mio

You sat alone on the low stone ledge that ringed the courtyard, the late-autumn sun doing little to chase the chill from your bones. Across the cracked pavement, a young couple stood wrapped in each other’s arms, pressed so close it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Their laughter floated on the wind, soft and intimate, the kind of sound that belonged solely to those who have never once doubted their ability to touch and be touched in return.

They moved together like reeds in the wind, foreheads resting against one another, fingers curled into the fabric at the small of each other’s backs as though letting go might spell the end of their world. When they finally parted, it was only far enough to breathe; their hands found each other instantly, fingers knitting together with ease, knuckles brushing, thumbs tracing idle circles over warm skin. They walked away like that, tethered together in a way they have probably never thought about twice.

You can’t look away.

Only when the courtyard empties and the wind carries the last echo of their footsteps do you finally drop your gaze to your own hands. They rest palm-up on your thighs, unmarred, but useless. Slowly, deliberately, you lace your fingers together the way you had just watched them do, tight, then tighter still, trying to mimic the pressure, the heat, the simple comfort of another person’s living skin against your own.

It felt cold, hollow. A cruel pantomime of everything you can never have.

Because you had never, not once in centuries of borrowed lifetimes, been touched the way ordinary people touch one another. Every accidental brush in a crowd, every desperate grab during combat, every hesitant handshake offered by someone who didn’t know any better yet, had all ended the same. The moment bare skin met bare skin, you stole from them. A heartbeat, a month, a year; whatever fragment of life you unwillingly siphoned before they jerked away in horror or crumpled, suddenly older, suddenly closer to death because you had dared to brush too close to them.

Decades had passed since anyone had risked it.  

Decades since you had felt the deliberate weight of another person’s hand on your skin, the slide of fingers through your hair, the press of a palm against your back in comfort or desire or simple friendship. You couldn’t even remember what temperature human skin was supposed to be. You had forgotten the difference between the slickness of sweat and the softness of someone else’s breath against your neck.

Even your own hands are foreign to you now, like they belong to someone else entirely.

“Come on, let’s get going.”

Nanami’s low voice cuts through the haze. You startle, yanking your fingers apart quickly. Heat floods your face, you shove both hands deep into the pockets of your uniform jacket as though hiding evidence, then rise too quickly, knees stiff from sitting too long in the cold.

“There’s a situation in Shinagawa” he continues, already turning toward the gates. “They want us on site.”

You falls into step beside him, the familiar rhythm of boots on stone grounding you as you fished your phone from your coat. The report loaded, erratic cursed-energy spikes, civilians transfigured into unrecognisable shapes, no clear grade on the special-grade suspect yet. You grunt in acknowledgment, scrolling.

Nanami glances sideways. “They haven’t classified it. We go in assuming the worst.” His jaw is a hard line, brows drawn low, the small tells of a man who hates unknowns. “Itadori, Fushiguro, and Kugisaki are shadowing us for field experience. Their safety is our priority. Understood?”

You manage a faint smile at the thought of the first-years. Yuji’s ridiculous pink hair that always looked impossibly soft; Nobara’s bright eyes and even brighter personality; and Megumi’s perpetual stormy scowl that you secretly wanted to smooth away with a thumb the way a parent might.

You wanted to ruffle that fluffy hair until Yuji laughed and ducked.  

You wanted to tap the tip of Nobara’s nose just to watch her swat at you and threaten violence.  

You wanted to rest a hand on Megumi’s head and tell him, without words, that the weight of the world didn’t have to be his to shoulder alone.

But you never would.

Your hands stay buried in your pockets, curled into fists so tight the knuckles ached, as you follow Nanami toward the gate and whatever waited in Shinagawa, toward the one place where your touch was nothing more than another weapon. 

… 

The sky over Shinagawa had turned the colour of dried blood, thick with drifting ash and the copper reek of transfigured corpses. What had started as a containment mission had, in the space of a single heartbeat, become the single worst day of your long, cursed life.

Ryomen Sukuna stood in the centre of the ruined intersection like a god who had grown bored with this game, four arms flexing lazily, laughing in four different registers. Every step he took cracked the asphalt. Every breath he took felt like annihilation.

You and Nanami had never been meant for this. No one was.

“Nanami!”

Your voice cracks as you hurl yourself backward, boots skidding across broken glass. A wave of cursed energy carved the air where your head had been a half-second earlier. Sukuna’s face split into that wide, maniacal grin that meant someone was about to stop existing.

Nanami slides in behind you, tie already knotted tight around his knuckles, sleeves rolled high, sweat cutting tracks through the grime on his temples. Three hours of nonstop fighting had left him hollow-eyed, but his stance still never wavers.

“We need to fall back” he barks, Ratio Technique flaring as he drives a precise, brutal strike toward Sukuna’s ribs. “Regroup with—”

Sukuna twists away from the blow as though it were a breeze, laughing loud enough to rattle windows three blocks away.

“He’s not letting us leave!” you shout, voice raw. You slam your palms together, dragging a brutal fistful of years from your own lifespan, twenty… thirty, you stop counting, and turn the stolen time into a searing lance of cursed energy. The beam hits Sukuna square in the chest, forcing him back two whole steps. It was the first time anything had moved him all day.

Nanami’s eyes flick to you, wide with refusal. “Y/N—”

“Take the kids and go!” You didn’t look at him; you couldn’t afford to. Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara were crouched behind an overturned bus, pale and shaking. “I’ll buy you the minutes you need.”

“You’ll die.”

“No” you said, sharp enough to cut metal. “I won’t, I never do”

Something in your tone made Nanami go still. His eyes search your face for one heartbeat longer, then he gives you a single, curt nod and vanishes toward the first-years.

You turn back to the King of Curses.

He was already strolling forward again, unhurried, delighted.

“Alright” you mutter, rolling your shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

Your reserves are like a dying candle. Distance attacks are finished. There is only one option left now.

You need to close the gap. Touch him. Steal whatever monstrous lifespan he possesses and turn it into power.

You run straight at him.

The fight becomes nothing but fists and instinct. No technique, no elegance; just survival. His punches land like sledgehammers, every impact drives the air from your lungs, cracked ribs, split skin. You taste metal with every breath. You kept reaching, fingers brushing air again and again as he bats your hands away like gnats.

“Come on!” he crows, foot slamming into your sternum and sending you tumbling across the dirt. Gravel shredding your uniform, your palms. You roll, coughing blood, pushing upright on shaking arms. You spit a red clot into the dust before you look up again.

Sukuna’s crimson eyes glitter. “Weak” he sighs. “Far too weak for me.”

“Yeah” you rasp, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. A crooked, reckless grin pulled at your split lip. “Maybe. But you still won’t be able to kill me.”

The words light something feral behind his eyes. In less than a blink he is on you, fist burying itself in your stomach hard enough to lift you off your feet. Pain explodes white-hot. Your vision tunnels, darkness carving in from all sides.

On pure reflex you clutch at the front of his robe, anchoring yourself to him so you wouldn’t fly. Your right hand snakes between two of his blocking arms and slams flat against the centre of his bare chest.

You brace for the rush, the familiar, sickening flood of stolen life pouring into your veins like molten sunlight.

It never came. There was nothing.

Just skin. Warm, living skin beneath your palm.

For one impossible second the world narrows to that single point of contact. You feel the steady thump of a beating heart beneath muscle and bone. You feel the faint texture of markings under your fingertips, the impossible heat radiating off him.

Your head tilts, slow and curious, like a cat discovering a new sound.

Sukuna has gone perfectly still. His hand raised, claws extended for the killing blow, hovered inches from your throat.

You lift your palm a fraction, stare at it in open wonder, then press it back down again, harder, as if testing whether reality might change if you pushed firmly enough. Your fingers splay wide, tracing the ridges of muscle, the slight give of flesh. 

It so warm, alive…real.

You look up at him, eyes bright with something dangerously close to joy.

“Do you feel that?” you whisper, voice trembling on the edge of hysterical laughter.

Sukuna’s lip curls, baring sharp canines. “I’m going to kill you” he hisses, low and venomous.

You don’t hear him. All you can do is stare at your own hand as though it belongs to a stranger. His next slash came fast, aimed to remove the offending limb at the wrist.

It stops short though when he realises you aren’t even looking at it, you’re not bothering to defend yourself. You were ignoring him completely, lost in the simple miracle of touch.

“You ignoring me, brat?” he snarls, stepping back, letting your fingers sleep free.

“Come here” you breathe, reaching with both hands now, palms open and hungry.

He takes another wary step back, four eyes narrowing.

“I need to touch you again.”

“The hell; keep your filthy hands off me.” He strikes your wrists away, but the blow carries no real force; just enough to warn, to create distance. You follow anyway, stumbling forward, fingers curling greedily on empty air.

“Just one moment, please.”

You lunge.

Both palms hit his chest again, slide upward in a frantic, reverent glide; over the slope of his collarbones, along the thick column of his neck, thumbs brushing the black markings beneath his lower set of eyes. You feel everything at once, the faint prickle of stubble along his jaw, the thrum of his pulse beneath the skin, the impossible warmth seeping into your cold hands like you’ve plunged them into fire.

You were shaking. Tears you didn’t know you still had gathered at the corners of your eyes.

It was all so surreal, like the world had tilted on its axis and crushed every rule you’d ever lived by into the cracked pavement.

Sukuna’s eyes narrow to molten slits, glowing with open contempt, yet he hasn’t moved. Hasn’t torn you apart. Hasn’t even shifted his weight. Four arms hung loose at his sides, deceptively relaxed, while the mouth on his stomach curls up in a silent snarl.

“I suggest…” he rumbles, voice rolling like thunder, low and guttural, the kind of sound that crawls between your ribs and rattles bones, “ that you take your hands off me. Now.”

You don’t. You can’t.

“I’m not taking anything from you…” The words slip out softly, dazed by this new experience. Your gaze stayed locked on the impossible place where your bare palms met his bare chest. No drain. No flicker of stolen years rushing into your veins. Just heat bleeding into your cold skin like sunrise after centuries of night. “I’m not killing you”.

Your fingers move on their own, greedy and trembling. They dig into the thick cords of muscle along his neck, feeling the way tendons shift and flex beneath the surface, resilient and alive. You trace the bold black bands that cover his chest and arms, following their paths with the pads of your fingers as though reading braille. 

Every ridge, every dip, every faint scar you find sends a shiver racing up your arms and straight into your heart.

Sukuna’s breath hitches, barely. A fractional tightening of the abs beneath your fingers. The mouth on his stomach parts, tongue flicking once in irritation.

“So that’s your cursed technique” he sneers, the words dripping with disdain, yet still he doesn’t strike. He stands there, towering and terrible, and lets you map the topography of his body like it was yours to discover. “A leech. How utterly pathetic.”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy pressing both palms hard over his pectorals, squeezing experimentally, watching in open wonder as the muscle yields and then springs back. Your thumbs brushes across a nipple by accident, you watch in amazement as it stiffens under the fleeting touch, and a low, involuntary growl vibrates through his chest into your wrists.

Before the sound has fully left him, his leg moves.

The kick comes lightning-fast, heel slamming into your sternum with enough force to launch you clear off your feet. You fly back ten metres, hit the pavement hard, rolling twice through broken glass and ash before the world stops spinning. Pain explodes across your back, your ribs, your skull. Air flees your lungs in a ragged wheeze. You curl up instinctively, arms wrapped around your middle, coughing blood into the dirt.

Through the haze you lift your head.

Sukuna is already turning away, pink hair whipping in the wind, four arms folding across his chest like a king bored with a mildly entertaining insect. The distance between you grows with every lazy step he took.

“No—” The word tears out of you, cracked and desperate. You shove up onto your knees, one arm outstretched, fingers splayed wide toward his retreating back. “Wait—”

He didn’t wait.

In a ripple of cursed energy he’s gone, leaving only the echo of laughter and the lingering warmth still clinging to your palms like a brand.

You stay there on your knees in the wreckage, hand reaching for a phantom that had already vanished, chest heaving around the hollow ache of almost.

All you want, more than breath, more than survival, is to touch him again.

…

The common room at Jujutsu High smelled faintly of cedar shavings and old paper, the late-afternoon light slanting through half-closed blinds. You’re stood in the centre of the worn flooring, palms damp, heart battering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Gojo lounges against the wall, one hip cocked, arms folded, that infuriating megawatt smile already locked and loaded. He bends forward slightly at the waist, presenting his face like a dare.

“Go on then” he sings, voice bright as fracturing glass. “Just don’t take too much, yeah? I still have plans for this century.”

Yaga sits hunched over his worktable in the corner, black glasses catching the light as he tilts his head up. “I really don’t think this is wise” he rumbles, the words half-lost beneath the rapid click-click-click of his felting needle stabbing into plush.

Your hand trembles in the air between you and Gojo, index finger extended. The distance feels like miles. His Six Eyes flickers toward you, glacier-blue and sparkling with wicked amusement.

“Go on” he urges again, waggling his brows in an exaggerated invitation.

You swallow the stone in your throat. One second of contact with Gojo Satoru would feel like drinking lightning from a bottle. But some desperate, foolish part of you still hopes. Hopes that the miracle on that blood-soaked street had rewritten the rules entirely. Hopes that you are finally, finally free.

You press your finger to his cheek before doubt can pull you back.

The moment skin meets skin, your world implodes.

Life, raw and infinite, slams into you like a freight train made of suns. Your knees buckle instantly. You tear your hand away, collapsing to the floor with a choked gasp, every nerve screaming from the overload. The influx is too much, too fast; your body convulses once, hard, then folds in on itself as nausea surges.

Gojo straightens, fingertips brushing the spot you’d touched, head cocked like a curious cat. “So I guess it still works” he murmurs, almost gentle. “How much did you take?”

“A day” you groan, curling onto your side, forehead pressed to the cool floor while your stomach tries to turn itself inside out. “Remind me… never to touch you again.”

He laughs, so bright and careless, and steps over you without ceremony, treating your sprawled body like a minor obstacle on his way to the door. “Noted.”

“Told you so” Yaga grunts, never once looking up, needle flashing as another cursed corpse takes shape beneath his hands.

No one else offers. Not Ijichi, not Mei Mei when she breezes through later, not even Shoko when she comes to check if you’ve concussed yourself on the floor. The invisible ring around you widens again, three feet of polite, flinching distance. When you stumble getting up, no hand reaches out to steady you. When you laugh too loud at something Nobara says, Yuji’s answering grin falters the instant your arm lifts in an aborted gesture that might have ruffled his hair.

You’re alone in your own skin again, sealed inside the same old prison.

And at night, when the dorm finally goes quiet, the memory of Sukuna’s warmth comes back to torment you.

You dream of it relentlessly. The impossible heat of his chest under your palms, the flex of muscle, the thud of his heart. In the dreams your hands didn’t stop at polite exploration. They slide over shoulders, down the ridged plane of his stomach, tangled in pink hair that feels softer than it looks. You dream of his four arms caging you close, of mouths that speak filth and praise in equal measure, of being pressed skin-to-skin with no death between you.

You dream of kissing him, of tasting blood and smoke and something darker. You dream of fingers laced tight, of walking hand-in-hand like that couple in the courtyard, drawing lazy circles over black markings while he pretends to be annoyed but lets you anyway.

Every morning you wake gasping, sheets twisted, cheeks wet. The ghost of his skin lingers on your fingertips like a stain you can’t wash off.

Sukuna is the exception.  

The only exception in centuries of slow, starving isolation.

And of course, because the universe has always possessed a vicious sense of humour, the one person you can touch without killing is the single most wicked, most wanted, most untouchable being in sorcerer history.

Ryomen Sukuna, The King of Curses.

Your only salvation, and the one creature alive who would probably laugh themselves sick if they ever learned what you’d started to crave in the dark.

…

You start your desperate search in whispers.

Every question is wrapped in the facade of duty. “intel on high-grade movement,” “historical patterns of the King of Curses,” “any sightings of white-haired attendants in the north.” You volunteer for the worst missions, the ones that take you into abandoned mountain shrines, flooded subway tunnels, cursed villages half swallowed by frost, because the curses there are old enough to remember Heian gossip.

You sit across from them while they’re bound in talismans and chains, voice calm, asking the same three questions disguised as a dozen different ones.

Where does he rest?  

Who serves him?  

Who brings him meat and sake?

Most spit in your face, try to bite, try to kill. 

You don’t sleep, and eating becomes an afterthought, a rice ball scarfed in the dark, black coffee that tastes like battery acid.  Your reflection starts looking like something that crawled out of a grave, hollow cheeks, bruised eyes, hands that won’t stop shaking from caffeine and want.

Weeks bleed into one long, cold night.

Then, on a wind-scoured ridge in the Japan Alps, snow hissing sideways through skeletal pines, you finally crack the cipher.

Uraume.

They stand ankle-deep in fresh powder, white robes untouched by the storm, breath pluming in perfect silence. The moment you step into the clearing they know. Maybe it’s the way you’re swaying on your feet. Maybe it’s the tremor in your outstretched fingers or the raw, frantic edge to your voice that hasn’t felt human in days.

“Take me to him.”

Uraume’s face is porcelain carved from winter itself, no surprise, no fear, only the faint curl of disdain at one corner of their mouth. Pink eyes flick over you like you’re an insect that’s wandered too close.

“You must have a death wish” they hiss, voice soft, flat.

“I won’t do anything” you say too quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “I swear I won’t fight. I won’t—”

“Like you could.”

The contempt is obvious, so clean and cold. You flinch, but you don’t back down. Snowflakes melt the instant they touch your burning cheeks.

“I just… I need to see him.” Your voice cracks on the last word.

Uraume studies you for a long, frozen moment. The wind howls through the pines; somewhere far, far below an avalanche rumbles, flattening whatever's in its wake.

At last they tilt their head, the tiniest concession.

“Sukuna will enjoy this” they murmur, almost to themselves. A faint, humourless smile touches their lips, sharp as frostbite. “I’ll prepare your body. He prefers human meat.”

They turn without another word, robes flaring white against white, and begin walking deeper into the storm.

You follow, heart hammering so hard you’re half-surprised you’re still standing.

You are finally going to touch him again.

The air inside is thick with old blood and incense. Torchlight flickers across walls, throwing long, dancing shadows that crawl like spiders across the floor. At the far end, raised on a dais built from the bodies of things that were once mighty, Ryomen Sukuna lounges.

Four arms, four eyes, one heart beating slow and steady beneath skin painted in living ink. Pink hair spiked up wildly. Blood, someone else’s, still clings to the corner of his smirking mouth. He is sprawled upon a throne like a bored god amongst the carnage, legs stretched out, one set of arms folded behind his head, the other idly spinning a severed finger between clawed knuckles.

The moment your eyes find him, the knot that has lived in your chest for weeks finally loosens. Breath rushes into lungs you hadn’t realised were starving. Your knees almost buckle right there.

You take one involuntary step forward, both hands already reaching, fingers trembling with centuries of withheld need.

His voice cuts across the cavern like a blade dragged over stone.

“You brought me a leech, Uraume.” The words echo, amused and venomous. “I can’t eat leeches. They leave a sour taste.”

Uraume, still half a step behind you, opens their mouth, perhaps to explain, perhaps to apologise, but Sukuna flicks two fingers in a lazy, dismissive arc. The air ripples. Uraume bows low, robes whispering over the floor, and casts you one last glacial glance, equal parts disdain and promise of later dismemberment, before vanishing into the dark.

The great doors thud shut somewhere far behind you.

Silence falls, broken only by the soft crackle of torches. You drop.

Your knees hit ice-cold stone so hard the impact jars up your back. Your forehead follows, pressed to the ground in a bow that is half desperation, half surrender. Your whole body shakes.

“Let me touch you” you rasp, voice cracking like thin ice. “Once. That’s all I need. Please.”

A low, rolling laugh reverberates through the chamber, through your bones.

“You come into my house…” His voice is closer now; you feel the shift in air pressure as he leans forward on his throne of corpses. “…and you make demands.” 

The words drip with contempt. A single clawed finger lifts, lazy, as though he’s already imagining how easily it could separate your head from your shoulders. “What a strange little leech you are. You don’t want something from me. You want to do something to me.”

You stay folded to the floor, forehead still touching stone, tears you didn’t realise you were shedding leaving hot trails down your cheeks and dripping onto the ancient floor.

“You’re the only one” you whisper, the confession torn out of you, voice trembling. “In a thousand years… you’re the only one I can touch without killing.”

The torches flicker. Somewhere high above, frost cracks along the rafters.

You wait, breath held, heart hammering so loudly you’re certain he can hear it, for judgment, for laughter, for the slash of claws that never comes.

Instead, there is only the slow, deliberate drag of bare feet across bone as the King of Curses descends his throne and comes to decide what to do with the creature begging at his feet.

His hand descends like judgment itself, and clamps beneath your jaw. His grip is like iron. Your head snaps up; the world tilts, crimson eyes filling every inch of your vision until the shrine, the torches, the bones, everything collapses into that searing gaze. Cursed energy rolls off him in waves so dense it feels like drowning on dry land.

“You’ll touch” he says, voice low, vibrating through the bones of your face, “where I allow. Understand?”

You try to nod. The movement is tiny, strangled by his hold. Satisfied, he releases you. You drop the short distance back to your knees with a soft thud, breath sawing in and out.

Then he extends one hand, palm down, fingers lax, lazy and disinterested. An offering and a test.

You don’t think. You simply lunge.

Your trembling hands close around his first, fingers wrapping around a wrist thick enough that your fingertips don’t even meet. The heat is immediate, shocking. You drag his palm upward, pressing it to your cheek like a man dying of thirst who has finally found water. The calloused skin sears away weeks of cold; the faint drag of claws over your cheekbone sends shivers racing down your spine. You turn into it, nuzzling shamelessly, lips brushing the heel of his hand, tasting iron and smoke and something darker that must be him.

A low, rumbling sound, disdain, disgust, or amusement, rolls out of his chest.

You can’t stop. You won’t.

Fever takes the reins. You surge upward from your knees, clumsy, frantic, and throw yourself against him. Arms wrap around the impossible breadth of his torso; you bury your face against the centre of his chest. Your palms skate over bare skin, greedy, memorising every ridge of muscle, every raised black marking, the faint texture of old scars. 

You press closer, and closer, until there is no space left between you, until the heat of him bleeds through your uniform and brands itself into your bones.

Your hips move without permission, a helpless, animal like motion, rubbing against the hard plane of his body like a starved thing finally allowed contact. Your cheek drags back and forth over his sternum, chasing warmth, chasing proof that this is real. Breath comes in broken sobs against his skin.

He stands perfectly still, four arms hanging loose, towering above you while you rut and cling and tremble like something feral that has forgotten how to be human.

And still, beneath the disgust curling his lip and the cold amusement glittering in his eyes, he does not push you away. Not yet.

Your palms refuse to still. They glide over the broad planes of his chest, tracing every ridge and scar, then climb higher, reverent, back up the powerful column of his throat. Your fingertips sink into his hair, those wild pink strands that looked coarse from afar, and you freeze, stunned. It’s impossibly soft, like heavy silk sliding between your fingers.  

“It’s like silk” you whisper, voice cracking open with wonder. Tears spill freely now, rolling down your cheeks and dripping onto his skin.

“Are you insane?” he growls, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

You shake your head, frantic. “You don’t know what it’s like.” Your nails drag lightly down the nape of his neck, raising faint lines that vanish almost instantly. You lean in until your ear presses just left of center, right over the steady thud of his heart. “You don’t know what it’s like to never have touched anyone… never held someone’s hand… never been kissed.” 

A low, grudging grunt rumbles out of him. Two of his arms lift, barely, as if making reluctant room for the creature clinging to his torso.

“You’re so warm” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut.

The mouth on his stomach speaks, voice rough as gravel dragged across steel. “You’re trembling like a virgin, little leech.”

You only hum, burrowing closer, chasing the heat, the scent, the impossible reality of him.

Then the world tilts.

One massive hand closes around both your wrists, yanking them from his hair. Another palms the center of your chest and shoves. Your back meets a frozen pillar with a soft thud that knocks the air from your lungs. Your captured wrists are dragged upward, stretched high above your head until you’re forced onto the balls of your feet, spine arching, body presented like an offering. The position leaves you utterly helpless, chest heaving, throat exposed. 

Sukuna looms closer, crimson eyes glittering with predatory amusement.

“Do you want to feel more, little leech?” The mockery drips from every syllable. His gaze drags slow and deliberate across your tear-stained face, your parted lips, the desperate rise and fall of your chest. “Curious enough to find out what everything on me feels like?”

“Don’t call me that” you gasp, turning your face away, cheeks burning.

He leans in until his breath fans hot over your ear. “Well, little leech?” he croons, “I won’t do a thing unless you say it.”

You squirm, wrists twisting uselessly in his iron grip. He’s so much taller, broader; the pillar at your back is unyielding stone and he is living flame. His thigh slides between yours without warning, thick and deliberate, pressing up hard against the aching length straining your uniform pants. The pressure drags a broken sound from your throat.

“Please” you choke out, hips jerking involuntarily into the friction. “I—I want to feel—”

Before the plea is finished, his free hand seizes one of your trapped one and forces it downward. He guides your palm beneath the loose waist of his robes, past coarse pink hair and scorching skin, until your fingers close around one of his cocks, rigid, impossibly hot, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

You gasp, eyes flying wide. You can’t see it, only feel, but gods, the weight of it in your hand, the slick bead of pre-cum already coating the head, the thick veins that throb under your hesitant touch. You stare, transfixed, at the place where your wrist disappears beneath the fabric.

Of your own accord, you begin to move.

Slow at first, exploring, careful, then faster when his breath hitches. You trace every ridge, map every vein, spread the slick gathering at the slit so your hand glides smoother. His head tips back, throat working, a low growl building in his chest. You learn by the way his hips twitch, by the flex of abs, by the sharp inhale when your thumb sweeps just under the crown.

You tighten your grip, stroke faster, utterly drunk on the power to make the King of Curses shudder.

He snarls, something feral, and bucks hard into your fist, and cums suddenly.

Hot, thick pulses splatter over your trapped wrist, coat your fingers in viscous heat. You rub the viscous liquid between your thumb and forefinger, feeling the slippery warmth, the faint salt scent rising in the air.

Your hand is still curled around him when he finally lowers his head again, eyes glowing like fresh-spilled blood, a slow, dangerous smile curling across his face.

“Still curious, little leech?”

You nod before the question even finishes leaving his mouth, frantic, thoughtless, fever-hot. Anything. You would take anything he deigns to give you right now.

He laughs, sharp, cruel, delighted, and the sound slices straight through your spine.

Then the world tilts again.

One of his arms, thick as your thigh, slides under your ass and lifts. You’re airborne for a heartbeat, weightless, before he carries you across the shrine like you’re made of paper. The bone dais looms. He bends you forward over the armrest of his throne, crimson velvet plush and cool against your chest. Your toes barely skim the floor, your folded over the padded edge, spine arched, ass jutting high, utterly exposed. 

“So eager for me” he mocks, voice dripping acid amusement.

Fabric rips. First your shirt, torn off your shoulders and thrown. Then, your uniform pants, torn like wet tissue, shredded down to your knees in one brutal yank. Cold air kisses bare skin, then his palms, rough and scalding, spread your cheeks wide. You feel the weight of his stare on your hole, clinical and predatory.

“You’re not going to take me like this” he says, almost conversational, one brow arched high.

You twist to protest, words already forming, but the sight steals them. He pinches the claws of his right hand between thumb and forefinger and snaps them off, index to ring finger, like breaking dry kindling. The black tips clatter to the floor. The fingers are still thick, still dangerous, but blunt now.

A second hand seizes your chin, wrenching you upright until your back almost touches his chest. Those three declawed fingers appear in front of your lips.

“Suck” he growls against your ear, teeth scraping the lobe hard enough to sting.

You open instantly. He thrusts them in without ceremony. They fill your mouth, heavy and salty, stretching your jaw. You swirl your tongue desperately, coating every inch, tracing the pads, the ridges of knuckles. Saliva pools, spills over your lip, but you don’t care. You suck like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

He watches you for a long moment, eyes hooded, then pulls free with a wet pop.

The hand disappears behind you. One slick finger circles your rim once, twice, before pressing inside.. 

The intrusion is shocking, so foreign and thick. You gasp, body clamping down instinctively.

“Relax” he snaps, crooking the finger and dragging it out only to push back in. The burn is bright, but it fades quickly into something you have no name for. You force air into your lungs, force your muscles to yield.

He works you open with ruthless patience you never expected. One finger becomes two, scissoring, twisting, spreading saliva and slick until the burn melts into a heavy, electric ache. The third slides in alongside the others and you keen, high and broken, tears already leaking from the corners of your eyes to soak dark patches into the red velvet beneath your cheek.

He speeds up. The drag turns rougher, deliberate.

“Never been touched here either?” he sneers, curling his fingers just to hear the choked sob that rips out of you. “Pathetic.”

Then he shifts angle, knuckles pressing deep, and finds it.

You feel the stroke like lightning forking through every nerve. Pleasure flashes behind your eyes, white-hot, radiating outward until your toes curl and your thighs shake uncontrollably.

“Wha—” The word fractures. Your nails rake the velvet, tearing tufts free.

He laughs, low and vicious, and attacks that spot again, again, again. Each firm press drags another helpless cry from your throat, each drag back leaves you empty and begging.

“Stop—” you sob, not meaning it, not even close.

“Come on, little leech” he croons, seating all three fingers to the hilt and grinding mercilessly against that devastating place inside you. “Cum for me.”

You can’t breathe. Pressure coils so tight it hurts, coils tighter still, until something inside you shatters.

You come with a raw, ragged scream, entire body seizing, back bowing off the armrest as if an electric current is ripping through you. Pleasure crashes in endless waves, so intense your vision blacks out at the edges. Cum spills untouched between your belly and the velvet, pulse after pulse, until you’re limp and trembling and still twitching around the fingers buried deep inside you.

He keeps them there, pressed firm against that spot, milking every aftershock until you’re whimpering nonsense into the ruined cushion, tears and drool and sweat soaking the throne of the King of Curses.

Only then does he lean over you, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice velvet and venom.

“Good boy.” 

He doesn’t give you even a single heartbeat to recover.

While the aftershocks still ripple through your thighs, he drags two fingers through the mess you left on the velvet, gathering the warm, slick spend. You hear the wet sound of him coating himself, then the blunt, impossible pressure of one thick cockhead nudging against your loosened rim.

There is no pause, no mercy, no slow inching in.

He simply grips your hips with two hands, spreads you wider, and drives forward in one relentless thrust. The stretch is blinding. Your vision whites out; your mouth opens on a scream that never makes it past your throat. He seats himself to the hilt in a single stroke, pelvis flush to your ass, his other cock pressing against yours, filling you so completely you can feel him in your spine.

Your hands scrabble uselessly at the fabric of the throne, fingers flexing and clenching around nothing. All you can do is breathe, shallow, desperate pulls of air, while your body tries to decide if it’s dying or ascending.

Then he moves.

He fucks exactly the way he kills. Overwhelming, brutal, absolute. Each thrust slams the air from your lungs, jolts your whole body forward over the armrest, only for his grip to yank you back onto him harder. The head of his cock drags over that devastating spot inside you on every stroke, relentless, unerring.

And yet you push back to meet him, greedy, shameless, chasing more each time.

His hands are everywhere, mapping you with possessive violence.

One hand grips your hip, digging bruises into your skin, anchoring you exactly where he wants you. Another palm splays across your chest, flicking a nipple hard enough to spark pain, then slides higher and collars your throat. He lifts, forcing your back to arch slightly.

A third hand wraps around your leaking cock, pressing it flush to his extra one, stroking both in perfect, cruel synchronicity with his hips, thumb swiping over the slit on every upstroke.

The fourth hand fists your hair, tilting your head back so he can crush his mouth to yours. Teeth catching your lower lip and biting down; blood blooms copper-bright between you. Tongues tangle, messy and violent, sharing spit and crimson while he growls into the kiss.

“More, more, more” you chant, delirious, the word slurring against his mouth.

He laughs, maniacal, delighted, and gives you everything. Hips snap harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off bone walls like war drums. Grunts tear out of him, animal and triumphant; your own broken moans answer every one.

You claw at the hand around your throat, not to remove it but to beg. “Please, please, hold me, touch me—”

“Pathetic” he snarls, but he obeys.

He hauls you upright in one smooth motion, chest plastered to your sweat-slicked back. The hand in your hair slides down to splay over your sternum, pinning you flush against him. The hand that had been choking you slips upwards and cups your cheek, tilting your head until it rests on the broad slope of his shoulder. Tears spill freely now, streaking over his fingers.

His thumb strokes once across your cheekbone, a feather-light, almost tender motion that breaks you open more thoroughly than anything else.

You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like a blade, violent and total. Your whole body seizes, cock pulsing helplessly in his grip, ropes of cum splattering across the scarlet velvet in long, obscene arcs. You clamp down around him so hard he groans, raw and guttural right against your ear.

Two more stuttering thrusts and he follows. Heat floods you, thick and endless, painting your insides with pulse after pulse of his cum until it leaks hot down your thighs. His other cock paints the throne with cum, joining yours.

He stills, buried to the root, the only sound being your ragged breathing and the wet drip of spend hitting ancient stone.

Your legs give out completely.

He doesn’t let you fall.

Four arms tighten and hold you pinned against his chest, impaled and trembling, heart hammering against his ribs while the aftershocks roll through you both. Your head lolls on his shoulder, cheek smeared with tears and blood and his thumb still tracing idle, soothing circles you never thought the King of Curses capable of.

For a long moment, the only movement in the entire shrine is the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back, and the faint, lazy throb of him still inside you.

Hot seed trickles down the inside of your thigh as his cock slides free with a slow, wet drag that makes you shudder all over again. The sudden emptiness is almost painful, but his arms don’t loosen; they keep you suspended, impaled on nothing now except the cradle of his hold. Your toes barely skim the cold stone.

“That enough, little leech?” he purrs against the shell of your ear, voice mocking and warm all at once. The mouth on his stomach flicks a lazy tongue over your spine, tasting the sweat gathered there.

You turn your head. Tears still leak in steady tracks from the corners of your eyes, your lips are swollen, bitten red from his teeth, and when you speak your voice is nothing but a raw, hoarse thread.

“Not even close.”

The words come out steady despite everything, despite the shaking, the tears, the cum cooling on your skin and his still dripping out of you. It’s a dare, a plea and a vow all at once.

For one heartbeat the shrine is perfectly still.

Then Sukuna laughs, the sound rolls through his chest into yours like distant thunder.

“Greedy little thing” he murmurs, teeth grazing the hinge of your jaw.

One hand slides down to cup your spent cock possessively, thumb smearing the mess there. Another tangles in your hair again, gentler this time, tipping your head back so he can look straight into your teary eyes.

“Fine” he says, voice dropping to something dark and promising. “We’re just getting started.”

You can’t remember a time when your life wasn’t dedicated to him, when you weren’t told you had to be the perfect bride for him. The god of annihilation: Zayne.

There’s no deep meaning as to why you can’t remember a time when your life wasn’t forced to evolve around him; it simply always has. Since the day of your birth, since the day the elders saw his cursed mark across your womb.

That day.

Will forever be.

The worst day of your life.

You weren’t the only one cursed with this mark; however, the others see it as more of a blessing. To be chosen by your god, no matter what it’s for, is the greatest honor of all, after all.

You were practically raised together, taught to give your god anything he could possibly want if you were to be chosen.

The day of judgement is fast approaching, a mere three days away.

By the time the clock chimes at midnight on the third day, one of you will be chosen, and the rest of you will be servants to the god and his new bride.

The others are too naive to see how fucked up that deal is, to overcome with the joy of being able to be close to their god until they die of old age.

They would be happy to eat their own hearts if it satisfied that god of theirs.

As long as he watches them do it.

That’s all any one of these god worshippers wants, to be noticed by the deity they dedicate their entire way of living to.

You never understand why exactly they’d rather let a being they’ve never even seen control their way of life, why won’t they just live the way they truly want?

Why won’t they practice the freedom that’s just a breath away from them?

That’s what you would do if you had the choice.

Be free.

Free of this bride to a god nonsense.

Free of people watching your every move.

Free to do whatever it is you want.

You dream about it sometimes— freedom— a strange concept that you haven’t been privy to since leaving your mother’s womb.

It’s a refreshing thought to have, then you awake to the rude reminder that you’re nothing but a potential bride, and that is all any of these people will see you as.

Not a being worthy of recognition unless chosen by their beloved god; only then will they bother to remember your name.

Only then will they bother remembering you.

—

It’s only when the day of judgment is near does the people here grow restless, excited to finally be able to welcome their god after waiting all their pathetic lives to do so.

They throw a three-day-long banquet leading up to the day of judgment; each day, you and your fellow potential brides are put on pedestals and watch as the people below you gawk at you.

Secretly wishing that they were in your place.

They would never say such wishes out loud, fearful of losing their heads.

The elders do not like it when such things are spoken.

Scared that their god will overhear and punish all of them, for if one of them is so cocky enough to think they are worthy of being at the side of a god, they all are.

And so they watch what they say, what they think, even.

Scared in some way.

Somehow

It’ll get back to the elders.

“Did you hear what I said?” A familiar voice chimes in, interrupting your thoughts. “What?” You ask, confused.

How long has he been talking to you?

“I asked if you were excited, you know. For the day of judgement?” He giggles, clutching at your forearm. “The others and I were talking about it, and I thought I would ask you.” He tells you, looking back at the others who are watching your interaction.

They’re always doing that, watching you. For some reason, it’s more strange than when everyone else does it; maybe it’s because of all the people here that they should be the ones who understand you the most.

“Uh, yeah… I guess I am pretty excited,” you smile, giving a fake nervous chuckle. Digging your nails into the cloth of your pants, “God, he can’t even fake it,” one of them snipes, sneering at you as the rest nod their heads in agreement.

The hand on your forearm tightens as the only person who seems to like you here glares at the other brides in your stead, sneering at them in turn. “You can all go fuck yourselves.” He barks, opening his mouth to say more, before you place your hand on top of his, stopping him.

“It’s okay,” you assured him, patting the top of his hands. “Whatever they say is entirely irrelevant now; the day of judgement is upon us.” You mock, watching as the male next to you— Elias— softened his glare as his gaze shifted towards you.

“I don’t understand how you can stomach being near him, Elias. He’s not worthy of being chosen by the God of Annihilation. I don’t understand how he was born with a mark; his parents must’ve carved it into him or something.” The same potential bride from before sneers, huffing and crossing her arms across her chest.

“Don’t worry, Yasmin, we all know our god will choose you. We have long accepted it.” One of her faithful followers pipes, smiling at her before turning their hateful gaze to you.

“When I am chosen, I will have your head, you cursed unbeliever.” Yasmin snarled, leaning back into her chair and returning to watching the banquet goers.

“God, I hate that spoiled twat.” Elias whispers to you, leaning his head on your shoulder as he turns his attention back to the banquet as well.

“Lucky for me, her bark is much worse than her bite.” You quip, knowing that people have said far worse things to you.

Since the knowledge of your non-belief was made public, multiple crowds of people have gone to the elders with complaints. Telling them you are unworthy of being anyone’s bride, let alone a god’s.

They commanded the elders to prove your mark true.

You were forced to strip in front of all of them.

Forced to stand, humiliated. As an elder poked and prodded at your mark until you bled, scraped off your skin, and watched as it healed almost instantly. The mark an everlasting proud blemish on your flesh.

Only then did the people believe that you were chosen, that you were destined for a god that you didn’t believe in.

Some pitied you, forced to be raised as an offering to a being you don’t even acknowledge the existence of.

But most deemed you ungrateful, a disgrace to the entire clan.

Someone who doesn’t believe in the god of annihilation doesn’t belong here, and they most certainly do not deserve to be offered up as a bride to him.

‘HE’LL KILL US ALL’ they’d yell, scared that the god will do exactly as his name foretells if he were to find out there is a nonbeliever amongst his choices.

They’re all fucking idiots, honestly.

—

The day of judgement is here.

The day you’ve long loathed has finally arrived.

The sky seemed to glow gold, even as night fell, and clouds covered it; the gold still shone through.

The air felt heavier, as if the earth itself knew what was upon us, what being would be gracing its soils in just a few hours.

People moved around you in excitement, trembling in their eyes, practically glowing with childlike joy.

A joy you couldn’t bring yourself to feel.

The only feeling you felt was an unending sense of doom.

—

When night fell, you were forced into a bath, one filled with goat's milk and petals of flowers you couldn’t hope to name.

Hands rubbed at your skin with soap blessed by one of the many priests here, they’re grip on your limbs unforgiving as they washed your body and hair before rinsing you down with flower-scented water, and yanking you out of the bath.

“This would be much easier if you worked with us, you know.” One of the helper say, their face is covered with a cloth. On the day of judgement, the only face the brides are allowed to see is the gods; everyone works together to make sure that rule is followed.

The brides are prepared in separate quarters and directed to separate routes to get to the temple. To make sure the brides arrive at the same time, the ones with longer routes are prepared first.

You’re forced to sit on a stool, still as bare as the day you were born, dried off by the same hands who washed you.

“You honestly don’t know how lucky you are.” The same helper tones, rubbing your back with vanilla-scented oil.

They’re not even supposed to be talking to you, and yet this one won’t shut up.

“How can someone as ungrateful as you be one of the chosen? is unbeknownst to me, nor anyone for that matter.” They sigh, moving on to drying your hair, before pausing, their hands sliding down to your shoulders.

“I mean, if I had been blessed with a mark…” they trail off, laughing to themselves before focusing back on their task of doing your hair.

You stare straight ahead, watching them play in the hair of someone you no longer recognize. Not with the smooth, perfumed skin and glossy lips. This person, looking back at you, almost looks like a doll.

A doll…

That’s exactly what you are.

Something meant to sit still and look pretty.

And by the gods, as much as you hate to admit it, you are pretty like this.

The other attendants move quickly, wrapping your body in the softest of silks and warmest of furs. Clasping jewels around your neck and wrist— each piece heavier than the last.

The talkative one hums from behind you, finishing your hair at last. “Smile more, no one wants an unhappy bride. Certainly not a god.”

You look at them in the mirror, smiling at them, “Are you speaking from experience, or..?”

They fall still, their hands clutching at their skirt.

Silence fills the room as one of the other attendants slips your feet into flats.

You rise from your seat, smiling at them once more before addressing one of the attendants, “Do we head to the temple now?” You ask, flipping your veil and following them when they nod at you, leading you to the route you’re supposed to take.

Passing you off to a guard of sorts, they consider you a flight risk, so you’re to be escorted there instead of finding your own way like everyone else.

Their head is covered too; they look at you once before grabbing you by the wrist and dragging you towards the temple.

Your route is rather short; it’s a mere ten minutes away from the place where you were readied. And as planned, all of the other brides arrive at the same time as you.

You don’t look at each other, you don’t even acknowledge each other.

Just keep walking forward, into the place where your fates will forever be sealed.

——

The temple's doors groaned as they opened, and the sound of them closing behind you echoes like you’ve just been found guilty of whatever crime you’ve committed. The brides are lined up into two rows, veils blowing in the draft that spills from the altar ahead of you.

At the center stands one of the elders, his robes as white as bone, his face covered by a hood like everyone else you’ve encountered thus far. Though it had golden sigils stitched onto it, the same ones that cover the walls of the temple.

His hand raises, as if to silence the already quiet room.

“Children of the mark,” the elder beings, his voice cutting through the stiffening silence in the room. “From the moment you were all born, you have been waiting for this day. The day our god would return to us, and find a vessel worthy of his power— of his grace among us. You have been chosen! Not for your beauty, nor your virtue— but for the divine mark engraved into your very flesh. It is not pain, nor betrayal you should feel tonight. The only emotion you should feel is gratitude.”

His gaze sweeps across the room, pausing on each and every one of you. But for some reason, it seems to linger longer on you.

“One among you will rise. The rest will serve. All will be blessed by his light.”

The once suffocating silence returns. You can hear one of the other brides, sniffing behind you. Her joy overwhelming as she realizes how close she is to meeting her god.

The elder lowers his hands, stepping away from the altar.

“ Bow your heads,” they commanded, “and open your hearts to the God of Annihilation. Let him see what we have made. What we have created in his honor!”

As soon as the elder’s final words faded, the torches along the temple walls flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then, steady once more — their flames burning a shade too bright. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of incense and metal.

No one dared move.

Some brides trembled and whispered prayers beneath their breath. Others stared straight ahead, their eyes teary as their heartbeats quickened, excitement pulsing through their bodies.

You could feel the weight of the elder’s words pressing down on you in judgment.

A warning, perhaps.

From somewhere beyond the altar, a low hum began to rise, vibrating through the bones of the temple. The marble under your feet felt alive, pulsing faintly with it.

The elders bowed their heads.

“He comes,” they said in unison.

The hum deepened, rolling through the marble floor like thunder through the skies. Your gaze drifted upward — you didn’t exactly know why. It was as if something was forcing you to. And so you did: you gazed past the altar, past the elders, to the statue towering behind them.

It was carved from the purest white marble, shining even in the dark. It stood twice the height of any man, depicting the very god who got you into this mess — the God of Annihilation himself: Zayne. His features were serene, beautiful even — befitting that of a god — but there was something cruel about the way his sculpted eyes glared at you.

Then, suddenly, a sound.

A single, sharp crack.

As if something broke.

At first, you thought you imagined it — until another followed, echoing through the temple like a whip. Thin fractures raced across the sculpture, glowing faintly, gold seeping from the cracks like molten light.

Someone gasped.

The elders fell to their knees, the shock too much for them. “He awakens,” one of them whispered, voice trembling in reverence and fear. Prayers began falling from the rest of their lips.

The cracks worsened as the marble began to fall to the ground, gold bleeding from every opening like blood leaving a fresh wound, until the statue was no longer white but blazing, radiant — unbearable to look at. Heat poured into the air, radiating from the statue. The scent of smoke and molten metal filled your nostrils.

Then the statue shattered.

Golden shards flew in all directions, causing everyone to cry out and run for cover — everyone but you. As badly as you wanted to run, you couldn’t move.

The shards froze in place moments before hitting anyone, dissolving into motes that faded into nothingness.

And there, where the statue once stood, he now stood — in all his glory.

The God of Annihilation.

Zayne.

The light died down, leaving him bathed in faint embers that clung to his skin like fallen stars. His eyes opened slowly, gleaming with the same molten gold that had poured from the statue.

He looked around the room, slowly, watching as the others cowered away from him.

Then his eyes landed on you, and the molten gold was replaced by a vibrant hazel green, then covered by a black transparent blindfold.

He walked toward you — slow, methodical. Everyone in the temple was watching, their eyes tracking his every step.

You. The nonbeliever.

They whispered among themselves, shock evident on their faces.

“There’s no way he’s going to choose the nonbeliever, right?”

I fucking hope not.

“Of course he’s not.”

“Why is he walking toward him?”

“To smite him, of course. Why else?”

“That doesn’t sound too bad, honestly,” you whispered under your breath, finally tearing your gaze away from the being heading toward you.

“Is that what you want?” a monotone voice asked, right next to your ear.

You gasped, slapping your hand over your ear as you turned toward where the sound came from. He was right there, his gaze boring into you like a drill.

“I’m sorry?” you squeaked, stepping away from him.

“Do you want me to smite you?” The voice came again, from the same distance — it was almost as if, no matter how far you moved away, he’d always be there. In your head. Perks of being a god, huh.

“Yes!” a voice yelled from the other side of the room, and finally — finally — his gaze left you. It cut across the room to none other than Yasmin.

“Why are you even asking him? He didn’t acknowledge your existence until he was forced to by seeing you in the flesh tonight!” someone else chimed in — Amber, you thought her name was.

The god glanced at her, too before turning his attention right back to you. “They think I should smite you. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked. You were getting really tired of his questions.

“Stop asking him for his input! Kill him already!” Yasmin yelled, stepping toward the two of you — only to be stopped by Elias.

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Yasmin,” he said, grabbing her forearm and pulling her aside.

The god tsked, turning toward the two of them, his gaze on Yasmin. “Do you think you command me?” he asked her, stepping closer to you.

Why was he stepping closer to you and not Yasmin?

“What? No, of course not. I am to be your wife — we are equals!” she cried, her delusions spilling forth as she tried to run to him.

“You’re not my wife,” he said, though it sounded more like a question, as if he couldn’t believe she was saying it.

“What are you saying? You’re going to choose that nonbeliever over me?” she barked, disbelief flashing across her face before she yanked her arm away from Elias and ran toward the god.

Dropping to her knees, she clutched at the god’s robes. “Please! You must be mistaken! There’s no way that thing is your chosen bride. YOU CANNOT CHOOSE HIM!” She was hysterical now, crying into his robes as she unraveled at the seams.

“He is bold for his disbelief — and yet you are bolder for daring to tell a god what he can and cannot do, just so it will appease you.” He leaned down, glaring at her.

“You’re not worthy of being my wife, let alone my bride’s servant.” He sneered, harshly grabbing her chin, his nails digging into her otherwise unblemished flesh.

“Get out of my temple,” he barked, releasing her before standing to his full height. “Out!” he roared. The doors of the temple slammed open, and something from the shadows reached in and dragged her out.

The god took a deep breath, running his hands through his long locks of hair.

“Now,” he began, unbelievably calm after what had just happened, “does anyone else want to tell me what I can and cannot do?” he asked, looking around the temple, meeting the gaze of everyone there.

“If not, it will bring you all great joy to know that I have found my bride.” He smiled — then turned his sights on you.

For a flicker of a moment, you think that you misheard. His words hang heavy in the air, echoing throughout the temple, as you stare at the shocked faces around you.

You, the nonbeliever. Is to be his bride?

Someone laughs— sharp and disbelieving— almost mocking this situation. It takes you a moment to realize it was you.

“That’s a good one,” you say, nerves clawing up your throat as you stumble away from the man, “Really funny, truly. You should be a—“

“Quiet,”

That single word stops everything, the slight breeze in the air, the fire on the torches. Even managed to stop the gossip.

You try to breathe but no air fills your lungs no matter how hard you try, it’s almost like the temple itself is holding its breath, preventing anyone else from drawing any.

Zayne stares at you for a moment, his gaze somehow more intense than it was a moment ago. Then he walks towards you, one step forward for every step back you dare take, you watch as the temple floor glows beneath his feet with each and every step he takes.

“I do not jest,” he says, voice low, almost kind— reassuring. “You were marked before your birth,” he muttered his hand reaching out for your womb— your mark. “ You have always been destined for me, even if you refuse to believe it.” His hand is firmly planted over your mark now, his voice somehow deeper.

You can hear sobbing coming from somewhere, the crowd's whispers start up once again— but, like with the statue you can’t look away.

“I didn’t ask for this” you weep, your voice trembling from held back emotions, your hands coming up to lay over your heart.

“No one ever does.” He answers, tilting his head slightly, “But the stars do not ask permission to shine.”

You hated it when you pulse quickens at his words, something deep inside your chest being yanked on, pulled from the darkness and into the light, towards him.

Your body reacts before your mind can— you shove his hand away, hard. The force of it frightens you, you were never very strong, let alone strong enough to shove a god away from you.

The God’s hand falls back to his side, the tilt of his head deepening in surprise.

“Don’t touch me” you growl, voice surprisingly steady despite the storm brewing inside you.

His gaze somehow grows darker beneath the blindfold, and you could see the molten gold from before flickering underneath the hazel green, like sunlight threatening to break through.

“And yet,” he mutters, leaning down towards your ear, “you burn for it— you burn for me.”

Your pulse stutters, “you mistake fear for longing,” your lips tremble as you say it, hands clutching at the silk of your pants.

He laughs, low and soft, like thunder rumbling far off in the mountains.

“Fear is just the body’s way of remembering the divine,” he says, “you should be honored yours still remember me.”

The words are like poison wrapped in silk. The air between you vibrates, faint golden specks through it.

Then he moves, like that of a snake. Quick and swift it sticks its fangs into your flesh before anyone can react. He grabs your wrist, his grip is firm— unyielding.

You stumble as he pulls you forward—towards the altar— the world spinning into a blur of gold and shadow. The brides whisper in awe at their God's power, some still in disbelief at you being chosen. But they all watch as you are forced up to the altar.

“Zayne—“ you cry, low and meek, but his name is swallowed by the low hum vibrating through the temple.

“Shh,” he shushes, voice quiet, almost tender—loving— though his grip says otherwise. “No amount of struggle or rebellion will change your fate, it’s time for you to accept that.”

He forces you down onto the cold stone, his strength inhuman. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, and before you can recover, he’s already binding your wrists to the carved edges of the altar with bands of shimmering gold. They move like liquid—alive—coiling around your skin until they harden.

You thrash, but it’s useless. The more you struggle, the tighter they cling.

Zayne’s face hovers just above yours now, his blindfold still in place, though you can see the faint glow pulsing beneath it.

“You were made for this,” he murmurs. “For me.”

The elder from before steps forward, facing the crowd of brides, his shadow falling across your body.

“At last,” he breathes, voice trembling with awe. “The vessel is bound. The star’s promise fulfilled. We have waited through famine, through fire, through the silence of forgotten gods— and now the cycle starts anew.”

He raises his arms, and the other elders answer in unison.

“For eons we have waited”

Their chant shakes the walls of the temple. Dust drifts from the ceiling, carried by the vibration of their faith.

“The first flame fell from his hand,” the elder continues, his voice swelling with happiness and pride. “And from it, he made the heavens and the void. From it, he made us. Yet only through him shall his divinity be reborn. He who bears the mark. He who cannot flee destiny, for destiny is carved into his soul.

You pull against the bindings, but they only tighten. You can feel the pulse beneath your skin matching Zayne’s—steady, relentless, like your heart beats in his chest instead of your own.

The elder lowers his arms. “Let the fire bear witness.”

A gust sweeps through the temple. Every torch extinguishes at once, plunging the room into velvet darkness. Then—one by one—the brides are handed candles, their wax shimmering with molten gold.

Zayne lifts his hand. Sparks dance along his fingers. With a single exhale, he breathes life into the flames. Each candle ignites, a circle of golden light surrounding the altar.

The elders step back. The chanting fades.

Zayne steps forward.

The glow of the candles catches his face—no longer hidden by the blindfold, the ashes of it still drifting from his hair like smoke. His eyes are molten gold.

When he speaks, his voice is meant for you alone.

“Before the stars bore names, I waited for you,” he says softly. “Through centuries of ash and silence, I dreamed of your heartbeat. I carved worlds from the dark to fill the ache of your absence.”

He stands beside you, his hand hovering just above your chest.

“They call this union sacrifice,” he murmurs, “but I call it return. Returning what is lost to time, to destiny.”

His fingers brush your mark, and it burns—like a branding. A forever reminder that no matter how hard you try to deny destiny, you’re his. And forever will be, for it is written in the stars.

“With this fire, I claim what was promised,” he says. “With your breath, I breathe again. With your heart, I rise. With this fire, our hearts shall forever be intertwined, our flesh made equal. With this fire, we will fulfill our destiny.”

The candles flicker violently, their flames

bending toward the altar as if they’re drawn to the divinity in the room.

The candles flare, their flames stretching tall—unnaturally tall—until the wax begins to melt in streams down trembling hands.

Then the earth groans.

The marble beneath the altar splits, thin golden fissures crawling across the floor like veins of light. They climb the walls, slither across the pillars, reaching toward the vaulted ceiling where the sigils begin to pulse with the same molten hue.

A low hum fills the air—deeper, louder—until it swells into a sound that isn’t just heard but felt. Like the heartbeat of the world.

The elders drop to their knees, foreheads pressed to the cracked stone. “The prophecy is fulfilled,” one whispers. “The god and his vessel are one.”

Outside, thunder rolls through the skies are clear. The stars blink—one by one—each dimming as if bowing to their returning god.

Zayne’s hand presses harder over your mark, you cry out as the heat begins to become unbearable, his voice is low enough that only you hear it.

“Do you feel it?” he asks. “Even the heavens remember you.”

You moan, kicking your bound feet as you try to overcome the pain radiating from your divine mark. “Hurts.” You grit out, crying when the only thing the god towering over you does is apply more pressure to the thing that’s hurting you.

“Don’t worry darling, it’ll be over soon,” the God says, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Just bear with me.”

This would be somewhat comforting if he weren’t the one causing you such pain, if the people who forced you to be here weren’t watching.

“Don’t focus on them,” he whispers into your ear, turning your face towards him. “Eyes on me, focus on me.”

Then, suddenly, without warning, he kisses you. His lips are impossible soft and his body radiates nothing but warmth, and despite yourself.

You don’t pull away.

Every fiber of your being screams in resistance, but your body betrays you.

The first brush of his lips against yours was electric, a current shooting through your veins and sparks igniting beneath your skin.

The world shatters around you.

The temple—the walls, the torches, the elders, everything but the brides—all vanish in an instant. You are no longer in the temple. You are somewhere else entirely.

The world around you stretches and bends, molten gold light and shadow dancing in impossible patterns. The ground beneath your feet is translucent, like glass infused with liquid fire. Above, the sky is alive—a swirling cosmos of deep indigo and violet, speckled with stars that pulse in rhythm with your heartbeat. The air hums with raw energy, carrying the scent of ozone and burning jasmine.

Zayne stands before you, taller, more imposing than ever, yet calm, radiating an authority that pulls the world into focus around him. Golden strands of energy coil around his form, connecting him to the shifting realm.

Around you, impossible structures rise—towers of black marble streaked with gold, spiraling endlessly into the sky. Bridges of shimmering crystal arc between them, reflecting the constellations above. Rivers of molten light flow like veins through the land, their glow illuminating the jagged, floating islands suspended in the air.

The edges of the realm bend and fold in impossible ways, creating a sense of vertigo that makes your stomach lurch. Yet, despite its alien beauty, there is an undeniable harmony—everything here exists because of him, because of his will.

Your bound legs tremble as you take in the sight. It is overwhelming. Majestic. Terrifying.

Zayne does not move closer, yet the space between you collapses, as if drawn by some invisible force. His eyes of molten gold, molten emerald, and black swirling together—a kaleidoscope of power and focus.

“You are here,” he murmurs, voice reverberating through the very fabric of this realm. “You are where you belong, with me.”

You want to speak, to argue, to insist that this is wrong—but the power of this place, the undeniable pull of Zayne, robs you of words.

He tilts his head, studying you with a gaze that is both intimate and divine. Slowly, deliberately, he leans down and presses his lips to yours again. This time, there is no testing, no hesitation—only certainty.

The world shivers and twists around you. Energy from the realm pulses through your veins, mingling with the fire of his kiss. You feel it, feel him, everywhere at once.

The stars above pulse brighter, the rivers of light beneath your feet roar like a chorus of voices, and every floating island trembles. You are no longer merely a witness to his power—you are part of it, entwined with it, inseparable.

And in that moment, as the realm bends to his will, you realize: there is no going back.

This is your home.

It takes you a moment—longer than it should—to realize that your mark is no longer burning. The searing pain has faded, replaced by a lingering warmth, a low, insistent thrum beneath your skin. Divinity simmers there, quiet but undeniable, as if something ancient and eternal rests just beneath your flesh.

The brides stand around you, arranged in an awkward circle, their candles vanished. There is no need for flame here, in a realm where the sun never sets, where the sky glows with a constant, shifting light that dances across floating islands and rivers of molten gold. The warmth from the light seeps into your bones, mingling with the heat radiating from Zayne.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, they lift their veils. Faces that were hidden under cloth now emerge, flushed with fear, awe, and curiosity. You can see them clearly, and for the first time, their expressions are unfiltered—raw, human, vulnerable.

Elias is stationed at your head, his posture relaxed but alert. A smile tugs at his lips, faint but genuine, the kind of smile that carries both reassurance and a quiet pride. His eyes meet yours briefly, grounding you amidst the swirl of power and alien beauty around you.

Amber is beside him, her face sharp, her gaze cold. Envy flickers in her eyes, impossible to mask, as they dart between you and the divine being who looms over you, unblinking and impossibly still. There is admiration there, too, but buried beneath layers of resentment and disbelief.

The other brides are less subtle—some whisper to each other, voices like rustling leaves, while others glance at Zayne and back at you, unsure whether to tremble or step closer. In this realm, the usual rules of obedience and ceremony hold no weight. Only the god and his will matter here.

“Eyes on me.” A voice echoes, and your eyes instantly focus in on him, he’s kneeling over you now. Playing with your hand bounds, his hair dangles over your face, and you notice strings of gold interwoven with the black strands of his hair.

“You’re gorgeous.” He mutters, his hands coming down to rest on your hips, “Your deviance, it’s part of your charm.” He smiles as he says it, amused by the struggles of mankind.

His hand snakes behind the silk cloth hiding your full form from him, his hands are unnaturally warm, a welcoming contrast against the cold hard marble you’re tied to.

“Do you know what happens now?” He asks, slipping your silk shirt off your shoulders, chuckling at your silence, “No?” He mocks, frowning down at you, “Now, I will claim you, fully and thoroughly.”

The binds on your limbs disappear, and so do your clothes. You’re laid bare as the day you were born, your mark shimmers on your skin, calling out to its counterpart.

Your legs are forced apart as he slides between them, keeping you open for his gaze— his touch.

“As much as you claim not to want me, your body says otherwise.” He says, his hand reaching out to play with the lips of your cunt. “I mean, look at how wet you are?” He says, holding his hand up so you can see, “and I’ve barely touched you.” He chuckles, going right back to playing with you.

“I probably won’t even need to prep you,” he hums, slipping his fingers into you, “not an ounce of resistance.” He mutters, before adding another digit.

Your face burns from embarrassment, as you watch him play with your cunt. It takes you a moment to realize that you’re not the only one watching him, all the others are too.

They watch as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you, watching as he hooks his fingers to hit that special spot inside you.

The brides behind him step closer, as if trying to get a better view of his fingers stretching out your cunt.

“I’m almost done,” he sighs, almost bored-sounding. “Then we can get to the fun part,” he smiles up at you, chuckling when he sees the other bride's curiosity.

It feels methodical in a way, like this is something he does on a regular basis. Like you’re at a doctor's appointment and he’s your doctor.

“That should be enough,” he mutters, popping his fingers into his mouth.

He hums as he savors the taste of you, you’re almost positive you saw his eyes flutter.

saliva“The taste of you could drive a god mad.” He says, before wiping his saliva off onto the skirt of his robe.

“Zayne.” You whine, not liking the feeling of no longer having his fingers in you. “Shh,” he shushes, grabbing you by your ankles and pulling you into his lap.

“I’m gonna give you everything you want and more.” He promises, kissing your temple.

He nudges open the slit of his skirt, pulling out his cock— gorgeous thing, the engorged head shimmers with gold as the veins of it pulse with ichor—, tapping it to your clit.

Once

Twice.

“Do you want it?” He asks, mocking, rubbing the head of his cock against your cunt.

Listening to your whines and mews before stopping completely, grabbing your waist, “Answer me.” He demands, grabbing your chin and focusing your gaze on him. “Do you want it?”

“Yesyesyes” you rush out, feverish with lust. Your back arches are you try—and fail— to get his cock to slip inside of you, the only thing you succeed at is getting the gods disapproving tsk, “the only one who’s putting my cock in you is me.” He warns, his glare harsh as he looks down at you.

“Please, I’m so wet and empty. Please. I need it.” You beg, eyes teary as you pout up at him. “See, wasn’t that hard now, wasn't it?” He smiles, before finally— finally— positioning his cock to your hole, you try to push yourself down onto it, impatient. But he is far stronger than you.

His cock pushes into you, crushing that special gland inside you almost instantly, carving a permanent home inside of you as it pushes in.

Your reaction is immediate, your mouth falls open in an endless chant of swears and moans, your back arches as your nails find a home in the flesh of the God's stomach.

“There we go, darling.” He hums, as he bottoms out, right against your womb, right below his mark. He smiles as he notices the bulge that your abdomen has taken on to provide room for his cock, “Do you feel that?” He asks, pressing down on the aforementioned bulge.

He watches you squirm, gasping as you realize just how deep his cock is inside of you, “please,” you moan, pushing yourself down into his lap. “Fuck me, please.”

He hums, licking his lips, “That’s what I’m doing, is it not?” He mocks, tightening his hold on your waist, “You’re supposed to be a virgin, but you act like an A class slut.” The insult stings for a bit, but you’re too overcome with lust to care about it.

“Please, fuck me. I’ll go insane if you don’t.” Decorum is forgotten as you beg for the God to properly fuck you, “Pleasepleaseplease,” you whine, as tears begin falling down your cheeks.

“I’ve chosen a crybaby, so it seems,” he grunts, leaning down to lick your tears away, before lifting you up by your waist, ignoring your panicked cries.

“Nonono,” you cry, too cockdrunk to realize he’s giving you what you asked for. He shushes you, pecking your lips before dropping you back onto his cock.

“Zayne!” Came your choked out scream, whining and clawing at your mark as he repeats the process.

Your mark begins to burn again, though instead of it hurting like it did before, the pain blends with the pleasure, sending your nerves into overdrive.

“Zayne,” you whine, pressing down on your mark, moaning out at the pain increases, “Zayne.. wait, I’m gonna-“ you try to warn, but it’s far too late. Your cunt squeezes around the cock inside it as you squirt into the God's lap.

“Zayne.” You whine as he keeps his pace; rather than slowing down, he speeds up. Pounding into your cunt as if he’s trying to break something, “Zayne!” You yelp, feeling the head of his cock slide past your cervix.

“It’s time to fulfill your part of the oath.” He tells you, biting and kissing your neck. “It’s time to bear me a child.” He growls, his thrusts getting that much stronger.

“Zayne!” You cry, gasping as everything comes to a stop, as he climaxes, his head falling into the crook of your neck, his cum feels boiling inside you, thick and viscous.

The God groans, his hand gripping the marble of the altar, only for it to crumble under his strength.

You both gasp for air, sweaty and sticky from your actions.

The brides— now servants— around you step forward, taking your long forgotten clothes and heading off into one of the other rooms.

One of them linger— Elias, he smiles as he gives you a cheeky thumbs up before disappearing like the others.

“Are you thirsty?” The god suddenly asks you, lifting his head from your neck.

“No, not really,” you answer, clearing your throat, “are you tired? Hurt anywhere?” He asks, massaging your hips and thighs. “I’m fine, promise.” You mutter, bringing your hands up to play with his hair, toying his the golden strands.

He sighs, leaning into your touch, “I’ve missed this,” he confesses, breathing you in, “I’ve missed you.”

You hum, not quite paying attention, “You’ve known me before?” You question, whining softly when he moves, “Yes, I did. In a different lifetime, but that was eons ago.” He confirmed, kissing your collarbone.

“You know,” you began, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I could really.. go again,” you hum, biting at his lower jaw. “And.. judging by this.” You begin, pressing down on your mark. “You are too.”

“You really are an A class slut.”

—-