♡･ﾟ𓏸 Contagion 𓏸･ﾟ♡
♡ Characters: Ryomen Sukuna x GN!Reader ♡ Warnings: Yandere themes, obsession, possessive behavior, intrusive thoughts, gore (?), violent impulses, intense psychological conflict, inappropriate touching (nonsexual but unsettling), power imbalance, emotional repression, Sukuna being a freak in denial lmao ♡ WC: ~800 ♡ Notes: Part two of Ordinary (you don’t have to read it first, but like... you totally should bc I’m cool and my fics slap). A single look becomes a single touch, and Sukuna spirals even harder. He’s angry, unhinged, and worst of all—he’s feeling. Proximity is breaking him, and he can’t stand how much he wants more. Part 3? Probably. I’m feral.
𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸
The day had been dragging its feet, a dull smear of routine—training with Yuji, dodging curses, the usual grind. You’re in some abandoned warehouse now, the air thick with dust and the faint reek of mildew, sparring with the kid to keep his reflexes sharp. He’s mid-laugh, dodging a lazy punch you threw, when it happens. His grin freezes, eyes widening for a split second before they darken—brown bleeding into crimson, pupils sharpening to slits. The shift is instantaneous, like a light snuffed out, and the body in front of you isn’t Yuji’s anymore. It’s Sukuna’s.
He doesn’t say a word at first, just straightens up, rolling Yuji’s shoulders like he’s stretching into a new skin. His presence fills the room, heavy and suffocating, and those red eyes lock onto you with an intensity that makes your pulse stutter. You should be scared—anyone else would be—but you just square your stance, chin up, watching him right back.
“Brat’s too soft with you,” he says, voice low, a growl threading through Yuji’s lighter tone.
He steps closer, barefoot on the cracked concrete, and the air turns sharp, electric.
“Lets you get away with too much.”
You tilt your head, unfazed.
“And you’re here to fix that?”
His lips twitch, a snarl masquerading as a smirk, and he closes the distance in two strides, looming over you.
He’s still in Yuji’s body, but it doesn’t feel like it—every move is too deliberate, too predatory, the way he tilts his head, the way his gaze rakes over you like he’s peeling back your skin.
“I could snap your neck between two fingers,” he growls, one hand darting out, claw-tipped even in this borrowed form.
His index finger hooks under your chin, tilting it up with a pressure that’s just shy of piercing flesh, the sharp edge grazing your pulse.
“Twist it right off and watch you flop like a broken doll.”
You don’t flinch. His breath is hot against your face, smelling faintly of copper and something darker, and you can feel the tremor in his grip—anger, maybe, or something worse.
“But?” you prompt, voice steady, daring him to finish.
His eyes narrow, crimson flaring, and his claw stills, pressing harder for a heartbeat before he speaks again, quieter, rougher.
“But I’d miss the way your voice sounds when you say my name.”
The words slip out like a confession he didn’t mean to make, and his jaw tightens, teeth grinding as if he could bite them back.
Your lips part, a retort halfway there, but he moves first—his free hand brushing yours, accidental, just a graze of knuckles as he shifts his weight. It’s fleeting, barely a second, but the contact hits him like a jolt.
Your skin is warm, too soft against the calloused edge of his borrowed flesh, and it sticks—clings to him like damp blood, seeping into his nerves. He freezes, eyes flicking to where your hands almost met, then back to your face.
“Your skin…” he mutters, low and guttural, like he’s tasting the words. “Tch. Filthy.”
But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t wipe his hand clean. His claws curl tight instead, digging into his own palm until black blood wells up, and you catch the flicker of something in his gaze—disgust, maybe, or hunger.
He steps closer still, chest brushing yours, and for a split second, his other hand lifts—like he might touch you again, softer this time, trace the line of your jaw with something less than violence. But then his eyes widen, a snarl ripping out of him, and he snaps it back, fist clenching so hard the tendons creak.
Like you burned him.
Like he can’t trust himself.
“Why do you care?” he snaps, voice jagged, leaning in until his forehead nearly touches yours, his breath ragged against your lips.
“You look at me—him—like that, all soft and worried, and it’s fucking disgusting. Why?”
You don’t back down, meeting his glare head-on.
“Why does it matter to you?”
He goes still, deadly quiet, and the warehouse feels smaller, the air thicker, like it’s pressing in around you both. His hand—the one that brushed yours—twitches at his side, and you’d swear he’s fighting the urge to grab you again, to dig those claws in and see if you’d break or bend.
“You’re a plague,” he says finally, voice dropping to a hiss, but he doesn’t move away.
Doesn’t retreat. Just stands there, too close, staring like he’s trying to carve you into his memory—or carve himself out of yours.
♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ
Later that night, when Yuji’s back in control, laughing off the spar like nothing happened, Sukuna’s silent. Buried deep in that shared skull, he’s seething, replaying that touch—the heat of your skin, the way it lingered, the way it branded him.
He dreams of it, a fractured, furious haze of red light and soft flesh, your hand brushing his again and again until he wakes, claws tearing into Yuji’s sheets, black blood staining the fabric.
He’s pissed—livid—at you, at himself, at the way that fleeting contact won’t leave his fucking fingers.
