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levicorpses · 10 days ago

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Queen of Egypt x Concubin gojo {Part 1}

AN: I wanted to try something new give me feedbacks if u have it<3

workcount: 7k+

The heat was unbearable, searing against your skin and making your mood even fouler. This priest—this pig—had been talking endlessly, the stench of his cheap perfume mingling with the sweat trickling down his bald head. How could a priest be so fat and greedy? Wasn’t he supposed to practice restraint, to punish himself in devotion?

"…And as such, my beloved queen, the temple requires the royal family to pay 160,000 gold and 25,000 silver. The slave labor nee—"

You raised a hand, silencing him mid-sentence. Closing your eyes, you steadied your breath, centering your mind. Should you take his head now, or cripple him and let him crawl out of your sight? Either way, his fate was sealed.

Rising from your throne, the room fell silent, every advisor and courtier standing as you did. Your back ached, stiff from the heat and the hours wasted here, and your mind wandered briefly to the cool waters of the river.

The priest’s beady eyes darted nervously, but he continued to wait, oblivious. Fool. He wasn’t building a temple for the sun god—he was building his own coffers.

“I should have your head for lying to me,” you said, your voice low but cutting through the room like a blade.

The silence was absolute. No one dared move.

The priest dropped to his knees, his greasy face hitting the stone floor with a sickening slap, the sheen of sweat pooling beneath him as he begged for mercy.

“Choose,” you said, your tone cold. “Your feet or your hands. Unless you truly wish to lose your head.”

"Please, my queen, please!" the priest wailed, his voice trembling with desperation. "Your noble father and mother always wanted to build a temple for Ra. My queen, you must understand—please, I am but a humble servant of the gods. Do not anger Ra by spilling my blood!"

The fucking nerve. The audacity of this man. You had tolerated his presence out of respect for his past relationship with your late father, but now he dared to threaten you in your own court?

Your fists clenched as you descended the throne’s steps, the room falling utterly silent. The priest’s voice faltered as your shadow loomed over him.

“Priest,” you began, your tone icy and deliberate, “it seems you have forgotten who I am.”

You stepped closer, towering over his trembling form.

“I am the descendant of Ra, chosen by the gods themselves to rule. You,” you spat, “are nothing. And you will remain nothing.”

The priest pressed his face to the floor, trembling and muttering incoherent prayers.

“You dared to threaten your queen,” you continued, your voice sharp and cutting, “and you think you will be forgiven? No. Choose, priest—your hands, your feet, or your life. Perhaps Ra will hear your prayers after your punishment.”

Oh, the screams. The desperate cries of a man finally facing judgment. If such suffering could bring pleasure, you would be no better than the street whores who sell their dignity for fleeting joy.

His voice cracked as he begged, cursed, and then begged again, shifting between futile defiance and pitiful submission. Each plea, each wail, was a symphony of his downfall—a reminder that his fate lay solely in your hands.

And in the end, you chose for him.

His feet.

His hands.

And his life.

Because they were yours to take.

Mercy, you thought bitterly, was for the weak. Mercy had never saved anyone.

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The dark waters reminded you of your mother. She used to take you by the river every full moon, accompanied by her ladies, to cleanse your body of negative energy. You would stand in the cool waters, the moonlight casting pale reflections across the surface, as she murmured the words that would echo in your mind for years to come.

"Give it to the river," she would say. "Your sadness, your sorrow, your guilt—give it. If you don't, it will grow heavy, and it will drown you."

After her death, you tried to follow her rituals, taking yourself to the river’s edge, cleansing from top to bottom, washing away the salt of tears, the remnants of perfume, and the weight of grief. You let the river take it all away.

But how could the river take your whole heart? How could it wash away the weight of a loss, the crushing emptiness that never left? The waters that once soothed now only threatened. They seemed deeper, darker, as if they could swallow you whole.

You were too heavy to swim, too terrified that your heart would drag you to the bottom, where you would be lost forever. You felt it pulling you down, the fear that the water would claim you as it had taken your mother’s voice.

But you came here not just for cleansing. You came because this was the closest you could be to her. Her face, her touch, her nagging smile, her gentle hand, and her soul—they lingered in these waters. You wanted to keep her close, even if only in the silence between the ripples.

Unlike her, you were not surrounded by a choir of giggling women and waiting ladies, their chatter bright and filled with life. No. You were here alone, with only the stillness of the river and the distant watch of the guards.

After finishing your cleansing, you ran your fingers through your freshly washed hair, letting the droplets fall onto your skin. The river had not taken all your burdens, but it had lightened them, if only slightly. You slipped into a white silk dress, its fabric soft and flowing, almost sheer in the moonlight. It clung to you faintly, a second skin, trailing down your back. For the first time in what felt like days, you felt a shred of calm.

Settling onto your litter, you gestured for the bearers to move. They lifted it with practiced ease, and the procession began. The air was still warm, but the slight breeze of movement offered some relief. People along the path bowed deeply, parting like the river’s waters as your guards led the way. The curtain draped over the litter shielded your face from their prying eyes, offering you a moment of solitude amidst the noise of the world.

It hadn’t been long since you left the river when the procession jolted to a stop. Your brow furrowed, annoyance prickling at your skin. What now?

“...SAW YOU TAKE THAT BREAD!” a booming voice shattered the stillness.

Why was shouting always their first instinct? You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as you peered through the curtain.

“Yeah, well... I was hungry, so I just took it. What’s the problem?” came a reply, so casual it was almost insulting. The speaker didn’t sound apologetic at all, like taking bread without paying was the most natural thing in the world.

“The problem,” the booming voice roared back, “IS THAT YOU DIDN’T PAY!”

From your vantage point, you could see a small commotion ahead. A merchant, red-faced and puffing like a boiling kettle, stood with his arms crossed, veins bulging on his forehead. Across from him was a figure—disheveled, cocky, and utterly unbothered by the growing crowd around them. The person tilted his head lazily, as if pondering whether the shouting merchant was worth his time.

You leaned back against the cushions of your litter, exhaling sharply. You weren’t sure which irritated you more: the merchant’s excessive shouting or the thief’s flippant attitude. Either way, this was a disruption, and disruptions had no place in your path.

“Bring them here,” you said, your voice calm but laced with authority. The guards at your side stiffened at the command, immediately stepping toward the ruckus.

The merchant’s protests and the thief’s lazy drawl grew louder for a moment, before being silenced by the heavy grip of your guards. The crowd parted as they dragged the thief and the merchant closer, their movements punctuated by whispers of curiosity and fear.

You adjusted the curtain slightly, enough for them to see the faint silhouette of your face. The merchant immediately fell to his knees, trembling.

The thief? He merely looked up, an infuriating smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

His face was caked with mud, streaked unevenly, as if smeared there deliberately. A crude handprint marred one cheek, as though someone had pressed it there—or perhaps he had done it himself. Yet the mud didn’t obscure his eyes. Those piercing, familiar eyes.

You almost choked, the air leaving you completely.

No. It cannot be him.

You froze, staring at the man as your pulse thundered in your ears. No. His eyes weren’t this shade of blue before. He couldn’t walk this well—he used to carry walking sticks, his frame bent and fragile.

Your chest tightened, and your breathing became uneven as you tried to swallow the lump rising in your throat. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, clenching your jaw. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.

You steadied your voice, though it quivered ever so slightly. “Bring the thief closer,” you commanded.

The guards yanked him forward, dragging him through the dirt with little regard for his protests. Now face-to-face with him, you looked down from your litter, trying to remain composed as your heart twisted painfully.

He didn’t flinch under your gaze. If anything, he leaned back slightly, his smirk growing as though he found all of this amusing.

“What do they call you?” you asked, your tone sharp but cracking faintly at the edges.

The thief cocked his head, his mud-streaked face tilting just enough to catch the flicker of recognition in your eyes. For a moment, he said nothing, those infuriatingly blue eyes locked on yours as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

And then, with mock innocence, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips once more. “Just Satoru will do, my goddess.”

Your breath hitched, your heart lurching in your chest.

{“You are my goddess, Y/N. I will worship you forever.”}

That voice— that voice.

You did not know what came over you. It felt as though the air had been sucked from your lungs, your entire body trembling as memories you’d tried to bury clawed their way back to the surface. You had forced yourself to block out that voice, to erase every trace of it, to forbid anyone from even uttering the word "goddess" in your presence.

And yet, here it was, ripping you apart.

Before you realized what you were doing, your hand shot out. The slap rang out like a crack of thunder, the force of it turning his head to the side.

Your palm stung from the impact, trembling as if it had absorbed all the rage, sorrow, and confusion coursing through you. If your eyes could show anything at that moment, it would be emptiness—hollow and unrelenting.

The air grew heavy, the tension in the courtyard suffocating. Everyone froze, wide-eyed and terrified. It wasn’t unusual for you to have emotional outbursts, but this…this was different.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to let the tears burning your eyes spill.

“Drag him to my palace,” you said coldly, your voice tight, barely above a whisper.

The guards hesitated for a split second before snapping into motion, yanking the thief up with no gentleness. You didn’t wait for a reply, your trembling hand lowering the curtain of your litter.

Inside, hidden from prying eyes, you stared at your shaking palm, the sting of the slap still lingering. You could feel the echo of it—on your skin, in your heart, in your soul.

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Unlike the priest’s wishes and the close royal family's demands, your mother and father were delighted when she gave birth to twins. But not everyone shared their joy. Twins were seen as undesirable, even monstrous—a sign of evil.

What made it worse was your brother. Aken. His hair, skin, and lashes were stark white, as if he had been sculpted from snow itself. A child so pale was unheard of, a bad omen. And you? You were too quiet for a child. Together, you were considered strange—a boy and girl born as twins. It was whispered that the two of you would bring nothing but misfortune.

The advisors recommended ending the suffering before it began, ensuring neither of you lived long enough to prove the superstitions true.

But before they could act, your father’s superstitious brother took matters into his own hands. He orchestrated an “accident.” Aken fell—or rather, was pushed. His leg was shattered beyond repair, leaving him crippled for life.

The betrayal, the attempted harm to the prince and princess, did not go unpunished. The entire branch of your uncle's family was exiled or executed for their treachery. You were spared, but the shadow of those events lingered, casting a dark cloud over your childhood.

Aken.

His name became your lifeline. He was your everything, and you were his. His once stark white features softened over time, his eyes turning a deep, stormy blue. He was the sky and the ocean, expansive and full of life. You, with your dark brown eyes and hair, were the earth itself—steady and constant. Together, you were two halves of a single, unbreakable bond.

Aken was loud, charismatic, and brilliant. By the age of nine, he could outwit even your father’s most trusted advisors, leaving them speechless with his sharp tongue and clever mind. And you? You were the opposite. His shadow. Quiet, shy, and too anxious to meet the gaze of others.

Your fear held you back in so many ways. You were late to walk, too scared of falling. It was Aken who taught you, holding your tiny hand in one of his and gripping his walking stick with the other. You only spoke to him, your mother, or your father, and the rest of the world frightened you. But with Aken, you felt safe. He made sure of it.

“You are my goddess, Y/N. I will worship you forever.” Aken had said that to you too many times then you can count.

Your mother had tried for more children. A single boy to inherit the throne was too dangerous—too fragile. The royal family had already begun to dwindle, the bloodline fading like smoke in the wind. Sickness, demons, poison—it was as if the gods had turned their backs on them, taking their favor with them.

But then, here you two were. Twins. A sign that perhaps the divine had not abandoned the family entirely.

The solution was clear: marriage. It was the only way forward, the only way to secure the future. Your bond was already seen as extraordinary, blessed by the heavens themselves. How you two were inseparable, your affection for each other deeper than words could convey—it was as if you had been born for one another.

After Aken’s naming ceremony, where he was declared heir and Prince of the world and Voice of the Eternal Sea, they finally told you both. But to their surprise, you both were confused.

“Mother,” Aken said, tilting his head with an innocent smile, “I thought Y/N was already mine. And I was already hers?”

Your mother faltered, momentarily stunned. She and Father had rehearsed this moment, bracing themselves to convince you both of the importance of this union. But in the end, it seemed they could never truly understand the bond you shared—it ran deeper than their words, their plans, their fears.

To Aken, you were already his. And to you, he was already yours.

By the time you turned eleven, they were all gone. The royal bloodline, once vibrant and powerful, had all but perished. Your mother, who had loved you endlessly, her warm embrace now nothing but a fading memory. Your father, who had spoiled you like no other, his laughter a ghost in the halls that once echoed with joy.

They were found already gone, in their sleep, poisoned. It had been swift, too quiet, as if the gods had whispered their names in the night and taken them without struggle. But by the time your parents were laid to rest, Aken—your other half, your heart and soul—was already gone too.

You were alone.

It was said that the gods had claimed them, one by one. Sickness of the mind and heart had swept through your family like a plague, and no amount of royal wealth or power could stop it. The demons that had been summoned in secret—poisoned by ambition or jealousy—had ripped through your bloodline with brutal finality.

And then... there was you.

The youngest of the royal line, too fragile to inherit the throne, yet too powerful in your own right. In the absence of your family, you were crowned. Queen of the Sun and Sands. A title that, at one point, might have made your heart swell with pride. But now it sat heavy upon your chest, like a crown of thorns.

You were no longer a child. You were the Queen. The one who had to bear the weight of an entire kingdom, now that your family was but a memory.

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"Is this some twisted royal initiation, or do you just like making men strip?"

You sat stiffly in the chair in your bedroom, your dark eyes locked on him ever since he had been escorted into the room.

"If you say one more word, thief, you shall not speak again."

Your tone was cold. It silenced him, though you could tell he was biting back another witty remark. The man had been putting up a fight ever since you told him to take his pants off. Stubborn and mouthy, far too confident for someone in his position.

The shadows he cast in the dim candlelight loomed large on the walls. The room smelled heavily of scented oils and cinnamon, clinging to the thick air between you. The space was cavernous, second only in size to the King and Queen's quarters. But tonight, it felt claustrophobic, the tension between you and the man suffocating.

Slowly, he began to tug at the waistband of his pants, his pale hands fumbling slightly. His expression was a mix of confusion and defiance, though he obeyed. When the fabric finally fell to his ankles, he stood there in nothing but his skin, stark white under the warm glow of the flames. His legs were long, lean, and muscled, as if sculpted from marble, but it was the right leg you were focused on.

Nothing.

Your gaze trailed over the limb, lingering on the faint scars that marred his skin. But there was no deformity, no mark, nothing to set it apart from his other leg.

“Walk,” you said, standing abruptly and closing the distance between you.

“What?” His voice carried a note of disbelief, his pale brow furrowed. He didn’t seem embarrassed by his nakedness, only bewildered by your strange command.

“I said, walk.”

He hesitated for a moment before complying, taking a few steps across the thick, embroidered rug. You followed, your eyes glued to the way his body moved, how his weight shifted. His steps were steady, sure, but there was a precision to his movements, a stiffness that didn’t feel natural.

You circled him like a predator, scrutinizing every inch of him. He stood tall, his bare skin catching the flickering light of the candles. The resemblance was undeniable. The hair, the pale skin, the sharp lines of his jaw—it was all too familiar.

But he wasn’t Aken.

No, he couldn’t be. Just too similar. Where are the Gods punishing you? It was maddening.

“You’re wasting my time,” he muttered, breaking the silence.

In an instant, you stepped closer, silencing him with the weight of your glare. “Do not speak unless you are spoken to.”

The thief swallowed hard but didn’t drop his gaze. You could see the fire in his eyes—stormy, defiant, like the ocean before a tempest.

The comparison clawed at your mind, unrelenting. Too similar. Too close.

But this is not Aken.

And this man was nothing but a shadow—a ghost that refused to stay buried.

You sat back down in your chair, leisurely sipping your wine while he remained standing, half-naked before you. Your gaze lingered on him, heavy and unreadable. Your hair has dried now, falling loosely around your shoulders, and your eyes—adorned as always with bold blue eyeliner—pierced him.

"Where are you from, thief?"

He shifted uncomfortably, his pale skin catching the warm glow of the room. "My name is Satoru again," he replied, annoyed. "I am from the East. I came here not too long ago."

You tilted your head slightly, considering his words as you took another sip.

"What is your age?"

"Twenty-three."

You took a moment to let that settle. He was older than you, though not by much. You were only twenty-one, yet the weight of the crown made you feel far older.

"What of your family?"

His jaw clenched slightly at the question, but instead of answering, he countered, his tone sharper now. "Why am I here? Why did you strip me down?"

The corners of your lips twitched in faint amusement, though your expression remained stoic. For a long moment, you didn’t respond, your gaze drifting to the window and the open balcony beyond. The night air was cool, the faint scent of jasmine wafting in.

"Because I can," you finally said, your voice calm and unwavering. That was the privilege of being queen. To act without explanation, to make decisions unquestioned.

His eyes narrowed at your casual dismissal, frustration flickering across his features. "Are you in love with me?" he asked suddenly, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "Am I going to be your husb—"

"You shall stay here in my palace from now on, thief," you interrupted, your tone cold and commanding. "You will be my concubine. Not my husband."

His mouth opened slightly, as if to protest, but no words came out. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the mixture of indignation and disbelief.

"You cannot refuse," you added, setting your wine glass down on the table beside you. "You owe me your life, and now it belongs to me."

For a moment, the room was silent except for the soft crackle of the candles. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he said nothing, standing there with the shadow of defiance still etched across his face.

"Good," you said softly, leaning back in your chair. "You’ll learn soon enough, Satoru. Resistance is futile in my domain."

"Am I that handsome?" he asked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He finally dropped the hand covering himself, pulling off his shirt in one smooth motion. Now, he stood completely bare before you, his arrogance as stark as his nudity.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as blink. His attempt to unnerve you was wasted.

Standing, you moved closer, your gaze sweeping over him. Even the hair there was white. You had to admit—he was striking. A man carved by the gods themselves, pleasing to the eye in every sense. But the truth was, you were too far removed from your own emotions, too distant from desire, to care.

"You can relax," you said, your tone steady, unfeeling. "I will not sleep with you. I will not touch you. I will not even see you most of the time. Do not waste your breath worrying about me taking advantage of you."

For a moment, he said nothing, his smirk fading slightly. It wasn’t the response he expected, and that flicker of confusion in his eyes amused you more than anything else.

Satoru’s lips parted, but whatever clever retort he had died on his tongue. Instead, he watched you carefully, his pale blue eyes scanning your face as if searching for a crack in your armor. Finding none, he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So, what am I here for then?" he asked. His voice was calmer now, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his frustration. "You strip me, humiliate me, and then tell me you’re not even interested. What’s your game, My Queen?"

You stepped past him, your hands clasped behind your back as you walked to the balcony. The cool breeze brushed against your skin, carrying the faint scent of the sea. You stared out at the horizon, your dark eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

"You’ll serve a purpose," you said, your voice distant. "You’ll live under my roof, eat my food, and breathe my air. You’ll exist as I see fit."

Satoru turned to face you, his arms dropping to his sides. "Is that how you collect people? Save their lives, then keep them as pets? Or am I just special?"

A faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips, though it didn’t reach your eyes. "Special? Hardly. You’re just... useful. For now."

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"This is scandalous! I am against it!"

The Lord of the South slammed his fist onto the table, his face red with outrage.

"My Lord of the South," another council member interjected smoothly, a hint of amusement in his tone. "You are only angry because the Queen refused your brother as a concubine, not because she has taken one."

A ripple of laughter passed through the room, though it quickly died down as the southern lord glared furiously at his peer.

"He is right," another voice chimed in, calm yet cutting. "You make your feelings far too obvious."

The Lord of the North, ever stern and pragmatic, rose from his seat. His deep voice cut through the murmurs in the chamber.

"I, Lord of the North, am against the Queen having a concubine. She should marry and produce heirs to secure the throne. If something were to happen to her, we would have no clear ruler."

Several heads nodded in agreement, though not all seemed as convinced.

"We do not even know who this man is or his intentions," the southern lord added, his voice dripping with suspicion. "What if he is a danger? What if he seeks the throne for himself? We know nothing of his background, his family, or even his character. What is he?"

The chamber grew tense, the weight of their concerns settling heavily in the air.

"Lord of the West, what do you say? You are too quiet," one of the men asked, his sharp gaze falling on the silent lord.

The Lord of the West leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he spoke, his tone deliberate and firm. "I say, my lords, that we take matters into our own hands. The royal family has leaned on tradition and divine right for far too long. We must act for the people. Even if the Queen does not agree, we should interrogate this man and determine his intentions."

The room erupted into murmurs of approval and dissent, but one voice soon rose above the rest.

The Lord of the East, who had been sitting quietly and observing the exchange, finally spoke. As the youngest among them and someone who had known the Queen personally, his words carried a weight of familiarity and loyalty.

"My lords," he began, his voice calm but resolute. "The Queen will not appreciate us meddling in her personal affairs. Let us not forget that she is the Queen, chosen by the gods themselves. To interfere with her decisions is to challenge their will."

His words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the divine authority the Queen wielded. Some lords exchanged uneasy glances, while others frowned in open defiance, the tension in the chamber now sharper than ever.

After hours of heated arguments and endless discussions, the council was dismissed, their efforts amounting to nothing but fractured opinions. Not a single agreement had been reached, and the chamber emptied under the weight of unresolved tension.

Yet, amidst the discord, two powerful men—Lord of the South and Lord of the West—found themselves in quiet understanding. Though their motivations differed, their shared suspicion outweighed their loyalty to the council’s indecision. Wounded pride and humiliation or ambition that is far too dangerous.

In the dim corridors of the palace, away from prying eyes, the two lords exchanged a brief but pointed conversation.

"It seems the council has grown soft," the Lord of the South muttered, his voice low and bitter. "If they will not act, then we must."

The Lord of the West nodded, his sharp features betraying no hesitation. "Agreed. By dawn, we will have our answers—whether the Queen approves or not."

A plan was quietly forged, one that defied the very purpose of the council. Under the cover of nightfall, a select group of loyal men would move to capture the stranger—this mysterious figure who had stirred the court—and bring him to the lords for questioning.

"Discretion is key," the Lord of the West cautioned. "The Queen must not know until we’ve uncovered the truth."

"She won’t," the Lord of the South assured, his eyes gleaming with cold determination. "By the time she hears of this, the matter will be settled."

"Good. But remember, this must look like an invitation, not an abduction."

As the final details of their plan fell into place, the two men parted ways, each retreating into the night with a singular goal.

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Satoru sat quietly in his chamber, his gaze fixed on the night sky. A full moon had passed since he arrived in the palace, and in all that time, he had seen the Queen only once—just once, as she walked past him without a word or a glance.

When she first told him he would never see her, he hadn’t believed her. Not entirely. Yet, she had kept her word. Not once had she touched him, nor spoken to him.

And yet, he had been showered with wealth and luxuries beyond his wildest dreams. Meals fit for kings were brought to him daily. His quarters were lavish, adorned with silks and gold. Every morning, he was bathed in oils and milk, his skin becoming even paler with the lack of sunlight.

Servants attended to him with unwavering devotion, bowing as he passed through the halls. The sight of it made him chuckle softly at times, the absurdity of it all washing over him. Once, he had been nothing more than a man, but now, here he was: a gift, a concubine to the Queen herself.

He had grown accustomed to the whispers and astonished glances in the court. No one could seem to believe he was just a man. His beauty, already striking, seemed otherworldly now—his white hair gleamed against the gold necklaces and earrings he wore, his arms and hands adorned with intricate jewelry that sparkled like stars.

The fine robes draped over his form, and the delicacies served to him, made him feel as if he were living in a dream—a concubine meant to embody beauty itself.

And perhaps that’s all this was a dream. Sometimes, as he stared out at the moonlit sky, he wondered if he was dead. Surely, no mortal man could live like this.

Tonight had begun like every other night—silent, still, and uneventful. Satoru had resigned himself to the solitude of his chamber, his mind wandering as he stared at the moonlit sky. But then, faint sounds broke through the quiet: footsteps. Quick, purposeful, and wrong.

At first, he ignored them, dismissing the noises as a passing servant or the usual palace bustle. But the footsteps grew louder, heavier, followed by the unmistakable clang of steel. Voices rose outside his door, harsh and urgent, and then came the sounds of a struggle.

Satoru froze, his blood turning cold. There were always two guards stationed outside his door, their presence an unspoken reassurance that no harm could come to him. But now—were they... fighting?

He sat up abruptly, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Panic clawed at his throat as the scuffle outside escalated. Desperate for some sense of security, he reached beneath the pillow of his bed and pulled out the dagger he had hidden there. It wasn’t much—small and unimpressive—but it was sharp, and right now, it was the only thing standing between him and whatever was coming.

His hands trembled as he gripped the hilt tightly, his palms slick with sweat. Every breath felt shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly as fear took hold. He looked around the room, searching for a place to hide. The curtains? Behind the large ornate chest? Before he could decide, the door to his chamber exploded inward with a deafening crash.

The wood splintered and groaned as it was torn from its hinges, slamming to the floor with a thunderous echo. Satoru stumbled backward, eyes wide, his entire body frozen in terror. The dim light of the room flickered as shadows poured through the open doorway.

There they stood—several men, cloaked in darkness, their faces partially obscured. They radiated danger, their movements calculated, their intent unmistakable. One of them stepped forward, and Satoru's grip on the dagger tightened, though his shaking hand betrayed his fear.

“Stay back!” he shouted, though his voice cracked as the words left his throat. He raised the dagger defensively, though deep down he knew it was a futile gesture. These men were trained. He was not.

The intruders didn’t respond immediately, their silence more unnerving than any threat they could have uttered. One of them smirked, taking another step closer. Satoru’s heartbeat roared in his ears, his vision narrowing as he realized there was no escape.

“He sure is as pretty as they say,” one of the intruders muttered, his eyes scanning Satoru from head to toe with an unsettling leer. “We should have our way with —”

“Get a grip, you ox!” another snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. “He’s the queen’s possession. Do you want to die?”

Satrou flinched at the word. Possession. It stung, but he couldn’t dwell on it now. His hand tightened around the dagger, though his fingers were slick with sweat. He stood frozen, his back against the wall, his breath shallow as he watched the intruders bicker among themselves.

“I’m just sayin’—” the first man began again, his voice dripping with defiance.

“Shut up,” hissed another. “Focus on the task. We didn’t come here to gawk. Grab him, and let’s go.”

Their argument continued, low and heated, as though they were trying to decide what to do next. Satoru felt the weight of their gazes on him, their greed, their malice, their lust. His grip on the dagger faltered for a moment, but he steadied it, silently willing himself not to fall apart.

What the intruders didn’t realize, however, was that they weren’t alone. Behind them, silent as shadows, reinforcements had arrived.

“I swear, you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” the leader growled, glaring at the man who had spoken earlier.

Before he could finish, the queen’s guards descended.

With a roar, one of the guards swung his sword, the blade flashing as it caught the dim light. The intruders barely had time to react before chaos erupted. Steel clashed against steel, and the room was filled with the sounds of grunts, curses, and the unmistakable clang of weapons colliding.

Satrou ducked instinctively, crouching low to avoid the fray. His heart pounded in his ears as he watched the scene unfold, his dagger forgotten in his trembling hands. The guards moved with precision, outnumbering the intruders and quickly gaining the upper hand.

One of the intruders turned, his eyes wild as he realized they were surrounded. “we're trapped!” he shouted, but it was too late.

The queen’s guards were relentless, their blades cutting through the opposition with brutal efficiency. Within moments, the intruders were disarmed, some on their knees, others groaning on the floor.

The leader of the intruders, still clutching his weapon, locked eyes with Satrou for a brief moment before a guard struck him down, his blade sweeping the man’s legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, the fight knocked out of him.

When the last of the intruders was subdued, the room fell silent again, save for the heavy breathing of the guards.

Satrou, still clutching the dagger, slowly stood, his legs shaky. One of the guards approached him, lowering his sword and offering a reassuring nod.

“You’re safe now, my lord,” the guard said, his voice steady despite the tension lingering in the air. “By my queen’s orders, no harm will come to you.”

Not too long after the fight, you came rushing into the room, your presence commanding every gaze despite your disheveled appearance. Your hair was slightly messy, strands falling loose from its usual place, and your gown hung lopsided from your hurried movements. Yet, none of that mattered.

Your eyes scanned Satrou up and down, your breath hitching as you assessed him for any injuries. “Are you hurt?” you asked, your voice laced with urgency. He could only shake his head, unable to form words under the weight of your concern.

The air was still heavy with the aftermath of the scuffle. Guards stood at attention, the subdued intruders lying motionless at their feet. Satrou, though shaken, could see the quiet fury building within you, brewing beneath the surface like a storm about to break.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The next morning, Satoru had never witnessed anything like it.

The chamber, usually a place of order and regal decorum, had turned into a battlefield of words. Your rage filled the room, your voice echoing off the walls as you tore into the gathered lords. The morning light did nothing to soften the tension; instead, it illuminated your wrath, showing the unshakable fury that burned within you.

Bodies of the intruders had been examined and identified. They were men under the employ of the Lord of the West and the Lord of the South. The revelation had sent ripples through the court, but it was your reaction that left the greatest impact.

“Do you think I will tolerate this treachery?!” you roared, slamming your hand down onto the table before you. The wood groaned under the force, a testament to your barely contained strength.

Satoru watched from a distance, his chest tightening as he saw your eyes shift—briefly, yet unmistakably. Red. A bright, fierce red that faded as quickly as it appeared, but not before leaving its mark. He could also see your clenched fists, blood trickling from your palms where your nails had dug in too deep.

The lords sat in stunned silence, unable to meet your gaze. They had no choice but to listen as you tore through them with words sharp enough to cut.

“Men under your command broke into my chambers, into my home, to steal from me what is mine by right! What were you hoping to achieve? To shame me? To threaten me?!”

The weight of your words pressed down on the gathered council, suffocating any retort or protest that may have lingered on their lips. You paced the room, your gown billowing as if carried by your anger.

The Lord of the South, humiliated and paling under your fury, tried to speak. “Your Majesty, surely you don’t believe—”

“Do not test me!” you shouted, spinning to face him. The force of your voice made the very air in the chamber quiver. “Your men—not mine—broke my trust. And for what? Because I chose a man that you deem unworthy?!”

The Lord of the West, usually composed, looked visibly uncomfortable under your burning gaze. You pointed at him, your voice lowering to a dangerously calm tone that sent shivers through the room.

“And you,” you hissed. “You think you can hide behind the council’s authority, manipulate it for your own gain. Do not think I do not see through your ploys.”

Your hand swept across the chamber, gesturing to the others. “All of you, silent and complicit, will take heed of this: I am your queen. The gods chose me, not you, and I will not let this insubordination stand."

Your fury reached its peak, and in a single motion, you overturned the nearest table, the crash resounding like thunder. Papers and goblets scattered across the floor, some lords flinching in their seats as they witnessed the sheer force of your anger.

Satrou, watching from the shadows, felt a strange mix of awe and fear. And yet, beneath it all, he could see the pain—your frustration, your betrayal. The council sat paralyzed, unable to do anything but bow their heads and listen. There was no rebuttal, no excuse that could be offered.

“Satoru, come here.”

Your voice cut through the heavy silence of the chamber, commanding and unwavering.

All eyes turned to him. Satoru had been standing near the doorway, his presence small and deliberately tucked away, hoping to avoid the scrutiny of the gathered lords. He froze under their gaze, the weight of it almost suffocating.

He had tried to hide, keeping to the shadows of the grand chamber, but now there was no escape.

His breath quickened as he stepped forward, each movement hesitant. The finery he wore—a reflection of his new position as your concubine—felt stifling under the intense stares of the lords. They regarded him with disdain, some with barely concealed disgust, others with open curiosity, as if he were some rare creature unworthy of standing in the presence of royalty.

When he finally reached you, he avoided looking directly into your eyes, unsure if he would find anger, frustration, or something else entirely.

You turned your gaze toward the gathered lords, your presence still commanding the room. “Look at him,” you said, your tone sharp, daring anyone to challenge you.

“This is the man you tried to steal from me in the dead of night. This is the one you sought to shame, to humiliate, as if he is not under my protection. Tell me, does he look like a threat to you?”

The lords shifted uncomfortably in their seats, some clearing their throats, others averting their eyes entirely. None dared respond.

Satoru, however, couldn’t ignore the warmth that spread through his chest. Your words, though spoken with fury, held a fierce protectiveness that made his heart ache. He hadn’t known what to expect when he was brought here, but this—being defended so openly, so ferociously—was something he never imagined.

You turned back to him, your expression softening ever so slightly, though your voice remained firm. “Are you okay?”

He nodded his head quickly, unable to find the words to answer.

“Good,” you said, your hand briefly brushing against his shoulder. It was a small gesture, but in that moment, it spoke volumes.

You faced the lords once more, your voice cutting through the room like a blade, sharp and unyielding.

“Lord of the West,” you said, fixing your gaze on him, your tone as cold as the morning frost. “I see you are the only one loyal to me here.”

The weight of your words hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. Every lord present flinched, realizing what had just been implied. A few bristled but dared not speak.

“I trust you will punish and execute the right people,” you continued, your eyes narrowing dangerously as you scanned the room. “From this moment forward, you will represent me in my absence. I will entrust this responsibility to you, but be warned—if I hear even a whisper of disloyalty, you will share their fate.”

The Lord of the West stood, bowing his head deeply. “Your Majesty, I will carry out your orders without fail.”

“Good,” you replied, though your voice held no warmth. “I can see now that some among us have grown too comfortable—comfortable enough to betray me in my own court.”

Your words sliced through the silence like a sword, and Satoru, standing silently by your side, felt a chill run down his spine.

You turned back to the rest of the lords, your gaze heavy, as if you were staring into their very souls. “Appoint new lords if needed. Do not hesitate to strip titles, lands, and power from anyone unworthy of their station. I will not tolerate another stain of treachery in my kingdom.”

The lords shifted uncomfortably under your scrutiny, their silence betraying their fear.

“And let me make one thing perfectly clear,” you added, your voice low and venomous, “this is the last time I will offer any of you a chance to remain in my court. Betray me again, and there will be no council to deliberate, no trial to plead your case. There will only be the blade and blood.”

....

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levicorpses · 10 days ago

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something something cat dad sukuna -> all crack, so much crack...f reader

it’s chaos. not the cute, manageable chaos of, say, a dinner burning slightly in the oven while your playlist hits the embarrassing part of the queue. no—this is unholy, full-throttle, furball-fueled pandemonium.

your cat tulip’s kittens have officially declared war on domestic peace, and they’ve done it in the most dramatic way possible: by detonating out of their plush little nest like popcorn under pressure.

and of course, your boyfriend, your bold, beautiful, occasionally brainless sukuna, decides that now—now—is the time to show you his natural aptitude for animal care.

how? not with logic, not with containment strategies, not with a single ounce of thought.

no. sukuna simply throws himself into the fray like a man possessed.

you walk into the room expecting a quiet moment of kitten-cuddling. maybe a photo-op. instead, what you get is this walking, talking jungle gym of regret.

there’s one kitten nestled in the folds of his extremely impractical hair like it’s the damn lion king up there, tail flicking dangerously close to his eye.

another is chilling in the wide collar of his shirt like it owns him now. two are just hanging from his biceps, little claws dug in like they’re clinging to a rollercoaster.

his pockets are squirming. he’s got a wild-eyed look on his face like he’s solving quantum physics with tiny fuzzy variables.

“okay, okay, this is fine,” he mutters, crouching slightly and wobbling as a kitten starts scaling his back like everest. “they’re small. they don’t weigh much. i’m strong. i’ve got this.”

he does not got this.

you can see the exact moment one of the bicep-clingers decides that this is, in fact, a terrible place to be, and launches itself in the direction of the kitchen. sukuna flinches like he’s been stabbed. “brat, NO—okay. all right. okay, regroup. we’re regrouping.” he’s saying this as another kitten attempts to crawl into his shirt. not under, into. like it’s returning to the womb.

“they’re everywhere,” he whispers to himself, turning very, very slowly like he’s afraid of upsetting the delicate balance of kitten limbs currently latched to his person. “how do they multiply? do cats—do cats do mitosis?”

you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. you opt for filming it.

tulip is watching from her perch on the windowsill like she’s just enjoying the show. she yawns. yawns.

meanwhile, sukuna is trying to negotiate with the one on his head. “you wanna stay up there? that’s cool. you do you. king of the mountain. just, please, don’t pee. not again.”

there’s a long, horrible pause.

sukuna’s face goes pale. “woman,” he says, dead serious. “i think it’s peeing.”

and honestly, this is your fault. because you left him alone with them for five minutes. five minutes! this is why you can’t have nice things. or, well—you can, but they end up living in your boyfriend’s hair like a sentient, meowing crown.

you do take a picture, though. because there is something transcendent about sukuna—beefy, mildly panicked, hair full of kittens—making eye contact with the camera and whispering, “this is fine. this is all under control,” while one of the biceps babies starts licking his ear like a popsicle.

you will never let him live this down. tulip will see to that personally.

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levicorpses · 10 days ago

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implied fem reader + one night stand turned -> baby daddy sukuna | modern au, slight angst and mentions of abortions

he was not supposed to care.

he made it very clear from the jump — the moment you stood there with trembling fingers and that little plus sign shaking in your hand — he said no. flat out.

“get rid of it.”

no inflection, no hesitation. like it was a business decision — clean cut, transactional.

you cried. of course you did, and that irritated him. not because he didn’t expect it — people always cried around him, usually for very different reasons — but because you meant it. you kept saying shit like “it’s a life, ryomen. it’s mine. i’m keeping it.”

and for some godforsaken reason, that intrigued him.

he could’ve disappeared. could’ve gone ghost like it was nothing. but no, instead he sends money every month. doesn’t ask for receipts, doesn’t ask how you’re doing — just sends it. like clockwork. a habit. a system.

and then the texts started. once a week, always the same tone.

sukuna [10:38 am]: how far along sukuna [1:00 pm]: any complications sukuna [6:45 pm]: what are you eating sukuna [8:09 pm]: stop eating that

cold, efficient. might as well be a fucking doctor.

and yet you answer him every time like you owe it to him. like his disapproval still somehow has weight. you even tell him the stuff he doesn’t ask, like when the baby first kicked. or when you had morning sickness so bad you fainted.

you expected silence, but the next morning there’d be a delivery at your door — electrolytes, iron supplements, snacks. you pretended not to care, and he pretended not to send them himself.

he doesn’t come to check-ups, doesn’t ask about names. doesn’t send any of those useless stuffed animal bullshit things new parents get excited over. but he thinks. silently. like, how someone like you — soft-spoken, annoyingly hopeful — could still look him in the eye and choose to have his kid.

and then you’re in labor, and for some reason it’s him you call. not your friend, not your mom, not a cab. it’s sukuna.

and he doesn’t even think. just grabs his keys, doesn’t change clothes — just a tank top, sweats, and fury in his grip as he clenches the steering wheel and breaks five traffic laws to get to the hospital.

you’re already screaming when he finds you, sweaty and biting curses into your palm, and the nurse asks who he is and he says “the fucking father.”

he stays the whole time — pacing, arms crossed, jaw locked. doesn't say much — just sharp nods when you cry out that you can’t do it, low grunts of “yes you can.” doesn’t hold your hand. but he stays.

and then there’s crying.

two of them.

twins.

he stares at them like they’re alien creatures, wrinkled and red and noisy, and he thinks fuck, he’s in it now.

a nurse hands one over, then the other. and he’s never held anything this small before. never held anything with such… complete fragility.

they’re warm and loud and his.

his chest tightens, not with panic. not even with regret. but something heavier. something… tethering. you’re half-asleep but watching him. he doesn’t meet your eyes. just looks down at the kids — the fucking kids — and mutters,

“…they’ve got your nose.”

and that’s how it starts. not with love, not with some grand revelation — just with curiosity turning into presence.

and sukuna?

he stays.

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levicorpses · 10 days ago

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He has tried everything. And I mean everything.

He went to Western doctors, traditional ones in Japan and China—just in case. He took medications. He even tried that silly sex position someone swore worked. He prayed. He burned that weird insect. He changed the perfume he uses. He wears charms. He’s even start reading astrology for fuck sake.

All because of one thing.

Sukuna wanted a kid.

No—that’s not right. Because he already had four of them.

What he wanted was a precious little girl. A daughter.

But just trying for a girl had given him four boys. Those little demons, as he calls them. If he could, he’d put them back and try again—just for a girl.

And now… he’s exhausted your patience too.

You wanted a cute little girl too. And he promised he’d give you one. But after four boys? You’re done. Maybe the gods just don’t think you’re worthy of a daughter—and you’ve accepted that. As long as the ones you do are healthy and thriving, that’s enough for you.

But not for Sukuna.

He hasn’t accepted it nor has he hasn’t moved on. Nope.

It was the usual morning—loud, messy, and full of screams from every direction. It was the weekend, and all of you were eating breakfast together outside in the backyard.

Somehow, in all the chaos, Sukuna had managed to circle back to his current obsession: Convincing you to have another baby.

He had truly lost it. Sukuna, the King of Everything, had never been denied a single thing—not money, not power, not control. But this? This was his breaking point.

Why he couldn't have a girl was beyond him. He’d even started asking his friends about how they ended up with daughters. The position. The atmosphere. The timing. For “study purposes,” of course.

You were sipping your tea, pretending not to hear him mumbling his latest “research” under his breath.

Then suddenly, Sukuna turned to the kids, eyes sparkling with mischief and fake innocence.

“Soooo… kids,” he drawled, “do you want a baby sister?”

The boys were too busy stuffing their faces with pancakes or pouring syrup on each other’s heads to answer. Total chaos. Syrup flying. Someone's fork hit the floor. One of them was giggling under the table.

They were, without a doubt, his kids.

You shot Sukuna a look—one that clearly said, shut up and let me enjoy this peaceful morning while I defrost in the sun.

But did he listen? Of course not. Because in his mind, his nonexistent future daughter was more important than your peace.

The kids all cheered and came running to him, syrupy hands and all. One of them even climbed onto the table like a wild animal. You had long since given up on trying to make them act like normal, civilized children.

“Yes, Papa! But where is she?” one asked, big eyes blinking up at him.

“All my friends already have sisters!” another added dramatically, crossing his arms.

“But Mama, how do you even have a baby?”

And then—because of course—

“Can I fight her if she comes?”

That was the question all four of them decided to ask, in unison.

You blinked at the four boys surrounding Sukuna like tiny disciples around their dramatic, overly-determined cult leader. He looked so pleased with himself. Like their unhinged support was proof that he was right and you were just being “difficult.”

Sukuna crouched down, ruffling their already wild hair, syrup sticking to his fingers like the consequences of his own actions.

“Well,” he said, voice smug, “a baby appears when your mama and I—”

“Don’t you dare.” Your voice was calm, but he froze mid-sentence.

The boys stared between you and their father with wide eyes, clearly dying for the forbidden knowledge.

Sukuna cleared his throat and sat back, completely unfazed. “—when we wish very, very hard and Mama stops being mean to me.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost fell out of your head.

“Why don’t you carry the baby this time, then?” you asked casually, sipping your tea. “Since you’re the one so desperate.”

He gave you a mock-wounded look. “I would! Gladly! If I could. I'd already be nine months in, glowing, and demanding pickles.”

One of the boys gasped. “Papa, you want pickles?! I can get you some!”

Another nodded seriously. “I’ll carry the baby, Papa. I’m strong.”

“Me too!” “Can I still fight her?”

You stared at them. All of them. Including your overgrown man-child of a husband.

Sukuna was holding back laughter now, hand on his chest like your pain was his personal comedy show.

You sighed and got up to get more tea, muttering as you walked away, “Gods give me strength.”

After that eventful morning, you let the kids run wild in the backyard. The butlers and staff kept a close eye on them while you escaped upstairs for a much-needed shower.

But, of course, Sukuna was hot on your heels.

Still stuck in presentation mode. Still trying to convince you.

“—So it’s not like we’ll ever run out of money, you know,” he was saying as he followed you into the room. “Besides, you were the one begging me for a girl.”

“Yeah. I did.” You raised a brow, stepping out of your slippers. “That was three kids ago.”

He didn’t even flinch. Unbothered. Determined. You rolled your eyes so hard they could’ve flown across the room. Before you could get another word in, Sukuna gently pushed you to sit on the edge of the bed and knelt in front of you.

Kneeling. Begging.

If anyone saw him like this, they would assume he had a twin. Or was cloned. One of those is already true. But when it’s just the two of you, behind closed doors, he becomes someone else entirely.

Softer. Quieter. Still dramatic as hell—but in a way only you ever get to see. He rested his head on your thigh, red eyes looking up at you with an almost childish pout. “You don’t want to try… just one more time?”

You sighed, threading your fingers through his hair, brushing back the soft pink strands. “We said that last time. And the time before that.”

“And look how amazing they turned out,” he smirked. “They climb furniture like me, they fight like little gremlins—you love it.”

You stared down at him, and for a moment, you almost—almost—felt your resolve crack.

Almost.

“Sukuna, did you forget what happened last time I got pregnant?” Your voice was soft, but steady. “I almost died.”

He didn’t answer right away. Because no—he hadn’t forgotten. Not for a second. You knew he hadn’t. You’d woken up more than once to him holding you too tightly in his sleep. You’d heard the way he whispered apologies into your skin when he thought you were unconscious.

He still had nightmares. You’d comforted him through every one. Sukuna closed his eyes now, like maybe if he shut them hard enough, the memories would blur. But they never did.

You reached out, brushing your fingers along his jaw, grounding both him and yourself.

“I would love to have a girl too, Sukuna,” you said, voice gentler now. “More than anything. But it’ll be hard. And the probability…” you gave a small, tired smile, “…isn’t looking good.”

You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.

“It’s four for four, babe. What if I get pregnant again and it’s another boy?”

He exhaled slowly, eyes still closed. Then, in a voice that was more boy than monster:

“…Then I guess I’ll just have to love my fifth little demon too.”

You pulled back, blinking at him.

“You really want a girl that bad?” Your voice was quieter now.

The two of you sat on the bedroom floor, backs against the edge of the bed, legs tangled lazily beneath you. Of course the conversation had landed here. It always did.

Discussions about babies—especially this baby—never happened where they were supposed to. Not in the quiet comfort of your bed, not during a calm dinner.

No.

They happened in random, chaotic places.

A club bathroom where he cornered you between mirrors, saying, “Babe, just think about it—she’ll be so pretty, just like you.” His company’s dark warehouse during a storm. In the car after dinner date. Behind a curtain at a family gathering where his hand was on your stomach and he whispered, “One more. Just one.”

And now here, on the floor of your bedroom, where it was quiet but heavy. Sukuna ran a hand through his hair, letting his head fall back against the bed frame with a soft thunk.

“I do,” he said honestly. “I really do.” He turned to look at you, eyes soft and so full of hope it made your chest ache.

“And you think you’ll get it this time?” you asked, raising a brow.

He nodded, dead serious. “Yes.”

You stared at him for a long second. “…Okay then.” His eyes widened just a little.

“But listen to me very carefully, Sukuna.” You shifted to sit on your knees, leaning in like you were about to tell him a state secret.

“This is the last time.” He opened his mouth—probably to make some dramatic, flirty comment— But you cut him off, finger poking into his chest like a dagger.

“After this, you can carry the sky itself on your damn back and I wouldn’t care.”

He blinked. “Wait—what does—”

“You,” you said, voice calm, “are getting a vasectomy.”

“…A what—”

“And you’re letting your non-existent daughter go.” Your words were slow and final, like a judge delivering a sentence.

“Do you hear me?”

He was silent for a second. Then—

“…But what if we try just one more ti—”

“Sukuna Ryomen,” you warned, reaching for the nearest pillow like it was a weapon. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He lifted his hands in surrender, laughing—giggling, really. That deep, boyish sound that only you ever got to hear.

“Okay, okay,” he grinned. “One more. Just one more try. For our maybe-daughter. And then I’ll let go. I swear.”

Sukuna pulled you into his chest, holding you tightly, like he could keep you safe from any past hurts with just his arms.

“What happened last time won’t happen,” he murmured into your hair. “That was my fault, Y/N. Trust me. Yeah?”

You could feel the weight of his words, the sincerity behind them, and for a moment, you forgot about everything else.

“Of course I trust you,” you whispered, lifting your head to tease his cheek tattoo with your finger. It was a gentle touch, the ink almost as permanent as the way you felt about him.

He leaned in to kiss you, slow and tender—when suddenly—

“MOM, THEY’RE FIGHTING AGAIN!!”

You froze, eyes wide as you both pulled apart, the tender moment instantly broken. You knew exactly who they were.

Your second and third sons—Choso and Yuji. Always pulling each other's hair, always going head-to-head in some wrestling match, and it was no surprise. Sukuna had basically given them a “pass” for all their ridiculous antics. It was like a family tradition at this point.

You shot him a look. “You’re the one who encourages this.”

He shrugged, a smirk creeping onto his face. “They’ve got to learn somehow. A little roughhousing never hurt anyone.”

Before you could respond, you heard the unmistakable sound of hair pulling and the familiar whine of “MOM, HE STARTED IT!!”

“…One day, we’re gonna let them duke it out. For real.” Sukuna said, standing up and heading toward the chaos with that all-too-familiar smirk. He was practically giddy at the thought of his sons fighting it out like some gladiators, which, honestly, was a bit concerning.

But then, you heard him yell over his shoulder as he walked down the hall, “Didn’t I tell you to hit the nose first?!”

Sukuna had told them more than once to keep it “strategic,” but all they ever did was tug at each other’s hair and roll around on the floor like two actual demons.

By the time you walked into the living room, you saw Choso, who was already a bundle of energy, holding Yuji’s shirt and grinning like he’d just won a wrestling match. Yuji, on the other hand, was clawing at his brother’s face, determined to get him back.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Sukuna’s voice echoed, clearly approving. “See? That’s how you fight. No hesitation.”

Your eye twitched.

You walked over and gently grabbed the back of their shirts, pulling them apart like you were handling a pair of rowdy puppies.

“Enough,” you said, your voice cutting through the noise like a knife.

The boys stopped immediately, both of them staring at you with wide eyes. Sukuna, however, just stood there with that smug grin on his face, totally proud of himself for planting these ideas in their heads.

"Are they just naturally inclined to be this chaotic?" you asked, folding your arms.

Sukuna shrugged. “It’s in their blood. And honestly, I think they’re doing pretty good for their age.”

———

guys i think he wants a daughter….

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levicorpses · 10 days ago

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"Ok...."

Sukuna was never the clingy type. Every girlfriend he’d had before chased him. He wasn’t the kind to call or text ten times a day—hell, sometimes not even once. Detached. Aloof. The classic nonchalant boyfriend. And he liked it that way.

Until he met you—his equal. Or, if we’re being honest, his superior in emotional detachment.

You weren’t just low-maintenance. You were barely-there maintenance. A ghost with a phone plan. How someone could be in a relationship and not text for an entire week? Sukuna didn’t know whether to be impressed or mildly concerned.

You’d told him more than once, “I just don’t have the energy to talk all the time.” And it wasn’t a passive-aggressive dig, it was just… a fact. Facetiming 24/7? Constant texting? Contact every five minutes to say absolutely nothing? No thanks. You had a life. And more importantly, you had a limited social battery that you weren’t about to waste on a conversation about what you had for lunch—unless it was really good.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care. You just didn’t see the point in forcing communication for the sake of it. When something actually happened, you'd tell him. You’d call. You’d text. If the world was ending, you’d let him know. Probably.

To you, that was how relationships worked. You didn’t love him any less just because you weren’t glued to your phone. If anything, you were doing him a favor by not flooding his notifications. You’d seen what some people did in relationships—24/7 access, reporting live from their kitchen. You’d rather not become that.

And besides, you knew yourself. You knew what happened when you got tired and overstimulated. You got snappy, said things like “Why are you breathing so loud?” and suddenly there’s a fight over a tone that didn’t exist. So no, you were doing the mature thing by keeping your distance. For everyone’s safety.

What you needed was someone who respected your space, but knew when to push—gently. Someone who didn’t take your quiet as coldness. Sukuna, for all his big talk and bigger ego, was starting to realize he might not be that someone… or worse, that he cared more than he thought.

-------------,------------------,-----------------,------------------,----------

You and Sukuna first crossed paths at a loud, crowded bar during a group night out. He was there with his friends. You were with yours.

You didn’t say much—just smiled politely, laughed at a few jokes, sipped your drink, and left early without a trace. Quiet. Low-key. Unbothered.

And for some reason, that stuck with him.

It wasn’t even anything dramatic. You didn’t flirt, didn’t throw glances his way. Honestly, it felt like you barely noticed he was there. Like the noise of the bar, the people, even him—none of it seemed to register.

Your eyes were distant. Detached. Not cold, exactly, but...unreadable. Like you were tuned into a different frequency the rest of the room couldn’t access. And Sukuna—who was used to being the center of attention—had no idea why he noticed you so much, and why you didn’t seem to care that he existed.

He never asked for your number. Didn’t even speak to you that night. But after that? He started showing up at those same friend gatherings more often than he’d like to admit. Not for the drinks. Not for the people.

Just to see if you would be there.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. Halfway through one of those meetups, he casually brought your name up. Real smooth. “So... your friend. Y/N, right? She doesn’t come out often?”

One of your friends snorted, already a little tipsy. “Ahhh, Y/N? Yeah, she’s quiet. That time we were at the club together? Didn’t see her for like four months before.”

Another chimed in, laughing. “She’s hilarious though. I heard a bunch of guys tried to get her number, but she just... works from home and sleeps all day. Like, aggressively avoids being perceived.”

The first friend nodded. “Back in high school, there was this super popular guy who liked her. She ghosted him in real life. Just full-on ignored him and didn’t even realize he was crying until someone pointed it out.”

The whole group burst into laughter. Sukuna blinked. You've made a popular guy cry... by accident?

Sukuna leaned back on the worn-out couch, beer bottle in hand, watching your friends lose it over the story like it was some iconic tale of legend. Which, apparently, it was.

He didn’t even realize he’d zoned out until someone waved a hand in front of his face.

“You good?” one of the guys asked. “Yeah,” Sukuna muttered. “Just thinking.”

Which was a lie. He didn’t think. Not like this. Definitely not about some girl he’d only seen once. But here he was, piecing together your entire personality based off half-drunk friend chatter like he was a detective on a case no one assigned him.

She sleeps. She works. She ignores people into tears.

Sukuna tilted the bottle to his lips and stared blankly at the wall. Why the hell was that so attractive?

He’d been with needy girls. Loud girls. Girls who texted “???” if he didn’t reply in thirty minutes. Girls who demanded constant validation, presence, connection. He was used to being the one pulling away.

And now… He was the one showing up to events, hoping to catch a glimpse of you like some kind of side character.

It was humiliating.

He didn’t even know what your voice sounded like beyond a polite laugh. He didn’t know what your job was. Or your hobbies. Did you even have hobbies? Or were you one of those people who simply... existed?

And yet, he was in a group chat called “Friday Night Drinks 🍻” and actually replying to it. Voluntarily.

This was rock bottom.

“Y/N’s cool though,” one of your friends added, completely unaware of the identity crisis unfolding in his head. “She’s just hard to read. Not mean or anything, just... in her own world, you know?”

In her own world. Yeah. That sounded about right.

Sukuna smirked to himself. “Sounds like she needs someone to drag her out of it,” he muttered.

The group just laughed and kept drinking, not realizing that was the moment Sukuna decided he was going to make you notice him. And not in a subtle way.

He wasn’t desperate. He was just... curious. Painfully, violently curious. Which, in his case, might as well be the same thing.

--------

A week later, you showed up again.

Same group. Same vibe. Some random bar with dim lighting and overpriced drinks.

You walked in late, like someone who didn't owe the world punctuality. Your hair was half-up, half-down—pitch black and the outfit in question was just a long, tight, black dress. Nothing flashy. Just clean lines and fabric that fit too well. He had never seen something so normal be so sexy.

It didn’t make sense. Sukuna turned back to his drink and muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.

Across from him, one of your friends noticed. “Oh hey, Y/N’s here.”

You walked in, nodded at a few friends, and sat down like you hadn’t just months. You ordered a drink, checked your phone once, then stared off like the wall was playing a movie only you could see.

So, he did what any self-respecting man with dignity and a very fragile ego would do: he waited five full minutes before casually sliding into the seat next to you.

“Didn’t think you were real for a second,” he said.

You blinked. Slowly. Turned your head just slightly.

“Oh,” you said. Then a pause. “You’re... friends with Satoru and them?”

Not even fake recognition. Just stating facts like a very underpaid receptionist.

Sukuna smiled, the kind of smile that said, I’m confused but I want more of this suffering.

“Yeah.” “Cool.”

You turned back to your drink like he hadn’t just walked over here, full of unearned confidence and possibly cologne.

He’d once had a girl cry because he forgot to like her Instagram story, and now he was sitting next to a woman who couldn’t be bothered to pretend to know who he was.

“You’re hard to get a hold of,” he tried again.

You glanced sideways. “Not really. I just don’t answer if I don’t feel like it.” No shame. Just the emotional equivalent of a blank screen.

“That’s brutal.” “It’s honest.” “You ghost all your friends too?” “If I’m tired, yeah.” “That’s it?” “...Should there be more?”

You were so damn dry, it felt like talking to someone whose phone was stuck on Do Not Disturb—except it was you in real life.

“Right. So what do you do when you’re not ghosting humanity?” “Work. Sleep. Eat.” “Sounds thrilling.” “I’m living the dream.”

You said it so flatly that it nearly knocked the sarcasm out of him.

He leaned back, watching you sip your drink like he was studying a wild animal he wasn’t allowed to pet. He studied your face. Still unreadable.

Sukuna rubbed the back of his neck, and for the first time in a long time, didn’t know what to say next.

You turned back to your drink.

“...You’re not going to ask for my number, are you?” you asked casually.

He blinked. “Was thinking about it.”

You hummed. “Don’t bother if you’re expecting good morning texts.” “Oh, so you do give your number out.” “Occasionally. To people who can handle the silence.”

He exhaled through a laugh, suddenly unsure if he was flirting or being screened for a psychological experiment.

You looked over again, one brow raised. “Still want it?”

Sukuna grinned, absolutely down bad already.

“Yeah,” he said. “I really, really do.”

-----

Day 1 Sukuna waited two hours before texting you. Not because he was playing it cool—he actually just stared at your contact name for that long, wondering if “Y/N 😐” was appropriate or too accurate.

[ Sukuna | 8:42 PM ]

hey, it’s me from the bar. the tall one. tattoos.

He stared at the screen. Three dots appeared.

Then vanished.

He went through five stages of grief before your reply finally came.

[ Y/N | 8:47 PM ]

That was it. Just ok.

You can kill him, and he’d say thank you.

Day 3 Sukuna, being bold (read: delusional), texted again.

[ Sukuna | 2:13 PM ]

you ever wanna get coffee or is texting already too much interaction for you

[ Y/N | 2:56 PM ]

depends do i have to sit and talk to you for a full hour or can i just get coffee and leave

He read it five times. Was she joking? Was this her flirting? Was this a cry for help??

[ Sukuna | 2:57 PM ]

that was cold i think i liked it

[ Y/N | 3:10 PM ]

ok then get coffee i don’t mind sitting i just don’t like people who chew loud

[ Sukuna | 3:11 PM ]

…do i look like a loud chewer to you??

[ Y/N | 3:13 PM ]

we’ll see

This was, by far, the most energy you’d given him, and he celebrated like he just won the lottery.

Date Day

You showed up exactly on time. Not early. Not fashionably late. Just… on time. Dressed in all black again, minimal effort but somehow looking like you were cast in an expensive indie film.

He opened the café door for you.

You nodded. “Thanks.” That was it.

You ordered a black coffee. No sugar, no milk. Just like your personality. He got some sweet sugary thing and decided not to comment out of fear you’d actually judge him out loud.

Ten minutes in, you said nothing.

Fifteen minutes in, still nothing.

Sukuna, finally: “Do you always just… sit in silence?” You sipped your coffee. “Only when there’s nothing important to say.” He blinked. “You don’t believe in small talk?” You made a face. “It’s like diet conversation. Empty calories.”

He nearly dropped his drink. “Jesus Christ.” You shrugged. “What?”

He leaned back and stared at you. “You’re either going to ruin my life or accidentally fix it.”

You stirred your coffee, unfazed. “50/50 chance. Either way, not my problem.”

Day 5

He sent a voice note.

Which was already wildly out of character, but he couldn’t help it—texting wasn’t working and the silence from you was making him feral.

He tried to sound casual. Cool. Unbothered.

But he played it back twelve times before hitting send.

[Voice Note – 0:07] “Hey. I saw this ugly painting today that reminded me of you. Thought that was romantic. Hope your coffee sucked without me.”

No response.

Then—

[ Y/N | 6:03 PM ] i didn’t get coffee today but if i did, it would’ve tasted fine you’re not the milk or the sugar

He laid down on the floor. Just. Flat. Face to the hardwood.

Day 6

He invited you to a small art exhibit.

You agreed.

Sort of.

[ Y/N | 1:32 PM ] only if you don’t talk through the whole thing

He kept his mouth shut the entire time.

Except once, when you stopped in front of a painting and tilted your head.

“Looks like something you’d like,” he said.

You glanced at him. “Because it’s moody and boring?”

“No. Because it’s sharp. Kind of brutal. But it still makes you stop and stare.”

You didn’t say anything.

But he saw your lip twitch like you were trying very hard not to smile.

Day 10

He didn’t text.

You didn’t either.

He paced.

Did pushups.

Almost posted a thirst trap but deleted it last second because what if you thought it was about you?

It was about you.

Everything is.

Day 18

He texts you at 2AM.

He��s been staring at the ceiling for hours, trying to figure out what your favorite color is like it’s a government secret.

[ Sukuna | 2:01 AM ] be honest. what color do you think you are?

You reply instantly.

[ Y/N | 2:02 AM ] dark green. like the kind that looks black until you shine a light on it.

He stares at that.

Then stares at the ceiling again.

Then texts back:

[ Sukuna | 2:04 AM ] yeah i think i’m completely fucked

You don’t reply.

Because you know.

-----

i can do part 2 if I have the energy bestie

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levicorpses · 10 days ago

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sukuna as your [social media] manager | f. reader, s/h prns., fluff, estb. rl ؛ ଓ

some people really have the audacity.

like, unironically, out-loud-in-the-comments audacity. typing with their whole chest: “doesn’t your boyfriend literally live off of your influencer money?” like they weren’t just watching your GRWM for the third time in a row, seething. and sure, maybe sukuna doesn’t clock into an office or wear a badge or fill out tax forms labeled “department of soul obliteration” anymore, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t work. he works. oh god, he works.

you think your brand deals just materialize out of thin air? that your inbox isn’t an absolute hellhole filled with subject lines like “hi dear!!! collab proposal uwu” and “hello sexy want be brand ambassad?” sukuna filters through all that. he filters ruthlessly.

he’s basically your manager, except meaner and hotter and allergic to bullshit. he reads every email like he’s reading a death sentence — mouse in hand, furrow between his brows, muttering things like, “what the fuck is a micro-essence water serum?” and “why do they spell ‘natural’ with a zero?”

he doesn’t just care about the check. no, no. sukuna cares about the feel. you’re not about to promote some face mist that smells like melted crayons just because it pays well. but also? you’re not about to let some fake-smiling oatmilk start-up guilt you into a collaboration just because they think their font is soft enough to disguise their shady labor practices. sukuna reads everything. everything. he has spreadsheets. color-coded folders. PR schedules. blackout dates.

he once emailed a skincare CEO back with the words: “we are declining. your tone is weird. fix that.”

you didn’t even know about it until the brand retracted and apologized two days later. you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on just a little.

and look, it’s not like sukuna is heartless. he’s just selective. his whole system — this whole fortress of precision and firewalls and well-timed posts — has made you desirable. you’re not just a face, you’re a brand. brands want you. they beg for you. you have exclusivity now, and you have him to thank.

but sometimes, the walls soften. like that one time, after three straight rejections in a row (“too generic,” “branding is off,” “are they serious with this pastel goat mascot?”), sukuna opens a new message from a gmail address with no signature and a tiny subject line that just reads: hi, um...!

and the email. oh man. the email.

it’s all over the place — typos, weird fonts, some high-schooler somewhere explaining nervously that she makes loom band bracelets in her free time and thinks you’re really cool, and she just wants to send you a couple because “your energy reminds me of the purple & pink color combo :)”

you glance over his shoulder mid-read. “rejecting that one too?”

but sukuna’s quiet.

then he snorts. “...what kinda business plan is ‘vibes only’?”

you lean into him, grinning. “the best kind.”

he clicks archive. and then — quietly, way too casually — “tell her to send the address. we’ll post next week.”

a few days later, you’re lounging in bed with your feet up, phone in one hand, sukuna tangled around you like the world’s angriest oversized cat. you’re both wearing those bracelets, matching purple and pink, the ends frayed, one of them too tight around his wrist but he refuses to take it off. your caption is something like: “support small creators 💕 (even the really small ones)” and the post has half a million likes by morning.

you tell him the response was sweet. you say the girl messaged crying because she was so happy. you lean into his chest and mumble, “see? you are a softie.” he tugs the blanket over your head and grumbles, “shut up. i’m still rejecting that dumb oatmilk brand next week.”

softie or not, he’s still got standards.

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levicorpses · 10 days ago

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kento is a straightforward lover. he would not beat around the bush. what he wants is what he would say. he doesn't play the push and pull game or even play hard to get. he is honest and transparent towards his wants, except for one.

"kento, i know something is on your mind. please tell me," you came closer to kento, laying on his chest. "please?"

"i think..." kento paused to think. his lips were smooshed against each other forming a line. "i'd like you to...be responsible for my tie."

"huh? what does that mean? i mean, i can do that as my laundry. i don't really mi-"

"no!" he panicked. "that's not what i meant...."

"then what?" you drew hearts over his chest, listening to his rapidly increasing heartbeat.

"i'd just like you to be responsible...for tying my tie and taking it off," kento's eyes couldn't meet yours.

"that's it?" you sat up. "all this time i was worried something really bad was wrong. but turns out you just want me to take care of your tie?" you were confused. kento had been hiding this for 3 days, since the first time you ever took off his tie afterwork.

"...yea. would you be okay with that?"

"of course ken," you pecked his cheek. "i'm okay with anything if it's with you."

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levicorpses · 10 days ago

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tantrum

synopsis: what makes sylus snap?

tags: fluff, sylus is tired and grumpy bc he misses you, he obliterates his phone with his evol, sunshine reader probably, cartoonish luke and kieran appearance (sorry boys) word count: 842

a/n: after that magnum opus line i really wanted to see sylus throw a tantrum and i kept mulling over what would actually make him do that because i can’t see him doing anything much worse than this. i think he’d find Actual grown man tantrums lame. anyway i don’t like this and will maybe delete? nvm but i had the writing urge so i sacrificed this concept from my wips.

When you arrived at the base after your three-week business trip, your long-awaited homecoming was…tame, to say the least. You’d been expecting a teasing “How nice of you to join us, sweetie,” or a cocky yet vulnerable “I was beginning to think you’d run away.” But once you’d stepped through the front door, Sylus had barely said a word. A soft “Welcome home” and a kiss on the forehead, and before you knew it, you were cradled in his arms as he carried you to his office.

He’d sat you both down in his leather armchair, making you face him in a straddle. His tired eyes had searched yours, and a moment later, he’d buried his face into your neck, inhaling deeply.

“I missed you,” you’d murmured into his ear, pressing a kiss to his hair. With a quiet groan, he’d tightened his grip on your hips and nuzzled into you even deeper.

That’d been 15 minutes ago. Basking in the comfortable silence, you’d traded kisses all the while—yours on his hair, his on your neck.

But suddenly, a low buzzing noise cuts your reunion short: his phone is ringing.

When he makes no effort to answer, still breathing heavily in your embrace, you twist in his arms and accept the call before he can protest.

A familiar voice crackles over the line. “Boss?” Kieran asks. “Next meeting’s in 10. The one about those stolen shipments from Linkon—we’ve been waiting to hear back for months. You coming?”

Sylus doesn’t answer.

“…Boss?” Kieran repeats. “Boss, you there? You oka—”

Red and black mist shreds the phone into pieces.

“Sylus!” you yelp, jumping in his lap. “What’d you do that for? He’ll probably be worried. And how will I text you now?”

You pout up at him, and as you study his chronically calm expression, you see something unusual: Sylus’s eye twitches. Just for a millisecond, only moving a millimeter, but you catch it.

“I’ll have a new one delivered tomorrow. As for the meeting, I’ll stay here,” he says lightly, a tight, closed-lip smile on his face.

“But Kieran said it was important,” you reply in confusion. “Why don’t you want to go? Are you feeling sick?” you frown, starting to lift off of him.

“No,” comes his too-quick reply. “It’s just…the twins can go in my stead,” he decides simply, moving to lean into you again.

But before he can move an inch, a rhythmic sequence of knocks sounds at the door.

“Come in!” you chirp happily, too excited to see the faces you’d missed the last few weeks to notice Sylus stiffening under you.

Immediately, the door swings open, revealing two masked figures.

“Hi Luke, hi Kieran!” you beam, and they wave back at you eagerly.

“Long time no see,” Kieran begins. “Boss, did you lose signal or something? I tried calling you about the meeting, but I think it disconnected. Anyway, we’re about to head down and—”

“Cancel it,” a frustrated growl rings out.

You all freeze.

Somehow, you’d been too wrapped up in your excitement to feel Sylus's body shaking—no, quaking—beneath you.

“W-what? But they’re already here!” Luke sputters.

“Cancel. It.” Sylus grits out the words as if holding back a snarl, and the power in his voice leaves no room for argument.

“O…kay,” the boys say in unison, and as they back away slowly, you shoot them a sympathetic look.

Red tendrils wrench the door shut behind them, and when you’re alone once more, it’s like the man under you deflates.

His head returns to the crevice of your neck with a soft but unceremonious thud, and his deep exhales and burning hot skin tell you he’s trying to calm himself down.

Uncertain and a little amazed—you’d never seen him lose his composure—you give his cheek a gentle poke. “Sylus,” you whisper. Nothing.

“Psst. Sylus,” you try again, and there’s some force behind your poke this time. With bated breath, you watch as your finger sinks into the space under his cheekbone, sighing in relief when the corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

Lifting his head up to make eye contact, you smile at him softly. “Hi.”

“…Hi,” he rumbles, and as his crimson gaze softens, the remaining annoyance dissolves from his face.

“Are you upset?” you prod gently.

A brazen scoff precedes the dry chuckles that fall from his lips. “And what makes you say that, kitten?”

A squint and a slight tilt of your head is all it takes.

“I haven’t had you to myself in a while,” he begins cautiously. “Three weeks is…a long time. The longest we’ve been apart. And then the moment I have you in my arms, well…” he trails off, gesturing to the shards of phone on the table. “I just want to enjoy you right now. Undisturbed.”

“Oh, I see,” you coo, cupping his face in your hands. “Is this your way of saying you missed me too?” you quirk a brow.

“Yes,” he responds through squished cheeks, honest and unabashed. “Now, won’t you stay with me like this for a little longer?”

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levicorpses · 11 days ago

Text

Your husband Sukuna would never admit that if he died at this very moment, he'd die an extremely happy and fulfilled man.

Because the sight of you wearing nothing but his large black haori was probably the only taste of heaven he will ever experience in his wretched existence.

You sat near the parted shoji screen leading to his (and now yours too) personal garden, humming softly while you ran a comb through your hair. Your eyes were closed in content as you basked in the soft morning glow which did nothing but accentuate your beauty in his eyes.

You opened your eyes and noticed he was awake, gazing at you from his spot on the large futon you both shared. You smiled warmly.

"Good morning, love."

"Hm."

He, albeit reluctantly, tore his gaze away from you because he felt that if he stared at you any longer, you'll see a side of him he's too reluctant to show even you.

You smiled knowingly at him. Your attention went over to the garden then.

"I think the garden needs tending and a new set of flowers. Shall I call Aiko the gardener? I believe she has arrived back to the temple this morning after taking care of her sister during her pregnancy—"

Pregnancy

And then Sukuna had an image flash before his eyes.

Of you on the exact spot, dressed the same way in his black haori, smiling the same way and gazing at him the same way.

Except your stomach was round and swollen with his child. Of you tenderly and lovingly resting your hand against it.

Of you being completely and utterly his.

"—Also I think we should—"

"Get over here, wife."

You blinked. "What—"

"I said get over here now."

He had absolutely no intentions of letting you leave the bedroom today.

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levicorpses · 18 days ago

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I wish I could give you whatever the writer's equivalent is of an oscar for the way you write Sukuna, especially any iteration of dad!Sukuna! I'm bad with words, but your works make me feel 😁🥺💗💖💕💘💝💓💟❤💙💛🤎

I know you've been getting a ton of requests for Sukuna w/ his shy daughter, so feel free to ignore this one. But, I'd love to see either (1) Sukuna scaring her except this time she doesn't recover immediately/ as quickly as usual and he has to figure out how to make it up to her or (2) Sukuna witnessing a rare moment where she stands up for herself/ is brave and bold + his reaction

tiny tremors — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: AWW THANK YOU SO MUCH I AM SO GLAD YOU LIKE WHAT I WRITE 🥹 it means so much to me especially since dad!sukuna is smth i really love to explore <33 btw i also have the second request in my draft so no worries! 🙂‍↕️🫶

d/n clings to you, her tiny frame trembling as she presses her face into the fabric of your kimono.

her sniffles are quiet, almost stifled, but they tug at your heart all the same.

you stroke her hair softly, murmuring soothing words as you glare daggers at the towering figure across the room.

sukuna stands there, arms crossed and brow furrowed, his expression an infuriating mix of annoyance and confusion.

“what’s the matter with her?” he demands, his voice sharp, as though the answer isn’t painfully obvious.

“you scared her, that’s what,” you bite out, your voice tight with frustration.

he scoffs, crimson eyes narrowing. “scared her? over what? I didn’t even touch her.”

“she’s three, sukuna!” you snap, holding d/n closer as her fingers curl into your sleeve.

“you loomed over her like some nightmare and surrounded yourself with cursed energy! what did you think was going to happen?”

“it was a joke,” sukuna mutters, as though the very concept of fault is beneath him.

“she’s just too—” he stops mid-sentence when your glare intensifies. his jaw works, but he doesn’t finish the thought.

d/n shifts slightly, hiding her face further in your shoulder. sukuna’s crimson gaze flicks to her, a faint twitch in his jaw betraying some inner frustration.

he exhales sharply, almost as if shaking off the weight of the moment.

“what do you expect me to do?” he snaps, frustration evident. “I don’t know how to deal with this.” he gestures vaguely.

your gaze softens, just slightly. “you’re her father, sukuna. you don’t have to know everything, but you do have to try.”

your tone seems to chip away at his irritation. slowly, he lowers himself to a crouch, his massive frame somehow still imposing even at her level.

he leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs as he stares at the top of d/n’s head, her face still hidden.

“hey,” he says gruffly, his voice softer than before. “d/n.”

she doesn’t respond, her small shoulders rising as she inhales shakily.

“are you just going to hide there all day?” sukuna’s tone holds a faint edge, though it’s more awkward than harsh. “you’re acting ridiculous.”

d/n winces at his words, and you shoot him a sharp look. he doesn’t meet your gaze, instead staring at the small figure curled up in your arms.

he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “fine,” he mutters under his breath. “I didn’t mean to scare you. there.”

d/n’s grip tightens on your sleeve, and her quiet sniffles persist. sukuna scowls, looking away for a moment before trying again.

“it wasn’t…on purpose,” he says, the words' nature clearly foreign on his tongue.

d/n shifts slightly, her teary gaze peeking out from behind you. her lips tremble, and sukuna’s sharp eyes catch the movement immediately.

“you scared me,” she whispers, her voice soft and shaky.

sukuna’s brows furrow, his jaw tightening as he looks at her. “scared you?” he repeats, his voice almost incredulous. “what, you think I’d actually harm you?”

her small fingers tighten on your sleeve, and his eyebrow's furrow, his crimson eyes still fixed on d/n.

“you’re my daughter,” he says simply. “if I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t waste time playing games.”

d/n flinches slightly at his tone, and you sigh, reaching out to gently smooth her hair. “sukuna,” you warn softly.

he grunts, turning his head away for a moment before sighing deeply. “fine. listen, brat,” he starts, his tone as rough as ever, but he forces himself to meet her gaze again.

“I’m not going to scare you like that again. not because I’ve suddenly gone soft, but because you’re not supposed to be afraid of me. understood?”

d/n hesitates, her watery gaze darting between you and him. her voice is barely audible when she replies, “…really?”

sukuna clicks his tongue, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and something softer. “yes. really. don’t make me repeat myself.”

she studies him for a long moment, her tiny fingers loosening their grip on you. “okay,” she whispers, finally stepping out from behind you.

“good,” he mutters, leaning back slightly. “you don’t need to cry over nonsense like this.”

d/n shifts on her feet before hesitantly reaching out, brushing her tiny fingers against one of his hands.

“you’re warm,” she mumbles timidly.

sukuna huffs lightly, hand ruffling her hair. “of course I am. I’m alive, aren’t I?”

d/n giggles softly, her tears finally drying. sukuna straightens to his full height, glancing down at her before his gaze shifts to you.

“well?” he mutters, raising a brow. “fixed enough for you?”

"yes, I am proud of you," you hum. "lucky for you, she forgives quickly."

sukuna smirks, a playful gleam in his eyes as he folds his arms across his chest.

"forgives? it's not about that," he retorts, glancing back at d/n, who’s still standing by his side, her small frame shrinking slightly under his gaze.

"she knows better than to hold grudges."

d/n fidgets, her gaze downcast, clearly still feeling a little unsure. “I...I don’t like staying mad...” she mutters softly.

you watch the exchange, eyes drifting to your husband as your daughter finishes her sentence.

sukuna glances at you, his eyes narrowing with a hint of annoyance.

"what?" he snaps, though the edge in his voice isn’t as sharp as usual. "don’t tell me you’re gonna start fussing too."

you cross your arms, tilting your head with a smirk. “I think I’ve seen enough to know you’re not a complete ass.”

he only graces the reply with a roll of his eyes.

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levicorpses · 21 days ago

Text

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ Not now!

Notes: masterlist \ Part 1

Summary: Your husband is calling you, but a little gremlin keeps declining it.

Tag: @teewritessmth @mitskunicheesecake @rcvcgers @vspxriddles @iloveh4nge

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ Zayne

Zayne sat in the doctor’s lounge, his phone pressed to his ear as he listened to the call ring. Once. Twice. Then—

Call Declined.

His brows furrowed slightly. His hands, steady enough to perform the most delicate heart surgeries, tightened around the phone. He tried again.

Ring. Ring.

Call Declined.

Zayne exhaled slowly through his nose, his grip relaxing, Maybe you were busy. You were probably playing with Elias or cooking dinner Mayne in the shower? He wasn’t the type to overthink, but something about the repeated declines made his stomach twist in a way he wasn’t happy about.

Still, he didn’t want to be a nuisance or cause you unnecessary troubles. He wasn’t the type to text “Call me” like other husbands either, He just sat there for a moment, staring at his phone, before getting up and heading back to work.

He had patients waiting.

Back home, Elias sat cross-legged on the couch, his tiny fingers curled around your phone. Every time it vibrated, his eyes narrowed, and without hesitation, he pressed the red button.

“Papa’s calling,” you pointed out, watching from the kitchen as Elias, without a second thought, hung up again.

He didn’t say a word. Just held the phone like a little dragon hoarding treasure.

You wiped your hands on a towel and walked over, sitting beside him. “Sweetheart, why are you declining Papa’s calls?”

Elias finally looked up at you. His expression was unreadable—so much like Zayne’s that it almost made you laugh. After a moment, he mumbled, “He’s busy.”

You blinked. “That’s why you’re hanging up on him?”

A short nod.

Your heart softened. Elias was a quiet child, much like his father, and even at four years old, he had an odd way of thinking. He wasn’t upset. He wasn’t being stubborn. In his little mind, he just thought he was helping.

You smiled and ran a hand through his soft raven colored hair. “Baby, Papa wouldn’t call if he didn’t want to talk. He’s probably on a break and missing us.”

Elias frowned slightly, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. He shifted on the couch, staring at the phone. “…Oh.”

You chuckled. “Should we call him back?”

Elias hesitated, then nodded.

Zayne was halfway through reviewing a patient’s chart when his phone vibrated.

Incoming Call: My Love

His fingers moved instinctively, answering before the first ring finished. “Hello?”

“Papa.”

Zayne blinked. It wasn’t you. It was Elias.

The little voice on the other end sounded almost… guilty?

“Elias.” Zayne glanced at the time. “You should be in bed soon.”

A pause. Then, in a quieter voice, “…I hung up your calls.”

Zayne froze. He hadn’t expected that. His first instinct was to ask why, but before he could, Elias continued.

“You were busy. I didn’t wanna bother you.”

Zayne’s grip on the phone tightened. He looked down at his hands, But right now, his own heart ached in a different way.

He wasn’t good with words. Never had been. But there was one thing he knew.

“Elias.” His voice was firm, steady. “You never bother me.”

Another pause.

Then, a quiet, “…Oh.”

Zayne exhaled. “Is Mama there?”

You took the phone, laughing softly. “Your son thought he was being considerate.”

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course he did.” His voice was softer than usual. “Tell him he can always pick up my calls.”

“I think he understands now.” You turned to Elias, who was now curled against your side, looking deep in thought. “Say goodnight to Papa.”

Elias hesitated, then muttered, “Goodnight, Papa.”

Zayne swallowed. He wished he was home.

“Goodnight, Elias. I’ll see you in the morning.”

When Zayne finally stepped through the door that night, the house was quiet. You were already in bed, and Elias was asleep in his room.

Or so he thought.

As he passed Elias’ door, a tiny voice mumbled, “…father?”

Zayne stopped. Slowly, he pushed the door open.

Elias was sitting up in bed, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

Zayne hesitated. He wasn’t good at this. But he walked inside, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Elias didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out with his small hands and grabbed onto Zayne’s sleeve. Not saying anything, just… holding on.

Zayne stared at him before sitting on the edge of his bed.

Then, without a word, he gently rested a hand on his son’s head.

It wasn’t much.

But for them, it was enough.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ Xavier

Xavier stood in the middle of a blood-soaked battlefield, his sword still dripping as he exhaled. The fight had been over in minutes—another nest of Wanderers cleared out.

He wasn’t in a hurry to return to headquarters. Instead, he yawned and pulled out his phone, pressing your number.

Ring. Ring.

Call Declined.

Xavier stared at the screen, brow twitching slightly. That was odd. He tried again.

Call Declined.

The corner of his mouth twitched. He wasn’t a man prone to overreaction, but something about his own family declining his calls irritated him. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe you were busy. Maybe—

He teleported.

One second, he was in a ruined village surrounded by monster corpses. The next, he was in the living room of his own home.

The sight that greeted him made his left eye twitch.

Leo and Livia—his five-year-old twins—were sitting on the couch, your phone between them, giggling.

Livia saw him first. Her eyes widened, and she smacked Leo’s arm. “Abort mission! Papa’s here!”

Leo nearly dropped the phone. “Crap.”

Xavier didn’t speak for a moment. He simply stared, exhausted, disappointed, and vaguely impressed all at once. “…You two.”

The twins immediately shot to their feet, but it was too late. He was already in front of them, towering over their tiny forms. His sword was still strapped to his back, his hunter uniform stained with dried Wanderer blood.

They didn’t look scared. If anything, they looked ready to bolt.

“…Explain.” His voice was even, calm—but that made it worse.

The twins exchanged glances before Livia, ever the mastermind, said, “Mom said you were busy!”

Leo nodded rapidly. “Yeah! You were fighting monsters, right? We didn’t wanna bother you!”

Xavier sighed through his nose, rubbing his temples. “You declined my calls.”

Livia pouted. “Well… yeah.”

He inhaled deeply. He was not good at this. Discipline, affection—none of it came naturally to him. He could gut a monster in seconds, but parenting? That was an entirely different battlefield.

He crossed his arms, giving them a firm look. “That’s not happening again.”

Leo groaned. “But why? You never talk much anyway!”

Xavier blinked. He squatted down to their level, eyes narrowing. “You have a death wish, don’t you?”

Livia elbowed Leo. “Idiot. Now we’re really in trouble.”

Xavier pinched the bridge of his nose, exhausted beyond belief. He should just pick them up and force them into a timeout—he had the strength for it. But before he could, Livia clapped her hands together.

“Leo, Plan B!”

Leo gasped. “Yes, Plan B!”

Xavier frowned. “What the—”

Before he could react, Livia sprinted left while Leo ran right.

Teleportation was an option, but honestly? He was too damn tired. He just sighed and walked toward the kitchen, knowing exactly where they’d end up.

And there you were, standing at the counter, watching the chaos unfold like it was a normal Tuesday.

Without looking at him, you asked, “I take it you figured out why your calls weren’t getting through?”

Xavier leaned against the counter, exhaling. “Your kids are demons.”

You raised a brow. “My kids?”

He gave you a tired look. “They didn’t get it from me.”

Before you could argue, the sound of a crash echoed from upstairs.

A beat of silence. Then Leo’s voice: “I’LL FIX IT, I PROMISE!”

Xavier closed his eyes, counting to ten.

An hour later, the twins sat on the couch, pouting as Xavier stood in front of them. He wasn’t a loud father. He didn’t yell. But his silent disappointment was somehow worse.

“You’re not getting out of this,” he finally said.

Livia crossed her arms. “It was for a good reason.”

“It was for a stupid reason.”

Leo kicked his legs. “But we didn’t wanna distract you.”

Xavier sighed, rubbing his face. “…You’re my kids. You can always talk to me.”

Livia blinked. “Even when you’re fighting monsters?”

He crouched down, staring at them. “Especially then.”

For the first time, the twins looked guilty.

Xavier softened just a fraction. He wasn’t great at showing affection to kids. He wasn’t the type to hug them randomly or constantly hold them. But he reached out, ruffling their hair roughly or cuddle up with his little demons.

“Next time you hang up on me, I’m making you run laps.”

Leo gasped. “That’s child labor!”

Livia clutched her chest. “You’re cruel, Father.”

Xavier stood, sighing. “You’ll live.”

That night, when the twins were asleep, Xavier sat beside you in bed, rubbing his temples.

“I don’t know how to handle them.”

You smiled, playing with his hair. “You’re doing fine.”

He scoffed. “They don’t listen to me at all.”

You chuckled. “They do. They just like pushing your buttons.”

Xavier sighed, leaning into your touch. “…Next time they ignore my calls, I’m teleporting them into a cold lake.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Sure you are.”

Xavier didn’t respond. He just yawned, closed his eyes, and finally—finally—slept.

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