character: ryomen sukuna
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, rough sex, daddy kink, true form sukuna, size kink/size difference, oral fixation, lil bit of mindbreak, implied fem!reader, toxic relationship, dacryphilia, blood
words: 1.2k
Sometimes, when Sukuna fucks you real good, past the point of coherency, when your words have turned to liquid, all garbled with drool as they ooze from the corners of your mouth to stain his sheets, and your bones have melted and your muscles gone to mush, body perfectly pliant (just the way he likes it), and the only concept your fucked-stupid brain can comprehend is his name and his title, he’ll give your empty, slack little mouth one of his wrists to gnaw on.
The grabby hands are cute, and they let him know that your cognition has been eroded by immense pleasure, intense pain, and that you need something to ground you.
It’s pathetically precious, honestly, how unbelievably needy you become when he fucks you past the point of lucid thought and intelligible speech, desperate for something to occupy that pretty little mouth of yours, to serve as a point of reference, a heavy and sure weight that keeps you tethered to this world.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,”
Oh, he knows, baby, he knows.
You prefer his wrist to his hand, claiming it rests better between your teeth, but he doesn’t mind either way—it’s easy to shove one of his free forearms in your gaping mouth, obedient and open, wide and waiting. His flesh muffles those pretty little huffs of cracked breath and the mosaic of whines and whimpers and mewls he’s continuously fucking from your chest, smothering them to little more than damp exhales slicking his skin.
It’s barely a hitch in his movements at all, to wedge one of his large wrists between your eager teeth, two hands curled tightly around your hips as they hold you in place, pinning you to the mattress, another hand splayed wide next to your head, supporting most of his weight.
You alternate between sucking and biting, wholly dependent on how hard his hips are snapping, and he loves to feel those little stuttered sobs flutter against his flesh, exhaled in juddered hiccups.
And, God, it’s so fucking pretty—he isn’t sure he’s seen a prettier sight in his millennium of years, he wasn’t sure something could even be this goddamn pretty—glittering streams of salt streaking your cheeks, their flow steady and constant as warm tears pool around the seal of your lips, soaking into his skin; your mouth stretched wide around his arm, teeth grinding over that prominent bone in his wrist, scraping over the bump in rhythmic motions, back and forth with each strong piston of his hips; saliva trickling from your bottom lip in heavy, viscous cords to smear across your chin in a thick coat and drip off your jaw, stringy and sticky, substance already gone cold by the time it drizzles over your collarbone.
That thick black band encircling his wrist looks so gorgeous lacquered with your spit, gleaming in the dim light as he pounds into you.
He’ll rotate it in your mouth a little, so you drench his entire wrist, coating him in one of your many essences. he loves the smell of you on him, his favourite scent to wear, makes his cock twitch with each whiff of it as your drool steadily soaks into his wrist, steeping his tissues and saturating his blood, dousing his wrist until his skin has gone puckered from the wetness.
Other times you won’t ask for it, because you physically can’t ask for it, tongue gone sluggish and stupid from intense pain.
During instances such as these, it’s up to him to read you, to decode and decipher the beat of your sobs and the melody of your whines, to care for you properly like all good Daddies do, like all good Daddies are supposed to, eager to nurture his most prized possession, to give her want he knows she needs most.
It’s easy to tell, even when your face is buried in his bed, webby smears of saliva streaking his dark sheets as you sob into the mattress—ugly chest-wracking things that leave your ribs heaving and your entire body quivering, fingers curled so tightly in his silk pillow that they’re frozen stiff, aching joints creaking as he uses one of his four hands to uncurl one, then uncurl the other, fingertips pressing tenderly into your knuckles and massaging the numbness from them, the gentleness a stark contrast to the brutal snapping of his hips.
His remaining two hands stay curled around your hips, keeping them hoisted high and held still as he rams into you. A flash of heat spreads throughout your spine as his body blankets yours, his broad chest pressed flush to your sticky, sweat-glazed back, his lips moving along the shell of your ear.
“Does it hurt, baby?”
“Uh—Uh-huh,” you wail out, head nodding in sloppy motions, turning your head so his lips brush your cheek.
“You need Daddy to pacify you? Huh?”
“Yes, Daddy, please, Daddy, yes, Daddy!” you’re crying, mouth already wide open and waiting, tears leaking past the corners to stain your tongue with salt.
“Oh, my poor little princess,” he’s cooing as he wedges a thick wrist between your parted teeth, your jaw immediately flexing around it. “Needs Daddy to give her something to gnaw on while he fucks her,” he tuts his tongue, as if it’s such a shame, as if he genuinely pities you, but you can hear the notes of sadistic glee infusing his voice. “How utterly pathetic.”
The insult is spit in your ear, fading to a growl at the end, a singular sharp huff of air against the curve of your cheek.
And then his hips are pounding again, fucking into you rough and ruthless, the hands on your hips an anchor keeping you from being jostled up the bed as your front teeth involuntarily dig into his flesh.
“Is that better, sweetheart?”
An affirmative hum vibrates up his arm, your head nodding in quick little motions, glassy eyes desperately trying to glance up at him as weighted lids struggle to stay open.
But that just isn’t good enough.
A large hand tangles in the hair at the back of your skull and yanks, your teeth latching onto his wrist tighter, the sudden motion forcing them to scrape against his flesh, a pleasured hiss slipping through the gaps of his teeth.
“Fucking answer me when I ask you a question.”
Yes! you yelp around the wrist crammed in your mouth, instant and instinctual. Yes, yes, yes!
“Good,” he snarls in your ear before shoving your head back into the mattress, front teeth gouging into his arm in the process.
And it’s real sweet, the way such a simple, primal action—a body part shoved between your lips, little tongue curling around the bones of his wrist, sucking it harder, further, deeper—can provide such an immense amount of comfort; sobs calming to sniffles, limbs gone languid and limp, whole form malleable between his large palms.
But he loves it just as much as you do. Because despite the fact that it muddles your pretty sounds, it also leaves the cutest little bracelet of indents around his thick wrist, something he wishes he could wear forever, something that fades much too quickly for his liking.
There’s nothing better than when you break the skin, little pools of blood filling the notches of your teeth until they overflow, drops of crimson streaming down his forearm and along the lines of his palm, because those ones scab, which means they last a little longer, look a little brighter, leave a lingering reminder.
One day, he hopes you’ll scar him with all your gnawing, carve something permanent into his skin just as he’s done to you countless times before, stamp him with your unique signature and claim him as yours, eternally.
calling sukuna ‘ryo’ just to irritate him, thinking he hates it because it’s cute when in reality he hates it because it evokes those unfamiliar, uncontrollable little bubbles of warmth to seethe in his chest. he can’t stop them, can’t pop them, can’t smother them or snuff them out no matter how hard he tries, and so he despises them.
it’s too intimate, and it sounds too pretty falling from your lips, almost always punctuated with a precious lil giggle that makes those stupid little bubbles multiply like maggots. it’s infuriatingly endearing, the way you’ll often drag out the ‘o’ as if the nickname has melted in your mouth, all gooey and sweet and infused with adoration.
he swears he can’t fucking stand it, can’t fucking stand you, spits and snarls at you to stop fucking calling him that, how many times does he have to tell you? but none of it seems to deter you in the slightest.
he swears it’s one of the few times he’s thankful you’re so goddamn stubborn.
Sukuna def calls you princess if he decides you belong to him. <3
oh absolutely, and it’s a term he uses both condescendingly and lovingly. he is the king of curses, after all. it’s only natural you’re his princess.
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, master kink, rough sex, marking, toxic relationship, mention of spanking, fem!reader
words: 738
you’re his stupid little princess when you do or say something so adorably dumb, gazing up at him with absolute idiocy smeared across your face, contorting your features—mouth open and downturned, brow scrunched and heavy—as you whimper out but Daddy, why?, head quirked cutely to the side and confusion reflected in your eyes. because i said so, he usually responds with a condescending little pat to your head. oh, you don’t have to worry your pretty little brain about any of that, princess, he promises you. Daddy will take care of it all, Daddy will do all of that pesky thinking and contemplating and deciding; you don’t have to think about a goddamn thing.
you’re his pathetic little princess when you’re sobbing after being split open by his cock and spanked raw by his hand, face buried in folded arms as salt stains your cheeks and claws pierce your hips, holding you high, holding you still. is your Master’s cock too big for you, princess? he’s murmuring in your ear, the words hot and breathy as they curl around the shell, his question infused with a smirk. does Daddy’s cock hurt you, princess? he’s cooing out, sick and sadistic and sardonic, against the back of your neck, forehead pressed flush to the base of your skull as his hips pound, cockhead ramming against your sensitive cervix. can you take it for me, princess? he’s laughing as he nuzzles his nose against the hinge of your jaw, placing a chaste kiss to the bone. he wants you to show him how well you can take it for him; he wants to watch the way your sweet lil cunt struggles and stretches and swallows his girth.
you’re his pouty little princess when you don’t get what you want, when he doesn’t give you what you want, eyes glittering with a thick coat of tears and lip jutted out in a trembling scowl, so deep it crinkles your forehead and puckers your chin. aw, is the poor little princess going to cry? he coos out through his own over-exaggerated pout, brow warped with false worry. is she going to stomp her feet and throw a fit because she isn’t getting her way? he kind of hopes you do, you can tell, can see it glimmering bright and sharp in his eyes, a sort of exhilarated anticipation that begs you to take on his challenge; go on, give him a reason to punish, make his fucking day, baby.
you’re his precious little princess when you stare up at him with adoring eyes, awestruck and shimmering with stars, and murmur out about how much you love him, delicate little fingers tracing his markings in clumsy caresses. the words are melty with affection, gooey and thick with spit as they dribble from your lips after he’s fucked you past the point of lucidity, mind turned to pleasant pink mush under immense pleasure and immaculate pain, body gone pliable and painted in strokes of him—ragged lines of red, blooming blotches of blue, purplish indents carved so deeply into your flesh that they’ll never fully heal, the tiny craters overflowing with sticky crimson. i love you too, princess, he tells you, the words quivering with quiet sincerity even as a sour sickness twists behind his sternum, true and real even as they are unfamiliar and unnatural.
you’re his pretty little princess when you giggle and twirl and strut for him after every single shopping trip, putting on a little fashion show and modelling all of the luxurious lingerie he bought you, lace clinging daintily to supple flesh, silk straps curling lovingly around all of your curves and edges, pieces encrusted with jewels and sparkles that catch on the light as you twist and turn for him. unblinking eyes watch you with a sort of conscientiousness, pupils blown huge and gaping, pitch black and ready to swallow you whole in a single glance. a smirk smears across his face, lopsided, leaning to the left and steadily spreading, as he relaxes back into his favourite armchair, thighs spread wide and a crystal glass of sweating amber dangling from his fingertips. c’mere, pretty princess, he demands gently when he can hardly take it anymore, when you’ve tried on several sets, when his smirk has grown into a grin and his cock is starting to ache, a large palm patting thick muscles. come give me a kiss.
sukuna is the walking definition of a complete terror to everyone but a touch softer for his baby. like he can deny it all he wants but he would do anything for his weak pretty princess
no truly he would, but he’d always be able to frame it in a way where he’s doing YOU a favour, acting as if he’s doing everything wholly and solely for your sake and not because his heart feels like it’s being wound with a fucking noose at the mere thought of you being unhappy, unwell, unsafe. he pretends as if it doesn’t send thorns of unfamiliar, unsettling anxiety tearing through his veins, as if it doesn’t overwhelm his mind and override his receptors and make every nerve in his body feel overexposed, hypersensitive to the slight change in the air as your aura shifts. it’s as though your mood saturates the atmosphere and he can see it, sense it, smell it—and he can’t fucking stand it.
the room becomes heavy with your sadness, weighing down on his chest with such force he’s sure it’ll splinter his ribs, send jagged cracks like lightning through the bones and snap them into sharp shards. the room becomes scorching with your fury, flames that lick at his skin and fill his lungs with a seething rage, bubbling as it eats away at his oxygen and pours out his mouth in roars. the room becomes stifling with your disappointment, something that wraps delicate hands around his neck and crushes his windpipe beneath it’s deceptively dainty grasp, choking his sentiments.
they’re all horrifically irritating feelings—he hates experiencing them and, what’s more, he hates you experiencing them—and so he must eradicate it immediately; destroy the source, devour the seed, dig it out by its roots with his bare hands and pull it apart vein by vein, tendon by tendon, with his claws until it’s dead and can no longer bother you (meaning it can no longer bother him, either).
in other words, sukuna lives for hedonism, meaning he really doesn’t like feeling bad, so he wants to get rid of those bitter, aching, caustic emotions as soon as physically possible. what he fails to realize in his primal thinking is that he feels all these icky, awful feelings because he loves you, he can’t handle them because he can hardly bear the thought of you being even the tiniest bit upset, at anything, for any reason, he wants to eradicate them not only to make himself feel better, but to make you feel better, too—though it’s all subconscious.
he just really loves ruining pretty things. he loves smashing them beyond ‘repair’, smearing them with him and soiling them beyond recognition. he loves staining them with his teeth and his claws and his palms, leaving behind everlasting claims of ownership—things that can’t be scratched or scrubbed off, things that won’t heal, don’t heal, permanently mangled by his fingers or his fangs.
because bruises are pleasing, yes—splashes of blood pooling beneath thin skin in the primitive shapes of his fingerprints or his hands; and scabs are gorgeous, sure—glittering little rubies that encrust your skin, more beautiful than any piece of jewellery; but they’re all much too temporary. he needs things that are forever. he needs scars, raised and puckered and dimpled; he needs his teeth eternally etched into your inner thighs—thirty-two little indents, four deep gouges from the fangs. he needs his claws carved into your chest—a crude heart engraved into your left breast, his name singed across your neck, a permeant collar burnt into your flesh by red-hot talons.
any pretty, delicate thing will do, but the innocents are his favourite. the innocents are his favourite, because they’re so pliable, they’re so pure, they’re so desperate to please. it makes them easy—easy to mold into whatever he wants them to be, easy to morph them into something that is his and his alone; his to create, his to destroy, his to resurrect.
his.
the innocents are naive and trusting, the innocents are willing; willing to submit, willing to comply, eager to be taught, to be good, to obey and earn their place.
it’s an art, almost, he thinks, the utter corruption—destruction—of innocents. he likes the challenge, because each person is different; each person requires something else to shatter them to the prettiest shards of themselves in his palms. it’s like a reverse puzzle to him; instead of painstakingly putting something together, he is painstakingly deciphering how best to pull it apart.
and, oh, he’ll put you back together, of course, but he’ll put you back together his way. he’ll put you back together in a way only he knows how to, he’ll put you back together in a way no one else ever could. he’ll put you back together in a way that forces you to need him, dousing you in himself so when he does finally piece you back into a whole, it’s with him as the glue, ensuring that it is he who holds you intact, it is he who is irrevocably a part of you, forever, embedded deep in your soul.
character: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, overstimulation, blood, toxic relationship
words: 747
as much as sukuna would love to deny it, he has a habit.
it’s unintentional, it’s instinctual, and it’s almost always entirely your fault.
it appears when he teases you—a simple quirk up of the left side of his mouth, something that grows from a toothless smirk to a gleaming grin at your inevitable whine of his name, all scrunched up and filtered through your petulant little pout. oh, how precious.
it’s accompanied by a sharp glint of amusement in his eye; something that flickers, that flares, the more upset you get, the more you grumble and scowl and sulk. because it’s so cute, baby, he’s murmuring through the steadily spreading lopsided smile slapped across his face, cooed out words oozing condescension, just how easily he can work you into a frenzy.
it appears when you’re riding him—a soft tugging at the left corner of his lips as he watches you bounce and rock and gyrate on his cock, using it as if it’s your favourite toy, just like he told you to. his usually keen stare is lidded, having turned melty and thick while observing you above him, because god, you’re so gorgeous; rolling whites of your eyes framed by fluttering lashes, dainty hands splayed wide on his chest and nails digging into plush muscle for leverage, fragments of his name and his title leaving your tongue in the sweetest little huffs, each one shoved from your chest with every graze of his cockhead over that engorged patch of flesh, puffy and swollen and buried deep inside of you.
it appears when he’s eating you out—vicious and vigorous and downright voracious—after you’ve lost count of how many times he’s forced you to cream on his tongue, immense pleasure having mollified your brain to a sticky goo, steady streams of glittering salt cascading down your cheeks, face twisted up somewhere between pleasure and pain.
you can feel his lips spreading against your licked-raw cunt, crooked simper reflected in his rust irises, curved mouth slippery as it glides over your slit, screwing up a little further on the left side just like it always does, the bottom half of his face soaked with his spit and your slick.
that skewed smile stretches unnaturally wider as you squirm beneath his grasp, nails scrabbling at whatever they can find—the cotton sheets and his scalp and those hulking shoulders—spine contorting off the bed and chest heaving with the cries that keep ripping up your throat, ragged and hoarse.
the strong arms wrapped around your thighs tighten, forearms weighing on the joints, effectively trapping you in his grip, tangled up in his limbs. two pairs of hands stay curled around your hips, pinning them to the mattress, twenty fingers flexing, leaving fresh steaks of blood across your pelvis, sticky and steadily oozing from the piercing claws gorging on your flesh.
it appears when he hurts you, hands too rough, grip too tight, tone too harsh—a worming sort of leer slanted to the left, something smug and arrogant smeared across his face when he soils your skin with him, a collar of twenty fingers etched into your neck in grotesque shades of plum, or twin sets of handprints stamped into your ass, swollen and stinging. it’s something that takes shape when your fragile veins snap beneath his touch, flooding your flesh with irregular blotches of purples and blues and speckled crimson; something that surfaces when yelps fracture in your throat and sobs hitch in your chest, so heavy your ribs shudder with them.
it appears when you do something so unbearably adorable, something so endearingly stupid, that he just can’t help but snort or snicker, the left side of his mouth twitching with mirth, something he desperately tries to smother, something he devastatingly discovers he can’t.
because maybe he doesn’t even want to anymore, tired of fighting, tired of feigning. maybe it makes him feel something irritatingly unfamiliar, something much too human, something that binds itself to the void buried beneath his ribcage.
maybe it fills that void with something irrevocable, irreversible, unpreventable. maybe it fills that void with something bright and airy and warm, when you tell him you like his crooked smile, when you tell him it has got to be one of your favourite things about him, your favourite feature of his, happy to see it even as he drags you through hell with it carved into his face.
Do you think daddykuna is the type who would spank you in public bc he likes humiliating you? Or would he think your cute ass is for his eyes only so he only does so behind closed doors?
oh my gosh a delicious question!!!
character: sukuna x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, public spanking, humiliation, dacryphilia, daddy kink, general toxicity
words: 809
okay so i think sukuna is like, heavily into humiliating you, so i 100% think he’d spank you right then and there, in stark fucking daylight, no matter where you are. little girls who act like brats must be treated like brats, must be punished like brats, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. and that’s what he tells you, in that infuriatingly blasé lilt, the beginnings of a smirk toying with the left corner of his mouth.
but daddy! you’re whining, a thick shield of tears already glazing your eyes, rolled into drops by your rapid blinking and catching in your lashes, glittering so delicately as they anxiously flutter. not here! not now!
yes, here. yes, now.
you can hear the amusement and pride staining his voice; just faint notes of it infused in his words, but evident nonetheless as he takes you over his knee in the middle of a busy park on a sunday afternoon, your thrashing and wriggling not hindering him in the slightest.
he’s irritatingly unperturbed as he flips your dress up and yanks your panties halfway down your thighs, the motion simultaneously smooth and sharp, entirely unaffected by your pathetic little whimpers and choked out apologies, nails piercing his skin as your fingers curl and tangle and tug at his shirt.
it’s your own fault; you know it is, he’s saying as one large hand kneads one of your asscheeks, priming the area, collecting curious glances. you shouldn’t have misbehaved, prancing around in a manner that ensured the skirt of your dress fanned out wide and rippled, just enough to gift him with teasing glimpses of the dainty lace molded to your skin.
you shouldn’t have acted like such a stubborn fucking brat when he had warned you, calm and cautious, not to play with daddy, if you hadn’t wanted everyone to see your sweet little ass, he’s telling you over your half-stifled sobs of humiliation, chest stuttering against his strong thighs, muscles flexing beneath you as he plants his feet, readjusts his hips, places a heavy hand on the small of your back and presses down hard, pinning you in place. that must’ve been what you were aiming for, right? you wouldn’t have behaved in such a way if it weren’t, right?
you should’ve known better than to mess around with daddy, especially in public. you should’ve known that he’d take it seriously, instantly—no matter where you are, no matter who can see, no matter what may follow.
each slap is harder than the last, harsher than the last, echoing louder and louder with every collision of his palm against your skin. every impact shoves another pitiful little sound from your chest, lodging in your throat, clawing at the back of your teeth, and aw, don’t smother them, baby; we want to hear you.
it’s excruciatingly embarrassing, the eyes of bystanders and onlookers slicing into your bare, exposed skin, gazes and glares and gaping depositing trails of scorching pins they glide over your body, slow and scrutinizing.
it’s inescapable, the absolute agony their attention bestows upon you, your puffy, salt-stricken face nuzzling awkwardly into your daddy’s ribs, desperate for some semblance of protection.
please, daddy, please, daddy, please, daddy, you’re weeping out, pleads strung together in a steady stream of drool. stop, daddy, stop, daddy, stop, daddy!
you know he won’t, you know he’d never, not one to go back on his word once he’s solidified it, but you just can’t help it, entreaties pouring from your lips instinctively, uncontrollably, as natural as the snot oozing from your nose and tears blurring your vision.
you can feel his cock, hot and hard and throbbing against your tummy, but you know your sobs and whines and yelps are only half the exhilaration.
because sukuna loves showing off, sukuna gets a serious kick out of displaying what’s his; what he owns, what others can’t have, can’t touch. those looks of disgust and disbelief, of envy and enrapture, send a sick thrill surging through his veins, because there’s one thing they all have in common.
awe.
it’s the most divine feeling, makes his flesh tingle in the most delightful way as everyone admires him, admires his strength, admires his terror, admires his things—how powerful he is as every smack! rings out among the space, how pretty you are as your cries chase after the resounding sting.
it’s grotesque. it’s gorgeous. they can’t tear their gazes away from it.
possessiveness emanates off his body in dense waves, their domineering presence polluting the atmosphere and leaving it stifling—you can look, but don’t even think about touching.
their murmurs only amplify their stares, the gasps and whispers and grumbles, saturated in incredulity and audacity, in outrange and offence, only feeding his insatiable ego, bloating it with an intoxicating arrogance, ever-growing hubris gorging on their attention.
omgomg clari about that ask of sukuna phisically hurting reader how do you think is aftercare after putting her through all that pain? if there’s any haha
ooooh anon this is SUCH a good question!! well first, i think if sukuna ‘fell in love’ with you (aka became extremely possessive and obsessive with you, utterly infatuated with you, completely addicted to you, the closest he can come to ‘true’ love) he would be unbelievably thorough with you. yes, he loves hurting you, loves the way your facial features wring up into the cutest little wince, loves the way his name splinters into the sweetest little yelps in your throat, loves the way you sob and sniffle and stutter when he screws his face into mock concern, lips jutted out in an exaggerated pout and forehead wrinkled with false worry as he coos out aw, sweetheart, did that hurt? but at the end of the day, you’re still his. you’re still his to take care of, his to fix, his to make better. and despite how sadistic and malicious he is, right down to the very marrow of his bones, right down to the gaping black pit where his soul should be, he still takes meticulously good care of his things.
as such, he always mends those of his things that he breaks, and he does so with a rigorous sort of fastidiousness. he’s damn near methodical with it, and it would feel cold and sterile if not for his quiet murmurs as shockingly gentle fingers, claws retracted, piece you back together, patch you up, put you in the right order again. so good, baby, you’re doing so good for me, he praises, words void of their usual, characteristic tinge of patronization as he snaps those tiny, tiny bones back into place, sets them straight and secures them in a splint.
and you, you’re so sweet, so soft, so stupidly naive, consistently lulled into some sort of inexplicable sense of safety and security and solace every single time, that it makes it that much more fun to shatter you to absolute bits again, to have you shuddering in his arms or his lap as you wail into his neck and cling to the demon that desecrates you, that destroys you, over and over and over. but it’s all okay, because you know as much as he loves to ruin you so beautifully, to smear your face with spit and sweat and tears, to leave your body mangled and stained and scarred with him—thick gouges from claws down your back and over your ass, imprints of his fangs engraved in your neck, stamps of four handprints encircling your arms and wrists and thighs—Daddy would never break you beyond repair, Daddy will always make it right again, no matter what.
