#its the coat! the damn coat!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 34: All Oil And Flame

Content warning: Sukuna POV, murder, mentions of cannibalism, Sukuna is a mess.

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

Nine Inch Nails - The Persistence Of Loss

Chapter 33

It’s quiet out here at this hour. The shrine’s grounds are still, the world thrown in darkness. Everything sleeps. Sukuna should be asleep. But he’s not. He’s awake.

Inside the stables, with the doors tightly shut, he tends to the horses, who sway uneasily in his presence. Their ears swivel toward him, breaths steaming the chill, autumn air. Perhaps it’s the early hour, the first sunrise yet to chase away the moon. Or maybe they sense the tension cutting through him—the way his shoulders refuse to loosen, the scowl carved across his face, the clenching in his jaw.

It’s this that’s likely what unsettles them, but he simply ignores it and continues.

Like so many other things he can bury with ease.

Standing beside one of the mounts, Sukuna drags a cloth over its coat. The rough fibres catching on stray hairs, the heat from the animal’s hide radiating steady under the flat of his palm. 

These actions ground him. The rhythm grounds him.

Or it should.

A simple movement to occupy rampant thoughts.

Simple.

A simple action to follow. Nothing more, nothing less.

Sweeping the strip of fabric across the horse’s flank, he watches the glide of his lower left hand follow behind.

Sweep and glide.

He continues to brush the horse, and it begins to relax under his touch.

Sweep and glide.

The horse exhales deeply, its sides expanding and deflating.

Sweep and glide.

The animal lowers its long neck, stretching it over the stall door in contentment.

Sweep and glide.

Hair spilled out across pillows.

Sweep and… glide.

Brow furrowed in pleasure.

Sweep and…

Bound hands curling inward.

Sweep…

Soft skin. Discoloured fingers that—

The horse nudges him, and his body tenses, not at the action, but at the realization that his mind circles endlessly, replaying everything that just happened. Namely, you.

Trouble. That’s what you are. 

Trouble he can’t afford to hold on to. And regardless, soon, you would be gone, lost to him for good.

Sukuna steps back, letting the cloth fall lazily to the hay-covered floor, blood-red gaze lingering on the horse’s shifting ears, searching to distract himself from his greatest distraction. 

It doesn’t help.

Nothing ever has. Not for seven years.

He shoves a hand through his hair, as if the gesture might scatter the inconsequential thoughts clinging to everything. But they aren’t just in his head. Thoughts of you are everywhere—at the back of his eyes when they’re shut, on the tip of his tongue, in the pit of his stomach, under his fingertips. The worst of them lodged too deep inside his chest, wedged behind muscle and bone.

Stuck. You were stuck inside him, and fucking you had only made it worse.

None of this was supposed to happen. No one could convince him otherwise.

But it did.

And that small loss of control is something he can no longer allow. That’s why he needs you gone. Self-preservation, or by damn, he will self-immolate everything around him to keep it that way.

Dropping his hand to the side, his lower eyes dart to the right.

Near the back of the stables, a pale shape catches his attention. A gleaming coat, the colour of snowmelt, faint in the shadows, but bright in the dark. The mare rests quietly in her stall, sleek and still.

Sukuna stares at her for a moment.

The creature is small and skittish, nothing like his warhorses. Whenever he approaches, she watches him with those black, liquid eyes.

Cautious eyes, distrustful eyes.

Sukuna huffs.

Ayana.

The name sits in his mind, both understood and not. He knows why it was chosen. Of course he does.

Ayana Kasai.

But how foolish of you. You seem so determined to torment yourself for your mother’s death and yet are so ignorantly unaware of what you didn’t do.

And still...

“Make it hurt.”

Your voice and your demand. The way you begged for him to take you as hard as he could moves through him as a shudder of raw pleasure.

Again, trouble. Beautiful, maddening trouble. Trouble he could return to his chambers for, gather into his arms, and demand more from. Demand the one ineffable solace that threatens to undo him or at least make him feel pathetic.

Stay.

But attempting to claim that now, after everything, feels obscene. The things he has done to you. The things he has done and taken pleasure in doing. And much like anything of the sort that tends to be shoved or pushed away by him, as it always has been, now and since birth.

Besides, what would even become of the two of you? Pretend this was anything more than it was meant to be? Two pretenders, neither seeking the other’s company from the beginning, only the other’s end.

All oil and flame. Once ignited, they cannot be separated.

It’s a terrible idea, just like all the desires you’ve claimed to want from whoever dares own that tender, delicate muscle inside your chest.

Warmth.

Protection.

Safety.

Happiness.

And one more longing, unnamed, locked behind that sweet, lying mouth of yours. One he now knows the taste of, though he never should have kissed. But he knows what that last desire was. Sukuna grinds his teeth at the thought. He’d sooner have his bones scoured clean, flesh stripped, and his power sealed away than ever provide something so out of reach and, like he said, worthless.

After a moment, Sukuna approaches Ayana’s stall. The mare lifts her head sharply, nostrils flaring as she ambles backward into deeper shadow.

“Easy,” Sukuna mutters, removing the latch on the door and opening it. 

With slow movements, he eases inside. Her muscles quiver, tail flicking nervously as if shaking off some invisible pest.

“You’re not half as stubborn as she is,” Sukuna remarks dryly before stepping closer.

One of his lower hands extends, palm open, waiting for the creature to summon enough courage to come to him and press her muzzle into it. She hesitates, chuffing, but after a heartbeat, she relents. Sukuna lets her take her time. When she does, he picks up another cloth from a nearby beam and begins to groom her. With each sweep, her breathing slows, the initial tension melting into something resembling an uneasy truce.

The two remain like this for a while. The mare quiet. The King of Curses attentive. Four hands moving, he brushes her coat, then crouches to lift one of her hooves. Turning it slightly, he checks for any lodged stones or dirt, ensuring it’s clean. The mare shifts slightly, but he steadies her with a touch, moving to the next hoof with the same care.

Eventually, through the narrow shaft of light spilling into the stables, dawn’s golden-tipped fingers begin their slow push to chase away the night.

Giving Ayana one final brush, he tosses the cloth aside and steps back from her, drawing your scabbard and sheathed tantō from his waistband. He’d retrieved it from the forest, finding it tangled among the roots and bones. Now, he sets it on the stall door—a parting gift for you to take when you leave here today, along with all the hurt he’s given you to carry for a lifetime and more.

* * * * *

Inside the shrine the way down to the kitchen is a long, winding corridor. As the King of Curses moves, cool shadows slide over him, the lanterns yet to be lit, and the few attendants awake pull apart to scatter from his path.

When he enters the kitchen, a weight of eyes settles on him, likely drawn to his dishevelled appearance—half-naked, still streaked in blood and debris from earlier. The stained sirwal he hastily grabbed from the floor before leaving you in his chambers hangs perilously low on his hips, and he makes no effort to adjust it. After being stabbed awake in the middle of the night, any trace of decorum is nowhere to be found.

Not that it ever truly bothered him to begin with.

“Good morning, Master Sukuna.” Uraume’s tentative voice carries from behind him.

He doesn’t bother to turn, his bare feet tapping softly against the floor as he heads toward one of the low tables, eyes scanning for food. He’d spent most of the night fighting and fucking, and now he’s starving, demanding sustenance before he even considers acknowledging anyone.

His gaze sweeps over the options.

Old grains. Pickled vegetables. Strips of dried fish. Wild mushrooms.

A pitiful scarcity. It has him wondering. When famine stole his shithole of a birthplace, what had the woman who bore him been forced to eat before the nourishment finally ran dry?

This? Or perhaps things far less satisfying and degrading.

By now, there would normally be a body, or two sprawled out across the kitchen floorboards, waiting to be carved up and bled. That’s what he wants—something substantial, something red and dripping to dip his teeth into, something to fill his stomach and drown out the lingering taste of you.

But there’s nothing to be shown.

Roughly a month of attacks on his domain, and the deterioration of the shrine is showing its cracks. The villages providing food and offerings are depleting—razed, their people scattered or killed. Without them, there’s no one left to farm the fields or barter provisions. No one for him to eat. The shrine, no longer fed by the fear and obedience of its surroundings, will starve.

Jaw tightening, another hand pulls through his hair. Obsessing over you has soured his mind. Careless against the immediate threats and the pests crawling toward his doorstep.

Pests—and one thoroughly annoying serpent.

Picking up a dried piece of fish, he tears into it.

He pauses.

Disgusting.

Salty and tough, it barely registers, but chewing it, he turns. 

Ren stands beside Uraume, who bows, near the hearth, where the faint embers of last night’s fire still cling to life. From the way they’re quietly observing him, it’s clear they’ve picked up on his nightly activities—likely from the noises. A wild assortment of them. First, your display of power and your energy roiling out of control—the destruction in the forest. Then, the yelling and the screaming. The threats of death.

And finally, the delicious moaning.

Your blissful screaming.

His massive body taking you apart, the wet slapping of his skin against yours over and over, again and again, and again and—

Enough!

“Morning,” he mutters, smacking his lips as he rips off another tasteless bite.

He chews.

In the background, a few nameless attendants quietly move, their presence tracked like animals by his lower set of eyes.

“Uraume.” Sukuna’s upper gaze flicks to the pale-haired monk, who dips their chin in response. “I need you to prepare a tea.”

A pause.

They stare at him. He stares back. Their expression unchanging, posture unmoving. His mouth twitches, and he realizes why they hesitate to say or do anything.

“A medicinal preventative,” he adds gruffly, mouth sliding into a rigid pout.

The atrocities he’s committed against you pile high.

But the last thing he’d leave you with is the burden of pushing out some ugly, wailing runt—one that would look partially like him and partially like you.

Better known as an unwelcome mistake.

Uraume bows in understanding.

“Of course.”

Without another word, they step away, moving through the space to gather the necessary items.

Sukuna’s gaze shifts back to Ren.

“You’ll bring it to her,” he comments flatly. “Make sure she drinks all of it.”

Ren steps forward and dips into one of her strict, practiced bows.

“Yes, Master Sukuna.” She lifts her head, hesitates for a moment, and then continues. “I… wanted to apologize.”

Sukuna picks at his teeth, flicking an annoyed glance at the piece of fish in his upper left hand.

“What for?” He spreads his lower hands, inviting her to explain further while his eyes drift to Uraume, who has already begun grinding the herbs. 

“About last night,” Ren says stiffly.

His crimson gaze returns to her immediately.

“It was my fault that my Lady—”

“She’s no longer my Lady,” he interrupts, clicking his tongue. Even hearing the title feels like hooks tearing into his flesh, dragging heat to the surface.

“She is once again the daughter of the now late Lord Kasai.”

The bastard.

Even though he hadn’t been the one to end the man’s life, watching you kill your father would have been a joy to witness. He regrets not asking how you did it—whether it was with that lovely trick of your hands or something else entirely.

Ren’s brow wings into a furrow as her hands come together in a tight clasp, weary eyes dropping to her hemline.

“I don’t understand...”

There’s a hint of regret piled into her words, but Sukuna ignores it, moves to the hearth instead, and drags two fingers through the hot coals, the scorching heat doing nothing to bother him even as the flesh of his fingertips wilts away and burns.

“She’s leaving today.” He forces the words past his teeth, while watching the little embers struggle to spark back to new life, only to flicker then fade out entirely.

Behind him, silence.

He’d suspected Ren might have grown attached to you, and without seeing her face, he’s left to interpret the unspoken inflection in her stillness—either hesitation or pleading. Neither of which he’ll entertain.

Sukuna takes another chew at the pitiful excuse for food in his hand.

“Forgive me for asking, but… where will she go?” Ren hedges, her voice quiet.

The King of Curses turns again, eyes sweeping over the attendants shuffling around the kitchen, shifting items, chatting softly, their robes rustling in the dull early morning dim.

“Likely, she’ll crawl back to her sister,” he states, pulling his hand from the hearth and rubbing his healed, soot covered fingers together.

Another bite.

Ren hesitates, her brow knitting tighter.

“But what about what you told us before?”

Sukuna’s eyes narrow.

“And what is it you think I told you?”

The attendant shifts on her feet as though unsure how to proceed.

“That my Lady is not safe with her sister,” she replies cautiously, wincing as she catches herself too late, forgetting to withhold the title.

Behind them, one of the other attendants begins speaking too loudly, their voice grating with complaints about depleted supplies and provisions.

Sukuna’s jaw seizes.

“And she isn’t,” he growls, his voice sharp as a tip of a needle. “But I suppose she’ll learn, won’t she?”

It was time for you to uncover that truth. Then again, perhaps you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d see the truth, and the witch would manipulate you, playing with your head, hurting your mind until you were a loyal, dutiful mutt all over again. Around and around her little finger you’d go.

Though, for whatever reason, it’s troubling to imagine what Yuna could do with you if she truly untapped your potential the way he did… A mindless weapon. One moulded perfectly for her whims, where she would once again make you small and stunted—a bastardized reflection of his own methods.

And that thought alone is what does not sit well with him.

A threading of an unwanted emotion tightens inside his chest. He takes another bite of the fish, but the flavour is gone. It doesn’t even taste like shit anymore—just ash on his tongue. Curling his lip back, he spits it onto the floor at his feet.

“Forgive me again, Master Sukuna,” Ren says, her voice faltering. “But shouldn’t we protect her from this?”

There it is again—one of your words rolling around in his head and falling out of the mouths of his subordinates.

Protect.

An ugly gleam hits his red eyes.

“And what, Ren? Lock her away?” He gives her a sneer before tossing the gnarled, half-eaten morsel of fish into the hearth’s dead coals. “Swaddle her in silk and wait for the world to devour her when I’m not looking? She’ll learn the hard way, or she won’t learn at all.”

Somewhere in the back, an attendant fumbles, dropping something unseen. Things clatter too loudly to the ground. His lower eyes shoot toward the noise, catching the muted whispers rippling through the space.

Heat seems to trickle from his head, sliding down his throat, pooling hot in his stomach. Burning.

His bones itch.

Everything itches.

“But perhaps…” Ren ventures cautiously, attention shifting between her clasped hands and the floor as though trying to summon some semblance of courage. “After everything… she could remain a while longer.”

The air shifts.

“No.”

“It would give her time to prepare.”

“No.”

“But surely that would—”

Sukuna’s upper right arm swings up violently.

Ren stiffens.

An agonized scream barely finds its way out into the room before one of the attendants collapses, cleanly split in two. Blood milks the spot where she falls, warm and sticky, red spreading like cracked yolks, soaking into the floorboards.

The entire room snaps into breathless silence. None of the other attendants dare move.

Or breathe.

However, one lets out a ragged exhale, only to clasp her hands over her mouth, muffling the sound and swallowing the cry threatening to overflow from their throat.

“Would you like a pet, Ren?” Sukuna spits the words, taking a step toward the woman before him, overshadowing her, his already thin composure of equanimity shredding entirely.

“No… Master Sukuna.” Ren presses her lips into a tight line.

“A pity,” he hisses, looking down on her, he cocks his head to the side. “I’m sure we could find a nice pretty piece of fabric to tie around her neck as a bow, and you can keep her tucked away in your room—under my roof.”

A pause. One blink.

“She leaves,” he growls. “Today.”

Ren says nothing. 

The room is deathly still. Only Uraume moves, quietly devoted to their task, steady hands pouring warm water into a bowl filled with crushed herbs.

“I apologize.” Ren steps back into a bow, her presence seeming to shrink, trembling throat bobbing as she swallows. 

The King of Curses huffs.

Once again comes the pride, washing out the need for anything more. He wasn’t supposed to be this wrapped up in anyone. And he doesn’t need anyone—least of all you.

He just wants you gone—fucking gone.

Was that too much to ask? It shouldn’t be. He brought you here; it should be just as easy to push you back out. And if it isn’t, he’ll shove you out himself.

Because it doesn’t matter.

None of it matters.

Not even this useless, small ache wedged inside his chest. He’ll gladly split himself apart a thousand times over to excise it, seal it, forget about it—this terrible, infuriating, fucking thing that is growing, spreading, blighting him inside and—

“Master Sukuna…”

“What?”

He snaps his head to the sudden intrusion, a voice from the kitchen doorway, his gaze falling on an attendant and an outsider standing nervously in the corridor. His eyes narrow, taking them in. 

“Forgive me.” The attendant in the doorway approaches, hesitantly skirting the fresh body on the ground, eyes round. “This man claims that one of the nearest villages at your rule is about to come under siege.”

His slitted eyebrow pulls down before he looks at the outsider—a villager trembling in very thin-soled sandals.

“You,” Sukuna calls out, beckoning the man forward with a sharp flick of two fingers. “What do you know about this so-called siege?”

The villager swallows and barely takes a step, his hands shaking slightly as he bows low.

“Speak!”

The King of Curses’ eyes flare wide, red and hollow. The man’s head shoots up.

“F-Forgive me, Lord Sukuna,” he mumbles, fidgeting with the edges of his threadbare cloak. “There’s a group of armed men. A campaign, organized, but not large enough to be a full army. It resembles a clan unit, perhaps under the capital’s direction. They’ve been striking at villages under your—” There’s a pause. He swallows. “Guard… and are pushing further south. Eventually, they will come—”

“Enough,” Sukuna grumbles, cutting the man off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Leave.”

Without a moment’s pause, the man turns sharply, retreating as the attendant guides him away, back down the passage.

Sukuna’s eyes find Uraume’s, then his towering figure shifts. He crosses his upper arms over his chest. Taps a finger, lost in thought.

The capital.

This could be a recompense for annihilating the Kasai clan only nights ago. Or it was something else. Amorphous plans set into motion by a woman born without a cock, desperately vying—or more likely, persuading—her way to power.

And this has been long in the making, probably tracing back to that damned, accursed night seven years ago when it all began.

Fate and her cruel tricks.

Sukuna scrapes a hand across his nape, irritation wriggling under his skin. He can’t decide which Kasai daughter infuriates him more. You or your sister.

But deep down, he knows the answer.

You.

Always you.

For one reason alone. And that knowledge burns him.

“Uraume. Ren.”

Sukuna slips toward a small water basin tucked in the corner, and dips a strip of clean cloth into the cool liquid. Without hesitation, he moves toward the corridor, his heavy steps thudding through the tense space. Just before crossing the threshold, he pauses, glancing back at the attendants in the kitchen.

“Clean up the mess,” he orders flatly, jutting his chin toward the bisected bleeding pink flesh splashed out across the floor. “Drag it to the storehouse and prepare the body. I’ll have it for when I return.”

The room remains suspended as Sukuna disappears into the hall, Uraume and Ren hurrying to follow.

Down and down, through the corridor, he moves, the wet cloth in hand rubbing over his face, torso, and chest. What he truly wants is a bath—but the war drum is calling. Violence and all the greedy, gratifying chaos that will drown out the incessant chatter inside his head.

Still, when he returns, tender flesh will be waiting for him. He’ll demand a warm bath then, too. All pleasures to look forward to when the bloodlust subsides, and the halls are once again quiet, your presence finally absent.

As it was always meant to be.

“Master Sukuna, I looked in on your chambers not too long before you arrived,” Uraume says from behind him, their steps so light they’re hardly heard.

“What of it?” Sukuna casts an emotionless glance over his shoulder before turning back.  

“They’re occupied,” they say.  

His mouth twitches.  

“How so?”  

“The Kasai girl is asleep.”  

The twitch resting on his mouth stretches into a smirk. It can’t be helped. He’d told you to leave before sunrise—you should have been up by now, preparing to depart. Yet knowing you’ve fallen asleep in his bedsheets, exhausted from this long, endless night bleeding into day, stirs a pesky amount of emotions within him. Urges. Voracious ones.  

The thought that you might still be naked, your tight holes flooded with his cum, your sleeping body pressed close against where he rests at night, his room thick with the mingled scent of both you and him... It’s tempting to take the corridor on his right, head straight there, barge in, collect you, and once again…  

Stay.

Instead, he turns left.  

“Ren.”  

“Yes, Master?” The attendant’s voice reaches him in soft pants, struggling to match his long strides.

“I want you to go to my room and wake her.”

At the end of the corridor, Sukuna stops. They stop.

“Have her drink the tea, then get her gone. Now.”

He needed you to leave, especially with a threat approaching. Though you were skilled on horseback, the coming danger could easily sweep you up and swallow you whole. Then again, what you had shown him last night—the first true glimpse of your power, the way you held your own—refused to be forgotten.

If only you could heal yourself or, better yet, harness that power further, construct something truly magnificent around you.

However, you don’t seem prepared for that, and your time together is over.

“Of course,” Ren says.

Uraume presses the bowl of warm contents into the attendant’s hands. Balancing it with care, she bows, turns carefully, then she’s gone, her clipped footsteps echoing in the opposite direction—the one he should be taking.

“You’ll remain here,” he remarks to Uraume.

“I can be useful.” They take a small step.

Sukuna turns, scarlet red eyes meeting lilac pink.

“You will remain here,” he reasserts. “I won’t have the shrine unattended.”

Reluctantly, Uraume dips their chin before peering up.

“Now go. I‘ll require fresh garments.”

The white-haired monk bows before the blur of their white figure vanishes down the dark corridor.

The King of Curses takes a step but stops.

“One more thing.”

Uraume pauses at the end of the passage.

“Yes, Master Sukuna?”

“Once she’s gone.” A quiet pause. “Replace my sheets. Burn them, even. Get rid of anything she doesn’t take. All of it.”

Sukuna doesn’t wait for a reply. He moves, delving deeper into the shrine’s belly until he reaches a room near the back. Sliding open the door, he steps inside, tosses the damp cloth to the floor with a wet slap, and presses toward a small chest tucked into the corner.

Swinging it open, his eyes land on a stack of parchment, bundled and carefully hidden. He pulls them free. All of them. Letters. Your letters. Lots of them. Some of them opened and others not, but all he’s intercepted over the last two months.

Holding them in his upper right hand, he crosses the room and stops before a wooden rack tightly lined with weapons. Each piece rests neatly in its place—swords, daggers, spears, and other cursed tools waiting to be called upon.

Lowering his left hand, he grips the long handle of a three-pronged spear. Its shaft, dark and polished and extending far beyond his reach. Near the top, a strip of light-coloured cloth is tied tightly where it dances faintly with his movements.

Turning, he moves back into the deep passage, bare feet calm on the smooth floor.

Blood is already gathering in his teeth, a steady thump that resonates deep inside his bones.

War is coming.

But he doesn’t know who is coming.

Shogun. Kamo. Zen’in. Whatever remains of the Kasai name. Fujiwara. Sugawara…

Perhaps all of them.

It leaves him questioning whether any of this was worth it. If repeatedly destroying the north—his own birthplace—had been worth it. If all this trouble, if you, had been worth it.

His grip on the weapon and parchment becomes choking.

He isn’t sure anymore.

All he knows is that time is up, and it’s time to go.

For both of you.

[alfheimr]

my latest form of self care is painting cora

[sorcerersandskillusers]

Oda: if I had a nickel for every time I had to carry an injured teen with gunshot wounds wearing a long black coat and threatening to kill me, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.

[choccy-milky]

nothing like some rest and relaxation after a long day of travelling 😇💕 ((from my oneshot! ao3/wattpad))

[woaaahh-itz-caam]

i had a thought… and idea perhaps….. a mental image if you will……..

[pigdemonart]

La Vampira del Hibisco (Part 2)

Part 1

Another 4 pages of cringefail vampire adventures

ʅ（◞‿◟）ʃ ahhh, María, you are too clever. Which is why you must die.

The set of pages are up on Patreon already!

Patreon | Ko-Fi

[shirecorn]

Tumblr keeps popping up to sell me ad free dashboard. But what it doesn't understand is that me and the ads have a sort of symbiosis at this point.

The guys from the fake gameplay trailers for a predatory mobile app are my blorbos

[canonsinthehead]

I'm watching Alabasta...

[mothwingwritings]

Hey!…. You uh….got anymore uh dat… y*j*r* stuff?? With the uhhh… stepdaughter reader?

*cough*

askin for a friend…,

*I meet you in back alley, decked head to toe in an overly large beige trench coat, black rimmed hat, and huge black sunglasses. I'm almost completely obscured, the only part of my body you actually see is my mouth, which set in a hard frown, denoting what a serious affair this is.*

"I brought the goods." My voice is deep as I plunge a gloved hand into my breast pocket, producing a single manila envelope. "As we discussed, it's all here."

*I hand you the envelope, my frown turning into a knowing smirk.*

"Pleasure doing business with you."

*I turn on my heel, leaving without another word. The wind picks up dramatically as I depart, whipping my coat around me as I disappear into the distance.*

The worst was when he kissed you.

Pounding away at your abused body, dick buried so deep it was painful-Yujiro had no qualms over carving into you, giving you a violent reminder of your position, who you belonged to. Through the endless suffering, distressing waves of pleasure would also be coaxed from your body, as it always was. Despite all your noble efforts to deny him, he knew your body too well at this point, becoming an expert in just where to touch you to leave you a crying, blissed out, mess.

When it was simply fucking, it was much easier to pretend it wasn’t Yujiro who was above you. You could detach yourself, close your eyes and imagine it was ANYONE else who was ravaging you. It was the only escape you had, his power far too great for anyone, let alone yourself, to contest. He could do with you as he pleased, use you and desecrate you in any way that strikes his fancy.

But he didn’t like when you weren’t present. When he sees you press your eyes closed, your brow crinkling in a determined effort to will your mind elsewhere, it provokes him. You are with your daddy right now baby girl, how dare you try and forget that?

So he kisses you. Hard, deep, his mouth smothering yours with a bestial, hungry, focus. His tongue glides feverishly over yours, muscling its way in your mouth until you are forced to respond, if for no other reason than to try and push back, get him to stop.

Your jaw aches with the pressure he is putting on you, his taste and power overwhelming you the more passionately he attacks your mouth. He’ll bite down on your bottom lip, tugging hard with a growl. When blood is drawn, you whine as he sucks it away, licking his lips when he finally detaches from you.

No one has ever kissed you as intensely, or as invasively, as Yujiro. And the condescending smirk that graces his face when he looks down at your puffy, irritated, blood and saliva smeared lips never fails to fill you with an indiscernible feeling of indignation.

“Did I bring you back to earth,” he laughs, pushing you down to your knees to begin the next phase of his assault, “Good. Wouldn’t do to have you forgetting your place now, would it sweetheart?”

[hibiscussoupbowl]

[cherrywperson]

lateposting . happy 1500 days anniversary to the election special ❤️

[princescar]

Raccoon Matsuda!! Considering how much Male Raccoons are little pricks, I feel like this is very fitting for him. Also his tendency to hide under his bed and raccoons' love for tight spaces (as pictured above).

[avieaerie]

Have some sword dancing 🗡️

Description under the cut:

[ID: Mollymauk Teafleaf from Critical Role. Mollymauk is a purple skinned tiefling, wearing a heavily embroidered red and teal coat around his waist as a skirt, patterned leggings and a long teal scarf around his chest, trailing it's ends over his arms. He is facing away from the viewer, standing in a spotlight up on his toes on one foot, throwing a sword in the air while holding another behind him. End ID]

[undefeatablesin]

Not Yharnam posting, but I need to tell everyone that Phantom in the Rain was fantastic and I have had my brain chemistry permanently rewired since watching it.

[dietmimo]

🥛

[dent-de-leon]

not to be too gay, but I just remembered that Kingsley has like a garter belt on one boot and that's really hot of him I think--