♡ TW: Nsfw, Noncon, Incest, Abuse Of Power, Sex-slave Reader, Gangbang

Treasure 13 Reactions, Imagines, Scenarios and MTLs!

My requests are always open to anyone and everyone! I also do ex-trainees and current trainees!

Please send any requests I’m bored

Fracture

i apologise in advance.

Miya Osamu x female reader

TW non-con, dub-con, psuedo-infidelity, referenced character death, angst, drunk reader, gaslighting, age gap, the slightest hint of nsfw

‘Yer still coming home for summer, right?’

How many weeks had your sister spent lovingly bullying you into coming down? How many hours had you spent listening to her gush over the phone about how excited she was?

And until about three months ago, you’d been excited too. 

Despite the ten or so years between the two of you, there was nobody on earth you loved more than your sister. When you were sixteen years old and your parents passed away in a car accident, she was the one who stepped up to take care of you, putting a roof over your head, making sure you ate, slept and kept up your grades, balancing two jobs to do it. 

And she grumbled and you fought, but she’s the only reason you managed to keep it all together enough to graduate high school, and when it came time for you to leave home for university, she was the one blinking back tears and loudly complaining about you ‘abandoning your poor older sister in her time of need’.

As if she hadn’t sat with you for hours, pouring over your options and gently nudging you in the direction of Tokyo. 

“It’s just a few hours away,” you’d told her. “I’ll come back and visit you all the time.”

There was truth to that. The first six months of uni, you came home every other weekend arms full of expensive textbooks and mountains of assignments to write, but then she met Osamu.

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Chains and Flesh

part 2 of the slasher!Franklin story

Part 1

🎃Happy Halloween🎃

Warnings: fem!reader, captivity, graphic depictions of violence, gore, death, smut, dubcon, spanking

Word count: 7.7k

How long you were kept down there you weren’t sure. Your days started when you woke up and then ended when you fell into a fitful, uncomfortable sleep.

You were kept chained up like an animal at all times, and while the chain’s moderate length meant you could get up and walk around a little, it became harder to do that as time passed, as your only form of nourishment were the bottles of water Franklin left for you. So while you remained alive, you were becoming weaker by the day, which forced you to stop moving around so much so you could conserve energy.

You sat chained up to that table near the door, slowly withering away while you waited for him to carry out whatever it was he’d planned for you.

But whenever Franklin would come in to continue his sick work, more often than not he didn’t acknowledge you.

He’d walk by you, sometimes carrying a body that he’d hang on a newly emptied meat hook, other times leaving with the pieces he’d cut from one of the bodies within the room. You didn’t know what he was doing with them. For your sake it was better not to know so you wouldn’t need to speculate on what he’d do to your remains when you were dead. You didn’t want to die knowing he’d turn your skin into a lampshade or eat the meat from your legs or anything like that.

Franklin was keeping quiet about it, and you’d rather it stay that way.

At one point you’d seen him walk by the open door carrying a spike strip like the one you’d run over, and only then did you realize that he was the one who had set that on the road, leaving out a trap to force you to go to him for help. You wondered how often that ploy worked.

Still, nothing else had really happened to you.

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Price is literally so gross. silver fox seeking a pretty young thing after a divorce to the MAX. his ex wife comes over to drop off their son but you open the door instead, cotton-plated in one of his shirts and hair damp from your recent shower. Price takes over and you can hear his wife’s voice from the foyer—“how old is she? she barely looks an undergraduate, John” and he acts sheepish but Lord knows he doesn’t care. Ou.

The Calm // yandere Present Mic x f! Reader

the next part of my poly erasermic series, taking place directly after this! this one is mostly about Present Mic and Reader’s relationship and how she’s starting to adjust to her new life! everything is still poly, but since this is mostly Mic, I didn’t tag it as EraserMic in the title

warnings for reader being touch-starved (again), some angst, alcohol, drunk sex/dubcon, cunnilingus, dirty talk, stockholm syndrome? recreational drug mention/referenced use

this is literally 10k words so like buckle yourselves in for a loooong read of poorly constructed convoluted lemon goodness

——————————————

The sun is coming up as the Hero known as Present Mic is finally done with his radio show, checking the time on his phone as the man heads to his car. He hadn’t gotten any messages from Shouta or his other precious beloved, and it made him a bit curious, to say the least. An update on the wounded Pro’s condition was something he had been expecting, yet even as he texted his husband, he didn’t get a reply. Since he and his partner carpooled to their teaching jobs together, however, Hizashi needed to stop by home anyways, so he supposed that he could just see the two of them when he got there.

Yamada quietly lets himself in since it was still early in the morning, and is instantly greeted by the most adorable of sights. His lovers were asleep on the living room couch together, Shouta snoring softly as you seemed to be cuddled up into the man’s chest with his arms around you. The emcee’s phone is out in an instant as he takes too many pictures to count, wanting to capture every angle and every detail of the heartwarming and rare scene. Fuck, he wished so badly that he didn’t have to ruin such an adorable moment, but the two Heroes had to get ready for work, and with a heavy reluctance, Hizashi speaks up.

“Shou,” The blonde whispers softly, reaching out to gently shake the dark-haired man’s shoulder to rouse him from slumber. “Shouta, wake up, we gotta get ready.”

A groan escapes the Erasure Hero as his eyes lazily drift open, a tired yawn escaping his mouth as he takes in his surroundings: the rising sun, his awaiting husband, and the too-cute little darling fast asleep on his chest. “Do I… have to get up?” Aizawa jokingly asks as he revels in feeling you rest against him, and that all-too-close voice seems to cause you to stir slightly, a grunt leaving you as, in your unconscious state, you cling onto him a little tighter.

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Yandere! Sanemi Shinazugawa NSFW Profile

Yandere! Sanemi Shinazugawa x fem! reader

Tw: stalking, kidnapping, mentions of non-con and dub-con, public masturbation, voyeurism/non-consensual voyeurism, exhibitionism, spitting (m and f receiving), dick slapping, cumplay, possessiveness, mild gore, mentions of death, Stockholm Syndrome/reader is implied to start liking him, Sanemi is kind of a hot mess approaching sex so hopefully that has been conveyed, I hc hard that Sanemi is a virgin so don't bother fighting me on it, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 15K

HABITS:

Intimacy is very much not something that Sanemi is familiar with. He’s never even considered taking a partner, staunchly ignoring his fellow Hashira’s taunts (almost exclusively from Tengen and the odd, poorly-timed comment from Giyuu) about how he’d just ‘calm down’ a bit if he had a pretty woman to relieve his stress onto.

And while he’s mature enough to admit there’s probably some truth to that, he’s still rejecting the very few advances that come his way. He’s not only entirely uninterested in dealing with the intricacies and expectations of a relationship, but he’s also convinced that due to his traumatic past and the way he deals he interacts with those he loves, he’s unfit to be a partner.

He doesn’t think he has the capability to properly commit himself to someone, to become emotionally dependent on them – and frankly he doesn’t want them to become emotionally attached to him, either. It’s just too risky considering his job and his habits in battle – every night is a question of survival, missions leaving him so bloody and battered that it’s a miracle he pulls through, a miracle that Shinobu doesn’t just kill him herself with how often he winds up in her infirmary.

It’s just wildly unpractical – and it’s not like he chooses to become so horribly, deeply obsessed with you. He’s angry in the beginning, genuinely trying to hate you and distance himself from you in every possible way, but you’re like some irritating, persistent bug that manages to crawl back to him every time he thinks he’s shaken you off.

(A mindset that makes him feel incredibly guilty later on, ashamed of himself for having thought of you in such a derogatory, rude way. This is particularly true because now he’d be absolutely devastated if you were to leave his life, panic and terror engulfing him because no no no you’re not allowed to leave him.)

But once the feelings have been cemented and Sanemi finally, finally accepts that he can do nothing to change him, that outlook on intimacy being unavailable begins to change. Of course, he’s not immediately grabbing and groping at you, nor is he fantasizing about the way you’d look underneath him whimpering and writhing as he fucks into you.

(Wet dreams aside, of course. He doesn’t often wake up to messy, sticky sheets, but the shame that swallows him when he does is so palpable that even his fellow Hashira notice. Rengoku will ask in a much-too-loud voice if he’d slept well, if he’s okay, why there’s still a slight flush on his face, leaving Sanemi to only snap at him and storm out of whatever area they’re in.)

No, his fantasies are genuinely more innocent in the beginning – virginal, really, with the way he blushes a light pink at the thought of wrapping you in his arms, the simple idea of hugging you being enough to get him covering his mouth with his palm, too flustered to function. The mere concept of you pressing a kiss to his cheek – not even his fucking lips – gets him feeling hot under the collar, body too warm for him to sit still, needing to blow off the steam and refocus himself before he embarrasses himself in front of you.

It makes him feel weak, really, how these simplistic, easy forms of intimacy and affection are able to affect him in such a profound way, and as time passes it’s really only natural for his imagination to start turning lewder. It’s not something that he thinks of on his own necessarily, if only because there’s a large mental block there where he tries to separate the thought of you from anything he deems disrespectful or dirty.

He tells himself that you’re pretty, not sexy. (But oh god does he think you’re sexy, everything from your voice to your hair to your skin making him drool like some sort of perverted old man, blood rushing between his legs when he sees you bite your lip or flick your hair, having to quickly excuse himself for fear that you’ll see the way his pants are growing sinfully tight.)

You’re sweet, not naughty. (But oh, Sanemi wouldn’t mind if you were a bit bratty in bed, if you had a rebellious streak to you and made him work for it, made him put in every ounce of effort just to get you creaming on his fingers or tugging on his hair or letting him spill every last drop of cum he has to give you inside that tight little cunt of yours.)

It’s a strict boundary for him, but all it takes is a single seed to be planted that ultimately breaks his moral high ground. Perhaps it’s Rengoku noticing off-hand that Sanemi seems to be a bit quieter these days, the former laughing loudly and congratulating Sanemi on finding that beautiful woman Tengen was talking about – tell me, does she satisfy you in all the ways you require? It makes Sanemi sputter and cough slightly, shocked at both Rengoku’s observational accuracy and the insinuation of you pleasuring him.

(And also seething in jealousy because how the fuck does Rengoku know about you? Has he met you? Has he fucked you? Is that why he’s thinking about you in a sexual manner?)

He tries to stop it, but it’s too late – there’s a quick, shockingly explicit image of you on your back, knees folded up to your chin and Sanemi’s cock stretching you so widely that you’re crying, nails scraping down his back and moans of yes yes please more ‘Nemi please falling past your lips.

He’s ashamed of himself, training until he nearly blacks out from the exhaustion, Iguro shocked and mildly concerned at just how hard and raggedly he’s pushing himself.

(And, out of respect for the unspoken friendship between them, he ignores the way Sanemi’s been sporting a raging hard-on for the duration of their some three-hour sparring session, cock swollen and not settling down for even an instant. Frankly, he’s amazed Sanemi could fight as well as he did considering his situation.)

It’s shameful, Sanemi thinks, and it leaves him utterly mortified that he's letting his more primal thoughts win, but once the door opens he can’t quite shut it. He still tries – pushing idle thoughts of you on your knees for him out of his mind, cursing under his breath as he follows a few feet behind you, acting as your shadow and trying so, so very desperately to not notice the way your kimono is spread tightly across your ass. It’s commendable, really, just how long he manages to keep himself accountable, but it becomes more difficult the more time he spends watching you, seeing aspects of you that are really much more personal than he has a right to know.

And the final straw comes one sunny afternoon, when you’re walking with him down the rather crowded street of your town. He’s accompanying you because ‘it’s too crowded for you to be out alone’, as he’d told you, and he’s staying close to your side, careful not to touch you but always in your peripheral.

And really, maybe he’d had a point – because all it takes is a single shove from a woman next to you, and suddenly you’re falling forward, arms automatically reaching out to steady yourself but instead slamming into Sanemi’s chest, his noise of shock and the feeling of your thumbs touching his bare skin distracting him enough to leave the two of you tumbling the to the ground.

And of course you land on top of him – directly on top of him, with your kimono slightly askew and your clothed breasts pressed up against the expanse of his exposed chest, able to feel the fullness and softness of them. Your breath’s fanning against his neck as you blink and mutter a quick apology, your ascent ungraceful as you accidentally grind your thigh against his crotch, a small, nearly mute groan falling from his lips at the action.

He’s dazed, cheeks flushing a warm pink color and his eyes wide as they stare at you, even as you stand up and try to help him up. But he just can’t move – the feeling of your skin and body against his is too fresh in his mind, imprinted and replaying over and over as he closes his eyes.

And even the feeling of your hands grasping onto his as you try to lift him to his feet is sending him dangerously close to the edge, already feeling himself growing hard and his breathing getting labored.

He doesn’t say a word of it to you, only grunting at your frenzied apologies, not trusting his voice because he’s sure if he tried all he’d manage to push out would be a weak moan of your name. He takes you back to your home immediately, dropping you off in an uncharacteristically abrupt manner, only stopping to make sure you make it past your front door before he’s practically sprinting off, only able to heave in the deep breaths once he’s a good mile or so away from your home.

It’s only then that he finally lets go of the desperate, difficult breathing techniques he had to employ to keep a check on his cock, stopping himself from getting fully hard and only making the smallest of tents in his pants so as to not catch your attention. But as he heaves, wild eyes staring up at the sky, he’s clutching onto the fabric of his haori, knees slightly weak as he stumbles into the surrounding forest.

He’s in an empty area, and as he ventures deeper into the trees and shrubbery, he finds himself leaning against a nearby trunk. Fuck fuck fuck, all he can think about is the way your body was so warm and how you fit perfectly against him, as if your body was molded to fit his. It’s driving him crazy – everything feels too hot, sweat beading at his temple and his palms clammy. He tries to regain his breathing but it’s still coming out ragged, winded and sloppy, his cock so hard that it hurts, mind swirling with thoughts of you and only you.

And even after ten minutes of trying to calm down, Sanemi eventually curses, eyes squeezed shut and palm slapping the trunk of the tree as he realizes that the only way to get his body under his control again is to deal with the problem. It’s embarrassing, more than anything, and he quickly glances around the thickly forested alcove he’s found himself in, the daylight trickling in through the gaps in the trees and illuminating his chest.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Sanemi undoes his belt, the metal sounding loud in the quiet of the forest but slightly muffled by his breathing. It makes him bite his lip, flushing an ever deeper red color, but he shimmies his uniform pants down slightly, just enough to rest under the curve of his balls, staring with pinched brows at the way his cock is absolutely red – it’s swollen, almost visibly pulsing, so heavy that it only stands at a measly ninety degrees.

After a moment of contemplation Sanemi almost, almost tucks himself back into his pants, the guilt at masturbating to you nearly overwhelming, but then he’s hearing your voice in his head, ringing through and saying Sanemi thank you for catching my fall, Sanemi Sanemi Sanemi…

He’s spitting into his palm before he can stop himself, fingers wrapping deftly around his base and immediately flicking up and down, a mixture of a groan and a sigh of relief slipping from him as he finally, finally gets stimulation. His eyes close and he rests his arm against the tree over his head, leaning his forehead against his forearm.

He’s immediately imagining you – the feeling of your chest pressing against his, and images of times he’s accidentally seen you nude while peeking in through your windows crossing his mind. (And truly, they had been accidental – he’d looked away as soon as he regained his senses, blushing bright and running a hand through his hair, waiting for a good twenty minutes to ensure you were properly clothed before he chanced another glance.)

They’re so fucking perfect – he’s never felt a pair of breasts in his life but he’s sure yours are unbearably soft, that they’d be dense and squishy and perfect to squeeze and paw at. He’s biting his lip as he remembers the way your nipples look, licking his lips and even puckering them slightly as he imagines sucking at them, wondering with a particularly harsh tug of his cock whether you’d keen and sigh and moan.

His fist gets tighter as he thinks of the way your knee had brushed against him, balls clenching a bit at the idea that you’ve touched his cock, even accidentally and through multiple layers of clothing. He can’t help but imagine your hands wrapped around himself, fingers daintier and prettier than his own calloused, scarred ones, and his eyes peel open to watch them run up and down his length, looking crude and barbaric as he fucks into his fist harder, his hips starting to move in tandem with his wrist.

You’d look cute, he decides, when you jerk him off – you’d be such a juxtaposition, with feminine hands and soft skin against his masculine, thick cock, and the thought alone makes him grit his teeth, embarrassment and pleasure creeping up his spine because fuuuck he’s never felt this close so quickly before.

His mind snaps back to right before the fall, and suddenly he’s gasping your name and opening his eyes wide as the phantom touch of your fingers against his bare chest hits him, hips stuttering and sounds that are much too high-pitched for his liking filling the small forest area.

He’s turning around, back slamming against the trunk as he continues his brutal pace, keeping his fist stationary as his hips thrust and pound away, imagining it’s your pretty cunt instead. His free hand comes up to his face, the feeling of you grabbing at it and clutching your fingers against his driving him to press his palm tightly against his nose, deeply inhaling and sliding down the trunk a bit as he catches what he thinks is a very, very faint whiff of you on his skin.

His head tilts back, his thrusts getting sharper and more carnal, unconsciously angling them to brush against the top of his hand, where he knows you like best. He’s inhaling over and over again, smelling his hand like some dog, only pulling away to briefly lap at his palm, tongue lolling out and licking long, fat stripes across the skin, desperate to taste you, too.

He’s breathing hard, panting and chanting your name like some sort of prayer, the pleasure in his navel starting to build and grow. You’re just so fucking perfect, and he just knows you feel soft and warm and god he can’t fucking wait to touch you and feel you and pleasure you and make you moan his name and come for him and oh god oh fuck it’s coming it’s coming –

He nearly yells your name as cum oozes from his swollen tip, biting back the gaspy, airy groans that threaten to spill from his lips as his hips wildly jerk, uneven thrusts complimented by his abs clenching so tightly that his knees go weak, crouching against the base of the tree trunk.

He’s panting still, chest heaving as if he’d just run for hours, his face still flushed as he looks up, trying desperately to regain his senses. He’s still clouded by the smell and taste of you, and he only moves his hand to come clutch at his uniform, grabbing the same spot you’d grabbed earlier, squeezing at the fabric so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

There’s a trail of cum on the forest floor in front of him, white slowly cooling and smearing against the leaves, but Sanemi can’t find it in himself to care. There’s guilt settling deep in his chest as he comes down from his high, cock going pathetically limp against the waistband of his pants. He curses, closing his eyes and covering them with his hand, shame weighing heavily on him.

He’d just masturbated to you and reached the fastest orgasm of his life because of it.

It feels like some sort of selfish defeat, and he’s filled with self-loathing as he makes his way back to the Wind Estate for a change of clothes, berating himself for his weakness and promising to never give into his hormones like that again.

And yet, a mere five days later, he’s got his fist wrapped around himself again, fantasies of you bouncing in his lap like he’s just some toy for you to use racing through his mind, his composure slipping because he’d give absolutely anything to be of use to you, even just as something to get you off and discard afterwards.

It makes him feel pathetic, like a perverted, sorry excuse of an admirer of yours, but he just can’t help himself – how can he, when his every waking thought revolves solely around you?

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your Ass

In general, Sanemi loves the parts of you most that are the softest and the squishiest. He’s all hard lines – plains of muscle that’s rock hard to the touch, scars that are ragged and bumpy against the smoother texture of his skin. He’s all hard edges, but you’re the complete opposite – you’re sweet and soft, and Sanemi naturally gravitates towards areas that really showcase this.

Consequently, he finds his hands edging close to your ass from pretty much the beginning of your sexual relationship. He likes how plump the area is – he adores when you wear shorter skirts around him, or, ideally, just the pretty, lacy panties he buys for you with heat on his cheeks and embarrassment creeping up his spine.

(Of course, he’d bought many of them long before he’d stolen you away, long before he’d ever touched you in any serious capacity. He’d seen them when he was passing through an adult shop on a mission, and while he’d felt like a massive pervert for it, he’d purchased a pair that’s a particularly eye-catching emerald green, white lace trim at the edges and a matching garter belt and bra to go with it. He’d been mortified when he’d returned home and stared at the fabric, the fatigue and adrenaline having finally worn off, but the mere idea of you wearing the pretty fabric was enough to get him breathing heavy. It was enough to get him covering his mouth with his hand, cock painfully hard because even his imagination of how your pretty ass cupped by the cheeky underwear would look is enough to get precum staining his pants.)

When he’s kissing you, his hands are resting on your ass, groping and idly squeezing, playing with the fat and very, very gently slapping at it, kissing you even harder when he feels the way you squirm and yelp.

He prefers positions where you can make eye contact, but the somewhat rare times he has you bent over, Sanemi is absolutely feral – he’s smacking your ass and pounding into you as hard as he can, his grip on your hips tight enough to bruise as he loses himself in the way your ass ricochets against his pelvis, the wet slap slap noise forcing him to get on one knee, mounting you even more, fucking you like an animal.

(And while he’s not the absolute loudest during sex, you’ll hear some of the filthiest, foulest things fall past his lips when he’s fucking you from behind – he'll have you in prone bone, breath hot against your ear as he tells you that ‘s fucking tight, you’re so damn tight, fuck fuck fuuuuck, his voice groaned and strained as his hips punctuate each curse. And his grip on you is tight – fingertips digging into the plush of your hips and lovehandles, gripping hard enough to leave small imprints behind, feeling like he’s clutching onto you, like he’s scared you’ll disappear.)

He’s not picky about your shape, either – you could have perfectly round, full cheeks or very little definition and he’d still be in love, his fingers still twitching and flexing at his side with the urge to reach out and squeeze, to knead at the skin and hear the way you’d yelp and cling onto him.

(Perhaps you’d even smack his hand away, embarrassment creeping up your spine and your flustered expression making him lick his lips, hellbent on making you come so many times the only thing you can think of is him him him. He always has grand plans to tease you, wanting to have you looking at him with glossy eyes and be completely under his thumb, but every time he gets you naked in front of him it’s him who’s at your beck and call, pathetically eager to do whatever you wish.)

He won’t try to touch you until you have a more established sexual relationship in place, which will take several months of being trapped with him to achieve. But once the floodgates are opened he becomes extremely touchy – he’s always got his hands on you, squeezing and groping and touching, and you’ll often even find that when you’re laying on your front, he’ll come lay behind you, shyly at first as he places his cheek against the soft skin, a hand gripping onto your thigh as he relaxes, too embarrassed to make eye contact but basking in the softness of you, in the peace of the moment, in the way you’re really here, with him.

He loves the rest of your body too, of course, but his natural resting place for both his hands and eyes is your ass, and he’s not nearly as subtle as he hopes he is.

(Not at all, but there’s almost something endearing about it – the quick-tempered, serious Hashira so blatantly ogling you, his lips parting and his nostrils flaring as he stares, almost unblinking. It makes you feel good, truly, flattered despite the perverted nature of his staring. And so as time passes you’ll find that you can excuse it, his bashfulness and obvious attraction to you almost flattering the longer you go without other human contact.)

His Abs

By and large, Sanemi desperately wants to impress you.

He lives for your praise, finding that the sweet words slipping from your lips are enough to leave him feeling like he’s floating, a sort of genuine joy he hasn’t felt in years settling into his chest, making him fight off a smile. As such, he’s very, very attentive to your reactions to his body.

Years of pushing himself to become stronger and battling so often have left his body riddled with muscles and scars, leaving him in peak physical health. And you’ll know this from nearly the first moment you meet him – after all, it’s difficult to not notice the little peek-a-boo at his abs in his uniform, the skin defined and often glistening with sweat.

He’s proud of his chest, and he has to swallow very, very hard the first time he catches you glancing at the exposed skin. It makes his ego inflate, something pleasant licking at his chest because oh, were you just checking him out? It doesn’t matter if you were or not – because to Sanemi you were, and that fact doesn’t leave his mind for weeks.

He’s proud of his abs, and quickly grows to love showing them off to you. He elects to keep a shirt on for most of your early time trapped with him, not wanting to scare you or frighten you by being half-undressed. (He doesn’t want you be to feeling pressured into anything, because while he would never force you into anything even remotely sexual, he doesn’t want there to be any sort of dubious fear or doubt motivating you to finally seek out intimacy with him. Aside from your kidnapping and the stalking, of course. And the way his desperation for you is so thick it leaves you squirming in discomfort.)

But once your sexual relationship starts?

Oh – he’s constantly shirtless, purposefully flexing when you’re nearby so that his abs stand out more defined, pectorals looking firmer, the muscles of his back standing out and practically begging for you to run your finger over them. He loves when you trace the lines of his six-pack, your soft finger dipping between the muscles and sending shivers along his skin because fuck, even just your finger is getting him hot under the collar.

Press kisses against the area, murmuring to him that he’s so strong and that you feel so safe with you ‘Nemi, I know you could protect me from anything. He’ll grumble under his breath but the blush sporting his cheeks and neck give him away, as does the way his hips involuntarily and imperceptibly buck.

Kiss further down to the happy trail of silvery hair leading below the waistband of his pants, the skin ticklish and sensitive enough to leave him sucking in a breath, his fists tightening until his knuckles are white because oh, you’re such a damn tease. When you’re perched on top of him, rolling your hips and letting him cup at your ass to help guide you, rest a hand against his abs and he’ll groan, the muscles clenching underneath your palm.

(Often, when he’s getting too close to his orgasm and he doesn’t want the moment to end quite yet, he’ll pull you forward so that you’re straddling his stomach, looking up at you with dazed lilac eyes, telling you in a hoarse, heady voice to grind on me, use me, ‘m all yours. He wants you to touch his abs, to feel your cunt scooping and rubbing against the planes of muscle. He wants to watch the way your face contorts as you catch your clit on a particularly raised section, maybe even on a scar, his orgasm slowly – very slowly – fading off but his cock still remaining starkly at attention. You’re just so damn pretty when you’re smearing slick against his skin, the sight wanton and lewd but feeling so very right. And later that night, when he’s helping you to the bath and diligently washing your body, he’ll scowl before he washes off his own abs, slightly pissed that he has to wash away the trace of you.)

He just likes you to touch what he’s so proud of, and each and every time you have a remotely positive reaction towards them, Sanemi is in heaven. After all, you’re looking at him, and that’s something that makes both his cock and his heart swell.

DRIVE:

Sanemi is, for a lack of a better term, sexually frustrated. He’s never touched anyone before and never been touched himself, and even touching himself is something he rarely partakes in. Every ounce of irritation, anger, anxiety, and stress is taken out via rigorous training and often yelling. When he feels pent-up he finds that a good, quick spar is often a more effective way to quell it rather than jerking off.

Not to mention, there’s something about masturbating that makes Sanemi feel even more lonely and frustrated than before – it hurts slightly to know that he doesn’t have anyone to be thinking of, that while he saves men and women with partners and lovers, he’s not quite like them. Hell, even a few of his fellow Hashira have partners, someone to touch them and hold them, reassuring them and comforting them when the nightmares of screaming family members and demons become too much. It makes him feel pathetic when he feels sorry for himself for being so painfully alone, and this results in Sanemi avoiding pleasuring himself as often as possible.

But of course, biology has other plans for him – he’s in the sexual prime of his life, and when he can’t quite seem to work off the steam with a thorough work-out or eventful patrol, he’ll begrudgingly resort to his hand. It’s typically impersonal, wrapping his fingers around himself and steadily jerking up and down while he closes his eyes and bites back his groans.

He’s not thinking of anything in particular – maybe imagining it’s the hand of some mystery woman replacing his own, but nothing more than that. It’s fast, too, the pleasure slowly mounting and then crashing through him, gritting his teeth as he finishes and promptly cleaning up, wanting to waste no more time with it. It’s all just so very clinical, almost – even when he’s horny, even when the frustration mounts so high that it’s unbearable.

And while he’s slow to warm up to fantasizing about you in a sexual capacity, Sanemi’s irregular indulgences in lust remain. Of course, it’s much, much better now – now that he has someone to actively close his eyes and think about, imagining your voice and your body and your touch. It’s infinitely better because while you’re still not by his side or touching him with your own hands and lips and cunt, he can still fantasize that one day you will, that one day you’ll want him like he wants you.

And it’s enough – his sex drive is still fairly low, and even once he begins actively having sex with you it remains on the lower side. He’d just truly rather hold you or listen to you speak than pin you down and fuck you.

(Or have you pin him down and ride him until he’s shooting blanks and tearing up with red cheeks and fisting the sheets so hard his knuckles are white.)

But of course, he’s only a man and those urges do hit him – enough so that he has a sort of system in place for signaling that he’s feeling hot, that he’s restless, that he’s mentally undressing you and planning out all the positions and ways he can get you creaming on his cock. His signals aren’t particularly graceful, either – it starts with him sitting closer to you, his body completely tense and every muscle clenched.

(He does this unconsciously, both as a way to control himself from just reaching out and snatching you, and also to subconsciously make himself seem bigger, to look stronger and more masculine, to appeal to your more feminine side. He’s not even aware he does it, and if you point it out he’ll vehemently deny it, calling you deluded and making some comment about how you’re projecting your own lewdness onto him, but he knows you’re right, and he also knows he can’t stop it.)

Then he’ll start looking at you with more focus. He’s always staring at you, those wide eyes never leaving your form, but now he’s doing things – again, unconsciously – without realizing that give it all away; licking his lips, adjusting his pants, swallowing audibly.

It’s all things that you’ll notice, and depending on how far along you are in your captivity with him, your response to these signals dictates whether or not you end up with cum smearing the inside of your thighs – if you grimace and shy away from him, Sanemi will clench his jaw, nod slightly and look away. He’ll immediately get up and leave the room both from embarrassment and hurt at your rejection, and to avoid making you feel any sort of pressure or guilt to give him physical intimacy.

But if you scoot in closer, clench your thighs a bit, give him that sultry fucking look you know he loves, then he’s immediately kissing you, big hand cupping your cheek as the other latches onto your breast, kneading and squeezing as he groans against your lips.

And it’s messy – the kiss is all tongue and spit, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he presses his body into you as far as he can, desperation and relief flowing through him because the feeling of your skin against his is satisfying parts of him he didn’t even know existed. If you accept his advances, he’ll maneuver you onto your back, nudging between your thighs and immediately licking and sucking away, the loud suction noises making your cheeks feel hot and making it difficult to not squirm around.

(Something that strokes Sanemi’s ego but also frustrates him because he wants you to lie still so he can properly touch you. He can’t go at the pace and angle you like when you’re wiggling around, so he’ll just take a thigh in each hand and keep you steady, using his strength to pin you down so that you can’t move away from his eager, sloppy mouth. Because he wants absolutely everything to be perfect – he wants you to feel so good that you’re begging for him, associating him with pleasure, knowing that he can and will give you exactly what your body needs.)

He’ll make you finish on his tongue and only then will he start working his pants down, cock already so red and wet with precum that it’s a miracle a single brush against your cunt doesn’t make him immediately release. The sex is eager – that’s really the only word for it, because Sanemi’s grabbing every part of your body he can reach, hands unable to stay still because he wants to feel everything, mapping every inch of your body with his fingers so that if somehow you disappear, he’ll remember everything. He’s handsy, and yet his hips are absolutely brutal – he’s fucking into you like a wild animal, hipbones smacking against your ass in a bruising rhythm that leaves your whole body bouncing, every soft, jiggly bit of you drawing his attention and only making him go harder because he wants to see more more more.

But he’s loud, too – all kinds of curses and rough, uneven praises of the way you feel and how you look are falling past his lips, voice sounding nearly pained with the overwhelming amount of stimulation you’re giving him.

He’s truly pussydrunk in every sense of the word – so when he very unnaturally and awkwardly tries to put his hand on your thigh when he’s signaling he’s feeling hot and needy for you, just know that you’ll have a lot of difficulty walking the next morning.

That said, Sanemi will absolutely never force you into anything sexual without your explicit (and frequent) verbal consent.

Despite his rough-around-the-edges appearance, he’s staunch on his moral beliefs that sex is something intimate that should be reserved for partners who truly care about each other. He believes that it should be something enjoyed, something meaningful, something wanted – and so, to have you actively fighting him or not engaging in what he’s doing to you would leave his skin crawling, disgust and a new, different kind of shame seeping through him.

(Different if only because up until that point, everything he’s done he’s been able to spin as somehow being for your safety – stalking you to make sure no one bothers you, learning all your habits and favorite foods, clothes, and hobbies letting him notice any deviations signifying something is wrong. Hell, even kidnapping you has some benefits for your safety – no demon is stupid enough to enter the Wind Estate, and he’ll be damned before he lets any strangers in with the possibility of coming into contact with you.)

But intimacy is different – he’s not good at being vulnerable, and to be naked with you, to hold you in his arms and feel your hands caress the parts of his body that are deeply scarred and unused to touch is a new level of unguarded that makes him anxious. He’s so used to keeping up a pseudo-façade of being reckless and wild and in these moments all he wants is to let you see him raw, the real Sanemi Shinazugawa that wants you so badly that it physically hurts.

And so, if you don’t want him he’ll respect that – it hurts, of course, and he’ll have trouble facing you for the next few days, but he's man enough to know that your consent is key. But it’s also this crippling fear of rejection and putting himself in a position of possible weakness with you that bars him from trying to progress your sexual relationship for a long, long time.

He’s desiring you in risqué and lewd ways long before he’s stolen you away, but it’s difficult to act on those, to put himself out there and risk your harsh, painful rejection of him.

(And he’s convinced you will reject him, if only because despite his persona, Sanemi harbors insecurities about his ability to be loved. He thinks there’s something deeply wrong with him, something that makes others fearful of him and something that will deter anyone from getting too close. Besides Genya, of course, but the matter is complicated.)

And so, he holds himself back from making any sort of move in your sexual relationship – he wants to either have you bring it up, or to keep everything between you as strictly protector-protectee as possible, even if he craves to touch you and lay with you.

But, like most things in your relationship, Sanemi’s restraint snaps one day. To be fair, it’s not entirely Sanemi’s fault – months of repressing his sex drive and ignoring the tantalizing way you look in the kimonos he hand-picked for you leaves him on the brink of exploding, so pent-up and sexually frustrated that it nearly drives him mad.

The final straw is a particularly brutal, gut-wrenching mission – he’d been tasked to stop a demon in a few towns over, a simple mission that he really, really should’ve been able to fix much quicker. But the demon was smart and seemed to sense his approach, and the carnage was far, far greater than Sanemi was expecting. Small children stained red with parents dismembered a few feet away, visible bite chunks leaving the smell of rot and death heavy in the air. It left his stomach churning, but what truly sent him off the end was hearing a small sob after he’d sliced the demon’s neck, the little boy crying next to what Sanemi could only assume was his dead mother.

That in itself wasn’t out of the ordinary, but the boy’s striking, uncanny resemblance to his own brother Koto makes him stop in his tracks, lips falling open like a gaping fish. He’s frozen, simply staring like some fool, but then everything happens much, much too fast.

The demon’s suddenly swooping in, the boy’s head severed in the blink of an eye, a deranged cackle falling from the creature as a resounding crunchnoise fills the air. Sanemi’s thrown into a state of rage, immediately killing the demon and stabbing at it repeatedly. He’s cutting up each and every part of the monster (careful to avoid touching the boy’s head, though), yelling and cursing at it for what feels like hours.

By the time he’s done there’s tears pricking his eyes, and the walk back to his Estate is blurry and heavy with his own grief. He hasn’t cried in years, but something about the little boy’s face and the weight pressing on his back leave him with wet cheeks, the shoji door quietly sliding open to your room before he can catch himself.

You’re still awake, and he doesn’t even have the right mental state to be angry at you for cutting your sleep. He’s quiet, simply staring at you from the doorway as you wearily approach him, concerned and slightly scared because there’s blood smeared across his uniform and his eyes are bloodshot.

Sanemi? Your voice is weak, and you gently, hesitantly press a hand against his trembling fingers grasping onto the scabbard of his sword.

He swallows harshly, eyes locked onto yours. He whispers your name, voice low and hoarse, but before you can say anything he’s wrapping his arms around you, clutching onto your so tightly that your breathing is restricted. It leaves you yelping, unsure how to respond to the uncharacteristic affection, but the shallow shaking of his shoulders makes you soothingly run a hand through his hair.

Sanemi… You trail off again, but he only hugs you tighter in response. It’s some ten minutes before he finally sniffles, mumbling something against your clothed shoulder that you can’t quite hear.

When you don’t respond, he grips you tighter, pulling his face back just a hair to say again please, I need you to touch me.

It makes you stiffen in his grasp, and that makes him panic. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, I just – he stops, swallowing again and letting his weight sag against you even more. I just can’t be alone right now.

And maybe it’s the vulnerability in his tone, the strange, gentle side of him you so rarely see, or maybe it’s your own longing for human contact and touch that drives you to press a kiss against the crown of his head.

He gasps sharply, his grip loosening ever so slightly. You take the opportunity to gently pull back, grabbing his wrist and leading him over to your bed in the center of the room. He’s staring at you with wide, puffy eyes, shellshocked and unable to say anything as you grasp at the edge of his uniform.

Your voice is still soft as you tell him take this off, no blood on my bed, and he’s only staring for a single, long moment before the fabric is flying over his head, his pants quickly falling suite and leaving him bare aside from a pair of thin undergarments sitting dangerously low on the sharp v-line of his navel. He’s still looking at you, eyes wild and wide, his chest rising and falling so quickly that it almost worries you.

You’re much slower when you peel away your own sleeping clothes, leaving your body in only a thin, light-weight slip that makes Sanemi lick his lips. You’re so fucking pretty – it’s making something in his chest ache, his palms flexing by his sides, brain warring between the extreme emotional distress and arousal at seeing your partially exposed body and your desire for him.

You step forward, palm pressing against his cheek, and slowly pull him to you. Letting your lips ghost against his for a moment, you press a soft, barely-there kiss against the corner of his mouth. Murmuring his name, you feel the way his whole body shivers.

Finally, finally, you press your lips against his, moving slow and trying to let him relax into it. He’s still so tense – he wants this badly, but now that it’s actually happening he’s freezing up a bit. He’s dreamed and fantasized about this moment for months, lying awake and feeling pathetic for imagining that you could want him like this.

But the moment passes and he’s suddenly kissing you back, his movements sloppy and uncooridinated, evidence that he’s never done this before. But you take it in stride and pull back, the sound making his nostrils flare. He moves forward, chasing your lips, but you stop him with a lay down with me, please Sanemi.

And it’s as if he’s some well-trained pet – he’s immediately laying down, body tense and taut over your blankets, and he watches with baited breath as you straddle him, your thighs warm against his skin and oh god oh god –

He can feel it – can feel you.

You’re incredibly warm, the heat permeating through his underclothes as you press against his cock, the sensation forcing something that sounds much too similar to a moan to slip from his lips. It feels surreal – and when you start slowly moving your hips, grinding on him in teasingly slow, agonizingly pleasurable little circles, Sanemi’s gripping at your thighs, his self-restraint nearly buckling.

The evening passes full of slow, tender touches, exploring fingers and tongues covering every inch of your skin and his. The sex is soft, thrusts gentle and deep, rolling and pressing against every spot that makes your toes curl. He’s kissing you the whole time, grasping onto your skin like you’re his life line, a near-growl coming from somewhere deep in his throat when you take even a hand away from holding him. He wants your fingers tunneling through his hair, your leg wrapped around his waist, your nipples brushing against his own.

It's heaven, he thinks, and though he tries to hide his face as he ruts into you, the tears return to his eyes and before he knows it he’s chanting a slurred, choked mantra of your name, timing with his thrusts and begging you in a near-incomprehensible plea of never leave me, you can’t leave me, I won’t let you leave me.

It’s only after his hips stutter, a gasp of your name and his hot breath going ragged in your ear that he finally goes limp. He’s still inside you, the last throbs and bits of his orgasm rocking through him, but he’s carefully maneuvering your bodies so that he’s laying behind you. You’re caged in his arms – a heavy, muscular limb wrapped around your waist, body molded to yours and pulling you flush against him. He falls asleep like that – flaccidly inside you, his breath in your ear, his grip on you remaining deadly tight even as dreams overtake him. And eventually, you fall asleep too – exhausted, confused, and embracing this small, intimate moment even if you’ll regret it.

He’s gone the next morning, the covers wrapped up to your chin, the blankets and sheets on his side perfectly pristine.

He doesn’t mention that night for the foreseeable future, embarrassed and angry at himself for giving into temptation and allowing himself to be so weak in front of you. He’s worried that you might regret it, that you’ll find him disgusting for being so wanton and blatant in his begging for you, and he bars himself from engaging with you sexually again. (Out of embarrassment, out of shame, out of fear because god, he’s never been as desperate and depraved as he was the moment he slipped inside of you, and how would he react the second time? The third? The tenth?)

He won’t acknowledge that it happened, but you’ll notice the glances he starts throwing your way, the way his gaze lingers on your body, how he stiffens up the moment you get even remotely close to him. It’s a stark contrast to the man who’d been groaning out your name like salvation the night before, but just know that if you were to approach him, Sanemi will be putty in your hands.

If you were to kiss him or touch him or tell him how badly you need him, he’ll fold. He’ll get onto his knees, mouthing at your cunt and struggling to mutter out how he’d thought you’d never ask, fuck.

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Cumplay

While Sanemi will bend to your whims almost always in bed, there are a few very, very specific things that he won’t compromise on.

That is, he absolutely must finish either inside you, down your throat, or on your body. It’s a possessiveness thing for him – he’s in ecstasy and still slightly shocked that you’re touching him (and letting him touch you), but it’s still not quite enough. He’s licking and sucking at your neck, leaving marks and hickies and the imprint of his fingertips lightly against your skin, trying to mark you up as his his his. He wants to leave a physical imprint of his possession over you, because while it feels dehumanizing to think of you as his, he can’t help the way it makes something in his chest twist in just the right way, nor can he help the way his cock stands up at attention, growing hard just at the mere idea of physically making you his.

And Sanemi quickly finds the quickest, easiest way to claim you as his is to leave you absolutely dripping with his cum. He’s territorial, completely believing that you’re his woman and he is your man. It’s this possessiveness mixed with his obsession over being your protector that drive his compulsive need to fill you with every last drop he can give you – it feels better this way, more natural. It’s like he’s giving you what you desire – he’s giving you everything he can, the most intimate, sacred part of him, something he made for you and you alone.

And so, every time he’s got hic cock out and your kissing, sucking, touching, or fucking it, Sanemi’s throwing his head back and groaning, all sorts of filthy, dirty promises about how he’s going to finish for you falling past his lips.

He’ll have you on your knees, his thighs tense and his abs clenching, his hand in your hair and fighting very, very hard to not pull you down until his cock’s in the back of your throat, choking and gagging you. (He wants to – god does he want to, but he doesn’t want to hurt you, so he’ll stop himself. A mind-numbing orgasm with your hot little tongue pressed against his underside isn’t worth you being angry or hurt.) He's groaning your name and telling you that that you’re gonna – fuck, gonna take it all, yeah? Gonna swallow every last fucking drop, o-oh fucky baby, god wanna see you swallow ngh –

Your hand is wrapped around his girth, wrist flicking up and down so quickly that it makes him pant, your free hand delicately groping and squeezing at his balls. He’s bucking up against your tugs, a red flush on the bridge of his nose as he grunts, rushing forward to kiss you with way too much tongue, pulling back only when he starts shuddering, breath ragged as he tells you that he wants to finish on your chest, voice getting slurred and strained as he tells you he’s gonna come on your tits, god so fucking pretty fuck fuck fuck –

(He’ll stare with this sort of boyish look in his eye and something feral, predatory at his handiwork once he does, white smeared across your skin and leaving a film that he rubs at with his thumb, pinching your nipple and licking his lips when you squirm.)

He’s got you pressed into a tight, suffocating mating press, his forehead pressed against yours and his hands holding your knees up, the angle and feeling of you making teeter on the edge. ‘M gonna, ‘m gonna come soon, where do you want it? He’ll ask, eyes fluttering shut as you clench down on him, only to open wide when you whine out to finish inside ‘Nemi, please please please want your cum!

And it’s lewd and dirty and it gets him fucking into you deeper, hips snapping into yours so hard that you’re physically moving up the length of the bed, his voice a growl as he grins, groaning yeah? Want me to come in this tight – fuck, tight little pussy? So damn greedy, fuuuuck, you better take it, don’t let any drip out or I’ll have to fill you again. He’ll press kisses against your lips, jaw, and neck, his voice growing louder as he growl again between each kiss.

And when he’s right on the edge, his thrusts growing uneven and choppy, his eyes are meeting yours again as he gasps take it take it take it, cum spurting from his tip and leaving you feeling warm and so very, very full. He produces a lot with each orgasm, seeming to never stop as it oozes from his hyper-sensitive tip, and Sanemi uses it to his advantage.

He’s obsessed with looking at the product of his orgasm – he’ll kneel between your legs so that your cunt’s eyelevel and simply stare as his cum slowly leaks out, down the grooves of your folds and over your pert hole, dripping onto the floor below you and making him scoff. He’ll scoop it up with a single finger, pushing it back inside of you and kissing you to muffle the sound of your surprise, slightly embarrassed because he absolutely can’t let even the smallest amount not end up inside you.

When you’ve convinced him to be a tad bit rougher as you bob your head between his legs, Sanemi will grant your wish and finish on your face, groaning and biting his lip at the way you look, his cum dribbling down from your lips to your chin, dripping down to land on your nipples, thighs, other parts of your body.

 (And as disrespectful as it felt to finish there, Sanemi secretly loves it – he won’t request it because he doesn’t think you’d enjoy it, but he’s nursing a fantasy that you’ll let him smear his cum all over your lips and cheeks, and then simply not clean it for the rest of the day. He wants the physical evidence of his intimacy with you to be constantly visible, so that every glance reminders him that you wanted him, that you were practically begging him for his cock like some common whore. You aren’t, or course, but the possessive, animalistic part of him that desires rough, carnal sex with you is satisfied by the idea, something primal about the idea of leaving a mark of him him him against your pretty face. He’ll never bring it up, simply stewing on it in silence, but if you were to mention the idea, or tell him that you want to keep his cum really anywhere against your skin, you’ll witness something that absolutely mortifies him – a dry orgasm paired with a sad, shocked little whimper, the embarrassment and unexpected pleasure making him too ashamed to even look at you for a few hours afterwards.)

He just really likes the concept of leaving you stuffed full of him. (And there’s a small part of him that hopes desperately with every load he gives you that it’ll finally take. He’s always fantasized about having a family with you, but with each time he stuffs you full, he can only get closer and closer to the dream, the mere idea of you pregnant enough to get him hot under the collar and desperate to get his hands on you.)

And to his credit, this kink goes both ways – he’ll gladly let you cover every inch of his skin in your spit and slick, rubbing yourself against his body and licking at him until you’ve had your fill.

(And fuck, if you squirt? He’s wearing it like a badge of honor, pride and arousal coursing through him in such potent amounts that he’s nearly dizzy, nearly unable to function because god he needs to fuck you and make you do that over and over again until you can’t anymore.)

He’s just possessive, and while you might initially be rather disgusted simply by his eagerness and fixation on it, eventually you might even find it hot, too. Because really, he may be deranged, a stalker, horribly and uncomfortably dependent on you for his emotional stability and health, but isn’t there something so very sexy about a grown man moaning in your ear and begging you to please let him finish inside you?

Voyeurism

Perhaps it’s a remnant of having stalked you for so long, but there’s something that gets Sanemi so fucking hard about watching you pleasure yourself.

There’s layers to it – of course he loves the physical sight of you with your fingers stuffed into your cunt, tits spilling out of your lounging shirt, thighs quivering and your lips parting into that pretty ‘o’ shape that Sanemi wants to fill with his fingers. He loves the way you look all fucked out, pretty and writhing and gasping, letting all your natural sounds out because there’s not a soul around to hear you and you can be truly free. So yes, from a purely carnal, sexual standpoint, Sanemi very much enjoys the sight of you touching yourself.

But even beyond that, there’s something morbidly fascinating and addicting about it – there’s something indescribably intimate about watching you at your most vulnerable, those lilac eyes widening and staying transfixed on every aspect of you that he can. He’s watching like a hawk as you squeeze at your breast, watching to see if you pinch at your nipple or roll it, if you squeeze hard and hold it there or opt for weaker but more frequent squeezes.

He’s carefully watching your fingers, analyzing the patterns and shapes you’re drawing against your clit, how fast you’re going and whether you vary anything or keep it all consistent.

(He’ll even press his fingers against the expanse of his forearm as he watches, mimicking your motions against his own skin in an effort to practice, to learn by muscle memory exactly how you like to be touched so that once he gets you naked and spread out for him, he can be exactly what you want and give you exactly what you need. He’ll do this with the way you finger yourself, too, guessing at the particular angles you’re reaching for based on the way your wrist flexes, how your knuckles move. He’ll go home and practice this, too, using his pillow as a poor stand-in for your body and practicing thrusting in the pattern you seem to like, angling his hips to brush against the spot that always gets you gasping, buffing up his stamina because he’ll be damned if the first time he gets you naked underneath him is thwarted by his own physical inabilities.)

It helps him feel connected to you like this – easier to pretend that he’s the one making you moan and curl your toes rather than your own hand or the toy you’d purchased for yourself.

(A toy that he absolutely fucking hates, always glaring at it and scoffing because he’s sure that he could fuck you so much better – he’d get the angle right, he’d get the depth perfect, and he’d do all the damn work – you just need to lay there and look pretty, grasp onto him and moan his name and he’ll take care of the rest. He'll always take care of you, after all, and he wants the sex to be absolutely perfect, for you to crave him even a fraction as much as he craves you.)

And even once he’s forced to steal you away, these habits of peeping in on you while you’re lost in your own little world don’t magically disappear. It’s more difficult now, sure, because standing and peering through your window was always easier, always less risky, but Sanemi becomes too desperate and in withdrawal to stop himself.

His lucidity leaves him feeling guilty every time, but he’ll crack the door into your room open ever so slightly, having returned home from a mission or an errand earlier than he’d told you. He’ll peek in, doing his best to move slowly and silently to avoid grabbing your attention, and he’s immediately got his hand in his pants, gripping himself so tightly and harshly that it nearly brings tears to his eyes.

His orgasms are always stronger when he’s got you in his sight, and as he times his strokes with your thrusts inside yourself, he’s clenching his abs and shaking, hips coming up to thrust and rut against his fist. He’s staying deathly quiet, intent on hearing the sound of your moans and the wet squelching of your cunt sucking your fingers in again and again. And when he comes, he’s praying that you’ll finish at the same time, forcing himself to stop and endlessly edging himself just so that you can come together, to have something romantic and sweet like a simultaneous release.

(Of course, the aftermath of cum staining the front of his trousers and his upper thighs is less sweet, but Sanemi can’t quite care – even as it dries and grows cold, feeling slimy and sticky against his skin. He’s too transfixed watching the way your chest slowly stops heaving, how you relax and bask in the afterglow of your orgasm, how you idly play with your nipples and smile up at the ceiling, and if he tries harder enough - pretends hard enough, really - he can even hear you murmur his name.)

The intention is relatively sweet, no matter how deranged and creepy he may feel for actively spying on you as you undress, but he’s just a man, and how can a man be expected to deny himself the viewing pleasure of the woman he’s so madly, pathetically obsessed with?

But unfortunately for Sanemi, you’re not as oblivious as he hopes – you’ll notice the way he lingers at your door, his occasional soft, shuddering gasps not going unheard even over the sound of your own moans. You’ll see his shadow against the door panels, even seeing the shadow of his cock when he pulls it out of his pants, the mere sight making your orgasm hurtle closer and closer, even despite your shame at finding your kidnapper’s cock arousing.

You’re not blind, and it’s almost therapeutic to watch how easily he falls apart for you, the shadow of his back hunching over slightly as you both near your ends, the wet squelching sounds of his fist going up and down just barely audible if you strain yourself hard enough. It’s endearing, in a fucked-up sort of way, but if you were to ever mention something about it, Sanemi will immediately bristle, embarrassment crawling up his spine and his cheeks glowing a soft, subtle pink, entirely caught off guard and unsure of what to say.

(He’s mortified that you know, that he’d been caught, if only because now he’s absolutely convinced you must think of him as a pervert, as a monster, and it kills him to know that it’s true. And yet, there’s some small, masochistic part of him that’s almost glad, finding the whole situation so, so very hot because now he can’t help but wonder if you’d started touching yourself on purpose, perhaps wanting to draw him out, perhaps wanting to listen to him losing his fucking mind over your naked body. You naughty, naughty thing.)

And so, once your consensual sexual relationship begins, Sanemi is using every piece of knowledge he’d gathered from watching you to his advantage – he’s not wasting any time putting all that practice into use, curling his fingers and rubbing and kneading just how you like it, watching with wide, almost nervous eyes to see how you react, hoping that he’s doing good and making you enjoy it, enjoy him.

He wants you to tell him how it feels, to hear you say that it’s good, that you love it when you touch me ‘Nemi, and that alone gets him doubling in his efforts, frantic to get you to orgasm for him and only him, filled with a sort of crazed need to be the one to finally, finally bring you your high.

And as time passes, you’ll notice that Sanemi tends to bring this kink into the bedroom, too, even when you’re fully aware of his presence – he’ll tell you to touch yourself, settling across the bed, and slowly fisting at his cock, licking his lips and watching with rapt attention as you spread your legs, playing with yourself and humming his name.

But it’s not quite the same as when you were alone, though, and Sanemi will tell you to act like I’m not here, don’t make shit up or fake your moans. He wants the authenticity, the rawness, the realness of you fully indulging in yourself.

It’s in these moments that you’ll see the more submissive side of Sanemi – the small part of him that absolutely loves when you ignore his existence, pretending he’s not fisting his cock like a madman simply to the sight, smell, and sound of you. He likes the way that you’re not paying him any mind, completely focused on yourself, Sanemi merely a bystander and watching you. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s in these moments that his obsession only further solidifies, his feelings for you growing stronger and latching into him deeper, like claws that make him shiver in pain-tinged pleasure. Because really, he can only consider himself lucky and cruelly blessed for getting to see you like this, for being allowed so close to you as you gush on your fingers and pinch at your nipples. It’s an honor, even if that explanation makes you shift uncomfortably and try to ignore the reverent look in his eye.

You’re just so damn pretty, can he really be blamed for wanting to stare and stare and stare?

Marking

While hyper fixated on your health and safety in every aspect of his obsession, one area where he’s ever so slightly lenient is in bed. He’ll outright refuse to do anything that draws blood or involves hitting you, but there’s something rather tempting about the idea of leaving a trace of himself after he spends hours upon hours getting you to come on his fingers and cock.

He likes the reminder that he’d been able to pleasure you, the feeling enough to get you moaning and clawing at his back and whining his name. And so, Sanemi develops a liking for leaving all sorts of hickeys and love bites all over your body.

He’s passionate when he fucks you, leaving kisses on every inch of skin he can reach and grasping onto you tightly enough that sometimes bruises appear.

(And he feels guilty for it, in the beginning, always scowling when he sees them the next day. But alongside the guilt there’s something good – something that makes him smug, pride settling in his gut because those are his fingermarks on your body, showing that he attends to your more intimate needs. Reminding him that you let him attend to those needs – that you let him kiss and hold you, that you let him squeeze and grope at your skin, that you let him spread your legs and push himself inside until he’s filling every possible inch of you, connected with you in the most raw, natural way. It’s romantic, almost, and it makes Sanemi squirm slightly just thinking about it because oh fuck, now he’s hard again and really you should take some accountability for showing off your collarbone and the barrage of hickeys like that…)

He’s not picky about where or how he does it, either – what you’ll mostly be covered in are hickeys, the dark spots dancing in patterns all along your neck, shoulders, collarbone, inner thighs, and even your stomach and ass. His favorite is your neck, though. He likes the way you get all breathless when he kisses and sucks and licks at the skin, the sensations making your breath go light and airy against his ear, the harsh puffs of air blowing against the tufts of white hair on his head.

And he’ll leave all over your neck – at the juncture at your jaw, sucking a few right below your ear.

(He’ll take a few moments to lightly nibble and bite at your earlobe, liking the way you whine his name and tell him to stop being weird, but it’s endearing, the way you clearly like it and are just saying that to keep up images. Silly girl.)

He’ll flutter kisses along the column of your neck, tracing your windpipe and smiling against your skin when you swallow heavily. He’ll suck dark hickeys into the flesh of your shoulders, the soft slope the perfect canvas for him to leave littered with his marks. Sometimes he’ll randomly pick spots, the final result looking a little unorganized but still enough to make his heart swell and his breathing to get heavier. Other times he’ll very strategically place them – spelling out an ‘s’ character or a heart or something sappy that leaves him feeling a bit embarrassed but he just can’t help it.

Your neck is his favorite because of the intimacy and the difficulty of hiding the particularly high ones, but your inner thighs are a very close second. When he settles onto his stomach and spreads your legs, mouth hovering over your cunt and his warm breath making you twitch, he’ll take his time kissing up the space from your knee to your pelvis, taking the skin between his teeth and lightly nibbling, pressing dark sucks against the area and loving the way you squirm underneath his rather harsh grip on your thighs.

He’s a tease once he grows confident in the fact that you crave intimacy with him, loving the way you get desperate and beg him to give you what he knows you need. (He’d watched you with enough consistency and thoroughness for all those months before stealing you away and now he knows your tells – the way your face looks, how you sound, how your body jerks and shakes, hell, even the way you smell when you get close.)

He’ll push you right up to the edge, fingers working magic in a come hither motion against that spongey spot inside of you that makes your whole body tense in pleasure, all while his thumb is rubbing circles at your clit that leave you bucking your hips and chanting out his name. He’ll get you right there, then pull back, going back to your inner thigh and working on a fresh, new hickey, the loss of stimulation making you pout and whine for him to touch you again.

He’ll only roll his eyes, pulling back with a loud thwap noise as the suction breaks, your slick still visible on his lips, chin, and cheeks. So demanding, he’ll start, sending a sharp brush of his fingers over your clit that gets you gasping.

He’ll hold out for a while longer, milking out the way you plead with him, before he’ll eventually give in and get back to your neglected cunt, bringing you to your high and rutting at the bed below him with the way you writhe and cry out. And for the next few days, every time he sees that particular hickey he’s suddenly way too red, sweaty and panting and growing more desperate by the second to give you more more more, wanting your whole body to be evidence of his presence in both your life and your bed.

And he’ll proudly wear any marks you make on his body, too – leave hickeys and love bites against his skin and he’ll only shiver and let his eyes roll to the back of his head. He’ll encourage you to run your nails down the expanse of his back when he’s got you in missionary or a press, growling your name as his hips fuck into you harder, faster, with more intent and purpose.

(And later, when he’s dressing himself and happens to see himself in a mirror, he can only gulp, thumb tracing along the scratch marks and blemishes left behind from you. It makes him giddy, often absentmindedly running a finger over them while he travels to missions, during pointless conversation, during times when he’s away on a mission and starting to think himself into a panic about how you’re doing, if you’re safe, if you’ve escaped him somehow. It calms him and only kindles his feelings for you, the knowledge of you willingly leaving your mark on him enough to get him licking his lips and palming himself over his pants, trying to restrain himself so that he can get you to leave newer, fresher marks.)

He just likes the idea, and while he’d never bite you hard enough to cause genuine pain or give you a hickey so deep that it hurt, he will be marking you from head to toe so that everyone you come into contact with (no one besides him, really, but that’s besides the point) cannot deny that you are Sanemi Shinazugawa’s woman.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Slapping

But in a very, very specific way – Sanemi treasures you, idolizing and worshipping you to the point of self-loathing, and consequently he’s not terribly mean in bed. Once a steady sexual relationship is established between the two of you, he’ll get more vocal and adventurous, adapting to what you like.

(And he’s willing to do just about anything you want of him sexually – he’ll get on his knees and kiss up your thighs, lapping and sucking at your cunt until you have to physically push him off of you, slick smeared across his lips, cheeks, and chin while he stares up at you, equal parts hazed and irritated that you’d pulled him away. He’ll let you climb on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head and letting you play with his cock until he’s near tears, the edging and phantom touches making him grit and groan, desperation eating away at him because your touch feels so good but oh – it’s the attention you’re giving to him that ultimately makes him paint your fist white.)

And though he’s not naturally inclined to be degrading towards you during sex, there’s one stark exception – that is, there’s something that makes the possessiveness and territorial feelings Sanemi harbors for you flare up when he smacks you with his cock. Nothing too hard, of course – the intention isn’t to hurt you or bruise you, but rather it’s like staking his claim on you.

It’s like showing you that you belong to him – he’ll grip himself at the base, biting his lip and flexing his arm as he shifts his weight, hovering over you and smacking his fat, soaked tip against your pretty, puffy clit, stifling a groan at the way you jerk at the contact.

He’s smacking himself against your folds, the wet and tacky noise making his fingers tighten against the pillow under your head, his breath getting heavier because fuck, you look so damn pretty underneath him like this, reactive to his cock even when it’s not inside of you.

He’s tracing his tip against your lips when you’re on your knees for him, whispered chants of your name falling from his lips as he lightly taps his tip against your cheeks, your lips, your outstretched tongue.

(And, after he smacks himself against your tongue, if you smile and giggle ever so slightly? Well, don’t be surprised when he stiffens up, his orgasm crashing through him after a mere minute of your hot, wet mouth around him. Don’t be surprised when he starts cursing and murmuring things under his breath right on the brink of his high, your name mixing with gravely I love you’s as he gives you rope after rope after rope of his cum, hot and potent and made with only you in mind.)

He just likes the physical action of it, the way that even something so small gives him the slightest bit of acknowledgement that you’re his, that you’re here and touching him and looking at him just as he’s been fantasizing of for so long. It’s hot, he thinks, and while he’d be extremely reluctant to actually hit you during sex, he’s rubbing and smacking his cock against every inch of your body that he can – your face, your ass, your tits (he especially loves to rub his cum-soaked tip against your nipples, watching as they get hard and get glossy in the candlelight), your thighs, hell, even your arms.

He wants to claim every part of you, and so between covering you in his cum and the imprint of his cock, you’ll be fully and utterly his.

Spitting

Again, it’s a possessive thing – tying into his desire to mark you as his and only his, Sanemi grows a penchant for spitting. It’s something he harshly avoids when you first begin your intimate relationship, finding the act too disrespectful and frankly gross to partake in. He’s worried you’ll find it derogatory and that you’ll see him as some misogynistic freak who views you as his property.

(Which is, in some ways, ever so slightly true – he does see you as his, but it’s reciprocal. You’re his just as much as he’s yours, and if you want to think about in such a crude, black-and-white way, then yes – he sees you as his property. But he’s your property, too, if it makes you feel any better.)

And frankly, he won’t bother indulging in the kink unless you initially bring it up – he’s too tied down to this philosophy and he doesn’t want to risk you getting disgusted or turned off when he’s touching you.

But if you bring it up and use a lot of ‘please’ and compliments, Sanemi will cave.

It’s awkward the first few times, hovering over you and perched on his elbows, nose scrunching slightly because he’s not sure how to do this in a way he thinks will be sexy for you. He wants to live up to your fantasy, so he presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, collecting the saliva, before puckering his lips, letting the glob fall with a rather obnoxious noise.

Your mouth’s already open for him, tongue lightly sticking out and your eyes half-lidded with lust, and the mere sight alone makes Sanemi gulp, scared he might accidentally drool into your mouth.

(Though, perhaps you’d like that – you’re a freak, he thinks, but it still makes his cheeks feel hot, his cock jumping against your thigh, his Adam’s apple harshly bobbing.)

It’s in the moment when he watches his spit land on your tongue, pretty lips closing and the swallowing motion you make exaggerated and loud. He’ll pause, staring down at your lips in a daze, before suddenly telling you to do that again, the sight so strangely erotic that he needs to do it again and again and again.

It strokes something in his ego – some sort of feeling of dominance and claim on you, marking his territory by making sure you’ve got a little piece of him in you. Soon he’s cupping your jaw every time your clothes get stripped off, forcing your lips to open and immediately spitting onto your tongue, watching with hazy eyes and a small smirk as you obediently swallow, the sight never failing to get him even more eager to spread your legs and sink inside of you.

It gets to the point where it even becomes a non-sexual thing sometimes – it feels too good to be showing such an obvious sign of claim on you that he’ll slowly kiss you in the mornings, your soft lips and little sighs making him light-headed. He’ll pull back, his morning voice hoarse and gravely as he tells you to open up, immediately spitting into your open mouth and following it up with a few kisses against your jaw, a murmur of good morning.

He likes to start the day with it because it puts him into a good mood – a light, peaceful one, quelling the jealous, anxious worry that you’ll leave him, that you’ll be snatched up by another man, that you hate him.

And his fixation for spitting doesn’t just end at your mouth – he’ll spit onto your cunt when he’s kneeling between your legs, two thick fingers rubbing the fluid against your pretty folds, taking extra care to let it lubricate his fingertips before he presses quick, steady little circles against your clit.

He’ll spit into his own hand, coating his fingers and slowly pressing them into you, grunting at the way you gasp out and tighten impossibly around them. It’s lubrication, he thinks, and the idea of his saliva being in your pussy makes him shiver, the thought so dirty and taboo and so very good.

And he’d be happy if you wanted to return the favor – he’ll look at you expectantly, irritation evident in his gaze, before he sits down and forces you to stand over him, his own mouth open and awaiting. He likes it for all the same reasons, just reversed – he likes the idea of you wanting to stake your claim on him. He wants to feel wanted and cherished by you, and if you were to spit into his mouth it’d be direct evidence that you want him, at least in a sexual capacity.

It’s thrilling, frankly, and it leaves Sanemi eagerly swallowing, immediately attacking you with passionate, needy kisses and wandering hands that swiftly find purchase in groping at your ass.

He just thinks it’s romantic, and he’ll do everything in his power to win points with you. Anything to get you liking him more, craving him more.

BIGGEST FANTASY:

Despite holding status as both a Hashira and your captor, Sanemi is very, very shy about asking you for any sort of deviation in the bedroom. It’s a combination of things that hold him back – fear of rejection, mainly, but also embarrassment because he’s worried that you’ll think he’s strange for wanting to try certain things.

Namely, Sanemi desperately, desperately wants you to sit on his face.

He has no sexual experience and hadn’t even been aware this was an option until he’d accidentally overheard a conversation between Uzui and a (very uncomfortable) Giyuu, and while he’s ashamed to admit it he’d stuck around, eavesdropping just around the corner as Giyuu asked the older man what exactly that meant (only to very quickly regret it, his cheeks flushing a light pink and not even bothering to make up an excuse as he hurried away).

It’s where the woman sits down on the man’s face, giving him better access to pleasure her with his mouth! It’s quite flashy, and a good view, too.

Sanemi had been flustered at his words, too, but had spent the whole day struggling to get the thought out of his head. Fantasies about eating you out and making you fall apart with just his tongue and fingers had long been circling through his head, keeping him up at night and forcing him to wrap calloused fingers around his cock, holding the scrap of fabric from your kimono he’d managed to snag between his teeth, groaning and growling at the mere thought of what you taste like.

But this?

This is risqué, vulgar, perhaps even crude – and something he grows more and more antsy to try with each passing day, unable to stop his gaze from lingering on your thighs, biting his lip and imagining the way they’d feel around his head.

He generally likes sexual positions and scenarios where you’re getting most of the pleasure, genuinely getting off on the idea of being useful to you in the bedroom. And he finds the idea of being so surrounded by you – his sight, his hearing, his taste, his smell – enticing, loving the idea that he gets to spoil you by working at you for hours and letting you ride his face, all the while getting to indulge himself in all things you.

And he truly wants you to use him – he wants you to grind your hips against the expanse of his tongue, to let your clit press against his nose and hump at it. He wants his entire lips, chin, and cheeks to be smeared with your release, to have it seep into his skin and soak in so that he has a piece of you with him always, a reminder that you let him touch you, pleasure you, that you want him.

“Are you sure about this, ‘Nemi?” You ask, biting your lip and watching as he scowls. He’s laying down in front of you, clothes thrown off to some other part of the room and his cock already half-hard, flushed a deep pink color.

He’s cocking his brow at you, embarrassment creeping up his spine. He knew you’d find this weird – stupid Tengen, giving out stupid advice.

“Yes, hurry up!” He snaps, swallowing and looking away for a moment to collect himself. Excitement and anxiety eat away at his stomach. He’s surprised you’d agreed to this, given the way he’d very haphazardly and defensively presented the idea. He’s pleased, of course, but now there’s that familiar self-imposed pressure to make sure that he preforms perfectly, that you enjoy every minute of it, that you’ll be satisfied and happy with his performance.

When you still don’t move, his scowl morphs into a frown. He opens his mouth to speak, to reluctantly tell you that you don’t have to unless you want to, but your small nod and footsteps towards him snap his jaw back up.

He’s practically brimming with anticipation, fists clenched at his sides.

You step over him, slowly kneeling down and standing on your knees. You’re hesitating, shuffling forward but scared to lower yourself those last few inches, and Sanemi grumbles underneath you.

“I don’t fucking bite,” he starts, hands coming up to grip at the plush of your thighs. He guides you up further, moving you forward and forward until your cunt’s directly above him, a shaky exhale brushing against the sensitive skin of your folds and making you shiver.

“Now just sit down.” He tells you, squeezing his fingers as if imploring you to just do as he says. You lower down but still leave most of your weight on your own legs.

He inhales deeply, the sound filling the room and making you blanche, embarrassment eating away at you. Sanemi groans at the scent of you, the familiar musk making his cock throb even harder against the confines of his pants.

He’s slow when he starts – kitten licks against your clit and large, flat licks along your folds. His eyes are fixed on you’re the whole time, staring and transfixed, trying to note every minute, small change in your expression.

He’s steadily tonguing at your clit now, and a moan rips its way out of you before you can really stop it. Closing your eyes, you focus on the feeling of his tongue against you, his fingers pressing against your thighs, the brush of his hair against your bare skin.

But then he’s suddenly grabbing onto the globes of your ass, pulling you down down down –

“Sanemi!” You gasp, the sensation so much stronger now that you’re flush with his face. He’s using his strength to pull you down – muscles flexing in an effort to keep you still and exactly where he wants you.

Lilac eyes stare up at you half-lidded, the taste of you clouding his senses and leaving him eagerly licking for more, slurping at you with lewd sounds that only serve to get him harder and harder.

Soon your stationary position isn’t enough, though, and he’s guiding your hips in a forwards-backwards motion, effectively grinding you against his lips and noise. Your breath catches as the action and Sanemi swears he sees stars – you’re so damn pretty, and Tengen had been right about the view. He can see your face, feel your thighs around his head, and see your pretty tits from up close.

He’s gripping onto you so tightly that you can’t even try to break the control he has over your movements – he’s pulling you across his face in a rhythm that makes your breath stutter and your hands blindly reach out to steady yourself on anything nearby. It ends up being the wall in front of you, both palms laying flat against the paneling as you pant and sigh his name. His nose is pressing against your clit, the sensation only causing you to shake as he slowly builds up your orgasm.

He pulls away for the smallest moment, licking his lips and squeezing your ass even harder, kneading at your cheeks and spreading them apart from one another. “Use me, ride my face.”

You blanch at his words, doubt settling in your chest, but at the insistent tug of your cunt back down onto his face, you can only shakily sigh, taking his advice and slowly starting to gyrate your hips. The response is immediate – a groan of satisfaction from Sanemi, his tongue efforts doubling as you control the pace, smearing your cunt against his skin and feeling like you’re suffocating him.

He’s in heaven, meanwhile, tasting you with a fervor and lightly bucking his hips, the phantom ghost of your touch through his clothing making his mind spin. You’re so damn pretty and perfect and lovely and when you’re using his face like your own personal pillow to hump and fuck, how can he complain?

He can’t, which is why he’s groaning equally as loudly as you when you reach your high a few minutes later, your shakes and shivers against his skin leaving him drooling at the sight of your back arching, tits jutting out and your thighs clenching even tighter around himself. You’re so attractive like this – all sexy and adorable even when he’s doing such filthy things to you, and it’s the sight and knowledge that he’s the one making you feel this good – that it’s his face and tongue and cheeks and body – that are getting you to violently jerk and moan his name, fresh rounds of slick dripping against his tongue and making him groan tightly against you.

And you’ll be able to tell just how much the mental and physical pictures affected him because once he’s had his share – pulling four or five orgasms out of you with just this method – there’s a distinct wet spot over his trousers, seeping across the fabric and leaving everything thick and warm with cum.

But don’t worry – there’s plenty more where that came from that he’d love to you.

Plenty.

Bad Decisions

was meant to be a drabble inspired by the opening of It Follows and it turned into something a lot longer than I expected sorry if it’s trash

Warnings: kidnapping, noncon, dubcon, death

The waves of the ocean lazily lapped at the sandy shore, the water hitting you every time the tide came in. The stereotypical image of a beach that had crossed your mind when you’d thought of this destination, one of a deep blue sea on golden sands, was nowhere to be found. Instead, the waves were black, reflecting the dark, empty sky above. The only light source in your vicinity was that of the car parked behind you, keys left in the ignition so you could keep the headlights on. You sat in the middle of that spotlight, hugging your knees to your chest as the water continued to hit you, soaking your feet and the seat of your shorts, leaving the fabric feeling cold and heavy on your body.

It was as though the waves were trying to pull you in, to take you into the abyss that sat before you, where you could disappear into its depths and never be found again.

The waves came rushing up, hitting you once more and then pulling away, tempting you with the same offer as they had been since you arrived.

“You’re wrong,” you whispered, “he’d still find me.”

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Baby’s Hooked On Feeling Low

💌Yandere!Pro-Hero!Shinso Hitoshi x F!Reader💌

9k words

Written for everyone who voted Shinso on my poll :) title from this song

Summary: 

You just can’t help yourself sometimes. Luckily, your favourite pro-hero is here to do it for you.

TWs for: Rape | Noncon, suicide, sexual harassment, alcohol use

Tags:

Gradual yandere, shinso is a closet yandere for most of this but its a lil obvious 😳, reader really likes shinso, pussy eating, cat adoption, two kinds of pussy in this fic, romance, yes it is a travis scott song wtf r u gonna do abt it

(a/n) i really like shinso 😩 writing him as a yandere is lowkey hard because i see him as such FINE boyfriend material

———

He’s your favourite pro-hero. A few of your friends have never heard of him but you don’t care. He works in silence, subtly, nobly refusing the attention he would get for his work had he perhaps been a bit flashier, a bit bolder. He’s all about helping the underdog, understanding why people commit crimes and cutting it off at the roots.

The most you really see of him online- when you’re not on fan-forums or the local news- is long posts of people detailing all the things that he’s done and talking about how he deserves more recognition.

“Shinso’s so underrated!” They say. “He’s volunteering, he actually works with the police to make sure people don’t reoffend!” - followed by a few rare gifs of him in action.

But yet, he stays off the top ten. The teens, even. He collaborates when he needs to, and gives his teammates a leg up on surpassing others on the billboard by allowing them to take the credit.

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𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐈, 𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐈, 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐈 ♛

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. gladiator!Sukuna x princess!Reader, historical AU – ancient rome, misogyny, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, eventual smut [MDNI], degrádation, power play (?), bondáge, chöking, hair-pulling, overstimulátion, dácryphilia, fíngering, cünnilingus, tït súcking, knîfe play, cūm eating, full nelson, outdoor sêx, table sêx, balcony sêx, pool sêx, angry sêx, size difference, breêding, unprotected sêx, multiple örgasms, gröping, pet names, TL;DR: Sukuna can't keep it in his freaking pants

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 18.9k 💀

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. i <3 a good ancient rome fic, but please don’t be alarmed by the wc—the first two acts are boring (but necessary) world-building + plot and whatnot, but the third act’s where things get GOOD, iykwim // available on ao3 // dividers by @uzmacchiato

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈.

This was bound to happen sooner or later.

Well, with being raised so near the emperor’s circle of friends and family, you had never been exactly shielded from death and despair, per se; and, let’s be honest, attending a gladiators’ game in the Colosseum was practically fate.

During the times of Ancient Rome, you had an . . . uncommon upbringing, to say the least. Abandoned as a mere newborn, you were taken in by none other than the emperor and his wife, who failed to have any real children of their own. Growing up, they treated you like a daughter they never had, and gave you a life of endless prosperity and luxuries. Your bedroom—decorated and gilded in gold; your closet—always stocked and more ornate than even the average noblewoman’s; and your life—full of only the highest expectations.

Despite coming from a pitifully low background and rising to such a rank that made your peers during schooling envious, you learned some much needed qualities such humility and humbleness. Well, you were practically everything but a princess, after all. You lived in the palace with the emperor and empress, but you weren’t royal by blood. Sure, you were noble; and your time was mostly taken up by serving the empress as her lady-in-waiting, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Life was pleasant like this.

You enjoyed serving the empress who took you under her wing, and found no difficulty in assisting with her day-to-day tasks. Dressing, accompanying, running errands. It was simple; there was never a rush for you.

Today was no different.

With the radiating, beaming sun blinding civilians with no mercy—from merchants, to nobles, to plebeians—the star did not leave a single mortal untouched or unaffected.The cruel rays shining upon skin glistening with sweat and hair tousled and unruly only displayed each spectator’s discomfort as the minutes rolled past and the gladiators had still yet to enter the amphitheater.

Fanning yourself, as you sat high above the stands beside the empress, you couldn’t help but express your wonder, turning your head ever so slightly to meet her eyes. “How long does Your Imperial Majesty think we will have to wait?”

“Child, how many times will I have to make myself clear? Such formalities between us are hardly ever necessary,” the woman—clothed in a purple stola—scolded, replying with a maternal smile. “But, to answer your question,” she began, clearing her throat, “I figure . . . not so long. You know how men can be: adjusting their armor, fixing their hair, getting stage-fright. It’s all the same to me. How can one worry about their appearance when it’s plausible their blood will just be splattered along the arena in the end?”

You pretended to laugh at her disposition.

Contrary to popular belief, the empress was a nice woman; an understanding woman; someone who ruled alongside her husband with equal—if not rivaling—authority and a scholar’s intellect. You occasionally thought of her as someone practically born to lead, and after spending your whole life in the palace, you’ve grown accustomed to the fact that, while the face of the empire was usually imagined to be the emperor’s, it was not seldom that the empress was the one pulling additional strings behind the stage.

Misogyny is a nasty prejudice, and if it weren’t for the way things were, you had no doubt in standing behind the idea that the empress would be just as great of a prominent ruler as those who had come before her husband.

Of course, even with being such a morally virtuous person, the empress was born into royalty, and had never served someone a day of her life; and alongside being surrounded in endless luxury, comes the inevitable quality of aporophobia. The woman wasn’t as cruel as most, however; yes, she looked with disdain at poverty and unfortunate souls, but didn’t turn a blind eye, no.

She cracked jokes at, made fun of, and used people of lower rank for her own amusement, but it was all “harmless,” as she called it, similar to having a jester in one’s court. Even while mocking those she deemed helpless and lowly, she never failed to grant them whatever resources they requested when visiting her throne. You may have heard of kindness without honesty and honesty without kindness, but kindness with neither honesty nor humility? Strange. 

Well, don’t start getting the wrong idea now. The empress could be with preconceptions, but she was a charming woman within retrospect.

Before the empress could poke fun at any more people, the Colesseum’s spectators suddenly burst into roars and bellows and yells as the appointed gladiators of the first match entered the arena. 

Two men. Both of adequate height—no less than six feet, you assumed. But, were they slaves? you wondered. No. No, they were too muscular for that. Oh, well, then again, that quality may have been from manual labour and other work of the like. Although the naked eye failed—from how high up your seats were—to see a real difference, you could still tell one of the fighters was shorter than the other, from the length and distribution of their shadows.

The taller competitor, with a reddish-brown beard and deformed knees, caught the interest of the woman beside you, and she turned to whisper (albeit poorly) in your ear and laugh about his disagreeable features.

“I heard his name was . . . Remus, or something. But, if you asked me,” the empress laughed, “I would say he was nothing but a damn fool—a fool disgracing the name of the God of War’s son.”

You met her eyes, which seemed to almost glow beneath the sun. “You suppose he will lose?”

“Suppose?” she repeated, tossing coins into a betting pool as if it were impossible for her to be wrong. “Don’t make me laugh.”

The other fighter—the shorter one—held a gloomy expression on his face, and didn’t look a day over twenty. A slave; competing for a chance at freedom? It wasn’t so far-fetched.

The referees were soon called to their positions, the armed combatants took their stances, and the munera commenced.

Swords met, shields resisted attacks, and little to no blood was drawn. Again, and again, and again. The crowds booed, raised their voices, and expressed their boredom and utter disappointment like spoiled children; it made your ears hurt, and you chewed at your bottom lip in agonizing anticipation of what was to come of these poor men. But, nevertheless, the show had to go on.

Even with the fierce sun, and beads of sweat accumulating on just about everyone’s foreheads, the fighters regained their positions and began anew—this time, with more violence.

The shorter man looked as if he finally realized he could turn his life around if victory was his and started to hold the hilt of his sword with gathering excitement rather than fear. Stabs cut through the air, piercing absolutely nobody, and consecutive gasps erupted within the stands as suspense arose alongside the growing lust for blood.

Both men lunged forward consecutively, throwing jabs at the other, just to fail and jump back, before trying again.

With the heavy toll of labour dealing on each competitor’s body and soul, they both looked equally older compared to how they actually were on the records. The fight was nothing if not unpleasant. More often than not, according to the empress, gladiatorial games were always more entertaining when the combatants were more . . . manly. Or, masculine? Attractive? All the same.

And, anyway, you couldn’t exactly deny Her Imperial Majesty’s claims. For, even as you remained with a neutral expression on your face, you couldn’t help but cast side-glances at the figures of the gladiators. Muscular, but . . . not muscular in a lovely way. Their faces were dirty, cheeks hollow, and hands grimy. It seemed like the exertion on their bodies would be more of a morality cause than how hopeless their fight was continuing to be.

Even with the increase of energy and work being infused into the swords’ clashing and shields’ refuting, only a few minutes had passed and you already began to grow bored, waiting for the moment the fight would be either called off or a more formidable opponent would be brought into the arena. A bull, for instance.

It wasn’t until a rock—thrown by a spectator in the stands—landed just beside the left foot of the taller fighter with a thudding sound that, for a second, the man froze, either confused or unable to decide on what to do, and his opponent wasted not a second more before moving in for an attack.

The blade of a gladius pierced the taller competitor on the side of his abdomen, and his sword dropped onto the floor with a dull sound, seemingly filled with a sense of inevitable defeat, as the man himself fell soon after, his body landing prone beside his weapon. The sight was almost poetic, and even the empress found it in herself to let out a little gasp (despite her early confidence in the outcome).

The arena went silent. Utterly silent.

Would the referees consider foul play? Spectator interference? Everyone wondered, and eyes moved from one man to another to try and figure out the decided outcome of the match.

You only noticed how clammy your hands had gotten throughout the climax of the match when you followed the example of other spectators to rise in ovation and break out into plaudits and hollers after the shorter fighter was finally announced victorious. Letting out a breath you did not know you were holding, you wiped the sweat off your palms at the fabric of your palla.

The gods were not on the taller man’s side this day, for, the fate of the match was due to two factors. A) the rock was interference, yes, but it was neither an advantage nor a disadvantage for either of the competitors. Since, according to the spectators, both of them could’ve been affected by it; the taller man just happened to be frozen while the other gained consciousness. And, B) any one of them could’ve stood still, but, perhaps, the taller one really was as stupid as he looked.

The empress told you both men were, in fact, slaves, and that you had been correct in your assumption. But, you had no reason to celebrate, for you felt pity for the fallen; but, anyhow, death would’ve come sooner or later to him. The rest of his life would’ve been spent bending over machines and gathering hay and tending to cattle.

On the other hand, fortunately for those hard of hearing, the applause died down more swiftly than the end of the fight came, and most spectators had already begun to seat themselves back down when the victorious competitor exited with his treasures, and two new combatants entered, instantly silencing any other leftover noise.

Their names were announced, but you could not pick up a single syllable, for, only a millisecond after, the crowds had once again broken into loud cheers and yells; these competitors were apparently not ordinary gladiators. Probably well-known, or excellent fighters, is what you assumed.

Although their match had yet to begin, the second pair of fighters were already visibly sweating beneath their heavy armor and shields.

Now, from the height of your seat, you could not distinguish which of the men were taller, but you could easily set their countenances apart.

The silver-haired one carried himself with an elegant, almost prince-like gait, and his eyes shone like the beautiful waters of the Mediterranean Sea under the rays of the glaring sun. His lips—thin and pink—occasionally formed into a taunting smile or flashed his pearly whites at swooning women in the stands. He was particularly attractive, and despite yourself, you found the act of looking at him rather enjoyable.

His eyes raised above the crowd of spectators for a moment, before meeting the emperor’s in a friendly fashion. Then, flitting to the side, he gave a small acknowledgement to the empress. And then, finally, to you. His eyes met yours with a flirty ulterior motive and he smiled an almost boyish smile, but you couldn’t deny the fact your cheeks seemed to warm at the sight of his brief greeting and acknowledgement before he turned back to evaluate the crowd with squinted eyes (courtesy of the overly sunny weather).

Clearing your throat and settling the ridiculous thumping of your heart, you sat up in your seat and, ignoring the teasing remarks of the empress, your eyes moved over to take a look at the other gladiator.

He was . . . perhaps, the complete opposite of the silver-haired one.

A total brute, if you did say so yourself. Pink, rosy hair. Defined muscles. A sharp nose and pierced ears. He had the arms and legs of a high-ranking Roman soldier, and, even from how high up you were, or how blinding the sun was, you could still clearly tell his chest would be just as chiseled as the rest of him. He was, without a doubt, a piece of eye-candy if you had ever seen one. But, what intrigued you most about him, were his tattoos. Inky, black markings that circled around his wrists, thighs, and decorated his already daunting face.

You had been staring at him for a while when you felt the intimidation of his piercing gaze meeting your figure up in the stands, seemingly having taken notice of your ogling. Sinking back down in your seat, your body squirmed nervously and awkwardly under his unforgiving stare, as if you were trying to escape his sights. 

You couldn’t understand the meaning for your very sudden and growing embarrassment for having been caught, and you pretended to avert your focus elsewhere. But minute after minute continued to pass by, and you could still feel the pair of crimson eyes burning holes at the side of your head.

Like a child finally succumbing to the scolding of their parents, you turned back to face the gladiator, and, like you imagined, he had not moved his eyes off of you for even a second. His lips were sealed in a thin line, and the expression on his face, emphasized by his seemingly bored eyes, displayed nothing but want and desire. Was it want and desire to exit the arena? Or, want and desire to avoid throwing his life away in a gladiatorial game? You could not decide on an answer.

Your eyes wandered downwards, and landed upon the pink-haired brute’s weapon of choice. He had a gladius, like most fighters of munera, but it was . . . different, in possibly the most subtle way.

A ruby lay clear as day in the dead center of his capulus—the hilt of his sword. The color unmistakably matched up with the shade of the sword’s master’s eyes, and you couldn’t help but flicker your gaze from one to the other.

The only event that managed to take your attention off of the man and his blade, was the empress, who interrupted your focus and leaned in to whisper in your ear. “What do you look at so intently, my dear?” she questioned, before waving her hand in dismissal. “Never mind; look over there. Yes, right there. Do you see that man? The pink-haired fighter?”

You nodded.

“His name is Ryoumen Sukuna, but you must know, most people have started calling him King of the Colosseum.”

“Sukuna? King of the Colosseum?”

The woman ignored your growing curiosity, and moved on to other subjects. “He’s a fine one—personal favorite of the emperor, you know. Lovely physique, an agreeable countenance, and boundless skill in a match to the death. I hear his streak of victories has not ended since he began gladiating all the way back since he was twenty.”

“How old is he now?” you asked, your desperation for information on the man growing second by second.

“Six-and-twenty? I could not tell you, darling.”

While you and the empress conversed, whispering about the combatants behind ring-adorned hands which covered your mouths (to avoid any scandal which could arouse from lip-reading), the match began and the gladiators took their designated positions before plunging head-first into battle.

Sukuna swung his blade up in the air with one quick movement before bringing it back down to strike the silver-haired gladiator in either the neck or the back of his head. But the man seemed to have guess the intention for that attack, and side-stepped away. Which, for the most part, probably would have left Sukuna to deliver a useless blow to the sands and allow his opponent an open opportunity, but it was clear to even the lowest of the lows that he was far from inexperienced with the blade.

He neither tarried nor let his mistake take the best of him, and moved to retract his weapon quicker than how the other fighter escaped it.

Blow after blow was delivered by both men, and no visible cuts or injuries were inflicted on either of the two.

Despite none of the fighters being able to land a successful hit on the other, their fails were only due to the fact that their skill was matched, and that no matter how many party tricks or ploys or schemes they had up their sleeves (or, in this case, manicas), neither one of them could fool the other. Well, at least, not for too long.

Even with the lack of blood, the spectators were still kept entertained and satisfied from the number of impressive and, to the naked eye, seemingly humanly impossible dangerous attacks.

You had noticed, after a few attempted blows—all resisted from the usage of shields, that, what looked like to be mere strategy, was probably something more on the lines of technique. Sukuna’s technique, to be clear.

With the advantage of his height nearly always towering over his opponents, Sukuna subconsciously developed, over time, a habit of striking over-head. And, with arms like his, it was no trouble for him, at all, to lift up an iron blade and do such a thing. Sukuna frequently swung his gladius and struck at the side of the silver-haired fighter’s head, which was usually blocked by the opponent’s shield, or avoided by the said opponent ducking and subsequently swiping at Ryoumen’s legs.

It was overly facetious. Too facetious, actually—for a duel that would only result in death and horror.

If it wasn’t obvious before, you were not at all a fan of gladiatorial games. No, not even in the slightest. You looked upon the thought of unnecessary murder serving the sole purpose of entertainment for all civilians ranging from plebeians to nobility to royalty with disgust and disdain. Watching two men fighting in a ring—sometimes blindfolded, sometimes with no weapons save for their hands (which are dangerous enough)—was ridiculous. Or, that’s what you thought.

See, you wouldn’t have even been present at the current gladiator fight had it not been for the coercing of the empress, who, according to her, needed you by her side, since her husband would be seated at a separate stand (for reasons you did not know). But honestly, now that you were both watching two men stab and jab at each other, it seemed to be the other way around.

The empress was enjoying herself to the fullest, while you, on the other hand, were horrified; and that was saying a lot, considering you had seen warfare since your adolescence.

“Getting bored?” the empress asked, getting your attention amidst the cheering of the crowds.

You shook your head, exiting your train of thought. “Not at all.”

The woman looked at you tenderly, and touched your cheek with her cold fingers. “Cannot say I’m surprised. Ryoumen certainly knows how to put on a show for a woman he deems rather oculorum captans.¹”

¹ Eye-catching.

You pretended not to understand whom that was directed to. “Is that . . . why he has yet to deliver an ending blow?”

“Oh, nonsense. The man’s a flirt, yes, but he would never let fraternizing stand in the way of a victory. It’s impossible. Gojo is just, perhaps, the only gladiator who could ever rival him.”

At learning of the silver-haired fighter’s name, you let your eyes briefly return to the match. Blood had now managed to have been drawn, and both of the blade-wielding beasts had now sustained injuries on their triceps. You thought yourself a lucky one to have missed witnessing how that came about, and turned back to meet the empress’s eyes while yells continued to erupt within several sections of the arena.

“Will it continue going on like this?” you asked, gesturing to the missed blows and endless clanks of shields. “It seems the men could only die from exhaustion now.”

The empress offered you a strange smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

“How do you mean?”

“This won’t be their last match. They’ll have a draw, and the editor will enable the defeated to live another day. But only for the sake of another match to take place soon after.” The woman said everything like it was a declaration, and not an assumption or probability. It made you uneasy, in a way.

“. . .Another match?” you repeated. “What ever for?”

“A gladiator match is a spectacle—it’s a source of entertainment. How will the crowds be entertained when their favorite gladiator is killed in a common, ordinary game? A game succeeding two slaves, more or less,” she added, snorting.

“So, they’ll be kept alive?”

“For another match, id est verum;² it will take place before the festival of Vulcan. It will be, by far, the greatest gladiator match ever seen by the people of Rome. Now, I cannot spoil too many details, but, all I can reveal is, expect the unexpected.”

² That is correct.

And, just as the empress had said, the match between the silver-haired gladiator and Ryoumen Sukuna was declared a draw soon after your conversation with the woman, as decided by the editor. This decision not only satisfied spectators on both rooting sides and caused an uproar of hollers, but also guaranteed an adequately sized and enthusiastic audience for the final and tie-breaking match of the year, which was, clearly, going to be the event looked forward to for the rest of the month.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈.

You were beginning to think the most crucial detail someone has ever failed to tell you was how the last man you wanted to see right now was good friends with the emperor—pals, even! Which was great, just great.

“I know you would rather die from scaphism,” said the man, as he plucked a grape from a bowl, “but you can at least try and act like you’re enjoying this instead of standing there like a sulky child.”

Ryoumen Sukuna, a proud, formidable opponent in the arena—widely known as the King of the Colosseum, continued to be a haunting presence in your life even after his match ended with a draw two weeks ago. It was embarrassing enough that you could break so easily under his stare, and that, in addition, he knew that—just as well as you did (if not better). But to have him roam around the palace? While you were living there? Mallem mori.³

³ You would rather die.

The pink-haired man held favor from the emperor, since it seemed they knew each other even before the younger began a career in dueling, and alongside their acquaintance, came the event of Sukuna’s frequent visits to the palace. It had been a fortnight since the last munera, and you had already seen the beast of a man a total of fourteen times. It was like he knew he was tormenting you.

And, gods, it was absolutely childish how much you began to loathe the color red ever since. Time and time again, the appearance of Ryoumen Sukuna was continuously marked by either a ruby-adorned weapon lazily left around the premises, or a red cloak whipping through the air as you (in that scenario) would be staring at his broad back with a bitter taste in your mouth, while deciding whether to walk away or to dig a hole in the ground and die away like a hobbit.

Red was like a bad omen for you.

Wherever it was, you could bet a hundred horses that Sukuna would turn up sooner or later.

Now, normally, if the emperor invited friends over, you would not mind—no, not even in the slightest; for, from all the years you spent kissing the asses of royals who you came across, you had learned to blend in with high society. But, with Sukuna, it was different. You couldn’t keep your cool around him; seeing him always left you heavily bothered.

Even when you first met him (or, saw him, actually; because you two never formally introduced yourselves)—even then, you failed to stay calm and composed. Was it his eyes? Or his looks, in general? He was attractive—very attractive, tu non mentior,⁴ but, was that really all there was to it? You refused to face a man solely because you deemed him unbelievably good-looking?

⁴ You could not lie.

No, that wasn’t it. Well, that was part of it, but it wasn’t all. You couldn’t stand being in the same room as Ryoumen Sukuna because—because you were afraid of him. I mean, c’mon, you’re dragged along to watch a gladiator match (and, mind you, you despise unnecessary murder), and then you lock eyes with a man who looks like he could tear the entire empire apart with his bare hands, and now you have to act friendly with him? At least, in front of the emperor and empress? You had every right to avoid him at any chance you got.

And, not only that, but, aside from his frequent—almost annoyingly frequent—visits, he always held the same damn look on his face. Red, crimson eyes that looked at you like an animal would its prey; it was like, every opportunity received, Sukuna would size you up, as if envisioning as many ways possible he could kill you just like he does his opponents. But, fuck, his eyes were your weakness.

Staring through your soul like he wanted something, and in a way that made it seem as if he knew every thought that went through your head, including your fear of him—and imagining how he could exploit said fear like the cruel brute he was.

The empress and her husband wanted you two to get along, but you just couldn’t do it. No matter how hard you tried, you could never meet those bewitchingly crimson eyes with an emotion lacking hostility.

“I am not sulking,” came your reply, moments later.

“Yeah? Then, why are you just standing in the corner of the court like someone in time-out?”

His laugh made your blood boil, and you couldn’t help but cross your arms over your chest, scowling with your eyes facing away like a scolded child. How could he stand there, looking at you with those same red eyes, and act like nothing was the matter? Of course, something was the matter! Otherwise, you wouldn’t be on the verge of throwing yourself into a bush of thorny roses.

The emperor and the missus had left the two of you in the gardens, because, according to them, they had some “business” to attend to, and thought you would be eligible enough to be able to give the guest a tour of the terrace and the courtyard which stretched beyond it. That was a grave mistake on their part, for Sukuna was right, you really would rather die than speak with the man for more than a few minutes.

“Has it ever occured to you that not everyone enjoys your presence?” you spat out, finally having mustered up the courage to approach Sukuna from your little hiding spot.

Your steps were slow, languid, but the pink-haired brute saw them as nothing short of flirtatious. In fact, when you were just a foot away, he took it upon himself to close the distance between you two, staring down at your figure with that same enigmatic look in his eyes.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you.”

“And you’ve got quite the nerve showing up here as often as you do.” You narrowed your eyes. “Tell me, what is your purpose for coming here, anyway?”

Sukuna laughed—a cold, cruel, taunting laugh. “Can a man not step foot in his future palace?” But, when he noticed the confusion evident on your face, he smiled grimly, before taking you arm-in-arm. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

It was more of an order, if anything, but with the strength he used to pull your arm into his, and with the intimidatingly imperiling energy practically radiating off his body, you did not refuse his subtle coercion to take a stroll around the gardens, (especially since his gladius was still strapped in its harness).

Taking a slow pace, the two of you walked arm-in-arm around the various bushes, plants, trees, and vineyards that surrounded the estate. While making your way around the scenic landscape, Sukuna, in a low voice, began to speak.

He told you of his imprisonment, and how, for four years, he had been idly rotting away in a cell, before his persecutors decided to finally end his life and throw him in an arena. Sukuna did not attend any schooling for gladiators, and was untrained. When he first stepped foot in the Colosseum, almost everyone thought he was to die. But, miraculously, he, instead, survived. His first match, he won. His second match, he won.

The officials kept throwing him into munera, and every single time, he came out undefeated. Sukuna was a criminal since birth, but when he made a career as a gladiator (albeit against his will), he quickly made a name for himself. Ryoumen Sukuna rose in fame and fortune—not only for his skill when it came to swordsmanship, but also for his looks. The man may have been a notorious criminal, but he was a fan-favorite when it came to the ladies.

It was as if the gods regarded Ryoumen as their champion, seeing as they granted him victory through every editor that oversaw his matches.

With each gladiatorial game that passed, Sukuna’s opponents only grew tougher and tougher, which, mind you, never proved a problem. The man’s prizes and incentives for surviving the arena increased with each match, and Sukuna’s wealth grew in unmistakable abundance, surpassing even the fortune of an average nobleman.

When Sukuna was but a boy, he never dreamed of a life in the Colosseum; but in this realm, one either wins or loses. The Parcae wait for no man, and mortals of all ages and all walks of life know one thing: Vincere aut mori.⁵

⁵ Conquer or die.

“Each time I unsheath my blade,” Sukuna began, stopping just before an olive tree, “I do not know whether I will breathe for another night. But the higher-ups in this empire are all but damn fools. The last match, right before we celebrate Vulcan, will determine everything. If I kill Satoru Gojo, my name will live on long after my life’s end. If I die by his trident (the weapon my silver-haired rival wields) . . .” His voice trailed off.

“That’s not a possibility I’m against,” you interjected.

“Very funny.” Sukuna turned to look down at you. “For that’s a possibility that simply will not happen.”

“What, don’t tell me you’ve consulted an oracle or something of the sort?”

The pink-haired man laughed in your face; it was cruel and unsounding. “You dare doubt my victory, woman?”

“I doubt everything when it comes to you.”

Your stroll around the palace gardens came to a sudden end, as Sukuna roughly pulled you by the shoulders and placed you both to stand face-to-face. His expression was dark, and his tone inhumane. “Listen, and listen well, girl. The emperor offers me a prize I cannot reject. If I win my most anticipated match yet, he will bestow upon me—by the power vested by the gods above—whatever it is I please.”

You couldn’t help but interrupt once more, your curiosity getting the best of you. “You mean to tell me, you’ll ask for the empire? Is that what you mean by ‘future palace?’”

“I won’t ask for the empire. No, my prize will be something far greater. And when I get it, the empire will soon fall into my hands as easily as it was for you to fall into mine.”

“So, that’s all it is that you want? The empire?”

Sukuna leaned down to meet your eyes, his stare burning holes through your flesh. “I want control.”

“Well, let me tell you something, sir,” you began, coolly, whilst taking a step backwards with each word you spoke, “you won’t find that here.”

But when you were just about to exit the garden, and finally get the fuck away from the brute of a man you called Sukuna, you could just barely hear him utter—with that sensuously slow voice of his—five words, that seemed to stick with you even after you left the premises. “Oh, I don’t intend to.”

It was as if you had pushed your luck far too much for the gods’ pleasure, and now, they were giving you something along the lines of a punishment.

Even after Sukuna’s visits changed from daily, to every other day, to weekly, and then, to nothing but a faint memory of the past, his voice never left your head, like a deity putting a certain thought or belief or action into a mortal’s mind. It was overbearing, and you couldn’t draw the line between delusion and reality.

When you set off to fetch herbs for, say, preparing baths or something of the like, Ryoumen’s cold, dark voice, which practically dripped with malice, seemed to follow you every way you went. Feeling a hand perch on your shoulder always had you shuddering, whether it was a trick of the mind or an action actually done by someone else. Entertaining yourself with the playing of an instrument—you preferred the cithara⁶—degressed from a pastime to a new torture method. Between picking strings and producing melodies, came the haunting face of Ryoumen Sukuna, which proved more of a distraction rather than a stimulation, seeing as dissonance and incorrect, out-of-tune notes were the only sounds played.

⁶ An instrument.

You knew that you were in your right mind when you first met the fact that you avoided the man for being afraid of him, but only now, were you finding yourself validated by the shivers you got from the mere thought of him appearing. Somnus was not a god of your favor; your dreams—more like nightmares, it seemed—only filled you with more despair each time you arose in a cold sweat.

It was unfair how much of an effect the beast had on you.

Alas, your hopes of freedom were for naught.

Another fortnight passed, and it had now been a total of thirty days since you last spectated a gladiator match. You were neither surprised nor anxious when the empress dragged you along to another match at the Colosseum (by then, you had realized it was practically fate), but what you were astonished to see, however, was the sight of fires which blazed unwaveringly before you.

It was evening; the arena was lit up with several immensely-sized bonfires, whilst the air darkened with the amount of smoke flying up to the clouds above; the stands were decorated in tapestries and other displays of insignias; and the crowds bustled and roared with uncontrollable excitement and an unquenchable lust for blood.

The emperor sat in his respected box—the cubiculum—with his lions beside him, while you and the empress sat in the Imperial Box opposite to his.

The night was young, and the winds—smelling of the fragrant incense being burned—lashed and whipped unforgivably at your plaited updo and thin clothing. Even with the bright, old stars beaming down at the gold of your jewelry, your eyes shone downwards, covered ever so slightly by the veil you wore atop your head. You did not want to watch this match, but, despite the fact, you neither declined nor pressed for complaints when the empress ordered for your accompanying presence at the amphitheater.

“My child,” was what she began with, before saying, “the Parcae.”

It was short, it was simple, and yet it had the same effect on you that it would have—had her selection of words been more compious.

Fate called you.

There was no doubt in that.

For, when you found your seat in the arena . . . There it was again. That same piercing gaze delivered your way, and that same intimidated reaction you experienced. Like prey having been caught in its predator’s trap. A shiver ran up your spine at the feeling of two red, crimson eyes staring right back at you, and you worked arduously to ignore his unmistakable stare, using turning to the side and facing a neighbor or digging in your bag as an excuse to escape making eye contact.

Ryoumen Sukuna had entered through the Gate of Life, (as did all gladiators of the time), and if the growing rowdiness of the crowds hadn’t brought you to that attention, the sudden chill in the air would.

Gojo Satoru’s entrance into the Colosseum followed soon after, and you bit your lip at the memory of the last time you met his sea-blue eyes. It was distant, long-past, but you liked to think about it every now and then; sometimes when you dipped your fingers into similarly-colored waters, or, when the clouds rained and thundered over the empire.

Familiarity breeds contempt, but you did not know the silver-haired gladiator like you feared his crimson-eyed opponent. Fear is power. Power is love.

“Dearie,” called the woman dressed in ornate fabrics, as she placed a hand on your knee, “do quit the shaking of your leg. If the sight of blood brings about your nerves, we can always have someone over to cover your eyes with a palm branch when the time comes. I am not mistaken, corrigere?⁷”

⁷ Correct.

“No, Empress, I appreciate your kindness, but,” you paused, casting your eyes downward, “there will be no need. I can assure you that, blood hardly disturbs me in the slightest. I am just . . .” Your voice trailed off, your fingertips grazing the folds of your palla. “I wonder who will survive this evening.”

“My, my, my, has my dearie taken an interest in gladiatorial matches?” The empress smiled, teasingly. “I didn’t know you cared for a matter you previously spoke about with such disdain.”

Your cheeks warmed, fists clenched, and your breath caught in your throat. Embarrassment was an inexplicable feeling, and you looked to the side before changing the subject. “Who has your favor?”

“Is that even a question?” The woman erupted in laughter, surprised at how you could even question her about who she rooted for, especially due to the known fact about one man, and one man only, who had been dwelling at the royal abode as a repeated visitor.

You whispered mumblings under your breath—something along the lines of paenitemus,⁸ or, ignoscas mihi.⁹

⁸ Apologies.

⁹ Excuse me.

“My turn to question,” the empress managed, between her fit of laughter, “tell me, daughter of mine, which lucky man has your favor?”

You were silent for a moment—indecisive, one could say—but thanked the gods above when the gladiators were abruptly called to state their oaths, and, therefore, giving you an excuse to avoid providing the empress an audible answer.

You leaned forward in your seat, and watched as both Ryoumen Sukuna and Gojo Satoru spoke, consecutively, with their eyes set on one another. The crowds ceased their commotion, and watched, with intent so significant it brought them practically to the edges of their benches, as the challengers gave their swearings of the vow directly tying them to the will of the gods as they gave away their lives—the sacramentum gladiatorum, it was called.

Sukuna’s eyes were dark, that you could tell, and the overall atmosphere surrounding him screamed a lust for blood. His voice was cold, as if he wanted to get everything over with already, whilst the ruby on his swords’s hilt shone reflective under the moonlight’s illumination. He did not speak like it was an obligation, he spoke like it was a duty. 

“Uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroqua necari pateor,” they both vowed.

Each man knew he were to either conquer or die; the speaking of those words only solidified the matter for all to hear. Victor or not, the lives of gladiators are objects of entertainment according to the match’s editor’s will. The gods speak, blood drips, and blades bury the undead. Spectators are roused as both competitors ready themselves, (which is a spectacle in itself, truthfully speaking), but you, on the other hand, are only able to watch with a sense for danger in the air. It was almost amusing. Timor mortis morte pejor.¹⁰

¹⁰ The fear of death is worse than death.

As both men began to circle each other, throwing insults and taunts, you could not help but drift off to the memory of that fortnight Sukuna spent at the palace. His words lingered in your ears, and the feeling of his hands on your shoulders, his arm around yours—it was . . . you couldn’t put a finger on it. There was, just, something about what he said that gave you an uncanny feeling in your gut.

Sukuna wanted control, you knew that, but, if he came out victorious this same night, he wasn’t planning on asking for the empire. He already made sure you got that through your skull, but, all the same, you couldn’t pin-point what it was that he did want. Gold? Treasures? He already had plenty. Women? No, his collection of admirers already exceeded a great number. Land? Yes, that had to be it. But, then again, whatever it was that Ryoumen wanted, he claimed it would have the empire falling into his hands sooner or later. Land couldn’t possibly be the answer for that . . .

Whilst you stayed in your head, thinking to yourself, the match had already begun to get less boring. Both men had each delivered at least two hits to the other, and the clanks! of iron against iron could be heard audible throughout the arena.

Sukuna took side-steps, a new technique he had developed, while the silver-haired gladiator struck the tips of his trident at places most people wouldn’t have even imagined possible.

Grunting, the pink-haired man swung his gladius like it was a mere toy, while spitting on the coarse, rough sand. That action alone sent several sections of the Colosseum swooning. But, despite the fact, Gojo didn’t let any of it get to his head, and, in lieu, let out an almost facetious whistle.

“Dunno if you’re aware, Ryoumen, but this isn’t exactly a great time to pick up ladies,” was what the lean, pale man said, joking, as he continued stabbing with his trident.

“Any time is a great time; what are you going on about? Could pick up a chick with my eyes closed.”

The two men went forwards and backwards with their banter, like two boys rebelling and messing around in school. They joked like immature adolescents, but fought like champions of the gods. The skies were cloudless, with the moon shining bright, and it was thus unclear whose side Olympus was on. But what really confused you, was the sudden thumping sound that reached your ears. Especially with the lack of drums or any similar instruments visible, you were left in a sense of unanswerableness.

The sound of the thumping was loud, and continued to increase in volume as the match went on. Gojo slashed at Sukuna’s armor—the drum beat faster; Sukuna stabbed at Gojo’s helmet—the drum beat in a staccato fashion; Gojo stumbled on his own two feet, struggling to fight back against Ryoumen’s gladius—the drum did not beat faster, but, instead, crescendoed, along with the roars of the crowds.

It was incredibly overwhelming.

You turned to the empress, in order to ask if the emperor had hired any percussion players, but Her Imperial Majesty paid you no mind, for she was extremely engrossed in the fight, repeatedly expressing her frustrations and anticipation by cursing under her breath.

Everyone was in their own world. Spectators, as they watched and rooted for their favorite gladiator. Nobles, as they placed bets and other games of the like. The emperor and empress, as they analyzed the match and reactions of the crowds (as to decide who to favor when the time came for a turned thumb). And, if it wasn’t obvious before, the gladiators, as they fought for both their lives and honor.

First blood was drawn a while ago, but only now, had real stabs been given. Pierced through his armor, clutching at his chest while taking steps backwards, was none other than the infamous, silver-haired Gojo Satoru. You did not know much about him, other than the fact he was an attractive man (A/N: don’t even start with me), but you couldn’t help but feel pity seeing him come to a loss so soon.

While the drum beat faster, and the volume amplified, booming across the walls of the amphitheater, you could make out, just slightly, the life returning back to Gojo’s eyes. Blood dripped, yes, but it was not plentiful enough for death to visit the grounds of the Colosseum.

Gojo’s hands twitched, his slender, pale fingers stained with blood and marked with sand, but his figure fought back for composure, and the fact soon became clear as his legs grew stiff, and his steps grew less irregular as the seconds went by.

You weren’t the only one who seemed to notice the man’s recovery, but it would have been strange to admit Ryoumen was the one behind it all. Seeing as a duel to the death in an arena was all a mere lousy game to the pink-haired brute, it wasn’t a refutable accusation to say Sukuna was only toying with his opponent’s life. Nearly piercing through Gojo’s chest, just to stand and watch solemnly as he stumbled—you soon grew familiar with the idea of Ryoumen testing the waters: seeing just how much Gojo could take before the ever anticipated match-ending move was played.

Murder flashed in the pair of crimson eyes, and the etchings on Sukuna’s gladius gleamed under the moonlight as he drew up his sword for one last round.

Gojo regained his stance, delivered a blow at Sukuna’s side, which, for second, appeared to at least wound the beast, but Ryoumen, ever the calculated, drew back; and as the drum continued to beat and thump in the background, both men fought with a newfound rush of vitality and zeal for blood. Hollers sounded through the crowds, coins dropped into dishes, and the shaking of your leg quickened.

Sukuna kept silent, like a scheming child, while he hit Gojo with the end of his sword. The attack was with enough force for the silver-haired gladiator to be knocked down, off his feet, and onto the floor of the arena. A retaliation was not lacked, as Sukuna received small, insignificant and weak stabs of the trident to his abdomen, as Gojo fought for the continuation of his name, but it was for naught.

The climax of the drum’s beating was reached when Sukuna delivered an almost humorous kick to his opponent, before turning to face the emperor in his Imperial Box. Gojo’s face was full of yearning and want—but, whether it was for death or life was uncertain. He laid, injured and on the brink of mortality, but he was silent, and ceased any more attacks.

Crowds grew silent, but stayed as rowdy (somehow), as everyone turned to the emperor in anticipation. Clothed in the naturally designated purple toga, with a laurel wreath to emit godly status and authority, the emperor stood before and above all. A pollice verso¹¹ was given, after careful thought, and as the beating of the drum quickened, the blade of Ryoumen Sukuna’s gladius was driven through the heart of Gojo Satoru.

¹¹ Turned thumb.

But before such an action occurred, the beast did not forget, with audible cruelty, to spit out the words, “The moonlight’s illumination makes it easier . . . to see how pathetic you are.”

Blood seeped from the wound in Gojo’s chest and spilled out from between cracked lips; and as the fallen gladiator was soon carried out the Gate of Death, the beating of the invisible drum ceased, and you lost your capability to form words.

Surprise, pity, anger—they were all shown in your expression. With parted lips, and denial etched all over your face, you sunk down in your seat as others around you stood up to applaud, cheer, cry out, and much more.

At his zenith, Ryoumen Sukuna backed away from the corpse at his feet, dug his gladius into the floors of sand, and looked ‘round at his spectators. Turning his head, meeting the eyes of those who wanted him dead and those who prayed for his victory, Sukuna held a scowl on his face, like he wasn’t affected in the slightest by having just murdered a man.

Ryoumen was a man who knew how to hold himself in stance and gait, much like a god or a king. Raising his arms wide, eyes flickering to pierce everyone’s souls, his voice came out just as cold as it had been last fortnight—when he decidedly said, in front of everyone, “Behold, mortals; feast your eyes upon the monster you have set free for your pleasure.”

This was the King of the Colosseum.

You could see that much, now.

***

The sun rose proud, the mockingbirds cooed gently, and the blessing of the dawn of a new day had been upon citizens of Rome.

Senators were gathered ‘round while royals and other noblemen stood and watched alongside. Whispers and murmurs were plenty, but when the emperor asked for whatever it was that the gladiator wanted, there was a stunned silence as the pink-haired beast took long, full strides to approach none other than you. Kneeling before your feet, and kissing the back of your outstretched palm, even the gods watched with pleasure and anticipation whilst an answer revealed itself. 

Silent, swift, and yet, never before, so concise. The air was still, the noise had ceased, and even the falling of a pin could be heard clear as day whilst your figure twitched and shook ever so slightly—fear having begun its taking of your body.

It was needless to voice that same wretched look Ryoumen Sukuna offered your way, his crimson eyes peering up at you from beneath his eyelashes. It was nothing short of a horror.

The day after Gojo Satoru’s death, a circle of royal acquaintances had gathered at a pavilion of the palace to watch as the emperor granted whatever prize Ryoumen Sukuna wished for. Elephants, tigers, lions, and other beasts of the wild, were already lined up and harnessed. Stacks of jewelry and treasures littered the marble floors. It was clear the emperor had already expected what offers could be possibly made, and so he decorated the palace in accordance. But, when the fearsome gladiator chose to, in lieu, take you as his bride for a prize, there was unanimous astonishment.

Rising back to his feet, the pink-haired victor—dressed in his signature red cloak, ruby-adorned blade, and now, an additional laurel (to signify his victory the last evening)—looked down at you with a strangeness about his eyes. Your hand was still in Sukuna’s when he turned to face the emperor, who stood with a calm demeanor, contrasting just about everyone.

“You ask for the princess?” the emperor questioned, curious.

“If it can be done.”

The emperor laughed, adding, “But, you must know, son, there are many women who will not be happy by this news.”

At this, the crowds burst into laughter. The tension in the air dissipated, but you . . . you looked at the ground and at your feet, praying you misheard or were even dreaming. But alas, you couldn’t have strayed farther from the truth.

“You would kiss the hand of your prisoner?” you whispered, whilst everyone was distracted in their fits of laughter.

“Am I not a prisoner, as well?”

***

You were twenty years old when your hair was parted by a spear, separated into six locks, crowned with nature’s gifts and herbs, and covered by a flammeum (also known as a veil). With your face painted, jewelry adorned, and dress made ready, you were escorted and sent off to join in matrimony with Ryoumen Sukuna. Tears in your eyes, a palm branch in your hands, the completion of the ceremony came, and it was then time for the wedding feast: the banquet. 

It was to take place at the atrium of the palace, similar to the wedding ceremony.

Pheasants were killed, venison was brought, raw oysters were consumed, and shellfish made its appearances at the banquet. You sat beside the man you now called your husband, picking at your meals and distracting yourself with entertaining the guests. Sukuna, on the other hand, sat silent, for the most part; his hand resting on your hip as he watched, full of intent, as your lips parted and moved with each syllable you uttered.

There were a-plenty dancers, poets, and musicians present at both the wedding ceremony and banquet, but, for each ritual up until now, Sukuna had failed to take his eyes off of you. Red, crimson orbs—that seemed to never stray from yours.

It had been a week since you last spoke to Sukuna, the day he claimed you as his, and, in truth, if it were in your will, you would wish to never speak to him again. You hardly paid any mind, at all, to him as the both of you sat side-by-side, presenting yourselves as a married couple to the families, friends, and well-wishers who attended your wedding feast.

When the attention was directed elsewhere, and you received a much-needed break from entertaining your guests with talk of whatever it was that came to your mind, you reached for your goblet of wine, thirsty and parched, but were stopped by a ring-adorned, scarred hand, belonging to Sukuna, which held you firm by the wrist.

“I have murdered a man for you, dear wife,” began Sukuna, a cold, enigmatic look in his eyes as he peered into your face; “there is blood on my hands solely for your sake, and you refuse to even acknowledge my presence?”

You tried fighting back, stretching your fingers and reaching out for your goblet, but, surprise-surprise, his strength surpassed yours. With a huff of defeat, your hand—once writhing in your husband’s grasps—relaxed, and you gave into responding. “Do not forget, husband, I was not the one who called on you to do such a thing.”

Sukuna laughed, released your wrist, and opted to rest the side of his face on his fist as he watched you drink, a demented (but captivated) look on his face all the while. “Gods, I always forget how much of a sweet-talker you can be,” he snickered.

“You are delusional,” you deadpanned, continuing with your drink.

“And you, my dear, are—”

“Bitchy?”

“No.”

“Cruel?”

“No.”

“Exasperating?”

“I was going more for . . . bewitching.”

You set your wine down; silent, as you avoided Sukuna’s eyes.

But the man had different plans, seeing as he gingerly seized your left hand, and laid a kiss upon your ring finger (which connected to the vena amoris¹²), before kissing down each digit, making sure his lips met almost every piece of gold on your hand. The action would’ve been seen as romantic through your eyes, if you had forgotten what got the two of you here in the first place.

¹² Vein of love.

You did not speak until he was done, and when he was, you said, your voice above a whisper, “Husband.”

“Wife.” His response was almost immediate.

“I am . . .” You turned to meet his eyes. “I am bored, and would like to hear a story. A tale. Anything.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“Tell me—Tell me why you chose me.”

“I chose you because . . . I wanted you. Simple. Can a man not have his wants? His needs? As one chooses their life’s path, so I have chosen a woman I worship. A woman I need. A woman I love.”

“Need I remind you that lust is not love?”

A darkness came over Sukuna’s eyes, like a storm succeeding the calm. “Lust can be many things,” he replied, before lifting his goblet. “Care for a drink?”

You lifted your goblet, but hesitated, caution taking over your nerves. “I have had enough to drink for the night.”

“What, no toast for your husband?” Sukuna joked, his tone sly and cunning, as if there were an ulterior motive laced beneath his invitation.

You turned to face Sukuna, the bracelets and cuffs on your wrist sliding from their rightful places ever so slightly. 

“Never in a million eons, you devil.” Seven words uttered before you finished off the wine in your goblet in one go.

The wedding feast ended with confarreatio, which led to the beginning of the next ritual. Domum deductio took place, and, that same evening, your innocence was stolen—ripped right out from your cold, bare, fucking, hands.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈.

Marriage, actually, wasn’t all quite as bad as you had imagined . . . Okay, that was a lie.

Your first debut outdoors, after your joining in nuptials and being on the arm of Ryoumen Sukuna in front of government officials and nobles, took place a week after your wedding ceremony. The two of you had gotten up to making much use of your lectus genialis, and, even with the longing of fresh air and seeing familiar faces, it still took a bit of convincing for you to exit the doors of the estate; for, exhaustion had gotten the best of you.

It was hot outside; the sun shone cruelly, but you enjoyed being outside of the estate’s premises for once.

“I still don’t understand why you declined traveling by a litter,¹³” Sukuna said, bitterly, as he sat with his arms crossed, and his expression stern, whilst looking out the carpentum’s¹⁴ windows.

¹³ During Ancient Rome, a litter was a portable couch or bed that was carried by slaves or animals.

¹⁴ A luxurious Roman carriage used by the privileged.

“I am not a fan of parading,” came your calm reply.

“You’re a princess—by blood or not. Either way, a woman, as beautiful and alluring as you, should be treated as such.”

Your cheeks did not warm; Sukuna’s way of speaking about you like this was far from new, and you had gotten used to it, ever since your first encounter.

“Ryoumen,” you called, almost like a mother soothing a fussy child, “why do you feel the need to coddle me?”

“Coddling?” he repeated, seemingly offended. “You’re my wife, my treasure. The question should be why I would do anything but.”

The noises of the bustling street, talk of the people, and the sound of clothing against clothing, were all drowned out by the running of hooves and the whips of the carpentum driver. It was a spacious carriage, you had to admit, but with the amount of times the vehicle rocked and jerked on the uneven roads, you had soon begun to find yourself sitting impossibly close to Sukuna. Your elbows touching, shoulders meeting—it was uncomfortable due to the evident size differences.

“You forget that you won me, husband.”

“What is the difference?” sighed Sukuna, running a hand down his face. “I would’ve put a ring on your finger sooner or later.”

“. . .”

“Though, I do argue that, killing a man for your hand, was quite romantic . . . What, don’t give me that face.”

You looked at Sukuna with a stupid expression. “You . . . are a silly man.”

“All but for one woman,” he replied.

When you entered the carpentum, neither of the two of you knew where it was you were going. To the shops, to the villages, to the palace—it was unknown. Or, maybe, the destination was to remain indefinite on purpose. You liked traveling through the city, meeting the eyes of citizens you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. You enjoyed the scent of home-cooked meals wafting through the air, and children laughing as they played in the streets. You liked it all, and you missed it all, even. But, gods, were you getting soft.

There was a pair of men passing through the road, and you would not have noticed them had the vehicle not yielded to let them pass.

“Look at their shoes,” Sukuna said, leaning in closer as the carriage was stopped, so you could hear him over the commotions. “Disgusting.” 

“Do remember you were born in a prison, husband.” You remained straight-faced whilst you spoke, as neutral as one could be whilst keeping your eyes forward.

Sukuna let out a bark-laugh. “What a saint you are, huh.”

Your carriage was just about to approach a turning corner, when, completely out of the blue, you heard one of the men exclaim to the other, “Ah, look at that one, Caius! A sight for sore eyes, ain’t she?”

His companion replied, saying, just as scandalously, “Not half-bad, my friend,” he laughed, eyeing you up and down. “Never before have I wished more to be an emperor; just imagine what works I could perform if she was a slave.” 

“If?”

“If. No way she’s anything but royalty. No man in his right state of mind would let her out of the streets if she was property.”

The two men snickered, carrying woven baskets filled with crops as they went, completely oblivious to the way Ryoumen sized the both of them up, seemingly possessed by a sudden lust for blood. Now that he thought about it, he had not killed in a while.

You tried to put a hand on Sukuna’s arm, in a poor attempt to soothe his growing anger, but he did not pay any mind to that, for he stuck his head out the luxuriously decorated carpentum, and retaliated against the perversion of the men with insults of his own. Yelling Latin curses left and right, all the obscenities in the book and footnotes. His voice was cold, and rough around the edges, but what surprised you most, was the tone in which he said, “Somnia omnia quae vis, nothi; praecidam manus tuas antequam tangas eam.¹⁵” You had never seen or heard such anger.

¹⁵ Dream all you want, bastards; I will cut off your hands before you even touch her.

But, before Sukuna could say something more offensive than “Te futueo et caballum tuum,” or, “Fututus et mori in igni,” the men recognized his carnage-filled reputation in the Colosseum from his notorious tattoos, and, with such fear they could’ve wet themselves, the both of them went, scurrying off in the opposite direction of where they came from, even going as far as dropping every basket they carried before making a run for it.

You caught a glimpse of them in their distress, and agreed—their shoes were disgusting.

Although settling into Sukuna’s estate took little time, familiarizing yourself with life as a married couple, on the other hand, took . . . some time, to say the least. The both of you had your ups and downs, and the path to warming up to your husband was a rocky one, seeing as your marriage was not out of love (not in the beginning, for the most part); so, naturally, there were some days where the two of you did not get along so well. And, who knew valets and maidservants could serve as such good marriage counselors? 

Bright, sunny days had you seated outside, beneath the shade of olive trees, and while the songbirds sang along, you often kept yourself occupied by playing your cithara.⁶ Your husband was seldom home for most of the day, and you had learned how to keep busy whilst the only company you had was the flames rising forth from the hearth, and the tamed animals which lingered while your fingers danced across melodious strings.

⁶ An instrument.

Today was different.

Sukuna had no appointments to meet, no guests to entertain, and no matches to play. He met you in the gardens of your home, and stood, stiff and broad, just three paces from where you sat on a fountain’s coping. It was as if he were afraid to approach, to disturb and interrupt your playing, but you knew he was just deciding whether or not he was welcome.

“You play well,” came the sound of his voice.

“How could I not? There is never much to do around here.”

“Weaving?” He raised an eyebrow, still standing still like a statue.

“I fear I do not see as much joy in that as I used to.”

“And why is that, dear wife?”

“I find . . . other activities to take up the majority of my time.”

“Such as?”

Romans were barbarians in the arena and in the bedchambers.

You did not know sex until you were bedded by Ryoumen, and you did not know libido until you experienced what it meant to really be fucked. Growing up, sexual intercourse was always described as marital duties, but with Sukuna, it felt like a pleasure—quite literally.

Day and night, night and day.

It was all you knew the week following your wedding ceremony, and it was all you desired when coming home to the brute of a man you called your husband. The two of you did not exit the bedroom once during the week you spent after the final nuptial ritual. He had ruined you in the best way possible, you sometimes thought, and with little difficulty had he gotten you addicted to the feel of his cock, his tongue, and his fingers. Merely thinking about it all had your cheeks growing warm and your core practically aching with need.

But sex wasn’t all you received from the man; there was also endless banter, cruel mocking, rough touches, and arguments. Sukuna wasn’t a kind, vanilla man, you realized that the moment you laid eyes on him; and he was, if anything, a deviant. A monstrous one, at that. 

Retaliating against him got you absolutely nowhere, and arguments only ended in sex. It wasn’t healthy, no, but it wasn’t like anyone said it would be.

With every step you took backwards, Sukuna followed with two forwards. The two of you had been arguing about a trivial matter—it had been long forgotten, actually—but neither of you had the decency to end your quarrel. Your yells and insults echoes throughout the walls of the estate, and servants paid mind to avoid the room you two currently occupied.

“Have I ever told you how much I absolutely loathe your pompous, fucking, ass?”

“Oh, sweetheart, only about a million times,” he answered, obviously taking your anger with a grain of salt. “But, how could I not? when you always do more than just tell me.”

You narrowed your eyes at the man, and cursed. “Go rip out your tongue and rub it raw with a strigil.”

“I always forget how much I love to hear you dirty-talk.”

“You are a dog,” you spat out, as Sukuna had you backed up against the edge of a table.

“And you, my dear wife, are a beauty to behold.”

Mentally having patted himself on the back for rendering you speechless, Sukuna closed the distance between you two and placed a kiss on your hand like he always did. Sexually appealing, successful, and charming? Damn the gods for giving him it all. 

You and Sukuna were stood just centimeters apart, his arms caging you in as he stared down upon you with that unforgettable look in his eyes. It was intimidating, indeed, but you were his wife, for gods’ sake! you could surely hold your ground.

“Flattery isn’t getting you anywhere,” you said, placing your palms on the surface of the table behind you as you challenged Sukuna’s unwavering gaze, staring up at him with eyes doe and, still, equally as hardening.

“Good. Flattery isn’t quite my style.”

Sukuna raised a hand to rest on your cheek, before bringing you in for a zealous kiss. All teeth and tongue. It hurt—how rough he held you, that is—but it was a different type of pain. A type of pain you enjoyed suffering. His lips met yours, and you tasted blood on his tongue. You could not tell whose it was. Whether it was from him handling you with little to no care, or it was from him, himself, or it was from another, more foreign, source, you did not know.

You responded to his kiss with just as much violence as lust. Your body pressed against Sukuna’s, seeking as much friction as you could, whilst the two of you molded into each other like pieces of a puzzle. While Sukuna kept you pinned against the table, with nowhere to turn, your hands found their way to perching on his shoulder and on his beating heart, in efforts to maintain stability (which was proving to be a challenge, if you had to be honest).

Whispers and murmurs against lips; nipping and biting of sharp teeth; heavy breathing and the failure to catch breaths—it was overbearing. The room felt stuffy and overcrowded, when, in reality, it was only the two of you.

“Were you—mmph—acting like a bitch because you missed this?” Sukuna jeered, sloppily kissing you between each word.

“I would act like a bitch regardless.” You clawed at his chest and toga, having gone equally as mad from the mere feeling of kisses alone, but, in any way, your words came out all the same as you had intended them. “Taking me as your wife may have come easily to you, but wooing me won’t.”

“Lucky me,” Sukuna exhaled, releasing you from his nearly-suffocating kiss but not from his grasps. “I’m all for a challenge.”

One of his hands shot to your hip, his grip unforgivable and white-knuckled, whilst his other hand trailed down your thigh, slender fingers tickling your warming skin through the fabric of your clothing, and sending the hairs on your neck to stand up. You held your breath, hands back to their original positions on the table’s surface, as Sukuna reached the edge of your dress, lifting it to your waist.

Cool air hit your skin almost instantly, and goosebumps arose along your limbs. But, still, you did not breathe; it wasn’t until Sukuna’s cold, cruel voice spoke up that you did.

“What a pretty little thing you are,” he cooed, staring at the dampness of your core. “No undergarments? Must be all for me.”

He spoke as if you were a feast; it made you bite your lip to the point of bleeding, and caused your legs to almost go wobbly, like a fawn.

Ryoumen tilted his head down to meet your neck, before he sank his teeth beneath the skin of your clavicle. It was scandalous in all the best ways possible, and you couldn’t help the breathy moan which left your lips. He sucked at the wound, kissed it, and moved his lips to other areas of your collarbones. He nipped and bit at freckles and moles, sucked on your skin—leaving love marks in his way, and, despite the feat, never failing to litter sloppy and wet kisses all the while.

With his mouth on your skin, Sukuna’s hands worked elsewhere. He trailed a cold hand up your thigh, teasing you with touches to the point of it becoming agonizing, before finally getting to where you needed him most. You were dripping enough for no lube to be needed, but the man was still courteous enough to dip one finger within your folds, before following with a second. Curling them deep inside of you, and hitting just the right spot; your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your hands shook and jerked uncontrollably as you dug your nails into Sukuna’s toned biceps.

Moans and whimpers left your lips left and right, yet he was only beginning.

His fingers bullied your clit, continuing their assault mercilessly; and whilst the sound of your growing cries bounced around the walls of the estate, his pace and roughness only reached new heights, seemingly possessed by the satisfaction of bringing you to Cloud Nine.

“Sukuna . . .” you whimpered, struggling to form words. “Sukuna, please. Please, I need to—”

“Need to what?”

“I . . . nngh,” you managed, moaning within your pleas, “I need to cum. I need to cum, you stupid bastard.”

“Now, is that any way to speak to your husband?” Sukuna taunted, pausing his attacks on your neck and the skillfulness of his fingers between your legs with not even a second thought.

You were this close to being brought over the edge, and you whined and wiggled your hips as Sukuna stopped reaching so deep within you, but, instead, opted for circling the tips of his fingers around the embarrassingly wet entrance of your clit. It was not even close to enough; he was punishing you, you were sure.

“No, no—nngh! Why did you stop?” you cried, bucking your hips in an attempt at reaching bliss.

“Because you have not an idea on how to speak to the Head of the House, wifey.” His crimson eyes bore into your teary ones, and you clawed and scratched at his neck, trying desperately to pull him closer to you.

“Ryoumen, no, please. Please—I need to . . . I need to . . .” Your voice trailed off. Truthfully speaking, now was possibly the worst time to gain a conscience.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“I . . . Please, Sukuna. I need you. I, fuck—I need you. Please.” You looked into his eyes, crying entreaties like your life depended on it. “Please, I need to cum.”

“See? Not so bad, now, was it?”

Sukuna did not resume his assault with his fingers, but, instead, for possibly the first time in history, knelt down, before you, before his wife, and pressed a degrading (if anything) kiss to your pretty, puffy lips, before attaching his mouth to your clit, sucking and licking stripes up and on it with a velocity that left you leaving permanently visible claw-marks on the furnished table.

You could not hear, you could not move, you could not speak, you could only feel. Feel the feeling of Sukuna’s rough tongue gliding through your wetness, plunging and pumping and ravaging throughout your folds, reaching spots deep within you, causing you to see stars as he reached that one good spot. It was ruthless, it was sinful, and it was so, so, so, so wrong, but, then again, it was just so, so, so, so good.

Flicking his tongue, and curling it, Sukuna continued to tease and suck on your clit. The whole act of it was just . . . incredibly intimate. Your thighs squeezed and squeezed, hands gripping his hair for support, but it was still too much. With a final kiss to your clit, you felt the coil build in your stomach, and with a scandalously loud cry, you came on Sukuna’s tongue, shaking and writhing as tears fell from your dazed eyes.

Allowing you to ride out your high, Sukuna lapped at your release, gripping onto the flesh of your ass with white knuckles to keep you from squirming and wiggling.

“Mm, tastes so good, baby.”

“I . . . ahh . . . too—too much. Sensitive.”

“Poor baby,” he cooed, mockingly, before his voice turned cool once more; “you can handle it.”

Rising to his feet, and wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand, Sukuna stared at the wood behind you whilst watching you catch your breath, chest heaving as you depended on the table for balance. “It was a smart move to buy such a large table,” he murmured, stepping closer.

But before you could ask what on earth it was that Sukuna was referring to, he answered all your questions by lifting you up by the meat of your hips and laying you on your back on the rough wood of the table. It was cool against your bare skin, and sent a shiver running up your spine.

“You . . . What?” you questioned, attempting to sit up, before being roughly shoved back down.

“Don’t ‘What’ me, sweetheart. I’m giving you what you’ve been waiting for. Unless, of course, I’m hearing complaints?”

“. . .” You gulped, swallowing the lump in your throat, before crossing your legs behind Sukuna’s back and pulling him closer to your cunt, the hard-on—barely hidden beneath his toga—being pressed right up against where you needed him most. It sent a shock to your core.

“Now that’s a good girl.”

He pulled the dainty cloth of your dress off your body as easily as it was for you to put it on when you awoke that day’s morning, and mindlessly threw it onto the floor behind him.

“Sukuna, you—could you take any longer?” Laid bare before his eyes, you shivered, but not before pulling your husband impossibly closer. His hands planted on areas beside your head, and your lips met, molding together, as wildly as before.

Squeezing your eyes shut, breathy moans drawn forth from your lips, you held the sides of his throat in your hands, and occasionally carded your fingers through his rosy, unruly hair. All while sneakily dragging a bare foot up the fabric of his toga, revealing tattooed skin as you went. You couldn’t wait any longer, and if you were the one who had to get your husband’s cock out, so be it.

Well, it didn’t matter anyway. Sukuna couldn’t care less for your impatience; he . . . had an appreciation of the sort, for the rare times you took mild control.

Sukuna murmured, laughing against your kiss-bitten lips, “So impatient today, wifey.”

“Like you’re not?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, looking down at you once the two of you released each other for breath. His eyes were dark and dull, but you noticed the strands of hair askew on his face, (if it wasn’t already enough for you that his toga was now completely off). “Come on. Do you really want to go down that route, sweetheart?”

“I can’t help it. Bullying is just such—o-oh!”

Despite biting your lip, you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, arching your back as Sukuna had your hands pinned down above your head on the table. The first thrust had the air knocked out of your throat, you didn’t even notice it was coming in the first place! Even with the amount of times he bedded you, you had never gotten used to his size. Long, girthy, with veins that twitched and never failed to send you straight to Olympus? Yeah, you couldn’t really blame yourself.

“All it took to keep you from running your mouth was some cock, huh? Yeah, you make such a good whore for your dear husband, don’t you.” His cold, dark voice, complemented with the contradicting degradation and praising words of his sent you spiraling albeit it was only the beginning.

You kicked your feet, whining and gasping for breath when Sukuna took the opportunity to lean down, littering bites and love marks on your bare chest, trailing, ever so slowly, all the way up to the swell of your breasts. Hands still pinned to the table, legs locked around Sukuna’s waist, meeting his continuous thrusts without fail, your back arched with pleasure, giving Sukuna easy access to your tits, bouncing in all their glory before his mouth.

He leaned over your body, the difference in your heights showing itself clearly at this moment, as he swirled a wet, warm tongue around your areola, before attaching his lips to your tit, biting every then and there around the soft mound. Your nipples, perky and hardened long ago, reacted as they always did when they met Ryoumen’s lips. Sensitive, they were, and it showed, when you squirmed uncontrollably under his assaults, eyes opening and closing with vertigo.

“Such pretty tits,” he murmured, his voice sending vibrations to your already aroused buds, “bet they would look even better all swollen with milk for my heir.”

You whined, moaning from the thought alone—argument long forgotten. Your cunt, its walls, actually, tightened at the idea of Sukuna giving you a baby, and you were sure he noticed with the way he was smiling like a madman with your tit in his mouth, one hand pinning yours down, the other twisting and pulling and pinching at your other neglected nipple.

“Mm, yeah. You like the sound of that, don’t you? clenching down on me like a vice. Want me to hold you down and make you a little mommy? Is that what you want?”

You nodded fervorously, throat dry from crying out, and mind already gone and thoroughly fucked-out.

Sukuna laughed, like the cruel man he was. “Well, if that’s what my lovely wife wants, it’s what my lovely wife gets.” 

Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you thrashed around and moaned aloud like a crazy woman as the tip of Sukuna’s cock hit you in all the right places. It was incredibly overwhelming, and with the way your walls were convulsing around the cock reaching depths deep within you, the both of you were sure your second orgasm was to come no later than the first one.

Your cervix—kissed over and over and over again by the head of his cock; your tits—groped and bitten and sucked with relentless roughness; there really was no end to the pleasure you received from Sukuna. You felt stimulation all over to the point it was embarrassing how much you were pushed over the edge by simple touches and caresses alone. Even hearing Sukuna’s grunts and the rasp of his voice had your cheeks growing warm and your skin glowing under a thin layer of sweat.

“O-Ohh, I . . . nngh,” you whimpered, your wrists growing sore as your voice grew meek, letting out a soft, quiet “Please.” 

Blood rushed to Sukuna’s ears at the sound of your weak voice, and, most importantly, also rushed to his cock. “Do you want me to spell it out for you? We’ve been over this, darling. Use your words.”

“I—but . . . Sukuna, please! I need to . . . I need to cum. I—hahh.” You let out a shaky exhale, your orgasm within fingertips’ reach. 

“You want to cum? Go on, then, and cum right on your husband’s cock, just like the slut of a wife you are.”

Everything turned to black when you reached your climax; warm, sticky whiteness running down the base of Sukuna’s cock. He finished inside of you soon after, one last grunt and deep groan marking his release, whilst his seed filled you to the hilt, reaching deep inside of your quite fertile cunt at his cock still being buried in your twitching walls. You didn’t think at all about the possibilities which could follow after having laid down with Sukuna unprotected, and it seemed it was the same for him, as well.

His grip on your wrists did not give out, but still, nevertheless, loosened ever so slightly, revealing a ring of red marks around your wrists. You breathed out a sigh, shaking with eye-opening bliss as your stomach, once empty, was now bloated with the impeccable amount of semen shot by your husband. It swelled, full and swollen, painted white with ropes of cum, and when Sukuna pressed down on the bulging outline of his cock, you let out a poor whine.

“Don’t tell me you’ve given out on me just yet, sweetheart. You don’t think we’re finished already, do you?” 

***

Crawling out from beneath messed up sheets, climbing over sprawled out limbs, and tiptoeing around in nothing but a loose-fitting stola had your escape occurred—exiting from the bedchambers smelling of musk and sex, and entering the balcony, seeking breaths of fresh air.

You did not usually awake before your husband (he was usually up and out of the room by the time you opened your eyes), but perhaps yesterday’s exertions had tired him out, seeing as neither of you slept from after supper to the break of day. And, yes, while you, too, were also thoroughly exhausted, you fell into the arms of Somnus much before Ryoumen did, which likely contributed to your quite early waking.

The view downwards was pretty. Blurred shades of green and blue and white. You could see servants walking to-and-fro, and, for a moment, you remembered when your life was something similar.

The sun shone on your face as brightly as it did when you first saw the man still lying asleep in your bed, but you did not raise an arm to shield your eyes. It was quiet, and you felt more alive than you did in weeks. 

Morning dew fell from trees, and the birds sang. The railing on which you rested your elbows was cold and rough, it reminded you of something that you could not quite put your finger on, at least, not until you heard the sound of footsteps behind you, and the yawning and cracking of unused bones.

“Surprised to see you’re not already knocked up with my kid,” came the raspy, unfamiliar morning-voice from behind you.

“Surprised to see you awake at a time after six,” you quipped, not turning around to face your lover.

Warm arms wrapped around your waist, and a bare chest pressed itself against your back as Sukuna’s lips met your collarbones, kissing your skin in greeting. “A snarky one, aren’t you? What, did last night not soothe your wants?”

He was always so clingy in the mornings. Like a needy child.

“. . .You are only wearing a subligaculum,¹⁶” you observed, changing the subject with haste.

¹⁶ An undergarment.

“It’s not like I hear any complaints,” he joked. “Besides, no one’s up here. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a servant taking a little peek.”

You swallowed. “Nonsense.”

“Smart girl.” He rested his chin on the top of your head, his weight resting on yours, causing you to lean the combination of your weight on the balcony railing. “Now, tell me, what is someone like the missus doing someplace out here?”

“Can a woman not be alone in peace?”

Sukuna seemed to pause in faux thought, before finally saying, “Not when that woman is my woman.”

“So, no?”

“No.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“What are you doing out here?” you questioned.

“Seeing my wife,” he stated, in a matter-of-fact fashion.

“But,” you bit your lip, “don’t you have any business to attend to?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, removing his chin off of your head and, trailing an ice-cold hand down your spine, which sent shudders throughout your body, he slid a sneaking finger up your thigh, until, with an agonizingly slow pace, he stuck a digit up your cunt. All this he did in a casual manner, like it was an everyday thing—which, technically speaking, it was.

“Are you trying to get me to leave you alone?” he asked, as if he didn’t have a finger up your pussy, “because it might be a little late for that.”

You whimpered, collapsing on the balcony railing for support when a second finger was added.

Sukuna curled his fingers, scissoring them and quickening his pace as he did so. The squelching of your cunt sent you over the edge, the idea of someone overhearing—or, worse, seeing—the two of you in this act had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Sukuna, please, we—nngh! We shouldn’t . . .” You let out a shaky exhale. “Not—Not out here.”

Sukuna leaned down to place a kiss to the lobe of your ear, giving a sloppy, dirty lick to the skin there. “Why not?”

“Because . . . someone—” You were cut off by Sukuna’s fingers hitting your sweet spot, and couldn’t help but let a scandalously obnoxious cry slip from between your lips, the three syllables of your husband’s name following soon after, like a prayer.

“Because someone, what?”

His voice mocked you, whilst the longest of his fingers bullied your cunt, and his thumb, every so often, circled around and applied pressure to your clit.

“Sukunanngh . . . I—You . . . You bastard,” you groaned, whining against the palm slapped over your mouth.

“What was that? Oh, you want me to fuck you?” His fingers moved faster, his voice growing cruel and dark. “Well, who am I to decline my bride, hm?”

Pulling his fingers out from between your legs, leaving you a shaking, heaving mess, Sukuna moved on to bring the ends of your dress to your hips, gripping and groping the flesh there as he pressed the outline of his cock against your slick.

Your breath got caught in your throat, choking on your spit, and you whined from the weight of his cock against your ass. You were dripping from the thought alone of Sukuna taking you right now, right here—out in the open, out on the balcony, where anyone, and I mean anyone, could catch a glimpse of their master and mistress from below.

Teasing the fat, leaking tip of his cock against your entrance, you bit your lip till you bled, pressing your ass back against Sukuna for any sort of friction to relieve you of the throbbing of your core, but that only worked against you; a harsh slap! was delivered to your left ass cheek, which sent you crying out, arching your back away from Sukuna. But that wasn’t even close to enough.

Bringing a hand to the column of your throat, his nails digging into your skin, creating red, angry crescent marks, Sukuna had you gasping for breath as he held your throat in his grasp, choking you to the point of gagging, but not yet enough to cut off your airway. 

Leaning down, he whispered in your ear, saying, in that rough voice of his, “You wanted to be fucked like the dirty whore you are? I’ll show you how much of a dirty whore you are.”

Grabbing a handful of your ass, Sukuna pushed you against the balcony railing, bending you over with ease.

“Wait, I . . . I—mmph! . . Nngh . . . Ahh—Ahh!”

Your voice, still evidently hoarse from last night, was cut off by Sukuna slamming his cock into your cunt, shutting you up as his hips pistoned against yours whilst you braced yourself by clawing at the railing below you.

“You are dripping. You really are insatiable, huh . . .” he muttered, releasing your throat as you gasped for air, only to be cut short by rough, deep thrusts that had you seeing stars.

“Sukuna . . . hahh.” 

“Tight as fuck, aren’t you? Cunt’s gripping my dick like a goddamn vice.” 

Sukuna ripped your hands off the railing, bringing them behind you and binding them together with gods knows what. Probably a cloth he found lying nearby. You writhed and squirmed and writhed and squirmed, but to no avail! Your wrists were bound to your back, held just above your ass. Now, you had no way to hold yourself steady, no longer pushing yourself off of the railing for support.

“I . . . nngh.” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, you could not find even the strength to complain about your having been tied up.

Fully bent over, your ass bouncing with each thrust, you moaned and mewled to your heart’s desire. Slick dripped down your legs, and though the ticklish sensation left you bothered and just slightly uncomfortable, that feeling was soon forgotten by the cock absolutely pounding your dripping cunt.

Your shame was gone, you were a ruined woman through and through.

“Fucked the attitude out of you, yet?” Sukuna laughed, burying himself inside of you before pulling out, leaving just the tip in, before slamming himself back in, and repeating his assaults. He was like a big, mean bully, having fun by tormenting none other than his bride, his prize, his property.

You thought it degrading, but found heat pooling in your stomach at the afterthought, nonetheless.

“Gods, you . . . you are such a dick,” you managed out, through screams twisted between pain and pleasure, a line which you could not exactly draw.

“It’s what I do best, sweetheart.”

Birds scattered throughout the confines of their habitat at the not-so-peaceful-sounding noise of your cries, and you were sure someone had to have noticed the deviant behavior taking place upstairs on the master’s floor of the estate.

“Then hurry up and make me . . . hahh . . . c-cum, you ass. You are such a—”

One particularly hard thrust had you seeing stars as Sukuna’s cock hit your cervix, surely wounding your womb as the words got stuck in your throat, and your legs gave out beneath you. The only thing holding you up being Sukuna’s hand tangled in your hair, giving a rough tug, which forced your tear-streaked face back, and the other one being on your hip, his grip white-knuckled as his thrusts turned from rough and coordinated to stuttering and staggered.

You came without resolve, your moans merely music to your husband’s ears as he, too, finished inside of you, his cock pumping endless ropes of seed up your cunt, stuffing you till excess bodily fluids were forced to drip down your thighs. Your stomach felt warm and bloated as you were filled to the brim, seed ending up snug in your womb as Sukuna pumped you full of his cum, not wasting a drop, and even going as far as scooping up the excess fluids to shove two fingers in your mouth, allowing—more like forcing—you a taste of your actions.

After all, Ryoumen Sukuna was nothing if not a cruel man.

***

It was the eleventh of October when Sukuna left the estate without a word, and it was the eighteenth of the next week when he returned.

You had been out in the gardens, overseeing the yard-work when, in the middle of giving orders to trim the bushes to the left ever so slightly, a maidservant had come running to notify you of your husband’s departure. He did not leave a note, did not kiss you goodbye, and did not give commands for any of the servants to inform you of his leave (the maid just happened to be particularly loyal to her mistress).

“Cecelia!” was what you first exclaimed, surprised by her sudden appearance beside you. “What brings you here?”

“Mistress, I—I have brought word that the lord of the estate has taken his leave. On a horse or two.” The woman spoke between gasps for air, she seemed out of breath, perhaps from chasing after Ryoumen and his steed(s). “I saw a carriage pull away from the gates, and I . . . I supposed he did not inform you, either.”

“Oh, that’s . . . I thank you for the note, Cecelia. But that will be all. You’re correct, he did not tell me, and,” you paused, touching your index finger to your chin, “I do ponder where he went.”

You assumed your husband would only be missing for one evening, and return the next to fill you in on his seemingly hasty departures. But one sleepless night turned into two, and two turned into three, and three turned into even the advisors of the estate beginning to worry for their master. In turn, however, you had begun to grow indifferent to your missing husband.

On the fourth day, you discovered news of yet another gladiator match that was to take place. And who was to compete in it? Take a guess.

Being petty was a greatness of yours, and, while for a time, you were able to keep entertained by playing your beloved cithara, reading, or tending to your gardens, you had begun to grow bored. The estate was large enough, and, with your husband being gone, you were even more lonely than you were before. You had no children to run through the halls, no friends who could visit the property, and no duties besides your hobbies to keep you company.

On the fifth and sixth day, you had already invited over a number of “guests” to the estate. Your beauty was no unfamiliar subject to the people of Rome, and it wasn’t difficult to find men in want of serving as entertainment to you.

You had some feed you grapes, some play their music to you, some read their philosophy and literature, some tell you of stories from afar; it was all very enjoyable. Or, well, the idea of it was.

On the seventh day, you had appointed a raven-haired, older man to keep you company. He was a traveler of sorts, and had many stories of the West and the East to tell you. From wraths of gods, to legendary criminals, and heinous crimes, he knew it all. He made you laugh, and was . . . not a bad flirt, if you did say so yourself. But it was nothing serious.

You were in the middle of drinking wine with the fellow, when, by the informing of Cecelia, you were notified of a something that required your utmost attention at once. She did not explain further, but you noticed an urgency about her eyes, and did not tarry.

Excusing yourself, you stood up from where you lounged rather casually on the ornately designed sofa, and took graceful, calculated steps down a hallway to the left wing of the estate.

You were nearing the room Cecelia pointed you to when, to your utter surprise, a rough hand had pulled you to the side, keeping your back flush against the chest of a man you could not see, for his other hand held the blade of a dagger right against the column of your throat. Your breathing grew ragged, and your hands went up to attempt (and fail) at removing the dagger-wielding hand.

Your heart pounded, and the blood rushed to your ears.

“Did you miss me, . . . wifey?”

His stray hand was gripping the flesh of your hip, and held you firm above the ground, where you dangled, your legs kicking around uselessly.

“Sukuna? What—What are you doing?” you managed to whimper out, against the dagger being pressed against your neck.

“As much as I love to hear those pretty sounds of yours, angel,” he began, before his voice suddenly turned cold, “there is a man in my house, standing next to my woman, and making her laugh. Care to explain?”

He did not release you from his grasps, but lifted the blade just a centimeter away from the skin of your throat so you could form coherent sentences. How thoughtful.

“When my husband has left for a week with no explanation, am I supposed to not keep myself occupied?”

“So you’ve borrowed a man to keep you company.”

“Are you turning this against me?”

“Should I be?”

Learning your husband has yet to retire from gladiating, and discovering he has come home, with a dagger to your neck upon arrival, was infuriating enough to make you forget the possibility of throwing yourself into his arms in greeting. He did not tell you a word about his match, prior and after, and you were the one in the wrong? Men were nothing but animals.

“. . .”

You kept silent, your face defeated, and Sukuna, finally having decided to let you go, released his hold on you and sheathed his blade once more, before dropping you back onto your feet. You nearly stumbled over yourself finding your balance, as Sukuna began to turn away, walking down the marble-tiled hallways.

“My hands are bloodied. I will be in the bathing quarters.”

All this he said, whilst his back was kept to you.

Several moments later, you had a valet escort the raven-haired guest out of your estate, and, next thing you knew, you were storming down the hallway, the sound of your footsteps reverberating throughout the estate, an evident display of your boiling rage. Your maid-servants weren’t unfamiliar with your and the master’s almost daily feuds, and were, by now, practically accustomed to setting out changes of clothes for when your arguments concluded.

Cursing to yourself as you went, your footsteps continued to thunder as you approached the bathing quarters, where you could hear small splashing sounds inside. You threw open the door, the scowl and glare on your face both clear as day whilst you walked in a straight line towards the pink-haired man who sat at the steps towards the end of the pool.

He was naked, completely bare in all his glory, but you couldn’t notice, not from how clouded your vision was with anger, no. His arms were resting on the edges of the pool, and his expression was cool as he leaned back, watching you approach him with not even a flinch.

“You motherfucker. You think you can just come waltzing in here, and avoid all your problems? You don’t pay any mind to the fact I’ve been worried sick, because my husband has left the estate with not even a word of explanation, and then, come to find out, he’s been gladiating?” You berated him without end, pointing a finger at his emotionless face as you walked along the pool’s edges. “Who do you think you are? 

“We’re married, remember? You won me. And now, you’re putting your life on the line? Whilst we are married? I don’t give a fuck whether you’re competing to win more wives, Ryomen, but where does that leave me, huh? If you die? I was just some temporary toy for you, and my life will basically end, as well? I will have no worth, Sukuna. No one takes in a ruined woman. And I’m not a solicitor, or, at least, I don’t want to be . . .”

Sukuna didn’t respond, and you were honestly thankful, actually. You feared, if he did speak, you would fold within seconds, so you took the time you had to get your frustration out and your point made.

“Why couldn’t you have just told me you didn’t retire? I mean, I would still hate you, but . . . fuck, you are such an ass.” You ran a hand down your face, stopping just two paces away from the beast, before continuing your storming. “Gods, you take new lows each day. I can’t believe my life is tied to yours for as long as I live—!”

You were shut up by the action of Sukuna pulling you down by the ankle and dragging you into the pool, manhandling you in all your writhing and struggling, and seating your ass right on his lap with ease, your back flush against his bare chest as his hand came up to wrap around your throat just as it had earlier.

You screamed, but another hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling any whimpers and noises you let out. Through your anger, you could not remember to think about how your dress was now thoroughly soaked through.

“Mmph . . . !” 

His face tilted downwards despite your struggles, and his lips whispered into your ear, his breath fanning hot air against your skin that left you with a strange tingling sensation.

“You never stop complaining, do you? You want to know why I left? Without explaining? Has it ever occured to you that, maybe I wanted you to truly hate me, after all, so the potential news of my death wouldn’t affect you? You make me out to be an animal, but even the gods know I’m not heartless.” You could practically hear his eye rolling. “C’mon, wifey, don’t you know, I’ve no need for another wife when I’ve already gotten my hands on a goddess right here. A goddess, that just so happens to be the world’s biggest bitch.” 

You struggled against Sukuna, your legs kicking and splashing in the water as your nails clawed at tattooed biceps. “Mmph! Mmm—Mmph . . . !” 

His left hand released your neck, but he didn’t let up on your mouth. “I only took the match because I was bored. Truly. Wanted to taste blood. But, what would you know about that? You’re an angel.” His voice was mocking, and dripped with malice. You shivered.

You gasped, desperate for air, when Sukuna finally removed his hand off your mouth, but your relief was short-lived when he tore the fabric off your body in one swift tear.

“What?” he asked, jeeringly, when you looked at him in confusion. “We’re already in the baths, might as well undress, too.”

The water was only up to your belly button, and a shiver ran up your spine from the low temperatures of the room. Sukuna, however, was like a walking, talking bonfire; he literally emitted heat.

Your nipples hardened from the air, and you squirmed around on Sukuna’s lap, growing uncomfortable. “You . . .”

“What’s the matter, honey?” He feigned concern, cooing. “Feeling pity? Gonna admit your mistakes?”

“I—”

He cut you off. “Let your body do the talking, and maybe I’ll find the heart to forgive you.”

Sukuna’s hands trailed down to your chest as he spoke, cold fingers going up to grope and pinch and tweak at your hardened nipples with each syllable he uttered. It sent a shock through your body, and you bit your hand to keep quiet.

“O-Oh, my . . . Nngh . . .” You mewled and twitched uncontrollably.

You didn’t know how much you loved the feeling of Sukuna’s hands fondling the mounds of your tits until you met your husband, and even then, he reminded you almost every day.

“Yeah? Does that feel good?” he asked, voice full of sarcasm. “What I fuckin’ thought, you whore. So needy and bitchy, all for some dick, aren’t you.”

Sukuna continued his assault on your buds, pulling and tugging at your nipples like it was child’s play. You arched your back at the stimulating sensation, your core growing warm from his fingers alone as you continued to attempt suppressing your noise with a fist in your mouth.

“Hahh, I—Sukuna . . . Mmph! you . . . You bastard.” 

You pressed your naked thighs together, your own hand flying in-between to apply pressure to your clit; your orgasm soon hit you like a chariot. The friction newly added was more than enough to finally throw you over the edge as you came from solely Sukuna playing with your tits, groping and squeezing like they were mere toys.

“Fuck, wifey. Making a mess from only my hands? Maybe I have been depriving you.”

Your release dripped all over your hands, and Sukuna brought your fingers to his mouth, sucking the juices off like wine. His lips made squelching noises around the bodily fluids, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as you felt the warm wetness of the sensation.

“Sukuna . . .” you whined, eyes growing teary with need.

“I’ll give it to you soon enough, princess. Quit your nagging,” was the reply that came, whilst Sukuna refused to let go of your fingers, even going as far as biting on them, leaving a clearly indented mark of his teeth on the skin, before finally releasing your hand from his grasp, and wiping his mouth clean of your slick.

Sukuna’s muscles were toned, abs flexing, and skin tanned from the ever-so cruel sun that shone down on the people of the empire. Even if his hold on you was gentle, his distribution of strength was enough to make it seem otherwise. That was made quite clear when he decided to abruptly cut your bliss short by lifting up your thighs by the backs of your knees, pinning them to position by your ears.

Legs spread, pussy weeping, back arched; you looked a mess. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, your hair was disheveled, body marked up with teeth marks from previous nights, and you could do nothing but claw and scratch at Sukuna’s arms. But, hot mess aside, (or not), you looked nothing short of a damn feast in Sukuna’s eyes.

Whimpering, mewling, and crying out, your ass was sat on Sukuna’s bare lap and the only thing running through your mind was your insatiable lust for being ruined by the brute you called your husband.

True to his word, Sukuna lifted your ass up with ease, before bringing you back down, practically smashing you onto his cock with one rough thrust. His tip pierced your cervix without fail, kissing all your sweet spots like habit.

It had been seven days. Seven, fucking, days without this man. And the first thing he did was fuck you like he meant to break you.

All the wind was knocked out of your throat as he continued to mercilessly slam his hips up into yours, bouncing you up and down without abandon whilst he kept your legs spread in the air.

The two of you had never tried this position before, but, gods, were you thankful for having done so. From this angle Sukuna’s cock reached areas deeper within your cunt than ever before, and with your thighs separated, it was significantly easier for Sukuna to fully bottom out before thrusting his entire length and girth back in, fucking you through the tears that fell and the sobs that left your lips from the constant thrusts, and bounces, and the frequent feeling of his hips pistoning against yours.

“Awh, don’t tell me my sweet wife is crying.” 

You nodded weakly, hiccuping, completely delirious.

“Shame. Your tears will only make it worse,” he said, darkly, wetting your skin even further as he licked a stripe up your cheek, ridding you of the tears that fell from your eyes.

Throughout all of Sukuna’s rough fucking, you came multiple times, his cock filling you with warm seed up to the brim. Eyes rolling into the back of your head, thighs shaking, pussy squirting all over, and lips quivering; but not once, never in any of those times, did he stop for you to catch your breath and regain your composure. He fucked you through every orgasm and continued to the next and the next.

Water splashed all around your naked bodies, and you couldn’t tell if you were more wet from the pounding of Sukuna’s cock, or from the pool you two were currently in.

Your skin was warm, wet, and glistening with sweat.

Behind you, you could hear Sukuna’s jagged breathing and, every so often, his grunts. The man wasn’t a very vocal one, but he never tried hiding his moans and groans, per se. He had no shame in whining in your ear from how tight your walls clenched down on his cock, and definitely wasn’t afraid of whimpering from the feeling of your ass grinding down on his chest, your slick dribbling down his naked abdomen.

“Ahh . . . ! Ahh—Nnghh . . . !” 

“Mmm . . . unghh . . .” 

“Hahh, o-ohh . . . !” 

Sounds of cries and plap, plap, plaps! filled the bathing quarters, and your cheeks warmed from the embarrassingly lewd noises the two of you made. That, and the feeling of veins on Sukuna’s cock twitching and sliding up and down and in and out of your weeping cunt had your eyes rolling backwards and your toes curling with the coming of an orgasm.

“Now, hahh, you gonna tell me why there was a man in my estate?” Sukuna managed to ask you, whilst he kept his cock ramming your poor, used pussy, lips of which were puffy and erect with need.

“W-What? Why are you—”

“Asking that?” he cut you off, finishing your sentence. “Dunno, maybe because my wife was home-fucking-alone with the dirty bastard.” 

His cock twitched inside of you, and you clawed at Sukuna’s biceps as he spoke. It seemed that, with every second the two of you spent speaking about the man who was in your home, Sukuna grew more and more frustrated, his thrusts turning out clumsy and sloppy and rough.

“I . . . I t-told you already, Sukuna,” you whined, stuttering from his thrusts. “He was just keeping me company, I . . . unghh, swear.”

“Only keeping you company?”

You nodded profusely, your voice growing weak from Sukuna’s cock repeatedly hitting your sweet spot. “S-Swear. Hahh, I . . . ahh . . . mmph! I swear—I swear.”

“Yeah? You swear?”

“M-Mhmm . . . Gods, please, Sukuna, o-ohh! gods, I need to cum. I need to cum!”

“Why not, go on, then. Cum all you want on your husband’s cock. Yeahh, atta girl. Shit, you’re fucking milking me dry, aren’t you. Want my seed so bad, don’t you? Want me to fuck my kid into you?”

You mewled, music to Sukuna’s ears as every last drop of cum fell from your cunt, coating his dick with your fluids whilst the two of you rode out your highs. Your walls were painted white with Sukuna’s seed, filling you to the hilt as he kept his cock buried in your warm, wet cunt. Yeah, this one would surely take—Sukuna would make sure of that.

After all, this was bound to happen.

Discipline

this is a fic that I wrote for @hypnoswrites's birthday! (tho I was a bit late in getting it done😅)

please keep in mind the tags on this one

Morel x female!reader

Warnings: yandere, kidnapping, dubcon, drugging, abuse, dehumanization, stockholm syndrome, victim blaming, Morel is not very nice in this fic

Word Count: 12.1k

The sound of creaking wood.

The heady smell of sea salt.

The steady rocking sensation as the world around you was being moved back and forth, back and forth. Consistently. Endlessly.

You groaned, pressing your face into the soft pillow as you yearned for more sleep. You were exhausted, after all. After all that effort, all that planning and carrying out that plan of yours – it had taken up a lot of energy, mentally and physically. So after all of that, you deserved to take a break, to reward yourself, even if it was a reward as simple as sleeping in just a bit longer. That wasn't so much to ask for, was it?

No, it wasn't.

Feeling the way your arms were stretched out above your head, you found that it'd be more comfortable if you brought them back down from where they sat on the pillow. In fact, you wanted to turn over, as you found you didn't quite like the way you were laying on your front. Intending to turn to your side, you pulled your arms down.

Or rather, you tried to.

Something stopped you. Something that was wrapped around both of your wrists that kept your arms from moving freely and held them in place above your head.

That was strange.

That feeling increased when you attempted to move your legs to shift to your side, as you found that your lower half was in a similar state: something soft but firm had been wrapped around your ankles that kept your legs attached to the bed and spread wide.

Why? What had happened to you?

A chill suddenly ran through you, hitting your exposed skin and running down the length of your spine.

…… Were you naked? What the fuck-

The creaking of wood sounded again, this time accompanied by the sound of waves splashing against a solid surface.

For the first time since waking up, you snapped your eyes open to look at where you were.

……..

This was Morel's room.

…. No.

No no no no no no no no no

Why were you back here? How had you been caught? Why the fuck were you back here?

Straining your neck to look over your shoulder, you were horrified to see that you were correct in what you had been wondering earlier: you were naked, and a further look at your ankles and wrists confirmed that the reason why you couldn't move them was because they had been securely attached to the bedposts, leaving you vulnerable and helpless.

Your breath began to come out in short bursts as you started to struggle against the bindings. You shouldn't be back here. You couldn't be back here. Not after everything. After all you had done to escape him, to escape the prison that was his boat while he kept you around just so he could have something to fuck when he was in the mood.

No, that wasn't a life you wanted to live anymore. That was why you left. That was why you escaped him.

Sweat was beading on your skin as you pulled at your wrists, attempting to slip your hands through the bindings so you could get away for good this time.

I need to leave I need to get out of here before he comes back -

A hand came down to grab the back of your neck and you froze.

The touch of that hand was cool in contrast with your heated skin, and the intent you felt as you were grabbed seemed to resemble a warning. A promise that if you continued as you were, something bad was going to follow. Something that you wouldn't like at all.

Relaxing your arms and legs, you cautiously looked up at the figure that had laid their hand on you.

It was one of Morel's smoke soldiers.

White, expressionless eyes stared down at you, all the while they kept their grip firm on your neck, the cold mist that made them up seeping into your skin. They must have been in the room and you hadn't even realized, you thought to yourself. You were too disoriented and shocked by your unexpected predicament to notice that they were even there.

Several uncertain moments passed as they held your gaze, their hand still wrapped firmly around your neck while you watched them, waiting for what their next move would be.

What Morel would make them do.

You remained still – as still as you were able to, at least. You couldn't help the way you trembled as you stared at the soldier that continued to hold you, but surely that wouldn't be an issue. The fact that you had stopped trying to escape the bindings should be something that would make the soldier happy – that would make Morel happy. If Morel was happy then things were good, you remembered.

Though when you considered what you had done to Morel to escape him, it likely wouldn't be that simple of a solution.

Eventually, the soldier let you go. Though not quickly, as they chose to slowly release their grip on you, letting you feel the pressure on your neck gradually dissipate before releasing you completely. Even then, their hand didn't leave you, as they chose to run their fingertips down the length of your spine, mapping out every bump and curve of your back softly before they reached the flesh of your ass. They pressed their hand more firmly against you there, causing you to gasp in surprise and a sense of indignity. They continued to hold your gaze after that, still squeezing you as if daring you to protest, to give them a reason to lash out at your disobedience.

As much as you wanted to do that, as much as you wanted to scream and yell at that thing, at Morel, to let you go…… Now wasn't the time.

A few moments later, the soldier pulled away completely and stepped back, crossing their arms as they seemed satisfied with your submission. That was when you allowed yourself to let out a shaky breath of relief.

As you settled further on the bed and slowly breathed in and out, you found that your mind felt clearer.

Their cool touch had been what you needed. Despite hating the way they grabbed you, it had helped your mind to calm down, reminded you that you couldn't brute force your way out of this and that you needed to think. Take a deep breath and use your head.

Start with what happened, you told yourself. How did things go so wrong that they turned out like this?

Breathing in through your nose, you closed your eyes as you went back to what you'd been dealing with over the past few months; a period of time that felt like an eternity after being taken by Morel – no, not taken. That word didn't accurately describe the gravity of what he'd done.

He'd kidnapped you.

The man that you had thought was a good guy, and a single star Hunter, no less, had snatched you away from everything you'd known just to keep you locked up on his boat, pretending that the two of you were a couple in a loving relationship and that you were his wife who was always there at the end of every day to welcome him back with open arms. A role that you had vehemently refused to play.

At first.

But as more time passed and you realized that he really did have the power to keep you where he wanted, you chose to change your strategy. You told yourself then, just as you had only moments prior, that you couldn't brute force your way out of this terrible, terrible situation.

The only way you could get away from Morel was to be smart about it.

Coming up with and executing a plan to escape from Morel had been stressful and time-consuming. It had required you to build up a lot of good will beforehand, to make him think that you were accepting of the idea of staying with him and were no longer interested in returning to your old home. Being inexplicably over eager for his affections would've raised his suspicions, so it needed to be done over time.

That was why, gradually, you had stopped shying away from his touch and let him hold you if he wanted. You would engage in conversation, going from giving one-word replies to actively engaging with him. You even did some normal couple stuff together, having nights where you cooked together, watched movies and listened to music. Like little date nights aboard his boat.

Morel was ecstatic by the change in you and clearly believed that his efforts were finally paying off. Which was what you needed. Getting away from him hinged on him being so trusting of you that he kept his guard lowered, that he didn't suspect that you would try anything this late in the game.

Unfortunately, getting him to be completely convinced of that meant that you needed to sleep with him.

That was where you found yourself on the night of your escape: in the bedroom, bouncing up and down on Morel's cock while he was laid out on the bed beneath you, his hands tightly gripping your hips and his eyes full of awe as he watched the way you moved on top of him. He drank in the sight greedily, watching your breasts that moved every time you slid down on him before turning his gaze to your wet pussy that engulfed his length completely. The man was genuinely happy that you'd asked to be on top, taking it as further confirmation that you were content in being with him.

That was good. Even though you were fighting down bile that rose to your throat every time the ridges of his cock hit a spot inside of you that caused a pleasurable shudder to run through you, it was good that he was happy. If he was happy with you, surely that meant that he trusted you. You were counting on that. Counted on him being so distracted by this new attitude of yours that he wouldn't think to question the action you would take after.

Your escape started after your coupling had ended; after Morel came when he felt you shuddering on his cock, after you pressed your face against your chest to prevent yourself from showing any signs of how truly disgusted you were by the feeling of him filling you, after he placed hands on you, stroking your hair and running down your back while he kept his dick inside of you.

After composing yourself, you waited a few moments as you pretended that you were enjoying his touch before you lifted your head back up, catching his attention with a bright smile on your face.

“Want something to drink?” you asked sweetly.

Morel smiled back as he answered “sure.”

The satisfied look he had on his face while you left the bedroom made you wish you could punch him and have the hit actually hurt him. It pissed you off – the way he lay there with his hands behind his head, a picture of contentment, a feeling that he certainly didn't deserve to experience after he'd kidnapped you.

But as much as you wanted to hit him, escape was the better option for the long term. That was what you had told yourself as you entered the kitchen.

And when you pulled out two glasses and a carton of juice, you cast only a single nervous glance towards the bedroom before lifting up a paper towel roll and pulling out the small packet that you'd placed inside of it earlier. After filling up both glasses with juice, you opened the top of the packet that you'd constructed out of a spare piece of paper and emptied the contents into one of them.

When the concoction of crushed up sleeping pills and juice was thoroughly mixed together, you made your way back to the bedroom.

When you handed him the tampered juice, you didn't even look at him when he began to drink, too worried that even a single glance would be all he needed to realize that something was amiss. After months of sneaking around behind his back and grinding up those pills in secret, you couldn't let all of that work go down the drain because you couldn't act normal for a bit.

He ended up drinking a little over half of the glass you'd given him, and after you both set them on the small bedside table, Morel pulled you into his arms again, throwing the sheets back over the both of you as he made you cuddle with him.

“I really love you,” he murmured, “you know that, right?”

“I know,” you said, waiting a moment before you added “I love you, too.”

Your soft-spoken reciprocation of his feelings was enough to earn you a kiss as he pulled you up to lock his lips with yours. Just like everything else that night, you had forced yourself to go along with it, kissing him back gently. Somehow that show of love felt more disgusting than the way you had let him fuck you.

You pulled away from the kiss as you settled your head back onto his chest.

“I'm tired,” you murmured.

“Me too,” he answered, his hand going back up to stroke your hair while he added “we can continue in the morning.”

“I'd like that,” you told him.

Morel looked back at you again, smiling brightly as he took in what he perceived to be a content look on your face. With that, he reached over to turn off the light in the room, but he couldn't resist placing one last kiss to your forehead before he settled down for the night.

The man was capable of being so sweet and caring; he probably could've had any girl he wanted. So why the hell had he gone and kidnapped you?

It was a question you didn't think you were going to get an answer to, but hopefully it would be the last time you would lie in his bed thinking about it.

You couldn't say how much time passed before Morel was out of it completely. You only felt that the pills were taking their intended affect when you heard the sounds of his steady breathing and felt when his grip on you had loosened a bit.

After slowly inching your way out of his loosened grip and hitting the light switch, you stared at him. Morel didn't react when the lights came back on, and when you pushed at the arm that had been laying of you, it felt more limp and lifeless than you were expecting.

Still, better safe than sorry.

“Morel?” you spoke, your voice barely over a whisper.

No response.

When you tried again, at a volume that surely would have roused the sea hunter from the hold of sleep, your heart beat heavily against your chest as you saw no reaction.

It worked.

It worked it worked it worked it worked

Morel was in a deep sleep and he wouldn't be up for hours. Only hours, but still, it was the biggest head start you would ever get.

And as you stood from the bed to collect the things you would need when you returned to shore, the rest was history.

Even though something had gone wrong since you had ended up back here, you felt a small sense of pride upon revisiting your escape. You'd managed something that seemed like it should've been impossible, after all. And while before all of this had happened you probably would've been horrified at the thought of drugging someone with sleeping pills, things were different now. Morel deserved much worse than being knocked out soundly for several hours.

But after all of that, how had he caught you?

You closed your eyes as you tried to remember what had happened after.

Getting off the boat had been something of an ordeal, as the waters had been choppier than you had anticipated. But you had managed to get to shore using a life jacket and doggy paddling your way to the nearby shore. From there, you had walked along a road you had come across. You were slower than you would have liked due to how much of your energy had been spent escaping the boat, but the important thing was that you kept moving. Even as night turned to day and the sun slowly rose over the horizon, you kept walking, reminding yourself that every step you took was adding the distance between you and Morel, making the possibility of you being recaptured less and less likely.

Or so you had thought.

But how had that happened?

A friendly motorist had pulled up in front of you at one point, and upon seeing how exhausted you were, they had offered you a ride to a town that was several miles away. You had accepted, and subsequently fought to stay awake during the car ride as the passenger's seat felt like a godsend after the way your muscles ached from both the swimming and the walking. And after that……

You'd made it a few days away from him. By hitchhiking and sleeping when and where you could, you got further and further away from the shoreline that led to the open sea, further and further away from what you considered to be Morel's territory. You chose to approach friendly looking people who were driving away from that direction and avoided the police, worried that if you went to them with your story, they wouldn't believe you if you said that a Hunter had kidnapped you. Or maybe they would, but they would decide that it was better not to make an enemy of the Hunter's Association and instead deliver you back to him.

Regardless, you did pretty well for yourself, as to make it a few days running away from a Hunter as experienced as Morel was something to be at least a little proud of.

But that didn't matter now.

Somehow, he had caught you, and you could only guess that it had happened during a time where you had been sleeping, as you had no memory of him confronting or capturing you. You were caught and were now back in the place where you had started, and the chance of escaping a second time seemed like it would be impossible.

When you thought of that, you wanted to cry.

But you held back your tears. The soldier was still in the room with you, still watching you. You knew enough about Morel's smoke creatures to know that there was some sort of mental link that they shared, and Morel was no doubt watching you even now, keeping an eye on you even when he was away.

Things weren't going to be easy from here, but you could get away again. It would take time – even more time than you had taken to convince Morel that you were happy with him, but another opportunity for escape could happen again.

It needed to.

Your tumultuous thoughts were put to the side when you heard something other than the creaking of the boat and the lapping of the water:

The sound of the door that led to the outside being opened, followed by footsteps.

In an instant your eyes were open, and you were staring at the door to the bedroom as you heard the footsteps descending the small flight of stairs that led to the boat's interior, becoming louder as they came closer and closer to where you were.

You knew who it was. The soldier wasn't reacting and was keeping its gaze firmly on you. If the source of those footsteps had been anyone who wasn't meant to be there, the smoke creation would have been on them in an instant. The fact that it remained where it was told you that it could only be one person.

And when those footsteps stopped just in front of the door and you heard a familiarly deep voice sigh ever so slightly, it acted as a confirmation that you didn't really need, but you tried to steel yourself regardless.

The door to the bedroom opened, and in the doorway stood a single figure.

Morel.

A very upset-looking Morel whose frown only deepened when he saw the way you looked at him. Stepping in and closing the bedroom door with his foot, he walked forward until he was standing next to the bed, his hands in his pockets as he looked down at you. It was hard to tell where exactly his mind was with the way his sunglasses hid his eyes, but there was a very prominent sense of dread that was building up in the pit of your stomach.

You were in for it.

And since this was the furthest you had ever gone to try and get away from him, you were terrified at what sort of response he was going to have.

Agonizing moments of silence passed as you waited for him to speak, the only sound that you could hear being the waves that lapped against the side of the boat. He likely hadn't wasted any time in taking you back out into the open ocean once he got ahold of you again. And now after getting as close as you had in escaping him, it would be a long, long, long time before you would have even a remote chance of leaving again.

Then Morel spoke.

“You can be really unbelievable sometimes, you know.”

While the expression on his face remained impassive as he said that, the anger in his voice was undeniable. There was also no denying how tense his form was, the rage within him that was currently being restrained. In all of your time with him, you had never made him truly upset. You had annoyed him – you had caused him to snap at you when you begged him one too many times to let you go, but even in those instances, it would blow over quickly. He would push for you to apologize; when he got what he wanted he would apologize himself, and then he would move on from it, letting those small incidents go as he was more interested in obsessing over you.

This wasn't going to be one of those times.

Morel continued, “I'm not going to lie and say that I've been perfect during our time together, and I understand that you still have some reservations about all of this, but after all that we've been through, all of the progress that we've made – you really went and drugged me? You wanted to get away from me so badly that you went that far?”

You shouldn't say anything to him. Even if you were to apologize, it wouldn't be received well. He must've figured out that you had planned this far in advance, must've found the little paper envelope you had fashioned that had held the crushed up pills. He must've figured out that the entire reason you had asked for the sleeping pills was just so you could use them on him.

No amount of apologizing was going to make this any better for you, so it was smarter to stay silent.

Except you couldn't bring yourself to do that.

“I want to go home,” you muttered sadly, tears already starting to prick the edges of your eyes.

“You are home,” said Morel.

“No, I'm not,” you answered, “this place could never be a home for me. Not after you kidnapped me.”

He had the audacity to sound exasperated when he said “that again? I told you – it's for your own good. If I keep you here, you're guaranteed to be safe whether I'm around or not.”

“I didn't ask you to keep me safe. I didn't ask for any of this,” you protested.

“I know, and that was why I needed to take you, because you're so stubborn that nothing I said was going to convince you,” Morel said plainly, “I hate to say it, but you don't know what's best for yourself. That's why I needed to step in.”

That statement of his sent a red-hot rage flooding through you, and you clenched your hands into fists as you stared up at him in disbelief, daring him to continue to spout his nonsense justifications.

He did just that as he said “the world is a dangerous place, far more dangerous than you even know. I tried to leave you where you were for a bit – I really did, but it was a constant worry at the back of my head. I worried over you so much that it was affecting me when I was doing my job. I even slipped up a few times and got hurt because of it. And it's all because you're so weak and helpless. Anyone or anything could kill you without much effort. That was why I would get so distracted: if something like that happened while I was away and unable to protect you, I knew I'd never forgive myself.”

You hated that you could tell that he wasn't mocking you, not intentionally. The man genuinely saw you as some weak little thing that needed someone looking out for them, and he had brought it upon himself to take that role that he thought you needed.

Bastard

“So that's why I did what I did,” Morel continued, “and I'm not going to apologize for that. Not when all I want is to keep you safe.”

“….. Bullshit.”

You felt Morel's gaze grow darker as he stared at you, saying “what's that?”

“…. That explanation is bullshit and you know it. None of this is being done for my sake,” you said.

“Everything about this is being done for your sake.”

“No it's not. Even in that stupid explanation of yours, all you could focus on was the way you felt and what you wanted. You didn't like worrying over me because it affected you negatively, so you locked me up to put an end to that, because you couldn't be fucking normal and trust that I'd be okay. Because for someone like you, capturing a person and treating them like a pet is easier than respecting that person's autonomy. As long as you get what you want, nothing else matters, right?”

“Plus, keeping me as your pet came with the added benefit of you being able to fuck me whenever you wanted. Must be pretty good for someone who doesn't view others as being people,” you spat out.

Morel's mouth was set in a hard line and his jaw barely moved as he said “it's nothing like that.”

“How is it not?”

“I care about you.”

“You treat me like an object and you claim to care about me? Really?”

“That isn't true. I don't treat you like that.”

“You kidnapped me and locked me up,” you said.

“Because I'm protecting you,” he countered.

“You aren't!” you insisted, “you're just using that claim as an excuse to justify keeping me with you!”

“It's not an excuse. I love you.”

“Stop lying!”

You managed to get those words out with more force than even you were expecting, and it seemed to surprise Morel enough that he didn't speak while you said “there's no part of you that can genuinely love and care about me if the fact that I'm suffering in this place doesn't matter to you!”

“You're being taken care of. You're hardly suffering,” Morel scoffed.

“I am because I fucking hate this place! I've hated every minute I've needed to spend on this stupid boat and all I want is to leave! I hate being here and I hate being with you! Every time you touch me makes me want to vomit and I wish you'd drop dead already!”

“….. You don't mean that.”

His voice was low rumble when he said that, and even in your current state, you were able to sense something dangerous within his tone. Under different circumstances, you would've backed off, would've at the very least quieted down until you sensed that he was in a better mood.

But right now you were emotional and upset over being brought back to where you started and being stripped naked and tied up, and all you wanted was to let out all of the anger and resentment that had been building up during your time here.

“I mean it. This place could never be my home. Trapped on some fucking boat every day all day – why the hell would I ever choose to be here? To be with you?”

You spat out that last part on purpose, which caused his brows to pinch together as his expression only grew more grim.

“I've been good to you,” Morel had the audacity to say.

“You kidnapped me,” you countered.

“I don't know how many times you want me to say that it was for your own good,” he replied, “you weren't being cooperative and I wasn't going to take a chance of something happening to you while I was away. It was the only option I had to ensure your safety and happiness.”

“Fuck you!”

The angry words continued to spill from your mouth as you yelled at him.

“You're so focused on what you want that you've deluded yourself into thinking I could ever be happy in a place like this!” you shouted, “you keep me on this goddamn boat so you can have something to fuck whenever you're in the mood, and then you run off to do your Hunter shit while I'm locked away on a floating cage! Nothing about this situation will ever make me happy and you're never going to be anything to me other than the worthless creep who kidnapped me and forced himself on me even after I told you 'no'!”

You paused after that, breathing hard as you looked up at him while the adrenaline rushed through you. It felt good to say what you really thought. To lay everything out there as it truly was, to shatter his delusional way of looking at what he had done to you.

It all felt good until it didn't.

When your breathing began to even out, the cold reality of the situation set in. The reality being that no matter what verbal lashing you sent Morel's way, you were still incredibly vulnerable before him, tied down naked to the bed he had made you share with him while he stood above you, stiff as a statue and with a stormy expression on his face.

He could always kill you, a voice in your head spoke. With the boat likely being out in the middle of the ocean, he could tie you down to something heavy and drop you in the water, and you'd be long dead before anyone found your body, if they found it at all.

Would that be better than spending another day with Morel?

You weren't sure what the answer to that question was, because Morel finally moved, pulling his hands out of his pockets in order to undo the belt buckle at his front.

What's he doing?

Panic began to grow in you as you watched him pull the belt off without a word, sliding it through the loops of his pants before it was dangling in his hand while a look of grim determination had settled on Morel's face. The air around you felt different and that confidence fueled by your own anger had died out as you returned to being his terrified captive.

“Wh-what are you doing?” you made yourself ask.

Morel straightened up somewhat upon hearing your voice, looking back to you.

“Ah, right,” he said, more to himself than to you, as if he had forgotten something.

Handing the belt to the smoke soldier, Morel stepped towards the bed as he now reached for his tie, undoing the knotted fabric with deft fingers as he stared down at you.

“I'm going to need you to open your mouth,” he told you, “I don't want you biting your tongue on accident.”

Looking at his tie and then back at him, you asked “you're gonna gag me?”

“Yeah.”

With that, he reached out with the tie in hand as he attempted to force it into your mouth.

“No!”

You yelled loudly as you twisted your neck, once again struggling against your bindings as you tried to keep that bit of fabric out of your mouth.

“Stop fighting me,” Morel growled as he grabbed a hold of your hair.

“No!” you yelled again, still struggling even when you felt the grip he had on your hair become even more tight and painful.

The red fabric was being pressed against your lips as he tried to force it into your mouth, and even though you clamped your jaw shut in an effort to keep it out, you already felt the way he was prying your mouth open.

Was it really a good idea to keep doing this? Any resistance from this point would mean a slimmer chance of escape at a later time. If you kept fighting, you were looking at needing to play docile for him for a long, long while until he trusted you again. The smart choice would be to accept what he was doing in favor of having him be at least a little pleased with you over how you were submitting to him. Because if he was happy, then his guard could be dropped once again.

That was a mantra you had repeated to yourself for several months, and you knew that you should listen to it. It was the smarter decision.

“You're only making this worse for yourself.”

The sound of Morel's voice cut into your internal thoughts while he continued to try to force the tie into your mouth, and upon hearing the anger in his tone, the way he felt that you, the victim, were somehow in the wrong –

It enraged you.

With nothing else at your disposal, you turned your head to face him and spat on him.

The shock on the Sea Hunter's face was evident, his anger dissipating for a moment as he stared at you in disbelief, no doubt able to feel the bit of saliva that had landed on his cheek as it slowly ran down his skin and reached his jaw.

Truthfully, a part of you was also surprised at that action; you'd never done something like that before.

But no one had ever made you as angry as Morel had before this moment, either.

You weren't able to ponder that line of thought for long, because shortly after, Morel's shock shifted into anger, his brows narrowing into a glare as he wiped your spit off of his face with his sleeve.

“Open your goddamn mouth,” he ordered.

Your response was to clench your jaw shut while you glared at him.

By that point, Morel clearly had enough.

Taking both hands to your face, Morel's fingers forced their way into your lips as he pried your jaw open. His tie was forced inside in a similar manner, even when you tried to push it out with your tongue or when you bit at his teeth. Nothing you did slowed him down.

A few moments after that, he was securing a knot at the back of your head, leaving your mouth unable to close as the tie had been used to gag you.

You were still struggling to escape and Morel was still radiating rage as he stood to his full height, glowering down at you from above.

“I love you a lot. I really do,” he spoke, “but I have my limits, and today, you've pushed well past them.

The soldier stepped forward, holding out the belt for him while their gaze never left your form. Taking the belt without looking, Morel silently wrapped the end with the buckle around his right hand, holding it tightly with his fist once he was finished. With that, he looked back to you.

“I want you to know that I'm not going to take any sort of pleasure in this,” he told you, “but you haven't left me any choice. You've made it clear that if I want you to learn anything from this, then I need to go to the extreme.”

Your heart began to pound in your chest as he approached the bed once more, this time standing in front of your exposed backside. He…. He wasn't going to….. Was he?

When he pulled the belt taut with both hands, tears began to well up in your eyes as you shook your head at him while your pleas were muffled by the tie in your mouth.

Morel gave you one last look before he spoke again.

“You made me do this.”

And with that, he pulled his arm back and brought the belt down on your ass.

The first time, you didn't scream. In fact, it felt as though you fainted for a brief moment as your mind went blank from the pain and all that came out of your mouth was a brief gasp as it felt as though the air was being forced out of you.

It was when he brought the belt down a second time that you screamed into the gag.

Tears filled your vision and your entire body reacted as your limbs once again fought at the bindings, and when that didn't work, you found yourself trying to press into the mattress in a desperate effort to escape the way the belt struck your sensitive flesh over and over again. It didn't matter that Morel and his creation were right there and would never allow you to step foot off of the bed – you weren't thinking logically. You just needed to get away.

But despite your best efforts, the bindings remained strong while you remained helpless.

The belt came down again.

The searing pain that ripped through you caused the veins in your forehead to bulge out as you cried out, your voice quickly becoming hoarse from how hard you were screaming. Sweat was beading up on your forehead as well while adrenaline was pumping through you, only adding to your efforts to escape from him.

It was just as useless as it had been every other time you tried to break free; there was no sign of the bindings loosening even slightly.

A pattern was beginning to emerge as he brought the belt down once more.

And then again.

And again.

And again.

The areas on your ass and upper thighs were soon all aching, every inch suffering from the force of his hits. With no more free skin to mark up, Morel began to hit you in the spots that had already been attacked.

The pain in those areas became worse the second time around.

You had long since lost count of how many times he'd hit you. You were only able to note when you felt your skin beginning to tear and you felt something liquid and warm dripping down from both your sides and the apex of your thighs.

You were bleeding, you realized. He was hitting you so hard that you were bleeding.

And he didn't care, as you felt the leather come back down on your aching skin and cause the pain to bloom in your body yet again.

Morel continued in a steady rhythm; he would hit you, pull back, wait a few seconds and then bring the belt back down.

Again and again.

Over and over.

No end in sight.

The sound of the belt moving through the air was seared into your brain. As was the sound it made when it came into contact with your flesh. The same could be said for Morel's determined grunts as he made sure not to go easy on you. Those sounds would likely stay in your mind forever and visit you with every nightmare.

And as for the pain……

All you could do was hope the memory of that would fade with time.

You were conscious for far too long. At a certain point you weren't really able to think. All you knew was the cycle of pain Morel was putting you through as the thick leather continued to come down on your damaged skin, making your wounds even worse in the process. You managed to be vaguely aware of the blood that decorated the sheets beneath and around your pelvis, just as you were vaguely aware of the spatters of blood that had managed to get onto the ceiling above you, flying off of the belt from the momentum of Morel's swings.

After enduring all of that for however long it truly lasted, it was a mercy when you finally passed out.

When you awoke, it was to a stinging sensation as something was being lathered on your rear. While not as bad as the pain you had gone through at Morel's hands, it was enough to wake you up, making you struggle again against the bindings you had fought so desperately against during the lashing. You were simply reacting again, the not-logical part of your brain trying to get away from what it knew to be a bad situation.

A cold hand came down to smack you on your injured flesh, causing you to shout in pain once again.

That woke you fully.

A glance over your shoulder revealed it to be the soldier that had hit you. They stared at you for a moment, as if warning you against fighting any further. When they were satisfied that you wouldn't, it went back to what it had been doing: tending to your wounds.

You strained your neck to see just how that part of you looked.

That was a mistake.

The skin of your ass and the upper parts of your thighs were covered both with bruises and bloody open wounds that stretched across your skin, some of which looked deep enough that you feared there would be permanent scarring. It would definitely be a long time before you would be able to sit down comfortably.

The sight caused the tears to well up in your eyes once again, and now without the gag in place to muffle your cries, you openly sobbed into the surface of the pillow. Your throat hurt, but you couldn't help it – what had happened to you was monstrous.

And Morel didn't care.

He had done all of that to you without remorse. He'd had the nerve to blame you for it before he'd gone through with the barbaric act, all because he wanted to teach you a fucked-up lesson.

In the midst of your sobbing, you glanced over your shoulder again, this time to glare at the soldier.

“I'll never forgive you,” you choked out between your scratchy sobs.

The soldier paused in their actions, turning their blank gaze over to you once again.

Morel was listening in. He needed to be.

“I'll never forgive you,” you repeated.

There was no verbal response from the soldier.

Instead, they spread more of the disinfectant that caused you to wake up, once again without an ounce of care, and your cries of pain echoed against the walls for what must have been the hundredth time that day.

The feeling that had been behind your fierce deceleration felt as though it was wavering. Whether or not your resolve had faltered too soon or too late was impossible to tell, as you couldn't tell just how long you had remained in your current state.

In the days following your horrible ordeal, you had been left with your limbs still tied to the bed. Every day of every hour, those bindings remained wrapped tight around your wrists and ankles, keeping you attached firmly without even the slightest bit of wiggle room, your arms and legs permanently stretched out. The only reprieve you got from that was when the soldier would allow you to use the bathroom, and at the beginning, it felt more like a punishment at first. As you had expected, sitting down was painful, and there were several times you returned to the bedroom a crying mess.

Every ounce of pain that ran through you only reminded you of what you had been through – what Morel had done to you.

At first, the anger from that brutal act only strengthened your resolve. How could he do this to you? How could he do such things and still claim to love you? He was a monster. You spat that out a few times, both at his creation and at him during the times he entered the bedroom. Morel ignored you and the soldier remained ever silent. When your words didn't draw any reaction, you went silent as well and kept your gaze averted whenever Morel entered the room for a fresh change of clothes. If he was going to ignore you, you could do the same.

You even told yourself that you were happy that he wasn't touching you, that it was better this way. For once, you were free from his incessant touch, his demanding need for you to give him the sweet kisses and the soft embraces that you had come to know that he craved from you. While his presence in the form of the soldier was still overwhelming, you told yourself that you had won if just for that fact alone.

At first all of it was easy.

As if the fact that he had kidnapped you wasn't enough, the pain that started in your backside that ran through you every time you sat down and the humiliation that came with every day you woke up tied to the bed reminded you of why you could never forgive him.

He was a monster and a brute who had done so many awful things to you that you felt there wasn't a good enough punishment for him to go through in order to make up what he'd put you through.

You would never forgive him.

But after what must have been weeks with nothing to do but listen to your own thoughts while you stayed firmly attached to the bed and listened to the endless creaking of the boat as it rocked back and forth, you found that it was harder to hold onto that rage.

And part of you felt pathetic for that fact.

There was only so much to focus on in that small area, only so much you could do while you were tied down. You weren't even allowed to feed yourself as the soldier was the one to do that, feeding you like you were an animal, and there was nothing you could do about it. If you tried to fight, they would take the meal away, a clear sign that told you if you wouldn't behave, then you wouldn't eat. After going several days with only being offered water, your desire to act up during mealtimes died down so as to ease the growing ache in your empty stomach.

Even then, the meals that were being offered were meager, but they were all you were allowed to have. That, combined with the little bits of movement you were allowed every day which caused your muscles to weaken, had your strength ebbing away bit by bit while your mind was having a hard time coping with the isolation and the minimal stimulation your brain was getting from the stagnant environment.

Your thoughts became less angry and more dismal. At first you were consumed by memories of your life before all of this, of what things had been like before Morel had torn you away from everything you knew. A life with family, friends, a dating life that could've been better and a job that you had really grown to enjoy, even if there was that one coworker who had a bad habit of oversharing everything. It wasn't perfect, but it was good, and it was mostly all you wanted.

And even if things could've been better, Morel didn't have any right to take you away from that.

Those times with your loved ones felt like a million years ago now, and more than once you found yourself crying tears of rage over how all of that was lost. All because of Morel's selfishness.

Thoughts like those had your resolve strengthening somewhat, and yet, it didn't feel like it lasted long. You were just so tired. You couldn't tell how many days had passed since all of this had started, even with your best efforts to try and count the meals you had gotten or the times that Morel entered the room.

He must have been sleeping on the couch in the main area of the boat, you thought to yourself.

What was the point in that?

Why wasn't he all over you? Why hadn't he nursed you back to health himself?

What was his endgame?

….. Was he tired of you?

“Are you going to kill me?” you asked him one day, your voice croaking out the question due to how little you had spoken.

Morel again ignored you, and nothing in his actions indicated that he was in any way affected by your question. His ever present soldier remained where they were, and there wasn't any change in their treatment of you after you asked that.

It should have angered you. That after having the audacity to kidnap you, he would then pretend as though you didn't exist.

But by the time you asked that question, you felt weak in both body and spirit as the true toll of the situation had begun to hit you fully.

It wasn't right.

Nothing about this was right.

But things were nicer when Morel was happy with you.

Even if it had all been driven by his own selfishness, having him hold you was better than the bindings that held you down. Having him regale you with stories of his adventures on the seas was nicer than the way he wouldn't even look at you.

And the feeling of his lips on yours was a better feeling than his belt hitting your ass repeatedly until you were bleeding.

As what must have been weeks slowly but surely passed, you found yourself wishing to go back to before the night of your escape. Back when things were good between you and your kidnapper. Back when he treated you softly and held you close in a way that felt secure.

That's stupid. He kidnapped you, you told yourself. You really think anything about that was good?

But another part of you didn't care. Things had been better before you escaped, and you didn't want this existence anymore.

You wanted to take it all back.

Your resolve to not forgive or speak to him broke soon after that, and for the first time in a long while, you tried to make conversation for the sake of your own sanity. You offered up apologies in between pleas for him to say something to you.

Morel didn't acknowledge your request.

Morel didn't acknowledge you at all.

That night you broke down sobbing as you feared that nothing about this could ever be fixed and that your current state was going to be the rest of your life.

Standing in the corner, the soldier watched you impassively.

Sometime later, there was a change in the awful routine you'd been forced into.

That evening, Morel came into the bedroom as he always did, and you anticipated that he would grab his nighttime clothes and immediately head back out without sparing you a second glance, as was typical.

Morel didn't do that, however.

Instead you were caught off-guard when he approached you, standing at the spot at the top of the bed and reaching out to grab at the bindings. He was untying them, you quickly realized. Your eyes widened as his calloused fingers undid the bindings around one wrist, loosening it until he was able to slip your hand out of the fabric before he turned his attention to the other.

What was happening?

Your heart pounded in your chest as you laid there silently, unwilling to do anything without his explicit permission for fear of Morel changing his mind and tying you back up again. When he had finished with your wrists and walked down to undo your ankles, you remained where you were, not even daring to push yourself up to look at him.

He would tell you when to move.

Which he did, though not verbally. Once he had finished freeing you completely, the Sea Hunter grabbed you by your arm and hauled you up to your feet, and without giving you even a second to recover from the way you had abruptly changed positions, Morel began to drag you out of the bedroom.

You had no choice but to comply, following behind him on unsteady feet while you tried not to bump into either him, the doorway or the walls. With one last glance back you saw the soldier following behind you, their eyes trained on you as always.

Once more you asked yourself what was happening, but you were still unwilling to ask that question aloud.

Morel pulled you into the main area of the boat, a room that you hadn't been in since the night you escaped. Your eyes went to the part of the kitchen, finding the exact spot where you had been standing when you had tampered with the juice you had given him. Where you had, in his mind, betrayed him to the worst degree.

Upon reliving that memory, you felt a pain in your rear. The marks from the way he had beaten you came alive on your skin. It was probably just stress pain, as your wounds had long since healed up. But that didn't make the ache lessen in any way. Nor did your nerves calm down as Morel dragged you towards the couch.

After he had settled down, Morel pulled you onto his lap after, his hands holding onto your hips while he stared at you. He still wasn't saying anything, so you followed his lead and remained silent as you stared back nervously. Feeling awkward, you ended up using your hands to steady yourself on his shoulders.

He remained silent.

The smoke soldier remained as a constant presence at the doorway.

And you remained tense, your muscles coiled up as you waited for something to happen. But you could only wait for Morel to say or do something.

Because something was going to happen; you were sure of it. Whether it would be good or bad for you remained to be seen.

You kept your hands on his shoulders, your fingers clenching and unclenching at the fabric of his shirt while you waited for him to speak to you, to explain what was going on. Maybe things would go back to normal? After everything you'd been through now, you wanted to go back to the way it was before you had run. Because even if you hated being his captive, even if he still used you how he wanted with little regard for your own feelings, at least there was a semblance of love to be found. Morel was gentle with you, he was kind to you. He went out of his way to do things for you that he thought you would like, would surprise you with little gifts that he felt suited you, or he'd cook you meals that he knew were your favorites.

That version of Morel, the one that doted on you and held you softly, was nowhere to be found. Instead, the man whose lap you were sitting on only continued to stare at you coldly, his mouth still set in a frown and and his eyes watching you from behind his sunglasses.

You didn't want to speak. Doing that felt like a bad idea, like all you would do was earn another round of punishment for yourself if you dared to do or say anything without his express permission. Waiting for his command was the smarter option, the safer option.

So you sat, still staring at him with uncertainty while you were unable to help the way you squirmed beneath his gaze.

Then Morel once again broke the silence, not with words but with action, as he moved his hands away from your hips, leaving you to hold yourself up on your own as he began to undo the buckle of his belt.

Seeing that had your heart rate increase on seeing that.

Was he going to hurt you again? Why? Had you done something else wrong? Or was this simply a continuation of your punishment?

Every part of you wanted to run and barricade yourself in the bedroom, but you made yourself stay still as you stared on helplessly. Running would only make it worse, you told yourself. Just stay still.

Even when he pulled the belt out of the loops of his pants and gripped it in one hand, you forced yourself to stay where you were.

Still remaining silent, Morel placed the belt next to him on the couch as he reached down for the button and zipper of his pants, the sound of the zipper teeth pulling open echoing loudly in your head.

You made yourself sit there, even when he shoved his pants and boxers down in order to pull out his semi-hard length.

Then, for the first time in a long, long time, Morel spoke to you.

“Touch it,” he ordered.

“……”

Somehow it hadn't been obvious when he was undoing his pants of what he wanted. Even though you were staring at him the entire time, your mind hadn't truly been taking in what was happening. As such, you found yourself shocked at the order, and you couldn't help but open your mouth as you began to form a question.

“T-touch-?”

“Did I say you could speak?”

You snapped your mouth shut, fearful of angering him. Again.

Morel stared down at you through the lens' of his sunglasses, waiting impatiently for you to do as he had told you while also having no concern for your distress that was once more slowly building as you remained still on top of his lap.

“I'm not going to repeat myself,” Morel told you.

His words brought you out of your stupor. If you didn't do what he wanted, he'd give you back to the soldier and make them tie you up to that bed, wouldn't he? You would only see him in passing and all you would have was the creature made up from his abilities. Always by your side. Always impersonal, never offering any sort of kind or loving touch.

Letting out a shuddering breath, you pulled one of your hands off of his shoulders and placed it on his cock, wrapping your fingers around his length. Then you began to stroke him.

The interior of the boat was quiet as you ran your palm up and down his dick, and the air around you felt stuffy. Dense. Like you were slowly being suffocated. You took in a big gulp of air as you increased your pace, trying your best to put your all into pleasing him despite how tired your muscles felt already.

Maybe he would appreciate that.

Maybe this could be the first step in him forgiving you.

You don't need forgiveness from him. He kidnapped you.

Shaking those thoughts away, you continued, watching as his cock hardened until it stood erect in your palm, a bead of precum sitting at the tip as you worked him over, bringing your other hand down in order to use both on him.

You must be doing something right, otherwise he wouldn't be aroused like this. Even if the setting still felt suffocating to you and not arousing in the slightest. The air still felt heavy and grim.

Maybe he likes seeing you at his mercy.

…… You didn't like that thought, and you again banished it from your mind as you continued, determined to keep your focus solely on pleasing him. All the while Morel sat there with his arms crossed over his chest as he stared at you.

It sure didn't feel like he was enjoying this. It felt like he was still pissed off at you.

Just don't hurt me again, you begged silently. You can lock me back up, but don't hurt me anymore.

By that point your hands were becoming slick as you kept rubbing them up and down Morel's length. His precum was dripping down from the tip of his cock, and the stickiness was getting in the areas between your fingers as you rubbed him harder. You focused your touch on the veins that ran along his cock, areas that you remembered were sensitive, areas that you hoped were having the same effect on him.

But it was impossible to tell with the way he kept staring at you.

“Stop.”

Your hands stilled as soon as he spoke, and you stared up at him nervously,

“How wet are you?” he demanded to know.

You blinked.

“Um…..”

You didn't want to answer, because you didn't feel aroused at all and you felt worried that he'd be upset by that.

It turned out that you didn't need to answer as he sighed, saying “I should've figured.”

He sounded annoyed.

Feeling compelled to apologize, you opened your mouth to do just that, but you stopped, remembering how he didn't like it when you tried to speak earlier. So your shut your mouth yet again as you waited for him to speak once more.

“Whatever. You'll ride me anyway.”

Then Morel's hands were on your hips again, and he hoisted you up so you were on your knees above his length. He then readjusted his grip so he was holding onto the globes of your ass while the tip of his cock brushed against your pussy lips.

And then he held you there, waiting for you to sink down onto him, regardless of whether you were ready for him or not.

I don't want this, you thought to yourself as you stared down between your legs, at the cock that you didn't feel prepared for.

I don't want this at all.

Morel's fingers gripped tighter on your ass and this time, the pain that ran through you wasn't an echo of what he had done to you that night when he caught you.

What you wanted didn't matter right now.

So you squeezed your eyes shut as you lowered yourself down.

It hurt.

The stretch felt like too much and you wanted to pull off of him, but you forced yourself to go down further and further. Tears were now pricking at the edges of your eyes and your knuckles had paled from how hard you were gripping at his shirt, but you didn't stop or pull away even when your senses were screaming at you to do so.

At least it's not as bad as the belt.

Thinking that helped a little bit.

You were able to sink down to about the middle of his cock when you paused, taking in a deep breath before you began to pull upward, waiting until his head was all that was inside of you and then sinking back down again. Morel didn't make any indication that he objected, so he must have been pleased.

Except he still didn't show any signs that he was enjoying this.

He still seemed angry.

So you continued with uncertainty, still feeling fearful even as the stretch became more comfortable and you were able to take in more of him until you were able to hilt him inside of you fully. Even when you were able to move faster as you bounced on top of him, nothing about it felt like things between the two of you were mending.

And evidently what you were doing wasn't enough, because Morel took it upon himself to force you to go faster.

Grabbing you by your hips, the Sea Hunter began to move you, plunging you up and down on his length at a pace that you weren't capable of in your current weak state. The room was soon filled with the sounds of your bare thighs hitting his legs while you let out pained groans and sudden shrieks whenever he handled you a bit too roughly, and all you could do was hold onto him for dear life.

Morel wouldn't have done that before.

He had always been attuned to your discomfort, being able to sense when something was wrong and stopping before you would get the chance to tell him to. He'd even agreed to you saying 'no' to certain acts when you cited that they made you uncomfortable. And even when he was lost in a haze of lust, he was never so lost that he continued to seek his pleasure without thinking of you and his desire to make you happy.

You hadn't thought of it before. You had been too focused on using sex to get him to lower his guard to realize how nice he was being to you. The man was so sweet and caring; he probably could've had any girl he wanted, and he picked you.

And how had you repaid him?

And could things ever go back to normal?

“I'm sorry.”

You breathed out those words, and immediately, Morel came to a stop, his hands still gripping your hips hard and his cock still buried in your cunt. You felt their gazes on you, of both himself and the smoke soldier that had stayed in the doorway. Tears began to run down your cheeks as you began to sob out more apologies, your voice becoming more and more choked with every syllable you forced out.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

You couldn't tell how your many apologies were being received – even if your vision wasn't blurry with tears, you couldn't bring yourself to look at him. For some reason, you felt ashamed, and it was all you could do to keep yourself upright while you forced more apologies to fall from your mouth.

“I'm sorry.”

The boat creaked as it moved against the waves.

“I'm sorry.”

The soldier's gaze remained ever present on your back.

“I'm sorry.”

Morel still said nothing while you sobbed on top of him.

The next apology of yours caught in your throat, and though you were unable to speak, you clenched your fingers tighter on his shirt, hoping that he would still understand what you wanted to say, how remorseful you truly were over your actions.

If we could just go back to the way things were, I'd be fine.

You weren't able to process how wrong that thought of yours was.

Because Morel chose then to respond.

Lifting one large hand to cup your cheek gently, Morel moved your head up so you were looking at him. And with a gentleness that you hadn't felt since the night you ran away, he brushed away the tears on your cheek as he murmured to you softly.

“Shh. Don't cry,” he said to you.

That just made your tears flow harder, and you couldn't help but grab at the hand on your cheek with your own, pressing his palm against your skin in the hopes that he wouldn't pull away. Not that you would be able to stop him if he really wanted to let go, but your desperation for his soft, gentle touch drove you to try anyway.

You felt elation when Morel not only chose not to pull away, but went and wrapped his other arm around you as he pulled you in, holding you close to his chest. Immediately, you wrapped your arms around him in response, nuzzling your face against him. When was the last time he had held you like this? The night of your escape? Regardless, it felt like it had been years since the last time this had happened, and you didn't want to let him go.

Morel sighed as he buried his face in your hair.

“I'm really happy to hear you say that. I was worried you would never come around,” he said softly, “I don't know what I would do if you stayed that way. If you still couldn't see things from my point of view.”

Morel moved his hand to the back of your head in order to stroke your hair as he continued “it's been a tough few weeks, and I know I wasn't good to you during that time, but it was necessary. You get that, right?”

You nodded.

Morel let out a sigh of relief as he said “that's good. I'm glad you understand.”

His other hand began to run up and down your back as he said “and I hope you'll also understand why we can't immediately go back to the way things were. I'll need to keep you on a bit of a leash for a while. That means you can only go topside when I say so, and I'm going to keep using my ability to watch over you.”

“But it won't be forever,” he added, “just until we've rebuilt the bridge between us completely. Understand?”

You nodded again as you let out a soft “I understand.”

He sniffled when you said that, which caught you off-guard.

When you pulled your head back up to look at him, you were surprised by what you saw:

He was crying.

Moments ago he'd been glaring at you; he hadn't allowed for any other emotion other than anger. But now…… Now tears were streaming down his face as he looked at you with an expression of sheer relief.

“Good. That's good, sweetheart,” he said, leaning down to place a kiss on your head. He then held you tightly, his tears landing in your hair as he declared “these last few weeks have been hell for both of us, but we're going to come out of it stronger, I know it.”

You hummed in agreement as you nodded, reciprocating his embrace as you held him back.

This isn't right, a small voice at the back of your head protested. How could things have been hell for him? How could he hurt you over and over and say that he was affected negatively by it? How could he have the gall to make it seem as though he had also suffered?

Shut up, you told yourself. Just shut up and stay quiet. He wants to love you now, so take it.

The alternative is being tied to the bed.

You held him tighter, your shoulders trembling slightly from the warring emotions within yourself.

Morel noticed as he asked “what's wrong?”

You shook your head.

“I just missed this,” you answered softly.

On hearing that, a soft smile graced Morel's face.

“I did too,” he admitted, taking a brief moment to wipe at his tears with his sleeve.

When he then moved your chin up in order to pull you in for a kiss, you didn't protest.

The smoke creation of his that had been a constant presence dissipated as Morel began to readjust you, slowly moving you so you were laying back on the couch, his cock buried in you the whole time as he took his place above you. He pulled away from your lips in favor of covering your neck with kisses as he gently caressed your sides with soft strokes that soothed you. Your hands came up to grasp at his shirt again, to which he chuckled.

Taking one of your hands into his, he kissed your fingers before asking “are you ready?”

You nodded.

Morel began to thrust into you once more. This time, his movements were softer, not as forceful as moments ago when he had been taking what he wanted from you. The stark contrast to the change forced a sob to escape your throat, to which Morel shushed you gently as he wiped away the remainder of your tears.

Then he pulled away and pressed his face into the crook of your neck, sighing contentedly.

“Welcome home,” Morel whispered.