#pre-maid meals

[chrollogy]

THE COST OF DEVOTION | chrollo lucilfer x f!reader

synopsis: When Chrollo Lucilfer is assigned to go undercover, and kill a billionaire’s daughter, he finds himself breaking the most sacred rule of the underworld—that there should be no feelings involved. The consequences of his actions backs Chrollo into a corner where he has to choose between fulfilling the job or following his heart at a risky price.

18+ MDNI; undercover assassin!chrollo, bodyguard!chrollo, billionaire’s daughter!reader, loosely follows some canon events (chrollo’s past), reader is referred to as ‘miss’, DARK CONTENT, DARK ROMANCE, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort (no happy ending), explicit smut, SLOW BURN, major character death, touches on arranged marriage, cheating, killing, money laundering, human trafficking, kidnapping, sacrilege & blood (briefly), gun use, chrollo struggles with feelings, chrollo has scars, OCs mentioned, not beta read.

word count: 18.6k

notes: divider: cafekitsune. ITS HERE !! thank u to @ljubimaya & @avatarofstars for supporting me throughout the writing process and for being such amazing friends :3 this is different from my usual fics + super self indulgent so enjoy. feedbacks & thoughts are much appreciated ><

Loud music, enough to make one’s chest thump, annoying bright strobe lights, and the sea of intoxicated bodies that passionately danced with one another without a care in the world, Chrollo wanted out. He observed the luxury club with a subtle scowl, gaze sharp enough to tear one’s throat as he watched the spoiled, and rich carelessly sway to the beat of the music—you were one of them.

A privileged affluent businessman’s daughter who didn’t know how to handle one’s wealth so she resorts to spending nights swiping her card for overpriced drinks, and whatever expensive shit the club had to offer.

Meanwhile, the lower class had to work themselves to near death to be able to provide for their families. One, two, three jobs just to make ends meet—just to pay rent, just to bring food to the table even if it meant working for the underworld.

That was where Chrollo fell into the spectrum; fortunate enough to live but unfortunate enough to live a cruel life in an equally cruel world. He grew up learning how to steal, fight, and kill while you grew up having maids cook every meal, a solid roof over your head, and generational wealth to spend.

It made Chrollo sick to his stomach how wealthy kids like you could just take, take, and take yet had the audacity to complain about their lives as if society didn’t favour them at all. He could go on, and on about this whole ordeal but at the end of the day, no one would even bat an eye, plus, he had a job to do—technically, two jobs.

At the heart of the sweaty, inebriated club, you stood there beneath the neon strobe lights, it bounced off the strands of your hair like a colourful aura mirroring your careless joy. Body perfectly swaying to the beat of the music, a half-full glass of a sweet cocktail, and a blissful expression on your face; maybe if the circumstances were different Chrollo would have smiled at your blithe spirit but it wasn’t.

Your eyes—a drunken haze—found his own to which you immediately acknowledged with a cheery wave of your free hand.

It only took a split second for Chrollo to mask the obvious scowl on his face with a sickly saccharine smile—one that made his gut twist with disgust—he returned the gesture with a dip of his chin paired with raising a glass of water in the air as if to make a toast. Chrollo’s expression fell the minute you turned away, unceremoniously slouching back into the leathered booth you’ve booked beforehand, he let out a deep sigh, and rubbed at his temples.

Two weeks

It had only been two weeks since your father—Chrollo’s employer—hired him as your personal bodyguard, and as expected, extensive pre-screening was a must before one could securely acquire said role which Chrollo found extremely bothersome despite its lack of difficulty. Though this wasn’t a rare occurrence, it only made sense for the rich to hire a skilled bodyguard to protect oneself from unknown dangers.

Obviously, he didn’t apply to be your personal bodyguard for sincere reasons—far from it, actually; Chrollo was here for a task that would land him his heftiest pay yet, even just thinking about made his head spin with immeasurable happiness already but Chrollo figured he’d bask in filthy money after completing the job. He always did.

If anything, this should be a walk in the park for him considering there was nothing more satisfying than seeing the demise of a wealthy brat. But for now, he’d take it slow, and earn your trust ‘til the right time comes; where his mask falls, and true motives come to light.

Where the last thing the assassin would receive from you was a look of pure horror much like his previous targets. Would you beg for him to spare your life like others did? Or would you sit in complete shock, words lodged deep inside your throat?

These thoughts immediately dissipated at the call of his name; a few feet away, you stumbled your way towards the booth, the highball glass tucked in your hand was now empty with only half melted ice cubes remaining. Chrollo stood up, wrapping a firm arm around your back, helping you regain balance before guiding you to the leathered seat, the fabric cool against your feverish skin.

“Should I call the chauffeur, miss?” Chrollo feigned worry. His stature loomed over your sitting figure, back lit with red neon strobe lights, giving him a deep crimson glow. You stared at him longer than necessary before responding with a small nod; the wild atmosphere, paired with your spinning vision seemed like a good enough hint to head home, and retire for the night.

At your agreement, Chrollo let out a big mental sigh of relief—he may be an adept assassin but sitting idly for hours while watching his asset drink the night away exhausted his patience more than one could imagine.

The ride back to the estate was all a drunken haze for you, though, you recalled a brief exchange of words between Chrollo, and your chauffeur as the latter helped you inside the vehicle before, they seemed to get along swimmingly despite the former only being a new addition to your personal staff. Albeit, that description might be a bit too generous, maybe it was just your drunk self thinking but nonetheless, you appreciated the courteous manner between the two. 

“Lukas?”

You called out to the chauffeur, he donned a formal attire just like Chrollo—a black tailored suit—he was an old-timer who had been your father’s previous chauffeur before you were born. It was safe to say you’ve learned a lot from him growing up, and maybe even served more as a father figure than your biological one.

“Yes, miss?” Lukas glanced briefly at the rear-view mirror. “Chrollo . . He’s nice, isn’t he?”

The older man could only chuckle in response, letting your words soak into the darkness of the vehicle before nodding, “He’s a promising young lad.” He glanced at the mirror once again, this time letting his gaze linger on you, headlights from the vehicle Chrollo drove behind poured into the backseat, and illuminated your face; Lukas didn’t know if it was due to your drunken state or from pure sincerity but the subtle smile on your face somewhat warmed his heart.

He took a mental note that you seemed to be quite fond of your new bodyguard.

After safely reaching the estate, and escorting you inside, Chrollo made his way to the staff house. Walking past the wooden double doors, he was stopped in his tracks by a familiar voice, “Off to bed, Chrollo?” It was Lukas, your chauffeur; he sat on one of the crimson couches, one hand nursing a cup of hot coffee.

Chrollo stared at the old man’s face behind the wisps of steam from the drink, the latter donned a rather pleased look on his face, he thought nothing of it, and nodded, “And yourself?”

Lukas returned the nod, “A little later for me.”

Silence occupied the living room for a moment. Chrollo could’ve left the conversation at that but instead, he stood there, feet rooted on the wooden floor, sensing that Lukas had more to say but was debating on it.

Seeing as he didn’t want to waste any more time, Chrollo spoke up “Is there something else you’d like to say?” His voice cut through the quiet atmosphere, he had now angled his body towards the older man. Lukas set the mug atop the coffee table before giving him his full attention, “The young miss seems to have taken a liking to you.”

Chrollo didn’t know how to react to that—even if he did, he wouldn’t have let on.

At his silence, Lukas invited himself to speak further, “At times, she can be quite a handful . . but hearing her speak positively of you warms my heart. What I’m trying to say is, please take good care of the young miss, it means a lot for her to say such things about you.”

Trust? Good.

Chrollo’s rosy lips stretched into a genuine smile, “I will. Thank you.” And with that, he excused himself before heading to his room, the soles of his obsidian shoes produced no noise with each step. He wasn’t happy because you seemed to like him, no, Chrollo was happy because you trusted him so easily—probably the biggest mistake you’ve made.

Though, nothing would really change if you didn’t trust him, either way, you’d meet your demise no matter what.

As the new week rolled around, it was no surprise that Chrollo had already memorised your weekly routine—without a doubt, you spent days in the office but he had noted other destinations you frequented.

On Mondays, you visited a cosy flower boutique in the morning, owned by a lovely old florist who’s cheeks were as pink as the camellias neatly displayed on the counter next to her. You only bought one type of flower—white chrysanthemums, a dozen, to be exact; they were carefully wrapped in a simple brown paper, and topped off with an ivory satin ribbon.

On the way back to the car, Chrollo wondered why you chose these specific flowers, and upon asking, you simply replied with:

‘White chrysanthemums symbolise devoted love, and loyalty—something we need more of in this world, don’t you think?’ 

How ironic. He had no knowledge about flowers but he always thought white chrysanthemums meant death, specifically a symbol of mourning, and grief—a flower fit for one’s grave yet you displayed them in a vase to bring life into your room.

If you were being completely honest, chrysanthemums didn’t hold any significance in your life; one day you decided to visit the flower boutique run by the old lady, and she had told you all about the flower. Oddly enough, you started to grow fond of it.

Chrysanthemums were awfully common in his hometown—Meteor City—and not in a good way; inhabited by untraceable outcasts, it was the perfect hunting ground for illegal activities such as human trafficking, as well as an endless source of disposable hitmen, and assassins like Chrollo himself.

Due to mass abductions, and murders of the people, chrysanthemums were laid out at the church for each victim; he could clearly remember walking down the aisle, a smell so sweet, and minty filled the thick atmosphere. For an aroma so pleasant, who would’ve thought it was associated with such sorrow?

On Tuesdays, you attended your private pilates lesson at 8 AM on the dot which lasted a little under an hour. As usual, Chrollo stayed idly by the entrance of the studio, just at the foyer as the muffled voice of your instructor seeped from under the closed door; this was usually paired with brunch at a local café after, as per your words, ‘a much needed caffeine break’ whatever that meant. He couldn’t care less, he was too busy assessing the layout of the building for an escape route, and potential threats as though he wasn’t the biggest threat here.

The window seat offered a clear view of the street outside, vehicles driving by, people in their own little world as they headed to their destination; not to mention the ample morning sunlight that poured in, allowing you to study Chrollo’s reflection from the glass.

He stood behind you with his back facing the window, scanning the entire café; you watched as his head slowly moved from left to right, then right to left, giving you a peek of his side profile. Your eyes traced every dip, and curve of Chrollo’s face, from the slope of his nose, all the way to the sharpness of his jawline. It was odd how this man—who barely talked to you unless necessary—had piqued your interest. In what way? That was something you were still trying to figure out.

How Chrollo carried himself with silent confidence stood out from the rest of your security team; sure, he was vigilant of his surroundings but each action he displayed was calculated, and clean—too clean. You’ve also noticed how his steps were much lighter than everyone else’s, it made almost no sound as though he was actively stalking a prey. And for a brief moment, you wondered who that prey was.

On Wednesdays, you were present at your father’s company for the whole day. Though, the scowl on your face clearly screamed your opposition; it wasn’t a secret to anyone how uninterested you were in all the business talk—in fact, if anyone were to ask about it, you could probably go on, and on about how boring, and tedious it was, conversely, if asked what you wanted to do in life, you’d probably have a hard time answering.

Alas, as the sole heir, the company automatically fell to your hands whether you liked it or not. Wednesdays were always a drag, having to make acquaintances with investors, and show face during monotonous meetings that rarely concerned you—you’d rather spend time elsewhere.

On Thursdays, you were also at the company but for a different reason. Chrollo only knew you reported straight to your father’s office, and he was often ordered to wait at the ground floor. The meeting with your father always took approximately two hours, and each time, you came out looking like someone had pressed all your buttons.

Though today, for the sake of Chrollo’s own selfish curiosity, seeing as the hallway was deserted, he lingered outside the office for a bit but all he really got was pure silence—either you, and your father conversed in a hushed voice or the walls were soundproof. Whatever the case was, Chrollo didn’t bother sticking around but he was quickly stopped in his tracks as voices from inside were suddenly raised—yours first, followed by your father.

Looking back at the office door, Chrollo heard you shout in opposition, it seemed like the conversation had somewhat turned into a heated argument. Nonetheless, he continued down the hallway—it was none of Chrollo’s business, after all.

“No! I’ve already told you, I’m not doing that!” Loud voice sliced through the growing tension inside the room. The older male—who sat behind his desk—leaned back into the seat, leather groaning beneath his weight as he rubbed his temples at your stubbornness, clearly displeased with how much you were blowing everything out of proportion. You stayed rooted in your spot, just standing a metre away from your father.

“Look, darling, I’ve already agreed—” “Agreed without my consent.” Raising your hands in defeat, you paced around the room, each heavy step muffled by the crimson carpet beneath your soles. “I’m the one getting married to someone I haven’t met! I never even wanted to be in an arranged marriage just because of what—a stupid business partnership?!”

This was the first time you’ve raised your voice at your father; all the years under his care, and guidance, you gladly accepted what was left upon your hands. Continuing the legacy of your father’s company? Sure, no problem, you could deal the burden on your shoulders but marrying a complete stranger?

That was more than crossing a mere boundary.

Your father was a skilled business man, and you never doubted that once—he was excellent at negotiating, and closing deals so for him to stoop as low as agreeing with an arranged marriage for the sake of his company, it baffled you, a lot. What more could he possibly want?

“I’m done with this conversation.”

Letting out a breath you’ve been holding, you turned around, and headed for the door but before reaching the silver handle, your father spoke up from behind, “Next week. You’re attending the corporate event with Euan. That’s final.” All you could do was nod.

Chrollo spotted your rather distressed figure exit the elevator, and head for the car park, not so much sparing a glance as you passed him; nonetheless, he quietly trailed you, steely gaze observing your figure up, and down—shoulders tight, and fists clenched at your side.

You felt defeated.

The thought of spending the rest of your life with a man you didn’t genuinely love, was that really your so-called future? A bond made for the sole purpose of expanding business?

Stepping into the underground car park, you stopped in your tracks, the automatic glass door silently humming as it closed behind you. Naturally, Chrollo did the same but didn’t dare speak up. Click clack. Two clicks from the soles of your shoes as you turned to face your bodyguard with a deflated expression, he could only raise a brow in surprise before you sat on your haunches, and buried your face inside the hearts of your palms.

Oh.

One, two, three seconds—it took Chrollo exactly three seconds to register the sight before him, and he didn’t know what to do; awkwardness settled in the air between the two of you as you sobbed into your hands. He moved closer—taking a few cautious steps as though he walked on eggshells—and squatted down to your level, “Miss?” He called out, his dulcet voice drowned by your soft whimpers, every muscle in Chrollo’s body was stiff, movements unsure.

What was he supposed to do? Reach out, and stroke your hair? Pull you close against his chest? Chrollo was more than sure that doing so was completely unprofessional on his end. So, he was reduced to sitting next to you, silently watching your shoulders shake with each muffled sob until you finally decided to lift your head, “I apologise for acting this way. I’m certain you probably don’t care but—”

Correct. Chrollo did not care.

“My father has been pushing me in an arranged marriage. I kept saying ‘no’ until he went behind my back, and agreed to it. I found out today and I just—I lost it. The benefits of what comes after marriage are endless for the company; more investors, more money, more security but is that really worth sacrificing my shot at finding the one I truly love?”

Saying the words aloud made it sound so silly. Finding your one true love, how naïve, that only happened in children’s fairy tales.

Upon learning the reason for your upset, Chrollo could only nod, he wasn’t the type to console anyone, let alone his employer’s daughter. The last time he could remember doing so was almost a decade, and a half ago during the time his dear friend—Sarasa—went missing.

It was a rainy day in Meteor City, Chrollo remembered hugging his friends tightly, reassuring them that everything was going to be alright even though uncertainty gnawed at his skin. 

He was innocent, and didn’t know better then.

But the incident with Sarasa was what fuelled his pure hatred for the wealthy. Chrollo was only a kid, full of limitless joy, and hope despite growing up in poverty. It was during the height of abductions in Meteor City, and that was when he learned that not even his friends were immune from illegal activities after seeing it with his own eyes.

It was broad daylight, and Sarasa had been forced into a car by two large men—as if one wasn’t enough to take a helpless little girl. The worst part was, Chrollo could only stand, and watch as his friend got taken away with nothing but helpless tears in his eyes, and a blazing anger that burned a thousand suns.

He could still recall the way his nails dug into the hearts of his palms, the temporary pain it felt. The incident haunted his coming days, hearing Sarasa’s screams at night, and how she begged for the men to spare her life.

Chrollo overheard from the Elders that the ones behind illegal abductions were the wealthy, and that night, he made a promise to avenge Sarasa—even if it meant taking lives. It was clear the rich were parasites of the world, greedy for money, and power, leaving none behind for the unfortunate. 

Chrollo couldn’t bring himself to understand your situation, and emotions—he didn’t have to but some odd part made him want to.

From Fridays to Sundays, you usually spent the time out with friends but as the days came, you remained cooped up inside your room, and only came out unless necessary. The thought of isolating yourself somewhat ate away at Chrollo, despite not being able to fully grasp your situation, he figured it must have been a breaking point for you, and deep down, for some weird reason, he was worried.

This was the first time you’ve shown him an emotion other than happiness—which he presumed was most likely out of professionalism—so seeing your distressed state had him rather curious.

Stationed just outside the doors to your room, Chrollo couldn’t do anything to quench the sparked interest inside him—guarding the entrance of your room was all there was to do which ended up with him drowning in his thoughts while standing idly. Even though Chrollo didn’t understand your sentiment, he knew no one should marry a stranger for the sake of business.

Though, Chrollo didn’t have much time to ponder about your situation as his replacement came walking up the stairs meaning it was the end of his shift for the day. He entertained a brief exchange with his co-worker before heading out.

Walking down the stone path that led to the deserted flower garden, Chrollo dug into the inside pocket of his blazer, and took out a burner phone. As the assassin dialled a number, he was greeted with a view of endless greenery decorated with bright hues from a variety of flowers; the floral aroma wrapped around his body like a fluffy blanket. Somehow, the sweet scent reminded Chrollo of you.

The cheap phone rang once, twice ‘til a familiar voice spilled through its speakers, “I’m guessing you’re here to update me?” The male on the other side of the call questioned. Chrollo agreed, and the line went silent, urging him to give the details.

As he gave a thorough update, Chrollo mindlessly walked down the stone path, various colours making its way to his line of vision. Though, a particular flower caught his eye—a sea of yellow as bright as the morning rays decorated several bushes on the ground. While speaking into the phone, Chrollo squatted down to its level, and examined the delicate flower, Bird’s foot trefoil, the small ivory signage before it read.

Two months, that was the amount of time given to complete the job. It was reasonable enough with the amount of security you were surrounded with, and even though Chrollo was the only bodyguard you took whenever you left the house, Lukas remained by your side as well—he made sure not to underestimate the old timer.

Chrollo had never heard of this man before but from what he knew, he seemed to be about the same age. Why the man was seeking out revenge by targeting your life was also something that remained a mystery—after all, Chrollo was only there to kill, details weren’t necessary when it came to an assassin.

“‘M not gonna tell you how to do your job but remember, time is ticking, and I’m spending a whole lot of money on this, yeah?”

Voicing his agreement before ending the call, he took one last look at the flower, and stood up, heading for the staff house.

It was about time Chrollo hunted for his prey.

With the new week, everyone prepared for the corporate event in a few hours—even Chrollo himself, as well as the rest of the security team was busy scouting the venue, and looking for any potential threats around, and inside the building.

Tonight, he donned a sleek, all black look which was slightly different from the usual white button down, and black suit he wore.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, employees, and important investors began pouring in the building; the inside boasted a formal theme with a lavish teardrop crystal chandelier that mimicked the shine of a thousand diamonds, round tables were draped in ivory cloths which housed a bunch of butterfly pea flowers encased in sleek ceramic vases.

Silence was replaced with melodic laughter, and casual conversations between acquaintances, and co-workers as the vast room was slowly filled with more people.

Having arrived at the venue earlier, Chrollo stood by the entrance, waiting for your arrival. As the familiar vehicle rolled around, Lukas exited the vehicle, and opened the rear passenger door.

Expecting you to come out of the vehicle, Chrollo was caught slightly off-guard when a stranger clad in a navy blue tuxedo did so instead—he donned obsidian strands that carefully framed his handsome face, and piercing honeyed eyes that was sure to make any woman swoon.

The assassin watched as he turned to face the vehicle, and held out a hand to you. Taking up on the polite offer, you held his hand, and gracefully stepped out of the vehicle. And there you were, in all your serene beauty, skin glowing beneath the warm streetlights that made Chrollo inhale a sharp breath for some odd reason.

“Thank you, Euan.” You gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Euan? Chrollo thought.

With how he lovingly kissed the back of your hand, and from the way you forced a smile, it wasn’t hard to piece together that this was the man you were forced to marry. Somehow, Chrollo felt a tinge of annoyance spark within the depths of his chest—maybe because he was aware of the whole arranged marriage situation or maybe because he was yet in the presence of another stuck up, pompous spoiled person. 

Euan interlaced his fingers with yours before heading towards the entrance, Chrollo didn’t miss the way the diamond ring on your finger twinkled like stars in the night sky. Surprisingly, Euan acknowledged Chrollo with a dip of his chin; you mirrored your date’s action, and only then did the assassin respond in the same way.

The event was boring as one would have expected, your father—the CEO—mostly talked about the company’s milestones up on the podium, he held a champagne flute in one hand filled with golden liquid while entertaining the room with uneventful accomplishments. Though, what you didn’t expect tonight was for your father to openly reveal your arranged marriage with Euan in front of your subordinates, and investors,

“It’s my pleasure to announce that the COO of D&J—my daughter—is soon to be wed with Mr. Euan Heston from Heston Enterprises.”

As endless applause, and supportive smiles filled the venue, you sat frozen on your seat, unable to muster even the tiniest smile. From the corner of your vision, you could see Euan bashfully nodding his head, and shaking hands with those in neighbouring tables as they congratulated him. You stared at your father in complete disdain which only prompted a forced smile from him.

Unbelievable.

A shaky breath escaped your lips before swallowing the raging emotions, pushing them down, down, down to the depths of your core, and as though a switch inside you was flipped, a smile stretched across your face, throwing out thank you’s to those who offered their support.

With the end of the CEO’s speech, and certain formalities, all that’s left was to mix, and mingle with everyone else which—thankfully—Euan did while you quietly sneaked away to the open bar. Although, visibly drowning yourself in more champagne only invited more guests to come, and gush about the weighted ring on your finger, not to mention how openly they adored Euan.

Hearing such high praise thrown his way, you caught yourself staring at your soon-to-be husband; you watched as he gracefully waltzed from table to table, engaging in polite conversations with not only the important people in the room but also with your subordinates.

Euan was well-mannered, kind, and respectful—he was everything your father wanted as your husband but he wasn’t made for you, and deep down, you knew that.

From the corner of the room, Chrollo watched it all unfold. From the way you stiffened beneath everyone’s stares as your father revealed the marriage, all the way to your gaze finding Euan amongst the crowd. He felt weird.

Albeit subtle, Chrollo sensed it was there—as though a foreign seed had been planted in his chest waiting for it to grow, and destroy him from inside out. Whether it produced the fruit of anger, revenge or some other emotion in the dictionary, he couldn’t tell, all he knew was it took root inside his heart.

As Chrollo got lost in his thoughts for a bit, he was greeted with an empty barstool that was previously occupied by you; he scanned the vast room, stone cold eyes darting from left to right, and right to left trying to catch a glimpse of your familiar figure.

Slight panic didn’t settle in until Chrollo realised that you were nowhere to be seen—the feeling began to gnaw at his very bones as the attempts of finding your whereabouts led to a dead end, he even went as far as asking a woman standing just outside the bathroom if she’s seen you walk in but only shook her head.

Wide, panicked steps, Chrollo unceremoniously crossed the room in search of you while almost bumping into several guests in a nervous haze; he muttered out whispered apologies, gaze remaining ahead. His heart thumped loudly against his ears, serving as a mere distraction to throw off his already breaking composure.

God, your father would absolutely kill him if he were to find out that he’d lost sight of you.

But Chrollo wasn’t scared of that, not even an ounce of fear in his body at the thought of your father’s wrath, instead, he worried for your safety; the more minutes passed without a trace of you, the more frustration consumed every fibre of him.

The only option left was to check the balcony.

With a bated breath, he opened the sliding door, a gentle, cool breeze of the night greeted him like a welcome hug. His gaze scanned the open area which—thankfully—landed on your familiar figure, you stood there, leaning against the metal railing while looking up at the obsidian skies.

Relief briefly washed over Chrollo as he let out a sigh but this feeling was soon replaced with red, hot anger.

He stalked over to where you stood, each step heavy with annoyance, “Where have you been? I was looking all over for you! Don’t run off like that.”

The ever calm, and collected bodyguard coming for your neck with such ferocity caught you off guard, not to mention the obvious bite in his tone. With furrowed brows, you turned to face Chrollo, a look of disbelief painted on your face. The audacity of this man. Who the hell was he to boss you around as though you were his subordinate?

“That’s ‘miss’ for you—” You crossed your arms, head slightly tilted upwards as you looked down at him from your nose.

“And relax, Chrollo. I’m not harmed. I don’t see what the fuss is about.” You were absolutely right, and Chrollo hated that you were because he didn’t know where else to channel his anger, if anything, your words doused the flame inside his chest with gasoline, allowing it to expand, and burn an azure fire.

Despite his better judgement, Chrollo let it consume him, “Relax? I’m your bodyguard, it’s my duty to keep you safe, and out of danger! What if something happens to you, and I’m not around, hm?”

Chrollo felt the foreign seed inside his chest grow into uncertainty—an odd feeling he’s never felt before. Speaking out like this, and losing his cool over a situation was out of character for him but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to stop, as though words willingly flew out of his throat, and out into the open.

“Exactly, you’re only a bodyguard. You have no right to act this way towards me. Have you forgotten I’m not your equal?” You retorted, dishing out the same amount of ferocity he had given you.

Initially, you were going to let the whole thing slide, it was understandable where Chrollo was coming from—he was only doing his job—but it pissed you off seeing as how he had the audacity to act like that.

You looked up at the taller man, gaze not backing down from his steely ones; it took him a couple of seconds to hold your stare before breaking it, and looking off to the dark horizon. Though, you swore you saw his eyes subtly dip down for a split second before doing so—you weren’t too sure, maybe it was the darkness playing tricks.

You were right. Chrollo was only a bodyguard, so did he cross the line? The unclear answer made him all the more furious but for now, he’d have to settle for the explanation that he’s your bodyguard, and he has the right to worry about your safety. Even if Chrollo himself didn’t entirely believe this reason.

“You’re right. I apologise for crossing any boundaries, miss.”

Chrollo stationed himself near the sliding door, offering you space to enjoy the quiet night in peace. Now, you felt kind of bad for raising your voice at him when he clearly showed nothing but concern; you chalked it up to the stress your father weighed upon you tonight—the decision to tell everyone about the marriage, Euan being your date for tonight, the engagement ring that wrapped around your finger.

It was clear that Chrollo was still bothered about the whole thing, you could see it from the way his jaw tightened, and the subtle crease between his brows. Whatever. You’ll deal with it later.

A petty argument. That was it. But why did it have Chrollo all worked up? Why was he extremely bothered about it? Hell, where was that useless fiancé of yours, and why wasn’t he looking after you? Questions swirled in his mind, chaotic, and uncertain—now, Chrollo was really wondering why he was acting this way. In his twenty-six years of living, never had he felt this feeling before, it stemmed from his chest, blooming across his body, and consuming him in an unpleasant, foreign way.

The feeling stayed rooted inside even until reaching the estate where he stood guarding the door to your room.

Chrollo rubbed his forefinger, and thumb together while staring at the marbled tiles beneath his feet, it was past midnight now, and the only sound heard was the thumping of his own heart—the rhythmic beat that somewhat got louder with each passing minute.

He was soon reeled back into reality at the sound of the door opening behind him. Stepping out of your room, Chrollo watched as the darkness unclasped your body from its confines; he quickly averted his gaze at your vulnerable state—clad in a flimsy ivory nightgown that stopped just below the knees with satin ribbon straps comfortably sitting on your shoulders. He felt it was rather inappropriate seeing you in such an attire.

“Ahem. Anything you need, miss?” Chrollo coughed into his fist, staring at the darkness behind you instead of holding the gaze thrown his way.

Letting out a sigh, you replied, “I think I need to clear my head a bit . . Care to join me for a night drive? That way you’ll know my whereabouts.” The end of your sentence had a tinge of bitterness laced with it but Chrollo shrugged it off, it’d be no use trying to pick up where the two of you left off earlier.

“I take it as a yes, then? Meet me at the garage.” With that, you walked down the stairs, the thin fabric of your nightgown swaying with each step taken.

Chrollo quickly headed to the staff house to grab the keys to his assigned vehicle. Making his way to the door, he immediately stopped in his tracks as a sudden idea popped into mind—the gun hidden beneath his pillows.

Chrollo stared at his bed before swiftly lifting the ivory pillow, revealing a pistol given to him upon acquiring the bodyguard role. Without a word, he tucked it inside the holster beneath the obsidian blazer he donned, and walked out of the bedroom, heading for the garage.

Disappearing into the night, an odd feeling engulfed Chrollo—he wondered whether the gun on his hip portrayed him as your bodyguard or as your assassin.

Something he has never thought about before because it had always been the latter, regardless of the situation. Nonetheless, the weapon felt awfully heavy hanging onto him—as though it was a great burden that took an even greater effort to get rid of.

The drive was awkward, and there was no set destination; the only instruction you gave Chrollo was to keep driving, and he did, without questions asked. The only sound that filled the vehicle was the low humming of the engine which lulled you further into your thoughts, warm streetlights would illuminate the inside which allowed Chrollo to sneak brief glances at you through the rearview mirror. He didn’t want to pry but it was clear you were overwhelmed with a lot of things.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology caught Chrollo off guard, stone cold gaze looking through the mirror to meet your own for a split second. “Miss?” He furrowed his brows. “For earlier. I said some harsh words as well, and you were only doing your job. So, I apologise.” Now, it was your turn to steal glances through the rearview mirror. Chrollo’s expression remained unchanged—most likely trying to find an appropriate answer. 

He shook his head, fully aware you peered at him through the mirror, “It’s no big deal . . It wasn’t my place to raise my voice. As you said earlier, I’m just a bodyguard.” Chrollo’s eyes remained on the road ahead, enveloped by the night, he didn’t know why it suddenly became hard to glance through the mirror—maybe it was the unmistakable knowledge that you’d be staring straight back.

Was he nervous?

Impossible. There was no such emotion in his dictionary.

“It’s just—the whole announcing the marriage with Euan in front of all the guests stressed me out. The marriage is set in stone without my permission, and I just feel so helpless . .” You watched the outside view go by, dull colours of the night blending into a blurry haze.

“I know the arrangement has benefits. I know that.” It was directed more to yourself than Chrollo, as though some part of you agreed with the marriage.

“Euan is . . He’s sweet—a kind soul but I cannot see myself loving him, spending the rest of my life with him.” The assassin gripped the wheel a little tighter at the mention of your fiancé. “I don’t think anyone should ever go through that.” He cleared his throat, stealing another glance at you.

“You mentioned a while ago—” Chrollo spoke up, deciding to deviate the topic from Euan. “That the marriage would benefit the company ‘more security’ . .” He trailed off, realising how he’s prying but you didn’t seem to mind with how openly you replied.

“Long story short, my father had a very close friend—Mr. Driscoll—in the industry. It was later revealed that he was involved in money laundering so most of his assets came from illegal dealings. My father played a significant role in his arrest—basically, Driscoll was stupid enough to tell my father of his underground ties, urging him to do it as well. But my father had tipped the police instead. Naturally, his son, Ciaran Driscoll—who’s now the CEO of the company—saw us in a bad light, and it won’t take long until he makes my father pay for the damages done.”

“The arranged marriage with Euan would obviously combine our security team with theirs which would decrease the chances of Ciaran, and any other dangers from getting near my father, and I.”

Yet Chrollo was here—an assassin tasked to kill you—who easily took on the role of your personal bodyguard.

How ironic.

You really did need that extra security from the Hestons.

“Ciaran Driscoll?” Chrollo muttered the name under his breath which you quickly caught onto. “Yeah. Ciaran Driscoll from Driscoll Pharmaceuticals, you know him?” He wouldn’t necessarily say he knew him but Chrollo was awfully familiar with the name—familiar enough to conclude that Ciaran was the one who hired him to kill you.

Despite meeting at a deserted location back then—nowhere near that gave any hints of Ciaran’s real identity—one of his subordinates had addressed him by his last name which Chrollo immediately picked up.

The pieces fit flawlessly. It made sense for Ciaran to get revenge for Mr. Driscoll’s arrest by targeting what your father held most dear in his life—you. And for that to happen, Chrollo was the middle man, the one to fuel the chaos between two families.

If he got the job done.

“No.” Chrollo lied. “Just thought the last name rang a bell.”

“Understandable, they’re a household name. Well, it used to be.”

Short silence filled the vehicle yet again, both left to their own thoughts before you spoke up, albeit, it was more of thinking aloud, “I truly don’t know what I want in life.” Odd. Chrollo always thought that if one was wealthy, they’d be able to wish for anything, and everything yet somehow, even with all the gold in your hands, you were still lost.

Chrollo pitied you, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

Hell, he didn’t even know whether it was appropriate to reply. What did he know? He was someone born into poverty who didn’t have the luxury to question himself about what he wanted in life, just having to see another was already a blessing itself. Well, it wasn’t like the outcasts of society were given a choice on how to lead one’s life anyway.

The car fell in another silence but this time it was much longer, long enough for Chrollo to glance at the rearview mirror to see your eyes closed, and head leaning against the window, the rhythmic rise, and fall of your chest indicating the slumber you were in.

It was almost laughable how Chrollo was able to prove his theory right—that the rich were greedy for an even greater amount of money, the obvious example was the ex-CEO of Driscoll Pharmaceuticals, Ciaran’s father.

Chrollo’s grip on the wheel tightened, leather burning against his palms at the mere thought of dirty business. Illegal dealings. It was possible he had a hand in Sarasa's kidnapping. Mr. Driscoll didn’t belong in jail, no, he belonged before the barrel of Chrollo’s gun.

Taking another glance at your sleeping form, Chrollo quietly pulled over to the side of the road, putting the car in park before twisting his torso to face you. Warm streetlights casted a gentle glow upon your features, piercing grey eyes carefully tracing each one as though you were a divine creature—otherworldly, and beautiful.

You looked so peaceful, and undisturbed. Vulnerable.

While his eyes remained on you, Chrollo slowly slid a hand inside his blazer, reaching for the gun affixed by his hip.

The assassin pulled it out, pointing the barrel to your head, the weapon cool against the warmth of his hand. In, and out, he drew steady breaths, forefinger hovering over the trigger—one pull, and it’d be over.

The problem was, Chrollo couldn’t do it.

He has pulled the trigger countless times as though it was second nature, so why couldn’t he do it now? He couldn’t even bring himself to let his digit touch it.

As you stirred in your sleep, Chrollo swiftly tucked the gun back in his holster, and faced forward. Shaky, uneven breaths slipped past his parted lips, the sound of his heartbeat clouding his senses.

Hands balling into fists, he wondered what had gotten into him, mind racing with a million thoughts as he drowned in pure uncertainty. Chrollo stared at his hands—the same hands that have spilled blood countless times, the same hands that killed without a second thought, the same hands that were tasked to murder you.

Yet here he was, unable to do so as if it were his first time.

“Chrollo?” You mumbled aloud. As you peeled your eyes open, you tried to register your surroundings. “Why did we stop? Is there something wrong?”

He cleared his throat, taking a quick glance through the rearview mirror before shaking his head, “No, miss. I just had to take a quick call, my apologies.” With that, Chrollo pulled away from the side of the road, taking you back to the estate.

The ride home was silent. Fortunately for Chrollo, this gave him the opportunity to calm his thoughts, and steady his growing breaths.

Obviously this has never happened before, especially while out on a mission; it made sense for the assassin to lose his cool a bit after hesitating. If anything, it was akin to a bird suddenly losing the ability to fly when flying was the only thing it knew. To make things worse, Chrollo had just broken the unspoken rule of the underworld—to never hesitate.

To the underworld, hesitating meant fragility, and fragility meant that the enemy had the upper hand. He was confused, and conflicted, more so upset at himself for being such a coward—why was he a coward?

After returning to the estate, you softly called out to Chrollo who was heading to the staff house, “Do you want to come inside?” All it took was that foreign look in your face for him to fully understand what you meant.

He didn’t have to assume anything—you’ve never looked at Chrollo with such a burning gaze, full of intent, and vulnerability. God, it was a brazen move to do so but you wished he agreed. All you needed was a little company at the moment.

Something in the air shifted. Maybe it was because you were both stripped of your layers, baring your defenceless forms out in the open. Maybe it was the way Chrollo’s rational thinking became compromised on the way home. Or maybe it was how you oddly felt comfortable around his presence, as though he was a lifelong friend.

Nonetheless, Chrollo found himself inside your bedroom, and as expected, it was grand, spacious, fit for a billionaire’s daughter. Sweet aroma of fresh chrysanthemum’s filled the air but it was nothing like he had remembered back in Meteor City which was laced with grief, and sorrow. Instead, it enveloped Chrollo in a warm welcoming hug, he could finally understand your interpretation of chrysanthemums—devoted love, and loyalty.

Moonlight spilled from the windows, illuminating the side of Chrollo’s face. He was just standing there yet he mirrored the divinity of an angel as soft shadows contoured his handsome face, dark eyes gleaming beneath the dulcet glow; you’ve never been able to decipher the emotions behind his gaze but tonight was different, his stare was soft mixed with hint of uncertainty; Chrollo wore his heart on his sleeves.

“Help me escape even for a little while.” 

Like the obedient bodyguard he was, he nodded. Chrollo took one step closer, reaching out a hand to gently undo one of the satin ribbon straps. The flimsy fabric gracefully slid off your right shoulder, just enough to expose your pert nipple. It hardened beneath the cool evening air which had Chrollo swallowing thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing with pure excitement, and hunger; oh, how he couldn’t wait to put his lips on your skin, and devour you.

Wasting no time to undo the other ribbon strap, your nightgown instantly fell to the carpeted floors, the fabric pooling around your feet, leaving you almost completely bare in front of Chrollo.

Your skin grew feverish beneath his observant stare as he traced every dip, and curve, dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. After a heartbeat or two, Chrollo’s lips were on your skin, palms finding home just above your waist; he placed gentle kisses down the side of your neck as though on a mission to mark you, pulling dainty gasps in the process.

You tasted absolutely divine—like a hopeful prayer between his lips, and he craved for more. Soft smacks slowly filled your ears as he praised you with kisses. Down, down, down Chrollo’s lips went before stopping at the junction of your neck, he gave the sensitive skin an experimental lick to which you responded with a heated gasp of his name.

Tilting your head to the side allowed more freedom for Chrollo to explore; hands coming up to tangle with his raven strands, and tug at it urged him to mark your skin with hues of dark purple, and red.

And he did. Gentle, wet kisses turned into rough, electric ones as Chrollo used both teeth, and tongue to nip, and suck at your skin.

“Chrollo—!” 

The assassin could only grunt in response as he carved himself onto your skin like knife on wood—over, and over again ‘til it left a lasting mark. And when you stare at these sinful hues in the mirror, you’d be reminded of the feel of his lips, how his kisses turned your legs into a wobbly mess, and mind into a lustful haze.

Embarrassing, warm wetness pooled on the fabric of your panties as Chrollo neared your breasts, you watched with a bated breath, and keen eyes as he wrapped his lips around a mound—the sinful sight of Chrollo trying to take in as much of it as he could had your legs buckling, you were sure to have met the floor if it weren’t for his firm hold.

You let out a soft moan at the feel of his hot tongue swirling around your nipple, teeth gently grazing the sensitive spot which sent lightning down the length of your spine.

Eager hands tugged at the roots of his obsidian strands, nails raking across his scalp; it was beyond lewd how you readily pushed your bare body into Chrollo’s face—a man you’ve only known for less than a month yet here he was, wicked lips made of fire against your naked skin that melted like ice.

A large hand snaked its way up your front, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and pausing just beneath the other breast before cupping it wholly—the heart of his palm rubbing against your sensitive nipple as he massaged, and toyed with the fat.

Without an ounce of shame left in inside you, you wantonly moaned his name at the feel of his lips, and hand making love to your chest, it had Chrollo twitching in his slacks but he paid no mind to it because tonight was about ravishing your body until no one else could compare—not even Euan Heston.

Chrollo didn’t know what this meant for the both of you after but that was okay because once the night ends, your body would crave for none but him, and only him.

Chrollo let go of your swollen, wet breast with a soft pop, he looked up through his lashes before licking his lips, as though he just devoured the tastiest meal of his life.

Working his way down your torso, he placed chaste kisses down the valley of your breasts, steadily sinking to his knees as he descended further, each passing second growing closer to your heat—where you needed him the most.

Before Chrollo could kiss the intimate spot just below your belly button, you cupped his face, making him look up at you with slight confusion,

“On the bed . .”

Three words was all he needed to understand before standing to his full height, “Jump.” Chrollo ordered. You didn’t need to be told twice before doing so, arms, and legs wrapping around him while he supported your weight.

As Chrollo sauntered to the bed, you used the time to eagerly explore the spot beneath his ear, using teeth, and tongue to suck at it which pulled a few soft sighs from him. His intoxicating scent filled your senses, the sweet minty aroma from chrysanthemums mixed with his musky perfume had you groaning into his skin.

He shuddered at the feeling, the tips of his fingers digging further into the fat of your ass.

Gently laying you down on the pillows beneath, he stared at the serene beauty before him, steely eyes drinking in your nakedness. Chrollo’s stare felt like you stood directly under the blazing sun on a summer day, igniting your skin to the core without anywhere to take cover but you liked it, you liked the feeling of his hungry stare, how he looked at you like fresh meat on a silver platter—a predator, and his prey.

As if to put on a show, Chrollo hastily shrugged off his blazer, mindlessly throwing it on the floor, leaving him with a white button down. He caught a glimpse of your lust-clouded gaze staring at the gun affixed to his hip to which he immediately removed by unclasping the holster.

The weapon landed on the floor with a heavy thud, you paid no mind to it but for Chrollo, it served as a harsh reminder of his real motive, and everything that would happen tonight was nothing but an insignificant moment in his life.

At least that's what he convinced himself this was.

The mattress groaned beneath Chrollo’s weight as he dipped down, wasting no time to connect his lips on your bare skin, and picking up where he left off—right below your belly button.

He kissed at it before wickedly pulling the waistband of your panties using his lips, and letting go of it to snap against your skin. A small gasp escaped your lips at the feel of the slight burning sensation which had you aching for more; it also didn’t help how his hot breath ghosted over the most intimate part of your body.

Though, before you could open your mouth, and beg, Chrollo hooked a forefinger around the waistband, and swiftly tugged it down the length of your legs, wet cunt squeezing at nothing as the cool air embraced its heat.  

Chrollo took his time to enjoy the bare sight before him by placing open-mouthed kisses dangerously near your sopping cunt—on your inner thighs, below your belly button, and the spot just above your clit. It had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, fingers digging into the sheets beneath; what a wicked, wicked man, he hasn’t even properly touched you yet here you were, legs shaking from all the teasing.

Pride bloomed across his chest at the sight of you—the fucked out expression you donned, the heavy rise, and fall of your chest, and the dainty whimpers that filled the air.

Hooking his hands behind your knees, Chrollo gently pushed them towards your chest ‘til you were folded in half, glistening cunt deliciously exposed for him to devour.

A wanton moan slipped past your lips as Chrollo traced his tongue around the outside of your clit before laying the wet muscle flat against it. He expertly rubbed at the sensitive nub, lewd sounds mixed with your shameless moans engulfed his ears, encouraging him to further stimulate the spot.

Your hips bucked against his face, hands flying down to his hair as the electric sensation returned to your body, sending massive jolts of lightning down the curve of your spine.

“Chrollo, right there! Yes—haah!” You gasped as he switched to the tip of his tongue to lick at your clit. 

Chrollo placed his thumb, and forefinger on either side of your clit for better access before moving his tongue side-to-side, across the area beneath the clitoral hood, resulting in a broader stimulation that had you stiffening with pure pleasure.

Looking down at the sinful view between your legs, you let out a loud moan as Chrollo met your eyes through his hooded ones. Without a doubt, ecstasy slowly consumed both his body, and mind with how he subtly rocked his hips against the mattress—cock aching for any kind of contact but Chrollo had to focus more on holding your hips down while you unceremoniously thrashed around, trying to slow your impending orgasm.

As Chrollo continued his torture, it didn’t take long for you to let pleasure consume your body as a whole, and cum on his tongue.

He drank in your pleasured state—lips parted, brows furrowed, and back arched off the mattress; the orgasm that hit you was intense, as though your whole body has been electrified, and the only way to respond was by moaning his name like a sacred prayer in hopes you keep you grounded to reality.

Relishing the taste of your essence on his tongue, he closed his eyes, humming against your sensitive nub in complete satisfaction which had your legs shaking, and hands attempting to push his head away. He gave a few more gentle licks before pulling away, revealing his chin completely drenched in your filthy arousal—Chrollo paid no mind, simply bringing a hand up to his face to wipe at it.

You watched through a lustful haze as Chrollo finally worked on his shirt, each button undone growing closer, and closer to exposing the entirety of his torso.

As he shrugged the fabric off, you couldn’t help but reach out to touch his bare skin—it was pale, fascinatingly chiselled, and scarred; Chrollo’s torso was decorated with a few raised, discoloured patches here, and there indicating the rough past he had. He stared as you traced a scar with your forefinger—a ghostly touch that brought a shudder down his spine—but before you could move onto the next one, Chrollo gently grabbed your wrist, and brought it up to his face, placing a chaste kiss on the heart of your palm.

By no means was he insecure about those scars, in fact, he proudly wore them like a badge, to serve as a reminder that the rest of the world wasn’t his friend.

You’d be lying to yourself if you said your heart didn’t skip a beat or two.

The kiss from Chrollo was different—different from the one Euan had given you during the company event. Yes, the latter was full of sincerity but it didn’t bring warmth to your face like Chrollo’s one had.

Or maybe it was just because of how lost you were in pure lust, unable to decipher even the simplest feelings.

“Tonight is all about you.”

Chrollo shouldn’t be doing this, it goes against his beliefs, and goals—against the very reason why he turned into the person who he was right now.

Mingling with the wealthy, even going to an extent as to have sex with you, if his younger self saw him right now, he wouldn’t be able to believe it.

But what was it about you that had Chrollo rewriting his rules? Why was he so willing to throw away the deep rooted anger inside his heart to pleasure you?

Moreso, what did he gain from all this?—not money, not power, definitely not the justice he sought.

Nonetheless, Chrollo threw those thoughts in the moonlit window—he’d grab them again later at the crack of dawn while guilt eats him alive. Slowly, he dipped his hands below his torso, fumbling with the zipper of his slacks; Chrollo felt your heated stare on his crotch, how your short breaths quickened as he tantalisingly pulled the metal zip down, the sound echoed along with your breathing, allowing Chrollo to bask in your desperation.

You thanked the stars above as he bared himself without anymore teasing, articles of clothing that once hugged his body were now strewn across the floor of your room like unmended pieces of oneself.

Moonlight surrounded Chrollo like a serene aura, an angelic-like glow that had his skin radiating beneath the celestial gleam, turning his hair into the colour of the first starlight. It was hard to focus on his heavenly appearance when sin was right between his legs.

“Do you want me to stop?” 

No, god, no, just the thought of Chrollo completely leaving you high, and dry brought tears to your eyes. Shaking your head vigorously, he crawled atop your lust-fuelled body before placing a chaste kiss on your temple then onto your nose, trailing further down ‘til he reached the valley of your breasts. You let out a shudder as Chrollo lapped his way down, not forgetting to tease at your pebbled nipples by giving them a light nip.

“Chrollo, please . .” For once, this was different from what was usually thrown his way—most people begged for their lives as they stared down the barrel of his gun with pure horror in their eyes, lips disturbingly quivering as they pleaded during their last moments.

Wasting no time, Chrollo met your gaze once more, his face mere centimetres from yours. You gasped as his cockhead gently prodded at your entrance as he reached down between your bodies, he rubbed it a few more times, the sinful contact earning low grunts, and moans from both of you.

Chrollo connected his forehead with yours, damp obsidian hair ghosting over your warmed cheeks, holding it in a gentle caress

Letting out a shaky breath, his cock slowly pushed your folds apart as he inched in. Immediately, your legs curled around the dip of his bare waist, interlocking behind his lower back; your hasty movement jolted Chrollo forward which forced his cock further into the plush of your velvety walls.

He sighed, cursing the eye rolling pleasure sent his body into a pathetic tremble. Though, you were no better, clenching around Chrollo every time he pushed deeper—not only did it test his sanity but it also tested his patience.

He reminded himself a million times that simply fucking you like a mere cocksleeve was not his intention for tonight. Or ever. Rich or not, you were still a woman after all, one deserving of nothing but genuine pleasure.

As Chrollo bottomed out, he held your starry gaze, watching as your eyes glistened with tears—whether it was from the bliss his cock had you under or from sadness, he had no idea.

You felt so full, as though the gaping void inside you had been magically sealed—his cock sat there unmoving yet it hit all the right spots, the ones that had you trembling a little harder, and moaning a little louder.

Hot breaths mingled as the two of you let out heavy pants, he stilled inside your wet cunt, allowing both himself, and you to adjust to the feeling, “You’re so tight—fuck.” You gave your hips an experimental rut at his words which pulled a long hiss from him, brows furrowing together.

After a heartbeat or two, Chrollo slowly pulled out, the languid drag of his cock against the plush of your walls had you whining in the shape of his name. It went straight to his cock, twitching at the pornographic sound you let out—if you noticed, you didn’t let on, you were too focused on the way he moved inside you.

With only the tip remaining, Chrollo pushed his hips using the same pace; all the way until he disappeared in your folds once again, heavy balls kissing the skin of your ass.

You could feel the entirety of his length—every dip, and curve which had your legs shaking, and toes curling a little harder. Chrollo’s cock was slightly curved upward which allowed an easy reach to your sweet spot, and with every languid thrust he gave you, his cockhead kissed it repeatedly.

Hands that were pinned to the pillows were released as Chrollo brought a hand to caress your cheek while the other supported his weight. You leaned into his fiery touch, as if doing so was going to ground you from cloud nine. 

Setting a deep, slow pace, Chrollo’s face remained a breath away from yours—he kept eye contact, nothing but an endless pit of alluring onyx that pulled you further into the ocean of bliss. Every languid stroke pulled oxygen from your lungs, it had you desperately gasping for air, one which only Chrollo could quench by whispering sweet nothings mere inches from your parted lips.

Mixed with breathless sighs of pleasure was the soft creaking of the bed frame which sung in unison beneath the weight of your rocking bodies. The air grew impossibly thick, and hot allowing the sheets to stick uncomfortably to your bare back but you didn’t care, not when Chrollo fucked you into the mattress as if the sun was going to burn out tomorrow.

You pulled him closer, arms instinctively wrapping around his torso to decorate his back with crimson streaks.

The sharp sting of your nails fuelled Chrollo’s drive—he picked up the pace but remained bottoming out with every powerful thrust, causing your body to jolt in response.

You clung to him tighter, legs painfully locked behind his back as he did his best to move in, and out of your sopping cunt. You were close, and despite Chrollo taking you for the first time, he knew—he could feel your body stiffen with each passing second, the way your greedy cunt grew impossibly tighter, making it hard for him move, and not to mention your broken cries of his name so close to his ears that those were all he could hear.

“I’m so near—god, please don’t stop, Chrollo—!” You sounded so vulnerable, so bare it made his cock twitch.

Greed consuming his pleasured state, Chrollo wrapped an arm around your shoulders, deftly snaking it between the mattress, and your back. He pulled you closer, the weight of your limp torso straining against his curled limb while the other supported his own body.

Chrollo cradled your head with his palm, pushing your face closer to his ‘til the tip of his nose brushed your own. Oh, how tempted he was to kiss the very lips that cried out his name as if he were your saving grace—an angel with his hand stretched out to you.

Barely a whisper above the heavy breaths you exchanged, your name smoothly rolled off his tongue. It was the first time Chrollo did so, and god how addictive it sounded; you shuddered at it, his dulcet voice engulfing the entirety of your being right down to your very core.

“You’ve been so good, are you going to cum? To let go, for me?”

With the minute space left between the two of you, you vigorously nodded your head, too fucked to care about the desperation that seeped from your skin like sweat. Chrollo moaned at your wordless response, fingers slightly curling at the back of your head, his nails dragging across your scalp,

“Haah—! That’s right, give in to it.”

And you did.

With a final drive of his hips, you came undone—the pressure that’s been slowly building up finally bursting inside you.

A broken moan escaped your lips, body arching closer to his as you let your orgasm take you beyond cloud nine.

As if you weren’t already breathless from panting like a whore, Chrollo greedily pressed his lips against your quivering ones to capture them in a passionate kiss.

His lips were soft, and sensual, like it was sculpted by the goddess of love herself. He greedily drank in every moan, and whimper you had to offer, claiming them as his own prized possession to keep. Chrollo’s pace faltered at the feel of your cum coating his cock in a warm embrace—a feeling he’s been deprived off, a feeling he didn’t know he needed.

Pulling away from the kiss, he spoke, breathless, “I’m close—fuck. Where do y—” “Inside.” Chrollo swallowed thickly with your legs tightening around him. It dizzied him, the thought of you so willing to let your insides be marked by him without a second thought.

A small gasp escaped you as he gently set you down onto the mattress, his cockhead brushing your sensitive spot. With his orgasm near, Chrollo dropped his body on top of your own, torsos flush against each other as he trapped you with his weight.

With his own pleasure in mind, Chrollo gave short, hasty thrusts, desperately rutting his hips to chase the growing bliss. The only option for you was to lay there, and moan his name from overstimulation; with his weight on yours, you couldn’t squirm your way out of the immense pleasure.

“I’m here—ngh! ‘M close.” Chrollo whispered into your ear, a hint of apology laced his tone, most likely from how overstimulated you were.

After a few more desperate thrusts, he stilled, sheathing his cock all the way inside your cunt, you felt him twitch before releasing his load with a low moan. 

Feeling his hot cum paint your walls white, you mirrored the sound he made. Loud, wet squelches filled the room as Chrollo rode out his high, effectively fucking his cum deeper.

The two of you stayed still for a moment, letting your bodies bathe in serene moonlight. You laid beneath him, listening to his rhythmic heartbeat pound away against his ribcage, it effectively lulled you to the borders of sleep, your heavy eyelids slowly closing in exhaustion.

Though, before you could fully close them, Chrollo rolled off your body with a soft grunt, his cock slipping out in the process. The loss of contact had you clenching around nothing at the feel of his cum slowly seeping out of your cunt. Before you could speak up, Chrollo beat you to it,

“I should go.” He cleared his throat, voice low, a hint of sadness laced in his tone. Though, you didn’t catch on. Chrollo quietly gathered his clothes, putting them on layer by layer until he was fully clothed. An indiscernible emotion washed over you as he made his way to the door, each quiet step taken tugging at an invisible string tangled in your heart. Oddly enough, it stung.

“Yeah . .” You nodded in a daze.

The lack of response from your end tore at Chrollo’s insides—it made sense, after all, he was nothing but a quick fuck, what did he expect? For you to convince him to stay the night? That was beyond delusional.

As Chrollo reached for the handle, you called his name out of instinct. His heart skipped a beat. “Yes, miss . . ?” He spoke your title in a small voice, unsure which name was appropriate in this situation.

“Thank you.”

That was all you could muster. What else was there anyway? Chrollo wasn’t a person you were supposed to be sleeping with in the first place, nor was he your lover who you could be intimate with after sex.

He was nothing but a bodyguard, and will remain your bodyguard. Whatever happened in this room was to be forgotten.

The sound of the door clicking reached your ears, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone. His scent lingered in the air, becoming one with the sweet aroma of chrysanthemums.

Within the next coming days, you were right, and wrong. Right because in the face of others, the professional relationship between you, and Chrollo remained—a bodyguard, and his principal.

Wrong because stupidly enough, the both of you had not forgotten what happened a couple of nights back. The days were filled with stolen glances, and stuttering heartbeats, you couldn’t stand by idly while your heart yearned for your bodyguard.

At first, you convinced yourself that this feeling was purely lust-driven, it was only natural to seek out Chrollo’s presence after a night with him.

You believed it for a week.

One whole week until you felt your heart clenching at the sight of your bodyguard exchanging a conversation with one of the maids. Chrollo was all smiles, the kind that reached his eyes; the maid wasn’t any better, an obvious blush extending from her cheeks to her ears said it all.

He never smiled at you like that.

Why was he treating you—his boss—any different? Chrollo was always nonchalant with you, barely any words spoken yet here he was animatedly cracking jokes left, and right like he had some kind of alter ego. It pissed you off.

More so, being angry at the fact that Chrollo treated you differently upset you even more. At best, this was a trivial matter, something you shouldn’t even think about. 

But you couldn’t let go of it, not when he gazed at you the same way he had done so that night.

Within the next week, you’d realise that merely having Chrollo by your side wasn’t enough.

On Monday, you did your best to converse with him while buying chrysanthemums at the boutique, even going as far as giving him a flower from your bouquet, hoping that he’d think of you whenever he looked at it.

On Wednesday, instead of asking your personal assistant to grab your lunch, you took Chrollo instead, and headed out the office which gave you more alone time with him. 

And by Friday, you couldn’t take it anymore. You called Chrollo into your bedroom late at night after finding the courage to do so. Naturally, he stood inside as if he didn’t have you filling the room with your own moans two weeks ago.

The familiar sweet scent of chrysanthemums filled his lungs, taking him back to the pleasure-filled night with you. Chrollo pushed the thought down, deeming it extremely inappropriate, especially being alone with you like this, again.

He swallowed as you pat the empty spot next to you, your vulnerable state beckoning him to devour you. Who was he to deny himself of acting on his predatory instincts? 

“This is . . rather unprofessional, miss.”

That was the last thing he said before he found himself sitting on the edge of your bed, kissing you like he loved you. Did he? Large hands cupped your jaw, eagerly pulling you closer to his face. Even though Chrollo didn’t bare his heart, the zeal behind his kisses revealed the truth hidden in his chest.

Both lips fell into a unison, slotting into each other like they were made for one another. Before getting carried away, Chrollo pulled back, brows lifting in amusement as he watched the way your face leaned in, searching for his lips.

“What—What about Mr. Euan?” He asked, breathless, onyx strands dishevelled, courtesy of your wandering hands. 

You both knew you didn’t have feelings for Euan but saying it aloud wasn’t going to change the fact that a ring sat on your finger, it was far more complicated than that.

Lowering your gaze, you shrugged. Guilt picked at your skin, the thought of disrespecting Euan had you freezing in place. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be prying.” Chrollo whispered, hot breath fanning across your face. He tucked a strand behind your ear before sliding his digit down to your chin, lifting your face.

“Kiss me?”

You didn’t have to be told twice.

What the two of you had wasn’t exactly a relationship—beyond a professional relationship but less than a romantic one. But Chrollo cared for you all the same, even if it meant watching in the sidelines as Euan made his polite advances—kiss on your cheek, a hand on the small of your back, his fingers tucking stray hairs aside, Chrollo endured it all. Whether or not it affected him, he didn’t let on.

Instead, he returned affection tenfold in comparison to what Euan gave you. Your room had turned into a rendezvous—every night, behind its closed doors, Chrollo took you in his arms, and whisked you away from reality, from all the inhibitions you felt. And amidst all the meaningful conversations, the shared pleasure, the tears shed, a bond deeper than one could comprehend blossomed within these walls.

Chrollo became a rock you could lean on—a significant person you could be vulnerable with, and bare your heart on the table, unguarded. He listened to your problems, and silly thoughts with open arms, and ears, stroking your hair beneath the moonlight as the two of you lay underneath the ivory sheets.

With you, he was a completely different person, a person who he deserved to become. One that could relate to the little joys in life—whether it be chasing sunsets, dipping salty fries in vanilla ice cream or looking up at the night sky without any remorse in one's heart.

With you, Chrollo had a fleeting glimpse of the life he was robbed of because all he knew was how to survive for another day—how to kill swiftly, and effectively.

And he’d be reminded of all these when returned to his own quarters in the dead of the night. That the sole purpose of his arrangement in this estate was to take you out—not to nurture a bond with you, not to have sex with you, not to listen to all your thoughts, no. Chrollo was here as your assassin.

To hold you so gently in his hands knowing they would be the same ones covered in your blood. It was almost laughable, it surprised Chrollo how he—a person conditioned to destroy—was able to touch you with the utmost gentleness as if he’s never once tasted violence on his tongue.

Clearly, you both felt something for one another but acting on it was easier said than done—not to mention how this mission wasn’t supposed to end up like this, all tangled up in a web known as you. 

Did Chrollo love you? Truth be told, he didn’t know. He never had the privilege of experiencing what romantic love was. Wanting to be by your side was the only thing he was certain of.

Lying in bed, Chrollo looked over at his nightstand, it housed a singular piece of chrysanthemum soaked in a glass of water—one that you had given him earlier this week. Now, his room smelled just like yours, the flower’s sweet aroma lingering in the air.

It helped Chrollo sleep a little better; smelling its familiar scent tricked his mind into thinking he slept in your presence.

A little over a week.

That was how much time Chrollo had left to get the job done assigned by Ciaran. It wasn’t long, and he knew he had to make the decision soon but not before taking a gamble.

As Saturday arrived, you stuck to your routine as usual, the only difference was, the late night was spent driving around with Chrollo.

The atmosphere inside the vehicle grew thicker by the minute, he could tell something weighed your mind from the way you pursed your lips, and fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. But of course, the ever polite man he was, he waited ‘til you opened up to him—Chrollo knew you like the back of his hand, whenever things bothered you to an extent, it didn’t take long for you to break.

“Can I tell you something?” You murmured above the hum of the engine. Staring to the side, you watched as Chrollo wordlessly nodded his head, stealing a brief glance your way before focusing on the wheel. He took notice of how you sat on the front passenger seat instead of your usual spot.

Looking out the window, you spoke up, “I . . don’t know how to deal with all this.” Chrollo remained silent, urging you to continue. “I’m going to be married to a man I don’t love, and I’ll be running a company I don’t want. And us. I want you, Chrollo, I really do but I . .”

Chrollo’s grip tightened around the wheel.

“Why don’t we just run away, and leave all this behind? We can build a new life together and—” 

“Is that what you want? To run away with me?” Chrollo cut you off. Coming to a full stop at the red lights, he turned to you, the seriousness in his expression made you somewhat nervous.

Would it be foolish of him to comfort you with words he partially meant?—words that would only hurt you in the end?

“I can give you that.”

At this point, Chrollo was lying to himself. To be so brazen, and accept running away with you knowing well enough his neck was chained to the underground—loyal to his roots.

Weighing the options, it was crystal clear that the odds were against the both of you. Of course, you didn’t know that, you had absolutely no idea Chrollo had underground ties nor was he assigned to kill you by none other than Ciaran.

Considering the latter’s involvement in underground business, you wouldn’t be the only one with a target on their back; it only made sense for Ciaran to put a hit on Chrollo as well for disobeying his orders if he were to consider running away. It would elicit a whole lot of enemies, and he couldn’t put you in a situation where he was willing to risk you dying in someone else’s hands. 

Living a life hiding from dangers of the world—that’s what you would have to go through if you, and Chrollo were to run away. Did you really deserve to live that way? Did you deserve to live in the conditions Chrollo tried to run away from?

The answer was more than obvious.

Obviously, a life with Euan benefitted you more—you’d have more stability, and security. Who was he to take away all those things from you?

Having never tasted something as sweet as this feeling with you, Chrollo found himself holding tighter rather than letting go, he fed on greed, and delusion. 

Truth be told, it tore him apart. A part of him cursed, and yelled at him for being so naïve, and easily moved by a woman he had only known for a month and a half—not to mention how he despised your kind.

The other part urged him to reach for the unthinkable, and build a new life he deserved, with you. Chrollo was ready to lay his weapon down if it meant being by your side ‘til the end of time.

Maybe in another life.

He knew he had to make a decision. Soon. Ciaran had been making calls to his burner more often than not, and he could sense the former’s patience growing thinner, and thinner as each day turned into night.

Whatever Chrollo’s decision was, he just hoped you’d still love him all the same—forgive him.

There was one crucial piece of information Chrollo had remembered. On Sundays, you dismissed all security staff that accompanied you, including the chauffeur, Lukas. This meant that for one day, you were completely unguarded, and alone.

Chrollo was unaware of the reason but it was obvious you wanted to experience a sense of independence one way or another.

Nonetheless, he managed to keep an eye on you by using an ample amount of distance—it was a piece of cake, after all, he tracked his targets in stealth mode for a living; akin to a predator sizing up its prey before sinking its canines.

Sundays weren’t particularly eventful, you spent the day alone running around swiping your credit card left, and right until it made you feel a tad better. So when Chrollo had ‘accidentally’ bumped into you at the parking lot, hidden from public cameras, he was aware of how effortless it was to whisk you away from the public.

“Chrollo? What brings you here?”

The bodyguard was dressed in his usual attire, a white button down neatly tucked beneath his black slacks, and this time, he didn’t wear a blazer.

“I figured you’d be here, miss. Something came up at the estate—you’re needed back home.” A lie.

Chrollo observed as the sparkle in your eyes drained at his words, genuine concern rolling in like grey clouds looming above on a stormy night. His heart clenched. Not in a good way. “Don’t worry, no one is hurt.” With his reassurance, your shoulders dropped with ease, the breath you’ve been holding slipped past your lips in a relieved sigh.

It pained the assassin how trusting you were, how easily one could play you into the palm of their hand the same way he did right now. Why?—why didn’t you question how effortlessly Chrollo pinpointed your exact location? The city was expansive, no normal person would be able to trace your steps unless they followed right from when you left the estate.

The vehicle was quiet, leaving room for Chrollo to notice the faint scent of chrysanthemums inside—it was your personal car, not the one Lukas used to drive you around hence the flowery aroma.

For some odd reason, the smell no longer comforted him the same way it did whenever he frequented your room. It made him nauseous. If Chrollo was to put it in words, the aroma smelled of sweet death, and it reminded him of the church back in Meteor City.

Consumed by concern, and lost in your own thoughts, you paid no attention to your surroundings outside, how it grew less, and less familiar with each kilometre driven by your bodyguard. You also didn’t notice Chrollo repeatedly stealing glances through the rearview mirror every now, and then, missing the way his steely gaze housed a hint of nervousness—an emotion he didn’t normally harbour.

Though, as you finally came to, you gazed out the window, eyes carefully scanning the fleeting hues outside as the car drove by. Soft colours of pinks, and oranges seeped through the glass which casted an ethereal glow inside, it hinted at the setting sun, and the darkness that loomed just around the corner. As your brain registered the foreign roads, confusion settled in, 

“Are we taking a detour, Chrollo?”

He wordlessly nodded. You mirrored his action in acknowledgement but the feeling of unease was oddly difficult to dismiss, especially with how deserted these roads were. The streets were decorated with construction sites, abandoned buildings, and old houses that were decorated with wooden planks to seal off windows, and entrances.

A weird feeling settled in the pit of your stomach. You caught the way Chrollo’s stone cold gaze locked with yours for a split second but didn’t dare speak up.

Just as your heart started to race, the vehicle came to a halt, Chrollo had parked in front of an abandoned building—an old church, based on its architecture. Its unmistakable pointed roof aiming at the skies above, and stained glass windows marked with angels, and other holy beings said it all.

The building was surrounded by overgrown greenery, and wrecked furniture dumped on the side which hinted at years of apparent neglect. Its dressed stone walls were the epitome of sacrilege itself, littered with colourful vandalism from top to bottom; even just seeing it with your own eyes felt like a grave sin. A forbidden image.

“What—” “Get out.” Chrollo cut you off. For a tone so cold you could’ve swore a subtle shudder ran down the length of your spine. His stare met your own through the mirror for a second time and your heart sank all the way down to your stomach at how serious he was, dread slowly engulfing your body. What the hell was happening!? Why was Chrollo acting strangely?

“No.”

Chrollo turned to face you, still wearing that stoic expression. You felt small under his gaze, it almost felt predatory—no—not almost, it did; you didn’t want to admit but you caught a glimpse of the way his eyes sparkled with sharp, murderous intent.

Swallowing thickly, you crossed your arms, trying to appear nonchalant, albeit, it was more for yourself than for the man before you.

“Not until I get an answer. You mentioned something had come up at the estate, so why aren’t we—” “I lied.”

Before you could question his motives, Chrollo swiftly got out, the resounding thud as he shut the door closed had your body flinching a bit. You watched as he rounded the car, and made his way just before your door.

Opening it, a hand reached in for your wrist; gentle fingers curled around your skin as if you were a delicate flower—a daring contrast from the way his piercing gaze stabbed shards of unease throughout your body.

You pulled away, easily slipping off Chrollo’s placid grasp before helping yourself out of the vehicle. His hand curled into a loose fist as he watched you exit the car with an evident scowl on your face; funnily enough, Chrollo had the audacity to feel upset at the rejection. Never once have you denied his touch.

Crossing the narrow clearing that led to the unsealed church entrance, chunks of loose stone, and dirt moved beneath your steps; you stared at your feet as they navigated through the unstable terrain.

It was odd. Calm, and composed were the last two things you should be feeling in this situation, given the sudden shift in Chrollo’s demeanour, you were supposed to be fearing for your life right this instance despite your blindness to the hidden danger that lay ahead.

Chrollo . . He would never do that to you, right? Upon taking the job, he swore to protect you. But your better judgement screamed at all the glaring crimson coloured flags—an abandoned church in a deserted neighbourhood? It was the perfect set up for heinous crimes.

Out of instinct, you scanned the layout of the building from where you stood, if it came down to it, there was only one viable escape route which was through the main entrance of the church, the one Chrollo pulled open.

By now, the sun had fully disappeared below the horizon, and the colourful remnants the burning star left in its wake slowly faded into deep hues of night azure. Strangely, this end of the town harboured harsher winds with a freezing bite that had you rubbing your arms over the sleeves of your top.

A heavy groan sounded from the mahogany doors, it cut through the wind’s endless howl as it danced with the leaves, and through the sharp branches, interlocking trees in a soft sway.

A chill ran down your spine at the loudness of it. The doors parted revealing a view you’d expect in an old abandoned church—disorganised pews to create a spacing in the middle, antique chandeliers affixed to the high ceiling covered in thick layers of dust and cobwebs, and trash scattered across its marbled floors; by the state of the inside, squatters most likely frequented the building due to its unsealed entrance.

The inside was dimly lit from street lights outside, it poured through the stained glass windows which allowed a deep scarlet glow to illuminate the building. Chrollo stepped inside, the soles of his obsidian dress shoes quietly clicked with every calculated step further into the church.

Foolishly enough, you followed as though a crimson string bound yourself to his—he was acting strangely, and the most appropriate approach as of now was to question his behaviour, and the bizarreness of the situation. Walking away would only prove useless with how far he has driven, and he had your car keys; at best, you could only cooperate.

“Chrollo, will you please tell me what’s going on?” You navigated inside the old building, the scent of mildew, and rotten wood lingered in the damp air, it captured your senses in a tight hold.

Ruby bounced off Chrollo’s inky strands as he stood at the heart of the church, right beneath the stained windows with divine beings. It turned his pale skin into an angry red, and you wondered if that’s what he felt right this very moment, clearly you weren’t far off with how he pierced your soul earlier.

He turned to face you, “I’m doing this for your sake.” For the first time today, emotion seeped through the cracks of his nonchalance. 

Chrollo looked almost sad, you weren’t entirely sure given the lack of lighting but the unmistakable glint behind those obsidian eyes was anything but foreign. For a split second, it was the same Chrollo that spent countless nights in your bedroom; not as your bodyguard, not as anyone else but simply as Chrollo—your Chrollo.

“For my sake? What the hell are you talking about, Chrollo?” Like the vermillion glow that bounced off your skin as you stepped closer, anger slowly bubbled in the pit of your stomach. Chrollo was nothing but cryptic with his responses, and you couldn’t wrap your head around any of them! He had always been a straightforward person, sometimes blunt, so why was he holding back now?

Standing beneath the scarlet light softly illuminated your features, Chrollo thought you looked exquisite bathed in the brilliance of red. Even with a tinge of doubt, and anger in your eyes, you were filled with love the same way the colour kissed every part of your skin.

“An escape from all this . . That’s what you want, right?” With his right hand, Chrollo reached inside his pocket, it took you a few seconds to identify the item in his hand—a gun.

With the way it’s unmistakable silver glistened beneath the dim lighting, you could tell it was a weapon of his own; not the ones registered under your father’s name. You stiffened, and your body ran cold, gaze met with the barrel of his gun.

“Chrollo?” Barely a whisper, you called out his name above the thick atmosphere, each second spent inside it had you desperately gasping for air; whether it be from nervousness or confusion, you didn’t care to find out.

He swallowed thickly, fingers curling tighter around the handle of his gun, trying to ignore the way your desperate plea violently struck a chord in his heart.

“Chrollo please put the gun down! You’re out of your mind!” Panic surged from head to toe, it came in vicious waves, scratching, and gnawing at your bare skin like a vehement beast. Chrollo tried to ignore the apparent tremble in your voice, he couldn’t afford to mess this up.

“Yes, I want to escape—with you. Why are you doing this to me, Chrollo? Why do you want me dead?!”

The third time his name rolled off your tongue, he was ready to throw the gun across the room, and cradle you in his arms while whispering apologetic nothings in your ear.

But he didn’t.

Chrollo stayed rooted in his spot, gun aimed at you, “Remember Ciaran Driscoll?—” You furrowed your brows. Ciaran? “He paid me to kill you.” A shaky breath, that was all you could muster, your mind was too busy trying to piece everything together.

Ciaran. Chrollo. Kill. Your blood ran cold.

But Chrollo didn’t give you time to breathe, steady clicks of his shoes echoed throughout the church as he paced back, and forth, “I was elated when I agreed to his proposal. Why? Because a pompous soul dying by my hands is what I’m made for—” He was calm, and collected, a faint smile displayed on his face as he slowly walked towards you. “Did you know what your people did? To my home? To my friend?” Stopping just before you, Chrollo leaned in, obsidian gaze piercing right through you.

“A lot of you treated Meteor City like some kind of hunting ground at your disposal. As if—as if its inhabitants were nothing but mere animals. For what? The sake of illegal dealings? For more money? Power?”

Chrollo caressed the side of your face with the back of his left hand—the other remained motionless by his side—his ghostly touch trembled against your skin, afraid that if he pressed down any further, you’d crack.

The situation baffled you. Not only was Chrollo blaming you for the atrocities caused by other people, you still couldn’t wrap your mind around the fact that he was in cahoots with Ciaran Driscoll to orchestrate your demise.

Is that why Chrollo applied to become your bodyguard? To get close before finally killing you off? You felt another wave of dread wash over you. Everything felt numb, your limbs, your torso, your heart.

Shaking your head, you finally broke the silence with a trembling voice, tears threatening to spill out,  “I’m not involved in any of those, Chrollo. Do you even hear yourself right now?”

He did. God. He fucking did and he felt absolutely foolish for blaming you. After you had bared your soul to him every night, Chrollo stopped seeing you in the same light as he did before. Yes, his deep-rooted disdain never left but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of loving you; it was a battle between desire and duty, and he already knew the victor.

The determination in your eyes, you were set on running away from the current life you had, and as tempting as that was, he didn’t have the courage to lead you into a new life full of nothing but danger.

Chrollo would rather have you dying by his own bloodied hands—for him to live each day filled with regret—than have someone else basking in the glory of killing you. At least that way, he’d be tainted by you.

“You’re all the same. Ciaran’s father is proof enough! You said it yourself that he was involved in illegal business—”

“So those nights we spent together . . were they just all part of the act? You never cared for me.” Chrollo barely caught the last part of your sentence as you muttered it under your breath; he watched as your gaze lowered, a wave of sadness engulfing you for a split second before finding his eyes once again. This time, you wore a glare.

You straightened up, “Tell me, Chrollo. Was it all just an act? A show you put on just to get close to me?” Questions lingered in the air the same way dust did, it sat heavy on Chrollo’s shoulders but he remained stubborn—silent. Would his answer change the circumstances? No.

After all, nothing good came out of trivial matters. At his stillness, you grabbed his right hand, trembling fingers curling around the shaft of his wrist as you brought it up to your face, pressing the barrel of his gun to your forehead. It felt icy against your feverish skin, like the kiss of a grim reaper.

Ever so slightly, Chrollo’s brows rose in shock, breath hitching at your brazenness. “Did you ever love me?” A broken whisper spoken into the crimson-lit night, so dainty, so weak yet it pierced his heart without a second thought. It left a gaping hole, as ugly as sin, and no amount of repentance could heal.

Love. How would one define love? Was it the act of sacrificing someone dear to oneself? Chrollo didn’t know. But more importantly, how did you define love?

“Did you?”

Digging deeper into the subject would only lead to the grave of his heart but Chrollo couldn’t care less, it was already six feet under since the day he sought revenge for his friend.

With a heavy sigh, your eyes finally softened, “Of course. I still do.” You felt his hand twitch in your hold, as if he briefly tried to pull the gun away.

Glimmering like the first starlight were tears staining your cheeks, one by one they fell down as a surge of emotions drowned your body; your brows were furrowed yet your eyes looked at Chrollo like he held the cosmos in his hands.

Is this what was meant when they said love and anger were painted in the same shade of red?

In his line of work, Chrollo has never seen anything as haunting as your gaze. It was natural for his targets to look up at him in complete horror, tears welled up in their eyes as they begged him to spare their lives but you—your eyes were full of nothing but love, and adoration despite his gun pointed at you. That look alone was enough to torment his coming days.

“Do you, Chrollo? Do you love me?” His chest tightened at the hopeful glint in your eye. Nothing good ever came out of trivial matters because at the end of the day, Chrollo was nothing but a man chained to his sinful revenge—blindly devoted to the hatred planted in his heart, and it came with a great price.

A sudden wave of red washed over his body, resulting in an ear splitting bang that resounded within the church’s bricked walls. Chrollo flinched at the sound—he’s never done that before—followed by a heavy thud against the marbled floors. It took the assassin one, two, three seconds to register the situation, the violent sensation of the gun’s recoil still fresh on his trembling hand.

The faint scent of iron hung in the air.

Chrollo looked down at the grisly sight before him, gun in his hand weighing heavy before it finally slipped from his absent grip. The weapon fell beside his right foot.

For the first time, Chrollo Lucilfer—the bringer of death—weeped, and mourned the demise of his target. He wailed into the darkness as warm crimson slowly pooled around your head, it resembled a faux halo, a tainted fallen angel.

Broken sobs, and ugly cries filled the damp building—this was the first in a long time that he had heard the sounds of his own grief. Guilt, and sorrow consumed Chrollo the same way the shadows of the night did but no amount of tears would bring you back to life, no amount of whispered I love you’s would reciprocate his words, no amount of cracks in his heart would turn back time.

You were dead, and it was all because of the man you loved so blindly. ‘Til your dying breath, you were shielded from the secrets of his true identity, and feelings, ones he swore he would take to the very grave he dug.

Chrollo fell to his knees, his fingers dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The vile pungence of your blood suffocated his senses, despite something so familiar to him, Chrollo heaved and curled over himself, quivering like an autumn leaf in the wind—he looked pathetic; hot tears and snot covered his reddened face as he cried out into darkness.

Every bit of air left his lungs and each breath felt like a chase he couldn’t win. Truth be told, he didn’t have the courage to reach out to your body, no, he didn’t feel like he deserved to do so.

To taint you more than he already had. So, Chrollo didn’t, instead, he weeped until the moon decorated the obsidian skies, until his tears tried, until your body ran cold, and every bit of colour you wore was gone. 

And when the assassin finally pieced himself together, he did three things.

One, let Ciaran Driscoll know that the job had been done using a burner phone.

Two, with the same device, Chrollo called the police, brazenly letting them know he murdered someone, and the exact location of the crime scene.

Three, he covered your car in flames, and fed the burner phone into it; he watched as bright hues of oranges and yellows devoured the vehicle before doing what he did best: disappearing into the night, and becoming one with the shadows to never be found again.

The night before, he had quietly handed in his resignation to Lukas who gave him an appreciative pat on the back, the old timer parted with words that Chrollo knew would remain ingrained in his mind, ‘I’m quite sure the young miss appreciated your service. Thank you for taking care of her.’ 

His heart shouldn’t have clenched at that but it did, and painfully so.

The coming days blended into nights with Chrollo sitting inside his hideout—a dingy, rundown motel with paper thin walls that housed interesting individuals. Completely unaware of the time, his only company was the ticking ivory wall clock above the cramped dining space.

The hefty payment from Ciaran lay untouched on the bed, concealed within a briefcase. He didn’t eat nor drink, not even having the energy to step outside for occasional sunlight, and every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the look you gave him during your final moments, he remembered the metallic tang in the air.

The old chunky television situated atop a rusty console table was what kept Chrollo’s sanity intact.

Day to night, it blasted morning, afternoon, and evening news—to the point of fellow motel goers knocking at his door to complain about the noise—just to keep up with information about you. As much as Chrollo yearned to bask in the memory of you, seeing your face plastered on television followed by a variety of words such as ‘rest in peace’, ‘murdered’, ‘assassinated’, and ‘dead’ didn’t help his mind at all.

At least what kept him entertained were the updates on potential suspects that may be tied to the crime scene; the murder weapon was an unregistered gun loaded with an unregistered bullet, and the footprints left at the scene had no unique tread.

So at best, there were no concrete leads in the case.

Not that it mattered to Chrollo.

Atop the cheap wooden table on which he sat were two things, the murder weapon and a singular stem of a white chrysanthemum. The one you had given him from your bouquet. Chrollo let the flower sit there for days on end until its ivory petals shrivelled into a brown hue—its sweet aroma turning pungent.

Until it withered. 

Until the scent of death choked him the same way his cries did that night—a mockery of what was lost, of what he willingly destroyed.

One month. It took Chrollo a month to finally step into the day, and out of the drab motel room. Brightness engulfed his vision, the sun’s afternoon rays shone as brightly as ever, enveloping him in a warm, gentle hug as if to welcome him back to reality.

He was certain he didn’t deserve kindness from this world, not even the permission to step foot in the very earth that held your body dearly in its grasp as though you were its prized possession.

Oddly enough, Chrollo found himself standing before a familiar flower boutique. With his gaze locked onto the floor-to-ceiling windows, he looked around the inside, as if doing so was going to have you magically pop out of nowhere, and buy a dozen of white chrysanthemums like before.

But you didn’t.

Pulled from his thoughts, a recognizable voice filled his ears, it was the owner, “Are you here to buy flowers for a lover, perhaps? I can recommend a few—” She stopped halfway through her sentence, realising the familiar face that stood before her. Chrollo watched as her face morphed into a sad smile, the cheery glint in her eyes disappearing beneath the thickness of her lashes,

“If I’m not mistaken, you’re her bodyguard, right?” He inhaled a sharp breath at the mention of you, heart violently thumping against the confines of his chest. Chrollo could only nod, anything more than that would have him breaking.

The old lady reached out her plump hand, and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, “I’m so sorry for your loss. She was lovely—”

Don’t say that. Don’t say it to me like I’m not the cause of her death. Don’t say it to me like I should be mourning for someone who died by my hands.

Chrollo gritted his teeth, jaw clenching at the sympathy thrown his way. He felt sick and disgusted with himself—as if he were a vile being trapped beneath human skin. All of a sudden the sun rays that gently enveloped his body didn’t feel like a warm hug anymore, sharp, hot prickles spread throughout his clothed skin, leaving a painful itch.

“—and the only customer who bought chrysanthemums frequently. Others usually bought the flowers once or twice for funerals and death anniversaries; she was the only one who truly saw chrysanthemums in a different light.”

A symbol of devoted love and loyalty, that’s how you saw them.

How ironic that the flowers you once adored would be laid upon your grave, holding a completely different message; mourning and grief. That didn’t sit well with Chrollo, you loved white chrysanthemums but not for that reason.

“Apologies, I ramble too much.” The owner let out a polite chuckle before continuing. “Well, can I at least interest you in some flowers? What would it be for you?”

“Can I get a dozen of those?” Chrollo pointed at the lively bunch soaked in water, situated just beside the boutique’s entrance. Following his finger, she looked behind her and smiled, “Right away.”

Its petals resembled rays of the first sunshine, the golden hue it wore promised eternal warmth even after death.

As day turned into night with the crescent moon high above the obsidian skies, Chrollo made his way to your perpetual resting place—it didn’t take much effort to do some digging around to find out where your body had been buried.

The chilly wind howled as it danced with the dark, trees and leaves swaying to accompany it with a silent song. He walked down the moonlit path of the cemetery, land that outstretched before him was decorated with tombstones, and in his left hand was the bouquet he bought earlier.

Moonlight shone over your grave as if the moon herself knew the secrets shared between you and Chrollo on cloudless nights. Bouquets of white chrysanthemums decorated the space around your grave, candles that were once lit rested atop the marbled tombstone that housed your full name.

Oddly enough, this felt like déjà vu. Maybe it was due to the fact that you and Chrollo rendezvoused in your room the same way he visited your grave—under a lonely moonlit night where soft whispers, and beating hearts were heard.

Bending down, Chrollo lightly caressed your carved name, cleaning out stray pieces of grass and dirt blown by the wind. He gently placed the bouquet amongst the sea of white, its colourful hue greedily taking all the limelight from the sombre flowers,

“I know these aren’t your favourite but I figured you’d like them too . .” He paused for a moment, foolishly waiting for you to reply.

“. . Yellow chrysanthemums just like the white ones but—” Who was he kidding? Chrollo felt stupid. Talking to your grave as if you were alive—as if he wasn’t the one who brought you to your demise.

The audacity he had.

Truth be told, every fibre inside his body screamed at him to turn back, and never show his disgusting self but Chrollo was as greedy as the darkness that drank the moonlight each night.

He envied the ground like sin, how held you in its arms, cradling your rotting body in its eternal embrace. It should be him. Now, he’d have to remember you longer than he had known you.

Instead, Chrollo was six feet above—alive; tied to, and haunted by the shackles of foolish regret. The memory of that night replayed in his mind over and over again like a cursed broken record, the disgusting thump as your lifeless body hit the floor, blood pooling around your head.

Most nights he’d find himself calling your name in his sleep—he always dreamt of the same dream: you, running away from him in a field of flowers, no matter how hard he worked his legs, he never seemed to reach your body. 

Chrollo sat before your grave and sobbed, letting creatures of the night feel his vulnerability; as the wind howled, the breeze carried the sounds of his cries to the trees, where it promised him to keep it a secret—a story only reserved for the dead.

Hot tears rolled down his frost-bitten cheeks, pooling on the tip of his chin before it fell on the damp grass beneath.

In antique texts, yellow chrysanthemums represented one’s heart left to desolation. Neglected love. It was only befitting for he has killed the very person who grew to love his blood-stained soul because in the end, he was nothing but a man only adept at destroying.

He let out shaky exhale, and whispered into the night the answer you sought, 

“I love you.”

—

affiliated with @houseofsolisoccasum & @pixelcafe-network !

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Yandere! GILF Headcanons

Warnings: Implied Smut, Older Man/Younger Reader, Age Gap, Spanking, Jealous Dominic, Manipulation, No Pronouns used for Reader except ‘You’.

♡ Hector had only loved once before meeting you. Likewise, he had only loved once after meeting you. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in you.

♡ On the contrary, when Dominic had pulled up to the sprawling manor Hector orchestrated, expecting to see Marilyn at his side yet seeing an unfamiliar face in her stead, his curiosity was, admittedly, peaked. No small achievement considering this man has done and seen everything this world has to offer.

♡ Dominic explained – in monotone French – that Marilyn was sick, hence she couldn’t come. He’d brought you – a family friend – in her place. You couldn’t ignore the waver in his voice, his pointed stare up at his father, who resided in an almost throne-like armchair behind a mahogany desk.

♡ Hector looked through Dominic and gazed at you. You could see now where Dominic’s predilection for sharp, underhanded stares originated; the founding father of Dominic’s cold architecture.

♡ You felt as if his eyes combed over your very being, unravelling all the tangles in your make-up and laying you down to your most base, threadbare foundations, seeing you for what you really were.

♡ “Very well,” the older man grumbled, only taking his eyes off you once Dominic cleared his throat. Beside you, his son’s fingers twitched. 

♡ You were excused shortly after with Dominic taking you outside, almost jogging down the steps with a haste you’d never witnessed before, and bringing you to a most isolated spot. You’d noticed a collection of staff – chefs, maids, caretakers, gardeners – crawling about the mansion. None of them resided near you now.

♡ “Don’t talk to him unless you’re with me,“ Dominic warned. In his eyes watched a man you’d never seen before. Something vaguely…human in the colour of his irises. Warm. Afraid.

♡ Interaction with Dominic’s father – Hector – was uncomfortable at first. You’d tried to juggle Hector’s hostile hospitality with Dominic’s warnings, ultimately toing and forming between the two since they never inhabited the same space for more than ten minutes whenever meals were served.

♡ One day, when Dominic had to leave the manor on important  business, unable to take you with him, he’d instructed you to stay in your room. He tried to smooth over the jagged brickwork of his command with a suave charm that could put the incarnation of panic at ease, but you could tell – for perhaps the first time – that it felt false.

♡ Dominic left. Hours passed. You grew bored.

♡ You left your room.

♡ And who did you happen to meet whilst trawling the halls, searching for any form of entertainment?

♡ Why, the very man Dominic had forbidden you from seeing.

♡ Hector came down the hall on certain footing, obviously having taken great care of his mobility in his younger years to be able to traverse the many staircases and rooms this residence held. So why did he have so many caretakers?

♡ You scarcely had time to wonder as, before you could hide, he spotted you. Ordered you to come to him. You did, hesitant. He gave you a monotone look.

♡ “You. Come with me.”

♡ You followed him to a door that felt familiar. Inside, his study. On his desk, a pre-set game of chess. He sat at his desk. He motioned for you to join him.

♡ You, with a pounding heart and a strong sense of being out of place, played chess. Hector taught you the best way to win – “For when you compete against Dominic.”

♡ You bantered, lethargic at first, until you found even footing on subjects that weren't just Hector’s only son.

♡ You wondered what it was about his father that Dominic was so keen to isolate you from, to conceal from you.

♡ Nothing you cared for, honestly. Especially when Hector showed you just how solid his sense of humour was, how intelligent he was. How lively he could be despite his initial coldness.

♡ Of course, he was still icy, very blunt most of the time. But you could tell it wasn’t his choice – he was made this way. By who or what, you couldn’t be sure. But what you did know was that you weren’t about to let Dominic’s personal vendetta ruin your budding friendship with his father.

♡ No longer did you hide from Hector’s judgement as you scampered back to your room, the shutting of the front door reverberating through the manor’s great walls; you sought refuge from Dominic’s as he came storming down the hallway, his footfalls faster than he’d have liked them to be as he rushed to check on your condition, to see you after being forced to leave you in his father’s un-care.

♡ After that, you made more of an effort to see Hector. Especially as you had few other people to talk to – Dominic especially as he seemed more and more swept up in sudden business meetings and last-minute supply chain issues.

♡ The longer you spent in Hector’s presence – in the garden, in the library, in his study for more games of chess – the more you began to see slivers of him in Dominic. Scratchings of silver beneath rock; the inclinations of a vein of purest ore.

♡ Though, that did not mean the metal that lay dormant beneath was pure in itself.

♡ On the contrary, when you weren’t around, Hector made full – and I mean full – use of the maids, caretakers and staff at his disposal. Anyone who bore a similar enough resemblance to you was subject to any manner of his objectification.

♡ Lasting stares, increasingly lewd requests, commands to snoop through the few personal belongings you’ve brought with you – the sort of thing any powerful older man will do for the object of their affections.

♡ Sexual matters aren’t off the table, either.

♡ Far from it. 

♡ In fact, it’s bent over the edge of Hector’s desk, whining and whimpering and at the mercy of a man far more experienced than his old age could belie.

♡ He’s so nasty with it, too. He knows his workers will do anything he asks of them – for the right price. And he’s got nothing but money to burn.

♡ God forbid his most recent toy talks back to him, lest they be subject to a thorough spanking by Hector’s belt.

♡ He’s still more than capable of getting himself off without the assistance of his employees, though. He just enjoys the power he has over them. Enjoys the taste of the influence he’ll have over you.

♡ Guy’s a wealthy man, he’s got cameras everywhere. And Dominic knows this. Hence he’s always around to cover you up when you’re getting changed – even if it makes him look somewhat questionable. 

♡ You’re for his eyes only, but he knows his father will find a way to try and sneak a peek of you – to show Dominic that, while in his house, you’re both under his rules.

♡ As was the case now as Hector requested for you come to his study for afternoon tea.

♡ While there, making light conversation, he dropped a question that hung, heavy, between you in a way you couldn’t quite describe/

♡ “Did I ever tell you,” began Hector, knowing full-well he’s not once recounted this tale to you. His old age will afford him the disguise of senility, if only for a short while. You’ll listen, politely.

♡ “About Dominic’s mother?”

♡ You tell him no, that not even Dominic has ever mentioned his mother – or his family – to you before. Hector hummed. Grumbled, more so.

♡ The void in his chest sank lower as he recalled to you the greatest love of his life.

♡ “Too good for this world,” he said, regaling her acts of altruism, of philanthropy. “Someone upstairs must’ve known it, too.”

♡ You had a feeling that ‘upstairs’ transcended far beyond the many dusty rooms Hector had advised you and Dominic not to go exploring during your time here.

♡ He told you, with practiced malcontent, how Dominic’s birth would be his mother’s un-birth; her escort from this life to the next. Hector sniffed, though not for tears. You still jolted forward to comfort him, though.

♡ And he wasn't one to reject your offer.

♡ The portrait of his wife – young and beautiful for a cruel infinity – watched over the two of you.

♡ “So you see,” he continued, “That’s why Dominic doesn’t visit – or I’m willing to guess, talk about – me as much as you perhaps do with your parents.”

♡ Of course, you understood perfectly where he was coming from. Something in him grinned at the idea of even a drop of a villainous hue staining Dominic’s curated disguise, making him scrub and scrub at the veneer until it wore away and revealed the corpse beneath piloted by parasites.

♡ You tell Hector that if he ever wants to talk, you’re always down to listen. Hector grants you a small smile. Artificial warmth. Gently, he slides his hand atop yours, pats it.

♡ You are the singular object his son desires. Hence, you are the object he shall steal from him, for there is no better form of discipline than loss.

♡ And Hector wants Dominic to know what it’s like to lose everything.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Yandere AI Masterlist Masterpost

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[glitterbuns]

Post-BOTW/pre-TOTK Hateno house headcanons:

Zelda falls in love with the house. It needs work, but it has a homely feeling that she loves

She also loves that it's small, unlike the castle, and she doesn't have to be surrounded by nobles, guards, maids etc.

She cries when she sees the picture with all the Champions. Link tells her he can remove it if she wants, but she actually loves having that memory there, so it stays

They decide to return the Champions' weapons to their people

On their tour to return them, Zelda takes pictures of people they encounter and landscapes she loves, which she later hangs in the house

They encounter a golden horse near Taobab Grassland that starts following Zelda around after she gives him an apple. She takes a picture of him to hang in the house (and keeps the horse because she found him cute and he isn't tied to her past royal life)

Once they make it to Tarrey Town, Zelda asks Hudson if he could build them some furniture. Duh

By the time they arrive in Hateno they have so much stuff to decorate the house: pots, Hudson's furniture, fabric...

Zelda spends a week arranging and rearranging everything. Link helps her, of course

After the decoration is done, Zelda ends up being so tired she sleeps for 12hrs straight

While she sleeps, Link goes for a morning walk and gets her some pretty flowers he found on the way

Zelda loves them and puts them in a vase on their table

Link retrieves all her clothes and books that survived the Calamity

And that's how Zelda considers herself settled. Little by little, they build a routine

Link always wakes up earlier. He likes doing exercise before breakfast

He always has a hearty breakfast. Zelda prefers some fruits and yoghurt

Zelda spends most days researching and planning how to rebuild Hyrule

Link spends most days hunting, gathering and taking care of the house, Zelda and himself

Link cooks every meal. On sunny and warm days they eat in the garden. During Winter they eat close to the fire

After some time, Zelda commissions a secret study room because Link is a big distraction

That doesn't stop him from visiting her every once in a while to give her fruitcake

Sometimes she falls asleep while researching and Link scoops her up and takes her to their bed

When she's not so tired, Zelda likes reading in bed before going to sleep

They both have terrible nightmares that wake them up in the middle of the night. But now it's manageable because they have each other

Sometimes, when she walks past the picture, she stops and prays for the Champions' souls

[Extra hc: Zelda's new horse is a glutton and if he sees Zelda or Link in the garden he won't stop neighing until they give him an apple. Or two.]

[dilfhos]

WALKING ON GLASS.

#!WHO; SEBASTIAN MICHAELIS x fem!reader

#!CC: power play, o.sex (receiving), implications of demonic entities

NETWORKS @angelshub @bitchcraftinc @planetonet

The sound of dishes smashing against the floors was deafening as it carried throughout the manor. The splintering shatter of an expensive set caused the three three other house aids to grimace. In the upper room of Ciel Phantomhive, his eyes closed and he sighed, for regret was starting to cloud his mind in hiring you— the new maid. The help to what he’d already deemed, ‘A full house.’

Sebastian bowed gracefully, his head cocked slightly as he smiled.

“I will see to it that the mess will be cleaned young master.”

“Make sure that you do. I have very little patience left.” Phantomhive waved off. Sebastian then walked out shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He pulled at his pristine gloves as he walked down the hallways, a devilish grin splitting his face.

When he’d arrived at the kitchen door he’d picked up on quips of complaints from you and Mei-Ren.

“I’m going to be done for sure this time...” You whined, brushing glass pieces onto a dustpan.

“I’m sure you won’t. The young master is lenient. During my recent years I was such a klutz and Sebastian had to—”

The butler opened the door and the conversation halted with unease in the air. Mei-Ren stood nervously and you kept your head low as your fingers trembled to pick up the rest of the glass. The heat of eyes boring into the side of your head didn’t go unnoticed as they clinked softly together in the pile.

“You may go. I shall handle this.” Sebastian’s velvety voice remained low, his eyes glued on your crouched form. Mei-Ren gave a reassuring glance towards you and bowed quickly. After the haste retreating footsteps, the room was quiet except for the soft sound of tinkling glass shards.

“Stand please,” Sebastian hummed, his red eyes trailing your straned movements; your chest rose and fell slightly and he could hear the quickening tapping of your beating heart. Your eyes looked everywhere but at him, which he found a bit rude but another lesson to be made at a later date.

You clasped your hands in front of your body, ready to endure whatever verbal penalty was sure to be made. This wasn’t your first offense.

Countless of glassware had been destroyed by your hand, not to mention the mistakes you’ve made since you were hired by the young master. From nearly burning down the manor due to attempted meals, to using the wrong chemicals in the garden. All resulting in Sebastian’s stern dispraises. Phantomhive pegged you to be just as bad as his other servants put together.

Sebastian began to snake towards you, his movements precise and elegant. With ease, he’s stepped through the shards of remaining glass, not even trailing it behind him. As he got closer, you subconsciously shrunk back until you hit the far wall with a small gasp.

Sabastian brought his hand to his mouth, swiftly biting the fingertip of his glove and pulling it off, all the while his gaze never left yours. Leaving the glove on his left hand, he pressed both palms against the wall on either side of your head, effectively caging you in. He picked out the accelerated beating in your chest as his face lowered towards yours.

Sebastian was never going to admit this to any mortal, but he a part of him was looking forward to another slip up from you. Ever since the young lord hired you, your entire essence intrigued him. On more accounts than one, the need for self restraint became nearly intangible whenever you were around. He knew humans were creatures who could not reject temptation. Never had he thought he’d be acting just like them.

His eyes held a dark glint in them as his lips stretched into a grin.

“That set was a favorite of the young lord,”

“I’m sorry! I slipped and I really tried to catch my fall, but I only ended up making things worse.”

“Yes, the ordeal is quite unfortunate,” He continued. “The entire glass set was a precious family heirloom.” The demon lied, which was proven to be effective given the horror stricken look on your face. You were on the verge of tears and your lips parted to let out a soft sigh.

Sebastian brought a finger under your chin, pulling your head up in his direction. For the first time, you were made to look into his piercing eyes and you gulped.

“I’m sure I can come up with a reason for the destruction of the valuables.” His eyes shone mischievously and a second later, it hit you. And he knew that you were not going to reject the offer. In return, his knee slid upwards, dragging out a gasp from you at the sudden movement and the friction against your core. He smirked and lowered his sight to the rise and fall of your chest, zeroing in on your breasts.

“Lift your uniform and turn around.” His order was low and straight to the point, sending a shiver down your spine. He stepped back, allowing you to do so and once you were facing the wall, your cheeks heated up in how vulnerable you were now before the butler. A second or so later, you felt cool air hitting your heat and you whimpered, turning your head slightly. You then felt strong hands taking hold on your hips, gripping them in a way that sent dull pain throughout your legs.

“Face the wall.”

Sebastian moved closer, licking his lips at the scent of your femininity. It was different and he was intrigued. His finger hooked through the side of your panties, pulling them taut and exposing your glistening lower lips. He leaned forward, giving you a quick and experimental lick, causing you to release a not-so-quiet cry.

“I would strongly suggest keeping your voice down, yes? We wouldn’t want an audience.” He chuckled before returning his mouth to your pussy. You quickly clenched your uniform dress in one hand as the other covered your mouth, muffling your moans in your gloved hand.

His tongue flattened against you, teasing your clit before trailing back until it disappeared inside of you, writhing and thrusting against your gummy walls. Your body was growing flush as he worked his mouth against you, drawing more and more of your slick.

Sebastian’s movements started off as sensual and graceful, much like his surface personality. But each second his senses spent engulfed in your heat ignited something primal in him. His refined technique was abandoned and replaced with one less coordinated but more enthusiastic nonetheless.

Subconsciously, his fingers dug deeper into your hips releasing more added pleasure than pain. Obscene wet noises arose, synchronizing with your low moans. A hand left your hip to push past your folds and curled upwards, effectively sending a shock through your body resulting in a cry this time.

Sebastian hummed, taking the action into memory and his ministrations seemingly went lazy. At this point, it wouldn’t take much more for you to come and he knew this, doing it again.

His face pushed deeper against you, his tongue nudging your clit and at the same time curling his finger and this is what sent you over the edge.

The noise that escaped wasn’t suppressed behind your palm this time. Your thighs quivered as you calmed down, whimpering as the butler gave you a final few laps before standing. Now more than before, you wanted to feel him, see him, touch him as he ravaged you with what he had to offer.

Turning around slightly, you caught a glimpse of darkness, the air around you suddenly cold. Murkiness surrounded you, as you only caught a flash of his twisted face in a snarl—a stark contrast to his typical refined features. A shiver ran down your spine, his grip returning but tighter than the last.

“You still refuse to listen.” His breath was ticking your ear, tone menacing but the same velvet that compelled your limbs to relax.

Before you could come up with some half thought out apology, he sheathed his dick into you, grunting softly when he was flush against your ass. Not knowing when he had the time to release himself, you keened at the sudden intrusion as you shifted and tightened around him.

He sighed, strumming his fingers on your hips before pulling out and pushing into you firmly. His movements formed a rhythm as you were rocked against the wall. By now, your hand had fallen from your mouth and was instead placed on the surface in front of you. Movements increasing in speed as well as forcefulness, moans poured from you, wafting through the kitchen and you could only hope that’s where they’ll remain.

Sebastian grunted before yanking your hands behind you, wrists gripped under his one hand with precision at the small of your back. He’s reverted to fucking you with reckless abandon, his own breathing just barely ragged.

You, however were a mess, your vision blurred with wetness, voice producing a low mantra of the butler’s name as a desired pressure began to build up within you. Over and over, his thrusts hit that sweet spot within you that pushed you closer and closer to that moment of bliss.

“What do you think of this lesson?” It was a strange question, at the even most strangest time. It barely processed in your ears and you’re only half inclined to answer in the state you’re in. However, his hand reaches to tilt your head back, face ethereally perfect as golden pools stare into your soul.

“Hnn..?” You couldn’t think, much less articulate any response he was looking but that was alright. He just wanted to drink in the gloss in your eyes as your mouth moves, no words escaping. Your cunt pulsated around him, each stroke drawing more and more of your essence from your body. Perhaps, he thought, it would be wrong to indulge in a bit of the human soul. Not when you were so vulnerable and pliant under his mere gaze. You didn’t see him now. You didn’t see what he’d become again, as the only thing you that surrounded you was the grip of the cold and your cunt being stretched out.

Only when he released you with a low chuckle did the static disipitate and the pressure snaps, his hand quick to hold your cries.

Delicious aftershocks took hold of you, controlling your convulsions as you clenched repeatedly around Sebastian’s cock. You couldn’t see the subtle twist of his features as he approached euphoria as well, his grip icy as he held you against the wall. Following suit soon after, his hot come spilled into you in copious amounts, filling you until it trickled down your thighs.

He pulled out and your legs buckled slightly beneath you before he chuckled and you were spun around.

“Hey now,”

Sebastian was altogether neat. His uniform remained as immaculate as they were when he walked in, white gloves on and pristine. His face retained its usual fair skinned complexion, void of sweat or any indication of vigorous activity.

Meanwhile, you knew you looked a complete mess if it wasn’t obvious. Sebastian cocked his head and smiled warmly, a bright expression that contrasted the devil in his eye.

“Despite how pleasurable this lesson has been, I implore you to exercise caution and heighten your awareness. The young master would not appreciate any more recklessness from you and neither will I.” As he spoke his teeth gleamed only adding to the weight of his words engraved in your mind.

Still you straightened, your hands clasping tightly over your uniform as you nodded curtly.

“Yes Sebastian!”

After that encounter in the kitchen, your mistakes and slip-ups had been reduced to very little occurrences to absolutely none.

“See I knew you’d get the hang of things!” Mei-Ren beamed.

“Maybe I’ll let you cook something small again. Seeing how much you improved and all.” Baldroy had praised, fanning a smoking pot.

Each of the house aids were ultimately pleased you were doing better than you had been before.

Even Phantomhive seemed content, but not at all surprised knowing Sebastian had a hand in it. The butler was delighted as well, rewarding your improvements with favorable pleasures every now and again.

He still needed to teach you a lesson about listening after all.

DILFOS. do not plagiarize my content— current or archival.

[egglain-archive]

Dove, Darker Than Blood

Rating: E (18+) - mdni Pairing: Sukuna x Uraume Content: pre-canon (heian era), sukume origin story, true form sukuna, vaginal sex (oral, penetrative), creampies, double penetration in one hole (vaginal), very mild choking, marking (biting, cum, spit), multiple orgasms, marathon sex, soft sex turned rough, overstim, body worship, first times, soft & possessive sukuna Word Count: 10.4k

Summary: “Do you wish to be bed?” Uraume couldn’t keep eye contact, face burning under the warmth of Sukuna’s attention. “Look at me.” The roughness, the command of his tone made it impossible not to obey. He had never used that voice with them before—no, he was a different man with Uraume. They always knew that, deep down. But being under the weight of that authority—being at the mercy of the King of Curses was… exhilarating. “Would you let me take your virginity, Uraume?” Fuck.

A murder. A meeting. A question. An answer. A Heian era origin fic.

Red.

What a beautiful colour it was, all over the wooden floor.

Long brown tresses spilled from between veiny fingers, Sukuna’s large hand dwarfing the head they were attached to. The head, however, was no longer attached to anything. Vibrant vermillion drained from once-flushed cheeks, staining the kitchen floor ever-darker. Warmth pooled between black-nailed toes, blood from his ex-chef painting a pretty picture of an ugly end.

“You there.” Sukuna gestured with the severed head at a trembling maid. “Can you cook, woman?”

The woman hung her head low, measly tears spilling onto her now-crimson apron. “No, my Lord.”

“Tch. Useless.” The king’s grimace turned to another, who shook her pallid face immediately. Sukuna dropped the cook’s head, kicking it away with a grunt. “Absolutely fucking useless. Every one of you.”

The servants knew better than to respond. Knew better than to breathe. The room was still enough to hear a heart beating—and several were, rapidly. Sukuna turned on his heel, the squelch of blood underfoot enough to make the head maid gag.

“Find me a chef… and clean up this mess,” Sukuna announced to no one in particular.

As the king stormed off, red spilled into the hisashi.

***

Sukuna’s head rest heavy on a large fist, tattooed limbs sprawled out on the dais.

“Next.”

It had been a long morning of meagre meals. Bumbling cooks spilled bland boiled food in the entryway, one of his taste testers dropped dead, and three separate chefs had refused to cook meat (claiming it was “impure”). Sukuna had never felt less appetized.

He was just about ready to call the whole thing off—make a point of picking the meat off the bones of these cowardly cooks instead—as the last candidate stepped forth. A little thing, just a bit over half his size if he had to guess (not that his tallest servant reached any higher than his sternum). The chef fell to their knees to bow deeply at the foot of the dais, pale bangs sweeping the wooden floor.

Sukuna gestured his taster forward with two curled fingers. A mousy man ushered forth a large bowl, golden liquid sloshing as he carried it to the king.

“What is this?”

The taster placed the bowl on the stout lacquered table before Sukuna, bowing. “Sou—”

“Not you, fool.” He waved the man away, sitting up a little more to peer inside the bowl. “Chef. Speak.”

The white-haired cook spoke without raising their head, and yet their voice was clear. Calm. “Braised boar in a bone broth, my Lord. With local vegetables.”

Sukuna hummed, lifting the bowl to sip straight from the brim. Warmth spread from the tip of his tongue straight down to his stomach—it was good. Better than good, even. It reminded him of home—rather, what he imagined home would taste like. It was rich but simple. Well-made.

If this commoner can piece a dish like this together on their own, what could they make with the world at their fingertips?

Sukuna picked out a piece of meat with fat fingers, the flesh falling off the bone. He popped it into his mouth, reveling in the savory flavour as it melted onto his tongue. He bit back a satisfied groan, clearing his throat to mask his pleasure.

He set down the bowl, licking the pad of his thumb greedily. “Raise your head.”

The cook obeyed, hands folding politely on the lap of their white kimono. Pale lashes and short white hair framed a delicate face. Big burgundy eyes met his, and something in his gut stirred.

Interesting.

“State your name.”

“Uraume, my Lord.”

“Uraume, huh?” He let the name roll on his tongue, committing it to memory as he took them in. He turned to the maid holding his sake to the right of his dais. “Show Uraume around, woman. They start in the morning.”

As the woman rushed to usher his new chef to the kitchen, the king turned his intense gaze to the rest of the room.

“Everyone who wishes to keep their head, leave my sight.”

And so, the King of Curses enjoyed his soup alone.

***

Sukuna was right—not that he was ever wrong, per se—but the new little chef amused him more and more each day.

With access to a nearly endless supply of funds, every dish was something akin to a painting; each stroke was unique, elements curating a feeling—an experience. They put their brown-haired predecessor to shame. Sukuna had never been gladder someone was dead.

Three months had passed since their onboarding, and he had grown to like this Uraume. Aside from the good food, they had a strong spirit—not many of his servants could meet his eyes, let alone provide coherent answers to his questions. Needless to say, his days had been much more interesting as of late. He grew to look forward to his meals, even when he was full from the last one.

He had even started to opt out of having the maids deliver his food, requesting Uraume personally. It was better this way—they would explain the dish to him, taste it first, and then watch him eat. Not that he needed the company. But he’d grown to enjoy their silent presence. On occasion, he’d ask a question or two.

Which is how they had gotten here.

“A virgin?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

It had nothing to do with the dish—thinly chopped raw fish and vegetables pickled in rice vinegar—but Sukuna’s mouth was watering nonetheless.

“I was raised to become a monk, my Lord.”

“Is that what you wish to be? Why become a chef?”

“Being your chef is my honor, Lord Sukuna.”

“And the latter question?”

They looked down, hands squeezing together a little tighter where they were clasped in front of them. “There was an accident, my Lord.”

His brow quirked on instinct, and he hoped it didn’t betray his cold persona. It was unlike the King of Curses to show interest in anything other than himself.

“You are no longer pure?” He said it slowly, tasting the syllables. They left a complicated taste on his tongue—something bitter and rotten. Spoiled.

“No, sir. I…”

There was a long silence. Had it been anyone else, Sukuna would have grown bored—perhaps even beheaded the perpetrator. But with Uraume, it was exciting. He couldn’t help but lean in a little closer. Try to understand them a little more. It was like unraveling the wrapping on a gift, plucking jewels from an unseemly fabric satchel.

So he waited.

“I killed.”

Sukuna’s eyebrows furrowed.

Killing, to the King of Curses, was like breathing—he hardly thought twice about it. It was what he was made for, after all. He couldn’t help but laugh a little, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Uraume, bless their heart, jumped a little at the display.

“Troublesome for a monk indeed. How did that happen?”

“I was seeing spirits, my Lord.”

“Dead relatives?”

“No, my Lord. Curses.”

Interesting indeed.

“Cursed spirits? A little human like you?” He leaned forward, hands clasping over his bowl of namasu—he rested his chin on top. “A jujutsu sorcerer, then?”

“Jujutsu…?”

Something in his chest fluttered. His chef was like a baby bird—a dove so pure, so beautiful, so full of life.

He wanted to snap their wings.

“Come forth, Uraume.”

The chef came up on the dais, bowing deeply at his feet. Their pale bangs tickled the tips of his sensitive toes.

Sukuna hummed a pleased noise, reaching a large hand down to lift their small face with gentle fingers.

“Watch.”

He pulled his hand back a little, holding his index finger before their burgundy eyes.

“Open.”

At the command, light sparked above his fingertip. Thin tendrils of flame danced from the tip of his index down to the base, then weaved between his digits, lapping at the webs between his fingers. Golden light danced across Uraume’s soft features, their eyes trained on the movement with reverent fascination.

“The practice of siphoning the energy within you—the cursed energy—into something tangible. Honing it into a technique, as a sculptor uses a chisel to bring stone to life. That is jujutsu sorcery.”

He reached another hand down, pulling Uraume’s palm flat out. The dancing flame in his right hand took the shape of an arrow, and he set it forth into Uraume’s hand. Uraume’s eyes widened as the arrow danced along their palm and around their wrist, tracing the delicate bones of their hand. Sukuna chuckled a little, puffing up with pride at eliciting such a raw reaction out of his little cook.

“Most people who can see cursed spirits are cursed themselves; cursed with this power, or a curse themselves.”

“Which are you, my Lord?” The question was barely a whisper, large pupils still trained on the dancing flame.

“Both. Neither.” He chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “I’ve transcended the concept of these binaries. I’m beyond any sorcerer or curse of this age.”

“Teach me.” Those burgundy eyes were back on his. Bright. Unyielding. “Please, Lord Sukuna.”

If you were to ask Ryomen Sukuna, he would answer that he would never stoop as low as to become a teacher. There were professional tutors for that, surely. Arrogant weak sorcerers looking to make a living. Looking to make a name for themselves.

Sukuna Ryomen was a king. A God. He didn’t teach. He took. Plundered, maimed, massacred. He didn’t need a living—he had everything he could ever want, and he stole what he didn’t. And he sure didn’t need a legacy—he would never be forgotten.

“We start tomorrow.”

***

Uraume was strong.

Their powers, complementary to his flames, were that of ice. Each day, just after lunch, he met them in the courtyard and guided them through the exercises he used to explore his power in his younger days. He saw himself in them—potential. Something raw, waiting to be discovered. Something twisted, lurking just under the surface, raring to be unleashed.

Watching them discover themselves filled him with pride… and something else. Something dark that lapped at his insides—something he had yet to understand.

With another three months—now half a year since he hired them—Uraume had become more than a chef. He took his meals with Uraume, had them take on more responsibilities, and fired half his incompetent staff.

He liked it better, like this. They knew how he liked his baths (scalding and paired with the smell of incense). They knew what he liked to eat (meat, preferably human). They knew how to clean the blood out of his sokutai so it remained pristine. They combed his hair gentler than his handmaid did. They shared the weekly news over Friday breakfast.

He could get used to this.

And alongside the exceptional service, Uraume could fight beside him. Hold their own not only on the battlefield but in all aspects of life. They had big ideas—suggestions, improvements—not only as they pertained to him, but for all of Japan. Sukuna had never had a figure like this in his life; a mirror, someone he’d let critique him, make him better. He would have never allowed that. But somehow, Uraume had found their way under his skin… and he had no complaints.

Yet, there was always something there.

Something missing, buzzing like a fruit fly next to his ear. Barely there, but increasingly difficult to ignore.

He had grown… unsatisfied, somewhere along the way, in some realm he couldn’t identify.

He had everything his mind wanted—he had no qualms with his daily routine, no annoyances that weren’t swiftly sorted out by Uraume or a slash of his hand.

So why?

What was this restless feeling?

The palace was quieter nowadays. Without the “baggage” staff (the nitwits he had released from their duties), all that remained were the housekeepers, the gardeners, a handful of maids, and his concubines. He never cared much for the latter two, but they did the menial tasks he was too busy to think about—mend clothes, pour sake, get him off. Save for the last task, Uraume now had these jobs handled, rendering the few staff he kept useless. Now thinking back on it, he hadn’t called upon any of his concubines in almost four months.

Sex was like fighting, for him. A thrill, a power struggle, an outlet. It kept him level-headed; gave him a way to deal with his emotions that didn’t involve bloodshed… usually.

He hadn’t needed it in a long time. He got his thrill from the company he kept, from watching flame engulf ice in the courtyard. He didn’t need an outlet either—everything was so easy now. Uraume ensured it.

So why?

Reading in his chamber, he rolled the idea around in his head.

He had read the same line thrice now, and none of the words were sticking. His mind was hazy, cotton-filled, a sieve rather than a sponge.

He didn’t like feeling like this. On-edge. Wrong.

So, he did what he always did when displeased.

Slaughter.

He took a midnight trip outside of the boundaries of his territory. Normally, he’d come by daylight with his bow—train his eyesight, hone his aim, polish his strategy and patience. But not tonight. Tonight, he needed to feel alive.

Inside the bounds of his territory, all was still. Sukuna Ryomen was written in the rigid trunks of the trees, in the roots, in the soil. Anyone stupid enough to set foot in an unwelcome manner was promptly disposed of—cleaved so thoroughly that no power, jujutsu or otherwise, could piece them back together. These lands were an extension of himself. This was his domain. His turf.

The world outside his carefully curated home was chaos. In the golden age of magic, culture, and creativity, cursed energy reached an all-time high. Cursed spirits and jujutsu sorcerers fed off the changing times like parasites, growing in tandem from the shadows of society.

This, of course, caused a problem for the poor; cursed spirits massacred lowly fishing and farming villages, and jujutsu sorcerers were far too busy protecting the imperial core to deal with the hundreds of incidents occurring in the far corners of the nation.

Sukuna didn’t care much for politics, though he was not uninvolved—his hands were dirtied with the blood of countless clan heads and generals. The people had come to fear and revere him, and it was oddly… fulfilling. Humans mounted shrines, left out offerings of food, art, and weaponry in hopes of warding off his fabled wrath. These humans served as a source—a wellspring of labor, food, clothing, entertainment, and cursed energy. He fed off them (sometimes quite literally).

Though he was in no way a guardian, he had come to a sort of symbiosis with the villages bordering his territory. Over time, they had become an extension of his home. The aura shrouding their houses—his aura—warded most curses away. The weak ones, at least. However, the humans were left to fend for themselves against the stronger ones—those who hungered for power, to assert their claim over someone else’s possessions, like petulant children. In exchange for their piety, he lent a hand, when he felt like it. Had a little fun with the curses encroaching on their lands. By now, most knew to get themselves indoors upon his arrival, for when he let go, there was no difference between human and cursed blood on his hands.

This is where he found himself now, the woods just outside the border of a little farming village.

The smell of fear, the hushed prayers of the women and children, the low murmur of curses in the trees—it was intoxicating.

He let himself go, in a way he hadn’t in ages.

Throats ripped from bodies, bloodstained teeth prying open flesh. Screams mounted somewhere in the distance—human or curse, he couldn’t tell. Adrenaline pumped through raised veins, pulsing with each deafening pop of a spinal cord severing. Skulls imploded in his big hands, sticky innards spilling like juice from a too-ripe fruit between his fingers.

This is what made Sukuna Ryomen whole.

He returned early in the morning, bloodied and buzzing.

In his arms, the spoils of his adventure—gifts from the little humans, slightly soddened from the syrupy blood dripping from his chin.

And yet, the itch he sought to scratch…

“Lord Sukuna?”

Sukuna didn’t bother to wipe his soiled feet as he walked in from the courtyard. At the sound of that familiar tone, he looked up.

Uraume was looking at him, something unreadable in their eyes. Their hair stuck out a little—almost as if they had been sleeping when he returned. Sukuna Ryomen didn’t sleep, but if he did, he imagined he would be doing it now.

“Uraume.”

“Shall I draw a bath, my Lord?”

Sukuna looked down at himself. He was dripping muddy, filthy blood on his clean wooden floors. Two months ago, he wouldn’t have minded—in fact, blood was once a beautiful sight—but now…

“Yes… but don’t wake the others.” He wasn’t sure why he said it. Maybe he wanted Uraume to be the one to do it. Perhaps he always did.

“Of course.”

They plucked the offerings from his arms, bowing politely before taking their leave. He expected they’d be polished and put away for his later amusement. Against the wall, Sukuna took a few moments to steel himself before making his way to the baths.

Something was still wrong. It roiled in his gut like a spoiled meal, hummed in the back of his mind like a migraine that refused to manifest.

Why was he on-edge like this?

Why was he off?

Usually, killing did the trick, but whatever void there was inside him hadn’t been satisfied. In fact, attempting to cure his problem just made it worse when it didn’t work.

Fuck.

In the bathhouse, Uraume greeted him, steam and smoke filling the room. He let them strip him down, taking in their focused eyes. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, knuckles straining against tan skin. He had never paid much mind when the other maids did this, but something about their slender fingers brushing against him—even through the thick fabric—affected him. It wasn’t unpleasant.

“Uraume.”

“Yes, my Lord?” They made quick work of folding his bloodied clothes and setting them aside. By supper, they would be brand new again.

He called upon them, but he wasn’t sure what he needed. Uraume was always so good at giving him what he needed, so long as he had the words to ask for it—but this was different.

“I’m uncomfortable.”

Uraume’s eyes widened and they backed off immediately, turning around to give him privacy in his nude state.

“No—not with you.” He placed a gentle hand on their shoulder, turning them around again. His brows were scrunched somewhere between pain and annoyance, but it wasn’t pointed at them. It was an unfocused irritation. And that only served to make it more irritating. Sukuna pinched the bridge of his nose, worrying the skin there. “I just… there’s something not right. I’m missing something, and I don’t know what it is. I want to have it. No. I need to have it.”

Uraume ushered him into the water with a pensive hum, hand guiding him by the small of his back. Had it been anyone else, he would have cut it off… but instead, warmth spread through his spine down to the soles of his feet.

For a moment, it brought him out of his head, and back to the present.

Touch.

Right then, it was all he could focus on. It quelled the vibration in his ribs, the restless tension in his ligaments. It was a salve.

“Uraume.” He took a seat at the far end of the bath, four arms sprawling out onto the tile behind him. “Clean me quickly. Then wake the concubine—the short one with the curves and the mole. I want her in my chambers.”

Uraume looked at him, that strange look once again dancing in those big burgundy eyes.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Uraume made quick work of cleaning him, scrubbing him down with practiced ease. On special occasions, he’d receive a full body massage—the chef had a way with their hands that had the tension in his four shoulders melting away—but not this morning. Something in him stung a little, at that. But it was no matter; he’d get his physical attention elsewhere.

As soon as his hair was wrung out, the last of the entrails combed out, he was being plucked from the water. Uraume dried him gingerly and wrapped him up in his yukata.

“Can you comb your hair, my Lord? I’ll go wake your concubine.”

The displeasure mounted. Yet, he grunted an affirmation. Uraume gave him a last look-over, that faraway look in their eyes once again, before hurrying off.

Sukuna took his time “brushing” his slicked hair (shaking it this way and that, and then fixing it with his fingers) before making his way to his chamber. The morning was cresting, birds beginning to sing their song as sunlight bathed the courtyard and gardens in gold. The pond in the centre of the palace grounds glimmered, bouncing light in a way that grated at his nerves—it was too beautiful out to feel misery, and that only made him feel worse.

Opening the shoji screen to his room, he was greeted by his little concubine, waiting bowed on the floor obediently. He crossed the threshold and shut the door, not bothering to spare her a glance as he strode towards the large bed.

“Come, woman.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, beckoning her with two fingers to the spot between his parted legs. Without a word, she scurried over, kneeling between his knees. Well-manicured hands reached to untie his yukata.

A large hand slapped away two smaller ones.

The concubine—large eyes filled with hurt—did not look up to meet his eyes.

“My apologies, Lord Sukuna… I thought—”

“You thought wrong.” He looked down at her, running a large hand through long black strands of hair. She was quite beautiful. Plump, glowing—perfect to bear a strong heir. “Begin at my feet.”

He played this game sometimes.

Degraded those he slept with. Reminded them of their place beneath him, of their dispensability. On occasion, he’d reward them—let them cling to him as he kissed away tears, cock gliding home deep inside. Other times, he’d push them to the edge—face pressed to the pillows or neck in the crook of his elbow as he used them until he was satisfied.

He wasn’t sure what mood he was in now.

He slid his foot towards her, black-painted toenails wiggling impatiently. The concubine dropped her head, kissing a stripe from his second toe to the junction between his foot and shin. Sukuna watched as she groveled by his feet, playing with her hair. She kissed at the sharp bones of his ankle, then at the arch of his foot. She lifted it gingerly, kissing the ball of his sole and his heel, and he couldn’t help but imagine how her head would feel under it. The noise of her skull as he bore down on it.

He let her take each of his toes into her mouth—he didn’t care for it much, but he allowed it. She seemed determined to please him, and he appreciated that. She kissed up his shin and massaged his calf, and that felt quite nice. Yet, it paled in comparison to Uraume’s massages.

No, Uraume would have him falling back into the bed. Soft fingertips would pry tender flesh from tired bones, apply pressure in a way that had his muscles jumping. They would work their way up his quads with both hands. Dig their thumb into the supple flesh of his inner thigh. Work the adductor until he was melting, up, up, up, so dangerously close to—

Fuck

A whimper brought him back to the present— beneath him, his concubine was grimacing, black locks tangled tight in a white-knuckled fist. He dropped the hair like it was hot, rubbing her scalp as if to soothe the burn. Sukuna sighed at the teary look in her eye, another hand coming down to wipe her damp lashes dry.

“You did well.”

The concubine sniffled, and he sighed at the sound. He was hard, but the longer he looked at her dejected face, the more likely he was to lose his boner.

“Strip.”

The woman did as she was told, kimono pooling around her wide hips. Once again, he was reminded of her beauty. Supple breasts perked with the chilled morning air, nipples pebbling. A soft tummy, spilling over pillowy thighs, painted a delicious portrait. His eyes fixated on the mole just below her navel—the one he marked each time she was in his bed—and his mind couldn’t help but wander to a different one.

That one was beautiful. It was a light brown thing—small and freckle-like—jutting out against pale skin and short white hair on a soft nape. The curve of that neck was tantalizing; so pure and unmarked, save for that one little freckle. He wanted to sink his teeth into it. He wanted to suck on it, to paint that pale neck in his favourite colour.

“Lord Sukuna?”

The woman below him was offering up her breasts with sultry eyes. Four months ago, she would have been weeping into his pillows already, stuffed full and satisfied. Now, all he felt was indifference.

“Leave my sight.”

“Lord Sukuna, let me—”

“Call Uraume for me on your way out.” He stood, walking to the window. “I need to speak with them.”

He couldn’t help but feel a little lighter as footsteps receded and the shoji slid open.

But what the fuck was wrong with him?

He slammed his hands down on the windowsill. He wanted to feast. Wanted to fuck. Wanted to feel free from whatever this curse was that was weighing on him. The thrumming in his veins, the itch in his bones that had been following him for what felt like an eternity now, he wanted it gone.

He had it all planned out—a slender throat under his fingers, a tight cunt fluttering around him. Pussies on fingers, fingers in mouths, mouths on skin. Flesh in teeth. Supple skin between his incisors, that fucking freckle bruis—

“You called, my Lord?”

Uraume.

“Come in… and shut the door.”

He listened to their graceful movements—much softer than the concubine’s—and couldn’t help but grip the windowsill a little tighter.

Uraume.

It was always Uraume.

***

Uraume had never been summoned by a concubine before—let alone seen one, really, before today. Sukuna rarely seemed interested in matters of romance these days. He had little connection to others, sexual or otherwise, aside from them. Not that Uraume minded at all.

The man was standing by the window, back turned to them, yukata just as pristine as when they left him in the bath. The way his body was curved—like a bow drawn too tight—betrayed the evenness of his tone.

What did that concubine do?

They took a few tentative steps forward, falling into a deep bow at his feet.

When it came to Sukuna Ryomen, it was always better to err on the side of piety.

“Uraume…”

The voice was low and rough—almost breathless. Something fluttered in the pit of Uraume’s stomach.

“I’m here, my Lord.”

“I’ve been… unhappy. Plagued.” He said it slowly, as if trying the words for the first time.

“I’m sorry to hear that, my Lor—”

“Plagued by you.”

Something icy ran through their veins. It was as if their heart stopped, in that moment, frozen over.

They’d fucked up.

They’d fucked up.

Uraume pressed their forehead to the tatami, trying to make themselves as small as possible. Trying to blend into the floor. Trying to disappear.

“My apologies, Lord Sukun—”

“You’ve been invading my thoughts.”

A beat.

The king turned around, and Uraume could feel his heavy gaze raking over the nape of their neck.

“I can’t bear it any longer.”

Uraume’s head spun.

Their stomach was in knots, dropping to the tips of their toes.

Was this how they’d die?

Suddenly? On the floor of Sukuna’s chamber, without reason?

Why?

Short fingernails dug into the tatami, trying to steady the tremor puppeting their bones.

“I wish to bed you, Uraume.”

What?

All was silent for a moment, save for the rush of blood to their ears.

Just like that, a fire ignited somewhere below their navel, melting away at the ice in their veins. Their face heated, thankfully hidden by the tatami.

“Uraume. Speak.”

“Yes, Lord Sukuna.”

Uraume felt more than heard Sukuna fall to his knees before them, ground seemingly dipping under his weight. A large hand was dragging their face up, and four sharp eyes pierced into theirs. Searching.

“You are a virgin.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You wished to become a monk. I don’t seek to take that from you.”

“That door is closed, my Lord. And… I’ve sworn my life to you, Lord Sukuna.”

He raised a large hand, silencing that thought. “Forget about that. Right now, you’re Uraume. Not my chef. Not my assistant. Uraume.”

They nodded slowly in his grasp.

“Do you wish to be bed?”

Uraume couldn’t keep eye contact, face burning under the warmth of Sukuna’s attention.

“Look at me.”

The roughness, the command of his tone made it impossible not to obey. He had never used that voice with them before—no, he was a different man with Uraume. They always knew that, deep down. But being under the weight of that authority—being at the mercy of the King of Curses was… exhilarating.

“Would you let me take your virginity, Uraume?”

Fuck.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“‘Sukuna’.” He stood, untying his yukata slowly. “As it’s your first time… ‘Sukuna’ will suffice.”

Uraume watched as big fingers made elegant work of undoing the sash, fabric slipping off him like water. They had seen his body many times before—but this felt distinctly different.

From the floor, Sukuna Ryomen was more than a man. Warm morning light warmed the edges of golden glistening skin. Thick veins hugged plush muscles—ran down his arms as they folded across his chest, spanned the hard plane where his abdomen met his hips, tracing the delectable lines of his waist. Short pink hair dusted a line under his navel, south, to frame twin tattooed erections. The bands on his skin, bands that had become synonymous with evil, danced in time with the rise and fall of his chest in a way that could only be described as divine.

Sukuna Ryomen was more than a curse, more than a sorcerer. He was an apparition—a God, a demon, something so ethereal and so twisted that it could have never been human. Yet, the way he was looking down at them—the hunger, the softness, the possession—was so real.

All four eyes pinned them to the ground, and Uraume could feel the stakes of his claim nailing into their flesh.

He was waiting for an answer.

Waiting for them.

“Yes… Sukuna.”

Sukuna hummed, low and pleased, extending a large hand to help them off the ground.

“Good. Now strip for me, Uraume.”

***

Sukuna had never seen a creature so… tantalizing.

He wanted to unwrap them. Wanted to tear off their robes, as childish as it was, to get to his gift sooner. But he had to wait. It was their first time, and he wasn’t going to rob Uraume of an unforgettable moment. He wanted them to be comfortable—especially being that he was not the easiest man to bed, even for the most practiced bodies. His impossible size and strength meant that relaxation and preparation were key; of course, with most of his concubines, he forwent this rule and took what he wanted.

But Uraume was not one of them.

They were special.

So he watched, hands balled into fists, as Uraume carefully undid layer after layer of their clothing. Sharp nails dug half-moons into his palms as they unveiled the bottommost layer, their white kosode.

“Sukuna...”

Sukuna’s throat went dry as the final robe slipped off.

He had never cared much about who graced his bed—so long as he had a warm hole and something to grab onto, he was pleased.

But this might just ruin him.

Where he was all hard lines and rippling muscle, Uraume was soft. Tender.

Pale skin reflected the morning light like porcelain. It looked so delicate, spanned the gentle curves of their body—the small mounds of their breasts, the divots between brittle ribs, the jut of their hips. Snow white hair framed now-blushed cheeks, round and glowing. That little brown freckle.

Everything about them was perfect. Pristine. A blank canvas.

He wanted to leave a mark. Needed to leave his mark.

He never bothered to ask pointless “may I?” questions; for him, sex was about taking. Extracting orgasm after orgasm from his partners, using their bodies for his entertainment. He never bothered to ask their preferences; he’d pry them apart on his fingers or his cocks, steal what pleasure he wanted from their mouths or holes or skin. He never bothered with pleasantries, with getting to know his partner; the act was a means to an end. And in the end, he always got what he wanted.

But this moment, as much as it was meant for him—to fix him, to fill the void in his life—it was equally Uraume’s.

So he took a half-step forward.

“You’re beautiful.”

Uraume flushed, and fuck did red look good on them.

“Tell me where I can touch you.”

“My—” they opened their mouth, then closed it. “Sukuna.”

“I’ve only bedded women and men—that I know of. Where does one touch an Uraume?”

Uraume cracked a grin, and Sukuna’s heart did a weak flop. He didn’t realize he was grinning too, until his cheeks started to hurt.

“You can touch me anywhere… I trust you.”

Something in him swelled—other than his cocks, which had been hard for what felt like the better part of an eternity now.

He took another step forward, coming toe-to-toe with his assistant. He brushed the bangs out of their face, then tipped their chin up a little more, to meet their eyes properly.

“I’m going to pick you up now.”

They nodded as two large arms encircled their waist, the other two supporting them under their thighs.

Thin arms flew up to encircle his neck, and Sukuna couldn’t help but admire how much more beautiful Uraume was face-to-face.

“Hurting my back looking down at you, little one.” He chuckled lowly.

Uraume bit back a retort. Sukuna took the opportunity to lean his forehead against theirs, reveling in their heat.

“You’ll need to bear with me as I prepare you.”

“Prepare?”

“Stretch your little virgin hole for my cocks.”

Uraume shuddered in his grasp, and Sukuna couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Wrap your legs around my waist.”

They obeyed, as they always did. Sukuna’s dicks twitched, clear precum already beading up.

“Good. I’m going to lick you now. My fingers will slip in easier if you’re wet.”

“Okay…” It came out a little breathless, and Sukuna chuckled softly as he brought Uraume over to the window.

The morning mist over the courtyard was stunning. Uraume rested their head against his shoulder as they looked out the window, and Sukuna couldn’t help but press a kiss to the top of their hair. Big hands massaged the backs of slender thighs, then slid up to massage their glutes. A fat tongue lolled out of his lower mouth, licking its lips.

“This alright?” Sukuna whispered into their hair as he held them open, big thumbs brushing along the ridge where thigh met labia.

Uraume nodded against his shoulder.

The tongue pressed up, up, up, laying flat against Uraume’s cunt. At the first contact, they jumped a little in his hold; Sukuna apologized with gentle kisses to their forehead. He didn’t move for a moment, letting them get accustomed to the warmth and wetness of his tongue.

Slowly, it laved back and forth over their entrance. Now it was Sukuna’s turn to shiver.

Fuck.

Uraume had been preparing his meals for half a year now—each one more delicious and exquisite than the last. But this…

This did not compare.

Why does the parched man yearn for cold water?

Because it’s delicious?

Because he needs it to live.

Sukuna groaned into Uraume’s hair just as they gasped into his shoulder, pointed tip of his tongue dipping shallowly into them over and over again.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Forget cooking.

He’d be feasting on them from now on.

He had plans for their first time—he wanted it to be beautiful, to take Uraume in the morning sunlight. To hold them open and lick them with his second tongue. To whisper praises in their ear and gaze into their eyes properly.

But he couldn’t help himself.

Sukuna was dropping them onto large pillows and climbing onto the bed before he could process what he was doing. He felt as he did in the woods—a predator homed in on their prey, the adrenaline of the hunt dizzying his mind, washing away all restrictive rationality.

Uraume closed their thighs upon impact with the mattress, and Sukuna would not be having that. Big hands pried slim thighs apart, pinning them open in an iron grip. His second set of hands held open pretty, puffy lips, splaying the blushed flesh below. He was transfixed.

He couldn’t help but let his mouth fall open, watching as a thick wad of saliva dripped from the tips of his split tongue to their little hole, fluttering under the attention. It was tantalizing. He blew a puff of warm air against the wet skin and reveled at the tremble of pale flesh beneath his tanned hands. He ran a large thumb down their center, applying just a little pressure on the spit-slicked entrance.

“Sukuna…” The voice was small, winded.

Crimson eyes met burgundy, and a growl tore through his throat.

They were wrecked.

Hiding behind thin hands, Uraume’s once-pale skin now flushed his favourite colour.

He wanted to swallow them whole.

He wasn’t sure who gasped louder when his tongue—his proper tongue, hot and drooling—met their cunt. He licked a stripe from just under their entrance up to their clit, coaxing the sensitive bundle of nerves to stiffness. One set of ruby eyes traced the movement, but the other set was transfixed on that beautiful face. He wanted to commit this to memory.

Commit them to memory.

He worked his tongue slowly, sloppily. He lapped at their entrance greedily, until all he could taste was himself on their skin, then ran the flat of his tongue over their clit repeatedly. He watched for each little gasp, each stroke that had them whimpering into their palm. The tip of his nose met pubic bone as soft lips wrapped around even softer flesh. He kissed their clit so reverently, open-mouthed and passionate, eyes rolling back a little at the heady taste.

Fuck—fuck—fuck—

“Feels weird—Sukuna…”

Sukuna hummed an acknowledgment into their clit, and a hand was finding purchase in his hair. He pinned them down a little rougher as they began to shake, massaging their thighs in calloused palms as he sucked at their sweet skin.

And they were keening.

A gush of bittersweet slick was running down his chin and Sukuna rushed to lap at the trembling hole as it spilled. A large thumb pinned down their clit as Uraume rode through their release, saliva lubricating the small circles he rubbed into it.

“That’s it… let go for me.”

He rubbed and sucked on the fluttering entrance until their skin jumped, until they tried to scramble away in oversensitivity.

Sukuna lifted his head up ever-so-slightly, wet lips and hot breath ghosting over raised skin. Glassy burgundy made his heartbeat stutter, and he was aching. He needed to take them. Needed to see how they’d look speared on his cocks, feel the flutter of their sweet little hole around him.

“Good, no?”

Uraume was pulling him up by the hair, and Sukuna bit back a smile as soft lips worked his own. If Uraume wanted to taste themselves on him, so be it. A dry hand engulfed their small jaw, forcing their mouth open to slip his tongue inside.

Uraume’s sweet, small tongue felt so soft pinned under his. He stroked it from the tip to where it disappeared into a hot throat. His hand followed the movement, slipping from jaw to neck, pads of his middle and ring fingers coming to rest overtop their racing pulse. He ghosted his fingers down to their collarbone, tracing the jutting bone, before slipping down the hard plane of their sternum.

“You’re so beautiful.” His large hand moved to hover over a small breast. “May I touch you here?”

Uraume nodded, and Sukuna pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of their mouth as rough skin met soft flesh. Their breast was so squishy, so delicate under his big hand—he massaged it now, squeezing and palming at it with a care that bordered reverent. He couldn’t help but watch—his hands were so big. So large that they obscured the breast completely. Heat coiled in his gut, an ugly possession that he tamped down.

Uraume was like a doll in his grasp, something so beautiful and fragile, now pinned under hands that were forged to destroy. They gasped as big fingers found a rosy nipple, pinching and rolling it experimentally. Sukuna flicked his gaze between the movement and their flushed face, pressing a kiss to their heated cheek. His second set of hands held them steady around the waist, so large as to almost span the entirety of the circumference.

He kissed his way down their neck and chest, all the way to their other nipple. He pressed a kiss to the poor neglected thing, tongue slipping out to lave over the bud. His fingers worked its twin a little rougher now, pinching and squeezing the tender flesh of their breast in his big hand.

His lover shuddered beneath him, and he tugged both nipples at the same time—one with his fingers and the other with a harsh suck—and Uraume whimpered.

Sukuna was dizzy with hunger.

He was being so good to them—so patient.

Surely, he deserved a reward.

Hands were pulling at his hair—trying to yank him away from sensitive nipples as he popped most of their breast into his mouth, sucking at delicate skin with a pleased hum.

“Sukuna—”

He shifted his mouth to the other breast, switching to roll the now-moistened bud between calloused fingertips.

“Yes?”

Their flesh was so sweet. So soft, so perfect. He worried the dainty nipple in his mouth with gentle scrapes of sharp canines, and didn’t miss the way Uraume’s heart raced beneath his touch.

“Stop teasing...”

Their thighs were shifting, squeezing and rubbing together to apply pressure of any sort on their little clit. Sukuna couldn’t help but laugh at the pathetic gesture.

“Open your legs. Let me see that precious hole.”

Uraume flushed but complied, bringing their knees up and out. Sukuna hummed his approval, one of the hands around their waist slipping down to caress their soddened folds. Deft fingers slid from their perked clit to their soaked hole, circling their entrance slowly.

He pulled off their breast with an obscene pop, moving to press a chaste kiss to their bitten lips.

“Be good and keep those legs open.”

Uraume nodded as he worked their lips with his, slow and sensual. His thick middle finger applied pressure to their fluttering hole, breaching their entrance slowly. They sucked in a breath, and he hushed them with another press of his lips, slowing his finger to let them adjust.

They were so fucking tight.

“Focus on my lips. Relax your body.”

One knuckle in and they were clenching around the intrusion, inexperienced muscles trying to reject the finger pushing its way inside. Slowly, he pressed in further.

A metallic tang tainted his mouth. Four eyes flew open as sharp teeth dug into his lip, Uraume bearing down as his finger bottomed out. He sucked in a breath through sharp teeth, extracting his lip to lick his wound with a chuckle.

“Took my finger well.”

Uraume was looking up at him with blown pupils, lips bloodied and parted, and it took everything in him to not throw their legs over his shoulders and take them right then.

His two hands on their breasts settled for smoothing the skin with gentle thumbs. The finger inside them curled up a little, caressing their soft walls slowly until Uraume melted into the bed. He pulled his middle finger almost entirely out of their now-pliant body before pressing back in. He kept it slow, let them adjust to the pressure of his moving finger, as he pressed more kisses to those bloodied lips.

“How’s it feeling?”

Uraume moaned into his mouth, and Sukuna was on fire.

The middle finger increased in pace, the pad of his thumb coming up to rub loose circles around their clit. As soon as they were sufficiently wet, he slipped another finger inside. Nails scratched at his scalp, Uraume’s slender fingers tangled in his hair for support.

He repeated the process until Uraume was clenching around four fat fingers, drool gathering at the corner of their mouth and eyes glassy.

“Trying to swallow my hand whole, huh?”

Sukuna wasn’t much better off himself. Both cocks were angrily red now, slobbering against Uraume’s slender thigh.

“Sukuna, please—”

They were spreading their legs, so wet around his fingers. He couldn’t bear it any longer. He pulled his fingers out, strings of Uraume’s syrupy release connecting each digit. He rubbed it over his lower cock, hissing at the touch.

“Shh… I know. I know.”

He was lining himself up, soaked cockhead running up and down their slit slowly. Each drag against their clit had them whimpering, each nudge against their hole had them gasping—Uraume was a symphony of pleasure on the precipice, and Sukuna couldn’t help but tease them a little longer than he should have.

Uraume was rocking back into him impatiently, pulling him close by the hair. The audacity. Sukuna couldn’t help but grin, stilling where he was bumping against their hole.

“Sukuna—”

“Uraume.”

Burgundy pierced into him, kiss-bitten lips pressed into a defiant line despite the drool glistening at the corners.

“Do it properly.”

Sukuna barked out a laugh.

What a fascinating little human.

“Properly?” He gathered them into his arms, leaning down to press a kiss to their temple. “I’d break you, little one. Split you right in two.”

Uraume whined, pressing back into him encouragingly. Sukuna stilled the movement with a big hand on their hip.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Then show me.”

He pulled back, sitting up to look at them properly. The way they were looking at him was so honest. Their pupils were blown, pale skin now flushed and sweat-sheened all over. It was so raw. So delicious.

“You’re going to regret this.” A big hand—one that rested on their breast—brushed sweaty bangs back from where they were stuck to their forehead.

“I hope so.”

The way they grinned at him had his heart stuttering—they were so full of fire for someone made of ice.

“Once I start, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.” He mumbled, caressing their cheek with a thick thumb.

“I’m counting on that.”

Sukuna could never deny them.

He took a deep breath, then pressed in. The squeeze was almost impossible—it gripped him, sucked him inside in a way that had his head lolling back and his eyes pressing shut.

Fuckfuckfuck—

Someone was moaning continuously, and in his sex-addled brain, he wasn’t sure which one of them it was. He wanted to stop—wanted to let them adjust to the impossible girth—but he couldn’t slow his hips. He pressed and pressed and pressed, all four hands gripping at their waist and hips to pull them into him.

When cockhead met cervix, Sukuna whimpered.

Deep in this pussy was the closest to heaven he had ever been.

The neglected cock on Uraume’s abdomen was weeping, precum filling the dip of their navel.

“Move, Sukuna.”

Sukuna did not take orders. He cut tongues loose from bodies for even making suggestions—he commanded, not complied.

But fuck was he seeing stars.

His hips stuttered deep within them, bumping against their womb with each little thrust. He wanted to enter it. Wanted to feel it wrapped around him. Wanted to paint it white.

Hands were pulling him down by the hair, and his big arms slid to hug them as he pressed his large chest to theirs. He was thrusting so shallowly, the squeeze too tight to move like he so desperately needed to.

He whined into pale hair, and those hands were working his scalp so deliciously. His hips wrenched back and pressed in deep, and the drag had tears welling up in his eyes. Everything was a blur—his whole body was alight, skin prickling and hairs standing on end.

Soft lips met his neck, then his shoulder, and he was squeezing his eyes closed so tight that he was seeing colours behind closed eyelids. His hips moved faster, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, copious amounts of precum slicking the way. Uraume muffled moans into his shoulder, and it only served to make him ache.

He was drilling into Uraume now, grunting into the top of their head animalistically. The cock sandwiched between them slipped deliciously against Uraume’s slicked tummy, twitching to match the one lodged deep inside them. Their walls were so wet and warm—sopping with their impending climax. His abs tensed and untensed rhythmically, dancing on the edge between pain and pleasure as he forced down his release.

Pink lips unlocked from his skin, and Uraume was throwing their head back into the pillows. Sukuna chased their warmth with his mouth, pressing kisses to their pulse. His canines ached to sink into something—mark and mar that pale perfect skin, paint it in his crimson. He thrust a little rougher, slowing down to pound and stretch them properly.

“Sukuna—”

It was so beautifully broken, more of a gasp than a word.

He hummed against their neck, brows knit in concentration.

I know.

I know.

I know.

Ankles were wrapping around his waist, and two big hands flew to support trembling thighs.

Sukuna grunted in their ear, and they were soaked. The tight hole clenched down around him, spasming as slick gushed out around the thick shaft. He pistoned into them, moaning with each rhythmic contraction onto his cock.

It was so wet.

So good.

So good.

So good, so good, so good—

Sukuna Ryomen prided himself on his sharp wit and battle-hardened mind; his decisions were quick and never wrong, always alert and on-guard. He was a bloodied blade, ever-sharp, always swinging at the strongest. Nothing caught him by surprise, no one got the best of him.

Uraume’s release snuck up on him.

It knocked the wind out of his lungs.

They were cumming so hard—shaky thighs squeezing around his waist, release dampening the sheets below them as they squirted all over his cock. He was being sucked in so deep. As tip kissed womb, sticky and sloppy, all he could do was melt. His balls squeezed, pleasure shooting from the tips of his toes and the top of his head down to the tip of his too-stiff cocks.

And he was cumming.

His climax tore through him like a heart attack, and he tensed—rope after rope of his seed shot out of him, gushing onto the entrance to their womb. Rhythmic clenches of Uraume’s release coaxed more and more cum out of him, milking his full balls. The divot of his glans dug further into swollen cervix with each shaky jolt of his hips, and his mouth was falling open against their shoulder.

Uraume was moving against him, almost riding him through his high, and Sukuna had never felt so useless. A small hand was weaseling its way between their bodies, rubbing and tugging at the neglected erection on Uraume’s stomach.

He was cumming so hard that he couldn’t see—eyelids open or shut, his vision blurred, all his senses homed in on the pleasure ravaging his cocks. All he could do was lay there and take it, cum shooting all over their chest and spitting into their womb.

Gentle kisses woke him from his stupor, pressed to his jaw and cheek.

Sukuna blinked back prickly tears, eyes stinging from the intensity of his release. Cum was still dripping out of him, drooling uncontrollably.

“Can’t stop—”

Faraway and ruined, he couldn’t recognize his own voice.

Uraume laughed, something musical and light, and soft fingertips were dancing down his back. A shiver ran down his spine, and his cocks twitched, dripping out the last of his release pathetically.

“It’s okay.”

Uraume hugged him close. His too-sensitive cock was trapped under his flinching abdomen, but he hugged them back, gathering them into his heaving chest. Their scent, their pulse under the tip of his nose, was intoxicating. Though the cock between their bellies softened, the one nestled inside Uraume was hard as ever.

“Again.”

Uraume tensed in his arms before barking out a laugh incredulously.

“Sukuna—”

“I told you.”

He pulled back, taking in that flushed expression—so wrecked.

Just for him.

“Once I start, I can’t stop.”

***

Uraume had lost count of how many times they’d finished.

Sukuna Ryomen was many things, but he was not a liar.

They hadn’t stopped. Not even for a moment.

He had been inside them for hours now, learning their body intimately. He had been so pliant, at the beginning—so patient and warm, letting them get used to his love. But somewhere in the middle, something clicked. Some switch was flipped irreversibly inside him.

Sukuna Ryomen was a beast.

Sukuna caught his breath by stealing the air from their lungs. He stayed buried so deep inside them that they were an extension of one another. They were overflowing around his massive shaft, and coated in cooling cum from the neglected second cock on their stomach—marked inside and out.

It was too much.

If they came one more time, they weren’t going to be able to move anymore.

Muscles trembling, they flipped onto their swollen stomach. Their clit was throbbing between shaking thighs, their nipples painfully hard as they lifted themselves onto their elbows, shimmying away from Sukuna to hide in the pillows. The drag of his cock out of their abused hole had their eyes rolling back into their skull. They left a dark trail of cum and slick on the mattress, and they could feel Sukuna’s eyes on their splurting hole.

“Is my little dove trying to fly away?” He chased them up the mattress, nose tracing the column of their neck before nipping playfully at their shoulder. “How cute.”

Uraume whimpered, so full. How Sukuna was still hard, now throbbing against their ass, they had no idea. That fat cockhead was nudging them open again, despite their closed legs. Sukuna’s knees bracketed their thighs, and he was slipping inside. The squelch of their juices around his thick shaft was obscene.

Uraume would have felt embarrassed. If they could have. With each inch of Sukuna’s length, their mind got hazier, replaced by the impossible stretch.

“So fuckin’ tight for me.”

A big hand was palming at their ass, watching it jiggle under his touch. Uraume buried their face into the pillows to muffle a broken whine.

“Think you can take both now?”

Uraume’s eyes were rolling back into their skull at the thought, and Sukuna didn’t miss the way they were clenching around his length.

“Did you just cum a little? Oh, baby—”

The saccharine in his voice, the cooing concern, was so degrading. It shot right to their clit.

A second cockhead was nudging its way between the mounds of their ass, sparks shooting up their spine when it nudged against their already too-full entrance.

“Open up for me.”

That rasp left no room for argument, and Uraume was pressing back into him with a groan.

The tip breached their entrance, and it burned.

Sukuna was splitting them open, tearing them straight in half.

He was pressing impossibly deeper—not giving them even a second of respite between each mind-numbing inch—hissing through his teeth.

As soon as he bottomed out, their stomach prodded by two fat tips, he was moving. It was rough, fast, needy.

Sukuna Ryomen, the imaginary two-faced God, was nothing more than a dog in heat.

He humped them with little grunts, tonguing at the beads of sweat rolling down their neck from now-matted hair. Those full balls spanked their sensitive clit with each thrust, and the filthy noise had them impossibly wetter.

“You’re mine.” He growled against their shoulder, more felt than heard, sharp teeth grazing over the tender flesh there. “Mine, ‘raume.”

A large hand beneath their tummy slid down further. Pleasure shot to their clit as a thick finger worked it hard and fast, matching the chaotic pace of his thrusts. The air was being punched out of their lungs with each bruising knock to their cervix and spongy G-spot. Uraume couldn’t do anything but grip onto the pillows for dear life.

“Gonna mark you up so good.”

Precum heated their insides, flooding their deepest spots and soiling their abused cervix. Another big hand found their ass cheek, palming at it before pulling it aside to bare more of their overstretched hole. Just like that, he managed to press in a little deeper. Uraume didn’t have to turn around to know what Sukuna was watching it—watching himself enter.

Being pinned down and fucked—used like a toy—had Uraume’s eyes fluttering back. If Sukuna was making any sense, Uraume couldn’t register. Their mind was a litany of curses, an incoherent cacophony of cries, a paean of praise and prayer.

Everything was hot, everything was tingling, and they were so soaked in sweat and spit and slick that it felt like they were drowning.

Their release ripped through them. They were squirting on Sukuna’s cock before they could even moan his name. The wet slap of his balls against their leaking cunt was pornographic.

Sukuna groaned against their nape. Pain tore through the sensitive skin there, and Sukuna was biting them—bearing down on the tender flesh with big canines. Just like that, they were being filled. Sukuna was cumming harder than he had before, seated so deep inside that Uraume could feel his semen filling their womb. Uraume’s jaw fell open to scream but no sound came out—a whimper escaped from behind their uvula, like a wounded animal.

Sukuna’s twin cocks twitched and bucked wildly inside as he pumped them full. Cum flooded out of their overflooding hole, painting their ass and Sukuna’s pelvis a sticky, milky white.

Sukuna pulled out and flipped them over in one swift movement, final dribbles of cum painting their clit and belly. Red eyes bore into their flesh, taking in their post-climax debauched state. Uraume pressed their legs a little tighter together, bashfully.

Sukuna wasn’t having it. Thick fingers squeezed gently around their neck. Uraume’s eyes shot open, and Sukuna pulled back from the kiss to watch as their eyes fluttered at the headrush. Their lips parted, red and puffy from biting on them, and Sukuna looked ravenous.

“Spread those legs and open that mouth.”

Uraume, in no condition to protest as the hand clamped a little tighter, obeyed.

Sukuna spit onto their exposed tongue.

“Behave.”

Sukuna released their throat, free hand coming down to flick at their cum-coated clit. Uraume’s hips bucked with a whimper, their legs opening wider shakily. Sukuna hummed his approval, rewarding their obedience with a soothing thumb on their sensitive bud. He dipped into Uraume’s gushing hole, gathering up cum to slick the movement of his thumb against their clit. He watched the movement, transfixed, before leaning down to mouth at where Uraume’s ear met their jaw.

“So full of my seed...”

Uraume whimpered, writhing in his grasp at the teasing of their overstimulated body. Their neck was throbbing where Sukuna bit them earlier, and their skin was so impossibly hot that it felt like they were burning alive.

It was too much.

Once again, they attempted to wiggle away.

Once again, they failed.

Sukuna’s big hands were grabbing at their thighs, yanking them around like a doll. He lifted their legs onto his shoulders, pressing a kiss to each ankle with a wicked grin.

“I told you.We’re not stopping any time soon.”

***

Sukuna gazed down at his work of art.

The sun was low in the sky now, courtyard swathed in orange. The sky was a vibrant pink, a waking dream as day faded to night. Yet, Sukuna noticed none of it.

No. His eyes were elsewhere.

Uraume lay prone beneath him. Their small asscheeks were red and shiny with sweat, faint handprints on them from his rough handling. They were looking back at him, pupils blown and glassy, and he heated under their gaze. Puffy lips curved into a smile, and Sukuna couldn’t help but smile back, placing a steadying hand between their shoulders.

He wanted to keep them here, like this, forever.

They were so beautiful. Glowing.

Broken.

His little dove, with broken wings.

He felt so warm, so full, at the sight. The hole in his heart… it was them.

Seeing them here, under him, he finally felt fulfilled.

Complete.

His hand slid up to their nape, teasing the short pale hair there. His thumb brushed along the column of their neck, skimming the edge of his masterpiece.

That freckle.

Around that little mark, a ring of indents—two sets of large teeth framed the mole, red and spit-shined.

The mark itself? His favourite colour.

Burgundy.

[egglain]

Dove, Darker Than Blood

Rating: E (18+) - mdni Pairing: Sukuna x Uraume Content: pre-canon (heian era), sukume origin story, true form sukuna, nonbinary uraume, vaginal sex (oral, penetrative), creampies, double penetration in one hole (vaginal), very mild choking, marking (biting, cum, spit), multiple orgasms, marathon sex, soft sex turned rough, overstim, body worship, first times, loss of virginity (uraume), soft & possessive sukuna Word Count: 10.4k

Summary: “Do you wish to be bed?” Uraume couldn’t keep eye contact, face burning under the warmth of Sukuna’s attention. “Look at me.” The roughness, the command of his tone made it impossible not to obey. He had never used that voice with them before—no, he was a different man with Uraume. They always knew that, deep down. But being under the weight of that authority—being at the mercy of the King of Curses was… exhilarating. “Would you let me take your virginity, Uraume?” Fuck.

A murder. A meeting. A question. An answer. A Heian era origin fic.

Red.

What a beautiful colour it was, all over the wooden floor.

Long brown tresses spilled from between veiny fingers, Sukuna’s large hand dwarfing the head they were attached to. The head, however, was no longer attached to anything. Vibrant vermillion drained from once-flushed cheeks, staining the kitchen floor ever-darker. Warmth pooled between black-nailed toes, blood from his ex-chef painting a pretty picture of an ugly end.

“You there.” Sukuna gestured with the severed head at a trembling maid. “Can you cook, woman?”

The woman hung her head low, measly tears spilling onto her now-crimson apron. “No, my Lord.”

“Tch. Useless.” The king’s grimace turned to another, who shook her pallid face immediately. Sukuna dropped the cook’s head, kicking it away with a grunt. “Absolutely fucking useless. Every one of you.”

The servants knew better than to respond. Knew better than to breathe. The room was still enough to hear a heart beating—and several were, rapidly. Sukuna turned on his heel, the squelch of blood underfoot enough to make the head maid gag.

“Find me a chef… and clean up this mess,” Sukuna announced to no one in particular.

As the king stormed off, red spilled into the hisashi.

***

Sukuna’s head rest heavy on a large fist, tattooed limbs sprawled out on the dais.

“Next.”

It had been a long morning of meagre meals. Bumbling cooks spilled bland boiled food in the entryway, one of his taste testers dropped dead, and three separate chefs had refused to cook meat (claiming it was “impure”). Sukuna had never felt less appetized.

He was just about ready to call the whole thing off—make a point of picking the meat off the bones of these cowardly cooks instead—as the last candidate stepped forth. A little thing, just a bit over half his size if he had to guess (not that his tallest servant reached any higher than his sternum). The chef fell to their knees to bow deeply at the foot of the dais, pale bangs sweeping the wooden floor.

Sukuna gestured his taster forward with two curled fingers. A mousy man ushered forth a large bowl, golden liquid sloshing as he carried it to the king.

“What is this?”

The taster placed the bowl on the stout lacquered table before Sukuna, bowing. “Sou—”

“Not you, fool.” He waved the man away, sitting up a little more to peer inside the bowl. “Chef. Speak.”

The white-haired cook spoke without raising their head, and yet their voice was clear. Calm. “Braised boar in a bone broth, my Lord. With local vegetables.”

Sukuna hummed, lifting the bowl to sip straight from the brim. Warmth spread from the tip of his tongue straight down to his stomach—it was good. Better than good, even. It reminded him of home—rather, what he imagined home would taste like. It was rich but simple. Well-made.

If this commoner can piece a dish like this together on their own, what could they make with the world at their fingertips?

Sukuna picked out a piece of meat with fat fingers, the flesh falling off the bone. He popped it into his mouth, reveling in the savory flavour as it melted onto his tongue. He bit back a satisfied groan, clearing his throat to mask his pleasure.

He set down the bowl, licking the pad of his thumb greedily. “Raise your head.”

The cook obeyed, hands folding politely on the lap of their white kimono. Pale lashes and short white hair framed a delicate face. Big burgundy eyes met his, and something in his gut stirred.

Interesting.

“State your name.”

“Uraume, my Lord.”

“Uraume, huh?” He let the name roll on his tongue, committing it to memory as he took them in. He turned to the maid holding his sake to the right of his dais. “Show Uraume around, woman. They start in the morning.”

As the woman rushed to usher his new chef to the kitchen, the king turned his intense gaze to the rest of the room.

“Everyone who wishes to keep their head, leave my sight.”

And so, the King of Curses enjoyed his soup alone.

***

Sukuna was right—not that he was ever wrong, per se—but the new little chef amused him more and more each day.

With access to a nearly endless supply of funds, every dish was something akin to a painting; each stroke was unique, elements curating a feeling—an experience. They put their brown-haired predecessor to shame. Sukuna had never been gladder someone was dead.

Three months had passed since their onboarding, and he had grown to like this Uraume. Aside from the good food, they had a strong spirit—not many of his servants could meet his eyes, let alone provide coherent answers to his questions. Needless to say, his days had been much more interesting as of late. He grew to look forward to his meals, even when he was full from the last one.

He had even started to opt out of having the maids deliver his food, requesting Uraume personally. It was better this way—they would explain the dish to him, taste it first, and then watch him eat. Not that he needed the company. But he’d grown to enjoy their silent presence. On occasion, he’d ask a question or two.

Which is how they had gotten here.

“A virgin?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

It had nothing to do with the dish—thinly chopped raw fish and vegetables pickled in rice vinegar—but Sukuna’s mouth was watering nonetheless.

“I was raised to become a monk, my Lord.”

“Is that what you wish to be? Why become a chef?”

“Being your chef is my honor, Lord Sukuna.”

“And the latter question?”

They looked down, hands squeezing together a little tighter where they were clasped in front of them. “There was an accident, my Lord.”

His brow quirked on instinct, and he hoped it didn’t betray his cold persona. It was unlike the King of Curses to show interest in anything other than himself.

“You are no longer pure?” He said it slowly, tasting the syllables. They left a complicated taste on his tongue—something bitter and rotten. Spoiled.

“No, sir. I…”

There was a long silence. Had it been anyone else, Sukuna would have grown bored—perhaps even beheaded the perpetrator. But with Uraume, it was exciting. He couldn’t help but lean in a little closer. Try to understand them a little more. It was like unraveling the wrapping on a gift, plucking jewels from an unseemly fabric satchel.

So he waited.

“I killed.”

Sukuna’s eyebrows furrowed.

Killing, to the King of Curses, was like breathing—he hardly thought twice about it. It was what he was made for, after all. He couldn’t help but laugh a little, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Uraume, bless their heart, jumped a little at the display.

“Troublesome for a monk indeed. How did that happen?”

“I was seeing spirits, my Lord.”

“Dead relatives?”

“No, my Lord. Curses.”

Interesting indeed.

“Cursed spirits? A little human like you?” He leaned forward, hands clasping over his bowl of namasu—he rested his chin on top. “A jujutsu sorcerer, then?”

“Jujutsu…?”

Something in his chest fluttered. His chef was like a baby bird—a dove so pure, so beautiful, so full of life.

He wanted to snap their wings.

“Come forth, Uraume.”

The chef came up on the dais, bowing deeply at his feet. Their pale bangs tickled the tips of his sensitive toes.

Sukuna hummed a pleased noise, reaching a large hand down to lift their small face with gentle fingers.

“Watch.”

He pulled his hand back a little, holding his index finger before their burgundy eyes.

“Open.”

At the command, light sparked above his fingertip. Thin tendrils of flame danced from the tip of his index down to the base, then weaved between his digits, lapping at the webs between his fingers. Golden light danced across Uraume’s soft features, their eyes trained on the movement with reverent fascination.

“The practice of siphoning the energy within you—the cursed energy—into something tangible. Honing it into a technique, as a sculptor uses a chisel to bring stone to life. That is jujutsu sorcery.”

He reached another hand down, pulling Uraume’s palm flat out. The dancing flame in his right hand took the shape of an arrow, and he set it forth into Uraume’s hand. Uraume’s eyes widened as the arrow danced along their palm and around their wrist, tracing the delicate bones of their hand. Sukuna chuckled a little, puffing up with pride at eliciting such a raw reaction out of his little cook.

“Most people who can see cursed spirits are cursed themselves; cursed with this power, or a curse themselves.”

“Which are you, my Lord?” The question was barely a whisper, large pupils still trained on the dancing flame.

“Both. Neither.” He chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “I’ve transcended the concept of these binaries. I’m beyond any sorcerer or curse of this age.”

“Teach me.” Those burgundy eyes were back on his. Bright. Unyielding. “Please, Lord Sukuna.”

If you were to ask Ryomen Sukuna, he would answer that he would never stoop as low as to become a teacher. There were professional tutors for that, surely. Arrogant weak sorcerers looking to make a living. Looking to make a name for themselves.

Sukuna Ryomen was a king. A God. He didn’t teach. He took. Plundered, maimed, massacred. He didn’t need a living—he had everything he could ever want, and he stole what he didn’t. And he sure didn’t need a legacy—he would never be forgotten.

“We start tomorrow.”

***

Uraume was strong.

Their powers, complementary to his flames, were that of ice. Each day, just after lunch, he met them in the courtyard and guided them through the exercises he used to explore his power in his younger days. He saw himself in them—potential. Something raw, waiting to be discovered. Something twisted, lurking just under the surface, raring to be unleashed.

Watching them discover themselves filled him with pride… and something else. Something dark that lapped at his insides—something he had yet to understand.

With another three months—now half a year since he hired them—Uraume had become more than a chef. He took his meals with Uraume, had them take on more responsibilities, and fired half his incompetent staff.

He liked it better, like this. They knew how he liked his baths (scalding and paired with the smell of incense). They knew what he liked to eat (meat, preferably human). They knew how to clean the blood out of his sokutai so it remained pristine. They combed his hair gentler than his handmaid did. They shared the weekly news over Friday breakfast.

He could get used to this.

And alongside the exceptional service, Uraume could fight beside him. Hold their own not only on the battlefield but in all aspects of life. They had big ideas—suggestions, improvements—not only as they pertained to him, but for all of Japan. Sukuna had never had a figure like this in his life; a mirror, someone he’d let critique him, make him better. He would have never allowed that. But somehow, Uraume had found their way under his skin… and he had no complaints.

Yet, there was always something there.

Something missing, buzzing like a fruit fly next to his ear. Barely there, but increasingly difficult to ignore.

He had grown… unsatisfied, somewhere along the way, in some realm he couldn’t identify.

He had everything his mind wanted—he had no qualms with his daily routine, no annoyances that weren’t swiftly sorted out by Uraume or a slash of his hand.

So why?

What was this restless feeling?

The palace was quieter nowadays. Without the “baggage” staff (the nitwits he had released from their duties), all that remained were the housekeepers, the gardeners, a handful of maids, and his concubines. He never cared much for the latter two, but they did the menial tasks he was too busy to think about—mend clothes, pour sake, get him off. Save for the last task, Uraume now had these jobs handled, rendering the few staff he kept useless. Now thinking back on it, he hadn’t called upon any of his concubines in almost four months.

Sex was like fighting, for him. A thrill, a power struggle, an outlet. It kept him level-headed; gave him a way to deal with his emotions that didn’t involve bloodshed… usually.

He hadn’t needed it in a long time. He got his thrill from the company he kept, from watching flame engulf ice in the courtyard. He didn’t need an outlet either—everything was so easy now. Uraume ensured it.

So why?

Reading in his chamber, he rolled the idea around in his head.

He had read the same line thrice now, and none of the words were sticking. His mind was hazy, cotton-filled, a sieve rather than a sponge.

He didn’t like feeling like this. On-edge. Wrong.

So, he did what he always did when displeased.

Slaughter.

He took a midnight trip outside of the boundaries of his territory. Normally, he’d come by daylight with his bow—train his eyesight, hone his aim, polish his strategy and patience. But not tonight. Tonight, he needed to feel alive.

Inside the bounds of his territory, all was still. Sukuna Ryomen was written in the rigid trunks of the trees, in the roots, in the soil. Anyone stupid enough to set foot in an unwelcome manner was promptly disposed of—cleaved so thoroughly that no power, jujutsu or otherwise, could piece them back together. These lands were an extension of himself. This was his domain. His turf.

The world outside his carefully curated home was chaos. In the golden age of magic, culture, and creativity, cursed energy reached an all-time high. Cursed spirits and jujutsu sorcerers fed off the changing times like parasites, growing in tandem from the shadows of society.

This, of course, caused a problem for the poor; cursed spirits massacred lowly fishing and farming villages, and jujutsu sorcerers were far too busy protecting the imperial core to deal with the hundreds of incidents occurring in the far corners of the nation.

Sukuna didn’t care much for politics, though he was not uninvolved—his hands were dirtied with the blood of countless clan heads and generals. The people had come to fear and revere him, and it was oddly… fulfilling. Humans mounted shrines, left out offerings of food, art, and weaponry in hopes of warding off his fabled wrath. These humans served as a source—a wellspring of labor, food, clothing, entertainment, and cursed energy. He fed off them (sometimes quite literally).

Though he was in no way a guardian, he had come to a sort of symbiosis with the villages bordering his territory. Over time, they had become an extension of his home. The aura shrouding their houses—his aura—warded most curses away. The weak ones, at least. However, the humans were left to fend for themselves against the stronger ones—those who hungered for power, to assert their claim over someone else’s possessions, like petulant children. In exchange for their piety, he lent a hand, when he felt like it. Had a little fun with the curses encroaching on their lands. By now, most knew to get themselves indoors upon his arrival, for when he let go, there was no difference between human and cursed blood on his hands.

This is where he found himself now, the woods just outside the border of a little farming village.

The smell of fear, the hushed prayers of the women and children, the low murmur of curses in the trees—it was intoxicating.

He let himself go, in a way he hadn’t in ages.

Throats ripped from bodies, bloodstained teeth prying open flesh. Screams mounted somewhere in the distance—human or curse, he couldn’t tell. Adrenaline pumped through raised veins, pulsing with each deafening pop of a spinal cord severing. Skulls imploded in his big hands, sticky innards spilling like juice from a too-ripe fruit between his fingers.

This is what made Sukuna Ryomen whole.

He returned early in the morning, bloodied and buzzing.

In his arms, the spoils of his adventure—gifts from the little humans, slightly soddened from the syrupy blood dripping from his chin.

And yet, the itch he sought to scratch…

“Lord Sukuna?”

Sukuna didn’t bother to wipe his soiled feet as he walked in from the courtyard. At the sound of that familiar tone, he looked up.

Uraume was looking at him, something unreadable in their eyes. Their hair stuck out a little—almost as if they had been sleeping when he returned. Sukuna Ryomen didn’t sleep, but if he did, he imagined he would be doing it now.

“Uraume.”

“Shall I draw a bath, my Lord?”

Sukuna looked down at himself. He was dripping muddy, filthy blood on his clean wooden floors. Two months ago, he wouldn’t have minded—in fact, blood was once a beautiful sight—but now…

“Yes… but don’t wake the others.” He wasn’t sure why he said it. Maybe he wanted Uraume to be the one to do it. Perhaps he always did.

“Of course.”

They plucked the offerings from his arms, bowing politely before taking their leave. He expected they’d be polished and put away for his later amusement. Against the wall, Sukuna took a few moments to steel himself before making his way to the baths.

Something was still wrong. It roiled in his gut like a spoiled meal, hummed in the back of his mind like a migraine that refused to manifest.

Why was he on-edge like this?

Why was he off?

Usually, killing did the trick, but whatever void there was inside him hadn’t been satisfied. In fact, attempting to cure his problem just made it worse when it didn’t work.

Fuck.

In the bathhouse, Uraume greeted him, steam and smoke filling the room. He let them strip him down, taking in their focused eyes. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, knuckles straining against tan skin. He had never paid much mind when the other maids did this, but something about their slender fingers brushing against him—even through the thick fabric—affected him. It wasn’t unpleasant.

“Uraume.”

“Yes, my Lord?” They made quick work of folding his bloodied clothes and setting them aside. By supper, they would be brand new again.

He called upon them, but he wasn’t sure what he needed. Uraume was always so good at giving him what he needed, so long as he had the words to ask for it—but this was different.

“I’m uncomfortable.”

Uraume’s eyes widened and they backed off immediately, turning around to give him privacy in his nude state.

“No—not with you.” He placed a gentle hand on their shoulder, turning them around again. His brows were scrunched somewhere between pain and annoyance, but it wasn’t pointed at them. It was an unfocused irritation. And that only served to make it more irritating. Sukuna pinched the bridge of his nose, worrying the skin there. “I just… there’s something not right. I’m missing something, and I don’t know what it is. I want to have it. No. I need to have it.”

Uraume ushered him into the water with a pensive hum, hand guiding him by the small of his back. Had it been anyone else, he would have cut it off… but instead, warmth spread through his spine down to the soles of his feet.

For a moment, it brought him out of his head, and back to the present.

Touch.

Right then, it was all he could focus on. It quelled the vibration in his ribs, the restless tension in his ligaments. It was a salve.

“Uraume.” He took a seat at the far end of the bath, four arms sprawling out onto the tile behind him. “Clean me quickly. Then wake the concubine—the short one with the curves and the mole. I want her in my chambers.”

Uraume looked at him, that strange look once again dancing in those big burgundy eyes.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Uraume made quick work of cleaning him, scrubbing him down with practiced ease. On special occasions, he’d receive a full body massage—the chef had a way with their hands that had the tension in his four shoulders melting away—but not this morning. Something in him stung a little, at that. But it was no matter; he’d get his physical attention elsewhere.

As soon as his hair was wrung out, the last of the entrails combed out, he was being plucked from the water. Uraume dried him gingerly and wrapped him up in his yukata.

“Can you comb your hair, my Lord? I’ll go wake your concubine.”

The displeasure mounted. Yet, he grunted an affirmation. Uraume gave him a last look-over, that faraway look in their eyes once again, before hurrying off.

Sukuna took his time “brushing” his slicked hair (shaking it this way and that, and then fixing it with his fingers) before making his way to his chamber. The morning was cresting, birds beginning to sing their song as sunlight bathed the courtyard and gardens in gold. The pond in the centre of the palace grounds glimmered, bouncing light in a way that grated at his nerves—it was too beautiful out to feel misery, and that only made him feel worse.

Opening the shoji screen to his room, he was greeted by his little concubine, waiting bowed on the floor obediently. He crossed the threshold and shut the door, not bothering to spare her a glance as he strode towards the large bed.

“Come, woman.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, beckoning her with two fingers to the spot between his parted legs. Without a word, she scurried over, kneeling between his knees. Well-manicured hands reached to untie his yukata.

A large hand slapped away two smaller ones.

The concubine—large eyes filled with hurt—did not look up to meet his eyes.

“My apologies, Lord Sukuna… I thought—”

“You thought wrong.” He looked down at her, running a large hand through long black strands of hair. She was quite beautiful. Plump, glowing—perfect to bear a strong heir. “Begin at my feet.”

He played this game sometimes.

Degraded those he slept with. Reminded them of their place beneath him, of their dispensability. On occasion, he’d reward them—let them cling to him as he kissed away tears, cock gliding home deep inside. Other times, he’d push them to the edge—face pressed to the pillows or neck in the crook of his elbow as he used them until he was satisfied.

He wasn’t sure what mood he was in now.

He slid his foot towards her, black-painted toenails wiggling impatiently. The concubine dropped her head, kissing a stripe from his second toe to the junction between his foot and shin. Sukuna watched as she groveled by his feet, playing with her hair. She kissed at the sharp bones of his ankle, then at the arch of his foot. She lifted it gingerly, kissing the ball of his sole and his heel, and he couldn’t help but imagine how her head would feel under it. The noise of her skull as he bore down on it.

He let her take each of his toes into her mouth—he didn’t care for it much, but he allowed it. She seemed determined to please him, and he appreciated that. She kissed up his shin and massaged his calf, and that felt quite nice. Yet, it paled in comparison to Uraume’s massages.

No, Uraume would have him falling back into the bed. Soft fingertips would pry tender flesh from tired bones, apply pressure in a way that had his muscles jumping. They would work their way up his quads with both hands. Dig their thumb into the supple flesh of his inner thigh. Work the adductor until he was melting, up, up, up, so dangerously close to—

Fuck

A whimper brought him back to the present— beneath him, his concubine was grimacing, black locks tangled tight in a white-knuckled fist. He dropped the hair like it was hot, rubbing her scalp as if to soothe the burn. Sukuna sighed at the teary look in her eye, another hand coming down to wipe her damp lashes dry.

“You did well.”

The concubine sniffled, and he sighed at the sound. He was hard, but the longer he looked at her dejected face, the more likely he was to lose his boner.

“Strip.”

The woman did as she was told, kimono pooling around her wide hips. Once again, he was reminded of her beauty. Supple breasts perked with the chilled morning air, nipples pebbling. A soft tummy, spilling over pillowy thighs, painted a delicious portrait. His eyes fixated on the mole just below her navel—the one he marked each time she was in his bed—and his mind couldn’t help but wander to a different one.

That one was beautiful. It was a light brown thing—small and freckle-like—jutting out against pale skin and short white hair on a soft nape. The curve of that neck was tantalizing; so pure and unmarked, save for that one little freckle. He wanted to sink his teeth into it. He wanted to suck on it, to paint that pale neck in his favourite colour.

“Lord Sukuna?”

The woman below him was offering up her breasts with sultry eyes. Four months ago, she would have been weeping into his pillows already, stuffed full and satisfied. Now, all he felt was indifference.

“Leave my sight.”

“Lord Sukuna, let me—”

“Call Uraume for me on your way out.” He stood, walking to the window. “I need to speak with them.”

He couldn’t help but feel a little lighter as footsteps receded and the shoji slid open.

But what the fuck was wrong with him?

He slammed his hands down on the windowsill. He wanted to feast. Wanted to fuck. Wanted to feel free from whatever this curse was that was weighing on him. The thrumming in his veins, the itch in his bones that had been following him for what felt like an eternity now, he wanted it gone.

He had it all planned out—a slender throat under his fingers, a tight cunt fluttering around him. Pussies on fingers, fingers in mouths, mouths on skin. Flesh in teeth. Supple skin between his incisors, that fucking freckle bruis—

“You called, my Lord?”

Uraume.

“Come in… and shut the door.”

He listened to their graceful movements—much softer than the concubine’s—and couldn’t help but grip the windowsill a little tighter.

Uraume.

It was always Uraume.

***

Uraume had never been summoned by a concubine before—let alone seen one, really, before today. Sukuna rarely seemed interested in matters of romance these days. He had little connection to others, sexual or otherwise, aside from them. Not that Uraume minded at all.

The man was standing by the window, back turned to them, yukata just as pristine as when they left him in the bath. The way his body was curved—like a bow drawn too tight—betrayed the evenness of his tone.

What did that concubine do?

They took a few tentative steps forward, falling into a deep bow at his feet.

When it came to Sukuna Ryomen, it was always better to err on the side of piety.

“Uraume…”

The voice was low and rough—almost breathless. Something fluttered in the pit of Uraume’s stomach.

“I’m here, my Lord.”

“I’ve been… unhappy. Plagued.” He said it slowly, as if trying the words for the first time.

“I’m sorry to hear that, my Lor—”

“Plagued by you.”

Something icy ran through their veins. It was as if their heart stopped, in that moment, frozen over.

They’d fucked up.

They’d fucked up.

Uraume pressed their forehead to the tatami, trying to make themselves as small as possible. Trying to blend into the floor. Trying to disappear.

“My apologies, Lord Sukun—”

“You’ve been invading my thoughts.”

A beat.

The king turned around, and Uraume could feel his heavy gaze raking over the nape of their neck.

“I can’t bear it any longer.”

Uraume’s head spun.

Their stomach was in knots, dropping to the tips of their toes.

Was this how they’d die?

Suddenly? On the floor of Sukuna’s chamber, without reason?

Why?

Short fingernails dug into the tatami, trying to steady the tremor puppeting their bones.

“I wish to bed you, Uraume.”

What?

All was silent for a moment, save for the rush of blood to their ears.

Just like that, a fire ignited somewhere below their navel, melting away at the ice in their veins. Their face heated, thankfully hidden by the tatami.

“Uraume. Speak.”

“Yes, Lord Sukuna.”

Uraume felt more than heard Sukuna fall to his knees before them, ground seemingly dipping under his weight. A large hand was dragging their face up, and four sharp eyes pierced into theirs. Searching.

“You are a virgin.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You wished to become a monk. I don’t seek to take that from you.”

“That door is closed, my Lord. And… I’ve sworn my life to you, Lord Sukuna.”

He raised a large hand, silencing that thought. “Forget about that. Right now, you’re Uraume. Not my chef. Not my assistant. Uraume.”

They nodded slowly in his grasp.

“Do you wish to be bed?”

Uraume couldn’t keep eye contact, face burning under the warmth of Sukuna’s attention.

“Look at me.”

The roughness, the command of his tone made it impossible not to obey. He had never used that voice with them before—no, he was a different man with Uraume. They always knew that, deep down. But being under the weight of that authority—being at the mercy of the King of Curses was… exhilarating.

“Would you let me take your virginity, Uraume?”

Fuck.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“‘Sukuna’.” He stood, untying his yukata slowly. “As it’s your first time… ‘Sukuna’ will suffice.”

Uraume watched as big fingers made elegant work of undoing the sash, fabric slipping off him like water. They had seen his body many times before—but this felt distinctly different.

From the floor, Sukuna Ryomen was more than a man. Warm morning light warmed the edges of golden glistening skin. Thick veins hugged plush muscles—ran down his arms as they folded across his chest, spanned the hard plane where his abdomen met his hips, tracing the delectable lines of his waist. Short pink hair dusted a line under his navel, south, to frame twin tattooed erections. The bands on his skin, bands that had become synonymous with evil, danced in time with the rise and fall of his chest in a way that could only be described as divine.

Sukuna Ryomen was more than a curse, more than a sorcerer. He was an apparition—a God, a demon, something so ethereal and so twisted that it could have never been human. Yet, the way he was looking down at them—the hunger, the softness, the possession—was so real.

All four eyes pinned them to the ground, and Uraume could feel the stakes of his claim nailing into their flesh.

He was waiting for an answer.

Waiting for them.

“Yes… Sukuna.”

Sukuna hummed, low and pleased, extending a large hand to help them off the ground.

“Good. Now strip for me, Uraume.”

***

Sukuna had never seen a creature so… tantalizing.

He wanted to unwrap them. Wanted to tear off their robes, as childish as it was, to get to his gift sooner. But he had to wait. It was their first time, and he wasn’t going to rob Uraume of an unforgettable moment. He wanted them to be comfortable—especially being that he was not the easiest man to bed, even for the most practiced bodies. His impossible size and strength meant that relaxation and preparation were key; of course, with most of his concubines, he forwent this rule and took what he wanted.

But Uraume was not one of them.

They were special.

So he watched, hands balled into fists, as Uraume carefully undid layer after layer of their clothing. Sharp nails dug half-moons into his palms as they unveiled the bottommost layer, their white kosode.

“Sukuna...”

Sukuna’s throat went dry as the final robe slipped off.

He had never cared much about who graced his bed—so long as he had a warm hole and something to grab onto, he was pleased.

But this might just ruin him.

Where he was all hard lines and rippling muscle, Uraume was soft. Tender.

Pale skin reflected the morning light like porcelain. It looked so delicate, spanned the gentle curves of their body—the small mounds of their breasts, the divots between brittle ribs, the jut of their hips. Snow white hair framed now-blushed cheeks, round and glowing. That little brown freckle.

Everything about them was perfect. Pristine. A blank canvas.

He wanted to leave a mark. Needed to leave his mark.

He never bothered to ask pointless “may I?” questions; for him, sex was about taking. Extracting orgasm after orgasm from his partners, using their bodies for his entertainment. He never bothered to ask their preferences; he’d pry them apart on his fingers or his cocks, steal what pleasure he wanted from their mouths or holes or skin. He never bothered with pleasantries, with getting to know his partner; the act was a means to an end. And in the end, he always got what he wanted.

But this moment, as much as it was meant for him—to fix him, to fill the void in his life—it was equally Uraume’s.

So he took a half-step forward.

“You’re beautiful.”

Uraume flushed, and fuck did red look good on them.

“Tell me where I can touch you.”

“My—” they opened their mouth, then closed it. “Sukuna.”

“I’ve only bedded women and men—that I know of. Where does one touch an Uraume?”

Uraume cracked a grin, and Sukuna’s heart did a weak flop. He didn’t realize he was grinning too, until his cheeks started to hurt.

“You can touch me anywhere… I trust you.”

Something in him swelled—other than his cocks, which had been hard for what felt like the better part of an eternity now.

He took another step forward, coming toe-to-toe with his assistant. He brushed the bangs out of their face, then tipped their chin up a little more, to meet their eyes properly.

“I’m going to pick you up now.”

They nodded as two large arms encircled their waist, the other two supporting them under their thighs.

Thin arms flew up to encircle his neck, and Sukuna couldn’t help but admire how much more beautiful Uraume was face-to-face.

“Hurting my back looking down at you, little one.” He chuckled lowly.

Uraume bit back a retort. Sukuna took the opportunity to lean his forehead against theirs, reveling in their heat.

“You’ll need to bear with me as I prepare you.”

“Prepare?”

“Stretch your little virgin hole for my cocks.”

Uraume shuddered in his grasp, and Sukuna couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Wrap your legs around my waist.”

They obeyed, as they always did. Sukuna’s dicks twitched, clear precum already beading up.

“Good. I’m going to lick you now. My fingers will slip in easier if you’re wet.”

“Okay…” It came out a little breathless, and Sukuna chuckled softly as he brought Uraume over to the window.

The morning mist over the courtyard was stunning. Uraume rested their head against his shoulder as they looked out the window, and Sukuna couldn’t help but press a kiss to the top of their hair. Big hands massaged the backs of slender thighs, then slid up to massage their glutes. A fat tongue lolled out of his lower mouth, licking its lips.

“This alright?” Sukuna whispered into their hair as he held them open, big thumbs brushing along the ridge where thigh met labia.

Uraume nodded against his shoulder.

The tongue pressed up, up, up, laying flat against Uraume’s cunt. At the first contact, they jumped a little in his hold; Sukuna apologized with gentle kisses to their forehead. He didn’t move for a moment, letting them get accustomed to the warmth and wetness of his tongue.

Slowly, it laved back and forth over their entrance. Now it was Sukuna’s turn to shiver.

Fuck.

Uraume had been preparing his meals for half a year now—each one more delicious and exquisite than the last. But this…

This did not compare.

Why does the parched man yearn for cold water?

Because it’s delicious?

Because he needs it to live.

Sukuna groaned into Uraume’s hair just as they gasped into his shoulder, pointed tip of his tongue dipping shallowly into them over and over again.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Forget cooking.

He’d be feasting on them from now on.

He had plans for their first time—he wanted it to be beautiful, to take Uraume in the morning sunlight. To hold them open and lick them with his second tongue. To whisper praises in their ear and gaze into their eyes properly.

But he couldn’t help himself.

Sukuna was dropping them onto large pillows and climbing onto the bed before he could process what he was doing. He felt as he did in the woods—a predator homed in on their prey, the adrenaline of the hunt dizzying his mind, washing away all restrictive rationality.

Uraume closed their thighs upon impact with the mattress, and Sukuna would not be having that. Big hands pried slim thighs apart, pinning them open in an iron grip. His second set of hands held open pretty, puffy lips, splaying the blushed flesh below. He was transfixed.

He couldn’t help but let his mouth fall open, watching as a thick wad of saliva dripped from the tips of his split tongue to their little hole, fluttering under the attention. It was tantalizing. He blew a puff of warm air against the wet skin and reveled at the tremble of pale flesh beneath his tanned hands. He ran a large thumb down their center, applying just a little pressure on the spit-slicked entrance.

“Sukuna…” The voice was small, winded.

Crimson eyes met burgundy, and a growl tore through his throat.

They were wrecked.

Hiding behind thin hands, Uraume’s once-pale skin now flushed his favourite colour.

He wanted to swallow them whole.

He wasn’t sure who gasped louder when his tongue—his proper tongue, hot and drooling—met their cunt. He licked a stripe from just under their entrance up to their clit, coaxing the sensitive bundle of nerves to stiffness. One set of ruby eyes traced the movement, but the other set was transfixed on that beautiful face. He wanted to commit this to memory.

Commit them to memory.

He worked his tongue slowly, sloppily. He lapped at their entrance greedily, until all he could taste was himself on their skin, then ran the flat of his tongue over their clit repeatedly. He watched for each little gasp, each stroke that had them whimpering into their palm. The tip of his nose met pubic bone as soft lips wrapped around even softer flesh. He kissed their clit so reverently, open-mouthed and passionate, eyes rolling back a little at the heady taste.

Fuck—fuck—fuck—

“Feels weird—Sukuna…”

Sukuna hummed an acknowledgment into their clit, and a hand was finding purchase in his hair. He pinned them down a little rougher as they began to shake, massaging their thighs in calloused palms as he sucked at their sweet skin.

And they were keening.

A gush of bittersweet slick was running down his chin and Sukuna rushed to lap at the trembling hole as it spilled. A large thumb pinned down their clit as Uraume rode through their release, saliva lubricating the small circles he rubbed into it.

“That’s it… let go for me.”

He rubbed and sucked on the fluttering entrance until their skin jumped, until they tried to scramble away in oversensitivity.

Sukuna lifted his head up ever-so-slightly, wet lips and hot breath ghosting over raised skin. Glassy burgundy made his heartbeat stutter, and he was aching. He needed to take them. Needed to see how they’d look speared on his cocks, feel the flutter of their sweet little hole around him.

“Good, no?”

Uraume was pulling him up by the hair, and Sukuna bit back a smile as soft lips worked his own. If Uraume wanted to taste themselves on him, so be it. A dry hand engulfed their small jaw, forcing their mouth open to slip his tongue inside.

Uraume’s sweet, small tongue felt so soft pinned under his. He stroked it from the tip to where it disappeared into a hot throat. His hand followed the movement, slipping from jaw to neck, pads of his middle and ring fingers coming to rest overtop their racing pulse. He ghosted his fingers down to their collarbone, tracing the jutting bone, before slipping down the hard plane of their sternum.

“You’re so beautiful.” His large hand moved to hover over a small breast. “May I touch you here?”

Uraume nodded, and Sukuna pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of their mouth as rough skin met soft flesh. Their breast was so squishy, so delicate under his big hand—he massaged it now, squeezing and palming at it with a care that bordered reverent. He couldn’t help but watch—his hands were so big. So large that they obscured the breast completely. Heat coiled in his gut, an ugly possession that he tamped down.

Uraume was like a doll in his grasp, something so beautiful and fragile, now pinned under hands that were forged to destroy. They gasped as big fingers found a rosy nipple, pinching and rolling it experimentally. Sukuna flicked his gaze between the movement and their flushed face, pressing a kiss to their heated cheek. His second set of hands held them steady around the waist, so large as to almost span the entirety of the circumference.

He kissed his way down their neck and chest, all the way to their other nipple. He pressed a kiss to the poor neglected thing, tongue slipping out to lave over the bud. His fingers worked its twin a little rougher now, pinching and squeezing the tender flesh of their breast in his big hand.

His lover shuddered beneath him, and he tugged both nipples at the same time—one with his fingers and the other with a harsh suck—and Uraume whimpered.

Sukuna was dizzy with hunger.

He was being so good to them—so patient.

Surely, he deserved a reward.

Hands were pulling at his hair—trying to yank him away from sensitive nipples as he popped most of their breast into his mouth, sucking at delicate skin with a pleased hum.

“Sukuna—”

He shifted his mouth to the other breast, switching to roll the now-moistened bud between calloused fingertips.

“Yes?”

Their flesh was so sweet. So soft, so perfect. He worried the dainty nipple in his mouth with gentle scrapes of sharp canines, and didn’t miss the way Uraume’s heart raced beneath his touch.

“Stop teasing...”

Their thighs were shifting, squeezing and rubbing together to apply pressure of any sort on their little clit. Sukuna couldn’t help but laugh at the pathetic gesture.

“Open your legs. Let me see that precious hole.”

Uraume flushed but complied, bringing their knees up and out. Sukuna hummed his approval, one of the hands around their waist slipping down to caress their soddened folds. Deft fingers slid from their perked clit to their soaked hole, circling their entrance slowly.

He pulled off their breast with an obscene pop, moving to press a chaste kiss to their bitten lips.

“Be good and keep those legs open.”

Uraume nodded as he worked their lips with his, slow and sensual. His thick middle finger applied pressure to their fluttering hole, breaching their entrance slowly. They sucked in a breath, and he hushed them with another press of his lips, slowing his finger to let them adjust.

They were so fucking tight.

“Focus on my lips. Relax your body.”

One knuckle in and they were clenching around the intrusion, inexperienced muscles trying to reject the finger pushing its way inside. Slowly, he pressed in further.

A metallic tang tainted his mouth. Four eyes flew open as sharp teeth dug into his lip, Uraume bearing down as his finger bottomed out. He sucked in a breath through sharp teeth, extracting his lip to lick his wound with a chuckle.

“Took my finger well.”

Uraume was looking up at him with blown pupils, lips bloodied and parted, and it took everything in him to not throw their legs over his shoulders and take them right then.

His two hands on their breasts settled for smoothing the skin with gentle thumbs. The finger inside them curled up a little, caressing their soft walls slowly until Uraume melted into the bed. He pulled his middle finger almost entirely out of their now-pliant body before pressing back in. He kept it slow, let them adjust to the pressure of his moving finger, as he pressed more kisses to those bloodied lips.

“How’s it feeling?”

Uraume moaned into his mouth, and Sukuna was on fire.

The middle finger increased in pace, the pad of his thumb coming up to rub loose circles around their clit. As soon as they were sufficiently wet, he slipped another finger inside. Nails scratched at his scalp, Uraume’s slender fingers tangled in his hair for support.

He repeated the process until Uraume was clenching around four fat fingers, drool gathering at the corner of their mouth and eyes glassy.

“Trying to swallow my hand whole, huh?”

Sukuna wasn’t much better off himself. Both cocks were angrily red now, slobbering against Uraume’s slender thigh.

“Sukuna, please—”

They were spreading their legs, so wet around his fingers. He couldn’t bear it any longer. He pulled his fingers out, strings of Uraume’s syrupy release connecting each digit. He rubbed it over his lower cock, hissing at the touch.

“Shh… I know. I know.”

He was lining himself up, soaked cockhead running up and down their slit slowly. Each drag against their clit had them whimpering, each nudge against their hole had them gasping—Uraume was a symphony of pleasure on the precipice, and Sukuna couldn’t help but tease them a little longer than he should have.

Uraume was rocking back into him impatiently, pulling him close by the hair. The audacity. Sukuna couldn’t help but grin, stilling where he was bumping against their hole.

“Sukuna—”

“Uraume.”

Burgundy pierced into him, kiss-bitten lips pressed into a defiant line despite the drool glistening at the corners.

“Do it properly.”

Sukuna barked out a laugh.

What a fascinating little human.

“Properly?” He gathered them into his arms, leaning down to press a kiss to their temple. “I’d break you, little one. Split you right in two.”

Uraume whined, pressing back into him encouragingly. Sukuna stilled the movement with a big hand on their hip.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Then show me.”

He pulled back, sitting up to look at them properly. The way they were looking at him was so honest. Their pupils were blown, pale skin now flushed and sweat-sheened all over. It was so raw. So delicious.

“You’re going to regret this.” A big hand—one that rested on their breast—brushed sweaty bangs back from where they were stuck to their forehead.

“I hope so.”

The way they grinned at him had his heart stuttering—they were so full of fire for someone made of ice.

“Once I start, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.” He mumbled, caressing their cheek with a thick thumb.

“I’m counting on that.”

Sukuna could never deny them.

He took a deep breath, then pressed in. The squeeze was almost impossible—it gripped him, sucked him inside in a way that had his head lolling back and his eyes pressing shut.

Fuckfuckfuck—

Someone was moaning continuously, and in his sex-addled brain, he wasn’t sure which one of them it was. He wanted to stop—wanted to let them adjust to the impossible girth—but he couldn’t slow his hips. He pressed and pressed and pressed, all four hands gripping at their waist and hips to pull them into him.

When cockhead met cervix, Sukuna whimpered.

Deep in this pussy was the closest to heaven he had ever been.

The neglected cock on Uraume’s abdomen was weeping, precum filling the dip of their navel.

“Move, Sukuna.”

Sukuna did not take orders. He cut tongues loose from bodies for even making suggestions—he commanded, not complied.

But fuck was he seeing stars.

His hips stuttered deep within them, bumping against their womb with each little thrust. He wanted to enter it. Wanted to feel it wrapped around him. Wanted to paint it white.

Hands were pulling him down by the hair, and his big arms slid to hug them as he pressed his large chest to theirs. He was thrusting so shallowly, the squeeze too tight to move like he so desperately needed to.

He whined into pale hair, and those hands were working his scalp so deliciously. His hips wrenched back and pressed in deep, and the drag had tears welling up in his eyes. Everything was a blur—his whole body was alight, skin prickling and hairs standing on end.

Soft lips met his neck, then his shoulder, and he was squeezing his eyes closed so tight that he was seeing colours behind closed eyelids. His hips moved faster, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, copious amounts of precum slicking the way. Uraume muffled moans into his shoulder, and it only served to make him ache.

He was drilling into Uraume now, grunting into the top of their head animalistically. The cock sandwiched between them slipped deliciously against Uraume’s slicked tummy, twitching to match the one lodged deep inside them. Their walls were so wet and warm—sopping with their impending climax. His abs tensed and untensed rhythmically, dancing on the edge between pain and pleasure as he forced down his release.

Pink lips unlocked from his skin, and Uraume was throwing their head back into the pillows. Sukuna chased their warmth with his mouth, pressing kisses to their pulse. His canines ached to sink into something—mark and mar that pale perfect skin, paint it in his crimson. He thrust a little rougher, slowing down to pound and stretch them properly.

“Sukuna—”

It was so beautifully broken, more of a gasp than a word.

He hummed against their neck, brows knit in concentration.

I know.

I know.

I know.

Ankles were wrapping around his waist, and two big hands flew to support trembling thighs.

Sukuna grunted in their ear, and they were soaked. The tight hole clenched down around him, spasming as slick gushed out around the thick shaft. He pistoned into them, moaning with each rhythmic contraction onto his cock.

It was so wet.

So good.

So good.

So good, so good, so good—

Sukuna Ryomen prided himself on his sharp wit and battle-hardened mind; his decisions were quick and never wrong, always alert and on-guard. He was a bloodied blade, ever-sharp, always swinging at the strongest. Nothing caught him by surprise, no one got the best of him.

Uraume’s release snuck up on him.

It knocked the wind out of his lungs.

They were cumming so hard—shaky thighs squeezing around his waist, release dampening the sheets below them as they squirted all over his cock. He was being sucked in so deep. As tip kissed womb, sticky and sloppy, all he could do was melt. His balls squeezed, pleasure shooting from the tips of his toes and the top of his head down to the tip of his too-stiff cocks.

And he was cumming.

His climax tore through him like a heart attack, and he tensed—rope after rope of his seed shot out of him, gushing onto the entrance to their womb. Rhythmic clenches of Uraume’s release coaxed more and more cum out of him, milking his full balls. The divot of his glans dug further into swollen cervix with each shaky jolt of his hips, and his mouth was falling open against their shoulder.

Uraume was moving against him, almost riding him through his high, and Sukuna had never felt so useless. A small hand was weaseling its way between their bodies, rubbing and tugging at the neglected erection on Uraume’s stomach.

He was cumming so hard that he couldn’t see—eyelids open or shut, his vision blurred, all his senses homed in on the pleasure ravaging his cocks. All he could do was lay there and take it, cum shooting all over their chest and spitting into their womb.

Gentle kisses woke him from his stupor, pressed to his jaw and cheek.

Sukuna blinked back prickly tears, eyes stinging from the intensity of his release. Cum was still dripping out of him, drooling uncontrollably.

“Can’t stop—”

Faraway and ruined, he couldn’t recognize his own voice.

Uraume laughed, something musical and light, and soft fingertips were dancing down his back. A shiver ran down his spine, and his cocks twitched, dripping out the last of his release pathetically.

“It’s okay.”

Uraume hugged him close. His too-sensitive cock was trapped under his flinching abdomen, but he hugged them back, gathering them into his heaving chest. Their scent, their pulse under the tip of his nose, was intoxicating. Though the cock between their bellies softened, the one nestled inside Uraume was hard as ever.

“Again.”

Uraume tensed in his arms before barking out a laugh incredulously.

“Sukuna—”

“I told you.”

He pulled back, taking in that flushed expression—so wrecked.

Just for him.

“Once I start, I can’t stop.”

***

Uraume had lost count of how many times they’d finished.

Sukuna Ryomen was many things, but he was not a liar.

They hadn’t stopped. Not even for a moment.

He had been inside them for hours now, learning their body intimately. He had been so pliant, at the beginning—so patient and warm, letting them get used to his love. But somewhere in the middle, something clicked. Some switch was flipped irreversibly inside him.

Sukuna Ryomen was a beast.

Sukuna caught his breath by stealing the air from their lungs. He stayed buried so deep inside them that they were an extension of one another. They were overflowing around his massive shaft, and coated in cooling cum from the neglected second cock on their stomach—marked inside and out.

It was too much.

If they came one more time, they weren’t going to be able to move anymore.

Muscles trembling, they flipped onto their swollen stomach. Their clit was throbbing between shaking thighs, their nipples painfully hard as they lifted themselves onto their elbows, shimmying away from Sukuna to hide in the pillows. The drag of his cock out of their abused hole had their eyes rolling back into their skull. They left a dark trail of cum and slick on the mattress, and they could feel Sukuna’s eyes on their splurting hole.

“Is my little dove trying to fly away?” He chased them up the mattress, nose tracing the column of their neck before nipping playfully at their shoulder. “How cute.”

Uraume whimpered, so full. How Sukuna was still hard, now throbbing against their ass, they had no idea. That fat cockhead was nudging them open again, despite their closed legs. Sukuna’s knees bracketed their thighs, and he was slipping inside. The squelch of their juices around his thick shaft was obscene.

Uraume would have felt embarrassed. If they could have. With each inch of Sukuna’s length, their mind got hazier, replaced by the impossible stretch.

“So fuckin’ tight for me.”

A big hand was palming at their ass, watching it jiggle under his touch. Uraume buried their face into the pillows to muffle a broken whine.

“Think you can take both now?”

Uraume’s eyes were rolling back into their skull at the thought, and Sukuna didn’t miss the way they were clenching around his length.

“Did you just cum a little? Oh, baby—”

The saccharine in his voice, the cooing concern, was so degrading. It shot right to their clit.

A second cockhead was nudging its way between the mounds of their ass, sparks shooting up their spine when it nudged against their already too-full entrance.

“Open up for me.”

That rasp left no room for argument, and Uraume was pressing back into him with a groan.

The tip breached their entrance, and it burned.

Sukuna was splitting them open, tearing them straight in half.

He was pressing impossibly deeper—not giving them even a second of respite between each mind-numbing inch—hissing through his teeth.

As soon as he bottomed out, their stomach prodded by two fat tips, he was moving. It was rough, fast, needy.

Sukuna Ryomen, the imaginary two-faced God, was nothing more than a dog in heat.

He humped them with little grunts, tonguing at the beads of sweat rolling down their neck from now-matted hair. Those full balls spanked their sensitive clit with each thrust, and the filthy noise had them impossibly wetter.

“You’re mine.” He growled against their shoulder, more felt than heard, sharp teeth grazing over the tender flesh there. “Mine, ‘raume.”

A large hand beneath their tummy slid down further. Pleasure shot to their clit as a thick finger worked it hard and fast, matching the chaotic pace of his thrusts. The air was being punched out of their lungs with each bruising knock to their cervix and spongy G-spot. Uraume couldn’t do anything but grip onto the pillows for dear life.

“Gonna mark you up so good.”

Precum heated their insides, flooding their deepest spots and soiling their abused cervix. Another big hand found their ass cheek, palming at it before pulling it aside to bare more of their overstretched hole. Just like that, he managed to press in a little deeper. Uraume didn’t have to turn around to know what Sukuna was watching it—watching himself enter.

Being pinned down and fucked—used like a toy—had Uraume’s eyes fluttering back. If Sukuna was making any sense, Uraume couldn’t register. Their mind was a litany of curses, an incoherent cacophony of cries, a paean of praise and prayer.

Everything was hot, everything was tingling, and they were so soaked in sweat and spit and slick that it felt like they were drowning.

Their release ripped through them. They were squirting on Sukuna’s cock before they could even moan his name. The wet slap of his balls against their leaking cunt was pornographic.

Sukuna groaned against their nape. Pain tore through the sensitive skin there, and Sukuna was biting them—bearing down on the tender flesh with big canines. Just like that, they were being filled. Sukuna was cumming harder than he had before, seated so deep inside that Uraume could feel his semen filling their womb. Uraume’s jaw fell open to scream but no sound came out—a whimper escaped from behind their uvula, like a wounded animal.

Sukuna’s twin cocks twitched and bucked wildly inside as he pumped them full. Cum flooded out of their overflooding hole, painting their ass and Sukuna’s pelvis a sticky, milky white.

Sukuna pulled out and flipped them over in one swift movement, final dribbles of cum painting their clit and belly. Red eyes bore into their flesh, taking in their post-climax debauched state. Uraume pressed their legs a little tighter together, bashfully.

Sukuna wasn’t having it. Thick fingers squeezed gently around their neck. Uraume’s eyes shot open, and Sukuna pulled back to watch as their eyes fluttered at the headrush. Their lips parted, red and puffy from biting on them, and Sukuna looked ravenous.

“Spread those legs and open that mouth.”

Uraume, in no condition to protest as the hand clamped a little tighter, obeyed.

Sukuna spit onto their exposed tongue.

“Behave.”

Sukuna released their throat, free hand coming down to flick at their cum-coated clit. Uraume’s hips bucked with a whimper, their legs opening wider shakily. Sukuna hummed his approval, rewarding their obedience with a soothing thumb on their sensitive bud. He dipped into Uraume’s gushing hole, gathering up cum to slick the movement of his thumb against their clit. He watched the movement, transfixed, before leaning down to mouth at where Uraume’s ear met their jaw.

“So full of my seed...”

Uraume whimpered, writhing in his grasp at the teasing of their overstimulated body. Their neck was throbbing where Sukuna bit them earlier, and their skin was so impossibly hot that it felt like they were burning alive.

It was too much.

Once again, they attempted to wiggle away.

Once again, they failed.

Sukuna’s big hands were grabbing at their thighs, yanking them around like a doll. He lifted their legs onto his shoulders, pressing a kiss to each ankle with a wicked grin.

“I told you. We’re not stopping any time soon.”

***

Sukuna gazed down at his work of art.

The sun was low in the sky now, courtyard swathed in orange. The sky was a vibrant pink, a waking dream as day faded to night. Yet, Sukuna noticed none of it.

No. His eyes were elsewhere.

Uraume lay prone beneath him. Their small asscheeks were red and shiny with sweat, faint handprints on them from his rough handling. They were looking back at him, pupils blown and glassy, and he heated under their gaze. Puffy lips curved into a smile, and Sukuna couldn’t help but smile back, placing a steadying hand between their shoulders.

He wanted to keep them here, like this, forever.

They were so beautiful. Glowing.

Broken.

His little dove, with broken wings.

He felt so warm, so full, at the sight. The hole in his heart… it was them.

Seeing them here, under him, he finally felt fulfilled.

Complete.

His hand slid up to their nape, teasing the short pale hair there. His thumb brushed along the column of their neck, skimming the edge of his masterpiece.

That freckle.

Around that little mark, a ring of indents—two sets of large teeth framed the mole, red and spit-shined.

The mark itself? His favourite colour.

Burgundy.

[irritablepoe]

My ao3 fics - Masterpost

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Bungou Stray Dogs

Multiple Chapters:

how do i say goodbye (22/?) - follows ranpoe's relationship post-canon

embrace the sound of enchantment (3/?) - royal au for ranpoe with ranpo as the prince and poe as his servant

communication methods (7/8) - stalker/yandere poe with a very willing and encouraging ranpo

Ranpoe Oneshots

i could never forget you - ranpo and poe decide to meet up, though even after waiting for an hour, ranpo doesn't show up; hurt/comfort

in the low lamp light i was free - ranpo comes home from defeating fyodor. poe takes care of him

too much at once - poe is overwhelmed at a party; ranpo takes care of him

the feverish heat of yours - omegaverse au, omega!poe and alpha!ranpo

awake on a midsummer night - poe has his obsessive moments. ranpo does too.

do you regret meeting me? - ranpo asks poe exactly that; poe shows him how much he loves him

(un)holy ghost who haunts your home - poe has a dissociative episode when he's outside with ranpo

betrayal from the beginning - poe is kidnapped by fitzgerald; ranpo saves him

meet me on the rooftop - ranpo and poe have a conversation on a rooftop while looking at a sunset

keeping an eye out (while i flirt with you) - bartender au, lots of flirting

you hold me hypnotized, i'm mesmerized - character study/inner monologue of poe

mine to possess - pre-canon poe and his brother talk about ranpo; he's at his worst here

a worthy opponent - may the better one win - pre-canon interaction of ranpoe before the mystery game

i'm sorry - hurt/comfort; self-esteem issues

Other Oneshots:

kill me with your kindness (i'll gladly surrender) - fyolai; fyodor needs a hug

bleeding memories - mushimizo; character study

tell me you're part of me - fyodor and poe meet because of business; fyodor tries to get poe on his side

a hat a day keeps the bad thoughts away - multiple fandoms; crack fic about hats

are you getting sentimental with me now? - poe and fitzgerald; poe is at his worst when he shows up to breakfast; fitzgerald takes care of him

shared grief of broken men - fitzgerald and poe talk a bit about grief and life

courtesy visit - gone wrong (no clickbait) - poe and lovecraft go on a mission together

a ship for the two of us - bramcraft; they're enjoying a meal (a ships crew) together :3

Moriarty The Patriot

pillows to ride on in a maid dress - louis; i'll not elaborate, the title says it all

need a little help with that? - continuation of "pillows to ride on in a maid dress" with james bonde

Vicious

let this bullet pierce you - victor finally hunting eli down

torture me lightly - post-canon; victor sees hallucinations

with my last breath i think of you - victor dies and thinks of eli

Crime and Punishment

your help heals all my wounds (17/?) - post-canon events of crime and punishment; razras; dunya/sonya

affection - oneshot; razras

there will come a soldier and a poet - lotr au; poet!raskolnikov and soldier!razumikhin

Jackaby

not a word of gratitude - jackaby is alone. he'll always end up alone

don't turn away with this heavy heart of yours - abigail and jackaby talk about jackaby's emotions

Arcane

rest now - viktor is extremely sleep-deprived and faints. jayce finds him

these are not all of my fics, if you want more go check out my other works. a lot of them are written for whumptober 2023, so mind the tags on them. mind the tags in general lol.

the fics are all restricted to ao3 users only because of ai scrapping, i'm very sorry

thank you for reading through this and if you decide to read them thank you as well it means a lot to me <3

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[m1d-45]

spoken across stars

summary: voicelines some characters would have in sagau! takes place pre-isekai, post inazuma archon quest. includes kaeya, thoma, and diluc.

word count: ~700

-> warnings: sagau things, potentially ooc candace(?)

-> gn reader (you/yours) + unspecified traveller (they/them)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay

< masterlist > || kazuha, wanderer >

kaeya

about us: the traveller

i must say, i was rather surprised that the traveller was the first one chosen to be a vessel — at first i had assumed it was merely because of their status as an outlander, but now…. well, last i checked, i was from teyvat.

about us: the creator

friendship lv. 4

sometimes i wonder why vessels are even utilized at all, in truth. i mean, what use does the divine have for a mortal man? i understand it’s not my place to question it, but… *sigh*

about you: worship

friendship lv. 6

thank you. truly, thank you. i’m not sure words could describe everything i feel, but… perhaps a night at the altar would suffice? please, just say the word. i will be there. for you.

thoma

about us: the traveller

the traveller? … they’ve done a lot of good for inazuma, that’s for sure, along with the other nations. i’m a bit intrigued about the teapot they always carry around, but milady says it’s some kind of important artifact… either way, i’m certainly curious!

about us: the creator

friendship lv. 4

sometimes it hits me just how lucky i was to make it to inazuma after the storm, and how easily i could have died at sea, never to be seen again… whenever that happens, i find its best not to think about it. i was blessed by the creator, and thinking over why i received it won’t get me anywhere.

about you: worship

friendship lv. 6

while i’m not sure what use my housekeeping skills would be to you, i place every other talent i have at your disposal. whether my sword or my shield, or even just to be somebody to talk to, i would happily accept any task you give me. it would be an honor to serve you.

diluc

about us: the traveller

i have little to say about the traveller that hasn’t already been said. while at first i may have thought their kindness was only wrought from the hands of a god… i can see now that i was wrong, and that is what truly matters.

about us: the creator

friendship lv. 4

when the winds blow hard around the winery and rain pelts the windows… it’s easy to forget everything good in the world. it’s easy to slip into a mindset of helplessness, when even going outside feels forbidden by nature… nonetheless, it’s important to recognize the fault in that belief. rain nourishes the earth, and wind drives windmills. even i have to remind myself of this fact on occasion.

about you: worship

friendship lv. 6

it would be a lie to say that i don’t hold any influence over mondstat, but it wouldn’t be to say that you take priority over any project i have my hands on. whether it’s in the middle of the weinlesefest, or the peak of the summer season, please never hesitate to come to me for anything. you gave me everything i have, and i’d be a fool not to try and return the offer in whatever way i can.

bonus!!

noelle

about the creator: diligence

the creator? o-of course i follow them! what gave you the impression that i didn’t? oh, am i not doing enough? i always dust the shrine at the knights’ headquarters, i say my prayers before bedtime and every meal, i never miss a service at the cathedral… tell me, what am i missing? the last thing i want is to fail at my most important task—… of course it’s most important! being a maid comes secondary to the divine, as everything else does.

candace

about the creator: deserted

it’s easy to think that the desert is neglected by the divine, but i believe the opposite is true. were we truly abandoned, we wouldn’t have the oases, nor the henna berries, nor anything else that brought life forth and helped it thrive. if you ask me, the belief that the desert was forgotten about is what drove the akademiya to such extremes… *sigh* it’s such a pity.

[theblazingpoetess]

I Want to Live in a Mrs. Maisel World

I want to live in a Mrs. Maisel world where....

Outfits are assembled like pre-packaged pastel macaroons. Clean-cut crimson lipstick makes a stand-out appeal. Family dinners are found between the bickering and the hopeless romantic. Nobody has to worry about a thing other than scripted, whizzing business meetings and buzzword television shows. Old money never goes out of style and show-and-tell is the new hip trend. Bold stars go out on hyped-up tours come crashing down. The names of Hollywood film gems mean nothing in comparison to the renewed norm. All meals are served by baby pink long-term maids, tried and true by devout loyalty. Talent managers are mistaken for sturdy plumbers. Subway academics like the taste of Beatnik New York grime on their palate -- and you can always find a room to bunk here in the city. Middle-aged beauty parlour girls play match-making games over tea dates. Children scream for ice cream while grandmothers dish out gossip. All while, no dream is too big for this wide-eyed 1950s housewife-turned-comedienne fan club.

find me on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/theblazingpoetess/

[nono-uwu]

Chapter 140 inital thought

Spoilers, as always

- first off, Ky Luc looks... good?? Like it's still the current artstyle but he looks a lot more like himself?? If that makes any sense?? He's got bigger eyes and stuff

- ok, from the top now

- the world is going up in flames and rigr somehow has the recourses to feed like a ten course meal to Yuu?? Maids included??

- i don't even know what to think atp, it's kind of a given that everyone will go along with Yuu's plan evetually

- Urd pelaspleaseplease don't do anything that kid asks of you just because your bro does that

- also Urd should have slapped Rigr or something. As a treat.

- And now we're on a planetary scale?? Yuu slow tf down (next thing you know, one of the planets has the astral express from hsr on it to help them and they're doing a better job than anyone in this series ever will)

- Ky representing all of us. We don't give a shit about all of the above. Nhilistic King amirite

- Let Ky Luc say shit!!

- Yooooo Guren squad + Kureto and Aoi are back! For like 3 panels and we can't even see Mito, Sayuri and Shigure fully but they're doing something!!

- feral manchild Ky my beloved

- surpriiiiiseee Ferid is here. Man I really hope Ky gets at least a fighting chance since Ferid is supoosed to be stronger than a 3rd progenitor now. Oh well, Ky will probably fold in like three pages but a man can dream (best case scenario Ky beats Ferid and gets the still conscious vamps out, yes i'm repeating myself every moth A MANS COPIUM NEVER DIES)

- oh that last panel of Ky is gorgeous. He's clearly angry at seeing Ferid and getting interrupted in his little 'hunt' but he also looks so excited because he knows Ferid is a formidable foe. He also definetly wants a proper match after Osaka. Look, I can say something nice about the artstyle!

Tbh I can't even care anymore. Just rolling with the punches. Imma just exist in my little fanatsy world with my oc's otherwise

Edit: upon looking a little closer, it seems the entire artstyle reverted back to pre-shikama backstory arc? Idk, everyone looks slightly better. Glad that Yamamoto and/or Kagami listened :D (tho i'm sure a lot of those complaints weren't nice in the slightest)

[kristannafever]

Second Chances - 9

Kristanna Modern AU Rated: Explicit WC: 2021

Chapter Index

----------------

“This is happening!” Anna squealed. 

Kristoff laughed.  “It is!”

“I can’t wait,” she said, hugging him around the neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

He basked in the warmth of her kiss and the glow of her happiness.  It had only taken about two weeks for them to plan the entire wedding, and in one short month, they were going to be wed.

“And I’m glad that works for our sisters to take time off to fly home,” she said, pulling out of his embrace and going back to her laptop where she had just finished booking the venue. 

Kristoff was too.  It was a worry when they brought it up with their sisters that they would find work too demanding for the short time frame, but as luck would have it, they were both able to make the trip and take an extra couple of days beforehand to help them prepare. 

-----

They picked a Ranchers Hall in a small rural town about a half hour outside of the city.   It was perfect for Anna’s vision of a country winter wedding.  And while the place was rather small, it didn’t matter since the only people they were inviting were family and only the closest of friends.  All in all, about forty guests.

His sister and Anna’s sister were going to serve as the best person and maid of honor, and it was decided by Kristoff (and greatly appreciated by Anna) that his parents were going to walk with both him and then Anna down the aisle.  As soon as the ceremony was complete, they were going to do some family photos outside while the venue changed the rows of chairs out for tables and started the bar and serving guests.

The flowers Anna chose were white roses because they symbolized the purity of their love and the new beginnings they were having at life with each other. 

The meal they decided on was either prime rib or salmon as per the guest’s choice, and the caterer they had booked also offered appetizers for the cocktail hour and late-night pizza and popcorn for inebriated party goers.  Kristoff thought it would be a good idea to personally pay for the pre-dinner drinks and then charge a toonie bar afterward and to offer pre-paid cab vouchers to anyone who didn’t want to stay in the town’s small hotel so there was no worry of anyone drinking and driving.

Anna had argued briefly with him about the cost of the wedding as he was handling it all, which turned into a rather deep conversation about how he’d lived with his ex.  He told Anna the sad truth that they never really did anything.  They never even went on a vacation together.  Not that he didn’t want to.  It was all his ex.  She had a group of friends from high school she was still extremely close with, and her vacation time was spent solely with them.  At the beginning he didn’t mind too much, thinking it would be nice to have those quiet weeks here and there to himself, then time went on and when he’d brought up her using her time to go somewhere with him, her reaction had been reluctance and confusion; since they lived together already, why would she give up these trips with her friends to spent more time with him.   So she kept taking vacations with her group and Kristoff saved a ton of money over the years for not going anywhere. 

Upon hearing about this, Anna’s face went deep scarlet and she sat there with her teeth clenched frowning at him.

“You know,” she started, “I have a lot of things in my mind that I could say about that, that I want to say about that, then I think of where we are now, how I don’t want to spend another second of my life without you by my side, and I realize that it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Kristoff shook his head.  “Nope.”

Anna sighed, letting go of her anger.  “I will never not appreciate the second chance at love that I got to have with you, Kristoff.  You are my soulmate and I love you more than anything.”

“I love you too.”  He leaned in and kissed her, then pulled his head back and arched an eyebrow.  “That got you kinda mad eh?”

She nodded.  “A little, I guess.  I just don’t like hearing about you getting mistreated.”

“Well, same here, but you know that.”  He smirked at her.  “Care to take out any pent-up aggression on me?”

Anna’s eyes lit up.  “What do you have in mind?”

He put his mouth close to her ear.  “Why don’t you fuck my brains out?”

Anna shuddered.  “How would I do that exactly?”

He shrugged.  “Use your imagination.  My body is your playground.”

She smiled at him wickedly.  “Damn right it is.”  Then she kissed him forcefully.

They began to undress each other when Anna interrupted told him she wanted to go to the bedroom.  Shedding the remainder of their clothes as they went down the hall, they arrived in their room fully naked and attached at the lips. 

Kristoff pressed her down onto the bed, crawled over her, and began kissing his way down her body.  She smiled.  She would definitely have her way with his body as she saw fit, but she was not about to deny the pleasure that his mouth gave her. 

She curled her fingers into his impossibly soft hair, moaning loudly as his tongue lashed out against her clit.  Her back arched as he worked his mouth, and while she was enjoying the hell out of it, she grew impatient to have him.

When she gently tugged his hair, he stopped and looked up at her.  “I need you now,” she whispered.

“How do you want me?” he asked, sitting up.

“On your back.”

Anna moved and he took her place, laying down in the middle of the mattress.  She crawled over him and took a moment to kiss him passionately before she started. 

Moving slowly, she slid down onto his cock with a passionate and somewhat desperate moan.  It amazed her how she seemed to forget in between the moments they were not making love how good it actually felt to have him inside of her.  There was nothing in the world she could compare it with. 

She moved against him, already so close from his mouth, it didn’t take long before Anna felt the pull towards letting go.  Only, this time, she stopped, and her arousal pulsed briefly before quieting down. 

“Fuck, you have no idea how much that makes me crazy,” Kristoff muttered as he caressed her hips.   

She looked down at his face, careful not to move her hips just yet.  “Yeah?”

He nodded slowly.  “It’s…” He let out a long breath.  “It just feels incredible.  Do it again.”

Anna gave him a wicked smile.  “You read my mind.”

She began to move herself against him, slowly at first, then picking up her pace a bit until that feeling came back.  She stopped again, just one more movement away from going too far, and her center quivered against his cock.

“Fuck…” he said slowly. 

Anna held stark still.  If she moved right then, she was going to come and she didn’t want to just yet.  She waited until her arousal died down, then finally relaxed her body against him. 

“I have to be honest, Anna,” Kristoff said, his hands massaging her thighs, “I don’t think I will be able to last you doing that again.”

She smiled at him.  “Does you in that much, huh?”

“You have no idea,” he mumbled, curling his hands around her back and pulling her down for a kiss. 

Anna gave in to his lips, kissing him back and starting to move herself against him.  She went slow this time, allowing herself to feel every second of her renewed growing arousal.  She pulled back from his lips and braced her hands on his chest as she got closer.  She had never felt such a deep need for an orgasm in all her life.

Kristoff’s grip was tightening on her hips and she knew he was going to come as soon as she did.  Anna found that edge again, only this time she did not deny herself.  She gasped as it got closer, and then a second later she was crying out with sweet relief.

Kristoff cried out softly with her, holding her firmly to him as they climaxed together.  It felt amazing to Anna to be able to ride out her orgasm with his cock pulsing powerfully within her.  It was basically mind-melting pleasure.  It was no wonder she was hooked on it like a drug.  A drug she was so thoroughly addicted to, that she knew they would have sex at least one more time before the end of the day. 

Or maybe two or three.  There seemed to be no way to satiate their hunger for one another.

~   ~   ~   ~   ~

Their wedding day was stunningly perfect.

Everything went according to plan and the only hiccup of the entire day was when Anna realized she accidently left her precious jewellery – the pieces she got back from her shitty ex – at home.  It was rectified shortly by Kristoff’s parents driving into the city to fetch them while the wedding party got ready.

What followed was flawless.

At the end of the night, with only a few guests left snacking on the pizza and the popcorn and talking in groups, Anna looked over at Kristoff, the happy and slightly drunk smile on his face, and felt her heart nearly explode with love. 

He was talking to Chester and his parents and laughing about something.  Anna could not take her eyes off of him; the most stunning man on the face of the planet in his pressed suit pants and white button down with the tie gone, top buttons undone, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  His hair was mussed from dancing all night, his brown eyes shinning so brightly with life, his smirk of a smile on full display.  Truly, he was nothing but complete perfection in Anna’s eyes.  The sexiest man on the face of the planet.

He happened to glance her way, catching her staring at him, and he turned towards her and smiled.  They walked towards each other and straight into a tight embrace. 

“I can’t believe you are my wife,” he mused, kissing her neck. 

“God, I can’t believe you are my freaking husband!” Anna said back excitedly.  She pulled back to look at his face.  “And now we get to have a whole hell of a lot of fun making some children.”

“You bet your ass we do,” he breathed, and kissed her. 

-----

About an hour later, Kristoff was pushing himself into her. 

The foreplay was only a couple of sloppy drunk kisses before Anna was begging for him.  It didn’t matter to her, her only goal for the night was for him to come inside of her.  She’d had her IUD removed a couple of weeks ago and in the interim before the wedding, he’d worn protection.  Anna much preferred the feeling of his naked skin without the rubber barrier.    

“I can’t wait for tomorrow,” he said between kisses.  “I am so excited to take a real vacation.  With my wife!”

“Me too,” Anna said through a sigh.  “Oh, Kristoff, me too.”

He took the hint that she didn’t want to talk too much and pressed his pelvis flush with hers.  He knew exactly what he was doing, and even through all the drinks, Anna knew she was going to come and that he was holding out to join her. 

She let go of every thought besides the building feeling in her abdomen.  It grew until it reached the point where Anna’s mind went utterly blank, then she reached the edge and fell over it.  They moaned, holding each other through every strong contraction of their shared orgasm.

---

Previous Chapter

[wisteriamemory]

any chill domestic ayumaya hcs?

Oh boy, I have a few for sure! 1. Ayumi knows Maya wasn't as fortunate with her upbringing as a child and even into her teen years, so when they are together Ayumi likes to make sure Maya is very well fed and pampered as much as possible. Ayumi would make extravagant meals for Maya, maybe things Maya's not too accustomed to. Maybe to the point where Maya is a little overwhelmed but she knows that Ayumi just wants to shower her with all the love she deserves. (K and I often joke that Maya likes very simple pre-made or canned meals. So we say her favourite meal is Chef Boyardee. Maya tells Ayumi that is what she wants for dinner, and Ayumi goes out to the supermarket to find the "ingredients" to make this Chef Boyardee. When Ayumi asks one of the staff members where she can the ingredients to make it, the staff member hands her a can. "This frightening woman wants a canned meal...")

2. Maya and Ayumi are very dependable partners. Before they move in together and early on in their relationship, Maya has the whole apartment to herself (Rei and the other girls are in an out-of-town play, leaving Maya all alone). Maya missing the company of her roommates, calls Ayumi asking if she would come around and stay the night so she's not alone. Ayumi agrees to come over but is also overanalyzing the invite wondering if there was more to it than just spending the night together. Maya was completely oblivious to what kind of invitation she had just asked of her girlfriend. 3. Supportive of each other's careers. Whether it's Ayumi practicing for her next production or Maya, they both will take any chance they can to watch rehearsals or attend their productions. (I like to think about when Maya asked Ayumi to come see her 'Wolf Girl' play in the manga. Ayumi of course wouldn't miss the chance to see it - also we were robbed of Maya asking Ayumi to see the play in the anime which is SO RUDE). 4. Mothers. Ok so yeah I love to think if they were mothers, they would like to read their child bedtime stories. However, these would not be just any stories, of course, Ayumi and Maya would create a whole production out of their child's storybooks, taking on each and every role that's represented in the book. Turning what was a simple story into a full-on production, leading to their child not going to bed on time and perhaps an audience outside their door (Ayumi's maids and Baaya watching). I think that's the softest fluff for them because they would be truly the best mums out there. Both of them had absent parents (though Ayumi's relationship with her parents is SOOO cute - read the manga for more of those pure moments between them), and so they wouldn't want their kid(s) to feel that way. Also how Maya interacts with children that's depicted in both the animes/manga is so cute, she really would be a great mum. Ok that's just a few I have too much AyuMaya on the brain. But THANK YOU FOR ASKING! <3

[the12thnightproject]

Chapter 15:  The Calm Before the Storm - Is this... a date?

Mitsunari x OC; Nobunaga x Mai

Previous Chapter

Logline - In order to protect a political alliance, Katusko and Mitsunari must pretend an engagement. But this “all business” arrangement is threatened by a coup against Nobunaga… and by feelings.

From the Military Notes of Ishida Mitsunari…

[Left blank]

Personal comments: One hundred and twenty breaths represents a very long period of time, I have discovered. Deployment of strategy postponed until I am able to discover a method of keeping Okatsu still. Consulted Nobunaga and received following suggestion. “Tie her up.” Am not certain this was in jest. After leaving Nobunaga, I came across Hideyoshi, who stopped to help one of the maids carry a heavy vase. Hideyoshi believes in protecting the people, especially those he loves. I will take that idea from Hideyoshi this afternoon, as Okatsu needs protecting. I believe I have an idea, one that will be allow me to rescue her, and keep her still for, I hope, one hundred and twenty breaths.

Lady Mai is an excellent co-conspirator. Not only was she willing and able to help me with my strategy to prevent Okatsu from having to enter the silver mine, she suggested that I use the free afternoon to take Okatsu on something called a “date.” Per Mai, a good date includes spending time together, going out for a meal or tea, finding activities you both enjoy together, and at the end of the “date,” you might share a kiss.

I will kiss Okatsu today.

If she permits it.

I hope she permits it.

 “Perhaps you and I should run off.”

I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. “Run off?” Did he mean just disappear for good? I’ve already done that once. “Hideyoshi and Nobunaga would be worried if we did that.”

“For the afternoon. Explore the terrain around Genba. You would enjoy that, would you not?” He carried me over to where Moonlight was tied to a tree. Then with not much grace, plunked me onto her back. “I believe we are not far from Takayama. We could have tea in the castle town.”

“What about your work?” The desire to spend more time in the sunlight warred with the responsibility to help Mitsunari.

“If we had stayed at the mine, I would not be working. We could ride to Takayama, explore, and still return before the others.” Mitsunari was already turning his horse northward. Moonlight, who apparently had become very good friends with Mitsunari’s horse, followed suit. I had been outvoted. But I was ok with that.

“On the condition that if Hideyoshi finds out, you tell him this was your idea.” I was in enough trouble with the Azuchi housemother as it was.

“Hideyoshi would agree that it is good sometimes to get outside.” He leaned across his horse and nudged me with his shoulder… then caught himself in a balance check. “He often reminds me to take care of myself and to take breaks outside.”

“How long have you worked for Hideyoshi?” Mitsunari had a positive view of everyone, even the permanently grouchy Ieyasu, but his relationship with Hideyoshi seemed to be long-standing, and almost brotherly.

“You are asking me questions? Perhaps we could exchange answers to thirty-six questions.” Before I could figure out where that non sequitur came from, he continued. “Over ten years. I was a temple page – because otherwise I was an unwanted second son. Lord Hideyoshi realized my skill with numbers and asked me to join him.”

“Before you were a messenger – and an observer – what did you do?” Mitsunari ducked under a low hanging branch and ended up with pine needles stuck in his hair.

“I was a maid.” It wouldn’t be useful to mention my pre-time travel life. There wasn’t an equivalent to the University system here, and likely if even if there had been one, women wouldn’t be permitted to attend. Nor was there any way to explain gymnastics or snowboarding. I mean… I suppose I could say I was raised in a circus or something, but even that was stretching the truth a lot. “It was not terribly interesting. I was lucky that my master allowed me to train with his male apprentices.”

The trail narrowed slightly, but not enough to force us to ride single file. Our legs brushed. “You became a maid after your parents died?”

Right. I had let him think my parents were both dead. “My mother had died. I never knew my father. She would not say who he was.” This was less of an issue in modern Japan than it might be here. But immediately after I revealed that to Mitsunari, I regretted giving him such personal information. The last person I had trusted with my life story was Iekane.

He reached over and touched the back of my hand, just a quick brush of his fingers, but I felt calmer to receive it. “I am sorry to hear that Okatsu. I am certain he missed much by not being part of your life.”

I waved that away. “Where I come from, people don’t really care all that much anyway.”

One of the pine needles in Mitsunari’s hair drooped into his eye. He swiped at it, but only succeeded in embedding it more deeply. “Nobunaga wants to create a future where people don’t care about that here either, however that was not what I meant. I am sorry that you grew up without something that many people take for granted.”

That pine needle kept dangling in front of his face. I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Let me get that.” I reached over and pulled the pine needle out of his hair, combing my fingers through to make sure I had gotten all of them.

“Thank you.” He reached up and touched his forehead.

The pine needle had been covered in sap and ended up stuck to my hand. I grabbed my handkerchief and wiped it away. Then I folded up the pine needle into the handkerchief and put it back in my kimono. I promised myself I would toss it away later.

Takayama was nowhere near the size of Azuchi, although it did seem to be bustling, with people hurrying through the streets with baskets of fresh food. I could see an open market area off at one end of the town, as well as more permanent buildings with small shops. “Do you want to see if there is a bookseller here?”

He pulled his horse to a halt in front of an inn with a public stable yard. “Why don’t we walk around and see what we find? Sometimes it is good to explore without having any other motive than to enjoy the day.”

I agreed with the sentiment, although I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent a day wandering a town without having a specific purpose in mind. I wasn’t sure if I ever had in this era. There had always been a mission, a reason. This felt almost… well, almost like a date.

Backing away from that thought – we were simply playing hooky  – I fell in step next to Mitsunari as we wandered through Takayama. And yes, there was a bookseller, though it was not large. I paused by the entry. “Do you want to go inside?”

Mitsunari hesitated. “Don’t let me start reading.”

“It’s a bookseller. You’ve spent hours in them – I know, I’ve watched you do so.” I smiled inwardly at the memory of watching him practically camp out in Aki’s shop, and how I had ended up feeding him rice crackers that first afternoon.

“That is what I meant. I want to enjoy this time with you, and you know what will happen if I find a book.” If it had been anyone else, I would have said Mitsunari was afraid to go into the booksellers. And while it was sweet that he wanted to be a good host and make sure I enjoyed myself, I wasn’t supposed to be having fun.

Mitsunari frowned at me, his brow furrowed in concern. “Did I say something wrong? I did not mean to give you the burden of guarding my behavior. What I meant is that I won’t start reading because I want to spend time with you.”

I wanted to sooth away the worry from his forehead, but I held back and simply nudged him with my shoulder. “If you find something you want to read, you could, and this is simply a suggestion, purchase it.”

“Yes, that is a good – you are teasing me!” He smiled, and I grinned at the image of someone – more than likely Hideyoshi - sitting down with him and trying to explain gentle sarcasm.

“Maybe a bit.” I made a grand gesture in the direction of the military books. “Go ahead. Go forth and shop.”

The Bookseller was near the front of the store with a young woman who looked enough like him to be his daughter. No… it wasn’t simply the resemblance, it was the way he looked at her with a combination of love, protection, and pride. Or… maybe my earlier conversation with Mitsunari was simply putting an idealized father-daughter relationship in my mind? I watched them for a moment, then realized that they were examining a freshly bound book – and rather than the pages folded one inside the other, the way most Japanese books were bound, this book was in the new Chinese string bound style.

It was surprising to see such a “newfangled” book in such a small town, especially one this far from any port, that I headed over to them to ask where they had found it.

“My daughter made it,” the Bookseller said proudly. He introduced himself as Tokuro and his daughter as Sani, then showed me that the inner pages were discarded paper given to them by Takayama’s castellan.

“I’m learning the bookbinding trade.” Sani gave me a shy bow. “This is for practice. I used to make them with blank pages, but that was too much of a waste of paper.”

In my time, people were willing to pay for books with blank pages, from the cheap exam books all the way up to beautifully bound leather journals… and… I pictured in my mind Mitsunari juggling all his unbound notes, scrambling with them daily as he shuffled them about. “I might be interested in-”

Mitsunari joined me and I stopped midsentence. What I had in mind, in fact, would be a gift for him and I didn’t want to spoil the surprise. “Mitsunari, this is Tokuro and his daughter Sani, who is learning the book binding trade.”

They all bowed to each other, then Mitsunari asked Sani, “Do you not get distracted by wanting to read the books?”

She shook her head. “Thus far, I haven’t worked on any real books, so it’s been sewing, not reading.” That made sense. In the learning process, if she were using real books a mistake would be expensive. “I imagine that could happen at a later time.”

“It would happen to me.” He smiled at her, and Sani was not immune to the power of that sweetness. She blinked a few times like an animal blinded by headlights. “I wish you good luck in your training.”

“Th-thank you,” she eventually stammered.

He took my hand and squeezed it, and I was so surprised the spontaneous touch, and the zing of awareness that went through me, that I nearly missed his question. “Do you want to go to the metalsmith?”

“Why don’t you go on, and I’ll meet you there in a few minutes. I have a couple more questions about book binding that I want to ask her.” As an excuse, it was not terribly elegant, but Mitsunari didn’t protest. With a slight look of confusion on his face, he let go of my hand and left.

Eep. I had hurt his feelings, but as soon as I gave him the gift, it would explain things. I turned back to Sani. “If you still have the practice books you made – the ones with blank pages, I would like to purchase them.”

“Purchase empty books?” Tokuro and Sani looked at each other, exchanging a glance that probably said, ‘this chick is nuts, but we’re not going to turn down money.’ After a moment, Tokuro suggested an amount. “That will cover the cost of the materials, and Sani’s labor.”

Possibly he expected me to bargain, but it was a fair price. Sani retrieved her practice efforts from their living quarters, and once Tokuro wrapped them up, I headed for the metalsmith where Mitsunari awaited with a wrapped bundle under his arm – I wondered if it contained more weapons for Azuchi to test. “Did you find something interesting?”

“I believe so.” Mitsunari thanked the smith and the two of us headed out to look for a place to get a snack and something to drink.

The town’s only teahouse was crowded, and we ended up sitting at a table behind the building. “Thank you again for preventing me from having to go into the mine. It would not have been pretty.”

“What happens when you are in places like that?” Mitsunari took a sip from his tea, then very precisely placed his cup in a spot in the center of the table – where, I figured, he would be less likely to spill it.

“I start to feel like I can’t breathe or I’m going to faint. And I start remembering everything about being trapped in that box.” And… even talking about it in the outside sent a shiver through me. “Mitsunari, I’m sorry, but I really dislike talking about it.”

He was instantly contrite. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Because he seemed so horrified at that thought, I reached across the table took hold of both of his hands. They were warm from holding the tea, and the skin on his fingers was slightly calloused, reminding me that even with all the time he spent reading, Mitsunari was an experienced fighter as well. “It wasn’t your fault. Remembering sometimes makes me feel like I’m about to be sick, and … it’s too pretty a day out to be ill.”

He held onto my hands for a long moment, giving them a gentle squeeze. “I will talk about something pleasant instead. When something worries me, I think about books… or Kitty’s fur and the sound she makes when she is happy… the smell of Hideyoshi’s rooms when he smokes his pipe… and how holding your hands… holding you… makes me feel … honored.”

Oh. Wow. Well.

Where do I go with that?

And now it was my own turn for a BSOD. Mitsunari’s sweet confession sent a wave of … something through me. The thought that I could make him feel like that was both flattering and frightening. I didn’t want to inspire feelings in him. I was leaving when the job was over.

I didn’t want to leave something broken in my wake.

Ugh, Hideyoshi is right to distrust me. Not because I intend to harm anyone… but intentions count for nothing if harm happens anyway. My inner voice told me to let go of his hands.

But… I couldn’t.

He focused that sweet expression on my face, and I could neither let go of his hands, nor look away from his eyes. Until I realized… “Are you counting again?”

He stopped instantly and looked away. “Apparently it has become a habit.” He shook his head, then withdrew his hands away from mine. He picked up the package he’d purchased at the metalsmith shop and handed it to me. “The smith did have something I thought you might find useful.”

A present? Like the just-because gifts my brother and I used to give each other on non-occasions? I focused on the phrase ‘something useful,’ which might mean the Sengoku equivalent of socks? The package was somewhat heavy (Duh, Katsuko, it’s from the metalsmith!) and I hefted it a couple times before opening it up to find an iron war fan inside. “Oh. This is really cool!” Whoops. Slang. “I mean, this will help cool things in the weather we’ve been having.”

“I noticed you often forget to take a fan with you and thought you would be more likely to remember one that doubled as a weapon.” He picked it up and stabbed it toward me and – the teacup went flying.

I caught it before it could hit the ground. “You thought correctly. I can’t wait to figure out how to use it. Thank you!”

“I could teach you.” He seemed excited by the prospect.

“You know how?” I unfurled the fan to admire the sharp metal spokes – and the pretty Sakura pattern as well. Mitsuhide had wanted me to wear pink? Well, pink this!

“I have read about their use. Also, though I did not read about it, it is said that Takeda Shingen once fought off an attack by Uesugi Kenshin by using his war fan.” A faraway look was in his eyes. “I would have like to have witnessed that.”

Huh. Me too. I’d never encountered Lord Shingen, but I had indeed seen Kenshin in battle. Anyone who could successfully fight off his attack – with a fan, no less – had to have mad skills. Of course, now that they were allied against Nobunaga, I imagined they made a terrifying duo.

After a few flutters of the fan in front of my eyes, I put it aside. “As it turns out, I purchased something for you too.” I handed him the parcel from the bookseller.

“A book?” His eyes sparkled. Then when he pulled out the blank books, he seemed confused. “Is this printed in secret ink?”

“No. These are for you to write in. That way you don’t have to keep track of lots of scraps of paper or keep rolling and unrolling a scroll to find what you are looking for.” I’d watched Mitsunari re-ordering his notes often enough.

“Ah yes, these will be handy.” He ran his hand over the bound covers. “Thank you, Okatsu.”

For a long moment, he was quiet, and I didn’t rush to fill the space in between with useless commentary, because I knew he had more words and would speak them when he was ready. And after a few breaths, that is what he did. “Okatsu, why did you buy me a gift?”

Did there need to be a reason? “I thought it was something you would like. Is that not why you got this fan?”

“Oh. In fact, yes. I did think that you would like it.” He looked around for his teacup, and I moved it back to the center of the table. He picked it up, then put it back down, as if belatedly realizing he’d finished it a while back.

We sat there without speaking, simply looking at each other, until a cleared throat and glare from an old man alerted us to the fact that there were more people interested in sitting down than there were places to sit.

Mitsunari took my hand again as we strolled back through Takayama, which was nice. Too nice. I must not ever forget that I was only here as part of a charade. And so, I destroyed the comfortable silence. “I wanted you to have something to remember me by – when this is all over.”

There was a soft sigh, and he was close enough that it tickled my cheek. “I would not forget you, Okatsu. I want to-”

Whatever it was he meant to say next was lost when someone collided with me.

“Oh, excuse me!” I said it automatically, though I was not sure if it had indeed been my fault. The collider pressed a scrap of paper into my hand, but when I turned to get a better look at him, he was already on his way. Had that been a ninja?

No. It had been a woman. A kunoichi then.

Frowning, Mitsunari watched her melt into the crowd of a busy outdoor market.

“Should we go after her?” If I ran, I could possibly catch her, but I might lose Mitsunari in the process.

“Do you have a sister?”

“No.” He ought to know I only had a brother. “Why?”

“Because, she reminded me of-” He seemed to be struggling to put it into words. “She had your eyes.”

“Really?” I shrugged that off. I have brown eyes, like most of the population. Then I remembered the scrap of paper and opened it. It was short and to the point.

Hikosane is in danger. Protect him at all costs.

Note, if you've read "Twelve Lies I Told Shingen Takeda" the encounter with the kunoichi at the end corresponds to Chapter 45 when timeline A Katsuko overhears the following:

In the distance, someone’s phone chimed an alert, and I heard a female voice, sounding like it was on speaker say, “I gave her the message, but I think Mitsunari recognized me.”

Then, as I took a hesitant step along the path, I heard, “Theoretically, that would be ok, if that means they’ll take the message seriously enough to protect Hikosane.”

It's not necessary to have read "12 Lies..." before this story, but if you have, that was one of the Easter egg payoffs.

@lorei-writes @bestbryn @katriniac @lyds323 @briars7

[the-hyperfixation-station223]

This isn't that au I was talking about in a previous post, it is more or less what I think happend when omza went to save Dorothy from that tower in langwidre's caslte

(Pre relationship Dorzma, or atleast that was the intention)

Dorothy awoke on the uncomfortable ‘bed’ in the northern tower she had been locked in, sighing heavily when she was lucid enough to realize the previous events were no bad dream.

“Can't be helped.” she thought to herself.

She got off the bed and looked to the endtrace of the cell she was in, the lack of food tray made her assume it was before breakfast.

That or Langwidre had yet to send her breakfast. Oh well, at least she had eaten well the day before. She ought to survive a few skipped meals.

But for how long?

She shook off that unpleasant thought- the princess wanted her head, and what good is the head of a dead person? 

“Besides,” she remembered, “ Uncle Henry told me it would take about a month with no food at all to starve to death.”

Assuring herself that she wouldn't die of starvation, she decided to occupy her mind with other things. Unfortunately the bit of chalk she had found & drawn on the walls with last night was nothing more than a nub, perhaps she’d be able to request another one from the maids next time they come by.

She looked to the window,

“May as well see what the rest of Ev looks like.” she thought as she went up to it. It was just high enough for her to see without using her tiptoes, she could cimb onto the windowsill if she pleased. But the widows were barred too close together for her to squeeze out of, and she was very high up.

“Its not as high up compared to most modern buildings,” she mused, “Yet- wouldn't survive that fall. If the Scarecrow were here he’d be able to break the fall like he did in that porcelain country, or perhaps Lion could use his claws to scale down the towerside…” she sighed heavily, missing her old friends dearly.

“I wonder what they’re up to right now, I do hope they’re doing better than I am.”

She shook her head, it cant be helped.

She looked out over the kingdom of Ev, of to her side she could see the ocean she and Billena had washed from.

And a little speck she assumed was the chicken coup they had floated in for who knows how long.

She sighed, she could even see a distant approximation of where she had met TikTok. She remorsefully ran her hand over the key in her pocket.

“I wonder if his thought has ran down yet.”

She scanned the surrounding country, she had a very good view from where she was. If she was in a better situation she’d enjoy getting to observe a whole new fairy land.

Her eyes landed on a vast desert with nothing living on it.

“That must be the dessert separating me from Oz.” she sighed, resting her chin on the window.

Oz, that's where she wished she was. Or with Uncle Henry, the poor man must think she’s drowned by now. She’d give up this potential adventure in a heartbeat just to be in either place.

“But- I have no cyclones or magic shoes. I’ll just have to make do till I figure something out.” she reminded herself, taking in a big breath and re-instilling her confidence.

“You've killed two witches, albeit accidentally, and survived just about every awful thing life has thrown at you so far,” she told herself, “You’ll make it out of this, though, it may take quite a lot of time- given you're alone…”

She looked behind her, to the drawings from last night, they were of her family back at home, the farm, and what she remembered of her adventure in Oz. The adventure itself was crystal clear to her but- some of the faces of her friends had been blurred by time. 

She couldn't quite remember if it was Tinman’s left or right that The Wizard had placed his new ‘heart’ into. Or which of Lion’s ears that had been clipped by some unknown event. Or if Scarecrow’s hat tilted in front of his face or away from it.

It was eerily similar to her memories of her parents, did her father have a scar on the left side of his face- or the right. Was it her mom that always had her hair in braids, like Dorothy has now, or was that something she made up?

But, like with her parents, she’d be able to recognize any of them in an instant, that she knew for certain. She couldn't forget either of them if she wanted to.

Not that she’d ever would of course.

“Would trading my head take my memories with it?” she wondered for a second before shaking it off.

“No, you are not going to trade your head, so its useless wondering what would happen if you did.”

She turned her eyes back to the lifeless dessert. 

“Though, you have little to no chance of getting any help from your old friends with that lifeless desert in the way-”

The sentence in her mind stopped short when she saw something, something was stirring in the desert. But how?

“If only I had a spyglass!” she thought as she anxiously squinted- trying to make out some type of shape.

“What could that be?” she wondered aloud.

She didn't have to wait very long to get an answer.

Within seconds she could make out a chariot shape, and the figures of some type of army. 

She felt an ounce of hope in her, “Did my friends somehow learn of my imprisonment?” she wondered as she strained to get a career look at who was driving the chariot.

Soon the magnificent chariot came into focus, not enough to make out the driver's face- though it appeared to be a girl around her age, but she could make out the form of a large Lion.

The ounce of hope grew to a pint.

The Lion was side by side with a large Tiger, both were carrying the chariot over a green carpet that unfurled in front of them. Shielding them all from the deadly sands.

Beside the chariot Dorothy saw  two forms, one was straw stuffed-  with painted features, wearing blue munchkin clothing, and was riding on what appeared to be a wooden horse. 

The pint became a gallon.

The other, shiny tin, with an ax over his shoulder, and his funnel hat tipped over his ear as if it were a hat.

The gallon overflowed. She couldn't help but bounce on her heels.

“It's them! It's them!” she clasped her hands together, 

“I'm as good as rescued! I'm as good as home!”

She crawled onto the windowsill and watched her friends, the girl and Tiger- who she did not recognize, and the army of unknown soldiers behind them, excitedly as they approached.

It took a while, reasonably so- Ev was a rather large kingdom with quite a few curious residents, but eventually they arrived below the castle.

Dorothy waved her arm and called out,

“Hey!”

They didn't seem to hear her, perhaps she wasn't loud enough? Or they weren’t close enough.

The Scarecrow got off the wooden horse and approached the trick sign on the castle.

“Hey, I'm here! Here’s Dorothy!” She was half tempted to throw one of her shoes down, but the straw man heard her.

“Dorothy?” he said, initially looking around him.

“Up here! I'm up here!” she had to wipe a few tears of excitement and relief from her face.

The familiar painted face of the scarecrow looked up, it was a ways down- so details weren't too clear, but she could see he had been repainted since the last time she’d seen him.

“Dorothy Gale?!” He asked, painted eyes squinting.

“Yes!”

The Tinman, Lion, Tiger, Mystery girl, and all the soldiers looked up. She could see the Tinman and Lion’s faces smile at her as the soldiers muttered to one another.

“What are you doing in there?” The Lion asked.

“And are you ok?” The Tinman asked, concerned. 

“Nothing and No!” she called down, “I'm a prisoner in here, please get me down.”

“We’ll do just that little friend, who are you a prisoner of?” Scarecrow asked.

“That Princess Langwidre, she wants me to trade my head for one of her old ones. And locked me up when I said I’d do no such thing. She’s got a horrifying temper.” Dorothy explained. The Mystery girl spoke up, her voice was pleasant, loud, and clear as a bell. 

“I do not blame you, I have business with Langwidre but I shall have you free’d before any of that is to be discussed.” she said.

“Oh,” Dorothy was a little surprised, the girl looked of high importance- from what Dorothy could see she was wearing a beautiful gown, had long dark-brown coils laying perfectly down her shoulders, and had a gold ringlet with poppies on the sides. Then she remembered The Wizard had left the Scarecrow in charge of Oz- and this girl appeared to be his friend. Of course she’d want to rescue her. 

“Thank you very much!” 

“Just sit tight Dorothy, you’ll be down as fast as we can get you.” the Tinman assured her. Dorothy gave a nod and carefully slid down from her spot on the windowsill. 

“Oh no-” she remembered. “Don't listen to the sigh! Its a trick! The real door is on the right!” she called down.

“Thank you!” Scarecrow called up to her. Dorothy stood at the window and watched them walk off and out of sight.

She was so excited to see her old friends again, and that new person- Dorothy couldn't see much of the mysterious girl driving the chariot of gold and emeralds, but anyone who was friends with her old comrades was worth trusting. 

She remembered how elegant and put together the girl looked, and became very aware of her outfit.

“Oh dear.” she bit her thumbnail as she saw how water stained and dirty her clothes were. ”Well, I was stranded in the ocean, then a beach, and then a prison cell. I have no real control over how I look right now.”

But what she did have control of was her hair. She heard some distant shouting, Langwidre had met her old friends, which means they were on their way to see her. 

Which means she didn't have long to put herself together. Aunt Em always said it was important to make good impressions on strangers- she had no control on her impressions of her old friends, but she had some control here.

Quickly she took the ribbons out of her braids, and finger brushed her unwashed, blond hair. Once she had gotten most of the dried sea salt out of it she braided them back into their ropes and tied the bow’s back on.

She heard footsteps, only three sets thought- too heavy to be Scarecrow, not metallic enough to be Tinman, and she assumed Langwidre wouldn't let Lion this far up in her castle. Mayhaps her friends were waiting just outside the tower and some of Langwidre’s maids were going to take her to them?

She had hardly gotten her second ribbon tied when she got her answer.

“Here’s the girl, very rude mind you- thought I did have No.17 on. That one tends to be offended by almost everything. I really do need a warning sign on that one.” Langwidre was rambling as one of her maids opened the door, behind her was the Mysterious girl.

Dorothy was now very aware of how unkempt she looked- and the addition of one un-bowed ribbon in her hair did not help.

“Well I must get back to my Mirror room- I’ll meet you there when you wish to discuss saving my Aunt and Cousins.” Langwidre snapped her fingers, her and her maid walked away and left the two girls in the unlocked tower cell.

Pretty didn't begin to describe the girl.

Her gown appeared to be green silk with a shimmering train behind her. The poppies on her circlet looked as if they were living, and knowing Oz, they most likely were. It sat elegantly on her river of dark brown coils, that flowed down her shoulders, framing her face perfectly.

And her face, Dorothy had never seen a girl look this pretty without makeup, and she hardly saw any make up last time she was in Oz. Apart from casual lipstick and blush.

She had large black eyes set into her round face. Her brown skin was clear, without a single blemish, and reminded Dorothy of some of the doll’s that were too expensive for her family to buy.

She swore she could see freckles, slightly darker than the girl’s skin, scattered across her face. They weren't too different from Dorothy’s freckles- though she had many more, years working in the sun dose that to a person.

Actually- there was one ‘imperfection’ on the girl’s face, a scar on her chin. As if she had fallen down and injured herself as a child. But the scar somehow added to the charm the girl already possessed.

Dorothy realized only a few seconds had passed, and the girl was now looking at her with a gentle expression. Before Dorothy could do or say anything, the girl walked towards her and- entirely to Dorothy’s surprise, kneeled.

“It's a pleasure to meet you Dorthy, Hero of Oz, and slayer of the wicked witches.” the girl said in a soft voice, just as pleasant and clear as when she was several feet below her window.

Dorthy felt her face warm, and was glad she had some dirt covering it. She quickly tried to hide the unfinished hair bow behind her shoulder as the girl rose.

“I am Princess Ozma of Oz.”

Princess Ozma, the one TikTok had told her about. 

That explained why she looked so elegant.

It took her a few moments to get her thoughts straight, embarrassed that she looked this unkempt in front of royalty.

In embarrassment and sudden pressure to be propper, she completely forgot proper etiquette and stuck her hand out- as if to shake Ozma’s.

“It's nice to meet you too Princess, my friend TikTok told me about you.” she said, words falling out of her mouth before she could think of them too much.

“Dorothy, what are you doing? You’re not supposed to shake princess hands when you meet them!” she said in her head, yet her expression remained a polite- if a little nervous, smile.

Ozma smiled back and took Dorothy’s hand. Dorothy had expected a princess’s hand to be soft, but Ozma’s hand was almost more calloused than hers were. 

They shook hands as Dorothy remembered she was meant to curtsy, and did a half curtsy as she shook the princess's hand.

Ozma’s nose scrunched in amusement before she laughed. Like her voice, her laugh was pleasant and pretty.

“I'm glad I finally got to meet you. I've heard about you since your first visit in Oz, I'm from the gillikins country in the north.” Ozma said, still holding on to Dorothy’s hand.

“That's where the good witch who kissed my head is from isnt it?”

“Yes, you have a very high reputation there, as well as all of Oz. Reasonably so for all you've done for it.”

“I would have been able to do any of that stuff without my friends.” Dorothy fidgeted with the loose strands at the ends of her braid. “And I killed both of those witches by accident. I'm glad it ended up being good but It wasn't planned- at least the witch of the east wasn't. My house really did just fall on her- I had no control of that.”

Ozma nodded.

“Speaking of your old house, it's now a monument to you.”

“Oh is it?” Dorothy asked, becoming embarrassed again. “Tell the munchkins I appreciate it, even if it's a bit much- I'm still just a simple farm girl.”

Ozma tilted her head, never dropping her smile, and a strange look of empathy coated her features.

“I was too once, well- kinda anyhow.”

“Hm?” Dorothy tilted her head in confusion.

“I promise to explain later, but right now I need to talk to Langwidre, and I believe your old friends would like to see you.” Ozma looked at the drawings Dorothy had made, “and I believe you’d like to see them.”

Dorothy nodded her head and the two walked out the door.

They walked, hand in hand, as Dorothy looked the Princess over again.

When she first saw her, she thought she was pretty- like a painting or glass doll. But after that short conversation with her, she seemed more- real, Human. Or Gillikin in her case, Dorothy still wasn't too sure what the difference between a munchkin, gillikin, quadling, or winkie and a human was. Apart from coming from Oz that is. 

But she felt drawn to Ozma, drawn in a way that felt- possible. Realistic. Ozma went from appearing like a painting come to life, to another human. Who happened to be very pretty.

She could tell she was going to get along with her, and was excited to hear about how a Princess of Oz got such calluses on her hands.

They walked into the drawing room, just as Scarecrow, TikTok, and Tinman were discussing something. 

She dropped Ozma’s hand and ran towards her friends.

“Dorothy!” Tinman and Scarecrow exclaimed as Dorothy hugged the Scarecrow, trying her best not to crumply his straw stuffed body.

Thanks for reading, I posted this on my a03 account: TheHyperfixationStation032

[duhdumb89]

A Forbidden Happiness | Chapter 48

The food spread over Shen huang gui fei's dining table was rank. There were plates of fatty, slimy meat, a bowl of strange fried noodles, greasy barbecue, and stinky mutton and camel dishes. The servants had to open every window and door so the sour smells didn't linger in her palace.

"Huabao," Shen huang gui fei said, cringing as her daughter slurped down a cup of sour yak milk, "Wouldn't you like something else to eat? His Majesty and I had lunch yesterday, and the food was so lovely. Should I send for some?"

Shaking her head, Huabao said, "Maybe later. This is all I've wanted since I returned! Ah! Thankfully, Royal Grandmother let me borrow her chef. A-niang, you don't want to try?"

Huabao placed a piece of slimy mystery meat on Shen huang gui fei's plate, a bright smile on her face.

Shen huang gui fei turned away from the sight with a strained laugh, "What about birds nest's soup? Jingse will make a fresh batch for you,"

Huabao wrinkled her nose before turning to the handmaid she'd dragged back to the palace, Tuya. Tuya was short, squat, and dark. In any other circumstance, Shen huang gui fei would have never let her set foot in Zhongcuigong.

"Are there any more of the sweet milk curds?"

"No, First Princess," replied Tuya.

"I'll just have Royal Grandmother's chef make more," said Huabao, returning to her meal.

Who was this girl sitting across from her? This wild thing? This stranger who nodded her head quietly as The Empress Dowager promised her a crop of maids to bring with her into her new household?

As the days passed, the distance between Shen huang gui fei and her child grew. Gone was the daughter who clutched her skirts and hung on her every word. Now, there was a woman who often stank of the stables and didn't care to even look at the portrait of her future husband. Huabao barely cared a lick about her marriage at all. Whenever Shen huang gui fei tried to guide Huabao about running her new household, the girl found an excuse to run away. Not to mention that her attitude during any of the pre-marriage ceremonies bordered on apathy. Huabao turned her nose up at the embroidery and calligraphy they had so much fun with, instead opting to run off, race horses, and shoot arrows with her brothers.

With each wall Huabao was determined to put up between them, Shen huang gui fei grew angrier. Her daughter would have never ended up like this if it wasn't for The Empress. Her daughter would still be her little girl and His Majesty's precious pearl if The Empress hadn't sunk her claws into her. Shen huang gui fei was sure that the bitch had something up her sleeve for Huabao's wedding. Why wouldn't she? Her maternal cousins were married to His Majesty's favored brother, she had two sons, and soon, she would have a direct connection to the Fuca clan.

If The Empress struck now, everything Shen huang gui fei had worked so hard for would go up in flames. Shen huang gui fei wasn't going to wait around and let that happen.

✺

Shen huang gui fei had never paid much attention to to Bai gonggong. He had been Fung gonggong's deputy eunuch for as long as she had been in the Forbidden City. Fung gonggong had always been the bigger fish, but he was, unfortunately, unswayable. As old as he was, he had no family to support or possibly hold hostage. He was an eunuch in all senses of the word, so a beautiful woman was as good as dirt to him, and he worshipped no one but the man under whom he rose to power: The Late Emperor. His Majesty was a close second, but the eunuch did everything in his old master's name. No concubine could push him to one side or the other, as he would defer to The Empress or The Empress Dowager as the rules permitted. Trying to bother with him was a waste of time and energy.

Bai gonggong, however, from what Jingse could gather, was nothing of the sort. He was easy to ignore and, for the right price, could get a servant where they needed to go. None of the concubines paid him notice, but he managed to collect a tidy sum from the other eunuchs and maids to switch departments or to keep secrets secret. It was rumored that the only reason he became Fung gonggong's deputy was because he was the cause of the front runner's violent end with a wild horse.

"Your Highness," he said, gesturing to the painted porcelain pots that his eunuchs held behind him, "I scoured the Storage House to find the finest gift for First Princess's wedding,"

The pots were fine. Certainly, nothing that Shen huang gui fei found to be up to her standards, but that wasn't the real reason she called him here anyway. If her intuition was correct then Bai gonggong wouldn't be opposed to helping Shen huang gui fei with her little problem.

"That one there," she said, pointing to a yellow and blue gourd-shaped pot, "Bring it closer,"

Before the eunuch holding her choice could even lift his head, Bai gonggong snatched it away and brought it to Shen huang gui fei.

Obedient. Good.

"Did you pick this one yourself, gonggong?" She asked, pretending to inspect the craftsmanship.

"Of course, Your Highness,"

A liar as well. Very good.

"You have a very good eye, gonggong,"

"This slave doesn't deserve your praise, Your Highness,"

"I'll take this one," Shen huang gui fei said, handing the pot to A'Fang, before nodding at Jingse, "Give Bai gonggong his reward,"

Bai gonggong's eyes glittered at the sight of the silver tael in Jingse's hand.

"Your Highness is too kind," he said, not hesitating to take the money. He bowed low, "We'll take our leave,"

"Stay a moment, gonggong. There's a task I'd like you to help me with," said Shen huang gui fei.

"I'm only a lowly deputy, Your Highness," Bai gonggong replied, "Perhaps Fung gonggong would be better suited to serve you?"

As deferential as the words were, there was no mistaking the way his grip tightened on the reward in his hands.

"No, you'll do just fine,"

Bai gonggong eagerly shooed the other eunuchs away.

"How may I serve you, Your Highness?"

✺

As the candles burned high and bright, a trickle of sweat slid down An pin's temple and nestled itself in the fabric of her collar. It was the height of summer now and she usually wouldn't subject herself to being steamed like a piece of fish, but she hunkered down in Dafuge for a reason. Cao taiyi had finally become worth An pin's while.

"Your Highness," Weiwei hissed as she hurried back from the courtyard facing windows, "Limei is here,"

Immediately, An pin began to poke at her thighs with a sharp pin to help the tears fall from her eyes. By the time Limei walked through the doors, An pin would have worked herself up into a respectable crying fit.

From what Weiwei could gather, Limei had been Guang pin's dowry maid and her closest confidant. Since Guang pin's death, the girl haunted the Forbidden City like a pale ghost, skulking from her new post at the Ice House to the Dafuge to pray for Guang pin's soul and back again.

The door creaked open.

"Meimei," An pin blubbered, "Meimei, I'm so sorry,"

"Your Highness?"

An pin pretended to be startled and whirled around.

"Your Highness An pin!" Limei said, dropping to her knees to bow.

An pin sniffled and rubbed the tears from her cheeks, "Rise,"

Limei glanced at Guang pin's memorial tablet, "Are you here to speak with my mistress?"

An pin nodded before gazing at the shrine, "Do you come here very often, Limei?"

Limei's eyes opened wide, as if she couldn't believe that An pin knew her name at all before nodding her head, "Yes, Your Highness. We never went a day without seeing each other...before, so it's become a habit,"

An pin sighed, "I came here because my heart is heavy. I was hoping meimei could ease my sorrows,"

"I didn't know that you and Guang pin were close, Your Highness," replied Limei.

Shaking her head, An pin pressed a hand to her heart, "We weren't. But I wish I could back and change things,"

Her voice dropped to a low whisper, "Maybe then I could have protected her,"

Limei reared back as if she had been struck, her pale face somehow going even whiter.

"What?" She croaked out?

An pin shook her head and scrambled to her feet, making a point to stumble even as Weiwei buoyed her.

"Nothing," An pin whispered, "I won't keep you from your conversation,"

An pin began ambling to the door.

"Your Highness, wait!" Limei said, running in front of her, "What did you say just then? What did you mean?"

Limei clawed at An pin's sleeve desperately. An pin snatched her arm away.

Weiwei pushed Limei to the side, "How dare you put your hands on An pin?! Get out of the way!"

An pin squeezed out more tears and brought her handkerchief to her mouth to muffle her sobs. It was a good performance but unfortunately, Limei looked defeated. She stood there quietly, not bothering to come after An pin again. What a waste!

However, just as An pin thought the whole endeavor wasn't worth her while, Limei sprung back to life. She planted herself in front of the door and kneeled.

"Your Highness, I beg you! I beg you! Please tell me! Please tell me so I can honor my mistress!"

Each cry was punctuated with a dull 'clunk' as Limei bashed her head into the ground.

Ah! Finally!

"Weiwei, help her up," said An pin.

Weiwei did as she was told.

Limei lifted her head as a thin stream of blood dribbled down her face. An pin pressed her handkerchief to it.

"You shouldn't hurt yourself like this, Limei,"

Limei shook her head, "This body is nothing. I'm only here to honor Guang pin's name,"

An pin released a theatric sigh, "If I tell you what I meant, do you promise to act sensibly?"

The girl nodded frantically, obviously lying.

Putting on a nervous tick and fiddling with her nail guards, An pin began, "When Wang Rong was alive, she was my dearest friend after we entered the palace together. We grew close for a time, but as His Majesty acquired more and more women and her favor wasn't so everlasting, she grew bitter and angry. Especially at your mistress,"

An pin paused for dramatic effect.

"One night, I thought to drop in and have dinner with Wang Rong. I didn't bother to announce myself because it was so late. She was talking to her maids and I heard her say... I...I didn't do anything about it because I couldn't imagine she would do something so drastic. And I couldn't imagine that Shen huang gui fei would help her,"

Limei's lips wobbled but no sound emerged.

"I didn't think of it again. After meimei's death, so many things happened. But a few months ago, she came to me in a dream and begged me to find the truth. She wanted me to know that it wasn't just the childbed that...that the labor didn't take her,"

"I began asking around," An pin continued, "I even sent a physician around to ask Guang pin's servants about her food and drink,"

"That was you? You sent that doctor?" Limei said before biting her lip, "What...what did he find?"

An pin blinked away a new set of tears, "Do you remember when a gift from Wang Rong came for your mistress? Herbs to keep her beauty?"

Limei, thankfully, caught on quickly to what An pin was implying.

"But, we sent it to the Imperial Hospital," Limei said, her voice shaking, "They said it was safe,"

"Do you know if they tested the entire jar or just the top?" An pin said, pulling a lie out of thin air.

Limei shook her head and pursed her lips, "I-I don't know,"

"That night, Wang Rong told her maids that she knew you sent the medicine for inspection and was glad she listened to Shen huang gui fei about filling the top of herbs with something harmless,"

"It was poison? She poisoned Guang pin?" 

"In a way. Guang pin was taking bu gu zhi. If you and I were to take it, even for years at a time, it wouldn't harm us. But for a pregnant woman, it's fatal,"

Limei crumpled to the ground and stared at An pin, in a dazed silence.

For an uncomfortable stretch of time, the girl sat there, slumped at An pin's feet without a single blink. An pin fought the scowl that was desperate to be on her face. This wasn't the response she expected. She was hoping for righteous anger or woeful tears! Not this corpse.

Instead of slapping her, An pin said softly, "Limei? Are you alright?"

"Why,"

An pin paused.

"Why?"

Limei spoke again, "Why would Shen huang gui fei do this?"

An pin knelt on the ground before grabbing Limei's hand, "The back palace is a glittering slate of beauty that masks the evil of the mind. I thought we were close but after finding out the truth. I don't know what to think,"

"Do you think she did it so she could finally have a prince?" Weiwei asked, skillfully inserting herself into the conversation.

"I," An pin said, her lips quivering, "I can't believe that. Shen huang gui fei couldn't have know that meimei would even give birth to sons,"

"Your Highness, didn't you think it was strange that out of the blue, everyone was banned from visiting Guang pin, except for Shen huang gui fei? Could it be that she wanted Guang pin to think that no one but her cared for her?"

An pin shook her head, "I don't know what to think, Weiwei. I don't want to keep thinking of these things in such a holy place,"

She swayed to the side to make a point.

"Your Highness, you've gone pale. I'll take you back to Chuxiugong,"

An pin nodded, but before she let Weiwei lead her away, she kneeled to grab Limei's hands again.

"Don't lose your head over this Limei. Wang Rong and Shen huang gui fei may have wronged your mistress, but she was only the bottom rung in the ladder of this cruel place. If you truly want to honor Guang pin, you'll live a good, long life with her memory in your heart,"

Limei sagged to the ground as if her shoulders weighed a thousand pounds.

"I will, Your Highness. Thank you for your grace,"

"Your Highness," Weiwei said as they began their trek back to Chuxiugong, "Do you think she'll be able to do anything without your help? What if this was a waste?"

An pin shrugged, "I have faith in her. Though, if it amounts to nothing, I still have plenty of things in store for Shen huang gui fei,"

✺

Jiayi was broke. Absolutely emptied out. She would probably have to sell one of the gifts Xiang pin gave her to be able to send something back to Wei Jiayi's family. As perilous as the situation was, Jiayi didn't feel anything but the outrageous amount of butterflies in her stomach. Before Xiang pin had laid down for her afternoon nap, Jiayi asked permission to drop by the clothing house and pick up some fabric for a dress. It was only half a lie. She did pick out some fabric–a few bundles of rich black silk–but it wasn't for a dress.

It was for Prince Han's gift.

Jiayi had thought long and hard about what she could possibly give to someone like him and the idea finally came to her as she watched Xiang pin 'ooh' and 'ahh' over a brocade pajama set that The Emperor had sent her before declaring that she would sew a set for him as a gift in return. The thought nailed itself to the flesh of Jiayi's brain.

She and Prince Han were together. Those were the sort of gifts people gave to one another, right? Before she could lose her courage, Jiayi had spent the money and bought the fabric. The sight of it folded innocently in the basket on her arm made her heart race. She wouldn't just give Prince Han the pajamas, obviously. That would be too much! She would paint him something with her Hubi. Maybe when she asked Sang'er to give her Prince Han's measurements, she'd ask if Prince Han had any favorite poems or sutras so she could paint something to hang on his wall. Jiayi was so lost in her thoughts that she almost missed the sight of Shen huang gui fei's and First Princess's raised chairs. She moved herself to the side and kneeled as the entourage passed by.

Since First Princess's return, Shen huang gui fei's time revolved entirely around the wedding. While things had been quiet, they all knew better than to count Shen huang gui fei out. They were as vigilant as they could be. Jiayi rose to her feet as the servants passed her by. She paused as a familiar yet unfamiliar face brought up the rear of Shen huang gui fei's line of maids. She had seen the maid's face before, somewhere, but never as a servant of Zhongcuigong. Before she could bring a face to the name, a eunuch stopped in front of her.

"Wei guniang?"

Jiayi clutched her basket tightly. She had never seen this eunuch before, "Yes?"

"Fung gonggong has asked for you,"

Jiayi's throat dried up in an instant. She croaked out a laugh, "I'm sorry gonggong, but I have to return to my mistress–,"

"Her Highness Xiang pin has already been informed," he replied, "This way. Quickly," 

[lostloveletters]

Bruised Fruit Chapter 8 (Michael Corleone x OC)

Summary: The sound of no longer distant wedding bells loom in the air as the reality of Gloria's new life with Michael closes in on her.

Note: Pre-Cana is a retreat or series of courses that couples getting married in the Catholic Church attend (it varies by parish or diocese). It’s basically pre-marriage counseling from a Catholic perspective. Also, the novel doesn’t specify which battle Michael was wounded in, just that Life magazine ran the article on him at some point in 1944 and he was discharged in early 1945 after Vito bribed a military doctor to say Michael was too badly wounded for him to return to combat. With this in mind, I’m going with Peleliu, which would make the most sense considering the vague canon timeline and its high wounded and casualty rates.

Warnings: Descriptions of pregnancy symptoms, mainly morning sickness.

Chapter 7 | AO3 Link | Masterlist

Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content. I will block you.

The moka pot on the stovetop hissed at Gloria while she was looking at the showtimes for Rio Bravo listed in that morning’s issue of Newsday. Grabbing a pen, she circled a few evening showings to present to Michael. If they got out of Pre-Cana early enough, they could catch a screening of it on the way to pick up the kids from her parents’ house.

Her elbow knocked against the espresso glasses she’d set out on the counter as she moved the moka pot off of the flame and onto a free burner. One of them nearly rolled onto the floor, but she managed to catch it just in time.

The espresso glasses were a brand new crystal set she’d bought at Lord & Taylor not long after they’d moved into the Long Beach house, making the drive upshore to Manhasset with Sandra. They were technically shot glasses, but the shop assistant in the housewares department enthusiastically assured her the glasses could withstand hotter temperatures. So far, they’d held up to the three or four small pots of espresso being made in the Corleone household each day. 

Michael always drank some in the morning and then in the afternoons, usually an hour or two after lunch. Al took his with sambuca, as did Connie. Sandra drank hers black and piping hot, and Tom sometimes drank his cortado, though he didn’t drink espresso after 11am, claiming the caffeine would keep him up all night otherwise. Ciro drank his with lemon, and Dominic, Al’s protegee and another newer face around the house, would drink his straight, unless Al was around, and he’d add sambuca, too. Anthony had even started drinking espresso, acquiring a taste for it at her parents’ house and shocking her and Michael one morning when he asked for some. 

Making espresso for everyone was one of the few ways Gloria was actually helpful in the kitchen, otherwise leaving the cooking to one of the Corleones or their maid, Margaret. The older woman had patiently taught Gloria how to cook Michael’s preferred breakfast of poached eggs and toast so she could make it when Margaret was off on the weekends.

Al Neri had let himself in, quietly, as he normally did, though his near silent arrival didn’t startle Gloria anymore.

“Morning, Al. Michael hasn’t come down yet. Espresso’s fresh, though. Help yourself.”

Al nodded. “Thanks, Gloria.”

“Have you eaten? I’m gonna make eggs when Michael comes down, and I think we have some leftovers from last night in the fridge.”

She’d already had a plate of cold ziti for breakfast herself. 

Gloria couldn’t concentrate on cooking for long enough to get any good at it, finding each step of the process mind-numbingly boring and would get distracted if she felt like something was taking too long to chop or boil or whatever she was supposed to do with the ingredients. One of the benefits of working with the casino’s restaurant in Vegas was getting free meals from the kitchen, usually extra food or untouched meals the picky patrons had sent back. Except to make coffee or heat up leftovers from work, she rarely ventured into her kitchen when living on her own.

Espresso took only a few minutes to brew, though, and she could multitask while keeping an eye on the pot. 

He shook his head. “I got a sandwich from that deli by my place on the way here.”

Al had bought a house in Lynbrook with the move, only a twenty minute drive from them, less if traffic wasn’t too bad. His place turned out to be about ten minutes from her parents’ house in Rosedale, which made Michael feel better about letting the kids spend the night there sometimes. Gloria liked Long Beach, though, especially since summer was rapidly approaching and some of the seasonal places were starting to open up.

“Do you go to the movies?” she asked, eyes flicking back to the showtimes in the paper on the counter.

“Not in a long time,” he said.

“I was thinking of asking Michael to take me.”

“Ask me to take you where?” Michael asked, walking into the kitchen and giving Gloria a kiss on the cheek. “Morning, Al.”

“To the movies. We should go see Rio Bravo.”

“Isn’t that a Western? You don’t like Westerns.”

“I like Ricky Nelson,” she said. “We haven’t been to the movies since we saw Cat on a Hot Tin Roof last year.”

He conceded more easily than she expected. “Alright, darling. How about after Pre-Cana? We can get dinner and then go to the movies since your parents are watching the kids today.”

“Great! Oh, let me get your breakfast ready. Are you sure you’re not hungry, Al?” she asked.

He shook his head, opting for his espresso.

Michael poured himself some, and Gloria got to work on making his breakfast. The toast was easy enough, but she always felt like she could do a little better on the poached eggs. Though if Michael thought so, he never said anything to her. 

Gloria wasn’t sure what to expect from Pre-Cana. Michael hadn’t taken it with Kay since they didn’t have a Catholic wedding, and the concept was brand new when Jackie and Vivian had gotten married. The church secretary at St. Catherine’s said it wasn’t exactly a requirement, but strongly encouraged, which meant that if they wanted to keep their late August wedding date, they better go.

As soon as she scooped the poached eggs from the boiling water, the scent hit her nose in an unfamiliar, nauseating way, and she clumsily dropped the egg on top of the slice of toast, gagging as she did so.

Michael and Al shared a perplexed look as Gloria ran past them into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her. 

She could hardly look at the contents of the toilet, promptly flushing it. A knock at the door startled her, though she should have expected Michael to check on her when she made such a scene.

“Gloria? Are you alright?”

“Yeah I—just give me a minute.” She clumsily grabbed a bottle of mouthwash beneath the sink, filling her mouth with the burning mint taste and spitting it out into the sink. She washed her hands, accidentally splashing the mirror with water when Michael abruptly opened the bathroom door.

“What made you sick?” he asked, concern evident in his features as he took in the burst blood vessels in her face, leaving the skin splotchy and her usual eyebags even darker.

“Maybe someone left the milk out too long,” she said, avoiding his gaze as she dried her hands. “I put it in my coffee earlier, and it smelled a little weird.”

Michael was silent, staring at her for a moment before seemingly accepting her explanation. “Should I call the parish and ask them to reschedule our Pre-Cana?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I’m just gonna sit outside. Get some air.” Because the mere thought of being in the room as those fucking eggs nearly made her gag again. 

She knew Michael was watching her from the window as she made her way to one of the patio chairs next to the vegetable garden. It had been his late father’s hobby in his retirement. Everyone who lived there since had kept it up in one way or another, all friends of the family, Michael had told her. As the house had never gone to strangers, they tended to the garden in Vito’s honor. Tom’s wife Theresa usually busied herself with it. Gloria helped once in a while, though she could tell Theresa didn’t care much for her and only made polite conversation whenever she was around. Perhaps Gloria’s presence served as a reminder of her husband’s infidelity with her own sister-in-law, unless Theresa really didn’t know, and disliked Gloria on the principle of her having been Michael’s mistress. Regardless, Gloria certainly wasn’t one to snitch on such a situation, and she had no qualms about keeping whatever secrets she needed to from whichever Corleone she needed to.

Gloria kept secrets from Michael even after he told her about Apollonia. Hers was about his other ex-wife, the one who he probably wished were dead. Instead, Kay was back in New England, just outside of Hartford, to be exact. Gloria had gotten the address from Connie, who’d been keeping in touch with her former sister-in-law. Using her parents’ house as the return address, Gloria had sent Kay the colorful crafts Anthony and Mary had made in school for Mother’s Day earlier that month.

Trying to hide an almost certain pregnancy from him was becoming a near impossible task. She looked at the tomatoes growing in their vines, green in the late spring and soon to be ripe and red in the coming weeks. Michael would be glad she was pregnant, she had no doubt about that. It was exactly what he wanted, and just what she dreaded.

She brought her fingers to her temples in an attempt to massage out the dull headache that emerged. The screen door opened, and she didn’t bother to see who’d come outside. Michael stood next to her, his shadow shielding her from the sunlight that exacerbated her headache. 

He handed her a glass of water. “Your head must be killing you.”

Gloria downed the water, cool droplets spilling from the corners of her mouth but paying it to mind. She set the glass down, wiping her face with the back of her hand, acutely aware of the way Michael was staring at her, deep in thought as he took in the state of her again.

“Thanks,” she said.

“I called the parish anyway, the secretary said there’s one we can go to next weekend. Think you’re up for a movie?” he asked. 

She smiled. “I think I can manage that.”

“I checked the paper, we can go to the screening at two, get an early dinner, and then go to your parents’.”

“Alright, I’m gonna take a nap, then. Wake me by one if I’m not up?”

He nodded, taking her hand and kissing the top of it. “Get some rest, darling.”

The first thing Gloria did when she got to the master suite was brush her teeth, avoiding her reflection. How long would it be before she began losing teeth? She knew plenty of women who’d experienced that or hair loss or brittle bones, all a result of the baby leeching nutrients from its host. 

When she got into bed, she buried her face in her pillow and screamed. So much had changed already, and the moment Michael caught wind she was pregnant, her life as she knew it would be his. There was no more hiding it, though, no possible way when there were eyes on her at all times. Every one of her soon-to-be in-laws were undyingly loyal to him in addition to the men he had at his disposal. Hell, he probably already knew.

Michael couldn’t have woken her up to go to the movies soon enough. Not that she figured she’s gotten any sleep anyway, too caught up in her thoughts to actually rest. But she needed to get out of the house and go somewhere. Maybe it’d be easier to tell him if they were in public, and she had to keep her composure.

In the theater, she focused on the movie, tried to enjoy herself despite Ricky Nelson not singing nearly as much as she’d hoped and her not caring much for Westerns to begin with. Michael had taken the time to go with her, though, and was trying to salvage the day so it wasn’t totally lost. His devotion, his attention was overwhelming at times, especially when so much of it belonged to her. 

“I still don’t like Westerns, but I like that song Dean Martin and Ricky Nelson did,” she said as they walked out of the movie theater.

Michael nodded. “Dean Martin’s always good.”

“Did you get a chance to see him when he did that show with Jerry Lewis at the casino? What was it, four years ago now? It was a riot.”

“I did. Kay and I went.”

Right. Gloria hadn’t been scheduled to work the three days Michael and Kay were there. She didn’t see him for nearly a month after that and figured their affair of nearly a year was over, surprised it had even gone on that long. No hard feelings, no love lost, fun while it lasted. Then he returned to Las Vegas on business, something Fredo had avoided telling her in what he perceived as an attempt to spare her feelings. She was friendly when she and Michael crossed paths in the casino’s lounge. Less than an hour after she was off the clock, they were up in that hotel room again.

Thinking about Las Vegas felt like watching a movie itself, as though it were someone else’s life entirely. She still longed for it from her invisible cage of domesticity and privately mourned for it as if it were the greatest love of her life. Maybe it was.  

“Anywhere specific you wanna eat?” Michael asked. 

Gloria cleared her throat. “Maybe we could try that restaurant up the street, the one with the seashell on the sign? I’ve never been, but Janine was saying it’s good.”

“Who’s Janine?”

“Michael, she lives two houses down from us.”

“The Avon lady?”

Among their neighbors, Gloria liked Janine the most. She didn’t mind Gloria hanging out at her house a few days a week and was pretty good company. Her house wasn’t pristinely tidy, and she’d sometimes get tipsy on sherry by 3pm and end up ordering Chinese takeout or making TV dinners for her family. Or maybe it had something to do with Gloria buying something every time a new Avon catalog came out. 

Gloria laughed. “Yeah, her. Mary’s going to her daughter Diana’s birthday party next month. She and my mom already picked out a gift.”

“Alright, let’s try it.”

“She said they have good Salisbury steak.”

“Salisbury steak? You must be feeling better from this morning.”

“I’m starving, actually.”

The few handfuls of popcorn she had in the theater certainly wasn’t enough to make up for two missed meals. Her stomach rumbled as they neared the restaurant, the smell of its kitchen mixed with the nearby sea breeze oddly enough to smell delicious in the moment. It wasn’t crowded for four in the afternoon on a Saturday. They were seated in a booth by a window that had a decent view of the beach.

“I’ll have a club soda, and she’ll have a rum and coke,” Michael said to the waiter.

Gloria shook her head. “Just a Coke for me, actually.”

Michael’s eyes shot over to his fiance, Gloria avoiding his gaze and playing with the corner of the tablecloth. The waiter took the hint to leave the couple alone, mumbling about giving them more time to look over the menu.

By the time Gloria let out a shaky breath, she knew he’d put two and two together, probably had since that morning. It wasn’t any easier for her to say it. “I think I’m pregnant.”

“Are you sure? Have you seen a doctor?” he asked.

“My period’s a few weeks late.”

“You’re scared,” he observed softly.

“I’ve never done this before,” she half-joked.

He reached over the table, taking one of her hands firmly in his. “You and our son will want for nothing. The best doctors are a phone call away.” When he noticed this didn’t seem to assuage her nerves, he added, “I’ll be with you through all of it.”

“I know you will.”

“Then you have no reason to worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“You’ve known for a while, haven’t you?”

“I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Monday morning I want you to make an appointment to be sure.”

“I sure feel like I can eat for two,” Gloria said.

Michael smiled. “Then go ahead and order for two.”

The waiter returned with their drinks, seeming to wait until the intense discussion was over. He gave them another few minutes to look at the menu, and suddenly, Gloria wanted to order everything. Even asking Michael what he was getting, a grilled pork chop with green beans, didn’t help narrow down her options.

Gloria’s Salisbury steak came with two sides, and she chose mashed potatoes and creamed spinach after some internal debate. Before the waiter could walk back to the kitchen, she ordered a plate of grilled scallops, too. One of the things she had missed about living in New York when she was in Vegas was the fresh seafood.

“What do you think of Ciro looking after you?” Michael asked as he cut into his grilled pork chop. “Just whenever you leave the house, to be safe.”

“I like Ciro,” she said. “He’s nice. Kept a close eye on us during the bachelorette party.”

“Good. I trust him,” he said. “How are the scallops?”

She nodded her approval, sliding the plate toward him while chewing a chunk of steak she’d shoved in her mouth. As far as she was concerned, Salisbury steak and hamburger steak were the same thing, but for some reason, it felt like the greatest meal she’d ever eaten. Some of it was relief from not trying to hide her pregnancy from Michael anymore, even though she dreaded the thought of what the following eight months would involve. 

She glanced over at Michael. For all the rotten luck or poor decision-making in the world, he chose the one Sicilian girl without a maternal bone in her body. Then again, he always saw something in her no one else seemed to, and it even left her at a loss sometimes. For his sake, she hoped the baby was a boy, but personally had no preference and was already thinking of how often she could pass child-rearing responsibilities onto her mother. At least buying stuff for the kid and redecorating one of the spare bedrooms into a nursery would be fun. 

“I should get decaf, shouldn’t I?” Gloria mused aloud when they finished their meals, ready to order coffee.

Michael nodded. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

“That stuff’s awful.”

“It’s only a few months.”

“God, and I won’t even be able to drink at the wedding,” she lamented.

“Don’t worry, most of our guests will drink more than enough for the both of us.”

“How crazy is it gonna be?”

“I’d be surprised if there were less than two hundred people there.”

“Jesus,” Gloria whispered. “Is that including family?”

“Yours and mine, and then some acquaintances and business associates as well. I figured since we’re having the reception at the house, it wouldn’t hurt to invite the neighbors.”

“Really?”

“Like you said when we first moved in, they’ll notice if we’re antisocial. Just remember to keep them at arms’ length.”

The drive from the restaurant to her parents’ house felt oddly long for a weekend, but it gave her a chance to actually think about the wedding for the first time in a while. Connie and Sandra had taken on most of the wedding planning duties of their own volition, with Gloria in charge of picking out her dress, the cake, and a band to play at the reception. The latter was a task she took seriously, wanting to find a group that could play music to her tastes and also to that of the plethora of old school Sicilians who’d expect to hear a tarantella or two at some point during the celebration.

Gloria was relieved to see Vivian’s car in her parents’ driveway when Michael pulled up. Having Jackie and Vivian around always lowered the tension between her parents and Michael. Vivian liked him well enough, even though they’d butt heads at times. Jackie and Michael carried on friendly conversations on their own. Gloria wasn’t sure what she’d have done if Jackie disliked her fiance the way their father did.

“Hey Mike,” Jackie said, shaking Michael’s hand when they walked inside.

Michael smiled. “Good to see you, Jackie.”

“Hi Michael,” Jack said. “The kids are upstairs painting with Julia.”

“I’ll go see what they’re up to,” Michael said. “The kids love that craft room.”

Jack smiled. “Good, we’re glad to have them over any time.”

Michael disappeared upstairs, and Gloria followed her family into the living room, declining Vivian’s offer for coffee. Might as well try to be responsible, though if she’d known the shot of espresso she drank earlier that morning would be her last for the better part of a year, she would have savored it more. Or at least tried harder not to throw it up.

“How was Pre-Cana?” Jack asked.

“I got sick this morning, so we’re gonna go next weekend.”

“Again?” Julia asked as she made her way downstairs.

“It was some spoiled milk. I’m fine. We’re going next weekend, wedding’s still on, nothing to be concerned about,” Gloria said.

“We just got the invitation in the mail. You can mark us as a definite yes,” Vivian said. “How many people are going to be there?”

“The guest list was a little over two hundred fifty people long, last I heard.”

“Two hundred fifty,” Julia repeated. “Jack, did you hear that? I don’t think we had more than thirty at ours, both our families combined.”

“That’s because theirs isn’t gonna be all family,” Jack said. “Your fiance’s business associates, I’m sure.”

“Dad, c’mon,” Vivian scolded, trying to keep the heat off Gloria.

“Oh, Gloria, that’s shameful if he uses your wedding day as a front for all of that,” Julia objected.

Jack scoffed. “What else is it for? A cover for all of those people slinking about for their debts and favors. Just watch, you’ll be surprised at who shows up for his generosity .”

“You two are ridiculous,” Gloria said. “That’s not what it’s going to be like at all.”

She actually didn’t know what the hell the wedding was going to be like, and it wouldn’t surprise her if Michael’s work did keep him away for some of the reception. Because there were things pertinent to running an olive oil importing company that required him to step away from family events for hours at a time. Even if he spent the day glued to her side, she was sure her parents would find something to pick apart.

Frustrated, she headed outside and couldn’t light a cigarette fast enough. Jackie followed her, though he kept his distance, standing closer to the back door than she was. 

“Hey,” Jackie said. “Everything alright?”

“Just mom and dad being jerks about Michael and the wedding.”

“They’ll come around. He’s not a bad guy.”

“You really like him?”

“I don’t know what he does for a living, and I don’t really care. All I know is, this guy got transferred to my company after he got wounded on Peleliu. That article came out just before Christmas in ‘44. We got the magazines with these shitty rock-hard cookies that had nuts in them. But he said Michael was a good captain, saved his life. Some guys said it was a real shame he got discharged before Okinawa. They really admired him.”

Gloria took a long drag from her cigarette, letting out a shaky exhale. In nearly fifteen years, that was the most Jackie had said to her about his time overseas. All she knew was that he was with the First Marines and didn’t write many letters home, but when he did, it seemed like he was always on a different island and had less and less to say. After he returned to New York, he’d answer her questions with one-word responses or pretend he didn’t hear her at all. 

She learned not to take his avoidance of the topic personally, though it took a while. The only person who knew the most about what Jackie experienced, besides the men he fought with–few of whom he kept in touch with over the years–was Vivian. In that case, Gloria didn’t pry, not wanting to pressure her sister-in-law to betray her brother’s confidence.

“Why is this the first time you’re telling me about it?”

“It wasn’t exactly a fucking vacation, Gloria.”

“I know that. Michael’s told me enough about it to have a clue. That’s why I talked to him in the first place five years ago, and that’s how I ended up back here. Because I wanted to understand what happened to you, but you shut me out.”

“What was I supposed to say to you back then? You were a thirteen-year-old kid!”

“I don’t know! Just…something. I missed you so much, Jackie, and it was like you left and never came back.”

“I didn’t. That’s what you have to understand, Gloria. Alright? Michael–he got fucking shot and came out of it better than most guys I know. Whatever the hell he does, he’s good at it. It’s like he can put his emotions in a box and leave them there. That’s why he’s good for you.”

“Compartmentalize.”

“What?”

“The emotions in a box thing. He compartmentalizes.”

“There you go.”

Gloria stubbed out her cigarette on her heel. “I’m glad you like him. I don’t think mom and dad ever will, though.”

“All that mob stuff’s true, huh?”

“He doesn’t tell me a lot, but probably.”

“I bet the cops are gonna be all over the wedding.”

“Oh, I can just see dad telling them all the details now.”

Jackie snickered. “It’ll be fine.”

“With two hundred fifty people there? Fat chance.”