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sunshinescribes · 7 days

Text

Not Later

summary: you manage to evade your boss for four days . . . way longer than you’d expected.

cw: chubby!black!reader, dubcon, abuse of authority, power imbalance, groping, choking, spanking, (vaginal) fingering, slut-shaming, sex talk, manhandling, nipple play, reader has hair & saggy tits, references to child abuse, my attempt at degradation, and a sprinkling of praise kink cuz i’mma baby.

word count: 3.6k+

“Girl.”

For a drunkard, Shinjuro was unsettlingly light on his feet.

Not enough to be a problem. The man hardly left his room on most days. And when he bothered to venter out, it was to lay down at his roost inside the cloister, dozing off in the sun or barking for someone to serve him.

Still, you cursed the Slayer Corps to high heaven whenever he did.

The number of times you’ve had to usher Senjuro into the closest empty room because one of you heard a board creaking, frankly, were one too many.

Poor thing never failed to contest it either.

It broke your heart to see him fuss over you like it was his job to protect you. So used to being failed by adults that he’d forgotten how to be a kid.

Priding yourself on not dropping the plate, you set it aside to dry your hands and add a few extra steps to try prolonging this inevitable interaction.

You turn around eventually, head bowed to the floor.

“Yes, sir?”

Tatami groans miserably under the weight of his footsteps, each thud staking a knife through your chest as they grow louder and heavier until you see his feet halt right in front of yours.

It’s like you’re standing next to an open flame, too close to be comfortable yet far preferable to freezing to death.

You wonder if this was how it felt to be a rabbit. Staring into the vast, reeking maw of a wolf, pitiful heart running to the point of total exhaustion.

A hairy paw breaks your line of sight and yanks you by the jaw, digging its claws into the caramel apples of your cheeks - forcing you to bear witness to the stubble covered sneer you’d spent the past four days trying to avoid.

Which was no easy feat, practically impossible with how little he left the house, but you managed to some success.

No conversations. No dawdling about for instruction. No close proximity and certainly, nothing so much as chancing carnality.

Days later, you still couldn’t believe it.

Being laid out like a celebratory spread. Too scared to move a muscle.

During sparse bouts of quiet, typically when the boy was napping or long after you’d tucked him into bed, your body would have flashbacks to heavy breaths cooling your lips. Or the soft ache of his teeth as they lazily pulled at your inner thighs.

Stings like a fresh wound. The indignity, the utter lack of charity, the intimacy—

“You really love testin’ my patience, don’t ya?” Shinjuro raps a finger against your face, a testament to just how much he’s holding back.

You want nothing but to finish the dishes, perhaps pretend you heard something out back, but the logical part of you knows the longer this unbalanced tug-of-war drags on, the angrier he’ll get.

“Apologies, sir.”

“Keep’m. I wanna know where your ditzy ass’s been— ain’t seen ya in days.” The intensity raging within his glower makes you wilt, demanding even though it’s drunken haze.

You hold back a wince when it tightens, reminding yourself to breathe steady as he leans down and growls. “Better not be fuckin’ around on my dime.”

“N-not at all, sir! My duties always come first, I swear it!” You ramble without a second thought. “Why, surely, Senjuro would—“

“Like I’d trust shit outta that brat’s mouth.” While you don’t appreciate his words, you’re grateful his hold weakens to a tolerable level.

You wish he’d back off though. It’s impossible to ground yourself around someone so unmanned, irregular breaths knocking your lashes to and fro.

Fixed, squinted eyes stare daggers into your soul, glowing between the shadowed mountains of his shoulders, each fashioned with rivers of blood and gold.

It’s . . . quite transfixing.

There’s nothing “majestic” about Shinjuro, especially at this angle. All haggard and ornery.

His hand is warm on your skin, wiry hairs tickling your throat and the silver of collarbone exposed by your partially ruffled kimono. The hardened skin on his fingers scratches beneath your ears, the kind gained through years of well-kept discipline and hard labor, and you curse yourself for leaning into his rough touch.

“I’m sorry to have caused you such strife.” You whisper into the quiet, shirking from his draconic form and towards the still-glistening dishes.

“Though, i-if I may return to my duties?”

He stares for some moments, says nothing for even longer. You feel like an ant beneath a glass, scrutinized, concentrated burns flourishing like a poppy field all over your body.

He retracts himself without protest.

You offer the man a grateful smile, making sure to bow your head as well.

Even with this show of grace, your heart races like a hare stuck in the belly of a beast, lost to the threat of his barren eyes.

Against your better judgment, you turn your back to him.

Residual nerves make it hard to grab the washcloth floating aimlessly in the basin but you manage, ringing it out and setting it aside for you to later hang on the clothesline.

You lose yourself in the motions, grabbing a drying cloth to wipe off any leftover streaks.

There’s a particularly stubborn tea stain on the cusp of the yunomi, standing firm in spite of your vigorous scrubbing.

You’re grumbling, honestly ready to swear up a storm although the words seem to fall dead on arrival.

Eclipsed by the sauna at your back.

There’s no time to brace yourself as your hips are suddenly captured in an oppressive grip, easily nullifying the shock sparking through your body.

“Sir?“ It’s embarrassing but you can’t help but squeak as it tightens-

“Go on.”

Timorous hands struggle to keep hold of the cloth as he continues pressing against the arch of your spine, forcing you to stand stock straight to try and maintain some form of distance.

He stays in that position for what feels like hours. Ignoring, or relishing the feel of you trembling under him.

His touch is nothing short of electrifying, switching between soft squeezes and thumbing light circles. The weight of his broad hands takes you back to that night, feeling them clutch at your sides as he breathed life into you.

His tongue sat firm in his mouth up until the moment he passed out.

He had skirted your outer lips at one point. Likely to moisten his own.

Your abdominal muscles twitch at the memory of that soft, wet mass. The sting of his stubble on the bottom of your pussy and oh, you’re dripping.

You bite your lip when his hands finally snake forward. One resting under your tummy, cupping it in an oddly gentle manner, fingertips tickling your mound through the fabric. The other kneads your pursy sides, no doubt leaving bruises.

It reaches the silk of your chest and your teeth miss the gasp straining past its gaps. The washcloth falls to the floor in quiet fanfare while you push at his wrists.

His chortle tickles your curls.

“Remember the last time I got my hands on one o’ these.”

“We . . you can’t.“ You breathe, trying to reign yourself in.

He throws your hands off with a meager flick of his arms and in your panic, you misspeak. “Shinjuro, sir, you must—“

Here, he shreds any space remaining between you, cramming into your back and knocking the air out your lungs.

“Tryna order me around?” he intones, faux composure static against your skin. Static turned sparklers, and soon needles, the longer his hands inch towards the curtains of your homongi; wrinkled and slightly ajar from all his heavy petting.

You’d shake your head if he weren’t lodged in the crook of your shoulder, unkempt hairs irritating your neck.

“N-no,” instead you bleat. In fear or traitorous arousal, you don’t want to know. “’m not- would never—“

Your legs clamp themselves shut when he finally breaches the inside of your kimono, shoving past your nagajuban, wandering hands undeterred by your attempt as one slinks over your lower half.

“Cheeky bitch thinks she can call me out my name,” he grumbles under his breath.

You bite back a squeal as he grabs you by the chest. Bareness held hostage by careless squeezes and pinches that only grow worse the more he gets comfortable.

Shinjuro . . . takes his time.

Brusquely switching from one breast to the other and rolling them in his palm, tweaking their browned tips— sloppy movements aggravating your raw skin.

Cursing under his breath, he wrenches them out and starts to tug on one, fingers overlapping as he’s encircling it. Then drags his hand down until you inevitably fall out of his grasp.

This goes on for several minutes. Squashing. Pulling. Pinching. Twisting.

Through the growing haze, you feel the glare of those blazing suns in the corner of your eye, monitoring every shift in your face. The sharp scent of saké rustles the coils along your hairline, igniting your senses further.

A maiden entangled within the hazardous jaws of a dragon. Fiery pants like fireballs, singeing you with every breath.

He pulls them again and you’re reeling when you realize he’s milking you.

God, now you’re heaving. Arching into the disgraced hashira with each breath and each time he lets go, those calluses scratch your nipples just ri—

“Like that, do ya?”

Short nails dig into the apex of your thigh and you hiss, hurling an arm over his shoulder to return the favor.

He gruffs. “‘Course you do.”

You feel his claws retract yet he continues trekking downwards, greedy mittens scraping the top of your knee then trudging back up, caressing your outer thigh.

It’s . . surreal. You didn’t think it’d get to this point.

It hasn’t even been a week since the initial encounter, what changed? Is this out of spite? To soothe some cruel need to humiliate you even further? Put you back in your place?

A smaller, hardened part of you fixates on the lines in your breasts, how far they stretch. The way your nipples point to your stomach rather then forwards.

You wonder if he notices. If he’ll say anything.

A body-wide jerk takes you by surprise when he bullies himself between your thighs. Your blood’s running molten once he finally rounds your mound, cupping the thick patch of curls.

His touch is nothing short of domineering in nearly every sense of the word.

A man's hand.

With a parting squeeze, Shinjuro leaves your chest to maneuver you by the chin, damn near giving you whiplash as he locks your gaze with his.

You’re standing in smoldering ruins, hot winds scratching your face, watching smoke and ash settle into the blackened earth. Illuminated by embers and encroaching lava pools.

There’s fear there, you think, looming faintly behind the dusky flurry of emotions.

The suns in his eyes seem to search for something. Thin amber rings eclipsed by darkness, igniting a match under your skin.

Crack!

For the first time since his onslaught, your voice transcends a whisper. Eyes wide yet unseeing as you let out a startled yelp.

Crack!

The impact sings just as loud as before. Frenzied “rhythms” waning into softer, more intimate notes, thanks to the cushioning fur on your mons.

You’re not used to this tune, mainly heard it from women throughout the village; wives reminiscing over their younger days with distant eyes, bottle in hand, young ladies playfully giggling and slapping one another whenever there’s time to spare.

Pleas form on the tip of your tongue, only to fall flat amid the clamor of honeyed pangs and wheezes.

Crack!

He hits the bottom of your tummy this time, a particularly sensitive area, and you frantically flutter your lashes to keep the creeping moisture at bay.

He grips you by the handful; pulling, watching the loose skin bounce back then peppering it with lighter slaps as he grumbles obscenities to no one in particular.

Chalk it up to heatstroke but you think he likes it - how malleable it is.

Shakily, and perhaps foolishly, you envelop his wrist at a snail’s pace and tighten your grip, as if it’ll have any substantial impact on a monster like him.

At least he doesn’t knock you off this time.

His hand brushing down to your throbbing womanhood makes you wince, the plush skin still in the throes of recovery.

For a moment he just sits there and the lull in excitement allows you to reconnect with your senses, piece by piece.

Blinking the haze from your eyes, a little jarred from the brightness, you take in slow gulps of air, leveling the uneven rise and fall of your chest. The walls of your throat scrape against themselves like sandpaper.

Languid strokes brush down your curls. They don’t necessarily soothe the irritation, but it’s a welcomed gesture nonetheless.

There’s some give on your chin, which you take full advantage of by falling back into his chest.

Before long, his . . . petting takes an aggressive turn. Faster, more insistent movements loosen some of the wetness trapped between your folds, most of which gets caught in your curls.

Thunder lunges up his lungs and you’re mortified at how your pussy twitches.

“Fuckin’ knew it, this slutty little—“

His thumb and index spread apart, effectively peeling you open. Cold air dusts your sensitive hole, kissing your exposed clit, wrenching a low moan from your lips.

He smacks his lips and you tuck into his neck, ears burning.

“Pruning my fingers, girl.“

Awe shapes his voice and you can’t find it in you to be ashamed as your hips start. Hefty, textured digits take them in stride, decades worth of hard, manual labor showing with every swipe through your slip.

He doesn’t press, mostly rubs around. Making sure nothing is left sapless.

Hushed sighs and whimpers trickle into his collarbone. You can feel your walls squeezing him, enraptured by the strange sensation of tendons moving beneath your fingers.

You snap your thighs around his wrist when he bumps into your nub and, without missing a beat, he lays a chiding smack right on your open pussy.

“Keep’m apart.” He barks.

So fucking mean—

You mewl and squirrel about in his hands, pussy still very much sore.

One goes over your head and you feel the color in your face drain at what had to be someone spitting, the sordid sound causing you to teeter in his arms. The pounding is further amplified when he returns to your pussy— drenched fingers scouring your silken folds, pulling them apart.

Blood churning inside your ears makes it difficult to focus on anything other than the soft clicks of him playing in your slick.

One finger travels farther than the rest and just barely presses at your entrance.

You squash your lips together until they turn pale, not wanting him to hear such abasement when his hand suddenly comes back to life and, using his thumb, pushes your bottom lip down with . . uncharacteristic consideration.

“Sluts don’t get to play coy.” He states.

Feels like you’re standing at the sun’s core while a flame laps at your hole, nudging just enough for your walls to notch, but not enough to take the plunge— take what it wants.

Somewhere in the muddied depths of your conscience, you pray this is the extent of his turpitude. That he doesn’t demand you beg or do something far more humiliating like pulling your asshole apart.

You wouldn’t put it past him.

“You look good like that . .” It’s heady. The flow of his confession.

You can’t help but preen at the rare show of praise. Pushing into him and huffing when his finger continuously falls short.

He snatches your ass up in a hearty squeeze, a small clap joining your thrilled squeak.

“Fat cunt ’s just begging for it, fucks sake— listen t’ her suck me in like a pro.” Your cheek growing numb from him digging into the fat and for once, you hope he keeps talking, rambles whatever comes to his salacious mind.

“You that desperate for attention?” He croons.

Your choked gasp goes straight to his dick when he finally penetrates your walls, hitching into a warbling whimper.

”Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about fuckin’ my face, could ya?”

His palm smothers your gaping folds, submerging his middle finger down to the last knuckle.

Those velvet walls catch on each knob deliciously and muscle memory takes over in seconds; entrapment, curling around him, bucking to try and shove him deeper.

Had it not been for his strong grasp, you surely would have crumpled to the floor.

His touch stays the same, rough and overtaking. All knowledge of “easing” is lost as gaudy squelches start to filter out from your legs.

“God.” You rasp, eyes fluttering from embarrassment.

You couldn’t recall the last time you delved in another’s flesh (too little time and fewer prospects) and it shows in the way you stomp your feet like some antsy mare.

It’s just. He’s so forceful with it.

Hitting the flat of your pussy so hard, you basically bounce on his palm. The fat of your mound clapping raunchily in the small space, shaking your soft belly with his brawn. Through it all, you let out cries so wet and devastating that you send your blessings to Senjuro’s weekly tutor.

At first, you shuffle your hips to angle away from him as his touch crosses into uncomfortable territory, punishing thrusts constantly flooding your vision in white.

A hellish roar at your throat, torn from the inferno itself, is ample discouragement to cease your efforts.

Knots begin to crop up. Your body aching and trembling from the budding intensity, on the cusp of a full bloom.

A fit of broken sobs jostles your chest— bounding free from your vandalized garments.

You clutch his sinewy forearm; shoving, leaving scarlet crescents in your wake while your free hand blindly scrambles for a solid fingerhold. Your neck grows weaker with every sloppy smack until you’re folding, dead weight in Shinjuro’s strapping arms.

“Sl’wer,” Begging is a struggle. Every attempt coming out slurred or completely incoherent. “Please go slo-o—ohh sh-“

Then without warning, his fingers start curling with every thrust; coupled soon after with his paw twisting and pulling on your nipples. His movements are crude yet dexterous. You can’t help but liken it to a master dipping back into their craft, decades after their retirement.

You’re hysterical. The room’s spinning, your lower half is beginning to lock up, and the only thing your brain can focus on is the impending tsunami in your gut. That familiar pull on your muscles, quivering, drawing back like tides on the shore as viscid, foot-long waves smash together cacophonously.

Your knees begin to buckle and knock into him, your toes twist and skid haplessly across the floor. Plush lips cracked and dry from your ragged breaths and barely bitten-back howls.

Although your senses are overcome in a steamy fog, the thought of yanking a Pillar by the hair is a daunting one, so your restless claws settle for his hip.

”Can’t . . . I c’n’t hold it.” Your snivels are soaked through— meek little things shriveling into thin air. “‘s too good sir, I’m . .”

“Gonna clean my hand when you’re done.”

You hum weakly.

“Yeah? With what?”

Instantly, you draw a blank. Never one to be put on the spot.

Shinjuro drops a hand from your chest. However, the chill of his absence is promptly overlooked by his sudden command over your lungs. Heavy, sweltering fingers haul you up by the column of your neck until he wrestles your spine upright.

Undeterred by the thin coat of sweat, the edges of your vision tinge black as he tightens his grip around the base.

”You’re gonna do more than cry if I gotta repeat myself again.”

No threat should sound that good, fuck—

You’re blubbering, flubbing about like a fish out of water but you manage to squeak, “Mouth! Use my—“

Pulling your neck into his shoulder, he unceremoniously pummels that precious cavity into a gooey pulp. Stirring your insides effortlessly while you strain to clamp around his fingers.

Tears (or spittle, who knows at this point) spill off your chin, leaving a damp spot on the man’s collar.

“Pathetic. Where were those waterworks last week, huh?” he spits, going for the kill and parting his fingers while they rummage through your walls. “So eager f’r me to tongue this sloppy pussy—”

There’s no waves. No successive bursts of pleasure ravaging your worn frame.

Instead it’s a singular, world-shattering experience prolonged for the ages. A hedonistic supernova of endorphins and stimuli, underlined with a smidge of pain.

Later when your soul plummets back to Earth, you realize with restless intestines that those scandalous, high-pitched screams reverberating across the walls were in fact, the ghosts of your fierce orgasm.

For now or whatever eternity feels like, all you can process are colors and the persistent wetness on your skin. On your ankles, on your cheeks, on your—

“‘ere ya go.” The sun-kissed menace intones, reverence bordering on condescension sending aftershocks to the tune of your speeding heartbeat.

Shit-shit— you’ve barely breached the murky surface and he’s pulling you back under, still nudging that soft little-

”Messy and a screamer.“

You hear the roaring bowels of Tartarus, harsh and captivating in the most agonizing ways.

“God, I love sluts like you. You posture around town like some starchy prude. All modest and sweet, giving those fake smiles— bitching and moanin’ that self-righteous shit ‘til the right man comes along ’n sits your little ass down—“

Labored breaths pile into the crook of his neck when his thumb presses against the skin above your hood, needing little force to expose your clit thanks to how swollen it’s grown.

Lightning strikes your core nonstop as he kneads the fattened nub, gestures firm yet teasing.

Like he turned a tap, wispy “ah”s start to trickle out in droves. Fuck— you’re torn between rutting into his touch or throwing yourself to the ground.

“ . . make you take it like a proper whore.”

{this is a sequel to this}

#beautiful beautiful writing #absolute feast of a fic #I don’t know the first thing about Demon Slayer but IM HOOKED #1000/10 can’t recommend this enough #black fanfic writer #fic rec

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