. He wasn’t getting any younger—and the thought of how much seed he’d wasted in condoms over the last year gnawed at him. All that cum, when he could’ve been spilling it straight into your fertile little womb where it belonged.

But most importantly—did you know how much he'd beaten himself up for wanting to do it?

Nanami had debated for sometime now on broaching the subject of kids with you, but he couldn't be selfish when you are so excited for your new and already thriving career.

He was the older one.

The one whom by other's opinions probably should have already had a few kids running around by now.

Yet he'd never even wanted them—until he found you.

Nanami only wanted kids with you and he wanted them now.

He couldn't wait.

Now when his proverbial clock was so ticking loudly in his ears and the only therapy he needed to cease his fears of mortality was to fill your womb with his children. Now all Nanami can envision is how beautiful you would look, belly full, glowing even brighter than you do now—hot and needy under him.

Nanami's thoughts, which used to be filled with boardroom meetings and hedge funds, now race with how exactly to child-proof the 4 extra bedrooms in his home. For sometime now he's been building intricate plans on how to convert them into various children's rooms and a nursery.

He's been longing to do it together with you though, just itching to consult you on the wallpaper color schemes and wood types for the crib.

Sure he's being selfish.

But Nanami could provide—and isn't that what really mattered?

Nanami had already amassed a fortune from a very long and fruitful business. He'd gladly be a stay at home dad so you could resume your career, with zero pressures as to finances, as soon as you were on your feet again.

And you would be too, eventually—once you gave him at least 3 or 4 children to keep him young and on his toes while you were busy being a powerful career woman.

Yet now that Nanami knew his naughty bunny was purposefully trying to get knocked up—poking holes in the condoms for an accidental pregnancy simply wasn't doing enough anymore.

Not when his devious baby girl was already trying so hard to have his.

"Puhleaseeee K-Kento!"

Snapping him from his deranged daze, your smaller hand wraps around his wrist, sliding up his arm to scrape your kitten nails along his biceps. Nanami looks down at the well of tears now overflowing from your flushed cheeks. Your lip quivers as you're still begging, moaning pleas all the while for him to give you his cock. The very cock that is now drenched, dripping with your juices and his pre just from just a bit of mindless rubbing.

You're so close to falling to complete and utter pieces—and truly, that's Nanami's ultimate goal—to break you.

Nanami wants to push you beyond your limits until you're frantically confessing how much you wanted him to impregnate you all this time. Nanami could then keep you on your back, legs spread wide—forcibly chain to the bed, if necessary—until you were with his child.

Tease you until you begged him to dump inside of you over and over, however many times was needed, until his seed finally took.

You must think it's all your idea first after all.

It's the only way Nanami would be able to live with himself for wanting to trap you in the first place.

With not much warning besides a gruff grunt, Nanami swiftly thrusts forward—plunging his cock inside your suffocatingly slick warmth until he is hitting deep into the back of your cunt, fat tip squishing up against your cervix.

The very womb where his child would soon be growing.

You gasp out a breathless cry, the wind knocked from your lungs as your back arches off the bed, eyes rolling into your skull. Your legs coil around him tightly, clinging to him like you’re terrified he might pull away—still lost in that ecstasy-drunk haze that believes he might have second thoughts and pull out.

But little do you know Nanami can feel it—how your slick is thicker, richer, syrupy with ovulation. Your needy cunt practically melts around his cock, already creaming so much that it dribbles down his base to pool at his balls.

Clear signs that your body is ready to be bred.

The extra viscous drippings are stickier against both of your perspiring bodies that are slamming together at increasing frenzy as Nanami picks up speed.

He's usually one to talk you through it, gently build a pace so your body can adjust, but the feel of your ultra sensitive, quivering pussy along with the dense smell of sweet hormones in the air is driving Nanami into a wild frenzy.

You whine at the loss of body heat when Nanami pulls back slightly, but he has a primal need to see you impregnated in real time. The way your sweet pussy splits open so well on his girth, welcoming him and sucking him in deeper has Nanami groaning out nonsensical praises for you and your tight-soon-to-be-a-mommy pussy.

Nanami's big hands travel up your curves to press down on your belly causing you to keen sharply in pleasure. If you could pry your eyes from the back of your head, or register any other feeling than his massive length drilling into you—you may have noticed the way Nanami's hands are practically worshiping the flesh over your womb.

Cupping it, molding it and rubbing the soft chub of your stomach with his thumbs, watching your cute lil’ belly button dip and contract as he feels his own length through the walls of muscles plunging into you even deeper.

The room feels like a sauna now as hot sweat drips from Nanami's face onto yours and he's biting his lip in order to keep from drooling onto you and losing complete control.

The unintentional consequence of it all is that he’s riled himself up beyond reason—his grip on control slipping fast. He meant to fuck you into submission, but the moment he sheathed his cock in your fertile, gooey heat, he lost—completely pussy drunk.

So utterly obsessed with the way your body is already changing, softening, ripening to carry a child, he hasn’t even fucked a confession out of you yet and he just might cum any second now.

Yet Nanami can't stop to edge you now even if he wanted, it would be far more impossible for him—not when your womb is so ripe, so warm and fertile—is just begging to be impregnated.

You can feel Nanami's thick cock pulsing hard against your walls as he grinds deeper against your cervix, his hands finally leaving your stomach to grip your ass, angling your hips up off the bed in the most perfect way to directly shoot his seed into you.

Willing your eyes open, you catch a glimpse of just how pussy drunk Nanami is at the moment. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and using your pussy like a personal fleshlight. Squeezing down on him tighter you feel the blunt edges of his nails dig deeper into your ass cheeks.

Did your plan work after all?

He certainly didn't look like a man ready to pull out right now.

Wanting to seal the deal, you bite your lip, timing your finisher for the exact moment your orgasm crests—when your pussy clenches down around him, vice-tight and trembling with need.

Your hands hover instinctively over your womb, drawing his gaze as your squeaky moans grow needier, slurred with pleasure.

“S’ohhh g-good K-Kennn!”

One hand leaves the soaked bedsheets to trace a shaky finger down your sweat-slicked belly, circling right over where you want it most—right over your womb.

“C-Cum in me… right here D-Daddy, kay?”

And yeah. That did it.

Nanami growls as he cums hard—buckets spilling deep inside you, cock twitching violently with each pulse of white-hot fluids painting your walls and filling your belly.

You’d never called him Daddy before now.

Nanami suspected it sat on the tip of your tongue, but you’d always held back—too shy, too coy. Not anymore. Now, you’re debased, ruined, fucked down to your rawest instincts of procreation.

It’s not the full confession Nanami craved, but it’s close enough—for now.

Your own release detonates in pulsing waves from the pleasure of feeling him cum inside. Electric sparks shatter through you as stars bloom behind your eyelids. Heavily panting, your body is utterly spent beneath Nanami, still gushing around his cock—grasping his length so tight you nearly push him back out. 

Yet Nanami’s cock still nestled deep in your swollen, oversensitive pussy that is greedy for more, spasming and milking every drop of his load, your womb refusing to let a drop go to waste. You’re so deliriously happy at the thought of being pregnant from this—so absolutely cock-drunk—that if you could catch your breath, you’d giggle.

Nanami watches you struggle to even move, your chest rising and falling in uneven pants, and fuck, he feels it again—that deep, gut-level need to keep you here, keep you stuffed, keep you full. He already knows one load isn’t enough, not when you’re still squeezing around him, like your pussy doesn’t want to let him go either.

Yet relcutantly Nanami presses a kiss to your damp forehead before pulling out with a wet, obscene squelch, groaning as his cum leaks out of your twitching hole, pooling between your folds like it belongs there. He admires it for a moment, pushing a little back in before going to the adjoining bathroom to get a warm cloth to wipe you down. 

When Nanami returns, you whimper at the sensation of the terry cloth brushing over your still-hypersensitive skin. Nanami wipes you down gently, though a knowing smirk tugs at his lips when you squirm and swat his hand away the moment he dares to touch between your legs.

“No, m’too sensitive…” 

You pout, squirming away from the damp cloth.

In truth, it’s not just the sensitivity—you just don’t want him wiping away any precious lil swimmers that might still be making their way to your womb.

“Just my legs and tummy are fine, Daddy…”

Nanami suppresses a smirk, already knowing why. 

“No problem, my love.” 

Humming softly, Nanami kisses your ankle as he finishes and folds the washcloth away.

You smile a sweet sheepish smile at him.

“Oh and um, m’kinda hungry too…”

God, you’re spoiled rotten.

Nanami knows it’s sill much too early, even after a good fuck for you to be hungry.  You’re just trying to get rid of him. He knows exactly what you’ll do the moment he’s out of sight—he’s nearly walked in on you doing it before. Just like always, you’ll prop your legs up against the headboard, ever the superstitious little thing. 

Nanami huffs a quiet laugh, already picturing it: you, still trembling, your pussy leaking and twitching, wearing that blissed-out, cumdrunk smile better than the finest couture gowns he’s bought you. 

But you won’t do it until he leaves—you never do. 

So with one last glance over at his shoulder at your beautifully fucked out form on the bed, he runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and heads toward the kitchen.

Nanami’s determined to feed you regardless of if you're actually hungry. If you’re planning to raise his child, you’ll need your strength—and any chance to nourish you, he’ll take it.

And you need your supplement too, just to give nature a little extra push.

It’s Saturday, so this time he’ll mix it into the pancake batter. Nanami will bring you breakfast in bed, making sure you eat every last bite—none the wiser—while sipping the fresh juice he always makes just for you. All the while, he’ll be stretching out your sore, well-used limbs beneath the sheets.

Because Nanami isn’t actually going to let you leave the bed anytime soon.

He’s going to fuck at least three more loads into you before noon, after all.

Plenty of time to drag that confession out of you—make you admit you’ve been trying to get pregnant all along.

And if you don’t? Well.

Nanami smiles to himself, flipping the stove burner on.

You’re not leaving that bed until you do.

꒰ა a/n ໒꒱ : wanted to get this out before i left but it didn't work out. im actually on the plane rn. sorry if there are errors I will fix when i get some downtime. landing in amsterdam then 4hr layover until we get to portugal! follow me over on my main/personal @punanami if you want updates on that.

please reblog and leave me nice comments to look at while im on vaycay <3

[miserycanary]

tags/warnings ⋆·˚ ༘ * lil smutty at the end, nothing serious, this is very short

nanami did not expect to come home from a fourteen-hour day at work and get tackled.

he’d barely taken off his tie, still in his slacks and dress shirt and blazer, the lines under his eyes heavy with exhaustion — when you pounced on him like a starved jungle cat.

“baby—!” you squeal, arms wrapped around his neck. “you’re home!”

he catches you by pure reflex. sighs. you’re giggling.

“…have you been drinking?”

“mmm… maybe just a little.” you hold up a glass, very full. “wine. it’s fancy. i put a strawberry in it.”

“how cultured of you,” he deadpans.

you beam at him. “you look hot.”

“…i just walked in the door.”

“exactly. and already so sexy. tragic.”

nanami exhales through his nose. “sweetheart, can i at least shower first?”

you blink innocently. “you can, or i can do it for you.”

“…you’re drunk.”

“i’m imaginative.”

“you’re harassing a public servant.”

“you’re not a cop.”

“i’m worse,” he mutters, dropping his briefcase and hauling you into his arms with a quiet grunt. “i work in finance.”

“oh my god,” you gasp dramatically. “that is worse.”

he carries you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing. drops you onto the mattress. you giggle the whole way down.

“you’re so strong,” you say dreamily, propping your chin in your hand. “you know i was watching some old footage of you today? that one from the beach where you got all red and your shirt was unbuttoned? pornographic, honestly.”

his eyebrow twitches. “i got sunburnt.”

“so hot.”

“…you’re ridiculous.”

you grin at him, all teeth, and slowly lie back on the bed like some kind of pin-up poster. legs parted, wine glass held lazily in one hand, silk robe sliding off one shoulder.

nanami stares. you wink.

and the last shred of self-restraint he had after his miserable day disappears completely.

—

“—you’re so bossy after one glass of wine,” he mutters against your throat, voice low and hoarse as he pushes your thighs up around his waist. “silly little thing. letting it go to your head.”

“you like it,” you pant, gripping his shoulders. “you like when i climb you like a tree.”

“maybe,” he growls, sinking deeper into you. “but if you’re going to act like a brat, you’re going to get fucked like one.”

you whimper. he bites your neck.

you try to sass him again and he just puts two fingers in your mouth to shut you up.

“quiet,” he murmurs, watching your lips wrap around them. “you wanted this, didn’t you? wanted me to come home and fuck the wine right out of you.”

you nod, big-eyed and flushed, drool slipping down your chin.

he laughs softly. kisses you hard.

and by the time he’s done with you — glass long forgotten, sheets a mess, your legs shaking around his waist — he decides maybe one glass of wine isn’t so bad after all.

[miserycanary]

Your What?

In which you prank the jjk men by introducing them as your 'current boyfriend' to your friend (based on the TikTok trend)

Satoru gasps. He actually gasps. Clutches his pearls too. Lifting his blindfold off one eye, he stares down at you with a disbelieving smile. “Excuse me? ‘Current boyfriend?’ Hello?”

Innocently, you ask, “What’s wrong, Satoru?”

“Everything! Everything is wrong. What do you mean, ‘current boyfriend?’ Do you have another incredibly handsome, incredibly charming, rich and strong man lined up?” He turns to your friend, smushing a hand to your face when you try to argue, and plasters a painfully tight smile on his face. “Hi, I’m her only boyfriend. I’m her forever boyfriend, actually, so ignore her. She’s just hangry. You know how yappy she gets. Like a puppy. Here girl! Sit!”

He evades your smacks with obnoxious chortles. 

“Bad! Bad girl! 

Suguru's smile doesn’t falter. In fact, you don’t even think he registered what you said until he slips something into his conversation with your friend that has you blinking like a cartoon character with how smoothly it leaves his lips: “Yes, my current girlfriend and I will be leaving for the weekend to get a break from the noise of the city.”

You tug on his sleeve with a pout. He ignores you. And keeps ignoring you until you’re home and both walking in under a funny little silence – you regretting even trying with Suguru and him feeling pretty smug, you can imagine. 

Then, when you’re close to begging for him to forgive you, his smile widens dangerously and you find yourself being backed into a corner by his looming figure. “Did my current girlfriend learn her lesson? Hmm? Judging by your pretty smile, that’s a no. It’s alright. I’ll teach you myself.”

Choso doesn’t even register what you said. He just gives a half nod to your friend before staring off into the distance, standing like a dark cloud of grungy gloom behind you. As always, he’s in his own world, counting down the seconds until you’re done and he can have you all to himself. It’s really only minutes after you say bye to your friend and you’re both on your way that he frowns. 

“Did you call me your ‘current boyfriend?’ Why? Doesn’t that imply you’re going to have another one? Like, you’re going to break up with me? Why would you say that? Did I make you mad? Are you going to break up with me? Hey! Why would you call me your ‘current boyfriend?’”

Doesn’t stop asking for hours, even after you’ve explained it’s a prank. Really doesn’t see what’s so funny. 

Toji scoffs. He takes a gulp of his beer and pays your cheesy grin no mind. Making a mental note to not give you the satisfaction of a reaction, he just lets you yap to your friend about where you met and how long you two have been together. Truthfully, the silence only spells trouble for you. With every second that passes he comes up with another way to get it into your head that he’s too tired to play games. 

Eventually, his patience runs out and you find yourself being pulled away by a beefy arm of his. You’re pinned against the brick wall of a back alley. Toji grunts. “Current boyfriend, huh. You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do, actually. I’m the funniest.”

Scarred lip curving, he presses a kiss to your lips. “Get on your knees; you can try saying that again with a mouthful of my cock.”

Kento doesn’t blink nor falter. Instead, he greets your friend and converses like normal, asking all the right questions and charming them with his polite maturity. You’re almost disappointed with his lack of a reaction, until a firm hand of his slides across your back and lands on your hip, squeezing for comfort. It’s enough to know he heard you, you suppose.

Despite that, in the car, you question him. “You don’t care that I called you my current boyfriend, Ken? It was just a joke but still…”

“You’re not exactly wrong, my love. I am currently your boyfriend. That’s the stage before husband, no?”

“Yeah, I guess so – hey…wait! Are you going to propose? Hey! Kento, answer me!”

Sukuna stills. There’s a sudden chill in the air, one that bites at your skin like icey flames. Slowly, he turns to you, neck creaking like a supervillain with a cat. Regret fills you, so does dread. “Current…boyfriend…”

You laugh nervously, giving your friend the signal to leave. “Listen, heh, that was just a joke, okay? It’s a funny ha ha.”

“Ha. Ha.” Your neck is gripped by a large hand of his, keeping you in place so he can sneer in your face. “Do not debase me with such a flimsy label. I am your master, your lord, your great, merciful king. And you are my everything. Don’t sell yourself short with such a label. Aim for more, you pitiful little thing. Take it all.”

Confused, you don’t bother following up. His sinister tone, though spouting romantic words, leave you feeling a little restless. Indubitably, anger courses through his voice and it’s unsettling. When you see him glaring at the direction your friend ran towards, you sigh. Texting your friend to move houses won’t be enough; you’ll have to placate the moody king for a while until the momentary embarrassment is erased from his mind. Whenever that is. 

[miserycanary]

cw. size kink. unedited horny rambling. kind of possessive sex ( in the way that Sylus wants to be possessed by you lol ). afab reader but no prns used.

The weight of Sylus’ cock being so heavy that, when he pushes into you from behind, you gasp, whole body trembling from his size, from the stretch, that your arms give and you land on your front, moaning and whimpering and sniffling into the sheets as he continues to sink inch after devastating inch into you. So slow that the way he fills you up feels final— like there’s no one else in the whole universe who can fill you the way he can.

And Sylus, who gasps when you fall to your front, jaw clenching and fighting to not let his hands tighten too terribly on your hips ( gentle— he has to be gentle. He's so much bigger than you, his hand is so big when it rests on your skin ) but it’s a losing battle because this new angle has him sinking even deeper into you, somehow fitting each and every inch that he has to give into your tight wet cunt. The sounds that come from where he sinks into you are filthy. Wet. Obscene in every meaning of the word, especially when paired with your mewls and moans, but to Sylus it is a symphony that no music can ever hope to compare to.

And when he manages to finally hilt into you —each inch fitting, somehow, with his hips snug against yours and his weight braced against your hips and thighs and his heavy balls pressing against your pussy— a deep, ragged groan is pulled from his throat. His hand drifts to your lower belly, just a few inches under your belly button, not even sure what he’s looking for at first—

Not until he finds it. The bump that’s there, that makes you gasp and shiver and gush around him when he prods at it.

That’s him— that’s the proof that you had taken every inch he had to give. That he is undoubtedly yours.

[miserycanary]

every time yall draw price skinner than he should be, an angel dies

[miserycanary]

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐈, 𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐈, 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐈 ♛

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. gladiator!Sukuna x princess!Reader, historical AU – ancient rome, misogyny, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, eventual smut [MDNI], degrádation, power play (?), bondáge, chöking, hair-pulling, overstimulátion, dácryphilia, fíngering, cünnilingus, tït súcking, knîfe play, cūm eating, full nelson, outdoor sêx, table sêx, balcony sêx, pool sêx, angry sêx, size difference, breêding, unprotected sêx, multiple örgasms, gröping, pet names, TL;DR: Sukuna can't keep it in his freaking pants

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 18.9k 💀

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. i <3 a good ancient rome fic, but please don’t be alarmed by the wc—the first two acts are boring (but necessary) world-building + plot and whatnot, but the third act’s where things get GOOD, iykwim // available on ao3 // dividers by @uzmacchiato

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈.

This was bound to happen sooner or later.

Well, with being raised so near the emperor’s circle of friends and family, you had never been exactly shielded from death and despair, per se; and, let’s be honest, attending a gladiators’ game in the Colosseum was practically fate.

During the times of Ancient Rome, you had an . . . uncommon upbringing, to say the least. Abandoned as a mere newborn, you were taken in by none other than the emperor and his wife, who failed to have any real children of their own. Growing up, they treated you like a daughter they never had, and gave you a life of endless prosperity and luxuries. Your bedroom—decorated and gilded in gold; your closet—always stocked and more ornate than even the average noblewoman’s; and your life—full of only the highest expectations.

Despite coming from a pitifully low background and rising to such a rank that made your peers during schooling envious, you learned some much needed qualities such humility and humbleness. Well, you were practically everything but a princess, after all. You lived in the palace with the emperor and empress, but you weren’t royal by blood. Sure, you were noble; and your time was mostly taken up by serving the empress as her lady-in-waiting, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Life was pleasant like this.

You enjoyed serving the empress who took you under her wing, and found no difficulty in assisting with her day-to-day tasks. Dressing, accompanying, running errands. It was simple; there was never a rush for you.

Today was no different.

With the radiating, beaming sun blinding civilians with no mercy—from merchants, to nobles, to plebeians—the star did not leave a single mortal untouched or unaffected.The cruel rays shining upon skin glistening with sweat and hair tousled and unruly only displayed each spectator’s discomfort as the minutes rolled past and the gladiators had still yet to enter the amphitheater.

Fanning yourself, as you sat high above the stands beside the empress, you couldn’t help but express your wonder, turning your head ever so slightly to meet her eyes. “How long does Your Imperial Majesty think we will have to wait?”

“Child, how many times will I have to make myself clear? Such formalities between us are hardly ever necessary,” the woman—clothed in a purple stola—scolded, replying with a maternal smile. “But, to answer your question,” she began, clearing her throat, “I figure . . . not so long. You know how men can be: adjusting their armor, fixing their hair, getting stage-fright. It’s all the same to me. How can one worry about their appearance when it’s plausible their blood will just be splattered along the arena in the end?”

You pretended to laugh at her disposition.

Contrary to popular belief, the empress was a nice woman; an understanding woman; someone who ruled alongside her husband with equal—if not rivaling—authority and a scholar’s intellect. You occasionally thought of her as someone practically born to lead, and after spending your whole life in the palace, you’ve grown accustomed to the fact that, while the face of the empire was usually imagined to be the emperor’s, it was not seldom that the empress was the one pulling additional strings behind the stage.

Misogyny is a nasty prejudice, and if it weren’t for the way things were, you had no doubt in standing behind the idea that the empress would be just as great of a prominent ruler as those who had come before her husband.

Of course, even with being such a morally virtuous person, the empress was born into royalty, and had never served someone a day of her life; and alongside being surrounded in endless luxury, comes the inevitable quality of aporophobia. The woman wasn’t as cruel as most, however; yes, she looked with disdain at poverty and unfortunate souls, but didn’t turn a blind eye, no.

She cracked jokes at, made fun of, and used people of lower rank for her own amusement, but it was all “harmless,” as she called it, similar to having a jester in one’s court. Even while mocking those she deemed helpless and lowly, she never failed to grant them whatever resources they requested when visiting her throne. You may have heard of kindness without honesty and honesty without kindness, but kindness with neither honesty nor humility? Strange. 

Well, don’t start getting the wrong idea now. The empress could be with preconceptions, but she was a charming woman within retrospect.

Before the empress could poke fun at any more people, the Colesseum’s spectators suddenly burst into roars and bellows and yells as the appointed gladiators of the first match entered the arena. 

Two men. Both of adequate height—no less than six feet, you assumed. But, were they slaves? you wondered. No. No, they were too muscular for that. Oh, well, then again, that quality may have been from manual labour and other work of the like. Although the naked eye failed—from how high up your seats were—to see a real difference, you could still tell one of the fighters was shorter than the other, from the length and distribution of their shadows.

The taller competitor, with a reddish-brown beard and deformed knees, caught the interest of the woman beside you, and she turned to whisper (albeit poorly) in your ear and laugh about his disagreeable features.

“I heard his name was . . . Remus, or something. But, if you asked me,” the empress laughed, “I would say he was nothing but a damn fool—a fool disgracing the name of the God of War’s son.”

You met her eyes, which seemed to almost glow beneath the sun. “You suppose he will lose?”

“Suppose?” she repeated, tossing coins into a betting pool as if it were impossible for her to be wrong. “Don’t make me laugh.”

The other fighter—the shorter one—held a gloomy expression on his face, and didn’t look a day over twenty. A slave; competing for a chance at freedom? It wasn’t so far-fetched.

The referees were soon called to their positions, the armed combatants took their stances, and the munera commenced.

Swords met, shields resisted attacks, and little to no blood was drawn. Again, and again, and again. The crowds booed, raised their voices, and expressed their boredom and utter disappointment like spoiled children; it made your ears hurt, and you chewed at your bottom lip in agonizing anticipation of what was to come of these poor men. But, nevertheless, the show had to go on.

Even with the fierce sun, and beads of sweat accumulating on just about everyone’s foreheads, the fighters regained their positions and began anew—this time, with more violence.

The shorter man looked as if he finally realized he could turn his life around if victory was his and started to hold the hilt of his sword with gathering excitement rather than fear. Stabs cut through the air, piercing absolutely nobody, and consecutive gasps erupted within the stands as suspense arose alongside the growing lust for blood.

Both men lunged forward consecutively, throwing jabs at the other, just to fail and jump back, before trying again.

With the heavy toll of labour dealing on each competitor’s body and soul, they both looked equally older compared to how they actually were on the records. The fight was nothing if not unpleasant. More often than not, according to the empress, gladiatorial games were always more entertaining when the combatants were more . . . manly. Or, masculine? Attractive? All the same.

And, anyway, you couldn’t exactly deny Her Imperial Majesty’s claims. For, even as you remained with a neutral expression on your face, you couldn’t help but cast side-glances at the figures of the gladiators. Muscular, but . . . not muscular in a lovely way. Their faces were dirty, cheeks hollow, and hands grimy. It seemed like the exertion on their bodies would be more of a morality cause than how hopeless their fight was continuing to be.

Even with the increase of energy and work being infused into the swords’ clashing and shields’ refuting, only a few minutes had passed and you already began to grow bored, waiting for the moment the fight would be either called off or a more formidable opponent would be brought into the arena. A bull, for instance.

It wasn’t until a rock—thrown by a spectator in the stands—landed just beside the left foot of the taller fighter with a thudding sound that, for a second, the man froze, either confused or unable to decide on what to do, and his opponent wasted not a second more before moving in for an attack.

The blade of a gladius pierced the taller competitor on the side of his abdomen, and his sword dropped onto the floor with a dull sound, seemingly filled with a sense of inevitable defeat, as the man himself fell soon after, his body landing prone beside his weapon. The sight was almost poetic, and even the empress found it in herself to let out a little gasp (despite her early confidence in the outcome).

The arena went silent. Utterly silent.

Would the referees consider foul play? Spectator interference? Everyone wondered, and eyes moved from one man to another to try and figure out the decided outcome of the match.

You only noticed how clammy your hands had gotten throughout the climax of the match when you followed the example of other spectators to rise in ovation and break out into plaudits and hollers after the shorter fighter was finally announced victorious. Letting out a breath you did not know you were holding, you wiped the sweat off your palms at the fabric of your palla.

The gods were not on the taller man’s side this day, for, the fate of the match was due to two factors. A) the rock was interference, yes, but it was neither an advantage nor a disadvantage for either of the competitors. Since, according to the spectators, both of them could’ve been affected by it; the taller man just happened to be frozen while the other gained consciousness. And, B) any one of them could’ve stood still, but, perhaps, the taller one really was as stupid as he looked.

The empress told you both men were, in fact, slaves, and that you had been correct in your assumption. But, you had no reason to celebrate, for you felt pity for the fallen; but, anyhow, death would’ve come sooner or later to him. The rest of his life would’ve been spent bending over machines and gathering hay and tending to cattle.

On the other hand, fortunately for those hard of hearing, the applause died down more swiftly than the end of the fight came, and most spectators had already begun to seat themselves back down when the victorious competitor exited with his treasures, and two new combatants entered, instantly silencing any other leftover noise.

Their names were announced, but you could not pick up a single syllable, for, only a millisecond after, the crowds had once again broken into loud cheers and yells; these competitors were apparently not ordinary gladiators. Probably well-known, or excellent fighters, is what you assumed.

Although their match had yet to begin, the second pair of fighters were already visibly sweating beneath their heavy armor and shields.

Now, from the height of your seat, you could not distinguish which of the men were taller, but you could easily set their countenances apart.

The silver-haired one carried himself with an elegant, almost prince-like gait, and his eyes shone like the beautiful waters of the Mediterranean Sea under the rays of the glaring sun. His lips—thin and pink—occasionally formed into a taunting smile or flashed his pearly whites at swooning women in the stands. He was particularly attractive, and despite yourself, you found the act of looking at him rather enjoyable.

His eyes raised above the crowd of spectators for a moment, before meeting the emperor’s in a friendly fashion. Then, flitting to the side, he gave a small acknowledgement to the empress. And then, finally, to you. His eyes met yours with a flirty ulterior motive and he smiled an almost boyish smile, but you couldn’t deny the fact your cheeks seemed to warm at the sight of his brief greeting and acknowledgement before he turned back to evaluate the crowd with squinted eyes (courtesy of the overly sunny weather).

Clearing your throat and settling the ridiculous thumping of your heart, you sat up in your seat and, ignoring the teasing remarks of the empress, your eyes moved over to take a look at the other gladiator.

He was . . . perhaps, the complete opposite of the silver-haired one.

A total brute, if you did say so yourself. Pink, rosy hair. Defined muscles. A sharp nose and pierced ears. He had the arms and legs of a high-ranking Roman soldier, and, even from how high up you were, or how blinding the sun was, you could still clearly tell his chest would be just as chiseled as the rest of him. He was, without a doubt, a piece of eye-candy if you had ever seen one. But, what intrigued you most about him, were his tattoos. Inky, black markings that circled around his wrists, thighs, and decorated his already daunting face.

You had been staring at him for a while when you felt the intimidation of his piercing gaze meeting your figure up in the stands, seemingly having taken notice of your ogling. Sinking back down in your seat, your body squirmed nervously and awkwardly under his unforgiving stare, as if you were trying to escape his sights. 

You couldn’t understand the meaning for your very sudden and growing embarrassment for having been caught, and you pretended to avert your focus elsewhere. But minute after minute continued to pass by, and you could still feel the pair of crimson eyes burning holes at the side of your head.

Like a child finally succumbing to the scolding of their parents, you turned back to face the gladiator, and, like you imagined, he had not moved his eyes off of you for even a second. His lips were sealed in a thin line, and the expression on his face, emphasized by his seemingly bored eyes, displayed nothing but want and desire. Was it want and desire to exit the arena? Or, want and desire to avoid throwing his life away in a gladiatorial game? You could not decide on an answer.

Your eyes wandered downwards, and landed upon the pink-haired brute’s weapon of choice. He had a gladius, like most fighters of munera, but it was . . . different, in possibly the most subtle way.

A ruby lay clear as day in the dead center of his capulus—the hilt of his sword. The color unmistakably matched up with the shade of the sword’s master’s eyes, and you couldn’t help but flicker your gaze from one to the other.

The only event that managed to take your attention off of the man and his blade, was the empress, who interrupted your focus and leaned in to whisper in your ear. “What do you look at so intently, my dear?” she questioned, before waving her hand in dismissal. “Never mind; look over there. Yes, right there. Do you see that man? The pink-haired fighter?”

You nodded.

“His name is Ryoumen Sukuna, but you must know, most people have started calling him King of the Colosseum.”

“Sukuna? King of the Colosseum?”

The woman ignored your growing curiosity, and moved on to other subjects. “He’s a fine one—personal favorite of the emperor, you know. Lovely physique, an agreeable countenance, and boundless skill in a match to the death. I hear his streak of victories has not ended since he began gladiating all the way back since he was twenty.”

“How old is he now?” you asked, your desperation for information on the man growing second by second.

“Six-and-twenty? I could not tell you, darling.”

While you and the empress conversed, whispering about the combatants behind ring-adorned hands which covered your mouths (to avoid any scandal which could arouse from lip-reading), the match began and the gladiators took their designated positions before plunging head-first into battle.

Sukuna swung his blade up in the air with one quick movement before bringing it back down to strike the silver-haired gladiator in either the neck or the back of his head. But the man seemed to have guess the intention for that attack, and side-stepped away. Which, for the most part, probably would have left Sukuna to deliver a useless blow to the sands and allow his opponent an open opportunity, but it was clear to even the lowest of the lows that he was far from inexperienced with the blade.

He neither tarried nor let his mistake take the best of him, and moved to retract his weapon quicker than how the other fighter escaped it.

Blow after blow was delivered by both men, and no visible cuts or injuries were inflicted on either of the two.

Despite none of the fighters being able to land a successful hit on the other, their fails were only due to the fact that their skill was matched, and that no matter how many party tricks or ploys or schemes they had up their sleeves (or, in this case, manicas), neither one of them could fool the other. Well, at least, not for too long.

Even with the lack of blood, the spectators were still kept entertained and satisfied from the number of impressive and, to the naked eye, seemingly humanly impossible dangerous attacks.

You had noticed, after a few attempted blows—all resisted from the usage of shields, that, what looked like to be mere strategy, was probably something more on the lines of technique. Sukuna’s technique, to be clear.

With the advantage of his height nearly always towering over his opponents, Sukuna subconsciously developed, over time, a habit of striking over-head. And, with arms like his, it was no trouble for him, at all, to lift up an iron blade and do such a thing. Sukuna frequently swung his gladius and struck at the side of the silver-haired fighter’s head, which was usually blocked by the opponent’s shield, or avoided by the said opponent ducking and subsequently swiping at Ryoumen’s legs.

It was overly facetious. Too facetious, actually—for a duel that would only result in death and horror.

If it wasn’t obvious before, you were not at all a fan of gladiatorial games. No, not even in the slightest. You looked upon the thought of unnecessary murder serving the sole purpose of entertainment for all civilians ranging from plebeians to nobility to royalty with disgust and disdain. Watching two men fighting in a ring—sometimes blindfolded, sometimes with no weapons save for their hands (which are dangerous enough)—was ridiculous. Or, that’s what you thought.

See, you wouldn’t have even been present at the current gladiator fight had it not been for the coercing of the empress, who, according to her, needed you by her side, since her husband would be seated at a separate stand (for reasons you did not know). But honestly, now that you were both watching two men stab and jab at each other, it seemed to be the other way around.

The empress was enjoying herself to the fullest, while you, on the other hand, were horrified; and that was saying a lot, considering you had seen warfare since your adolescence.

“Getting bored?” the empress asked, getting your attention amidst the cheering of the crowds.

You shook your head, exiting your train of thought. “Not at all.”

The woman looked at you tenderly, and touched your cheek with her cold fingers. “Cannot say I’m surprised. Ryoumen certainly knows how to put on a show for a woman he deems rather oculorum captans.¹”

¹ Eye-catching.

You pretended not to understand whom that was directed to. “Is that . . . why he has yet to deliver an ending blow?”

“Oh, nonsense. The man’s a flirt, yes, but he would never let fraternizing stand in the way of a victory. It’s impossible. Gojo is just, perhaps, the only gladiator who could ever rival him.”

At learning of the silver-haired fighter’s name, you let your eyes briefly return to the match. Blood had now managed to have been drawn, and both of the blade-wielding beasts had now sustained injuries on their triceps. You thought yourself a lucky one to have missed witnessing how that came about, and turned back to meet the empress’s eyes while yells continued to erupt within several sections of the arena.

“Will it continue going on like this?” you asked, gesturing to the missed blows and endless clanks of shields. “It seems the men could only die from exhaustion now.”

The empress offered you a strange smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

“How do you mean?”

“This won’t be their last match. They’ll have a draw, and the editor will enable the defeated to live another day. But only for the sake of another match to take place soon after.” The woman said everything like it was a declaration, and not an assumption or probability. It made you uneasy, in a way.

“. . .Another match?” you repeated. “What ever for?”

“A gladiator match is a spectacle—it’s a source of entertainment. How will the crowds be entertained when their favorite gladiator is killed in a common, ordinary game? A game succeeding two slaves, more or less,” she added, snorting.

“So, they’ll be kept alive?”

“For another match, id est verum;² it will take place before the festival of Vulcan. It will be, by far, the greatest gladiator match ever seen by the people of Rome. Now, I cannot spoil too many details, but, all I can reveal is, expect the unexpected.”

² That is correct.

And, just as the empress had said, the match between the silver-haired gladiator and Ryoumen Sukuna was declared a draw soon after your conversation with the woman, as decided by the editor. This decision not only satisfied spectators on both rooting sides and caused an uproar of hollers, but also guaranteed an adequately sized and enthusiastic audience for the final and tie-breaking match of the year, which was, clearly, going to be the event looked forward to for the rest of the month.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈.

You were beginning to think the most crucial detail someone has ever failed to tell you was how the last man you wanted to see right now was good friends with the emperor—pals, even! Which was great, just great.

“I know you would rather die from scaphism,” said the man, as he plucked a grape from a bowl, “but you can at least try and act like you’re enjoying this instead of standing there like a sulky child.”

Ryoumen Sukuna, a proud, formidable opponent in the arena—widely known as the King of the Colosseum, continued to be a haunting presence in your life even after his match ended with a draw two weeks ago. It was embarrassing enough that you could break so easily under his stare, and that, in addition, he knew that—just as well as you did (if not better). But to have him roam around the palace? While you were living there? Mallem mori.³

³ You would rather die.

The pink-haired man held favor from the emperor, since it seemed they knew each other even before the younger began a career in dueling, and alongside their acquaintance, came the event of Sukuna’s frequent visits to the palace. It had been a fortnight since the last munera, and you had already seen the beast of a man a total of fourteen times. It was like he knew he was tormenting you.

And, gods, it was absolutely childish how much you began to loathe the color red ever since. Time and time again, the appearance of Ryoumen Sukuna was continuously marked by either a ruby-adorned weapon lazily left around the premises, or a red cloak whipping through the air as you (in that scenario) would be staring at his broad back with a bitter taste in your mouth, while deciding whether to walk away or to dig a hole in the ground and die away like a hobbit.

Red was like a bad omen for you.

Wherever it was, you could bet a hundred horses that Sukuna would turn up sooner or later.

Now, normally, if the emperor invited friends over, you would not mind—no, not even in the slightest; for, from all the years you spent kissing the asses of royals who you came across, you had learned to blend in with high society. But, with Sukuna, it was different. You couldn’t keep your cool around him; seeing him always left you heavily bothered.

Even when you first met him (or, saw him, actually; because you two never formally introduced yourselves)—even then, you failed to stay calm and composed. Was it his eyes? Or his looks, in general? He was attractive—very attractive, tu non mentior,⁴ but, was that really all there was to it? You refused to face a man solely because you deemed him unbelievably good-looking?

⁴ You could not lie.

No, that wasn’t it. Well, that was part of it, but it wasn’t all. You couldn’t stand being in the same room as Ryoumen Sukuna because—because you were afraid of him. I mean, c’mon, you’re dragged along to watch a gladiator match (and, mind you, you despise unnecessary murder), and then you lock eyes with a man who looks like he could tear the entire empire apart with his bare hands, and now you have to act friendly with him? At least, in front of the emperor and empress? You had every right to avoid him at any chance you got.

And, not only that, but, aside from his frequent—almost annoyingly frequent—visits, he always held the same damn look on his face. Red, crimson eyes that looked at you like an animal would its prey; it was like, every opportunity received, Sukuna would size you up, as if envisioning as many ways possible he could kill you just like he does his opponents. But, fuck, his eyes were your weakness.

Staring through your soul like he wanted something, and in a way that made it seem as if he knew every thought that went through your head, including your fear of him—and imagining how he could exploit said fear like the cruel brute he was.

The empress and her husband wanted you two to get along, but you just couldn’t do it. No matter how hard you tried, you could never meet those bewitchingly crimson eyes with an emotion lacking hostility.

“I am not sulking,” came your reply, moments later.

“Yeah? Then, why are you just standing in the corner of the court like someone in time-out?”

His laugh made your blood boil, and you couldn’t help but cross your arms over your chest, scowling with your eyes facing away like a scolded child. How could he stand there, looking at you with those same red eyes, and act like nothing was the matter? Of course, something was the matter! Otherwise, you wouldn’t be on the verge of throwing yourself into a bush of thorny roses.

The emperor and the missus had left the two of you in the gardens, because, according to them, they had some “business” to attend to, and thought you would be eligible enough to be able to give the guest a tour of the terrace and the courtyard which stretched beyond it. That was a grave mistake on their part, for Sukuna was right, you really would rather die than speak with the man for more than a few minutes.

“Has it ever occured to you that not everyone enjoys your presence?” you spat out, finally having mustered up the courage to approach Sukuna from your little hiding spot.

Your steps were slow, languid, but the pink-haired brute saw them as nothing short of flirtatious. In fact, when you were just a foot away, he took it upon himself to close the distance between you two, staring down at your figure with that same enigmatic look in his eyes.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you.”

“And you’ve got quite the nerve showing up here as often as you do.” You narrowed your eyes. “Tell me, what is your purpose for coming here, anyway?”

Sukuna laughed—a cold, cruel, taunting laugh. “Can a man not step foot in his future palace?” But, when he noticed the confusion evident on your face, he smiled grimly, before taking you arm-in-arm. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

It was more of an order, if anything, but with the strength he used to pull your arm into his, and with the intimidatingly imperiling energy practically radiating off his body, you did not refuse his subtle coercion to take a stroll around the gardens, (especially since his gladius was still strapped in its harness).

Taking a slow pace, the two of you walked arm-in-arm around the various bushes, plants, trees, and vineyards that surrounded the estate. While making your way around the scenic landscape, Sukuna, in a low voice, began to speak.

He told you of his imprisonment, and how, for four years, he had been idly rotting away in a cell, before his persecutors decided to finally end his life and throw him in an arena. Sukuna did not attend any schooling for gladiators, and was untrained. When he first stepped foot in the Colosseum, almost everyone thought he was to die. But, miraculously, he, instead, survived. His first match, he won. His second match, he won.

The officials kept throwing him into munera, and every single time, he came out undefeated. Sukuna was a criminal since birth, but when he made a career as a gladiator (albeit against his will), he quickly made a name for himself. Ryoumen Sukuna rose in fame and fortune—not only for his skill when it came to swordsmanship, but also for his looks. The man may have been a notorious criminal, but he was a fan-favorite when it came to the ladies.

It was as if the gods regarded Ryoumen as their champion, seeing as they granted him victory through every editor that oversaw his matches.

With each gladiatorial game that passed, Sukuna’s opponents only grew tougher and tougher, which, mind you, never proved a problem. The man’s prizes and incentives for surviving the arena increased with each match, and Sukuna’s wealth grew in unmistakable abundance, surpassing even the fortune of an average nobleman.

When Sukuna was but a boy, he never dreamed of a life in the Colosseum; but in this realm, one either wins or loses. The Parcae wait for no man, and mortals of all ages and all walks of life know one thing: Vincere aut mori.⁵

⁵ Conquer or die.

“Each time I unsheath my blade,” Sukuna began, stopping just before an olive tree, “I do not know whether I will breathe for another night. But the higher-ups in this empire are all but damn fools. The last match, right before we celebrate Vulcan, will determine everything. If I kill Satoru Gojo, my name will live on long after my life’s end. If I die by his trident (the weapon my silver-haired rival wields) . . .” His voice trailed off.

“That’s not a possibility I’m against,” you interjected.

“Very funny.” Sukuna turned to look down at you. “For that’s a possibility that simply will not happen.”

“What, don’t tell me you’ve consulted an oracle or something of the sort?”

The pink-haired man laughed in your face; it was cruel and unsounding. “You dare doubt my victory, woman?”

“I doubt everything when it comes to you.”

Your stroll around the palace gardens came to a sudden end, as Sukuna roughly pulled you by the shoulders and placed you both to stand face-to-face. His expression was dark, and his tone inhumane. “Listen, and listen well, girl. The emperor offers me a prize I cannot reject. If I win my most anticipated match yet, he will bestow upon me—by the power vested by the gods above—whatever it is I please.”

You couldn’t help but interrupt once more, your curiosity getting the best of you. “You mean to tell me, you’ll ask for the empire? Is that what you mean by ‘future palace?’”

“I won’t ask for the empire. No, my prize will be something far greater. And when I get it, the empire will soon fall into my hands as easily as it was for you to fall into mine.”

“So, that’s all it is that you want? The empire?”

Sukuna leaned down to meet your eyes, his stare burning holes through your flesh. “I want control.”

“Well, let me tell you something, sir,” you began, coolly, whilst taking a step backwards with each word you spoke, “you won’t find that here.”

But when you were just about to exit the garden, and finally get the fuck away from the brute of a man you called Sukuna, you could just barely hear him utter—with that sensuously slow voice of his—five words, that seemed to stick with you even after you left the premises. “Oh, I don’t intend to.”

It was as if you had pushed your luck far too much for the gods’ pleasure, and now, they were giving you something along the lines of a punishment.

Even after Sukuna’s visits changed from daily, to every other day, to weekly, and then, to nothing but a faint memory of the past, his voice never left your head, like a deity putting a certain thought or belief or action into a mortal’s mind. It was overbearing, and you couldn’t draw the line between delusion and reality.

When you set off to fetch herbs for, say, preparing baths or something of the like, Ryoumen’s cold, dark voice, which practically dripped with malice, seemed to follow you every way you went. Feeling a hand perch on your shoulder always had you shuddering, whether it was a trick of the mind or an action actually done by someone else. Entertaining yourself with the playing of an instrument—you preferred the cithara⁶—degressed from a pastime to a new torture method. Between picking strings and producing melodies, came the haunting face of Ryoumen Sukuna, which proved more of a distraction rather than a stimulation, seeing as dissonance and incorrect, out-of-tune notes were the only sounds played.

⁶ An instrument.

You knew that you were in your right mind when you first met the fact that you avoided the man for being afraid of him, but only now, were you finding yourself validated by the shivers you got from the mere thought of him appearing. Somnus was not a god of your favor; your dreams—more like nightmares, it seemed—only filled you with more despair each time you arose in a cold sweat.

It was unfair how much of an effect the beast had on you.

Alas, your hopes of freedom were for naught.

Another fortnight passed, and it had now been a total of thirty days since you last spectated a gladiator match. You were neither surprised nor anxious when the empress dragged you along to another match at the Colosseum (by then, you had realized it was practically fate), but what you were astonished to see, however, was the sight of fires which blazed unwaveringly before you.

It was evening; the arena was lit up with several immensely-sized bonfires, whilst the air darkened with the amount of smoke flying up to the clouds above; the stands were decorated in tapestries and other displays of insignias; and the crowds bustled and roared with uncontrollable excitement and an unquenchable lust for blood.

The emperor sat in his respected box—the cubiculum—with his lions beside him, while you and the empress sat in the Imperial Box opposite to his.

The night was young, and the winds—smelling of the fragrant incense being burned—lashed and whipped unforgivably at your plaited updo and thin clothing. Even with the bright, old stars beaming down at the gold of your jewelry, your eyes shone downwards, covered ever so slightly by the veil you wore atop your head. You did not want to watch this match, but, despite the fact, you neither declined nor pressed for complaints when the empress ordered for your accompanying presence at the amphitheater.

“My child,” was what she began with, before saying, “the Parcae.”

It was short, it was simple, and yet it had the same effect on you that it would have—had her selection of words been more compious.

Fate called you.

There was no doubt in that.

For, when you found your seat in the arena . . . There it was again. That same piercing gaze delivered your way, and that same intimidated reaction you experienced. Like prey having been caught in its predator’s trap. A shiver ran up your spine at the feeling of two red, crimson eyes staring right back at you, and you worked arduously to ignore his unmistakable stare, using turning to the side and facing a neighbor or digging in your bag as an excuse to escape making eye contact.

Ryoumen Sukuna had entered through the Gate of Life, (as did all gladiators of the time), and if the growing rowdiness of the crowds hadn’t brought you to that attention, the sudden chill in the air would.

Gojo Satoru’s entrance into the Colosseum followed soon after, and you bit your lip at the memory of the last time you met his sea-blue eyes. It was distant, long-past, but you liked to think about it every now and then; sometimes when you dipped your fingers into similarly-colored waters, or, when the clouds rained and thundered over the empire.

Familiarity breeds contempt, but you did not know the silver-haired gladiator like you feared his crimson-eyed opponent. Fear is power. Power is love.

“Dearie,” called the woman dressed in ornate fabrics, as she placed a hand on your knee, “do quit the shaking of your leg. If the sight of blood brings about your nerves, we can always have someone over to cover your eyes with a palm branch when the time comes. I am not mistaken, corrigere?⁷”

⁷ Correct.

“No, Empress, I appreciate your kindness, but,” you paused, casting your eyes downward, “there will be no need. I can assure you that, blood hardly disturbs me in the slightest. I am just . . .” Your voice trailed off, your fingertips grazing the folds of your palla. “I wonder who will survive this evening.”

“My, my, my, has my dearie taken an interest in gladiatorial matches?” The empress smiled, teasingly. “I didn’t know you cared for a matter you previously spoke about with such disdain.”

Your cheeks warmed, fists clenched, and your breath caught in your throat. Embarrassment was an inexplicable feeling, and you looked to the side before changing the subject. “Who has your favor?”

“Is that even a question?” The woman erupted in laughter, surprised at how you could even question her about who she rooted for, especially due to the known fact about one man, and one man only, who had been dwelling at the royal abode as a repeated visitor.

You whispered mumblings under your breath—something along the lines of paenitemus,⁸ or, ignoscas mihi.⁹

⁸ Apologies.

⁹ Excuse me.

“My turn to question,” the empress managed, between her fit of laughter, “tell me, daughter of mine, which lucky man has your favor?”

You were silent for a moment—indecisive, one could say—but thanked the gods above when the gladiators were abruptly called to state their oaths, and, therefore, giving you an excuse to avoid providing the empress an audible answer.

You leaned forward in your seat, and watched as both Ryoumen Sukuna and Gojo Satoru spoke, consecutively, with their eyes set on one another. The crowds ceased their commotion, and watched, with intent so significant it brought them practically to the edges of their benches, as the challengers gave their swearings of the vow directly tying them to the will of the gods as they gave away their lives—the sacramentum gladiatorum, it was called.

Sukuna’s eyes were dark, that you could tell, and the overall atmosphere surrounding him screamed a lust for blood. His voice was cold, as if he wanted to get everything over with already, whilst the ruby on his swords’s hilt shone reflective under the moonlight’s illumination. He did not speak like it was an obligation, he spoke like it was a duty. 

“Uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroqua necari pateor,” they both vowed.

Each man knew he were to either conquer or die; the speaking of those words only solidified the matter for all to hear. Victor or not, the lives of gladiators are objects of entertainment according to the match’s editor’s will. The gods speak, blood drips, and blades bury the undead. Spectators are roused as both competitors ready themselves, (which is a spectacle in itself, truthfully speaking), but you, on the other hand, are only able to watch with a sense for danger in the air. It was almost amusing. Timor mortis morte pejor.¹⁰

¹⁰ The fear of death is worse than death.

As both men began to circle each other, throwing insults and taunts, you could not help but drift off to the memory of that fortnight Sukuna spent at the palace. His words lingered in your ears, and the feeling of his hands on your shoulders, his arm around yours—it was . . . you couldn’t put a finger on it. There was, just, something about what he said that gave you an uncanny feeling in your gut.

Sukuna wanted control, you knew that, but, if he came out victorious this same night, he wasn’t planning on asking for the empire. He already made sure you got that through your skull, but, all the same, you couldn’t pin-point what it was that he did want. Gold? Treasures? He already had plenty. Women? No, his collection of admirers already exceeded a great number. Land? Yes, that had to be it. But, then again, whatever it was that Ryoumen wanted, he claimed it would have the empire falling into his hands sooner or later. Land couldn’t possibly be the answer for that . . .

Whilst you stayed in your head, thinking to yourself, the match had already begun to get less boring. Both men had each delivered at least two hits to the other, and the clanks! of iron against iron could be heard audible throughout the arena.

Sukuna took side-steps, a new technique he had developed, while the silver-haired gladiator struck the tips of his trident at places most people wouldn’t have even imagined possible.

Grunting, the pink-haired man swung his gladius like it was a mere toy, while spitting on the coarse, rough sand. That action alone sent several sections of the Colosseum swooning. But, despite the fact, Gojo didn’t let any of it get to his head, and, in lieu, let out an almost facetious whistle.

“Dunno if you’re aware, Ryoumen, but this isn’t exactly a great time to pick up ladies,” was what the lean, pale man said, joking, as he continued stabbing with his trident.

“Any time is a great time; what are you going on about? Could pick up a chick with my eyes closed.”

The two men went forwards and backwards with their banter, like two boys rebelling and messing around in school. They joked like immature adolescents, but fought like champions of the gods. The skies were cloudless, with the moon shining bright, and it was thus unclear whose side Olympus was on. But what really confused you, was the sudden thumping sound that reached your ears. Especially with the lack of drums or any similar instruments visible, you were left in a sense of unanswerableness.

The sound of the thumping was loud, and continued to increase in volume as the match went on. Gojo slashed at Sukuna’s armor—the drum beat faster; Sukuna stabbed at Gojo’s helmet—the drum beat in a staccato fashion; Gojo stumbled on his own two feet, struggling to fight back against Ryoumen’s gladius—the drum did not beat faster, but, instead, crescendoed, along with the roars of the crowds.

It was incredibly overwhelming.

You turned to the empress, in order to ask if the emperor had hired any percussion players, but Her Imperial Majesty paid you no mind, for she was extremely engrossed in the fight, repeatedly expressing her frustrations and anticipation by cursing under her breath.

Everyone was in their own world. Spectators, as they watched and rooted for their favorite gladiator. Nobles, as they placed bets and other games of the like. The emperor and empress, as they analyzed the match and reactions of the crowds (as to decide who to favor when the time came for a turned thumb). And, if it wasn’t obvious before, the gladiators, as they fought for both their lives and honor.

First blood was drawn a while ago, but only now, had real stabs been given. Pierced through his armor, clutching at his chest while taking steps backwards, was none other than the infamous, silver-haired Gojo Satoru. You did not know much about him, other than the fact he was an attractive man (A/N: don’t even start with me), but you couldn’t help but feel pity seeing him come to a loss so soon.

While the drum beat faster, and the volume amplified, booming across the walls of the amphitheater, you could make out, just slightly, the life returning back to Gojo’s eyes. Blood dripped, yes, but it was not plentiful enough for death to visit the grounds of the Colosseum.

Gojo’s hands twitched, his slender, pale fingers stained with blood and marked with sand, but his figure fought back for composure, and the fact soon became clear as his legs grew stiff, and his steps grew less irregular as the seconds went by.

You weren’t the only one who seemed to notice the man’s recovery, but it would have been strange to admit Ryoumen was the one behind it all. Seeing as a duel to the death in an arena was all a mere lousy game to the pink-haired brute, it wasn’t a refutable accusation to say Sukuna was only toying with his opponent’s life. Nearly piercing through Gojo’s chest, just to stand and watch solemnly as he stumbled—you soon grew familiar with the idea of Ryoumen testing the waters: seeing just how much Gojo could take before the ever anticipated match-ending move was played.

Murder flashed in the pair of crimson eyes, and the etchings on Sukuna’s gladius gleamed under the moonlight as he drew up his sword for one last round.

Gojo regained his stance, delivered a blow at Sukuna’s side, which, for second, appeared to at least wound the beast, but Ryoumen, ever the calculated, drew back; and as the drum continued to beat and thump in the background, both men fought with a newfound rush of vitality and zeal for blood. Hollers sounded through the crowds, coins dropped into dishes, and the shaking of your leg quickened.

Sukuna kept silent, like a scheming child, while he hit Gojo with the end of his sword. The attack was with enough force for the silver-haired gladiator to be knocked down, off his feet, and onto the floor of the arena. A retaliation was not lacked, as Sukuna received small, insignificant and weak stabs of the trident to his abdomen, as Gojo fought for the continuation of his name, but it was for naught.

The climax of the drum’s beating was reached when Sukuna delivered an almost humorous kick to his opponent, before turning to face the emperor in his Imperial Box. Gojo’s face was full of yearning and want—but, whether it was for death or life was uncertain. He laid, injured and on the brink of mortality, but he was silent, and ceased any more attacks.

Crowds grew silent, but stayed as rowdy (somehow), as everyone turned to the emperor in anticipation. Clothed in the naturally designated purple toga, with a laurel wreath to emit godly status and authority, the emperor stood before and above all. A pollice verso¹¹ was given, after careful thought, and as the beating of the drum quickened, the blade of Ryoumen Sukuna’s gladius was driven through the heart of Gojo Satoru.

¹¹ Turned thumb.

But before such an action occurred, the beast did not forget, with audible cruelty, to spit out the words, “The moonlight’s illumination makes it easier . . . to see how pathetic you are.”

Blood seeped from the wound in Gojo’s chest and spilled out from between cracked lips; and as the fallen gladiator was soon carried out the Gate of Death, the beating of the invisible drum ceased, and you lost your capability to form words.

Surprise, pity, anger—they were all shown in your expression. With parted lips, and denial etched all over your face, you sunk down in your seat as others around you stood up to applaud, cheer, cry out, and much more.

At his zenith, Ryoumen Sukuna backed away from the corpse at his feet, dug his gladius into the floors of sand, and looked ‘round at his spectators. Turning his head, meeting the eyes of those who wanted him dead and those who prayed for his victory, Sukuna held a scowl on his face, like he wasn’t affected in the slightest by having just murdered a man.

Ryoumen was a man who knew how to hold himself in stance and gait, much like a god or a king. Raising his arms wide, eyes flickering to pierce everyone’s souls, his voice came out just as cold as it had been last fortnight—when he decidedly said, in front of everyone, “Behold, mortals; feast your eyes upon the monster you have set free for your pleasure.”

This was the King of the Colosseum.

You could see that much, now.

***

The sun rose proud, the mockingbirds cooed gently, and the blessing of the dawn of a new day had been upon citizens of Rome.

Senators were gathered ‘round while royals and other noblemen stood and watched alongside. Whispers and murmurs were plenty, but when the emperor asked for whatever it was that the gladiator wanted, there was a stunned silence as the pink-haired beast took long, full strides to approach none other than you. Kneeling before your feet, and kissing the back of your outstretched palm, even the gods watched with pleasure and anticipation whilst an answer revealed itself. 

Silent, swift, and yet, never before, so concise. The air was still, the noise had ceased, and even the falling of a pin could be heard clear as day whilst your figure twitched and shook ever so slightly—fear having begun its taking of your body.

It was needless to voice that same wretched look Ryoumen Sukuna offered your way, his crimson eyes peering up at you from beneath his eyelashes. It was nothing short of a horror.

The day after Gojo Satoru’s death, a circle of royal acquaintances had gathered at a pavilion of the palace to watch as the emperor granted whatever prize Ryoumen Sukuna wished for. Elephants, tigers, lions, and other beasts of the wild, were already lined up and harnessed. Stacks of jewelry and treasures littered the marble floors. It was clear the emperor had already expected what offers could be possibly made, and so he decorated the palace in accordance. But, when the fearsome gladiator chose to, in lieu, take you as his bride for a prize, there was unanimous astonishment.

Rising back to his feet, the pink-haired victor—dressed in his signature red cloak, ruby-adorned blade, and now, an additional laurel (to signify his victory the last evening)—looked down at you with a strangeness about his eyes. Your hand was still in Sukuna’s when he turned to face the emperor, who stood with a calm demeanor, contrasting just about everyone.

“You ask for the princess?” the emperor questioned, curious.

“If it can be done.”

The emperor laughed, adding, “But, you must know, son, there are many women who will not be happy by this news.”

At this, the crowds burst into laughter. The tension in the air dissipated, but you . . . you looked at the ground and at your feet, praying you misheard or were even dreaming. But alas, you couldn’t have strayed farther from the truth.

“You would kiss the hand of your prisoner?” you whispered, whilst everyone was distracted in their fits of laughter.

“Am I not a prisoner, as well?”

***

You were twenty years old when your hair was parted by a spear, separated into six locks, crowned with nature’s gifts and herbs, and covered by a flammeum (also known as a veil). With your face painted, jewelry adorned, and dress made ready, you were escorted and sent off to join in matrimony with Ryoumen Sukuna. Tears in your eyes, a palm branch in your hands, the completion of the ceremony came, and it was then time for the wedding feast: the banquet. 

It was to take place at the atrium of the palace, similar to the wedding ceremony.

Pheasants were killed, venison was brought, raw oysters were consumed, and shellfish made its appearances at the banquet. You sat beside the man you now called your husband, picking at your meals and distracting yourself with entertaining the guests. Sukuna, on the other hand, sat silent, for the most part; his hand resting on your hip as he watched, full of intent, as your lips parted and moved with each syllable you uttered.

There were a-plenty dancers, poets, and musicians present at both the wedding ceremony and banquet, but, for each ritual up until now, Sukuna had failed to take his eyes off of you. Red, crimson orbs—that seemed to never stray from yours.

It had been a week since you last spoke to Sukuna, the day he claimed you as his, and, in truth, if it were in your will, you would wish to never speak to him again. You hardly paid any mind, at all, to him as the both of you sat side-by-side, presenting yourselves as a married couple to the families, friends, and well-wishers who attended your wedding feast.

When the attention was directed elsewhere, and you received a much-needed break from entertaining your guests with talk of whatever it was that came to your mind, you reached for your goblet of wine, thirsty and parched, but were stopped by a ring-adorned, scarred hand, belonging to Sukuna, which held you firm by the wrist.

“I have murdered a man for you, dear wife,” began Sukuna, a cold, enigmatic look in his eyes as he peered into your face; “there is blood on my hands solely for your sake, and you refuse to even acknowledge my presence?”

You tried fighting back, stretching your fingers and reaching out for your goblet, but, surprise-surprise, his strength surpassed yours. With a huff of defeat, your hand—once writhing in your husband’s grasps—relaxed, and you gave into responding. “Do not forget, husband, I was not the one who called on you to do such a thing.”

Sukuna laughed, released your wrist, and opted to rest the side of his face on his fist as he watched you drink, a demented (but captivated) look on his face all the while. “Gods, I always forget how much of a sweet-talker you can be,” he snickered.

“You are delusional,” you deadpanned, continuing with your drink.

“And you, my dear, are—”

“Bitchy?”

“No.”

“Cruel?”

“No.”

“Exasperating?”

“I was going more for . . . bewitching.”

You set your wine down; silent, as you avoided Sukuna’s eyes.

But the man had different plans, seeing as he gingerly seized your left hand, and laid a kiss upon your ring finger (which connected to the vena amoris¹²), before kissing down each digit, making sure his lips met almost every piece of gold on your hand. The action would’ve been seen as romantic through your eyes, if you had forgotten what got the two of you here in the first place.

¹² Vein of love.

You did not speak until he was done, and when he was, you said, your voice above a whisper, “Husband.”

“Wife.” His response was almost immediate.

“I am . . .” You turned to meet his eyes. “I am bored, and would like to hear a story. A tale. Anything.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“Tell me—Tell me why you chose me.”

“I chose you because . . . I wanted you. Simple. Can a man not have his wants? His needs? As one chooses their life’s path, so I have chosen a woman I worship. A woman I need. A woman I love.”

“Need I remind you that lust is not love?”

A darkness came over Sukuna’s eyes, like a storm succeeding the calm. “Lust can be many things,” he replied, before lifting his goblet. “Care for a drink?”

You lifted your goblet, but hesitated, caution taking over your nerves. “I have had enough to drink for the night.”

“What, no toast for your husband?” Sukuna joked, his tone sly and cunning, as if there were an ulterior motive laced beneath his invitation.

You turned to face Sukuna, the bracelets and cuffs on your wrist sliding from their rightful places ever so slightly. 

“Never in a million eons, you devil.” Seven words uttered before you finished off the wine in your goblet in one go.

The wedding feast ended with confarreatio, which led to the beginning of the next ritual. Domum deductio took place, and, that same evening, your innocence was stolen—ripped right out from your cold, bare, fucking, hands.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈.

Marriage, actually, wasn’t all quite as bad as you had imagined . . . Okay, that was a lie.

Your first debut outdoors, after your joining in nuptials and being on the arm of Ryoumen Sukuna in front of government officials and nobles, took place a week after your wedding ceremony. The two of you had gotten up to making much use of your lectus genialis, and, even with the longing of fresh air and seeing familiar faces, it still took a bit of convincing for you to exit the doors of the estate; for, exhaustion had gotten the best of you.

It was hot outside; the sun shone cruelly, but you enjoyed being outside of the estate’s premises for once.

“I still don’t understand why you declined traveling by a litter,¹³” Sukuna said, bitterly, as he sat with his arms crossed, and his expression stern, whilst looking out the carpentum’s¹⁴ windows.

¹³ During Ancient Rome, a litter was a portable couch or bed that was carried by slaves or animals.

¹⁴ A luxurious Roman carriage used by the privileged.

“I am not a fan of parading,” came your calm reply.

“You’re a princess—by blood or not. Either way, a woman, as beautiful and alluring as you, should be treated as such.”

Your cheeks did not warm; Sukuna’s way of speaking about you like this was far from new, and you had gotten used to it, ever since your first encounter.

“Ryoumen,” you called, almost like a mother soothing a fussy child, “why do you feel the need to coddle me?”

“Coddling?” he repeated, seemingly offended. “You’re my wife, my treasure. The question should be why I would do anything but.”

The noises of the bustling street, talk of the people, and the sound of clothing against clothing, were all drowned out by the running of hooves and the whips of the carpentum driver. It was a spacious carriage, you had to admit, but with the amount of times the vehicle rocked and jerked on the uneven roads, you had soon begun to find yourself sitting impossibly close to Sukuna. Your elbows touching, shoulders meeting—it was uncomfortable due to the evident size differences.

“You forget that you won me, husband.”

“What is the difference?” sighed Sukuna, running a hand down his face. “I would’ve put a ring on your finger sooner or later.”

“. . .”

“Though, I do argue that, killing a man for your hand, was quite romantic . . . What, don’t give me that face.”

You looked at Sukuna with a stupid expression. “You . . . are a silly man.”

“All but for one woman,” he replied.

When you entered the carpentum, neither of the two of you knew where it was you were going. To the shops, to the villages, to the palace—it was unknown. Or, maybe, the destination was to remain indefinite on purpose. You liked traveling through the city, meeting the eyes of citizens you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. You enjoyed the scent of home-cooked meals wafting through the air, and children laughing as they played in the streets. You liked it all, and you missed it all, even. But, gods, were you getting soft.

There was a pair of men passing through the road, and you would not have noticed them had the vehicle not yielded to let them pass.

“Look at their shoes,” Sukuna said, leaning in closer as the carriage was stopped, so you could hear him over the commotions. “Disgusting.” 

“Do remember you were born in a prison, husband.” You remained straight-faced whilst you spoke, as neutral as one could be whilst keeping your eyes forward.

Sukuna let out a bark-laugh. “What a saint you are, huh.”

Your carriage was just about to approach a turning corner, when, completely out of the blue, you heard one of the men exclaim to the other, “Ah, look at that one, Caius! A sight for sore eyes, ain’t she?”

His companion replied, saying, just as scandalously, “Not half-bad, my friend,” he laughed, eyeing you up and down. “Never before have I wished more to be an emperor; just imagine what works I could perform if she was a slave.” 

“If?”

“If. No way she’s anything but royalty. No man in his right state of mind would let her out of the streets if she was property.”

The two men snickered, carrying woven baskets filled with crops as they went, completely oblivious to the way Ryoumen sized the both of them up, seemingly possessed by a sudden lust for blood. Now that he thought about it, he had not killed in a while.

You tried to put a hand on Sukuna’s arm, in a poor attempt to soothe his growing anger, but he did not pay any mind to that, for he stuck his head out the luxuriously decorated carpentum, and retaliated against the perversion of the men with insults of his own. Yelling Latin curses left and right, all the obscenities in the book and footnotes. His voice was cold, and rough around the edges, but what surprised you most, was the tone in which he said, “Somnia omnia quae vis, nothi; praecidam manus tuas antequam tangas eam.¹⁵” You had never seen or heard such anger.

¹⁵ Dream all you want, bastards; I will cut off your hands before you even touch her.

But, before Sukuna could say something more offensive than “Te futueo et caballum tuum,” or, “Fututus et mori in igni,” the men recognized his carnage-filled reputation in the Colosseum from his notorious tattoos, and, with such fear they could’ve wet themselves, the both of them went, scurrying off in the opposite direction of where they came from, even going as far as dropping every basket they carried before making a run for it.

You caught a glimpse of them in their distress, and agreed—their shoes were disgusting.

Although settling into Sukuna’s estate took little time, familiarizing yourself with life as a married couple, on the other hand, took . . . some time, to say the least. The both of you had your ups and downs, and the path to warming up to your husband was a rocky one, seeing as your marriage was not out of love (not in the beginning, for the most part); so, naturally, there were some days where the two of you did not get along so well. And, who knew valets and maidservants could serve as such good marriage counselors? 

Bright, sunny days had you seated outside, beneath the shade of olive trees, and while the songbirds sang along, you often kept yourself occupied by playing your cithara.⁶ Your husband was seldom home for most of the day, and you had learned how to keep busy whilst the only company you had was the flames rising forth from the hearth, and the tamed animals which lingered while your fingers danced across melodious strings.

⁶ An instrument.

Today was different.

Sukuna had no appointments to meet, no guests to entertain, and no matches to play. He met you in the gardens of your home, and stood, stiff and broad, just three paces from where you sat on a fountain’s coping. It was as if he were afraid to approach, to disturb and interrupt your playing, but you knew he was just deciding whether or not he was welcome.

“You play well,” came the sound of his voice.

“How could I not? There is never much to do around here.”

“Weaving?” He raised an eyebrow, still standing still like a statue.

“I fear I do not see as much joy in that as I used to.”

“And why is that, dear wife?”

“I find . . . other activities to take up the majority of my time.”

“Such as?”

Romans were barbarians in the arena and in the bedchambers.

You did not know sex until you were bedded by Ryoumen, and you did not know libido until you experienced what it meant to really be fucked. Growing up, sexual intercourse was always described as marital duties, but with Sukuna, it felt like a pleasure—quite literally.

Day and night, night and day.

It was all you knew the week following your wedding ceremony, and it was all you desired when coming home to the brute of a man you called your husband. The two of you did not exit the bedroom once during the week you spent after the final nuptial ritual. He had ruined you in the best way possible, you sometimes thought, and with little difficulty had he gotten you addicted to the feel of his cock, his tongue, and his fingers. Merely thinking about it all had your cheeks growing warm and your core practically aching with need.

But sex wasn’t all you received from the man; there was also endless banter, cruel mocking, rough touches, and arguments. Sukuna wasn’t a kind, vanilla man, you realized that the moment you laid eyes on him; and he was, if anything, a deviant. A monstrous one, at that. 

Retaliating against him got you absolutely nowhere, and arguments only ended in sex. It wasn’t healthy, no, but it wasn’t like anyone said it would be.

With every step you took backwards, Sukuna followed with two forwards. The two of you had been arguing about a trivial matter—it had been long forgotten, actually—but neither of you had the decency to end your quarrel. Your yells and insults echoes throughout the walls of the estate, and servants paid mind to avoid the room you two currently occupied.

“Have I ever told you how much I absolutely loathe your pompous, fucking, ass?”

“Oh, sweetheart, only about a million times,” he answered, obviously taking your anger with a grain of salt. “But, how could I not? when you always do more than just tell me.”

You narrowed your eyes at the man, and cursed. “Go rip out your tongue and rub it raw with a strigil.”

“I always forget how much I love to hear you dirty-talk.”

“You are a dog,” you spat out, as Sukuna had you backed up against the edge of a table.

“And you, my dear wife, are a beauty to behold.”

Mentally having patted himself on the back for rendering you speechless, Sukuna closed the distance between you two and placed a kiss on your hand like he always did. Sexually appealing, successful, and charming? Damn the gods for giving him it all. 

You and Sukuna were stood just centimeters apart, his arms caging you in as he stared down upon you with that unforgettable look in his eyes. It was intimidating, indeed, but you were his wife, for gods’ sake! you could surely hold your ground.

“Flattery isn’t getting you anywhere,” you said, placing your palms on the surface of the table behind you as you challenged Sukuna’s unwavering gaze, staring up at him with eyes doe and, still, equally as hardening.

“Good. Flattery isn’t quite my style.”

Sukuna raised a hand to rest on your cheek, before bringing you in for a zealous kiss. All teeth and tongue. It hurt—how rough he held you, that is—but it was a different type of pain. A type of pain you enjoyed suffering. His lips met yours, and you tasted blood on his tongue. You could not tell whose it was. Whether it was from him handling you with little to no care, or it was from him, himself, or it was from another, more foreign, source, you did not know.

You responded to his kiss with just as much violence as lust. Your body pressed against Sukuna’s, seeking as much friction as you could, whilst the two of you molded into each other like pieces of a puzzle. While Sukuna kept you pinned against the table, with nowhere to turn, your hands found their way to perching on his shoulder and on his beating heart, in efforts to maintain stability (which was proving to be a challenge, if you had to be honest).

Whispers and murmurs against lips; nipping and biting of sharp teeth; heavy breathing and the failure to catch breaths—it was overbearing. The room felt stuffy and overcrowded, when, in reality, it was only the two of you.

“Were you—mmph—acting like a bitch because you missed this?” Sukuna jeered, sloppily kissing you between each word.

“I would act like a bitch regardless.” You clawed at his chest and toga, having gone equally as mad from the mere feeling of kisses alone, but, in any way, your words came out all the same as you had intended them. “Taking me as your wife may have come easily to you, but wooing me won’t.”

“Lucky me,” Sukuna exhaled, releasing you from his nearly-suffocating kiss but not from his grasps. “I’m all for a challenge.”

One of his hands shot to your hip, his grip unforgivable and white-knuckled, whilst his other hand trailed down your thigh, slender fingers tickling your warming skin through the fabric of your clothing, and sending the hairs on your neck to stand up. You held your breath, hands back to their original positions on the table’s surface, as Sukuna reached the edge of your dress, lifting it to your waist.

Cool air hit your skin almost instantly, and goosebumps arose along your limbs. But, still, you did not breathe; it wasn’t until Sukuna’s cold, cruel voice spoke up that you did.

“What a pretty little thing you are,” he cooed, staring at the dampness of your core. “No undergarments? Must be all for me.”

He spoke as if you were a feast; it made you bite your lip to the point of bleeding, and caused your legs to almost go wobbly, like a fawn.

Ryoumen tilted his head down to meet your neck, before he sank his teeth beneath the skin of your clavicle. It was scandalous in all the best ways possible, and you couldn’t help the breathy moan which left your lips. He sucked at the wound, kissed it, and moved his lips to other areas of your collarbones. He nipped and bit at freckles and moles, sucked on your skin—leaving love marks in his way, and, despite the feat, never failing to litter sloppy and wet kisses all the while.

With his mouth on your skin, Sukuna’s hands worked elsewhere. He trailed a cold hand up your thigh, teasing you with touches to the point of it becoming agonizing, before finally getting to where you needed him most. You were dripping enough for no lube to be needed, but the man was still courteous enough to dip one finger within your folds, before following with a second. Curling them deep inside of you, and hitting just the right spot; your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your hands shook and jerked uncontrollably as you dug your nails into Sukuna’s toned biceps.

Moans and whimpers left your lips left and right, yet he was only beginning.

His fingers bullied your clit, continuing their assault mercilessly; and whilst the sound of your growing cries bounced around the walls of the estate, his pace and roughness only reached new heights, seemingly possessed by the satisfaction of bringing you to Cloud Nine.

“Sukuna . . .” you whimpered, struggling to form words. “Sukuna, please. Please, I need to—”

“Need to what?”

“I . . . nngh,” you managed, moaning within your pleas, “I need to cum. I need to cum, you stupid bastard.”

“Now, is that any way to speak to your husband?” Sukuna taunted, pausing his attacks on your neck and the skillfulness of his fingers between your legs with not even a second thought.

You were this close to being brought over the edge, and you whined and wiggled your hips as Sukuna stopped reaching so deep within you, but, instead, opted for circling the tips of his fingers around the embarrassingly wet entrance of your clit. It was not even close to enough; he was punishing you, you were sure.

“No, no—nngh! Why did you stop?” you cried, bucking your hips in an attempt at reaching bliss.

“Because you have not an idea on how to speak to the Head of the House, wifey.” His crimson eyes bore into your teary ones, and you clawed and scratched at his neck, trying desperately to pull him closer to you.

“Ryoumen, no, please. Please—I need to . . . I need to . . .” Your voice trailed off. Truthfully speaking, now was possibly the worst time to gain a conscience.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“I . . . Please, Sukuna. I need you. I, fuck—I need you. Please.” You looked into his eyes, crying entreaties like your life depended on it. “Please, I need to cum.”

“See? Not so bad, now, was it?”

Sukuna did not resume his assault with his fingers, but, instead, for possibly the first time in history, knelt down, before you, before his wife, and pressed a degrading (if anything) kiss to your pretty, puffy lips, before attaching his mouth to your clit, sucking and licking stripes up and on it with a velocity that left you leaving permanently visible claw-marks on the furnished table.

You could not hear, you could not move, you could not speak, you could only feel. Feel the feeling of Sukuna’s rough tongue gliding through your wetness, plunging and pumping and ravaging throughout your folds, reaching spots deep within you, causing you to see stars as he reached that one good spot. It was ruthless, it was sinful, and it was so, so, so, so wrong, but, then again, it was just so, so, so, so good.

Flicking his tongue, and curling it, Sukuna continued to tease and suck on your clit. The whole act of it was just . . . incredibly intimate. Your thighs squeezed and squeezed, hands gripping his hair for support, but it was still too much. With a final kiss to your clit, you felt the coil build in your stomach, and with a scandalously loud cry, you came on Sukuna’s tongue, shaking and writhing as tears fell from your dazed eyes.

Allowing you to ride out your high, Sukuna lapped at your release, gripping onto the flesh of your ass with white knuckles to keep you from squirming and wiggling.

“Mm, tastes so good, baby.”

“I . . . ahh . . . too—too much. Sensitive.”

“Poor baby,” he cooed, mockingly, before his voice turned cool once more; “you can handle it.”

Rising to his feet, and wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand, Sukuna stared at the wood behind you whilst watching you catch your breath, chest heaving as you depended on the table for balance. “It was a smart move to buy such a large table,” he murmured, stepping closer.

But before you could ask what on earth it was that Sukuna was referring to, he answered all your questions by lifting you up by the meat of your hips and laying you on your back on the rough wood of the table. It was cool against your bare skin, and sent a shiver running up your spine.

“You . . . What?” you questioned, attempting to sit up, before being roughly shoved back down.

“Don’t ‘What’ me, sweetheart. I’m giving you what you’ve been waiting for. Unless, of course, I’m hearing complaints?”

“. . .” You gulped, swallowing the lump in your throat, before crossing your legs behind Sukuna’s back and pulling him closer to your cunt, the hard-on—barely hidden beneath his toga—being pressed right up against where you needed him most. It sent a shock to your core.

“Now that’s a good girl.”

He pulled the dainty cloth of your dress off your body as easily as it was for you to put it on when you awoke that day’s morning, and mindlessly threw it onto the floor behind him.

“Sukuna, you—could you take any longer?” Laid bare before his eyes, you shivered, but not before pulling your husband impossibly closer. His hands planted on areas beside your head, and your lips met, molding together, as wildly as before.

Squeezing your eyes shut, breathy moans drawn forth from your lips, you held the sides of his throat in your hands, and occasionally carded your fingers through his rosy, unruly hair. All while sneakily dragging a bare foot up the fabric of his toga, revealing tattooed skin as you went. You couldn’t wait any longer, and if you were the one who had to get your husband’s cock out, so be it.

Well, it didn’t matter anyway. Sukuna couldn’t care less for your impatience; he . . . had an appreciation of the sort, for the rare times you took mild control.

Sukuna murmured, laughing against your kiss-bitten lips, “So impatient today, wifey.”

“Like you’re not?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, looking down at you once the two of you released each other for breath. His eyes were dark and dull, but you noticed the strands of hair askew on his face, (if it wasn’t already enough for you that his toga was now completely off). “Come on. Do you really want to go down that route, sweetheart?”

“I can’t help it. Bullying is just such—o-oh!”

Despite biting your lip, you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, arching your back as Sukuna had your hands pinned down above your head on the table. The first thrust had the air knocked out of your throat, you didn’t even notice it was coming in the first place! Even with the amount of times he bedded you, you had never gotten used to his size. Long, girthy, with veins that twitched and never failed to send you straight to Olympus? Yeah, you couldn’t really blame yourself.

“All it took to keep you from running your mouth was some cock, huh? Yeah, you make such a good whore for your dear husband, don��t you.” His cold, dark voice, complemented with the contradicting degradation and praising words of his sent you spiraling albeit it was only the beginning.

You kicked your feet, whining and gasping for breath when Sukuna took the opportunity to lean down, littering bites and love marks on your bare chest, trailing, ever so slowly, all the way up to the swell of your breasts. Hands still pinned to the table, legs locked around Sukuna’s waist, meeting his continuous thrusts without fail, your back arched with pleasure, giving Sukuna easy access to your tits, bouncing in all their glory before his mouth.

He leaned over your body, the difference in your heights showing itself clearly at this moment, as he swirled a wet, warm tongue around your areola, before attaching his lips to your tit, biting every then and there around the soft mound. Your nipples, perky and hardened long ago, reacted as they always did when they met Ryoumen’s lips. Sensitive, they were, and it showed, when you squirmed uncontrollably under his assaults, eyes opening and closing with vertigo.

“Such pretty tits,” he murmured, his voice sending vibrations to your already aroused buds, “bet they would look even better all swollen with milk for my heir.”

You whined, moaning from the thought alone—argument long forgotten. Your cunt, its walls, actually, tightened at the idea of Sukuna giving you a baby, and you were sure he noticed with the way he was smiling like a madman with your tit in his mouth, one hand pinning yours down, the other twisting and pulling and pinching at your other neglected nipple.

“Mm, yeah. You like the sound of that, don’t you? clenching down on me like a vice. Want me to hold you down and make you a little mommy? Is that what you want?”

You nodded fervorously, throat dry from crying out, and mind already gone and thoroughly fucked-out.

Sukuna laughed, like the cruel man he was. “Well, if that’s what my lovely wife wants, it’s what my lovely wife gets.” 

Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you thrashed around and moaned aloud like a crazy woman as the tip of Sukuna’s cock hit you in all the right places. It was incredibly overwhelming, and with the way your walls were convulsing around the cock reaching depths deep within you, the both of you were sure your second orgasm was to come no later than the first one.

Your cervix—kissed over and over and over again by the head of his cock; your tits—groped and bitten and sucked with relentless roughness; there really was no end to the pleasure you received from Sukuna. You felt stimulation all over to the point it was embarrassing how much you were pushed over the edge by simple touches and caresses alone. Even hearing Sukuna’s grunts and the rasp of his voice had your cheeks growing warm and your skin glowing under a thin layer of sweat.

“O-Ohh, I . . . nngh,” you whimpered, your wrists growing sore as your voice grew meek, letting out a soft, quiet “Please.” 

Blood rushed to Sukuna’s ears at the sound of your weak voice, and, most importantly, also rushed to his cock. “Do you want me to spell it out for you? We’ve been over this, darling. Use your words.”

“I—but . . . Sukuna, please! I need to . . . I need to cum. I—hahh.” You let out a shaky exhale, your orgasm within fingertips’ reach. 

“You want to cum? Go on, then, and cum right on your husband’s cock, just like the slut of a wife you are.”

Everything turned to black when you reached your climax; warm, sticky whiteness running down the base of Sukuna’s cock. He finished inside of you soon after, one last grunt and deep groan marking his release, whilst his seed filled you to the hilt, reaching deep inside of your quite fertile cunt at his cock still being buried in your twitching walls. You didn’t think at all about the possibilities which could follow after having laid down with Sukuna unprotected, and it seemed it was the same for him, as well.

His grip on your wrists did not give out, but still, nevertheless, loosened ever so slightly, revealing a ring of red marks around your wrists. You breathed out a sigh, shaking with eye-opening bliss as your stomach, once empty, was now bloated with the impeccable amount of semen shot by your husband. It swelled, full and swollen, painted white with ropes of cum, and when Sukuna pressed down on the bulging outline of his cock, you let out a poor whine.

“Don’t tell me you’ve given out on me just yet, sweetheart. You don’t think we’re finished already, do you?” 

***

Crawling out from beneath messed up sheets, climbing over sprawled out limbs, and tiptoeing around in nothing but a loose-fitting stola had your escape occurred—exiting from the bedchambers smelling of musk and sex, and entering the balcony, seeking breaths of fresh air.

You did not usually awake before your husband (he was usually up and out of the room by the time you opened your eyes), but perhaps yesterday’s exertions had tired him out, seeing as neither of you slept from after supper to the break of day. And, yes, while you, too, were also thoroughly exhausted, you fell into the arms of Somnus much before Ryoumen did, which likely contributed to your quite early waking.

The view downwards was pretty. Blurred shades of green and blue and white. You could see servants walking to-and-fro, and, for a moment, you remembered when your life was something similar.

The sun shone on your face as brightly as it did when you first saw the man still lying asleep in your bed, but you did not raise an arm to shield your eyes. It was quiet, and you felt more alive than you did in weeks. 

Morning dew fell from trees, and the birds sang. The railing on which you rested your elbows was cold and rough, it reminded you of something that you could not quite put your finger on, at least, not until you heard the sound of footsteps behind you, and the yawning and cracking of unused bones.

“Surprised to see you’re not already knocked up with my kid,” came the raspy, unfamiliar morning-voice from behind you.

“Surprised to see you awake at a time after six,” you quipped, not turning around to face your lover.

Warm arms wrapped around your waist, and a bare chest pressed itself against your back as Sukuna’s lips met your collarbones, kissing your skin in greeting. “A snarky one, aren’t you? What, did last night not soothe your wants?”

He was always so clingy in the mornings. Like a needy child.

“. . .You are only wearing a subligaculum,¹⁶” you observed, changing the subject with haste.

¹⁶ An undergarment.

“It’s not like I hear any complaints,” he joked. “Besides, no one’s up here. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a servant taking a little peek.”

You swallowed. “Nonsense.”

“Smart girl.” He rested his chin on the top of your head, his weight resting on yours, causing you to lean the combination of your weight on the balcony railing. “Now, tell me, what is someone like the missus doing someplace out here?”

“Can a woman not be alone in peace?”

Sukuna seemed to pause in faux thought, before finally saying, “Not when that woman is my woman.”

“So, no?”

“No.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“What are you doing out here?” you questioned.

“Seeing my wife,” he stated, in a matter-of-fact fashion.

“But,” you bit your lip, “don’t you have any business to attend to?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, removing his chin off of your head and, trailing an ice-cold hand down your spine, which sent shudders throughout your body, he slid a sneaking finger up your thigh, until, with an agonizingly slow pace, he stuck a digit up your cunt. All this he did in a casual manner, like it was an everyday thing—which, technically speaking, it was.

“Are you trying to get me to leave you alone?” he asked, as if he didn’t have a finger up your pussy, “because it might be a little late for that.”

You whimpered, collapsing on the balcony railing for support when a second finger was added.

Sukuna curled his fingers, scissoring them and quickening his pace as he did so. The squelching of your cunt sent you over the edge, the idea of someone overhearing—or, worse, seeing—the two of you in this act had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Sukuna, please, we—nngh! We shouldn’t . . .” You let out a shaky exhale. “Not—Not out here.”

Sukuna leaned down to place a kiss to the lobe of your ear, giving a sloppy, dirty lick to the skin there. “Why not?”

“Because . . . someone—” You were cut off by Sukuna’s fingers hitting your sweet spot, and couldn’t help but let a scandalously obnoxious cry slip from between your lips, the three syllables of your husband’s name following soon after, like a prayer.

“Because someone, what?”

His voice mocked you, whilst the longest of his fingers bullied your cunt, and his thumb, every so often, circled around and applied pressure to your clit.

“Sukunanngh . . . I—You . . . You bastard,” you groaned, whining against the palm slapped over your mouth.

“What was that? Oh, you want me to fuck you?” His fingers moved faster, his voice growing cruel and dark. “Well, who am I to decline my bride, hm?”

Pulling his fingers out from between your legs, leaving you a shaking, heaving mess, Sukuna moved on to bring the ends of your dress to your hips, gripping and groping the flesh there as he pressed the outline of his cock against your slick.

Your breath got caught in your throat, choking on your spit, and you whined from the weight of his cock against your ass. You were dripping from the thought alone of Sukuna taking you right now, right here—out in the open, out on the balcony, where anyone, and I mean anyone, could catch a glimpse of their master and mistress from below.

Teasing the fat, leaking tip of his cock against your entrance, you bit your lip till you bled, pressing your ass back against Sukuna for any sort of friction to relieve you of the throbbing of your core, but that only worked against you; a harsh slap! was delivered to your left ass cheek, which sent you crying out, arching your back away from Sukuna. But that wasn’t even close to enough.

Bringing a hand to the column of your throat, his nails digging into your skin, creating red, angry crescent marks, Sukuna had you gasping for breath as he held your throat in his grasp, choking you to the point of gagging, but not yet enough to cut off your airway. 

Leaning down, he whispered in your ear, saying, in that rough voice of his, “You wanted to be fucked like the dirty whore you are? I’ll show you how much of a dirty whore you are.”

Grabbing a handful of your ass, Sukuna pushed you against the balcony railing, bending you over with ease.

“Wait, I . . . I—mmph! . . Nngh . . . Ahh—Ahh!”

Your voice, still evidently hoarse from last night, was cut off by Sukuna slamming his cock into your cunt, shutting you up as his hips pistoned against yours whilst you braced yourself by clawing at the railing below you.

“You are dripping. You really are insatiable, huh . . .” he muttered, releasing your throat as you gasped for air, only to be cut short by rough, deep thrusts that had you seeing stars.

“Sukuna . . . hahh.” 

“Tight as fuck, aren’t you? Cunt’s gripping my dick like a goddamn vice.” 

Sukuna ripped your hands off the railing, bringing them behind you and binding them together with gods knows what. Probably a cloth he found lying nearby. You writhed and squirmed and writhed and squirmed, but to no avail! Your wrists were bound to your back, held just above your ass. Now, you had no way to hold yourself steady, no longer pushing yourself off of the railing for support.

“I . . . nngh.” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, you could not find even the strength to complain about your having been tied up.

Fully bent over, your ass bouncing with each thrust, you moaned and mewled to your heart’s desire. Slick dripped down your legs, and though the ticklish sensation left you bothered and just slightly uncomfortable, that feeling was soon forgotten by the cock absolutely pounding your dripping cunt.

Your shame was gone, you were a ruined woman through and through.

“Fucked the attitude out of you, yet?” Sukuna laughed, burying himself inside of you before pulling out, leaving just the tip in, before slamming himself back in, and repeating his assaults. He was like a big, mean bully, having fun by tormenting none other than his bride, his prize, his property.

You thought it degrading, but found heat pooling in your stomach at the afterthought, nonetheless.

“Gods, you . . . you are such a dick,” you managed out, through screams twisted between pain and pleasure, a line which you could not exactly draw.

“It’s what I do best, sweetheart.”

Birds scattered throughout the confines of their habitat at the not-so-peaceful-sounding noise of your cries, and you were sure someone had to have noticed the deviant behavior taking place upstairs on the master’s floor of the estate.

“Then hurry up and make me . . . hahh . . . c-cum, you ass. You are such a—”

One particularly hard thrust had you seeing stars as Sukuna’s cock hit your cervix, surely wounding your womb as the words got stuck in your throat, and your legs gave out beneath you. The only thing holding you up being Sukuna’s hand tangled in your hair, giving a rough tug, which forced your tear-streaked face back, and the other one being on your hip, his grip white-knuckled as his thrusts turned from rough and coordinated to stuttering and staggered.

You came without resolve, your moans merely music to your husband’s ears as he, too, finished inside of you, his cock pumping endless ropes of seed up your cunt, stuffing you till excess bodily fluids were forced to drip down your thighs. Your stomach felt warm and bloated as you were filled to the brim, seed ending up snug in your womb as Sukuna pumped you full of his cum, not wasting a drop, and even going as far as scooping up the excess fluids to shove two fingers in your mouth, allowing—more like forcing—you a taste of your actions.

After all, Ryoumen Sukuna was nothing if not a cruel man.

***

It was the eleventh of October when Sukuna left the estate without a word, and it was the eighteenth of the next week when he returned.

You had been out in the gardens, overseeing the yard-work when, in the middle of giving orders to trim the bushes to the left ever so slightly, a maidservant had come running to notify you of your husband’s departure. He did not leave a note, did not kiss you goodbye, and did not give commands for any of the servants to inform you of his leave (the maid just happened to be particularly loyal to her mistress).

“Cecelia!” was what you first exclaimed, surprised by her sudden appearance beside you. “What brings you here?”

“Mistress, I—I have brought word that the lord of the estate has taken his leave. On a horse or two.” The woman spoke between gasps for air, she seemed out of breath, perhaps from chasing after Ryoumen and his steed(s). “I saw a carriage pull away from the gates, and I . . . I supposed he did not inform you, either.”

“Oh, that’s . . . I thank you for the note, Cecelia. But that will be all. You’re correct, he did not tell me, and,” you paused, touching your index finger to your chin, “I do ponder where he went.”

You assumed your husband would only be missing for one evening, and return the next to fill you in on his seemingly hasty departures. But one sleepless night turned into two, and two turned into three, and three turned into even the advisors of the estate beginning to worry for their master. In turn, however, you had begun to grow indifferent to your missing husband.

On the fourth day, you discovered news of yet another gladiator match that was to take place. And who was to compete in it? Take a guess.

Being petty was a greatness of yours, and, while for a time, you were able to keep entertained by playing your beloved cithara, reading, or tending to your gardens, you had begun to grow bored. The estate was large enough, and, with your husband being gone, you were even more lonely than you were before. You had no children to run through the halls, no friends who could visit the property, and no duties besides your hobbies to keep you company.

On the fifth and sixth day, you had already invited over a number of “guests” to the estate. Your beauty was no unfamiliar subject to the people of Rome, and it wasn’t difficult to find men in want of serving as entertainment to you.

You had some feed you grapes, some play their music to you, some read their philosophy and literature, some tell you of stories from afar; it was all very enjoyable. Or, well, the idea of it was.

On the seventh day, you had appointed a raven-haired, older man to keep you company. He was a traveler of sorts, and had many stories of the West and the East to tell you. From wraths of gods, to legendary criminals, and heinous crimes, he knew it all. He made you laugh, and was . . . not a bad flirt, if you did say so yourself. But it was nothing serious.

You were in the middle of drinking wine with the fellow, when, by the informing of Cecelia, you were notified of a something that required your utmost attention at once. She did not explain further, but you noticed an urgency about her eyes, and did not tarry.

Excusing yourself, you stood up from where you lounged rather casually on the ornately designed sofa, and took graceful, calculated steps down a hallway to the left wing of the estate.

You were nearing the room Cecelia pointed you to when, to your utter surprise, a rough hand had pulled you to the side, keeping your back flush against the chest of a man you could not see, for his other hand held the blade of a dagger right against the column of your throat. Your breathing grew ragged, and your hands went up to attempt (and fail) at removing the dagger-wielding hand.

Your heart pounded, and the blood rushed to your ears.

“Did you miss me, . . . wifey?”

His stray hand was gripping the flesh of your hip, and held you firm above the ground, where you dangled, your legs kicking around uselessly.

“Sukuna? What—What are you doing?” you managed to whimper out, against the dagger being pressed against your neck.

“As much as I love to hear those pretty sounds of yours, angel,” he began, before his voice suddenly turned cold, “there is a man in my house, standing next to my woman, and making her laugh. Care to explain?”

He did not release you from his grasps, but lifted the blade just a centimeter away from the skin of your throat so you could form coherent sentences. How thoughtful.

“When my husband has left for a week with no explanation, am I supposed to not keep myself occupied?”

“So you’ve borrowed a man to keep you company.”

“Are you turning this against me?”

“Should I be?”

Learning your husband has yet to retire from gladiating, and discovering he has come home, with a dagger to your neck upon arrival, was infuriating enough to make you forget the possibility of throwing yourself into his arms in greeting. He did not tell you a word about his match, prior and after, and you were the one in the wrong? Men were nothing but animals.

“. . .”

You kept silent, your face defeated, and Sukuna, finally having decided to let you go, released his hold on you and sheathed his blade once more, before dropping you back onto your feet. You nearly stumbled over yourself finding your balance, as Sukuna began to turn away, walking down the marble-tiled hallways.

“My hands are bloodied. I will be in the bathing quarters.”

All this he said, whilst his back was kept to you.

Several moments later, you had a valet escort the raven-haired guest out of your estate, and, next thing you knew, you were storming down the hallway, the sound of your footsteps reverberating throughout the estate, an evident display of your boiling rage. Your maid-servants weren’t unfamiliar with your and the master’s almost daily feuds, and were, by now, practically accustomed to setting out changes of clothes for when your arguments concluded.

Cursing to yourself as you went, your footsteps continued to thunder as you approached the bathing quarters, where you could hear small splashing sounds inside. You threw open the door, the scowl and glare on your face both clear as day whilst you walked in a straight line towards the pink-haired man who sat at the steps towards the end of the pool.

He was naked, completely bare in all his glory, but you couldn’t notice, not from how clouded your vision was with anger, no. His arms were resting on the edges of the pool, and his expression was cool as he leaned back, watching you approach him with not even a flinch.

“You motherfucker. You think you can just come waltzing in here, and avoid all your problems? You don’t pay any mind to the fact I’ve been worried sick, because my husband has left the estate with not even a word of explanation, and then, come to find out, he’s been gladiating?” You berated him without end, pointing a finger at his emotionless face as you walked along the pool’s edges. “Who do you think you are? 

“We’re married, remember? You won me. And now, you’re putting your life on the line? Whilst we are married? I don’t give a fuck whether you’re competing to win more wives, Ryomen, but where does that leave me, huh? If you die? I was just some temporary toy for you, and my life will basically end, as well? I will have no worth, Sukuna. No one takes in a ruined woman. And I’m not a solicitor, or, at least, I don’t want to be . . .”

Sukuna didn’t respond, and you were honestly thankful, actually. You feared, if he did speak, you would fold within seconds, so you took the time you had to get your frustration out and your point made.

“Why couldn’t you have just told me you didn’t retire? I mean, I would still hate you, but . . . fuck, you are such an ass.” You ran a hand down your face, stopping just two paces away from the beast, before continuing your storming. “Gods, you take new lows each day. I can’t believe my life is tied to yours for as long as I live—!”

You were shut up by the action of Sukuna pulling you down by the ankle and dragging you into the pool, manhandling you in all your writhing and struggling, and seating your ass right on his lap with ease, your back flush against his bare chest as his hand came up to wrap around your throat just as it had earlier.

You screamed, but another hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling any whimpers and noises you let out. Through your anger, you could not remember to think about how your dress was now thoroughly soaked through.

“Mmph . . . !” 

His face tilted downwards despite your struggles, and his lips whispered into your ear, his breath fanning hot air against your skin that left you with a strange tingling sensation.

“You never stop complaining, do you? You want to know why I left? Without explaining? Has it ever occured to you that, maybe I wanted you to truly hate me, after all, so the potential news of my death wouldn’t affect you? You make me out to be an animal, but even the gods know I’m not heartless.” You could practically hear his eye rolling. “C’mon, wifey, don’t you know, I’ve no need for another wife when I’ve already gotten my hands on a goddess right here. A goddess, that just so happens to be the world’s biggest bitch.” 

You struggled against Sukuna, your legs kicking and splashing in the water as your nails clawed at tattooed biceps. “Mmph! Mmm—Mmph . . . !” 

His left hand released your neck, but he didn’t let up on your mouth. “I only took the match because I was bored. Truly. Wanted to taste blood. But, what would you know about that? You’re an angel.” His voice was mocking, and dripped with malice. You shivered.

You gasped, desperate for air, when Sukuna finally removed his hand off your mouth, but your relief was short-lived when he tore the fabric off your body in one swift tear.

“What?” he asked, jeeringly, when you looked at him in confusion. “We’re already in the baths, might as well undress, too.”

The water was only up to your belly button, and a shiver ran up your spine from the low temperatures of the room. Sukuna, however, was like a walking, talking bonfire; he literally emitted heat.

Your nipples hardened from the air, and you squirmed around on Sukuna’s lap, growing uncomfortable. “You . . .”

“What’s the matter, honey?” He feigned concern, cooing. “Feeling pity? Gonna admit your mistakes?”

“I—”

He cut you off. “Let your body do the talking, and maybe I’ll find the heart to forgive you.”

Sukuna’s hands trailed down to your chest as he spoke, cold fingers going up to grope and pinch and tweak at your hardened nipples with each syllable he uttered. It sent a shock through your body, and you bit your hand to keep quiet.

“O-Oh, my . . . Nngh . . .” You mewled and twitched uncontrollably.

You didn’t know how much you loved the feeling of Sukuna’s hands fondling the mounds of your tits until you met your husband, and even then, he reminded you almost every day.

“Yeah? Does that feel good?” he asked, voice full of sarcasm. “What I fuckin’ thought, you whore. So needy and bitchy, all for some dick, aren’t you.”

Sukuna continued his assault on your buds, pulling and tugging at your nipples like it was child’s play. You arched your back at the stimulating sensation, your core growing warm from his fingers alone as you continued to attempt suppressing your noise with a fist in your mouth.

“Hahh, I—Sukuna . . . Mmph! you . . . You bastard.” 

You pressed your naked thighs together, your own hand flying in-between to apply pressure to your clit; your orgasm soon hit you like a chariot. The friction newly added was more than enough to finally throw you over the edge as you came from solely Sukuna playing with your tits, groping and squeezing like they were mere toys.

“Fuck, wifey. Making a mess from only my hands? Maybe I have been depriving you.”

Your release dripped all over your hands, and Sukuna brought your fingers to his mouth, sucking the juices off like wine. His lips made squelching noises around the bodily fluids, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as you felt the warm wetness of the sensation.

“Sukuna . . .” you whined, eyes growing teary with need.

“I’ll give it to you soon enough, princess. Quit your nagging,” was the reply that came, whilst Sukuna refused to let go of your fingers, even going as far as biting on them, leaving a clearly indented mark of his teeth on the skin, before finally releasing your hand from his grasp, and wiping his mouth clean of your slick.

Sukuna’s muscles were toned, abs flexing, and skin tanned from the ever-so cruel sun that shone down on the people of the empire. Even if his hold on you was gentle, his distribution of strength was enough to make it seem otherwise. That was made quite clear when he decided to abruptly cut your bliss short by lifting up your thighs by the backs of your knees, pinning them to position by your ears.

Legs spread, pussy weeping, back arched; you looked a mess. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, your hair was disheveled, body marked up with teeth marks from previous nights, and you could do nothing but claw and scratch at Sukuna’s arms. But, hot mess aside, (or not), you looked nothing short of a damn feast in Sukuna’s eyes.

Whimpering, mewling, and crying out, your ass was sat on Sukuna’s bare lap and the only thing running through your mind was your insatiable lust for being ruined by the brute you called your husband.

True to his word, Sukuna lifted your ass up with ease, before bringing you back down, practically smashing you onto his cock with one rough thrust. His tip pierced your cervix without fail, kissing all your sweet spots like habit.

It had been seven days. Seven, fucking, days without this man. And the first thing he did was fuck you like he meant to break you.

All the wind was knocked out of your throat as he continued to mercilessly slam his hips up into yours, bouncing you up and down without abandon whilst he kept your legs spread in the air.

The two of you had never tried this position before, but, gods, were you thankful for having done so. From this angle Sukuna’s cock reached areas deeper within your cunt than ever before, and with your thighs separated, it was significantly easier for Sukuna to fully bottom out before thrusting his entire length and girth back in, fucking you through the tears that fell and the sobs that left your lips from the constant thrusts, and bounces, and the frequent feeling of his hips pistoning against yours.

“Awh, don’t tell me my sweet wife is crying.” 

You nodded weakly, hiccuping, completely delirious.

“Shame. Your tears will only make it worse,” he said, darkly, wetting your skin even further as he licked a stripe up your cheek, ridding you of the tears that fell from your eyes.

Throughout all of Sukuna’s rough fucking, you came multiple times, his cock filling you with warm seed up to the brim. Eyes rolling into the back of your head, thighs shaking, pussy squirting all over, and lips quivering; but not once, never in any of those times, did he stop for you to catch your breath and regain your composure. He fucked you through every orgasm and continued to the next and the next.

Water splashed all around your naked bodies, and you couldn’t tell if you were more wet from the pounding of Sukuna’s cock, or from the pool you two were currently in.

Your skin was warm, wet, and glistening with sweat.

Behind you, you could hear Sukuna’s jagged breathing and, every so often, his grunts. The man wasn’t a very vocal one, but he never tried hiding his moans and groans, per se. He had no shame in whining in your ear from how tight your walls clenched down on his cock, and definitely wasn’t afraid of whimpering from the feeling of your ass grinding down on his chest, your slick dribbling down his naked abdomen.

“Ahh . . . ! Ahh—Nnghh . . . !” 

“Mmm . . . unghh . . .” 

“Hahh, o-ohh . . . !” 

Sounds of cries and plap, plap, plaps! filled the bathing quarters, and your cheeks warmed from the embarrassingly lewd noises the two of you made. That, and the feeling of veins on Sukuna’s cock twitching and sliding up and down and in and out of your weeping cunt had your eyes rolling backwards and your toes curling with the coming of an orgasm.

“Now, hahh, you gonna tell me why there was a man in my estate?” Sukuna managed to ask you, whilst he kept his cock ramming your poor, used pussy, lips of which were puffy and erect with need.

“W-What? Why are you—”

“Asking that?” he cut you off, finishing your sentence. “Dunno, maybe because my wife was home-fucking-alone with the dirty bastard.” 

His cock twitched inside of you, and you clawed at Sukuna’s biceps as he spoke. It seemed that, with every second the two of you spent speaking about the man who was in your home, Sukuna grew more and more frustrated, his thrusts turning out clumsy and sloppy and rough.

“I . . . I t-told you already, Sukuna,” you whined, stuttering from his thrusts. “He was just keeping me company, I . . . unghh, swear.”

“Only keeping you company?”

You nodded profusely, your voice growing weak from Sukuna’s cock repeatedly hitting your sweet spot. “S-Swear. Hahh, I . . . ahh . . . mmph! I swear—I swear.”

“Yeah? You swear?”

“M-Mhmm . . . Gods, please, Sukuna, o-ohh! gods, I need to cum. I need to cum!”

“Why not, go on, then. Cum all you want on your husband’s cock. Yeahh, atta girl. Shit, you’re fucking milking me dry, aren’t you. Want my seed so bad, don’t you? Want me to fuck my kid into you?”

You mewled, music to Sukuna’s ears as every last drop of cum fell from your cunt, coating his dick with your fluids whilst the two of you rode out your highs. Your walls were painted white with Sukuna’s seed, filling you to the hilt as he kept his cock buried in your warm, wet cunt. Yeah, this one would surely take—Sukuna would make sure of that.

After all, this was bound to happen.

[miserycanary]

HONEYMOONERS ♡

Devotion consummated—how they cherish and claim you once the ring is on your finger.

ft. satoru, suguru, kento, toji, sukuna, choso

wc: 4.8k (i didn't mean to yap so much)

content: fem!reader, p in v sex, unprotected intercourse, est. relationships/marriage, possessiveness, praise kink, light bondage & restraint (sukuna), oral, creampies/breeding kink, pregnancy mentions, some emotional sex (crying, reverent language), overstimulation, marking, semi-public sex (gojo, nanami), gojo eats you out on a jet ski, mild voyeurism/exhibitionism (gojo, sukuna), just men in love

SATORU

Satoru doesn’t even bother to say good morning. Instead, he rolls over, pushes your robe open, and hums against your skin, “How many times can I make my wife cum before breakfast?”

It’s not even a question, it’s a challenge. He acts like you have all the time in the world, because you do. Satoru insisted on a month-long honeymoon. Thirty indulgent, jet-setting, skin-worshipping days where the world slows down and everything bends around his touch.

Week One: Maldives

It starts in an overwater villa with glass floors and no neighbors in sight. The sheets barely stay dry, the windows never stay closed, and Satoru’s face is basically glued between your thighs. He eats you out like it’s his first meal of the day and you’re also dessert. 

Always slow at first—kissing down your inner thighs, teasing your folds, whispering, “You sound so cute like this,” whenever you whimper for more.

Satoru doesn’t even touch himself most mornings. He just grinds his hard cock into the mattress while he makes you cum again and again, like edging himself for you is his favorite act of worship.

“One more, sweetheart. Look at me when you let go, mhm, there she is. That’s my wife.”

By the time you’re finally eating breakfast—sore, glowing, and satisfied—he’s already planning round two.

He eats you out from the back on a jet ski while you’re in the middle of the ocean. The salt spray mixes with your slick, and he comes in his swim trunks without even touching himself because you sobbed his name so sweetly.

Satoru takes you to a private island and fucks you against a palm tree while the tide rolls in.

“Told you I’d give you the world,” he whispers, biting your neck, “but it’s not enough. I need the world to see you’re mine.”

Week Two: Amalfi Coast

In Italy, Satoru doesn’t let you wear any of the underwear you packed. 

“No need,” he insists, slipping his hand between your thighs at dinner like you’re just a toy for him to play with. And you are. His favorite toy, his one and only. 

You ride him on the balcony of your hotel as the sunset casts a golden halo around your silhouettes. The Mediterranean breeze is warm, and he’s got your sundress bunched around your waist while Satoru leans back like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Come on, baby. Let ‘em hear how good I fuck you. You married a god, remember?”

You do almost get caught. An elderly couple walking by glances up, and Gojo just tilts his head, grinning lazily as your pace stutters. He slaps your ass to keep you moving. “Shy now? Thought you liked putting on a show.” 

The whiniest moans spill out of your mouth when you cum, body quaking with pleasure as Satoru smiles.

Later, he buys you gelato with the same fingers he fucked you with. Still sticky. Still smug. He licks the melting treat off your lips and says, “Sweet, but not as sweet as you taste when you cum for me.”

Week Three: Dubrovnik

You walk the city hand in hand. He’s smiling, chatting with locals, but his sunglasses hide the way his eyes stay on you—obsessed. Starving. The same man who bought the plane tickets mid-orgasm because you moaned that you’d never been to Croatia before.

In the mornings, he kisses your ring finger like it’s sacred. At night, he spoons you on satin sheets and plays with your pussy like he’s drunk off it. 

Says things like, “I could live in this moment forever. You and me, just like this. You’d let me ruin you every night, wouldn’t you, baby? It’s what you signed up for.”

Sometimes it’s slow. Reverent. Sometimes he’s unhinged—pushing your face into the hotel balcony railing and fucking you like he owns you. 

You try to protest, and he just laughs, “Shouldn’t have said ‘I do’ if you couldn’t handle the strongest.”

Before he comes, he pulls out and brings you to your knees. Satoru lets his cum paint your face, moaning how pretty you are, all for him.

Week Four: Macau

A high-rise suite, blackout curtains, and mirrors on the ceiling—because Satoru insisted. You stay in all day and only go out to enjoy the nightlife.

These days are more intense. Less playful. There’s a fever in his touch, a new kind of obsession brewing under the luxury. He fucks you with your legs thrown over his shoulders, watching your face contort in the mirror above. Presses a hand to your lower stomach and groans when he feels himself through you. 

“Would ya look at that. So deep in this pussy that was made for me.”

He ties your hands with silk and takes his time. Sometimes, you ride him with a hand around his neck, watching his pretty blue eyes gloss over. There’s one night he lends you his blindfold and teases you all night. Touch and go, kiss and retreat, until you’re crying from how badly you need him. 

He coos, kissing your tears away, “I just love how much you need me. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

By the end of most nights, all you can say is “Toru!” and “I love you.” 

And he always finishes inside. Always. Satoru never fails to hold you after, whispering, “I love every part of you. All I am is yours.”

By the end of the month, your body aches in the best ways. Your skin’s tanned, your throat sore from laughter and moaning, and your heart is full.

Satoru tucks you under his arm on the flight home and tells you, “If we don’t find out you’re pregnant soon, we’re going on another honeymoon.” 

You laugh against his chest, legs stretched across the plush leather seat, cozy in one of his hoodies. “I think you just like an excuse to keep me locked away.”

“Bingo,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “You’re so smart, baby. That’s why you’re my wife.”

He’s so warm. So calm. But there’s a shift in his voice, low and coaxing, and you know that tone—it always means he’s about to do something. His hand slides up your bare thigh, pushing your hoodie higher, knuckles grazing your inner skin like he’s testing just how much you’ll let him get away with.

“Satoru,” you murmur, quiet, warning, a little breathless already. “There’s a pilot—”

“Who knows not to disturb me,” he cuts you off, grinning as he kisses down your jaw. “And a privacy button.” He presses something on the side of the seat. The glass partition between the cockpit and the cabin begins to slide up.

“Oh my God.”

“Oh my husband,” he corrects smugly, slipping between your legs as he kisses you. “C’mon, baby. We didn’t break in the plane yet.”

You’re already melting by the time he tugs your panties aside, fingers teasing your folds. The low hum of the engines masks your gasp as he rubs slow circles over your clit, thumb firm, knowing. He watches your face like it’s his favorite movie, lips parted when he sinks two fingers inside you.

“You’re so wet,” he groans, fucking you slow with his fingers. “Is this ‘cause I said I’d get you pregnant? Or ‘cause you love my plane?”

“Shut up—”

He pulls back just enough to yank your panties down and get his cock out, already hard from the way you moan into his mouth. He flips you into his lap like you weigh nothing, settling you on top of him with your knees straddling the leather.

Your body sinks onto his with ease, and both of you groan at the feeling—tight, full, hot.

“Oh fuck,” he hisses into your neck. “You’re squeezing me so good. God, I missed this. Missed you.”

“We just fucked yesterday-”

“Still not enough,” he breathes, thrusting up into you with slow, decadent strokes. “Never is.”

His grip tightens on your hips, grounding you as he moves. The cabin lights are low, the sky outside an endless blur, and you’re bouncing in his lap with your hoodie still on and nothing else. His hands push it up to see your chest, and he latches his mouth onto your nipple, groaning against your skin.

“You’re gonna get me pregnant right now, on this stupid plane,” you pant, forehead pressed to his.

“Damn right I am,” he growls, kissing you again, his pace getting rougher. “My baby—our baby, fuck. I want that. I want you.”

You come with a desperate cry, gripping his shoulders as your whole body locks up, then shudders. Gojo doesn’t stop—he never does—fucking you through it until he’s right there with you, choking on a moan as gives you all his cum.

After, he holds you in his lap, still inside you, stroking your back and pressing kisses to your shoulder.

“Think it worked?” he mumbles against your skin.

“I think you’re crazy.”

“Let’s call it obsessed.”

You’re too blissed out to answer. Eyes heavy, body boneless, you drift off right there in his arms, lulled by the hum of the jet and the warmth of him around you.

Later, you’ll wake to find he’s buckled you into the seat, blanket tucked around you, and his hand on your belly like he’s already claiming it.

SUGURU

The destination was decided the moment he proposed—Bali. A peaceful escape carved into jungle hills, rice terraces, and the low hum of nature. Suguru secures a private villa with an infinity pool and open-air living space, where the warm breeze slips through sheer curtains and time seems to slow just for the two of you.

Every morning, he wakes you with soft kisses along your shoulder and collarbone before handing you a tray of fresh fruit and warm tea. He lets you eat in bed, sprawled beneath linen sheets, your legs tangled, the birds singing just outside. It’s a rhythm he could live in forever.

You walk barefoot through ancient temple grounds, explore artisan markets hand-in-hand, pausing to buy incense or admire a painter stroking the sea into canvas. He takes you to museums tucked behind hidden sanctuaries, and you spend lazy hours in quiet cafés, reading and people-watching in shared silence.

At night, you stroll dimly-lit paths lined with shrines and lanterns, his hand wrapped securely around yours. Then he brings you home to candlelit baths filled with flower petals. He sinks in behind you, warm water lapping at your skin as he kisses the back of your neck and hums something soft into your ear.

Suguru treats the honeymoon like a sacred ritual—a spiritual bond renewed night after night. Every touch deliberate, every glance a promise. At every opportunity, he worships your body like a temple.

He spends hours between your thighs, murmuring praises into your skin, taking his time until your voice breaks from moaning. His eyes stay locked to yours, even when your head tries to loll back—he catches your chin, kisses your temple, and whispers, “Eyes on me. Say it. You’re mine, wife.”

And when you do? He groans like he’s praying.

Some nights he undresses you like it’s holy. Like baring your skin is an act of devotion. He kisses every inch from your ankles to your knees and ribs until you’re flushed and trembling, body arching off the bed, mind going soft.

When he moves over you, it’s not just physical. It’s weight. His presence sinks into you like gravity. Suguru’s hands roam but never rush. He cups your jaw and makes you look at him as he slides his fingers between your thighs, working slow, steady circles over your clit.

“Forever, right?” he asks, even though he already knows.

It’s the easiest confession you’ve ever made. “Yours, Suguru. Always.”

And he leans in to kiss you—deep, sweet, all tongue and soft groans—before lining himself up and pressing into you with intention. Slowly. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you around him.

He doesn’t move right away. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot on your lips. You clench around him and his eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck… you’re so warm like this. Let me stay, just for a second.”

Then he starts to move. Deep, rolling thrusts that steals the air from your lungs. His body never leaves yours, his hands never let go. He laces your fingers with his beside your head, and when your wedding rings touch, they catch the lantern light and gleam like another promise.

Suguru fucks you like it’s a vow. Like he’s carving your name into every part of himself. When you cry out, his pace falters—not from hesitation, but awe. He kisses the tears before they fall. Cups your cheek as your back arches and you come around him, full and aching and utterly undone.

Only then does he let go. His thrusts grow erratic, voice breaking on your name as he fills you, sweat slicking the space where your skin meets his. Even afterward, he doesn’t leave you. Just stays inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, breath warm against your neck like he’s afraid this could end.

With your legs tangled and your bodies warm, all he says is “don’t fall asleep yet. I’m not done loving you.”

KENTO

Kento goes all out with his honeymoon, as he does with everything involving you. Your honeymoon is a blend of both your dreams and his—an elegant, slow-moving escape across three countries that feel like a glimpse of the life he’s always wanted to give you.

It begins in Switzerland, your shared dream destination. You stay in a chalet nestled in the Alps, snow dusting the windows while a fire crackles beside you. Most evenings are spent curled up under thick wool blankets, sipping wine while he reads aloud from an antique book he found in a tucked-away shop.

Kento keeps you close, fingers intertwined, murmuring, “This is how life should always be.”

You take day trips to Lake Geneva, boarding private boats that glide across the still, glassy water, the mountains rising around you like ancient guardians. One morning, you ask, half-teasing, why he even rented the boat when neither of you has any experience. Kento quietly admits he got a boating license months in advance.

And that’s how you end up riding him under the Swiss sun, legs shaking as he grips your hips from beneath. He’s still wearing his captain’s hat. You try to laugh, but his cock is so deep and steady that all you can do is moan as he holds you flush against him.

“Keep your balance, sweetheart,” he says, breath ragged, voice low against your ear. “If you fall, I’ll follow you in and fuck you stupid right here in open water.”

Then comes the Côte d’Azur, France—your pick. A glamorous, sun-drenched stretch of paradise. You stroll Nice’s Promenade des Anglais at sunset, heels in your hand, his jacket draped over your shoulders. In Saint-Tropez, he watches you glow beneath the harbor lights, mingling with people as if you were born for it. And you were. 

He books five-star hotels, treats you to Michelin-star meals, but he’s never more satisfied than when your eyes sparkle across a candlelit table and you call him husband. That word, husband, undoes him every time.

And later, when he has you pinned against the glass window of your hotel suite, overlooking the Riviera, it’s the only word you can remember—gasping it into the crook of his neck as he rocks into you, slow and deep.

“Say it again,” he whispers. “Say it until you forget everything else.”

Finally, you land in Kuantan, Malaysia, Kento’s dream vacation. No itinerary, no pressure. Just quiet mornings and indulgent nights. He lets you sleep in every day, but the second you stir, he’s on you—kissing your neck, sliding his hand between your thighs, waking you up with slow, sleepy thrusts until your fingers are tangled in his hair and you’re breathlessly grinding back.

“I need you like this,” Kento groans, “every morning for the rest of my life.”

At night, he runs you a bath and massages your shoulders while you sit on his lap, water sloshing out of the tub as you sink down on him. You moan into his mouth, and he exhales like it’s a relief, whispering your name like a vow.

But when he takes you to bed—that’s when he falls apart.

Kento lays you out like you’re something sacred. Kisses your stomach, your inner thighs, the backs of your knees. His hands never stop moving, brushing over your skin like he’s memorizing every inch. He goes down on you with slow, thorough focus, eyes never leaving your face as you fall apart.

He holds your hips down when you squirm, murmuring, “Look at you. So beautiful… made to be mine.”

And then, when you’re breathless—wrecked—he presses into you with reverent force. One hand grips the headboard; the other anchors your thigh open. He fucks you slowly, deliberately, until your eyes are glassy and your voice is gone.

“Be still,” he murmurs, voice ragged with restraint. “Let me take care of you.”

But then you call him husband again, and the dam breaks. His rhythm shifts—rough, deep, urgent. His control slips with every thrust, every gasp, every whimper you make.

“So pretty like this,” he groans into your neck. “Mine. My wife. Don’t you dare forget it.”

Your honeymoon isn’t just a trip. It’s the beginning of a life where Kento, after years of restraint and duty, finally chooses joy and pleasure. And he chooses to pursue it with you.

TOJI

Three marriages later, Toji still doesn’t understand the concept of a honeymoon. What he does get is this: a week off the grid, your thighs spread across his lap, the adrenaline of almost dying on a hike, and your throat stuffed full by nightfall. So naturally, he books a wild trip to New Zealand, filled with rugged trails, volcanic springs, and as little clothing as possible. But by the end of the week? He sees the appeal. 

The second you check into the room, he’s got you pinned. Your luggage is thrown around haphazardly as Toji latches onto your neck. 

“Been waiting all day to fuck my wife,” he growls.

You swear he’s trying to breed you every time. His hands on your hips, his voice low and growling, “Gonna keep it in this time. Want you round and full, just like that.”

And everytime, you take it.

Day 1: You’re constantly on the move: Hell’s Gate, Rotorua. Steaming sulfur pools, mud baths, hikes through volcanic terrain that make your thighs burn. Toji’s behind you the whole time, watching the way your ass bounces with each step, palms itching like he's desperate for a handful.

That night, you're soaking together in a geothermal spring, steam curling around your shoulders like fog.

His voice cuts through it, low and smug. “Bet no one’s ever fucked you in a place like this.”

And then he proves it. He’s got you bent over a slippery rock, the mineral water scalding around your calves and his cock even hotter inside you. One hand on your hip, the other covering your mouth when you whimper his name. His wedding ring flashes in the moonlight, pressed to your skin.

“Don’t run from it, sweetheart. You married this. You married me.”

Day 3: You're mid-way through a remote hiking trail, stopping for water when a passing guide gives you one too many glances. Toji notices. He always notices.

His arm snakes around your waist, pulling you in close. He doesn’t say anything—just stares the guy down until he stumbles off, red-faced and muttering. 

Later, when you ask him if he’s jealous, Toji just scoffs. “Jealous? Nah. I just don’t like when people don't realize you’re fuckin’ mine.”

He ruins you in your cramped little camping tent, the zipper barely holding back your cries. He’s got your knees pressed to your chest, his body heavy over yours, fucking into you like he wants to brand the memory into your bones. You fall asleep sore all over, pinned under the weight of his chest.

Day 5: The ATV tour was your idea. Toji speeds through the jungle paths with a devilish grin. You’re screaming and laughing behind him, clinging to his waist while he yells back:

“Don’t fall off, wife. I’m not pulling over!”

You don’t fall, but your composure does. Later, you’re in the backseat of the rental car, thighs sticky with sweat, your pulse still racing. He’s sprawled out like a king—shirtless, cock heavy on his thigh—when you climb over and drop to your knees.

You’re slobbering all over him. Lips messy. Hands trembling. Spit sliding down to his balls. He groans, fingers in your hair, watching you with the kind of reverence that makes your gut twist.

“So fuckin’ good,” he pants. “What’d I do to deserve this?”

You pull off with a smirk, a string of drool clinging between your lips and his cock. Voice sweet, lethal.

“You took my last name.”

It wrecks him. You feel it in the twitch of his cock, the way his jaw flexes, the almost-growl he lets out as he yanks you back onto him—throat first, this time deeper, filthier, until you’re choking on his praise.

The rest of the trip is a blur of tangled limbs, high altitudes, low moans in high places. He fucks you in waterfalls. In a cave. On top of a cliff. Sometimes slow, mostly not. He’s rough, reverent, and definitely addicted.

And when the week’s finally winding down—your lips puffy, your thighs bruised, your whole body humming with the aftermath—he tugs you into his lap, zips his hoodie around your naked frame, and presses a kiss to your jaw.

“Next honeymoon, we’re doing Antarctica,” he mutters. “I wanna see you ride me in the snow.”

You blink at him, dazed. “That’s—oh!—not how honeymoons work…”

To which he just grins, sharp and smug. “Yeah? Well good thing this marriage will.”

SUKUNA

He chooses somewhere ancient. Alive. A place with heat in the air and thrumming under your skin. It’s sensual without trying—like him. There’s a sprawling riad with carved archways and silk-canopied beds, and he books the entire place out so you won’t be disturbed. 

The bed is a California king, but you never sleep apart. You’re wrapped around each other every night—his hand gripping your thigh, your face pressed to his chest.He likes the size for two reasons: so he can toss you around and still have room to avoid the stains you two leave behind.

Silk robes. Hand-fed fruit. Gold jewelry he bought for you but only puts on himself. He refuses to let you carry your own bags—growls if you even try. And he inspects every outfit you pack, every hem and button.

“You don’t wear anything unless I’ve seen how fast I can take it off you.”

He lets you be looked at. Adored. Worshipped by strangers, because they’ll never touch. He wants you seen—because they’ll never know what it’s like to hear you beg.

And whenever you get back to your room, he fucks you like it’s a rite. Not just sex—a ritual. A claim. A bond carved again and again into your trembling body.

“I could destroy everything,” he says one night, voice low, “but I’d rather build a world just for you. And set it on fire when I die.”

Sukuna leaves bite marks all over you and bruises on your hips. Smirks down at you, red eyes glowing, like he’s seen your soul and made a home in it.

He fucks you until your voice breaks, until you forget your name and only remember his. Then he makes you ask for more.

“What’s that, wife? Use your words. Or should I teach you again?”

One night, he pulls a collar from his suitcase. Thick leather. Heavy. He buckles it around your neck and drags his thumb over the tag. 

“This is how you should look every day. My pretty pet, my wife.”

You cum hard that night—so hard you cry—and he only shushes you, kissing your wet cheeks, licking tears from your skin like it’s nothing.

He makes you beg to cum, then pulls out  just to hear you sob. Cruel, yes. But when it’s over? The way he holds you afterward? That’s what ruins you more than anything.

He doesn’t talk much. But his love speaks through the way he kisses the back of your neck. Through the way he threads your fingers together when you sleep. Through the way he watches you like you’re the only thing he didn’t take by force.

And every night ends the same way, his voice against your skin: “Say thank you. Loud enough for the heavens to hear. You’re blessed to be mine.”

CHOSO

Your honeymoon is tucked away in a remote part of Iceland—just the two of you, wrapped in warmth while the world outside glows cold and otherworldly. You stay in a heated glass igloo, skin-to-skin beneath thick blankets, with the Northern Lights dancing above you in ribbons of green and gold. It’s quiet, sacred. Every night feels like a dream suspended in frost.

The first time he sees the aurora borealis reflected in your eyes, Choso cries. Not loudly or in a way he wants you to see. But the tears come anyway, quiet and reverent, as he murmurs, “Nothing compares to this. Not even close.”

The honeymoon is low-key and peaceful. Cuddling by the fire, cooking simple meals together, watching old movies in bed with your fingers tangled. You hold hands in gloves during your long, scenic walks, and he blushes every single time you call him your husband.

He brings his film camera and takes soft, candid photos of you doing nothing—staring out the window, making tea, laughing at something dumb. He thinks you’re the most beautiful like that, unposed and fully his.

But the way you look when you’re sucking his dick like your life depends on it… it’s a close second. It’s late into the night, firelight flickering across the walls, your cheeks flushed from wine and the weight of his gaze. You crawl into his lap without a word, kneel between his legs, and pull his cock out of his sweats like it’s yours to take. 

Choso just watches you with hooded eyes and parted lips as you stroke him once, slow, like a tease. Then your mouth is on him, warm and wet, kissing his tip before dragging your lips down his shaft. His breath catches, low in his chest, and he grabs a fistful of your hair as you sink deeper.

You’re filthy with it. Drooling all over him, moaning around his cock, looking up at him with glassy eyes while you choke just to take him further. He lets out a broken groan when you swallow around him, one hand tightening in your hair as the other strokes your jaw. 

He doesn’t last long—not with you like this, looking up at him like you’d die happy with him on your tongue. When Choso cums, it’s with a grunt and your name falling from his lips like a prayer. You swallow every drop and then kiss him sweetly, already getting him hard again.

The way Choso makes love is like saying thank you. He’s so gentle at first, overwhelmed by how much he loves you. But the second you moan his name like you need him? Something in him unravels. His mouth gets filthy, and his rhythm deepens. You’ll end up in his lap, bouncing on his cock as he grips your hips and growls about how pretty your wedding dress was, how perfect you looked saying “I do.”

He fucks you all through the night, stroking your thighs every time you cum and shake on his cock. But Choso never stops, like he’s starved for you. 

“So good,” you tell him on the brink of tears. “Always so good to me.”

His voice roughens as he holds you down, eyes wild with love and possession.

“Mine. My wife. My everything,” Choso moans. “You don’t get to walk tomorrow.”

“Won’t need to,” you reply. 

And you don’t—because he carries you everywhere. Holds you close like he’s never letting go. Both of you know he never intends to. 

a/n: interactions are appreciated :') lmk what you thought/if you have any requests! thank you for reading mwah

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[miserycanary]

“i’m goin’ home to fuck my wife.”

and those were the last words john uttered before slamming the palm of his hand down against his desk and leaving. spoken the way most things he says are - gruff and final, with no room for argument - stunning the room into silence until the door shut hard behind him.

everyone just looked at each other, dumbstruck.

“should we wait for him to come back?”

“what the hell does that mean—”

“is that code for something?”

“wait, he’s married?”

price didn’t hear a word of it - by that point he was already halfway down the hall, boots pounding concrete with purpose, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, everything else dissolving into white-hot static behind his eyes.

he can take a lot of bullshit. does it daily. but fuckin’ hell - they wouldn’t stop. wouldn’t stop talking, hovering, circling him like crows. clipping questions at him in endless fucking rotations.

what now, captain? what’s next? what do we do about makarov? do we move now or wait for shepherd’s greenlight? have you seen the updated file? should we pull soap and gaz back? do we burn the safe house? double-tap the asset? what’s the protocol—

jesus fuckin’ christ.

it’d been too long. john’s mentally checked out and he knows it. doesn’t care. he didn’t want to be in that room. didn’t want to sit at that table. didn’t want to give another goddamn order with five pairs of bloodshot eyes looking at him like he’s meant to have all the answers and none of the doubt.

he needs a break. not a debrief. not another satellite feed. not another fucking decision.

he needs to go home and fuck his wife.

needs to put his hands on something solid, something that he doesn’t have to second guess. something that’d let him burn off all the static and pressure and noise building between his temples without asking anything much in return. his sanctuary where he can fall apart and come back clearer. reset his head before it spun off his shoulders.

so he peeled out of the parking lot before he’d even properly put the car in drive, and sent you one text:

‘take off anything you value and put away everything breakable. i’ll be home in 15.’

[miserycanary]

ʀᴏᴏᴍᴍᴀᴛᴇ!ꜱᴜᴋᴜɴᴀ ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɪᴀʟɪꜱᴛ.

★ He can't keep his hand to himself. - Drabble.

★ Him when you bring someone home. - Drabble.

★ He calls you 'baby' - Drabble.

★ He brings another girl home. - Drabble.

★ He comes home bruised and bleeding - Drabble.

★ Someone hits on you with him - Drabble.

★ When you leave your niece with him - Drabble.

★ You give him the silent treatment - Drabble.

★ You get drunk and wasted - Drabble.

★ A girl shows up in his tiktok feed - Drabble.

★ He comes home drunk - Drabble.

★ An argument goes too far - Drabble.

★ His friends hit on you - Drabble.

★ He sees you in a bikini for the first time - Drabble.

★ He hosts a party in the house - Drabble, ft. JJK Men.

★ He calls you his girl when someone hits on him - Drabble.

★ When the bottle lands on you - Drabble.

★ He kisses you - Drabble.

★ He kills a spider for you - Drabble.

★ When the tension finally breaks - Drabble - Smut.

★ After crossing the line as roommates - Drabble - Smut.