#dead dove do not eat cannibalism

[rippersz]

𝖸𝗈𝗎, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖨 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗈.

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(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both; gore, toxic love, fluffy love, nightmares, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader)

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"Where could I rest but in your hurricane?" ~ Erica Jong

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There’s hot breath at your heels. And a pounding in your head. And your feet are sore and your neck is aching and everything kind of hurts. Like you’ve been dragged across rocky lands by your ankles, only just given the chance to run once cut loose from rope binds.

Blindly, you turn corners.

Where are you?

One right, one left.

What’s happened?

One left, one right.

How do you get out?

Two lefts.

Is this a maze?

Two rights.

Is there an end?

No.

Just more darkness.

Something smacks the grass behind you, trampling it beneath heavy feet. Heavy… paws? You can’t tell. You don’t want to look back. The only way through is forward and forward is leading you to Hell. But there is no other choice.

You keep going.

Cool sweat paints your back, your temples, your upper lip and your thighs. Making you shiver through the hazy mist. Blood rushing and lungs burning. You can never get far enough. Never go fast enough. It gains whatever ground you trek and its warm breath laps like waves at your ankles.

“Come,” it’s telling you. “Give in to me.”

“You know you want to.”

“You know this is who you are.”

There’s light at the end. There. In the distance. One smooth run away. Only a few steps. You can do it. You can make it. Or you can run the other way, into the darkness. Or you can stop and let yourself be eaten. Consumed. It depends. What do you want to do? Where do you want to go?

The light.

It’s a saving grace.

The good ending.

Your mind hurts and your bones feel stiff but still you must go. Still you must try.

One foot in front of the other. Go. Go go go. Time is running out. The light gets closer. Closer. The beast chuckles somewhere behind you. A warm sound that slips through red teeth and pale skin.

“You’re precious to me,” it coos, watching your body push itself to ash. “Can’t you see that?”

No.

No you don’t want to.

This isn’t worth it.

Nothing is worth it.

There-

The light.

Close.

Close.

Closer.

Go.

Go.

There-

No.

No.

No.

…

…

…

..what?

…it’s… no. It’s just a lamp.

You stop, vision blurring, knees trembling. Staring as if your gaze could change reality. Just a lamp.

It’s just a lamp. Resting on a long branch. With a fake candle in the middle.

What?

What is this?

Why is this-

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

No.

Yes.

No, please-

Yes, right here-

“Look. Give in.”

Your feet shift without warning. Your body is pulled- you steer it- toward the beast. And you cannot stop it. You cannot do anything.

But you don’t want to.

Do you?

You move of your own accord.

You let it take you.

You see, in the dark, its bulky form.

You find comfort in what it can offer you. You find bliss in its soft fur and its glowing eyes. So many eyes. It is beautiful. It smiles wide.

“This is it, dearheart.”

Its voice is low and smooth and human.

You swallow.

“I love you.”

Which one of you said it?

Why did you say it first?

A tear slips down the side of your cheek, and you are smiling.

This is home.

Its glowing eyes are brighter than the sun. This is your good ending, you see.

This is it.

“I love you, too.”

You take a step forward.

–

There is a deep harsh ringing in your ears when your heart jumps to your throat. You try to grasp it, the panic, before it escapes - but it’s too late. You’re too slow. And your eyes are wide, aching, when they meet the dark wall opposite the bed. There’s sweat painting your back and neck, dampening the hairs at your nape, and your hands are clenched around the bedsheets. They’re sore. Tense. You’re wound up like a spring but there’s nowhere to bounce off to.

It wasn’t real, of course. It wasn’t real. It didn’t even feel real. And yet you were still scared.

Are scared.

Hyper aware of the way your body thrums, thumping from the adrenaline of a chase you never experienced. You quake in your meager bed. Thoughts swirl in a near deafening tornado. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to think. The silence is potent. Thick with its desire to have you killed. Maimed and left for dead.

You’re not ready to die. You’re not ready to leave just yet. The heaving gulps of air you take are so soothing, so comforting, you can’t die- you won’t die.

What if there’s something behind the door?

There isn’t. Don’t be stupid.

Skulking about. Waiting for you. Long fingers twitching and white eyes blazing and smile so wide it stretches the skin into its hairline. Smelling of rot and disgust. What if it is there. What if the beast, with its heavy paws and changing voice, lurks along with it. Two beasts. More monsters. A cacophony of horror waiting for you to leave.

There’s nothing there. Stop it.

But your eyes shift anyway, glancing, and suddenly the walls have peep holes and the bathroom is hiding something in the dark. Deep chuckles and hungry tongues and desperation to mutilate you. Watching you. Eager for your blood. For your bones and your flesh. You shiver, darting wide eyes around in the emptiness - as though looking at the monsters, facing them, could possibly save you. But they can’t. Nothing can. There, in the corner, is a stranger. A tall figure, too tall for the room, with a head that’s upside down and eyes too wide for its slim face. It smiles. Still and prone in the dark. It is watching. It is waiting.

You can’t do this.

You can’t do this again.

Are you hallucinating?

It doesn’t matter.

There’s a slight glow beneath the door, caused by the flicker of hallway candlelight, and you’re scrambling out of bed before you can think. Before you can even stop yourself and pause and maybe turn on a light and come to the realization that you’re overreacting. It’s too cold, it’s too dark. Your hand slips on the doorknob, your bare feet fall sensitive on the chilled floor, your legs shake as you tear out of your bedroom. You don’t even know where you’re going. What can protect you? What place can hide you? The beast lurks around each corner. The tall figure follows behind. You can hear its footsteps. Are they yours?

Where are you going?

Who are you looking for?

What does safety mean when you are not home?

Your heart stutters as the pad of your foot hits the ground too hard and your leg goes buckling beneath you. No. Now is not where you fall. Now is not where you die. The figure gains, and you catch yourself against concrete brick with a loud ‘slap!’, and the sound spurs you again.

Running.

Like the dream.

Running where?

Is this the maze? Were they the same thing? No. No, couldn’t have been. There is no branch here with a fake lamp. There is no false candle flicker. There is only darkness and only silence and the embarrassing pitter-patter of your quick feet that make you cringe. You are being too loud. They will always know where you are. They will always find you.

What place is safe?

Where does protection exist in the dark?

There is no one to save you. No arms to run into. You run for so long, hearing the thumps of your own heart and mistaking them as chasing creatures, that the sweat on your back renews. It drops to the curve of your spine. You feel sick with your fear, with the way it suffocates you slowly. Draws you to the dark.

You can’t keep going. You can’t feel your legs. You don’t know where you are. You don’t-

Principal’s Quarters.

Oh.

No.

No, there’s-

No.

Are you serious? Is this it? Is this your lamp? Is this your plastic flame? Your end and your beginning? Is this where you will always return? The orbit you were born into? The infinity you occupy? The ouroboros you are caught in, eating your own tail, returning to your end? Your death? Your liberation?

The monsters lurk. They are behind you. You can’t turn - you won’t.

It is smiling, it is huffing, it is there, and you are in front of a twisted salvation that will embrace you with clean arms and red lips and blue eyes. Not white. Not a grin too large. Just right. Perfection. On the outside. On the inside, something a little rotted. But you don’t mind. This is your only choice, as you cannot turn around. As you won’t.

“Larissa?” Your voice is soft, weak, in the silence. There is no answer. There is no savior.

Your knuckles begin to pain as you knock on the door, hitting the wood so hard you can feel the pangs of hurt run through your tendons. Right down to your wrist. You knock once. Twice. You knock a third time and then you knock again, until it flows into one steady stream of sound that only draws the creatures nearer and as you knock, you fear that if she doesn’t open up soon, you will not be alive when she gets back. You will not be breathing. You will not be there to hold and pick up. There will be no more infinity and no more liberation. No more shared secrets and sobbed apologies and no more memories of how you untangled yourselves from the closet floor and sat in her living room at a complete loss for words. No more tension. No more quiet understanding. No more glancing at each other and no more weeks of avoidance. No more yearning. Strange yearning. Out of place yearning. No more thinking about apologies and warm hands and the way she held you together. No more contemplating the lack of fear- the nonexistence of it- because when you looked down, there was no blood beneath her fingernails. No blood on her teeth. No carnage in her form. Because you were safe and she would not hurt you and you were special and she would not eat you and you’re not sure if she loves you but that doesn’t matter right now because dear god Larissa just please- please- open the door-!

And so it opens. And the gods have answered.

“What on E-”

Your fist lands blindly on the soft skin of an exposed collarbone and before you can stop yourself, grasp onto a nearby wall or gain some sense, you are falling. Shifting into the depths, the churning tides of the room beyond, and letting out a small squeak as you go. For a long moment, everything is one quick whirl of dim light, dark shadow, and fear. It jumps to your tongue, climbs to your mouth and your hands, and you are clawing at the person that has opened the door. Behind you, as your head knocks to the side and a glimpse of the hallway grows clear, you swear you see movement. Creatures fleeing. Running away, back into the night, because they have come across something unknown. Tails between their legs and ears pressed back. Eyes wide with terror. They have run into the heart of a bigger beast. A smarter beast. A beast that watches with a gaze of cut cerulean and a tongue sharper than a knife’s edge. A beast so intelligent and cunning, it is capable of fooling the world. Tricking the tricksters. One big painting of iron-clad facades and not a single sniffing nose looking for her. A beast that opens her arms to you, and draws you in, and will not hurt you even if you beg.

A beast whose arms, cool and familiar, go running around your waist, eager to keep you from smashing your teeth out onto the hard floor. Her hold is strong and desperate, weakened from sleep, but good enough to clutch and pull you closer. Into safety. Large hands immediately press at your back, flung wide from surprise; and warm breath is pushed out in a rush from modest lungs. You cling to this post of life, to this beam of gold, to this beast, as your feet scramble over the threshold and the door slams! itself back into place behind you.

Safety at last.

From one darkness into another.

But this darkness has no interest in hunting you. She is only surprised that you have shown up at all.

“Y/n? What’s going on? Are you hurt?” Her hands fly to your waist, going to push you back to get a better look at you, but the fear still runs thick and you need a moment to think - so you push yourself closer and nearly topple the poor woman off balance.

“Sorry,” you mumble into her shoulder, finding immediate comfort in the smell of everything Larissa. It should be off-putting to push your face against her, to fall in love with the softness of her hastily thrown on robe, but you can’t find it within yourself to care. She is here and you are safe and as long as she is here, you will always be safe. Somehow. Someway.

“It’s okay,” comes her soft whisper. “It’s okay.”

Her gentleness is unexpected. Wasn’t it only about three weeks ago when you were running all over Nevermore, scared out of your mind? Frightened that she’d eat you alive–even though she said she wouldn’t? Full of begrudging trust and weepy eyes as you fell apart on the carpet of her walk-in closet? Was a bit of space, a bit of time, all you needed in order to come running back like the love-sick fool you are?

Or was it always meant to be like this? Running back to Larissa, who would probably always wipe the blood off of her lips and out of her mouth before trying to kiss you. Never wanting you to witness her horrors, no matter how self-indulgent. You think for just a moment, as you stand there melting into her body and shivering as her fingers go tangling into your hair, that you may be able to live the lie. Nothing is wrong. When you’re with her, there are no nightmares. When you’re with her, you’re safe. She will brush her teeth and then you will kiss her senseless. She will wash her hands and then she will touch your skin, reverent and desperate. She will wash the red from her hair and then she will let you brush it.

A modern romance. No horror. You can live it, you think. If only you tried.

“Are you alright?” She eventually whispers, heart beating steadily beneath your cheek and ear. Clearly, she’s worried. Trying to keep the tremor out of her voice but still swimming in relief because you’ve come to her. Out of all the people to go to and you came to her. You know she feels a new sense of hope, because you do too. Three weeks without confronting the depth of everything only led to sadness. Sadness and emptiness and desire. A deep clawing desire that begged you every day to show up in front of her and demand her attention. Knock on her office door, the door to her quarters, the door to her teacher’s room, anywhere everywhere, just for a moment of her time. Just to look into her eyes and know that you were okay. You wanted to be okay so bad. But you never gave in. You never went searching. You would’ve soon rather chained your feet to your desk than run out of your room and go to her.

Though now here you are, with your body working against you. Betrayal spelled in bold letters. Leading you back to the beast you want.

“No.” You’re safe, yes, but you’re not alright. You’re frazzled and tired and sleep has been an elusive creature and all you want is rest. So much rest you grow fat and lazy with it. Rest so good and long that it comes spilling out of your ears. Rest that hasn’t lied beside you in days because sleeping alone has proven so difficult. So bloody difficult in a way it hasn’t been in so long. And you don’t know what to do anymore. Running from imaginary creatures, nightmares that followed you in your mind, was the last straw. You’re exhausted. A sigh shakes your body, making your shoulders rise and fall with its strength.

Large palms find their way there, onto your biceps, and gently squeeze.

“What do you need?” Larissa’s voice is so kind, so open and sweet, you want to cry. “Tell me and I’ll do what I can.”

You don’t know. You really don’t know. All you can understand, accept, is the comfort of her strong arms. The power of her supple body. The protection she is giving you without wanting anything in return. So selfless a person, but so horrific a soul. You don’t know what you want from her aside from this eternity. This slice of heaven held near to her heart.

“I don’t know,” you shake your head, rubbing your forehead against the silk of her nightie. Your own has stopped sticking to your back, falling limp against the sweat that has cooled.

“A cup of tea, maybe?”

No. Not enough. You shake your head again.

“Okay,” she hums, “I may have some melatonin somewhere-”

“No,” you whisper. “It doesn’t- it won’t help.”

“Oh,” her shoulders jump as she gets an idea. “What about a bath? It might help.”

No. No no no. You’re much too tired to bathe. You’ll deal with that in the morning, even if you do feel a little gross. You’re recovering from a fear-induced marathon, your hair is greasy, and you’re probably a little smelly, but Larissa doesn’t care. She only holds you closer as you shake your head again and your chest goes slumping. You don’t want to bathe. You don’t want to do anything. You don’t even want to leave her side. The feeling of her breath, the rise and fall of her bust, is soothing enough to lull you to sleep. To a land of comforting dreams and maybe even a bit of blissful silence. Darkness. Not a thing to remember and thus, not a thing to dwell on. That’s what your body cries for. Larissa’s presence. The knowledge that she is safe, no matter what she has done.

“I-” your heart goes pounding away in your ears again, kick-started by anxiety. “I- can’t.” Why can’t you?

“Can’t do what, Y/n?” She manages then to pry you away from her, and holds you steady while she takes a small step back. Just so she can look into your eyes, lit up in the glare of the moon that shines through the living room’s tall gothic windows. It’s not too much light, but it’s enough. Enough for her to catch the desperation in your gaze and the way your cheeks go pink when you can view her properly. Finally revealed in the dim rays, her hair acts as a halo. Tied up in a loose bun, with flyaways going everywhere; face pale and free of makeup. Pink lips. Blonde lashes. Eyebrows so fair-haired you can barely see them, but still they are there. Delicate. So delicate and so lovely. You can’t imagine splashes of scarlet across her chin and chest. You can’t imagine the glint of murder in those cerulean eyes as she leans over a corpse. Gentle hands clenched so tight around a throat. Perfect teeth bared in a deep animalistic ferocity. You can’t picture it. You don’t want to.

But you want to fall asleep next to her? Good lord girl, get it together.

Get it together.

Why?

Why should you?

Why get it together, why even try, when you’re the exception?

“I don’t- I don’t want to- bath. Or drink tea.” You huff, finding it difficult to be honest under her intense blue eyes. Her lips instantly tug into a frown, reflecting her disappointment, but that’s the last thing you want. The straw that could probably break your back, so you’re quick to reassure. “I just- but I just-”

A hand finds your clenched fist. It caresses the hills of your knuckles. You glance at it, at the pale slender fingers, and you wonder (not for the first time) how such pretty palms- nails- glorious soft fingertips- could ever be capable of violence. Rough red violence that kills and maims and uses silver tines to tear apart cooked flesh. Steamed, grilled, poached to perfection by her own vein-deep desires. How can a willowy, strong, kind woman like Larissa ever want to kill? How can she feel even the smallest sparks of such vicious anger?

Unless it’s not done out of anger.

Unless it’s done out of pleasure.

An evil pleasure. Twisted with the kind of joy that comes from seeing another suffer. A slight inkling that perhaps the pain is deserved. Perhaps all humans need a little bit of it, a bit of searing- stabbing- hunting- in order to be humbled. Is that what she thinks? Is that what she feels? When she stands over them, when she looks at her shifting forearms and notices that the red stays red no matter what shape she takes - does she think about it then? Does she revel in it? Does she look just as beautiful? Do those doll lips pull up into a serene smile as she contemplates the richness of her impending dinner? Does she close her brilliant blue eyes when she hears the bones snap? Does she caress the cold face of a corpse and mourn their warmth before shoving their cheek into the shallows of dirty water and rushing off into the wood? Does she name them? Or does she know their names already? Does she have a system? Or is she spontaneous?

If you weren’t the exception, would you already be dead?

“Y/n-”

It doesn’t matter, you’ve decided. It doesn’t matter because you are the exception. And there is no point wasting precious thoughts on something as silly as your death. She will never hurt you. For some reason, she cares too much. And you are beyond exhausted, beyond drained, to trudge back to your own room and wait for the sun to rise before finally falling back asleep. The dark, recently, has become too haunting. And Larissa is so bright…

“I just wanna sleep,” you finally tell her, still entranced by the way her large hand covers your own. “I just want- rest. I’m so tired.” She can hear it in your voice, in the way your tone can’t reach higher than a hush. And your eyes, which flit to the broad line of her shoulders and the curved bit of her jaw. They’re shadowed and droopy and you’re too tired to explain any further.

Maybe, at a different time, perhaps in the morning, you will be able to tell her that not speaking for three weeks had nearly driven you completely mad. Focus did not exist for you while you taught. While you sat. While you lied awake in bed in the mornings and forced yourself to get up. She would walk the halls and you would pass her by and you’d glance and your eyes would meet and nothing would come of it. Beautiful woman, beautiful soul that she is, with her red hands and her secrets. Walking at a brisk pace to avoid being stopped by you, but you weren’t planning on asking her to talk. What sort of talking was there to do? Larissa wouldn’t stop and you wouldn’t ask her to. Some people are simply made to be outsiders. She runs a school of them, and still she is the most far removed. Perfectly sane and yet… and yet. The game was a different story. Adrenaline was high and she was in her element and you were a fool for ever agreeing to it but if you hadn’t…

“Alright,” comes the sweetest whisper, “I’ll take you back.”

If you hadn’t…

“No. No I don’t want that either. I just- I can’t-” you look up at her and plead with your eyes. You beg. You ask. Please. Please let me stay here with you.

If you hadn’t…

Recognition explodes in her gaze. Stay with her? You? You feel safe enough to do that? To sleep in the bed of a predator? To sink into her arms and yearn for more? Is that what a bit of warmth, a bit of care, can do? “Are you sure?” She is confused. Her perfect brows are furrowed. She thought you were scared. Of her. Of the dark. Of the monsters. Of her.

“Yes. I- yes. I can’t- I don’t want to be alone Larissa.” Her name is a concealed plea from your lips. Whispered and wanting.

If you hadn’t…

She is uncertain, running a soft thumb over your knuckles, but the last thing she wants is for you to go. Call it selfishness, call it disbelief, but she wants you near. Three weeks was too long. She’s missed you so much.

“Alright,” she murmurs, twisting her hands to run up to your shoulders. “Alright.” And she’s gently turning and steering you in front of her, walking you to the bedroom.

…then where would you be?

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Next part may include some kissy kissy lovey lovey... Lemme know if you wanna see it. - Rip x

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Tags: @kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @sugipla @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @azu-zu @hopelessly-sapphic @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @zillahofviolets-bayolet @the-bearr @amateurwritescm @alex-nyx @h-doodles

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[gu1taraxe]

𝑭𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒏 🍎🎸🧠

𝑬𝒅𝒊𝒕: 𝑰 𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒔𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔 🧠 (𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒏 𝑿)

[vampyrsm]

‣‣ COR UNUM: CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | SARUTAHIKO ŌKAMI

‣‣ Synopsis: Misogi; the ritual to cleanse one's body. Would a body still be purified even when doused in the blood of her enemies? Our tale continues with a heart that no longer beats and a declaration that will change the course of a life.

‣‣ Main Masterlist | AO3 ‣‣ Pairing: Sukuna x Reader ‣‣ Word Count: est. 6.8k ‣‣ Warnings: Blank blogs & Minors DNI. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Set in the Early-Heian Period, trueform!Sukuna, female reader, blood, cannibalism, blood kink/blood play, smut, self-inflicted wounds, blood-drinking, starts in Sukuna's POV.

His heart was racing.

Such an odd, strange sensation for a man who was otherwise unphased by anything. He’d fought and won countless battles, torn men apart with his own bare hands and yet that was not enough to make his heart actually race. It beats so harshly against the protective cage of his bones, brings heat to his already warm flesh and it’s all because of you.

You, who is kneeling before him. You, who had just murdered a woman with her own weapon and then ordered Uraume to slice her up for dinner. Sukuna can only watch down the ridge of his nose as you kneel there, Yorozu’s blood no doubt soaking through your silky furisode and staining your skin beneath. He wonders if you’d look good soaked in the crimson red, from head to toe. Yes, he concludes, you would look very good.

Maybe for another time. Maybe he’ll get you into the pool of blood just off to his side. 

For now, though, he’ll have his fun with what’s being presented to him. His eyes wander across your face, taking in your features—features he could paint if he had the time or inclination to do so. You were a work of art, a bloody work of art, but art nonetheless. Beautiful, truly. It was a… peculiar thought, not something Sukuna would’ve ever imagined to flit into his mind. But he finds he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care that it may open him to weaknesses. 

“Take it off.” He languidly pulls at the edge of the furisode opening, not enough to do it for you but enough to get his message across. His heart races again when you do so without complaint. 

It thrilled him to no end. You were strong, unbelievably so. Not just in power but your will, your mind, everything—you were undoubtedly strong. And yet still, you kneeled to him. You did as he commanded. You were his. His eyes watch through half-lids when you tug at the opening of your furisode until he can see flesh, unmarked except for the only thing that shows you as his. The scar is enough to make his cocks twitch beneath the loose material of his hakama.

It’s not long until you’re bare before him, kneeling in a pool of blood and clothing discarded to the side. You look so vulnerable, sitting there waiting on your knees until he gives his next command. However, Sukuna knows you are anything but vulnerable. You were a force to be reckoned with, a force of nature that only he could contest with, that only he could hold and touch and come out unscathed.

You don’t move an inch when two of his hands come down to the top of his trousers, tugging at the obi belt holding them tight to his waist. His eyes are nearly glazed over with his own lust, yet he sees the way your hands curl into fists against the tops of your thighs, itching to disobey his demands and touch him. In truth, Sukuna doesn’t think he’d stop you—if anything, he’s itching to be touched by you too. 

Your eyes don’t leave his even when he kicks away the material of his trousers, not even when his hand curls easily around both of his cocks.

“Open.” His command is adhered to immediately, your mouth falling open and tongue out on display. His chest rumbles with a deep groan, his feet wading through the pool of blood to step closer to you. You keep your gaze locked onto his when the tip of his secondary cock presses against your tongue, the salty pre-cum earning him a small kitten lick. 

His hand continues to feed you more of his cock until it sits comfortably on your tongue, stuffed deep into your mouth until saliva pools and drips from your bottom lip. It’s filthy, the way you look up at him with his cock in your mouth and the other being stroked just inches from your face. His knuckles brush against your nose every stroke, your breaths coming out in even measured puffs against the back of his hand. 

“Look at you,” he sneers but there’s no heat behind it, it’s lust that curls his lip and furrows his brows. His hand squeezes tighter around the head of his cock not occupied by your mouth, forcing more pre-cum to pearl at the slit. “Even with a cock in your mouth, you still look beautiful.” 

His hips most subtly, almost gently at first, testing the waters to see just how much you could take before you inevitably choked. His stomach aches with how tight it grows when he feels your tongue moving beneath the heavy weight of his cock, feeling against the throbbing veins—if he was a lesser man, he’d be spilling himself all over the back of your throat already.

Sukuna presumes he has the upper hand until one of the hands that should’ve been resting in your lap finds itself snaking its way up the length of his thigh. He can feel you grasping and groping at the thick muscle there, tracing over the thick black line of the tattoos that you’ve come to intimately know.

He’s unable to stop the deep groan that rumbles in his throat when your hand cups his sack, feeling the weight of it in your palm before you give him a squeeze—and it’s not a gentle one. It has his feet planting themselves firmer against the floor, lest he slips in the blood beneath him when his knees threaten to give out. 

His hand strokes more fluidly, quicker and with more of a tight grip when he lets you take over the pacing of sucking his cock. His hips still, and naturally a hand comes up to the side of your head. He threads his long fingers through your hair hastily, grasping onto what he can without a care as to how hard he’s pulling.

But it doesn’t seem to bother you, not when you force more of his cock down your throat until he can feel the muscles restrict and contract in protest, your nose is nearly buried in the thicket of hair at the base of his cocks. He almost wants to praise you for doing so well on your first try to take the full length of his cock down your throat.

Instead, Sukuna pulls back completely from your mouth. Letting you pant and gasp into the open air, strings of saliva connecting you to the tip of his cock that now looks painfully red from the effort to not cum down your throat and ruin his plans. 

“Lay down.” He orders next, a large hand languidly stroking both of his cocks as he watches you. You don’t hesitate in the way you slide onto your back, blood soaking into your skin and sullying your hair. 

You drag your hands through the blood, playing with it he realises. You truly were a monster now, one he had made with his own hands—a bloodthirsty monster who he was eager to please. 

Sukuna lowers himself down onto his knees, slipping in the blood when he leans his weight over you to get closer to your face. You smile so beautifully at him, biting your spit-swollen lip in anticipation. The hand you drag up along his stomach is cold with the quickly cooling blood, sticky with how it starts to coagulate. 

He leans back just enough to watch you paint Yorozu’s blood into his skin, patterns and hand prints that claim him as yours. Always yours. And he finds himself doing the same to you, he drags his bloodied hands over your body. Over your nipples, along the dip of your sternum until he finds your belly button.

His fingers dip into your stomach, pressing just hard enough to feel your muscles flinch. Then with a glance up to your face, to see you still biting your lip in an attempt to stop the panting breaths he can see your chest struggling with—

He dips down. His tongue is hot and flat against your stomach, the blood rich and tangy against his tongue but it’s nothing new to him. If anything he savours the taste, so rare to find a blood rich with cursed energy of this calibre. He wonders briefly what your blood would taste like if he were to rip you apart with his teeth. 

Sukuna follows the trail up along your body, taking his time to circle his tongue around your hardened nipples before sucking them into his mouth. Then, and only then does your resolve crumble. Your moans are some of the sweetest things he had ever heard, no poem or song could ever capture the beauty of what it feels like to hear you sing your pleasure. 

His trail ends between your collarbones, near the hollow of your throat. Near his mark on your skin. Like a shark to blood, he finds his red-stained lips dragging along the scar tissue. His mouth opening to graze his fangs along the indents of his sharpened teeth, it’d be so easy to taste your blood. 

Would it taste richer now that you were bound to him? Would he taste his own cursed energy mixed deliciously with your own? His jaw aches with the need. The need to devour you whole. 

But it’s your gentle hand in his hair that guides him away, until he’s face to face with you. You look so small beneath him and yet you hold as much power as he does with the way you meet his gaze. Silently demanding. 

He bends easily under your gaze, his stained lips find yours. And it’s you who moans at the copper taste that spreads across your tongue, his own stomach tightens at the sound and the cocks resting against your thigh twitch eagerly. When you pull back from the kiss, he finds himself with the odd feeling of needing to chase you; to plant his lips against yours again. 

But he’s frozen in place when a warm wet hand comes up to the side of his face. You smear the blood along the tattoo lining his jaw, following it down until you reach his chin. And then you slowly drag your fingers along his lips until they’re saturated in blood, it has his heart racing away in his chest when that rich scent hits his nose. 

You're just as fascinated with the blood as he was.

Sukuna opens his mouth easily, accepting the pads of your fingers against the flat of his tongue before he licks you clean of the blood staining your fingers. He can see your breath stutter, how your chest expands in excitement and he can’t help but grin at the look on your face. His hand comes back up from its place next to you, painted freshly in dripping crimson.

“Hold still.” He speaks lowly, spreading the blood on his teeth with his words. You do as he says, remaining still on the floor as he brings his blood-stained thumb up to your forehead. He moves it in practised strikes, careful consideration for each swipe of his thumb. His fingers move on from your forehead, down towards the bridge of your nose to swipe a clean stripe across it. 

Then just beneath both of your eyes, he draws a connecting line that leads down along either side of your jaw. His fingers break from your skin to draw two lines along your chin before he leans back from your space to observe his word. Perfection, marked with blood in the design of his own tattoos. 

His hand slips down from your face to find itself wrapped around your throat, sharp nails digging into the flesh until he smells the fresh tinge of copper. It makes his stomach growl in anticipation. 

“I would do anything for you.” He finds himself admitting, breathing the words easily when they would’ve never formed on his tongue all those months ago when he was alone.

“I know.” You whisper over the tight grip around your throat, words said with a smile that has Sukuna seeing fire and blood in tribute to you. He’d truly do anything for you; including ripping apart the world if you so wished for it. 

It has his nostrils flaring, muscles bunching up in his shoulders before he thrusts his hips forward harshly. The movement has your mouth open in a wordless scream, your eyes wide with unshed tears that blend with the painted blood beneath your eyes. You stare at him with such a wide-eyed look that he almost feels bad for impaling you on his cock… almost.

The pace he sets is anything but gentle, it’s dominating, commanding. He wants to own every last inch of you, inside and out. If he could, he would tear out your heart and eat it, feast on your flesh and bones until there was nothing left of you except for the part of you that lived on within him. But he couldn’t do that to you, not when he knew your teeth were as sharp as his own and you could devour him first.

His hips slap against your own with an extra added wetness, the blood grows tacky between the both of you whilst aiding in how quickly he can thrust into you. His lower set of hands clamp down around your waist, holding you still in the pool of blood that continues to soak into your body whilst he fucks you harder, deeper.

Your pussy has always felt divine to him. The way your walls clamp down around him in vain to try and stop him from ruining you, but he knows you too well. You’d never stop him from ruining you, you were made to be ruined by him. Your walls were designed and crafted by him, to mould around the thickness of his cock—or both. 

His unattended cock ruts over your mound with each thrust, the tip of his cock leaking against your belly button and smearing the blood that he had earlier painted you with. The sight has him growling, teeth bared and a renewed vigour to fuck you as hard as he can. 

The sight of you with a knife embedded in your chest has his stomach tensing. It was a sight no man would ever want to see with the woman he was bound to, to see his wife on the brink of death—open arms and a mean grin to accompany her. It had him hard from that alone, you looked beautiful. His very own Angel of Death, or perhaps more of a Harbinger of Death. You had a death grin that would put his to shame. 

But the thing that had sealed his need to fuck you senseless was the act of murder itself. He hadn’t expected you to kill Yorozu, at least not in the manner that you did. He had assumed you’d torture her, flay her alive and eat her innards whilst she was still alive; to hear her begging and crying for mercy. But instead, you sliced her throat and bled her like a pig.

Now that, that was beautiful. You treated Yorozu as she was, nothing but a filthy pig who had come from nothing and would die as nothing. It has his blood singing in his veins, heating him from the inside out as he fucked you harder at the image of you standing there with a knife of Yorozu’s own making and the aforementioned girl crumbling to her knees. 

Forget Angel of Death or Harbinger. You were a Goddess, a Queen that was above the rest. And that has Sukuna’s claws clamping down on you, his jaw aching with the need to widen until he can bite down on your flesh and taste you. What would divine blood taste like? Your flesh was delicate, yet he had never tasted your organs. Your heart is what he desired, would it be tainted just as his own?

His spiralling thoughts have his head fuzzy, eyes narrowing in determination to tear you apart. Until your hand comes up to cup his jaw, he hadn’t even realised he had hunched back down over you to effectively fold you in half beneath him. Your bloodied fingers slide along his jaw until you find the back of his head, your fingers grabbing ahold of the pink strands.

Sukuna succumbs to your pull, letting his forehead press to your own harshly to force your head back against the bloodied stone beneath you. A deep groan rumbles through his chest when he feels the hot wetness of your tongue against his chin, curling the tip just underneath before dragging it up along the blood he knew had started to dry there. Your lips find his own soon after, the tangy coppery taste mixes with the exchanged saliva until it becomes too messy; a sloppy mixture of blood and spit that drips from your lips when he pulls back.

The hands at your waist take hold of you suddenly, shifting you with his movements until you are sat atop him. Your knees slide in the blood, forcing you to take every last inch of Sukuna’s cock until it is pressed painfully deep inside of you. He can see the way your eyes roll back in pure delirium, the pleasure hazing your mind and opening your mouth to gift him the beautiful harmony that was your moans. He doesn’t hurry you to ride him; however, his hands settle on either side of your thighs whilst he watches you.

You were fascinating to watch. Looking up at the ceiling to allow yourself this moment of unadulterated pleasure, your hands are pressed dangerously close to the mouth on his stomach. He can’t help but allow him the moment to open that second mouth, to let your fingers graze along the sharp teeth and large tongue that lolls out eagerly to lap at the blood that was sullying your hands.

You look down at him when you feel it, a sultry look in your eye when you smile at him. Bravely you drag your fingers along the tips of those elongated canines, pressing hard enough that he knows will break your skin—and it does. Your eyes are alight with the pain that mixes deliciously with the pleasure you feel when you start to roll your hips daringly. 

His cock is buried so deep inside of you that he’s certain he can feel the way your lungs expand with each breath, can feel the very beat of your heart when your walls pulse rhythmically around him. The rich fresh scent of blood has his eyes snapping down to look at the hand that was previously toying with the mouth on his stomach. He can see the large gash on the palm of your hand, dripping fresh blood on the eagerly awaiting tongue. 

Sukuna groans audibly, his mouth falling open and hips bucking up involuntarily into your own. You jerk with the movement but it doesn’t stop you from pouring your blood into his stomach mouth, drowning him in the thickness of it—he was right. Your cursed energy has changed the potency of your blood, he can taste the raw power of it. 

He can’t help it—he lashes out before you can react, seizing your wrist in one large hand before curling his upper body upwards to meet you halfway. His tongue laves over the wound in slow drags, groaning deeply in turn when that coppery-thickness stains the back of his throat. Sukuna drinks down your blood effortlessly, eyes locked with your own when he sees you growing uncomfortable with the stinging sensation in your hand.

With closer proximity, he wraps two of his unoccupied arms around your body to secure you against his chest before he lowers himself back down onto the floor. You’re forced to be chest-to-chest with him, looking down at him with a look on your face that tells him you like the shift of his cock deep inside.

Unable to deny himself any longer, he plants his feet against the floor and begins to fuck up into you—hard. His tongue all the while continues to wash over your palm until his lips pucker to suck on the wound, earning him a moan that tapers off into a pained hiss. He doesn’t stop despite your evident pain, not when he can feel your walls clamping tighter and the wetness that grows between your thighs is making it easier for his cock to slide in and out of you.

The cock wedged between the both of you twitches as much as it can, an indicator that he was growing closer and closer to his peak. Sukuna growls like a feral animal against your palm, releasing you finally to show his bloodied lips and canines dripping with your blood. You seem to be in a trance when you look down at him; mouth open with each and every moan that slips out.

You don’t move when he shifts his hand up to your mouth, covering your lips—not to silence you, no, his eyebrows raised in expectation. And it comes to you so naturally, to open your mouth for him and clamp down on his palm. Your teeth sink into the fatty flesh of where his thumb resides, biting down until Sukuna can see rivers of red curling around his forearm. The feeling of your teeth in his flesh has his hips stuttering, and stomach tensing quickly. 

Sukuna himself falls into his own lust-fuelled trance when he watches you detach from his hand with a wet pop, only to drag your tongue along the bite mark that would’ve maimed a lesser man. His blood mixes into the dried blood on your skin, coating it in a fresher layer. He can’t deny you look good like this, covered in blood that doesn’t belong to you.

It drips and curls around your nipples, painting a pathway down along the curves of your body. A large hand comes up to grope at your breast, squeezing at the hardened bud of your nipple to pull a muffled moan against the palm of his hand. He shifts you again, grabbing at your open-wounded hand with his own to entwine his fingers with your own. 

He lets that hand fall flat on the ground next to his head, your free hand curls through his blood-matted hair and you cling for dear life when you finally succumb to the urge to cum, his cock hammering harshly against that spongy spot deep inside. His palm tingles at the sensation of being pressed to your own, the blood that was singing with untamed cursed energy roaring to life when you crest and orgasm so beautifully for him.

Sukuna can only do his part and follow after you, his teeth bared and gums on display when his lip curls into a vicious snarl. He growls through his orgasm, hips throwing themselves against your own in a heavy rhythm that would no doubt leave you sore and bruised for days. Both of his cocks twitch harshly before he releases all he has, his hips slam up into your own to keep you plugged tight whilst he pours each and every last drop inside.

You’re both left panting in close proximity, your eyes closed and Sukuna can only watch you; admire you in your post-sex heaven. A hand skates itself along your back, brushing through the tacky mixture of sweat and blood. You shift on top of him, turning your head until your lips brush against the corner of his own, you’re so close that he can feel the rapid beat of your heart against his chest.

“I would do anything for you too,” you whisper against his skin, raspy from the strenuous activity. And your words bring a smile to Sukuna’s face, his eyes fluttering to a close to enjoy your closeness. 

The pair of you lay there for some time until the blood grows cold and the wounds on your palms have closed with a fresh layer of skin to replace what was lost. You don’t fight him when he scoops you up on his chest, walking out of the throne room and towards the hotspring the both of you have become quite fond of.

It isn’t until much later that you find yourself truly at rest. The turbulence of your own soul finally settled, sated. Reconnected with your other half, the half that slumbered in the depths of a man who held the key to your heart. The silence in your head is loud, yet welcome, it has you closing your eyes as you rest at the window looking out to the courtyard. Sukuna had returned you to your shared bedroom, and this time he had stayed.

The man himself was on the other side of the room, crossed-legged and hunched over a small writing table—the table was actually normal-sized, Sukuna just made everything look as if it were designed for a child. You listen to the drags of the brush on the paper with each delicate letter he writes, and the crackle of the hearth snaps in the background. 

Peace. You felt at peace.

It was nearing the evening, the sky painted in pinks as the sun bid its goodbyes and sank to allow its counterpart to paint the lands in its white light. Dinner no doubt would be served soon, and with that, so would Yorozu’s heart. You had plans for her heart, plans that had a ghost of a smile resting on your lips. Sukuna would find it humorous, at least.

“We’re to head to the Hida province in the coming week.” Sukuna eventually shatters the quiet of the room, drawing your gaze over to him. He’s still perched over his parchment paper, black ink sweeping across the paper. 

Hida. It wasn’t too far from where you were, you assumed. If your lessons as a child held up, you were somewhere in the north—where it was cold, and out of reach of the Emperor and the late Shogun. But it was much closer to Heian-Kyo than you’d like, the home of the Emperor and his many armies. 

“And why’s that?” You question, waiting to see if Sukuna would raise his eyes to see the challenge in your eye.

Instead, he grins to himself. Putting the inked brush into its pot before he meets your gaze, his face fails to hide his amusement. “They fear me, us. They apparently wish to appease us, to have us come to their province and attend their festival. Wish them good luck with the upcoming season.” 

Immediately you crinkle your nose, frowning at the absurdity of it all. Sukuna seems to think the same, as he laughs lowly at your reaction. You had attended such festivals as a child, albeit it was more just for the people in your father's fief to have the chance to prove themselves to the almighty Shogun. You had witnessed plenty of blessings of upcoming children destined to be nothing but his foot soldiers once they were of age. 

“And you wish to go?” 

“Why not? It’s an opportunity to meet with the Lords, they often have information they’re willing to hand over for the right price.” Sukuna shrugs, and you frown once again—he’d never give anyone anything for information, he’d simply take it. 

“That doesn’t sound like you.” You raise an eyebrow in question, and Sukuna gives you a very rare smile; genuine and impressed all in one package. It’s beautiful as much as it is deadly. It has the hairs on your arms rising despite the thick kimono you had been bundled in to fight off the chill in the air.

“Ever the observant one.” He comments offhandedly, and you watch as he plucks up a block of wood that had been carved to serve as a stamp. You’ve never asked him who he corresponds with, who might be worthy enough to have the King of Curses himself sign off his letters. “I won’t be the one handing something over.”

Immediately, you know what’s going to come from his mouth—

“It’ll be you.”

“Me? I have nothing to give.” You argue half-heartedly, and Sukuna’s gaze grows intense when he recognises the flicker of a flame in your voice; a challenge. “What do you expect of me this time?”

Instead of answering you, he drops his attention to the pile of scrolls he had previously opened and left to the side once he was done. He picks through them for a moment before he finds the one he wants, and then he offers it to you. His eyes meet your own expectantly, giving just a wave of the perfectly folded paper when you return his gaze with a silent question. 

“Take it, and read it.” He prompts you again, and it has you getting up from your perch at the window. Your feet are quiet on the tatami mats, your hands curling into the material of your kimono to ensure you didn’t trip over the excessively long material—you wanted to ask Uraume if they knew where you could get it tailored to fit.

Once in the presence of Sukuna, you feel your stomach flutter and your heart tighten. His aura alone was overwhelming, even if you were of the same ilk as he was now. Your blood was as dark and tainted as his. You pluck the scroll from his fingers, and he drops his hand back into his lap where he adjusts his position so he can lounge whilst watching you read through the scroll. 

The paper is smooth against your fingers, not rough like you’d expect if it were a letter from someone of low standing. That revelation alone has your heart beating just a little faster; the person who sent this was someone of power in Japan, even if they were a minor lord. 

You skim quickly over the introduction, confirming your suspicions that this is a lord. But not just any; a Daimyo, a feudal lord who had worked under your father and later your uncle. Immediately, you feel the palms of your hands grow sweaty with anticipation as to what he could have to say. It’s not addressed to Sukuna, or anyone in particular, which meant that it was an announcement.

‘Following the death of the Shogun, Jien Zen’in, it has come to the decision that we are to be in a period of time where a Shogun does not rule us. Instead, I and the other Daimyo of the surrounding provinces will form a council. The Emperor has approved of this notion.’

“A council?” You frown at the words before you, re-reading the neatly painted letters before you flick your gaze up to Sukuna. “But a council won’t work. My father tried to gather the Lords, but they refused to work together, they–”

“You’ll find people are very easy to persuade for the right price.” Sukuna takes the scroll back from you when you hand it in his direction, just for it to be dropped on the pile. “But it isn’t their unwillingness to work together that should worry you.”

Your eyebrows come together in thought. Sukuna’s right. These men were nothing but greedy lordlings, men who had been promoted from their rank as Samurai to be lavished in riches and falsely placed power. They were never truly in power, just as the Shogun had never had true control. It was—

“The Emperor.” You breathe the words, and Sukuna nods once. “He has control of the most influential people in the country, his hand in every pot. He’s going to continue on his crusade to kill anyone who opposes him, whilst killing the non-sorcerers.” 

Sukuna scoffs, a disbelieving sound when he leans back on two hands. It exposes his chest completely, and the mouth at his stomach is in a deep frown too. “It’s just a very long-winded plan to get to me, and now you. Weed out the weak until they offer us up on a platter.” 

Your mind races. The Emperor was going to wipe out a portion of the country, only to restrict those with the power to overthrow a tyrant. It was barbaric, almost impossible to believe but you’d seen what he had ordered of the past Shogun—of your father. He had convinced a man to kill his own daughter. You couldn’t stop the growing anxiety in your stomach, such a foreign feeling after you’d been in the arms of Sukuna for so long. 

The tips of your fingers feel like ice, and the strum of your pulse in your throat tightens with each passing second. You were being backed into a corner, forced to act. The Emperor was a smart man, he knew how to play the game better than most. He blindsided you every moment he could and always remained unscathed. It was infuriating. 

There were only a few limited ways to stop him, to put an end to everything. 

The first, and most obvious, would be to kill him — but it would never be that simple, Kenjaku had told you of the people the Emperor surrounded himself with. He’s too well protected, it’d end in failure. The second option would be to offer yourself up to stop the mass killing that would be taking place, and immediately you shut that idea down. No, you would not go out like that. 

And third…

“I’ll do it.” You drop your hands to your sides, glancing at Sukuna who tilts his head in return with a raised eyebrow. “I’ll become the next Shogun.”

And finally, Sukuna breaks into his praising grin. “Very good.”

You open your mouth to speak more but a knock on the shoji door has you turning your attention there instead. It slides open at Sukuna’s approval, the aforementioned man placing down whatever he was reading to glance towards Uraume who is kneeling at the entryway with their head bowed low. 

“Dinner, my Lord, my Lady.” Uraume addresses you both with a nod of their head, glancing up when Sukuna huffs—a sign that he’s accepting the meal, and Uraume enters his room. Uraume slides the large tray into the room, before sliding along their knees to sharply close the door behind them and get to preparing food for the both of you.

You watch quietly as they do their job, setting up individual dishes and heated pots of food that are covered with a lid. You can smell it as clear as day, that meaty scent. Human flesh. Once upon a time, it would’ve made you feel ill at the idea of eating it, but now you can feel the saliva building on your tongue. You were ravenous. 

“For you.” Uraume bows deeply, before offering up a cold large china dish. It has a lid on top, and your eyebrows raise quickly with a smile growing on your face. Just what you wanted. 

“Thank you, Uraume. You did a wonderful job.” You smile down at them when they bow again at your thanks, turning to do the same to Sukuna before abruptly leaving the room. You can only watch the frost that grows on the frame before it vanishes too. 

“You flustered Uraume, well done.” Sukuna chuckles, watching you from his spot across the room before you decide to approach. “It takes a lot to do that to someone so cold.”

“I’ll have to apologise.” You smile sheepishly, you hadn’t wanted to fluster the monk into fleeing the room but you had meant your praise; Uraume always went above and beyond in preparing meals. They were delicious.

Sukuna watches you as you kneel on the floor next to him, placing the china dish to one side and conveniently out of his grasp. You settle down with a content smile on your face, head tilting as you glance up at Sukuna to see him already glancing over the food before taking his pick of what he wants.

You follow after he starts, taking a small bowl of rice and a thinly sliced strip of meat. It smelled beautiful, bathed in herbs and spices that you weren’t too sure of. The meal is quiet, the both of you enjoying something that you had killed—Yorozu. Her flesh makes great food, the richness of it and its low amount of fat was a bonus. 

“When we find our way to Hida, what should we expect upon our arrival?” You speak eventually, setting down your empty bowls in favour of the warm sake cup. You cradle it in two hands whilst you observe Sukuna finishing off the heftier chunks of meat.

“A look people often point my way; disgust, and horror. But they’ll appease us regardless. They’ll bow, they’ll give their pleasantries—all because it’s demanded of them.” Sukuna comments plainly, a distaste for his words. “The Lord that will be welcoming us is old. No doubt he’ll find a way to humiliate us, one way or another.”

Your nose crinkles at the thought, before you take a short sip of your sake. You still didn’t want to go to Hida, it was an opening for anyone to strike. And if they did strike, you’d be forced to act and potentially play directly into the awaiting palm of the Emperor. 

“I’m sure we’ll have the chance to return the favour.” You smile, turning your attention downwards to the awaiting cold white dish at your side. You take it in both hands, twisting in your seat next to Sukuna until you are facing him sideways. 

His head turns in interest when you present the china bowl to him. “And what’s this?” 

“A gift. Open it.” You bow your head with a knowing smile on your face, and Sukuna matches it easily. 

His fingers move to the top of the lid, carefully bringing away the fine china to show what was inside the bowl. His smile blossoms into a grin, two eyes darting towards you when you huff out an amused sound from your nose. 

“Do you like it?” You grin wolfishly too now, looking up at the man as he grabs a hold of what was inside of the dish. “It’s Yorozu’s.” 

“You’re a cruel woman. Did you know that?” Sukuna laughs, fingers squeezing around the heart in his hand—not enough to crush it, but enough to have blood curling around his fingers. “Is this payback for what I did to your husband?”

“Not at all,” you shake your head, you’d never get revenge for him doing you a favour; even if you didn’t see it as such at first. “It’s a reminder that no one will ever come between us.” 

Your words have an immediate effect on Sukuna, his eyes all focus on your face and you can see the devotion in every single one. You shuffle a little closer, your knees pressed into his thigh and you tilt your head to look at the heart in his hand before a smile as gentle as first snow spreads on your face.

“Eat it.” Sukuna raises an eyebrow at the command before moving the heart lower, however, you grab his forearm. “No, with your mouth.” 

His nostrils flare in amusement before he brings the heart up to his face, you can only watch in a daze when his mouth opens to show sharp teeth and then he clamps down on the muscle. You can hear the muscle rip and tear easily, not nearly as difficult as when you had been forced to eat your husband's heart. But of course, this wasn’t Sukuna’s first heart.

He takes another bite, a larger one that has blood spilling down along his chin and smearing across his cheeks. All the while, his eyes don’t leave your own. No doubt he can see the excitement that blossoms in your chest at the fact he was eating Yorozu’s heart; the heart that had tried so valiantly to love a man who was unloveable. 

Sukuna finishes it much easier, and quicker than you did. His hands are bloodied but he swoops down to grab at your face regardless, his fingers sink into your flesh and he pulls you up so you can smell the copper on his face. He grins at you, a mean grin that’s laced with arousal. 

“A cruel woman who holds my own heart in her very hands, would you make me eat that too?” His words are a whisper against your lips, his forehead pressing against your own harshly. 

“Never. It belongs to me.” Your own voice is hushed, and Sukuna’s smile grows again. Your fingers press against his chest, digging into the muscle that protects him from you. “Just as mine belongs to you.”

He closes the gap quickly, his lips harsh and wet. He kisses you with a tinge of violence, a consumption that has you desperately trying to keep up. Your tongue laps at the blood on his, sweeping across his lips when you suck a lip into his mouth. He groans, breaking apart the kiss before he grins. “Good.”

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[blindmagdalena]

Hiii, Amy, how are you? Like really, how are you? I hope you're well.

I saw you reblogged this post and a fic about Homelander literally eating a supe!reader who has fast healing would be awesome! Imagine, she's not bulletproof, she can't fly, her thing is just really fast healing, like Wolverine. One night, she offers Homelander her fresh because she loves him so much that she wants him to literally consume her, would he accept, would he say no, what would he do?

girl. i cannot believe you inspired me to write straight up erotic cannibalism. (yes i can.)

dead dove! do not eat! smut and literal eroticized cannibalism under the cut. lite blasphemy? 18+.

It all begins with a bite.

Your hand in his hair, moaning in his ear. "Harder," you gasp, his teeth at your throat, teasing the delicate flesh there. He thinks you mean for him to fuck you harder, and he snaps his hips hard enough to rattle your teeth, but you shake your head.

"No, darling–bite me harder," you urge, legs locked tightly around his waist.

He obeys without a thought, sinking his teeth into the junction between your neck and shoulder. It doesn't matter how rough he is with you, it doesn't matter if he shatters you, your body mends by the time he draws back for the next thrust.

He likes the way the pain makes you moan, and he loves the way it makes your pussy clamp down on his cock. He's not convinced you even feel pain, not with how wet it makes you.

"Harder," you say again, yanking his hair roughly. "I want you to taste my blood."

Homelander is delirious with his own pleasure, so near to the cusp of release, he doesn't question it. His sharp teeth slide through your skin like butter, and the copper tang of your blood fills his mouth in an instant.

It makes you scream. He fucks you hard and fast through your orgasm, lapping up the blood from where you've already healed. If not for the familiar sweet taste of you, it would be like it was never yours.

You take him by the face and kiss him with more fervency than he's ever felt, licking your own blood from his teeth.

"Take more of me," you plead against his lips. "I love you. I love you so much. I want to give you everything." He doesn't understand what you mean. He has you. More than he's ever had anyone before you, more than he ever will.

So he thought.

“Bite me harder,” you keen, digging your nails into his back. You’re frail by superhuman standards, only a little stronger than a human, but your regenerative healing makes you practically indestructible. “I want you to fucking eat me.”

He moans outright when you drag your nails along his scalp.

Because you demand it, he does it again. He bites down, and both your hands cup the base of his skull as if you're nursing him against your body.

His lids flutter.

You feel incredible. You taste even better. Your touch has always made him salivate. His love for you has not been an end to his loneliness, it has become an extension of it.

When you're gone, it's as though the sun loses warmth. Color loses saturation. Food loses flavor. Where he once thought love, ever present in his heart, would reinvigorate the world, he has found this is only true when your hand is in his, when he is inside you, when the taste of you is raw on his tongue.

He must always keep you near. Without you, the world feels too much like a sterile white box beneath fluorescent lights.

"Eat," you whisper, quivering in his hold. "Feel me inside you."

Yes, he thinks. Stay with me.

Your body gives beneath the press of his teeth like it was made to. Blood carries bite-sized portions of you down his throat like the tide brings driftwood to the shore.

"That's it, baby," you moan, voice breathy. You sound as you do on the precipice of release, a swelling of need and incomprehensible pleasure. "I love you."

He believes you.

He tastes it in the spill of you down his throat, and in the white-hot clench of your body. The wet of your cunt, your blood, the saliva you swallow back.

You're hungry, too. You're left drooling as he feasts. He thrusts faster, lips pressed deep in your sinew.

To love is to devour.

To give.

He will give unto you as you have given unto him.

From the moment he met you, he was animal-like in his craving of you.

Perhaps this was always his natural trajectory. He has never known a love he did not choke down, swallow, tear apart at the seams.

You are the first capable of enduring him.

Every bite he takes of you replenishes itself in seconds. He can drag his tongue along his own teeth marks and feel your flesh push back against it, mending itself, born anew to be swallowed again.

This. This is what he has always needed. Too long have love and affection been a finite resource dangled at the end of the very stick they used to beat him. He bore this gnawing emptiness for so long, it grew teeth.

How did you know how to feed it?

He screws his eyes shut, keening into the bloodied crook of your neck.

"Let go," you whisper. "Let's fill each other." Your fingers are delicate in his hair. Your tenderness is relentless, worming deep into the rotted thing that drums in his breast. You dare his heart to beat for you, and suddenly he can't remember a time when it didn't.

"Come for me, baby."

Climax hits him so hard, he forgets how to breathe. He thinks he feels you shatter beneath him, but he can't be sure. You're whole again in seconds, your arms around his neck, your lips against his, your hearts beating against one another like caged birds as he pours himself into you in load after load after load after load.

You're both left panting. Sweat, blood, come and tears all salty and wet between your bodies.

He has taken your blood and your body into himself, and given you all he can in return.

Is this what they meant by holy communion?

He's convinced that it is.

This is the closest he has ever felt to heaven.

[avatarchai]

[2020] Mon dieu what did he do to Marinette

[hells-greatest-performers]

Caius, stay strong. I do not feel like crying over a fanfic again.

Lucifer: *finally able to hold Caius* Hey baby…how are you feeling?…yeah I know you’re in some pain and I’m so sorry about that. I would take all it away if I could. And I’ve tried…but my power is just tapped out after the fall…*tries to summon magic but cant*

Caius:

Lucifer: *holds his son closer* I’m sorry I failed you…like I failed your sister…I want you to know that I love you and I loved every kick I felt inside of me! You’re my son and I love you. I love you so much Caius…and i hope when you’re reincarnated that you’ll have the best family in the world! With loving parents and lots of love.

Alastor: Hey…

Lucifer: *looks over* Oh…I’m sorry you should also say goodbye.

Alastor: I appreciate the sentiment but I’m not here to say goodbye. I’m here to save our son.

MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS! Cannibalism, mental scarring — Alastor using his body as a catalyst. Mpreg again?? 👇👇👇

If you don’t wanna read: Alastor consumes his son’s flesh and soul to create a new healthier body for him. Thus making him pregnant with a different type of Voodoo Pregnancy.

——————

Lucifer: How? I can’t do magic right.

Alastor: I have my ways *holds arms out*

Lucifer: You’re not going to turn him into a monster will you? With that strange dark magic you use?

Alastor: No. But I will provide him a second chance. Let me hold him.

Lucifer: *kisses Caius on the forehead and hands him to Alastor*

Alastor: *holds Caius* Forgive me son, this may hurt a bit…

Lucifer: *immediately regretting handing him over* WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!

Alastor: *takes a bit of Caius’s flesh and drinks his blood*

Lucifer: STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! *horrified*

Alastor: *swallows* I’m going to make a new body for our son using my body.

Lucifer: WHAT?! STOP?! YOU KILLED HIM!

Alastor: *reaches with green magic and consumes the baby’s soul* There! Now his soul is in me and when his body reforms inside of me it’ll attach and — *sees how mentally scared Lucifer is* Oh…I should have told you before about my plan.

Lucifer: *Catatonic after that*

[1-800-fabrik-girlie]

and the backyard's full of bones - hatchetfield

1.2k words, pt. 1 in the 'the devil's after bott of us' series, rated E Karen Chasity cleans up the streets of Hatchetfield.

[dawnandstars]

Cura Personalis

Written by: @dawnandstars Rating: Mature Fandom: Hazbin Hotel Ships: Alastor/Charlie Morningstar | Charlastor Warnings: Cannibalism, character death, dead dove: do not eat, kidnapping, murder, obsessive/possessive behavior Notes: cura personalis - care for the entire person

Summary:

Grief never tasted so sweet.

Read Chapter One on AO3!

[rippersz]

𝘐𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘠𝘖𝘜.

«——..✞..——»

«——..✞..——»

(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both; gore, toxic love, smutty/suggestive themes, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader)

«——..✞..���—»

"I’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting," ~ Richard Siken

«——..✞..——»

It was an accident.

It was all an accident.

Wrong time, wrong place, wrong moment.

Why were you awake?

What were you looking for?

Was it her?

Was it something else?

Were you out of bed because you had a feeling?

Was the bell tolling for you even in your sleep? Could you hear the echo?

Was her silence too loud?

You turned the corner.

Why did you turn the corner?

She was so close to safety.

Too slow, in the end.

Too slow too slow too slow.

And you were too fast too fast too fast. Too inquisitive. Too smart for your own good.

Draped in the darkest grey of a hooded designer coat. Gloved hands holding bags. Red plastic and squishing softness. The handle of a pocketknife tucked between white teeth. No heels, but black boots. Careful not to track mud.

There was no mistaking it.

There was no mistaking her.

Tall, intimidating, curved and sleek. Disappearing into the night without a peep, only to come back past the devil’s hour and get caught.

Years of secrecy.

And to think it was all ruined by you.

You. Her limbo. Her undoing or her reaffirming supporter. Her end or her beginning. The in-between of her life. The connecting thread, so thin, so weak, that ties the two aspects of her existence together. The hungry and the satiated. The mask and the actor. The figure in the dark and the hero in the light. Trusted and feared. Loved and bewared. You, who had captured her eye the very moment she saw you all that time ago. You, who stood in her presence and commanded all of her attention and looked her in the face with no fear at all.

You, who only felt the fear after you turned the corner.

‘No, not you’, was her first thought. ‘No, please, let it be someone else. Let it be someone palatable.’

But no.

No no, little bell.

There you stood, hands limp at your sides, watching Larissa open the door to her quarters with a small golden key. Not trembling from the rush of the kill. Not breathing heavily from the long walk back. Not even bothering to slow her steps as she comes to a stop before her door.

Calm, instead; and swimming in a sea of only thought and anticipation for how the future meal would taste.

One does, after all, burn quite a few calories after chasing a rabbit through the woods.

She was hungry.

And you couldn’t sleep.

And in a fucked turn of events, her desire to romance you into love had melted into a necessary evil. Of course she could just kill you, but what a regret that would be. Not seeing your pretty little face each day… not hearing the sweet tones of your voice… not knowing the way you laugh… oh what a mistake it would be to taste your liver. And she probably wouldn’t enjoy it anyway. She never enjoyed the ones she cared about. Strangers were preferred. Strangers that would never be tied back to her because - my oh my why would anyone like Principal Weems ever kill somebody? How could anyone ever dare think that? When would she even have the time? And no woman could shoulder the emotional weight of murder! And cannibalism?! Oh perish the thought! No, Larissa Weems wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s an amazing woman; she’s helped my kids so much. Oh, Principal Weems? No, that woman is an angel. She’s really good with the teens, younger and older; gets along with everyone too. And she’s a great colleague! There’s no reason to suspect her. Because she can’t kill anyone. She doesn’t have the heart. Doesn’t have the guts. She’d cry and cry and cry her way home, bending beneath the horror of her actions.

She doesn’t have it in her.

Whatever ‘it’ was.

Whatever ‘it’ is.

No. She didn’t have it in her.

She had something else in her.

A bell. An alarm. An innate sense of disguise, of self, of shadow. A mind 20 steps ahead at all times. A heart that never stopped beating. Breath that never skipped. Hands that never shook.

Unless you were around.

Then the human sank forward and suddenly she found herself falling behind, skipping beats, skipping breaths, and shaking.

And what, above all else, was so special about you?

Hm? What was so special about sweet darling beautiful you? Was it your own intelligence? Was it your own knowledge? Your own creativity? Was it your ability to be effortlessly funny? Was it the way you looked at her, sarcastic and cold and frightened and lustful? Was that it?

Or was it because you knew?

You knew.

You know.

You saw.

She waited for so long- days, weeks- sitting around, walking around, breathing and going about her life, waiting for everything to come crashing down. Waiting for the police to walk up to her door, demanding an inspection. They wouldn’t find anything, no, but that didn’t matter. They’d keep it all on record. So if anything did happen in the future, and she slipped up, her head would be on the chopping block - instead of one of her victims.

But the police never showed. And nothing ever changed. And the only shift in her life was you - but even that was slight and even that was small and even that was enough to make her feel reinvigorated. Because you knew… and yet you didn’t tell anyone. Why didn’t you tell anyone? She asks herself that constantly. Why haven’t you said anything? She’s teased you, frightened you, lured you in, put people on your plate, and you have yet to bolt up from the seat in her office and fly out into Jericho, screaming bloody murder. She’s most likely killed a person you saw once in passing; watched the light fade from their eyes, their breath dissipate in one last exhale, their heart slow to a complete stop. She’s ripped out insides, rearranged them, memorized their places, tasted them and enjoyed them. She’s done the most horrific things a human or non-human can do to its own kind, and you know this, and you haven’t called for help.

Perhaps you should just be honest with yourself, lamb.

Perhaps you should just say it. It will make things easier. You can cut through the tension and get over all the bullshit.

You want her.

Don’t you?

You want her just as much as she wants you.

You saw her that night after turning the corner and you knew. You felt it.

Something changed.

You want her protection. You want her passion. You want her love.

One could even say you are hungry for it.

–

By the time Larissa reaches the top of the stone steps, feet cold and heart thumping in anticipation, the minutes she has left have dwindled. It was a long trek through the halls to her quarters and once the secret wall on the other end slides into place behind her, she flicks up a beautiful slim wrist again and nearly chokes on her own breath.

“What on Earth?”

2 minutes?!

She has 2 minutes?!

Not a chance she spent that long cloaked in the dark of the Nevermore passages. There’s no way…

But her eyes don’t deceive her. Even after the few times she blinks, caught by utter surprise.

No. The clock reads 2 minutes. 2 minutes decreasing.

“Right,” she nods and huffs, suddenly and so thoroughly pissed off.

2 minutes. Fine. If she had 2 minutes, she’d do something with it. No predator waits for their lamb. You’re hers anyway.

You’re hers and that’s that. 2 minutes or not. That’s how it is.

And she’s gone too long without seeing your face this evening. Time to find you, her sweet darling. Time to win.

–

Her legs slide into a strut as she makes her way down the hall. Chafing, she finds, is a complete bitch. But she’ll bear it of course. For you.

You, who are so keen on pushing lines and breaking rules. Thinking you’ve outsmarted her. Hiding yourself away somewhere in her quarters.

Or so she hopes.

Really, there’s no way of knowing. You could be anywhere else actually. In a bathroom somewhere maybe - or a closet, shoving yourself into the shadows with a hand clasped tight over your pretty little mouth. Even in the main hall… celebrating your victory as she takes herself to her own bedroom, hoping to the gods that you’re there.

She wishes, of course, that you could walk into her bedroom under better circumstances. Circumstances in which you’re less frightened, and not so full of anxiety. Circumstances in which you’re smiley and giggly and happy to be in her company and not worried about if she’ll eat you or not - which she won’t. Ever. As she’s already told herself.

But you don’t know that. And you’re in her room, maybe, shaking with the fear of when she finds you. Even though, at the heart of things, she’s not sure if she has it in herself to stick to the rules of the game.

Can they be changed?

It’s the one thing she wonders about as she gets closer and closer - speed eventually picking up into a jog as she looks down at her watch and sees that it’s ticked over to 1 minute. 1 minute. 1 minute.

Can the rules be changed?

The outcome maybe?

50 seconds.

Her feet begin to pound against the stone. They’re cold - they nip at her bare heels - but none of it registers.

40 seconds.

She needs to take a left then a right.

A left then a right.

A left…

45 seconds.

Then a right…

30 seconds.

–

BANG.

Silence.

Footsteps.

You barely have time to hold in your gasp- barely have time to breathe through your panic- no time at all to duck into shadow and hide- because she’s already there.

In the doorway. Outlined by a muted light.

Out of breath, but victorious.

“I found you,” Larissa huffs, shoulders falling up and down in the most mesmerizing rhythm.

Up… down… chest moving with the weight of her lungs as she catches her breath.

So she was running.

Since when does the bell run instead of toll?

“I know.”

It’s all you can think to say.

Double checking the time doesn’t even fade across your thoughts. Making an effort to dash past her somehow never even touches the corners of your mind. The bell has run and the game has ended and you have lost - just as you somehow knew you always would. Because what else would the universe have you do? Win? No. No, the lambs never win. That’s just not how it goes. And when a phone begins to beep somewhere- a small silent beep beep beep beep beep in the next few seconds- you know that doubting your loss will lead to nothing. She has won. And you have failed. And now you will have no choice but to consume one of your own. Another lamb that could never beat the wolf. Never smart enough. Never fast enough. Never good enough.

“10 seconds to spare,” comes her dulcet murmur.

You nod, numb to the truth of it all.

10 seconds to spare.

If only the bell walked.

If only you were smarter.

If only you were better.

If only you were good enough.

Silence blankets the two of you. The only thing that speaks are the breaths from each of your throats, pouring into the still perfumed air of Larissa’s closet.

From an outside perspective, one would think that a chase like that, a game so neck and neck, would end on the most explosive of notes. The biggest catch, so to speak. The climax of it all. One would think that with everything on the line, with a livelihood wagered and morals placed on the table, the finale would be something memorable and great and probably terrifying and macabre.

The be all end all for games of wolves and lambs and bells and prey.

But great climaxes don’t happen in real life. And the feeling of your heart in your throat is uncomfortably genuine. And though you’d like to have the balls to tell Larissa to go fuck herself and shove her cannibalism where the sun don’t shine and flee off down the hall past Nevermore’s doors to the Jericho police station, you just don’t. You don’t have the balls, the courage, the energy.

In the face of Larissa’s success, your body’s given up.

Months of trying to keep in stride with her, but it never works. You never feel like the control you have is actually yours. She is just too good. Too good at making you feel special. Too good at capturing your attention. Too good at being a woman of her word and making you feel comfortable even when you feel uncomfortable - and too good at making you love her.

But.

But really.

How can you love a woman who will feed you the thigh of a man?

How can you love someone like that?

How can you want someone like that?

Truly. Honestly.

What is wrong with you?

Why do you want, even now, to grasp her shoulders and pull her close and kiss her senseless? Why do you want her to lead you to her bed? Why do you want to drown in her passion?

Why do you love her so much?

Why do you love her so much?

Why do you love her so much?

Why do you love her so much?

WHY DO YOU LOVE HER SO MUCH?

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

A person can’t be heard screaming in space.

All calls for help don’t matter there.

And we ask ourselves: what is the human psyche if not a universe?

What is the mind if not a vast unfathomable thing?

One in which we cannot hear each other’s screams? One in which we do not care enough to hear?

The cries for aid are internal for a reason. They reverberate through time and bones and blood and viscera and space and everything.

So Larissa cannot hear you.

All she can do is watch. And see you unravel. And hear your muted sniffles in the dark as tears well up in the hot of your eyes. Eager to fall. To release. To plead a case to a woman who has been the source of judgment for so long. To beg in the face of danger.

“I don’t want- I-” you choke on your words.

“…I don’t want to eat human.” Your voice is far away. Soft. Defeated.

“Please,” and only now do you return to the moment - blinking at her through the haze of your tears and the midnight of dark, “please don’t make me.”

Your heart, a tad late on the delay, seems to realize now the extent of everything. You have lost. And now you must face the consequences. And give into her wishes. And ruin everything for yourself.

For the rest of your life.

To eat… that… would be to say ‘this has gone too far.’ It would be to say ‘You are making me do this because of a silly stupid game and for that, I can no longer love you.’ Because eating one’s own kind is only seen in some animals - and you are no some animal. You are no hungry beast. You are no curious soul that is unable to admit the truth to themself.

You are just a woman. A woman who does not want to stop loving, even though the love feels more like rot.

Even though the love feels more like pain.

“Please. Please don’t make me.”

And the tears only fall faster, racing down your cheeks in the same rhythm as your heart’s beat. On and on and on and on. Even as Larissa mumbles your name and flicks on the closet light, rushing forward at the smallest sight of your wet face. Flushed from tears, crumpled with sadness and self-loathing and the undeniable feeling of being lost. So lost. So out of place.

And you don’t even question the whole power situation - how Larissa’s room has power while the rest of Nevermore doesn’t. Or seemingly doesn’t. It would be like Larissa Weems to ‘fake’ a power outage for the sake of raising the stakes and winning the game. Just another reason why she’s fucked up and you shouldn’t love her and yet-

“Shhh shhh, you’re okay. You’re okay.” Her soft accented voice in your ear and warm breath against your temple, speaking the sweetest reassurances as you tuck your face into your open palms and weep into the clammy skin of your hands. Her body presses against yours and her arms go winding around your waist as soon as she realizes that your legs are slowly buckling - simply unable to hold up the heavy weight of your heart.

“It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

But you don’t know how you can believe her. Even as she sits down next to you, both of you on your knees, pressed to the cream carpet in the middle of the walk-in closet with your head slowly falling to the side. Resting against her chest. Seeking solace in the very thing that frightens you and seduces you and restrains you and frees you and knows you and loves you and needs you and is somehow comforting you while you cry about her cannibalism.

It’s sickening.

But it’s what you need.

And when warm tears fall into your hair and are smushed along your temple, you realize that Larissa needs it too.

Not the comfort or the vulnerability or the release, but the shared feeling of otherness. The realization that neither of you are alone in your secret. A secret you never asked to know and a secret Larissa never wished to tell. And yet here you are. Knowing and telling and sharing and keeping. Keeping it between just the two of you. Like Romeo and Juliet against the world. Twisted souls with a depraved lust and desire for each other- in the heart and in the flesh.

But Romeo and Juliet is romantic.

And you two are just sad.

And damned.

And leaning on each other still, silently weeping while mindless words spill out of Larissa’s lips.

“I won’t,” she rasps, “I won’t make you. You don’t have to. I promise. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t- this wasn’t- I’m sorry. Please. Believe me. You have to believe me. I’m so sorry.”

But she’s not sorry about eating people.

She’s just sorry you found out.

She’s just sorry you saw who she really was. Is.

She’s just sorry you love a version of herself that isn’t the woman she wants to be.

Still Larissa Weems, but someone different.

Still Larissa Weems, but a murderer.

Blood on her hands. As red as her lipstick.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to. I’d never make you. I swear it.”

And she cries as she speaks, the length of her throat clogged with guilt and tears and sorrow. A million apologies for a million offenses. One right after the other that somehow fills the void in your heart and stitches up the horrendous wounds in your mind. Keeping you bloated on apologies.

The only difference being that she means them.

You can tell.

And when she says she’d never make you, pushing it out of her lungs in the way she does, sobbing it into the softness of your neck, you believe her. She wouldn’t let a single piece of long pork touch your tongue and she wouldn’t serve you something you don’t want to eat. No woman in love would do such a thing. And so she clutches you closer and whispers it over and over again.

“I won’t I won’t I won’t I won’t you don’t have to I’m so sorry I’m so sorry-”

Until you’re both exhausted and you find enough breath needed to take your hands away from your eyes and wipe your snot and tears on the skin of your forearm.

“I know,” you finally speak, crackly and pathetic. “I know.”

Larissa sniffles and nods but doesn’t stop her weeping - and her hands only bring you closer. As close as you can get. Molded to her body, tangled up with her on the floor, finding your arms returning the desperate hug and sliding around her midsection to hold her close too. Like a lifeline.

Like a lifeline.

«——..✞..——»

Smiles nervously. - Rip x

«——..✞..——»

Tags (Plz keep in mind Tumblr doesn't let me tag some accounts): @kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @sugipla @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @azu-zu @hopelessly-sapphic @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @zillahofviolets-bayolet @the-bearr @amateurwritescm @alex-nyx @h-doodles @weemssapphic

[vampyrsm]

‣‣ COR UNUM: CHAPTER ELEVEN | TAMONTEN

‣‣ Synopsis: Our tale continues with an insight into the dark recesses of the Shogun's daughter's mind, just how deep have the tendrils of darkness burrowed into her very being? Perhaps things will start to unravel in the light of a new vow...

‣‣ Main Masterlist | AO3 ‣‣ Pairing: Sukuna x Reader ‣‣ Word Count: est. 11.7k ‣‣ Warnings: Blank blogs & Minors DNI. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Set in the Early-Heian Period, trueform!Sukuna, female reader, cannibalism, vivid gore and horror, descriptions of bodily harm, jealousy, Sukuna is on the softer side here, smut (dacryphilia, oral f!receiving, spit, very intimate, double penetration, biting/marking, creampie, possessiveness with a hint of a primal kink)

“Watch your tongue, girl.” It’s Uraume who hisses the words. The girl in question seems to disregard Uraume entirely, uncaring for the way her haori flutters at her sides to reveal absolutely everything. You have to blink away the surprise on your face to give way to the confusion. 

Sukuna only grunts at the intrusion, heaving a heavy sigh that tells you that this woman is most definitely the guest of the day. His arm remains tight around your waist. As if he knew you were slowly coiling tighter and tighter like a snake once the unknown woman ascended a few steps closer to the throne.

“Yorozu.” Sukuna comments flatly, shoving a curled fist against his cheek when he leans against the armrest of the throne made of bones. “I told you the next time you approach me wearing nothing but a haori, I was going to add your skull to my collection.”

Yorozu doesn’t blanch at the threat, if anything her smile grows on her face when she manages to drag her eyes away from the arm looped around your waist and up towards Sukuna’s face. 

With the final step up, her lips part as if she’s ready to play his dangerous game of cat-and-mouse but instead… you watch the way her face suddenly twists in agony. The human body was so malleable, so easy to bend and snap until it was unravelled. Her screams were awfully loud within the grand room, bouncing and ricocheting until they settled against your ears.

You watched as her skin tore itself apart, twisting until it broke with a sickening wet ripping sound. Her once fair skin is replaced by that of blossoming red, it douses the white haori over her shoulders until it’s an entirely different colour altogether.

Mangled and beyond recognition, you still watch with a thrill that flutters in your chest. Her body is splayed against the cool tile floor, her blood seeping into the cracks until it flows away. Even now, the long-haired woman still screams — still wails as her limbs are torn, muscle and sinew alike ripping slowly… like it would if you were to sink your teeth into it. 

Would she still be worthy of eating after? Your stomach tightens at the thought, but not in disgust. In sick pleasure. You stare down at the writhing woman, the flesh of her legs is cleanly tugged from the bones that achingly hit against the stone floor with each thrash of her body. 

How long could the human body survive before it broke? When would shock set in? The human heart was fragile, like it was almost made of glass and anything could break it. You wanted to be the one to crush her heart in your hand, to feel the rhythmic beating of it as it still rested in her chest before you squeezed… and squeezed… until it burst.

A hand squeezes at your side and you blink away from the scene before you, only to find Yorozu is still staring up at you from her place at the bottom of the step. Sukuna has a much tighter hold over you, the tips of his claws dig past the multiple layers of rich silk and nearly pierce your skin. 

Not to hurt you, but to ground you — recenter your mind. As if he knew exactly what you had imagined. 

The woman before you, Yorozu, seems to flare her nostrils at the motion. Her fingers curl uselessly into the sleeves of her haori and yet—she still does not close it to hide her modesty. It only serves to spring more questions to mind, just who exactly was Yorozu to Sukuna? He seemed to hold no fondness for her in the way he addressed her, but he didn’t really in the way he spoke to you — did he?

“Spit it out, or get out.” Sukuna commands, a lazy look on his face despite the iron grip on your waist. 

Yorozu shifts her light-coloured eyes quickly away from you and back onto Sukuna once he speaks. Ah, so it was infatuation on her behalf, there’s no doubt about that. She looks at him as if he hung the moon and stars.

“Master Sukuna,” Yorozu all but purrs, the lilt in her voice makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. “I have what you asked for.” 

That makes Sukuna raise an eyebrow, but he doesn’t move a muscle to get whatever it is he ‘asked for’. That makes Yorozu shift on her feet once again, the sound of her bare feet on the tiled floor is nothing short of claws on rock. 

“I didn’t know we discussed important matters in front of whores now—” She huffs a laugh, her gaze flicking away from Sukuna’s face just in time to miss the raising of his upper lip into a snarl. “Well? Get out of here.” That was addressed to you.

“You’ve been warned once. Watch your tongue.” He snarls in retort, and Yorozu’s thick eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. “Get on with it.”

Despite her initial shock at the tone Sukuna took with her, Yorozu clears her throat and plasters on a much too sultry smile for your liking. “The Shogun has returned to his home. He no longer resides at the Shogun’s palace—apparently, he had important business at the Zen’in estate.” 

You don’t bristle at the mention of your uncle or the fact he’s returned to the Zen’in estate. It was a grand thing, built by and for your father. It held multiple branches of the Zen’in family, all of them trained warriors with formidable cursed techniques. Some of them however had no cursed energy at all… at least that’s what some of the scrolls you had filtered through just a day prior had mentioned.

“He moved his army there?” Sukuna asks, his back straightening just slightly at the idea of slaughtering not just the Shogunate—but the entirety of the Zen’in clan in one fell swoop. 

“Mhm,” She hums before continuing. “The Generals and Sun-Moon-Stars are also on the move.” 

The Generals and Sun-Moon-Stars? You had no idea who or what they even were, they’d never been mentioned by your father when you had often hovered around him as a child when he discussed strategies with his strongest men. 

One of Sukuna’s hands comes up to rub at his chin in contemplation, an odd look on his face. One of deep thought. Whoever these people were, the generals and Sun-Moon-Stars, Sukuna most definitely knew who they were. But you doubt he worries about fighting them, he had no qualms about fighting anyone. He knew himself as the strongest. 

“Fine. Where do they move to?” 

Yorozu grins like a feline, her eyes nothing short of seductive. Oh, you knew that look on her face — she wanted something in return for her information. 

“First. You promised me something.” Sukuna makes a face like he did no such thing. “You promised me that you’d spend time with me. Alone.” 

That final word is tacked on with a vicious glance in your direction, aggressive enough to have your own eyebrows raising just a smidgen in surprise. Clearly, the warning Sukuna had growled in her direction just mere moments ago had blown right over her head. 

“I promised nothing.” His fingers curl into a fist beneath his chin, propping his head up further so he could sneer down the thickness of his nose at the woman before him. “You mean nothing to me. Why would I devote my time to nothing?”

“And a common whore means something to you?” She spits before she can reign in her tongue, yet she does not back down. Her head held high with a twitch of an eyebrow—she was at her breaking point. You wondered if she too had a cursed technique, she must have if Sukuna had granted her more than one chance to speak to him. 

Those long claws sink further into the expensive silk draped over your body, stretching the material until it gives way. He leans forward just slightly, an imperceivable movement but you feel the way he presses closer to you. Keeps you closer. Just out of the corner of your eye, you watch as his upper lip curls into a snarl and the words form on his tongue.

The lower arm of which you were leaning on snakes around your side too, a large hand dipping down until it engulfs the side of your thigh in a possessive grip. You can feel the subtle circles he draws with this thumb, and the way he occasionally drags his hand back and forth as if he were stroking your very skin. 

It has your toes curling, your eyes fighting to flutter at the feeling of his hands on your body whilst staring down a woman who wants him so desperately. That heat still simmers from earlier when the two of you had been alone to dress, only growing hotter and hotter with each pass of his fingers along your thigh. 

“How dare you speak of my wife like that.” 

The entire room stills. Frozen and suspended in time and yet it’s not your cursed energy at work — but rather the words spoken by Sukuna. He doesn’t spit the word like it was a curse, nor does he scowl at the fact he had told a lie about who you are to him. He plays it off as if it were the truth. Why did that make your toes curl once again?

Yorozu sputters. “Wife? Wife?! You–! You said you’d never love someone!” 

“I said I’d never love you. You, the lowly street dog from Ainu. You never would’ve served me other than warming my bed before you thicken my broth with your bones.” Sukuna’s voice is a dark rumble in his chest, the grin on his face nothing but pure malice. “Know your place.” 

Perhaps it was the shock at the words Sukuna continued to spill at his lips, but you can’t stop yourself from hiding the evident surprise on your features. And Sukuna seems to notice that, as he raises one arm to conveniently block your face with the sleeve of his haori so he can point towards Yorozu.

“Get out of my sight before I mount your head on my wall so you’re forced to watch me fuck my wife.” 

Yorozu seems to fight the urge to snarl and snap her jaws at Sukuna, at you, but there’s a drop in temperature in the room. An icy chill that rolls from somewhere, a location you quickly realise is Uraume themselves. The cursed energy they release comes off of them in thick waves, a thick mist starting to coat the floor to bite at the bare ankles of the humiliated woman.

Yorozu leaves soon after, turning on her heel but not before shifting her hateful gaze to you—to stare at you in the eye with a scowl so scathing, you wonder if she had attempted to burn you alive. 

The air in the throne room was stifling. A chilling silence that lingered far longer than comfortable, yet Sukuna did nothing to appease said silence and Uraume at least had the decency to resume her post at the bottom of the steps. You, however, weren't sure where to look or how to sit properly. 

His wife. That’s what he called you. A title he pinned on you in the face of a woman who wanted nothing more than the four-armed beast still running his fingers up and down your thigh as if he did truly own you – body and soul. 

“Uraume,” Sukuna calls finally, snapping the room free from its silence. “Leave us.” 

Uraume turns to give a deep bow, their hair shifting with the movement to hide their features. “Yes, my King.” And like that, they were gone in a blink of an eye.

Sukuna handles you off of his lap far too easily, two large hands grabbing at your waist to lift you and place your feet on the floor before he too stands. It’s no surprise that he doesn’t speak a word to you, instead wordlessly expecting you to follow him down the few steps that led away from his throne and out of the room.

You follow — because of course you do. But you’re not entirely sure why, perhaps it was because you felt somewhat safest around him or you simply knew you had no other choice. Not after the failed attempt to kill him once and for all. 

He leads you through the neatly cleaned corridors of the temple, tatami flooring swept and kept pristine. You’d think it was home to a Lord of some kind; not a man who had zero qualms about eating another person as if it were the same as eating an apple. 

The rooms you pass by are large, but mostly empty save for a few low tables and cushions that appear to be unused for quite some time. It only leads you to wonder who used to live here, before Sukuna had taken ownership. You knew it to be his ancestral temple in a way, this was home to him.

But it was so barren, so large. You wonder if maybe he had plans to fill it one day—maybe with a family of his own or he was just a creature who enjoyed a large space to call his own. The latter seemed more likely.

Eventually, Sukuna stops outside of a large door. It’s different to the others, unpainted with any of the designs that you’d seen on his bedroom door for example. Instead, it’s clean, unassuming, in fact, if you were to walk by it you would’ve missed its very existence. 

The room opens up with an easy slide of the shoji door, the smell that comes forth is one you know far too well. Old books. It has your nose wrinkling momentarily, stepping into the room that seems to come to life the second Sukuna steps a foot inside too. The lanterns along the walls all flicker to life, illuminating one by one until you realise you’re standing in a library. 

A very extensive library. 

There were tall wooden bookcases reaching to the ceiling of the room, and each of them was filled with a variety of things. Scrolls that were stacked atop each other, poorly bound books that looked as old as time itself and stacks of loose papers that seemed to be in a certain order. 

It put the small collection you destroyed in Sukuna’s room to shame, what was in there was nothing in comparison to this. This alone looked like it took years upon years to gather, stock up and organise. Was this the reason why Sukuna was so well-versed in all things political and cursed energy-related? He had all of the knowledge he could need at hand. 

Sukuna doesn’t stop you when you squeeze yourself out from behind him and into the open room, hardly offering you a second glance as he disappears further into the room to search for something. You can only turn on the spot to truly take in everything, this was far more than you ever expected. 

It may even beat the impressive library you’d seen in the Emperor’s Palace as a child.

Noting Sukuna hadn’t beckoned you to follow him, you decide to meander around for yourself. With careful steps, you begin to walk down a long aisle of bookcases. Some of them were unlabelled, simply put there by someone who knew what it was and where to find it when the time called for it. But some did have titles crudely painted and carved into the cover of books. 

All history books so far. Asuka Period. Nara Period. You stop once your eyes find the title; Heian Period. No doubt it’d be incomplete, but you wondered just what had been documented so far. So much had happened in a short amount of time since the end of the Nara Period, something your father had often lectured you on as did your teacher. 

You pluck it from the shelf, the wave of dust itches at your nose and the tips of your fingers. You can’t help but grimace as it stains your pristine outfit with little specks of grey. The book itself was thick, but you could tell that most of the pages were empty; waiting to be filled in by whoever would ensure the future generations knew what had occurred. 

The start of the book is something you’d already learned previously; the movement of the Emperor and how he claimed the capital of Japan. Nothing was out of the ordinary there, but the further you began to read into it… the more you realised it was filled with blatant lies or simply nothing at all.

You stop when you see your father's name written across the page in black ink, his full imperial title. It states his death, but not the cause. Simply that your uncle had transcended to the position of Shogun in the wake of his death. None of this was surprising, but rather it was the history of your father that has you stalling. 

You knew him as a man of great peace and understanding, even if he was a hardened warrior. He wanted peace like no other, a world where he didn’t have to worry for the safety of his children—the safety of you. But here it states you did not exist. A Shogun with a deceased wife and no children, no heirs. Nothing. You were wiped clean of the history slate as if you weren’t anyone or anything at all. 

Was this the Emperor’s doing? Did he hold sway over the historians who documented everything? Or was it your Uncle, the underlying fear that his brother's daughter would come back with a vengeance and seize the title from him?

“Does it bother you that they wrote you off as nothing?” Sukuna’s voice is much too close. It can’t be helped when you practically jump out of your skin, fingers fumbling to make sure you don’t drop the book–or worse, swing it at the man who approached you with a trained silence.

“It does, doesn’t it? That Samurai pride of yours… No, not just that. The insufferable pride of the Zen’in clan still can’t be snuffed out even in the rejects of the family.” His words are mean, as they always are but something tells you that he isn’t coming completely from a place of total malice and hate—he’s simply telling you what you already know. 

But you don’t let him know that you’re aware of the truth he speaks. 

“No.” You speak with every ounce of self-confidence you can muster, hunkering down on the tone you had often heard your very father speak in— “No. What bothers me is you daring to claim me as your wife, in front of a woman who pines for you no less.” 

His presence behind you remains close, but you can tell he’s standing once again at his full height. So you turn to him once you replace the book on the shelf, and he’s staring down at you with an indifferent look on his features; he doesn’t care for your insolence or tone that you take with him it would seem. 

“You used me to make that woman jealous. Didn’t you? Dressed me up as some sort of bride and then splayed me on your lap like a prized house cat. How dare you.”

Sukuna stares at you for a tense long moment, maybe it was only a few seconds in reality but he stares at you like he would if you were a battle, a conquest that he’s figuring out how to conquer.

“Your tongue lashes with such poison and yet,” he leans in much too close, forcing your back to press into the wooden bookcase behind you. “Yet… I can smell just what it did to you, what it still does to you.” 

He cages you effortlessly, large hands pressing against the shelves on either side of you to lock you into place as he lowers his face down until he is level with your own. His eyes are all directed at you, watching with such scrutiny that you can feel him just beneath your skin; searching your very soul.

“You’re lying.” You can only breathe in return, even on your tongue you can taste your very own lie. You knew, deep down, that he was telling you the truth — he could smell your arousal, and that thought alone was electrifying in its own way. 

“Only one of us is a liar presently.” He heaves in a heavy breath through his nose as if to prove his point, and you have a front-row view of his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head whilst his pupils dilate just enough to nearly swallow the violent crimson of his eyes. 

Your heart thunders in your chest, batters against your very rib cage because he’s right. You’re lying to yourself. It had made something in your stomach churn pleasantly when he had openly laid a claim to you like that, to call you his wife in front of not just Yorozu but his right-hand Uraume… it thrilled you to no end. 

But you knew. You knew Sukuna didn’t believe in things such as marriage, or even love. It was foolish to believe for a second that he meant it as anything but a way to get rid of a headache that continued to pester him for his time. Another means to an end; that’s what your first ‘marriage’ was. A powerful pawn in the hands of a selfish man.

Sukuna hums quietly to himself, reaching up a hand used to brutalise men and women without a second thought. He brushes a large thumb over the apple of your cheek, rolling it down until he meets your jawline. You feel the wetness smudge beneath the pad of his finger — you hadn’t even realised you were crying. 

“I’ve always thought you were such a beautiful crier. You cried too the night you were meant to die, and I thought to myself… no woman had ever looked more beautiful than you did. With blood on your throat, and in the cracks of your teeth… crying.” It’s perverse, yet it has your eyelashes fluttering when he makes another pass of his thumb to swipe at your falling tears.

He leans in once again, his hand slipping away from your cheek to encase itself around your throat. His fingers squeeze gently, an impulsive reflex you think when his lips are within reach of your own. His lower set of eyes are nearly shut completely, whilst he looks at you through thick eyelashes with the other pair.

It’s intoxicating to be this close to him, a mixture of fear and arousal that blend so perfectly together you can’t tell one from the other. He could tear your very throat out in the blink of an eye, slice you into a million pieces and you’d never be found again. But he holds you with a sense of gentleness, his thumb making the barest of movements just beneath the corner of your jaw. 

You expect him to lean in to kiss you, to give in to that primal instinct to press against another human being but instead, his lips brush away from your own. They find home against your cheek, before he ever so slowly drags his tongue up along the tear tracks. 

He angles his head after his tongue follows along that watery path, until his lips brush against the shell of your ear. His breath is warm when his lips part, “You’d never be nothing with me.”

It’s sinful how easily he can drop the harshness of his voice, how he can soothe out the deep ridges until his voice is nothing but a rumbling purr. It takes great strength on your part to not let your eyes flutter closed and to part your lips to tell him just how much you enjoyed when he spoke to you like that.

“Is that what you want? To be something, to be someone?” Another deep inhale through his nose, no doubt savouring the scent of your apparent arousal. “With me, you could be so much more than just someone.”

“How?” Your own voice is nothing but a whisper, but Sukuna hears you as clear as day. His face breaks into that feline-like smile, brushing his lips against the lobe of your ear before he rounds back around to look you in the eye. 

“You’ve already given part of yourself to me, but the rest… give me the rest of you.” 

Your blood roars in your ears, screams at you to refuse to fall for another one of his deals—a bargain with the devil himself. But the way his fingers drag down from their place at your throat, gently prying apart your carefully planned outfit until the tips of those fingers brush over your collarbone. It’s impossible to listen to anything but your desire; a desire for more.

It was simple human nature. To want to become something more, to make a mark on the world that had been designed to oppress you as a woman – you wanted to be the reason why men feared your name, why they put you in the history books simply because you were someone. He was offering you power, plain and simple. 

You have to wet your lips to get your words to roll from your tongue, and Sukuna looks far too pleased with the effect he’s having on your body. “I don’t—How?” You repeat yourself. 

“A Binding vow.” He replies predictably, and his grin grows more wolfish when he sees the recollection dawn on your face. You couldn’t get out of the vow even if you tried once the terms were set. “I promise it won’t be as complicated as the first.” 

Those same fingers that were pushing your kimono apart succeed, it falls limply to rest atop your breasts. You expect him to pry it open further but he doesn’t, instead his eyes shift away from your own to settle on the centre of your chest. His fingers brush slowly, gently, along the area as if he were caressing your heart directly. 

“Give me your heart.” It comes from his mouth so easily, as if he hadn’t asked for the one thing that keeps you alive. It makes your skin sweaty beneath his touch, hairs rising on the back of your neck as if your brain finally caught up with the fact you’re pinned uselessly beneath a great beast. “And you will have mine. That’s the vow.” 

“That’s it?” It seemed far too simple, far too vague that it seemed almost like a joke. Like he was playing on your emotions. “How does killing me give me what I want?”

“I don’t mean literally giving me your heart. Not yet, anyway.” He breathes with a grin, his fingers pressing harder against the softness of your chest until his claws start to dig into the flesh. “Binding the heart should theoretically tie you to my own lifeline, you’d have access to unimaginable strength.”

“Theoretically?” You huff in part amusement and part disbelief, he wanted you to hand over your heart—metaphorically—based on a theory? “You want my heart based on… what, some story written by a monk gone mad?”

Those same claws still on your chest for a moment, but they don’t remove themselves from how they’re embedded in your chest; poised to rip out your beating heart. He instead drags his eyes back up to meet your own, that smile on his face is nothing short of bad intentions. 

“What, scared? Where’s that samurai warrior spirit of yours? You had no fear when you tried to cut my head off, twice.” He’s still so close that he speaks the words practically into your mouth. You know he’s trying to coax you into giving him what he wants, you know that, but… it was so easy to let your guard slip until you were intoxicated on everything that was Ryomen Sukuna. 

He must see it visibly slip on your face as his smile grows ever-larger, more devious and that hand on your chest splays out wide. The palm of his large hand settles wholly over your heart, even pressing a little harder to feel the rapid thumping of it against his own flesh. 

“Well?” 

“...I agree.” 

He swallows your agreement just as it leaves your lips, his own mouth working against your own whilst his hand presses harder and harder against your chest—until it feels like he’s about to pass his hand right through your body. It burns under his palm, hotter than anything you’ve ever felt before. But you have felt it before, in the hot spring. 

Sukuna brands your skin so effortlessly, binds your body to his own with a simple press of his cursed energy. Yet your body feels no different, you don’t feel the ‘unimaginable strength’ Sukuna had theorised about. You feel nothing but the pass of his tongue into your mouth, the tip of it running over the roof of your mouth until he flicks it against your teeth. 

He pulls back, mercifully, as your breath grows shorter. He stares down at you intensely, his palm still pressed against your chest. You want to know what’s running through his mind when he stares at you like that, a look that’s calculating yet so disarming. 

But instead, there’s a shift of movement and you’re hoisted into the air. Much too high for your liking. Your thighs squeeze around his midsection, and you’re forced to press your hands against his broad shoulders. Sukuna holds you above him, his head tilted back to look at you in a different light – and here you start to understand the look in his eye. Admiration.

“A normal person would’ve died…” He starts, but stops short of finishing his sentence completely. Instead, he draws you impossibly closer to his body, two large hands gripping your thighs whilst the other two hold your waist so delicately.

His words should worry you. His theory was based on the fact that most, if not all, people died at the very notion of binding your heart to another. But instead, you find yourself speechless, staring down at him tips the power scale over. You feel awfully out of place above him like this, his eyes have a different glimmer to them when he’s forced to stare up at you. 

You can’t stop your hands from leaving his shoulders to cup his face, your hands seem tiny on either side of his jaw that flexes at the contact. You drag your thumb along the black tattoos along his jaw, tracing them until you have to repeat the gesture over–and over–...

His lips mirror the softness of your own easily enough, he doesn’t force his tongue into your mouth as he had so many times before. Rather, he simply lets you guide the kiss, gently and smoothly. Your body is forced to hunch down to reach his, and he aids you with a hand splayed across the small of your back to keep you steady. 

One of your hands slips away from his jaw, hooking your arm loosely around his neck to run your fingers up along the nape of his neck, through the shortened hairs there until you can glide your fingers through the longer pink strands of hair. His chest rumbles between your thighs, a deep sound that resembles something so oddly familiar—

The sound grows louder with each pass of your nails against his scalp, up and back down to scratch at the nape of his neck. It’s only then that you realise the rumble is more like a deep vibration, a purr. Your toes curl against the corded muscles of his back at that sound alone, the press of his midsection between your thighs doesn’t help either.

It doesn’t take very long for the kiss to devolve into a slick mess, his insatiable greed for more growing far too large to ignore. He guides your tongue in a sensual dance, one that has your core aching with the memory of what that second tongue had done between your thighs not even a single night ago.

Suddenly, you’re pulled away from the bookcase he had cornered you against. The movement doesn’t break his concentration on your lips, each of his steps are with purpose. His gait doesn’t falter either when he begins to lower himself down onto his knees, those large hands holding you steadfast to ensure his time with your mouth isn’t cut short.

The way he handles you is entirely different to how he had the previous night. Last night was filled with adrenaline-fuelled lust, rough grabbing hands that took and took until there was nothing left to give. But now, he handles you with a delicacy you’d see reserved for loved ones. 

His hands don’t leave your waist when he lays you flat on your back on the softer tatami mat made for sitting and reading on. Instead, he holds you much tighter, like he expects you to wriggle out from beneath him at any second. Though you don’t plan on that any time soon, not when his lips finally break away from your own to press themselves in long passes against your jaw and the hollow of your throat.

The Uchikake slips away from your shoulders, giving him better access to start pulling and tugging in the right places until your kimono unravels entirely from your body. It falls limply at your sides, revealing your bare front to the prying eyes that do a slow sweep up and down your body. The hands at your waist smooth up the expanse of your hips, up along your rib cage until he rests his thumbs just beneath your breasts.

His eyes slip up along the length of your chest, lingering for just a moment on your breasts before he meets your own gaze. That carnal lust for blood has been replaced by nothing but pure desire, it leaks into his eyes until his pupils are dilated and locked onto yours. He looks like a predator who just found his prey. 

The length of his tongue is hot against your nipple, the black of his tattoo such a stark contrast to the pink of his tongue as it contorts to swirl around the hardening nipple before he sucks it into his mouth without shame. All whilst he maintains that heedy eye contact, making sure you watch him thoroughly enjoy your body; the body you’ve just given to him so willingly under the guise of a binding vow.

Thankfully, he isn’t forgetful. A hand comes up along your right side, pressing into your skin to feel each and every bump of your ribs beneath the skin that he could shred so easily. His hand comes up to cup the entirety of your breast in one large palm, fingers stretching and then squeezing tightly as if to get a true grasp of just what he was holding. 

It’s a painful grasp but it soon bleeds into pleasure when he pinches the stiff peak of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it until you’re forced to breathe out your pleasure. 

The sound that escapes your mouth seems to be what Sukuna was waiting for, his own groan is muffled against the flesh of your breast but it vibrates against your nipple nonetheless. Your hips buck up at the feeling, and in turn, Sukuna presses his own body harder against your own — pinning you beneath him, keeping you still so he could perform his ministrations against your body without interruption. 

He continues to twist the tip of his tongue around your nipple, sucking it further into his mouth until you’re sure it’s going to leave a painful bruise in its wake. But then he switches to the other, giving it the exact same treatment whilst his fingers now play with the abused flesh of the nipple dripping in his spit. 

Sukuna doesn’t linger much longer on your nipples, instead ducking down to latch his teeth into the fleshy part of your underboob and it’s enough to pull a pained hiss from you. You can feel his lips curl into a triumphant grin at the fact he was able to pull a sound from you and not fight the repercussions. 

The path he marks down your body is a tantalising mixture of pain and pleasure, his teeth sink into the fleshier parts of your body – only to be soothed over by the thickness of his tongue. You watch him as he lowers further and further down, his upper set of arms stretched up just slightly so he can continue to pinch at your nipples. 

He holds your eyes with his own, settling just at the apex of your thighs and here you can feel the billowing heavy breaths being pushed from his nose. It makes your toes curl and thighs rub together in an attempt to stave off the pressure between your legs. Sukuna of course doesn’t miss the movement, his tongue flicks out to run over his upper lip. He looked as if he were about to devour a meal.

The spare pair of hands come to your outer thighs, easily pressing his fingers into the flesh to manoeuvre them up and over his shoulders once he settles himself on his stomach between your thighs. It’s an odd sight; to see a man as gigantic as Sukuna on his stomach, between your thighs of all places. 

Part of you expects him to dive straight into it, he spreads your legs so wide on his broad shoulders that you don’t doubt he can see everything on display. That alone has heat burning at the tips of your ears and buzzing in the apple of your cheeks, it’s entirely different from the previous time he had been between your legs. 

It felt different when he used the tongue at his stomach, almost like that was just a way to prepare him for you but this…—it was beyond intimate. A man willing to lay down on his stomach in such a vulnerable position just for the purpose of pleasuring you was mind-numbingly attractive.

Those hands that had been pinching and squeezing at your breasts have meandered their way down to your thighs, easily wrapping themselves around the meat of your thigh to lock you into place whilst the bottom set of hands pry you open. Now that has you squirming, you can feel the wet heat of your desire leaking down to stain the pristine white fabric of your kimono that had been turned into a temporary blanket.

You want to look away from him, to divert your gaze away from the downright filthy look in his own. He doesn’t break away, not once, not when his jaw works for a moment before he spits against your clit. Your thighs tense, your hips jumping up at the contact of the significantly cooler liquid against the molten warmth of your pussy. 

Then. Then, he graces you with the length of his tongue. It presses against you, the tip of it dipping between your spread folds to then drag its way up until it teasingly flicks against your clit. Again, you jolt from the pleasure. It was most definitely different from the tongue in his stomach, that one was much too big – made purely to ensure you were dripping wet before he took you. 

But this tongue… the skilled tongue that had spat threats so easily, and had been the home of smug words and arrogance like no other. It was working you to completion much quicker than ever before. Sukuna must realise it too, noticing the sudden rush of arousal that graces his tongue and lips because he locks his arms tighter around your thighs. And then, he truly devours his meal. 

Long gone are the gentle, slow passes of his tongue. Each pass of his tongue is aggressive in a way that has your toes curling into his back and the heel of your feet dragging along the tattooed flesh there. His lips are unforgiving when they latch themselves to your clit, those teeth that you’d seen rip through flesh graze teasingly against the sensitive nub there until your fingers find a home in his hair.

When you pull, he groans. A low, deep rich sound that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. He sounds like a wounded animal, like he’s teetering on the edge of his own bliss with each clamping pull of your hand in his hair. He doesn’t give up on the quick passes of his tongue over your clit, nor does he stop drooling against your pussy as if you were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.

You jerk beneath his ministrations once again, and your fingers tighten on his hair. Holding him in place as you ride the start of your orgasm against his tongue, Sukuna looks like he’s lost in his own world—one that contains only you and him in this very moment. His eyes are half-lidded yet you can see the unbridled lust there, something so humanly wanton that it makes your thighs twitch.

Then it washes over you. You feel a tug in your chest, a pooling of vicious lust in your stomach and with a moan of his name, a breathy “Ryomen!”, you cum on his tongue. He holds you in place thankfully, your hips jumping uncontrollably because his nose continues to press against your clit with each deep press of his tongue into your still throbbing walls.

Sukuna finally pulls himself away from the salvation he found between your thighs, the bottom half of his face and part of his cheeks are drenched. A shiny clear sheen of your very obvious arousal, and he grins. All sharp teeth and dark intentions on display, his eyes glitter with the fact he had you come undone on his face so quickly—so easily. 

He then crawls back up the length of your body, slow movements that pull his muscles perfectly. He’s the very image of an apex predator, and you find yourself slipping far too easily into the role of his unlucky prey. Your legs spread once again for him with the help of his own thighs spreading you wider, he’s fully dressed yet you can feel the heavy press of his twin cocks. 

A hand comes up to your face, a curled index finger stroking along the soft skin beneath your eye and down towards your temple, wiping away the stray tears that had come loose in the height of your orgasm. “You’re beautiful when you cum.” He says it nonchalantly like it’s a fact more than a compliment, yet it still has your heart pumping faster and arousal spiking. 

The kiss he lays against your lips is undoubtedly soft, far too soft for the man you know him as and it’s so fleeting that you’re left wondering if it truly even happened. His mouth instead finds a home against your neck, panting breaths pressed against the scarred flesh there from the previous times he tore you apart, just to piece you together again with his very own hand.

He settles his weight between your legs, forcing your thighs to spread impossibly wider to accommodate him. But instead of resting there for much longer, his hands grab at your waist and thighs. The world shifts around you, a blur of movement and a thump of a body against the floor — all to reveal Sukuna now splayed out beneath you. 

His hands stroke gently up along the bareness of your thighs, and slowly back down to stroke the soft skin at your knees. He still looks impossibly big even beneath you, but it makes your heart seize in your chest. He put you in a place of power, a seat of dominance on his very lap; all with a lazy smile on his face. 

“It’s an equal exchange,” he explains when he sees the thoughts flit behind your eyes. “I take from you, and you take from me.” 

Right. The Binding Vow. The reason why your chest still burns with an idle ache that feels familiar to the one at your wrist. Instead of answering him, you look down at your own body, noting the numerous bite marks embedded into your skin. Your fingers brush along each of them until you halt at the centre of your chest, right between your breasts—

There’s a new tattoo. It’s different to the band around your wrist, instead, it’s two curved lines separated with a smaller tear-drop line in the middle, shaped like a trident. The long lines curve with your breasts, the teardrop resting just over the centre of your heart. 

Your fingers brush over it briefly, there’s an aching sting beneath the fresh ink that blossomed on your skin. It’s tiny compared to the one you’ve seen on Sukuna’s body, on his tongue. You want to know what the symbols mean to him, each of them must hold a different reason for their shape and placement. 

“You suit them,” Sukuna supplies after a moment of watching you trace over the trident-like shape on your chest, and your eyes drift back up to meet his. That lust is still there but it’s softened into a gentler, more welcoming red. 

“I don’t think I’d suit the face tattoos.” You admit, and he arches an eyebrow in amusement at your words.

“No? You dislike them?” His claws playfully drag down along the flesh of your thighs, earning him a full-body shiver which inevitably causes his cocks to twitch from where they’re trapped against your still wet-heat between your thighs. 

Your laugh causes his own lips to turn into a smooth smile, his eyes tracking the movement when you shake your head. “Always putting words in my mouth,” you lean forward, planting your hands on his chest and inwardly mourning the fact he was still wearing his own kimono. “I just think you look much better with them. Fearsome.”

His eyebrow remains raised in feigned disbelief, perhaps even faked hurt. “Just fearsome? I bathe you in compliments, and in return I get fearsome?”

You lean ever closer, brushing your nose playfully against his and he returns the motion but a little more harsher. It’s an odd air that’s settled over the both of you, maybe it was the binding vow still setting in. You had handed him your very heart, and you were still due to take his. It’s not an unenjoyable air however, if anything, it’s the happiest you’ve felt in a very long time.

“Handsome. Ruthless. Regal.” Each word is breathed between kisses along the thick line of the tattoo along his jaw until you’re nestled next to his ear. “Does that satisfy you, or do you want me to stroke your ego some more?”

A buck of his hips has your newfound confidence wavering, a tumbling moan falling from your lips and gracing his ear. His hands grasp tightly at your hips whilst a large palm smoothes over the expanse of your ass, grabbing and squeezing — only to smack you with enough force to spring tears to your eyes. 

“Careful.” He blows the word against your own ear, nuzzling the tip of his nose against your earlobe before laying a kiss just beneath. 

As if remembering just the hold you have over him at the moment, you lean out of the biting range of that wandering mouth. He nearly snarls at the fact you pull away, until you start to tug at the obi belt of his kimono. Undoing all the layering until his chest is laid bare for you. You trace your own finger along the expanse of the lines that mar his chest there, down the chunk-like squares until your hand presses over his own heart.

Sukuna at least lifts his hips to help you push down his Hakama and free him completely from the confines of the materials you had dressed him only a short while ago. He relaxes further with the skin-to-skin contact, yet those cocks between your thighs twitch impatiently; drooling against his defined muscles. 

He holds your gaze when you plant a hand on his stomach, lifting your own hips to guide a hand between them and take hold of one of the thick cocks waiting for attention. You leave the upper one untouched, and he grunts at the realisation you won’t be taking both—not yet, anyway. 

The tip of his cock grazes against your still-sensitive clit, and glides through the sticky mess between your lips. You’d only grown more and more wet for him as you found yourself atop of him, and you don’t doubt that you could take him… with a bit of a struggle.

Sukuna schools his features well but you don’t miss the swell of his chest when he sucks in a breath, your entrance swallows the tip of his cock greedily and that alone has a stinging burn pinching at your walls. But you preserve, you push through inch by inch until you’re seated on his thighs with his heavy balls resting at the curve of your ass.

You clench involuntarily, and finally, the mask slips away from Sukuna’s face. He groans, without shame, kiss-bruised lips parting to relieve him of the pleasure he was trying to keep to himself. His hands are clamped to your hips, holding you in place just to give him a second to breathe — to recalibrate his brain and try to focus on anything but just how tight and warm your pussy was.

“Even after nearly stuffing you with two cocks, you’re still so fucking tight.” He hisses, sharp fangs on display when he grits his teeth to give a tentative roll of his hips up into you. 

Your thighs tense, walls throbbing around his length and the pretty moan pulled from your lips is complimented by his own rumbling groan. On instinct your own hips grind back, your clit catching against the underside of his unattended cock and those long black claws finally sink into your flesh. 

It feels too good. Far too good, and you’ve not even moved yet—not properly. You want to ride him, to sit atop of him and watch him unravel whilst nestled beneath you. But it’s becoming increasingly hard to think when you feel the tip of his cock that’s buried deep inside of you twitch against that one spongy spot deep inside of you. 

So you distract yourself, momentarily. Your hand slides away from his stomach and wraps around the weeping cock against his pelvis, Sukuna jerks at the motion as if he hadn’t expected you to take care of both. Your fingers don’t reach around the girth of him, but you squeeze nevertheless.

His cock is dripping with your arousal from when you had been seated atop of him, you had been turned on for him so much so that it had leaked through his pants. Your hand glides easily up and down, twisting gently at the tip of his cock to roll your thumb over the slit there before spreading the mixture of your slick and his pre-cum down along his length.

Sukuna all but groans prettily at the way you handle him, head thunking back against the floor when he finally, finally, relinquishes control to you. You give another grind of your hips and the pinching burn there has started to bleed away into undeniable pleasure, so you shift a little atop of him.

As if realising what you were about to do, Sukuna places his hands just beneath your thighs. Not to control you, but to simply guide you, support you, if you needed it. The first bounce is awfully loud and sticky, your pussy greedily sucking his cock back in when you drop down to his hips. 

Your hand slackens a little around the cock still leaking near his belly button, so a large hand engulfs your own and starts to move your hand up and down a little more aggressively — so not totally out of control, but you can’t complain when he nudges his hips slightly to meet your bounces. 

His cock presses beautifully against that spot deep inside of you repeatedly, each bounce and drop in gravity hammering the mushroomed head of his cock against it until your stomach coils painfully. Your impending orgasm makes itself suddenly known, and this one feels much more intense than the others. A pressure in your lower stomach that has your jaw slackening to moan without any shame.

Sukuna watches you through thick lashes, biting down on his lip to stop himself from growling or moaning, perhaps even both. Those hands beneath your thighs have started to slowly shift up until they rest at your hips, and a hand smooths itself over your lower back. And it’s a very subtle warning for what's to come.

A man like Sukuna is undoubtedly strong, made of muscles that were purely for ripping and shredding through people with ease. So it’s hardly a surprise when he bucks up into your hard, enough to plant his feet squarely on the floor before he fucks into you like he’d never get a chance to fuck you again. 

You can only squish your chest to his own to save yourself from slamming into him, and his hand on the lower portion of your back holds you there. Pins you to him in a vulnerable position whilst his hips work to thrust his cock hard and deep into your velvety core. 

A surprised moan mixed with a yelp is torn from your throat when a hand smooths itself down over your ass before pressing rather unceremoniously into the tight ring of muscle there, it’s not an unwelcome feeling but it still has you panting open-mouthed against the thick muscle of his chest. 

The orgasm that was building erupts far too quickly, and all you can do is gasp against his chest with a breathless “‘M gonna— gonna cum, please, please—” You don’t specify what you’re begging for, but Sukuna knows exactly what you’re pleading for. 

So he doesn’t let up on the fast and aggressive pace of his hips, snarling into your ear when you clench repeatedly around the length of his cock. The juices that drip from your abused pussy soak him entirely, ruining the material that had gathered beneath the both of you and it only aids in making the slapping noise of his balls against your ass even louder.

His hips only begin to slow once he’s rung out your orgasm until you’re oversensitive, flinching with each pass of his cock against your swollen walls. He lets you settle atop of him, his cock still buried deep inside of you and throbbing with the need to release but he holds himself back, and staves off his own climax.

You nearly purr when a hand finds itself in your hair, long claws scratching delicately at the sweaty scalp there until you’re ready to continue. The twitch of his cock pressed between his stomach and your own has your toes curling, and that small coil in your stomach twists with delight at the fact you’re still not finished. 

That hand drifts away from your hair once you reposition yourself atop of him, your hands dragging along the smooth expanse of his chest to settle at his stomach. His body gleams with a sheen coat of sweat, and his lungs expand harshly with each breath he sucks in. It seems fucking you through an explosive orgasm so aggressively took it out of him.

“You’re beautiful,” you find the words slip from your lips so easily, and Sukuna can’t stop the surprise crossing his features. Beautiful, no doubt a word that has never been used to describe him. But you mean it. He looks awfully angelic like this, in a twisted way when a quiet voice whispers in the back of your mind about the atrocities he’s committed. 

Yet it’s very easy to ignore that voice, to push it down and silence it. His hair is slicked back with sweat, yet tendrils of it curl around his ears and at the nape of his neck – sticking to the sweat there that continues to roll down his skin in droplets. His eyes are somewhat satiated as if seeing you reach bliss twice was enough for him for the day. His lips are set in a soft line, relaxed.

Truly beautiful.

He parts his lips to speak, maybe even to retort your compliment but you silence the words on his tongue by lifting up from his lap. His cock slips free from your swollen pussy, and it’s enough to make the both of you hiss in tandem. 

“Done already?” He questions, a tint of his voice sounding almost disappointed at being left high and dry. Though, you don’t say a thing when you shift your body up onto your knees so you’re hovering over not just the one cock, but the both of them. 

As if realising what you were planning, Sukuna wraps a hand around the girth of both of his cocks to help you when you start to lower yourself on both of the tips. Even after the mind-blowing orgasm, it’s still a very tight squeeze. Your face scrunches with the blossoming pain, and you know you should slow down. But that incessant tugging in your heart has your body overpowering your brain, and you lower yourself down… and down.

You only let out a heavy breath when you feel his thighs brush against the inner part of your own, and Sukuna grips your hips much more harshly compared to before. The whooshing of blood in your head is much too loud, and it only makes you feel like your head is submerged beneath water.

“Look at me.” A command, and you obey it wordlessly. You meet Sukuna’s gaze, and he’s staring at you with more care than you’ve ever witnessed. Your heart squeezes again in your chest, and you’re only now realising that it feels like a hand is wrapped around your very heart. 

Your own fingers glide along the sweaty expanse of his chest, pressing into the muscle there until you locate the exact position of his heart in his chest. It beats so heavily beneath his skin, thumping against your palm as if it yearns to break free and be held by your gentle hold. 

“How do I do it?” You ask in a breathless whisper, you hadn’t made a mutual contract like this before. You simply agreed to lend him your strength when he asked for it, but this time he had offered his own heart to you in exchange. 

“Just take it, it’s yours.” He lays his head back against the floor, eyes staring down the bridge of his nose to stare at you. He offers no further guidance, nothing to help you with figuring out how to take a man's heart—figuratively. 

He made it seem so simple, as easy as laying his hand against your own chest and wrapping his cursed energy around your heart until it beat for him, and only him. So you follow in his footsteps, your own nails dig into the muscle of his pectoral muscles and he at least notes the discomfort of you digging harshly enough to draw blood. 

You feel the tug in your own chest, his cursed energy squirms in your very body until it seizes around your heart and holds it still. Then you force your mind to focus on your own cursed energy, you let it wrap around his own that nestles itself tighter around your heart until the two become one. 

It snakes down your veins, from your fingertips and inevitably into his chest. It burns your palm when you press harder, ensuring that the vow is made successfully. Sukuna’s upper lip twitches in discomfort, yet he does not stop you from completing it. 

Your hips twitch involuntarily when you feel the familiar embrace of that dark energy that he exudes, it welcomes you so easily. It wraps its cold arms around you and digs into your flesh, pulling you further and further in until you can sense nothing but the man beneath you. 

“Take it.” Sukuna hisses through gritted teeth, and you do. You clamp down on his heart, your cursed energy snaps violently into place and Sukuna jerks at the sudden burst of it in his chest. His hands grip your hips harshly, tearing into the flesh without a care in the world and you yourself can’t find it within you to care about the blood that spills from your hips. 

Instead, you gasp in his hold, overcome with such an intense feeling of undeniable power. Strength beyond comprehension. Its dark tendrils slither beneath your skin, nestling themselves around your bones until they become a part of you. It doesn’t stop until you accept it, fully.

Something snaps into place and you blink back into reality to find Sukuna staring at you with a wide-eyed expression, something that makes him look so much younger than he really is. You feel his heartbeat beneath the palm of your hand, and it matches the pounding in your ears. 

He moves you effortlessly until you’re beneath him, not once breaking his eyes away from you — staring at you as if he’s never quite seen you before. The power that bleeds from him is familiar, it’s welcoming, it’s your own. 

The binding vow was complete.

He crowds you into the floor, two large arms caging either side of your head when he hunches down over you. The other arms work to lift your hips up to meet his own, wrapping your legs higher up around his waist before he starts to thrust into you, slowly… as if testing the waters.

The moan that’s punched out of you sounds wounded, not because you were sore from being stretched around two cocks but because your pleasure seems heightened beyond belief. You can feel everything and then some. 

One of those hands holding up his weight moves, cupping the side of your face. It always amazed you just how well he manoeuvred himself despite how large of a man he was, he wasn’t as nimble as some but he most definitely moved with a certain type of grace that was undoubtedly him. 

His thumb swoops down, pressing just beneath your jaw and tilts your head up slightly to meet his own. The kiss he devours you with is nothing short of consuming, he isn’t gentle with how he keeps his lips pressed tightly to yours when his hips roll once–twice, and then he’s fucking you at a rhythm that has your toes curling sharply.

The coil that had lain dormant in your stomach suddenly sparks back to life, it curls tight in your lower stomach until your thighs seize up and you’re left to clamp around the two sizable cocks shoved deep inside of you. Sukuna groans at that, a shuddering sound that’s expelled against your lips before he returns to your mouth.

His tongue pries you open easily enough, and his tongue is unyielding as he laps at you. Two hands flex at your thighs, long fingers digging into the flesh behind your knees to effortlessly fold you further into the mating press—you can’t help but gasp into his lips, pushing out the last of your breath into his panting mouth. 

“Mine,” Sukuna snarls like some feral beast, sharp canines glinting in the shimmering flame from the lanterns dotted around the room. It’s so primal, the way he takes you, the way he folds you nearly in half just to fuck himself deeper into you; to ensure you feel every last inch of him. “Say it.”

He gives a particularly hard thrust with the last word, gritting his teeth at just how tightly you clamp down around him. The hand at your jaw slips down, taking hold of your throat so easily and pinning you to the floor beneath him. He pulls back just slightly, enough so that you can see his face entirely — can see just how much you affect him. 

Your answer doesn’t come quick enough, however, as he rolls his hip back smoothly only to fuck into you with much more vigour. The rhythmic wet slapping sound contests against your choked moans, you can feel each time his balls slap against your ass; how heavy they are.

“‘M yours—” You manage to choke past the squeezing of his hand at your throat, the wild glint in his eye is dangerous. A look that you’ve seen before, right before he struck with the goal to kill. “Yours! Yours—fuck!” 

Sukuna chuckles breathlessly, sounding no better than yourself. He looks absolutely ruined, sweat dripping along the side of his face, at the back of his neck and along his chest. He looks positively divine, something you want to sink your teeth into. That realisation has you clamping down suddenly, pulling a shameless moan from the man above you. 

You’re so close, so fucking close that you can taste it on your tongue. Sukuna can feel it too, his gaze locking with your own before he shifts just slightly onto his knees. And then when he’s truly above you, does he start fucking into you at a much deeper angle. The tip of his cock drags heavily along your g-spot whilst simultaneously ramming itself against your cervix—it’s painful. 

But a type of pain that has your toes curling mercilessly, your hand grasps uselessly at the arm closest to you, the one holding you beneath him. You slip your spare hand down along your body, taking advantage of the small gap he’s granted you by wanting to watch you come undone entirely. 

Your fingers slip through the mess of curls below, you’re absolutely drenched—beyond wet, a type of wetness that only Sukuna is evidently able to pull from you. You find your clit, swollen and so sensitive that you flinch at the brief contact from your fingers. 

Sukuna seems to notice too, his lower set of eyes drifting down to see the way you touch yourself whilst he fucks you with both his cocks. His mouth opens in a wordless groan. You can feel the slickness gathering there when you brush your fingers down along your pussy, to brush your fingers against the sides of his cocks as he continues to fuck you. 

It grows increasingly difficult to smoothly roll your fingers over your clit, the stickiness causing your fingers to slip too quickly—sometimes moving away from your clit entirely when Sukuna gives a particularly rough thrust of his hips. He’s fucking you like he needs you to cum, like if you don’t then surely his heart might give out.

Meeting Sukuna’s gaze again, you can’t stop the way you clench around him and in return, Sukuna bares his teeth at you. It’s non-threatening, not quite as lethal as the previous times he did it in the past. Instead, it sends heat shooting down your spine, flaring up in your stomach and it’s impossible to stop the orgasm the second you register it happening. 

You moan, head flung back against the tatami mat with a dull thud and your entire body tenses up. The growl that comes from Sukuna is guttural, a deep sound that you can feel vibrate through your very own body from just how loud it is. 

His fingers tighten around your throat, and with a gasping breath, you call for him. “Ryomen,” you flinch at the sensitivity of your clit when he throws his hips harsher against your own. “Ryomen, please, please—” 

You may not know what you’re begging for exactly, but Sukuna seems to pick up on it flawlessly. His body surges forward, the width of his shoulders hiding you completely beneath him before his lips clash with your own. It’s not much of a kiss with the both of you panting in the other's mouth, and then he snarls—

“You are mine.” 

His hips stutter for just a moment before you feel him thicken impossibly further deep inside of you, both of his cocks throbbing and twitching—it sends a painful twinge up your spine before the relief comes. Both of his cocks twitch simultaneously, the pulse releasing a wave of seed deep inside of you. It’s warm, almost unbearably so, yet you relish in the feeling of it. 

You feel complete. A contentedness settles deep in your chest and wraps around you in a comforting arm, and all you can do is moan sweetly into Sukuna’s awaiting mouth as he shudders through his orgasm. His hips continue to pump against you, forcing his cum as deep as possible inside of you—claiming you in the most primal way. 

The world swirls around you, looming bookcases seeming to grow taller as the lethargy starts to kick in. Sukuna lowers his body slowly down atop you, still refusing to pull out from you but you can already feel the stickiness of his release trickling from around where the two of you joined and ruining the slips of silk beneath you. 

The hand at your throat moved at some point, instead coming up to smooth through your hair, peeling it away from your sweaty skin before brushing it further back. It has you leaning into the touch, and you’re sure if you could purr, you would at the tenderness Sukuna is handling you with. 

His nose smooths up along your cheek, his breaths coming in deep and heavy before he finds the shell of your ear. “You are mine, as I am yours. Your strength will know no bounds, for as long as you stay at my side.” 

A tingling sensation burns at your chest, an itch that you can’t quite reach once his words settle against your ear. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion starting to take its toll on your brain, but his words almost sound like he was completing the binding vow with an additional rule…

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[crzyimp]

The Puppet

Cw: Cannibalism, gore, body horror, non consent touches, Dehumanizing

There is no comfort in this fic and dead dove do not eat. This is horror and dark.

Author note: I was inspired by @digitaldoeslmk au and their Macaque. And thank you Pardal for encouraging me to keep writing. There will be more stories to come with this character and their role in Pardal's au. Oh, and minors please don't read this, its not safe. Enjoy :3

The shadows wrapped around their joints, forcing them to move like a puppet on strings. They wince as they struggle against tendrils. Laughter erupts as the puppet master and spectators watch on, the shadowy tendrils coiling tighter and tighter. “What was your name again?” the puppeteer, the one controlling the shadows, and the one and only six ear Macaque ask. “Actually, it doesn’t matter now. Your new name is Puppet. An object for my enjoyment and whatever role I see fit for my shows.” He smiles as they helplessly struggle against his hold. Bending a finger, he watches as they bend backwards with a groan.  Just enough pain to course through without breaking.

The person now dubbed Puppet is watched by his spectators in awe, some with glee, but most with fear as they collapse onto the floor like their namesake when the strings are cut off. Macaque steps forward at Puppet’s feet, crouching and resting his head in one hand. “Shame you’re just average, but eh, you’ll make an okay vessel for one of these spirits.” Cocking a thumb behind his shoulder, he gives one look over at the human before standing back up.

The shadows swirl around him as the room darkens, the spectators, his followers, back away in fear. His once bandaged and mangle form twist into some large. Large enough to the point, he’s crouching with one hand on the ceiling and the other reaching forward at the body as a dark mass. The shadows reaching out to sap any life in reach. Those some of his follows avoid them as the ritual starts while others were, less unfortunate.

 The spirits, the demons without bodies, inch closer, each one ready to jump into the puppet’s body. They watch as his hand finally laid on top of puppet, pressing down on it and leaning forward. Macaque and the shadows diving into the its body through it, the opening the spirits were waiting for. All rush to be the first one to possess the body.

He ascend from the floor to stand once more at the puppet’s feet.  Its spirit weaken enough for one demon of his horde to take control. However, he stands there waiting. Waiting long enough with one foot tapping. He doesn’t need a repeat of a White Bone Demon incident happening again. He doesn’t have time or patience for that. Finally the body stirring and twitching to life. Subtle relief washes over him and his creaky body relaxes.

“Finally awake, now bow and state your name and allegiance to me.” Waving one hand at them while the other cover his yawn. Along with his half expose mouth, a bit of drool dripping on whoever inhabiting this body. The person in the puppet’s body looks up at him, eye widening and scuttling away from him. That wasn’t right, so it is another incident again. He sighs. “Come on,” he walks over and grabs the puppet’s ankle from moving any further. “I don’t have all day for this. Now give up and let one of these fellas take your body.” 

Macaque doesn’t wait for a response nor was he asking, instead he repeats the ritual again. Again and again and again, no one looking back at him, but the human. Only this average, weakling of a human. The sheer audacity of it to make him work for what he wants. How on earth haven’t any of the demons taken over?  He swore they were fighting to gain dominance. Either the demons are weaker than he thought or-

Oh, that’s the reason he realizes. He should have noticed it for the first time. Feeling his magic less strain and this rotting corpse of a body faring better than he had in weeks. This human life force is vast compared to all the others he fed on. If he had to compare it, it was like drinking water; a normal human’s was just a cup, but this one? It was like trying to drink the ocean through a straw. A toothy smile spreads wide on his mouth, oh he can’t believe how lucky he is. To find such a goldmine!

However, as his purple eyes rake at their form. Soft body and weak, it’s going to be work to mold them into his image.

Grabbing their head, Macaque digs his nails enough to draw blood. His teeth and fangs were on full display and in their face. Bits of his flesh and blood splatter on it cheeks. The revolting smell of meat left in the sun overwhelming enough to make it gag. “Congratulations Puppet! You get to live and keep this pathetic excuse of a body!”  

Their hands, so warm and soft, holding his wrist either to escape his hold or to give their head alleviated relief from the throbbing the pain. His new toy, his puppet breathing rapidly; its fingers digging into him and his digging further into it. Its body jolting at his voice and rotting breath fanning across its face. “We’re going to have so much fun together, you and I.” He hums with a closed smile, moving away from Puppet’s face. 

They hope that death comes quick and end this nightmare before whatever ‘fun’ Macaque has in mind.

~~

It never did, or that death forgot them somehow. One of the first of many things Macaque does once he squirrels them away was to shave their hair. Their once beauty brown curls, shaved as they stare at their reflection in the mirror. Stating that objects like them don’t need hair like him. With a sickening sweet tone. Then it was the way he refers to them. No, he didn’t refer to them as they, or she, or even he, but it; Macaque would even go further and make everyone refer to Puppet as it. Drilling in that they are just a puppet. Puppet, a name force on them and everyone around the mansion is content with that. He would never use their real name, even when they lashed out and scream it at the top of their lungs. That always results in punishments or training.

They despise the punishments and the training, but in their eye; it was the same. The only actual difference is that there is an audience. He always uses them as examples to keep everyone else in place, whatever mistake they made. He loves making a show how far he’ll push their body. Limbs torn off through brute force or slice. The training halls forever stained with their blood and the healers always on standby. At least they learned how to hold a sword properly during those times. Puppet gently brushes their bandaged up arm, feeling the indent as fingers brush by. Alone in their room and their thoughts.

 They recall the events that lead to that; them laying on the floor in a pool of their blood and him standing over them, bored after hours’ worth of sparring. They remember how he then smiled with his teeth, teeth that had previously bitten into their arm. Their own flesh torn off and now in his stomach. His tongue cleaning his partial lips and drool. “I think it’s time to give yo-“

The door slams open, ripping them away from memory lane. They hastily pull themselves off of the ground, leaning on the wall for support. Watching Macaque walk into the room with a plate of cooked meat. He stands in the middle of the room and holds out the plate to them. “Got you a little something.” They eye the plate suspiciously. “It’s not poisoned this time, I promised. This is actually going to help you, maybe make you brand new.” He gestures to their, broken, improperly healed body. “Now come on, eat it.” He takes a step forward and they press themselves against the wall.

“Puppet…” Golden eyes with a glint of purple narrowing at them, they quietly shake their head at him. Shame for Macaque after all these years that some part of Puppet is still defiant. He watches them huddle in their corner, watching him and the plate warily. He sighs and waves his free hand for a shadowy pedestal rise beside him and gently place the plate down on it. “Alright, open your mouth.” He breathes through his nose, a horrible whistling sound, and steps in to invade their space.

Their head slamming Into the wall, feeling warm and wet blood trickling down their neck before he leans into the kiss. Daze and reeling with fear, their mouth stays tightly shut. It didn’t stop him when their lips connect, or when his teeth grazed against them before holding their head and taking a bite. Searing pain as they struggle to push and claw him away. His cold body stealing their warmth and flesh. Macaque chewing audibly loud, pieces of what it once was, their lips with blood smeared over his mouth. “Better open that mouth unless you want to lose your teeth and tongue too.” The pedestal moves towards the two mingled bodies. He takes the meat calmly and chews it.

They thrash against him like a cornered animal, but it does nothing as the familiar tendrils hold their arms in place. Still the lash out of what’s to come, tears streaming down their face. Macaque, chewing carefully and purple hues glaring at them, his fingers digs into the gap of their mouth. Ignoring their screams and their teeth biting down on him; a warm tongue pushing against his fingers. Slowly, his fingers pry their mouth  open to him. 

Filling the whatever gap between them, Macaque presses his body against them  with a thud as their open mouth kiss again. One hand to keep them in place and the other to keep their jaw from biting down. They grunt and jerk as he uses his tongue to shove the meat into their mouth. The surprise giving him ample time to push it further in. He watches as they close their eyes and their body involuntarily swallow the meat down. 

He ends the kiss and leans his head away. “There! See, not poisoned like I said.” Moving the hand from their jaw to rest on their neck, now smeared with blood. “So, what do you think of the taste? Kinda like pork, right?” He waits patiently now, watching Puppet’s face form of surprise, to shock, and finally to horror. He couldn’t help but smile at them. “How’s the taste of Sun Wukong’s successor? Flavorful right? Come on Puppet, don’t disassociate on me. I wanna know what you think!”

They should be used to knowing the meat is coming from humans. They been forced and starved enough to eat it. But this, this was Sun Wukong’s successor. Whatever hope or redemption they thought they had was gone. There is no way they can be worth saving or asking for forgiveness. Not from this, not from eating a *Bodhisattva’s heir. The great sage’s next in line sucessor and reading the books already shows what happens when someone pisses that guy off. A limb shifts, reminding them that their and Macaque’s bodies are pressing uncomfortably together. He wanted an answer, they need to say something before they make things worse. Again. “I-“

They never got to finish their word, as Macaque uses both his mouth and hands to keep his promise. Ripping their tongue out with his mouth and yanking their teeth one by one. Pausing between each pull and making sure Puppet was conscious for each and every one.

He steps back, his hands on their shoulders as he admires his handy work. Mouth expose with missing lips, teeth, and tongue possibly choking on their own blood. He smiles and nod to himself. “Ah, if only you listened to me. None of this would have happen, but I am a man who keeps his word.” He watches as they struggle to breathe through the pain, eyes glazing and unfocused, but just to stop themselves from blacking out. For only a moment.

Then, finally, their body slumps and fall into his chest. Macaque sighs irritability, feeling his clothes soaking up the blood. Strong arms scooping his puppet’s body up and half drags them to the bed. Purple eyes boring into the body before ordering, “I expect you to be present once you wake up.” Wiping some of the blood off his mouth and clothes with his hands; and then wiping his hands clean via through Puppet’s clothes. He leaves them without a second glance with a satisfied smile.

~~

Soreness woke Puppet up, their back and neck stiff from the same position for who knows how long. Slowly using their arms to lifts them off the bed. A hand running over their face absentmindedly, fingers brushing over their dry crack lips. Their tongue moving past the teeth to wet their lips. Something doesn’t feel right, but can’t pinpoint it. It feels less cold in here too. They look about the room as they lay there.

Everything looks the same, besides the blood on the walls and floor in the corner. That wasn’t always there was it? Puppet jerks themselves to sit, muscles burning and pain waking them up faster. They stare at that spot, trying and willing to bring the memories to the forefront, but nothing. Blank. Nothing. Deep breath and exhaling through the nostrils, Puppet push themselves off the bed. Marching towards the door and grabbing their curved blade along the way. Their body felt wrong, they know it and the only one who’ll know what happened will be the one person they never want to ask. The halls echo when the door slammed against the walls and Puppet moving with intent, searching for Macaque.

Not in his usual spots in the vast manor and no one in sight to give his whereabouts, either. Their lips curl and their eyes narrow as they continue the search. Passing rooms and closed doors. Hand twitching and resting on the hilt, their mind trying and failing to recall what transpires. “Hey you! Yea, you new guy! Get over here!” Footsteps approaching from behind them. Though they kept moving, most avoid them and for good reason. The voice didn’t belong to anyone they know. It must be another recruit Macaque gets monthly. A hand grabs their shoulder and spins them around to face whoever.

A tiger demon tower over them wearing the same standard uniform as them. “I can’t believe you missed orientation! Come here, you’re going to the discipline room with me.” Puppet’s bare feet press firmly on to the ground when claws dig into their shoulders and try to drag them away. They don’t have time for this, especially with some newbie trying to act like their senior.  Either this tiger didn’t get the memo of what their capable of or really wanting to be a set of new clothes.

“Do you know who I am?” Puppet spoke lowly, their eyes staring up at the towering figure. Fingers flexing over the hilt it’s resting on. If it was when Puppet first arrived, they would’ve been terrified at the sight before them. Now though? This wasn’t even close compare to what Macaque puts them through daily over the years they spent with him.

The tiger snarl and bare his fangs at them before speaking, “Cocky shit, just cause you’re a monkey like the boss and that brat doesn’t mean shit. Stupid bastards like you need to learn your place here.” Puppet’s tense at that. Did he just refer them as a monkey?! That can’t be right, they’re human how-wait.

Now they remember. 

“Ah, there you are, puppet. I thought you were awake when I heard you.” Another voice spoke, one that cause both Puppet and the tiger to tense. The hall darkens and the tiger quickly kneels and his eyes on the ground. Shaking. A hand  extends cupping their face from behind, they see the tiger quivering in his spot. “Come on, Puppet, turn around and let me see you.” The tips of skeletal fingers pressing into their skin. A shiver runs down their spine. They obey obediently, feeling glowing eyes drinking in their discomfort as they turn. Macaque smiles at them admiringly.

Macaque whistles and says, “My, my, my, you look just like *him. I guess I’ll it slide you were out for an entire month.” Wait, they’ve been sleeping for an entire month?! “And look! Your brand new like I said. A brand new huma-ahem sorry, a brand new monkey. Oh puppet, you don’t know how happy I am. How many steps I can skip now for your opening act!” Puppet stood there frozen, their heartbeat drowning out his rambling. Feeling their hair, no, their fur standing on ends and everything is spinning. They hope this is all a nightmare and they’ll wake up; alone in their room with missing lips, tongue, and teeth. It would be better than this reality.

A squeeze on their shoulder reminds them that this is real. Oh, gods, it’s real and- “Puppet.”-what have they done in their past life to deserve this- “PUP-pet.”-oh Buddha plea- “Puppet.” Macaque is in their face with delight. Their eyes staring back at his and gasp at his eyes reflection.

[rp-partnerfinder]

twenty1plus. 🥀

seeking a ocxoc mxm toxic situationship. think preacher's daughter, frankenstein and his monster type. i'm calling for those wishing to play the cannibal / mad scientist type, where i will play the meal / resurrected monster type. this can be as literal or loose as you'd wish, i am simply intrigued by the concept.

our living corpse is 6'2, a dazed, guard dog type. a bit naive in the sense that he will see god in your character's eyes. devotion turned obsession even if it is for someone deeply unwell and/or abusive. does your guy only keep mine around to run a myriad of tests on him? is it unrequited love? are they mutually obsessed and the best outcome is for them to contain it within each other so they do not subject anyone else to their horrors? let's find out.

i use realistic face claims, characters of colour preferred. 🕊️ dead dove more than endorsed, replies once every week or so. niche kinks more than welcome. trans muses more than welcome.

thanks in advanced.

.

[1-800-fabrik-girlie]

blood is running deep - hatchetfield

747 words, pt. 2 in the 'the devil's after both of us' series, rated E It's night, and Grace is ready.

[deadduvznap]

cannibalism anon again… imagine Miguel starting with just little bites during sex and then when he realizes you like it he keeps going but the bites slowly turn to him basically tearing chunks from you/eating you but not enough to kill you just a little snack :D! and god the aftercare?! I’m normal. I can’t even make a coherent thought

ik its jusy barely on the border of DD but. the normies are cunts.

BRO PLS OKAY he just does little bites not hard at all maybe just like teeth prints snd maybe a bit of skin breakage bcs yknow non retractable fsngs right and at some point you notice him trying not to bitr you so hard but ur like nah babe bite harder hes like holy shit and at some point hes so far gone from getting railed he doesnt realize that hes bit clean through some of your bicep. he prob only notices when he doesnt feel himself biting anymore and his mouth starts to get covered in blood and hes just like ah shock shit and he tries to get you to stop cus hes still worried abt you yk snf ur like nah mf i may not be able to hold up one arm but im gonna fuck you harder snf guess what while hee chewing on that chunk of arm thats prob the hardest hes cum bcs ???? i said so. after that first time my guy bites off so much skin that ur still lucky to have any in the first place. its the spider healing thats keeping you alive i swear and okay listen. the aftercare. while ur cleaning him (out) up hes patching up the bites :(

[yoursweetestnightmarelover]

Hunger

WARNING THIS DEAL'S WITH THE CONSUMPTION OF ROBOTIC FLESH AKA CANNIBALISM YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

Something had been going through Doll's stock of meat which was odd to say the least, there was no one else here who ate the flesh of their own kind or so Doll thought but, she noticed that there is less food than she left there was no way it was the roaches because they eat everything even the metal but what ever was stealing from her stock was eating just the meat they would leave the metal shell of what ever they had eaten, Doll couldn't just stay here and wait for what ever would come by and help it's self, so Doll started setting up cameras they were set to motion detection so when her 'guest' would come by she would see it or so she thought but when she came to check on them, they were destroyed she was unable to salvaged anything from them even where she repaired them with her power. This had confirmed that who ever was breaking in was smart enough to destroy the cameras there were no vents to that room so who ever came through had to enter through the door, but this room was locked by a code that only she knew Doll pondered what to do next so she hid the cameras maybe she could get just enough info on this drone, so Doll set up three hidden cameras all pointed at the door all at various angles and Doll waited. After a few weeks, she was never able to catch enough detail on whom the drone was, but she had enough detail to catch them in the act, so Doll waited they would come soon they always did Doll hiding in her closet and just like clock work they came hearing the code being entered and the door closing Doll slowly exiting the closet leaning against the door hearing the sound of metal being cracked open as she slowly entered the room readying her cleaver what she saw shocked her their, their, was no way, but she was looking right at her dropping her cleaver Doll watched in shocked seeing that yellow bow and blonde hair It, It, was Lizzy as the cleaver hit the floor with a thud Lizzy snapped around seeing Doll staring at her with mix of shock, and what seemed to be horror Doll tried to speak first but was cut off by Lizzy "THIS ISN'T WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE I JUST FELL ON ONE OF THE PARTS" Lizzy said obviously lying the oil and small amounts of flesh hanging from her mouth proving that the only thing Doll muttered out was "why? Why? Would you of all drones do such a thing?" Doll asked Lizzy tearing up "I tried not to, really I did the first time I did it I was coming over to surprise you for our anniversary but, but this room was opened and, and, there was such a delicious smell coming from this room, and I was in a haze and when I came in here I wanted to run but, I moved in deeper into this room and I saw it my mouth started to salivate I tried to resist but, but" Lizzy sobs switching to manic laughter and her hollowed eyes being replaced with the solver symbol "I couldn't, I grabbed one of the torso and tore it apart grabbing hand fulls of organs and flesh shoving it down my throat in tell I felt like vomiting" she said. A mix of laughter and crying only for Doll to pull her into her embrace than Doll, said "It's okay you're okay I'll get you as much as you need."

[rippersz]

The meat is cold.

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(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Reader oneshot)

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“She eats the hearts first, before they go bad— as all hearts will.” ~ Jessica D. Thompson

«——..✞..——»

“Are you going to eat me?”

You’ve asked her before but you repeat yourself anyway.

Larissa blinks. Long and slow. Sizing you up. Running her blue eyes over the length of your arms and stretch of your legs. Something flickers there. You briefly wonder if she’s questioning how fast you can run. You briefly wonder if she’s salivating over the thought of catching you.

“I didn’t plan on it, but now that I look at you closely, I think you want me to.”

You swallow.

She’s wrong, of course. She’s wrong. It’s just her own delusions. She thinks and perceives what she wants to think and perceive. Truth does not matter to a liar. The sweat on your palms says it all.

“I don’t.” Your voice is firm, but somehow it doesn’t feel like enough. Somehow it feels like-

“I don’t believe you.”

-like she won’t believe you.

“Why not?”

A weird heated pleasure fills you at the sight of her smirk. Red, curling, slight, full of undeniable mirth. She really does find you funny. She really does enjoy your time together; you’ve never doubted that.

But you should. You really should. You don’t want to be one of the sheep. You don’t want to play with the facade and finally accept her for what she is on the surface. You don’t want to know her as the school principal. You don’t want to die.

“Because you’re still here. And the door is unlocked.”

Yes. You knew that. She rarely locked it. Mainly because that wouldn’t be very professional, but also because she wanted to give others the option of leaving. Anxious or angry students, tired staff members, pleased parents… they could leave whenever they wished. You could leave whenever you wished. You could leave right now.

Then why aren’t you moving?

“Who is this?” You sniff, looking down at the plate in front of you, desperately trying to grasp for some control.

You agreed on dinner at some point. She took you up on it by surprise earlier that morning. The food, she said, was on her. The meal, cooked to perfection thanks to her skills, was supposed to be delicious. To anyone else, it would be. They’d have been nearly finished by now, praising her to the heavens and letting out little noises of appreciation. But you know what she is. And you know that you’ve never really been interested in eating people before.

“I don’t see why that matters,” is the smooth response you get - quickly followed by the clink of silverware and the cut of meat and the gentle hum of a woman satisfied. You can’t bring yourself to look up.

“…Did they deserve it?” You’re not sure of what else to ask - you just know that you don’t want to leave. You would never admit that out loud, never willingly, but it’s the truth. You are the killer’s favorite. You are safe. You are better than them.

“Doesn’t everyone deserve it at some point or another?” Her voice is light and airy- twinkling with a complete lack of care.

“No,” is your immediate sharp response. It sort of slips off of your tongue by accident, but when you look up to gauge her reaction, you’re surprised to see not even a hint of shock or anger. Instead, all that paints her eyes is intense recognition. Like she knew you’d say that. Like she knew you were a morally correct hero hiding a dark heart.

“No?” Her fork spears a piece of meat. ‘Sirloin,’ she’d said when you first sat down. Yeah, right. “Why do you say that?”

You fix her with a look. A very obvious look. A look with a tilt of your head. One that says ‘You and I aren’t the same Larissa, but you know exactly what I mean.’ One that says ‘Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.’ One that says, secretly, ‘I don’t know. I just know that I’ve been told no good soul deserves death.’

Your mouth, on the other hand, says “Just because we all end up dying doesn’t mean we all deserve it. There are some amazing people out there that would have made the world better if they were still around.”

She seems to think over your serious response, rolling it around within her vast mind. While she formulates a suitable reply, her lips move with each chew of her steak - you try hard not to focus on that. When it comes to killers, good ones at least, there’s always that thing said about them: they’re charming; handsome or pretty; they’re alluring in a way that no “normal human” could be. Larissa Weems has never been the exception. She is no different. It can be disturbingly easy to get lost in the other things she has to offer. Like her beauty. Or her intelligence. Or the way her eye contact makes you feel like the most important, most recognizable, most wonderful thing in the entire world. You’d compare her to a drug but she is something worse than that. She is an aura. A feeling. She is something entirely different. You think it’s partly due to her outcast status. She’s not a ‘fur’ or a ‘fang’ or a ‘scale’ or a ‘stoner’. She’s not just regularly odd or eccentric. She’s not even mythical.

And yet?

And yet.

The very atoms in her body, the skin across her bones and veins and muscles, the makeup of her organs, can shift shape. Can adjust. The image is crafted in her mind and suddenly is mirrored onto her body. You’d never seen it in person, up close, but you know it’s true. You know it’s a wondrous thing to see. You know some sick desperate hungry part of you twists with the desire to watch her body become something entirely different. You know you want to see her in her element.

Whether it’s bloody or not.

“You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain… I think that sums it up perfectly. The longer a person stays in good health, the more bitter they become. No one truly wants to live forever, Y/n. You know this…,” Larissa pauses, taking a moment to slip her long fingers under and around the belly of her wine glass so she can take a sip. You watch as her throat moves with a swallow. “…And those who go against nature and insist that they do want to live forever, that they’ll somehow find the world to be better as the years go on, well…,” blue eyes suddenly move to you, slicing into your gaze. “They’re liars, of course.”

Of course.

Liars. Of course.

You know it’s the truth.

You hate when she’s right.

You hate when she knows she’s right. There’s that playful little sign in her eyes, glowing with satisfaction, glowing like the cat who captured the mouse.

“I hate you.” It’s a small whisper. A little defeat. Another start to the same cycle. You indulge her, you meet with her, you keep her secret, you dip into your own psyche and pull out your weird fascination with her mind. You go at it until you find yourself becoming tired of thinking so much. Then you tell her you hate her. Or you yell at her. Or you storm out or slam the door or just fall silent and allow for the excitement to pitter out into nothing. But eventually, every time, at some point, you let it die.

Only to revive it again. Only to get lost, once more, in her beauty and allure. Her stupidly literal killer charm. Her strange instinctive ability to easily slip out of trouble and cover her tracks. Not that there were many tracks to cover in the first place. She’s very very good. Worryingly good. No one suspects a thing.

You could fix that, though.

You could put an end to her reign of terror.

You could say one word, provide one sample of one of her dinners, drop a hint or two, and she’d be placed behind bars faster than you could blink.

You could save so many people.

You can save so many people.

You can snatch up a piece of the cold meat on your plate, walk right out of her office, and race down to the Nevermore van. You can do it. You’re not terribly fast but adrenaline pushes the human limit. And though you’re not human- seeing as you can control fire- you’re not too keen on burning her alive. Such an act would probably result in Nevermore’s demise as well - and that would break your heart.

Would Larissa’s death break your heart?

You look up from your hands and study her face. There’s a sudden tiredness there. It’s small, minuscule, but the lines in her skin look deeper and the weariness in her gaze looks shinier and the mask, you realize, has slipped. She’s frowning- not a lot but just enough. And she’s not looking at you. Well, she is, but not into your eyes like she usually does. No, no, she’s staring at… at your chest. At your heart. You’re sure she doesn’t have X-ray vision but some part of you wonders if that’s what she’s trying so hard to see. Your pumping life. Your beating force. If it expands and contracts for her and her only… or if it breathes to destroy her. If any of her interest, her fascination, even matters in the first place. She’s never told you why you’re so special; so important; so cherished, but that doesn’t deter her from her advances. From her fluttered lashes or easy smiles or husky laughs or occasional indulging conversation. It’s not seduction at its finest, but stalking at its lowest. Like she’s watching you through the underbrush and you know she’s there and she knows that you know she’s there and you both stand still because maybe, by some miracle, if you don’t move, you can enjoy the silent attention of each other for just a little longer. Because you can’t help but think that maybe if she were more normal and more caring and didn’t enjoy the taste of long pork over the taste of regular pork, you’d be able to somehow fall in love with her. Start a life with her. And not have to worry about her waking up one day and deciding that she wants to prepare and plate your kidneys for supper.

Would Larissa’s death break your heart?

You hear her clear her throat. You watch as she takes another sip of wine. You see her hand shake. You see the appetite she once had perish on her tongue.

“I hate you,” you’d said.

Did you mean it?

Will you ever mean it?

Why are you doing this to yourself?

Why do you love her?

Why does she not see it?

“I know,” is Larissa’s final response. Something dies behind her eyes. “I know.”

And the cycle continues.

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A swift dive into some stranger fic topics. I figure if Larissa were to be a ‘baddie’, she’d be a cannibal. I may make this part of a little series of scenarios. Hope you’re all doing well. - Rip x

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