sukuna saves you the cleanup after a creampie
after sex with sukuna, your body isn’t yours for a while.
not really. not when your thighs are still twitching, and your cunt’s still leaking, and he’s still there, watching you fall apart in the ruin he made.
he likes loves the mess. likes what it means. doesn’t care that you’re sore or shivering or barely coherent—if anything, that’s part of the appeal. it’s not enough for him to fuck you. not enough to cum inside you. no, sukuna wants to see it drip. wants to taste it after. wants to bury his face between your legs and lick every drop of himself back out like it belongs to him. because it does.
you’re still trying to catch your breath when he moves again.
your legs are heavy. your chest’s still heaving. your whole body’s pulsing in aftershocks from how hard he fucked you—rough and fast, hand on your throat, hips unrelenting, cock shoved so deep you still feel him inside, even though he’s not. even though he’s already pulled out and left you aching.
you don’t realize he’s gone until the mattress shifts at your feet. until you blink your eyes open and see him between your legs again. crouched. staring.
“what are you doing,” you whisper, voice cracked.
you try to close your legs and he laughs.
that mean little grunt of a sound, deep in his chest, all teeth. “don’t be shy now,” he says, hand already flattening over your thigh to keep you open, wide, spread, ruined. “you let me fuck it, you let me fill it—what, now you wanna act all modest?”
he doesn’t wait for an answer. doesn’t need one.
because he’s already got his face between your legs again, tongue dragging slow and low through the mess he left inside you, and fuck, it’s so much worse this time—so much worse when it’s not about pleasure, not about your orgasm, not about anything soft or sweet.
it’s filthy. it’s disgusting. it’s him chasing the taste of his own cum out of you like he’s thirsty for it, like he wants to drink every last drop just to remind you who it belongs to.
he groans like you’re dinner. he growls like you’re prey. slurping it up like he’d bite if he weren’t too busy licking.
“messy little thing,” he mutters into your cunt, mouth still full. “can’t even hold it in, huh?”
you shake your head. you’re crying again, probably. overstimulated and twitching and raw all over, but his grip doesn’t soften, doesn’t let you run. he just goes deeper, tongue fucking into you like he wants to stir it back out, like he wants to savor the way it spills from you, thick and warm and still dripping down your thighs.
and when you flinch—when you try to squirm away, useless little whimper in your throat—he drags his tongue all the way up and spits it back on your pussy.
“tastes better like this,” he says, like he’s just talking to himself now. “you. me. all mixed together.” another slow lick. another long groan. “like you were made to keep me inside you.”
you shake your head. you can’t even look at him—but he makes you.
grabs your chin with one wet hand and forces your gaze down—makes you watch him tongue through the mess between your legs like a man possessed. messy. loud. claiming you all over again.
“that’s what i thought,” he says, licking his lips. “good girl.”
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