#cut down the altar au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tonycries · 3 months ago

Text

Corpse Groom - G.S.

Synopsis. Till déath do you part…or does it when a déathly error leads your newly-wedded husband to be from beyond the gráve?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, CÓRPSE BRIDE!AU, arranged marriages, period-typical mísogyny, Naoya is awful, accidental marriage, ángst, major character(s) déath, HAPPY ENDING, talks of déath, kníves, poíson, reíncarnation, Gojo YEARNS, he loves you sm I cried, hándjobs, fíngering, spítting, cúmplay, BRÉEDING, creampíes, mentions of having kids, pússydrúnk Gojo, overstím, oraI (fem rec.), pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 12.7k (ohoho)

A/N. K!nktober isn’t over until I had to make a rewrite of my favorite Halloween movie mhm <3

“Mother, I refuse-”

“Nonsense, child!”

That sharp snap! of your mother’s feathered fan is loud enough that the whole carriage rattles on its hinges, creaking you noisily to what seemed like your very doom.

You gulp when she’s tilting her head down as far as her best, high-collared gown would allow, eyes narrowing. “The Zenin’s are the only nobles left in this wretched town, and I will not have my daughter marrying some commoner.”

The unsteady cobblestone pathway jostles you in your cushioned seat ever-so-slightly, a pertinent little reminder of that fact.

In the deafening silence, your father pipes up - ever-the-pacifist, “Now now, why don’t we all calm down, especially before such a glorious wedding.” But his words wither out into nothing but a whisper in the simmering tension. “Like your mother said, dear, the Zenin’s are a good family, with a uh-” Coughing nervously, “-good son. We just want you to be taken care of.”

As if that was the only thing.

But there was no use arguing.

Facing back to the gray window with a sigh, and you can only whisper. “I’d rather die than marry Naoya Zenin.”

---

“With this hand-”

“Louder.”

“With this-”

“More passionate.”

“With this damn hand-”

“Not a threat.” The older woman in front of you wrings her satin gloves, turning towards your fuming parents with a tone that matches their expression. “Honestly, I know that you new money people find it hard to adjust but this is our special tradition! My poor baby Naoya is going to be heartbroken tomorrow.”

Dutchess Zenin had a cruel sort of beauty to her, high cheekbones, and cutting eyes that picked apart every fray at your dress - the spitting image of her son.

And her “poor baby Naoya” was currently finding it impossible to hide his smirk. Swiping away invisible dust from the velvety-clad shoulder of his overpriced suit, he sets down his wine bottle from the vows.

“Don’t be too harsh, mother.” Naoya’s smooth voice comes out in a dangerous purr, and you jolt when one of his strong arms slither around your waist. Possessive. “After all, it’s this one’s face that’s what’s important.”

God, if it weren’t for your parents’ pointed looks you would have shoved this overly-perfumed bastard away from you and bolted through those high doors faster than you could say “I do.”

The Naoya Estate was as beautiful as its occupants could never be, brutal, looming architecture intended to make you feel smaller than you were. All those high cemented pillars, plush furniture, and gleaming chandeliers spoke of exactly what your parents wanted - power.

It wasn’t the sort of home you’d like to call your own, but then again, you didn’t have any choice in the matter.

“My deepest apologies on behalf of my daughter, madam-” your mother’s gritting out the words, painted lips curling ever-so-slightly towards the end with a bitter taste. “-or should I say, co-mother-in-law? Ah, come now, we might as well be family already, right?”

“Sure.” Dutchess Naoya turns, arching a needle brow. “Might as well, thanks to your family assets- if your daughter doesn’t make a joke of the vows, that is.”

The wisened officiary standing at the altar nods solemnly towards you. “Do you even want to get married tomorrow, young lady?” No, you want to answer, but bite back. “Zenin house traditions dictate that the mark of a good wife is one to follow the vows to its every syllable.”

You wince - and your features sting where they’d been perfectly stretched into a plastic smile. Your next words come out small, strangled in a way that makes your future husband smile. “I apologize, I know how important these vows are, and I’ll- I’ll do better next time.”

“Good.”

With a click of Dutchess Zenin’s fingers, a hushed, swirling piano melody fills the hall once more.

Your wedding ballad.

Something that Naoya had prattled on and on about being an esteemed tradition in the Zenin household, a tender tune to accompany their sacred vows. Modeled after the long-lost royalty of this kingdom, and this was the closest you’d get to a taste of it.

It was your one initiation into power - saying those sweet, special promises - and the one thing you found impossible to get right.

“-for I will be your wine.”

Shit.

You didn’t even realize that Naoya had polished off his own vows, before you jolt at the hefty weight of wine being poured into your cup.

And you could practically feel the burning stare of every eye in the room. Watching. Waiting.

You’re fighting against your intricate corset to gulp in a deep inhale of the stale, thickening air. Clearing your throat ever-so-slightly, you raise the hand holding onto his wedding ring. “With this hand, I will lift your sorrows. Y-your cup will never empty-” Fingers tightening around the silver goblet in your other, your breath hitches at the bile rising to your throat already. “-for I will be your- your uh- wine.”

In the corner of your vision, you could spot Naoya’s smug smirk already. You could hear his tiny “As if you have any other choice.”

You knew what he was thinking.

That whisper is enough to make your jaw grind, your hand clench in a way you’d been taught by your mother not to - in a way that she’d unfortunately forgotten to tell you was for the cup’s sake, rather than your own.

Because it only takes one harsh squeeze before it just bursts.

Red, red wine trickling all down your wrist, splattering onto the gauzy curve of your gown - but more importantly, onto Naoya’s crisp suit.

It bleeds through the velvet in thick smears, seeping into the fabric as if catching on fire. Only staining further and further with each second he’s flailing frantically to wipe it off.

“Shit- My apologies- oh, shit-” you’re gasping, but there’s no one paying enough attention to tell you off for your unlady-like profanity right now. Body moving before your mind, you snatch some of the officiary’s papers from him, “Wait, it will only get worse- let me-”

Only to forget what was in your hands.

Honestly, if this was any other time you would have laughed watching the rest of the wine nestled safely in your cup come gushing down onto whatever was left of his unmarred suit - every single inch.

It’s chaos.

Then it’s silence.

Every single breathing being in the room can only watch as the last few crimson droplets drip! drip! drip! onto Naoya Zenin’s lapels.

Wordlessly, you look to the aghast officiary, your stony-faced parents, and finally, your gaping fiancé. You’re the first to speak - to hold back your chuckles, more like. “I- I cannot apologize enough…”

“You- you witch! This was on purpose, wasn’t it? Do you know how much this custom suit cost? How it was worn by the late highness himself.” Naoya’s screeching, voice shrill. Pointing a finger accusingly at you, it would be menacing if it wasn’t for the big, fat droplets of red dripping from his angry features. More of a drenched cat than the gentleman he pretends to be. “Remember that I’m doing you a favor by marrying you-”

You cross your arms, struggling to keep composure. “I shall reimburse-”

“-and acting all haughty as if you were from the royal family itself.” he’s frantic, mouth running a mile a minute. Tugging at his wet strands, “And my hair, oh my beautiful beautiful hair-”

“I shall reimburse the emotional damages, too!”

Dutchess Zenin tackles her son into a soothing embrace you find almost comical, granting you with a venomous glare that you were sure if looks could kill, she’d be lowering you into your grave and waltzing over it with Naoya already.

Simpering, “It’s quite alright my poor boy, this wedding cannot take place! We can find another-”

“No no no- no, I still want to marry her-” His greedy eyes sweep your trembling figure up and down, “Doesn’t matter if she’s an unfit wife, I’ll fix her up-” You’re quirking a brow, “Swear I’ll marry her and fix her up into-”

THUD!

You’re throwing the cup remaining in your hand as hard as you can, hitting Naoya right in the bullseye of his chest. And as soon as the air leaves his lungs, they leave yours too - in a stubborn, infuriated hiss, “Well, I’d never marry a spoiled, pompous brat like you.”

And with a flick of the stray beads of wine on your fingers at his face for good measure, you lift your heavy skirts as scandalously far as they’d travel to dart out of the door.

Out of the winding corridors.

Out of the Zenin Estate.

Ignoring every call of your name, every arm reaching out for you - urgently following your feet wherever they took you. Honestly, you’re so busy gasping in deep lungfuls of the cool, fall air embracing you that you’re half-surprised you only crash into a few people on the streets.

Again. And again. And again and again, yet never stopping. Afraid of being followed by Naoya. Or even worse - your parents.

You barely even slow down until your tailored shoes crunch against gray snow, eyes taking in lines upon lines of towering trees in front of you. Tall, towering. Weaving their branches with the sky - ominous, almost, against the steadily darkening night creeping its way in.

The forest, you’re realizing with a gasp. Have you really come this far?

Taking a glimpse over your shoulder at the twinkling lights of the town in the distance, you think of the vows that were waiting for you, and the town rumors you’d definitely sparked. Well, a walk to cool off wouldn’t hurt…

And despite wanting to relax, your thoughts only churn with each step. Replaying the scenes from earlier over and over and-

“And your cup will always- fuck- they probably think I’m such a fool.” you’re spitting, kicking at a pile of snow. “Fuck Naoya and his vows, fuck that stupid wine, should’ve shoved it up his-”

Just then, a sudden gust of fall air puffs up against your ear, sending goosebumps careening down every bit of your exposed skin. You shudder sharply, hands shovelling for warmth inside your gown’s pockets, “Ugh, today’s such a horrible-” Only to cut yourself off with a gasp- “This is…”

You feel for that metallic cold again, hastily pulling out that solid, silvery ring. Meant for Naoya Zenin.

Admittedly gorgeous, an intricate band with a delicate sapphire embedded in its middle. Your mother had spent months tracking down the best jeweler in the country to forge a ring that even the Zenin’s would be impressed with.

Fit for a king.

You scoff, “An unfit wife, my ass. It’s not even that difficult.”

Still feeling highly insulted, and only slightly embarrassed for it, you clear your throat. Speaking clearly into the stiff air, “With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.” Determinedly you stride your way into the middle of a slight clearing, “Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine.”

Grasping a stray branch, you mock lighting the altar candles. “With this candle, I will light your way in the darkness.”

Before setting down on one knee - customary for the groom, yet feeling so right when you gaze down at a tree root sticking up from the blanket of snow. Poised like the prettiest of fingers at the foot of a towering oak.

“With this ring,” You’re sliding it down easily as you would have to onto the man you hated the most. “I ask you to be mine.”

You don’t expect the sudden shift.

You don’t expect the wind to pick up, you don’t expect for a murder of crows to materialize from the midnight darkness and crowd on a tree right behind you. Letting the tree root slip from your fingers, you whirl around - what- a storm?

But before you can think of any answers, that withered branch shoots further out of the ground. Barely giving you a split-second to jump backwards before cupping your cheek, gently.

And you could’ve sworn that one twig glides across your cheek - just the way one’s thumb would have. Like the softest of lovers.

Gasping in fear, you fall backwards, splaying out into the uncomfortably bone-chilling snow below.

You can only watch as the tree root twitches once. Twice. And your ears thunder with the high-pitched howls of the wind, and a sudden, booming bang! bang! bang!

Shit.

Your eyes widen, it was coming from under the ground.

The ground that was splitting open before your very eyes.

Wider. And wider. Like something was baring itself before you. Something was clawing all the way from hell, that tree root only surging up, up, upwards in a long, limb-like fashion. Branching out into five fingers that dig their way into the ground. Hard.

And if you didn’t think you were about to faint from just this - you were definitely on the verge of it when the fingers lead their way into a forearm, a shoulder. Miles upon miles of skin - a person, towering above you, silhouetted by moonlight.

He looks at you with sapphire eyes. Close.

A man.

Beautiful.

Whispering, “I do.” Nose to cold nose, thick white lashes fluttering shut. “You may now kiss the groom.”

---

You’re barely half-awake when you realize that that was probably the strangest dream you’ve had in your life.

Groaning, you rub blearily at your eyes - yet, through the bursts of stars and pounding flashes of headaches, all you can think about is him and his chilling lips on yours.

Soft, like a leaving lover.

Even in your most feverish of dreams, you’d never conjured up anyone so ethereal. Tall, powerful despite the almost-sickly air about him, and the deep circles underneath his gleaming eyes.

But so gorgeous - sorrowfully so.

The image burned permanently into your mind, like your most favorite of memories. Every tiny detail down from the almost-blinding reflection of the moon against his cloudy hair, to how that illuminated his soft smile - that tiny dimple at the corner of his pert, pretty mouth.

You remember how he wore a wedding suit, the kind that nobles these days wouldn’t dare touch with a six foot sword with how it looked centuries out of fashion. Stark white, with fine silver detailing down the velvety fabric for you to admire.

How ironic, somehow, the thought made you sad.

But most of all, you especially remember the way he looked at you.

Just like he was right now.

“Ah!”

“Now that’s not usually the reaction I- fuck!”

He was real. So painfully real.

And clutching his face where you’d claimed a swat at one of high cheekbones.

“Ouch, my wife has a real good arm on her, huh?” Blinking back the haziness in your eyes, you catch sight of that same summer blue gaze, eyes crinkled slightly at the ends. Tender, despite being attacked by you less than a minute after gaining consciousness. “Though, I love a strong woman.”

“New arrival! Looks like we got ourselves a breather-”

“Looks like she fainted, is she alright? You know we can’t keep her long-”

“Can I touch her? Looks so soft~”

White - white fills your vision, too-late are you realizing that you’re being pressed into the soft coat of his chest. Inching you away from a hulking, four-armed creature, he mutters, “She’s my wife, you curse.”

“What-” It takes you a few more seconds to finally find your voice. In those moments you look up to take in his boyishly pretty features - about your age. Human, had it not been for that otherworldly faint blue pallor. “Is this a joke? Where am-”

Choking on your words as you take a sweeping look around the - tavern? Realm? It looked like the very same one in your own town, except bright. Musical. Everything that your home wasn’t. Finding faces you could never imagine looking at you - some beautiful, some mere skeletons, all taken out of your wildest dreams.

And all dead, it hits you with a jolt.

Yet, somehow, you’ve never felt safer in his arms.

“Something wrong, my love?”

You pinch yourself, “I need questions- now.”

“You mean answers.” One from the pub crowd scoffs - a towering man, handsome. He’d look ever-so-ordinary if it wasn’t for the completely skeletal arm on his left side. And of course, that same death-like serenity. “Honestly, Gojo, you picked an airhead or what?”

The man that still held you - Gojo, you assume - whines in protest, “Shut up, Toji. I’d always love her regardless- and she said her vows so perfectly.”

“I did…” you breathe.

Shit.

Shit shit shit- you did.

Cocking your head, you ask. “Who are you?”

He’s rolling his eyes, gifting you a crooked grin of pearly whites. “Your husband, obviously?”

And before you can pinch yourself again to make sure you weren’t dreaming, and that last time was a fluke - or perhaps smack him again - Gojo shows off one slender hand. Naoya Zenin’s ring adorned proudly across his ring finger. Your ring. With your vows.

“So…” you let out a giggle of still disbelief. “You’re the tree-”

“Not quite but-”

“Oh! I love this story- could make a skeleton cry.”

“Heh, yeah yeah sing it, king of curses.”

“Please don’t.”

“You see, welcome to the Land of the Dead, doll.” A man with pink hair sets down his drink to throw one of his four arms around your shoulder, much to Gojo’s chagrin. Words dripping with taunt, “N’ lemme tell you the story of our lovely corpse groom.”

You’re dragged along through the crowded, eerily lit tavern, everyone jostling each other to better get a look at you. Poking and prodding, some even gasping at the feeling of your thundering pulse.

He hums, “Here we have a pompous prince known miles around-” And you could tell him and Gojo had already known each other long, with how he was toying with the other man. “-fell hard and fast for a cute lil’ peasant girl much like yourself-”

“Sukuna, stop it.” Gojo grits, jaw clenched.

“-but, alas. When dear ol’ dad the king said ‘no’, he jus’ couldn’t cope. So our dear lovers came up with a plan to elope-”

You’re thrust into the arms of an attractive blond man, almost half of his entire face held together with stitches and bone. Heaving out a sigh in a way you could very much feel akin to, “Meeting up late at night is always a stupid plan, even with all the wine and riches for the road. You might not need much when you have love, but you never know what’s lurking. And, well, on that dark night, our prince here paid the price.” When you look back at the white-haired man his eyes seemed significantly softer, if that was even possible.

Toji’s the one by your side this time, “Poof! Dropped dead as dust waiting for his dear girl, no evidence, no body, no bride. What a crybaby he was when he arrived. Didn’t even want to stay here-”

“-because then he made a promise to wait upstairs.” Another man - with such gorgeous, long hair makes himself known this time. Forehead littered in strange stitches, as if it’d been opened and fixed many, many times. “And waited and waited asleep for one hundred years to this day until out of the blue, you came along, sweetness. The lovely bride, to our corpse groom.”

You.

And Gojo looks at you like he can’t look away.

Lone, standing there with his arms open as the story tapers out. Waiting.

Until you came along.

---

“HERE YE, HERE YE…FUTURE BRIDE OF ZENIN HOUSE SEEN LURKING IN THE FOREST WITH A MYSTERY MAN– now for the weather…”

“What?” your mother hisses at the bellows of the local newsman, well, rumor-spreader, more like. But he’s never been more useful than now. Sneaking an urgent glance at the stunned Dutchess Zenin by her side, she elbows your father, “We come outside to search for our daughter only to hear this? How could we let this-”

“Maybe it’s a ah- slow news day?”

They’re interrupted by a sudden, sharp clearing of one’s throat - dripping with the distinct tone of condescension that only a member of the Zenin family could possess. “We are one bride short for the wedding tomorrow. What a scandal!”

“Ah!” she’s gasping. Waving her hands frantically, “W-we promise we’ll find her before the wedding-”

“You better.”

“No.” Naoya Zenin’s voice was brimming with something dangerous, an eerie, steady lilt of determination to it. But he’s not even looking at anyone in the group, eyes trained firmly on the woody entrance to the forest in the distance. “I’ll be the one to find her.”

Finally, something that seems to appease the huffing matriarch.

Only leaving her sullen son with a nod of approval, “And Naoya…” She makes sure the other two bothers were out of earshot, greedily scurrying back to the warmth of the Zenin household. “Remember, the ah- family funds are drying up. Hurry.”

---

Gojo Satoru, you learn, was as nervous about this marriage as you were.

“This is where I always visited after first dying.” he muses, ice-cold fingers wrapped snugly with yours as he guides you gently through various crooked stairs and skeletons of town. “The view takes my breath away- well, if I could breathe, that is.”

You’re startling out a laugh that has both of you surprised, and he turns to you with such breathless awe.

“Beautiful.”

“What-” your eyes widen - and you don’t know whether it’s from his sudden little compliment, or from where you two had finally stopped walking.

A steep cliff, overlooking the entire, vast town of multi-color lights. The rigid structure from where you came could never compare. Complete chaos. But as pretty as those paintings you read about in books, views you never thought you’d see.

You rest your hands atop the spindly barrier surrounding the very edge, marveling. “It is beautiful…”

“It is.” Gojo’s tone is rich, and his eyes never stray from you despite all else there is to drink in. It takes you a few moments of counting all the bustling figures in the distance before you finally mount up the courage to meet his hypnotic gaze.

Gojo jolts when you look his way, as if he wasn’t expecting it. Hastily, he flusters to pat down the sides of his suit - tattered at places, patchy as if once-pristine but ruined with age. He’s smiling once he ruffles through his breast pocket, pulling out something glinting.

You’re letting out a tiny gasp when he shows off a silver, heart-shaped locket. Intricate, obviously custom-tailored - you’d never quite seen anything like it. Positively beaming with all the shine that the rest of him had lost.

Treasured.

“It’s for you.”

“What?” Your jaw falls slack in shock, pushing away Gojo’s held-out hands. But he was ever-persistent. “Please- I can’t, that- that looks like it should be for someone precious.”

“And it is.”

This was the firmest you’d heard his sing-song voice, and at your slightest split-second of faltering, he snatches the opportunity to circle his hands around your neck. Deftly clasping it from behind, Gojo only smiles, soft pads of his fingers lingering at your nape. “I’ve had it for years.” You wanted to know exactly how many years that meant. “Consider it a wedding gift~”

Your own dust over the cool metal pendant, heart lurching. “If only you let me know about our wedding in advance, I would’ve gifted you something, too.”

“Heh, you don’t have to.”

“Do too”

“Do not.”

“Do too.” You cross your arms, boring your eyes into his. “I’m not going to be an unfit wife.”

There’s a second of silence.

One.

Two.

And at this point, you half-expected your parents and Naoya’s to just burst from behind the nearby stairway to tell you this was all some elaborate test - before Gojo just explodes in peels of cackles.

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry I- hah!” he’s barely able to wheeze out, wiping away stray tears of joy. “You never change, huh-”

It takes the embarrassed tapping of your feet for Gojo to finally straighten back up to his tall figure, muttering out a few more indiscernible phrases underneath his breath. Clearing his throat, “Now who said you’d ever be an ‘unfit wife’, sweetheart- Y’know I really didn’t believe Toji’s airhead comment but- oh-”

You land a half-hearted punch solidly in his stomach - and usually, you’d think twice, thrice before acting this familiar with anyone. Even then, you wouldn’t follow through underneath your mother’s watchful eye.

Ah, but you’ve never smiled harder when you claim. “I think I won our first argument as a married couple.”

“Oh, can you do this f’me when I have an argument with Sukuna, next?” Gojo chuckles, wiggling his brows.

He has to dodge your playful hand a few more times - well, he would have had to. But he’s taking them all gladly, pulling you by the wrist to press you flush against his chest. “But fine, you win. Maybe as a wedding gift we can consumm- I’m kidding I’m kidding- follow me, I have the perfect idea.”

And you couldn’t not come with him, with the way that Gojo was eagerly dragging you through the town plaza and back into the now-empty tavern, where you’d remembered had a grand piano nestled away.

Gojo’s pulling out the seat for you, before promptly taking his own flush beside you. Nudging you with one of his shoulders, he starts up a beautifully haunting few lower notes. Delicate. “You don’t have to play, you can listen if you’d like-”

“Hey, I know this one.” you’re gasping, eyes lighting up with the recognition of that familiar somber from the Zenin house. But something about it this time felt so right.

Before you know it, your hands are moving faster than you can hold them back, joining Gojo in his sweeping melody on the higher notes. It rings in the air around you two, jostling your body up against his.

“You know it.” he breathes, such a brilliant grin making way onto his pretty features when you two continue your little duet. And you swear you could hear him suck in a sharp inhale before playing even harder on the keys - a challenge.

And you were never one to back down.

“Heh, you’re not half bad-” But his own little boast gets cut off by Gojo’s half-skeletal wrist snapping off, twiddling up, up, up the grand piano and on its merry way around your shoulder. “Pardon my enthusiasm, my love.”

You help him reattach it back, an interesting quirk of being half-dead, you suppose. “I like your enthusiasm.”

There’s a slow, stuttering silence that echoes afterwards, and you’re shivering from the slightly cold bite of the underground. Gojo wraps his full arm around your shoulder this time, and you don’t have the heart to tell him that he was still bone-cold.

“How…” he gulps, barely meeting your eyes. “How did you know that song?”

But you couldn’t tear yours away from him, “Oh? That song? Well- before I uh- married you, I was actually engaged-”

His pretty lips fall slack, “Oh…”

You’re not sure why you hasten to explain yourself, “B-but he was a prick- and I threw a wine cup at him just before coming here.”

“That’s my girl.” Gojo winks, and you’re feeling your skin heat up.

“Anyway, this song was to be played at the wedding. So my mother made me memorize every single note- she failed to tell me it was a duet, however.”

“It was.”

Something about those two words comes out breathless, barely hanging on. And you’re biting your bottom lip ragged before the question escapes you, “You were engaged, as well? Before- as a prince- I mean- oh, forget-”

To your surprise, Gojo only chuckles - deep voice breaking ever-so-slightly at the very end. His fingers glide across the piano with a familiar sadness that you can’t quite pinpoint. Chest rumbling, “Well, it’s just as the others said. We were meant to run away together, but your dear ol’ husband here died just before we could.”

You’re swallowing the lead that’d seemed to piled up heavily in your throat, still afraid to push too far. “And the- the bride? What happened to her?”

“I…don’t know…she probably saw I wasn’t there and went back, had a happier life with a more deserving husband- children, even.” He looks towards the perpetual night sky, Adam’s apple bobbing heftily. “It’s funny- today’s a hundred years since that day.”

Something hurt. And your chest churned at the thought of him waiting and waiting in the darkness for years. For someone.

“You loved her?”

He looks at you - really looks at you - and then down at the gleaming locket. “I love her. And I made a promise, I wait for her - in life and death.”

Something really hurt - and it wasn’t just that hollow, aching burn in your chest. No, your head was now throbbing with such a splitting pain that you can’t help but grab your temple with a yelp. Eyes scrunching shut with tears, trying to down out that drilling thrum.

“Shit-” you’re hearing, foggy, like it was in the distance. “Shit shit shit-” Big arms wrap around you, “Are you alright? Shit-”

The swinging pub doors slam-

“What happened?”

“The bride from upstairs-”

“She’s still here?! She already dead or what?”

More and more voices are joining in - and you’re not sure if you’re thankful that they drown out that harrowing thunder of blood in your ears or angry that they’re making it ache more deafeningly in response.

“Please- space.” Gojo’s stern command rings across the plaza, for a moment of clarity you’re thinking that he’d make the perfect leader of sorts. The perfect prince. “My wife needs space, and you all will leave-”

Nanami’s strict tremor was distinguishable anywhere. “What she needs is to go back upstairs, Gojo.” Another pair of rough hands grasp your shoulders, and you hear a growl from above you. “With fresh air, with her kind. I don’t know what fantasy you’re playing out but she needs to be back with the breathers, down here isn’t good for her.”

“But-”

Just at that unfortunate moment, your head wracks with another painful burst, making you cry out. Clinging onto Gojo’s soft jacket for dear life.

“But she’s my wife.”

Everyone goes quiet.

You were sure he was crying now, and oh how badly you wanted to reach out and comfort him. But, instead, Gojo’s the one soothing a hand down your back, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes in deep, grounding gasps by the chain of your locket, “N-nanamin’s right- we- I have to get you back.”

Your eyes shoot open, “What- no-”

“It’s for your own good.” Pressing a slow kiss to your forehead, “Trust me.”

“But-”

“Please?”

---

Gojo Satoru had spent so long in the darkness, that he’d almost forgotten how beautiful the moonlight is.

Even more so when you were by his side.

“Oh…” And despite not having a beating heart, he swears he could feel it racing at the crisp scrunch! of freshly fallen snow underneath his polished shoes. Arms immediately wrapping around your waist, twirling you to him, “How I missed the beautiful upstairs.”

You’re giggling, batting your lashes up at him. “Well, you’re not doing much sightseeing right now, are you, Gojo?”

“Please.” He rests his icy forehead against yours, waltzing you slowly around the clearing. Your first dance. “Call me Satoru, I would like to part ways having heard my name on your tongue once, than not at all.”

And ah, it hurt him more than that dull, spreading pain of death to simply see your expression crumble. Lower lip wobbling when you whisper, “Do we have to?”

It’s as if that tiny tremble in your voice jolts him back to his senses, and he’s letting go of you as if you burned. Turning his back so that you won’t see him swipe underneath his dampening eyes, “We do.” he nods solemnly. Still gazing out through the barren trees, the snow breaking in. “But I would…if you’d like- I would really like you to say my name just once.”

Nothing - not one of your quipping insults, not even one of your sweet, sweet giggles. Gojo could barely even hear that shallow breathing of yours.

“My love?”

Nothing.

Gojo whirls around, “My love?”

Nothing.

---

“Let me go let me- go-” you spit, voice dripping with a deadly growl that should decidedly not be used in front of your future in-laws. But you didn’t give a fuck right now. “I will never- ah-”

Unceremoniously, you’re thrown like a mere debris in front of Dutchess Zenin’s gold-tipped boots, hands splaying out against the cool marble to dredge up some ounce of balance. You look up into her burning glare, hissing, “I will never marry your son.”

But it’s like you’d never spoken at all.

She’s turning to Naoya, stood proudly behind you, holding back his snickers. “Ah, my son-” Reaching her arms around to brush off the soft pattering of snow down his coat. “-I see you’ve brought your wife back.”

“Of course, mother.” he’s humming. “Had to walk all throughout that crummy forest until I saw her-” At this, he’s turning towards your parents, who could only watch from the sidelines. “-with another man no less- well, can’t quite call him that if he didn’t even see his woman being dragged off into the dark.”

Dutchess Zenin cackles,and the sound makes you grit your teeth. “That other man is my husband-”

“What?”

It’s your own mother speaking this time - eyes widened. Fuming. She comes up to you in a few urgent, sharp strides, grabbing at the now-torn and frayed edges of your gown. “What nonsense are you speaking-” Sneaking a glance at your father, “Our daughter seems to have lost her mind, dear.”

He’s just a bit more gentle - cautious, almost. As if confronting a cornered wildcat when he ruffles through your pockets for the ring. Finding none.

You’re wrenching yourself away, “I’m fine- but father, listen- I was practicing my vows in the forest-” Every eye was on you know, and oh you’ve never felt more of a spectacle. “-and I put that wedding ring on a tree root- and it- it came alive and oh- he was a groom. A beautiful corpse groom-”

“That trip to the forest must have bogged up her mind- yes yes, she must be imagining things.”

“Of course, but the wedding…poor dear-”

“The only thing she’s good for is the money.” Dutchess Zenin gruffs, tired of hiding her disdain. “And maybe a free trip to the hospi-”

“The wedding will take place.” Naoya cuts in gruffly, snapping his fingers at a nearby attendant and pointing at you. “Call the officiary, and as for my future bride, I don’t care if you must force her into that wedding dress, I don’t care if you have to drag her here - she will marry me one way or the other. Now.”

It’s like you’re a puppet - their puppet. Being rapidly walked and bathed about, dolled-up in a white, silken wedding dress that you could never see yourself standing in next to him.

It fits you like a glove, attuned to your body as if it was made for you - and you almost hated how beautiful it was, adorned with tiny silver inklings and the most delicate of lace. Made with too much love to be borne out of this dreary household, but when you turned to ask your jittery handmaiden about it, she’d only cryptically answered about “the dress being with this family for a long, long time.”

No one here seems to give you answers.

Or grace.

Or anything but locked windows that you crack a nail or two attempting to open and flee and a long, decorated aisle to walk down to your future husband. Naoya.

Your throat tightens when you’re stepping back into that hallway - now flourishing with bouquets of blue, blue baby’s breath, and twinkling candles. It was almost colorful, for this town, at least.

You shudder out a teary sigh when the tender piano starts up again - the exact same tune you’d played with Gojo. But cold. And suddenly, you’re realizing that you never asked him how he knew the song.

“Pssst! Walk!” Your mother’s high-pitched hiss is enough to snap you out of your little reverie, glassy eyes snapping up to look at her urgent signal to hurry up.

And so you walk, but not to the one man you wanted to.

Naoya’s smirk lies as smugly as ever when you take your place beside him at the altar, poised, and perfect in his pressed suit, his glinting sword. Whispering snidely from the corner of his mouth. “Smile a little, it’s a wedding after all.”

You keep your gaze trained firmly on the officiary starting his speech, “Perhaps in disappointment, we are perfectly matched.”

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man and this bride in holy matrimony-” Gesturing a wrinkled hand at Naoya, “You may begin first.”

He raises his hand in a solemn oath, razor eyes boring relentlessly into yours. Voice dangerous, humming. “With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.” This time, he was pointedly the one to pick up that cup on the altar table - a steady, unbreakable metal this time. “Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine.”

Your trembly fingers wrap around the bottle of wine, starting to slowly pour. “With this hand, I will lift your sorrows. Your cup will never be empty for I- I will be…”

Shit.

Shit, you can’t do it.

Your words struggle to come out, and you could burn in the sheer anger already wafting from Naoya.

“I will- I will be-”

“How scandalous to marry an already-married woman~!”

The gasp that echoes throughout the hall is almost as deafening as the booming crash! of those towering, mahogany doors being swung open. Clattering against the walls so hard that your teeth chatter with vibration - but you didn’t care. Didn’t even feel it because you’re too awe-struck by what was standing in front of you.

Or more accurately, who.

“Satoru!” The tears are falling hotly down your cheeks, you barely have the patience to lift up your layers upon layers of gauzy skirts before stumbling your way into his arms at the very end of the aisle. Ready. Ever-loving. Catching you easily like he’d been waiting a hundred years for this very moment.

“I thought you left me waiting.” he breathes.

“I would never- and- and you’re here.”

“Mhm–”

You can’t help but let out a laugh, “How did you even know where to find me?”

“Our duet- there would be no other but this house that would know it-” He wraps his arms even more snugly around your waist, white locks tickling your nose. “And you did promise to lift my sorrows, what type of husband would I be if I didn’t do the same?”

“You. You- What- what is the meaning of this?” Dutchess Zenin’s squawk tears through your little moment, she’s whirling into a furious stand, fists clenched. “Married woman- husband? You’re dead!”

Gojo remains calm, sapphire eyes narrowing, “I am.”

But the ever-composed woman you’d feared for so long was now running her mouth a mile a minute, half-ripping out chunks of hair in frustration as the officiary held her back from storming her way towards the two of you.

“You’re dead you’re dead you’re dead-” she screeches, and even Naoya could only watch with his mouth fallen. “You’re dead- my family made sure of that-”

She stops short, mouth opening and closing in a gasp until you breathe, “M-made sure?”

“Yes-” She’s fighting against the hold, still muttering to herself maniacally. “Shit- we made sure to- oh god why- do we have to kill you all over again! Your wretched Gojo royal family is wiped out- I still- I still have the power, the riches- All because we left you-”

“For dead.” he whispers. You’re too shocked to gasp - to do anything but look up at his reaction. “But she came back to me.”

“Her? This one- Once more you found that insignificant little-”

And at this very moment, Naoya just bellows in a guttural scream, everything his mother was restrained from doing with how he’d closed the gap between you two in a few urgent seconds. One hand wrapped roughly around yours, “I don’t care- You forget she was engaged to me first.”

“She’s still my wife.” Gojo spits.

“Not if you’re-” Naoya’s unsheathing his sword haphazardly. Swinging. “Dead!”

Schwing–!

It would have been sure to hit you.

Would have been sure to gravely injure your side - if Gojo hadn’t deftly moved himself squarely in front of you, that is. The sharp blade slicing right through his ribs - yet, he still smiles. “You forget I already am.” In one, fluid motion tackling the sword to holt at its bejeweled hilt - pointed right at Naoya’s chest. “Let go of me and my wife, before you join me.”

It’s silence.

Silence and the smell of fear. Sour, and saturated when Naoya’s stepping away, one unsteady foot after the other-

“I will ruin you as my ancestors have, Gojo brat-”

Dutchess Zenin.

Your body moves before your mind - before any form of thinking, as if on instinct. Yet, you already knew what was coming.

And soon enough, you’re standing in front of a stunned Gojo, face splattered with the red, red wine in her silvery cup. Drip! drip! dripping down your stained lips and onto the marbled floors.

But something about it tasted bitter.

Different.

And all of a sudden - you see dark.

“Poison! By gods, the wine was poisoned!”

“How will the wedding go on?”

“No- no no no I just wanted to her sick- to get her will–shit-”

“My love---listen----hear--me?”

In the foggy distance, you could hear girlish, high-pitched screams that sounded strangely like Naoya’s, and the familiarly dark chuckle of- Sukuna? Sounding ready to pounce on fresh meat. “Heheh, new arrival - and some unfinished business, huh?”

“S’Toru–” you’re whispering, eyes blearily. Heart cold. Suddenly, everything about you was cold. And the only thing you could register right now is the fact that you were still in his arms - always was. “Toru- am I- where am I?”

“You’re here, sweetheart.” he gasps, big fat tears splattering onto your face. The only sense of warmth that you could feel, other than the one in your no-longer-beating heart. And you can’t help but wonder - can a heart be broken even when it stops beating? Because he was living two deaths now - his own - laying there poisoned with wine so long ago on the forest floor, with only the Zenin’s to watch, and you to wait for him much later - and most importantly, yours. “You’re- you’re here, with me.” He places a sweet, sweet kiss onto your lips. “Rest now, I’ll wait for you. I promise- I promise.”

And through your hazy vision, the only thing that you could quite see was that silver locket you’d never thought to look through, out of fear - sprung open. Baring two grainy, clouded portraits - as good as a photo.

Of him

And…you.

“I’ll always wait for you, in life and death.”

---

“Hey- Toru–” your voice rings out in Gojo’s favorite song, peering curiously at the boyishly grinning prince. “Do you think I’ll be an unfit wife?”

He throws his head back with a cackle, peering through his long lashes from where he was resting his head in your lap. “What- no? Whatever makes you think that, silly girl?”

You’re settling yourself further down the young oak - your favorite little hiding spot ever since you’d introduced your secret lover to it. Grumbling half-jokingly, you thread your fingers through his soft, snow-white hair. “Well perhaps because someone refuses to help me do anything in preparation for tonight-”

“Shhh!” Gojo’s bringing a finger to his lips, glancing around over-dramatically. “You never know when my father will be jumping from behind the bushes.” At your amused laughter, “N’ besides, doesn’t matter if we’re going to elope, I’m not letting my wife pick up a thing.”

“What- no-”

“I’ll snag my wedding suit- and that specially-made dress for you heh- and get the attendants to sneak out some leftovers from the banquet. The Zenin family has just gifted some wine I know you’ll love.”

Craning his head to press a slow kiss to your forehead, “We’ll drink, we’ll say our vows- you better have memorized them this time-” And another on your nose, “Then I’ll have you drunk in another way~ ow! Okay okay- don’t hit royalty–! And run away to our happily ever after.” Then, finally, lingeringly on your mouth,“Trust me.”

“But-”

“Please?”

You’re fiddling with the chain around your hefty, heart-shaped locket with a huff, finally caving in. “Fine- but then-” Deftly unclasping it, “-you have the responsibility of keeping this safe, too, I have to teach piano to the little ones in town again today, and if anyone catches me with a piece like this I’ll be hanged for thievery before ever getting married.”

“Our duet?”

“Our duet.”

He twirls that delicate pendant around his fingers, brows scrunching in half-seriousness. “I’ll protect it with my life-” Almost flinging it towards the end of the clearing in his haste to salute you, “Ah- pardon my enthusiasm, my love.”

“I like your enthusiasm, dummy.” you’re rolling your eyes at his antics. “But what if I’m late? The music lessons always take so long…”

“Just meet me here at our place - promise I’ll wait for you, of course. In life and death.”

You never did find out if Gojo Satoru waited for you.

You never found him that night - running late to the clearing, only to be met with no sign of him. Not that night. Not the night after. Night after night, you waited for him - watched as the Gojo royal family fell and the Zenin’s raided their palace, as the town started to grow and you stayed the very same.

With stray hope, even in your final ages, waiting for him and the marriage that won’t take place.

Not for a hundred years.

---

You’re waking up remembering the feeling of those cold, cold lips on yours.

Finally, remembering.

“Sa-Toru-” you’re gasping, gulping in heavy lungfuls of air before you realize - you don’t need it anymore. Eyes startling open, you wince at the even the dim, heady lighting overhead. “I’m…”

“Dead.”

His words are gentle - just above a whisper, as if anything else will scare you off. But his words have the complete opposite reaction, in fact, you’re reeling him in so close by the silvery lapels of his weathered jacket. Wedding suit meeting your wedding dress.

You feel over his broad chest, and then over yours. Breathing out in awe, “I- I really am dead.”

Gojo’s wincing, running the soft pads of his fingers down your scalp. Massaging, “How- how do you feel, my love?”

Too-late you’re realizing that you’re splayed out on what seems like a plush, engulfing bed. Blankets upon blankets of velvety fabrics covering the surface, like someone had tried their very best to replicate warmth.

“I think I feel…” you’re muttering, the very corners of your painted lips turning upwards at the way that Gojo was hanging onto your every word. Pretty mouth dropped into a soft oh! eyes wide and true. You just can’t help but drag him into the tightest embrace your joints could possibly handle. “-that I haven’t spent enough alone-time with my husband.”

He laughs - he laughs and laughs like he hasn’t before, like it’d been bubbling up in his throat for years and finally set free.

“Oh, my love.” Gojo reveres, pressing a trail of hot kisses down the side of your face. Lingering in a languid lick where big, salty tears of yours were welling up. “We have all the time in the world- I just- just- do you remember?”

You’re pretending to think, leaving him careening at all your minute expressions. Finally cracking, “Of course, I remember- all of it, dummy-” Swatting his chest, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He’s gulping heavily, “I always knew that- that it was you the moment I saw your face- you look exactly as you did. Exactly as beautiful as the day I lost you, after all.” Cupping your cheek, “And oh, sweetheart, what a blessing it would be to marry you. But how could I ever tell you when you didn’t even remember me? How could I so selfishly ask you to throw away something so dear as life for me? Even for a promise?”

“I would have done it.” you’re pouting, brows scrunching.

“Exactly.”

“I waited for you, y’know. For years, until my death. No ‘deserving husband’, and no children.”

He gasps a tiny, meaningful gasp. And for all how Gojo loved to run his mouth, right now he only presses a sultry kiss to your forehead, “But in this life, or the last, or whatever comes next-” On your nose now, “-I’ll wait for you. Always have, always will.” Finally - yearningly - on your mouth, “In life and in death.”

Gojo kisses you like he’s been waiting a hundred years for it - and would wait a hundred more before he can again.

Pressing one, two. Three steamingly hot, open-mouthed on your spit-glossed lips before moving to trail them down the underside of your jaw. Dragging his raw lips in a messy glide, he’s tittering when all it takes is one sudden bite at the soft spot on your neck to get you to jump.

“Heh- you never change-” he murmurs into your heated skin, licking down the sting with a slow spread of his tongue.

“T-Toru–” you’re managing to gasp out despite his relentless attack on your mouth. Making him wrench out such a pained grunt when you pull his face back ever-so-slightly to look into Gojo’s eyes. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Gojo can only cock his head in confusion, gaze still half-lidded and locked on your lips.

“You’re forgetting your promise from all those years ago–” you’re dragging out in a honeyed-tone, giggling at the way his hulking body squirms impatiently. “-to consummate our marriage.”

And oh.

Oh, Gojo Satoru feels he’s dying six times over already.

He feels like his bleary head is about to go into overdrive - as was the sudden tightening in his pants.

“W-well then…” he’s rasping out, voice so ragged, dipping into a husky baritone that for a second you almost don’t recognize it. Two of his long fingers cup your face once more - rougher this time, making your lips squeeze together into an almost-embarrassing oh! “Open that mouth f’me, my love.”

You barely even realize it when you do - not until Gojo’s spitting a thick, translucent wad of his syrupy saliva right onto your lolling tongue.

Nodding smugly when you’re taking him all, he’s swiping the curve of his thick thumb down that purposeful splatter on the corner of your lips. Because you knew the prince of a nation should have perfect aim, you knew he just liked seeing your dewy eyes flutter.

Whispering hoarsely against your lips, “I ask you to be mine.”

“Yes-” you’re whining, your hands scrambling down the decadent fabrics of his suit. “Yes yes yes- please- n-need more, Toru-”

And the sound of that cute lil’ nickname you’d made for him in that sweetened tone makes Gojo’s entire body wrack with a violent shudder. Head throwing back, white lashes flickering shut- “O-oh, shit- shit you’re gonna be the death of me-”

But whatever little joke playing on your tongue just dissipates when Gojo’s shedding his outer coat off slowly. Bloodied, silken jacket hitting the ground- bloodied? You’ll have to ask about that later.

And then his mouth is on yours again - teeth clashing, tasting metal, his pretty lips wrapping around your hot tongue to just suck. Lazily, like his favorite candy.

“So beautiful-” his words puff out in a feverish pant. Chest huffing - no, heaving - you can only keen when you feel something so hard and massive nudge up in a gentle kiss against your high. “So perfect–” The sodden curve of his achy tip dragging in a wet smear down your leg. “So mine.”

As soon as you’re blinking your dazed eyes back open, you’re hit with what looked like miles upon miles of Gojo Satoru. Curving muscles sitting prettily and casting shadow in the low lighting - it made you just drool.

Shit, when did he even take his shirt off?

“Heh, already so needy, sweetheart?” He kisses up the glossy trickle, groaning into your mouth, “So cute–”

But, of course, you weren’t exactly one to be pushed around, either.

With a low purr, you cup that bulging tent right in-between his muscled thighs. Fingers skimming over inches upon inches of his girthy, solid shaft - he just gasps. “O-oh, you little minx- do you enjoy p-playing with my hngh- sanity?”

With a snicker, it doesn’t take you long to smudge the pads of your digits at that thickly spreading pool of precum. Glossing a thin sheen all the way down to your wrists with how fucking greedily he was throbbing at your touch.

“F-fuck-” he’s hastily clearing his throat as soon as it breaks off into a pathetic whine. Hips bucking forwards in mindless, staggering gyrations into your hand like Gojo didn’t even realize what he was doing right now. “Fuck fuck fuck- honey, I-”

The neediest little grunts spill from his puffed-up lips, and he’s moving urgently - hastily, when sitting upright to all but rip that bejeweled belt off of his slender waist. Tugging his white pants down, down, down and-

Oh.

“Fuck, Toru.”

Gojo was so unfairly pretty - all of him.

Even every single inch of his long, thick shaft, smeared with glistening precum sobbing out from his fat, round head. Blushed darker than the rest of him - matching his innocent cheeks right now. So hard it looked painful.

Twitching over and over in saturated gushes coating his prominently throbbing veins, his tight balls. Your fingers.

Wrapping tight around his flushed base, he was so incredibly big that you’re worried your fingers wouldn’t even close. Scratching up against those drenched tufts of cloudy white at his toned pelvis, the sight is enough to make you gulp.

“Yes-” Gojo’s rasping, head thrown back because shit did it feel good to have your pretty lil’ fingers all wrapped around him. Hips stuttering up, up, up- “Yes yes yes- c’mon- c-c’mon my wife-”

Shit, those words spilling from his lips are enough to steer into such a loud moan, and he’s letting his jaw fall unhinged. Jaw-droppingly powerful back muscles flexing when he falls into a hunch, kissing wetly at your lips.

“Tighter- squeeze ah, squeeze me at my tip-” Gojo’s babbling, drunken eyes so thoroughly locked on where you were pumping your fist back and forth. “Y-yeah hngh- and glide your thumb over just—”

You’re swiping the very tip of your thumb underneath that sensitive slit of his, the slightest touch enough to make him bawl out in a dripping sheen of precum. Reddening even more, his hefty girth in your hand jolts sensitively.

“S-s’this–” you stagger out, wrist aching when you’re moving it faster. And faster. Ears ringing with the sloppy fap! fap! fap! of your fingers clenching around his thick, circular girth, the splatters of precum it’s forcing from him. Kissing gently down his burning shoulder, “S’this good, Toru?”

And god, how dare you even ask that?

With a sudden groan, he crashes his lips into yours again. Addicted. Growling against your whiny mouth, you’re flinching at the nip of his sharp canines.

“Oh, yer perfect-” he’s blinking back big, fat tears from behind those glassy eyes. And the soft plane of his palms dance ravenously down your body - all your curves, your dips where your wedding dress was hiking up. But most importantly at your sopping wet cunt. “-so so- p-perfect- any harder n’ m’gonna make ya a pretty momma right now, right here.”

His words come out a burst - a beg.

In that very heady moment he’s just bullying his thick digits past your soaked pussy - absolutely useless with how fucking translucent it was. Sticking to your sopping wet folds like a second skin that he wanted to rip off.

“S-so oh!” Sucking in a sharp gasp at the sight of that tiny lace wrapped around his fingers, “Such a pretty cunt, wearin’ such a dirty lil’ thing, naughty girl- who was this for?”

And you couldn’t dare bear to wrench your lips open, to meet that dark glint in Gojo’s gaze. Hooded, such a slow, leering grin growing all over his face when the seconds tumble by. When your softened fingers falter around his length.

“Who was this for?” he’s echoing. “N’ no lying to your h-husband.”

“Toru-”

“Tell me, my pretty wife.”

“It was-” you’re mewling out, choking on your tiny confession when he slides his index solidly down the drippingly wet purse of your swollen pussy lips. Puffed-up and sensitive against where he was rubbing that cool metal ring against them. “-w-was for ngh- N-Naoya- but it was Dutchess Zenin that made me-”

Oh, but fuck - it didn’t matter who made you wear those sinful panties.

Because it’s only taking Gojo Satoru a split-second to crane his hot mouth downwards and bite down on the very hem of your saturated panties. Biting the edge of your skin only slightly - before just tearing the fabric off with his very teeth.

He takes a few seconds with his greedy gaze boring into yours, crazed. Canines bared glintingly around that tender lace, he just groans.

Eyes rolling to the back of his head before spitting it out - and kissing you like you’ve never been kissed before.

“H-hngh, Toru–” you’re moaning, your fingers half-cramping up with the way they were turning around his swollen cock. Swiveling around the heated bumps of his sensitive spots, the drag of your nails gently down his veins make him shiver. “Feels so- ah!”

And ah, for how much Gojo loved those saccharine sweet moans in your ear, how much he loved teasing you - he was hungry.

Shoveling all the way into your gummy channel, until your puffy pussy lips were kissing his very knuckles, gushing out in spurts of wet slick down his wrist. Twirling those cold digits, so stark against how toasty you were inside.

It made Gojo’s thickened tip twitch in your fingers, huffing out a humorless laugh when he was easily knocking against that bulbous bullseye of your g-spot. Pressing down. Hard.

“Mhm—” he’s purring, nosing down the tender crook of your neck. “Tell me how it feels- hngh- gotta tell me- fuck oh fuck don’ squeeze me like that- ah-”

He’s just wrenching out the most dripping squelches with each rummaging pump into your melty cunt, your walls were just molding around his digits. Sucking him back in like you’re trying to milk out something delicious- fuck, how he wished this was his achy cock right now, instead.

Gojo’s biting down hard at that magical spot on your neck, sending shocks of electricity down your sluttily arched spine. “Can’t- hah- can’t take it anymore- shit- needa be inside you soon. Needa fill ya up soon.”

And he didn’t even have to tell you - you could feel it.

Building up and up with every relentless such of his glistening fingers. Glossy.

“Need to make you mine-” he’s gasping, heatedly. Tone cracking on almost a bawl, his hips are fucking into your hand like his little cocksleeve, up all the way from weepy head down to thwack into his pulsing base. Fingers bumping messily into his taut, twitchy balls - making Gojo’s mouth water. “Need to- hngh- need to make you cum! Please-”

Tears crinkling at the very ends of his doe eyes, after every single crash along your sweet spot. Thorough wet glides. “Please please please-”

And it’s whispered over and over like a mantra when you’re cumming - again and again, so hard that you didn’t even realize you’re reaching your high before your tight pussy clamps around his fingers.

“Yeah- yeah yeah, cum all over my fingers.” He’s thrusting his fingers in and out so rabidly, hitting all your forbidden spots. Free hand pushing apart your quivering thighs even further, “Spread wide- heheh, yeahhh–”

Those sudden slurps sounded so thunderous in your ears, and your maw sags open deliriously in a higher-pitched ah! ah! ah! Grinding your hips down over and over in needy swivels, using him. Music to his ears, making his staggering erection just weep so dangerously- but he can’t cum.

Won’t cum just yet.

Not until he’s fucked you through each and every one of your peaks, not until your convulses are tapering out into nothing but tiny tingles.

And then he’s dragging out his ruined fingers from your sodden cunt - out, out, out. Snapping delicate strings of the mess he’s made of your poor pussy, before pushing them through his lips rawly.

“M-mmm-” he’s rumbling from the very depths of his broad chest, pecs heaving. And through your half-lucid gaze, you’re spying a silvery dribble of drool down the side of his lips. Moaning at the sweet, sweet taste. “Shit- shit, sweetheart-”

You can’t even react before he’s then spitting a steady stream of wispy saliva down to your sloppy hole, swirling it around with one of his thumbs.

“Better let her know m’coming back for seconds later.”

You whine all brattily, your hips arching into the perfect buck upwards - which only makes him grin. “Heh- my greedy girl, if I waited one hundred years ya can wait a few seconds.”

It’s so admonishing - and Gojo has never told a bigger lie.

Because he’s the one that’s so painfully impatient right now, angry cock spewing out a few more velvety waves of precum down your gleaming palm. A low string of profanity rips from his throat, and he’s just diving his hands around every inch of your body he could reach.

Deftly untangling those tedious ties at the back, “Damn these little- forgot how many ribbons I fuckin’- ordered-”

In split-seconds, you’re being flipped over with one fluid push of Gojo’s biceps, sinking your front into the royally soft mattress. You felt like you were in heaven.

“Toru–” you’re whirling your head over your shoulder to admire just how much his biceps flex. Twitching with each eager rip down your bodice. Shaky fingers tightening on the silken sheets, “H-hurry up-”

“Easy there, my love.”

It’s ragged, breathed hotly against your ear, and suddenly Gojo’s resting every bit of his body weight on top of yours to pin you down helplessly onto the bed. Holding your squirming hips captive onto one rough hand attached to them, “Arch jus’ a bite more- please- fuuuck like that yeah-”

He’s taking the opportunity to fling your wedding dress down easily, bunching it somewhere towards the corner of the bedroom - right alongside your bra and inner layers.

You’re gasping - stunned.

“Don’t l-look at me like that, I’ve had one hundred hah- years to practice this exact moment with my hand n’ imagination-”

And then Gojo’s gasping, he’s snapping his eyes open, he’s heaving out the most whiny call of your name when you push your hips back in a wet slide against his painfully hard cock.

Your folds smacking wetly against his shaft, dragging in a dripping trail along his veins - and shit, Gojo really underestimated how fucking hot you’d feel against his cock. How readily awaiting when his slender hips rut down in a furious push and pull. “This is long overdue.”

“Hey!” you jut your spit-sheen lower lip out when he’s rudely smacking away your hand from the clasp of your locket. “Wha’s that for?”

“Keep it on.” Gojo nips at your earlobe.

And then he’s spitting you open - he’s pushing in.

Inch by fucking inch of his swelteringly hot cock being shovelled into your gooey cunt, stretching out your snug walls to their limits. Pulled taut. Barely giving an apologetic kiss to the side of your head before Gojo’s circling one big beefy arm around your hips, easily tilting your entire body upwards for him to surge his hips even deeper.

He gasps, he shudders at the faintest of your wet clenches. “C’mon-c’mon c’mon c’mon- a-ah- you can take it please- please take it f’me.”

How could you not?

Because every one of his tiny, shallow grinds just to fit in have your mouth dropping further and further open cockdrunkenly.

“Please-” your hands fist at the plushy pillows, the headboards, craning behind at Gojo’s neck. “Fuck me h-harder, Toru- I can-”

“Ohhh- you play a hah- dangerous game.” He swipes away the stray hairs on your forehead, kissing at your sweat-slicked forehead. “My beautiful bride- my beautiful, beautiful bride - ah- almost makes me wanna m-make you more.”

Just that split-second of sultry shock is enough for Gojo to push in fully - all the way until your thighs sting with the sudden thwack! of his hefty, cum-filled balls, your folds kissing up against his thickened base.

He’s hissing when his achy, rounded tip recoils ever-so-slightly against the spongy mess of your cervix, hitting it relentlessly in harsh jackhammer. Spearheading his fat cock to massage up against all your sensitive spots in a more dizzying way than even his fingers could.

“Wh-what do you m-mean-” They’re falling from your mouth as hastily as Gojo can pump you stuffed full of his cock. Not even easing into it, starting up a sloppy cadence. “-b-by–”

“Awww, don’ hngh- p-push yourself, my love–” he’s simpering out. But oh his hips were speaking a completely different language from how soothing your husband’s tone was, one hand curling deftly around your throat to reel you in even harsher in sudden swats against his ever-pushing hips. Twirling around the chain of your locket, “What I mean is…”

Both of your half-lidded gazes are downturned to where he feels for that tiny nudge at about halfway down your stomach. Drawing an imaginary line about halfway through, before splaying down all five digits. Hard. “-that m’gonna make ya a pretty momma as well as my pretty wife.”

This little confession is followed by a particularly hard slam! from Gojo’s end, and you dart your hand out to grasp desperately onto the wooden headboard.

Crying out, “Is- is that even possible, Toru?”

But the only actual response that Gojo can give - that he thinks himself capable of giving right now, with how mind-numbingly your pretty pussy was milking any rationality out of him - is a breathless chuckle. His head throwing back with a whimper, brows knitting together. “I don’t know hah! Haven’t got a fuckin’ clue- but that doesn’t mean m’not gonna fucking try–”

And he was fucking you into the mattress just like it, well and fully intent on breeding your tight cunt. Jostling the locket at your chest with rough, reckless abandon. Every sodden drag down your slobbery walls having those dreams from a lifetime ago about your happily every after playing through his mind.

You, with your drooling pussy painted all white with his potent cum, making such a mess of him that he just has to do it all over again, of course.

You, all round and glowing - full of him, his heir.

You, looking up at him with those gorgeous eyes - another, tinier set held delicately in your hands. His hair, and your smile. Everything that he’s ever wanted in life and death.

Stupidly. Pussydrunkenly.

“Oh oh-” Gojo’s groaning, the sudden bump of your fingers against the sensitive curve of his balls making him jolt back into his reality. His heavenly, heavenly reality. “Aww, have I b-been neglecting you, my love?”

No, you want to scream - but you can’t.

Because he’s only hiking up a powerful thigh to pressurize his harrowing rams with even more power, and you could feel every flex and ripple of his washboard abs. The spatter of pearlescent beads of sweat setting in with fatigue.

But Gojo wouldn’t listen in the first place, couldn’t even think of anything that didn’t stem from his achy cock pummeling into you.

Messily, he’s swiping at those fingers of yours that were currently reaching for your angrily puffy clit, aching for more more more-

Giving a mean little smack onto where your sensitive nub was drenched in all your sweetened juices, it sends bolts of electricity all over your body. Clinging your gummy walls around his girth so tight.

“This what y-you wanted?” he rasps by your ear, drawing slow, determined circles on the very peak of your clit. And when that doesn’t have you crying out all prettily for him the way he wanted - Gojo just tugs. Unapologetically. “Tell me- ngh- tell me how it feels, fuck- can feel this cunt gettin’ so soaked-”

“Yes-” you’re sobbing out. Hips now aching with the burn of pushing back into his unrelenting hips - it hurts almost. The sting of his skin against you, the hard collision of his fat head against your cervix. But you want more. “Y-yes feels so good, Toru- need more hngh- need you t-to…”

“What?” he’s spitting. Wild. “Tell me, sweetheart- please- please-”

And, hell, Gojo Satoru wanted to hear so badly that he’s just slowing his hips down every so slightly to let you catch your breath. To answer.

But what he was actually blessed with was another one of your long, drawn-out whines. Grumbling ever-so-slightly as you jolt your hips back with every one of the thorough swivels of his fingers on your clit. Toying.

Fucking back harder than ever into his rock-hard dick, the locket just slams it’s cool branding onto the heated skin of your chest-

“Need you to f-fill me up-” you mutter wetly, nothing more than a few gurgles wrenched out when his clashing head French-kisses your g-spot. Drawing wet glides of his steamy precum down it. “-make me a hngh- m-momma, Toru-”

Oh, this might just be his third death ever.

Because the bed creaks riotously with every one of his ragged rams, in a way that made you glad for the ever-present music of this town.

Over and over.

“Yeah- shit, gonna make you a p-pretty momma-” he’s babbling away, a mile a minute. So sloppy that you’re barely able to understand what Gojo was saying. “Fill you- up- ngh- so they’ll look at you and see me. All me- all pretty and r-round- me me me- oh—”

Right now, Gojo didn’t give a fuck if his little dream was even possible. He didn’t give a fuck if his moans were turning into whimper, staggering thrusts trudging into the sloppiest of grinds. The neediest.

Because right now you were cumming.

That rapid throb of your clit increasing twofold when you’re finally plummeting into your high, wave after wave of pleasure that he fucks you through with heavy pound after pound.

Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, toes curling, flashes of white flitting behind your firmly shut eyes. Fuck, it felt so good.

And your fingers clench hard around where they were still firmly stationed on the headboard to keep at least an ounce of your sanity. Intertwining with- Gojo’s when he slams his hand down hard enough that the entire bed shudders.

Or maybe that was just him - because so was he.

“F-finally-” Gojo’s hiccuping, angling his head just right to be able to catch your pretty lips in what could barely be considered a kiss. Just a sloppy suck of your tongue while he pumps you snugly full of sloshing loads of his cum. “Wan’ed this for- so long- finally hngh- consummate- you- most beautiful ah momma-”

His whines were nonsensical at this point, only growing more and more so with each velvety ribbon of cum being poured around into your tight pussy. You could feel it swashing about your soft walls with every one of your hard, convulsing clenches, painting your insides over and over again in a second, sticky skin of his seed.

“Yeah- fuck fuck fuck, yeah Toru- hah- m-more-”

And just when Gojo thought the almost-painful clenches of his heavy balls were coming to a close, just when he thought his thick streams of voluminous cum were stretching out into thinner wisps - you have to go and say those syrupy sweet words.

Fuck.

He’s gasping, locking his finger with yours even harder on the headboard, “Gonna- ngh- gonna be the death of me I s-swear–”

Oh, and then you looked at him with that fucked-out smile of yours. A sight he’s gifted to see. Humming, “In life and in death, r-remember?”

Bang!

The headboard crashes down onto the floor. Your back is hitting the now utterly drenched sheet below you before the realization hits you.

In nothing but a split-second, Gojo pulls out his dangerously twitching cock to manhandle you flatly onto your back. Swiftly, he throws your legs over the curvaceous deltoids of his sculpted shoulder, easily bending you down, down, down into half.

Into the meanest mating press possible.

Dredges of thick, hot cum just ooze down your sopping slit, spreading in a milky circle underneath you. And slobbering down Gojo’s swollen hilt as soon as he plugs himself back in - immediately.

The very divot at the end of his cock quivering - for only a split-second before bursting out in streams of more and more cum. Overflowing. Overspilling out of you.

And he can’t help but glide an open palm over that tiny inflation beginning to form where he’d drawn a line just earlier. One hand pressing down on it hard, the other tweaking at your clit to make your walls clench.

“Oh f-fuck yeah–” Gojo stutters at the glossy coating of his own seed all around him. Reveling in the toasty feeling again and again until his poor, overworked cock can only sputter out wispy strings of nothing. Shooting blanks. “Gonna breed ya- make ya all round and and- ngh full until you c-can’t take anymore. Until we hahh- have that happy ending y-you wanted.”

You mewl when he’s licking away those glistening tears rolling down your cheeks, “-happy ending w-we wanted hngh- Toru–”

“Yeah-” he chuckles. Pecking at your lips with that salty sweet taste on his tongue, “We wanted. It’s why I didn’t reincarnate like you, my love, unfinished hngh- business here s’to spend a long, long and happy marriage with you, y’know?”

You bat your lashes in sweet disbelief, “That’s- that’s mine, too.”

Ah, he reels you in even closer into his arms. Snug. Ever-loving. Seemingly like he’d never let you go ever again - couldn’t bear to.

He nuzzles against that now-open locket, eyes peering down at those bleary paintings of you two, as loving as if they were taken just today. And in the back of his fried mind, he makes a note to take newer photos for later. Fingers tracing their familiar pathway to press down on the outer edges of the metal - in only the way he knew how, in the way that you should have been taught all those years ago, but was never able to.

“Then-” His eyes light up as they always did whenever it came to you, when the tiny mechanisms on the locket open up to reveal a delicate, gorgeous ring. Strangely matching his own. Gojo doesn’t think he’s done anything easier in his life when he slides that ring onto your finger, fitting so perfectly. Not even when he was waiting for you, not even when he’d taken care of Naoya in a way that left his coat spattered and stained with red. “-we’re both lucky.”

It’s only after a few soft, lingering kisses that Gojo finally pulls away - like it hurt to.

And it did, sensitive shockwaves erupting down his overwhelmed length. But none of that shows above his drunken grin when Gojo’s shuffling down the bed, all the way until his hot breath was puffing up feverishly against your sloppy cunt.

Messy. Drooling.

Making such an utter mess on his tongue when he lets it loll out, swiping up the gushing creamy dredges with a long lick. It was so filthy, dribbling down the sides of his mouth, onto his pinkish tongue-

Just a tease for more.

“Because I keep my promises, my wife.” his murmur wraps all around your thrumming clit. Tongue swirling a milky gloss all over his pert, raw lips. Only wanting more. Waiting. “In life and in death.”

A/N. THIS- THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE N’ GOT ME IN MY FEELSSSS. Hope y’all have a lovely lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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emchant3d · 9 months ago

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part 2 of runaway bride stevie! modern au, exes to lovers, transfem stevie harrington pt 1

Eddie Munson is not having a good day.

His phone died last night so his alarm didn’t go off, his bassist is sick so their gig tonight has to be canceled, and his last three Uber rides have stiffed him on a tip.

He accepts a request from some dude named Scott with a terrible comb-over in his profile picture and gives himself two seconds to bang his forehead into his steering wheel in frustration with a closed-mouth scream. Then he dials it back so he doesn’t seem absolutely fucking insane. He can see the suit he’s about to escort to some fucking meeting even though he’d rather be doing any-fucking-thing else, and he pastes a fake smile on to greet him. He’s gearing up to fall into the usual routine of this godforsaken job, but then it all goes a little sideways.

There’s movement from the corner of his eye, and then a blur of a body is slamming into poor Scott from behind, shoulder checking him and almost sending him careening onto the sidewalk. The dude pinwheels his arms like a cartoon character, suit jacket puffing up around his shoulders awkwardly, expression so baffled it makes Eddie snort despite himself.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbles, and he’s reaching for his seatbelt to see if the guy needs any help - he looks like he might break a hip if he hits the ground - but then a whirlwind of white fabric swoops into his backseat and a loud, desperate voice yells "DRIVE!" in his ear, and he sort of just thinks 'sure, why the fuck not,' and slams his foot on the gas.

The car fishtails a bit and the tires squeal as he swerves into traffic, horns honking after him, and he picks a direction at random, going way too fast for this area of town.

His heart is pounding in his chest, worst case scenarios running through his head. He’s going to get car jacked. He’s going to go to jail for being an unwitting getaway driver. But there isn’t any more yelling from the back seat, just heavy, panicked breathing, and he settles into traffic and slows down to a more normal speed before he cuts his eyes up to the rearview mirror.

Time stops.

It’s Stevie.

He can’t believe he didn’t recognize her the second he saw her, but in his defense, it's not like he was expecting to see his ex-girlfriend in a goddamn wedding dress running like she stole something today.

Pure panic wraps tight around his throat as he takes her in - is she hurt? In danger? Nothing good could have had her sprinting away from her own wedding, but it seems like she’s just shaken up.

His heart calms a bit once her tears dry and they get properly on the road.

And shit, it’s so unfair, because she's just as breathtaking as she was the day they split. She looks just as sad, too, which is certainly not how a woman like Stevie Harrington should look on her wedding day. But seeing her in a gown like that - Jesus Christ. His heart squeezes painfully in his chest. It’s like something out of a fantasy, seeing her in the exact kind of dress she used to whisper to him about wanting, the kind of dress he’d once promised to marry her in. Of course, they fell apart before he could even get a ring on her finger, but it still sends his stomach swooping to see the future they’d spoken about come to life.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he can’t help but ask, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Yeah,” she says, voice high and a little squeaky. “Yeah, I’m totally fine. Just in my ex-boyfriend's car after I left my fiance at the altar, it’s all fine, it’s chill.”

“Okay,” he says haltingly, delicately, because Stevie Harrington is not the kind of person who says it’s chill, “it’s just that, you know, all of that sounds decidedly not chill.”

“This is so chill. It’s the chillest I’ve ever been, actually - hold on–” she says, and next thing he knows a swirl of silk is blocking his view and he sputters a bit as the train of her dress smacks him in the face, but she’s clambering gracelessly from the back seat and over the console to plop down on the passenger side with a loud huff and a cloud of perfume.

It’s different from what she used to wear. She used to smell spicy and warm, with notes of amber and cinnamon. He’d kiss the little spots in her wrists where she’d spritz it on, trace the veins beneath the tan skin with his nose to keep the scent of her with him.

Now she smells like vanilla and something floral, airy and light. Like he stepped into a bakery. It’s not bad, of course it’s not bad, but it’s…different. Not her.

Or not his version of her, anyway.

This is someone else’s Stevie now, and she smells like fucking cookies instead of home.

Instead of commenting on it, he just tells her to put on her seat belt, and she looks at him like he’s an idiot.

“And wrinkle this dress?” she says, her nose curling a little, and God she’s such a bitch and he’s missed it so much.

“I hate to break it to you,” he tells her, “but some wrinkles are not the worst damage that thing has seen today.” There are small grey splotches on the bodice where her makeup dripped as she cried earlier, and the hemline has some muddy staining from her mad dash on the sidewalk. It’s not ruined, but it’ll have to be cleaned, and a couple of wrinkles will be the easiest thing to get out of the formerly pristine fabric.

He glances over at her in time to see her run her hands over the skirt of the dress, smoothing it out over her thighs. It shifts, the leg slit parting to show her skin, teasing at the hint of a crease where her thigh and stomach meet, and Eddie rips his gaze away to stare at the road instead.

“Probably for the best, anyway,” he says, and he feels her eyes latch onto his profile.

“And why’s that?” she asks, and he smirks.

“Well, pure white? C’mon, Stevie, we both know that’s a lie.” He flashes her a wicked grin and she makes an outraged sound, but a small smile is teasing at her mouth even as her cheeks flush.

She kicks off her heels - red bottoms, because of fucking course they are - and slouches in the seat. She pushes herself up, adjusting in the pile of silk and corsetry she’s been strapped into, and he sees the absolute mountain of a rock on her hand, and manages to bite his tongue about it being the gaudiest thing he’s ever seen.

"So who was the lucky guy?" Eddie asks before he can stop himself, and the glare Stevie gives him could cut glass. “Or lucky woman. Person? Far be it from me to deny you your bisexual rights.”

He probably sounds like a jealous asshole, but he can't help it. He's the getaway driver for his one that got away on her fucking wedding day, and he feels like he deserves to ask a few questions.

His hands tighten on the steering wheel as the silence lingers, but eventually, Stevie just groans, letting her head fall back against the headrest dramatically.

"Don't laugh," she demands, and Eddie shakes his head.

"Scout's honor," he promises, and he swears a wry little grin teases at her lips.

“You were never a scout. You would have been kicked out for inciting a riot.”

“Hey, I just ensured we all earned our arson badges, okay? I did every one of those kids a favor.” Stevie scoffs, and it almost sounds fond.

Then she says, “Tommy,” and he almost swerves into oncoming traffic.

"HAGAN?" he says, louder than he means to, and her hand flies up to grab the oh-shit bar.

“Eddie, Jesus!” she says, glaring at him, and he shakes his head, focusing back on the road.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, but fucking - really? “Really?” He can’t help himself. “Tommy Hagan?”

“Yes, really, Tommy Hagan,” she says hotly, like she’s defensive, like she didn’t just leave the schmuck at the fucking altar.

“Well that explains the ring, at least.” She reaches over, smacking at his arm, which, thanks to the aforementioned ring, is probably going to bruise. “Hey, ow!” He glares at her, taking a hand off the wheel to rub his bicep. “Watch it, that thing’s a weapon.”

“Then stop sassing me about it,” she snaps, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms and her face falls into that adorable bitchy little pout he’s always fucking loved, and he looks away again.

He can’t help but glance back over at her left hand. The ring is…certainly something. Giant, square, one big diamond surrounded by other, smaller diamonds, with even more diamonds on the band. It looks heavy and cumbersome and like she’s going to smack it into every wall and door and get it caught in her hair and seriously, he’s pretty sure he’s already got a knot forming on his arm where the thing hit him.

It looks like Tommy walked into the priciest jewelry store he could find and asked for the most expensive ring they had.

It looks like a status symbol.

It doesn’t look like her.

“Apologies, highness,” he says, shaking himself free of his thoughts. It’s not fair to hold her to those standards. He hasn’t spoken to her in years. He can’t know what kind of person she is now.

But there’s still a bone-deep knowing that overtakes him at the feeling of the woman next to him. A sense of deja vu so strong it threatens to knock him over.

A different car, a different time, a different circumstance, but the same person. The same love.

He’d picked a direction at random, but as the streets become more familiar, he realizes he’s heading towards his place. It’s as good as any, he figures, and he shifts lanes, reaching to tap on his phone and shutting down his Uber account.

“You know, I almost expected you’d still be driving that beat up old van,” Stevie says suddenly, and he crows a laugh.

“Ah, Van Halen, you served me well until you almost blew up on the highway,” he says fondly. “Lost her about a year ago. It was tragic. I held a funeral.” She laughs again, shaking her head.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she says, turning that pretty smile his way, and his heart does a somersault.

“That was a very impressive move back there, by the way,” he tells her, “that shoulder check of that old defenseless businessman?” He whistles. “Haven’t seen anybody move that quick to steal an old man’s ride before, really, it should have been documented.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” she says, but there’s a laugh in her voice, and she brings up her hands to press to her pink cheeks. He can’t help but keep digging.

“No, seriously! And sprinting like that in heels? And in that dress? What’s that thing weigh, like twenty pounds?”

“It’s a dress, not a suit of armor,” she tells him, but her smile is growing, making her eyes crinkle.

“Just saying, it was pretty metal,” he shrugs, and she snorts.

“Well, you would know,” she says, and he ignores the way his face flushes in response. She gives a little sigh, wiping below her eye and frowning at the smear of black on her fingers.

“Here,” he says, reaching across her. His arm brushes her leg as he opens the glove box and he’s so fucking normal about it. He pulls out a few fast food napkins, holding them out to her. “No makeup wipes in here, but that’ll help with the worst of it.”

“Thanks,” she says, and she flips the visor down, tapping a napkin to her tongue to wet it before wiping at the mascara tracks running down her face. “God,” she groans, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn smear, “I look like a raccoon.”

“A very cute raccoon,” he says before he can stop himself. Jesus, Munson, dial it back. “Like the raccoon that’s about to get the best trash in the bin, she doesn’t even have to ask for it.” Stop talking. “The other raccoons are just gonna give it to her, on account of how cute she is.” He’s gonna throw himself into traffic.

“Did you just call me a raccoon on my wedding day,” she asks. Fine, commit to the bit.

“You called yourself a raccoon on your wedding day. I was just agreeing with you,” he replies, keeping his eyes fixed to the road.

Her eyes are on him - he can feel her stare burning into the side of his face, and his cheeks are going pink and blotchy and God, he’s an idiot–

And then she laughs. Not her polite little contained laugh, either, no, this is that loud, wide mouthed laugh that she hates, that makes her shoulders shake and her head fall back. It’s squeaky and hearty and a little obnoxious and he’s always been so obsessed with getting her to let it out, and he can’t help the smug beaming little smile he gives at the sound.

“You’re such an ass,” she says through her laugh, and Eddie can’t help but laugh with her even if it’s at his own expense, because at least she doesn’t look so goddamn sad anymore.

When they finally reach his apartment complex she’s a little more subdued, but the look on her face isn’t totally heartbreaking, and he’ll take what he can get. He comes around to the passenger side to open her door for her and helps her gather the dramatic skirt of her dress to keep it off the pavement as they head towards the stairs, and he knows he looks like an insane person as he carts a bride down the hall, but he just smiles at his nosy neighbors and lets this cement his reputation as the weird as fuck off-putting metalhead he knows they all think of him as.

He feels a little self conscious as he opens the apartment door for her, sweeping an arm dramatically to allow her to enter first. For the first time since she swept into his car, he wonders if this is a good idea. But it’s too late now – Stevie’s giving him a little smile and stepping into his home, and part of him knows this was inevitable. She may not have called him, but he was always going to come if she needed him.

He follows her inside and tries to calm the pounding of his heart, watching her take in his space, struck all over again by her beauty and the impossibility of her standing here, and silently prays he isn’t going to fuck it up all over again.

this was almost even longer, but I figure 2.5k is enough for a part 2! no tag lists, sorry, but part 3 will be here at some point. thank you to everyone who's had a kind word to say about this au these two are very near and dear to me 💕

#steddie #trans steve harrington #transfeminine steve harrington #stevie harrington #runaway bride stevie #my fic #steddie fic

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airybcby · 1 month ago

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જ⁀♡⊹｡° i would stay forever

( reo mikage x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — watched 27 dresses and thought reo needed a wedding fic :)

♡ content — reo mikage x fem! reader, reo and reader are childhood friends, reader came from a lower-income family, kinda AU where reo didn't go pro in soccer, reo is still heavily involved in the mikage corporation, nagi as the best man

♡ synopsis — you've loved reo mikage for a long time, so seeing him in a tux and teary eyed down the isle makes your heart ache.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ' i've known it from the very start ' ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

The smell of fresh roses fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of polished wood and candle wax. It’s a scene out of a movie. Really, it's everything you could've wanted—rows of pristine white chairs, each draped with soft lilac ribbons, leading to an altar bathed in sunlight. Everything about this day screams perfection, wealth, and power. And there, standing at the end of the aisle, is Reo Mikage.

In a black tuxedo tailored to fit him like a second skin, he looks as flawless as the ceremony surrounding him. His violet hair is neatly styled, a far cry from the messy locks you used to tug at when you were kids.

He stands tall, confident, and composed, yet there’s something in his expression—something soft, almost wistful—that tugs at your chest.

Reo Mikage has always had that effect on you. Ever since you were kids, he’s been this radiant force in your life. Where your days felt dull and repetitive, his were bursting with color and excitement.

He was the boy who dragged you out of your tiny, empty house, where the hum of your parents’ exhaustion filled the silence. The boy who turned after-school walks into grand adventures and rainy afternoons into moments that felt infinite. With Reo, you weren’t the forgotten kid from a lower-income family.

With him, you mattered.

Now, watching him at the altar, standing tall and perfect, you feel like you’re seeing a piece of that boy again. It’s in the way he holds himself, as though even in this grand moment, he’s thinking about something else.

Maybe soccer, you think.

Maybe you, you hope.

The music begins, soft and delicate, and the guests turn to look down the aisle. The bride’s entrance is starting. You can feel your heart hammering in your chest, every emotion you've buried clawing its way to the surface.

Your gaze flickers back to Reo. He looks calm, serene even, but you know him well enough to spot the subtle tension in his shoulders. You wonder what’s going through his mind right now.

Could he possibly be thinking about all the moments you’ve shared? Sneaking out to eat ice cream under the stars, him laughing as he wiped a smudge of chocolate off your face. Whispered conversations about your dreams for the future, his voice steady as he promised he’d never leave you behind.

The aisle feels impossibly long, time stretching slowly and seemingly forever. It couldn't happen faster, you thought.

You imagine Reo looking at you like he used to—with that rare vulnerability, that quiet intensity that made you feel like the only person in his world. You picture him smiling just for you.

And then the officiant begins to speak.

You’re jolted back to the present, to the weight of the moment, as the words cut through the haze. Your breath catches as Reo turns to face the woman standing beside him. She’s stunning, poised, everything you’re not.

The weight of reality crashes down on you.

This isn’t your wedding. It never was.

The vows are exchanged, the applause loud. Your hands fall to your lap, too heavy to clap. Reo glances out at the crowd, his eyes scanning the rows of faces. For a fleeting moment, you think his gaze might stop on you, but it doesn’t. Why would it? You’re just a memory to him now, a fragment of his past that has no place in his future.

You remind yourself, his parents invited you. Not Reo. Why would your best friend exclude you from his wedding? Even you couldn't find the answer.

Nagi was the best man, were you really that different? Were you so unimportant that Reo, your friend...the man you're hopelessly in love with, would just forget about you?

When they kiss, you force yourself to look away. Not because it hurts—though it does—but because you need to hold on to the version of him who once belonged to you. The boy who promised you the world before the weight of his name took it from him.

The guests rise and begin to mingle, voices buzzing around you like static. You stay seated, rooted in place, as the realization settles like a stone in your chest.

Reo Mikage was always meant for greatness. He’s stepping into the life his family has carved out for him, and you…you were never part of that plan.

You only wish he hadn’t made you believe you could be.

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ' we're a shot in the darkest dark ' ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

as a little breather from my spotify wrapped event :)))

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

#★ · airybcbyy #airy posts #bllk #blue lock #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk reo mikage #blue lock reo mikage #bllk reo #blue lock reo #mikage reo x reader #reo mikage #reo x reader #reo mikage x reader #HAHA secret angst #i just needed to let my brain run free #what i'd give to marry reo.

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casinocarpediem · 11 months ago

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▪︎■☆ Worship⛧🩸 ☆■▪︎

(Part 1.)

☆ 🔞!!VIOLENT AND VULGAR!!🔞

☆ cult!Miguel ohara / forrest monster/cryptid! Reader

☆ a little gift for @miguel-owhora !!

☆ violence is written in this work of FICTION. Things such as infant deaths or death in genera

☆ Hi!!! So I'm sorry for not writing as much but I've been verrrryyyy very busy‼️ (laughs and throws myself off a cliff) any who! Enjoy this little thingy!! I'm still in love with dad's cryptid AU after all this time 💕

°○☆Violence under the cut☆○°

Blood. Metal rust. And other animalistic things that would have a normal camper running for their lives. Then dying. Not out of some beast or an accident. But out of exhaustion. Limbs failing. Eaten away by the very grass of the ground only to be picked up by another predator.

Any normal person would run away. Any normal person would have thought twice before doing something stupid in uncharted woods.

Miguel was different. He was a cunning man. Frighteningly intelligent. Charming and observant and curious. Leave him in the woods with nothing and he's already built a somewhat stable community, sheltered and protected by... something out there. Something unexplainable. Something... you.

This was your forest. From the very beginning. Your memory is hazy of how your form, reeking of the more purer forms of mother nature herself, birthed upon the world to reek order. Not havoc. Not peace. Just a simple balance that you maintained for centuries.

You followed nobody. You didn't need to. And you killed if necessary. Or if you simply wanted. You had free will. Unbound by anything. Literally. Not even any mental constraints could keep you from moving through the night unexpected. Unlike any kind of animal the the world has ever witnessed.

Miguel was a different man. When he came into your forests, the winds tasted like he or his sheep didn't deserve to die. Unlike every other settler or founder who decided to try to poison your grounds.

You let him be. His little village growing with the so called refugees he gathered. Creating houses with the trees surrounding the area.

Surprisingly, they weren't greedy. They didn't chop down every tree they laid their human hands on. Because Miguel didn't allow them to. And you were greatful for that. But you paid no mind to his existence. Other than killing of unwanted organisms. But Miguel, or his sheep never dare trek past the space you let them in. And if they did, they didn't make a mess of their tracks.

Respectfully respecting the environment. Respectfully Respecting you.

Time went on and you continued to observe Miguel and his little underlings carefully. Usually under the darkness of the night. They seemed obedient to Miguel. You could smell a mixture of fear and adoration, and that drew you closer to him. After all, this was your domain. And you had the right to dive deeper into the minds of these obedient critters worshipping you in a way.

One day, Miguel comes along bringing a surprising, pleasant little gift. From out of his own home, he creeps towards the darker shadows of the village. Where the trees grow tall and strong. Uncut and left alone.

An infant. Brought to your feet. An offspring that smells very familiar with Miguel's species. Only, it's cold. It isn't breathing. You can't hear it breathing. Its wrapped in grey sheep's wool and it smells fresh. Like it had died the moment it escape the womb first breaths being its last. And he leaves it there on the mossy rock in front of the trees and walks quickly back to the safety of his own home.

A few hours pass. You're intrigued at the gift. You haven't received such offerings in centuries. So when this, frail human being offers a dead infant like a gift for the altar, your curiosity gets the better of you.

You snatch the child. In yours jaws... or your arms? It could be anything. You were an indescribable creature manifesting the more chaotic sides of nature after all. The little infant, you've seen it all before. Chubby, quite noisy, fragile. And most importantly, delicious. You cannot explain the slightes, but in all of your years of being in this realm, despite not having the needed nutrition you'd usually intake, human offspring has a certain charming flavor. Something you'd feast on with gusto. Maybe it was the fact that through the cycle of life and death, you've always defied both aspects. And the loss of something brought to this world so sudden felt like experiencing the gifts to be caressed upon your tongue. Consumed. And valued.

Miguel does this more often. Leaving you gifts. Little sacrifices. Whether it be piles of wheat or fish. Or, on other days when one of his "sheep" go disobedient, you find their corpse carefully gifted in the same spot on the mossy rock. Like a gift. A gift for your generosity of giving them their home, and protection. Your little gift mauled and torn apart limb by limb and licked ever so viciously. In a graceful matter. Until there was nothing left. Not a spec of blood or bone.

You favored Miguel out of the rest. And it's obvious as to why.

Miguel was a curious man. Perhaps a little too curious, so to say. So when he comes out with his little gift at night rather in the morning and stays there, waiting for you, you waste no time to throw him onto the ground. Your weight practically crushing him. And you bite his neck and drink his blood. A taste of the person who's been so devoted to... amusing you. He tastes like any other ordinary person you've eaten before. Salty. Metallic. A little sweet. But his flavor is laced with sheer utter adoration. Rather than fear. Curiously, you drink a little more. And in fact, he doesn't push you away. He doesn't grab his weapon and attempt to cut your throat. He fully accepts it. He holds you while you take your fill of his own crimson fluid.

And you don't kill him. You leave him there as you disappear into the woods. And he's even more insatiable.

#🤯 writes #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x male reader #miguel ohara x mreader #Miguel O'Hara #spiderman 2099 #Monster x reader #monster x human #top reader #dom reader #atsv #atsv Miguel O'Hara #atsv miguel #across the spiderverse miguel ohara #spiderman: across the spiderverse #atsv x reader #reader

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theonlyqualitytrash · 28 days ago

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Creatura innocentiae - Fyodor x Reader

PART I PART II

Synopsys: In a secluded village ruled by devotion, where sacrifice is a form of love and faith demands blood, you are forced to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.

Warnings: No ability au, cult themes, religion, manipulation, murder, death, graphic violence and depiction of blood, dehumanization, power imbalance in relationships, emotional and physical abuse, self-harm, gaslighting, brainwashing, philosophical musings on love, faith, and autonomy.

These themes will be present throughout all parts of this fic. Please read with caution and take care of your mental well-being. If any of these themes are distressing to you, proceed carefully or consider skipping this fic.

A/N: The people have asked, and so here it is—another story featuring cult Fyodor! (Note: This is not a continuation of Ultima Sacrificium). This will be a multiple-part series, an undertaking that has me shaking in my boots. I hope you enjoy the ride as much as I enjoy writing it!

Word Count: 7,200

What is love, exactly?

Is it the absence of fear—the willingness to be vulnerable? To let yourself be known, to be accepted, and in turn, to know and accept another? Or is it something darker: a devouring hunger, the need to consume until the lines between you blur and dissolve?

Perhaps love is neither of these. Perhaps love is sacrifice.

That is what you’ve been taught. That is what you’ve always known.

Love is the red that stains your hands, the warmth that spills from you into the chalice, filling it until it overflows. Love is the smile of the priestess as she raises the cup to the heavens, the murmured prayers of your people as they partake of your offering. It is the ache in your body after each cut, the burning sting that lingers long after the blade is gone.

You were born with a gift, the blood of apostles coursing through your veins. Your mother tells you this gift sets you apart—makes you holy. Your lineage is pure, unbroken since the time of the first apostle, the one who communed with God and returned with commandments and covenants carved into his flesh. You are the living proof of that covenant, a vessel of divine will.

Your blood is sacred. Your body, an altar.

You are also her favorite lamb.

The priestess—the High Priestess, your mother—says so often. She says it when her hand cups your cheek and her eyes gleam with pride. She says it when she watches you kneel, docile and sweet, always so docile and sweet, before the altar. You hold very still when they put the rope around your neck, your heart calm, your steps obedient. You trot along so happily when they lead you to the place of sacrifice.

They do not even have to tie you down. You lie so very still.

When the blade comes down, it cuts through you like butter. You offer no resistance. You bleed so prettily all over the white robe that marks your holiness. When the crimson pours from you, it is beautiful, they say. It runs smooth and golden, like delicious honey.

God herself whispers to the High Priestess that you are her favorite lamb. You are the lamb with the softest wool, the lamb with the sweetest eyes, the lamb with the most trusting gait. Your cries are the prettiest, your bell the shiniest. When the blade cuts, your blood flows clean, your flesh opens like a ribbon unwinding, like shining yarn spinning out onto the altar, sacred and infinite.

And your eyes—your animal, dumb eyes—hold no accusation.

This is why they love you. This is why they call you blessed. You are the lamb who gives everything and asks for nothing. You do not fight, you do not bite. You do not make them see the burden they place on you.

You are God’s gift, her favorite. That is why they love you.

It is another lovely morning. The village has gathered in the grand wooden church to welcome a new life into the fold. The High Priestess, rests her hand on your shoulder as she recites from the tome, her voice soft yet commanding. Your thoughts drift, not to her words but to the bundle of innocence on the altar.

The child’s arrival is a reminder of the cycle: birth, sacrifice, and servitude. The blood that flows through you—the divine gift passed down from generation to generation—will now mark another soul. Another child to be bound to the community. Another life to be claimed by God.

Your father stands at the edge of the ceremony, as he always does. His gaze is downcast, his presence barely noticeable beside your mother’s radiance. He is a quiet man, small and obedient, a shadow of the High Priestess’s power. You often wonder what your father might have been like before your mother. What parts of himself he sacrificed to remain in her orbit.

You kneel before the child, the robe you wear heavy with the weight of your purpose. Though you are an adult, the sheltered life you have lived has left you unformed in ways you cannot explain. Your days are dictated by rituals, by prayers and offerings, by the endless cycle of giving. You have never left the village. You have never known a moment where your body was not watched, your steps not dictated by the expectations of others.

Your mother calls you divine. You feel more like an artifact—precious but inanimate, bound to the will of those who hold you.

Her hands, as always, are warm as they guide you.

You hold out your hand, trembling slightly. The baby’s forehead is smooth, untouched by the world, unmarked by sacrifice. Your blood, drawn from your palm, pools into the small silver chalice. The room is silent but for the murmurs of anticipation. Every gaze is fixed upon you.

The blade, your constant companion, is an extension of your soul. It cuts so effortlessly—an offering so pure, so sacred. You dip your fingers into the chalice, the blood still warm, and trace the child’s forehead with the mark of the divine.

The seal that binds this child to the community. The mark that ties them to you and the God you both serve.

“In the name of our God,” you intone, your voice steady, though your heart wavers. “I bless thee with the blood of divinity. May you give as freely as she does, and may your soul be as pure.”

The crowd bows their heads in reverence. The baby is returned to its mother, who smiles with quiet joy. You watch, still kneeling, your fingers stained red with the blood that defines you.

This is love, isn’t it?

To give everything of yourself until there is nothing left. To be adored not for who you are, but for what you provide.

But somewhere, in the deepest part of you, a quiet voice whispers: If love is sacrifice, why?

Why does it feel so much like theft?

The sun dips low on the horizon, painting the valley in hues of molten gold and soft pink. The flames crackle in the rustic heart of the community, surrounded by dirt paths and timber homes adorned with garlands of wildflowers. Chants ripple through the gathered crowd, a haunting melody that rises and falls like a breath.

As you walk among them, hands reach out, brushing against your robes, grazing your fingertips. You keep your eyes cast low, always aware of the weight of their touch. They call you their savior, their precious lamb. They murmur soft praises, their voices as reverent as the prayers they whisper to the heavens. You smile at them all, meek and kind, because that is what they expect of you.

Because that is what you are.

But you are not part of their revelry—not truly. You are both above it and apart from it. Too sacred for the mundane, yet too ensnared to escape.

They came, as they always do, led by one of the cult’s missionaries—strangers seeking sanctuary, redemption, or something they cannot name. A group of four approaches the square, their steps hesitant yet guided by curiosity. Among them, one figure stands out.

Unlike his companions, who wear expressions of tentative hope or awe, this man moves with unsettling calm. His dark coat sways with each step, and his pale hands rest idly at his sides. His gaze, sharp as razor, sweeps over the scene, lingering on the faces of the villagers who rush forward to greet them. Children dart past him, their laughter ringing as they offer garlands of wildflowers. Women follow, balancing baskets of bread on their hips, their blessings a cascade of honeyed words.

The villagers’ warmth finds little purchase in him. He bows his head briefly but does not take the offered garland. The refusal isn’t rude—it is deliberate, as though he already knows the weight of the rituals and chooses not to sully them with empty gestures.

You watch from the edge of the square, though you hadn’t intended to join the crowd. Your role as the sacrificial vessel makes you a fixture in the community, both revered and burdened, and yet his gaze finds you as if drawn by some invisible force.

When your eyes meet, the world narrows. His are a shade of purple you cannot place—endless, like a winter river, a color that doesn’t belong in the warmth of the valley. A quiet stirring blooms in your chest, like the first pang of a wound, and you quickly look away.

The High Priestess emerges from the crowd, her presence as commanding and warm as the rising sun. The villagers part instinctively, their heads bowing as she passes. Her voice, kind yet unyielding, carries through the square.

“Welcome,” she says, her smile practiced and serene. “You have come far to join us. We are honored to receive you.”

The missionary steps forward, clasping his hands together in reverence. “Mother Maria, these are the seekers I found beyond the valley. They have come to learn the truth, to find purpose in our fold.”

The High Priestess studies the group, her sharp eyes pausing on each face until they land on the pale man. Her smile does not falter, but the air around her sharpens.

“And you?” she asks, her voice soft but probing. “What brings you to our sacred land?”

He steps forward, his movements unhurried. Bowing slightly, he clasps his hands behind his back. “I am drawn by the promise of truth,” he says, his voice low and smooth, each word carefully picked out. “All my life, I have sought it, and I believe I will find it here.”

His companions shift uncomfortably, their nervous energy a stark contrast to his poise. The High Priestess’s smile thins, almost imperceptibly, before she nods. “Truth is indeed what we offer. But truth requires sacrifice. Will you accept what it asks of you?”

“Gladly,” he replies, his gaze steady.

The High Priestess holds his gaze for a moment longer, then turns to the villagers. “Prepare the cleansing waters. Our new friends must be purified before they join us at the feast.”

And so you now stand beside the High Priestess at the stone basin where the sacred spring pools cool and clear. Your hands holding the sacred bowl of anointing oil. Its scent was sharp and metallic, mingled with the faint iron tang of the single drop of your blood that had been mixed into it.

“Before you may break bread with us,” the High Priestess intones, her voice soft yet resolute, “you must set aside the burdens of your past lives. This water will cleanse your path, and this oil will mark the first step toward truth.”

A trembling woman steps forward first, kneeling before the basin. The High Priestess murmurs a blessing as she dips her fingers into the bowl, anointing the woman’s forehead with a streak of oil. She guides the woman’s hands into the water, watching as her expression shifts from fear to quiet reverence.

When it is his turn, the pale man steps forward without hesitation. He kneels, his posture straight, his head slightly bowed. The High Priestess reaches for the bowl, but her fingers still as she looks at him. For a fleeting moment, tension crackles between them, unspoken but palpable.

Then, slowly, she dips her fingers into the oil and presses them to his forehead. The warmth lingers, and he closes his eyes as though in prayer.

“You carry no fear,” she remarks softly.

“Fear is a choice,” he replies, opening his eyes. His tone is calm, yet there is a subtle edge to his words—a challenge, quiet but deliberate.

Her expression remains unchanged, though her eyes narrow slightly. She motions for him to wash his hands, and as he does, his gaze flicks to you. You feel the weight of it, sharp and unrelenting.

But you do not look away this time.

Under the open sky after the cleansing, long tables groan with the weight of food: roasted meats, fresh fruits and steaming bread. The villagers—families, children, elders—gather in celebration, their voices mingling with the hum of the torches and the soft rustle of the night wind. The scent of wine and cooking meat fills the air, thick and intoxicating.

The feast spills into the courtyard, a sprawling affair where life and ritual intertwine seamlessly. Plates are passed with laughter, cups brimming with wine are raised in toasts, and bowls of fruit are shared between children with sticky hands and shining eyes. Beneath the surface of the revelry lies the unspoken truth: this is a celebration of service, of sacrifice, of taking joy in what has been offered.

You are not seated among them, not truly part of this gathering. You are both guest of honor and object of worship, and even in celebration, your place remains apart.

At one of the tables near the edge of the festivities, he sits. His presence is understated but magnetic, drawing your attention again and again. He does not eat much, nor does he join in the villagers’ laughter. Instead, he watches in serene silence, a shadow of a smile on his lips.

His dark eyes sweep over the crowd, taking in the scene with a quiet intensity that makes your chest tighten. He sees everything—the reverence in their glances toward you, the careful choreography of a community bound by something unseen. His companions sit with him, their discomfort gradually giving way to nervous smiles as the warmth of the celebration softens their edges. But he does not soften. He remains apart, like you, even when surrounded.

You notice the way he holds himself: isolated but not uncomfortable. Detached but not cold. He moves little, as though every moment of stillness is a choice.

When his gaze finds yours once more, it is as though the air between you thickens. For a moment, the world around you blurs. The laughter, the clinking of goblets, the soft rustling of the wind—all fade into a distant hum.

There is only him.

His dark eyes seem to hold something you cannot place, something unsettling and sharp—a knowing, a deep, calculating curiosity that makes you feel as though you are being seen for the first time. Your breath catches as his lips curl into the faintest of smiles. The expression isn’t warm. It is quieter, sharper, almost as if he carries a secret meant for you alone.

You cannot look away.

The moment stretches until your chest tightens with the strain of it, and you force yourself to turn your gaze to the food in front of you. Your heart pounds in a rhythm you cannot explain. You wonder if anyone else noticed the way he looked at you, or if it is something only you could see.

You feel his gaze again, even when he is not looking at you. It lingers, a rope stretched taut between you both, one that will not break.

The feast continues. The villagers laugh, their joy spilling into the cool night air. Yet, though you are surrounded by celebration, you cannot stop thinking of him. You catch glimpses of him between the faces at the long table. The others shift and laugh and drink deeply, but he remains steady, his movements as precise and deliberate as his words had been.

You wonder, if he sees you for what you truly are. Not the lamb, the holy offering, but something else. Something unknown.

The thought makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t understand.

Days pass, as they always do.

The sun had long since set, leaving the valley cloaked in shadow. The High Priestess’s home stood at the heart of the village, a structure of wood and stone adorned with intricate symbols of devotion into its walls. It was a place where warmth was performative, where every smile and gesture carried a double promise.

Inside, the flickering fire cast long shadows across the main room, its golden light unable to dispel the chill of tension that lingered in the air. You stood beside your father, your hands clasped in front of you, waiting.

It was tradition: a private supper between your family and the newcomers, an act of hospitality meant to welcome them. But you knew better. Hospitality was a veil, a courtesy offered with sharp teeth behind it. This supper was a test—a subtle but ruthless scrutiny that no one could escape.

Your father adjusted the goblets on the table for the third time, his nervous fingers trembling slightly. “Are they nervous, you think?” he asked softly, not meeting your gaze.

“They should be,” your mother said from across the room, her voice sharp yet measured. She stood near the fire, her white robes glowing in the shifting light. “Truth demands reverence. Only those who understand this will remain.”

Your father nodded quickly—too quickly—and you felt a pang of something close to pity. He never challenged her, never pushed back. You wondered if she even noticed how much weight he carried to keep her world in order, how his silence shaped the foundation of her power. His submission was a lesson you were never allowed to forget.

Your eyes drifted to the table, to the goblets your father had lined so meticulously. You thought of how often he moved in silence, his presence fading into the edges of her authority. His hands trembled not from age, but from the strain of servitude.

The first of the newcomers entered, hesitant and uncertain, their shoulders hunched under the weight of the High Priestess’s gaze. One by one, every night, they came and went, each leaving with lowered eyes and nervous smiles. You remained mostly quiet, watching as your mother’s words—soft and smiling—peeled back their defenses with careful precision.

Your father, dutiful as ever, poured wine into their goblets, his trembling hands careful not to spill. You watched him with a tightening in your chest, the tension in the room coiling like a spring.

And then it was his turn.

When Fyodor entered, the room seemed to shift. His movements were fluid, as though he had already rehearsed this moment in his mind. His dark coat was gone, replaced by the white robe of a supplicant, but the simplicity of the garment only emphasized the sharp angles of his face, the cool, precise energy that surrounded him.

His gaze swept the room, lingering on the fire, the worn table, and finally on you. His eyes paused, and there it was again, that unsettling feeling from the way he watched you—not with the reverence you were used to, but something sharper. As though he saw through the layers of expectation draped over you.

“Welcome,” your mother said, her tone light but pointed. “You honor us by joining us this evening.”

He inclined his head, his hands clasped behind his back. “The honor is mine, High Priestess.”

He took his seat at the table, and your father poured his ceremonial wine, the trembling of his hands spilling a single drop onto the polished wood. Fyodor accepted the goblet with a quiet thank you, his eyes flicking briefly to you before returning to your mother.

“We have found that those who come to us seeking truth often carry burdens from the world outside,” your mother began, her words smooth and rehearsed. “What burdens do you carry, Fyodor?”

He sipped the wine slowly, his movements deliberate. “We all carry burdens, no? Mine are no greater than those of any man who seeks meaning.”

“And yet,” she pressed, leaning forward ever so slightly, “You seem unshaken. Most who come to us are eager to shed their burdens, to kneel before the divine. But you... you carry yourself differently.”

He met her gaze evenly, his expression unreadable. “I hold the belief that I kneel in my own way.”

The fire cracked softly, filling the silence that followed.

Your mother’s lips tightened, though her composure did not break. She leaned back, her eyes narrowing slightly. And then, as if testing both of you at once, she turned to you.

“What do you think of our guest, my child?”

The question caught you off guard. Your pulse quickened as you glanced at Fyodor, his sharp gaze already on you. His expression betrayed nothing of what he was thinking in that moment, and that somehow terrified you.

“I... I think he speaks with conviction,” you said finally, your voice measured. “It is rare.”

“Conviction is admirable,” your mother said, though her tone had grown colder. She gestured for your father to refill Fyodor’s cup, and he obeyed quickly, his trembling hands spilling a few drops of wine onto the table once more.

“Careful,” your mother snapped, her voice cutting like a blade. Your father flinched, dabbing at the spill with a cloth.

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on the interaction, his lips curved into the faintest of smiles, it felt like understanding—something quiet and unspoken passing between him and your father.

“Your child is observant,” Fyodor said softly, his eyes returning to you. “Rare, indeed.”

“They have been raised to see the truth,” your mother replied sharply, her suspicion deepening. “It is their duty to understand what others cannot.”

He inclined his head slightly, a faint smile brushing his lips. “A remarkable gift, to be so attuned to truth. Few possess the clarity to rise above their own fears and expectations.”

The room fell silent, the words hanging heavy in the air. Your breath hitched as your mother turned back to you, her gaze sharp and searching.

“Have you grown timid, my child?” she asked, her words laced with quiet menace. “You hesitate more often than before.”

“I... I have been reflecting,” you said finally, your voice small but steady. “On the path you’ve set for me. On how best to serve.”

Her expression softened slightly, though her gaze remained piercing. “Good. Service requires focus. Distractions lead to ruin.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Fyodor, then back to you. “And you are not easily distracted, are you?”

“No, mother,” you replied, though your voice lacked conviction.

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on you, quiet and piercing, before he leaned back slightly in his chair. “The strength of their will reflects well on their upbringing,” he remarked. “Few can maintain such clarity when placed under so much... weight.”

Your mother’s lips curled faintly, though the smile did not reach her eyes. “Weight builds character,” she said curtly. “And clarity comes from discipline.”

“Discipline,” Fyodor murmured, as though weighing the word. His eyes flickered to the fire, the light casting fleeting shadows across his face. “A virtue that molds strength and focus, no doubt. And yet... even the finest melodies are not born from silence alone.”

Your mother’s expression did not falter, though the room felt colder for it. “Only weak voices fear silence,” she said finally, her tone clipped. “The strong will always be heard.”

The words hung in the air like a closing door, shutting out any chance for response. The tension that had built over the evening seemed to settle over you like a shroud, heavy and unyielding, wrapping itself around you with quiet insistence.

By the end of the evening, as Fyodor rose to leave, your mother placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip firm. Her fingers pressed into your skin, a silent command to stay grounded, to remain tethered to her will.

“Do not stray with him,” she murmured, her voice low and meant only for you. Her words slid between you like a blade, cold and deliberate. “There are paths you cannot walk, no matter how curious you may be. Do not forget your duty.”

Her grip tightened on your shoulder, just enough to make your chest tighten in turn. “Your future has already been secured,” she continued, her tone soft but unyielding. “Do not squander what has been arranged for you with fleeting distractions. You belong where you are needed, my child. Where you are destined.”

Then, her hand eased, and she leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. The gesture was warm, loving, but the weight of it was undeniable. It was not affection, but a mark—a silent claim, binding you to her will. Her lips lingered just long enough for her breath to ghost against your hair. “Remember who you are,” she whispered, the words as much an order as an expression of care.

The weight of her words sank in, unspoken but unmistakable: the engagement. It had loomed in the background of your life like an unfinished prayer, a promise made on your behalf that you had not been given the right to question.

You glanced at Fyodor, who lingered at the doorway, his dark eyes catching yours once more. The air seemed to shift between you, an unspoken tension thrumming just beneath the surface. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, his voice smooth and composed, the words polite but aimed at you rather than your mother.

Your mother’s hand remained on your shoulder, her presence a wall between you and the door. “Do not forget your place,” she whispered as Fyodor turned to leave, her voice as sharp as the steel she so often wielded in ceremony.

Her warning echoed long after he was gone, her words a chain you could not yet break.

The weeks since Fyodor’s arrival had passed like the turning of a slow wheel, the rhythm of village life unchanged but for the murmurs that followed wherever he went. The people had embraced him and his group with a swiftness that was almost unnerving. Children brought him flowers, their giggles rising like birdsong as they placed the blooms in his hands. The elders nodded in satisfaction, their wrinkled faces lighting with approval at his humility during communal tasks. Even the skeptical seemed disarmed by his quiet confidence and sharp wit, his every action a masterstroke of timing and grace.

Yet, to you, there was something unsettling beneath the surface.

You watched him carefully. There was a deliberateness to his movements, a precision that felt unnatural. He walked as though every step was part of a dance only he could hear, every word chosen with the precision of an arrow. And yet, despite your unease, there was a pull to him, like the dark waters of the river: cold and dangerous but impossible to resist. The pull lingered, growing stronger each time you saw him, until his presence became a constant undercurrent in your thoughts.

And you couldn’t help but wonder—what would it feel like to let yourself fall into those dark, unyielding currents? To surrender to the cold pull, knowing there would be no way back?

The sound of the ceremonial bells pulled you from your thoughts, their solemn toll reverberating through the wooden church. The candles that lined the space cast flickering shadows across the gathered congregation, their flames bright against the deepening dusk.

This was a sacred night, one that would truly bind the newcomers to the community, sealing their integration with an oath to serve the divine.

The group stood in a line before the High Priestess, their white robes glowing in the soft light of the candles, their heads bowed in solemn reverence. Even in their uniformity, Fyodor stood apart, as he always did. His posture was relaxed but not disrespectful, his expression unreadable. He wore the robe as though it were a costume, an adornment that could be shed the moment it no longer served him.

In your hands is the small bowl of crimson liquid—your blood, drawn hours earlier, thick with divinity mixed with anointing oil. Its sight sends a shiver through the group, though none dare speak. The ceramic was warm against your palms, though it felt heavier than usual tonight.

Your mother stepped forward, her voice ringing through the church with a practiced authority that silenced the crowd.

“You stand here as seekers, strangers to the divine. But tonight, you will be bound to our truth, reborn as one with this community. Are you prepared to leave behind what you were?”

A murmur of assent rippled through the group. Some voices trembled with fear, others spoke with quiet certainty. Fyodor’s voice, low and steady, cut through the air, drawing your attention despite yourself.

“Step forward,” your mother commanded.

One by one, the newcomers approached her. She dipped her fingers into the blood, marking their foreheads with the sacred blessing as they bowed their heads in submission. The ritual unfolded as it always did, a solemn repetition of words and gestures. Yet when it was Fyodor’s turn, the moment seemed to stretch.

He stepped forward with that same deliberate grace, his movements unhurried but precise. His gaze met your mother’s with an intensity that did not falter, the air between them charged with unspoken tension.

“Kneel,” she commanded.

He obeyed, lowering himself to the ground with a calm that bordered on defiance. He looked like a man kneeling of his own volition, not one forced to bow.

Your mother dipped her fingers into the blood, but instead of marking his forehead, she paused. Her gaze turned to you, sharp and expectant. “Come,” she said. “Place your hands upon him. Channel the divine insight.”

Your breath caught. You had never been asked to do this before. The bowl in your hands seemed to grow heavier, the scent of the oil rising like smoke to suffocate you. Slowly, you stepped forward, setting the bowl down on the altar before kneeling in front of him.

Your hands trembled as you reached out, resting them lightly on his head. His hair was softer than you expected, but his presence felt sharp, overwhelming. The noise of the congregation—the chants, the crackling of the candles—faded into a dull hum, drowned out by the pounding of your heartbeat.

You closed your eyes, trying to focus on the divine connection you were meant to channel. Yet all you could feel was him. The steadiness of his breath. The quiet tension coiled in his body. The way his very existence seemed to demand your attention.

“What do you see?” your mother’s voice cut through the haze, expectant.

You opened your eyes, startled, and found Fyodor looking up at you. His gaze was piercing, calm yet devastatingly aware. There was no fear in his eyes, no deference. Instead, there was something that stripped you bare—a knowing, as though he could see every thought you had buried deep.

“I…” The words caught in your throat.

Then his lips moved, so faintly you almost missed it. A whisper meant only for you:

“You bleed for them. But will they bleed for you?”

The words hit like an arrow to the throat, leaving you breathless. Your hands jerked back as though burned, and your heart thundered in your chest.

Your mother’s gaze bore into you, her eyes narrowing. “What do you see?” she demanded again, her voice growing cold.

You forced yourself to look away from him, your trembling hands lowering to your lap. “I see… clarity,” you said finally, though your voice wavered. “He carries clarity.”

Your mother studied you for a moment, her suspicion evident. Then, without a word, she marked his forehead, murmuring the blessing with an edge to her tone. She gestured to the congregation, signaling the second part of the ceremony.

“The waters of renewal await,” your mother announced, her voice carrying over the crowd. “As children of the divine are first welcomed, so too must our newest seekers be reborn.”

The group was led toward the river, that snaked just outside the church, its surface shimmering like molten glass in the torchlight. An ancient tree’s roots reached toward the water’s edge, twisting and intertwining with the stones that framed the riverbank. The current hummed softly, carrying the weight of generations past.

One by one, the newcomers approached the river. Your mother took each by the hand, murmuring blessings before the attendants guided them into the water. They were gently lowered beneath the surface, the current swirling around them, and when they emerged, gasping and glistening in the firelight, the water clung to their skin like a second robe, consecrating their transformation.

When it was Fyodor’s turn, the moment stretched again. He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes flicking to yours for the briefest moment before returning to your mother.

She took his hand, her grip firm, and guided him towards the river’s edge. “This water cleanses,” she intoned. “It washes away the remnants of your former self, the burdens of your past life, leaving you free to serve.”

The attendants lowered him into the river. For a moment, it felt as though the heavens themselves leaned closer, waiting. The current surged as if tasting him, its pull cold, and the uncanny stillness gripped the air, as if even the wind dared not move.

When he emerged, his hair plastered to his face, his eyes sharper than ever, he did not gasp as the others had. He rose to his feet with an unshaken calm, water streaming from his robes. His gaze found yours again, and the weight of his whispered words returned, heavier than before. A fleeting thought filtered through your mind: Would they bleed for me? As I do for them?

When the ceremony ended, and the congregation erupted into joyous chants, you found yourself unable to join in. Fyodor stood among the others, his expression serene, but when his eyes met yours again across the clearing, it felt as though the ritual had bound something unseen between you both.

The sounds of the crowd became hollow, their jubilation a distant echo. He was all that remained. The air between you filled with an unspoken understanding that you dared not name.

You were skittish, of course, like a cornered animal. And you squirmed—not to escape, but to inch closer, as though his gaze has already avowed you. But what use is there for such a connection, when the end is as inevitable as the tightening snare, already closing around you both.

The announcement of your engagement came as no surprise.

For months, you had felt it coming: in the quiet tension in your mother’s tone, the way her hand lingered on your shoulder during evening blessings, and the faint but insistent weight in her gaze whenever she spoke to you. It wasn’t love she offered in those moments, but a kind of ownership—a reminder that you were hers to mold, to shape, to offer as she saw fit.

The ceremonial bells tolled at dawn, their echoes rippling across the valley. You rose without hesitation, the weight of the day already pressing against your chest. Your mother was waiting for you, her hands warm and steady as they guided you to sit before her.

She began braiding your hair with practiced precision, her fingers gentle as they wove the strands together. The scent of sage and beeswax clung to her robes, a reminder of the sacred rituals that bound you both.

"You’ve always had such beautiful hair," she murmured, her voice soft, almost wistful. For a moment, her touch lingered, more a mother’s than a priestess’s. "Do you remember when you were little, how you’d fuss when I braided it too tightly?"

You nodded, though your throat tightened at the memory. "I thought you were punishing me," you replied, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.

She chuckled softly, the sound rare and fleeting. "Never, my child. I only wanted you to look your best."

Her fingers paused for a fraction of a moment, resting against your temple. "You’ve grown so much," she said quietly, the words carrying a weight she rarely allowed herself to show. Then her hands resumed their work, and when she finished, she placed her hands gently on your shoulders. "There," she said, her voice soft but steady. "You are ready."

The warmth of her hands lingered as you rose, her gaze following you with something that almost resembled pride. Yet beneath it, you could feel the unspoken weight of expectation, as heavy as the ceremonial robes draped across your shoulders.

You carried that weight with you as you stepped into the grand wooden church, its high vaulted ceilings towering above like the heavens themselves. The air was heavy with the scent of burning herbs—lavender mingling with a faint undertone of sweetgrass. Smoke curled upward, coiling like restless spirits toward the intricate carvings that decorated the beams, each depicting scenes of devotion and sacrifice. Candles lined the altar and walls, their soft, flickering light casting long shadows that seemed to shift with the murmurs of the congregation.

People stood in hushed reverence, their faces illuminated by the golden glow. All eyes were on you and your betrothed—Abel—as you knelt together on the raised dais at the center of the sacred space.

Abel knelt beside you, his head bowed, his posture straight and unassuming. His robe hung neatly on his frame, its stark simplicity emphasizing his earnestness. He was the ideal partner for someone like you: devout, humble, willing to serve without question. You could see why your mother had chosen him. He was what the village valued—what the cult demanded.

Yet when you looked at him, you felt nothing but a hollow ache.

Your mother’s voice carried through the church, steady and commanding. Her words wrapped around the congregation like a net, binding them in shared reverence.

“May this bond bring harmony, as two threads are woven into a single tapestry. May purpose guide them, and may their lives serve as offerings to the divine.”

Her gaze swept across the congregation before settling on you. The weight of her presence was palpable, pressing against your chest like a stone.

“Abel,” she intoned, turning to him. “Do you accept this bond, this sacred duty to serve beside them in devotion and purpose?”

“I do,” he replied, his voice calm and steady.

The crowd murmured in approval, a low hum that rolled through the church like distant thunder.

“And you, my child,” she said, her attention returning to you. Her voice was softer now, but it carried an edge of expectation that left no room for hesitation. “Do you accept this bond, this sacred duty to serve with him in faith and unity?”

Your hands clenched tightly in your lap, hidden beneath the folds of your robe. Abel’s gaze flicked to you briefly, his expression warm, even reverent. He looked at you as though you were a gift he had been unworthy to receive.

The thought made your chest tighten.

“I do,” you said at last. The words tasted foreign in your mouth, like something borrowed.

The murmurs grew louder now, the congregation’s approval rising like a tide. Your mother lifted her arms, her robes catching the candlelight as she began to recite the vows that would bind you and Abel together.

“I give you that which is mine to give. I shall serve you in those ways you require, and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand.”

Her voice was steady, deliberate, each word falling like a stone into still water.

Abel repeated the vow, his voice soft but unwavering.

“I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night, and the eyes into which I smile in the morning.”

Your mother’s gaze moved to you. The air seemed to still as she spoke the final words of the vow.

“I pledge to you the first bite from my meat, and the first drink from my cup. I pledge to you my living and dying, equally in your care, and tell no strangers our grievances.”

The silence that followed was almost suffocating.

You repeated the words, your voice steady but hollow. They rolled off your tongue like a prayer you had recited too many times to feel their meaning. Yet each word seemed to settle in your chest like a weight, binding you to Abel, to this life, to this role you had never chosen.

As your mother raised her hands in blessing, the congregation erupted into murmurs of approval. A collective sigh of satisfaction rippled through the church, their voices carrying into the evening as they began to move toward the feast awaiting them.

But you remained kneeling on the dais, your hands clenched tightly in your lap. The smoke from the incense stung your eyes, though you weren’t sure if that was the reason they burned. The whisper of movement behind you was so faint you might have missed it, but then his voice followed.

“Congratulations.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see Fyodor standing at the edge of the dais. His expression was calm, but there was something in his eyes, something that made your breath hitch. His white supplicant robes, so similar to yours, seemed to carry none of their weight.

“Thank you,” you murmured, though your voice betrayed you.

His gaze flicked briefly to Abel, who stood a short distance away, speaking with the elders. “He seems... reliable,” Fyodor said, his tone measured, as though he were commenting on a piece of furniture.

“He is,” you replied, though the words felt bitter on your tongue.

Fyodor stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the faintest smile playing at his lips. “Do you think he’ll understand you?”

Your breath caught. Something in his tone—quiet, knowing—stirred a knot of frustration in your chest. “What is that supposed to mean?” you whispered, your voice tight. “You’re always speaking in riddles.”

“Not riddles. Questions,” he corrected with a soft smile, his voice like a whisper of smoke. “Do you ever ask them yourself?”

The memory of his whisper at the river returned unbidden. You bleed for them, but will they bleed for you? His words had rooted themselves in your thoughts, growing like weeds in the cracks of your carefully constructed faith.

“At the river,” you began, your voice faltering. “You said something to me. Why?”

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Because it’s the truth. You give them everything—your blood, your life, your love. But what do you receive in return? Do they even know you, beyond what you offer?”

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of your robes. “That’s not how it works,” you whispered, though your voice quivered. “I’m here to serve. To protect them. That’s my purpose. That’s why they love me.”

He regarded you for a long moment, his expression almost gentle. “And who protects you?”

The question lodged itself deep in your chest, and you looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “You don’t understand,” you said quietly. “This is how it’s always been.”

“Ah,” he murmured, the faint smile returning to his lips. “I can understand the comfort of tradition. A powerful thing, isn’t it?” He straightened, his tone shifting to something lighter but no less piercing.

You turned back to him, anger and something deeper—something desperate—flaring in your chest. “What do you want from me?”

His gaze lingered on you, searching, and then he stepped back. “Nothing,” he said softly. “I suppose I’ve overstayed my welcome. Enjoy your new kinship, won’t you?”

Before you could reply, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, his presence dissolving into the sea of voices and movement. His words remained, echoing in your mind like a bell tolling in the dark.

Who protects you?

PART II

Dividers: saradika-graphics

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd fyodor #bsd fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor bsd #bungo stray dogs fyodor #bsd fyodor x reader #fyodor x reader #qt.cult.fyo

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missr3n3 · 11 months ago

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he's not dead guys he just moved to an ao3 fanfic upstate <3

#the mandela catalogue #mandela catalogue fanart #tmc fanart #mandela catalogue au #tmc au #jonah marshall #tmc jonah #adam murray #thatcher davis #evelin miller #sarah heathcliff #cut down the altar au #r3n3 art stuff #definitely not posting this so late bc i thought his birthday was tomorrow. nope not me >_>

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didasgomas · 9 months ago

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First "In Mortality" chapter ever!! LET'S GOOOO

Gift for @missr3n3

#cdta #cut down the altar #my writing #writers on tumblr #in mortality au #cdta in mortality #religious imagery #all taken somewhat lightly #christianity #saints #freedom with religious themes #I guess #cdta susanna #for convenience #author is not religious

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theetherealbloom · 5 months ago

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AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 3 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Three: There Will Be No Glory

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge,

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: I swear I’m cookin’ back here. I've been writing this series non-stop for days lmao. Idk what hit me?? I actually have the next chapter ready to post too lmao. Hope everyone is doing well!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: hunter by Paris Paloma

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KING'S LANDING, THE SEPT OF BAELOR — EARLY MORNING

The Sept of Baelor was alive with a flurry of activity. Servants moved swiftly, preparing for the grand wedding of Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell. Every corner of the grand sept was being scrubbed, every flower meticulously placed, every banner hung with precision. The sun had barely risen, casting a golden hue over the stained-glass windows, but already the heat of the day was making the air feel thick and heavy.

You were in the midst of it all, arranging the delicate floral garlands along the altar. The scent of the flowers was overwhelming, mingling with the incense that filled the Sept. Your hands moved mechanically, arranging the blooms with precision, though your mind was elsewhere. The headache that had been gnawing at the edges of your consciousness all morning now pulsed with a vengeance, a searing pain behind your eyes. It was getting harder to focus, and the heat didn’t help.

Voices echoed through the Sept as people hurried by, servants calling to one another in preparation, but it was all a dull hum in your ears. You pressed a hand to your temple, closing your eyes for a moment as the migraine intensified. The world seemed to blur at the edges, the weight of your own thoughts pressing down on you, mingling with the physical pain.

Then, suddenly, a firm hand gripped your arm. You gasped, eyes snapping open as you were pulled away from your work, your feet stumbling beneath you. The world spun as you were dragged through the corridors, away from the main hall.

Your first instinct was to fight back. You kicked, struggled, your heart pounding with panic. But the grip was unyielding, dragging you into a darkened alcove, hidden away from prying eyes.

“What are you—? Let go of me!” you hissed, your voice strained with fear and frustration as you fought against your captor, kicking and trying to free yourself.

Then, in the dim light, you saw him. Oberyn Martell. His eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was something else in them—a hunger, a dangerous edge. He didn’t release you, instead pressing you further into the shadows, the cool stone wall biting against your back.

“You—” you began, breathless, still trying to regain control of the situation, but Oberyn leaned closer, cutting off your words with the intensity of his gaze.

“Shh," he whispered, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "I’ve been looking for you.”

His words hung between you like a dangerous secret. His body pressed against yours, firm and unyielding, his hands bracing on either side of your head, caging you in. Your heart raced as you realized there was no escaping him now. You forced yourself to meet his gaze, determined to maintain your composure despite the sudden surge of heat that flushed your skin.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice shaky but defiant. “We shouldn’t be here—”

Oberyn’s smile widened, the corner of his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Shouldn’t we?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were dark, intense. His face was so close, his breath warm against your skin. “You’ve been avoiding me. I’ve noticed.”

“I’m working,” you replied, trying to maintain control of your voice, trying to keep your heart from pounding so loudly in your chest. “And you should be—”

But Oberyn interrupted you, his hand brushing lightly against your arm, sending sparks shooting up your spine. "You carry yourself with grace, more like a lady of the court than a servant.” His gaze trailed over you, studying you, watching the way you tried to hide the tremor in your breath. “It makes me wonder… who are you really?”

Your throat tightened. The question cut too close to the truth. You had worked so hard to blend in, to be unnoticed, yet Oberyn’s gaze seemed to peel back the layers you had carefully built. He was too perceptive, too sharp.

“I’m no one,” you lied, your voice steadier than you felt. “Just a servant.”

Oberyn chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “A servant who speaks with such eloquence, who watches others like a hawk, as if you’re calculating their every move.” His breath was hot against your skin, his presence overwhelming as he whispered, “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”

Your pulse quickened. His words were dangerous, far too close to what you had been so careful to hide. Oberyn was watching you with an intensity that made your skin burn, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. He saw through you in a way no one else had. The facade you wore was slipping under his gaze, and you weren’t sure if you could hold it up any longer.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Oberyn tilted his head, his dark eyes searching yours, reading the fear and the defiance in equal measure. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a good liar,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “But I’ve spent my life around liars. And you... you are no ordinary servant.”

You swallowed hard, your back pressed firmly against the cold stone as Oberyn’s presence enveloped you. His fingers brushed lightly against your jaw, tracing the line of your face as he studied you. "There's something about you," he said, his voice soft but dangerous. "Something... familiar."

Your breath caught in your throat. He was getting too close, too close to the truth you had buried so deeply. You had to regain control, had to push him away before he uncovered everything.

“Let me go,” you whispered, though your voice lacked the strength you intended.

Oberyn’s eyes glimmered with something unreadable as he held you there, trapped between him and the wall. He leaned in, his lips hovering near yours, the tension between you crackling like wildfire. “Not yet,” he whispered, his voice a promise, a warning.

And in that moment, you realized you were caught.

Oberyn stood so close, his presence overwhelming, his eyes filled with that dangerous blend of curiosity and something more primal. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the air between you thick with tension, as if the entire world had fallen away, leaving just the two of you in this darkened corner of the Sept.

His voice, low and smooth, broke the silence, sending a shiver down your spine. “My sister used to write to me, you know,” he began, his lips curling into a small, almost bittersweet smile. “Princess Elia. We were always apart, but her letters kept me close to her.” He paused, watching you closely, as though he could see right through the facade you’d carefully built over the years.

You stiffened at the mention of Elia, your heart clenching painfully. You hadn’t heard that name spoken so intimately in years. You were only a child then, but you remembered her well—kind, gentle, her presence like a soft light amidst the darkness that surrounded the Red Keep. Your hands trembled slightly, but you quickly clenched them into fists, trying to maintain your composure as Oberyn continued.

“There was one letter,” he mused, his voice softening as if recalling a distant memory. His fingers lightly traced the air, as if mimicking the act of writing. “She wrote about a servant. A girl, a child really, whose parents had given her away. She never mentioned the girl’s name, but she always said how kind she was. How strong, despite everything.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You knew he was talking about you. Elia had been the only one who had shown you kindness, who had given you a place to belong when the world had taken everything from you. But you couldn’t let him know that. You couldn’t let anyone know who you truly were. The weight of your past was a burden you had carried alone, and it had to stay that way.

Oberyn stepped closer, his eyes searching yours, as though he could find the truth hidden behind your carefully guarded expression. “I wonder…” he whispered, his lips hovering near your ear. “Was that girl you?”

You swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at you to run, to get away, but Oberyn’s presence held you in place. His gaze was relentless, burning into you, waiting for an answer you couldn’t give.

“I—” You struggled to find the words, your mind racing, but your throat felt tight, your heart hammering in your chest. You had spent years building this mask, this life as a mere servant, someone no one would look at twice. But now, in the span of moments, Oberyn was threatening to tear it all away.

His hand lifted, fingers grazing the side of your face, and the world seemed to narrow down to that single point of contact. “Who are you, truly?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, but there was no mistaking the intensity in his tone.

The question hung in the air, suffocating. His proximity, the way his body loomed over yours, the way his eyes pinned you in place—it was all too much. The pressure, the closeness, the danger of being exposed—it all came crashing down on you, and suddenly, something snapped inside you.

Without warning, you moved.

Your knee shot up, connecting with Oberyn’s side, hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but not enough to cause real harm. He staggered back, his expression briefly shifting to one of surprise before it morphed into something almost amused. But you didn’t give him time to recover. You slipped out from under his arm, using his momentary lapse to dart past him, your body moving with an agility you hadn’t shown before.

He chuckled, low and dangerous, clearly not expecting the sudden resistance. “I see,” he murmured, rubbing his side where you’d struck him, his eyes gleaming with something far more dangerous than before. “You’re full of surprises.”

But you didn’t stop to listen. You were already moving, slipping back into the main hall of the Sept where the other servants were still bustling about, preparing for the wedding. The light from the stained-glass windows bathed the room in a kaleidoscope of colors, but you barely noticed. Your heart was pounding in your chest, adrenaline still coursing through your veins as you forced yourself to keep walking, blending back into the crowd of workers.

No one seemed to notice your disheveled state, the faint tremor in your hands as you returned to your duties. You grabbed a bouquet of flowers, your fingers working mechanically as you set them in place, your mind racing with the encounter you had just escaped.

Oberyn had been close—too close. You had no idea how much he truly knew or how much he suspected, but it was clear he wasn’t going to let this go. You could still feel his eyes on you, the way he had studied you as if he could unravel all your secrets.

But you wouldn’t let him. You had survived this long by keeping your past hidden, and you wouldn’t let anyone—no matter how charming, how dangerous—pull you back into that life.

As you worked, your mind kept replaying his words, the way he had looked at you with that knowing gaze. You could feel the danger closing in, but you had no choice but to press on. The game was far from over, and you would have to be even more careful from now on.

But one thing was clear—Oberyn Martell was not a man easily fooled.

KING'S LANDING, THE SEPT OF BAELOR — DAY

You lingered in the cool shadows of the Sept, hidden from view, just another servant who wasn’t meant to be seen. You weren’t supposed to be part of the grand ceremony at all. Your role, after all, was to prepare for the feast that would follow this extravagant display—a celebration meant to rival even the greatest of royal unions.

But something compelled you to stay.

The air was thick with the scent of incense, and the sound of hushed murmurs echoed off the high stone walls as nobles and lords gathered to witness the joining of Houses Tyrell and Lannister. It was all falling into place, every step of this elaborate plan leading to this moment. The tension in the room crackled like lightning before a storm.

You stood, your heart pounding, as Margaery Tyrell, radiant in her flowing gown, walked down the aisle on the arm of her father, Mace Tyrell. Her golden hair shimmered in the light of the stained-glass windows, and her face was calm—serene even—as though she had been preparing for this her entire life. You watched closely, your gaze sharp, dissecting every movement, every flicker of emotion. The entire event was a spectacle, a symbol of power, of politics. It was all theater.

Mace Tyrell paused at the base of the steps, his expression proud as he handed his daughter to the waiting king. Joffrey stood at the top, his grin smug, cruel even, as he accepted Margaery’s hand. For a brief moment, your eyes lingered on the boy king, revulsion curling in your stomach. His reign had been a reign of terror and madness, and yet, in this moment, he stood like a conqueror, basking in the adulation of his subjects.

Margaery, ever poised, ascended the steps with him, her head held high as she moved beside Joffrey. The High Septon awaited them, his voice booming through the Sept as he began the sacred rites. You felt a strange sense of detachment, as if watching the scene unfold from a great distance. Yet, there was a thrill beneath your skin—a deep, quiet satisfaction. Everything was in motion now, and there was no turning back.

The High Septon’s voice echoed through the hall, reverberating off the stone walls:

"Let it be known that Margaery of House Tyrell and Joffrey of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

As the words filled the air, you couldn’t help but smirk slightly to yourself, hidden in the shadows. Cursed, indeed. The irony of it all, the pageantry, the vows, the promise of unity, knowing what was to come—it was almost poetic.

You watched as Joffrey, in all his arrogance, turned to Margaery, taking her hands in his. "With this kiss, I pledge my love," he declared, loud enough for all to hear. His voice carried the same venomous self-importance it always had, as if he truly believed himself a benevolent ruler.

The crowd erupted in applause as their lips met in a kiss that was supposed to symbolize the unity of two great houses. You watched with an unreadable expression as Margaery played her part flawlessly, the perfect bride, while Joffrey basked in the adulation.

From your vantage point, you caught a glimpse of Sansa Stark, her face pale as she leaned toward Tyrion Lannister. Her eyes were dark, her lips pressed into a thin line as she whispered, "We have a new queen."

Tyrion, ever the cynic, barely glanced at her as he muttered under his breath, “Better her than you.”

You felt a surge of something—was it pity?—for Sansa, trapped in this viper’s nest with no escape. But this wasn’t your concern, not today. Today, the wheels were turning, and soon, this entire charade would unravel. You could feel it in the air, the undercurrent of tension beneath the applause and celebration. It was almost time.

The ceremony concluded, and the newly crowned queen and her king descended the steps together, the picture of royal power. The applause grew louder, the lords and ladies of Westeros rising to their feet in celebration of this union. But all you could focus on was the bitter truth behind it all.

Your migraine throbbed in your temples, the dull ache intensifying as you stood there, watching the farce unfold before you. But you smiled, knowing that by the end of this day, Joffrey would no longer be king. The poison had already been set in motion, and the pieces on the board were exactly where you needed them to be.

For now, you would watch. The storm was coming, and you would be ready to strike when the time was right.

THE WEDDING RECEPTION

KING'S LANDING GARDEN, RED KEEP — DAY

The garden was a riot of color and sound. Banners of crimson and gold fluttered in the warm breeze, the sigils of House Lannister emblazoned on every surface. Long tables stretched across the lush greenery, laden with golden platters of roasted meats, fruit, and delicate pastries. Lords and ladies of every great house in Westeros mingled, their voices a hum of excitement, laughter, and gossip, all gathered to celebrate the union of Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell.

Jugglers tossed brightly colored balls high into the air while fire-breathers sent plumes of flames into the sky. Their movements were smooth and practiced, as if the entire performance were just another part of the show that was the king’s wedding. Some even walked on stilts, towering over the crowd, while musicians played lively tunes in the background, the melodies weaving in and out of the general din.

You stood back, observing from the edge of the gardens, the soft perfume of roses mingling with the smoky scent of roasted meats. The spectacle of it all, the opulence, the grandeur—it was enough to make anyone feel insignificant in its shadow. You glanced down at your own hands, trembling slightly as you worked to keep them busy, adjusting a garland of flowers, though your task had long since been finished.

The whole scene was a display of power, the ruling elite flaunting their wealth for all to see. Each lord and lady wore their finest silks, their jewels glinting in the midday sun as they danced, laughed, and raised their goblets in celebration. But beneath the surface, there was an undercurrent of tension. It lingered in the air, a brewing tempest on the horizon.

As your eyes drifted over the crowd, you spotted Bronn, Tyrion, and Podrick making their way through the guests. Tyrion’s face was hard to read, his usual wit tempered by the weight of the moment. He and Bronn exchanged quiet words, but even from a distance, you could see the unease in Tyrion’s posture. He didn’t want to be here, that much was clear.

And then, from across the garden, your gaze landed on Oberyn Martell. He and Ellaria Sand were seated near the fountain, utterly captivated by a contortionist performing impossible bends and twists before them. Ellaria laughed softly, her eyes alight with amusement, while Oberyn watched the performance with a more measured gaze.

For a fleeting moment, his eyes found yours.

The world seemed to slow as the intensity of his gaze sent a jolt through your body. His dark eyes, filled with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, locked onto yours, as though he could see through every wall you had carefully constructed. Your heart quickened, and an unexpected warmth spread through your chest. The moment stretched between you, silent and loaded with meaning.

But you couldn’t hold it. Your pulse raced, your palms dampening with sweat as you quickly tore your gaze away, focusing on the flowers at your feet. You forced yourself to breathe, but the weight of his attention lingered on your skin, like a touch that burned long after it was gone.

You busied yourself again, rearranging the flowers though they didn’t need rearranging, anything to distract yourself from the flutter of nerves in your stomach. What was it about him? The way he looked at you wasn’t like the others. It was as if he knew something—something about you that no one else did.

Your hands shook as you tried to steady your breath. You weren’t supposed to stand out here, in this garden full of lords and ladies, and yet… here you were, caught in the eyes of a man who seemed to see too much.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ellaria lean in closer to Oberyn, whispering something into his ear, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Her eyes flicked briefly in your direction, curiosity burning behind them. The same possessive glint you had seen before was there, but now it was tempered by a different kind of intrigue.

Your heart pounded in your chest. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or unnerved by the brief reprieve from Oberyn’s gaze. Either way, you knew one thing: nothing at this wedding was what it seemed.

The air was thick with revelry, the laughter of lords and ladies mingling with the melody of flutes and the clink of goblets. Everywhere you looked, you saw power—power flaunted by those who had it, and coveted by those who didn’t. But you played your role, dutifully present, a servant watching a play unfold.

At the head table, Olenna Tyrell moved with a deliberate grace, her hand trailing through Sansa Stark’s carefully braided hair before lingering on the stones of her necklace. The movement was subtle, her fingers deft, plucking at the polished purple gems with a kind of ease that only someone of her station could manage. It was easy to miss if one wasn’t paying attention—but you were always paying attention.

Your eyes narrowed, recognizing the faint gleam in Olenna’s fingers as she discreetly palmed something. The strangler. A crystalline form of poison, almost impossible to detect once dissolved in wine. Your heart beat faster, but outwardly, you remained composed, blending into the background of the celebration.

No one else seemed to notice. Not Sansa, lost in her sorrow, nor Tyrion, pouring himself another goblet of wine as he approached the table. Olenna’s conspiratorial smile went unnoticed by the rest, except you. You stepped closer, pretending to busy yourself with the trays of wine, ready to serve at a moment’s notice, but your ears were sharply tuned to their conversation.

You heard the last bit of Olenna’s words as she turned to Sansa, her voice low but pointed. "Perhaps if your pauper husband were to sell his mule and his last pair of shoes, he might afford to bring you to Highgarden for a visit. Now that peace has come and all is right with the world, it would do you good to see some of it." Olenna cast a glance toward Tyrion, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “You must excuse me. It's time I ate some of this food I paid for.”

Tyrion smirked, but the bitterness in his eyes was unmistakable. He raised his goblet in a mock toast, the weight of his station pressing heavily on his shoulders.

As Olenna moved away, the music changed. The musicians struck up a familiar tune, the one they always played for the Lannisters—a song of lions, of power.

"A coat of gold, or a coat of red, a lion still has claws..."

Margaery seemed to be enjoying the performance, her laughter light and genuine. But Joffrey, ever the restless king, was bored. He stood abruptly, tossing coins at the musicians as if they were little more than beggars. "Very good. Very good. Off you go," he said dismissively. The musicians scrambled to collect the coins, bowing as they backed away from the table, desperate to avoid the king’s wrath.

From where you stood, the entire spectacle felt sickening. You clenched your jaw, your hands hidden beneath your sleeves as you forced yourself to remain composed. It was all a game to them. A game of politics, of power, of lies. The poorest in King’s Landing would never see the remnants of this feast, no matter what Margaery or Joffrey decreed. You knew the truth. People like you—those without titles, lands, or coin—were little more than pawns to be sacrificed in their endless struggle for dominance.

You watched Margaery lean toward Joffrey, her hand resting on his arm as she tried to soothe his restlessness. "My love, why don't we make the announcement?" she said, her voice soft, almost coaxing. Joffrey banged his goblet against the table, the sharp clang silencing the crowd as he stood.

"Everyone!" he called out, his voice booming over the garden. "The queen would like to say a few words."

The crowd cheered, applauding the queen they had already accepted as their own. Margaery stood gracefully, her smile serene as she addressed the crowd. "We are so fortunate to enjoy this marvelous food and drink. Not all among us are so lucky. To thank the gods for bringing the recent war to a just end, King Joffrey has decreed that the leftovers from our feast be given to the poorest in his city."

More applause followed, and Joffrey beamed, soaking in the adoration of the crowd. Cersei, ever watchful, approached Margaery with a forced smile. "You're an example to us all," she said, placing a kiss on each of Margaery’s cheeks. The queen mother’s jealousy was palpable, her eyes glinting with barely concealed disdain.

You stood there, watching it all with clenched fists beneath your sleeves, your breath coming in slow, measured draws. The words, the gestures, the smiles—it was all smoke and mirrors. They paraded their generosity, their wealth, their power as if it were a gift to the realm, but you knew better. This peace was fragile, built on the bodies of the innocent, and it could shatter at any moment.

Your fingers dug into the fabric of your dress, a habit you had developed over the years. You scratched at the skin beneath, the pressure grounding you as memories flashed before your eyes—memories of pain, of cruelty, of the Mountain. The heat of the branding iron. The smell of burning flesh. Your own screams ringing in your ears until the world went dark.

You bit down hard on your lip, forcing the memories to retreat back into the dark corners of your mind. But the tension remained, a heavy knot in your chest, coiled tight like a viper ready to strike. Everything around you—the laughter, the opulence, the false smiles of lords and ladies—was part of this never-ending cycle of power. A gamble played at the expense of lives like yours.

Standing at a distance, you felt Oberyn’s eyes on you again. He lounged with casual arrogance, a wicked smile playing on his lips as Ellaria sat on his lap, delicately feeding him a grape. His gaze lingered on you, his expression one of amusement, as if he found your presence there tantalizing. His nod in your direction was slow, deliberate, and the smirk he gave you only made your pulse race. You quickly turned away, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the effect he had on you.

Your focus shifted, catching Cersei out of the corner of your eye as she exchanged curt words with Brienne of Tarth. Whatever was said made Brienne visibly uncomfortable, and she soon excused herself, walking away with her usual brisk pace. You weren’t close enough to hear their exchange, but the look on Cersei’s face said it all—disdain, irritation, and a certain dangerous pleasure in making the taller woman feel out of place.

Just as you were about to step away, something else caught your attention. Pycelle, with his hunched posture and greasy fingers, had cornered a young maid—Serena, you realized with a scowl. Inwardly, you cursed. Pycelle was one of those men you despised most at court, his pretense of wisdom nothing more than a shield for his lechery. You moved closer, keeping your head down, pretending to adjust your serving tray as you eavesdropped on their conversation.

Pycelle’s voice was low, his tone sickeningly paternal as he said, "No, no, come to my chambers and I will examine you personally."

Your stomach churned at his words, but before you could intervene, Cersei’s voice cut through the air like a dagger.

"She’ll do no such thing."

Pycelle jumped, his greasy face paling as he turned to see the queen standing there, her expression cold and unyielding.

"Oh, Your Grace," Pycelle stammered, his voice trembling slightly. "Yes, well, this young lady sought my advice..."

Cersei’s smile was sharp and cruel. "You should see Qyburn. He’s quite good."

The maid, eyes wide with relief, quickly dipped her head. "Your Grace," she murmured, then hurried away, escaping Pycelle’s grasp.

Pycelle’s face contorted into an expression of disgust. "Qyburn? Deplorable man. Brought shame on the Citadel with his repugnant experiments."

Cersei tilted her head, her smile never wavering. "More repugnant than your gnarled fingers on that girl’s thighs?"

Pycelle stiffened, his eyes darting around nervously. "Your Grace, I am a man of learning."

Cersei’s eyes gleamed with dangerous amusement. "My little brother had you sent to the Black Cells when you annoyed him. What do you think I could do to you if you annoyed me?"

Pycelle’s face turned ashen. "I never meant to annoy anyone," he mumbled, his voice now a pathetic whimper.

"But you are," Cersei said softly, stepping closer, her gaze boring into him. "You annoy me right now. Every breath you draw in my presence annoys me. So here’s what I want you to do: I want you to leave my presence. Leave this wedding right now. Go to the kitchens and instruct them that all the leftovers from the feast will be brought to the kennels."

Pycelle’s mouth opened in protest, but Cersei cut him off sharply. "The queen is telling you the leftovers will feed the dogs, or you will."

For a moment, the old man seemed to consider arguing, but one look at Cersei’s smile—a cruel, dangerous curve of her lips—and he thought better of it. With a shaky bow, he muttered, "Yes, Your Grace," and scuttled away like the coward he was.

Cersei smiled after him, pleased with herself.

What a bold-faced cunt, you thought bitterly, watching her bask in her small victory. Everything about her was venomous—her beauty, her power, her cruelty. She wielded them all with deadly precision, and you hated her for it.

With a steadying breath, you made your way back toward the head table, slipping seamlessly into your role. You refilled goblets, offered plates, your presence unnoticed among the nobles. But beneath your mask of calm, your mind churned. Every move, every word, every gesture at this wedding was a lie—a careful façade constructed to conceal the rot beneath.

The clamor of the wedding feast carried on, a haze of laughter, clinking goblets, and the gleam of gold and silk that shone in the late afternoon sun. The Lannisters and Tyrells reveled in their temporary triumph, their smugness saturating the air like a sickly perfume. But you knew better than most how quickly fortunes could turn in a place like King’s Landing. The city was a pit of snakes, and the shift of power could change in an instant.

From where you stood, just close enough to watch but far enough to remain unnoticed, your eyes followed King Joffrey. He sat at the head of the grand table, restless and bored, his twisted amusement turning toward the fool juggling before him. Margaery, ever the dutiful queen, smiled gracefully at his side, playing her part flawlessly.

But Joffrey… he was never satisfied.

You saw the glint of cruelty in his eyes before he even stood. The familiar spark that made your skin crawl and your stomach twist. His voice cut through the air, sharp and mocking.

"A gold dragon to whoever knocks my fool’s hat off," Joffrey declared, his sneer stretching wide as he stood, scanning the crowd like a predator ready to pounce.

The fool, a trembling man in motley, barely had time to react before the guests joined in. Laughter echoed as food—chunks of bread, slices of fruit, and bits of meat—were hurled at him. You could see the fear in his eyes, how his smile wavered as he danced awkwardly to avoid the barrage.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. The sight of it—how quickly cruelty had become sport—set your blood boiling. You knew this game, too well. You had seen it before. You had lived it.

Joffrey’s laughter rang loud, ringing in your ears like a taunt.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

With a sharp inhale, you turned on your heel, walking briskly away from the spectacle. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, the fury bubbling beneath the surface, the memories threatening to overtake you. The jeers, the screams, the sound of flesh meeting stone… all of it haunted you still, and this—this senseless cruelty—stirred it back to life.

The clamor of the feast swirled around you, a whirlwind of laughter, clinking goblets, and hushed conversations. Your hands moved mechanically as you helped arrange the giant feast table, replenishing trays of roasted meats and lavish platters of fruits. Yet your mind remained a storm of its own, the anger still simmering beneath the surface from what you'd just witnessed.

This court—its twisted bets, the cruelty woven into every interaction—was a festering rot, and you couldn’t allow yourself to forget that. Not for a moment. Not here, where forgetting meant losing yourself to the madness.

As you moved to refill goblets of wine, you saw Cersei and Tywin strolling past, their expressions as cold and imperious as ever. You kept your head down, but their voices reached your ears, low and murmured.

Tywin’s tone was calm, almost bemused. “You’re in rather a good mood.”

“I suppose I am,” Cersei replied, her voice holding a faint, bitter edge.

“I won’t ask why,” Tywin remarked, his gaze never faltering as they passed by.

“Small pleasures,” Cersei added, a sharpness in her words that hinted at something more, something dark beneath the surface.

You busied yourself with the table, arranging goblets when you caught movement from the corner of your eye. Oberyn and Ellaria had entered, gliding through the crowd with a grace that seemed to draw every eye. Their presence commanded attention, not unlike the very snakes that represented their house.

Oberyn's deep, silken voice cut through the air as he greeted them. "Your Grace. Lord Tywin."

Tywin turned to face them, his expression as stony as ever. "Prince Oberyn."

"I don't believe you have met Ellaria," Oberyn continued smoothly, gesturing to the woman at his side. "This is the Lord Hand Tywin Lannister and Cersei Lannister, the Queen Regent. Or, I suppose it is former Queen Regent now." The jab was subtle but unmistakable. "Lord Hand and Lady Cersei, this is Ellaria Sand."

Ellaria stepped forward, her dark eyes gleaming as she curtsied. "My lord. My lady."

Tywin offered a curt nod, the barest flicker of acknowledgement. "Charmed."

Cersei, however, let her gaze linger on Ellaria for a moment too long. “Can’t say I’ve ever met a Sand before,” she said, her words dripping with disdain.

You stole a glance at Ellaria, whose demeanor had shifted, a spark of fierceness flashing in her eyes. Her voice was like steel wrapped in silk. “We are everywhere in Dorne. I have ten thousand brothers and sisters.”

Oberyn’s lips curled into a smirk. “Bastards are born of passion, aren't they? We don’t despise them in Dorne.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, nearly betraying a smile at Oberyn’s thinly veiled jab. You bit your lip, forcing yourself to remain composed, knowing how easily any sign of amusement could draw unwanted attention.

Cersei, however, did not miss a beat. “No? How tolerant of you.”

Oberyn leaned in ever so slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I expect it is a relief, Lady Cersei, giving up your regal responsibilities. Wearing the crown for so many years must have left your neck a bit crooked.”

His words were a dagger, sharp and cutting. And as he spoke, his eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment, a knowing glance that sent a shiver down your spine. He knew. He had known the entire time you were standing there, silently witnessing the exchange.

Cersei’s smile faltered, if only for a heartbeat, before she recovered. “I suppose you’ll never know, Prince Oberyn. It’s a shame your older brother couldn’t attend the wedding.”

Tywin chimed in, his voice as cold as ever. “Please give him our regards. With any luck, the gout will abate with time, and he will be able to walk again.”

“They call it the rich man’s disease,” Oberyn shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “A wonder you don’t have it.”

You almost choked on your own breath at the boldness of his words, gripping the tray of food tighter to maintain your composure. Every word he spoke was a calculated strike, each one landing with precision, and you admired his audacity.

Tywin’s expression remained impassive. “Noblemen in my part of the country don’t enjoy the same lifestyle as our counterparts in Dorne.”

Oberyn’s gaze darkened, the air between them thick with tension. “People everywhere have their differences. In some places, the highborn frown upon those of low birth. In other places, the rape and murder of women and children is considered distasteful. What a fortunate thing for you, former Queen Regent, that your daughter Myrcella has been sent to live in the latter sort of place.”

Your grip tightened on the tray as Oberyn’s words struck like a whip, slicing through the false pleasantries of court. You admired him for it—for his boldness, his refusal to bend to their rules, their cruelty.

But you also knew that such boldness could come at a cost.

Without another glance, you quietly moved away, slipping back into the sea of nobles and servants. You busied yourself with pouring wine and serving food, but your thoughts lingered on the dangerous dance unfolding before you. The court was a place where words were as deadly as swords, and you could only hope that Oberyn’s sharp tongue wouldn’t cut too deep.

Yet, as you glanced back at him, standing tall and unyielding, a part of you knew that he wouldn’t be so easily broken.

The air was thick with tension, festivity clashing with the cruelty lurking just beneath the surface. You stood near the head table, your place behind Sansa Stark’s chair, a silent observer in the midst of the spectacle. And Joffrey, the cruel little tyrant, loved his games.

From the center of the garden, you heard the familiar tap tap of Joffrey’s goblet. He rose from his seat, commanding attention as if the entire world existed solely for his amusement. His voice rang out, high and grating.

“Everyone, silence! Clear the floor,” Joffrey called, smirking as his gaze swept over the gathered crowd. “There’s been too much amusement here today. A royal wedding is not an amusement. A royal wedding is history.”

You could feel the unease ripple through the crowd as Cersei and Tywin returned to their seats. Their expressions remained impassive, but there was a shared sense of something darker brewing beneath the surface. You, too, felt the shift, your body tensing as you braced for what was to come.

“The time has come for all of us to contemplate our history,” Joffrey continued, his voice dripping with arrogance. “My lords... my ladies…”

A lever was pulled, and from the gaping mouth of a giant lion, a red carpet unfurled, rolling down the middle of the floor. The crowd leaned in, curious, and you felt your stomach twist.

“I give you... King Joffrey... Renly, Stannis, Robb Stark, Balon Greyjoy. The War of the Five Kings.”

From the lion’s mouth, five dwarves emerged, each dressed to mock the fallen kings of Westeros. They paraded around the floor with exaggerated movements and comic glee, drawing laughter and applause from the nobles. But you could feel the weight of it—the insult, the cruelty embedded in the display.

The dwarves pranced around, playing their parts. One, dressed as Renly Baratheon, twirled about the center with an exaggerated flourish. Another, playing Robb Stark, shouted, “I am the King in the North!” His wolf-head helmet bobbed comically as he danced. The Joffrey dwarf stood at the center of it all, reveling in the absurdity, while the real Joffrey watched, his face alight with sadistic glee.

You saw Tyrion’s face, stoic yet darkened with distaste, and you shared in his disgust. Every part of you was braced for the inevitable humiliation, the way Joffrey delighted in belittling those who had fought and died with honor. The scene continued, with the dwarves mocking and prancing, their movements a grotesque parody of real battle.

“Let the war begin!” the Joffrey dwarf cried, and the chaos of the mock battle began. Robb Stark’s dwarf clashed with the others, while the Balon Greyjoy dwarf pretended to drown in an invisible sea, his gurgling cries echoing through the hall.

You glanced at Sansa. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with shock as she watched the dwarf dressed as her brother fall to the ground, his wolf helmet tumbling off. Joffrey laughed, his high-pitched cackle reverberating through the room. “Your head!” he cried, pointing at the fallen wolf.

Your fingers curled into fists, nails digging into your palms. You sneered, your lip twitching as you barely restrained the anger rising within you. You wanted nothing more than to lash out, to put an end to Joffrey’s twisted plans. But you couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

The crowd cheered, applauding the spectacle as Joffrey stood, a cruel smile on his face. “Well fought! Well fought!” he exclaimed, his voice brimming with satisfaction. “Here you are—champion’s purse. Though you’re not the champion yet, are you? A true champion defeats all challengers. Surely there are others out there who still dare to challenge my reign.”

His gaze landed on Tyrion. “Uncle. How about you? I’m sure they have a spare costume.”

The crowd erupted into laughter. You clenched your jaw, biting down on the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. Every fiber of your being screamed treason. Never had you wanted more to defy a king than in that moment.

Tyrion rose slowly, his expression unreadable. “One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace,” he said, his voice steady. “I would like to keep what remains of my face.”

You almost smiled at the subtle barb, but it was quickly followed by another.

“I think you should fight him,” Tyrion continued. “This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field of battle. I speak as a firsthand witness. Climb down from the high table with your new Valyrian sword and show everyone how a true king wins his throne. Be careful, though. This one is clearly mad with lust. It would be a tragedy for the king to lose his virtue hours before his wedding night.”

The crowd went still, the tension palpable. You could feel it, the shift in the air as Joffrey’s expression twisted into anger. He marched over to Tyrion and, without warning, poured the contents of his goblet over his uncle’s head.

You bit back a gasp as wine trickled down Tyrion’s face, his hands clenched at his sides. His voice remained calm, but you could see the fury in his eyes. “A fine vintage. Shame that it spilled.”

Joffrey, ever the petulant child, sneered. “It did not spill.”

Margaery, sensing the rising tension, tried to intervene. “My love, come back to me,” she called, her voice sweet yet pleading. “It’s time for my father’s toast.”

But Joffrey was far from finished with his torment. “How does he expect me to toast without wine? Uncle, you can be my cupbearer since you’re too cowardly to fight.”

You watched in disbelief as Joffrey dropped his goblet, forcing Tyrion to kneel and retrieve it. Your own anger mirrored the look on Tyrion’s face, your nails biting deeper into your palms as he knelt to retrieve the goblet, only for Joffrey to kick it away. The humiliation was complete.

Sansa kindly retrieved the goblet for Tyrion, silently nodding in acknowledgment. He turned to hand Joffrey the cup but sneered, “What good is an empty cup? Fill it.”

Tyrion pours wine for Joffrey in front of Cersei and hands it to him.

“Kneel,” Joffrey hissed. “Kneel before your king.”

Tyrion did not move.

Joffrey’s voice rose, venomous. “I said… kneel!”

Before things could escalate further, Margaery stood. “Look—the pie!”

The crowd’s attention shifted to the giant pie being carried in. Joffrey turned his gaze toward it, temporarily distracted. He strode forward, hacking at the pie with his sword. Doves burst forth, fluttering into the air.

But you weren’t watching the birds. No. You saw Olenna, her hand quick and deft as she slipped something into Joffrey’s goblet. A stone. A strangler stone that she took from Sansa’s necklace.

Your breath hitched in your throat, but you did not react. You acted enraptured, like the rest of the crowd. You helped serve the pie, your movements mechanical, your mind racing. Sansa turned to Tyrion, her voice a whisper.

“Can we leave now?”

Tyrion’s response was measured. “Let’s find out.”

As you continued serving, your eyes flicked back to the head table, watching as Joffrey took his goblet and drank deeply. A small smile tugged at your lips as he swallowed.

The end was coming. You could feel it.

“Mm, good,” Joffrey muttered. “Needs washing down.”

He took another gulp, arrogant and unaware, until it hit him. The first sign was the subtle hitch in his breath, almost laughable at first—until it wasn't. The coughing came next, sharp and violent, ripping through him like a wild beast gnawing at his throat. His regal posture crumbled, hands clawing at his neck as if to tear the poison from his skin. His face twisted, contorted, morphing from haughty superiority into sheer terror.

The hall shifted with his agony, the murmurs turning into gasps, the gasps into cries of panic. Chaos rippled through the crowd like wildfire, nobles scrambling, eyes wide, horrified. But you did not move. Your body remained still, a statue amidst the storm of panic, unmoved by the sight of the boy-king choking on his own hubris.

Joffrey’s sputtering, retching—every grotesque, gurgling sound—echoed through the hall, yet all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat. Slow. Steady. A contrast to the pandemonium erupting around you. It was a symphony of suffering, and you reveled in the silence that enveloped your mind. His pain meant nothing to you.

Your eyes drifted across the garden, over the faces twisted in fear, horror, and confusion, and then... there was him. Oberyn. His dark, probing gaze locked onto yours from across the hall. His brows furrowed, lips parting ever so slightly. Surprise? No, curiosity, perhaps even confusion, flickered in his eyes as he searched your face for something—anything—but found nothing. No flicker of emotion, no sympathy, no shock. Just the cold, hollow indifference that had settled into your bones like an old companion.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. Why would you? This was one of the moments you had been waiting for. The reckoning. All of Joffrey's cruelty, all of his venom, had finally come back to devour him whole. His pitiful gasping, the frantic clawing at his throat, was a fitting end for the boy who thought himself untouchable.

Joffrey gurgled, his face now a deep shade of purple, eyes bulging, lips frothing. The people around him scrambled in vain, trying to save a life that was already slipping away. You remained still, cold as ice, watching it unfold with detached precision. The world could burn around you, and you would not care.

Oberyn’s eyes lingered on you longer than they should have, as if he were trying to understand the enigma standing before him. He didn’t. He couldn't. No one could. There was no more humanity left in you for him to grasp.

Joffrey’s choking grew louder, more desperate. His hands flailed, reaching for his mother, for someone to save him from the inevitable, but no one could stop what was coming. No one could stop you from witnessing the justice you had longed for.

Margaery rushed to Joffrey’s side. “He’s choking!”

Olenna, ever the actress, called out, “Help the poor boy!”

But there would be no help. No saving the king. You watched, unmoved, as Joffrey staggered, his face turning purple, vomit spilling from his lips. Jaime rushed to him, but it was futile. Joffrey was dying.

And all you could think of was how fitting it was. There would be no glory for Joffrey Baratheon. No legacy. Only pain. Only death.

“My son. He’s gone. My son!”

Around you, the world screamed and wailed. Cersei’s frantic cries cut through the air like a knife, but you barely registered them. You were detached, distant. Untouchable.

It was strange—the numbness. The apathy was a shield you had forged long ago, layer by layer, through every injustice, every cruelty, every wound. You were unbreakable now, untouchable by Joffrey's suffering or anyone else’s. There was a quiet power in that, a dark satisfaction, as you watched the boy-king's life wither before your eyes.

His torment did not sway you. Not a muscle in your body flinched. Your fingers, relaxed at your sides, held no tension. You didn't care. Not anymore.

“He did this. He poisoned my son, your king. Take him. Take him! Take him! Take him!”

Cersei, her screams filled the hall, but you felt nothing. The king was dead. And soon, the unraveling of this court, this rot, would begin.

TAGLIST:

@christinamadsen

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angelic-writer · 7 months ago

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If it's not a lot, could we request a oneshot (not sure if you only do oneshots or not) about the Cairyx's roomie timeline from Missr3n3's blog? Just the spider boy being his typical self and Roomie having to keep dealing with it <- Roomie doesn't have a real name or specific identity cause they're a mainly anon-made character

The tag is "cdta cairyx roomie au" for all the right-now lore (not that it's exactly deep or anything but still lmao)

I looked through the tag and wow! Okay, I think I can do something with this.

CW: Arachnophobia, Light gore (Just pieces of flesh and dead rodents, no big deal.)

You arrive home after a grueling day at work. You have a job of cleaning up bathrooms at a local baseball stadium which would be fine if it weren't for the fact that the people sometimes leave... messes that you would rather not remember. The only positive things about it were your co-workers and the games were somewhat enjoyable. Oh, and the food. The food was good. The messes weren't enough for you to lose your appetite.

It was around 10 PM when you arrived at your apartment. Your body was aching and your feet felt like they were detached from your legs. At that moment, you just wanted to lay down and sleep, hygiene be damned. After taking off your shoes and your name tag, you flop down onto your bed.

...Only to feel something warm and slick.

You jump back and turn on the lights only to groan at the sight.

There were dead animal carcasses littered all over your bed. Mice, rats, bats - was that a deer leg? You should've been revolted by this, but you've dealt with your roommate's shenanigans long enough for you to know the pattern.

You hear a buzzing static coming from your computer screen. You turn to see the head of a humanoid spider poking its head out of the screen, its blue and red eyes staring back at you. You just stared at his insect face.

"...Really, Cairyx? While I'm at work?"

"i was hungry. :::)"

"You could've waited until I got home. Now I have to wash the sheets again!" You look at yourself, seeing your blood-stained uniform. "Ugh, I just washed this! Thanks a lot."

Cairyx continued to stare at you as you grumble to yourself.

This was your life for a year and a half. New electronic appliances being ruined by your strange spider roommate, the washing machine being used again and again to try and wash out the blood from your clothes and sheets - You had no idea how much money you spent on bleach and detergent.

By now, your trash can smelled like rotting flesh, giving you odd looks from the garbage man.

You didn't care anymore. Cairyx was the only thing keeping you company at this point.

After another grueling three hours of washing the blood off of everything, you were beyond tired. You just wanted the whole day to be done. After you haphazardly brush your teeth, you lay on your now dry and warm bedsheets. You drift off within seconds, hoping that Cairyx doesn't do anything else.

When you wake up the next morning, it was 11 AM. You didn't have to be at work until 5, so you still had time. You walk over to your fridge and open it only to notice something that wasn't there before.

A blender was put in there, filled with bloody chunks of flesh and bones. Did he seriously try to make a flesh smoothie? Sighing, you close your fridge. I'll just eat a banana...

#cdta cairyx roomie au #cut down the altar #POV: You're Roomie trying to deal with a spider roommate and hope your co-workers don't find out.#I added a bit of myself in this. I hope you don't mind.

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lovesickeros · 11 months ago

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☆ love; heretical and divine

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood {☆} word count 0.8k

To love a God is heretical. It is an act of blasphemy– it is to drag them down from their throne of hollow gold, to topple the pedestal the worshipers uphold on their shoulders like lambs at the herders heel. It is the act of forcing them to their knees and ripping that beating heart of glorious gold and beautiful, cruel divinity from their chest, so pure it burns.

To love a God is to make them sin. To make them painfully, horribly human.

To love a God is to sin.

The love of a worshiper is no love at all, brilliant in its raw purity, untainted by sin. It is fear and obedience masked by adoration so overpowering it corrupts. It makes the lamb so unquestioning in it's faith it will never question the knife that cuts, the teeth that rip, the claws that tear. If the Creator deemed them unworthy of the very life crafted by their hands, then they must have committed a sin so grave there lay no salvation for their horrid soul.

But she is no worshiper– her lips speak of heresy as easily as she breathes, her words nothing but lies, cold and cruel like the ice that crawls along her skin like webs.

She loves a God like a lover should.

A damned sinner reaching longingly for the heavens.

She loves a God in the subtle brush of their lips, their muffled voices behind closed doors as they indulge in curiosity untamed. She is a sinner through and through, but she feels herself fall further with every brush of her hand across their cheeks, every touch she bestows upon them like a lover. She memorizes the imperfections of their body like memorizing a map– every scar, every mark, every line drawn on their body like a canvas, her touch the brush that stains the pristine white.

No devoted lamb shall ever see the painting they create in these stolen moments– it is for the eyes of a heretic so vile it makes them shudder, their body dirtied by the love of a woman so vile even their divinity is obscured by the ice.

The lambs may be satisfied with fleeting glimpses of gold and empty words from lips that guide them to the jaws of the wolves, but she is not. Her hands crave them like a starving hound, aching to touch that imperfect skin hidden by the veil of gold that obscures the painfully human body beneath. She longs to free them from the golden cage that binds them– to see their wings blot out the sky, their divinity tainted by sin and making them all the more beautiful for it.

It is a longing that leaves a festering wound that cannot heal, will not heal. Even if it could, she would not let it.

For as much as she tries, deny it as she may, she is no better then the blind lambs following the herder who holds a blade in their hand, glittering like gold in the sun, stained by dull red.

She is a fool, and what a fool they make of her with the touch of their hands against her skin– so cold it leaves frost on their fingertips. Yet they do not fear the cold, mapping out every inch of her imperfections, carved into her body by her own hands.

She has always been a heretic, cursing the divine until she could speak no more, but if divinity can be found in them – in this love that consumes, that burns her hands and her lips – then she is a Saint, praying at the altar until her throat bled.

But in the end, she has and will always be a cold woman with hands stained with blood. Until it is all she can taste, until it is all she can smell, until it is all she can feel. These hands of hers, heretical and divine, will bleed the God from their veins– she will become the wolf to their lamb until the rivers of Teyvat run gold with their ichor, until the gold bleeds into red, the taste of their divinity on her tongue.

Until she drags a God from their lofty throne and makes of them a monster.

There is no greater triumph to the heretic then to love a God into sin. To make a God sin to love.

To love is to be human, and they are no God.

Even if she must tear the gold from their very being until all that's left is something human. Even if Teyvat crumbles and decays, even if it begins over and over again..

She will do it again and again, until the gold can bleed no longer. Until her sins grow too great for Teyvat to contain.

To love a God is to devour, and be devoured. An endless cycle of sin that dulls the glow of gold into something new– something horrifying and divine, in it's own right. Something just as horrid as her, just as divinely corrupted by the sins she carries on her shoulders like a trophy, as gold as the sun and as cold as ice.

Divinity, carved into something human by love all consuming, until it all bleeds away and they begin their dance anew, for as many cycles as it takes.

An eternity, if she must, of dooming this world of theirs to fire and decay for a glimpse of the being snared by their golden shackles.

#sagau #genshin sagau #self aware genshin #genshin impact sagau #self aware genshin impact #genshin cult au #genshin impact cult au #fic tag #tsaritsa #tsaritsa x reader #rip 2 anyone who expected like. a normal fic lol. lmao.#im very normal abt the tsaritsa and love its so tasty #i left it very up to interpretation what like. actually happens but. yknow.#i just think tsaritsa being the god of love and not knowing how 2 love without being weird abt it is fun #also wanted to dig into the concept of reader being fundamentally changed by being the creator besides gold blood yknow #but the tsaritsa Knows its changed you and she hates it. she hates it but how does one destroy what is divine?#how do you destroy the very thing that has created you in its hands so cruel and kind?#ive really gone off the deep end huh #this is a warning 2 the normal ppl u might as well leave now. lol #lowkey going for her actually straight up eating u but decided that was too weird for my first fic in a while. had 2 tone it down #i also wanted to add a bit of a concept of the constant resets teyvat goes through and how it plays into the themes #the tsaritsa constantly stuck in a cycle of getting rid of your divinity to be with you as you actually are but teyvat “dies” shortly after #bc obvs ur not the creator afterward so it just croaks and then it all resets again and again #but its the tsaritsa we r talking abt do u think that stops her. NO #obvs still up 2 interpretation go wild this was just what i intended #can u tell i have a lot of feelings abt tsaritsa and concepts of love from her pov. haha. I PROMISE IM NORMAL #i am mentally well why do u ask #what warnings do i add here. dont open this fic ive lost it maybe. yeah #covid rewiring my brain or smth idk man

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gojos-thot-patrol · 2 years ago

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Good evening Dear Reader, it's been awhile, hasn't it? I've missed you so much! Don't worry darling, I don't return empty handed ;)

Now Presenting...

Starring: Ryomen Sukuna, in a modern day curse-less AU Summary: After being left at the alter by your less than magnificent fiance, you only have one thing on your mind: revenge sex. And who better to help you out than the man your ex hates the most.

Warning: This fic contains a gratuitous amount of smut, both praise and degradation, unprotected sex, face fucking, finger fucking, multiple orgasms, and is all wrapped up in a nice cream-pie. viewer discretion is advised ;)

Okay, admittedly, you may have had this coming. Everyone and his mother warned you about Satoru Gojo. About his womanizing ways, his commitment issues, his demanding job. Still, none of that mattered to you. You were convinced that you could fix him! That love would pull through. He’d realize that you meant more to him than being a playboy, and he’d settle down for you. You knew in your heart that you would have your fairytale ending with him.

Yea well turns out your hearts a dirty fucking liar. The weight of that realization was crashing down hard on you as you nursed a vodka sweet tea at what was supposed to be the reception for your wedding. You secretly vowed to never pick up another romance novel ever again. There’s not many things in this world more mortifying than being left at the altar. Maybe somebody pulling an “I told you so” right after you got left at the altar? That could be just as bad.

“I told you so,” Nanami said as he sat next to you, tie already undone. The groan that escaped your throat was a little more raw than you intended as you dropped your head into your arms. It was official; this was the most humiliating day of your life.

“Thanks Kento, that's actually exactly what I needed right now,” You muttered as you picked up your head long enough to finish your drink.

“Always happy to help.” He said, patting your back in what you were fairly confident was meant to be comforting. You sighed as you rubbed your face, not even caring if your makeup smudged anymore. You were sure at least your mascara was wrecked.

“I just don’t understand what I did wrong,” You admitted, turning to face the partying crowd, dancing the night away as if this wasn’t the worst night of your life. At least it was all on fuck faces dime. “I was the perfect fiance! I was loving without being suffocating, I supported him in everything he fucking did, I was faithful, shit man, we fucked constantly, it was like-”

“I don’t need to know the details, thanks.” Nanami said, quickly cutting you off before you put any images in his mind. He shook his head to expel any that had slipped in. “It’s nothing you did Y/n,” He assured you, “Gojo is just not the type to commit to a coffee order, let alone a marriage.” You shook your head, not wanting to accept it.

“I just wish I could find a way to hurt him like how he hurt me.” You muttered. You scanned the faces dancing in the crowd. You were shocked to see how many of his friends were still there. Nanami made sense, at some point he became more your friend than Satorus. But Suguru? That one didn’t make any sense. Unless it was to report back to Satoru what you were do-

Oh.

Oh, he was definitely here to make sure you were a fucking mess. He was here to report back to Gojo that you were indeed destroyed and were never going to get over him. No, No absolutely not, you were not going to let him have that.

“Y/n, are you listening?” Nanami asked. You absolutely were not.

“Uh huh, yea,” You nodded, scanning the crowd for a body to get under, “I’ll be sure to start investing tomorrow-”

“Nope, not even close to what I was saying.” Nanami groaned, rolling his eyes. He recognized that look on your face. “What are you scheming Y/n?” It was then your eyes landed on the perfect target- I mean hookup. Ryomen Sukuna, nursing a drink in the back of the venue, watching the party the way a lion watches a herd of gazelles. You never fully understood Satoru’s friendship with him, but you completely understood why he got the invite. The two were less close college friends, and more bitter rivals patiently waiting for the other's downfall. The two constantly had to one up and outdo each other, and you had no doubt in your mind his invitation was just another way to try and show off.

“So, Nanami, You still talk to Ryomen, right?” You asked, ignoring whatever he was saying before.

“I don’t like that you’re asking me that right now.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. I just want to know if he’s sing-”

“No.” Nanami said firmly, looking at you with the same eyes a father gives a child that keeps drawing on the walls.

“No he’s taken or no you won’t tell me if he is or not?” you asked, taking out a compact from your bag to check your makeup. It actually wasn’t that bad! Shout out to waterproof makeup!

“No, I’m not going to watch you make mistake after mistake. Ryomen is bad news. You think Gojo was bad? Well he’s ten times worse.” Nanami warned, looking into the crowd to see if he could find Ryomen lurking in it. He didn’t even know he was here! And if anyone would be down to make a bad situation worse, it was him.

“How does my ass look in this dress?” You asked. Satoru had picked it out because it was “danceable” for you. It wasn’t something you would have chosen for yourself, but you still felt like you rocked it.

“I’m not answering that question.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes in annoyance.

“You don’t have to, I know I look good.” You smiled and winked. The dress may not have been great on you, but it’s fine. Confidence is what's really attractive. You took a deep breath, then went to approach the unapproachable. Ryomen couldn’t have looked more disinterested if he tried, but the closer you got the more interesting he became. His black dress shirt hugged him just a little too tight, leaving very little to the imagination. He had his sleeves rolled up, tattoos on full display while he checked his watch. He looked up from it just in time to capture your eyes with his, intrigue and amusement igniting behind his scarlet irises.

“Hi Ryomen,” You smiled. You had been working on a loose outline of a script as you made your way to him, but now that you were next to him that script was about as good as your marriage was. And well, considering your marriage never actually happened..

“Hi Y/n. I’m surprised to see you here, honestly.” Ryomen had never been one to beat around the bush. You noticed his eyes fall to your cleavage.Oh good, he was willing to play ball.

“Why are you surprised? It’s my party.” You smiled, resting next to him against the wall.

“I don’t know many people that would want to go to the reception after getting so publicly dumped.” He said. Ouch, ok that was uncalled for. You hoped the sting didn’t show on your face. If it did it didn’t phase him.

“Hey, the party was paid for,” You shrugged, “No use letting a perfectly good open bar go to waste, especially when I’m not paying for it.” You grinned. You had successfully earned yourself a smirk from Sukuna, and a point for the home team.

“I’ll drink to that,” He laughed, “Want me to grab you something?” The ball was in your court, quick, be clever!

“A drink actually sounds great right now. How about a Sex on the Beach?” You smirked.

“Ooo, I don’t think they’re serving those. How about I give you a Screaming Orgasm instead?” He smirked back.

“Hmm, I don’t know, I may need a Leg Spreader before that.” You hummed, giggling for the first time all night. He nodded,

“Got it, a Blowjob for me and a Leg Spreader for you. I’ll be right back.” he nodded, walking off. The thought of Ryomen trying to take a blowjob shot, hunched over the glass and trying to drink the liquid without using his hands, genuinely made you laugh a little. You found an empty table nearby to take up residence at, and contemplate if you really wanted to do this. Your relationship was in the gutter, there was no getting around that. Being left at the altar was the kind of blow you can’t just come back from.

But you didn’t have to fuck his friends (enemy?). Doing this was most definitely an act of war. Whether you were actively together or not, Gojo was extremely territorial of you. You knew that was why Suguru was here; to make sure you didn’t jump into a rebound. If he found out you slept with Ryomen Sukuna of all people on your (almost) wedding night of all days, that would eat him alive from the inside out. There would be hell to pay for sure.

Good. You reminded yourself that you didn’t ask for this fight, but you would win it. You smiled as Ryomen returned with two drinks: a whiskey neat for him and a drink that looked more akin to chocolate milk with whip cream for you.

“Gotta say; looking a bartender in the eye and asking for a ‘screaming orgasm’ will never not be funny.” He joked, handing you your drink and sitting across from you.

“Yea, why are so many drinks named like that? It’s weird, right?” You asked, tilting your head in genuine confusion.

“All bartenders are secretly nymphomaniacs,” He said with enough confidence you were almost convinced that was a real requirement to make drinks. “You’d know that if you slept with more.” and he said that as if it was some moral failing on your part that you had not slept with an adequate number of bartenders. It made you laugh.

“Oh, my mistake you’re right. I’ll fix that right now,” You bluffed. He raised an eyebrow and gestured to the bar.

“Be my guest.” He offered, calling out the aforementioned bluff.

“Oh, but that means I’d have to leave my guest alone, and that’s just bad hosting.” You faux pouted. He shrugged.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be alone for very long.” He smirked at you from behind his glass before taking a drink. You wanted to call him out on his bluff, but, you knew he wasn’t bluffing. Satoru had dragged you to enough social events with Sukuna to know that he rarely went home alone. You decided to go with a different strategy.

“Well, what if I told you I had my sights set on a better prize for tonight?” You asked, batting your eyes and bringing your arms together to emphasize your chest. Sukuna gave a dark grin, seeing right through you.

“I’d say good choice,” he winked, “especially for what you’re trying to do.” Welp, you didn't have anything planned for that comment. You blinked at him

“What do you mean?” You asked, playing dumb.

“Come on Y/n, I’d hope you’d give me more credit than this. You got stood up at the altar by your asshole, hopefully ex, fiance, and now you want to fuck the guy he hates more than just about anything else to get back at him. It’s a solid plan honestly, and luckily for you, I’ve had my eyes on you since the first time Satoru brought you around.” He was making eye contact with you. The fire in his crimson eyes danced with mirth and hedonistic intent. You realized this was probably why Sukuna had even bothered to show up to the reception. He had your plan before you even did.

Before you could respond, you were startled by a heavy hand on your shoulder. “Hey Y/n, how you holding up?” You looked up to see Sugurus' gentle smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes held nothing but steel and mild resentment. He always looked at you like that. You moved your shoulder from under his hand.

“I’m fine Sug, thanks for asking.” You muttered, taking a long sip of your drink. ‘Don’t sit down, don’t sit down, don’t sit down,’ played in your mind on repeat.

“Of course, Y/n. It’s the least I could do.” He said, sitting down. ‘Fuck!’ “I know this must be hard for you.”

“Actually, You’d be surprised.” You said, getting your nerves back together. This was Gojos' spy. You couldn't let him see you falter. “I’m just ready to be over it.”

“You know what they say; the best way to get over somebody is to get under somebody.” Ryomen chuckled as he finished his drink. Suguru glared at him.

“Yea, I never liked that advice.” He said, venom lacing its way into his words as he shot daggers at Sukuna with his eyes. He turned back to you, “It’s always sounded like a good way to make your situation worse.” Was that a threat?

“I mean, You never know until you try.” You challenged.

“I disagree.” Suguru warned. You brushed him off.

“Well, If that’s how you feel, so be it. Do me a favor?” You asked, looking at him with your best doe eyes.

“Of course, anything.” He said, plastering back on that fake sympathetic smile.

“Watch my drink for me,” you said, standing up and taking Sukunas’ hand, “Ryomen and I were just about to dance.” You grinned. Ryomen returned your grin ten fold, laughing as he followed you to the dance floor, leaving an almost visibly confused and quite frankly offended Suguru to seeth at the table. Last time you looked back, he had taken out his phone and was furiously typing on it. Good.

“I knew I liked you.” Ryomen whispered into your ear as the two of you made it to the dance floor.

“Try to keep up with me.” You whispered back. You let the music flow through you, taking a few seconds to find your rhythm before moving your body in time with the music. Ryomen to his credit didn’t miss a beat, dancing not only to the beat, but in harmony with your own body as well.

As the music played the two of you became more acquainted with each other's moves and dance styles. You thought you would switch it up on him, going in to grind. He didn’t falter for a second, placing a hand on your hip and matching your pace. You expected a lot of things from this exchange, but the electric pulse his touch sent through your body was not one of them.

“Am I keeping up with you?” Ryomen mumbled into your ear, the sound of his rough voice sent waves of heat through you and directly to your core. You spun around to face him, realizing that now he was within kissing distance.

“You’re doin’ well enough,”' you purred to him, running a hand over his chest and god damn. It should be illegal to be that well built. Between the tight shirt and your own sense of touch, you felt like you had a pretty good idea of what he looked like without that shirt on. Still, you desperately wanted to confirm your theory.

“What do you say we get out of here?” Ryomen asked, almost as if he could read your mind.

“I say that's a pretty good idea,” You nodded as the two of you left the dance floor. He wrapped his arm around your waist as he led you to the exit, and you slipped your hand into his back pocket. You really hoped Suguru had a clear view of this. ‘Eat your goddamn heart out Gojo’ You thought maybe just a bit too smugly as you found your way outside, and he gave his ticket to the valet boy.

You took a deep breath of the cool night air, trying to ground yourself back into reality. It didn’t feel quite real yet. Your almost four year relationship had just barely ended, and already you were hopping into bed with someone you knew was bad news. Nanami wasn’t joking when he said Sukuna was just Gojo ten fold. In the four years you’d known him, you had watched him lay waste to more hearts than you cared to keep track of. You just hoped you weren’t next.

All doubts evaporated like water in Texas when Sukuna approached you again. He had unbuttoned three of his shirt buttons, showing off hints that his tattoos didn’t stop at his face and arms. A cigarette dangled loosely from his lips. He removed it long enough to exhale smoke as he approached.

“Valets on the way.” He informed you. You willed your brain to think of anything other than Ryomen naked long enough to nod.

“Good to hear.” You nodded. You had a whole new set of anxieties now. You knew Ryomen had a lot of experience. What if you didn’t measure up? Apparently, your nerves were evident in your features. You caught a smug smile from the pink haired man next to you.

“You nervous?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Me?” You chuckled to hide the fact that yes, you indeed were. “I’ve got nothing to be nervous about Ryomen.”

“Hmm, Well see about that.” He smirked. Before you had time to ask what the fuck that ment, a far prettier car than you were expecting pulled up. A gorgeous, 1957 Ford Thunderbird, with a beautiful cherry red paint job and, from what you could tell, a black leather interior. You knew that all of Gojos' friends were just as loaded as he was, the fact he had a nice car wasn't a surprise. But you had expected a Bently or a Lambo. Not a classic bombshell.

“You have a T-bird?!” you scoffed in disbelief. He laughed and nodded.

“You like her?” He asked, beaming with pride as he tipped the valet. “I fixed her up myself.” He added, opening the door for you. You slipped into the soft leather seat, and a few seconds later he joined you.

“I never pegged you as a car guy.”

“You’ve never pegged me at all.” He grinned, laughing at his own joke.

“Wow, you’re so funny you know that?” You scoffed, dripping in sarcasm. Despite that, you were giggling softly to yourself.

“Oh, I’m the funniest. You’d know that if you didn’t have your head up Satorus ass for four years.” He scoffed, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe that relationship lasted as long as it did. You shrugged softly, not really having a come back for that one.

“What can I say?” You shrugged, “The dick was just that good.” If you had thought you had heard a full hearty laugh from Sukuna before, you hadn’t. You realized that as he fell into near hysterics over that comment. And, despite yourself, the sound was warm and infectious, making you laugh along with him.

“God, was he your first? That’s the only way I could see anyone thinking Gojo was good at sex, god.” He laughed, taking a drag off his cigarette before dangling it out of the window again.. You raised an eyebrow at that.

“And just how would you know? You get a little close and personal with our boy?” You said, wiggling your eyebrows at him. He was laughing, warm and hearty, again.

“Good God no!”He shook his head, “Some of us have standards! No, I don’t have any personal experience with him. But he brags all the time. Or, really, he thinks he brags. In reality, He talks about how bad he is at sex and we all just kinda nod and laugh at him behind his back.”

“Wait, He hasn’t talked to you guys about what happens in our bedroom, has he?!” You asked, a new wave of betrayal overtaking you. Ryomen just gave you a look and you knew the answer.

“Right, forget I asked.” You muttered.

“Don’t worry Doll,” He assured you, placing a hand on your thigh. You thought your heart might explode at his warm touch. “After tonight, all of his bullshit will just seem like a fucked up nightmare.” You hoped he was right.

💒💒💒

You were beginning to doubt your decision to bring him to your apartment instead of going to his. It’s not that you were ashamed of where you lived, on the contrary, you knew you had a beautiful residence. The shame came from the fact that this was technically still your shared dwelling with Satoru, and evidence of him still lingered in every corner of this apartment. His things were still here, which shouldn’t have been surprising really, but you were less ready to face it than you thought.

The good news was Ryomen gave you exactly no time to start to miss your ex. His mouth was on yours almost the moment the two of you were in the door, pulling you close and taking your breath away in a needy kiss. You moaned softly into him, tangling your fingers into his soft pink hair, getting drunk on the scent of pine needles and Marlboro cigarettes.

He kissed his way from your lips, to your jaw, all the way down to the base of your neck, leaving a trail of purple bruises in his wake. “Bedroom is-”

“I know.” He cut you off. You realized two things at that moment. 1.Sukuna had been to your house before, no doubt with Gojo. and 2. That he had been leading you to the bedroom the whole time. He fumbled for all of two seconds with the door before getting it open, ushering you in and all but pushing you onto the bed. It was in that moment that it hit you just how much bigger than you Sukuna was. 6’4 and made out of pure muscle, he could have truly hurt you if he wanted.

You would think this would kill the mood a bit but quite the opposite actually. You pressed your thighs together to try and distract yourself from the almost uncomfortable amount of arousal pooling between them. Ryomen notably did not like this, moving to cage you onto the bed. “Come on Y/n, Don’t get shy on me now,” He purred as his hand moved down your body, “We just started having fun.”

You bit your lip as you began to melt under his electric touch. You watched as his hand disappeared under your dress. You bit your lip as you felt his fingers brush against the translucent spot on your panties. Your breath hitched and his smirk only grew.

“Is all of this for me, Doll?” He asked, teasing you through the fabric. You felt your hips unintentionally buck, trying desperately to make more friction. You nodded, maybe a little bit too aggressively for your taste, but it just seemed to encourage him. He chuckled, low and deep in his chest. “Thought so.” He muttered, moving your panties to the side and running one of his thick fingers up your folds, gathering the natural slick forming.

His eyes seemed to glow in the dim moonlight filling the room, taking in even your smallest reaction as he teased you. You whimpered softly at his touch. His gaze held yours firm as his fingers finally made contact with your clit. It was slow at first, sending soft pulses of pleasure through you. He built up a steady pace, applying more pressure and speed as your reactions demanded it. You whined needily, digging your freshly manicured claws into his shoulder blades.

“Ryomen..” You moaned. His name sounded so much prettier falling from your lips than he ever imagined. And he had imagined it.

“Say it again.” He encouraged, applying more pressure to your clit to make you squirm. His free hand found your hips, firmly pressing you into the mattress to keep you still.

“Ryomen, please..” You whimpered, “I need more, please..”

“What’s your rush?” He asked, a finger slipping down to tease at your weeping cunt. “We’ve got all night princess, and I’ve waited for this for too long to rush it.” He chuckled darkly, though he did grant your wish, slipping one of his fingers into you. He curled the long thick digit up, gracing your ever elusive (to Satoru) g-spot. You saw white hot, waves of fiery pleasure coursing through your core. You dug your claws even deeper into his back. He hoped the crescent moons of your nails would still be there in the morning.

“Fuck, fuck! Ryo..” You moaned, losing yourself in the endorphins. He was persistent in the massaging of the soft part inside of you, and tension was quickly mounting.

“Ryo?” He all but laughed, “That's new. I think I like it from you though.” He muttered, adding another finger into the mix. Your body tensed, both not ready for and more than excited to accept the intrusion. Your cunt clenched around his fingers as the tensions built inside of you. The string that had been tangling itself in your stomach was ready to snap, as were you.

Your eyes screwed shut as you braced for your release, only to feel his hand move from your hip to your jaw, his nails digging into your skin just enough to get your attention. “Don’t close your eyes.” Ryomen growled, and you obeyed. “You fucking look at me. I want you to know who made you feel this good.” you whined at his words, but maintained eye contact with him. His blood red gaze was intense, molting hot even. If the inferno in your veins didn’t burn you alive, the incinerator behind his eyes surely would.

“Ryo, I’m so close.” You whined out. You were hit with wave after wave of bliss. Your body reacted to every stroke of his fingers inside of you, and the whirlwind was picking up.

“Oh yea?” He muttered, with an intense focus that could almost be mistaken for disinterest. “Then cum for me Princess.” It didn’t take long after that. Three more passes from his expert fingers at most before you were overcome with euphoria. Fireworks pulsed through your core, making you far too hot and very sensitive all at once. All the while, Sukuna was finger fucking you through your high, watching as your face contorted with bliss.

As you came down, you watched him slowly slip his fingers out of your sobbing cunt and into his mouth. He made the most obscene show of sucking his fingers clean, removing them after with a loud pop.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” He praised, taking your hand and helping you stand up, “Come on, you’re too pretty to be in this ugly dress.”

“Hey!” You protested, “The dress isn’t that bad!”

“Yes it is.” He said, annoyance quickly mounting as he saw it was a button up back. “It hides you more than it compliments you.”

“Well that doesn’t-Ryomen!” You snapped at him as he ripped the back open, deciding that the buttons weren’t worth the time. “This dress is Fucking Expensive!”

“Invoice me for it then,” he scoffed, turning you around to face him. He dropped the dress from your shoulders. “There you are,” He hummed, smiling as he pulled you into a fierce kiss. The anger that you held for him ruining the dress quickly dissipated as you melted into his warmth. Fuck it, he was right. It was an ugly fucking dress.

He slipped his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss and pulling you impossibly close. Your hands started to wander. You thought back to his tattoos, wondering about just where exactly they stopped. You found your way to the noticeable tent in his dress pants, grinding your palm against it and earning a deep groan from him. The sound went straight to your core, and suddenly it was the only thing you wanted to hear.

You fumbled with his belt, trying to get it undone while also focusing on your kiss. You didn’t get very far though before Ryomen brushed your hands away. He mumbled a soft ‘Fucks sake,’ before just undoing it himself, taking care of his button and zipper while he was at it. You were on your knees before he was finished, earning a smile and nod of approval.

“Well look at you Doll, pretty and smart.” He praised. You swallowed the air in your throat before reaching up to take him out. He sighed in relief once his cock wasn’t constrained anymore, and you bit your lip hard. If you were being honest, You had imagined Sukuna before. Late at night when your fiance was surly out with another woman, you found solace in daydreaming about what his rival's dick would be like. You had not imagined this.

He was long and thick, almost intimidatingly so. Even at your most generous, you hadn’t imagined this. The tattoos also admittedly caught you off guard, the two black bands around his base standing out against his pale skin. But it worked for you.

“Like what you see?” Ryomen smirked, never one to be shy. You felt embarrassment set a fire in your chest, despite the face you just looked him in the eyes while he finger fucked you into oblivion. Still, you nodded.

“Pretty cock.” Why was that what you thought to say!?

“Thanks, grew it myself.” He chuckled, his fingers falling to the back of your head, “I think it would look even prettier in your mouth though.” You didn’t need to be told twice. You licked your lips, wrapping your fingers around his base. You gave him a few experiential strokes, before taking the head into your mouth. Your tongue swirled around him, eliciting a growl.

“Don’t fucking tease me Y/n.” He warned darkly. You decided to ignore his very clear warning, licking along one of his more prominent veins. You kissed the tip again, opening your mouth to try and suck on just the head again. That didn’t slide this time though, as Sukuna sunk his nails into your scalp and pushed you the rest of the way down his length. You gagged around him, drawing a satisfied moan from him as he fucked your throat.

You scrambled for a few seconds before finding your rhythm. Breathe through your nose, relax your throat, and in no time you were taking him like a champ. You looked up and felt your cunt clench at the sight before you. Ryomens head was thrown back, strands of hair sweat stuck to his forehead, and his eyes twisted shut in bliss. The dim lunar light casted an angelic halo on the sinful scene, and you wondered why you had’t fucked him sooner.

“God, you feel so good.” He breathed out, “Satorus’ a goddamn moron for giving this up.” You weren’t sure if that was directed at you or not, but he was right, and you hummed your approval of the statement. You watched his jaw tighten as the vibrations ripped through him, followed by him pulling you off of his dick. He pulled you up and pushed you onto the bed, quickly crawling on top of you. He didn’t go to even part of that reception just to cum down your throat. He wanted everything you had to offer. You spread your legs for him as his fingers made their way back to your still dripping pussy. He started to work you open again, catching you in yet another passionate kiss. Satoru never kissed you like this.

“You’re fucking soaked still.” Ryomen noted, easily working you open for him. “Think you’re ready for me Doll?” You hummed your response, mentally preparing for this. He tsked at you. “With your words.” He said, the edge in his voice cutting through your brain fog.

“Yes.” You nodded, licking your dry lips.

“Yes what?” His annoyance was getting more evident.

“Yes, I’m ready for you.” You whimpered. He finally nodded his approval.

“Good girl.” He said, before slowly pushing in. No matter how wet you were, you couldn’t have prepared yourself for this. You felt yourself being ripped apart at the seams, your cunt molding itself to him to accommodate. You took in a sharp breath as he let out a jagged one, hips faltering for just a second as he paused to let you adjust.

“Jesus fucking christ you’re tight.” He groaned, getting lost in the way your velvety walls clenched around him and tried to pull him in further. You whined out in response.

“Ryo, I don’t think I can fit it all..” You admitted almost shamefully.

“You can.” He assured you, pushing even further in, “You’re doing so good Princess.” You bit back a squeal, suddenly wanting nothing more than to make him proud. You let out an embarrassing moan as he finally pushed all the way in, but that's ok because he did too. For all the nights that he spent fucking his hand to the thought of you, nothing could have prepared him for how good you actually felt.

He stilled for a minute, giving you time to fully adjust to his size. You took a deep breath, then nodded. “Ok, I’m ready..” You muttered. He chuckled darkly.

“Ready for what Doll?” He asked. You groaned, tired of his bullshit.

“Come on Ryo, please. You know what I want!” you whined.

“I do.” He confirmed, “And I want you to beg for it.”

“Ryomen please!” you begged him, “Please, I need you to move. I need you to fuck me until I can’t think anymore, I want to feel you ruin me. Make me your whore, please, I want to be destroyed.” GOD Ryomen was lucky he didn’t cum right then and there. That was so much hotter than he thought it would be, and you could feel his dick twitch inside you.

“If you insist.” He said, setting a brutal pace right off the bat and making you scream. “I’m going to mold this cunt to me, and me alone.” He growled into your ear, “When I’m done with you, I’m going to be the only man you’ll ever want again. No one will make you feel this good again.” He was probably right. The curve of his dick put it at the perfect angle to continuously massage your g-spot, overriding the slight discomfort of him fucking your cervix. He stretched you out so beautifully, you couldn’t imagine anyone else ever making you feel this full ever again.

“Tell me, Does he fuck you like this?” he asked, tangling his fingers into your hair to force you to look at him again. “Like the dirty whore you are?” you tried to shake your head no, but his grip was too tight.

“No, not nearly as good.” You whimpered, getting lost in the inferno of desire and pleasure that was overtaking you. Every thrust sent another shock wave of euphoria through you, the waves of bliss threatening to over take you with every roll of his hips.

“Fuck, do you know how long I’ve wanted to wreck this pussy?” You growled into your ear, “Ever since that motherfucker first brought you round us. Showing you off in that tight little skirt, flaunting you around like a brand new toy. I’ve thought of you every night since.” He said, folding you in half and wrapping your legs around his shoulders. The new angle let him sink even deeper into you, sending a new intense wave of ecstasy coursing through your veins and making you see stars.

“Four years is a long time to wait for something,” He mumbled, “But fuck me you’re so worth it. So much fucking better than my hand, or those bitches I’d pretend were you. Never been more thankful for that idiots' mistakes.” He laughed. You weren’t listening. You were driving at 140 miles per hour straight off a cliff and into a grave of dopamine and bliss. Your cunt clenched and wept around him, your orgasm coming faster than you wanted it to.

“Ryomen, I’m so fucking close.” You whined, nearing the edge of the cliff.

“I know,” He huffed. He could feel it in the way you trembled around him, “Want you to come all over my cock. Come on, make a mess, pretty girl.” He purred, fingers finding your clit and massaging expert circles into it. That was it, the extra pleasure sending you over the edge. You felt like your soul left your body as stars exploded over your eyes. Your blood filled with euphoria, dopamine, and oxytocin. You felt your body stiffen and convulse around him as you were hit with wave after wave of pleasure.

The way your cunt grabbed him like a vice, pulling him impossibly deeper, coupled with the intoxicating look on your face as you came brought him to his climax. He couldn't have pulled out if he wanted to (Is what he told himself) as he came deep inside you, overflowing your cunt and dripping onto the sheets. Everything stilled for the seconds that followed, both of you desperately trying to catch your breath.

He pulled out finally. He managed to roll to the side before he crumbled, collapsing next to you instead of on top of you. “Holy fuck,” He breathed out, basking in the afterglow with you.

“Holy fuck indeed.” You nodded, not knowing what else to really say. Gojos' sheets were definitely ruined.

“And you mean to tell me he left you at the fucking altar?” Ryomen laughed in disbelief. “Talk about a fumble.”

“Well, to be fair, it’s never that good with him.” You admitted. You looked over to see Ryomens victorious grin.

“I believe that.” He muttered. Habit overtook you as you moved into the arms of your lover, resting your head on his chest to listen to his racing heart slowly return to normal. He didn’t move away, wrapping his arm around you instead. He kissed the top of your head. It was by far the most gentle act of the night.

💒💒💒

Ryomen was gone when you woke up. You weren’t surprised, but you did find yourself disappointed, much to your further dismay. You weren’t expecting breakfast in bed or anything, but you were hoping he’d at least stick around long enough for a goodbye. Oh well, you knew what you were getting into when you decided to fuck him. And honestly, the last thing you needed right now was another playboy to fuck around with your heart.

You checked your phone and actually laughed. 12 missed calls and far too many texts, all from Gojo. It must have gotten back to him that you went home with Ryomen last night, and he was running himself ragged trying to “fix” his mistake. As if he could fix it. You deleted the voicemails along with the messages without reading them. You were about to put down your phone when a specific notification caught your eye. New Message, Sukuna. Never one to learn, you opened it immediately.

Good morning beautiful. Sorry I left so early, work called. I’ll see you soon though ;)

The sound that left you was truly embarrassing, but you didn’t care. You were ready to make a New Mistake.

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