kamesama

[kamesama]

Hiii, I have a request!💗 Sukuna finds another woman and replace reader, but the reader is pregnant and Sukuna doesn’t know and she was gonna tell him tonight but she ends up seeing him with another women and it breaks her heart and she leaves the room be fire they could even notice her, and the readers heart is broken and due from the heartbreak she ends up losing the baby and Sukuna finds her covered in blood from the miscarriage, but he ends comforting her and he regrets what he did. Pretty please make it as angsty as possible with a happy ending!💞🥹

i got similar ask here that i declined for a few reasons. this one has the same vibe, though additionally, i don't write pregnancies and miscarriages. i appreciate the request, but i won't write this.

[kamesama]

fight me but these still remain the rawest two paragraphs i have ever written and i want to rip my heart out.

— a little death: ryōmen sukuna.

— notes + warnings: reposted. n/sfw because i said so. death. kind of depressing. first time writing for jjk / sukuna. — word count: 1044

death played many roles. took many forms. far too many. 

you’ve seen some of them; in white hospitals, in remnants of wrecks by the road, in your nightmares. you could taste it. smell it. track its outline with your digit. 

and you didn’t need a single word of confirmation to point out that you were looking at death, then and there.

it was not a walking corpse, with its skull peeking out of some worn-down black cloth stinking of wet earth and spoiled flesh. it didn’t carry a scythe over its shoulder, nor an hourglass at its hip.

no. no.

it had a glorious frame; arrogant. skin and face marked with ink lines; pitch black and quietly sinister. crimson eyes; keen and seeing. and a grin; crooked and downright malicious.

your body screamed, screeched and howled. naturally. your heart stomped and pumped your blood so hot and heavy it nearly made you light-headed. only for a moment, though. just a single, initial moment — like a promising prologue.

your feet melted into the ground covered in ancient bones and murky waters. muscles and movement utterly betrayed you despite an instinct shouting at you to run. fingers trembling. breath shaking. you stood like some poor, cornered thing counting the teeth of its slaughterer.

and, nonetheless, a part of you desired those teeth. or whatever could possibly find you within the belly of this cul-de-sac. 

the crooked smile was no more. it hung downwards, as if overwhelmed by the weight of a sudden disappointment. it pained you for a split-second; like an arrow piercing the flesh, passing through and barely — just barely — closing the wound in its wake. porcelain, marked skin wrinkled and twisted into an expression of pity.

“why aren’t you running.”  there was not a single curve in his tone indicating a question; only leaden discontent at the dull languor. disgust, even.

and he got closer, looking down at you as if you’d suddenly found yourself on your knees. you could see the invisible blood stains; hands marred by sins, tarnished so greatly and beyond salvation. strong, demanding energy emanated from the pores of his aura; cruelty oozed out of them relentlessly. one single heartbeat overwhelmed you with fear so grand that it twisted your gut, grasped your chest, clawed your throat, and moistened your eyes. 

it seemed to please him, for a glint shimmered in his eye like the evening star. his eyebrows rose as if in sweet delight, smile once more breaking out onto the surface. his voice was heartless, yet his words were like a merry chirp.

“don’t look at me like that. it’s unsightly.”

a hand on your head, contact seemingly feather-like but heavy enough to force your gaze downwards. his touch was burdened with something terrible; like the stainless blade of the guillotine hanging above the nape of your neck so intensely that you could nearly imagine it had a breath of its own. 

“dear, there is no fight in you. this isn’t any fun.”

blank moment. a second-worth of void and emptiness. a white page. untouched snow. board wiped clean. 

and a realisation right after.

terror settled into your bones. smell of an end looming overwhelmed your senses. all accompanied by a quiet whisper of self-loathing. 

this was it — a final moment. one last suffering.

you were afraid. the tears on your face were a tell-tale sign of it. 

but what else could you do other than embrace it?

your movements were like a gasp, sudden and desperate and pushing your body to jerk itself into an impetuous action. desperately, your arms wrapped around the firm waist of your executioner, grip tight like that of a child holding onto its mother’s skirt. 

you could hear that crooked smile widen. you could hear it even above a shattered, lowly sob that crawled out of your throat with anything but decency and fairness. 

“oh? look at you. pathetic…” claws ran over your scalp and slithered their way down the outline of your ear, down your neck. they felt like cold needles, sending frigid shivers down your spine and leaving frost on your bones. they felt so loving. 

“shh… you know what’s coming, don’t you? pity you aren’t running away and trying your best, but this works too. say, you know what’s going to happen, right? you know you’re going to die, right? for no good reason. really, for no good reason at all.” 

fingers gripped your chin with a painful, stinging touch. 

you met that gaze; callous. crimson. cruel.

another heartbeat brimming with fear shot through you. a bullet. a warning. your muscles desired so desperately to spring into action, to choose flight. 

you simply couldn’t.

a cut on your skin appeared, resembling a string of a spider’s web. droplets of your blood appeared like beads of water hanging on those strands, glorious. there was a steady wave of pain so thick you believed your jaw would be rendered useless within seconds. your teeth could no longer bear enough strength to leave a bite.

tears overflowed.

“do you want to leave? you can’t. it’s scary out there.” he cooed, his words comforting, sweet. yet, everything in his eyes told you that he knew that he was the scariest thing out there. and he knew that you knew.

and yet, you did not lament your unsightly, looming death.

you wanted it served to you on such a plate. 

you were spoon-fed so many lies that his condolences tasted like honey. you swallowed them eagerly. too eagerly. you patted your own back in the dreadful mornings, in the dead hours and in the long showers. it made the way he petted your head – dripping with ill-intent and forged sympathy — ironically comforting. a cruel i love you spoken after a scolding.

yet, no matter how false, distorted, gruesome his touch was, the tormenting hell of it was better than the one with unwashed coffee mugs, empty seats at the table, and hollow feelings invoked by your mother’s words. better than the soulless silence with an apparition of a lover.

this was the greatest fantasy, the supreme lie and, at the same time, the most crystalline reality.

it cut your skin. it slit your muscles and it shattered your ribs. 

it tore your heart out.

thank you for reading! — kamesama.

#self reblog #kame rambles #don't mind me i'm feeling some type of way

[kamesama]

I’ve been dying to see some Sukuna aftercare after some -ahem- rough play. 🥺👉🏽👈🏽 plssss I absolutely adore your writing style

yes. absolutely yes. i'm eating this up.

— lovely: ryōmen sukuna.

— notes + warnings: n/sfw because post-coital bliss; implied rough sex; lots of synonyms for 'wet'; otherwise i'm still your domestic fluff provider™, just a lil' spicy; female! reader x human? sukuna ( idk ); i literally don't know what else to say. — word count: 637

pearls of sweat spilled open across your skin, sticking to the linen bed-sheets. tension melted off your muscles and dampened the mattress. bedroom walls lapped up leftovers of your moans as you heaved, ribcage expanding only to have the thews in between the arched bones squeeze your breaths out.

with sukuna rolled away from you, your blush red thighs pressed against one another, as if to savour whatever remains of the gratification laid lurking between them. the movement was not so subtle, earning you a deep chuckle that seemed to scratch sukuna’s throat through layers of honey; sweet and thick.

a light shift of weight upon the dents in the cushion lead to an uncharacteristically tender kiss planted above the vertebra proudly standing between your scapulae. 

“always so insatiable, aren’t you?” sukuna’s voice dripped onto your skin, hot and balmy. his own lungs devoured the air more eagerly than usual; a giveaway that sweet exhaustion hugged him just as tightly. he extended his arm invitingly as he rolled onto his back, urging you to do the same — a demand that you satisfied swiftly and more than willingly, “come here, you naughty girl.”

your hand patted the space around you blindly, gaze too immersed in the sight of sukuna’s profile. it brought a foolishly pleased smile to your lips as you finally grasped the thin sheet, bringing it up to your loved up and bitten frame. 

sighing in delight, you laid your reddened cheek against sukuna’s skin as he pulled you close. his vast palm massaged your bare breast, fingertips trailing over the erect nipple lazily. all the while, you nuzzled into him, your nose nesting in the small depression on his neck.

stretched tendons and bruised skin wanted you to utter out a promise of never again, but the sheer delight coursing through your veins and getting sucked up by every cell in your body made you sigh yet again; an odd mixture of a moan and a groan, “it hurts, ‘kuna…” you mumbled, eyelids veiling your sight as they succumbed to the pull of exhaustion.

“does it, now?” he mused, as if utterly clueless. as if he wasn’t the culprit behind the ache in your flesh and the mulberry stains across your skin. as if he didn’t have you drench the pillow with vapour dripping off your breath and soak the linen with wetness gushing from in between your thighs.

he could feel you nod and purse your lips, “mhm.” 

with a grin, he continued to grope your breast, only for his hand to trail down the curve of your waist and across your hip bone. his amusement seemed to grow as his touch ghosted across the scorching surface of your bottom, still tainted with hand-shaped splatters of rosy red.

“whatever shall i do…” he murmured, sticking his crimson gaze to the ceiling and taking a selfish moment to savour the aftermath of his unadulterated indulgence. your breathing had calmed, your lungs no longer utterly starved. 

he liked you so; exhausted. overwhelmed. pressed against him as if he was some sort of lifeline; an anchor. 

but he couldn’t possibly leave you a tarnished mess, so sweaty and drenched, with that bothersome ache clenched around your bones. 

no. you’ve been too good, too sweet for him to let slumber take you so filthy, so ruined — even though you seemed to be slipping away already, ravished so thoroughly and screwed so senseless that you couldn’t bother to move a muscle.

it was lovely, truly.

“hey,” he called out, nudging you a little; just enough to stir you from still weak confinements of rest. goosebumps rose on his skin from the way your lashes caressed the spot on his neck, “not yet,” he chuckled, kissing your hairline as he sat up.

“not until we’re out of the bath, princess.”

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk sukuna #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #6demonize6me6 #kamesama

[kamesama]

me, desperate to swap places with my oc 💥 mentally i'm here, physically i need to grind.

#kame rambles #sukuna #jjk sukuna #this is just a lil' itsy bitsy bit of my rp

[kamesama]

thinking about soft sukuna kisses.

#too tired to do anything about these thoughts tho #but #i'm melting at the thought #😭 #kame rambles

[kamesama]

update: i'm not.

question of the day is how capable of writing a sukuna x reader that does not include sexy poetic sadomasochistic dying am i?

[kamesama]

— scapegoat: ryōmen sukuna.

— notes + warnings: this is a heavy one ( i mean it ); n/sfw, minors do not interact; virgin! fem! reader given away as a sacrifice; true-form! sukuna; non-con; violence; gore; blood; nudity; foul language; humiliation; degradation; implied character / reader death. — word count: 2166

you have never looked lovelier.

lips red with thick layer of paint; hair held up flawlessly by an ornate pin; body burdened by fine silks. chagrin and shame danced upon your cheeks, leaving blush trails in their wake. their waltz served to ridicule you, its snicker reminding that there was not a single silver lining you could find for yourself to cling to.

and how could you? 

you were a morsel sold for a mock-promise of peace. a sacrifice made for a fleeting moment of stillness. your torment would provide a single eve’s worth of undisturbed slumber, at best.

how many restful nights did you indulge in as a result of someone else’s defiled maidenhood?

the legends echoed off the rugged walls of your skulls; bed-time stories of carnage and cruelty and corpses. of a beast’s menacing frame, caked in red. of his four-eyed, garnet gaze that rolled and glided without a shred of subtlety. of his tongues; starved and shameless. of his hands; mammoth and malevolent.

will someone frighten their children with laments for you? when your bare body is devoured by ivy and when spiders nest in your empty sockets and when field flowers erupt from within your rotten ribcage out of sole pity for your snaffled chastity, will you be mourned and honoured? no one else ever was. 

had you raised your chin, you would have found him seated, one of his hands supporting his jaw in a manner that was nearly overwhelmed with boredom. but you didn’t look up — your chin nearly settled into the subtle hollow between your clavicles, as if refusal to bear witness to his horrific majesty would, somehow, render you invisible. 

if only humility could save you.

“come closer, woman,” he called out, his voice firm and profound. it made you shudder; the elaborate imagery on your gown grew blurry. 

drip.

drip.

drip.

hot droplets left dark stains upon your lap. they expanded gingerly before coming to a halt. your muscles begged you not to let them contract. the tension grew denser than honey.

“come closer,” the echo of his command was guttural, “or i’ll rip your legs off.” 

a pitiable sob escaped you, leaving you uncertain whether your grieving was due to you betraying your own thews, or to the sheer expanse of your misfortune. with trembling limbs, you stood up, cautious as not to stumble over the hems of your extravagant wrapping. every tiny step forward made your heartbeat slam louder at the bottom of your ear canal; misplaced. 

it was the mocking curvature of his belly-mouth that you first laid your gaze on. the inhuman sight pulled your eyelids wide open, exposing the glossy white of your sclera rapidly turning bloodshot.

perhaps you would have turned on your heel and succumbed to the overwhelming amounts of epinephrine coursing through your veins. perhaps you would have fled, even if it cost you anything between your heel and your hip. perhaps you would have, if his calloused fingers hadn’t gripped your jaw, coal nails disturbing the integrity of your smooth cheeks. 

the abuse was barely bloodier than a pinprick.

the force of his touch stretched your neck muscles enough to make it strenuous to swallow. he angled your head so that his eyes — four restless rubies glistening underneath the flickering candlelight — could skim across your entire face. they appeared to lick over every convexity, concavity and crevice. your vision deadened momentarily underneath a thickening layer of moisture that soon after dripped over the rims of your lids. 

“you’re pretty for a whore,” he hummed, his lips arching upwards into a vicious grin, but his amusement withered just as swiftly, “or is it that pesky paint?” he tutted, “they always tuck you in those bothersome shrouds. what for?” his thumb rubbed across your bottom lip, smearing the bold red hue onto the surrounding skin. he cocked his head to the side, his eyes sparkling with a heterogenous mixture of exasperation and entertainment.

“have you got no tongue?” his grip parted your lips as he slid two digits into your wet, warm mouth to caress your teeth, gums and tongue with a callous touch, “there it is,” you could feel your flesh gripped in-between his fingers, “do you need it?”

a perturbed hum sounded from the midst of your throat. the smallest nod — as tremendous as your confinement would allow — served to add weight to the desperation of your agreement. 

“then use it. does your kind take their women all wrapped up?” 

“no…” your voice was timid. pathetic.

“so why should i?” 

you wouldn’t know how to respond, had he given you a chance to. he pushed you away suddenly, planting a profound, dull ache into your mandible. a fog-like haze forbade you from knowing how you maintained a sloppy balance upon your two feet.

“strip, woman. let me see my gift the way it should have been presented.” there was leisure caressing his voice, absorbing into his marked skin. yet, he appeared menacing nonetheless. you clutched the front of your gown with trembling fingers, out of fear that his starved gaze alone would rid you of your decency. your spine bent slightly in an attempt to guard whatever curve wasn’t already veiled by your silken clothes. 

but that annoyed him; his patience seemed to simmer and it evaporated quickly enough to thicken the tension all the more. once again, you found it hard to swallow.

“i said, strip,” the frigid tone of his voice seemed to momentarily freeze the blood in your veins and drag your skin up into goosebumps. your breath paused in your throat, your fingernails clawing at the vivid shrouds enough to overwhelm your knuckles.

you sniffled, “please don’t.”

the voice you pleaded with was a meek thing; pitiful and demure. it would have stirred some sympathy in anyone who possessed at least a single chamber of a heart; sukuna barely had an excuse for the whole thing. 

“please don’t?” he parroted, his voice heavy with cruel amusement. you could hear the wickedness in his words; as carnivorous and as famished as his eyes. the wood cried out from underneath the soles of his bare feet as he stood up, an enormous shadow devouring your frame. his fingers dove into the strands of your hair, disarraying the style it was carefully arranged into; the stunning hairpin fell without a complaint. he yanked your locks, pulling your head back to the point your slender neck curved into a strained arch. his misplaced mouth grinned viciously at the scene, wet tongue coating the thick lips with shameless lust. 

your eyes glistened in the flames’ glow, burdened by the bite of your tears. your lips quivered along with your fingers; it made your efforts hilariously puny as you attempted to tug on his wrist lest he easened the grip or withdrew completely, “s-stop-” you cried out, “stop!” 

the sound echoed, bouncing off the walls before dripping onto the timber floor. he tore the intricate design on your robe with a merciless jerk and ripped the girdle. the gown opened up akin to curtains to reveal every virginal secret you so obediently maintained all these years. it would have pooled in a smoothly wrinkled pile around your feet if it wasn’t for your arms stretched upwards, holding onto sukuna’s wrist in vain attempts to weaken his unyielding grip.

your skin was bared to bathe in the warm light. yet, the air was cold; icy enough to send shivers down your spine and cause your nipples to stiffen. sukuna’s carnal gaze ingurgitated you from the subtle line of the collarbone, down the valley between the breasts and all the way to the smooth curvature at the low of the belly.

his hand let not a single second go to waste; he grabbed your round flesh with all but a tender caress and pulled you closer with another tug to your hair. the accursed tongue finally indulged in the taste of your flushed skin, trailing a dripping wet line up from your navel and to the tip of your sternum. 

“i won’t stop,” he spoke, “not unless you beg better than that. beg for mercy, woman,” nothing across his features promised compassion — not his eyes, not his lips, not the ink lines ever-so-faithfully parallel to the angle of his jaw, “i may just humour you.”

how could you possibly let a thread-thin chance slip through your fingers?

“please,” you cried out in a hoarse voice. your poor hands had no idea what to do; with one you pulled at the wrist of the hand that cupped the mound on your chest, and with the other you continued your fruitless endeavour of attempting to lighten the force with which he held your locks, “please stop, i beg you, please,” you sobbed, tears pouring down your reddened cheeks whilst you sniffled so as not to let your nostrils leak.

the tension dispersed and his hold grew limp.

it was enough for you to slip out of it — just slip out of it.

sukuna caught your wrist, pulling you into his lap swiftly as he sat down onto the mat. you were caged in a way that ensured stillness, and a hush made your limbs halt, “move another muscle and i’ll taint the floor with your bowels,” his palm laid against your forehead, horrifically larger than your skull. he grinned, eating up the sight of your troubled face; reddened cheeks, wet eyelashes, whimpering mouth. your bare chest heaved as you tried your best to make your starved gasps as quiet as possible, your heart slamming against your ribs so strongly that you felt it might give out.

you wished to hug your body; to cover yourself up. shame devoured you as much as his gaze.

“good girl,” he cooed, “that’s how a bitch like you should act,” his hand pushed your head back to expose the smooth expanse of your neck. he leaned down, trailing his lips across your pulse, “obedient.” 

he pulled onto the remains of your torn gown to bare you further as his mouth abused the sweet spot where your neck merged with your shoulder — licking, nibbling, sucking. you writhed against him, your heart pounding; the fervent pulse was palpable against his scorching tongue as he lapped up the cold beads of your sweat.

“that’s more like it…” he whispered, “you should be grateful. the last one was,” his hot breath brushed against your windpipe, provoking a tickling sensation, “be honoured that i’ll take you, fill you with my seed, you insolent whore.”

his crooked smile widened as his teeth sunk into your flesh; bone-deep.

a sharp intake of breath.

silence.

a scream.

chains with which his threats held you down corroded, allowing you to writhe and kick as he chuckled through his blood-stained lips. he gripped your flesh, your thighs a canvas that he painted cherry crimson and plum purple with his fingers, ensuring that your very marrow wore his mark. he didn’t hush you again, instead letting you whine and wail. even as one of your hands broke free to slam his shoulder and slap his skull, he continued to lap up the essence with his tongue and to gnaw the flesh with his teeth.

“what did i say?” his voice slithered into your torn veins, his palm pressing across the small curvature of your stomach, right where your womb laid. it crept just a little higher, fingernails leaving thin red trails that begged to bleed. your guts twisted at the reminder; you imagined your intestines unravelled across the wood.

but it didn’t matter. 

you wanted to leave. 

you had to leave.

so he let you.

you stumbled off his thighs and onto your bare knees, attempting to crawl away. the futile endeavour bestowed upon him the lovely sight of your bruised skin and round buttocks; the appetising arch of your spine and just a glimpse of what remained untouched between your legs.

you were howling for air. crying. wailing. sobbing. 

he watched, and he listened.

closer. 

closer.

closer.

your cheekbone pressed against the hard floor, succumbing to the tremendous force. he handled your breast in his palm, fingers enclosing around the firm nipple, pulling and massaging enough to make you mewl at the bittersweetness of his lecherous touch. another hand gripped your thigh to enlarge the gap between your lush flesh. the last searched for that chaste orifice with its fingers.

against the floor, a strand of your disheveled hair soaked in a shallow mixture of your sweat, tears and saliva. your tendons pulled at your bones, fire in you yet to be extinguished. 

his touch made you shudder. your core clenched.

“don’t worry,” he comforted, “i’ll have you screaming,” he pressed against you, “clawing, rutting,” he caged your arms against the timber, “be honoured,” he reminded, his words dripping right into the shell of your ear as he besmirched you, “someone gets to sleep soundly because of you.”

ivy.

spiders.

field flowers.

you will never look lovelier.

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk sukuna #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #kamesama

[kamesama]

am not an ikepri player but i will read lorei's pairings ( and that is a threat ) because ? this writing ? supreme. sublime. stunning.

Peculiar 'I love you'

Chevalier x OC (OC Chart: Esther) Fluff ~2.2k

A few moments of quiet, daily affection shared between Esther and Chevalier. <3 (I am too giddy.)

Content Warnings: food mention

Esther sat up. Her eyes narrowed as she stared her lover down, sizing up every last tired wrinkle of his. Fully aware her voice would not get through to him now that Chevalier resolved to finish the “good scene”, she hugged his arm, put her chin on his shoulder before nuzzling into his neck, careful for her breath to tickle his skin.

Esther glanced around the kitchen. Not a soul in sight; between the copper pots and pans, whisks, wooden rolling pins, a sharp assortment of knives, and precisely eight aprons hanging on the rack by the entryway, the lack of any recent human activity indicated she must have been there by herself. Curious yet cautious, she snapped her head from side to side… to then pounce at the chip basket, wholly unsuspecting that it was, indeed, a trap.

Chevalier cleared his throat.

Esther did not react.

“Deaf” as she was at the moment, she plucked a single raspberry from the mountain of its kind. Utterly enchanted by its amaranthine spell, Esther brought it to her lips. It’s ripe sweetness did not engulf her senses, however, the fruit freezing before trespassing into her mouth. And she turned to face him. Of course, she had.

Chevalier rolled his eyes. You shouldn’t have those.

Esther scrunched up her nose. One won’t hurt me.

He sighed. Do as you please.

Pleased she was, yet hardly satisfied. Esther reached for another raspberry.

Chevalier cleared his throat. Do I seem to enjoy repeating myself?

Esther pouted. Fine, fine… Her eyes sparkled. But you —

He stepped forward and her hand raised by itself; indeed, the fruit had ripened properly that year. It was hardly as sweet as Esther’s reaction when his tongue slid against the pad of her finger, however, her wrist twitching in his grip. Chevalier smirked – she too must have matured properly, for her complexion was hardly different from the berries still sitting on the countertop.

***

It was warm, but all too angular, and Esther could not understand why.

Barely awoken, held back somewhere at the hazy border between being aware and not yet fully conscious, Esther patted the world around in search of the still undefined disturbance. Her brow furrowed and she mumbled under her breath, crawling out further from the mud of slumberous shallows. Night still shrouded the room, then seemingly constricted to the bed alone.

A candlelight-lighthouse flickered at the horizon.

“Chevka…?” Esther rubbed her eyes. She squirmed a little, a caterpillar wrapped in a duvet-cocoon by some ominous force. Her arms were freed… eventually. “You’re still…?”

A page turned, followed by another one, the fine print resembling more so lice and fleas rather than letters. Esther pushed herself up on her elbow.

“How long have you…?” she asked in disbelief. “For goodness’ sake, it’s too dark to —”

A large hand fell over her head, further ruffling the already dishevelled hair, his affection being just a little too forceful this time. Esther grabbed Chevalier by the wrist, linked her fingers with his, brought them to her chest… And his eyes remained set firmly on the book.

Esther sat up. Her eyes narrowed as she stared her lover down, sizing up every last tired wrinkle of his. Fully aware her voice would not get through to him now that Chevalier resolved to finish the “good scene”, she hugged his arm, put her chin on his shoulder before nuzzling into his neck, careful for her breath to tickle his skin.

“Chevalier…” Esther murmured into his ear, her lips just short of brushing against its shell. “Please, rest a bit.”

The answer came in a silent negative; she kissed it away, starting at his temple, through the corner of his jaw, to his cheek. Feverish in her affection, the glint in his eyes evaded her completely. Chevalier turned his head, stole her lips, stole her breath… And a new crease emerged between his brows, Esther looking up at him from her place among the sheets, still determined to thaw his resolve. The book dropped into her extended hand.

“Page four hundred sixty eight, second paragraph,” Chevalier yawned.

His head resting over her chest, Esther read out the reminder of the chapter and not a word more. Chevalier had fallen a prey to dreams before she’d even reached it just regardless.

***

Chevalier turned the page to a new chapter. Knitting needles met next to him with a soft “tap”; regardless of whether it was purposeful or not, Esther dictated the rhythm of his reading a stitch at a time. The corners of his lips twitched into a smile – he didn’t mind it, not in the slightest. Not when she kept him the company. His private library hadn’t felt desolate for a while.

Passing chapters became titles, another position disappearing from the pile to his left. Utterly occupied with the next volume of the saga, Chevalier disregarded the diminishing sunlight, or the few steps that sprung against the floorboards. He did not need to look away from the words to see and understand – the lit up lamp was enough a proof, as was the prolonged quiet. It broke eventually, however. Fortunately. That silence was rather jarring.

Slide, tap, knit, tap, knit…

Knit, tap, knit, tap, knit, slide…

Slide…

The needles had stopped at last, their steady rhythm giving way to a few frantic steps. Esther bustled around, the heels of her shoes striking the floor in the far corner of the library to then come close again. Sharp edges of hard covers thudded against the wooden shelves. Her clothing rustled, rather abruptly, and in the corner of his eye he could see her standing on her very tiptoes… for her to then hurry away again, back to another yet to be unloaded crate. Chevalier could question it, and he likely would have – his eyes drifted from the text and towards Esther, but she waved at his concerns. He could only oblige, urged further into selfish indulgence.

Thud, thud…

Step and tap, push…

… Shriek, of wood against wood, and then another thud. All quietly, as if attempting not to disturb him, as if lacking awareness that he had already been disturbed.

Chevalier snuck a glance at the corner his love occupied. Esther shoved the crate towards the door; however, feeling his gaze on her, she gave up on the task. He could read again and read he did, even as her steps neared him and her skirt appeared just beside him.

The book ceased to suffice. Esther laid down on the sofa, rested her head in his lap. Her eyes closed, clearly quite tired. A bed, a bed would be preferable. But Chevalier wasn’t a kind man nor would he ever consider describing himself as one; he shifted in his place rather awkwardly, unwilling to stand up even if it’d make the task at hand easier. Regardless, he did free himself of his cloak eventually, the book lying forgotten as he draped the garment over Esther’s form. She nuzzled into the fur collar… and then, then he could read on.

***

Windowpanes trembled under heavy rain, a splash of white spilling over the black skies to fade away in a blink of an eye. The world rumbled lowly under the deluge, as if pushed further into the entrails of whatever creature that was digesting it, raging streams pouring from above seemingly aiming to vanquish any solid ground. Chills rippled the plaster. Howling winds churned turbulent clouds, a mixture boiling over in a cauldron and gales breaking their necks against palace walls.

Esther paced around the room. She glanced from the windows, to the door, to the tiled heater, to then repeat the cycle. Window, door, heater, window door heater, window, door… A log was added to the fire, a poker somehow finding itself in her hand, absent-minded and absent-mindedly poking at the still burning embers.

Something clicked.

Esther jumped to her feet.

In this weather… Could he… Would he…?

The doorknob turned.

He did.

The moment of her inattention was when the door struck, presenting Esther with the most dreaded, yet also anticipated, not-surprise. Chevalier entered the room, the thinnest rill flowing alongside the edge of his cloak, swept-back hair just barely resisting the desire to fall into his face. A drop slid down his temple. Esther watched as it flowed down his profile, clung to the sharp edge of his jaw to take a leap of faith, to fall over his neck where it spilled, splashed, reconnected with more of its kind. His skin glistened under the warm light streaming from the chandelier, so pale the royal blue of his veins near surfaced, barely concealed under the thin layer of residual warmth. Chevalier closed his eyes with a sigh. Esther let go of the poker.

“Oh Lord,” she couldn’t help gasping. It did not warrant a reply; Chevalier took another step, out of a puddle or for a new one to emerge. Without even a word, he peeled his gloves off and set them on top of a dresser, deft fingers undoing the clasps holding his cloak in place. It fluttered to the floor, settled over the pristine granite in a wet heap, martyred in its drenched state. Esther rushed towards him. Chevalier smirked.

First, it was just a button of his jacket, followed shortly by another one. And another… Another, until the garment all but hung loose. Esther’s fingers grew as white as the towel she was clutching. Chevalier undid the first button of his shirt. Black linen clung to his body, soaked-through fabric moulding under the heat evaporating off his skin, the veil covertly unveiling the firmness of his muscles, their slightest curves, every sculpted edge… A drop dripped off his hair, lost itself somewhere over the plains at his nape, to then rush down the harsh slopes of his neck, pool by his clavicle and descent only further, carefully followed by a pair of eyes as dark as starless sky. Chevalier stifled a laugh, her gaze boring into his abdomen where it was still obscured by the fabric.

A towel – the towel – fell over his head. Chevalier pursed his lips, the list of his failed attempts extending by that evening. Furious in her haste, Esther dried off his hair, treating him with little more gentleness than a big, wet dog.

“Why are you taking so long?” Stormy frown settled over her face as her fingertips brushed against his ear. “Lord, out of those clothes, now. You’re so cold… I’ll draw you a bath.”

“That did not seem to be of relevance a moment ago.”

“You’ll end up with pneumonia!” Esther backed away and hurried towards the bathroom door, the now wet towel leaving his hair a ruffled nest. “You’re impossible, I swear!”

She might have said as much, but the point stood: her face was beetroot red.

***

The inn buzzed, waiters and waitresses rushing out of the kitchen with armloads of plates, air swaying heavily under the overpowering scent of exported spice and herbs. Weighted down by roasts smothered in sauce and plenty a pint of beer, the tables in the dining room bent their spines, barely hardy enough to avoid being snapped. Wood shivered, waves of cold foam rushing over it after each toast. Shouts rose, menus dropped – at all but one table, of course.

Esther hung her head low, few wayward locks falling from behind her ear to obscure her face. One needn’t have seen it to notice her resignation, however. Chevalier lifted his eyes from the menu.

“I’ll just eat tomorrow,” she murmured.

“Ridiculous.”

Esther shook her head, her shoulders slumping further. “I don’t think I can handle anything they serve. I’ll go to sleep and you have supper, it’s fine.”

Chevalier poked her forehead from across the table. He stood up from his seat and took the menu off her hands, a weak smile twisting Esther’s lips as she too attempted to get up. His hand on her shoulder, Chevalier forced her to stay where she was.

“Tea or water?”

“Really, I’ll —”

“Must I repeat myself?”

“Tea, please,” Esther gave in with a sigh.

The meal that arrived was not listed among the available options. Fried eggs, bread, a dollop of cream cheese? No, no, that was nothing like the fried cutlets and oily soups. Yet there, there were two plates of it. Chevalier reached for the cutlery.

“But… You didn’t have to —”

“Eating plainly for a day or a few is a non-issue.”

“You could —”

“And have you endure?” Chevalier snorted. “Stop making unnecessary sacrifices and eat instead.”

There was no room for disagreement. Esther took up a fork, a silent “thank you” fluttering in her chest.

***

Tea shook in the tea cup as the saucer made landing over the desk.

“No milk or sugar.”

“I’ll have it later.”

“No, you’ll have it now.” Esther corked the ink bottle and set it aside. She stole the documents occupying the desk, or much rather, was allowed to steal them away. “We’ve only just returned. I won’t be able to wake you up tomorrow if you’re too tired.”

“Too tired?” Chevalier snorted, but sipped on the tea regardless. “Your self-awareness is lacking.”

Esther settled over the sofa, her usually mellow eyes sharpening as she skimmed over the topmost paper. “Remind me, which of us needs somebody else to push them out of the bed?”

Soon, two piles were formed over the coffee table – one for her, and one for him to handle. She never intended to let him work alone.

Various Works: Esther x Chevalier

You've seen a typo? Let me know!

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#literally eating this up #lorei

[kamesama]

that request was so good🤭but what if after a while of sukuna choosing another woman, reader just went "idgaf😒" and then sukuna feels "sad"(as sad as that man can get💀). Like he realizes shes not gonna be seeking him out if he has another woman so he just gets rid of everyone else😆

If you write it can you make it angsty but for sukuna instead🙏🙏🙏

thank you for reading <3 i appreciate it.

although, i'll decline this request, solely because i can't see myself making that much of a stretch for this situation? the ground is perfect for all the angst but i just can't imagine it taking a direction towards a jolly ending like that.

#mangiswig #kame speaks

[kamesama]

The Mutual Lover Train Because Our Mutuals Deserve Love!

List 5 of yours mutual and a character you ship them with the most and add it in their and random mutual inbox anonymously to see if you're on the list! Don't break the chain or l'll eat your toes

this is such a cute chain! But here it is (I wish I could include more of you 😔)

@averagetoyakinnie x sirius black

@fourtyfourcatss x khun

@nandosango x kento nanami

@nicosavior456 x reyna

@kamesama x sukuna

#i see nothing wrong and everything right #fishy 🐠👅

[kamesama]

The Mutual Lover Train Because Our Mutuals Deserve Love!

List 5 of yours mutual and a character you ship them with the most and add it in their and random mutual inbox anonymously to see if you're on the list! Don't break the chain or l'll eat your toes

i don't send these in inboxes but i will gladly respond.

@sugutoad + fushiguro tōji: need i elaborate?

@lorei-writes + date masamune: et al, but og is og.

@alby-rei + leonardo da vinci: same as what i said to lorei, bbys

@bokutosbiceps + monkey d. luffy: i don't even watch one piece, but NEED I ELABORATE?

@silvanable + gavin: because it's a good break from all the assholes, as much as we love them.

#kame speaks #fishy 🐠👅

[kamesama]

— black cotton: ryōmen sukuna.

— notes + warnings: i need to let this out before i start studying; inspired by this art by @innaillus; heavy making-out; barely implied size-kink ( surprise, surprise ); thirsty fem! reader ( same ); implied modern! human but true-form vibes! sukuna; steamy stuff, mark it as n/sfw bcs i said so; minors, don't interact. — word count: 627

your swollen lips parted open a second too early, reflecting the sheer starvation of your tongue; the want to taste your own cherry lipgloss tainting his mouth. his chuckle, so awfully amused, fanned against your pearly whites as he humoured you.

he always did.

especially now, as you straddled his lap; your lush thighs peeking from underneath the hem of your hoisted dress, all wrinkled despite your earlier efforts lost to ironing it to perfection. your skin flushed wherever his calloused, rough hands gripped you — squeezing until you mewled into his mouth and massaging until you seemed to push yourself further into his palms, utterly desperate to be cradled. handled. 

you were so small against him, so petite that he could shatter you within a blink of an eye; jasper handprints boldly engraved into your skin were a testimony enough.

but he couldn’t stop there; not when you were writhing, begging for more with the way your hands trailed across his chest. his black cotton turtleneck did nothing to mask the way his body had grown scorching hot, and the softness of it was so comforting, so inviting that you couldn’t help yourself but nuzzle against it. 

but it was bothersome. god, it was bothersome.

your lips, with the last breathing remnant of their glossy sparkle, trailed wet kisses down his jaw as his hand squeezed your buttock enough to make you whimper. yet, you groaned as he tilted his head, your mouth meeting the hem of his turtleneck. your tendons subtly glided to the surface of your hands as you clawed at the cotton, pulling it up with nothing short of sheer frustration. as good as it looked whilst hugging his broad frame, you’d prefer it hanging from the edge of the bed, barely holding on.

“patience,” he cooed, deciding not to aid you in your starved excuse for conquest. there was something oddly sweet about your desperation; the impatience that tugged at the muscles around your lips and above your brows was far too ravishing morsel of a sight for him not to indulge. he watched that wrinkle at the midst of your forehead deepen as your skin scrunched up, your cheeks turning ruby red from the bloodrush. it made him hungrier; his own body ached to pull you closer, but he wanted to see you utterly exasperated to the point you clung and clawed and clutched onto him mindlessly.

your skull was filled with too thick of a haze to care as one of your hands tugged down onto that irksome collar. your fingernails left an unintentional, perfect pair of blushing garnet lines on his skin that made him press his lips together before grinning with delight. you kissed the sweet spot on his neck with fervour; licking and sucking until miniscule splatters of dark red made an appearance.

and yet, he did not lend you a hand as you bared more and more of his abdomen, tugging and dragging at his black cotton turtleneck in a way that begged for the lusty amour. he was all too fixated on pressing you against him; your flush thighs, the low of your belly, your core.

“sukuna, please,” you pleaded against the sharp edge of his jaw, your nose brushing against the valley right underneath it. you pleaded in the way you knew he adored — so drenched with primal need to the point all shame was stripped off you; with eroticism so thickly caking your voice that it made his tongue arid.

perhaps it was indeed your cry, or perhaps it was the notion of sukuna’s tolerance being fully exhausted that landed you onto the bed roughly enough to make your body bounce as that pesky, lovely black cotton turtleneck finally got shedded off his skin.

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk sukuna #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #kamesama

[kamesama]

i wanna write something so purely visceral that it makes my gut twist and my stomach turn upside down. i just don't know what.

#i might have something in mind but i'm so not motivated for that rn #kame speaks

[kamesama]

Anything with Kaolan please, that man looks like sex and it is criminal how little there is about him.

bruh, i took way too long with this. but yes, i agree 100%. gaolang is such a husband material, i love him so much. thank you for requesting him <3

— moments after: gaolang wongsawat.

— notes + warnings: post-coital bliss; gaolang's making you a snack. just tenderness; very small suggestive implications but nothing scandalous, really; domestic fluff bcs i'm domestic fluff provider™. — word count: 339

your feet dangled as your hands gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. with lips still reddened and just a little swollen from being so loved-up, you hummed quietly, admiring the wondrous expanse of gaolang’s broad back. his dark hair remained uncharacteristically loose and out of the confinements of its usual style — it made the entire scene all the more intimate, all the more yours.

it’d grown mild — and replaced by the whiff of something utterly delicious that it nearly made you salivate — but the subtle scent of his hot skin and sweat remained stuck within your nostrils, leaving you vaguely infatuated and thoroughly satisfied. perhaps it was just a faint remnant of him from the white button-up you’ve lazily draped around your form for the sake of maintaining some decency.

sliding off the counter, you wrapped your arms around gaolang’s frame; feeling every hardened muscle underneath the pads of your fingers, underneath your cheek. you trailed your hands across his breasts, running across what would be the bedding of his pumping heart; you felt it beat rhythmically. steady. it seemed to kick just a little quicker for a second or two, making gaolang’s face grow a faint shade of red, before calming down. you placed an innocent kiss against his spine; a messenger that serenaded of your affections and gratitude. 

“are you impatient, darling?” gaolang inquired. there was a tender desire in him to plant a kiss to your hairline, but you seemed too comfortable at his back. he decided to postpone his own affectionate gesture for when he served you your morsel, “it’s almost done.”

“nuh-uh… you’re just comfy, my love,” you uttered, and you knew that it made his lips tug upwards in a little arch. you knew it made his face grow hotter, “besides, i’m not that hungry…” you murmured, and in that very moment, a thunderous growl rippled from within your stomach almost comically.

an amused huff left gaolang’s lips as he took one of your hands to his lips, “almost done. i promise.”

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

#kengan ashura #gaolang wongsawat #grimmchesire #kamesama

[kamesama]

Hiii, I have a request! Ok so hear me out, what if Sukuna finds another woman and replace reader. make it as angsty as possible with a happy ending pretty please with a cherry on top🥹

you have no idea how excited i got when i read this, and then i got disappointed when i ( after my 3rd time reading the request ) noticed you said a happy ending. BUT SINCE IT HAS A CHERRY ON TOP, i will oblige. i would have made this worse if it wasn't for the happy ending.

— favourite: ryōmen sukuna.

— notes + warnings: *cracks knuckles* utter, sheer, disgusting sensation of feeling replaced; jealousy; mentions of self-loathing; mentions of intimacy/intercourse ( sukuna sleeping w/ another woman, etc ); implication of violence / cruel sukuna moment ( what do you expect? ); happy ending tho ( ? ); hurt/comfort ( ? ); unspecified but it's heian era / true-form! sukuna; concubine w/ an attitude! reader. — word count: 1224

oh, to be the apple of one’s eye — utterly adored, all-too-greatly desired, cherished beyond measure. irreplaceable.

oftentimes you felt like so, when sunken into the mattress for the sake of being ravished. when preyed on by an intense blood-hued gaze. when cradled almost gently upon the throne that was sukuna’s lap. 

but how foolish of you to think that you were the single person privileged to chant his name in ecstasy. how adorable of you to think that only your fingernails could claw down his back to leave incoherent trails of pleasure you always lost yourself in. how pathetic of you to think that it was solely your own luxury to occupy the spot upon his thighs. how audacious of you to think that your lips, and your lips alone, were entitled to the act of worshipping his skin; from the sharp angle of his jaw, down his beating pulse, across the expanse of his broad chest. how bold of you to think that your tongue was the single one capable of conjuring up tales that could tickle his fancy and shackle his interest and entertain his unpredictable whims. 

and so, you pondered. when another had come to occupy his chamber after dark, with her lush skin and silken hair and slender legs, you pondered, for what else could you possibly do, contained between the walls of your room? 

have you rotten already?

you’ve seen her march and stomp to his chamber, leaving an invisible trace of the scent so strong you could swear it still haunted your nostrils. her lips glistened in the candlelight as if coated with a thick layer of honey that she must have rubbed into her tongue and gums earlier that eve. she wore her eroticism proudly; the subtle arch of her mouth was an aphrodisiac of its own. 

the walls were always thin, but that night, they seemed thinner than ever. you could swear you’ve heard every gasp, every moan, every writhe. the curl of her toes, the grip of her slender digits at the sheets as her back arched in that wondrous curve. did his lips touch every inch of her body? from the saccharine spot on her neck to the delightful mounds on her chest? the thin skin of her hip; the lush softness of her thighs?

did his tongue utter praises of her performance, of her appearance, of her? did he claim her with nothing short of delight coursing through his accursed veins?

the sole thought made you so sullenly disappointed. your own bedding had never felt colder.

“you look miserable, woman. what is it with that attitude?” as blunt as ever, sukuna questioned, his knuckles sunken into his cheek as he watched you peel a pomegranate. despite the skillfulness faithfully coating your movements, your digits remained stained with the rich hue of the fruit’s insides; despite the effort to be flawless.

your lips pursed in response, a small sign of displeasure standing hand-in-hand with reluctance. perhaps you are acting coy — sukuna concluded — lacing your foul mood with a girlish act and bratty demeanour. not that it would render him surprised. rather, it tickled his curiosity, fueled his fantasy, and made him just a tidbit of something somewhat akin to concern.

“speak, princess,” he cooed, deciding to humour your wits with barely a mouthful of niceties. he leaned back in his seat, patting his lap with one of his hands, whilst one rested on the thigh of his other leg. the remaining two were crossed over his chest either out of boredom or superiority; or perhaps both. 

you wanted to disobey; to turn your head away with a huff as your fingertips dug into pomegranate seeds. to maintain your shred of pride, wearing your displeasure with a sense of dignity out of sole respect for all the umbrage and anguish lulling you to sleep on the nights when you weren’t worthy enough. 

but you didn’t.

almost too eagerly, you put away the fruit into a bowl to bleed, nearly crawling to his lap. despite the willingness of your body to nest so closely against his, however, your face remained with its little scowl, your eyes almost overfilled with chagrin. 

“am i not your favourite?” 

the audacity soaked your words, dripping heavily off them. sukuna sensed it; the thickness of envy in your voice, and all the more loathing that nearly looked like some deranged form of self-pity.

his slit brows rose up, his crimson gaze intense enough to have made you feel that — if he were to look just a little deeper into your eyes — he would see the way your hands massaged your own breasts as if to grasp whether or not they were shapely enough; the way you trailed one same line underneath your eye time and time again in an attempt to determine if sleeplessness has made you revolting.

“why should you desire another to warm your bed?”

a grin tugged at the corners of sukuna’s mouth as a sense of understanding weighed on his shoulders. a small hum of acknowledgement sounded from the top of his throat, his eyes closing as he took your stained hand and brought it up to his lips.

“so that’s what this is about,” he mused, his tongue shamelessly trailing across your digits to lap up the sour sweetness coating them, “jealousy is a pesky thing, little one.”

“i don’t care,” you scoffed, trying to ignore the way he gently sucked on the tip of your finger before looking at you, one of his hands absentmindedly caressing up your thigh through the silken material of your clothing, “it should be me. just me. i am the only one you summon to peel your fruits and to accompany you while you write, so why call upon another to please you at night?” you demanded. it seemed to amuse him all the more.

he raised a brow at your words and their curious tone, “you’re forgetting your place, woman,” he spoke coldly, yet the edge of his statement was somewhat softened by a dash of entertainment. nonetheless, it was enough to send shivers down your spine as his fingers sunk into your cheeks, making your luscious lips pucker. he observed your features; that small tidbit of defiance standing in defence of your vulnerability, your need, your craving. it made him grin with a certain kind of wickedness.

“but i do suppose that makes you my favourite,” he uttered, “no one else would dare be such an audacious thing…” his thumb grazed over your lower lip, parting your mouth open just enough to catch a glimpse of the pink flesh inside, “i could rip your tongue out for your insolence,” he cooed slowly, as if imagining your bleeding mouth, filled to the brim with crimson, “and you’d still be just as pretty.”

a shiver ran down your spine enough to make your bones feel frozen to the marrow, yet his touch left your body scorched; blood boiling with desire for whatever wicked debauchery his mind could conjure up.

“but i do appreciate your tales. very much so.” he spoke, easing his grasp on your face, instead morphing it into an almost appreciative caress.

the uncharacteristically gentle kiss planted to your brow seemed to calm your pounding heart for a mere few moments.

“perhaps i have some reminding to do.”

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk sukuna #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #kamesama

[kamesama]

— match-up trade: jjk.

for @quimichi › match-up trades › honestly, i had this one come to my mind asap; i find it so cute and wholesome, i really hope you like it <3 tysm for hitting me up, it's been a while since i've had a trade.

your match: nanami kento.

simple, heartfelt praise. sincere compliments and affectionate looks. pastel blue sky and cotton-candy clouds. neatly packed homemade lunch. small messages on sticky notes, left on the fridge or the kitchen counter. kissing a loved one goodbye before work. peace. talking for hours that feel like mere minutes. smell of home. hands; their warm, soft touch. someone's fingers running across your scalp after a long day. lipgloss. jazz noir. a signature perfume that you always associate with one person. cushions and blankets on a living room sofa. books on astronomy. jupiter. white shirts. kitchen walls soaked in memories. golden hour; specks of dust in the sunlight. kisses to the temple. 'do not disturb' mode.

a humanitarian is someone nanami could love — he could love you so well, just about enough to make your heart clench. it's so tender, it's so peaceful. nanami would admire you; the way you smile at those around you, the way you go out of your way to lend a helping hand. he relates; he would give his beating, bleeding heart to another in the palms of his hands, or at least bits and pieces of it along the way, raw and red. it makes him all the more understanding of your desire for peace, for he, too, shares it. your home is your sanctuary, organised and decorated to please your every pleasure and meet your every need. time is expensive — too expensive — and utterly fleeting, so he cherishes every moment spent by your side when your eyes are glued to the tv screen, when you're tasting the strawberry cheesecake he's made for you, or when you've grabbed a bite at the gas-station's parking lot.

you claim to maintain low standards, but darling, nanami's the best thing out there; the scowl on his face is nothing but a thin mask hiding a golden man. he is dedicated so you may never doubt his loyalty, and he is sincere so you may never doubt his honesty. surely, there is a tidbit of bluntness that graces his tongue every now and then; nanami points things out meticulously, but he always does so with a grand amount of empathy. you can count on him to push you forward towards betterment, rewarding you with a gentle caress to your back and something sweet to the tongue. he is there to stay, so you may not worry that he should slip through the gaps between your fingers.

nanami loves your voice; you may find his eyelids moving very slowly, his vision laced with a sense of contentment and affection as he listens to you talk. his ears pick up on every intonation, eyes on every twitch on your expression as your gaze glistens and shimmers. he may not hold onto his stomach as his lungs choke on laughter, but he appreciates your humour — he may roll his eyes at that one peculiar joke, but some make his day. nanami is a dreamer with you; whether you are fantasising of a weekend house in a secluded place or some faraway spot lightyears away from milky way, he imagines a variety of pictures with you. it's become a lovely pastime as of late, nanami would say.

but oh, spare some of your gentleness and loveliness for nanami, too. lay his head in your lap and tell him whatever you desire, so long he gets to hear you. sit in the silence with him on those foggy days or late at night — he doesn't need grandiose gestures to be assured of your affection towards him, just be there. listen to him when he explains the plot of a new book, and perhaps leave the catering to plants to him. he'll ask them to love you back.

other matches: fushiguro megumi ( w/ a job ).

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

#jjk #jjk match up #jujutsu kaisen #match up #quimichi

[kamesama]

domesticity with ryōmen sukuna

— note + warnings: my lil' head is full of him; headcanons but not rlly formatted like them idk; modern! au; disgusting domestic fluff; spicy moments here and there ( feat. brief mentions of nudity, pet names, degradation, praise, just some basic intimacy yo ); mentions of food; brief mentions of alcohol and tobacco; fem! ( wife! ) reader; long post ( almost 1.5k and i still wanted to write more but i need to get ready for class ).

every now and then, he comes home with burdened hands; a thickly arranged bouquet, your favourite pastry from that bakery standing a pesky distance away from your home, little bag with lace and frills and silk neatly folded at its bottom. he adores your reaction — the way your eyes are rendered overwhelmed with shimmer the moment you see him and whatever saccharine little thing he decided to please your wits with that day. the way you cling onto him, your muscles nearly aching from a sense of gratitude and excitement, or merely tenderness on the days you are fatigued and just quietly thankful. it's so fun to see you pleased with such a gesture; so silly, so endearing.

his armchair is his throne, and your throne is his lap. at times, he settles for the spot on the sofa; the one that has his name engraved on it with an ink of memory and habit. lounging there provides a proper view of the space around him, so when you walk in, showing off whatever delicacy he's bought to hug your curves, he sees the entire picture, perfectly framed. he cocks his head to the side, his knuckles pressing into his cheek as he tells you to twirl around for him, princess, so that the skirt of your dress may flutter or so he could have a good look at the way that lace-edged hem of your brand new knickers lightly sinks into the soft flesh of your buttocks. he pats his lap for you to come and take a seat like a good girl, and he may just show his appreciation for how ravishing you look.

yet, on the drearier days, when time seems to drip painfully slowly and when the invisible frost seems to linger in the corners of your home and bodies, he leans back into his mighty armchair and pulls you close — bare or modest, it matters not, as long as you are against him and he can trail incoherent patterns across your hip or run his fingers through your hair. something weighs on his vision and his eyelids threaten to falter underneath the dull pressure — he yawns and closes his eyes, aware that you, too, have given in. his thick glass of whiskey sits empty, sweating cold droplets of water; the cigarette butt squished in the ashtray.

meals are greatly indulged in; homemade, takeout, eating out. after all, sukuna's a connoisseur of gastronomy. wrinkled widows and middle-aged housewives did not utter a single word of lie whilst making the statement that a way to a man's heart is through his stomach, for sukuna indeed shows immense pleasure if you decide to treat him to a little something, whether it be some quick morsel or a sightly dinner sprinkled with the grandiose. his tastes are peculiar, however, so your outings in the evening either start or end up at a pricy spot with mouth-watering dishes.

when either one — or both — of you demand a rest from the confinements of your home, thoughts or chores, cruising through the highway and city roads is a welcome option. whether it be in a car or sukuna's motorcycle, a ride is a ride. underneath the streetlights after dark, or in the minutes just before the sun starts to sink into the horizon, or right after the rush hour when the roads are suddenly free of a tremendous burden. it's a little bit of adrenaline, and head free of pesky thoughts, your arms around his waist and your laughter that seems to fade into the breeze after a few seconds. the glimpse of you staring out of the car's rolled down window as your favourite song plays on is oddly sweet, and sukuna finds himself content with smaller things in life.

the ultimate betrayal of trust is giving in to the unholy, godforsaken urge to watch that one episode after a frustrating cliff-hanger — alone. there are spots in your routine which you fill with some stupid reality show or a theatrical series, most of which neither of you expect to grow so attached to. the image is that of a dimly lit living room, a bright screen and sound of chewing as you lay close to one another, occasionally commenting on and reacting to whatever is occurring within that wondrous glowing box of visionary delight. sukuna is transparent with his tastes; his expression twisting in some vague sense of disgust at poor writing, or brows raising in interest as the music shifts to a melody that is a tad more dramatic. the salt remains on your tongue and sticks to your lips.

he loves the way you attempt to be subtle with your affections and desires when the movie you're watching proves to be too dull. he sees you within the periphery of his vision — how you throw a glimpse or two towards his handsome profile, your gaze smoothly trailing down the line of his nose, dripping from its tip onto his lips only to take a turn up his sharp jaw. he'd call you dumb and naïve for thinking that the gears within your skull are not being obnoxiously loud with some starved intent, but he bites his tongue for the sake of indulgence. the tip of your index finger ghosts over his skin before you press your lips to his cheek gingerly, begging for a sprinkle of attention, and when he does not go out of his way to satisfy your whims then and there, you whine and complain into his ear how the movie is so boring... truthfully, he would have scoffed and wrinkled his forehead at the terrific acting and horrendous story-telling, too, but he swallows down whatever atrocity his eyes are witnessing on screen lest you grow bolder and needier with your advances, because he adores seeing you try harder.

some days you're bolder, when you come stomping to him as his eyes follow the rows and rows of black-ink characters pressed into the paper or glowing from the screen. your perfume is demanding, your outfit revealing, your lipstick's shade a herald of debauchery. try harder, he wordlessly dares as he spares you but a single glance, acknowledging the intent that you're absolutely overwhelmed with. sometimes he is not in the mood for your little schemes, so when you push at all his buttons with that voice thick with desire and relentless attitude that ignores his every warning, what else could he possibly do than give you what you've wanted, tenfold? he bruises your thighs with violet handprints and paints your neck with ruby red stamps of wanton need and irritation and leaves your legs quivering, shaking like a leaf because you, needy, naughty little thing, have asked for it.

other days he demands your attention. when you're reading your book, or watching your show, he approaches with bold, shameless kisses to your neck; open-mouthed and wet, not shy of whatever thought clouds his mind. sometimes there is barely any lechery in the way his fingertips sink into the flesh of your thighs or the way his palm caresses your back. sometimes he hungers for that which he deemed unfamiliar before you; for his head to rest against your breast and the sound of your heart-beat echoing in his ear. no matter what the motive is, his approach is direct, and his arguments temptingly good.

the smell of clean bedsheets, stained only by a whiff of slumber, is intoxicating on the weekend mornings; those always end in some lounging and rolling around, small kisses and sleep-laced grumbles. it's slow, it's leisurely, as if time holds no weight or consequence. they lead to another thirty minute nap, or a hungry yet slow session of love-making that ends up lulling you all the more. it's a shared shower, toast for breakfast, smell of bitter coffee or matcha, and the two of you in your own little world for the day.

sometimes you wake up before him and abandon your spot on the bed; let it grow cold and lonesome. standing on the sidelines, by the nightstand, provides you with a different view from the one you're used you when your cheek is sunken into the pillow. other than sukuna's resting face, you see the entirety of him fully — the cover half-heartedly trying to hide any indecency; the expanse of his muscular back moving rhythmically with each breath, resembling the way sea-waves come to hug the shore before being pulled back by an invisible force. the scratch-marks from your desperate fingernails are faded red on his shoulders, and he seems so tenderly mellowed as he roams his own dreamworld. you could lap up the sight, eat it up and engrave it into your brain, but settle for acting like a little stalker for just a minute or two, appreciating the sight of peaceful, unburdened sukuna who has his features halfway devoured by the soft embrace of his pillow.

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk sukuna #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #jjk headcanons #headcanons #sukuna headcanons #kamesama