hi. welcome. you’ve somehow ended up on my blog and honestly? that’s on both of us.
I write fic for Jujutsu Kaisen and Love and Deepspace, which means this blog exists in a strange limbo between deeply romantic and deeply concerning. if you’re here for soft moments, yearning, and intimacy? cool. if you’re here because you enjoy staring directly into the void with fictional men? also cool.
important disclaimer before you scroll:
I write dark content and dead dove. not “oops that was a little sad” dark, but read-the-tags, sit-with-your-feelings dark. power imbalances, obsession, moral rot, bad decisions made by attractive people, etc. I tag my work properly and I expect you to curate your own experience like an adult on the internet.
what you’ll find here: – fic that starts normal and then quietly gets worse
– emotional manipulation (consensual, between author and reader)
– characters who are not good people and do not want to be
– moments of tenderness that feel illegal somehow
– me losing my mind in the tags
I don’t post on a schedule. I post when the brain worms are loud enough to win. sometimes that’s 3 fics in a week, sometimes I disappear to think about fictional men in silence.
this blog is pro-fiction, anti-censorship, and very much “if it’s tagged, you’ve been warned.” I’m here to explore themes, not to sanitize them. if that’s not your thing, that’s totally fine, there are many lovely, safer corners of Tumblr. this just isn’t one of them.
feel free to follow, lurk, reblog, or scream quietly to yourself in the notes. asks are open unless tumblr eats them again. mutuals get my eternal affection.❤️
anyway. thanks for stopping by. proceed with caution and maybe a beverage. 🍷
🧛♀️ She/Her - vampire!
I'm 23+ and I write for adults! MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED SO DO NOT INTERACT ‼️‼️
when he walks, it demands attention. every step filling up the sound, the area, the density around you so you know that he’s coming.
it’s even in the slight shake of the little trinkets adorning your coffee table as he drops in the couch, his heavy arms on either side of the long couch back.
or how small everything looked in his hands, how loud it was when he set something down even if it was meant to be light.
how harsh a slap to your ass felt every time you walked past him.
or when his big hands engulfed your waist no matter what you did.
how his body covered yours if you were even washing the dishes, grabbing your keys, beneath, over, under him and even in the shower.
even his fucking shadow dominated yours.
he was just big. and you loved it.
you loved every aspect of it, when he would be fucking so deep, the low drag of his dick pulling out from inside you till just his tip remained and he slammed back inside of you.
it was mesmerizing how heavy he was everywhere. how he didn’t need to do much barely lifting a finger or flexing a muscle to move you in any position he wanted.
but it was perfect watching him in missionary his long, bulky figure sweaty above you, his arms anchored at the sides of your head.
steady for him and a reminder for you of how fucking strong he was. how he could hold you in a armlock and fuck you how he wanted.
or he could bend you over anywhere, anyhow and take you cause you were his.
you’d imagine that’s your favorite position anything that demonstrated his otherworldly strength. the slight cut off of your airflow turning your moans get lighter and breathy while he fucked you on his lap.
or maybe a full nelson, feeling the stretch of your legs as sukuna forced you past what you thought your limit was, feeling the burn as he huffed only focusing on cumming and not the desperate squirm of your body with the new found angle.
but no.
your favorite position was missionary, missionary since you can wrap your legs around the sturdy expanse of his waist as he pressed back inside of you.
your arms could wrap, and scratch around his back and pull his large frame over to give you another kiss.
but your favorite part was when you’d press your hand firmly in the middle of his large back, catching him off guard and pressing all 280 pounds of muscle in top of you until you felt your chest constrict.
some might assume you’re a masochist, torturing yourself like this, feeling your body fight underneath your boyfriends as you chased your orgasm.
or maybe feeling the dark tingle in your lower abdomen as he nipped at your neck, eyes slightly wider than usual watching you heave below him but not wanting to stop.
and how hard it was you came when he finally accepted his fate and lessened the weight in his arms to lie fully on you, hearing the breathless gasp escape out your mouth while you scratch and cum helplessly under him.
but even regular life wasn’t much better.
sukuna could chalk it up to a kink, a sick desire you had or a underlying urge to be close to him.
but he couldn’t understand this.
on the train you’d always push to get on the crowded one, even with another a few minutes begin.
insisting that you stood at the door and he covered you, and every single time without fail he crushes you.
his hard body swinging from the influx of people or the harsh curve of the train, pressing you further and further to the door. and it’s not like you would move away, or that you could.
but he would observe your gleaming eyes, the tight hold you’d have on his dress shirt and the bite of your lips as you finally took a deep shaky breath when he would finally get to back an inch away.
though he was also concerned when it was time to sleep.
“c’monnnn kuna” you’d whine spread like a starfish out on your bed while he you watched your shirtless boyfriend at the end of the bed.
whose arms were folded, his eyebrows scrunched as he watched you almost scared.
“this is concerning even for you.”
“please baby, i’m always on top of you anyways.”
“no.”
“no?”
“no.”
yet and still he found himself, not even ten minutes later, laid out on top of you his heavy chest crushing yours again as you hummed underneath him pleased.
“there is no way you’re comfortable under there”, his muffled voice answered as you basically purred, rubbing his back.
“very.”
“and no way you can breathe.”
“gotten used to it.”
you’re unreal. but still he couldn’t be too bothered watching your light breathes when he turned with his bed head and see the small smile splayed out in your face.
and you?
this wouldn’t the last time you’d want sukuna’s full weight.
when he walks, it demands attention. every step filling up the sound, the area, the density around you so you know that he’s coming.
it’s even in the slight shake of the little trinkets adorning your coffee table as he drops in the couch, his heavy arms on either side of the long couch back.
or how small everything looked in his hands, how loud it was when he set something down even if it was meant to be light.
how harsh a slap to your ass felt every time you walked past him.
or when his big hands engulfed your waist no matter what you did.
how his body covered yours if you were even washing the dishes, grabbing your keys, beneath, over, under him and even in the shower.
even his fucking shadow dominated yours.
he was just big. and you loved it.
you loved every aspect of it, when he would be fucking so deep, the low drag of his dick pulling out from inside you till just his tip remained and he slammed back inside of you.
it was mesmerizing how heavy he was everywhere. how he didn’t need to do much barely lifting a finger or flexing a muscle to move you in any position he wanted.
but it was perfect watching him in missionary his long, bulky figure sweaty above you, his arms anchored at the sides of your head.
steady for him and a reminder for you of how fucking strong he was. how he could hold you in a armlock and fuck you how he wanted.
or he could bend you over anywhere, anyhow and take you cause you were his.
you’d imagine that’s your favorite position anything that demonstrated his otherworldly strength. the slight cut off of your airflow turning your moans get lighter and breathy while he fucked you on his lap.
or maybe a full nelson, feeling the stretch of your legs as sukuna forced you past what you thought your limit was, feeling the burn as he huffed only focusing on cumming and not the desperate squirm of your body with the new found angle.
but no.
your favorite position was missionary, missionary since you can wrap your legs around the sturdy expanse of his waist as he pressed back inside of you.
your arms could wrap, and scratch around his back and pull his large frame over to give you another kiss.
but your favorite part was when you’d press your hand firmly in the middle of his large back, catching him off guard and pressing all 280 pounds of muscle in top of you until you felt your chest constrict.
some might assume you’re a masochist, torturing yourself like this, feeling your body fight underneath your boyfriends as you chased your orgasm.
or maybe feeling the dark tingle in your lower abdomen as he nipped at your neck, eyes slightly wider than usual watching you heave below him but not wanting to stop.
and how hard it was you came when he finally accepted his fate and lessened the weight in his arms to lie fully on you, hearing the breathless gasp escape out your mouth while you scratch and cum helplessly under him.
but even regular life wasn’t much better.
sukuna could chalk it up to a kink, a sick desire you had or a underlying urge to be close to him.
but he couldn’t understand this.
on the train you’d always push to get on the crowded one, even with another a few minutes begin.
insisting that you stood at the door and he covered you, and every single time without fail he crushes you.
his hard body swinging from the influx of people or the harsh curve of the train, pressing you further and further to the door. and it’s not like you would move away, or that you could.
but he would observe your gleaming eyes, the tight hold you’d have on his dress shirt and the bite of your lips as you finally took a deep shaky breath when he would finally get to back an inch away.
though he was also concerned when it was time to sleep.
“c’monnnn kuna” you’d whine spread like a starfish out on your bed while he you watched your shirtless boyfriend at the end of the bed.
whose arms were folded, his eyebrows scrunched as he watched you almost scared.
“this is concerning even for you.”
“please baby, i’m always on top of you anyways.”
“no.”
“no?”
“no.”
yet and still he found himself, not even ten minutes later, laid out on top of you his heavy chest crushing yours again as you hummed underneath him pleased.
“there is no way you’re comfortable under there”, his muffled voice answered as you basically purred, rubbing his back.
“very.”
“and no way you can breathe.”
“gotten used to it.”
you’re unreal. but still he couldn’t be too bothered watching your light breathes when he turned with his bed head and see the small smile splayed out in your face.
and you?
this wouldn’t the last time you’d want sukuna’s full weight.
having a sugar daddy has its own perks in itself. you've got everything you've only ever dreamed of. Lavish and luxurious life, designer everything and what not. All this is because your sugar daddy Sukuna Ryomen who is one of the most successful businessmen took you in to live with him. But having a sugar daddy also comes with a bit of a con, that is. He's not always free, most of the time he's working, too focused on work to give you any sort of attention. Sometimes it pisses you off how much he works, so you decide to poke at his pride, taunting by saying he's too old for you and boy how you regretted those words leaving your mouth afterwards.
word count: 2.4k
Tags: sugar daddy sukuna, sugar baby reader, sugar daddy x sugar baby, age difference, older man younger woman, possessive sukuna, smut, explicit smut, nsfw, 18+, minors dni, rough sex, dom sukuna, sub reader, spanking, overstimulation, piv, pia, orgasm denial, anal play, anal sex, pussy spanking, cockdrunk reader, dumbification, degradation kink, praise and degradation, breeding kink mention, size kink, manhandling, dark content, pwp, porn without plot, brat taming, brat reader, mean dom sukuna, possessive sex, modern au.
The sound of rain pouring outside is the only loud noise coming as you lay there sprawled on the soft plush couch in Sukuna's office. He's sitting at his desk making the nth call of the day as you were lazily trying to solve the Rubik's cube in your hand. Every turn of the cube along with his voice speaking to God knows who was irritating you making you frustrated furthermore.
College wasn't helping either, everyone was trying to be a typical mean girl to you. All you got is your sugar daddy taking care of you and giving you attention but right now even he's not interested as it may seem. You sigh and sit up right watching him now as he typed away something and snapped at the person on the phone telling him to fix it asap or else he'll make sure he'll ruin his entire life.
You saunter over to him putting your hands over his shoulders as he dialed yet another number and started talking to someone without even acknowledging your presence. You started massaging his shoulders trying to make him feel relaxed.
"Quit it brat, I'm trying to work here." He snaps suddenly causing your brows to shoot up. For a split second, you consider to just shut the fuck up and back off. Being good. Going back to the couch and play with the stupid cube and pretending to stop craving attention like some street whore. but no, your bratty self wants to play with fire tonight, so instead of sealing that mouth of yours, you smile and lean closer, lips near his ear teasing and nipping at his lobe, voice light and sultry, dripping with honey, "You're always working, kuna," you whine and he finally looks up to you.
His crimson eyes, sharp rake over your face, slow and assessing. Like a predator realizing its prey has stopped pretending to be afraid. "You're testing your luck." He speaks calmly. You tilt your head, lips curving. "Am I?" Your thumb drags along his collarbone, teasing. "You look tired, Sukuna. Maybe your age is catching up to you, don't you think?"
That does it.
His hand snaps out, hand's grip iron-hard around your wrist, yanking you forward until your hips are digging at the edge of his desk. Papers scatter, a pen rolls off the edge and clatters to the floor, his laptop toppling over the side. "What did you just say? let me hear you say it again."
You swallow, a part of you regrets uttering those words after seeing the dangerous glint in his eyes and the way he is gripping your waist, his hulking form towering over you. You audibly swallow. The deed has been done; you can't back away like a coward now. "You're getting old," the words leave your mouth before you can even think about stopping them. "And maybe you don't have the strength you used to have, you know, handling a woman and your work all at the same time."
The silence after those words left your mouth is unnerving, heavy. He slowly withdraws his hands from your body, eyes never leaving yours. You sit at the edge of the desk, your negligee hunched up your thighs, pulse loud in your ears, heart hammering inside your ribcage. Every passing second feels like something will snap you in half, every nerve inside your body screaming for something, anything to happen.
His chuckle sends chills down your spine. Low, dark and barely amused. "Look at you," he finally speaks, voice, calm, almost bored. "Did all that confidence evaporate the moment I started to indulge you?"
The hair on the back of your neck bristled, "I didn't mean-"
"Quiet." One word, absolute and your mouth snaps shut instantly, body reacting faster than your pride. Sukuna's ego swells at your obedience. You may be an insolent brat, but you and him both know who bends at who's will. This stunt of insulting his manhood was a measly stunt you pulled because you were being an attention whore and he is more than happy to accept your challenge. "I didn't tell you to speak," he murmurs. "I said be quiet."
His fingers finally touch you then, at your jaw leaving a trail of goosebumps, tilting your face up until you're forced to meet his gaze. His scarlet eyes burn into you stripping, weighing and dismantling. "You're very brave while running that mouth of yours when I'm distracted." he continues. "Very loud when you think I won't remind you where everything you enjoy comes from."
His thumb traces the line of your lower lip, slow and thoughtful pressing just enough to make you part your mouth. "You like expensive things," he says, "Comfort, security, attention." One of his other hands finds purchase on your neck, thick fingers curling around your throat, his grip tightening just slightly. "All of which i provide." He watches and feels your little throat move and a hum of satisfaction leaves his mouth. "Do you know what that makes you?" he asks eyes narrowed down.
You are unable to answer. It's like your words got stuck in your throat (quite literally). He leans in closer, lips brushing against your ear.
"Mine"
He doesn't need to say it twice; the word sits heavy on your chest. His hand slides down your spine, unhurried. Your breath hitches as he leans in, hot breath fanning against your neck. "You dare mock me, brat." he growled, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through your body. His hand slid down to cup one of your breasts, thumbing the nipple through the fabric. A soft gasp leaves your lips, your defiance melting into a haze of arousal, body betraying as wetness pooled between your legs. The emotional pull of his possessive gaze drawing you deeper into his web of control. Yet, beneath the surface, a spark of your adventurous spirit flickered, urging you to push further, to see just how far his unyielding strength would take them both.
You arched your back against Sukuna, eyes locking into his with a mix of challenge and raw hunger. His thumb continued its relentless circling over her nipple, hardening it into a taut peak while his other hand pulled your wrist, pinning it behind your back. The heat of his body radiating through his suit, searing your skin like a brand and you could feel the insistent throb of his cock pressing against your thigh. You don't know where the dare in you came from when you blurted out, "Is that all you've got?" daring and taunting, voice breathless but laced with that adventurous thrill. His predatory eyes gleaming that made your pussy clench in response, wetness seeping through the lace to dampen his trousers.
In one fluid motion, he spun you around and bent you over the table releasing your wrist only to deliver a sharp stinging smack to your ass. The sting making you let out a yelp in surprise. The impact sent a jolt of pleasure and pain radiating outward. Your cheeks flushing red as he peeled the delicate fabric of your negligee and exposed your skin to the cool air. "You're going to be an obedient little whore now and count, if you miss and make a sound, we are starting over. Am I clear?" A whimper leaves your mouth, and he fists your hair yanking your head back until his lips are near your ear, "I asked you something, woman."
"Yes sir." your voice comes croaked as he releases your hair and grabs the flesh of your ass giving it a little jiggle before smacking it hard. Your eyes closed shut as you tried to conceal the cry that is threatening to spill from your lips. You suck in a breath and mumble a quite "one". He hummed in response as a sharper, deliberate slap came down at your ass painting it red the second time, heat bloomed across your skin like wildfire. You lost count after twelve as tears fell from your eyes painting his desk. Sukuna seemed to be pleased after seeing your face all red, puffy and wet.
You distinctly hear a low "pathetic" leaving his lips as he flipped you over on your back, yanking your lace panties and throwing them somewhere aside. "You wanna call me old? I'll show you what this old man's cock would do to a stupid fucking whore like you."
His words slice through the haze in your brain, filthy and unyielding, but your body's already betraying you, pussy clenching at the promise, slick dripping down your thighs like you're in heat. Sukuna sheds the rest of his clothes with deliberate slowness, letting you drink in the sight of his massive, tattooed frame, cock standing proud and thick, veins pulsing along its length. He strokes himself once, eyes locked on your spread form, a smirk curling his lips as he sees you squirm.
"Look at this desperate cunt," he murmurs, voice low and mocking. He drags the fat head of his cock through your folds, teasing your entrance, bumping your clit until your hips buck involuntarily. "Already begging for it. But you don't get to cum until I say so, brat. Understand?
"You nod frantically, words lost in a whimper, but he slaps your inner thigh hard. "Use your words."
"Y-yes, sir," you gasp, thighs trembling. He chuckles darkly, then notches the tip inside you, just the tip, stretching you open but holding still. Your walls flutter around him, desperate for more, but he pulls back, denying you. "Patience. You wanted to test me? Now you'll wait."
He repeats the torture: shallow dips in and out, never giving you more than an inch, his thumb circling your clit lightly, building the pressure but pulling away every time your breaths quicken. You're sobbing now, oversensitive and aching, body on fire from the spanking and this endless tease. "Please- Sukuna, need you-" a hiccup leaves your mouth and you couldn't be more embarrassed. "Need what?" He presses in a little deeper, then retreats, smirking as you whine. "This old cock? Say it."
"I need your cock- please fuck me-nghh" Finally, he slams home, burying himself balls-deep in one brutal thrust. The stretch is overwhelming, filling you completely, and you scream, nails digging into his huge biceps. He doesn't pause, sets a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward with wet, obscene slaps, his cock dragging against every ridge inside you. "Fuuuucckkk, tight as ever. Good fucking girl, taking daddy's cock like the perfect little cock sleeve she is." he growls, one hand pinning your wrists above your head, the other rubbing your clit in tight circles. "Gonna fuck you stupid, make you cockdrunk on me. Stuff you full of my cum, make this belly round and swollen from my seed."
The pleasure builds fast, too fast, your vision blurs, toes curling as you teeter on the edge. "S'kuna- gonna cum- ahh" your mouth parted open, eyes rolled to the back of your head. Just when the pressure inside your stomach threatens to release,
"No." He stops abruptly, pulling out entirely, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. You cry out in frustration, hips grinding against air, but he just laughs, slapping your pussy lightly. "Not yet. Beg for it."
"Please, please, please let me cum. I'll be good-" He thrusts back in, slower this time, grinding deep, hitting that spot that makes stars explode behind your eyes. He edges you like this for what feels like hours: building you up with relentless thrusts, then denying you at the last second, overstimulating your clit with his fingers until you're babbling incoherently, mind shattered, nothing left but the need for release.
By the time he finally growls, "Cum for me, whore," and pinches your clit while pounding into you, you shatter, orgasm ripping through you like a tidal wave, squirting all over his cock and the desk, body convulsing as he fucks you through it without mercy. You're barely coherent, drooling, cockdrunk just like he promised, mumbling his name like a mantra. But he's not done. He pulls out, your cum dripping from his length, and flips you onto your stomach, ass up. "Now for this tight little ass. Still think I can't keep up? Look at who's fucked out and on the verge of passing out already." He spits on your hole, working a finger in slowly, then two, scissoring you open while his other hand strokes your oversensitive clit. You're whimpering, overstimulated, every touch electric, but he teases again, fingering your ass deep and slow, denying the friction you crave until you're pushing back against him, begging wordlessly.
"Greedy slut," he mutters, lining up his cock and pushing in inch by inch. The burn is intense, stretching you to your limits, but the fullness has you moaning brokenly. He starts slow, letting you adjust, but soon he's thrusting hard, hand fisting your hair to arch your back, the other slapping your clit in rhythm. He wraps his arms around your throat as he puts you in a mean headlock, your face on the verge of turning blue due to the lack of oxygen because of how hard he was squeezing your head. Your hand weakly tries to slap at his arm for him to remove his arm from around your neck, but all you get is a mean chuckle from him. His thrusts become agonizingly slow as he leans in, putting his massive weight on top of your body, quite literally crushing it.
He edges you here too: building the heat with deep, grinding rolls of his hips, then slowing when you tighten, denying your peak. "Not until I say," he reminds, voice rough. Your mind's gone, fucked stupid, body limp and pliant, every nerve screaming from overstimulation as tears stream down your face.
When he finally commands, "Cum now, slut. Milk my cock with this ass," and rubs your clit furiously, you explode again, vision whiting out, ass clenching around him as he groans and fills you with hot spurts, marking you inside. You collapse, boneless, passing out against the desk in a haze of exhaustion. Sukuna pulls out slowly, watching his cum leak from both holes with a satisfied hum. He scoops you up effortlessly, your head lolling against his chest. "What? can't keep up with this old man?" he murmurs, but there's a hint of amusement in his tone as he carries you toward the bedroom. "Passed out already? And here I thought you wanted to test my stamina. Don't worry, brat, I've got plenty left for when you wake up."
One thing you learned today was to never challenge Ryomen Sukuna because by the time he was done with you afterwards, you were quite one hundred percent sure you wouldn't be able to walk or sit properly for at least a week. Not that you're complaining though.
sukuna's convinced he'll never find a mate. he's tried it all, mate pairing programs, rehabilitation. no one wants him. who needs a bond anyway? he prefers the solitude. you're his last hope. an optimistic volunteer thrown at him by that pesky support program in hopes that he'll finally find a mate. will you be the one to show him that he doesn't really wanna be lonely? or will you throw him to the curb like everyone else? well, his rough exterior and unexpected rut truly puts you to the test.
♡ ﹕ 8.6k words
♡ ﹕ this was commissioned by @lycanqueen
꒰ 🍓 ⸰ ✦ 𝓒ws. hybrid au :: human!reader :: smut :: hurt/comfort :: mean!sukuna :: sweet!reader :: possessiveness :: pining :: hybrid ruts :: scenting :: marking :: oral ( f.receiving ) :: face-sitting :: p in v :: rough sex :: mating press :: multiple orgasms :: emotional sex :: overstimulation :: choking :: breeding :: talks of cubs :: creampie ꒱
"Maybe they were right about you. You are a lost cause."
So this rehabilitation agent had guts? Sukuna would give him that much.
The sun pierced his eyes and slitted his pupils as he stared at the man before him, unshaken. Bold, for someone with noting but a flimsy clipboard for a weapon if Sukuna let his temper get the better of him.
He never had an issue with it before. So where were his claws?
"That mean I can finally do my own damn thing now?" He gruffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he propped against his doorway. He ignored his tail that hung low.
The man furrowed his brows. Sucked in a breath. Looked like he was searching for patience in the late afternoon air. His hand with the clipboard dropped as he stood straight.
"You don't get it, do you Ryomen?"
"What's there to get? That I can't play housecat for your domesticity programs?"
"Behavioural programs."
"That've made shit progress."
"It's not as if you make it any easier."
"Your potential mates bore me."
"You scared them off. Every one of them."
The man didn't need to match Sukuna's tone to scathe him. His face never broke clinical aloofness, even with each word loaded. Baggage of the ugly truth: that Ryomen Sukuna was a lost cause.
Countless mates. Five? Six? He lost track. He pretended to forget their names but he remembered every one.
The first left quietly. Said he was too loud.
The second left loudly. Said he was too quiet.
The third claimed she was frightened. The fourth didn't even give him a reason. Fifth and sixth were some ugly variation of all of the above.
Sukuna stopped caring.
He did care, at one point. That's why he let his coworker convince him to join this stupid 'hybrid nature rehabilitation program' in the first place, right? Because maybe tigers were too bold. Too frightening. Too much.
Too much. That's what the last one said.
Well, if he was too much for anyone, maybe they weren't enough for him.
The agent sighed. Pinching the bridge of his nose and probably contemplating why he chose to work for a facility that boasted a 100% rehabilitation record. Guess Sukuna was about to ruin that too. As he did most things.
"Look," the man said. His shoulders slumped. "We do not typically give up on our patients, but surely you understand that we've tried everything in the book for you, right?"
Sukuna didn't reply.
"Behavioural therapy. Group counselling. Mate pairings and courses. You've chased away every volunteer and potential mate. Somehow even frightened off your therapist last month."
"She was weak."
"She was doing her job. You act like. . ."
Sukuna grunted. His claws threatening to lash out and tear up his own shirt. "What?" He knew the answer. Knew that sickening word that they all used for him. "An animal?"
The man didn't answer. Didn't have to. He sighed again and checked his clipboard. "This is your last shot for clearance."
"And if I don't pass?"
"You'll be escorted to a private facility."
Hybrids were monitored under lock and key by the state. Sukuna guessed he couldn't really blame them. They were different. Unpredictable.
Animals.
Sukuna regretted ever approaching the program in the first place. If he knew what he knew now— that he was simply built to be on his own, he would have swallowed the furball and bit his own tail. Lived out the rest of his life without the feeling of being watched.
Now, they knew he was unstable. Now, they considered him a threat. Guess his claws really were clipped.
"Thanks to your last stunt, none of the volunteers stepped up for this," the man said, flipping through his clipboard.
Sukuna huffed. "What's the point then? Just ship me off already." At least he'd get to be alone, then.
"Because miraculously, one of our assistants offered to help." The man looked up. "She's new. And your last shot." He handed over the clipboard with a small picture clipped at the top right.
That's the first time Sukuna saw you.
The second time he saw you, you smiled at him. Stupid move, really. For someone so small, so frail— so breakable.
"It's nice to meet you," he's sure you lied as you stuck out your hand. Chirpier than a bird hybrid. Bright eyed as a squirrel. Were they sure that you were human?
"Yeah. Hi." He gruffed, not reaching for your hand. It looked too gentle for him.
You dropped your arm to your side, still smiling, but softer. Before you trotted off to lug the rest of your belongings into his home.
He helped you, of course. Tiny thing like you probably would sprain her spine if she did it all by herself. Pathetic.
This was his last hope? They might as well cage him and ship him off already.
Within a week, he was sharing his space again. The few days of blissful solitude had come to an end. Now, there was a canvas in his living room. Pink body wash and products littered across his bathroom counter. Books from authors he couldn't even pronounce occupying his empty shelves.
You were sweeter than the three spoons of sugar you dumped in your strawberry tea every morning. Softer than the dinner rolls you insisted on making every Wednesday and Friday. Shy. Gentle.
Too gentle for someone like him.
In the beginning, Sukuna had watched you. Like a tiger stalked its prey. Scouring for the first sign of discomfort. A hint of fear. Even those who started off strong couldn't keep up the act for long. Not with him.
Which was what made it so odd.
You were timid, sure. But not afraid of him. Guess he'd give it some time.
Because that's simply his fate now, right? Watch a new volunteer skip into his lair and run off with their tail between their legs once he got too much. No one stayed. Not like they did with everyone else.
Others made hybrid bonding look easy. They'd join circles and find mates in the same week. Same night, even. Claiming it all as 'the right timing'. The right person.
Sukuna was a wrong person. Therefore, no right person would fit. Like an unwanted puzzle piece.
Not that he cared. He didn't need to fit in with anyone. If he was too much for any twisted jigsaw of companionship then he'd simply be the missing piece. A corner piece no one looked for. The one that made no difference to the puzzle. The one that no one needed.
He preferred being alone, anyway.
If this last ditch effort blew up in smoke, he guessed he'd have his wish. Whatever facility they'd stuff him into— at least he would be alone. It was better that way.
By himself, he didn't have to soften his tongue. By himself, he didn't have to pretend that he did not have stripes, claws and canines. Didn't have to soften himself for someone who wouldn't soften for him.
Didn't have to watch anyone leave when he became too much.
You didn't leave.
A week went by. Then two. Three, before he knew it. You rooted yourself into his floorboards like a flourishing flower and offered him the same sunny smile every morning.
"How'd you sleep, Sukuna?" You'd ask, as if you cared.
"Fine." He'd grumble from the coffee machine. The bitter stain on his tongue refused to ever let him return the question.
Why should he bother with someone who was going to sign him off anyway? Might as well show her what she was getting herself into. His poor behaviour and slacking social skills, as his therapist put it.
You never flinched. Humans sure were resilient.
But he was hybrid. And everyone knew that tigers were ruthless.
He wouldn't shroud his nature to make himself more palatable for you. For anyone, ever again.
It's odd. You actually tried.
You adapted your body clock to him. Sukuna woke up drearily early. To catch the dawn on his ears during his morning run. He supposed you started waking up shortly after him. Giving you enough time to ready breakfast for him when he stepped back through the door.
Eggs. Bacon. Any raw protein you could think of. You were unfortunately, a good cook.
"This isn't necessary," he said from the counter, but still wolfed down your perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs.
"Waking up early has its perks." You mused, sipping your tea. Probably strawberry. Or rose. He hated that he now knew your favourites.
You made his bed whenever he wasn't looking. He scolded you for it, the first few times. You insisted it was fine. That you liked cleaning up.
You tried to watch movies with him. Plopped beside him on the sofa and struck him your signature smile.
"Wanna watch something?" You asked, soft. Already dangling the remote. Sukuna couldn't help but compare the size of your hand to his.
He scoffed. "What? Some romcom?"
"Or horror." You bashed.
His instincts told him that a gentle soul like you wouldn't last ten seconds with a horror movie. Still, he indulged you. The last thing he wanted was to endure some stupid hybrid hallmark film.
A slasher flick. He didn't pay attention to the name. All he knew was that you quivered halfway through it and that stirred an urge in his gut.
Urge to what? Now that, he once again had no answers to.
It was warm. Low. The same way he felt when kids dropped their ice creams and mothers tripped in grocery stores. He couldn't name it. But he did drape his arm over the back of the couch. Not grazing your shoulders but, there.
You'd probably have nightmares tonight. Silly girl. Now he would be obligated to return the favour.
Because you did, a few nights ago. When he tossed and turned. Creased his sheets and slashed his blankets. Sukuna wasn't one to dream— but he did have nightmares.
About the darkness. About the cold. About a void that for some, unfathomable reason, unsettled him.
"It's okay, shh." Your voice reached out to him through the shadow. Light against the darkness.
"It's okay. I'm here. Wake up, please."
You were luck he hadn't broken your arm.
His grip was too tight. Claws too wretched. Not lucid enough to realise that he snatched your wrist when he had woken up.
"Get out." His voice rumbled. Eyes bloodshot and pupils tight. Sweat burned his forehead.
It must have not sounded like a threat, or maybe it was your stupid human resilience. You leaned over him. One knee on his bed and your hand ghosting his shoulder.
"You're freezing," you whispered.
He jerked from you. Rolled over onto his side and refused to allow himself to be vulnerable under your gentle gaze.
"I'm fine." He said.
You insisted. Are you sure? — Can I get you anything? — All the things that people said to catch you off guard and then left anyway.
"I said I'm fine."
His voice boomed, final. It was the first time he'd seen you flinch. He did not bother calling out for you as you shuffled out of the room. Assumed your bags would be packed by the morning. Your pink body wash nowhere to be seen on his counters and your books vanished from his shelves.
You didn't leave. Here you were, a few days later, with shaky knees and a horror movie. But insisting that you were enjoying it for his sake.
You never turned tail. Never backed down. Maybe it was more than human resilience. Maybe it was stubbornness.
That's the only thing that made sense to him. Why else hadn't you disappeared regardless of how much steam he'd blown at you? Especially when he was too much.
"Let's get one thing straight."
You had said something stupid one day in the kitchen. Something about being there for him. Some empty promise he had heard mixed and minced several different ways until it lost all meaning.
As if his mood was not sour enough.
Your back pressed into the fridge. His strong forearm shoved above your head. Sukuna's hulking body shadowed yours. Perhaps this was it. Where you finally became apart of that void that haunted his dreams.
"You and I. Are not. Compatible." His ears pinned back to his head. Tail coiled tight. Like his jaw and teeth that clenched.
Still, you held his stare. Even when it burned.
"Not a thing. Not. Possible." He spat. "So stop acting like you aren't just gonna sign me off so I can be caged up."
"I'm not—"
"I want you to."
He cut you off. Sharp as his heave as he craned closer. Close enough to smell your cherry shampoo— but not a hint of fear.
What was wrong with you?
"I want you to sign me off. So that we can stop pretending like any of this is gonna work and that I'm anything but better off alone."
The fridge rattled as he shoved himself off. He expected your knees to shake. Expected you to clamber out of the kitchen and stuff whatever you could into a suitcase for the night.
Instead, you watched him storm off. With those same, achingly gentle eyes.
Why were you so gentle?
Why did you stay?
Why did he find himself being gentler, too?
Of course, Sukuna didn't want to snap at you. You were simply the closest thing. The softest thing. His hands weren't built to cherish the tender.
Yet, tender were his hands, as they cooked for you. If you handled breakfast, it was only fair that dinner was his responsibility. Even if all he exchanged with you were grunts and gruffs, as long as you went to bed full, he was content.
Content? Odd. That wasn't a word in his vocabulary anymore.
His voice dangered tender's territory on nights you'd be out. Work, friends, whatever he never bothered listening to but for some reason found himself worrying over when the street lights switched on.
"Do you need a lift back?" He asked into the phone. Taking note to look uninterested, even if you couldn't see him.
"I should be fine, Sukuna." You chirped.
"You sure? It's almost midnight."
"I'm sure! What's the worst that could happen?"
To a sweet thing like you? A lot. More than he'd like to imagine.
Morals, he told himself. He pulled up in the middle of the morning to pick you up because of his pesky morals.
"Sorry you had to come all this way," you said as you shut the passenger door.
Sukuna considered your dress. Hated himself for it.
"What?" His tongue clicked. "Were you expecting to walk all the way back?"
"What's the worst that could—"
"A lot."
It wasn't like the other times. His voice raised, but didn't roar. His brows narrowed, but didn't glare.
The car ride was silent.
Your smile was sickening.
Cute.
He watched you closer. Not as a tiger stalked prey. Not anymore. He couldn't name this.
He refused to call it gentle.
Even when he carefully observed the way you fixed your hair every morning. How he noted which of your curves that the sun bounced odd of. The soft plush of your body and how your thighs moulded into the couch cushions, or rounded perfectly in your shorts.
Never had he been one to appreciate art— though he stood in front of your canvases and stared at your paint patterns. Swirls of green and blotches of warmth. Illustrations of nature: jungles and wild flowers.
It called to something within him. He assumed his hybrid traits. A tiger yearned for jungle, that was his home.
Home.
Sukuna didn't have a home.
He had a house. He had you. Had pink body wash on his counters and books he'd learnt the names of on his shelves. Had a warm meal every morning and a warmer bed you still insisted on making.
He had movie nights. A running partner. Someone who finally rooted her heels to the floorboards and blossomed in his walls. Stubborn as she was shy.
But not a home.
It was only a matter of time. Until he said something that finally was the thing. Until he'd wake up to your paintings missing, and your shampoo gone. He'd come home to no protein, but a sheet of paper:
I've signed you off. Good riddance.
You told him that you wouldn't, after he insisted it that night in the kitchen.
You padded to doorway of his room, picking at your sleeves with a petal-soft voice.
"All we have to do is clear you for rehabilitation," you said.
Not once did your eyes meet his.
"Then what? I can finally be alone?" He asked, incredulous.
You nodded.
It's what he wanted. What he claimed to want. So why was your agreement a sharp pang between his ribs?
That was then. He assumed your plans hadn't changed much. A silent agreement that if he behaved, you'd leave him be by the end of it all.
That's why he was gentler, he told himself.
Just trying to ensure his goals, he insisted.
For now, he would take care of you as you did him. Whether conscious or not. If it meant that when it was through, he'd get what was best for him.
Solitude.
But if solitude was what he wanted, why did he hate seeing you in others' company?
It was late. Emergency work call. He missed his afternoon cat nap and only scuffed down half of his breakfast.
The sun peeped at him from its sprawl across the horizon. Glaring into the back of his head as he stalked home. Burning him hotter. Hot.
He felt so. Fucking. Hot.
It wasn't even summer yet. Spring had only perked its preppy head. The blossoms bloomed. Their nectar tickled his nose. Couples gifted their flowers.
Sukuna hated spring.
He hoped you hadn't cooked dinner yet. That was his job. His responsibility.
But no, you were outside. Prattling to a neighbour.
All smiles and soft. Cupping your hands in front of you as you listened to the man's stories. The irritable snow leopard that lived next door. With his baby blue eyes and boyish grin.
What were you even doing outside in the first place? Didn't he tell you it was dangerous once the street lights started switching on?
Sukuna did what he did best. He watched. Looming by the telephone wire. Feeling the sun stab into his head. His spine. Feeling the heat gurgle from his gut. Splutter up his lungs. Against the back of his teeth.
That spotted fucker touched your arm.
Sukuna scathed.
Blurred colours. A muffled yelp. His claw caught on your woolly sweater as he snatched your arm.
"Sukuna—!"
Your gasp drowned in the rumble of his growl. Grated from the back of his throat. The leopard backed off. Your muscles tensed under his calloused fingers.
"Inside. Now."
He didn't wait for you to agree nor disagree. Dragging you inside and rattling the walls as the door clattered! shut.
"Su—" he lodged your voice in your throat once more. Shoved your back into the nearest thing— the same splintering door.
Was it hotter inside? Or was that the anger?
A sweat drop sweltered between his brows.
"What the hell were you doing?" As if he had any right to ask. You weren't his mate.
Mate? Of course you weren't his mate.
Then why did his teeth crave to sink into your flesh? Mark you?
His stare hazed. Blinking rapidly. Heaving. The heat blistered into his nerves. Clenched his muscles. Suffocating. It was suffocating.
"Why were you. With him. Why—" he zeroed in. Mistake. Big mistake.
Your scent.
You weren't his mate. Why the hell did you smell like it, then?
Did you always smell this good?
Your gaped at him. Hands stiff on your sides and pressed flat into the wood. Your neck craned to account for the height difference. Were you watching him this time? Was he too much?
His eyes squeezed shut.
"Sukuna," you spoke. His name didn't deserve that gentleness. It ached him deeper today.
"I think you're. . ."
Snapping open his stare, he sucked in breath. Considered your words. The phrase your lips wrapped around.
Rut.
Shit.
He shoved himself away from the door. Away from you. The fire crawled up his throat. Thunked his heart. Thrummed a deep, dark chord in his gut.
The sweat slipping down his spine in the middle of spring confirmed it. He was in rut. With a poor, persistent, pretty human in claw's reach.
"Hey— hey it's okay," you attempted, stepping forward where he stumbled back.
"Don't."
He hissed.
You preserved.
Stubborn. Stubborn, sweet thing.
"Let me help." You offered.
"No."
He tried. Tried to stumble off. Lock himself in his room. He could hump the mattress for all he cared but he wasn't so much as touching—
You took him by the wrist. Might as well have taken his soul while you were at it.
Splintered his restraint.
The door rattled again. Creaked awfully with the weight of him. On you. The thickness of the air. The heat. Your wrists fit well in his big hands. Looked like they belonged there.
You looked like you belonged here. Pinned under him.
His chest heaved. Voice jagged, throaty.
"You don't know what you're getting into." He said.
You gulped. He paid too much attention to your throat. "I did when I signed up for this."
"Do you even know what a rut is?"
"I know you can't be alone right now."
Sukuna's breath hitched.
You relaxed your hips. Let them mould into his. Their plush softness drove him wild.
Lashes hung over deep maroons. The quiet thrummed with your heart beats. His, thundering and wanting. Yours, tender yet eager.
He craned closer. Tuffs of his pink hair tickled your forehead.
"I can do awful things to you." He whispered.
Still no flinches. You never did.
Your eyes batted at him.
"Is that so bad?"
"Yes."
"Show me."
Even the kiss, burned.
Your lips really were petal-soft. Softer than he had imagined. He hated himself for imagining this in the first place.
The knot in his gut wound tight. Urging him to flush you further into the wood. Flush further into you. Patience slipped into the simmer between your mouths. Sukuna kissed you with violence. Nothing contained. Nothing hidden.
He told you that he wouldn't placate himself for you.
Abandoning your wrists, his grip sought your plush. Squeezing your thighs between his fingers gaps. Lifting you into his arms so that your heels pressed into his back. So that he could consume you. Tongues tangling and teeth tackling.
Your hands smacked at his shoulder. Breaths huffed through your nose. A desperate sound that plunged him deeper into heat.
He let you breathe. Barely.
"I can be good for you." Was what you used the privilege to gasp.
His chest rumbled. "Yeah?"
The slope of your throat was so pretty when you gulped.
Sukuna slipped a hand to your cheek. Rough. He couldn't be gentle. Not with you. Not now.
"Gonna be good for me, pretty girl?"
Eyes blown out. Jaw tight. If you said anything other than your whined little yes as his hips ground into yours, he might have lost his mind entirely.
His mouth attacked yours again. Sucking on whatever was left of your lychee lipgloss. Surely bruising your lips in the process. He didn't care. Let him mark you. Everywhere. So that stupid snow leopards didn't get the wrong idea. So that everyone knew what you were.
His.
The home blurred into vertigo colours. The floors creaked under the weight of his footsteps. Sukuna hoisted you with him. Haphazardly avoiding furniture in the stagger to his bedroom. Hands palming at whatever part of your flesh he could reach.
He almost stumbled in the hallway. Caught you against the doorway, one of your hands gripped at it while the other clutched the back of his neck. Fisted his hair between your fingers.
"Sukuna, careful." You whined.
He didn't listen. Too busy humping on your thighs that squished perfectly between his hard body and the cold door. Nurturing his bulge. Tucking its hot curve into the smooth crux of your skin.
"Said you'd be good for me." His growl rumbled on your pulse. Teeth mapping out his new territory: your velvet flesh. "So shut up and take it. Like a good girl, yeah?"
The door swung open. You must have palmed the handle. Feet fumbled in a clumsy waltz. Hands clinging for dear life. He caught you. Kept you pressed against his blazing body as he mouthed down your throat. Latched onto a tender spot. Marked you.
Sukuna handled his ruts the way he handled everything else: alone. His hand, a pillow, and a grotesque amount of tissue boxes. When last had he felt the soft touch of a partner? Held their warmth beneath him while his mind drove him wild with fire?
He was always too much. Too much to handle. Too aggressive. Too big.
But you.
You seemed to want everything.
In the way your nails curled on his shirt. In the pitiful way your neck arched to give him more access. Offering yourself up to him. A pretty deer who craved a tiger's claws in her. His maw latched to your throat.
"You're so eager," he groaned.
You whimpered, "I'm yours."
Fuck.
The mattress sunk. Creaking in retort to the callousness of his shove. Your body moulded into his sheets. Into him, as he staggered over you. Knees digging into the bed. Teeth clamped on the base of your throat.
You jerked. A gasped cry vibrating against his teeth. Palms knocking into his shoulders. To push him off?
No— to grip. Cling. To him. To your mate.
After all, you were his now, weren't you?
Bites bloomed across your neck. Over your collarbone. Down your shoulders. Your clothes threading like ribbons under Sukuna's claws. The sound of fabric tearing accentuated the rough pants and pitched whines in the humid air.
He wanted to speak. Wanted to tell you what a good girl you were being for him. Wanted to grunt into your skin about how perfect you were. Tell you that you were everything he'd been waiting for.
The words lodged in his throat. Sticky on the back of his tongue that could only muster out wet pants and deep growls as he feasted on your flesh.
Every inch of your skin revealed to him was another blessing. Your curves. The dips. The soft slopes of your body. Salivated him all the more.
Your bra never stood a chance. Clawed away. Probably ruined at the wire. He didn't care. He'd buy you a new one. Buy you whatever you wanted if you were gonna carry his cubs.
Cubs.
The word slipped into his mind with ease, and ruined it.
Pupils blown out. Lungs clenching. He made the mistake of eyeing your tummy.
Perfect, round, soft. You'd be the perfect mate. The perfect mother for his young.
The thought spurred his hands rougher. Tearing away offensive fabrics until you were laid completely bare before him. With big, doe eyes batting up at him. So pretty. So his.
From the corner of his eye he spotted your hands slipping. To cover up. Cover what was his. Your wrists were snatched in his hard grip.
"Don't," he warned. Lips assaulting yours. Stealing your breath and tonguing on your whimpers.
"Don't hide what's mine."
Your tits were softer under his tastebuds. Delicate to the harsh swirls of his tongue. So small when compared to his mouth that sought to consume, to claim.
Sweet sounds sighed from your kiss-bitten lips. Your spine curved so that you pressed back into him. Squishing your plush breasts into his face. His groan rumbled into the flesh.
So tender it was maddening. So perfect it was addicting.
Kisses, sucks, bites. He littered your tits in more claims. Feasting on your silk flesh. Fantasising about the image of them larger. Fat and swollen with milk— just as you were round with his cubs.
His cock strained thick in his pants. Flushed hot on your inner thigh. He ground into your warmth. Rutting wildly. Like the animal he always was.
Your hands delving into his hair almost broke him. Almost. He withdrew from your chest. Eyes glowing through the dark as he found your face.
"Taste so good. So sweet." A hand roughed down your side. Cupped your thigh and strung it round his waist.
"Up."
Raw strength scooped you into his palms. Flesh spilling between the gaps of his fingers as he squeezed for good measure.
Your little squeaks were so cute.
Teeth dragged on your flesh. Callous over bites sunk into your gentle flesh. He lapped on the indents of his own canines as he wrest you over him. Shoved your thighs higher. Urging you. Demanding.
"Face. Now. Fucking sit on my face."
Senseless. Each word was a growl. It's a miracle you understood him at all. Maybe you always would. That's how mates were, right?
The cotton of your panties dragged on his collarbone. Frantic eyes darted to your face as your hips locked. Unmoving.
Stubborn little human.
"What?" He husked. Scuffling to shove you over his awaiting face. "I said sit."
Your lips pressed together. Hands scrambling for the headboard. "Wait are you— are you sure? I'm—"
"—driving me mad." He hissed through clenched teeth. The throbbing in his groin pulsed the sickening heat hotter. Seared into the back of his skull. To his hands that groped your ass. To his eyes that narrowed.
"Said I wanna taste you. So get. On."
Was that too much?
Was he too much for you?
No, course not. You wanted to be his good girl. He saw it in your doe eyes batting at him. In the quiver of your lip and the tremors of your thighs. You shuffled over him. Pressing the cusp of your panties against his chin.
"Like this?" You meeked.
"Like this."
Sukuna tugged you over him. Knocking your thighs. You stumbled. Caught yourself with shaky fingers in his hair and an adorable yelp.
The musked cotton scrunched into his nose, his mouth, the rest of his hard face. Stuffing his nostrils with the sweet, intoxicating aroma. His eyes threatened to roll back.
A muffled curse rumbled into your heat. First came his tongue. Abrasive like everything else about him. Lapping on your folds. Drenching the fabric. Trying to suck in your taste through it.
Then came his teeth. Impatient. Tearing into your panties. His head wrest, violent. Claws ripping away the cloth in a feral affair.
Your sweet heat was his reward. Slicking up his face with your clit pressed into his nose.
"Fuck," his groan thrummed. Straight into your velvet. Leaking your pussy into his agitated mouth. "Knew you'd taste s'fucking sweet."
Hands slipped up your thighs. Cupped your ass. Sukuna sought to press kisses to your quivering slit— but you dangled above him. Not pressed, not sat. Hovered.
"Said. Fucking sit."
He hauled you into him. Cramped your thighs into his head. Smothered your pussy into his face. Even with his ears muffled by your plush, he heard your stunned gasp.
The weight was perfect on his head. Your hands were perfect in his hair. Pussy pretty, pulsing, perfect, on his tongue that stroked over your slit. Lathered you in saliva. All the way to your clit.
He darted the muscle. Circled on your bud. Trying to commit to a rhythm. A pattern. It scathed into the heat of his rut. The heat to take, to claim. To make you his. Finally.
Even if you hated him after this.
Even if you signed him off and he finally got what he wanted. Solitude.
Right now, all he wanted was your pussy.
Filthy squirts and sloshes squelched through the room. Brimming the hazed air together with your whines. Moans. Gasps of his name.
He always hated how gently you said it. Like it meant something. Like it ever could mean something. Hearing it broken sounded better. Shaky and whimpered as he fucked you on his tongue.
"S-Suk— kuna, ah."
Sweet. So sweet. Sweeter than he ever deserved. But Sukuna was a greedy man. So he gripped on your thighs, bit his nails into your flesh, and feasted to his heart's content.
"There ya go. C'mon, pretty girl, ride my face."
Spank! went his hand. Clamouring your ass and fisting the jiggles. Pulling you down, harder, closer— till he was suffocating. Suckling on your clit. Guiding your hips into a sinful sway.
Your hips fell into rhythm. Atta girl. Always so sweet for him. Always so obedient. Yeah, if you stayed, you'd make the perfect mate.
He hoped you stayed.
He could make you stay.
Keep you in his bed. Make a den for you. Hold you down and fuck you into his sheets day-in-and-day-out. Fill you up until your tummy grew even rounder. Softer. Until you were swollen. Until you were his.
No. Fuck. That's the rut talking.
The rut talking.
It's the rut that had him palming your ass and squeezing you into his face. The rut that had his mouth kissing, sucking, licking and laving through your creamy mess. The rut that had him fucking you on his tongue and bucking his hip into the air just as yours ground down into his face. Smearing mess all over him.
Yeah. That's the rut. But fuck, if he wasn't drunk on your pathetic moans. Your messy pussy.
Your clit spasmed under the flat of his harassing tongue. Your thighs clamped around his head. Fingers dug into his skull. Even your pain was sweet.
"Shit— kuna." Your voice croaked. Called to him as a mate should. "I'm gonna, fuck. Think 'm gonna. . . gonna—"
His eyes fluttered. Throat rasped.
"Gonna cum? Yeah? Gonna cum, hah, all over my face?"
From between the small gap of your thigh, Sukuna witnessed your face. Eyes rolled back. Jaw slack. Tits bouncing as you rode his face as if he was yours.
He was.
In this moment. In these blurred lines of his rut. Where he pictured you as his mate. Entertained the thought of wanting. Of being wanted. Of not being alone.
He was yours. Even if for a moment.
You sung his name through the haze. Tender even when he ripped you apart at the seams. Delicate even in his claws that threatened to tear into you. Mark you with scars and blood.
Your hips clumsily rocked. Once—twice—locked up in feverish tremors. Your hands bunching his hair. Clinging. Your body hunched over his. Shattering.
Sukuna rode you through an orgasm with his lips latched around your clit. Sucking harsh on its throbs. Teething on its twitches.
You splattered his face in warmth. Sweet, sickening warmth that doused him deeper into his rut's clutches.
"That's it. There you go. Fuck. Prettiest fucking pussy," he slurred into your wetness. Tongue delving between your puffy folds. Lapping up your cum. Greedy.
You toppled over him. Breaths ragged. One hand clutched in his hair and the other on the headboard.
"Wanna— wanna help. Wanna." To his surprise you pulled on his hair. Interrupting his creamy kisses on your slit.
Stares met. His hot. Yours warm. Wanting.
"Wanna make you feel good too."
How pretty you were when you quivered. Lips glossed by drool and lashes soaked with tears. It ached a deep chamber in his heart.
"Wanna be good for me?" He panted.
Your nod was doeish. As everything else about you was. His delicate girl. So fragile in his hands.
He couldn't wait to break you.
The bed creaked again. You squeaked as he hauled you down into the wrinkled sheets. On your back with his hulking weight pressing down on you. His mouth fixed to yours. Magnetic. Addicted. Letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
"That mean you gonna let me breed you too, baby?" Catching your lip between his teeth, he grunted. Pressing the swell of his cock between your legs. Staining his crotch in your slick. "Gonna let me breed this sweet pussy?"
Your response was sweet, shy, but oh so eager. A tepid nod, as your fingers slipped to his shoulders. So small. Smaller than him in every way. He took the moment to appreciate it.
You, spread and waiting for him. Your pussy, swollen and twitching. His bulge pressed on your glistening folds dwarfed you entirely.
Oh, how you'd squirm on his cock.
At last he shrugged his shirt off. Shivered when your touch feathered over his chest. He made the mistake of watching your eyes. How they mapped out scars that your fingers traced.
You didn't have to say anything. Your gaze spelt affection he wasn't ready to receive.
"Don't stare at me like that." He gruffed, kicking off his pants.
"Why not?" You asked.
"Makes me think you want me."
"I do want you, kuna."
Damn you.
Damn you and your tenderness. Damn you and that sweet nickname your sugar lips latched onto. Damn you and the way you made his cock throb hard in the strained fabric of his boxers.
He palmed your throat. Focused on your pulse. The control he held over you in the moment.
"Shut up." His hiss muffled with a kiss. Hot and open-mouthed on yours. As if he could suck the words from your tongue and swallow them into his gut that knew better.
Knew that he was better off alone. That this was only for the sake of his rut.
Bulging and angry, his tip nudged between your thighs. Soaking up your arousal. The slippery sensation of your pussy sent shivers down his spine. So wet. For him. Only him.
He let you pull away. Watching as your gaze lowered to his thick cock sandwiched between your folds. Sliding against your slit and dragging on your clit. Your wide eyes eased a chuckle from him.
"What?" He drawled. "Too big?"
"Well. . . yes."
"And every inch's gonna fucking breed you."
He pinned you back into the mattress. Flat on your back with your knees scooped into his big hands. Dwarfed you there too. He pressed them back into you so that they kissed your tits. Folding you in half and completely exposing you entirely to his hungry eyes.
Salivating. He was salivating. Your eyes were too kind for how lewd your pussy spread out for him. Leaking a string of mess. Calling for him. Wanting him.
"Keep your eyes on me, you got that?" Maroon burned into yours. Searching for hesitance. For fear. For something that could cut into this feverish rut and remind him that he didn't deserve you. But no.
You obeyed him.
You wanted him.
His cockhead slotted against your slit. Dipping in to feel the silky sin of your pussy. A deep groan rumbled from the depths of his chest. His brows furrowed. Fuck. When last had he had this?
Blunt nails dug into the backs of your thighs as he sunk in. One inch. Two inch. Three inch. Four— popping through the first tight ring of resistance. Eyes devouring yours the entire time.
He watched your face. How it scrunched up and your mouth parted. How tears clouded your eyes as he pushed past the halfway point.
He stopped.
"You good?" He huffed. Barely gentle.
Very. Gentle.
"Yeah it's— just. . . just a lot." You croaked.
"Too much?"
His face didn't falter, but his heart sure did. His grip loosening on your limbs. Ready to let you go. Free you from him.
But you shook your head. Teary eyed. Twitching smile.
"Not enough."
Hips possessed. Mind a mess. He slammed forward at those two, pretty little words. Till his tip smooched your cervix and his balls squished into your folds. Bottomed out. Filling you to the brim.
The sound you made was sin itself. A blessing. Heaven, hell, and everything in between.
"Oh fuck." You cried, head tossed back. Unable to see him gasping out the same exclaim.
Your syrupy cunt hugged around him. Tight, snug. Nursing on an underside vein and milking him around the tip. Every pulse was your heartbeat, and it devastated him.
Cussing, he pushed down onto you. His heart tugging itself towards yours. To press into your skin as his hips started rutting. Slow, eager.
"Fuck. Look at you take this cock. Like you were born for it," his words husked above you.
Your lashes fluttered. Brows knitting at the centre. He watched your tears threaten to slip as he humped on the sensitive ring that was your cervix.
His tongue clicked. Swapping out a hand on your thigh, he snatched you beneath the jaw instead. Wrenching your face to his hot one.
"Didn't I say keep your eyes on me?"
"M sorry."
"Don't apologise, just take it."
He withdrew. Halfway at first— then shoved back in. The second time was further. And further. Until his thrusts pulled to the tip and plunged back to your womb. Languid, but hard. Sure to make you feel every inch of him pressing into your pussy nerves.
You soaked up his thighs. Splashing his balls and leaking a puddle into the sheets already. The scent was intoxicating. Flared his nostrils and dizzied his head.
The mattress shook beneath the power of his thrusts. Your body bounced with it. He made sure to coil his tail tight around your waist. Held you down like a predator did prey as he fucked you open on his cock.
Pleasure built a knot in his gut. Hot, heavy. Urging his hips to snap harder and chase bruises on your jiggling ass.
Every sound was sin. Sweet. Cries, moans, a whimper than surged into a whine of his name when he removed his other hand from your thigh to instead hold them back with a steeled forearm. So that his palm could press on the bulge swelling up the base of your tummy.
"Fuuckkk," he growled. Ears pinned back to his hair. Jaw hung and canines glinting. "Look at that. See that, pretty girl? What's here?"
You hiccuped, "your— ah. Your cock!"
"Yeah? What's it doing?"
"It's—"
You couldn't answer. Slurred by moans and the delicious drive of his dick stretching you out. He watched your eyes go static.
Spank! his palm landed hot on your clit. Bulging your eyes and jerking your hips up into his frantic thrusts. He laid another. Two. Three— encouraging your pitiful whimpers.
"Asked you a fucking question. What's it doing?"
"It's— hah. B. . . Breeed—"
"Breeding you? Yeah?"
"Uhuh! Breeding. Breeding me s-so . . . s'goood."
Drool bubbled on your lips. Your hands that had tried to scramble on his shoulders and dig your mark into his flesh now fell flat on the pillow. Beside your head. Limp like the rest of your body that surrendered itself to him.
Heat surged down his spine as you clamped around him. Sucking the air from his scathing lungs. Staining his base in a thick, filthy ring of cream.
His hips rammed all the more faster. Harder. Imprinting you into his bed. Your slick. Your sweat. Your scent.
One of your weak hands slipped down. Meeking over to his larger one fixed on your stomach. Wrapping around two of his massive fingers. Or at least trying to.
It strung a deep chord in him. Thin and vulnerable. One he has thought he cut out long ago.
His half slipped over yours. Fingers laced. Pressing you against the bulge he plunged into your tummy. Holding your hand. Holding it tight.
"Sweet pussy's milking me," his grunt fanned your pulse as he swooped down. Mouthing on your neck. Searching for your pulse to feel it race beneath his lips. "Fuck. Wants my cum so bad. Wants my cubs."
"Please!" You slurred.
He swore he could do this for life.
Shoving all the way, Sukuna paused on your cervix. Sweat dripping from his hair. Cock drumming heavy. He clamped you down through your protesting whines.
"Yeah, yeah, shut it." It didn't sound harsh. Especially not with his firm squeeze on your hand.
Slipping out just enough, he watched your juices spray all over him. Mesmerising him. He worked on autopilot. Bundling you into his arms and manhandling you into a different position.
Tossing you to your side, Sukuna slotted behind you. Hips spooning your ass. One strong arm hooked around your neck, choking you on his bicep. While the other strung around your thigh. Wrenching you open for him and his massive cock, that bullied back into your cunt. Squelching your cum and sick in messy streams.
Your angelic cries resonated into his bicep. Making him squeeze it harder against your throat. Headlocking you into his greedy mouth that sucked hickies across your neck.
The angle was deeper. Filthier. Letting him feel so much more of you.
How much smaller you were than him. How you squeezed him just right. How perfect you were in his arms.
Like you belonged.
Shit. Don't go there.
Sukuna tried to drown it out. The returning thought of you. A permanent fixture in his life. Your pink body wash on his counter, that was now his. Your books on his shelves that he could read to you. You, in his living room, painting.
Painting the jungle. Painting home. Being his home.
His cock pulsed hard at the base and sweltered at the tip. The knot in his stomach wound tight. But that thought— that thought gutted him.
That you were here. That you had been here. Warm, and sweet, and soft and for the last few weeks. His.
You could be his.
"No," he wanted it to sound like a grunt. But he whimpered. Panting, heaving, mind dizzy and thrusts frantic—
Sukuna was whimpering.
Your face was pressed into his bicep. Head limp and hand still trying to hold his that clutched your thigh. Still calling his name so sweetly.
"N-No?" You breathed.
Still attuned to him even when he was fucking your brains out.
"Don't want you to leave."
Oh.
Oh.
He hadn't realised that it slipped from his lips. Hadn't realised that through his brutal thrusts— he was breaking. Lost in the burning bliss, the heat, and the warmth of what could be.
Sukuna lost his fucking mind.
"Don't wanna— fuck. Don't wanna be alone." His face fell into your neck. Arms squeezing your body into his. Trying to melt your skin into his. Tuck himself into your warm flesh and the selfish wish you gave him.
Hazed, and hot, and so heavenly yours.
Slick hair pressed into your cheek. His body collapsed onto yours. Pounding his cock up into your creamy cunt. Chasing his blazing nerves as his mouth rambled.
"Don't want you to leave. Don't. Shit. Don't leave me, please, please don't fucking leave me."
His thrusts lost rhythm. As frantic as his rushed whispers. Plunging into your cervix. Bruising your thighs. Clutching you closer. As close as he could muster. As close as it would take to keep you here forever.
"Say you won't— say you," he slurred. Eyes squeezed shut. Words melting into a clumsy splutter of curses. "Say. Say you won't. Say—"
"Won't. Won't. 'kuna I won't— hngahh. Promise!"
That single word. So raw. So true. Choked in a gasp as you tried to nudge your face closer to him.
It shattered whatever pride he had left.
"You promise?"
He croaked. Dangerously hopeful.
You nodded. Cried.
"Promise. I promise S'kuna. Breed me— please."
He should have known you'd be trouble from the moment you first smiled at him.
Heat trapped him. Seeped into every nerve and spasming muscle. Ears drooped. Tail clinging around your waist, as his arms did every inch of you.
He held your hand.
The ache in his hips nulled to the sound of your sweet voice. Tucking promises away in his heart and sealing them with attempted kisses, even when he was choking you.
He felt your orgasm shake through you. Your body locking up as you babbled his name into the humidity. And with that Sukuna finally— finally let go.
Ramming his cock up one, final time. He stilled. Deep and thrumming within you. Heat bursting from his gut and washing over him in a devastating wave of blissful carnage.
Loud and wrecked, his moan vibrated into your back. Hips rocking in small stutters as spluttering, white ropes creamed your cervix. Pouring his thick cum into every inch of your twitching cunt. Brimming you with him and his promise.
"Fucking. . . fuck. . . hah. Take it. Take all this cum in your pretty pussy." Slurs dragged up your throat, to your ear as you face limped into his arm. His voice husked, a vow.
"Just feel me breeding you full. Filling you with my cubs."
You whined, meekly rocking back into him. But he snatched your hips and pressed it down into the mattress with a soft hush.
The throbbing at his base thrummed into swelling. His knot bloomed until it lodged stiff in your cunt. Pulsing with your pathetic little twitches.
He watched your eyes widen and brows furrow. Your body locked up and a whimper strained from your swollen lips. "Mmm. That's your—"
"Mhhm. Just stay still."
Laving his tongue over one of the bites, Sukuna held you near. Savouring your warmth.
The silence finally didn't feel like a void. Even if it was heavy.
He held onto the moment. Clung to its peace as the warmth simmered into cooling sweat on your flesh.
You broke the quiet first.
"Did you mean that?"
He didn't answer you. But his hand cupped your tummy. Fingers still laced in yours as his face tucked against the back of your shoulder.
". . . Was it too much?"
He never thought his voice could ache.
You tried to shift again, and despite the lump in his throat, he clicked his tongue. Squeezed your thigh in warning. "I said stay still, didn't I?"
"You're never too much. Not for me, Sukuna."
There you went, saying his name like it meant something.
Nudging your face to his, Sukuna licked at the tears on your face. A tender act he never thought himself capable of. "Don't say shit like that."
"That I want you? Or that I love you?"
His breath hitched.
Once the knot settled, he pulled out. Hesitantly— especially with your heat still clinging to him.
"You love me?" He muttered, laying a kiss on your cheek. Then to your jaw. To your shoulder. Down your body until you were on your back.
Calloused thumbs swept your folds back. Eyeing the lewd streak of cum leaking out of you.
His eyes found yours as you spoke, tender.
"Do you want me to say it again?" One of your hands raked into his hair.
His face nudged between your thighs. His hummed approval followed the flat of his tongue. Laving up your slit. Licking away the mess and holding your thighs open amidst their intense shivers.
Even as you whined. With your eyes on the brink of tears. They were still soft for him.
"I love you."
You shouldn't.
He shouldn't.
But he still said it back.
"My mate."
Low, and grumbled, not those three words but something that spelt a deeper bond. One he finally had.
After licking you clean, Sukuna bundled you up into the sheets. Pushing himself from the bed and returning with a warm towel and a water bottle.
He cradled the back of your head as he gave you the water.
Worshipped your flesh as he wiped you down. Tracing over bruises and bites. His mark.
And when you were finally tucked into his arms. Dozing off with your head nestled on his heart that now beat for you. His tail curled around your leg and his claws soft on your curves. Sukuna understood.
Synopsis: abandoned at the foot of a mountain in hopes of winning the favour of Sukuna Ryomen, you have to navigate life as his bride, constantly fearing death, torture, and being eaten out— up. being eaten up. definitely up.
right?
Warnings: porn with plot, dark romance, forced marriage, true form!sukuna - 2 peepees!, cunnilingus (he's a certified munch), use of curse mouth, blood play, masochist!sukuna, pussyjob, thigh job, death/violence/body parts, primal play, dubcon, double penetration, upside down 69, hair pulling, brief spanking, pussy slapping, biting, outdoor sex, bondage, shadow tentacles?, period sex, multiple orgasms, honestly not as dark as it sounds — this is quite romantic I promise, angst, fluff (soft!kuna), not quite curse au in the canon sense, f!reader, not proofread
Word Count: 16.9k
A forced marriage with Sukuna, the king of curses, sounds like hell.
And it is.
The village chief wanted to receive the newly arrived Curse King’s mercy and be spared from his tyranny. That apparently meant offering you, his only daughter, up for marriage. You were dropped off at the foot of the mountain, bound and gagged, unable to scream for help, not that any would arrive.
Not even your best friend, Suguru, had met your eyes.
Everyone had abandoned you.
A servant, dignified and aloof, came. They, with their white hair stained with crimson, took one look at you before making a silent decision.
Carried by goblin-looking creatures inside the mountain, which parted as though unhinging its jaw, you could do nothing but accept that you were going to be eaten up by the very monsters that children were warned about.
Navigating the carved out hallways of the mountain, they threw you in the throne room. Jagged stone walls surrounded you. Glowing red rocks were embedded in the rocks and lit torches illuminated the grand space. You were laying on the rolled out red carpet, staring up at a giant of a being.
There he was.
Sukuna Ryomen.
He was resting his head on one of his four arms, legs crossed, with all four eyes gazing down at you. He looked bored.
“What is this?” he drawled.
The same servant you first met stepped up, head bowed humbly. They said, “Entertainment, my Lord.”
“Entertainment?” the king repeated, tasting the word. “Not a snack? Interesting. How, pray tell, will this woman entertain me, if not with the taste of her flesh, Uraume?”
It was an absurd situation — they were discussing you as if you weren’t there, as if you didn’t have ears, as if you were a pet the servant had picked up as a gift. Although, it was at least a small blessing that you hadn’t been killed on the spot, you supposed. The thought, however, didn’t permit much relief when unimaginable torture could have awaited you.
‘Uraume’ answered, “The humans intended for her to be your wife, my Lord. Perhaps you could humour them with brief belief that they have been spared from their inevitable fate.”
At that, Sukuna hummed.
His eyes met your own then. They inspected you through your very soul. You felt their branding touch rifling through your essence. Something passed in them, something to which you could not put words.
Finally, he waved a lazy hand, and said, “Very well.”
The servants rushed to take you away, afraid to waste a single second.
You’ve been living in a room somewhere in the heart of the mountain since.
It’s been about a week.
Meals on a tray are served to you three times a day. Porridge, fruits, bread, the sorts. You do your best not to eat much; they might have poisoned it.
Every day, every hour, is spent anticipating the wooden doors being kicked down, waiting for the Curse King to forgo delaying your fate and slicing your head off your shoulders with one, clean cut. So far, nothing yet.
In fact, you have not seen another soul since.
The first night, you couldn’t sleep, afraid that he would take the villagers up on the offer to make you his real bride, by plunging his cock into you and stealing your maidenhead. It didn’t, and hasn’t, happened. But ‘yet’ looms over you perpetually.
Your one consolation is that sleep comes to you easily now.
It’s all you can do — the room is barren of books, of people, of art. Only a bed, a table, and a chamber pot with a bucket of water decorate it. There are no windows with which you can view the outside world, can tell what time of day it is, can escape through, or jump off. Only your body’s natural instincts inform you when morning and time to slumber has arrived.
Though…
With the days blurring, and perpetual and dim light of the glowing rocks remaining unchanged, it’s beginning to grow more and more difficult to tell left from right.
The doors are unlocked.
That was the first thing you tested when you were placed here.
Of course you’ve considered walking out of the room, if only to have a change of scenery. You’ve also considered escaping. But your thoughts would always end up at ‘escaping to where?’
You’ve been abandoned by your village, by your family. They would not accept you. They would see your return as a sign that the Curse King had rejected their sacrifice and would be coming to collect the debt. In other words, you’d be seen as a bad omen.
It was your destiny to die, whether by the hands of your family or by the hands of the beast they were afraid of.
So if death is a certainty, why would you fear it?
That’s the final thought that pushes you out of bed and to the door. Your hand hesitated for a second. Then it was sure. You opened it, body tense.
No one’s outside. No guard, no goblins, no king.
You pad out, feet bare and wearing only a nightgown. How deep inside the mountain are you, you wonder. There’s a draught blowing past, but no sound of the forest to fill the space. No voices. No footsteps. No life.
“Where is everyone?” you mutter, padding forward.
Who can say how long you wander through the tunnels?
It feels like it’s been hours, though with the way time seems to pass differently, it could also have only been mere minutes.
Eventually, you spot light coming from a hollow in the walls. Carefully and with bated breath, you peer inside.
Steam wafts over your face.
It’s warm — startlingly so against the chill that seems to cling to every corridor of the mountain. You hesitate again, also only a moment before stepping inside.
The ceiling arches high above, rough stone glistening with condensation, droplets forming and falling in slow, steady rhythms that echo softly in the space. The air is thick, humid, curling around your skin. It tickles.
At the centre of the chamber lies a pool.
It’s set into a wide, uneven basin in the ground. The water glows faintly from beneath, lit by the same red-veined stones embedded along the walls, but here their light is softened, diffused through the steam until it casts everything in a hazy, molten glow.
The surface of the water ripples lazily, disturbed by unseen currents, by the quiet bubbling from somewhere deep below. Heat rises from it in waves, beckoning, almost inviting.
Who knew something like this existed inside a mountain?
Carefully, you approach the edge of the pool, crouching slightly as you extend a hand. Your fingers hover for a second before dipping into the water.
Hot.
But not scalding.
“A bath,” you mumble, smiling.
Here, of all places.
The servants had given you a bed to sleep on, a table to eat at, and a pot to do your business in that seemed to be cleaned out magically without you ever seeing anyone. What they hadn’t granted, however, is the luxury of a bath. Only a bucket to and a rag to clean yourself with.
You glance back toward the tunnel, as if half-expecting someone, something, to be watching. But there’s nothing and no one. Only the distant drip of water and the low hum of the mountain breathing around you.
Your reflection stares back at you from the shifting surface, blurred by steam and movement. The quiet stretches.
If you’ll be killed for stepping outside your room, at least you’ll die clean and fresh.
Shrugging off your nightgown, you dip your toe in the water, then your leg and the other, and soon you’re fully emerged.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” you moan, letting the water soothe the aches in your bones. You sink deeper. The heat swallows you whole, up to your shoulders, then your chin. Your eyes flutter shut as you tilt your head back, strands of your hair clinging damply to your skin.
For a moment, just a moment, you forget. Forget the mountain, the monsters, the fate waiting patiently for you somewhere in its depths. The tension bleeds out of your limbs, your breathing slowing, evening out as the warmth seeps into you.
You drift, arms floating lazily at your sides.
A soft sigh escapes you. This is just like swimming in the lake near the village, except it’s warm and lovely and soothing.
It’s…peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Your eyes open.
Something feels…off suddenly. The water, once gently lapping, stills in a way that isn’t natural. The faint bubbling from below seems to deepen, shift. Like something moving far beneath the surface.
Your body goes rigid.
Slowly, you glance down. The water is dark there. Deeper than it should be. The glow from the stones doesn’t quite reach the bottom — it falls away into shadow, into something that looks less like a pool and more like a pit.
A pit that could swallow you whole.
Your breath catches.
“…Hello?” you call softly, though you don’t know why.
The surface trembles.
Something moves.
Your heart lurches into your throat. Instinct kicks in before thought does. You turn sharply, water sloshing as you begin to move, arms cutting through the surface, making for the edge.
Too slow.
Something clasps your ankle.
A gasp tears right through you, kicking hard, panic surging white-hot through your veins. “No!”
It coils.
Grabs.
Your leg is yanked downward with terrifying force.
The world flips. Water crashes over your head as you’re dragged under, your scream swallowed instantly. You thrash, clawing at nothing, lungs burning whilst bubbles tear from your mouth. Your hands grasp blindly, trying to find purchase, to find anything.
A shape.
A body.
You strike it. Push against it. Kick, struggle, fight with everything in you, nails scraping against something solid, unyielding.
Then it lets go.
You don’t wait.
You surge upward, breaking through the surface with a ragged gasp, coughing, choking on water as you scramble for the edge. Your hands slap against the stone, slipping once before catching, dragging yourself up just enough to cling to it. Your whole body trembles violently.
Air. You need air.
You suck it in greedily, chest heaving, water dripping from your lashes as your eyes dart wildly across the pool. “W-what…” you choke out, voice shaking.
A sound answers you. A low, amused exhale.
Your blood runs cold. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn your head.
He’s here.
The King of Curses.
Sukuna lounges against the inner ledge of the pool as though he’s always been there. One arm is slung lazily over the stone behind him, another resting loosely at his side, droplets sliding down the planes of his skin. And the remaining two are folded under the water.
He’s watching you.
No, observing you.
That smirk curls at his lips, sharp and satisfied, eyes glinting with something dark and entertained. “Well,” he drawls, voice echoing low against the stone walls, “your floundering was amusing.”
“W-why,” you begin, gulping air and frantically shoving the wet hair clinging away from your face, “why did you do that?”
A hum floats through the air, carried by the steam. It sweeps your skin. Sukuna says, “Because I could.” Then he barks a laugh. “When I came here to wash the stink of my latest massacre, I did not expect to find a human bathing in my onsen. How brazen of you.”
When he snaps his fingers together, you flinch.
Uraume appears.
Their head is downcast. They don’t look at your body, which you suddenly remember is bare and visible through the clear water. You throw your arms over your private parts.
“Who is this woman and why have you not killed her upon her first step of trespass?” he asks his servant. Sukuna doesn’t sound mad. Only curious.
“Because she is your bride, my Lord.”
You flinch at the term.
Sukuna barks a laugh again. “My bride? My bride! How comical that I would forget I have one.” He turns to you, eyes narrowing in with interest. “Why have you only now appeared before me?”
Gulping, you tentatively answer, “I did not think you would want to see me. And I’m sorry I intruded—”
“Wise,” he says, one of his massive arms running through his wet hair. “I am not usually fond of seeing humans; you are all so hideous and constantly quivering in my presence.”
There’s no possible way to reply to that, not without getting your blood spilled for insolence.
He stands upon the ledge and exits the pool.
He’s completely naked, as you are. His broad back, the impressive muscles that make it up, the perfectly symmetrical tattoos. He turns. His cocks swings with the movement. You quickly avert your eyes, cheeks warm.
If Sukuna notices that you noticed, he doesn’t say. Only, “Try not to drown — my pet swims beneath but he has already had his fill. Do not fatten him with your flesh.”
When you hurriedly climb out, squealing, his laughter echoes, filling the space even once his body, and his servant’s, have left.
You kneel on the smooth ground, panting, soaked and dripping, and thinking one thing:
The Curse King has a sense of humour.
And two giant cocks.
.
.
.
The next day, you find yourself back at the pool.
You tell yourself it’s simply because you want to bathe, but perhaps if you were more honest with yourself, you’d accept that maybe you were curious to see if he’d be there.
And he is.
Sukuna leans against the very same ledge he had been yesterday. He watches your every move, from when you first step in, to when you shyly shrug off your nightgown, and when you submerge yourself in the warm water.
Something has brought you here.
A pull you could not deny.
Thinking too much about it gives you a headache, so you let your body move on its own, unhindered by logic, by your mind’s concerns. You want to bathe, to be clean. He hadn’t killed you yesterday, and that counts for something.
Of course, you know the smart thing to do would be to not push it, to understand that two run-ins with him that didn’t lead to immediate death doesn’t mean a third would end the same, to count your blessings.
But…
Bath.
He says nothing, only runs a finger across the seam of his lips as his eyes drink up every shift of your body.
Boldly, albeit shakily, you ask, “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”
Sukuna’s eyes glint.
“I wonder the same thing myself.”
That’s not an answer, you note. But you don’t poke, scared if you do, if you push your limits more than you already have, he’ll snap your head as easily as he had snapped his fingers.
The way his eyes pin you down on the ledge opposite him has you squirming in your seat. It’s too intense. Too strong. Too dizzying. So you try to pretend it’s not cascading down the skin visible to him; you push forward, wading in the water. You stare at the ceiling, at the distance, at the darkness of the depths, at anything but him.
“My village offered me as sacrifice,” you remind him. “Will you spare them?”
Somewhere, he lazily replies, “I have yet to decide.”
Humming, as though you thought as much, you wonder aloud, “What will you do with me? I cannot imagine that the King of Curses would find much use in a human wife.”
“No, neither can I,” Sukuna drawls.
On and on, you swim. Arms cut through the water in slow, steady strokes, legs kicking behind you in a rhythm that’s begun to feel automatic. There’s no sense of direction, no shore to aim for, just the endless stretch of water surrounding you, thick and quiet, swallowing any sound you might make. Time slips, dissolves, until all that remains is movement for the sake of movement.
Then, as you turn, your hand meets something solid.
The impact is soft but jarring, your palm flattening instinctively against it. A wall. Smooth, unmoving, impossibly present where there had only ever been open water.
You gasp.
Sukuna stands behind you.
The bottom of the pool had risen. You still cannot reach it, but you’re aware that if you tried to, the water’s surface would be just above your head. The pool is under his command, bending to his will. How incredible.
Bare, wet skin meets bare, wet skin.
The heat of his body is hotter than that of the water.
He doesn’t step away despite how the water seems to be pushing you to him.
How did he get to you so fast? Last you saw, he was still sitting on the ledge. No, perhaps the better question is, why had he moved closer to you at all?
Hands grab your ribs. You gasp. They’re firm, callused. Burning.
“Wife?” he repeats, wide smirk revealing rows of flesh-tearing teeth. “You are not my wife. You are my bride. I am sure even a puny, little thing like you understand that there is a process to be followed, yes?”
A nail flicks your nipple under the water.
You let out a shuddery breath.
The other two hands grip the back of your thighs, lifting them till they’re wrapping around his hips. The top half of your body has emerged from the water, water dripping down. You throw your arms around his neck, a reflex to grab onto something before you fall.
Breasts presses to his chest. He must feel how hard your nipples are. You’re flushed with embarrassment, and an acute awareness of how much bigger his own body is to yours — if he wanted to, he could crush you with his bare hands.
Sukuna’s sharp fangs glint at the very peaks as he runs his tongue over them. “For you to be my wife, we would have to observe tradition. Do you understand what I refer to, little human?”
Breathless, you answer with your own question: “Do you refer to the wedding night, my Lord?”
One of his cocks pokes your entrance. You tense up.
You’ve seen their size; they are inhumanly big. They could not fit inside you, not without the preparation that the women in your village had giggled about, perhaps not even with.
But he doesn’t shove it inside you all in one go.
He doesn’t shove it inside at all.
The king merely slides you down his body, just a little, until that cock is sandwiched between your bodies.
It bumps a good spot on your cunt. You gasp.
“I do,” Sukuna says, huffing in amusement at your reaction. “I admit I have not been married before myself, but it is one aspect I am curious about.”
His strong hands are moving you up and down, testing every little sound that leaves your lips. And you’re letting him.
Is there something in the water? Some elixir that’s making you susceptible to his whims? An aphrodisiac stimulating wetness out of your pussy?
He must feel it, must feel how it drips down his length. Just like how you can feel the prominent veins of a cock that’s grown fully erect without you noticing. How long has he been like this? Since you walked in? Before?
Your nipples are scraping his chest. The sensation has you arching closer to him, grip around his body tightening. “M-my Lord!”
Sukuna tuts, moving you up and down like you’re a mere toy for his pleasure. He scolds, “That is not my name.”
“Sukuna?” you experimentally mutter the words. His cock throbs. You both groan. “S-something’s happening.”
Hips moving on their own, you feel as though you’ve been possessed. Your body is no longer your own — some invisible thing is urging you to grind down on his cock, on that burning heat between you, rubbing your clit on his flushed cockhead, on the veins that run up and down his length.
Humming, he says, quite distracted, “Yes. Something is. Allow it to happen. Do not fight it.”
This is pleasure you’ve never felt before. Pleasure you didn’t know truly existed. The women in your village always spoke of sexual pleasure as something only for men, joy a girl would be lucky to experience even once, if their partner was generous and not selfish, which was apparently rare.
Yet, here is, grinding your clit on the veins of his cock.
He licks his lips. “Go on, little human. Give it to me.”
With a loud moan, you throw your head back. Spasms wrack your body. A heady explosion warms your belly. Spurts of something even warmer paint your chest and stomach.
Sukuna grunts, fingers digging into the plush of your ass.
“Fuck.”
Your head falls back on his chest, slumping with sudden languishness. You pant. His chest rises with his own heavier breaths.
Coming back into your own senses, you tense. Then push away. He lets you.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, in near tears from shame. “Please forgive me, my Lord.”
You wade back, further and further away from him. Blood has pooled in your cheeks. What have you done? If he wasn’t going to kill you before, he certainly will now that you’ve defiled his body.
He pays you no mind. The water around his still body ripples. Sukuna grunts. Sucks in a harsh breath. Water laps at his contracting abdomen. Furious. Violent. You cannot tear your eyes away from the sight.
Oh god…he’s tugging furiously at his other cock whilst the other floats. His own spend is drying on his chest.
Mouth watering, you almost step forward to offer a hand.
But you don’t.
Instead, you turn around and make a run back to your room.
.
.
.
You haven’t returned to the pool. Not once in the week that passed.
He might not have killed you but one thing’s certain: you do not want to run into him again.
Especially now that you’ve caught his attention. Reminded him of your existence. Which is as one would expect: worse than being forgotten. So, so, so much worse.
For, every day since the meeting at the pool, he’s taken to dropping off severed limbs at your door. Still warm. Still bleeding. Often twitching. First it was a big toe. Then a whole foot. A finger. A hand. An arm.
And today, a head.
A scream shook the walls once your eyes landed on the thing.
Your scream.
Perhaps it’s adrenaline that urges every stomp your feet make. Perhaps anger or indignation. Whatever it is, it has you near-running through the halls, searching in every hollow for him.
An almost full circle has been carved at the very end of one tunnel you stumble down. Vines creep out of it. You step inside, heaving, and with fists balled at your side.
A garden.
It stretches farther than your eyes can follow, lush and sprawling, like the earth itself had been coaxed open and persuaded to bloom in defiance of everything you thought you knew about this place. The ceiling arches high above, fractured in places where thin shafts of pale light filter through, catching on drifting pollen and casting the entire space in a soft, dreamlike haze.
The air is warm here. Heavy with scent.
Sweet. Overripe. Almost intoxicating.
It’s not a human garden, you can tell immediately; the grass is black, as is the soil, and the roots which emerge from the ground are red. Things that couldn’t exist in the same place do, cohabiting quite well.
Flowers you’ve never seen before crowd the ground in wild abundance — petals like silk and flame, some translucent, others so dark they seem to drink in the light. Vines coil and twist up natural pillars of stone, heavy with blossoms. Leaves skim against your legs as you step forward, wide and waxy, or delicate as lace, each one foreign.
“How…?” you whisper, though there is no answer. It shouldn’t have been possible to have a whole forest inside a mountain. But then again, a great many things shouldn’t have been possible, yet they are.
The path, if it can even be called that, winds forward through the growth, barely visible beneath the encroaching green. It feels endless. Like you could spend your entire life sprinting down the path and never make it to the end.
There, some distance ahead, partially obscured by the curtain of hanging vines, a figure moves.
You freeze.
Bare feet press against the dark soil, soundless. A loose robe hangs from his shoulders, open just enough to reveal the breadth of his chest and the markings etched into his skin stark against the softness of the garden around him. One hand drags idly along the leaves as he walks.
“Hello, little bride.”
It still surprises you that he can utter the word so casually. You don’t flinch this time however. You only glower and maintain the distance. “Why have you been giving me body parts?” you interrogate, grateful that your voice is as firm as when you had rehearsed.
Sukuna lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Why have you not stepped foot outside your room since?”
He resumes walking.
Toward you.
Each step is unhurried, deliberate, crushing petals beneath his feet without a second thought. The garden seems to part for him, bending subtly to his presence, vines shifting, leaves snaking aside in quiet submission.
You don’t move.
You tell yourself you won’t.
Your pulse stutters anyway.
“You fear me,” Sukuna observes, like he’s stating something obvious. His eyes drag over you, taking in every inch, every subtle shift in your breathing, the way your fingers curl tighter at your sides. “And yet you came looking.”
“Because I want to know why you’ve been giving me body parts,” you snap.
“Mm.”
He’s closer now.
Close enough that you can feel the heat of him, even in the thick, perfumed air of the garden. Close enough that you can see the faint sheen of moisture still clinging to his skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the loose fall of his robe.
Another step.
Instinct finally kicks in; you shift back, just one pace.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I was curious.”
Your brows knit. “About what?”
“How long it would take,” he says lightly, “for you to stop hiding.” A finger traces the curve of your cheek. You hold your breath, staring up at him, waiting for his next move. Sukuna mutters, “How odd that your scent would be so much sweeter than the flowers that grow here. It makes me wonder.”
Why is heat travelling down your body? Why aren’t you running away, revolted by his touch or the gravel in his voice? Were you still thinking about the feel of his body against yours, both naked, in the pool? Of the cocks whose soft lengths had been engrained in your mind?
His nostrils flare.
A flash in his eyes.
“There it is,” he rasps. “A scent I could not escape, so much more potent now.”
In a blink of an eye, you’re flipped over, dangling in the air. He has you by the ankle, lifted high up.
You grab onto his robe, which has parted. Right in front of you is his cock. Both of them. Neither soft now. Definitely not soft. One smacks you right against the face. It leaves a wet mark.
The musk of a refined monster hits you. It’s…it’s addictive. Your mouth waters again, stronger this time than the time at the pool now that they’re so much closer to you. Irresistible.
Sukuna presses a nose to the apex of your thighs. Skin on skin. You jolt.
Your dress had fallen down your body, ballooning around your face. You hold the material away — he can see everything. That fact has you aware that you can see him too. The thickness of his cocks, the lengths rivalling your forearm, the weight of the balls beneath. Everything about him is massive. Intended to subjugate. Designed to dominate.
“You are already wet. Soaked,” he muses, thoroughly humoured. He rubs his nose on your clit, nuzzling the little bud. You dig your nails into his thighs. “Filthy, little human.”
That’s all he says before he licks a stripe through your slit.
“Sukuna!”
“Mm. Dessert. Just in time.”
The beast licks and laps and sucks. It isn’t anything like the women at the village described — men are supposed to be reluctant, they’re supposed to be frightened. Sukuna isn’t. He’s consuming your juices as though starved, needing nourishment.
In front of you, something emerges from his skin.
A wolfish grin.
There’s a mouth on his stomach, lips curled up and teeth gleaming. You scream, fighting to get out of his tight hold.
SMACK!
Sukuna slapped your ass. A dull heat blossoms on the flesh. He commands, “Stay still. I cannot dine when you worm like so.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Cruelly, he lays short slaps right on your clit, sending juices splashing onto your skin. The way his palm sticks, the sloppy noises, it's all so degrading. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s revelling in your clear desire for him.
You’re almost too distracted by the sight of a second, bigger mouth. Almost. But nothing can truly, wholly tear your attention away from the sucking of your clit and the way a fire is being lit in your very core. Soon, a thick tongue finds your entrance and buries itself inside. Your eyes roll back.
A hot, wet thing slides up the valley of your breasts. Slithering. Testing. Tasting.
The mouth, you realise. It’s sticking its fat tongue out, licking your breasts the way Sukuna’s face mouth is licking the inside of your cunt, stretching your walls, teasing the pleats there.
“Delicious,” one of them says. You can’t tell which. So much is happening at once. Too many to process.
At your lips, one of his cockheads smears its seed. You lick your lips. It’s salty. Eyes fixed on the frighteningly red thing, you open your mouth to suckle at it. That familiar possession has returned. You’re being controlled by an invisible force — your jaw has to widen to take the bulbous head. Your tongue runs over the tip, where there’s a slit.
Sukuna groans, pleased. Then he growls, “Do not neglect the other.”
Slightly afraid, you do as he says. The other cock is just as hard, just as big and long as the one you’re sucking on. It throbs approvingly when you tug on it.
“Good,” he groans out. “Very good, little bride.”
Obscene squelches are coming from above. It’s a reminder of how wet you are for him. Of how delirious the pleasure is. Of how you aren’t disgusted by the magical tongue flicking your tits, playing with the mounds, running the tip of it over your nipples. You’re not disgusted by the salty taste of him, of how he seems to be constantly leaking.
He’s lapping up at your pussy so furiously that he makes frustrated, wrathful sounds; he’s mad that you’re not producing enough wetness to match the pace in which he’s drinking it up.
“More,” he commands. “Give me more. Now.”
Sukuna pushes his face closer, uncaring of the fact that you’re making a mess all over his cheeks. He only has one thing on his mind.
“I’m gonna cum,” you warn him, mouth full and words garbled. The unfamiliar word leaves your lips so naturally you think you’d been warning him all your life of your impending orgasm.
Unfortunately, the warning is wasted. You don’t think he even hears the words with your thighs muffling his ears.
“Sukuna!”
The very same feeling, the same sensations, as the time in the pool rushes through you. Bolts of lightning thrum beneath the surface of your skin. You shudder, moaning lewdly.
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he’s only emboldened by the juices overflowing out of you. Slurrrrrping! so animatedly. So viciously. So animalistically.
A feral beast sucking your sensitive clit into another orgasm only minutes later.
It’s too much. It almost hurts. You slap at his meaty thigh. That seems to snap him out of his mania.
In a flash, you’re flipped back upright. Blood descends down your body. Lightheaded, your knees weaken. He catches you, lifting you up in his arms all while he’s collecting as much of your juices off his skin he can reach with his tongue.
Thud…thud…thud…
Sukuna strolls through the garden and back out into the rocky halls, robe discarded. Your dress is soaked with a mix of your juices, sweat, and his saliva. You’re filthy. He doesn’t complain.
Thankfully, there’s no one in the hallways to witness the remnants, of the proof, of your mutual debauchery.
“I have never considered myself as having a sweet tooth,” Sukuna begins, musing to himself, “but now I believe I would very much like to have dessert after every meal. What do you say, little human?”
“Hmm,” you sleepily hum.
“Then we are in agreement,” Sukuna concludes, pleased.
Your eyes flutter shut, too tired to keep them open. Before you fall into slumber, you feel a bed much softer than you remember cushion your body.
A hardness flanks you.
You dream of many hands brushing your hair, patting your hip, rubbing your belly, and tracing your cheek.
.
.
.
Since you’ve come to accept your odd relationship with the King of Curses, you’ve been spending an awful amount of time with him lately.
It started off with him keeping you in his room.
It’s a much nicer room than yours. Infinitely so. Almost triple the size and more lavishly decorated — a huge bed with silk sheets and a canopy with deep velvet curtains, a plush rug, dark red orchids in intricate and complex positions upon a table, paintings of different moments in time of human suffering that concerningly do not bother you.
You always find yourself back in here.
Whenever you wander through the halls, the walls seem to shift. They lead you back to his room. At first you were hesitant to enter, and you’d try to go a different way, but the caves insisted.
He isn’t here ever.
So you’ve started to think of it as your own.
During meal times, that’s when you’d see Sukuna.
Uraume would often escort you out of the room and into the dining hall. Another enormous space. You’d dine with him, and only him. There’d be curses posted inside, but they always step out, to give you privacy you assume. Naturally, these mealtimes were awkward for you in the beginning.
Sukuna didn’t speak. Not at first. He would just watch you eat, which only made you feel more awkward.
You were the one who broke the silence. “Are you… are you not going to eat, my Lord?” you asked tentatively.
A devious grin came upon his face. Happy he won a competition you didn’t know you signed up for. He replied, “I will. I am simply fattening up my pig before I devour her.”
Heat flushed through you. Cutlery clinking against the fine china, you gulped. There was a dangerous awareness of the darkness of his eyes feasting upon your flesh — you felt its weight sliding down the plumpness of your cheeks, the length of your neck, your collarbones, and your breasts which threatened to spill out from the confines of your dress.
Perhaps fear should have overtaken you at that moment.
Only relief and desire did.
What set you on edge most was not knowing what he wanted from you, why he had Uraume collect you, why he was wasting his time here when he could be doing kingly duties.
Now that he had made clear what he was seeking, you could allow yourself to rest easy and actually taste the food you were shovelling into your mouth.
“I am the pig in question?”
“Yes,” he replied immediately. A hand shoved a plate of pancakes towards you, encouraging. “You certainly squeal like one.”
Frowning, and pushing the plate away because you have too much to eat already, you argued, “I do not.”
“Do too,” he said, pushing the plate back towards you.
“Do not!”
An arm wrapped around your waist faster than you could see. Another swiped the food off the table. Everything fell with cacophonous clangs and bangs and splats!
Sukuna placed you on the table, which was now bereft of food. Your back met the hard wood. Your legs were thrown over his shoulders. Dress hiked up your waist. You were bared to him. Two of his callused hands yanked you closer to his face. Those four eyes, all scarlet and glinting up at you, didn’t look away.
He wanted you to watch him take a long whiff of your cunt.
His grip tightened on you once your scent hit him with full force. His eyes rolled back. Sukuna snarled, “Let’s see which of us is right.”
There were no soft kisses upon your sensitive skin, no caresses. Only unrestrained feasting. He immediately latched onto your clit, sucking on the thing with a fury. You cried out.
The king was frightening in his aggression.
He was gulping down every drop your pussy produced to please him, and it wasn’t nearly enough. Terrifying growls shook the table.
Sukuna seemed addicted to making your cunt let out vulgar squelchessss!
They came in quick succession. One after the other. Loud and clear. Displaying how well he was playing with your clit.
“Look at how your cunt flutters, searching for my cocks,” he mused, thumbing the entrance but not pushing in. “And look how your petals have grown swollen with blood. Oh, I bet your blood tastes as good as your pussy. We’ll test that too, another day.”
Stammering, you pleaded, “Don’t look!”
He stared too intently. Saw too much. It was more intimate than being tasted.
“Nonsense,” Sukuna said, waving you off. “I will look as I please, and I very much do.”
In response to his renewed lapping of your juices, you could only writhe and run your nails down the wood for anything to ground you.
“Do not waste your claws on the table,” he spat, spare hands snatching your ups and offering his wrists for you to dig into. You hesitated, chest heaving and vision swimming. Then he asked, “You do not find my flesh good enough to mark? You wish to offend your groom when he is at the altar of your legs?”
You didn’t want to know what he was like when he was offended so you clung to his thick wrists. You made a mental note not to actually scratch him — that seemed a more criminal act than offending him – but the pleasure born from his ravishing of your pussy bordered on pain and you could not help yourself.
The very moment your nails caught on his skin and broke through, one of the hands that was keeping your shaking legs apart darted out. It landed on your chest. With brutish finesse, it ripped your bodice. Cool air grazed over your breasts. That hand latched onto a tit.
“W-what– Oh God!” you screamed.
Something…
Something on his palm was suckling your nipple, like a babe.
Sukuna’s amused huff vibrated through your pussy, sending shivers up your spine. “No, not God, little bride. It is me. My mouth is making you feel good. But,” he adds after a little thought, “I do not mind being worshipped as a deity, heh.”
How could he be so nonchalant when two sets of mouths were eating you up, when your eyes were at risk of being permanently lodged at the back of your head? How could he make conversation so easily when his tongue, which felt so impossibly long, was wriggling through your walls and teasing the entrance to your womb? When the mouth at his palm was suctioning your nipple into that impossible space?
“Delicious,” he snarled, positively starved of your taste. “So fucking sweet. How can a human be so…so…divine? It defies nature.”
He wasn’t talking to you anymore. He was manically muttering to himself, reasoning with his own understanding of the balance of life. It baffled him. Bewildered him. Excited him. Sukuna could not get enough of you.
Whining, you called out his name, “S-Sukuna! It’s too -hngh!- much. I can’t.”
“Cum,” he said.
Your head shook, thrashed. “No, I -hah- can’t!”
“Cum,” he repeated. No, commanded. Ordered. Demanded.
And you could not deny a king.
You fell apart on the dining table with a scream. Wetness rushed out of you as though a dam had broken. He drank it all up. Slurrrrrpeddd! every single drop until you were writhing again. And when he growled, “More,” and, “Again,” you could not deny him then either.
It might have been hours later before he decided he’d had his fill.
Aside from meal times, you don’t see him during the day. He’s always gone. No one will tell you why, and you don’t feel brave enough to ask. You merely assume he’s doing kingly duties — keeping the curses of the Underworld and of the forests in line, maintaining balance between humans and monsters, and protecting his people.
In the meantime, you read in his room, which is now your room. There are plenty of books here. More than you could ever read in a lifetime, and certainly more than there ever were in your village. It’s hard to imagine he read any of the books in the collection but there are signs of use: folded pages, cracked spines, yellowing.
He read each one you had opened.
Poems.
Novellas.
Journals of travels beyond.
You don’t mind the hours spent on your own; the goblins walking along still scare you so you avoid running into them. Of course, there’s always the option to ask during your mealtimes, in between him eating you out and actually consuming food, if you could visit the village (for you know returning was too much). Not that you especially wanted to go home.
The villagers had sold you.
Abandoned you.
They would not welcome you home.
So you must consider the heart of the mountain your new home.
It’s simply about asking, about knowing the answer, about having the option.
But each time you considered bringing up your village to him, you backed out at the last second. He was not your husband. Not really. Not yet. He’s not even really your groom. That just seems like an excuse to do the salacious things you’ve been doing. At most, he’s your friend, and you cannot burden your friend more than you already have.
Truthfully, it hardly matters what exactly he is to you. He’s nice. Attentive. Generous. He hasn’t killed you, he hasn’t hurt you, hasn’t massacred your village and your family, and hasn’t thrown back in your face any of those facts.
That’s why every morning, when you know Uraume will escort you, you make sure never to be late.
You obediently, possibly excitedly, wait in front of the door for the knock.
You slide a hand down your new dress; it appeared in the closet, and is your size. It certainly isn’t Sukuna’s. Red lace, soft silk, dainty bows, easy to move in and breathe — it’s a beautiful dress. Far more expensive and luxurious than anything you’d ever owned. The chest area’s a little tight; it pushes your breasts up more than you’re used to, and somehow you’re sure that was on purpose.
When the door opens, Uraume’s patient self leads you out. They’re quiet. Respectful. They have been since the very first night.
“Thank you.”
Cold eyes flit to you. “What ever for, my lady?”
“For saving me,” you say, fiddling with the lace on your dress. “If you hadn’t suggested that he humour me, Sukuna would have—”
“The king,” Uraume cuts in, spine straight and gaze fixed ahead now, “does only as he pleases. It is his right. He grows bored of his new toys very quickly, and it is my duty to keep him entertained. I saw an opportunity to fulfil my responsibility. That is all.”
You have no response to that. You only blink, surprised and berating yourself for being so. Sukuna may be your friend, in your eyes at least, but Uraume is not. Sukuna may not mind the fact that you are human, but others may not share the same sentiment. Maybe Uraume thinks you are a plague. A rat. That’s often the story humans spread about curses and their philosophies.
Soon, you reach the double doors leading to the garden. Before the doors are opened, they add, “It is also my duty to throw old toys away.”
When you turn to look at them, they’re already gone.
“Finally,” Sukuna says, exasperated. “I resent being kept waiting. Walk here with haste, little bride.”
Uraume’s words linger in your mind; Sukuna’s sharp rows of teeth flash washes them away.
He’s in his loose robes, bottom set of arms tucked into the wide sleeves. A hand beckons you over, and the moment you are within reach, he snatches you up. You’re carried up in his arms, high enough to come face to face with him and see all four of his eyes watching you.
Sukuna nuzzles the crook of your neck. He starts walking down the path. Branches tickle the top of your head. “Did you sleep well?” he wonders. His voice vibrates against your skin. It tickles.
Gripping his hair for purchase, you murmur, “Yes.” Then, shuddering once his lips explores the length of your neck, you ask, “Did you?”
“I do not sleep,” he casually replies.
Within minutes, he’s managed to walk so deep into the garden that the surroundings have changed from exotic flowers full of vibrant colours and shapes to a forest of cherry blossoms. Petals whirl around you, swirling with the gentle wind.
Above you, the cave walls have shifted into the blue and vast open sky.
You gasp. “Are we…are we outside?”
The brightness almost sting your eyes; you have to narrow them with a wince to avoid being blinded. The smell of fresh air too nearly burns your nostrils. The chatter of live animals and insects are near deafening at first. Everything’s so different, so new, yet so familiar, so ordinary that it becomes magical to your senses.
He parts from your neck to eye your reaction. The smile on your face makes his grip on you tighten. Sukuna says, “Yes. Your complexion looked rather dull without sunlight, and my bride must be at her very best at all times. So here we are.”
That doesn’t sound quite true upon his lips but you don’t question him on it.
Instead, you beam at him and gush, “Thank you! Oh, it’s wonderful out.”
It’s easy to forget what the world above is like when you’ve spent countless nights under the mountain with rocks for company.
Sukuna sets you down. You waste no time running around, laughing at the green grass that tickles your bare feet.
The grass inside the mountain’s garden is black, with roots being red, for reasons you could not fathom. It’s coarser too. The softness of this green, human grass, in comparison, sets your heart racing.
There’s no wind inside the mountain, only a draught. This calm air is fresher, warmer, soothing on the body and doesn’t settle.
And the warmth of the sun…
Beams of distant fire soaks into your skin. You sigh, a small smile on your lips.
When you turn back, he’s sitting under a tree, all arms crossed and watching you. Always watching. Always aware of your every move, every position, every shift.
Somewhat shy with the realisation that he’d seen the entire display, you stroll back to his side.
“It is a lovely day out, yes?” he says.
You nod, grinning. “It’s perfect. Just perfect.”
About to sit beside him, you let out a squeal when he snatches you up again and sits you down on his lap. All of his arms cage you. Sukuna rests his chin on the top of your head.
“Now it is,” he mumbles, chest rumbling against your back.
You smile again, more coy this time, and grateful he can’t see it.
The grass is untouched. No footprints mar it. No broken twigs, no distant rustling of hidden creatures. It is a forest, yes, but stripped of all the unease that forests usually carry.
It is only you and him.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve as another petal lands on your lap. You pick it up, studying it like it might vanish if you blink too long. Glancing back at him, you tilt your head slightly. “Did you…make this place like this?”
His chin presses a little more firmly into your hair, a quiet, possessive weight. “It exists on its own,” he says. “I allow it to remain.”
Another petal skims your lips. Without thinking, you laugh — light, bright, unguarded — as you try to catch it, only for it to slip away again, carried by a breeze that barely stirs the trees.
“You’re noisy,” he mutters.
Yet he does not tell you to stop.
You lean back into him instead, comfortable now, warm from the sun and from him both. One of his hands idly flicks a petal from your shoulder, the motion almost absent-minded, as though he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. Or perhaps he does. And simply doesn’t care.
Your gaze drifts across the clearing again, softer this time. Slower. Relaxed, you ask, “You said you don’t sleep. What do you do at night?”
Sukuna hums, fingers drumming on your stomach. “I take care of my business.”
That’s vague, you think, but you don’t push. Instead, you ask another question: “Why do you not return to the chambers?”
He chuckles, teasing. “How forward of you, little bride. We have not yet been wed and you’re already asking to share the marital bed. Is this how you humans do it in this day and age?”
Heat flushes your cheeks. You smack one of his wandering hands, which has crept up to cradle a breast, and huff, “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just mean, everyone needs sleep. Surely even you, the King of Curses. I wonder how you rest is all.”
A moment of contemplation passes.
Did you say something wrong? Did you go too far?
Did he hate that you smacked him?
“You are right,” he eventually says, head coming down to nudge you. His lips gently touches your cheek. “I do need rest. So allow me.”
His strong hands easily lift you off his lap, placing you down on the grass. Sukuna unfolds his large body and comes to lie perpendicular to you. His head weighs your thighs down.
With a wave of his hand, a book appears in your left hand at the same time he takes your right and cradles it to his chest. “Read,” he instructs. “Read to me. And after my nap, I will eat your little cunt and slap your clit thrice to punish you for smacking my hand even just once.”
A flutter at your core has his eyes peering up at you, glinting. He must have sensed it. Somehow. Whether by feeling or by smell. How mortifying.
“Or,” he starts, “I can eat you out now. I am fine with whatever order you prefer.”
“No, I’ll read,” you hurriedly say. You flick to the first page, reading the words out loud and only sighing in relief when his eyes flutter shut at the sound of your voice.
Sukuna’s lips curl up in the corner.
And so a new tradition is born.
.
.
.
“My Lord,” Uraume repeats outside the door, “they wait for you.”
Sukuna growls out, “Let them. I am preoccupied.”
You’re pressed to the door, the cold wood warming up to the flush of your cheek. Bottom lip bitten in a desperate attempt to keep quiet, you can do nothing else but let him rut his scalding length between your thighs.
This evening, he’d woken you up with his tongue buried inside your cunt. It seems after another whole day out in the garden, reading and strolling with him and tasting each other beneath trees before or after his naps, you fell asleep and were carried back into your chambers.
Has it been days or weeks since you’ve built up this routine of spending the days together and spending evenings apart?
Time seems to pass so quickly and yet so slowly. It’s begun to lose all meaning to you. It’s not a fact you lament.
You jolted with a shriek at the hulking figure under your covers. “About time,” he said, throwing the heavy thing off and baring how his skin glistened with your spend to you. “I thought I might have to fuck you with both my cocks at once to wake you.”
He was joking, you were sure. Or hoped…
“Wake me?” you repeated, back arching. “W-why?”
Sukuna replied, a fang rubbing your clit and being especially careful not to cut you, “Because I must leave again, but I did not want to without hearing my name upon your lips.”
A whine tore through you. “Why couldn’t you just wake me up the normal way?”
Red eyes flashed mischievously from below. He licked a strike up your inner thigh all while not breaking eye contact. “Because normal does not taste as good.”
Uraume’s voice called out soon after, reminding him of the evening meeting. You stiffened. Could they hear you? Do they know what he was doing with you on the bed?
Feeling embarrassed, you kicked Sukuna off and tried to push him to the door. You hissed, “You need to go. They need you.”
A hand slid inside your dress and groped your breast, cursed mouth appearing to nurse on your nipple. Another lifted your skirt up so that a third can coat its fingers in your cunt’s essence with the intention of easing the entry inside.
“So does your cunt,” he said. “And I know which I would rather attend to first.”
Oh, he was filthy. So, so filthy.
And so persuasive.
With you continuing, and struggling, to shake him off — legs quivering from the number his mouths had done to you today — you eventually made it to the door and was about to open it when something hot and heavy rested upon the curve of your ass and a second parted your puffy pussy lips.
It was almost like he planned this.
“Do not make a noise,” Sukuna rakishly rasped to your ear. Two rough hands gripped your bare hips, dressed hiked up over your ass. “Lest you’d like for Uraume to know what we’re doing.”
You definitely did not — they don’t like you very much. This wouldn’t help your case.
But…
His cocks are rubbing you up and down and back and forth. His fat cockhead keeps catching on your pulsing clit, bumping the thing over and over again until your cunt’s drooling on his veiny length.
“Press your thighs together. Tighter,” he commands, and groaning once you do. “Every part of you feels so good. It’s maddening.”
The pleasure building up in your core from a few thrusts is maddening. Truly. Irrevocably. You can’t tell him that, however. You can’t speak; if you do, a loud moan might slip out.
Sukuna’s grunting in your ear. The sounds are driving you wild. As is the fact that your tits are out and are being squeezed relentlessly by two hands. Mouths take over his palms. They don’t hesitate to latch onto your nipples. You gasp, head thrown back into his chest. “Sukuna!”
“Mm, I know,” he huskily says. “Me too. Be good, pretty human. Just allow me to use your thighs for now.”
He’s so tall your hips have to be lifted up to reach his cocks. Your toes dangle over the ground. You hang precariously but you never worry for a second that he might drop you.
Shlick! Shlickkk!
The sounds are obscene and they’re all you can hear. Uraume must hear them too. Yet, they’re still out there, saying, “My Lord, please. The council grows restless.”
Sukuna’s livid growl shakes the door. “They. Will. Wait. Do not interrupt me again.”
His rutting speeds up. The sucking of his cursed mouths intensifies. The tip of the cock behind you is smearing pre-cum on your back, and the sensation has you clenching around nothing.
“I’m cumming,” you whisper, eyes shut tight. “Nghhh!”
“Good,” he breathes out. “Good girl.”
You bring a hand down to your cunt, cupping the cockhead appearing and disappearing with every shallow thrust through your lips. It nudges your palm, squelching! and leaving wet sploodges of his cum and yours. Sukuna snarls.
And just like that, he cums too. His hot cum explodes into your hand, spilling through the cracks of your fingers and splatting onto the floor. More cum bursts on your back, dirtying your dress.
It’s so hot. Scalding.
He keeps ploughing between your soft thighs, wringing out every last drop until he shudders with a growl and you slump completely in his grasp.
When he pivots you around to check on you, specifically the cheek that had been pressed up against the door, you see his loose robe had fallen open. Some of his cum has ended up dripping down his skin. He’s tattooed and chiselled and hard everywhere. A true killing machine. You run your fingers down his chest, smearing his cum around, all the way to his stomach where a massive mouth manifests in time to clamp onto your wrist with a grin.
His teeth don’t break skin. They don’t even hurt. They merely keep your hand inside, huge tongue slithering to lick every finger and every inch. Curiously, you grip the appendage. It really does feel like a real tongue. You stroke it.
Sukuna grips the back of your neck. He glares down at you. “You are trying to bring me to my knees, aren’t you?”
You blink. “No! Forgive me.” You try to pull your hand out on your own but his sudden grasp on your wrist stops you.
“I did not say I did not like it.” He steps closer, licking his lips.
“My Lord…” Uraume grits out through the door.
Sukuna groans. “Yes! Alright!”
The door opens with a wave of his hand.
“I should massacre the whole council, then I will have all the time in the world to bury my tongue inside your cunt. One day…” he mutters under his breath, seemingly actually considering the idea. You swat his back, cheeks flushed from embarrassment.
Your dress falls back into place just in time for you to shield yourself from anyone else’s eyes but Sukuna’s. Not that it’s enough.
Uraume’s chilling eyes see all — the sweat on your skin, the mess of your hair, the quivering of your legs, and the droplets of cum on the floor. They do not look disgusted by it. They look disgusted by you.
“Be good for me, little bride,” Sukuna says, already stomping away. “I will look for you as soon as I am done with these fools.”
You take a step forward to Uraume, an apology on your tongue.
They step back, straightening up. “These meetings are important,” they begin. “They ensure the other lords feel seen and heard. It maintains peace in our domain, and in yours. You mustn’t keep him from doing his duties. Not only is it impolite, it is also dangerous.”
“I’m sorr—”
“Do not apologise to me. Apologise to the king for wounding him,” they snap. You frown, confused. “The marks you left on his wrists that he refuses to heal himself? He leaves them open and bleeding. He openly plays with the cuts in front of the council, in front of his audience, smiling. Whispers are making echoes of a weakness in our king. If you do not care about your safety, then you must care about his.”
Thoroughly scolded, you stay rooted in place, watching Uraume follow after Sukuna.
.
.
.
You take a walk through the garden this evening to clear your head.
What Uraume said forced you to contemplate your relationship with the king. With Sukuna. They reminded you why you were spared in the first place — you’re a toy. A thing for entertainment.
He is entertained by you now, by the pleasures your body provides. That, however, is not something unique to you; any woman can spread their legs, which is a crass thing to say, you know. But it’s true. To save their village, their people, to earn another day of life, or to even have the honour of serving a king, many women would offer their body up.
And you are no special woman. You are quite average, all things considered. Never the most beautiful woman in the room, the most intelligent, or most pure of heart.
The fact of the matter is, Sukuna will soon grow bored of you.
What is left to be considered now is, will he spare you once he finds a new toy or will you be ‘gotten rid’ of by Uraume?
Will you be sad?
The pang in your chest at the thought seems to suggest so.
Without realising it, you end up back in the cherry blossom grove.
It looks different at night. Just as beautiful as during the day, of course, but different. Fireflies light up the air, mingling with the stars above you. If not for them, you wouldn’t know where you are, wouldn’t know that the tree whose bark you’re grazing with your fingertips now is the very same tree you sit under with Sukuna.
You were always under the impression that being a king meant you could do whatever you wanted. Uraume’s warning proved otherwise — Sukuna had people to please. And you’re who pleases him.
For how long will you be enough?
With a sigh, you wonder if Sukuna really will come to find you after his meeting. He’s always busy in the evenings, and though you spent the hours of the night sleeping anyway, it’d still be nice to talk to him. His thoughts on books you’ve read are quite funny.
He hates silly heroines who make bad decisions and always fall for the gloomy, morally grey men, yet hates the morally grey men more for their cheesy lines. “‘I control shadows and I have wings,’” he’d mimic, lowering his voice to a deeper rumble than his own. Then he’d say in his own voice, “Yes, so do about a thousand other fictional men. You are not special.”
Sukuna’s brows would furrow and he’d scoff whenever you’d get flustered by the erotic passages you’d be forced to read aloud to him as you sit in his lap, but he never suggests changing books. You theorise he really just likes complaining.
“Pretty girl?”
You jolt.
That voice…
“Suguru?”
Behind a tree, a silhouette hobbles over to you. “You’re alive! Oh, thank the heavens!”
The man falls into your arms. He’s really here. Your bestest friend. But he isn’t how you remember him — long raven hair have turned matted and dull, clothes torn and dirtied, and skin scratched up. You can hardly recognise him.
He grips your face, dirt rubbing into your skin. Scanning for any harm that might have befallen you, he smiles with relief upon seeing you’re perfectly well. “I’ve spent so many weeks wondering what had happened to you. I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”
His words are going in one ear and out the other; you can only question, with terror and trepidation, why his hands tremble, why he’s jumping at every little sound, and pulling you away inch by inch.
“What happened?”
Suguru’s eyes harden. His grip falls on your shoulder. Tight. Insistent. You wince. He says, “Listen to me carefully. We need to leave. We need to leave now. We’re too deep in the Curse King’s territory. There are beasts about. We must run now. Come!”
Bewildered, you’re yanked forward, stumbling over your feet.
“Wait, no, I have to stay!”
He’s not listening.
Deeper into the forest, you’re pulled. The cherry blossoms morph into scraggly trees, leafless and with jagged branches like teeth reaching for you. The fireflies are gone now. You have to force your eyes to adjust as you trip over rocks and logs, and as your bare feet are caked in mud and moss.
Looking back towards the light, you start to heave. “Sukuna…Sukuna’ll be mad. I have to go back.” You try to tear his hand off your wrist, digging your nails, but he can hardly feel it. “Suguru!” you yell, in near tears.
The man whirls on you, eyes wide and red. The bags under his eyes are darker than even the dark. They startle you. “What’re you doing? Why’re you fighting me? I’m trying to save you, like I should have done when your family decided to sacrifice you to the mountain.”
You shake your head. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m not mad at you, so if you’re doing this out of guilt, then you don’t need to. Just go, alright? Go before someone notices you’re here. I don’t know what the goblins, Uraume, o-or Sukuna will do if they find you here.”
Suguru recoils. “Sukuna? You call the monster of the mountain by his first name?”
He doesn’t wait for you to answer. Something seems to dawn on him. His eyes properly take you in from head to toe — your clean skin, fresh hair, the plump in your cheeks, the expensive dress you wear, the lace, the silk, the jewels.
He releases you, like you’d burnt him.
“The king spared you…” he whispers in horror. “He spared you. And you’ve been living a life of luxury, as our village burned to the ground. You call him by his first name when his name was the last thing my family had screamed in their final moments. You wish to go back, to that thing, when I’m here and I’m taking you away…”
“What do you mean?” you ask, brows knitting together. “What happened to our village?”
It’s an impossible thing to imagine. Yet it shouldn’t have been. Many villages have suffered the same fate, or worse, over the many years since the rise of the curses. But your village was spared because of you, because of their offering, right?
A scathing laugh slaps you on the cheek. “You don’t know? You’ve been cozying up to that monster and you don’t know he wiped our village out from the map? That he massacred our people in one night? Are you just stupid or did he poison your mind?”
You fall back, shaking your head. “No, no, he wouldn’t.”
“He’s a killer!” Suguru roars. “He’s killed so many. Every single night. The very few of us that had survived have fled from village to village, trying to fight against him and his army of curses, but they always win. I’ve watched my friends, my allies, fall again and again. And yet, I thought of you every day. I fought for you, so I can return and save you from his torture.”
He scoffs.
“But he hasn’t been torturing you, has he?” Suguru grips your face suddenly, bruising your cheeks as he spits out, “No, he hasn’t had to use force to get you to spread your legs!”
Tears stream down your face. “Stop it,” you cry out. “Stop it!”
Suguru presses his forehead to yours, lips trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Let’s just go, alright? We need to go. You’re not safe even if you’ve earned his favour for now. He’s proven he isn’t a man of his word, and it’s only a matter of time before he tears you limb from limb like he had done to your mother and to your father, and to mine.”
Images of your home ablaze, of the night sky filling with the screams of the dying, of blood turning the ground crimson flash in your eyes.
You’re a fool. You’d actually convinced yourself that he isn’t the King of Curses, that creatures from the Underworld don’t bow to him, that he hasn’t been keeping you to laugh behind your back.
You’d allow yourself to believe you’re Sukuna’s bride.
That you’re something special to him, even momentarily, even just for now.
He’s looking at you impatiently, bouncing on his feet and listening out for any signs of hostile life in the forest.
Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself. “Yes, yes. Let’s go. He’s in a meeting right now, he’ll be busy.”
And off you two go, running in the dark, hand in hand.
Branches whip at your arms as you run.
The forest is different at night.
Where it had been soft, warm, almost dreamlike beneath drifting blossoms, it’s now a maze of shadows and silver light, the moon caught in the petals overhead. Your breath comes sharp and uneven, lungs burning, feet barely finding the ground as you stumble over roots and fallen bark.
Beside you, Suguru’s grip is firm. Unyielding.
“Don’t stop,” he says, low, urgent, pulling you forward when your pace falters. “We’re almost past the boundary—”
A roar splits the night.
It shakes the air. Rips through the trees. Sends petals scattering like frightened birds. The ground trembles beneath your feet, a deep, violent pulse that travels straight up your spine. It rattles your bones, grips your very soul and squeezes. It’s in equal parts wrathful and tortured.
You freeze.
Suguru doesn’t.
“Move,” he snaps, tightening his hold on your hand, dragging you forward again. “He knows.”
Of course he knows.
This is his domain.
Every inch of it.
You run faster.
Faster than you ever have before, lungs screaming, vision blurring, your hand clutched in Suguru’s like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. The trees thin for a moment, moonlight spilling across a clearing—
THUD!
The earth cracks beneath the impact. You both skid to a halt.
He stands there, between you and whatever hope you thought you had.
Sukuna.
Tall. Unmoving. Waiting.
That deranged smile curls slowly across his lips, too wide, too pleased, too knowing. His eyes gleam in the dark, sharp and bright and utterly unhinged, drinking in the sight of you: your dishevelled state, your trembling form, your hand still clasped in another’s.
For a moment, he says nothing. Then, “You are leaving me?” His voice is almost light. Almost amused. “For some pathetic human?”
The words hit harder than the roar. Your chest tightens, a hot and jagged thing rising up your throat, drowning out the fear, the instinct to shrink, to hide, to obey. “No,” you snap, breath shaking. “I’m leaving because you slaughtered my village. You killed my family. You lied to me.”
He laughs. Low. Disbelieving. Growing. Sukuna tilts his head, as though genuinely intrigued by your accusation, by the audacity of it. “You mean the village,” he begins, voice slow, deliberate, “that threw you, bound and gagged, at the foot of my domain to be sacrificed?”
Each word lands like a blade, cutting deeper and deeper, and twisting to remind you of your lowest moment, of the humiliation, of the powerlessness you felt.
“The family that readily offered you up? That never looked back even once?”
Your grip on Suguru tightens.
Sukuna’s smile widens.
“Yes,” he hums, almost fondly. Inspecting his hands, as though he can see the blood that still stains his unmarred skin. “Yes, I did. And very gladly.”
Something in your chest cracks.
“But I never lied to you,” he continues, eyes narrowing just slightly, the air around him growing heavier, sharper. “You just assumed that I would negotiate with lesser creatures. A fault that I have overlooked.”
Suguru steps forward, just enough to place himself between you and him. “You’re done,” he says, voice steady, though there’s tension coiled tight beneath it. “Whatever hold you think you have over her—”
Sukuna’s gaze flicks to him.
The shift is instant.
The amusement drains, not completely, but enough to reveal something colder beneath. Something ancient. Something violent.
“Careful,” Sukuna murmurs. “I do not take kindly to interruptions in my conversations with my bride.”
The air distorts.
Pressure builds, thick and suffocating, pressing against your skin, your lungs, your bones. Suguru doesn’t move, but you feel the way his hand tightens around yours, grounding you even as the world threatens to tilt.
Why hasn’t Sukuna killed you both? Why hasn’t he tore you two apart? Why is he standing under the moonlight, humoured and talking so leisurely?
Even till now, he’s not staring down at you with deadly intent. He’s conversing with you as if he’s asking how your breakfast is or what book you’d picked up to read to him today. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking, and that’s more dangerous than if you knew he was going to rip you into pieces.
“She’s not your bride,” he spits, tugging you behind him.
Sukuna laughs again. Four eyes settle back on you. “Not mine?” he repeats, almost thoughtfully. “After everything I have given you?”
A step forward.
“After I took you in,” he continues, voice dropping, curling around the words, “fed you, dressed you, kept you alive when the rest of your kind would have happily watched you die?”
Another step.
Trying to steel your resolve, you retort, “You must feel betrayed, right? Imagine how I feel, Sukuna!”
“You think I feel betrayed?” he asks, head tilting again, that awful smile returning, sharper now. “No, little bride.” His gaze flicks briefly to your joined hands. Then back to your face. “This is not betrayal,” he says. “This is ingratitude. It seems I have spoiled you. Given you too much, too fast. I did not train insolence out of you. You have insulted me. And you will be punished.”
Suguru pulls you back a fraction.
“Run,” Suguru whispers.
His last words, before Sukuna flicks his wrist and his body is cut into thin ribbons of flesh, blood, muscle and bone. They fall into a neat pile by your feet, soaking the ground you stand on until your soles are caked in the remains of your only friend.
It happens so quickly, so suddenly, you couldn’t blink fast enough to protect your mind from the grotesque display. You saw it all. A man, a whole life, memories, a future, diminished to mush.
Sukuna smiles wider.
“Yes,” he says, almost eagerly. “Run, little bride.”
You do.
Feet slam against the forest floor. Bare soles strike damp earth. Sharp pebbles and stray twigs that snap beneath your weight. It hurts.
God, it hurts.
But you don’t stop. You can’t. The pain barely registers past the ringing in your ears, past the image burned into your mind, replaying over and over again.
Suguru’s gone. Your village. Your family. Everything familiar.
Your stomach twists violently, bile clawing up your throat, but there’s no time to be sick, no time to grieve, no time for anything except run.
Branches lash at you as you tear through the undergrowth, snagging against your dress, catching in the fabric and ripping it in jagged lines. The hem tears first, then higher, threads snapping with every desperate step until the once-soft material hangs in shredded strips around your legs. Chilling air kisses the exposed skin, quickly replaced by the sting of scratches, of thin lines of blood blooming where thorns and bark have caught you.
“So panicked. So scared.”
His voice.
Right there.
Warm.
Amused.
Mocking.
You choke on a gasp, nearly tripping over your own feet as you lurch forward, heart slamming so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs open. He’s not behind you, or in front of you, and yet it sounded as though he was.
“I have not even begun,” Sukuna murmurs somewhere, almost thoughtful. “And already you look like this. Adorable.”
The forest stretches endlessly before you, trees blurring together, shadows twisting into shapes that don’t exist. The petals that once felt soft now cling to your damp skin, sticking to the sweat, to the blood, to the places where your dress has torn open. Your lungs burn, each inhale sharp and shallow, your chest tightening with every second that passes.
You trip.
A root catches your foot, sending you pitching forward. Your hands barely catch you before your face meets the ground, palms scraping harshly against rough earth. Dirt grinds into your skin, mixing with the blood already there.
“Oh dear,” he muses. “Such a clumsy thing, you are. That’s why I keep you locked up with all the pretty things in my domain. Do you see now, why you must stay with me?”
Getting back to your feet, you stumble forward. “I’m never going back with you!”
You ignore the way your hands tremble, the way your legs and your unused muscles scream in protest as you force them to move again.
Run.
Run.
Run.
“You know,” Sukuna continues, his voice drifting lazily through the air, “I expected more from you.”
There’s a rustle above.
A shadow moving faster than you can track.
Where is he? Why isn’t he snatching you up? Why is he drawing this out?
He’s like a cat toying with a mouse, playing with his food, heightening your fear so you’ll taste even better.
“I gave you everything,” he says, less conversational now, more accusing. “And this is how you repay me? Running off into the woods like a frightened little animal, with some other man, a man I should have slaughtered along with the other rats?”
Your breath hitches.
“Have I not been good to you? Have I not been enough? Enough to stay for. For even a goodbye.”
A tear slips down your cheek, cutting through the grime. Devastatingly, a part of you notices the subtle crack of vulnerability. He masks it with amusement, with the undercurrent of anger, but you hear it all the same.
Still running, you yell, “You’re going to kill me, like you killed everyone. I’m just a toy to you!”
“And a very bad one at that,” he retorts without missing a beat. “Fear not — I will fix you once I catch you.”
“You’re not going to catch me,” you choke out, though it sounds weak, even to your own ears.
Sukuna tuts and it sounds like it’s right by your ear. “Ah, but I already have.”
Wind flips your hair around, making it hard to see, so when you whip your head side to side, looking for hope, you don’t see the barrier ahead until it’s too late.
Your body meets a hard wall. Two arms cage you in, unyielding.
A scream pierces through the forest. It’s so far removed from you, you think for a second that someone else is facing the same fate you are, and your heart breaks for her. When reality sets in, you cease to stop feeling sorry at all. You just weren’t fast enough. No one could be against the Curse King.
“Got you, little bride.”
In a blink of an eye, he has you carried up by your hips.
“Mark my words,” he says, “you will never leave me again.”
His lips slam onto yours.
Sukuna wastes no time shoving his tongue inside your mouth. A shocked moan escapes you. This is your first kiss, and with him. It’s not romantic like the stories described kisses to be. It’s not soft, tentative, gentle. It’s a kiss full of anger, of a need for vengeance, to dominate.
Sukuna’s channeling every ounce of his feeling of betrayal, try as he might to deny it, down your throat. With the nipping of his teeth hard enough to draw blood, the suckling of his lips to taste the iron on his tongue, and said tongue exploring the crevices.
“Just as delicious as your cunt,” he snarls, pleased.
You should fight him off, you know. But you can’t. He’s too strong, too all-consuming, too engrained in your body. It recognises his heat, his scent, his voice, and it wants more. So you don’t part from him; you clamp your teeth down on his bottom lip too, tasting his blood.
It’s sweet.
Sickly sweet in a way that rushes straight to your head.
He barks a laugh, a hand yanking your head back by your hair. “A biter…adorable.” He runs his tongue up the length of your neck before biting the curve. You moan. It doesn’t break skin, but the threat is there, and it has you clenching around nothing.
Sukuna takes a deep inhale of the air.
His eyes flash red.
“I killed your friend, decimated your village, and your cunt is still craving pleasure from me?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound very much like a question at all. “Your soul calls for me, do you realise it, little wife?”
“I’m not your wife,” you spit out.
“Not yet, but in just a moment, you will be,” he promises. At whatever expression you wear on your face, another laugh cuts through you. “You do not realise the trap you have run into, do you?”
Blinking, you finally look around, processing your surroundings.
They glisten with something under the moonlight — too thick, too dark to be dew.
Blood?
Behind you, a litter of scarlet petals trails right up to where you stand, as though marking every step that led you here, every foolish attempt at escape laid out like a procession. Rows of benches stretch out on either side, carved from twisted wood and bone, thorns curling along their edges, skulls embedded into the structure.
The forest has gone still.
No insects. No birds. No wind.
Only him.
Only you.
And this…
This altar.
“A fitting setting, no?” Sukuna murmurs against your skin, his voice lower now, richer, laced with something disturbingly joyful. His grip on your hips tightens, grounding you in place even as your mind threatens to spiral. “For a union long overdue.”
Dress hiked up around your waist, a long, slithering thing worms up your thighs. You writhe, trying to run away from it, but he won’t let you. Teeth hook into your underwear. It riiiiiiiiiips it off.
His curse tongue licks your cunt with a vengeance, as though punishing you for withholding your pussy and its juices from it. Shlick! Shlick! So vulgar. So indecent. So unrestrained.
Your pulse spikes. “This isn’t—”
“It is,” he cuts in smoothly.
The word lands like a final verdict.
Back arching, you’re powerless against the tongue prodding your entrance. He doesn’t mention it. Neither do you. You don’t mention how it’s far too big to enter you and yet it does, stretching your walls out with ancient powers you will never understand.
Inside, it licks every inch, every pleat. Maybe your hips work down, trying to suck it deeper inside. Maybe it doesn’t.
You’re far too focused on the fact that you’re finally at your wedding. A wedding you never wanted in the first place. A wedding he didn’t want either. He was just amused by the gall of the humans.
The domain itself is bearing witness.
There’s no need for friends, for family, for a priest.
He only needs himself and you.
Sukuna turns you with absolute certainty, positioning you to face the altar. It’s carved from dark marble, veined with something that glows faintly beneath the surface, like embers trapped beneath ash. Symbols you don’t understand are etched into it, curling and jagged.
“I chased you,” he muses, almost idly, though his hands never leave you, never loosen. They feel your body. Squeezing. Groping. Grip pulsing. Drawing out gasps and moans. “I let you run. Let you tear yourself apart on branches and roots like a frightened little thing.”
His fingers drag over one of the scratches on your arm, smearing the thin line of blood.
“And still,” he continues, voice dropping, “you came exactly where I wanted you.”
Your throat tightens.
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” he says, almost gently now, and that softness is far more terrifying than anything else. “Every path you chose. Every step you took. It all led here.”
The petals shift under your feet as he guides you forward.
One step.
And another.
“To me.”
Your thighs are soaked with his saliva. The entrance to your womb is being tickled. Clit rubbed by a wide, flat tongue. You’re face to face with him, panting, eyes unable to tear away with the undeniable allure of his. He’s tasting you, consuming you, devouring. He just can’t help himself. Even when he should be rough, when he should punish you, should teach you a lesson you’ll never forget, he cannot.
“Ngh! S-Sukuna,” you cry out as an orgasm tears through you. “Too much!”
For a moment, his gaze softens. “I know, I know. But you need to be stretched to take both of my cocks. Be patient.”
Blood drains from your face.
That’s when you start thrashing in his hold, fear taking over you. “No, no! I can’t take both of them.” They’re too big. You’ve seen them up close; no one could take them. No human. One would already be asking too much.
Both?
It’d be a death sentence.
Sukuna slowly lays you down on top of the altar.
Immediately, dark powers curl around your body. Wisps of shadow and smoke threading around your limbs, twirling your hair, brushing your cheek, unravelling your dress and slipping it off your body. They keep you in place.
You feel his energy touching you everywhere — stroking your lips, entering through your nose, sliding down your throat and filling your belly, flicking your nipples before wrapping around the hard bud and tugging, creeping down your stomach to stroke your throbbing clit.
They distract you, shushing the cries of protest.
“Beautiful,” he whispers as his eyes consume you whole. “So beautiful. And all mine.”
He touches your cunt, coating his fingers with your essence. Sukuna brings it up in the light between you. It’s red.
Automatically, your legs move to close. The shadows stop you. They yank your legs further apart so he can slot himself between them. His robes have fallen off. A cockhead pokes your clit, smearing its pre-cum onto the pulsing thing. You gasp.
When he licks your monthly blood off his fingers, you groan. “Stop! It’s filthy.”
“No, little bride. Nothing about you is filthy. Not in a way I don’t cherish, at least.”
Sukuna brings his wrist up to your lips.
“Bite me. Hard. Hard enough to bleed. Take your anger out on me. All your hate. Your melancholy. Your grief. Let it all out,” he demands, growling. “I want it. All of it. Every part of you. Give it to me!”
The shadows pry your jaw open. That’s it. It’s them that makes your teeth take hold of his thick wrist and bite down with every force you have in you. It’s them that make your teeth sink in through all layers.
Iron soaks into your tongue, trickling down your throat and warming your chest, like alcohol.
He throws his head back, chest heaving.
The forest rustles, cheering, trembling with pleasure. Meanwhile, the shadows are vibrating. Thrumming as it plays with your clit incessantly. As it pushes in the little holes of your nipples, pleasuring the fats from inside. You whine.
“Fuck!” he bellows
Sukuna snatches his wrist from you. His hands grip the marble, veins popping and threatening to burst. He’s gulping down air and rolling tension off his shoulders.
“You almost came, didn’t you?” you ask, smiling in victory.
Those red eyes dart up to you. He licks his lips. “Yes. Yes, I did.” Sukuna tilts his head, hand wandering up your torso before groping your breast. Like you already know to expect, his curse mouth disappears from his stomach and appears on his palm. It suckles on your nipple, obsessed with trying to find milk where there is none.
You moan, back arching.
Two hands hold your hips. They tug you down, closer to his hips.
“You expected me to be ashamed of your effect on me?” he wonders aloud, huffing in amusement. “I want you. I crave you. I own you. In the same way you want me, crave me, own me. The only difference is, I embrace it.”
He’s stroking his top cock leisurely, wringing out droplets you can’t tear your eyes from. Lips parting, your mouth begins to long to be filled. Your hips chase after the fat thing. His shadows keep you still.
Sukuna continues, rubbing the wrist you’d bitten on your stomach, “I am offering everything I have, everything I am, was and will be. You need only take it. Take me. Use me.” He draws a symbol, a sigil, you don’t recognise. With his other hand, he collects the blood between your legs. The bloodied fingers hovers above the mark. “Claim me.”
There’s sincerity in his eyes, which seem to plead with you.
Inside, a pull reaches for him. Desperate. Intent. Hysterical. It calls for him, pained. He calls back, even more so.
You can tell, whatever you feel for him, he feels it tenfold. No, infinitely more intense. It must drive him mad. The fraction of what you feel has you wanting to keel over, to rip your skin off and wear his. How he can function, can keep his head on straight, baffles you.
He’s commendable. A true leader. An unholy king.
That’s why, when he utters a final syllable, you cannot resist the pull any longer:
“Please.”
“Yes!” you wail. “I do! I do! I claim you. All of you.”
Arms flailing, you scramble towards him. Like a leech, you attach yourself to him, to his lips. You sloppily kiss him, smearing the blood and dirt on your body all over his. Fire burns beneath your skin. You’re set ablaze. Your soul. Your heart. Your skin. Every part is touched by him. Caressed. Treasured.
Sukuna releases a relieved breath, as though he’d been put out of his misery.
He holds you to him. He won’t drop you. You know it. You know it so deeply, it is like knowing your name.
The forest roars. Branches thrash. Leaves fall in spirals around you, a wall shielding you from the rest of the world. There’s no going back anymore. You’ve given in. You’ve surrendered.
Two hot things begin pushing inside.
For a moment, you tense, anticipating pain. None come. Only delirious bliss. Drool drips down your chin. Your eyes roll back.
The shadows haven’t stopped stimulating you outside and inside. You’ve been cumming over and over again. Little orgasms that make your limbs shaky. But the orgasm that hits you the moment both of his cock stretch your gummy walls?
World ending.
Tantalizing.
Immense.
Boundless.
The most glorious gift.
You scream.
“Yes, that’s it,” he coaxes. “Perfect. So perfect. My wife. Mine now and forevermore.”
Soon, he bottoms out. Hips flushed. Torsos pressed together tightly. Not a single thing could get in between you. You feel every inch of him. Every ridge. Every vein. Every nudge of his fat cockheads competing to draw out your pleasure most.
You thought it’d feel overwhelming. Too much too soon. Now, you can’t get enough. You think, if only one cock had entered you, you would have mewled and whined for the other to join.
“See?” Sukuna whispers into your ear, teeth scraping the shell. “You took me so well. Such a well-behaved girl. You were -hah- made for me.”
In spite of his teasing words, his whole body is trembling with the fight not to cum too soon. Your constant clenching, fluttering around both of his cocks, the way you choke him right to the base, has him at the very edge of sanity, which you doubt he had to begin with.
He’s ploughing his cocks inside you.
Thrusting with vigour that you feel at your fingertips. Your toes curl, back arching and head thrown back. Sukuna sucks at your neck, obsessed with the intensity of your scent there.
He’s like an animal let loose. He’s rutting into you so fiercely you fear he’d break your bones. But your king would never hurt you. Not in a way you wouldn’t like.
A crazed laugh echoes in the night.
You rake your fingers through his hair. Then you yank his head back, as he had done to you. “More, Sukuna. Fuck me more. I want to cum on your cocks over and over again. I command it, husband.”
Both lengths throb inside you.
Sukuna’s eyes cross. They’re glazed over. “Yes,” he mumbles without even realising it, thoroughly enthralled in your very being, “whatever you want, my beautiful, precious wife.”
Hours must pass.
Hours of fucking you in the air, on the altar, on the ground, against a tree.
His hands explore your body till he’s memorised the curves and the planes. You do the same.
The squelching of your cunt, the slapping of skin, the mingling of blood with cum, the reverberating of groans and moans envelopes you in a hellish cocoon. The bullying of his cocks through your sore, sensitive walls, the sucking of his curse mouth on your tits, the devouring of his mouth to yours, the fwop fwop fwop! of his balls on your poor clit — all of it sends you over the edge again and again and again and again, even once you think you will never feel better than the last.
You cannot get enough of him.
And he cannot get enough of you.
Sukuna whimpers your name out before and after every peak he reaches. He fills your belly up with his cum. It perpetually drips out of you. You can taste the salt on your tongue. It coats you from head to toe.
“My wife,” he exhales, like announcing to the world. “My life…my love.”
Where he ends and you begin blur.
Time ceases to exist. The rest of the world vanishes.
In this moment, in his arms, bouncing on his cock as he gazes upon every flicker of pain and pleasure on your face, only you two matter.
.
.
.
The sun has started to rise.
You watch it climbing over the hill, head laid out on Sukuna’s chest. He plays with your hair, twirling it absentmindedly. You’re both naked. Limbs thrown over each other. Tangled.
Juices and blood have dried over your skin. Some of it your own. Some of it his.
A deep satisfaction courses through your veins.
Sukuna’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek.
There is something almost surreal about it — this stillness, this calm. The same body that had hunted you through the dark now lies beneath you like an anchor, solid and unyielding in a different way. The heat of him seeps into your skin, bleeding into your bones.
His fingers continue their idle path through your hair.
A strand slips loose, caught and wound around his clawed fingertips before being released again.
Your body bears the marks of the night: faint bruises bloom beneath your skin, teeth marks darkening where they had once stung, thin scratches tracing your limbs from your flight through the forest. Sukuna’s hands soothe any marks he left on you, not regretful at all. His actions can be likened to basking proudly in the art he made.
All the while, you’re tracing the marks you left on him too — the scratches, the bite marks, the bruises he allowed you to give him. You run your fingers down his tattoos, avoiding the mouth on his tongue, which keeps licking you or trying to capture your hand. A very naughty thing indeed.
“Sukuna,” you murmur. He grunts. “I’m hungry. Let’s go back home.”
“How you have any room left in your small belly after drinking so much of my cum, I cannot fathom,” he voices out, curious and concerned. You smack his chest. “Yes, dear. I hear you. Let us take a bath in the pool and I will have a servant bring us food. Perhaps a goblin.”
As he stands up, you frown. “A goblin? Why not Uraume?”
Uraume’s his favourite. His right hand. His shadow. The goblins, on the other hand, he barely tolerates. You’ve seen him kick the poor things out of the way too often. Once or twice, you’ve reflexively tried to help them up, but they growl at you. You think they quite like being kicked about. It seems to be an honour to them.
Under his breath, as Sukuna stretches his body with a lazy yawn, he says, “Uraume is on time out.”
Using his outstretched hand to bring you to your feet, you ask, “Why? What happened?”
Petulantly, he grumbles, “The insolent brat took it upon themself to lead that waste of space human I tore to shreds to you. It seems they thought you were a bad influence on me.”
To punctuate his last sentence and emphasise the absurdity of the idea, he grins wolfishly down at you, more specifically at his cum dripping down your thighs. Cheeks heated, you press them together.
It’s hard to believe this evening had been orchestrated by Uraume, but also it’s not a huge leap in logic. They’ve made their point of view abundantly clear — you just didn’t think they would have tried to have you face imminent death crossing through the forest where creatures of the Underworld lurked.
“Are you…are you going to hurt them?”
Sukuna cocks a brow. “Would you like me too?”
“No,” you say immediately and sincerely. “Blood’s already been spilled tonight. I don’t want to be the reason someone gets hurt again.”
“Very well. Let me know if you change your mind. They sure do get upset if I let someone else cook my meals.”
You giggle.
Then, all the humour dies out of you.
Exhaustion has set in your limbs.
Whatever energy had overtaken you earlier is gone now.
His breath grazes your cheeks, warm against the cold air. One of his thumbs collects a tear right from your lashes. You didn’t even know you’re tearing up. He brings the droplet to his lips and licks it away. You hold your breath as he mutters, “Watching you run from me, hand in hand with some other man, hurts less than seeing you cry for him. It makes me wish I had made him suffer more before his end.”
“I’m not crying for him.”
Sukuna’s crimson eyes flit to you.
“Oh?”
Sudden sobs escape your lips. Your knees give out beneath you. He catches you, lifting you up in his arms. He always does. You bury your face in his neck. Sukuna rubs soothing circles on your back, cooing. “My ferocious, little wife…what is wrong? Did I hurt you too much? Do you…do you regret marrying me?”
The insecurity in his voice, the hesitation to ask, to hear a truth he would be distraught to hear, make you cry harder.
“Please don’t ever throw me away. I know I shouldn’t have left last night, but I really thought you were going to kill me. And maybe you will later. But please don’t,” you plead through your tears. “I want to be with you forever and ever.”
Silence passes.
A pregnant pause.
He laughs.
He actually laughs.
It’s full bodied. His stomach mouth joins in. “Hilarious! You never fail to entertain me with your constant overthinking. Always so afraid. So on guard. Too precious! You are just too adorable. You will rot my teeth.”
Weakly, you lay a barrage of punches on his chest. “Don’t laugh at me, you brute. I’m your wife. Respect me.”
Sukuna nods patronisingly, but he does shift his laughter into light chuckles, “Alright, alright. Forgive me, little wife. You are simply so delightful, so naive, and pitiful, I cannot help myself.”
“Put me down.”
“Never.” Sukuna presses a kiss to your cheek. He nudges your face away from his neck so you will meet his gaze. Seriously now, voice with his sacred vow, “I have no intention of throwing you away. Not since I laid eyes on you and felt a thing I did not know existed beat in my chest.”
Holding your breath, you listen to his confession.
“There is no world,” he continues, quieter now, though the weight of it presses heavier, “in which I allow you to slip from my grasp. Not heaven, not earth, not whatever fragile afterlife your kind clings to. If you are taken from me, I will unmake it. If you are hidden, I will find you. If you are reborn, I will recognise you.”
Shyly, you ask, “Even if I have a different face?”
Sukuna nods. “In whatever form, whatever shape, whatever state, you are. Wherever, whenever, you find yourself in. I will recognise you by your soul. For yours make up my own.”
He leaves a kiss to your forehead, to each of your eyes, to the tip of your nose. You giggle.
Then, huffing in amusement, he adds, “It certainly helps that we are bound by curse marriage. Not by your flimsy, human paper. But by blood. We curses take blood bonds very seriously. If we are to part, for whatever reason, we would both die, so it is in your best interest not to throw me away.”
That should startle you. Should scare you beyond belief. Instead, you think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard.
“I’m holding you to that,” you mutter against his lips.
Sukuna nuzzles your nose with his, a smile mirroring yours.
the new ballet season is upcoming and you've been selected to play both the pure white swan and the lustful black swan. you were the perfect white swan. pristine, pure, perfect. but when your strict ballet instructor guides you down a tainted path to fulfill your dual role as the black swan— just how far are you willing to go to gain his approval? how deep are you willing to let him drag you into hell for the sake of perfection? and most of all: how desperate are you to keep his attention on only you?
♡ ₊˚‧ cw. ballet au :: angst :: smut :: toxic dynamics :: age gap ( 40s / 20s ) :: violence :: blood :: murder :: corruption :: purity fixation :: unhealthy beauty standards :: obsession :: manipulation :: jealousy :: f.masturbation :: semi-public sex :: fingering :: rough sex :: degradation :: choking :: sukuna is very touchy & creepy :: rival!yorozu :: inspired by 2010's black swan
♡ ₊˚‧ sweetheart. this series was commissioned by @delicatedahlias <3 thank you cutie!
GUYS I NEEF YOUR HELPPPPPL I WANNA FIND THE FIC WHERE THE READER TEXTS SUKUNA THAT HIS SERVICES WERE UNSATISFACTORY LAST NIGHT AND THEN SHE RATES HIM A VERY LOW NUMBER JUST TO RAGEBAIT HIM AND THEN HE GETS MAD AT HER AND THEN FUCKS HER UNTIL SJE CAN'T WALK ANYMORE OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT I NEED IT RNNNN PLS HELPPP
synopsis. you needed experience for a writing assignment. sukuna offered to help. it got… complicated.
warnings. 14..3k words (errm), explicit sexual content, oral, fingering, overstimulation, dry humping, sex as a learning experience, p with plot, 69 standing up... a lot more but i'm lazy
author's note. in total, this fic is 26.3k words i had to split it up bcs it was too ugly trying to format it... PART TWO HERE!
the document is open and it’s empty, cursor blinking like it’s bored of you already, and you’re sitting cross-legged on yuji’s bed with your laptop digging into your thighs, heat from the comforter seeping up through your jeans, your brain doing that thing where it just keeps circling the same thought over and over until it starts to sound stupid and loud.
“i’m fucked,” you say.
yuji barely moves, just hums from where he’s sprawled out beside you, hands laced behind his head, easy and boneless like he’s always been. “like… deadline-fucked or existential-fucked?”
“both,” you say, immediately, because there’s no reason to lie to him.
“it’s a sex scene. like, an actual one. not ‘and then they kissed’ or ‘fade to black’ or symbolic peaches. a sex scene. and i have—” you wave a hand at yourself, vague and annoyed, “—nothing. no experience. no frame of reference. no usable memories.”
he props himself up on his elbows and squints at you like he’s trying to work through a problem set. “you’ve kissed people.”
“that does not count,” you say. “that’s like saying i can write a crime novel because i’ve watched csi.”
he laughs, the sound filling the room and doing that familiar thing where it loosens something in your chest without you realizing it needed loosening. this is why he’s your best friend. this is why he’s safe. this is why he’s absolutely not an option.
“okay, okay,” he says. “what about that guy from your econ class? the one who’s always asking to borrow a pen.”
“no.” you wrinkle your nose without even thinking. “too dorky.”
“too dorky?” he snorts. “oh, and you’re not?”
“shut up,” you say, shoving his shoulder.
he grabs your wrist and suddenly you’re both laughing, shoving, the mattress bouncing under you, the same stupid routine you’ve been doing since you were kids, elbows and knees familiarity, until you flop back onto the bed in unison staring at the ceiling fan as it ticks around.
“i just need,” you say, breathless, “like… an idea. a miracle. someone who actually knows what they’re doing to walk through that door and save me.”
the door opens.
“can you two shut the hell up?” sukuna’s voice cuts in, low and rough with sleep. “some of us are trying to rest.”
you sit up too fast.
he’s standing there shirtless, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded, sweats hanging low on his hips like they’ve given up on decency altogether, and your brain does something traitorous and stupid where it just stalls out for half a second.
“y—yeah, sorry,” you say automatically, words tumbling out before you can stop them.
yuji groans. “we weren’t even that loud.”
“you were,” sukuna says, dragging a hand down his face. his gaze flicks to you—then back to his brother. “keep it down.”
the door shuts. the room doesn’t go back to normal.
you glance at yuji. “wait—what is he doing here?”
yuji yawns. “oh. he just stopped by earlier to grab some stuff from the garage but then he, like, crashed on the couch and didn’t move. don’t mind him. you know how he always is.”
you don’t answer right away. because no, actually. you don’t. not recently.
you haven’t seen sukuna in months. not like this—not at home, not post-nap and shirtless. he goes to school on the other side of town. he doesn’t hang around.
sometimes he’ll show up for holidays or birthdays or the occasional guilt-trip dinner, but that’s it. lately it’s been like he only exists on instagram stories and through yuji’s complaints about him stealing snacks or dodging calls from their mom.
so why the hell is he here now?
and why does it feel like the air got thinner just from the sound of his voice?
you stare at the closed door for a second too long.
your brain tries to fill in the blanks—how many times you used to see him slumped in that doorway growing up, how he was always there in the background, grumpy and mean, lowkey a bully. always had something smart to say. always had to win.
but then he’d turn around and walk you home when it got dark. scare off anyone who tried to mess with you. defend you before you ever learned how to do it yourself. he’d deny it if you ever brought it up, but you remember. you remember all of it.
you remember the way he used to look at you like you were just there, something annoying and permanent.
so why did that look just now feel different?
you shake your head, hard, and look back at yuji, at your laptop, at the blinking cursor.
“anyway,” you say quickly, “that’s definitely not happening.”
“what’s not happening?” he asks.
“nothing,” you say. “ignore me. i’ll figure it out.”
you don’t look at the door again.
—-
you leave yuji’s room later with your laptop tucked under your arm and the same empty document burned into the backs of your eyes, cursor still blinking behind your eyelids like it followed you out just to be petty, like it wants you to know you didn’t escape anything by standing up and walking away.
nothing written. not even a sentence you can pretend you’ll fix later. just white space and that stupid blinking line, waiting.
you walk across campus alone, the air colder than you expected, hands shoved into your sleeves, dorm lights glowing in other people’s windows like proof that everyone else has somewhere to be, something figured out.
but friday is tomorrow.
and fridays are automatic. fridays are routine. fridays are yuji’s place and takeout and sitting around too long and staying later than you mean to. fridays are something you don’t have to plan for—you just show up.
which means you may have the chance to see sukuna again.
and then, because your brain hates you, it does the worst possible thing and starts filling in blanks you didn’t ask it to.
you think about what it would be like if it were him—his hands on you, like when he’s shown you how to do things before, the way he never rushes, the way he explains without making you feel stupid, like teaching is just another thing he’s good at.
you imagine his voice, telling you where to put your hands, what actually matters, what doesn’t, correcting you when you get it wrong without ever raising his voice.
you picture the way he stood in the doorway earlier, loose gray sweats hanging low on his hips, fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that there’s very little left to the imagination there, like your brain clocked it before you could stop it, it catalogued the shape and weight of it without asking for permission.
you think about what’s under them and hate how easily the thought settles, how it slots into place like it always belonged there.
stop.
your pace stutters, heart kicking hard against your ribs, and you squeeze your eyes shut like that might help.
this isn’t you. this isn’t something you think about. not about him. he’s yuji’s brother. he’s always been around. he’s annoying and familiar and not someone your brain is supposed to go quiet over. you’re just stressed. you’re just spiraling. you’re just projecting because you want answers, and he sounds like one.
that’s all this is.
you force yourself to breathe, to keep walking, to shove the image back where it came from, but it lingers anyway—his hands, his voice, the certainty of him knowing exactly what to do and exactly how to explain it to you.
stop, you tell yourself again, more firmly this time.
why now?
why him?
you’ve known him forever. he’s always been there—nothing about him has changed. so why does it suddenly feel different, like something tilted when you weren’t looking? like your chest tightened for no good reason, like you noticed his voice in a way you never have before?
you walk down the path thinking anyone but him over and over, like if you repeat it enough it’ll stick, like it’ll reroute your brain onto a safer track. anyone else. a stranger.
a nameless body you don’t have to think about tomorrow. a version of yourself that isn’t behind everyone else, that didn’t somehow make it to college without picking up whatever experience everyone else seems to talk about so casually.
you hate how childish it makes you feel. how small. how behind. how late.
this would be easier if i wasn’t like this.
the thought sits heavy as you reach your dorm, key sliding into the lock, because it doesn’t come with an answer — just the quiet promise that tomorrow, after classes, after you run out of excuses, you’ll have to come back.
and the cursor will still be blinking.
—
you wake up tired, drag yourself through classes, stare at people who sound like they have their lives together and nod like you understand what any of this is building toward.
you try not to think about last night, but your brain does that thing where it replays the one part you didn’t want it to save, and now you can’t stop seeing it—sukuna in the doorway, shirtless and irritated, gaze flicking over you like he’d already figured it out. the shape of him.
you shake it off, shove it down, swear it meant nothing.
it doesn’t help.
because now it’s dark out and you’re walking back to yuji’s place like you always do, like you haven’t been dreading it all day. it’s autopilot. friday night. takeout and whatever’s playing on netflix. you knock once before letting yourself in like you live there.
yuji’s already yelling from the couch. “you’re late!”
“you’re early,” you shoot back.
he grins when you round the corner, arms sprawled out, socks half-off, hair sticking up like he fought gravity and lost. “i ordered your favorite, so you’re not allowed to complain.”
“i never complain.”
he snorts. “you only complain.”
you drop your bag by the door, kick your shoes off, and try to act like your eyes didn’t just flick toward the other end of the couch. like you didn’t already know he’d be there.
except… you kind of didn’t.
because sukuna’s never here. not during movie nights. not when it’s just you and yuji doing the same dumb shit you’ve been doing since high school. he usually avoids this whole thing like it’s contagious—claims you’re too loud, that the movies are trash, that being around the two of you lowers his iq.
so what the hell is he doing here now?
you hover by the entryway a second longer than you mean to, caught off-guard, gaze dragging across the way he’s slouched into the couch—hoodie half-zipped, sleeves pushed to his elbows, grey sweats dangerously low on his hips, drink in hand, legs spread like he’s claiming the entire fucking house.
he glances up. meets your eyes. nods. “you’re late.”
you blink. “…you’re here.”
he smirks, slow. “sharp as ever.”
you frown, stepping further in. “why?”
he smirks, lazy. “you say that like you thought i’d be gone.”
“i did,” you say honestly. “you usually ghost the second we show up.”
“yeah, well,” he says, raising his drink a little like a toast, “mom and dad are out of town.”
you narrow your eyes. “don’t you have a dorm?”
“yeah,” he shrugs, “but why would i suffer in that shoebox when i can have hot water, real snacks, and a couch that doesn’t smell like mildew?”
you make a face. “gross.”
“truthful.”
you cross your arms. “i thought you hated being here.”
“i hate being here when they’re here,” he says. “every time i sit down, it’s either—‘have you heard back from that grad program?’ or ‘do you need help updating your resume?’” he mimics his mom’s voice a little too well. “it’s like a career fair with emotional baggage.”
you snort, despite yourself. “so this is… what? a staycation?”
“something like that,” he says, sinking deeper into the cushions. “i figure i’ll use up the free amenities while the guilt trips are on pause.”
your stomach does something weird and warm.
he’s not supposed to be here.
he’s choosing to be here.
you look away first.
you barely have time to sit with the weirdness of him being here before yuji’s voice cuts in again, louder this time, coming from the kitchen.
“can you unfold the table?” he calls. “i got dumplings and the good noodles.”
you cross the living room, bend to grab the scratched-up plastic folding table from behind the couch, and pop it open with one foot while yuji drags over the bags, hands full of sauce containers and those cheap paper napkins that never absorb anything. he’s already talking while sorting food, chopsticks stuck behind one ear like a pencil.
“you want the chili oil or no?”
“obviously.”
he tosses the packet toward you. you catch it.
you glance toward the couch—sukuna hasn’t moved. same position, same drink, same hoodie-and-sweats combo, like this is his house and you’re the one visiting.
“you’re not eating?” you ask.
he shrugs. “already did.”
yuji waves a hand. “he’s lying. he just mooched the egg rolls before you got here.”
“they were getting cold,” sukuna says, unapologetic.
you end up next to him on the couch, tray table between your knees, dumplings steaming in front of you. you try not to fidget.
yuji settles on your other side—except he’s yuji, so he sprawls. knee to your thigh, elbow jabbing as he adjusts, plate in his lap like a feral raccoon.
“you’re in my space,” you tell him.
“no such thing,” he grins, and gives you a shove—not hard, just enough to bump you right up against sukuna’s side.
you blink. feel the heat of him immediately, stretched out like he hasn’t even registered you’re touching. like he doesn’t care. like you’re not even—
don’t think about it.
you try to watch the movie. you do. it’s some dumb action flick yuji picked out of nostalgia, one you’ve both seen a million times. the plot doesn’t matter. you know every beat. you’re not watching the screen anyway.
you’re aware of the way sukuna’s thigh stays right there against yours. the shape of his wrist where it rests on the couch arm. how his hoodie rides up when he shifts to drink from the glass in his hand, dragging the fabric tight across his stomach. the clean line of muscle just under the hem, the peek of ink at his ribs. the curve of his mouth when he smirks at something the actor says, even though he’s not really watching either.
you imagine those hands on your hips. your throat. your thighs. his voice behind you, in your ear, telling you what to do and how to do it. correcting you. teaching you. like it’d be the easiest thing in the world for him. like he already knows you’d listen.
you cross your legs and shift away an inch.
he doesn’t react. doesn’t even look.
what is wrong with you.
“uhhh, bathroom,” yuji says suddenly, half-standing and holding his stomach. “that shrimp was a mistake.”
you don’t even register it until he’s gone, footsteps down the hall, door clicking shut behind him.
and then it’s just you.
and him.
and the credits rolling.
and the sound of him setting his glass down soft on the coaster.
“so,” sukuna says, and your whole body freezes, “how’s the little writing project?”
your head snaps toward him. “what.”
his mouth twitches. “yuji said you were stuck.”
“he told you?” your voice spikes, mortified.
“mm,” he hums, noncommittal.
“oh my god.”
“what?” he says, like it’s funny. “you asked for a miracle. you got me.”
you stare at him, open-mouthed, like you’re not sure whether to hit him or die on the spot.
he raises a brow, lazy. “cat got your tongue?”
“don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, finally remembering how to speak.
“too late.” he stretches out like he’s settling in, wrist draped over the back of the couch, his whole frame angling toward you now. “so. what’s the issue? you trying to write something hot and you’ve never even been touched?”
you blink. hard. “excuse me?”
he shrugs, annoyingly casual. “not a judgment. just sounds like that’s the problem.”
“yuji told you that?” you hiss, heat crawling up your neck.
“you’d be surprised how much your bestie overshares when he thinks i’m not listening.”
you want to combust. spontaneously. immediately. your chopsticks freeze midair.
he watches you for a beat, head tilted, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back a laugh. then—
“look, i’m just saying,” he says, almost bored, “you don’t need to fuck someone to write about fucking someone. you just need to know what people actually notice. what feels fake. what kills the mood.”
you blink. again. your brain’s lagging, like your wi-fi just cut.
“i could help,” he says. “if you’re not too chicken.”
you laugh—nervous, defensive, too loud. “you’re joking.”
“am i?”
he doesn't blink.
your heart does this weird sideways lurch, and for a split second your imagination does something very stupid—throws up a flash of what that might look like: his voice behind you, telling you what sounds real. his breath against your ear. one hand in your hair. one on your hip. that same voice, smug and low, saying yeah, that. write that down.
“jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head like that’ll knock it loose. “you’re yuji’s brother.”
“and?”
“and that’s insane.”
he smirks again, cocky this time. “then keep writing about symbolic peaches.”
you open your mouth to say something back—something scathing, probably—but yuji yells from the hallway before you can.
“i think i’m dying!” he shouts from behind the bathroom door.
you flinch, the spell broken.
sukuna just snorts, leans back, and reaches for his drink again like he didn’t just detonate a bomb in your brain.
—
you don’t stay late.
you make up something about homework. about being behind. about getting a head start on your readings before monday even though it’s friday and everyone knows you don’t touch shit until sunday night.
yuji doesn’t question it, just clutches his stomach dramatically and says the shrimp’s still trying to kill him, tells you to take leftovers, offers a weak thumbs up from where he’s curled under a throw blanket like he’s on his deathbed.
you wave him off, mutter something about texting later, and slip out the door.
sukuna doesn’t say anything when you leave.
but you can feel his eyes on your back the whole way to the hallway.
you walk faster than usual, keys clutched in your hand, cold night air biting at your cheeks as you cut through campus toward your dorm. your brain won’t stop spinning—like it’s buffering. like it’s stuck between tabs.
you asked for help.
not like that. not really.
except now you can’t stop imagining it. not just the suggestion, but what it would look like. feel like. his mouth near your ear, his fingers tracing your wrist, that stupid low voice explaining the difference between pornographic and believable like he’s grading you.
you swallow and push your dorm door open.
kick off your shoes. shed your coat. go straight for your bed and your laptop, like maybe forcing yourself into motion will fix it.
the document’s still open.
cursor still blinking.
you pull the covers over your lap, fold your legs under you, rest your fingers on the keys.
nothing.
not a word.
not a single honest sentence.
you type, slowly: she kissed him like she’d done it before.
you stare at it. backspace.
he touches her like he owns the moment.
backspace. you close your eyes.
and see him.
you asked for a miracle. you got me.
his smirk. the slow way he said it. the way his eyes didn’t move, didn’t flick, didn’t waver—like he already knew what you’d do with the thought. like he planted it.
and now you can’t stop thinking about what he’d say if you let him get close enough to correct you. to guide you. to show you the kind of heat that doesn’t need metaphor.
you drag a hand down your face, cheeks hot, heart weird and jumpy.
this is yuji’s brother.
you don’t even like him.
he’s smug. infuriating. mean. he barely talks to you unless it’s to be a dick about something. he’s a problem. he’s always been a problem.
and still—your fingers twitch.
you type, again: he touches her like he’s teaching her something she’ll never forget.
you stare at it.
you don’t delete it.
not yet.
you fall asleep like that. laptop still open. sentence still glowing on the screen like it knows it’s crossed a line.
you don’t dream. or if you do, you don’t remember it.
just wake up groggy and uneven, mouth dry, skin clammy, that same heat from last night clinging to the back of your neck like a warning. like you left something unfinished.
you shower. make coffee. sit at your desk and stare at your notes like they’re in a different language.
by noon, you’ve refreshed the same three apps fourteen times and rewritten the same paragraph twice with no new words added. your phone buzzes. it’s yuji.
yuji: shrimp poisoning update: i’m still dying. plz come over
yuji: bring electrolytes or vibes or both idk
yuji: sukuna’s literally useless. he’s just making toast and watching me suffer :(
you blink.
toast?
you hesitate. because you weren’t planning on going back today. you told yourself you’d take space. get perspective. delete the sentence. reset the mood.
but yuji’s asking. and he’s your best friend. and he’s sick. and… you’re already grabbing your keys.
—
the front door’s unlocked when you get there.
“back from the dead?” you call as you toe your shoes off.
yuji’s voice comes from the couch, muffled under a pile of blankets. “barely.”
you head straight to the kitchen, drop your bag on the counter, pull two gatorades from your tote.
and that’s when you see him.
sukuna. leaned against the fridge, plate in hand, wearing a tank top that’s doing absolutely nothing to distract from the fact that he’s half muscle and no shame, sweatpants hung loose on his hips, jaw working slow as he takes a bite of cinnamon toast like the world owes him nothing and he owes it even less.
“wow,” you say flatly, “what a beacon of brotherly support.”
he shrugs, mouth full. “he’s not dying.”
“he thinks he is.”
“he’s dramatic.”
you toss him a look as you move past him. you do not look at his arms. or the way his neck flexes when he swallows. you do not think about last night. or the sentence. or the way his voice is somehow the same in person as it was in your imagination—just rough enough to scrape against your ribs.
you do not.
“here,” you say, handing yuji the drink once you reach the couch.
he lights up like you’ve performed a miracle. “my savior.”
“your savior brought you electrolytes,” you say, plopping down next to him. “and she’s staying just long enough to make sure you don’t vomit on the carpet.”
"give me some kinda good news." he hums a little between sips, then glances up at you. “you make any progress on your writing?”
you go still.
“…not really,” you say as you sit criss-cross on the floor beside him.
he makes a face, the same one he always makes when you don’t want to talk about something—not annoyed, not pushy, just curious in that sweet stupid way that makes you want to confess things you shouldn’t. “what’s stopping you? still stuck on the scene?”
you nod, slowly.
he sits up more, leans on his elbow like it helps him think. “can’t you just, like… watch porn or something?”
your head whips toward him. “what?”
he shrugs. “i mean, if you need ideas.”
“porn,” you echo, flat. “yuji.”
“what?” he says, defensive now. “i’m just saying. it’s not like there’s a shortage of material out there.”
you stare at him, then drag a hand down your face. “oh my god.”
and behind you—
clink.
you freeze.
slowly glance over your shoulder.
sukuna’s standing in the kitchen again, rinsing his plate in the sink, but there’s something about his posture—the lazy slouch of his shoulders, the way he shakes the water from his hands—that makes it feel like he heard every word. like he was waiting for the right one to land before reacting.
you catch his eye.
he doesn’t blink. just tilts his head, real slow, mouth tugging into the kind of smirk that says that’s what you’re working with?
and suddenly your whole body burns.
you snap your gaze back to the tv, ears on fire, pulse stuttering.
yuji keeps talking—something about storyboarding a sex scene like a fight scene—but you don’t hear it. all you can think about is the way sukuna looked at you, like he knew exactly what part of that conversation wasn’t just academic. like he’d seen the little flash of panic behind your eyes, caught it, catalogued it, kept it.
fuck.
you sit rigid for the next few minutes, barely breathing, and when yuji finally excuses himself to go upstairs—“i think the shrimp’s staging a comeback tour, be right back”—you almost bolt.
but you don’t.
because you feel it before it happens.
sukuna’s steps behind you.
the subtle shift of the couch as he drops into yuji’s spot.
his arm brushes yours.
and his voice—that voice—slides in low and warm like it belongs there.
“porn, huh?”
you jolt. “oh my god.”
“relax,” he says, clearly enjoying himself now. “just thought it was funny.”
“you would think that’s funny.”
he leans in a little, elbow on the back of the couch. “what, not your thing?”
you flinch like it was an accusation. “excuse me?”
he shrugs one shoulder, lazy. “porn.”
“jesus,” you mutter under your breath.
“just curious,” he says, like he’s not enjoying the way your voice pitched. “you watch it or not?”
“why the fuck would i tell you that?”
he grins, sharp teeth and a twitch of his jaw like he’s won something. “so that’s a yes.”
you open your mouth—shut it.
he tilts his head, eyes narrowing just enough to track the way your throat bobs.
“what’s your type?” he asks, soft. cruel. “you like the soft, fake moaning kinda shit? studio lighting, vanilla choreography, lots of uh-uh-uh baby please?” he mimics it in a falsetto that makes your whole body light up in mortification.
“shut up,” you hiss, face burning.
he ignores you.
“or do you skip to the rough stuff? choking. hands. crying. that why you can’t write it down? ‘cause you want someone to make you feel it first?”
but he’s just sitting there like he didn’t say anything obscene at all, pinky tracing a slow circle into the armrest like he’s bored, like he hasn’t just undone you down to the bone with a single sentence and a look that’s far too pleased.
“i’m just saying,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth, “if you’re gonna do research, might as well use a source you can ask questions.”
your stomach swoops.
you freeze for half a second—heat curling up your spine, shame trying to dig its little claws in—but you don’t let it win. not this time.
you smile.
“yeah?” you say, cocking your head just a little, voice light but your pulse pounding. “what kind of porn do you watch, sukuna?”
that gets him.
not much—just a flick of his eyes, a slow shift in his posture, like you surprised him. like you scored a point he wasn’t expecting you to take.
“you look like you’re into some freaky shit,” you add, and there’s something proud in it, something satisfying, because even though you’re flustered, you’re not folding. not for him. not yet.
he smiles.
wide. teeth. slow as syrup.
“freaky,” he repeats, voice dropping a little. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
you roll your eyes—not because you’re annoyed, but because you have to do something with your face or he’ll see it all over you.
“please,” you mutter, grabbing a throw pillow and shoving it into your lap like it might deflect the heat. “you give off big uses the tags ‘brat tamer’ unironically energy.”
he laughs. deep in his chest. low and amused and just a little too delighted.
“and what, you’ve been scrolling?” he asks, leaning in again, elbow braced on the couch, close enough that you can feel the pull of him, gravity bending in his direction. “studying my digital footprint?”
“no,” you shoot back, too quick. “i just—” you flounder. recover. “i’ve met you.”
his eyes flash with something sharp.
“guess that makes you the expert,” he says. “so tell me, then. what am i into?”
you blink.
he’s baiting you. obviously. you can feel it in the slow, smug curl of his mouth, the way his voice drags just enough to make your pulse trip, the way he’s watching you like he’s already heard the answer in your head and is just waiting for you to say it out loud.
you square your shoulders, pretend you don’t feel backed into a corner.
“dumb girls,” you say.
his brow arches, amused. “yeah?”
“yeah,” you sniff, deflecting, heat crawling up your neck. “dumb girls who fall for the whole broody asshole thing. you probably like it when they call you ‘sir’ and pretend to struggle when you pin their wrists.”
his mouth twitches.
“mm. that’s cute,” he says, low. “you rehearsed that for me?”
“i rehearsed it for my own dignity,” you snap. “you’re not the first guy to act like a walking red flag.”
he hums. lets the words hang. then—“but i’m the one you’re thinking about.”
you roll your eyes. “in your dreams.”
“you sure?” he murmurs. “’cause you’ve been thinking a lot lately.”
your stomach flips.
“i haven’t—”
“you have.” his voice is a little quieter now. “last night. in bed. alone. you tried to write, didn’t you?”
your mouth goes dry.
“i’m just guessing,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “but that look on your face says i’m right.”
you stare at him.
your mouth opens. nothing comes out. your brain is still trying to catch up to how easily he said that, how casually he put it on the table like it’s a shared observation instead of a private, humiliating thought you didn’t consent to anyone noticing.
he watches you for another second.
then he moves.
he doesn’t loom. doesn’t crowd. he just shifts, slides off the couch and down to the floor where you’re sitting cross‑legged, close enough that your knees almost brush, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without him touching you yet.
he settles there like it’s nothing. like he belongs.
“relax,” he murmurs, when you stiffen. “i’m not gonna bite.”
his knee nudges yours. barely there. accidental if anyone else were watching.
his fingers trail against the carpet, then brush your ankle like he didn’t even mean to do it—light, lazy, testing. you swear you feel it all the way up your spine.
“you’re thinking too loud,” he says quietly.
you swallow. “you’re projecting.”
he hums, amused, and tilts his head to look up at you from where he’s sitting. the angle is wrong in a way that makes your stomach flip—his eyes level with your mouth now, lashes casting shadows you absolutely do not need to be noticing.
“maybe,” he says. “or maybe i’m just good at reading people.”
his fingers shift again, knuckle grazing your calf this time, lingering for half a beat too long to be an accident.
“i bet you even thought about touching yourself to me,” he adds, voice low, almost conversational. “just once. just to see if it’d help.”
your breath stutters.
“that’s—” you start, but he cuts in gently.
“i didn’t say you did,” he says. “i said i’d bet.”
he watches your reaction like he’s collecting data.
then, because he’s cruel, because he can, he continues.
“you wanna know what i watch?” he asks, like he’s offering trivia. “since you asked ever so nicely, princess.”
you don’t answer. you can’t.
he smiles anyway.
“i like girls who don’t know they’re already gone,” he says. “girls who overthink until their bodies give them away. girls who act tough and pretend they’re judging, when really they’re wondering what it’d feel like to be handled by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.”
his fingers tap your ankle once. twice.
“girls like you.”
the words land soft and heavy all at once.
he stands.
just like that.
no follow‑up. no pressure to respond.
he dusts his hands on his thighs, glances toward the hallway like he’s remembered something unimportant, and adds over his shoulder:
“anyway. think about it. or don’t.”
then he walks away, footsteps unhurried, leaving you sitting there with your pulse in your ears, skin buzzing where he barely touched you, mind screaming what the fuck just happened.
and worse—how easily it made sense.
—
you end up leaving yuji's later than you meant to.
not because yuji needs anything—he’s finally asleep, curled into the corner of the couch like a crime scene chalk outline, snoring softly under three layers of mismatched blankets—but because you kept thinking maybe he’d show up again.
that sukuna would walk through the kitchen for a snack, or pass behind the couch on his way to the bathroom, or offer some lazy comment just to hear himself talk.
but he doesn’t.
he disappears the way he always does—suddenly, thoroughly, like it was never about you in the first place. like he didn’t lean close, voice rough in your ear, and say things he had no business knowing.
and you? you just… keep stalling.
hovering in the kitchen too long. picking at leftover rice like it’s suddenly fascinating. checking your phone even though no one texts you except your group chat asking for notes. all the dumb little things people do when they’re trying not to seem obvious about waiting.
but eventually, you run out of reasons to stay.
so you slip your shoes back on, grab your bag, scribble a dumb little sticky note for yuji (“don’t die. hydrate. stop ordering shrimp. love u.”), and let yourself out.
the night is cold. the streetlights flicker. the walk back is too quiet and your thoughts are too loud.
you’re not even frustrated with him—not really.
you’re frustrated with yourself.
because it wasn’t supposed to get under your skin like this. it wasn’t supposed to turn you into some wound-up mess who’s too horny to function and too proud to do anything about it. he’s not even flirting—he’s just being sukuna. smug. sharp. obnoxious. too perceptive for his own good.
and now you’re stuck with the aftermath, walking briskly back to your dorm with your jaw tight and your fists jammed in your jacket pockets, brain circling the drain of every shitty fantasy you’ve accidentally conjured in the last twenty-four hours.
him on the floor beside you. the scrape of his voice. the way he looked at your mouth.
you groan. out loud. to the night air.
“ugh.”
you hate this. you hate him. you hate how easily he slips under your skin like it’s muscle memory. like you’ve always been like this—some girl with a secret soft spot for the worst possible option. except it’s not soft. it’s raw. exposed. stupid.
by the time you get to your dorm, you’re exhausted. not even from the walk. from the noise in your own head.
you drop your bag. lock the door. shed your hoodie like it’s too heavy to keep wearing.
and then you just stand there. in the middle of the room. staring at nothing.
you want—something. someone. a fix. a release.
instead, you’re alone with a blinking cursor again.
and you’re mad at the idea of touching yourself, because it feels like giving him power he doesn’t deserve. like he’d know. like he’d smirk if he ever found out.
like maybe that’s exactly what he wants.
this is stupid. you’re not doing this for him. you’re just—relieved. blowing off steam. resetting. that’s all.
you don’t even argue with yourself anymore.
you peel your jeans off, kick them aside, tug your shirt over your head and swap it for an old tank that hangs loose against your ribs.
you crawl into bed and flop onto your back, staring at the ceiling, arms thrown over your head like surrender.
for a minute, you just breathe.
then you grab your phone.
twitter loads. immediately annoying. loud. fake. you scroll anyway, irritated, thumb flicking too fast, skipping past everything that feels wrong. too polished. too forced. too obviously not him.
your brain narrows the search without asking you.
dark hair. broad shoulders. a voice that’s rough instead of performative. guys who look like they’d sit too close and talk too quietly just to see what you’d do.
it takes longer than it should, but eventually you find one that’s… close enough.
you don’t turn the volume all the way up.
you don’t really watch.
you just listen.
your free hand slips under the blanket, fingers brushing over your chest through the thin fabric of your tank. you suck in a breath when you feel how hard your nipples already are, thumb circling one, then the other, sharper this time like you’re annoyed with yourself for how easy it is.
your other hand hesitates at your waistband.
slow.
careful.
like if you go too fast you’ll have to confront what you’re doing.
“fuck,” you whisper.
you’re already wet. of course you are. slick and warm, your fingers gliding instead of dragging, your hips shifting without permission like your body’s been waiting for this all night.
you close your eyes.
it’s not the video you see.
it’s sukuna on the floor beside you. elbow on the couch. that look in his eyes when he clocked you. the way his voice dropped when he said girls like you like he knew exactly where to aim it.
your fingers press harder. move faster.
you bite your lip to keep quiet, breath breaking anyway, one hand squeezing your chest while the other works between your thighs like it knows exactly what to do even if you pretend you don’t.
“sukuna,” you breathe.
the name slips out before you can stop it.
you freeze.
eyes snapping open. heart slamming so hard it almost hurts.
did i just—
shock hits you, sharp and dizzying, embarrassment crawling up your neck. your fingers still, hovering, like you might pull away and pretend this never happened.
your thighs tremble.
you hesitate.
then—fuck it.
you keep going.
angrier now. needier. like you’re daring yourself to finish what you started. like stopping would somehow be worse. your fingers curl just right, pressure building fast, your body tensing like it recognizes the path even if your brain doesn’t want to.
you cum with a muffled gasp, face turned into your pillow, pleasure ripping through you too quick and too intense to soften. your back arches, toes curling, breath shuddering as it crests and breaks, leaving you shaking and oversensitive and stunned.
you lie there afterward, chest heaving, phone forgotten somewhere near your hip.
“what the fuck,” you whisper again.
but this time it sounds quieter. tired.
you turn the phone screen off without looking at it, tug the blanket up around you, curl onto your side like you’re trying to contain the mess of yourself.
sleep takes you fast.
before you can think too hard.
before you can decide what it means.
before you can admit that this—whatever it is—has already started.
—
his mouth is hot.
that’s the first thing you register. heat and pressure and the slow grind of his tongue as he sucks at the soft flesh just below your jaw, dragging his teeth down the column of your throat like he wants to leave something behind. a mark. a memory. ownership.
you exhale too sharp, hips jolting like he’s shocked something inside you, like the friction between your legs is suddenly the only thing tethering you to the bed. your hands find his shoulders—and you mean to push him off, to say something halfway coherent, but then—
“still with me?” sukuna murmurs, voice low, voice smug, voice so close it curls under your skin.
you nod without thinking.
“use your words, princess.”
“y-yeah,” you breathe.
his mouth twitches against your skin like he’s smiling. then he’s dragging his palm up your thigh, under your shirt, across your stomach—like he’s touching you to prove a point.
his fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts.
“we doing this?” he asks, barely a whisper.
you don’t answer fast enough.
his hand moves lower.
your breath catches.
“fuck,” you hiss, hips jerking when his fingers slide over your underwear, right where you’re warmest. “sukuna—”
“mm?” he hums, nose brushing your cheek, his thumb pressing down, circling once.
you whimper. actually whimper.
his lips graze yours.
“so fucking wet already. cute.”
his fingers slide under the waistband like they belong there.
no hesitation, no asking again, just that confident hook of his knuckles tugging your underwear down your thighs until cool air hits skin that’s already too hot, too sensitive, like your body’s been waiting longer than you have. he doesn’t rush it. of course he doesn’t. sukuna never rushes anything he knows he has control over.
“look at you,” he murmurs, thumb dragging slow and deliberate through slick heat, spreading it like he wants to see how bad it’s gotten. “barely touched and you’re already like this.”
you try to argue. it comes out as a broken sound instead.
his hand cups you fully now, palm warm, fingers long and sure, pressing just enough that your hips lift without permission, chasing it, begging without words. he clicks his tongue softly, amused.
“that’s it,” he says. “don’t think. just feel, princess.”
one finger slips in.
you gasp, sharp and helpless, back arching off the bed as the stretch punches the breath from your lungs. he waits—just a second—lets you adjust around him, lets your body realize what’s happening, how deep, how real.
then he moves.
slow at first, curling his finger just right, finding something inside you that makes your vision blur instantly, that has your thighs trembling and your hands clawing at the sheets like you might disappear if you don’t hold onto something.
“there,” he says quietly. “that’s the part you’re supposed to write about.”
you sob his name.
his second finger slides in easily, obscene in how natural it feels, how full you are, how your body opens for him like it’s muscle memory instead of fantasy. he sets a rhythm that’s cruelly unhurried, fingers working you open, thumb circling your clit in lazy, exact strokes that make your legs shake uncontrollably.
you can’t breathe. you can’t think. every sound you make feels too loud, too needy, but he doesn’t stop — just watches you fall apart under his hand like this is the lesson, like this is what he’s been trying to teach you all along.
“close,” he murmurs, voice right in your ear now. “i can feel it. don’t fight it.”
you shatter.
it rolls through you all at once—tight and overwhelming and white-hot—your body clenching hard around his fingers as you cry out, back bowing, pleasure ripping through you so fast and so intensely it leaves you dizzy, ruined, shaking.
his fingers keep moving through it, slow and deep, drawing it out until your legs give out completely.
“good,” he says softly.
and you wake up with a gasp.
heart pounding. sheets twisted around your legs. underwear damp and unmistakable, heat still throbbing between your thighs like your body hasn’t caught up yet.
your dorm room is dark. silent. empty.
no sukuna. no weight beside you. no voice in your ear.
just the hum of the radiator. the glow of your phone on the nightstand. and the horrifying realization settling in all at once.
oh my god.
you press the heels of your hands to your face, mortified, pulse still racing, slick evidence cooling against your skin.
and worse—much, much worse —your body is still aching for him.
you lie there for a second too long, staring at the ceiling like it might scold you into sanity, heart still kicking hard, your phone buzzes once on the nightstand—nothing important, just a notification—but it snaps something in you anyway.
before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab it.
it reads sunday, 12:23 am.
your fingers hover over his name.
don’t, you think.
why would you do that.
you do it anyway.
you: are you still at yuji’s?
the typing bubble doesn’t appear right away, and that somehow makes it worse. your stomach churns. you toss the phone onto the bed like it burned you, then immediately snatch it back up again, pacing the narrow strip of floor between your desk and the door.
why did i ask that.
what am i even doing.
the phone buzzes.
sukuna: yea. why?
two words. calm. unbothered.
you swallow hard, pulse spiking all over again like your body doesn’t understand the difference between dream and reality yet. your thumbs fly, backspace, hover.
you: just wondering
you: didn’t know if you went back to your dorm
you stare at the screen, mortified by how obvious that sounds. he doesn’t respond immediately this time, and the silence stretches, loud and humiliating.
your skin still feels too tight. too warm. like the night clung to you and didn’t let go.
shower, your brain supplies, desperate. now.
you drop the phone face-down on the bed, grab a towel from the hook behind the door, yank your shower caddy off the shelf with a little more force than necessary. shampoo clatters, loofah tangles around your wrist. you don’t care.
as you head down the hall, your phone buzzes again.
sukuna: nah. told you i'm staying the night.
you freeze for half a second, fingers tightening around the towel.
of course he is.
you don’t reply.
you just keep walking, push into the bathroom, lock the door behind you like that might lock the thoughts out too. you turn the water on hot—too hot—steam already starting to curl up toward the ceiling as you strip and step under it, shoulders sagging the second it hits.
you let the water run over you, over your face, your hair, like you can wash the night away. like you can rinse the image of his hands, his voice, the way your body reacted, right out of your system.
it doesn’t work.
you’re still in the shower when you cave.
steam thick in the air, water beating down on your neck, your leg propped awkwardly against the tile wall as you shave like you’re training for the olympics, hands moving fast, razor slipping dangerously close to uneven territory. your breath’s coming too fast to blame on the temperature alone.
your phone’s on the counter, screen lit up, mist curling around the edges.
you lunge for it, still wet, fingers fumbling.
you: i changed my mind
you: i’ll take you up on that offer
the second you hit send, your stomach turns over on itself.
a moment later:
sukuna: thought you might
sukuna: send the addy
you hesitate.
then:
you: here’s my address
you: just knock
you stare at it for a beat. three dots flicker at the bottom, disappear.
you brace both hands on the sink and take a breath like you’re about to dive underwater. everything’s too hot. too real. too fast.
you wipe the fog from the mirror.
look at yourself—damp towel slung across your chest, bare skin flushed from heat and adrenaline, water still dripping from your collarbones.
your pulse thrums low in your stomach, relentless.
why does this feel like it matters.
you rinse fast, too fast. nearly trip getting out, towel half-tucked and slipping, legs damp and goosebumped. you moisturize like you’re trying to erase every imperfection, swipe deodorant like he’s gonna be under your arms, shii he might tug on a loose tank and shorts with a matching set underneath and immediately regret both.
you light a candle. you fluff the pillows. you curse yourself out under your breath.
then you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the door like you’ll be able to hear his footsteps from the stairs.
your phone buzzes.
sukuna: on my way
you don’t respond.
you asked.
he’s coming.
and you don’t know what’s about to happen.
you try sitting.
you really do.
you sit on the edge of your bed, legs crossed like you’re calm, like you’re centered, like you didn’t just text sukuna in the middle of the night and invite him over like a fucking lunatic. you rest your hands in your lap. you stare at the candle.
ten seconds.
then you’re up again.
you pace to the door. check the lock. double check. you twist the knob and relock it just to make sure. you wipe your palms on your shorts. you glance in the mirror. turn sideways. frown. adjust your top. fix your hair. unfix your hair. tug the neckline lower. regret it.
you check your phone.
nothing new.
you open the window for air.
you close it immediately when it makes the candle flicker too hard.
you practice what you’ll say.
“thanks for coming, this won’t take long.”
“i just want clarity, nothing else.”
“this is for the project, nothing more.”
you say them out loud. again. and again.
you try not to think about his hands. his mouth. the way he looked half-asleep and annoyed and hot for no reason.
you try not to think about the dream. the part where he said you were wet. the part where he wasn’t wrong.
you try not to picture how this could go. where it could go. how it might go if you just stop pretending you're normal.
you press your knuckles to your mouth and whisper: what am i doing.
and then—a heavy knock.
you freeze.
you stare at the door like it’s a fucking ghost.
he knocks again. two slower taps this time.
you grab your phone and check the screen like it might offer a reason not to open it. no new texts.
you swallow hard.
then cross the room—step by slow step—and place your hand on the knob.
your heart hammers.
you invited this.
you twist.
and open the door.
he sees everything in one sweep: the dim glow, the towel still damp on the rack, the nervous way you're standing like you forgot how posture works. the smell of whatever you used in the shower clings to the air—sweet, soft, flustered.
his gaze slides over you.
you forget how to breathe for half a second.
“huh,” he says, smirking like he’s already solved the whole puzzle. “romantic.”
you flush instantly. “i wasn’t trying to—i mean—”
“sure,” he says, like he’s humoring you, stepping inside only once you move aside.
you hover, awkward, near the desk while he takes his time scanning your space like he’s evaluating it—picking it apart. then he sinks into your desk chair like it was always meant for him, legs spreading wide, thighs draped in those same loose sweats, forearms resting on the arms of the chair like he’s claiming territory.
he looks up at you, smug. “well?”
you swallow. “i had some—questions. notes. i thought maybe—”
you falter. it sounds fucking stupid now. everything you rehearsed in your head twenty times, all the clever ways you were gonna make it sound academic, detached, like this wasn’t weird—
“is this weird?” you blurt. “i feel like it’s weird. it is weird, right?”
his brow ticks up. that smirk stays.
“you’re the one who invited me, sweetheart,” he says, tone light. “i was minding my business.”
“i know, i just—” you fidget with the hem of your tank. “it’s just a project, but it’s not a project, and now you’re here and you’re sitting like that and it’s just—i don’t know, maybe this was dumb.”
he exhales through his nose. gets up slow, like he’s giving you a chance to walk it back.
“if you’re not ready, fine,” he says. “i can go.”
he looks down at your grip. your fingers on his skin. then back up at you.
you let go too fast. step back like you’re embarrassed. he doesn’t laugh.
just nods, like that’s all he needed.
“then stop wasting time,” he says. “sit.”
you blink. “sit?”
he tilts his head, gestures to the rug between his legs. “on the floor.”
“…why?”
“because i said so.”
you obey before you even think about it, slipping to your knees on the soft rug. the heat from his body hits you like a wall, his legs bracketing you from behind as he leans forward, his breath ghosting the back of your neck.
“close your eyes,” he murmurs.
you do.
“if you were writing this,” he says, voice low and right at your ear, “where would he touch her first?”
you hesitate. “her face?”
his hand ghosts your jaw. barely there.
“boring,” he murmurs.
you bite your lip. “her—her waist?”
his palm brushes your ribs. then withdraws. “warmer.”
you breathe uneven. “her.. neck?”
a low sound hums from his chest. not quite agreement. not quite praise.
just noted.
and then—his knuckles graze the slope of your throat, light as a whisper, slow as a secret.
you jerk, not from fear, but from how exposed it makes you feel. how easily he could tighten his fingers. how quickly he could tip your chin and make you look at him.
how easily you’d let him.
“sensitive, huh,” he murmurs behind you, and you can hear the shape of his smirk in the way the words curl at the edges.
like he’s already writing this scene for you. like you’re just here to confirm it.
your heart knocks hard behind your ribs. you want to play it cool.
but his voice—it’s so soft. like he’s in no rush. like he enjoys this part.
“tell me why,” he says, still close to your ear. “why would a guy touch her here first?”
you try to find your voice. it sticks. your mouth is too dry.
“because it’s…intimate,” you say, quiet.
his thumb presses—just barely—at the hollow of your throat.
you swear you stop breathing altogether.
“that all?” he asks, like he’s testing you.
you scramble for more. “it’s—it’s not sexual, not right away. it builds tension. it’s suggestive. it makes her aware of her whole body.”
there’s a pause.
then, low and pleased: “good girl.”
you swallow like it burns. your thighs clench.
“what next?” he asks.
your brain short-circuits. you can’t think of words, only feelings. only the place his hand used to be. only the way your nipples have gone stiff under your tank, how your skin feels too tight everywhere.
“…her legs,” you say.
“where?” he prompts.
“her thighs.”
“too vague.”
your breath stutters. your chest lifts with it, and the air feels different now, heavier.
you try again. “the inside of her thighs.”
a beat. then—
“getting there.”
his palm ghosts over your knee. slides up, slow, until the heat of it hovers just shy of where you’re starting to throb, and that’s where he pauses—just rests it there.
“why?”
you swallow, hard. “because—because it’s close but not—”
“not what?”
“not where she wants it.”
you can hear the smile in his voice. “and where does she want it?”
your mouth opens. nothing comes out.
he leans in.
“say it.”
you flinch. “between her legs.”
“where?”
you shake your head, whispering, “i can’t—”
his breath skims your ear. “sure you can. you’re the writer, right?”
he waits.
“her—her pussy.”
and god, it burns, saying it out loud like that, but he hums like it pleases him, like he’s filing that sound away somewhere dark.
“good girl,” he says, and it shoots straight through you like lightning.
you gasp, and his hand curls tighter on your thigh like he heard it. like it confirms something.
“but,” he murmurs, tone dipping softer, more dangerous, “he doesn’t go there yet.”
you’re panting now. still kneeling. your thighs tense, your hips tilted ever so slightly toward him without meaning to.
“he wants her desperate,” sukuna goes on, and his other hand slides around your waist—light pressure, anchoring you there. “wants her to ask.”
you nod, barely.
he smirks. “and you? what do you want?”
your voice cracks. “i don’t know.”
he brushes your rib again. still not touching your chest. still ignoring the way your nipples are aching under your tank. you hate him. you want him to stop. you want him to never stop.
“that’s a lie,” he says, calm as ever. “try again.”
you’re shaking. “i want—i want more.”
he smiles like you said exactly what he wanted. but he doesn’t give you anything. just shifts a little behind you, one leg bracketing your hip, body like heat, like gravity, like ruin.
“and if you were writing this,” he breathes into your neck, “what would she say when he makes her wait?”
you shut your eyes. try not to whimper. try not to beg.
you say, soft, “please.”
he exhales through his nose. satisfied.
his hand trails up your thigh again, slow, torturous, stopping right at the seam of your panties—and you swear your whole body flinches forward just to chase it. but he doesn’t move. doesn’t press.
just leaves his hand there, over the heat of you.
then—he shifts behind you. one arm sliding around your waist, the other bracing beneath your thighs—and before you can react, he lifts you. not like you’re heavy. like you’re inevitable.
you gasp, breath catching, hands flying up to anchor against his chest as he pulls you into his lap and sets you there, knees straddling his thighs, heat pooling where your body meets his.
“eyes on me,” he says, low, like it’s a favor. like it’s a command.
you obey before you even think about it.
his face is so close now. his hand rests light on your hip. his other fingers skim your spine, tracing lazy half-circles like he’s not already drawing full-body answers from you.
“you know how to kiss?” he asks, like it’s a real question. like it’s on the syllabus.
your breath stutters. “y-yeah.”
his mouth curves. “you sure?”
you stiffen slightly. “i’ve done it before.”
“that’s not what i asked.”
your mouth parts, but no defense comes out.
his thumb lifts to your chin, tilts your face. he studies you—every little twitch, every skip in your pulse like he can read it through your skin. his voice lowers.
“you want me to show you?”
your heart’s in your throat. your chest tightens like it can’t hold all this in. “i…”
his nose almost brushes yours. his breath fans against your lips.
“you can’t write it if you don’t know how it feels,” he murmurs.
you nod, barely. and that’s all it takes.
his hand at your jaw tilts, lifts. your nose brushes his. your mouth parts before you even mean to—like instinct, like muscle memory, like something in you’s already decided. your breath stutters when his thumb grazes your lower lip.
he watches your hesitation like it’s cute.
and then he kisses you.
not deep, not yet—just a soft drag, a test, his mouth slipping slow over yours like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s showing you how it’s supposed to feel when it’s not performative, not desperate, not trying to win anything—just there.
and when you shift like you’re not sure where to put your hands, he grabs your wrists and guides them up—pulls them around his neck, like this, here, hold on.
you do.
you melt into him.
your fingers knot in the hair at his nape just as his lips part against yours, deepening it—wet now, warmer, his tongue teasing slow, like he’s got time to savor how fast you’re unraveling. your hips squirm before you can stop them,
and that’s when his hands move—down your sides, over your hips, firm and dragging, until they’re settled at your ass, holding, gripping, manipulating—and you realize a second too late what he’s doing.
he rolls you against him.
and he’s hard.
not fully, not all the way—but growing, thick under the soft barrier of his sweats, and you feel it when he shifts again, dragging your clothed heat over the shape of him like he knows what it’s doing to you. like he wants to make sure you know, too.
you gasp into his mouth.
he doesn’t stop kissing you.
just swallows the sound. tightens his grip. rocks you again, slow.
and fuck, you’re already wet.
your tank top’s half-ridden up. your thighs ache from tension. your mouth is slick and buzzing and open under his and you can’t even tell if you’re kissing him back right anymore or if he’s just kissing you until your brain gives up and lets your body want.
he pulls back barely, breath hot against your lips.
“not bad,” he murmurs, cocky. “but you’re still thinking too much.”
and then he kisses you again before you can answer. deeper. dirtier. wetter.
like he’s fixing it himself.
and you don’t know what makes you do it—somewhere between humiliation and adrenaline, between his voice in your ear and the weight of his hands still holding you like he wants something more from you—you lurch forward before he can kiss you again and catch his bottom lip between your teeth.
soft, at first.
then a little harder.
his breath hitches like he didn’t expect it.
you suck lightly, just enough to make him feel it, just enough to taste the gasp he doesn’t let out, and then you slip your tongue into his mouth—confident, slick, matching his rhythm from earlier but slower, dirtier, wet in the way that makes your thighs twitch and your chest tighten and your brain shut off for real this time.
he lets you.
lets you take it.
moans—actually moans—into your mouth when your hips shift forward, grinding down against him on instinct, like your body’s just figured out what it wants and decided to go after it.
you feel him twitch under you. feel him respond.
and when he exhales into your mouth—tight, ragged, like fuck, okay—his hands flex at your hips, then slide down in one long pull, dragging over your ass like he needs something to hold on to, and pushes up into you, slow and hard, meeting your grind with the kind of pressure that makes your breath catch and your cunt clench.
he’s hard now.
not just getting there—there.
and it makes something click in you. makes you bolder. makes you whimper a little into the kiss and tilt your hips again, chasing that friction like it might give you answers, like it might finish what the last night started.
your tank top’s half-ridden up. your thighs ache from tension. your mouth is slick and buzzing and open under his, and you can’t even tell if you’re leading anymore or if you just unlocked something he’d been waiting to release—because now he’s kissing you back rougher, hungrier, teeth catching yours, tongue stroking deeper like he’s reclaiming it.
he breaks the kiss for a second—just enough to pant against your mouth.
“…didn’t know you had that in you.”
he doesn’t break the kiss when he stands.
that’s the thing that gets you—the way his mouth stays on yours even as his hands tighten on your hips, even as the floor disappears under your feet and you make a startled sound into his mouth that he swallows immediately, tongue pressing in like quiet, like i’ve got you.
you barely have time to register it before he lifts you fully, solid and effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room like this is obvious, like this is where you were always headed.
the bed hits the back of your knees.
then the mattress.
he drops you down and follows you immediately, palms bracketing your head as he hovers over you, body a heat-heavy presence between your thighs, mouth still on yours, still kissing you like he’s proving a point.
he doesn’t break the kiss when he stands.
that’s the thing that gets you—the way his mouth stays on yours even as his hands tighten on your hips, even as the floor disappears under your feet and you make a startled sound into his mouth that he swallows immediately, tongue pressing in like quiet, like i’ve got you.
you barely have time to register it before he lifts you fully, solid and effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room like this is obvious, like this is where you were always headed.
the bed hits the back of your knees.
then the mattress.
he drops you down—not rough, but decisive—and follows you immediately, palms bracketing your head as he hovers over you, body a heat-heavy presence between your thighs, mouth still on yours, still kissing you like he’s proving a point.
your hands are everywhere. his shoulders. his neck. his back. you feel the flex of muscle under your fingers, the way his weight shifts to keep from crushing you while still making you feel it.
his kisses turn slower. wetter. open-mouthed and tongue dragging against yours like he’s tasting instead of taking now, like he’s savoring the way you sound when you gasp.
his mouth leaves yours just long enough to trail down your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping lightly where your pulse jumps hardest.
“fuck,” you breathe, barely realizing you said it out loud.
his hands slide down your sides, thumbs brushing under your tank, fingers spreading over your ribs, your waist, your hips—grounding, claiming, mapping you like he’s memorizing the shape of you under his palms.
your body moves before your brain catches up.
maybe it’s instinct. maybe it’s frustration. maybe it’s the way he’s everywhere except where you need him.
you reach down.
your fingers brush him through his sweats—hot, hard, there—and you curl your hand around him without thinking, without planning, without permission.
his groan is immediate. low. rough. it vibrates straight through you.
“—fuck.”
for half a second, you think you’ve done it. you think you crossed the line and he’s going to let you have it.
then his hand closes around your wrist.
firm. not angry. not panicked.
“no,” he says, voice tight now, restraint threading through it like steel. he pulls your hand away from him and pins it beside your head, fingers lacing with yours just to make the point stick. “not yet.”
your chest heaves. your legs shift under him, needy, aching.
“why—” you start, breathless.
he dips his head, forehead brushing yours, nose nudging your cheek, voice dropping back into that maddening calm.
“because,” he murmurs, “you’re grabbing for the ending.”
his thumb strokes once over your knuckles, almost gentle. almost affectionate.
“and i’m still teaching you the middle.”
his free hand slides up your stomach—palm broad and warm and maddening—until it rests under the swell of your chest, not quite cupping. just waiting. like he’s listening to your heartbeat there.
“you keep getting shy,” he murmurs. “but you’ve got all these ideas, don’t you?”
your lips part. your throat’s dry. “i…”
his head tilts. he studies your face like a text he’s annotating. like every glance is a margin note you’ll have to answer for later.
“what do you like?” he asks, simple as a quiz. like it’s an easy question. like there’s a right answer and he already knows it.
you freeze. “i—i don’t know.”
he hums, skeptical. “sure you do.”
his hand trails higher, up to the hem of your tank, fingers dipping under like he’s flipping a page. your breath hitches again.
“you liked that earlier,” he murmurs, brushing your ribs, “when i touched here.”
you nod, barely.
“and here,” he adds, palm spreading over your waist again, squeezing, slow and firm.
you nod again.
he leans down, lips near your throat. “what about this?” his thumb brushes the side of your breast, not quite touching your nipple. just teasing. just hovering like it’s a privilege.
you make a noise in your throat. embarrassed. startled. needy.
“hm?” he prompts, voice darker. “you like your tits played with?”
you flinch. “i—i don’t know. i haven’t—”
he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “haven’t what?”
you whisper, “no one’s ever done it like that before.”
he grins slow. wicked. fucking delighted.
“no?” his voice dips like it’s velvet dragging across skin. “want me to try?”
your lips part. “i—yeah. okay.”
“okay,” he echoes, already dragging your tank top down with both hands, peeling it under your tits so they spill out, flushed and stiff, nipples peaked from cold and contact and god knows what else. “that’s cute.”
he palms one softly, then both—squeezes just enough to make your hips jerk under him, then thumbs over your nipples like he’s testing pressure, testing reaction, testing how fast he can get you to writhe.
your head tilts back with a whimper. he watches the whole thing, like a study in cause and effect.
“sensitive,” he murmurs, again, almost fond this time. “look at you.”
you do, barely—eyes half-lidded, throat exposed, chest heaving under his hands—and he leans down and mouths over one nipple, wet and sudden and warm, and fuck, it’s worse than you imagined. better. softer. hotter.
he licks slow, then sucks.
you gasp.
your back arches into his mouth before you can stop it.
his hand is still around your wrist, keeping you from grabbing him again, but his other palm strokes down your waist as he sucks your tit into his mouth and hums like he could stay there forever. like he enjoys this more than he should.
you whine. legs tightening. core clenching.
and all he says is, “yeah… you like this,” with your nipple still wet between his teeth.
and then he does it again. harder. longer.
and you nearly sob.
he licks and sucks his way back up—tongue warm against the curve of your breast, mouth dragging heat straight across your chest, up your sternum, wet and unhurried, like he’s claiming everything you are one inch at a time. like you’re something sweet he can’t stop tasting.
his hands don’t rush. they stay low, supportive. one cradling your lower back. the other stroking over your side, fingers grazing the slope of your waist like he’s petting down a shiver.
you breathe, ragged. you feel everything.
then he reaches your neck—and fuck, you thought his mouth was sinful on your tits but here, it’s worse. better. his teeth scrape under your jaw and you gasp, hips jerking into his lap on instinct.
“still nervous?” he murmurs against your pulse, voice sticky and smug.
you try to speak. it comes out a breath. “no.”
he hums, not convinced, and then sinks his teeth in gently—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to jolt something warm and dangerous straight down your spine. you moan, barely, just a sound from the back of your throat, and he chases it immediately with his tongue, soothing the bite with lazy licks, sucking the spot once, twice, before trailing higher.
then your ear—he doesn’t skip it. doesn’t ignore the way you tense the second his breath hits the shell of it. he drags his lips up the curve, then down behind it, tongue soft. teasing. slow.
you let out something between a whimper and a curse.
his voice is soft there, right against your skin. “you always this sensitive?”
“not—normally,” you whisper.
he grins against your ear. “guess you just needed the right study partner.”
you barely have time to respond before he’s kissing you again.
sloppy. hot. tongue-first. not patient anymore—like he’s been holding back and now he’s tasting how wrecked you are. your hands scramble for his shoulders, clumsy, needy, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt like you’re afraid you’ll fall right through him.
and he lets you. lets you take it.
but while your mouth is opening for him again—while your thighs are twitching and your stomach’s fluttering and your body’s starting to catch on to just how deeply he’s unraveling you—his hand moves again.
low.
lower.
his fingers brush over your pussy through your shorts.
barely. just a pass.
but it’s enough to steal every thought out of your skull.
you break the kiss on a gasp. he doesn’t let you go far. just chases your lips with his own, nipping the bottom one as his fingers drag over you again, slow, like he’s learning the shape of the heat there. like he’s checking to see if it’s real.
you can’t stop the way you whimper. or the way your hips try to press down.
his smile is fucking audible. “already?”
your breath stutters.
“thought you were gonna be a good girl and wait for instruction,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, “but look at you. grinding like you need it.”
you shake your head weakly. “i’m not—i wasn’t—”
he strokes the seam of your shorts again, firmer this time, right over your clit.
you cry out softly. your nails dig into his shoulders.
he groans, low, satisfied. “mm. that’s more like it.”
“can i take these off?”
you nod, too fast. “yeah.”
your voice is high, wrecked. you sound too eager. you don’t care.
he shifts, slides the waistband down slow, thumbs hooking into the sides like he wants to make a scene of it, like it’s important he gets the angle right. your hips lift for him instinctively, and he hums a little like he likes that, like he noticed you offering yourself up without even thinking.
when the fabric drags down your thighs—slow, teasing, heat-sticky—he pauses.
his eyes drop.
and he actually stops breathing for a second.
“…fuck,” he mutters.
you freeze. “what?”
“these,” he says, thumbing the lace, “are ridiculous.”
they’re not. they’re cute. pale and soft, trimmed with little bows.
but he looks at you like you just stepped out of a fantasy he didn’t know he had.
his fingers brush the waistband again, lighter this time. “you always wear shit like this under your writing hoodie?”
you try to sit up, suddenly flustered. “i didn’t know you were gonna—”
he cuts you off with a grin, soft and smug. “i didn’t say i didn’t like them.”
his knuckle grazes the tiny bow at the center. “they’re pretty.”
your stomach flips.
“too pretty,” he adds, dragging the panties down the rest of the way. “almost a shame.”
“almost?” you whisper.
he brushes his nose right up the inside of your thigh, breath hot against your skin, like he’s following the heat of you.
his eyes flick back up—hungry, warm. “i’m not gonna feel bad if they get a little ruined.”
his hands slide up your legs, thumbs grazing the crease where your thighs meet your hips, settling just beneath the fabric. and for a second, he doesn’t do anything. just looks at you from down there—like he’s cataloging, committing, planning. like this isn’t just curiosity. it’s fucking reconnaissance.
you shift. inhale. exhale. it doesn't help.
his fingers press into your thighs, spreading them wider, tugging you closer to the edge of the bed, until you’re practically tilted forward and gasping already, your tank top bunched under your arms, your stomach tight, your pulse wild.
then—
his tongue presses through the fabric.
and it’s filthy. hot and slick and entirely too much even though you’re still covered, his mouth working slowly like he’s trying to taste you through the lace, open-mouthed licks dragging up the center seam while his hands squeeze your thighs like he’s got you locked in place.
you whimper. bite down on the sound. his eyes flash.
“don’t hold back,” he murmurs into you. “i want to hear it.”
your hips stutter forward, chasing him. he pulls back just enough to breathe, lips slick, smirk blooming wide across his face.
“yeah,” he says, voice gone hoarse, “you’re definitely a writer. dramatic little thing.”
he licks you again. slower. this time, the pressure rolls over your clit with enough heat to make your legs jump. and you can’t stay quiet—can’t stay still—you arch up, one hand shooting out behind you to brace on the sheets, the other fisting in the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you.
he groans, soft, like he likes the way you move. the way you shake. the way you’re already this wet for him and he hasn’t even taken them off yet.
then he does.
hooking his thumbs in the waistband, he drags them down slow—teasing, watching your face the whole time like he’s studying what embarrassment looks like when it hits your cheeks, your collarbone, the curve of your bare, glistening pussy in the cold air of his room.
“fuck,” he says, low and reverent. “look at you.”
you can’t.
you can barely breathe.
“spread wider,” he murmurs, voice low, like it’s for the room more than for you.
you’re already panting. already slick and wrecked, thighs trembling on either side of his shoulders, but you do it—you obey without thinking, feet dragging wider over the sheets, knees bent up, nothing covering you now, not even the panties he’d peeled off like wrapping paper.
“fuck—look at you,” he mutters again, more to himself, like he’s taking notes. “pretty pussy already fluttering and i haven’t even touched your clit yet.”
“you did—” you gasp, sharp—“you did earlier—”
he laughs. laughs, mouth warm and wet where it’s already hovering over you, breath ghosting the slick mess of your cunt like a warning. “that was nothing,” he says, dragging his tongue up the center seam just once, slow, all tease, no pressure, “that was a warm-up.”
you flinch. your head tips back. your hips jerk forward—need before thought.
his fingers press down into your thighs. “keep still.”
“i’m trying—”
“try harder,” he says, like he’s teaching you how to hold a pen properly.
you breathe like it hurts. you feel hot, head spinning, mouth open to moan but it’s all breath, no sound. his tongue traces your folds again—no hurry, no rhythm, just methodical, exploratory strokes like he’s figuring out what parts make you jolt and twitch, what spots make your breathing shift and your hands scramble up the bed like you’re trying to run away from the feeling.
you moan. “sukuna—”
he hums against you. your back arches.
“tell me what that felt like,” he says, pulling back, mouth slick, voice serious. “right now. describe it.”
you blink through haze. “it was—it was—fuck—it felt—”
he slides two fingers up your slit, slow, parting you open. “you’re a writer, aren’t you?”
you sob. “warm,” you manage. “and slow. and—wet. deep.”
he nods, satisfied. “good.”
then—his mouth’s on you for real.
you scream, basically, or whimper like something feral, one hand flying to cover your mouth while the other fists the sheets. your hips roll. your thighs clamp. your chest rises like you’re choking on heat and sensation.
he moans into your cunt—on purpose, loud—and it sends a shock through your body so hard you nearly sob.
“s-stop—” you gasp, but you don’t mean it, and he knows it.
“no you don’t,” he mumbles against you.
his fingers slide in.
thick.
slow.
the stretch of it nearly takes you apart, two of them pumping steady while his mouth circles your clit and you’re losing it, like completely. no plan. no dignity. no plot left in your head at all.
“what do you say when it feels that good?” he asks, not even lifting his head.
you pant. “i—thank you?”
he laughs again. “no,” he says, curling his fingers just right, making you choke, “you ask.”
“ask—?”
he licks you again. sucks again.
you cry out. “please—!”
“hm?” he pulls back. “please what?”
your voice cracks. “please let me—please let me cum—”
“why?”
you blink at him, glazed. “w-what?”
“tell me why you deserve it.”
“i don’t—i—i can’t—fuck—” your thighs twitch, trying to close again. he pushes them back apart.
he curls his fingers deeper, tongue flicking again, faster.
“you’re gonna cum anyway,” he murmurs, amused. “might as well earn it.”
“because—” you sob, high-pitched, “because i want it—because i need it, i swear—please—”
his mouth closes over you again, and this time he doesn’t stop.
doesn’t pull back.
doesn’t tease.
just devours you.
his fingers never falter, fucking you open while his tongue presses your clit into a constant throb, and you’re not even breathing anymore, you’re gasping, you’re grinding your hips into his face now, you’re whining like an animal, like a slut, like a student who finally gave up and admitted she wants to be taught—
—and when you cum, it’s like everything stops.
it’s so wet, you can hear it.
it’s so hot, you forget how to move.
your legs lock up around his head. your hips buck once. your back arches off the bed as your mouth drops open, a long, broken moan falling from it like confession.
and he stays there, tongue softening, licking through the aftershocks like dessert, until your thighs shake and your pussy pulses and you push at his shoulder, begging him—begging—for a break.
when he pulls back, his mouth is glossy. flushed. still smirking.
“good girl,” he says, wiping his thumb over your slit one last time.
you twitch. you gasp.
you don’t know who you are anymore.
you’re still twitching when he shifts down.
still trying to catch your breath.
your legs part instinctively—an offering, a warning, an invitation you couldn’t take back if you tried.
“relax,” he murmurs, voice a rasp against your inner thigh. “not gonna make you cum again.”
you whimper. “i—i can’t—”
“i know.”
his hands anchor you open again anyway, firm on the backs of your thighs, keeping you spread, keeping you honest, and his mouth dips one more time, down, down, down—
—and kisses your clit.
just once. just a kiss.
a wet, closed-mouth press that turns your whole body to glass, that makes your hips jump and your thighs tremble and your breath hitch like you know he did it just to see if you’d beg for more.
you almost do.
you feel it for a lifetime.
“mm,” he hums against you, and the vibration shoots through your cunt like a punishment. “still twitchy.”
your voice breaks. “that was—”
“what?” he murmurs, glancing up with that gleam in his eye. “too much?”
you swallow. “too good.”
he grins. kisses it again.
lighter. shorter. more like a thank you than a threat.
you moan before you can stop it.
he breathes out a laugh.
“still so sensitive,” he says. “guess we’ll save the rest for next time.”
then he drags his mouth back up your body—slow, wet kisses over your hipbone, your ribs, the curve of your breast, the underside of your jaw. he sucks your skin like he’s tasting a story he wrote first.
“n-next time?”
when his mouth finds yours again, you’re still slick and open and ruined.
and you kiss him back like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.
you whimper.
then he stands.
and it’s ridiculous, the way your whole body feels it, like pressure dropping from the ceiling, like heat pulling away from your skin all at once. like something just got taken away before you even had it.
you’re flushed. trembling. panting like you just ran a mile, thighs aching, nerves shot, breath hitching every time his scent brushes the back of your throat.
your chest rises and falls like a warning. your core pulses like an afterthought.
his gaze drags over you once, then dips lower.
“rewrite the scene,” he says. “send it to me.”
your mouth is open, but no sound comes out.
he turns.
the door swings open.
he doesn’t look back.
his scent lingers. his voice lingers worse.
the silence rushes in like a wave.
you don’t move. not for a long time.
you don’t know how.
you’re still on your back, legs numb, lips parted and swollen, pulse still caught in that place just below your bellybutton where everything feels wrong and raw and so, so ready for more.
you close your eyes. you breathe in slow. you try to ground yourself.
but there’s no coming back from this.
no neutral after that.
the cursor’s still blinking on your laptop.
you reach for it like you’re in a trance, fingers trembling, breath shuddering as you drag the computer onto your lap, still kneeling, still sticky, still wearing nothing but the throb between your thighs.
Content & trigger warnings: 18+ Only, MDNI, biiggggg age gap, Forbidden relationship, angst, explicit sexual content, emotional distress, Hurt/no comfort, smut, Sukuna is his own warning, did i mention angst? regrets, aftermath of impulsive actions, the story ends without resolution or closure, unrequited love, pining, betrayal and conflict.
summary: Falling for your best friend's uncle wasn't on your list for the year, yet here you are making decisions which will have consequences in the end.
WC: 2.7k
Not proofread, we die like Gojo😪
You stare at the foggy bathroom mirror in your cramped university dorm, fingers trembling as they trace the steam kissed glass, desperately trying to wipe away the ache that’s burrowed into your chest like a relentless storm. It’s been three agonizing months since that weekend in Kyoto, the conference trip that was meant to be nothing more than networking and panels but instead became the moment your world shattered into fragments you can’t seem to piece back together. Three months of replaying every whispered word, every lingering touch, every unspoken promise that now feels like a cruel lie. And here you are, alone in the dim light, your reflection mocking you with puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, wondering how you’ll ever breathe without this pain clawing at your insides.
It all began so innocently, the way forbidden things often do, creeping into your heart before you even realized the danger. You’ve known sukuna since you were a teenager, back when your best friend Yuuji, who was his nephew would drag you to those chaotic family barbecues. Sukuna was always there, towering and imposing at forty, with that crisp ironed tailor-made shirts and dress pants looking handsome as ever and a gaze that would cut through steel. As a merger specialist in Tokyo, he navigated high stakes deals with ruthless precision, but around Yuuji’s family, he softened just enough to seem approachable, almost human. You, at 23, were just starting your masters in business, full of naïve ambition that blinds you to the world’s sharp edges.
The first real spark hit during a late night video call last spring. You were drowning in your admissions essay, words blurring on the screen after endless revisions. In a panic, you face timed Yuuji only for sukuna to pick up the call.
“Hey kiddo. This brat’s out cold after drinking more than his body could handle.” His voice came through your phone.
Surprised you cleared your throat trying to sound normal. “Hey, its nothing. I just wanted some help regarding this assignment. Since he’s not concerned about his, I guess I have to do it alone.”
“Send it over, I’ve got time. Let me see if I can be useful.” There was a deep yet commanding tone in this voice but oddly gentle. You forwarded the document and he assessed everything you’ve created until now, eyes narrowed and observing as he picked apart your writing. “Right here, this part is solid but it lacks your edge. Show them your fire. Make it bleed with why this matters to you.” He leaned back in his chair, tie undone, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he sipped something dark from his glass. For the first time you saw him not as Yuuji’s intimidating uncle but as a man, brilliant, smart with eyes that held storms when he laughed at your fumbling jokes.
From that night, it escalated into something you couldn’t control. Texts became your lifeline. “How was the lecture?” he’d ask and you’d pour out your day in rambling messages about boring professors and group dramas. He’d fire back articles on market shifts, scrawled with his blunt notes. “This screams you. Dig into the ethics section.” He’d call you “Brat” in that teasing way, a nod to the age gap that loomed like a shadow, but you ignored it, letting the warmth of his attention wrap around you like a forbidden embrace. At Yuuji’s family dinners, your eyes would lock across the crowded table, secret spark amidst the laughter and clinking plates. Once after everyone had too much sake, Sukuna walked you to your cab, his large hand on your lower back, lingering. “You’re tougher than you think kiddo. Don’t sell yourself short.” Your pulse thundered, a heat blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with night air.
Deep down you knew it was wrong, taboo even. Sukuna was family, in a way. Yuuji’s uncle, the man who roughhoused with him at every gathering, the one Yuuji idolized him like a father figure. The seventeen-year difference screamed scandal; the intertwined social circles meant betrayal if anyone found out. But the pull was magnetic, drawing you into vulnerable depths you’d never share with anyone. Late night calls turned into confessionals, you both enjoyed talking with each other.
One evening as rain pattered against the window of his car, sukuna opened about his past, a fragment but enough for you to understand. “I built walls so high, I forgot how to let anyone in.” he admitted, voice cracking just enough to make your heart ache. “Don’t make my mistakes. Chase what sets your soul on fire,” You whispered back your own fears, feeling exposed yet safe, like he was holding your fragile heart in his tattooed hands.
The Kyoto conference was the breaking point, the flame that consumed everything. Yuuji had hyped it up. “Great for your CV and uncle Sukuna is keynoting a panel!” he beamed. You somehow agreed.
The train ride to Kyoto was electric. Sukuna pointing out the blurring city lights, buildings where deals take pplace, his thigh pressing against yours in the cramped seat, accidental brushes that sent jolts through you. The hotel overlooked the city, all glass and glamour and after a grueling day of meetings and conferences, you found yourselves at the bar, drinks loosening the barrier.
“You owned every room you walked in today.” You said, gin fizz buzzing through your veins, cheeks warm. “The way you commanded everyone’s attention. It was… intoxicating.”
He smirked, but his eyes darkened with something raw. “High praise from you. Time and experiences teach you everything.” There was mirth in his eyes.
Your hand slid across the counter, nearing his. His crimson eyes fall on your hand. Fragile, he thinks. There was a subtle shake of his head and then your eyes were on yours again. His hand now enveloped yours on the bar counter, thumb stroking your skin in slow, deliberate circles. “This thing between us… it’s dangerous.”
“I know,” You breathed, inching closer, heart pounding. “But I don’t care anymore.” You stood up from the bar stool, taking his hand. Your eyes searched his, you saw a flash of guilt? Pass by but it was only for a fraction of a second before his eyes turned dark and before you know it you two were making your way towards the elevator. The elevator ascent was torture, stolen glances, heavy breaths. When you reached the floor to his suite, he tugged at your hand stopping you. You turned around brows furrowed as you searched his face for any kind of hint.
“Are you sure about this?” He asked voice gravelly low as he was struggling to control himself.
“I’ve never been so sure about anything in my entire life.” That was all it took for him to snap and practically drag you towards his suite. The door barely opened and latched behind you before his mouth crashed into yours, urgent and possessive, his large hands gripping your waist with a force that made you gasp. He tasted like whiskey and forbidden desire, his tongue invading your mouth in a dominant sweep that left you dizzy, knees buckling.
“Fuck, you’ve been driving me insane.” He growled against your neck, teeth grazing your skin hard enough to send shivers racing down your spine. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around your waist as he pinned you against the wall, the cool surface contrasting the heat of his body pressing into yours.
You clung to him desperately, nails digging into his broad shoulders through his shirt, whispering. “I’ve wanted you for so long, needed you.” His response was a low, feral rumble in his chest as he carried you to the bed, tossing you into the mattress with a roughness that ignited a fire in your core. He loomed over you, eyes burning with hunger as he stripped off his tie and shirt, revealing the intricate tattoos that snaked across his muscled torso, marks that made him even more intoxicating. Your hands trembled as you reached for him, but he caught your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, his free one trailing down your body, teasing the hem of your dress before shoving it roughly off of you completely.
“Look at you,” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with lust, his fingers unclasping your bra with experienced precision. His mouth latching into your nipple, a wanton moan slips past your lips. He hooked his fingers into your panties and yanking them down in one swift motion. “So eager, so wet for me already.” His touch was merciless, two fingers plunging inside your quivering cunt without warning, curling deep inside to hit that spot that made your back arch off the bed, a strangled moan escaping your lips. He watched you writhe, his smirk widening as he pumped them in and out, thumb circling your clit with expert pressure that has you seeing stars. “That’s it, brat let me hear you beg for it.”
“Please Sukuna,” you whimpered, hips bucking against his hand, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably. “I need more… I- I need you.” He chuckled darkly withdrawing his fingers just as you teetered on the edge, leaving you aching and empty. He shed the rest of his clothes, his erection springing free, thick, veined and intimidating, making your mouth water and your core clench in anticipation. He brings his face closer to yours as he settles between your legs. He kissed you reverently, like you were the air he breathed while he rubbed his tip against your slick folds teasingly, coating himself in your arousal.
“You’re mine tonight.” He rasped, as he pushed inside, inch by inch stretching you, filling you so completely that you cried out, a mix of pain and overwhelming pleasure. He stilled after sheathing himself completely inside you, It felt like it was taking everything in him not to move and fuck you senseless into the mattress.
“S’kuna please… move.” A beat passed after he kissed your temple. He set a punishing rhythm, deep hard thrusts that slammed into you, his hips grinding against yours with each movement. Your nails raked down his back, drawing red lines across his tattoos, urging him on as he gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise, spreading you wider for him.
“Fuck, you feel so good. Tight hah and… perfect, like… like you were made for this.” Sweat slicked your bodies, the room filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, your gasps and his grunts mingling in a symphony of raw need. He leaned down, biting down over your collarbone just hard enough to make you yelp, then soothing it with his tongue as his hand dips in between your bodies and finds your clit again, rubbing it in frantic circles. The dual assault pushed you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave, body convulsing, walls clenching around him as you screamed his name, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity.
But he wasn’t done. Flipping you onto your stomach with effortless strength, he pulled your hips up, entering you from behind in a deeper angle that hit new depths, making you sob into the pillows. “Take it all.” He demanded, one hand fisting your hair to arch your back and the other slapping your ass with a sting that only heightened the pleasure. His pace quickened, relentless and animalistic, until he finally tensed, burying himself deep inside you with a guttural groan, spilling inside in hot pulses that left you trembling, utterly spent and marked as his.
In the afterglow, he collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, breath ragged against your ear. But even then, in that haze of ecstasy, it felt like forever, like this forbidden connection could defy everything. Little did you know how wrong you were.
The morning after, shattered the illusion. Sunlight pierced the curtains as Sukuna sat rigid on the bed’s edge, already dressed, his back to you. You pulled the sheet tight, dread coiling. “G-good morning… is everything alight?”
He exhaled sharply, not turning. “Last night was intense. But I can’t. I’m 40, you’re barely out of uni. Yuuji is my nephew, your best friend. If this leaks, it’ll ruin me. My career, family, everything.”
The words sliced through you. “Ruin you? Is that what I am to you? A liability?”
“NO, damn it.” He finally faced you, eyes tormented but cold. ‘You’re incredible, sharp, fierce, beautiful. But this? This is just a crush fueled by proximity. You’re young, you’ll move on to someone without my baggage.”
‘A crush?” Tears burned your eyes, voice fracturing. “Sukuna, this isn’t some fleeting thing. I love you. I’ve loved you through every call, every glance. Last night was my heart on a platter, for you.”
He stood jaw clenched, grabbing his bag. “Don’t do this. I care about you, like family. We crossed a line we shouldn’t have and I regret it. My life is my priority, deals, stability. I can’t risk it all for… an impulse.”
“For me,” you choked out, sobs rising. “I'm not worth the risk.”
Silence. He didn’t correct you. “I’m sorry, this has to end here.” The kiss he left on your temple felt like a knife being stabbed directly into your brain. The door clicked shut, leaving you hollowed out, curling into the sheets that still smelled of him, body shaking with silent wails as betrayal sank in like poison.
Back in Tokyo, the torment devours you from the inside. Yuuji’s family events turn into minefields. At his birthday party, Sukuna is there, joking with Yuuji as usual, that easy charisma masking everything. He glances towards you, nodding as if he is acknowledging your presence. When you two are in close proximity with each other in front of everyone, he asks, “How’s uni treating you?” voice neutral, eyes avoiding yours.
‘Fine.’ You mutter, his cologne felt like a gut punch but still a smile was plastered on your face all the while your soul screamed. In the bathroom later, you collapsed against the wall, fists pressed to your mouth to muffle the hysteria, tears streaming, body convulsing as waves of rejection crash over you. How can he pretend? Like you're just Yuuji’s friend again and not the woman who bared everything to him.
Nights are endless hell. In your dorm, memories assault you. His rough hands on your skin, his breath hot against your ear. You curl fetal on the bed, fist twisting sheets, sobs ripping from your throat, raw, guttural cries that leave you gasping, chest leaving. “Why wasn’t I enough?” you whisper to the darkness, self-hatred flooding you. The secrecy amplifies it all. You can't confess to Yuuji, can't burden friends with the taboo truth. You're all alone in this agony, replaying his words like a broken record. “Just a crush.” “An impulse.” Each echo twists the knife deeper.
Months drag on, each day a battle. You spot it on social media, Sukuna with a woman, a colleague in her thirties, arm around her at some gala. The photo guts you; you scroll obsessively, tears blurring the screen, body trembling violently. "You chose her," you sob into your pillow, voice muffled but broken. "Anyone but me."
One stormy night, you end up near the Tokyo gate bridge, rain soaking you, the skyline a cruel reminder of that hotel view. You grip the railing, wind howling, as sobs overtake you, uncontrollable, body-wracking heaves that draw stares, but you don't care. The pain is visceral, a void where your heart used to be. Sukuna's life marches on, untouched, thriving, while your crumbles. The love you poured out, so raw and trusting, discarded like it meant nothing. In quiet moments, when exhaustion numbs the edges, you wonder if you'll ever heal, or if this forbidden wound will bleed forever, etching sorrow into every breath you take.
Content & trigger warnings: 18+ Only, MDNI, biiggggg age gap, Forbidden relationship, angst, explicit sexual content, emotional distress, Hurt/no comfort, smut, Sukuna is his own warning, did i mention angst? regrets, aftermath of impulsive actions, the story ends without resolution or closure, unrequited love, pining, betrayal and conflict.
summary: Falling for your best friend's uncle wasn't on your list for the year, yet here you are making decisions which will have consequences in the end.
WC: 2.7k
Not proofread, we die like Gojo😪
You stare at the foggy bathroom mirror in your cramped university dorm, fingers trembling as they trace the steam kissed glass, desperately trying to wipe away the ache that’s burrowed into your chest like a relentless storm. It’s been three agonizing months since that weekend in Kyoto, the conference trip that was meant to be nothing more than networking and panels but instead became the moment your world shattered into fragments you can’t seem to piece back together. Three months of replaying every whispered word, every lingering touch, every unspoken promise that now feels like a cruel lie. And here you are, alone in the dim light, your reflection mocking you with puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, wondering how you’ll ever breathe without this pain clawing at your insides.
It all began so innocently, the way forbidden things often do, creeping into your heart before you even realized the danger. You’ve known sukuna since you were a teenager, back when your best friend Yuuji, who was his nephew would drag you to those chaotic family barbecues. Sukuna was always there, towering and imposing at forty, with that crisp ironed tailor-made shirts and dress pants looking handsome as ever and a gaze that would cut through steel. As a merger specialist in Tokyo, he navigated high stakes deals with ruthless precision, but around Yuuji’s family, he softened just enough to seem approachable, almost human. You, at 23, were just starting your masters in business, full of naïve ambition that blinds you to the world’s sharp edges.
The first real spark hit during a late night video call last spring. You were drowning in your admissions essay, words blurring on the screen after endless revisions. In a panic, you face timed Yuuji only for sukuna to pick up the call.
“Hey kiddo. This brat’s out cold after drinking more than his body could handle.” His voice came through your phone.
Surprised you cleared your throat trying to sound normal. “Hey, its nothing. I just wanted some help regarding this assignment. Since he’s not concerned about his, I guess I have to do it alone.”
“Send it over, I’ve got time. Let me see if I can be useful.” There was a deep yet commanding tone in this voice but oddly gentle. You forwarded the document and he assessed everything you’ve created until now, eyes narrowed and observing as he picked apart your writing. “Right here, this part is solid but it lacks your edge. Show them your fire. Make it bleed with why this matters to you.” He leaned back in his chair, tie undone, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he sipped something dark from his glass. For the first time you saw him not as Yuuji’s intimidating uncle but as a man, brilliant, smart with eyes that held storms when he laughed at your fumbling jokes.
From that night, it escalated into something you couldn’t control. Texts became your lifeline. “How was the lecture?” he’d ask and you’d pour out your day in rambling messages about boring professors and group dramas. He’d fire back articles on market shifts, scrawled with his blunt notes. “This screams you. Dig into the ethics section.” He’d call you “Brat” in that teasing way, a nod to the age gap that loomed like a shadow, but you ignored it, letting the warmth of his attention wrap around you like a forbidden embrace. At Yuuji’s family dinners, your eyes would lock across the crowded table, secret spark amidst the laughter and clinking plates. Once after everyone had too much sake, Sukuna walked you to your cab, his large hand on your lower back, lingering. “You’re tougher than you think kiddo. Don’t sell yourself short.” Your pulse thundered, a heat blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with night air.
Deep down you knew it was wrong, taboo even. Sukuna was family, in a way. Yuuji’s uncle, the man who roughhoused with him at every gathering, the one Yuuji idolized him like a father figure. The seventeen-year difference screamed scandal; the intertwined social circles meant betrayal if anyone found out. But the pull was magnetic, drawing you into vulnerable depths you’d never share with anyone. Late night calls turned into confessionals, you both enjoyed talking with each other.
One evening as rain pattered against the window of his car, sukuna opened about his past, a fragment but enough for you to understand. “I built walls so high, I forgot how to let anyone in.” he admitted, voice cracking just enough to make your heart ache. “Don’t make my mistakes. Chase what sets your soul on fire,” You whispered back your own fears, feeling exposed yet safe, like he was holding your fragile heart in his tattooed hands.
The Kyoto conference was the breaking point, the flame that consumed everything. Yuuji had hyped it up. “Great for your CV and uncle Sukuna is keynoting a panel!” he beamed. You somehow agreed.
The train ride to Kyoto was electric. Sukuna pointing out the blurring city lights, buildings where deals take pplace, his thigh pressing against yours in the cramped seat, accidental brushes that sent jolts through you. The hotel overlooked the city, all glass and glamour and after a grueling day of meetings and conferences, you found yourselves at the bar, drinks loosening the barrier.
“You owned every room you walked in today.” You said, gin fizz buzzing through your veins, cheeks warm. “The way you commanded everyone’s attention. It was… intoxicating.”
He smirked, but his eyes darkened with something raw. “High praise from you. Time and experiences teach you everything.” There was mirth in his eyes.
Your hand slid across the counter, nearing his. His crimson eyes fall on your hand. Fragile, he thinks. There was a subtle shake of his head and then your eyes were on yours again. His hand now enveloped yours on the bar counter, thumb stroking your skin in slow, deliberate circles. “This thing between us… it’s dangerous.”
“I know,” You breathed, inching closer, heart pounding. “But I don’t care anymore.” You stood up from the bar stool, taking his hand. Your eyes searched his, you saw a flash of guilt? Pass by but it was only for a fraction of a second before his eyes turned dark and before you know it you two were making your way towards the elevator. The elevator ascent was torture, stolen glances, heavy breaths. When you reached the floor to his suite, he tugged at your hand stopping you. You turned around brows furrowed as you searched his face for any kind of hint.
“Are you sure about this?” He asked voice gravelly low as he was struggling to control himself.
“I’ve never been so sure about anything in my entire life.” That was all it took for him to snap and practically drag you towards his suite. The door barely opened and latched behind you before his mouth crashed into yours, urgent and possessive, his large hands gripping your waist with a force that made you gasp. He tasted like whiskey and forbidden desire, his tongue invading your mouth in a dominant sweep that left you dizzy, knees buckling.
“Fuck, you’ve been driving me insane.” He growled against your neck, teeth grazing your skin hard enough to send shivers racing down your spine. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around your waist as he pinned you against the wall, the cool surface contrasting the heat of his body pressing into yours.
You clung to him desperately, nails digging into his broad shoulders through his shirt, whispering. “I’ve wanted you for so long, needed you.” His response was a low, feral rumble in his chest as he carried you to the bed, tossing you into the mattress with a roughness that ignited a fire in your core. He loomed over you, eyes burning with hunger as he stripped off his tie and shirt, revealing the intricate tattoos that snaked across his muscled torso, marks that made him even more intoxicating. Your hands trembled as you reached for him, but he caught your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, his free one trailing down your body, teasing the hem of your dress before shoving it roughly off of you completely.
“Look at you,” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with lust, his fingers unclasping your bra with experienced precision. His mouth latching into your nipple, a wanton moan slips past your lips. He hooked his fingers into your panties and yanking them down in one swift motion. “So eager, so wet for me already.” His touch was merciless, two fingers plunging inside your quivering cunt without warning, curling deep inside to hit that spot that made your back arch off the bed, a strangled moan escaping your lips. He watched you writhe, his smirk widening as he pumped them in and out, thumb circling your clit with expert pressure that has you seeing stars. “That’s it, brat let me hear you beg for it.”
“Please Sukuna,” you whimpered, hips bucking against his hand, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably. “I need more… I- I need you.” He chuckled darkly withdrawing his fingers just as you teetered on the edge, leaving you aching and empty. He shed the rest of his clothes, his erection springing free, thick, veined and intimidating, making your mouth water and your core clench in anticipation. He brings his face closer to yours as he settles between your legs. He kissed you reverently, like you were the air he breathed while he rubbed his tip against your slick folds teasingly, coating himself in your arousal.
“You’re mine tonight.” He rasped, as he pushed inside, inch by inch stretching you, filling you so completely that you cried out, a mix of pain and overwhelming pleasure. He stilled after sheathing himself completely inside you, It felt like it was taking everything in him not to move and fuck you senseless into the mattress.
“S’kuna please… move.” A beat passed after he kissed your temple. He set a punishing rhythm, deep hard thrusts that slammed into you, his hips grinding against yours with each movement. Your nails raked down his back, drawing red lines across his tattoos, urging him on as he gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise, spreading you wider for him.
“Fuck, you feel so good. Tight hah and… perfect, like… like you were made for this.” Sweat slicked your bodies, the room filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, your gasps and his grunts mingling in a symphony of raw need. He leaned down, biting down over your collarbone just hard enough to make you yelp, then soothing it with his tongue as his hand dips in between your bodies and finds your clit again, rubbing it in frantic circles. The dual assault pushed you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave, body convulsing, walls clenching around him as you screamed his name, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity.
But he wasn’t done. Flipping you onto your stomach with effortless strength, he pulled your hips up, entering you from behind in a deeper angle that hit new depths, making you sob into the pillows. “Take it all.” He demanded, one hand fisting your hair to arch your back and the other slapping your ass with a sting that only heightened the pleasure. His pace quickened, relentless and animalistic, until he finally tensed, burying himself deep inside you with a guttural groan, spilling inside in hot pulses that left you trembling, utterly spent and marked as his.
In the afterglow, he collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, breath ragged against your ear. But even then, in that haze of ecstasy, it felt like forever, like this forbidden connection could defy everything. Little did you know how wrong you were.
The morning after, shattered the illusion. Sunlight pierced the curtains as Sukuna sat rigid on the bed’s edge, already dressed, his back to you. You pulled the sheet tight, dread coiling. “G-good morning… is everything alight?”
He exhaled sharply, not turning. “Last night was intense. But I can’t. I’m 40, you’re barely out of uni. Yuuji is my nephew, your best friend. If this leaks, it’ll ruin me. My career, family, everything.”
The words sliced through you. “Ruin you? Is that what I am to you? A liability?”
“NO, damn it.” He finally faced you, eyes tormented but cold. ‘You’re incredible, sharp, fierce, beautiful. But this? This is just a crush fueled by proximity. You’re young, you’ll move on to someone without my baggage.”
‘A crush?” Tears burned your eyes, voice fracturing. “Sukuna, this isn’t some fleeting thing. I love you. I’ve loved you through every call, every glance. Last night was my heart on a platter, for you.”
He stood jaw clenched, grabbing his bag. “Don’t do this. I care about you, like family. We crossed a line we shouldn’t have and I regret it. My life is my priority, deals, stability. I can’t risk it all for… an impulse.”
“For me,” you choked out, sobs rising. “I'm not worth the risk.”
Silence. He didn’t correct you. “I’m sorry, this has to end here.” The kiss he left on your temple felt like a knife being stabbed directly into your brain. The door clicked shut, leaving you hollowed out, curling into the sheets that still smelled of him, body shaking with silent wails as betrayal sank in like poison.
Back in Tokyo, the torment devours you from the inside. Yuuji’s family events turn into minefields. At his birthday party, Sukuna is there, joking with Yuuji as usual, that easy charisma masking everything. He glances towards you, nodding as if he is acknowledging your presence. When you two are in close proximity with each other in front of everyone, he asks, “How’s uni treating you?” voice neutral, eyes avoiding yours.
‘Fine.’ You mutter, his cologne felt like a gut punch but still a smile was plastered on your face all the while your soul screamed. In the bathroom later, you collapsed against the wall, fists pressed to your mouth to muffle the hysteria, tears streaming, body convulsing as waves of rejection crash over you. How can he pretend? Like you're just Yuuji’s friend again and not the woman who bared everything to him.
Nights are endless hell. In your dorm, memories assault you. His rough hands on your skin, his breath hot against your ear. You curl fetal on the bed, fist twisting sheets, sobs ripping from your throat, raw, guttural cries that leave you gasping, chest leaving. “Why wasn’t I enough?” you whisper to the darkness, self-hatred flooding you. The secrecy amplifies it all. You can't confess to Yuuji, can't burden friends with the taboo truth. You're all alone in this agony, replaying his words like a broken record. “Just a crush.” “An impulse.” Each echo twists the knife deeper.
Months drag on, each day a battle. You spot it on social media, Sukuna with a woman, a colleague in her thirties, arm around her at some gala. The photo guts you; you scroll obsessively, tears blurring the screen, body trembling violently. "You chose her," you sob into your pillow, voice muffled but broken. "Anyone but me."
One stormy night, you end up near the Tokyo gate bridge, rain soaking you, the skyline a cruel reminder of that hotel view. You grip the railing, wind howling, as sobs overtake you, uncontrollable, body-wracking heaves that draw stares, but you don't care. The pain is visceral, a void where your heart used to be. Sukuna's life marches on, untouched, thriving, while your crumbles. The love you poured out, so raw and trusting, discarded like it meant nothing. In quiet moments, when exhaustion numbs the edges, you wonder if you'll ever heal, or if this forbidden wound will bleed forever, etching sorrow into every breath you take.
You're positive your roommate hates you. He's the oldest brother of your best friend and sharing an apartment with him made sense — money wise. Living with him, though, a little rougher. Still, you endure the daily scrutiny.
tags: fluff (shocking), domestic life, sukuna is sukuna, also smut, more fluff, piv, choking, fingering, dirty talking, yada yada.
art by @tttsnf
You live like prey in your own apartment.
You learn the shape of his day — the weight of his boots at the door, the smell of smoke and cedar when he’s home, the way the air goes still when he’s in a room.
You time your exits like weather, you keep your voice small, you keep your steps soft.
You see how he perceives you in every little interaction — a nuisance, annoying, good for nothing roommate.
Morning, you round the kitchen corner and almost slam into him.
He doesn’t step back, he doesn’t soften, he lowers his chin and says, “Move.”
Flat.
You flatten yourself to the cabinets and slip by, pulse banging in your ears.
His hands stay braced — palms spread on oak, tendons up — like he’s giving himself something to hold that isn’t you.
You don’t see that part until later, replaying it, wondering why you didn’t collide.
Oil pops. You yelp. He’s there, jerking the pan from your hand with a scalded sound.
“You trying to brand yourself?” he bites out, angling his shoulder between you and the heat. “Out.”
You step back, stung.
You hate how the word works — how you go.
He kills the flame, rotates the handle inward, flicks the vent.
“Watch what the fuck you’re doing.” You nod like you’re eight.
You spend the next hour angry at your own hands.
You reach for the biggest knife in the drawer.
His tattooed fingers clamp the handle before you can touch it.
“Don’t,” he says, bored and cruel. “They’re not toys.”
The sneer skims your skin like a cold wind.
You sleep on it wrong and wake up to a mid-size knife on the counter, a cheap plastic sheath on the blade, a sticky note in his blocky hand, Use this. Guard stays on. — S.
You tell yourself it’s control.
You tell yourself he doesn’t want you touching his things.
You climb the step stool to reach a jar on the top shelf.
He’s suddenly behind you, voice right by your ear.
“Get down.” The tone is filth-soft, like smoke dragged across velvet. “You fall, I’m not patching drywall.”
You climb down because your body obeys that voice before your brain decides to.
When your feet hit tile, something shifts — the warm presence of his forearm hovering at your waist and then withdrawing, like a hand you imagined.
He reaches above you, grabs the jar, sets it in your hands without looking at you.
“Ask,” he says, already walking away.
Like a rule.
Like he hates that you tried.
You clean to a happy playlist.
He crosses the living room and kills the speaker with one jab.
“Enough,” he says without glancing up.
Your apology is automatic and you want to bite your tongue off for it. Later you hear him in the kitchen humming the same chorus, low, off-key, like he pocketed the noise so you wouldn’t spin out on it.
The balcony door is open for air, he plants a palm and slides it shut with a hard click.
“Inside,” he says, eyes on the night-dark lot. “Door stays closed at night.”
You feel stupid and scolded.
Two days later the neighbor with the too-long smile tries a conversation that lasts one second longer than polite. When you get home, you can’t stop seeing the way Sukuna had stood that night — shoulders squared to the lot, body a wall, attention on the dark instead of on you.
The AC dies and your fingers won’t warm.
A dryer-hot hoodie hits your chest as he passes.
“Put it on,” he snaps. “You sound like teeth chattering.”
It smells like him. It helps. You tell yourself it’s a territorial thing, his name written on you in fabric.
You don’t let yourself think about the heat already in it, like he knew you would pretend you weren’t cold and planned around your pride.
The pipes bang while you shower.
His knock has the force of a cop.
“You’re flooding the place,” he says through the door, gravel and impatience. “Finish up.”
Shame rips through you like a pulled muscle, you rush, ten minutes after, there’s a rubber bath mat leaning against the tub.
No note. No comment.
Just fewer ways to crack your skull open on tile.
Crossing the living room in shorts, you feel it — the slow, dead-eyed inventory as his gaze rakes over you and back, unapologetic. Your stomach drops. You translate it as disgust, judgment, rude boredom.
You don’t clock the way his jaw flexes once and then stills, or how his hands stay buried in his pockets like he’s holding them there on purpose.
You lug four grocery bags up the stairs. He opens the door and rips two away.
“You take too long,” he says, like you failed a test he didn’t announce. You seethe. Later you notice your greek yogurt, your tea, your brand of honey in the fridge, resting on the second shelf you can actually reach.
You tell yourself someone like him remembers everything so he can hold it over you later.
You chain the door wrong.
He flicks it open, shuts it, flicks it again.
“Don’t do that.” The look he gives you is mean enough to sting. “Top chain, bottom deadbolt. Leave the knob unlocked.”
You bristle, say you’re not an idiot.
He repeats the sequence without commentary and then leans his shoulder, testing the frame.
“If you scream,” he says, flat, “I’m coming through it.”
It takes you a day to realize he showed you the way he could shoulder the door because he was imagining needing to.
You host a silly apartment date because you’re tired of being alone and tired of feeling hunted in your own kitchen. The guy is harmless, loud, and brings cheap rosé because he thinks it’s whimsical.
Sukuna passes through like a storm front — silent, big, eyes acidic.
“Feet off my table,” he says to the room, never quite looking at your guest.
It lands like a threat.
Your cheeks heat, you want to crawl under the couch.
When the bottle opener skitters toward your fingers, Sukuna’s hand appears, big and fast, and plucks it out of the air, then sets it by your elbow so the metal edge doesn’t slice you.
He slices limes with surgical calm you don’t deserve and leaves a plate of wedges by your glass because once — weeks ago — you cut yourself trying to garnish something you didn’t need to garnish.
Your date tries a joke at Sukuna’s tattoos.
Sukuna stares through him like the man is furniture and says, “Yes,” when asked if the ink hurt. The conversation dies.
The thermostat ticks, colder. A hoodie you did not wear to dinner appears on the back of your chair as he passes.
It goes off the rails when the guy calls you “kiddo.”
You freeze, small and furious.
From the kitchen,
“Don’t,” Sukuna says without looking. “She’s not your anything.”
There’s no heat in it, only patience sharpened into a knife. Your date laughs too loud and tries again with “babe,” and Sukuna’s mouth pulls into something that isn’t a smile.
“Don’t ‘babe’ her."
Your crush blinks.
“Excuse me?”
Sukuna lifts his eyes, finally. There’s nothing theatrical in his stare — just the kind of patience that makes people reconsider their choices.
“You heard me.”
Your crush tries on a laugh and finds it doesn’t fit.
“My bad,” he says to you, all forced charm.
“It is,” Sukuna agrees mildly, and goes back to slicing.
Nobody enjoys the rest of the movie.
When the door finally closes on the silly date, Sukuna stacks plates with quiet hands. You dry glasses. Your fingers brush and you both pretend they didn’t.
“He seemed… nice,” you say, because you hate the silence.
“He seemed loud,” he says, jaw ticking. “You like loud?”
“I like kind.”
Something shifts in his expression, a small retreat you can’t name.
He rinses, passes, rinses.
“He call you kiddo again, I’m throwing him off the balcony.”
“We’re on the second floor.”
“He’ll live.”
He says it like a promise to himself to keep it verbal.
You slip in late another night and he’s at the counter, arms folded over his chest.
“Who dropped you,” he says, not a question.
You flare.
“You my parole officer?”
He just waits until you mutter a first name.
“Next time,” he says, “text you’re alive.”
It feels like a leash.
Later, when rage cools, you notice the lamp in the living room is on a timer — clicks on at ten, off at two.
You notice the scuffed track his boots make from the door to the window.
You notice the idle of his truck you didn’t hear over your date’s laugh.
In the hallway, you brush too close. He inhales, sharp, almost a growl.
“Watch it,” he says, stepping aside late, forcing you to reroute around him like you’re avoiding a boot. His hand curls and uncurls against his thigh, tendons jumping, as if stopping itself from settling on your waist.
He smells like mint and smoke and heat.
You walk away on shaking legs and tell yourself you hate him.
Rain threatens, you reach for the knob without an umbrella, he flips you the spare and says,
“Don’t be stupid.”
You take it because you’re cold and stubborn.
Inside the sleeve is a folded bill and a metro card with rides left.
You find it waiting for you after the storm.
You never mention it.
Neither does he.
You laugh on the phone at midnight because if you don’t laugh you’ll cry. He appears in your doorway like a shadow.
“Quiet,” he says, low and edged enough to cut off your breath, “I’m sleeping.”
You apologize. He leaves.
Ten minutes later there’s a glass of water outside your door with ice clinking like punctuation.
The apartment is silent so you can breathe.
This is the rhythm — his voice like a weapon, your spine learning its shape, the hard click of doors, the snap of rules, you reading every look as a sneer, every order as contempt.
The house learns your flinch.
You learn the circumference of his temper and pretend you don’t notice how it never actually lands on you.
One night, late, you catch him at the sink.
The kitchen light is off, only the hood lamp is on.
Water runs, steam climbs his forearms and softens the ink.
He doesn’t turn when you enter, he doesn’t acknowledge you, you can feel him see you anyway — the way the air charges, the way the room holds its breath.
“I can be quiet,” you say, because you think maybe that’s all you are to him, a noise to manage, a problem to compress.
He shuts the tap.
He stands there a second, hands braced on the counter like they’ve been everywhere else he’s needed them to be — on cabinets, on doorframes, on anything that isn’t the small of your back.
“Yeah,” he says finally, voice rougher than usual, like gravel under a tire. “I know.”
He turns, and the look he gives you is the same one that has had you thinking wolf, knife, red eyes.
It still looks like that.
It’s still a lot of hunger, none of it polite.
But there’s something else leashed under it that you recognize now that you’ve learned the edges of this place, the way he stands between you and heat, between you and dark, between you and anything with teeth. The way his meanness is grammar, not content. The way every order lands like a safety.
You look at his hands on the counter. You look at the space he leaves between you and himself, a precise, stubborn inch of restraint that keeps not closing.
Only later will you name the pattern. In the moment, all you can do is breathe and try on a different translation.
Maybe he doesn’t hate you.
Maybe he’s surviving you.
Maybe you’re the thing he doesn’t trust himself with.
He pushes off the counter, gives you that inch and a little more, and nods at the hallway.
“Door stays closed,” he says, voice quiet, mean on the edges out of habit. “Sleep.”
You go.
You lock your door, then unlock it, then lock it again because you don’t trust yourself either.
On the bedside table, you set your phone face-down on a sticky note you’ve been pretending isn’t there — the one with a license plate scribbled on it from the night your date left.
No signature. No lecture. Just numbers.
You live like prey in your own apartment until you realize the predator has been hunting with the safeties on.
And by then your heart is a problem you don’t want to fix.
Next morning you wake up mean with it — raw throat, wet cough, cramps dragging like an anchor. The apartment is too bright, your skin too loud.
You shuffle to the kitchen in his oversized hoodie because everything else on your body feels like sandpaper.
He’s already there, back to you, rinsing a mug. The smell of mint and soap, the low noise of the hood fan. You keep your distance, open the cabinet, and reach for the painkillers.
The bottle rattles like a threat, your hands are clumsy.
“Two,” he says without turning. “Not four.”
It lands like a slap.
You swallow a dozen answers and pick the worst.
“Thank you, Officer.”
He flicks a look over his shoulder, unreadable.
“I don’t need you faceplanting in the hallway.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“You don’t have to,” you bite.
The words come hot, a flare you can’t leash.
“Every day it’s, move, don’t, stop, quiet. Like I’m fucking five! Or your dog. Or a problem you’re stuck with.”
The faucet shudders off, he turns fully.
Mean eyes. Flat mouth.
“You done?”
You hate the way your eyes burn.
You hate that you keep going.
“I’m sick, I’m— ” you gesture uselessly at your stomach “ —I’m not sleeping, and you just— ” Your voice frays. “I can’t do the drill-sergeant act today.”
Something tightens in his jaw, then releases. He doesn’t bark back. He doesn’t roll his eyes. He sets the mug down carefully, like careful is a language, and says,
“Okay.”
That’s it. No lecture. No sneer.
It makes you cry anyway. Not big sobs — stupid, quiet overflow you swipe away with your sleeve while humiliation crawls up your neck.
“Forget it,” you mutter, retreating, heart banging. “I’m sorry, I just— forget it.”
You escape to your room and sit on the floor beside the bed because sitting on the bed feels like a commitment.
The cramps gnaw.
Your head throbs in time with the pipes.
Shame curdles everything.
Five minutes later, you get up and go back.
You stand in the doorway, hoodie sleeves swallowed over your hands, and force your throat to work.
“Sukuna. I’m sorry,” you say, steady as you can make it. “I’m… on my period. And this cold is making me cranky. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
He watches you with that stillness that reads like disdain until you learn it means don’t spook.
Then he nods once.
“You’re sick,” he says, voice rough but quieter than usual, as if rough is habit, volume is choice. “Sit.”
You do because your legs feel borrowed.
He turns back to the counter, you hear the drawer, the knife, the hard thunk of ginger coins against the board.
Kettle. Steam. Honey. Lemon.
He doesn’t look up while he works, like looking would make it something else.
When he comes back, he sets the mug near your hands, handle turned to your dominant side.
The steam hits your face with a rush of ginger that clears a corridor through your skull.
“Drink.”
“I was shitty.” you say, small.
He shakes his head once.
“You’re sick,” he repeats, like it’s a verdict, not a pass.
A beat.
“You wanna put something on the TV?”
For a second you truly wonder if the fever cracked something.
“What?”
“TV,” he says, like he’s reminding you English exists. “Noise helps when your head won’t shut up.”
You blink.
“Like… a movie?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t make you choose. He pads into the living room, grabs the remote, and sinks into the couch like it owes him rent. He leaves a lane between him and the corner — space you can take or not.
You wrap your hands around the mug and follow, because the idea of your room feels mean suddenly, like a place where your breath will catch on your bones.
He scrolls past too-serious options and lands on something dumb and loud with big colors and no stakes.
“That okay?” he asks, already pressing play like he expects you to say yes.
“Yeah,” you breathe, surprised to mean it.
He doesn’t sprawl. He sits like he’s making himself small, which is ridiculous given the acreage of his shoulders. He keeps his hands on his thighs and his attention forward.
The ginger burns a path down your throat and warms the pit of you where anger used to sit. Your nose runs, you swipe with your sleeve, he says nothing.
The hood fan clicks off in the kitchen. The apartment softens.
Onscreen, people run from explosions as if cardio is a personality trait.
You try to track it and fail. The rhythm of the action settles into white noise. Your head tips, then jerks, then tips again. You tell yourself you’re just shifting the mug. At some point the mug is on the table and your cheek is against heat that doesn’t feel like a pillow.
You realize too late it’s his shoulder.
Everything in you goes rigid.
You start to sit up.
“Relax,” he says, not looking away from the TV. “You’re fine.”
“I didn’t— I didn’t mean to— ”
“I know.”
His shoulder is a broad, stubborn thing, and it doesn’t move when you test it. His T-shirt is warm and soft with too many washes. You concentrate on breathing like a person and not a trapped animal.
His smell — smoke, cedar, mint — threads through the ginger and settles you faster than you want to admit.
He doesn’t take advantage. He doesn’t shift you closer. He doesn’t do the theatrical arm-over-the-back-of-the-couch move.
He sits there, a ridiculous block of heat, and lets your weight be what it is.
Onscreen someone yells “Go!” like it’s profound.
You huff a laugh that’s almost a cough. He snorts, barely.
“You hate these,” you murmur, eyes closing without permission. “You always turn off my music.”
“Your music tries to run a red light,” he says. “This is just… dumb. Dumb is good when your head hurts.”
You hum, sleepy.
“You’re not… mean right now.”
“I’m not mean,” he says, and it should come out defensive. It doesn’t. “I’m loud. Scary, even.”
“You’re… controlling”
“Better than mopping blood,” he says, like he’s listing groceries.
You want to argue and don’t have the energy. The movie blurs. Your body does that soft drop it does when it decides without you.
You feel him reach — not to you, past you. A blanket unfurls, drops over your knees and up to your hips like a quiet tide.
He moves slow, careful not to jostle the place where your forehead meets his shoulder, careful like he is with knives and doors and every stupid thing you misread as contempt.
“You’re hallucinating,” you mumble to yourself thinking you're just talking in your head, because it’s easier than saying thank you out loud.
“Yeah,” he says, dry. “Ginger tea’s a hallucinogen.”
You drift.
Somewhere in the middle distance, digital cities burn prettily. Your breaths even. His do, too, big and steady, a metronome under your ear. He lowers the volume half a notch. You don’t see his eyes track your face, the tiny frown he gets when you sniffle, the way his hand hovers once over your shoulder and then falls to the couch cushion like he’s reminding himself of a rule.
You come back up from sleep because your neck twinges.
The credits are slow-rolling names you don’t care about. The lamp is low. The ginger is a memory in your chest.
“Hey,” he says, voice close and quiet. “Bed.”
You blink, embarrassed.
“I didn’t mean to— ”
“You say that a lot,” he says, almost amused. “You can. It’s allowed.”
You push up.
The blanket slides. He catches it before it hits the floor.
“Thanks for the— ” you gesture at the whole scene — mug, TV, shoulder, mercy.
He shrugs like it’s nothing and meant everything.
“Next time you’re sick, you say so. Don’t try to soldier through and then bite me.”
“I didn’t bite you.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“You tried.”
Heat flickers under your skin, this time not from fever.
“Sorry,” you say again, but it lands differently now — less apology, more acknowledgment.
He nods.
“Text if you feel dizzy,” he says, back to basic. “I’ll be here.”
You stand there an extra second, halfway convinced the cold cooked your brain. He looks like himself — mean eyes, foul mouth, rough lines — and somehow the edges don’t cut.
They fence you in.
“Goodnight,” you say, voice gone soft without permission.
“Sleep, rabbit,” he says, just as soft.
You pad to your room. You don’t lock the door. You think you should and don’t.
In bed, under your own blanket, you can still feel the ghost weight of his shoulder under your cheek and taste ginger where the apology used to burn.
Maybe you’re hallucinating.
Or maybe not.
On the coffee table, your mug sits with the handle turned just so, waiting where he left it.
You don’t make it to work the next day.
Alarms happen to somebody else.
Your phone buzzes until it gives up.
The room tilts if you turn your head. At some point you decide the air is heavy and crack the window, damp morning heat spills in, then a draft that feels like knives.
You sweat, then shiver, then sweat again.
Brilliant.
A knock, two short, one long.
“You didn’t leave,” he says through the door. “You alive?”
“Mm,” you croak, which is not a language.
The knob turns. He steps in, fills the doorway, scowl already forming.
His gaze strips the scene fast — open window, heap of blankets, you blinking like a stunned animal.
He crosses to you, sets the back of his fingers to your forehead.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re boiling.”
“It’s fine,” you lie, trying to roll away.
Your body disagrees.
He shuts the window with a click that feels like judgment. Curtains down. Thermostat up a hair. He swears at the room in general and then at you, softly,
“You open a window with a fever? You trying to die on laminate?”
You try to glare, it comes out damp.
“Too warm.”
“Yeah,” he says, all gravel. “Your brain’s cooking.”
He holds the digital thermometer to your temple, it beeps high.
His mouth goes flatter.
“Up.”
“Don’t wanna."
You sound five and hate it.
He ignores that and gets an arm behind your shoulders, forearm braced like he’s practiced lifting broken things.
“C’mon. Tub. Before I call a clinic.”
“I can— ”
“You can’t.” He hauls you gently, efficiently.
The room swims, the hallway’s too bright. In the bathroom he already has a towel on the floor, the rubber mat in the tub, the water running just on the cool side of lukewarm.
He checks it with his wrist, not trusting the dial.
“Sit.”
You sit on the edge because he said it like gravity.
He peels the blanket off your shoulders and drops it outside your reach.
“No.”
“I’m cold.”
“Yeah.” He guides you in, steady hand at your elbow, keeping his palm broad and impersonal. “That’s the point.”
Water climbs your shins, your thighs, your spine.
Your breath stutters, your teeth chatter. He crouches, big man made small, and dunks a washcloth, wrings it, lays it over the back of your neck, then your wrists, then your forehead.
He works the cloth across pulse points with ruthless competence, refreshing it the second it warms. Every now and then he glances at the thermometer like it insulted him personally.
“Breathe,” he says when you start to pant. “Slow.”
“You’re mean,” you whisper, which is unhinged and true.
“Yup.” He brings the cloth back to your throat, thumb careful at your jawline like he’s trying not to touch more than he has to. “Stay with me.”
Time kinks. The vent hums.
He times five minutes on his watch, resets, does another five with your ankles propped on the tub edge to catch the cold better.
When you try to curl for warmth, his palm lands flat between your shoulder blades and pins you lightly.
“Uh-uh. No hiding. Fever breaks first.”
You hate him.
You adore him.
You might be hallucinating both.
When the thermometer finally chirps a number he can live with, he exhales like a door unlatching.
“Okay.” He helps you up, towels you fast, friction and heat.
He doesn’t let you grab the blanket yet, he drapes a the towel over your damp t-shirt and steers you back to the bedroom.
Your fingers find the hem of your wet clothes and you're too cooked to make sense of not changing in front of him.
He sighs and steers back to the door, leaving you to it.
“Soup,” he says. “Bed. Don’t move.”
“I’m fine,” you protest, already sinking in the mattress once you replace damp with dry and warm.
“You’re nonsense,” he corrects, gone before you can answer.
He returns with actual soup — steam, spoon, a wedge of bread. He sets it on a tray, nudges your pillow higher, and sits on the edge of the bed.
He feeds you the first spoon because your hands are stupid and you hate that you let him.
You also hate how good the salt tastes. He watches your throat when you swallow like he’s checking how much effort it takes.
“Slow,” he says. “You aspirate, I’m not explaining that to triage.”
“You’re being… nice,” you tell him, woozy and sentimental, “for someone who hates me.”
He looks at you like you just said the moon is inside the microwave — sharp, cutting, unreadable.
You’ll forget the look later, write it off like a fever glitch.
Right now, it lands in your chest and burns there.
“Eat,” he says finally, voice rough. “Then meds.”
You drink, you slurp, you do as ordered. The soup dwindles. The room softens.
He presses two pills into your palm, thumbs the ginger-ale can open with a hiss.
When you try to burrow under the comforter he flips it back with a single irritated hand.
“Nope.”
“Please,” you whine.
“You drop back under ninety-nine, you get a blanket. Until then? Suffer.”
“You’re impossible.” but you don't try again.
“Accurate.” He takes your empty bowl, sets it aside, and then stupidly, carelessly rests his hand on the mattress near your hip — close enough that your fingers brush when you shift.
You grab him.
It’s pure fever-brain.
You tell yourself that as you latch your hand around two of his fingers like a child catching a coat hem.
He goes very still.
You expect the jerk-away and the snarl.
He doesn’t pull.
He doesn’t move at all for one long breath.
Then his knuckles turn, slow, like a tide rolling palm-up under yours so you can hold properly if you’re going to.
You do.
Your fingers barely span half his hand.
His palm is hot, heartbeat steady under callus.
“Look at me,” he says after a while, and you do.
He leans in enough that his red eyes fill your vision.
You feel your skin flush with heat.
He lifts one finger of his free hand and traces left-right, up-down.
“Follow.”
You track like a drunk moth.
He checks your pupils, nods to himself, clicks the thermometer again.
It chirps a better number. He huffs.
“Good. Keep doing that.”
“Breathing?”
“Existing.”
You hum, heavy. Sleep drags at your lashes. You fight it and lose in small waves.
You surface to the cool weight of a fresh cloth on your forehead, to his thumb pressing the pulse at your wrist, counting.
You surface to him cursing the kettle for boiling too slow and the bottle cap for being glued on and your stubborn thermostat for existing.
You surface to his voice at the doorway — “Yeah, she called in sick,” — flat, final, probably to your work if they rang, and you cannot process how he would know the number.
Once, you wake because the room is too bright. He’s there immediately, dimmer in hand, light down.
“Eyes,” he says, soft.
You open them. He checks the time, your face, the slick at your hairline.
“You hungry?”
“No.”
“Water.”
You sip.
He adjusts the fan angle so air skims your skin without chilling you. When your teeth start to click, he waits it out, then tucks the sheet to your hips and, after another thermometer beep shows a cool, reasonable number, finally lets the blanket cover you.
It feels like permission.
“Stop being nice,” you mumble into the pillow.
“I’m not nice,” he says, automatic, like you accused him of tax fraud. “I’m efficient.”
“You hate me.”
He makes a low noise that could break glass.
“Go to sleep.”
You do, because he said it and because your body is heavy water.
The day loops, sleep, wake, check, drift.
Once, your grip on his hand loosens and he starts to pull away, you make a small, miserable sound you’ll deny forever, and he settles right back into the same spot, palm up, as if you’re an IV that can’t be jostled.
Another time, he puts the back of his hand to your cheek and swears happy under his breath at the cooler skin.
He doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t say good job.
He just leans back in the chair and lets his eyes close like someone flipped a switch for thirty blessed seconds.
Dusk comes violet at the edges of the curtains. Your head’s a dull ache instead of a furnace. You roll toward him, still holding his hand, and find him watching your face like a patrol — bored expression, eyebrows mean, attention total.
“Hi,” you rasp.
His mouth twitches.
“Hi.”
“Sorry about… earlier.”
You gesture at everything with little effort, the snap, the tears, the open window, your entire tragic body.
He shakes his head once.
“You were sick, you know it. I know it.” A beat. “Text next time. Before you try to fix it alone.”
You’re too tired to argue.
You squeeze his hand.
He lets you.
For a long, quiet minute, that’s the whole conversation — your pulse learning his, his thumb idly pressing the back of your knuckles like a metronome.
When sleep comes again, it’s easier.
He’s a big, rude shape in a chair, an ugly blanket folded near, a glass of water within reach, the room the exact temperature he decided. You drift with the dull certainty that you’ll wake and he’ll still be there, scowling at a thermometer like it owes him money.
In the morning you might file this under fever dream.
For now, with your fingers curled around his, you know exactly what it is, a giant predator running every safety he’s got and still refusing to leave the den.
You wake up feeling better.
The days pass, the same routine repeats.
Bare feet, soft steps around the house. Mug tucked to your chest as if ceramic could ward off a six-foot-plus problem with red eyes and a jaw that could cut glass. You clock the boots by the door, the keys in the dish, the way the air smells faintly like smoke and cedar when he’s home.
You reroute down hallways like a rat in a maze.
Your head is back at it because of the routine — as if he didn't nurse you back to health even when you snapped at him and then dozed off like a sick victorian child.
He hates you. Obviously. You didn't change your mind about it.
He grunts when you say hi, ignores when you ask if the shower’s free, reaches past you without a word for the top shelf you can’t reach.
He's your best friend’s older brother and sharing an apartment with him has a lot of pros, money-wise.
Living with him is… manageable if you treat him like a cyclone — track it, give it space, survive.
Tonight you miscalculate.
You come around the corner toward the kitchen and walk into a wall of muscle and heat and black T-shirt.
Your mug taps his chest and you jolt like you’ve touched a socket.
“Whoa.”
He catches the mug with one big hand and steadies it, steadying you with the other at your waist. His palm is hot. You freeze. He looks down. The red of his eyes flicks to your mouth, back up.
“Relax. I’m not gonna bite.”
“Okay,” you whisper, which is dumb because everything about him says bite.
You step sideways to slip past, he doesn’t move.
“Why are you always walking like I’m the landlord and you’re late on rent?” he asks, lazy and rough. He smells like soap and smoke, fresh ink and clean sweat. “I live here too. You don’t have to sneak.”
“I wasn’t— ”
“Lying,” he says, cocking a brow. “Try again.”
You open your mouth. Close it. You hate how your pulse hammers, how your throat goes tight when he stares like that — flat, unblinking, cutting through pretense.
“I don’t want to… bother you,” you manage.
He huffs a laugh, it edges on a scoff.
“If you were bothering me, you’d know.”
Your fingers go clammy around the mug.
“Right.”
He leans his hip to the counter, caging you without quite touching again.
“You’re scared of me.”
“No.”
He tilts his head, considering.
The ink on his neck shifts with the movement, the light picks out the line of his throat, the scar through his eyebrow, the ring in his lip he worries with his tongue when he thinks.
“You look like a rabbit when you see me,” he says. “Big eyes. Freeze, bolt. Cute.”
Your cheeks burn so fast it’s embarrassing.
“I’m not— you can’t just call people rabbits.” your brows knit together.
“Why not? Fits.”
His gaze drops to your bare legs, the hem of your sleep shorts.
“Soft,” he adds, voice lower. “Skittish.”
“I’m not skittish,” you mutter, which sounds skittish.
He pushes off the counter and crowds a step closer.
You smell the mint on his breath.
He bends until his mouth is near your ear.
You can feel every single hair of your body standing and you need to kill a soft sound as it crawls up your throat.
“You think I hate you?” he asks, tone gone velvet and dangerous. “You really that bad at reading people?”
Your spine stiffens.
“You don’t exactly scream friendly.”
“Don’t need friends,” he says.
He drags knuckles down the outside of your arm, barely there, a static-soft graze that lights up every nerve.
“Don’t hate you either.”
“What do you— ” you go tense with the heat of his body so close to yours. Closer. Almost touching.
“If I hated you,” he murmurs, and you feel the curl of his smile against your cheek, “you wouldn’t be in my apartment.”
Your apartment, technically, but you’re not stupid enough to argue that with his mouth this close.
He straightens and looks at you like he’s been trying not to.
Direct and greedy. No flinch, no hiding.
“I don’t hate you,” he repeats, blunt, like a verdict. “I want to fuck you.”
The word lands low, hot, flipping your stomach like a coin.
You blink, aghast.
The mug in your hands suddenly weighs a ton.
You set it down before you drop it.
“You— you can’t say that.” Your voice comes out thinner than you want. “I’m— your brother's friend.” as if this would stop anyone, honestly.
“He’s not my keeper.” He studies your face. “You’re an adult. I’m an adult. We’re both sober. I’m saying it out loud so you don’t have to keep inventing stories where I hate you, rabbit.” His tongue touches his canine, the faintest flash of fang. “I don’t.”
"You can't say things like this— out loud."
You hate the wobble in your voice. You hate that you mean please don’t be mean and please be careful and please say it again.
“Why not.” He doesn’t reach for you
He doesn’t soften the line of his jaw. He keeps his hands flat where you can see them like a cop at a traffic stop.
“I’ve been decent. I’ve been loud instead of touching. I’ve been letting you spook. You’re not spooked anymore.”
“I’m spooked,” you say, wobbly laugh. “I’m—” You gesture at him. At the hoodie. At the sum of a week where a man like him ran a cold bath and timed your pulse points. “You scare me.”
“Yeah,” he says, like water is wet. “I’m scary.”
He tips his chin, gives you the full, unblinking red of his eyes.
“And I’m telling you so you stop inventing stories where I hate you. I don’t. I wanted you the second you put my knife back crooked and pretended you hadn’t.” The corner of his mouth pulls, wicked and fond. “Been running safeties ever since.”
“Safeties,” you echo, stupid with heat.
He nods once.
“Doors. Knobs. Knives. Voice.” He taps his throat, lazy. “This is me being polite, rabbit.”
The nickname shouldn’t make your stomach drop.
It does. It always has.
This time it doesn’t feel like a collar, it feels like a hand outstretched that could close, if you let it.
“I thought I was a nuisance,” you say, because the narrative you’ve been living in doesn’t know where to go.
“You’re annoying,” he says, without mercy and somehow with warmth. “I like annoying.”
He leans in a whisper of an inch, and the world narrows the way it does before a bad decision.
“I like you.”
You swallow. The kitchen feels smaller. Your silence stretches, he lets it, patient in a way you didn’t know he was capable of.
Finally, you breathe,
“What— what do you want me to say?”
“‘Yes’ if you want it,” he says simply. “Or ‘no’ and I’ll step back and stop crowding you. I won’t bring it up again. You can go back to tiptoeing and I’ll pretend I don’t hear you do those little gasps when you open a jar.”
“You do not hear—” your face is a furnace and your eyes go wide.
He grins, sharp and delighted.
“Every time.”
Your face is lava. You glance at his mouth. At his throat. At the veins in his forearms where black lines wrap muscle.
You have spent weeks dodging him like he’s a fault line.
You have also spent weeks not thinking about the way his shirt rides up when he reaches high shelves, not thinking about the soft grunt he makes when he drops a heavy pan, not thinking about what his hand would feel like at your throat—
“Close the fridge,” he says, gentle.
You blink, you had backed into it and left it cracked.
You nudge it shut with your hip.
“Okay,” you say.
Your voice is small but steady now.
“Okay.”
“Okay yes,” he clarifies, heat flaring.
You meet his eyes and nod once.
“Yes.”
The change is immediate.
The tension that always coils in him loosens into something focused and hungry. He steps in and cups your jaw carefully, thumb gliding under your cheekbone as if he’s making sure you stay exactly where you want to be.
“Knew it,” he murmurs, then kisses you.
It’s not gentle. It’s not cruel either. It’s thorough — like he’s been cataloging the idea and now he’s checking every line against the original.
His mouth is hot, peppermint-bitter. You brace on his chest and feel him, solid, heat thrumming under cotton. He groans when you open for him, it punches through you like lightning.
“Fuck,” he says against your lips, the word a growl. “You taste sweet.”
“Tea,” you manage. “Honey.”
He licks into your mouth like that’s an answer he likes.
Big hands bracket your hips and lift, easy as breathing, setting you on the counter.
The cool stone against your thighs shocks a small sound out of you.
His eyes go darker at that sound, his smile turns feral.
“Pretty,” he says. “Knew you’d be.”
“You act like you planned this.” you say as if you didn't imagine it a thousand times.
“Thought about it,” he admits, shameless. “Wanted to be decent about it.”
He noses along your jaw, finds the spot below your ear that makes your knees restless even with nowhere to go.
“Still can be. You stop me anytime, rabbit. Say the word.” He meets your gaze, waits. “You hear me?”
“I hear you.” like hell you're stopping him.
“Good girl.”
Heat runs through you like a fuse.
He drags his mouth down your throat, teeth scraping just enough to make your breath hitch, and you tip your head back and give him the length of your neck without thinking.
He laughs low, pleased.
“See? Not skittish.”
“I could run,” you say, breathless.
“You won’t.”
He sucks a mark into the tender skin above your collarbone, slow and proprietorial.
“You’re shaking, but you won’t.”
“I don’t— ” Your protest becomes a gasp when his hand slides under your shirt, rough palm over the softness of your stomach, up, up. He pauses at the band of your bra, eyes on yours. You nod. He slips his hand in and groans when he finds your breast, thumb circling once, twice, until your back arches to his palm.
“Pretty sounds,” he says, pleased and mean, like he’s proud he’s extracting them. “Been imagining what you’d sound like for weeks.”
“You— god— heard me open jars but not— ”
Your words dissolve when he mouths at your nipple through the thin fabric.
“Oh, I hear everything,” he says, wicked. “Like how you breathe when you’re alone in the shower.”
He smirks against your skin when you make a scandalized noise.
“I’m not a saint. I left the apartment for a reason some nights.”
“You’re filthy.” you feel your heart thundering and still you're too aroused to care about his wicked ways.
“I’m considerate,” he counters, amused. Then, softer, honest, “And I was trying to give you room to decide.”
Something tender tugs under your ribs. It’s swallowed quick by the way his hand drifts under the hem of your shorts, fingers squeezing the curve of your thigh before sliding inward. He pauses again, patient.
You nod too fast.
He drags the pad of his middle finger over the damp cotton between your legs like he has all the time in the world.
Your stomach drops, heat flashes, your hips tip forward without your permission and his mouth goes back to your throat, humming, satisfied.
“Warm,” he murmurs. “So fucking soft.”
The words are filthy but his tone is reverent. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, fingers teasing slow until you’re clutching his shoulders and making little helpless sounds you will deny later.
“Hold on to me,” he says, and you do, wrapping your arms around his neck, feeling the flex of corded muscle as he works you with lazy precision.
“Sukuna— ”
“Yeah?” He kisses the corner of your mouth, smirking when you chase him.
“Bedroom,” you say, surprising yourself.
The kitchen feels suddenly too bright, too open, too like a decision you cannot walk back from in the place you both cook eggs.
His eyes flare at the word.
He leans in and kisses you again, slower this time, like a promise.
“Bedroom,” he agrees. He steps back, palms lingering on your hips before he slides you down. Your knees wobble and he steadies you, pleased. “Can you walk?”
You glare.
“Yes.”
“Prove it.” He takes your hand anyway.
Your room is only a dozen steps, but they feel like a ritual. His hand is big around yours, warm and sure.
In the doorway he stops you with a tug, makes you face him.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he says. “You say ‘stop’ and I stop.”
You breathe, look at him — at the ink at his throat, the red in his eyes, the stubborn set of his mouth that somehow means he’ll keep that promise.
The fear you carried around like a talisman loosens, slips. Something else settles in its place, a greedy, giddy relief you don’t try to hide.
“I don’t want to stop,” you tell him.
“Good,” he says, and for the first time since you moved in, he smiles without teeth, without edge, heat softening the hard lines of his face. “Then come here.”
You do.
You're in his arms, and then in your bed. Clothes get lost in the process of him getting you breathless with his kisses and touches. He relishes in every single sound he drags from you and is shameless about enjoying them too much.
You learn he lied earlier, he does bite.
He bites your inner thigh, he bites your belly and your neck and even your hip. He also soothes you with his tongue and lips, but he's mean, nonetheless. He circles your clit, presses with the flat of his tongue and edges you but doesn't let you come — you don't know how he knows so accurately when you're close.
He plays with you, lets his huge frame cage you from above as he fingers your needy cunt with one hand and keep his forehead against yours because he won't have you looking anywhere else besides his eyes as he undoes you prettily.
He chuckles in your mouth when you urge to kiss him, arms around his neck and chest pressing against his own as he finally lets you ride your orgasm while pumping his perfectly curled fingers in and out of you.
You don't remember the last time you came so hard, but he let's you know this won't be the last time of the day.
You ask him to choke you when he's already inside you and he stills for a whole second before opening a wicked grin, satisfied you decided to ask for what you want instead of burying it in your creative little mind.
And his hand around your throat is everything you thought and more.
Borderline obscene.
You moan louder, even with raspy voice you feel like the pleasure suddenly enhanced.
He lets himself enjoy you as much as you enjoy him, he places kisses and more bitemarks on your skin, he thrusts inside you with steady, strong pace that has your body shaking under his frame, he bites your lips, moans and groans against them and let you drink his lust as his crimson eyes sear their way through your glinting orbs.
Why did you take so long to— talk.
The brief regret of taking a long time to have this melts the instant he flips you and lets you ride him, big hand still encasing your throat and pulling you down so your chest lays on top of his, other big hand firm on your hipbone, settling you down so he bottoms out inside of you — gravity is a bitch sometimes.
You roll your eyes back when you feel the heat wave uncoiling in your stomach, his eyes bright with mirth as he sees how easily he rips another orgasm out of you, and he guides your body to grind against his. Swollen nub rubbing against his pelvis as his length twists and stroke in a lazy pace your inner walls. Your body shakes and muscles spasm — his mouth clashes on yours and he seems to feed on your whiny undone little sounds.
And as you ride your orgasm he chases his, fucking into you and making your body bounce on top of him, keeping your face close to his, chest to chest, hand now splayed at one of your ass cheeks before he grabs it so tight you yelp and he chuckles for a second and a wrecked moan escapes his lips in the other.
He finishes inside and oh god what is that sensation.
The heat increases and you feel him twitching, then a deeper thrust has him shooting thick hot ropes of cum inside you. You can't define it as other than strangely soothing, and of course, filling.
Later — sweat cooling, his breath slow against your neck, your sheets a mess — you’ll hear him say it again, rough and almost shy into your hair.
“I don’t hate you.”
“I got that,” you say, smiling in the dark, chest matching his. "You fucked the hate out."
He snorts, kisses your shoulder, pulls you closer with an easy, owning strength that makes your heart do stupid tricks.
“Good,” he repeats, and you feel the curve of his grin where his mouth rests on your skin. “So stop sneaking around our place, rabbit. If you need something, you ask.”
You pretend to think about it.
“What if what I need is on the top shelf?”
“Then I’ll reach.”
“What if what I need is you?” you feel sappy but you can allow yourself this one time.
He hums, pleased, and the sound goes through you like a warm hand.
“Then you won’t have to tiptoe for it.”
Yuji shows up like he always does, door flung with too much enthusiasm, a chorus of “hellooo!” and the smell of takeout preceding him down the hall.
He’s got a six-pack hooked in his fingers, a paper bag of gyoza clenched in his teeth, and exactly zero respect for doorframes.
“Peace was an option,” Sukuna says from the kitchen, deadpan, not looking up from the skillet.
“Peace is boring,” Yuji says around dumplings. He kicks off his shoes and beelines for you. “You look alive again! Did Bro stop waterboarding you with soup?”
You try to glare. It probably reads as fond.
“He did not waterboard me.”
“He would if it worked,” Sukuna says, flipping fried rice like the pan is an extension of his wrist. “Sit.”
You drift to the counter, meaning to help, and end up stealing a crispy bit from the pan. Sukuna’s eyes cut sideways — red and amused — and he taps the counter once, wait.
You do, because your survival instinct learned that tap.
Yuji bustles, sets down the bags, talks at a speed that defies physics.
“I brought gyoza, karaage, and those little sesame balls you pretend you don’t like.”
He leans in, stage-whispers,
“He eats them when you’re asleep.”
“I do not,” Sukuna says, already plating exactly three sesame balls on the far side like they’re under witness protection.
You reach for a plate, Sukuna slides it out of your hand with two fingers and jerks his chin toward the living room.
“Go sit.”
“I can carry—”
“Go sit,” he repeats, like gravity.
You go, muttering something about tyrants.
The couch sighs as you sink into it. The TV is on a streaming menu, the volume low.
You scroll, not really looking, Yuji follows with napkins and chopsticks and that big brother energy he has despite being the younger Itadori — “I will take care of you, and also I will drink your soda.” kind of vibe.
Sukuna arrives last, loaded like an efficient warlord — plates, bottles, extra sauce. He drops one plate on the coffee table and, without ceremony, drops himself onto the couch.
He hooks an arm around your waist and tugs you in, easy as breathing.
There’s no question.
One second you’re sitting next to him, the next, you’re sitting on him — across his thighs, your knees bracketing his, your plate balanced on the broad shelf of his quad. He nudges your ankle with his knee to angle you just right. His chin finds the notch of your shoulder like it was measured for him.
Yuji blinks.
Once.
Twice.
You can see the math happen behind his eyes.
“Ah, fuck,” he says, not exactly quietly.
Your stomach drops.
“Yuji— I was going to tell you,” you blurt, heat climbing your neck. “I just— I didn’t want it to be weird and I—”
He’s already grinning, palms up in surrender.
“No, no. I owe Megumi ten bucks.”
You short-circuit.
“I— what?”
Yuji thumbs out a text like he’s filing a claim.
“He said there was no universe where my brother would let you stay untouched and unkissed. Knowing you. Knowing him.”
He points his chin at Sukuna’s arm locked around your waist.
“Honestly? We’re late. I thought this would be, like, week two.”
Your cheeks go atomic.
Sukuna barks a laugh, chest shaking under your spine, and squeezes you closer until you can feel the smug roll of his hum against your nape.
“She thought I hated her,” he tells Yuji, delighted, like he’s reporting a crime.
Yuji cackles so hard he has to plant his hands on his knees.
“She’s always like this when people flirt— bold as hell and somehow blind.”
“I am not blind,” you say, attempting dignity from the worst possible vantage point —his lap. “He’s rough and mean.”
“Compliments,” Sukuna murmurs into your skin, teeth grazing your shoulder just to be an ass.
Yuji, gleeful,
“Bold. Blind.”
You stab a gyoza, refusing to be flustered.
You last three chews.
Sukuna, absolutely not helping, adds in that ruinous, lazy tone,
“You didn’t complain about rough and mean while I was fucking you.”
The noise that escapes you is not recognized by science.
Yuji facepalms so fast he might sprain something.
“BRO. I am present. I am a witness.”
“Be grateful I’m being polite,” Sukuna says, and steals half your karaage with audacious eye contact.
“Polite,” you echo, elbowing him in the ribs. It’s like elbowing a wall. “This is your polite setting?”
“Mm.” His breath warms the tiny hairs at your neck. “Figure you like me better out of prison.”
Yuji points two chopsticks like tiny accusing swords.
“New house rules. One, no filthy metaphors within three feet of the rice. Two, if you sit in his lap you forfeit food taxes. Three, I was right.”
“Megumi was right,” you correct weakly.
Yuji makes a show of texting.
“Pay up, Fushiguro. 😌”
Your phone buzzes a second later.
Megumi,
I won. Another, Also tell him to stop stealing sesame balls.
Sukuna snorts, mouth already full of a stolen sesame ball.
You try to regroup.
“For the record,” you say to Yuji, chin up, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know if it was— if he—”
You gesture vaguely at the man-shaped problem you’re sitting on.
“He’s not exactly… obvious.”
Yuji barks a laugh.
“He is the most obvious man alive. He moved the top-shelf stuff to the second shelf and pretended it was gravity. He washed your hoodie, that he gave you, and warmed it in the dryer like a cat.”
Sukuna grunts.
“Shut up.”
Yuji grins wider.
“He installed the rubber bath mat.”
You whirl.
“You told him that?”
“Didn’t have to,” Yuji says. “Bro’s been doing silent acts of service since we were kids. He thinks if he uses verbs it makes him weak.”
Sukuna flicks a dumpling at him.
Yuji catches it with the reflexes of a raccoon and eats it triumphantly.
You… soften.
It’s ridiculous, how fast the embarrassment drains into something buoyant.
The room feels bigger. Your shoulders slide down.
From this close, Sukuna’s “rough and mean” is just… texture. Heat.
The absurd safety of being bodily anchored to someone who blocks doors and fixes thermostats and snarls at gyoza.
Yuji leans back, satisfied, and opens a beer.
“Anyway, congrats, lovebirds. When’s the wedding.”
“Eat glass,” Sukuna says calmly.
“Bring a plus-one,” you add, and Yuji wheezes.
The movie you didn’t pick plays in the background — something loud and unserious.
Yuji heckles the physics, you laugh, Sukuna hums, that low pleased sound that vibrates where your spine meets his sternum, and presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw like he’s checking it fits there.
You swat at him with your chopsticks, useless.
“Yuji is right there.”
“I know,” he says, utterly unbothered, and nips your nape on pure principle.
Yuji throws a napkin.
“Two feet rule! Two feet!”
“Three feet,” you say primly, trying not to melt.
Sukuna’s mouth curls against your skin.
“I’ll allow it,” he says, like a king bestowing mercy, and slides one big palm over your thigh to anchor your plate. “Eat.”
You eat. He steals. Yuji steals from both of you like a happy goblin and gives running commentary about how Megumi is sending him a ten with a skull emoji.
Somewhere in there, your phone buzzes again — Nobara, tell him if he breaks your heart I’ll break his kneecaps — and you show Yuji and everybody laughs, including the alleged kneecap owner, who says,
“Get in line.”
At some point you lean back without thinking.
Sukuna’s arm tightens, automatic, the way seatbelts do in old cars. You pretend not to notice how good “automatic” feels, and he pretends not to notice you noticing.
Yuji finishes his beer, wipes his mouth, and eyes the two of you like an anthropologist closing a field notebook.
“Well,” he says, smug, “this turned out wholesome. Disgusting.”
“Get out,” Sukuna says without heat.
“In a minute.” Yuji snaps his fingers. “One more rule, if you’re going to be gross, at least admit you’re happy.”
You make a face.
Sukuna doesn’t.
He just hums against your shoulder again, low and obscene and somehow soft, and says,
“Happy she thought I hated her?”
“Yeah, and she still climbed you like a tree,” Yuji fires back.
Your face combusts again. You bury it in your hands. Both brothers laugh — Sukuna’s a bass rumble under your palms, Yuji’s a bright crackle that fills the room.
It should be mortifying. It is. It’s also easy. It’s loud and dumb and perfect.
You peek through your fingers.
Yuji is texting terrible memes. Sukuna is licking sauce off his thumb like a menace.
You are sitting on a man who used to terrify you and now feels like a gravity you got to choose.
“Hey,” Yuji says, half out the door later with leftovers dangling. “For real. If he’s too mean, I’ll steal you.”
“You can try,” Sukuna says, amused, hand heavy and warm at your waist.
You stick your tongue out at Yuji.
“Megumi still gets the ten?”
Yuji groans.
“I’m never betting against that man again.”
The door shuts. Silence returns like a friendly cat. You let your head tip back onto Sukuna’s shoulder.
He nudges the plate away and folds you in both arms like it’s his job.
“Bold and blind, huh,” you murmur.
“Bold,” he corrects, mouth at your pulse. “Not blind anymore.”
You smile, helpless.
“Rough and mean.”
“Mm.” He kisses your neck, unhurried. “You didn’t complain.”
18+ MDNI, smut - bf!sukuna fucks your back pain away
you wince as you sit down on the couch, lower back throbbing.
sukuna glances up from his phone. raises a brow.
"again?"
you nod. pouty. "it’s worse today. i can’t even stand straight."
he scoffs, tosses his phone on the table. "you walk around like a fucking shrimp. maybe if you stretched-"
"you’re literally zero help."
"i am help," he says, standing. "just not your weird little yoga influencer help."
you open your mouth to argue - but then he’s lifting you. scooping you into his arms like you weigh nothing, carrying you to the bed with an unreadable expression.
"what are you doing."
"helping."
"...by throwing me around?"
he lays you down, firm hand on your hip. kisses your spine.
"just shut up and let me fix it."
he’s got you on your stomach, ass up, cheek pressed into the pillow.
your hoodie is bunched around your waist. your shorts are long gone. he’s already naked - because of course he is.
his palm smooths over your lower back. slow. hot.
"right here?" he murmurs.
you nod.
he spits directly onto your pussy, prompting a wanton moan from you. he jerks his thick cock once, twice, rubs the tip between your folds until you’re squirming. then he presses in - slow, deep and heavy.
you moan.
your back arches.
and sukuna grins like he’s just proved a point.
"that help?"
"fuck- yes-"
he doesn’t go easy. never does. he holds your hips tight, fucks you with perfect, measured rhythm - deep and angled, right where it hurts and soothes all at once. your back cracks on the third thrust and you yelp.
"there it is," he grunts, slamming back in. "see? dick is the cure."
you’re drooling. eyes glassy. pillow soaked.
he hits so deep, fills you so good, you can’t think anymore - just moan into the mattress while your back pain is literally fucked out of you.
"feel that, baby?" he pants. "feel how good i stretch you out? fuckin’ medicine, huh?"
you’re sobbing. "yesyesyes- oh my god-"
he leans down, chest pressed to your back, hand sneaking around to rub your clit.
"c’mon, princess. give it to me. let go. fuckin’ soak me."
you do.
you come hard. legs trembling. vision white.
sukuna groans and you feel his seed filling you up, thick and warm.
after, you’re laying face-down, still twitching. he presses lazy kisses to your spine.
"how’s your back now."
you groan. "weirdly… better."
he smirks. "told you. you just needed to get rearranged."
you swat his arm.
he rolls you over, tucks your legs around his waist, kisses your forehead.
"next time, don’t wait till it hurts. let me know. we’ll call it… preventative medicine."
