Ryomen Sukuna x Fem! Reader
Mafia AU (Kinda)
MDNI‼️- NSFW
Undercurrent
Sypnosis: You run a tight operation and enough midnight paperwork to sink a small fleet. The last thing you need is Ryomen Sukuna, rival boss and professional menace, slipping into every corner of your day. He’s all sharp smiles and infuriating charm, showing up where he shouldn’t and noticing things you’d rather he didn’t. But somewhere between late night diner stops and an invitation you probably shouldn’t accept, the line between business and whatever this is starts to blur. Rivalry was simple. This isn’t.
W/c: 8k
A/N: I initially decided on something little in honor of my first Kinktober in a 3 days (coz yk, timezones.) but then somehow this turned into a full on mafia meet cute.
I have not a clue under the sun who the artist of this amazing fanart is. If anyone knows, please let me know so I can credit!!
· · ───꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ─── · ✦ · ─── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ─── · ·
The scent of cigar smoke and expensive bourbon hangs heavy in the Gojo clan’s private boardroom. The polished mahogany table stretches almost the length of the room, stacked with contracts, shipping manifests, and invoices that smell faintly of ink and money. You sit at the head of the table, heels clicking against the marble floor, posture perfect, eyes scanning the faces of the men and women who work for the Gojo clan.
“Your numbers are impressive,” one of their lieutenants says, sliding a contract toward you. “But the shipping schedules are tight. The docks can’t handle this volume without delay.”
You relax against your chair, fingers brushing over the sleek edge of the document, you lift your gaze, it's sharp and precise. “Then rearrange. Prioritize my cargo. We’re moving goods, not excuses. I don’t care if your docks are full. You will make room. I pay for efficiency. Not excuses.”
A murmur runs around the room. Your confidence isn’t arrogance, it’s command. You don’t ask, you demand, and they obey because crossing you isn’t an option. It’s everything you have ever worked for, and it’s about damn time you’re listened to.
The lieutenant swallows. “Understood. And the imports from foreign land, has there been any updates?”
You tap the table twice, deliberately making everyone wait for the next words. “Secured. Payment cleared. Customs cleared. By midnight, every crate is on the docks, ready to move. There are no errors and no delays.” You eye the room. “Anyone who thinks otherwise won’t work here for long.” Your words are a sharp edge that makes them all tense. You are a force, and they know it.
And then… comes the familiar heat. The irritation in your gut that you’ve learned to recognize immediately. He’s here. Someone rid me of his agonizing existence. He leans against the wall of the glass panelled boardroom, arms crossed and with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face. When he got here, God knows. Dressed sharp and clearly comfortable being a thorn in your side. He’s your rival. Your constant, insufferable rival, always showing up where he doesn’t belong, always trying to one up you. Constantly tramping your toes, you’re convinced he’s a spawn from hell unfortunately sent to earth just to torment you for the rest of your days.
“Busy as always,” he drawls, voice carrying across the polished wood, loud enough to make heads turn. “Playing the big mafia boss. I almost admire your work ethic, sweetheart.”
You lift an eyebrow, not looking at him. “Ryomen. I thought you were busy with your own operations. Or are you here to congratulate me on doing my job better than yours?”
He chuckles, dark and teasing, taking a step closer, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Better?” he scoffs “That’s debatable. But I do love watching you try to keep up with me. You’re… entertaining, in a relentless but sad sort of way.” Oh, the things I’d give to kick him in the balls he cherishes so much right now.
Your jaw tightens, already feeling a headache coming on. “I don’t need your approval, and I don’t need your commentary. Go back to whatever empire you’re failing to manage, demon spawn.”
The stupid prick laughs. He fucking laughs. “Oh, I’m managing just fine,” he says, stepping even closer, his smirk widening. “Better than you, obviously. But watching you scramble, trying to prove yourself, that’s my favourite part.”
You finally glance at him, but decide to briefly close your eyes instead, just seeing his infuriatingly handsome but smug bastard makes your eye twitch. “Scramble? I run this operation. The docks, the imports, the exports, the alliances. Every deal that moves through this city has my signature on it. And you—” you gesture toward him, voice cold and precise “you’re a nuisance. A thorn. A rival who’s going to learn exactly why messing with me is dangerous.”
He laughs, low, amused. “Dangerous? I love danger, sweetheart. Especially when it’s the kind that fights back.” he brings up a thumb to wipe the corner of his mouth. You regret everything. There has never been anything more embarrassing and equally frustrating than finally getting your footing and then kicked by Ryomen Sukuna in the back of your knees. You’re sure that one day, he’s going to make you kill yourself or him. Whichever comes first.
You clench your jaw, turning back to the table, ignoring him, but you feel it…the unmistakable tension, the game of chess that’s been ongoing for years between you two that's now alive in the room, thick as smoke. Every deal you make tonight, every crate that leaves the docks, every alliance you cement, they are all a battle against him. And he knows it. And God, he fucking loves it.
And you… you loathe him. But you respect him too. He's the only person who matches your mind, your drive and your ruthlessness in the mafia world. That is your opening battlefield; deals, imports, exports, contracts; all under the gaze of a rival who makes your blood boil, whose mere presence threatens to undo everything you’ve built… and who will stop at nothing to challenge you at every turn.
“Meeting’s over. Everyone, get out” Sukuna opens the double doors wider and hikes a thumb over his shoulder, holding the door while all the meeting attendees shuffle out. You scoff and roll your eyes, twirling in your chair a little. He shuts the door behind the last Gojo clan member and stalks over to you.
The echo of the door latch fades, leaving a hush that’s almost intimate. His footsteps are deliberate until he stops just short of your chair. “Comfortable?” he drawls, voice deep enough to slide across the polished table. “Spinning around like that while the clan hangs on your every word.”
You glance unimpressed over your shoulder. “I’d clap for you barging in, but I’d hate to feed your ego.”
“Too late,” he says easily, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I live off the stuff.”
You let out a dry laugh. “Figures. What do you want, Ryomen? Your dramatic entrance couldn’t wait until I left the building?”
“Wouldn’t be as fun.” He plants a hand on the back of your chair and, with a slow, deliberate motion, swivels it so you’re facing away from him. “Besides, you missed something.”
“Doubt it,” you say, lifting your chin.
“Mm.” He leans over you, the scent of smoke and clean steel threading the air between you. “See this—” He reaches around, long fingers sliding across the trackpad of your laptop. His other hand rests casually on the chair arm, bracketing you. “Here.” He taps a line of numbers highlighted in faint green. “These are the Gojo projections, yeah? Well, their freight tariffs shifted mid quarter. They’re banking on you skimming this.” You blink, irritation giving way to reluctant calculation. He’s right. Damn it.
“Caught that while they were still flapping their jaws,” he adds, his tone maddeningly casual.
A slow exhale leaves your lungs. “Fine. Good eye.”
“Say it nicer.” You can hear the smug grin in his voice. “Maybe add a ‘thank you Ryomen, you’re a hot, sexy genius.’ ”
“Not happening.”
“Your loss.” He leans a fraction closer, pointing again, the heat of him at your back. “Adjust this figure before you sign. You’ll save. Oh. Seven figures in shipping by next cycle.”
You hesitate, then grudgingly offer a “...Thanks.”
The smugness radiating off him could light the room. “Music to my ears.”
You snap the laptop shut. “Don’t start.” You turn your head to see him.
“Who, me?” He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “Just offering free consulting.”
“More like unsolicited harassment.”
“Semantics.” His hand leaves the chair only to rest light and warm at the crown of your head. Before you can react, he bends and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your hair. You jolt, half rising. “Ryom—”
“Easy,” he murmurs, stepping back with a wolfish smile.
“If you ever do that again,” you warn. “I’ll—”
“What?” His laugh is low, dangerous and amused. “File a complaint? Break my fingers?” He pouts “You’d miss me too much”
“In your dreams.” You narrow your eyes at him.
“Frequently,” he shoots back without a pause.
Your glare sharpens. “I could’ve had you thrown out for interrupting a meeting.”
“You could try,” he says, already moving toward the door, in that maddeningly smooth and unhurried stride. He glances back once, crimson eyes glinting with wicked amusement. “I’ll meet you later. Don’t be late.” The door swings shut behind him, leaving the faintest trace of smoke and the memory of his kiss in the still air, your infuriation is proof that he’s always two steps ahead.
-
Salt air rides the wind, heavy with diesel and the metallic tang of cargo cranes. Floodlights carve pale columns across the shipping yard where containers clank against steel. You step onto the main deck, coat flaring behind you, phone pressed to your ear as you finalize the manifest.
“Hey, hey,” a familiar voice cuts through the night. “You’re still terrifying on calls.” You turn to find Satoru Gojo leaning against a stack of crates, white hair catching the light like a beacon. He’s impossible to miss, even in the organized chaos of the docks. His grin is pure mischief.
“You’re late,” you say, clicking your phone off.
“Fashionably,” he shrugs, striding over with long, lazy steps. “Besides, you love it when I make an entrance.”
“You’d love that too much,” you deadpan, but the corner of your mouth betrays a smirk. Gojo slings an arm around your shoulders with the easy confidence of an old friend. “There it is! It’s the almost smile. Knew I’d get it.”
You roll your eyes and start walking toward the cargo ledgers. His arm stays draped comfortably like it belongs there.
A low voice cuts in from behind, smooth as oil over a blade. “Well, isn’t this cozy.” You don’t have to turn to know that it’s Ryomen Sukuna. He approaches without hurry, a dark silhouette against the rows of shipping containers, crimson eyes catching the stray light. Tonight he’s dressed in a black coat that moves like smoke, hands tucked in his pockets. Not a single step wasted. Ever the dramatic flair.
Gojo’s grin widens. “Look who wandered in. The rumour himself.”
“Gojo,” Sukuna says, with a nod that’s polite enough to be insulting.
“Sukuna,” Gojo replies, tone light but watchful. “Didn’t expect to see you on the night shift.”
“I go where I please,” Sukuna says, gaze sliding to you. “Seems like we had the same idea.” You shift slightly, intending to step out from under Gojo’s arm, but Sukuna closes the distance in three calm strides. Before you can react, his hand settles at your waist, like a firm and deliberate claim. He draws you back until your spine meets the solid heat of his chest. The motion is so smooth it takes you a beat to process. Your breath catches. Then you bristle.
“Excuse me?” you hiss, low enough that only he hears.
“Making sure you don’t get lost,” he murmurs, his tone sounding a shade too innocent.
Gojo lets out a bark of laughter, sharp and amused. “Wow. Territorial much?”
“Nah man, just careful,” Sukuna replies, his lips curving into a slow, dangerous smirk. His thumb brushes a small, maddening circle against your hip. A touch that looks casual but feels anything but.
You elbow him hard. He doesn’t budge. The big fucking block of muscle. “Remove your hand, heathen.” you grind out.
“Can’t,” he says lightly. “Dock regulations. Safety protocol.”
Gojo’s laugh echoes off the metal containers. “That’s a new one. I like it.”
You shoot Gojo a glare. “You’re. Not. Helping.” You struggle against Sukuna.
“I’d argue I’m enjoying myself immensely,” he says, eyes sparkling behind his lowered shades. You twist against Sukuna’s hold, but he only leans closer, the heat of his breath brushing your ear. “Relax,” he says, voice low enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I’m not here to ruin your night. I'm just observing. And keeping you… steady.”
“You’re so infuriating.” Oh my God, I’m going to pull my hair out.
“I’ve been told.” He tilts his head slightly so you feel the faintest graze of his jaw against your hair. “But you haven’t actually told me to stop.”
Your pulse jumps at the quiet challenge. You grit your teeth. “Stop.”
“Mm. There it is.” He finally eases his grip, but not before giving the slightest, most deliberate squeeze at your waist, like a silent punctuation.
Gojo claps his hands once, breaking the charged stillness. “Well, this has been entertaining. You two should really sell tickets.”
“Not in this lifetime,” you mutter, stepping forward to put space between you and Sukuna, though the imprint of his touch still lingers like static.
Sukuna only smiles, slow and self satisfied. “See you inside, sweetheart.” He turns toward the loading bay, stride unhurried, his coat catching the wind. That smug curve of his mouth says everything he doesn’t bother to.
Gojo whistles low. “You attract the most interesting problems.”
You exhale, rolling your shoulders as if to shake off the heat. “He’s not a problem. He’s an inconvenience.”
“Uh huh.” Gojo grins like he knows something you don't. “Keep telling yourself that.”
-
You don’t even make it to your car before Sukuna falls into step beside you. The parking lot lamps cast a harsh silver glow over the cracked asphalt, stretching his shadow long across yours. “Enjoy your little reunion?” he asks, voice low enough to almost pass for casual. Almost. What does he want?
You sling him a side eye. “We were discussing shipping manifests. Try not to combust.”
His laugh is a quick, sharp scrape of sound. “Oh, I’m calm. Perfectly calm.” He tucks his hands into his coat pockets, the picture of unbothered. “Just didn’t know the great Satoru Gojo offered shoulder massages with every update.”
You stop short. “It was a pat, not a massage.”
“Mm.” He leans forward until his breath brushes your ear. “Felt like more from where I was standing.”
A flare of heat darts up your neck, annoyance and something less nameable. “You were standing ten feet away.”
“Still got the view,” he murmurs.
You start walking briskly again. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve been called worse.” He keeps pace effortlessly. “But you didn’t tell him to move his hand.”
“Oh my God, it wasn’t a big deal.”
Sukuna tilts his head, studying you like you’re a particularly intriguing puzzle. “Maybe not to you.” You whirl on him, the heel of your boot scuffing the pavement. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”
“Jealous?” His grin spreads slow and wicked. “No. Just observant, like I keep telling you. And maybe a little territorial.”
“Territorial?” You bark a laugh. “You don’t own me.”
“Never said I did.” He steps closer until the air between you sharpens. “Doesn’t mean I like someone else touching what I—”
“Finish that sentence,” you warn and lift your chin, “and I will dent your ribs with my knee.”
His grin widens. “See? Fiery.”
You fold your arms, glaring up at him. “If you’re done posturing, I have an actual job.”
“Right. Your laptop full of riveting manifests.” He reaches out before you can move, tracing the pad of his thumb along the inside of your wrist, it feels barely there but so fucking maddening. “Careful though. Gojo might want a copy.”
“That’s it,” you hiss, jerking your hand back. “Go home, Ryomen.”
He laughs, quiet and low. “You’ll thank me when you find the error I pointed out earlier. And maybe for keeping Gojo’s wandering hands in check.” You pivot and stalk toward your car, pulse thudding louder than your footsteps. Behind you, his voice slides across the lot, lazy and sure. “Come on, sweetheart. You’re shaking like a leaf.”
You’re halfway to telling him to mind his own business when a warm hand closes over the keys in your palm. A deft twist and the metal is gone. “Seriously?” You whirl, only to find your fist meeting his coat instead of your keys. “Give them back, Ryomen.” He pockets them like spare change. “Nah. You’ll just drive off and brood.”
You narrow your eyes. “That’s theft.”
“Fine. Temporary custody.” His grin cuts wider. “Or kidnapping, if you prefer.” Before you can wind up a threat, he hooks an arm around your waist and lifts you clean and effortlessly. One second you’re facing asphalt , the next it’s his shoulder.
“Put me down you big oaf!” You shove at his back, boot heels kicking air. “This is kidnapping!”
“Relax,” he drawls, laughter shaking through him. “You’re not my first felony tonight.” You smack his back. Hard. He smacks your ass in return, a quick sting through the fabric of your slacks. You yelp, more startled than hurt.
“Touch me again and I swear—” he cuts you off.
“—you’ll dent my ribs, yeah, yeah. You’re adorable when you threaten homicide.” He’s still laughing when he sets you down, but not on the ground, it’s into the passenger seat of a black car you’re positive wasn’t here a minute ago.
You blink. “This isn’t my car.”
“Correct.” He leans in, buckling your seat belt before you can unclip it. “But it is heated, and we’re getting food before you faint.”
“I’m not—”
“Shaking like a leaf,” he interrupts smoothly, shutting the door on your next curse.
The diner is a low lit relic of chrome and neon and half empty at this hour. A waitress drops two coffees before you’ve even settled. Sukuna sprawls opposite, coat unbuttoned, grin fixed. “So. What’s the official excuse? Low blood sugar? Or did the sight of Gojo’s wandering hand rattle you?”
You stir cream into your cup and deadpan. “Still jealous? Impressive stamina.”
“Observations,” he says, sipping black coffee like it’s a challenge. “Purely scientific.”
“Right. Science.” You roll your eyes. His eyes catch the fluorescent lights, looking sharp and amused. “Fine. Maybe a touch of professional curiosity. He always that handsy or just with you?”
“Don’t deflect,” you counter. “That was practically a confession.”
He shrugs, lips quirking. “Call it data collection.”
You snort into your cup despite yourself. “You are impossible.”
“And yet,” he says, “here you are. Not brooding in a cold car.” The waitress slides a plate of pancakes and a side of bacon between you. Sukuna steals the first strip before you reach for the fork.
“You’re a menace,” you say.
“Efficient,” he corrects, biting into the bacon. The conversation settles into an easy rhythm, compiled of work gossip, port schedules, a mutual rant about the harbour’s ancient cranes. You’re surprised by how easy it is, how the tension that usually snaps between you has melted into something sharp but companionable. Halfway through your pancakes, he leans back, studying you. “Tomorrow night. Club Neon Jackal. I’ve got a deal brewing. imports from Marseille. Your expertise in freight routing could keep me from throttling a Frenchman.”
You pause mid bite feeling a little skeptical. “You’re asking for help?”
“I’m asking for insight.” His tone softens, serious in a way you rarely hear. “Could use another brain in the room. Yours is the least irritating option.”
You laugh and it's a low genuine sound that surprises you both. “Least irritating. Wow. High praise.”
He shrugs, “I’m practically sentimental.”
You set down the fork, reading the quiet in his face. He isn’t joking, not entirely you think. “Fine,” you say. “One night. Club Neon Jackal.”
A grin flashes. “Knew you’d say yes.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and you almost believe him.
The drive back is quiet except for the low hum of late night radio. When he pulls into your driveway, he kills the engine but doesn’t reach for the door.
“Not gonna invite me in?” he asks, his voice mock hurt, the tone purely ex boyfriend. You give him a flat, disgusted look. “Yeah, because that’s exactly how I want to end my night. fielding your bad pick up lines.”
He laughs, the sound is rich and unbothered. “Brutal.”
“Accurate,” you shoot back. He taps the steering wheel once, still grinning. “Your car will be in the garage by morning. Try not to miss me.”
You roll your eyes as you climb out. “Not a chance.” He gives a two fingered salute before the engine rumbles to life. Red tail lights slice through the dark as he pulls away, leaving you standing in the quiet with an unexpected lightness in your chest. Later, curled under your own blankets, you realize you’re still smiling. And you hate it, just a little because of how good that feels.
-
Sunlight pushes through the blinds, thin and insistent. You squint at the clock. It’s half past ten and the first thing you see when you step to your window is your car parked perfectly in the driveway like it never left. You should’ve expected it but you still pause, a quiet laugh threatens you when you remember last night; the stolen keys, the diner, his stupid grin. The sound almost escapes before you catch yourself.
Don’t start. You shake it off, heading for coffee. The smell hits first, dark roast and a faint hint of cedar that doesn’t belong to you. On the kitchen counter sits a black matte box the size of a carry on suitcase. A cream envelope perches on top, your name scrawled across it in bold, slanted handwriting you’d recognize anywhere. You bite back a smile and fail. Inside the envelope is single card.
Tonight. Wear it. - Ryo.
“Ever the gentleman,” you mutter, already rolling your eyes. Still, you undo the satin ribbon. Inside is a sleek black slip of a dress, the kind that fits like a whispered threat; a pair of strappy heels with a shine that could blind; and a slim velvet case with earrings and a delicate chain that catches the morning light. You laugh once, it’s short and incredulous. “Chivalrous, huh? Overachiever.” You set the card aside, finish your coffee, and tell yourself it’s just practical. Club Neon Jackal. A deal. A business meeting. You dress without overthinking, the fabric slides against your skin like a secret you won’t name.
You’re pulling out your phone to call a driver when a low, familiar hoot cuts through the street noise. Outside, a black car gleams at the curb, tinted windows swallowing the midday glare. The rear door swings open and Sukuna unfolds from the back seat, tall and annoyingly composed.
“Summoning service?” you call from the doorway.
“Door to door, sweetheart.” He sweeps an exaggerated bow and gestures to the open car. “Complimentary upgrade. Thought you’d appreciate the theatrics.”
You descend the steps, arching a brow. “You have nothing better to do?”
“Not when you’re on the itinerary.” His grin is pure trouble. “Besides, figured you’d forget the address.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“I know.” He shrugs, hands in pockets. “Still wanted to watch you try that dress on.” You slide into the car, giving him a pointed look. “You bought the dress. Seeing it on me isn’t a surprise.”
“It’s still a privilege,” he fires back, settling beside you as the driver pulls away. The interior smells like leather and a hint of his cologne, spiced smoke and delicious cedar. He leans back and his gaze cuts your way, and for a moment the sarcasm slips.
“You look—” He stops, shakes his head with a small, crooked smile. “—incredible.” It’s quiet enough that the word lands heavier than it should. You glance at him, caught off guard. He’s not smirking, not playing. Just looking.
Heat creeps up your neck. “Thanks,” you manage, a little too quickly. His grin returns, sharper. “Don’t get used to the compliments. Ruins my reputation.”
“There it is,” you say, exhaling a laugh.
“Wouldn’t want you thinking I’m soft.”
“You couldn’t fake soft if you tried.”
“True,” he agrees, eyes gleaming as the city lights flicker across his face. “But I’m excellent at being infuriating.”
“That,” you say, settling back against the seat, “I will never argue.”
The driver merges into the neon pulse of downtown, the club sign a faint glow on the horizon. You keep your gaze on the blur of lights outside, refusing to think too hard about the way your pulse hasn’t settled since he said ‘incredible’. Sukuna stretches beside you, perfectly at ease, the very picture of trouble waiting to happen.
-
The club thrums around you, bass rattling the floorboards, strobe lights catching gold in your hair (According to Sukuna). You’re at the head of a long glass table, Sukuna beside you, professional as ever, both of you reviewing contracts and proposals with an almost predatory calm. But your attention sharpens instantly when a potential partner… this slick and greasy bastard tries to talk down Sukuna, subtly shifting terms to his favour. Your jaw tightens. Every micro expression, every nuance of his lies refisters. Your pulse accelerates. “Excuse me,” you say, voice low but lethal, cutting across the din. “I think you forgot who you’re negotiating with.”
He smirks, thinking you bluff and you lean forward, hands gripping the edge of the table. “I’m reminding you.” Your gaze flashes to Sukuna; he hasn’t flinched, hasn’t moved, but the corner of his mouth tightens. The audacity of the man ignites a fury you can’t contain.
“If you so much as think about screwing him over—” you start, voice dangerously calm. “I will personally see that your liver doesn’t make it past tonight.” The man scoffs, You don’t give the man a second to finish his sentence. It isn’t theatre; it’s the exact kind of sleight he tried to pull on Sukuna, sliding a clause into the contract with the deftness of a pickpocket and whatever professionalism he wore cracks when you see the way Sukuna’s jaw tightens thinning into a cool line of his mouth.
“You don’t talk to him like that,” you say, low, and very close. You feel every eye in the booth tilt toward you. The man’s smile thins and turns dangerous. He answers with a laugh that’s too loud and claws for leverage, a cheap shoulder nudge to the man next to him meant to humiliate you, that’s the shove that costs him.
The first punch is an instinct. Your forearm snaps up, elbow driving into his ribs. The sound is a hard, private punctuation. He staggers; someone in the back of the room stands. Chairs scrape. A glass topples and cracks as bodies swing into motion.
From there it’s ballet and brutality. You move with a practiced economy; two quick jabs to his jaw, a foot sweep when he tries to pivot away, and then a short, bone deep shoulder check that launches him back into the table. The man swears, grabs for a wine bottle, and brings it down in a wide arc. You duck, feel the whoosh of glass over your hair, and land a palm to his throat that knocks air out of him and attention back to you.
Sukuna doesn’t wade in like a brawler; he’s the blade in the hand of a surgeon. In three brutal, efficient motions he’s across the table; there’s a palm to a temple, a hook to the sternum that slides a man sideways, his temple grazes the metal of a lamp. He moves like he’s cataloguing every ligament as he goes, sending men falling in lines as if he’s rearranging pieces on a board.
Then someone pulls a knife. Quick, cheap, blinking steel. He lunges across a table toward Sukuna with the blade extended; the club lights catch and glitter off it like an accusation. The thug tries to make it theatrical, to puncture the chaos with an easy answer. You see it and you don’t think. Your hand is on the nearest steak knife, it’s a service cutlery set abandoned on a side table by a waitress and you grab it with the same single mindedness you bring to a negotiation. He swings at Sukuna; the blade slashes air; Sukuna steps lithe, a hair’s breadth away from the steel, and the man’s follow through throws him off balance.
Your move is a hard, clean one: you twist under his arm, climb his leverage with one knee to his thigh to jar his stance, and drive the kitchen knife into the wooden table top between his feet. It’s a splintering, loud, terrifying punctuation that pins the man’s hand to the table by proximity more than gore. He howls and yanks back, the steel catching in the grain. The sound draws bloodless attention; it’s ugly, immediate, and it sends the rest of the would be aggressors reeling into retreat.
Another thug, angrier and twice as stupid, comes at you from behind with a swinging elbow meant to flatten you to the floor. Your forearm meets his with a ringing crack; you twist, bring your knee up under his chin, and feel his jaw fold like a dropped gate. He goes down hard, knocking a chair with him. You are in the choreography, you are all teeth and cold calculation, and utter rage on behalf of Sukuna.
Sukuna finishes the line. He doesn’t roar or gloat. He moves silently and controlled, like water finding the lowest channel. He moves and there’s two quick, surgical blows and a wrist lock that pops a man’s hand open from his weapon, tossing the knife across the room. He flicks his gaze over to you when the dust settles, the amusement and approval almost unreadable. “You don’t do things by halves,” he says, and in that tone is relic admiration but also the small flare of annoyance you know so well.
Security drags out the groaning ones. Staff pile between tables like a dam. A bouncer with a torn sleeve mutters a warning about getting blood on the upholstery. You are breathing hard, fists still clenched, pulse a drum in your throat. Your suit jacket is scuffed; your hair is unmade.
Sukuna’s hand closes on your wrist and he guides you out of the booth with the economy of a man who knows when to keep a storm contained. “Come,” he says, voice flat. “We need a place where someone can’t try to impress you with their pen knives.”
You let him lead. The VIP room he takes you to is trimmed in warm amber: low lights, thick rug, and a couch that swallows you both. It’s quiet in a way that tastes like safety. He shuts the door with a soft, final click. He moves with surprising attentiveness. Off goes his blazer in one practiced motion and he throws it over your shoulders; the fabric heavy, smelling faintly of smoke and the citrus of the night’s cologne; and for a ridiculous second it feels like he’s trying to make amends with cloth.
“Sit,” he orders gently, then kneels to unfasten your shoes. His fingers are precise as a clean handed mechanic; he tucks heels away like he’s defusing a bomb. He sets them nearby, then pads to the private service hatch and motions. Someone brings a tray filled with hot plates, salty fries, a bowl of something green and tangy, and a bottle that hisses as he opens champagne. He pours two flutes, the bubbles catching the low light and throwing it back like confetti.
He watches you as he works. It’s a totally different mode from the boardroom; less predator, more guardian. “You shouldn’t have had to throw the first punch,” he says, annoyed, but the annoyance has a softness. “That man was an amateur with a bad agent.”
“I hate amateur arrogance,” you snap, tired adrenaline sharpening your tongue. “He played for a cheap advantage. He deserved worse.”
“Too theatrical,” Sukuna mutters, eyes half smiling. He hands you a flute. “Drink.”
You take a sip; the champagne is sharp at the back of your throat, fizzy and thin in a way that makes you laugh despite the aftershock. He pulls off his shirt with efficiency. He yanks and peels the fabric sliding over his shoulders and falling to the floor and fuck me sideways, the sight of him bare to the waist is an exclamation mark in the room. Heat hits you, animalistic and immediate, but there’s also something careful in the way he moves a stray hair back from your face, like he’s cataloguing a risk and an asset at the same time.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say finally, and it comes out softer than intended.
“So I’ve been told.” He leans against the head of the couch, watching you with a smirk that’s equal parts exasperation and invitation. “But I’d prefer you not bruise unnecessarily.”
That’s the moment the insomnia of your anger, the adrenaline that’s been running in the club, flips into a different energy. Maybe it’s the champagne, maybe the sudden hush, maybe the way he looks at you, not as an adversary, not as entertainment, but like the only person in the room who matters right now.
You don’t think it through. You rise, close the short distance, and press yourself into him. Your mouth finds his like it’s the only immediate resolution to the tangling in your veins. He freezes for the fraction of a breath it takes to register the move. surprise then something like approval flashing in his eyes and then he answers. His hands are quick and sure at your hips, he lifts you and hoists you so you wind your legs around his waist. The world tilts; his mouth is on yours, immediate and claiming.
The kissing is everything you wanted to be both the end of and the continuation of. It starts rough, teeth catch and tug at the corner of your mouth, his tongue pushes with impatient, expert pressure, lips hard and hot. You taste salt, your sweat, the tang of champagne and him; metal and cedar and something dark and so deliciously addictive. His hands map your back with urgency, memorizing the give of muscle and bone, finding the small hollows that make you rail against him. Your nails rake at the base of his throat, grip the narrow of his ribs, and you pull him closer, forcing the cadence of the kiss deeper. Tongues meet and spar; he teases, then possesses, then teases again. At one point his teeth graze the sensitive skin beneath your jaw and you gasp, a raw sound that is half surrender, half command. His mouth shifts to your neck. He nips and sucks, his teeth press enough to leave a sharp sting; you turn your head to give him more access, moaning against him. Heat blooms low and warm, thrumming through youe body. Your breath comes in ragged little waves; his is steadier, more controlled, as if he’s the only anchor in the storm.
He sets you down gently on the bed, his lips never leaving yours, his hands slide under the fabric at your waist, thumbs tracing the hip bones and then he begins to undo ties with one hand, the other held against the base of your throat. He peels the straps of your dress down your arms and over your chest, and his mouth finds the hollow under your collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue flicking, a delicate, maddening contrast to the force of his earlier hands.
You are aware, in a precise, crystalline way, of every texture, the soft give of his skin on your lips, the slickness of his mouth against the salt of your neck, the champagne fizz in the back of your throat, the silk of his blazer on your shoulders, the faint metallic bite of the club’s aggression still on your tongue. Your heart hammers a new rhythm, messy and bright, and his hand settles at the small of your back with a pressure that keeps you in place.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, that damn smirk slanting across his mouth, breath warm against your face. “You’re insufferable,” he murmurs, voice rough. “And spectacularly bad at staying composed.”
“You started this,” you manage between ragged breaths. “You started everything.” He laughs, low and satisfied, and the sound vibrates against your lips when he kisses you again. It’s rough; it’s tender; it’s possession and paradox. There’s no promise beyond the moment, only the charged present and the knowledge that when the fight and the music and the smoke clear, the game between you isn’t over. It’s only changed its rules.
You tumble back into him, hands in his hair, nails scraping across his scalp. He answers with a low growl that makes the room tilt, his thick fingers trace lines down your spine, The velvet beneath you cushions every curve, soft against your skin but unable to temper the wet slick building in your underwear. Sukuna’s blazer still drapes your shoulders, the scent of his cologne clinging like a second skin. Before you can react, his hands are on your waist, hauling you up, pressing you flush against him, lips claiming yours with a sharp, demanding kiss. Teeth scrape against yours, tongue tangling with yours in a chaotic, thrilling dance. You bite him back, laugh, struggle, but his weight pins you, teasing and claiming all at once.
His hands are everywhere, one drags up your sides, fingers teasing the sensitive edges of your boobs, the other fingers tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to elicit a sharp, startled gasp. His lips move from yours to the hollow of your throat, nipping, dragging, tasting, leaving a trail of fire along your skin. His teeth nip at your nipples, suck and fondle.
“Too stubborn for your own good,” he murmurs, voice low, and teasing. “And yet… here you are, practically writhing in my arms.”
You tug at his hair, trying to regain some control, but he laughs, a deep, dangerous sound that vibrates through the bed, through you. “Try me,” he hisses, grinding his hips into yours with a deliberate, maddening rhythm. You tug at his belt and throw it aside. His tries to never leave your lips as he toes his pants off. His cock springs out, hard and throbbing. You reach forward and stoke him. Sukuna chases your hand with his hips, he groans and throws his head back
“ngh— sweetheart. Always knew you’d fuck me so good” You rake your nails down his cock just to spite him, but unfortunately for everyone, the fucker likes it. He pushes you onto your back and bunches your dress around your hips “should’ve kept the heels on” he pushes your underwear to the side and runs two fingers down your slit. You buck your hips into his hand. “Fuck— this dress… haah… fucking incredible on you“
ʼThere’s that word againʼ you think, but you can’t think for longer when he plunges two of his fingers into your cunt, your toes curl in anticipation when he curls his fingers just right
“God. Ryo— just fuck me already!” you’re impatient, wet, swollen and needy all at once. Sukuna spits on his cock for good measure and slams into you all the way. His balls hit your ass at a maddening pace, his arms bracket your head as his hips rut into you. Your hands find purchase in the sheets. You arch into him, nails raking down his chest, panting, every muscle trembling. He hisses in satisfaction, lips finding the sensitive line from your jaw to your ear, biting, nipping, dragging a line of teeth along your shoulder. “You’re… exquisite,” he murmurs, hands sliding lower, cupping and gripping, teasing, pulling you impossibly close. “And completely… deliciously… mine tonight.”
“Insufferable,” you pant, tugging at his hair, pressing back against him, hips grinding against his with involuntary need. His cock hits every spot that itches him to. The head teases the rough ridges that makes you see stars.
“And yet,” he murmurs, pressing harder, thumbs pinching your nipples and tongue tangling with yours in a messy, claiming kiss, “you love it.”
You gasp, rolling beneath him, trying to press him off only to have him flip you with the grace of someone who knows every angle of your body. He pushes your head into the mattress and pulls your hips into the air. He grinds into you, hands gripping your thighs, dragging you flush, pressing, teasing, every motion deliberate and maddening. His teeth find the tender skin along the back your neck, biting lightly, nipping, dragging little fires across your skin.
“You’re feel—fuuuuuck,” he groans, voice low, vibrating against your ear, pressing harder, hips snapping in sharp, precise motions that make your breath hitch, chest heave, and every nerve coil with heat.
“And you,” you pant, hands digging into whatever you can, nails scratching sheets, his hands drag down the tense muscles, “Oh GOD RYO— Yes!”
He laughs a rich, teasing sound, he pulls out and flips you over, folding you in half, your feet touch the headboard. He drags his tongue along the sensitive skin of your collarbone, teeth grazing the dip at the base of your throat. His hands roam freely now, cupping, kneading, teasing, pulling, dragging you closer, pressing you into him with every motion. He lifts you slightly, pressing you flush against him, grinding and rocking his cock into your pussy, every movement makes you shiver and moan.
“Can’t hide it, huh?” he murmurs, dragging one hand along the inside of your thigh, fingers brushing the curve of your hip, teasing, pulling, arching you into him. “Every part of you wants this.” You arch against him, lips parting in a soft moan, nails raking down his back, hair tangling in your fingers. “You’re impossible,” you gasp, pressing your chest to his, every inch of your body alive with heat, friction, and thrill.
“Mm,” he hums, grinding harder into your pussy, ramming his hips into you, fingers digging into your ass, pressing you closer, dragging your legs around his waist. His mouth finds yours again, teeth scraping, tongue tangling, pulling and claiming in every kiss. “And you… you make it impossible not to want this. To want you.”
You laugh breathlessly, sharp and ragged, dragging nails down his chest, biting at his shoulder, writhing beneath him. “You’re going to regret not giving me my fucking orgasm,” you pant.
“I doubt it,” he murmurs, grinding harder, teeth grazing your neck, dragging down to the shoulder, pressing kisses along your skin, biting just enough to make your pulse spike. “I’m enjoying this far too much.” He shifts, lifting you effortlessly, his cock pressing deeper, he grinds with a deliberate, maddening rhythm. His hands are everywhere, holding, tugging, pinching and claiming. His lips and teeth mark every curve, every hollow they can reach
“You feel… insane,” he groans, pressing you into the mattress, thumbs teasing along the sensitive line of your sides. “So hot, so ready… so delicious.”
You cry out, nails raking along his shoulders, back arching, body trembling as he grinds, kisses, bites, rocks against you, dragging pleasure and thrill into every inch of your being. “I wannacum, s’please, Ryo!”
He laughs, low and victorious, dragging his mouth across yours in a final, messy, desperate kiss, grinding into you one last time before collapsing over your trembling, sweaty, slick, quivering body. He pulls his cock out in time that hot spurts of cum cover your boobs, at the same time your body shudders and convulses. Your own orgasm hits you like a flash flood, tingling deliciously down your spine. You cling to him, arms tangled, nails scratching, hearts racing and breaths mingling
“Goddammit woman,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face, lips ghosting across your forehead. “Exactly how I like it.” You can only laugh, you’re panting, hair wild, body alive, mind buzzing, utterly fucking undone; and impossibly, thrillingly, satisfied.
I hope you laughed at how infuriating Sukuna is as much as I did ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა
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