Title: The Fawn Instinct.

Flickering

💌Yandere!Dabi x F!Reader💌

9.7k words

Summary: 

Dabi seems so nice for a villain at first - chivalrous, even. But you should know much, much better than to get yourself tied up with someone like that.

Tags:

Short smut, consensual smut, progressive yandere, soft dabi for the first part but it does get worse dw 😌, kidnapping, murder, small hint at dabi having body issues, dick piercings, tongue piercing, dabi nice to u :)

A/N: uh oh *accidentally projects romantic fantasies onto dabi and then leaves them out to rot into my usual stuff*

———

It’s a quiet night.

Recently, there’s only been quiet nights. Still, unwavering - caught in an illusion filled with only passing cars and the rhythmic flickering of neon signs. There isn’t much to distract you from the sound of your own footsteps, and there is even less to be concerned about.

Unless, of course, the silence is a concern in itself. Which it is. Because on these streets there’s always a mugging or a robbing or some mis-doing to fascinate the watchful eyes from within the cars. Something to gawk at and something that must be ran from.

But ever since two weeks ago, when you found yourself staring into a pair of blue eyes that outshone the signs, there has been nothing of the sort. Your walk home has been safe and uneventful but you’ve never felt watched due to it - just lucky.

Keep reading

*opens tumblr*

*sees kidnapper!konig x reader*

*sighs and closes tumblr*

I’m a bit concerned lowkey about the amount of kidnapper fantasies out there, he’s starving the reader, locking her in the basement….nothing about that is appealing to me ..like that is just one thing I cannot get on…plz I want konig to make me safe not kidnap me and starve me and separate me from my family

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪  lover !!

ᝰ.ᐟ even if he doesn't exude this energy to outsiders, you're happy to know that your boyfriend is the biggest simp around when it comes to you. or: the cute things he'll do for you.  (fem!reader)

featuring yoichi isagi, seishiro nagi, reo mikage, rin itoshi, rensuke kunigami content contains hotel bathroom sinks designed by a man, slight jealousy (reo is the jealous boyfriend), height differences (nagi + kunigami + rin are described as taller), wearing his clothes + clothes is described to be oversized on you (nagi), called a simp by his teammates (kunigami), clingy bf (yoichi <3) author's notes hq version coming soon!!! i just wanted to write something soft n fluffy for once <3

౨ৎ YOICHI ISAGI — goes viral on tiktok when the two of you go on vacation to celebrate your second year anniversary. you're recording yourself from the bathroom of the private villa he rented out for the two of you, and you originally wanted to record what an absolute joke the sink is. there is literally no counter space. nowhere to place any of your makeup or skincare products. yoichi interupts the video unknowingly, knocking softly and asking if he can come in. he doesn't realize you're filming, and it's entirely genuine when he asks, "is everything okay? you sounded frustrated? did you need help opening something?" you laugh before explaining the situation, and he's silent for all but one second before he goes, "oh! i'll just hold your makeup bag, and i'll hand you the stuff when you need it." (poor yoichi means well, but he's standing there for over an hour as you laugh at him when he can't tell the difference between a tube of lipgloss and liquid blush. the look of concentration on his face as he nods intently while you explain what each product is for is absolutely adorable; it's the same concentrated look he gets when he's reviewing game footage, meaning he's taking this seriously for you.) he's also the type that loves to follow you around. it's a common joke for his fans to comment "walk him like a dog, sis!" on any candid photos of you + yoichi because he is almost always holding your hand while trailing behind you. he's like your shadow as he follows you around different stores in the mall, and even when you tell him he can just sit down with the other boyfriends while you just try on some clothes, he refuses to leave your side. tries to follow you to the dressing room, and gets all pouty when he realizes he's not allowed in. makes you walk outside the dressing room with the new outfits on so he can rate them (he is incredibly biased and believes everything looks good on you and forces you to bring everything to the cashier so he can swipe his card to get it for you <3)

౨ৎ REO MIKAGE — cannot handle anyone else taking up large chunks of your time, especially when he rarely gets to see you during game season. makes a face anytime he realizes that the server at the restaurant is a guy. the server will smile at you and tell you that he'll get started on that meal for you right away, and reo leans forward once he's gone and goes, "i can't believe he was flirting with you right in front of me! disgusting!" he's actually convinced that every man in the world wants you for themselves, and if you tease him by threatening to run off with any of these men, he'll instantly frown and start telling you to take that back right now! however, he is entirely convinced that you are the greatest thing to ever grace this earth, and he feels so proud whenever you two are out in public and a fan or an employee compliments you. they could say anything postive about you, and he'll beam with pride, going "i know, right? i tell her this all the time!" it's almost common knowledge that the easiest way to get on reo's good side is to treat you well. he also loves listening to you gossip, and is the type of boyfriend who loves all your friends (even if he can't quite remember their names; it's only important that they treat you kindly and loyally), and hates everyone that you hate. he's also less forgiving than you; if someone backstabs you but you forgive them and grant them a second chance, just know that reo still hates their guts and he'll make it incredibly obvious.

౨ৎ SEISHIRO NAGI — can’t help but make video game versions of the two of you any chance he gets. he’ll pretend to not notice the way your eyes light up when you pass by any claw machine containing plushies of your favorite anime characters, but somehow he’ll manage to find himself at the machine, casually winning you your favorite as if the game isn’t designed to make everyone lose. (he’s just that good.) even if you’re not as big of a gamer as him, he’ll watch you play sims 4 (and subsequently watch you spend 3 hours on the create-a-sim section because you’re trying to create a perfect carbon copy of the two of you.) looks for his favorite hoodie only to glance over at your still-sleeping form on his bed and realizes that you’re wearing it. you look adorable in it; he’s taller than you, bigger in every aspect, so the material swallows you up. (he doesn’t wake you up nor does he ask for it back.) despite the fact that he’s taller than you, nagi is definitely a big baby, and is constantly the little spoon. he loves to come home and bury his face in your neck, loves the way you gently run your fingers through his hair (it’s the easiest way for him to fall asleep), and he’ll constantly try to find ways for you to hold him.

౨ৎ RIN ITOSHI — grants you “scary dog privilege.” literally will mean mug every man in the street as the two of you are walking together. everyone thinks that rin would be a selfish lover from his outside appearance, but he surprisingly puts up with a lot of your antics because he loves you so much. you don’t bother buying a step stool because you count on rin to get you anything you need from the tall shelves (and when you’re mad at him, he’ll purposely find ways to get all your most-used items on a hard-to-reach area so you have to sulkily seek him out and ask for his help. there’s no way in hell you put your face wash on top of the fridge, and rin looks all too happy to grab it for you.) he has a very bare social media account and most of the time, he just posts whatever his publicists draft up for him. the only post he has personally created and shared himself is the one of you on your birthday; in a sea of promotional posters and professionally taken game highlights, the smiling faces of you and rin stand out. (it’s the happiest any of his fans have ever seen him look.)

౨ৎ RENSUKE KUNIGAMI — his teammates make fun of him because he is notoriously loyal to you. they tricked him and took him out to a strip club, and there’s a viral video of kunigami staring intently at his phone, never looking up once at his surroundings. (he was going through your instagram feed + then ran out of photos to look at, so he started going through his camera roll to look at pictures and videos of you.) is the boyfriend who embodies the phrase ‘wear whatever you want, baby, i can fight.’ there’s a photo of you two that did numbers on pinterest. kunigmai is such a big guy, towers over you, honestly, but he readily gets down on his knees for you. in the photo, you two are dressed up to attend a gala. he’s on his knees, and you have one high-heel clad foot resting on the top of his thigh as he looks down and is adjusting the ankle strap of your heel for you. his friends shared the photo in the team groupchat and called him a simp, but kunigami knows that if they had someone half as great as you, they’d act just the same.

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.

Moving Up

mafiaAU! Shalnark

Warnings: arson, mentions of torture, mentions of death, Shalnark being a creep

Word count: 4.2k

You had to call him eventually.

As you looked over the charred and foamy pile of what had once been store product, you could only put off the inevitable for so long. Arson was serious, to say the least, and you were told that if anything like this happened, you needed to call him so that he could decide where you went from there.

So why were you stalling? Probably because with a lot of floor cleaner, trash bags and a lot of hard work, you could clean up the mess without anyone even knowing what had happened. Sure, it would take all day and would only cost the store money, but it wasn’t like you would be making anything today with the burnt pile that currently sat in the middle of the floor.

But the first big issue with that plan was that your boss had told you to make the call. He had been the one to discover the fire and subsequently put it out, and after doing that he made you come in on your day off, gave you a run-down of what had happened and then gave you the order to call the troupe. Trying to get out of doing that would just cause him to give you grief for it later.

And the second thing was that the Phantom Troupe always inevitably found out any secrets anyone tried to hide from them. They had lackeys all over the city and a reliable information network that traveled fast. It wouldn’t surprise you if one of their underlings was aware of the fire and that word had already reached the ears of the man you were supposed to call. That would leave you in an awkward position of trying to come up with an excuse as to why it had taken you so long to contact him.

How long had it been, anyway?

You glanced over to the clock.

….. It’d been over an hour. Somehow you’d wasted an entire hour pushing off the inevitable.

Ah, fuck.

Keep reading

magnum reaction to their s/o crying

Sorry for not getting to this sooner!

Magnum Reaction To S/O Crying

He would be coming home from a late dance practice, he would enter the apartment expecting to see you greet him, but when he saw you weren’t there, he knew something was up. He heard sobbing from upstairs, he slowly went up the stairs, heart racing, and mind flooded with reasons why you could be crying.

Jihoon

He would run to you and engulf you into his arms “why, why, why, who made you cry?” He would pat your hair, and whisper “it’s okay” over and over again. Would get mad, at whoever made you cry and would hold a grudge against that person forever. After you stop crying y’all would binge on ice cream and watch funny cat videos. But you best believe that he will find out what made you cry.

Yoshinori

His heart would break into a million little pieces, would run up to you and rub your back, while wiping your tears and snot away with the sleeves of his jumper, would whisper sweet nothings into your ear in hope that the crying ceases, which it does, he’ll ask you to explain everything, while you do he’ll hold your hand and draw circles on it with his thumb, occasionally giving your hand a little squeeze, to remind you that he’s still there.

Yoonbin

When he opened the door to your shared bedroom, that’s when he saw you huddled in the corner, wrapped around in a blanket, he would quietly approach you and wrap you around in his arms, not saying a word, just letting you cry into his shoulder, while he rubbed your back, after your crying ceased, he would remind you that he’ll always love you no matter what and that he’ll be with you thick and thin.

Mashiho

When he entered the room a look of confusion took over his face, ‘what could have gotten you so upset?’ He would softly call out your name, not asking what was wrong, but if there was anything you wanted, not replying to this he just hugged you, patting your hair, after the crying ceased he would ask you what happened to make you cry, and if there was anything he could do to make you feel better.

Asahi

Would quietly walk up to you and hug you, he won’t even say anything, he’ll just hug you as tight as he can, and when the crying ceases, he’ll cut to the chase and ask you who or what made you cry, if he was the reason of your tears, he would remove that flaw completely from himself that very second. You two would spend the rest of the evening cuddling.

Doyoung

He was excited to spend time with you, as the two of you had planned a stay-at-home movie night, his heart started to break when he saw you crying. Questions flooded his mind, was he the one that made you cry? He wouldn’t even call out your name, he would just wrap his arms around you and rest his chin on your shoulder, at this point he was also crying. “It’s okay, it’s okay” he would whisper into your ear without knowing the reason for your tears, but that’s okay. After the crying ceased he would ask if he did anything wrong ugh poor bby if he did he would feel like absolute trash and probably feel guilty about it for the rest of his life, and do anything within his power to not to that/say that again.

Title: Wendigo Disorder.

Pairing: Yandere!Sukuna x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 5.0k.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Cannibalism, No Curse AU, Chef Sukuna AU, Oral Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Kidnapping, Gore, Physical + Psychological Abuse, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, and Prolonged Captivity. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

Sukuna kept the basement door locked.

That was the only part of his rustic, oversized house that was off-limits to you. For the first few weeks, he’d kept you either collared and leashed to the headboard of his bed if he was home and locked in a roughly human-sized dog kennel when he wasn’t, but now, you were allowed to wander freely, even if he still kept deadbolts on the windows and doors. Occasionally, he’d lock you out of the kitchen while he was working on a new recipe or tell you to stay in your bedroom while he talked to his every-mysterious “business partners”, but for a kidnapper, Sukuna was surprisingly trusting. The basement door was the only thing that was always locked – and you should know. You checked the knob at least twice a day.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of you escaping, or hurting yourself, or god forbid, hurting him. Even in the early days, before you’d proved you weren’t going to run away, he seemed to be more concerned that you might be a nuisance than that you might be any kind of threat. The only thing you really knew was that the basement was where he kept his meat locker, and while you were curious, you were sure that wasn’t what he was keeping you away from. Sukuna had you sample everything he made. If he was going to start withholding food, then he would’ve had to—

“Oi, brat.” You felt his elbow jab into your side, drawing you out of your thoughts. “Quit daydreaming and try this.”

You glanced towards him, pouting as you straightened your back and repositioned yourself on the kitchen counter. You would’ve been more comfortable to sit on the floor, or better yet, at the table in the next room, but he liked to have you as close as possible whenever he was cooking. Not that you’d have it any other way. “You’re always so mean to me,” you sighed, in a pitchy mock whine. “One day, I’m not going to want to spend time with you at all.”

“As if. You can’t get enough of me.” He rolled his eyes, turning back to the stove top. Currently, he was working on something for his restaurant – a variation on karaage, a spread of vegetables and meat (pork, maybe, but you weren’t entirely sure) sitting on a cutting board off to the side, a greased skillet waiting next to it. His attention was on the broth simmering in the pot in front of him, though, which his ingredients would strew in before being fried. He’d been toying with it for the better part of an hour, and you’d sat diligently within arm’s reach, only slightly motivated by the fact that he’d threatened to break both your ankles if you tried to move.

Your sample turned out to be a piece of broccoli – likely chosen to best compliment the flavor of the broth – and you accepted it eagerly, letting Sukuna bring his chopsticks to your lips and feed you by-hand. Of course, the flavor was heavenly, and of course, you took long seconds to savor it, letting your eyes fall shut as you chewed and swallowed. Sukuna watched you intently, his dark eyes never leaving your lips. It wasn’t a secret that his favorite part of you had always been your mouth. You didn’t mind – his cooking was the only thing you’d ever liked about him.

Praise would’ve been pointless. It was a given that anything he made would be the best thing you’d ever tasted, so you tried to focus on something more productive. “It’s… salty,” you surmised, pursing your lips. “Did you use your…?”

“Cum?” Sukuna finished. “Just a tablespoon. ‘m surprised you can even taste it.”

A month ago, you might’ve recoiled, refused to eat, but now, it was all you could do to pretend to be surprised.

You watched intently as he added another cup of water, another round of herbs all kept in mismatched, unlabeled jars. Your heart skipped a beat as he finally reached towards the cutting board, but he pulled away at the last minute, turning to you, instead.

“’kuna,” you whined as he slid into the space between your legs, planting a large hand on either side of you. “I was actually hoping to eat sometime tonight, y’know.”

“I know, I know.” And yet, he didn’t seem concerned, chuckling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the base of your throat. “You’ll get to, just sit pretty for a little while longer.”

“But—” He cut you off with another kiss, this one immediately followed by feeling of his pointed canines burrowing into tender skin. You flinched into yourself, and Sukuna groaned into your neck, drawing back just far enough to run the flat of his tongue over the twin puncture marks.  Your hands shot to his shoulders, but you resisted the urge to push him away. Even if you did, it was already too late; you could feel something stiff pressing against the inside of your thigh, hear him murmuring something low and affectionate into the dip of your shoulder. Resigned, you leaned back against the kitchen cabinets and shut your eyes.

At least, if he got this over with quickly enough, you might still get to eat.

~

Your first impression of Sukuna, unsurprisingly, was that he looked more like a body builder than a chef.

Calling him massive would’ve been an understatement. He stood a head above you, with biceps as thick as your head and a chest so defined, you could see the outline of his definition through the thin fabric of his black (presumably not Health and Safety compliant) tank top. He had piercings, too – twin studs underneath his bottom lip, lining the bridge of his nose – and tattoos, black lines forming intricate patterns across his jawline and bands around his wrist. You already had your back to the concrete wall, but you pressed yourself against it, regardless, eager to put as much space between you and him as possible. Sukuna remained where he was, perpetually unimpressed.

His introduction was brief, succinct. “You’re the little bitch Uraume sent out?”

“I… I think so?” You genuinely weren’t sure. The waitress had only told you that the owner wanted to talk to you outside, which you hadn’t been surprised by. It was your fourth time coming in that week, since his restaurant didn’t do takeout and the last person to order more than they could eat in one sitting was promptly and proudly taken outside and beaten half to death. You couldn’t risk that, not when more than half of your meals came from his shop.  “I’m sorry, I just—Are you the chef? I really like—”

“Shut the fuck up.” He took half a step toward you, and you glanced down the alleyway behind his restaurant. One end was cut off with a chain-link fence, and while the other side opened up onto a proper road, it was still more than fifty feet away. You never would’ve made it, not with someone like Sukuna chasing you. “Who sent you? The Gojo clan?”

Sent you? You had no idea what he was talking about – if you had someone to fund your addiction, you wouldn’t have to resign yourself the cheapest section of his overpriced menu. You opened your mouth, but must’ve taken longer to answer than you realized. You blinked, and suddenly, his hand was planted on the wall beside your head, his body only a hair’s width from yours. He had to tilt his head forward to look at you, which while not surprising, did little to comfort you. “Answer the fucking question.” And then, when you shrunk into yourself at his tone. “I swear to fucking Christ—Did he tell you what happens to the people who piss me off? Because you’re about to—”

“I can’t eat anything else!”

You were just as surprised as he was to hear your own voice. Still, you did your best to recover quickly, falling into a stiff bow as deep as the confined space would allow. With your eyes fixed on the pavement, you forced yourself to go on, to say something that would stop the owner of your favorite restaurant from murdering you in the alleyway behind that aforementioned restaurant. “I—I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time, but—but a classmate brought me here a few months ago, and—and I haven’t been able to eat anywhere else since. I can come in less often, if that’s what you’re bothered by, but please.” You forced yourself to inhale, to breathe. “Please, don’t ban me.”

At that, Sukuna broke. You didn’t dare to look at him, but you could hear the smirk in his voice, the airy laugh lacing his tone, as if he found something about your desperation funny. He did, obviously. You’d quickly realize that Sukuna found most things about you funny. “You think I’m going to… What was it? Ban you?”

You nodded furiously. “I—I know you kicked out that salaryman last week, and a couple students the week before. They were all regulars, but I haven’t seen any of them since.” It was a rushed explanation, only half-coherent, but you still tried to go on, bowing your head. “I—I can’t cook, and I can’t eat anywhere else, anymore. If you ban me, I really don’t have a lot of other options, so—”

“You can go back to your table.”

It was your turn to blink, this time, to startle. You didn’t straighten your back, not until you felt Sukuna’s hand on your shoulder, heard the grin in his voice sharpen. “Really?”

“Mhm. Don’t order, I’ll send something over. And you’re going to stay until closing.” And then, as you stared up at him with as much gratitude you’d ever felt, “We’re going to grab a couple drinks after I close up shop. Try to think of a few more compliments, before then.”

It wasn’t a question, but you nodded regardless. After scurrying back to your table before Sukuna could change his mind, a white-haired woman who you’d never seen working the front of house before brought you a meat dish so rare, you could’ve sworn it hadn’t been cooked at all.

It went without saying that you savored every bite.

~

“Needy ass brat.”

His bicep dug into your stomach where you were slung over his shoulder, your legs dangling uselessly was your hands clawed half-heartedly at his back. You weren’t really upset that he’d caught you – you knew it’d only be a matter of time the moment you slipped out of bed – but it was frustrating just how quickly he’d come to get you. You’d barely gotten to the kitchen, let alone the fridge.

Your mind drifted back to the basement door – to the meat locker. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you decided that you would try to pick the lock tomorrow, after he’d left for the day. Whatever punishment he’d dull out would be worth it, if you could actually get in.

Unceremoniously, you were dumped onto the floor of his bedroom, left to shamble to your knees as he collapsed onto the foot of the bed. You moved to stand, but Sukuna was quick to catch you by the hair and force you back down. “Disobedient, too,” he muttered, his voice still rough with exhaustion. “Tell me what you were trying to do before I decide you can’t be trusted with the ability to walk.”

You sulked, letting out a shallow sigh and resting your cheek against the inside of his knee. “I’m just hungry,” you explained, feigning thoughtlessness. It was more or less true. You were eating better than you ever had before, and yet, your stomach had never felt emptier. “I was gonna come back, after I got something.”

Sukuna chuckled, running his fingers through your hair. You melted into his thigh, eager to keep his mood light, sentimental. “I feed you three gourmet meals a day, baby. Don’t act like you’re starving.”

“But I am.” You sighed, stared up at him with your doe-like expression. “I’ve really been craving meat, lately, ‘specially that stuff you keep downstairs. Can you make it again tomorrow?”

“We’ll see. I don’t want you getting spoiled, and ‘sides, I’ve gotta save some of it for the shop.” You frowned, sinking deeper into his thigh, and Sukuna sighed, raking his nails over your scalp. “But, maybe, if I got some motivation from my little helper…”

He trailed off, and suddenly, it was your turn to play oblivious. “Well, yeah, I’d obviously help,” you chirped, mimicking his smile. “I’m not very good in the kitchen, though, so you can’t blame me if—”

“That’s not what I want from you, babydoll.”

You felt something tighten in your chest. It wasn’t painful, but the way his fingers tugged at your hair was.

He didn’t pull. You tried to be thankful for that, but it was hard to be thankful for anything when his free hand was already at the waistband of his sweats, freeing the semi-stiff cock formerly hidden beneath the grey fabric. You frowned, but didn’t pull away. “How are you already hard?” And then, as you settled onto your knees, “You woke up, like, two minutes ago.”

“Always gotta have something nice n’ warm ready for my baby.” Rather than let your whining deter him, he focused on drawing you into his lap, encouraging you to lean into him, to brace yourself on his muscular thighs. Controlling as always, Sukuna guided you gently towards his cock. You half-expected him to force you down at the last minute, to laugh as he suffocated you on his length, but of course, he didn’t. He wasn’t that kind.

He wouldn’t let you play such a passive role in your own dehumanization.

You moved as quickly as you could without making your unwillingness entirely transparent, taking the head of his cock past your lips and running the flat of your tongue over his slit (already leaking, as if this couldn’t get any worse). You couldn’t pretend to be some pure-of-heart, dewy eyed virgin, not when most of your mornings were started with Sukuna thrusting three fingers lazily into your cunt and most of your nights ended with his face buried between your thighs, but you never seemed to be able to completely brace yourself for just how wide you had to open your mouth to take him, just how mindful you had to be to not let your teeth scrape against his shaft as you struggled to get past his tip. Like everything else about Sukuna, his cock was too fucking big. Not that he seemed to care.

If anything, Sukuna seemed to like the way you gagged around him. As you wrapped a hand around his base, pumping over the parts of his shaft you couldn’t swallow and trying to ignore the fact that your fingers didn’t touch, you heard him groan, felt his grip tighten on your hair, and knew he was staring at you, drinking in the sight of you choking on his cock with as little shame as you had dignity. “Good girl,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Are you gonna start moving, or does the spoiled princess need a little help?”

‘Help’ meant him holding your head in-place while he fucked your skull. Resisting the urge to shake your head, you bobbed shallowly, the veined underside of his cock gliding over your tongue as a knot of ache formed in either corner of your jaw, the strain already too painful to ignore. You could taste his arousal in the back of your throat, feel him throbbing against the hollows of your cheeks, but you forced yourself to dip your head lower, to take him deeper, to at least attempt to match the stuttering pace of your hand with that of your mouth. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him distracted. His hand drifted from the back of your head to the nape of your neck, his thumb pushing rough patterns into your skin. “Still can’t believe I get to keep such a sweet thing all to myself.” It was almost cruel, how composed he sounded while saliva dripped from the corner of your mouth. “It would’ve been a shame if I’d fucked up and done something really mean, that first day. I don’t think I would’ve gone through with it, though. As soon as I got a good look, all I wanted was to see what that pretty mouth looked like wrapped around my cock.”

His breath hitched, his hips bucked, and you audibly gagged as the blunt head of his cock slammed into the back of your throat. You jerked away on reflex, but Sukuna didn’t let you go far. His hand wrapped around your neck as he rolled his hips, forcing another inch of his cock down your throat, then another, until it was all you could do to blink away the tears quickly forming in your eyes. Your hand fell away from his shaft to scramble and claw at his thighs, but if Sukuna mourned the loss of contact, you couldn’t tell. The only thing you could make out was his cock pulsing against the convulsing walls of your throat and his voice, as distant as it was deafening. “Fuck,” he sighed, then again, “Fuck. Desperate little bitch. My desperate little bitch. Can’t go three fucking seconds without needing me to take care of you, isn’t that right?”

Your only response was a desperate, keening whine – mostly muffled by the twitching object lodged in your airway. Rather than a plea for mercy, Sukuna seemed to take it as confirmation, taking you by the back of your head and forcing you that much further, that much closer. “Fucking—Take it.”

He didn’t give you a chance to spit, let alone pull away. Your nose brushed against the defined muscle of his abdomen as you felt something bitter and searing flood down your throat. Calling it swallowing would’ve been too generous.

That night, you vomited twice before letting Sukuna carry you to bed. Despite everything, you would dream only of the taste of fresh blood and burnt meat.

~

Despite everything, you only saw the kitchen of Sukuna’s restaurant once. He expected you at your usual table almost every day, invited you out for drinks at one of his classy, dimly lit lounges (a severe juxtaposition to his own hole-in-the-wall establishment) nearly as often as that, but he only let you see his back of house once, late at night, hours after closing.

Coincidentally, that was also the night he took you away.

Admittedly, it was difficult to remember why you’d been called back to the kitchen. That section of your day was blurry, distant, fuzzy around the edges from the moment you stepped into his shop to the second you woke up alone in a bed you didn’t recognize, the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke thick in the air.  Still, you could remember the feeling of chilled titanium pressing into your back, the heat of Sukuna’s body above you, what he’d looked like as you stared up at him from below. You remembered thinking, possibly for the first time, that you hated everything about him, from his inflated ego to his resonating voice to his awful, conniving smirk, and realizing that you’d never be able to leave him.

You also remembered the white-haired server being there – standing in the doorway, her expression one of pleasant indifference as she explained something grotesque and nonsensical to Sukuna, either oblivious to or uncaring of how deeply he was buried inside of you. You watched her lips move, but only a few words broke through the haze – disposal and witness, nothing that made any sense. You remembered noticing how pretty she was, and thinking that it was a shame she wasn’t the owner, rather than Sukuna.

You could remember asking for something, and Sukuna humming in response before something was shoved past your lips – heady and thick and raw. You tasted blood on your lips, felt yourself choke, and then, everything was dark.

~

“Oh, sweetheart.”

You should’ve known he’d gotten home. You’d been able to make out the sound of his footsteps through the floor above, been able to feel the light spill onto your back as the basement door and its useless, mangled knob were pushed open, but it wasn’t until you heard his voice that you could bring yourself to care. Even then, your hold on the raw chunk of half-frozen meat only tightened, nails digging into the ruddy, bleeding tissue. As much as you didn’t want to put a name to it, it would’ve been impossible to deny what it was – to ignore what you’d seen inside of the meat locker, to pretend you hadn’t recognized the disassembled bodies hanging on rusted-over hooks, to act like you could mistake the taste still heavy on your tongue for that of pig, or cow, or some other, inferior animal. It would’ve been useless, even if the temptation was still there. It would’ve been futile.

Almost as futile as trying to deny that it was the best fucking thing you’d ever choked down.

You heard the tell-tale creak of Sukuna starting to descend the staircase, and before you could stop yourself, dug your teeth into the brunt of the sinew, tearing off the largest mouthful you were capable of and swallowing it whole. You dipped your head for another bite, but it was too late – Sukuna was already behind you, his hand already wrapped around the collar of your shirt, your body already being jerked back and away from your hard-earned prize. You tried to dig your nails into the thick of the fat, to stuff the last of it past your lips, but with an airy chuckle and a quirk of his wrist, the cut was torn away and discarded just as thoughtlessly.

For the first time, you snapped towards Sukuna, your teeth bared and your eyes narrowed into something furious, something hostile. “Why would you—” And then, letting out a miserable sob and turning away from him, “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break anything, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and then—”

“I get it, baby. You aren’t in trouble.”

“And then I found something heavy enough to break the knob and I couldn’t stop thinking about—” You cut yourself off suddenly, letting out a sharp exhale. “…I’m not?”

“No, princess, you’re not.” If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve mistaken his tone for something gentle. His gaze fell to your chest, and for the first time, you noticed the blood dripping down your chin, staining the fabric of your top. “We should get you cleaned up, though. You’ll only feel shittier when it dries.”

You didn’t protest as he pulled you into his arms and carried you upstairs, out of the basement, away from the meat locker. You didn’t say anything as he set you on his bed, your back leaning against the headboard, and eased your top over your head, replacing it with one of his own, and produced a damp cloth from the nearest bathroom. Gingerly, he cleaned the gore off your face, never rushing through a stroke or applying more pressure than was absolutely necessary, stopping often to kiss your forehead or the bridge of your nose. You were sniffling by the time he finished, crying by the time he left the room, and sobbing when he came back – a bowl in hand with a pair of chopsticks laid across its rim.

Its contents were predictable: meat, pan-grilled in thin slices and, as far as you could tell, left unseasoned. “I’ll make some rice when you’re done,” Sukuna went on, as you struggled with the chopsticks. “To balance it out. You’ll need something to take the edge off.”

You nodded vacantly, accepting the bowl greedily despite your shaking hands. It was better raw – the flavor richer, the taste fresher – but you weren’t in a place to complain, not when it was so much easier when you didn’t have to gnaw and tear like some wild, starving animal. Not that you weren’t eating like one – keeping the rim of the bowl pressed into your chin, never letting more than a second lapse between one mouthful and the next. You only paused when you felt the mattress dip, noticed Sukuna positioning himself between your legs, and but he only smiled, only rested a hand on your knee. “Keep going,” he urged. “It’d be a waste to let it get cold, right?”

“I don’t like this.” Your voice was still unsteady, prone to cracking, but it was true. You didn’t want him to pretend to be nice. “I’ve never really liked you. I’d leave, if I could. There hasn’t been a moment since you kidnapped me that I haven’t spent fantasizing about getting out and fixing what you’ve done to me.”

“You’re just saying that to hurt my feelings, doll.” You were, but it wasn’t. Slowly, he lowered himself onto his chest, one hand spreading your thighs apart while the other toyed lazily with the hem of your shorts. You felt him lean against your thigh, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the tender flesh. You’d gained weight during your time with him – not much, just a few pounds, a little plush to soften your harsher edges. You weren’t sure whether or not to care. “I’m just proud, that’s all. Don’t you want me to be proud of you?”

You didn’t want anything from him. Your appetite gone, you placed the bowl haphazardly on the bedside table, watching through clouded eyes as Sukuna removed your shorts entirely, taking agonizing seconds to guide them down your legs before letting them drop to the floor below. You expected your panties to follow, but Sukuna only settled into place, dragging the pad of his thumb over the length of your slit, pausing to draw slow, idle circles into your clit through the silken fabric. It went without saying that he picked out your clothes, even if he rarely had the patience to tell you exactly what to wear. You were allowed to choose your outfit day-to-day, but it didn’t matter. It couldn’t, not when your entire closet was suited to his tastes.

His hands curled around your thighs. You felt his tongue before you realized what he was doing – wet and warm and thick, his saliva soaking through the thin material and infecting you, spoiling you. You tried to ignore it, to remind yourself that you should be used to this, used to him, but this just… wasn’t what you were used to. Normally, you could expect him to be cruel, degrading, impulsive, but tonight, he seemed more than happy to bury his face between your thighs and play lover – albeit, a lover who still must’ve known he was unwanted. A lover who must’ve known you would’ve preferred a captor.

Your panties were dragged to the side, his tongue immediately finding your cunt. He took his time, laving over your entrance, coaxing reactions out of you despite your best attempts to dig your teeth into your tongue and hold back. He knew too much about you. He’d had too much time to learn. Heat pooled in your core, leaking out through your pussy, and Sukuna lapped it up like a fine wine – his thumb finding your clit as his tongue traced patterns into your cunt, and—

And oh, god, you were crying again, tears dripping down your cheeks despite your pitiful attempts to brush them away. Sukuna’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, and you felt him smile against the inside of your thigh, his tongue dipping shallowly into your cunt once, twice before he pulled away, straightening his back. His hand quickly replaced his mouth, two thick fingers thrusting into pussy with a humiliating sort of ease, spreading apart and curling against you and filling his bedroom with those embarrassing, wet, vile noises you’d never been able to stand. He didn’t seem to mind, holding your gaze as he spoke. “When did you put it together?”

“I—I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t play dumb.” And then, as his thumb traced harsh circles into your clit, “You knew what you were looking for. What gave it away? The texture? The smell?”

Your mouth opened, but you didn’t answer, a fractured moan falling from your lips in the place of anything more intelligent. Sukuna hummed, adding a third digit, and you spilled open in an instant. “Your restaurant,” you managed, the words rushed and sloppy. “No matter what I ordered, the meat would always taste the same. At first, I—I thought you were just being cheap, but then I noticed how often your regulars would just suddenly stop coming in, and—”

You were cut off by your own miserable, keening whine; his calloused fingers catching on something tender and vulnerable inside of you and taking advantage of it. “And you kept coming in,” he finished, hushing your whimpering. “Loyal little brat. Uraume wanted to get rid of you, but I knew I was right to take you in.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You were too busy moving your hips against his hand, seeking out the pleasure that your body craved and your mind rejected. Sukuna took pity on you, cooing as he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into his lap, supporting you as the movements of his hand turned short, erratic, as he edged you closer and closer and closer to your climax. You came undone with a sob, burying your face in his chest, and Sukuna was kind enough to nurse you through it, to hold you against him as your body crumpled and your poor, beaten soul seemed to give out entirely.

Eventually, he broke the silence. “I think,” he said, bowing his head and running his tongue over your cheek. “It’s time for you to learn to cook.”

You couldn’t think, but you didn’t have to. There was only one thing you ever would’ve said.

“I’d like that.”

my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around. 

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry. 

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long. 

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare. 

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for. 

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried. 

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could. 

Domineering. Grossly possessive. 

He has you already, but that's not enough. 

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be. 

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse. 

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out. 

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life. 

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous. 

Dismissive. 

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe. 

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only. 

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm. 

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time. 

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy. 

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time. 

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away. 

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content. 

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him. 

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile. 

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce. 

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut. 

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable. 

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct. 

Good girl. 

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye. 

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

Enji Todoroki General Yandere Profile

Yandere! Enji Todoroki x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, stalking, power imbalances, financial trapping, mentions of physical/domestic abuse, mentions of non-con, sexist undertones, Enji wants you to be his cute little housewife, mentions of breeding/pregnancy, a few mentions of making sure you eat enough/food, Enji is patronizing whoo boy, he makes you share a toothbrush and yes he's weird about it, this is set in a divergent timeline where Enji and Rei are formally divorced and his relationship with his family is loose and not super tight, 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: 11K

DARLING PROFILE:

Kind

Enji is, simply, harsh.

His quirk, his mannerisms, his attitude, his everything, really, is a bit rough around the edges, forming a man with only enough self control to get what he wants. He’s lived his whole life bitterly, constantly jealous, constantly wanting, willing to throw everything away in order to achieve his goals.

And once everything starts caving in around him, his family and career both taking unexpected turns, Enji finds himself so, so painfully alone. He doesn’t pretend to delude himself into thinking he’s not deserving of his fate, but this places him into a position where he shoulders the guilt while desperately trying to find any outlet to forget it.

And this is where a darling who is kind comes into play – he needs someone who won’t judge him for his past. He needs someone who doesn’t treat him like scum, who is still polite and empathetic to him and his emotions. A darling who is able to consistently praise him will have him smitten quickly, growing emotionally dependent on hearing their sweet words in order to function, in order to not let the depression and stress get the better of him.

And even once his obsession has formed and he’s deep in the depth of his infatuation, a darling who is just too kind to kick him to the curbside is absolutely essential for him – they must be doting and caring, helping rebuild his shattered confidence and psyche, and with every compliment they dish out, Enji vows that he’ll return the sentiment tenfold, in his own way of course.

(This means buying his darling millions of yen worth of their favorite things, all kinds of wonderful gifts that he hopes will sway them in his favor, that will get them drooling over him and all that he can provide for them.)

Hardworking

Although he’s in a mental state that leaves him much more susceptible to finding a partner once he divorces Rei, Enji is still a picky man. He won’t fall for just anyone – no, they must fit his standard, be acceptable and meet the rather long and detailed checklist he has for those he considers as potential romantic partners.

And near the top of this list is determination. He’s a man motivated by his own goals and is willing to stop at nothing to achieve them – and so, a darling that can at least somewhat match this aspect of his personality is critical.

He has no patience for a darling that gives up easily; he wants someone that’s willing to put in the effort to see it pay off, someone who understands the concept of self-discipline and holding yourself to certain moral standards.

He finds it wildly attractive when someone has strong character, and his interest would immediately be piqued with a darling who brings an attitude of perseverance and hard work into every aspect of their life, be it work, their hobbies, their relationship, and everything in between.

He wants someone who is perhaps not quite as stubborn as him, but is still serious in their goals.

(He hopes that one day, making him happy and pleasing him will be one of these goals – just as pleasing his darling is one of his own. And he’s more than happyto please them in whatever way they so desire. More than happy.)

Motherly

Because he views his darling as the perfect wife, his darling absolutely must possess at least somewhat of a motherly air about them. He likes the idea of having a nurturing partner, if only because he finds it endearing when they care for others.

As a hero he shares this sentiment, and although it may sometimes be overshadowed by his need to become the best, deep down inside he does very much wish to help others – his methodology is just a little more violent, a little more overt.

His darling, by contrast, should prefer a methodology that’s much gentler, something that focuses more on making others feel safe and heard and cared for.

Besides, Enji very much desires to have children with his darling; to build a second family, one that he’ll care for and nourish much better than his first. And so, if his darling is to be a good mother, they must embody these traits.

Besides, although he doesn’t fall for his darling because of his fantasies of making them a mother, once the feelings are formed these daydreams only further his feelings, deepening his obsession because oh, he’d give absolutely anything to see them pregnant with his child, carrying his seed, creating something that symbolizes the love and dedication between them.

And so, his darling needs to be someone who naturally takes care of others – and in return, Enji will take care of them. Just how it should be.

Pushover

This trait is a bit less crucial compared to the others, but it’s still most definitely a positive from Enji’s perspective.

Of course he likes a darling who has strong opinions and stands up for them, but he loves a darling that will let him guide them through any hard decisions, or really any decisions at all.

Although he’s not as outright controlling with his darling, he still very much feels that he wears the pants in the ‘relationship’, and thus he is the one calling the shots.

A darling who is happy to let him take over their life like this is a massive help to him – he doesn’t have to fight for control, nor does he have to argue with them about why certain decisions really should be made by him as the more dominant partner, as the one who knows more about the world, as the man. It’s an outdated view and it’s one that he doesn’t really want to admit out loud, but he enjoys the idea of a partner who will revere him and allow him full control.

He wants to be loved and cherished, and in return for a love like this, he’ll do his best to provide for and take care of his darling in every way he possibly can – so really, if his darling knows what’s best for them, they’ll step back and let him make all the tough decisions.

They’ll nod and smile and agree with whatever he chooses, pressing a kiss against his cheek and telling him how much they trust him, how they know he’d never hurt them, how he only wants what’s best for them.

Just the thought makes something warm swell in his stomach, the level of trust making him feel wanted, needed, a concept so foreign that it almost feels wrong. But oh, how he likes it.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Controlling

But in a very, very strange way – a lot of what fuels Enji’s obsession is this desperate, innate need to right his wrongs. He’s very, very aware of how thoroughly he ruined his family, how horribly he treated Rei, how he was a poor excuse of a father and husband, and he sees his love with you as almost being his second try. With you, he can do all the things he should have done with Rei and his children – he should have been sweet and loving, a present father that cared about each of his children equally. He should have been a doting husband, spoiling his wife and making her feel loved and desired.

But he didn’t, and although Rei has long since divorced him, Enji finds himself feeling lonely, incomplete, restless to try again, to properly provide for a sweet little thing he can call his own. And this is where you come in – and from the moment he realizes his feelings for you are more than a simple attraction, he dives in head-first.

He decides he'll approach everything with you in a way as opposite from his previous marriage as possible – he's all grand, romantic gestures, always showing up with a bouquet of flowers in hand and just the slightest pink tint on his scarred cheeks.

The grand, romantic gestures are, of course, merely things he’s seen in rom-coms; the women always look happy when the love interest swoops in with flowers and gifts and pretty clothing, the beaming smile and large hug the man gets as a reward seeming very, very appealing to Enji, despite his rigid exterior.

(Just the thought of you hugging him has his heart racing – it’s something so intimate, so entirely new that it makes every nerve in his body stand on edge, a shiver running up his spine as he imagines the way your body would feel pressed against his, how you’d sigh and sink further against him, how you’d squeeze him and god, the view he’d get when he looks down to see your body pressed so tightly against him that not even a breath of air could separate you -)

He’s scouring through women’s magazines, burying his nose in the glossy pages and searching for ideas and clues as to what women enjoy as courting gifts.

(He has to scoff under his breath every time he sees a new dieting tip or regiment, internally frowning and worrying that you’re seeing these ads and potentially obsessing over your weight. The last thing he’d want is for you to be unhappy with your body – certainly not when he’s so very happy with it. Not to mention the nutritionally heinous foods the magazine recommends – he’d sooner have you eat raw paper than follow this ludicrous advice.)

He’s even caving and very, very awkwardly asking his female sidekicks and employees at his agency about their tips on how to seduce a woman. He struggles to make eye contact with them when he asks, his imposing figure almost reminding them of a shy, nervous teenage boy with the way he’s so earnest about his question, his eyes lighting up when they mention an idea he hasn’t tried yet, pressing them for details and specifics and you must tell me what to say to her – how does one follow up gifting a puppy?

It would be sweet, really, how devoted he is to making sure that you’re absolutely spoiled, that you get a whole variety of lavish gifts designed to sweep you off your feet. It would be wonderful, really, except that Enji has never understood the concept of being too much – which is how everything will start to feel very, very early on in this process.

 It was nice at first to receive a fresh bouquet of roses every morning at your desk with a handwritten card attached. (Written in impeccable handwriting, the cursive letters looping and elegant as they spell out short, simple, sweet messages signed with a capital E at the bottom, reading please make sure to eat enough today and that skirt looks lovely on you.)

 It was nice at first, but after the second week of daily bouquets and even a few finding their way to the doorstep of your apartment, the sight of the pretty red flowers makes a sinking feeling swirl in your gut.

(Enji notices this, dismayed and frustrated by your lack of a positive response, and decides to double down and just gift you bigger flowers, because maybe your lack of joy at receiving the bouquets is because they aren’t big enough, aren’t grandiose enough, aren’t good enough.)

It was nice to get the cute, small stuffed bunny on your desk one morning, and you’d even grown so fond of the little thing that you perched it on the edge of your desk, assuming it was a one-time gift. But it wasn’t – the stuffed animals kept coming, getting bigger and more detailed and much, much more expensive, you’re sure.

(Enji is careful to remove each and every price tag on every gift he sends you, simply because he doesn’t want you to feel that you owe him financially, nor does he want you to be swayed into accepting him as your partner by mere economic standing – that’s an asset that you’ll come to know, of course, but he’d rather lure you in via more traditional ways. It doesn’t exactly stay secret, though, because once the necklace with a delicate array of at least five diamonds in it arrives at your front door, your secret admirer’s wealth becomes very, very difficult to hide.)

He’s gifting you jewelry with more precious jewels and gold and silver than you could possibly wear, and outfitting your closet with all kinds of dresses and skirts out of materials and cuts you could never hope to afford for yourself.

(And, of course, they’re all tailored to fit you perfectly – how Enji managed to get your exact sizes is still a question that haunts you, one that makes you scared to upon the nicely wrapped boxes that you find in excess outside your front door.)

It’s all just too damn much – Enji is suffocating with his attempts to woo you, his every gift and gesture leaving you feeling uncomfortable. What he’s trying to do is very, very obvious – and it feels wrong. He’s the number one hero, a busy man with much more important things to be doing – so why is he going after you? And why with such ferocity?

His forwardness will scare you off, driving you to avoid him and grow suspicious of his motives, and Enji does not like this development. This wasn’t supposed to happen – you’re supposed to want him, to be seduced by all of his efforts, to be swept off your feet and swooned by his gifts and words (delivered with the grace of a garbage truck, of course, but the sentiment is there – even if looking at your pretty face distracts him, all the words leaving his head and making him stand there gaping like a fool).

 Enji doesn’t like it, and so he presses harder, stepping up the frequency and volume of his gifts, only effectively pushing you further and further away from him as you grow more uneased and unsettled. And if you were to confront him about it?

Well, this is where his controlling tendencies come into play – denying who he naturally is can only last for so long, and despite being a man with superb self-restraint, the moment that Enji feels you’re slipping from his fingers he’s morphing back into the man that commands your every move.

Suddenly he’s no longer presenting you with the newest shampoo you’ve been talking about (it’s salon grade, the best stuff out there, and much too expensive, but not for Enji – nothing is too expensive for him when it’s for you) but rather letting this expression wash over his face, one that you’ve never seen before.

It’s cold, remarkably so; his lips are pressed tightly together, his brows perfectly straight, those eyes lifeless as he tells you to stop fighting, go inside and change into the green dress I gave you last week. We’re going for dinner, and you’ll order the house salad and a slice of chocolate cake for dessert. Do you understand me?

 It’s weird and unexpected and scary, and it’ll have you immediately stuttering out a yes and scurrying inside, too frightened to disobey. And really, while Enji winces every time he does this, eventually he finds himself trying to justify it as simply ensuring your relationship will last.

Obviously it’s not good that he has to force you into these small, minor, inconsequential things (like going on a date with him or letting him accompany you home afterwards), but this is different from with Rei – you want this, right? You’re just too shy to tell him how flattered you are about all the attention he’s giving you.

You’re just playing coy, acting on your age-old feminine instincts to make men chase after you, to be demure and make your partner work for your affection and love. And eventually, Enji will convince himself that this is different, he’s wooing you and getting you into a relationship with him willingly – you want him.

You practically love him already – things are going well. They’re successful.

They have to be.

And so, while Enji doesn’t mean to be controlling, the end results is that although he plays the nice guy that spoils you and gives you anything your heart desires, at the end of the day he is the one in charge, and he is the one dictating your relationship.

And really, what can you do to stop him? He’s strong, both physically and with the general population – one word from him and you’d be hunted for like a madman, ostracized from the community, brought back to him like a pup to its owner.

You belong with him, and it’s his job to make you see that – even if you want to remain blind.

Possessive

Enji Todoroki doesn’t share. Once he decides that he wants you, you become unequivocally his.

Sure, he wants to do things a bit differently with you and get you to harbor more loving feelings towards him, but from the moment his infatuation forms you don’t really have a choice in the matter.

 You can pretend like you do, if it makes you feel better (and it will, because at least you can pretend that you have even an ounce of control in the relationship, that you aren’t just some adorable little thing he’s decided he wants hanging off his arm and warming his bed), but at the end of the day you’re subject to Enji’s whims.

And although Enji lets you harbor this fantasy of your relationship being truly consensual, the moment something occurs that threatens it, his true colors are shown. Namely, when he thinks your attention is veering away from him, his jealousy and anger become difficult to keep in check, his quirk acting up and letting off small sparks and flames all along his body. His fists clench and his jaw tightens when he sees another man around you, and although he tries to rationalize that the man likely doesn’t want anything to do with you, just simply being in your presence is enough to make Enji suspicious.

Even if the man isn’t talking to you or acknowledging you in any way, he’s anxious – he’s scared that something about this man will attract you, that you’ll somehow find him better than Enji.

Maybe the man is friendlier – Enji’s aware that he isn’t exactly the most approachable person on the planet.

Maybe he's funnier – Enji knows he can’t crack a joke to save his life.

Maybe he’s a better conversationalist – less formalities and awkwardness, able to get you laughing so hard you snort.

It makes Enji’s skin crawl, his knuckles turning white from how hard he’s fisting his hands, and before long he will intervene. He’ll grab you as gently as he can on the elbow, guiding you carefully but quickly away to the other side of the room and physically maneuvering so that his body is blocking your sight of the man – and more importantly, blocking his sight of you.

He’ll try to talk with you, trying to distract you and get your mind off of the other man, all in an effort to get your attention back on him. He’s reminding you that you have him, that you don’t need some other man, that you already have one who’s capable of providing for you and caring for you as you deserve.

Frankly, he discovers just how deeply his feelings for you run in a situation where jealousy gets the best of him – you’d been approached at a small gathering by a man from another agency who was clearly hitting on you. He was leaning in close, smiling with a smarmy smirk and nursing on his cocktail like a lifeline.

Enji had noticed the two of you out of the corner of his eye, and immediately he’d gone stiff. He couldn’t stop staring at the way the man kept getting gradually closer to you, how he kept leaning in further, how his hand slid from his pocket to your shoulder, then your arm, down to your hand and oh, oh god, it looks like he’s bringing it down to your waist –

Enji had been by your side in mere moments, his gaze card and harsh as he’d stepped in front of you, making some poorly toned excuse about needing to speak with you for a moment, before unceremoniously dragging you away from the stupefied man.

From that day, Enji absolutely refuses to allow anyone close to you. And really, can he be blamed? After all, he fell for you, so why wouldn’t anyone else? You’re beautiful and caring, smart and dignified, and if he can see your potential as a lovely, perfect little wife, surely others can too.

And so, Enji ramps up his controlling tendencies the more he’s presented with situations where the green-eyed monster accompanies him. And this control takes its main form through financials – that is, while Enji originally didn’t want to attract you to him via his material wealth, he decides it’s a necessary evil in order to have you staying by his side only.

He starts ‘forgetting’ to peel off the price tags of the gifts he gives you, pretending not to notice how your eyes practically bug out of your head when you unbox the pink pendant he’d bought for you.

He starts inviting you out for lunches and dinners more often, ordering for you and choosing the most expensive items off the menu despite your numerous pleas that you’ll opt for something – anything – cheaper.

(It’s frustrating, too, because as angry as you want to be at him for ordering for you, he always chooses something you end up liking – of course it’s because he’s done extensive research and stalking, finding out your favorite foods and what flavors you dislike, but it all seems like one large, awfully strange coincidence to you.)

Exerting financial control over you keeps you complacent, because the guilt you’ll feel at how much money he’s sinking into you will have you following his every word, even if it his commands are a little strange and off-putting – like spending less time with any male friends (or really any friends for that matter) or slipping the small photograph of him into your purse (it’s weird and you do so hesitantly, making sure the polaroid is at the bottom of the bag – and trying to ignore the way his muscles are oh-so fucking defined in the tight black shirt he’s sporting in the photograph).

It’s all just a big ploy to keep you from running off with some other man – but really, if you somehow did manage to do that, Enji won’t be particularly merciful. He will be cornering the man as he leaves your apartment and he will be holding him by the neck against the cold concrete wall, threatening him to leave you alone or experience the rather unpleasant sensation of burning alive.

It’s not particularly heroic, but Enji doesn’t care – he can’t, not when the threat of you leaving him for another man is very much present and real. It’s too scary, too much for him to handle – it would mean you rejecting him, his second fuck-up in love, and the loss of someone who fits absolutely every one of his desires in a woman.

You’re too perfect for him to lose – so instead, he’ll own you.

Dependent

He will never admit it, but there’s this part of Enji that grows stronger day by day, every time he sees your face, that tells him in the most raw, real way that he absolutely needs you.

He’s essentially lost what he had of his family, and with the sharp uptake in responsibility as the new number one hero, the new symbol of modern peace, Enji finds himself turning to you in his time of need, in his more vulnerable moments.

Because really, though his exterior is tough and jaded, he’s only human – he too needs someone to love, someone to hold and latch onto, and latch he does. You’re his, and he expects you to understand that even if he doesn’t verbalize it.

He cherishes your very existence, each and every thing you do, finding you to be remarkably weak yet remarkably endearing, your inability to defend yourself simultaneously adorable and frustrating. He needs you to realize that you’re his everything; his whole reason for living now, even if he doesn’t give you many clues into this.

He isn’t the best at expressing his emotions, and although the love and desperation he feels for you is constantly overwhelming him, overflowing from his chest and making him dizzy, he doesn’t articulate just how deeply these feelings run.

Of course he’ll tell you how you’re beautiful, or that you’re my responsibility to protect, but he’ll also say significantly less romantic things like how you belong to him, how he's never letting you out that front door, how he’ll never let those disgusting, filthy villains touch something as perfect as you.

He thinks it’s sweet and exactly what you want to hear, but it’s not – it’s scary and strange and weird, but these are your biggest clues as to his dependence on you.He won’t tell you, but his expectations for you are honestly monumentally high; he wants you to be his perfect little wife, everything that Rei wasn’t, and this includes giving you every ounce of his love.

He wants you to be diligently cooking him hearty meals, keeping the house tidy and clean for the two of you, to be massaging his shoulders while he relaxes from a stressful day at work. (Hell, he even wants you to wear cute little aprons, collars with his name stitched onto them, those maternity/breast feeding bras before you’re even pregnant…)

He wants a domestic fantasy with you, and this extends to other, more vulnerable things as well. He expects you to embrace him as he walks through the door everyday returning home, to give him a light peck on the cheek and ask about his day, to let him hug you from behind and kiss your neck as you slave away over the stove.

He never really got the chance to do such loving things with Rei (not that he particularly wanted to), and as a result he honestly feels like he’s having to make up time, that he needs to be taking every single ounce of affection and love you can possibly give him, and he’ll feel no guilt at all.

He won’t outright ask you to cuddle him, but when he sits on the large, overstuffed leather couch and stares at you expectantly, you’ll quickly learn to run over to him and snuggle up into his side, to bury your face into his chest and wrap your arms and legs around him even if his body heat cooks you alive.

He won’t ever explicitly ask you to give him those fluttery, soft morning kisses he’s seen all the time in terrible corny rom-coms he religiously watched for inspiration while trying to court you, but the moment you smile sleepily at him and press a kiss against his lips while you holds you close in the morning glow?

God, it’s in those moments that he wants to give you absolutely everything he has – every part of his body, soul and heart, every single cent he owns, every piece of fame and fortune he’s ever amassed.

Enji just wants to please you, and although he comes off as an odd mix of demanding yet generous, terrifying yet strangely awkward, inside his heart is hammering against his ribcage every time you so much as smile at him, every time you so much as look at him. In the hazy afterglow of a round of passionate morning sex (in which you’ve realized that fighting will get you nowhere – it’ll only earn you an Enji that’s more frantic and desperate to get you moaning and crying out his name), when he latches onto your smaller, exhausted and sweaty body, pressing you as tightly against him as possible, sometimes his demeanor will crack.

He’ll lean down to deeply inhale the scent of your hair, to watch the way your chest rises and falls, and he’ll whisper in the softest of voices that he loves you, you’re the light of his world. He doesn’t know what he’d do without you, but Enji is hellbent on never finding out – after all, there is no chance of escape with him, and he’s sure you’ll learn your place soon.

After all, pretty, submissive girls like you always do.

DEALING WITH RIVALS: 

Enji is, regrettably, terrible at hiding his jealousy.

He’s always been in a constant state of envy, whether it was vying for the top spot in the heroing world against All Might, desiring the perfect offspring in order to have the Todoroki name and himself live on, and countless other examples. He’s prideful and so fucking jealous of everyone around him, and this is only heightened when it comes to you – his possessiveness over you is nothing to sneeze at, and the minute he feels that your attention is threatened, that you could possibly be yearning for another?

He’s wasting no time stepping in, mercilessly shutting down each and every opportunity you could possibly have of being with anyone other than himself.

As much as he’s loathe to admit it, his jealousy and possessiveness stems from a place of insecurity; he’s aware that he’s by no means the perfect partner, and he rationally knows that you could do much, much better than him.

And so, as a sort of panic-induced response, Enji decides that you simply aren’t allowed to interact with any other men – this way, you aren’t presented with the opportunity to even let the feelings form. And he’s diligent with this theory, too – he’s always standing near you, acting as your shadow with watchful, hawk-like eyes trained on your figure.

He’s never been the best at reading people, but he’s able to tell from miles away when someone approaches you with intentions that are less than innocent, and immediately his lips are thinning, his brows furrowing, his entire body temperature raising by five degrees because you’re his, and this piece of scum disguised as a man obviously doesn’t realize this.

He’s your guardian angel in many ways (though really, he takes the guardian portion much too far – even men who have no romantic intentions with you are viewed as potential threats, shooed away with a vengeance that will make them too afraid to even think about you without imagining themselves engulfed in flames), though at times it will make you feel more than a little patronized.

It’s as if he doesn’t trust you – you don’t really have a relationship, at least in your eyes, but you know the number one hero wants something more than friendship with you. And so, you do your best to avoid evoking his anger and wrath by not romantically involving yourself with another man – and yet that’s not enough for Enji.

It can’t be, simply because as pretty and sweet and smart as you may be, Enji will always know better. It’s a controlling tendency and a mildly sexist view, but he thinks of you as his doting, loving housewife-to-be, and it’s the man’s job to make these sorts of decisions.

You’re just too sweet and outgoing for your own good – you’ll get mixed up in all sorts of trouble if you’re not careful, and lucky little you has someone like Enji to watch out for you and make sure your pretty head has nothing to worry about. And so, Enji sticks to you like glue, warding off potential suitors with grueling stares and a presence and reputation too strong to ignore.

Enji’s day had been long, and one of those days that made him seriously question his abilities as a hero. A villain had managed to trick him, and although Enji had of course eventually arrested the perpetrator, his deception had led to a lot of wasted time and more damage to surrounding buildings than was acceptable.

His head was pounding, his body still feeling overly hot from all of the fighting, and though not normal, he’d decided he was done for the day and left the rest of the agency’s calls to his sidekicks. Leaving early had felt almost freeing in a way, the world looking a bit different with all this extra time – walking down the sidewalk, Enji scanned the windows of each shop he passed.

As per usual, you’d been on his mind all day – flashes of your face sitting just behind his eyelids, your name just a hair away on his tongue, the feeling of your phantom touch sending shivers down his spine. It was irritating, distracting, heavenly, and with each window he passed, he kept an eye out for anything you might like.

He’d gotten you a pretty tea cup set yesterday, and although you’d been hesitant and visibly uncomfortable at receiving such a gift (the set was very, very obviously expensive, the marbled china too perfect and pristine to have costed anything less than a year’s worth of your salary), Enji was eager to gift you something that would be received better today.

Streets passed by, nothing quite suiting his vision for what you deserved – he’d need something more subtle today, something simple and sweet and something he knows you like – The confectionary is small, with swirling black letters over a baby pink banner spelling out the name of the store. The windows are lined with all sorts of chocolates and candies, all wrapped up in pretty, ornate packaging that makes Enji immediately pick up his pace, practically storming into the small shop.

It smells like vanilla and sugar as the door shuts behind him, and although it makes him wince, he knows you’d love it. Shelves nearly as tall as him line the shop in narrow rows, displaying all sorts of sweets that he’s never heard of before – caramels, gumdrops, chocolates, lollipops, anything and everything under the sun.

He’s only been in the store for roughly five minutes, staring at a collection of truffles with furrowed brows and a downward curl of his lip when he hears a small laugh over the gentle, happy classical music playing quietly over the speakers. Immediately he’s perking up – the laugh sounds familiar; the lilt of it, the tonality, the soft intake of breath right after it stops.

His lips part, eyes going wide, and before he can even really control himself he’s rushing towards the source of the noise, his entire face growing warm when he sees you – you’re at the register, a few candies sitting on the wooden slab, your purse in hand as you fish for presumably your wallet.

You look gorgeous today – you’re wearing a shirt he’s never seen before and your favorite pair of jeans (the ones that make your ass look so, so very perfect – perfect to squeeze at, to grope and touch and smack and press himself against…), and although he’s briefly disappointed that you aren’t wearing an item of clothing that he’d gifted you, he notices the clerk all too soon.

The clerk – Hyoshi, his nametag says – is smiling at you. He’s all teeth, a grin that makes the hairs on the back of Enji’s neck stand up, his nostrils flaring because you’d been laughing, and it must be this man’s doing. This man, who’s visibly weak even under the ridiculous confectionary uniform he’s sporting – arms that couldn’t hope to lift even a fraction of what Enji can, a chest that isn’t ruggedly defined like the hero’s, and a stature that’s frankly pathetic compared to the frame of the redheaded man behind you.

Enji’s angry, and as the man opens his mouth to presumably say something else (potentially something that’ll make you laugh again), his words die on his tongue as he glances behind you to see the behemoth of a man who’s quite literally acting as your shadow.

His eyes widen and immediately he’s stuttering out a w-welcome in, Endeavor! At that, your shoulders go stiff, your mouth parting into an adorable little ‘o’ that Enji can practically see in his head, and you slowly turn around.

Oh, hello Endeavor, aren’t you normally on patrol right now?

Enji’s jaw works, and although a small part of him is pleasantly surprised that you’d remembered his patrol shift, your words only serve to further frustrate him. You knew it was his time on the clock – and yet, you’d still ventured out into the heart of downtown, completely on your own, defenseless except for the measly, very sad pepper spray you keep in that worn purse of yours – both of which he keeps pleading with you to let him replace.

(He’ll get you new pepper spray and a taser and a pocketknife, just because he knows how dangerous these streets can be, and with your pretty face and your pretty body he’s sure villains would be lining out the door to get a taste of you. And of course, the new bag – he’s bought you plenty, in a wide variety of styles and colors, each gift getting more and more desperate to be the one you finally deem as being good enough to use, but alas.)

Enji doesn’t even bother with a greeting, instead stepping up to the counter, slamming down his credit card and stepping in front of you. I’ll be paying for her sweets. His voice is cold, firm, and sends the clerk into a scurry to process the transaction, meanwhile you’re staring in mild shock from behind the hero.

Of course you’re not surprised – how can you be, when he insists on spoiling you in every possible way? And yet the raw animosity he’s radiating right now can’t be ignored – you get the feeling as if you’re somehow in trouble, though you can’t figure out what for. As soon as the card reader beeps, Enji’s scooping up the card and your sweets, his thick fingers wrapping around your wrist just barely too tightly and marching out the door, telling the clerk over his shoulder to keep the receipt.

It takes every bone in his body to not turn back around and swing at the man behind the counter, his eyes shutting tightly in concentration as he tells himself that it’s not worth it, the media will find out, your reputation will be damaged. But as his eyes peel open and he realizes the way you’re squirming in his grip, he only sighs and releases you, those teal eyes of his appraising you with a frown.

You’re feeling guilty again, unsure of yourself as you gently rub your wrist, and for a moment Enji feels regret – did he hurt you? He hadn’t meant to, he’d just been angry and it was already hard enough to not harm the man who’d made you laugh, and surely you’d understand that he didn’t mean to –

You break the silence before he can voice his concerns, clearing your throat and thanking him in a meek voice. Enji merely nods, a small grunt your only response as he begins walking again, your sweets – and your purse – firmly in his hands, just so that you won’t have to carry them.

When you don’t immediately follow him, Enji pauses, looking back over his shoulder with a brow cocked.

What? Follow me – we have dinner reservations this evening, at that new seafood restaurant by the harbor. Fuyumi tells me it’s quite good; order the crab legs and the caviar.

There’s no room for disagreement in his tone, and for a moment you just blankly gape at him, the situation too strange for you to really process.

But all too soon his eyes are narrowing, and you’re practically tripping over your feet to follow him, keeping your gaze cast downwards as Enji’s hand rests on the small of your back, guiding you even though there’s not a civilian in sight on the desolated sidewalk he leads you down.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

Honestly, Enji is complicated as a yandere; there’s a part of him that knows that there are aspects of his relationship with you that mirror that of his previous marriage. He knows that although you may not be treated as terribly (and that you have more purpose to him than simply an incubator), you’re still trapped, essentially a slave to his will.

And yet, as time passes and his dependence on you grows stronger, he can’t help but justify his actions, deciding that yes, you may be stuck with him, but at least he spoils you rotten with your favorite foods, expensive clothing and jewels, an unlimited supply for each and every hobby you may have. He may have you trapped between a rock and a hard place in terms of leaving him, but at least he genuinely loves you - he aches to spend time with you, to hold you in his arms, to feel your heartbeat against his ear, your lips against his, your body writhing below his.

He’s convinced himself that this time is different, that you’re different, and as such he eventually decides that it’s really in both your best interests to just relocate you, to get you officially by his side. It’s really paranoia that drives this decision – he’s a working hero and a man with many, many enemies, and so it’s really the only option that keeps you safe.

Stealing you away into his private home – he’s the sole inhabitant, aside from a cleaner or two, since moving out of the Todoroki household – is the best option for a multitude of different reasons. You’re safer this way – the state-of-the-art security systems he’s installed around the estate are the best money can pay for, able to detect intruders and any suspicious activity in the blink of an eye. Enemies don’t have much of a chance of getting inside, and even if they had managed to, Enji will be right there to burn them to a crisp for even daring to get close to his beloved.

And even aside from outside threats, keeping you trapped at home will allow him to keep an eye on you and make sure that you don’t accidentally hurt yourself – you’re ridiculously clumsy to him, your every action having him hold his breath slightly in anticipation, in fear that you’ll somehow trip or fall or bruise your pretty skin. Plus, this way he’ll know that you’re eating healthily and in the right quantities, that you’re getting proper exercise, that you’re relaxing as you should, that you’re spending adequate amounts of time in the interior courtyard he’d prepared in preparation for you.

(It’s beautiful, as loathe as you are to admit it – all kinds of flowers bloom along the walkways, bamboo and tall grasses and trees growing in neat lines and providing shade for the flowerbeds on hot summer days. There’s even a small stream flowing through it, the gentle trickling noise almost enough to cancel out the painful silence that exists between you and Enji when he decides to join you for your scheduled garden time in the afternoons – uninvited, as always, and yet still unable to sense how desperately you wish you’d get these times alone to yourself.)

Aside from your safety, keeping you in his home helps feeds into his domestic fantasies of the two of you – you’re so very precious to him, and from nearly the beginning of his obsession with you, he’s always viewed you as the perfect wife – specifically, the perfect housewife.

He’s a traditional man, believing in traditional gender roles, and although he doesn’t view you as being less-than based upon your status as a woman, he does expect certain things from you. He’s the breadwinner, the strong, capable one who provides you with a roof over your head, food, and any gift under the sun the moment you make even the slightest inclination of wanting it.

And in return, you’re to be his caring, nurturing wife – the one who keeps the house neat and tidy, a room dedicated to only cleaning supplies that you get always stay stocked and ready for you, should you become inspired and wish to fulfill this domestic fantasy of his. The cleaning products are all diluted down to a level that wouldn’t be dangerous if you were to ingest them – you’d get sick, surely, but it’s nothing a home-trip from a doctor who’s been sworn to secrecy can’t handle.

There’s also, unfortunately, a drawer within the room that a particularly bored you had one day opened only to immediately slam it shut. Dozens of cleaning outfits sat neatly folded in the drawer, the black and white getups looking much too tight and much too short. A few weeks later you’d returned to the drawer, bored out of your mind while Enji was away at work, peeling one out with careful and trembling fingers. And of course, to no one’s surprise, the outfit fit like a fucking glove – hugging your curves and accentuating them, the skirt full and flouncy and very easy to flip up, the bustline practically choking your breasts with how tightly the black cotton pressed them together. You’d changed out of it shortly after, the rather disturbing and shameful fleeting question of whether this was the type of thing Enji liked making you too disgusted, guilty, and bashful to really consider.

In his idealized domestic world, you’d cook for him, too, but it takes a very long time for him to trust you enough to not purposefully burn or cut yourself in the kitchen. He has daydreams about coming home from a hectic work day to see you standing over the stove in a cute apron, humming some song and lighting up when you hear the door open and close, his announcement of being home making you practically bounce on your heels.

He wants to have you cook for him, to see you slave in the kitchen putting every ounce of your concentration and time into making him a meal you know he’ll enjoy, but that fantasy has to wait for the time being – just until he thinks you’ve finally lost that rebellious streak of yours, just until you finally come to realize that you belong by Enji’s side.

And so, in the meantime he’ll have you make him small things that hold little potential for you to hurt yourself with – simple sandwiches with pre-sliced ingredients, so that you won’t cut yourself chopping tomatoes or slicing bread. He'll have you prepare a sandwich for him and one for yourself, too, ordering you to sit down at the dining table with him and share a meal – though the conversation is hard to come by, and each attempt he makes at starting it is only met with single word answers from you.

(Another domestic fantasy he harbors but would never tell you about is to have you sitting with him at the table, looking at him with those pretty eyes and your voice dropping to a sultry volume, your chopsticks bringing the food you diligently and loving prepared for him up to his lips, your tone teasing as you tell him to open wide! He’d keep eye contact the whole time he chews, never once breaking it as he tells you in that low, gruff voice of his that it’s perfectly done, the seasoning is impeccable. He wants you to be bashful, to smile and hide it with your hand, your lashes fluttering as you glance at him then back to the food again, too shy to say much but your body language showing just how much his praise effects you, just how good it feels to be the center of his attention, the apple of his eye, his absolute everything.)

He wants you to be his sweet housewife, and although he won’t force you into any of the work, it’s extremely obvious what he wants of you – he’s always telling you about when you get adjusted, how you’ll be more open to fulfilling your role.

When you’re more adjusted, you’ll be happy to iron his clothes; perhaps you’ll spritz a bit of the perfume he buys you onto his shirts, just as a reminder of you during his long days.

(As if he needs a reminder – certainly not, when you’re on his mind nearly every minute of the day.)

When you’re more adjusted, you’ll be pleased to see the positive pregnancy test in your trembling hands, your voice riddled with joy as you announce the good news to him, watching him drop the phone and keys in his hand and instead hoist you into the air, spinning you with a grin on his face so bright it nearly blinds you, concluded with a passionate kiss and a few tears on his cheeks because he just can’t fucking wait to have you as the mother of his child.

It’s all this talk of ‘when this’ and ‘when that’, but the strange thing about Enji as a captor is that he’s incredibly patient with seeing these fantasies come to fruition – sure, he may be forcing you into being a housewife just as he did with Rei, but this is different – you get a choice about some of it, unlike her. You don’t have to do the dishes, but you can if you’d like. You don’t have to bear his children, but you can if you’d like.

(And frankly, it’ll be hard not to – once your need for human contact and your strange, mixed feelings for him grow, you’ll eventually give into his requests for intimacy, and once the floodgates are open, you will end up pregnant from the sheer frequency and volume at which he pumps you full of his cum.)

All that being said, life as Enji’s captive will honestly not be too terrible – he’s still following you around the house like a shadow, but he’ll let you sleep in your own bed at the start, let you have your own bedroom and bathroom, and he won’t even force you into spending time with him at the beginning.

Because really, as tortuous and painful as keeping you away from him is, he repeats the mantra over and over in his head that eventually it’ll be worth it – eventually you’ll see things his way, and eventually you’ll come to see just how deeply his feelings for you run. You’ll realize that he’s only ever loved you, that he cares for you more than any other man possibly could, that he only has your best interests at heart – that’s why he always swung by your apartment at the end of his patrols, peering in at you through your windows, just to make sure you were safe and sound.

That’s why he kidnapped you, to ensure your safety and keep you in the arms of the only man truly capable of providing for you, just as you deserve.

That’s why he’ll never let you escape him, no matter how you beg and plead for your freedom – you don’t understand the outside world like he does. You think you do, but each villain he arrests is a nail in the coffin of your freedom – you have no fucking clue how dangerous the world is, and Enji isn’t hesitant to remind you of this.

You’re unhappy with him? Well, your options are here, in his warm house where he’s willing to give you every ounce of his attention, love, and touch, or out in the big, scary world where women like you are easy targets for men who love destroying easy targets.

So really, you’re in the best hands with Enji – he knows how to take care of you, and he’ll spoil you with every possible treasure you could want. What’s not to be happy about?

PUNISHMENTS:

As a general rule, Enji doesn’t ‘do’ punishments. Because he views his relationship with you as his second try at finding a companion, there is no part of him that actively desires to hurt you. He loves you, in some sick, twisted way that’s much too obsessive and desperate to ever be considered healthy, but it’s still love nonetheless.

And as such, Enji does genuinely want your relationship to be as wholesome and sweet as possible; he wants you to want him, to actively choose to spend your time with him, to want to be in his presence every moment of every day. He wants everything to be as perfect as possible – the idealized life, a life where he’s the number one hero coming home to his lovely wife who cherishes him and he cherishes in return.

And so, when you do something that doesn’t quite line up with this fantasy, Enji is understandably upset. Why can’t you just accept that this is your reality now? Why do you insist on fighting him, even when you know you won’t win? How could you?

He’s Enji Todoroki, Endeavor the Flame Hero, and you’re just you. You’re pretty, of course, and smart and sweet and caring, but you’re still just you. There’s nothing you can do against someone like him – which is why Enji is able to excuse your poor behavior most of the time.

He understands; it’s difficult to accept that you’re weak and powerless, and he understands that when you lash out and act out, you’re just expressing frustration and fear at being taken care of so wholly and completely by someone so much stronger than you. It must be scary, after all – Enji can be so intimidating and he knows it, so he’ll try his absolute best to calm down anytime his anger starts to flare.

The last thing he wants to do is harm you, and he wants everything in your relationship to be as different as possible from that with Rei – and hurting you in any way would too closely resemble his previous marriage, ruining the beautiful illusion he can live under with you.

And so, most of the time Enji is able to grit his teeth and shut his eyes, letting the anger subside by telling himself about all the wonderful things about you – things that always get him feeling calmer, that make the buzzing sensation in his head and the suffocating feeling of anger dissipate. Nine times out of ten, he’s able to calm himself down this way – and if that’s not enough, normally exiting the room and getting a breath of fresh air is enough. He’ll tell himself that he absolutely cannot fall into the same habits he did with Rei – you’re different, you’re special, and he’ll calm himself down as often as he needs to in order to avoid being seen by you as the big, scary man who will hurt you if you disobey him.

Thus, getting Enji angry enough to the point where he can’t simply calm himself down is actually quite difficult – generally, this involves you hurting yourself. Most other things he can twist into seeming not so bad, rather just being you not having adjusted to life as his woman quite yet. He can write off your escape attempts as you still clinging to this ludicrous sense of independence you seem so hellbent on keeping.

Attempts to harm him can be discarded as your misplaced sense of anger at your situation, because although in your heart of hearts he’s sure you’re happy to be in your natural familial setting (as the wife of a strong, capable man of course), you’ve confused yourself by trying to reject something that’s just so right.

Of course these events don’t make him happy, but they’re able to be disregarded – but when your blood is drawn by your own accord, even Enji can’t pretend this is something else. This is you purposefully trying to injure yourself, purposefully trying to show him that you aren’t happy, that you don’t want this – an idea that makes him panic, that sends his fists clenching, that gets him pacing and his mind racing as he tries to figure out how to set you straight without harming you. And so, Enji eventually decides that after he cleans up your injury, rather than simply hitting you

and physically showing you that he won’t stand for this sort of misbehavior, he has to be more restrictive with you. He won’t be so lenient for the days following your bad behavior – you won’t be so spoiled, your rights won’t be so freely handed to you.

You must understand that Enji is charge, and that he’s being generous and loving and kind by allowing you such free reign around your shared home. Really, he doesn’t need to be so generous – and he’ll teach you that an angry Enji is much, much worse than the normal doting, lovesick Enji you’re used to.

Enji is frozen as he opens the front door. He’d come home a bit early from running some errands, the groceries in his hand dropping onto the hardwood floors below him. His jaw is dropped a bit, the sight of your bright red blood staining your forearm making a wave of sickness wash over him.

Who did this?

Who could’ve hurt you like this? There’d been no security alerts while he was gone, and there was absolutely no way that you’d left the interior of this house in the two hours he was gone. In the next breath he’s rushing forward into the kitchen, by your side before you can even blink, paying no mind to the way you gasp and stumble away from him, as if you’re afraid of him.

It makes Enji’s chest ache, but the sight of your blood is too distracting for him to focus on the uncomfortable ache. Instead, he’s thrusting your arm under the kitchen sink, the lukewarm water making you wince ever so slightly as it runs over the wound.

Enji’s brows furrow as he examines your arm; the cuts are long, zigzagging in every direction in a way that looks strange, not like any normal attack pattern he’s seen before. This doesn’t look natural, either – not like a regular scratch, not like you just slipped and fell and had unfortunate luck. No, this looks like something else entirely – like something purposeful, like their appearance marring your pretty skin isn’t accidental in the least. It’s only then that Enji sees the glinting silver fork out of the corner of his eye, sitting on the edge of the counter with a bit of red staining the ends.

Immediately his body is freezing, his grip on your arm squeezing tighter as the gears turn in his mind. You must have…

His jaw flexes as he grinds his teeth, those blue eyes of his slanting over to look at you with such intensity and anger that you physically shrink in on yourself. His grip is too firm for you to pull your arm back, Enji absolutely unwilling to let you run away from this.

Did you do this to yourself?

His voice is surprisingly even, given the look on his face, and immediately you’re shaking your head, your entirely body paralyzed with fear. You’ve never seen Enji look this scary before – or at least not towards you.

Your answer only serves to further anger him, it seems, because soon he’s literally snarling, his face twisted up into this ugly look of  rage that’s only heightened by the scar across his eye.

Don’t lie to me, I will always be able to tell when you’re untruthful with me. He pauses, taking a deep breath, his voice just the slightest bit unsteady. Did you do this to yourself?

This time you nod yes, tears prickling at your eyes and starting to spill down your cheeks, and at the sound Enji makes, they only flow faster. He looks like he’s in more pain than you are – his face is red, and a few flames lick up around his shoulders. The heat washes over you, and soon the begs are slipping off your tongue before you can help yourself.

Enji pays you no mind, every ounce of his self-control going towards not slapping you in the face for your blatant stupidity. Soon he’s letting go of your hand, stomping towards the small first aid kit he keeps in the kitchen, entirely silent as he carefully wraps your arm in bandages, not paying your rambling any attention or mind.

As soon as you’re securely bandaged, he leaves the room and you hear the sound of his bedroom door slamming shut reverberating throughout the house.

The rest of the night passes in a blur, with you somehow getting from the floor of the kitchen where you’d laid down and eventually fallen asleep all the way to your bed, with the blankets carefully slotted over your body.

Nothing seems to be amiss the next morning, your footsteps cautious as you approach the bathroom, your brows shooting up when you notice that the counter is completely bare – your toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, and mouthwash are all missing, as are all the expensive lotions and facial scrubs Enji normally keeps in piles for your convenience.

The kitchen is empty, too, you notice – the silverware drawer is completely empty, and there are no cups or mugs of any sort in any of the cupboards. It’s unnerving, and immediately you’re getting goosebumps all over your body, the air feeling prickly and cold, as if there’s something lurking that you don’t know about. Biting your lip, you make your way to the table, gingerly sitting down and trying not to jostle the bandages too much – the bandages that had been changed, you distantly notice.

A few minutes later, Enji joins you in the kitchen, his expression not exactly jovial, but not particularly hostile. He greets you as he normally does, before placing the mug you now notice is in his hand under sink. The sound of rushing water gets your mouth watering, not having realized how thirsty you were until this moment.

Wide eyes watch him turn towards you, making his way to your seated figure with slow, heavy steps that get your heart thudding in his chest. He stops right next to you, before telling you to open your mouth. Hesitantly, you do as he says, jerking slightly when his fingertips – always unnaturally warm – cup your chip and bring the cup up to your lips, the water cold as you’re forced to drink it.

Enji watches with neutral eyes, though you see the corner of his lip curl up slightly as you drink the entire glass, the pacing of the water flow nearly too much and nearly choking you. Soon it’s gone, and Enji uses his thumb to wipe at the corner of your lips.

Since yesterday’s little spectacle has shown me that you can’t be trusted with basic household supplies, let me know if you require another drink, if you’d like to brush your teeth, or if you’d like to wash your hair. You obviously can’t do it alone, so I will be joining you. Now, go lay down on the couch. I need to change your wrappings again.

You’re dumbfounded, watching him keep the mug in his grasp as he heads towards the living room. And though the threat seems too extreme, Enji means it – you only last a few hours before you reluctantly ask for another drink, your throat too dry and sore to go without it.

And that night, when you shamefully ask him for your toothbrush, you’re not particularly pleased to find out that he’ll be the one brushing your teeth, using his very own toothbrush to get the job done, just to make sure you don’t even think about trying to choke yourself with the brush.

(And when you finally have to shower, well, Enji’s face turns bright red when you ask, rushing to his feet much too quickly, grasping your hand and practically pulling you to the bathroom before applying all sorts of soaps and scents to the bath he draws for you. His breath is hitched as he turns around so you can change in privacy, but don’t be surprised to see him sneaking glances at your bare body beneath the water’s bubbly surface. Don’t be surprised when later that night you hear a suspiciously rhythmic thumping sound and muffled groans through the wall that  your bedrooms share, the faintest wet, squelching noise accompanying them.)

And, roughly a week later when you wake up to the cups and mugs back in the cupboard and your shampoo back in the shower, you’ll decide against hurting yourself anytime soon. It’s not worth it – not if that’s how you’ll be treated; forced to ask permission for your basic needs.

And Enji couldn’t be more pleased – now you’ll think twice about using that fork again, or anything else for that matter.

(And he can still force you into using his toothbrush – under the guise of furthering your bond and intimacy, of course. And because he’ll use it after you, savoring the feeling of the bristles against his tongue like some sort of drug.)

OVERALL DANGER:

 7/10

Enji isn’t necessarily dangerous, but rather inevitable.

He’s a determined man, driven by motivation for his goals, no matter the methods he uses to get there. And once he sets his sights on you, deciding that he wants you, that he loves you, you’re certainly no different – he will have you, and there’s not a single thing you can do about it. He’s a force to be reckoned with, and really, what sway do you have?

He’s a professional hero, known in the public sphere responsible for saving more lives than you could ever hope to, and who are you? You’re just a pretty face, a woman who happened to have the exact set of traits and physical appearance that Enji finds desirable – you have no real way to combat him, and who would believe you, anyway? Enji is the new symbol of peace – as far as the Commission is concerned, he can have whatever the hell he wants, and if that one thing is some civilian, then you can kiss your freedom goodbye.

But really, all things considered, Enji isn’t too terrible – he’s trying desperately to right his wrongs, to love you in a way that prioritizes your happiness and is just better, and although you’re certainly not happy being trapped by his side, he can at least pretend like this is better.

He wants you to be his pretty little thing, to be his housewife and treat him like your devoted, loving husband. He wants you to greet him with a kiss on the lips when he comes home from work, helping him out of his jacket and asking about his day, then lead him into the clean kitchen where you’ve got dinner waiting for him, then join him in the shower and then the bed, letting his hands wander to where they please, then fall asleep on his chest, letting him feel like he’s protecting you even in his sleep.

Is that really so much to ask for? Enji thinks not – besides, isn’t that the dream for you?

All you have to do is let him take care of you, to spoil you with flowers and chocolates and jewelry and all sorts of things that make women swoon. You’ll be spoiled rotten, treated like a goddess, and all you have to do is let Enji make all the decisions for you, to let him take control of your life and your future – it’s better this way, he promises.

This way, you’ll be properly cared for, kept safe and secure and comfortable by his side. You may not see it yet, but Enji is sure this is really what you want – you’ll come around eventually, he’s sure of it.

And if you don’t? Well, at least he’s not a monster, right?