i hate that when you try and look up shit for writing purposes it starts linking suicide hotlines and addiction advice articles like bro i just wanna know the information im not killing myself i promise. now tell me what i wanna know
୧ ‧₊˚ 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝓡.𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 and his work wife.
⋅ ✰ everyone in the office is terrified of ryomen sukuna— the cold-hearted finance director with a glare sharp enough to make interns cry.
everyone except you.
MDNI ✰ oral (fem receiving) ✰ unprotected sex ✰ p in v smut ✰ semi-public sex
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The fluorescent lights of the corporate high-rise buzzed like dying insects overhead, casting a sterile glow over the open-plan office floor. Sukuna Ryomen, Finance Director, ruled his domain with the kind of iron fist that made interns cry in the supply closet and senior analysts suddenly remember urgent dentist appointments whenever he stepped out of his corner office. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp tattoos peeking from the collar of his tailored black dress shirt and a resting scowl that could curdle milk. Rumors swirled that he'd once made a board member resign over a misplaced decimal. No one dared sit near him in the break room. No one stole his parking spot. And absolutely no one touched his food.
Except you.
You were the marketing coordinator two floors down, but you spent more time on the finance level than your own. To everyone else, you were Sukuna's "work wife"—the only soul brave (or foolish) enough to perch on the edge of his desk during meetings, tease him about his coffee order, and—most infamously—steal fries right off his plate while he ate lunch at his desk.
Today was no different.
The executive lunch spread was laid out in the glass-walled conference room: grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, and a mountain of thick-cut fries that Sukuna had specifically requested. He sat at the head of the table like a king on a throne, sleeves rolled up to expose veined forearms, stabbing at his food with precise aggression. A cluster of department heads hovered nervously at the far end, discussing quarterly projections in hushed tones.
You sauntered in without knocking, wearing a fitted pencil skirt that hugged your hips and a silk blouse unbuttoned just one notch past professional. Your heels clicked confidently across the marble floor.
Without a word, you slid into the chair beside him—the one no one else would touch—and plucked three fries from his plate, popping them into your mouth with a satisfied hum.
The room went dead silent.
One analyst choked on his water. Another stared like you'd just performed a public execution. Sukuna didn't even look up from his salmon, but the corner of his mouth twitched—the closest thing he ever got to a smile in public.
"Those were mine," he growled, low enough that only you could hear the playful edge beneath the menace.
You leaned in, brushing your knee against his under the table. "And now they're mine. You always take the best ones anyway, Mr. Finance Director."
Someone at the table whispered, "She's going to die. Today's the day."
But Sukuna just pushed the plate slightly toward you, allowing you to steal another fry. The rest of the meeting continued with everyone else sweating bullets while you casually doodled on his quarterly report and whispered filthy promises in his ear whenever the projector light dimmed.
By 4 PM, the tension had built to a breaking point. The office was emptying out, but you lingered, "accidentally" leaving your tablet in Sukuna's office.
He was waiting.
The second the door clicked shut behind you, Sukuna's hand shot out, grabbing you by the waist and yanking you against his hard chest. His mouth crashed down on yours in a bruising kiss, all teeth and hunger. No gentle buildup—never with him. Weeks of sneaking around had turned this into an art form: quick, dirty fucks in supply closets, his office after hours, even once in the executive bathroom during a particularly boring investor call where you'd had to bite your lip bloody to stay quiet.
"Been thinking about this all fucking day," he muttered against your lips, walking you backward until your ass hit his massive oak desk. Papers scattered. A pen holder clattered to the floor. He didn't care. "Watching you steal my food like you own me in front of those spineless idiots."
You laughed breathlessly, fingers already working at his belt. "I do own you. We're married, remember? Or did you forget the ring you keep hidden in your pocket?"
Sukuna's eyes darkened with lust and something fiercer. He spun you around, bending you over the desk with one strong hand between your shoulder blades. Your skirt rode up as he shoved it to your waist, exposing the lacy red thong you'd worn specifically for this.
"Married or not, you're still my little work wife out there," he said, voice rough as he palmed your ass, spreading you open. "And my filthy slut in here."
He dropped to his knees behind you without warning. The first hot swipe of his tongue along your clothed pussy made you jolt. He ripped the thong aside, burying his face between your thighs like a starving man. His tongue was relentless—lapping at your folds, circling your clit with firm pressure, then plunging inside you. Two thick fingers joined soon after, curling brutally against that spot that made your knees buckle.
"Fuck—Ryomen—" you gasped, gripping the edge of the desk. The city skyline glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but all you could focus on was the wet, obscene sounds of him devouring you. He sucked your clit hard, fingers pumping faster, stretching you open. Your thighs trembled.
He pulled back just as you were about to tip over the edge, standing up and pressing his clothed erection against your ass. "Not yet. You don't come until I say."
You heard his zipper, then felt the thick, heavy weight of his cock slapping against your soaked pussy. Sukuna was big—long and girthy, with a slight upward curve that always hit perfectly. He rubbed the head up and down your slit, coating himself in your juices, teasing your entrance.
"Beg," he commanded, one hand fisting your hair.
"Please," you whimpered, pushing back against him. "Fuck me, Ryomen. Need your cock."
With a guttural groan, he thrust in to the hilt in one brutal stroke. The stretch burned deliciously, filling you so completely you saw stars. He didn't give you time to adjust—just started pounding into you with deep, punishing strokes that rocked the heavy desk forward.
"Shit, you're always so tight," he growled, hips snapping against your ass. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the office, mixed with your moans and his low grunts. He reached around to rub your clit in tight circles, never slowing his rhythm. "Gonna fill this pretty pussy again. Mark what's mine."
You were lost in it—the way his cock dragged against your walls, the way his balls slapped against you, the way his free hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. He leaned over you, biting down on your shoulder through your blouse as he fucked you harder. The angle shifted, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.
"Come for me," he ordered, voice strained. "Now."
Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, pussy clenching around his thick length as you cried out his name. Sukuna followed right after, burying himself deep and spilling hot ropes of cum inside you with a choked groan. He stayed there, grinding slowly through the aftershocks, making sure every drop stayed buried.
For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing. Then he pulled out carefully, watching with dark satisfaction as his cum dripped down your thighs. He used two fingers to push it back inside you.
"Keep it in until you get home," he murmured, kissing the back of your neck almost tenderly.
You turned in his arms, grinning up at him. "Yes, sir. But only if you let me steal your dessert tomorrow."
Sukuna chuckled—a rare, genuine sound—and kissed you softly. "Brat."
The next morning, the office was buzzing with the usual fear. Sukuna stormed through the halls looking as terrifying as ever, barking orders that made grown men pale. You arrived at 10 AM with coffee, perching on his desk as usual and stealing a bite of his blueberry muffin.
The analysts watched in horrified awe as he merely raised an eyebrow and let you have it.
"Work wife perks," someone whispered.
If only they knew the real perks involved being bent over that same desk every other night, taking your husband's cock until you couldn't walk straight. Or the wedding bands hidden in his wallet and your jewelry box. Or the way he whispered "I love you" against your skin after every filthy encounter.
You winked at Sukuna across the desk. He smirked back—the secret smile that belonged only to you.
Lunch couldn't come fast enough.
The weeks blurred into a delicious routine of corporate terror and hidden passion. Sukuna's reputation only grew more fearsome after he publicly eviscerated a vendor during a budget meeting for "wasting his goddamn time." You, meanwhile, played the perfect work wife: bringing him lunch (which you always sampled first), organizing his files with color-coded tabs he pretended to hate, and sitting in on finance meetings just to "take notes."
No one suspected a thing.
Until the day the copier jammed on the 15th floor.
You'd dragged Sukuna into the supply closet under the pretense of needing his "height advantage." The second the door locked, he had you pressed against the shelves, your legs wrapped around his waist as he freed his cock and sank into you in one smooth thrust.
"Quiet," he hissed, even as he fucked you hard enough to make the shelves rattle. "Or everyone will hear what a slut my wife is."
You buried your face in his neck, biting down to muffle your moans as he railed you. His cock was so deep at this angle, grinding against your cervix with every upward snap of his hips. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his dress shirt sticking to his muscular back. One hand held you up effortlessly while the other slipped between you to pinch and rub your clit.
The risk always made it hotter—the voices of coworkers just outside the door discussing toner cartridges while Sukuna destroyed your pussy in the dark. You came first, clenching around him like a vice, soaking his cock. He followed with a muffled curse, pumping you full again.
Afterward, he cleaned you up with his handkerchief like a gentleman, then sent you out first with a possessive slap on the ass.
"See you at my desk for lunch," he said. "And don't even think about ordering your own fries."
By the time you reached the finance floor, your legs were still shaky, but you wore a bright smile. Sukuna was already at his desk, looking perfectly composed and terrifying. You slid into your usual spot and immediately reached for his plate.
The entire floor held its collective breath.
You stole an entire handful of fries this time, grinning as you ate them slowly, one by one.
Sukuna's eyes met yours with a heat that promised retribution later—probably in the parking garage, or his car, or the executive elevator that had mysteriously stopped working twice last week.
The crack of your secret marriage made every stolen bite taste sweeter. The fear everyone else felt only heightened the thrill. Because while they saw a monster, you saw the man who fucked you senseless every chance he got, who whispered vows against your skin in the afterglow, and who—despite his reputation—always pushed his plate toward you with that secret, fond glint in his eye.
Later that evening, after the office had emptied, Sukuna locked his door and cleared his desk entirely. He laid you out on it like a feast, spreading your legs wide and eating you out until you were sobbing with overstimulation. Then he flipped you onto your stomach again, fucking you slow and deep this time, savoring every clench and whimper.
"Love you, wife," he growled as he came, hips stuttering.
"Love you too, Ryomen," you gasped, reaching back to pull him closer.
Outside, the city lights twinkled. Inside, the feared Finance Director was nothing but yours—body, soul, and all the fries on his plate.
art creds to @/reyomensukuna all dividers by @/uzmacchiato and @/pixopix
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