Sukuna, the most feared King of Curses...is clingy when he's sleepy.
Ryomen Sukuna, ancient King of Curses, calamity made flesh, feared across eras, a being whose hands could split bone and soul alike without effort—is whining. Like a child. And for you.
He lays sprawled across the futon beneath layers of blankets you had insisted on piling over him. (You didn’t need them, not really, but you know he dislikes the chill even if he scoffs at it.)
Your stirring must have pulled him from sleep; eyes half-lidded and heavy with thick lashes, hair mussed, curse markings faint but visible where skin meets collarbone, glowing softly in the early light. He’s an image you want to commit to memory, though you doubt he’d tolerate being admired for long without pulling you back in.
“What?” you tease, slipping his discarded robe over your very naked torso. You catch glimpses of bruises between your thighs and along the curve of your breasts, reminders of how he had spent hours the night before looming over you, drawing sighs and broken moans from your lips, his weight and presence overwhelming in the way only Sukuna can manage. He had promised to take his time...and, for once, he had.
“Back to bed,” he mutters, sinking deeper into the pillows. His voice is rough, low, still thick with sleep, and you hate how much you love it. One hand drapes over his face. “Too early.”
“Gimme a second.” You stand and shuffle toward the bathroom, stepping over scattered clothes and torn lace. “Gotta pee.”
You take maybe two minutes longer than necessary—brushing your teeth, splashing water on your face, briefly debating a shower before your responsibilities drag you back to reality.
In those 120 seconds, Sukuna apparently decides that being away from you is unacceptable. Just as you reach for the shower handle, his presence fills the space behind you, arms sliding around your waist, solid and possessive.
“Thought you said a second,” he rumbles into your shoulder, swaying you lazily side to side, as if the world can wait.
“My toothpaste is clearly plotting against you,” you say, lifting a hand to his hair. “Cap fought back.”
“Tch.” He’s smiling against your skin, a quiet, breathy laugh slipping out despite himself.
“You wanna shower with me?” you ask, turning the water on. His grip tightens immediately.
“Wanna go back to bed,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder once, twice, three times, a low hum vibrating against you. “Cuddle you. Keep you where you belong…”
You catch the hand inching lower, stopping it firmly.
“You could do that in the shower too.”
“I could,” he admits, pressing his forehead into your neck. “But there’s somethin’ about havin’ you in my bed. Pinning you down. Reminding you who you’re mine to—”
Your breath stutters. He notices.
“It is—” you twist just enough to glimpse the clock through the cracked door— “9:37. Much too early.”
“Hmph. Never stopped you before.”
“Maybe not,” you say, clearing your throat. “But I have things to do today. And you don’t exactly believe in moderation.”
“I can behave,” he says, voice dragging, almost pleading—so unlike the tyrant he usually is. “Just once. Promise.”
He’s wearing you down—his warmth, the strength in his arms, the way his voice drops when he wants something.
“I don’t know,” you say, already decided, enjoying this far too much. “Maybe if you get on your knees and beg?”
He spins you around and lowers himself without complaint, hands gripping your hips, fingers digging in possessively. His eyes are dark, curse markings more pronounced now, a reminder of what and who he is.
Once, those eyes had held nothing but violence and hunger for destruction.
Now, when he looks at you, there’s devotion twisted with desire, dominance balanced carefully with something almost tender.
He exhales, breath warm against your stomach, lips brushing your skin.
Then he looks up at you, a wicked glint in those eyes.
How could you ever resist?
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