Brutal

I write | mdni | ¿masterlist

Artist is @/kucyash

Ryōmen Sukuna, body worship, and shame.

I believe Ryōmen would be the worst at sex; his original view was that it is simply a transaction, so he stayed untouched with the outer claim that no filthy human deserved his virginity. In reality, he just never thought somebody would mate with such an abomination. He didn’t even want the shame of claiming one’s title, let alone spawn, because he couldn’t imagine marking a child with the same DNA as himself. It was internal hatred and fear for rejection he must’ve felt in his era, but with strength as standard and weakness as privilege, he never bothered with such vulnerability.

Wake up hard? He didn’t exactly know how to masturbate, so shamefully, his abdominal mouth would lap at his weeping tip, and its adorable sensitivity got him there fast. All orgasms he’d experienced were weak and pulsing, nothing full-body or eye-watering. He probably struggles with keeping it up anyway, which is kinda hot. I feel like because he’s only ever dealt with the touch of battle, he’d love being manhandled or dominated. It’s a rush of strength that wouls get him off—and once more—his rejection of physical touch, scents also turn him on. He’d be so feverish and disgusted in himself for smelling something potent or musky and getting a major bone. I feel that, if he were to ever have sex, he’d be extremely difficult for the other person. Awkward and uncomfortably hot and sweating puddles, and in the case of penetration, the stimulation of contact would be so intense that he’d cum instantly. It’s the first ever full-body orgasm he’s ever had, and its impact is so toe curling, so consuming that he can’t help but be vocal. It’s something pitched and sexily broken, a feeling far more pleasant than pain has ever felt alive, something warm and simmering just to boil over and ever quiet down.

I like to imagine he’d cry, mortified, because he not only just caved in on lust but gave that purity away - not to mention the fear of spawn. He really, really fears the vulnerability of connection through blood, because the protective and emotional attachment is so visceral he’d be bedridden. When he finally gets over himself, to his horror, his libido has shot up.

It’s pathetic and ugly and so raw that even you feel you can’t handle it. He’s forgotten his size and sheer weight, and you fear he’s out of control - yet still curled in the palm of your hands. He pays you handsomely through pleasure because his sex on yours is just too primitive to make light of, and he realizes it’s not a transaction at all, but something to tether him to. In all of his time of not having a worldly possessions or temptation, he finds that you are as sinful as he, and basks in your taboo-ish flavor. He also finds that it’s not primal at all, and it is not sex nor ecstasy he feels. It’s elation, and he is making love to you with great vigor, more free and expressive than he’d ever been in battle. Sex with Ryōmen is more than a full-body experience, but out-of-body, because neither of you have dared connect so physically close to another’s heart before. It is the most excruciating act of vulnerability, and he is completely devoted to your body, unaware a human could be so perfect in any other subject aside from hunger. This gluttony is not consumption, it is desperation, and to be in a body is to have a temporary vessel, and that vessel is a temple, while also his soul’s ruin.

Sukuna is so devastating. He is elegant where loathe lingers and gentle with hands of grating calluses. Fear has most certainly had its way with him, and I can only imagine what life was like as a husk of a human. To be treated as a monster? Subhuman and scary in the face? I’d have turnt the way he did more ugly than anything. Yet he held his morale and beliefs as a hedonist, and truly lived for his pleasure, even if that meant the cruelty he unleashed upon the disgusting and unfair woes of both sorcery and humanity. I believe Sukuna, of nowadays’ odd societal norms, would still end up this way. Humans wouls reject him - not in the same way they did back then, but worse. He would be seen as a joke, not a monster. Which, albeit doesn’t sound as bad as the latter, ends up being far, far worse. Interaction in a negative manner reflects far more poorly than simply being unwanted and disregarded, let alone feared. Fear strikes order and wariness, and those who done abide will only discover the reasons for so many accumulated fears. Ryōmen Sukuna would be the same deformed, unwanted, disregarded little thing he was then, only he’d exist among platforms; not a myth, but a universally famous joke on the internet. Hated and clowned and treated like a circus tiger. His oppression wouls also root in more than looks, too. For such an ‘ugly’ thing, his elegance is rather captivating. To be misunderstood and mistreated by the world is to give up on humanity completely.

Sukuna hates when you call him ‘Ryo’. Hates how those robes drape on you, and how you shyly laugh, worried you’d embarrassed him. For a villager, you were oh-so beautiful to the mangled boy, only 23 and still trying to win the war of socialism. He was rather disliked, among the townspeople, yet you still brought him rice and whatever fell from the fruit trees. Endlessly in your debt, he’d work for your family.

Sukuna hated how kind you were, and how instead of treating him like some little wretch, you offered warmth and food and a smile brighter than the sun rising through the canopy of leaves he slept under some nights.

Your parents, albeit wary, nonetheless allowed Sukuna’s presence more often. Similarly, somehting aside from cherry blossoms began to bloom in the swift whisper of spring’s anew.

Sukuna hated this feeling, and hated how warm you’d made him, inside and out. Sukuna hated how you’d gently grab his hand, and he just couldn’t clench his other fist into his hemp clothes, because he was already feeling embarrassed out of this one movement. With four arms and a disfigured face, he began to hate how you cradled the right half - stroking those hideous eyes in pairs of two. Above and below, on either side, making him monstrous and disgusting to the eye.

Sukuna hated how, one night after having scared some rather pushy man from your house, you kissed that same half. So gently, so promising.

Sukuna hated how good it felt having your favor among the other men of the village, and how if the fire crackled and danced just right, your eyes sparkled. And how they looked right into his, and how you’d hesitantly—gingerly—plant a kiss to his lips. Hand resting atop one of his four, body tense and heart starting to race, and all he could do was suck in a breath and pray his sinful little heart didn’t leap right out of his throat.

Modulo!Yuji is a clever man. Eighty-three and scarred in the face enough to keep that hood up with purpose. You’re clever, too. He says so. Kisses your pinky with delicacy and gently traces your lips with his thumb, taking in the gentle warmth that graces your cheekbones, pressing his mouth to it and getting the softest laughter out of you. You’re older, fragile. You know and have seen all of him since his teenages, and since then, growth has wilted into something delicate. You, so beautifully you, are his most precious porcelain, in which he cups with shaky fingers. You are still his most clever possession and the light draping your frame amber, something alike the color his now-vermilion eyes once shined. He holds youth and mania with every glare, yet something softer nips the bitterness away, leaving saccharine words and crows’ feet dipping his eyes. His features, seen most clearly, seem to soften. Like an over-ripe peach, all because of you.