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hi i just wanna drop into your inbox and tell you that i really really like a particular fic of yours! i think âyou are also like meâ is a really fcking good fic. like to a point where i kind of struggle to piece together what exactly i like about it hahah,,,
honestly iâm a sucker for uncle!sukuna everywhere anytime and i was looking for more fics with him and stumbled upon yours. i might as well add that iâm still relatively new to the 1nc3st (i have yet to abandon shame, thus the censor đ) tag, but this fic has been honestly a great start lmfao
i really like how this fic (i havenât yet read any of your other fics so far) isnât just straight up smut with no plot or character depth. i love how toxic it is. how fucked up both reader and sukuna are. i also love their relationship. itâs not just the sex that makes it 1nc3st, itâs their whole relationship. bro i love it đ
idk what else to say rn or how to express the admiration i bear for this fic, but i do really love it. i read it in like one day on ao3 a few weeks ago and i still think about it.
people who donât like your blog or what you write need to learn about the block button and how to close a tab. like itâs fiction about fictional characters dawg.. though iâm glad youâre back and still got your account!
sorry for this lengthy message đ but iâve been trying to tell people more often now that i enjoy something they wrote, been slacking off a bit lol
â đ
omg thank you!! i think thereâs definitely a lot to think about past just the sex aspect which is why that fic is mentally tiring sometimes because especially at this point in the story Iâm treading carefully with relatively complex themes and emotions. for sure i also like to write a reader that is at least somewhat complicit in her circumstances (more of that to come whenever i continue it again lol)
weirdly enough they are like âŚ. my comfort characters đ it sounds insane but im attached to them fr
and aah thank u for your support đ i got my account back but tumblr fucked it up w the visibility thing and idek how to get rid of it so⌠đ
i really appreciate this message nonnie 𼚠and thank u for keeping fandom ecosystem alive by telling an author when u like something of theirs haha i feel like people overall donât do that as much anymore so itâs nice when someone does do it
cw: dubcon, cunnilingus, disturbing imagery
wc: 4.6k
a/n: i'm still shadowbanned buuuut i wrote this months ago tbh (if my writing style seems different that's why lol) so i figured i'll try and complete the miniseries for halloween. still on hiatus though so im probably gonna log back out after posting LOL
The rain hadnât stopped in days.
You sit alone in your apartmentâfloor littered with printouts, photographs, red-string scrawlings taped to the walls like a lunatic's confessional. Your laptop is open, but you arenât typing.
You stare at the still from the CCTV feed: a man in black, passing through the alley haze. His face is obscured, but the missing eye is unmistakable.
Sukuna.
Again.
A whisper in your head: He saw you that night.
Another: He liked what you were wearing.
You never filed a report.
You were told not to.
Supervisors said it wasnât your jurisdiction, colleagues changed the subject when you brought him up. One informant called him a ghost, another, shaking, said nothing at allâjust pressed a rosary into your hand and walked away.
You didnât listen.
You couldnât.
Instead, your fingers move to the worn leather journal filled with not evidence, nor analysis, but just fever-dream parables.
Confessions in metaphor, maybe.
Or perhaps the only honest way to understand him.
They told you you were making connections that werenât there.
That no one else had seen the mouthsâthe missing tongues, the sewn lips, the scriptures shoved down throats.
But that wasnât true; they had seen. They just looked away.
Because to see it meant acknowledging something too dangerous to name.
Your supervisor called it creative burnout, the department shrink said dissociation under prolonged stress.
She upped your dosageâRisperdal to slow your thoughts, Zoloft to silence them.
To muffle the voice that told you something was crawling just beneath the surface of the world. That Sukuna was more than a man.
So, you stopped taking them.
You eye the bottles now, sitting politely in their labeled containers, in the yellow plastic so harsh and lurid it feels like theyâre taunting you.
Grabbing them, you twist the caps open and drop them, one by one, into the sepia-toned ink jar crusted at the edges.
They vanish with quiet plops.
Milky streaks unfurl like underwater ghosts.
You stir the surface with a matchstick.
Then pick up your pen, and dip it in.
Because they didnât miss the patterns, they chose not to seem them.
Because seeing them means pulling at something you canât put back, means whispering his name into the dark and knowing he might answer.
Silence.
Thatâs what he punished.
Or worshipped.
You canât tell.
And as you write the title, your fingers graze the hem of your tank topâworn thin from too many nights spent here. No pants. No plan. No real sleep.
You tell yourself itâs for comfort.
But some part of you knows the truth.
You arenât just watching himâyouâre inviting him to watch you back.
Youâre no longer chained.
But the room is worse.
Itâs too elegantâlike someone had tried to decorate guilt.
Silken curtains, warm lamplight, a massive four-poster bed you refuse to sleep in. Walls with paneling that dances in the corners of your eyes, only pretending to behave when you look straight at them.
Sukuna lounges in a chair, legs spread, your notebook balanced across his knee. Your old, frenzied handwriting scrawled across every page.
Parables. Notes. Obsessions.
âTell me,â he says without looking up, âwhen exactly did you stop writing about the victims and start writing about me?â
You sit still on the couch, dressed in nothing but one of his white dress shirts.
No underwear. No bra.
He made you burn your own clothes.
âI donât remember,â you lie.
He flips a page, smiles and reads aloud,
'He is not a man, but a myth wearing a corpse. I dreamt his eye in the mirror. I dreamt his hands in my mouth.'
âPoetic,â he muses, âfor someone who called me a parasite in the report you tried to submit to the task force.â He closes the notebook with a snap. âGet up.â
You hesitate.
âI saidâget. Up.â
You do, feet bare on plush carpet. The air in the room feels thicker suddenly.
âWalk to the mirror.â
Thereâs a full-length one across the room, gilded in gold. You approach it slowly, an idea already forming in the pit of your stomach about whatâs coming.
âYou want to know the part I liked most?â Sukuna says, flipping through your notebook with slow, deliberate fingers, like heâs peeling something alive.
You donât answer, but your pulse flinches.
He finds the page and taps it. âThe Parable of the Orchard of Tongues.â A smile plays on his lips, dark and knowing. âThat one was⌠revealing.â
You try not to react. But then he tilts his head slightly and he says,
âI remember what you were wearing when you wrote it.â
Your stomach drops.
He stands and moves to a drawer. Not yoursâhis.
And opens it without ceremony to pull out something soft and familiar.
A small black tank top. Worn thin from use.
Your breath catches when he sets it on the chaise beside you. Then a pair of cotton underwearâgray, faded. No pants.
You stare at them. Then at him.
âYou kept my clothes,â you whisper, barely audible.
âI kept you."
That should disgust you. But it doesnât, not entirely at least, not with the way he says it.
âPut them on.â
You hesitate.
Sukuna leans in, voice low. âOr Iâll dress you myself.â
Something akin to shame burns hot in your chest but you reach for the fabric with shaking fingers.
His gaze sharpens, flicking down as you peel your shirt from your bodyâslowly, hesitantly. Your bra falls next. And then you slip the familiar tank top on, threadbare and barely covering anything, the cotton molding to your tits, nipples pressing clear against the fabric.
The room feels colder now. Or maybe you just feel seen.
You pause again, eyeing the pantiesâyour pantiesâbefore nervously peeking at him again. He doesnât need to speak words, the intensity with which his hawk-eyed stare bores into you says enough.
ButâŚyou suppose you should at least try and preserve what little sliver of your modesty you have left.
You clear your throat before quietly asking, âCan IâŚget some priââ
He laughsâif the sound can be called that. No mirth, just a chilling callousness.
âPrivacy?â he murmurs, voice soft as velvet and twice as suffocating. âThatâs cute. Real fucking cute.â
And if itâs even possible, his eye sharpens further, honing in on you with a look that can only be described asâŚpredatory.
âYou forget where you are.â The pause that follow is thick, dangerous. âYou forget who owns you now.â
A clawed hand curls against his knee, as he leans forward in a slow, dreadful shift. The air in your lungs is too thick to breathe as you force yourself to stand in place while his shadow crawls up your legs like cold water.
âChange. Now.â His voice drops to something that feels like a razor blade pressed to your skin. âOr pray that I stay in a gentle mood.â
His eye glints with something dark.
So you change.
No pants, just the top. Like before.
Once youâre dressed, he gestures toward the notebook again. âNow read it.â
You sit on the edge of the chaise, feeling small and exposed, your voice shaky.
âStart from the beginning,â he murmurs. âMake it real for me.â
When you opens the book, your hands tremble.
And when you start reading, your voice does too.
âThere was once a girl who could not speakâŚâ
Sukunaâs mouth curls, gaze locked firmly on your thighs.
âânot because she lacked a voice, but because she had seen what happened to those who used theirs.â Your voice is barely above a whisper, hands trembling as they hold the notebook.
Youâre painfully aware of the thin tank top clinging to your chest, the way the cotton rides up your thighs when you shift. Sukuna says nothingâbut you can feel his presence like a stormcloud.
He moves beside you.
âThey found a man once, with his tongue nailed to his own chest like a warning. A dealer. Another girl was missing hers entirely. Runaways. Informants.â
The chaise dips beside you from his weight as he sits, close enough for you to pick up his scent. Close enough that the heat of his breath brushes your shoulder.
âThe girl wrote it all down in her notebooksâwhat was left of their names, what little theyâd managed to say before.â
You fight the urge to look up into the mirror, but his reflection looms in it anyway as his hands slide down your bare arms. Lightly, just fingertips grazing skin. Heâs not holding you, yet you canât move.
ââHe feeds on silence,â someone whispered to her once. âThatâs how he stays alive.ââ you say, but your voice catches slightly.
One hand slips to your thigh. Slowly, maddeningly, he drags the hem of the shirt higherâuntil your underwear is visible, then exposed. Heâs not even looking at the notebook now, just at you.
âAnd so the girl stopped talking,â you continue, but itâs harder now. Harder to stay present. His thumb strokes a slow, absent-minded circle against the inside of your thigh like he's testing pressure points on an animal.
âShe learned how to smile without speaking. To weep without a sound, to bleed discretely.â
He leans closer, lips just at the shell of your ear. âI wonder what kind of girl bites her tongue and still finds ways to scream.â
Your whole body jolts when his hand moves up, cupping the heat between your legs through the thin cotton. He doesnât press, not yetâjust lets it rest there, warm and heavy.
You keep reading.
âYears passed, each story she couldnât tell weighing down on her from inside, pressing against her chest like a second ribcage.â
A sharp inhale escapes you when his fingers flexâjust slightly, just enough to remind you heâs there.
ââŚWith it festered the rage, the horror, the delight and awe of everything sheâd seen, gestating within her. So one night, barefoot and wild-eyed, the girl wandered into the forest with dirt beneath her nails and rage in her throat, a knife held tightly in one ink-smeared hand.â
You resist the urge to pause when you feel him pulling away from you, standing up from the chaise.
âThere, beneath the oldest tree she could find, she dug a hole with her bare hands.â
Your voice wavers Sukuna crouches before you slowlyâalmost lazilyâlike a man settling down to study a piece of art. His hands rest lightly on your hips, thumbs brushing over the faintest lines of your pelvic bones beneath the soft hem of the tank top.
He doesnât say anything, just watches.
âShe raised the knife and cut a line beneath her tongue, slicing across that thin membrane-like stretch of flesh that connected it to the floor of her mouth.â
Then his thumbs hook into the waistband of your underwearânot pulling, not yetâbut just anchoring there. A quiet threat, a promise of a direction that has you involuntarily pressing your thighs together.
âAnd into that hole, she buried the blood that dripped and flowed like hot wine.â
The proximity, the way heâs positioning himself between your legs, head tilted slightly upward, gaze fixed not on your face, but higherâunder the thin fabric, beneath the trembling skin.
Despite how you consciously ignore him, your body canât, and soon the gusset of your panties grows damp.
âKeep going,â he murmurs.
He parts your thighs with subtle pressure, not forceful but firm, making space for himself.
You clutch the journal tighter, knees shaking a bit, but you continue, âShe covered it with earth. And waited.â
Until he presses his broad nose right to your clothed cunt, and breathes in deeply.
âS-Seasons changedâŚâ you read, though the words falter now. âTheâŚThe soil shifted.â
Sukuna lowers his mouth just enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against the inside of your thigh. There, he presses a single, cool kiss to the soft, warm flesh.
The words come unevenly as you gasp slightly. âFrom thatâŚburied flesh, trees began to grow.â
Your thighs tense under his palms as his breath ghosts higher, just brushing the thin fabric of the underwear heâd made you change intoâhis souvenir from your obsession.
Youâre burning all over, trembling, clit throbbing, but you keep reading.
He doesnât do anything yet, but his voice cuts low across your skin.
âIf you make a sound,â he says, tilting his head so his mouth is nearly against the inner seam of your thigh, âyou start over. From the very beginning.â
Your throat tightens, especially as he kisses another kiss right at the crevice between your thigh and outer labia, too close to where the fabric ends. A kiss sucked between teeth that pinches just a little.
You nodâtoo quicklyâand immediately regret it.
âSay it,â he murmurs, fingers now sliding up along the backs of your thighs as he turns his head, pressing another wet kiss to the inner part of your other thigh. âOut loud.â
âIf I make a sound... I start over,â you whisper.
âGood girl.â
Then he leans in.
Not a kiss, not a bite...just the maddening brush of his tongue over the fabricâsoft, slow, calculated. Testing.
You squeeze the journal so tightly the paper begins to crumple.
âKeep reading,â he reminds you, voice muffled but steady.
You try. You really try.
âLong and wet⌠theyâŚthey dangled in clustersâŚâ
Then he presses harder, the wet heat of his tongue seeping through the already damp fabric, the tip of it pressing right up against your swollen clit.
ââŚpink and red and bruised purple, slickââ
He sucks at it through the fabric, and your breath stutters, voice breaking into a half-swallowed gasp.
He stops instantly.
And you feel him smile.
âStart over.â
Your mouth opens, then closes againâdry. Humiliation burns hot under your skin, but pride is louder, just for a moment. You want to disobey. Want to push back, make him wait.
You shouldnât, but you do.
The silence stretches.
And you feel him still.
Not just in bodyâbut in attention. He stops touching you, yet somehow, the lack of contact feels even more intimate. The air goes still between your legs, between your breaths.
Then, slowly, he shifts.
He doesnât speak right away. Instead, you feel the warm exhale of his breath move across your skin as he lifts his headânot all the way, just enough to make you feel his eyes on you.
Watching.
Measuring.
Then his voiceâlow, thoughtful, almost gentle:
ââŚYouâre hesitating.â
A statement, not a questionâas if noting a change in weather.
You flinch.
And he chuckles softly. Itâs not mockingâitâs worse than that; itâs pleased.
âI wondered how long your pride would last.â
His hand slides back up your thighânot to tease, not to reward, but to remind. His palm presses flat against your inner leg, steady, firm.
âI like that part of you. The part that resists.â
You swallow.
âBut hereâs the problem,â he continues, leaning in, voice dropping an octave. âPride doesnât keep you safe. It just makes the fall worse.â
He presses a kissâsoft, reverentâover the same spot he punished seconds ago.
Then he does nothing but wait.
The air between you vibrates with what he could do next.
But he wonât, not until you choose.
His mouth doesnât move, but his hand does.
A shift in pressure. A slow, deliberate slideâjust enough to make your breath catch again as his fingers toy with the edge of your soaked underwear, as if considering somethingâŚheavier.
"You want me to stop?" he murmurs, voice coiled like smoke. Heâs no longer smiling.
He lifts his head just enough that you can see his expressionâa terrifying calm.
âSay the word. Go on. Say it, and Iâll stop. Iâll walk away, and youâll be left exactly where you were beforeâalone with your parables and your pills and your pretty little theories.â
You donât speakâyou canât; your mouth is dry again. Something is coiling in your chestârage, shame, arousal, fear. Youâre not sure where one ends and the other begins anymore.
He leans in, tongue brushing the curve of your hipbone, almost thoughtful.
âIâm going to make you read every last word of that story,â he says, fingers curling now under the fabric at your hip, but not pullingâjust holding, anchoring. âAnd Iâm going to teach you exactly what it means.â
Your breath stutters.
Then he says itâsoft, low, vicious, âYou wrote this for me, didnât you?â
A flush scorches your cheeks and your body goes rigid.
âI saw what you wore. I saw the way your thighs shifted when you thought no one was watching. You didnât write this for justice. You didnât even write it for yourself.â
His mouth trails closer again.
âYou wrote it for the man you knew was watching you. Waiting.â
Thenâfinallyâhe moves.
He pulls your underwear down slowly, baring you completely to him.
âStart from the beginning,â he says. âAnd this time, if you make a soundâŚâ
He drags a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below your navel, teeth grazing skin.
ââŚyou wonât just start over.â
He pauses, lips hovering just above where youâre pulsing and exposed.
âIâll make you beg to.â
You swallow hard. The paper in your hand is trembling now, fingers crumpling the corner. You try to force your voice to steady.
âThere was once a girl who could not speakâŚâ
The words come thin, frailâlike string about to snap. His hands havenât moved, but his presence is heat and weight and breath between your legs.
âânot because she lacked a voice, but because she had seen what happened to those who used theirs.â
He exhalesâwarm and humidâright against your bare skin.
âThey found a man once, with his tongue nailed to his own chest like a warning,â you recite, and your voice nearly breaks on warning.
Then his tongue movesâslow, deliberate, up the inside of your thigh, then over, just brushing the edge of where it matters. Not quite touching, but close enough to burn.
âAâŚA dealer. Another girl was missing hers entirely.â
His tongue slithers into your entrance, dipping into your heat with a soft, wet noise.
âRunaways. Informants. The girl wrote it all down in her notebooksââ
It pulls back out, dragging languidly over sensitive flesh till it pushes against your clit, finally giving pressure to you where your nerves have been screaming for it.
You flinch. Your knees try to close, but his hands tighten around your thighs, spreading you again, firm and unhurried.
He doesnât say anything; he doesnât need to.
Start over is implicit now. It looms unspoken in the space between you.
You exhale shakily, reset your grip on the page.
âThere was once a girl who could not speakâŚâ
This time, as you speak, he doesnât wait. His tongue dips lowerâhot, wet, maddeningly gentleâand licks a slow stripe through the center of you.
Your voice cracks, but you force it on.
âânot because she lacked a voice, but because she had seenââ
He presses a kiss directly against your clit. A real one, firm and searing.
You choke on the line, the words blur on the page.
And his mouth stills.
You blink, breathless, your body trembling in frustration and heat and shame.
ââŚAlmost,â he murmurs softly against your damp folds.
âNo, pleaseââ you beg, barely audible.
âStart over.â His tone is without sympathy, but cruelly patient, like he has all the time in the world to make you start over again and again until you break.
Thereâs a beat.
Then he kisses your clit again, harder, till you whine in desperation, frustration.
Torture.
But you start again, the same words that have now been engraved into your memory.
âThere was once a girl who could not speakâŚâ
This time, you push through, through each flick of his tongue against your clit, every torturous drag of it swiping through your slick folds, even when he once closed his teeth around your clit ever so gently, and pressed down.
And youâd nearly ripped the page from how tightly you gripped it, but you pushed on till youâd finally gotten past the furthest point you made it beforeâthe first time.
âLong and wet, they dangled in clusters, pink and red and bruised purple, slick with dew.â Some were small like a childâs. Others thick, cracked, and old.â
His wet lips seal around your trembling cunt, warm tongue lapping at you as he sucks your clit, popping it out, and sucking back in over and over. Your words get faster, higher.
âThe orchard breathed. At night, the girl walked among the treesânaked, silent, listening.â
You feel his gaze on you as you read, as he swirls the tip of his tongue around the swollen nub before sucking again. Taking in the glossy shine of your eyes, at the tears that have already dried on your cheeks, at the rise and fall of your tits under the thin tank top.
âThey whispered to her in the dark, twitching and moaning. Curses. Confessions. The last words of those who had disappeared.â
He pulls back just slightly. You donât dare pause, nor look down to see whatâs happening.
Just keep reading.
âShe plucked them like blossoms and pressed them into her notebooks.â
Something wet drips onto your pussy. Heâs spat on it.
A shiver skitters up your spine, and you stutter a bit. âS-Some she fed to men who made her promises.â
His slick lips press back onto your heat, tongue smearing saliva around with your juices to make a filthy mess. The tip of his tongue makes tight circles on your clit, before he drags it down to your entrance and back up to your clit.
âOne, she burned and watched it scream.â
All you can feel is heat, wetness, pulsing in your clit.
âThen he came.â
Pressure that builds and builds as he sucks your clit again, tongue slipping over it within the vacuum.
âA man with fire in his palms and ash on his breath. He walked through her orchard like it already belonged to him, listened to the tongues.â
Your words come out more and more strained but you are determined to make it through this time, even when you hear the soft squelches of him working his mouth against you more insistently.
Hungrily.
âTouched them with his bare hands, caressed their slick surfaces.â
God, youâre going to cum, you canât hold it off any longer.
âAnd when he looked at her, he said, âYou shouldnât have kept them alive.ââ
So closeâ
âThâen he set it all on fire.â
The words come unevenly, pitch something closer to a whine when you feel your orgasm hit you, lighting you up as your legs shake and tremble and strain against his grip.
But you keep reading, and he keeps licking your clit.
âSheâShe didnât run. She watched the f-flamesâŚlick the sky and said nothing.â It hurts now, your whole body twitches and jolts at the overstimulating touch as the tip of his tongue flicks meanly right over the bundle of nerves.
âNot when the air was soon thick with the cloying scent of cooking muscleââ
His movement slow, but he glides his tongue through the arousal coating your pussy. It feels good when he kisses it again, softer, this time.
âânot even when the tongues screamedânot for help. TheyâŚThey cried out her nameâfor the first, and last, time.â
You pause, and take a deep breath, finally daring to look over at him, at the mess heâs made between your thighs.
Your pussy glistens with saliva, as do his slick-smeared lips.
Victory should feel clean, and yet it doesn't.
You exhale shakily, the journal slipping from your fingers, pages curling slightly from how tightly youâd been gripping them.
Sukuna lifts his head slowly, the corner of his mouth glistening with damp, glinting mischief in the low light. For a second he just studies you, watches your breath stutter and your thighs twitch involuntarily around him.
A finally he speaks.
âShe never tasted the fruit.â
Your stomach tightens, pulse hammering, but by the time you open your mouth, heâs already shifting upward, dragging his hands along your thighs as he rises, pushing your knees farther apart.
âStick your tongue out.â
Hesitantly, you part your lips, unfurling your tongue for him.
He doesn't rush. Instead, he runs his thumb slowly over the flat of your tongueâpressing down just slightly, enough to make your breath catch in your throat.
âSo clean,â he murmurs, as if disappointed.
His other hand slips behind your neck, cradling your skull. You feel the pressure of him everywhereâagainst your thigh, your jaw, the edges of your sanity.
âYou buried the fruit. Watered it. Listened to its secrets.â
Another press, firmer now. His thumb still resting on your tongue.
âBut you never let it change you.â
And then, as if to show you what he means, he slips two fingers into your mouth alongside his thumb.
Your lips part further, breath hitching. You suck instinctively, and his breath shudders at the sensationâbut still, he holds control like a wire pulled tight.
And then his grip shifts, fingers grabbing the slick muscle to lift it, sliding his thumb along the soft, silky underside.
He presses into the flesh, where that thin membrane connects it.
âThis is where she cut it, right?â he whispers. âSo it couldnât keep the silence anymore.â
You stare at him, a twinge of fear running cold through you that maybe heâs going to recreate that scene. Cut that delicate flesh.
Heâs capable of much worse, after all.
Your breath hitches around his fingers, but you donât pull away.
His gaze doesnât waverâwatching your face as though your expression is more revealing than anything your body could offer. The intimacy is unbearable, because itâs not entirely lustâit's recognition. A slow, unblinking understanding of what you are when you think no oneâs watching.
Thenâjust as your tongue begins to curl reflexively around the intrusionâhe pulls his fingers free with a wet sound, slow and deliberate, dragging your lower lip down slightly as he does.
âNot enough,â he murmurs, voice husky. âNot yet⌠Keep your tongue out.â
You comply, stretching it out again, till it nearly aches.
And wait.
He studies it like an offering, not like a man about to kiss you.
Images flash in your mind, ones you saw while going through evidence. Crime scene images.
Mutilated tongues, some torn entirely from the base.
His eye flicks from your face to your tongue, pink and trembling in the air. You can feel it twitch slightly, as if unsure whether it wants to retreat or reach for him.
You can only imagine the pain of having your tongue cut out.
Sukuna doesnât kiss you.
Instead, he leans forward and lets his breath fan over itâwarm, steady, humid. Traces of cigarette smoke and alcohol in it.
Then, slower than you expect, he extends his own tongue, and licks yours.
Flat. Wet. One long drag across the length of it.
Not lustful or loving.
His own tongue feels wrong somehowâtoo warm, too textured. Like it's remembering things your body shouldn't know.
Like heâs passing something into you, or pulling something out. The salty traces of your own arousal, beneath it something mineral-like, like ash, maybe.
The slipperiness of wet muscle gliding against muscle.
Your spine arches, then trembles, like a string pulled taut.
And when he pulls back, his lips donât close. They remain parted, stained faintly with something that isnât yours, eye shining with something unnerving.
âNow, youâve tasted it too.â
Youâre still holding your tongue out, blinking, breath shaking.
You donât know what he means, but at the same time, you think you do.
You don't have to respond to this just a random person on the internet getting excited.
I really hope this doesn't come off as creepy but I went down a whole rabbit hole because I realize I haven't seen a fic of yours in my likes and i thought I followed you but I guess not đ so when I tried you were no where in sight (which is weird because when I found the fic right now it has it liked just not popping up in my like folder??) it took me 4 Hours and by some miracle I was able to find you because another person I follow had you @ i am so sorry you been dealing with those people and I hope you're safe :(
haha omg no my account fr disappeared and then came back đ i hope no one thinks i blocked them bc itâs very very rare i actually block someone
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I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE BACK! I just read your new fic and followed you, so I was sad when I thought you deactivated your account. đ
no Iâd never id at least leave my account up so that my fics are still there to read. however i do think i wonât be very active rn with this shadowban and classes picking up again
the leftism leaving people's bodies when you tell them making fun of someone's appearance is always objectively scummy even if the person they're making fun of is bad
"lol are we really surprised that the dude who said eating puppies is good and morally correct looks like THIS" and then it's just a picture of a completely normal looking person who is fat or has acne or just in general doesn't meet the societally imposed standard of conventional "hotness," which is bizarrely being posited as an indicator of morality
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im cryinf i wrote and posted a single fic on a new blog cuz I thought this one wasnât coming back and it had pee content and I was thinking of you đ
if youâre okay with it, could you please give context about what happened??
thereâs a lot of things i wonât get into too much but basically im 99% sure that thereâs a specific group of people that dont like me and im very sure they had sth to do with it.
not to mention that i know at least one was on my blog on my latest post that i posted like mins before my account disappeared so im guessing theyâve been watching my acc too? đ and then soon after they sent asks to my friends blogs telling them that theyâre next or sth (they were in fact not next)
buuuuut yeah to be clear i mind my own business and i really just donât interact w these people so đ¤ˇââď¸
throughout this entire thing tumblr didnât even reach out to me once, not even when my blog disappeared or when it randomly came back again either LMAO
synopsis: it should've been your older sister in this arranged marriageâinstead you've ended up as his wife. the estate youâve moved into togetherâa late 19th-century manor owned by his familyâis far grander than comfortable, and somehowâŚwrong.
pairing: wife!reader x husband!sukuna
cw: arranged marriage au, age gap (reader is 22 and sukuna is 28), power imbalances, paranormal occurrences, sukuna being sukuna, forced proximity, angst, family drama/conflict, relationship issues, reader has a sister, is the house haunting her or is she haunting the house, possible unreliable narrator, reader has her own lore, eventual smut
this chapter: sukuna antagonizing reader and being a huge asshole, sexual innuendos and dirty comments on his end, the house has beef w reader, mild injury
wc: 8k
a/n: i have a final project due in five days so we get another new fic
As the tires crunch over the gravel driveway and through the wrought-iron gate, you grip your suitcase tighter than necessary.
The estate looms aheadâa Meiji-period manor perched at the foothills of Nagano Prefecture, half-hidden by curling fog and the dense cedar and cypress forest that seems to press in on it. Dark wooden beams, tall narrow windowsâthis is a house built to watch over generations youâll never belong to.
Not you. Twenty-two, out of place, paired with a husband six years your senior.
This is wrong. All of it.
The arranged marriage was never meant for you, not really.
But the perfect, poised eldest daughter of the family had disappeared right before her own wedding to Sukuna.
Where Sayaka went, no one knows. The authorities were involved, but your father used his connections to keep it from hitting the newsâscandal was the real crime, after all.
Of course, you worry for your sister, but thereâs resentment too. She left you with nothing but a cold, sharp man who couldnât care less whether you lived or diedânot a single note, not a single word of goodbye.
She couldnât do it, so here you are, forced to do it instead.
Sukuna steps out first, tall, straight-backed, expression a mask of polite irritation. You follow a few steps behind him up the stone path lined with LEDâs to mimic natural lanterns, pausing behind as he opens the front door with a slow push, letting it swing on its hinges.
Even from here, the smell hits you immediatelyâa blend of old cedar, dust, and perhaps the memory of forgotten incense.
It shouldnât smell like that.
The house was renovated a year and a half ago but it smells untouched.
âAfter you,â he says, voice low and sharp, finally turning towards you. Red eyes sweep over you in a glance that makes your stomach tighten as you step over the threshold.
The entrance hall is large but restrainedâa checkered tile floor in stone gray and cream, the kind of modern material that tries too hard to imitate something older. The carved wooden staircase winds up from your left to the second floor, lacquered rail gleaming beneath the warm light tucked into the cornice as you toe off your shoes into the rack built into the wainscoting.
Trying not to stumble, you step through the next doorway into the reception room and set your suitcase down.
The silence presses in thick, heavy as you take in your surroundings.
High ceilings supported by decorative crown moldings, smooth white plastered walls with subtle washi textured panels, a fireplace anchored in one wall within a frame of marble.
Around the room are various vintage objectsâa mirror frame gilt in gold, velvet armchairs, a porcelain tea set, a grand piano in the corner, and a modern chandelier hanging from the ceilings.
The flooring is dark, oiled keyaki wood and the Persian carpet has faded to the color of dried tea leaves and dead roses.
The space feels both timeless and faintly uncannyâa room caught between centuries.
On the far end of the room a shoji door likely opens to a corridor leading to the Japanese wing and behind you the oak paneled wall hosts portraitsâstern ancestors in black-framed oil painting that seem to watch you with careful judgement.
A trait, it seems, inherited by their heir whoâs already dumped his bag on the nearest sofa and is pulling out a cigarette and lighter. The lighter gleams, engraved silver and polished, an emblem of old money like the rest of this room
Just the parlor itself is huge, with French doors leading to the veranda and large glass windows overlooking the front garden.
It feels less like a new home and more like a set youâd stepped into by accident.
With the idea that maybe it would be in your best interest to begin to get to know the cold stranger youâre supposed to live out your life with, you clear your throat and speak.
âItâsâŚbigger than I thought,â you murmur, forcing calm into your voice as your eyes dart around.
Your hands are clammy.
From what you can tell so far, the house is beautifulâluxurious, a careful blend of vintage tradition and modern comforts.
Yet the clean lines and fresh paint only seem to highlight what feels like something lurking beneath the surface, something that refuses to stay buried despite the best efforts.
A kind of wrongness you canât name, only sense, like something tryingâand failingâto imitate what itâs not.
Almost, but not quite.
Or maybeâŚyouâre just in your head again.
Sukuna doesnât bother to look at you as he strolls towards one of the large glass windows overlooking the front garden, lighting up the cigarette.
Conveniently, thereâs already a vintage ashtray on the low table beside him.
âBigger doesnât mean better,â he says flatly, cracking the window open to let the smoke curl into the cold autumn air.
The last of daylight is bleeding out, golden rays mellowed out through gauze lace curtains that frame the sides of tall wooden sash windows.
Swallowing, you take another cautious step,
âI can handle it,â you mumble more to yourself than him.
Maybe affirmations will helpâbecause so far this entire ordeal has only been a disaster for your sensitive nerves.
Your sister disappearing, the forced marriage that plucked you out of your own life, the man you are to call your husbandâŚand now this huge house that feels like its gaslighting you into believing its facade of normalcy.
At the sound of your voice he turns, eyes glinting, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
âHandle it?â he echoes, voice teasing but edged with something sharper. âYou think I was the one who had a choice in all this? Donât flatter yourself.â
Your cheeks burn, a mix of anger and trepidation.
Youâd expected him to be distant, perhaps coldâand to some extent he certainly is not only all that but also the kind of man who seems to take issue with every small thing you say or do.
Yet itâs really the way he looks at youâpart amusement, part contemptâthat makes the room feel smaller than it is.
It doesnât help that heâs ridiculously, unfairly, disgustingly hot.
Hot in a way that does nothing to ease your tensionâeyes like drops of blood, pupils pinpricked, features chiseled and sharp, black nails and skin etched with inky tattoos that mark him as a creature no one should get close to.
The only feature that doesnât quite match is his hairânot for the messy sweep and undercut, but for the color: pastel pink, soft and almost innocent, utterly at odds with the immediate, daunting presence he radiates.
Safe to say, you are all the way out of your depths.
Lifting your suitcase, you decide to try and start with living arrangements.
âWhere do you want me to keep my things?â you ask as politely as you can.
âAnywhere,â he mutters without looking up. âItâs not like I care what corner you clutter up.â
Sukuna has the incredible ability to make anyone feel as though they should apologize for simply existingâmerely for the crime of crossing into his life.
Unfortunately there is no one else in this vast, painfully empty household apart from him but you, and so itâs you whoâs currently feeling like you should apologize for your birth.
Exhaling softly, you press your lips together. The house feels colder than it should, considering thereâs insulation.
âThe realtor said this place hasnât been lived in for years despite the renovationsâ you start again. âDonât you think it would be good toâ I donât knowâ check the pipes, or locks and stuff, just in case?â
Of course your words are met with a cold, disdainful glance.
âWhat, you scared a ghostâll crawl out of the plumbing?â He faintly smirks again, more mockery than anything else. âYou can handle a faucet, canât you, wife?â
Your teeth grind, skin burning hot as you try not to fidget noticeably.
âDonât call me that.â
âWhy not? You married me, didnât you?â
He flicks ash into the tray, the sound of it making you flinch.
âNot by choice.â
âGood. Wouldâve been sad if you actually wanted this.â
You didnâtâyou still donât.
And somehow the comment feels like a calculated blow towards you anyways.
Silence stretches between you, thick and stifling as you gnaw intently on a loose piece of flesh inside your cheek.
The house doesnât even creak; itâs pin-drop silent.
âWhichâŚroom are you taking?â you finally dare to ask again.
âThe master bedroom upstairs.â
âSo which room am I supposed to sleep in?â
âDonât care, as long as its not mine.â
A pause.
âOh.â
Once again he turns, sharp crimson eyes cutting through the curling smoke. A vicious sneer unfurls on his lips and when he speaks again itâs deceptively calm, though every word is clipped and deliberate.
âYouâre stupid if you think Iâd sleep with you.â
You freeze, throat tightening, though you force yourself to meet his gaze.
âI didnât meanââ
âSure you didnât.â He stands, lazily brushing some ash off his hand and picking up his bag. âGo pick a room, princess. Iâm not tucking you in.â
Walking past you, he brushes your shoulder â not hard, but certainly enough to make you feel even smaller, standing all alone with nothing but a single suitcase to remind you that youâre still a person.
You lie on the futon with nothing but the bento box your mother packed for dinnerâa cold dinner you ate alone in this hollow, stifling room.
The one you chose sits on the farthest end of the estate from Sukunaâs bedroom: a tatami room that somehow survived the twenty-first-century renovations that transformed the rest of the house with glass and steel, humming with central heating and polished sterility.
Here, though, the walls still breathe that faint, timeworn scent that met you the moment you stepped inside.
Itâs nice enough, but quiet.
Too quiet.
Wrapping the blanket tighter and tighter around yourself, the makeshift cocoon that does nothing to stop the chill seeping in from beneath the sliding doorsâdrafts that shouldnât exist in a house so thoroughly sealed and insulated.
Youâve always been the sort to startle too easily. In primary school, your friends made a game of itâcreeping up behind you, whispering your name just to watch you flinch.
But the older you grew, the less harmless it became.
People say childhood fears fade away with time.
Yours only ripened into something heavier, a quiet dread that pressed in after dark.
With age your imagination learned new cruelties, learned to carve shapes out of shadowâfaces where there were none, motion in stillness, a presence that lingered just beyond the edge of reason.
Still, it had been easy enough to laugh off at homeâparanoia, childish nerves, nothing more than a simple quirk of yours.
But in this houseâŚ
In this house the silence has a sound of its own, and the longer you stay awake the louder it gets.
A sharp crack splits the silence overheadâprobably just the beams adjusting to the night airâbut it startles you all the same.
And of course, itâs all you can do to convince yourself there isnât someone standing out on the veranda.
Then comes the soft, deliberate scratch of something outside, and your eyes go wide, palms damp.
Itâs natural, you tell yourselfâSukuna, maybe, moving around to get water from the kitchen. Or the old frame settling. Or a raccoon dog nosing through the moss near the foundation.
After all, the forest presses in especially close on this side of the house.
Which only makes it worse, really.
If you think about it too much, even your own thoughts begin to sound suspectâlike the house is listening, remembering what it used to be before someone tried to make it new again.
For perhaps two hours you lie thereâshivering, curled up, the blanket wrapped tight around you as if it can still the racing of your heart.
Sleep refuses to come.
Every sound, every whisper of wind against the paper screens sends your pulse higher, your eyes darting through the dark like a prey animal sensing movement.
At some point, the thought crosses your mindâmaybe you should go to Sukunaâs room.
Cruel as he is, even his sharp tongue would be preferable to this hollow quiet. The simple warmth of another person nearby might be enough to anchor you because itâs the isolation that gnaws worst of all.
Heâs probably asleep by now, you think. Maybe you could just slip in quietly, stay the night before he even noticesâ
No.
The defiance comes quick, almost desperate. You wonât beg for comfort, not from him.
Not after his sneers, not after his barbed wordsâhe thinks you pathetic enough as it is already.
So you stay, pulse heavy while shadows seem to creep closer, papered windows rustling slightly from the nightâs wind until finally you sit up with gritted teeth as though you can face down the dark itself.
Movement catches at the edge of your vision.
Your gaze jerks toward the shĹji panelingâand for an instant, youâre certain you see the faint outline of a shadow moving behind it.
But when you blink, thereâs nothing.
Still, your eyes stay fixed, your fingers knotting tighter into the blanket, uncertain of what youâre even watching forâonly that you are.
You try to reason with yourself, to call it nerves, a trick of light, the mind clawing for meaning in this strange new spaceâ
Something shifts in the corner of the room.
Faint, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably wrong.
Along the tatami near the wall, a scraping sound runs deliberate and patient.
Air exits your lungs, blood pounds in your ears.
You shouldnât have come here, you shouldnât have come here, you shouldâve stayed homeâthis was a mistake, all of itâ
The thought loops endlessly, a frantic pulse in your skull.
You want to scream, to run straight to Sukunaâs room, but pride pins you where you are and you manage only to drop back onto the futon, clutching the blanket up to your chin like a child hiding from the dark.
The sound deepensâa low, dragging whisper across the floorboards. It slides closer, patient and steady, raising the fine hairs on your arms until you can feel the tremor in your skin.
Fingers digging into the futon, you actually start prayingâwell more like begging for help from some higher being as your heart stutters in your chest.
Then a chill brushes the nape of your neck, cold enough to lift your hair.
Thereâs no window openâthere canât be.
Itâs the house, you tell yourself. The age, the wood, some trick of airflowâthere must be a scientific explanation, something ordinary, something human.
It has to be.
But the lie curdles sour as cold sweat seeps from your pores and you shiver violently.
Itâs nothing, itâs nothingâ
Another shiftâcloser this timeâthen a faint thump against the wall behind you that makes you jump.
Eyes clenching shut, you tell yourself youâre imagining thingsâeven as every nerve insists you arenât.
Minutes drag into hours in that suspended state of dread; you lying rigid beneath the blanket, barely breathing, as if stillness might make you invisible.
The sound circles youâa slow scrape, a soft drag across the boards âdeliberate, patient, like itâs testing you.
And still⌠you do not call out to Sukuna.
Not for help.
Not once.
By some small mercy, the noise fades. The wind rises outside, rattling the windows, reclaiming the silence.
When you dare to open your eyes, the room is stillâempty, orderly, as though nothing had ever disturbed it.
Your hands tremble too violently to hold the blanket straight.
Curling in on yourself, shivering, you hover in that fragile space between exhaustion and panic. You donât have it in you to cry, but the solitude flays you raw regardless.
Half-dreaming, you reach for memories of home.
Your real home. The four safe walls of your childhood room.
And you keep remembering to avoid the fact that some part of you knows that somewhere deep in the house, something had watched you, tested you, and is still waiting.
You wake to morning light filtering through the shoji, drawing long, pale rectangles across the tatami.
Everything is quietâserene, almostâbut the stillness only reminds you how little you truly slept. The few hours you managed were a blur of half-dreams and shallow breathing.
Even now, as you sit up and gather yourself for the dayâfor himâthe weight of exhaustion tugs at your eyes.
Crossing the glass-enclosed engawa, the chill of the floorboards seeps faintly through your socks.
You pause despite yourself.
The inner courtyard, framed in morning mist, is achingly beautiful.
Dew glittering like shards of glass on the moss and the low maple branches, each droplet trembling before it falls. The leaves are mostly green still, though the first veins of crimson have begun to creep in as if the trees are quietly bleeding into autumn.
A koi pond mirrors the soft skyâpale gold, almost translucent. Beneath the surface, the fish flicker and vanish, sending slow ripples across the water.
You admire, you envy, then you move on.
Finally, you reach the double doors to the kitchen and ease one open, only to find him already thereâtall frame propped against the counter, a mug steaming faintly in his hand, scrolling his phone with the other.
Sukunaâs eyes flick toward you, sharp and unreadable, tracking each step as you move quietly to the fridge.
You pull out another neatly packed bentoâyour motherâs handiworkâand though the day has barely begun, tension has already coiled tight in your chest.
Should you greet him? Say good morning? Pretend you donât see him at all?
Opting for silence, you set your meal in the microwave and allow the hum to fill the silence. If he wants to speak, he can.
Of course, he doesnât.
And in that case, you see no need to bother with pleasantries eitherâespecially not when you have bigger concerns on your mind.
Clearing your throat, you try to feign nonchalance as you take the box out though your fingers betray youâgripping the edges tighter than they should.
âAbout last nightâŚâ you begin, voice tentative.
He hums without looking up from his screen. With the way he regards youâlike youâre barely thereâyou might as well be the ghost haunting a house that isnât yours.
âHm?â
âIââ You swallow hard. âI think somethingâŚhappened while I was in bed.â
The words feel fragile, hanging in the air.
How do you even bring this up without being dismissed outright?
Sukuna finally glances up, expression unreadable at firstâthen his mouth curves into that infuriating smirk. âAnd youâre telling me this why, exactly?â
You blink, bento box clutched firmly. âWhat?â
âIâm saying,â he drawls, setting his phone down with a quiet clack, âI donât need to know what you do in your bed, princess. Especially if youâre going toâŚmake noises about it over breakfast.â
Thereâs no way. He cannot possibly mean what you think heâs saying.
Your jaw drops. âItâs not like that!â
The man makes you nervous enough as it is, and this brazen attitude of his on top makes you want to shrink into yourself, as if disappearing entirely would keep you safe from his cutting gaze.
Lazy amusement gleams in his eyes as he eases further back against the counter. âMm. Sure. So what was it, then? Nightmares? Or were you just lonely?â
Despite the fact that itâs not trueâthe accusation makes your cheeks burn hot as you try to keep your eyes on him. âYouâre disgusting.â
âAh, so now Iâm disgusting,â he murmurs, tapping his mug against his lip as though thinking. âTen minutes into marriage and Iâm already getting scolded for not satisfying my wifeâs nightly needs.â
âI said it wasnât that!â you snap indignantly.
He laughsâa short, quiet sound that somehow cuts deeper than if heâd shouted. âThen stop sounding like it was. You woke up scared, thatâs all. Donât invent ghosts just to make me come running.â
Your throat tightens as he picks up his phone again. âYou think Iâm making it up. I didnât even tell you what it was yet, and you think Iâm making it up.â
âI think you like attention,â he says easily, eyes dropping back to his screen. âAnd youâre getting it. Congratulations.â
âWhat?! Sukunaâ Iâm serious! I heard something last nighââ
âApart from your own fingers, you mean?â
If the point was to humiliate you into leaving him alone, it worked. Whatever that was last nightâit isnât worth this.
Hell, maybe you did imagine it after all.
Hopefully, you did.
And maybe you were naive to expect anything different.
Youâve heard it your whole lifeâsensitive, skittish, overactive imagination, paranoidâevery label like a pin to the skin. So why would Sukuna be the one to take you seriously?
âJust⌠forget it,â you mutter, turning away.
Behind you, his voice cuts through the airâcalm, almost offhand, but sharp enough to make your jaw tighten.
âDonât get too lost in your fantasies,â he calls. âWouldnât want you forgetting the moving trucks come today.â
The sun is already high by the time the low rumble of engines outside cuts through the silence thatâs hung since breakfast.
You flinchâhadnât even realized how long youâd been sitting there, frozen in your room, replaying that little exchange over and over, thinking of all the things you shouldâve said instead.
When you finally creep down the hall to the parlor and ease open one of the French doors to the front veranda, the moving truck is already in the driveway, back doors yawning open.
Sukunaâs outside, directing the movers with that same crisp, unhurried authority. He looks entirely unfazedâlike this is just another transaction, another job to be handled and forgotten.
Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. The sight makes something twist inside you.
Itâs the same look he wore during the ceremonyâdetached, composed, as if the entire marriage, the entire you, were nothing more than another formality to check off.
You tell yourself itâs expected, and yet somewhere deep down, it still stings.
He glances up once, catches you watching, and the faint smirk that curves his mouth tells you he hasnât forgotten a single word from earlier.
âYou gonna stand there spying or actually make yourself useful and come help?â
With a deep breath, you take a small step out onto the veranda. âIâŚdidnât know they were here already.â
âTheyâve been here for ten minutes. Thought you were too busy having some more personal playtime in your room,â he calls rather loudly across the front garden.
âSukuna!â you hiss, eyes widening as you glance around, praying none of the movers caught that. âDo not talk to me like that!â
He only laughsâlow, amused, the sound of someone perfectly aware heâs gotten under your skin.
You stomp down the veranda steps, jaw tight, refusing to look at him.
âRelax,â he drawls behind you, that infuriating smirk audible in his voice. âItâs just a joke.â
Itâs infuriating how easily he moves through the chaosâsleeves rolled up, giving orders, the air around him heavy with authority and that effortless control you canât stand.
By midafternoon the sun hangs high, casting long, warm stripes of light across the veranda.
Youâre grateful it isnât summer; if it were, this mightâve been unbearable. As it is, the sheer size of the house makes the work feel endlessâevery hallway, every tatami-floored room demanding something to be carried, cleaned, or rearranged.
And of course, every time you try to lift a box, heâs there. Watching.
âYouâll hurt yourself if you keep pretending you can carry that,â he remarks smugly, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the faint amusement playing in his eyes.
You glare up at him, breath coming unevenly as the weight drags at your arms.
âWhat? You want me to say Iâm impressed?â he adds with mock sincerity. âFine â Iâm impressed you havenât dropped it yet.â
He turns away before you can bite back a retort, but you catch itâthe twitch at the corner of his mouth, the ghost of a smirk he tries to hide.
The heat, the noise, himâall of it feels unbearable. By the time the movers finally drive off sweat clings to your scalp and your feet ache.
You stand at the doors to the parlor, flushed from the sun and the weight of the boxesâmore than half of which still sit unopened and scattered across the floor.
Sukunaâs sprawled across the velvet sofa, a bottle of water in one hand, the other arm draped lazily along the backrest, shirt hanging half-unbuttoned.
âYou couldâve at least helped bring in some of it,â you say, folding your arms.
He glances up at you, expression unreadable. âI did help. I told them where to put it.â
âYou stood on the porch drinking beer while they did all the work.â
A brow arches, unbothered. âDelegation. You should try it sometime.â
You let out a sharp breath, brushing damp hair from your face. âYouâre unbelievable.â
He smirks. âYou married me.â
Your lips partâbut nothing comes out because he knows exactly how to hit that sore spot. Every time he says married or wife it sounds less like a fact and more like the punchline to a cruel joke.
âMaybe I made a mistake,â you mutter.
âOnly maybe?â He lifts the bottle and downs the rest of it, before replying, âWell I know for a fact this was a mistake.â
âYeah, but you donât even try to make this easier.â
âI didnât think it was supposed to be easy,â he says simply, then leans forward, elbows on his knees. âBut youâyou come in here acting like itâs a fairy tale, then get mad when it isnât.â
You bristle, nails digging into your palms. âAsking you to just be decent isnât actââ
With a raised hand, he cuts you off. âRelax, youâll give yourself wrinkles. The movers are gone, the house is standing, and weâve only argued three times today. Iâd call that progress.â
âYou think this is funny?â
A corner of his mouth lifts. âA little. You donât seem good for much else besides entertainment, so Iâll take what I can get.â
âYouâre not even good for entertainment,â you snap. âTell meâwhat do I get out of this? From this marriage? From you?â
That stupid smirk widens. âYou like to look at me.â
A momentary loss of words at his sheer audacity, has your mouth opening and closing before you shake your head.
âYou know what, if you want to stroke your own ego, go ahead. Iâm done with this,â you finally huff, turning away.
âAnd here I was thinking you were doing such a lovely job of stroking it for me, wife.â
His voice drips with smugness, stirring a low growl in your throat. You grit your teeth, forcing yourself not to rise to the bait.
Instead, you march over to the stack of boxes by the entryway and crouch down, tearing one open just to do somethingâanythingâto keep from throwing something at him. The soft scrape of cardboard fills the silence, the mundane sound grounding you.
Until from the couch, his voice drifts over, lower now, almost casual. âYou missed one near the staircase. Medium sized one with your name on it in bold.â
You freezeâbecause you know exactly which box he means.
Shitâyou meant to sneak it to your room but amidst everything, you forgot.
And thereâs not just oneâthere are two boxes you meant to hide. But that second one is a problem for later.
âIâll get to it later,â you say quickly.
He doesnât move, just watches you from across the room, the faintest hint of a sly grin tugging at his mouth. âNo, go on. Letâs see whatâs in it. Could be something important.â
Your pulse jumps. âItâs just clothes.â
He lets out a low, amused sound. âYeah? The way youâre guarding it, Iâd guess otherwise.â
âSukuna, itâs just clothes! What makes you think you have the right to go through my things?â
He doesnât bother answeringâmostly because he knows itâs unfair, and partly because he couldnât care less.
âBring it over here and open it,â he says, voice silkier now, the challenge unmistakable. âOr Iâll open it myself.â
Thereâs something about the weight of his tone, his whole presenceâan authority that rouses a nervous urgency in you, like some buried instinct insisting you listen. A kind of urgency that feels like a survival instinct, even if youâre pretty sure he wouldnât actually hurt you.
Would he?
It hits you again, like cold waterâdespite all your arguing, all your proximity, you donât know this man.
So, jaw tight, you stalk over to the entryway, grab the box, and drag it back into the parlor. It lands at his feet with a heavy thud.
âGo ahead,â he presses.
Again you hesitateâbut you know that not opening it would be far worse. The things he might invent to torment you would be far crueler than whatâs actually inside.
The tape peels back with a slow awful rip, and you lift the flaps to reveal whatâs inside.
Innocuous bundles of folded fabric greet your eyes.
You stay silent, hoping his interest will wane.
Instead, after a secondâ
âPick up the clothes on top. Show me whatâs underneath.â
God. Youâre never going to hear the end of this.
Cursing yourself for being so careless, you reluctantly lifting some of the folded clothes to reveal whatâs hidden underneathâsilk, satin, laceâŚ
Sukuna lets out a low whistle that makes blood run up till your ears, tilting his head with the biggest shit-eating grin youâve ever seen him wear in the few days youâve known him.
âSo you have been holding out on me.â
âIâI didnât pack those,â you stammer stupidly, coming up with the most unbelievable excuse in your panic. âMy momââ
âYour mom bought you lingerie?â he laughs. âHow touching.â
âShe was being practical.â
âOh yeah, real practical. âHere, sweetie, take these in case your husband needs convincing.ââ
Heat crawls all over your skin like insectsâuncomfortable and invasive and impossible to ignore. âThatâs disgusting.â
âHey, Iâm not judging,â he says, leaning over to take a better look at your collection, eyes scanning over your intimate wear. âMaybe you were planning ahead.â
âPlanningâ?â
âCanât blame you. Iâd be curious too, marrying a stranger,â he tilts his head, snatching up a skimpy, lacy mockery of a bra before you can protest. âFigured youâd test the waters, huh?â
âPut that down!â
âNo way. Turn around,â he coaxes.
You donât know why you obeyâmaybe mortification has you cornered, maybe itâs the strange, stifling pull of his authorityâbut you twist, hesitating, shoulders tight, eyes wide.
Sukunaâs grin spreads slowly, deliberately, and you freeze when he holds the bra up to your breasts, pushing lightly against them as he tilts his head, clearly trying to imagine what theyâd look like on you.
Youâre fully clothed but the way heâs undressing you with his eyes alone has your breath shortening, swallowing thickly.
âMmâŚtell you what,â he proposes smoothly like this is no more than another business deal. âYou wear any of these that I pick, and Iâll unpack the rest of the boxes and set everything up, no questions asked.â
Your pulse rockets up to your throat, mouth dry.
On one hand, these boxes are going to be a fucking pain in the ass, but on the otherâ
âAnyâŚof them?â
He hums. âSomething that shows off your tits. Maybe some crotchless panties, tooâI know you definitely have a pair in there.â
You stay quiet.
âOh, and,â he leans in, whispering just close enough to make your skin crawl, âsomething redâsuits desperate girls better.â
That does it.
You snatch the lace from his hand, shoving it violently back into the box, cheeks burning, fury coiling tight in your chest. His laughter trails behind youâsharp, derisive, punctuating your humiliation.
Because this wasnât about desire, not at all, it was about making a fool out of you, piece by piece.
âDonât fucking talk to me,â you spit, rising with the box under one arm before you turn and stalk away.
A floorboard creaks under your footâlike the house is laughing along with him.
You spend the rest of the afternoon avoiding Sukuna, unpacking boxes on the side of the house youâve silently claimed as yours and exploring the estate.
A typical Meiji-era manorâthe Western wing, obviously Sukunaâs domain, grand and suffused with quiet nostalgia, the kind that hums beneath polished wood and heavy drapery.
The Japanese wing, by contrast, is the side youâve staked out for yourselfâserene, shoji panels filtering the light, warm wood framework, the silence so complete it presses against your ears.
The estate feels larger when youâre aloneâcavernous, echoing, too still for comfort.
Every sound is multiplies; even your own footsteps feel intrusive, a violation of the quiet.
By late afternoon, a car rolls into the driveway. Pressing against the window, you catch sight of a pale-haired figure stepping from the vehicle, paper bags in hand.
âUraume,â Sukuna calls over his shoulder. âLeave them in the kitchen.â
The newcomer nods, precise and quiet, every motion measured. âOf course.â
When Sukuna introduces themâout of obligation, it seemsâyou murmur a polite greeting. Uraume will be helping with groceries and meals throughout the week. Their gaze flickers briefly toward you, something almost curious in it, before they look away.
Once they leave, you return to unpacking, halfway through a box of dishes, when something shifts in the corner of your eye through the open door to the zashiki.
You freeze, squinting.
A figure stands in the next roomâa young woman in a muted dress, back turned, hands busy dusting the alcove.
A maid? You hadnât been told there was one.
Tentatively, you step closer to the doorway. âUhâŚhello?â
She turns slowly, a faint, polite smile on her lips as she bows. âOh, hi! Iâm just here to help out.â
Her voice is light, friendly enough, but thereâs something about her that makes your stomach twist â she looks oddly familiar, though you canât quite place her face.
And her eyesâŚthey donât seem to focus on you. Thereâs something glassy in them, something faraway.
If you didnât know any better, you could swear she looks through you, not at you.
âOhâŚokay,â you murmur, shifting uneasily. âSo youâll be coming around a few days a week too?â
The smile on her lips widens just a fraction too wide. âYou might see me more often than that.â
The air feels suddenly colder.
You nod too quickly and back away, muttering a polite thanks before turning down the hall.
When you glance over your shoulder again, the doorwayâs empty.
You tell yourself she probably just stepped out the other way.
You tell yourself that, and keep walking.
From your first day in the new home, youâve concluded that something is offâsmall things no one else would notice, but you do.
All of them.
Random cold spots through the manor are old news by now.
Then there are the crooked shadows, particularly in the zashiki overlooking the small north garden, or along parts of the engawa that run along the glass-enclosed courtyardâthe angles never quite match the sunlight or the placement of the light fixtures.
Mismatched details stand out, too.
Renovations were supposedly recent, yet some light switches and door handles look decades older, as if they were replaced once, and then replaced again with the originals.
Both hallways that lead to your room in the southeastern corner slope ever so subtlyâSukuna didnât ask what you were doing when he caught you rolling coins down them.
And sure enough, the coins always rolled straight toward your room.
The floor creaks.
Not enough on its own to warrant concernâbut enough to make you swear it continues long after you stop walking, like footsteps lingering an extra beat.
Nothing overtly wrongâand thatâs the worst part.
Come nightfall, you decide a bath is in order.
There are two full bathroomsâthe one in Sukunaâs master bedroom, and the main bath suite just down the hall from your room, tucked beside the kitchen.
And that bathroom is impressiveâa small dressing room with a cedar bench, towel racks, and sinks leading into the bathing area proper.
Gray slate floors, a rain showerhead, and a deep hinoki tub for soaking afterward, complete with digital temperature control. A separate cubicle holds the toilet, neatly isolated.
The problem isnât the bath itselfâitâs its placement in the northeastern corner of the estate.
Considered inauspicious and often called the demon gate, this part of old houses was frequently left empty to let spirits pass.
At your childhood home, you couldâve dismissed such things as superstition.
HereâŚyouâre not so sure.
Maybe itâs just a suggestion in your mind, a place to blame your uneaseâbut it does make you feel especially off.
Still, you push the thought aside, change into your towel, and pad quietly down the corridor, turning right and walking to the end, toward the bathroom.
Opening the door to the dressing chamber first, youâre greeted by pale wood walls, the faint, lingering scent of cedar, and pristine sinks with racks neatly arranged to hold your things.
You stare, unable to decide what exactly youâre searching for.
Everything looks spotless, almost impossibly new, yet the air carries a faint, damp chill, and the fluorescent light hums a little too loudly overhead.
Your gut twists. You shouldnât be hereâespecially not at your most exposed, towel barely clinging to you, vulnerability pressing against your skin.
Swaying on your heels, hesitating, you weigh your options, and after a moment, quietly close the door.
Youâll simply have to ask Sukuna to use his bathroomâand hope he agrees.
Even if it means looking foolish in front of him, itâs better that than enduring whatever lingering unease this room has draped over you.
Traipsing half-naked across the grounds, you circle the entire first floor, finally stopping at the study door.
A deep breath, then three tentative knocks.
Then you open the door just enough to get a glimpse of cigarette smoke curling in the dim light. Heâs still in his dinner shirt, sleeves rolled up, the desk lamp casting a warm, deliberate line across his jaw.
His eyes flick down to your towel-wrapped frame, linger, then rise with deliberate slowness.
âIf youâre here to complain about ghosts again,â he says dryly, âIâm busy.â
You clutch the towel tighter. âIâm not. I justâŚwould it be all right if I used your shower tonight?â
âNo.â
Your mouth parts. âNo?â
He leans back, arm draped lazily over the chair. âYou can use your own bathroom. Iâm not sharing mine.â
âIâŚâ You swallow. âI wasnât asking to share it. JustâŚonceââ
His mouth quirks. âThatâs what sharing means, princess.â
âDonât call me that,â you mutter.
He exhales smoke, a faint smirk curving his lips. âThen donât stand half-naked at my door asking to get in my shower.â
You fumble over words, caught between indignation and mortification. âI wasnâtâitâs not like that!â
This might easily be one of his most infuriating habitsâdeliberately twisting your words back onto you with the means of embarrassing you into deference.
Again you gather yourself, trying your best to make it sound reasonable. âThat bathroom just feelsâŚweirdâlike in aâŚweird part of the houseââ
Sukuna stares, the faint curl of smoke drifting between you.
âYouâre scared of a dark corner of the house, so your solution is to shower in my room?â
ââŚYes?â
Then he standsâsuddenly enough to make you jolt, though you manage to stay rooted in place.
âShould I stand guard while you wash up too? Maybe help with the towel when thereâs a little accident and it slips?â
You flinch. âYouâre an ass.â
âNot denying it.â Your breath stumbles somewhere in your throat when he steps closer.
Heâs not smiling nowâjust looking.
Gaze dragging from your face down to the edge of your towel where it hugs your chest. That same look from earlier, like heâs peeling the fabric back to see whatâs underneath.
âYou really that desperate to be near me?â he asks quietly.
âDonât flatter yourself.â
His laugh is low, soft, and not nice. âYou came to me, princess.â
âYou really think thatâs what I want? From you?â you manage to bite back, voice tight.
His eyes gleamâthat usual taunting ridicule youâve become all too familiar with, but also something unreadable.
âYou wouldnât ask if you didnât like the idea.â
âI do notânot everything is about you!â
âWell, thatâs wonderful,â his expression shifts, all mirth draining away, replaced by the usual austerity. âBecause the answer is still no.â
This is utterly ridiculous. At this point itâs just a battle of egosâneither of you willing to back down over a stupid bathroom, like two rams butting heads.
You square your shoulders, meeting his gaze.
âThis is a shared living space,â you say, surprised at your own nerve. âThat means Iâm entitled to that bathroom. And the rooms. All of it.â
A pause.
âEntitled,â he repeats, like heâs tasting the word. âYou move into a house owned and provided by my familyââ
âDo you think I wanted that, Sukuna?â you snap, the frustration thatâs been simmering all day finally boiling over. âYou think I wanted any of thisâincluding this fucking house? No! But here I am, having to live in it anyway, so the least I can do is claim my share, okay?â
For a beat, he just staresâeyes narrowed, unreadableâbefore his expression loosens into that infuriating, condescending ease.
âYouâre absolutely right, wife.â
âI am?âŚâ The word catches you off guard before you straighten, chin lifted. âOf course I am.â
âEverything here is yours,â he goes on smoothly. âThe floors, the kitchen, my bathroom. Hell, why donât we even share the goddamn bed while weâre at it, huh?â
âThatâs not what I meant and you know it,â you hiss, heat crawling up your neck. âI get itâyou never wanted this, I never wanted thisâbut stop punishing me like I arranged this⌠marriage.â You spit the word like poison. âThe least you can do is give me what Iâm owed.â
He doesnât interrupt this time. Just watches you, amusement flickering like a spark in his eyesâthe kind that tells you heâs enjoying this far more than he should.
And when he finally does speak, itâs soft and cutting.
âYou want your rights as my wife,â he says, leaning back in his chair, âmaybe you should start acting the part.â
âAnd what exactly does that include?â you ask sarcastically. âMaking your bed? Spoon feeding you? Gentle parenting you?â
He smirks wickedly, like youâve walked straight into his trap. âYou can start with dropping that towel so I can see my dear wifeâall of her. And decide if any of this is even worth it.â
It might not be the worst of the perverted jokes and innuendos heâs thrown at you all day, but it is the one that finally makes you crack.
You spin on your heel before he can see your eyes tear up.
Itâs been so busy since you arrived that you barely had space to feel homesickâbut now it hits, a hollow punch to your stomach.
You donât want to be here.
You want to go home, to your old life, to your friends, to the life you were poised to buildâyouâd just graduated, ready to find your place in the world, before being forcefully torn out by your roots and thrown here, where no part of you fits.
You donât want to be with him. And the thought of ever being intimate with someone who sees you like thatânot out of desire, not from any sense of connection or closenessâbut as a tool for humiliation, reducing you to nothing but flesh to claim⌠it makes your skin crawl.
It would have preserved more of your dignity if he had simply rejected you entirely, showing not the slightest inclination toward you in that way.
Behind you, his voice follows, sharp and taunting. âWell, I guess that answers that.â
Your grip on the towel tightens. You wonât give him the satisfaction of turning around, but even without looking you hear the faint click of his lighter, the slow exhale of smoke, and the final, smug murmur as you shut the door behind you.
âShared house or not, princess, that bathroom stays mine.â
When you reach the bathroom, slipping your towel off, toes curling against the cool stone, the unease inside you is swallowed whole by a deeper ache.
Tears run in rivulets alongside the warm water as you stare at your toes, wondering for what reason he could possibly despise you this much.
Because youâre not supposed to be here. Because this wasnât your place to takeâit was hers.
You feel like nothing but a cheap, flimsy imposter.
Lost in your thoughts, you just barely register a sound above the falling waterâa faint, unmistakable hiss of the toilet flushing.
Wrapped in steam and heat, you stiffen, blood running cold.
It must be Sukunaâyouâre sure you locked the door and putting aside the unlikelihood of it, youâre sure you wouldâve caught it if someone passed by the frosted glass doors of the shower on their way to the toilet cubicle.
But it has to be him.
It has to be.
For a good three minutes you stand unmoving, ears straining to catch anythingâmaybe the toilet flushing again, the door opening, or perhaps his silhouette passing by you to exit the bathing area.
Under normal circumstances you would be livid and mortified, but right now you pray that itâs him.
Silence. Nothing but water falling.
The toilet must have flushed on its own.
With the heated seat, remote-control bidet, and motion-sensor lid, you wouldnât be surprised if it even had an automatic flush when you stood.
And this house hasnât been touched since its renovation over a decade agoânot leased, not rented, not even as an AirBNB.
The tech must just be faulty, thatâs all.
For two more minutes you wait, and stillâŚnothing.
Hesitantly you let yourself relax again, squeezing some shampoo to lather in your hair. Fingers massaging your scalp, your thoughts almost drift back to where they wereâ
BANG.
You shriek and jump, just barely keeping yourself from stumbling, pulse pounding wildly.
âSUKUNA?! THAT IS NOT FUCKING FUNNY!â
God, you knew he had it out for you, but this seems a bit unreasonable even for him.
Silence.
One moment, then another.
The asshole mustâve gotten a good laugh out of that before moving onâ
BANGBANGBANGBANGâ
You nearly slip again, pressing yourself against the cool tile behind you, wishing you could melt into it, eyes wide as panic claws at your chest.
Should you stay in the shower? Step out and lock yourself in the toilet cubicle? Has someone broken into the house just because new people moved in? What do they wantâand how long will that door even hold?
Silence.
As sudden as it began, itâs gone, leaving your ears ringing, lungs burning.
Youâre done. You shouldâve just used his shower anyway. Or maybe, at this point, it would be better to skip showering altogether if this is how itâs going to be.
Whatever it is, you need outâand fast. Go get Sukuna, because surely he mustâve heard it too. Or maybeâŚsomething happened to him.
You canât tell if itâs a case of whatever or whoeverâs behind that door, but both possibilities are equally terrifying.
Eyes squeezing shut, you tilt your head back into the spray to rinse the suds as fast you can, the world narrowing to the rush of water, the heat, the pounding in your chest.
When you open your eyes againâ
Thereâs a figure standing inches from the glass.
Too close. Too still. Too tall.
The shape of a head, a bodyâblack where the light should be.
You barely manage a sound before panic surges and you stumble backwards and slip. Shoulder slamming into the tiled wall, the world spins and your temple cracks into solid stone.
Everything folds inward.
The last thing you hear is the slow creak of the door easing open.
a/n: sukuna dealing with his mildly concussed wife next chapter...
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do people here think enjoying fictional incest content with a fictional character means u actually want to fuck ur family members irl or is the collective iq on tumblr greater than double digits
oh and also coming onto my page and speculating about possible past associated traumas from my life as reason for being into something is ⌠frankly very odd behavior! please donât do that not just to me but to ANYONE đ