God Can't Save What's Mine.

by belimah

Chapter 2

Summary:

Through November and December he has been with you. Taking care of you. Teaching you.
It's only fair you two celebrate Christmas with a delicious meal and some family time.

Notes:

Merry Christmas, degenerates!
I wasn't gonna post it on xmas day I know my readers. have fun this almost killed me because I couldn't edit the whole thing on a single day, no matter how many days I spent trying to go through it all at once lmao kill me now. Also I couldn't stop adding and changing stuff back and forth every time I edited, so that was fun.

Halloween Special I Christmas SpecialI promised you all is finally out here on Ao3 and also on Tumblr! On tumblr I had to divide in four parts because it was too long, lmao.

tw/cw: graphic violence, cannibalism references, psychological terror, home invasion, stalking, home invasion aftermath, graphic panic responses, physical restraint, predatory threat, knives and gun present, anal sex, anal fingering, non consensual vouyerism, dubcon, heavy corruption, involuntary urination, gunplay, noncon, incest, light bloodplay, murder, strangling, forced petplay, watersports, asphyxiation, non consensual cannibalism implied, forced orgasm, p in v, primal play, hunting, cannibalism referenced, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, you've been warned. | art by @kcokaine

God Can't Save What's Mine

November — the keeping.

Saturday, Nov 1 — triage

Dawn drags a gray belly over the houses. Your kitchen smells like old coffee, bleach, and the copper-salt he carries in with him.

You’re on the counter wrapped in a towel you don’t remember finding. Rope marks ring your wrists like wilted bracelets. The locket is back where it lives, a cold coin that taps bone whenever your breath stutters.

"Hands." he says.

You give them because your body learned that word years ago. He cleans the shallow cuts he made last night like a mechanic wiping down a tool he loves — ruthless, efficient.

No cotton swabs, no apologies, just gauze, pressure, a splash of something that bites hard and keeps biting.

You jolt.

He smiles with half a face — the left eye bright, gleaming, the right side a ruin from temple to jaw, a knit of pale seam over the missing eye that makes him look like a man who walked out of a house that collapsed and kept walking.

"You like my hands on yours," he drawls, voice low and flat, as if reading a grocery list. "Always did."

You detest that your body knows him as heat and comfort and not only as harm.

He notices that too — like he always does — and keeps talking while the gauze goes dark and then lighter.

"You’re not calling anyone," he dictates, soft, factual. "Not because I’m going to rip the phone out of your mouth. Because you want me here with you. You wondered for years if you'd ever see me again and you can't afford to let me go now."

He glances up, that eye pinning you until the rest of the room falls off its axis.

"Tell me I'm wrong, doe."

Your throat tries and fails. Your head shakes once and you lower your gaze to your thighs because you feel like crying.

The truth shames you and saves you at the same time, he watches the way you crack and files the sound away.

"Good girl." he praises and your eyes snap back to his face, already trained.

He tapes the last bandage with a tidiness that makes you angrier than blood ever did.

"Hospitals ask questions. Cops ask worse. And your mother—" his mouth crooks— "your mother answers when they call."

You flinch.

He makes a small, pleased sound, like finding a loose nail behind drywall.

He pours water, holds it to your mouth, tilts it just right this time.

"No cops." he states, as if it were your idea. "No mother. You keep your job. You keep your hours. You come home and breathe where I put you."

You nod, obedient.

"That’s my girl. You know I'll take good care of you, don't you, baby?" He taps the locket with a knuckle, it pings, a mean little bell only you can hear. "There’s the promise."

You feel your body flushing in heat at the pet name he uses so scarcely, probably because he knows the effect it has on you, so he waves it like a blade, a leash to keep you exactly where he wants you.

He sleeps on your couch like a king in exile, blood dried under his nails, jacket thrown over the chair like a guard dog.

You lie awake on your bed and listen to the house try to decide if it survived the night.

Sunday — the catechism of betrayal

He won’t let you lock the doors.

Not today.

He sits at your table with his scar to the window and his good eye on you and breaks you into circles around one small center.

"Tell me how she held the phone again."

You say it and show him.

"Show me where she stood. Which foot forward."

You show it.

"Say the laugh track."

You choke on it.

He waits.

He’s good at waiting.

Finally, when the picture is as sharp as it will ever be, he leans back, satisfied like a butcher looking at a clean table.

"She always knew," he repeats the infamous laugh track. "And she only called when she watched me kiss you."

You forget you were nineteen and dumb and he was already who he is.

He points at the locket.

"That did it. Not the bones. Not the blood. You."

You want to scream and call him liar.

Your mother could never — would never enable such terrible things.

You want to run until you can't.

You have nowhere to go.

You are the reason he was locked in.

Your mouth won’t lift the words.

He sees that, too, and smiles because the lesson landed where he wanted it.

"Good." he says, and for the rest of the day he is almost gentle.

He cooks eggs, burns the toast, eats both.

He showers and leaves steam and a circle of clean in the fogged mirror where his scar made a path.

He doesn’t touch you except to move you by the hip the way a man moves a chair.

You catch yourself shuddering because you want more.

You can't ask for more.

He would make you repeat it all.

He would make you tell him again and again and again how you and your mother are the root of his ruin.

He probably won’t touch you again in the way you missed so much — not the way he did when he nearly suffocated you after hunting you down, not the way he did after torturing you on your kitchen.

You hate him for it.

You hate him for making you want him.

You hate yourself for sleeping against his shoulder on the couch like you did when you were small and didn’t know the names for anything.

At dusk, a cruiser rolls by slow, then slower.

He stands in the darkness of the hallway and breathes even.

You stand in the kitchen and learn to breathe on his count.

Monday — parole

He lets you go to work.

Not with freedom — never — just with instruction.

"Normal clothes," he says, watching you dress in a shirt that suddenly feels like someone else’s. "Normal face. Don’t run the yellow light at Cedar. You always do."

You turn at the door because your body remembers once to look for permission even when your brain forgets to ask for it.

He’s already behind you, ghost-quiet, palm on the top of the door, not blocking, not blessing, just there.

"Come straight home after."

You do.

Every night.

The first evening the apartment is quiet and then he is not in it and then he is, stepping out of the dark with his jacket half-zipped and eye bright and the scar like coastline.

You don’t scream.

You thought you would out of fear or for being scared, and you don’t.

He laughs, pleased, and takes your bag off your shoulder like a man finishing your sentence.

The police try for a week.

They come twice to your building with flashlights and apologies.

You say you’re fine and you mean it and you don’t.

By the second Friday the city has moved on.

The headlines slide down the page and vanish under weather and sport.

Your phone stops buzzing with neighbor group chat hysteria. You mute the thread anyway.

He sees you do it and strokes the chain at the nape of your neck with two fingers, proprietorial, grateful.

"You’re clever, little thing." he whispers against your temple, and you bloom and wilt under it.

Wednesday — the code

He cooks — it isn’t fancy.

It’s food that knows heat and fat and salt.

The kitchen fills with it and with the quiet that follows harm when none happens for an hour

He talks while the skillet hisses, you lean on the counter because your knees forgot briefly how to own you and the locket sits like a mark made in the flesh without ink.

"I don’t touch people who don’t ask for it." he starts, casual, turning meat in the pan. Steam climbs, fat sizzles. "I don’t hunt soft things." A little grin at the word because he knows full well how he hunt you down a few days ago and had his way with you easily. "I take men who make the world worse. It’s a service. Cops won’t clean what I clean. So I do."

You hear the lie and you want it anyway, — like sugar — it rushes your blood and makes you light.

"You… ate them." you say lowly, because if the lie is going to hold any weight it has to stand on all of it.

"I finish what I start." his tone is soft and his lips curve a little.

He scrapes the brown from the pan and the spoon draws trails that look like writing.

"You think dumping a body in a river honors anything? You think rats are priests?"

He flips a burner off with two fingers, as if mercy lived in his hands.

"You eat the hunt, you own it. You end it. You make the noise quiet."

It’s monstrous.

It’s religion when he says it.

You hate that the words pull open a door in you because of the way he looks at you while he speaks, because of the line of his mouth, because the part of you that never got rid of a single childish god needs something to kneel to and he is here.

A ruinous god.

Maybe not the one you want, but the one you deserve.

He serves you a plate.

Beef, you tell yourself.

Beef, you insist, even as the iron smell becomes every metal you’ve ever tasted, even as he smiles because he sees you choose and chooses with you.

"Would you cry for him?" he asks mildly, and pushes a folded clipping across the table — assault charge on the third page, a bad man with a smug mouth and a slap on the wrist. "Go ahead. Try."

You look at the photo and feel nothing but the impulse to put your palm over the rectangle until his face goes away. Your stomach lurches and you take a deep breath.

It's beef.

It tastes good.

You swallow.

"Didn’t think so." he finishes.

He eats with a quiet that makes you nauseous with relief.

You swallow and don’t ask what this is and he doesn’t tell you because he doesn’t have to.

Your head does it for him.

Thursday — the sermon you memorize

He makes coffee and holds the mug out for you to smell the smoke before you drink.

It's early in the morning and he's already awake when you get up to get ready for work.

It would be domestic, silly even, if it weren't for the circumstances.

But did they really matter? You spent literal years wishing for him to be free, to find you, to be close again.

He is here now, close, and that's what's important, right?

He says it again, breaking you out of your little daydream — different words, same spine.

"Every culture with any sense honored the animal after the cut," he preaches. "Prayers, thanks, use all of it. It’s not savage, it’s merely respect."

He tilts his head, studying your face.

"Your mother taught you to clean your plate, she didn’t mean this one. I do."

You laugh and it’s a hiccup and a sob.

He pets your hair once, not gentle, also not rough, just present.

"Say it back to me, sweetheart." his voice is laced in velvety poison.

You hear yourself.

"You only take men who— who deserve it."

He makes a small approving sound.

"Such a good girl."

"Eating ends it." you hear your voice just a little above a whisper.

"Eating ends it." he agrees, and drinks your yes like he was thirsty.

Friday — memorable lesson

You spend an hour convincing yourself he’s angry and ten more minutes convincing yourself you deserve it.

The apartment is too neat, rice cooked and forgotten, one of the the hoodies you bought him folded with the precision of an apology after you used it to go to work. Your phone sits facedown on the table like a witness.

Every street noise is his boot, and every not-boot is proof he’s avoiding you.

You rehearse.

I’m sorry for— what?

The way you looked at the delivery guy? The joke you told that landed wrong? The text you sent, then unsent, because "miss you" felt like begging him for attention?

By the time the lock turns, your chest is a fist.

You don’t go to the door.

You stand in the kitchen like a defendant.

He’s already halfway to the sink before he clocks your posture.

Then he stops, takes you in — the too-still hands, the damp eyes, the breath snagging under your locket.

"Tch." A click of the tongue, almost a laugh. Scar pale under the lamp, left eye bright. "What did you do to piss me off that bad, hm?"

His tone holds a mix of amusement and contempt as he pins you down with his glare.

You shake your head.

It’s embarrassing, how fast the tears threaten to bar your eyes and slide down.

You don’t remember crying so easily before.

"I—I don’t know. I thought you were mad."

"At what?" He strolls closer, lazy, like a cat deciding which bird to ruin — but you both know you're the only songbird he enjoys taking apart like this. "Use your words."

"Work. I… I answered my manager. You said to keep my mouth shut, and I— uh— said I needed to go home because someone was w-waiting for me…" It spills out, small and stupid and anxious and fast. "And I wore your hoodie out because it smells like you and— maybe you don’t like that. And I didn’t have dinner ready because I kept… waiting for you— I'm sorry."

He exhales through his nose.

"So, you did your job, wore my clothes, and waited for me like a good, obedient little pet." He leans his hip against the counter. "That's very tragic. Unforgivable, almost."

The corner of his lips curls up just slightly and his eye narrows, entertained with what that head of your is inventing to panic at.

Your throat tightens.

"Don’t—"

"Don’t what," he croons, tilting your chin with two fingers. "Punish you? Is that what’s rattling around in there?"

Heat and panic surge together.

"I thought you would."

He studies your eyes, the way your breath hitches. His mouth slants into something filthy and fond.

"I could."

A beat, deliberate.

"Or I could fix that little scrambled brain and remind it what it’s for."

"Fix?" you say, hating the sound, needing it anyway.

"Mm. Now listen carefully." His voice lowers, clean as a knife. "I’m not mad. If I was, you would know. If I want to punish you, I will do it because you deserve and you will thank me for it later. And if I touch you—" the corner of his mouth lifts, mean "—it’s because only I get to. Because you're mine to do so."

You swallow a lump in your throat.

"Okay…" you breathe, eyes never leaving his, chest pounding with the thudding heartbeat that refuses to lower. "I'm sorry."

You really should stop apologizing.

"What for?" He’s close enough to fog your breath.

You go hot to your hairline.

"I don't know I just— missed you."

Yo know exactly how you sound — nineteen and confused and spoiled and scared and wanting his arms around you and his lips on yours.

"Yeah? You missed me? Or you missed my mouth?"

He's cruel, the fingers that lifted your chin are now a grasp on your jaw, impeding your face to turn from his dangerously close grimace.

"I— missed both," you spurt too fast before thinking about it, then you swallow again and catch your breath. "I missed you, and your mouth." you answer softly, flickering your eyes to his mouth and back to his eye.

"And where did you miss my mouth, princess?"

His fingers tighten on the hinges of your jaw when you take a second too long to answer, making you wince and pant. His other hand found its way to the small of your back, pulling you close to his solid frame.

"On mine—"

"Mm, and?"

You feel dizzy.

"Between my legs."

It costs you.

It frees you.

He hums, satisfied.

"Please."

Your voice shakes and you feel armorless, pathetic, begging for him.

"There she is, my little wretched thing."

He palms your waist, turns, walks you backward until the couch hits your calves, and pushes you down.

You fall into the cushions, nerves spiking as he drags you forward by the knees, rough enough to make you gasp, gentle enough that you feel how chosen you are.

He looks at your face as he hooks thumbs and peels your shorts and panties down, slow, making you live inside every inch of the reveal.

"Open."

You spread your legs.

"Wider."

Your face burns and yet you do, awfully aware of your slickened thighs and puffy folds being presented to him like a meal. Your face burns but you don’t look away, you know he doesn’t like it when your eyes are not on him, so you bore them into his face and let your mind take you back to when you didn’t know of his crimes — when you and him were just…

"Already so fucking wet and I didn’t even touch you."

He settles on his knees like a man taking the only seat that ever belonged to him.

The breath you didn’t know you were holding empties when his hands catch the inside of your thighs and his mouth lands on the apex of them — no tease, no ceremony, just plain heat and slick and pressure, like he wants to eat the panic away so he can get to the part where you break pretty just for him.

You choke on his name and his laugh vibrates against your core, obscene, pleased.

"Focus, brat." he says into you. "on me, not the bullshit in your head."

He eats you out ravenously, with maddening crave — decisive, merciless, exact. No dithering. No slow, saintly warm-up.

Tongue flattening, then carving, lips dragging, sucking and letting go with a wet pop of your clit, that little obscene pull that makes your spine try to leave your body.

You’re already trembling, you feel tears streaming down your face and you don't know if they're from relief, stress, or whatever else swirls under your ribcage whenever you are at the mercy of his claws and fangs.

He steadies you with broad palms at your hips, thumbs branding the soft crease there.

"Tell me again how much you want me, niece." he growls against sopping mound with that sweet venom draped tone, lifting his face just enough to make you want to cry even harder.

"I want you— a-ah… all of you, I— I want you all the time." heart thundering so hard it hurts you, but you manage to speak between sobs, you can hear his voice and the blood rushing through your ears and nothing more.

It's disturbing how much he governs over your mind and body with so little.

It's unnerving how much you want him to take control.

"So scared I would punish you…" he coos at you mockingly before grazing his teeth on the tender plush of the inside of your thigh, sucking skin in to bruise and pry a pained gasp from your lips, mean. "This feels like punishment?"

"N-no," you stutter, wrecked. "Feels— feels so good— uncle, f-fuck!"

"Louder."

He slides two fingers to the edge of you, brushes softly on your slit, waits with that hauhty expression as you try to gather yourself together. Alas, he doesn’t give you much time before going on — bullying you, making your puffy clit twitch at his barbs, because at some point between back then and right now, your body reacts so well, almost reverently, to every single insult thrown at you by your own blood.

"Let your neighbors hear how desperate you are, how you squirm and cry around your uncle's fingers.” he demands, carnelian eye glinting with lust bored into your flushed face “How you are a dumb little whore for me, brat."

You forgot, for a while, how cruel he can be. How much he enjoys seeing your crying face and scared eyes and how he gets off on humiliating you.

Yet—

His words do nothing less than send scorching heat down your body, uncoiling in your stomach and pooling in your cunt.

You are — and you can't stress this enough — desperate for him.

For his words of approval, for his impossible tenderness, for his love, his care, his mouth, his touches, his cock—

His cruelty, his brutality, his punishment, his humiliation, his pain inflicting grasp.

His hand wrapped around your entire life like a immoral vice.

He sinks his fingers slow, knuckles kissing, curl precise, a surgeon arguing with your sanity.

Your head snaps back and your mouth falls agape as you moan, clenching his fingers inside you.

"There you go. Say what you want, my little slut."

"I want— ohhh, God,” you mewl and try again “your mouth, your fingers—fuck! Please uncle I—"

You squirm and beg and whimper as he moves his fingers, curling and uncurling them inside you just to see you try and fail to speak properly.

Just to punish you for it later as if it was your fault.

"Pretty little thing." His breath is hot where you’re wet and so fucking needy. "Keep talking."

You angle your hips, searching for the rhythm of his fingers to match, trying to push yourself against his hand and grind for even more friction while squirming and squeezing his fingers, exactly like the slut he accuses you to be.

He alternates between dragging and circling his tongue against your aching bud, sucking it and flattening his tongue on it, building you fast, cruel pace alternating with tortuously slow, like he resents how long you spent tying yourself into knots.

Every time your hips kick he pins you harder, the restraint ungentle and perfect to bruise you into the submission he demands — every time you try to outrun it he brings you back down with a growl, like he’s telling your body where it lives.

You’re babbling now, useless gratitude, the thank-yous he likes so much from you, the yesyesyesh that trips over itself and turns back into his name again and again.

He praises you in the same breath he degrades you.

"That’s it. Beg. Tell me how good it feels.” A filthy kiss on your slick folds, a sharp suck that makes you yelp. "You taste like you missed me."

Another curl of his fingers that detonates behind your eyes.

"You did, didn’t you, princess?"

"Yes," you gasp, voice high pitched and broken. " yesyesyesyesh— I missed you, Sukuna, I missed—"

"Say my cock." he smirks, awful.

"I missed your cock, yes—please—"

"Good girl."

The couch squeaks.

Your hands find his hair, the hoodie’s hood, the sharp shelf of his shoulder, helpless as a drowning prayer.

He lets you tug for balance and ignores you for control, mouth never losing rhythm, fingers unkind in a way that feels like home for you, as messed up as it is.

The room telescopes to heat and sound — his breath, your voice, the wet obscene music of it — and then he changes angle a fraction, and the floor drops out.

"Don’t—" you sob, terrified of the edge, then furious at yourself for asking for mercy. "Don’t stop— please don’t stop— I’m almost…"

He doesn’t.

He locks you to the couch with his forearm over your pelvis and rides you through, mouth relentless sucking and licking and pressing, fingers driving in, pumping, curling, praise like smoke.

"That’s it, baby."

Suck.

"Be loud, brat."

Curl.

"Let the neighbors know who fucking ruins and fixes you. Cum for me."

You come hoarse, cracked open, noise ripped out of you.

He works you through it, cruelly gentle — mouth easing only when it hurts in the good way, fingers slowing but not leaving until the last aftershock shivers out of your thighs as the high of your climax ebbs away.

You shake.

He likes that, you feel the smile on his mouth where you’re too raw to stand it.

You try to catch breath.

He kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then — obscene — your ruined, sensitive pussy, the lightest brush, a promise and a threat.

"We're not done." he informs you like a man offering seconds at dinner.

You hiccup a laugh that is half-plea.

"I— I can’t—"

"You will." he croons, wolf-sweet.

Then, gentler,

"I'll give you a minute. You'll beg for it anyway."

He moves up your body, crowding your space with heat and clean sweat and the scent of your soap on his hoodie mixed with sage and nicotine.

His mouth finds yours, slow and claiming.

You taste yourself, he makes you chase it and you hear — you feel — his hands already undoing the buckle of his belt and then lowering his zipper.

When he pulls back, he taps your locket, the little bell goes off in your bones and snaps your focus like fucking Pavlov’s dog.

"What did we learn?" he rasps, still close enough to let your uneven breath hit his face, bright red eye boring into yours.

You swallow, dazed.

"To ask… when I don't know." you speak lowly, a little breathless and haggard.

"And?"

"Use words."

"And?" he narrows his eye.

"You’re not mad," you whisper, sounding too small, sheepish. "I’ll know if you get mad."

"That’s right."

He thumbs a tear track from your cheek, somewhere between tender and smug.

"If you want something, you say it. If I want to punish you, you won’t have to guess."

His smile sharpens.

"And when you start thinking too loud—"

"You fix me." you breathe, and hate how true it feels.

He kisses you like you got the answer right.

"Smart girl."

He hauls you into his lap, your shaky legs spread apart, straddling his corded thighs, knees sinking into the cushion of the couch.

You feel the discomfort of your sensitive bare parts against the roughness of his jeans — but there's also the heat emanating from the bulge ridging the fabric, exactly beneath your soaked, nude ass and cunt.

You feel your body burning already, you barely recovered from your orgasm and you can feel how you clench around nothing — the simple idea of his cock — as soon as you mount his lap.

Desperate little whore of a niece.

"You're soaking my pants." he points out, lightsome, as if he isn't the one at fault for keeping you there with both hands squeezing your hips.

"I'm—"

"Say you're sorry again and I'm making you feel the difference between praise and punishment in a minute."

Your breath stutters against his mouth, arms loosely wrapped around his neck, you're closer and don't know if you leaned in or if he pulled you in, your skin is hot everywhere his hands aren’t.

The room smells like sweat and your sin and what he did to you a few moments ago.

Your throat is raw from saying his name.

You can’t make your eyes stop flicking — scar, left eye, mouth — like you’re checking the exits on a plane that’s already in the air.

His palms ride down to the backs of your thighs and stop at the crease, thumbs fitting there like they were made to keep you from floating off. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t make a sound. He just watches your face while his hands map you slow — a calm man taking inventory of what’s his.

You hear your own pulse in your ears and detest that he can probably feel it under his fingers.

Your fingers curl in the fabric of the hoodie you bought him.

You can feel the shape of him under it, the bulk of muscle, the steady warmth.

He sits like a person who never has to move fast to get what he wants.

He could roll his hips to tease you, he could flip you under and fuck you.

He does neither.

He lets you sit there and shake with your folds soaking his jeans, the heat of his hardened cock seeping through fabric reaching your core while he learns your edges again.

His touch is unhurried, almost tender, and it makes you more nervous than roughness ever did.

He isn't gentle. Not really.

Until he is — and you melt on it, you thrive and enjoy and absorb every single second of it because you don't know how long that will last.

The pads of his fingers find the red lines he left on your hips and on the apex of your thighs, trace it like lines he knows he owns.

He slides up, slow, following the outer curve of your hips to your waist, then under your ribs.

He stops at the edge of your bra, your lack of flinching delights him enough you can see his mouth twist when one corner lifts.

You take a deep breath, chest lifting into his hands.

He tracks the movement with that bright left eye.

He’s esurient and forbearing at the same time, which is exactly the combination that wrecks you.

You think of how he looked between your thighs, how he never broke rhythm, how he told you not to run from what you asked for.

Your face goes hot and you shift a little on his lap, eyes darting from his lips to his eye to his lips again.

He sees it and hums, pleased, like you got an answer right.

He drags a thumb along your sternum until it hits the locket. The chain pings bone. Your breath catches, his gaze flicks back to your eyes to watch the way the sound moves through you.

“Still shy?” His tone is light, the look isn’t. “After all that yelling and moaning and begging for more?”

You manage a nod that’s almost a laugh and a slight drop of your shoulders.

“A little.”

“Means you remember who took you apart.” he whispers with a wicked smile, breath hot, too close to your lips.

The words shouldn’t calm you, they should alarm you.

And still…

His hands go lower again, slower, tracing the lines you spend your life hiding, the soft on the sides of your stomach, the shallow dip of your navel, the hollow above your hipbones.

He handles you like you’re a machine he rebuilt — respect for the fit, no softness for the function.

Every time your body flinches he pauses, not to check in, but to make you feel the moment you try to leave and chose not to, either because you're afraid of his reaction or because you get over the fear and stay.

He palms your ass and pulls you flush a fraction, just enough to make your breath jump. He doesn’t grind, just holds you there until your thighs start to tremble again.

"You want more?" he finally speaks and your eyes snap back at his crimson one that never left your face.

You do.

You want more of his touches, his heat, his kisses.

You don't know if that's the right answer, though.

You'll beg for it anyway.

He rewards you — sometimes — when you're honest, so you decide it's better not to lie because somehow he always knows when you're lying.

He knows everything about you.

You nod a little bit too eagerly.

"Use your words. Tell me what you want." he drawls and leans back in the couch again, splaying one arm on the backrest and waiting. "Go on."

"I want more… of you." you manage, feeling your cunt clench around nothing as his other hand squeezes the fat of your ass just for a beat. "I want— your touch, and your lips, your—" you stop yourself when your face starts to burn. His eye narrow, you know better than to leave him waiting. "I want your cock." you don't stutter, but you feel feverish, hot, tiny beads of sweat already forming at the line of your hair and temple.

His face has an unreadable expression for a moment, and his mouth twists in the next one. Not really a smile, but close — it's devious, but you have always loved it.

The hand that's not grabbing your ass finds your jaw, cupping it, big, warm, he could crush your face if he wanted to.

“There you go.” he coos at you, that paternal tone making something ugly and feral ripple inside of you, low in your guts. “You’ll always be good for me, won’t you, baby?”

Your whole body tightens and you feel like you could come just by listening to his gravelly voice praising you, how much it feels like a blanket being wrapped around your whole body, cozy, safe.

He makes you come closer, pulls you to lean in until your mouth is mere inches from his, your back slightly arched, ass perked up and his other hand still grabbing your ass cheek possessively.

"How can you be this fucking soft." he husks against your mouth, lips brushing now, breath warm and still tasting like you. Your heart is thundering inside your chest again, your eyes glint and his hooded eye falls to your lips for just a second. "It's unbearable. Makes me want to ruin you. Makes me want to cut you open and taint every inch of you with my own sins. Makes me want to rip your skin apart—" his fingernails dig into the plush of your ass and into the hinge of your jaw as he continues "—pry open your ribcage, break bone by bone, and crush that soft heart that keeps you here, so close, so vulnerable. So… mine." his voice is level, steady even, borderline conversational as if he is just taking inventory and not telling you how he would like to take you apart and dissect you until you’re nothing more than a mush of blood and gore in his hands.

You blink your eyes at him, submissive as you have always been when it came to him, pliant, melting into his touches even after the amount of concerning, deeply upsetting things he just said.

He knows you would let him do all of those things to you if he so much as wrapped them in praises, compliments and in his validation that you so desperately crave.

And that's probably what makes him lose it.

With a low, animalistic growl, he captures your lips again in a searing kiss, tongue plundering your mouth with a roughness that leaves you breathless in no time.

He lets your jaw go and now both hands slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra and unhooking it with a deft flick of his fingers. He breaks the kiss just long enough to tug the garment off your body along with your shirt, tossing them carelessly to the floor.

That gaze rakes over your naked breasts, taking in the sight of your hardened nipples, the way they beg for his touch. He leans down, capturing one in his mouth, sucking and biting at the sensitive pebbled tip until you are writhing in his lap, your fingers finding and tangling in his hair.

You feel his hands slide down to your ass again, squeezing the firm globes as he grinds you harder and harder against the thick ridge of his still covered erection — he is painfully hard, and you can feel your body shivering as your wanting cunt gets wetter by the second.

It sends a thrill of fear and excitement through your spine, knowing that he will probably split you open on his cock worse than the first night after fucking you with his gun.

It should really concern you.

It actually makes you even needier.

Sukuna's voice is a low, dirty rumble against your skin as he speaks, his words filthy and full of promise.

"I'll fuck you so hard you'll forget your own name.” He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust of his hips, grinding his clothed erection against your aching pussy. “The only thing you'll remember is the feeling of my cock splitting you open, the way I reshape every inch of this tight little cunt."

He squeezes the flesh of your ass even harder, his nails digging into your skin again as he pulls you harder against him and you whine and moan, your body already conciliating pain and pleasure because he can't bring one without the other.

One of his hands slides around to the front, cupping your mound. He can feel the heat of you, the way your arousal has soaked through his jeans.

He rubs your cunt just slightly, just to see you tremble and bite down a moan as the rough denim of his jeans scrape against your sensitive flesh.

"You're dripping wet. So fucking wet and ready for my cock. Tell me, have you ever been fucked like this before ? Have you ever had a real man between your legs, filling you up until you can't take anymore, before your lovely uncle?"

You shake your head, biting down on your lower lip.

His voice is a degrading rasp.

You want him to fuck you so hard that you will never again be the same.

You already are not the same as you were before his visit.

The way his gaze bores into you sends shivers down your spine, it feels like he wants to make you even more his, to claim your body and soul as his own personal fuck toy,

"But don't worry, baby. I'll train this tight little cunt to take every inch of me easily. You'll be addicted to the feeling of me inside you. You'll be begging me for it, craving it, needing it like you need air to breathe."

That's… beyond what he already has you doing every day, beyond the attention he gives you normally, beyond the touches and eventual, scarce kisses.

Something has snapped, clicked inside him, something lifted the restraint that lived somewhere in your uncle — and now you are seeing the true nature of the monster and the man before you.

His words send a surge of desire through your whole body, hot and white like fire, making you throb and ache with a need you have never known before.

So maybe you are, after all, perfect for him.

You want him to do it, want him to take you further into his own depraved madness, to ruin you, to make you his in every way possible.

Maybe you will stop feeling so messed up this way.

Maybe you will feel less helpless, less small, less weak.

Maybe you're going to feel good again, like you once felt when you were younger — when you were good for him, letting him do with you as he wished.

Maybe with his buried cock deep inside you, you will feel whole and he will forget you're not unbreakable.

He can see the desperate, needy look on your face, the way your cheeks are flushed a deep, pretty pink.

You are putty in his hands, ready to be molded and shaped to his every whim and desire.

And fuck, does he have desires when it comes to you.

With another low, feral growl, Sukuna stands up from the couch, lifting you with him as if you weigh nothing at all.

He keeps you wrapped around his waist, your legs locked around his hips as he carries you down the hall to the bedroom.

Once in his room — your old guest room — he tosses you onto the bed, watching as you bounce slightly on the mattress. He takes a moment to drink in the sight of you, naked and wanting, spread out before him like a feast for a starving man.

Your tits heave with each breath you take, your pebbled nipples hard and begging for his touch.

The sight makes his cock throb achingly in the confines of his jeans — one look at his face and you can see that.

Hell, you were feeling it twitching under you a second ago.

Sukuna quickly sheds his clothes, practically tearing them off his body as if he is in haste to be skin to skin with you. He kicks off his jeans and boxers, freeing his massive erection.

It bobs heavily in front of him, the thick shaft pulsing with need, the broad head an angry red and already leaking pre.

He crawls onto the bed, covering your smaller body with his own, caging you, trapping you in.

You know he can feel the heat radiating off your skin as you can feel his impossible warmth reaching you, as much as you know he can smell the sweet, musky scent of your arousal that drips on the mattress.

Tantalizing.

He captures your lips in a brutal kiss, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, claiming you, possessing you. His hands slide up your sides, cupping your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh roughly as he kneads and massages them.

You yelp and jerk slightly your body under him but try to be steady so you don't get the rougher treatment yet.

He pinches your nipples between his fingers, rolling and tugging on the hard buds until you are writhing beneath him, mewling and whimpering into his mouth until he breaks the kiss, taking a second to look down at your face flushed with heat, — a few strained hairs glued to your forehead and cheeks — his left eye dark and intense as he speaks.

"You want me to break you, sweetheart? To make you my personal fuck toy, always ready and eager for my cock?"

His big, calloused hand slides down your stomach, over your mound, to the slick, swollen folds of your pussy where he can feel the wet heat of you again, the way your juices coat his fingers as he rubs through your slit, making your thighs tremble ever so slightly as your eyes bore into him.

You don’t know if your lips parted because you were going to give him an answer or simply to let that obscene dragged moan roll out of them and grant you an impish grin strething on his lips.

He drags slow circles around your clit with the pad of his thumb, and you feel it throb against his touch, sending little jolts of electricity up your body as your hands fly to grab at his shoulders and your nails dig into the firm, solid form of his rippling muscles.

"I'm going to ruin this pussy for anyone else. No one will ever make you feel as good as I will. No one will ever fill you up like I will."

His words are filthy, degrading, unhinged — yet they make you let out a little broken moan that gets his eye gleaming with that sadistic glee, watching you squirm beneath his touch, your hips bucking desperately against his hand. More, you want more of him.

It is fucking adorable, and it only spurs on his desire to utterly destroy you.

You let out yet another choked mewl, your back arching off the bed as you grind your hips against his fingers, seeking more friction, more pressure, more anything.

He chuckles darkly, a low, reverberating sound that vibrates through his chest. He always loved seeing you like this, so desperate and pathetic, so utterly at his mercy. He wants to draw this out, to make you beg for his cock before he finally gives it to you.

Slowly, teasingly, he slides one finger inside your tight channel, feeling your walls clench around the intrusion. Your brows knit together and you throw your head back, moaning as he pumps it in and out, shallow thrusts that barely breach your entrance.

His other hand slides up to your breast, kneading the soft flesh roughly, pinching, twisting and rolling your nipple between his fingers to have even more of your pathetic little cries thrown at him.

"That's it, baby. Grind on my fingers like the needy bitch you are." he purrs, voice a low, seductive rasp. "Fuck, you're still so tight—"

He adds a second finger, then a third, stretching you open, preparing you. The pain is there, but the pleasure soon comes with his fingers pumping in and out of you, making you sniffle and moan and sob and melt under his ministrations.

His fingers curl inside you, rubbing against that special spot that makes you see stars.

At the same time, he leans down and captures one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive pebbled tip, his lips leaving bruises wherever they land and suck and bite and mark. Your head spin, eyes roll back, back arches, voice bounce on the bedroom walls.

Sukuna's eye flick up to your face, watching your expression morph with each thrust of his fingers, each twist of his tongue on your nipple, each bite and suck that make you cry for mercy that won't ever come — not from him.

He can see the pleasure building in your gaze, it is a heady rush even for someone as fucked up in the head as him, knowing that he is the one bringing you to the edge time after time since you were old enough to have a taste of his poison, that he holds your pleasure in his hands.

"Beg for it." he murmurs against your breast, his hot breath fanning over your damp skin. "Beg for my cock.” he snarls, a low growl “Let me hear how badly you need me to break this tight little fuckhole."

You can feel yourself getting hotter, wetter, your juices dripping down his fingers, coating his hand in your essence. You are already so close again, teetering on the edge of orgasm just from his fingers and mouth alone. But you crave more, you want him inside you, you need him filling you, completing you, and he knows, he knows you're going to do anything to have him.

That's how tangled in his madness you are, erring addiction.

"Please Sukuna pl-ah! pleasepleaseplease I'm so— close please—"

His eye darkens with primal hunger as he watches you come undone beneath him, your body convulsing with the force of your second release.

He can feel your pussy clenching and fluttering around his fingers, trying to milk them for all they are worth. The sensation sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust straight to his painfully hard cock.

He doesn't let up, though.

Even as you tremble and shake, he continues to pump his fingers in and out of your spasming cunt, drawing out your orgasm until you are a sobbing, begging mess beneath him.

He wants to make it so that no one can ever make you feel as glorious as he can.

Not that he would ever, ever allow anyone else to touch you.

You are his property.

You are his to fuck. To take. To save. To kill.

"Pleasepleaseplease—" you chant, babbling almost, your voice ragged and broken as you dig your nails into Sukuna's back hard enough to leave red welts in their wake, breaking skin even. "Please ruin me, fuck me, make me yours—"

He groans, a wrecked vibration in his throat, a sound of pure, unchecked desire upon seeing how trivially he could bend you into complete submission.

With a swift, brutal movement, he yanks his fingers from your dripping cunt and grabs your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach, denying you the release building up so throughouly within your core and making you wail a choked bemoan.

He pushes a pillow under your hips to raise them properly, tilting your ass up towards him, presenting your dripping pussy to his athirst gaze.

"Fuck, look at this greedy cunt." Sukuna snarls, giving your ass a hard smack that leaves a red handprint blooming on your skin. "So fucking perfect."

You feel groggy, stupid with heat — your pussy throbs, your clit aches and you can feel how wet you are by the slickened trails of your arousal dripping down your inner thighs.

You stick your ass out even higher as you settle your knees better on the mattress, spreading a little further your legs and arching your back so he can have a better view of your reddened — abused by his own hands — cunt, knowing he can probably smell the heady scent of your arousal perfuming the air, tempting him to get closer.

You bite down on your lower lip again, harder to avoid whimpering too much, face still buried on the mattress, breath heavy and expecting.

The cheer view of your entrance clenching around nothing is enough to make his mouth water and his cock throb with the need to be buried inside you. He grabs the base of his shaft, giving it a few languid pumps as he positions himself better behind you, aligning his leaking glans at your entrance.

The soft warmth radiating off your skin makes Sukuna grunt and curse under his breath. Brushing his smooth cockhead against your soaked folds, he uses his other hand to press the pad of his thumb at one of your puffy pussy lips, spreading it open so he can witness even better that little needy hole asking him to be filled, stretched, wrecked, fucked raw as he slowly, diligently pulls and presses his fat cockhead to your wanting slit. You feel the delectable stretch as he goes excruciatingly slow at first — his fingers may be big and thick, preparing you fairly for it, but his cock is girthier and, fuck, you think you will cum just by him getting just the tip inside.

With a powerful thrust of his hips he slams forward once, burying his whole thick lenght deep inside you, bottoming out, ripping a wrenching scream from your throat — sadly muffled by the mattress where you keep your face buried as you clench and spasm around his shaft.

And piteously, you feel your muscles tightening and your whole body shaking as you cum around his cock. Your walls clench, squeeze and convulse around him, your eyes roll back and you feel your shoulders snap to your ears, tense because even mid-mind-fogging-orgasm, you know you shouldn’t come without his approval.

You hear him chuckling even with your blood roaring and rushing through your ears as you ride your high, and you brace for the impact.

It doesn’t come, though. You risk a shy look over one of your shoulders and he seems to be centering himself, focus honed on not cumming as you slowly feel yourself stop squeezing him.

"Fuck, so fucking tight," Sukuna grunts, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he starts to plunge into you, sawing his hips back and forth in a hungered rhythm, honed focus and strength poured in each movement — giving you no time to adjust as he pierces you with deep, powerful thrusts.

You feel every inch of your silky walls gripping his shaft, hugging him tight like a velvet vice, every bulging vein imprinting on your insides as he picks his pace to increase his speed — hips uniting with the fat of your ass, making the plush skin ripple with each rhythmic loud smack.

He leans over your back, broad and bare chest laying against your sweat-slicked skin, pressing you down further against the mattress without even lowering the cadence of his thrusts as he bites down on the side of your neck, firmly, marking you now where someone might see.

He wants them to see.

He growls in between thrusts, seemingly lost in his own filthy desires about how he's going to fill you up so good, pump you full of his seed until it is dripping out of your well-used cunt.

How he’s not holding back anymore.

How you will be a good, soft and obedient little cocksleeve for him — the way you were always meant to be. Something pliant and devoted for him to corrupt, defile and tear down whenever he feels like.

And yes, yes you will.

You will be whatever he wants you to be.

He can demand anything from you while buried balls deep inside of you and you, dumb little thing, can’t bring yourself to deny, beholden to being his good little girl as you always have.

And he fucks you like he wants to make you his in more ways than he already has, like he wants to ensure that you will never forget the feeling of his cock splitting you open and etching its shape inside of you, of his teeth sinking into your flesh, his voice hewn in your brain, his hands maping your body, bruising, squeezing, scratching.

Fuck, he wants to consume you whole.

Sukuna sets an even crueler pace that has you uttering little pathetic mewls and gasps, pounding into you with beastly grunts and growls, and that's the sound that fills the room along with the obscene noise of skin slapping skin, mingling with your ragged cries and moans that get gradually louder, wetter, messier and more desperate.

Your body is shaking beneath him from overstimulation, your fingers claw at the sheets, searching for something to hold onto as he fucks you with a force that rattles the headboard against the wall.

His bite became a hickey, and later a few rough kisses peppered on the crook of your neck. You are completely lost in the feeling of him. His all consuming presence, his sharp thrusts reaching too deep on your cunt, his overwhelming heat and the pressure of his massive body pinning you to the mattress, and his open mouth kisses, his teeth marking your skin, his groans so close to the shell of your ear.

If he chose that precise moment to kill you, you would die happily, you think.

Maybe he knows that.

Maybe he knows you’re so easily handled and manipulated when it comes to his ministrations.

Maybe you’re still just the dumb little kid he so competently corrupted back then, eager to please, to get his approval, to get his love.

"Fuckkkkk— that's it. Taking me so fucking good," Sukuna snarls, punctuating each word with a sharp, cruel thrust of his hips. "Take me like the cock-hungry whore you are. This is what you want, isn't it? To be fucked stupid on my dick, to be used like the obedient bitch you are."

You feel your pussy fluttering around him at every single barb he spits at you, gripping his shaft like a tight fist as he plunges into you.

He can feel it too.

The way your body responds to his degrading words, the way you take every inch of his cock like you are made for it, how deliciously you massage his dick as it abuses your tight channel.

He knows he will never get enough of this, of the feeling of your silky walls squeezing him, milking him, begging him for more — even when you hurt, even when he’s the one taking his pleasure and breaking you as he does.

Sukuna's left hand snakes from your hip down between your soft body and the pillow, finding your swollen clit.

He rubs it in tight, rough circles, pressing down hard on the sensitive nub as he keeps stretching you ruthlessly with his hammering cock, but now in shallower thrusts. You can feel the mix of sweat, slick and pre that dribbles and smears down on the inner and backside of yout thighs sticking to the front of his corded ones, splashing and glinting within each smack of the limbs.

He bites down on your shoulder when he feels your walls convulsing once again around his shaft, sinking his teeth into your soft flesh until he tastes the coppery tang of blood on his tongue.

“S—ss’kuna— uncle! Oooh… fffuck!” your voice is broken and the tone is pitched wrong, too high, too choked out by the sudden pain. You writhe and your body hoicks, muscles spasm but it's useless, his weight keeps you down, his rhythm pounding into you makes you obediently steady and prone to receive all he has to give.

Your muffled voice breaks even more and your whole body tenses, tightens and releases under the insistent rubbing of his pads on your aching clit.

"Cum for me, brat." he demands, his voice a low, authoritative bark. "Cum on my cock like a dumb little pet. Show me how much you fucking love it when I ruin your cunt and make it mine. How much you love when I put you in your place."

You know his own release is building, his balls tightening as he gets closer and closer to the edge, they slam against your sore pussy lips and your clit with each pound — but he wants to feel you come undone first, wants to hear you scream his name as you shatter under his weight. Only then will he fill you up so good you'll catch yourself begging for more every other day like you used to.

Sukuna's thrusts become more erratic, mercurial — more brutal as he chases his own release as you err your orgasm.

Your breathing hitches and catches in your throat.

You cry and mewl intelligible things, you beg, call for him and whine — crying just like you can't take it anymore, like this is too much, like you didn't ask for exactly this.

You are so close, teetering on the brink of another mind-blowing orgasm, all it takes is a word, a touch, a thrust, and you fold, bend and obey, because you are his — you have always been his completely, utterly and forever.

Your whole body starts stiffening under his weight, your pussy clenching down on his pistoning cock again, the bulging veins massaging and engraving his shape inside of you and ripping the release out of you like a fucking storm.

His hot breath is shallow and fanning at your pulse.

He ruts into you now, deep, brute and quick thrusts like a beast in heat that have you babbling nonsense in that delicious way that makes his own body betray him. With a feral growl, he slams into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he feels you come completely undone. He’s pressing, squeezing you even against the mattress so you feel him entirely over you.

"Fuck— yes, baby— cum around my cock." he snarls, as your abused pussy spasms and convulses around his throbbing dick — spilling, squirting and fluttering as your entire body writhes and twitches as much as he allows under his massive, heavy frame pressing you down.

You feel your juices gushing out around him, coating his balls, dripping down onto both your thighs and the sheets below.

It's fucking glorious the way your body surrenders to him.

How he takes his pleasure from you and rewards you with your own.

As your orgasm crashes over you, Sukuna captures your lips in a bruising kiss when his right hand leaves your hip to force your face towards his own, cupping — once again — your jaw, swallowing your screams of ecstasy.

His tongue violates your mouth, claiming every inch of you, just as his cock claims every inch of your dripping cunt, resuming his rutting inside of you as you ride your orgasm.

He really, really wants to consume you, to absorb you into his own self until there is no distinction between you and him.

His hips jerk and shudder as he finds his own release.

He grunts and groans into your mouth, his body going rigid as he fills you with spurt after spurt of his essence, his thick cock pulsing and twitching as he pumps you full of his hot, sticky seed — a big load that fills every available space inside of you.

It seems to go on forever — his hips bucking and his cock throbbing inside you as he empties himself deep in your spasming hole while you keep milking him for every single drop of cum, whining so softly, so submissively into his mouth, those little mewls that say nothing and everything as your pretty lashes, dewy with tears, flutter with the overbearing pleasure.

Finally, with a last, shuddering thrust, he collapses on top of you, pinning you to the mattress with his whole weight.

Your body keeps trembling beneath his frame, your ragged little breaths fill the air and you slowly float down from the heights of your release. He nuzzles into your neck, placing soft, almost tender kisses on your sweat-dampened skin as he catches his own breath.

"Fuck, brat." he murmurs, his voice a low, sated rumble. "You took my cock so well. This slutty little pussy missed me that much?" he asks like he didn't fuck you in your own kitchen after feeling jealous of his own gun. “I won’t let you miss me for so long again. You’re mine to fuck, care, kill… mine to do whatever I want.”

His words a low, possessive threat against your skin. Yet, that lecherous smirk crossing his lips make your heart ache.

You know very well he will make sure you never forget it, that he will remind you with his cock, his hands, his teeth at every chance he gets.

The panic has burned out of your body and left you loose-limbed, dumb with relief.

His weight on top of you is, somehow, soothing. Like a weighted-murderous-blanket.

Having him buried to the base inside your stretched cunt as your mixed fluids drip down your legs also makes something inside you stir and loosen.

Something warm but sharp that you can't name yet.

It feels good to be wanted.

It feels amazing, perfect, to be claimed by him again.

You feel good.

You feel like you're nineteen and you two are just sneaking out to your room to a quick fuck before anyone notices.

He pets your hair when he lets your jaw go, lazy, the cadence already coaxing you toward sleep.

"Next time," he says, conversational filth in the rumble of his chest, "you text me. Don’t sit here teaching your lungs new bad habits."

The way he falls back into conversation even in the mess of sweat, cum, spit and limbs you are now makes your heart skip a beat.

You flush.

"Okay."

"Say it."

"I’ll text you," you murmur, shy and wrecked, "That I need you…"

He huffs a pleased sound and bites your nape, a quick, mean claim.

"There’s my smart girl."

You breathe when he breathes.

He rolls and pulls you with him, lets you settle over his chest and wrap his arms around you.

You press your face into his neck and call it love.

He lets you.

And for now, with his hand heavy at the back of your neck and your body buzzing where his mouth, fingers and cock were, it feels like safety — until he wants it to feel like something else.

Late November — proof

He starts bringing you stories.

A dispatcher’s rumor that never made the papers.

A woman two floors down, the X-ray of a broken finger.

He shows you a file, not full but big enough, printed from somewhere, names and dates.

He says I won’t tell you and then he tells you pieces.

He says you don’t need details and then sketches enough to make your skin crawl and your hurt find a place to land that isn’t him.

"This one?"

A man at the bodega who leaned across the counter too far.

The next night there’s police tape two neighborhoods over and a news anchor calling someone a "John Doe" like she’s bored.

He watches your face while you decide whether those two things occupy the same sentence.

"You’re not the law, you know?" you whisper at him with no defiance nor heat, just because you think you have to say it for the world not to tilt.

"Neither are they." he points out, and the scar pulls when he smiles. "But here we are."

He doesn’t ask you to come.

He doesn’t take you out there.

He leaves and he returns and sometimes there is a smell that follows him like weather and sometimes there isn’t.

Sometimes he showers with the door open and lets the water run until the steam eats the mirror, and sometimes he sits at your table with his jacket still on and his left eye bright and his hands clean and tells you about a dog he saw on the way back and you cry because a dog was spared and a man wasn’t and you can’t untie that knot anymore.

Your thoughts are addled and you spiral down more often than you like to think about.

You sleep in your bed with the locket on because he likes it and because it feels like a bell he installed under your skin.

He sleeps on your couch because he wants to.

Sometimes you wake with your back against his chest and you don’t remember getting there, but you bask in his warmth and he wraps his arms around you to keep you from stirring too much.

Sometimes you dream of the right side of his face and wake grateful you only have the left to look at.

Friday — the silence of the lamb

It starts as a joke.

"You want to watch this?" he ponders, eyebrow up.

The hoodie you bought him sits easy on his shoulders, his socked feet are braced on your coffee table like he belongs here, because he does.

You shrug, clutching the remote like an alibi.

"It’s good!"

He smirks.

"You're cute."

Episode one rolls.

He lets you curl into him the way your body has learned — your knees hooked over his thigh, your cheek under his jaw. The locket taps your sternum when you breathe wrong and calms when you match him.

The domesticity of it should feel wrong, but you're past that.

On screen, violins brood, antlers loom, and a corpse becomes "art."

"Sloppy." he says at once, voice low against your hair.

You tilt your head.

"Already?"

He gestures with two fingers.

"Tableau like that? Too much stage time. Too many moving parts. Pretty doesn’t forgive stupid."

A beat, then, lighter,

"Points for the antlers. Eat the room, sure. But this—"

He snorts as the camera swoons.

"—this is theater for people who’ve never smelled a real room."

You should be sick.

You should be somewhere between prayer and police.

Instead you tip your face up and watch him think, a little mesmerized by his knowledge.

He talks like a knife reads light — slow, certain, bright at the edges.

In the kitchen montage, the show’s man in the immaculate suit renders fat like a ritual, plating with tweezers, making the pan sing for the camera.

Sukuna hums, not impressed.

"Wasteful," he says. "All that show. You don’t cook for applause, you cook because you finished the work and need to end it."

"So you wouldn’t—"

You bite off the rest, ashamed of how eager you sound.

"Pose?"

He grins against your temple.

"Only when it pays. Otherwise quiet is power."

You tell yourself the shiver is from the AC.

The next episode sells a murder that’s more sculpture than body.

He is patient with your show, impatient with its logic.

"Too clean," he murmurs. "Too… curated. They want church windows in a slaughterhouse."

He flicks the underside of your chin with a knuckle so your eyes return to the screen.

"You see that? They forget heat. Every room has a climate. This one’s lying, you need a colder room, otherwise it rots faster."

"Climate." you echo, loving the word because he chose it.

You tuck closer, he lets you, palm idly stroking your knee.

You should loathe the sound of his voice when he talks like this, it should curdle you. Instead it slots into your bones like a familiar tool in the right drawer.

Daddy issues, you think, and wince at your own gallows humor.

Freud must be spinning in his coffin.

"Stop thinking so loud." he squeezes your knee lightly and you make a strangled sound.

He always knows.

By episode three he’s warmed up enough to start laughing outright.

"Oh, come on," he says when the consultant guesses the killer’s appetite like he’s ordering wine. "No one talks that much when they’re hungry." His tone dips into affectionless critique. "And all these… performances. You know what performance buys? Attention."

"You don’t like attention?"

You angle him a grin, you have footage to prove otherwise.

He bares his teeth, pleased that you remember, pleased he can scold you and let you see him anyway.

"I like control. Attention is a tax."

On screen, silver spoons glint. Flesh becomes food with a flourish the camera loves.

You swallow tight thinking about your lunch. He feels it.

"Breathe, brat." he says, automatic, like tapping a metronome, and you do.

"Do you—" The question is dumb and you ask it anyway. "Do you respect him in his, uh… reasons?"

"Respect is for equals."

He tips your face with two fingers, surveys you as if you asked about diner.

"He’s a good liar but a bad worker. A lot of noise, and the dining-room circus? Amateur hour."

His mouth curves, cruel and fond.

"You think I’d wear an apron to flirt with a cop?"

You huff a laugh.

"You did wear an apron before."

"Practical," he says. "Rubber doesn’t flirt."

When the series tries to show a cut with surgical precision, he makes a sound in his throat that is almost pity.

"They want romance where there’s just time and hands. Time matters, hands also do."

His grip at your knee tightens, not a threat — an underline.

"You learn them. Tools, too. Not props."

You nod like a student.

You are a student.

As the hours pass, the show grows meaner, the man in the suit grows grander, the crimes tilt from garish to operatic.

Sukuna leans back, catalogue-calm, tearing it all down the way a good mechanic narrates another man’s mistakes, not gory, not step-by-step, just precise, dismissive assessments that cut closer because they’re so clean.

"See that?" he says when the camera lingers on a body made into something symbolic. "He forgot the weight. Art’s fine. Gravity wins over it, though."

Another plate. Another monologue. Another camera pan.

"Too much talk," he says, bored. "If you’re feeding someone, feed them. If you’re ending something, end it. Pick a job. Do it right."

You drink the sound of his certainty like it was poured for you.

Admiration is a heat you sit in and don’t name.

The locket taps bone, you steady your breath.

He smells like your sage and copper. The hoodie smells like your laundry detergent.

The room smells like a lie you chose to live with.

Around midnight your eyes go grainy. He notices without looking and reaches blindly for the blanket, drapes it over your knees, keeps talking in a tone that smooths your brain flat.

"They always plate like priests," he murmurs when the camera serves another baroque course. "They forget hunger’s a craft, not a sermon."

You hum assent and press your face into his shoulder.

"You like being right."

"I like being exact. I also happen to be right."

"You’re exact." you tell him. It slips out easy as sugar.

"And you’re my good girl." he says, lazy, satisfied, and your pulse trips like a deer in a field that wants to be caught.

Between episodes he doesn’t let you forget who he is.

He palms your jaw and kisses you slow enough to reset you, he runs his hand up your thigh, leaves heat, leaves promise, then returns his eyes to the screen like nothing happened and you pant like it did.

"Focus." he says when you drift.

"I am." you drawl, lazy, eyes on his face.

"On the show," he clarifies, his thumb strokes your lower lip once, a correction disguised as affection. "Not on how I make you stupid."

You go hot under the blanket.

"On both."

He laughs, proud of himself, proud of you for saying it.

At 2 a.m., an episode stages a dinner party like an opera. Sukuna watches, indulgent.

"Waste," he says. "All those mouths and not one of them honest."

"What’s an honest mouth?" you ask, because you love when he defines things.

He turns his head so his scar faces you, the pale seam over the missing eye flat in the light. His left eye is bright and bored.

"Yours when you beg for me." he says, and kisses you before you can be embarrassed by the way you like that.

At 3 a.m., the script pretends a certain elegant trick would hide a body’s story forever.

He shakes his head, almost gentle.

"Rooms tattle," he says. "Water talks. Heat tells. You can make it quiet. You can’t make it mute." Then he glances down, because you grew tense by the shocking scene. "Breathe."

You breathe. His voice takes root under your tongue.

You almost forget he’s a criminal because you are perched in his arms and he is criticizing cinematography instead of cutting someone open.

You never forget how his mouth makes you feel because he doesn’t let you.

He puts your hand on his chest and says "here" and your palm learns his heart like a drumline.

You fall asleep with his commentary humming behind your eyes, his chest under your cheek, the locket warm. When you wake halfway through some season-ender, the man in the suit is plating a final flourish and Sukuna is saying, almost kindly, "Pick a lane," as if the show could hear him and become better.

He sees you stir and turns the volume down to keep the world small.

"You done with it?" he asks, brushing hair from your face.

"Never." you mutter, and the word is a confession and a promise and a leash you chose.

He kisses your forehead. He kisses your mouth. He taps the locket.

"Stubborn little thing." he murmurs, and looks back at the screen to keep tearing their pretend kitchens apart, while you press your ear to his ribs and let his voice file your edges down to the shape he wants.

December — the trial

He fulfill his promise and doesn’t allow you to forget whom you belong to.

Some days he will have you repeating what you know about him, about yourself, about your mother, about the years he’s been locked away, about the day she called the cops.

Some days he will simply bend you over the counter and fuck you and you will become lightheaded and useless while he makes sure your body gives him as many orgasms he wants to pry from it.

You catch yourself wishing that the day ends faster at work so you can go home and spend time with him.

You catch yourself making silly little plans like visiting the park, going to the museum, walking at night and having a little date night.

However, you tend to overlook, whenever you’re lost in your own little delusions, that he’s a criminal.

He’s a cannibalistic psychopathic murderer.

He’s supposed to be on the death row.

He has killed and eaten more people you can possibly count.

He has tortured you as soon as he broke into your house.

He said he would kill your mother, his sister, eventually because she was the one telling on him and made you agree to it like it was nothing.

He still kills people, you are absolutely sure, and feeds you pieces of them over lunches and diners under the pretense of finishing something he started with whatever passes for honor.

But he is also your uncle.

He’s the one you always ran to whenever something nice happened when you were just a kid.

He’s the one who bought you pretty toys and took you to fun parks.

He’s the one that kept your secrets when you did something wrong and couldn’t tell your mother.

He’s the one who took your virginity.

He’s the one who was always there for you.

He protects you from danger.

He lets you lay on his lap when you’re feeling bad and calls you his good girl.

He cooks for you, watches movies with you and hears about your day.

He makes all your worries melt away when you’re bouncing on his cock.

So you don’t worry too much about it.

He tells you not to.

He tells you it’s okay, you’re okay and he will take care of you from now on.

He tells you if you keep being good to him, he will be good to you — and you are his good little girl, aren’t you?

You don’t know when it began, but you have started walking around pantyless around the house because it’s so much easier for him to fuck you whenever he wants when you are like this — it doesn’t matter what you’re doing.

If you’re having breakfast, he pulls you into his lap and punishes you if you spill your coffee while he fucks into you. If you’re talking on the phone with someone from your work, he will finger you and tell you to keep your voice level as he watches you squirm and pretend you’re professional. If you’re cooking, he will fuck your face against the cabinet and take care of the fire for you. If you’re sleeping, he will wake you up with that delectable stretch of his cock inside your cunt as he ruts into you, shushing you back to sleep with a low croon, pulling you flush against his chest and fondling your breasts as you doze off with him sheathed inside your pussy.

When he’s rough with you it’s because he knows you can take it.

When he hurts you to the point of leaving you with red welts on soft skin it’s okay, you know you deserve to be punished and he always tends to your wounds after.

When he turns your little silly concerns into a mess of gargles and choked moans around his length as he fucks your throat raw, it’s to make you think better before vocalizing such stupid worries.

When you pass out from exhaustion as he keeps using your body on days he’s specially wired up, you don’t mind, you wake up sore, drenched in sweat and filled with his cum but your cheek is pressed on his chest and his arms are keeping you safe, keeping you warm and close to him, because he cares.

Because he loves you.

And you love him just as much.

Wednesday — the cashier

You’re buying bread and dish soap when a man you don’t know decides he can be larger than the aisle.

He blocks the girl at the register.

He’s drunk on a weekday afternoon and angry at the price of things and he calls her a name that makes your mouth go dry.

You freeze. The manager is nowhere. The other customers look at bread.

The world does what it always does in moments like these — decides not to see.

A body is suddenly making itself aware at your back.

Not touching.

Heat reaches you, familiar.

"See him," Sukuna murmurs, almost gentle. "That’s the kind I take."

You nod.

You don’t turn.

You don’t move.

The man throws a receipt at the girl and storms out into a wind that smells like snow.

You pay.

You go home.

That night he doesn’t cook, and he doesn’t leave, and he falls asleep against your thigh with his jacket over both of you while the news runs faces that are not the cashier’s.

He doesn’t say I spared him and he doesn’t say I didn’t.

You learn how to breathe without the truth.

Friday — the covenant

You’re at the sink with your sleeves rolled and your wrists healing to pink when he steps in behind you and leaves his shadow on your skin.

"Tell me again," he murmurs to the back of your neck, voice low and devout “Who’s the kind I take?”

You stare at the drain and watch water spin and begrudge that your mouth is already moving.

"You only take men who deserve it. You eat to end what they did. It’s respect." your voice is more steady now, level even — you blink, a little amazed by your own calmness.

He kisses the hinge of your jaw with no hurry whatsoever, the scar brushes your cheek like frost.

"Saved." he whispers, still close enough to make shivers run down your spine.

"Not spared." you answer, and the part of you that loves language cries out because you made a prayer and he’s the only god who heard it.

Monday — curiosity

You pick a calm night and ask like it’s small.

“When you vanish… you’re— hunting?”

He doesn’t even look up at first.

Then he does.

The left eye is bright, the ruined right side is still.

He smiles without warmth.

“Cute.”

“I’m not— I don’t wanna pry…” You swallow, feeling the cold sting of his glare. “I’m just curious.”

He moves.

Not fast, direct. He pushes the bedroom door shut with his heel and keeps walking until your back touches the dresser.

He plants a hand beside your head and leans in, crowding you with heat and size and the smell of a soap that isn’t yours.

“Why?” he says, voice low. “So you can pray about it? So you can snitch? So you can sleep better?”

“I don’t— I wouldn’t—” you stutter, eyes wide open, the feeling of regret immediately hitting you like a crashing wave of ice cold water.

What are you thinking, meddling in his life like that as if he ever has to report you anything he does?

“Tch.” He taps your chin so you look at him. “Use your words, little thing.”

“I just… wonder. That’s all.” you mutter, eyebrows knitting together as the worrying sensation grinds you down.

“Then stop.” He laughs under his breath, mean. “Curiosity is how people get cut.”

Your lungs tighten. He watches it happen, pleased.

“Ask right.”

“Where do you go?” you repeat, smaller, more careful with your words.

He drags his gaze down your face, your throat, the twitch in your pulse.

“Out,” he shrugs, leisurely replying like it explains anything. “Work.”

A crooked grin.

“Choir practice.”

He tilts his head.

“I walk. I think. I look at doors. I buy things with cash. I take out trash nobody else wants to touch. I make sure no one’s looking for my car.”

He steps closer, your knees feel like they’re trying to give up, still you stand.

“I watch you from down the block and decide if you’re being smart today.”

You don’t know if it’s a lie.

It sounds like a lie.

It sounds like the truth.

You nod like it helps anything.

“See?” he says softly. “You don’t want the answer. You want the leash.”

“I—no—!”

He cages your wrist in his hand and lifts it, checks your pulse like he owns it, because he does.

“You’re shaking, brat.”

“You’re crowding me.”

“I’m educating you.” He leans in until his breath is your air. “I don’t answer cop questions. I don’t answer church questions. This one is both.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“You’re my cop if I let you be.” His smile turns vicious. “And I don’t. So, you say thank you for coming home, you say good job, you don’t ask where the clock was while it was ticking.”

You bite down on the urge to apologize.

He watches you do it and nods, satisfied.

He eases off an inch. Air comes back. He holds you there anyway, a hand on your hip, thumb rubbing circles that are almost kind.

“Fine,” he says, like tossing a scrap. “You want an answer you can sleep on?”

You wait for a beat, then nod, looking up at him through your lashes.

“I go where I go,” he murmurs. “I come back because you’re here. That’s the whole story.”

It could be nothing. It could be everything.

It is everything to you.

He comes back because you’re here.

He could be far, far away. Across the country. Across the ocean, where no one is looking for him — but he’s here, with you, taking care of you.

You take it because that’s all you’ll get.

“Good girl,” he says, posture finally loosening. He hooks your fingers in his and tugs you toward the bed. “Enough stupid questions.”

You let him pull.

The room changes size when he lies down and opens his arm. You tuck in under it because you will always do. Your ear finds his chest, the locket bumps bone, his hand settles at the back of your neck, heavy, sure.

“Don’t you ever wonder where I go?” you ask, small, into his shirt.

“No.” He’s bored with the topic already. “I know where you end up.”

You breathe with him until your head gets light. His palm is warm. His heartbeat is slow. You almost sleep.

“Y’know,” he muses, voice gone idle and dangerous, like he’s talking to himself, “we should play that game again. You run. I hunt. Adrenaline made fucking your mouth even more delicious.”

Your body locks.

Every muscle goes tight.

He feels it under his hand and laughs — dark, pleased.

“Kidding, sweetheart.” he says, mouth finding your hair, pressing a lazy kiss there. “Relax.”

You don’t know if it was a joke. You nod anyway. His fingers keep stroking your nape like nothing was said at all.

“Sleep,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”

You do, because he told you to, and because for now he’s warm and the door is shut and his arm is a wall.

Whether it’s keeping danger out or keeping you in is a question you’ve learned not to ask.

The Mother

She texts, then calls, then knocks.

Early December, the rain is mean and sideways.

You open the door and stand in the crack.

She is small, she is tired, her eyes do a fast catalog of your body like she thinks bruises have the decency to show themselves.

"Sweetie," she says, and your stomach flips because you hear a dispatcher in it now.

"I’m fine," you tell her, and you mean it and you don’t.

She touches the locket.

"You still wear that thing?"

You lie.

"It’s just a necklace."

You don’t look back into the house.

He doesn’t need to be visible to be in the doorway with you.

She leaves when you say you’re tired.

You close the door and swallow the bile and find him in the kitchen, left eye bright, scar pale, smiling like a teacher who just watched a student do long division without a paper.

"There’s your spine." he says, delighted. "Took me to find it."

You want to hit him. You want to kiss him.

You do neither.

You stand very still until the wish to cry goes through you and keeps going.

He cooks that night and you know, somehow, that the beef in your plate used to be a man screaming at a cashier.

You crawl on top of him anyway and let his hands suffocate you in that gruesome solace only he can offer.

Holidays — kept

It’s snowing the way this city never quite believes in, slant and soft.

The headlines are elsewhere.

The neighborhood is plastic reindeer and lights and a quiet you didn’t know you were capable of back in October.

He waits for you at the table, scar to the window, left eye warm.

No games. No drills.

He’s a fugitive and the fatigue of it sits under his skin like low fire, but he is pleased because he is in the house and you are in the house and nobody interrupted that fact for weeks.

"Come here," he says.

You do. You sit on his thigh because somehow that became the place where you understand your own pulse.

His hand fits your hip, then stays open there like a promise.

You smell sandalwood and metal and your own laundry on his jacket.

"What are you?" he asks, voice in its lowest register, the one that makes the room lean in.

"Yours." you say, because he taught your mouth that word in November and now it lives there.

He taps the locket with a knuckle.

Ping.

The sound goes through you and settles like something finally found where to die.

"Saved." he says.

"Not spared." you breathe.

He smiles with half a face and none of the mercy you’d lie to yourself about if anyone else asked.

But nobody else asks.

Nobody else is here.

The city is quiet. The oven is off. The gas is off. The knives are clean.

The snow keeps pretending to be pure.

He puts his hand over your chest, not pressing, only measuring the way your heart obeys his nearness.

"Say thank you," he murmurs.

You do.

You hate yourself and you don’t.

You are soft under his palm and sharp everywhere else, and he’s pleased because he broke you properly — hunger and warmth and the story he needed installed where your fear used to live.

Out in the dark, somewhere, a siren sighs and decides it’s for someone else.

Inside, you breathe when he breathes, and you think, helpless and devout — this is adoration.

December 21 — family time

You arrive with your sleeves already rolled up.

Your mother lets you in and the moment you step inside she hugs you tight, quick and relieved, as if you being here means the week will stay on its rails.

“Good,” she says, pulling back to look at your face. “I’ve been waiting for you. I need hands.”

The house is all chores and schedules. It calms you.

She asks about work while you rinse the turkey pan. You give her the clean version.

You don’t bring up the nights.

You don’t bring up the locket you wear even now.

The house smells like pine cleaner and the spices she only buys once a year.

She’s got a list on the counter and a pen behind her ear like she’s about to run a meeting and suddenly the list already in her hand.

Groceries, linens, polishing the old cutlery that stains if it sits wet.

You give her a smile that feels practiced.

You hang your coat, tie your hair up, and head straight for the sink.

There’s a turkey pan soaking already, water clouded with grease.

You roll your shoulders, warm your wrists under the tap, and start scrubbing.

She talks while you work. Tape for the gifts. Extra napkins. Whether the cousin is bringing wine or not.

You answer the way a daughter answers, half-attention, because your body is listening for other things — the creak of the third stair, the sound of a car door outside, the little cues you learned in the last month when you stopped asking where he went and started timing your breath to the idea of him.

“You look tired,” she says.

“I’m fine.” you answer automatically.

She notices the locket when your shirt collar shifts. Her thumb grazes it as she reaches past you for dish soap.

The touch is quick.

Her expression changes for a beat, the way it does when she sees something she doesn’t want to name.

“You still wear that,” she says.

“It’s mine,” you say, mild, like it isn’t also a bell and a claim and a memory that sits warm against your skin.

She huffs through her nose, half a sigh.

“Coffee?”

“Yes.” you accept, because saying yes keeps the room calm.

She fills the kettle. The radio in the living room chatters about Christmas music and traffic.

You scrub until the pan squeaks. It’s almost normal. Your shoulders ease.

The doorbell goes.

Your mother freezes in place.

Not long enough to be dramatic, just long enough for you to see it. The kettle is halfway to a boil, the sound sharp. Her eyes flick to you without moving her head, like she wants to check you’re still here.

You dry your hands on a towel and step a little back from the doorway. She goes to open it with a smile already on her face, the smile that says neighbor and family and nothing is wrong in this house.

Sukuna is on the porch.

He looks like he belongs there, and it makes your stomach go light. Jacket dark and half-zipped, scarf looped once, hands empty and relaxed. The right side of his face the same a pale ridge from temple to jaw, the missing eye is covered by scar tissue so smooth it looks intentional.

His left eye is bright and calm in a way you’ve learned to cherish.

“Hey,” he says, easy. “Don’t make a scene. I’m just stopping in.”

Your mother’s smile stiffens.

Her color drains and then returns in a careful wash.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.”

He steps closer without stepping over the threshold yet, as if waiting to be invited. Then he doesn’t wait. He walks in like he’s done it a thousand times and like the house still remembers.

“I’m leaving soon. I wanted to see you before I go.”

He hugs her.

It’s such a normal action that it rattles you more than a threat would.

His arms close around her shoulders like he’s greeting family at a holiday party.

Your mother goes rigid, then forces her hands up, patting his back once, twice, as if any touch will look the same to someone watching through the window.

“You’re—” she starts, then chooses a softer word. “You’re in trouble.”

He smirk is rakish.

“Wanted men tend to be.”

She swallows.

“I didn’t imagine anyone would have… told on you.” The sentence comes out carefully assembled, each piece placed where it won’t cut her, tone is the same used in the church.

You see it the second it lands on him — the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his left hand flexes and relaxes at his side like he’s enjoying the sound of her voice saying that lie.

He doesn’t expose it. He doesn’t correct her.

He just looks at her the way he looks at people when he’s letting them hang themselves slowly.

“Yeah,” he says lightly. “Funny how that works.”

Your mother’s eyes flick to you then, quick and sharp, as if checking whether you understand what she’s doing.

The look that follows is worse than fear.

It’s that familiar parental disbelief, like she’s seeing a version of you from years ago standing in your place.

Like she thinks you’re still nineteen and still dumb enough to mistake attention for love.

Like she thinks you don’t know what he is.

But you know, oh, how well you know.

And still you keep choosing him.

You lift your chin.

“Mom, it’s okay.” You say it firm but tender, like you’re calming a skittish animal. “He’s just here for a last holiday. He’ll leave after.”

Her mouth tightens.

“A last—”

“He’s family,” you add, because the word has weight and you want it to hold. Because you’re tired of being treated like a child whose crush needs managing. Because you’ve been living in the story he gave you and it makes sense inside your ribs. “He wants to say goodbye properly to you and the family.”

Sukuna’s gaze slides to you.

No gratitude there. Not softness either.

Approval, quiet and private, the kind that makes you feel warm and foolish.

He reaches, fingers grazing your wrist as he passes, a quick touch that steadies you and marks you at the same time.

“See?” he says, conversational. “No need to panic.”

Your mother forces another smile. She steps aside like a hostess.

“Guest room is made,” she says, clipped. “If you’re staying.”

“Just a few nights,” he answers, offhandedly . “I won’t be in the way.”

He doesn’t ask permission after that. He walks the hallway like he knows the layout, — and he does, he remember it even after a decade — glances at doors the way he always does, and you can feel the house shift around him.

The spare room door opens, he sets his bag down, checks the window latch, checks the closet without opening it all the way, then shuts the door to a crack, like he’s choosing how much of himself the room gets.

You don’t know what he’s carrying in his bag and for a moment you panic thinking he has gathered everything you bought him and he will, in fact, leave you as soon as Christmas is over.

But that thought drowns out fast, because he wouldn’t just leave you after everything you’ve been through this last month.

Right?

When he comes back, your mother is at the counter again, hands busy because busy hands don’t shake. She starts listing things that need doing as if the week didn’t just turn on its axis.

“Potatoes need peeling,” she reports. “And I want the silver polished today. We’re making the stuffing tomorrow.”

Sukuna rolls his sleeves up as if he’s there to help.

“Give me a knife.”

Your mother hesitates. It’s tiny. It’s everything

Then she turns to the block and pulls one out by the handle and sets it down like a peace offering.

He tests the edge with his thumbpad, little movement, deliberate.

“Dull,” he remarks, almost bored.

“It’s a kitchen knife,” she snaps, then softens because snapping at him feels like slapping a dog that bites. “It works.”

“It works if you like tearing more than cutting,” he replies, smiling faintly.

You watch him at the counter, big hands moving with ease, and you feel the sick little pride that he’s yours to look at, yours to be close to.

You tell yourself it’s because he’s competent.

You tell yourself it’s because he’s protective.

You tell yourself it’s because he’s honorable in his own way.

You ignore the part of you that recognizes how easy it would be for him to turn that knife in any direction he wants.

Your mother watches him too — Not admiring, measuring.

She catches your gaze and gives you that look again.

You don’t know. You don’t understand. You’re blinded

It reaches you like a slap, and it makes you want to defend him harder.

“He’s been good,” you comment, voice controlled. “He’s helped me. He’s… he’s not here to cause trouble.”

Your mother’s nostrils flare.

She turns back to the sink, rinsing an already clean ladle, and speaks without looking at you.

“He’s always been good at looking like what people need.”

You feel your spine go straight.

Sukuna’s left eye flicks to you, tickled, waiting to see if you’ll bite.

You do, because you can’t stand being talked to like you’re stupid in your own skin.

“He’s leaving, mom.” you repeat. “After Christmas.”

“Of course,” your mother says. Her tone is polite, but her face says something else entirely.

The afternoon goes on in that tight, careful way.

You polish silver while Sukuna peels potatoes with the dull knife anyway, making it work through force and skill. He talks like he always does when he wants the room to behave — casual questions, small jokes, normal topics.

Your mother answers with short politeness and keeps her eyes busy.

You sit between them in every conversation without meaning to, translating tone into something livable.

When evening comes, he takes the spare room without asking again.

Your mother spreads fresh towels on the guest bed like she’s laying a sheet over a body, then goes back to the kitchen to wipe counters that don’t need wiping.

Sukuna appears in the hallway once, a shadow that feels too solid.

“You okay, brat?” he asks you, and the question sounds almost normal until you hear the ownership under it.

“Yes,” you offer, because that’s what keeps the world smooth.

His fingers brush your locket as he passes, the tiniest tap against bone.

He smiles to himself and keeps walking.

Your mother stands in the doorway of the kitchen after he’s gone, staring at nothing.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says quietly.

You look at her.

You hear the warning underneath.

You hear the judgment.

You feel your chest harden around the story you’ve been living inside.

“It’s already done.” you answer, and you don’t mean the week.

Her eyes close for a second like she’s swallowing something bitter. When she opens them, her face is calm again.

That hostess calm.

That survival calm.

“Then help me with the cranberries.” she says, and turns back to the stove.

This is how the week starts.

Lists on the counter.

Music in the living room.

A wanted man in the spare room.

Your mother pretending.

You pretending harder.

The air tight enough that every breath feels like a decision.

And the worst part is how quickly your body settles, like it’s relieved he’s here under the same roof again, like danger is easier when it has a shape you can curl up against.

December 22 — Ouroboros

The day arrives with the house already warm from work.

You’re up early because your mother is up early, and she runs Christmas like she runs everything: lists, timing, hands always moving. You chop celery for stuffing, wipe flour from the counter, hang the string lights she insists go around the doorway even though they always sag by New Year.

She keeps putting you in the safest tasks, the ones that make her feel like she still has a say.

Sukuna moves through it like he’s never been gone.

He doesn’t announce himself when he wakes, you hear the spare room floorboard complain once, then his steps in the hallway, then the quiet click of a cabinet opening in the kitchen.

He drinks water straight from the glass like he owns the cupboard and the house. He rinses it, sets it upside down to dry. Domestic, normal, wrong.

Your mother’s shoulders tighten when he enters.

She still says, “Morning,” like she’s greeting a neighbor.

“Morning, sis,” he answers, light, and that word lands in the room with control.

He’s careful with his tone on purpose. You know that now. You’ve lived with him long enough to recognize when he’s being pleasant the way a predator is pleasant right before it closes distance.

He asks questions that sound like nothing.

“How’s the basement freezer holding up?” he says while he watches your mother measure sugar.

She doesn’t look at him.

“It’s fine. It’s old, but it works.”

“Good,” he says, as if that matters more than it should. His left eye flicks over the kitchen, then back to her face. “Always liked that thing. Reliable.”

Your mother gives a small laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You always liked anything that made life easier.”

He smiles, satisfied, because she answered in the language he wanted.

You keep your head down. You keep stirring. You keep your mouth shut.

You can follow it now, the way they skate around certain words and land on others with a little more weight than they should.

You don’t interrupt. You don’t ask.

You make yourself small on purpose because you know he likes it, and because part of you wants to see how far he’ll push her when he’s wearing his polite face.

He circles back later, when you’re tying herbs together and your mother is checking the oven temp like it might change by sheer anxiety.

“You remember that night?” he asks casually, like it’s a question about a movie.

Your mother’s hand stills on the oven dial.

“Which night?”

He raises a brow.

“Don’t play dumb. The night the door got kicked in. The night they took me.”

You feel the shift in the air.

You keep your hands busy, fingers moving with the string, but your skin goes tight.

Your mother’s voice stays smooth.

“It was chaos. Someone must have made a call. I was asleep.”

He makes a quiet sound that could be laughter if you didn’t know better.

“Asleep. Sure.”

He turns his head toward you, slow.

The scar on the right side pulls pale under the light; the left eye stays bright.

“What about you?” he asks. “You remember anything?”

He knows you remember.

He made you tell him.

He made you say it until it came out in the same sentences every time, until you could speak it half asleep.

But this isn’t about information.

This is about control.

This is about making you do what he wants in front of her.

You swallow.

You keep your eyes on the herbs.

“Not really,” you say, careful. “I stayed in my room, I came down only when the noise stopped and saw you being dragged... I was scared.”

You still remember how he winked at you before being shoved into the police car.

That prurient, vicious grin that didn’t belong to someone handcuffed and on their way to death penalty.

Your mother exhales like that answer helps her. You feel it. You see her shoulders drop a fraction, as if she’s reassured you don’t have something sharp in your mouth that could cut her open.

Sukuna’s smile is small and private.

He looks back at her.

“Smart,” he says, and it can mean anything. “Good girl.”

He doesn’t say it to your mother. He says it to you.

The afternoon goes on with tiny edits like that.

He asks where she buys her flour. He asks if the neighbor still complains about the lights. He asks whether the old lock on the back door ever got fixed.

Mundane questions.

The kind you can answer without thinking.

The kind that teach him the house and the routine again.

Your mother answers. She’s good at it. She keeps her face pleasant. She keeps her hands busy. She keeps the week moving.

You watch her do it and you think, with a bitter little flare, how skilled she’s always been at pretending.

Skilled enough to clean pans and smile.

Skilled enough to lie to a cop.

Skilled enough to say she didn’t imagine anyone could have told on him while he stood two feet away and listened.

By the time it’s dark, the tree is lit, the counters are wiped, and you’re tired in that hollow way that makes you crave his attention like it’s water.

He gives it.

Not privately, not carefully, not the way he did in your apartment when he wanted you calm and obedient without witnesses.

Here, in your mother’s kitchen, he lets himself take up space beside you like it belongs to him.

You’re at the stove, stirring something that needs constant attention.

Your mother is at the table folding napkins with stiff precision.

Sukuna steps in behind you. No warning. His body heat folds over your back. One arm goes around your waist, his hand flat on your stomach. The other settles higher, fingers brushing the bottom of your ribs, then resting there like a claim.

You inhale sharply. Your body goes soft on reflex.

You revile that it does.

You adore that it does.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmurs near your ear, a lazy purr, the way he talks to you when he’s decided you deserve reward instead of fear. “Don’t burn it.”

“I won’t.” you whisper.

His mouth touches the line of your jaw — a neat press of lips that makes your knees almost buckle. His left eye flicks toward the table, checking your mother without turning his head, making sure she sees enough.

Your mother’s hands stop on the napkin. She doesn’t look up. Her jaw tightens. She folds the fabric anyway, hard creases, sharper than they need to be.

You see it.

Something small and ugly in you enjoys it.

You don’t let that enjoyment reach your face.

You just keep stirring and let him hold you.

He speaks louder, to fill the kitchen.

“Smells good.”

“It’s just sauce, uncle.” you answer.

“Still,” he replies. His thumb rubs once, slow, across your stomach. “You’ve got good hands.”

You glow at that like an idiot, like a dog praised for sitting.

You resent yourself for it and you cling to it anyway because the alternative is remembering what he can do when he’s displeased.

Your mother’s voice is too calm when she finally speaks.

“Dinner’s almost ready. You can sit.”

Sukuna doesn’t move.

“I’m good here.” he says, and the smirk you’ve learned to fear and crave touches his mouth.

He kisses your jaw again, a fraction longer.

Your mother’s shoulders rise and fall.

She nods like she’s accepting something adult.

Like she’s telling herself she has to.

You’re grown. You’re allowed.

She can’t control it.

That’s what she tells herself while the disgust crawls behind her eyes.

You tell yourself something else — she made you wait.

She made you lose years.

She made you ache and wonder and carry his absence like a bruise that never healed right.

You tell yourself she deserves to feel the discomfort she caused.

After dinner, the living room becomes the only place to exist. Your mother sits in her usual chair with a book open but not turning pages.

The TV plays something safe and stupid.

You end up on the couch without thinking. Sukuna sits first.

He pats his thigh once.

You go.

You abhor the way your body chooses him before you’ve even made the choice in your head.

You settle against his chest, his arm around your shoulders, his hand resting on your upper arm, fingers occasionally squeezing like he’s checking you’re still his.

And when haven’t you been?

Your mother watches the TV like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen.

Her mouth stays tight.

Her eyes go shiny once, then she blinks it away.

Sukuna lets the silence sit until it starts to choke.

Then he speaks, calm, casual, like he’s doing her a favor.

“You’re quiet tonight, sis.” he muses, looking at her.

“I’m tired.” she answers.

“Mm.” He shifts you closer, making the movement obvious. His mouth brushes your temple. He speaks without looking away from the screen. “Funny. You used to have so much to say.”

Your mother’s fingers pinch the edge of her book.

“People change.”

“Do they,” he drawls, and it’s not a question.

You feel the tension in him. Not anger, enjoyment.

He’s pressing, lightly, testing where it hurts.

He’s doing it with a smile you can’t quite see but you can feel in his breath.

You should feel sick at it.

You don’t.

You feel warm. You feel chosen. You feel protected and wicked.

Your loyalty settles heavy in your chest, and you realize with a quiet horror that it tastes good.

Your mother stands eventually and announces she’s going to bed. She says it politely. She doesn’t ask either of you to join her.

She walks down the hall stiff-backed, a woman swallowing her own disgust because she doesn’t have a move that won’t make it worse.

The bedroom door closes.

The house holds its breath.

Sukuna’s hand slides to your neck, his thumb finds the chain of your locket and taps it once against bone.

“Good.” he murmurs, almost approving.

You tilt your face up to look at him.

“She hates it.”

“She can choke on it.” he says, simple.

You should flinch. You lean into him instead.

He kisses you, not sweet, not gentle, but not rough either — controlled, but never less enjoyable for you.

He ends it when he decides it’s enough and keeps you tucked into his side like you’re part of the furniture he’s reclaimed.

“Go to bed,” he tells you, voice low. “Don’t start thinking.”

You nod despite wanting to stay there with him, cozy, warm, wrapped in his arms.

You stand. He lets you go down the hall first, close enough behind that you can feel him without turning.

Your mother’s door stays shut.

You pass it with your chin up, and the twisted part of you that has been growing all month takes a small, ugly satisfaction in the quiet.

In your room, when he closes the door and the house finally stops pretending, you sit on the edge of the bed and press your fingers to the locket as if it can steady you. It can, but not as much as his hands, his warmth, his words.

Your head spins a little before you can finally relax.

This is family time.

He is honorable in his own way.

Your mother brought this on herself.

And when he climbs into bed behind you and wraps an arm around your waist like a leash you asked for, you let your body soften and your mind go quiet, because that’s what he trained you to do.

Down the hall, your mother doesn’t make a sound.

December 23 — two against one

The day moves like a checklist.

Your mother has the counters covered in bowls and folded towels, labels in her handwriting stuck to containers like she’s trying to control the week with tape and ink.

You keep helping because it gives your hands something to do besides tremble.

You peel, you chop, you stir, you wipe.

You answer questions. You keep your voice even. You tell yourself this is normal.

Sukuna drifts through the rooms as if he still belongs here, as if the spare room isn’t a temporary concession but a bedroom he picked out years ago. He’s light today — light in the way you’ve learned to read as dangerous.

A tone that doesn’t show its teeth, but you can feel the pressure behind it.

He watches your mother tie rosemary to a roast with shaking fingers.

“Hey,” he says, casual. “You still got the old carbine?”

Your mother’s shoulders rise a fraction. She doesn’t look up.

“What carbine.”

Sukuna’s left eye narrows in amusement. The missing eye is a smooth absence that makes his expressions look sharper.

“Playing stupid again, tch.” he says. “Dad’s gun. The one we used to take outside. Tree. Cans. Remember?”

You see your mother swallow. You see her jaw set like she’s bracing for a hit.

“It’s in the closet,” she says. “It’s old.”

“Still works,” he replies like he already knows.

You keep stirring the pot, but your attention is on the way he’s steering the conversation with small pushes.

He isn’t asking because he’s curious.

He’s asking because he likes watching her answer.

“Come on,” Sukuna adds, turning his grin toward you. “You ever shoot?”

You blink.

Your instinct is to say no, to avoid anything that introduces weapons to a house already full of tension.

Then you feel that pull — the sick little thrill of being included, chosen, treated like you’re part of it instead of the child your mother still tries to arrange and protect.

“No,” you admit. “But… I want to.”

Your mother’s head snaps toward you.

The look she gives you is tight and warning — it’s also the look that says you don’t know what you’re asking for.

Sukuna watches her reaction like it’s the whole point.

“See?” he says, pleased. “Let’s make a memory. It’s Christmas.”

Your mother tries to laugh. It comes out brittle.

“That’s not—”

“Go get it.” Sukuna says, still calm, still smiling.

It isn’t a shout. It doesn’t need to be.

She goes.

When she comes back, the carbine is cradled in her arms like a sleeping animal. She keeps her fingers away from the trigger, careful, practiced.

Her face is too composed, like she’s wearing a mask that pinches.

You can’t help to think that if you were in her shoes, that carbine would have been in your arms on the first day, pointed to his head.

She lacks the instinct that kept you alive until now. You must have gotten it from your father.

Sukuna takes it from her with ease. Checks the weight. Checks the mechanism. His hands are confident in a way that makes your stomach turn and your chest warm at the same time.

He glances at you over his shoulder.

“Backyard,” he says. “Shoes.”

Outside, the yard is bigger than you remember.

The fence line holds old hooks and nails, remnants of decorations from years that didn’t matter.

A few trees stand near the back, trunks dark with winter damp.

Sukuna walks to the far side like he’s done it a thousand times. He sets his stance without thinking. He lifts the carbine and aims at a thick branch.

“Used to be good,” he says, conversational. “Your mom would swear I could hit a can at fifty steps.” His mouth twitches. “She’d hold targets for me too. Real loyal, back then.”

Your mother makes a small cough that doesn’t hide the hitch in her breathing.

Sukuna fires once.

The sound cracks through the yard.

A branch snaps clean, falling in a heavy arc.

Your mother flinches hard enough that her shoulders jump.

Sukuna lowers the gun, satisfied.

“Still good,” he says, like he’s talking about a kitchen appliance.

Your mother clears her throat.

“That’s enough.”

He turns his head slowly toward her.

“Enough for who.”

“For—” she starts, then stops, because she can’t say me in front of you without admitting the fear.

He smiles at you.

“Want to see what it looks like when someone actually trusts the shooter?”

Your mother’s eyes sharpen.

“No.”

Sukuna’s voice stays mild.

“Grab something. Something light. Decoration, whatever.”

He nods at a torn strand of old Christmas garland in a box by the back steps.

“Hold it up near the tree so she can see.”

Your mother’s lips press together.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s a tradition,” Sukuna says, and the word is wrong coming from him. “Come on, sis. One last time.”

You feel torn in two directions.

Part of you wants to stop it.

Part of you wants to see him do it.

Part of you wants to prove — prove to your mother, to yourself — that he’s controlled, that he wouldn’t be careless, that this isn’t danger, it’s skill.

You step closer to your mother and soften your voice, the naive daughter she thinks she still has.

“It’s fine, mom,” you say. “He’s good at it. You said it yourself when I was little. Just… hold it. He won’t miss.”

Your mother looks at you like you’ve betrayed her and like you don’t even know it.

Then she walks.

She holds the torn decoration up near the tree with a hand that shakes.

Her other hand presses against her thigh like she’s trying to anchor herself.

Her shoulders are rigid.

Her mouth moves faintly, like she’s counting or praying or both.

Sukuna lifts the carbine again.

He doesn’t rush.

He takes his time.

He glances at you once, checking your face.

Then he aims.

“Don’t move,” he says to your mother. “If you move, I can miss.”

You hear the lie inside the sentence.

Your mother hears it too.

Her breath goes shallow.

The first shot hits the trunk — hard, loud — close enough to her head to make your mother yelp and jerk, but she catches herself before she bolts.

Bark splinters.

The sound is a slap.

Sukuna chuckles.

“Twitchy,” he comments. “Hold still.”

Your mother’s voice comes out tight.

“Sukuna. Stop.”

He doesn’t stop.

He fires again.

The impact lands closer.

Your mother’s eyes squeeze shut.

Her lips move faster now, a thin whisper you can’t fully catch.

You clap, because that’s what you do when you’re trying to keep the scene normal.

Because you’re thrilled in a way that makes you feel sick.

“Wow,” you say, bright. “That was— you’re so good.”

Sukuna’s smile widens, wicked and pleased, because you’re doing exactly what he wants.

He keeps the weapon pointed at her. A silent but evident threat, If you walk, I shoot. Hold still.

The third shot snaps through the yard.

You hear a screams — high, sharp — tear from her throat.

The decoration is shot clean and in a second she’s dropping the garland like it burned her.

She staggers back from the tree, hand flying to her chest.

Sukuna lowers the gun and laughs.

Not loud nor uncontrolled, satisfied.

“There,” he says. “Perfect.”

You step toward your mother, clapping again like applause can rewind time.

“You did amazing,” you tell her, breathless. “See? He didn’t hit you.”

Your mother stares at you like she’s seeing a stranger.

Sukuna flicks two fingers in a lazy salute toward her and hands the carbine back as if nothing happened.

“Good sport,” he says.

Your mother’s hands shake as she takes it.

She walks inside without speaking.

You follow. Sukuna follows you.

The rest of the day keeps moving because it has to. You all finish prep. Your mother stays quiet and tight, scrubbing and folding and rearranging things that don’t need rearranging. Sukuna stays light, humming a little, making small comments, letting your mother pretend she can endure if she doesn’t react.

By evening, the house is ready enough that there’s nothing left to do except sit with the tension.

Sukuna makes sure you go to bed before your mother.

He says it like it’s kindness.

“You’re tired,” he tells you, hand at your waist. “Go.”

Your mother opens her mouth — maybe to say something, maybe to stop it — then closes it. She stays in the kitchen with the sink running too long, like water can erase what happened outside.

In your room, Sukuna doesn’t shut the door all the way.

You notice. Your chest tightens. Then his hand slides to the back of your neck and the tightness turns into heat because your body has learned what his touch means.

He pulls you onto the bed and kisses you with intention, the kind that makes your thoughts thin out and your limbs go loose.

He bites your jaw just enough to sting, murmurs something dirty in your ear, those words of degradation that make you make a sound you didn’t mean to.

His hands move like he knows every line of you, like he built the map and you just live inside it.

He undresses you with perfect competence that has you panting before he even does anything too improper. He gets rid of his shirt and tosses it somewhere, his chiseled body with tattoos adorning his torso and pectorals like dark nankin traced meticulously by the hand of god himself are enough to always make you a little breathless, rubbing subtly your thighs together to alleviate the growing arousal.

He wastes no time to tease you about it before tossing you on the bed, ass up face down, pulling down his sweats and boxers so his erection can spring free with force — hard, throbbing and with pre already beading at its red, bulbous cockhead.

Once again he seems to be starving for you. Hands gripping, sliding, fondling all of your soft skin before grabbing the plush fat of your ass cheeks and spread them apart. You feel as the glob of spit falls on the small of your back and slowly slides down. With one finger he probes at your puckered rim, making you jolt and squirm but hold still for him.

You are good for him, you can take whatever he tosses at you.

With two fingers he collects some of your slick — it’s already dripping down your thighs — and smears it on your twitching asshole.

“Relax, baby,” he purrs at you and you take a deep breath, trying to let go of the sheets you notice you’re holding so tight your knuckles are white “I’ll make you feel good. You trust me, right?”

You can’t exactly precise what, but something in his tone contains a wrongfulness that has your head a little dizzy, and your skin prickle with goosebumps.

Still you ignore that feeling to nod vigorously before speaking, he likes when you use your words.

“I trust you.”

Your voice comes out smaller than you want, but soon you’re moaning and whining as he forces one finger inside of you. And soon after another. The stretch burns, it’s uncomfortable and the feeling is alien to you, still you manage to pace your breathing, your heartbeat, your thoughts.

“Good.” he murmurs when he removes his fingers and you feel the slick heat of his glans pressing against your tight entrance “Let Daddy take care of you the way your dad could never do.”

You merely widen your eyes when he thrusts, breaching your asshole and violating it in a single powerful movement that has his cock bottoming out and stuffing you full of him.

A wrenched harrowing scream tears from your throat but he forces your head down against the mattress, muffling your sobs while your ass clenches and spasms around his girth.

It fucking hurts, gods, he’s so much bigger and larger than the flimsy preparation he did with his fingers. You think he might have ripped you apart. You worry the hotness you feel is from blood and not his saliva and pre. But it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t hurt you like this. He knows better, he always knows better. He always knows what’s good for you.

He only thrust crudely like that because he knows you can take it.

You’re his strong girl.

And he doesn’t care if you cry — it turns him on even more, so you feel relieved that at least you don’t need to hold your tears as he starts to move. Languid, long strokes at first, because he’s merciful and wants you to get used to his size.

He keeps that big hand pressed against the back of your head, keeping your face buried in the soft fabric of the sheets, hunched over you, arching your back as much as possible with his other hand anchored on the curve of your hip. A firm grasp while he rocks his hips — back and forth, back and forth.

He starts to pick pace when you stop strangling him so fucking tightly and after a while, you don’t know how long, it starts to hurt less. Starts to actually feel… less strange.

You don’t know if it feels good, but it doesn’t matter, does it?

He’s groaning, moaning in that deep rumble that leaves his chest when he’s pleased beyond control.

He’s pounding inside you in a bestial rhythm, his ballsack slapping against your soaking wet and neglected cunt, sprinkling your arousal within each slap.

His hoarse voice barely reaches you but you know he’s throwing barbs and praises as he fucks into your tight hole, the constant plap, plap, plap, plap filling the bedroom and your strangled, muffled cries completing the symphony he planned so beautifully.

You’re safe, because he’s choosing you.

This is love — he’s giving you his attention and you need it like air.

The hallway creaks.

You hear it even through the rush in your head, the skin slapping skin noises, the husky voice at your ear.

Sukuna hears it too.

He smiles against the curve of your shoulder, pleased, and keeps going.

He presses himself flush against your curved back, makes it obvious what’s happening.

He wants her to see enough that she can’t pretend she didn’t.

Your mother freezes in the hall.

You catch the shape of her through the open door because he makes sure to grab and pull at your hair, raising your head from the mattress when he straightens his own spine.

He keeps pounding, thrusting in that relentless rhythm as your glossy eyes and parted mouth are now aimed at the image of your petrified mother.

Your lips are wet from your own drool, spittle glides down your chin as he keeps using your ass for his own pleasure.

You barely can make the shape of her — hand clutched at her own shirt, mouth parted, eyes wide.

She doesn’t scream.

She can’t.

The sound stays stuck behind her teeth.

Sukuna glances at her over your shoulder and gives her a quick, casual salute with the hand that was previously holding your hip, — two fingers — without stopping what he’s doing.

Then his hand slides into your neglected cunt as he wraps that arm around your front and starts to finally play with your pussy — fingers gliding on the wet slit as the flat of his palm presses against your aching clit, making you jolt and let out the most obscene moan you probably have ever allowed yourself to release.

You’re still dazed.

Your eyes are glassy.

Your mouth turns softer in a stupid little smile because your body is still chasing him and you don’t have space for anything else.

Only his heat, his cock hammering inside of you, his hand and fingers now fucking into your desperate wanting cunt and his sweet, devious voice telling you how much he likes the little whore he made out of you. How he wants you to beg for more. Beg to fuck you harder. To call him Daddy as you do it. To do it now so you can make him proud.

And you obey, because of course you do.

“Mmm fffuck— h—arder!” you mewl, voice mellow and heavy with lust “—fuck me harder, p—please Daddy!”

Your mother makes a strangled noise, nauseated, revulsion flaring behind her eyes, and then backs away, fast, silent.

Sukuna’s mouth brushes your ear.

“That’s it, baby,” he grunts. “Abandon everything that isn't me.” his voice is a low, demanding growl among the cacophony of profane sounds in that bedroom “You're going to surrender everything you've ever been for me.”

You will.

You do.

“You exist to worship me, brat.” he punctuate his words with sharper thrusts now “No more thoughts behind those eyes, just obedience.”

You roll your eyes back into your skull when the your orgasm hits you like a truck, sudden, violent, loud. You shake as he forces your head back into the mattress and ruts inside of you as you spasm and convulses around his cock and fingers.

You are almost sure you pass out for a couple of minutes as he keeps fucking into you until he finally releases his load and fills you up with his seed.

When it’s over, you lie there warm and loose and sore and happy in the way you hate admitting. fucked out completely. He really managed to fuck you dumb, probably, because your mind is quiet after so, so long. You only think about him and how good he always makes you feel — doesn’t matter if there’s pain and torture before.

It makes the good part feel rewarding.

Makes it feel even better.

Sukuna gets up, tucks his cock back into his sweatpants, and leaves the room without telling you where he’s going.

You sit up slowly after a little while, pulling yourself back together with clumsy hands.

You fix your hair, you slide into your pajamas, you stare at yourself in the mirror and try to look like a person who hasn’t been turned inside out.

He isn’t in the spare room when you check. His bag is there on the chair.

You stand a second too long with your hand hovering near it, curiosity rising sharp and stupid.

You could peek. One second. One glance.

Then you feel the cold certainty of his temper, the way it flips when you pry.

You hear his voice in your head, flat and unpleasant — Curiosity kills people.

You drop your hand like the bag burned you.

Living room, empty.

Kitchen, empty.

The house feels wrong when he isn’t visible.

Too open.

Too quiet.

You go down the hall to your mother’s room.

The door is closed.

You open it.

The light switch is right there.

Your fingers find it before you think.

The room floods bright.

Your mother is pinned against the far wall. Sukuna’s hand is around her neck, one-handed, effortless.

Her feet scrabble.

Her face is blotched and strained.

She is alive. Barely.

In Sukuna’s other hand there’s a knife that doesn’t belong in this house.

Too clean. Too sharp. Too professional. The metal catches the light with a hard glint.

He turns his head toward you slowly, like he’s been expecting you.

He doesn’t rush to explain.

He watches you.

He tilts his head slightly, assessing.

Waiting to see what you are.

Your body goes cold and heavy.

Your mind tries to find a script.

It’s your mother.

She deserves it.

She helped him.

She lied.

She kept you apart.

She called the cops.

She made you suffer.

She stood in that hallway tonight and watched and still didn’t say your name, didn’t come for you, didn’t protect you — she just froze like she always freezes.

He is a murderer.

He is also the only person who has made you feel desired in the most twisted ways in your life.

You don’t want him to go away again.

You don’t want to go back to empty rooms and shaking hands and nights where you sleep with one eye open waiting for footsteps that never come.

Your mother’s eyes meet yours, pleading and furious and terrified all at once.

You don’t move.

You stand in the doorway and let your face go blank the way he trained you to. You let your shoulders drop. You let your hands stay at your sides. You hold his gaze, and your stillness becomes an answer you’ll never admit out loud.

Sukuna’s mouth curves into that prurient, vicious grin you remember from the night the police shoved him into the back of the car — too mean, too pleased, too proud.

He doesn’t need to wait anymore to know.

You are his.

He tightens his grip.

Your mother’s struggle turns jerky, then weak. Her hands claw at his wrist and slip. Her knees fold. Sukuna holds her up until her body stops fighting, then lets her sag into stillness with the same patience he used earlier in the yard.

The room is silent except for your breathing.

You swallow hard. Your voice comes out thin.

“What… what is this?”

Sukuna looks down at your mother, then back at you. His tone is almost conversational.

“People make too much noise,” he says. “Noise makes mistakes. Mistakes get you caught.” His left eye narrows in mild amusement. “I don’t like getting caught.”

He loosens his hand and your mother slides down the wall to the floor.

He doesn’t look at her again.

He looks at you.

“When we kill a cow, we need to stun it first so it doesn’t stress and strains the muscles as we bleed it.”

You understand now.

You don’t talk nor move — except to get off the way — as he carries her limp body over his shoulder to the basement.

You follow him because being alone at that bedroom with your own silence feels worst than whatever he might do down there.

The old freezer is there.

The big, almost septic area with white, old stained tiles is also there. A place where she claimed your uncle gutted pigs, goats and sometimes calves.

Big hooks settled over it.

A drain misaligned, not quite at the center of it, but close enough.

You focus on so many things, little details, things you haven’t seen since you were a kid — you focus on them because you don’t want to focus on Sukuna undressing his sister, your mother, with a deliberation that feels borderline obscene.

You don’t want to focus on how easy he lifts her and pierces that pointy edge of one hook in the taut flesh of her shoulder, stabbing through it with that sickening flesh tearing sound followed by the noise of her dripping blood.

You don’t want to focus on how easily he can cut where her pulse lives and end it with such grace it doesn’t even seem like it affects him at all. The blood doesn’t even gushes, it cascades down, tainting her body in that crimson red until it flows in a too bright, silky-looking line to the tiled floor.

You should feel sick.

There’s no space for shoulds and coulds in your life anymore.

There’s only space for him.

“She will be ready to be prepared tomorrow.” he points out. “Let’s hope our family enjoy the diner.”

You blink, finally allowing your eyes to focus on his face.

“Well?” he asks softly, like he’s offering you a choice that isn’t a choice at all. “You coming back to bed, or are you going to stand there all night?”

Your legs feel hollow. Your stomach turns. Your chest aches.

And still, your feet don’t carry you to your mother.

They carry you toward him.

Notes:

You thought I would be posting this at Christmas? I lied, it's out now and you read it because of course you want to ruin such a jolly time with this unhinged thing. You're on the nasty list of Santa Claus for pulling shit like that, you brat.

ANYWAY THANK YOU FOR READING THIS ATROCIOUS THING! I hope you enjoyed, it kinda ate me alive but heyyyy, it's worth it (?) now I can go back and focus on a few other projects, but I promise I will bring uncle Sukuna back to take care of you when he has some free time, okay? mwah

Notes:

Halloween special for my darlings. 💀