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bananarrlele · 5 months ago

Text

"A Study in Affection"

plot: “mr. silvair attempts to unravel the complexities of human affection for his human partner. struggling to understand love, he embarks on a series of clumsy, awkward, and sometimes failed attempts to bridge the gap between his scientific nature and the intimacy his partner craves." established relationship, living in the otherworld, couple issues, unrequited love, slow burn, emotional angst, introspection, miscommunication/language barriers, unconventional romance, dark athmosphere, suggestive, but no actual sex (no smut). everything written in bold refers to the otherworld language. word count: 5k+.

The cold little room that served as Mr. Silvair's laboratory could easily be described as grotesque. The environment seemed more like an extension of his cold and methodical mind than a space dedicated to medical practice. The stained tiles on the walls, once bright, reflected the pale light from the slightly flickering overhead lamps. Chains hanging from the ceiling adorned the room's edges, standing out as silvered, rusted threats. Moreover, the ceiling resembled a web of deteriorated pipes and conspicuous marks of grime, far from ignorable to the eyes.

In the central part of the room stood a metal table, marred by scars: cuts, scratches, and stains whose origins were better left unquestioned. On that table, the instruments of the monstrous doctor reigned supreme: scalpels, too sharp like ruthless razors, tweezers and hooks in unusual shapes, and syringes ranging in size from practical to utterly questionable. The jars and flasks on his shelves were disparate in coloration and aspect. Some were nearly translucent and strangely pleasing to the eye, while others were as dark as the pitch-black of a cursed night. Some housed creatures, or fragments of them, floating in viscous liquids that emitted a ghostly glow. Moreover, faded and aged papers lay scattered across the laboratory bench, like petals fallen from a withered flower. Their yellowed, fragile edges seemed on the verge of disintegration at the slightest touch, yet the hurried scribbles in black ink remained clear, implacable in their precision. Mr. Silvair’s handwriting was fine, almost ethereal, but hasty, as though every thought had to be recorded before it vanished into the chaos of his analytical mind. Anatomical diagrams, sketches of strange tools, and the flow of liquids in organic systems followed one another, interspersed, suggesting the persistence of carefully laid plans for convoluted practices and experiments.

These convoluted experiments were far beyond your comprehension. They had always been so, and would always remain, no matter how distressed a human heart might feel. Cold, sterile, devoid of sentiment, and strangely fascinating in its functionality. The space was an exquisite portrait of his mind and his nature, so distressing in certain lights yet profoundly intriguing. Undeniably, loving him was a painful dichotomy. The brutal precision of his mind was as admirable as it was overwhelming. How many times had you admired him, standing with his back turned, his long pale hair flowing gently like veils across his back, moving majestically as he traversed the space, immersed in his experiments? His slender, weathered hands, at times healing, at others injurious, were the object of your desire, evoking an incessant yearning that transfixed your chest. Whether watching the doctor dismember pieces of a low-sentience monster or performing sutures with an almost frightening calm, sewing living tissues and intertwining remnants of life as if it were an art, there was something about him that left you in a state of near avidity. He was there, within arm’s reach, yet he seemed so distant. His touch seemed cold and nonexistent, like trying to grasp mist. His presence was a contradiction — solid and unyielding, yet intangible, as if he occupied a space you could never truly enter.

You often wondered whether he noticed the painful chasm between you, a gap carved not out of cruelty but by his very nature. The way his sharp, attentive gaze slid over you as if examining one of his experiments was a lasting reminder of his habitual coldness. Yet still, in fleeting moments like the beat of a heart, there were times when he lingered just long enough for your senses to string together his gestures as fragments of a demonstration of his love.

But Mr. Silvair did not understand the meaning of love. Perhaps love was one of the most meager concepts capable of transcending the doctor's capacity for comprehension. He could not grasp it and would likely never manage to assimilate its ephemeral and unfathomable nature, being so obsessed with cataloging results and his own experiments.

A weary and restless sigh escapes your lips. "Such selfishness of mine. To demand that a ghost like him understand the complexity of love and the relevance of physical touch to human beings. I should be content with the fact that he likes me enough to keep me around — and I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world." That’s what you thought, your lips twisting in consternation, as you watched him meticulously suture a cut on Mr. Chopped's brow, his precise, impassive hands closing the wound without the slightest tremor.

But deep down, you yearned. You yearned for his touch, for even a single word, something to escape that clinical silence and confess that he loved you. Something to prove that he liked you, not as a domesticated experiment or a laboratory pet, but as someone real, someone who mattered.

The sigh does not go unnoticed by the doctor. His fingers, stained with dark remnants, finish the suture with an almost inhuman precision before resting Mr. Chopped on the cold examination table. The monster, inert and stitched, seems as insignificant as any of his other experiments.

Silvair straightens slowly, the subtle sound of his movements filling the sterile silence of the room. When he turns to face you, his scrutiny is calculated, as if analyzing an anomaly in a body. But this time, there’s hesitation. A minor, almost imperceptible detail suggests that he notices.

“Something wrong.”

He murmurs in his flat voice, devoid of any exceptional emotion. A simple statement, almost scientific, as if identifying a fracture or an irregular heartbeat in some random creature. Yet, for some reason, the way he says it makes your throat tighten.

It was so typical of him: noticing that something was out of place, but never understanding what it was or why.

Then, without warning, he somberly turns on his heels and picks up Mr. Chopped with indifferent ease. The sound of his footsteps echoes briefly before being lost in the silence, leaving you alone in the cold laboratory, enveloped in your own thoughts.

When he returns minutes later, the absence of the bubbly head in his arms only makes the focus of his attention more evident. Silvair stands still in a particular spot in the room, slender and upright like a somber tower of an abandoned abbey, with his hands clasped behind his back in an almost theatrical gesture, and his gaze fixed unmistakably on you, so much so that you feel your own skin burn in anticipation. His posture was clearly inquisitive, as if seeking invisible cracks he might examine and decipher.

But the uncertainties of your heart were superficial and easy to find. It was as though your chest refused to be secretive, or perhaps it was your human nature that contributed to that piercing sensation, like an unending hammer, which made you so vulnerable in relation to the doctor.

“You not well.”

He attempts to approach, his slender, angular silhouette stepping into the dim light illuminating the room.

“Something bother you.”

“Something change.”

He furrows his brow minimally. His expression remains essentially unchanged and impenetrable, but there is a shadow of discomfort there, as if being confronted with a situation beyond his control was something inexorable, distressing to him.

You don’t respond, your throat caught in a strange combination of fear and hope. The desire for him to approach and truly see you, as someone real and complex, almost hurts.

“You different. Me want know.”

The statement sounds like a challenge. An awkward silence then persists for a few seconds, long enough for him to tilt his head slightly. That was a gesture that often accompanies moments of genuine curiosity.

You try to find the right words, but the truth is you don’t know how to tell him that you want something more, something beyond the platonic and scientific care he offers. Furthermore, the language of monsters was insufficient to express what you truly felt and yearned to release. Although Silvair had learned multiple words of your natural language almost flawlessly, it was as if the vocabulary in both expressions was lacking to convey all your frustrations. You take a risk, anyway, the words spilling out like an unrestrained, dragging outpour, alternating between the two languages.

“I just wanted…” — You begin, but feel an unbearable knot in your throat, like tight vines. Silvair remains waiting for your voice, curious to dissect the cause of such profound anguish.

After a long moment, you finally let out, almost like an exasperated sigh:

“I just wanted your touch. I want your care, not just for stitching wounds or manipulating medicine. I don’t just want to be near you. Me want touch. Me want feel loved.”

The impact of the words falls like a hammer between you. Silvair recoils, a fleeting shock passing over his usually relaxed features, as if carved in marble and immortal in their imperturbable beauty. He had never heard anything like this before. For him, touching someone was merely a means to an end — a technical necessity for healing wounds or maintaining control over a specimen. Never to express anything more.

“Me confused. Me not understand love.”

His confession is almost inaudible, as if he were finally admitting his inability to understand anything beyond the boundaries of the rational.

You shrug, trying not to show how painful it is to hear those words from his mouth, even though he didn’t say them with the intent to hurt.

“I know. That’s why it hurts.” — You whisper to yourself, drawing in your lower lip in consternation in a futile attempt to maintain your composure, while those treacherous blue shards escape your eyes like tiny fragments of crystal falling from a cracked stained glass. At that moment, the fissure in your chest, opened by Silvair’s words, felt deeper than the crack slicing through one of the aged laboratory walls, where so many strange things found their way.

The doctor’s gaze drop to the ground for a moment, as if he were genuinely trying to understand, but failing. He seems lost, his hands restless before his body, and you feel a wave of compassion and frustration mixed together. He would never be able to fully understand, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t wish for something more from him.

Then, as if an internal switch had been flipped, Silvair withdraws, the sound of his heavy steps echoing through the room. The door creaks as it closes behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts and an unexpected emptiness. For a moment, you feel a deep sadness, as if he had taken a part of you with him — something you had never known you expected to receive from someone like Silvair.

The rest of the day was irredeemably dull and dragged on. You sat on the sofa in the small antechamber outside Mr. Silvair's medical inspection laboratory, absentmindedly fiddling with a Rubik's cube that Mr. Masque had given to Mr. Crawling, the latter having generously offered the artifact to you, the one he affectionately called his "favorite human." But nothing could lift your sullen mood.

You turned the cube between your fingers, rotating its colorful faces without focus, as if it were a meaningless distraction. Your mind wandered between the pain of your conversation with Silvair and the endless hours during which he vanished into the vast, gloomy corridors and pathways of the ghosts' apartment. Where might he be now, with his measured steps, the smell of formalin clinging to him, and the crimson metallic richness of blood lingering on his skin, his long locks streaked with dried, vital fluid? His scent, mannerisms, and even his voice were like precious gems in your memory — existent but not within your grasp. It was disturbing how he seemed to occupy every inch, every corner of your mind.

You tried to imagine: had he completely ignored your complaints, shrugged them off, and returned to his pragmatic experiments elsewhere? Was he perhaps even more focused than usual, desperately trying to understand what love truly meant? Or was he simply sitting, lost in some thought you couldn’t conceive?

Your gaze swept across the room, now empty and shadowy, lingering on the shelves filled with jars, scalpels, and preserved specimens. Each one seemed to carry a story, a small piece of the enigma that Silvair was. At the same time, however, the ache in your chest only grew. You had never met anyone like him — so complex, yet so incomprehensible. Silvair was the embodiment of mystery, a cold enigma you longed to unravel but always seemed just out of your understanding.

You sighed, clutching the Rubik's cube in your hands more tightly until the colors began to blur. And once again, you asked yourself: What was he doing now?

While you were engulfed in creeping melancholy for hours and hours, in another dim and desolate room, its walls as cold as a stone embrace, Mr. Silvair idly sifted through a pile of abandoned objects. It was a tolerated habit for the doctor, even though he considered most of these items irrelevant. Among organic samples and scribbled notes, he stumbled upon something unusual: a worn magazine cover with vibrant colors and an eye-catching illustration of two humans in what he vaguely recognized as a kiss.

He approached it, his pale, elongated hands reaching for the booklet with a mix of curiosity and reluctance. It was obvious who had left it there — Mr. Gap. The fissure monster was a sporadic but unforgettable presence. Gap had a habit of appearing with all sorts of items: newspaper fragments, festival pamphlets from non-existent events, and now, a human magazine titled The Secrets of Passion.

There was a small note scrawled in the corner of the cover in messy handwriting, as if Gap had struggled considerably to hold the pen:

“Kiss seems to say heart. I want heart. Give me heart. Kiss like.”

Silvair read Gap's words in silence. The figure of the fissure monster, who would occasionally appear with clippings and fragments of newspapers on the most varied subjects — ranging from trivialities like cookie recipes to stories of a serial killer wreaking havoc — was now immortalized in a curious observation about kisses and human desire. Silvair frowned. What was a kiss, after all, to someone like Mr. Gap? What did the other monster know that he didn’t? Silvair knew his studies had not prepared him for such a question. He had studied anatomy, human behavior on a physical level, hormonal responses, everything that could be analyzed and understood. But love?

He closed the magazine, his rigid hands gripping the cover tightly, trying to make sense of what was stirring inside him. Something moved within his being. Mr. Gap had once again managed to plant a seed of discomfort — or curiosity — in the doctor’s essence. For a moment, he found himself wondering if he could learn the art of kissing, or at least understand why humans seemed to find this gesture so important. And more than that: if the kiss was the key, could it be the gateway to love?

Suddenly, with a faint, restless twist of his lips, Silvair shut the magazine, holding the piece of paper in his hands as though it were a precious object of study. Deep down, he felt that something was about to change. Drastically.

Silvair had isolated himself in recent days, immersing himself in meticulous studies and attempts to understand human gestures of affection. He spent hours poring over those magazines and fragments brought by Mr. Gap, consumed by an unrelenting search for something beyond the physical, something that could truly touch the complexity of love and human relationships.

The magazine he had found held much more than scientific explanations about kisses and touches. As he delved into its pages, something else captivated him: the images. There, on the yellowed paper, he found photographs and illustrations of couples in moments of such intense affection that they seemed to transcend simple physical contact. Bodies intertwined in a way that felt almost mystical, as though they were on the verge of merging into a single entity. It was more than just a kiss, more than a loving embrace. It was an intimacy so profound, so visceral, that he could hardly comprehend it.

The images left him stunned. He observed them, analyzed every detail, every touch, every curve of skin and movement, but he could not grasp the reason behind that energy. He stared at the figures repeatedly, as if trying to decode them.

"Strong contact. Not medicine explain. Me not understand..." he muttered, running his pale fingers through his light hair, visibly frustrated.

Dr. Silvair’s Attempts

PROCEDURE I: “The Mannequin”

The mannequin stood before him, its cold and rigid structure serving as a substitute for human flesh. His sharp gaze scanned every detail of the object, with his fingers firmly positioned to replicate the gestures described in the magazine. His lips slowly approached the mannequin’s face. He pressed them gently against the plastic surface, attempting to emulate the act of a kiss. There was no warmth, no response. The chill of the plastic was a stark reminder of the distance he still had to traverse.

Observations: "Objective: Simulate a kiss on a non-living object to observe physical responses. Result: No emotional reaction observed. Conclusion: As suspected, reciprocity seems to be a crucial factor in human interaction, something that cannot be reproduced without an active second party."

PROCEDURE II: “Self-Imitation”

After failing with the mannequin, Silvair decided to try a different approach: he would be his own test subject. Sitting in front of a mirror, he repeated the motions he had seen in the magazines. His lips touched his own with almost scientific precision. He observed every micro-expression in the mirror, analyzing his own eyes, the way his facial muscles reacted, trying to detect some emotional response in his body. But again, all he felt was the absence of something. The touch generated no internal reaction, no change.

Observations: "Objective: Attempt to experience the act of a kiss in a self-conscious context, observing facial and bodily reactions. Result: No observable changes in physical or emotional responses. Conclusion: The emotional response to the action is not triggered by the mere repetition of the act. The emotional factor appears crucial to eliciting a genuine reaction. Reactions cannot be replicated without a real connection."

PROCEDURE III: “The Monstrous Rose”

Inspired by the magazine’s mention of simple yet symbolic gestures of affection, Mr. Silvair recalled his collection of monstrous flowers — his own creation, with black petals and iridescent edges, exuding a sweet and peculiar aroma that was almost hypnotic. He believed that the symbolic gesture of offering a flower could elicit a stronger emotional reaction, as humans often associated gestures like this with affection.

When he finally entered the little room where you were, half-asleep on the sofa, he observed your figure curled up like a bird with battered wings. The Rubik's cube had already rolled to the floor, having slipped from your hands. When he approached, you looked up at him, surprised.

“Me offer gesture.” — He said, his voice tinged with an unusual softness, extending the flower to you.

You raised your eyes, somewhat startled, but accepted the flower. The fragility of the gesture made your heart leap slightly, and for a moment, the smile on your lips seemed genuine.

“Thank you, Silvair.” — You murmured in your native tongue, bringing the flower close to your face, inhaling its scent of burnt caramel and polished copper. — “Beautiful. But why you bring this to me?”

He watched your reaction carefully, registering every micro-expression. He stood poised and expectant, like someone awaiting immediate validation.

“Me test affection.”

You furrowed your brow slightly, nodding. “Of course, you test. Gestures like this need come from heart, not through testing, Silvair.” You spoke in a tone of gentle reprimand, your voice tinged with lingering frailty. He captured a considerable part of your message, his expression tightening slightly.

He blinked slowly, as though processing your words. “Heart… not functional in this context. Me try again.”

You sighed as he retreated, taking the flowers with him, which now seemed like a failed experiment.

Observations: “Positive reaction observed: increased heart rate, pupil dilation. Receptiveness to symbolic offering generates some level of emotional bond but is insufficient for deep or intimate engagement.

Additional Consideration: “The symbolic significance of a gift may generate an emotional response, but it does not equate to a deeper or more intimate interaction. The flower functioned as a marker of interest but not as a gesture of complete emotional surrender.”

After the episode with the monstrous flowers, the night dragged on in silence, filled with a quiet tension that lingered in the air. The laboratory was illuminated only by a soft light that fell over the notes scattered across the tables and the flasks containing mysterious substances. Silvair was engrossed in his thoughts, the tip of his pen furiously scratching paper, his focus fixed on his observations. You watched him while lounging carelessly in a chair, your legs hanging over its arms. You bit the tip of your thumb absentmindedly as something churned within you, responding to his dissociated behavior. The silence had become nearly unbearable, as had his repeated absences. If before it was agonizing to witness him steadfastly preserving his immutable exteriority, never attempting any kind of affection, seeing him obsessively conducting literal and absurd experiments to determine love and turn affection into a performative, perfectly calculated act was an even more tormenting experience. You felt excluded — and more than that, you felt an ever-growing need for something more between you two, something beyond studies, the clinic, and his cold behavior.

The suffocating silence between you was unbearable, and the impulse overcame reason. You approached him cautiously, positioning yourself behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist. Your fingers, hesitant at first, slid across his cold torso. Your touch was gentle, a silent invitation for something more intimate.

He finally stopped writing but did not move. His body remained rigid, motionless like a statue.

“Why so distant?” — You asked, pressing your face against his shoulder, seeking some sign of reciprocity.

“Me busy.” — He replied, his voice as cold as ever, but there was something else there — perhaps a note of uncertainty that didn’t escape your notice.

Your frustration grew heavier. You slid your hand lower, attempting to draw his attention, but he caught your wrist, halting any further progress. He wasn’t harsh, but his grip was firm enough to make it clear he didn’t want this.

“Not now.” — He said, releasing your hand and returning his focus to his notes.

You stepped back, hurt. The words were simple, but they carried a devastating impact. He didn’t lift his eyes to you, didn’t notice the gleam of tears threatening to escape as you walked away.

“Alright." — You murmured, your voice trembling. — “Sorry.”

When you left the room, the sound of the door closing echoed louder than it should have, as if sealing an abyss between you two.

Mr. Silvair remained still for a few moments after your departure, the pencil suspended in midair. His mind, normally so focused, seemed scattered.

“Intimacy…” — He murmured to himself, recalling the figures from Mr. Gap’s magazine he had examined days earlier. Images of intertwined hands, deep kisses, and bodies so close they seemed symbiotic. He remembered a note written in Gap’s erratic handwriting:

“Love strange. Bodies together, mind too. Sex? Kiss? Very strange. But good?”

Intimacy and sexuality echoed in his cloudy mind, interweaving uncomfortably. At the time, he had dismissed Gap’s erratic scrawlings as a disconnected ramble, but now, recalling your pained expression, something inside him began to shift.

“They try. Me fail?”

He shut the notebook forcefully, the sound reverberating through the empty room. For the first time in a long while, he felt something that could be described as regret.

A few days had passed since Silvair’s initial, frustrating attempts to comprehend the complexities of human nature. The tension between you had reached a silent breaking point, like a rope stretched beyond its limit. He spoke little, and you even less. But his silence always felt calculated, while yours was laden with emotions that could not be translated into words.

That morning, an unexpected accident occurred during what seemed like an innocent game with Mr. Machete — a friendly duel of blades and laughter, a competition of skill, escalated beyond what it should have. The playful match resulted in a deep cut on your left thigh, far more severe than anything reasonable for a mere game. Mr. Machete’s blade had slid more smoothly than anticipated, slicing through the skin and leaving a wound that stretched across a considerable portion of your leg.

Silvair acted quickly, faster than usual. He did not show panic, but his movements were swifter and more precise than normal. With you seated on the inspection table, he brought his tools and began cleaning the wound. Despite the pain, you noticed something different about him. His hands, which always moved with unwavering firmness and methodical precision, trembled slightly.

“You scare me.” — He murmured as he applied antiseptic, his eyes fixed on the wound as if avoiding your face. There was an irritation in his tone that you couldn’t quite define, a discomfort that spilled into his voice. — “You not should play like that.”

He sighed softly, the sound barely audible in his reprimand. “You stop this need. Not do again, not with them.” — He seemed to hesitate before adding. — “Not with machete man. Careful you must be. Should.”

“Don’t worry so much!” — You said, offering him a soft smile to ease his indignation. — “Me know you try care for me.”

“Not just about the cut.” — He murmured, more to himself than to you.

His fingers, in an involuntary movement, touched the edge of your thigh, the skin around the wound. The sensitivity of the area, paired with his gentle touch, made your body flinch slightly — but not from pain. It was his proximity, the way he seemed to feel the suffering you were enduring without truly knowing how to handle it.

Suddenly, Silvair’s hands moved up to your face, touching your cheeks with an unexpected delicacy. His fingers, cold and trembling, traced the lines of your face as if trying to understand every contour, every expression you offered, like an impossible equation to solve.

His closeness made your heart race in anticipation. His presence was intense, as though he were on the verge of doing something even he didn’t know how to accomplish. You felt the tension between you rise, charged with something ready to reveal itself, though neither of you knew how to act.

He hesitated, perhaps unsure, but his focus never wavered from you. Silvair seemed unable to withdraw, unable to let go of you, and this was unexpected. It was a fine line between desire and hesitation, between human impulse and his incapacity to comprehend it. When he finally leaned in closer, his face coming dangerously near yours, his touch against your skin seemed to dissolve the barriers between you.

The air was thick with hesitation, but without warning, he leaned in further, his lips brushing against yours softly, as though trying to understand something he still could not define. The kiss was uncertain, hesitant, reminiscent of the first time he had tried to mimic the gesture with the mannequin. Yet there was something profoundly human about it, something he, perhaps unknowingly, longed to grasp.

But this time, there was something more. A shiver ran down your spine as he deepened the kiss, his lips moving with increasing firmness, as if trying to unravel the mechanics of a gesture that had now become part of him. He explored the softness of your lips with the tip of his tongue, touching them with unusual gentleness, yet also with an impulse that spoke louder than words. Silvair tasted you, and something stirred within his chest, something he could neither name nor explain. He pulled you closer, his touch assertive, strong, commanding — yet his hands moved to cradle your face delicately, soothingly, as though he feared breaking you. One hand traveled further, gripping your waist firmly, as if to show you the depth of his desire, which he could barely comprehend himself.

The kiss grew more desperate, less measured, almost voracious, with the caresses reaching a peak of urgency. He felt your breath, ragged against his skin, quickened to match his, and with slow, deliberate movements, he lifted you effortlessly, placing you on the cold surface of his inspection table. His hands never left you, lingering near, almost possessive, as he leaned over you, his features focused and intense. His hand traveled over your skin with more confidence, touching places where he felt the vibration of your body beneath his fingers.

His tongue intertwined with yours, now bolder, yet retaining the same careful attention as if deciphering the meaning of every touch, every movement. His fingers glided smoothly, exploring the curves of your body with reverent silence but an intensity that grew, as though trying to absorb every fragment of warmth you emitted. He touched you with a tenderness that concealed a quiet hunger, as though it were his first time allowing himself to feel the warmth of affection, the discovery of care, and the growing desire for something deeper, something genuine.

As your lips parted momentarily, just long enough for him to catch his breath, Silvair kept his forehead pressed against yours, his manner captivated and almost possessive. His breath was heavy as he whispered, more to himself than to you:

“Fascinating...”

He lifted his gaze, the movement delicate, almost attentive, as if he were trying to decipher the rhythm of your breath, the scent of the air around you, every minute detail in his surroundings. The blindfold that covered his eyes was no impediment; on the contrary, it seemed to heighten his perception, creating a sharper sense of closeness, as if he could feel every beat of your heart, every soft sigh you let out. His hand slid to your waist, the touch firm yet purposeful, as though mapping your presence through the sensation of your skin.

With a slow but resolute motion, he tilted his face, planting a kiss along the line of your jaw, then down the curve of your neck, with the same curious care as before. Yet this time, there was something more deliberate in every touch.

“You make me curious. Me want… discover more.”

And without saying anything further, he leaned in again, his lips capturing yours once more, this time with an intensity that promised he was far from finished with his exploration. The promise of something more lingered in the air, carried in his touch, in the force of a desire he seemed to still be struggling to name — a desire he now seemed determined to unravel, piece by piece, like an enigma he was unwilling to abandon.

“Tell me, is this… what you wanted? What you have been waiting for?” — He asked quietly, brushing his thumb over your lips gently in an electrifying motion. “This human desire mean, yes?” — His voice, hoarse and intense, reverberated like a promise of a lost paradise, echoing in your ears as he struggled to murmur the words in your language.

You arched an eyebrow, letting out a soft, provocative laugh.

“If you have to ask, perhaps something is still missing from your research, doctor.” — Your voice was low and measured, careful to ensure he caught every meaning and syllable, but tinged with mischief, as your fingers slid to his neck, tracing short, almost electric touches. It was a gentle but daring gesture as you pulled him closer. — “Me demonstrate, yes?”

Silvair’s lips curled into a faint smile, despite being unable to see, as though he already knew exactly what you meant. He tightened his grip on your waist, his fingers firm but still containing an unexpected gentleness.

“Demonstrate?” — He repeated slowly, as if savoring the idea, his tone deeper now. — “Me think good. But you not expect me gentle all the time.”

Before you could respond, he acted. His hands, which had rested on your waist, slid to the middle of your back, pulling you against him with determination. His lips, previously hesitant, now gave themselves fully. With an almost cruel tenderness, he traced the outline of your mouth with his tongue, as if issuing a silent invitation. Each touch was a promise, a wordless request for entry. His fingers traced a slow, suggestive path along your thigh, gradually climbing toward the center of your body. Each touch, every subtle caress, sent shivers throughout your entire being, and you felt as though you might melt under his dissecting hands, arching gently like a flower unfurling in the sun on his inspection table.

Between kisses, you drew a deep breath, a faint whimper, and a slightly tense laugh escaping against his lips.

“Not bad for someone who’s learning. Fast learner.”

He paused, the laugh escaping his lips a small victory.

“Then, teach me.” The command was clear, but the accompanying promise was even more enticing. With a firm motion, he leaned you back, your body becoming an instrument in his hands. The intensity of the moment overwhelmed everything, and you realized, with a mix of surprise and satisfaction, that he had finally let himself go.

Thin, translucent tears of joy adorned the corners of your eyes, inevitably. In that moment, you finally understood that what he sought wasn’t merely understanding but surrender. And in that moment, you knew: he was learning how to love.

phew. this was laborious, but so much fun to write. giggling, kicking my feet, and twirling my hair for this man, no lie. it's really interesting to write for silvair, and I've been wanting to do so for weeks. he’s so complex, and his inscrutability and unusual gentleness are captivating. i’m sure these traits would leave anyone confused in a relationship. mr. silvair would be kind in terms of care and service, but terrible when it comes to communication and effective displays of affection, so I wanted to explore this issue in this long text. the ending is suggestive because I think that learning would inevitably lead to situations like the one narrated. who knows... maybe I’ll write more. my thirst for mr. silvair never ends :) it's christmas eve in my homeland (brazil), and for those who are reading and are in the same territory as mine, or at least on a similar rhythm/time zone, merry christmas eve! to the fans of mr. silvair out there, consider this text a gift. we urgently need more stories about this man, like, ASAP. thank you so much if you read all of this, and have a lovely day or night! ♡ (this text is open to corrections and edits. english is not my native language, and the original was entirely written in portuguese. time for some sleep, finally.)

#mr silvair x you #mr silvair x reader #homicipher #mr silvair x mc #homicipher x reader #homicipher x you #mr silver #mr silver x reader #mr silver x you #suggestive cw #other characters #mentions #i want to shag silvair so bad #the doctor is mine #thirst so unhinged got me writing 5k words for this man

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goldenapplefortune · 1 year ago

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ur so real for this anon hey mcytblr drop your neopronoun headcanons for your blorbos

being real some of the beat fanfics i ever read were dsmp hybrid aus and modern aus. specifically the ones with hella projection where all the characters would use neopronouns and be autistic or systems. especially the chatfics. put that cubito in a group chat immediately.

all this to say cringe is dead and ctommy WOULD use xe/xyr pronouns. fanfic writers ily.

#i could do this for a good portion of hbg #feinberg would use sea/axo/thunder/shell/fin neos fight me #give couriway some gold/crown/vio(let)/wing/feath(er) pronouns fr #tapl? gap(ple)/shine/glory/rich/rust #my guy marcus fireworkss would go insane with em fr give that man some emojiself pronouns and a buncha colors #🎆/💥/✨️/spark/star/glim(mer)/night/bright for the sparkliest blorbo #you cant convince me geo wouldnt use end/voi/eye/dark/night/star pronouns #reign? any pronouns with crown/gold/spark/race/royal/rose/ruby/shine neos #i will assign ALL of hbg neopronouns you just watch

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blueiscoool · 1 month ago

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Mass Grave of Roman Soldiers Discovered in Austria

The renovation of a football pitch in Austria’s capital has led to the discovery of a Roman mass grave housing the remains of more than a hundred soldiers who died in combat.

The construction company working on the sports field in the district of Simmering in Vienna found a large number of human remains at the site in late October, according to the Vienna Department of Urban Archaeology, part of the Wien Museum.

The remains of at least 129 individuals were uncovered during excavations by archaeologists and anthropologists from the museum and archaeological excavation company Novetus, the museum said in a press release Wednesday.

However, the total number of individuals is estimated to be more than 150, as the earlier construction works had displaced a large number of dislocated bones in the 16-foot-long pit.

The skeletal finds suggest “a hasty covering of the dead with earth,” as the individuals were not buried in an orderly fashion, but with their limbs intertwined with each other’s and with many lying on their stomachs or sides, the museum said.

‘Catastrophic’ military operation

After the skeletons were cleaned up and examined, researchers found that they were all male, and most were more than 1.7 meters tall (more than 5 feet 7 inches) and between the ages of 20 and 30 when they died.

Their dental health was generally good, with few signs of infection, but every individual analyzed bore injuries sustained at or near their time of death.

The variety of wounds, which were mainly found in the skull, pelvis and torso, and made by weapons including spears, daggers, swords and iron bolts, suggests they were sustained during battle rather than the result of execution – the punishment for military cowardice, the museum said.

“As the remains are purely male, it can be ruled out that the site of discovery was not connected with a military hospital or similar or that an epidemic was the cause of death. The injuries to the bones are clearly the result of combat,” it added.

The bones were dated to approximately 80 to 230 AD.

The men were probably robbed of their weapons, since only a small number of objects were found alongside them, according to the release.

Archaeologists uncovered two iron spearheads, one of which was found lodged in a hip bone.

Numerous hobnails were discovered near the feet of one individual. These nails would have studded the underside of leather Roman military shoes, the museum said.

An X-ray of the scabbard of a rusted and corroded iron dagger revealed typical Roman decorations of inlays of silver wire. This was dated to between the mid-1st century and early 2nd century AD.

There were also several pieces of scale armor, which became customary around 100 AD, the museum said. However, they were unusual in having more square-shaped features than round, it added.

A cheek piece from a Roman helmet was found to be from a type that became customary from the middle of the 1st century.

“We are blown away by this find. It is a genuine game-changer,” Kristina Adler-Wölfl, head of the Vienna Department of Urban Archaeology, said Friday, adding that this is “a once-in-a-lifetime discovery” for the museum’s archaeologists.

“There is archaeological evidence of Roman battlefields in Europe, but none from the 1st/2nd century CE with fully preserved skeletons,” she said.

Around 100 AD, ritualized cremation burials were common in the Roman-governed parts of Europe, with whole-body burials “an absolute exception,” according to the museum. “Finds of Roman skeletons from this period are therefore extremely rare,” it said.

“The undignified nature of the burial site along with the deadly wounds found on each individual suggests a catastrophic military confrontation, possibly followed by a hasty retreat,” Adler-Wölfl added.

Battle at the dawn of urban Vienna

Historical records show that in the late 1st century, during the reign of the emperor Domitian, costly battles took place on the Roman Empire’s northern Danube border between the Romans and Germanic tribes.

“This is the first time we have material evidence of the Germanic wars” fought by Domitian between 86 and 96 AD, Adler-Wölfl said. “Before the find, we knew about these conflicts only through some written sources.”

“Our preliminary investigation suggests with near certainty that the mass grave is the result of such a Roman-Germanic battle, one that likely took place in or around 92 CE,” she added.

The destruction of an entire legion is included in reports of disastrous defeats, which later led to the extension of the fortification line known as the Danube Limes under the emperor Trajan, according to the museum.

The Roman expansion of the town of Vindobona, which later became Vienna, “from a small military site to a full-scale legionary fortress occurred in that context,” said Adler-Wölfl.

“This would place the mass grave in immediate conjunction with the beginning of urban life in present-day Vienna,” she added.

The initial investigation by the team in Vienna will form part of a larger international research project, the museum said. This will include DNA analysis, to shed light on the lives of the soldiers and their living conditions.

#Mass Grave of Roman Soldiers Discovered in Austria #Simmering in Vienna Austria #roman battelfield #mass grave #roman weapons #ancient artifacts #archeology #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #roman history #roman empire #roman emperor

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troubled-bog-witch · 2 years ago

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Best thing about Steeplechase is watching Justin slowly go mad with power. Turning point was in the Gutter City arc when he realized he can just say anything and make it canon. Yeah you have to bring your own dough to the bakery!! Fuck you!!! Historically the dynamic on this show has been the players do goofs and the GM frantically tries to move the plot forward so it's really funny to see the opposite. Justin said YOU'RE trapped in here with ME and proceeded to invent the Rust Miner and Shlabethany. The nervous first time GM from the early episodes was never seen again. He has free reign to torment his beloved family and no one can stop him! It's an education in the worst possible times to play the saxophone!

#taz steeplechase #the adventure zone #justin mcelroy #magpie rambles

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reignofrust · 1 year ago

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Cody: I'm close, where are you?

Howard: Oh, I see you.

Cody: Is that you in the middle of the road?

Howard: Yeah, floor it.

#rise of rust #reign of rust #incorrect quotes #they are a little silly to me your honor

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lets-try-some-writing · 6 months ago

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“It is said that during the first age, there were so many Titans that they dotted the sky like stars. But when the Quintessons came, the Primes and their inheritors were not enough to save them from the wrath of creatures without empathy." - Dion, Third-rate priest of the Primacy

Lore below the cut.

It is recorded that there were once possibly up to several thousand Titans near to and on Cybertron while the Primes still reigned. They travelled in huge groups, flocking as they spread out across the stars. Most vanished into the void of space, going forth to bring life to barren worlds just as Primus wished. Aside from a few colony worlds with still living Titans, their fates are unknown, but it is assumed that most of the Titans completed their duties as intended.

Those who remained behind on Cybertron to help safeguard the infant civilizations forming there were not nearly as fortunate. Each and every Titan was cut down methodically by the Quintessons after their arrival. The Primes who survived 'The Fall' were not strong enough to protect their Titan wards, and most of them fell alongside their cityformer comrades. The Titans never fought back, but they did attempt to flee. Most were killed all across the planet, scattered and without aid. But during the siege of Polyhex, several ancient Titans were corralled into the Rust Sea and promptly fell one after another. Their corpses created the Hydrax Plateau.

Other Titan corpses were later used as the foundations for several great cities due to the stability of their frames and the increase in wildlife growth in the areas near the bodies. Iacon, Helex, and Polyhex are three such examples. Each city built atop a Titan corpse has been noted having specific frame augmentations for any newbuilds formed there. Sometimes, newbuilds even emerge with memory fragments that they should not possess. However, those things mean little for Cybertron and its people in the modern age. The Titans are dead, and their relics are all that remain.

As it stands, there are only three Titans recorded as being active in Cybertron's most secure records. Vos, Trypticon, and Metroplex. Vos is a well kept secret and his identity is hidden beneath the guise of him being the first ever floating city. Metroplex has not moved in millennia. As for Trypticon? He wanders the wild parts of Cybertron's surface and, despite his size, is rarely observed by normal bots.

#transformers #maccadam #alternate universe #fractured stars au #titans #cybertronian worldbuilding #trypticon #metroplex #digital art #sketches

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mrpenguinpants · 5 months ago

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LORD GIVE ME ONE MORE CHANCE

— "I'm not here to disregard your hope, angel," the doctor says softly, their voice like a balm—calm and soothing, yet something about it unsettles him further. Sunday bristles at the nickname, his jaw tightening, but the doctor doesn’t pause. Their voice presses on, smooth and unyielding, like water slipping through cracks.

"I'm merely giving you a perhaps."

In the cold cell, another stranger visits Sunday.

— Sunday

[Masterlist]

Not me dredging up the remains of my HSR creativity juices to squeeze out a Sunday fic as an offering. This fic is literally one big meme disguised under 20 trench coats. Happy 2.7 everyone and good luck in your rolling!

Sunday does not slouch. His posture is as unyielding as his will, spine rigid as he awaits the inevitable. There is defiance in the tension of his muscles, an unspoken challenge to the forces that brought him here. He will not bow. They’ll have to drag him, force him, twist his broken neck to fit it through the guillotine’s hole. He imagines the hands that will do it trembling with effort as his ambition burns hotter than any fire they could wield against him.

But the cell is cold. Far colder than Sunday has ever experienced in his life on Penacony. The chill bites deeper than the winds of dead planets and even the defeat that landed him here. The stone walls seep an icy dampness, as though the prison itself is alive, drawing warmth and hope from its captives. How could it be that while reigning over this dreamful planet, bound to it only by misplaced duty, he has never felt so cold? His thoughts drift unbidden to Penacony's open skies, once a reminder of freedom now as unreachable as a distant star. A lingering dread whispers that it doesn’t matter. This chill feels personal, like a punishment carved into the very marrow of his existence. Even the chains binding him are crude, iron and purple venom biting into the skin that has never known injury, pushing past the small protection of his clothing. Every subtle shift sends fresh waves of pain radiating from his wrists, a sharp contrast to the numbness settling into his legs from the unmoving hours spent in the same position. The metal feels like it’s becoming a part of him, fusing with his flesh in a union of cruel irony. The air is no better. It's stale and stagnant, as though even time refuses to move forward in this forsaken space. Each breath feels thick and heavy with the scent of rust, decay, and despair. Sunday briefly wonders if the air has always felt like this around him. Has he been too preoccupied to notice?

His only hope, a fragile, fleeting sparkle, is that Robin will escape their hate. The idea of her, untethered and free, burns like a flicker of warmth in the ice-caked confines of his heart. If she survives, it will be enough.

“You only get five minutes. Be careful,” the guard’s gruff voice echoes from beyond the door, dripping with unease. The tension in the words is sharp enough to cut, underscoring a danger even they don’t fully understand, “We still don’t know if he still retains THEIR power in his voice. If he pulls you under, we can’t guarantee your safe passage out.”

Another guest? Again? Sunday’s lips curl into a faint wry and bitter line. It’s almost laughable. He’s already endured Lady Bonajade, the IPC’s well-polished substitute with her cloying charm that masked sharp fangs. Her diplomacy dripped with venom, thinly veiled promises woven into her words like poison-laced silk. He can still recall her presence heavy with expensive perfume and arrogance. If it’s that gambler next, with their cavalier smirk and penchant for empty bargains, perhaps Sunday will do them all a favor and ask for an expedited execution. Better to end this circus on his terms than dance further to their tune.

Who could they have sent this time to join him in this suffocating void?

The heavy door groans open, the sound grating against his ears. A slice of harsh light invades the cell, stabbing his eyes with unrelenting brightness. He squints reflexively, but it’s no use; the light feels like a blade carving through his defenses. Surrendering, he shuts his eyes tightly, the glow painting the back of his eyelids a fiery red as it burns into him. Then, as abruptly as it came, the light is swallowed when the door slams shut. Darkness reclaims the space, and he’s left adrift once more. Though this time he isn't alone. The shadows press closer, heavier, as though they’ve taken on a sentient weight. It’s not the barely above-satisfactory solitude he’s come to accept but a suffocating presence that lingers just outside his range. Sunday opens his eyes slowly, the dim light of the cell revealing the shape of... a doctor? The figure before him is unassuming, dressed in a pristine white medical coat that seems to glow faintly in the oppressive gloom. The sight doesn’t trigger any immediate alarm in Sunday’s mind, but that only deepens his unease. They stir no recognition, not from Penacony’s ever-shifting guest lists, nor from the IPC’s infamous rogues gallery. Whoever this person is, they carry no air of importance.

But no one sent to this place is ever what they seem. This stranger is either far more dangerous than they appear, their unassuming facade concealing power that could rival or even dwarf Miss Jade’s manipulations, or they are an ordinary person—an idea Sunday dismisses outright. No ordinary doctor would be granted access to this place, to him. In Penacony, there is no place for neutrality. There is no shortage of monsters who hide behind well-tailored costumes. Sunday would know; once, he wore such a mask himself. He doesn’t call out. He refuses to give them that satisfaction. They are not a guest but an uninvited visitor. So, he remains silent, his breath steady and measured, his posture unyielding. The figure shifts slightly first, their coat whispering against the still air. Their posture is calm, expression unreadable in the darkness, and yet Sunday doesn't feel threatened. No sense of being grounded into the dust under someone's thumb.

The wings at the sides of his head twitch, a brief flutter betraying his agitation.

For now, the stranger remains a mystery. Their gaze drifts lazily over him, studying every detail. Their eyes linger on the chains digging into his flesh and the halo above his head, its once-radiant light now reduced to a faint, erratic pulse of THEIR power. The stranger moves with maddening indifference, as though the ticking clock means nothing to them. Despite their limited time, they saunter, unhurried, as though they could stretch five minutes into five hours. Sunday meets their stare, unblinking, refusing to grant them the satisfaction of a reaction. To his irritation, the stranger smiles a slow, pleased curl of the lips that feels entirely too knowing, as if they’re privy to a secret he hasn’t yet uncovered.

"I'm quite sad that you lost,” they say at last, their voice soft, almost conversational as if they were discussing the weather rather than his downfall, “I think I would’ve enjoyed living indefinitely on a rest day.”

Their quiet laugh follows. A muted, understated sound that drifts through the stale air like smoke, curling and lingering in the space between them. Sunday doesn’t respond. The stranger’s tone, smooth as silk and disturbingly casual, grates against him. They sound exactly like Ms. Jade.

They want to use him yet have no courtesy to say please.

He replies flatly, his voice cold, “If you’re here to appeal to my ego, you should turn around now.”

The doctor chuckles softly again, a sound that feels too intimate for the sterile air of the cell, as if it belongs to a private moment and not this standoff. Without hesitation, they begin to circle him, their steps measured and deliberate, their gaze fixed on the faintly glowing halo above his head. Sunday feels the weight of their scrutiny, the way their eyes trace the gentle flicker of light as though searching for hidden truths. Yet, to his surprise—and mild unease—the halo remains steady, its weak pulses undisturbed by the stranger’s presence, as if indifferent to them entirely. He doesn’t move, his stillness a deliberate choice. His silence is his armor, and he wears it with practiced precision. But the doctor seems utterly unbothered, their serene demeanor bordering on infuriating. The chains biting into Sunday’s flesh, the damp chill that clings to the air, the oppressive darkness of the cell, none of it seems to bother them. As if they've been in this same position before. Instead, they hum softly, a tuneless, meandering sound, as if they were lost in thought rather than examining a chained prisoner. Their head tilts slightly as they move as if searching for something intangible, something that only they can sense. Each step carries a deliberate weight, each moment of their low, aimless hum digging under his skin like an itch he cannot reach. When they finally come to a stop, their eyes meet his once more. There’s a glint in them now, something quiet and unreadable. Sympathy? Understanding? Or perhaps, something more insidious, like pity disguised as interest.

“So,” they murmur, their voice almost gentle as the pure white coat they wear, “Have you accepted your burden of guilt?”

Sunday’s jaw tightens imperceptibly, the only sign of the tension building beneath his outward calm. There is no accusation in the doctor’s tone, just a quiet curiosity, its softness more insidious than any harsh reproach. It’s not meant to provoke, he realizes, but to probe. The question feels like an outstretched hand, seeking not an answer but an opening, a crack in the armor of his resolve. He scoffs, the sound sharp and derisive, cutting through the stillness. It’s not loud, but it carries weight, a dismissal. The faint light of the halo above his head flickers, its weak glow casting fleeting shadows across his face, deepening the sharp contours of his jaw and the unyielding steel in his gaze.

The doctor, however, doesn’t flinch. Their composure is maddening, as steady and immovable as stone. They tilt their head slightly, studying him as though his reaction is a puzzle, a piece of data to be cataloged and analyzed. The only betrayal of their reaction is a subtle twitch at the corner of their lips, a movement so small it could be missed, but Sunday sees it. He knows it for what it is: the beginnings of a smile. Not a full grin, not even an expression of amusement, but a faint, restrained elation that feels far too calculated. It’s the look of someone who has just confirmed something they already suspected. A twinge of annoyance kindles in Sunday, though he douses it immediately. He won’t crack, won’t falter under their probing gaze. If they expect him to stumble, they’ll be disappointed.

“Guilty? You’re mistaken.” Sunday’s voice burns through the stale air, steady and resolute. He straightens slightly, his chains clinking softly with the movement. The sound is faint, but it reverberates in the oppressive silence of the cell. “There is nothing to feel guilty about. I did what I thought was right.”

The words land like stones, heavy and unyielding, filled with a conviction he's cultivated and forged. Yet, despite his defiance, Sunday can’t shake the sense that something about the doctor has shifted. They almost seem proud, as if they're happy about Sunday's unremorseful response. Their silence stretches, unbroken, as though they are savoring his answer. The doctor’s eyes never leave his, unblinking, as if peeling back layers to see the truths buried beneath his words.

Finally, they tilt their head slightly, their voice soft but probing. “And yet, here you are. The path to Hell is paved with good intentions, Sunday. And you? You’ve committed enough sins to pave it twice over—more than enough to last a hundred lifetimes. Perhaps even a thousand. You’re certainly going to have a hard time atoning for them. Tell me, does being ‘right’ bring you peace?”

The words are sharp and deliberate, meant to sting, yet they lack the malice that would make them truly dangerous. There’s no fury in their expression, no glee in their cruel words. There’s no gleam of a scalpel in their hand, no syringe hidden in the folds of their coat. This isn’t the cold, clinical sadism of someone ready to dissect his body or tamper his blood. No, this doctor is not here with the tools of physical torment. The doctor’s presence looms over him, palpable, like a weight settling into the stale air of the cell. He feels it—the pressure of an unspoken expectation, like a string pulled taut between them. He can sense it in the way they watch him, the way they wait. There’s only one answer they are fishing for, the one that will justify whatever lies ahead, whatever they plan to do to him next. The cold yet whimsy nature of their approach mirrors something he knows all too well, he just experienced it an hour prior. Miss Jade had played the same game, her words sharp but veiled, wrapped in the trappings of diplomacy. She had presented accusations like a ledger of business transactions, always with that smile of hers, so polished, so perfect, a lure. And when Sunday had refused to take the bait, she had simply smiled and said she could wait.

He’s not afraid of their games. They can play all they want, but they’ll get nothing from him. His silence is his shield, just as it was with Miss Jade. The doctor can wait too. He knows better than to speak too quickly.

But Sunday is so, so tired. Tired of these people and their endless games. Tired of their riddles, their insidious questions designed to unravel him piece by piece. Tired of their quiet cruelties, masked with words that sound too polite to be anything other than weapons. They think they can break him like this—one question at a time.

It all feels like waiting for the guillotine to fall.

“The one who will decide if I am guilty of my sins is not you, nor any other mortal,” Sunday says, his voice steady. The weight of his words fills the small cell, challenging the doctor's expectant gaze. “I have lived my life according to my beliefs, and I stand by every decision I have made. If THEY deem me unworthy, then so be it. I will accept THEIR judgment with humility.”

Sunday keeps his posture firm, unbowed, his muscles tense, as if preparing for a blow that might never come. He steels himself, accepting that what comes next is inevitable, like the guillotine poised above him. His hands clench into fists, but they remain steady, unshaken by whatever may come. He has nothing more to offer. If his words do not satisfy them, they can leave. He will not grovel, will not entertain their games any longer. He closes his eyes for a moment, retreating inward. His thoughts are calm and resolute, as though his body and mind are two separate entities, perfectly still. The waiting has become familiar now, a grim ritual he has endured countless times before. In the end, they will act, or they won’t. It no longer matters.

The doctor does not respond immediately. They remain still, a silent specter. The only sound is the faint rustle of their coat as they shift slightly.

And then, the doctor’s hand comes to rest lightly on his shoulder.

The touch is not harsh or commanding, but it is deliberate. A quiet, calculated assertion of presence. Despite the sudden gesture, Sunday does not flinch. Still, the cold weight of their hand lingers, sending a subtle unease coursing through him. It is not physical pain, but something deeper—a sensation of being measured in a way that makes him feel exposed despite the darkness.

It is not the guillotine. But it feels no less final.

"I'm not here to disregard your hope, angel," the doctor says softly, their voice like a balm—calm and soothing, yet something about it unsettles him further. Sunday bristles at the nickname, his jaw tightening, but the doctor doesn’t pause. Their voice presses on, smooth and unyielding, like water slipping through cracks.

"I'm merely giving you a perhaps."

The hand on Sunday’s shoulder squeezes briefly, firm enough to remind him of its weight, before withdrawing. The absence feels oddly pronounced, a phantom pressure that lingers even as the doctor moves. Standing before him now, framed by the faint, pale light from his flickering halo, their smile is gentle. Yet it does nothing to soften the unease that coils in Sunday’s gut. The doctor’s gaze, steady and piercing, seems to strip him bare, as though it peers through flesh and bone and into the very fabric of his soul. Sunday feels exposed, and vulnerable, as if the very walls of the cell have dissolved, leaving him standing alone in front of a vast, uncharted abyss. Yet he meets that abyss head-on, as he always has. He has lived in the dark long enough for its weight to feel familiar. Fear had been a companion of his youth, a shadow he had learned to outrun. Now, it is a distant memory.

The doctor’s tone sharpens, each word precise and deliberate, as they step closer. Their eyes never leave Sunday’s—dark, enigmatic, like deep pools where the bottom remains hidden no matter how far one leans to peer in.

“You’re an ordinary person, Sunday. A man, just like the rest of us,” they continue, their voice low but cutting, each syllable landing with unnerving clarity. “And everything around you, everything you once believed in, is falling apart. You can see that, can’t you?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication, settling on Sunday’s shoulders like a weight he cannot shrug off. Their gaze drills into him, unrelenting, and for a fleeting moment, the hum of his halo grows louder, almost as if reacting to the tension. Yet Sunday does not waver. He meets their stare, unblinking, though his jaw tightens as the words burrow deep, hitting a nerve he’s tried desperately to protect.

“Your ideals, your mission, all of it is gone. Nothing but shattered dreams, scattered like dust in the wind.”

The doctor’s smile stretches wider, but it holds no comfort, no reassurance—only a wet chill that seeps into the cracks of the words they weave. The pools in their eyes seem to deepen further, the ripples folding in on themselves, twisting into a current that spirals downward into unseen depths.

“And now you’re faced with a choice. A tough one. One that will define what little you have left. Will you continue to try and burn as bright as a little star, shining alone in the dark, fragile, flickering, doomed to fade away when the inevitable cold comes?”

The pause that follows is deliberate, the stillness amplifying the weight of their words. The water is starting to overflow, spilling past the rim, lapping at the wood and kindling that's kept Sunday alive from the harsh winter.

“Or will you choose to become something greater? A planet. Cold, distant, unmoving—but vast. A foundation. A force. Unstoppable."

The doctor steps back slightly, letting the weight of the decision settle. The water slowly retreats yet still surrounds him on all sides. The stillness stretches again, the words sinking into the space between them. The doctor tilts their head, studying Sunday’s expression as if searching for the faintest crack in his defiance. Their final words fall like stones into the darkness. “The star may dazzle, but it is the planet that builds. Which will you be?”

The silence that follows is thick, and suffocating, as Sunday’s mind races. The words hang in the air, their weight crushing, each one a reminder of the choice he must make. The doctor watches him with that same unnervingly calm expression as if they know exactly what Sunday is going through. They’ve seen it before, the internal struggle, the battle between the remnants of pride and the pull of cold reality. Sunday’s jaw tightens, his fists clenching at his sides. He wants to resist, to reject the notion that he has to choose between these two bleak paths. He wants to believe in the ideals he once held, to believe in something greater than survival. But the truth gnaws at him. The world has already rejected him. His dreams are shattered.

But have they really?

“The world has fallen apart. People like you, like me... we don’t have the luxury of holding onto idealistic dreams anymore. The reality is harsh and unforgiving. You can either fight to keep burning out, or you can accept that the world has moved on and adapt. Become something that doesn’t need to rely on hope. Become something that will outlast it all,” they pause, their eyes narrowing slightly as if waiting for Sunday to come to his conclusion. “So, Sunday... will you hold onto your dying star, or will you choose the cold, inevitable truth of being something greater?”

Sunday sits motionless, the weight of the doctor’s words pressing down on him like a mountain. The cell is silent, save for the faint hum of his halo and the rustling of the doctor's coat as they wait. His mind spins in a desperate frenzy, struggling to piece together some semblance of resistance, some last thread of hope. But the doctor’s words have struck too deep. He feels them in his bones, in the places where his ideals once lived. A small, bitter laugh escapes him, but it’s hollow, devoid of any real amusement.

“A planet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Cold, unfeeling, and distant... But it endures. Doesn't it?”

“It shapes the world around it, whether it wants to or not. It doesn’t fade into nothingness. It stands firm, no matter the storm," the doctor easily agrees. Sunday can feel the pull of the doctor’s words, like a gravity he can’t escape. The halo above his head hums softly, as if reacting to the intensity of the moment, vibrating with the tension building inside him. He looks up at the doctor then, eyes narrowing, his gaze hardening. The chains on his wrists shift slightly as he stands straighter, every fiber of his being screaming with the desire to reject what’s being offered. He wants to defy it, to shout that he won’t become that thing, that lifeless entity, that thing the doctor’s trying to turn him into. But he knows, deep down, that the fight is slipping from his hands. He's so tired. The idealism he clings to, the belief that there’s something worth saving, something worth fighting for, feels more fragile with each passing second.

What would Robin think?

The doctor’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, soft but insistent. “I know it’s a difficult one. But the world won’t wait forever. You have to choose: a flicker that will vanish in the next gust of wind or a force that will remain, unchanged, no matter the storm.”

Sunday’s fists tighten again, his knuckles white. “I never asked for this,” he mutters, more to himself than to the doctor.

“No one asks for it,” the doctor responds smoothly, “but the truth remains. The world has no room for weakness, for those who cling to ideals that no longer have meaning. What matters now is what you choose to become. You can keep trying to burn as a star, but that won’t stop the darkness. Or you can let go and rise, like a planet, indifferent to the storms around you. You'll be alive to try again."

Sunday closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of his halo pressing against his skull, the faint hum like a heartbeat in his ears. He can feel it. This tug, this pull, deep inside him. The pull to embrace this cold, inevitable truth, to give up the battle and accept what the doctor is offering. There’s something comforting about it. Something that promises survival. The question still hangs in the air, like a blade poised above him. He’s running out of time. His heart beats louder now, thudding in his chest as he realizes—he may not have a choice at all.

Slowly, he exhales, his breath shaky, but his voice is steady when he finally speaks. “And if I choose the planet... what then?”

The doctor’s smile widens, a gleam of something darker lurking behind it. “Then you will embrace the power that comes with it. You will shape the world as you see fit. You will no longer be bound by the past. The future will be yours to command. No more waiting, no more being preyed upon. You will become the force that others bend to. And you will never have to feel the sting of hope again.”

The words are tempting, soothing, like cool water to a burn he never knew was there. Sunday’s pulse quickens. His breath comes more shallow now, as the weight of the decision presses down on him. For a moment, he simply stands there, lost in the quiet hum of his halo, feeling the coldness creep up his spine. He’s so, so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of waiting, tired of being crushed by the weight of his choices. He can feel himself sinking deeper into that black water.

“You are Sunday. The man who almost became an Aeon, only for it all to fall apart. The dream of a world free from the harshness of reality cannot comfort you down here. Not anymore. Right now, you are alone.”

No. That's not true. It's not-

Their words scrape against him. The mention of the Aeon—of his failed rise—stirs something deep within him. The memory of what he almost was, the power he almost held, flashes in his mind like a fading echo. For a moment, he feels the ache of that loss, the hollow sting of what could have been. But just as quickly, he shoves it down. That doesn't matter anymore. Three footsteps echo through the cell, slow and deliberate, the sound amplified by those previous words. Before Sunday can react, he feels the faintest pressure, arms wrapping around his neck in a cold, hollow imitation of a hug. The touch is freezing, sinking through his skin and into his very bones. It makes his muscles tense, his breath catching for just a moment. It is not the warmth of an embrace but something far more alien, far more wrong. The doctor’s voice comes next, soft and intimate, a whisper so close it brushes against his ear.

“But it’s okay,” they murmur, their tone almost tender. “We can be alone together.”

The words, as quiet and soothing as they are, carry a weight that sinks into Sunday’s chest. There’s something deeply unsettling about the doctor’s closeness, their coldness wrapped around him, suffocating him with an intimacy that has no place here. The promise of shared isolation is chilling in its own right, an offer too twisted to accept. Sunday’s muscles tighten instinctively, the discomfort gnawing at his composure. The prickling sensation that crawls up his spine cannot be ignored. This is not a comfort. This is a reminder of his solitude, his isolation, twisted into something almost mocking. His heart beats just a little faster, and he fights the urge to shudder. The doctor’s words echo in his mind, lingering in the empty space like an unsettling shadow. He knows now, that this is not a game. This is something far more dangerous.

"The dream of the Order has dissipated," the doctor says, their voice calm, almost mournful. They run their hand through his hair, almost like a mother attempting to soothe their child. "Yet there are still those who will not relinquish their original intent. To the traveler whose wings were clipped…" Their head tilts slightly, the words deliberate and heavy. "Whereto shall your footsteps lead?"

The air in the room feels heavier now, charged with the energy of the decision that’s been made. A faint vibration courses through the halo above Sunday’s head, a subtle tremor of something. Its light pulses unevenly, responding to the storm of his emotions. Sunday’s lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening as the words settle over him. The air thickens, and for a moment, the world outside the cell feels distant, as if the very walls are closing in. His mind races, skimming the edges of memories he’s long buried, of battles fought and lost, of promises broken by those who swore loyalty. His fingers twitch slightly, the chains around his wrists clinking softly. The doctor’s question lingers, floating in the air like a thread ready to be tugged, pulling him toward some deeper hole. The halo above him flares briefly, its light flickering erratically as if responding to the emotion rising in his chest. Sunday’s eyes narrow, just enough to show his growing irritation.

He’s had enough—enough of the chains, the suffocating cell, the endless waiting for a sentence that looms but never falls.

“Then… I choose,” Sunday says, his voice low but wavering. The doctor’s smile deepens, and they step back, giving him space to breathe, to make the final step. Yet close enough to loom over him, their invisible shadow smothering him. "I choose..."

And most of all, he’s had enough of these strangers—these meddling interlopers who waltz into his prison with their veiled words, cryptic challenges, and their insufferable, thinly disguised disdain. His patience is gone, frayed to the breaking point. When he speaks, his voice remains deceptively calm and steady, but the smoldering flicker of anger in his gaze has become unmistakable—a faint ember flaring into a wildfire. “Neither. I am not some helpless bird without purpose. I have always chosen my own path, and I will continue to do so—even in penance."

The hum of his halo surges, vibrating louder in the cell, an electric pulse that reverberates against the walls and into the rocks and sand. The sound is raw, and primal, matching the rage that courses through him. His fist swings, a blind, furious arc toward where the doctor stood a moment ago, but the space is empty. Of course, it is. The doctor has already moved, slipping away as though they had expected this—no, wanted this. Their entire presence feels like a calculated provocation, an engineered storm. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his muscles coiled and aching from the violence of his strike. His eyes burn as they sweep the cell, searching for the shadow that dares to mock him with their calm detachment. The pounding of his heart is deafening in his ears, a counterpoint to the relentless thrum of the halo above his head. Anger courses through him, sharp and unrelenting, demanding action, demanding release. The weight of his declaration hangs in the air, heavy despite being simple words he’s repeated in his mind countless times. Yet, they feel different now—sharper, more potent—carried on the air for another to hear. He doesn’t feel strange letting them out, even though doing so feels oddly like exposing something raw and unguarded. Sunday doesn’t know what comes next, but he knows this: the small flicker of his old self is fading, and something else—something more unyielding—is beginning to rise. In contrast, the doctor hums again, their voice eerily in sync with the faint vibrations of Sunday’s halo. The resonance feels deliberate like an unspoken language only they understand. The sound threads through the space between them, burrowing under his skin. Their gentle smile lingers, unshaken, as though they had been expecting his answer—or perhaps even orchestrating it. The way their gaze rests on him feels less like scrutiny and more like careful calculation, their expression distant yet unnervingly focused, as though assembling a puzzle only they can see. Sunday’s fingers flex against the chains that bind him, the faint creak of metal grounding him as time stretches unnaturally. He wonders, not for the first time if the allotted five minutes have passed. It feels like far longer, the oppressive air in the cell distorting the flow of moments into something alien and unrecognizable. Finally, the doctor’s smile shifts into that soft, almost imperceptible, but undeniably there smile. It’s not a smile of triumph, nor one of satisfaction, but something more elusive. Almost… admiring.

“No...no, you are not some caged bird,” the doctor murmurs, bringing their hand up to feel the vibrations of their voice through their lips, the words rolling out with finality. As if they're talking to themselves rather than him. Then, suddenly, the air lightens. The weight that had hung between them vanishes as if it had never existed at all. The water recedes, growing calm and quiet, as though it was never trying to drown him in the first place. The doctor's smile becomes unexpectedly kind, even a little silly. It's disorienting—this sudden change from the sharp, probing presence to something almost affectionate. They step a little closer, their expression now open, becoming someone simply offering comfort rather than delivering an execution.

"I'm glad," they say, voice lighter, warmer now. Even the light in their eyes has returned, "When I heard Ms. Jade had come to speak with you, I was worried you would accept her offer. I’d hate to see you make the same mistake as the others. After all, you’ve been alone long enough, haven’t you?”

The change is subtle but undeniable—the sharp edge in their demeanor has dulled, replaced by an almost maternal kindness, as if they're genuinely concerned, even protective. Sunday feels the shift, though he can’t fully understand it. The calm in their presence is unsettling, and yet, for a moment, it feels less like manipulation and more like... care. A care that feels strange coming from someone who only moments before seemed intent on breaking him. Sunday's muscles remain tight, still coiled from the tension that had just been released. His mind races, trying to decipher the sudden shift in the doctor's demeanor. The warmth in their voice, the ease in their smile—it feels foreign, out of place. He’s been surrounded by manipulation and false kindness long enough to know better than to trust a sudden change. But the doctor’s presence is no longer suffocating. There is no sharpness in the air, no tension laced into their every word. It's almost... normal. And that’s what unnerves him the most. He takes a slow breath, pushing the unease back down, and forcing his body to relax, though his mind remains wary.

“Alone?” He repeats the word, tasting it on his tongue as if it might reveal something deeper. The doctor’s gaze doesn’t waver, holding his attention with that same unsettling steadiness.

“Yes,” they nod, “Alone. You’ve been isolated long enough to start thinking your only options are escape or destruction.”

They step back, creating just a little more space between them, “But that’s not all that’s left, Sunday. You don’t have to keep fighting against the tide, drowning in the same thoughts over and over. There’s another way. You don’t have to be the only one holding yourself up.”

They turn slowly, their coat trailing behind them, their presence still palpable even as they begin to walk away. Sunday’s gaze follows them, his chest tight with a mixture of uncertainty and something else he can’t quite name. The hum of his halo pulses faintly in his ears, but the oppressive stillness of the cell settles back in, thick and heavy. The doctor pauses at the door, their hand resting on the cold metal, and turns their head just enough to meet Sunday’s eyes once more.

“I’ll leave you with this. What you do with it is up to you. I know you won’t make it easy, Sunday, but I hope you will come to visit sometime. Perhaps even later today if you're feeling generous?" the doctor laughs lightly at their joke yet it carries a weight that lingers. The doctor slides a sleek paperslip colored in a luminous palette of metallic gold and red out of their pocket. The top section of the paperslip is adorned with geometric and circular designs, with small circular holes on the bottom line. A subtle rainbow light emanates from its edges and central emblem.

It's a train ticket. It flutters in the wind, landing gently on top of his hand.

And with that parting gift, they step through the door, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the empty space. The door clicks shut with a finality that feels too real, too absolute. Sunday remains still, the silence pressing down on him like the weight of an unspoken truth. The offer- no - the perhaps lingers in the room, intangible but undeniable, swirling in the corners of his mind. The weight of his decision, of what comes next, rests heavily on his shoulders. His fingers curl around the ticket, shining brightly in the middle of his palm. The choice, the path he will take, is entirely his. The possibility of something other than solitude, other than endless struggle, hangs in the air like a question he has yet to answer. But for now, there is only silence and the slow, steady pulse of his halo, waiting for him to make his next move.

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail sunday x reader #sunday x reader #hsr sunday x reader #sunday headcanons #sunday imagines #honkai star rail headcanons #hsr headcanons #hsr sunday #sunday #honkai star rail sunday

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whatifijustgaveuplmao · 4 months ago

Text

idk the title yet

pairing: ryomen sukuna x f!reader

cw: smut in the next part (👹), implied sexual acts, thoughts of noncon (it doesn't actually happen tho), angst, violence, cannibalism, probs spelling errors, more spelling errors, bad writing, misogyny, wikipedia's view on ancient japanese culture (pls help), sukuna (he's mean), vulgar language, clan leader au but sukuna is true form, arranged marriage, sorta predator/prey dynamic

summary: the gojo clan offers their female heir, the sister of the next clan leader, satoru gojo, to marry ryomen sukuna, the head of the sukuna clan. the sukuna clan is low on members, 2 to be exact with only one by blood, and accepts the daughter of the gojo clan leader.

wc: 3.6k

a/n: mdni, im 18 now sorry.

Ryomen Sukuna was a feared man if he could even be considered one. He brought armies to their knees with a cursed technique that was practically unknown and matched by few. Many times, fields full of vengeful warriors were left stained with bloodied chunks of late men. The King of Curses, whose title was earned for a good reason, sent young children to hunker in their beds by his presence in stories and left a bitter taste in villagers' mouths, a metallic tang, like the corpses his warfare had collected, with a rotten aftertaste.

The King of Curses was a monster among men, ranging from his unnatural confirmation to his horrid personality. The man possessed the combative aid of four arms and eyes, allowing the peripheral vision of a meek, prey animal and an attack similar to a rabid predator.

He was Mother Nature's anomaly and was punished by the cruel fate of eating his twin in their mother's warm womb, who he, ultimately, killed brutally during childbirth. The hunger for flesh was still prominent into his later years, the smell of organs wafting from rust-stained teeth in multiple sly mouths.

The birth of the twins should have been a day of blessing, but instead turned into a heinous one drenched in spilt blood. A regal family should not bear a freak child, not when the child is expected to lead a clan once they grow. A hideous heir would only taint the strong bloodline, like a drop of poison in a cup.

For Ryomen, a drop of poison in a raging river.

In his early years, the King of Curses was closer to a measly fool. A young boy, disowned by his father, the head of the Sukuna Clan, and thrown to the shit-covered ground of the closest livestock village. The young boy, whose ribs contorted and groaned with each breath, was below the filthy swine, crouching next to their troughs and grabbing small fists of slop. He was not met with kindness by any animal, being bitten by the monogastric creatures and kicked by his human counterpart. As he grew, Ryomen struggled to find a difference between the two.

That might have explained why they both tasted so similar to the hungry boy.

Ryomen Sukuna's teenage years marked the upbringing of his torment and the downfall of the Sukuna Clan's prestigious reign. The concave and convex of his ribs were now filled with ropey muscles, pulled taunt with rage. His once frail arms were adjourned with inked markings, carried like trophies of his crimes.

The head of the Sukuna Clan never saw much potential in his only heir. Only when his head was at foot level with the King of Curses, his body falling to the ground behind him with a wet thump, did the man see the monster his seed had created.

His father's skull spilled crimson blood onto the cobblestone, seeping around the stones like his son's irises consumed his pupils. The kimono his stiff body was clad in held together his skeletal pieces, tethered by partially severed tendons and strained ligaments. The fabric was now a stark red, compared to the once light cream.

Later in the night, the new head of the Sukuna Clan sat in the dining hall, his large frame crouched over the table. He grumbled as he unwrapped his catch for dinner and plucked at the animal with sharp, carnivorous nails, tearing fascia and snapping bones.

As he picked at the meat with his teeth, he contemplated changing the clan colors to a darker palette, cream was too pure for his clan. He rolled the meat over, fully unwrapping it. He folded the fabric and set it on the ground beside him, humming in approval.

The blood on the kimono was the perfect hue of red.

Ryomen liked it and thanked his father.

Unlike the Sukuna clan, the Gojo clan bore two heirs, both alive and healthy.

It was a clear day when the twins were born, the mountain pass in the clan's territory illuminated by the morning rays. The sky was a hue of bright blue, with no clouds hanging to obstruct the light. The color contrasted magically with the ice-covered peaks of the stone ridge. Small, soft shards of frozen water caught in the light of the rising sun and glinted like fragile glass.

The twins' mother's labor was short with little complications.

Satoru was born first. He entered the world well-announced, screaming moments after exiting his mother's body. He was quick to open his eyes, as well, a bright and vivid cerulean that stood out amongst his paler features.

The boy had a light complexion, dusted red from his shrill screams. His chubby face was framed by white hair and would have been deemed unnatural, but the Gojo genes were strong and his father's hair reflected his son's without error. Later in his life, the fat of his youth would be replaced with slender limbs and lean muscles.

When the midwife held Satoru, aiding his delivery, she announced that the first heir of the Gojo clan was a male with a wide smile. The celebration must have echoed because the rest of the clan members knew within minutes. Both parents were relieved at the news of a son, glad that the heir would possess the ability to be the next clan leader.

They both silently prayed to the gods for a second.

As the second child was born, their parents waited, gauging the midwife's expression. Once she glanced at the baby with a small warm smile, the pair looked at their son, grateful for one boy, at least. The midwife watched the two turn to their son, cooing at the pre-named favorite, and announced the second gender.

A girl.

This celebration must have been absorbed into the palace walls because the news fell silent. The mother grabbed the girl, holding her in her arms and inspecting her as one would an animal they bred. Both parents were disappointed in the reveal of their daughter's gender; they thought they had visited the territory's shrine frequently and offered an abundance of gifts, enough to be given two boys in return. Twin boys were almost unheard of amongst the clans, and the news of them in the Gojo clan would have brought their presence to tall-standings.

The girl was smaller than her older brother, much smaller. She did not have the healthy cry Satoru possessed either. Along with that, the genes of her heritage were lost amongst her DNA and resulted in characteristics matching none of her immediate family.

Her parents picked up the frail girl, pinching her cheek and watching her squirm. She wailed with her hands reaching outwards to her parents but was met with the disinterested gaze of her dam and sire. Her father probed at the child, still cradled in her mother's warm arms.

If only her affection wrapped around the infant as tight as her grasp.

Her father happily picked up her brother, grinning down at Satoru and whispering words of pride to the boy. As Satoru grew, he would be trained as a warrior, and if he possessed the innate curse techniques of the clan; a god. The man looked at his offspring, bringing him away from his body and raising the boy. Both males' hair reflected the natural light that shone into the room, glistening like rare jewels. In their father's eyes, Satoru was as valuable as one, like a diamond amongst dirt. Dirt was dull, whereas diamonds shined, like Satoru. The man glanced at his daughter. Dirt.

However, with time and pressure, dirt can turn into stone, and the stone into a jewel—a less impressive one but still a jewel.

Her father would eventually give her to a worthy man, one that is deserving of the potential in her genes. A strong male specimen that would shape his daughter into a suitable wife and mother. His daughter would bear the man's heirs and raise them to become strong futures for the survival of her husband's clan. If she birthed multiples, like her mother, she would be sought after greatly.

As the sibling pair began to mature, their parents nurtured the respective aspects of their expected roles.

Once Satoru reached his adolescent years, his cursed energy increased drastically. Soon after, the inherited techniques of the Gojo clan were evident in the boy, and they continued to arise.

The news spread across the clans quickly, the heir of the Gojo clan possessing multiple powerful curse techniques. They were fearfully fascinated by the abilities the boy had, the potential that would develop.

The daughter remained almost unheard of, apart from the conspiring wedding arrangements. While her brother attended political meetings with their father, hoping to prepare the young boy and connect him to members of other clans, she was taught the art of feminity. Her older ladies-in-waiting aided the girl in proper etiquette in different settings, ranging from meetings to her future husband's sleeping chamber.

If the girl's posture dipped, a hand would be jabbed between the crevices of her ribs, straitening her with a sequel. When she spoke out of line, her cheek would sting as a palm splayed across her face.

As her brother drank in the nation's approval, she thirsted for the acceptance of her kin, sipping off the slightest of attention.

When the girl was of age, or close enough in her father's eyes, the Gojo clan started to seek out worthy suitors for their female heir.

The marriage proposal was announced across Japan to its powerful, prestigious clans. At the receival of the news, clan leaders began sending prestigious gifts, ranging from ornate jewelry to exotic animals. The fight for the Gojo clan's only female heir was akin to farming peasants bidding on livestock to bring back to their filthy farms. The girl's father wanted only the luxurious to own his daughter, his prized possession and diplomatic advantage.

A broodmare, with a strong bloodline, shouldn't be wasted on a scrawny stallion.

Ryomen Sukuna was no scrawny stallion.

He was aware of the sparse population of the Sukuna Clan and he was content with the fact. A clan with few, but competent members, is one he sought after.

More members meant more mouths, which meant more resources such as shelter, food, and medicine. The King of Curses wanted no expense to be wasted on unnecessary foolishness.

The members of his clan were limited to a few: himself, Uraume—a young child who'd been kept alive solely due to their expertise in numerous subjects and curse technique, and the occasional concubine.

When the leader of the Sukuna Clan heard of the marriage proposal announced across Japan, he was furious, because it had somehow evaded his ears. The monster had received no news of the Gojo clan offering their only daughter.

He had sent small, young Uraume to contact the neighboring clan, demanding more details about their heir. If she was anything like her twin, the potential her womb held would be valuable. Her brother was a fierce warrior, one who became a challenge to those who were as powerful as Ryomen.

An heir with the same genetics, paired with his seed, would be a force of nature, Mother Nature's blessing. The King of Curses was enraged when an opportunity such as that was not relayed to him.

He had impregnated his concubines before, only ever by accident, and he terminated them as quickly as he discovered the women's fragile state. The children they carried beneath their hearts would have been no help in aiding the growth of the Sukuna Clan. All of the King of Curse's concubines possessed little to no cursed energy, having been offerings and sacrifices by villages in attempts to be spared by Sukuna's lust for gorey violence. None of these females were worthy to birth his heirs. They served purely to his pleasure by squeezing around him ever so deliciously.

When the head of the Sukuna clan gave them his seed, he never wanted anything to sprout. In response, he would pluck them from the fertile ground of their mother's wombs before they could blossom.

Sinful screams would echo as he dug into multiple layers of the dermis, separating the connective tissue to reach his weak heirs. His claws had raked between capillaries, vessels surging with maternal instincts but overpowered by a tyrant father. The articulate pairs of arms attached to the monster pinned down the woman, the plane of her abdomen exposed fully. He dove towards the protective curtains of the fetus' room, pulling them from their comfortable beds and holding them in his grasp.

The mother would grow silent, losing both her offspring and pulse. Meanwhile, Sukuna would hold the small lump of tissue with a hint of human characteristics and feel both lives die beneath him. He held the human and pierced the small life's thoracic cavity with his sharp hand, skewering it as one would a rabbit that they plan to roast over a roaring flame.

An idea that didn't seem too unappealing to Ryomen Sukuna.

If he were to fill the Gojo Clan's daughter with his sperm, the child would remain unharmed by the King of Curses. Her stomach would swell with the powerful heir of the Sukuna Clan, her womb stretching to accommodate his strong seed.

He had squeezed his cup of tea as he brought it to his lips, shattering the ceramic chawan into small clay shards. He growled at the tea as it seeped into his kimono, turning to deep red fabric into a darker hue, one that could have resembled the spillage of blood. The empty space of his shrine fell upon him, the silence deafening his heightened senses.

The space next to him was cold.

The lack of a prospect of potential was evident, the absence seeping into his pores and entering his roaring red circulation. His muscles contracted at the thought of pinning down the small woman, inhaling her fear as primal instincts clouded his frontal lobe. She would squeak as his clawed fingers groped at her flesh, leaving purple-and-red-hued markings in their wake. His pelvis would rock against her pubic joint at a brutal pace, his dicks dragging against her velvet walls and kissing the puffy entrance of her womb.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as he exhaled a shaky breath. The arousal flowed through his blood vessels and settled below his stomach in a rigid form. His entire being yearned for a girl, whose existence was unbeknown to him less than an hour prior.

A starved man, deprived of meat, heard about the salty-sweet, marbled wagyu beef.

He would kill a farmer if it meant he could indulge in its taste.

Ryomen Sukuna trudged around his territory as the week progressed, rage marinating in his cranium. The clan leader had heard no words regarding the Gojo Clan's daughter. He bared his teeth and crossed his arms, grunting in annoyance as he slumped down on his throne.

The young king's throne had been built where it stood, carved carefully by multiple artists across Japan and inlaid with rare stones, that glinted menacingly in the dark lighting of the cold room. He had personally added the more gruesome details. Skulls of both homo-sapiens and animals were attached to the chair with thoughtful precision, accentuating the shape of the massive stone structure.

Sukuna's brow raised as the heavy doors opened and revealed Uraume. He grinned at them and announced their arrival with a happy tone, awaiting a positive update regarding the female Gojo Clan heir.

Uraume spoke with a smooth and cold tone, their head bowed down.

"They will give her to the Sukuna Clan, My Lord."

The King of Curses threw his head back with a triumphal laugh, teetered more towards manic. He wasn't surprised that the Gojo Clan had accepted his response so easily. Ryomen was a man who got what he desired with little struggle. The rampage he left as he traveled across Japan, visiting villages and kingdoms alike, had been either heard or experienced by the clans.

The violent assault by the King of Curses left people wondering if he was more than a man who had barely surpassed his teenage years. The young Ryomen Sukuna was closer to a god when he stalked across battlefields, his movements like a deadly dance with a taunting tempo. His temper was a sensitive scale, waiting to be thrown askew, and driven by a craving for carnage.

The young monster knew he was feared and used it as leverage. That reason is undoubtedly the variable that convinced the Gojo Clan to give their daughter to him.

The Gojo Clan wasn't low on intelligence, by any means. They knew that declining to entertain the Sukuna Clan's leader's request would be a foolish decision, followed by a painful downfall. The King of Curses was strong and a suitable taker for their daughter, regardless of his horrific morals. An alliance with such a terrible creature would cause fearful respect to seep into the image of the Gojo Clan. A groom with such strength would create an environment for the Gojo Clan's heir to grow to her full potential of power.

An alliance that the Head of the Gojo Clan would happily oblige by.

The ceremony was at night, lanterns lighting the stone path to the shrine with a faint glow. Sandals slapped against the ground of the shrine, a frantic heartbeat echoing inside ribs. The joining of man and woman was quick. The members in attendance were present due to fear.

Women wept as they watched the small lady advance towards her young groom, their tears viscous with heavy feelings of sympathy. Her steps were slow with the daunting weight upon her shoulders, a venomous gaze squeezing around her frame with malice and sinking fangs into her warm neck.

The bride was dressed in lavish fabric and a sheer veil, hiding any unwanted pull of her mouth or watering in her eyes. The blue hues of her clan dyed the intricate layers she wore, painted fiery orange by the light of numerous lanterns that lined the path to her groom. She carried her head down, lower than the man before her, her feet avoiding the imperfections of the cold stone with childish superstition.

The branch, a symbol of purification and fertility, she gripped in her palm was rough against her skin. The cut Sakaki limb wilted from its presence in the sweltering Japanese summer heat, its leaves past flourishing prime.

Wide eyes flicked to the groom, who had stopped at the alter and turned around. His presence held the guests by their fragile throats with strong, clawed fists. The man's primary set of eyes was focused on the girl in blue approaching him, the other pair scanning the serene shrine that was tainted with the presence of a horrific monster.

He failed to be fully consumed by his bride's presence.

The bride walked up the stairs of the shrine, meeting the curse with a sorrowful expression, the final blow to the last nail on a coffin, and turned to face him. The intricately sewn jewels and patterns on her robe glinted beautifully in the light as her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. She maintained focus on the priest standing in front of the pair as he began to officiate the wedding, a woodworker raising a hammer-clad hand.

She empathized with every nervous hitch and pause of the priest, crimson pairs of eyes following the sweat cascading down the frail man's brow.

Once the priest finished and backed away from the pair, the groom turned and examined his new wife, pinching her cheeks with his large hand and tilting her gaze upwards. A sharp gaze locked onto his bride's with narrowed eyes, a predator inspecting a carcass.

A yield that was fit for consumption.

The groom hummed in satisfaction with a crooked grin and advanced down the stone walkway, gesturing to his woman to follow. He stopped before the bride's father, looking down and nodding at the white-haired man. The older man, a warrior hardened with age, avertated the young king's gaze and nodded in response. He stuck out his hands, offering a dish set with the joining clan's crests.

The groom took them, inspecting them with faux interest, and forced the dishes into the hands of the woman behind him.

The bride looked down at the bowls, cold in her shaky hands, and inspected the symbols. The glaze of the ceramic alluded to her new lover's clan, a visceral red with veiny artwork.

She wanted to throw the clay and shatter it into small shards.

Her gaze lifted to meet her father's cold expression, a final silent plea for a joyous future, but was met with the back of his head, the final farewell to his only daughter.

The groom turned to her and planted his hand on the back of her neck, guiding her movements further toward the exit of the shrine and the end of the ceremony. Her muscles tensed and twitched as her body subconsciously weighed her options to follow or flee, to walk away willingly or scrape at the ground with bloody fingers. Self-preservation stood victorious as she walked calmly beside her husband, her smooth gait contrasting with the rush of blood in her ears.

The pair entered an imperial cart, the small wagon engulfed by the groom's large frame. Man and woman sat across from each other with a tangible tension.

"Look at your husband," the groom growled.

The bride jerked her gaze towards him, her throat contracting as her mouth ran dry.

"You're mine. I expect your heritage to bring fortune to my clan. If you do not meet my expectations, I'll return you to your father on a plate," the man explained with a neutral tone that did not match his taunting expression.

The woman nodded and crossed her hands in her lap, her body trembling, as the man in front of her studied her form.

A starving man licked his chops as he stared at his steak, fork and knife raised.

a/n: first fic really kinda scary. pls tell me if it sucks so i can fix it lmao. i will be sooo slow with updating bc my writing comes in long, spread out waves yk?

#ryomen sukuna #ryomen x reader #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna smut #sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #jjk ryomen #ryomen sukuna x you #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujustu sukuna #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk sukuna #jjk x reader #sukuna ryomen #sukuna ryoumen x reader

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