#THE FRANKENSTEIN COMMENT??? IS THAT WHAT YOU MEAN | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

strang3lov3 · 2 months ago

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My Treat

Roman has a very special present to give you on your birthday, whether you want it or not.

Tags - dddne, noncon, face fucking, fingering, unprotected piv, rough sex, creampie, overstim, forced orgasms, degradation, mocking, intox kink (drunk reader/sober Roman), dacryphilia, manipulation, coercion, victim blaming, whooo boy. Roman’s gonna have some tender moments, but don’t be fooled. He’s a fuck and a half. Maybe even dark!roman? Excessive use of the nickname ‘birthday girl’ and too many dick in a box references. 4.4k words A/N - HAPPY BIRTHDAY @cum-a-calla !!!! You know much I love you and your work. Meeting you has been a highlight of my 2024!! I love you and I hope this nasty Roman scratches alllllll the itches. It had a tentative start but I’m really pleased with how this turned out �� i tagged my usual roman readers but no pressure to read if noncon is not your thing, i will see you next time! @endlessthxxghts, you know what you did. thank you for your eyeballs and for holding my hand through it♡

9:27 and Roman’s still not yet graced his office with his less than illustrious presence. Not that you really mind, as his lateness gives you time to get work done without his hovering, his mocking comments and juvenile jokes at your expense, his nitpicking. With your morning work completed, you rest on his uninviting, scratchy office couch and inspect your manicure, freshly done for the occasion.

Then, the doorknob rattles, jerking you from your peace and in comes Roman all self-assured and weirdly confident, his pelvis leading his awkwardly long strides. He spots you immediately, smiles with crinkling eyes and those little dimples appearing on his cheeks. He’s got a bubblegum pink pastry box in one hand and a cardboard drink carrier with coffee cups balanced neatly on top of it.“Hey, hey, birthday girl!”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “I didn’t tell you it was my birthday.”

Roman smirks mischievously, that infuriatingly smug tilt to his lips. “I have my sources,” he replies cooly, setting down the items on his desk. With flourish, Roman opens the pastry box and pulls one of the drinks out of the carrier, the one drowning in chocolate swirls and topped with more whipped cream than there is coffee in the beverage. “For you.” He holds the drink out for you to take. “I believe this is your Frankenstein coffee-shake-thing.”

“You know my order?”

Roman scoffs and rolls his eyes for maximum effect. “Yeah, I know your order. Cookies and cake and ice cream all blended up with just enough coffee to pretend you’re a big girl. It’s just fuckin’ liquefied dessert, am I right?”

You take the drink from him and take a sip, humming at the sweetness as it hits your tongue. “Close enough,” you joke, and Roman pumps his arm in excitement, the satisfaction in his eyes. Digging through the trash days ago to copy the scribbled order on your old, empty cup was disgusting, sure. But worth it to see that pretty smile of yours.

Roman beckons you to his desk with a curl of his finger. Excitedly, you make your way over and inspect the box of pastries he’s brought. Four oversized cupcakes, absolutely dripping in frosting. They’re from that bakery you’re obsessed with—the one you’ve maybe mentioned in passing once, because Roman really doesn’t do thoughtful. Or so you thought. It was obnoxiously out of his way, of course, but you deserve it.

“Uhhh…” Roman points to the cupcakes, “That’s carrot cake, and then chocolate, obviously. Strawberry shortcake and birthday cake. But I call dibs on the birthday cake.”

“But it’s my birthday.”

“Do you think I give a shit? I mean, I do. A little. Got you a present and everything.”

You perk up at that, eyes widening as you reach for the chocolate cupcake. “Yeah?” you ask, “What is it?”

“My dick in a box. What else would I get you?” he grins shamelessly.

Roman watches you laugh as you suck a bit of frosting off of your fingertip. His cock twitches in his pants and he bites down on his lip, eyeing you up and down. He reaches into the pink box for his birthday cake cupcake and takes a bite. “Mm. Fucking delicious,” he mumbles, mouth full. “So what’s the plan, huh? How’s the birthday girl living it up tonight?”

“Uhm,” you hum, pulling back a little bit of the cupcake’s wrapper to take another bite. “The usual. Working for you, then going home.”

“Seriously?”

You nod, “Yeah.”

“That’s your plan,” he deadpans.

“Yeah,” you say again, shrugging.

Roman shakes his head, disbelief painted all over his face. “No. You’re celebrating. Properly,” he adds with a pointed look, as if daring you to argue with him. Which, of course, you do.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Roman. What’s there to even celebrate? Do birthdays even matter past turning 21?”

“Yeah, of course they do. And what’s there to celebrate?” Roman parrots your question, pausing to eat another bite of his cupcake. “Oh, I don’t know. The fact that you’re alive,” he answers, smirking as you roll your eyes. “And hot,” he adds.

You press your lips to hide your smile. “Yeah, see? You know I’m right. So here’s the deal: you, my dear, are going out tonight and you’re getting shitfaced.”

“Rome-”

“Non-negotiable,” he winks, and it sends a flutter through your stomach. His charm convinces you, almost. Almost.

“Mmmmaybe,” you hum, tilting your head. “With who, though?”

“With this handsome devil, obviously,” Roman says, pointing to his face and swirling his finger around in a circle. “What other sucker likes you enough to take you out on a pity-date for your birthday?”

“Wow. Gee, thanks, Roman. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

“Well, you know. It’s my specialty,” Roman says, reaching for your face.

Your eyes widen as his hand makes contact, thumb swiping across the corner of your lips to collect a bit of chocolate frosting. “What–”

Roman smiles at you and sucks his finger, “It’s my treat,” he tells you, voice dropping a notch, mischief written all over his stupid grin. How flustered and bashful you are. Too fucking easy.

The sun dips below the horizon, painting Roman’s office in warm shades of pink and orange as he closes down the tabs on his computer. Not that he was really doing anything, anyway. Just Connections and Wordle, and he sucks at both, but still plays them religiously. He’s gotta learn to beat you somehow and unfortunately, he can’t cheat very well at those games. Roman sighs loudly and dramatically, running his fingers through his hair before he stands up and stretches like he’s done real work. “C’mon, birthday girl. Off we go.”

You glance up from your phone, startled. “Wait, now? I need to go home and change. I’m not wearing, like, going-out clothes.”

“Oh, shut up,” Roman groans, throwing his head back. “You’re hot. You’re always hot,” he says, slipping into his jacket. He grabs yours off the coat hanger and holds it open, motioning for you to come over and slide your arms into the sleeves. Roman takes your purse and continues, “So hot, in fact, that I’m gonna give you my dick in a box for your birthday.”

“Creep.” You zip up your jacket and turn around, snatching your bag back from Roman. “Stop making that joke. You’re a walking lawsuit.”

“Mm, thanks, but it’s not a joke,” he mutters, straightening out the front of your jacket. “I’m as serious as a heart attack. I put a bow on it and everything.”

“Sure, Roman.”

Roman holds the door open for you, mumbles “Ladies first,” and hits the lights on his way out. He follows you to the elevator and takes it to the garage level where a black car waits for you, vapor spilling from its exhaust. Roman plays the gentleman act well, swinging the car’s back door open for you, too. He gives his driver the name of some bar he thinks you’d like, and you’re on your way. It’s not a long drive, but he pours you a glass of champagne anyway.

“Roman-”

“You gotta get wasted. Don’t fight the birthday rules. And,” he adds, pouring himself a glass, “This is the good shit, too.”

Cautiously, you take a sip of your champagne. Before you can even put your glass down, Roman’s topping it off.

“See? Fancy bubbles.”

“Mhm.”

By the time you reach the bar, you’re already buzzed. Warm, giggly. Just how Roman wants you, and he’s eating it up. He ushers you inside and straight to a private corner booth, then orders you appetizers of all varieties. The food keeps coming, and so do the drinks - Roman never lets you have an empty glass and keeps your attention entirely on him.

And then, it happens - the moment he’s been working towards all night. His hand lands on your thigh under the table, and it rests there with a casual confidence. And you don’t move it, either. Your inhibitions are lowered enough to the point that there’s no polite brush off, no shy smile as you timidly wrap your fingers around his wrist to kindly shove him away. You don’t even flinch. Fuck, do you even notice?

He lets you talk his ear off. Whether he knows what you’re talking about or not, he’s nodding along, pretending to listen intently to you. Throwing in the occasional hum of interest to really sell it. And you’re smiling, cheeks are warm as you slur your words, telling him all about this and that and the other as you launch into another tangent. Something about your neighbor or your fucking cat or whatever. Roman doesn’t give a shit. He snaps his fingers at the server and points to your drink.

You take a sip from your glass, then lazily toy with the melting ice in your glass with your stirrer. “Well,” you announce, a little hiccup breaking your sentence, “I think I’m wasted.”

“Are you, now?” Roman’s grin stretches wide.

“Pretty sure.”

Roman smiles and claps his hands together once. “Well, there we go. My work here is done, birthday girl. Thanks for humoring the boss. You’re a real, you know - team player, or whatever the fuck HR would call it. A good sport.”

You laugh at him, and Roman’s already sliding out of the booth and waving down the check. “Shall I take you home?”

“I haven’t-” you hiccup again, “Haven’t finished my drink.”

Roman waves dismissively. “Meh. Take it with, who gives a shit. Call it your fuckin’ party favor.”

Giggling excitedly, you slide out of the booth and Roman wraps your jacket around your shoulders, his hands warm against your flesh. You stumble a bit when you begin walking, like the floor is crooked or something, sloshing your drink onto him. “Shit, m’sorry, Rome.” Those first drunk steps always hit you hard.

“You’re fine. I got you.” Roman wraps an arm around your waist and squeezes you tight, tapping his fingers against your back in a way that’s equal parts soothing and impatient. Just like before, he helps you into the car, hands steadying your wobbling frame.

The ride is a blur. As the vehicle moves, the motion relaxes you, lulls you into a haze. You’re resting against his shoulder, which is your own doing. He didn’t have to wrap an arm around you and tuck you into his side or anything.

Your breathing slows, and your eyes are fluttering shut. Roman notices immediately. Awake. Roman needs you awake. “Hey,” he mutters, patting your cheek lightly to jolt you into semi-alertness. “Eyes open. You’re not clocking out on me yet, need to finish that drink, yeah?”

“M’dunno,” you mumble. “Kinda-”

Roman takes the drink out of your hand and brings it to your lips, encouraging you to drink the rest. “Yeah, no. You do know. Drink up,” he tells you, tone flat. “Waste not, want not.”

You take a few more sips, not counting them, though Roman sure as hell is. He makes sure you drink it all, every last drop. He needs you completely intoxicated. Absolutely fucked.

The car pulls up to the building, and Roman’s out before the driver can even shift into park. He’s got a hand on your arm, moving you forward. The world tilts again, but he’s there, patiently guiding you to the elevator. Your eyelids are fighting a losing battle by the time you’ve reached the top floor, and Roman guides you inside and turns on the light.

“Wait- wait a second,” you mumble, eyes adjusting to the light as you take in your surroundings.

Roman gives you a look and raises an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“This isn’t my home.”

“Yeah, no shit. You’re in my home,” he replies. Roman watches the gears turn, your brows are knit together and you wear a pout as that first little bit of uneasiness sets in. “Doesn’t really matter though, does it? You’re at a home, y’know. Still a roof over your head. I can’t just leave your drunk ass alone somewhere.”

“I guess,” you mumble, blinking slowly. “Can I uh, can I have some water?”

“You’re not thirsty,” Roman cuts in, voice clipped. “You’re just tired. C’mon, let’s get you into bed, yeah? Bedtime for the birthday girl. She partied too hard.”

Roman takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom, his grip more steering than guiding. Everything’s still spinning in dizzying circles, but there’s an added layer of…of something. You can’t name it yet, but it’s there. That strange feeling in your gut, the itch in your chest. You’re nervous. Why do you feel nervous?

Roman locks the door behind himself and sits you down on the edge of his neatly made king-sized bed that smells like laundry detergent and himself, then kneels in front of you to pull off your shoes one at a time. The casualness of it all, the intimacy of his fingers brushing against your skin. It makes your skin prickle. Roman stands up again to undress you, unbuttoning your blouse and tugging on the zipper at the side of your pencil skirt. “Get this off next,” he mumbles, pulling it down.

“Roman…”

He cuts you off with a dismissive shh as the fingers of one hand work the buttons undone on his shirt, then shrugs it off his shoulders and leaves it crumpled on the ground.

“Rome, stop- what is this? What are you doing?” The quiver in your voice and the slur to your words betrays you. You tried to sound firm.

“Giving you your last gift,” he says casually, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Duh. It’s my dick in a box, remember? I man-scaped for you and everything.”

He’s not being serious, right? There’s no way. “Pretty small package,” you joke, trying to ease some of the tension you feel. It doesn’t do much.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, and his eyes are dark. “Good things come in small packages, so fuck you.”

You’re not sure how to respond. “Right,” is all you murmur. You manage to crack half a smile, laughing without much humor. “I guess I just - fuck, I really want that water, Roman,” you complain, pressing your hand against your forehead. You feel lightheaded, fuck.

Roman doesn’t flinch or show any of that manufactured tenderness from earlier. “Yeah, I know. Everything, everything, everything. You’ll get it when you get it, okay? Relax.”

You groan quietly, rocking on the bed. “I guess I just don’t get the joke,” you say, changing the subject. “Like, how is your dick supposed to be a present for me?”

Roman scoffs. “How isn’t it?” he says. “It’s thoughtful. Wrapped nicely and everything. It’s all about the presentation, you know?”

“Umm…sure.”

As a silence hangs, you gather your strength and concentration to get up - you need water. Advil. Coffee. You’re ready to be done being drunk, ready to feel in control of yourself again. Roman’s drunk, too - has to be, even if he doesn’t totally seem it. He’s not slurring his words, his eyes aren’t droopy or red, he’s…unnervingly him. You hope to god he won’t remember this. You hope you won’t, either. You try to stand up, but Roman sits you back down. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“W-”

“Water, I know,” he snaps. He tilts his head back and groans as he rubs his bulge, cock hardening beneath his touch. Your mouth drops open as he sucks in his belly and reaches for the button of his slacks, then unzips them. “So I lied, birthday girl. It’s not in a box, but-”

“Stop. This isn’t a funny joke. I don’t want this, Roman.”

“It’s a gift.”

“But I don’t want-”

“Oh, come on. Don’t - don’t fuckin’ be like that,” he snaps, sliding his pants down his legs until he’s clad in only his navy boxer briefs. “What do you say when I do something nice for you, huh? What do you say?”

“St-”

“Wrong. You say thank you. Say ‘thank you, Roman’.”

Roman waits with both of his brows raised, but you never thank him. And something changes then. He’s always had an ugly streak, but this is different. There’s something sinister, almost, like a mask has slipped, exposing something awful that’s been festering beneath the surface. The crumbled facade. Your heart pounds so hard in your chest that you feel it in your throat.

“You’re being kinda rude,” Roman says with a wave of his hands. “Like, really rude, actually. This whole night, I did it all for you.”

“And I can appreciate that, Roman, I do appreciate that. But I said-”

Roman crushes his palm against your lips, not allowing you to complete that sentence. “I have ears,” he bites, reaching under his briefs to pull out his cock, now at full mast. He moves the hand that’s on your lips to your shoulder and forces you down so that you’re kneeling on the floor, pinned between his body and his bed. Nowhere to run.

He’s quick in how he does it, or maybe it’s the alcohol that’s fucked up how you process reality. Roman shoves his cock past your lips, harshly hitting the back of your throat so that you gag and choke. Tears blur your vision, though you can’t distinguish whether it’s from the pain or the rising fear. You reach for Roman’s torso and hit him as hard as you can, but he doesn’t stumble. Instead, he simply pouts at you. He takes both of your wrists in his hand and begins rocking his hips.

“Oh, perfect - the fucking waterworks,” Roman mutters, his voice dripping with mock sympathy as his thumb brushes away the tears streaking down your face. He tilts his head, studying you with that sharp, calculating gaze, like he’s cataloging every tremble and shudder, filing it away for later. “Always so dramatic, aren’t you, sweetheart? I have to give credit where credit’s due, though. Oscar-worthy performance. Truly.”

Roman pauses, his smirk tightening, the false gentleness in his touch a sharp contrast to his words. “You know,” he adds, voice low and biting, “maybe if you’d been a little less… I don’t know, yourself - kinder, sweeter, less of a goddamn buzzkill - I wouldn’t make you choke on it. Just a thought.”

Roman’s cock tastes salty, slightly sweaty, and you’re disgusted that you kind of like it. The smell of him, too, that musky and heady sort of scent. Still holding your hands above your head, Roman squeezes your wrists hard enough so that your bones grind against each other. There’s a pinching, aching pain between your shoulders as Roman fucks into your mouth, his cockhead hitting the back of your throat with each thrust.

You’re growing aroused despite yourself. You can feel yourself dripping into your panties, the dampness making you feel sick. Roman slides in and out of your mouth with abandon, zero regard for your comfort.

He draws out of your mouth entirely, biting his lip as he admires the sticky, shiny mess of your saliva and tears on his cock. You attempt to pull away, but with a tug of his hand, Roman holds you exactly where he wants you. “I don’t think so, birthday girl. Where the fuck do you think you’re off to?”

Roman thrusts into your mouth harshly once more. There’s no gentleness to it at all, just raw fucking ferocity. He ruts into your mouth so fiercely, turning you into a drooling, crying, choking mess. The tears rolling down your cheeks - god, he loves them. It fills him with a unique sort of confidence. Power.

“Cry all you want,” he taunts. Your lips are sore with the repeated motion of his cock drawing back and forth between your lips, jaw throbbing, nose rubbed raw from the coarse thatch of his trimmed pubic hair. Roman continues to roll his hips, relishing in your warm, wet mouth and the way your sobbing makes your throat tighten around him. With your forehead bouncing against his stomach, you squirm and whine in discomfort as he uses you. The brutality. You’re at your breaking point when finally, finally you feel Roman begin to twitch and pulse in your mouth, and you brace yourself for his release.

Instead, he pulls out.

That’s it? Is that it? Is it over? You think it’s over. Maybe - god willing - he had a change of heart.

“Th-thank you, Roman,” you whisper, voice wobbling. That’s what he wanted, right? A thank you?

“Oh, now you remember your manners,” Roman mocks. “How convenient. Too fucking late, birthday girl, ‘cause now this is really my treat.”

Roman forces you to your feet and pushes you onto your back, then climbs over you. He pins your arms above your head in one hand and with the other, reaches between your thighs and pulls your panties to the side. His fingers glide through the pool of arousal at your core, effortlessly slipping through your folds.

“Please get off of me,” you whimper. “Stop.”

“Why would I stop? You’re fucking soaked,” he says. “And I bet when I do this-” Roman purrs, pushing his ring and middle fingers into your slick cunt, “-you’ll get wetter. Won’t you?”

He curls his fingers repeatedly, expertly stroking that sensitive spot inside you. The pleasure makes you cry harder. God, you just want it to be over. If you weren’t so drunk you could probably get out from under him. But your limbs are heavy and uncoordinated, your head is spinning. If you managed to leave, he’d drag you right back to his bed.

“Shh, do you fucking hear that? Listen to yourself.” Roman covers your mouth to quiet your cries, and you hiccup beneath his palm. He goes quiet too, the only sounds in the room being his heavy breathing and the wet, sticky noises your pussy makes as he fucks you with his fingers. “Sounds to me like you fucking want this.”

With his hand still on your mouth, Roman uses the other to stroke his cock. Your panties are still tugged to the side when he enters you, one brutal, violent thrust that has him groaning and you wincing in pain.

Roman lowers his head and bites into your shoulder as he fucks you, rolling his hips over and over into you. You wish it didn’t feel as good as it does. You wish you weren’t so wet, so complicit. That’s what you are, aren’t you? Complicit in this?

“Give me your fucking hand,” Roman pants, taking one of your hands and wedging it between your two bodies. “Goes right here,” he mumbles, pressing your fingertips against your clit. “The quicker you come, the quicker it’s over,” he whispers.

You nod under his hand, closing your eyes as your fingers circle your clit. If you pretend that Roman’s not here - or, even if he is - that it’s not happening like this, you can do it. As you rub yourself, you do your best to detach from everything going on. It’s just Roman on top of you, Roman inside of you. A body on a body, a body part in a body part. Nothing else. That pleasure deep in your gut is just pleasure, a sensation and nothing more. Dreading your release, you moan under Roman’s palm to coax release along and there it is - your orgasm.

How deliciously you pulse around Roman’s cock. How needy your moans are, and what’s that you’re doing with your legs, wrapping them tightly around his waist? Roman grins and licks your neck. “Yeah, that’s on you, isn’t it?” he taunts. “Whose fault is that?”

“M-mine,” you cry.

“That’s right,” he says, kissing your neck. “Now do it again. C’mon, birthday girl, give me another.” You cry harder, shaking your head no. “Come on! It’s your special day. Treat yourself and come for me one more time.”

“I can’t,” you sob, voice muffled by Roman’s hand over your mouth. He gives you a look. If you do as he asks, it’ll all work out better for you. He knows it and you know it.

“God, you’re a mess. Your fuckin’ snot’s all over my hand,” he spits, wiping his hand on your torso, then builds the pace again. “One more,” he reminds you, kissing your tear-soaked cheek. “Fuck, you take it so well, honey. Like you’re made for this.”

Roman repeats his words and a variety of other praises, insults, and swears as he fucks you deeply. He’s got you pressed in half, your knees on either side of your chest as your hips ache in the position. The angle intensifies everything and he knows, oh how he knows what it does to you. Poor fucking thing. Tired, sore, drunk, overstimulated. Partied too hard.

You don’t even have to rub your clit - the way Roman’s got himself angled has his body doing all the work, pubic bone adding the necessary pressure against your clit to make you come. You can’t quite identify your orgasm as it begins to build; no definitive start, but when it’s there, it ruins you. Washes over your body in waves, devastating you. Your climax coaxes Roman’s own, though you hardly register his pulsing cock as he spurts thick ropes of his spend inside you.

Roman pulls out of you then, leaving you with an empty feeling as his come seeps from your cunt. He leaves the room and the tears have stopped, but an occasional sob wracks your body every few seconds. He returns to you with a big glass of water, ice and straw and everything. Your trembling hands can’t hold it so Roman does instead, guiding the straw to your lips.

If you enjoyed, please lmk! Hop in my inbox or reblog with some kind thoughts 🩷 it means the world to me.

roman tags <3

@goldenispunk @littlevenicebitch69 @gaeela-6 @bean-is-reading @slutsoutgutsout

@galarian-weezing-on-prep @cum-a-calla @pastelpinkflowerlife @kolsmikaelson @moth-maam56

@kothku @cult-of-escapism @swiftiegirliepop @bluecookies-and-ink @romanarose

@kappasbbgirl @magpiepills @highinmiamiii @verstappensrealwife @thesummerpetrichor

@lilipads @luiscarrutherss @baronessvonglitter @myromeow

@ovaryacted @doll-0f-flesh @always-andromeda @causesimmer @pedropascalbabygirl

@baloobalee @slimybeth69 @pearlstiare @romanisbrat @callsignwidow @/ziggymars

#roman roy x reader #roman roy x you #roman roy smut #Roman Roy x reader smut #roman roy/you #Roman Roy/reader #roman roy #kieran culkin #Kieran Culkin characters #succession #succession fic #dark!roman

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nightmareweaverz · 3 months ago

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What is Love? (Mr. Gap x GN!Reader) Part 2

Read Part 1 Here

CW: Mild gore/injury, a bit of violence but nothing extreme

Word count: 2536

Since people enjoyed it and I had some ideas, I decided to continue this! We meet someone new in this chapter. Keep in mind it's not gonna turn into a love triangle, tho. The new character serves a different purpose. Enjoy and lemme know what you think!

Another book falls shut with a loud thump next to the armchair that's held you for the past two days. A large stack rests beside it. You've been leafing through many of them lately, especially romance books. Not all of them fit your taste, some you would even call boring. Reading wasn't a hobby of yours when you were in the human world, but here, you've found this more enjoyable than walking around with no real purpose. Even the boring ones become less boring eventually. It’s nice to pretend you are a character in a story, with a different life, one that has purpose. Unlike your current reality.

Until you run out of books. Then you have to go out searching for more. This is one of those times. You've read everything from your last find. It was mostly magazines and newspapers, save for one or two novels, some of them half shredded. But their job is done now.

Crowbar in hand and hood drawn over your head, you detach yourself from the armchair and set out on your little mission. Your previous haul is left behind. There is no point in trying to keep any of the things you've finished reading. They'd only slow you down in this ever shifting maze.

The hallways are as creepy and hard to navigate as usual. A locked door here, imminent danger there, some horrific friendly residents and other equally horrific non friendly residents. The usual.

While you're peering inside a vent in an attempt to see if you can use it to get past a wall, Mr. Gap pays you a visit.

“Hello,” he greets you.

“Hello. Can take other room?” You point at the wall.

“Can take.”

“Danger there?”

“No danger. Lots of object.”

That's exactly what you were hoping to hear.

“You take me?”

“Take, take.”

He grabs your arm. Your vision goes black for a moment, as it always does when Mr. Gap moves you from one place to another. Everything goes quiet and you briefly feel a chill envelop you. Then you're in a new place, the room he promised to take you to.

“Thank you.”

Lately, he's been doing a mix of asking for body parts and doing things without wanting anything in return. Whether he’s trying to be nicer or he plans on asking for something later, is unknown to you. The occasionally friendly company is still appreciated.

You turn to the piles of random objects fallen from the human world. A far larger pile than usual. With a little bit of luck, it won’t all be full of worthless junk. You get to sorting through them before an earthquake can do it all in.

“What you search?” Mr. Gap's face peeks out from beneath a toppled over armchair.

“Lots of paper.”

Old dirty clothes, a couple abandoned toys, a lamp, a bike wheel, they all get thrown around in your search. You let out a triumphant “Yes!” when you stumble upon a copy of Frankenstein. It's not romance, but it'll keep you busy nonetheless. You shove it beneath your underarm before resuming the search.

“You like paper? Me like paper,” Mr. Gap comments as he reappears in another nook between two wooden planks.

“Okay,” you say dismissively. Normally, you'd humor him, but this world is unpredictable and you want fuel for your newly acquired pastime before it decide to bury everything beneath a pile of rubble.

You turn over a seat pillow and his face suddenly pops up in the space beneath. He holds out a magazine.

“Oh, thank-”

“Me want your finger.”

This slimy gremlin. You flash him your middle finger, only for a moment, before he can misunderstand and rip it off. The gesture confuses him, but the following grumbles must mean it didn't fly over his head entirely.

“Stop take my paper. Me not give,” you warn that you won't exchange any body parts for magazines he finds before you do.

But he knows this by now. It must simply delight him to see the furrow in your brow and hear you huff in irritation. You return to your task, refusing to grant him anymore satisfaction.

One pile of random objects later, he pops up again, this time with another book. This one is small, made of thick cardboard. The brightly colored cover suggests that it's for children.

“Me give, you teach me,” he says this time.

“Teach what?” He better not be about to ask you to sing itsy bitsy spider.

Mr. Gap opens up the book on a page where a cartoon little boy is offering a flower to a little girl. “What this?”

Where did he find that? Has he been trying to learn more about love? Is that why he's curious about such a gesture? The idea makes you find him kind of cute if it's true. Have you both just been reading romance related material, fumbling like idiots to figure out how it works?

As for explaining it, first, you point at the flower and say the word for it in English, since you're not sure there's a term for it here.

“This flower. Human give flower to person they like. Flower nice, pretty.”

Mr. Gap attempts to speak the new word. “Flower?” He stares at the illustration for another moment, then smiles creepily, the way he always does. “Thank you.”

In exchange, he gives you the magazine he'd tempted you with earlier. It’s a paranormal one. Knowing him, he’s already read through it. Read… Can Mr. Gap read? He doesn’t understand your language when you speak it, but he seems particularly fond of magazines. Is it all for the pictures? Maybe you’ll ask him next time.

You tuck the magazine next to the book and continue through the pile.

Once your left arm is satisfyingly full, you leave the room, now in search of a safe place to sit and read.

The sound of footsteps suddenly approaching nails you to the spot for a moment. Your hand instinctively grips the crowbar tighter, preparing for the worst. Whatever is coming, it better not force you to drop your books and flee. Because then you will be pissed. And you tend to lose control when you are pissed.

Fortunately, what walks in does not prove to be threatening. In fact, it's not even a resident. A young man with messy red hair cautiously steps in, then immediately freezes when he spots you. The sight of him nearly knocks all the air out of you. There is another human in the Other World. A living, breathing human, something you thought you'd never see again.

You are aware of how frightening you look. The bloodied raincoat, the silver hair, the bandages on your face and your blotchy, dark reddish skin. You often turn away quickly when faced with smooth metal, glass and, god forbid, mirrors. It's hard to believe the image you see is you. So his fear of you comes as no surprise. It serves as a grim reminder of what you've become.

“Hello.” When you speak, you use your native language.

“You speak English?!” the young man sounds startled and relieved at the same time.

“Yes… What are you doing here?”

Speaking complex sentences feels far better than you expected. It brings you a type of joy and nostalgia that startles you. Had you been missing it that much?

“I… I don't remember how I got here. Or what I was doing before. I'm just looking for the exit. Can you help me?”

This sounds painfully familiar. You remember when that used to be you. When you still had hope. And that memory tugs at something in your chest and urges you to make sure this man finds that exit. Before it's too late.

“I can help. What's your name?”

Such a human question to ask. The idea of using someone's proper name also makes you happy. When exactly have you become the type of person excited about complex sentences and names?

“I'm Robin. And you?”

You give him your name and he nods uneasily. Perhaps he hasn't been here long enough to be unphased by residents. That's good. It means there's still time.

“Mr. Gap?” you call out as you turn to the nearest crevice you can find. He appears as he always does. “Can take person exit?”

He glances at the human behind you, who is now observing warily. Then he shoots you that annoying grin of his. “Me want your heart.”

“Uh! Not give heart! Lead exit!”

“Not give? Goodbye.” And then he disappears.

You feel a strong urge to smack that grin right off his face. But he's gone and it seems like it's up to you to help this man find his way out.

“What did you talk about?” the man in question asks.

“I thought he'd help, but I overestimated his kindness… Come on, we need to find an elevator. It will take you out of here.”

“Alright… Um, thank you!”

His thanks is met with a dismissive little wave from you. Begrudgingly, the books have to be left here. The chances of finding them again are very slim, but you'll be less efficient with one arm entirely full.

The two of you set out to search for the exit.

The first rooms you pass through are an empty blessing. Robin isn't very talkative. Despite his wide shoulders and tall build, he appears quite timid and frightened. Every time you enter a new room, he first pokes his head in cautiously, then he dares to advance once he knows the coast is clear.

Is this how you used to be? Frightfully wandering the Other World, aided by Mr. Crawling, scared of your own shadow? It's a stark contrast to the apathetic stride you've developed since your return.

“How long have you been down here?” Robin asks after a prolonged silence.

“A while. It's hard to keep track of time here.”

“Is there… no way to turn you back?”

“I had a friend who was searching for a cure. But we got separated…”

You don't want to think about Mr. Silvair or the rest right now. You'd rather just focus on the task of finding the elevator.

“Is your friend like the guy in the hole?”

“Uh, no! That guy is an annoying little jerk who only does as he pleases.” Your face twists in annoyance just thinking about Mr. Gap. He could've effortlessly helped out, but he chose to be a pain instead.

“Oh, sorry.”

The hallway ends with two identical doors. Doors. They're so annoying in this world. Immediate death, sudden threat or a boring room could be waiting behind one and usually there's no way to tell them apart unless you open it.

“Stay back,” you instruct the human as you cautiously turn the doorknob.

Through the crack you've opened, you see a large, mostly empty room apart from a shelf with various toys on it. There are no signs of enemies for now.

“Okay, we can go.”

You step inside, you first and Robin cowering behind you. Everything seems fine as you head towards the doorless exit on the other side of the room. Until the door suddenly shuts and locks behind you.

“Who did that?!” Robin exclaims, startled.

You clutch your crowbar tighter, eyes darting around the room. One of the stuffed animals on the shelf suddenly lunges at you. However, you've spent long enough down here to parry such an attack easily. Swiftly, you swing your crowbar and knock it against the wall. Something shatters inside it. It stops moving.

But you have no time to relax. Robin lets out a startled scream. When you turn his way, several other toys are trying to climb him. One of them has sharp teeth and is biting into his arm.

“Get off him, you pests!” you yell out as you knock them off one by one, always followed by that shattering sound.

When he's freed, Robin quickly backs into a corner, cradling his bleeding arm. He's hurt. That's not good. He hasn't begun to transform at all. So his healing is that of a normal person.

“How deep is it? Let me see.”

“What were those things?! They- they bit me!” He’s panicking.

“Robin, you have to calm down and let me see your injury. It's gonna be okay. I'll get you out. But I need to see your arm first.” You try to be gentle. At least that's not something you've forgotten how to do yet.

He stares with wide eyes full of terror at first. But with each new reassurance, his breathing slowly relaxes and his trembling seizes. He offers you the arm. Gently, you roll up the torn sleeve of his shirt. Nine deep little cuts in a semicircle ooze blood on his forearm. It's not fatal, but leaving it untreated would be unwise.

You quickly glance around the room until you spot the dark void beneath the bottom of the shelf. You hurry to it at once.

“Mr. Gap! We need medicine! Person hurt. Blood,” you announce in the other language.

Mr. Gap does appear. He throws one look Robin's way, then grins at you. “Medicine? Can bring. Me want their finger.”

“Oh, for the love of- Give you my finger!” you try to bargain, not in the mood to explain that giving him a human's finger would defeat the purpose of asking for medicine.

Mr. Gap looks almost offended. Perhaps because you usually never say yes to his demands when he asks for your body parts. “Why?”

“Need medicine! Hurt! If outsider give finger, lots of hurt!” you explain, exasperated.

His face twists in displeasure. When he looks at Robin again, his eyes narrow, like he suddenly can't stand him. “Me not want your finger. Me want their finger.”

“Uh! You slimy little sewer rat!” you insult him, fully aware he hasn't a clue what you're saying, but probably able to tell from your tone it isn't nice. Then you turn away indignantly.

“Did your friend not want to help?” Robin asks timidly when you return to him.

“He thinks everything needs to be a transaction. It's fine, we'll manage without him.”

You lift up a part of your raincoat and rip off a piece of the white garment beneath it. Robin holds out his arm once again and allows you to bandage it.

“Why are you going to such lengths to help me?” he murmurs.

Why? You ask yourself that in turn. Perhaps because you didn't make it out. Perhaps you don't want another person to step outside and feel like a shark in the middle of a city, scary yet powerless and out of place.

“I just want somebody else to make it home after I couldn't.”

“I'm sorry…”

“It's fine. I don't need you to pity me. Just try to stay alive. Come on, let's go.”

You tilt your head towards the doorless opening. Begrudgingly, Robin pushes himself away from the corner and follows you out.

You both fail to notice the small roll of bandages that rolls out from beneath the shelf just as you pass it.

#homicipher #mr gap #fanfiction #homicipher x reader #mr gap x reader #reader insert #gn reader

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comfortless · 10 months ago

Note

Hello! This is the Frankenstein anon back with more praise and another prompt that you might like. Again you are amazing and everyone you come out with stuff, I weep for joy! Please continue what you are doing because it is absolute art✨

Okay onto the prompt. So lately tiktok has been putting onto this telenova drama called Hilda Furcão which is pretty much this priest and prostitute fall in love but due to societal pressures, cannot be together. The YEARNING in this show is amazing and I can’t help but think of Priest Konig in this situation. Imagine he falls in love with reader who works at a brothel but because he’s a churchly man, he’s fighting demons in his head (and down yonder) cuz he YEARNS for her but the lord says no🥴

Please keep doing what you’re doing and I’m constantly cheering you on with your work! ❤️

In the Arms of Flowers

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. pining, lots of talk of religion/silly metaphors, fluff, ridiculous attempts at courtship from both, dark (if you squint), implied cyber stalking, violence/murder, minor character death, some angst, sexual violence (not done by König), König becomes horribly obsessed and reader is fine with it, virgin!König-> oral (both receiving) piv smut.

wc: 11k.

There’s a garden in the churchyard, one that’s always been, even before his vows were taken and the cassock was pulled around his shoulders.

It’s the very place that the arching den window in the clergy house faces out towards, and the very place that an angel descends from Heaven to stalk through night after night.

Even when the thunder clamors and rolls to light up the sky above, the pretty thing is there, kneeling amongst the blooming lilies. A listless sort of purity swallows over her, bathes her in the white of petals and the bright illumination of each bolt of lightning above, arcs a halo over her head like a proper mirage.

The whole town knows these doors remain open, but never does she even look toward the church or the home of holy men at all: only the flowers. The lilies and carnations seemed to be her favorite to haunt, weaving through the petals as they sway for her in breezes like whispers from the pouting lips of cherubim.

He’s prayed for this lost soul many times already; clutched the rosary between his fingers and whispered to the Lord to protect her, to heal whatever aches, to bring her wandering feet into the chapel one of these days. But as most lilies, this one’s beauty is gone away by mid-morning.

Tonight, he wills himself to bring her in for prayer and refuge from the coming rain. Its been a long time coming, and regrettably he’s hesitated at every other opportunity. Nothing’s changed, the scene was so commonplace even the others have commented on it prior.

Maybe he hallucinates her holiness; the halo has become made up of fallen petals now as they arch over the crown of her head where she’s found sprawled out amongst them. She raises herself to sit upright, dusts the dirt from her knees and offers a wary glance with each step he takes until his soles halt in soil that would soon be mire.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave,” the angel breathes out with her eyes darting from his collar down to rest at the expanse of short blades of grass between them. “I don’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

She doesn’t meet the concern in his eyes, and König is no stranger to sin. To the shame and grief that he’s absolved from far worse than her in the stuffy wooden confessional.

“You’re welcome to stay.” A silent prayer rests there in his breath — please stay, though even he wasn’t certain as to why there’s a demand stirring in the pit of his stomach for this woman clad in a dirtied white dress.

She smiles then, gazes right up at him in such a way that immediately sparks something misplaced, something tucked away beneath studying scripture and kneeling before the wooden altar. A sin of the flesh, a heated poker jabbing at both his heart and his loins.

“No, I’m okay,” she assures with a slight dip of her head, already taking steps back to dart away, back to whichever gilded little nest of baubles and starlight she took flight from. “I was just heading home.”

And that’s it. He doesn’t plead for her to come inside, the offer has been laid out already. It’s not his job to force a belief that one doesn’t want, only lend a kindness and a cushioned pew, advice for the lost and a choir for bleating lambs.

He bids her goodbye and walks back to the clergy house, ignoring the strange looks of his peers as they all prepare to bed down after a nightly prayer. It’s rare to smile here, when sacred words are passed from the wrinkled, cracked lips of his seniors. But König does smile, the grin is as bright as the seconds of white lighting up the sky in intervals as he silently thanks God for such a sweet vision amidst such darkness.

The fixation does not falter for the following three nights. She doesn’t return to the churchyard to whisper secrets to the blooms, but the angel weighs on his mind so heavily that König finds himself convinced that she must have been his calling, a soul that he would assuredly save.

His sermons now lack their passion. The parishioners come to him with weighty hearts and misery in their eyes, but bless him all the same, even when he’s distant. Away with the fairies, some would say. He can’t help but wonder when one such service rolls to a closing prayer if whoever conjured such words had also been in the presence of a seraph.

“Do you need prayer?,” one of his fellow priests asks as the flock trickles out, worry clear in the wrinkles laden beneath this eyes and the way his lips draw down before pressing thin. “You don’t seem to be sleeping well.”

And König regrets the words he speaks next, when he describes the woman from the flowers in detail greater than necessary: how her eyes seemed so soft, her smile fragile, and her body language more docile than that of even a lamb. He mentions the dirty dress, the way she seemed to be trying to escape something yet refused the shelter he offered.

The other priest nods and sighs, his eyes squeezing shut in thought, and though König has not feared a scolding since he abandoned home nearly two decades prior, the way the ordinarily calm priest seems so frustrated by this sends a swell of fluttering anxiety beneath his ribcage.

“The woman you describe is a temptress,” his elder explains coldly. His sharp, dark eyes rest on König’s face as though the disparity in their height does not exist at all. “Best to let her be, she does not want our help. Leave it alone.”

“Ja. Verstanden.”

The warning is enough to dull the buzzing in his chest, the mush that’s been made up of his head until he sees her again.

The bakery in town regularly makes donations of pastries and thick loaves of bread for church goingson. It isn’t regular that he’s been asked to pick them up; the eldest of the priests usually does so, some blood relation to the owners that König has never cared enough to ask about. The old man never did well in the summer months, though, far too frail now to bear the heat snaking over his pale skin and leaving burns.

With the mistake of rambling onward about this perturbing fascination still grating at his mind, he doesn’t hesitate to volunteer, to take the old truck and step away from the stained glass and crucifixes for a brief outing. A moment of respite.

There’s a complimentary mug of coffee presented across the expanse of the counter when the cashier greets him with a smile so broad it seems faked.

König’s fingers twitch when he grasps at the handle; the uncertainty was something he had sworn he would outgrow one day with God’s healing, but it never seemed to stray far from him. It rests over the back of his neck like a feeding vampire when he takes his first sip, one that burns his tongue and stings at his eyes when he notices the woman seated at a table in the corner.

It’s her: temptation and fate packaged up in a loose fitting sweater that covers the pulse in her neck and a short skirt.

She holds her phone, not the mug stationed before her, staring down at the thing with the most somber expression he’s ever seen on a lady before. She taps her thumbs at the screen, talking to someone, but there’s a loneliness in her expression apparent like the rust on the old truck parked outside.

Poor little thing.

She glances up when his staring is detected, confusion stripped bare upon her with a pinched brow and a slack jaw. Then, follows realization and she offers the same smile she did that night, some seventy or so hours prior.

“Morning, Father.”

There’s not a fractal within König that wants to make the sweet spirit uncomfortable, but each step he takes towards her table seems to make her shoulders tense. She knows that he knows, sees that sympathetic look in his eye and hates it.

Maybe even hates him for the divinity he wears in the sable cloth pulled over his shoulders.

That doesn’t stop his approach.

König sits across from her with shaking hands and a forced smile like the one the cashier wears, drops his mug onto the table and offers her his hand. Fingers bending to graze the palm as though beckoning a frightened animal when it’s he who feels most afraid.

The angel merely eyes him cautiously for a moment before she takes the cup into both of her hands and gives him a fragile huff, dismissing his attempt to pray for her soul. Again. Yet, the sting he feels is not from a lack of a starved savior complex being satisfied, only… that he has yet to touch her somehow. That sudden thought stifles him in full.

But angels are nothing if not merciful and loving; she picks up on his dejection and speaks again in his place.

“How are the carnations?”

“Hm?”

“The flowers in the garden… the red ones,” she elaborates with a soft laugh, hides it behind the rim of her cup when it’s raised for her to take a sip. Her mouth looks soft, compelling, and he’s staring again. “I like them the most.”

He knows he should stop this, that what’s become of an innocent meeting has left him feeling anything but. There’s a howling chasm in place of the heart of a worthy devotee. She’s nothing like the women who frequent the church — the only other women he sees. Brighter at best and alluring at the worst.

“I thought the lilies were your favorite…” It’s unsuited for a priest and a man so tall and broad to sound so breakable, but his voice only comes in an hurried breath, embarrassed and small.

She shakes her head, tousles her hair in the process. “I like all of them. The ones at your church grow prettiest.”

“I see…”

The woman gives him an expectant look, as if prompting him to speak more, before her phone chimes and the air seems to shift from tentative yet sweet to something vast and cold. She doesn’t seem eager to be interrupted in such a way, either; her expression falls from that subtle playfulness to something akin to a regretful acceptance.

She stands from her seat abruptly and takes a step towards the door. “I have something I need to take care of.”

God gives and takes away.

“I can bring you some,” he offers, winding in the too-small wooden chair to face her. Too late to reel in the flirtatious nature of such an offering, too late to bite his tongue and remember the vows he had taken. The burden upon his heart seems far more pressing than any words from an old book. “Carnations and lilies… some of the others, too.”

The woman almost seems shy when she glances over her shoulder and offers him the most imperceptible nod. “Yeah, sure… I’ll see you around.”

His angel leaves him to rot in thought at that lonely table, in this tiny bakery. He does not think to repent for the way his temperature and pulse spiked in her presence, for the way he takes her empty cup and stuffs it into one of the boxes of baked goods to collect later.

Riding back to the church is dreadful, because she’s already fastened to his heart like a ribbon on a pretty bouquet. He’ll ask the sisters from the cloister to clip flowers for him, tie them up in a lace that will leave her face warmed and lips pouting.

When the people in the church have their fill of sweets and bread, König tells a lie, maybe several.

He claims he doesn’t know why that innocuous porcelain thing is resting where food once had, doesn’t know why the baker would have stuffed that in there too. He takes it to his room and claims that he would return it come morning.

The bed has always felt far too small for him alone, but he pictures her there with him, sat upon his lap when he brings the cup up to his lips with his eyes closed.

It’s cold and hard, difficult to imagine it to be a kiss at all, but he pretends her lips are upon him, eager and willing. It takes only rolling his tongue back to flick over itself, envisioning it being her own, for him to feel his trousers grow too tight. He doesn’t touch himself. He can’t bear the thought of it, not with the cross staring down at him from the far wall.

And finally, regret comes.

Shame, too, because König is aware he’s become a bit of a creep; enchanting himself with second hand kisses whilst his angel takes another man to bed. A man undeserving, but… he could be. He was deserving enough to become a holy man, surely she could see he was worthy of her as well.

The bed is too small even when he curls into himself and pulls the blanket up passed his eyes. Sleep is too skittish to come for him, even when he prays in a whisper to be absolved of his lust.

The dreams are only filled with images of an angel trapped in a rose bush, the thorns sinking into her wings until blood is drawn, but still she smiles. She reaches toward him with shaky limbs, whispers something so dreadfully mournful he knows to his very soul that she is his purpose alone.

It’s what wakes him in a fit, compels him to venture out through the yard with a heart set on seeking guidance. There are moonbeams above and animal calls from the surrounding trees. All of God’s creations are in perfect, dreamy harmony.

Why couldn’t he be the same? Always the outsider in one way or another; always the sore thumb rather than the loving green. Desolation is an art, a skill he’s learned to hide back: clenched teeth to still a wrathful tongue and a layer of muscle to guard that wounded thing in his chest.

There is no better peace than the quiet of the church in the late hour. Moonlight through stained glass and empty, antique seats that would make the worldly whip out their phones to snap pictures in a heartbeat. The doors are always open, for the sinners and the devoted alike, though the confessional is rarely touched when there would be no saint awake set on absolving.

Perhaps that’s why he takes to the booth he needs to make himself smaller to fit into: one shoulder and one foot first, then the next set. He’s never cared for it, left it to the better and smaller. The sound just past the thin partition rattles him. It isn’t the creaking of wood below his feet, but something softer. A weak sniffle. A cry from the other side.

“I’ll leave in a moment,” comes a voice, broken from tears and so horribly sad that the usual script entirely fails him. He recognizes the voice, though a bit warbled now. The voice that would make the choir pause, an angel’s sweet tone.

“Wait… no. You can stay. I’m hiding, too.” A breathy laugh comes forced and misplaced. Priest or not, König has never been the best at consoling anyone, let alone one so far above him.

“I’m not hiding,” she tries to sound braver now. He can imagine her chin tilted forward and that sweet smile trying it’s damndest to paint its way across her face. “But… why are you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who are you?” The crying seems to have ceased entirely for now. Clearly whatever seemed to ail her could be remedied by her own curiosity. A cute, unorthodox little thing.

“König.” It served well enough as a confirmation name when he could not settle on one of the saints. King of them all, one of the other saved men had said in jest. Ironic, now.

“I like your voice, König,” she murmurs, deliberately testing the pronunciation on her tongue in such an alluring way that a small shiver runs its way down his spine.

“Danke… and you?”

God forgive him, he doesn’t even try. Doesn’t try to bring shame or guilt, read her scripture or pray for her soul. He only listens in silence when she tells him her name, beautiful and charming as he had expected it to be. The woman then tells him of her work, of the motel she ventures to at night… the troubles with money and even vaguely, some of the men she suffers through. This had been a bad night. Strange how a singular hour could have broken someone down to such a desperation to open up, to grasp for what small comfort they could receive.

But she came for him.

She must have hoped to see him.

He thanks his god for that.

— — —

“I bought a phone.”

“I see that.” Her fingers graze over the stems of the flowers, cleanly cut by hands more patient and stable than König’s own.

The angel isn’t looking up at him, not this time. There isn’t even a smile on her face when she cradles the bouquet close to her chest, petting over it where she sits upon the motel bed wearing nothing but some strappy, barely-there lingerie. Pure white with pink lace over the cups of her bra where her breasts swell with each shaky intake of breath.

In this week apart, he’s kept the device hidden in a loose pocket and spent many a night scouring the seediest websites looking for a hint of a body that may belong to her in this very area. Only one seemed to match. The messages exchanged were about hours and pricing, establishing a location, and terms he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t harp on the small details, but finding her messages to be so rigid and dry did surprise him. There were no cute hearts or winking emojis, it all felt horribly transactional.

Priests don’t make a lot of money, it all goes back to the church, but he’s thieved enough from the offering bowls to have a night with her alone. As disheartening as the lack of flirtations seemed, he hoped not to squander whatever opportunity this outing proved to be.

The balaclava covering his face wasn’t purchased with the intention of making her nervous, only… shielding himself from curious stares. The whole town knows his face, his name, the words he speaks so resolutely to his flock. Just as well as they know of who she is, what she does.

Even this knitted shield couldn’t hide himself from her, though. The very moment he entered this drab, modestly decorated room with flowers in hand she had only looked further lost.

“You look very pretty,” he tries as he removes the mask and drops it to the floor, kneels just a hair from where her feet dangle from the bed. “I’m glad that I found you.”

“Thank you.”

The flowers are placed on the side table, petals falling down to the thin carpet below. A cascade of red like blood and white like doves feathers. Purity and a wound in one.

The poor thing looks scorned when she does give him a glance then, but she forces herself into a position that stokes a hellish, unnatural flame within him. Her thighs part as her hands rest on the cups of her bra, pushing the thin fabric down to reveal areola, her soft nipples, sights that he had never seen before.

“You shouldn’t even be here, König,” the lady warns when his gaze sweeps over the innocent flesh laid bare before him. The angel isn’t even wet. Her panties are pristine over her womanhood, and it dawns on him that… she wouldn’t risk what he was even for the generous donation he had given.

“I don’t want to ruin you.”

But she should. Crumble him into salt, cast him away with the wind. Should.

She sees something holy in him too… albeit, not in the way that he would like for her to.

He swallows hard as he rises to his feet and sits next to her. The hands that were so accustomed to being joined in prayer find her breasts now with tentative touches, a curious squeeze, until he wills himself to readjust the fabric and conceal her properly.

“Ja, but… I just wanted to visit you.”

“You don’t need to pay me just to see me.”

The tension in the room finally begins to dissolve. Not by much, but when she sighs something that sounds like amusement, the restless throbbing of his heart does begin to settle.

As much as he would like to take her like some beast in rut, lay some claim to her in bursts of white seed, he doesn’t even know where to begin. Each curve of her body looks as though it would feel like a miracle beneath his palm, under his tongue.

It’s just that nothing is going to happen, not here, not now that he’s brought a prostitute flowers and revealed who he was to her. She sees something pitiful, where he only sees someone to love.

He can’t tell her that he dreams of her, that he views her in the same way he views his god. That would only scare her away, lead her to believe he’s a lunatic rather than a man only just now having his first taste of love.

“Then could I see you every night? So that you don’t have to…” His head dips, because no matter how he tries he knows any word he says is foolish.

This isn’t something she’s doing because it is fun for her; it’s a job just like his own. Flesh or words spoken… did it even matter? And yet, König could feel a malicious, gnawing envy at the thought of a bolder man taking his place tomorrow evening. That man wouldn’t hesitate to peel away her pretty lingerie and fuck her, shove his tongue into her mouth while his cock sat between her legs as if it belonged there.

“König,” she sighs next to him, pityingly.

His jaw tenses as his fingers curl into his palms. The hopelessness of it all crashes down around him as though sung out from the loudest of the choir. He hardly notices when she presses her head against his shoulder, only realizes how close she’s come to him when her hand curls over one of his own.

“You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met.” It’s not a compliment but it feels like one when she laughs like that, airy and soft. “The sweetest one, too.”

He smells her perfume from this close, something scented like fruit or maybe maple, sap-sticky and saccharine. All of her flesh feels warm against the plain t-shirt he wears, a warmth he would give anything to dive into, but not without her explicit command. A powerful seraph in the form of one painfully cute, gentle lady. If anyone could see what he saw now, they too would forsake those holy books and eat from her open palm instead.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, a peculiar bitterness hanging on his tongue.

“How about a walk?”

He pulls the balaclava over his face again when they make their way out into the quiet, darkened street. Hand in hand. It’s not from shame, but a necessity, perhaps, because his pale face has only flowered into a lasting pink since laying eyes upon her on that mattress, sprawled out and waiting. The blush only deepens with every squeeze she blesses him with, every hushed word spoken as she tells him about her favorite places.

She’s dressed in the same white dress they had initially met in, now clean of the dirt from flower beds. Somehow even more radiant at this close, too.

The churchyard and the clergy house are nothing in comparison to the way the rest of the town feels when the moon rises. It’s a world all their own, a place where no one looks at her as if she were a simple harlot, but a queen amongst chipping wood and tarmac. There’s even a skip in her step as she walks ahead of him, her hips swaying beneath her skirt. All because there’s no one here but she and her most loyal and only acolyte.

He wills himself out of her grasp when they cross the threshold into the cemetery. The darkness there is enough to pull him back to earth; thoughts of how easily swayed he’s been linger in the back of his mind. The want doesn’t even begin to reel back its claws, but the guilt does sink its pearly fangs in alongside it.

“I get it. You don’t want to be seen with me,” she says a small step away, drawing her hand up to her chest. It’s the saddest she’s ever looked, and he doesn’t have the words to further explain that he has no god damn idea what he’s doing: here, with her, in the midst of something that feels so normal even though it should not.

“Nein! That’s not—“

“You don’t want to touch me. You barely talk…”

Because the words don’t come easy. Because he’s never felt such an overbearing devotion to anyone, anything apart from what he prays to. How could she… this woman that shared in such loneliness with him not see him for what he was, not see him in the way that he sees her?

“You’re misunderstanding.”

“You just want to… to convert me, is that right?,” she hisses, sounding more shaken up than he had ever hoped to hear.

All hesitation had to be swallowed back.

There was no other option. He could feel her slipping away, a pain he wasn’t prepared to face.

God gives and takes away, but König refuses to let go.

His eyes narrow, his breath halts entirely, and he cups her face in his hands as gently as he can. The distance between them feels like miles as he lowers his head to kiss her through the knit barrier. It’s flighty and petrifying on his side… he feels cold sweat wet his brow when the warmth of her pulls through.

She could hit him, spit her curses like a proper witch, and he would only fall to her feet and kiss her heels. But… she does none of those things. Whatever pain was brewing here is ripped away with the night breeze.

Her hands peel away the balaclava, discard it somewhere into the tall grass where it wouldn’t be found, and she grants him his first, proper kiss.

With only the cracked headstones and cemetery angels watching, what once was tentative becomes a full indulgence. König samples from her mouth as though it weeps honey when the gentle peck graduates to a parting of lips. His hands run down the length of her sides as she grasps at his shirt, they pull her in close until her chest meets his own and two pairs of eyelids flutter.

She feels more heavenly than his imagination could have prepared him for, her tongue hotter and her sounds… the soft sighs and shaky murmurs of approval that fill him with both a maddening love and an urge to burn everything away if only it would keep her safe and near.

The world ceases to be entirely, cast down with Lucifer to the sulfur and smoke. Her lips remain parted when they break apart, a haze over her eyes reflecting the veil clouding his own irises.

Was a kiss really forsaking his vows? Was that really such a painful treachery? No… no it shouldn’t be. The issue remains that he can not see her as just some woman. Something as small as this could consume him entirely.

The night is spent with an abundance of those shared kisses when they return to the motel. Tentative touches, too. He’s never held a woman, not in the way he gets to hold her then. She presses tightly to him, her back to his chest with her hand keeping his own in place over her middle. She’s so soft, swans down plush and smooth as silk ribbon.

There is mint lingering on her breath each time she speaks. No talk of her work, only… she confesses how she had feared him so initially, how she worried that a holy man stepping into her life would only be further condemnation: an angel terrified by a devil that does not exist at all.

He knows he’s lost a part of himself here when he tells her he wishes to meet with her again, that if the church is no longer the place she fancies to walk, he’ll meet her amongst the dead again and again when the old clergymen sleep. Those promises he had reserved solely for God turn on themselves now, when he reveres the idol he shares this bed with.

Though her hips press back against his groin when his fingers crawl up to her sternum, and the desire strikes up within him, his cock remains untouched here. He doesn’t whisper a prayer for forgiveness into her hair when he grows hard, just tucks her in closer and smiles where his head rests atop her own.

It’s the closest to bliss he’s ever felt.

— — —

“You weren’t here for morning prayer.” The voice isn’t accusatory, just observant. The nightly prayers were missed too, though a reprieve is granted by way of those remaining unmentioned.

But the guilt does eat at König when he sees the concern in this man’s eyes, splinters at his very soul until he asks in a fragile voice if he can speak to the old priest in the confessional.

Everything here feels much too small and the booth is more or less the same. The wood closes in around him, bathes him in a blackness that even the glow of candlelight within these walls can not reach. The partition separating them does not help bolster courage, it only leaves him feeling more alone.

The clergyman listens in silence as König confesses that he has become weak. He does not mention the lady of the night, but there’s no need to at all: finding himself so captivated with a woman that he considered breaking every promise to the higher power was bad enough. He does not mention how he’s considered pleasuring himself, touching her too… only that they shared a night together embraced, counts the kisses that were exchanged with each digit of his hands.

There’s a pitying sigh from the other side before the man begins a lengthy prayer that König does join him in. With the “Amen” that follows, he’s told only to rid himself of those thoughts, to bury them with fasting and prayer. No more visits with this temptress, remain on the right path. The very, very simple things he must do to receive God’s forgiveness and favor once more.

“You are not a disappointment,” his elder reminds him with a small pat to his cheek and a smile. It’s more fatherly than the sparse affection he received from his own flesh and blood before coming here.

“Danke… thank you,” he breathes when his eyes bear the burden of tears.

God loves him and so do the sainted men.

But to never see her again would be worse than flagellation.

He chokes down the pain with more water when his stomach roars with hunger, hides the broken heart with smiles and prayer. Holy clothes feel heavier now. The money he stole to spend that night with her is returned to the collection pool in a week's time. The smartphone he had purchased is tossed out with the rest of the garbage in the bins. Even the cup is returned to the bakery after being rinsed in the sink.

Still not a part of him feels absolved from this torturous puppet show.

He thinks of her more than he ponders over his fear of Hell itself. God feels like an old memory as the days pass. He counts them in his daybook, an ‘X’ next to the dates he had gone without seeing her. Ten becomes twenty, and it becomes no less agonizing.

The prayers come easier, at least. He joins with his fellow men, kneels with his hands clasped before him, speaks such heartfelt words now that on more than one occasion he’s shared a healing tear or two with the other clergymen.

God is an old friend, yes, but that title is just a placeholder for the one his prayers are truly for. The little angel of the garden, the woman who has given him nothing at all but stole his heart all the same. Was she not the same as God from that aspect?

After a month, he’s finally given the privilege to stand before the altar and preach to the parishioners again. His sermon is directed by the other clergymen, a subtle admission of his own misdeeds as he guides the flock away from the sins of lust, of worldly pleasures that would steer them away from the right path.

Amidst the men and women crowding the pews sits a new face. She wears a hat, looking uncertain and skittish as a bunny amidst a pack of starved hounds beneath its curved brim. Her coat is tugged tightly around her where her hands grip to keep it closed and snug. No one is out to get her, not here, but there’s a purplish bruise on her neck. A sad stare trails up to meet his gaze when he stammers through the words of scripture.

Then, she smiles and his heart only feels full.

The sermon ends clumsily enough, but she waits for him in the center pew. He ensures the others have cleared out before he takes rigid steps toward her, where he sits a foot or so away on the bench; the feigned friendliness is only a front for the rapid beating of his heart and the way the blush upon his face paints up to his ears.

“I waited to walk with you… like you promised we would,” she says in place of a greeting. There’s no chiding in her tone, just curiosity. Gentle, like she’s speaking to a wounded bird, and perhaps that’s what he’s become: some big, ugly vulture. Holy in its love of everything from the sky to the rot down below.

“I’m sorry. I..,” he laments, grasping for an explanation that does not come.

“No, I understand. It’s alright, König.”

He knows he doesn’t deserve the gift of her redemption with how easily he turned away from her, from the blooming of… something. It was best not to use that word anymore.

“I just didn’t want to wait any longer. I missed you,” she huffs when the silence extends between them, breaks up the tension in the air but not what creeps over her own shoulders.

“Your bruise..” He wants to tell her of his sleepless nights, of how he pictures her in place of any old deity upon a throne in heaven, but settles for where his eyes linger on her neck.

No explanation is provided, but she lets him bring his fingers to it, ghost over where the purple melds to yellow in the shape of thick fingerprints. Add wrath to the ever growing list of his sins, because it’s all he feels amidst the envy and love.

His fingers dig into the plain back trousers when they rest upon his lap again, something foreign buzzes beneath his skin. The thought that any man would be brazen enough to lay hands upon his very own angel.. It’s unbelievable, unforgivable. His thoughts spiral so quickly it’s frightening. Timid things can become vicious, too, when backed into corners.

She manages to keep this growing storm in check when she stands and smooths her skirt, and offers to tidy up the church in an act of ‘repentance’.

The chores are simple and the sisters that linger far past service seem grateful to have her here as she takes up the broom and sweeps away at the dusty floor. They chatter away with her, take her hat and rest their hands over her shoulders when the cleaning winds to an end. His angel closes her eyes in prayer, doesn’t so much as open them to send him a knowing glance when they pray for her to find a good husband, someone who deserves such a lovely, godly woman.

She shares a meal with them while König keeps to himself with scripture in hand, mindlessly roving over the words even when his thoughts drift to the night of their first kiss.

He reasons that it’s only natural when she gives him such a display of acceptance too. It only solidifies what he knows already: this woman is no succubus— she has not crawled from the depths of Hell to drag him back with her, she’s only heavensent. An angel with a broken wing or a gaping wound somewhere… something to care for.

She’s encouraged to return by several fond voices. A few of the women even offer to walk her home, the daylight is dying and it’s dangerous for a lone lady out at night. The angel smiles at him then, sharing in the knowledge that she prefers the dark. Not the wicked things, but the peace and the beauty of the moon.

And she returns when he abstains from her.

She confides in him after each sermon that she does long to see him more often, but she likes the way he speaks of Mary Magdalene and the other women in scripture, pokes fun at the lilt to his voice when he notices her amidst the crowd of others. She says she likes him a lot before they part ways in the evenings, but she doesn’t tempt him with pouts or trailing fingers.

He thanks her for respecting his faith each time - despite being the one who crossed several boundaries initially. Though he keeps his hands to himself now, the looks he gives to her are pleading and soft. If she would pull him into a kiss now, he would let her have all of him. They could run away together, from the church, from her clients…

It’s on one of those cloudy Sundays that he does ask her if she’s stopped. He braves the look she gives him when his question comes as a hushed stutter. The comfort between them no longer feels tentative. It’s just there. Ever-present as the sky above.

“Well, you haven’t,” she whispers in response, propping her elbow up on the back of the pew. It’s as if she believes it could be so simple, but it’s not. Not for either of them.

The spiels of Heaven and Hell won’t reach her, so he doesn’t bother with those. She offers him an invitation with her words and the way she remains so open that it’s difficult not to take.

It’s been months since he touched her last and the love has only seemed to have grown. Strange. Perhaps he is as odd as she’s imagined him to be. There have been weddings in this very church, talks of long years of courtship, and even then what those men must have felt for their brides had to have paled in comparison to this. It had to.

“Tell me how to,” he breathes without any underlying thought. Saints don’t question their gods, they only serve them.

“You’re actually considering it…?”

“I might.”

The silence crowds around the bench while her fingers brush over the pages of a hymnal in repetition and his only inch closer to her clothed knee.

“You could meet me at the cemetery tonight… We could talk more there.”

“At night is probably not the best time.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Friends don’t kiss. Friends don’t feel the way he feels now, or how he’s felt for the past few months. Platonic arrangements don’t require repentance. But, he bites his tongue and tilts his head back, lets it roll off the shoulder when his hand draws back to his lap. Another time.

Not where the Heavenly Father could see, if he were even watching any longer.

“… Tomorrow morning would be better.”

“Then I’ll come get you. Don’t you dare try and get out of it,” she chirps with the wildest glint of mirth alight in her eyes.

Stay.

If the church caught fire now and the rafters came to sink into the earth not a part of him would or could even care as long as she were just here. But he watches her go without a word of opposition, watches her nod toward the sisters standing out in the yard and clasp her hands in front of her, smiling to herself as though the world were made for just the two of them.

It stings during nightly prayer, and it burns when he lies in bed to wait for the morning. There are cicadas singing and footsteps on old wooden boards to remind him that he isn’t entirely alone, the scent of tobacco drifting from his window when another plaster saint hides beyond the veil of night to smoke. He doesn’t sleep, his eyes remain fixed upon the ceiling until the darkness of the room drifts to a dull gray with the sun’s slow rise.

And König does not wait for her to fetch him. Morning prayer dissolves into a mournful cry because there is no part of him that can fathom or interpret any of this. A trial should not feel like a blessing when he’s faced with it. God must be playing the stupidest game imaginable to test him with someone so lovable, so charming. Where the church leaves him feeling filthy with remorse, she purifies him with only a curl of her lips and starlight dancing in her eyes.

None of it is fair.

The guilt must be something obligatory, summoned up like puffs of dust from the floorboards. Worshiping idols is a sin, but it’s not the angel that feels like one, it’s the attention he pays to the cloud in his head that does. That’s the one that should go.

He grits through prayer with the other men, doesn’t chime in with unnecessary words of devotion this time. The coffee burns his tongue when he downs the mug and forgoes breakfast. There are dark rings beneath his eyes when he ventured to the washroom to brush his teeth, and there are whispers in the halls that the young priest must be either coming under a possession or God is preparing him for something. Something big and exciting. He ignores those and the stern glances from the little nuns in their robes, huffs something of a joke about a momentary sabbatical when he lumbers out of the walls of the church.

There are no new bruises this time, but König has the memory of the last ones stuck in his skull. A clear image of four small marks on the side of her neck, another on its opposite. Larger, more pronounced. Five marks from a hand that never belonged there. Kerosene and a match are what the thoughts running rampant in his head would look like to an outsider.

She tells him on the thin picnic blanket that she’s got a new client, that he gives her enough to where she doesn’t have to consider any others now. The man has a much stranger set of interests, ones she hadn’t delved into before him, but she’s merciful enough to withhold the details that would lead König to make the crucifixion seem a gentle affair.

She tells him because she wants him to be proud that it’s only one now. That she’s making some sort of progress for him. None of it is fair, and he knows without asking that she feels more akin to the way that he does than any of the holy men.

And still he can’t help but ask, “Do you love him?”

“Of course not,” comes her immediate response, and there’s a near imperceptible glare there, judging by the fire in her eyes. It’s cute… and he feels the world's ugliest fool for daring to ask for reassurance as though this relationship was any sort of normal. If it were even a relationship at all.

Their hands touch, reaching for the same flaky pastry in the basket she brought along and Heaven’s bells ring out in his ears when her gaze sweeps over him. Everything is sugared dough and right again. She offers him her lap in place of a pillow for his head when the clouds grow thick and gray above, feeds him from her own hand and runs her fingers across his face with the other.

“How did you get the sky in your eyes?,” she asks him, makes him blush so easily his heart stutters within his chest. He feels like a boy in her presence, and in a way, to her, maybe he even is just some inexperienced whelp nipping at her heels.

The angel does not judge, she softly rakes her nails behind his ear and neck until he shivers in her hold. His hair is next, a victim to her comfort as she tousles it between her fingers, strokes him like the smallest of kittens when he feels anything but.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he mutters, raising a hand to brush at her cheek. Warm as he expected, yet softer. There’s nothing wicked here, only a woman. A woman who loves him as he loves her.

“Your eyes are pretty… sad. I love them,” comes the sweet reply that reduces him to nothing but scattered feathers and a howling ache.

Did he even exist before now? Before her? This woman has filled him with such purpose, breathed new life into a stagnant soul. The church was a safe place for a man scorned by the rest of the world, but that blanket felt unnecessary now. He wanted to feel her hands move over him like this, smell the petals in her perfume, hear her voice speak to him, all of it. Forever.

“I think that I lose myself when I’m with you.”

“Does that hurt you?”

“Nein… I’m happier like this.” It’s the closest to a confession he can whisper.

And he returns to her, morning after morning König rushes through paying his dues to God and his men to return to her like this.

When the graveyard is silent and the dew still sticks to the blades of grass, her voice sounds sweeter somehow beneath the glow of the rising sun. The birds sing around them and often she pushes wildflowers into his hair, clasps her hands around his neck and teaches him to kiss.

Her tongue moves with grace, his is only a thing of greed. Each chaste peck is met with a hunger from somewhere so foggy and forgotten it never had a home at all, not before now. The angel needn’t show him where to rest his hands, they pry at every part of her: gentle brushes against her cheek and neck, kneading at her shoulders, further, further until he does finally starve off any lingering thought of what is good or evil to explore the curve of her lower back.

Most of the time words come in afterthought, once lips are wet and plush from this gentle devouring, after she steels herself from running her hands any further down than his stomach. He tells her in truth that he prays to her, not for. Not anymore.

The shadows cast from the aspens keep them tucked far away from sight, from God and his people alike. A temple for two without four walls to close them in. The only place on this earth that he’s ever found himself in perfect solace.

“I want to try something,” she breathes just when he’s prepared himself to leave. The tree at his back, knees parted, where she remains sat across from him. There’s nervousness there, not the fretful way she looks after a long night, nor the way she looked to him upon their first meetings. “Do you trust me?”

“Ja… more than anyone,” he reassures in a soft tone of voice, tipping her chin up with the tips of two fingers to further accentuate it. Her beauty and her uncertainty always strike a chord within him, a fire that never dwindles. When her eyes search his own, his breath catches.

He doesn’t say a word when she peels away the robes from the front of his trousers. Her hands linger on at the waistband for a moment, takes enough time to offer the gentlest peck to the side of his neck before continuing. It’s another first, being exposed to a woman like this when she lowers the band and has him shimmy backward to free his cock from his pants. Soft with shame or embarrassment, a concoction of other things he could not name, but the moment she looks up at him with pure delight he feels himself grow stiff.

“Wow… You’ve got a perfect cock,” she assesses with a laugh, finger running up the length of it as it twitches to life under her touch.

Scheisse.

He strokes her cheek with reverence as she bends down before him, watching him carefully through her eyelashes. Her warm breath drifts over his manhood and he’s already horribly aware that this would not last long. Another lesson, like the kisses, maybe. She could mold him any way that she likes and he would be pleased to play the role of her Adam.

The tongue isn’t what he anticipated. She flattens it against the tip, breathes a laugh when a keening whine is pulled from his throat. To see such an ugly, vulgar thing pressed to the beautiful mouth he’s kissed a dozen times now. It feels wrong. There’s no hesitation when her lips wrap around him. And then all of it— everything is just right. Every moment spent in this hazy, loving glow with her is right. If Hell were to come from this, then let it.

He can’t tear his eyes away from her, can’t bring himself to speak when he feels the way his cock hits the back of her throat, feels her swallow around him and make such a pleased noise as she wraps her fingers around the expanse she can not take.

Its pitiful, the way he must look: mouth agape, eyes lidded and heavy… He brings a hand to her hair, and runs his fingers through it as if she isn’t letting him fuck her mouth, but rather in the midst of something far holier, softer. Sacrilegious or divine. If God we’re watching, let him.

She pulls back a little, an obscene, wet sound in answer when her mouth is drawn back enough to merely press a kiss the tip, puffy lips glossy with drool. “Is this okay…? Not too much?”

“You are so pretty… it feels… just keep going.” His voice no longer possesses any feigned confidence, it begs like a wounded thing, chanting, “Bitte. Please…”

His hips tilt up when she parts her lips again, all trepidation be damned. This is something, something he’s aches for and never had the chance to feel. All of the ache, the longing to be diminished, to unite with the angel who fled Heaven for him. The cock pushes at her open mouth, smears thick beads of precum over her cheek, before she takes him in again with a delighted, muffled sound. Her soft mouth, the tongue that thoroughly laps at his shaft and follows her movements to wrap and suck at the head. Otherworldly, and… unfathomably bittersweet.

Her lips suction around him, the movements of her wrist only increasing, and with the second roll of his hips he feels his stomach begin to tense as pure heat rolls its way through him. A gentle coursing becomes a blinding inferno in mere seconds, and regrettably, instinctively, that hand so gently combing through her hair comes to snare it instead and force her down further.

His soft grunts and low pleading morph to something choked and almost agonized. It’s the purest rapture, a pleasure so absolute his eyes prick as he bows lower to cover over her as she swallows his devotion by mouth. The angel pants breathlessly when she pulls away with saliva and semen still stringing them together, cleansed by his thumb tracing over her lips, replaced so swiftly by his own mouth. The kiss is so chaste it feels misplaced here, but she nuzzles against him in this comedown from ecstasy, doesn’t even chastise how he lasted a mere two minutes.

And he vows, vows in the sweetness of her comfort and love that no one else will ever have this again.

— — —

Abstaining from meals during a fast is a struggle in and of itself; abstaining from her is some long-forgotten circle of Hell.

It’s not avoidance, but a necessity.

To think that his first sexual encounter would provoke days of concern, a wistful daydream about a future he never would have thought to have had otherwise. There was a desperate, starving desire to repent when he first arrived home after that, but nothing that a bottle of communion wine and a cold shower could not wash away. Repentance has lost its merit to him.

And after seven days, he’s perfectly aware of what he must do. To absolve them both from things where atonement seems far from a necessity at all. He folds his holy robes and leaves them on the bed in the room too small, set neatly next to his Bible. The rosary was the one thing that König could not bear to part with. The beads, red and shimmery, were chosen and strung together with him in mind. It’s slipped into the pocket of his jeans after the plain, black t-shirt is pulled over his head.

There’s a hammer in his gloved hand, and he doesn’t recall where he found it. Lying with its head rusted in the churchyard, perhaps half buried beneath the soil. Some of the other clergymen are talented at fixing things, but König’s never been very good with that. His first rosary was broken with a careless slip of his fingers, and he’s shattered more porcelain than he could count on accident.

Even communion wine can be a bit too strong, sometimes. Or maybe that’s only when the bottle’s been entirely downed. He’ll blame one of his betters when the stock is counted and one turns up missing, if they bother to come seek him out again at all.

The motel is dead at this hour, so late into the night. The few normal visitors have already been accounted for with watchful eyes, and the angel waits in one of the rooms on the second floor. He imagines the laces on her lingerie, the healing bruises on her throat, and that sweet expression upon her face. Or maybe that one was reserved solely for him. He prayed… no, he hoped so.

After tonight, there would be no more mercies for him. Or perhaps there would be an abundance, blessings from the vultures and the wolves and the maggots he would feed. New gods that were still far lesser than the angel who suffers men in sheets, but only looks to him with love.

And he doesn’t have to wait long, because the demon finds his way here with haste. Does he come here every night looking as proud as he does now? His attire even resonates with death, black with those white details, a costume that seems so fitting for one about to meet the very face he wears.

Killing someone isn’t so easy. Cain murdered his brother with a rock, described in such loose detail that one would think a playful throw led to Abel’s end. But it’s not so, not when the victim is hellbent on living.

The demon is smaller, but strong. He’s been in situations like this before, doesn’t have to spit the words to tell König so. They’re felt with each blow, with the sharp edge of the knife this bastard manages to dig into his side. Just barely, before it’s jerked out of his hand and thrown several paces away. The skittering across the tarmac is enough to chant doom.

There’s blood. More with the first strike of the hammer. It seemed so much easier in thought rather than practice. In his imaginings, the head would split with the first fall like an overripe apple, crumple in and the breath would leave the demon in an instant. Instead, it’s dozens. Blow after blow while the smaller man struggles below him.

A strange catharsis comes over him when his soul grows murky, when his hands are slick and the struggle comes to an abrupt end. The sobering only comes when he’s spent an hour driving down the most forested roads to find a place to dump the body. There’s no tact to it, laying a man to rest in shrubbery and dirt. With a head so collapsed it’s hard to think of this as a man at all. A corpse, something no longer simply human.

König does not pray for him when he rests the hammer in the deceased’s hands. Does not offer it more than a passing thought when he peels away back toward home. The deed is done and he’s free of those horrid burdens tainting his heart, keeping him held back on a short leash to divinity.

Like fate, she’s found out in the garden again after the bloodied shirt and stained gloves are discarded. The wound is patched with what he could find available, a hastily tied strip of gauze covers his side. A week or so at best until the gash would heal into an ugly, jagged scar. It seemed even a bastard devil’s blade couldn't be sharp enough to fell a Goliath when he’s caught by surprise and horny.

He feigns merely emptying the garbage into an outside bin, plays off the sting of the gash with a humble, lumbering gait. She beams up at him through lines of tears running down the sides of her face like small, silver streams beneath the darkened sky above.

He’s not a saint anymore, no… a guardian angel. The archangel Michael with his sword set ablaze and divinity scrawled into every scale of his chest plate. Something holy and glowing, unsullied and beautiful.

Like her.

“You’re crying…”

“Sorry… bad night. Client just ghosted me.”

No. This was good, couldn’t she see that? All the sleepless nights, the prayer and the constant, overwhelming longing. Everything he had suffered for her, and still she only comes to him with the thought of that horrible thing in mind.

“He’s dead.” Maybe it was just the fear of a loss of money. He had enough saved up someplace, and the collection pool would be beneficial enough to pivot them towards a new life. No church. No lonely motel. He had to test it, give her a trial and hope that she did not simply break.

The look that crosses her face is one of confusion… Then comes a strange twist of relief. Her mouth falls slightly agape and her arms squeeze slightly around his middle.

“We just spoke a few hours ago. How…?” Finally, suspicion.

Maybe he’s too drunk on playing God now to care, to realize this isn’t how a good man would have handled things. The only thing that holds any weight, that resonated with him any at all is the thought that he loves her, that he will protect her until his dying breath, pray at her feet and anything else she might ask.

That’s what pulls him to press her down against the bed of the truck, to kiss her with every lesson she’s blessed him with in mind. Tongue and teeth, fire and spit, she accepts all of it. She doesn’t beg him for an answer: she’s seen the worst of men, taken cocks far less deserving. Her hands find his hair as they drift away here, gives the strands a sharp tug to usher him closer, roll her tongue against his own.

The sheer tights she wears beneath her skirt are ripped at the seam between her legs by large hands, panties pushed to the side before she finally presses against the broad chest against her to gain some space. Her breath is shallow, face warmed and hair a mess, still the loveliest thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon.

“Are you afraid?” He tilts his head to the side, curious, as if there were no reason for her deny him of this now after he had just *killed for her*. After he forsook what once was all he knew all for her. He would do it again without question, with no gain at all, but the sting of rejection was not something he could entirely choke back.

But his angel never runs out of mercies, it seems.

“No… just give me a second.”

She slips her hand down between her parted legs, demonstrates for him just how to prepare a woman. He watches, mesmerized, as she circles the bud above her slit, dips her finger downward to spread wetness along her flesh. Dew over petals. A finger slips inside of her, and all at once is shoved aside.

“Let me,” he pleads, already pressing both hands to her inner thighs, tilting her hips upward as his head sinks between them.

“You don’t have to,” she whispers, but grants him his wish with feverish nods that betray her words, allows him to kiss her sex as he shifts himself into a better position.

There’s nothing to go off of but her sounds, the cries of pleasure when his tongue lolls out to lick at the nub where most of her reactions stem from. He mutters against her about her taste, something so ethereal he could not even begin to place. Her scent envelopes him in full, and he’s never felt closer to anything prior. She allows his clumsy licking, moans louder for him when he can’t stifle his own groaning. The pants are too tight around him, and patience is another virtue he finds that he lacks.

She doesn’t reach some fantastical height of pleasure when he presses a finger into her cunt, but her body seems to fit even that like a glove, squeezing around him as he lazily circles her bud with his tongue. She doesn’t come, but she tugs him by the hair to usher him back into another kiss, hands roving down his abdomen to free his manhood from the barriers of fabric. And finally… finally he’s granted entrance to Heaven.

The first thrust leaves him spiraling, lost into a world of silk and honey. And the angel does not give him any time to recover, she writhes beneath him, shifting her hips to pull him in deeper, muffles each whine and groan from his lips with her tongue hungrily lapping over his own.

He’s thought about having a woman many times, but never imagined it could feel this good. To be so complete, every woe or fear cast aside in the act of mindless pleasure.

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, to keep his eyes shut or gaze down at her and cease this assault on his mouth to tell her that he loves her, that she feels like pure fucking paradise and he’s already on the verge of coming undone. He settles for moving, dragging himself in and out of her in slow movements, turning his face away to bite down on her shoulder when the feeling of her walls cinching him like a vise threatens to spur him into finishing on the spot.

“That’s just… god… you’re good at this,” she gasps when a hand is sunk between their bodies, flicking at her clit as he spears her open. Her hands find his back, raking her fingernails down past his shoulder blades. It’s agonizing, trying to fight back the urge to breed her full, watch his come spill out from her perfect cunt until he finds himself hard again. The very thought makes him gasp, grind himself deeper inside of her as her nails dig into his back.

“Mein… this is… you understand…,” he’s babbling, hardly coherent, and she only seems to accept it. The angel chants her agreement amidst the beginning of her rapture.

She cries out for him when she comes, her sex pulsing around him as she shivers that all restraint is immediately lost. She hugs him so tightly, squirms as she hisses a curse into his ear.

It’s a miracle he’s even lasted this long. He halts his pace for a mere second to prop himself up, gaze down at her in absolute reverence before that fire swallows him whole. It’s unceremonious when he comes: a growl and a wail as he buries he face into her neck and pumps every last drop of his seed into her pussy.

He doesn’t want to pull out, doesn’t want to leave such a complete embrace. The world has already ended for him, a long time ago on the very night they met. There’s no need to drag out their ruin with whatever else occurs when she’s out of his grasp.

She strokes over the marks she’s made, gentle, tickling touches of her fingertips and shy giggles when their eyes meet again.

“I thought I would never get to do this with you,” she admits, quiet when her hands drift to cup his jaw instead. “You’re perfect, you know that…?”

He wants to cry, wants to fuck all of his woes away, kneel before her and beg that she find a place where they can never be apart. Steal her away to some cabin up in the Alps, where flowers grow in thick patches on the hillsides, a wild garden of her very own.

“… You should stay with me,” he huffs into her ear, fingers dimpling the flesh of her hips as he tries desperately to force himself closer to her.

“You can’t mean the church,” she giggles. “So where should we go?”

“We can figure that out in the morning, hm?”

#könig x reader #konig x reader

454 notes · View notes

fairytsuk1 · 4 months ago

Text

make me want you | (s)

apart of maki's kinktober: the 2024 anthology

prompt: lingerie, manipulation, first time

pairing: satoru gojo x reader

words: 6.5k

warnings: dubcon/noncon-ish, sex while high, gojo is an asshole, objectification, virginity loss, innocence loss, manipulation, pushing boundaries, marijuana

"I don't know, she seems nice."

"What are you talking about!? She's hot," Satoru emphasized, picking at his lunch. "And she's got a cute butt."

Suguru hummed, reflecting and nodding coolly as he ate some of Satoru's fried chicken–much to the latter's chagrin. The two eat in a murky silence as Satoru eyes him suspiciously.

"Who aren't you telling me about?"

"Hmm," Suguru chews thoughtfully, letting the suspense grow. "I don't think you'd like her."

"I like everyone! C'mon, you have to tell me now. Is she really needy or somethin'?"

"No. She's just… innocent."

Blue eyes scan the dark figure intensely. He was holding out on him; he knew it, Suguru knew it, and within seconds, Satoru was squeezing right up next to him and pressing further, "You're such a liar! I don't know who you're talking about, so spill. We promised to tell each other this stuff, you know?"

He's really hesitant, but your name falls from Suguru's lips. Satoru is stunned.

"No way," his alabaster hair shakes in the wind. "No way, she's too cute to be a virgin."

"She is, Shoko told me about it. Apparently she got too talkative at a party or something?"

"So she's a lightweight," Satoru grins devilishly, cheeks flushing with impure thoughts.

"Keep your illegal thoughts to yourself," Suguru chuckles and wipes his mouth with a napkin.

It was a typical lunch talk. Fried chicken, soba, kikufuku, and girls. It was perfect, and Satoru was left satiated and maybe even hungrier for more. Hungry for you.

You were cute and adorable. You'd passed by in his mind a few times as he surveyed the typical party scene whilst sipping a concoction of acrid alcohol and sugary mixers. You had stuck out like a delicate flower, and he'd wrongly assumed you were being guarded by some protective wasp. How wrong he was.

It just wasn't the case. You'd never even been touched. Here he had the most delicious nectar practically in the palm of his hands. Who was he to deny himself the simple pleasures of sucking you dry. Satoru had marked you. Who else was going to give it to you good, going to make you remember why you let him into your guts in the first place.

Satoru thinks about you in the shower with a hand wrapped around his dick. While he's sitting in his first class and snoozing. When he's "studying" in the library–secretly circling answers on a Sudoku crossword. He had to have you soon, or he was going to explode.

He seeks you out when you're sitting and reading on a bench. There you were, petals swaying in the wind. You'd fall for him quickly.

"Hey there." Satoru puts on a charming grin and immediately sits beside you. "Whatcha reading?"

Your face flushes immediately at seeing him. What the hell was Satoru Gojo doing here, let alone sitting next to you!? The anxieties in your chest are suppressed into a small flame as you choke out an answer, "Frankenstein."

"Woah, that's pretty dark! I've never read it, you like it?"

Satoru crosses his arms and rests his head on them, appealing to you like a puppy you just can't help but give pets to. Your head nods immediately, and you offer a shy smile that makes Satoru want to groan. Jesus, he was already starting to get hard in his loose joggers.

"I-It's pretty good so far, I'm not that far into it."

"Hm," and he says your name so alluringly. "You don't really do much, do you?"

It's a bit offensive, and you bristle at the comment while shaking your head in protest.

"That's not true, I've seen you at parties! I mean, well, maybe you haven't seen me––"

"I would've remembered seeing such a pretty face like yours," Satoru scoots closer to man spread, your knees touching. "Do you like going out?"

A quick nod and your eyes are flitting back to your book shyly. He'd have so much fun breaking you.

"Yeah, it's fun. I'd guess you go out all the time," you trail off, eyelashes batting unconsciously as you succumb to his questioning.

"Not really," a lie. "Huh, are you stereotyping me?"

Satoru leans in close, smiling wide as he teases you. You snicker and tell him no. You are cute–his eyes gratefully rake over you before meeting yours.

"I think you're really nice. Would you like to go on a date sometime?"

It has to be a joke. One of the most attractive men at your university was singling you out, plucking you from the rust, and dusting you off. Your face feels hot, and you're looking everywhere as if dazed.

"A-Are you sure?"

"Am I sure? Jeez, you give yourself too little credit!"

A brave hand adjusts a stray hair, and you wonder if this is a dream.

"Sorry, I just… okay. I'll go on a date with you, Gojo."

He smirks like the devil, "You can call me Satoru if you want."

"Okay, Satoru," would you sound just as sweet when he mounted you and slid in balls deep?

"I'll pick you up at your dorm. Which is it?"

You tell him, and he might turn pink himself. He's smiling with a twinkling wave. That'd make you the first of the Circle Building, sweet! He name-drops you again as he goes to languidly leave, like he knows you're keenly listening to every syllable that falls from his lips.

"Pick you up at 8, 'kay? See ya," he's sparkling with joy while turning away.

"Bye!"

Satoru Gojo leaves you tugging your books close to your chest with a giddy grin. Your panties are sticky, and your heart is racing doubly fast. He leaves you shaking the same way you would if he was peeling off your bra to reveal soft tits; all he did was talk to you on a bench.

You opt to get ready then and there. Nails are filed, and mascara is applied. You feel pretty good as you twirl in the mirror before heading out. Some dark part of you is telling you it's a joke, he's not really waiting for you, he's…

Waiting for you against a streetlamp. He's got a bouquet of roses in one hand and sunglasses perched delicately on his nose.

"Hey, pretty girl," he suavely hands the flowers to you. "I can come inside with you to put 'em in water~."

You're too bright for that, rolling your eyes with a smirk.

"I think I've got it, just wait here."

You're only gone for a few minutes. However, it's long enough for Satoru to daydream of silken sheets and your glossy lips leaving sticky residue all over his body. Suguru was so stupid for not getting his hands on you when he had the chance! You return and Satoru's smile beams at you. You feel so lucky when he offers a muscled arm.

"Shall we go, my lady?"

Even your laugh is gorgeous, all high-pitched and bubbly. Something about it makes Satoru want to keep cracking stupid jokes, all to hear how your lips quirked up into a perky grin. The image of you smiling at him against the contrast of whistling trees burns into his retinas for a moment.

"So you read old books, and you like to have coffee for breakfast," he starts, voice tinged with mirth. "Wanna guess where our first date is?!"

"A coffee shop?"

"No, a bookstore and a coffee shop!"

Satoru emphasizes his words with a huge spread of his arms, and you feel legitimately shy under his gaze.

"Do you even like to read?"

"This isn't about me, little lady."

He's so suave as a hand takes your waist and leads you inside. The combination of the sticky coffee beans, books meticulously dusted and Satoru leaves your head spinning. Everything is your vibe. He looks down at you eagerly as you take in Persian rugs and glistening chandeliers, "this is amazing!"

"You really like it?"

The truth was that Satoru knew nothing about bookstores and coffee shops–he was much more of a pastry and nature walk type of guy. Your date hums thoughtfully as you reach the counter, ordering a white chocolate mocha before pulling out his black card. Your eyes nearly pop out of your head, seeing a pale hand effortlessly slide it over.

"Are you seriously gonna pay? I-I brought my wallet!"

"What kind of date would I be if I didn't pay?! Don't tell me someone's spreading rumors about me," he pouts and lets his hand slide a little lower. "You'd tell me if they were, right?"

"I don't know, should I? Your ego might get too big."

"My ego is just fine, thank you very much!"

He picks a corner booth with the right amount of privacy, practically squishing you into the seat as he sidles up close. There's the briefest flash of Suguru's name before he quickly turns to phone over and distracts you with the bluest eyes you've ever seen.

"S-So, did you have any classes today?"

"Let's talk about something interesting; what's your ideal type?

"What?!"

You're sputtering out how that question was inconceivable and not for a first date–and then he's shutting you up with a hand that twirls a soft curl around the curve of your cheek.

"No need to be shy. I'll tell you mine."

"...Really?"

He smirks, "why would I lie to someone as sweet as you?"

The two of you are stuck in a standstill. He'll only tell if you do first. It was so childish, but what was to be expected from Satoru? A manicured finger brushes against your cheek.

"Did I lose you?"

"No, no," your thighs rub together, and he has to force his eyes to stay focused on your face. "No, sorry. Umm, I'd say my type is…"

Do you describe him? No, too bold. Make something up? No, you weren't a good enough liar for that. You go with the truth, unknowingly stepping further into his bear trap.

"I guess I don't have one."

He doesn't embarrass you nor make you feel small. Satoru nods thoughtfully, "You're just looking for love then, hm?"

"I guess so," when he puts it like that.

"That's really cute. I love a good romantic."

He says simply, eyes lazily trailing your form and leaving hot fire in its wake. Satoru undresses you in his mind, and you're preening for more.

"Now, your turn."

"Hmm… maybe it's not appropriate."

"You said you'd tell me after I told you mine!"

"I diiid say that, didn't I?"

Your date mulls over his response, and a sinking pit in your stomach grows deeper. God, did you really want to know?

"I like a lot of different things. But, you know what I like about you?"

"That isn't the same as an ideal type–"

"You're smart, shy, and sexy."

The silence echoes. The waiter places your drinks down with a curious look as you implode in Satoru's presence. He chuckles darkly, eyes lowered, "which happens to be a type I like very much."

Oh. You were expecting blonde hair and blue eyes, maybe something objectifying. Definitely not this. Not some semblance of truth that spilled out his mouth easily.

"I, uhm, thanks?"

"You're welcome," he quips and leans his head close enough that you can really see in his eyes now.

They really are so blue. A deep ocean on white sand. You have to look away.

Coffee comes and goes, trading sips and small tidbits back and forth. He loved Digimon as a kid, has known Suguru forever, and has an incredible sweet tooth–something he mentions after lithe fingers steal a piece of buttery croissant from your plate.

You love to read, are dedicated to your studies, and have no problem saying yes every time Satoru challenges your boundaries. A flaky pastry here, a brush of his palm against your exposed thigh there.

It all adds up. Slight sparks grow into the smallest fire, and then his added tinder of whispering in your ear only alights you further, "I'm havin' a good time, and you?"

Somehow, the two of you are face to face as you nod.

"I-I'm really glad you asked me out," you don't want to admit you assumed he had no idea of your existence.

"You're really such a good girl."

You must be so flushed right now, leaning unconsciously closer as he baits you. He almost wants to laugh and give in. Your eyes fluttered and lowered; you were already ready for him; all he had to do was make you feel lovely and special.

Satoru pulls away with a slight smirk, and you're adjusting yourself to appear as proper as possible, as if you weren't about to kiss him right there and then. He keeps a cerulean eye on you before sitting up straight and sighing.

"I think they're closing soon."

"They are. But it's okay; you'll still have some time with me when I walk you home!"

"Oh, you don't have to."

"Don't try to refuse me," the no-nonsense look shuts you up immediately.

How hard was it to try to resist him? You found it impossible, especially with how he laced care into every action. He wraps a loose arm around your waist, slows down his walking speed, makes you laugh, and squeezes the plush skin, thumb dipping to graze your heavenly skin. It's hard to keep track of the world moving around you when you're with Satoru.

Perhaps you were treading on the path of love. Your heart is open and accepting. It's too bad Satoru gleams at you like a big bad wolf, and he was more than ready to snatch you up and relish you like the fine woman you were.

Footsteps slow as you draw closer to the guarded dormitory entrance. It's quiet when you thank him for the night, "it's no problem."

He's clearly deep in thought, and your mind races to see if you have forgotten anything. Then, Satoru steps back and pulls two candies from his bag.

"Care for a quick game?"

"Huh, what is it?"

"I'm swapping these candies," his hands behind his back wiggle, and you're watching him eagerly, "which one has the chocolate?"

You're watching him eagerly for any clues as you repeatedly scan him.

"It's clearly the left one. Show me!" he tuts and leans a tad closer.

"Grab it yourself," you're laughing and reaching forward to pull his thin wrist out, declaring you were so sure of yourself.

You weren't all that sure. Satoru leans down and kisses you. If not for the guard outside, he keeps it PG only to keep you needy. He hums as your plush lips echo a squeak before falling prey to his. You were a fun little game; he couldn't stop pressing your buttons and waiting for that flash of victory to grace your face.

"Y-You kissed me!"

"Goodnight," he purrs lowly.

He chuckles at your shocked face, slipping the chocolate into your palm and manually curling your fingers around it.

"Let me know how it tastes! Text me."

Satoru's hand shakes his phone as he walks backwards. Victory! You're just smiling shyly before popping the candy into your mouth. Had things been different, he could really have fallen for you.

Texting him came easy to you. You text him about how yummy the chocolate was and whether he got home okay. It's all different when he responds. It's flat and unexciting, so… unlike the Satoru you got to know over coffee.

[satoru]: that's great

[satoru]: yea, see you later !

[you]: are you going to sleep soon?

[you]: sorry if i’m spamming lol!

[you]: goodnightttt

Read. Read. Delivered. You don't want to spam him, but was this really it? Maybe he was just so tired. Your frown is ubiquitous as you analyze the messages while brushing your teeth, before bed, getting ready for class, and all up until you're walking on campus with purpose.

Why wouldn’t he respond? Was it something you said? Maybe he didn’t enjoy the kiss. No, he initiated it. How the hell wouldn’t he like it! You couldn’t understand why he was taking a hard left, as you both were meant to turn right.

Whatever. He was probably just feeling the weight of university. That's what you wanted to believe. A belief that the sweet kindness you'd experienced was a carefully guarded side of him. He chose you to share that closeness with.

That's why it hurts so much when you see Satoru tucking a girl's hair behind her ear like he did to you. Slinking an arm around her waist as if you'd never existed, as if he'd never put his arm around yours. You don't get to be jealous, yet the hot humiliation rush burns your skin. The monster inside you is provoked, and your feet move without thinking.

"Hey!"

He looks so unbothered, though the girl sharply glares at you, "hey."

You don't even know what to say. All you know is that this possessiveness is only getting stronger as you stand before them, his thumb under her shirt as he holds her close. Maybe even closer than he had you.

"I just wanted to say thanks," you offer casually. "It's my new spot."

"Hm?

“The coffee shop we went to.”

“Oh, yeah? I'm glad you liked it."

It's infuriating how easily he can brush you off. His tone is flat, and you're grinning despite the pain aching in your face. You're nothing short of pissed as you hail your ass to class, your backpack weighing heavy on your body and Satoru on your mind.

You felt stupid for falling for it. Of course, he was a flirt, of course it was nothing special.

[satoru]: you free tmrw?

[you]: No, I'm not sry.

Matching his energy felt deserved in this case.

[satoru]: didn't you say you only had 1 class?

[satoru]: lemme take you out again :3

[you]: really?

[satoru]: i'll even bring you another candy! Please?

[satoru]: i promise i’d rather be with you than anyone else rn

[satoru]: please?:(

[you]: …

[you]: only for a little while! I do have stuff to do, so…

Read. Oh, goddammit! Your classmates give you a look when you promptly–forcefully turn your phone over. At least he was taking you out again, right? It's not like it was a big deal; maybe you overreacted. He was really grating on your nerves.

He was all heart eyes and cute emojis when you sent him a selfie of you prettied up, and then he disappeared in typical fashion. You text him as you head down the dorm floors. Delivered. You're waiting outside, and everything is just delivered.

You start to feel a bit pathetic standing there like a cat left out in the rain. It's a miracle that Suguru Geto is passing by at that moment. It's only a coincidence that he knows precisely where Satoru was, but that wasn't any of your business.

"Hey there," he stops and gives you a simple wave, eyes scanning you appreciatively before settling on your saddened eyes.

"Hey," you'd worked together on a group project your first year.

You'd always found him kind.

"What are you doing waiting out here? Uber?"

You can't tell him his best friend ditched you. You just can't.

"No, uhm, I… I was waiting for someone, but they canceled."

"Oh? What a shame, not when you look so nice," and the lampposts emphasize the warm smile he gives you. "Aren't you cold?"

Of course, his best friend had left you shivering in a mini skirt. You give a mix of a nod and a shrug, murmuring that you're okay. Another unlucky thing, and you supposed you might burst into tears right in front of him.

"Why don't I keep you some company?"

Geto’s dorm is really nice. He's lucky to have a single room. You don't even realize Geto snaps a photo of you with a quirk on his lips.

[suguru]: attachment.jpg

[satoru]: ???

[satoru]: WHAT R U DOING?

[suguru]: Comforting her

[satoru]: this is so unfair!!!!!

[satoru]: don't do anything

Read. You turn with a grin as you point to one of his collectibles, "I love this show! Wow, this must be so expensive. You're so lucky!"

Geto is everything Satoru isn't when it comes to girls. He's low-key. Tender. If you hadn't of been tangled up with Satoru, things might've been different. Geto walks you home and ruffles your hair playfully when he bids you goodnight. You don't even realize Satoru's been messaging you. You'd muted him.

The minute Satoru found out about his best friend's plans, he jumped out of some poor girl's bed and tugged on his clothes, "I gotta go."

"What?... Won't you call me?"

Satoru's glad he doesn't have to look at her, his chuckle is muffled by the t-shirt he's tugging on.

"Sure I will, baby."

[satoru]: hey i'm otw!!

[satoru]: hello? Are you there?

[satoru]: lolol did you stand me up

[satoru]: Hello??

[you]: sorry! i thought you weren't coming, so I went to hang out with someone else

[satoru]: Come outside

He's standing there menacingly with arms crossed. He lurks like a thief of the night, and you suddenly feel an anxiety course through you. Your arms mimic his, crossing them to appear more confident than you really are.

"Hey–"

"Let's make one thing clear, I don't stand up girls!"

It's a white lie. At least not always, right? He really should get better time management, "and I was waiting here for you while you were with Suguru!"

"How did you know I was with Geto?!"

Satoru sticks out his tongue like a child, and your eyebrow ticks, "as if we don't tell each other everything!"

"Well, you did stand me up, technically! He said he didn't want it to be a waste."

"Well, he wanted to fuck you!"

It comes out so unexpectedly, even Satoru looks shocked.

"What?"

Surely Suguru won't mind if he uses him for this, right?

"I'm not like that. He’s a pervert,” he adds on for good measure. “I really just wanted to see you again."

It was like a video game. The more Satoru sweet-talked you, the more you felt like giving in. Your heart beating at the sudden information. Geto wanted you like that, and Satoru was being a stand-up gentleman. You’d left him waiting.

"If you really did, you wouldn't have been late!"

"Baby," and he swears to himself that the nickname just slipped out. "Please forgive me. It was an accident! I was just trying to get ready, and you weren't answering my messages…"

Satoru gives you puppy dog eyes, and you want to stay strong. The other girl flashes in your mind.

"I'll only forgive you if you pay me back!"

"Oho? Pay you back?"

"Yes," you say resolutely. "It's the only way."

You had undoubtedly thrown him for a loop. How do you pay a virgin back? Satoru looks positively adorable as his hand strokes his chin. He nods in affirmation once, twice.

"I've got something for you, then."

"...What is it?"

"Do you like smoking weed?"

It had happened a few times in the transition from high school to college. A joint there, a blunt here. You weren't exactly an experienced smoker. Satoru sits hunched over on your bed, tongue poking out as he focuses intently on the process of grinding, filtering, and rolling.

"You better watch and learn!"

His voice lilts as he takes a glance at you. He's on your bed, and a man is sitting on your bed, rolling your joints. Satoru gives you a quick wink; you're done for.

"Won't we get in trouble for this?"

"Don't get paranoid," he hums, tongue darting to wet the thin paper. "It'll be fine. We'll go to the terrace or whatever."

A daring hand squeezes your thigh, and you wonder if he hears the gasp that escapes you. He shoots up, a proud look as he presents the joint to you, “good enough for ya?”

"I still don't know if it's a good idea–"

"Don't be such a baby," he murmurs, bending to meet your height. Loose hair strands dangle in your face, and you wish he would kiss you again. "It's gonna be fine, I'll be right with you!"

He was right with you the whole time. Even as you sputtered, your eyes got glassy as you sank into the couch. Satoru drapes his jacket over your shoulders, lips brushing against your ear as he tells you he'll "keep you warm."

Satoru is definitely high. Bloodshot eyes peer at each other as you snuggle further into his jacket. It's warm and smells like cool cologne. It's intoxicating, and you're lazily looking up at him.

"It feels… good."

"Does it now?"

He slinks closer, body sinking further into the couch and knees lewdly widening to spread. He gives you no room, forcing you to come closer to him under the shadowy moonlight.

"It does."

The wolf's jaw widens with hunger.

"Why don't we go back to your room? It's too cold out here."

It really sounds like a good idea when his hand moves further up your thigh, "I still have to make this all up for you. For being such a bad date."

"I thought you already were," and he's finally kissing you again.

A drink of water on a hot day. That's how he kisses, refreshing and light as he quickly urges you to lie further back on the terrace couch. Satisfaction inside you thrums; you knew he was just playing around, sincerity lacing his lips as he kisses your jaw: "You taste so sweet, I really am sorry."

"It's…" he's watching you rampantly. "It's okay."

Satoru smacks the meat of your thigh, a slap echoing as you gasp, "Hey!"

"Let's go back to your room," he reiterates again.

You can't say no in your haze.

Satoru kisses you the minute you cross the threshold from the hallway to the dorm room. He's all over you, all-encompassing, and it's addicting how his fingers twitch around your waist. He's so eager and swallowing your meek whimpers as he guides you to the bed.

"W-Wait, Satoru, I'm…"

He pauses raggedly, licking his lips as he plays the kind lover, "You're what?"

A beat of silence passes through the both of you.

"Am I overwhelming you? Sorry…”

Just as quickly as he pulls away, your hands grasp his forearms with a primal need.

"No! No, I just…" you swallow anxiously, and he feels his cock twitch. "I'm just not experienced like that."

"Oh? You're a virgin," he comments, and a hand comes to lightly rub your shoulder. "Well, we don't have to do anything… but it'd be rude.

"R-Rude?"

"Yeah," he exhales simply, nosing your neck. "'M so attracted to you, and I wanted to pay you back. You're kinda jerking me around here."

"Oh. I-I didn't mean–"

"So it should be fine, right? I wouldn't hurt you," he purrs into your ear, tugging your earlobe with his teeth. "I'll make you feel so good, baby. You'd be able to feel me right… here."

His fingers lazily tap your lower tummy, and you realize he doesn't want to make love; he wants to fuck and pound you into the mattress. His fingers dip lower, his lips leaving syrupy kisses on the fluff of your stomach. It feels more than good.

"It feels…"

"What? Tell me," he demands intently, teeth snapping your skirt against your skin. "If you want me to keep going."

"What?!"

He snickers at your aghast look. Satoru is a man starved, shoving his face between your thighs and inhaling deeply, "such a sweet pussy."

The room spins as you whimper under his teasing touches.

"I-It feels good," you pant softly, with a hand coming to push the crown of his head. "But, I've never–"

In a flash, he's got you pinned. You can't even try to budge him, his muscles bulging slightly as he settles on top of you. He's so big in every way. He dwarfs your form to make sure all you know is Satoru; all you need is him, here, giving it to you good.

"No more buts. I'm gonna make you feel good, yeah? Don't you trust me?"

"...I trust you, I'm just nervous."

It feels like a scolding, but then his hands innocently unbutton your top like he's chatting with you over a meal, "I know~. But don't be. I just wanna make ya' feel good. You'll let me, won't you?"

His words are punctuated with a squeeze of your tits. No one's ever touched you like this before. His thumb is glistening after his tongue peeks out to wet it, eyes holding yours in a wicked gaze. No one's ever tweaked your nipple like this; you're keening and trying to squirm away with a whine.

"Don't try to run away, baby. I'll just bring you back," he murmurs, tugging off his shirt.

Your twin bed creaks as he removes your top, licking his lips.

“Mmf, I’m sensitive there,” you pathetically whisper as your hips buck against him.

You say it so he’ll slow down, but your bra is on full display. The pretty lace, with patterns of roses and curls of fabric, accentuate your soft chest. Satoru looks wistful as his hands run over the delicate pattern and texture.

"Wow, for me? Were you expecting something like this to happen?"

Flexible fingers trace the lace of your bra before giving you another rough squeeze, Satoru sighing in near relief as he fondles your chest.

"No, they–oh, they were on sale!"

"Yeah? Good thing," he purrs before leaning down and sucking on your right breast, tongue laving over your nipple. "'S beautiful on you."

He knows you need this special attention. You've been begging for ages; of course, you want his face in your chest as you moan and moan.

"Poor thing needs me."

His teeth graze your sensitive skin, and finally, a weak moan escapes you, "Sah-Satoru."

The man in question groans, hearing your breathy plea. He's so fucking hard, pulsing in his pants. God, he could cum in his pants just listening to you mewl from playing with your tits.

"Fuck, ohfuck!"

"You're so responsiveee. It's so cute!"

Satoru sits up, his bulge prominent as he scans you over again. If only he had his Polaroid, you would easily be the most beautiful girl walking off uncaptured by him. He'd have to commit you to memory whenever he felt alone and needy.

You eye his figure shyly, seeing a man like this up close for the first time. He tilts his head at your curiously heated before leaning back over you till your hips meet. There's an experimental grind to which you bite your lip, and Satoru feels like the luckiest man in the world.

"Look at me, lemme kiss you."

Somehow, a kiss turns into making out. Your lips slot together easily, and you're preening for his attention at every stroke and lick against your lips. He bites down on the plush of your bottom lip, sighing as you fall further into his arms.

He can't wait anymore; he's too needy, and you sound so good: "I can feel how wet you are, baby. All for me, hm? Not anyone else, not Suguru, no one."

“Keep doing that, ohmy–shit.”

Satoru grinds against you harder, rugged pants escaping him as his hips ruffle your skirt, and he drags his clothed bulge against your clit over and over and over again. It's so sticky between your thighs, your pussy leaking as Satoru pushes your buttons till you're gasping and locking your legs around his waist.

"Ohmygod, 'toru! Ohfuckfuck, I-I can't–I'm gonna cum!"

"Look at you. Cumming from me–nghh, grinding into your creamy pussy. Come on, baby, make a mess of me. Let me feel you soak me."

"Oh, Satoru!!"

You're wiped with your vision going bright as you cum all over his grinding movements. His hands fist the sheets by your head, groaning as the man on top of you struggles to not blow his load too early. He rocks into you roughly and rides out your high with you.

It was one of the strongest orgasms you'd ever had. You're still not entirely back, and his hand lightly slaps your cheek with a chuckle, "Don't tap out on me yet."

A mist of Satoru engulfs you as he tugs your skirt down and off, letting it dangle off your socked foot. He hums, appreciative of the matching lace panties.

"A matching set? Thank you~."

A loud rip echoes in the still room. You protest while he undoes his pants and tosses them in your room. He's hot, hot, hot. His dick leaks pre-cum and a hiss escapes gritted teeth as he pumps over you.

"I paid so much for that!"

"Wasn't it on sale? Besides, it's preventing me from seeing my favorite girl. Keep still."

His movements are practiced as a nimble finger spreads your arousal around. Satoru giggles at the squelching sound when he sinks a finger in, eyes flickering up to yours with a Cheshire cat grin, "well?"

"Your fingers are, ah! L-Longer than mine," you mumble, feet curling as you squirm.

A strong hand quiets your movements, Satoru squeezing your hip as he curls the digit, before slipping in another. It leaves you gasping and already feeling so full as he slowly finger fucks you. The slick sounds make you feel embarrassed and eager to try to close up your legs, but Satoru's free hand digs into the meat of your thigh with a "stop squirming."

He inserts another, and you're squeezing around him too tight. He's downright delirious. The man can't help himself when he dives and suckles your clit between two pretty pink lips.

"Ohmygod, Satoru! Fuck, fuck! Wait, I-I can't–it's!!--"

Satoru can't stop, his own eyes rolling back as he licks your pussy from top to bottom. You taste so fucking sweet. He needs you so bad, he needs you right fucking now.

"Baby, c'mon, you ready?"

You're panting and twitching from how he plays with your body. You're a mess and hair sticks to your forehead as you lay there spent, "I'm wha?"

His head bumps your clit, a soft sigh escaping Satoru as he cants his hips up to barely glide against your sopping folds, "I said, do you wanna be fucked? You ready?"

Purring into your neck and a hand on the underside of your thigh, he's pushing your leg back and pushing forward till his fat tip nestles right at your creamy hole. He's big, too big, it won't fit! You don't even realize you're babbling till his giggle snaps you out of your trance.

"She's swallowing me up so good, holy fuck. You're so so so tight, baby, gonna blow my load so fast."

You're writhing under him, voice caught in your throat as he bullies his fat cock inside. Your walls clench at the sudden intrusion, the way your pussy lets Satoru nestle so deep inside you inch by inch is overwhelming pleasure with pain. You're mumbling, gripping, whining for relief as he stretches you to the limit and peppers your face with kisses.

"'T-Toru," your eyes water, and you're fisting his shirt desperately. "You're so deep inside me, c-can feel you everywhere."

"That's right, cutie. I'm deflowering you, how's it feel? Good, right?"

His hips grind against yours, tip hitting your g-spot in a way where your breath stutters.

"Yes! Oh fuck, wait, just wait."

"Uh, uh. Gotta get her used to it, gotta make sure my baby's taking all of me. Imma move now, hnng."

He starts shallowly rocking against you; little ah, ah, ah's escape you as Satoru eagerly watches your arousal and hints of red coat his throbbing dick. At that, his head tips backward, and he can't help himself when he thrusts into you particularly hard.

You see stars, mouth falling open as Satoru fucks you into your poor creaking bed, he's all the way in your guts now and nimble fingers press over your navel with a manipulative grin, "I'm riiiight here. God, no one else will have you like this, you know? Not your husband or your next boyfriend; I'm claiming this sweet hole and making you mine. Ya hear me?"

"I-I hear you! Nghh, 'toru, I feel like'm gonna cum…!"

"Yeah? Gonna let me feel it, fuuuuck baby. I wanna feel it. Come on, let me make you cum, pretty girl. Let me see your sweet face. It's always the best part about virgins."

His comments leave you with a slight question mark in your mind, lips parting to ask what exactly he meant? Satoru is all keyed in and lands a fat thumb over your swollen bud to rub harsh circles. You're keening and panting and suddenly, you're falling off the edge and squirting all over his cock.

“Satoru! Fuck me, fuckme, oh!!”

Satoru stays enraptured with how you cum around him. Everything feels shaky, it doesn't even feel real, but his balls are churning, and suddenly, he's splaying a hand across your chest to hold you down, and he pumps into your cunt.

He cums with a groan in your ear, hips twitching as he slams into you twice, three times before stilling with a satisfied sigh. He’s wearing a condom, but you can feel how he pulses inside you. Your whimper is soft, utterly exhausted as you weakly clench around his softening dick.

"Jesus, and you're really a virgin. Well, you were," he smirked, and you're hiding your face in his chest with a groan. "Don't get all shy, I just had you all spread open for me."

"Satoruuu," you mumble, lower half aching as you snuggle up to him like a cat begging for scratches.

He happily obliges, the both of you falling into a deep slumber. When you wake up, he kisses you and rolls the two of you another joint to indulge in. He spends the day in his boxers in your room, the two of you kissing and touching as if you were dating. Maybe you wanted to be.

But things with him never last.

"You're too cruel," Suguru laughs and shakes his head. "Seriously."

"You're just jealous about how I'm beating your list now. You'll have to get with someone really ugly now to catch up. A virgin is like an angel."

Satoru teases, eyes flickering to his phone when he sees your contact pop up. So, maybe he hadn't been the best person ever. Maybe he'd immediately ditched you after one night and day of bliss. It wasn't his fault! He was a busy guy and had things to do.

It worked out great anyway when he saw the lewd photo you sent him. Tits pushed up, messy hair, god, he twitches in his boxers.

[angel]: come over?

[angel]: please

[angel]: I saw you with that girl

He snorts, texting back, "so what?"

[angel]: i'm better than her

[angel]: and I can show you

Satoru keeps his messages private to himself, but wonders if you'll ever learn as he bids goodbye to Suguru and skips off to your dorm.

167 notes · View notes

somethinginthewayiam · 5 months ago

Text

Redwoody Productions

pairing: Chibs Telford x plus-size reader

words: 2861

warnings: there is 18+ content throughout (minors DNI), smut, p in v, fluff at the end

a/n: after the horrible events of the last part, I thought I take it somewhere more fun and sexy. This takes place in the events of s7e3. I have managed to get one more chapter out of me which you will get next week. Let me know what you think!

Summary: Lyla and you brought Redwoody Productions to life, filming its first ever scene. You were now officially part of the porn business, even though it was behind the scenes. But that didn't mean it couldn't inspire you to have some fun with your favorite biker...

link to my masterlist and previous parts

“Are you ready?”, Lyla asked you as she came over. “Are you?”, you asked in return and let your eyes wander over the set in front of you.

“I’m ready to get this production off the ground”, she stated and put her arm around your shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s make some porn, people!”, you called out and clapped your hands together. Everybody cheered as you shot Lyla another look and smiled before you walked away from set to give them some room to work.

You walked over to the set of chairs and tables that were currently occupied by the Sons. You stood next to Chibs who was sitting in one of those chairs and leaned against his shoulder. Your skirt was a little too tight to sit down but you wanted to dress for the occasion.

“Quiet on set!”, Lyla called out from her director’s chair. “Action!”.

You watched the three female performers, the girl-on-girl-on-girl-scene unfolding in front of you, set in a parody of Frankenstein’s monster, Skankstein. Your hand played nervously with the hair in Chibs’ neck.

You never thought you would ever say that but you were proud of your porn stars. Redwoody production was as much your baby as it was Lyla’s. She took care of the production and performers and you took care of everything business, handling the books and the MC’s involvement.

You felt Chibs’ hand moving over your ass which looked particularly good in this, a little too tight, skirt, giving it a good squeeze. In return, your hand in Chib’s hair moved down his neck into the back of his leather jacket, grazing the skin of his upper back, running your nails over it how you knew he liked it.

“And cut!”, Lyla said loudly and everybody started cheering and clapping. “Congratulations, boys. That was the first take of Redwoody production”, Lyla said as she turned around in her seat. “You’re a genius”, Jax congratulated her as he walked over, pulling her into a hug.

“Good job, lass”, Chibs said and looked up at you, padding your ass. You bent down to kiss him.

“You both are”, Jax said, reaching his arm out to you and you walked over, hugging him as well. Jax now had his right arm around Lyla and his left arm around you.

“You both did a great job to get this production up and running and I just trust each of you to take good care of it”, he said, looking at you and then Lyla. “Thanks, boss”, Lyla replied with a smile.

The Sons had to take off soon after. Before they left, Chibs came to find you as you watched your crew setting up for the next scene.

“We have to go, lass”, he said and you felt his warm hand through the thin material of your blouse on your back. “Okay, be safe”, you turned around to kiss him goodbye.

When he let go and wanted to move away, you grabbed his kutte in the front and pulled him back.

“Will I see you tonight?”, you asked. Spending the nights with Chibs wasn’t a promised thing these days. His features softened for a second. “How about I pick you up when ya done tonight?”, he suggested and grabbed your hips.

“I can’t ride on your bike. My skirt’s too tight, it would split in half”, you countered with a chuckle. “Countin’ on it”, he commented and slapped your butt before he winked and left with the Sons.

A blush and a grin inhabited your face as you watched him leave, your thoughts wandering to what he might do to you later tonight.

You turned back around to watch your crew work, but your mind kept wandering. Maybe you could prepare a cheeky little surprise when he came back to pick you up…

When it got close to Chibs coming by the warehouse, you texted him to come inside, telling him that you would take a little longer than expected.

“Y/N, darlin’, where are ya?”, he said when he entered the warehouse at the late hour, finding it empty and mostly dark. “I’m over here”, you called out from further inside. Chibs found you sitting on the gurney of the Skanknstein set, wearing a version of the doctor’s coat that was used in the movie shoot today.

“The doctor will see you now”, you told him, your legs crossed, covered in white fishnets. A smile forming on your face as you saw the look on his face.

“What’s all that?”, he asked a bit irritated, but a growing smile on his lips as he slowly came closer. “Let’s say I got a little inspired today”, you told him with a flirty smirk and started unbuttoning the coat, revealing the white lace underwear you were wearing beneath it…and nothing else.

His eyes followed your fingers. When you had unbuttoned the last one, it were his hands that pulled the material apart, revealing your half-naked body to him.

“What is it about you and late nights at a warehouse, hm?”, he asked as he ran his hands along your thighs down to your knees and back up again, reminiscing about the first time you had slept together.

Your hands came up to unzip his kutte. “I don’t think it’s the warehouse alone that gets me in the mood”, you replied as you pulled it off his shoulders. “I can’t resist a certain biker”, you added and grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to every tattoo of his in your reach. Chibs pushed the doctor’s coat off your body. His hands ran down your arms, grabbing your wrists. He brought your hands up to his lips and kissed the inside of your palms.

His dark brown eyes bore into yours, holding your stare. “Are you okay, baby?”, you suddenly asked, furrowing your brows. Your eyes scanned his face. His features hardened before they got soft again. “I’m alright”, he answered. “And I’m getting better by the second”, he told you and took a step back to take a good look at you.

You hooked two fingers into the waistband of his pants and pulled him towards you. You licked your lips, tilting your head back as he towered over you. “Fuck me, baby”, you moaned.

His fingers weaved into your hair, pulled your head back even further. He lowered his head until his mouth hovered right above yours. “How much do ya want me?”, he whispered at your lips. As an answer, your hands reached forward, finding his belt buckle and starting to undoing it.

“You seem a little eager, doctor”, he mentioned. You smiled at his lips, biting down on your bottom lip. “Well, I hadn’t had sex in hours, so I’m starving for cock”, you told him, sliding down the zipper of his pants.

“I might have just what ya need”, he said with a growl in the back of his throat. You could feel his hard cock pressing against the fabric of his jeans against your fingers. “I’m sure of that”, you said and rubbed him over his pants.

He pushed down his pants to his mid thighs and then pulled you closer to the edge of the gurney, your legs spreading automatically. All of a sudden, you both couldn’t wait a second longer.

He pushed your panties to the side and aligned his cock at your entrance. He coated his tip in your juices before he started to push in, slow but steady.

“Oh god!”, you called out, throwing your head back in pleasure. When he bottomed out inside you, he let out a deep, raspy groan. “Fuck, you’re so tight”, he growled and started to pull back only to push in again. “Mhm, yes, baby”, you moaned and leaned back a little, arching your back and moving your pelvis forward.

Chibs put his left hand on your hip and with his right hand, pushed down the left strap of your bra and cup with it. His fingers wrapped around your breast and squeezed it tightly while he repeatedly thrusted into you.

You slipped out of the other strap and reached behind you to unclasp your bra, tossing it aside the next second. As soon as he had the chance, Chibs put both his hands on your breasts, kneading them with a groan. He really loved your boobs.

You put a hand on the back of his neck and pushed him towards you. Your lips met in a heated kiss, your tongues dancing with each other. You felt the lust burning in your groin, spreading out across your whole body.

The next moment, he let go of your lips and pulled out. He led you off the gurney and turned you around only to bend you over it with a push on your upper back. You braced yourself with your hands on the flat surface in front of you, feeling his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and pulling them down your legs. You stepped out of them when you felt the material at your ankles.

Chibs’ hands wandered up your legs, kneading your ass as he stood up straight again. You felt the tip of his cock at your entrance again, but he stopped there, teasing you. “Please, baby, fuck me”, you whined and wiggled your ass at him.

“You want my cock? Take it”, he ordered. You placed your hands firmly on the gurney and started to push back against him, taking him inside you. He kept still for a few moments while you fucked yourself with his cock before he couldn’t take it anymore and took over.

With a firm grip, he grabbed your hips and started slamming into you. You yelped with every thrust. In this position he had the best angle to drive you wild. You moaned his name repeatedly like a prayer.

His hands snaked around your upper body, pushing you up and against him, then moving further to grab ahold of your breasts. He ground his hips into you, burying himself deep inside you with every thrust.

“Baby”, you moaned, tilting your head back, feeling his hot breath on the skin of your neck, his lips latching onto you and sucking on your sensitive skin.

“I’m gonna come, baby”, you told him breathlessly. “I-I wanna look…into your eyes…when I do”, you pressed out between moans and the overwhelming feeling of a nearing orgasm.

He let go of you again and you turned around in his arms. You pushed his pants all the way down, helping him out of his shoes.

Chibs got onto the gurney and you climbed up to get on top of him. You straddled his hips and dug your knees into the cushioned surface beneath you. You reached down between you and aligned him with you before you sank down.

“Fuck”, Chibs breathed out when he felt your walls wrapped around him tightly. You started moving your hips back and forth, grinding your hips into his. His hands kneaded your ass again while his lips wrapped around one of your nipples, playing with it with his tongue and teasing it with his teeth. The sensation sent electric shocks through your system, making your skin tingle.

You held on to his shoulders as you sped up. The knot in your lower stomach tightened again and got bigger with every snap of your hips. Your breathing was quick and shallow.

Chibs’ hands moved up from your ass and roamed your back. You flung your arms around his neck, one hand going into his hair. Your hips rolled against his pelvis a bit slower now, more deliberately. Your orgasm was building inside your lower stomach.

Your breathing was so fast, you almost felt light-headed. You felt Chibs’ hand on the back of your head, tilting you down until your forehead rested against his. Your eyes bore into each other and you lost yourself in his dark-brown.

You wanted to hold his stare but it was getting too intense paired with an overwhelming orgasm. At the last second, your eyes fluttered shut and you threw your head back, holding on to his neck and shoulders as you screamed out.

After your little roleplay at the warehouse, it was time to finally get home to your apartment. He had convinced you to let him take you home on his bike and leaving your car at the docks with the promise of him driving you to work tomorrow. In the afternoon, you had grabbed a pair of pants from your car, a little emergency outfit you always had with you, so you were actually able to even ride with him.

You put on your blouse again and the pair of pants before you shut all the lights and locked the warehouse door for the night.

“I saw Juice today”, Chibs suddenly mentioned while putting on his riding gloves and walking towards his bike. “Really? Where?”, you asked surprised.

Chibs had told you that Juice and the club weren’t on good terms lately. “The diner on Main. That little weasel Unser tricked me into going there”, he said and his tone was icy. “How was it?”, you asked, as you arrived at his bike, and put a hand on his chest to try and calm him down again. You could tell how much it hurt him so see Juice again. “Shite”, he simply stated, his facial features hardened. He took Juice’s betrayal very personal as he felt some kind of responsibility for him, like he was his little brother.

“How is he? Juice”, you asked. “I don’t care”, Chibs growled and wanted to move away but you didn’t let him. “And how are you?”, you asked him, trying your best to ignore his tone. “Fine”, he simply stated.

“Yeah, totally buying that”, you said sarcastically. Instead of an answer, he handed you his second helmet to put on. The topic was seemingly done for him. You weren’t quite sure why he told you in the first place when he didn’t want to talk about it but now you knew why he was a bit off when he came here earlier.

After getting to your apartment, you walked into your bedroom to change into something more comfortable while Chibs walked over to your fridge.

When you came back out of your bedroom, now changed into a pair of leggings and a tank top, you found Chibs lost in his thoughts on the couch, an open beer bottle in front of him on the couch table. You could tell by the way his eyes stared into nothing even though the TV was on. He was furrowing his brows again and again like he was debating himself inside his head.

You walked over to him and straddled his lap. Your thumb ran across the crease between his eyebrows, smoothing it out. He looked up at you, still looking serious.

Your thumbs ran across the mustache of his beard down to the corners of his mouth and then along his facial scars up to his cheekbones, lingered there for a little bit and then ran down the same way until your thumbs rested next to the corners of his mouth.

You bent down and kissed his scars, first right then left. Then you cupped his face and held him in place while you softly kissed his lips.

When you pulled back, a small smile formed on his face. “There it is”, you said and smiled yourself.

“I can be bloody mad at the world but ya still manage to make me smile”, he told you, his eyes drinking in your sight.

“And I didn’t even have to take my shirt off again”, you joked and kissed him again. Then you got off his lap and sat down next to him. You grabbed the remote and cuddled up to his side, putting your head on his shoulder and started to channel surf.

Chibs put his arm around you and your head moved a little bit further to his chest, draping one leg over his, finding a somewhat comfortable position. His other hand started rubbing your calf and you could feel by the automatic movement of his hand that his thoughts were going someplace else again.

You wanted to help him ease his mind but at this point in the evening, you did about all you could do to take his mind off things. If he wanted to talk about it, he knew he could but you feared it was club related and therefore you wouldn’t hear a word about it.

Chibs made it clear in the past that he wanted to keep you out of any club business as much as possible, considering your involvement with the club and its businesses already. And lately, everybody got more intense, especially since Tara died which was understandable but it somehow got even worse. And the thing with Juice wasn’t helping. You could only hope that that was something Chibs could fix and get everything back to normal. Whatever that might be.

next chapter Wrong number

#sons of anarchy #soa #chibs telford #chibs telford x plus-size reader #chibs telford x reader #chibs telford imagine #chibs telford smut

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colourstreakgryffin · 7 months ago

Note

I have a little suggestion 😔 Buuuttttt If you could…. could you write for human Ryuk for death note? You gotta hear me out though

You know what… I’m fine with this. I’ve always had Ryuk as one of my fav Death Note characters so why not? For real, for real… he’s so hot in this form! He went from badass and scary to precious hottie

Ryuk- Master of Trickery

Instead of Light, you’re his human and his notebook holder. Ryuk can’t deny that you’re interesting and he is gonna enjoy following you around through your time using his Death Note. In his Shinigami form, he doesn’t really notice how he looks and just excuses it. Suspecting you’ll be fine with him

But you’re curious what Ryuk really can do so when you two are finally alone in your bedroom. You ask Ryuk openly what powers he has, how Shinigami work and whilst Ryuk isn’t that enthusiastic since he considers it boring, he obliges

When he mentions he can transform into a human disguise, that lets him be visible to humans, besides you, as well. You immediately play with the fire that is Ryuk and ask him if he can demonstrate this shapeshifitng ability of his for you

Ryuk wasn’t planning on this when he dropped his notebook onto Earth… he’s been asked by his new human to transform for them? Well. He does it anyway since he suspects it may be fun to troll people with it so he puts his big clawed hand over your eyes

And in a flash. This monstrous yet unique shinigami is now an attractive tall man with pretty black lips and a style that matched the infamous detective, L. Your eyes sparkle with shock at your Shinigami’s transformation as Ryuk lets out a comment that he hasn’t redone this in such a long time

Ryuk noticed the way you gaze at him with surprise and awe, commenting snarky about it but mainly feeling his bare chested self, his baggy slightly undone trousers hugging his humanoid hips as both of you are impressed by the almost Frankenstein stitched patchy skin pieces on his body. He looks like a human but still… a Shinigami

Ryuk does decide to perform this feat again. Pranking you with it, he’ll transform into his human form then putting on a bunch of makeup, stealing the Death Note and pretend he isn’t Ryuk when you ask him. It’s hard to tell since he put a lot of heart into these types of pranks on you

Ryuk needs his apples, even in his human form, so people around him, who can now see him, find him odd for how much he is downing just normal red apples eagerly whilst you and him are at the grocery store

Ryuk cringes badly whenever anybody makes a mention that you and him must be a couple. He isn’t interested in any humans but damn god, he does enjoy the way you seem attracted to his human form. It’s a nice ego boost

Ryuk mainly transforms into his human form and heads out in public with you during your vile little plans to kill your targets as to stay on the back and do as you ask by not showing off his shinigami side, should you let your victims touch the notebook, but it’s not like he minds. He feels handsome like this

Ryuk also takes full advantage of all the girls who admire him in his human form, liking to annoy you by flirting and playing with humans that are drooling all over him. It’s nice, so entertaining and he won’t let you pull him away from it

Ryuk doesn’t use his human form transformation as much as one would suspect, from a guy like him. Mainly because he is too accustom to his Shinigami self that being human feels odd but it doesn’t mean he won’t do it to make you and other girls flaunter over him, for the fun of it

Ryuk does tease you a lot for finding his human form attractive… like, a lot, he doesn’t ever shut up about it. He’ll make you regret ever asking him to demonstrate his abilities… since well, that’s Ryuk

“Eh? What’s with that look… oh. You like the goods; my skin, my eyes, my hair, ‘mm? You’re just as nasty as those other humans. I enjoy it, keep looking”

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linkspooky · 1 year ago

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Sukuna's Anti-Enlightenment

Sukuna's words in this chapter practically mirror Mahito's words to Junpei from much earlier in the series.

"Do you understand? Life has no weight or particular value. Just like how water flows through the earth, life simply flows. For you, me and everyone else - it's the same. Without meaning. Without value. That's why you can do whatever you want. Live the way you want. Don't limit yourself to just being indifferent. There's no reason to live by such a restricting philosophy. If you're hungry, eat. If you hate, kill."

Both of these characters are rejecting humanity's natural instinct to look for a purpose in life and are instead subscribing to a more animalistic way of living following their basic instincts, if you're hungry eat, if you hate, kill. While the philosophy sounds simple enough there's something much more complex going on under the surface that requires digging deeper into Sukuna's mindset.

A True Curse

By having Sukuna essentially quote Mahito, the story is inviting us to compare them. A literary foil is a character whose purpose is to accentuate or draw attention to the qualities of another character. This term comes from an old technique of placing a thin metal sheet, or foil, behind a gem to make it shine. Sukuna is a character defined by how little both the other characters in story, and the audience understand him, something Yorozu comments on he's simply too powerful and isolated to be understood by the rest of humanity and so he stands alone. Which is why giving him a foil is a way to help the audience understand Sukuna without the author tipping their hand and ruining Sukuna's mystique. The question is what does Mahito highlight about Sukuna, and my answer is Sukuna is what Mahito wishes to be.... a True Curse.

Mahito is many things, but without making this entire meta about Mahito his primary goal along with the rest of the special class curses is to eradicate humanity and replace them as the true humans. They basically want to destroy what humans have created and create a world of curses in their place.

Mahito is the most human like of the curse family, he reads human books watches human movies, even spends time getting to know a few humans personally and he also rejects them the strongest because he is made up of the human fear of other humans. Mahito is the one who reflects humans the most because all the other curses are made up on natural disasters, and yet he wants to destroy everything that's human inside of him and embody a true curse instead.

Which he does in the final phase of his fight against Yuji by literally ripping off his own skin like it's a chrysallis so he can emerge in a more curse-like form. Mahito is like the frankenstein's monster of the human id, he is created by the absolute worst impulses of humanit yand therefore rejects humans implicitly.

He even argues with his fellow curses that they shouldn't act too much like humans. Whend Choso, Jogo and Mahito disagree about whether or not they should revive Sukuna, Mahito argues they've been following Kenjaku's strategy too closely and they should make a game out of it and follow their whims or desires like a curse would isntead of using strategy like Kenjaku.

Mahito's idea of a curse is a creature of the natural world that lives entirely true to its own desires and hunger, satiating it without thinking about the effects their actions have on other people. A lion doesn't stop to ponder whether or not the gazelles its grazing on have feelings. A curse rejects the human need to fight purpose in life, or find deeper meaning or reasons behind their actions and only follow their instincts.

Mahito doesn't just not think about the meaning of life, he actively rejects there being any other meaning besides living to satiate one's needs. Remember Mahito and Sukuna both laugh together at Yuji, and Yuji identifies them as true curses as well.

A scene which is called back to later on in the series shortly after Sukuna takes over Megumi's body.

In a series where even characters like Gojo and Kashimo who view other people as not human in the same way they are will have an aching loneliness and a desire to connect to others, Sukuna and Mahito both seem completely devoid of any humanity whatsoever.

Mahito however, is a baby and a newly formed curse while Sukuna is an adult that's existed for 1,000 years as the pinnacle of Jujutsu. Mahito is essentially the larval form of Sukuna in the story. Quite literally in fact, because he emerged from the chrysallis by ripping his skin off to reveal his true curse form in his final bout with Yuji. Sukuna is what Mahito wants to be when he grows up. Mahito talks the talk, but Sukuna is actually able to walk the walk.

It's a bit like how Gojo, Naoya, and Toji all sort of believe that power makes it so they exist in a different category of people, however Gojo and Toji have the ability to back that belief up with power whereas Naoya just gets his butt kicked a lot. Naoya even crosses the boundary line between human and curse in an attempt to reach the same level that Gojo and Toji were at.

There's a pattern in the series of characters pushing themselves further and further away from humanity becoming curses and rejecting human values of meaning alongside of it. Going from higher thinking like empathy, philosophy, the search for meaning to lower, more animalistic and instinct heavy thinking. Naoya even says that becoming a curse reminds him of his childhood again like he's completely regressed intellectually.

Naoya: This sort of takes me back. There are things that children can't do that are easy for adults. After you grow up, you can't even remember the time you couldn't do it. Well, this is like that.

Jogo also defines a curse as someone who's true to their feelings, unlike humans who hide behind lies and pretend to be something they're not. All of this to say I don't think Mahito and Sukuna's views are nihilistic per se. Nihilism is rejecting that there is inherent meaning to anything in life yes, but in order to reject meaning you have to question it first. Mahito and Sukuna seem to be rejecting philosophy itself, an anti-philosophy philosophy so to speak. Nietzsche considered animals to be un-historic, because they only existed in the presence and have no history. They are, themselves at every instant because they only know of the now.

“Consider the cattle, grazing as they pass you by. They do not know what is meant by yesterday or today, they leap about, eat, rest, digest, leap about again, and so from morn till night and from day to day, fettered to the moment and its pleasure or displeasure, and thus neither melancholy nor bored. [...] A human being may well ask an animal: 'Why do you not speak to me of your happiness but only stand and gaze at me?' The animal would like to answer, and say, 'The reason is I always forget what I was going to say' - but then he forgot this answer too, and stayed silent.”

Cows aren't nihilistic, they're not anything because they just exist. They just exist as individuals in an eternal moment. They just exist.

Mahito: "Emotions come from the soul. It's too simplistic to call it "heart". People overthink things they can't see. I can see the soul so for me it's nothing special. It's practically the same as the human body. It just exists."

Mahito similiarly says that the soul just exists, there's no need to overthink the meaning of it or try to classify the soul as a "heart" capable of feeling emotions because it's just there. Sukuna similiarly doesn't worry about the past or the present, all humans are just momentary distractions to him and he only lives in pursuit of finding his next meal.

They just eat to satisfy their hunger temporarily, not because they find the food delicious or for any other reason. They're just living in pursuit of their next meal. It reminds me of a passage from my favorite existentialist book series Zaregoto.

"They say food, sleep and sex are the three basic desires of makind. But why are we eating this meal right now?" "To ingest vitamins." "Yes. Without vitamins, people die. And thus eating food brings pleasure. Sleeping feels good too, and sex, well, that's obvious. Anything that you hvae to do to stay alive always comes with pleasure." [...] "Now let's imagine someone who's obsessed with eating. In other words someone who eats not simply to take in vitamins, but because he's mad for the sensation of eating itself; for the beauty in the very act. The stimulation of his taste buds. The pleasure of feeling the food pass through his mouth. The joy of mastication. The ecstasy of feeling that mushed-up gook flowing down his throat. The feeling of fullness nearly destroying his satiety center altogether. The euphoia taking over his brain. To a guy like that, vitamins or lacktherof are totally irrelevant. The means and end have switched places for him, so now his main goal is something subsidiary. Now there's your problem. Can you still say this is eating? No, don't answer. You and I both know the only possible answer is no. WHat this guy is doing isn't eat. He's just eating the concept of eating."

Sukuna isn't even eating at this point, he's eating the concept of eating. He's eating because the pleasurable sensation of eating distracts him for a little while, and because looking for his next meal gives him something to do while he's killing time before he dies.

2. Anti-Philosophy Philosophy

They're not even saying that life is meaningless, because that's a conclusion you come to after questioning the meaning of life. They reject the questioning of meaning itself, the attempt to understand either life or other people. They're living entirely like lions prowling the sarangetti for their next meal.

"I've never needed anyone to satisfy me. I eat when I wanna eat, play with what amuses me, and kill whoever's in my way. I live as befits my nature. If no one can grasp that, it's their problem."

Mahito rejects the heart, Sukuna rejects love, both of these things are more complicated human desires than just eat until your stomach is full and kill or be killed.

Sukuna and Gojo both say "Tenjou, Tenge Yuigadoksun - above heaven, under heaven, I alone am worthy of honor" but only Sukuna goes on further to say "all that exists is my pleasure and displeasure". Even Gojo wants to be understood by others even if he thinks that normal people can't understand him and he exists as a different species from them, but Sukuna himself even rejects the fact people might understand him. They do, or they don't, it doesn't matter to him because he only needs to udnerstand himself. Sukuna's practically lapsing into solopism here.

Solopism is the philosophical lens that only one's mind is sure to exist. Knowledge outside of one's own mind is unsure, the external worlds and other minds cannot be known and might not exist outside the mind.

Solopism builds on the failure of Descartes maxim "I think; therefore I exist" which fails to provide any real details about the nature of the "I" that has proven to exist. Solipism asserts the only thing certain is the "I" - one's most certain knowledge is one's own mind, my thoughts, my experiences, my emotions. There is no link between the occurence of a certain conscious experience or mentals tates and the "possession" or behavioral dispoistions of a "body" of a particular kind. The experience of a given personality is private and only understood by that person. The solipistic view of Sukuna is that his experience in the present, what he's feeling, is the only thing that matters and everything else may as well not exist.

I'd only say it has things in common with solipism though, because even Solipism questions reality which Sukuna doesn't question anything. Suuna doesn't feel the need to question things or grow because in his mind his understanding of himself is perfect and complete which is why he doesn't need anyone else's comprehension of him.

In freudian psychoanalytic theory you could align Sukuna's behavior to the ID (I Desire). Jung and Freud both believe in a divded consciousness, but Freud divides it into three, the id, the ego and the superego. The id is the insintcts, superego is the higher thinking like morality, and the ego is the mediator between the two. The id is the most primitive and instinctual part of the mind. For example a child is said to be all id, because they don't understand rules or other people's feelings they only want to fill their basic needs. Mahito would be the childlike aspect of the id, because he is a newborn fledgling cursed spirit.

The id also follows the pleasure principle, which Sukuna's philosophy also follows "all that exists is my pelasure and displeasure." Freud argues the pleasure principal is an ingained survival instinct "what decides the purpose of life is simply the programme of the pleasure principle". The Id is made up of the life-sustaining activities such as eating and sex, and it makes these things pleasurable so we will pursue them. However, there's also a counterpart to the pleasure principle in the human psyche that is the reality prinicple, which is the human capacity of defer gratification of a desire when a situation doesn't allow you to have immediately what you want. The id is ruled by the pleasure principle, and immediately wants all of its desires granted at the cost of everything else, but mature human egos are able to delay instant gratification for a higher objective.

Sukuna basically lives by the rule of the pleasure principle. He's shown capable of long term planning if he needs to like taking Megumi's body, so he's not incable of delaying instant gratifciation but at the same time his ruling princple seems to be seeking immediate pleasure. Sukuna is a walking appetite, he literally has a mouth on his stomach.

There's also the alchemical trinity to consider, mind, body, and soul. In this Sukuna is the body. Not only is he a body hijacker who has literally transformed Megumi's body practically into his own, but he also only lives to satiate the phyiscal needs of the body.

This is where Sukuna would differentiate himself from solipism though, because he needs to exist in a physical body. His entire quest over the course of the manga is to regain a body, he needs to eat, he needs to fight physically, he wouldn't be comfortable just existing as a brain within a jar he needs to stay in the physical world. He lives for the physical pleasures of this world.

What about the Body character? There isn’t one in every alchemy story, but when this does appear, the markers are predictable. Body characters are focused on their bodily needs--they are hungry, thirsty, and, in adult stories, lusty. And they are often fearful. Think of Papageno in Mozart’s opera, the Magic Flute, who breaks his vow of temperance and starts eating and drinking on stage, lamenting his lack of female companionship. Or Wiggins in The Little White Horse (he’s a beautiful, vain King Charles spaniel, always focused on his next meal). Or Sméagol/Gollum, who eats compulsively though his main lust is for the Ring.

Sukuna for instance wouldn't be happy living like Tengen who exists far outside of humanity simply observing others, because he has a need to interact with the world in the form of eating, or experiencing earthly pleasure.

In fact after going through several philosophies which don't quite describe Sukuna's own philosophy (because it resembles these while inherently rejecting the need for philosophy) we might come to the closest comparison for what Sukuna's desire is, which is to exist for as long as possible on the earthly plain while filling up his stomach.

Sukuna is comparable to the Celestial Demon Mara in budhist mythology, more on it in this thread. In budhist cosmology, Mara is the "personification of the forces antagonistic to enlightenment."

Devaputra-mara specifically is the deva of the sensuous realm, who tries to prevent Gautuma Budha from attaining liberation fro m the cycle of rebirth the night of his enlightenment. The existence of Mara is to defy Budha, and specifically to prevent his escape from the cycle of the world, especially the sensuous realm. He exists in opposition to the three marks of existence too.

Number one impernanence, that all existence, without exception is "transient, evanescent, inconstant". Number two Dukha "Suffering, pain, unsatisfactoriness" is inherent to life. Number three antaa "Non-self, non-soul, no-essence."

If the ultimate goal of budhism is to escape the cycle entirely and stop being reborn in the sensuous realm, Maara instead tempts people to stay in this realm. it defines impernanence by suggesting we stay in this realm forever. It defies Dukha by saying we indulge in physical pleasures in this realm, that we should seek to satisfy ourselves even if budhism argues that life is primarily unsatisfactory. Then if the ultimate goal of existence in budhism is the "non-self" to escape ego, Maara argues we should remain trapped as ourselves forever.

We even see Sukuna literally tempt a budha-like figure into remaining in this earthly realm. After all aren't we shown that Gojo achieved enlightenment at seventeen and let go of earthly emotions like the need to be angry and avenge Riko's killer because the feeling of oneness with existence was too good in that moment.

A lot of people noticed what they thought was Gojo acting out of character in the fight with him and Sukuna, by enjoying the fight and choosing his selfish desire to love jujutsu and fight as a sorcerer over his responsibiltiy to protect children. Something which Nanami says in his dying hallucination that Gojo only ever lived for the pursuit of his selfish desire for Jujutsu in the first place.

Gojo, a character that we know has a higher minded ideal that he's fighting for the next generation of sorcerers is shown losing that ideal in the fight with Sukuna, and only caring about his earthly pleasures, having a satisfying fight against a strong opponent. You could even say that was Sukuna's goal in the fight, to strip off Gojo's fish scales so to speak and reduce him back to being a normal human being. Something which he accomplished when he managed to learn to cut the space that Gojo inhabited, therefore negating the infinitity that protected him and dragging him back to this earthly realm.

"This is goodbye. You were born in an era without me and hailed as the strongest yet you turned out to be painfully ordinary..."

In a way Sukuna tempted Gojo away from enlightenment and succeeded. The linked thread goes on to say that Budha defeats Maara to save his students during his temptation, but Gojo on the other hand died and failed protecting his students specifically because he chose the earthly pleasure of seeking to have fun in a fight over the well-being of his student Megumi who's body was possessed.

He made a human being again out of an enlightened Gojo, and dragged him back to morality and the cycle of death and rebirth by making Gojo care more about his selfish desire for a fight than the principles he fought for. Sukuna trapped Gojo in the mortal realm along with him.

Sukuna's philosophy sounds like Mara's too, that rather than seeking anything better you should just distract yourself from the unhappiness of life by indulging in pleasures to stifle your misery.

I'd say Sukuna lives the same way. He doesn't consider himself weak, but he doesn't talk about life or this world like it's a fun place to be. He tells Yuji to stifle his misery. He then admits to Kamo that his purpose in life is just to eat delicious things to kill time until he dies.

"Life is just killing time until you die" sounds like a miserable kind of hedonism, since he's only distracting himself from the unpleasantness of life. Sukuna too might just be spending his life stifling his own misery by seeking endless pleasure on earth. He doesn't want to escape earth however, he wants to remain on earth for as long as possible. Kamo even pointed out the strange contradiction in his own philosophy.

Sukuna insists he doesn't need to be understood by others, that he's not alone, that fighting and eating his way through life is enough for him because he understands himself and all life is just enertaining yourself until you die anyway, but Kamo asks why if he's just satisfied with that kind of life did he go to the trouble of ripping his soul into twenty pieces and trying to regain his body 1,000 years later.

Sukuna notably avoids this question. He doesn't tell Kamo why he even bothered to divide his soul up and extend his life if he's perfectly satisfied with life as it is. We don't get the answer to why he wants to possess Megumi or is going through all this trouble.

That's where we get to the greatest snag in Sukuna's philosophy, which ironically relates back to the tug of war between the pleasure principal and the reality principal.

Sukuna's philosophy is that he's never needed anyone else "I've never needed anyone to satisfy me. I eat when I wanna eat, play with what amuses me and kill whoever's in my way. I live as befits my nature. If no one can grasp that, then that's their problem."

The big glaring flaw in Sukuna's philospohy that he's only ever needed himself is kind of like the flaw in the american "pull yourself up by your bootstraps philosophy" its that everyone including Sukuna needs other people. Sukuna isn't fighting with his own strength alone right now. He stole it from Megumi. He could have conceived of a way to beat Gojo without the Ten Shadows yes, but right now Sukuna wouldn't even be able to exist in the physical world without Megumi's body.

He is literally a parasite in a teen boy's body, using him to his own ends and yet he insists that he's the only one that exists or matters and he's always been able to accomplish everything he wanted with his own strength. Sukuna's a parasite right now, arguing that he's the greatest individual and has never needed or relied upon anyone.

The Great and Mighty Sukuna is defiling a young person's body for his own gain, the same way that Kenjaku defiles women and his own children, the same way that the elders manipulate the young in Jujutsu Kaisen to maintain their power base in Jujutsu Society. This supposedly all-powerful erson who only ever relies on himself and only needs his own ego wouldn't even be alive right now if he wasn't paraisitizing Megumi's body, yet he argues that he's completely fulfilled in himself.

A freudian perspective argues that a mature ego finds a balance between the pleasure principal (the need for instant gratification) and the reality principal (the ability to defer instant gratifiaction when the situation doesn't allow for it). Whereas a child is only ID and only cares about fulfilling their most basic needs first and foremost.

Sukuna is paradoxically presenting his views like he's a fully realized, enlightened adult the absolute peak of sorcery, the most developed and intelligent sorcerer in the world, etc. etc. yet he has the underdeveloped ego of a child because he has no grip of the reality principal. A person who doesn't interact with other people or the world, can't learn or grow from it. Which is probably why the closest character you can compare to Sukuna is Mahito, a literal child and a newborn curse. Even Mahito fails to become a true curse in the end.

Sukuna says he rejects enlightenment, and any higher philosophy in order to remain in the earthly realm forever, but one wonders if that isn't the same as the Miltonian Lucifer rejecting heaven to reign in hell.

The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n. What matter where, if I be still the same, And what I should be, all but less than he Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least We shall be free: th’Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: Here we may reign secure, and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in hell; Better to reign in hell than serve in heav’n.

The theme of Paradise Lost is that any sinner, even Lucifer, can stop at any time and seek forgiveness instead. However, Lucifer chooses not to do that. He could leave hell at any time but he chooses to stay. He’s fine in hell after all. He’s totally gotten used to the temperature by now. Everything is fine Lucifer says, while everything is on fire.

Lucifer would rather stay in a hell of his own creation because it gives him the illusion of control over his life then admit he was wrong or give up that control.

He may be king of hell however, but he's still in hell. Hell is not exactly the most pleasant place to be. King he may be, but he's trapped here the same as everyone else.

Sukuna may be the closest a character has come to being a true curse, he might have transcended humanity, the human need for love, but he still can't escape the earthly realm. In fact his entire philosophy is a mara-esque avoid enlightenment and stay in the earthly realm as long as possible. In a series where characters like Yuki and Kenjaku are trying to evolve cursed energy into something different, either by completely removing it, or by optimizing it and forcing it to take a new form Sukuna is someone who is stagnant and resisting that evolution. Why would someone who's already perfect need to evolve in any way?

That might just be Sukuna's downfall in a way. By rejecting other people, by rejecting the human need to seek meaning in life, he may have made himself completely stagnant. After all if Sukuna already accepts everything about himself, if he is a fully realized individual then why would he need to change?

He can steal techniques and knowledge from others of course, but that's what he always has done. The real question is how would Sukuna who's the perfect sorcerer, who's never been anything other than a sorcerer and lives to be one, exist in a world where the definition of what a sorcerer even is will probably change by theend of the manga?

So Sukuna may ask "What can a little boy hope to accomplish here?" but a child like Yuji is capable of the one thing that Sukuna isn't, growing and changing into something better.

#jjk meta #ryomen sukuna #mahito #jujutsu kaisen #jjk 238 #jujutsu kaisen 238 #jjk spoilers #jjk 238 spoilers #jujutsu kaisen 238 spoilers #yuji itadori #itadori yuji #sukuna

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