#this is the PREMISE for this fic

[edwin-paynes-bowtie]

fic snippet

Courting Edwin like they did in those old movies sounded fun too, old-timey carriage rides and all. And maybe he could see Edwin all dressed up, in one of those little 1900s suits… “That sounds brills,” he said. “But what about the second month?”

Edwin grinned. The expression was radiant. “I would like for you to… to do whatever you would have done with me, had we been courting in the 80s.”

“You want to go steady,” Charles laughed. “Wear my letter, get a mix tape.”

“I know what absolutely none of those words mean,” Edwin said. “But, as we have firmly established, I do enjoy learning new things.”

Charles grinned. “Well, then. I guess it’s settled. A month of courting, a month of going steady, and bam! Magical marriage, isn’t it.”

Edwin smiled. “Yes, Charles. I do believe it is.”

[tarvek-sturmvoraus]

dick: [swaps tim for a younger, more violent little brother] tim: oh ok i see how it is. [swaps dick for a younger, more violent big brother]

[nanamiskentos]

JUDAS (IS THE DEMON I CLING TO)— 両面宿儺 RYOMEN SUKUNA

PLOT 𐙚 After Gojo’s death and the collapse of the jujutsu world, you were taken, not killed, by the King of Curses. Sukuna decided you were to remain at his side, whether you liked it or not. Now, you spend your days silent and simmering, trapped in an estate built on ash and bone. And you hate Ryomen Sukuna. Hate the way blood perpetually follows him, streaking the wooden floors. You also try to pretend that you don't spend your nights with fantasies of the rough grip of his inked hands on your hips.

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

CW 𐙚 afab!reader, enemies to lovers, Sukuna Won AU, implied past Gojo x Reader, másturbation (f), trueform!Sukuna, incorrect jujutsu/domains lore, creámpie, máting press, crude talk, mentions of blood, injury and violence. dp!Sukuna, CÓNSENSUAL (c/nc) but if dark romance makes you uncomfortable, please be wary! MDNI

WC 𐙚 5.4k

NOTE 𐙚 this isn't a genre i dabble in much but i wrote this as a gift for a very dear friend 🎁

You had been dragged through the wreckage, head throbbing, and flanked by two low-grade curses. Their knobby hands clamp around your elbows like damp stone, claws digging just deep enough to sting in the thin winter air.

The atmosphere is ash-choked, acrid as it burns the lining of your nose.

Above, the sky bleeds a violent shade of red, seeping like an infected wound. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell tolls in a cruel and ceremonial mockery.

You’re not even sure where you are. Maybe this is the ancient heart of jujutsu, the city of Kyoto.

Or perhaps, you’re still stranded in the remains of Gojo’s battlefield, the ruins of Shinjuku.

The curses drag you forward until your knees slam against rough stone. Pain blooms ferociously as your chin knocks downward, gravel grinding into your teeth, and the sharp warmth of iron blooms on your tongue.

“Careful,” one of the curses chitters, reprimanding his companion. The curse has a voice like cracked clay, digits digging deeper into your tired bicep, “Sukuna wants her in one piece. I don’t fancy being flayed for messing up.”

You don’t bother speaking, not even as the sliding doors creak open behind the bone-white torii gate. The air shifts, with cursed energy curling outwards like heavy smoke, thick with the scent of incense and firewood. There’s a sweetness to it, beneath the copper tang of dried blood.

As a sorcerer, you understand that Domains are complicated. Half-real, and half-willed into existence. A metaphysical pocket carved into space.

Over the centuries, countless sorcerers had likely gone mad trying to decipher whether a Domain was tangible or simply a trick of the five senses.

Had things been different, had you not been dragged before a victorious King of Curses, you might have pondered the estate’s nature too. Because it felt real, too solid and too grounded in the bones of the world to be an illusion.

The throne room is dim, and lanterns glow behind crimson silk shades, casting slow-moving shadows over the floors. Despite your tired eyes, it’s hard to miss the striking architecture, dark wood beams and protective spells dangling from the rafters, parchments swaying like ghosts.

Of course, the King of Curses mars the decadent view. All four of his thick arms are draped along a throne, an ivory structure that bears the dull, dried appearance of charred bone.

His bare chest gleams, ridged with muscle and heatless sweat. Rings glint on his fingers, gold and dried sinew, as long, obsidian nails tap lazily against the throne’s edge.

Your gaze drops, instinctively. The lower arms twitch in an almost restless, feline manner. You could almost get lost in the hypnotic vision, were it not for the flash of memory. Gojo Satoru’s corpse, bisected on the snow-dusted pavement of Shinjuku.

Ryomen Sukuna is a monster, make no mistake.

The upper corner of his mouth lifts, but not in a smile. It’s a barbed expression, something more fang than good-will. His voice cuts through the thick air like molten stone, low and mocking, “Kneeling already?”

Your jaw clenches, as an aching pain blooms behind your ears, scorching your temples, while defiance stings your tongue, “Dragged here, actually. Don’t act so surprised.”

Sukuna’s laugh thrumbles through the chamber, dry and humourless like a sour thunderclap, “Still got that mouth.” The King of Curses is musing, head tilting just slightly as dawn-pink hair ripples across his forehead, “Good. I was afraid you’d be broken.”

You lift your chin, dirt-streaked and trembling, “Not yet.”

“Not yet,” Sukuna echoes, savouring your words slowly, like a promise, “Mhm. That will do.”

The thick fingers of his lower right-hand twitch, and one of the curses step back as though he has been charged. The other captor hesitates too long; cold grip still latched to your arm. He’s looking between you, his prisoner, and Sukuna, his lord.

A ripple of irritation flashes across Sukuna’s fine features, or at least, the half of his face that isn’t covered in thick, rough plates of hardened flesh, “You may leave us.” His tone leaves no room for suggestion, and the curses dissipate with a hiss.

The room falls into an odd silence. Stretching long enough for the pain to settle in, your knees aching, and arms burning with a tight strain. You feel as though your lungs and heart haven’t caught up from the constant tolls of countless battles. From Gojo’s sudden –

No, don’t go there.

Sukuna shifts, as the throne creaks beneath him as he leans forward, gaze glinting as he coos, “Look at you.” There’s something deceptively soft in his tone now, but it is not pity nor kindness. Curiosity, or hunger, you don’t quite know.

You feel the cursed energy rise as he steps down from the dais. It tightens the air like a noose around your neck. The ground seems to warp with each step he takes, and you can barely breathe through it.

There are ankles on him, coils of gold and iron, resting round the thick jut of tendons. He’s taking his time, not out of grace nor indulgence. And your eyes lift up against your will.

Sukuna is terrifying beautiful.

His face is inked in brutal brushstrokes. The markings carve along the sharp angles of his jaw, and his four eyes are concentric, rust-coloured, as they drag across your form, committing you to memory. But you try to look away, attempt to not track the split tongue that flickers over a fang.

But there’s a heat that coils in your gut anyway. Shameful in a way that makes your heart pound, and your stomach lurch.

Sukuna crouches before you soundlessly. Not a king. Not a god.

A beast.

One hand reaches forward. Not to strike, but to hold. Your chin is caught between a clawed thumb and finger, his touch calloused and searingly warm. Far too intimate, too wrong.

A long nail drags along your jaw, tracing a streak of dried blood, “Yours?”

“Does it matter?”

Sukuna hums, a low sound, almost pleased, “No.”

He gently wipes the blood away, before bringing his thumb to his mouth. Maroon eyes never break contact with yours, and you nearly recoil. Disgust curdles in your stomach, as Sukuna savours it.

You’re jerking back, a mere few inches, before his upper hands shoot out, catching your shoulders and yanking you back forward. Your body collides with his chest, the contact searing like a sharp brand.

“What’s the matter?” Sukuna murmurs, a furnace of air brushing hot against your cheek, “You forget? I did promise to not kill you.”

“Then what do you want?” You grit out, pain splintering behind your temples.

Sukuna’s eyes drop, trailing down your blood-slick chest. The bruises, and the grimy mess of the past few weeks clinging to you. The sorcerer’s gaze lingers where it clearly should not, and there’s a twitch of his reddened mouth as though he’s barely reining something in.

“Is it not obvious?” Sukuna’s voice is like velvet over a knife, “I would have you.”

You blink, “Me?”

It’s stupid, the way the jagged question leaves your lip. Weak, and reeling from both rage and disgust, and something far more traitorous that coils like fire beneath your skin.

“I would have you as my Queen,” Sukuna says easily, “By my side.”

You scoff, mostly to cover the very real pulse of panic that cracks through your ribs. But Sukuna only smiles wider, cruel in his manner, as his grip tightens. Your knees buckle.

“You think I would waste you?” Sukuna murmurs, dragging his lower hands reverently, slowly up your arms, “You fought harder than anyone.” A sneer flickering across his features as his lower lip juts, “Aside from Gojo Satoru, of course.”

Sukuna tilts your face upward, fingers cradling your jaw as if the King of Curses sees you as something fragile. Even worthy of worship.

But you know better, for Ryomen Sukuna does not believe in anything sacred nor holy.

“You made me bleed,” Sukuna muses thoughtfully, “And you are still strong. Still beautiful, even now.”

“You killed – ”

“Yes, yes,” Sukuna interrupts irately, “Spare me the weeping monologue. I killed them all.”

There is no guilt in his tone, no remorse. Your grief and fury is just another discarded page in the story he’s already rewritten.

“But you, I let live,” Sukuna leans in, voice dark and indulgent, “And you will thank me for it.”

You don’t ask what Sukuna does during the day. You don’t want to know.

It’s far easier that way, not wondering which cities lie burning beneath the horizon, or which shrines have been Sliced and Cleaved under the weight of his wrath and lazy hunger. You’ve long since stopped pretending the wind doesn’t carry ash through the open windows, or the sky hasn’t been a sickly, stagnant red for weeks.

Your days are now filled with things that mock comfort. Silk gowns in every shade of shadow, and blood. Combs and ribbons woven through your hair by silent handmaidens with cracked porcelain masks, and soot-darkened fingertips. You sleep on linens, in sprawling, ornate quarters, with no locks.

You hold to your resolve with a white-knuckled grip. You will not scream, nor will you give your husband the satisfaction of tears. And above all, you will not entertain Ryomen Sukuna in any form of conversation.

Especially not when, each night without fail, the King of Curses prowls into the dining quarters like a victorious beast, ivory robes loose, and rivulets of dried blood tacked to his chin. He slams his weight down beside you, all four arms sprawled, and thighs parted indecently, tearing into his food like it still writhes.

But he does not touch you.

Sukuna, for all his cruel jabs and leering glances, has yet to lay a clawed hand on you. It is a thought that you refuse to dwell long upon.

You eat in silence, and you certainly don’t flinch when Sukuna cracks bone in one hand and tosses the shards behind him. You try not to look at the second mouth on his torso, where the skin of his abdomen stretches into a grin.

You hate to admit it, but the icy little shadow trailing behind Sukuna, Uraume, knows how to make a damn good bowl of stew. Fragrant with green onion and wine, rich enough to cut through your ever-present nausea. You chew slowly, contemplatively, and make a mental note.

It might be worth befriending the sour, quiet bastard.

Maybe you could convince Uraume to slip something extra into Sukuna’s next meal. Not enough to kill him, because Sukuna is probably the sort to drink pond water for fun, but enough to leave him doubled over with a stomach-ache. The humbling image is amusing, and you can’t help the twitch of your lips.

“You’re quieter than usual, wife,” Sukuna drawls, tipping a goblet of wine to his lips. You ignore the thin rivulet of red that spills down his chest, straight into the waiting grin of his second mouth, “Not even a nasty look for me tonight?”

You focus on your stew. The heady wine, the sweetness of the fried onion. You’re chewing with purpose and stabbing chunks of beef with more force than strictly necessary. Imagining, quite vividly, what it would feel like to jab him instead.

If Sukuna notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he’s amused, “I look forward to that look, you know,” he murmurs, voice coiling like smoke around your spine, “The one that says you expect me to be grateful you’re here, instead of finding a knife in my ribs.”

You glare into your bowl, slicing meat carefully. You don’t reply.

“That’s the one,” Sukuna laughs, low and rolling, like distant thunder in this broken world.

You jolt when one of his lower hands, the left, reaches for you. Slow, deliberate. It tilts your chin, and you yank back before his grip can tighten. The woven mat beneath you shifts sharply as you stand, breath catching in your throat.

You’re not sure what to say.

Don’t talk to me?

That would be a pointless command, for Sukuna is the only one in this cursed estate with a voice. The others only click and twitch, nodding as if you’re supposed to understand their insect-like chatter.

Don’t touch me?

That one’s worse. That one stings. Because saying it out loud would make it real, and expose the awful, shameful truth.

You can’t bring yourself to say that either.

The rooms have been quiet these past few weeks. Lonely, and lately, far too often, you’ve finished with your own slick fingers buried between your thighs.

Chasing the ghost of ivory hair and blue eyes, and furiously flushing as the image gave way to inked sun and rippling, inked muscles.

And Sukuna, perceptive as he is, seems to know this. He watches you, head titled. Not angry, nor offended. Curious, in a way that makes your skin crawl.

“I like it when you talk back,” Sukuna finally says, voice low. His upper arms drape lazily over the back of his cushion, while his lower hands rest on his thighs, talons twitching like a predator biding its time, “But your body betrays you.”

Sukuna grins, fangs peeking out beneath a wine-red mouth, as though he’s aware of the slow, sticky throb beneath your fine robes, “I wouldn’t have needed Six Eyes to tell me that.”

You spin to leave, with the words blooming on your tongue, detailing exactly what you think Sukuna should do to satisfy himself.

The door slams shut before you reach it, a thud of finality that vibrates up your spine. A pulse follows, not sound, nor touch. You realise it’s the own beat of your heart, thrumming hot.

You freeze.

Sukuna hasn’t moved, not a single inch, but his cursed energy spikes. It wraps around your ankles like invisible chains, slow and deliberate. Then it rises, serpentine and humming, up the backs of your calves, your thighs, blooming heat at the hinges of your knees.

You swallow. Hard. It isn’t painful. But it’s heavy, clinging to your pulse points like it knows you intimately.

“You think I do not notice?” Sukuna’s voice is a slow, scraping murmur, “The way you jolt when I enter. How your thighs press together when I speak. Odd, no? For one who detests me so much.”

You don’t dignify Sukuna with a response. But you don’t deny it, either.

Sukuna stands, towering and bare-chested. The memory of your first night here vividly strikes in your mind once more.

Beautiful, but monstrous.

Holy, but sacrilegious to all you’ve ever held dear.

And yet, so tantalising. You would be lying if you said that you had not spent cold nights in your soft bedding, aching to know the feel of thick fingers in you, ringed with dark ink.

“Say the word,” Sukuna lazily rolls a ring from one hand to the other, “You need only ask.”

His cursed energy is tight. Not enough to hurt, just enough to hold. Your back finds the edge of the long dining table all the same, breath caught as your knees brush carved wood. But Sukuna’s hands remain at his sides. He hasn’t touched you.

But his presence is everywhere.

You glare up at him, voice tight, “Coward. Can’t even touch me without your cursed tricks?”

That earns you a laugh. Low, rough and sharp-edged.

“You think I need to?” Sukuna steps closer, concentric eyes trained on the swan-arch of your neck, “This is still my form of mercy, wife.”

Sukuna lifts a single finger, just one. He runs a dark-tipped claw along the line of your throat. A gesture that could slice your carotid artery cleanly, should Sukuna become careless with the pressure he uses.

But there is no threat in his touch, and your knees buckle at the prospect of moving away.

“I can feel your heart,” Sukuna murmurs, and a snarl dies in your throat. Words meant to tear and strike, for Sukuna has no clue of what truly lies in your heart, for how can he know something he lacks? But it’s a weak retort, and you exhale as another hand rising to rest flat against your sternum, and Sukuna’s eyes narrow, “Here. Beating like a war drum.”

“I hate you,” you snap, voice finally battling it out of your throat.

Never let anyone say you aren’t consistent.

Sukuna smiles, slow. Wolfish, as he brings a third hand to tap at his temple, “Perhaps. Up there.”

But his mouth dips towards your cheek, and the heady scent of pepper and wood-smoke envelops your senses, as he continues, “But down here?”

The heat between your legs is heavy and throbbing, beading at the apex of your thighs.

You can feel it, and you know he does too.

Sukuna always knows.

The silence stretches, and it’s unbearable.

The King of Curses tilts his head, forked tongue flicking out, dragging up the side of your cheek in a long, filthy stripe. The gesture is warm, obscene.

You shudder, but it’s not revulsion that ripples through you. Just heavy, irrational arousal.

And then, so close to your ear that you can feel the air vibrate, “Did he taste you first?” Sukuna murmurs, “Before I killed him?”

Your stomach drops, and everything inside you goes still. Your hands coil up into dense fists, as you shove at his chest, with little avail.

“Fuck you! – ”

Sukuna catches your wrists before you can even land the second blow. Two of his strong, meaty hands pin your arms above your head. Cursed energy cinching around them like a velvet rope, as you sink your teeth into your bottom lip. Desperate for Sukuna to not hear a breathy sound escape your mouth, as you suddenly clench around nothing, and find yourself aching for some friction.

You’re spread against the wall now, held up as much by furious adrenaline, as by him. His knees part your thighs, but they don’t press. Not yet.

“Gojo Satoru,” Sukuna says, and the name falls quietly. Almost reverently, “Did he kiss this mouth?”

He brushes your glossy lips with his thumb. You resist the urge to sink your teeth into his hand.

“Did he fuck this cunt?”

Gojo hadn’t, despite what people assumed. He had been your friend, not your lover.

But Satoru had always wanted more, an eager, gentle and wide-eyed love that you should have given him.

And yet, here you were, pinned in the arms of the four-armed demon that brought him down. Wet and slick, pulsing and hungry for a monster’s touch.

Some little mercy.

Another hand hovers between your legs, a breath above the silk of your inner thighs. Not quite touching. Not yet.

Your jaw is locked, but your hips shift. Just once, bucking upwards for the smallest scrap of pleasure. Barely perceptible.

And he feels it. Of course he does.

“That is what I thought,” Sukuna mutters, “Think I am not finely attuned enough to every breath you take?”

His large, warm palm settles between your thighs. Not rough, nor forceful. Just there.

You flinch again, not from fear. From want. You want Sukuna to slowly drag the flesh of him palm further up, to brush up against where you ache for his touch the most.

“Think I do not hear how your body begs?”

You hate how true his words are. Your breath shudders when Sukuna leans in again, “Begging to be taken,” he whispers, “To be filled. To be ruined.”

A single flick of his callous thumb brushes silk, right over your swollen clit, pressing down.

You jolt, a sharp and involuntary sound leaving your throat. Half-started gasp, and half moan. That single huff of air hands in the space between you and your husband, and you’re not sure if it’s a trick of the low light, but the very tips of Sukuna’s ear glow a flushed and angry red.

“Say it again,” Sukuna whispers, and you’re taken aback at the sudden anger that tinges his voice, but it’s not directed at you. Anger at himself for becoming so affected by the merest taste of you, “Say that you hate me.”

You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood. But you don’t move.

Sukuna bites. Not deep, just enough.

Just enough to make you mewl, your spine arching off the wall as sharp teeth catch at your throat. Claiming, branding you as the wife of the King of Curses. The pain blooms for only a second before it melts into something darker, filthier.

You pant against his mouth, dizzy with the force of it. Some unreasonable part of you aches to push forward, to press your lips to his, to end this charade once and for all.

But Sukuna pulls back, and your arms fall limp as the cursed restraints vanish with a crimson whisper. You’re crumbling forward against the oak table once more, chest heaving and legs shaking. Your pulse beats furiously at your neck, just beneath the strategic imprint of his fangs.

The King of Curses watches you, with some undiscernible expression flickering across his face.

You certainly must appear dishevelled now, fine robes crumpled as you flush from cheek to chest. Lips parted, throat damp where his tongue and fangs left their mark.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you rasp, cursing the unsteady waver of your voice.

“Why not?”

Sukuna is already turning, always walking away, and you don’t miss the angry twitch in his broad shoulders, the red heat crawling over the nape of his neck. The door slides open with a hiss, as your husband looks over his shoulders, “I will return to the estate within three days.”

And then, Sukuna is gone.

Your puffy cunt throbs, miserable and neglected as you pinch your thighs together for some weeping friction.

You should have put that dining knife through his ribs when you had the chance.

You don't see Sukuna at meals. Nor in the halls. Not even in the cursed, rotting corners of the estate where his minions cling like ash in your lungs.

Ryomen Sukuna is gone, true to his word.

Off hunting, off killing, off doing whatever it is that makes him a happy, smug prick.

And it irks you to no end. Not just your moral dilemmas with Sukuna's hobbies, but the fact that you've been waiting. For his voice, for his touch, for the rasp of his breath against your throat.

Your fingers keep twitching with the phantom memory, of claws at your hips, of heat between your thighs, of your own body folding under him like it belonged there.

You hate how vividly you remember it. The last few nights you've spent, alone in your chambers, weren't spent sleeping at all. On your back, with your knees bent and parted, silks twisted around your thighs.

The touch of your own hand wasn't nearly as overwhelming or deep as you wished. You'd press your fingers in, curling them in search for some sweet spot and relief, but it was never the same.

The ache didn't go away. It only bloomed, dark and awful, curling in your gut like hunger. For Sukuna.

On the third night, the sunset drips molten red through paper walls. The light begins to cut your pacing shadow in half as you mutter ill, seething omens into the air. You tell yourself it's not about the King of Curses, that he hasn't gotten under your skin that badly.

It's the confinement, right? The stillness, the —

Snap!

A voice, all teeth and thunder, curls through the room, and if you didn't know better, you would have caught the faint surprise beneath the bored drawl, "My wife is still here, it seems."

You whirl, fury burning across your face. Fury, yes, for how dare he leaves you wanting and aching for a touch that should not be yours to claim.

But Sukuna is already pressing his mouth to yours.

There's no warning nor hesitation, just sheer collision. Sukuna's mouth crashes into yours like a war cry, two hands already in your hair, and another two settling at your waist. The force of him has you stumbling back, but Sukuna follows, devours, consumes.

It's not gentle, and it's certainly not kind. It's all him, brutal and overwhelming, tasting you like you're already his in every way imaginable.

You gasp into the kiss, but your hands are already clawing up his frame to rest in his blush-pink hair before you can think better of it. Yanking and clawing, your teeth clinking against his.

You can feel Sukuna's mouth against yours, curling into a half-sneer, and half-satisfied smile as you moan, nails sinking into the inked planes of his back, right as he begins to push you towards the floor.

"You missed me," Sukuna breathes against your lips, dragging his forked, split tongue over your bottom lip before biting, hard enough to make you squeal, "Say it."

"No."

"We will see."

Sukuna takes you to the polished floor, rough palms skimming up your thighs, making space for you scramble at the knot of your robes. But his patience seems to grow thin, and quite soon, dark claws are curling into the fine fabric, tearing clean through silk.

You're bare beneath him. Bare, and furious, and soaked.

Sukuna's mouth is everywhere. Searing heat down your jaw, your throat, between the valley of your breasts. Leaving bruising, blooming marks that make you stifle sharp gasps.

He laves his tongue over one pebbled nipple, and rolls it between his teeth, while a massive, calloused hand pins your wrists above your head.

Your hips buck up, needy and shameless, as you blindly grasp for the waistband on his loose, martial pants. There's a thick, curved jostle against your thigh already.

No, there's two.

You can feel them, one thick and low, pressing right where you need it. And the other cock dragging higher, riding the curve of your abdomen as Sukuna ruts against you, clearly chasing pleasure of his own, a cherry-red hue painted high across his furious scowl.

"I can't – I can't b-believe you."

"Oh, so you would wish for me to stop?"

Your legs are spread beneath him, thighs splayed wide as your weeping folds swell and throb, pearly drops of your arousal already feeling unbearably hot against the cool, evening air.

And you glare at your husband, cheeks flushed with the prospect of the ridiculous motion, "I didn't say that."

You catch a rough, half-coughed snicker from the King of Curses who shifts his weight, and with little forewarning, shoves the lower of his cocks right between your folds, sliding along the wet slit, hot and heavy.

You need not even glance down to comprehend the sheer size of him, the thick bulge that snags against your entrance.

You're keening as the wispy, heated head bumps into your glistening clit, then lower, as Sukuna drags his cock against your entrance, but not quite pressing in yet.

"You're already dripping for me," Sukuna hisses, watching the hypnotic slide of his cock being enveloped by your heaven-sent pussy, "Fuckin' perfect. You want it? Take it."

And you do, for you roll your needy hips, desperate, catching the head of his cock once more, right at your entrance.

"Beg."

You growl, wiggling your hips further down to try and ease at least one cock in, "Go to hell."

Sukuna's responding look is flat, exasperated even, as all four hands are grabbing your thighs, spreading them wide, holding you open for him like a feast, "I will take you there."

Nothing could have prepared you for the jaw-dropping stretch, the snug inches that are melded by your gummy walls.

You cry out, spine bowing off the floor, eyes rolling. Sukuna's huge, stretching you, splitting you open like you were made for him.

The second cock, thankfully, does not slip further, but instead, drags against your belly as he begins to set a steady pace within you, the obscene friction adding a devastating pressure just under your skin.

You can't breathe. Can't think. Can only feel.

Sukuna moves with mean intent, driving into you with maddening rhythm, hips crashing against yours. Your back arches, hands scrambling for purchase on his biceps, his shoulders, the floor, anything.

"You should see yourself," Sukuna snarls, fangs glinting in the low light. "Mouth open, legs shaking. Grindin' on my cock like a bitch in heat."

You moan, head falling back, body clenching around him. He feels it, groaning, dark and low, and shifting his angle just slightly. Thick head finding that rough, sweet patch that makes you whine.

Kissing that spot deliciously with every sticky thrust and smack of his hips against yours.

"F-fuck, S'kuna— !"

"That's it." He leans in, sweat beading on his brow, and it brings you decent satisfication to know that he looks just as ruined as you feel. Maroon eyes hazy, lips glossy and flushed, and pulled back into a handsome snarl, "You can get louder. Let her talk."

Sukuna's second cock is leaking translucent, creamy pre against your stomach now, the obscene slide of it adding to the slick mess between you.

He presses his broad chest down, grinding the upper cock against your skin while the lower one ruins you, thrust after thrust dragging you closer to the edge.

You're trembling, gasping, sweating. And you want to hate him. You do, right? Heady and cloying arousal floods your senses in quick, lightning-style jolts that claw at any rational thoughts peeking in at the edges.

Sukuna feels you clench again, and his brutal pace falters, just for a moment.

There's stringy strands of slick being pulled between your thighs and his hips, all while Sukuna grunts, brows furrowed, "So soon, wife?"

"F-fuck you."

Sukuna snickers, mouthing at the juncture between your throat and jaw, "You are."

Your climax tears through you like fire, sharp, bright, overwhelming. Your back bows. Your throat rips open on a cry as you clamp down around him, spasming, sobbing, soaking his cock with your release.

And Sukuna doesn't stop. He fucks you through it, chasing his own end, voice ragged as he growls, "Gonna' take all of it? Every, last – fuck."

He slams in once more, deep and brutal. You feel it, everything. His cock throbbing inside you. The flood of warmth that fills you.

His second cock pulsing against your skin as he finishes, both of you trembling, writhing, lost.

Silence.

Heavy, sweat-slicked, tangled. He collapses over you, caging you with his body, still buried deep. And you're suddenly struck by the oddest comparison of your husband and a large, forest bear.

You're blinking up at the ceiling, chest heaving, and your legs still shaking. Your thighs sticky and spread, with drops of thick, opaque seed leakin' right out of your clenching cunt, smeared equally over Sukuna's abdomen.

You pretend not to notice that dastardly second mouth of his doing a right, determined job of cleaning the taste of both of you up.

"So," Sukuna rumbles, voice hoarse and smug, "Think you can take both?"

You let out a breathless laugh, eyelids heavy as you meet his challenging gaze. "What? You think I can't?"

His clever mouth twitches. One dark brow arches in challenge.

"Get on your back, husband."

And he does.

Wordlessly. Fluidly. Like he's been waiting for the command, and is still indulging you. You climb over him, the last of your strength curling into something sharp and hungry as your knees settle against the floor.

His hands find your waist. One of them slides up, slow, warm, steady, palm flattening over your stomach. The claws are gone. Blunted. Gentle.

Neither of you says a word about it.

[inumbrapugnabimus-maybe]

Four’s colors: standing there awkwardly

Legend: having a flashback to that one time he killed four colorful and identical dark links in the literal Palace of the Four Sword

Thanks for the request anon!

[leo-artista]

Stan wakes up, his head throbbing and his whole body aching, to find himself laying on a bed. A very comfortable bed.

Which is weird, since the last thing he remembers is passing out from the heat inside the trunk he was shoved into.

Groggily, and a bit nauseous, he pushes himself to his elbows and looks around. Then, he notices there are damp towels on top of his arms, torso, neck and forehead. Okay, that's even more weird.

He finds a cup of water on top of the drawer next to the bed, which also has a piece of paper with something written in it. Curious, he grabs the note and brings it closer to his face so he can read it.

He immediately recognizes the impeccable cursive handwriting.

"Stan, if you're reading this, it means I have gone out to buy some groceries. I left a cup of water for you to drink, and if you're feeling better you can help yourself to anything from the kitchen. I only ask that you try to keep yourself hydrated. And maybe take a shower, if you're feeling up to it. I'll be back soon

- Ford"

[fangirlsurpreme]

Do you guys ever think,

when Percy dies, Grover will die at the same time. But unlike the others, they'll never be reunited in Elysium because Grover's a satyr who never get into Elysium, they turn into a tree.

And, if Annabeth is outlives Percy, she won't just grieve the love of her life but one of her best friends as well, one of the first people who believed in her, outside of luke and thalia.

One more thing, When Percy dies at least Annabeth will know she gets to see him again in Elysium but she'll also have to live with the knowledge that she'll never see Grover again even in death.

And if you don't want to think abt this, then:

Then don't think about her throwing away the collection of tin cans she and Percy probably kept for Grover.

Don't think about her using something from a tin can and thinking "I'll save this for Grover" and then realizing she'll never get to give it to him.

Don't think about her never being able to eat blue food or enchiladas again.

Don't think about her and Juniper holding each other and crying.

Don't think about Juniper momentarily hating Annabeth for getting to see her husband after she dies before forgetting all about her anger because they both lost their loves, damn it!

Don't think about Annabeth "Always Six Foot Ahead" Chase knowing death is approaching and making a list of what she wants to be burnt with so that she can give them to everyone who she has ever cared about. Adding "Tin Cans and Enchiladas" in the list before breaking down again.

Don't think abt Percy reaching Elysium, being greeted by all of his friends, looking around for grover before registering why he wasn't there.

Don't think about him mourning his best friend, his brother even when in Eternal Paradise.

Don't think about it.

[ladyofrosefire]

Until pretty recently, I had never read fic for a fandom I had never dipped into. It got me thinking about why people read fics for stories they've never followed. Sooo...

*not even 1 episode. None of the book. No more than the movie's trailer. etc.

[paxbe]

if we ignore the fact that this doesn't fit with canon at all, i like to imagine a scenario where eddie somehow doesn't know who steve ‘the hair’ harrington is and, through a series of mix-ups, accidentally makes everyone think he has a huge crush on keith from the video store

like imagine a scenario where eddie is still friends with the kids and he's also friends with robin, so he's heard plenty about their friend steve and he just happens to have never met him or even seen him ever. like he's heard the kids gush about steve (leaving out the killing monsters part because that's classified) and robin mentions like ‘yeah i know steve! i work with him at the video store, you've probably seen him when you've swung by’. but somehow eddie has only come by when keith is working and he thinks ‘yeah sure, that looks like a guy the kids would be hanging out with’ and files that assumption away and doesn't question it.

and maybe they've even talked on the phone like eddie calls robin at the store or at home and she's like ‘yeah i’m just here with steve’ (as usual) and they chat about the kids and whatever and so eddie feels like he's got a pretty solid idea in his mind of this guy “steve” that his friends seem to like so much, and he seems like a nice enough guy even if they don't really have anything in common.

and yeah maybe he does think some of the comments that robin or the kids make are a bit weird, like when he thinks about “steve” (keith) he's a bit surprised that this guy apparently gets so much attention from the ladies, and eddie doesn't think his hair is anything particularly special. but eddie's not the most conventional looking guy either so who is he to judge! and he appreciates that robin offered to help set them up one time but “steve” just isn't his type (and she knows his type well enough so he doesn't know why she's so surprised). but still, there's no reason for eddie to think that he might be picturing an entirely different guy.

and then one day he walks past the video store and steve is working and eddie's like, mouth open ‘hang on who is this??’ and steve makes eye contact with him through the window and smiles or even waves because that's eddie, he knows eddie, they're kind of friends almost. and eddie just panics and books it out of there.

and like a week later he's still not over it and he calls robin (and of course steve is also there) and it's like

eddie: ‘hey who's that other guy you work with at the video store??’

robin and steve: ‘who, keith? yeah he's the guy who hired us, he's alright, we're not that close though’

and eddie's scandalised like: ‘how could you go on and on about steve (no offense steve) and somehow neglect to mention you work with maybe the most beautiful man in the world??’

and steve and robin are like: ‘keith????’

[keypostos]

unestablished relationship. 1.9k words. candid photos and confessions (but not the kind you thiiiiiink).

caleb who always looks back at you first.

caleb, who doesn't hesitate to glance back at you not once, but twice.

caleb, who made sure to always look back for you when you were kids. he swore to himself that he'd never let you out of his sight: a promise he wanted to keep forever. if you strayed too far away, he'd grab your hand and lead you back to him, where you belonged.

even as teenagers, caleb would not stop looking out for you. no matter how many times you've complained (you entered that stage where you've found new friends), caleb lingers, watching over you like he always has.

he grabs onto your backpack when you almost walk into a pole, steering you clear from a nasty bruise. he intimidates those assholes that try to hit on you with his presence. he looks back to see if you've strayed away farther than before.

and as adults, he's still scrutinizing you. you tell him that you're a deepspace hunter now and you don't need monitoring. caleb responds with something teasing like, "oh really? pipsqueak can take care of her own now? does that mean she can reach the tall cabinets too?"

he looks back first before entering gran's house. after your small argument, his eyes flicker to your face; you have this annoyed look, one where your eyebrows are furrowed and your lips are slightly pouted. and how could he stay mad at that?

you're not making eye contact with him, and it makes caleb want to say something to make you look up. he wants you to look.

he feels like a kid again.

he faces the door, but turns back to glance at you one last time. his lips curl up in a tiny smirk—you look back up at him. he opens the door first and the world goes dark.

old habits seem to die hard for caleb. because now—even though you're just lounging in your apartment—he still can't seem to take his eyes off of you.

it's been like this the whole day. you've been back in his life for a while now (it's been a few months, but for caleb, it's like you've been here forever), and he still can't seem to stop looking at you.

at the grocery store today, he kept looking back at you while you were throwing items into the shopping cart. as kids, you'd stand on the bottom part of the cart, nearly tipping over sometimes when you pushed yourself off the ground like the cart was a skateboard.

while walking through linkon's crowded shopping district, caleb made sure to never let go of your hand. part of it was because he didn't want to lose you in the crowd, and another part was because he wanted to keep holding your hand. but you didn't need to know that last part.

and presently, he's looking back at you while cooking dinner. every once in a while (every few seconds), he looks up from his post in the kitchen to find you shifting positions on the couch. you're on your stomach, then your back, and then your side. you had a book in your hand, then your phone, then the tv remote.

he shakes his head and lets out a small chuckle. he hopes you hear him, just so you can come up to him and bother him like before. you two still tease each other, but it's not the same.

he focuses on stirring the pot for a little while and then looks back over to you. but instead of finding you in another position on the couch, you're upright with alert, wide eyes. directed right at him. staring at him.

the moment he catches you, your eyes immediately flee to another surface. he notices as your head shifts from the coffee table to the tv to caleb's jacket on the coat hanger.

caleb's face pulls back; he's left puzzled. it was so obvious that you were boring holes into the back of his head, so why were you trying to hide it?

caleb takes this as the perfect opportunity to get you riled up, "what're you doing...?"

your eyes reach his for only a second before they shift away. caleb feels something strike his chest. "nothing. just laying around," you respond as nonchalantly as you can, as if you weren't just ogling him a few seconds before, "bored as hell, might i add."

"really?" caleb challenges you, "did you like what you see at least?"

you jolt up from the couch, "huh?!"

"i could see you staring at me, y'know," caleb teases.

"i was not staring at you."

"i'm pretty sure that if i search up the definition of staring, what you just did would pop up."

"oh really," you pad over to the kitchen. caleb turns around and tries to hide his smirk. even after all these years, he still riles you up so easily. "search it up."

caleb sucks a breath in through his teeth, "sorry pipsqueak, i'm kind of busy over here," he says, gesturing to the food on the stove. "but if you'd like to help, feel free."

you roll your eyes, "yeah, i'll help. let me just search up the definition of staring for you." you plop yourself onto the kitchen island across from him, carelessly tapping on your phone while caleb cooks.

chaos has been thrashing itself onto caleb like waves in this past year. but seeing you on the kitchen island—swinging your legs back and forth while bothering him—brings him the most peace in the world.

he turns around and turns the stove off before making his way over to you. he walks over and cages your thighs between his hands, making you jerk your head up from your phone to meet his eyes.

in a flash, you try to turn your phone off, but caleb catches a glance of what's on there.

it's a picture of him, just now, cooking in your kitchen.

for a moment, caleb has nothing to say. he just stares at himself—his backside—in your camera roll.

while caleb's practically dumbstruck, you turn off your phone and place it on the counter. caleb's gaze follows your hand, then trails around your face.

he glances at your lips once, and you bite at your bottom lip in response. he gulps, looks away, and shakes his head as if he was snapping out of a spell.

clearer, more logical caleb speaks, "why'd you take a picture of me? i'm right here, y'know."

you swallow, "it's a candid. super popular now."

"mhm," caleb hums. "this the first of many?"

"no," you shake your head, lowering your eyes to your lap, "i've got plenty. i've got blackmail photos to actual good photos."

"cute," caleb smiles. you can hear how his voice lifts when he speaks and it makes you blush. "but if you ever need me, i'm right here."

this makes you look up. "always?"

"of course," he grabs your hands that lay in your lap, "you know that. i'm never that far away."

but you pull away from him, curling your knees up and resting your head on them. caleb immediately follows your body, just like all those years ago.

your arms rest on top of your knees, covering your face when you sigh. caleb takes his big hands and rests them on the side of your torso, rubbing up and down.

"hey," he coaxes, "look at me. please?"

when you don't budge, his hands travel under your arms to your face. "what's wrong? talk to me, baby."

the childhood nickname makes you laugh, and caleb can feel the reverberations through your face as he cups it. he strokes up and down your cheekbone, prodding at you to look up at him.

look back, he silently pleads, please look back at me.

after letting out another long sigh, you finally cave, "i'm scared that you won't be around for me. that something's going to pull you away. and no matter how hard i cling onto you, that other thing will get the best of me."

"nothing like that will ever happen," caleb quickly reassures you, "why are you thinking about that?"

you place your smaller hands over his bigger ones, and caleb feels his heart swell. he bites down on his tongue to resist the urge to climb on you right now.

"i dunno," you laugh, though you sound more pathetic than cheerful, "i miss you. that's why."

"i want you around me constantly," you continue, "but i just feel like—with everything going on—you'll eventually forget about me," you swallow, take a deep breath, "i don't want you to forget me."

when you finally look back up at caleb, your eyes are wide and glassy. he strokes your face once more and you instantly lean into his touch. you press your face against his calloused hand without thinking about it. his hand could be hard as rocks for all you care. he uses his thumb to brush over your eyebrow, stray hairs, and eyelid; he melts at the sight of you like this.

"how could i ever forget you?" caleb voices. his tone is so soft, so gentle. the way he said it reminds you of someone who was asked to solve an impossible math equation. it was impossible for caleb to leave you.

you shake your head, rubbing your cheek against caleb's palm, "you have other things to prioritize. you have all these enemies. all these people to keep up with," you close your eyes and take a long inhale, "i can be needy sometimes, i know that. you won't have time for this."

"hey," he slightly tilts your head up, "look at me," he punctuates every word like a command, and you follow it diligently. you'd follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked.

"first, you're not 'too needy', or anything like that, to me. second," caleb pauses, taking time to trace the shape of your cheekbone with his thumb, admiring you, "i will. i'll always have time for you. call me, and i'll be there. yell for me, and i'll hear you. run to me, and i'll always catch you. and look at me, because i'll always be looking back at you first."

and it's true. how could it not be? you're the first thought on his mind, always. how are you doing? are you safe? are you cold? do you miss him? do you miss him like he misses you—so sullenly and almost lamentful? do you wake up and wish he was in bed next to you?

you shakily exhale, taking slow breaths in and out. you rest your forehead against caleb's while trying your best to synchronize your breathing. caleb follows you easily, still holding on to your face.

you remove his hand from your face and instead interlock his fingers with yours. you grab his hand, putting it in front of your lips. your lips press onto his knuckles and you feel him squeeze your hand just a bit harder.

"promise me," you whisper, "tell me it's true."

caleb presses his forehead harder against yours. the air coming from his nose tickles your face.

"i promise. i'll always promise."

when you look up to meet caleb's eyes, he's already looking at you first.

not my best work but like i had to get this out. lol sorry.

[lichqueenlibrarian]

Prince Spock and Ensign James T Kirk from Silent Star by @jennelikejennay

[clockworkzoro]

there is not enough zoro angst in my opinion. I need zoro on the ground crying and sobbing. I need his entire world falling down around him. I need his nakama there picking up the pieces and comforting him. I need that man BROKEN

[satisfactuality]

"oh adaine would be the last of the bad kids to forgive the rat grinders" "adaine would hold a grudge against oisin" "this is why adaine would never help redeem the rat grinders"

all of these ignore the infinitely funnier option that adaine immediately forgives them for everything and just hates them unrelated to their plot to end the world

[a-jasminator]

When your best mate is about to go full vengeful and there's only one way to shock him back to his senses...

Companion piece to my fic Spectral Rage!

[secretagentspydetectiveninja]

posting this with absolutely no context

[tragedy-machine]

Listen, listen, listen, imagine Charles making a grand romantic gesture to confess to Edwin, he makes it really special, VERY obviously romantic

They're talking, they're bantering, and eventually, Charles sees his chance and tells Edwin, "I love you"

Edwin blushes and naturally says it back

And Charles is super happy, like "Yes! I finally did it, we're finally dating!" ...meanwhile, Edwin did not get that it was a date and a romantic confession

So we see them go about their days and solve cases while Charles thinks they're together and assumes Edwin is too shy to kiss him, but he's waiting for an opportunity to do it one day because he really wants to, but he can be patient for Edwin

And Edwin is just like, "Charles’s been more affectionate with his touch recently, I don't know what that's about, but it's nice"

[iratempestatis]

Xiao trying to flirt w an oblivious reader would be maddening. It'd be so fun to write oh my god. He's so dumb. They're so dumb. He doesn't know how to flirt. It doesn't occur to them they're getting flirted with by an immortal evil slaying bird man thing. He's trying his best. They are NOT doing ANYTHING but being VERY STUPID