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blackknight-100 · 8 days

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hi, can i request something? i was thinking that we don't get to see rama hearing about sita (who's miraculous birth and deeds must have been stories that spread to ayodhya as well as other kingdoms) before they meet as we do see sita hearing about rama and admiring him in adaptations. so, it would be great if you could write an au on 5 times rama heard about sita and 1 time he told someone about her (maybe luv-kush or hanuman/the vanaras). thank you!

Hello there! Thanks for the ask, this was very interesting to write, and I discovered I have so many opinions and headcanons about a bunch of characters and their relationships I could make a whole entire post out of it. Also, this is a 4k+ monster, so beware :D

“They found her where?”

Rama looks up from his dessert blearily to where Bharata is frowning at their King Father. It is a sweet spring morning, and their family is gathered around the table breaking their fast. Beside his drooping self, Lakshmana bounces restlessly.

“I want the curd,” he whines.

Mother Kaikeyi answers her son as she passes the dish over. “She was buried in the earth, and King Janaka found her under the plough.”

“How was she not mowed down? Do people stare at the ground as they plough? Why did the oxen not trample her? How did she survive in the heat? Who put her- ”

“Bharata,” Mother Kaikeyi frowns at him. “One question at a time. Someone must have left her there – a god, perhaps, or some poor peasant who did not have money to feed a child. How she survived the heat and the yoke and the oxen I do not know. A miracle, clearly, and proof that the child is blessed.”

“I hope Janaka raises her as his own,” Mother Sumitra says, waving her hand vaguely in the air, “since he found her and everything.”

“Found who?” Rama asks at last, finally interested in the conversation.

“A baby,” Shatrughan grouses. He is five summers old and has formed many opinions on babies ever since Shanta didi brought Rahul over; not one of them is complimentary. “I do not understand what the fuss is all about. Surely, it is as ugly and dirty as all others.”

Mother Koushalya laughs. “You know, a mere couple of years ago, you were a baby yourself.”

“Ew.”

“Now, now,” Father chides him. “Mithila is suffering from terrible droughts. Mayhaps the child will bring them good luck.”

“That is an awful lot of hope to pin on a babe,” Mother Sumitra remarks, cynical as ever.

There is a blessed silence as everyone contemplates this. Mithila falling out of Indra’s favour is old news; over the past years many messengers have come and gone from Ayodhya’s royal court, and many carts have rolled between the two kingdoms, bearing grains that would never be enough. Mithila had enough fertile lands to feed herself, but her people were more inclined to knowledge and learning, and rarely took up tools to divert rivers or dig canals. The seasonal monsoons watered most of their lands; without it the crops had withered and burnt in their fields, and the hard earth cracked open to gaping maws unsuitable for any agricultural endeavor. That a mere girl, however divine-born she might have been, could cure such a calamity…

“In any case,” Mother Koushalya says primly, giving their father A Look, “let us hope King Janaka will take her for the blessing she is. Daughters are not to be forsaken.”

Father sighs. “Dear, please…” he murmurs, then quails under his wife’s glare. Daughters are a sore subject between Ayodhya’s King and her eldest Queen.

“Do we know what her name is?” Rama asks, and Mother Kaikeyi smirks at his unsubtle attempt to steer the conversation away.

Dasharatha latches onto the distraction with both hands. “Whose name? The girl’s?”

Rama nods.

“They named her after the furrow she was found in.”

“Oh?”

“Mhmm,” Dasharatha smiles. “She is called Sita.”

It is late when Guru Vishwamitra decides to halt for the night and invites the brothers to sit by their little fire.

“You did well today,” he says, and Rama thinks the sage almost looks pleased.

“It was all your blessings, Guruji,” he demurs, “and that of our parents’.”

Beside him Lakshmana supresses a snort, noting how he left Guru Vashistha out of the mix. While their companion ruminates on this with a beatific smile, his brother whispers in his ears, “You are going to be a great politician one day.”

Rama elbows him. Lakshmana elbows back, and then it is a boyish game that is barely discreet. Rama can feel the beginnings of a smile twitching on his face.

They are interrupted by Guru Vishwamitra, who folds his hands sternly over his lap, turns to them, and asks, without the barest hint of hesitation, “Say, Rama, have you ever thought of marriage?”

Rama sputters. Beside him, Lakshmana tenses, prepared to fend off any and all questions until Rama decides what to answer, like he always did back in Ayodhya, because Rama has the best brother in the whole wide world. But Guru Vishwamitra rolls over any protests.

“We shall stop at Mithila next, and the noble King Janaka has under his care four comely young maidens – two his own, and two his brother’s.”

The crickets chirp in the shadow of the forest. Rama stares, unblinking and silent.

“Forgive my impudence, revered one,” Lakshmana says at last, when it becomes evident that Rama will not answer, “but my brother believes it is improper to speak of such matters without consulting our elders.” His brother chances a glance at him. “And he also thinks the man and the woman should get to know each other beforehand.”

The last part is entirely Lakshmana’s own addition, since he despises the idea of marriage and has long hoped to turn away any potential suitors by acting churlishly. That is unlikely to happen, given that few fathers care for their daughters’ opinions, and Lakshmana is charming even in his devilry. Rama refrains from mentioning any of this, especially because Lakshmana has clearly caught the ‘four maidens’ comment.

Guru Vishwamitra nods, meanwhile, as if he has expected something such all along.

“That is all very well, my boy, but let me tell you this. Janaka’s eldest child is the mightiest woman to ever walk upon Aryavart, and the most virtuous. When she was yet a child, she lifted with one dainty hand the Destroyer’s bow. Then her father declared that such a maiden’s hand may only be claimed by one who could perform a similar feat.”

“How… awe-inspiring,” Rama manages at last, already daunted by the thought of this princess.

Guru Vishwamitra smiles. It is the kind of smile that Shatrughan has when someone is about to find dead fish among their clothes.

“Do not worry about your father,” the sage says nonchalantly. “We shall reach Mithila by tomorrow. Look sharp, Rama, it is the princess’s Swayamvar. You will lift the Pinaka, and then knowledge and valour shall be wedded, and what a joyous day it shall be! Do you not agree?”

“Ah, Guruji,” Rama gropes about for anything that will dissuade him. “The Pinaka is a legendary bow, and I am but a young boy.”

“I have faith in your ability, Bhaiyya,” says the traitor heretofore known as Lakshmana, Rama’s brother, “and as he told you, our Guru thinks similarly.”

“I do not even know her name,” Rama says, desperately elbowing Lakshmana when the latter starts to snicker.

Their Guru shrugs. “That is easily solved. She is called Sita.”

Rama is broken. There is no other way to put it – this empty haze that mars his sight, this endless sorrow that mires him down, this bleak, bleak search that shall never end – Rama is irrevocably ruined.

He feels nothing save grief and rage, and knows nothing save that they must go on and on and on, till they have eclipsed the earth thrice over, till they have searched every nook and cave and treeshade, pausing neither for food nor rest nor death.

He screams, sometimes at the forest and sometimes into the earth, and sometimes at foolish, foolish Lakshmana, who is so exhausted and so dear, and Rama thinks he knows what the Pinaka’s master will do at the breaking of the world, for he feels that catastrophe within the traitorous organ beating in his chest, calling through the bars of his bones like a forgotten prisoner, ‘Sita! Sita! Sita!’

“Bhaiyya, please,” Lakshmana begs, gripping his shoulders tighter than ever before.

Once Rama was stronger, but now he even struggles to loosen his hold. “Let me go,” he wails, writhing and unseeing. “I will not, I cannot- ”

“You need to, Bhaiyya,” Lakshmana insists, tightening his hands, pressing fingers to the hollow between Rama’s clavicle and collarbone.

Rama shakes like Mount Meru trembling under Sachi’s wrath. “I need to?” he demands. “I need to? Like you needed to leave Sita, needed to search for me, despite your faith in me, despite knowing that- ”

Lakshmana’s hands unclench, and Rama finds himself sinking. His gaze clears, little by little, and he hears his brother make a strange, muffled sound, and he is sinking to his knees, familiar hands guiding him, but no longer restraining. There is an Asoka’s trunk to his right, and he is made to lean against it, all gentle-soft and slow. When he looks up, Lakshmana’s face is turned away, tears leaking out of the corner of his eye, mingling with the blood on his chin from where he has bitten his lip to hold back a sob.

“Lakshmana,” he murmurs, reaching out to him, and oh, there are flecks of dried blood on his knuckles, and oh, Lakshmana’s temple is a sickly purple when he looks back, like the costliest dhoti muddied by rain, and when, oh, when did he strike the most beloved of brothers, and why?

Lakshmana is kneeling beside him, always one reverent inch behind the bend of his arm, running a thumb over the crimson remnants of violence.

“It was not your fault,” he soothes, lilting like a childhood song. “You did not see me coming.”

When? he wants to ask, how? But the haze returns like insidious tendrils of fog. He should be comforting Lakshmana, he thinks, for it was always his job to quieten his brother’s temper. Lakshmana needs comforting, he knows, but Lakshmana is not angry. Why, then…

Someone shakes his shoulder. “Bhaiyya?”

“Uh,” he offers intelligently.

“I am going to get some water, okay? Please, please do not leave. You need to rest awhile; we are no use to Bhabhi if we are dead.”

He waits for Rama to nod his assent, and leaves with tear-tracks on his cheeks. That was why Rama should have comforted his brother – Lakshmana was crying. And now he is gone, and Rama is seated under a tree waiting for him to bring water, like that blind old couple had so many years ago waited in vain for Shravana Kumara. They cursed his father for slaying the boy, and that curse drags ever on, even today. What would Rama do if some stray arrow found his brother’s heart? Would he curse the shooter, even if it was a chance of fate? No, he thinks, he would hunt them down, and then burn cursed Dandaka, all the way from the Vindhyas to the unresting sea, with every man and beast and rakhshasha in it.

Perhaps because he has such a keen ear, or perhaps because he is thinking about it, he hears a terrible, piercing groan, and shoots up. The sound comes again, and Rama runs. It does not occur to him that he runs the other way, or that he should take his bow. All he does is plough through the tall trees, tripping on roots and choking on outstretched branches, fighting against Aranyani’s will.

When he finally stumbles upon the body, all he can think of is that it isn’t Lakshmana. Then the groan comes again, and he rushes over to the feathered being, kneels by its side. Once, it must have been a great bird, but now there are only stumps where the wings would have been, and it has a gaping hole in its stomach.

“My dear,” Rama says, already knowing it beyond saving, “rest. All will be well.”

To his surprise, the bird opens its eyes. “Who are you?” it asks, in a distinctly masculine voice.

“Rama, son of Dasharatha,” Rama says, and looks up to some scuffling. “That is my brother, Lakshmana,” he adds, as said brother tumbles into the clearing with wide eyes, twin bows and ruffled hair.

“Dasharatha?” Clarity rushes to the bird’s eyes. “Once, I, Jatayu, named him friend. Wait, you are Rama and Lakshmana? That woman called for you.”

“So we are,” Lakshmana agrees, kneeling as well. “What woman sought us, noble Jatayu?”

“The fairest of them,” Jatayu says, “with the darkest curls and most beautiful mien I ever knew. She wept from the perch of the Pushpaka Vimana and called high and low for aid, even as Ravana took her ever southward to his golden state. I sought to free her, friends, and so I fell wingless from the sky.”

Rama dares not hope, dares not breathe. “Southward?” he asks, settling on the least painful, and most important detail.

“Southwards to Lanka,” Jatayu explains, words slurring again, “to that seagirt island he names his own. I shall not be here long, but I beg you, make haste my friends.”

There is a noose uncoiling from Rama’s chest. He needs to thank Jatayu for his aid, for trying to save his wife, for being their father’s friend; he needs to make sure he passes away in peace. And he will do it all, only after one last question.

“Do you know who she was?”

“Mhmm,” Jatayu hums. “She called herself Sita.”

Hanuman leads them up Mount Rishyamukh with nimble leaps and fleet feet. Rama and Lakshmana toil behind, each hard-faced so as not to give away how strenuous they find all this jumping.

“I feel like a stray goat,” his brother mutters, teeth clenched to hold back huffs. “He is showing off for you, and naturally, I am the one caught in the middle.”

“If you think I am enjoying this…” Rama begins, then sighs to mask his panting.

“Then why do you not ask our guide to slow down? He seems to like you well enough.”

Rama snootily turns his nose up in the air. “We are the scions of Ikshvaku, heirs of the Raghu clan. We must endure.”

“You mean you must endure.” Lakshmana’s voice is sardonic as he continues, “If my honour comes from attempted suicide by heat exhaustion, I care little for it.”

“If I have to climb up this thrice-damned mountain without protest, then so will you.”

Silence. Rama turns, alarmed, half afraid his jesting has been taken seriously. They have not spoken about everything that came to pass in the weeks before meeting Jatayu, and although Lakshmana’s bruise has long healed, Rama’s heart has not. But no, his brother is smirking and shaking his head, and when Lakshmana speaks, his voice quivers with mirth. “You are mean.”

Rama exhales, yet relief does not come.

“Lak- ” he begins, but is immediately interrupted by a joyous shout from above.

“Prabhu!” Hanuman beams down at them, “We are here.” Then he turns and addresses someone else, “Oh, please do tell Maharaj Sugriva, he shall be most elated.”

Lakshmana eyes the remaining steps and then surveys the distance they have come.

“This should not have been so difficult,” he mumbles, and Rama is inclined to agree. Once the two of them could have scaled the peak without breaking a sweat and run three miles afterwards. All that crying and bumbling about the forest must have made them soft.

Sugriva – dressed in old finery and worn purples – comes to meet them in a great, cavernous hall, reeking of cheap wine and misery. The crown on his head is scratched and askew.

“Show them what we found,” he tells one of the attendants, after Hanuman has recounted their tale of woe, and nods to them. “Please, have a seat, my lords.”

Rama sits and tries not to quiver with anticipation. This is it. He can feel it in the air – this is the key to rescuing Sita. Lakshmana stands by his side, half a step behind, and places a hand on his shoulder.

“We found them on the ground,” Sugriva says, tail flicking nervously. “By the time I was called, it was all over, but my Vanaras say a great golden chariot had flown across the skies, and from it came the weeping of a maiden most fair.”

He pauses, as a worn pouch is brought in, and a bearer places tall earthen glasses of drinks before them. Rama ignores the latter and reaches for the pouch.

“This has the ornaments you found?”

“Yes.”

Rama pulls apart the string holding it together and turns it over on his palm. A familiar necklace falls out, thick and glittering gold, followed by a lonely earring, a chain, and an anklet strung with little bells.

Rama stares.

“Prabhu?” Hanuman probes. “Are these the ones you seek?”

“Yes,” he breathes, fingers trembling, stroking the trinkets as if they could somehow pass on his affection to their beloved wearer. “These are hers.”

He looks up to an assortment of pitying glances. They can tell the woman is someone important, though neither Rama nor his brother had revealed in as many words that Sita was his wife. Did they think of him an idiot, a desperate father, or a maddened brother, or a lovelorn husband clutching to circumstantial proof of a dear one’s presence?

As he has done these past weeks, and all their lives, Lakshmana comes to the rescue. “I recognise the anklet.”

Sugriva hesitates. “My Lord Lakshmana?”

“The anklet,” he repeats. “I saw it every morn when I knelt for her blessings. I would not confuse them for any other.”

“And the others?”

“Uh,” Lakshmana blinks. “I would not dare be so importune with a lady as to stare at her person” – here Rama catches Sugriva stiffen minutely, as a guilty man does when caught, but Lakshmana has spoken without malice, and it passes as quickly as comes – “but her sister has an earring of similar fashion.”

“You will not look at her but you will look at her sister,” Sugriva notes, and it is interesting how he has latched onto that.

Lakshmana turns pink. “I married her sister?” he says, phrasing it like a question, as if all those days with Urmila were a fever dream. Rama can relate.

There is an awkward pause, and his brother plows on with all the daintiness of the bulls that once ploughed the land Sita rose from. “What was she like?”

“I told you – I have not seen her. My people told me this: that she was the fairest maiden they ever beheld, shining like the sun at high noon, that her voice was like starlight, and that she called for the scions of Raghu to aid her. Twice she called for one Raghurai, and once for a Saumitra.”

Rama cannot help the smile on his face. Of course, Sugriva will surely ask for some terrible recompense, but he is an outcast King, and exiled besides. He will not shirk from helping.

Beside him, he feels his brother relax. “She is no mere maid,” Lakshmana drawls. “She is the daughter of King Janaka, of distant Mithila, and the wife of Rama, prince of Ayodhya. She is Sita.”

Rama eyes the prodigious young twins seated on the floor of his court. They are young, barely a year older than Bharata’s oldest, and the sight of them makes something in Rama’s chest tremble. It has been a long time since he has been blessed with the sight of his wife, save in the terrible gilded statue that occupies her place beside him. Today, though, he sees her everywhere – in the curls of the twins' hair, in the way the older one smiles, and the younger wrinkles his nose. He sees her even in the way they hold their veena, which makes little sense, given that most people hold their instruments the same way.

They had introduced themselves as students of Rishi Valmiki, without any patronymic. That means nothing. They could simply be referring to the one who sent them here. But their mother must have been pregnant the same time as Sita, if age is any indication, and Sita had been having twins, and they did look awfully like her...

“Greetings, Your Majesty,” says Kusha, the older twin, his hair sticking up like the grass he was named for.

His voice is a blessing, for it derails Rama's terrible thoughts, and a curse, for it sounds so like Sita's that he may as well be in Mithila's gardens more than two decades ago, facing a demure princess who would later be his wife.

This is folly, he thinks, nodding at the young ones, permitting them audience.

Kusha continues, “Our Guru, the mighty sage Valmiki, was immensely inspired by your tale. Thus, he composed an epic, so all the world may remember the valour of Shri Rama.”

“It is still being written as we speak,” Luv says, picking up where his brother left, “but we have learnt in song all that was penned down before we departed. If His Majesty pleases, we would be honoured to present it to you.”

Rama stares, then hesitates. Seeking self-praise is the path to downfall, and the story is painful besides. All save Lakshmana look eager – even Urmila, though she must have been told everything, either by her husband or by Sita. He should praise their dedication and send them away with blessings and a few gifts. There is no point in unearthing such sorrow again, not when the story has no triumph, and Sita is not by his side.

Luv and Kusha look up at him, familiar doe eyes wide and beseeching. They are clutching each other’s hands, tense with anticipation. Rama opens his mouth to disappoint them, and instead says, “Very well, we shall hear you.”

He could have cursed himself them, but the answering smiles he receives wash away all self-recrimination.

The courtiers clasp their hands and lean forward, and the boys bob their heads in a semblance of a bow.

“Hear us,” Luv proclaims, “for we sing of Rama, son of Dasharatha, of blessed Ayodhya.”

It is a familiar tale, of the joys of his childhood and the days at the Gurukul, the love of his father and three gentle mothers. But Rama knows, the grief is about to come.

He allows a tremulous smile when they sing of Sita’s Swayamvara, for it was a joyous occasion. He holds his breath when Ravana of the tale carries Sita away, but pain lances through him only once. He trembles when they exalt Sita’s resolve in the face of misery, trapped in her golden prison, and shivers when they recount Lakshmana’s deadly injury.

But just as he thinks that perhaps, having lived through it once, he has numbed himself enough to be able to get through this without the waterworks, the song rolls to their victory, and to Sita’s freedom.

“And then Rama of the golden bow,” Kusha intones, “says ‘I have not yet sunk so low, to take back unquestioned a spouse that has lived a year in another’s house.’”

Half the court inhales, and Rama feels a telltale burn behind his eyes. What has he done? He wants to throw out the boys, forgetting his fondness for them, wants to scream and curse and run away. But he is an Emperor, and this is his court, and such behaviour is unbecoming. The lay turns stern and punishing, quickening to a chant.

Sita in the epic stands as straight and bold as she had all those years ago, before an army of thousands. Her hair is a riot of curls blacker than the length of Nisha’s dread night; her face is as gaunt as Dhumavati’s terrible mien. When she speaks her voice is Indra’s thunder across the sky, devoid of any love or affection. “If you shall question me, husband,” she says, “then may Agni judge me. Lakshmana, son, make me a pyre.”

Lakshmana of the tale weeps, as he does in real life, both then and now. And Ravana’s captive, all molten iron clothed in a delicate body, walks out of the pyre unblemished and unburnt, lit red and orange and yellow – a living flame. For she is Janaka’s daughter and Rama’s wife, but she is also the mightiest woman that Aryavart would ever know, and the most virtuous.

The song ends with exaltations of their victory, and the joy of reunion, but Rama, seated beside a lamentable golden mockery of a woman he once named his own, hears none of it. His tears come hot and unbidden, like summer tempests across the plain, and he weeps and weeps and weeps.

+1.

Luv kneels on the green grass, wide eyes following an eagle's flight across the sky. Rama strokes his head, soft and gentle and in love. It is a tranquil morning, and Rama wonders if he should postpone court to prolong this moment. Beside him, Kusha hums softly, sprawled over the grass.

“You look melancholic,” Rama observes.

Kusha shrugs. Rama has yet to learn all his son’s expressions, but this one he knows intimately. His son misses Sita. Now that she is not here, it is his duty to comfort him. The thought warms Rama's heart nigh as much as it chills.

“Your mother,” he begins, then hesitates, unsure.

Kusha sits up. “What of her?” he demands, cornered and defensive.

Rama holds up his hands, feels Luv’s glower boring into the side of his face. Sita is a sensitive topic, lying between them with the treachery of a coiled snake, defying the peaceful manner of its namesake.

“Would you like to hear about her?” he offers at last.

Kusha frowns. Luv crawls over to look at his face. “Hear what?”

“Whatever you wish to know.” Rama will likely come to regret this, for they undoubtedly will ask something difficult to answer, but as the furrows part from Kusha’s brows, Rama thinks they can push through. He opens his arms, gathering them close, and kisses the top of their heads. Like this, it is not hard to understand why Dasharatha thirsted so desperately for sons, even if he was fated to die grieving for them.

Kusha interrupts his musing with a question. “Do you love her?”

“Of course!” Rama is scandalised enough that Kusha has the decency to look a little guilty.

That, however, does not stop him from his next question. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you love her?”

Rama cannot believe they are having this conversation, even though he can see why they might be curious.

“How could I not?” he says at last, when it becomes evident that silence will not make Kusha forget his question. “Sita was the loveliest woman – kind, generous, and brave.”

Kusha does not appear the least bit happy and Rama startles when Luv pokes his arm.

“Nuh-uh,” his son says, “those are easy things to say. You have to pick one.”

Rama opens his mouth to answer, then pauses. This is some sort of a test. Luv and Kusha have been wary of him ever since they arrived at the palace, hiding away from him and mingling mostly with their cousins. He is suddenly aware that this answer could have tremendous repercussions. But what can he say to such a question? How can he define peerless Sita with one virtue?

The children look up at him expectantly, so Rama clears his throat and tries to think. Sita was charming, and her beauty helped, but that was not the foremost of merits.

“Sita was… good at being good,” Rama says slowly, barely able to keep himself from quailing at the twin raised eyebrows. “It is hard to explain, you understand? But her virtues were restrained. She was terribly forgiving, but not so forgiving that she would take upon her a sentence twice over when she knew herself to be innocent. She could be generous, but never to a fault. She was selfless, but not so selfless that she would deny herself easy pleasures.”

And was that not true? Sita was pure, and in his heart of hearts Rama knows that even if Ravana touched or defiled her, even if Agni burnt her, it would only be her body that fell, only her vessel of flesh that would be blamed; her soul was far too pure and mighty to be affected.

And this is Raghuvamsa’s folly – they will cling to promises and tradition even in death, will give up sons to satisfy wives, forgive villainous servants and shy from righteous rage, forsake wives for the words of ignorant men. Had Rama not loved Sita for the same reason he loved Lakshmana? That even follies were to be embraced, even elders could be spoken against, even golden deer could be chased for the sheer joy of it.

“She had no excesses,” Rama tells their children. “She would forgive me for testing her once, but not twice. And I do not think I could have loved her as much if she accepted it.”

Luv and Kusha are looking at him. Rama tries to blink away his tears, but they come and come and come.

“Sita…” His breath catches, but he plows on. “They tell us that it is important to be selfless, to never ask for more than you have – not unless you can earn it yourself. But Sita knew I loved giving her things – clothes, jewels, flowers, anything. And even in the forest she would ask for a flower or a fruit or a sapling, because she knew it brought me joy. She cared.” The tears are falling now, but Rama cannot stop. “She cared, and then I threw it away. I knew her, and I failed her.”

Rama puts his face in his hands and sobs. All this, and he is not even sure he has managed an answer. He starts at the feel of small hands, and of cheeks pressed against each shoulder.

“What is past is gone,” Kusha murmurs, close by his ear. “But we are here. Father, we will always be here.”

The gong for the court sounds, yet no one moves. Perhaps, Rama thinks wearily, he has not failed at everything.

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sexbot300 · 1 month

Text

telling them they have a small dick!

pairing: toji x reader, gojo x reader (separate)

⤷ 18+, MDNI

tw: man-handling, p in v, unprotected sex, power play, cunnilingus, falsetto, huge dick (come on now), mentions of creampie, orgasms, degrading/dirty talk, slight size kink if you squint, text format for gojoe.

a/n: this was so funny to write i cant stop laughing. this was longer than i expected, i will be making a part two with choso, geto, and nanami if asked for. originally it was meant to include them but this is a bit tew long. I actually like this more than anything i’ve ever written before :’) comments r more than welcome thank uuuuu. luv u all xoxo (felt things while writing this, it’s funny that I think it’s my best work)

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Toji ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Reading your diary

Toji Fushiguro pissed you off. There were no ifs and buts or any way around it. As much as you adored being friends with Megumi and spending time near the stoic guy, coming by his house felt entirely dreadful. Mutual friends frequently visited his abode, leaving and visiting often without a sliver of complaint leaving their diction. ‘Maybe I was truly the problem.’ A thought had snuck up in the crevices of your brain until the mental image of why you didn’t come over as often decided to grace you with his presence. A shiver traveled up north of your spine, straightening yourself out mentally and physically. ‘Nah. That doesn’t sound right. I am NOT the problem.’

Toji was everything Megumi was not; cocky, arrogant, and trying to start anything with anyone if they remotely looked in his direction the wrong way. Was he hot? Of course. Would you ever admit it to the bastard? Of course, you wouldn’t. This is why what unfolds before you felt as if some cruel divine punishment, curated by the highest demon in the belly that cradled hell, deciding today would be the day to toy with you.

Closing your phone with a little, ‘Ding!’ Megumi had sent a text earlier entailing that something of your belonging had been left behind. Strangely enough, even he didn’t know what it was, which left a question of perplexity. All he knew was that his dad found it and to alert you about it.

A sigh that had built up in the depths of your chest left, as you stood behind the mahogany-colored door. Praying that Megumi would just give the item so a beeline can be made as far as legs can sprint. Bringing a hand to the door, tapping with a fist, “Megumi? It’s me.”

With a shuffling heard from inside the house, the sound of the door unlocked and a slow swing revealed no one behind it. Stepping inside carefully and scooping out the area, an eyebrow raised as the familiar setting had no one in eyesight. Closing and locking the door behind, your voice even more confused, “Megumi? Hello? I thought you’d be here.”

In plain eye view, coming around a corner stood the looming presence of a man that was hard to ignore. Leaning up against the counter behind, a protein shake in hand as his body seems depleted from a workout session. Glistening in sweat, he stood there devastatingly handsome. A simple white tank top clung onto his pectorals, highlighting the ridges of his stone-hard abs while the pump of his presumed workout caused his already massive biceps to look the size of planets. His gray sweats hung low off his slim core. He eyed you up and down as if inspecting every single thing about you.

“Oh yeah. My son's little friend was expecting you here.” He spoke in a casual tone, eyes met yours for a split second before eyeing you down in a carnal way.

Standing in place, mentally making note of killing Megumi for not being the one to give you what was missing from his home. Only leaving you to deal with his father.

He gripped something behind him his fingers grazing what seemed to be a bit lightweight. A light thud of a journal hit the island counter that stood between the pair. Eyes glancing down on what was thrown carelessly, the journal looked all too familiar.

My diary– fuck. All forms of color had drained from the hue of your face, replaced with a crimson flush. Frantically blinking up at the journal, your thoughts blared. ‘There’s no way he could’ve read it right?’ Almost sprinting at the piece of media, fingertips yanked it off the island forcibly gluing it to your chest almost to shield it from eyes it doesn’t belong to.

Eyes darting back and forth frantically searching for relief in such a predicament, in a measly voice, “T-Thank you Mr. Fushiguro, it was very kind of you to give it back. I-I’ll be leaving now.”

He had only watched amused, but it wasn’t stated within his facial expression. If anything his demeanor was calm– his body leaned back at the counter behind him, legs crossed over one another while he wore what seemed to be a completely uninterested face.

“Smart girl. Probably read a lot, huh?”

Clutching the diary tighter to your chest, almost impossibly close, furrowed eyebrows and a snap of a neck towards his direction. A low, barely audible, “H-huh?”

“My favorite passage is where the narrator states that, ‘Toji is probably compensating his small dick for huge muscles.’” He chuckled deeply, taking a swing of his protein shake before setting it to the side.

Frozen in place, eyes widened, simply just going quiet. I mean– what could be said? For a moment so intense, all that ran through your mind was complete blankness.

“Kinda find it endearing how the narrator only uses vibrators on her clit because the idea of penetration ‘arouses’ yet ‘scares’ her.”

“Mr. Fushiguro did you r-rea-“ stated in an incredibly shaky voice. Embarrassed, wishing that the ground would do you good bidding and swallow you whole with no hesitation. He still looked calm, ridiculing every aspect of you, his eyes had darkened a bit due to pupil dilation.

Everything felt tense, hot, incredibly warm, a moment of heat transpiring between the two of you as eyes met one another. Except both eyes said a different story. His; was full of something that could only be described that an animal gets knowing that they had successfully captured their prey right where they were needed. Yours; full of complete self-pity, begging to be freed under the gaze of something that will eat you alive and leave no bones.

“Do you think that Toji's character might appreciate the narrator calling him ‘hot but probably hotter with his mouth shut?’” His large arms bulged, and crossed over his chest, enjoying every minute that left you squirming under his condescending gaze. You looked like something had caught your throat and any form of attitude seemed to exist on the lines written in the diary.

Tilting his head, on cue his hair moved as well, his expression seeming bleak. “Aw, wish I could meet this narrator, express to her how far off she is from the truth. Seems the type to talk a lot but get quiet when confronted.”

With a croak of your throat you managed to speak in a weak voice, “Mr. Fushiguro I am so sor-”

A silky voice met your ears, “Megumi taught me a bit about books. You know what’s funny about narrators sometimes?”

“W-what?” Your voice croaked.

“They’re unreliable.”

“Want to know something else funny?”

Body shifting off the ledge of the counter his bulky body slowly walked, emerald eyes glancing down while you stared up with the most innocent expression. ‘Cute,’ he thought. Staring down, a waft of his natural musky scent hit your nasal passages. He towered right in front of you. His long finger gripped a loose strand of your hair, twirling it mockingly.

He juxtaposed the flustered expression drawn on your face, a grin that stretched from ear to ear, a sly expression painting a look of hunger. “Yeah,” his tongue swiped at his bottom lip, voice dropping a few octaves, “it’s tiny even.”

On the checklist of things you hated about Toji, you mentally jotted down that he was a liar. He was a complete liar.

Knees blown out, nose buried deep into his neatly trimmed pubic hair, lips trying to adhere to a girth that wasn’t friendly to take down, saliva coating your chin and seeping through the cracks of the side of your lips, and mascara smeared down the sides of your cheek.

Toji was anything but tiny. A huge hand gripped the back of your skull, yanking at the follicles of your hair bouncing your head back and forth on his dick. He had to be 8 inches at least.

Gagging and whimpers filled the air, as you pathetically took down all the length he forced down. Your eyes beaming with tears, while he looked down at yours mockingly. Eyebrows slightly furrowed at the feeling of your tight throat clinging onto his cock like a vice. He smirked staring you down as you struggle to take him in, light pants escaped from his throat as spit slowly exited his mouth, meeting the exposed part of his dick and a part of your face.

“Slow down sweetheart, shit,” a condescending laugh, “I’m not going anywhere.” He hissed in a bit feeling your tongue desperately lap up and down his cock as you took the initiative to get completely lost in the feeling.

It was all too lewd– he had stopped guiding you by bobbing your head, but kept a firm hold; all you did was suck him as if your life depended on it. His hefty cock felt divine to the tastebuds, weighing heavy down your throat and around your tongue. Frantically allowing your tongue to brush over the large veins running throughout his shaft, your hands jerking off what you could, letting the room fill up with the wet squelches. Moaning onto his cock the vibrations cued a grunt from Toji, sucking his massive tip with a ‘pop!’ He pulled you away, noticing the whine in your face when separated from his dick. He laid it on your face, grin sprawled out.

“You suck dick good for a girl who only gets off to filthy fantasies about a man who she hates.”

Panting, studying him while feeling incredibly small under his stare, catching your breath. So perfect, you looked so perfect to him.

“Fuck- I could just cum looking at your face like this,” gripping your hair earning a mewl from your throat, he held onto his dick tapping the tip of your tongue repeatedly, he grinned wider noticing how you desperately leaned into every tap. “Heh, want more huh? Coulda came from your throat, rather fuck it in your little pussy instead. I could tell you were a cock-deprived whore from the start.”

All you could do was blink up at him, gulping at everything he was saying, a new wave of arousal crashing down in your panties. Eyebrows furrowed, keeping steady eye contact with him, he noticed your fucked out expression.

“Aw? No back-talk? Seem to have a lot to run your mouth about in that little diary, girl. Do you even remember your name? Already trained you well without stretching you out? Or does it make you feel ashamed to be this wet in the house of a man you hate so much? Do you have no shame?”

“I-I’m,” you cleared your hoarse voice swallowing any bit of saliva that didn’t engulf his cock, “not wet.”

He blankly stared down at your face before a loud chuckle eroded from his body, shaking him slightly, “Darling, you’re practically dripping on my kitchen floors. You think I can’t see you clenching your thighs f’me?”

“I-it’s not for y-you, Mr. Fushiguro-“

“Cut the shit, it’s Toji. Stand up.”

Pushing your knees off the position they were in for the longest time, you whined and stumbled while Toji watched amused. Standing on your feet, wobbling, he did the honors of throwing you over his shoulder eliciting a loud gasp as your torso made contact and leaned into his broad shoulders. His fingers lightly grazed your wet folds that leaked through your leggings, causing a slight gasp.

He only chuckled again, walking to his master bedroom. “Not wet, my ass.”

You’re not sure what round this was, but being thrown like a rag-doll by a man who easily overpowered every aspect of you was not how you expected this visit to go. He did the honors of prepping you for hours long– edging you and making sure you were on the brink of insanity so taking his cock in would feel much more manageable. At first, you winced taking him in, but the pain subsided once the overwhelming bliss of pleasure overtook all feelings of discomfort.

Toji started by fucking his tip in, rocking back and forth to let you become accustomed slightly. He quickly learned that you were nothing more than a cock-deprived whore.

“T-toji, y-you’re, ah! Breakin’ me!”

“Good.” His face had a wild expression, grinning ear to ear, his long onyx hair clinging to parts of his forehead from sweat while the rest dangled in your face. This man just found his new favorite plaything, he’d be damned to stop this.

Toji had you mangled in a mating press, feet planted firmly into his mattress, feeling every last bit of dick he could give. Holding your thighs back with large hands, he drilled into your poor cunt, legs hanging off his broad shoulders, the sounds of skin-on-skin vibrating in the room alongside his pants, and your loud moans.

“T-toji, ah! I-I’m sorry, t-too,” a deeper thrust sent a harsh quiver from your lips while his lips dropped low to your ear, “Too! Big! Cant!”

Grunting into your ear, the same smirk plastered on his face. He angled himself even deeper, never stopping the rhythm, slamming his inches into you. All you could do was take it and moan desperately. Head thrown back while eyes rolled back into your skull.

“Don’t” thrust, “care.” He stated casually in your ear while his voice grew huskier, “Gonna fuck my cum into this lil’ ah, fuck, pussy. Make sure it only learns how to take me in.” He chuckled while he never stopped drilling, he pulled all the way out, leaving only the tip in. Causing you to pant rapidly at the loss of dick, hating how empty yet incredibly full you felt just from his tip alone.

“P-Please, please Toji, please,” fingers dug into his biceps in a fucked out voice, “don’t stop.”

“Aw,” he placed his forehead atop yours, mockingly cooing at the mess you’ve become. “Why should I let you cum?” He whispered now, lips ghosting over your own, “Had a lot to say about me being tiny but your greedy little cunt is both clinging onto me and stretching out. Disgusting girl”

“I’m so so so so sorry, Toji I promise I’ll be good, I’ll be so good.” Frantically scanning over his face, your body still throbbing from the positions he put you in. Meanwhile, he felt just as warm to the touch, the feeling of sex coated him entirely his composure not faltering.

Wrapping a strong hand around your throat he tightened his grip as he pummeled right into you at once, body jerking forward at the sudden stretch. A loud gasp and moan abruptly left your mouth. Before he could continue pumping into you, his lips still hovering over yours, he had a cocky smile still etched onto his face.

“Sent Megumi off with his little friends, they’re having a sleepover.” His smirk deepened, “Oh don’t worry, you’ll be proving to me how good of a whore you’ll be for me all night.” He scoffed, “Maybe then in your little diary you can write about how good I fuck you.” He pulled out yet again, suddenly feeling his body weight push off your body entirely, making you whine at the loss of sensation in your cunt and body. In an instant, he flipped you over.

Back arched completely, chest pressed down into the sprawled-out duvet, legs spread out ready for him to obliterate all self-dignity you had left, his knee pushed into the bed behind you. Placing his socked foot in the back of your head, he gripped his cockhead dragging it along your puffy folds. Moaning slightly at the feeling of contact as he circled his massive tip around your clit, your eyes fluttered shut again. Drool seeped through the sides of your mouth not caring that this man had stolen all sense of respect you once held for yourself.

“Now,” his voice husky again grunting as his cock slowly teased at your entrance before shoving it in at a tantalizing pace. Staring in awe at your hole as it glistened, hearing your cunt squelch around his thick width, “Hear her for me?” Physically tightening at the words he just said, he let out a slight grunt.

“Mhm,” you let out a mangled noise which caused him to chuckle, feeling his foot press deeper onto the back of your head while your fingers desperately gripped at the sheets below.

“Maybe,” he pushed himself in, a wild smile on his face while he heard you whimper below, thrashing around still not used to a length this immense. “You should listen to her more often than that dumb little brain of yours princess.”

Swiftly gripping your wrist, he firmly pinned it back at the small of your back, while rapidly thrusting in and out all at once. “Ah! Ah! T-Toji… So! Hnghhh, G-Good,” moans incredibly muffled as they were pushed into the sheets, cunt gripping onto him every time he moved in and out.

Grunting at the view of your ass clapping back at his pelvic region every time he drilled inside, your walls trying their hardest to take him. He only cackled before whistling, harshly slamming a hand down on your ass letting it recoil with a red mark left behind.

“Should’ve told you I read that stupid diary ages ago…”

═════════════════════

Gojo ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Failed date

“Ding! New message from ‘toruu.’” The robotic voice announced in your headphones, breaking you from wallowing in your sorrowful haze.

Shuffling in your bed, trying to forget the events that unfolded earlier today, your hand reached out to your nightstand fidgeting around to find your phone. You thought maybe lying down with sad music blaring in your ears would help, but spoiler; it did not. Groaning slightly while your eyes try to adjust to the phone's brightness. A failed date equated to a failed day, lo and behold, your eccentric friend was at your side ready to wipe away any discomfort.

Shifting your body upwards, a smile couldn’t help but be formed at his words. At the end of the day, the guy was just that, a guy. There was nothing to stress over. Was there a slight skip in a heartbeat hearing Satoru speak fondly upon you? Yes. But that’s all that there was. Risking a friendship with him wasn’t worth it in the grand scheme. He was appealing in all senses, there was no surprise that girls and boys alike flocked to him like candy. Getting laid wasn’t exactly the objective, but hanging onto things that weren’t feasible was.

Joking with Satoru came second nature, but having him become defensive over a harmless joke startled you a bit. ‘There’s no way he’s acting like this.’ Nibbling at your bottom lip staring at him laughing in all caps. Is he being defensive? Eyes moving back and forth on the screen questioning what to say next, the conversation continued.

Snickering to yourself, ‘Oh, so he IS being defensive.’ The thought danced around in your head, rolling eyes at every other thing he texted. “There is no way he is serious,” mumbling to yourself like a madman in the dead of night alone while speaking to nothing but the screen at hand.

A light ping indicated that your message was sent, as you glanced at the dots that appeared from his end. Breath slightly hitching at what he stated next.

Eyes widening, breath caught in throat quickly throwing the phone down face first as your face burnt. Breathing shallow breaths to catch up, time felt a bit still before shaking hands gripped the phone, and slowly brought it into your line of sight.

My God was Satoru Gojo, huge.

His tip was a light dusty pink, almost made to be kissed, forming a beautiful head that had a bead of translucent precum decorating the slit. The shaft was thick, matching his milky pale tone and fading into an ombre ending right where the tip started. His veins were many, mapped out all around his shaft, up and down, a prominent one stood at the center. It looked heavy, he appeared to be standing up in the picture. A white-happy trail formed alongside the end of his abs and faded around into his neatly groomed bush. You blinked slowly, taking in the image of your best friend’s fat cock. He wasn’t lying. At all. He had to be pushing 8 inches and more. This was the image alone, thumb hovering slightly over the video attachment. Feeling your cunt pulsate slightly and clit growing a bit hard, shuffling some more.

‘I can't be getting wet over my friend. This is so wrong, he’s probably joking too right? Guys do this all the time with their guy friends. Except, I’m not a guy…’

Biting the bullet and taking the initiative, clicking the video attachment was a wrong, wrong idea. Still, in the same position, his gray sweat pushed down his mid-thigh, the flash was strong in the video. In your ears, everything was heard. Still standing erect, you could hear him lightly chuckle, almost as if he was taunting you in the same room. For some reason, the slick heat flooded more, He brought his large veiny hand, placing it side by side with his cock, holy shit, it was larger than his hand. He spoke your name in a sultry voice one that sent waves crashing down your pussy, a voice that you’ve never heard before.

“You already know how big my hand is, I mean you’ve held it before. Do with that information what you will.” You could hear the smirk in his voice before plopping on the bed before him, a soft grunt echoed in your ears. So his dick was heavy, it flopped straight on his abs which elicited a laugh on his end.

“Sorry, I couldn't send you it while lying down. It’s a bit too heavy.” With that, the video ended. Gulping and staring dumbfounded, your fingers anxiously wrote whatever they could, trying to keep any semblance of a friendly demeanor.

Sighing while rolling your eyes at his behavior, mentally sighing that he's back acting like the immature soul he’s always been. Guess, it’s time to rely on the good ol’ vibrator to solve this problem. Knowing him he’d probably hang this compliment over your head for eternity and that was that with this conversation, which is why what he stated startled you a bit.

Staring at the screen once more, feeling a bit anxious about his response. All that could be thought of is if the wrong thing was said to him. He’d be over the moon hearing that his cock is big as fuck, right? Sighing while dropping your shoulders and clicking the side button to shut the phone off, eyes closing once more while the back of your head met the soft headboard.

“Ding! New message from: ‘toruu.’”

Eyes widening, the heat still pooling in your lace panties, thanking yourself for another failed date. Within ten minutes the phone was chucked out of hand, racing to get ready for his arrival even though it wasn’t the typical hangout.

Slipping on a lacy, cerulean bra and throwing it on, keeping the same undies on having a feeling that the slick wetness would be favored for you both, fixing your hair, spritzing a gourmand perfume, applying a bubble-gum colored lip gloss, and pulling on a light blue hoodie, tight black spandex shorts, with black house sandals. It wasn’t long before a certain man rang the doorbell.

Rushing to the door while maintaining some form of composure and unlocking it to be met with piercing eyes and a shit-eating grin towering over you. He wore the same sweats in the video and a black hoodie that did very little to hide his massive frame.

“Hi,” he stated in his typical voice, eyes looking over his glasses down at your face, as he put one strong arm over the doorframe. “Hello, ‘Toru…” audibly speaking so only he heard, while a light blush scattered across your face.

“Heard your date got canceled or whatever, what a bummerrrrrrr.” He rolled his eyes exaggerating his disdain due to unexpected plans. “Gonna let me in?” His voice stated in a whisper while studying the curves of your body.

Slightly nodding, shifting to the side to let the tall figure in, a waft of his cologne hit all senses and shot straight to your core.

While he walked in, your hand pressed against the doorframe closing it and locking it before a large hand turned you around. Gasping at the sudden feel of his hand around your waist, while the rest of your body was pushed against the door. Staring up at his face, not recognizing the look displayed on his usual happy-go-lucky face, painted a darkened expression of desire. Satoru pressed your chest against the front of his body, pushing you closer by the hand on the back of your waist. Caging you in his embrace, the other hand laid flat behind the door.

Smelling his sweet breath from the various candies he indulged in, the air hit the tip of your nose while his lips were merely inches away from your own.

“No offense,” his voice silky, smooth, and deeper than usual, “Kinda glad this asshole bailed on you. Wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like you anyways.” His smile deepened while you responded by cupping his soft face in both hands.

Breath a bit higher than a whisper, lips almost touching his while his grip on your waist felt stronger, “Oh, yeah ‘Toru, and you know what to do?”

Feeling a vibration from his chest against your frame, as a laugh erupted from him, he stared into your eyes intensely. “Let me kiss your lips and show you. I think you know by now my words match up with my actions.”

Almost on command, both of you smashed your lips into one another savoring the feeling of tasting what you wanted for so long. Mutually moaning slightly upon the impact, Satoru quickly moved his large hands to caress all over your tinier frame. Ass, waist, thighs, hair, neck, his long slender fingers were everywhere, anywhere, every chance he could get to press you impossibly close to him.

Mouth agape, he took it as an opportunity to slip his tongue in, slithering it around your mouth while your tongue circled his own. Hands entangled in his hair, tilting your head, and on cue, he did the same. Tongues squelching and roaming each other's mouths as if you’ve been thirsty and the only cure was one another. His hands finally stop at your ass, giving a light squeeze before carrying you up, wrapping your legs around his torso.

Breaking away faces mimicking a blush on both faces, a string of saliva connecting your lips. Slightly panting as your forehead meets his, he stares deeply into your eyes. “Cute and all,” he says still in a haze, “but those weren’t the lips I was talking about.”

Hovering over his torso, while your mouth was stuffed with his huge cock. Hungrily lapping up his dick with your tongue, your hand wrapped around his base in a circular motion going up and down while your mouth struggled slightly to take the entirety of him in. Moans sent vibrations across his huge shaft, he was so big, so so so big. You loved every minute of it, it was evident with the sticky residue of cum that formed on his thighs and pubic hair from the previous rounds you’d gone. Saliva pooled on his dick, to rest on his balls and underneath his thighs.

It was a mess, “Mhm!” You panted, separating yourself from having his cock buried down your throat but quickly attaching your lips at the head, smearing precum on like a lip product. Lapping the precum up and down the slit, before indulging his length back in. “Sa-Satoru- Ah! S-Stop!” Lips making a ‘pop!’ noise after pulling his dick from your throat, hands still echoing a wet sound as they both rapidly jerked him off.

Gojo laid on his back his face stuffed in your cunt, “Cant, ahhhh, too good,” His voice sounding hoarse. Bringing his head up even further into your slick heat, he licked long strips with his tongue from clit, hole, and ass. Both of his large hands spread your cheeks apart, your discharge soaking the bottom half of his face. He dove in head first, nose pressed directly in your pussy while his mouth harshly sucked at your clit, twirling it around his tongue effortlessly. Years of sucking on candy couldn’t compare to this. Pulling away both hands from your ass, he placed them on the front of your thighs, forcing you to sit on his face with a welp that broke away the string of moans.

Continuing to jerk him off, your eyes crossed while spitting down his length, feeling him twitch slightly under your motion. You mewled, “Mhpmh! Satoruuuuuuu!”

Harshly sucking on it before pulling away, he kissed your clit before dragging his head around in a circular motion licking all around like a madman. He closed his eyes and buried his tongue deep in your walls that tightened and contracted around him. Bobbing his head back and forth, tongue fucking your tiny hole, thumb diligently working in circles on your swollen clit. Slowly feeling your high soon approaching in waves and feeling him twitch even more violently underneath you.

He moaned deep into your cunt while high-pitched yells escaped your throat, “Oh! Oh! Oooooh! Oh, Satoru! I’m c-cumm- ah!” Soon enough, Satoru’s face was full of liquid when your orgasm arrived. Sticking a tongue out noticing him jerk in your hands, closing your eyes, while cum painting your tongue and face. Swallowing him all while quivering from the impact of cumming all over his face.

For once in your life, this was the most quiet Satoru has ever been.

Breaking away from your cunt, Satoru took a deep breath, laughing to himself shakily.

“Fuck, I should pay men more often not to date you.”

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