𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈
Pairing: Yukuza!Sukuna x Spy!Reader
Summary: You gone undercover as a maid within the Ryomen yakuza household, your assignment is supposed to be simple observe, report, disappear. The problem is that Sukuna Ryomen, heir to one of the most powerful yakuza families, isn’t the ruthless criminal you expected. He’s overworked, and buried beneath legitimate business dealings, making the job duller than anticipated. But when one night shifts everything. As Sukuna’s attention sharpens and suspicion grows, you’re left wondering, are you about to be exposed… or fuck'd?
Comments: Ya'll I don't write smut, but I wanted to switch it up.
Night had fully settled by the time your shift began.
You rolled your sleeves to your elbows, hair pulled back neatly, apron tied snug at your waist.
You worked methodically. Every surface was wiped until it gleamed. Books no one had touched in years were dusted and returned to their shelves. The carpet was vacuumed, the floors mopped, curtains and sofa steamed until the room smelled faintly of soap and heat.
The silence made each task feel louder, heavier, as though the space itself was watching. You were just finishing the windows, polishing away the last streaks, when the door clicked open.
You sighed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. Through the glass, his reflection stared back at you, crimson eyes catching the light, already fixed on you.
This assignment was more difficult than any you’d been given before. But not for the reason you would assume.
Unlike your past missions, this one had no clear endpoint, no defined victory, no date circled on a calendar that promised release. Why? Because you been assigned to investigate the Ryomens.
There were three major yakuza families - the Gojos, the Zenins, and the Ryomens. Unlike the past, when they were openly tied to crime, violence, and illegal activity, they had since rebranded themselves as legitimate enterprises, keeping their darker dealings carefully minimized and out of sight.
Sukuna Ryomen was no exception to the more... civilized way.
Honestly, it was disappointing at first. You’d expected more, illegal drug deals, weapon trading, maybe even underground fighting rings.
And more than that, you’d expected the next heir of the Ryomen family to be cruel, hot-tempered, stupidly cocky. Someone you’d enjoy ratting out and watching him have his ass handed to him.
Instead, he was overworked and constantly tired - never without a cigarette or drink in his hand to ease his mind. His days were consumed by estate visits and shareholder meetings, his nights buried under mountains of contracts and negotiations.
Well - at least he was easy on the eyes.
Anyways, your mission wasn’t to confront him, nor eliminate him, but to simply observe the Ryomens. Make sure they haven't been up to sneaky shit.
You didn’t turn to face him. “Is there a reason you’re here so late?” you asked, the formality long since abandoned. “Work?”
You heard his footsteps shuffle as he rounded the desk, the quiet scrape of the chair as he sat. A drawer opened. The familiar sound of a cigarette being pulled free followed.
Smoke curled from his lips, thinning as it faded into the air.
You’d never been a fan of the smell.
You crossed the room and shoved the window open.
“Something like that,” he muttered.
He was slouched back in the chair, black suit still on, crinkled from a late meeting. A handkerchief was draped over his face, as if even the effort of being seen was too much. Slowly, lazily, he slipped the cigarette between his lips and took an unhurried drag. Ink peeked from beneath his collar when he shifted, dark lines against pale skin.
“Mmm,” you hummed, already moving away, flicking on the kettle.
“You almost finished your shift?” he asked, his voice muffled beneath the cloth.
“Yeah,” you replied, pouring hot water into two cups, tea bags already waiting.
“Your office is the last one I have to clean tonight.”
You set the cup down on his desk.
He removed the handkerchief from his face, and set it beside the ashtray. From where you leaned back against the bookshelf, you could spot the shadows under his eyes.
The late-late night meetings must be taking a toll on him.
He looked rough - but in a kinda hot way.
This…friendship, if it could even be called that, was nothing more than late-night conversations that happened because of timing, surprising your schedules always seemed to line up.
And there it was - the quiet assertiveness of his lineage, a reminder of who he was. You'd notice it surface every now and then.
“I just cleaned the sofa,” you groaned.
“That’s an order,” he replied, tone light and teasing, a lazy smirk stretched across his exhausted face.
Your heels clicked softly against the wooden floor as you crossed the room and sat opposite him, legs folding neatly beneath you.
You studied him for a moment. “You look worse than the last time I saw you.”
Sukuna laughed, nearly spilling his tea. “Thanks,” he said dryly, setting the cup aside before taking a drag from his cigarette. His eyes narrowed with amusement. “I’m usually told I’m pretty good-looking, y’know.”
You smirked, the warmth of the tea against your lips, “Maybe when you’re not running on caffeine and a couple of hours of sleep.”
Sukuna exhaled smoke and leaned back, bringing a hand to his temple. He pressed there, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to hold his thoughts in place.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right…We’re stuck. No agreement. Just the same arguments on repeat.”
His clan was locked in a dispute over borders, specifically the far eastern property owned by the Ryomens. With its position nestled between the mountains and the sea, it was absurdly valuable. Prime real estate. The Zenin clan had been pressing, trying to expand into territory that wasn’t theirs.
“We keep circling the same points,” Sukuna muttered, running a hand back through his hair. “At some point, you start to wonder if the older generation had it right. It’d be a lot easier to just kill them.”
He said it casually, half a joke, maybe - but violence had long since lost its weight for him.
“Can you -” he paused, then glancing at you with a slight smirk, “massage my back?”
I guess he can be cocky ass sometimes.
You rolled your eyes, and as if you could even say no.
You slipped his blazer from his shoulders and draped it over the chair. The tattoos across his back became more visible, dark, and intricate. You’d always wondered how far down they went.
Your fingers pressed into his tense shoulders, working slowly, deliberately, easing the knots beneath your palms.
“So,” you said lightly, “is the plan to come to a resolution, or …”
Sukuna groaned as you pressed harder. “God, you're stronger than you look… um, No. No example, at least not yet. I think we'll just offer them a property or two, let them think they’ve won.”
You hummed, noncommittal. “If it reached your father,” you said, “he’d probably argue it’d be easier to kill them off.”
Sukuna smiled faintly. The next generation of yakuza heirs, at least, tended to be far more sensible.
You felt his shoulder relax beneath your hands. “I haven’t seen him around the estate,” you said. “Where is he?”
The question was harmless on the surface. Casual. The kind that didn’t invite suspicion.
“He went to visit some friends,” Sukuna replied. “I think he’s getting sentimental in his old age.”
Great. From everything you’d gathered, his father was already preparing to step back, content to let his heirs handle most, if not all, of the work. Not much to uncover here.
But you weren't complaining, you heard word a few days ago - if everything seems normal, you can return back.
“Alright,” you said, glancing at the clock. The signal was clear. “That’s all the time I have.”
You gave his shoulders a brief pat before moving around the desk, extending your hand.
“Really?” Sukuna said, irritation flickering across his expression.
“These extra services aren’t free.”
He scoffed, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. A crisp hundred-dollar bill was pinched between his fingers. You took it before he could properly offer it. That would cover drinks tonight.
“Thank you very much,” you said, already slipping off your apron and gathering your supplies.
Sukuna raised his eyebrows,“Got somewhere to be?”
“Yeah,” you replied, moving quickly.
Sukuna tilted his head, clicking his tongue. “Where?”
You shrugged. “Some clubs. With my girlfriends.” You didn’t linger on the question.
There was no need for him to pry into your pretend personal life.
Before he could respond, you were already closing the door, a quiet goodbye murmured out of habit.
Sukuna leaned back in his chair, lighting another cigarette.
He’d heard you’d put in your two-week notice, and the reason for quitting struck him as odd.
First, it wasn’t easy to get hired here.
Second, the pay was significantly better than anywhere else.
And third, your shit reason for leaving.
Truth be told, he’d always carried a quiet suspicion, a gut feeling he could never quite shake. Still, you’d never done anything out of line, and there hadn’t been a single unusual incident during your time here. If there was no trouble, then there was no real reason to care.
But his thoughts still lingered on you.
He stood and opened one of the filing cabinets containing the general records of all employees. Sukuna skimmed through the folders until he found the one he wanted. Tossing it onto the desk, he flipped through your file.
Decent schooling, no further education, no history of fights - he doubted that - and no parents on record. Skimming your file, Sukuna couldn’t shake the sense of how shallow it all was. On paper, you looked plain, unremarkable, but the details were vague, stripped down to only what was required.
The thought soured, then twisted into something else entirely as a faint smile spread across his face.
He had every right to investigate one of his employees if something felt suspicious, right? Hell, he was Sukuna Ryomen. At the end of the day, he didn’t need a reason.
⊰═══════════⊱·༻𐫱༺·⊰════════════⊱
And you're all that I want
And if you know that I want it now
The music thumped so hard the speakers practically vibrated the floor beneath your feet. Strobe lights flashed erratically, catching sweat and glitter on bodies packed into the tiny downtown Tokyo club.
You adjusted your top, if it could even be called that.
Time off was rare, but this job had been easygoing enough that tonight, you could be yourself. No mask. No pretending.
Your nails were long, painted black with silver chrome tips, complementing the tattoos sprawled across your hands. A mesh off-the-shoulder top revealed the star tattoos on your shoulders, your black bra peeking through. Your denim shorts hugged your hips that were too short, and too low on your hips, showing off your tramp stamp - something you’d gotten way too young.
Lucky for you, your long black hair mostly covered it.
Ray-Bans sat on your nose as you scanned the crowd: men, women, people in between, all swaying and stumbling across the dance floor.
The booths and shadowed corners were occupied by people making out or taking something up their noses. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, exactly where you wanted to be.
Pushing through the crowd, you called out to the bartender.
“Four vodka shots, please.”
You smiled, weaving through bodies toward your friends, who were lost in the rhythm on the dance floor. Two of them had already been swept away by guys they’d been eyeing earlier, leaving you to dance with the others in between. Tipsy, you giggled, losing yourself in the chaos until a whisper in your ear caught your attention.
“Hey… that guy’s been checking you out.”
You looked up. His eyes locked with yours. Your chest stuttered.
He was tall, lean, his long, dark hair scattered across, his lip ring catching the strobe like threads of shadow. His eyes were sharp, dark, and unyielding, sliding over you with a slow, deliberate heat that made the hairs on your arms rise. His jaw was defined, shoulders broad beneath a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to hint at strength without being showy.
You shifted, lowering your sunglasses just enough to really see him. His lips tipped into a faint, crooked smile, subtle, self-aware, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
You needed this. Him.You’d earned a night like this.
You lifted a finger, curling it in a lazy beckon. As you slid your sunglasses off and tucked them into your top, his attention sharpened instantly.
He moved through the crowd with ease, bodies parting around him. Up close, it was worse, better. Taller than you thought, shoulders broad beneath his shirt, long dark hair framing his face. Purple eyes, unmistakable now, locked onto you as if you were the only thing in the room.
Jesus. Had he gotten hotter in the last thirty seconds?
His gaze swept over you, unhurried, appreciative. Then his hands were on your hips, firm and confident, pulling you flush against him as the bass thudded between your bodies.
Because seven minutes in heaven
Is all that I need when I get with him
“What’s your name?” you shouted over the music.
“Choso,” he answered, voice low even as he leaned closer.
You slipped your arms around his shoulders. He bent to your ear, breath warm against your skin. “And yours?”
You gave him the name of a girl you’d met earlier.
He nodded, lips brushing your ear as he murmured it back. “So that’s the name I’ll be saying tonight, huh?”
You arched a brow. Cocky Bastard.
Exactly your type.
All this kissing, French kissing
The crowd pressed in, lights flashing, bodies moving in careless rhythm. His hands roamed your waist, your back, guiding you as you danced, laughing, tipsy, alive. Everything blurred into heat and sound and motion, the night swallowing you whole.
His lips brushed yours once, teasing, before crashing into a kiss. Sloppy, hungry, unrestrained. Exactly what you wanted. You kissed him back without thinking, fingers tangling in his hair, the world narrowing to the taste of alcohol and smoke and sweat.
Over Choso’s shoulder, in the shadows near the edge of the club, stood a familiar silhouette. A drink in one hand. A cigarette in the other. Crimson eyes burning straight through the strobe and smoke, locked onto yours.
You pulled back abruptly, hands pressing against Choso’s chest. “Yeah – hey, it was really nice meeting you,” you said too fast, forcing a smile. “We should… do this another time.”
“I just have to go, okay?”
He laughed softly, pushing his hair back, lip ring catching the light. “What is this, you playin' hard to get? Am I supposed to track you down?”
God, he was gorgeous.
And this was the worst possible moment.
“I wish,” you groaned. “But I really have to leave.”
You turned before he could say anything else, slipping into the crowd, shoulders tight, heart hammering. Bodies brushed past you, laughter and music crashing in your ears, but all you could feel was the burn of that gaze.
But why was he even here? Of all places? As he wasn’t sleep-deprived enough, he had energy for this?
You ducked into a dark hallway at the back of the club, pressing your palm to the wall as you tried to steady your breathing. The music muffled, your pulse roaring in its place.
He’d seen you. Seen you truly.
No, right now, I’m just his employee, and he's the weirdo boss stalking his employee. I’m not exactly in the wrong here. He is.
Your gaze lifted, catching sight of an EXIT sign glowing faintly at the end of the hallway.
You pushed off the wall, intending to head for it.
“Stop.” His voice cut through the hallway.
Your legs stopped moving instantly.
⊰════════⊱·༻𐫱༺·⊰═════════⊱
You turned, finding him framed in the shadows, the club’s lights and noise spilling behind him. He stood there, exactly the same as you left him.
He approached slowly, unhurried, deliberate.
He stopped an arm’s length away, leaning back against the wall in front of you in the narrow hallway, hands tucked into his pockets. His gaze dragged over you from head to toe, lingering just long enough to feel invasive.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said. His voice was low, measured, threaded with something sharp you couldn’t quite place.
You met his stare head-on, irritation flaring. “Sukuna. Why are you here?”
A smirk tugged at his mouth. Not amused. Mean. He stepped closer, “Keeping tabs on my employees.”
So we are just act that's a normal thing to do?
You searched his face for something, suspicion, certainty, but all you found was tension. Frustration. Anger without a clear target.
“Nice tattoos,” he said lightly, his gaze dropping as his hand extended, coming to rest at your hips. His eyes narrowed on the small flower peeking out along your hipbone. “Never seen them before.”
A shiver ran down your spine, partly from the contact, mostly from the edge beneath his words.
His thumbs began to trace slow, idle circles.
You pushed his hand away, forcing the heat back down before it could reach your face. The audacity of it made your jaw tighten.
“My uniform keeps them covered,” you said coolly.
“Mmm.” He nodded slowly, as if conceding a point he didn’t like. “Still. Never noticed the ones on your hands.”
You raised a brow. “Have you forgotten your own policy? Tattoos must be covered at all times. I usually use waterproof makeup.”
Another nod. Acceptance, on the surface.
“I like the one on your lower back,” he said, voice low, eyes heavy with something that made your skin prickle.
Heat crept up your neck, into your cheeks.
“Can I go now?” you snapped, “You know we don't get much time off, and I’m sure you have better things to do.” You crossed your arms.
His gaze dipped. Briefly. Intentionally.
Leaving now would look suspicious. Staying felt worse.
“No. Your shift’s been moved to tomorrow morning.”
“That’s ridiculous,” you said flatly. “You don’t even handle the schedule.”
“I do,” he replied evenly. “Right now.”
What has gotten into him?! Now he's just actin like a dick.
You exhaled sharply. The music thudded through the walls, your headache blooming with it. “I’m going back,” you said. “This is ridiculous.”
“To that loser?” He lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his expression.
Your eyes locked. Neither of you blinked.
“As your employee,” you said evenly, “my personal time is none of your business.”
He shrugged, flicking the cigarette to the floor and crushing it under his shoe. “Rules are rules. Follow them - or you’re fired tonight.”
This was one of those moments when Sukuna Ryomen truly shone, every inch of his authority on full display.
“Are you serious?” You stepped closer, leaving barely an inch between you, forcing him to look down at you.
“Yes.” Exhaustion dulled his face, but his eyes burned with something stubborn, volatile.
Before you could react, he crouched, hooked an arm around your legs, and lifted you clean off the ground.
“Sukuna, are you being for real!?” You smacked his back. “I can walk!”
He didn’t take the exit, either. Instead, he turned toward the lights, the bass, the chaos of the club swallowing you whole.
All this touching, all this touching
All this touching, all these faces
To anyone watching, it looked simple enough - another girl being hauled out by security.
No one would have guessed that the woman being dragged out of a club at 2am in the morning was a maid - much less a spy -and that the man hauling her along was a delusional, exhausted, arrogant yakuza boss.
Is all that I need when I get with him.
⊰════════⊱·༻𐫱༺·⊰═════════⊱
The car ride passed in thick, uncomfortable silence. By the time you reached the estate, your nerves were shot. The moment the car stopped, you reached for the door, intent on getting back to the dormitory as quickly as possible.
The doors locked with a sharp click. Sukuna was already out of the car by the time you realized it, opening your door and lifting you with infuriating ease, slinging you over his shoulder.
You sighed, giving up the struggle almost immediately. “This is a bit excessive,” you muttered.
He didn’t respond. You took the silence as your answer as he carried you up the stairs and into the all-too-familiar office, the lights snapping on as he crossed the room.
He dropped you onto the sofa.
Sukuna sat across from you, posture rigid as he leaned back in his chair. Up close, the exhaustion was impossible to miss. The sharpness he usually carried was dulled, dark circles shadowing his eyes, his movements just a fraction slower than usual, like missing a few hours of sleep had finally caught up to him.
You buried your face in your hands with a groan. “If you want me to work this morning,” you said tiredly, “I’d really prefer you lecture me later and just let me - ”
“I looked through your file,” Sukuna cut in.
You lowered your hands. “Uh-huh.” Your file was basic - no different from the others working in the estate.
“I’m surprised,” he continued, eyes narrowing as he studied you. “You weren’t the troublemaker I expected you to be.”
You kept your expression steady. Any yakuza member could spot a careless lie instantly, and pushing one too far usually came with consequences.
Still, you’d survived worse.
“Believe it or not, I liked school. Just because I couldn’t afford university doesn’t mean I was a delinquent.”
A lie. You couldn’t remember a single year you hadn’t been expelled or transferred - one year, you’d switched schools three times.
“Mmm,” Sukuna hummed, unconvinced.
You straightened slightly, shifting onto the offensive. “Why are you reading up on me?”
He leaned back further, arms crossing over his chest. “I’m allowed to,” he said evenly. “Especially when something feels… off.”
His gaze stayed on you, heavy with suspicion, dulled only slightly by exhaustion. You didn’t look away. Looking away would give him something to latch onto.
“Which neighborhood did you grow up in?”
“Name of your childhood best friend.”
Another answer, clean, practiced.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he shifted forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes never leaving your face.
“Which middle school did you attend?”
“What was the name of the street you lived on?”
The questions came faster after that, rapid, sharp, overlapping. Dates. Names. Places. Small details designed to trip you up, to force a stumble.
You didn’t miss a single one.
Sukuna rose from his chair and circled the desk. You hesitated only a moment before standing as well, instinct pulling you back as he moved forward. He advanced - you retreated an unspoken exchange until your back met the bookshelf.
Morning light spilled through the windows, the rising sun washing the office in a soft orange glow. It should have felt calm. Tranquil. Instead, your heart raced, loud and uneven, clashing with the stillness of the hour.
He stopped just in front of you.
Up close, he was imposing. And attractive as hell. His pink hair stuck out in every direction, mussed as though he’d dragged his hands through it too many times. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, dark tattoos exposed along his forearms. His jaw was set tight, tension visible there, carved deep by exhaustion and something sharper beneath it.
Was this a bad time to start drooling over him.
You ignored your thoughts and instead tried to read him, anger, suspicion, intent? but his expression gave nothing away.
His eyes were heavy-lidded, shadowed from lack of sleep, and utterly unreadable.
The uncertainty unsettled you more than any threat could have.
The room felt smaller. Closer.
And for the first time since this had begun, you realized you had no idea which way this was going to turn.
“How many times have you moved in your entire life?”
Still, your pulse betrayed you. Just a fraction too fast.
He straightened abruptly and stepped into your space. One hand came up, planting against the wall beside your head. Not touching you. Not yet.
“Which was it?” he asked quietly. “You said east first. Then south.”
You swallowed. “I didn’t.”
A lie? No. The truth. But hesitation crept in anyway, just enough to register.
“Which one,” he repeated, voice low, dangerous in its calm.
Your nerves screamed. Images flickered unbidden. What happened to people who failed this kind of scrutiny? You forced your breathing to be steady.
“I didn’t mix it up,” you said firmly. “You did.”
His eyes lingered on you, darkened just enough to betray interest, slow, deliberate, as if he were weighing a thought he hadn’t decided to indulge
Then, unexpectedly, he leaned closer.
His hands settled on your hips, firm enough to bruise if he chose, pulling you flush against him. His mouth brushed your neck, just beneath your ear, too deliberate to be mistaken for comfort.
It wasn’t a kiss meant to soothe.
A calculated test, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch before he pulled back a fraction, as if daring you to react.
Your breath hitched despite yourself.
“Birthday,” he murmured against your skin. “Say it again.”
You closed your eyes for half a second. Opened them.
He trailed his kisses across your collar bone.
“Your childhood best friend’s name.”
Another answer, steady, unwavering now.
He lingered there a moment longer, breath warm, presence overwhelming, as if waiting for you to break.
Hands still remaining on your hips.
The silence stretched, thick and unreadable.
Whatever method he’d switched to, it hadn’t worked the way he wanted.
And somehow, that unsettled him more than any mistake ever could have.
Your breathing was ragged, nerves still screaming from the last few hours of his… tactic. You had no idea what he was thinking, and you didn’t dare ask.
Sukuna was balanced on a knife’s edge, it felt like the smallest thing, the slightest misstep, could push him over it.
“Done?” you muttered under your breath, trying to catch your breath from the last few hours.
He stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel his presence pressing in. The air felt heavier, charged. His eyes held that unreadable intensity, like he could see everything and nothing at once.
“Why did you start working here?” he asked, his tone casual, but the weight behind it made your chest tighten.
Your body betrays, “Fuck” you moan as Sukuna bites you down, you stammer, “Uh - M-Money,” you manage, your voice tighter than you intended.
“Mm,” he hummed, dissatisfied with your answer, “How old were you when you got those tattoos?”
You hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden shift in questions - he wasn’t questioning the version of you you’d constructed anymore, but you.
He pauses, then pulls the mesh top over your head. A moment later, his mouth is back on your skin, tracing a path down your neck. The sudden act makes you gasp, and your arms instinctively wrap around his neck to steady yourself.
“Uh... nineteen," you manage, his hand moving from your hip to cup your breast as he descends. Your mind is a hazy, fevered blank.
His voice is a low vibration against your ribs. "How about that cute little tramp stamp?"
"Shit-t." You throw your head back with a loud moan as his teeth sink into your tits, his other hand snaking under your bra to pinch your nipple. "-sixteen," you gasp out.
You can practically feel Sukuna's grin, like he's caught you in a lie. "Thought you weren't a troublemaker."
You groan, struggling to form words as he trails lower. "Tattoos... do... not..." you pant. "...equate to delinquency." It's a complete lie, and you both know it.
"When are you gonna start telling the truth, sweetheart?" His voice dropped, low, unhurried,
The same tone he used in meetings, when greeting people, and now with you pressed against the wall.
Sukuna lowered himself to the floor, settling there with deliberate ease, his gaze lifting to you. From that angle, his eyes looked darker, heavier, lit with a slow, smoldering intent that tightened your chest. He looked consumed as if the moment had narrowed to just the two of you, and he had no intention of looking away.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, and you let him, your hands tangling in his hair, holding on as if he's the only solid thing in a world that's tilting on its axis.
He tugs your shorts down, and you clutch at his shoulders for support. "I am telling the truth," you insist, the words weak and breathless.
"Uh huh." The sound is a soft, knowing scoff. He yanks your shorts down and throws them behind his shoulders without a second glance. His focus is absolute, pinning you in place. He stares at the delicate lace of your panties, at the dark patch of wetness that betrays your every denial.
Then, a new question, sharp and dangerous. "That loser at the club…is that your type?"
Your brain scrambles to catch up, but he's already moving. He hooks a finger into the soaked lace of your panties, yanking them down and out of the way. There's no warning, no gentle lead-up. He just dives in, burying his face between your thighs.
The feeling is electric - a raw, hungry heat as his tongue laps against your cunt, sloppy and eager, circling your clit in a way that makes your whole body seize up. It's messy and desperate and absolutely perfect, and any thought of any man is completely fucking obliterated.
"Who?" you moan out, the word barely a puff of air.
You weren't trying to be difficult, not really, but your brain was a complete blank, wiped clean by the sensation of his mouth on you. All you could focus on was the heat, the pressure, the absolute filth of it.
You feel him chuckle against your cunt, the vibration a low, dirty hum that makes your toes curl. Then he's shoving a finger inside you, a thick, relentless pressure that steals your breath. "Uhh—" The sound is ripped from your throat as your legs threaten to give out completely. Sukuna notices instantly. His left bands around the back of your thighs, holding you up, holding you open for him. Your fingers clutch desperately at his hair, the strands your only anchor in a sea of overwhelming pleasure.
"Yea, I- I guess s-so," you stammer, the words slurred and meaningless. You're not even sure what you're agreeing to anymore, your mind a foggy mess dictated by the slick, rhythmic drag of his tongue. You'd say anything, promise him the world, if it meant he wouldn't stop.
A low growl vibrates against your core, but it ain't approval. It's pure, raw fucking displeasure. He shoves a second finger into you, stretching your pussy out with his fingers as his tongue flicks against your clit with a new, ruthless precision. "Really?" he rasps, the word a dark, muffled accusation against your flesh. "Were you hopin' he'd fuck you tonight?"
"Y-yes," you breathe, the answer a desperate, honest plea. And just like that, everything changes. Sukuna's deliberate, torturous rhythm slows to a cruel, teasing crawl.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Wrong answer.
The realization hits you like a physical blow. He adds two more fingers, forcing them inside you, and the pace becomes meaner, a brutal punishment that has you seeing stars.
"You think better than I would?"
You swallowed the lump in your throat, trembling “N-No”
"Good girl," You can feel him smirking against your cunt "Finally, some fuckin truth."
You can't hold back, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as you throw your head back. His tongue is there to lap it all up, swirling through your release to collect every single drop as you tremble and shake in his hold.
You're floating in a daze, and you barely register him rising, or the way he manhandles your legs, wrapping them securely around his waist. The only thing that snaps you back to reality is the hard, familiar press of wood against your ass. He's lifted you onto his desk.
Sukuna wastes no time, ripping his shirt over his head. Your eyes drink him in, all hard, sculpted muscle and sprawling ink. His chest rises and falls with rapid, harsh breaths, every muscle contracted and straining, thick veins popping along his biceps. His pink hair is a mess, tousled and ruined from how hard you were gripping it.
And those eyes… the same eyes that held such exhaustion are now set ablaze, burning with nothing but pure, undiluted lust.
He's forgotten all about the interrogation for the moment, all about the game. He's a complete, wreck, and the dark circles under his eyes only make him look more dangerous, more feral.
Jesus, you do need sleep though.
His hands slam down on the desk on either side of your thighs, caging you in as he leans in, lowering his head until his eyes lit, wild, hungry - are boring into yours.
"I think I can go for a couple more hours," he says.
Fuck did you say that outloud?
Your eyes follow his down, landing on the bulge straining against his jeans. Huge doesn't cover it when he pulls it out. Massive is an understatement. The thing looks monstrous, and a dizzy – ten inches? More?
"Eyes on me." The command is sharp, and boy, do you obey instantly.
Sukuna's hands band around your waist, yanking you forward until your tits are crushed against his chest, his dick grinding meanly against your soaking, bare cunt. Your arms fly up, wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling in his pink locs.
And God, was he aggressive.
He bites your lower lip, making you gasp, and then his tongue is in your mouth, exploring every inch, dominating yours in a sloppy, possessive kiss that leaves you breathless.
You're so lost in it, so dazed, that you don't even feel his hands creep up your back until you hear the sharp click of your bra coming undone. He flicks it away without breaking the kiss.
The only time you part is when your lungs burn for air, a messy string of saliva connecting your mouths.
A slight, wicked grin plays on Sukuna's lips, a look that says all his pent-up frustration and exhaustion have finally pushed him over the edge, and you're the only thing left to break.
One arm clamps around your waist like a steel band, while the other moves up to cup your tit, his thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple into a hardened peak. He leans down, attaching his lips to the bud, swirling his tongue around it before sucking it into his mouth.
And god, he has you right on the edge, exactly where he wants you. The only distance he gives is when he leans back just enough to line his flushed, pink tip up with your soaked cunt, the head already seeping with precum.
But Sukuna… wasn’t gonna go easy on you. No, no, no.
He drags that tip through your folds, coating it in your slick, sliding it up and down your slit without entering, while his other hand moves to pinch your clit.
"God, Sukuna, just fuck me already," you whine, your head rolling back, your eyes rolling as you lose all control of your body, completely and utterly at his mercy.
"Sweetheart." His voice is a low purr. He stares down at you, bringing his left hand up, his long fingers pressing against your lips until you part them. He slides them into your mouth, and your tongue instinctively swirls around them, coating them in your saliva.
He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "What's your real name?"
He’s not done, and you are so, so screwed. Literally.
He holds your gaze, and your lips betray you.
He rolls your name on his tongue, testing the sound of it, a low growl of satisfaction rumbling in his chest as he said it again. Then he pushed forward, sinking a couple of thick, punishing inches into your gummy walls, stretching you just enough to make you ache for more. "What-t are you doing here?" he grunted, his voice a strained, rough thing against your ear.
Sukuna is barely holding on by a thread as he feels the searing heat of your walls clench around him, realizing just how perfect your pussy is.
And you spill it all. "Mission-n – making sure-e you guys aren't fucking-g up-p."
He pushes another couple of inches into you, the stretch drawing a groan from both of your throats. "S-so what, you're a fuckin spy-y?" his eyes narrow, his breath catching in his chest.
And that's it. The thread snaps. He can't hold back anymore. God, he doesn't even fucking care anymore. He wants you, he needs you, and the last of his control shatters. He slams the remaining inches into you, burying himself into your pussy in one brutal stroke.
Your hands fly out, one gripping his huge bicep for dear life, the other fisting in his hair, holding on. His entire body flexes, every muscle coiling and releasing as he begins to batter his rock-hard dick into your gooey depths.
"There we go," he snarls, his rhythm punishing from the start. "Fuckin' spy, huh – had me wrapped all around your pretty fingers."
He's stretching that pretty cunt of yours, slamming into you again and again, his hands on the sides of your hips, pulling you into every brutal thrust.
And Sukuna was just… babbling. A stream of unconsciousness words, adrenaline kicking in from the lack of sleep, from the sheer, desperate need for you, from his cock buried so deep inside you he could think of nothing else.
"What? - Got you so fucked that you can't even speak back?" he taunts, his hips never ceasing their relentless assault.
You're somehow muffling out a reply, the words seeping through each labored breath.
"S-Sukuna..Fuck-k – y-yes, so close."
"I wanted to take you right there," he grits out, as he rams into you, "at that shithole club, right in front of that loser." He shifts his angle, just slightly, and the thick head of his cock punches against your g-spot so deep inside you that your vision whites out.
"In those slutty clothes." He’s gritting his teeth, but his voice is a sweet, sultry whisper that ghosts the shell of your ear. "And those fucking tattoos were driving me insane."
With every confession, his hips snapped forward with a new, devastating purpose.
The room is filled with the sound of his hips meeting yours is obscene, a wet, slapping rhythm that echoes in the room.
You're so overstimulated that you can barely think straight as his thick cockhead is reaching deep within your walls, bruising it with every deep, calculated thrust. It's as though he's trying to carve his name into your very walls, addicted to the way you clench and flutter around him every time he hits it.
"Fuck…" he groans, feeling the way your cunt tightens around his throbbing cock, a fresh gush of slick dripping from you, creating a messy puddle on the desk beneath you.
It's not long after that you feel the hot pulse of his cum filling you up, he keeps fucking you – making sure every last drop is buried deep inside.
His rhythm gets sloppier, sloppier, before he stops entirely, his entire body shaking as he finally pulls out, collapsing on top of you.
You wrap your arms around him instinctively, the adrenaline slowly waning.
"Sukuna, you alright?" you manage to breathe out.
He shuffles momentarily, his face hovering over yours. His eyes were cold, devoid of emotion, radiating sheer exhaustion.
Sukuna Ryomen was crashing, badly.
With the little energy he had left, he wasted no time, throwing on his pants before slipping his shirt over your head. In one smooth motion, he threw you once again over his shoulder, leaving his office and striding through the hallways.
Honestly, you didn't have the energy to care.
The only thing you registered was the soft mattress under you, a blanket being draped over you, and the solid warmth of his chest as Sukuna wraps his arms around you.
"By the way," he murmurs into your hair, "I never approved your leave."
You were so exhausted you could barely process the words.
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