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angry-geese · 4 months

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The Weight - Sukuna x Reader

Warnings: smut//not osha compliant. arranged marriage au. blood/cannibalism mention. biting/size kink. unprotected sex, creampies. afab reader

synopsis: an arranged marriage au where the reader chooses sukuna instead of one of the men from her village

word count: 10.3k

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts since probably last february and I finally got around to finishing it lol

jjk masterlist

As mid-afternoon turns to dusk, you realize you have nothing to show for your hours in these woods. You know, reasonably, you should cut your losses for the day, and return home. In a little over an hour, it’ll be dark, and navigating these woods will become a challenge. But winter has come and gone with a vengeance, leaving food stores low. The thought of fresh meat is too much for you to quit now.

Fresh tracks mark the once-smooth creek bed. Deer. At least three. They’ve bedded down here, as evident by the smell, and flattened patches of grass. For several meters, the tracks nearly overlap themselves, before heading off in separate directions. It's been years since you’ve traveled this deep into the woods, and those few times were accompanied by your father, or uncle. Your solitude has you jumping at every rustle of a leaf, and snapped twig. It's when the woods fall silent that you need to worry. That means a predator is near. As long as you can hear bugs, or birds, you'll be okay.

Further ahead—maybe twenty yards—is a buck that stopped to drink from the creek.

You knock an arrow, lining the broadhead up with your target. Something feels wrong. The string feels too taut. It slips from your fingers prematurely. The arrow hits just behind the front shoulder, and—in theory—should puncture the heart. A shot like that—in theory—should drop an animal like this where it stands. Today it doesn't. The buck takes off running.

Between the footprints, and little droplets of blood, a clear trail is left behind. When you do finally come upon your prey, the crickets have fallen silent. The buck lays on its side in the grass, chest heaving. You ready your knife to put the poor thing out of its misery when something—someone—emerges from the treeline on the opposite side of the clearing.

Your body is moving before you can fully process the situation. You flatten yourself out on the ground, hiding under the cover of some bushes. If the man does see you, then he makes no note of it. He draws closer, stopping to kneel beside the buck. It’s too dark to make out his face. Something about him has the hair on the back of your neck on end. He hauls the carcass up onto his shoulder, turning to return in the direction in which he came.

The absurdness of it all has you frozen. You blink several times as if to make sure this isn't your mind playing tricks on you. Once reality sets in, you’re back on your feet, chasing after him.

“That's mine!” You say, hoping the volume of your voice is enough to scare off the thief. It isn't.

What you first assume to be another trick of the lighting becomes a horrifying reality as you notice the true size of the man. The man—being, or whatever he is—towers over you, completely dwarfing you in size. Mild annoyance is all that is visible on his face as he turns to you. From the deer, he rips out your arrow, tossing it at your feet. The broadhead has snapped off, as well as the shaft is bent. If you so desire, you suppose you could repair it. Not that you have any wish to. Sometimes it is simply better to cut your losses.

But you have more pressing things to deal with right now.

“And just what do you plan to accomplish, little lamb?” He asks. “A deer like this can weigh as much as a grown man. Do you plan to carry this back all by yourself?”

It’ll be tiring, but not impossible. Gutting and dressing it here would remove a lot of unnecessary weight, but would render plenty of valuable meat and organs useless. All that extra meat and skin could be used better elsewhere…

You are overcome with the urge to run, yet his gaze has your feet firmly planted on the ground. Your eyes fall to a small red splotch on his kimono—a blood stain. It can't be from the deer, it's far too old. It’s not until your knees knock together that you realize you’re trembling.

The action of him moving closer causes a cry of panic to leave you, unintentionally calling out for your father.

“What—who are you?!” You ask as you scramble backwards.

“I am Ryoumen Sukuna, the King of Curses, my dear,” he says. “Now, shall we get this back to your home?”

Fear threatens to overcome you. Even if you could draw an arrow in time, you doubt it would truly hurt him. Yet, in spite of your fear, you know he has no plans to harm you. Once you’re in sight of the village, he sets the deer down, and gestures for you to take the lead.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask. You’re certain the look on your face suggests you still expect him to eat you.

“Why do you ask?” He says. “Maybe I wanted the location of your home. It seems there are plenty of sacrifices here for me.”

“Wait a minute!” You say, eyes widening with fear. A mix of panic and guilt consumes you. “You can't-”

A look resembling amusement crosses his face. “I mean no harm to your village,” Sukuna says, “but in five years, I will return to claim what is mine.”

The strange man would vanish upon reaching the outskirts of your village, and in the nearly five years that follow, you would not once traverse so deep into the woods. On several occasions, you would try to retrace your steps, but would never once come across that clearing. When you would bring it up to your father, or any of the other village elders, your concerns would be brushed off, or outright ignored. Years would pass and slowly, achingly slowly, you would forget about the man in the woods entirely.

The coming spring brings your twenty-eighth birthday, and the looming threat of being an “older” unmarried woman.

If you had any say in the matter, you wouldn't get married at all. Plenty of older women exist, happily unmarried, yet your mother insists that you must find a husband. Any attempts to convince her that you’re fine with the way things are, fail. Once it became clear you weren't going to seek a husband on your own, your mother took upon the task of finding a suitor for you. Over the course of several months, meetings were arranged with various men, and with each rejected one, your mother grew more desperate to find the perfect match.

Your mother insists you're cursed. Your father thinks you’re simply unlucky. When you asked how marriage was supposed to fix that curse, she had no answer for you.

In the months prior to your birthday, your mother proposed a deal to you: meet with another man—the son of a wealthy merchant. That if this meeting went well, even if you didn't marry him, she would stop pestering you about getting married. Tired of her pestering, you relented, and agreed to meet him. And as the days draw closer, you only feel dread towards him.

The outcome of tonight has already been decided by you: failure. Whether your mother knows this or not is hard to tell. Judging her tense nature, you suspect she knows your plans.

“I was already married at your age,” she says, tightening your obi, “I used to have a dress just like this.”

“The difference is, you knew him already,” you say, “and I am meeting a stranger.”

“I am simply doing what I think is best for you,” she says. “This is your chance to get out of this village—to live a better life! Don't you want that?”

Her eyes meet yours in one last pleading glance. It makes you wonder; did she have such a conversation with her mother? Did your grandmother go through such trouble to match her to your father? Or did this come easier to her, than it did to you?

You suppose he’s handsome. The silks he wears are clearly expensive, with threads like woven gold. His features are sharp—what one could describe as noble, but you find him truly dull. But he is scrawny—squishy, with hands that show he has never worked a day in his life. The little conversation he makes is dreadfully boring. His father is an older man, with a graying beard, and sagging eyes. His mother is considerably younger, dressed in blue, with a small scar on her chin. Her silky black hair falls down her back. The little conversation you do have is short, but polite. The typical small talk you would have with a stranger.

Your mother does her best to talk you up. She’s gotten pretty good at that over the past few years. Your father interjects here and there, but it's your mother that does the majority of the talking.

“She’s strong. A talented hunter. Good with a knife.” Your father says. This time, you’re paying attention when he speaks.

Your potential father-in-law seems unimpressed with your father’s attempts to talk you up. Perhaps if you were a son, this conversation would go differently. If you were a son, your mother wouldn't be so stressed about you being married before 30. Your growing irritation mounts when you set down your cutlery, turning to look the old man in his eyes.

“And what about him?” You ask, motioning to his son. “Look at him—how is he supposed to give me a strong child?”

The energy in the room seems to shift entirely. Your father nearly chokes on his wine, but his eyes are firmly trained on your mother. She glares daggers at you, gripping her spoon so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“What?” You ask. “I am the one getting married. Don't I get a say in this?”

Are you trying to screw this up? Your mother’s face seems to ask.

“A good father controls his daughter,” the man says, “especially one with such a sharp tongue.”

“I can serve this village, or I can control my daughter, but I cannot do both,” your father says, “she’s not a child anymore, she can make her own choices.”

That earns a small smirk from you. Leave it to him to stand up for you.

“That is exactly why this is so grievous,” the man says, “my son will not marry an old maid with an attitude problem!”

“And I will not have in-laws as insufferable as you!” You bring your knife down on the table, narrowly missing his fingers. This little outburst of yours at dinner will certainly have consequences. Your mother’s wrath is only the beginning.

They don't leave in nearly as big of a hurry as you’d expect from a man who was just threatened with a knife, but they do hurry out, making certain not to look back.

“Maybe we should have offered to let them stay,” says your father, “it’s not safe to be out on the road after dark.”

“We’re lucky to not have them send guards after us for that,” your mother says, and for once, you agree with her. “Threatening a man like that is a new low, even for you.”

After such a disastrous dinner, you’re not particularly eager to go find your parents. You linger towards the outskirts of your village for as long as daylight allows you to. Once it grows too dark to stay out, you begin the trek back to your home, praying your parents—or at least your mother—have simply gone to bed. Maybe your father will forgive such a night, but your mother certainly won't. Over the past year you’ve done enough to earn her ire, this will not help your case.

Sitting outside is your mother, her eyes trained on a dying fire. Although she doesn't acknowledge you, you know she’s noticed you. Part of you wonders if you should speak first. Would that even improve your situation, or simply make it worse?

“You win.” She says.

“What?” You ask.

“You win. I told you I’d stop after this, remember?” She asks. “Besides, I stopped liking him after that comment he made about your father.”

You still don't believe it's over. No tone of accusation clings to her voice, yet you can't help being suspicious.

“I don't get it.” You say.

“I just want what's best for you.” She says. “I want you to live a long and happy life. Are you really content to spend the rest of your life in this village? Stuck taking care of your brother and father?”

“That sounds like the preferable outcome,” you say, “compared to having in-laws I can't stand.”

“Where does he get off calling you an old maid anyway?” She says.

A small smile crosses your lips. This is about the best she'll get, and she knows this, a grin crossing her own face. A moment that should be one of triumph—at least for you—seems to be more sorrowful. The older you grow, the further apart you drift from her, and with that comes a strange, aching loneliness. You long for a time in your youth; the days when she would play dolls with you in-between house chores. You miss the tiny clothes she’d sew for them. The furniture made of timber scraps she’d hand paint. Oh how long has it been since she last braided your hair? Or brushed it? Or helped you wash it?

Did she have these same feelings about her own mother? Or was it easy for her? Does she too mourn those moments you used to share?

You don't remember her always looking this old. That’s not to say she isn't beautiful still—age does not nullify beauty. But she looks tired now. The dark circles under her eyes are more prominent than ever. The skin around her eyes crinkles when she laughs, or smiles. Her hair is littered with grays—like little silver threads. She looks like you.

From within the nearly pitch-black woods comes a scream; not that of an animal, but of man. When the scream rings out again, it’s much easier to understand. It’s a cry for help.

Emerging out of the treeline, and following the main road is a man, half hunched over and clutching his stomach. He makes it several yards into the village before collapsing. Enough blood pours from the wound on his side that you can smell it. A metallic taste lingers in the air, stuck to the back of your throat. Blood.

You’re the first to run over, followed shortly behind by your mother. The injured, shambling figure collapses upon the road. It’s only as you draw closer that you recognize him, albeit barely: the man from dinner. His clothes at one point in time were yellow in color, but are now stained a deep brown in color from a mix of dirt and blood.

“We need a doctor over here!” Mother cries out, her voice echoing against the wall of trees.

Someone must hear, because eventually a group of men burst out of a nearby house. They make quick work of rolling him onto his back, granting you a better look at his wounds. Three long slashes across his stomach. From your mother comes a gasp, followed by her clamping her hand over her mouth. The young man succumbs to his wounds before anyone is able to help him. He’s lost too much blood. People don't come back from that.

“Was he stabbed?” One man asks.

“Looks like knife marks,” comments another.

“Not a knife,” the oldest of the three says, “claws.”

“Do you think a mountain lion got to him?” You ask.

The oldest of the men shakes his head. “Cats like that don't get this close to towns. They avoid people if they can. A bear, maybe; if he got in between a mother and cub. But even that seems unlikely…”

This is why you don't go into the woods after dark. This is why you lock your doors and close your shutters tight when the sun sets. Bad things lurk out there, but they are not bears, nor are they mountain lions.

Something about the height of a person bursts from the treeline. Atop the legs of a chicken is a head only humanesque in the way corpses are. Sunken eyes sit atop a shriveled nose, and cracked lips. Its skin seems to be hanging off bone. Still, it takes you a moment to register that it’s fear you feel. Your palms prickle with sweat, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The urge to flee is nearly unbearable.

More of these creatures emerge from the direction of the nearly-set sun. They appear to come in all sorts of horrid shapes, and sizes, the smallest being no larger than a bird, and the largest about the size of a cow. Fear threatens to overcome you entirely. At least twenty of the creatures leave the treeline, although you suspect more remain hidden within it. The temperature must drop by ten degrees. It’s as if all the moisture has been sucked from the air. Those who dared leave their homes to look at the source of the commotion have now retreated, locking their doors behind them.

The collar of your dress jerks backwards as your mother struggles to drag you back towards the house. “Get your father!” She says. “Hurry!”

“What about you?!” You ask.

“Just get your father,” she says.

And you do so, running as fast as your feet will take you. The chilly night air renders your fingertips numb, and your face burning. He’s asleep in his chair, and wakes with a gasp as you shake him, motioning frantically to the door. The words that leave you are incoherent, but he must understand your panic. He retrieves his sword, telling you to lock the door behind him. You don't listen. You never listen, you can hear your mother say now. A sudden burst of light draws your attention—a nearby house has caught fire. Those strange, horrid creatures swarm around it like flies. Several neighbors have exited their houses, and begun throwing buckets of water upon the blaze, but the fire is too strong.

And from the treeline emerges that man from the woods all those years ago.

In five years time, he has not aged a day. His cruelly sharp features appear the same within the flicker of the firelight. They fall before him on their hands and knees, heads bowed in fear. You only realize you’re shaking when you move closer to the window, peeking out through the crack in the shutters.

The King of Curses, he called himself, all those years ago.

His mouth moves as if he's speaking, but you can only make out about half of what he says. The ringing in your ears is too loud to make sense of much.

“My offerings lessen, my shrine lies defiled,” he says, “and you humans sit here complacent. I gave you five years to make amends and this is what you do with it?”

You know, logically, that your father is going to die. He is no match for the creatures, let alone that strange man. You must do something. Even if it is beyond logic, or reason, you would not forgive yourself if you did not act.

“Then what is it you require of us?” Asks father, his hands trembling slightly. You can tell it’s more than just the dancing light of the fire. He is truly frightened.

“An offering,” says the King of Curses. “A sacrifice.”

“We have nothing to offer,” says father, “the river has run dry of fish—our crops have withered! We have nothing to offer, we’re starving regardless!”

The King of Curses eyes drift to your hiding place, before landing back on your father. “You said it yourself.” He says. “You’ll starve regardless. What difference does it make that you should give up one of your own? Won't there only be less mouths to feed?”

Your arrows rattle loudly as you pull one from your quiver, knocking it. From this angle, and sitting half crouched on the ground, you can't bring it to a full draw. Not only does that mess with your aim, but alter the power of the shot too. That can be accounted for. You adjust your angle to be a little higher—right above his head. When you release the string, the arrow gives way with a thunk! The shot is dead on; your arrow whistling towards the demon king’s head. He brings his spear up, knocking it aside. Several heads whip back towards you, their faces contorted in a mix of anger, and fear.

You’re not quite sure who grabs you first—it must be more than one person. Several sets of hands are upon you, dragging you from the house. Any attempts to fight it fail on your part, there are simply too many people to kick off. They drop you in the dirt beside your father. You don't dare look at him. You know his eyes are filled with fear.

“We’ll—we’ll put it to a vote,” says one of the elders. “All those in favor of sending this woman as an offering…”

Two other elders raise their hands. Then several of the men. Then, reluctantly, the mother of a neighboring family. Even more hands pop up after that. Although maybe a minute passes, it feels like hours. At least a dozen sets of eyes are on you.

“Out of all of you,” the demon king says, eyes following across the crowd that’s now gathered, “she was the only one of you to fight back, yet you punish such an action?”

Silence is the only response the crowd can conjure up. A groan so loud that the ground rumbles beneath it rings out as the house gives way, collapsing in on itself in a rain of ash and embers.

“Wait!” Your father cries out, “let me go in her place!”

Several more incomprehensible sentence fragments leave him. He pleads and pleads to no avail. The last view you get of your village is of the spirits retreating back into the woods.

It must be hours before your state of shock wears off. Dawn breaks bleak and gray over the horizon. The temple he brings you lies in ruin. You must be one of the first people to set foot in here in years. A cracked foundation gives way to walls overtaken by vines. Dust and ash layers the ground, and every surface imaginable.

Sukuna must not expect you to try to run. Nothing is done to prevent you from escaping. There are no doors to lock. No ropes or cages. The only real barrier of escape is the trek home through miles of woods. Should you wait until sunrise, the trip won't be impossible. It is the fear of what remains for you that prevents you from returning.

Would there even be anything to go back to? Is it even worth it after what they did? They did not hesitate as they offered you as a sacrifice. Whatever happens to them… they have it coming.

Such thoughts do little to comfort you. If anything, they make you feel worse. What little strength you have left goes into stopping the tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. You manage. Barely.

Unable to find it within you to do anything else, you sit. Only a thin, woven mat separates you and the hard floor. Footsteps draw closer down the hall, the noise only amplified by the high ceilings of the temple.

Uraume. That’s what Sukuna called them. A strange being that looks human, but appears to be more than such. They enter the room, a shock a white hair visible before the rest of them is. They wear the kimono of an unmarried woman, in vibrant shades of orange, blues, and pinks woven in the pattern of flowers. Hooked around one arm is a pail of water. Under the other arm is a roll of cloth. Contained within the cloth is a mix of hygiene supplies; a sponge, comb, various vials of oils and creams.

Uraume treats you like one would treat a frightened animal. They kneel on the ground before you, leaving about the distance of a foot. When you don't flinch, or shy away, they move closer.

“You’re covered in ash,” they say, “let me help.”

With the sponge, they dab away the bits of dirt and ash that have caked to your skin. Human contact like this should, in theory, be intimate, but in this situation it feels like anything but that. Uraume’s touch feels cold, and clinical. With them comes a strange, uncanny feeling, like you are not looking into the eyes of a human, but of a corpse. The reason behind their kindness is a mystery to you. It feels wrong to question them, but you can't help but think there is something sinister behind their actions. Their casualness suggests this isn't the first time they’ve done this. That thought does nothing to comfort you, so you quickly push it aside.

Next, they move on to your neck, then down to the exposed bits of your chest, and shoulders.

“Such a beautiful dress,” they comment. You reply weakly, saying it belonged to your mother. Their response to that is little more than a hum.

They take your hands, scrubbing the dirt from under your nails with a small brush. After that, a comb is worked through your hair, taking great care to not pull on any knots that have formed. Once they can work their hands through your hair with no resistance, they stop.

Uraume leans back to examine their work, deeming you presentable. Gathering what they brought with them, they make their way towards the door, turning back once to say: “I’ll bring something to eat.”

The events of the night have left you without an appetite. You probably should eat something. It’ll be important to keep your energy up. The little adrenaline left within you has you jumping at any small noise, or shadow. Sleep feels like an impossibility right now.

About ten minutes pass before Uraume returns carrying a platter. Tea, pickled vegetables, a hunk of bread, a bowl of some kind of stew. It smells quite good, but you merely pick at it. Like your hesitation to sleep, you can hardly eat. Uraume sits with you, picking at their own food, but never finishing it. A million questions race through your mind, although you can barely bring yourself to ask them.

Would they even answer you? Or does this have a more sinister plan behind it?

Finally, you find enough of your voice to ask: “Where is…?”

“I’ve prepared a bath for master Sukuna,” they say, “he’ll be joining us shortly.”

Your attention turns back to the bowl in your hands, which soon slips through your fingers, breaking upon the floor. What little appetite you had is soured entirely. This is it. You’re nearly certain you’re going to die here.

Your attempt to clean up the mess is stopped by Uraume. They insist upon cleaning it themselves, taking great care not to cut their hands on the shards.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask, shocked at how small your voice sounds.

“Master Sukuna likes to play with his food before he eats it,” they say.

Uraume leaves shortly after, taking the leftover dishes with them. You remain seated, eyes moving between the two exits of the room. One takes you to the entrance of the temple; you’re not certain where the other leads. The first is almost guaranteed to be guarded, though. Trying to run now is a bad idea. But when will you get another chance?

You will not sit idly by as death draws closer. Like the previous night, you feel as if you must do something. It was your own foolish actions that got you into this mess, says a small voice in the back of your head.

Trapped under your heel is a small pottery shard, left over from the shattered bowl. It’s small enough to conceal in your palm. Sharp. Better for stabbing than it is slashing, but it will be good enough at either. Once Sukuna returns, you’ll get your chance.

The rush of adrenaline has started to wear off now, rendering your arms weak, and your legs shaky. If you were to sit down now, you’re certain it would be a while before you get back up. It is the body fighting itself; fight or flight mode mixing with exhaustion. If you do not stop and rest, your body will give out on you eventually.

So you stand there and pace, clutching your shard of pottery close. Maybe thirty minutes pass in the time it takes Sukuna to enter, but it feels like hours. Adrenaline turns into fatigue.

Tears burn at your eyes again, but you’re able to blink them back. A mix of shock and betrayal has left you nothing short of exhausted. Sukuna’s towering stature only helps to make you feel like a lamb about to be devoured by a wolf.

“I trust Uraume has been of assistance,” Sukuna says.

Unsure of how to respond, you simply nod.

“What now?” You ask. “Is this the part where you’re supposed to eat me?”

That earns a laugh from him, although it’s strange sounding, as if the very action is foreign to him.

“Many decades ago, the people of your village—among others—would hold a festival during harvest season,” he says, “it was meant as a sign of peace. An offering in return to not raze their homes,

“The people of your village have grown laze, and complacent. They have forgotten their place as humans, and needed to be reminded of it. You are simply another offering. Something to tide me over.”

Sukuna draws close enough for you to feel his breath across the back of your neck. You shudder. Adrenaline courses through you once again.

This is it, you think, you are going to die.

In one last attempt to preserve your dignity, you aim for his jugular, and swing the shard of pottery towards it. A hand wraps around your wrist before it can make contact. A second set of arms are trapping you against his body before you can even register it. His breath is warm against your cheek, teeth inhumanly sharp in the dim light.

“You are entertainment.” He says.

That same set of sharp teeth drag up your neck. Some sick sense of pleasure runs up your spine at the feeling: being a little lamb in the jaws of a predator. It would take so little effort from him to render you lifeless that it’s almost comical. Adrenaline turns to delirium in your mind.

What happens if he finally grows bored of you? It’s not a matter of “if” in this case, it’s a matter of “when”. You have an idea of what will happen once he does.

You don't hear him leave, so much as you notice his lack of presence.

Sukuna is gone for most of the following day. In that time, you explore much of the temple in an attempt to gain your bearings. It’s sparsely furnished, and dilapidated for the most part, but there are some signs of life. On a lower level of the temple is a bedroom, where the bed alone is as big as a room in your home. Must be Sukuna’s. Another, smaller room appears to be Uraume’s quarters. A small kitchen branches off the hallway not far from this.

The later half of the day is spent trying to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Thick woods surround the structure, spreading out for what must be miles. To the North is a creek. If you followed it, you might possibly meet up with the river by your village. Whether you could do so before nightfall is another question entirely. Finding yourself stuck in unfamiliar woods past dark may prove to be a death sentence.

Even if you could go back, would you want to? Their lack of hesitation towards sacrificing you still rings clear in your mind.

Sleep seems to be the best way to pass the time. There isn't much else to do around here. In the hours before dusk, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, and into the woods that surround the temple. You justify it by saying that fresh air will do you good, not that anyone asks you. The only person around to do so would be Uraume, though you don't see much of them.

Heavy fog settles upon the trees, causing the day to take on a quiet, sleepy nature. Little cream-colored mushrooms pop up through the layer of moss and dead leaves that blanket the forest floor. Carved out over years of use is a dirt path, barely wide enough for a person to walk through. Following it for about ten minutes brings you to a pond. At one end, the start of a small creek leads downhill. Little fish are visible just under the surface. Leaving your socks and shoes at the shore, you wade out into the water. It’s cool, but not chilly. The mud feels soft underneath your feet. Being outside helps settle your nerves a bit. Outright terror is replaced with uneasiness now. While not entirely better, it’s an improvement to your previous mood.

From the treeline opposite of the path you took, a figure enters the clearing. Sukuna. Adrenaline spikes through your body at the sight of him. Your pulse quickens, and fear prickles in your palms. Every cell of your being is telling you to run.

Sukuna motions with his hand for you to follow him. It is not an offer, so much as it’s a command. Following a short walk on a stoney path, you find yourself overlooking a rock cliff-face, and a small wood hut. Scattered about are several steaming pools, which bubble up from the ground, layering upon the cliff-face like stairs.

Sukuna undressed at the wood hut, leaving his clothes hanging upon the rafters. Your gaze remains firmly on the ground. You should not be seeing him like this. This feels far too intimate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long, but can't help it. The sight of his back alone is hard to tear your eyes away from; the muscles, the tattoos, the curve of his spine. There is a strange, supernatural beauty to him. You eye him with caution, yet curiosity.

Why has he brought you here? What does he want? Is this simply a ritual before he eats you?

Certainly, if you were to scream, no one would be nearby to hear you.

It strikes you just how easily his teeth could tear through your jugular. How his sharp nails could shred your flesh to ribbons. Sukuna is far faster and stronger than you, outrunning him is not an option.

Following his lead, you undress, and leave your clothes folded neatly upon a rock. Next comes the task of taking down your hair, and combing through it with your fingers, finding it still knot-free from the events of the previous night. Only then do you approach the largest of the three pools, and wade into it. At its deepest, it's a little above your waist. You could walk all the way across and never once have your feet leave the ground.

You settle upon a rock towards the edge, half submerged in the pool. The hot water feels nice upon your sore muscles. Your eyes trail ribbons of steam as they curl off the water. A wave of self consciousness rolls over you. You sink further into the water, crossing your arms in front of your chest. It’s up to your chin now. Sometime during this, it starts raining. The droplets leave little ripples across the surface of the water. Fall brings the smell of damp earth, and decaying leaves with it. Something that should be comforting only makes your stomach turn.

“You look frightened, little lamb,” Sukuna says.

Is it so obvious?

“I still don't believe this isn't some attempt to eat me.” You ask, though you’re not certain you want the answer.

“Had I wanted to eat you, I would have had Uraume make preparations.” He says.

You still don't believe him. How many people met their fate at his hands before you? There is no reason why you would be lucky—why you would escape your fate.

“Then what is it you want from me?” You ask.

His expression softens, shoulders lowering with a sigh. The space between his eyebrows is not so harshly creased anymore.

“I am not like the typical curses you have met,” Sukuna says, “I require your permission.”

“Permission for what?” You shrink back as he draws closer, stopping mere inches from you. He’d tower over the tallest man, let alone someone like you.

A kiss. Hungry, and overbearing, but a kiss nonetheless. Sukuna has to lean down, and you have to crane your neck up to complete the action. His movements feel stiff, clinical, as if he hasn't done this many times before. The action causes warmth to bloom in your chest, and spread out to your limbs. The hands that cup your face are nearly large enough to encompass it entirely. He tastes like wine, and something vaguely metallic. The thought that it might be blood crosses your mind for only a moment. You’d much rather think about other things.

“Will you devote yourself to me, completely and entirely?” He asks.

Funny, you think, had a human man asked you the same thing, you would have laughed in his face. Yet you find yourself bewitched by the King of Curses. Curious, and cautious all the same. This is not a feeling of love. It is something else entirely. You are a sacrifice, you remind yourself, this is the fate of a sacrifice.

“I devote myself to no man,” you say, “I don't see how you'd be any different.”

He hums in amusement, circling around you in the water. He stops behind you, slightly to your right. Sharp teeth graze across your shoulder. Large hands trace their way up your hips, then your body, coming to rest just below your breasts. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the strange pressure that has built up. Your heart rate picks up in pace. Sukuna must be able to sense this. A low laugh leaves him as he pulls away.

“Well then,” he says, “do I have your permission to continue?”

Continue what? You wish to ask. As if against your mind’s wishes, your head moves in a nod. “Yes,” you say.

You can only imagine the look on his face as you have your back to him. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth radiate off his body. Is he pleased? Amused? Smug that all it took was a kiss to make you let your guard down?

Hands that should be calloused and rough are quite gentle with their touch. One comes to rest upon your hip, before trailing down to the space between your thighs. Seconds in and your knees seem to give out, your body supported only by him. One finger presses into you, then a second. You sigh at the intrusion. There’s little resistance as he presses into you. You’re too wet. Sukuna’s fingers are much larger than your own, though the stretch you feel is pleasant, not painful. Your thighs squeeze around his hand, drawing a low laugh from him. You can feel it rumble within his chest, which your back is pressed flush to.

Being so close to another being feels odd. The only intimacy you know is a platonic one. A familial one. This is different. Stronger. More intense. He finds the spot that makes you squirm and abuses it, toying with you like prey. It must be a game to him, you think, like cat and mouse. With one of your hands over your mouth, you try to muffle the lewd noises that spill from you. It’s a losing battle. All sorts of pleased sounding noises—from both you and him—echo through the clearing. Secretly, you’re glad this place is so remote. Should someone hear the lewd noises you’re making, you wouldn't recover from the embarrassment. He brings you just to the edge, but refuses to let you cross over. Frustration turns to desperation as you grind against him, chasing your own release. Sukuna doesn't appear opposed to your actions. He lets you work yourself up to—and through—your own release, the noises you make growing gradually more obscene until they come to a head in the form of an orgasm.

You remain in the water for a while afterwards. The layer of fog overhead makes the day take on a lazy, sleepy nature. His hands comb through your hair as you lay against his chest. Such a moment feels uncharacteristically tender for him. While you expect them to be sharp, his nails feel nice against your skin. The mouth on his stomach resembles a smirk, although the expression on his face is flat. Unreadable. A slight pang of disappointment shoots through you. You know it’s unreasonable of you to expect humanity from someone inherently inhuman. He does not—he can not—process things the way you do. Humans must appear so small and fragile to him.

You’re uncertain of how much time passes as you lay there, your limbs tangled with his. It doesn't feel like long enough. No time would feel long enough. You crave the touch of another being whether you want to admit that or not.

“It’s getting late,” he comments. Without another word, you watch as Sukuna dresses himself, and leaves.

You follow him as quickly as you can. You’re not quite fast enough, arriving back at the temple long after him. Dusk follows soon after.

You find no sign of the King of Curses upon your return. Finding yourself with not much of an appetite, you head straight to bed. Uraume stops by once to offer tea, but you decline, insisting you’re tired, and just wish to sleep. Whether or not they believe you, you can't tell. That’s about the extent of every conversation you have; polite, but short.

Sukuna must not need to sleep. Not in the same way you do. You dress down into your underclothes, leaving the rest folded neatly upon a chair. They’re not dirty, just slightly wrinkled from the events of today. You crawl into the bed much larger than you, and attempt to sleep. When he crawls into the bed beside you, you do nothing to protest.

As time passes, you grow used to his presence. Falling into a routine takes mere days. In that time, you don't see much of Sukuna, or Uraume. Maybe it’s for the best. You’re not certain what you’d say to either of them. You figure it best not to question what Sukuna gets up to in his free time. If the events at your village are anything similar, you figure it best to pay them no mind.

The longer you spend here, the more curious you find yourself. At least twice you find your way back to the hot springs. Familiarizing yourself with the surrounding woods has you growing more confident when navigating it. Animal tracks and trails reveal themselves, bringing more life to the woods.

Fall turns to winter. Rain gives way to snow, bringing in a bitter stormfront. It’s hard to tell how many days pass as the storm hits, rendering the three of you confined to the temple. Sukuna doesn't appear bothered at all by the cold, but you spend many bleak nights huddled by a fire. Sukuna approaches you on one of these nights; perhaps the bleakest and darkest one before the storm finally breaks. Your inability to leave the temple has you ready to claw out of your own skin. Never were you one to stay in one place very long.

Days have passed and you haven't spoken much to one another. Not since the day at the hot springs. You find yourself especially longing for them on a day like this, where the cold makes your joints ache, and your lips cracked. Winter is among your least favorite of the seasons. A hot and sticky summer day was always preferred over a day like this. Sukuna must sense it. He finds you curled by the fire, wrapped in an assortment of quilts and fabrics. You can't tell if it’s morning, or evening. Snow has rendered midday as dark as dusk.

You know you should get up, and toss more wood onto the fire. Should you let it die any further, it’s unlikely you’ll get it started again. Sukuna joins you in the room, sitting on the mat to your left. Finding yourself searching for warmth, you move closer to him. It’s an unconscious action at first. Once you recognize it, you can't find the willpower within you to stop.

You offer the edge of the blanket to him, basking in his warmth as the quilt is wrapped around both of you. One of his hands comes to rest upon your knee. Your gaze is trained on his face, while his remains on the dying fire.

“I don't suppose you do this to every sacrifice you get,” you say, not expecting an answer.

The corners of his lips twitch into something that resembles a smile. Much life his laugh, his smile is stiff, and rather foreign feeling. Like he hasn't done such a thing in centuries.

“You are different from the sacrifices I have received in the past.” He says.

You get the impression he is still figuring out what to do with you. Such a thought doesn't inspire confidence on your part, though you assume your situation could be worse.

You're nearly in his lap now. The hand on your knee soon moves upwards onto your thigh. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he palms himself through his clothes. Some sick part of you wishes to taunt him. To tease him in the same way he has done to you. You part your legs just enough to encourage him. There must be something wrong with you, you think, no normal woman would enjoy the company of the King of Curses.

This is not your typical virgin sacrifice. It is little more than that. Pleasure for the sake of pleasure. To fuck without the intent to procreate.

“I always assumed you wouldn’t have these… urges.” You say.

“Many things lost their potency,” he says. “Food was never enough to satiate, drink was never enough to quench thirst. Sex has remained the same. Primal pleasure never loses its potency.”

So he was human. At least at one point in time…

“Like I said,” he hums, “I am not like the typical curses you have met. I require your permission.”

“You have it,” you say.

Oh how dearly you wish to recreate the event at the hot springs. To feel the same build-up of emotions, and the following release. Such mindless pleasure has remained in your head, unable to be stifled by your own hands.

Off comes your kimono, guided down your shoulders by his hand. Your nipples stiffen when exposed to the open air. It is not the cold that has you shivering, but the expectation of what’s to come. His size, and calloused hands suggest his touch would be harsh, but you find to be the opposite. Sharp nails graze down your sides as he moves to kneel before you. You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him.

His own clothes are left among the growing pile on the floor. He pumps his stiffening cock in his hand, the head of which weeps across his palm. A different kind of heat blooms in your stomach.

Sharp teeth graze across your jaw, down your neck, before eventually nipping at your shoulder. A sting both painful and pleasurable radiates from the bite. Blood beads from the two points where he managed to break the skin, quickly lapped away by him. Part of your brain is telling you to push him away. The other part is telling you to expose your neck further. You’re not certain which to listen to as you lay under him, caged within his arms. Your breaths grow ragged, turning into quiet moans as his knee nudges your legs apart. This is different from the day at the hot springs. Sukuna is seeking something more—he is seeking his own pleasure this time.

A hand finds its way into your hair, gently tugging at it. Guided by his hand, you expose your neck further to him. He laps at the droplets of blood that form, sucking dark marks into the skin of your neck. Pain and pleasure overlap in your mind. Your thighs are a mess of your own slick, and the precum that leaks from the heads of his two cocks. It’s almost comical how you work yourself up in knots at only the slightest provocation by him.

You taste yourself on him as he kisses you. The bleeding from your neck has mostly stopped now. What remains will barely leave a scar. His lips trail down your neck, through the valley between your breasts, and down your stomach, before eventually stopping just shy of your cunt. The look of him alone has you growing as wet as a virgin; his hair disheveled from your hands running through it, the muscles in his shoulders appear more prominent now. His arms hook around your thighs, although he doesn't need to bother holding your legs open. You’d do it without prompt by him. Eager for your own release, and worked up into a soaked mess, you’d do anything to please him.

You shouldn't be enjoying it as much as you are. You know you should be afraid. It would take no effort from him at all to tear through your femoral artery, and let you bleed out. You would be helpless in the matter anyway; you’re nothing more than a little lamb trapped under a big bad wolf.

The feeling of his tongue is strange. With him on his knees, bowed in what resembles worship, has your stomach in knots. The lewdness of it all has you more worked up than anything else. A strange, pleasurable tension builds within you. He is not toying with you this time, but working you over. When you do finally cum, you cum hard, riding out your high on his face. The noises he’s making suggest he’s enjoying this almost more than you do.

He must be painfully hard now. The head of his cock is an angry shade of red, and leaking precum. Using his hand to guide him, the head of his cock presses into you. You’re too wet from his previous actions to notice much of a stretch. What little pain there is crosses over with pleasure in your mind. He groans as he sheathes himself within you fully. His expression softens just enough for you to take in the features of his face. He’s quite handsome now that you’re close enough to appreciate his looks. It makes you wonder what his life as a human was like. Was he royalty, or a commoner? What was his job? Did he ever have family?

You won't get an answer out of him no matter how hard you try. This is the most human the king of curses will ever appear.

His thrusts are slow at first. Lazy. More like grinding, not proper fucking. With as sensitive as you still are, this doesn't make much of a difference. You’re still a writhing, moaning mess beneath him. Judging by the noises he’s making, he’s not far from cumming himself. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and that seems to only encourage him. The muscles in his arms and shoulders gradually grow more tense before he shudders, then visibly relaxes. A warm sensation in your cunt follows soon after; he’s cum inside of you.

You lay like that for a while: limbs entwined, bodies curled around each other. He lets himself soften inside of you until the desire to pull out hits. You can tell your hips will be sore in the morning—whenever it decides to come. What little of his seed spills out of you is forced back in by his fingers. You assume it ties into his possessive nature. It must be a way of marking you as his. The fire has long since died out, though you find the warmth from his body adequate enough.

“I don't think I can walk,” you lie, “carry me?”

Sukuna feigns annoyance, but relents, carrying you to the bed too large for any human. You quickly find your way under the covers. He finds himself in the space beside you. Fatigue hits you soon after, yet you find yourself unable to sleep.

“You were human once?” You ask.

The mood in the room seems to shift entirely. Sukuna is not one for conversation. You expected no different from a man like him. He looks at you with mild annoyance, as if deciding on his answer.

“I was. Once.” He says.

Your fingers trace across the tattoos on his wrist. “Do you miss it?” You ask. “Being human, I mean.”

“I am far stronger now than I was when I was a human.” He says. “I no longer need to eat, nor drink. I have the gift of eternal life so long as I am smart with my actions. I do not miss the fragility that comes with humanity.”

His words almost irritate you. So much more exists to humanity than what he says, from little things like sharing a summer even with a friend, tearing into ripe persimmons. Spending an evening hunched over a stew pot helping your mother. Kisses shared between a lover in the woods, or out in the fields. Stories exchanged by firelight. Intricately woven fabrics and paintings that might as well be indistinguishable from real life. So many beautiful things exist within humanity. Maybe he’s been away from it so long he’s forgotten the extent of it.

Would the King of Curses even admit he’s lonely? Or would he be too prideful to admit such a thing?

“You're sad. Why?” He questions.

“Was just thinking about my mother. That's all.” You say. “She wanted me to get married before I…”

You’re mad at her. More mad than you’ve been at anyone in your life. Yet you wish for nothing more than her comfort in this moment. A wound exists that time won't heal. Anger is not productive in fixing it. Anger only makes it worse.

This time, you are the one to initiate the kiss. You wish for it to distract you, but it only amplifies the ache in your chest.

“If you were to lose what little fight you had left in you, then this would no longer be fun,” he says.

You grow used to the ever-present shadow that is Sukuna, talking to the space beside you as if he is there because hell, sometimes he is. He is more than a mere man. He exists on a level different from you or anyone else. Your existence at this temple feels less like confinement and more like living.

“Will you join me?” He asks one day by the river.

The two of you sit upon the riverbank, watching as the water swirls below you. Spring snowmelt, combined with a recent storm, has stirred up the river bottom, turning the water murky. What was meant to be a fishing trip has proved unsuccessful.

“I would be lying if I said I haven't grown used to your presence.” He says.

“Don't be getting soft on me,” you say, half joking.

The most emotion you get out of him is an amused sounding huff.

“I want you to join me,” he says, “not in life as human, but in eternity as a curse.”

“I will,” you say.

No thought is needed for your answer, nor is there any hesitation on your part. Sukuna simply nods. That is what love is to him. Devotion. Worship. Throwing away your humanity means nothing if humanity is so quick to reject you.

Gifts begin appearing around the temple after that. Priceless jewelry, and expensive dresses. Hair pins and cosmetics. Seasons pass in what feels like no time at all. Before you know it, your third fall here is quickly approaching. Winter comes and goes—uncharacteristically bitter this year. Spring brings a sense of rebirth. The ground thaws slowly, and plant life is in full bloom. Animal life returns to the surrounding woods, showing signs in every trail around the temple.

A hunting trip brings you further out into the woods than you’ve traveled before. You don't realize you’re nearing a human settlement until you’ve stumbled upon it.

The village has changed drastically in the time you were gone, so much so that you almost don't recognize it. A full blown mill has sprouted up along the river. At least twice as many houses stand now. Years ago this street was little more than a dirt path. Sometime over the years it has been paved over with river stones. Children play in the streets. Men walk home with pails of fish slung over their shoulders. These strangers notice you and pause, returning to their homes quickly.

Your house remains mostly the same. Age has not been kind to it. One corner of the roof sags, and the wood trim has grown bleached with time. The path up to the front steps is overgrown. Sitting outside, hunched over a wash bin, is your mother.

Her hair is mostly gray now. Wrinkles mark her skin, and her joints are knobby, but you would still consider her beautiful. The face of the woman she once was is still there. The clothes she wears are of rich fabrics, suggesting your family has not hurt for money. Her sturdy figure suggests they never lacked food either.

When she sees you, her eyes grow wet with tears. And it’s as if the weight of the world has lifted off your shoulders. You want to be angry at her. You want to unload years of anger upon her. You want her to feel just a fraction of the fear you've felt. But you can't bring yourself to do it. The look in her eyes tells you she’s felt all the emotions you have.

Her movements are laced with hesitation, as if she’s deciding whether or not you're real. One of her wrinkled hands takes yours.

“I love you,” she says, “and I am so sorry.”

“I know,” you say.

She invites you in for tea, setting the table up with the nice dishware—the kind she only uses for guests. The interior of the house hasn't changed much. Your room is eerily the same, as if it hasn't been touched since the day you left. Your father’s boots, and hunting coat remain by the door, although they look as if they haven't been moved in years. Makes sense, you think, hunting is a task that grows difficult as you get older. There comes a time in every hunter’s life where they grow old, and it becomes their turn to stay home and tend the fire.

“Where's…?” You never get the chance to finish your question, the solemn look on your mother’s face is enough of an answer.

“He passed,” she says, pausing to think, “two springs ago now? Maybe three.”

Believing you would never see them again, you grieved your parents long ago.This particular grief is like an old wound to you.

“The village looks prosperous,” you comment. A bitter tone clings to your voice.

“Yes,” she says, “the past years have been kind to us. I suppose we have you to thank for that?”

She sits across from you, her eyes still wet with tears. It feels like you are holding a conversation with a stranger. Your mother regards you with a certain weariness she only reserves for strangers. Maybe it would hurt more if you had more room within you for grief.

“He never stopped looking for you, you know,” she says, setting a cup of tea in front of you. “Even after the village held a funeral for you. He never wanted to believe it. Until the day he died, he was out in the woods thinking he could bring you home.”

“I was under the impression I wasn't wanted here.” You say.

“You know that’s not true,” she says. “What happened that night was a result of fear. The elders did what they thought would preserve the safety of everyone.”

“Except for me.” You say.

Fear. Right. To them, you were simply a sacrifice. You drain the last of your tea, standing from the table. Your mother stands as if to stop you, but freezes before she can.

“Does he treat you well?” She asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Better than any human man?”

“Yes,” you answer, although you can tell she doesn't believe it.

“Do you love him?” She asks. “Does he love you?”

“I suppose so.” You say. “As much as he is capable of loving something.”

“But do you love him?” She asks again.

“As much as I am capable of doing so, yes.” You answer.

It is not the answer she wants, but the one that is the truth. With her hands folded in her lap, she nods solemnly.

That following night you leave your village not as a human, but as a curse.

Enough time would pass that the story of a young sacrifice would be forgotten by its people; what would remain, is a tale of a love so infamous that it survived centuries.

#jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #ryoumen sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader smut #not osha compliant #jjk #my writing

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fanby-fckry · 8 months

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Hazbin Hotel + Reductress Headlines 1/?

Next ( 2 ) || ( 3 ) || ( 4 ) || ( 5 )

#source: reductress #hazbin hotel #incorrect hazbin hotel quotes #incorrect hazbin quotes #hazbin hotel memes #reductress #charlie morningstar #charlie hazbin hotel #seviathan von eldritch #angel dust #angel dust hazbin hotel #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #husk hazbin hotel #niffty #niffty hazbin hotel #fanby’s fuckery #hazbin reductress #not osha compliant

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raynecreates · 9 months

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Y’all seemed to enjoy my dumb Witcher checkers post, so how bout some Twister??

[ Patreon ] [Checkers]

#jaskier #geraskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #not osha compliant #silly censors

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bigbadgirlyman · 1 year

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The real tension during the end of Glass onion is watching Janelle Monae creating and subsequently stomping through a field of broken glass in open-toed sandals

#glass onion #knives out #janelle monae #daniel craig #glass onion a knives out mystery #not osha compliant #proper ppe

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sev-on-kamino · 6 months

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sev 🥺🥺🥺 “that really does make you hard. i can feel you pulsing inside me” with cody? playing with fire and making him mad? 👀👀i love you

kit @corvod I need you to know that this quote with Cody of all people really altered my brain chemistry. I hope you enjoy this lil spicy morsel! prompt is in orange this time!

word count: 621 (my hand slipped, but I caught it)

warnings: unprotected piv sex, biting, the world’s shortest predator/prey chase, Cody being Cody, MINORS DNI

dividers by the homie @dystopicjumpsuit

Cody was the patient one from his batch. No one knew that necessarily because no one ever tested his patience. His orders were followed immediately without question by everyone under his command. Even your natural aversion to authority didn’t make you immune to Cody’s will. He spoke, you listened. He said jump, you said how high?

Inversely, Cody respected your position as a medical officer, and didn’t give you shit when you laid out a treatment plan. This typically made both of your lives far easier than they had any right to be given that you were usually in active war zones.

So the current standoff between the two of you was fully uncharted territory. You’d given your orders as the medical authority aboard the *Negotiator* and Cody had less than respectfully declined.

Your eyebrows shot up, accompanied by several confused blinks.

“Excuse me?” you asked, as though you hadn’t heard him properly.

“I have shit to do, saraad,” He replied, picking up his helmet from the side table. “Don’t give me that look.”

“Yes, you do have shit to do…following my orders,” you said, eyes darting towards the helmet. It was a split second decision to snatch the bucket right out of his hands.

Cody’s eyes widened in utter shock before narrowing dangerously.

“I give you a lot of leeway because you’re good at what you do, and you fuck like an angel.” His voice was low, calm, and steady. “Don’t let that go to your head and get you in trouble.”

He held his hand out for his helmet, but you clutched it to your chest, your chin raised defiantly. The marshal commander released a humorless laugh, and took a step towards you.

Fear and arousal jockeyed for position, and ultimately settled side by side low in your belly, as you took a step back.

You made to exit the medbay with the stolen equipment, but Cody was like lightning. One powerful arm looped tightly around your waist, holding you against his armored chest, while his free hand easily tugged his helmet right out of your grip, tossing it onto the table once more.

“Oh, fuck,” you whispered nervously.

“Oh fuck is right,” he replied, spinning you around to face him.

In 2 minutes and 30 seconds, Cody had you naked and riding him on top of a crate in the supply closet. Your soft body would bear marks from the unyielding plastoid, and his iron grip for days.

“Can’t believe you had the balls to challenge me,” he groaned against your neck, as you rolled your hips against him.

“You fucking deserved it,” you replied, turning your head to bite him just below his jaw.

His grip tightened, and he pulled your hips flush against his.

“Who do you think you are?” He asked, narrowing his eyes at you.

“Your saraad,” you said, stealing a kiss, and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. His cock twitched inside you, eliciting a surprised hum from you.

“Say that again,” he ordered. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You, Commander.”

“Fuck, I like hearing that. Almost too much.”

“It’s true. I’m yours.” Again you could feel his cock jump at your words. “That really does make you hard. I can feel you pulsing inside me.”

“Careful, or I’ll fill that pretty little mouth of yours next.”

“I thought you had things to do,” you moaned, as he adjusted his hold on you to drive the head of his cock into the sensitive place inside you, that had your head spinning.

“Making you come for me was already on the list,” he said, as his nimble fingers found your clit, driving all thoughts beyond your impending orgasm right out of your head.

tagu list: @secondaryrealm @dystopicjumpsuit @sunshinesdaydream @dukeoftheblackstar @wolffegirlsunite @808tsuika @sleepingsun501 @starrylothcat @ladyzirkonia @wings-and-beskar @pb-jellybeans @clio3kantarella @stardusthuntress @idontgetanysleep @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @anxiouspineapple99 @littlemissmanga @mandos-mind-trick @amorfista @kimiheartblade @freesia-writes @sinfulsalutations @523rdrebel @clonemedickix @multi-fan-dom-madness @mooncommlink @1vlouds @moonlightwarriorqueen @starqueensthings @dangraccoon @idoubleswearimawriter @wizardofrozz @trixie2023 @dreamie411 @nunanuggets @foodmoneyandcats @cdbkake1565

#seven answers #commander cody x reader #cody x reader #tcw cody x reader #x reader #reader insert #commander cody #tcw cody #tcw commander cody #seven writes #cody smut #not safe for costco #not safe for the BART #not osha compliant #not osha approved

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science-bastard · 1 year

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ohhhhhhhhhh okay *still going to commit a grave ethics violation*

#mad scientist #mad science #sciencecore #villaincore #evilcore #not osha compliant #lab records

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julia1x5 · 4 months

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I may have gotten a collar for crimas :3

#not osha compliant

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willzile1 · 3 months

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I am happy to announce that I am now OSHA certified.

#willzile1 #minecraft #protogen #3d model #not osha compliant

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littledeathleather · 5 months

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Just realized I haven’t shared these here yet. My hand strap design! Crafted for comfort and accessibility. No buckle = no pinching. For anyone and any style of play :-)

In comparison to the thigh strap there is obviously no base but the big difference is the ring is fixed and cannot be swapped out.

Sex should be accessible and that is how I go into designing strap ons. Currently there are 3 different options. Who knows, maybe I’ll make more….

#sex toys for everyone #leather #leather work #leatherworker #lgbtq artist #queer #hand made #queer art #real leather #small business #art #accessibility #disability #shop small #osha violation #not osha compliant #osha noncompliant #not osha approved #trans artists

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angry-geese · 11 months

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Sea, Swallow Me

Satoru Gojo x Reader

Warnings: not OSHA compliant. hurt/comfort, light angst, ex-husband Gojo. angry/hate sex, unprotected sex, oral (cunnilingus), fingering.

Synopsis: some ex-husband Gojo smut except him and the reader are still totally in love with each other >:)

a/n: this has been rattling around in my drafts since like march and I finally got my thoughts gathered enough to write it out lol

Word Count: 4.7k

jjk masterlist

Outside, the sky grows dark, signaling an incoming storm. The weather report called for it yesterday; off and on thunderstorms all night, and well into this afternoon. Not uncommon for this time of year. This morning’s grocery trip was one made with the hope of being back before another downpour started, and from the looks of it, you were successful.

Typically, when you come home, the cat is the first thing to greet you. Today, even after she hears your keys hit the counter, she remains just out of view. You don't mind it so much, even if you do find it odd. It gives you time to put away groceries, and the treats you bought for her without her begging for anything.

The foul weather makes it as good a day as any to spend inside. Plenty of chores need to be done around your apartment, as work has begun to consume much of your free time. That’s nothing new. Certain times of the year are busier than others at Jujutsu Tech. It certainly doesn't help that two people are out due to injuries, and another is on maternity leave, meaning you’re on call nearly 24/7.

The cat makes herself known only after she hears a can of food open, chirping as she trots into the kitchen. She stays long enough to finish eating, and get some pets from you, before settling into her spot on the window sill, intently watching leaves being blown around outside. You settle on preparing dinner: thawing meat, and chopping veggies for a soup that’ll take nearly an hour to simmer.

A noise from the other room draws your attention; in the living room, the TV is on—something you vividly remember shutting off. A drama was playing, but the lead was giving you such bad second-hand embarrassment that you just had to shut it off.

Maybe you really are starting to lose it.

You’ve seen it happen to others. The stress of the job—this way of life—gets to some. You could chalk it up to forgetting; maybe the cat stepped on the remote, or maybe you really did just forget. Come to think of it, didn't you turn off the lights in the kitchen before leaving too?

The back of your neck prickles with fear. Did someone really break in? You know this isn't a particularly nice part of town, but the chance of that happening is unlikely. Besides, there is no sign of forced entry. It's just a feeling of being watched. Nothing is missing, just some lights are on, and the books on your coffee table have been moved around, as if someone looked through them. Why go through the trouble then?

Nothing in particular tips you off to the presence behind you. It comes suddenly, and without warning. Fight or flight kicks in. With your elbow and wrist parallel to your collarbone, you swing outwards.

Any normal person's elbow would have been shattered by that hit. Satoru blocks it with little effort. He uses the weight of your movement against you, allowing you to fall against him. It doesn't take much time for you to realize what he’s doing, and shove yourself away from him.

“You broke in?” You say, although your voice doesn't carry any surprise. “I gotta admit, Satoru, that's a new low.”

“Technically I didn't,” he says, “I explained to the guy up front that I was your husband and he let me in.”

Internally, you curse your landlord, a sweet old man by the name of Saito. He was one of the few people who would let you move in on such short notice. This was never meant to be a permanent placement, but you suppose you don't have much to complain about here. It's an older building, but maintenance is consistent, and the interior has been completely redone. Your neighbors are quiet, pleasant people, and this is a nice corner of the neighborhood. Not nearly as luxe as your previous home, but not bad either.

As he sits down on the couch, the cat jumps straight into his lap. You know it's not fair to project human emotions onto her. She's just a cat. But you swear you see a smug little look on her face. She chirps, and bumps her head against his hand, purring loud enough it's audible across the room.

“I think I would have rather dealt with a house robber,” you say.

“I mean, if you're into that kind of thing,” he says, “I can put the mask back on. We'll roleplay…”

“Absolutely not,” you say, snatching the remote for the tv, switching it off, “what do you want?”

Even sitting, he’s nearly eye-level with you. His hand comes up to tug at the silver chain around his neck. You don't know whether to feel angry, or sorry for him. Gojo is almost pathetic enough that you feel bad for him. Almost.

“What?” He asks, feigning hurt. “I can't drop in to say hello to my lovely wife?”

“Ex-wife,” you say.

Despite your current irritation with him, the separation was about as amicable as it could be. Although it’s not official in the legal sense yet, the two of you have been living separately for months now. There was no great turning moment in your relationship, just a lifetime of little things that forced a wedge between you two. These things happen. You were young when you married, and so consumed with grief that perhaps there wasn't enough thought put into it. You don't blame yourself for it, or for anything that happened. At the age of eighteen, you had a skewed view of the world. Mistakes were common at that age. That’s just part of growing up. You were young, and every emotion felt so much more potent back then. It felt right at the time. Hell, it was right.

Maybe you still love him. It’s hard to spend so much time with someone—have so many memories with them—and not love them.

“Tsumiki has a game Saturday,” he says, “you coming?”

You're slightly offended at the suggestion you would miss it. She sent you a text about it nearly a week ago. You swore to her you'd make it, even going as far as to make arrangements to leave work early.

“Of course I am.” You say. “I’ll take her—I’m off work early anyway.”

It's better for the kids that you remain an active part in their life. Megumi and Tsumiki have already dealt with so much upheaval in their life. It's cruel enough that one caregiver left them, but two?

You tell yourself you couldn't do that to them. That alone was enough to get you to stay in your old apartment for a few more months. By then, the kids knew something was up. They're smarter than people give them credit for, and there's only so many excuses you can make for sleeping in separate rooms.

It's been maybe a year since then. Six months since you moved out. You wouldn't call it easy, but you’ve settled into your new routine quite nicely.

“Great,” he says, “why not go together then? I’ll drive. We can get dinner together afterwards.”

Your mouth opens in protest. Although it’s phrased as a question, you know him better than that. Satoru will do everything to weasel his way into this situation. Your barely-pleasant expression sours entirely.

“No, thank you,” you say, gesturing to the door, “now get out of my house.”

“Don't be like that, baby,” he says. His arms stretch out towards you, and you immediately dart out of their path.

“I hated you calling me that when we were married,” you say, “what makes you think I’ve changed?”

“You haven't.” He says. “That’s why I’m still here.”

Within the air here hangs a rift that time won't heal. This room—this space—is too emotionally charged for you to think straight. Your head spins, clouded with anger and spite.

“Don't tell me you left the kids alone to come bother me?” You say.

Tsumiki is nearly fifteen, and pretty independent, but you don't like leaving the kids alone any longer than you have to.

“Of course not,” he says, almost looking offended, “Tsumiki is off at a sleepover, and I got your mother to watch Megs for the weekend.”

“You what?!”

A look of shock and betrayal crosses your face. You love your mother dearly, really, but sometimes she can be a bit… much. Early on into your marriage, she was asking when you were going to have children of your own. Being freshly twenty at the time, your answer to her was simple: never. Megumi and Tsumiki were enough. You wanted to be able to devote your time—and attention—to them, not a newborn.

Satoru catches you in your moment of shock, his arms snaking around your waist. Your hands plant on his wrists to shove them away, yet you stop yourself.

The sound of your phone ringing in the other room gives you a reason to escape. You free his arms from your waist, heading into the bedroom. You don't hear him get up to follow you, yet you know he does. Sitting on the table beside your bed, still charging, is your phone. It’s Tsumiki. You only glance at your phone long enough to see her name, not what she’s saying.

The end of the bed dips under his weight as he sits. He tries his best to be covert about it, but you feel his gaze wandering around the room. From the photos on the wall, to the papers on your desk, to the stuffed animals on your bed. Oh, you can hear his snide comments now.

“Those earrings are new,” he says. And you swear you hear a slight tone of disappointment in his voice. “Pretty.”

Goosebumps rise along your arm as he reaches out to feel it, brushing across your shoulder in the process. Crystals, although they may be glass, cut to look like gems, dangling from your ears. They’re blue in color; not a light slate, but a deep cerulean. Subtle enough that they’re rather unnoticeable from a distance.

“Shoko gave them to me,” you say.

She took pity on you once she found out about the divorce. Maybe she felt partially responsible, seeing as she was the one who introduced you two.

Getting sent off to the religious boarding school known as Jujutsu Technical college was a major blow to your teenage social life. At fifteen, all you wanted was to go to a normal high school with your normal friends. Yet you weren't granted such a luxury, and instead were thrown into a world you knew nothing about. You quickly found solace, and a strange kind of companionship in the girl that smoked behind the school: Ieiri Shoko.

If you didn't end up marrying him, you probably would have married her.

For you, it wasn't love at first sight. You could barely stand him in the beginning. It was a rivalry that slowly turned into friendship, ending in romance, albeit with much prodding from Suguru and Shoko. Teenage love consumed the two of you harshly, and entirely.

It wouldn't be until years later, after the wedding, when you would find out they bet on it.

You don't push him away when he kisses you. Just a peck, nothing more. Like you’re teenagers, exchanging affections in the stairwell between classes. When the higher ups would get upset at you, not him, because he was the strongest and could get away with just about everything.

Of course you still love him. How couldn't you?

You were one of the first to look at him as something other than the strongest. Even after the star plasma vessel, and Toji Zenin. Even after Suguru’s death. Even through your own grief, your presence was constant. To him, the concept of not having you around was strange.

The taste of coffee and lipstick lingers on your lips. Your thumb comes up to wipe away the smudge of red that’s transferred to his lips. And you, so pliable and eager, fall right into his lap.

His lips find your neck, hands wandering from your arms, to your chest, to your waist. He’s savoring your closeness—the scent of your shampoo: coconut. Little do you know, he keeps a bottle of the stuff in his own bathroom. If anyone asks, he claims it’s Tsumiki’s. Only you would know otherwise. She hates the stuff, and has been buying her own since the moment she was able to. Really, he keeps it around because he can't bring himself to throw it away.

“Satoru, we shouldn't do this.” You say. You don't really want him too, it’s only to preserve your pride.

Then why is your body responding so well to him? Your body knows this routine. Maybe the last several months of living alone has sped up the process considerably. Blood rushes where it needs to be, and perhaps most shamefully of all, you’re wet. Although you’re not quite prepared yet, it’s just in the early stages of gathering.

A line of saliva connects his lips and your neck as he pulls away. “If you really wanted me gone, I wouldn't still be here,” he says.

You tell yourself that, if you really wanted him to stop, then you wouldn't have spent so many nights dreaming of this. You wouldn't reach out to the cold spot on the bed beside you. Your subconscious wouldn't long for him in nearly every way imaginable.

His hands trace across your waist, coming to take yours. They’re warm, albeit a bit shaky. He’s just itching to undress you—to claim what’s his. It's a sick, possessive side of him that’s only fueled by your recent months apart. He comes to kneel before you like a man bowed in prayer. Satoru sits in worship, but not for the favor of a higher being. You might as well be one to him. Should you wish it, the strongest—wielder of the six eyes—would worship the very ground before you. That devotion would soon become suffocating. It was a bandaid on an already failing relationship.

“Still want me to stop?” He asks, squeezing your hands. Whether that’s on purpose, or an accident, you can't tell. “You say no and I’ll stop here. Just give me the word and we won't ever have to do this again.”

In this moment, your body betrays you: you shake your head. You don't truly want him to go; you know that, he knows that. He wouldn't be poking and prodding at every little unhealed wound if that wasn't the case.

“I need to hear you say it,” he says. That’s when you notice what’s on the chain around his neck: his wedding ring.

It's like he’s mocking you. Of course he still has it. Of course he saw that yours was still sitting on the bathroom counter.

Satoru has always been like this. He pokes and prods, finding out where you’re weak. What cracks or wounds he can press his fingers into. Pushing boundaries comes natural to him.

Maybe you’ve changed. Maybe he hasn't changed at all.

“I just want to get off,” you say.

“Poor baby,” he coos, “you haven't gotten off at all while I was gone, have you? You should have called me. I would have taken care of you.”

“I think I'd rather call Nanami for that.” You say.

The chuckle he lets out sounds nervous. “I know you're joking,” he says, “but judging by the way he looks at you? I think he'd take you up on the offer.”

You believe it. It was a thinly veiled secret that Nanami harbored a little crush for you. The man would never go as far as to pursue his coworker, let alone his coworker's ex wife. This entire time, he’s kept a respectful distance, only speaking about your marriage if you expressed a want to do so. You’ve considered it. Hell, you’ve given it a lot of thought. You think maybe… just maybe, if the two of you were drunk or desperate enough, something could happen. But fraternizing with coworkers in such a way is ill-advised.

Satoru is going to give him hell tomorrow when he sees him at work. Nanami will be none the wiser, assuming Satoru is up to his usual antics.

“One last chance to back out of this,” he says, “if you don't want to do this…”

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” You ask.

His fingers trace down the curve of your spine, before coming to the hem of your sweater, pulling it up—and over—your head. From him comes an audible little gasp once he realizes you have no bra on underneath. That part wasn't intentional; you need to do laundry, and your shirt was baggy enough that a bra wasn't necessary. Your nipples stiffen once exposed to the open air. Although you know how this looks, it sends a pang of self-consciousness through you, causing you to cross your arms in front of your chest. It’s not like he hasn't seen this before. Maybe it's a last ditch attempt to preserve your pride. And he’s nearly tripping over himself to undress, pulling off his coat, then button-up, then trousers. Off comes your skirt, the silky fabric pooling around your feet.

If you could stop for a moment and think, it would be endearing: the desperation that falls over you two like teenagers. He can hardly keep his hands off you, while you don't quite know what to do with yours. Eventually, you settle on wrapping your arms around his neck.

You sit on the edge of the bed before him, still in your panties. Plain black. Nothing fancy, but cute. Maybe if you knew…

You almost scold yourself for thinking such things. It’s not like you had any way of knowing this would happen. You know part of it was to preserve your pride. Being able to move on without seeming like you needed him. He’s not your husband anymore; why go through the effort of getting dressed up?

Beside you, on the bed, he finds a spot to sit. He’s half hard already. His hands ghost up the outsides of your arms, before coming to cup your face. They soon fall to your waist as you move to straddle his lap.

Satoru leans in to kiss you, and it’s… uncharacteristically sweet. That almost makes things worse. If this were something over and done with quickly, that would be tolerable. You could chalk it up to raw emotions or hormones or something other than the fact you still have feelings for him and haven't come to terms with that.

Sex for the sake of mindless pleasure is one thing. It’s tolerable. You can explain it away easily. But the way he handles you—like you’re going to break—sends a pang of pain through your chest. It's too much. Should he act selfishly, that would be far more bearable than this.

You almost want him to. It would be so much easier if he just took what he wanted, and left.

“Lay back,” he says, “like that. Good girl.”

You scoot back on the bed just far enough to fall against the pillows. Your thighs part just enough to accompany him. The body above yours is warm. His lips find yours, then your neck, then one of your stiffened nipples, softly biting down on it. That draws a sharp gasp from you, although the shock it sends down your spine is rather pleasurable.

His fingers hook under the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your legs slowly. Achingly slowly. Shamelessly, his eyes linger on the way they stick to your already slick cunt. This moment is only dragging out because he wants it to. They’re tossed away alongside the rest of your clothes. Long, deft fingers come to trace along your slit; teasing motions done by a man who can barely contain himself. The patience of Satoru Gojo has limits, and you’re testing them.

He palms himself through his boxers. He's completely hard now. That doesn't stop him from trailing long, sloppy kisses down your stomach, and up your thigh. His thumb traces across the bundle of nerves. Slow and steady. Just enough to get you aching for him, but not enough to get you anywhere. You try to angle your hips towards him—to grind against him—but Satoru cruelty pulls his hand away.

“Just… let me have my moment,” he says, chest heaving as he breathes in.

So he admits it…

His thumb is soon replaced with his mouth, greedily licking and sucking at the bundle of nerves that is your clit. There's little rhyme or reason but it's just messy enough that it'll get you off. First, his index finger pushes into you, then another. Satoru must be moaning nearly as loud as you. The hand that isn't fucking out is wrapped around his cock, and he's bucking into it like it's a warm body. Judging by the noises he's making, he's going to cum, so he stops himself before he does so. You don't. Satoru guides you through your own orgasm, his mouth leaving your clit only after you've stopped trembling. It felt rushed. You're not quite satisfied.

Satoru makes a show of licking his fingers. When he kisses you, this taste only grows more prominent. He's making you taste yourself and you're not quite sure how to feel about it. It's not unpleasant, akin to unripe persimmons in taste.

“Is it how you remember?" You ask, a coy expression spreading across your face.

“Different,” he says, “better.”

There’s no time to grab a condom. Not that you have any in here anyway. Whatever consequences that result from this will be dealt with in the morning.

A small groan leaves him as he bottoms out. It's obvious that he tries to stifle it, and fails, resulting in a noise that certainly has your neighbors questioning things. You'll avoid their gazes in the hall tomorrow morning. This won't become a regular thing, you tell yourself.

Hardly a few thrusts in and he knows he is going to cum too soon. You can see it all over his face. Pleasure turns to concentration, then thinly veiled stress. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills your bedroom. Some small, sick little part of you is grateful for your thin walls.

You hate him. You still love him. You wish he would walk out of your apartment right now. But part of you can't bear to sleep another night alone.

“You don't know how much I've been thinking about this,” he says, making a noise between a grunt and a huff, “about the way you feel. Taste. I couldn't get it out of my head.”

His mouth finds yours again and the kiss he exchanges with you is dripping with desperation. Something small, and quiet leaves his lips once they part with yours. You soon recognize it as an “I love you.”

He cums sooner than either of you expected, and from him, your name spills past his lips like a prayer. Though, you suppose that this is the closest he'll ever get to praying.

Your own release is still just out of reach. It doesn't take much effort to get him on his back, and you on top, riding him. He’s still hard, despite having just cum inside you. The fruits of his effort can be seen streaming down your thighs. Your movements grow sloppier as you grow nearer to your release, grinding down against him and his softening cock. Within your stomach, it’s as if an invisible band is tightening. Your own orgasm comes out in the form of a noise that sounds like both a moan and a sob. It's anger and pain mixing with pleasure. Tears of frustration are brimming along your lower lash line. You hate him. You love him. You wish he would leave but you don't want to sleep alone. A rift exists between the two of you that time will not heal.

Instead, you lay beside him on the bed. From beside you, he grabs a blanket for you to cover yourself with. As much as he missed the sight of your naked body, he knows this room is cold, and you’ll be getting up to get dressed anyway.

To him, there’s not a more beautiful sight: you, laying on the bed beside him, leaking of his cum. It would be better if it were his own bed, he thinks, but this'll do.

“I take it we’re on speaking terms again?” He asks.

“I don't know yet,” you say, “depends on how this conversation goes.”

From beside you on the nightstand, you retrieve your glasses, putting them back on. Outside, the sky still appears dark, only lit up momentarily by a bolt of lightning. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, running down your window in streams.

“Seems like great weather to stay in bed,” he comments.

An arm snakes around your waist. You debate with yourself on whether or not to shove it off.

“I think some time apart will do us good.” You say, and the arm around your waist stiffens. He seems to be deciding whether to pull away or not.

“And what? Couples therapy too?” His tone suggests he's making a joke, but not one in bad faith.

“Just in general, you need therapy,” you’re only half joking when you say it, despite it applying to you too, “but I don't think there's one that specializes in whatever you have going on.”

“Funny.” He says flatly.

He lays on his back on the bed, and you lay on your side, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“I don't know what I want.” You say, finally. “I guess I could use something to eat.”

You had plans to make a nice, elaborate dinner tonight, although you’re no longer feeling like it. You went through the effort of buying the ingredients, and cleaning the kitchen, so you might as well.

Satoru follows you as you make your way to the kitchen, stopping once to pull on a shirt. It used to be one of his, he notes. Maybe enough time has passed that you don't remember. Maybe you do. It’s just long enough to fall towards the middle of your thighs—you won't be giving the neighbors a show. He stops long enough to pull his boxers back on, leaving the rest of his clothes discarded on your bedroom floor.

From a cabinet, you retrieve two mugs. On goes the kettle to boil. He watches as you fill the french press with one… two… three scoops of coffee grounds. Just enough boiling water goes in to wet the grounds—they have to sit for a few minutes before the rest is poured in.

Your taste in coffee hasn't changed much over the years. You still take it with cream and sugar. Satoru—when he does drink coffee—takes it with enough sugar to make your teeth hurt.

“We must be on speaking terms,” he says, “otherwise I'd have been kicked out by now.”

“If I was going to kick you out, I would have done it before we had sex. Not after.” You say, taking a sip of your coffee.

Something about the casualness of this moment makes your chest ache; like the last year hasn't happened, and the two of you are just sharing a moment over coffee.

Neither of you notice the front door opening, nor the jingle of keys being inserted into the lock. Tsumiki, standing in the doorway, nearly drops what she’s holding: a book. Her eyes are wide with a mix of shock, before narrowing into anger.

“‘Miki!” You say, almost as shocked as her, if not moreso. “What are you doing here?”

“Returning this,” she says, holding up the book in her hand, “I sent you a text about it like an hour ago. What are you doing?!”

Truly, you don't have anything to say for yourself. Your mouth opens, and a few, broken fragments of an excuse come out. Satoru, looking nearly as surprised as you, simply waves to her, before disappearing into another room. That won't help your case at all.

“Having coffee,” you say, “we were just talking about your game on Saturday.”

She seems unconvinced. Tsumiki, like most teenagers, is a lot smarter than people give her credit for. Silently, she sets the book on the counter, before turning back towards the door.

“I’ll see you at dinner," she says, leaving.

#jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo smut #not osha compliant #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo #ive kinda forgotten how to tag stuff tbh

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fanby-fckry · 4 months

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Charlie: I think you have PTSD.

Angel Dust: Yeah, I got PTSD: Proficient Talent for Suckin’ Dick.

Charlie: We also need to talk about your use of humor as a coping mechanism.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel memes #incorrect hazbin hotel quotes #incorrect hazbin quotes #hazbin hotel incorrect quotes #angel dust #angel dust hazbin hotel #charlie morningstar #charlie hazbin hotel #fanby’s fuckery #not osha compliant

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rare-clone-fic-exchange · 4 months

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Nine Lives for Sergeant O'Niner

A/N: This is a collaboration between @anxiouspineapple99 and @dystopicjumpsuit , written as a gift for @deewithani

Pairing: Sergeant O’Niner x Reader (GN)

Rating: M (minors DNI)

Wordcount: 1.5K

Warnings and tags: angst; fluff; little bit of smut (nipple play; implied oral sex); not canon compliant; everyone lives AU

Summary: Sergeant O’Niner must have nine lives. How else could he have survived the battle of Rishi Moon?

The Coruscanti rain pelted the window of your office, relentless as the ache in your chest as you sat sipping tea and flipping through the latest issue of the Bar’leth Journal of Galactic Archaeology. You normally loved the soothing pitter patter of water on transparisteel, and even now, you would have been relaxed by it if it weren't for the nagging anxiety that plagued your thoughts.

It had been one week since the news broke that the Separatists had attacked Rishi, and the outpost had been destroyed. One week of pure torture as you waited for word about O’Niner’s fate—all the while, keenly aware that the GAR would never notify you directly, given that your relationship with the sergeant was not only unsanctioned, but perilously close to forbidden. It felt unfair—even cruel—but there was no way you could discover what had happened to him through official channels.

As the days passed, your despair grew, until late one afternoon, your comlink chirped, and when you answered, you saw the beloved face you’d come to believe you might never see again. You tried to say his name, but all that came out of your mouth was a broken, hoarse croak as tears of relief stung your eyes.

“Ner cyare,” he murmured, holding the holo close enough that all you could see was his face.

You instinctively reached out to touch him, pulling back as your fingers encountered nothing but air and light as you whispered, “I thought you were…”

“I know,” he replied quietly. “I’m sorry; I commed as soon as I could.”

“Are you all right?” you asked, your voice finally coming back to you.

“I am,” he replied. “And so are all the men. I still can’t believe we all made it out alive.”

You let out a relieved laugh that sounded more like a sob. “I swear, you must be a loth-cat with nine lives.”

“You didn’t think my name came from my CT number, did you?” he grinned.

“What happened?” you asked. “How did you survive?”

He chuckled. “That’s a good story, and I can’t wait to tell you in person.”

Your heart began to pound. “In person? Are you coming back to Coruscant?”

“As soon as—” He cut off abruptly as he heard the approaching footsteps of a group of troopers. “Gotta go.”

The transmission cut off abruptly as O’Niner ended the comm. You waited for him to call back, staring at the chrono on your desk as minutes ticked by at an agonizing pace. The call never came, and you accepted that O’Niner might not be able to find an opportunity to call again.

The afternoon passed in excruciating slowness until at last, you decided you had suffered long enough and began to pack up to go home. The downpour had relented to a miserable drizzle by the time you made your way to the platform to hail a speeder-cab.

Your eyes fluttered shut as your head rested on the headrest. The anxiety that had swirled in your gut all week had now transformed into a dull, unyielding ache of longing and missing and wanting and needing. Your mind wandered, and you were so distracted that you missed the quiet ping of your datapad as your home security system alerted you that it had been turned off.

As the speeder-cab pulled up to your building, the rain began to fall in a torrent, and you darted through the downpour toward your door, hastily keying in your code and ducking inside your flat. You shook the water off and pulled off your raincoat, reaching to hang it up when you heard a soft sound from the other end of the flat. You froze, then turned around slowly.

A light was on in your refresher; you could see it shining from under the closed door. You crept down the hallway, and suddenly the refresher door opened. You shrieked with alarm and flailed your raincoat at the intruder, then whirled and fled down the hall, running for your life.

“Cyar’ika, wait!” a familiar voice called.

You skidded to a halt and turned around slowly. O’Niner stood just outside the refresher, wrapped in nothing but a towel as steam poured from the open door.

“O’Niner.” His name left your lips as a desperate whisper. “You’re home!”

A soft smile crossed his lips and slid up to his sparkling amber eyes. You bounded toward him without wasting another second, colliding with his body as you wrapped him in a tight embrace. A hiss of pain rushed through his clenched teeth.

Startled, you pulled back. “I’m so sorry!”

“Worth the pain, darling.” He chuckled, pulling you back into his arms as he pressed his forehead against yours. His velvety voice sent chills dancing down your spine. “Were you planning on beating me to death with your raincoat?”

“Maybe.” Your eyes flicked to the fresh bacta patch obscuring his abdomen. “You’re hurt. You said you were okay.”

Suddenly every new bruise and scrape was illuminated in the low light of your apartment. Your brow knit tightly in concern as you leaned back to inspect his injuries.

“I’m alive, little one,” he said softly. “That means I’m fine.”

“That’s why the holo was zoomed in on your face!” Your voice rose slightly, worry lending it an accusatory edge.

“I’m. Fine,” he enunciated firmly as he grasped your shoulders.“Don’t look at me like that. If I’d told you I’d been shot you would have panicked.”

“I do not panic!” you objected.

He chucked you under the chin, a soft smile crossed his lips. “You’re panicking right now.”

“No, I’m not—Fine. Yes. I might be panicking a little,” you pouted. He may have been right, but you didn’t have to be happy about it.

His other hand caressed and massaged your hip as he leaned closer to you. “You know, you still haven’t kissed me yet.”

You drew in a shuddering breath, pushing down your anxiety and irritation as you tried to focus on the present: he was home; he was alive; he was with you. You raised your fingers to his face and traced the lines at the corners of his eyes, then slid your fingertips into his dark hair that was flecked with gray as you drew his face closer to yours and pressed your lips against his forehead. You kissed a trail down the side of his face until you reached the corner of his lips, and then he wrapped you in his arms and pulled your body against him as his mouth captured yours in a heated, passionate kiss.

He was still soaking wet from his shower. The glistening water droplets sliding down his firm, brown chest and abdomen soaked your shirt, and you didn’t care a bit. It didn’t matter anyway, because his deft fingers were already undoing your buttons and pushing the shirt off your shoulders.

You kissed down his neck, and then down his chest, but you hesitated and pulled away, staring at him with troubled, anxious eyes.

“I promise, I’m all right,” he reassured you. “But if you’re so concerned, you could always kiss it better. One kiss for every injury, ner kar'ta?”

His heated smile reassured you more than anything else he could possibly have said, but you weren’t letting him off the hook so easily for trying to hide his injuries from you.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” you pointed out.

“You would deny a dying man his final wish?” he teased, desire plain his eyes.

“You said you were fine.”

“Mmm,” he grunted softly as his gaze swept over your features wistfully while his hands lingered at your waist. “I may have spoken too soon. I’m suddenly feeling so… very… weak…”

“Incorrigible,” you muttered, peppering his chest with kisses, licking up the shimmering water droplets that still clung to his skin, scraping your teeth softly over his nipples in the way that you knew drove him wild.

He rumbled quietly as his fingers tangled in your hair, gently urging you to go lower. You glanced up at him with a mischievous light in your eyes as your tongue swirled over his nipple, refusing to continue your progress until his breath became ragged and he was starting to moan and whimper, just the way you liked. At last, you drew away.

“I think you’ve earned a real bed, don’t you?” you asked.

He nodded, his eyes dark with lust as you took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom. Your fingers trailed down his body until you reached his towel, and with a quick tug, it fell to the floor.

“As much as I’d love to tackle you onto that bed, I think it might be better if you just lie down,” you murmured. “I’d hate for the night to end with you in a hospital.”

“Might be worth it,” he smirked.

You traced over his shoulders, then gently pressed on them until he complied and lay down on his back.

“We can play rough some other time,” you whispered as you knelt between his thighs. “Tonight, I’m going to be very, very gentle.”

“Not too gentle, I hope,” he said before sucking in a loud breath as your tongue glided over the tip of his cock. “Holy Maker, cyare.”

“There’s nothing holy about what I’m going to do to you,” you promised. “But I have a feeling that won’t be the only time you pray to the Maker tonight.”

#sergeant o'niner

#rare clone fic exchange #rare clone fic submission #clone trooper o’niner #o’niner x reader #x reader #reader insert #clone wars fanfiction #clone wars #not safe for costco #not osha compliant #not osha approved

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moonshine-nightlight · 10 months

Text

Snapped - Part 4

Mech’s not sure why the aftermath of this mission is hitting him so hard, but he’s doing his best to calm down when Gwen’s presence shatters his control. Now it’s a count down to see if he can figure out how to put a stop to the instincts and hormones that are running wild inside him—before he does something they’ll both regret.

Science fiction, alien romance, male alien x female human, (4 / 4)

Story Status: COMPLETE

AO3: Snapped Chapter 4

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] Part 4 - NSFW

“Who else could it be? There’s no one—” He shakes his head and glares at her, unable to help himself. “There’s only you. Always you.”

Her eyes are wide as she looks at him, genuine shock evident. “Mech…”

The silence that echoes through the room is deafening, even the vents seem subdued in the wake of Mech’s most recent confession.

It’s only broken when the synthesizer machine beeps, signaling that the compound has been mixed and is ready for use. Mech darts over to it with speed. It’s not going to do enough, he already knows that based on the limited ingredients he has on hand, but it should stabilize the reaction and ideally shorten the duration.

He refuses to think about anything but the chemistry as he dully loads the dose into a syringe. Shame and fear has crystallized into a shield against the lust raging through his blood that’s proving surprisingly effective. How could he have told her how much he—the sharp prick of the needle as it enters his skin cuts into his train of thought and he lets it. He immediately sets the machine to rigging up another dose. He won’t be able to take it for twelve hours, but hopefully G—hopefully, it can be brought to him wherever he’s isolated.

The diagnostic machine buzzes next and he dutifully walks back over to where it’s been compiling a list of least dangerous medical concoctions to simply knock him out cold. Given how today has gone, he shouldn’t be surprised that nothing has a particularly high chance of either success or safety. As much as he hates this situation, he’s not quite at the level of self-destructive to truly consider taking most of these. Even if he wishes for nothing more than to stop thinking since the ground hasn’t managed to swallow him up.

Movement out of the corner of his eyes causes him to turn sharply. Gwen’s been silent since she said his name in that quietly devastated tone in reaction to his confession. Now he sees she’s taken a step closer for some gods forsaken reason out of her self imposed corner.

“Stay back,” he hisses even as she walks even closer. And gods, is this dose even doing anything? He swears her scent is heavier, more enticing—richer and more appealing in every way. It reaches him with no trouble despite the vents still pulling air out and away from him and her downwind. She looks even more beautiful, her eyes dark and her blue skirt fluttering around her enticingly. “I told you.”

“Hush,” she chides gently. She walks even closer, with a look in her eyes he can’t fathom. Her hair dances in the breeze too, looking thick and touchable, her figure inviting him to see how soft her skin likely is, to imagine it yielding to–

Frantically, he reaches for outrage or worry or anything other than arousal in reaction to her approach. Where is her sense of self-preservation? He backs up, spines hitting the door behind him. “Do you want to leave?” he asks, grasping at straws. Why wouldn’t she say so? They could find some way to shift around the room while maintaining proper distance. He’s told her what state of his mind is. She can’t expect him to understand what she wants from him when his instincts have such a strong hand on the controls of his imagination. He doesn’t understand what’s happening.

“Do you want me?” she asks, her eyes intent as she takes another step closer. “Without all this,” she gestures with her delicate hand in a circle as if to encompass the room or his heightened state, “do you want to be with me?”

There’s no point beating around the bush anymore, is there? Even if he thought he’d been plenty clear before, he supposes she wants to hear it outright. “Yes,” Mech admits, hanging his head because now she knows it's his fault his instincts picked her. If he hadn’t already thought of her like this, when she saw him only as a friend, then maybe this, this break wouldn’t have happened. “For…” He shakes his head, unable to remember when his feelings became something other than platonic. “I don’t know why today pushed me over the edge, but I promise I can get back under control.” He can’t lose her, not from something so abrupt and uncontrollable. “I can,” he insists desperately.

Her face softens and she must feel some sympathy for him. Gwen’s one of the most compassionate people he’s ever met, surely she can forgive him for this. “Oh, Mech, you silly alien.” She steps even closer and before he can react, her hand lands on his cheek. It feels electric, each point of contact. His worry and frustration and shame all war with his hormones with her so close. His claws dig back into the wall, venom pools in his mouth, every nerve and muscle in his body straining for her held in check only by sheer force of will. “I don’t want you to.”

“W-” Her lips on his silence whatever protest he was going to attempt to utter. His whole brain skitters to a halt, unable to do anything except stay perfectly still and process what’s happening with every sense. Her lips are warm and soft, pressed with perfect pressure against his half-open mouth. Was he saying something? Her wonderful, delicious scent envelops him completely until there isn’t anything except Gwen. Her hand on his cheek is the comfort of home and hearth. The little stroke of her thumb on his cheek is everything he’s ever wanted.

This perfect moment is all his raging hormones need to take over. Mech has Gwen pushed up against the door within a second. He splays one hand around her hip, holding tight as his other hand laces with her free hand to pin it to the wall. He sucks her lower lip into his mouth as he presses every inch of his body he can manage to keep her there. The ache of his cock finally has some friction to satiate it. His whole body sings with relief, the itch and pull and desperation blissfully satisfied with the contact with his mate. Or rather, his soon to be mate.

With that thought in mind, he skillfully takes control of the kiss, needing to show her exactly why she should choose him. Why he deserves her regard. He shall prove his worth as a kisser and therefore a lover so she’ll have no doubt in her mind that he should be hers. He can’t resist a more substantial taste of her regardless. Mech slides his tongue carefully and deliberately between her lips to slide against her own. He loses himself in the kiss, in giving and taking in as equal measure as well as he can handle when confronted with the reality of her hot, inviting mouth.

Mech distantly remembers humans' more limited lung capacity and pulls back to trail kisses down her neck, questing for where it meets her shoulder. His jaw opens, fangs dripping and scraping along her heaving body. Gwen whines and pants as he touches her and he never wants to be anywhere else doing anything else ever again. He can only think as far into the future as to picture her with his marks on her and his blood boils with desire.

“Mech…” It’s his own naked wonder at hearing Gwen moan his name that breaks through the haze of lust and hormones and instinct to remind him of exactly what situation they’re in. How nothing he’s ever done with his life would have granted him such bliss.

He wrenches his mouth from hers with all the self-control he likes to pretend he has. Panting, breathing in lungfuls of her scent with her still pressed tight to him nearly undoes that, but he holds fast. He can’t get himself to break from her further, but he just needs her to tell him, needs her to reset the boundaries before he goes too far, before he ruins her and himself in the process.

A puff of fresh air from the vent above allows him to latch back on to his more rational objections. “I don’t need your pity,” he practically spits, doing his best to find something that can force him to back off and salvage their relationship before he’s doomed it with his rash actions and clouded judgment. Luckily, it is an almost sobering thought—the idea of being with Gwen only to have her reveal she put up with his advances solely in an attempt to help him. That would destroy him.

Instead of helping him, Gwen’s eyes flash with incandescent, fierce anger. She shifts in his grip, not letting go or trying to escape his grasp as might be sensible, but to maneuver him where she wants him. She hitches herself up and then grinds down against his thigh now between her legs. She practically growls in relief as the thin skirt she wears and even the thicker fabric of his trousers do nothing to disguise the heat and wetness he feels against him.

“Gwen,” he gasps in true shock even as his body quickly angles his thigh to an even more advantageous position. His instincts are hyper-focused, straining to satisfy his mate in any way she wants him to.

“Does that feel like pity?” she demands, groaning as he moves and tightening her grip on him. “I want you,” she says plainly and everything in him comes to a halt for the second time in a minute. His eyes faintly glowing red ones frantically meet her own. They’re dilated, black swallowing up brown, but her sincerity, the raw honesty in them is crystal clear. “I want you bad. Have done for a while now.”

“Fuck, Gwen,” is all he can manage to almost whine as his mind frantically tries to make sense of the impossible.

She smirks in response, head ducking close to manage a nip at his lower lip and a lick to one of his fangs. Her eyelids flutter at the taste of his venom as she breathes, “Yes, exactly. I need you.”

He can’t help but give her what she asks, what she needs. Why in the universe that's an ornery, suspicious, antisocial bastard like him, he doesn’t know. But he’s lost the will to keep fighting her. He chases after her mouth, his chest an iron wall against her own slighter, softer one. She doesn’t seem to mind being caged in by his hand, still pinned as his thigh has her hips. She just grinds closer, releasing hitching little breaths and moans as his venom mixes with her saliva.

His silvery venom is primarily deadly only on his planet, but plenty of other species have reactions to it. Some it numbs, some it hurts, and others it heals. Humanity seems most varied in their reaction, but his understanding is that it tends to fizzle, to buzz. After all, theirs is a race that poisons itself recreationally, sought out toxic plants for the sting to add to their diet, and regularly ingests powerful drugs most races take in only the smallest of doses. However Gwen’s personal chemistry might feel about it, at least it's nothing terrible enough to break their kiss.

In fact, their kiss only breaks when she runs out of air and tips her head back to breathe. He lets go of her pinned hand, an absent minded extra push before he does to tell her to leave it there, and skims his hand down her flank, strokes across the swell of her stomach. She’s so plush and warm under his fingerpads especially through the cutouts of her dress. His claws snag in the material that does cover her. He can’t retract them. He resists the urge to cut through the fabric still keeping the rest of her lovely skin from him, resists the urge to dig his claws in enough to leave a lasting mark, showing any who might look upon her that she had allowed him the luxurious indulgence of touching her.

It reminds him he still might lose sight of his strength, of everything until it was too late. And Gwen doesn’t deserve this, rutting against the medbay wall while he’s out of his mind. She deserves to be courted and treated and to be laid down reverently in a bed of silk. He should be able to touch her without worrying his darker impulses will overtake him and hurt her. “Not in a sane state of mind to do this right,” he growls out in frustration. His head nuzzles into the crook of her shoulder as even in his irritation he can’t resist the allure of the comfort Gwen offers his soul so effortlessly.

“It's you and me,” Gwen replies, her voice sure, “‘course this is right.” She pulls his face out from where he’s hiding so she can meet his gaze. “You think I don’t know what I’m asking for?” her voice is cajoling and challenging, “I dreamed of you, pressed against me just, like, this.” She punctuates each word with a roll of her hips.

He tries to claw back a hold on his senses. He knows he should, knows no matter her words, Gwen doesn’t know. But she’s intent on wrecking him. “Need you to fuck me now, Mech.”

He snaps his teeth together, baring his fangs as his whole body tenses with the urge to do just that. “Gwen,” his voice is strangled. “For graviels, you don’t know what mating—”

“But I do,” she insists.

“No,” he shakes his head. “You don’t.” He tries desperately to find the words to explain, but there’s only Gwen. His hands clench tighter in the fabric of her dress and he dares not look down for the tears that have to have accompanied the ripping sound. The fabric is no longer covering her well, but hopefully it’s still enough to keep his claws and venom away from her skin. His eyes track a bead of sweat that drips down her neck. He longs to stop it with his tongue. He longs to sink his teeth into where it pools on the curve of her shoulder.

“Yeah, I do.” Gwen finally sounds serious. “I looked it up.” His eyes snap to her own. She raises an eyebrow. “You think I’ve wanted you this long and not investigated what it would be like?” No, he hadn’t. He’d never even thought she might feel the same, might want this too. Had she really done so? He can almost picture her in her bunk, hair twirled around one finger as she scrolls through articles and stories about the rare couplings of human and graviel. He knows they’re out there because he checked too. “How compatible we might be? I want you and all you come with, no matter the scars. Want you so damn much.”

“Gwen.” There’s awe in his voice he can’t control. Even when humans aren’t put off by the venom and how it feels, many are at how it factors into graviel mating. How it seals over the scratches and bites and marks his kind like to leave on their mates, not too deep, but guaranteed to leave permanent marks.

Her only reply is to grind against the thigh still between her legs. His tail winds itself up her leg to stroke her upper thigh before adjusting her to an even more advantageous position. There is a fearsome look on her face, as if she feels like she’s made more than enough allowances for his anxieties and fears. Like she’s done waiting. “Gonna fuck me, Mech?” Her smirk is wicked, the look in her eyes even more so. Her hair is spread in a messy halo around her head, her skin starting to sparkle with sweat, her body never ceasing its movement, its gentle undulation against his own. He’s never seen her eyes look so dark or so appealing. She looks edible. She arches with the motion of her grind and one of her hands reaches blindly behind her, finds the doorpad. “Or do I need to find someone else to?”

Something inside him roars at her direct challenge. Maybe it was more than an internal roar because she shudders in response. There’s triumph in her eyes at his reaction. If she’s aware enough to provoke him… The last piece clicks into place and he finally takes her at her word, That she wants him. He’s got no resistance left.

All he has is a need to make her his in any way he can. In every way he can.

“Mine,” he growls as he takes her mouth in a ferocious kiss, hands already ripping her dress to shreds and stripping her of it. He barely notices her own hands scrambling at his shirt except that the feeling of her hand splayed over his stomach is nearly as euphoric as his hand closing around her breast.

“Wanna mark you,” Mech warns. The urge to properly mark his mate as taken, as his is pure instinct. To leave physical evidence of everything boiling over inside him on her skin is overwhelming.

Gwen’s rucked his shirt up high enough that she can reach up, set her nails to his shoulder blades, and rake her nails down his back. The sharp pressure, the surprising sting of her nails, and lingering feeling of her touch send if possible even more blood rushing to his throbbing cock. He groans, arching into her claim. “Yes. Long as I can mark you too.”

“Perfect,” he says reverently into the skin of her neck where he presses a kiss and sucks a mark. “How are you so—”

Her moan of approval as he begins to knead to soft flesh of her breast under his hand is muffled by his lips back where they belong on hers. He grinds his palm down on her nipple and before long his eyes are fixed on where the claws of that hand just barely scrape against her skin. It becomes pink and sensitive as she squirms under his attention.

His claw finally breaks the skin right over where her heart pounds furiously. A short red scratch that he traces back over, venom running into it. She trembles in his arms with a whine as the cut seals shut, the line a subtle white against her skin. A glance in her eyes, fogged over in pleasure, is all the reassurance he needs. He latches onto her other breast with his mouth, allowing his venom to encase her nipple as he sucks. He twists his grip, claws scraping and healing as he does so around her other breat. Gwen practically screams her pleasure to the ceiling, to the whole damn ship if he’s lucky.

Mech wants everyone to know Gwen is getting the pleasure she deserves nearly as much as he wants them to know he’s the one giving it to her. He brings his fangs down to bear, gazing and abrading her soft soft skin. Gwen whimpers. He’d be concerned if the sound wasn’t also accompanied by the wet slick against his thigh increasing.

Her hands scrabble at his back and her head thunks against the door as she arches, pressing her chest into him with another gasp of his name.

The sound galvanizes him. Somehow finally giving into his desires has helped the fog in his brain caused by this hormonal snap clear. The door isn’t going to let him ravish her the way he craves. He doesn’t want to be distracted by keeping her held up against it when there are far better things he could be focusing on.

He reluctantly lets go of her breast to grip at her hips again with both hands. She whines when he lets go of her tender nipple with his mouth to trail up to her shoulder. Her whole body tenses when the threat of his fangs are brought to bare, like she’s holding her breath. Still she doesn’t do anything more than whimper when he removes his damp thigh from between her legs, hanging pliantly in his firm hold.

Gwen’s fingers wind their way into his hair, firm but not tugging in protest—yet. Before she can ask about the sudden stop to the way she’d been grinding herself to some sort of peek, he pulls her off the wall with a grunt. Lifting his head to remind himself of what exactly he’s working with in the medbay, he strides over to the bed in the center of the room where Gwen had been sitting only twenty minutes ago, distracting him while he tried in vain to solve this problem any other way than through.

He’ll bring her to his rooms once they’ve mated here, maybe more than once depending on their stamina and his hunger. This’ll do fine for now. She looks gorgeous, Mech thinks as he lays her out. He pulls the remaining scraps of her dress off. His eyes trace the goosebumps that spring up after he backs off with fascination as he methodically begins to strip himself. Gwen seems more than understanding and is eagerly removing the last of her clothing—her panties—with a quickness that betrays her own need. The scent that flows out of her is nearly enough to bring him to his knees. But there’ll be time for that later.

Gwen props herself up on her elbows to watch him with half-lidded, ravenous eyes. His eyes keep straying to her chest, already bearing the red and white marks from his fangs and his claws. He’s never been more proud of anything in his life than that she let him mark her as such. He’s never giving her up.

“I don’t share,” Mech says bluntly as he places a hand next to her hip. He isn’t arguing or retreating or trying to back out anymore. This is at worst a warning, at most a promise. “This can’t be a one-time thing. I won’t change my mind, not about you. I’ll keep you all to myself.”

“Yes,” Gwen agrees easily. She lays back down while reaching for him, the invitation in the lines of her body obvious. Her fingers wrap around his forearm, the black spines that line it, and there’s no give to her hold. “Mine.”

He vaults onto the bed, over her, without thought and she welcomes him. Her hands map every inch of his skin she can reach, no fear at the way his black spines lining back and arms are standing at attention. Gwen’s touch starts off light as he arranges himself over her, but once he brings their lips together for another mind-melting kiss, she increases the pressure. Mech can feel each point of contact, each finger tip, as she digs them in and drags her nails connecting th black splotches that litter his red skin.

Mech pictures his skin turning from red to pink, lightning from the force she’s exerting to try to mark him and he grows harder if at all possible. He ruts against her upper thigh with greater intent, getting impatient. All the relief from this much contact finally not enough to satiate his hunger for his mate. His Gwen.

She must notice because she hums with smug satisfaction into the kiss and those same fingers start to migrate from his back to rest low on his hips. “Gwen,” he groans, pulling back from her lips just far enough to pant her name against her lips.

Her fingers brush his cock in a deliberate tease, one he’s past having patience for. His hips chase those fingers for a more purposeful grip. Luckily, she seems unwilling to play this game any longer either. Her fingers wrap around him. “Yeah?” her voice is rough with desire and every nerve in his body sings at the sound, at her touch. She strokes down, from root to tip, seemingly not put off by the black ridges and bumps his red cock has that he knows humans don’t. She must really have done her—Mech’s thoughts scatter when she twists her fingers, lubricated by pre-cum the same silver as his venom which leaks from his erection. She grinds the palm of her hand against the sensitive head and he arches his back with a moan that feels like it's pulled straight from the depths of him.

“Fuck, Mech,” Gwen pants, eyes darting from his face to his cock and everywhere in between, clearly unable to decide where to look while Mech just tries to keep his eyes open so he doesn’t miss a second of his wildest dreams coming true right underneath him. “You’re gonna feel so good inside me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Mech hisses even as he presses down on her shoulder, moving up to position himself for just that. “Need to be inside you now.”

“Yeah,” Gwen agrees, lining him up with perfect precision. “Now, now, fuck, n—”

Her words are cut off when she moans as he sinks into her welcoming wet heat. She gasps as he pulls her legs open further with his tail, lifting her ass off the bed to angle his thrust home best. He can’t think about anything except how good she feels, how hot and snug and perfect she is. He thinks he babbles some of that aloud as he pushes in. “So wet, so soft. Fuck, Gwen.”

“Ye-es,” she replies back, eyes closed to better savor the feeling of him filling her in one long inexorable movement. She hooks her leg around his for better stability and he takes advantage immediately. Pushing that much further in, massaging her ass with the hand he has on it, letting his claws dig in to her yielding flesh. She groans at the pinpricks of sensation from his claws and venom, from him finally hilting deep within her.

There’s a split second where there’s nothing but the sound of their labored breathing and the whoosh of the vents. The calm before the storm. Everything outside of them ceases to exist as every hormone is his body cries out in triumph. Mech’s eyes meet hers and he ignites once more. He pulls out halfway, but he can’t seem to exist outside of her anymore and quickly thrusts back in, adding a grind to the end that makes Gwen moan deeply. Her hands land on his shoulders as she pushes against him, matching his movements with a synchronicity he never should have doubted she was capable of.

Her palms push on his own chest for leverage and he gasps at how it feels against his nipples. Gwen picks up on his reaction immediately, her focus zeroing in on her new target. Mech bows his head, overwhelmed by all the sensation his touch-starved body isn’t used to. That of course brings his mouth within range of her delectable neck, all that lovely skin and sweat and scent, all uniquely Gwen. He laves his tongue along her collarbone, fangs grazing and mouth sucking in a random, hazy, instinctual pattern that seems to drive her wild if the way she clenches around him is anything to go by.

“So close, so close, so close,” Gwen chants, her hands moving to his spines, holding on tight to ride out how roughly he’s fucking her with his pistoning cock. The ache of her grip is sweet enough his next thrust has an extra swivel of his hips behind it. “Mech! Mech, please. Please.”

He knows exactly what she’s begging for and he’d rather die than let her go unsatisfied. His tail finds and grinds against her clit with unerring accuracy despite the desperate motion of their coupling. Her reaction nearly throws him over the edge, the throbbing of her walls around his cock exquisite in their increased intensity. Mech preserves through the sensation, determined to make Gwen come before he does.

Luckily, it only takes a few more strokes and making a calculated tug on her clit for her to call out, “Yes! Me-ch!” The final strands of his self-control snap and he comes on the next thrust, his cock and fangs buried deep in his claimed mate. The ensuing euphoria blanks his mind from anything other than pleasure and he slumps against Gwen, satisfaction flowing through his veins.

Mech eventually comes to and finds himself carefully lapping at the bite mark he made on her shoulder, his venom already having closed the wounds, but leaving them sensitive if Gwen’s hums and twitches of pleasure are any indication. Her hands are running absently up and down his arms and limp spines, sending ripples of residual pleasure through him.

He’s never felt this content before, wrapped around this wonderful woman, still buried in her. He can still feel the unusual lust swimming through his body, but it's more than manageable at the moment. All he wants to do is enjoy this culmination of everything he never thought he would get to have.

Of course, that gratification and laziness only lasts so long. Gwen starts to stir more coherently beneath him and that insatiable desire begins to make itself known once more.

“Are you hard again?” Gwen’s voice breaks the stillness, bewildered and still sounding a little orgasm-drunk.

“Yes,” he acknowledges, pressing a sheepish kiss to her neck.

She shifts, muscles clenching and relaxing. Mech fights the urge to whimper as she asks, more curiously than anything, “Is that a graviel thing or a mating frenzy thing?”

“I can’t remember,” he admits as a few seconds contemplation where all he can think of is how good she feels and what other marks he wants to leave on her. “Might just be a sex-with-you thing.”

“Hm, good answer.” Gwen rolls her hips, mouth nipping at his neck with a promise that sends anticipatory shivers down his spines as they stand at attention once more. “You’ve got five seconds to roll us over so I don’t knock us to the floor. I wanna be on top this time.”

“Whatever you want, my mate.”

#my writing #story: snapped #snapped #alien #sc-fi #science fiction #alien romance #NOT osha compliant #3rd pov #male alien #heat #lol this is the longest chapter #mech just refusing to believe gwen's onboard stretched it out #thought i'd get more confident the more of this type of thing that i wrote #but still more worried about it than usual lol #oh well #this has been in my head for so long #glad its finally written and i lik it :)#let me know what you think!

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