#sukuna reader

“Morning,” he lilts, voice bright, casual.

“Morning,” you answer, and you keep walking past him toward the bay, because the driver will want someone who actually works here.

The truck brakes. Air releases. Metal groans.

The driver hops down and looks relieved when he sees you instead of Gojo. They always are. Gojo has the kind of money that makes people nervous, and the kind of face that makes them try to charm him anyway. It never helps.

“Where do you want him?” the driver asks.

You glance at the manifest in his hand, then at the doors, then at the route you already planned in your head — no tight turns, no narrow alleys between pens, nothing that puts you boxed in with something untested.

“Barn three,” you say. “End stall. The one with the reinforced beams.”

Gojo hums behind you, amused.

“Prepared, as always.”

You ignore the tone. You don’t need him teasing you right now.

The driver nods, and the two of you walk the length of the trailer as the farmhands nearby find excuses to slow down. Everyone tries to pretend they’re not watching. Everyone watches.

The back doors unlatch. One swings wide, then the other, and for a second it’s just darkness inside — cooler air spilling out, carrying the sharp tang of metal and old sweat and transport bedding.

Then something shifts.

A heavy step lands on the ramp from within, and the entire trailer seems to exhale around it.

He comes into view in pieces at first — a thick forearm, then another — two more after them, stacked in the way your brain needs a moment to accept. The glint of a nose ring at the end of a wide, scarred bridge. A strong, long cattle tail swaying once, slow, controlled, the tuft at the end brushing the inside wall as if it’s already measuring space.

Then he steps forward and the sunlight catches him fully.

Impossibly tall. Broad enough that the trailer looks built wrong around him. Taurus horns sweeping up from his head, thick and polished from contact, not decoration. Skin marked with ink — bold lines and symbols that don’t read like farm branding, more like a man with money once paid to make him look dangerous and liked it too much to stop. Four eyes, and the first thing you register is the asymmetry, the right side of his face is ruined by old damage, a jagged scar that pulls the skin, two eyes on that side pale and unfocused.

Blind.

The other two on the left are a deep, violent crimson that locks in immediately when he looks down at you.

He doesn’t look frightened. He doesn’t look curious. He looks bored, and the boredom has damage potential.

The driver clears his throat, suddenly aware of his own size in comparison.

“He’s— uh— registered as Sukuna. Ear tag matches. Paperwork’s clean.”

You find the tag — yellow, stamped, clipped through thick ear tissue. SUKUNA in block letters. A number underneath. The kind of labeling that tries to make living things into inventory.

Sukuna flicks one of his lower left eyes toward the tag as if he knows you’re reading it, then dismisses you with a small tilt of his chin, like he’s already done being inspected.

Gojo leans closer to you, voice low.

“Biggest bull I’ve ever bought,” he says, pleased with himself. “Try not to get flattened.”

You don’t look at him.

“Where’s his lead?”

The driver lifts a thick rope line, the end clipped to Sukuna’s nose ring with a heavy carabiner. It looks obscene, that rope, like someone tried to convince themselves it mattered to force that bull into anything.

Sukuna’s gaze goes to it. He doesn’t tug, doesn’t test it. That’s what makes your stomach tighten a little.

Things that want to fight usually show you right away.

You step closer, but not too close — your body already remembering angles, remembering where horns swing, where blows land, where you can be crushed without someone meaning to crush you.

You keep your voice steady.

“Sukuna.”

One of his red eyes shifts. The other stays on you. A split focus that feels deliberate.

You raise your hand, palm open, and you don’t reach for him. You let him decide if he’s going to move first.

“I’m going to take the rope. Is that okay?”

The words hang there in the morning air, absurdly polite.

The driver stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. Gojo makes a soft sound behind you that might be a laugh.

Sukuna’s expression changes in a way that’s almost nothing — one side of his mouth tightening, the smallest flare of his nostrils. Annoyance, yes, but also something else. Surprise that you asked, maybe. Surprise that you spoke to him as if he’s a person capable of answering. And he is, you know that. You refuse to treat him like he is anything else.

His tail swishes once, heavier now. The rope line shifts as his head turns, and you see the muscles in his neck and shoulders move under his skin, the tattoos stretching over living power.

He doesn’t answer with words.

He lowers his head a fraction, just enough for the clip to be in easier reach.

Permission.

You don’t rush now. You step in, take the rope with both hands, and you make sure the line stays slack. You don’t want him to feel pulled. You also don’t want to learn how fast he can move if he decides to go the other direction.

“Alright,” you say, more to yourself than anyone. “Let’s go to your stall.”

Sukuna steps down the ramp like gravity doesn’t apply to him. The boards creak under his weight. One foot lands, then another, then he follows you — measured, controlled.

He could charge. He chooses not to.

The moment his feet hit the ground, the nearest cattle hybrids start reacting — heads lifting over pen rails, snorts, a warning bellow from an older cow that doesn’t like strangers. A farm dog barks once and is immediately hushed by someone off to the side.

You keep walking.

You don’t try to drag him. You set a pace that expects him to follow, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. That’s always been your trick with the difficult ones. You act like the route is already agreed upon.

Sukuna follows, and you feel it as you go — the way the rope stays loose, the way his steps land behind yours at a deliberate distance, close enough that you can’t forget he’s there, far enough that he’s not crowding you nor erring to trample you.

He watches everything, and you can tell by the subtle head movements, by the tilt of his horns as he tracks voices and motion in the periphery. The blind eyes don’t make him clumsy. If anything, they make him more careful about where he puts his strength.

You pass the first barn. The smell changes — sweet hay giving way to manure and disinfectant, the familiar barn heat rising around you. A couple of hands step aside quickly when they see him, and the ones who don’t step aside stop pretending they’re tough the moment Sukuna’s red eyes sweep them.

You keep your shoulders down. You refuse to tense up, even when your heart ticks faster.

“Easy,” you murmur, not because he’s spooking, but because you want your voice to fill the space between you and him. You want something predictable in the air.

He makes a sound in his throat — not a grunt, not a snort either, more like a short exhale that reads like contempt for the idea that anyone here could make him “easy.”

Barn three is quieter, by design. The end stall sits away from the main aisle, reinforced metal and thick oak beams, the kind of build Gojo pays for when he expects a problem. Fresh bedding. Normal human accommodations that pretend to turn a stall into a suite. You learned long ago that new arrivals don’t need an audience and they don’t need to be overwhelmed.

You stop at the stall entrance and glance back over your shoulder.

Sukuna stands there, towering in the aisle, horns almost brushing the cross-beams overhead. The light catches the scarred side of his face in a way that makes it look even harsher, the pale eyes staring nowhere.

The red eyes stay on you.

You gesture into the stall with your free hand.

“In here.”

He doesn’t move immediately.

He scans the opening, the height, the width. He checks the ceiling. He checks the latch mechanisms. He checks you.

Then he steps forward, and the entire barn seems to compress around him as he passes through the entrance. His shoulders clear with inches to spare. His tail swings in behind him, a controlled sweep that doesn’t touch you, but could if he chose.

You step into the stall only as far as the threshold — enough to keep him moving, not enough to trap yourself inside.

Sukuna turns once, slow. He tests the floor with a foot. He leans his weight, shifts, feels out the bedding. One of his upper arms reaches up to scratch behind a horn while a lower hand brushes his own nose ring, as if checking the hardware.

You keep the rope slack as he settles, then you begin to coil it carefully, still attached to his nose ring. You don’t unclip it yet. Not until you know how he is in this space.

He lowers himself with surprising grace for something his size, folding down until his body rests in the bedding. Four arms settle — two bracing, two loose. His chest rises and falls slow and steady.

Then he looks at you again, and the weight of his attention lands heavy.

You keep your voice even and your expression mild.

“Comfortable?”

His lower left eye narrows slightly. His mouth twists.

“Mm.” he says, finally, the sound rough and dismissive. It barely qualifies as an answer, but it’s still more than you expected.

You nod as if it’s a full conversation.

“Water’s right there. Food will be at the usual times. I’ll be the one coming in... yeah, mostly me.”

That last part matters — most of the hybrids you handle learn your routine and cling to it. Even the aggressive ones calm when they know what to expect.

Sukuna’s gaze drifts to the water trough, then back to you, and you can’t tell if he’s assessing the offer or the fact that you’re explaining farm logistics to him like he isn’t a commodity.

You take a breath.

“I’m going to take the rope off now.”

You move slowly, unclip the carabiner from the nose ring with careful hands, and you keep your fingers away from the ring itself. Touching sensitive hardware without permission is a good way to learn how much strength someone has in their neck.

The rope comes free, you pull it away and coil it tighter, stepping back to put distance between you and the stall entrance again.

Sukuna doesn’t lunge, doesn’t bolt. He could, though, easily and you would have so much trouble to catch him — given he didn’t trample you in the process.

He simply watches, and the stillness feels like a decision by itself.

You set the rope on the hook outside the stall where it belongs. You check the latch — quietly, efficiently. You don’t lock him in like a prisoner, but you secure the stall because there are other animals, other workers, other hybrids, and the farm isn’t built around one bull’s moods.

You look back in.

“I’ll be around,” you say. “Every day, at first. I’ll show you the place, let you get used to the sounds. The other hybrids too. No one’s going to bother you if you don’t start something.”

Sukuna’s tail flicks once, his expression sharpening as if the idea of someone else being in control of who bothers him is offensive.

You hesitate only a beat, then you say the part you’ve been trying not to think too loudly.

“I don’t know what Gojo plans to do with you,” you admit. “If you’re here to breed, or if he’s going to fix you so you can be around the others without… issues.”

The air changes then at that simple mention.

Sukuna’s red eyes narrow, not sleepy anymore. Not bored. Focused. A tension rolls through his shoulders, and his four hands shift in the bedding, fingers flexing as if he’s remembering what it feels like to grab something and not let go.

He scoffs — an ugly, sharp sound — and lifts his head higher, horns angling forward.

The message is clear without him needing to spell it out — Let them try.

For a second, you can’t help it. Your pulse stutters. Not fear exactly — fear is familiar and flat. This is twisted, more complicated, because you’ve handled aggressive hybrids and you’ve handled proud ones, but you’ve never handled something that radiates the certainty that it has never been successfully controlled.

You steady yourself on a slow inhale.

You keep your tone level, even as your stomach tightens.

“Alright,” you mutter. “Good to know where you stand.”

Sukuna’s gaze stays on you, intense and unblinking, and you realize he’s waiting.

Waiting to see if you’ll backtrack, if you’ll apologize, if you’ll soften and make yourself smaller.

You don’t.

You take one step backward, then another, keeping your movements calm and deliberate, eyes on him until you’re fully outside the stall. Your hand rests on the latch, just to ground yourself in the routine.

“I’ll come back later,” you repeat to him. “Same person, same steps. If you want space, you can have it. If you need something, you’ll learn how to ask.”

His mouth curls, faint but mean, like he finds the idea entertaining.

You close the stall door with controlled quiet, secure it, and you walk away with your shoulders still loose, your pace still steady.

Only once you’re halfway down the aisle do you let yourself exhale properly.

You don’t linger at barn three after you leave him settled, you make yourself move — standing outside that stall with your hand still half-curled like you’re holding a rope isn’t doing anyone any favors, least of all you.

The rest of the farm still needs you.

Barn one is louder, warmer, busier in the way it always is after a delivery — animals reacting to the shift in the air, workers talking a little too fast, the dogs picking up on everyone’s tension and getting underfoot. The cattle hybrids in this section look human at a glance if you don’t stare too long — shoulders and hands and hips, the familiar silhouettes of bodies that fit clothes and beds and chairs.

Then the details catch, soft cattle ears that twitch to track sound, horns in different shapes depending on breed, tails that swish when they’re irritated or pleased, hair that grows in patterns — patches of darker color along the nape, the crown, sometimes a streak down the back like a natural marking.

They live in stalls that aren’t really stalls the way the old barns used to be. Gojo renovated everything the first year you worked for him. Each unit has a bed, a bathroom, a little kitchenette, a couch, a TV bolted to the wall, a shelf for personal items.

Still barn architecture, still doors and latches and thick beams, but he likes to call it “accommodations” as if a different word fixes what it is.

You move down the aisle with a feed cart, checking the tags as you go. You talk when they want to talk, you listen when they want to complain, and you keep your routine steady because it keeps them steady.

A spotted steer hybrid who always wants his feed bucket tapped twice before he eats. A pale cow who likes to lean her head against your shoulder when you talk, heavy and warm, like she’s trying to anchor herself to something solid. A young calf hybrid who still startles at sudden movement and calms when you hum under your breath.

You move down the row with practiced hands — fill, check, top off water, glance at hooves and joints, make sure no one’s rubbing raw against the rails. You talk as you work, not because they need chatter to survive, but because it keeps them connected to you, and it keeps the barn from feeling like a warehouse full of breathing things.

“Alright, I see you. Easy,” you murmur when one of them crowds the gate with impatient snorts. “You’re not starving. You’re dramatic.”

A few heads lift when your voice carries. The closer ones perk up not for you, but for the fact that there’s new energy on the property. Hybrids notice that sort of thing. They notice unfamiliar scents, the vibration of a heavy presence through the ground, even when he’s penned up at the far end of barn three.

A few of the younger ones perk up the moment they spot you, because you’re news.

“Is it true?” one of them asks, leaning over the rail with her ears forward. She has small horns that curl close to her head, and hair that’s pale at the ends like it’s been dipped in cream.

“Gojo bought a new taurus,” another adds, as if saying it first earns her something.

You set down a scoop of feed and smooth it out so it doesn’t pile in one corner.

“He did.”

“How big?”

You glance at the speaker. He’s older, heavier, built more like a working steer than a showpiece, and his eyes are careful. He’s the type who’s been here long enough to know that size changes everything.

“Big,” you answer, because you’re not interested in working them up into panic.

That only makes them more curious. It always does.

Shoko catches you near the end of the row. She’s a brown cow hybrid, the shade rich and warm, hair thick and a little wavy, horns that sweep up and out with a calm sort of symmetry. She’s one of the ones who minds her own business but pays attention.

When she talks, people listen.

“So,” she says, tone light but not careless. “What did our dear boss drag home now?”

You set her feed down, then reach for the bucket you brought with chopped fruit — she likes it mixed in when she’s had a hard day. You do it without comment, because you know she’ll notice anyway.

“It’s a taurus,” you tell her with brief a sigh. “Gojo paid… a lot.”

Shoko’s mouth quirks as she watches you work.

“He always pays a lot.”

“This one used to fight,” you add, keeping your voice low because there are ears everywhere and you don’t want it turning into a story with extra details by lunchtime. “At least that’s what I heard from the driver. Four arms. Big horns. He’s… really not like the rest.”

Her ears flick once, thoughtful.

“Unbroken.”

You pause.

“Yeah.”

Shoko’s gaze moves over your shoulder toward the direction of barn three even though she can’t see it from here.

“Do you think he’ll be trouble?”

You don’t like lying to them. You also don’t like handing fear out like it’s feed.

“I don’t know yet,” you admit. “He’s calm, but that doesn’t mean safe. It means he’s deciding.”

Shoko hums, then looks down at your belt with a small tilt of her head. Not accusing, just observing.

“You brought that today.”

You glance at your holster.

The sedative pistol sits snug against your hip, its grip familiar under your palm. It isn’t something you parade around. It’s a tool, and you treat it like one.

Four chambers. Four darts.

Usually you only ever need one, sometimes two if the hybrid is large and already worked up. Most of them go down fast — big nap, steady breathing, a safe window to move them or treat an injury without anyone getting hurt.

You try not to imagine how much medication it would take to drop Sukuna.

“It’s a new arrival,” you say simply.

Shoko doesn’t press. She accepts the answer like an adult, which is one of the reasons you like her.

“Then keep your head on,” she tells you, voice softening just a fraction. “And don’t let Gojo do something stupid.”

A humorless little sound escapes you.

“That’s a full-time job.”

She snorts, amused, and goes back to her food. You move on, finishing your rounds, checking water levels, doing the small repairs that keep a place like this from turning into chaos. By the time you’re done, your shoulders have settled into something closer to normal.

Then your radio crackles.

“Hey,” Gojo’s voice comes through, too cheerful for a man who can buy and sell half this county. “Everything good with our new guy?”

You press the button.

“He’s settled, yes. No issues so far.”

“Perfect,” he replies immediately, like he didn’t doubt you for a second. “Come with me to check on him.”

Of course.

You glance down the aisle at the hybrids eating, at the quiet rhythm you just rebuilt. You swallow the irritation because it won’t change anything.

“On my way,” you say.

Gojo is waiting near barn three like he’s about to go admire a new car. He’s alone, hands in his pockets, sunglasses still on. The man will step into a dim barn full of half-wild muscle and horn and act like he’s walking into a café.

You fall into step beside him.

“Just—” You stop yourself before you say be careful, because you’ve said it before and he treats it like background noise.

Gojo swings the barn door open and walks in first anyway.

The air changes as soon as you’re inside. It’s quieter in here, deeper. The sound of your boots on the concrete seems louder than it should. Sukuna is visible at the far end, sprawled with the kind of confidence that makes the space feel smaller.

His red eyes cut toward you the moment you enter.

He looks at you first.

Then he looks at Gojo.

And the annoyance on his face is immediate, clear as day.

Gojo, naturally, takes that as entertainment.

“Well, hello,” he says, voice bright. “You are even prettier up close.”

Your expression stays neutral through practice alone. You keep to the side, near the door, but still inside the stall aisle where you can get between them if you have to. Your hand rests near your holster without gripping it yet.

You’ve learned how quickly “admiration” turns into “incident” with Gojo.

He strolls right up to the stall like the latch and the reinforced beams are decorative. Sukuna doesn’t rise, nor flinch away. He simply tracks Gojo’s movement with those two sharp eyes, head angled so the horns frame his face like a warning sign.

Gojo leans in, studying him the way he studies everything he buys — like he’s figuring out where the value lives. He reaches through the open half-door and lays a hand on one of Sukuna’s arms.

Sukuna’s response is immediate — a deep huff, the kind that pushes air out hard enough to rattle the bedding.

A warning. Clear. Not theatrical.

Your stomach tightens but Gojo’s smile widens, as if he’s been invited to play.

You’re going to have to scrape his remains off the floor any day now.

“Strong,” he murmurs, squeezing the muscle like he’s testing fruit at a market. “Look at this. This is absurd. This is—”

Sukuna shifts. Not fully standing, but enough that his shoulders roll forward and his four hands flex, fingers spreading and curling like he’s reminding Gojo of how easy it would be to grab.

You take one step forward, and it’s not fast, not panicked, it’s you closing the distance enough that if Sukuna moves, you’re already in position to save the skin of the moron who pays your salary.

Gojo doesn’t notice. Or he notices and doesn’t care.

He steps closer, craning his neck to look at Sukuna’s horns, the scarred side of his face, the blind eyes.

“Those won’t matter,” Gojo says, mostly to himself. “He’s still perfect. A jackpot.”

Sukuna’s mouth curls in something that isn’t a smile — he’s grimacing.

You keep your tone even, careful.

“Boss. Give him space. He’s new.”

Gojo waves a hand without looking at you.

“He’s fine. He’s calm.”

Sukuna huffs again, sharper this time. His tail lashes once against the bedding.

Gojo finally shifts his attention toward you, still grinning.

“Relax. You can handle it.”

There it is — his favorite unspoken truth.

He trusts you like you’re an extra layer of safety equipment.

Like you’re the barrier between his impulsiveness and consequences.

You don’t answer that. You keep your eyes on Sukuna.

Sukuna’s gaze flicks over your face, then down — briefly — to your hip. Your holster. Your hand hovering near it.

He sees everything.

Gojo keeps talking, the words spilling out like he can’t help himself.

Branding. Documentation. Testing.

He says he wants to mark Sukuna properly, make him match the rest of the stock. He says he’ll have the vet run exams before making any decision about keeping him intact.

You feel your jaw clench.

The hybrids can understand every word. Some pretend not to because it’s easier. Some listen and file it away, quiet resentment building under their skin. You’ve seen it happen.

Talking like they aren’t right there never sits right with you — it never has.

Sukuna’s eyes shift back to your face, steady, intent. It feels like being measured, like he’s deciding what kind of person you are based on whether you flinch at Gojo’s casual cruelty or agree with it.

You don’t give him an apology you can’t afford to mean. You also don’t throw yourself under Gojo’s boots by contradicting him outright.

You do the only thing you can.

You go still.

You look away, lifting your gaze to the ceiling beams like you’ve suddenly become fascinated by the construction.

You keep your posture calm, your breathing controlled, your hand close enough to your holster to act but not so close it looks like a threat.

It’s not bravery.

It’s management.

Gojo eventually gets bored. He always does once he’s had his fill of looking.

“Alrighty,” he says, stepping back at last. “Finish setting him up. Anything he needs. Then you’re done for the day.”

You blink.

“He has everything.”

“Then make sure,” Gojo replies, already turning away. “You’re the best at it.”

He leaves without waiting for you. The barn door swings and clicks behind him, and the quiet that follows is heavier than the noise ever was.

You stay where you are for a moment, letting your body recalibrate. Letting the tension bleed out of your shoulders. The stall feels different without Gojo’s presence — less chaotic, more… focused.

Like the only thing in here that matters is the red-eyed bull watching you.

You step closer to the stall door, careful not to crowd him.

“Sorry about that,” you say, slowly.

Sukuna doesn’t respond right away. He rises with a smoothness that doesn’t match his size, unfolding to his full height until he’s filling the stall in a way that makes the reinforced beams feel like a suggestion. He strolls forward, slow, unhurried, until he’s right at the half-door.

Then he keeps coming.

The stall door is open enough for him to lean out, and he does, bringing his face close. Close enough that you can see the texture of the scar tissue on the right side, the dead pale eyes that don’t focus, the sharp contrast of the living red ones that do.

You hold your ground.

Your voice stays professional.

“Do you need anything? Bedding adjusted, different food—” You glance around, trying to think in practical terms. “Furniture, maybe. Some kind of— something to do. I can arrange games. A radio. Anything that helps you settle.”

His nostrils flare, and you catch the faintest hint of amusement under the irritation, like he didn’t expect you to offer him entertainment in a barn.

The silence stretches.

He huffs again and leans his head a smidge further, and the sound is so close it hits your chest. Instinct kicks in before thought. Your hand moves — automatic, practiced — hovering near your holster.

Sukuna’s red eyes drop to the motion instantly.

His head tilts, slow, curious in a way that makes your skin tighten around your muscles.

“Those,” he drawls at last, voice rough with disuse and disdain, “you think they’ll put me down?”

You blink, startled by the directness. Most new arrivals don’t talk at all. Most of them don’t challenge you. Most of them don’t clock your safety measures and call them out like it’s a joke between equals.

You force yourself not to step back.

“I don’t want to find out.”

His gaze stays fixed on your hand, then slides up to your face.

You keep going, because honesty is safer than pretending.

“You’re massive and I don’t know you yet. I’m responsible for keeping everyone on this farm alive, which means I plan for the worst and hope it doesn’t happen.”

A beat.

Then his mouth curls, and it’s not friendly — it’s entertained. It’s unsettled power in a simple expression.

He lifts one of his upper hands, quick — faster than you expected for something that big — and flicks your forehead with two fingers.

It doesn’t hurt, it’s not meant to. It’s still enough to make your breath catch, purely because of what it implies — I can touch you whenever I want. I can do worse. I’m choosing not to.

Your hand doesn’t draw the pistol, you don’t jerk away.

You simply go very still, eyes locked on his, heart hammering in a way you refuse to show on your face.

Sukuna watches you for another long second, then exhales like he’s decided you’re at least interesting.

“I’m good,” he says, tone flat. “More here than before.”

You swallow, forcing your voice back into routine.

“Food will come later. Same as the others.”

His eyes narrow, and that almost-smirk returns.

“You’ll bring it.”

A statement. A claim.

You nod once.

“Yeah. I will.”

He eases back into the stall with the same unhurried confidence, turning away as if the conversation is over because he’s done with it. His tail sways once, and he settles like a man settling into a room he has started owning.

You step back from the threshold, fingers finally relaxing at your hip. Your pulse is still too loud in your ears, but the barn is quiet again, and Sukuna isn’t moving like he plans to make trouble — at least not now.

You latch the door carefully, not locking him in like a beast, not leaving it careless either. You take one last look at him through the bars.

He doesn’t look away.

You force yourself to turn first, because you have work to do and because you refuse to let him learn, on day one, how easily he can keep you standing in place.

As you walk out, your routine reshapes itself in your head without you meaning it to.

You’ll come back with food later.

You’ll speak to him like he can answer, because he can, they all can.

You’ll keep your sedatives close and pray you never have to use them.

And you’ll keep Gojo out of reach as much as a man like Gojo can ever be kept out of anything.

That’s simply the start.

Not comfort.

Not trust.

Just a new pattern you have to build carefully, day by day, while a fighting bull with four arms and two sharp eyes watches you like he’s waiting for you to make a mistake.

The nights always smell different during heat season — thicker air, heavier musk lingering in the barns, pheromones clinging to every surface like humidity that never quite lifts. You’re used to it by now, you’ve worked around hybrids long enough to understand that the scent of a barn can shift as strongly as the behavior inside it.

But this year feels a little different.

Maybe because you forgot your blockers.

Maybe because Sukuna is here.

It’s been so many years without an unbroken bull stepping into this farm that you really didn’t mind the synchronization of the cycles affecting you.

You try not to dwell on it as you move through the barns with your clipboard and your lantern light cutting through the dim aisles.

The cows are restless tonight.

Their ears flick, their tails swish, their breathing shifts in patterns you’ve learned to read like mood lines. You check bellies for knots, muscles for tension, look for signs of colic, offer the medication Gojo clears for use only during these cycles.

You speak quietly as you go, because the sound of your voice tends to settle them more than the drugs do.

“Easy, sweetheart,” you murmur to one of the heifers curling in on herself. You rub the join of her spine where she likes pressure and wait for her breathing to even out. “I know. Almost done.”

The barn lights hum faintly. Outside, the sky is thickening with clouds — the smell of rain already creeping in.

You don’t think about Sukuna until you’re walking toward barn three. You always leave him for last on night checks — you’re not avoiding him, but his stall has become the quiet part of your route.

Predictable, in its own way.

He’s been different this week.

Not volatile, exactly. Not antagonistic also. Just distant, as you have settled on realizing. Watching you from where he lounges, eyes half-lidded or narrowed, depending on how close you come.

He doesn’t approach the door like he did before, doesn’t test your reflexes with sudden movements or crowding.

He doesn’t flick your forehead when you’re too serious or make those amused, irritated huffs when you explain things he already knows.

He ignores you.

That part unsettles you more than when he didn’t ignore you.

You step into barn three. It smells like hay and metal and the faint traces of the storm rolling in. Your boots tap down the aisle, and your body relaxes into the familiar rhythm of it.

You talk as you walk, half out of habit, half because he listens even when he pretends not to.

“Quiet night everywhere but barn one,” you say softly. “Everyone’s moody, but it’s expected. Heat cycles, you know how it is.”

You pause at another stall, adjust a water trough, then continue.

“Gojo wants to shift feeding times next week. Don’t ask me why. Probably because he feels like it.”

No reaction. No sound. Not unusual.

You frown, slightly, almost missing his sarcasm.

The silence feels odd.

When you reach his stall, you expect to see him sprawled or sitting, pretending to sleep.

Instead, he’s standing.

Not in his usual lazy, slouched posture. Standing like a creature listening for something only he can hear.

His four arms hang at different angles — upper two relaxed, lower two flexed lightly, like they’re ready for something. His tail is still. His horns catch the faint light from outside, and his red eyes glint when they cut toward you.

You stop at the threshold.

“Evening,” you say. “Checking water and bedding. I’ll be quick.”

Nothing.

Not even a flicker.

You step inside the stall alcove, not entering but close enough to do your job. You set down your bucket with the fresh water, adjust the trough, note the marks on the bedding from where he paced earlier — subtle, but there.

And you talk because silence around him feels too heavy.

“The storm’s coming in fast,” you mention, glancing at the small window slit near the roof. Wind whistles through it. “You can hear the pressure change, right? The herd gets restless when it storms. You probably feel it, too.”

You crouch to check the grated drain under the trough.

Behind you, the heavy shift of weight.

Your heart jumps even though you keep your face trained forward. Normally he lets you work with space between you.

Tonight, he moves closer.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

You keep your voice steady.

“Your feed’s coming later than usual. I had to mix extra supplements for the cows. They burn more energy during heat, and—”

Another shift behind you, closer still.

You stand slowly, turning just enough to meet his gaze without stepping backward.

His eyes are fixed on you in a way they haven’t been for days — focused, sharp, almost unblinking.

Not passive and not bored.

Something in the air around him feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

You swallow once, careful not to move too quickly.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” you say, soft but even. “I figured you didn’t want to be bothered.”

His nostrils flare once.

A scent rolls off him — distinct from the barn’s musk, warmer, heavier. You’ve smelled variations of it on bulls during heat cycles before, but Sukuna’s version is different. Stronger. Tighter, like it’s layered with something that shouldn’t be affecting you but is.

You inhale by accident and feel heat crawl up your throat.

Your blockers are finally being missed.

Shit.

You forgot them, so now you deal with the consequences.

Sukuna’s pheromones are nothing like the others. They hit harder, sink deeper, cling like they’re meant to be noticed.

You grip the stall door lightly, grounding yourself.

“Look, if you’re uncomfortable, tell me,” you say. “I can do the checks faster. Or later.”

He still doesn’t speak.

He just stares.

For a long moment, it feels like he’s peeling you open mentally, trying to figure out something you didn’t intend to reveal.

Then, finally, he shifts his weight and steps back — not far, but enough that the tension in your spine eases.

You blink once, slow.

“Alright,” you murmur, “I’ll finish up.”

You refill his water. Straighten the bedding. Check the temperature gauge. You keep your breathing even and your movements measured, pretending the air isn’t thick with something your body shouldn’t be responding to.

When you step back toward the aisle, he doesn’t follow this time.

He stays where he is, watching you with a furrowed brow like he’s the confused one now.

You open your mouth, maybe to say goodnight, maybe to say something trivial, because trivial keeps things normal.

But thunder cracks — too loud and sudden overhead.

The barn rattles.

The lights flicker once.

You stiffen.

Sukuna’s ears snap forward, the movement instantaneous.

Then—

Darkness.

The storm hits full force, and the entire barn drops into shadow.

You inhale sharply, lantern light bobbing in your hand from the belt you grabbed it.

That’s where the night changes.

The power drops for real this time, and it happens like a gasp — the kind of darkness that folds over the barn so completely your breath pauses with it.

No hum of lights, no faint buzz from the overhead panels, no color except the dim blue of your phone screen when you instinctively lift it.

Then the emergency generator kicks in.

The low, teeth-vibrating brrrrrrmmm rattles the metal frames of the stalls. It’s a sound you’ve grown used to over the years, something your bones fold around after a minute or two.

But him — Sukuna — is not used to it.

Not this barn.

Not this noise.

The emergency lights flicker once and turn on with that bluish, sick, under-the-skin glow that makes every shadow feel wrong. His crimson eyes catch it immediately, gleaming like cut glass, darting fast — too fast.

His chest rises quicker than normal, not quite panting but something close to it, something restrained.

Not aggression.

Apprehension.

Fear he’s trying to choke down.

You feel your pulse skip.

Slowly, carefully, you pull your phone out, shielding the screen so the light doesn’t hit him directly. The lantern is once again hooked on your belt, off now.

You text Satoru for Sukuna’s full file.

The reply comes instantly.

Of course it does, he was probably already with the phone on his hands to text you something.

Gojo always acts like he’s waiting for you to ask the right question.

You scroll. You skim. Then you read slower.

Line after line of cramped clinical shorthand, fight logs, behavioral notes, scars explained in cold language — the arena records, the conditioning, the noise, the storms.

The way they pushed fighting bulls by blasting sound cannons.

The way they fitted the fights to thunder season.

The notation — Subject becomes volatile or dissociative during storms. Possible PTSD.

Your stomach turns and you feel your hands becoming clammy.

You put your phone away.

You breathe once, steadying yourself before you call his name in a measured voice.

“Sukuna.”

His eyes snap toward you so fast your chest tightens. He stands rigid at the far wall of the stall, shoulders high, four arms pulled close to his body like he hasn’t decided whether he needs to fight or brace.

Everything in him is coiled. Iron muscles under skin, feeling taut, tense everywhere.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t answer.

He’s trying not to show weakness, and it’s written all over him anyway.

You lift your hands, palms out — not surrender, just a signal.

“I read your file,” you say quietly. “All of it. I’m not trying to pry, I’m trying to understand what’s happening right now.”

His jaw clenches.

His expression hardens so sharply it feels like you’ve stepped on a pressure plate. His gaze on you becomes borderline murderous.

You keep your hands up, far, far away from your pistol.

“I know storms were used when they tried to break you. I know you’re not… you’re not reacting to this storm. You’re reacting to everything that came before.”

Nothing.

But the flick of his ears, the flare of his nostrils — they tell you he’s listening.

You step inside the stall.

Slow, steady paces. No reaching. No sudden shifts.

You’ve soothed cattle your whole adult life, the technique is muscle memory by now. You go to his bed — massive, reinforced, layered thick so it can take his weight — and sit on the edge of it.

Not too central, not too close to his space.

Just present on a place that means comfort, safety even, and stay.

Visible.

Not threatening.

You inhale and force calm into your voice.

“I usually sit with them during storms. Sometimes talk, sometimes read. Presence helps.”

Thunder cracks outside — hard, vicious, right overhead.

The generator hum deepens, rattling the window.

You see it hit him.

His shoulders jump, subtle but unmistakable.

His chest tightens.

He’s trying to pretend it’s nothing.

He’s failing.

You don’t push. You don’t coax. You just stay there, letting your breathing settle into something even, letting him see you being steady.

The moment stretches long and tight, like a wire pulled between you.

Then — finally — he peels himself away from the wall.

Each step is wilful, heavy, his feet thudding against the wooden boards. He walks like a creature with pride he refuses to abandon, even while fear churns under his skin.

The emergency light casts shadows across his scarred half, throwing the pale eyes into stark contrast.

He stops near the bed.

Waits a beat.

Another.

Then he sits.

The bed dips under his weight, the whole frame groaning for a second. He’s close enough that his heat reaches you in waves — enormous body radiating warmth, tension, something wild you try not to interpret too much.

You can hear his heartbeat.

Fast. Hard. Thudding against your chest even though it’s not your heart.

You speak softly, not in a patronizing way.

“What do you usually do when storms hit? To calm down?”

It takes him a while. His throat works.

Then, rough, low,

“Endure it. It passes.”

You nod slightly.

“Did anyone ever help you through it?”

He scoffs immediately.

The sound is harsh, wounded, defensive.

Like the concept itself insults him.

Of course no one offered assistance, they were trying to break him, not to comfort him — if anything, you don’t doubt they aggravated it all.

You don’t pity him, you just feel retroactive anger for those who did that.

“My job is making sure everyone here is comfortable. Not because you’re broken or someone to be pitied, defenseless, not because you need saving… It’s because you’re a living being in discomfort and I can do something about it.”

His eyes narrow.

There’s a strange, searching look in them.

You let yourself think for a moment, then say the words before doubt can stop you:

“I can offer comfort. Contact, talking, grounding. If you want it.”

His ears flick back. His head tilts.

He stares at you like he’s never been asked anything so ridiculous in his life.

Then, almost mocking, brows knit together and a sneer on his lips.

“Are you offering me a hug?”

The tone tries to bite, but underneath, something trembles.

You hold his gaze.

“Yes,” you say simply. “I’m offering you a hug.”

And you extend your arms, body half turned still sat in bed, just to face him better by your side — awkward, small compared to him, but steady.

You expect him to laugh. To scoff again. To ignore you.

You do not expect him to reach for you.

Two lower hands wrap your waist and thigh — large, warm, shockingly gentle for their size.

His upper hands slide under your lifted arms, gripping your back, and then you’re lifted with terrifying ease. Placed astride his lap, knees sinking into the cushion on either side of his massive hips, your chest pressed against his.

The contact knocks the air out of you — not from pain, but from sheer presence.

His chest is a wall of heat and strength, his heartbeat slamming against you like it’s trying to outrun the storm. His arms close around you, all four of them, wrapping fully around your body.

He holds you too tight at first — instinct, not intention.

When your arms lift and circle around his broad neck, he tightens again. Not crushing, but claiming.

Needing.

Your face sinks into the crook of his shoulder. His skin is warm, scarred, and smells faintly of grass, musk, and storm-stirred adrenaline.

His hair brushes your brow, soft strands of pale pinkish-salmon at the nape.

You stroke there carefully, fingers gliding in slow, repeated motions meant to soothe, to calm him down a bit.

You feel his breath catch.

Just once.

Then again when thunder cracks outside, making his entire body go taut — iron coiling beneath skin.

You keep your caress steady.

It’s strange — comforting someone so large, so powerful, someone who could break the bed or you without effort.

But nothing about his hold is violent now.

It’s grounding. Heavy. Desperate in a quiet, prideful way.

HE allows himself to seek solace in your hug.

Minutes pass.

His breathing deepens. His heartbeat slows — bit by bit — though it jumps each time thunder rolls.

You hum without thinking — a melody from nowhere in particular, something soft and looping.

He huffs against your shoulder, the sound vibrating through your ribs.

“Are you…” His voice is low, annoyed, embarrassed maybe. “Are you humming me lullabies like I’m a fucking kid?”

You shrug in his arms without breaking the hug, your cheek still against his shoulder.

“If it helps.”

And it does — it is helping.

He doesn’t loosen his grip. Not even a fraction.

The storm doesn’t let up.

It rips across the sky again, a jagged pulse of white that flashes through the narrow stall window, throwing the whole barn into stark silhouettes. Sukuna goes rigid under you — every line of him pulled tight, like the next thunderclap might split him apart from the inside.

You don’t move when he calls your humming stupid.

You don’t even lift your head. You keep your cheek pressed to the warm plane of his shoulder, your arms wrapped around his neck, your fingers combing slowly through the shorter strands at his nape.

His skin is still hot, maybe it’s getting hotter by the second, and the faint tremor beneath it is impossible to miss.

“If it annoys you, you can say stop.” you murmur, your voice low so it doesn’t feel like it’s trying to fill the room.

He snorts, but it’s quieter than his usual derision — less cutting, more like he’s trying to use mockery as a shield. The storm cracks again. His whole body tightens in one sudden, violent jolt, all four arms locking around you for a moment as if the instinct is too deeply carved to fight.

You keep your breath steady through the squeeze.

He eases — not much, but enough for you to shift your hand up to the base of one horn and stroke the furred root with your thumb. It’s a slow arc, a steady rhythm.

You’ve learned that hybrids respond to predictable movement when frightened.

If you keep the cadence, they anchor to it.

You feel him test every breath you take. His chest rises under yours, heavy and controlled — not calm, not by a long shot, but trying. Somewhere in all that mass, in all that brute strength, there’s a frantic beat struggling to hide itself.

He doesn’t want you to notice.

You notice anyway.

The emergency lights hum weakly above you still, blue and too cold to be comforting, the kind of light that makes everything look sickly. Makes you remind of hospitals in horror movies.

It outlines the sharp line of his jaw, if you stop to notice, the deep scars on the right side of his face, the pale blindness of the two ruined eyes.

His other pair — the crimson, burning ones — stay fixed somewhere over your shoulder, not trusting the shadows of the barn to stay put.

His tail flicks once behind him. Irritated. Agitated. Not at you.

“You read too damn much,” he mutters, his voice rasping near your ear. “Shouldn’t’ve looked at that file.”

Your fingers keep moving, slow and even along his nape.

“I needed to know what would help you, and what made you look so tense so suddenly. That’s my job, Sukuna.”

“No.” His upper right hand slips from your back for just a moment to tap your hip, firm and dismissive. “Your job is feeding me and keeping the others from braying all night.” A beat. “Not babysitting.”

“That’s not what I’m doing, though.”

He scoffs, but the sound is weak now.

Another thunder rolls overhead — low, drawn-out, shaking the rafters. He doesn’t jolt this time, but you feel the tension spike again through every thick muscle pressed to you.

You hug him tighter. Carefully.

You don’t try to match his strength — you couldn’t. But you give him something constant to hold onto.

His breath hitches, subtle enough that anyone else would miss it. His lower arms shift, repositioning you without really thinking about it, dragging you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies.

Your thighs bracket his hips, and he settles your weight like he intends to keep it.

“Ridiculous,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you. “A hug. Can't believe you—”

“You seem to like it.” you cut him, voice steady and low against his skin.

That earns you a low rumble deep in his chest, almost a warning sound but not quite.

You soothe over it with another pass of your fingers behind his ear, tracing the soft fur there. His ears flick under your touch — one twitch, then another — and you feel him inhale sharply, like he didn’t expect it to work.

“Keep doing that,” he mutters, grudging. “Just… not the humming.”

You almost smile into his shoulder.

“Noted, no humming for you.”

So you switch to quiet breaths, the gentle rise and fall of your chest against his. You run your fingers up the side of his neck, avoiding the jagged scars.

You feel the way the thick cords of muscle relax in increments, millimeter by millimeter.

His grip on you doesn’t loosen, but it stops trying to crush you as if the storm might rip you away from him.

When the next lightning strike flashes, he exhales through his nose — rough, annoyed, but not afraid.

Not spiraling.

Not alone in the dark.

His voice finally drops, low and gravelly against your hair.

“You smell weird today.”

You stiffen slightly, remembering the heat cycle, the pheromone saturation, the missing blockers.

“I… can’t help that right now, I’m sorry.”

“Didn’t say it was bad.” His nose brushes the crown of your head in what might be an accidental touch, might not. “Different. Strong.”

You don’t answer — you don’t know how to.

Another rumble of thunder rolls overhead. This time, he doesn’t flinch at all. He just tightens his arms around you — less out of fear now, more out of something unwilling to name itself.

He tilts his head slightly, and you feel warm breath fan your cheek.

“You’re small,” he mutters gruffly, as if this is a complaint. “But you’re sturdy.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“No,” he snaps too quickly. Then quiete. “Maybe.”

His tail curls around your calf — slow, deliberate, claiming without thinking.

You pretend not to notice.

He pretends he didn’t do it.

But Sukuna’s breathing slows, steadies, settles into something that almost feels like rest.

And you stay there — straddling a behemoth of a hybrid built for war, holding him together through a night he swears can’t touch him — until the trembling stops entirely.

Then, after a long, quiet stretch, he speaks again, a gravelly whisper against your neck.

“…Keep doing what you’re doing.”

Not an order, a request.

You do.

And the storm keeps rolling over the farm like it wants to peel the roof off.

A long, rolling growl that vibrates through the rafters, through the mattress under you, through Sukuna’s chest where your body still molds itself against him.

The emergency lights buzz overhead, sometimes blinking, dim and cold and wrong, staining everything in that ghost-blue glow that makes even his crimson eyes look darker, hungrier.

But at least… he’s calmer — calm enough that he isn’t crushing you anymore — but he’s not steady. Not really.

Something else has replaced the panic — something thicker, hotter, coiling under his skin like a live wire.

You feel it in the way his breaths change, dragging through his nose, low and rough, you feel it in the way his chest expands against yours with each inhale, pulling your body closer like he can’t help it.

Then his head dips.

You think maybe he’s bracing for another thunderclap — but he inhales again, deep and purposeful, right at your hairline. A slow drag of breath through your scent.

You freeze without meaning to.

His arm tightens around your waist, the lower hands locking you more firmly onto his lap as he nudges his nose down to the crook of your neck.

Another inhale.

Longer.

Sharper.

You don’t realize how deeply the cows’ scent clung to you, or how your own body had started cycling with theirs, absorbing it into your skin, into your clothes, into the warm air around you.

You must reek of pheromones.

Sukuna realizes.

His next inhale shudders out of him.

The one after that turns into a rough, quiet groan against your throat.

Sukuna looks nothing short of feral.

He hasn’t released you since that first desperate clutch, but the nature of his hold has shifted further now.

The next thing you register is the warmth of his tongue. It’s not a human tongue — broader, textured, rougher near the center — but it drags up the column of your throat with a slowness that caves your lungs in.

Your breath stutters.

His four arms seize you harder, as if your flinch is encouragement rather than a warning.

And you… don’t push him away.

You freeze with awareness, but you don’t tell him to stop.

You should. You don’t.

The licks grow more focused, wet open-mouthed drags that scatter heat across your pulse.

Your heartbeat races under his lips. He knows exactly what it’s doing to you, too — hybrids feel changes in heart rhythm like weather shifts.

A quiet sound rumbles through his chest. Not a growl. Not quite a purr. Something in between — pleasure carved out of instinct.

His lower hands squeeze your hips, kneading you closer, while his upper pair hold your spine in place, guiding your posture until you’re flush from sternum to stomach.

He tastes you again, mouth sliding up until his breath pushes hot against the shell of your ear.

You melt — slowly and helplessly, — into the embrace.

The shiver that runs through you gives you away, and you can feel the change in him the instant it happens — the storm outside becomes background noise, irrelevant, unthreatening.

Whatever unease he had has been entirely replaced.

Your hips shift against him without your permission, a tiny, betraying movement meant to adjust your balance on his massive thighs — but his reaction is instant.

Every muscle in his body goes taut.

He growls, low and wordless, and pulls you harder across his lap.

You drop a startled yelp when he drags your hips over the solid heat between his legs — huge, straining, unmistakable.

Even through thick sweats, you feel the shape of him press up into you, hot and twitching. You feel the hard line straining in his sweats, pulsing once against the seat of your pelvis.

You look up.

His pupils are blown wide, his breaths heavy, and the storm might as well not exist anymore.

His instincts have taken its place.

His crimson eyes are half-lidded, heavy, tracking your every breath. The blind pale pair don’t see you, but they point toward you anyway, like all of him has locked onto a single target.

His panting deepens, heat radiating off him in waves. He’s waiting — with restraint you did not expect — and that awareness makes your stomach drop.

He isn’t attacking. He’s asking. Wordlessly, but clearly.

Your hands spread over his shoulders, trying to ground yourself as much as him, but your body betrays you all over again. You roll your hips. Just once, unthinking, drawn by the pulse of heat between your legs and the weight of him pressed there.

And he’s trying, even now, to hold himself back.

He breaks.

The sound he makes is guttural, punching straight into your spine as his grip snaps tight.

In the next instant the world tilts — your back finds the mattress, the bed dipping beneath his weight as he rises over you, towering, looming, eyes nearly glowing with want.

It happens so fast you don’t register his grip until you feel the bed under you.

He stands over you, breath dragging in and out of him like he’s fighting some internal rope burn.

The emergency lights paint him in sharp lines — horns glowing faintly, tattoos dark against his torso, sweat catching in the grooves of his muscles.

He looks at you like you’ve just become the only thing he recognizes.

“Strip.”

His voice is deeper than before, gravel dragged through warmth. You hear the strain in it — like if he touched you now, he wouldn’t stop.

You also hear the thread of control. Barely there, but real.

You swallow and obey, peeling your clothes away in clumsy motions because he’s watching every second, following each movement like prey-lure.

The air feels colder on your skin without his weight above you, but the second you’re bare enough, he moves.

He cages you in, bracing one arm on either side of your head, the other two gripping your waist and thigh like he’s molding your body to fit his.

His mouth crashes onto yours, hot, hungry, impatient.

You didn’t think hybrids kissed like this.

You didn’t think anyone did — ravenous, and consuming, pulling every breath from you until all you can do is hold on to his shoulders and give him whatever he takes.

His tongue forces past your lips, tasting, claiming, pushing the kiss deeper and deeper until your head spins.

There’s nothing gentle about it — he’s tasting, claiming, pacing himself with effort you can feel in the tremor of his breath.

Your fingers are curling against scarred, warm skin. His kiss deepens, his lower hands slipping under you to haul your hips up against his. The pressure of his cock through the thin fabric of his sweats is obscene — thick, heavy, burning and wanting as he presses and grinds against you.

One of his lower hands slides between your legs.

His other hand spreads you open while he teases you, testing your slick, feeling how your body responds to him.

A blunt, warm finger slides between your legs, parting you with an ease that sends a startled noise up your throat. He doesn’t pause. He circles your clit once, slowly, as if memorizing the shape of your response, and then pushes his fingertip inside you.

You gasp into his mouth — too loud, too shocked — when his fingers brush your slick heat.

He doesn’t stop kissing you.

He’s careful — shockingly so for someone this huge — but even his careful feels intense, stretching.

You moan and pant into his mouth.

He swallows it like it’s fuel.

He works you open patiently — surprisingly patiently — stretching you around that thick digit until the pressure becomes pleasure, until your hips lift into his hand without you meaning to.

Another finger joins the first, curling just enough to make you shake. His pace never falters. His kiss never breaks, not until he needs to exhale a low, shuddering groan into your mouth when your hips grind helplessly into his hand.

You feel the orgasm rising before you can brace, sharp and hot, tearing through you in waves.

He works you through it with practiced pressure, relentless until you’re shaking beneath him.

He only stops when your breath catches too hard to let another sound escape.

You barely come down from it before the second hits — this one coaxed from you like he’s testing how many times he can make your body obey him before your mind catches up.

You’re gasping, flushed, clutching at his shoulders because you feel like you’ll drift away otherwise.

Your moans die into his mouth. The storm shakes the walls. The generator hums like a warning.

His fingers don’t stop until you’re shaking beneath him, clawing at his back, barely remembering how to breathe.

Only then does he pull away enough to strip.

You see the damp patch on his sweats again, darker now, bigger. He pushes the waistband down just enough to free what he needs—and you inhale sharply.

Two cocks.

Thick. Heavy.

One curved toward you, the other pulsing above it, both leaking.

You don’t even have time to process the shock before his eyes cut to yours.

He’s choosing. For you.

He positions the lower one at your entrance, rubbing the upper shaft against your clit, slow, tormenting, and the sensation nearly unmakes you.

His forehead drops to yours, his breath mixing with yours, hot and ragged.

He slides into you in one deep, slow, overwhelming push that forces your breath out in a broken sound under him.

You cling even harder to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as his body cages yours completely.

He’s so fucking big.

The stretch burns and you can feel every single bulging vein that adorns his length.

The upper cock drags along your clit with your body giving little shudders and jolts, hot and slick and impossibly stimulating.

You whimper — so loud, so needy, uncontrollable little sounds leaving your mouth as he settles, pushing slowly, working you open around his thick shaft.

You don’t think he will fit, but he seems determined to prove you wrong.

He huffs. You bite into the curve of his neck to muffle yourself so no other hybrid hears.

He drags his cock out of you until only the bulging red glans is inside and he pushes in again, gaining more space, going deeper, making you yelp and whine every time he does it. And the restrain slowly snaps until he’s bucking his hips with animal force against you, fucking into you like a beast in heat. He bottoms out every single time, and you can feel how deep he reaches, how your lower belly bulges with the pressure of his cock inside.

His massive body presses you down into his bed and his hands slide and squeeze your body with abandon. One upper arm still braced besides your head to keep him from squishing you like a pancake. The other wrapped across your back, hand encasing your nape to keep you steady and also keep your body from going up up up each time his hips snap against yours. One lower arm has a hand gripping the back of your knee to keep your leg spread open, and the other has his hand pressing his upper cock down against your clit to increase the friction — just so he can hear every single broken moan he is punching out of you while he hammers his cock inside.

He groans like the feeling of your pussy clenching around him in another orgasm shoots straight down his spine.

His hands grip you harder.

He grows harsher in his movements.

At some point you find your hands grabbing his horns, clinging to them for dear life, white knuckles — as his face dips so his lips latch around your nipple. Sucking, nibbling and rubbing his rough tongue on the nub. You’re already lost on yourself and him by then. You can barely register anything anymore.

His stamina is unmatched. He keeps rutting into you for so long your body is already slack when he groans that deep, almost strained rough groan that precedes the hot, thick flood of cum being shot right against your cervix.

It’s so fucking much, so, so much it almost feels like it won’t stop. And it comes from his upper and lower cock, which means your stomach, your chest, and even your face are hit with ropes and ropes of his seed, while your pussy leaks it, semen overflowing and dripping out around his cock.

His breath is heavy and his pupils are swallowing the red rings of his irises. You don’t think he’s done with you even though you’re on the bring of exhaustion.

And just as quickly as he got you on your back, he pulls out just for enough seconds to flip you to your stomach.

“Sukuna—!” you cry out, voice hazy and breathless. “Fuck— wait!”

His mouth is on your nape in a second, more kisses, more licks and huffs. His upper hands bring your arms up, over your head and he pins your hands easily against the mattress with only one of his big, strong hands. The other arm slides down, hand encasing your neck once again, but the pressure is now on your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, he just holds and forces your head to the side so he can see your face — so he can nibble at your jaw and pepper hot, open mouthed kisses there too while his lower right hand aligns his upper cock and his lower cock’s heads against your freshly fucked hole.

He presses and you feel the stretch starting. Your body complains and you groan a loud, whiny moan.

“It’s— fuck you’re gonna— ahn! rip me in half!” you manage in a snap and his face, absurdly close to yours, presses against your cheek. You feel the cold of his nose ring and a bit of a smirk growing on his lips.

“I’m not,” he responds, voice heavily laced in his lust “You can take me. All of me.” he sounds so sure, and so hot, you almost believe him.

The pressure increases and you do your best to relax, because you know if you tense it will be worse, so much worse.

You can take all of him.

You will take all of him.

Despite your whining, he nuzzles the side of your face, letting his heavy breath fan against your cheek, your neck, your pulse when he goes back there to kiss your skin and taste your sweat with every lick.

You feel like you’re being torn apart, a white burst of pain, and then… he stops.

Both cockheads, slick, coated in both your orgasms and more of your slick, are inside you. Leaking, pushing out — and in — the excess of his cum.

“See?” He murmurs, sounding too satisfied with himself. “I’m gonna breed you so fucking good.”

That second part takes a moment to reach your brain.

He pushes his hips and slowly, inch by thick inch he sheathes both his cocks inside you. You can’t rationalize right now, everything else stops existing — there’s only him, filling you up impossibly, holding you down and pressing his hot, strong chest against your back while his cocks bottom out in your cunt.

Sukuna waits before he moves this time. He relishes in the tight feeling of your velvety walls clutching and fluttering around his lengths, in how your body feels so good to manhandle, to squeeze, to have against his own. Fuck, he could remain like that forever, he thinks.

But he can’t hold for too long, and a few beats later he’s moving again.

You feel every ridge of every vein dragging against your walls when he pulls back and slams his hips down against you. It starts slow, but cruel. Then the pace picks slowly, the rhythm is built as your cunt stop resisting so much.

You try to keep your voice down, but his grunts, the wet schlicks of his cocks sliding in and out of your abused sex, the slaps of skin meeting skin and the overwhelming smell of sex definitely reached at least one other stall. It’s a lost cause by now, to think no one will hear you because of the storm and the thunders cracking.

Even with the heavy, noisy rain, the generator humming and the lightnings, the sound of his hips punishing your ass cheeks and his heavy balls slapping against your pussy lips and clit are loud enough to be heard from a distance.

You are a drooling mess.

Cheek pressed against his cushion, arms tensing and hands clutching on the sheets, still cuffed on one of his hands above your head, legs useless kicking and toes curling as he pounds you senseless and back into sense within minutes.

Between the low groans, the kisses, the nibbles and licks he trails down your shoulders, neck, back and even face, he whispers things that have you half worried and half so fucking turned on you come — more than once — with his words alone matching his relentless pace.

“I knew you’d feel this good.”, “I”m not stopping until you’re entirely filled with my seed.”, “I think I’ll keep you here and breed you until I’m fucking dead from exhaustion.”

You don’t doubt he means any of those — the worrisome part is that you also don’t really mind, probably. Being there, under him, having his heavy body pressing over yours in that soothing, obscene way as he drills his cocks inside you for as long as he can? Doesn’t seem so bad.

Maybe the pheromones have reached your brain.

Or maybe you were really lacking a good, powerful, mind breaking fuck like that.

You didn’t imagine it would come from a bull hybrid that nearly breaks you in half while fucks into you, though.

You aren’t complaining now, you’re actually barely making any sense. You babble, drool, your eyes roll back when your nth orgasm hits and your body spasms, tenses, writhes and slacks — but he’s still going strong. He’s still mounting you like the unbroken stud he is, like the breeder bull Gojo bought him to be.

And well, the storm eases, at some point. It rolls out and the heavy rain becomes a light drizzle. No thunders, no strong wind and loud noises. The energy is still out, so the dim, blue, sickening glow of the emergency light is the one that shines on his sweat drenched muscular broad back. It’s still the one that makes his tattoos look sharp and casts shadows across his stall, outlining every single muscle straining as he bucks his rips slowly now, rolling them to fuck lightly into you. Dragging in and out almost patiently, making sure to molder your tight walls to the shape of his cocks alone.

His orgasms filled you up to the point of a little swell be present on your belly. Both his cocks sheathed inside you are adding to that swell, though.

The way he bucks and ruts inside you even when there’s no way he can go further, deeper in your cunt, only serves to make you give your low, tearful sobs and whines, because you can’t utter words right now, but he simply adores them. He has his face buried on the crook of your neck. Your hands are free and the four of his hands are wrapped against your body while his frame is still pressing you down on his bed.

“Mm” he groans lowly, breathing slow and heavy against your skin, sounding absolutely calm. “You’re so full…” he rasps, making your eyes flutter open. “I hope you’re pregnant with my calf.” his voice is dragged, he sounds almost drunk. Probably outfucked, just like you. “Need you to let me breed you every time a storm rolls.”

You blink. You’re sweaty, hair plastered to your shiny, sticky face, his body is a furnace over yours and he’s keeping you wrapped tight, pressed down, caged and filled under him. Every now and then he humps, just a small, brief movement of his hips that make your body jolt because of course he’s falling asleep with both dicks buried inside you, keeping his cum all in and your pussy all stretched around his size.

What choice do you have right now?

You close your eyes and hum lowly, earning a flick of his ears and an absent nuzzle on your neck.

“I’m glad you’re calmer now.” you manage, almost a whisper. “Next storm we’ll try other methods, maybe.”

He lets out a faint scoff that sounds like mockery, as if your suggestion was absurd.

Well, you have until next storm to think of better ways to calm the bull down.

Akaza was on a mission to find that blue spider lily that his master, Muzan Kibutsuji, wanted. That, or find a Demon able to withstand and survive the sun's deadly light.

He didn't expect to find a crying child locked in a wooden cage in the middle of the woods.

He was confused. Why was there a child in the middle of nowhere? There was a small village nearby... Maybe the child was from there, but if so, why were they caged?

"Oi." Akaza's voice made the child stop crying and turn to look at the Demon... And Akaza's eyes widened as he saw your four arms and an extra pair of eyes, which were filled with tears.

You blinked, tears falling down your cheeks as you looked at the Demon... And then you opened your mouth, but nothing you said made any sense to Akaza.

Did you even know how to speak?

"What's your name?" He tried, and you frowned as you rubbed your teary eyes. Akaza frowned also. You were no doubt young, not maybe 10, if not even younger?

"D- D-!" You tried to speak, "Demoh...!"

"That's your name?" Akaza asked, "Demon?"

You nodded, and the Demon sighed. As far as he was aware, his master didn't care about the age of people he turned into Demons. This child, you, you might as well have been sentenced to death.

One swing of his strong arm, and he destroyed your wooden prison. You were stunned as you looked at him with your four eyes shining in the moon's light, admiring him.

"Come on..." Akaza grumbled as he picked you up like you weighed nothing and started to carry you towards his hideout. It wasn't much, a small cabin in the woods that belonged to some woodcutter, but it kept him safe from the sun.

"Here," The Demon said as he picked up a leg that was left of the woodcutter and tossed it to you, "You gotta eat if you want to stay strong."

You were totally in awe as you looked at Akaza and then at the bloody leg... And you frowned, shaking your head and pushing the limb away from you.

Akaza frowned, "You need to eat, or else you won't get any stronger!"

You shook your head and started crying again, tears coming down hard, and the Demon frowned.

Were you...? Were you not a Demon? You certainly looked like one!

Akaza looked around and saw a piece of bread in the corner of the cabin. It had a little mold on it already, but he just ripped the bad part off and then offered the still good part of the bread to you.

"Can you eat this?" He asked, and you immediately stopped crying, grabbed the bread, and ate it in manner of minutes. Akaza was right, you weren't a Demon because Demons could only eat humans. Normal food would only make ones like him sick.

Once you were done with the bread, you looked at Akaza like he was your savior, which he might just have been.

"What should I do with you...?" He grumbled, as he knew he couldn't just leave you on your own. Despite your looks, you were definitely a human... But no normal human would take you in or even accept you.

"Shit..." He sighed, feeling responsible for you now that he had saved you, "I guess I'm keeping you...?"

And Akaza did just that. He made sure to get you some proper food from the nearby village, choosing to shamelessly steal whatever he wanted or felt like you needed.

He would keep you company during the nights and tried to teach you how to talk or fight. You know, basic things?

"A. KA. ZA." He said as he pointed at himself, trying to get you to learn his name. You attempted to repeat his words, but you still had some trouble with the K and Z.

But when it came to fighting and martial arts, you seemed to be natural. You were a quick learner, and it made Akaza feel pride unlike anything he had ever felt before.

"Good job, kid." He nodded as he observed the combat doll he had prepared for you to train your punches on, "You'll be strong enough to defend yourself soon enough."

You appeared to understand some words. As you heard your caretaker praise you, you smiled and ran to hug him, but Akaza always dodged your attempts to show physical affection.

He didn't want to appear weak, even to himself.

Then, one night, he was on his way back from the village, this time having stolen some seasonal fruit alongside meat and bread... But as he got closer to the cabin, he heard you crying.

At first, he didn't think much of it. You had a habit of crying sometimes when left alone... But there were other voices.

"Look, it's a small Demon!"

Akaza flinched, dropping the food he had gotten, and immediately rushed to the cabin, but instead of showing himself, he hid in a tree. He chose to observe before going in.

What he saw pissed him off badly. You were badly beaten up. There were 3 rookie Slayers, but you had tried to defend yourself; that much was clear, but 3 young adults against 1 child?

...But this was his chance to get rid of you. You had been holding him back for the past few months, now... Maybe the Slayers would show you mercy when seeing that you were able to stand in the sun?

"Is it even a Demon?"

"Of course it is! Look at it, it has four eyes and arms!"

"An easy kill!"

...But despite his attempts to abandon you, he couldn't do it. Akaza's blood was boiling as he listened to the young Slayers talk about you in that way.

"We could take it back to the base!"

"Yeah! We will get so famous if we turn in a Demon as horrible as this!"

The Slayers grabbed your arms, all four of them, and painfully twisted them behind your back, making you cry even harder as you were in pain and so afraid.

"Dammit!"

"Hold still, you little freak!"

"A- A-!" You cried out loud from the bottom of your lungs, "AKAZA!"

"Shut the fuck up-!" One Slayer raised his hand, ready to hit you, but suddenly lost the feeling in his hand. He blinked as he looked, and he screamed bloody murder, his hand chopped off cleanly.

"M- My arm!?" He fell onto his knees, clutching what was left of his arm to his chest, and his companions, who were holding you, were next. They had no idea what had happened before it was too late.

"H- Huh?" One fell on the ground... Head first and their body following the head.

"I- IIIK!" The third one let go of you and tried to run off, but his legs were neatly cut off from under him, making him collapse on the ground, crying and screaming.

Akaza stood there, his hand bloody, but with a quick flick of it, he got rid of the blood. He looked down on you, thinking that you must have been scared of him now...

"A- A-!" Your voice trembled, so small, but Akaza could hear you loud and clear, even when the two Slayers were screaming from the bottom of their lungs.

"Akaza!" You cried out loud as you threw yourself against him, wrapped all your arms around him, and hugged him, "Akaza!"

The Demon's eyes widened as he felt you hold him so hard. You must have been scared witless. These damn Slayers...!

"I'm here," He said as he knelt down before you and gently ruffled your hair, "I'm here. You're safe now."

"Akaza...!" You cried again as you hugged him again, this time wrapping your arms around his neck. Akaza's eyes were wide as you hugged him so close... It almost reminded him of something... But he couldn't understand what?

"Now..." The Demon got up and turned his murderous gaze to the two Slayers he had left still alive... For now.

"P- Please, no!"

"Mercy!"

"Payback time...!" He growled as he cracked his knuckles, and the two young Slayers screamed and cried apologies, begging for their lives, but Akaza was not feeling merciful. Not after what they did and were going to do to you.

They were dead, but their death wasn't painless. The Demon groaned as he licked his bloody knuckles and turned to look at you. You appeared completely fine in front of blood and violence. Just what kind of a life did you have that led you to that cage months ago?

"Come on, kid," He reached for your hand, which you took gladly. Akaza knew you wouldn't be able to stay in that cabin anymore. Once the word got out that Slayers had been killed, they'd send more to investigate, and Akaza didn't want to endanger you anymore.

Sukuna laughs, the sound just as mean as it always is coming from him. It’s a mocking sound as he looks down on your panting form, a hard thrust of his fat cock spearing into you just for good measure, all so he can watch the way you tremble and choke on your screams. This is how he likes you, helpless, trapped under him as two of his hands hold your thighs apart and the other two hands keep your wrists pinned. There’s nothing you can do to escape him as he fucks you past your limits, using you until you think you might truly break apart on his cock. 

He’s obsessed with pushing you to this point, craves seeing that proud attitude of yours crumble as he fucks you mindless and reminds you of your place. Under him, at his mercy, his to possess and own because he can’t let you go. It’s not love, but merely obsession. The closest he can get to such a cursed emotion, and with every thrust that drives his cock deep inside you he punishes you for making him feel this way. You’re under his skin, in his thoughts, worming your way in so much so that you can push him to moments like these where his self control shatters. He can’t let you go because he won’t have his perfect pet used against him, and he won’t kill you because despite all his meanness he wants you close. 

You know it too, that’s why you push buttons, and do what no one else would ever dare to do. Because you know you’ll get away with it with your life intact. Your ability to walk on the other hand? Well that might take a day or two, at the least, to recover. This is your only real revenge against Sukuna, pushing him and provoking him to act on what he feels just so you know you aren’t the only one affected by his obsession with you. Funny how your revenge always ends up with you in tears though. 

“S…sukuna, please…” There it is, what he wants to hear out of you. That broken, tearful plea for mercy that he has no intention of showing you. The hands at your thighs move to push your knees to your chest, spreading you open more for his benefit than your own. The sound you make when he manages to sink even deeper inside you is like a sweet symphony to the King of Curses as he shifts both of your wrists into one hand so he can grip your chin with the other. 

He leans down, turning your head to the side. You shudder when you feel his tongue dragging over your pulse point before you feel his fangs dragging against it. Your mind is too lost to try and stop him, and you can only give another broken, sobbing moan when you feel him bite down. It hurts for only a moment before he soothes over the place he’s bitten, tasting the sweetness of your blood with a heady groan. You know he’s marked you in a place that you won’t easily be able to hide. You clench around him, so hard and so tightly that the formidable King of Curses lets out a deep rumbling growl as he lets his hips surge forward. “You. Are. Mine.” He punctuates each word with a hard thrust, and each one draws a broken cry of pleasure from your lips.

The grip he has on your chin tightens, your head snapping forward as he forces your gaze to return to him. Tears stream down your cheeks, and he swears there’s no more beautiful sight than you being brought to tears by his cock. Sukuna grins, fangs dripping red, and his mouth still bloody from marking your flesh. He uses his grip on your jaw to make you nod your head. “Say it.” He commands, and you have no fight in you to deny him. 

“Yours. Only yours.” You sob, the pleasure overwhelming and far too intense. You’ve no idea how many times he’s forced you to fall apart around his cock, but you can feel yourself reaching that impossible peak again. You feel as if you’ll go mad if he pushes you past it again, and you try weakly to plead with him once more. “Please…I—” He cuts you off with a growl that reverberates through your whole being and strikes you silent. 

“You can.” Sukuna tells you simply, “and you will.” He continues, his cock continuing to rock into you again and again as he claims what’s his. “Now.” It’s an order, and your body bends to his will, the climax hitting you so hard that your vision whites out and you let loose a raw, hoarse scream as your essence floods his cock. Sukuna chuckles darkly at the way you go limp under him, his perfect broken toy. The thought of someone as strong as you, as defiant, and difficult under him like this is enough to send him careening the edge himself. “Who am I?” He questions, giving your cheek a sharp slap to rouse you enough to your senses to answer. 

“My king…” You mutter, words slurred and barely above a whisper with how exhausted you are. It’s enough though, just enough to have Sukuna chasing his own release until he spills deep inside of you. The sound of your pathetic needy mewls as his spend paints your walls, earns a low hum of approval, though he doubts you’re conscious enough to bask in it. 

“That’s what I thought.” He says, hands releasing your limbs while he pulls himself from your warmth, admiring the way he leaks out of you for a moment before his thick fingers are pushing his cum back into you with a laugh at the way you whine. “Perhaps you’ll think twice before trying to provoke me again.” His words are mocking despite knowing this is a lesson you will never learn. Sukuna hovers over you for a moment, watching your barely conscious form. If you could see it you’d swear he was on the verge of kissing you, the thought of you opening your eyes to see him so close with a look of…near fondness on his face is enough to make the King of Curses pull away. Muttering to himself he stalks over to where he’s cast off his robe, shrugging back into it with a mildly frustrated grunt before he calls out. “Uraume!” 

You nod, because speech is reserved only for the most momentous occasions, and hope it’s enough for her. The monthly assembly was nearing its end and only a few stragglers remained. The day was nearly done with, and you were inclined to return to your chambers as soon as possible.

Your gaze had already slipped towards the next supplicant approaching when it happened. The woman reached out and touched the pale skin of your feet. An entreaty that transgressed sacred bounds. “Please, my lady!” the woman wept.

Before you could so much as respond, guards had already dragged the woman away from you. You didn’t know what she was thinking. She had to know that touching you was strictly forbidden, that it would mar your purity, ultimately affecting your ability to protect all of them with your sanctity as Priestess of the Goddess Terra.

The uniformed men showed no mercy, they raised their weapons and beat down on the old woman mercilessly. Your heart twinged with pain. You could understand their concern that the woman’s actions might have endangered the sacred temple and all who resided in its protection. But what was done was done and you abhorred violence.

“Enough!” the word was out of your mouth before you knew it and you were on your feet. Your fiery gaze narrowed at the men, and they hesitated nervously, realizing they had displeased you. Most of the residents of the temple had never even heard you speak and so, when your clear, commanding voice rang out throughout the temple hall everything ground to a halt. Time seemed to stand still.

“Tut, tut,” a sickly sweet voice rang out from behind you. The thick, velvet curtains parted, and the High Chamberlain stepped into view. He wore a tall, cylindrical hat that was inlaid with diamonds, and fashioned out of rich, mulberry velvet brocade. His spindly fingers were adorned with so many golden rings it was a wonder he could lift them at all. In fact, the platinum-haired man with the aquiline nose was so heavily weighed down by gold from head to toe it was a wonder he didn’t melt into a yellow puddle when passing by the kitchens. Only the ornate medallion on his chest, the mark of one anointed by the temple, was of burnished silver.

“You have displeased the Goddess.” His voice was deceptively soft, as was the usual manner for men who knew that they bore the kind of power that did not require them to raise their voices.

The men stood back at once, abashed. They brought their hands stiffly to their sides and bowed their heads in silent apology. The High Chamberlain stepped down the marble stairs with slow, measured steps. He approached them with disdain and gently helped the old woman to her feet.

“The goddess does not condone violence!” the chamberlain called out to the people at large, before turning to the two soldiers. “Do you intend to disgrace the temple by angering the goddess?” His voice was sharp and weighted with cold fury.

“Go. Take your families and leave this place. You are dismissed from your posts.” He turned away from them with a scowl, “Lest you bring damnation upon us all.”

He turned to the assembly with outstretched hands next. “Worshippers, please leave the temple now! The goddess must take her rest after the trying ordeal she has witnessed.” The men and women shouted praises to the goddess who had chosen to defend the common people over her own temple guards as four handsome young eunuchs approached with a palanquin. You were helped to your feet by your handmaidens, young girls who were sworn into your service from an early age and swore never to marry. As they carried you off, you could not help but glance at the two ashen-faced soldiers who looked like they had been sentenced to death. Your stomach twisted uncomfortably. You weren’t sure whether justice had been served. But the High Chamberlain had spoken, and what did you know about the affairs of the people?

  “I’m not a goddess.”

The words were out almost as soon as you had reentered your chambers. You meant to sound indignant, but it came out petulant – childish, almost.

The High Chamberlain turned to you with a gentle smile. “I’m a priestess, Sig,” you insisted, “I worship the Goddess."

“Ah, and so you do.” He folded his hands over his staff, gold rings clinking as he did so. “I chose you myself so many years ago, because I saw the light of the goddess within you and knew you to be the next priestess.”

You frowned. You couldn’t help but feel that he was skirting the topic somehow, but you weren’t sure where he was leading. You settled deeper into your cushions and pulled the many silks around you closer. Your chambers were your favorite place in the temple, here you could be at ease, away from watchful eyes. Golden flowerpots littered the floors and tables, each with all sorts of fresh flowers picked from the gardens this morning. You liked to lie back on your silks, close your eyes, and pretend you were among them, on the grass, in the sunshine. Their bouquet’s sweet fragrance washed over you and you could almost believe it to be true.

“But through your worship, dear one, you have entered unto the goddess,” he smiled softly, and lowered his voice as if they were sharing a secret. “And the goddess has entered unto you.”

You pressed a palm to your chest where your heart thumped against your ribcage. Was it true?

“I strongly believe that you are the Chosen Priestess, who will save us all when the Great Evil arises.”

You frowned, unconvinced, “I’m sure you said that to my predecessor as well. And you’ll say it to my successor, too.”

Siegfried burst into amused laughter that ended in a cough. “You never cease to surprise me,” he shook his head. The two of you fell silent for a moment before he continued, “Do you know that your parents did not want to give you into the service of the temple?”

Wide-eyed, you turned to him now, perplexed, “why?”

The old priest shrugged, “Who knows? In their limited knowledge, they didn’t realize what a great honor the Calling that you had received was.”

He rose to his feet and made to leave, “Sometimes we cannot foresee the great glory that fate has yet to bestow upon us.” He winked at you, as if there was some riddle in his words for you to solve. You mulled over his meaning as he headed towards the door. You bit your lip when something puzzled you.

“Master Sig,” you called after him, causing him to stop in the doorway and turn towards you. “How did you change their minds? My parents, I mean?”

“Come now,” the High Chamberlain dismissed with a smile, “that is quite enough of the past.” He nodded at you and was gone.

  The Great Evil was coming.

You knew it. You could feel it in your bones.

You spent day and night at the sacred tree begging the goddess for protection. You supplicated unto the pearled staff that only the priestess of the age was ever allowed access to. You told the chamberlain about your worries whenever you had a chance, but he was far more concerned with running the temple than with taking your premonitions seriously. When nearby cities and kingdoms fell, when the sorcerers who were meant to stop the evil were crushed under its feet, when the monsters were only days away, all hell broke loose.

The temples treasures were packed up, the servants and monks rushed to and fro, the chamberlain himself was seen running from place to place, barking orders, his hat askew. Among all the chaos, you merely stood there, lost and confused.

It was as if they had forgotten all about you.

“Sig!” you called out to the chamberlain’s retreating back. He almost stumbled at the sound of your voice and whirled around with a glare in his eyes. It was almost as if he were angry with you, but that wasn’t possible… was it?

“Wh- what am I to do?” your voice came out smaller than intended. You had been preparing for this moment your whole life – you, and generations of priestesses before you. Now that it had come, were they all going to run away?

Siegfried sighed and the anger evaporated from his face, he cooed your name and walked towards you, righting his hat as he did so. “Listen to me carefully now,” he said sternly, and you could almost hear the old, collected Chamberlain in his voice. “You are the chosen priestess. You will face this evil, and you will defeat it by your virtue. The goddess is within you – no, you ARE the goddess. You must take the Sacred Staff and protect this country.” His gaze bore into you, compelling you to understand. He was the closest thing you had to a parent, he had raised you all your life. He was the only one you were given leave to speak to. And he was entrusting you with all of their fates.

You blinked, your eyes welling up with tears at the enormity of your task, but you nodded solemnly. This was your due. For all the years of worship that the countrymen had paid to you and your ancestors. It was time to fight the evil with the collected power of those prayers.

“I – “ he was already stumbling away again, now that he had placated you, “I will take the people away – somewhere safe!” He opened and closed his mouth a few times as sweat rolled down his temples. “I’d much rather be by your side to see your glorious victory, but - but the people need to be evacuated.” He nodded firmly to himself. “I will bring them back when you have vanquished the Great Evil.”

You watched his retreating back as he turned slowly away from you and then bolted for the temple’s exit. You took a soft, deep breath and looked around.

The temple was abandoned. It seemed all the others had fled while you were talking to Sig.

No matter, you shook your head. It was time.

You dressed in the white silks that had been prepared for the month’s assembly, they were of better use for the upcoming battle. Seven gold belts you clasped around your waist, each with a divine significance. Power, Wisdom, Eloquence, Generosity, Chastity, Divinity, and Judgment.

You knelt at the sacred tree a final time and bade the goddess Terra watch over you, before rising to your feet and turning to a side room. Here, was the Wreath of the Goddess and the Staff of Sanctity. The two tools you would use to vanquish the approaching evil. The Staff was a pearly white, and the Wreath was made of delicate golden flowers and leaves that were as soft to the touch as real flowers. You placed the wreath atop your head and lifted the staff gingerly in your hands.

The uppermost floor of the tower was your destination. Here, you would face the oncoming horde of evil. Here, you would take your stand and protect the people of this land who had worshipped you all your life.

You saw them approaching from afar. A mass of growling, burly demonic incarnations approaching like a thick plague. The very stench of their evil made your skin crawl, but you set your teeth and stood firm. The closer they drew, the weaker you felt, their demonic aura infringing upon your divine power. You closed your eyes and whispered a prayer for strength, replenishing the shield of divinity.

When the horde of demons drew within earshot, you breathed deep and called out, “Halt, accursed spirits! I am the Priestess of the Goddess Terra, and I forbid you entry within our borders! Heed my words, lest I sentence you to your deaths!”

The monsters turned towards one another, muttering to themselves before bursting into raucous laughter. Their jeers made your stomach turn. As if you had not spoken at all, they lurched back into action and continued approaching the temple walls. With a quiet incantation, you lifted the sacred staff and struck the ground with it. Immediately, a luminous, incandescent wall sprung to life between the temple and the evil beasts. They snarled at you and the first of them lifted a mace before bolting towards the barrier – only to disintegrate into nothingness as soon as he touched it.

You smirked to yourself, you were the chosen priestess, and you would protect your countrymen. A furious roar lifted from the monsters as they shuffled back and forth, wondering what to do. You watched them, hoping they would retreat peacefully, putting an end to the chaos when a pair of crimson eyes caught yours. Your breath caught in your throat, because there, among the disgruntled goblins was a man standing well over them, he had black markings on his face and four muscular arms, two of which were folded across his broad chest, but most shocking of all was the fact that he was looking straight at you with a wide, unhinged smirk, fangs gleaming in the sunlight.

Before you could blink, he had launched himself up through the air towards you, and as he approached the divine barrier, the last shield between you and the evil beyond - it shattered into a million pieces like the thinnest of glass. He squatted on the balcony’s railing, his nose millimeters from yours, his scarlet eyes flecked with gold and glowing with bloodlust.

“Boo,” he taunted, his smirk unfaltering. You could hear the cheers of victory behind and far below him as the demons breached the temple walls, but you could not tear your eyes from the murderous smile of the man before you. Instantly, you knew without a shadow of a doubt, that this man was the Great Evil you had been taught about all your life.

“I am the Priestess of Terra,” you murmured quietly, your breath ghosting over his lips. You furrowed your brows, trying your best to look imposing, trying your best to stand your ground, “and I will vanquish you.”

His nose twitched and his eyes gleamed, there was something of genuine delight in his response and you fought the shiver that went down your spine.

“Oh, yeah?” he sneered, stepping forward off the balcony railing. His sheer size forced you to take a step back. “Says who?”

“The goddess Terra has ordained me to –“ you begin, glancing backwards so you don’t fall to the floor.

“Goddess, shmoddess,” Sukuna dismissed with a cruel laugh. Like a strike of lightning his hand shot out, and closed around your face, his fingers reached to the tips of your ears and his palms smelled of blood and sweat.

He was touching you - touching you. And his touch was warm and foreign and – and bruising. Your head spun with fear. When the demon applied pressure, you could hear the bones of your jaw creaking in protest as he lifted you off of the ground. He swung you left and right like a ragdoll, “I’m asking you, who left you here to stand against me on your own?”

“Th- The people of Terrania, I –“ your voice was muffled against his palm and you could scarcely breathe. “I will protect them!” you choked out, before striking out with your staff, hoping the mere touch of such a divine instrument would be enough to take him down.

You held the point of the staff against his chest, and Sukuna glanced down at it, taken aback briefly. He blinked, then broke into a chuckle, as the pearly white spear took on a gray, and then an inky black hue spilling down from the point of contact with Sukuna’s chest towards the handle in your hand. You gasped in horror, watching the ominous display through the gaps in Sukuna’s fingers.

“That’s all well and good, brat…” he chuckled sinisterly, “but who is going to protect you?”

And in that moment, you lost all hope that anyone would.

“Sukuna-sama,” a voice called from beyond your vision. “The place is abandoned, there’s no one else here. The townspeople, too,” the gruff voice continued. “All gone.”

“Well, well, well…” Sukuna sneered. “Looks like it’s just you and me then, priestess.”

He released his hold on you and you crumpled to the ground like a used towel, coughing for breath. You glanced up at the mountain of a man and began to realize, for the very first time, that you were entirely out of your depth. You stumbled to your feet gingerly, unwilling to give up despite the overwhelming odds. “I am the incarnation of the Goddess Terra,” you rasped, “and I will bring you to your knees.”

“Ho?” Sukuna sneered, almost delighted by your stupidity. “My knees, huh?”

He stepped closer and grabbed you by your hair, sending the Wreath of the Goddess tumbling to the ground, you yelped in pain, but squeezed your eyes shut, refusing to let him see your fear.

“Oi,” Sukuna snapped gruffly, “eyes up here.”

You glared at him through the tears in your eyes. He tugged on your hair some more. “Does this hurt?” He grinned in mock-concern, “I’m only getting started. I thought you were gonna bring me down, you’ll have to do better than that.”

Your scalp burned with pain. You thought of roses in syrup, of clay pots of honey, of cool silks and soft velvets. Anything but the present moment.

“Don’t you hate them?” Sukuna jerked you closer towards himself, “The assholes who left a nobody like you alone with me?”

You bit back tears. “I will protect my worshippers,” you whispered thickly, muted by sobs stuck in your throat.

“You think they didn’t know what was going to happen to you?” Sukuna barked a laugh, “You really don’t see what’s happening here?”

With his free hand he grabbed your face again, squeezing your cheeks in until they hurt. “Don’t tell me you actually believe all that crap about being a goddess?!” A disbelieving laugh echoed against the abandoned temple walls.

“I was going to kill you,” Sukuna mused piercing your cheek with a sharp, black fingernail. You whimpered despite yourself as blood trickled towards your chin. “Impale you and use you as a flag, you know?” He snorted in amusement, as if the idea was a clever joke.

“But I think I have a better idea…”

You yelped in alarm as you felt yet another hand at your waist, you tried to jerk away from him, trembling at his touch – as foreign to you as the pain you were feeling for the first time in your life. You tried to swat his hands away, but he was quick to catch your hands in one of his own, and then twisting them until they hurt.

“Now don’t be such a prude,” Sukuna taunted as his other hands sliced through the seven golden belts one at a time. “Let’s see what’s under here, shall we?”

“Stop, please…” you whimpered, eyes brimming with tears.

“You’re not a goddess,” Sukuna tutted, throwing two belts to the ground.

Power. Wisdom.

“Not a priestess,”

Judgment. Eloquence. Generosity.

“Not the savior of these stinking humans,”

Divinity.

The last of the golden belts clattered to the floor and his hands reached between the folds of silk and cupped the mound between your legs. A shuddering sob escaped your throat.

“You’re just a woman.”

Chastity.

He rubbed at your clothed sex, observing the conflicting emotions of horror, pleasure and fear splayed openly across your face. “Looks like the goddess likes it,” Sukuna sneered.

The tears you held at bay came bubbling over. The sounds of the temple  - your childhood home, your only home - being ransacked by the many cursed spirits that had stormed in echoed through the halls and instead of protecting your shrine, here you were being touched,  touched, by the great evil himself in ways you didn’t understand.

“They steal little girls like you from their parents,” Sukuna continued gruffly, adjusting his grip so that two hands held you up by your thighs, pressing your legs apart and pinning you against a large, marble pillar, while the other two ventured up your abdomen and over your breasts each inch that his hands wandered over you caused cold dread to creep up your spine, when suddenly – without warning – his sharp nails came down, tearing your silk robes to shreds.

You gasped in horror and sheer humiliation. You had never been exposed to anyone, not even your handmaidens, and here you were spread open like a gutted pig. And beyond that, the eyes of the great evil were feasting on you as if you were no more than a morsel for him to devour.

You winced when he reached out towards you. You had spent your life untouched, and when Sukuna’s hands closed in on you, his touch was never less than punishing. He squeezed, he pinched, he scraped your flesh, as if he could only feel you when you were in pain. He grabbed your breasts and squeezed mercilessly, his sharp black nails digging into your skin. For reasons, you could not comprehend, you moaned through your hiccupping sobs.

This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t happening.

“They look for the most gullible ones, unsuspecting idiots like you,” he twisted your nipple cruelly as he went on. “And use you to fill their own koffers, to bring in the fools who are willing to part with their gold. And you know what the best part is?” He lowered his head towards your ear to reveal it, but broke off laughing. The idea was so ridiculous to him, it didn’t look like he could help but laugh. He leaned against you, crushing you into the pillar as he continued laughing hysterically. You watched him helplessly, suspended against the pillar spread-eagle with your most intimate area pressed up against him, your eyebrows knitted in confusion, your cheeks damp with tears.

When the roar of laughter abated, Sukuna wiped at his eyes and brought his lips to your ears, “When those bastards left you here, do you really think they thought you would fight me?” He waited a beat for you to think it over. You hesitated, hadn’t Sig expected her to fight? “They must have thought you’d have the good sense to run away.” Sukuna burst out laughing again and pressed one hand to his stomach as if it hurt from laughter.

“You see? You see what an absolute fool you are?”

You could not respond and simply stared at him blankly. “Th-that’s not true…”

But you weren’t sure. You thought about how Sig had fled without another glance backwards. How the monks and handmaidens had run from the temple without once asking after you. How they had left you behind as if you were no more human than the temple’s paintings or statues.

“Everyone knew it was a lie,” Sukuna hissed sadistically into your ear, as he tore the simple, remaining scrap of fabric from between your legs.

“Everyone but you.”

And then his fingers were inside of you.

You cried out in shock. “No, no, no…” You fought against him with what little strength you had. You didn’t know what this was, but it was wrong, it was so, so wrong. “Stop!” You pounded against his chest hoping to catch him off guard so he would release you, but those long, thick fingers only kept exploring the hole between your legs.

“Stop it! Please! I’ll do whatever you want!”

“Oh yes, you will,” Sukuna smirked. Catching both of your wrists in one of his hands he pinned them above your head, leaving you utterly defenseless. You looked on in horror as he reached for the sacred staff and held it in his bare hand. The Sacred Staff. The divine gift that no one but the priestesses had touched for over a hundred years. In the hands of the Great Evil. And whose fault was that? No one’s but yours. The onyx marble glistened in the sunlight and a salacious sneer spread across the monster’s lips.

“Be honest with yourself, goddess,” he teased, bringing the staff between your legs. He pressed the cold marble against your womanhood and slid it slowly up and down, enjoying your look of despair at his manhandling your divine weapon. The cool marble slipped between your folds and touched something between your legs that caused you to jerk in response.

“Stop it,” you whimpered, letting your head hang in shame, even as your legs trembled against his hold with the strange, unfamiliar sensation. You could feel something coiling within your stomach, something you had first attributed to fear, but now you weren’t so sure anymore.

“What? You don’t like it?” Sukuna hummed with sadistic pleasure, “Don’t lie, brat.”

“I don’t!” you denied vehemently, even as your cheeks burned. But what could you do? With your legs pressed open and your hands pinned over your head, struggle as you might, there was no overpowering the great demon before you. Your eyes burned with guilt at what you had allowed to become of the sacred staff. If only a more powerful priestess had been in your place.

The thought was cut short by another entirely. Sukuna had said the temple kidnapped young, naïve girls. And what was it that Siegfried had said? That your parents had been unwilling to give you up? Maybe there were no priestesses more powerful. Maybe there was only a string of ignorant young women preyed upon by powerful men who made their fortunes off of them.

No, the idea was blasphemous!

Your thoughts were cut short as something cool and round demanded entrance and you shivered despite yourself. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“Think it’ll fit?” Sukuna mused, pressing the bulbous head of the staff against your opening. He prodded the hole carelessly once, twice, and each time a jolt passed through your body. “Stop!” you demanded, anxious sweat beading on your forehead, you opened your mouth to say more but nothing came out as a searing pain tore through you like fire.

A scream erupted from your throat as your untouched inner walls were forced to give way to the cold stone. Distantly, as if a world away, you could hear Sukuna laughing, enjoying your pain. Before your scream had even abated, he began shoving the staff deeper. Your cries broke off into sobs of pain, but the more you suffered, the more he seemed to be enjoying himself.

He pulled the staff out, only to ram it back into you, and smirked each time you jolted at the intrusion. You sobbed messily, tears and snot streaming down your face. Sukuna showed no signs of stopping, or even slowing, his punishing pace continued mercilessly until blood streamed between your legs.

“Pl- please…” you sniffled.

“Please what?” Sukuna asked, but rammed the ancient relic back into you as you opened your mouth to reply. “Come now, goddess, full sentences, please.”

Something awful was building and you didn’t know what it was - you hoped it was a swift death - but your breath shortened, and your body felt wound like a spring, and just as a dozen cursed spirits streamed into the room to give their report to Sukuna, you cried out in confusion as your body spasmed, your nerve ends tingling like grains of sand.

Sukuna pulled your staff from between your legs, and it hurt as if your insides themselves were clenching onto the stone instrument. You fell forward like a dead weight, hanging limply from where Sukuna held your wrists.

“Step forward men,” Sukuna all but purred, gesturing towards you magnanimously, “meet your goddess.”

Your face burned with shame and tears dripped down from your lashes onto the temple floor where they mingled with your blood. You trembled still with the force of whatever it was that had happened to you and closed your eyes from the humiliating experience.

“Oi,” Sukuna gripped your chin and raised your face towards him. “Don’t be a bore, goddess. Look at them.” He turned your face towards the creatures that had entered. A few bore a resemblance to men, others were half-beast, and others still were what could only be described as monsters with tentacles, fangs, and all manner of bodily deformities.

“See that look in their eyes?” Sukuna murmured into your ear, his fangs brushing your earlobe. “They want a turn, too. What do you say, should I hand you over?”

You turned your head towards him in horror, your eyes imploring him not to, as a cheer broke out among the cursed spirits.

You shook your head desperately as Sukuna finally released you, giving you a shove towards the gathering. They caught hold of you before you had even caught your footing, dragging you into the center of their circle. Their eyes were almost worse than their hands, the hunger with which those fearsome eyes raked over you was nauseating. You cried and screamed and begged them to stop, but your voice was drowned out by theirs. Nothing could stop them fighting over every inch of your flesh. You were groped and prodded at, licked in more places than you could count at once. It was as if you were drowning in hands and tongues.

But as bad as it was when they fought over you, it was worse still when they cooperated with one another. Bruising hands pinned you down while the others explored your body freely, taking turns mouthing your breasts and fondling you. There were so many voices, so much warm breath on your skin, so many faces, you shut your eyes and sobbed miserably.

You prayed that Sig would pull you away. That your guards would beat them down. That the goddess Terra would come to save you, but you knew it was all in vain. Deep down, you were beginning to realize. You were nothing more than a girl who had been stolen from her parents. After all, a true goddess could never find herself in such a situation, could she? Being raped to death in her own temple?

It was when an overeager cursed spirit positioned his member between your legs that you realized with startling clarity, that there was one person who could save you.

“Sukuna-sama!” you screamed, pulling your face away from another spirit seeking entrance at your mouth. They hesitated, confirming your suspicions. There was one person who could call them off, who might call them off still. “Sukuna…” you called again, but your voice was weaker this time. You squeezed your eyes shut and gave yourself up to the only true power you had yet to witness.

“Please, I’ll do anything! Please!”

When you opened your eyes again, Sukuna was standing beside you staring down at where you were held spread-eagle on the floor.

The mirth was gone from his face. He was regarding you seriously. A cocked brow, a challenge. “Anything?”

You nodded, tears still flowing from your eyes. He jerked his chin at the spirits, signaling for them to leave off and they scrambled backwards, not daring to challenge him. You rose to sit before him, your legs tucked beneath you as you used to sit in the temple library. Your shoulders shook still, and you wiped your face with the back of your arm, trying to regain a sense of decorum even as you could not stop yourself from trembling. You glanced down at your blood-stained legs and your tear-streaked arms, waiting for Sukuna’s verdict.

“You could be my mascot, like I said. I could string you up nicely,” Sukuna mused, leaning back against a pillar as he rested one booted foot on your shoulder. “What else could you possibly be good for? Apart from your leather, maybe.”

What were you good for? Nothing, clearly. You didn’t even know a single thing about yourself. But… you knew everything about the goddess.

“Do you want me to die a martyr?” you asked, meeting his eyes clearly, the faintest spark of hope coming to life within you. “Or do you want them to see that I’ve recognized the power of a true god?” It might work, appeal to his ego, he was the type, wasn’t he?

Sukuna’s lips split into a broad smile. “Clever little thing, aren’t you?” He pushed at your shoulder with his booted foot, sending you sprawling onto your back on the tiled floor. He then took hold of your wrist and lifted you up from the floor until you were eye level. You swallowed thickly and did your best to meet his gaze, there was a dangerous spark in those glowing red irises. “But I don’t like the look in your eyes,” he decided. “Should I take them out?”

Your breath caught in your throat. Did he mean that?

“Break in the goddess, huh?” He smirked, “Well, let’s get started, then.” As he pulls you towards the balcony you begin to understand what he has in store for you.

“I’ll be obedient!” You cry, realizing you’re in for more pain as you struggle to keep up with his steps. “I’ll do everything you say! Please, no more!”

“And how on earth are you going to be obedient?” He sneered, “When you’re arguing with me already?”

He throws you towards a wooden table.

The monks used to eat dinner here, you remember. They would thank you for the meal and eat humbly with gentle smiles. Your back slams against the surface of the wooden table and the candlesticks clatter across the temple floor. You scamper backwards, as if seeking to escape over the table, but Sukuna takes hold of your shoulder and flips you onto your chest, the rough wood scraping at your skin. In one fluid movement, Sukuna catches your wrists in his hand and slams your staff against the nearest wall, sending the marble bulb sailing through the air for him to catch in a third hand. He stabs the jagged edge of your now-broken staff through the backs of your hands, held one over the other, and clear through the wooden table.

You don’t even realize you are screaming until the pain in your throat becomes unbearable. You sob against the unfinished wood and Sukuna shakes his head behind you. “Tsk, tsk, tsk… What was that about being obedient?”

“I’ll be good, I promise…” you mutter nonsensically, your words slurred with pain. “You can trust me.”

“I’ll trust you when I break you,” Sukuna answers automatically. His attention caught by the marble, stone ball in his hand, still covered with your blood and your juices.

“Say ahh~” he grins, holding the orb of your broken staff to your lips. You’re about to protest, when your gaze catches on the cursed spirits still watching, waiting only a few feet away for you to screw up and be thrown back into their midst.

If you were going to be violated, wouldn’t it be better for Sukuna to be the one? He was just one demon, he had to wear out eventually, right? You opened your mouth, and Sukuna shoved the ball inside, scraping past your teeth. It was too big. It hurt. You couldn’t swallow. You could already feel saliva pooling in your mouth.

“Good girl,” Sukuna purred, “how’s that?” You couldn’t answer but you tried anyway, hoping the garbled sound would somehow please him. It seemed to do the job, because he asked no further questions as he moved back behind you.

It was awful. Your hands were burning, you almost wished he would have just cut them off instead. Every ever so tiny movement only widened your wounds, worsening your pain. The discomfort of the rough, wooden table almost didn’t register in comparison, but the burning embarrassment of your exposed backside hurt almost more than your hands. You tried to blend it all out, to disappear into some safe space in your mind as Sukuna slowly marched towards the end of the table trailing a sharp, black fingernail along your spine as he did so.

Sukuna didn’t like to give you any sort of pleasure without also giving you pain, you were starting to realize, and you grit your teeth for what you knew would be a humiliating experience, even more so with the other spirits looking on.

What you didn’t expect was for the palm of his hand to strike your backside with such force that the table splintered beneath you. Your hoarse throat cried out in pain. You could feel the bits of wood digging into your thighs, but could do nothing at all as he repeated the motion, again, and again, and again. Each strike seemed to travel up through your whole body, each strike seemed like it would split your skin. It was an endless, raw pain. You had no idea how long it went on for, but it continued until you gave up screaming, and your face lay limp in a puddle of your own drool.

When your body went slack and you were teetering on the edge of consciousness, and he could no longer provoke a reaction out of you, he finally stilled his hand. He pulled your face up by your hair, and your eyes rolled weakly up towards him, a string of spittle stretching from your chin to the table.

“You’re not finished already, are you?” he taunted, bright-eyed and sadistic. He rubbed gently at your backside now, almost as if easing away the pain and you blinked in weak confusion. What… what was he doing?

“That’s just the thing, goddess,” he slipped his hand between your cheeks, sliding up and down, spreading a strange slick liquid between your legs. “Don’t pass out on me now, if I wanted to fuck a corpse, I would have just killed you in the first place.” You moaned weakly. You had no idea what was going on, but it felt good, and you were so desperate to feel good. When his fingers slipped inside of you this time, there was nothing awful about it, you sighed against the table and closed your eyes in relief. Sure, there were still chips of wood in your thighs and the blood on your hands had crusted around your staff, and your jaw ached so terribly you did not believe there was a way to remove the ball of marble from your mouth. You were starting to hate the staff, and the wreath, and the temple, and everything about this place.

You relaxed into his touch, hoping that the more pliant you were, the less inclined he would be to cause you more pain. You felt thick, hard flesh prodding at your entrance, sliding up and down, just as his hand had a minute ago, to part your folds and slip inside. But something was wrong, whatever it was he wanted to violate you with now, it was too big, it would never fit. You glanced over your shoulder, trying to make sense of what was happening to you and your eyes widened in alarm as you saw not one, but two, erect members protruding from between his legs, each of them bigger than a man’s fist. He was going to literally tear you apart. He had no intention of letting you live.

All lethargy forgotten, you whimpered in fear and struggled to pull away from him, but two firm hands gripped your hips firmly, keeping you in place. “Now, now… don’t be that way,” he scolded with a cruel smirk. “Open wide.”

He forced himself inside of you with a thrust that should have split you clean in two. The sound that escaped from your mouth was something between a groan and a scream. You gasped, panting against the obstruction in your mouth as your inner walls burned with pain. You squeezed your eyes shut and whimpered against the table trying to spread your feet further apart, anything to ease the agonizing stretch.

But Sukuna cared little for your comfort. He continued ramming into you, aiming to push deeper and deeper inside of you, not having nearly had his fill. Each thrust makes you dizzy, each time he shoves further inside of you, you’re sure he’ll tear you apart.

It’s all together too much. Another orgasm crashes over you, despite the pain, causing your walls to squeeze down on him. You shiver uncontrollably against the table, wondering – hoping – if you could just black out until he’s done.

You feel the flat of his palm against your bare back and your eyes fall to half-mast as he shoves into you – again – again – again. You loll forward with each thrust, widening the wounds on your hands. When Sukuna finally gives pause with a groan, one hand on each side of you, leaning over you on the table, you turn your head weakly to look up at him.

It’s strange, to meet his eyes this way. It’s almost intimate. Being shadowed by him this way, covered by him. It’s strange how in the course of just a few hours, his touch had gone from horrid and strange to familiar. Strange. Perhaps it was simply her addled, exhausted mind.

You could not look away from him, and he did not seem to be inclined to do so either. He began rocking into you, eating up your expressions, each wince of pain, each moan of pleasure, each jolt of overstimulation. Did it make him feel powerful, you wondered, to be able to give you agony or ecstasy at his leisure, to switch them up at a whim, always leaving you guessing?

Just when you thought you had reached the point of no return, you felt him position his second member behind you. But what did he intend to do? You were stretched to your limit, there was no way he could fit another where he had forced the first – but the question answered itself almost as soon as it crossed your mind.

You turned wide eyes towards Sukuna, who smirked, feasting off your fear. You tried to say something, some protest about how wrong that was, but all that reached his ears around the ball in your mouth was helpless, desperate whines.

“Look at you,” Sukuna chided, lifting your chin from the table where you had made a mess, the wood softening from your pooled saliva. “Disgusting.” Your stomach did some odd flip at the word. It was an insult. So, why did it feel…

All thoughts were banished from your mind as his second member began squeezing into your narrow entrance. It hurt. It hurt so, so, so much. It hurt more than your jaw and more than your hands and more than losing your maidenhood to your own staff had. You sobbed against the table, your tears mixing with your saliva, and still Sukuna pushed on.

You didn’t know when the pain faded. Maybe it hadn’t faded at all, but it was now accompanied by another sensation. Something filthy, something animalistic, something intoxicating.

There was a type of urgency to his movements now, and you could hear the wooden table legs skidding over the stone floor with each thrust quickening in pace. Your breaths were starting to come fast and short again, and to your immense surprise, so did his. There was that coil tightening in your belly again, the tension throughout your body that you realized would be released shortly, and then it hit you – he was feeling the same thing.

The feeling of fullness drove you nearly out of your mind. Each thrust seemed to kill off a little of your sanity. Did it hurt? Was it torture? Or was it divine? Did you wish he would leave you alone or did you wish he would never stop? You didn’t rightly know.

Feeling both members slick in and out of you at the same time, perfectly in sync, filling you so perfectly you thought you could almost feel him in your throat. Your eyes crossed over as you gave yourself up to him. It was okay. It had to be. Everyone was gone. They had left you with him. It had to be okay to let him have you. To let him ravage you however he liked. It had to be okay if it felt this good.

He was also this close to reaching that strange, indescribable height that you knew you ought not to feel, being bared and violated in your own temple like this. But it was all a lie anyway, wasn’t it? And as opposed to always sitting still, and being silent, you felt more alive like this, on the precipice of agony and pleasure at the same time, waiting for someone as awful as Sukuna to push you over.

It tore out of you with a scream of pleasure, you all but convulsed against the table with the sheer impact of the climax that washed over you. Sukuna came shortly after, his pace stuttering, and then you could feel something warm and pleasant gushing into you. What could that be? Copious amounts of it, it felt like, pumping into you and flowing back out, dripping onto the floor between your legs. Sukuna lowered himself for a fraction of a moment, his chest almost grazing your back.

Panting, losing consciousness, your eyes met his. He made a sound that was something between a scoff and a chuckle, “That’s the thing sweetheart, you can’t pretend to be broken.”

“Mmm..” you answered, your eyes fluttering closed. Darkness was closing in. Were you dying? Or falling asleep? You had no idea. Sukuna had spoken so softly his minions couldn’t possibly have heard him. But as you drifted off, you held onto a single word… sweetheart.

  Days and nights passed. Some with torture, some with starvation, some with agonizing ecstasy to drive you out of your mind. Some days he left you alone in a dark room until there was no way to know whether or not he had left you to your death. Others he whispered sweet, meaningless nothings into your ear just to see how it made you shiver. Some days he called you disgusting trash not worth his time. Others he called you goddess.

Both were starting to feel the same.

It was exhilarating just to have his attention. Just to have him look at you. Just to not be alone. It felt good to be struck by him. Almost as good as it felt to have him jerk your head back by your hair so he could fuck you harder. And when all was said and done, you were broken in every sense of the word, but that was okay, because you had never felt so whole.

When he marched on your townspeople it was with you on his shoulder, draped in skimpy, barely-there red silks and gold chains. You wore the Wreath of the Goddess around your neck like a collar, and your arms were wrapped around Sukuna’s neck. He didn’t even need to put you down to kill the few rebels that took up arms. And when the rest of them surrendered to his might, you felt giddy watching Sig and the others kneel before Master Sukuna. The burning villages, the ruined fields, didn’t it serve them right?

And just to prove a point, he’d dragged you onto his lap and fucked his goddess in front of the entire assembly. Bouncing you up and down until your eyes crossed in delirious pleasure. With the townspeople looking on in equal measures of shock and concern, with Sukuna’s big, warm hands on your hips, guiding you -