i feel like you’d have to date kyojuro for ages before he’d dick you down. and that’s really great and cute and all but omg, imagine hardcore ovulating and he’s just like let’s go get a pastry and freshly squeezed orange juice at this lovely place i know, mf let me squeeze your balls-
hints straight up fly over his head and at the end of the day you just feel like a pervert because he is so wonderful and nice and all you can think about is bouncing on it, lol.
you invite him over to your place for a ‘movie night’ thinking that this HAS to work, and he shows up, watches the thing, eats everything in your house besides your pussy and is like “all right, let me get out of your hair so that you can get some rest!” like are you KIDDING me
contains: modern au, sukuna was involved in shady business in the past, babysitting yuji for the first time, it's awkward, messy and cute lmao
The doorbell rings like a death knell. Sukuna—scarred, tattooed, and currently smelling of expensive tobacco and bad decisions—looms in the doorway as he opens it and squints at the person who dared disturb him at this hour of the morning.
His twin, Jin, stands there looking like he hadn’t slept since the dawn of time, clutching a diaper bag.
Serves him right for doing it raw with his then girlfriend and getting her knocked up. The man had guffawed in his brother's ashen, sweating face when he'd come clean to him and their father.
“One night, Ryomen. Please. The gala is mandatory, and the sitter has a cold.”
Jin shoves a warm, squishy bundle into Sukuna’s massive, ink-covered arms and vanishes before Sukuna can explain that he'a better at liquidating assets than burping them.
Now, Sukuna sits on his leather sofa, staring at the creature known as Yuji. Yuji is five months old and currently looking at Sukuna with the horrified fascination one might reserve for a shark in a tuxedo.
“What are you looking at, kid?” Sukuna’s voice is a low, gravelly rumble. It's probably poor taste to intimidate a baby but do you think this man gives a shit?
Exactly. Moving on.
Not much has changed since the last time he was in this stinky, poopy baby's presence.
“Your head's gettin' bigger,” he snorts, finding it utterly ridiculous and hilarious that the little sucker could even hold it up for long on his own yet. “You're like a tyrannosaur without a tail.”
Yuji’s bottom lip wobbles like he understood the insult. He stares at the dark markings creeping up the scary, unfamiliar man's face, eyes bowing and a quiet whine of unease hitching in his chest.
Sukuna leans in, flashing a sharp, predatory grin with all his teeth accounted for, beady red eyes gleaming maliciously. Though in the infant's perspective it's like looking at the man through a fish eye lens which is even creepier with how it warps his face so it's round and huge.
“Yeah, I’m the big bad wolf. Your dad actually sold you to me for a pack of cigarettes,” Jin doesn't even smoke, “He’s not coming back. It’s just us and the cold, hard world now.”
Yuji lets out a tiny, uncertain whimper, curling in on himself in that newborn scrunch kind of way.
“Don’t start that,” Sukuna warns, kissing his teeth in annoyance at the thought of dealing with a crying infant and pointing a calloused finger. “Better watch out. I haven't had breakfast yet. You look like a prime slider.”
A mean chuckle bubbles in his chest as his nephew's eyes widen and he kicks out with a soft hiccup.
“Yeah, I’m gonna eat you. Start with the toes. High protein,” his uncle gives a growl that startles the baby, amusing Sukuna to no end.
But Yuji doesn't cry. Instead, he reaches out a tiny, chubby hand and pats Sukuna’s nose. It is a tactical error—definitely not the reaction he expected.
Kids usually run and scream, hiding behind their parents’ legs when they see him. Hell, even the parents can't seem to comfort their children when the sight of him makes them wanna shit their pants too.
And yet, this fat, pink-haired baby cracks a gummy smile, all coos and gurgles for him. Sukuna just knows he's going to talk his ear off one day.
Sukuna's less grumpy after eating breakfast. He's got Yuji propped up in his baby seat on the couch as they sit in awkward silence, the television playing something uninteresting in front of them.
The baby seems content just sucking on his pacifier but Sukuna is not. Maybe it's because pacifiers don't come in adult sizes. He feels like he needs to say something—anything to end this weird quietness.
“So, uh,” he starts dumbly, scratching the back of his head and clearing his throat as the baby casts his cute little doe eyes on him.
His uncle interlaces his fingers on his lap, squirming a bit like he's in some interview. Which is odd because Sukuna is never nervous; he makes other people nervous by just existing.
“Have you decided which university to want to apply to yet?” That is the stupidest question Sukuna has ever asked and Yuji stares at him blanky, obviously not fucking understanding.
Of course, the man has to make it worse with a poor attempt at a nonchalant shrug as he sniffs. “I'm just saying. I could help you out. Went to an ivy league myself, you know? Could help you apply.”
Again, just that unmoved expression on that plump face, pudgy cheeks drooping with how fat they are and blush, wispy hair sticking out in all directions as he eyes his uncle.
“You've got, what?” He scrunches up one side of his face with a hum as he actually thinks about it. “Eighteen years until you have to enroll? A head start is always a good idea. Your dad is a delayed fucker.”
A blink is all he gets in response, watching his nephew's salmon lashes brush his cheeks as he suckles on his pacifier faster.
The evening quickly devolves into a series of failures after that.
Babies are bound to get fussy when they remember that they don't know who the fuck the person in front of them is. The hulking, tatted man before Yuji is not his Papa Jin or Mama Kaori.
So he cries, eyes glassy and bottom lip jut out as he sniffles and heaves out pathetic sobs.
A tug pulls in Sukuna's chest as he paces, trying to figure out how the fuck to console him. He's tried rocking him, playing nursery rhymes, talking to him, handing him toys.
None of it worked.
Then it hit him. Not just the sock that Yuji kicked off but an idea too.
He's the identical twin of the baby's father—Yuji is biologically his child too. While Jin looks dorky as fuck, they still share a face.
Grumbling, Sukuna puts on his spectacles and ruffles his hair like a dog shaking water off his fur coat. Yuji’s hiccuping cries falter as he frowns at the odd scene before him.
Slick back hair gone, the tresses are now akin to a fucking mop, similar to the bowl cut his dumbass brother has. He feels so silly like this, doesn't know how Jin walks around looking like an embarrassment, how he even got laid.
He wouldn't have believed it if the proof of his brother's rendezvous wasn't currently giggling at his stupid change in appearance, eyes curving into crescents as sweet, heartwarming giggles flutter out of him.
“Yeah, you like your uncle looking like an idiot, huh?” he scoffs, looking at his nephew through the curtain of his bangs but is relieved that it worked.
Yuji coos and babbles in delight.
During feeding time, Sukuna holds the bottle like a live grenade after ensuring to follow the instructions to the T and checking the temperature. As much as he terrifies and torments the kid, he's still his nephew.
Though it's hard to remember that when Yuji decides this is the perfect time to practice being a fucking pressure hose, spraying lukewarm formula across Sukuna’s t-shirt and face, milk dripping from his scowling face, droplets running down the path of his tattoos as he stares ahead for a crumb of patience.
When it comes to burping him, Sukuna pats the baby’s back, big hand spanning his entire upper body and reminding the man just how tiny and fragile the little human is, with the gentlest strength he possesses, which is still enough to make the kid sound like a deflating bagpipe.
“Crap, sorry,” he hisses in apology, softening his touch even further as he waits for the release of gas.
It does come. From his mouth and his butt.
Diaper changing is a biohazard situation that requires Sukuna to use his high-end gin as an emergency sanitizer after a vomit-inducing mishap.
Sukuna holds his breath until his vision blurs, hovering over the changing table with the intensity of a man dismantling a bomb.
“This is worse than a club bathroom. Blech," he gags, pinning a squirming Yuji down with one hand while grappling with a sticky tab.
By 8:00 PM, both are covered in a questionable film of sweat and baby powder. Sukuna sighs, running a hand through his mussed coral locks, stripping off his ruined shirt, and hauling the infant into the tub.
As the warm water fills the basin, something shifts. Sukuna sits on the floor, his massive frame cramped, using a tiny yellow sponge to wipe Yuji’s forehead. Yuji splashes, a spray of water hitting Sukuna’s face.
Sukuna blinks slowly, wipes his eyes, and lets out a dry, accidental chuckle.
Yuji pauses, then lets out a high-pitched, melodic coo. He splashes again, his toothless grin mirroring Sukuna’s sharp one—only this time, it isn't scary. It is just... nice.
An hour later, the house is silent save for the living room. Sukuna is sprawled on the couch, a soft knitted blanket covering his tattooed chest. A bright, neon-coloured movie about singing trolls plays on the massive screen—a far cry from his usual gritty crime dramas.
Yuji is draped atop his chest, propped up on his belly as he's doing “tummy time” or whatever, big brown eyes glued to the kaleidoscope of colours dancing across the television, mouth slightly open as drool glistens on his chin that Sukuna keeps muttering over and wiping away with his thumb.
Begrudgingly, the plot of the movie has sucked him in too, brows drawn together as the scenes reflect in the lenses of his eye comfort glasses.
The pink-haired troll who talks too much for his liking and is buzzing with energy won't get off the blue brooding, grumpy one's ass about something until he snaps. You can guess which one Sukuna relates to.
“Because singing killed my grandma!”
A tense beat of silence envelops the characters as that revelation hits them.
“Damn, this is kinda heavy for kids,” Sukuna muses then scoffs and rolls his head to look at his nephew who doesn't spare him a glance. “But what do I know? I was asking you about college.”
“My uncle died tap dancing once.”
It's so random that Sukuna barks out a laugh, spooking his nephew who almost tumbles off his chest from the force of the action, flailing like a turtle on its back.
Eyes bulging, Sukuna's quick to catch him in one burly arm and settle him back on his chest, heart thudding hard against his ribcage and blood rushing in his ears. “Shit! Sorry, kid.”
He stays in place for the remainder of the movie.
The baby reaches up at one point, tracing the tattoo on Sukuna's collarbone, cooing softly. Sukuna doesn't move. He doesn't even breathe or blink, terrified of breaking the fragile peace.
Slowly, the tiny hands drop as eyes droop. The heavy eyelids slide shut. Yuji puffs out a long, contented sigh, sinking into the warmth of his "scary" uncle.
Sukuna stares down, his rough face melting into an uncharacteristically gentle expression as something warm and fuzzy blooms in behind his ribs. He adjusts the blanket, resting a heavy hand over the infant's back.
Yuji is fast asleep, cheek smushed to his uncle's pec like it's a pillow as his small body rises and falls in perfect sync with Sukuna’s breathing. His tiny fist was curled tightly around Sukuna’s thumb.
A smile, genuine and a little dopey, curls at the corner of Sukuna's mouth as he resumes watching the nature documentary he put on.
The pink-haired man checks on his nephew again, the harsh lines of his face softening once more in the blue light of the television. He’d toppled regimes and moved millions, but this four-pound weight on his sternum feels like the heaviest responsibility he’s ever held.
“Fine,” Sukuna concedes, whispering into the quiet room, careful not to wake the baby. “You can stay. But tomorrow, we’re watching The Godfather.”
Yuji just sighs in his sleep, smelling of lavender and milk.
synopsis: sukuna is tired of unfulfilling one night stands and he goes looking for something real in the wrong place.
contains: MDNI, unedited, meet ugly, friends with benefits, slight smut, violence, mentions of cheating (reader's ex), emotional constipation, denial, toxic relationship, angst, barely any fluff, college au, hurt/no comfort
words: 7.4k
note: forewarning—i am on my period so i am not responsible for any of this. sukuna fanart by ma0chi77!
Sukuna Ryomen doesn't let anyone make a fool out of him. He's not a jester in anyone's fucking court, dancing to entertain the princess or whatever.
Yet, he's like a stray dog being fed scraps by a stranger when it comes to you. Grateful and desperate for every crumb, licking even the smallest drop of gravy from the pavement even if it's covered with dirt and insects. It doesn't happen often but it brings him joy anyway. Sometimes, he makes the mistake of trying to return the favor with dead birds and rodents as gifts only to be met with disgust and chased away in anger. It's confusing and crushing as the canine retreats with its ears back and tail tucked away. And then, another day comes, the sunlight that doesn't reach these corners is suddenly brightening the dingy, dark alleyway with the presence of that stranger again. Their smile is kind and there's a hearty meal in their hands, the sight letting hope warm the dog's chest again, tail wagging as it approaches. It's as if the other night didn't happen.
All that affection you have inside you that you don't know where to put for safekeeping are his morsels. You hoard it like a little girl with stickers that she insists will only be used once she has the perfect scrapbook, the perfect markers, the perfect picture, the perfect muse. Then that right moment never arrives and those stickers collect dust, some losing their adhesives and peeling off. So when it comes out in spontaneous and sporadic bursts like a kiss to his dewy temple or the drag of your manicured nails through the tufts of his hair, he gives you his belly like a dog surrendering.
To you, love is like a borrowed coat that he placed on your shoulders to shield you from the cold outside—it's warm and safe but not yours. To him, his heart is yours but yours isn't his, not truly. It's like when you're given a gift by someone and there's no thought behind it, it's not something they saw that reminded them of you but rather something they liked and gifted to you. It's a constant memory of them, it never feels like it's actually, wholly yours.
“What a lovely thing it would be,” you had said one night as cicadas serenaded the moon that spared them no acknowledgement as it was too busy beaming down on you. Cradling his face in one of your hands, your stroked it, thumb following the line of his tattoos with something close to reverence.
How pretty you were, laying beside him in the truck bed of his ride, eyes glazed over from the blunt you shared, hair fanned on like spilled silk, smiles generous and oh so sweet even as they clawed at his lungs and squeezed, refusing to let him breathe. You were supposed to be stargazing but why would he look up when there was a bright, burning one right beside him?
Finding his voice, he mustered the courage to speak, low and softer than he would ever address anyone else. “What would be?”
His carmine eyes traced your features as if he didn't see it behind his eyelids every time he blinked, imprinted there like an artist would by heart his muse. If someone were to slice open his chest, pull apart his ribs and scoop out the bloody, pumping organ that did funny things around one girl, they'd find her face carved into it, down to the faintest beauty marks he doubted you even knew you had and every eyelash accounted for.
Delicate fingers combed into his blush pink hair, nails scratching at his scalp in the way that made his skin crawl deliciously as he resisted the urge to shudder, not moving a muscle in case the skittish cat that was your scarce affection spooked and fled. You're careful not to get smudges of your fingerprints on his eyeglasses.
Though the tenderness in your gaze wasn't fleeting in the slightest, lips a crescent like the lunar body in the starry sky that witnessed this moment that would be etched into his memory for years to come, maybe even form a part of his last seven minutes.
“To tear you apart, ruin you,” the fondness with which you uttered those words melted like chocolate on his tongue despite the violence in them. He doubted you meant that in a carnal sense either but given the nature of your relationship—whatever you insisted on calling it—that could very much be the case.
The night your lives intertwined like a spider silk string wrapped around your pinkies, tugging you to each other no matter how far the other strayed, flashes through his mind like camera film, flitting past the kaleidoscope of memories you'd shared after that.
Dazzling smile, luscious hair and mesmerizing eyed, you had approached him and his friends, specifically Choso, eyeing up the younger man who was certainly spoken for despite the fact that he'd been going through a breakup at the time. Alas, the dark-haired man was too polite to turn you down so Sukuna cut in, ever the confrontational fucker who was always up for a fight, telling you that they're not interested and that you should “run along.”
Whipping your head in his direction, about to ask if he was the spokesperson for his brother, your expression faltered, brows pressing together in confusion as you blinked. “Sorry, have we met?”
You could not for the life in you pinpoint what about him sparked recognition in you. The coral pink hair. The ink decorating his arms and what sliver you could see of his chest from his open collar. The harshness of his features. The ruby of his irises. Something yet nothing had you wracking your brain to figure out where you've seen him before.
Being the asshole he is, he barked at that, called your “pickup line” shitty and told you to return to your friends then come back when you didn't have “your panties in a twist.”
“You'd like that wouldn't you? With a nasty attitude like that, you'd probably be delighted if I tossed them at you so you could sniff them like some stress reliever.”
That was the last thing he expected you to—actually a retort that audacious didn't even cross his mind to begin with. Women tend to hightail it or curl their lip in disgust then leave when he gave them the “fuck you and fuck off out of my face” look and talk.
Freezing for a beat, his eyes narrowed into a withering glare under the flashing lights but you could tell he was more taken aback than anything else so you gestured to yourself, unafraid and elaborate.
“My dress isn't confining. I could shimmy out of them real quick right now if you'd like. Would that calm you down, Grumpy Pants?" The question was taunting, delivered with doe eyes and a fat bottom lip. “Stuffing them in your mouth like a gag?”
Standing up straight from where he was leaning against the bar, he wasn't even trying to intimidate you as he held his hands up, his wingspan alone encroaching on your personal bubble, coming off as a threat that you rose to rather than the gesture of surrender he was trying to make before you could fly off the handle and let everyone in this club think he was some perverted panty-sniffer.
“Whoa, hey now, lady. I was just turning you down nicely. No need to go batshit on me,” he tried to be placating but come on, the guy what a grade A dick who was only ever decent to his friends and family and even then they could hardly tell if he actually cared for them or just tolerated their presence.
“Turning me down nicely,” you echoed with a scoff, “even though you were certainly not the man I was talking to. And I'm not going batshit, you're not worth that.” Classic guy move to accuse a girl of being crazy when she doesn't find his disrespect amusing.
“You're the one who came here with a bad opener. Have we met? Really?”
“It was a genuine question, genius. But you clearly don't have a decent bone in your body.”
“You walked into a conversation you weren’t invited to.”
That does it. Your smile thins—not angry, just precise. Nodding, you say, “Right. That checks out.”
Sukuna's face screws up in exasperation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing dramatic. Just that you confuse indifference with superiority. Usually happens when someone’s desperate for validation but allergic to self-reflection.”
One of his friends coughs to hide a laugh.
The pink-haired man just deadpanned. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough to have an impression of you. Loud confidence, quick cruelty, obsessed with control. You needed to shut me down fast so no one thought I had the upper hand.”
Sighing heavily, he glances over your head. You might have been a psychology major or something but even the ones he knew didn't just start picking people apart at random. “Great. Here we go.”
“No, really. This whole thing—” you gestured to his form “—cutting me off, trying to embarrass me in front of your friends—this isn’t disinterest. This is control.”
Were you pulling stuff out of your ass to throw him off just to win this argument? Probably but that didn't stop you.
He leaned forward, jaw tight. “You came over here desperate for attention. Don’t flip the script.”
“See, that’s projection. I came over for my friend.” You point behind you to where Yuki is. “You saw a woman speaking to someone who isn't you and panicked.”
He scoffs. “I didn’t panic.”
“You did. Because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be trying this hard to get the last word.”
Sukuna just liked getting on people's nerves but tonight he was on the receiving end, it seems.
“You’re not as smart as you think. Trying to psychoanalyze strangers in the club isn't cute.”
You tilt your head, almost kind.
“Maybe not. But I am self-aware. And that’s why I don’t need to be cruel to feel important.”
He waves you off. “Whatever. You’re done here.”
You smile again, warm, lethal.
Your friends appear at your side, hands on your arms. The brunette one with dark circles that look like eye shadow says your name, “Come dance. He’s not worth it.”
“Relax, I was just joking,” Sukuna lies through his teeth, watching you roll your eyes as you flash your friends a reassuring smile to tell them you're good.
It's gone when your eyes lock again. “Crazy how jokes are only jokes when you’re the one being rude.”
An apologetic smile graces your face when you look at Choso who seemed uncomfortable with this whole argument that you two had. He had tried to step in and mediate but Sukuna had cut him a glare that said to stay out of it. Being younger, he backed down out of respect.
Later, when it's quieter and you're sitting in a corner near the bar, Sukuna approaches, less arrogance, more stiffness.
“Hey. Look—earlier, I was kind of a dick.”
You turn slowly, expression neutral. “Kind of.”
Resting an arm on the counter, he cringes slightly. “I didn’t mean it like that. You caught me off guard.”
“You weren’t off guard. You were defensive,” you point out.
He huffs. “I’m apologizing.”
With an eyeroll full of attitude, you incline your head. “No, your ego is bruised. If you were truly sorry, you would have apologized in front of your friends the same way you tried to humiliate me earlier. Doing it in private isn't sincere.”
That stops him. “That’s not fair.”
You lift a shoulder, looking at your friends who are still having a blast then back at him. “It is. You wanted the last word then, and you want absolution now.”
You pick up your drink. “I don’t accept apologies from people who only find manners after consequences.”
He opens his mouth. You raise a hand—polite, final. “Have a good night.”
You turn back to your friends. He stands there, apology unused, watching you laugh like he never existed.
Irritated, he marches off, going outside to get a smoke and find something to cool off his simmering anger. The one time he tries to be the bigger person and make amends for his actions, he's met with someone like you.
See if you were a guy, he'd probably come looking for a fight. But you were a woman and clearly not interested in him so it's not like you'd ever be up for fucking it out either. Hence, because it's a bad habit of his, he waits. Waits for the chaos that's bound to break on a night like this where tensions were high and people were easy to provoke.
When he walks back into the club, they recognize each other instantly—eye contact across the club like a challenge thrown without words. Old beef, unresolved and fermenting. The ex-friend of his who slept with his ex-girlfriend and fled before he could do anything about it. When they finally collide near the bar, it’s not loud at first. It’s cold.
Sukuna snaps a quick jab to his nose—clean, efficient. Friends surge in. One of Sukuna's ducks and counters another guy with a hook that thuds into the side of a jaw. Someone gets yanked backward by the hood and slammed into the bar rail.
A bottle shatters nearby—not used as a weapon, just collateral. Knees lift, elbows slash sideways, people trying to protect their own while still getting hits in.
The club’s speakers were blasting so hard that the scuffle practically disappeared beneath the heavy bass. Yuki was shoved by some bulky stranger, and when he glanced up, he was met with your fist swinging out and socking him in the face that had him stumbling back—only for Sukuna to pull him away from you and throw a punch of his own. Amidst the cloud of limbs and yells, some idiot behind you accidentally bumped you straight into the mess.
And like a bad stroke of luck, Sukuna grabbed a handful of your hair as he drew his fist back, fingers tangling in your strands and yanking you forward with his blow. The side of your head knocked into someone else's and the only thing keeping you from feeling the throb in your skull as your vision flashed white hot behind your eyelids and your ears rang was the liquor in your system.
This fight does not stop, almost like it has a rhythm to it that rivals the music but isn't a good—ugly and practiced—until security armed to the teeth floods in like a wave.
Seconds later, a strong arm wrapped around your waist and guided you out of the crowd, and you didn’t argue, your head feeling heavy and your vision unfocused. Even so, you still cussed Sukuna out for pulling your hair as you both stood in the club’s parking lot, while Yuki sat in his car and Choso made sure she didn’t tumble out of the seat.
“You fucking thick-skulled, barbaric dumbass!” Your voice carried out into the night as Sukuna stared, almost starstruck by you in all your wrathful glory. He practically had hearts in his eyes from what Choso saw as you tore him a new one with expletives that the younger man didn't even know existed, maybe you made them up.
Sukuna had already apologized profusely and you had said it was fine because it was in the heat of the moment. Then you'd sat, stewed and really fucking thought about it before backtracking because no, it was it fact not okay and you were sure he targeted you on purpose after the bad first impression you made.
“Shit, I know it looks fucking bad, okay? But that was not done with any malicious intent. I didn't realise it was you or that I had pulled anyone,” he fumbles, explanations riddled with swear words and gruff grunts.
“Yeah? Were you seeing red like a fucking bull? Do I look like an el matador do you?” Sukuna wondered if you realised how ironic your insults were because his irises were quite literally red.
“What? No, I just—I get carried away during fights.”
Clapping, you laugh, devoid of humor. “Oh, yes! The tatted up thug looking fucker loves to tussle! Why didn't I think of that sooner?”
Stepping right up to him, you point at him with your index finger and glower. Sukuna's used to people cowering under his stare but he's never been on the other end of it. Now, he was and he was crushing on you more but he was still a little scared so he shut up.
“Seek fucking therapy, asshole. Or better yet, get into wrestling or some shit, you're already built like a double door fridge, might as well go pro so you don't have to pick fights at a club and ruin everyone's night!”
“Yeah,” he nodded diligently, eyes never leaving yours even as your fiery stare unnerved him and had unsolicited heat coiling tight in his gut, heart fluttering. “Okay.”
The universe is a sadistic writer of fate. Sukuna doesn't believe in things such as destiny, soulmates and whatnot but he thinks it's quite ironic how two bodies who are at vast ends of the cosmos could collide like this. It's akin to the mystery of black holes from what he's aware of. They get their names because scientists don't know what they truly are so cannot decide what else to call them. They're not objects and rather regions in space that, if they get too close, may merge. But this itself is just a theory. Just like Sukuna views you both.
Making time for things that matter to you was always a choice you could see through. Balancing school, friendships, family and a boyfriend came easy to you. Until it wasn't and one aspect fell away due to your long-term partner's infidelity. You crave to open up to someone but the fear that they would hollow you out, digging out your heart with a blunt spoon is far too great. Romance gives way to losing yourself, humiliation and eventually abandonment. Pouring so much of yourself into someone else's cup only for them to waste it and walk away. Love is a gilded cage and letting someone adore you is another reinforced layer of iron. Meaningless sex beckons you into its embrace, promising safety with clear cut rules, boundaries and an exit. You step into it willingly, heart on your cheek.
With his academics, sports and career prospects, the young man has no time for relationships. At least that's what was the case until recently. Now the rush of fun, easy, confidence-boosting casual flings has dulled into a numbness he cannot shake. Orgasms are not releases anymore, just another bodily function that occurs as a result of intercourse. Chewing gum after it's lost its flavor is one way he describes it. Falling for you comes easily to him which shocks him. That home people search for despite being in their houses—yeah, that's what he feels like you are to him. A warm beacon for him to follow to the shore, for him to find sanctuary as he wears his heart on his sleeve. Alas this home comes with a specific mould you have to fit into and he worries shaping himself into it rather than who he wants to be will break him. But it's much better than the prospect of losing you completely.
Coincidences are expected. It's a small world after all. He's not surprised that you attend the same university as him or that your social circles overlap. You are shocked to find that the smart guy from class who's always wearing a beanie, rimless glasses and sitting upfront is the reason you had a cartoonish bump on your head for a few days. But Sukuna smiles and gives you the notes you asked to borrow while you're still baffled that it's him. What stumps you both is that you're the girl tutoring his little brother, Yuji, in math because Sukuna was too busy to do so—that's why he looked familiar at the club! You had seen him in pictures at the boy's house.
Sukuna goes all out now to get your attention and gain your favor. He's playful and flirty much to the chagrin of his friends and other girls who didn't expect the ill-tempered asshole to be so charming. At parties, he steals your drinks, murmurs jokes in your ears and rigs games so you're stuck with him. In return, you clap back, shove him lightly, roll your eyes and act like you can't stand him. First it wasn't pretend but now it is—your friends see it in the way you glow. The way they can never find one of you without the other.
On campus, there's a subtle courtship where he brings you drinks, lends you his notes, lets you borrow his hoodie and does anything that's just short of being with you. You can act as unimpressed as you want but your eyes search for him, subtly, tracking where he is in the room when you hear his voice or laugh, sharing your snacks with him and letting him study with you in the library.
Good times are plenty. They're effortless as you both laugh until your stomachs hurt, whisper inside jokes, bicker like an old couple, share glances across the room and the hugs you steal. All the makings of something far from “not serious” as you two call it. Though your insistence is earnest while the agreeing smiles he gives never reach his eyes, the tattoos there not crinkling with his sincerity. He's like an algorithm recalibrating according to your wants. If you stiffen from his touch, he pulls away. If you curl into him, he welcomes you.
It's obvious to everyone else that this is something more but you deny it. When it feels like something that will shatter you if it ends, you shut down. He lets you, clenching his fists so he doesn't reach out and say it's okay, that it won't be like your last relationship, that he'll be patient and wait you out. He hurts quietly with a carefree grin and reassuring nods. While you think you're protecting your heart, he's creating a safe haven for it to rest.
Sex was bound to happen. For some reason that many people seemed to agree on, spreading your legs was easy as you could still seal your heart shut. Though the roughness and debauchery you expected from him is doused in cold water by how careful he is. So attentive as if his hands acclimate themselves to you, each caress filled with reassurance instead of greed. He's everywhere and so close, stroking you with a tenderness that's lined with promises you've heard before. Ones that led you to this fragile place, wishful fantasies of building futures together and dancing in kitchens while the children play outside.
It's too much, too familiar and the ache returns like you scratched off the scab of a fresh wound that bleeds anew. You flinch and push him away before you can stop it, words lashing out, not giving him time to ask what was wrong.
“Don't do that. This isn't what I wanted,” the words are clipped, sharpened with the sole intent of cutting him down.
Freezing, his carmine eyes soften with guilt, apologetic for the mere mistake of pouring his emotions out during a vulnerable, bared moment such as this. Conveying his affections through forehead kisses, playing with your hair and trailing pecks down your chest—it was all wrong.
“I'm sorry.”
“Fuck me, Sukuna. This isn't your goddamn wedding night,” you tell him, hissing out the last part like it's something blasphemous rather than holy.
Disappointment clogs his throat, a shaky noise swallowed before it can come out, lips bitten hard enough to draw blood to keep it in. Dipping his chin to hide his gaze, he nods and you turn over, not wanting to face him, not wanting this to be more than what it is because he clearly has his hopes up.
The giving regressed into taking, clawing and groping, teeth clenched and his heart scarred as what was once reverent and tentative becomes ravenous and depraved. And when it's over, you don't linger as you reach for your clothes and leave before the weight of it all can settle and fall down on you, letting Sukuna be crushed under the desecrated monument all by himself.
Just as he always has, he learns and adapts. Now that he knows what you want, it's all he gives you when you come to his dorm room or call him to your apartment. It's harsh, the way you could ghost him for days, weeks and even months then show up like you never left, feeding him the oxygen he denied himself while holding his breath and waiting for you all this time through your lips as they press to his.
There's no confusion, the hesitance and nervousness of a teenage boy trying to impress his crush is gone. He doesn't linger when you kiss, hands finding purchase on your hips and staying there, clutching onto them tightly, bruising until his fingers ache and pain as a reminder that this is all he'll ever get from you. His voice doesn't soften nor do his eyes search your face. Everything is clinical—efficient, controlled and detached. It's a biological need rather than something to please and bring fulfillment as he ruts into you.
It's what you asked for. And it works. Mostly. Your body responds how you want it to. Orgasms are pulled from you until you're all mush and boneless with bliss, stress and worries pooling beneath you with the fluids of your arousal and his, dampening the sheets. There's no vulnerability outside of your nudity. Your cunt is the only deep thing he will slip into.
And when it's over, the silence is different. Not rewarding like the first time. Hollow and void.
There's no check-ins to ask if you're okay, his lips don't part to ask if you'd stay this time, hands don't reach for you. The distance you demanded stretches between you and he doesn't try to cross it, not wanting to be slapped on the wrist for another attempt at intimacy.
A strange, gnawing ache settles in your chest and you get up like you always do, albeit inexplicably irritated. You feel used, which is ironic because that's what this is. Using each other for your selfish desires. It's heavier than the benevolence from that first night ever was, gravity dragging you down as you don your dress and retreat with your pride untouched but something else bruised.
Instead of admitting that you hated it, you did what any self destructive individual would and made it worse. Something about building resistance like a virus does to medicine and rising above adversities or whatever you told Shoko and Utahime that they looked concerned over.
Bedrooms were never used again. They were breeding grounds for unsolicited feelings and unwarranted assumptions. Unlike quiet corners, cars, places where staying isn't possible. Sukuna's good at choosing those that make it easy for you to leave, ones that don't feel like they're closing in on you. Ones with multiple emergency exits for you to bolt out. Because as much as you try to be polite about it, he knows, always knows and the care behind his consideration unsettles you.
Then it happens. The one thing you swore you'd never do and the one thing he accepted he'd never get from you. Someone mentions it in passing. A clueless mutual friend, Satoru. He asks how your date went with that guy that asked you out in class. A guy with a name Sukuna doesn't recognize who took you to a place he does, one he'd suggested casually as he knew you would like it. One that was waved off as a joke.
A disbelieved reflexive laugh is kicked out of his chest. You going on a date with someone was so absurd that he found it humorous as he turned to you, smile wide and toothy.
“A date,” he says, the words delivered like a comedian's punchline, “Like an actual date?”
No laugh comes from you, the sound that usually accompanies his own that he captures in his ears and stores away in his mind to replay later like he would his favorite song.
Squirming in your seat, the tug at your lips can barely be classified as a smile as you twist at the hem of your skirt like invisible hands squeeze at his mind, crushing until it fucking hits him and suddenly nothing is funny about this.
Later, when he finds you, after having spent the night apart, you're relaxed, nearly buoyant. There's an air about you that exudes pride, the good kind that a person has after trying something new, stepping out of their comfort zone and finding that the very thing they feared for ages was not so bad at all. It was better than they expected and they feel stupid for not trying sooner.
Out on the porch, away from the pounding music and gaggle of friends, he can confront you without you pretending that the bass is too loud or someone called your name.
“So,” he starts, voice so friendly and playful that even he's impressed by it, “how was your date?”
Smile faltering, your gaze that was on his this entire time sitting on the porch swing, moonlight bathing you both in a glow like you're seeing him for the first time, averts to the faulty floorboards.
“Oh,” you say, the word disappointed as if you have any reason to be, waving his question off. “It was nothing special.”
“I bet,” he responds, quick and accusing in a way that has your spine straightening, affronted.
“Excuse me?”
“What?” He chuckles, the sound anything but light and kind. “I'm just saying of course it wasn't special to you. Those things never are, right?”
Sighing heavily, you look at the lawn where a few, oblivious students loiter. Some are drunk enough to not remember what they're doing, others are flirting with smiles that say they'll never forget and others are recording each other's shenanigans with bubbling laughter, making memories to show they had a good college experience.
“Don't do this, Sukuna,” you mutter, so quiet. It's more like a plea.
Shrugging, he tilts his head, leaning forward to capture your gaze with his cynical one. “Don't do what? Point out what you already know?”
“This isn't funny,” you tell him, more firmly.
“Oh, you want jokes, huh?” He nods slowly, smile cutting. “Fine. You know what is funny? You never let me take you on one.”
He's being unfair, that he knows but fuck, he's frustrated. Tired of playing this fucking role that he was trying to step out of like a hermit crab who's body got too big to fit in it's old shell but stayed because it didn't find the one it wanted yet. Except Sukuna found the one he wanted, the one that came with labels and loyalty and spoke of lazy mornings tangled in your lover's arms. You just dangled it out of reach with each soft look and meaningful touch. And sure, this shell wasn't the only one in the fucking world but he wanted it and Sukuna isn't one to let go of what he wants without a fight.
He's not pushy in the slightest. You should know that but now but he knows for a fucking fact that you have feelings for him too. It's not a conclusion he came to with his ego but rather everything you've done and said and didn't say over these few months of fun, fondness and fracture.
The swaying of the swing comes to an abrupt halt as you plant your feet on the ground but don't get up, staring at him defensively, eyes narrowed. “Why are you making this a thing?”
A thing. That's what you call this unlabelled conundrum that's so sickeningly sweet that it's rotting his teeth and will become something he resents like a favorite treat consumed too often if nothing gives soon.
“Because, sweetheart, it is a thing,” there's condescension in that nickname but you can't call it out with how unnervingly even his voice is despite the way his crimson eyes widen. “I've asked. On more than one occasion. You shut me down and say you don't do dates. That you don't want the implications it comes with.”
Crossing your arms, you tighten them just enough so that the squeeze in your heart isn't as sore but it seems to grow worse with each frantic beat. “I don't owe you exclusivity.”
“I didn't ask for exclusivity. I asked you out to dinner,” he points out. A completely platonic thing to try it out, test the waters but you avoid him like the plague if no one else is around these days when there's no sex about to be had.
The scoff you respond with is laced with panic. “It wasn't serious. I just wanted to see if I could feel something. That's all.” It was just a bit of exposure therapy.
He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes trace your face in time with the night's breeze that flicks your hair about lightly. “And?”
You're sinking, there's nothing to grab onto, the quicksand that's swallowing you clings and grasps at you, pull growing forceful the more you struggle. You can't breathe but you must, you must take in as much air as you can before you're dragged under and can never do so again. It's the same with the whirlpool of water you're swirling it, flailing and kicking, trying to paddle your way out before the current rips you away and into the bottomless abyss. Then you're in a court room, being accused of a crime you didn't commit but no one believes you, you're being framed by someone sly and you want to die right there.
That's how this feels, this impending trap that's gaining on you the more this conversation goes on. But you will yourself to stay strong, to not falter, to keep your expression devoid of any cracks that Sukuna could find and put a hammer and chisel to until your protective shield is broken and he sees the soft, fragile insides of you that he's been pining for.
“I don't know,” you admit, confused and so fucking lost. “Maybe a little.” You did feel but not for the guy you went on a date with. It just solidified what you already knew and didn't want to accept prior to that night.
The uncertainty in your voice slices deeper than your anger ever could, cutting Sukuna open, ripping out his heart and taking a scalpel to it to delicately yet excruciatingly shave off the engraving of your face that's on it. It hurts so fucking badly that Sukuna wants to scratch at his chest and claw out the organ himself to get rid of that needling pain as if someone performed acupuncture on the thing.
“So you can try with him,” he murmurs so quietly because any louder and his voice would have cracked, an aching ball lodged in his throat, “but with me it's off-limits.”
The waver in his words has your chest ceasing, nose stinging with tears you refuse to let well, bringing about your anger instead to stem them. “That's not fair.”
“No,” he agrees rather than rising to your ire and combating it with his own, the one you see him delight in using to set others on fire. The one you would fuel like a fucking pyromaniac if he just let you instead of being so agreeable right now.
There’s a long silence. You wait for him to soften. To joke. To reassure you like he always does. He doesn’t.
“I’ve been bending myself into whatever shape you need,” he continues, voice low, controlled. “Taking what you give. Pretending it didn’t hurt when you pushed me away. And now I find out you’re giving someone else the one thing you never even let me offer.”
You open your mouth, then close it. Your eyes flick away.
“I didn’t think you’d care this much,” you mutter and you know it's stupid, all he's ever done is show you that he cared even in his efforts to act like he didn't for your sake.
That’s the moment something breaks.
“I care,” he grits. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”
You go cold. “So what, you’re mad because I won’t choose you?”
“No,” he replies. “I’m mad because you won’t even let me try.”
Silence again. He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for months.
“I can’t keep doing this,” he says finally. “Being convenient. Being patient. Waiting for you to decide I’m safe enough to want.”
Your heart stutters. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’m done chasing.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t accuse. That’s what scares you.
There's a crack in your exterior now, frustration shining through, openly and honestly and you don't want to hide it.
“Why can't you just accept the way things are? Why must you push and prod, Sukuna?” You snap. “Why is this not enough for you?” It's all you can afford but that doesn't need to be said for him to hear it.
He's always been so good at that, reading between the lines and being who you want him to from what he gathers there.
You look up and his eyes are glassy now, twisting something beneath your ribs and making your skin that stretches taut over it burn like you've been in the scorching sun for too long.
“Why am I not enough for you?” Your name follows that gutwrenching question. Stifled. Splintered.
You scoff, brittle. “You’re being dramatic.”
Maybe. But he’s also being honest.
“Take care,” he says, standing and walking away, the swing gently swaying from his absence.
After that, everything changes.
He doesn’t text first anymore. When you reach out, his replies are polite. Short. Neutral. He stops hovering near you at parties. Stops finding excuses to be alone with you. When you talk, he listens—but there’s distance now. A wall you don't know how to climb and he doesn't throw a rope over or extend a ladder.
You feel it immediately.
The absence where his attention used to be is unbearable. You tell yourself you wanted this. That this is what you needed—space, freedom, no pressure.
But it feels like withdrawal. The kind an addict feels after cutting off their vice completely without weaning themselves off it.
You catch yourself reaching for your phone just to see if he’s there. Replaying moments you dismissed. The way he looked at you. The way he waited.
The dates with the other guy fizzle quickly. There’s no spark. No warmth. No feeling of being seen.
It hits you then, late at night, alone in your apartment. It wasn’t that you couldn’t feel. It was that you only ever felt with him.
And now he’s gone quiet. Closed off. Protecting himself the way you never could. His wards are up to prevent him from getting battered up any further by your hands.
You see him across a room days later, laughing with someone else. Not flirting. Just free. Something pinches in your chest.
For the first time, you understand exactly what you've done. Or maybe you finally accepted it.
And the worst part? You don't know if you've already lost him—or if admitting you're scared would finally be too late.
Thunder rolls outside one night, loud and with vengeance like it knows you're alone for the first time in a long time. No one to hold you and cover your ears and assure you that the flash of lightning that brightens the sky so much it almost seems like daytime won't strike you down.
Palms clammy, heart pounding, you shut your eyes and duck beneath your blankets, pillow over your head to block out the sounds that haven't stopped scaring you since you were a child burrowing beneath your parents to hide from the frightening storms.
Amidst your fear, you just miss him more. How he'd tuck you into his hulking body, so terrifyingly big but he never laid a finger on you. Instead of the harm his form threatened, he was a cocoon of protection to you.
So when he shows up unannounced, soaked in the rain and unresolved, you're already raw.
You crash into him when you swing the front door open, uncaring that your clothes are dampening from the icy rain that wets him. His hands land on your arms, ushering you inside.
“Ryo, I'm—I shouldn't have—You were right, I—” You're a blubbering mess, all the things you wanted to say jumbling and sticking in your throat that's dry and scratchy like a scraped up disc.
He says nothing, ever patient. Cold hands slide up to your neck, palms cupping your face as his thumbs rub your cheeks in easing circles. “Breathe, baby.”
And you do, his skin warming you despite the chill of it. His irises are purple in the dark blue of your home, all the lights off save for your bedroom one.
“I'm…I'm so—”
Kissing you, he swallows your words in a sweet, slow and sure pull of his lips as they moisten yours. Your body loosens, keeling into his as the tower you resided in is taken to pieces by just the feel of his mouth after what felt like years even if it was only a few weeks.
“You're sorry?” He asks, breath puffing against your swollen lips.
Nodding vigorously, you pant. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” He smiles a faint thing, bending slightly to pick you up by the backs of your thighs, carrying you to your bedroom as he dabs sopping pecks down the line of your throat.
There’s no negotiation. No pretending this is casual. The air between you is thick with everything you haven’t said, everything you've been circling for too long.
When you come together, it doesn’t feel transactional at all.
Every look lingers. Every touch carries intention. He doesn’t say much, but everything about him is feeling. It’s there in the way he hesitates, the way he looks at you like he’s already at sea and is choosing you, a distant, impossible to reach lighthouse anyway.
And that’s when it hits you like the next crack of thunder strikes your chest but it's drowned out by his warmth, his scent, his eyes, his soothing words and his heavy weight on top of you, hips carving into yours like he wants to fit here permanently, strokes deep and slow.
You love him.
Not just the convenience. Not the chemistry. Him.
The patience. The care. The way he kept making himself smaller so you wouldn’t have to face what you wanted.
Your throat tightens. You try to speak, more than once, but the words won’t come. Admitting it would mean admitting you'd been unfair. That you exploited his feelings while pretending you didn’t have any.
But oh do you cry, sobbing into his skin, wracking with the force of your remorse and repentance while he presses his lips to your dewy temple and runs a hand over your head, fingers carding through your hair.
“I know, I'm here. It's okay,” he whispers and you choke on a wet whimper, knowing you're undeserving of such fondness from him after all you've done.
When it’s over, the room feels fragile. Like one wrong sentence could shatter something permanent. There's no thunder or lightning to use an excuse to hold him but you reach for him anyway.
For the first time, he gets up first.
He moves quietly, deliberately, as if giving you space, or maybe taking some for himself at last. You watch him go with a strange, sinking realization settling in your gut like bricks tied to someone who was tossed in the ocean after betraying a mobster.
You want him to stay. But this time, you'll be the one left in the bed, staring at the consequences of your silence.
“Where are you going?” you manage to ask as he finishes up, shrugging on his jacket.
Looking over his shoulder, his eyes are drained of any emotion, not cold but not feeling either, like he's just…given up.
“This is what you wanted, right? I hope it was worth it—tearing me apart, ruining me.” And then he's gone.
For while your defenses had crumbled tonight, granting him free reign to actually see you and look into the parts you were depriving him of all this time, he took the rubble from your broken foundation and used them to heighten the walls around his own fortress.
side note: ugh i'm in such a crappy mood but writing sukuna helps lol
how hopeful am i allowed to be when i’m wishing for part 2 of eat your heart out..? istg i’m sobbing just thinking abt it
(LOVE YOUR WORK BTW👅👅 even loving the part where you made me sob.. appreciate it..)
i hurt myself writing that one, i can't lie...but it's meant to have a bad ending 😭 i have other sukuna fics with better endings though. thank you for reading that angst fest 😭🥀❤️🩹
I'M NOT BACK YET BUT FUCK THEY TOOK MY MAN VALKO AWAY FROM ME AFTER ONLY A WEEK? MY SWEET, DORKY BIG N SCARY LOOKING WOLF! THAT LOOKS A BIT LIKE HOW I IMAGINE MODERN SUKUNA?! FUCKKKKK
sukuna accidentally had the wrong "movie" opened | 18+
salacious gasps and breathy sighs emanate through the speakers right as you open the browser, pulling a surprised noise from you as you're greeted with the lewd sight of a woman's spread thighs.
light from the laptop screen flickers against your face, washing the room in a dull blue glow that centered entirely on the midsection of the woman. the soft curve of her stomach dipped and rose with each shallow breath. a cute set was adorning her supple skin, the fabric of her top pressed into her waist, creating a gentle swell that felt almost tangible through the glass. to him, the slight fold of skin above her navel was tantalizing, so human and plush.
“am i wet?” her lascivious voice asks as her slender fingers pull her boyshorts to the side and stroke the puffy petals of her glossy pussy, smearing her glistening slick all over herself, her clit aching for a touch all swollen and twitchy. “am i wet for you—”
“oh!” you jump when the laptop is slammed shut by a very embarrassed sukuna who's so red, you think he may burst.
“i'm so fucking sorry! t-that's not the movie—i mean, it is a movie but not the one i wanted to play.”
just his fucking luck to screw things up after months of trying to get you to hang out with him. sure, you've spent time with him before but in group settings, it's quite difficult to get your attention over gojo's loud cackles and toji's dirty jokes.
he's finally got you right next to him, the ac on blast since he runs hot quickly, especially in the presence of his crush who's snuggled up against his bulging bicep because you're cold. and maybe, hopefully, you like him too.
the pink-haired man is the epitome of chivalry, eyes never straying down to the plump swells of your tits pushed up by your bra, sitting pretty in the henley you're wearing. your hair is down, neat and scented with something citrusy that melts on his tongue like an ice lolly and meshes with your mouthwatering perfume in a dizzying cocktail.
“relax,” you chuckle, unaffected by what you just stumbled upon, eyes bright. “i shouldn't have clicked on the browser without asking first. that was rude of me,” you tell him honestly.
besides, you're young adults, there's nothing to be ashamed of. you're a sexual creature yourself so you're not going to run for the hills just because he's got some porn on his computer.
“are you sure?” he asks, cringing at his own wobbly voice. it does not match the tattoos crawling up his bulky body. “the last thing i want is to make you uncomfortable or think i invited you over to make out under the pretext of watching a movie.”
that has your eyes bowing, bottom lip pushing out slightly in what looks to be disappointment that has his heart lodging in his throat. shit, did you want to make out with him? is he fucking this up? end him now.
“am i not your type or something?” you question, peering up at him with those big, beautiful eyes that tease him in his sleep.
eyes widening, his arms flail, nearly smacking you—but you fortunately dodge—as he shakes them frantically, trying to salvage this not-so-date. “n-no, i just—i didn't want to come on strong—”
laughter cracks through his panic, your giggles fluttering in the air as you cover your mouth, gaze sparkling with mirth. god, you're so pretty like this, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight peeking through his curtains.
“i'm messing with you, ryomen,” you chuckle, his name pouring from your mouth like the sweetest honey, so fond and syrupy. “you're so cute when you ramble.”
“oh,” he mumbles, the tips of his ears as pink as his unruly tufts of hair.
“we don't have to kiss,” you reassure him, nudging him with your elbow playfully.
scratching the back of his neck, he gives a weak chuckle, lips tingling in anticipation at the thought of his mouth on yours, smooth and sticky with your cherry lip gloss.
is it flavoured or just scented? would it stain his lips after, letting anyone who sees him know that you kissed him?
“okay,” he says with a nod though there's a sliver of disappointment in his tone.
humming, you press against his arm, leaning most of your weight on him, your stomach flipping like a pancake when he barely budges.
“if you want to kiss my other pair of lips though~”
sukuna almost gets whiplash with how fast his head snaps to the side, scarlet eyes bulging once more as he gapes like a fish, jaw falling through the floorboards, his stomach dropping to the ground floor of his apartment complex.
“w-what?”
“kidding!”
“haha, yeah…”
“fuck, you're adorable,” you giggle again, the tinkling sound tapering off into a moan as your eyes flicker to his lips that he's nibbling on, so soft and inviting. his breath is sweet and fruity from the spritzer he drank just now.
you close the distance and slot yours lips over his.
a shocked gasp kicks out of his chest, his hands hovering at your waist and his lips as hard as stone against your mouth. worried you read the room wrong, you go to pull back.
with a gravelly groan, his eyes slide shut, a large hand cupping the back of your head, carding through your strands and drawing you back to him in a hot open-mouthed kiss.
lazy, wet and messy, your lips move over his, hands roaming over his arms, squeezing at his flexing muscles, grinning into his mouth, teeth clicking against his when his belly shudders against yours.
sukuna's head is spinning, he can't believe this is happening, that you're on his lap, soft and pliant and making out with him and it's not a dream he'll be forced to wake up from.
greedily, his tongue slithers into your mouth, sucking on yours sloppily and licking every spot he can reach, moaning at your buttery taste as you gasp cutely against his lips.
tingles tickle his groin, his cock stirring as arousal coils tight in his belly. horny and desperate, his big palms rest on your hips, fingers hooking into the loops of your shorts as he ruts up against you, a hitch pitched squeak coming from you as you feel something thick and warm rubbing between your thighs.
“m’ sorry, baby. i'm so sorry, i can't help it. you're just so soft n’ so fuckin’ pretty,” he whimpers into your mouth, lips pulling your bottom one into his mouth and suckling on it clumsily, teeth sinking into it until you're whining and rocking down on his fattening bulge.
“gosh, i could just eat you up,” you grumble, fingers curling into his coral strands and tugging, making his skin crawl pleasantly.
the feeling is very much mutual. sukuna thinks he might die if he doesn't get your tits in his mouth right this instant.
fumbling with the hem of your top, he crumples it and lifts, blood whooshing in his ears, heartbeat in his cock as your plush bare skin is revealed—
but he pauses, gaze dropping down, hazy and blurry as his eyes narrow in confusion, choppy breaths slowing.
there, low on your hip and disappearing into the waistband of your shorts, is a tattoo.
a very familiar tattoo.
“is that—” his fingers dart out to trace the ink etched into your flesh but you abruptly pull your top down, the desirous heat in your eyes clearing.
“ah, yeah. kind of embarrassing,” your laugh is forced and awkward as you hook a manicured finger into the neckline of your top. “here, i'll unbutton this, it'll be easier—”
thick brows lower in suspicion as he tentatively picks up your top again, fisting the fabric tightly so you can't yank it down.
“sukuna,” you call out helplessly, wanting him to stop looking at the incriminating ink on your midriff. “kiss me—”
“it's you, isn't it?” he muses more to himself than you as realisation dawns him, crimson eyes lighting up in piercing recognition as they drag back up to your guilty ones.
swallowing hard, you say nothing. you can't deny it now.
huffing out a disbelieving breath, he slumps against the backrest of the couch with a faint smile, brows high as he shakes his head, wetting his lips. his fluffy, touseled hair bounces.
“no wonder you weren't upset about the video. you're the girl that's in it. i'd recognize that tattoo anywhere—”
“so you watch those often?” you cock a knowing brow because how else would he instantly know it's you from some ink?
face heating, he frowns. “don't change the subject.”
shoulders slouching in defeat, you run a hand through your hair, pushing it back into a luscious, voluminous slick back.
“yeah, it's me.”
here it comes, the inevitable disgust that men develop when they find out that you make adult content. as if they don't fuck their fists to it every night, pupils blown and reflecting your videos playing on their screens.
making it easier for him, you go to climb off his lap only for his hands to grip you firmly, keeping you in place.
confused, you glance up, breath hitching at the sight of him. pinched brows, clenched jaw and his inky pupils eating up his carmine irises until they're just thin rings of red.
“will you let me fuck you in the next one?”
neat little knots twist in your stomach, forming a net to capture the butterflies that start to swarm there, fluttering around frantically.
“uh, if you want to, yeah,” you agree with a wavering smile, blinking as you're still dumbfounded by the unexpected yet welcomed response.
his severe expression breaks then, scowl shattering like a broken plate, a grin slicing across his cheeks, canines glinting. “god, you're fucking perfect.”
all this time, sukuna had been drawn to that page because the anonymous woman had a similar body and voice to yours. he'd watch her videos and imagine you so finding out that you're her is fucking amazing.
massive arms engulf you in a bone-crushing bear hug that punches the air out of your lungs, a little “oof!” puffing out of you followed by an incredulous laugh.
“would it be weird if i asked to be your boyfriend now?”
hi hun! just writing this to tell you i miss seeing you here! hope everything's okay bby ♥️
hello, omg i miss being on here too but if i'm honest now that i'm not actively writing, i tend to forget about this blog :") i do miss talking to you and the other moots + readers i've come to like though 🩷 hope you are well
gracieabrams
snowghoul
vaporwave
pixelskylines
areudirty
origamiaround
