fanfics blog (jjk × l&ds)

Waiting for him to slice the skin off, all that was stretched up an enticing distance from your skull. 

You feel the gutteral growl vibrate in his teeth. 

The ear and what clung to it, spat across the room to a wide container on the bathroom counter.

His palm flexes around the base of your neck, held still while your head becomes whole again. 

You’d asked for restraints, if it was easier, when the truth was you liked it. Wanted to be put in, kept in place. The constant pressure felt nice, it kept your joints in place, kept you from wondering if you should have found some better position. So being adjusted by someone else, who hooked the leather straps around you to whatever was nearby, it left you to submit easily with no wandering mind. 

they also made it easier to ask for this. 

to just pull a leash, a harness, whatever piece you were in the mood for from its chest. hold it out with a tilt of your head, and if he was down, Fushiguro would pick out the rest of it. restrain you in whatever way, maybe splayed out on the floor with your feet hanging over the bath's edge. you'd watch his eyes narrow, the invisible blade might take your bicep. your fist would tighten around whatever it was holding (usually an extra strap rolled up, but someday he would make you hold your own hand, right? when you were ready for it?), and he would laugh, so subtly, but it was there. some slight amusement at your reaction, or whatever he saw on the inside. 

your eyes were glazed over by then, especially if he'd rub your head like a good pet.

 there was nothing left, no thoughts or pain or identity or time. you could be good, you were so good for him, buried alive in sub space.

He makes you taste it. Pushes his thumb into a cut on your face, neck or shoulder, and then holds your jaw open with his free hand. Sometimes his nail scrapes down your tongue with the trail of blood. 

Sometimes the bleeding and tears would mix on their own, and other times he would drip some red into the salty streaks like a watercolor artist. Write words, you could only guess, across the skin.

The only clothing you wore was a small pair of shorts that barely stretched over your ass. Sometimes he’d push them up on the side, striking grid lines deep into your asscheek. He might twist them out, if feeling particularly sadistic, if you couldn’t get enough. But it was more fun to trace the blood and draw with it, to fill up the shallow craters— riverbeds of scarification he’d skinned into you, healed patiently all on their own.

Fushiguro spreads your thighs apart, stroking back and forth over the inner part of it. So you know what to expect, where he’d take from, so you'd yearn for it. 

Even tremble with desire. 

Or maybe you’d finally reached your limit. an unshaken chill, and coordination was crumbling. You didn’t drink, couldn’t anymore. Sometimes POTS did that. The blood pooling in your hands and feet was taking its toll, you should ask to be flipped over. maybe the bathroom wouldn't feel like a rocking boat then. 

You take a breath, open your eyes and look behind you. But don't see much of anything. 

Just that purple haze that somehow shines bright yellow at the same time, a shadow of cursed light. 

“Fushiguro?” it’s only a whisper. He isn’t touching you. Isn’t using both hands to catch and throw a piece of your thigh into the bin. your feet are numb, The rattle of pills over tinnitus as Milk runs by.

When releasing the technique, Fushiguro’s eyes blurred over your bare thighs, the sight of your hand spread on the floor, the leather circling your wrist, for a second it was his hand. 

Instead of you , he was torturing that spirit, dissecting it, calling it an insect, because that curse was a reflection of him. Of his cursed anatomy. Forcing himself to relive something from a thousand years ago.

But it wasn’t him.

The furry headbutt into his jaw, the shaking of pills until he took the bottle. 

Shit, that was weird. Did he inherit Sukuna’s memories from the first vessel?

the air had never been so thick with iron, laying heavy on his lungs.

“Fuck,” he whispers, petting Milk’s head with the back of his stiff hand after swallowing the pill. 

He needs his body back. His legs are warm with blood centimeters deep on the floor and still draining onto the bottom of your feet. 

maybe it would be different for you, with such shit circulation, blood stored in your hands and feet, but generally?

 this was a death sentence within minutes.

you were already hanging limp, joints locked in place or held up by the restraints. it didn't look like a comfortable position anymore. 

how long was I out? he pushes forward, willing his soul back into the body, filling out the hands like a stretched out glove. It wasn't enough. 

if he could just get up enough to lean forward, direct the RCT out his mouth, that might work. 

it might risk infection. but sealing the wound and replenishing blood was better than dying.  

his hands wouldn't open or close. they slip off anything that might be used for support.

Fushiguro looks at his hands, eyes focusing and blurring, all the red that stained them. 

close enough. with each loose fist held in front of him, he summons Mahoraga.

Ethereal bare feet splashed in the mess, mahoraga's hand reaching down to heal the deep gash in your thigh.

Fushiguro's intentions lingered in the shikigami, who took it upon themself to undo all the chains.

lift your limp bodies into the bath. turn the water on warm and let it spill the blood from both your skin.

Fushiguro was exhausted. he shouldn't be.

you were unconscious, pale and clammy still.

mahoraga returned every so often, using reversed curse technique to gradually increase your blood volume.

they sprayed down the rest of the wetroom, pushing blood with water toward the drains and out of Milk's paws.

Fushiguro felt numb.

his arms draped over your shoulders to hold your back against his chest, see that the spray wasn't going to slowly fill your lungs. Your ears were freezing against him.

oxygen always struggled to reach your head. so what if replacing your blood wasn't enough? what if it was too late—

“could you cut these off?” you looked over your shoulder, Fushiguro too stunned to speak.

I hate wet clothes, they clung to your body too tight to remove yourself.

He looked to Mahoraga, who pulled out a small blade with rotating positive energy. their gargantuan pale hands pulled the fabric away and sliced it down the sides, until the shorts were easy to peel off.

“thanks,” you murmured, eyelids already too heavy to hold.

Fushiguro turned you over, so your feet could rest on the edge and your face was above water on his lap.

you looked up at him, apology deep in blank eyes before they closed with a hand over your heart.

it had to hurt, trying to compensate even more than usual. being so completely helpless.

your pulse didn't feel like a heart rate, but some jarred mechanical vibration struggling to keep up.

his body was back, finally. even if it didn't feel like his— Was it ever his? Just moving on its own, going through the motions of scrubbing you clean.

he couldn't lose you. not like that, not again.

mahoraga laid a towel down by the door, drying his feet to carry that bin of meat to the freezer.

They returned with Fushiguro’s phone, already dialing Shoko and healing the hip stained with blood from cutting his own soggy boxers off.

The words wouldn’t come out right, even when he found them.

there was a reassurance through radio static that help was coming.

Just the pale god bathing a fallen sorcerer while he cried.

whether you were aware of this, he couldn't tell. There was no reaction, but his eyes were blurred with tears, his own breaths drowning out the noise.

excerpt from ch. 11-12 (dog years + scissorhands) of creep <3 happy kinktober

With how much your leg hurt right now, how wet it felt beneath his shoddy patch-up job, you weren't totally convinced that you'd survive even if Sukuna didn't strangle you or stab you again. Darkness creeping in the edges of your vision, head swimming and stuffed with fuzz as you forced yourself to focus on his face, working up just enough saliva in your mouth so you could spit right on his nose.

His huff of disgust brought you a little bit of comfort, your mouth curling up in contentment as he let go of your cheek to wipe it away.

"You goddamn bitch-"

"He's coming for you," you swallowed hard, chest heaving as every breath you sucked in made your lungs strain and ache.

"He's not here," Sukuna snapped at you, but his dark eyes darted where you guessed the door was.

You couldn't bring yourself to glance back at it.

Not when you didn't think you could live much longer if Suguru disappointed you.

"You can't seriously think anyone will save you," Sukuna continued to scoff, his jaw locked tight as he tried to seem all strong and tough, chest puffed out as you squinted at him. He used to terrify you. Occupied your nightmares and haunted your shadows.

But he was just a human, wasn't he?

Suguru was something more.

You should've known your cult leader would never let you go.

The door broke off the hinges, hitting the floor as your heart rattled around against your rib cage, stalling as Sukuna aprubtly let go of you.

“Don’t look," an achingly familiar voice warned.

Suguru didn’t have to tell you twice.

Sukuna tried to throw some weak insult back at him, standing to put up a pointless fight. Beginning to avert your gaze down before deciding to just scrunch your eyes shut entirely, wishing you could cover your ears as a sick wet crunch rang out and shut your former flame up.

For good.

Trembling as you tried to shut out the noise, focusing on the pain just to push away the panic pulsing through you. The primal part of you that wanted nothing more than to curl up in a tiny ball and disappear, shivering as you attempted to convince yourself that Suguru wasn't the one to be scared of here.

The silence that came afterwards was almost worse though.

When you realized the only person having a hard time breathing was you.

"You're shaking," Suguru's honeyed voice broke the tension, but you couldn't bring yourself to open your eyes. To blink up at him when you were sure all you'd see was blood.

He clicked his tongue, and it wasn't until you felt a tug on your collar that you realized it was with quietly simmering rage, just for the weight around your neck to disappear in an instant. Ripped off without a second of hesitation. Destroying the restraints that bound you like it was nothing to him.

You felt his warmth before his actual touch, his fingers tracing tenderly over your arm before he sighed - and scooped you up.

Effortlessly lifting you into his arms, cradling your head close to his chest like he didn't want to risk you seeing the scene he created anyway.

“It hurts,” you heard yourself whine, bottom lip quivering just for him to press a gentle kiss there. Not shushing you, you supposed, but more of a show that he was here.

That you were safe.

Sukuna had been wrong.

Someone had come to save you after all. Someone cared enough to stop him too.

“I know,” Suguru murmured softly, his soothing voice washing over you. "Open your eyes for me."

No.

Shaking your head as much as you could, burying your face deeper into his shirt while he tutted his tongue disapprovingly at you.

"Angel," he scolded, and tears you couldn't stand were welling back up in your eyes. Weakness creeping in and clouding your judgement as you stubbornly refused to crack your eyes open to take a peek.

"I can't," your voice cracked.

Your head hurt. Your leg hurt. Every piece of you felt like it was on the precipice of crumbling, on the brink of breaking down despite how right it felt to be back in his arms. Sheltered in his sturdy embrace as he took you out of what might have been your grave if it hadn't been for him.

You had spent a life trying to be shatterproof.

Invincible. Immune to fear or fury.

Taking whatever came at you without cracking. But fuck, you were tired. Tired of the fighting and the fucking up and fumbling for control that was never yours to have.

“Hold on for me, okay? I’m taking you home,” Suguru did his best to comfort you through it, but your breath hitched, shaky and unsure as you felt your heart start to slow. Every thump of it pushing more blood back out of your wound, your leg growing more damp by the second as the sticky blood trickled down your thigh. “You can’t fall asleep.”

All his scolding didn't stop you from drifting off anyway.

A faint voice in your head thankful that at least you got to hear his voice one more time before you went. Got to feel his hands on your clammy skin, wrapped up in his warmth for a final moment.

You honestly didn't think you'd be waking up again.

"Wake up, pretty girl."

"I'm supposed to be dead," you groaned, gritting your teeth as you slowly came to in freshly laundered sheets, blinking up just to be damn near blinded by how bright it was. Daylight streaming through as you lifted an exhausted arm to cover your face, wincing at how sore your entire body felt.

"Too bad," Suguru wryly replied, and you finally forced yourself to pull your arm down enough to peek at him.

He was sitting on that armchair of his, pulled right by the bedside as he stared at you with furrowed brows. His antennas twitching too, wings shrugged down close to his side as he rested his chin on his fist.

A childish piece of you wanted to take the pillow out from underneath your head and throw it at him.

"What happened?" You croaked, your throat painfully dry as you made yourself look back down at the wrinkled blankets on your lap.

"I took care of the vultures," he grimaced, disgust dripping from his every word as he scooted the chair closer.

About to grab your hand before you slipped it back underneath the blanket.

“I’m mad at you,” you mumbled into the pillow, rolling away like it would make you feel less pathetic. “You let Gojo lock me up.”

A snake had been slithering around right under his nose. And you were the one to pay the price for his scheming - your own too, technically.

“I’m sorry,” he softly replied, getting up to perch on the edge of the bed and tenderly pet your head. “I could tell something was wrong, but I wanted to see what he’d do. If I’d known-"

"That he was going to sell me off to a sociopath?" You blurted out, brain throbbing inside your skull as you squinted to see if there was a cup of water on the nightstand.

"I shouldn't have trusted him," he admitted. "Not with you."

"Why does it matter?" You shrugged, squirming to make sure you could still move both legs, curling your toes just to confirm that you were good. "It's not like I'm your girlfriend."

Just a pet under his protection. A journalist who bit off far more than she could chew - and got a story she didn't know if she even wanted to write anymore.

Not when you were far too biased to string together the proper sentences to divulge a tale that was suddenly so much more personal than you ever intended it to be.

It wasn't about his cult anymore. Not a biography of how he'd become a god in the flesh.

But about your failures and how he caught you before you could fall.

"I thought you were my mate."

Your shoulders went stiff. Heart skipping a beat as your fingers curled around the thin fabric. "Since when?"

"Since I had you," he easily retorted, heat rising under your cheeks at his calm assertion.

Should you argue with him after he saved your life?

Did you want to be his mate? What would that even entail? Having little babies with wings like his? Spending the rest of your life spoiled in his pretty temple? Become his right-hand person now that the position was currently vacant?

"I woke up to the scent of your blood," he confessed, a hint of fear betraying his usually confident voice. "I thought I lost you. I nearly ripped this place apart when I smelled them in that room-"

“Could you call my boss?” You swallowed hard as you interrupted him, the bed creaking as he stood up. You listened to the familiar pattern of his footsteps, too exhausted to crane your neck to watch him move until he came back into view. Holding a cup of tea he must have just poured, setting it by the bed before helping prop you up.

Moving stirred fresh pain, the kind of dull ache that pulsed and throbbed as you sat as straight as you could.

“I handled it,” he smoothly said.

"What about the cops? Or-"

"No one's going to miss either of them," Suguru sarcastically dismissed your worry, one hand on the small of your back before he lifted the cup up to your lips.

You took a few short sips, letting the warm liquid soothe your sore throat.

"He was going to tell them you killed me," you revealed, tilting your head to the side as you recalled Satoru's last bitter words.

"It doesn't matter now," Suguru muttered.

What did?

What were you supposed to do now when your career had almost cost you your life?

"I’m sorry,” you muttered, looking up in his dark eyes to find his hypnotic stare already honed in on you, fingers reaching up to cup your cheek, his thumb drifting down to trace the edge of your lips. "I wasn't going to leave you."

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head before leaning over to put the teacup back up.

"The only thing you should worry about right now is healing," he hummed.

How long would that take?

You didn't need him to spiritually guide you or anything, but you weren't sure what to do when you needed a man to get you out. Even if he was part moth.

Maybe eventually, you'd be able to mentally figure yourself out.

But would you get stuck with physical proof of it? Scarred inside and out?

You knew you should lay back down. But you couldn't stop yourself from kicking the blanket away from your legs, scowling as you peeled back the edge of the thick bandage he'd wrapped around your thigh.

"Don't-"

Sukuna had been telling the truth when he said he carved you up.

A crude 'S' dug into your soft flesh, a mark you sincerely doubted would go away no matter how much time you gave it.

Your stomach dropped at the sight of it, but you refused to let all the feelings Sukuna wanted you to drown in sink in. None of the disgust. None of the fear.

He wanted you to think of him every single time you looked down, or saw your reflection in the mirror.

You wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"I ordered scar gel online," Suguru softly said, trying to offer comfort you strangely weren't sure you needed.

"They deliver out here?" You tried to joke, your mouth curling up in a small smile.

And when he smiled back, all sweet and subtle, you could convince yourself that despite everything else, this could still work out.

You could still be okay.

"You must not be hurting too bad if you're teasing me," he dryly commented, sliding closer.

"Mm, I think I'm going to need to be taken care of for a while," you shrugged, faking a little cringe as you shuffled back further in the bed. "Preferably by a handsome man."

"I'm at your service," he winked at you.

How many girls could say they had a man with devotees solely devoted to them?

You leaned forward, ignoring the stabbing pain still scattering around your head stop you from pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his crooked smirk.

"You know, I thought you still had questions for me," he cocked a brow up, slipping his fingers through your hair to tilt your face back up towards him when you started to pull back.

"A thousand," you nodded.

But they could wait.

And this time, the questions would be all yours. No need for an audience to consider. Your attention was all his.

You supposed it might be a good thing Suguru started with an S too.

reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated <3 oviposition final chapter next :3