Clinical Trials of the Heart || R. Sukuna
ryomen sukuna x f!reader - one shot
You were a sweet, shy pharmacist who only wanted quiet shifts and clean labelsâuntil Sukuna Itadori, a 6'5" MMA menace on meds, decided his favorite side effect was âseeing her faceâ and started treating refills like weekly dates. Now he flirted like it was a sport, handed you VIP tickets like prescriptions, and kept insisting you were the only âaftercareâ he trusted.
cw; pharmacy au. smut. oral. pnv. MDI 18+.
The pharmacy always smelled like clean paper and lemon disinfectantâsharp, bright, a little too honest.
You lived in that honesty.
Your hair had been behaving for exactly nine minutes, pinned back in a way that made your long brown ringlets look like they were politely waiting their turn. Your badge sat straight on your chest. Your scrubs were neat. Your voice stayed soft, like you kept it in a velvet-lined box and only opened it for people who deserved gentle.
The afternoon line moved in patient little shuffles. A toddler cried at the front end of the store, and somewhere in aisle seven, someone dropped a jar of pasta sauce with the dramatic commitment of a Greek tragedy.
You didnât even flinch. You just counted tablets, checked an interaction screen, and thought, Please let everyone be kind today.
That was when you saw him.
At first, it was just a shadow crossing the pick-up laneâtoo tall for the world, shoulders filling the space like the building had to breathe around him. Then the details sharpened: pale pink hair buzzed close, a face that looked carved out of irritation, tattoos climbing his arms like black vines that had decided to stay forever.
He stood there like he didnât wait in lines. Like lines waited for him.
One of the pharmacy techsâMikaâsmiled her retail smile and chirped, âHi! Name and date of birth?â The manâs eyes moved, slow as a blade leaving its sheath, and landed on you behind the counter. Not on Mika. Not on the register. On youâlike your existence was a new sound he was trying to locate.
âRyomen,â he said, voice low and flat. âSukuna Itadori.â Mika typed, still smiling. âAnd your birthday?â He recited it, bored, eyes never leaving you. That alone was unsettlingâmost people looked away when they gave personal information, like it was polite to pretend they werenât handing you a piece of themselves.
Sukuna didnât pretend anything.
Mikaâs expression shifted the smallest bit when she saw the profile. New patient. New meds. The kind of prescriptions that came with notes and caution flags and the invisible weight of someone finally saying, Alright. Weâre going to try something different.
She reached for the bag in will-call.
Sukunaâs hand rose, palm out, stopping her like a traffic light.
âNo.â Mika blinked. âUmâsorry?â He nodded toward you with his chin, like it was obvious. âI want the pharmacist.â
A small pause fell into the air. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just⌠present. Like the pharmacy itself tilted its head.
Mika glanced at you, eyebrows lifting in a Can you take this? question.
You exhaled through your noseâquiet, controlledâand set your tray down.
âOf course,â you said, stepping forward.
Your voice was gentle, but your posture was pure professionalism. You didnât hurry. You didnât shrink. You simply arrived at the counter, hands folded, eyes lifting to meet his.
Up close, he was worse.
Not because he was handsomeâhe was, in that dangerous way people warned you about with the phrase trouble. Not because he was tallâthough he was, towering enough that you had to tilt your chin to keep eye contact. Not because he was built like a door that lifted weights.
It was the look in his eyes.
Red-brown, sharp, watchful. Like heâd been waiting his whole life to be disappointed and was still hoping you might surprise him.
âMr. Itadori?â you asked, because you were polite even when your pulse tried to sprint. âSukuna,â he corrected.
You nodded once. âSukuna. Iâm Y/n. Iâm the pharmacist on duty.â His gaze flicked to your name tag, then back up. âY/n,â he repeated, like he was testing the shape of it in his mouth.
You slid the bag toward you, glanced at the label, and kept your tone calm. âThis is your first fill with us. Iâm going to review your medication with youâdosage, common side effects, and what to avoid.â He leaned in a fraction, forearms on the counter. Tattoos flexed as he moved. The scent of him reached youâclean soap and something mineral, like cold metal warmed by skin.
âSide effects,â he murmured. âYeah. Letâs talk about those.â You kept your face neutral, but your brain whispered,
Please be normal. Please be normal.
He wasnât.
âWhatâs it do to my sex drive?â he asked, casually, like he was asking if you had paper or plastic bags. Mika made a strangled sound behind you. Someone in line coughed, suddenly very interested in the greeting cards.
You stared at him.
He held your gaze with the calm confidence of a man who had never been embarrassed in his life. âAnd before you say âeveryone reacts different,ââ he added, voice dropping, âIâm an athlete. I need my body working. All of it.â Then he gave you a slow blink that was somehow a wink without technically being a wink. âI can go all night,â he said, like he was sharing a fun fact. âItâd be a tragedy if the meds took that away from the world.â
Your expression didnât change.
It wasnât that you didnât understand the implication. You did. Unfortunately. Vividly.
It was that you refused to reward it.
You lifted the leaflet, tapped it once with a neatly trimmed nail, and said, âSexual side effects are possible. If you experience changes, you should speak with your prescriber. Do you have any other questions that are actually relevant?â Mika choked harder. You heard a stifled laugh from somewhere down the line.
Sukunaâs mouth twitchedâalmost a smile, like your deadpan had struck something in him that wanted to live. âMm,â he hummed. âI like you.â You kept reading off the counseling points like your life depended on it. âThis medication should be taken once daily. Try to take it at the same time each day. It may cause drowsiness, dizziness, nauseaââ
âWill it make me less⌠angry?â he asked, quieter now.
That one landed different. Not flirtatious. Not stupid. Just raw, slipped under the counter like a note you werenât supposed to see.
You softened your voice without meaning to. âIt can help. Especially if you give it time and take it consistently.â He looked at you like he didnât enjoy needing anything. âTime,â he repeated, as if the word tasted bitter.
You nodded. âTime. And routine.â He stared, then reached into his pocket and placed his ID on the counterâtoo carefully, like he didnât trust himself to move too fast. âY/n,â he said again, and your name sounded like a warning and a compliment in the same breath. âTell me the truth.â You met his eyes. âOkay.â
âIf I take this,â he said, âam I going to feel like someone else?â Your throat tightened, just a little. Youâd heard this question in a hundred different formsâWill I still be me? Will my thoughts still belong to me? Will I lose my fire? Will I lose my edge?
You didnât give him a rehearsed line. You gave him the truth you could safely hold.
âIt shouldnât erase you,â you said softly. âIt should give you more space to breathe inside yourself. If it ever feels wrongâif you feel numb or unlike yourselfâyou talk to your provider. We adjust. We donât suffer in silence.â Something flickered behind his eyesâannoyance, relief, suspicion, maybe all of it braided together.
Then, because he was him, he tilted his head and said, âSo youâre saying youâll take care of me.â Your cheeks warmed. âIâm saying I will do my job,â you replied.
He smiled this time. Not kind. Not cruel. Just⌠pleased.
âYouâre sweet,â he said. âItâs cute.â
âIâm professional,â you corrected. âYouâre both,â he said with a smirk, you handed him the bag and the paperwork. âDo you have any allergies?â
âNo.â
âAny other medications you take?â
âSometimes protein powder,â he said. âSometimes violence.â Mika audibly inhaled like sheâd just swallowed a cough the wrong way.
You blinked once. âWeâll start with the protein powder.â He chuckledâlow, brief. The sound startled you more than his words. It made him seem⌠human. Like there was a person in there under the anger and the edges.
He took the bag, but didnât move away. Just stayed, leaning in like the counter was a fence and he didnât want to leave the yard you stood in.
âSo,â he said, âwhen do I see you again?â
âYour next refill date is on the label,â you told him evenly.
He lifted the bag, glanced at it, then looked at you again like the label was a suggestion, not a schedule. âYeah,â he said. âBut what if I have questions?â
âYou can call the pharmacy.â
âI donât like phones.â
âYou can ask any pharmacist.â He stared at you. Slow. Heavy. Like he was setting down a decision. âNo,â he said simply. âIâll ask you.â You held your composure like it was stitched into your ribs. âWe have multiple pharmacists.â He leaned closer, voice dropping into something that vibrated in your chest. âI need the real one.â Your stomach flipped, traitorous and soft.
You didnât curse. You didnât snap. You didnât flirt.
You simply lifted your eyebrows. âSukuna, are you refusing counseling from anyone else?â He stared back, completely serious. âYes.â
Mikaâs eyes went wide with Is that allowed?
You exhaled quietly, like you were releasing a patient prayer.
âFine,â you said. âIf you have questions, you can ask me when Iâm on duty.â His mouth curved againâvictory, wrapped in velvet. âGood,â he said. âBecause I do have a question.â You didnât even sigh this time. You just waited.
He tapped the bag lightly. âIf this makes me calmer,â he said, âand less obsessive⌠will I still want things?â You watched his face for the joke, for the crude punchline, for the easy innuendo.
It didnât come.
Instead, his eyes stayed on yours, too intent, like he meant things in a way that wasnât just about bodies.
You swallowed. âMost people still want things,â you said carefully. âSometimes they want them in a healthier way.â He nodded once, like that answered something he hadnât said out loud.
Then he straightened, finally stepping back.
âAlright,â he said. âIâll see you soon.â You lifted your chin. âTake it as directed.â He paused at the edge of the counter, glanced over his shoulder.
âAnd Y/n?â
âYes?â His gaze slid over youânot lewd, not careless. Just aware. Like he noticed the way you held yourself, the way your softness didnât mean weakness. âMaybe one day,â he said, voice lazy again, âyouâll let me give you my own personal medicine.â
Mika made a sound like a dying battery.
You stared at Sukuna with the same straight face youâd given him all along.
Then, very calmly, you said, âIf youâre experiencing delusions, that is a side effect you should report.â For a second, he looked stunned. Then he laughedâreal laughter, low and dangerous and delightedâand walked out of the pharmacy like heâd just won something.
You stood there, hands folded, heart doing a ridiculous little dance inside your ribs.
Mika leaned in, whispering, âWho was that?â You watched the automatic doors slide shut behind him, the winter light swallowing his silhouette.
You spoke softly, mostly to yourself.
âTrouble,â you said.
And as you turned back to the counter, the phone rangâone of those sharp, ordinary sounds that kept the world movingâwhile you tried very hard not to wonder how soon ânext refillâ could possibly come.
Friday nights at the pharmacy always carried a particular kind of exhaustionâone that clung to your sleeves and crawled up behind your eyes, the kind that made the fluorescent lights feel personal.
So when you heard, the next morning, that Sukuna Itadori had fought the night before, something in you tightened.
Not curiosity. Not excitement.
Just⌠a quiet, reluctant awareness. Like a storm report you didnât ask for, but still read anyway because you needed to know where the wind might hit. You didnât follow his career. You didnât watch clips. You didnât scroll past headlines the way other people did when they wanted to feel alive through someone elseâs chaos.
You didnât like fighting.
You liked calm. You liked clean counters. You liked the soft clink of pill bottles. You liked order, and routine, and the steady reassurance of labels that told you exactly what something was meant to do.
And yetâwhen you got dressed that morning, you took a few extra minutes.
You fixed your curls until they fell in obedient ringlets, glossy and thick, framing your face like they belonged there. You smoothed a little cream into the ends with careful fingers. You put on the smallest swipe of mascara, barely enough to count.
It wasnât for him, you told yourself.
It was just⌠for you.
But your reflection looked back with an almost-suspicious sweetness, and you felt your cheeks warm as if your mirror had caught you hoping.
The pharmacy doors chimed sometime after nine.
You didnât look up right away. You were checking a profile, eyes scanning for interactions, mind in its tidy little corridor of clinical focus.
Then you heard the change in the air.
The subtle pause at the counter.
The way your techâs voice liftedânervous, amused, trying not to sound intrigued.
And you knew.
Mika cleared her throat. âUhâhi. Can I help you?â A familiar low voice slid over the counter like smoke. âYeah. Iâm here for the pharmacist.â Mika tried. She really did. âWe can counsel youââ
âI donât want âwe.ââ You could hear the smirk in his tone. âI want her.â You closed your eyes for half a second.
Not because you were angryâthough you were definitely annoyedâbut because your heart did something completely unhelpful, fluttering like a trapped thing.
You set your pen down with exaggerated calm, then stepped out from behind the workstation.
Sukuna stood there in a fitted hoodie that looked like it was fighting for its life across his shoulders. His buzzed hair was still damp, pale pink and close to his scalp, and he had that post-training heat clinging to himâclean sweat, sharp soap, something metallic and bright.
He looked⌠awake.
Not in the polite way people looked awake after coffee.
In the way a blade looked awake after being sharpened.
There was a faint bruise at the edge of his cheekbone that hadnât fully yellowed yet, and a small cut near his brow like a careless punctuation mark.
His eyes found you instantly and the second they did, his mouth curved, slow and pleased.
Like heâd walked in already knowing youâd be pretty.
You hated that your pulse noticed.
You approached the counter, posture perfectly professional, voice soft enough to be kind but firm enough to be a boundary.
âWhat was going on?â you asked, because he always arrived like a disruption and acted like it was your fault.
Sukuna didnât even pretend to be here for a refill.
He pulled something from his pocket and slid it across the counter toward you with two fingers.
A ticket.
Black, glossy, heavy stockâone of those tickets that didnât look like paper so much as a promise. VIP lettering caught the overhead lights.
You stared down at it.
Then you stared up at him.
âWhat is this?â you asked, even though you already knew. Your stomach had answered before your mouth did.
His smirk deepened. âMy fight.â You blinked once. âTonight?â
âTonight.â He tilted his head, watching your face like he was waiting for some reaction he could collect. âYou should come.â You didnât touch the ticket. Like it might burn you. Like accepting it would be the same as agreeing to something you hadnât said yes to. âSukuna,â you said gently, âthis isâunprofessional.â
He leaned closer, forearms resting on the counter like he belonged there. Tattoos flexed beneath his sleeves. His voice dropped, warm and too intimate for a pharmacy at nine in the morning.
âYouâre a pharmacist,â he murmured. âYou like⌠aftercare.â Your face stayed neutral on pure willpower. âAftercare isnât a medical term,â you replied, even though the words sounded a little too careful leaving your mouth, like you were stepping around a puddle you didnât want to admit youâd noticed.
His eyes flickered, amused. âIt is if I say it is.â You glanced down at the bruise near his cheekbone, the cut at his brow, and felt something tender tug at the inside of your ribsâsomething you didnât want to name.
âWhy are you giving this to me?â you asked softly.
He didnât hesitate.
âBecause I want you there,â he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Your throat tightened.
You kept your voice steady. âI donâtâwatch fighting.â
âThatâs fine,â he said. âWatch me.â You looked at him, and his gaze held yours, steady and bold and too sure.
Then he tapped the ticket lightly with one knuckle.
âAnd after,â he added, lazy and cocky again, âyou can fix my bruises.â Your brows lifted. âIâm not a nurse.â
âYouâre close enough.â His grin sharpened. âYouâve got that gentle little voice. Youâll do great.â Mika made a small, helpless noise behind you, like she was watching a rom-com she hadnât paid for.
You exhaled, the sound barely more than air. âThis is inappropriate.â Sukuna straightened, as if heâd heard you but didnât accept the premise.
He set the ticket down with slow certaintyâlike a man placing a coin on a counter, already convinced the purchase was complete.
Then he leaned in one last time, eyes on yours.
âSee you tonight, Y/n,â he said.
You opened your mouth to argue.
He turned and walked away before you could.
Just left the ticket there.
Like you were going to pick it up.
Like the world always did what he wanted.
The doors chimed as he exited, and the pharmacy felt too bright again, too normal, too clean for the way your heart was misbehaving.
Mika crept up beside you, eyes sparkling with wicked delight. âHe is⌠actually insane.â You stared at the VIP ticket like it might start talking. âHe shouldnât do that,â you murmured, more to yourself than to her.
Mikaâs smile widened. âHeâs not exactly a âshouldâ kind of man.â You swallowed, still staring down.
All day, the ticket sat in the back of your mind like a little weight.
Between counseling patients on antibiotics and explaining prior authorizations and repeating the same gentle script youâd always usedâTake with food, call us if you have questions, no, donât double up, yes, please drink waterâyour thoughts kept drifting.
Not to the fight.
To him.
To the way heâd looked at you like you were something he wanted to keep in his hands.
You tried to focus. You really did.
But you caught yourself imagining his bruises.
His cut.
Your fingersâgloved, of courseâdabbing antiseptic.
The absurd intimacy of tending to someone who was built for damage.
The idea made you feel warm and ridiculous.
And nervous.
Near the end of your shift, Mika leaned against the counter, casual like she wasnât about to push you off a cliff.
âYouâre going,â she said. âIâm not,â you replied automatically.
Mika hummed. âYouâre going.â You frowned. âWhy are you acting like you control my decisions.â
âBecause I like joy,â she said. âAnd because youâve been walking around all day like someone put a secret in your pocket.â You tried to look offended. It didnât work. Mika waved her hand. âLeave early. Weâve got it handled. Go⌠do whatever this is.â
âThis is nothing,â you said, but your voice came out too soft, too unconvincing.
Mikaâs eyes narrowed. âYour mascara begs to differ.â Your cheeks warmed instantly. âI always wear mascara.â
âMm-hm.â She smiled like sheâd caught you stealing candy. âGo.â You hesitated long enough for your conscience to wrestle with your curiosity.
Then you sighed.
âFine,â you said quietly, like you were agreeing to a chore instead of a choice that made your stomach flutter.
You went home and stood in front of your closet longer than you should have.
You told yourself you were dressing comfortably.
You told yourself you didnât care what you looked like.
You told yourself the black long-sleeve was just clean and simple and easy, but when you pulled it on and it hugged your curvesâwhen the mirror showed you soft and shapely and a little too pretty for your own comfortâyou paused.
Not because you were trying.
Because you werenât.
You chose jeans that fit the way they were supposed toâsnug at the waist, fitted at the thighsâand when you turned sideways, you let out a small breath, surprised at your own silhouette. Your hair fell down your back in thick ringlets, framing you with that natural softness you couldnât hide even when you wanted to.
You didnât add jewelry. No perfume. Nothing dramatic.
Just you.
Just⌠slightly braver than usual.
The drive to the arena felt surreal.
Streetlights blinked on one by one like the city was exhaling into night. Traffic thickened closer to the venue, headlights pooling like water. You followed the signs, parked, and sat for a second with your hands on the steering wheel, heart tapping an anxious rhythm.
You could still turn around, you told yourself.
You could drive home.
You could return to your quiet apartment and your safe routines and pretend youâd never accepted anything from a man like him.
But your fingers had already touched the ticket.
You got out of the car.
The arena loomed bright and loud, all banners and bodies, and you felt small walking toward itâsmall, and out of place, like youâd wandered into someone elseâs movie.
At the entrance, security scanned your ticket.
The staff memberâs face changedârespectful, quick. âRight this way.â You swallowed. âOkay.â They led you through a corridor where the sound of the crowd grew heavier with every stepâbass thumps of music, shouts like waves, the electric hum of anticipation.
You were guided into the private area.
It was quieter than the main seating, but it still throbbed with noise beneath itâlike you could feel the energy in the floor. Plush seats, a small table, a view that made your stomach dip. People in nicer clothes sat around you, laughing, sipping drinks.
You sat stiffly, hands folded in your lap, trying not to look like you didnât belong.
Because you didnât.
A screen lit up with highlights, and the announcerâs voice rolled through the arena like thunder.
Your palms dampened.
You didnât like violence. You didnât like the idea of bodies as entertainment. You didnât like the way the crowd sounded hungry and yet⌠you were here.
Because Sukuna had looked at you like you were the only soft thing in the room worth reaching for.
Lights dimmed.
The first fight began.
You flinched at the first sharp impactâtwo bodies colliding, the sound somehow louder than it shouldâve been. You tried to focus on the rules, on the structure, on the idea that this was controlled, sanctioned.
But your shoulders stayed tense.
You found yourself watching the referees more than the fighters. Watching for safety. Watching for stopping points. Watching for the moment someone would say enough.
You took slow breaths, the way you taught anxious patients to do when they came to pick up meds they didnât want to need.
Around you, people cheered.
You didnât.
You simply watchedâeyes wide, heart uneasyâtrying to understand why anyone craved this.
And then, between fights, a movement near the VIP entrance caught your attention.
A familiar shape.
Too tall. Too broad.
Sukuna appeared at the edge of the private area like he owned the air itself.
He wasnât in his fight gear yetâstill in warmups, loose pants, a jacket zipped partway. His hair looked freshly dried again, and there was a calm to him that made him even more dangerous, like all the anger had been leashed tight for later.
His eyes swept the room.
Then landed on you.
And the smirk returned, immediate and satisfiedâlike a lock clicking into place.
He walked over with unhurried confidence, gaze never leaving your face. People glanced up, murmured, shifted to make space without being asked.
He stopped in front of you, towering just enough that you had to tilt your chin again. âWell,â he said, voice low, amused. âYou came.â Your heart stuttered.
You tried to sound composed. âYou left the ticket.â
âThat was the point.â He leaned down slightly, voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in your ear, not in public. âI wanted to see if youâd do what I asked.â You frowned, though your cheeks warmed. âThatâs⌠manipulative.â He shrugged like it was a compliment. âAnd yet.â You exhaled softly. âI donât know why Iâm here.â
He studied youâyour curls, your black top, the way you held yourself like you were trying to be invisible and failing.
His eyes darkened with approval. âYou look good.â You blinked. âSukunaââ He cut you off with a lazy little smile. âDonât start. Just take it.â Your lips parted, then closed.
You forced yourself to ask the sensible thing. âAre you hurt?â His gaze flicked over your face, then softenedâalmost imperceptibly. âNo,â he said. âNot yet.â
That answer shouldâve unsettled you.
It did.
He sat downâtoo close, far too casualâlike it was normal for him to fold himself into your space. His knee brushed yours, and the contact sent a small spark up your leg, stupid and bright.
âYou look like you want to run,â he murmured.
You stared forward at the cage. âI donât like this.â He hummed. âI know.â
You glanced at him, surprised.
He met your eyes. âYouâre too soft for it.â
You didnât like the way that soundedâlike softness was a limitation.
But the way he said it⌠wasnât insulting.
It sounded protective.
It made your throat tighten anyway.
Sukuna leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head like a man settling into a theater seat. âJust watch. Iâll make it quick.â You frowned. âYou canât promise that.â
âI can.â He turned his head, gaze pinned to you again. âBecause youâre here.â Your heartbeat stumbled.
Then an official approached, speaking quietly to Sukuna. Sukuna listened with a bored expression that didnât match the intensity of the room.
He stood, towering over you again.
His eyes dragged over your faceâslow, possessive in a way that made you want to scold him and blush at the same time.
âStay,â he said.
You blinked. âI wasnâtââ
âStay,â he repeated, voice sharper now, like it mattered. Like you mattered.
You nodded once before your mind could argue.
Sukunaâs mouth curved, satisfied.
Then he walked away, disappearing into the corridor like a promise you didnât know how to hold.
A few minutes later, his name boomed over the speakers.
The crowd erupted.
Your stomach dipped.
Lights flashed. Music surged. The atmosphere changedâthicker, wilder, like everyone suddenly leaned forward at once.
And then he was there.
Sukuna stepped out into the arena lights, and the roar around you became physicalâvibrating through your bones, rattling the air in your lungs. He moved like he belonged to that sound, like it fed him. Like he wore noise the way other men wore cologne.
He looked⌠different.
Not softer.
Not calmer.
Just focusedâcold, bright, terrifyingly controlled. His shoulders rolled once. His jaw flexed. His eyes scanned the crowd, then lifted briefly toward the VIP section.
You swore he found you instantly.
That smirk flashed againâquick as a match strike.
Your heart jumped.
Then the cage door closed.
The bell rang.
You braced yourself without meaning to.
The first exchange happened fastâfeet shifting, hands snapping out, the sound of gloves and skin and impact echoing in a way that made your stomach twist.
You hated how much the crowd loved it.
But you couldnât look away from him.
Sukuna moved like a predator.
Not frantic. Not sloppy. Every motion had intent. He slipped a punch like it was nothing, countered with something sharp and clean, forced the other man back with the effortless confidence of someone who knew exactly how much power he had.
Your hands curled in your lap.
You didnât cheer.
You didnât smile.
You just watched with a growing knot of worry that made your throat tight.
Because youâd seen bruises on him before and youâd realized, somewhere in the middle of counting pills and fixing curls, that you didnât like the idea of anyone hurting him.
Not even if he chose it.
The other fighter rushed him, trying to close distance, and for a second you felt your breath catchâfear flashing through you like a cold splash.
Sukuna didnât even look panicked.
He caught the clinch, turned it, drove the man back into the fence with brutal efficiency. Not excessive. Not theatrical. Just⌠decisive.
Your stomach turned.
The referee watched closely.
The crowd screamed.
Sukuna workedâshort strikes, pressure, controlâand when the other man tried to twist away, Sukuna dragged him down with a takedown so clean it looked like choreography.
You flinched at the sound of bodies hitting canvas.
Then Sukuna was on top, posture low, heavy, controlling. Not wild. Not cruel. Just complete.
It was horrible and mesmerizing all at once.
Your fingers pressed into your palm until you felt your own pulse.
The other fighter struggled. Sukuna adjusted. The referee hovered.
And thenâso fast you almost didnât understand itâSukuna shifted, locked something in, and the other man tapped.
Tapped.
It was over.
The bell rang again.
The crowd exploded like fireworks.
You sat frozen, heartbeat pounding, relief washing through you so hard it made you dizzy.
Sukuna rose, chest heaving, sweat gleaming under the lights. He looked to the referee, then to his corner, thenâlike he couldnât help himselfâhis gaze cut up toward the VIP section again.
This time, he didnât just glance.
He stared.
And you felt itâfelt the way his attention wrapped around you, heavy and sure, like a hand at your waist.
Then he smirked.
Like heâd done it for you.
Your cheeks warmed, even as your stomach still churned.
The officials swarmed him. His team surrounded him. Someone lifted his arm. Cameras flashed.
You sat there, a soft thing in a loud world, trying to steady your breathing, trying to convince yourself you hadnât just watched a man win a fight and felt⌠something embarrassingly close to pride.
Around you, people stood and toasted and laughed.
Mika texted you a single message:
HE WINNING???
You stared at your phone, then at the cage, then back again.
You typed:
Yes. Heâs okay.
You paused, then added:
I think.
Your phone buzzed with her reply almost instantly.
GO FIX HIS BRUISES, ROMANTIC DOCTOR LADY.
You didnât reply.
Because your heart was still trying to climb out of your chest.
A few minutes later, movement stirred in the VIP corridor again.
Sukuna appeared, freshly towelled off but still damp, still warm with adrenaline. He had a new bruise blooming along his ribs, and his knuckles looked red and sore. There was a faint split at his lip that made something in you ache.
He looked wired.
Alive in a way you didnât understand.
His eyes found you immediately.
And when he walked over, the crowd noise seemed to dull around the edges, like your world narrowed to the space he took up.
He stopped in front of you, smirk sharp, voice low.
âSee?â he said. âQuick.â You stared at the bruise, then at his lip, then up into his eyes. âYouâre bleeding,â you murmured.
His grin turned wicked. âYou sound worried.â You straightened your shoulders, trying to reclaim professionalism like a shield. âItâs⌠my job to care about injuries.â He leaned closer, eyes bright. âThatâs not your job.â Your breath hitched, very small.
He tapped his lip with a knuckle, as if inviting your gaze. âYou gonna fix it?â You swallowed. âDo you have a medicââ
âI do,â he cut in smoothly. âBut I wanted you.â Your face heated. You tried to keep your voice calm. âSukuna, you canât keep saying things like that.â He smiled like youâd told him a joke. âWhy not?â
âBecauseâŚâ You hesitated, honesty snagging in your throat. âBecause itâs not appropriate.â His gaze softened for a split second, then sharpened again with that cocky edge he wore like jewelry. âYou still came,â he murmured.
Your lips parted. Closed.
You hated how true that was.
He bent slightly, lowering his mouth closer to your ear, voice dropping into something that made your skin prickle.
âCome over,â he said. âAfter this.â You blinked, startled. âWhat?â
âMy place.â His eyes held yours, steady and daring. âWeâll have drinks.â You didnât curse, but you felt like your brain did. âIââ You swallowed. âThatâs⌠thatâs notââ Sukuna straightened, smirk returning like a familiar sin. âRelax. Iâm not saying weâre getting married.â Your cheeks flamed.
He looked pleased by that too.
âIâm saying,â he continued, voice lazy, âyou came all the way here, watched me do my job, and youâve been staring at my bruises like you want to press kisses on them.â You nearly inhaled wrong. âI have not,â you whispered.
His smile widened, pure menace. âYouâre blushing.â
âIâm not,â you lied softly.
He leaned down again, just enough that his voice felt like it brushed your skin. âCome over.â You stared at himâthis towering, tattooed man with a split lip and a smug grin, looking at you like you were the prize heâd already claimed.
And you shouldâve said no.
You shouldâve stood up, thanked him for the ticket, and left.
Instead, your heart beat quietly, insistently, like it had its own agenda.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of your seat.
And Sukuna watched youâpatient in the most dangerous wayâlike he had all the time in the world to wait for your answer.
You heard yourself say it before your brain could intervene. "Okay." The word came out soft, barely more than a breath, like you were afraid if you said it any louder, you'd scare yourself into taking it back.
Sukuna's eyes flashedâsomething dark and pleased and victorious all at once. "Yeah?" he murmured, leaning closer, like he wanted to make sure he'd heard you right.
You nodded, throat tight. "Just⌠for a little while." His smile curved slow and dangerous. "Sure," he said, in a tone that suggested he didn't believe the 'little while' part for a second. "Just for a bit." He straightened, offering you his hand.
You stared at itâbruised knuckles, tattoos wrapping around his wrist like they were holding something wild in placeâand then you took it. His palm was warm, rough with calluses, and when his fingers closed around yours, you felt the strength in them. Not crushing. Just⌠present. Like he could hold on as long as he wanted and you wouldn't be able to pull away.
He helped you stand, and suddenly you were too close to him, the heat of his body radiating through the small space between you. He smelled like sweat and clean skin and something faintly metallic, and it made your head swim.
"You drove here?" he asked.
You nodded. "Yeah."
"Follow me, then." He released your hand slowly, fingers trailing against yours as he let go. "I'm not far." You swallowed and nodded again, not trusting your voice. The walk back through the arena felt surrealâlike you were moving through a dream where everything was too bright and too loud and your body didn't quite belong to you. Sukuna walked ahead, glancing back every few steps like he was making sure you hadn't bolted.
You hadn't. But you thought about it.
Your car was parked in the lot, and when you unlocked it with shaking hands, Sukuna leaned against the driver's side door of a sleek black car a few spaces downâsomething expensive and low to the ground that looked like it had opinions about speed limits.
"You good?" he called over.
You looked at him across the parking lot, standing there like he owned the asphalt, and your stomach flipped. "Yeah," you called back, voice steadier than you felt.
He smirked. "Don't get lost." Then he slid into his car, and the engine purred to lifeâa low, rumbling sound that you felt in your chest. You got into your own car, gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor you to reality, and watched as he pulled out of the lot.
You followed.
The drive wasn't long, but every minute of it felt like your nerves were being pulled tighter and tighter, wound around a spool that was running out of thread. You kept your eyes on his taillights, your mind racing with a thousand thoughts that all contradicted each other.
This is a bad idea. This is exciting. You should turn around. You don't want to turn around. He's your patient. He's not your patient right now.
Your hands tightened on the wheel.
The city lights blurred past, and then you were pulling into an underground garageâconcrete and steel and the echo of your engine cutting off as you parked beside him. Sukuna was already out of his car, waiting, hands in his pockets like he had all the patience in the world now that you were here.
You got out slowly, clutching your purse like it might protect you from your own decisions.
He tilted his head toward the elevator. "Come on." You followed him across the garage, your footsteps too loud in the quiet space, and when he pressed the button for the elevator, you stood beside him in silence.
The doors opened with a soft chime.
You stepped inside.
He followed, and the space immediately felt smallerâtoo warm, too close. He pressed a button near the top of the panel, and the elevator began to rise.
You watched the numbers climb.
15⌠20⌠25âŚ
Your heart climbed with them.
When the doors finally opened, you stepped out into a hallway that was all clean lines and soft lighting, and Sukuna led you to a door at the end.
He unlocked it with a keycard, pushed it open, and stepped aside.
"After you," he said, voice low and amused, like he knew exactly how nervous you were.
You stepped inside and stopped.
The penthouse was⌠enormous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, showcasing the city sprawled out below like a carpet of lights. The space was openâsleek, modern, expensive in a way that didn't need to announce itself. Dark hardwood floors, minimalist furniture in shades of black and gray, a kitchen with marble countertops that gleamed under recessed lighting.
It was beautiful. And it felt⌠empty.
Not physicallyâthere was furniture, art on the walls, a massive sectional sofa that looked like it had never been sat onâbut emotionally. Like no one really lived here. Like it was a space designed to impress, not to comfort.
Your apartment was small and cozy, full of throw blankets and plants and mismatched mugs. It smelled like vanilla candles and old books. It felt like home.
This felt like a showroom.
"You like it?" Sukuna's voice came from behind you, and you turned to find him watching you with that same unreadable expression. "It's⌠big," you said softly, because you didn't know how to say It's beautiful but it doesn't feel like you without sounding presumptuous.
He smirked. "That's what she said." You blinked at him, and despite everythingâdespite your nerves and the surreal nature of being hereâyou felt a laugh bubble up in your throat.
You tried to suppress it.
Failed.
It came out as a soft, helpless giggle, and Sukuna's smirk widened into something that looked almost like a real smile. "There she is," he murmured, stepping closer. "I was wondering if you were gonna stay scared all night."
"I'm not scared," you said, even though your pulse was racing. "Liar." He moved past you into the kitchen, and you watched as he opened the fridgeâa massive stainless steel thing that probably cost more than your car. "What do you want to drink?" You hesitated. "Um⌠water?" He glanced at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Water."
"Yes."
"You sure? I've gotâ" He rattled off a list of things you barely registered, your brain too busy trying to keep up with the fact that you were in Sukuna's penthouse, alone, at night, after watching him fight. "Water's fine," you said, voice a little firmer. He shrugged, pulling out a bottle of water and a bright blue Gatorade for himself. He poured your water into a glassâactual glass, not plasticâand handed it to you. Your fingers brushed his as you took it, and the contact sent a little spark up your arm.
"Thanks," you murmured.
He twisted the cap off his Gatorade and took a long drink, his throat working as he swallowed, and you found yourself staring at the line of his neck, the way his tattoos disappeared under the collar of his shirt.
You looked away quickly, taking a sip of your own water.
"Sit," he said, nodding toward the sectional.
You moved toward it, perching on the edge of one of the cushions like you might need to run at any moment. The leather was soft and cool under your thighs, and you set your glass down on the coffee tableâa slab of dark wood that looked like it had been carved from a single tree.
Sukuna dropped onto the couch beside youânot across from you, not at a polite distance, but right beside you, close enough that his thigh almost touched yours.
You felt the heat of him immediately.
"So," he said, leaning back and draping one arm along the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing your shoulder. "You gonna tell me what you thought?"
"About what?" you asked, even though you knew.
His smile was slow and wicked. "The fight." You looked down at your hands, folded in your lap. "It was⌠intense."
"Intense," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "That's it?" You glanced at him. "I don't like violence."
"I know." His gaze was steady, unrepentant. "But you watched anyway." Your cheeks warmed. "You asked me to."
"And you came." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Why?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I don't know."
"Liar," he said again, softer this time, and his fingers brushed against your shoulderâjust a whisper of contact, but it made your breath hitch.
"I'm notâ"
"You are." He shifted closer, and now his thigh was pressed against yours, solid and warm. "You know exactly why you came." Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. "Sukunaâ"
"Say it," he murmured, and his hand moved from your shoulder to your hair, fingers threading through your curls with a gentleness that didn't match the intensity in his eyes. "Say why you came." You stared at him, at the bruise on his cheekbone and the split in his lip and the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
"Because you asked me to," you whispered, his smile was slow and satisfied. "Good girl." The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you hated how much you liked the sound of them in his voice. His hand slid from your hair to your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. "You're so fucking sweet," he murmured, almost to himself. "It's gonna ruin me."
You didn't know what to say to that. So you didn't say anything.
You just sat there, frozen, as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly.
You should have. You should have said stop and this is a bad idea and I need to go home.
But you didn't.
You just looked at him, your lips parted, your breath coming too fast.
And Sukuna smiled like he'd won somethingâ his thumb traced your lower lip, and your breath caught.
"You're not gonna tell me to stop, are you?" he murmured.
You shook your head, just barely.
"Fuck," he breathed, and then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was nothing like you'd imaginedânot that you'd been imagining it, except you had, you absolutely hadâit was rough and hungry and tasted faintly of blood from his split lip. His hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you in place as he kissed you like he'd been thinking about it for days.
You made a soft sound against his mouth, and he groaned in response, his other hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer.
You went.
Your hands found his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt, the heat of his skin, and you kissed him back with a desperation that should have embarrassed you but didn't. He pulled you into his lap with an ease that made your head spin, and suddenly you were straddling him, your thighs on either side of his, your hands braced on his shoulders.
"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, pulling back just enough to take you inâyour flushed cheeks, your swollen lips, the way your chest was rising and falling with quick breaths. "You're so fucking pretty." You opened your mouth to respond, but he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your shirt.
You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his hips shifting beneath you in a way that made you acutely aware of how hard he was. "Sukuna," you breathed, and his name in your voice seemed to do something to him.
He groaned, low and rough, and his hands moved to your hips, grinding you down against him. The friction made you whimper, and he did it again, harder this time, his mouth moving to your neck. "You have no idea," he muttered against your skin, teeth grazing your throat, "how long I've been thinking about this."
Your head fell back, giving him access, and his mouth was hot and demanding, sucking marks into your skin that you'd have to cover tomorrow.
Tomorrow felt very far away.
His hands slid under your shirt, palms rough and warm against your bare skin, and you arched into his touch.
"Bedroom," he growled against your neck. "Now." You nodded, breathless, and he stood with you still wrapped around him, your legs locking around his waist as he carried you across the penthouse.
You should have felt self-consciousâabout your weight, about how desperate you must lookâbut Sukuna held you like you weighed nothing, his hands firm on your ass, his mouth still working against your neck. He kicked open a door and carried you inside, and you had a brief impression of a massive bed and more floor-to-ceiling windows before he was laying you down on the mattress. You looked up at him, breathless and flushed, and he stood over you for a moment, just looking.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he muttered, and then he was on you again, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that made you feel safe and trapped all at once.
His hands were everywhereâpulling off your shirt, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, sliding your jeans down your legs until you were bare beneath him except for your panties. He sat back on his heels, looking at you spread out on his bed, and his expression was something between reverent and predatory.
"Fuck," he breathed.
You resisted the urge to cover yourself, your hands fisting in the sheets instead.
He pulled his own shirt over his head, and you got your first real look at himâall hard muscle and ink, tattoos covering his chest and arms in intricate patterns that you wanted to trace with your fingers.
You reached up, tentative, and he caught your hand, bringing it to his chest.
"Touch me," he said, voice rough.
So you did.
Your fingers traced the lines of his tattoos, the hard planes of his muscles, and he watched you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. When your hand drifted lower, brushing the waistband of his pants, he caught your wrist.
"Not yet," he said. "You first." And then he was kissing his way down your bodyâyour neck, your collarbone, your breasts. His mouth closed over one nipple, and you arched off the bed with a gasp.
He hummed in approval, his hand sliding down your stomach to the waistband of your panties. "Can I?" he asked, and the fact that he askedâthat he paused to make sureâmade something in your chest tighten. "Yes," you breathed.
He hooked his fingers in the fabric and pulled them down, tossing them aside, and then you were completely bare before him. He settled between your thighs, his shoulders forcing your legs wider, and you felt exposed and vulnerable and so turned on you could barely think.
"So fucking pretty," he muttered, and then his mouth was on you.
You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, and he groaned against you, the vibration making your hips buck. He ate you out like he was starving, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, and you were already so wound up that it didn't take long before you were trembling on the edge.
"Sukuna," you gasped, "I'mâ"
"Come," he growled against you. "Come on my tongue." And you did, your orgasm crashing over you in waves that made your vision white out, your thighs clamping around his head as you shook apart.
He worked you through it, only pulling back when you whimpered from oversensitivity.
When you finally came back to yourself, he was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Good?" he asked, voice smug.
You couldn't even form words. You just nodded, breathless and boneless.
He chuckled, low and dark, and then he was stripping off the rest of his clothes.
When he was finally naked, you couldn't help but stare.
He was⌠big. Everywhere.
Your eyes widened slightly, and he noticed, his smirk widening. "Don't worry," he said, crawling back over you. "I'll make it fit."
You were on your hands and knees on his bed, your back arched, your face pressed into the expensive sheets that smelled like himâclean and sharp and male. Sukuna was behind you, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other wrapped around your front, his fingers working your clit in tight, relentless circles.
And he was fucking you.
Hard.
Deep.
Fast enough that you couldn't catch your breath, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but take it and moan and feel. "Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned in your ear, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck. "So fucking perfect." You whimpered, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he thrust harder, the sound of skin against skin obscenely loud in the quiet room. "You like that?" he muttered, his fingers pressing harder against your clit. "You like me fucking you like this?"
"Yes," you gasped, the word barely coherent. "Yes, oh, yesâ" He groaned, low and rough, and his hips snapped forward again, burying himself so deep you saw stars. Your second orgasm was building already, coiling tight in your belly, and you could feel yourself getting wetter, could hear it in the slick sounds of him moving inside you.
"That's it," he growled. "Fuck, you're dripping for me. You gonna come again? Gonna come on my cock?" You nodded frantically, beyond words, and his fingers moved faster, his thrusts harder, and you were right there, right on the edgeâ And then he laughed.
Not a cruel laugh. Not mocking.
Just⌠amused.
"Fuck," he said, his rhythm faltering for just a second. "I forgot to take my meds." Your brain, fogged with pleasure, took a moment to process that, and then you felt him shift, his body leaning away from yours slightly, and you heard the sound of a pill bottle opening. You turned your head, dazed and disbelieving, and watched as Sukunaâstill inside you, still hard, still moving in slow, lazy thrustsâpopped open his prescription bottle with one hand.
He shook two pills into his palm, tossed them into his mouth, and then reached for the water bottle on his nightstand.
He took a drink, swallowed, and set the bottle back down.
All while still fucking you.
"Sukuna," you groaned, half scandalized, half delirious. "Are you serious right now?" He leaned back down, his chest pressing against your back again, his mouth right against your ear. "What?" he murmured, his voice full of dark amusement. "You told me to take them at the same time every day." You made a sound that was half laugh, half moan, because this was obscene and inappropriate and somehow the hottest thing that had ever happened to you.
"You're insane," you gasped. âYeah," he agreed, and then he thrust hard, making you cry out. "But you like it." You couldn't argue with that.
His hand returned to your clit, and his pace picked up again, faster now, harder, and you were so close you could taste it. "Did I do a good job?" he growled in your ear, his voice rough and possessive. "Taking my meds like a good boy?" You whimpered, nodding frantically. "Say it," he demanded, his fingers pressing harder. "Tell me I did a good job."
"You did," you gasped. âGod, Sukuna, you did so goodâ" He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back, and his thrusts became almost punishing, chasing his own release now. "Gonna fill you up," he muttered. "Gonna make you come one more time and then fill this pretty pussy up. You want that?"
"Yes," you sobbed, because you were so close, so fucking closeâ "Then come," he growled. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it." And you did.
Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your whole body seizing, your walls clamping down around him so hard he cursed. "Fuck, fuck, yesâ" He thrust twice more, hard and deep, and then he was coming too, groaning your name into your neck as he spilled inside you.
You collapsed forward onto the bed, and he followed you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress, both of you breathing hard. For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Then Sukuna shifted, pulling out slowly, and you whimpered at the loss.
He rolled onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest still heaving.
You turned your head to look at him, your body still trembling with aftershocks. "You really just took your meds in the middle of sex," you said, your voice hoarse.
He lowered his arm and looked at you, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Yeah," he said. "I did." You stared at him for a moment.
And then you started laughing.
You couldn't help itâit was absurd and ridiculous and so perfectly him that you couldn't do anything but laugh, your body shaking with it.
Sukuna watched you, his grin softening into something that looked almost fond.
"You're fucking cute," he muttered.
You were still laughing, breathless and spent and completely wrecked, when he pulled you against his chest, and for the first time since you'd met him, Sukuna looked like a peaceful menace, a menace you had to refill his prescription in 2 weeks.
But maybe the only medication he needed was just his pharmacist.
this was a brain rot idea I had like a long time ago, you're welcomeđŠ
taglist: @marcelinebtw @chososcupoftea @winkii @eli54sa @strawberryosaki @rumblehoneyy @ellsiedjarin @poopypantsstinkface @tojisunicornbraidd @it2muse3 @wildlycruelphoenix @kamisiag @blissingtaehyung @moe-moes-stuff @simplyspooky8 @attackonnat @confusedmomfriend





















