♡･ﾟ𓏸 Ordinary 𓏸･ﾟ♡
♡ Characters: Ryomen Sukuna x GN!Reader ♡ Warnings: Yandere themes, obsession, possessive behavior, intense internal conflict, mentions of gore (?), intimidation, psychological tension, cursed domain imagery, emotional whiplash, unhealthy attachment, power imbalance ♡ WC: ~1k ♡ Notes: Just me spiraling at 3am about Sukuna being violently obsessed and absolutely not okay with it. This is unhinged yandere energy with a side of “why the hell do I care about this soft little human???” and I’m not sorry. Part 2 coming soon?
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You are ordinary.
That’s the part that makes it worse.
If you were some grand sorcerer, veins pulsing with cursed energy, he could chalk this up to respect—or at least a worthy rivalry. If you were a scheming little shit, all sharp edges and venom, he could tell himself you’d sunk claws into him through sheer cunning.
But you’re not. You’re nothing like that.
You’re soft—too soft—skin unscarred, voice quiet, a fragile little mortal who smiles like the world isn’t a cesspit of blood and rot. You laugh at Yuji’s stupid jokes, look at that pink-haired idiot like he’s some kind of hero, and it makes Sukuna’s gut twist in ways he can’t stand.
He’s Ryomen Sukuna—king of curses, a walking slaughterhouse, a god among worms—and yet here he is, clawing at his own insides, trying to figure out why your existence gnaws at him like a starving dog.
He should crush it.
Crush you.
Rip that warmth out of his chest and grind it into the dirt where it belongs. He’s done worse for less.
But then you glance his way—just once, quick and unthinking, your eyes catching his through Yuji’s borrowed face—and the fury boiling in his bones goes quiet. Not gone, no, never gone—but warm, sickeningly so, like blood pooling under a fresh kill.
Shameful.
Unacceptable.
He wants to tear his own ribs out just to stop it.
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The air shifts, heavy and wrong, like the world’s holding its breath. You blink, and the dim hum of your room melts away. The floor beneath your feet turns cold, slick, like polished stone kissed by damp rot.
Shadows stretch, curling up the walls, and the light twists into something red and bruised, pulsing like a heartbeat.
You’re not where you were.
You’re somewhere else.
A low chuckle rumbles through the space, deep enough to rattle your teeth.
Ahead, the darkness splits, and there he is—Sukuna, not Yuji’s watered-down shell, but the real thing. Four arms flexing, claws gleaming like obsidian, his true form sprawls across a throne of bones, all jagged edges and marrow-stained ivory. His eyes—four of them, crimson and unblinking—lock onto you, and the grin splitting his face is a slash of teeth, too wide, too sharp. The air stinks of iron and ash, thick with the weight of his presence, and your pulse kicks hard despite yourself.
This is his domain. A cursed pocket of reality carved out just for this—just for you. He leans forward, two hands braced on his knees, the other two crossed lazily over his chest, and tilts his head, pink hair spilling like liquid over his shoulders.
“Well, well,” he drawls, voice a blade dragging across stone, “look what stumbled into my cage. Didn’t think you’d be this bold, little mortal.”
You don’t flinch. Don’t scream. Don’t even step back.
You just stand there, chin up, and ask—calm as if you’re ordering coffee—“What do you want?”
The question hits him like a slap.
His grin falters, just for a heartbeat, eyes narrowing as if you’ve thrown something sharp at him.
What does he want?
He summoned you here to watch you squirm, to see that soft shell of yours shatter under the weight of his malice. He wanted you trembling, wide-eyed, begging for mercy he’d never give. But you’re not. You’re steady, voice even, looking at him like he’s not a nightmare made flesh. And it pisses him off more than he can stomach.
“Want?” he echoes, rising from the throne, each step a slow, deliberate thud that shakes the ground.
He towers over you, close enough that you feel the heat rolling off him, the faint tang of blood and smoke clinging to his skin.
“I want to rip that tongue out of your mouth for asking something so fucking stupid.” His claws flex, one hand lifting like he might just do it, but it hovers there, inches from your throat.
He doesn’t move. Can’t.
You tilt your head, just slightly, and meet his gaze—four burning eyes against your two ordinary ones.
“Then why don’t you?”
The silence that follows is deafening.
His hand freezes, claws glinting in the red light, and something flickers in his face—confusion, rage, something uglier he can’t name. Inside, he’s screaming, a howling storm of violence and disgust tearing through him.
Why doesn’t he?
He’s gutted men for less, torn women apart for daring to breathe in his direction. You’re nothing—nobody—a speck of dust under his heel. So why is his chest tight, his blood thrumming with something that isn’t hate?
“You’re a disease,” he snarls, voice dropping low, venomous, but his hand falls back to his side, claws curling into a fist. “A weak, pathetic little plague I should’ve stamped out the second I saw you.”
He steps closer, so close his breath brushes your face, hot and bitter.
“But you keep looking at me like that—like I won’t—” He cuts off, teeth grinding, and you swear you see his jaw tremble, just for a second.
“Like you won’t what?” you press, soft but steady, and it’s the final crack.
His control splinters.
He doesn’t answer—just stares, eyes boring into you, a war raging behind them. He wants to kill you. He wants to touch you. He wants to claw that warmth out of you and keep it for himself, and the contradiction is eating him alive.
The domain trembles, a faint ripple, and then it’s gone.
You’re back in your room, alone, the bulb flickering overhead like nothing happened. But you feel it—the weight of his gaze lingering, the ghost of his breath on your skin.
He’s not done with you.
Not even close.
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