Oh boy. You’re writing for JJK? *cracks knuckles*. WELL! I would like to humbly request a dribble drabble of Sukuna aka Demon Daddy. I have a corruption kink need. Reader keeps pushing Itadori’s buttons to get Sukuna to come out. Sukuna can be nasty to me, it’s fine. Call me names. Idc, I would do so many things to get into his domain expansion and I’m not embarrassed to say so. Or maybe I am? Gambere gambere, Pseu.
YESSSSSSS!!!!!!!! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!! Thank you for this.
Definitely some nastiness and not-nice name calling ahead, readers. This got, uh, A LITTLE OUTTA HAND, and is fucky in some dark ways. Under the cut is a story that includes corruption kink, degradation, DVP (bless you, demonic peens), impreg kink (her), knotting (...!), and generally is violent (sought after, but undeniably violent), hey-I’m-pretty-sure-she’s-corrupted-too sex. There is no actual gore, but this is not a soft story. I tried to tightrope walk Sukuna being threatening and mean without actually biting her in half like he so easily could. Because this request asked for reader to be messing with Itadori to bring Sukuna out, that’s here, too, and she has a couple indirect but creepy thoughts about it. If any of that is not something you want to read, this is not for you, and that is a-okay. In that case, please protect yourself and do not read it. For everyone else, especially my fellow Sukuna lovers/worshippers... please buckle up for this 6k long dribble drabble.
Special thanks to @pickle-scribbles and her super brain for helping me shape this when I got stuck, and to my fellow sprinters in the Beni group for helping me get it done. THANK YOU!
(Requests are closed, readers, but there are a lot still to be filled in June! Feel free to follow along or just check in and enjoy as many as you like. A masterlist will go up when they are all completed.)
It was the bite that did it. You had teased, pinched, and tickled an increasingly nervous Itadori, but decided to skip any sort of kissing. You didn’t want to kiss him. So it was the (very gentle!) bite of the juncture of his neck and shoulder that brought Sukuna out, finally. You could feel the way the muscles bulged upwards into your bite, making your smile widen from the force of the change from vessel to curse-king. The room went dim before your eyes closed, and you could tell the exact moment when he smelled different, like the ugly, powerful afterscent of peppercorns vaporized by lightning. It was heaven to take in that first deep breath of him through your nostrils as you kissed the muscle below your mouth, already longing to be completely full of him.
“What,” Sukuna says flatly, a hand fisting the hair at the back of your head to pull you away like a kitten, “Do you think you are doing?”
“Bringing you out,” you admit easily. “I missed you.”
He holds you up effortlessly, chin on one hand and the others crossed lazily in his lap at the end of those powerful curse-marked arms. “I didn’t miss you,” he tells you, cruel and bored. “And you don’t have the power to bring me out.”
“Then I’m just happy to see you,” you confess. You are. You were getting awfully tired of Itadori.
“Don’t torment the kid again. He belongs to me and... houses me, for now. He’s not for your dirty hands to touch. Neither am I.”
You reach for him anyway, a sunflower drawn to the destructive fire of its star. He shakes you like a sock and glares, and both are hard enough that they should jar you into sense, but you don’t seem to have any left.
“Hey Itadori,” you whispered. “How’s it going?”
“Uh, good!” Yuuji was always cheerful, always sweet. Always a little squirmy around you. You couldn’t blame him; if anyone looked at you the way you looked at him, you’d get the mace out of your purse. But he didn’t care mace, and he was unfailingly polite. Bless his heart.
You didn’t want to hurt him. You had no real feeling or inclination toward Itadori whatsoever. But you badly wanted what lived inside him, growing more powerful every time he gulped down another finger or got too close to something he shouldn’t. You wanted all the eyes, the extra arms, the beautiful curse marks that made your tongue cold when you licked them.
That was what you wanted, not to hurt Itadori. He was a sweet, polite young man. But you would do worse than hurt him to get what you did want. Which was-- desperately-- to get to Sukuna, who was never sweet or polite, and who was always ageless in a way that placed him far enough beyond your ken that you knew he could sexually ruin you with a glance and a word.
Voice cold enough that you are warned and low enough that you are warmed, Sukuna asks, “Do you think a magicless whore like you has any say over me?” The sound of it makes you even more stupid with lust, so stupid all the emergency self-preservation in your brain just dries up and floats off, thin as grapeskin in a breeze.
You do, actually, have some sorcery, but it’s so insignificant compared to his that you say nothing.
He clucks his tongue. “Quiet now? Where’s the fiesty bitch who wanted me out so bad, huh?” One of his hands takes you by your jaw. The touch in unkind and you press right back into it, wanting every hurt he gives, because hurts are points of contact. “Put that mouth to good use or I’ll cut you in half and put you on a pile somewhere,” he rumbles. And then he drops you.
The water of his domain is like tar. You land on your knees where you belong, so it’s not so bad.
“Beg first,” he softly demands. “Or I’ll make it thirds, and it will be slow.”
Your tongue stumbles over assent and gratitude as you rise from your messy landing and reach for his lap. His hands bat you away, but it seems half-hearted (it would be if he had a heart) and you are used to him toying with you. So you try again. But he does it again. You try once more and he slaps your hand away, more insistently.
“I said BEG,” he booms, and the power of his echo rattles a skull and a few small bones off the roof of the shrine.
“Please,” you say immediately. Your voice is very small.
“Please what, slut?”
“Please-- let me,” you beg, reaching for him again. He slaps you away so hard it hurts your wrist. He’s playing keepaway with his body, and that hurts your heart even worse.
He shows you a grin that is not really a smile. The points of all his front teeth are so clean and so terribly, terribly sharp. There is nothing about this being that is not made to cut. “Let you...?”
Oh. Oh, you really are as stupid as he says you are. “Please let me use my mouth.”
He narrows several eyes. “To do what. Last chance,” he warns.
“Please let me suck you!” you sob, scrabbling to reach his knees while his hand on your shoulder keeps you right where you are in the chilly muck. The water here does not wash. It fouls things, makes them need cleansing. And you are in it up to the thighs you wish were wrapped around him instead. It’s thick and cold. You don’t want to think about what’s in there with you, you just want to get to him.
Sukuna releases your shoulder and waves the hand at your face. “Try and see,” he says, exactly like a schoolyard bully but so much more dangerous. There’s a chance he’ll cut your tongue-- or maybe your head-- in half just for fun. He sits himself back against a pillar made of leg bones and puts a pair of his hands behind his head like a beachgoer. Other hands point crudely at his groin. “Make it count or you’ll be dead before you can bruise.”
So you lunge as far forward as you can and lift away the loose kimono, kissing his thighs and trying not to drool on them. It’s difficult because they are the finest pair you’ve ever seen: thick, with deceptively soft curves of muscle. Those beautiful curse marks loop around him and you lick the front of one appreciatively, lingering over the frost of it as long as you dare. His skin burns on either side of the mark like a fierce, unending explosion. It makes each line feel like a brand under you tongue.
You want to worship them more, but only a handful of his threats are ever idle, so you go to his glory, touch it with gentle reverence, and put your tongue on the dick that has been haunting all your dreams for a week. He sighs in exaggerated boredom as you do your best to coat him in saliva-- you’ll want it there before long.
When you open wide to take him in, relief makes you smile. But as you move your lips down, there is pain in your face, that sweet kind of pull that is your body screaming that you are forcing your jaw and your your cheeks too far apart. But you don’t think you can get too far apart, and more importantly you want that cock in your mouth, so you keep going like the scream means nothing. Even when you think you feel individual sinews go threadbare, you stretch. You settle your hands gratefully on his hips and use them to ground yourself so you can take him down your throat as far as he will go.
And when you do, massive hands at the back of your head pull you down even farther. You’re already choking, and this little bit more makes you gurgle. Makes your body wriggle.
“All you’re good for,” he sighs, “And you’re not even good. Open.”
You try. You think you are open, it’s not a matter of you being closed, just that there is only so far into you he can go like this. But you wouldn’t say that even if the air for words could make it into your windpipe. Instead, you relish the coarse, beautiful hairs you can feel being shoved up your nostrils, the ones that make you want to sneeze. The ones your oxygen-deprived brain wants to snort like drugs right off his belly all the way down to the dick in your mouth. But there’s no place for air to move from your nose to your throat. He has blocked you from air itself.
“Swallow, then,” he growls. He’s not giving you cum, he wants the ripple of your throat moving around him. “Or I’ll squeeze that neck to nothing.”
You don’t have the control you would if your throat were not so full. But you try, and he sighs in a way you think is not entirely disgusted with you. He doesn’t crush your neck, at any rate (not from the outside in, at least). He does squeeze your skull with his fingertips wide around your head and push your face off him by the force of his thumbs above your eyebrows. You can feel when his cockhead slides from your throat because the crown of it flares out in the back of your mouth, no longer compressed.
He does it a few more times. Sukuna is lazy about it, and when you dare to look up at his face he is staring into some middle distance until one eye catches you. His face splits into a half dozen grins, a ghoul with too many teeth. He shoves you down again after that and doesn’t look at you any more. You get a none too gentle slap on the back of your head. He could easily slap you so hard your teeth went flying, so you are grateful as you gag.
“That’s enough,” he says after a few moments. He pushes you back by the shoulder. As you try to wipe your drool from his balls and keep your coughs quiet, he hums thoughtfully and looks into that middle distance again.
“D’ya wanna sit down?” Itadori chirped as you paced around him and the little table. “You can have the chair.”
You giggled at him and shook your head. “Not the chair,” you purred as you slipped your hands over his shoulders to rub them while you leaned down behind him to whisper in his hear. “Don’t want the chair. I want Sukuna.”
And then your hands slid further down to his ribs and tickled him, and you pressed your nails between his bones when he hooted uncomfortably. Sweet idiot probably thought you were making a bad joke. But not even that had brought Sukuna out. Not so much as an extra smirk, that you could see.
“Surprised?” you whispered sweetly. “Gotta be more on your guard, Itadooooori~”
Sukuna drawls “Surprised?” and you are, but you are also, idiotically, delighted. Before your eyes, he’s grown another cock, jutting out from that crown of hair that was in your nose not a moment ago. A twin to the first, just a rosy, thick, and mouthwatering. It came into being with an odd shhhhisss of gray, sulfur-smelling steam, and though he has neglected to give himself a second pair of balls, you have no doubt the new dick is capable of spewing more gooey, deeply damned cum than your body can hold.
“Get up,” he says, as though he isn’t tugging you by the arm. You can only go where he allows in this space, it’s part of the domain’s power. Your clothes cling to you until another of his hands rip them off. The back seams, especially the neckine of your blouse, dig in deep before they tear and run forward across your skin for him to toss into the fathomless black of the shrine.
You wonder if you’ll ever know the inside of it. You don’t have the shame to keep you from peeking as you stand there in the murky sludge. Without your clothes you realize it is oddly humid and cool at the same time here, like a stormy day’s dusk. Your breasts feel heavy in it.
He doesn’t do anything to them. His nails scrape your belly instead, and his thumb lodges itself right between your pussy lips, the useless armor of your underwear serving only to show what he’s going to tear next. Maybe. You spare a thought to not wearing any from now on so that whenever he next takes pity on you, he’ll see that you are always available and knows-- surely he already knows-- how willing you are. Maybe you can burn them all in some kind of offering to him. You wonder if there’s a phase of the moon he likes best, you could make your fire under it.
“This isn’t from the water,” he drawls. “And you’re too stupid to piss yourself in fear, huh?” His thumb curls back and forth against your clit like the rocker on a toy horse, and the point of his nail drags against the gusset of your panties. He could shred the fabric (and you) in an instant if he chose. You are so empty inside you nearly wish he would. You crave your own blood.
Sukuna rolls his eyes and mutters about how you only want one thing, and then, more carefully than you ever imagined, he uses that sharp nail to scratch a slit into the two layers of fabric. A big enough cut that you feel the obsidian smoothness of his thumbnail when it touches you where you are most weak, most stupid, most needy. You nearly drool again, and you do feel a small flow of saliva against the front of your mouth like a wave on the shore of a lake. When you swallow it back, it sounds like a gulp.
Of course that makes him laugh. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he whispers, and shifts so when he presses the sharpness of the nail, it dents your wet lips. Your stupid brain thinks if he goes deeper and makes you bleed, he can use the smear of fluid to help him fuck you. There is no sense left in you to worry about being hurt.
But Sukuna doesn’t hurt you. Not like that, anyway. He does press, and he does move the tip of the nail down, like he is making a point about being in control. But he does not split your skin. When you whimper, he lets up on the pressure to grab your ruined panties and rip those from you, too, pulling a burn low on your back to match the one your shirt collar left behind your neck.
He sniffs gingerly at the ripped cloth in his hand and makes a face. “Nasty,” he says, tossing the fabric up and incinerating it in the air. “I have to breathe through my mouth with you. But you’re wet enough to use.” He doesn’t rise from his seat, but a few of his hands gather you by your waist and he uses the grip to raise you and aim your pussy at his body without bringing you close enough for contact. Sludge drips from your toes into the water and your hands dangle uselessly.
“Please.” The request is gurgled even though your airway is clear now. Your head bounces back from your neck like a yoyo as his arms jostle you into place. You don’t feel in any real danger of breaking-- to a sane person, this would be alarming, because you are not at all supported above your waist. The muscles of your back and neck stretch to let you look down your body so you can watch and wait for the moment when he breaches you, finally, and takes what you are offering.
He smiles. “Please what?” All the eyes on his face are little crescents and it’s beautiful, he’s beautiful. He doesn’t look like a curse or a king, to you Sukuna looks like a god. Even when he snaps his sharp teeth at your silence, his bite in everything you have ever wanted served to you with mint and honey instead of sulfur and stormwater filled with mosquito larvae.
“Please use me, please fuck me,” you beg. You want to ask loudly, respectfully, but the words come out as whispers. Your head feels cottony from the tension of your position.
He wrinkles his nose at you and you mourn the gleeful crescents. “Not for you,“ he warns. “I’m just bored.”
“That’s fine,” you croak gratefully, letting your head loll back in relief and sagging in his hold. You can feel the curve of the back of your head against the flesh of the back of your neck and wonder what the angle of your body looks like to allow that. “It’s an honor,” you add. Your tongue nearly falls back and chokes you. The angle must be bad.
Sukuna laughs without smiling and teases you with both cockheads. They slip through your untouched wetness thick and strong until he goes a little higher and the touch to your clit squeezes a squeak out of you. You sound like a rodent even to yourself.
He is so close and still not in you. He is a curse, he’s a hundred curses and a thousand nasty words and a million teases. You want him in a billion ways. He nudges you again and the moan that comes out of you is much lower than the squeak. It’s ghastly and impolite. He strokes one of your thighs for some reason.
You’re waiting for him to hurt you with that hand when he slips one cock in instead, and as you’re gasping he lifts your hips. Quickly, you realize he is using your body to catch the other head when he pops it inside. There’s no hesitation and of course there’s no cheerleading, he does as he pleases and you take it. When he brings you halfway down both lengths you already have drool on your cheeks, heading back to your ears, and you are making stupid guh... ah... sounds. You’re nothing but a sleeve, full at last, and you feel like an honored sacrifice. The relief makes you delirious, blissed out as he moves you. It is only the tight, cold burn of him forcing you wide open at the entrance to your pussy that makes you hiss from pain. But it is a pain you like and if he pulls out you think you’ll cry.
You should know you’ll cry anyway. He pulls you so smoothly over all the strong bumps and veins on him, and you feel every single one. If he does, they don’t give him any pause. An ugly sound flies out of you like songbirds and sunshine would move to flee the morbidity of this place. Sukuna may be a god in your addled mind, but your second moan is not a holy thing. It is not at all unhappy, either. His thickness births universes behind your eyelids.
“Thank me,” he says. You aren’t used to hearing him sound anything but lazy or cruel, but his instruction there sounded... tense.
You try, of course, but you choke, and the coughs from your belly to try to clear your airway mostly make your body grip him instead of helping you breathe. He groans and you feel like you’re being blessed even as you fight your own spit out of your throat. “Thank me,” he repeats, and squeezes your middle. The pads of his thumbs are so wide they feel like hands, like his hold is somehow backwards. You find yourself less confused when the points of his nails press into your belly and back and you warble out a shriek.
“I can just kill you if you don’t listen. It would be more fun,” Sukuna rumbles. “Your insides might be sexier than your outsides.”
You have no way of knowing, and still no way of talking, either. He keeps going as his pointed grip pulls you away, wrong, the wrong way, the slide making an awful shuccccck as your sex clings to its own destruction and you try to make the word no! at least five times before you just give up.
“Maybe that’s a better plan,” he murmurs. His voice has gone tight again, and you haven’t stopped coughing so you spare a dizzy hope that it is your body making him this way. “Maybe I’ll pierce you from the inside out and see what noise you make then.”
You keep choking, but you manage to get out an appreciative sound. Hot tears from the coughing and the pain of the sharp points of his nails stream down your temples, into your hair. You can tell those points are the scarcest pressure from splitting your skin, but they don’t. They press deep without cutting, like grass or rice under your knees during a childhood punishment. Your skin rebels only by focusing on the pain, because it can do nothing to fight it off. The feeling is like tingles, and every tingle has a knife.
“Jut be grateful and shut up then,” Sukuna grunts. “You don’t have to be in once piece for this.”
And then he sets about ripping your soul into halves and subdividing you every capacity for thought. His method of pulling and pushing you is unpredictable, but the filling is everything you wanted. He moves you and it scrapes your insides, not in a way that makes you bleed, not in a way that hurts you. Simply in a way that reflects that you bodies are not made for this and he’s inside you anyway, beyond the limitations your body cannot relax as easily as your brain let go of every safety measure. Your limits don’t matter. Maybe he’ll grow a finger on the tip of one cock and use it to tug your cervix out of the way.
You know that would hurt, but you just make a soft, dreamy noise.
He’s too big like this, and it still stings your overstretched entrance. One dick is formidable. Two should not even be possible, but there he is, the front of his hips flush with yours, that vivid pink hair (somehow as lovely as spring’s first, umblemished flower, despite the way you know it smells like man and dirt and sex) tangling with your own like a vine hellbent on choking out another. His balls are pressed against your ass, heavy and hot. He’s just so very big. That’s fine inside, but your skin feels so fragile where he goes in. The bulge of the twin root is straining you wider than birth, you imagine.
Oh god. If you were so lucky as to birth his child one day...
Bliss escapes you in shrill scream as he grinds you down on him, and he laughs, so beautiful you do it again. So does he.
“Let it hurt,” he whispers, using his grip to squeeze you again. He’s not fucking you, he is using your body to fuck himself, and he’s lazy about it, keeping that sting sharp and constant. But the feeling of him stretching your insides, battering you with size alone and then pulling you away to let your pathetic walls collapse back on themselves, then stretching you again is all so incredible it doesn’t matter. “I want this to be fucking you up, silly cunt,” he adds. The murmur sounds sweet despite the words. “A gaping hole is the only thing you want from me that I’ll ever give you.”
If you had any control over your body you’d have come from that gravelly insult alone. You don’t. He seems set on using you like a sleeve, something with no other purpose than to relieve his boredom.
How you wish that could be your life, to sheathe however many cocks he feels like having at a time and letting them split you wider than your body is meant to go. Your tears now are from satisfaction, and the fastest ones manage to slide down the sides of your face while the others are bounced off into the air while he moves you, less lazy now. Maybe he’s working on that gaping hole. The sting feels like lemon juice dripped into a cut so deep it can puddle on a bone. It radiates out into every nerve in the sticky skin that’s tight around him, and it doesn’t stop hurting. It does become warm.
Take his baby, you will your body with alarming clarity. As soon as he puts that scalding cum in you, use it to make a baby, even if it cauterizes you.
Sukuna pulls you flush again, then slides his second hands down to your ankles and tugs you down a little bit more. The tug pops your knees, and the additional depth he’s buried in you shoves the air out of your belly with such finality you swear some of it escapes around your eyeballs.
“This is mine,” he says. His laugh is as dark as the bottom edge of a grave.
You want to come from that, too, but pulled down as you are you are so full you cannot even clench, cannot even tense your muscles. Sukuna may have knocked something important out of its place in your spine. He has certainly stretched you beyond your own use. Even if you live and he sends you back out of the domain, what good will you be?
You can get out alive if you make me a promise, he murmurs in your head. His voice is so silk it feels like it is actually touching you, stroking the inside of your skull with twenty thick, delicate touches that know how to make you do anything they want. It kisses the underside of each eyelid with a forked tongue. He slows to a long, thick slide out of you, long enough that one cock pops out. It slips against your clit in a slow-motion slap. Maybe you’ll even be knocked up after all. A little curse to crawl out of your belly. Some kind of heat making you stupid for that?
Maybe he’s right.
Nah, he chuckles. You’re stupid all the time, aren’t you.
You definitely are where he’s concerned. How your body managed what he did to you, you don’t understand. How can you not be bleeding from it, how does it not hurt more? His cocks together are bigger than a man’s forearm. Maybe ther’s something keeping you safe in this place. Maybe Sukuna himself did something to keep you from tearing.
“Not a chance, slut, you’re just loose.” He laughs so cruelly you know he could never have kissed the inside of your eyelids. You keep right on loving him. “Couple screws loose, too. No wonder Itadori puts up with you. Even he pities you.”
The meaner he is, the more you adore him. He’s making you feel so good. Even though only one is inside, he’s fucking you with both cocks: one slaps against your clit each time the other bottoms out, as far inside as your body will let him go without punching a new hole in you. Even around only one of them, he keeps the lips of your sex stretched wide. Just beyond that stretch, you have a little control again. So you use it to make your dumb cunt milk him like you have any say over when he comes, and your stupid back helps your idiot hands fly up and clasp together around the back of his neck like you have any power over whether he embraces you. In your bones and your belly you crave him like an addict, the way nature makes invisible particles to seek out others that constantly repel them. Your need for him is molecular, undeniable.
“God, please come in me,” you beg.
The king of curses roars a derisive laugh and when you wince he manifests as black, grinning flames behind your tightly-shut eyes. “Am I your god?” he mocks between laughs. He pulls you down harder than before and grinds himself against your clit like he can juice it, and lets your long, long wail cut through the silence of his domain, usually such a silent place. “You’re no more than a hole, no one cares about your womb or what you want.”
You would not dare mention the baby, but you sob with relief when Sukuna begins to move his hips now, pushing in deeply each time he pulls you back down. It is like you are being pummeled inside and out, and your body aids the process by making meager but enthusiastic cream around him. How much of it is yours? How much might be his? Because he is so strong, you can feel the flare of his cockhead every time it pushes deep and every second it spends drawing back, pushing outward within your body like some kind of wicked umbrella. You become aware of his grunting and a rhythmic swelling and reducing inside you, a... pulsing. The thought his entire cock might be expanding makes you shout with joy, bearing down on him with all your walls as your body tenses and his does, too. You clutch at him with everything you are.
There is a definite expansion then-- two, actually. He becomes harder and thicker, bloated inside your body, and your arms fly away from him as your back bows and your lower belly domes outward from the hot streams of cum he is pouring into you in quick, inhuman gushes. You can feel a new stretch of your insides begin as your body jerks backwards, ecstatic. Your stomach continues to go up from the bend of the rest of you.
For a moment Sukuna is unmoving, pushed in so deep you feel more of him than you can understand. That sense of swelling obliterates your knowledge of your own physicality. It is like eating too much; your body should have stopped you but it didn’t, and now it hurts. It also means every involuntary squeeze of your muscles trying to change something about the situation feels incredible.
Then the moment passes and he pulls back. Or tries to. He doesn’t get far, he’s lodged in you and his pull makes you moan from how fucking good it is, how satisfied you are with all his cum packed wet and tight and deep, just beyond the seal of his thickness. The unrelenting fullness of it, the rightness of it, and the surprise of that swelling. As your body flexes around everything like an embrace, you see things behind your eyes and you don’t know if they are put there by Sukuna or not: a hornet emerging from a massive nest in bright, hot sun and screaming off into the air; Saturn turning silent and slow and cold; five grubs in a burrow in the earth, noisily destroying roots.
He tugs back again with a low “Fuck,” and then you moan because it doesn’t feel good, not even with his voice. He really did swell inside you somehow, and he’s too big to come out like that. It hurts when he tries and you can’t help whining at the way he’s putting pressure on space that is bruising from the attempt.
“Shut up,” he mutters, and you get the pinpoints of his nails around your full middle. You manage to whimper instead of weep when he tries again, nearly ripping himself out of you from the feel of it. But not quite. You like the way his balls slap you, but it’s not enough comfort-- this is not like the way it didn’t hurt when it was supposed to, this is hurting when it is not supposed to, and even though you remain willing for anything he’ll give you, the hurt is intense. It’s like he’s trying to yank out a branch speared through a tennis ball. Strange enough that he managed to get it into you in the first place.
Sukuna mutters something, ceases his pulling for two blessed seconds, and tries again, this time pulling you up in a terrible copy of the way he moved you before. It is enough force, because even though you don’t want to be, you are ripped off him and there’s a wet plop! and the spatter of his cum falling onto bones and water. You feel a croaky whine behind your teeth, and he slaps one of your breasts.
“I’ll let you sit on the next one if you hush,” he says again, and there’s a terrible sense of sliding between your legs, like he’s got fingers and tongues spreading the lips of your pussy open to find your hole. As though said abraded, overstretched, leaking hole doesn’t make itself obvious enough. You know he left you gaping, just like he said he would. The flow of his cum out of you is too wide.
You wonder about “the next one” until you remember he has two cocks but has only come once. Now that the first swelling is out of you, you’re desperate for another, and his offer to sit on it is golden to you since you are broody as a hen. You hope the next one is another... your brain, your partner in shamelessness until now, doesn’t even want to say the word.
Another knot. You need that, now to fill up the space he has stretched into you. Sukuna’s knot, as many of them as he’ll give you. That’s what you’ve been craving without knowing it, to be full of his cum in your womb and his cock in your pussy, full full full, all the space in you taken up by him. And though you didn’t even think of it until now, a knot to keep him there. You pray he really will let you sit on the next one. You try your best to hush, to squeeze and quiet even the slowing sound of drips onto the skulls below you.
“That’s right,” he says, the way you’d talk to an animal. “Don’t talk. you’re just a hole, and holes don’t have voices,” he reminds you. He grinds close with the unspent dick that’s already sporting a promising bulge near the base. The other, still half-hard, slides against the cleft of your ass. “An ugly little tub drain. Gonna plug you up and soak.”
You’re as frothy as a bubble bath from his cum oozing out of you and the way you’ve agitated it trying to keep it in. You hope when it shot into you it hit the back of your uterus and bounced into each Fallopian tube. That’s now how it’s supposed to work, but neither is Sukuna. You wish some kind of mark had appeared on your belly.
“Stay quiet and don’t interrupt this,” he whispers, and a tongue as wide as his stomach slips out and licks you from clit to navel. “Quiet as death, hmm?”
You nod as fast as you can and clamp your teeth down on both sides of your tongue.
He smacks your slit with the cock you are going to die without. “This one’s bigger!” he declares.
Lucky you.
“Yeah,” he purrs as the cock pushes down onto you, not into you but onto you, like a leg. “Lucky you, you crazy cunt. Don’t fuck up my son or I’ll turn you into a weathervane.”
And then he slides in easily, until he doesn’t. The bulge is frosty against you, just like the curse marks on his flesh, and it feels like an orange already. Sukuna uses a hand at your back to tip you forward until your knees touch the floor slats of the shrine. He grips you above each hip and by both shoulders.
“Quiet or I’ll rip you a third hole and no baby for you,” he says. You nod again and he laughs so low it registers in your blood like the deepest note of a cello. Then he starts to press. You thought he moved you because surely gravity would help you go down over the knot. It does not seem to help you at all.
“Spread your legs,” he says tersely, tugging one open. You slide-- you’re right on it-- oh, god, it’s like a grapefruit and it has no give, it feels wider than what you took earlier and that was already inside, there’s no way--
Sukuna yanks your other leg outward with a tsk and there’s a splash of blood in your mouth from the way you’ve mashed a hole into your tongue with your teeth. The knot is spreading you, opening you up, but it’s still too big. Still outside.
You see those grubs again in your mind’s eye, snuggled like grotesque puppies a few centimenters below the surface. They’re curled into tiny circles that grow bigger, until the dirt walls of their little burrow are force outward in every direction. Bigger, until they pop through the grass into the moonlight, their pale bodies soaking up the glow. Bigger, until waiting night birds grab them with their beaks and the earth seems to swallow you up again.
“Get out of your head,” Sukuna hisses, “Or I’ll put this so far up your body it’ll come out your mouth.”
You swallow the blood coating your teeth and try to order your pussy to relax, or at least give up. He moves his grip inwards from your shoulders to your throat, and laces his meaty fingers together at the back of your neck. His thumbs stroke the front.
“Don’t you want it enough?” he coos, mocking. His eyes are fixed on yours.
You remember you’re supposed to be quiet. I do, you insist into the emptiness of your skull, it just won’t fit. It’s too big. You’re mournful about it but he is unmoved.
If it’s too big, then it’s a good thing you’re so loose, he answers. And then he pushes and doesn’t stop pushing until your lips fold and finally slip around the knot, which gets bigger the moment it settles into the space your hipbones and organs allow.
‘Too big,’ he grunts in your head. Feels like it fits to me.
His smile is the jagged shadow of a rosebush, but as your eyelids come down heavy you think to yourself that his voice was very soothing just then, as lullaby soft as the rumble of a thunderstorm coming to a place where you are so safe you fear not a single cloud. You already love the worst thing in the world. What else can hurt you? The cum he spurts into you isn’t scalding at all, and when its warmth fades to an exhausted, contented, bubbly blackness, you let it take you under, his panting your realest, dearest lullaby.
When you blink back into consciousness, you are slumped over a still out, still seated Itadori. He’s snoring gently, relaxed. Nothing like Sukuna at all. Even in sleep he’s got a sweet, gentle smile. Such a good kid. You want to let him rest, and you want to get out of here and get some rest yourself.
Carefully, you slide a foot to the floor, then the other. Your legs straddle one of his and there’s a concerning stickiness where your crotch rests against his uniformed thigh. Sukuna saw fit to release you from his domain with your clothes back in place, aside from the panties. You wonder if there’s any trace of the ash of them on the floor of the shrine.
You manage to get your balance and move off Itadori’s leg. There’s a terribly wide, glossy spot on his trousers, and you gawk at it for a moment, wondering if there’s a way for you to clean it up. While you think, more cum rushes out of you, spattering against the white tile floors like the first load had spattered against bones.
Sleeping Beauty makes a noise and moves his head in a bleary way, and you decide to just beat it. You mouth a sincere “Sorry, Itadori,” and get the hell out of there, keeping your footfalls light around the tiny puddles you make as you run. Messier than you want to be but less so than you expected, Sukuna’s spend sluices down the insides of your legs, clinging. You press a hand against the front of your skirt and grind it against the ache between your legs, hoping the fabric will soak up any would-be trail that might follow you when you leave the building. And like that, you sneak, sore as hell, from corner to corner, all the way back to your room.
On the way there, you feel a wriggling in your belly that seems... exploratory. It moves like a fish in a new bowl, fluttering and bumping against its confines. Mischievous. It could be your body setting itself back in order after the time in Sukuna’s domain, or revolting from the way you were used. But as you take the last few steps to your door, cum sluggishly oozing out onto the lining of your skirt, you suspect it is something much more lasting and malevolent, something you’ll need to get used to.
You’re so excited you put a hand over your mouth as you sink the floor of your room.
