𝕻airing — Ryōmen Sukuna x Reader.
𝕾ummary — Your Gangster Ex-boyfriend shows up at your doorstep one day injured. You decide to let him in but there’s more than a wound you need to fix. Especially when there’s still a certain tension between you two.
𝕮ontent warnings — gangster!sukuna, porn with plot, raw sex, p in v, fem!reader, kinda dom!reader, sorta make-up sex, hair pulling, creampie, pet names ( ex. baby ) stab wound, blood, couch sex, sukuna lowkey down bad, hate sex lowkey (reader), hitting and quitting.
𝕰dit — This is my first long sorta fic thingy like I’m so proud of myself!! And Gangster Sukuna just makes me horny sorry not sorry.
You should’ve known Ryōmen Sukuna was trouble. He had this aura about him that screamed red flags so you must’ve been color blind. Sukuna was rough looking ( also good looking ), the tattoos that started at his neck and down to ankles, the piercings on his face, the black fingernail polish — you should’ve seen it coming. Your friends had told you to stay away from him. Your family told you to stay away from him. But you couldn’t. You saw the softness that other people didn’t see.
So when he broke up with you wished you listened to everyone. You remember the day so perfectly. He wanted to meet up and he told you that he was bad for you and you deserved someone that won’t drag you down with them.
So when you heard knocking at your door it pulled you out of your thoughts. The knock was slow. Heavy. Measured. Like someone too tired to demand, but too desperate to wait. Something was telling you not to open the door.
You froze in the kitchen, clutching a glass of red wine you suddenly didn’t want. No one visited this late—not in this rain. You crept toward the door, your bare feet silent against the wood floor. One glance through the peephole, and your stomach dropped.
Standing outside on your porch.
Drenched. Pale. Leaning against the doorframe like it was the only thing holding him up. His hoodie was soaked through and clung to his body, the dark fabric darker still where the blood had soaked through.
You didn’t think. You just opened the door.
“Hey, baby,” he rasped, mouth twitching into that cocky smile you hated yourself for missing. “Got a little… fucked up.”
“Sukuna. What are you doing—”
Before you could finish your sentence he collapsed into your arms.
You managed to catch him before he fell. You tossed his arm over your shoulder as you held onto him tightly. His skin burned against your hands as you dragged him inside, guiding his bigger body to the couch. The moment he hit the cushions, he groaned—low, guttural—and peeled the hoodie off with a wince. Your breath caught when you saw it.
A jagged stab just under his ribs, fresh, angry and gushing out a crimson liquid.
“You need a hospital Sukuna.”
He caught your wrist before you could grab your phone. His grip was still strong, despite the blood loss.
You stared at him, heart pounding fastly against your rib cage. “You’re insane.”
He smirked again, that cocky yet beautiful smirk you’ve been secretly longing to see. “You always liked that about me.”
You slapped gauze against his side, maybe harder than you needed to. He hissed—but didn’t let go of your wrist. You can feel him intensely staring at your face.
“So you just came here to die on my damn couch?”
“No.” His eyes burned into yours. “I came here because I knew you wouldn’t let me.”
That silence stretched, thick and tense, as you pressed your hand against the wound to slow the bleeding. His gaze dropped to your neckline—your tank top soaked slightly from the rain where he leaned into you. His breathing got heavier. Or maybe yours did.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” you whispered.
Sukuna grinned again, sharp and dangerous. “And yet, you’re touching me like you don’t want me to leave.”
You should’ve walked away. You should’ve told him to get out.
But instead, you straddled his lap.
His breath hitched as your thighs slid over his, careful not to press into his injury, but firm enough he could feel the heat between your legs.
“Do you still think I want you here?” you asked.
He looked up at you with low eyes, you seen a glimpse of mischief flash through them. “I think you want to punish me.”
Your hand slid up his chest, nails grazing the tattoos under his shirt. You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
“I should let you bleed out.”
“But you won’t.” His hands found your hips, slow and possessive. “Because you missed me. Just like I fucking missed you.”
You didn’t kiss him gently. You kissed him like you hated him for leaving, for bleeding on your floor, for dragging you back into this mess. His mouth met yours with the same fire, teeth clashing, tongue demanding. His blood-slicked hand fisted in your hair. The other squeezed your ass hard enough to bruise.
He groaned into your mouth. “Careful, baby. I’m wounded.”
You rolled your hips, slow and deliberate. “Then lie back and take it.”
“Didn’t know you were still this mean,” he muttered, voice thick with lust.
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know.”
And then you ground down again, and he cursed beneath you, hips bucking despite the pain.
Your hips rolled down against his, slow and punishing, letting him feel the way your body ached for him even if your mouth was all bite and resentment. He hissed through his teeth, head tipping back against the couch as he gripped your waist tighter, like it hurt to be touched—but he couldn’t stop himself.
“I should be resting,” he rasped, but his voice was already heavy with want.
“You shouldn’t be here at all,” you said, nails dragging across his chest until you found the hem of his shirt. “But since you are…”
You yanked it up, exposing lean muscle, blood, and the edge of the scar you gave him once in a different kind of fight. You remembered your mouth on that skin. You remembered the way he tasted. Your teeth scraped along his jaw now, soft lips following after. His hands moved under your tank top, rough fingers grazing over your bare waist, traveling higher—he froze when he felt no bra.
His breath came hot against your neck. “You’re killing me.”
“You came to me half-dead.” You grabbed his wrist, shoving his hand to your chest. “Let me finish the job.”
He groaned at the feel of your bare breasts against his hand, and his thumb found your nipple instantly, circling slow. You arched into him without meaning to, heat flooding your core. The stab wound made him careful, but it didn’t stop him from palming you like he used to—like he owned you.
“You’re not gentle anymore,” he muttered, voice strained.
Your hand slid between your bodies, finding the waistband of his sweatpants—he hadn’t even worn boxers under them.
You grabbed his cock, already hard despite everything, and his head dropped back again, jaw clenched. You stroked him slow, just enough to make him twitch against your palm, to make him curse under his breath.
“Still carrying that attitude,” he growled, hips jerking up into your hand. “But you’re wet already, aren’t you?”
You said nothing. Just pulled your panties to the side and guided him to your entrance, dragging his tip through your slick folds. His breath caught. You sank down, inch by inch, his hands gripping the couch until his knuckles went white.
“Fuck…” he groaned, biting his lip, sweat already beading on his forehead. “You’re—tight. Shit.”
You rocked your hips slowly, feeling the stretch, the heat, the way he filled you like he was made for it. His wound pulsed under your hand, but his eyes were on you now—wide, wild, worshipping and possessive all at once.
He grabbed your hips. “Ride me.”
“Then let me die like this.” You rolled your eyes even though you felt a slight smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
You started slow, dragging your hips back before slamming them down again, his cock hitting deep. He groaned loud, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. Every movement made his jaw tighten with pain—but the way he looked at you, like you were the last thing he’d ever see, made you move harder, faster.
You leaned down, breath hot against his lips. “You missed this?”
He bucked up into you, rough and desperate. “I fucking dreamt of this.”
Your name fell from his mouth like a prayer, a plea, as you rode him harder, thighs burning, your moans turning shameless. His hand came up and wrapped in your hair, dragging your mouth back to his—teeth, tongue, heat—until you were gasping against him.
“K-kuna..” He loved the way his name sounded leaving your mouth. He wished he saw you come undone all the time.
“Come on me,” he whispered, voice raw. “Wanna feel you soak me. Make a mess, baby. Let me feel you lose it.”
And you did—grinding down hard, nails raking down his chest as your climax hit, walls clenching around him, body shuddering in his lap. He groaned, hips stuttering once, twice—and then he came too, deep inside you, filling you with a low, guttural curse against your neck.
Afterward, you stayed there—both of you sweaty, shaking, soaked in blood and rain and everything that made you dangerous for each other. His head dropped to your shoulder, chest rising and falling fast.
You nuzzled your head against his neck and pressed a couple of kisses on it. You missed this. But of course you were gonna tell him that.
“…Still gonna kick me out?” he asked, voice muffled.
You stayed in his lap longer than you should’ve.
His heart was still racing beneath your palm, his breath slowing but shallow. You could feel the wet stick of sweat, blood, and cum between your thighs, but neither of you moved. For a moment, everything was still—just the soft hum of the rain against the windows and the weight of him inside you, twitching slightly as his body relaxed.
“I’m… i’m not proud of this,” you muttered into his neck.
He chuckled weakly even though your words stung. “What, letting me fuck you raw or the part where you let me in after I bled all over your doorstep?”
He winced when you finally shifted off of him, your body aching and sticky, his now-soft cock slipping free. You hissed slightly at the soreness, and his hand caught your arm.
You turned your face, expecting another one-liner, another grin that tried too hard. But his eyes were different now—soft, heavy-lidded, something real swimming under all that usual cocky bravado. Something that you’ve never seen before. He looked at you like he meant it this time.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he said. “I was bleeding. I thought… if I was gonna die, it should be with you.”
“You’re not dying,” you said sharply. “Not in my damn house.”
You stood and grabbed the first towel you could find, pressing it between your legs with a wince before tossing another at him.
“Clean yourself up. You smell like blood and bullshit.”
He smirked. “Still bossy. I missed that.”
You didn’t respond. You headed to the bathroom, came back with a first-aid kit and antiseptic, and dropped to your knees in front of him—again—but this time with gloves on and your jaw tight. The stab wound had slowed its bleeding, but the edges were ugly. Deep. You’d seen worse. But not on him.
As you cleaned it, his fingers slipped into your hair again, but there was no heat behind it this time—just the need to touch you, to ground himself.
“Careful,” he muttered softly.
“You’re lucky I don’t pour vodka in this and call it a day.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst pain I’ve felt.”
You glanced up. “That a challenge?”
“No.” He leaned back, watching you. “That’s me saying I’m sorry.”
The words made your hands still for a second.
“You should’ve said that the night you disappeared.”
“I couldn’t. I thought leaving would protect you.”
“From what—your enemies or yourself?” He didn’t answer. That told you enough.
You stitched him slowly, carefully, even when the silence grew thick again. Every now and then, he’d flinch and curse, but not once did he stop you.
When it was over, you stood up, wiped your hands clean, and looked down at him, now bare-chested on your couch with a gauze-wrapped stomach, and that same haunted look in his eyes.
“Would…you want to stay here tonight?”
He blinked. “You’d let me?”
“No.” You crossed your arms. “But I’m not dragging your half-dead ass back out in the rain either.”
You started to walk away, but then paused in the doorway.
“Guest room’s made up. Towels are clean. Don’t touch anything.”
You turned your head just enough for him to see your glare.
You closed your eyes and sighed. 
And for the first time in a long time, he listened.
The house was still when he got up.
Dim morning light filtered through the curtains, softening the edges of the bruises on his body. The guest room smelled like you — not directly, but faintly, like old shampoo, clean cotton, and warmth. He hadn’t slept. He’d stared at the ceiling most of the night, hand pressed to his stitched side, replaying the sound of your voice, your breath, the way you clenched around him when you came with his name on your tongue.
It would’ve been easier if you hadn’t held him after. If you hadn’t cleaned his blood with shaking hands and called him an idiot under your breath while brushing his hair off his forehead like you still gave a damn.
That was the problem. You still did.
He sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed now—sweats, hoodie, boots laced in silence. The wound in his side pulled, a dull, pulsing reminder of how close he’d come to dying.
He found a piece of paper from your desk drawer and scribbled something messy on it. He folded it once, twice, and left it on the kitchen counter where you’d find it but couldn’t stop him.
He looked toward your closed bedroom door.
He thought about going back in. Just to look at you one last time.
But he didn’t trust himself not to crawl into your bed. Not to kiss your forehead. Not to ask to stay.
He didn’t want to see your eyes when you realized he was leaving. Again.
So he slipped out the front door like a ghost. No sound. No word. Just the quiet creak of the lock behind him.
You found the note two hours later, half-awake and wrapped in yesterday’s regret.
Didn’t come here to stay. Just to survive. You made that happen. Still yours. Just not safe to be. From S.
You sat at the table in silence. You didn’t cry. You’d done that the last time. This time, you just stared at the paper for a long, long while.
Then you folded it neatly, placed it in the drawer beside your bed, and tried to pretend like you didn’t still check the door every night after that.
