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musouie · 7 days ago

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[ 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜. . . ] 𝓗𝓐𝓜𝓐𝓡𝓣𝓘𝓐 — Driven by a desperate need for redemption, you undertake a perilous quest to capture the ancient and formidable King of Curses.

Yet, the true challenge lies not in seizing him, but in breaking him. His submission, whether voluntary or not, hinges on stripping him of all his malevolent energy — the dark force fuelled by his unbridled sexual power.

| RATED R language, smut, dubcon, somnophillia, monster-fucking, wc. 10.2k

| ⓘ credits: divider by @/cafekitsune, event hosted by @luv-lies, ntfx temp by @/chrollogy

an. lost the plot after 8k words. ignore this fact. for my sanity. please… (ALSO HUGE THANK YOU TO LUVIE FOR INVITING ME TO THIS EVENT!! i wish it turned out better than it did TT but thank you nonetheless. eternally honoured 💗)

Father always believed you were destined to be a great samurai.

He was certain that the kami — the gods perched upon the mountaintop — had willed it, for you conquered and devoured your sister in the womb, and were born on the breath of your mother’s last.

“My little dragon,” he’d always whisper, eyes alight with something feral. Perverse. “You’ve fended for your honour since your very dawn.” The cleft of his cheeks would deepen; the wretched scar would warp. “Such might, such terrible might it takes to slay your own before you even bear a name, before your eyes have tasted the sun!”

But was it might? Or a savageness folded into the flesh; wedged between the hollows of your ribs and forced to dwell, fester—

“You were forged in blood, little dragon.”

—consume.

Still, as mighty as he believed you to be, you could never bear his retellings of your slaughters. Bile would claw its way up your throat, mercilessly coat your tongue with haste, and your stomach would always churn — innards coiling and twisting about themselves — knotting around the ugly head of shame that had long rooted itself in your gut; inevitably blossomed into something rotten.

(Its odour was so deeply foul, putrid and heady)

For you, savage as you were, had nearly killed him, too.

(Putrid. Putrid and heady.)

It was so long ago, and still you trembled as though it were yesterday. Then, you were weak. Starved for strength. Hardly of eleven years when he had thrusted a katana into your small hands.

“Charge at me,” he had commanded, his own weapon drawn.

“F-Father?”

“Charge at me!”

“W-What if—what if I hurt you?” Your voice had cracked, then was lost beneath your nervous swallow. “This is no wooden toy.”

He’d huffed. “You’ve been given what you need, little dragon.”

“But this blade—it thirsts. It will spill blood; w-will wound.” Kill.

“Then let it wound me! Let it bite if I am weak enough to feel its teeth.”

Your head had begun to shake. Slowly, at first, before it deepened with an intensity near violent; voice drawn thin around a high-strung whine. “I-I cannot. I will not. It is madness for m—”

“I will father no coward,” he had hissed, spittle collecting in the cracks of his lips. “Submit to the blade or master it!”

Your breaths were short gasps, then — curt and ragged — dragged from your lungs. “I cannot do it.”

There was a pause, and then a snarl. A low, furious thing, of storms and high winds and ire. “Well then, you must learn.”

And in the blink of an eye, the steel of his katana had ventured to kiss your neck, greedy and blood-thirsty, sentient only through its master; ruthless just as he.

You remembered little of what happened between then — when the fire within your father had surged; when his steps had ceased and a metallic scent — cloying and smothering — clung to the air.

You remembered that you’d closed your eyes — your face pinched tightly, stitched together with unbridled trepidation — and thrusted your arm out in a protective stance as you let out a shrill cry: the cry of a boar.

The cry of a warrior.

And you remembered the sharp clang, the strike of steel clanging against steel, and then, the foreign warmth that spurted along your skin. From the bow of your lips to the curve of your brow, you had felt it, and it felt you — as it slid down your nose, clung to the seams of your lashes, trickled onto your tongue.

Salt and honey and ruin.

Blood and blood and blood.

It had pooled inside your mouth, poured down your throat with little regard to how you squirmed — thick like tar, sweet like sap from a tree, heady like mead — and you whimpered at its sheer warmth. At its taste. The corruption it promised beneath.

(How could such warmth spring from a thing so dark?)

Your body had trembled, then, and you had wished nothing more than to spit it up, rid yourself of it. But oh, you were so weak, and your mind so feeble, and your tongue ached for more — for the warmth.

And so, you had swallowed it. As though it were sacred nectar, milk from the heavens. The finest wine. Salvation. You had swallowed. And like a babe that clung to its mother's bosom, you did not let up — could not bear to. Not when every part of you had felt cradled by fire, pressed into the womb of the sun itself.

You'd drank, mouth twisted, eyes closed tight, until your body hummed, until your soles had left indents in the soft earth, until you were his blood and it you —

(How could such warmth spring from a thing so dark?)

— until you heard a strained gurgle, a gravelly rumble, a shift in the air and the thump of something hitting the ground.

You’d opened your eyes slowly, carefully. And rightfully so, when you did —

(The warmth had been snuffed, your tongue had stilled. The hunger had ceased.)

— you had wailed.

Your katana was buried deep in your father’s gut, the hilt quivering as though it wept, too, at the horror — the savagery — that had been wrought. Soft whimpers had spilled past your lips, in sick tandem with the crimson river that gushed from the gash in his flesh, and you watched with wide eyes as the fire in his own fizzled out to something darker. Something familiar.

Your chest had heaved.

“I-I’m so sorry, father. I’m so sorry, so sorry. Sorry–” Your clammy hand tightened around the hilt, moved to free it from his quivering innards, but his own quickly engulfed yours. Squeezed it tight as he’d uttered, “Leave it.”

But his blood still poured.

With a vice-like grip you clung to the hilt, hands engulfed by tendrils of red and riddled with blooms of gore and hate for the fissure they had carved into your father. You had carved into your father. With the expertise of a barbarian. A savage.

He had stared at the deep gash in his abdomen, almost transfixed by the blood that stained his silken kimono, before he drew his eyes to you: trembling on the bloodied training grounds with horror tumbling from your lips.

And then,

with his chest stuttering slowly,

and the colour seeping from his skin,

he had...smiled.

Wide and warped and carved along his face — the smile of a boar (whose tusks abrasively chafed against his lips at the foreign intrusion.)

It’d bested the stretch of his fluttering eyes, his stained teeth, his gums — his red, red gums, bright with blood from hacking coughs — a grotesque thing that split his face like a second wound.

(It was this smile you had feared more than his wrath.)

Somewhere amidst his dwindling lucidity, he had closed the distance between you, hands seeking and outstretched. For his child, his beast — his beautiful, beautiful beast. He’d clasped your wet cheeks in the cusp of his paws, smearing his blood against your tears, rubbing them into your pores and crevices — his gift to you.

And all you could do was tremble.

Like the feeble flame of a candle, you had trembled.

“Wild,” he had slurred after a moment, tongue heavy and clumsy and viscous with the wine of his mouth. “And with so much promise.”

His thumb leisurely traced the peak of your fluttering, bloodied eyelids, urging you to stop your tears, then retraced the path once they were thwarted.

(His gift, his gift.)

Yet, your skin burned where his blood had smeared upon it.

His thumb had stroked your skin once more and you sniffled, felt the trembling begin to abate despite the singing of your flesh, the oscillation of your body, the guilt that clawed and clawed and clawed.

The need to lurch back from his touch had begun to dwindle as you realised that he cradled you not out of fear — but acceptance. Father admired your strength, however brutish — however untameable it might seem. For it took on a shape of a different kind in his mind. One more jagged.

“You’ve conquered another of…your clan,” he’d whispered weakly, blood gurgling from the clefts of his lips. “I begged the kami for a son that would become a great warrior, and I weep at their heedfulness, for they have granted me you — who was made in their image. Speaks...in thei– their tongue.”

But you were born a girl.

A weakness, in these destitute lands.

He’d frowned momentarily, as though the thought, too, had just occurred to him. He’d hummed, winced around a groan, his bones and flesh straining to force his mouth to its familiar shape.

“I can make a warrior of you yet.”

𓆩✧𓆪

Your journey began in the winter.

The cruel, harsh winter, where beasts are left to starve.

Starve, after they’ve torn through all they can ravish, gnawed at the splintering bones of carcasses, shredded through the withered foliage; left the already suffering land barren —

they are left to succumb to the hunger,

or turn their teeth on each other.

“You’ve gotten weak, little dragon.” Father muttered, his sake cup half-empty and neglected on the worn chabudai between you. Your gaze flitted down to the small table, lingered on the drink, and then shot to the side as you slowly bowed your head in deference, scarcely suppressing the twitch of your jaw; the slight baring of your teeth — that were clenched and ground against one another until only dust remained. Sand, in the cavity of your mouth.

“Is it the weather? A fever? A poison?” Hues of red and pink licked at his cheeks — prickled down to the nape of his neck — as they often did with all men affected by drink and the chill of the winter. “Ah!” he gasped, feigning surprise as his eyes narrowed to slits. Seeds of contempt, lines of ire. “Perhaps it is your indolence. Oh — no,no — I suppose not. You have been busy duelling those with half your skill, and tenderising your tongue with cheap ale, haven’t you?”

“That—”

“You’ve ruined my reputation.” He let out an incredulous laugh. “A drunkard!” He gasped. “The kami — the almighty — have bestowed upon me a drunkard child!”

You winced. Bit the inside of your cheek.

“Forgive my insolence. Father.”

But you could tell by the weight of his sigh, that quivered with mockery, that an apology of that nature was far from what he sought. He leaned back until his spine met the wall, rested there comfortably — the structure his perch, his throne. His pillar.

“You beg for forgiveness too easily, girl.” His tongue was too loose — or perhaps too heavy — and dragged his words into an elongated drawl. Made them stick on the blade of his disgust. You heard a rustle and then a scoff, and then so suddenly a cold finger was pressed to your forehead with enough force to leave a mark. “Straighten your spine.”

You did. Swiftly. And by doing so, you met his sneer. Razor sharp. Venomous.

“Such an obedient little dragon,” he purred, patting your cheek lightly despite the way his fingers curled, before he pulled away. Almost — just. And then absence. Restraint. “So why do you not do what I wish? Why must you make a fool of me? Mock me? Me, who has given you your wings.”

Your lip had begun to throb. “I’m–”

“Do you care for me so little?”

“That is not—”

“Do you seek to punish me?”

Sometimes, you wryly thought to yourself. But that was not the case now. You were careless, and you are young, and you yearned, and that, you feared, was the extent of your grievance. Your mouth parted to say as much, but so swiftly, and so predictably, you were cut off. Smothered.

“Wasteful, wasteful! That is what you are — all you are! Twenty years of waste!” Father scarcely took a breath; shot on and on and on, spittle flinging all about. “I have paved a path for you — the kami have paved a path for you — and you, as insolent and useless as you are, have veered from it and done as you wish.”

As the last word left his mouth, your teeth pierced the fragile skin of your lip. Tore it, then shredded it, as though it were nothing. (You were nothing.)

Iron trickled onto your tongue, a steady stream. Warm, bitter. When father got like this — reached this point of madness. There was nothing one could do but bend the knee. Submit. Give in to the voracious cycle of being pushed and pushed and pushed. Until only dust remained.

You swallowed.

“What do you have to say for yourself now?” Your father growled, and everything began to sting.

“I’ll…do better, Father. I will.

“A hollow promise I’ve heard a multitude of times.”

“I swear it.”

He scoffed cuttingly. “On what? Your flesh or mine?”

“Mine, father. Mine.”

He studied you, his lip curling as though he saw something he didn’t quite like. “You—cannot be trusted. Not after the shame you have brought upon our house, upon me.”

You watched as he rose to his feet slowly, unsteadily.

Bent, swaying.

Drunk.

Still, he commanded a particular power over you, and you kept your distance — even as he approached. Your eyes sought refuge at the corner of the room, settled on the thread-bare tatami, the worn shōji sliding doors, riddled with tears and hazed with cracks; anything but the starving predator. You tensed when he neared, fingers pressing crescents into the meat of your shoulders, seeking.

He stared at you, analysed you, registered all there was to pick apart and feast upon: all of the imperfections and weak points and fraying threads and brittleness. From the creases of your brow to the tremble of your lips and the tight clench of your hands, balled into fists around the linen of your hanten.

(Could he smell your fear? Could he taste it? A preview of all that you could offer and then some?)

He stared,

sniffed,

squeezed,

and then, with a gravelly scoff, wrenched his hand from your skin — as though scalded — and strode for his chamber doors, his sandals slapping against the floorboards in time with your drubbing heart.

There was a shuffle, a pause — and something sharp in the air that you were at a loss to identify, though you knew, instinctively, that it was dangerous. Aged. You didn’t turn as he walked away, just kept facing his wall —his pillar, until his chamber doors slammed shut.

It seemed a beast had made its move, at last; left puncture wounds in your neck, bruises along your flesh.

Perhaps not all would starve this winter.

𓆩✧𓆪

That night, you had awoken to a cold hand cradling your cheek. Large, peppered with scars, coarse.

It was a hand you’d felt a plethora of times (struck across your face, grabbing at your hair, tightening about your neck) and instinctively, you flinched, eyes fluttering open. As you jerked, it lifted — freed you — moonlight hazy about its outline until your breathing grew static, and your body began to unfurl. Ease.

“Father?” The hand returned. Cupped your chin, then. As it curled around your jaw, you heard a light grunt above you, and the shadow — the man — began to materialise, and with him came a familiar scent. “Father.”

His fingers smelt of ale, his touch reeked of smoke; and under it, caged underneath the weight of all you wished him to be — all he had to be — was a father. A scent not nearly as sweet, not nearly as satisfying, not nearly as potent — but one your weak constitution could relish nonetheless.

His thumb stroked the high edge of your cheekbone with unusual tenderness, and you stared at him — his outline, nothingness — with probing eyes. ‘What are you doing?’ balanced on the tip of your tongue. It dangled, swung, breathed in and out as it hung on a thin string of saliva (or perhaps unease, apprehension). But you were a samurai. You adapted, not poked. And more than anything, you feared what would happen if you shattered whatever it was that gathered in the air — heady and oppressive, yet… sickeningly warm.

You reeled it back in.

“It is very late.” Father murmured. And though you couldn’t see him, you could feel his eyes on you, seeking. “Even the cicadas are silent.”

You hummed, nuzzled your face against his paw. Indulged. “What time is it?”

“Hours before the sun will rise.”

You hummed again; peered into the darkness. Ignored the roughness of his thumb against your flesh. “Is…something wrong?”

There was a lengthy silence after your question, and after a minute, you began to wonder if there was truly anyone there at all. It wouldn’t be the first time you dreamt of your father — of this foreign tenderness. Of being cradled and cherished, in lieu of the harshness you often felt was inescapable, embedded in the soles of your feet and the stone of your wretched, beating heart.

The harshness that trailed everywhere.

You lifted a hand and felt for the one that gripped your chin, grasping at bruised knuckles. Solid, real. There. Your thumb glided to the inside of his wrist, felt for his pulse, let out a sigh as you felt it thrum steadily beneath the pad of your finger.

He was there.

And as it had in your dream (dreams, plural), his hand slid along the side of your neck — large enough to encircle almost entirely; a thick, fat noose — and settled at the junction between, caressing it. Squeezing lightly.

Once. Then twice.

This must be a dream.

His motions were restrained, languid. Near painful as you waited for more, chest tight — stiff, only for it to never come: more. His touches remained light, harmless, and between them, he released a sigh, sake heady and trapped in his breath. You held your own.

Inhale, exhale.

(Hold.)

Inhale, exhale.

(Hold.)

And then, fingers lifting from your warm flesh, he spoke. After so long, you’d forgotten why he had at all. “Much, little dragon. There is much that is wrong.”

Your brows furrowed, your lips twisted. “What is it, father?”

“The kami…have spoken to me. Revealed their will.”

Slowly, you sat up, brought your knees to your chest and leaned close; your ear, hungry, angled just below his lips as though chasing his secret. The furrow in your brow deepened. “And what revelation did they grant onto you?”

There was a mirthful kind of sound from your father, something like a laugh, perhaps the crackling of flames, or a throat meshed together by blood and covetousness. And then you felt him lift a hand — saw it amidst the shadows; large, calloused, peppered with scars — to your face again. “Skin of stone, flesh of my flesh.”

Your mouth felt heavy when you spoke, sluggish and strange. Heady with metal and bile. “I... I don’t understand.”

And you could almost hear the ‘you wouldn’t’, as his eyes reflected the moonlight and gazed at you. Bottomless. Ensnared by a milky white. A waltz of dreams and nightmares; everything and nothing.

Something glinted as they leered upon you, a glimpse of cruel, steel sharp teeth. And you weren’t sure why, but somewhere you thought — no, hoped — that it would remain as it was: an illusion. A trick of the light (or perhaps lack of). But oh so predictably it moved, a line of ivory — glistening. Sheathed behind a thin curtain of skin and spit.

With the little sliver of light, you could see his scar — his wretched scar — warp and twist. Contort. “Rise. Rise, and I will show you, make everything clear. Will enlighten you, little dragon.”

That was all it took.

(Fool.)

You were too curious —

0r perhaps too mindless,

to competently sense when you had gotten too close to the fire. To know that you should pull back one warmed, once the heat had grazed your fingertips and wrapped around you — grown in fervour, licked at your skin and seared it. Lapped and lapped, until your metacarpals were charred — and even still,

— you’d obey. Linger.

Woefully so.

𓆩✧𓆪

You’d been riding on horseback since dawn — since you followed your father from your chambers and he helped you onto his prized mare’s saddle, whose coat rivalled the night.

It was near sunset now.

In all that time, he had yet to enlighten you on what message he had received. On what had led him to embark on this journey up the mountain in such haste, such desperation, despite the bite of the frigid weather.

Many times you had wanted to prod, sought answers — the hunger for it all growing ferocious by the minute. But each time your lips parted around a question, a dryness would settle in the canal of your throat, and the wind, it seemed, always blew a little harsher. Carried your words in a gust to the precipice of the mountainside and flung it; flung it into the pitch-black nothingness waiting just beyond. Into the abyss.

So, you said nothing. Allowed your curiosity to wane as your trembling arms encircled your father’s burly back and you clung to him, snow beating against your face and a sharp wind whipping through your hair, leaving you wild looking — dishevelled — and with cold-bitten cheeks.

This close, you could see his chest stutter, could inhale his ale-tainted breath — could smell his sweat, sharp, and somehow rotten. Some part of you revelled in it, because with the scent came warmth — and whatever residue of his own that still saturated in the fur of his deerskin was enough for you; a minor boon. A blessing.

Yet still, you were growing weary of the cold, the dull ache of hunger, and the rawness in your throat from heaving and panting, over and over and over again, like an old, weathered dog. So desperate were you to feel some semblance of relief; it translated through you burying your nose deep in his fur cloaks, a numb hand grabbing at your own cloaks to shelter the weaker parts of your body from the punishment of the elements, shivering into his solid form every now and again.

Your father, on the other hand, seemed unbothered by the assault; didn’t bat an eye — even as the wind blew his ragged travelling cloak with a beastly determination, the chill raking about his skin like cruel talons, as if begging him to turn around and flee.

But, it seemed as though nothing would halt him, nothing would hinder him, as he wound up the icy path. Further, and further, and further, until there was nothing but winter all around — the only source of comfort: one another, and a black horse.

More than an hour had passed when the sky shifted, dwindling to a purplish-blue hue, like that of a plum. And finally, above the thicket of frost-coated trees, he brought the mare’s pace to a leisurely trot. “We are nearly there.”

Before you was the same scene of white — nothingness — but amidst that bleakness, which contrasted so starkly, you could see something dark just ahead. A speck, amongst vastness.

You nodded, a gesture unseen, and tightened your grip about his abdomen. “Will —” you licked your lips, mitigated their dryness. “Will you tell me what is going on?”

There was a shift beneath you as your father urged the horse around a bend, and for a few seconds you braced yourself, nails digging into his rough flesh as your body leaned. He let out a gravelly grunt. “The kami—they have…provided me insight of an…opportunity…for your redemption.”

Your body readjusted. “...Redemption?” “Your actions have not gone unnoticed, little dragon. They are…unhappy, as I am unhappy.”

“Father—”

He whipped his head behind him and you paused, met his glare — ice and scorn and all the sharp things you sought refuge from. If you had a tail, you’re certain it’d be erect, rigid and pointed. Instead, your spine straightened and you thickly swallowed, and as his head swivelled back to the path before him after a tense moment, that familiar sour taste returned to your tongue. Putrid—

“All we wish is to guide you back onto the right path, away from corruption. Simple as that. You are...” He paused. And for a second, the only sound that could be heard was the howling wind. “...very valuable to us.”

(Is that all you were?)

“But—”

“Do not argue, girl.” He all but spat. “Would you test my patience even now? After all you’ve done? All you haven’t?”

And as the words left his mouth, your face, frozen as it was, began to twist. Twist and twist, like you’d bitten into a lemon, features pinched and pulled taut — rendering you gruesome-looking beneath the moonlight. Wretched, like something caught ahold of you. (It hardly had to fight. You suspected it’d been there all along. Waiting, lurking. Creeping.) Your grip around your father’s abdomen tightened, nails digging, biting, cutting—

“Where did I go wrong…? Where did I go wrong? How did I end up with such a pathetic child?” He gnashed his teeth, a jagged rock lodged deep in the back of his throat — in the base of his stomach; bleeding, throbbing. “I have failed as a father…and in equal measure, as a servant of the kami.”

Your nails bit deeper.

There was something that stirred in your belly, in its centre, that grew more ferocious as he went on. And believe, he went on, and it grew, and he went on—

“We are fortunate the kami are so forgiving. Without them…what would we be? Pariahs, ostracised from our kind?” He shook his head, a sliver of a raspy laugh leaving his lips. The ale. You smelt it again. “But — do not misunderstand. They are strict with this most merciful of gifts. Do not doubt the danger that will strike us — and it will. It will — if you refuse the chance they so graciously have presented before us.”

And then the mist had waned; all had become clear. Shame. What you had felt was shame. The kind of shame that clung to the underbelly of one’s skin, thick and oily and all-consuming, such that when the heat of the sun returned, it stung.

“I do not want that for us….for you, little dragon.” He murmured, hands tugging on the mare’s reins as the speck came closer into view, and materialised into the mouth of a cave, barren and yawning. “Which is why you must do it. For us. For your future.”

Something hung heavy in the air, coiled and waiting.

You knew then — despite how much you wished it otherwise — that you had no choice in this matter.

As it had once before, your fate had been decided for you.

You relented. “...What must I do?”

This time, your father spared no hesitancy. The second after the question tumbled from your lips he slowed his horse, brought her to the mouth of a winding path that opened up to the cave, nestled snug between two crags. With the tap of his heel against her side, he brought her to the entrance, whereupon she came to a complete stop, shaking her mane and letting loose a long, quivering neigh.

"Inside." Your father nodded, his head gesturing to the entrance, wide enough for four men, side-by-side, to pass through without a hindrance. “There lay an akuma.” Demon. “This is what the kami demand of us — sacrifice the akuma, in return, they will bless us with their benevolence and favour for eons, in every undertaking.”

Tendrils of mist slithered from the mouth of the cave, billowing, writhing, as though they were alive, seeking, begging to be sated. It wrapped around the horse's limbs, trickling down her flanks, collecting into droplets. When she raised her foot, so too did they raise.

Father turned to look at you fully. "It will be no match for your skills."

Against your will, your tongue prodded your inner cheek and retreated, as though bitten. "But—"

"No buts!" Your father growled, low, his large hand settling on the nape of your neck in the same way he did when you were younger. His palm encompassed most of the area, thick fingers curving along the back of your skull, enveloping you completely. Claws grazed your jawline and pressed, insistently. “It is this — or nothing.”

His eyes bore into your, the moonlight lending them a cruel lustre. Stiffly, you nodded — bobbing. Over and over. Your jaw worked, tightened, and then, eventually, loosened; tension receding in increments, as though reluctant to free itself.

A moment passed,

Then two,

And finally, you exhaled, long and heavy.

He gave your neck a rough squeeze. You returned the favour, closing your eyes — steeling. And as you began to peel apart one layer of flesh, one after the other, something slid out in its wake. A stoniness. Your nerves turned to clay. The stone wall erected itself.

When your father urged you from the saddle, you obeyed, your stiffness almost immediately melting away into a supple elegance of a body as your feet sank into the snow. With an additional hand to your back, he nudged you closer. To the mouth, the veil — to the unknown. Away from him. "Go."

A hard stare, the pinch of a claw into the curve of your neck, and your chin raised, taking in as much air as your tight, small chest could handle. Your shoulders squared, muscles rigid under his touch, but made no move to do or say anything further.

(Loyal little child, you were.)

You kept silent and offered nothing.

Not even as he tossed his precious katana by your feet. An offering.

Not even as he nudged you again; teeth clenched, jaw set.

Not even as he wrenched his claws, dragging you close, just to hiss out a final 'go'.

Not even as you took a single step forward, and then the next, and the one after that, sinking deeper, sinking further, the tips of your feet numbed, the tips of your fingers burning; a poor grip around the scabbard, that would not steady.

And when the dark engulfed you completely —

Not even as you tripped, fumbled, felt the soft, sharp caresses of frost against the backs of your legs, biting, taunting. Not even then.

As you heard your father's mare take off, trampling in the snow, whinnying behind you --- you realised he offered no formal goodbye. What if he never saw you again? His weak little child; so helpless and foolish. How would he know if you had succeeded? And yet, that had been nothing of importance as the pace his steed's hooves tramped increased with each stride.

You unsheathed his katana and drew your cloak tighter about you, eyes fixed on the darkness. There was only one thing you had wanted him to say:

Thank you for freeing him. Thank you for freeing you.

You were right, as always:

You had never truly been his child.

Only his tool. His beast.

Your feet scraped against the blackened floor of the cave, hands scrabbling against rock and stone alike to guide yourself as your sight dwindled more and more; a fog seeping and creeping, strangling the coordination from you. But the chill didn't abate with distance — and perhaps, all at once, it dawned.

How were you supposed to find anything in here?

You shakily inhaled, inhaled again as your other senses strained themselves to the limits, screaming — heaving; you tasted and felt your way around, a method to a madness. As your mind travelled further and deeper, an uneasiness grew in your guts and bloomed in the empty cavity of your chest, until all at once, it bled out. And you feared, with sudden desperation, that something terrible lurked beyond, where you couldn't see.

One wrong step, a misjudgement of any kind, and—

That thought brought your feet to a pause. Your neck creaked with the way your head tilted — ear facing the dark. But that was all. No other sounds save for your own laboured breathing that rushed through the mouth-piece of your scarf.

Why wasn't there anything? Anything at all?

Just how vast was this place?

Creaking your neck further, you listened — sought out, searched for anything that'd give your ears a tune, any sound to signify, any sound at all — anything.

But it didn't come. Nothing. Just your ragged breathing. The scuffling of snow and your feet. Nothing else.

So you resumed your steps, hands against the wall to steady your own blindness, and further down the mountain you delved. Deeper into the womb of it all.

Further and further,

Deeper and deeper.

The temperature of the cave walls began to change and slowly, steadily — you realised they weren't as cold anymore. The more steps you took, the warmer it got. Warmer and warmer, until it became unbearable. Almost as though you were being suffocated by an invisible cloud of heat; you could barely breathe. It became heavier, thicker, and it cloyed and churned at your chest, weighed it down, made the air you pulled into your lungs feel like cement bricks rather

You were drowning — at least that’s what it felt like (You’ve never droned in your life, but if you ever were to, you’re certain this would be the feeling. A feeling of pure panic as one fights against an intangible foe as it steals their breath

You began palming at the interior of the womb, chapped fingertips failing to find a grip as you began to wheeze, throw a coughing fit, twist and turn — anything to regain your breath.

With an exhale, you crouched, grounded yourself with a fist full of dust and rock and gulped. Brought your fingers to the thick-coated fur and, you pulled, and pulled, until all that remained were thin sheets draped along the curve of your waist and chest, the rest, tossed behind you;

then you went straight into your descent

After a few long minutes of scrambling — body propelling itself with one arm thrown forward, the next, in sequence — you began to taste something like moss in your mouth. Sweetened by the saliva that seemed to pour more with each hurried inhale, every thumping, desperate heartbeat.

(Is this what death tasted like?)

You lost count of how many breaths you took, how many seconds, minutes, how long exactly, before there was nothing more than this wretched taste on your tongue, and a husk — a dried-out husk. Your night clothes clung to you like a second skin, translucent and dark where perspiration pooled — but it felt like nothing. It felt like there was no barrier between you and the warmth of the womb, seeping and seeping and seeping and —

(Where were you?)

Pushing your hand against the smooth ground to push yourself up, you fought another coughing fit, coughed and spluttered — dribbles of spittle leaking from the corners of your mouth.

Beady sweat gathered like morning dew atop your lip.

Swollen tongue clicked. Swollen lips parted.

It was then that you noticed something else, some semblance — or maybe just an imprint of one — of another (for it was a thing of mystery, more like an infernal tickle, a suggestion of sensation, a sensation which — much like this stifling atmosphere — you had no choice but to acknowledge). It came and went in a flash, vanishing — fleeting. A figment, of course. Certainly. It must, in your delirious state.

For what could explain the red eyes that suddenly appeared before you? A breadth away from your own?

You sputtered again and wheezed, shook violently as your diaphragm rattled, and with it, your slowing heart. Perspiration pooled. Coursed, as did the saliva from your maw as you drooled and drooled, and spluttered, spluttered and shook and —

Wasn't this hell? Was this it? Had you been condemned to hell?

Your lips moved, made a silent vowel; formed an indistinct vowel. No sound followed, only a dull huff from somewhere above — distant. The womb pulsed, contracted, and you found yourself cheek down on the cave's floor.

(And that was it. Wasn't it?)

You hadn't a strength in you left to do anything but let it happen.

'Allow yourself to drown', they'd said — those spirits whose lips were joined at the base. Where it all started. Where it was destined to end — right there, within the cave; inside the very womb, the belly that gave birth. The umbilical cord cut; the promise broken.

This was what they wanted of you, and so this is what they will get.

At the end of the day, you had not been your own ---

-- and a beast is never offered a merciful death.

Your eyes, with little grace, fluttered closed. And then, there was darkness.

𓆩✧𓆪

“Do you know what an akuma is, little dragon?”

You shook your head no, eyebrows drawn near. “A…kuma? What is that?”

Your father smiled, “A demon. A mighty one. An ancient one. They’ve walked on this earth long before man, long before anything. We humans used to pray to them, sacrifice ourselves to them to appease their bloodlust, worship them like gods."

"Gods? Why would you think they were gods?"

He shrugged. "Power. That is the only thing one sees. Whether it's a dragon god or a golden deity with six wings. A god is a god. Power is power."

You fiddled with the sleeve of your hikimono, fluttering nervously. "So why do we not worship them anymore? Why the kami?"

"One had more power than the other. Scattered and banished the akuma all over the land and bound them to their graves."

Your gaze fell to your lap, face unreadable. "...why are you telling me all of this, father?"

"Do you know what would happen if their graves were unearthed?"

Your brows pinched. "I..."

You stilled as something was placed in your hands. Peering into your open palms, you stared at the small pouch. You tipped it over, emptying its contents into your hand. Your stomach roiled uncomfortably as you traced your eyes over the jagged shape of bone. A smooth piece. Too large to be human. The thought should have eased you, but your throat only felt as dry as a parched field during a long, hard drought. Your fingers closed around the bone and you tightened your grip, allowing the sharpened ends to sink into your flesh, ground you. "Where is this coming from, father?" you whispered. "What is this?”

"If one manages to unearth their grave -- their prison, the demon becomes bound to them. Unable to cause any harm to the one who set it free, rather, it will be grateful." His smile made your blood run cold. "Forever in their debt," he said.

"...Debt..." You opened your hand, eyeing the bone that was pricking your skin.

"Yes," he murmured, watching you. "All they can do, is kill for you." His smile widened and he leaned toward you. "And that, my child, is true power."

"Akuma don't come cheap, little dragon," a gentle smile ghosted his lips. His hands reached to touch your cheeks, making you flinch. He seemed not to notice, his thumbs smoothing the backs of your ears, hands cradling your face and neck.

Your bottom lip quivered as a burning heat grew behind your eyes. Your hands, unconsciously, held onto his yukata, bunching the fabric until your knuckles grew white. "Then w-what d-do they...require? Surely there is some price you must pay for these," you swallowed the knot that formed in your throat, "these mighty beasts?"

His lips pursed, something akin to sadness --or was it pity? Restraint? "You'll soon learn, little dragon. You'll soon learn"

𓆩✧𓆪

There was a searing heat against your neck, like a flame held too close.

Except it didn’t burn, necessarily. It felt hot, yes. But a pleasurable sort of hot…

What a strange thought.

Hot. Heat. Warmth. Comfort. Pleasure—

That wasn't supposed to be the first thing to enter your mind when you opened your eyes. Not when everything ached, hurt in a manner that was visceral. Made it near impossible to focus on the simple act of cognition; of breathing.

But there it was again.

An encompassing comfort that defied sense.

There was pain — and then there wasn’t. Fleeting -- yet not, existing in a nebulous limbo between one and the next.

There was the coarse, hard earth beneath your cheek and yet — despite how uncomfortable it should be, should be making your wounds bleed more, sting and hurt and hurt, you could not bring yourself to move from the comfort and warmth of your spot, and found you didn’t particularly have the mind or desire to care as that strange presence pressed up closer to the back of you.

Wet warmth latched against your skin, suctioned and dragged; from the curve of your jugular to that sweet point behind your ears that had the smallest of hums crawling up your throat — escaping without permission, a mere, gentle gasp that slipped through, eased.

Another suckle against the juncture of your nape — sharp, pointed, almost possessive — and you writhed, writhed against the surface below you; arching your neck more into what could only be teeth. Teeth that bit and grazed. Nipped. Then lathered. Tongue to lick the aftermath.

And how sweet it was — the soft, wet lick.

You tilted your head forward and rolled your hips. Once, twice — a tentative back and forth, coaxing. Searching. An open-mouthed pant followed and you pulled one knee to the side — an invitation, beckoning.

If this was indeed hell, then so be it.

Above the cover of your lashes, half-hooded and misty, something flashed briefly, as though a fire had sparked, glowed. A red so lucid that a sickly warmth trickled from your stomach and settled somewhere lower — somewhere between the junction between your legs, warm, slick, as something tightened and then flexed.

"Good." It hissed. "That's it, good."

Another lick, and this time it was deeper. Thicker. Something coated your neck, slathering, searing — the burning warmth spreading. Slipping and gliding lower and lower and lower still, towards the hollow space between your breasts. Your breaths picked up their tempo and soon, the pace became desperate, hectic. With a hefty jerk, a large hand grabbed hold of your chest and kneaded. Heavily. Thick fingers curled, squeezed, kneading once, and then twice, as if they wished to carve indentations. Indents to claim.

And you'd allow yourself to be claimed. You would, you would! For this blissfulness for a millenia you'd allow it, succumb to it, surrender your soul to the flames of ecstasy, to the scorching, consuming; the being whose touch was bereft of solidness and whose shape and mass could not be given form, save for those fiery eyes that pierced and hovered and searched—

(Fiery eyes...?)

A asp escaped you and your eyes, swollen and heavy-lidded, struggled against their weight as you peered above and they shot open completely. Red met yours, eclipsed it, as your entire frame began to jerk, pulling itself up from where you'd previously lain. But to no avail. Something clamped around your shoulders and brought your chest back down.

"So restless," The voice came from all sides, ringing and reverberating. As did the fire that enveloped its entire surroundings in a stifling heat, bringing moisture to your forehead, to the tip of your nose and brow. In fact, everything felt damp, and your senses were muddled by that smell alone, musky, woody — a faint coppery sweetness with the sharp edge of rot underneath. "Be still." It commanded.

"Demon." Was all you managed, throat raw. Your brows drew together as you attempted once more — unsuccessfully — to pry yourself free.

There was nothing but silence for several moments, and for those moments you simply stared at one another — as if neither of you truly expected the other to exist in reality. A small breathy whine passed through your chapped lips and you wriggled again, reaching towards the abandoned blade to your right, but the creature pressed its immense weight on top of you, clambering, scraping and grasping ahold of any limbs you extended.

"Such a cute, tiny thing." The akuma murmured. There was a faint echo to the baritone — an undertone of mockery and cruelty, a gentler cadence and an almost child-like lilt. "I see this time they sent a frail little thing. My, have all the mighty grown weary?" He leaned closer, and you could hear the grin spread along his face despite not being able to see a thing. "Or are you...a treat?"

When his eyes descended down upon you, his entire body soon to follow as though his own size had become a hindrance, the wetness between your thighs trickled outwards to stain the clothing you still had on, and his nostrils flared in return. "Ohh," It seemed that was enough of an answer for him. "It has been so very, very long since I had a treat." His nose dipped to your groin (You could tell by the snuffle and the subsequent nuzzling), his eyes, a stark shade of crimson, staring back into yours all the while.

And they smiled. Smiled so brilliantly the fire intensified, flared up to the cragus ceiling and down to the slickened floors — the red fire, for there were tongues of it — not just the dancing orange and yellow, but the red. Hot, fiery, violent red flames.

You inhaled a shaky breath as the hand pressed your lower stomach flat and slipped below your sodden sash, and just like his nose, its long, thin fingers brushed across the outer length of your slit — teasing. "S-stop!" You attempted a feeble shake of your head, eyes flying over the demon in attempts of visualizing. His image, his shape, anything. But the more you peered the less you saw; the fuzzier his silhouette grew — wavering. Murky.

"Oh?" Was it your eyes or did his figure, too, warp and twist; stretch beyond comprehension? The heat. This terrible heat. "Why do you shy away?" It felt as if something, an invisible finger, traced along the seam of your underwear, along your swollen labia. "Do not lie, precious little sacrifice." It whispered and again, his weight shifted, following the hand between your thighs, the fingers yanking your soiled garment aside — baring all to the open air.

"You reek of pheromones. That mouth, panting so. Sweet little cunt dripping, clenching, yearning—" Another fiendish grin. "Yearning to be filled."

"No..." Your eyelids grew heavier, mouth running dry. "Do...not touch me with your...with your...w-wretched hands." You forced.

A breath fanned against the quivering skin of your thighs. Warm. Warm. Like everything else.

"You offer yourself to me on a platter," One arm wound about a leg, and tugged, twisted it to the side — as far as it'd go — before it stilled. "Scantily clad and wandering through my domain. And I...am the wretched one? Mmm?"

His tongue was on your skin now. Warm. Your eyes fluttered to your side as you sought your katana once more, fingers scrambling blindly against the ground — reaching, feeling, searching.

"That is the problem with man." His tongue returned again; only this time it slid up, leaving a slither of slime as it did so and then down, curving with your thigh to sweep at your clothed folds. "You give in too easily."

Your fingers continued to move about, drawing figure-of-eights over the rugged earth — until finally, the tip of one curled and clutched what must have been its hilt. Clenching your grip, you wrapped your remaining fingers around the pommel as best you could. A weak whimper crawled from the cavern of your mouth, escaping as a throaty sob that stuttered from your lungs. "Off," Your nails pressed so firmly against the surface they cracked and bent. "Get off. Get off of me! Filthy demon! Kami above, hear me—"

"They can do nothing." Came the casual reply, tone so chilling it had you clamping your lips together in spite. "Here, I rule. Here, no gods or goddesses listen,"

"---hear my cry and free me from this prison." You continued anyway, squeezing your eyes tight, fingers trembling around the weapon as you attempted to raise it overhead; its tip aimed directly at him.

(but did this voice hold power anymore, after everything?)

His tongue lapped at your clothed cunt again and he moaned. "Your gods," his voice deepened. "Have forsaken me," There was a noise — almost a gnarl and an exhale. "As they have forsaken yo---."

Your father's katana crashed against the back of the beast, his scales or his armour, and a growl — an unholy, vibratory growl erupted, rumbled the walls; the cave itself. "Little girl," His snarl sounded and his grip on your hipbone tightened. A fresh wave of pain bloomed, had the tears welling, trickling down the curve of your temple. You could sense a hesitation in his grasp, as it twitched and flexed. Before at last, his movements loosened.

In an instant, the sweltering heat, the mummifying haze, the mind-numbing stupor, the world ceased. Abrupt, and rather painful. For a moment the world stopped altogether, and then resumed. Except, you were the only being amidst the ruins. Not the voice, and not the fire.

Your lungs, they creaked as you dragged a sea of air back into your lungs, eyes fluttering as you did, flitting through the cave — taking a few moments to adjust before they continued the chase, frantic, searching. You could see properly again, and with that clarity, you did, in fact, clutch your sheer robes to your body, and readjust the small scrap of cloth that dangled between your legs. That was now stretched; stained.

“It was…you...” you whispered, legs shuffling as you rushed to put space between you and the akuma, who lay where you left him. On his knees, now that you could see. "...that made everything hazy. Messed with my mind and my vision..."

He didn't so much as twitch. His profile - fuzzy still – remained turned away from yours, yet his chuckle clearer than ever. As though he were beside you. "That I am guilty of…human. Though your lust," he murmured lowly. His tone, mirthful, despite the injury to his shoulder. "is entirely your own."

Hissing, you stumbled against the cave’s wall, wiping the mix of tears, sweat, grime and blood off of your upper-lips. "No, your demonic energy played a part. It messed with my concentration. H-had me confused—" you felt your cheeks begin to flame with both anger and embarrassment, eyes lowering to your lap where you sat cross legged.

He scoffed. “Confused? Are your people not made of lust? So hungry, you humans are." He didn't turn around but you sensed his stare upon your person. And from what you could see through the flickering flames, his teeth appeared unnaturally pointed, slightly crooked in nature. "Little girl. What a lovely morsel you were. My mouth salivates."

"...Then come claim your meal." You took your sword into your shaky palms and forced it above you. Your muscles burned with the simple act. "For I will die fighting you and your ilk."

A rough and low rumble reverberated and your face contorted in confusion when he threw his head back and laughed. An animated laughter, it was. But more than anything it sounded wild, like the whines of a pack of hounds — and nothing quite human. "Yes, I will have a taste of your sweet marrow." He murmured and it appeared the fire went out, suffocated. Blackened. And there you were once again, staring into the abysmal void.

"But I will take it on my own accord. That I promise, my pretty morsel."

You watched as he rose unsteadily to his shadowed feet, legs buckled, and his body grew tall, then taller as he stumbled towards the opposite wall — where the darkness was thickest. And you weren't certain if your vision had deceived you, if your fear had mingled and the ill-timed play of light and dark had simply been playing tricks on your tired eyes — but as you watched him settle against the wall, an eye flashing briefly before it closed once more, and a grin pulling taut across a deformed set of teeth, you shivered.

"Pretty girl.” He murmured. “Pretty sacrifice. Your… taste lingers."

Another gargle of a chuckle and,

"You belong to me now."

𓆩✧𓆪

You cradled your father’s katana to your chest as the hours passed, eyes straining against the darkness for any move the akuma might make.

Your breaths came out even and faint from your nose — measured, as you listened closely. Every muscle in your body was taut, rigid, but the beast stayed exactly where he was. Silent, unmoving — just the occasional sigh and rustle.

It didn’t occur to you, until his sighs grew further and further in occurrence, that the akuma may be asleep.

Did demons…sleep?

Your mind spun as you racked your brain for all your father ever told you of them — all the stories you’d heard. Perhaps this is all some trick to lure me closer, you thought, fingers growing clammy as you remembered the press of his body on yours, the heat on the curve of your throat.

(The heat between your legs).

Scoffing, you pushed the intrusive, shameful thought away with an edge of reluctance — not caring for why, as you glanced back towards where the akuma was last. Whether he was feigning or not, you knew you'd never have an opportunity like this again. He'd only grow more hungry, you more anxious, and so with an inhale — short, sharp — you struggled to your feet and took a tentative step towards him, minding your footing.

You wondered to what extent the creature was hurt by your weapon. He seemed as though he were genuinely hurt, but that could be another ruse, another ploy to gather you within his maw and bite down. Devour you in one. You lifted your leg, balancing precariously on the sole of your right foot and strained your eyes, glowering through the black as you saw the outline of a large, tanned leg. Then another.

Two legs, then a large torso and a head resting on a bulging chest — all features and details carved in stark shadows.

Curious, you moved closer. Saw tufts of pink hair on his arms, on his head,, noticed that he was shirtless, and there were little pink hairs there too. You looked at his large hands, and squirmed as you imagined those large things on your body.

Moved closer. Rubbed your thighs together as you saw his lips. Mouth parting slightly.

Only a breadth away and his eyes snapped wide. “I can smell you, morsel.” you staggered back watched as he smiled crookedly and the wound began to meld.

“What–”

“You taste divine.” he licked his lips, long, forked tongue shooting out to the air. “Are you offering yourself to me this morning ... how generous.” he drew the s’ as his tongue flickered. “But I said I wanted to take you on my own.”

“I…I did nothing of the sort.” you murmured, placing your hand over your forehead as a dizziness overcame you, a heat licked at your nape. "S-Stop it." you waved your hand as though that would keep him at bay.

"Stop what?''

"Stop making it so damn hot in here." you wheezed. "You are putting a spell on my.."

"Is that right?" Another lick at the corner of his lips, another flash of red. "So delicate. Like a piece of glass." he mocked as he pulled back. "You stepped into my space, morsel. Do you...yearn for my tongue again?"

You shook, watched as his wound meshed together as a slick grew between your legs. "Do not. D-do not change the topic,"

"You tasted wonderful." he cooed, taking his time as he trailed his gaze up and down, a low purr erupting from the pit of his stomach. "Such a pity you do not share in our desire." He snarled softly and rose to his feet.

You backed away. "Desire?" You mumbled under your breath and for a second it occurred that perhaps his intention hadn't been as nefarious as you first thought — and to your surprise, the mere concept made your nipples pebble. "D-desire." you breathed out and immediately felt sick with yourself.

“I am going." You spat suddenly, flushing, not caring if the beast meant to harm you or not. For your instincts spoke louder and despite how rational this thought sounded in your head, something didn't quite sit right. With anything. With him, and his words. Even now. "My task was to...to..."

You continued to back up, and he continued staring at you with a smile. "...terminate you..."

His jaw shifts as he observes you retreating with slow steps. His entire presence feels very much predatory, the grin that spreads from ear to ear unsettling, a light shimmer of red peeking through the flesh. "But,"

He stalks forward, slowly, deliberately.

"Perhaps I can bargain with you. Offer something better."

"You do not have anything that interests me." you stated flatly, heart racing a million paces per second as you twisted and pivoted to flee, finding the opening at the mouth of the cave with newfound hope.

He ignored you. "Give me your energy, your body and your soul, and I shall offer you a head to take home."

"Are you in a position to barter?" You answered back just as promptly, stepping over the small and rocky slopes that brought you closer towards the exit.

You did not hesitate, and he did not answer either, which for some reason left your mouth slightly dry, even as you neared the stone steps you had first climbed down, and the faint beams of moonlight peeked through the pine needles, casting its glittering light in your surroundings.

"Just think it over."

And you did. Had no other choice to. Over the next week Sukuna tried to get you to surrender your body and soul (on multiple occasions you awoke to him stroking his cock right before you, moaning loud enough to shake the cave’s walls. Too bad you felt far too weak to even touch yourself.), and even though the latter seemed very easy, the thought of offering yourself, of surrendering what was considered sacred to him — and thus a forbidden fruit, became a frequent and desirable one. You allowed yourself to consider how it would feel to belong to him, how it would feel to surrender to those pointed incisors and fanged maw — perhaps his tongue, too.

No one will know, whispered the little voice inside of your head. It was just you and him and you nd the cold and you and your thoughts. For so long you were lost in those very thoughts, that the first twinge of hunger had you gasping, bending over and clutching your middle in an effort to try and stifle it. But it didn't. It merely grew sharper. Fresher. More persistent.

Over the following week your body weakened, it was expected, considering you had next to nothing to eat since you were in the mountains — save for the odd fern, few pine branches that resembled needles and the rotting bits of fruit you found. They were hard as stones, but still edible to some extent.

To the demon, this had not gone unnoticed.

"Must you suffer needlessly?" he had asked you on the eighth day. A taunt, and yet, an opportunity, nonetheless. "In doing so, does it satisfy you?" He took a few paces closer, his bare feet quiet along the dirt. You shrunk into the wall. "You cannot survive much longer, not in this winter, nor in this cold. Your frail little human body will not."

"You know not of my resolve." you stated simply, edging away when he walked forth.

Sukuna halted mid-step and curled his lips to show his teeth, to display that pointed fangs and a forked tongue that resembled a serpent's. "No," he sneered. "I know not." He stopped when he reached the centre of the cavern and rested against the large rock that held a permanent fixture in the core. "But there is that about you..."

He smirked. "That...smell." Your breath hitched, and his smirk grew. "You will not last much longer."

And you knew he was right. You were so weak. So hungry. While it seemed he grew stronger and stronger.

"Aren't you lonely in this pit of fire?" Came a lilting chime, before you felt the caress of claws upon the hem of your kimono. "Little, useless thing."

The heat in the room seemed to grow. Grow and grow. The heat between your legs—

“Aren’t you hungry?” The akuma whispered. “For I am. Very, very hungry.”

You groaned weakly, lifting a hand to swat at him. “I…am not.”

Stuttered breaths hitched in your throat as fingers crawled up the flesh of your thigh, trailed across the soft, delicate expanse of it —

trapped, you knew, between a devil and a rock, and under that devil's stare, his hungry gaze, and the sediment.

His long fingers reached for your kimono and shoved it up your thighs, made it easier to access your glistening cunt, and he took a claw and dragged your panties to the side.

“I can smell you, human.” He sung, a smirk on his lips. “You will enjoy this. It will be…” he paused, tongue flicking out, tasting your scent. “...a wondrous feeling.”

Warm, thick saliva dripped and puddled around the crux of your thighs, his long, inhuman tongue delving itself between your slickened folds and poking into you, testing, sampling. You shivered and whimpered at the pressure of his rough tongue, how it seemed to reach every part of you, make you warm.

“D-Do not.” You forced out weakly, despite the fact that your hips lifted to press yourself closer to his mouth. The akuma simply ignored you, continued running his tongue through your folds as his grip on your skin tightened. Huffing and puffing as you dampened his face and oh— you are certain that this was hell. A fiery ball of heat that you were trapped in. Condemned to.

It was ludicrous, really, that in a time like this all you could of in a time like this was that your father would despise you. You didn't think of how you’d get home—beat the demon, slay him and drag his heavy head down the mountain.

All you could think of was your father, and your father, and your father and—

“Oh!”

The demon turned you over onto your stomach, forced your legs wider as he continued to prod at your hole. The sheer pleasure was far too much for your weakened body, and it brought a surge of tears to your eyes. Your legs began to tremble and spasm, even more so as that ache in your core began to swell.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” The demon mumbled against your folds. “Despite how you writhe and fight you’re enjoying this.”

You could only manage a strained grunt.

“It’ll be worth all the trouble, human.”

Trouble…never would there be a more fitting label. This was trouble. His large hand running along your skin and squeezing your hips was trouble. His mouth moving away from your body… trouble. And certainly, the feel of his hand along your hips; something flared and soft prodding at your hole…was trouble.

Your body was weak, and your mind was tired, yet the akuma still managed to hold you upright. He moved his hands from your hips and further up your back, his claws digging into the soft flesh of your shoulders and slowly, carefully, the akuma pushed himself inside of you.

The feeling was indescribable. As though a piece of heaven had descended from the heavens and blessed your body, and as his cock sunk deeper and deeper inside you, you felt a wave of pleasure hit you.

You had never been with a man before, but this was different. He was not a man.

"Oh." You cried out, the sound echoing through the cave.

The akuma's claws dug further into your flesh, the sharpness of them almost breaking the skin. "Good, isn't it, morsel?"

You groaned, and he took that as an affirmation. Oh, how it felt so good, so right, to give in.

"I will take care of you, my little morsel," the akuma purred. "I will keep you safe, and warm, and fed."

"What do you want from me?" You asked, and he laughed.

"Everything."

Your squirmed, breath hitching. "…My soul?"

"Yesss," he hissed. "Your soul, your body, your energy. All of you."

He thrusted harder, his thrusts growing faster, harder, and you gasped at the pain, at the pleasure. He was so big, stretching you completely, and the way his cock slid in and out of you was almost hypnotic. Mouth ajar, drool dribbling down the corner of your lips, you could not help but moan.

"A-And if I refuse?" You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

He smiled. Devilishly. As though he knew this too. "You won't"

A squelching sound filled the room, the akuma's cock sliding in and out of you, and you could not help but gasp, moan, at the feel of his thick cock inside you. Stretching you. Leaving you breathless and wanting.

"That's it, morsel," he hissed. "I'm going to fill you up, make you mine."

"Oh, God," you moaned, the akuma's thrusts becoming harder, faster, and you could not help but cry out, his cock slamming into you over and over again.

"Yes," he growled, his thrusts becoming more erratic. "Take my seed, morsel."

And you did.

He came with a roar, his cock pulsing, and you could feel his seed filling you. It was warm, and it was thick, and it was everything you had ever wanted.

"Fuck," you moaned, the akuma's cum dripping out of your pussy, and you could not help but frown as you felt his grip grow harsher, practically hearing the way his body hummed with new power.

"You are mine," he growled, his voice deep and animalistic, and you could not help but nod, the akuma's words washing over you.

"Mine," he repeated, and you nodded, the akuma's cum dripping down your legs, and you could not help but smile, the akuma's seed filling you, and you could not help but moan, the akuma's cock twitching inside of you.

"Yours," you whispered, the akuma's claws digging into your skin, and you could not help but shiver, the akuma's hands roaming your body.

"Mine," the akuma growled, and you could not help but smile, the akuma's warmth spreading throughout your body. His power: your power.

"Mine."

----

abrupt ending because i've genuinely been stumped on how to finish this TT. but thank you for reading x

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