frat!Sukuna realized he loved you when you dragged another girl off his lap and staked your claim on him.
✦ cws: jealousy, pre-smut, graphic violence, physical fight, blood, possessive behavior, toxic dynamics, rough kissing, public altercation, alcohol use. ✦. wc : 2,5k
The music is pounding so hard it makes your ears ring.
You’re standing by the table, your back pressed against the cold edge, lazily finishing your cocktail from a cheap plastic cup, watching everything out of the corner of your eye.
Sukuna is sprawled out on a low, worn-down leather couch, taking up way more space than one person should. His legs are spread wide, his left arm thrown carelessly over the backrest, fingers tapping lazily against the upholstery.
He’s drunk.
His eyes are glossy, heavy, sliding lazily and predator-slow across the room at the same time.
The white T-shirt stretches over his broad shoulders, tight across his chest. Peach-pink hair messy, falling into his forehead.
He sits there, curling his lips into a crooked smirk at something some idiot friend said.
When Sukuna takes another swig of whiskey straight from the bottle, he tilts his head back, exposing the line of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing — and you look away…
You’re not a couple, but...
Just friends.
Just acquaintances.
Just two people who always end up next to each other at every party because you’re both comfortable in this zone and because Sukuna annoys literally everyone.
Sukuna is rude, cynical, cuts through people and spits on their feelings, does whatever the hell he wants.
And you’re the only one who tolerates it.
Sukuna doesn’t do women.
Well... not like that.
He uses them, sure, fucks when he feels like it, but actually keeping one around for more than five minutes? No. But you, for some reason… you’re different.
You don’t know when it happened.
Maybe the night you punched him in the face for calling you a “bitch” — as a joke, but you didn’t let it slide.
Maybe when you dragged his drunk ass home without trying to crawl into his pants or ask for anything in return.
Maybe when you argued until you were both hoarse over some stupid shit and you didn’t back down, didn’t cry, didn’t run — you stood your ground until the end, even when he was practically growling with anger.
Sukuna respects you.
Partly, at least.
Once he grabbed some asshole who was getting too handsy with you at a party and literally threw him out. Just by the collar — straight to the door.
And when you looked at him in shock, he just shrugged. “He was pissing me off.”
He’s never pressured you. Never forced you. He respects your opinion, even when you’re arguing and...
You’re similar.
Both stubborn.
Both explosive.
Neither of you knows how to apologize.
Neither of you knows how to give in.
And one night, you fucked.
It didn’t mean anything.
Just a night.
Just too much alcohol.
Just a hot, angry competition — who would outlast who, who would break first.
It was rough, fast, no softness, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs, your nails dragging red lines down his back.
In the morning, you both pretended nothing happened.
So the fact that Sukuna sleeps with other girls — that’s normal.
That’s what you thought.
You really thought that.
You don’t owe each other anything.
You’re not dating. You’re not a couple.
You’re just… two people who are comfortable being near each other.
No obligations. No feelings. No pain.
So why, right now, when you see some girl plop herself onto his lap, does something inside you twist into a tight, painful knot?
Blonde or brunette — doesn’t matter.
She could be anyone.
That’s the problem.
She walks up to Sukuna confidently, with that smug, territorial smile, and you watch her settle on his thighs, turning to face him.
Her fingers tangle into his pink hair — she tugs, forcing him to lean down, and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to his cheek.
Leaving a thick cherry lipstick mark on his cheekbone.
Sukuna doesn’t even move.
He just looks past her, through her, face completely indifferent.
He doesn’t care. He never cares.
She just doesn’t know that.
She smiles, grinds against him, whispers something in his ear, licking her lips.
“Why’re you so boring, huh?” her voice reaches you through the noise. “Relax. I can tell you want it.”
Sukuna says nothing.
Just watches her with that lazy, mocking squint, like his mind is somewhere else entirely. But she keeps rubbing against him, sliding her hands over his chest, fingers slipping into his hair at the nape of his neck, leaning in for his lips...
And something inside your chest finally explodes.
It’s a flash. A shockwave. Acid under your skin.
All you hear is blood rushing in your ears.
Your chest tightens so hard you can’t breathe.
Red floods your vision.
You don’t remember setting your cup down.
Don’t remember your legs carrying you across the room, shoving past dancing bodies.
You only exist in this moment — the moment you see HER on HIS lap.
You barely register your hand grabbing her hair at the roots before you even realize what you’re doing.
A sharp yank — and she goes flying off Sukuna’s lap, heels twisting, a scream ripping out of her as she tries to catch herself on air.
Too late.
You’re already on top of her, the world narrowing down to her twisted face, the smell of her sickly sweet perfume, the urge to hurt her.
Badly. Hard. So she remembers.
“Are you fucking insane, bitch?!” she screams, trying to scramble away.
“No, are you?!” your voice cracks, raw, full of so much hatred it even scares you. “Who the hell do you think you are climbing all over him?!”
She strikes first — her nails slice across your cheek, a sharp burst of pain shooting through your skull.
It only fuels you.
You swing — not a slap, not polite, but a full punch, putting your weight into it, straight to her jaw.
Her head snaps to the side and all you feel is adrenaline.
It hurts. But it feels good. Too good.
And you don’t stop.
“You psycho!” she shrieks, clawing at your top.
Then it’s chaos.
Real chaos. No rules. No technique.
Just blind rage and the need to slam your opponent into the floor.
You roll across dirty linoleum, knocking into people, crashing into furniture.
Someone yells “Careful!”
Someone whistles.
Someone tries to pull you apart and catches an elbow to the ribs or a heel to the shin.
You feel nothing except heat flooding your veins, that intoxicating, feral sense of being unstoppable.
She tries to push herself up on her elbows, but you grab her hair again and slam the back of her head into the floor.
A dull, sickening thud. Again. Again.
She squeals, thrashes, tries to shield herself, but you’re past control now.
You see blood — from her lip, from your brow — and it doesn’t stop you.
It only feeds it.
“Don’t you ever touch him again! Got it?!” you scream, hovering over her, shaking her by the hair so her head jerks side to side. “If I see you near him one more time, I’ll fucking ruin you!”
“Are you sick?! Get off me!” She kicks, tries to knee you in the stomach — it lands, but you barely feel it.
“I’m sick?!” You grab the back of her head and slam her face into the armrest of the couch you’ve rolled next to.
She shrieks again, weakening, trying to shield her face.
Blood runs from her lip, mixing with her lipstick.
It suits her.
“Touch him again and I swear to God—”
She snarls something through her teeth, lunges at you and lands a punch right into your brow, splitting it open. You swing again, aiming your nails for her eyes.
You want to leave a mark.
Want her to remember.
Want her to be scared. Want—
And suddenly the world jerks violently, your feet lifting off the floor along with the rest of you. Strong arms wrap around your waist, crushing your back against a solid chest.
You’re hauled up like a feral cat, kicking, heels striking air, still reaching for your fallen opponent.
You hiss, growl, thrash, trying to grab anything you can.
“Get the fuck off me!” you scream, flailing.
“Calm the fuck down,” a low, vibrating voice growls right against your ear, thick with alcohol. “Knock it off.”
You don’t listen.
You keep fighting until your eyes drop to the arms locked around your stomach — the grip you’ve been trying to pry off.
Fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.
Black tattoo lines snake across the wrists of the hands holding you...
Your heart skips.
It’s Sukuna.
He slowly lowers you back to the floor, but doesn’t let go.
If anything, he tightens his grip, pressing you harder back into him, your ass forced against his hips.
You feel the heat of him through your clothes, every muscle in his body tense against yours.
Your shoulder blades press into his chest.
His breath burns the back of your neck.
“Lost your damn mind?” he murmurs, voice low and mocking, thick enough to make your knees weak. “Over some random slut?”
You want to snap back.
Want to bite, to bark that it’s none of his business.
But then it hits you...
Over some random slut.
Because she sat on his lap. Because she touched him.
Did Sukuna ever ask you to do this?
Did he want you fighting for him?
What are you to each other? Nothing.
Just friends.
Just sometimes fuck.
Just someone he keeps around because it’s convenient.
Your heart tightens harder than any punch.
You tense in his arms, trying to pull away. Adrenaline still rages in your veins; you’d rather go back and finish the job. But Sukuna holds you firm.
“Let me go,” you hiss, staring straight ahead.
The rage is gone from your voice now — replaced by something sticky and ugly.
Fear. Anxiety.
You don’t see his face, but you feel him still for a second. His fingers press deeper into your stomach, pulling you closer, his whole body looming over you.
“What?” he mutters.
“That,” you jerk against him. “Let go.”
Your voice shakes and you hate yourself for it. You don’t get to be jealous. You don’t get to fight over a man who, realistically, doesn’t give a damn.
But Sukuna doesn’t let go.
Instead, his fingers hook under your chin, rough, possessive, forcing your head back so you have to look at him.
You meet his eyes — pupils blown so wide the irises are almost swallowed, nothing but black, wild hunger.
His chest rises and falls fast, his white T-shirt twisted, revealing the edge of a tattoo at his neck.
“You planning on running from me now?” His voice is low, hoarse.
Not angry. Not irritated.
Something else entirely. Something that flips your insides over.
And then Sukuna suddenly leans down and crashes his mouth against yours.
He bites your lip, forces his tongue in — hard, claiming, leaving you breathless, thoughtless.
You taste whiskey, smoke, blood.
Your blood.
It runs from your split brow down your temple, your cheek, smears across your mouths, mixing your breath into something salty and metallic.
You melt.
Your fingers claw into his forearm, dragging over the tattoo on his bicep.
Your heart is pounding like it’s trying to break out of your ribs.
Heat coils low in your stomach, tight and blazing.
The taste of victory. The taste of him.
It’s the most intoxicating thing you’ve ever felt.
Sukuna pulls away just as suddenly as he kissed you.
Licks his bottom lip, tasting your blood. He breathes heavy in your face.
Looks down at you and his lips spread into the most satisfied, full, triumphant smirk you’ve ever seen. A predator’s grin.
The look of someone who just realized what trophy he actually wants.
Somewhere in the background, through the ringing in your ears, you hear it — sobbing.
Loud, hysterical.
The idiot on the floor is being pulled up by a couple of girls, smearing blood and mascara across her face, crying ugly and hard.
“Call an ambulance…”
Voices blur together. You don’t care.
Sukuna’s grip changes — not steel anymore, but something almost… proprietary.
He sways slightly, drunk and wired, presses his cheek against your temple.
Rubs his nose along your cheek where your blood has dried, wiping away the lipstick mark from his own face, smearing your blood onto his skin.
It steals the air from your lungs.
“You hear her crying?” he murmurs into your ear, voice hoarse, drunk, disgustingly pleased. “You wrecked her.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, takes your hands, rubbing over your aching knuckles.
He lifts them to his mouth and presses a slow kiss against your bruised, swollen knuckles.
“You won, baby,” he exhales, proud that you clawed at her like a rabid cat just because she dared to touch him.
You tilt your head slightly, a half-smile curving your lips as you lick the red from them.
“And what’s my prize?”
Sukuna freezes for a second. His jaw tightens.
“Fuck,” he breathes, heavy.
You feel his cock pressing against your ass. Sukuna is turned on by the way you fought.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with you now?”
“Fuck me?” You’re way too bold tonight.
He swallows.
His eyes drop to your lips, your split brow, then back to your eyes.
His hands grip your waist again, spin you around, shove you toward the stairs, but when you rush up too fast, he yanks you back, bites the back of your neck.
“You’ll be coming before you’re even naked,” Sukuna growls through clenched teeth, burying his nose into the back of your neck, inhaling you.
You mumble something about the police, but...
“Police?” Sukuna hisses once the door slams shut behind you. “Fuck ’em.”
Do not repost, copy, plagiarize, translate, or feed my work into AI in any form!) English is not my first language, so yes, my writing might not be perfect.( Divider credit: @pixopix
Sukuna was basically a princess at a knight’s tournament..?
