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18+ ONLY. MINORS DNI. Texas!

✦. pervert!Sukuna x virgin!Reader ✦. wc : 6k

✦. You’re trying to save money for college… And at the same time your neighbor — that asshole and a pervert, Ryomen Sukuna — gets out of prison. He offers to keep your little secret, but on one condition... “I’ll pay you thirty bucks to take my cock in your mouth. Right here, before Toji gets back. Be a good girl.” This summer is going to be a long one. And Sukuna has already decided exactly how you’re going to spend it.

Ⅰ. part one! series masterlist ✦.cw : vulgar asshole!kuna :: criminal!kuna :: so wants to fuck the you :: 18/23 :: sexually aggressive :: sexual harassment :: dubious consent :: degradation :: sexism :: reader’s father :: toxic dynamics:: past mentions of underage harassment(non-graphic).

You had no choice but to...

In this godforsaken little town, all that’s left for teenagers is fighting, drinking, and fucking in the dusty beds of pickup trucks, trying to prove something to a world that forgot about them a long time ago...

But you’re not like them.

You’ve got different plans. Different dreams.

And you’re willing to burn yourself alive just to get the hell out of here...

Texas heat hits different in this corner of the state. The sun burns everything down into a washed-out yellow-gray, melts rubber, and kills any desire to do a damn thing during the day. Even time feels slower here...

The air at the gas station hangs thick and overheated, like jelly made of exhaust fumes, gasoline, asphalt vapors, and your own sweat. Every breath takes effort, heavy with dust and bitterness that sticks to the back of your throat.

Your goal for the summer is simple and cynical: make enough money for your first semester of college.

So your friend’s idea is desperate and trashy, but genius for you. Two girls fresh out of high school, squeezed into tight shorts and tank tops, washing cars at her uncle’s gas station, a bastard just like most of the men in your town.

At first you fought it, feeling something inside you twist at the humiliating thought. But the numbers she drew in the air with her licorice-black nails were way too tempting.

And you gave in.

Cynicism is the best anesthetic for pride.

The first few days turn into a game of nerves. The drivers’ stares, mostly men old enough to be your father, dead-eyed and greasy-fingered, cling to you like flies. Their gaze drags over your legs, lingers on the curve of your hips beneath thin fabric, on the neckline of your tank top where sweat-darkened spots bloom into the cotton.

Those looks are always filthy. Almost physical.

You learn not to see them.

You stare somewhere over the customer’s shoulder and run on autopilot: smile, take the money, wash, goodbye. Crumpled bills, sometimes even twenties, get pressed into your palm by men with that sly, knowing smirk, their fingers deliberately brushing your young skin.

Tips, warm and wrinkled, slide into the pocket of your shorts, soothing the burn of shame for a second.

In moments like that, you let yourself dream. Not about textbooks, but about a dorm room in a big city, a café with a view of skyscrapers, and freedom. The dreams are fragile, fleeting.

The happiness never lasts long.

Maybe that’s just how it is: everything has a price.

Especially here, in this fucking middle-of-nowhere town.

On the fourth day, your friend ditches you. She grabs her temple, moans about her head splitting apart, and takes off, leaving you with a crooked grin as a goodbye. You know damn well that bitch doesn’t have a migraine. Not when Satoru Gojo’s throwing a party at his mansion up on the hill tonight.

You feel a sharp stab of jealousy, but you choke it down fast, because now all the cash is yours.

Every sweaty bill that reeks of someone else’s hands.

It’s comforting.

For about five minutes.

The gas station is suffocatingly quiet after lunch, broken only by flies buzzing against the store windows and the occasional roar of a semi ripping down the highway. You’ve just finished dealing with some sweaty asshole in a beat-up Toyota who called you “sweet thing” and tried to smack your thigh on his way out. You managed to dodge his hands.

And then, not long after, an old black Ford Mustang rolls onto the gravel lot, its suspension clanking like it’s about to fall apart. The car is filthy, the headlights spiderwebbed with cracks, paint scraped clean off the sides. It glides in low and predatory, the engine coughing out a deep, unhealthy growl.

You know who drove it into that condition at the local races, but you still hope it’s not him. Even though your heart slows anyway, turning into an icy lump somewhere under your ribs.

You recognize the sound of his car.

The way your stomach tightens.

The way your fingertips go cold.

Music blasts out of the open windows, bass thumping hard. The driver’s door swings open with a slam like someone ripped it off the hinges.

And out steps the damn devil himself.

Ryomen Sukuna.

Just hearing his name makes something in your head click, sharp and mechanical, like a gun being cocked.

He straightens up, stretches, and the world seems to tighten around him, snapping into focus. He’s wearing that leather cowboy hat again, like he always has for the past five years. It throws a sharp shadow across his face. It pisses you off. Sukuna pisses you off.

A black cotton T-shirt, soaked through with sweat, clings to the definition of his broad chest and shoulders, outlining every muscle. The sleeves are shoved up past his biceps, exposing dark tattoo lines crawling down his forearms and over his veiny hands.

His hair, that weird pink-peach shade, is shaved short on the sides and messy on top. A dead cigarette hangs from Sukuna’s lips. He stretches again, and the muscles in his stomach flex hard beneath the thin fabric, carved like stone.

You grit your teeth.

His movements are lazy, but there’s a smoothness to them, the kind a big predator has. Like he knows he doesn’t need to rush. Like he knows he owns the place.

He’s an asshole.

And now Sukuna is heading straight for you, already pulling a worn leather wallet from the back pocket of his tight, oil-stained jeans. A smirk tugs at his lips, sharp and knowing.

You squeeze the wet rag in your hand so hard water sprays out of it.

Fucking Sukuna.

Hate flares in your chest, hot and familiar, burning through every ounce of pragmatism you’ve been holding onto.

You’ve hated him since you were a kid.

Ever since you were a dumb little seven-year-old who tried to befriend him and Toji, just because they were neighbors, a couple years older, and looked so damn cool. Sukuna, ten years old back then, didn’t even hesitate. He shoved his palm into your face and said, “Fuck off, snot-nose. Go play with Yuji.” His little brother Yuji spent the entire week apologizing for him and sharing his candy with you, like it could fix anything.

It didn’t help.

When you were ten, playing with Yuji at their house, you overheard Sukuna walking past and tossing over his shoulder, “Jesus, why’s your little friend so fucking ugly? She take after a pig?” Everyone in town knew your mom was a whore who cheated on your dad before running off and leaving you behind. Maybe that’s why he was so cruel to you, because it was easy. Yuji turned red to the roots of his hair and tried to convince you it wasn’t true.

You cried that day.

When you were ten, Sukuna was mowing the lawn outside your house. Your dad, usually so strict, patted him on the shoulder and said something like, “Kid grew up early. Good head on his shoulders. Responsible. Looks after his brother.” And Sukuna, catching your stare through the window, slowly ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, pressed it there once or twice, then made a filthy gesture with both hands at his crotch.

It made your stomach turn, and you called him a fucking pervert. The next day at school, he spread a rumor that you’d already been “giving it out” to anyone who asked.

You were fucking thirteen.

And besides Yuji, you didn’t have any friends.

At fourteen, at a family barbecue your dad invited him to like always, Sukuna “accidentally” bumped your chair. You spilled juice all over yourself. While everyone fussed, he leaned down like he was helping you pick up a napkin. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, and you felt the damp heat of his breath, reeking of beer and cigarettes your dad bought for him. “Nice tits, baby,” he murmured. “Too bad you smell like you haven’t showered in weeks.”

Then came your breakdown, the table getting flipped, and the punishment after.

Of course they punished you. Not him.

At seventeen, at your first truly fatal party, drunk off two stolen swallows of tequila, you saw him standing in the doorway, arm around the waist of some glamorous blonde from senior year. Something snapped inside you. Hurt, rage, years of humiliation burst out as loud, cracked laughter. “Oh my God. You know he’s a manwhore, right? Or are you just a slut?” The blonde frowned, gave you a disgusted once-over, and walked away.

Sukuna didn’t move. He just stared at you so intensely you almost threw up into the cup with the tequila leftovers. Five minutes later, his hand clamped onto your collar like iron. He dragged you through the crowd, ignoring the shrieks and confused looks, into a filthy half-collapsed bathroom at the back of the house. The smell was suffocating: piss, cheap air freshener, mold. He shoved you down against the sink, smeared with sticky stains and cigarette butts. His body pressed into your back, and you felt the heat radiating off his massive frame.

Terror crawled over your skin.

He grabbed your hair at the temple and yanked your head back. His face was inches from yours, eyes burning with cold, furious fire. “Listen up, you little piece of shit,” his voice was a low, hoarse whisper that cut sharper than your father’s yelling. “One more sound at me. One more look. One more attempt to embarrass me…” He ground his hips into you, and you felt, with sick horror, the hard weight in his jeans pressing into your lower back. “And I’ll put that filthy loud mouth of yours to work for its intended purpose. I’ll shut you up with my cock, shoving it so deep you’ll choke and gag until I come right into your gut. Got it, slut?”

Sukuna had always been rough with you, but that night you finally saw the real him. Crude. Violent. Hot-tempered. Completely fucking immoral.

And it was too much.

You couldn’t breathe. You only nodded, tears running down your cheeks, mixing with the sticky grime on the sink. He held you there for what felt like forever before shoving you away like you disgusted him.

And then Sukuna went to prison.

You didn’t see him for a whole year. A year of relative peace.

Why did they convict him?

Hell if you know.

Rumors spread, of course. That after that party, the one where you called him a “whore,” something serious happened. What exactly? Nobody could ever say for sure. And that uncertainty sat under your skin, making you feel sick.

Some people whispered he got into a brutal fight with someone from the outskirts and broke the guy’s jaw.

Others said he messed with the wrong girl. The kind of girl whose brother turned out to be a cop.

The scariest versions, the ones people passed around in half-voices, were always blurry. Like it wasn’t just a fight. Like Sukuna was the only one who walked away alive.

They talked about a robbery that went wrong. About him breaking into someone’s house. A gun. Or maybe a knife.

You didn’t want to believe any of it, but you still worked up the nerve back then to ask your dad if he knew anything.

He just waved you off, said Sukuna was innocent.

And you remember staring at him after that, thinking: Then why the hell did they send him to prison?

You still ask yourself that.

You remember the day he came back. You saw him outside his house from your bedroom window. And his usual cocky grin didn’t look spontaneous anymore.

It looked… calculated.

Like he already knew what blood tasted like, and he wasn’t playing with his prey anymore.

Something about him felt different. Not anger.

Aggression.

The kind that feels like a disaster waiting to happen. Yuji said he’d gotten even more short-tempered. And all those rumors, all those half-told horror stories, clung to Sukuna like an invisible trail of smoke, making his presence a thousand times more threatening.

After that…

You avoided him.

And now he’s here. Again.

His shadow falls over you, blocking the blinding sun. You have to tilt your head back, and even then Sukuna is hard to see properly. The smirk on his tattooed face is familiar, triumphant and sharp. The last time you saw him up close, the tattoos were only on his body. Now black patterns crawl over his cheekbones, framing his mouth, making him look even more alien and dangerous. His skin where it isn’t inked is dark golden, almost bronze from the relentless Texas sun, sweat shining along his hairline.

Behind him, like some grim shadow, Toji appears. He leans against the motor oil rack, shoving those huge hands into the pockets of his worn jeans. His face, usually blank, looks openly bored right now. His T-shirt clings to a build just as massive as Sukuna’s.

Toji’s a bastard too.

Not as creatively cruel as Sukuna, but colder. Because even if he never called you a slut, never spat in your juice, never lied that he came in your salad after you’d already eaten it, he also never stopped Sukuna. And he comes from the same trashy family as him, so maybe that’s why those two assholes are best friends.

And you know for a fact it was Toji who helped Sukuna secretly take that photo up your skirt on the school staircase two years ago. That stupid picture got sent to the boy you liked. You never spoke to him again, because that asshole forwarded it to a couple other guys while laughing at you. And you still remember Sukuna’s and Toji’s indifferent faces when the picture started spreading through the whole school.

Sukuna snaps his fingers right in front of your nose.

“Hey. Wake up. Sun fry your brain or what? If you’re gonna puke, do it away from my car,” his voice is rough, smoker-hoarse.

Ryomen Sukuna is still the same fucking asshole. In this past year he hasn’t changed one bit, unless he’s gotten even more aggressive and decided to tattoo his stupid face. Though… he does look broader. Wider in the shoulders. He’s probably around twenty now.

You don’t even remember when his birthday is.

“What the fuck do you want, Sukuna?” you flinch back, your heart hammering somewhere in your throat.

“Oooh,” he drags it out, pleased. “You still remember my name, baby.”

You clench your jaw. Sukuna turns, gesturing wide at his Mustang.

“My car needs a wash. Heard the service here is…” he lifts one corner of his mouth with a mocking hum, “…special.”

There are demons dancing in his eyes.

“There’s a car wash in town. Go there,” you hiss, squeezing the rag so hard your knuckles go white.

“Yeah, but they don’t have staff this cute,” he says, scratching his neck like he’s thinking real hard.

Behind you, Toji yawns loudly, flashing white teeth, and asks:

“Where’s the other one? We heard there were supposed to be two of you.”

“Today it’s just me,” you throw out, not even looking at him.

Toji’s mouth twists down, annoyed. His gaze, heavy and assessing, drags over you more slowly, from your wet hair down to your sneakers. Sukuna glances at him and frowns for a second, baring his teeth slightly, then bumps Toji with his shoulder, jerking his head like, get the fuck out. They exchange some silent look, and you’re left guessing what the hell it means.

In the end Toji gives in, clicks his tongue like they didn’t agree on something, and steps aside with a shrug.

“Gonna take a piss and grab a cold beer,” he mutters as he passes you.

His eyes slide over you again, and the scar at the corner of his mouth twitches with his grin as he drags his tongue over it. Heat rushes into your cheeks. Then Toji suddenly glances back over his shoulder and adds with a sly smirk:

“Shit… think I left my money in the car…”

Sukuna curses at him and, irritated, tosses his wallet over just to get him to fuck off already. When the glass door swings shut behind Toji with the jingle of the bell, Sukuna turns back to you. He pulls a dead cigarette from behind his ear, slips it between his lips, and flicks his lighter.

The flame lights up his harsh features for a second, the tattoos on his cheekbones catching in the glow.

The two of you stand in the shade of the gas pump. He takes a drag and blows a thin stream of smoke straight in your direction from beneath the brim of his hat. Then, without taking his eyes off you, he adjusts the heavy engraved belt buckle with one hand and slips the other into his jeans pocket, muttering under his breath as he fishes out a bill, pulling out a crumpled ten.

“Enough?” he asks.

The smirk disappears. His stare goes flat, serious, like he’s actually studying you.

Like he even gives a shit.

You usually take five. But this is Sukuna. You want to rip him off for triple, squeeze every cent out of him, at least materially. You nod and hold out your hand, palm up. He smirks again, but this time it’s different. Smaller. Like the corner of his mouth twitches.

He drops the bill into your palm, but his fingers don’t let go. They close around yours, hot and rough, the skin nicked and calloused, flecked with dried resin. He squeezes your hand, forcing your fingers to curl around the money.

It lasts only a second, but you still flinch.

You almost yank your hand away, expecting another nasty comment, like he jerked off and forgot to wash his hands, but Sukuna just lets you go and steps back to his car, leaning against the concrete pillar. He folds his arms over his chest, takes another drag, and tips his head back slightly.

Swallowing the lump of shame, you shove the bill under your bra strap. Ten bucks, warm against your skin, the paper rough. You lift your eyes. Sukuna still hasn’t looked away. He’s watching you.

“Tank’s on the left, in the back,” he reminds you.

“I know,” you snap, and you don’t realize how sharp you sound until his low, rumbling chuckle makes your stomach twist.

You walk around the car, pop the fuel door open, and slide the nozzle in. The steady sound of gas running fills the silence. While the tank is filling, you grab a bucket of clean water, almost hot from the sun, and throw your rag into it. Water splashes onto your bare legs. You bend down to soak the rag properly for the body of the car. The water stings your fingers.

For a second, bent over like that, you slip out of reality. All you see is the rippling surface in the bucket, your warped reflection. The exhaustion, the heat, the monotony finally do their job.

The corners of your mouth twitch into a half-smile at the thought of how much you made today. How soon you’ll be home.

You straighten up to stretch your back, roll your shoulders, and awkwardly fix the bra strap that’s slipped down.

And your eyes meet that asshole Sukuna’s. Again. You frown and jerk your chin.

He’s still standing by the pump.

But his posture has changed. He’s not leaning anymore. He’s standing straight, arms loose at his sides now, cigarette burning down between his fingers.

And his eyes…

There’s no mockery in them.

No familiar sharp grin, no lazy cruelty like when he used to call you ugly. Now his gaze is dark, almost black, and it doesn’t let go of you for even a second.

It makes you nervous. A shiver runs through you.

Heat floods your body, and then a sudden cold cuts right through it.

You jerk your head away, grab the soapy sponge, and start washing his car. You scrub with the kind of fury that feels like you’re trying to wipe Sukuna out of existence.

Foam spreads thick, hiding the dirt underneath. You reach toward the center of the hood, almost falling onto it chest-first, and feel the cold metal press through the thin fabric of your tank top against your breasts.

Then you move to the windshield, sweat sliding down your spine in tiny drops. You have to rise up on your toes and arch your back to reach the top.

Your stomach tightens, and you feel your shorts, already low, ride up another inch, exposing most of the lace of your panties.

You tug them down with one hand and keep scrubbing the glass with the other.

Then you crouch by the front wheel to scrub dried mud off the rim. It’s meticulous work. Takes effort. Without meaning to, you bite the tip of your tongue, focusing, letting it peek slightly between your lips.

You scrub with the brush, squatting lower, feeling your thighs tense.

Your knees almost shake from exhaustion.

When you finally straighten up to wring the rag out against the rim of the bucket, your gaze finds Sukuna again against your will.

He’s in the same spot.

A cigarette butt lies on the ground near his boots (you didn’t dare tell him smoking’s not allowed here), his hands are shoved into his jeans pockets now, and you can’t help noticing how the fabric pulls tight at his crotch.

He isn’t even trying to hide it.

Your smile freezes. Then drops away completely.

Ryomen Sukuna is a fucking pervert.

You turn away sharply, grab the nearly empty bucket, and drag it to the passenger door. You set it down with a dull thud and bend again to rinse the rag in the dirty water.

Cold splashes hit your stomach.

And then you freeze.

In the dark, dusty surface of the Mustang’s window, like a warped mirror, you see not only your own face reflected back, but...

You gasp, jerk back, and slam straight into Sukuna’s chest.

He doesn’t give an inch.

If anything, he steps closer.

His arms wrap around your waist instantly, pinning you against him from behind. His hands are huge, nearly meeting over your stomach. One slides lower, fingers digging into your skin right above your hipbone.

“Slow down, kitten.” Sukuna sings.

His hard-on presses against your ass.

You swallow, your stomach twisting into something sharp and nauseating.

Sukuna leans in. His lips brush the shell of your ear, and your whole body jerks. His breath is hot, damp, the kind that clings.

“I’ll throw in another ten,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, almost… calm, gentle. “If you wipe down the interior too.”

He rolls his hips just slightly, pressing into you again, and you freeze, your body refusing to decide whether to fight or run.

“Had some bitch in here yesterday,” he goes on, lips grazing your temple as his eyes flick down, shamelessly, to your ass and the hard-on grinding into it.

He hums, almost pleased with himself, breath dragging along your neck and shoulder blades.

“Fucked her in the back seat…”

He pauses, like he’s savoring the way your muscles lock up.

“Poor thing kept begging me to be gentle,” Sukuna adds, almost amused. “Squirmed and grabbed onto whatever she could.”

Another quiet hum. Another slow press of his body into yours, deliberate. His hard cock rubbing against your ass through the denim of his jeans, fitting against you like it was made for you.

“Now the upholstery’s dirty.”

The words sink into your skull like poison.

“Want more?” he whispers. “I’ll pay you twenty. Or…”

You try to pull away, to step back, but his left hand, broad and hot, the pads of his fingers rough with calluses, slides lower. He grabs your ass hard through the fabric of your short denim shorts. You feel his palm against your bare skin and a sound slips out of you, short and muffled, half a whimper, half a pathetic little yelp.

And he likes it.

Sukuna squeezes, kneads, grips tighter your ass.

“Don’t play hard to get, baby…” Sukuna mutters, then shifts closer with a sharp, possessive movement. He smacks your ass, grabs it again, and grinds his hard-on into you.

Rage cuts through your fear, clean and bright.

He wants to humiliate you?

Wants to play?

Fine.

He’s going to pay. Every fucking dollar.

You wrench yourself out of his grip the second it loosens and reach for the driver’s door handle.

“Fine,” you hiss, not even looking at him. “Move.”

You yank the door open and lean in, searching for the “mess” he was talking about.

And you freeze.

On the floor by the pedals lie two torn condom wrappers. Carelessly discarded. And beside them, a full unopened pack.

Your heart stops, then starts again so violently your ears ring.

He wasn’t… joking.

A sharp breath slips out of you, thin and shaky.

“Oops,” Sukuna says behind you, fake-guilty. The laughter in his voice is bright, almost cheerful.

Then he bends forward with a low grunt, reaching in without moving away from your back. His hand lands on your thigh and shoves you aside like you’re in his way. His fingers clamp around the inside of your thigh, right where the skin is softest, and twist you sideways with enough force to make you yelp from surprise and pain, he twists you sideways toward the open cabin, pressing your back into the side of the car. Sukuna leans down, his head dropping near your thigh. You only let it happen because you’re paralyzed with disgust and shock.

He scoops up the condom wrappers and, without looking, shoves them into his jeans pocket. Then he straightens, studying your stunned face.

You’re trapped between the open door and the Mustang’s frame, and Sukuna is suddenly right there.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Sukuna coos, sweet and mocking.

You’re trapped in the narrow space between the open door and the car body, so close he’s basically pinning you to the Mustang. The height difference feels ridiculous like this. You feel his heavy belt buckle dig into you just above your navel.

He’s so near you can feel the heat rolling off his skin, hear his steady, slightly faster breathing, and only then do you notice he’s holding the unopened condom pack between his index and middle finger, lazily twirling it right in front of your face, like a toy. Like bait.

The height difference feels ridiculous up close. He’s so near you can feel the heat rolling off his skin, hear his steady breathing turn just slightly faster.

Sukuna’s bronze skin, slick with sweat along his neck and collarbones, looks almost smooth. His body is a solid source of heat. The smell of him is suffocating, wrapping around you completely: sharp cologne soaked into his T-shirt, mixed with sweat and tobacco.

You remember that smell.

His room. The time you opened the wrong door and walked in by accident, expecting Yuji’s mess, and found Sukuna’s instead.

He almost killed you that day.

You try to lean back further, eyes wide, but there’s nowhere to go. Sukuna’s gaze stays locked on you. Those studying eyes linger on your face, then drift down to your shorts, and he has to tilt his head to look.

Slowly, moving only his hand, Ryomen lifts his palm and slides the fingers of his free hand into the front pocket of your low-rise shorts. He tugs down way too hard on purpose. The denim pulls, exposing a strip of skin and the edge of your panties.

You flinch, but Sukuna doesn’t even blink.

He simply slips the sealed condom into your pocket like he’s leaving a tip.

You stop breathing completely, but your heart drops into your stomach when Sukuna starts talking again.

“Saw you sneaking out the window last week,” Sukuna murmurs, way too quietly, and the grin on his face spreads wider. Sharper. Meaner. Almost feral. “Late as fuck. Middle of the night.”

“Shut up,” you snap, but your voice catches. There’s a lump in your throat.

“What, you embarrassed, baby?” He lifts a brow, faking surprise.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Sukuna…” you hiss, like a snake about to bite.

“Don’t I dare what?” He tilts his chin, eyes flicking upward like he’s thinking. Like he’s replaying it. “Don’t I dare ask how bad you wanted to ride someone’s dick that you had to sneak out while daddy was asleep?”

His gaze slides back to you.

“Who was it? One of those pimply little losers from Gojo’s party?”

“Go fuck yourself, that didn’t happen!” you spit, and heat rushes into your face, down your neck, straight into your chest.

“Don’t lie to me, baby,” Sukuna scoffs, eyelids lowering like he’s bored. The sun beats down on his tanned skin. A bead of sweat trails down his temple.

“I’m not… it’s none of your business. Shut the fuck up,” you growl, teeth clenched.

“Shut up?” He lifts his chin again, like he’s actually considering it, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Fine. Let’s make a deal.”

He leans closer, shoulders broad, blocking you in.

“I’ll keep your cute little midnight escape a secret from your daddy… the one who still thinks you’re some innocent little girl...”

His smile twists.

“Not some slut who hops on every second cock she sees.”

Your breath catches. Your stomach drops.

Sukuna leans in, lips brushing close to your temple, voice turning into a whisper:

“And you’ll do something for me.”

You try to shove him away again, but Sukuna doesn’t budge. He slides his hands into his jeans. He steps in even closer, eyeing your scared face with that hungry, smug grin.

“I’ll pay you thirty bucks,” he licks his lips impatiently, staring straight into your eyes, pupils blown wide, his breath burning your face. “Take my cock in your mouth. Right here. Be a good girl. Before Toji gets back.”

“You… are you fucking sick?!” you choke out, but it comes out pathetic, weak. You step on his foot, and he doesn’t even notice, pressing you harder against his car.

“Forty bucks, baby,” Sukuna continues, ignoring the way you squirm. “And I keep your little night escape from your old man quiet...”

A pause. His voice drops lower, filthy.

“If you let me come in your mouth like a good girl.”

Something in his tone is almost soft. Almost tender. Mixed with something disgusting and greedy, and it makes your skin crawl.

“Get off me, you bastard,” you mutter, already openly writhing against the sheer weight of his body.

If your dad finds out you snuck out at night…

He’ll kill you.

You know it.

Sukuna purrs like he’s bargaining at a flea market:

“Still not enough for you, pretty thing?”

“I said get the fuck off!”

Sukuna doesn’t move. His hard-on presses into you, shameless, already rubbing against the strip of bare skin under your cropped shirt.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, fake-sweet. “Forty-five…” His breath fans your face again, hot. “You want fifty, baby? I swear your little secret stays between us forever.” A pause. Sukuna licks his lips, his eyes dropping to your chest with eager interest.

Something inside you twists into a tight, white-hot knot of disgust and rage. Your fingers clench around the dirty, soaked rag still trapped in your fist.

And you swing.

Hard.

Right into his smug fucking face.

“Go to hell, you son of a bitch!” you scream.

The rag smacks across his eyes, his mouth, leaving a black, filthy streak on his cheekbone.

He stumbles back a step. His cowboy hat tips off his head and drops.

For a second, Ryomen Sukuna looks genuinely stunned.

Then his expression snaps into something ugly. Uncontrolled.

Pure fury.

So violent it makes you flinch just looking at it.

“FUCK!” Sukuna drags it out, his hat sliding back on his head, exposing a face twisted with pure rage. “YOU CRAZY, STUPID BITCH!”

You use that split second, jerk sideways, and squeeze through the narrow gap between his body and the open door. Sukuna’s hand grabs your shirt, the fabric yanking tight. A nasty ripping sound snaps at the shoulder seam, but you tear free and bolt.

You run without looking back, stumbling over something, hearing a deafening crash behind you. Sukuna must’ve kicked the bucket so hard it went flying, slamming into the pump.

When you burst into the gas station store, the bell above the door rings like it’s losing its mind.

And you slam right into Toji.

He’s standing at the counter, having just paid for two cans of cold beer and, apparently, gas.

Toji slowly turns his head. His empty gaze drags over you. Over your wet tank top clinging to your chest. Over the torn fabric at your shoulder. Over your flushed face and shaking hands.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just lets out a low little huff, like he’s amused.

Like this is exactly what he expected.

It makes you want to disappear. Then he turns and walks outside, broad shoulders swaying with every step.

You press yourself against the glass of the window. Outside, dusk is already creeping in. You watch Sukuna, shirt stripped off, standing in nothing but jeans, snapping something furious at Toji while wiping his face.

The glass against your cheek is cold, but your skin is burning.

Sukuna gestures wildly, and the tanned skin of his torso, slick with a thin sheen of sweat, glows in the sunlight. The last ray of sunlight licks across the buckle on his belt, and it flashes for a moment with a cold, mean glint. Toji listens without moving, expression blank. Then he asks one question. Short. Calm.

Sukuna cuts off sharply, his gaze snapping back toward the building where you’re hiding, and he spits something back, probably threats about what he’s going to do to you after this little stunt…

And after whatever Sukuna says, Toji suddenly grins wide enough to show every tooth, throws his head back, and starts laughing. Not a quiet chuckle, but a full, deep laugh that makes your skin prickle and your stomach twist, just imagining what the hell Sukuna could’ve told him.

Toji slaps Ryomen’s bare, tattooed shoulder and hands him a beer. Sukuna snatches the can, takes a few big gulps, his eyes flicking toward the gas station building again.

And you instinctively jerk back into the shadows.

They talk for another minute, then both of them climb into the car. Doors slam. The engine roars, spitting bluish smoke. Tires squeal as the Mustang peels out of the lot and disappears into the thickening dusk, taking Sukuna’s sharp cologne with it and leaving you with that humiliating, sticky tremble clinging to your skin.

You only step outside when the sound of the engine fades completely. The air is still hot, but now something heavy hangs in it. You walk over to the overturned bucket and pick it up. The rag lies nearby, soaking in a puddle. You stare at it, then at the road where they vanished.

In your shorts pocket, the unopened pack of condoms sits like a cold accusation.

You clench your jaw.

You hate him. You despise him. You curse him. That fucking perverted, arrogant asshole, Ryomen Sukuna.

Summer has barely started, and suddenly it already feels endless. Suffocating. Stretched out like this Texas night. In your ears, over the rush of blood, Sukuna’s voice still rings, smooth and terrifying: “Forty bucks... And I’ll come right down your throat.”

This isn’t over.

With Ryomen Sukuna, it never is.

And it’s probably better you don’t know what’s waiting for you tonight.

Do not repost, copy, plagiarize, translate, or feed my work into AI in any form!) Divider credit: @dollywons and @enchanthings series masterlist

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