Last Gif Is Craycray💀

the symbolism and analogies and freaking foreshadowings this had me GASPING left right up down front back and centre

Moon Starves Sun (FULL VERSION)

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Part one: Sun Eats Moon

Part two: Earth Kills Moon

(Warnings: forced relationship, implied nsfw content, implied noncon/dubcon, dark content, implied baby trapping)

When Satoru's close like this, he can hear your heartbeat. 

It's been a while. Ten years. An entire decade. Everything about this is different, yet so familiar. He feels like he's finally reached the shores, feeling the warm sands underneath his feet. Like he's been given his favorite food after being starved for years. Everything melts. Everything except for you. 

He'd like to stay like this forever, listening to your rabbit heartbeat, feeling your soft skin, but for your sake, he pulls himself off you. Lying on a wooden desk probably isn't that comfortable. 

Your eyes are shut. Your breathing is shallow. You're so pretty like this under the moonlight. Your clothes are barely hanging onto your body. He can see every mark he's left on you. Part of him wants to make more, but he'll let you off the hook for now. He's nice like that. 

"Still with me?" 

Your eyes flutter open. You don't respond, but at least you're not crying anymore. He can work with that. 

"C'mon, pretty girl," he says, voice soft, "let's piece you back together." 

The belt left lines on your wrists. He'll kiss them better later. For now, Satoru collects your clothes and heels from the floor, placing them on the desk. He helps you reclasp your bra, runs his fingers on your arms when you finish buttoning your blouse. It's a quiet affair. Every so often, he'd catch your eyes. You don't let yourself linger for long. Satoru finds that a little cute. 

You say nothing when he wraps an arm around your waist, guiding you out of his office. Maybe you're still dazed, still gathering yourself back up, because you don't struggle as much as he predicted. You try to leave his grip when the two of you reach the lobby. He's quick to stop you. 

"Where, do you think you're goin'?" He grips your wrist when you take a step away. 

You look at him, eyes shimmering like water. 

You swallow. "My apartment. I—I need to go back—" 

He clicks his tongue, bringing you back in. 

"We can get your stuff later." He tells you with a grin. "let's just go home, tonight. I'm exhausted." 

You open your mouth. Satoru waits. You say nothing, and he thinks you're starting to get it. 

The moon is a dusky red tonight. Satoru thinks it's an ugly color. 

☾

If Satoru could describe you in one word, it would be: predicatable. 

Normal, boring, a speck in the crowd—none of these are bad things. Just like how much of the universe is nothing, you're an empty void, too. Not everyone can be like him. From the minute he was born, Satoru was destined for greatness—a prodigy, heir to a millionaire conglomerate, the Sun itself. His life isn't written on his forehead for everyone to read. 

You are the exact opposite. Completely unassuming. He practically knows everything about you without even having to ask. 

Like how Satoru can instantly tell you've never been over to a boy's room before. 

You've probably never even been in a relationship before him, either. Even before he managed to corral you into his arms, you were always so annoying about the other things like school and friends. Though, you don't really have much of the latter anymore. His fault, Suguru never fails to remind him. 

He watches as your eyes linger over his shelf: the numerous trophies and awards. You're still standing meekly in the corner, still garbed in your school uniform, clutching your backpack. He has to roll his eyes at how obviously you're trying not to look at him. 

"What're you waitin' for?" He finally asks. You jump, eyes flitting over to find him before you find the floor. He resists the urge to roll his eyes again.

It's not like you two haven't done shit before. You sucked him off twice now, and he's finger fucked you against the bleachers. You should really stop being such a prude. 

"C'mere, pretty girl." 

You comply, dropping your bag, making your way to the bed. When you look at him from beneath your lashes, warily expectant, Satoru feels a thrill rushing through his body. 

He's always been impatient. It's in his nature to take. He nips at your mouth, eager to taste your soul from your soft lips. Soft. Everything about you is so soft—Malleable beneath his fingers. 

Satoru didn't explicitly say what his plan was, but you aren't stupid. He can tell you know what's about to happen when you stiffen in his hold, turn to stone within his grip. He would've allowed it if you hadn't gripped onto his shirt, pulling yourself away from his feasting. 

"Satoru?" You whisper, still leaning away. "The door...?" 

Annoyed, he glances over. His room is open. It shouldn't really matter. 

"It's fine." Satoru tells you. "No one's here." No one's ever here. 

You still look panicked, hands gripping his shirt. Satoru finds that adorably pathetic. How helpless you are. How that's all because of him.

He's sure to make a big show of it. Satoru gives a dramatic sigh, slumps his shoulders, but eventually pushes himself off the mattress to push at the door. He even clicks it shut. He's too nice, sometimes. 

"Happy?" You nod, you don't look very relaxed but your shoulders have dropped a bit. 

Satoru doesn't feel too guilty pushing you down, not when you're already in his bed. He isn't known for his patience. He tastes your skin, leaving marks when he can: teeth bites. He pushes you down down down down so he can sink his teeth into your flesh.

You're asleep and under the covers by the time he's done. The moon's out too. Satoru watches it, largely unimpressed. It's so tiny, a sliver of glowing white. 

And then you shift, turning ever so slightly, enough to catch his attention. He should probably kick you out and send you home. That's what he usually does. When he gets into bed with you, draping his arms around your limp body, he convinces himself it's because he's tired and waking you up would be too much of an effort. 

He lets himself enjoy your warmth; it's nothing like the cold glow of the moon. 

☾

Sometimes, even Gojo Satoru wonders if he's dreaming. 

Sometimes, life is too perfect for him to realize it is real. Everything falls perfectly in place, fitting together like those jigsaw puzzles his caretakers used to distract him with halfheartedly. 

You're in his kitchen, chopping vegetables. 

It had already been a few weeks, but he still wasn't used to this. You, being in his home, in his kitchen, in his bed. Satoru thinks he's masking it well, but his mind is still reeling, it's a difficult adjustment. 

Not a bad one. 

It's like he's been drowning for years and he can suddenly breathe when he sees your toothbrush next to his. It's like he's been stabbed and waking up to your sleeping face is the aloe. It's like he's been suffering through a blizzard, and you cooking in his kitchen, humming a song he doesn't know, is the warm sunny day. 

Things have changed since he brought you home. His home doesn't feel incomplete anymore. As though the apartment itself has agreed that this is where you belong. There are more clothes in his closet, more shoes by the door. The space is ever so slightly less empty and it fills him with tangible relief. He can cook a meal, but it's still nice coming home to something warm already made. 

It makes Satoru wonder what things could have been like, had it not been taken away from him. 

You flinch when he wraps his hands around your waist, nestling into the space in your shoulder. You hadn't heard him come in, apparently. Regardless, you don't linger, fingers hesitating before resuming your task. He finds this part of you adorable. Ignoring the thing that makes your heart race, as though he'll just fade away into the shadows. 

It's his ego that makes him slink into your warm skin, making sure you know he isn't going anywhere. 

"Smells good," he says. 

You nod, pushing away the bell peppers in favor of the onions. Unlike him, you acclimated extremely well. It'd taken nothing to lightly push you to add more and more stuff from your apartment to his. You quietly moved from one setting to another. He remembered this trait of yours from high school. Go with the flow. 

Though, perhaps, it was less out of genuine apathy. Satoru doesn't have to say what will happen to you if you refuse him. He doesn't have to throw lectures about his family and the influence he has on you. He likes that you aren't stupidly brave. He likes that you're meeker, quieter. You pick your battles. 

But he thinks he'd like to see you crack, just one more time. 

"Hey," he says, "let's go out for dinner tomorrow night. There's this restaurant just out of town that has great shrimp cutlet." 

He expects you to nod, like you always do whenever he decides to do something impulsive and meaningless. Instead, you bite your lip. 

"I can't." You mutter after a minute of silence. "I have work. Mr. Higuruma just closed a deal and—and I think I'll be coming home later and later this week." 

Home. It's enough to make his heart flutter. It's the first time you've called the apartment that. Your words almost make him forget about the second thing you said.

Higuruma. The lawyer guy with dead eyes. Satoru remembers him. He always looked at Satoru like he was a child, too stupid to do anything. He never liked how the guy looked at you. Besides, he was way too old for you, never mind that you were taken. You were always taken.

"Oh, right." Satoru gives an exaggerated sigh, fully leaning on you. "Work. What a shame." 

You nod, clearly thinking the conversation is done with. Satoru wasn't so charitable. 

"Y'know, you don't really have to work. Not anymore, pretty girl." His grip on your waist tightens ever so slightly as he pulls you towards his chest. Your hands freeze. The knife glints in your fingers. 

"I make plenty of money. You should just stay home. That way, you don't have to work shitty hours." 

You stiffen underneath his fingertips. He's disappointed when your skin turns frigid. When he peeks over your shoulder, intent to look at your face, there's a nervous smile twitching on your lips. 

"I don't think that's a good idea..." you trail off hesitantly. 

"Hm?" He tilts his head with faux confusion. "Why not?" 

The knife moves up and down, as though you can't decide whether to place it back on the cutting board. Satoru realizes it's your way of fidgeting. 

"It...it would just be unprofessional to leave when everything is so hectic." You finally decide on. 

Satoru scoffs. "So? Who cares. I'm sure everything will work itself out. Just rely on me, pretty girl." 

You don't like the answer, but you don't make a comment on it. Satoru just watches you rotate the knife in your hands. He wonders if you want to use it on him. Slice at his neck, leave him out to bleed on the pretty tile floor. Cut straight through his heart, ending it quickly. 

Or would you like to carve out his eye and keep it as a souvenir? He thinks he'd happily let you. It sounds romantic.

You don't do anything. Instead, you pull back your shoulders as if you're physically ready for war. 

"'Toru," you say gently, softly, and it works in his eyes, "I...can't let you support me like this. It's not right. It's not like we're married or anything." You laugh, like it's a joke. Satoru doesn't cave. 

"I mean, not yet." Satoru rocks you back and forth in his hold. "But gimme' some time to shop for a ring, okay? It needs to be perfect for my perfect girl." 

You follow his movements. He can see your mouth twitch out of the corner of his eye. Your eyes get glassy. 

He knows he's terrible, but he really wants you to crack. 

"You're right, Satoru." You say, "I'll put in my two weeks tomorrow." He grins in delight. 

"That's a great idea, baby." Satoru kisses you on the cheek.

Right, you pick your battles. 

☾

Satoru tells you he loves you, and you're gone, not even three days later. 

He breaks and shatters into pieces he'll never be able to put back. Each day without you is torture. He feels like a corpse, just going through the motions. His clothes feel looser. His skin doesn't feel like his own anymore. Every time he looks in the mirror, he sees someone he barely even recognizes. 

It's like you left with his heart. 

No, you ran away with his soul. 

One day, you were Satoru's, safely tucked underneath his arm...the next, you just weren't. 

His parents don't acknowledge it beyond casual disgust. Every time Suguru talks to him, Satoru can barely comprehend it. Days pass by. Everything reminds him of you. His bed feels emptier; he hates it when he reaches out to the space you used to take up and finds it cold. Your locker remains untouched. Nothing is ever the same. 

Satoru tries looking for you, but you're untraceable. No social media, no friends left to tell where you went, not even your fucking parents know where you are. 

You left him. 

You left him to rot. 

Denial comes first. It can't be. You wouldn't. You wouldn't fucking dare. Anger seeps in the next. For weeks, Satoru can only imagine what he'll do when he finds you. He'll break your legs this time. He'll squeeze your neck so hard that your head pops. He'll kill you over and over again until your corpse is begging to be forgiven. And he won't ever stop, because you're Satoru's. 

That doesn't stay for long. He feels himself get weaker day by day. Food tastes like dirt on his tongue. Any of his earlier vices are gone. 

He misses you. 

Why wouldn't he? You were his everything. 

Like all things, it passes. You aren't there to fuel the flames, so the fire wanes in his chest. The ache in his heart gets smaller and smaller. Things keep him busy. College. Then, his new position in the office. 

Ten years pass. He’s forgotten what you look like. But he remembers parts. Every so often, he sees a flicker of you within someone else. Your eyes are on another woman’s face. Your lips on a girl's smile. It irritates him to no end. It’s even worse when he starts seeking them out, keeping those parts of them for just the night. 

Sometimes, if he closes his eyes, he can still hear your voice—what he thinks is your voice—soft, needy Toru Toru Toru. 

“Gojo, sir?” 

He blinks. Ijichi stands in front of him. Satoru looks down at the meticulously crafted pages. 

“Mr. Higuruma needed you to sign this,” Ijichi lifts a paper filled with bureaucratic bullshit he pays other people to understand.

Why did Suguru take off now? 

“Sure sure,” Satoru says, “I’ll get it done.” 

Ijichi shifts nervously. “Well, it’d be best to finish it right now, Sir. His paralegal is just about to leave the building.” 

Oh, right. The lawyer’s assistant. Gojo could never get a good look at that person, but the assistant resembled a shaking deer to him at most times. He’s not even sure if they’ve ever talked to each other, but he always found the other a bit odd. Big eyes. A shaky expression. 

It was a little annoying to look at. 

☾

Some executive was throwing an office gala, and since he is Gojo Satoru, he needed to come along. 

And since you are Satoru's, you're dragged along too. 

Honestly, the only upside to this is you and that new dress he bought you. A velvet turquoise dress that he can't take his eyes off of. The gold jewelry draped across your neck makes you even more delectable. But his favorite part of the outfit is the shimmering diamond ring. 

The ceremony hadn't been anything extravagant. He'd just booked out one of his favorite restaurants, ordering lobster and sweet wine. He remembered hearing his heartbeat when he bent down on one knee, opening the elegant ringbox, like an oyster revealing its pearl. Looking back, he didn't know why he was so nervous: it's not like you'd say no. 

"What do you think of it?" He asked when you were back in his bed, bare from everything except that glistening ring. 

"It's pretty." You spoke, perfectly nestled in his chest. 

He feels in his heart when he hugs you, a small kiss in your hair. You say something, but he can't hear it; he is too preoccupied with feeling you in his arms. It's still so new, even after all these weeks. It's the anxiety, knowing at any second you could leave and he'd be nothing. He won't allow that, he can't. 

"I thought about something else, y'know?" He speaks quietly in your hair. "Ropes, chains, maybe. I could keep you here, forever. But—but then I realized how sad you'd get. I couldn't go through with it." 

You give no reaction. When he tilts your chin up to get a better look at you, your eyes are glassy. 

"You get that, right?" 

You nod. He's really too nice, sometimes. 

He spends the entire evening with you, tucked away in a corner, away from prying eyes. Just because he has to be there doesn't mean he has to be sociable. Every time someone walks up to him and you, a drink in one hand, he resists the urge to bite their head off, feigning politeness. He complains about their lack of decorum to you multiple times throughout the night, his head resting on your shoulder. You pliantly sit there, listening and nodding. 

About ten minutes after the last board member left, someone else walks up. By then, Satoru's patience has mostly declined. He peers over with disdain before he can really process who he's seeing. 

"Suguru!" He waves over. 

You stiffen, and Satoru remembers you haven't seen him in ten years. 

Suguru walks over with an easy smile on his face. He's nicely tanned, and Satoru is reminded of the pictures he sent over of the Maldives. Maybe that's where the honeymoon should be. 

"Had fun slacking?" Satoru asks with a grin; Suguru shrugs. 

When his eyes meet yours, he feigns delighted surprise. Suguru speaks your name with practiced shock. It's imperfect, only Satoru can see the amusement dripping from his fangs. 

"Long time, no see!" Effortlessly, Suguru corrals you into a hug. You follow, giving into the cold touch of affection before pulling away back to him. 

"Hello, Geto." You say when you're rightfully by his side again. "It's nice to see you again." 

Suguru laughs, light and airy. "You as well!" He looks at your hands, tilts his head. "Oh? Congratulations, you two! When's the date?" 

"Eh, we'll figure that out later." Satoru gives a quick kiss on your cheek. "Everything happened so fast, y'know? Us reuniting and everything: It feels like fate." Suguru's eyes flash. "Let's not rush this. We'll take our time." 

Suguru nods along thoughtfully. He's looking right at you, and you stare right back. Not used to feeling left out, Satoru is quick to intervene. 

The conversation is light, two long-time friends reuniting after a long spell. You stay quiet like decor, settling into Satoru's side. Suguru doesn't acknowledge you after that. 

"We gotta' go. It's getting late." He eventually says, tugging you along. 

Suguru gives a pleasant smile. "Of course, of course. We should catch up sometime." He directs this at you. You give a strained smile before Satoru leads you off. 

"Suguru." The man turns. Satoru grins. 

"I loved my gift. Thanks, man." 

Suguru's smile is catlike. 

"You kids have fun." He calls out right when Satoru's dragging you away all over again. 

You're silent. Not in the way you usually are, pliant and cute. You're thinking. He gives you a nudge. 

"What's goin' on in that pretty head of yours?" 

You shake your head. "Nothing." And then you say, "He's changed." 

From your view, Satoru supposed that's true, but really—

"Nah." Gojo shakes his head. "He's just dropped his act." 

Satoru's hand was wrapped around your waist when you two ran into him. You hadn't noticed him yet, eyes fixed on the floor. The lawyer hadn't changed since the last time Satoru saw him. That dead expression, those creepy eyes. Higuruma's eyes flit over your figure, before he finds Satoru's. 

He stares. Satoru stares right back. Something gives, and the lawyer calls out your name. 

"How are you?" His tone is cool, and this is another reason why Satoru can't stand him. The guy has no tells. He's just a talking robot. 

Unlike you, fidgeting by his side, practically vibrating with nerves. 

"I'm fine, sir." Your smile gets more painful to look at by the second. 

Your voice earns you a tired smile, a mild pinch of humor. Higuruma shakes his head, waving you off. 

"No need for formalities. We aren't at work." His smile drops just a bit, as he watches you for a bit more, eyes flickering to your hand. "I was...surprised when I saw the announcement. I didn't know you and Mr. Gojo were involved." 

Satoru grins, making himself known like a shark in the water. His grip on you tightens. 

"Oh, you didn't tell your boss 'bout us, baby?" He looks down at you with cruel mirth, pinching your cheek. You wilt. "We go way back—highschool sweethearts. Lost contact for a couple years. It's actually thanks to you we were able to find each other again. We'll send you the invites." He presses a kiss to your hairline. 

Higuruma hums at that. Satoru expected jealousy in his eyes; he's even more upset when he finds none. 

"I'll be sure to save the date." 

Then he shuts Satoru down completely. 

"I heard about your resignation. It's sad to see you go," Higuruma says. 

You nod, but you don't look at him. "Satoru and I talked about it, and we decided it's best if I focused on other things." 

"Very, very busy, this one nowadays." Satoru interrupts. "Between wedding plannin' and all that."

"Is that so?" Higuruma says dismissively, "in any case, you already knew this, but I've begun preparations to start a new firm." He reaches into his wallet, pulling out a card. "I always thought you were good at what you do. If you ever want to get back into the industry, call me." 

You take the laminate slip with a quiet thank you. Satoru feels blue turn into red. 

When Higuruma slips into the party, Satoru tightens his grip on you a little harsher than necessary. He's dragging you through the halls. Behind him, he can hear you stumbling over your heels, begging him to slow down. He knows he should care, but he doesn't. That damn lawyer. Those dead eyes. Mocking him. 

"Did you fuck him?" He asks when his anger has reached a high enough peak that he presses you against the wall. 

Your eyes are wild, flitting back and forth. He'd your expression a little cute if he wasn't feeling like a furnace, at the moment. 

"No. I—we never." You say. "Mr. Higuruma was my boss. And—and he's married—" 

"Really? 'cause you're precious 'Mr. Higuruma' was eyeing you up and down like he's already seen what's underneath." 

"'Toru." You plead. "Let's—let's just talk about this at home. Please? Let's just go home." Home. You said that word again. If he were a better man, he'd melt, but he's not. 

"Shut up." He spits out. "Hike up your dress." 

You stare at him. Then, you try to smile, like he's making a shitty joke. It wavers on your lips. 

"It's...we're still in public." You whisper and it's so cute you think he'd actually care about that. "We—we can't...we shouldn't—" 

"Baby." His voice drops, as he licks at your neck. "Pull up your dress, get rid of those panties. Otherwise, I'm just gonna take it off myself." 

He doesn't need to explain anything further. You already get what he's saying. Right now, Satoru doesn't care if you leave this building with your clothes intact. 

He thinks the worst part is that he knows he's being unreasonable. He's backing you into a corner where you'll have no choice but to surrender, and he knows that, but he keeps thinking about those man's eyes and how he looked at you and it was just all so much. 

He'll apologize to you later, with flowers and shiny gold earrings. He'd give you the world; just be good for him now. 

He just needs his fix. So just be good for him now.

☾

When Satoru discovers it's been you all along, he feels like an idiot. 

In a pathetic way of defending himself, he convinces himself there's no way he could have recognized you. You're so different compared to your high-school self. 18-years old, fresh-eyed, naive. The you now is all grown up: a mature voice, a new hairstyle, clothes he'd never even think you'd wear. 

It also didn't help that he couldn't even see your face since you turned away every time he looked at you. 

Embarrassing. He's just glad Suguru wasn't here to call his blunder. 

He thought about it a lot. He spent an hour in his office, pacing around, doing nothing but thinking and thinking and thinking. Part of him wants to corner you already. He can already feel your rabbit heartbeat on his fingertips, the look you always had in your eyes when he was right in front of you. Part of him wants to ruin your life the same way you ruined his. He wants to tear you apart, piece by piece. Leave you in tattered pieces. 

But he can't do that. Satoru still loves you. 

You left him a hollow shell. Broken. Tainted. There are pieces of him he still can't find. He should hurt you. He's hurt other people for doing less. But they weren't you. Even after all those years, he's never quite stopped loving you. 

But he wants to sate his bloodlust, just a tiny bit. 

His perfect opportunity comes where he, the lawyer, and you are all sitting in one of the waiting rooms. The lawyers explaining something, possibly about the ongoing case. Satoru doesn't really care. Besides, this is what Ijichi's here for. 

He waits until everyone is quiet. You're unassuming. By then, your shoulders have lowered, like you think you've gotten away with it 

"Hey," he says, "do we know each other?" 

The other two don't bother, but you stop completely. The pen in your grip shakes. Satoru resists the urge to laugh. 

You timidly glance up like you're still delusional enough to think there's a fifth person he's talking to. Satoru has always been told his eyes are like two suns: bright and intense. He lowers his glasses. You wilt under the solar flares. 

"Hm?" He prods, enjoying the way you shrivel. "Have we?" 

You swallow, glassy eyes flicking from side to side. Finally, you clear your throat. 

"No." You mutter, voice barely a whisper. "I don't think we have." 

"Are you sure?" To intensify the magnifying glass, he leans closer, like he's examining you. "'cause you look really familiar." 

To his delight, you chew on your bottom lip. He can imagine biting it until it's bloody and raw. He stops just when you're about to shatter completely. Breaking you too soon would take the fun out of it. 

"Oh, wait. I don't think that was you." He relents, pulling back and he can see the relief ooze over your face. "I think I got you mixed up with someone who interviewed here a couple months ago. My bad. Maybe you have one of those faces." 

You nod, eager to take the out. 

"Yes," you quickly say, "one of those faces." 

How adorable. You haven't changed since high school. 

He's usually not this obvious, but Suguru isn't here to berate him about it and it's not like anyone else will get on his ass. The women he brings in are his usuals: tall models with full lips and perfect bodies. Satoru parades them around like expensive jewelry. He wants to see you seethe in envy, stew in it. He wants you to see what you abandoned. 

But you don't do any of that. You just sit there, like the dutiful little workbee you are, right by your boss's side.

And then, you give one of them your jacket. Satoru can't stand it wrapped around her waist like she fucking owns it—own you. She wears it so flagrantly, like any token from you shouldn't be worshipped and coveted. He hates it. He hates it. 

"I've never done this in an office before." She squeals when she shuts the door behind her. "So, how do you—" 

"Get out." 

The girl pauses. What was her name again? Satou was too pissed to give a single shit. 

"Um, what?" 

"What, you deaf or something?" He waves her off as if he weren't seething. "Get out." 

"Oh," she says, blinks, and then she takes a step back. 

"Wait." Satoru stops her. 

"Take that off." He points to your jacket. She does it with zero complaints. When he tells her to drop it on the chair, she follows that too. Reluctant expectation. Kind of like you. Maybe that's why he was initially invested in her. 

He only takes the fabric after she's gone. It's soft underneath his fingertips. Nothing designer, but good quality. When you're finally underneath him again, he'll buy you better clothes, all the jackets you want. 

He needs you. He can't wait anymore. 

He needs you, whether you want him or not. 

☾

Satoru wakes up to something crashing. 

It's faint, obviously coming from the bathroom. Not the best way to be woken up. He remembers the first few nights he brought you home. He'd hear you crying in your sleep, choking on tiny sobs. It was the sweetest little thing, like a whimpering puppy. 

These noises are a little more concerning. 

He yawns, sliding out of bed. You didn't bother locking the door. You didn't even close it all the way, either. A sliver of light comes from the crack before he pushes it open. 

"Baby?" He calls. You don't answer. 

You had knocked over a caddy. Toothbrushes, hairclips, soap dispensers, perfume bottles were scattered all over the floor. You're curled up in the corner of the bathroom, huddled right next to the tub. You seem physically okay, no blood, no bruising, but he can't see your face. And you're shivering. 

Satoru's about to call out to you, when he steps on something. He looks down at the tiles. 

A positive pregnancy test. 

"I'm not keeping it." Your voice is hoarse, like you've been crying for hours. "I'm not keeping it." 

"Pretty girl." He coos, trying his best to keep the glee out of his voice and failing. "Let's not worry 'bout that, right now. C'mon, let's get you off the floor." He reaches for your hand. You smack it away. It stung. 

When you look at him, eyes bloodshot and brimming with angry tears, Satoru's heart skips a beat. He feels like he just trapped a wild animal, making it pace in a corner. Any wrong move could result in his hand getting bit off. It's scary. 

He's finally cracked you. 

"Fuck you." Your voice shakes and wobbles, but it's loud and you're clear. "Fuck you. You're a sick, twisted man-child. You ruined everything. You ruined my entire life and—and now you—" 

You're cut off by his giggling. It sounds psychotic even to his ears. He's beyond caring. You flinch when lifts your face up, forcing you to look into his eyes. He's smiling so hard it hurts. 

"Yeah, I did that. I ruined you. I ruined your entire fucking life. For me." He stresses, squeezing your face so hard you try to pull away. "But I had to. You—you wouldn't be here if I didn't." He sighs, pressing your body to his. "I need you."

You're both huddled on the bathroom floor, captive and lover. He's clutching you to his chest, smiling, nestling his face in your hair. You don't say anything for a while. 

"I'm not keeping it." You whisper. "I'm not. I wouldn't stand it if it ended up like you." 

It's spiteful. You're still in that phase where you think your venom can hurt him, as though he'd see your blows as anything but blessings. Satoru thinks to his own childhood. Where he was given everything, lathered in gold and silver. Yet, the house was always cold. But you were always so warm. 

"That won't happen." He tells you. "'cause you're here." 

Your anger has dwindled to smoke. Maybe you've finally realized how crazy he was for you. 

"Please let me go." It's not a beg. It's not even a request. 

"I can't," he honestly says. 

"You won't." You correct him. 

He smiles in your hair. 

"No baby," he says, "I can't." 

If you ran away again, if you escaped his claws, he'd probably die. Drop dead, rot on the floor. He needs you. Even more than he needs food, water, and oxygen. You won't understand that. You've never been in love before. 

You don't fight him. If anything, you sink into his hold. He's there to catch you, heart soaring. You lean into his chest 

"I hate you." You whisper. His heart beats a little faster. It's probably the first time you've ever been so honest with him. 

God, he loves you. 

"I hope our baby has your eyes," he says. 

"I hope our baby looks exactly like you." 

You say nothing, but when he leans down to kiss you, you finally kiss back. You're cracked, and your essence is ready to be molded in his image, just like he's always wanted you to be. 

If Satoru is the Sun, then you must certainly be his universe, the plane in which he rests, because there would be no existence for him if not for you. 

thinkin’ ‘bout gojo pulling your hips closer to his as he thrusts in a deeper angle than before. “t-this isn’t c-cuddling,” you stutter in your words as his dick hits that sweet spot inside you so well. “yeah, princess, but it keeps you warm too, doesn’t it?” he smirks as he feels you tighten.

© planetyumi 2022 : do not plagiarize, steal, contort, copy, or translate my content to other platforms.

Writing Tips

Punctuating Dialogue

✧

➸ “This is a sentence.”

➸ “This is a sentence with a dialogue tag at the end,” she said.

➸ “This,” he said, “is a sentence split by a dialogue tag.”

➸ “This is a sentence,” she said. “This is a new sentence. New sentences are capitalized.”

➸ “This is a sentence followed by an action.” He stood. “They are separate sentences because he did not speak by standing.”

➸ She said, “Use a comma to introduce dialogue. The quote is capitalized when the dialogue tag is at the beginning.”

➸ “Use a comma when a dialogue tag follows a quote,” he said.

“Unless there is a question mark?” she asked.

“Or an exclamation point!” he answered. “The dialogue tag still remains uncapitalized because it’s not truly the end of the sentence.”

➸ “Periods and commas should be inside closing quotations.”

➸ “Hey!” she shouted, “Sometimes exclamation points are inside quotations.”

However, if it’s not dialogue exclamation points can also be “outside”!

➸ “Does this apply to question marks too?” he asked.

If it’s not dialogue, can question marks be “outside”? (Yes, they can.)

➸ “This applies to dashes too. Inside quotations dashes typically express—“

“Interruption” — but there are situations dashes may be outside.

➸ “You’ll notice that exclamation marks, question marks, and dashes do not have a comma after them. Ellipses don’t have a comma after them either…” she said.

➸ “My teacher said, ‘Use single quotation marks when quoting within dialogue.’”

➸ “Use paragraph breaks to indicate a new speaker,” he said.

“The readers will know it’s someone else speaking.”

➸ “If it’s the same speaker but different paragraph, keep the closing quotation off.

“This shows it’s the same character continuing to speak.”

Hello? I- yes i'd like to die like this please

can i request some fluff for mammon smelling a really nice perfume on mc and cuddling them all day

This is how you die.

On the bed, phone in hand, a fatal weight crushing your torso. It’s a slow, agonizing death for sure, but it’s not the worst way to go.

“Mammon, I need to charge my phone.”

The demon hums, but doesn’t move a single muscle.

Maybe it isn't such a good idea, stealing his perfume. The very moment he recognized the fragrance, he made it his mission to follow you everywhere you went. He was there in your classes, was clinging onto you as you made your way down the hallways, had his head resting on your shoulder during lunchtime.

And now, just as you’re about to take a nap, he flings himself onto you and tucks his arms comfortably under your back. His hair is a mess from all the tossing, and it's tickling your face. All this cuddling has made you quite hot, and you are quite sure your bones will never be arranged in the same way again.

But to say that you hate it would be a lie. It's far from the truth, actually. You are getting a kick out of the circumstance. It's not everyday Mammon puts his affection on display like this, especially physically. This side of him is almost endearing.

You push his bangs back, and notice that his eyes are closed. "Are you taking the nap for me?"

"Can't help it," his words are slurred with drowsiness. "You smell so good."

"It's the tenth time you tell me that. And mind you, it's your perfume."

"Yea, I have good taste."

The both of you chuckle.

Sleep crawls up on you at last, owing to his steady breathing and peaceful countenance. Throwing your phone to the far side of the bed, you shift so that you are lying flat on your back and wrap your arms around him. He buries his face even further into your shirt, so much that you aren't sure if he can breathe.

You shake the thought off. Death by cuddling doesn't sound too bad anyways.

This is the good shit right here literally chef kiss 🤌✨

aries,,i need to know ur thoughts on sneaking into a supply closet w aki while there are literal devils outside trying to break down the door …

sin supplier | hayakawa aki

PAIRING.  aki x fem!reader

LENGTH.  3.6k words

NOTES.  this is just. so horny laksdlk im sorry

SYNOPSIS.  aki knows he shouldn’t, but he just can’t help himself. 

CONTENT.  pwp, power imbalance (aki is the reader’s superior, but the reader has the upper hand for most of the fic), switchy dynamics (reader initiates and instructs), foreplay + teasing, dubcon (reader has persuasion/mind control abilities through a contract with a corruption devil), intoxication (aki’s state of mind is influenced by the reader’s abilities), slight corruption (m rec), blowjob, deep throating, cum swallowing, handjob, overstim (m rec), multiple orgasms (m + f), thigh fucking, cumshot, cum as lube, creampie, (unintentional) manhandling, ripping clothes, spit, biting (f rec), reader is insatiable and just generally insufferable

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING THE CONTENT STATED IN THE WARNINGS.

Aki knows he shouldn’t. 

He shouldn’t be condoning this, not when there are dozens of little Devils scratching at the door, bloodthirsty and desperate to get in—the same Devils the two of you were sent to this decaying old school to take care of. The same Devils the two of you were right in the middle of hunting down, when you’d pulled him into this crowded supply closet and kicked the heavy door closed behind you.

In the end, the Devils had been the ones to hunt the two of you down instead, and now they’re all congregated right outside the door to the supply closet. Attracted by the scent of his unease, if he had to guess. Or maybe another, more devilish, instinct that lies beneath it.

Aki shouldn’t be alone in small, dark rooms with any of his subordinates. Especially not you.

You: the Corruption Devil’s human consort—Division 6’s problem before the transfer made you Aki’s problem. And there’s no question that you are a problem; that much had become clear when he’d discovered exactly what ability your contract gives you.

You call it Persuasion; he’d call it Mind Control: an uncanny knack for getting exactly what you want, especially when it comes to things that shouldn’t be done. More specifically, your contract with the Corruption Devil—one of your many contracts with many dubious Devils, and arguably the most dodgy one of them all—grants you a certain, near-irresistible allure: you make people want to give you exactly what you want.

Near-irresistible. Not impossible to resist. There has to be some natural element of attraction present for Persuasion to really work. That’s what Aki knows from what he read in the paperwork, at least. 

He also knows that, as your superior, there’s no way in hell he should be letting you back him up against the supply shelf behind him—but the metal’s already digging into his back, and your fingers are pulling at the knot of his tie, working it loose. 

The insistent scratching at the door grows louder, and Aki manages a strained What the hell do you think you’re doing? 

“Depends, boss,” you offer sweetly, moving closer until your tits are pressed up against him. “What is it that you want me to do?” 

“This is…”

Inappropriate? Untimely? Fucking insane? Something like that; but his head’s cloudy and getting cloudier, and he loses the words as soon as you get on your tiptoes to press your lips to his throat, scattering hot kisses there as you undo the buttons of his shirt. 

He shudders, bringing a hesitant hand up to squeeze at the back of your neck—encouragement that he shouldn’t be giving, but the feeling of your tongue on his neck sends blood rushing between his thighs, and the space between the two of you so small that his stiffening cock is aching as it strains against your body. 

He knows this is risky in more ways than one: that the noises outside this tiny room keep getting louder, that the door won’t hold, that this shouldn’t be happening; but all these little things that he knows don’t mean a single thing when you’re murmuring up to him—Oh, you’re so hard. You know, I can help you out, Captain. 

Whatever misgivings he might have don’t stand a chance when you’re rubbing his cock through his slacks, and he can feel the grip of that allure—Persuasion—tightening the closer you get. Desire shoots through his veins like a drug, heightening into an insatiable craving for you, you, you—tunnel vision that narrows, senses that sharpen until all he can see, smell, hear is you. It’s a desire so intense that just the smell of you hits him with the dizzying urge for more.

And something else: an ache to please—the irresistible imperative to give you exactly what you want, whatever you want.

By now, Aki understands something that wasn’t in the paperwork: that your ability must grow stronger with proximity—and if it’s a concentrated, airborne vapor that somehow emanates from your skin like he thinks, he must be right in the thick of it. But he’s past the point of caring about which desires are natural and which aren’t; he’s already feeling you—one hand still wrapped around the back of your neck, the other slipping down the small of your back to squeeze your ass. 

And he shouldn’t, it’s not like him, but all he cares about is one thing.

It’s definitely not the banging at the door, which he only registers dully, managing the weakest of protests—They’re right there—as you sink down to your knees in front of him.

You look up with an insincere pout, retort with an equally insincere, “What’s right there, Captain?”

“The fucking Devils,” he slurs, “they’re—”

But you’re running your tongue over the stiff bulge in his slacks, and the heat of your mouth is hitting his dick through the fabric, and he’s cutting himself off with a groan.

“Are you really that worried about it?” you tease up to him. “I never thought a guy like you would stress over small fry like that. Plus, don’t you have some…” —you pause, squeezing his cock through his slacks, sending precum oozing down his thigh— “...bigger problems?” 

Another slam against the door. He wants you so badly he can barely even bring himself to say, This isn’t—I should really—

And even then, it doesn’t sound that convincing.

“Should really what?” you muse, pulling his zipper free.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he should do; he only knows that he wants you to keep going, that you’re tugging his slacks down to pull his cock out, and it feels so good when you grip the throbbing shaft that he’s oozing precum all over your fingers and moaning before you even start to jerk it. 

“You should really take care of those Devils, right?” you laugh, leaning forward to spit messily on the tip of his dick, smiling up at him when he inhales sharply through his teeth. “Go do something about them, then,” you say—spit coating the length of his cock as you stroke it, spit glistening on your upturned lips in the half-dark—it’s a dare.

In those truth-or-dare games as a kid, Aki would always choose truth; he’s come to terms with the truth of this situation—that he should take care of the things beyond this room, but all he cares about is what’s happening inside of it. 

He’s too far gone, too hooked on the feeling of your mouth as you swallow up his dick. All the way, until the tip of your nose hits his pelvis and he’s twitching in your throat, leaking hot precum balls-deep in your mouth. You pull back when you have to gag, then swallow it again—bobbing your head over and over, leaving him covered in spit and moaning from the soft, wet flesh of your cheeks and your tongue on his cock. It’s so good; you fuck him with your mouth until he’s one swallow away from cumming down your throat.

He holds it, tries to pull out, slurring, God, I’m gonna—, but you ball your hands up in the fabric of his shirt to pull him forward, sucking him in to the base again; and he’s knotting his hands up in your hair, groaning—You wanna swallow my cum? 

You gargle around it, digging your nails into his skin. So he stays where he is—one hand resting on the back of your head, his dick buried in your mouth—and lets the pleasure hit, twitching against the tight ridges of your throat with each spurt of cum he shoots into you. 

You cough, choking on it over and over, with tears pooling in your eyes. But you keep it down until he’s done, swallowing almost everything he gives you, so there’s just a little pool of thick white left on your tongue when he pulls out. The sight of his cum in your mouth sends his head spinning, sends more blood between his thighs—but he’s still hard, never went soft; he wonders, studying you through lashes weighed down by pleasure, if it’s a result of whatever you’re emanating, or if he just wants you that badly. 

He pants, tries to catch his breath, but he doesn’t even have time to do that before you wrap your fingers around his cum-coated dick. He grits his teeth, swears at the intensity, watching you tilt your head, part your lips, and adjust to take his balls in your mouth. It’s sloppy, messy: sucking him with spit dripping from the corners of your mouth and your fist slippery with cum as you jack the sensitive tip of his cock. 

It’s—ah, fuck—it’s—

It’s too much, it’s so good; something in between the two. He’s groaning, gripping the metal of the shelf behind him as another high builds, intensifying when you start to moan with your mouth full of him—a needy, muffled sound that goes straight to his head and clouds whatever coherent space might have been left with one urge: he needs to fuck you.

Something hits the door from the outside with enough impact to make the hinges groan.

Fuck, he slurs feverishly. It’s not gonna hold, c’mere, get up. 

You’re up, pulling him down by the collar and into a sloppy kiss; he tastes his cum on your tongue, feels the desire flare in his chest like he took a hit, runs his hands down your sides.

So are you gonna fuck me? you ask, pulling away to look up at him through your lashes. Or are you gonna stall until the door breaks?

His hands catch your hips; he squeezes, twists you around before pushing you forward against the metal with enough force to send supplies rattling off the sides of the shelf and crashing to the floor.

“Shit,” he says hazily, so drunk on the intensity of the want in his veins, his head so muddled with it that he’s worried maybe he hurt you. “Are you okay?”

But you’re laughing, hands tight on the metal; he dips his neck down to bury his face in your throat, to get closer. Because the closer he gets, the more intoxicating the smell of you is—the more addicting.

“Attaboy, Captain,” he hears. There’s a buzz in your voice, as if he’s hearing you through static. “To be honest, I didn’t really think you had it in you.”

He takes a deep inhale of the dizzying, up-close smell of your skin, and slurs, “Why’s that?” 

“You’re Public Safety’s good boy, aren’t you? Proper, moral, obedient. I know you play by the rules. You do whatever they tell you.”

He’s sucking at the skin of your throat, pulling blood to the surface over and over, and you’re laughing, “But look at you now. Getting your dick wet on a mission. Fucking the subordinate you’re supposed to be protecting.” 

He laughs wryly against your throat. “God,” he murmurs. “You’re such a pain in my ass, did you know that? This is all because of you.”

“You’re as depraved as they get,” —your words are shaky, disrupted by your shudders as he nips at your throat; he runs his tongue over the skin, feels an instant head high the moment he tastes you— “but I like it for you. Keep going.”

The taste of you is like an addiction; he can’t get enough, keeps licking and sucking your skin and getting himself higher.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he says without thinking, barely even in his head; his body seems to move on its own, his hand slipping down the front of your slacks to rub over your pussy through the fabric. “How long have you been wanting this?” 

There’s a series of bumps at the door as he unbuttons your slacks, pulls your zipper down, hooks his thumbs over the sides and pulls them down, bringing your panties down with them. His dick leaks precum onto the bare skin of your ass. 

“It’s been—” you say, breaths catching when he positions his cock at the apex of your thighs from behind and slides in between them, “—it’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” he slurs, with his dick throbbing between your thighs—slick from your pussy, hot from your warmth, “I thought so.”

He spares a glance back at the door, watching the shadows swarming in the sliver of light beneath it; he’s running out of time, but he could spend forever nestled between your thighs, feeling the slick from your pussy dribbling out onto his dick, getting the shaft sticky and warm. He places one hand on the shelf next to yours, rests his weight there as he sucks your throat, each second at that proximity getting him drunker.

“Don’t act like you haven’t wanted it, too,” he hears you say through the fog in his head, each sentence punctuated by a gasp. “Just because you never acted on it doesn’t mean you didn’t want to. My Devil shows me how easy someone would be to Persuade. I know exactly how much attraction is already there. I barely even had to do anything and look at you—I could give you any command in the world and you’d do it.” 

His free hand is on your tits now, squeezing, kneading. “So why don’t you?” he murmurs.

You laugh a little. “Okay.” And then comes the command: “Touch me.” 

The urge surges in his chest—the imperative so compelling that he forgets all about the buttons on your shirt and instead balls his fist up in the fabric right where it is and pulls, tearing your shirt open. Your buttons go flying: some to the shelf, some to the floor; but he doesn’t apologize this time, just slips his hand through the opening in your shirt to pull down your bra and knead your tits. They’re warm in his palm, soft enough to make his dick pulse against your ass.

“And what else do you want?” he murmurs.

“Move,” you instruct. “Don’t make me wait.”

You were right; he is obedient, he does follow instructions—especially when you’re the one giving them, especially right now, with the fog in his head and that control of yours overwhelming him. He does just what you ask—moves: licks the fingers of his free hand and brings them to your clit to circle it as he fucks the slippery space between your thighs, sliding his dick back and forth until he’s coated in your sticky, hot mess.

“I’ve got the most morally upstanding guy in Public Safety,” you laugh shakily, squeezing your legs around his dick, “and he’s right between my thighs.” 

“Can you blame me?” he says hazily against your ear, overtaken by the desire for more instruction, another opportunity to please. “I just wanna give you everything you want.” 

There’s a cracking sound at the door: wood splintering, maybe, but he doesn’t care about that when you’re saying, I want you to put it in, I want to feel your cock stretching me out. 

That little half-gasp, half-moan when he pushes past your tight entrance; the feeling of you clenching on his dick, your gooey walls sucking him deeper as he eases into you—it’s overwhelming. It’s almost as addicting as the smell of you, as the sounds you make when he fucks you up against the shelf, nipping at your ear and asking—Is this what you wanted from me? 

Yeah, you gasp, now fuck it deeper.

And he does; he buries his cock all the way in you over and over, slurring, Spoiled brat, you always get exactly what you want, don’t you?

Always.

And what do you want now, huh—do you want me to make you cum?

You slur an affirmative with his fingers rubbing your clit, so he fucks you harder—hitting some spot that makes you moan Right there. A few more deep strokes in the same place and then you’re cumming: walls pulsing around his dick, gasping and moaning and squirming, pressed up between him and the shelves; it takes everything in him not to pump you full while he fucks you through it. 

He pulls out when it’s over, but you whine for more: Put it back in, I want you to fuck me until you cum. 

So he pulls you over to the little desk sitting beside the shelf, pushes the things on it to the floor in the same second that he bends you feverishly over the surface. You’re laid out over it, hand gripping the opposite edge, and he watches it tighten as he nudges your hips up and eases back into you.

Whatever you want, baby. 

He buries it deep, feels your sensitive walls tense up as he leans over you—one fist balled up on the desk, the other gripping your hip. There’s a crash at the door, another loud crack; but you’re turning your head to him and he’s tilting his, slipping his tongue into your mouth to swallow up your moans as he fucks you from behind. 

And when he pulls away to nip at your lips you’re slurring instructions: fuck me deeper, fuck me harder, give it to me. Each little command makes his head spin; the grip you have on him is so strong, and your pussy is eating him up so greedily—how could he not give it to you exactly how you want it? How could he not fuck you deeper, harder, give it to you until your thighs are shaking, until everything’s so wet and tight and your moans are turning into pleas? 

It feels so good fucking into you that when you tell him to shoot his cum all over your pussy it only takes one more thrust before he’s ready to give it to you; and then he’s pulling out, breaths catching, jerking his fist over his cock until the tension snaps. His cum spurts out onto you—coats your puffy, glistening lips and stretched hole in a sticky white mess.

He leans over you: fucked out, head hazy, his dick still twitching in his palm—still hard as he watches his cum dribble down the outside of your pussy. And when you tell him to fuck you again—put it back in, I want more, make me cum again—he drags the sensitive tip through his own cum, smears it over your hole, and pushes it back into you while it’s still hot. 

Hot and—God, it’s wet, he’s groaning; it’s wet and tight and so slick in you, so lubed up with your juices and all of the cum he pushed back inside that the thick white liquid smears back onto his cock with each stroke, gathering all over the shaft and the base. He grips your ass, spreads you out, watches the rest of his cum drip down your skin, watches his cock disappear into your pussy with his teeth gritted against the sensitivity; it’s too much, but he’s so feverish with the urge to give you what you want that he’ll take it. 

He’s panting from the overstimulation, but by the time you tell him you’re close—bent over the desk with your fingers on your clit and your back arching—the pleasure’s building up again for him too, another knot tightening in his stomach. 

So when you gasp I’m cumming, and he feels the waves of another orgasm hitting you—your cum-slick walls contracting on his cock over and over—he’s right there. He’s already on the edge when you slur, Cum inside me, fill me up. 

Yeah, baby, yeah—he digs his teeth into your shoulder, and the tension snaps; with a shudder, he shoves his cock in deep and lets your convulsing walls milk him while you cum, pumping you full of the rest of it as he rides the same wave that’s making you squirm under him.

There’s a pause: just a few moments of respite.

His breaths slow as he listens to you catch yours, and for a second even the Devils are quiet.

And then there’s a deafening crash and another loud splintering sound—the door’s going to give. He’s still breathing hard as he disentangles himself from you; then he’s pulling up his slacks, buttoning his shirt and crossing the room to swipe his sword off the floor. 

“They’re about to break through,” he says, looking your way to find you reclining lazily on top of the desk. “You should get ready.”

He fixes his face with a stern expression, but for a split second he wonders about this feeling he has: the grip, the imperative—the Persuasion—is gone, but the desire lingers. 

“Can’t you take care of those Devils for me, Captain?” you smile crookedly, gesturing to your tattered shirt. “I can’t really work like this. Wouldn’t be professional.” 

Aki clenches his jaw. “You make this job even harder than it already is. You know that?”

“How so?” 

“Slovenly. Insolent. Lazy. Not to mention—”

“Gee,” you interrupt. “No wonder you like me so much.”

“Can’t stand you, actually,” he mutters, glancing at the door, which is rocking in its frame from repeated impact on the other side.

“My Devil doesn’t lie to me,” you say, studying your nails. “You’ve wanted me since the moment I joined your Division.”

“God, you’re a pain,” he says wearily as another deafening crash puts a massive crack in the door. “I’m this close to killing you instead of them.” 

“You could’ve killed them already if you weren’t wasting all your time flirting with me.”

You laugh when he rolls his eyes, then twist your face into an exaggerated pout. “Won’t you protect me, Captain?”

“Fine. I’ll take care of it by myself. Not like you’re giving me a choice.”

“Perfect.”

“But when I’m done,” he says, pulling his sword from its holster, “I think it’s time I taught you some manners.”

You smile widely.

“Yes, sir.”

ur on to smth 👀

please consider; tighnari having nesting behaviour. he cannot help but want to be somewhere … comfortable. safe. somewhere that smells good. consider, too, this behaviour getting even worse as his rut approaches - because of course he needs to have somewhere exceedingly soft and private to pin you beneath him and breed you and get out all of that needy energy–

but also consider: you and he are not yet in a relationship, and though he can feel the grip of his ‘sensible’ nature loosening, he is above all a Nice Young Man. as much as he may want to, he can’t simply drag you away for the duration of his rut and have his way with you. 

now. his ears are sensitive; so is his nose. and the smell of you, the scent of you wafting over towards him when you lean in to give him a report of your patrol or shyly sit beside him or ask him a question … it’s almost enough to push him over the edge. so what if he kept the cardigan you’d once shrugged off, complaining it was too hot (and then complaining you could never find it again). so what if he kept a towel you used to dry off after accidentally falling into the ravine when searching for lunar lotus for him - the laundry haven’t noticed it’s gone missing. it’s just one towel, rangers go through so many of them …

and so what, too, if one day whilst you’re out he slips into your little tent. so what if he reaches into your laundry basket and takes a few … mementos. buries his face into them, tail swishing from side to side in pleasure, ears twitching. you’ll be too embarrassed to mention it–

and it’s fine, too, if he spends his rut with one pressed against his face and the other wrapped around his cock whilst he imagines he’s fucking into you instead of his own fist, face flushed, eyes squeezed closed, his high-pitched whining caught by the fabric that still smells like you. nobody has to know. 

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 — THE HANDMAIDEN.

In the frozen land where the outcasts belong and the peculiar is home, tomorrow is never promised. Intertwined your fate with the harbingers might be, it’s in your best interest to remember: the cold swallows the weak and Snezhnaya knows no tears.

OVERVIEW + f!reader. undertones of yandere. unprotected sex. power play. a hint of dark content so be wary! further warnings are written on each character’s part! not proofread.

[ PIERRO ] — breeding kink. lots of cum. unprotected.

it was the jester who first deemed a handmaiden like you worthy of attention. from simply picking you out in the throng of retainers in zapolyarny palace to exchanging curt greetings whenever you serve him tea, your existence slowly took shape in his mind. it was but a mere dot until he molded it into something bigger than yourself: he offered you status in exchange for fucking your pussy raw.

whenever pierro ruts into you ruthlessly, you think of it as his personal goal. the goal of needing to puff up your cunt with his fresh cum once his cock and balls begin to swell. pierro folds you in positions that give him access to your womb, where he dumps fat amount of cum after fat amount of cum. doing so much as pinning his balls to your folds and plugging your hole with his sheer size, pierro is adamant about not spilling a drop. and when your pussy does leak, he takes it upon himself to stuff you with another load double the amount of what you spilled.

some nights while you lay on his chest and with courage flickering like an ember in your heart, the urge to ask him why tips your tongue. but before your curiosity could materialize into verbal words, you would be reminded of where he truly hailed and what the circumstances are of said land. perhaps pierro fucks you with a need to get you pregnant as one way to spread his khaenri’ahn blood.

[ CAPITANO ] — womb fucking. in new york’s voice i know his dick big— i know it. size kink.

capitano thinks of you as a battlefield. in truth, you are nothing of the sort. not a wasteland of bodies emitting miasma putrid enough to destroy one’s stomach. it took him weeks chewing over the irony before surmising that his enticement has everything to do with his lusting for blood and annihilation. in his eyes, you are a battlefield he must conquer. unlike pierro who has given you status, capitano offered you strength in exchange for your little puffy pussy taking his huge cock.

don’t be scared, he’d whisper, it’ll fit. pressed against your stomach, no cock of such girth and length could ever fit in someone’s cunt. you feel so little in his arms, extremely so whenever you work your body down his whole length. and once he’s fully sheathed inside, with his fat crown pushing right into your womb and veins thick enough to stimulate, you shiver and sob. capitano is deep in your guts and he knows it, always drawing gentle circles on your back to allay the sting of having stretched your pussy out and to soothe the enfeebling sensation of his cock tip kissing your womb each gentle thrust.

many stories surround him, most of which are bone-chilling. they say capitano is the harbinger of death, and that hiding behind his mask is the skewed face of a monster hell spat out. you admit to believing the hearsay once, but calloused is his skin might be, you have never been touched by hands so gentle. consider it clemency, since you must not forget: capitano can easily break you if he so does will it himself.

[ DOTTORE ] — exhibitionism. voyeurism. creampie.

in zapolyarny palace, the name dottore typically sparks caution in the hearts of many. christened as the doctor, he is the paradox of warmth normally seen in someone in the field of medicine. you have done all that you could to be stationed somewhere else other than in his laboratory, but a handmaiden’s fate is as pliant as clay in the hands of those with power. therefore, when he offered you wisdom, all you could do was give him the same. wisdom that is through letting dottore’s segments completely fuck you witless in front of him.

he likes observing your face contorting with lewdness. watching drool racing down your chin, tits bouncing as one of his segments drills his cock into you from the back. there’s nothing more gratifying than biting your lips with your eyes rolling heavenward while your pussy sucks in cock after cock. he enjoys the sounds you make but loves popping his cock down your throat when your screams become too noisy for his liking. but when you come undone by having been fucked until your legs are shaking with thick amounts of cum spilling from your cunt, dottore finds himself admiring nothing else but the image before him.

he wouldn’t have thought that his sexual fantasies could be sated without venturing out to the nearest brothel. for that, he bestows you a chance to ask him two questions every time he fucks you. it is a deal sealed months ago that has benefited both parties involved. and dottore loves to keep things as it is. he’d continue doing so as long as you wouldn’t ask questions at the cost of your precious, precious life. it does not matter how much dottore adores you, he would never think twice.

[ PANTALONE ] — predator and prey dynamics. dubious content. nasty. he rubs your asshole. i’m sorry i was so horny while writing his part. creampie. drool. unprotected.

possessing mora enough to buy a whole region makes a man forthright in his intentions, be it pure or soiled with nothing but personal gain. because in the face of money, even the most deviant minds and sickest of hearts appear gilded. you have been proven of the warped reality when letters from your family burst forth in your chamber. each parchment contains fervent gratitude for a name that turned your blood gelid. mr. pantalone is a very kind man, indeed. please do not forget to thank him for the year’s worth of food he supplied us.

the first time you thanked him, pantalone fucked your pussy until the hole was gaping, as though asking for more. he completely owned you: mind, body, and soul. he pistoled his cock deep in your guts for hours, with his eyes rolling back to his skull and his cheeks tinted pink. at one point he almost cried overstimulating his cock tip by kissing your cervix and squirting bouts of cum in your womb. you’ve found out that he particularly prefers when you bounce on his thick shaft, squelching him dry while he gropes your tits and licks your nipples until his mouth is spilling out saliva. sometimes he would rub your asshole as you come around his cock, because he revels whenever your pussy pulses around his girth to milk his balls sapped of cum.

as a man with unparalleled wealth, pantalone sure likes to count. he’s skilled at keeping scores, striking a line on your inner thigh with a glaring ink for every round where he leaves your cunt cum-filled. with each line equivalent to ten million mora. you’d enter pantalone’s chamber every week as a handmaiden, then come out a wealthy one— albeit powerless. regardless of how blinding mora is, it must not hide the truth from you: pantalone, the richest man of all, can take your opulence just as easily as he gave it.

[ CHILDE ] — mindbreak. protected sex. condom used. childe is feral. drool.

childe, the 11th of the harbingers, is appreciated by many if not all. an unusual sight in zapolyarny palace, yet the warmest one. he is a glorious warrior, especially when wielding his weapon. a sight worthy of awe, for he moves with precision and speed that are not of this world. owning aberrant strength, childe is meant for blood and glory. and he evinces it all by providing you security whenever you prove just how formidable of a harbinger he is behind closed doors.

drool on the pillows, hands barely hanging on to the sheets, with your mind spinning after hours and hours of childe drilling his cock into you until your stomach flattens on the bed. he pounds your pussy vehemently, shifting positions every time to abuse your sensitive spots. feet over his shoulders, knees against your chest, missionary, name it all. he’ll fuck you in ten different positions each night to break your sanity. and every time he slides his cock out of your wet cunt with his fat and heavy cum pulling the rubber down his twitching shaft, he ties the condom around your legs as proof of his strength.

what makes a warrior is his stamina, and childe would do anything to prove that he’s a formidable one. be it through fighting or fucking, he has yet to fail in either of those aspects. he has dominated you more than once. it is you who willingly walked in on his life like a vulnerable mouse sauntering to a viper’s maw. you have no one else but yourself to blame for the venom in your veins.

[ SCARAMOUCHE ] — voyeurism. perv!scaramouche.

scaramouche is his name and he’s the most enigmatic of all. some whispers say that it is merely a moniker to conceal his identity. to bury his past, to birth him anew. vexed with more than half of the zapolyarny palace, the quiet places and shadows are his companions. you think he hates you, too, for none could be spared from scaramouche’s temper. but unlike everyone else, he has found something quite entertaining in you. regardless of its nature, you have not exactly been favored by the harbinger. he remains truthful to his ill temper no matter the circumstances.

when you part your thighs before him, shaking fingers while playing with your pulsing clit, the way he stares burns at your skin. there is humor in his eyes. as though the way you pump two fingers in your wet and untouched cunt serves as peak amusement for him. perhaps it is, perhaps it is not. scaramouche has mastered the schooling of his expressions, sticking only to that of pure malice even if he has you bared before him. he loves commanding you to touch your cunt with your legs extended wide, or pinch and rub on your clit until you’re shaking at where you sit. sometimes he’d tease and tug at your nipples, but he has never gone further than that. and you fear that he never will.

brewing between you is one crooked relationship. scaramouche has not any need for you other than to satisfy his odd fantasies. he has been forthright from the beginning about his intentions, saying that he merely wants to see for himself what’s so special about a handmaiden like you that has the other harbingers on their knees. all his provocations hold with them a promise, and that perhaps one day, scaramouche will try and seek out the answers for himself. but that day is not today.

HOW WAS THE UPDATE? TELL US WHAT YOU THINK.

this au has got me on a CHOKEHOLD 😩😩😩

DayDreams' Sex-Doll Masterlist

🖤 Fics:

Artificiality.

Power Play.

🖤 Drabbles:

Childe General HCs.

Kaeya General HCs.

Scaramouche General HCs.

Diluc and Kaeya Sharing a User.

Xiao General HCs.

Raiden Shogun General HCs.

Albedo General HCs.

How Does Fake!Albedo Work?

Venti General HCs.

Zhongli but for Monster-Fuckers.

Your Boss' Ayato Just Likes You a Little Too Much.

Neglected Ayaka HCs.

Diluc General HCs.

Dottore Medical Aid HCs.

Childe Wants a Kid.

Zhongli Learns a Few Bad Habits.

Ayato Gets Along Uncomfortable Well With Android!Reader.

🖤 Word Building:

Helper Droids.

Abyss Clarification.

Archon Clarification.

What are androids for (besides rearranging your guts)?

How do androids interact?

But, like, why are they yanderes?

Where are the kids?

👀😃😏

𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊? 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒!

— Childe, Diluc, Kaeya, Itto, Zhongli, Pantalone

cw. f!reader, size kink, riding, doggy, squirting, pet names, use of ‘daddy’ (pantalone), oral, mating press, full nelson, creampie, fingering, praise

𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄

A moan slips from your lips when Tartaglia pushes his cock quickly against your sweet spot.

His balls slam slapping your swollen clit, your eyes roll as he grabs your hips angle them to reach deeper.

The grin on his face widens as you sob and bury your head in the pillow, “what’s the matter angel, is my cock too much for you?” he teases you wrapping a hand around your throat and pulling you with your back against his chest.

He sits back on his heels and squeezes your throat before wrapping his arm around your waist, slamming his hips against your ass, “will you cum for me mh?” he coos in your ear.

His hand slides down your side and reaches between your thighs, circling your sensitive clit.

You have to hold on to his thick arm to keep from falling forward as he pounds inside you. “I wan … I wanna cum … please,” you sob, moving toward his hips.

His rough fingers run expertly over your bud, your pussy fluttering around his shaft and your juices sliding over his balls. “You’re dripping, angel, go ahead, make a mess,” he grunts.

Your nails dig into his arm as you bounce, stifle a moan as you lift off his cock and gush cum everywhere.

Tartaglia licks his lips as you gush onto his cock and thighs, his fingers not leaving your clit forcing out more squirts that wet the sheets beneath you.

“That’s my girl,” he teases pulling you back against him and forcing his cock into your sloppy, soaked slit, “now, angel, give me one.”

Keep reading

- obsessed with the concept of reader having coryo wrapped around her finger. he’d never admit it of course but he was aware of the downright visceral reaction he had when you’d look up at him with those big doe eyes, lips pouty as you’d twirl a lock of your hair round and round your finger. so it can’t be his fault that he zones out, glazed eyes seeming to focus on your mouth but not actually taking in a word you’re saying. if he’d simply paid attention he’d see the deviant spark in your eyes, your clenched posture. you ramble on about your own agenda, you go on prettily with the lilt of false self consciousness about your ideas for the capitol, better ways for things to be run. he steps into your space, blue eyes intense and hungry - impatient - so of course you have to make your move. ‘what do you think, coryo? is it a good idea?’

he could be agreeing to anything - cancelling the games, giving the districts more freedom - and he’d have no idea. he’d backed you up against the wall now, narrow hips slotting against your own. ‘whatever you want, my love,’ he’d murmur, already kissing at the edge of your jaw. if only he could see the power hungry smirk your throwing over his shoulder, the cogs of your brain already turning towards your next move.