MY SHAYLA

I THINK I'M LOST AGAIN

7 days in beautiful Tuscany, 1 big wedding which would change the trajectory of your life. As Shoko’s maid of honour, your job was already demanding enough without bringing up the fact that you would be seeing your college ex again, Gojo Satoru, the best man for the same wedding— five years after his mysterious disappearance.

・❥・ex-lovers to ??, wedding au, no curses, gojo is misunderstood, reader is sassy, shoko and geto are tired, gojo is a secretive mf, yu haibara is a ray of sunshine, suggestive content, mentions of pregnancy, yn throws a punch here, everyone is unhinged, mentions of injury, heavy angst, mentions of class divides, language, mentions of murder, a car crash, mentions of alcohol, mentions of cigarettes, slowburn, mentions of cheating, reader and satoru were once engaged

𖨆♡𖨆 ceo!gojo satoru x female!reader

・❥・ wc: 2,4k+

The sound of the gurgling pipes overhead this dingy bathroom along with the bass humming underneath your platform boots were the only sounds your ringing ears could make out. 

Silence, shattered and broken in between two best friends, came straight after her devastating question. 

“What?” 

When Shoko Ieiri asked you to be her maid of honour during one drunken night out in downtown Shibuya, there was nothing you could do but excitedly say ‘yes’.

The huge rock on her finger, a sign of her forever love with none other than Geto Suguru, was the star of the show for the entire evening, that you had zero suspicions as to why she tugged you into the club’s bathroom, a grimace on her dusky rose-hued lips. 

“There’s something you need to know.” 

Three shots in, you giggled, looking scandalised. “What? Are you and Suguru-hic-pregnant?” 

Ieiri made a face, shaking her head in disgust. “Ew. Don’t manifest such shit for me. It’s about you, actually.” 

Deciding to rip the bandaid faster than you could yell out wait! Shoko exhaled out: 

“Gojou Satoru. Remember him? I mean of course you do, you dated him. He’s um—he’s Getou’s best man for the same wedding… PleasedonthatemeIammsosorry.” 

You felt like you were strapped in the back of a car going 200 down a highway. 

“What?” you almost shrieked, piercing the dingy air with your disbelief. Not even a cold shower could sober you up faster than the mention of your ex-boyfriend. 

Despite it being five years since you saw the white-haired demon, his legacy was astounding. Eyeing your empty ring finger, you swallowed harshly. 

“Ieiri… why would Geto do this?” 

He was your friend, too. Didn’t Suguru care for you? Wasn’t he the one there to pick up the pieces of your trust that Satoru fractured so casually one night when all three of you were out in a club? 

“They’ve been friends since they were in diapers,” Shoko murmured, wincing when you groaned. “I’m so sorry. I tried to change his mind, but he’s adamant. He really wants Satoru to come with us to Tuscany.” 

You had to lean against the sink, arms crossed over your chest to absorb this piece of news. “Does Satoru know?” 

Even saying his name burned. 

You hadn’t allowed yourself to even think of him since the night you found him…

Shaking your head to rid yourself of the thoughts, you winced. 

“He does. But, Geto said he seemed pretty chill about it.” 

When you didn’t say anything, Shoko reached out to you, rubbing your arm. “Come on. It’s been five years. I bet Satoru regrets what he did and he’s willing to at least be nice. Can you do this? For me?” 

She twisted her lips into a pout and widened her eyes, the effect comical from her deep set eye bags late nights at the hospital gave her. You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes for a split second to ward off the migraine festering in your right temple.

“Fine.” 

Sunshine split across her face like the dawn of a new day, and you sincerely hoped the twinge of resentment you felt flickering in your chest would not drown out her happiness. 

Shoko deserves this. She went through so much to get this ring—from Getou’s stuffy upper class parents to his equally snobbish friends—and you couldn’t bear to ruin her hope.

You sighed. “But, if he’s creepy with me, I deserve the right to sock him right in his face.” 

His stupid, handsome, fucking pale face. Your venomous thoughts spilled out onto your murderous expression, tinging them with righteous violence—you could never really hide your emotions from your best friend.

Ieiri laughed, throwing her head back and clutching her midsection. The pretty, blue pastel dress she wore for tonight’s announcement party showed off her curves and delicate collarbones perfectly. You loved her too much to ever make her sad, and forced yourself to swallow the apprehension, going through with the motions to see both your friends happy. 

“Don’t worry, you know I’ll help you to hide the body. Always.”

You flashed her a smile and defrosted your stiff limbs to wrap one arm around her.

“And that’s why I love you so much… bitch.” 

Lavish Italian sunlight spilled onto the marble floors, warming your white-tipped toes. 

You stepped out onto the stone-tiled balcony and caught sight of Maki pushing Mai into the pool, her shrill complaints reaching the third floor of this glamorous villa. Fronds and ivy edged the walls, and the huge private pool would be the scene where Geto and Shoko would profess their lifetime love for each other. In the distance was a small greenhouse which grew the prettiest lilies you had ever seen—a flower native to Tuscany which held a huge meaning for everyone in your entourage.

When you had seen pictures of this gem on AirBnb, the first thing you asked Shoko was how much it cost. Your friend had then waved you off and shared that Geto would be footing most of the expenses—perks of a boyfriend who came from old money.

At least I have my own room to unwind and relax. It was good to have some time alone to yourself before the groom's party came. Shoulders aching and heart racing, you drew in a few deep breaths to centre yourself. 

Mai was splashing water onto Maki, and from somewhere inside the kitchen, you heard Nobara yelling at them to not slip and fall. Chuckling to yourself, you almost didn’t hear a pair of footsteps coming behind you. 

With your hair tousled, dark circles pronounced, and smelling of a 17 hour direct flight, you spun around and met a pair of crystalline ocean-blue eyes. 

They were glazed over with a softness you had not seen for five years, though the same mouth you remembered kissing over and over again was puckered into a smirk. 

Your breath was stolen from you, and it felt like someone had sucker punched you right in the gut. 

Gojo Satoru stood before you in a neatly pressed suit and tie, looking like pure perfection under the warm, orange sunset, the shadows throwing his angular features into greater clarity. 

“Y/N—”

Your feet moved you towards him before your brain could catch up, and he relaxed, as if expecting you to pull him into your embrace and welcome him back after what he did to you. 

The long nights you spent crying, typing up a long paragraph to send to him only to delete it because you were sure he would ghost you—came flashing through your mind. 

Satoru’s smile dissolved bit by bit when he noticed your tensed shoulders and clenched fists. 

“Baby—”

Your palm flew right into face, knocking his smug grin right off. 

“I can’t believe you would do something like this to him!” 

Shoko wanted to sound angry, but you couldn’t take her seriously, not when she was holding a bag of frozen peas and had a flower crown perched on her head.

“One hour. I left you alone for one hour—”

“He started it first,” you muttered hotly, scowling at your throbbing knuckles. 

According to Geto, Satoru had decided to take the earlier flight to surprise Shoko, the both of them having not seen each other for the past two years. But, even the groom had no idea why his best man chose to stumble into your room when Shoko’s was right down the hall. 

You liked to think he was there to spite you. 

Ieiri sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “What exactly did he say?” 

“He called me baby.” 

The silence after your admittance burned hotter than a thousand humiliations. You came to the realisation of your hasty actions the very second those words left your grimacing mouth. 

“And you punched him. Right in the face. For calling you baby?” 

You could tell Shoko was barely holding it together, but in your defence, Gojo Satoru was a 6 foot 3 walking trigger for you. 

“He doesn’t deserve the right to call me that.” 

Shoko’s shoulders dropped a little at the sad note in your confession. 

“Babe… I think it’s high time you try to let this go. Satoru is older now, and—”

“He didn’t even call me,” your whisper ricocheted around the room with the force of an armed squad, drawing the atmosphere right into the war’s heart. Your conflict unfurled like an old, bloodstained scroll, finally revealed for the world to see. Shoko had spent years trying to get you to open up about your fallout with Satoru with little luck. 

This was the first time you were volunteering to give any information without any coercion. 

You clutched your chest with two trembling fists, trying hard not to break eye contact with the floor in case the flood of sorrow collecting at your lash line would break their composure and slide down your cheeks. 

“After I found out about him and Mei Mei… he stopped texting me. He didn’t even come to find me and we live just five minutes away from each other. He—” you broke off, biting down on your lower lip. 

You felt the bed beside you dip, and a pair of calming arms surrounding you.

“He was an ass—I’ll give him that,” Shoko hummed empathetically. “But, you’ve done so much better for yourself now. You’re the Head of Production for Tokyo Today. You have your own apartment. You’re even thinking about adopting a puppy. You’ve got shit going on for you, Y/N, and I’m proud of how much you’ve grown. Don’t let a man from your past—a man like Satoru—make it all feel trivial, okay?” 

You sniffed, nodding weakly. Wiping at your cheeks, you finally summoned enough courage to look up into your best friend’s gentle face. The beauty mark under her right eye always seemed to crinkle more when she smiled, and you adored how sweet it made her look. 

“Thank you, Ieiri.” 

She squeezed your shoulder, standing up. 

“I’ve got to refresh that big, whiny baby’s cold compress, but once I’m done, let’s have a drink, okay?” 

“Could I also have a smoke?” you asked in a timid voice, anticipating her to lecture you on the demerits of a tobacco addiction—never mind the fact that she smoked a pack in a day. 

“Of course,” Shoko said, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “I’ll let you bum one—on one condition.”

“What?” you asked, suddenly terrified. A million scenarios of blackmail flitted through your mind, and you wished you hadn’t opened your mouth to ask for a smoke, not when you explicitly knew how devious your best friend was. 

But, her next words left you reeling in shock, wishing you could defy her even if it was her wedding week. You could never go through with it—your clenched jaw spoke volumes. 

“Be nice to Satoru.” 

For Shoko, you would try despite it feeling like you were swallowing a vat of poison anytime you looked at him.

You would try because unlike that selfish, white-haired bastard, you would never sacrifice someone else’s happiness just for a shot at your own. 

“Jesus Christ, Satoru, which bridesmaid did you offend now?” 

Yu Haibara’s chirp tone and inoffensive question that was wildly inappropriate at this time was not what the young CEO needed right now. 

He grumbled, pressing the bag of peas to his swollen right eye. Gojo had forgotten how strong of a right hook you had. 

In fact, Gojo Satoru had almost forgotten a lot of things about you. 

From the fall of your hair to how the sunset looked painted across your skin, the foolish skip of his heart was a bigger sign of his crumbling feelings than any other emotion you might have elicited in him. 

When Geto had told him you would be in Tuscany too, as part of Shoko’s bridal entourage, he shamelessly begged his oldest friend to let him be a part of his groomsmen. 

The dark-haired heir had only laughed, sharing that Satoru had taken the words right out of his mouth—he was about to ask Gojo to be his best man anyway. 

But, what Gojo never expected was that stupid slip of endearment to lay waste to his efforts to win you back.

Baby. 

Four characters. One word. A world of meaning he could never forget no matter how much time had passed. 

It brought him back to late night ramen dates around campus. Staying over at your dorm to study hard for exams which he aced effortlessly only because he loved seeing your face scrunched up in concentration. 

Then, the party flashed in his mind. 

The lights were blue. He remembered they were blue. There was a drink in his hand, or maybe he had two. 

A girl was pressed flush to him, seductively grinding her hips over his twitching bulge. 

The alcohol was strong, and it was enough to dull the voices clanging in his head, demanding for him to step away. Put a stop to this before he did something he would regret. 

In his mind’s eye, he liked to imagine someone must’ve told you about his sins. That you didn’t have to watch him bend down and steal another white-haired girl’s lips as she giggled into his mouth. 

That you didn’t hear how he broke down in the emergency room, screaming his head off with blood on his hands.

“Satoru?” 

Suguru’s voice echoed through the tangled mess of his memories. He came back to find a room of men looking at him with varying expressions of curiosity and worry on their faces. 

Plastering on his signature grin, Gojo nodded at Haibara, hearing the tail-end of his comment.

“Tough luck out there for us men, huh? She must not have been too interested in me, but you know what—her loss.” 

He tossed in a cocky smirk for good measure.

Appearances are everything, Satoru—remember that. 

His father’s voice echoed in his mind, unwelcomed and disagreeing with everything Satoru was feeling inside his conflicted chest. He chose to bury the sticky and dangerous emotions six feet under in favour of shrugging, putting on his best, cheerful grin and hoping no one would notice the wavering sheen of wetness glistening in his eyes. 

“Oh shit, I forgot—welcome to Tuscany boys.” 

continuing this series will rely heavily on feedback and reblogs my bad cause if this flops, i'm gonna go ahead and scrap it to focus on other schtuff kthxbye (i sincerely hope with every fiber of my soul that you enjoyed reading this)

©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or claim as your own.

PESTIS

plague doctor monster x reader | 18+ | 3.7k

after the doctors in your town burn the bodies of plague victims, a mysterious cortège of black wagons begins visiting once a month. the one who leads them, great death, asks you what your deceased husband's soul is worth to you, and the result of it begins a convoluted spiral.

story warnings; dead dove do not eat, sexual content, major dubcon, kinda implied size kink?, size difference, his ejaculate is not sexily described lmao, extreme body horror + grotesque details, graphic depiction of gore (at the end), kinda-sorta cannibalism?, mc is pretty shitty in this, murder, disturbing details all around, bodies are burned, frightening imagery, prose + detail heavy, this is a bit of an exploration of greed + touches on some relevant events if you can figure out the parallels, plays with the idea of humans having actual souls, roughly proofread, don't look too much into inconsistencies lmao just have fun.

muted divider by @/anlian-aishang

a/n; originally, this was supposed to be >1k as part of a personal challenge where ppl could vote on a poll for what genre i'd write a piece for. horror won.

thanks to @shouyuus for shoving this prompt from @/deepwaterwritingprompts in my face. this piece followed the prompt very loosely, but still!!

pls share your thoughts + reblog this! it really means a lot to support writers, guys 💙

All anyone knew was that he was called Great Death, and he led a cortège of black wagons with black lace across the windows into town square for one night, once a month.

The procession’s arrival was announced by clopping hooves from skinless, skeletal steeds and enormous wheels jolting across the cobblestone terrain, of which the very foundation of the town had been built on top of. Even though they moved slowly, precisely, in a single line of synchrony, their sound was one of continuous rolling thunder; the roaring fireplaces where all of the bodies were incinerated.

Your husband had been reduced to human soot in one of them, but you weren't allowed to know which one.

No one was.

The doctors had argued it was to prevent grieving families and grave robbers from clawing through the ash in search of bones, scraps of clothing, or valuables discarded with the bodies of nobles. But, none of that made any difference as there was greed and loss, far too much of it to keep people out of the fireplaces and from digging and stealing and reclaiming.

You hadn't been so driven to search for your husband’s things because you still possessed more wealth than he had been burned with. He had been blistered with black and purple pustules of infection and plague before he died, so you feared that breathing him in (breathing anyone in) would fill your lungs with them (with him) and kill you, too.

My love, this is your color!

But, that did not mean that you did not grieve, because you missed the beauty that he brought to your life. You missed his gentle wit and loving mind, how he always sent you exquisite clothing from wherever in the world he had gotten to now.

Every color was your color, in his eyes. And, every piece he had delivered to you became a part of your collection of things. An opulent display of his devotion and good status to show to your friends, anyone sitting with you for quaint tea and distantly sourced food untouched by the town.

- Samuel

Meeting Great Death had come long after the burning of plague bodies, now hushedly called The Incineration, and months since the cortège had first appeared during each waning crescent.

The wagons had filed into town with their thunder, pulled by dead horses that made the ground shiver under your feet. Many townsfolk, including yourself, had been roused by the commotion and hurriedly made themselves decent to check outside. It became a spectacle of groaning complaints, white nightdresses, and bright orange lantern light floating midair in bloodless fists.

All light was to the wagons, which had formed a tight, silent ring around the poisoned fountain spouting brown plague water, and the disoriented chatter had ebbed into anticipatory shushing.

Then, the townsfolk jumped, as the windows with their blackout lace fell forward as though forced from the other side, landing flat like a countertop. The darkness beyond the windows was as dark and dense as it was infinite, smothering pulsing glows from the lanterns as some fearless men awkwardly inched closer to the wagons.

“O’ woe! Tragedy! Tragedy has befallen your home! It has taken your friends and family. It has crushed your souls and stolen theirs. But, have no fear, for we have come to return what once was yours!” said Great Death from somewhere within the throng of wagons and wet skeleton horses.

“What are they worth to you? The souls of your dearly departed. What are they worth to you? To be reunited with those that you loved so dearly and so terribly lost. Wouldn't you do everything you could to have them back? Pay any price? Come! Come! Come all! Let us speak!”

And then, bone-white beaks and hollow eyes emerged from the darkness within the wagons. Each window filled with these spectre merchants; frightening monstrosities in black cloaks and wide-brimmed hats and long fingers pushed into leather gloves.

One townsfolk had communicated what you, what everyone else had thought seeing them, “What are the doctors doing? Haven't we suffered enough because of them? They've burned everyone we loved, and now they're trying to sell them back to us as souls? This is madness!”

“They are not our doctors! Look! Look!” wailed another; a paranoid man, “those are not masks. Those beaks are bone and skin. They are demons coming for the rest of us! Run! Run for your lives! Seal your doors! Hide!”

You were pulled along with the scattering crowd, the dispersing lantern light and slamming doors, but you did not flee inside as everyone else had. Instead, you were coaxed back towards the wagons by a leathery hand and nodding beak gesturing for you to come close.

The wagon was larger than the rest, as was the creature leaning out of the window. There was fleshiness to his long beak, waxen with green veins that throbbed in the swaying light.

Great Death looked at you with nothing eyes, and nearly bent his head sideways onto his shoulder as if his true stature were cramped inside of the wagon. When he spoke, he did so clearly, even without his beak splitting into halves like separate jaws.

“How joyous! You didn't run away. Your grief must be immeasurable. Please, come even closer to me. Come here. Yes, yes, what a lovely thing you are.” Great Death giggled in delight of your obedience, or your foolishness. “You do not wear rags. You are well groomed. You possess no healthy amount of suspicion, yet I suspect you are still mourning someone. Who might it be? You can tell me. Who? Who?”

You sensed he was mocking you with that jaunty voice of his. He asked you like someone who already knew a secret, but who'd wanted to hear the great revelation straight from the source.

“My husband.” You told him. “He was a wealthy merchant who owned many ships. He sailed for more months out of the year than he was home. He could've found someone else far more beautiful, more handsome than I, but he kept me. He always came home.”

Great Death stayed at his sickly angle with his head as he leaned out the window further, both hands grasping the edge of the window-countertop. “Ah, I see. And I assume that this wonderful, merchant husband of yours succumbed to the plague? Yes. Yes, he burned with the rest, didn't he?”

“He burned with the rest,” you said.

“A hideous shame! You do have my condolences. I must ask, have there been any other cases of plague since The Incineration?” His gloves scuffed as he fluttered his fingers outward, away from you and towards the lightless houses and barricaded doors. “I won't hear an answer from anyone else, as you know.”

You couldn't hold his empty gaze, those sockets of penetrating black and looked over his shoulder, hoping to see inside at something.

Somewhere far, somewhere deep, you noticed a faint glow. Tiny hums of light blinking in and out of existence like fireflies. Little sentient creatures with will and action of their own. But, these were colors: mostly bright white, some were yellow and orange, and a few were searing white-blue.

“No,” you said, at last, remembering the question, “there haven't been any more cases since the burnings. Since—”

“The ships stopped sailing.”

“Yes.” you said.

Great Death then withdrew into the darkness of the wagon with his crooked neck and leathery hands. You considered leaving for your home, padlocking the doors and pushing furniture up against them because it was clear that this creature—all of these creatures—harbored no good intentions.

They were not your doctors who had incinerated hundreds of bodies, claiming it as necessity; saying that there was no other way to protect the rest of the town. At the time, houses quarantining the sick had been forcibly broken into by the doctors and other men in masks and gowns. They offered no apologies, no desire for absolution, no mercy.

The plagued were dragged from their deathbeds, their salt baths, their favorite chairs and out onto the streets with no dignity, in whatever way they'd been found. They were taken to the fireplaces, thrown inside those great, lashing lion flames and died screaming as they became smoke and ash. Outrage only came after as it had all happened so quickly, no one had expected it.

The doctors had said nothing. Offered few sympathies, yet promised that this sacrifice, this purge, had saved the rest of the town. That there would be no more plague.

Sometimes, the fireplaces still wailed, but not how they'd had then.

“What is your husband's soul worth to you?” asked Great Death, now back in his window with his sideways head and hands clasped on the countertop.

He'd been there for a while, it seemed. And you were still standing in front of his wagon, instead of being tucked away behind the safety of locks and walls.

“You—do you have him in there with you?”

“Oh, possibly,” he said, calm and unrevealing. His hands lightly thudded on the window-countertop, rattling the glass that it was made from. “I have a little bit of everyone in here, I suppose you could say. What is your husband's soul worth to you?”

You said nothing because how could you measure the worth of a soul? Did a soul cost as much as your vast wardrobe? Did it cost as much as your house? Was it worth the same one of your legs, or a cluster of pubic hairs cut with a razor?

“Do you think his soul is worth your fortune?” Great Death saw your stricken expression just then and let out a breathy laugh. A satisfied laugh. “Is he worth you giving up your clothes? Your house? Your comfortability? Do you love your husband enough to live in rags for the rest of your life?”

You rushed up to his countertop and grabbed his hands with yours. For once, your heart was beating something awful, foul with hot-cold dread that felt wet under your skin. “I—what else is there? What else would you be willing to take? Anything else?”

Great Death was terrible up close, freezing to the touch. Pale. Dead. Not of this realm. The air around him was dense, stagnant, like it had a breath to hold. It simply did not move in his presence. The feeling of his fingers wrapping yours then, pinning them to the countertop, suffusing you with his cold and his darkness made your neck hairs stand upright.

He was enjoying this.

“I will consider it a fair exchange. Everything material that you hold precious in exchange for the man you love. Wouldn't you say that sacrificing your wealth would be worth it if it meant reuniting with him?”

“I've earned everything that I have after a lifetime of scraping around the slums. I will not return to that,” you said, low in your throat, borderline vicious. “Anything else?”

He let out a windy sound, perhaps a breath, or hum that meant he knew too much. His thumbs, much larger than your own, caressed the peaks of your knuckles, stroked the backs of your hands and pressed down on your veins while he contemplated.

“Come inside, then. Just around the corner.” Great Death moved his slanted head slightly right, indicating a black door at the rear of the wagon, which had been camouflaged by the inky dark. “I'll open it for you. Come along. Come. Come.”

The interior became familiar to you each month thereafter. But, you would always remember how disoriented you'd been first stepping inside of the commodious space filled with all manner of things vile, fascinating, and mystifying.

Great Death was able to fix his neck when he wasn't hunkered by the window that reached only waist-height on him. He and the rest of the soul vendors were like afterimages of each other, seemingly indistinct, grayer, when you stared at one long enough and then looked to another. Great Death, however, came with a heavier beak that curved more sharply; a carrion face capable of tearing through your viscera.

He was one with the semi-darkness, his shapeless silhouette a seamless mesh with air and shadows, of which the yellow tallow candlelight did not fully reach. When he moved, it was swift, inescapable; he glided rather than walked, and you could only follow his pallid features appearing to float midair.

“Forgive me for the mess, it is so rare that I have guests come inside to visit me. Transactions are better done outside, after all,” explained Great Death, already unfastening, untying, disrobing you, and laying you out on a wooden slab of a table. “My, you are lovely, aren't you? I wonder if what I see is what your husband saw in you as well? Ah, that is unlikely.”

You bled on his cock that night as he savagely fucked you into the table. His nothingness had been moved away, parted in halves to reveal gray and blackened purple hardness. An emaciated belly of similar tones was eye-catching and harsh and familiar, but a view which became unimportant as he impaled you, yanked your head back by hair closest to your scalp, and forced your gaze to the ceiling.

There, you watched the serpentine emptiness coil across the ceiling of the wagon, watched the formations in the wood grain come alive with writhing, yawning faces that never lasted long enough to know if they were speaking to you, because Great Death thrusted too hard, made you cry, bleed more, but you didn't tell him to stop.

This was the price you were willing to pay. So, you laid beneath him motionless, sore, regretting your own stubbornness for just a moment until he let out a shuddering breath of release, rutting you with his cock still twisted with your insides. He flooded your walls with cum that felt wrong, gluey, membranous. It oozed out slowly once he removed himself, the pain of him having been there was worse now that there was nothing left.

“Even I experience lust and crave a human’s touch, their soft flesh. Humans are an indulgence we are rarely afforded. Souls, well, as you can imagine, cannot do much,” said Great Death once cloaked in his darkness again. He redressed you, starting with the sleeves, and helped you off of the table with encouraging pats to your lower back. “I greatly enjoyed myself. Thank you for this exchange.”

“My husband's soul, I want it.” Now, as he ushered you towards the end of the wagon, towards the black door concealed in staticy shadows, you ached in countable pulses. “Give it to me.”

Great Death giggled, pressed his hands down onto your shoulders, and nuzzled his lethal beak against your neck.

“Come back to me next month.”

And, that's how it went on from there on out. Each month during the waning crescent, a persistent bright and sharp sickle in the sky, he led the cortège into town square and allowed you through the threshold into his sacred place. He serviced no others in town, but had expressed certain morbid appreciation to you, saying that because of your brazenness, more of the vendors were being skittishly approached by those deluged in grief and delusion.

“Oh, oh, oh, how joyous, my lovely.” He fucked you on the floor as he spoke, ramming you cruelly, until you whimpered and moaned. You wondered if he was trying to make you scream. “What a boon you've become to us all. They're all so happy. Your people. Mine. The souls. None are so happy as me, though.”

Before he'd penetrated you again, before he'd let you through the door, he met you at his window-countertop and asked, “What is your husband's soul worth to you? Have you considered letting go of your fortune? My lovely, you know that you cannot possibly take it with you once you perish and rot, yes?”

Always frightened by the thought and obstinate, you let him have you in whatever way he pleased. The pain eventually washed over with numbness. At times, his long strokes against your walls felt good, and occasionally you would come on his gray and purple cock. Focusing on how thick he felt inside of you, and the white streaks of lightning crackling behind your eyes.

Without fail, he flooded you and made it stay for a short while as if relishing your prolonged discomfort and disgust that he was still there. It would leak slowly, abnormally, as he redraped himself. Concealed his sallow body with protruding ribs, jagged angles, and dark slits spread throughout.

He was corpselike; he looked like rot. His rot inched out you for days after he was long gone, and then the sickness would set in. Red hot fevers and bone cold shivers kept you bedridden for weeks, tended to by cautious maids unsure what to make of your recurrent episodes.

Nothing showed, but you felt festering beneath your skin. Unexplainable in that you saw no such lesions, no lumps lurking in the layers of your anatomy. But, you soothed and scratched yourself like something was there. The maids were worried that your grief had made you spiral into hysterics, and they considered calling one of the doctors to your bedside.

“I will ruin all of you if you bring one of those—those murderers into my house!”

At these times, you could not be reasoned with. There was too much itch, too much sensation, too much boiling under flesh and bone, too much crawling, too much pain, too much hunger, too much vomiting, too much too much too much too much too much…

“What is your husband's soul worth to you?” Great Death had returned during the waning crescent, said you looked unwell. “Will we continue our exchange as we usually do? I am not opposed, you know that. I am very fond of you, my lovely. Come inside.”

You were fragile and fatigued from fighting illness, so it didn't much matter how hard he fucked you into the floor. Skin slapped and moistened with fluids and sweat, and Great Death’s moans broke the stillness in the air.

“Oh, my lovely, I look forward to coming to this town because I know that you're waiting for me.” He said it dreamily, like in reminiscence of a bleary, beautiful memory. A faded photograph lost between pages of a book of someone once loved. “Perhaps I see a little of what your husband saw in you. No. No, I see deeper than he ever could. I see through you into your core. I see your soul. Oh, how hideous it is.”

His body was revealed to you. The dark slits which covered him twitched and opened wide into tens of dozens of pupiless black eyes, and lipless mouths with needle teeth. Purple-red tongues lashed out of the mouths at you, making you scream and struggle beneath his weight.

“This wasn't part of the exchange! I just want my husband’s soul!” you pleaded, searing with panic through every ounce of your being. “I'll give you it. I'll give you everything. My clothes. My house. My fortune! It's all yours!”

His fucking had slowed, stopped entirely as a bullous, flickering light had drifted out from some hidden places in the depths of the wagon. It was gently orange at its center, emanating a pale aura outward, which pulsed like a heartbeat and buzzed with familiar warmth.

You thought to reach for the doomed little thing destined to be smothered by the dark. All light eventually was.

“He's waited for you all along, my lovely,” said Great Death softly. He followed the floating marvel with his nothing eyes as it circled your joined bodies. Eventually, it came close enough to snatch out of the air and snuff out in his leathery fist. “Yes, such a beautiful soul he was. I no longer want it.”

Your breath snatched in your throat, mouth agape. Shock had invited in a swell of watery cold that made you unable to truly acknowledge what had just happened. That you'd lost your husband for a second time; this time forever.

There was no telling smear of blood or glittering orange residue in his open palm when he showed it to you. It was as if it had been a brilliant trick of extinguishing candlelight without a trace.

“Your soul is most foul, but it will be my prize. My lovely, for as long as I find you beautiful and repulsive, you will live on. Yes. Yes, I'll keep you here with me so that I may always be able to admire you.”

Before you could've launched yet another scream into the immense void of the wagon, he thrust his carrion beak into your chest. He wedged it deep through your muscle and blood, piercing cartilage and bone to reach your heart.

Great Death used his hand to rip out the throbbing, glistening organ from the rest of you. He observed blood filling the cavernous well he'd left inside you, saying nothing as it backed up your throat and spilled profusely from your mouth. Once you died, the bright red that had stained your teeth darkened to exquisite purplish-red.

He tore your heart apart into consumable pieces and fed them to his mouths. The piranha teeth and long, licking tongues chewed eagerly; meanwhile, the eyelids on his body closed knowing that the mouths would soon be sated by the decadent meal.

Thereafter, he waited.

He waited for a long time, because souls were oftentimes more timid than their human husks. There was nothing left to protect them from vendors on the prowl, vendors who had built collections across millennia.

But, eventually, your soul did appear before him in stuttering pink light. He caught you easily, let you rest in his hand while he decided on which jar he owned could possibly be enough to house your beauty.

You would turn sinfully red as you matured, became strong, forgot who you used to be.

All you would know is the Great Death and the inside of his vast wagon littered with strange things. He would be kind to you by letting you out of your jar sometimes, but for now, he'd keep you on the middle shelf where he could best see you.

a/n: I have this habit of killing husbands or doing awful things to them and I am very unapologetic about it.

anyway. this wasn't executed quite as well as I'd hoped. but, I wasn't writing to perfection, it was just a little personal challenge for myself. overall, I'm not unhappy with it.

I'd like to bring great death back again in another piece sometime, if y'all are interested.

this was also the first time where I think I've actually, deadass killed my reader-character and it felt so good lmao. I've implied in several of my stories without making it explicitly so.

anyway!!! I'd still love to hear your feedback and would absolutely adore you if you reblogged!!

atomic punk // e.m.

wow omg an actual x reader? wild. anyway.

masterlist | ao3

“We’re starting a new event program,” your boss slammed a flyer down on the bar in front of you. 

“A what?” You picked it up, squinting at the font. It said LIVE MUSIC WEDNESDAYS AND FRIDAYS. FIRST GUEST CORRODED COFFIN. The imagery had a bunch of skulls and bats plastered all around the scribble of letters that you assumed was the band’s logo.

“Corroded… coffin?” There was no way you were reading that right.

“Sales have been shit, and they booked us every Wednesday for, like, a month,” he sighed. “They’re some local metal band or something.”

“You booked a metal band,” you stared at him incredulously. “Every week this month?”

“Fans means a crowd means tips, alright?” 

You made a mental note to pick up earplugs next time you were at the store.

Keep reading

DIVINE TRINITY

Fucking two bad bitches at the same damn time 🎶

THREE'S A HOME — caleb. zayne.

after disaster strikes, your two boyfriends make an unplanned visit to your apartment and together, the three of you redefine what it means to be a home

୨୧───pairings caleb x zayne x you

୨୧───warnings medic combat zayne, fighter pilot caleb, polyamory, threesome (f/m/m), jealousy, blood and injury, unresolved sexual tension, double penetration, nipple play, oral sex, multiple orgasms, p in v sex, anal sex, explicit sexual content, awkward romance, mdni, 18+

୨୧───dawn says applesnow girlies i did this to see something.....

Goddammit. There’s an insane lunatic banging on your apartment door at 4.37AM.

The loud echoes reverberate across the walls, almost shaking your windows, and you jolt straight from bed, shoving your feet into a pair of pink cat slippers as you rush towards the front door.

Caution tells you to make sure the other person at the end wasn’t some psycho-murderous killer, and you peep through the keyhole only to find blank darkness greeting you. 

Huh? Your sluggish, sleep-deprived mind doesn’t register that someone could be covering the peephole, and driven by a lack of self-preservation (read: destructive curiosity), you pry open the door.

Immediately, the scent of blood hits you, and you’re looking right into a pair of frantic emerald-green eyes. 

“We don’t have time to explain—”

Your boyfriend Zayne pushes past you, and in his arms, he’s holding up your other boyfriend who looks like a train has wrecked him—his jacket is torn, duffel bag hanging limply off his shoulder, and… holy shit. Your eyes widen. 

“Caleb! Your shoulder—”

It’s bleeding.

Caleb shoots you a woozy grin as he stumbles past your threshold. “Heyyyy sweet cheeks. Miss us?” 

You stand there for a second, unsure what to do when Zayne hisses, “Close the door!” 

Hastening, you do as he says and slam the door shut. Your hands are shaking, breaths coming out in harsh pants, but this isn’t the time to freak out. From the stormy look on Zayne’s face to Caleb barely holding onto his consciousness, you can guess as much that this little pitstop wasn’t sanctioned by their superiors.

There’s so much you want to ask them—why are they here? Why did they come back? 

Where did they disappear for days without leaving you so much as a goddamn note? 

And, why, in the name of all that is catastrophic, is Caleb wounded? 

Zayne peeks at you over his shoulder, the sleeves of his combat medic jacket rolled up. The camo clashes with his pale pallor, giving him a deathly grimness. “Love, we need you to focus. Can you do that? Can you get a first aid kit?” 

As a doctor, he’s trained to stay calm in these situations, whereas you’re halfway through a hyperventilation party for one. But, he snaps you back to earth, clicking his tongue.

“Focus. First aid kit. Where is it?” 

Your stiff lips move. “Zaynie… I don’t think it’ll help him. How about a hospital—?”

“We can’t,” he snaps, and you’re taken aback. You’ve seen Zayne conduct a risky surgery on a patient with Protocore syndrome right before your eyes once, and even then, he didn’t break a sweat. This Zayne, however, is much shakier—his fingers trembling and mouth parted to drag in shallow breaths.

Something about his insistence makes you think that whatever happened must be too risky to involve officials, and you snap to attention, dashing to your kitchen cabinet and retrieving your stashed first aid kit.

He takes it from you and expertly treats Caleb’s wounded shoulder, starting to sterilize himself. You hover, doing what you can to help him with the immense task—retrieving glasses of water, wiping his sweat with a kitchen towel, holding your tongue to not berate him for his sheer stupidity—

“Almost done,” he murmurs, suturing up Caleb’s wounds. The smell of blood hangs heavy in the air, seeping into the couch and staining the upholstery a murky brown. 

You flicker your gaze towards Caleb, whose eyelids are twitching. He’s pale with pain, barely moving or grunting even as a needle keeps stabbing him. You gently take his face in your hands, cradling it onto your lap as Zayne flashes you an inscrutable look. There’s no time to dig deeper into his inexplorable mood, so you turn your attention to Caleb. 

“Ssh,” you murmur when he whimpers, thick brows furrowed when Zayne starts to close him up. You run your fingers through his sweaty hair, trying to soothe him and take his mind off the huge gash slowly being patched up.

When Zayne is done, you don’t move, needing to assess Caleb. Your hands travel over his broad chest, gently ghosting over the sutured wound, your Resonance helping to alleviate his pain. 

You glance down at him, and he’s giving you an exhausted smile. 

“Where’d ya learn to do that?” 

You hum. “Tara’s been teaching me how to control my Evol and focus it on a main anchor,” you continue, “Since the goal is to speed up your healing, I’m resonating with your body’s blood cells to duplicate the clotting faster.”

Caleb winces. “Feels like a bunch of little fingers in me,” he complains.

From the corner of the room, you hear Zayne heave in a disgruntled sigh.

“What you’re doing is dangerous,” your older lover berates, stepping in to plead for you to cut it out. “If anyone from the medical field found out—”

“They won’t,” you reassure. “No one knows about the extent of my Evol’s abilities besides you two and Tara. Swear it.”

Zayne opens his mouth as if to argue, and considers against it, shutting his trap and fixing you with an icy stare.

“You opened the door for us without even asking who we were. While no instance has been given to warrant such caution, you must be more alert, darling. What if it could be someone else?” 

You huff and glare at him. “If you’re so hellbent on following protocol and procedure, why bother showing up to my apartment in the first place?” 

Caleb snickers. “Oh, she got you there, Doc.”

The good doctor sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I had no choice. This buffoon—” he glares at the younger, dark-haired man, “—left his post after an ambush to search for me in the medical tent. He said, and I quote, ‘I had to check if you’re alright or else our girl is gonna be mad at me’.” Zayne sighs and shakes his head. “The whole infantry was in a panic. We stowed away and managed to drive off with a spare G-Hummer.” 

You gape, turning your wide eyes to Caleb. “You abandoned your post?” 

Caleb, realizing the heat is now on him, tries to defend himself. “You guys have it all wrong! I didn’t abandon it… took a little detour, s’all,” he grouses, and you have a feeling he knows something neither you nor Zayne knows.

Gripping his chin, you force him to look at you. “Caleb, what you did is irresponsible. You could be suspended—”

“Look,” he urges, shifting his violet eyes to Zayne, a maelstrom of emotion behind them that reminds you of a storm coming. “I know things—I heard them. There might be an attack in Linkon City. It’s why I broke formation and came here—” he winces, “—yeah, it’s a death wish for my career, but I couldn’t just let Pipsqueak be defenseless!” 

Zayne glances at you, and then back at the younger man. “There is going to be an attack?” 

His nebulous violet eyes grow a shade less lucid, and he mumbles his warning, the loss of blood and exhaustion catching up to him. “Potential… Wanderer explosion… new rift in the Deepspace tunnel—”

Caleb’s head slumps and he’s out cold. 

“Shit.” You pat his cheek. “Caleb? Caleb!”

“Let him rest,” Zayne advises, crossing his arms. You don’t see it in the dim lights of your apartment, but there’s a gash on his upper arm, too. The camo does a better job of hiding it than Caleb’s uniform. “His blood loss isn’t too bad, and he should be fine in the morning.” 

He grunts, and you glance at him in worry. “Darling? Are you alright?” 

Zayne waves off your concern. “Go to bed, love. I’ll be fine.”

Barely giving you time to argue, he disappears into the second room, closing the door behind him. A cold eddy stirs from his sudden departure, and you shiver, biting your lower lip. You want to go to him and ask if he’s alright, but Caleb needs you. Zayne’s already done his part to patch him up—now, all he needs is your tender love and attention.

Leaning down, you place a soft kiss on Caleb’s forehead. “Sleep well, gege,” you murmur, “You’re safe here.”

Morning rays filter weakly past the translucent kitchen blinds.

Zayne wakes up and panders out into the living room to find Caleb holding you fast to his chest, his lips drawing a flirtatious line down your throat to your clavicle, your giggles rebounding back to him like a fresh slap in the face. His nostrils flare, and he watches the two of you for a moment, feeling the old green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head again. Not one to reminisce on emotions and instead focus on facts, the brilliant doctor can’t help but understand you come from a world where no one existed to you but Caleb—the boy turned man who’s been by your side through thick and thin.

How he came to be this lucky to get back into your life, Zayne would never fathom. He doesn’t understand what you see in him, not when your Caleb exists in the same reality as you. 

As if you can hear the self-hating thoughts emanating from him, you lift your head from Caleb’s chest, fixing him with a gentle smile that reaches into the depths of his chest and squeezes his lungs together in a tight hug. 

“Good morning, you. C’mere.”

You open your arms to him, and he shifts his gaze to the mercurial purple hues gauging his next reaction. Caleb doesn’t welcome him, but he doesn’t reject him either.

Zayne’s first instinct is to decline your offer, putting up an emotional distance between you and Caleb. But, months of being together with you, and by extension, Caleb himself, chips at his icy self-restraint. He allows such foolish tides to ravage his curiosity, as he slowly advances towards the two of you like a researcher approaching his most studied test subjects.

Caleb’s brow dents, a fraction of his displeasure showing through his unflappable countenance, though he knows better than to let you see it.

You grab him by his arm and tug him onto the couch, squeezing yourself between the two men. You snuggle into his chest while your arms are tight around Caleb, pressing the younger man’s cheek against your shoulder. The effect nearly makes Zayne snort with irony—he looks like he’s cradling two huge babies in his arms.

“Pipsqueak, we need a bigger couch,” Caleb grumbles.

You have to agree. 

Due to the lack of space, your quick shift brushes on Zayne’s injured arm from the night before, and his loud hiss catch both of your attention.

“Zayne?”

“Four eyes—what’s wrong?” 

He winces and grits his teeth to keep from grunting in pain. “It’s fine—”

“Ha. Fat load of a huge lie. You’re bleeding, Li Shen ge,” Caleb points at a spot of blood steadily growing bigger, staining his grey shirt fast. 

Caleb is the first to get up and take the first aid kit, his bare back rippling under the low morning light. Zayne’s eyes track him, like a stag studying his rival’s motions, wondering why he’s being this nice. It can’t be because of you. They’ve both established months ago before this… arrangement… that they would try to be civil with one another, but not go the extra mile unless you requested it.

But, you haven’t said a word, and Zayne is sure he’s about to burst a vein in his temple when Caleb tosses him the first aid kit with a too-wide smirk. “Can’t be too careful so I’m leaving it up to the expert—you are a doctor, after all.”

The hint of jealousy isn’t hard to detect in his tone. But, neither you nor Zayne says a word. You toss Caleb a glare and pick up the white box, opening it to tend to Zayne’s gash. Out of the corner of his eye, Zayne senses a pervasive, possessive energy. Caleb’s eyes barely leave you, and even though he tries to play it cool by popping a can of apple soda and hiding his glare behind the metal rim, Zayne can see through him like they were kids all over again. 

When you three were younger and played house, Caleb would try to wrestle the designation of ‘husband’ from him, but because Zayne was older, you insisted he play the role of the man of the house while Caleb… Zayne tries not to smirk at the fond memory.

Caleb would play the role of the house dog.

“What’s so funny?” 

Zayne chuckles softly before he can help himself. Caleb eyes him skeptically, and he resists the urge to shoot the other man a bland look.

“Just… recalling some fond recollections of us when we were younger.” Zayne rarely speaks about their shared past, and it takes both you and Caleb off guard. “You and I would play husband and wife whenever we got together at the playground,” he slid his cool, emerald gaze towards Caleb. “And, he’d be the dog.”

The other dark-haired man guffaws, and you’re oblivious to how tightly he’s gripping his can of apple soda. “Funnyyy. As I recall, you also left ‘home’ quite often to work, leaving me, the dog at home with her,” Caleb sneers, and the insinuation isn’t lost on Zayne. While both of them work intensive, high-risk jobs, it’s Caleb who often makes the arduous trip back home, no matter how long and tedious his missions are. He can never stay far from you. But, Zayne’s job demands are different. 

He could be pulled away in the middle of dinner, or the middle of the night with little to no heads up, and his hours as a surgeon are erratic and unpredictable. While Caleb gloats, you bandage his wound and tug on it, tightening the makeshift tourniquet. Deciding to ignore the younger man, Zayne turns his attention to you. “Thank you, darling.”

Caleb rolls his eyes at the pet name. 

“Come on. I’m starving and you two are making me want to explode for the second time.” He grumbles as he plucks some eggs from the fridge and a couple of fresh tomatoes. As he makes breakfast, Caleb whistles, intercepting any peace that could descend between you and Zayne. After a quiet meal of scrambled eggs, tomatoes, and some leftover chicken congee, you’re resting on the couch when the surgeon approaches him quietly.

“Did Heath say anything?” 

Despite their animosity when it comes to you, Caleb and Zayne work surprisingly well on the field together. The younger man shakes his head. “Nada. Radio silence.”

Zayne stays quiet for a moment, hands tightening around his coffee cup. “It cannot be a coincidence. The second the alarm sounded, it’s as if—”

“—everything went into a frenzy,” Caleb finishes for him. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, and Zayne notices the sutures on his skin straining.

“You’re supposed to cover them up,” Zayne heaves a deep sigh and puts his mug down. He retrieves the now well-acquainted first aid kit and removes a roll of bandages. Caleb doesn’t argue when he starts to tend to him—in fact, it’s the quietest the fighter pilot has been since returning to Linkon.

Once Zayne is done, he debates returning to work, when a small whimper from the couch catches both men’s attention. 

Caleb is the first to run to you, always offering himself on the frontline when it comes to your safety and happiness. He gently shakes your shoulder, his free hand brushing through your hair and smoothing the crease in between your brows. Zayne hovers behind him, looking at you with equal worry, though he restrains himself from overwhelming you.

It’s clear you had a bad dream, and when your tear-filled eyes meet Caleb’s, you hiccup a sob.

The effect instantly softens the younger man, who bundles you in his muscular arms and holds you tightly to his broad and bare chest. 

“Ssh. S’okay, Pips. S’okay. I’m here.”

Zayne quietly fetches you a glass of water, and you take it with a slight nod, sipping on the cool liquid as you get used to your bearings again. Embarrassed they caught you doing something this vulnerable, you throw caution to the wind and set the glass down, wrapping your arms tighter around Caleb.

The air trembles with a stillness that reminds him of a bated breath. 

Your lips are the first to seek Caleb’s, and his chest squeezes. Zayne turns away when the younger man deepens the intimate contact, trying to hide how painfully hard his chest is squeezing. Jealousy is a foreign concept to the brilliant surgeon, but when it makes its mark, he suddenly finds its serrating edge digging into him like a rusted knife.

That is until you break apart from Caleb and reach out to grab his hand. 

Your intention is clear: I need you, too. I need both of you. 

Caleb’s shoulders are tense, but he doesn’t outright deny your silent request. He turns to you, and you turn to the surgeon, imploring him to be the one to break this tie—to finally give the three of you a chance to take this leap of faith.

Zayne hesitates for a second, his emerald eyes burning. He wants this—of course, he wants you. He can never say ‘no’ to you. But… his eyes meet a pair of pensive, lilac ones. Does he want Caleb the same way? 

It’s far too early in the morning to have a sexuality crisis. But, when Caleb rolls his eyes at his stagnation, it ignites something deeper inside Zayne’s chest. Something primal.

He’s always seen Caleb as a comrade. Sometimes a rival.

And, maybe, he might be persuaded to change his mind on the notion of Caleb as a ‘lover’. 

The atmosphere warbles with a sense of anticipation, and you look from one man to the other, waiting for them to end this stalemate and just fuck you. 

To your surprise, it’s Zayne that makes the first move. He leans in close, cool lips pressing to the juncture of your neck, working his way to your pulse point and leaving a trail of hot, needy kisses on your warming skin. Not one to be outdone, Caleb joins in, his kisses on the other side of your neck making your core clench, a shiver of heat running up your spine. The sensation of two men licking and sucking down your neck and jaw fills you with a flash of pure, hedonistic greed. Their bodies press closer, almost smothering you with their combined heat. 

Sharp pain blooms from where their teeth dig into your sensitive skin, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You need them both, parched for their affection and attention.

Caleb grunts when Zayne tangles a hand in your hair, tipping your head up further to give them better access to your neck. A warm tongue runs down the side of your throat, dipping to your clavicle where a necklace with an apple charm and snowflake pendant dangle enticingly.

Quick hands make quicker work of your clothes, shedding them to the floor, leaving you in just a pair of ratty, old cotton panties.

Caleb’s palm trickles down the terrain of your stomach, and slips under the loosening band, finding you soaked all the way through for them. He gathers the oozing droplets of glistening juices, smearing it all around your sweetly trembling clit, watching with hooded eyes as you tremble and gasp. 

Zayne takes your tits, his slightly cooler mouth trailing across the plush flesh, leaving goosebumps in the wake. Ahh-mhmm, you moan when his tongue starts to flicker over your right nipple in fast, little licks, before enveloping the whole of his mouth around the juicy mound, his other hand busy tweaking your other nipple. 

Somehow, the small couch doesn’t break from the combination of all three of your bodies on it. Even if it did, you’re hard-pressed to care—not when Zayne hooks your thigh over his, and Caleb spreads your other. There’s only a flimsy barrier left keeping your precious cunt from their prying fingers, tongues, and cocks, and like bloodhounds, your two lovers zero in on their target.

It was a mistake to take both a talented surgeon and a brilliant fighter pilot into your sheets. They’re relentless—precise. Neither Caleb nor Zayne would stop until they leave you a quivering, well-fucked mess.

Caleb tears your panties off, and in a swift motion, kneels onto the floor, as Zayne continues to play with your cherry blush tips, working your nipples to stiff points with his fingers and tongue. It’s all a hazy blur.

You feel Caleb’s tongue part through your folds, messily lapping you up like you’re the fountain of life and he’s been starved of manna for too long. 

Zayne groans around the plushness of your luscious tits in his mouth, his hard-on making an imprint on your hip. You grind back on him as Caleb spears you through with his tongue, sampling you with the finesse of a foodie consuming his favorite cunt. He starts to swirl his tongue on your clit. Zayne bites down on your left nipple.

A pleasure, frenzy cry flies from your lips. You gasp and writhe like a worm on hot concrete, feeling a pair of slender, scarred fingers slipping into your mouth, forcing you to choke on their impeccable length. You’re oozing all over Caleb’s chin. 

This scene is too taboo—too erotic. Two men, equally sculpted by the gods, pleasuring you like you’re a deity on the altar. You feel like you’re on the verge of the biggest orgasm of your life. Close is never close enough when it comes to Caleb and Zayne. 

Caleb moans and the vibrations send a shockwave through your entire body. Zayne massages your chest, taking care to nip and suck on your neck, too, his large palm sliding up your thighs.

 Not content to use his tongue, Caleb starts to employ his fingers. You sometimes forget how big he is. Though no match for his cock, his fingers are equally as formidable. Slender and nimble, with precision from his years of handling guns, he hooks around your cunt, fingers drumming into that sweet spot that makes your toes curl. From the root of your womb to your clit, you’re tensing. Zayne notices your thighs shaking and hums. He gently rolls your nipples, tugging on them lightly, and pinching the blushing buds.

“She’s close,” he observes. 

Endless streams of moans and whines slip from your swollen lips. You’re cross-eyed, gripping onto Zayne’s wrist with one hand and the other clutching onto Caleb’s hair. Your older brother figure moans into your folds, while your childhood friend flicks his wrist, pinching down harder on your throbbing nipples. You lurch forward, unable to stifle a loud cry, and like a burst of flames, you alight, your orgasm washing over you in tremendous waves.

Caleb doesn’t stop eating you out, and Zayne captures your lips with his, needing to taste your surrender right on his tongue. You jerk like a puppet on strings and whine right into the heat of Zayne’s mouth. The stimulation is too much—all at once. Caleb peppers kisses on your thighs and he glances at you, catching your eye, licking his glistening lips.

“Good girl.” Zayne praises you in a low, husky voice. “Came so well for us… now, it’s time for you to return the favor.”

He puts you on his lap, yanking his sweatpants down impatiently. Caleb positions his bigger build behind you, slotting his thighs around Zayne’s, taking up the rear—literally. His kisses brush your shoulder, and you turn back to catch his lips in a sensual, slow kiss where your tongues tangle together in a heated dance.

“Nmh—princess,” Caleb groans, running his hands up and down your sides.

Thank goodness for sturdy, wide couches. Zayne maneuvers you to sink on him, your previous release making you slick enough to take him right to the hilt. In your periphery, you hear Caleb grabbing a plastic bottle, and popping the lid. Cool, slippery lube drips between your cheeks, and you feel the head of his cock prepping to sink inside of your other untameable entrance. 

You shiver at the feel of him, and he growls under his breath. “Fuck—so tight.” 

The sound of Caleb cursing makes you clench down on Zayne, who also curses, and you whine. “Please,” you breathe, “Please take me—”

It's a tangle of limbs and messy kisses. Zayne kisses you. Caleb takes his turn. Both their lips also meet, with you smack in the middle to witness the sight of them French-kissing each other in sheer desperation. 

God, you groan inwardly. That’s fucking hot. 

You’re so full. Where Zayne begins, Caleb ends, and you feel them rubbing against each other. In and out. Over and over again. 

Until the sofa begins to creak. The room starts to spin. You’re clinging onto Zayne for dear life while Caleb looms behind you, his hands digging into your hips. He’s using his Evol to steady himself against falling backward. Mean and fast, his tip batters into your upper rim, while Zayne makes the concave of your pussy his home, his mushroom head bouncing against your cervix in firm plap plap plaps. “Fucckk,” Caleb drawls, smearing a messy kiss into the crook of your neck. He whines and flinches, teeth digging into the soft skin of your pliable, oh-so-defenceless neck. 

“Baby, you taste so fucking sweet,” he growls into your ear, “F-fucck, sweetness, I could eat you up for days.” 

“She’s perfect,” Zayne grits out, pumping his hips in a frenzy, pushed right to the edge; his eyes darkened and dewy with lust. “Ah, shit—” he bites out. His plush lips razor through your paper thin skin, bringing a bloom of heat developing on your already decorated neck. 

Over and over, they consume you. 

“S’good girl,” Caleb babbles right into the crook of your neck, every pump of his thrusts filling you deeper and deeper till you’re stuffed. Gritting out, he bites down on your jugular, nasty and hard, “Such a fucking good girl for us, baby.” His eyes transfix on your pretty lil’ hole stretching out on his cock, how you’re so good for the both of them—taking two thick dicks like a champ. His nostrils flare, and he gulps down a lungful of your sinful fragrance, catching Zayne’s eye.

“Looks like our little princess has been practicin’.”

The older man mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a low, drawn out fucckkk. Goody-two shoes Zayne, swearing, was not on Caleb’s bingo card for the year. But, shit—he can’t blame the Doc. Your pussy is a vice grip, making sweet, little squelches, a symphony he can never get enough. 

Zayne pitches his head forward to lap and suck your neck, while Caleb slips his hands between your thighs to move his fingers against you, rubbing firm circles that have you seeing stars. 

In a matter of minutes, the coil tightens again. 

You tense and cry out, a trickle of treacly drool dripping down your chin. 

A warm tongue laps it up, and your head is bent back, almost poltergeist style, as Caleb slurps on your tongue and moans. Zayne busies himself in between your plush tits, leaving bite marks on them. You’re folding—fast. The tension snaps like a band.

You’re gushing and creamin’ all over, a bit of squirt getting on Zayne’s abdomen and trickling down to Caleb’s thighs. Thick arms wrap around your neck, putting you in a headlock as he thrusts into you hard and fast, their tips bumping deep inside of you. Zayne feels Caleb past the flimsy barrier of your canals, and it would’ve been gross if it didn’t feel so… right. 

The ends of his ears scorch with a blushing intensity, and Zayne looks as if he’s just imbibed a sip of alcohol. Dazy-eyed and with his brows furrowed together, the sight of his unhinged and lustful expression makes you want to come again. Caleb grunts into your ear, and he tips your head back, letting you come face to face with the dark desire in his gaze—waiting to just devour you. 

“Shit.”

“Oh, baby—”

In a fit of simultaneous need, the two men explode deep inside you, filling you up to the brim with warmth. It triggers your own smaller release, and by the time the world stops spinning, you’re lying on a broad chest with someone’s arms wrapped around you. 

Caleb tightens his grip while Zayne buries his face in your hair. 

Miraculously, the sofa manages to hold all three of you. Really—whoever hates Ikea doesn't know the wonders of a Jattebo for threesomes. 

“You okay, love?” Zayne whispers into your neck, and you sigh, nodding. Caleb kisses the top of your head, and in your periphery, he reaches over and twines his fingers with Zayne’s. 

The subtle gesture of affection and acceptance is all you need.

As the morning gives way to the afternoon, you find solace in the comfort of the two men you will forever love. 

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost, claim as your own or feed my content to AI learning tools.

TES oc time because I’ll always be weak for 4E (skyrim era). Info below the cut

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I was there the day the strength of tumblr staff failed.

ROOT ROT

possessed!scholar husband x reader |18+| 3.4k

following your husband's return from his deceased uncle's estate, he has not been the same man. you confide in your husband's best friend and colleague on the matter of these eccentricities, only for him to resurface a depraved recent past.

story warnings; dead dove do not eat, explicit sexual content, major dubcon, sort of coercion, implied double penetration, mentioned voyeurism, cumshot on stomach, cum eating, graphic + horrific details, unrequited love (ox to reader), smoking, drinking, heavy prose + detail, roughly proofread.

reposted from my old blog: theoxenfree

this is a concept piece and follow up to imposter. you don't have to read it, but it definitely helps for understanding!!

please leave feedback + reblog, it would mean a lot!!

“He is simply not himself!”

Bartolomé Medina knew his best friend better than you knew your husband, so you believed him when he said that your husband’s newly acquired, increasing eccentricities were not some fictitious imagining of yours.

Although, Medina himself could not explain the unexplainable and all of the oddness without growing visibly flustered. A bit flushed in the face, singeing the roundness of his ears. He'd stamp out your justifications for strangeness in the same way he did the fine cigars he'd been accustomed to sharing with his friend, yet had not for quite sometime now.

“And you say his garden is dead?” Medina looked stricken with dread, suddenly ill by repeating something so blasphemous. “Now, my dear, please don't mistake my shock as disbelief. I very much believe in what you're saying. I've seen Solomon and his weirdness! Why, just this morning over breakfast, at a time where you were still tucked away in deep sleep, he wouldn't drink his coffee. So bizarre! That man knows the thousands of tastes and varieties of coffee beans, and he spat the very stuff out on the floor like it'd never once touched his tongue!

“But his garden? A botanist without his garden is like a bird without wings. A dog without a tail to wag. A newborn without his mother’s teat! Vulgar, I understand, but you see my point.” He drank from a heavy glass in his hand. The inside had nearly spilled over at one point with light brown which glittered gold under the overhead light, smelling slightly sour and earthy. “To think that Solomon would let it all die. Something is wrong. Something has happened to my only true friend and to your husband.”

You did not drink with any enthusiasm or anguish from your own cup, rather you used those seconds of delicate sipping to gap the conversation, separate yourself from it all for just a moment. You'd had your time to grieve and contend with knowing the man you had married and come to love was not the same one who kept you awake at night.

Solomon had once been a reclusive and reticent man, the only son of David Agrippa and sole heir of the Agrippa Diamond Mines and Jewelry Galleria. He'd never been able to replicate his father's ardor for business and entrepreneurship, choosing towards academic ventures of entomology and botany and most of everything belonging to the natural world instead.

Among his most prized things was a sprawling, domed greenhouse made of large sheets of pale blue-green glass soldered with metal which shifted rose-gold in bright daylight.

“I loved his garden, but I didn't much like to be in there with him,” you confessed, forgetting your manners as you kept your cup still against your lips, mumbling your words. “He liked to tell me about the plants and flowers he grew. Most of it I could never hope to understand, but… I loved seeing him come alive. He seemed to glow when he could tell me things, so I got into the habit of listening to him when he wanted to speak.”

Medina, not yet drunk or driven to any untoward behavior, set aside his empty vessel with jittering ice cubes and looked at you admiringly. “You said that you didn't like being in there with him? Why?”

“The bees. The bugs. The humidity. The fertilizer he liked to use because of the nitrogen content. He told me that it mattered what he used and couldn't just break up soil from the yard.” You said, tilting your cup.

After taking another sip, you determined you hated the taste of the liquor and how it slid down along your throat like fire trailing an oil spill, yet clung there with residual, syrupy stickiness that nearly made you gag.

“Why did you keep going inside?” Medina asked tranquilly, much of his previous frustration softened, body and soul warmed by the alcohol and how fondly he regarded your sweetness towards his friend.

You thought very little before answering, “I wanted to be where he was. It didn't matter to me if that meant his greenhouse or the coldest part of the arctic.”

That was the truth of it. Once you'd received the first crumbs of understanding who Solomon truly was beneath his stolid exterior built brick-by-brick from tragedy and grief and a lifetime of emotional ineptitude, you would've gone to any length to see more of him. To see his pale eyes gain a wild, flickering candlelight of passion, and the faintest of trembling smiles disguising how deeply your questions had aroused his soul.

In those moments, he revealed to you the things he loved the most and what you envied the most: the natural world.

The flittering, fat-bodied pollinators whose entire world were yellow and red flowers with succulent centers and lush, girthy leaves where they'd rest their weary, iridescent wings and could never understand your husband's appreciation of them.

The thousands of specimens he'd collected from every corner of the world and articulated thoughtfully against wood and felt. Their dead little limbs were pinned in place; perfect mimicry of how they would've been if still alive and crawling. He’d had them all meticulously framed and arranged across the walls in his office; trophies of his success, of his studies and hard work.

The innumerable plants and flowers he trimmed and watered in his greenhouse and the ones not contained within it. Some species he had planted in the yard, others in the cool shade of the nearby woods where they smothered native varieties with tendrils-like vines and climbed upside trees. More aquatic species were placed by the edge of the lake, growing into the water; buoyant; a woman's deep dark hair reaching forever for the surface.

He had turned the lonely, sprawling estate into a monument of life, of love that did not belong to you. And for that, sometimes you hated living there. Hated the things that he loved.

Choking the plants, poisoning their roots with any number of things from your father’s pharmacy crossed your mind more than once.

Feeding the bees something enticingly sweet and deadly; filling the greenhouse with noxious gas at night while they slept on their big leaves and your husband in his bed. It would've been such an easy thing for you to do—own your husband's grief as you held his face in your hands and comforted him in the morning when all had atrophied and rotted.

But, those feelings had become a reality you truly never wished to have seen after Solomon returned from his deceased uncle's estate months ago.

He was not the same man.

“Tell me what happened.” Medina’s voice buzzed in your ear from nearby, closer than it had been before. Your hand was caressed by tight warmth—his holding yours, his handsome face looking up at you from where he had crouched in front of your chair. “Tell me everything you've seen. It's of grave importance that you remember it all, as curing Solomon from his affliction relies solely upon you.”

You could not deny his earnestness, the squeeze of his fingers. A promise that he would not be easily shattered by what you had to say, and would think no less of his friend for it. Within his sincere stare, you saw the gleam of another, secret promise. The likes of which you pretended not to see, that he'd never speak of out loud.

“I…” you distracted yourself with the embroidery on your clothes, pinching loose threads and beads. “It was subtle, at first. I noticed some of the bees were dead on the ground. And then some plants had started developing spots. Leaves turned brown and yellow and fell off. A lot of them withered, even though their soil was still damp when I checked…”

And then, the morning came where you witnessed Solomon among a carnage of broken stalks weeping foul-smelling sap, leaves he'd ripped apart with his own hands, and some of his larger flowering plants with fiery manes completely severed. Their bountiful heads lay at his feet, flattened by the heel of his boot as he walked aimlessly, snipping and tearing indiscriminately.

“My god, Solomon! Stop!” you stepped around the countless tiny, contracted bodies of bees and other pollinators to reach him. He let go of the gardening shears as you grabbed them. “What are you doing?! What have you done?! Decades of work! Gone! Are you mad?!”

“Well, you've gone and ruined my surprise for you. I've been working on it for hours. I didn't expect you would be awake so soon.” Solomon said, sounding much like himself despite the savagery he stood surrounded by. He smiled at you in an unfamiliar way, as if trying to navigate his facial muscles around a mask. “Isn't it simply wonderful?”

The sweltering humidity trapped within this greenhouse of death had turned the air stagnant and foul, heavily pungent of detritus and mildew. Across all zones of the greenhouse, once painstakingly organized and labeled for the purpose of easier cataloging, no slithers of greenery or color remained. Each step you took in any direction seemed to sink you deeper into the decay, wet gurgling underfoot as you crossed stumpy mounds of plants and flowers he'd destroyed and thrown into piles.

“How could you? My husband spent almost twenty years building this garden and studying it. This was his life’s work!” You wished you could force life back into the severed plants; pray that the ground of yellow-brown waste would suddenly freckle with tiny, green sprouts and grow with thick stalks and thorns to keep his hands away.

“I am your husband.” Solomon took the gardening shears from your hand and tossed them aside. He leaned into your body, nose and lips pressed into the fabric covering your neck. “I've only done what you wanted. What you wished you could've done yourself, but never did.”

You flinched against the movement of his hands smoothing down your waist to the notches in your hips. Sliding inward, he unfastened the hook-and-loops and buttons holding your trousers up to push them down your thighs along with your undergarments.

“I know your thoughts and what you really think. I've been listening the entire time. I've always been listening.” Solomon let his hips roll along the back of his hand while he used his fingers to lay long, languid strokes on you. “It was tiring, wasn't it? Always competing for love and affection in a place like this. You were never going to have what you wanted. Not with this place still standing. Not with his ineptitudes and selfishness.”

His touch weakened you indescribably; like the caress of heat from the fireplace against your bare skin once the opium had taken effect. Swapping tiny pills on wet tongues with your maid until they'd dissolved into saliva and into your cheeks. You explored one another's bodies thoroughly on those cold nights, silky with sweat from the fire and exertion.

Yet, this was not the same as back then when the sexual appetite of two teenagers transcended societal morals.

Solomon encompassed you in a feeling; consumed you without ever digging into you with his teeth or nails. He could whisper hideous secrets and depravities to you to tip you over into searing euphoria. He had once penetrated you with a hot metal phallus resting on top of his own, thrusting with both until the metal cooled, and you still came anyway.

He'd put worse inside your body and done far worse than that in only a few short months since returning home, yet he never tired of the torture and you remained malleable and enthralled by it all.

“God, you are so beautiful. And you are mine.” Solomon had maneuvered both your bodies to the ground, atop of the soggy detritus. Your back was exposed to the mush, leaves, and crushed flower petals, weight pushing an indentation in the loose soil. “This is the fruition of your desires, darling. Don't you love it? Destroying what he loved so you could have it all?”

The one who came back to you was not Solomon; the one fucking you into waste and dirt was not Solomon, either. You told yourself you needed to love imposter as well, because he looked like your husband; wore his signet ring, too.

At night, you imagined only his softest expressions behind clenched eyelids when he wanted to have his way with you, as something else entirely took his place. A creature so diabolical and unsightly that the servants now awaited your screams to rouse them awake in the murky midnight hours.

Every time they arrived with their candlesticks and oil lanterns, the thrusting spectre receded into the dark as a black mass hardly distinguishable from shadow.

Only Solomon would remain, and he was swift to send the servants away before they could see your improper, disheveled state sprawled across the bed sheets.

In the daytime light, his face stayed familiar and comforting to you and you could bear to see him, form some coherent words.

“Someone might—might see us out here, Solomon. Mr. Medina is supposed to—oh, oh, mmm—he’s due to arrive at any time.” You were given several long kisses, which turned into severe caresses of hot breath when his thrusts turned savage, cock reaching so deep you were starting to feel numb below the waist. A feverous response. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

He adjusted himself to lay on your chest, the sweat on your bodies offering an effortless glide and new angle for his cock that made your moans deeper and dire. Such sounds, whether in agony or pleasure, were melodious to him. Addicting drags from a pipe in an opium den; an alcoholic's first sip at breakfast; a cheating man's night with a new lover.

“Wouldn't you like for them to see that? For someone to witness you being fucked into the ground? Surrounded by everything their master loved?” Solomon tucked his face into the curve of your neck and groaned, hips slow and stuttering. “Bartolomé would be the one to find it most tantalizing. His only friend in the world ruining the only person he's ever loved. Wouldn't that be a sight? We could invite him to watch.”

At the time, it had been quite jarring to learn Bartolomé harbored those silent, ardent feelings for you. It had sufficiently pulled you from whatever trance Solomon had lulled you into, reacquainting you with all the sounds of sex and the filth clinging to your skin. It was as though your mind had been locked into a mostly airless, noiseless void that he controlled and released at will.

You held tight to his shoulders as he molded you deeper into the muck and plant litter. The squat, friable walls of soil holding your shape like the cushions in a tomb, whereas Solomon was the man lowering you into the dark earth; the last to see your face before covering it in clay and dirt.

He was in your ear with loud moans that resonated through you, simultaneously as carnal as a beast amidst its seasonal rut, and velvety as the feathery smooth glide of fingers down your spine. His throat rumbled against you, resembling the intensity of a purring housecat nestled near your head in contentment.

At his tipping point, he removed his cock from your body and used the slippery stuff glistening off it to stroke himself; weepy, deep red tip to the base. You received the aftermath of his release in thick ropes across your abdomen and chest, the warmth of it already cooling on your skin while he continuously kneaded the head to force out what remained as if they were dewdrops made from pearls.

“How do you think Bartolomé would fare seeing you like this?” Solomon swept two fingers through the cum in an elegant curl to smear it around his cock. The viscous white thinned into pale gloss on his girth and a sticky residue inside his hand.

Your lips parted to give an answer, but his fingers and taste were faster than your words.

“And… that is all? Truly?” Bartolomé asked, shattering your visions of the recent past as he revealed a compact silver case from inside his vest, pulling a cigarette from within it. “You simply walked into the garden one morning and saw that he had destroyed everything? He gave you no explanation whatsoever?”

The imposter had stolen much of your dignity over the months, but enough of it remained for you to omit every significant detail from your story. You'd only told him that Solomon had cut the heads off of rare flowers, mumbled in a disorienting way, and gave you no difficulty with the gardening shears.

Bartolomé went away from your side for an open window across the spacious sitting room, matching his cigarette and blowing gray plumes out into the dense summer air.

“This is concerning.” He spoke loud enough for you to hear, even with his thumbnail tracing the underside of his lower lip, muffling him somewhat. “Solomon is considerably worse off than I first thought. We need to investigate this, retrace his every step since the moment he left you that night for his uncle's estate.”

“Oh, Bartolomé, that will be very unnecessary.” Solomon announced himself as he walked in through the open doors, offering you a tepid smile, which came nowhere close to reaching his eyes. Your chair jostled slightly as he stood behind it, a weighty hand landing on the tall back above your head. “Why trouble yourself with employing some ludicrous scheme when you could, ah, inquire as to what haunts you instead?”

Bartolomé tamped out his cigarette on the windowsill and pocketed it. “You are ill, Solomon. You may be suffering from some form of hysteria. It's time you visited a doctor, my old friend.”

“Well, that just isn't true.” Solomon kept the neutrality in his tone, but you tracked a rumble of agitation; a warning not far off. His hand followed the curvature of the chair down to the arm that you leaned against, fingers touching your shoulder, lightly kneading you through your clothes.

He was sure to be in Bartolomé’s eyesight as he did this, further aggravating the heavy disquiet. You didn't dare to move out of reach of his touch.

“But, it is true, Solomon!” Bartolomé insisted, gesturing toward the window. “What of your garden? All of your life's work now means nothing, you damned fool! You've snapped, old boy. See a doctor before you do something you regret.”

“That garden was more a source of misery than it was a boon. At any rate, I'm quite finished listening to you harp at me for one night, my dear friend.” Solomon lightly stroked down your cheek with bent fingers, coaxing you to look up at him. “It's time for bed, darling. Us impropertious brutes have kept you up for too long.”

You hesitated, and then stood when Solomon took your arm. “Alright.”

“As usual, your accommodations should exceed expectations. I'll have a servant wake you for breakfast again tomorrow.” It was too soon to call those Solomon's departing words to Bartolomé, as he stopped with you in the doorway, your hand caressing the meat of his forearm. “You know, Bartolomé, I would recommend marrying soon. There is no greater feeling than having the one you love so close to you, don't you think?”

Bartolomé became unreadable as he fished a hand into his vest pocket for the cigarette case again. You were led away for the bedroom before anything else could be said, but you knew that Solomon had struck a nerve.

“That was cruel.” you said.

Once in the bedroom, your back was pressed flush to the door while he unfastened the buttons to your outerwear and the blouse underneath it. Solomon kissed your lips slowly, first, before moving underside your jaw after shucking you down to your undergarments.

“And you are mine. You made your vows to me. Remember that, my sweet.”

You watched him strip out of his clothes and then stroke the length of his cock until it was hard.

“I married someone else. Not you.”

As he dimmed the lights within the space, sweeping the bedroom under a shroud of near pitch black, your annoyance shifted into a swell of anxiety both freezing cold and burning hot. Your body pulsed in rhythm with your wild heartbeat, throat clenched as tightly as infantile flower buds.

You waited for Solomon to touch you, startling once he finally did. His fingers had elongated and sharpened, his touch now far more delicate and methodical.

“Don't worry, he’s still in here with me.”

I also wanted to give a shout-out to many good Gojo x Y/N fanfics so I’ll be giving you a list of them that are 10/10 *Gorden Ramsey chef’s kiss* In my opinion, I hope that my recommendation will satisfy your needs for new Gojo x Y/N fanfics to read. [I WILL PUT AN 18+, IF IT HAS SMUT OR EVEN MENTIONS TAG OF SMUT, EVEN IF IT’S ONLY ONE SINGLE SEX SCENE!]

ALSO! Please be aware that most of the fan-fics that I am recommending to you will have smut and (some mature adult theme) they all will at least have tags so you will at least be aware of what kind of content you’ll be getting yourself into. (Yes I am aware of your adult age, yes I am aware that you are responsible for the stuff that you see on your own accord and that you can take care of yourself, I just want to play things safe as I do not wish to accidentally trigger you in any way, just in case.)

akatsukinorequiem on Ao3

Six feet Under (18+)

(By the time that I am writing this the series is almost complete.)

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fanficbrainrots on Ao3 & Tumblr

A Siren’s Sound

Through A Mother’s Eyes (TAME) (18+)

Cursed Love (18+)

-------------------------

iloveboobs123 on Ao3

The Etterach and The Relived (series)

Cursed Contracts  (18+)

(Status is completed; Pairings are Gojo/Y/N, Shoko/Y/N, and Geto/Y/N)

Skirts (18+)

A side story for Cursed Contracts

5 Conserts And 1 Death (18+)

(Almost done, nearly complete; And has more than 1 pairing other than Gojo; Toji/Y/N, Sukuna/Y/N, Geto/Y/N etc, etc,)

-------------------------

Kirita (jeralee) on Ao3

Entropy (18+)

--------------

nezuscribe on Ao3 & Tumblr

His Kiss, The Riot (18+)

(one-shot)

-----------------

quirklessidiot on Ao3 & Tumblr

Minazuki (18+)

(Series has been fully completed on Tumblr, Author has an Ao3, unfortunately the author is no longer on Tumblr as they’ve lost motivation to write.) 🙁

------------------------

Petrichorium on Ao3 & Tumblr

The King is But a Man (series)

The King is But a Man Drabbles

Flower Crowns

Empty Beds

Shortcake Crumbs

--------------------------

saintobio on Ao3 & Tumblr

Sincerely Not (18+)

(Series has been fully completed, on Tumblr, Author also has an Ao3, Has a Season 2 called Sincerely Yours, but was unfortunately taken down due to the too much toxic community that Saint had. 🙁)

----------------

septembersummer on Ao3 & Tumblr

Moonlight (18+)

(The series is still on-going)

--------------------

ToonyTwilight on Ao3

Love, Death, and Circuits 

(chefs kiss~<3*)

What A Wonderful World 

:D

--------------------

tomodachi on Ao3 + Quotev

Ukiyo-Ikigai-Mamoritai: The Gojos' Marriage Series

Ukiyo (18+)

(Series has been completed)

Ikigai 

(Series is still on-going)

Assumptions 

(one-shot)

You and Me (18+)

(I know you’ve read this one but I still wanna recommend it. 😀)

Being Kept

Good god, just LOOK at this wealth of fics!! 🤯 I'll be reading them all, thank youuu!

Also a shoutout to my personal babes within this list:

Kirita (jeralee) - she was very glad to be recommended in your list 💗 Her tumblr is @imjeralee

And my forever babes September and Saint, whose tumblrs you've already mentioned 🥰

Incredible works all around ❤️❤️❤️