ꮡUnbroken.
sum: Your boss, Satoru, spends an obscene amount of money on an auction for a specially large, different bull hybrid he found. You are the responsible to keep his giant farm in harmony, settle the hybrids in, feed them, check them, soothe them. As soon as you set your eyes on his new acquisition, you wonder how long it will take for him to become a problem.
cw: hybrids!au, true form sukuna, but as a bull, heat cycles, shoko is there, gojo is also there, ptsd, past angst, eye injury mention, sukuna has two cocks, they both go inside you, dp, lots of cum, breeding, dubcon, pregnancy talk, he's really bigger than you this is smut guys, enjoy.
The gravel crunches under the truck’s tires before you see it, that low rumbling rolling across the open stretch between the paddocks and the main barns. It’s early enough that the sun still feels gentle, but the farm is already awake — feed carts clattering, hoses hissing, the steady chorus of lowing and chuffing and the occasional irritated kick against stall boards.
Someone whistles from the hay loft when the rig turns in.
You wipe your palms against your jeans out of habit, even though you’re not the one sweating yet, and you head for the loading bay because you already know how this goes. Gojo never sends anyone else when it’s a “difficult one.” He makes it sound like praise.
It is, technically.
It also means you get first contact with whatever he just dropped a fortune on.
Satoru Gojo is there, of course. He always is when it’s something rare — hands in his pockets, sunglasses on even though he’s half in shadow, dressed too clean for the barn and somehow never paying for it. He stands with that loose posture that makes people think he isn’t paying attention, but his head tracks the truck’s approach precisely, his mouth curling in the faintest smile.
“Morning,” he lilts, voice bright, casual.
“Morning,” you answer, and you keep walking past him toward the bay, because the driver will want someone who actually works here.
The truck brakes. Air releases. Metal groans.
The driver hops down and looks relieved when he sees you instead of Gojo. They always are. Gojo has the kind of money that makes people nervous, and the kind of face that makes them try to charm him anyway. It never helps.
“Where do you want him?” the driver asks.
You glance at the manifest in his hand, then at the doors, then at the route you already planned in your head — no tight turns, no narrow alleys between pens, nothing that puts you boxed in with something untested.
“Barn three,” you say. “End stall. The one with the reinforced beams.”
Gojo hums behind you, amused.
“Prepared, as always.”
You ignore the tone. You don’t need him teasing you right now.
The driver nods, and the two of you walk the length of the trailer as the farmhands nearby find excuses to slow down. Everyone tries to pretend they’re not watching. Everyone watches.
The back doors unlatch. One swings wide, then the other, and for a second it’s just darkness inside — cooler air spilling out, carrying the sharp tang of metal and old sweat and transport bedding.
Then something shifts.
A heavy step lands on the ramp from within, and the entire trailer seems to exhale around it.
He comes into view in pieces at first — a thick forearm, then another — two more after them, stacked in the way your brain needs a moment to accept. The glint of a nose ring at the end of a wide, scarred bridge. A strong, long cattle tail swaying once, slow, controlled, the tuft at the end brushing the inside wall as if it’s already measuring space.
Then he steps forward and the sunlight catches him fully.
Impossibly tall. Broad enough that the trailer looks built wrong around him. Taurus horns sweeping up from his head, thick and polished from contact, not decoration. Skin marked with ink — bold lines and symbols that don’t read like farm branding, more like a man with money once paid to make him look dangerous and liked it too much to stop. Four eyes, and the first thing you register is the asymmetry, the right side of his face is ruined by old damage, a jagged scar that pulls the skin, two eyes on that side pale and unfocused.
Blind.
The other two on the left are a deep, violent crimson that locks in immediately when he looks down at you.
He doesn’t look frightened. He doesn’t look curious. He looks bored, and the boredom has damage potential.
The driver clears his throat, suddenly aware of his own size in comparison.
“He’s— uh— registered as Sukuna. Ear tag matches. Paperwork’s clean.”
You find the tag — yellow, stamped, clipped through thick ear tissue. SUKUNA in block letters. A number underneath. The kind of labeling that tries to make living things into inventory.
Sukuna flicks one of his lower left eyes toward the tag as if he knows you’re reading it, then dismisses you with a small tilt of his chin, like he’s already done being inspected.
Gojo leans closer to you, voice low.
“Biggest bull I’ve ever bought,” he says, pleased with himself. “Try not to get flattened.”
You don’t look at him.
“Where’s his lead?”
The driver lifts a thick rope line, the end clipped to Sukuna’s nose ring with a heavy carabiner. It looks obscene, that rope, like someone tried to convince themselves it mattered to force that bull into anything.
Sukuna’s gaze goes to it. He doesn’t tug, doesn’t test it. That’s what makes your stomach tighten a little.
Things that want to fight usually show you right away.
You step closer, but not too close — your body already remembering angles, remembering where horns swing, where blows land, where you can be crushed without someone meaning to crush you.
You keep your voice steady.
“Sukuna.”
One of his red eyes shifts. The other stays on you. A split focus that feels deliberate.
You raise your hand, palm open, and you don’t reach for him. You let him decide if he’s going to move first.
“I’m going to take the rope. Is that okay?”
The words hang there in the morning air, absurdly polite.
The driver stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. Gojo makes a soft sound behind you that might be a laugh.
Sukuna’s expression changes in a way that’s almost nothing — one side of his mouth tightening, the smallest flare of his nostrils. Annoyance, yes, but also something else. Surprise that you asked, maybe. Surprise that you spoke to him as if he’s a person capable of answering. And he is, you know that. You refuse to treat him like he is anything else.
His tail swishes once, heavier now. The rope line shifts as his head turns, and you see the muscles in his neck and shoulders move under his skin, the tattoos stretching over living power.
He doesn’t answer with words.
He lowers his head a fraction, just enough for the clip to be in easier reach.
Permission.
You don’t rush now. You step in, take the rope with both hands, and you make sure the line stays slack. You don’t want him to feel pulled. You also don’t want to learn how fast he can move if he decides to go the other direction.
“Alright,” you say, more to yourself than anyone. “Let’s go to your stall.”
Sukuna steps down the ramp like gravity doesn’t apply to him. The boards creak under his weight. One foot lands, then another, then he follows you — measured, controlled.
He could charge. He chooses not to.
The moment his feet hit the ground, the nearest cattle hybrids start reacting — heads lifting over pen rails, snorts, a warning bellow from an older cow that doesn’t like strangers. A farm dog barks once and is immediately hushed by someone off to the side.
You keep walking.
You don’t try to drag him. You set a pace that expects him to follow, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. That’s always been your trick with the difficult ones. You act like the route is already agreed upon.
Sukuna follows, and you feel it as you go — the way the rope stays loose, the way his steps land behind yours at a deliberate distance, close enough that you can’t forget he’s there, far enough that he’s not crowding you nor erring to trample you.
He watches everything, and you can tell by the subtle head movements, by the tilt of his horns as he tracks voices and motion in the periphery. The blind eyes don’t make him clumsy. If anything, they make him more careful about where he puts his strength.
You pass the first barn. The smell changes — sweet hay giving way to manure and disinfectant, the familiar barn heat rising around you. A couple of hands step aside quickly when they see him, and the ones who don’t step aside stop pretending they’re tough the moment Sukuna’s red eyes sweep them.
You keep your shoulders down. You refuse to tense up, even when your heart ticks faster.
“Easy,” you murmur, not because he’s spooking, but because you want your voice to fill the space between you and him. You want something predictable in the air.
He makes a sound in his throat — not a grunt, not a snort either, more like a short exhale that reads like contempt for the idea that anyone here could make him “easy.”
Barn three is quieter, by design. The end stall sits away from the main aisle, reinforced metal and thick oak beams, the kind of build Gojo pays for when he expects a problem. Fresh bedding. Normal human accommodations that pretend to turn a stall into a suite. You learned long ago that new arrivals don’t need an audience and they don’t need to be overwhelmed.
You stop at the stall entrance and glance back over your shoulder.
Sukuna stands there, towering in the aisle, horns almost brushing the cross-beams overhead. The light catches the scarred side of his face in a way that makes it look even harsher, the pale eyes staring nowhere.
The red eyes stay on you.
You gesture into the stall with your free hand.
“In here.”
He doesn’t move immediately.
He scans the opening, the height, the width. He checks the ceiling. He checks the latch mechanisms. He checks you.
Then he steps forward, and the entire barn seems to compress around him as he passes through the entrance. His shoulders clear with inches to spare. His tail swings in behind him, a controlled sweep that doesn’t touch you, but could if he chose.
You step into the stall only as far as the threshold — enough to keep him moving, not enough to trap yourself inside.
Sukuna turns once, slow. He tests the floor with a foot. He leans his weight, shifts, feels out the bedding. One of his upper arms reaches up to scratch behind a horn while a lower hand brushes his own nose ring, as if checking the hardware.
You keep the rope slack as he settles, then you begin to coil it carefully, still attached to his nose ring. You don’t unclip it yet. Not until you know how he is in this space.
He lowers himself with surprising grace for something his size, folding down until his body rests in the bedding. Four arms settle — two bracing, two loose. His chest rises and falls slow and steady.
Then he looks at you again, and the weight of his attention lands heavy.
You keep your voice even and your expression mild.
“Comfortable?”
His lower left eye narrows slightly. His mouth twists.
“Mm.” he says, finally, the sound rough and dismissive. It barely qualifies as an answer, but it’s still more than you expected.
You nod as if it’s a full conversation.
“Water’s right there. Food will be at the usual times. I’ll be the one coming in... yeah, mostly me.”
That last part matters — most of the hybrids you handle learn your routine and cling to it. Even the aggressive ones calm when they know what to expect.
Sukuna’s gaze drifts to the water trough, then back to you, and you can’t tell if he’s assessing the offer or the fact that you’re explaining farm logistics to him like he isn’t a commodity.
You take a breath.
“I’m going to take the rope off now.”
You move slowly, unclip the carabiner from the nose ring with careful hands, and you keep your fingers away from the ring itself. Touching sensitive hardware without permission is a good way to learn how much strength someone has in their neck.
The rope comes free, you pull it away and coil it tighter, stepping back to put distance between you and the stall entrance again.
Sukuna doesn’t lunge, doesn’t bolt. He could, though, easily and you would have so much trouble to catch him — given he didn’t trample you in the process.
He simply watches, and the stillness feels like a decision by itself.
You set the rope on the hook outside the stall where it belongs. You check the latch — quietly, efficiently. You don’t lock him in like a prisoner, but you secure the stall because there are other animals, other workers, other hybrids, and the farm isn’t built around one bull’s moods.
You look back in.
“I’ll be around,” you say. “Every day, at first. I’ll show you the place, let you get used to the sounds. The other hybrids too. No one’s going to bother you if you don’t start something.”
Sukuna’s tail flicks once, his expression sharpening as if the idea of someone else being in control of who bothers him is offensive.
You hesitate only a beat, then you say the part you’ve been trying not to think too loudly.
“I don’t know what Gojo plans to do with you,” you admit. “If you’re here to breed, or if he’s going to fix you so you can be around the others without… issues.”
The air changes then at that simple mention.
Sukuna’s red eyes narrow, not sleepy anymore. Not bored. Focused. A tension rolls through his shoulders, and his four hands shift in the bedding, fingers flexing as if he’s remembering what it feels like to grab something and not let go.
He scoffs — an ugly, sharp sound — and lifts his head higher, horns angling forward.
The message is clear without him needing to spell it out — Let them try.
For a second, you can’t help it. Your pulse stutters. Not fear exactly — fear is familiar and flat. This is twisted, more complicated, because you’ve handled aggressive hybrids and you’ve handled proud ones, but you’ve never handled something that radiates the certainty that it has never been successfully controlled.
You steady yourself on a slow inhale.
You keep your tone level, even as your stomach tightens.
“Alright,” you mutter. “Good to know where you stand.”
Sukuna’s gaze stays on you, intense and unblinking, and you realize he’s waiting.
Waiting to see if you’ll backtrack, if you’ll apologize, if you’ll soften and make yourself smaller.
You don’t.
You take one step backward, then another, keeping your movements calm and deliberate, eyes on him until you’re fully outside the stall. Your hand rests on the latch, just to ground yourself in the routine.
“I’ll come back later,” you repeat to him. “Same person, same steps. If you want space, you can have it. If you need something, you’ll learn how to ask.”
His mouth curls, faint but mean, like he finds the idea entertaining.
You close the stall door with controlled quiet, secure it, and you walk away with your shoulders still loose, your pace still steady.
Only once you’re halfway down the aisle do you let yourself exhale properly.
You don’t linger at barn three after you leave him settled, you make yourself move — standing outside that stall with your hand still half-curled like you’re holding a rope isn’t doing anyone any favors, least of all you.
The rest of the farm still needs you.
Barn one is louder, warmer, busier in the way it always is after a delivery — animals reacting to the shift in the air, workers talking a little too fast, the dogs picking up on everyone’s tension and getting underfoot. The cattle hybrids in this section look human at a glance if you don’t stare too long — shoulders and hands and hips, the familiar silhouettes of bodies that fit clothes and beds and chairs.
Then the details catch, soft cattle ears that twitch to track sound, horns in different shapes depending on breed, tails that swish when they’re irritated or pleased, hair that grows in patterns — patches of darker color along the nape, the crown, sometimes a streak down the back like a natural marking.
They live in stalls that aren’t really stalls the way the old barns used to be. Gojo renovated everything the first year you worked for him. Each unit has a bed, a bathroom, a little kitchenette, a couch, a TV bolted to the wall, a shelf for personal items.
Still barn architecture, still doors and latches and thick beams, but he likes to call it “accommodations” as if a different word fixes what it is.
You move down the aisle with a feed cart, checking the tags as you go. You talk when they want to talk, you listen when they want to complain, and you keep your routine steady because it keeps them steady.
A spotted steer hybrid who always wants his feed bucket tapped twice before he eats. A pale cow who likes to lean her head against your shoulder when you talk, heavy and warm, like she’s trying to anchor herself to something solid. A young calf hybrid who still startles at sudden movement and calms when you hum under your breath.
You move down the row with practiced hands — fill, check, top off water, glance at hooves and joints, make sure no one’s rubbing raw against the rails. You talk as you work, not because they need chatter to survive, but because it keeps them connected to you, and it keeps the barn from feeling like a warehouse full of breathing things.
“Alright, I see you. Easy,” you murmur when one of them crowds the gate with impatient snorts. “You’re not starving. You’re dramatic.”
A few heads lift when your voice carries. The closer ones perk up not for you, but for the fact that there’s new energy on the property. Hybrids notice that sort of thing. They notice unfamiliar scents, the vibration of a heavy presence through the ground, even when he’s penned up at the far end of barn three.
A few of the younger ones perk up the moment they spot you, because you’re news.
“Is it true?” one of them asks, leaning over the rail with her ears forward. She has small horns that curl close to her head, and hair that’s pale at the ends like it’s been dipped in cream.
“Gojo bought a new taurus,” another adds, as if saying it first earns her something.
You set down a scoop of feed and smooth it out so it doesn’t pile in one corner.
“He did.”
“How big?”
You glance at the speaker. He’s older, heavier, built more like a working steer than a showpiece, and his eyes are careful. He’s the type who’s been here long enough to know that size changes everything.
“Big,” you answer, because you’re not interested in working them up into panic.
That only makes them more curious. It always does.
Shoko catches you near the end of the row. She’s a brown cow hybrid, the shade rich and warm, hair thick and a little wavy, horns that sweep up and out with a calm sort of symmetry. She’s one of the ones who minds her own business but pays attention.
When she talks, people listen.
“So,” she says, tone light but not careless. “What did our dear boss drag home now?”
You set her feed down, then reach for the bucket you brought with chopped fruit — she likes it mixed in when she’s had a hard day. You do it without comment, because you know she’ll notice anyway.
“It’s a taurus,” you tell her with brief a sigh. “Gojo paid… a lot.”
Shoko’s mouth quirks as she watches you work.
“He always pays a lot.”
“This one used to fight,” you add, keeping your voice low because there are ears everywhere and you don’t want it turning into a story with extra details by lunchtime. “At least that’s what I heard from the driver. Four arms. Big horns. He’s… really not like the rest.”
Her ears flick once, thoughtful.
“Unbroken.”
You pause.
“Yeah.”
Shoko’s gaze moves over your shoulder toward the direction of barn three even though she can’t see it from here.
“Do you think he’ll be trouble?”
You don’t like lying to them. You also don’t like handing fear out like it’s feed.
“I don’t know yet,” you admit. “He’s calm, but that doesn’t mean safe. It means he’s deciding.”
Shoko hums, then looks down at your belt with a small tilt of her head. Not accusing, just observing.
“You brought that today.”
You glance at your holster.
The sedative pistol sits snug against your hip, its grip familiar under your palm. It isn’t something you parade around. It’s a tool, and you treat it like one.
Four chambers. Four darts.
Usually you only ever need one, sometimes two if the hybrid is large and already worked up. Most of them go down fast — big nap, steady breathing, a safe window to move them or treat an injury without anyone getting hurt.
You try not to imagine how much medication it would take to drop Sukuna.
“It’s a new arrival,” you say simply.
Shoko doesn’t press. She accepts the answer like an adult, which is one of the reasons you like her.
“Then keep your head on,” she tells you, voice softening just a fraction. “And don’t let Gojo do something stupid.”
A humorless little sound escapes you.
“That’s a full-time job.”
She snorts, amused, and goes back to her food. You move on, finishing your rounds, checking water levels, doing the small repairs that keep a place like this from turning into chaos. By the time you’re done, your shoulders have settled into something closer to normal.
Then your radio crackles.
“Hey,” Gojo’s voice comes through, too cheerful for a man who can buy and sell half this county. “Everything good with our new guy?”
You press the button.
“He’s settled, yes. No issues so far.”
“Perfect,” he replies immediately, like he didn’t doubt you for a second. “Come with me to check on him.”
Of course.
You glance down the aisle at the hybrids eating, at the quiet rhythm you just rebuilt. You swallow the irritation because it won’t change anything.
“On my way,” you say.
Gojo is waiting near barn three like he’s about to go admire a new car. He’s alone, hands in his pockets, sunglasses still on. The man will step into a dim barn full of half-wild muscle and horn and act like he’s walking into a café.
You fall into step beside him.
“Just—” You stop yourself before you say be careful, because you’ve said it before and he treats it like background noise.
Gojo swings the barn door open and walks in first anyway.
The air changes as soon as you’re inside. It’s quieter in here, deeper. The sound of your boots on the concrete seems louder than it should. Sukuna is visible at the far end, sprawled with the kind of confidence that makes the space feel smaller.
His red eyes cut toward you the moment you enter.
He looks at you first.
Then he looks at Gojo.
And the annoyance on his face is immediate, clear as day.
Gojo, naturally, takes that as entertainment.
“Well, hello,” he says, voice bright. “You are even prettier up close.”
Your expression stays neutral through practice alone. You keep to the side, near the door, but still inside the stall aisle where you can get between them if you have to. Your hand rests near your holster without gripping it yet.
You’ve learned how quickly “admiration” turns into “incident” with Gojo.
He strolls right up to the stall like the latch and the reinforced beams are decorative. Sukuna doesn’t rise, nor flinch away. He simply tracks Gojo’s movement with those two sharp eyes, head angled so the horns frame his face like a warning sign.
Gojo leans in, studying him the way he studies everything he buys — like he’s figuring out where the value lives. He reaches through the open half-door and lays a hand on one of Sukuna’s arms.
Sukuna’s response is immediate — a deep huff, the kind that pushes air out hard enough to rattle the bedding.
A warning. Clear. Not theatrical.
Your stomach tightens but Gojo’s smile widens, as if he’s been invited to play.
You’re going to have to scrape his remains off the floor any day now.
“Strong,” he murmurs, squeezing the muscle like he’s testing fruit at a market. “Look at this. This is absurd. This is—”
Sukuna shifts. Not fully standing, but enough that his shoulders roll forward and his four hands flex, fingers spreading and curling like he’s reminding Gojo of how easy it would be to grab.
You take one step forward, and it’s not fast, not panicked, it’s you closing the distance enough that if Sukuna moves, you’re already in position to save the skin of the moron who pays your salary.
Gojo doesn’t notice. Or he notices and doesn’t care.
He steps closer, craning his neck to look at Sukuna’s horns, the scarred side of his face, the blind eyes.
“Those won’t matter,” Gojo says, mostly to himself. “He’s still perfect. A jackpot.”
Sukuna’s mouth curls in something that isn’t a smile — he’s grimacing.
You keep your tone even, careful.
“Boss. Give him space. He’s new.”
Gojo waves a hand without looking at you.
“He’s fine. He’s calm.”
Sukuna huffs again, sharper this time. His tail lashes once against the bedding.
Gojo finally shifts his attention toward you, still grinning.
“Relax. You can handle it.”
There it is — his favorite unspoken truth.
He trusts you like you’re an extra layer of safety equipment.
Like you’re the barrier between his impulsiveness and consequences.
You don’t answer that. You keep your eyes on Sukuna.
Sukuna’s gaze flicks over your face, then down — briefly — to your hip. Your holster. Your hand hovering near it.
He sees everything.
Gojo keeps talking, the words spilling out like he can’t help himself.
Branding. Documentation. Testing.
He says he wants to mark Sukuna properly, make him match the rest of the stock. He says he’ll have the vet run exams before making any decision about keeping him intact.
You feel your jaw clench.
The hybrids can understand every word. Some pretend not to because it’s easier. Some listen and file it away, quiet resentment building under their skin. You’ve seen it happen.
Talking like they aren’t right there never sits right with you — it never has.
Sukuna’s eyes shift back to your face, steady, intent. It feels like being measured, like he’s deciding what kind of person you are based on whether you flinch at Gojo’s casual cruelty or agree with it.
You don’t give him an apology you can’t afford to mean. You also don’t throw yourself under Gojo’s boots by contradicting him outright.
You do the only thing you can.
You go still.
You look away, lifting your gaze to the ceiling beams like you’ve suddenly become fascinated by the construction.
You keep your posture calm, your breathing controlled, your hand close enough to your holster to act but not so close it looks like a threat.
It’s not bravery.
It’s management.
Gojo eventually gets bored. He always does once he’s had his fill of looking.
“Alrighty,” he says, stepping back at last. “Finish setting him up. Anything he needs. Then you’re done for the day.”
You blink.
“He has everything.”
“Then make sure,” Gojo replies, already turning away. “You’re the best at it.”
He leaves without waiting for you. The barn door swings and clicks behind him, and the quiet that follows is heavier than the noise ever was.
You stay where you are for a moment, letting your body recalibrate. Letting the tension bleed out of your shoulders. The stall feels different without Gojo’s presence — less chaotic, more… focused.
Like the only thing in here that matters is the red-eyed bull watching you.
You step closer to the stall door, careful not to crowd him.
“Sorry about that,” you say, slowly.
Sukuna doesn’t respond right away. He rises with a smoothness that doesn’t match his size, unfolding to his full height until he’s filling the stall in a way that makes the reinforced beams feel like a suggestion. He strolls forward, slow, unhurried, until he’s right at the half-door.
Then he keeps coming.
The stall door is open enough for him to lean out, and he does, bringing his face close. Close enough that you can see the texture of the scar tissue on the right side, the dead pale eyes that don’t focus, the sharp contrast of the living red ones that do.
You hold your ground.
Your voice stays professional.
“Do you need anything? Bedding adjusted, different food—” You glance around, trying to think in practical terms. “Furniture, maybe. Some kind of— something to do. I can arrange games. A radio. Anything that helps you settle.”
His nostrils flare, and you catch the faintest hint of amusement under the irritation, like he didn’t expect you to offer him entertainment in a barn.
The silence stretches.
He huffs again and leans his head a smidge further, and the sound is so close it hits your chest. Instinct kicks in before thought. Your hand moves — automatic, practiced — hovering near your holster.
Sukuna’s red eyes drop to the motion instantly.
His head tilts, slow, curious in a way that makes your skin tighten around your muscles.
“Those,” he drawls at last, voice rough with disuse and disdain, “you think they’ll put me down?”
You blink, startled by the directness. Most new arrivals don’t talk at all. Most of them don’t challenge you. Most of them don’t clock your safety measures and call them out like it’s a joke between equals.
You force yourself not to step back.
“I don’t want to find out.”
His gaze stays fixed on your hand, then slides up to your face.
You keep going, because honesty is safer than pretending.
“You’re massive and I don’t know you yet. I’m responsible for keeping everyone on this farm alive, which means I plan for the worst and hope it doesn’t happen.”
A beat.
Then his mouth curls, and it’s not friendly — it’s entertained. It’s unsettled power in a simple expression.
He lifts one of his upper hands, quick — faster than you expected for something that big — and flicks your forehead with two fingers.
It doesn’t hurt, it’s not meant to. It’s still enough to make your breath catch, purely because of what it implies — I can touch you whenever I want. I can do worse. I’m choosing not to.
Your hand doesn’t draw the pistol, you don’t jerk away.
You simply go very still, eyes locked on his, heart hammering in a way you refuse to show on your face.
Sukuna watches you for another long second, then exhales like he’s decided you’re at least interesting.
“I’m good,” he says, tone flat. “More here than before.”
You swallow, forcing your voice back into routine.
“Food will come later. Same as the others.”
His eyes narrow, and that almost-smirk returns.
“You’ll bring it.”
A statement. A claim.
You nod once.
“Yeah. I will.”
He eases back into the stall with the same unhurried confidence, turning away as if the conversation is over because he’s done with it. His tail sways once, and he settles like a man settling into a room he has started owning.
You step back from the threshold, fingers finally relaxing at your hip. Your pulse is still too loud in your ears, but the barn is quiet again, and Sukuna isn’t moving like he plans to make trouble — at least not now.
You latch the door carefully, not locking him in like a beast, not leaving it careless either. You take one last look at him through the bars.
He doesn’t look away.
You force yourself to turn first, because you have work to do and because you refuse to let him learn, on day one, how easily he can keep you standing in place.
As you walk out, your routine reshapes itself in your head without you meaning it to.
You’ll come back with food later.
You’ll speak to him like he can answer, because he can, they all can.
You’ll keep your sedatives close and pray you never have to use them.
And you’ll keep Gojo out of reach as much as a man like Gojo can ever be kept out of anything.
That’s simply the start.
Not comfort.
Not trust.
Just a new pattern you have to build carefully, day by day, while a fighting bull with four arms and two sharp eyes watches you like he’s waiting for you to make a mistake.
The nights always smell different during heat season — thicker air, heavier musk lingering in the barns, pheromones clinging to every surface like humidity that never quite lifts. You’re used to it by now, you’ve worked around hybrids long enough to understand that the scent of a barn can shift as strongly as the behavior inside it.
But this year feels a little different.
Maybe because you forgot your blockers.
Maybe because Sukuna is here.
It’s been so many years without an unbroken bull stepping into this farm that you really didn’t mind the synchronization of the cycles affecting you.
You try not to dwell on it as you move through the barns with your clipboard and your lantern light cutting through the dim aisles.
The cows are restless tonight.
Their ears flick, their tails swish, their breathing shifts in patterns you’ve learned to read like mood lines. You check bellies for knots, muscles for tension, look for signs of colic, offer the medication Gojo clears for use only during these cycles.
You speak quietly as you go, because the sound of your voice tends to settle them more than the drugs do.
“Easy, sweetheart,” you murmur to one of the heifers curling in on herself. You rub the join of her spine where she likes pressure and wait for her breathing to even out. “I know. Almost done.”
The barn lights hum faintly. Outside, the sky is thickening with clouds — the smell of rain already creeping in.
You don’t think about Sukuna until you’re walking toward barn three. You always leave him for last on night checks — you’re not avoiding him, but his stall has become the quiet part of your route.
Predictable, in its own way.
He’s been different this week.
Not volatile, exactly. Not antagonistic also. Just distant, as you have settled on realizing. Watching you from where he lounges, eyes half-lidded or narrowed, depending on how close you come.
He doesn’t approach the door like he did before, doesn’t test your reflexes with sudden movements or crowding.
He doesn’t flick your forehead when you’re too serious or make those amused, irritated huffs when you explain things he already knows.
He ignores you.
That part unsettles you more than when he didn’t ignore you.
You step into barn three. It smells like hay and metal and the faint traces of the storm rolling in. Your boots tap down the aisle, and your body relaxes into the familiar rhythm of it.
You talk as you walk, half out of habit, half because he listens even when he pretends not to.
“Quiet night everywhere but barn one,” you say softly. “Everyone’s moody, but it’s expected. Heat cycles, you know how it is.”
You pause at another stall, adjust a water trough, then continue.
“Gojo wants to shift feeding times next week. Don’t ask me why. Probably because he feels like it.”
No reaction. No sound. Not unusual.
You frown, slightly, almost missing his sarcasm.
The silence feels odd.
When you reach his stall, you expect to see him sprawled or sitting, pretending to sleep.
Instead, he’s standing.
Not in his usual lazy, slouched posture. Standing like a creature listening for something only he can hear.
His four arms hang at different angles — upper two relaxed, lower two flexed lightly, like they’re ready for something. His tail is still. His horns catch the faint light from outside, and his red eyes glint when they cut toward you.
You stop at the threshold.
“Evening,” you say. “Checking water and bedding. I’ll be quick.”
Nothing.
Not even a flicker.
You step inside the stall alcove, not entering but close enough to do your job. You set down your bucket with the fresh water, adjust the trough, note the marks on the bedding from where he paced earlier — subtle, but there.
And you talk because silence around him feels too heavy.
“The storm’s coming in fast,” you mention, glancing at the small window slit near the roof. Wind whistles through it. “You can hear the pressure change, right? The herd gets restless when it storms. You probably feel it, too.”
You crouch to check the grated drain under the trough.
Behind you, the heavy shift of weight.
Your heart jumps even though you keep your face trained forward. Normally he lets you work with space between you.
Tonight, he moves closer.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
You keep your voice steady.
“Your feed’s coming later than usual. I had to mix extra supplements for the cows. They burn more energy during heat, and—”
Another shift behind you, closer still.
You stand slowly, turning just enough to meet his gaze without stepping backward.
His eyes are fixed on you in a way they haven’t been for days — focused, sharp, almost unblinking.
Not passive and not bored.
Something in the air around him feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
You swallow once, careful not to move too quickly.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” you say, soft but even. “I figured you didn’t want to be bothered.”
His nostrils flare once.
A scent rolls off him — distinct from the barn’s musk, warmer, heavier. You’ve smelled variations of it on bulls during heat cycles before, but Sukuna’s version is different. Stronger. Tighter, like it’s layered with something that shouldn’t be affecting you but is.
You inhale by accident and feel heat crawl up your throat.
Your blockers are finally being missed.
Shit.
You forgot them, so now you deal with the consequences.
Sukuna’s pheromones are nothing like the others. They hit harder, sink deeper, cling like they’re meant to be noticed.
You grip the stall door lightly, grounding yourself.
“Look, if you’re uncomfortable, tell me,” you say. “I can do the checks faster. Or later.”
He still doesn’t speak.
He just stares.
For a long moment, it feels like he’s peeling you open mentally, trying to figure out something you didn’t intend to reveal.
Then, finally, he shifts his weight and steps back — not far, but enough that the tension in your spine eases.
You blink once, slow.
“Alright,” you murmur, “I’ll finish up.”
You refill his water. Straighten the bedding. Check the temperature gauge. You keep your breathing even and your movements measured, pretending the air isn’t thick with something your body shouldn’t be responding to.
When you step back toward the aisle, he doesn’t follow this time.
He stays where he is, watching you with a furrowed brow like he’s the confused one now.
You open your mouth, maybe to say goodnight, maybe to say something trivial, because trivial keeps things normal.
But thunder cracks — too loud and sudden overhead.
The barn rattles.
The lights flicker once.
You stiffen.
Sukuna’s ears snap forward, the movement instantaneous.
Then—
Darkness.
The storm hits full force, and the entire barn drops into shadow.
You inhale sharply, lantern light bobbing in your hand from the belt you grabbed it.
That’s where the night changes.
The power drops for real this time, and it happens like a gasp — the kind of darkness that folds over the barn so completely your breath pauses with it.
No hum of lights, no faint buzz from the overhead panels, no color except the dim blue of your phone screen when you instinctively lift it.
Then the emergency generator kicks in.
The low, teeth-vibrating brrrrrrmmm rattles the metal frames of the stalls. It’s a sound you’ve grown used to over the years, something your bones fold around after a minute or two.
But him — Sukuna — is not used to it.
Not this barn.
Not this noise.
The emergency lights flicker once and turn on with that bluish, sick, under-the-skin glow that makes every shadow feel wrong. His crimson eyes catch it immediately, gleaming like cut glass, darting fast — too fast.
His chest rises quicker than normal, not quite panting but something close to it, something restrained.
Not aggression.
Apprehension.
Fear he’s trying to choke down.
You feel your pulse skip.
Slowly, carefully, you pull your phone out, shielding the screen so the light doesn’t hit him directly. The lantern is once again hooked on your belt, off now.
You text Satoru for Sukuna’s full file.
The reply comes instantly.
Of course it does, he was probably already with the phone on his hands to text you something.
Gojo always acts like he’s waiting for you to ask the right question.
You scroll. You skim. Then you read slower.
Line after line of cramped clinical shorthand, fight logs, behavioral notes, scars explained in cold language — the arena records, the conditioning, the noise, the storms.
The way they pushed fighting bulls by blasting sound cannons.
The way they fitted the fights to thunder season.
The notation — Subject becomes volatile or dissociative during storms. Possible PTSD.
Your stomach turns and you feel your hands becoming clammy.
You put your phone away.
You breathe once, steadying yourself before you call his name in a measured voice.
“Sukuna.”
His eyes snap toward you so fast your chest tightens. He stands rigid at the far wall of the stall, shoulders high, four arms pulled close to his body like he hasn’t decided whether he needs to fight or brace.
Everything in him is coiled. Iron muscles under skin, feeling taut, tense everywhere.
He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t answer.
He’s trying not to show weakness, and it’s written all over him anyway.
You lift your hands, palms out — not surrender, just a signal.
“I read your file,” you say quietly. “All of it. I’m not trying to pry, I’m trying to understand what’s happening right now.”
His jaw clenches.
His expression hardens so sharply it feels like you’ve stepped on a pressure plate. His gaze on you becomes borderline murderous.
You keep your hands up, far, far away from your pistol.
“I know storms were used when they tried to break you. I know you’re not… you’re not reacting to this storm. You’re reacting to everything that came before.”
Nothing.
But the flick of his ears, the flare of his nostrils — they tell you he’s listening.
You step inside the stall.
Slow, steady paces. No reaching. No sudden shifts.
You’ve soothed cattle your whole adult life, the technique is muscle memory by now. You go to his bed — massive, reinforced, layered thick so it can take his weight — and sit on the edge of it.
Not too central, not too close to his space.
Just present on a place that means comfort, safety even, and stay.
Visible.
Not threatening.
You inhale and force calm into your voice.
“I usually sit with them during storms. Sometimes talk, sometimes read. Presence helps.”
Thunder cracks outside — hard, vicious, right overhead.
The generator hum deepens, rattling the window.
You see it hit him.
His shoulders jump, subtle but unmistakable.
His chest tightens.
He’s trying to pretend it’s nothing.
He’s failing.
You don’t push. You don’t coax. You just stay there, letting your breathing settle into something even, letting him see you being steady.
The moment stretches long and tight, like a wire pulled between you.
Then — finally — he peels himself away from the wall.
Each step is wilful, heavy, his feet thudding against the wooden boards. He walks like a creature with pride he refuses to abandon, even while fear churns under his skin.
The emergency light casts shadows across his scarred half, throwing the pale eyes into stark contrast.
He stops near the bed.
Waits a beat.
Another.
Then he sits.
The bed dips under his weight, the whole frame groaning for a second. He’s close enough that his heat reaches you in waves — enormous body radiating warmth, tension, something wild you try not to interpret too much.
You can hear his heartbeat.
Fast. Hard. Thudding against your chest even though it’s not your heart.
You speak softly, not in a patronizing way.
“What do you usually do when storms hit? To calm down?”
It takes him a while. His throat works.
Then, rough, low,
“Endure it. It passes.”
You nod slightly.
“Did anyone ever help you through it?”
He scoffs immediately.
The sound is harsh, wounded, defensive.
Like the concept itself insults him.
Of course no one offered assistance, they were trying to break him, not to comfort him — if anything, you don’t doubt they aggravated it all.
You don’t pity him, you just feel retroactive anger for those who did that.
“My job is making sure everyone here is comfortable. Not because you’re broken or someone to be pitied, defenseless, not because you need saving… It’s because you’re a living being in discomfort and I can do something about it.”
His eyes narrow.
There’s a strange, searching look in them.
You let yourself think for a moment, then say the words before doubt can stop you:
“I can offer comfort. Contact, talking, grounding. If you want it.”
His ears flick back. His head tilts.
He stares at you like he’s never been asked anything so ridiculous in his life.
Then, almost mocking, brows knit together and a sneer on his lips.
“Are you offering me a hug?”
The tone tries to bite, but underneath, something trembles.
You hold his gaze.
“Yes,” you say simply. “I’m offering you a hug.”
And you extend your arms, body half turned still sat in bed, just to face him better by your side — awkward, small compared to him, but steady.
You expect him to laugh. To scoff again. To ignore you.
You do not expect him to reach for you.
Two lower hands wrap your waist and thigh — large, warm, shockingly gentle for their size.
His upper hands slide under your lifted arms, gripping your back, and then you’re lifted with terrifying ease. Placed astride his lap, knees sinking into the cushion on either side of his massive hips, your chest pressed against his.
The contact knocks the air out of you — not from pain, but from sheer presence.
His chest is a wall of heat and strength, his heartbeat slamming against you like it’s trying to outrun the storm. His arms close around you, all four of them, wrapping fully around your body.
He holds you too tight at first — instinct, not intention.
When your arms lift and circle around his broad neck, he tightens again. Not crushing, but claiming.
Needing.
Your face sinks into the crook of his shoulder. His skin is warm, scarred, and smells faintly of grass, musk, and storm-stirred adrenaline.
His hair brushes your brow, soft strands of pale pinkish-salmon at the nape.
You stroke there carefully, fingers gliding in slow, repeated motions meant to soothe, to calm him down a bit.
You feel his breath catch.
Just once.
Then again when thunder cracks outside, making his entire body go taut — iron coiling beneath skin.
You keep your caress steady.
It’s strange — comforting someone so large, so powerful, someone who could break the bed or you without effort.
But nothing about his hold is violent now.
It’s grounding. Heavy. Desperate in a quiet, prideful way.
HE allows himself to seek solace in your hug.
Minutes pass.
His breathing deepens. His heartbeat slows — bit by bit — though it jumps each time thunder rolls.
You hum without thinking — a melody from nowhere in particular, something soft and looping.
He huffs against your shoulder, the sound vibrating through your ribs.
“Are you…” His voice is low, annoyed, embarrassed maybe. “Are you humming me lullabies like I’m a fucking kid?”
You shrug in his arms without breaking the hug, your cheek still against his shoulder.
“If it helps.”
And it does — it is helping.
He doesn’t loosen his grip. Not even a fraction.
The storm doesn’t let up.
It rips across the sky again, a jagged pulse of white that flashes through the narrow stall window, throwing the whole barn into stark silhouettes. Sukuna goes rigid under you — every line of him pulled tight, like the next thunderclap might split him apart from the inside.
You don’t move when he calls your humming stupid.
You don’t even lift your head. You keep your cheek pressed to the warm plane of his shoulder, your arms wrapped around his neck, your fingers combing slowly through the shorter strands at his nape.
His skin is still hot, maybe it’s getting hotter by the second, and the faint tremor beneath it is impossible to miss.
“If it annoys you, you can say stop.” you murmur, your voice low so it doesn’t feel like it’s trying to fill the room.
He snorts, but it’s quieter than his usual derision — less cutting, more like he’s trying to use mockery as a shield. The storm cracks again. His whole body tightens in one sudden, violent jolt, all four arms locking around you for a moment as if the instinct is too deeply carved to fight.
You keep your breath steady through the squeeze.
He eases — not much, but enough for you to shift your hand up to the base of one horn and stroke the furred root with your thumb. It’s a slow arc, a steady rhythm.
You’ve learned that hybrids respond to predictable movement when frightened.
If you keep the cadence, they anchor to it.
You feel him test every breath you take. His chest rises under yours, heavy and controlled — not calm, not by a long shot, but trying. Somewhere in all that mass, in all that brute strength, there’s a frantic beat struggling to hide itself.
He doesn’t want you to notice.
You notice anyway.
The emergency lights hum weakly above you still, blue and too cold to be comforting, the kind of light that makes everything look sickly. Makes you remind of hospitals in horror movies.
It outlines the sharp line of his jaw, if you stop to notice, the deep scars on the right side of his face, the pale blindness of the two ruined eyes.
His other pair — the crimson, burning ones — stay fixed somewhere over your shoulder, not trusting the shadows of the barn to stay put.
His tail flicks once behind him. Irritated. Agitated. Not at you.
“You read too damn much,” he mutters, his voice rasping near your ear. “Shouldn’t’ve looked at that file.”
Your fingers keep moving, slow and even along his nape.
“I needed to know what would help you, and what made you look so tense so suddenly. That’s my job, Sukuna.”
“No.” His upper right hand slips from your back for just a moment to tap your hip, firm and dismissive. “Your job is feeding me and keeping the others from braying all night.” A beat. “Not babysitting.”
“That’s not what I’m doing, though.”
He scoffs, but the sound is weak now.
Another thunder rolls overhead — low, drawn-out, shaking the rafters. He doesn’t jolt this time, but you feel the tension spike again through every thick muscle pressed to you.
You hug him tighter. Carefully.
You don’t try to match his strength — you couldn’t. But you give him something constant to hold onto.
His breath hitches, subtle enough that anyone else would miss it. His lower arms shift, repositioning you without really thinking about it, dragging you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies.
Your thighs bracket his hips, and he settles your weight like he intends to keep it.
“Ridiculous,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you. “A hug. Can't believe you—”
“You seem to like it.” you cut him, voice steady and low against his skin.
That earns you a low rumble deep in his chest, almost a warning sound but not quite.
You soothe over it with another pass of your fingers behind his ear, tracing the soft fur there. His ears flick under your touch — one twitch, then another — and you feel him inhale sharply, like he didn’t expect it to work.
“Keep doing that,” he mutters, grudging. “Just… not the humming.”
You almost smile into his shoulder.
“Noted, no humming for you.”
So you switch to quiet breaths, the gentle rise and fall of your chest against his. You run your fingers up the side of his neck, avoiding the jagged scars.
You feel the way the thick cords of muscle relax in increments, millimeter by millimeter.
His grip on you doesn’t loosen, but it stops trying to crush you as if the storm might rip you away from him.
When the next lightning strike flashes, he exhales through his nose — rough, annoyed, but not afraid.
Not spiraling.
Not alone in the dark.
His voice finally drops, low and gravelly against your hair.
“You smell weird today.”
You stiffen slightly, remembering the heat cycle, the pheromone saturation, the missing blockers.
“I… can’t help that right now, I’m sorry.”
“Didn’t say it was bad.” His nose brushes the crown of your head in what might be an accidental touch, might not. “Different. Strong.”
You don’t answer — you don’t know how to.
Another rumble of thunder rolls overhead. This time, he doesn’t flinch at all. He just tightens his arms around you — less out of fear now, more out of something unwilling to name itself.
He tilts his head slightly, and you feel warm breath fan your cheek.
“You’re small,” he mutters gruffly, as if this is a complaint. “But you’re sturdy.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“No,” he snaps too quickly. Then quiete. “Maybe.”
His tail curls around your calf — slow, deliberate, claiming without thinking.
You pretend not to notice.
He pretends he didn’t do it.
But Sukuna’s breathing slows, steadies, settles into something that almost feels like rest.
And you stay there — straddling a behemoth of a hybrid built for war, holding him together through a night he swears can’t touch him — until the trembling stops entirely.
Then, after a long, quiet stretch, he speaks again, a gravelly whisper against your neck.
“…Keep doing what you’re doing.”
Not an order, a request.
You do.
And the storm keeps rolling over the farm like it wants to peel the roof off.
A long, rolling growl that vibrates through the rafters, through the mattress under you, through Sukuna’s chest where your body still molds itself against him.
The emergency lights buzz overhead, sometimes blinking, dim and cold and wrong, staining everything in that ghost-blue glow that makes even his crimson eyes look darker, hungrier.
But at least… he’s calmer — calm enough that he isn’t crushing you anymore — but he’s not steady. Not really.
Something else has replaced the panic — something thicker, hotter, coiling under his skin like a live wire.
You feel it in the way his breaths change, dragging through his nose, low and rough, you feel it in the way his chest expands against yours with each inhale, pulling your body closer like he can’t help it.
Then his head dips.
You think maybe he’s bracing for another thunderclap — but he inhales again, deep and purposeful, right at your hairline. A slow drag of breath through your scent.
You freeze without meaning to.
His arm tightens around your waist, the lower hands locking you more firmly onto his lap as he nudges his nose down to the crook of your neck.
Another inhale.
Longer.
Sharper.
You don’t realize how deeply the cows’ scent clung to you, or how your own body had started cycling with theirs, absorbing it into your skin, into your clothes, into the warm air around you.
You must reek of pheromones.
Sukuna realizes.
His next inhale shudders out of him.
The one after that turns into a rough, quiet groan against your throat.
Sukuna looks nothing short of feral.
He hasn’t released you since that first desperate clutch, but the nature of his hold has shifted further now.
The next thing you register is the warmth of his tongue. It’s not a human tongue — broader, textured, rougher near the center — but it drags up the column of your throat with a slowness that caves your lungs in.
Your breath stutters.
His four arms seize you harder, as if your flinch is encouragement rather than a warning.
And you… don’t push him away.
You freeze with awareness, but you don’t tell him to stop.
You should. You don’t.
The licks grow more focused, wet open-mouthed drags that scatter heat across your pulse.
Your heartbeat races under his lips. He knows exactly what it’s doing to you, too — hybrids feel changes in heart rhythm like weather shifts.
A quiet sound rumbles through his chest. Not a growl. Not quite a purr. Something in between — pleasure carved out of instinct.
His lower hands squeeze your hips, kneading you closer, while his upper pair hold your spine in place, guiding your posture until you’re flush from sternum to stomach.
He tastes you again, mouth sliding up until his breath pushes hot against the shell of your ear.
You melt — slowly and helplessly, — into the embrace.
The shiver that runs through you gives you away, and you can feel the change in him the instant it happens — the storm outside becomes background noise, irrelevant, unthreatening.
Whatever unease he had has been entirely replaced.
Your hips shift against him without your permission, a tiny, betraying movement meant to adjust your balance on his massive thighs — but his reaction is instant.
Every muscle in his body goes taut.
He growls, low and wordless, and pulls you harder across his lap.
You drop a startled yelp when he drags your hips over the solid heat between his legs — huge, straining, unmistakable.
Even through thick sweats, you feel the shape of him press up into you, hot and twitching. You feel the hard line straining in his sweats, pulsing once against the seat of your pelvis.
You look up.
His pupils are blown wide, his breaths heavy, and the storm might as well not exist anymore.
His instincts have taken its place.
His crimson eyes are half-lidded, heavy, tracking your every breath. The blind pale pair don’t see you, but they point toward you anyway, like all of him has locked onto a single target.
His panting deepens, heat radiating off him in waves. He’s waiting — with restraint you did not expect — and that awareness makes your stomach drop.
He isn’t attacking. He’s asking. Wordlessly, but clearly.
Your hands spread over his shoulders, trying to ground yourself as much as him, but your body betrays you all over again. You roll your hips. Just once, unthinking, drawn by the pulse of heat between your legs and the weight of him pressed there.
And he’s trying, even now, to hold himself back.
He breaks.
The sound he makes is guttural, punching straight into your spine as his grip snaps tight.
In the next instant the world tilts — your back finds the mattress, the bed dipping beneath his weight as he rises over you, towering, looming, eyes nearly glowing with want.
It happens so fast you don’t register his grip until you feel the bed under you.
He stands over you, breath dragging in and out of him like he’s fighting some internal rope burn.
The emergency lights paint him in sharp lines — horns glowing faintly, tattoos dark against his torso, sweat catching in the grooves of his muscles.
He looks at you like you’ve just become the only thing he recognizes.
“Strip.”
His voice is deeper than before, gravel dragged through warmth. You hear the strain in it — like if he touched you now, he wouldn’t stop.
You also hear the thread of control. Barely there, but real.
You swallow and obey, peeling your clothes away in clumsy motions because he’s watching every second, following each movement like prey-lure.
The air feels colder on your skin without his weight above you, but the second you’re bare enough, he moves.
He cages you in, bracing one arm on either side of your head, the other two gripping your waist and thigh like he’s molding your body to fit his.
His mouth crashes onto yours, hot, hungry, impatient.
You didn’t think hybrids kissed like this.
You didn’t think anyone did — ravenous, and consuming, pulling every breath from you until all you can do is hold on to his shoulders and give him whatever he takes.
His tongue forces past your lips, tasting, claiming, pushing the kiss deeper and deeper until your head spins.
There’s nothing gentle about it — he’s tasting, claiming, pacing himself with effort you can feel in the tremor of his breath.
Your fingers are curling against scarred, warm skin. His kiss deepens, his lower hands slipping under you to haul your hips up against his. The pressure of his cock through the thin fabric of his sweats is obscene — thick, heavy, burning and wanting as he presses and grinds against you.
One of his lower hands slides between your legs.
His other hand spreads you open while he teases you, testing your slick, feeling how your body responds to him.
A blunt, warm finger slides between your legs, parting you with an ease that sends a startled noise up your throat. He doesn’t pause. He circles your clit once, slowly, as if memorizing the shape of your response, and then pushes his fingertip inside you.
You gasp into his mouth — too loud, too shocked — when his fingers brush your slick heat.
He doesn’t stop kissing you.
He’s careful — shockingly so for someone this huge — but even his careful feels intense, stretching.
You moan and pant into his mouth.
He swallows it like it’s fuel.
He works you open patiently — surprisingly patiently — stretching you around that thick digit until the pressure becomes pleasure, until your hips lift into his hand without you meaning to.
Another finger joins the first, curling just enough to make you shake. His pace never falters. His kiss never breaks, not until he needs to exhale a low, shuddering groan into your mouth when your hips grind helplessly into his hand.
You feel the orgasm rising before you can brace, sharp and hot, tearing through you in waves.
He works you through it with practiced pressure, relentless until you’re shaking beneath him.
He only stops when your breath catches too hard to let another sound escape.
You barely come down from it before the second hits — this one coaxed from you like he’s testing how many times he can make your body obey him before your mind catches up.
You’re gasping, flushed, clutching at his shoulders because you feel like you’ll drift away otherwise.
Your moans die into his mouth. The storm shakes the walls. The generator hums like a warning.
His fingers don’t stop until you’re shaking beneath him, clawing at his back, barely remembering how to breathe.
Only then does he pull away enough to strip.
You see the damp patch on his sweats again, darker now, bigger. He pushes the waistband down just enough to free what he needs—and you inhale sharply.
Two cocks.
Thick. Heavy.
One curved toward you, the other pulsing above it, both leaking.
You don’t even have time to process the shock before his eyes cut to yours.
He’s choosing. For you.
He positions the lower one at your entrance, rubbing the upper shaft against your clit, slow, tormenting, and the sensation nearly unmakes you.
His forehead drops to yours, his breath mixing with yours, hot and ragged.
He slides into you in one deep, slow, overwhelming push that forces your breath out in a broken sound under him.
You cling even harder to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as his body cages yours completely.
He’s so fucking big.
The stretch burns and you can feel every single bulging vein that adorns his length.
The upper cock drags along your clit with your body giving little shudders and jolts, hot and slick and impossibly stimulating.
You whimper — so loud, so needy, uncontrollable little sounds leaving your mouth as he settles, pushing slowly, working you open around his thick shaft.
You don’t think he will fit, but he seems determined to prove you wrong.
He huffs. You bite into the curve of his neck to muffle yourself so no other hybrid hears.
He drags his cock out of you until only the bulging red glans is inside and he pushes in again, gaining more space, going deeper, making you yelp and whine every time he does it. And the restrain slowly snaps until he’s bucking his hips with animal force against you, fucking into you like a beast in heat. He bottoms out every single time, and you can feel how deep he reaches, how your lower belly bulges with the pressure of his cock inside.
His massive body presses you down into his bed and his hands slide and squeeze your body with abandon. One upper arm still braced besides your head to keep him from squishing you like a pancake. The other wrapped across your back, hand encasing your nape to keep you steady and also keep your body from going up up up each time his hips snap against yours. One lower arm has a hand gripping the back of your knee to keep your leg spread open, and the other has his hand pressing his upper cock down against your clit to increase the friction — just so he can hear every single broken moan he is punching out of you while he hammers his cock inside.
He groans like the feeling of your pussy clenching around him in another orgasm shoots straight down his spine.
His hands grip you harder.
He grows harsher in his movements.
At some point you find your hands grabbing his horns, clinging to them for dear life, white knuckles — as his face dips so his lips latch around your nipple. Sucking, nibbling and rubbing his rough tongue on the nub. You’re already lost on yourself and him by then. You can barely register anything anymore.
His stamina is unmatched. He keeps rutting into you for so long your body is already slack when he groans that deep, almost strained rough groan that precedes the hot, thick flood of cum being shot right against your cervix.
It’s so fucking much, so, so much it almost feels like it won’t stop. And it comes from his upper and lower cock, which means your stomach, your chest, and even your face are hit with ropes and ropes of his seed, while your pussy leaks it, semen overflowing and dripping out around his cock.
His breath is heavy and his pupils are swallowing the red rings of his irises. You don’t think he’s done with you even though you’re on the bring of exhaustion.
And just as quickly as he got you on your back, he pulls out just for enough seconds to flip you to your stomach.
“Sukuna—!” you cry out, voice hazy and breathless. “Fuck— wait!”
His mouth is on your nape in a second, more kisses, more licks and huffs. His upper hands bring your arms up, over your head and he pins your hands easily against the mattress with only one of his big, strong hands. The other arm slides down, hand encasing your neck once again, but the pressure is now on your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, he just holds and forces your head to the side so he can see your face — so he can nibble at your jaw and pepper hot, open mouthed kisses there too while his lower right hand aligns his upper cock and his lower cock’s heads against your freshly fucked hole.
He presses and you feel the stretch starting. Your body complains and you groan a loud, whiny moan.
“It’s— fuck you’re gonna— ahn! rip me in half!” you manage in a snap and his face, absurdly close to yours, presses against your cheek. You feel the cold of his nose ring and a bit of a smirk growing on his lips.
“I’m not,” he responds, voice heavily laced in his lust “You can take me. All of me.” he sounds so sure, and so hot, you almost believe him.
The pressure increases and you do your best to relax, because you know if you tense it will be worse, so much worse.
You can take all of him.
You will take all of him.
Despite your whining, he nuzzles the side of your face, letting his heavy breath fan against your cheek, your neck, your pulse when he goes back there to kiss your skin and taste your sweat with every lick.
You feel like you’re being torn apart, a white burst of pain, and then… he stops.
Both cockheads, slick, coated in both your orgasms and more of your slick, are inside you. Leaking, pushing out — and in — the excess of his cum.
“See?” He murmurs, sounding too satisfied with himself. “I’m gonna breed you so fucking good.”
That second part takes a moment to reach your brain.
He pushes his hips and slowly, inch by thick inch he sheathes both his cocks inside you. You can’t rationalize right now, everything else stops existing — there’s only him, filling you up impossibly, holding you down and pressing his hot, strong chest against your back while his cocks bottom out in your cunt.
Sukuna waits before he moves this time. He relishes in the tight feeling of your velvety walls clutching and fluttering around his lengths, in how your body feels so good to manhandle, to squeeze, to have against his own. Fuck, he could remain like that forever, he thinks.
But he can’t hold for too long, and a few beats later he’s moving again.
You feel every ridge of every vein dragging against your walls when he pulls back and slams his hips down against you. It starts slow, but cruel. Then the pace picks slowly, the rhythm is built as your cunt stop resisting so much.
You try to keep your voice down, but his grunts, the wet schlicks of his cocks sliding in and out of your abused sex, the slaps of skin meeting skin and the overwhelming smell of sex definitely reached at least one other stall. It’s a lost cause by now, to think no one will hear you because of the storm and the thunders cracking.
Even with the heavy, noisy rain, the generator humming and the lightnings, the sound of his hips punishing your ass cheeks and his heavy balls slapping against your pussy lips and clit are loud enough to be heard from a distance.
You are a drooling mess.
Cheek pressed against his cushion, arms tensing and hands clutching on the sheets, still cuffed on one of his hands above your head, legs useless kicking and toes curling as he pounds you senseless and back into sense within minutes.
Between the low groans, the kisses, the nibbles and licks he trails down your shoulders, neck, back and even face, he whispers things that have you half worried and half so fucking turned on you come — more than once — with his words alone matching his relentless pace.
“I knew you’d feel this good.”, “I”m not stopping until you’re entirely filled with my seed.”, “I think I’ll keep you here and breed you until I’m fucking dead from exhaustion.”
You don’t doubt he means any of those — the worrisome part is that you also don’t really mind, probably. Being there, under him, having his heavy body pressing over yours in that soothing, obscene way as he drills his cocks inside you for as long as he can? Doesn’t seem so bad.
Maybe the pheromones have reached your brain.
Or maybe you were really lacking a good, powerful, mind breaking fuck like that.
You didn’t imagine it would come from a bull hybrid that nearly breaks you in half while fucks into you, though.
You aren’t complaining now, you’re actually barely making any sense. You babble, drool, your eyes roll back when your nth orgasm hits and your body spasms, tenses, writhes and slacks — but he’s still going strong. He’s still mounting you like the unbroken stud he is, like the breeder bull Gojo bought him to be.
And well, the storm eases, at some point. It rolls out and the heavy rain becomes a light drizzle. No thunders, no strong wind and loud noises. The energy is still out, so the dim, blue, sickening glow of the emergency light is the one that shines on his sweat drenched muscular broad back. It’s still the one that makes his tattoos look sharp and casts shadows across his stall, outlining every single muscle straining as he bucks his rips slowly now, rolling them to fuck lightly into you. Dragging in and out almost patiently, making sure to molder your tight walls to the shape of his cocks alone.
His orgasms filled you up to the point of a little swell be present on your belly. Both his cocks sheathed inside you are adding to that swell, though.
The way he bucks and ruts inside you even when there’s no way he can go further, deeper in your cunt, only serves to make you give your low, tearful sobs and whines, because you can’t utter words right now, but he simply adores them. He has his face buried on the crook of your neck. Your hands are free and the four of his hands are wrapped against your body while his frame is still pressing you down on his bed.
“Mm” he groans lowly, breathing slow and heavy against your skin, sounding absolutely calm. “You’re so full…” he rasps, making your eyes flutter open. “I hope you’re pregnant with my calf.” his voice is dragged, he sounds almost drunk. Probably outfucked, just like you. “Need you to let me breed you every time a storm rolls.”
You blink. You’re sweaty, hair plastered to your shiny, sticky face, his body is a furnace over yours and he’s keeping you wrapped tight, pressed down, caged and filled under him. Every now and then he humps, just a small, brief movement of his hips that make your body jolt because of course he’s falling asleep with both dicks buried inside you, keeping his cum all in and your pussy all stretched around his size.
What choice do you have right now?
You close your eyes and hum lowly, earning a flick of his ears and an absent nuzzle on your neck.
“I’m glad you’re calmer now.” you manage, almost a whisper. “Next storm we’ll try other methods, maybe.”
He lets out a faint scoff that sounds like mockery, as if your suggestion was absurd.
Well, you have until next storm to think of better ways to calm the bull down.
art by my beloved Kalmia on x.
