I HAVE AN ADULT ZUKO X MALE READER REQUEST FOR ANYONE WHO WANTS TO WRITE IT.
So the reader is part of the gang. They have a boyfriend who is neglectful and (he could cheating if you want). Zuko has a major crush on the reader (he could've been Zuko's awakening). He hates how the reader's boyfriend treats him. Well one day the gang (and the reader's boyfriend) is in a very cold part of the world. Something happens (maybe the reader falls into a freezing lake). To prevent the reader from getting hypothermia the reader has to cuddle up against Zuko's bare chest. It's like that scene from twilight and the reader's boyfriend is just watch.
Y'ALL CAN CHANGE HOWEVER YOU WANT TO MAKE IT FLOW BETTER BUT PLEASE I NEED IT AND CANT STOP THINKING
So I saw this post as I was scrolling, really liked the idea, so I decided to write it! I've never written from a male perspective, so I hope I did alright.
Kinktober Masterlist - Masterlist
You sat alone on the low stone ledge that ringed the courtyard, the late-autumn sun doing little to chase the chill from your bones. Across the cracked pavement, a young couple stood wrapped in each other’s arms, pressed so close it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Their laughter floated on the wind, soft and intimate, the kind of sound that belonged solely to those who have never once doubted their ability to touch and be touched in return.
They moved together like reeds in the wind, foreheads resting against one another, fingers curled into the fabric at the small of each other’s backs as though letting go might spell the end of their world. When they finally parted, it was only far enough to breathe; their hands found each other instantly, fingers knitting together with ease, knuckles brushing, thumbs tracing idle circles over warm skin. They walked away like that, tethered together in a way they have probably never thought about twice.
You can’t look away.
Only when the courtyard empties and the wind carries the last echo of their footsteps do you finally drop your gaze to your own hands. They rest palm-up on your thighs, unmarred, but useless. Slowly, deliberately, you lace your fingers together the way you had just watched them do, tight, then tighter still, trying to mimic the pressure, the heat, the simple comfort of another person’s living skin against your own.
It felt cold, hollow. A cruel pantomime of everything you can never have.
Because you had never, not once in centuries of borrowed lifetimes, been touched the way ordinary people touch one another. Every accidental brush in a crowd, every desperate grab during combat, every hesitant handshake offered by someone who didn’t know any better yet, had all ended the same. The moment bare skin met bare skin, you stole from them. A heartbeat, a month, a year; whatever fragment of life you unwillingly siphoned before they jerked away in horror or crumpled, suddenly older, suddenly closer to death because you had dared to brush too close to them.
Decades had passed since anyone had risked it.
Decades since you had felt the deliberate weight of another person’s hand on your skin, the slide of fingers through your hair, the press of a palm against your back in comfort or desire or simple friendship. You couldn’t even remember what temperature human skin was supposed to be. You had forgotten the difference between the slickness of sweat and the softness of someone else’s breath against your neck.
Even your own hands are foreign to you now, like they belong to someone else entirely.
“Come on, let’s get going.”
Nanami’s low voice cuts through the haze. You startle, yanking your fingers apart quickly. Heat floods your face, you shove both hands deep into the pockets of your uniform jacket as though hiding evidence, then rise too quickly, knees stiff from sitting too long in the cold.
“There’s a situation in Shinagawa” he continues, already turning toward the gates. “They want us on site.”
You falls into step beside him, the familiar rhythm of boots on stone grounding you as you fished your phone from your coat. The report loaded, erratic cursed-energy spikes, civilians transfigured into unrecognisable shapes, no clear grade on the special-grade suspect yet. You grunt in acknowledgment, scrolling.
Nanami glances sideways. “They haven’t classified it. We go in assuming the worst.” His jaw is a hard line, brows drawn low, the small tells of a man who hates unknowns. “Itadori, Fushiguro, and Kugisaki are shadowing us for field experience. Their safety is our priority. Understood?”
You manage a faint smile at the thought of the first-years. Yuji’s ridiculous pink hair that always looked impossibly soft; Nobara’s bright eyes and even brighter personality; and Megumi’s perpetual stormy scowl that you secretly wanted to smooth away with a thumb the way a parent might.
You wanted to ruffle that fluffy hair until Yuji laughed and ducked.
You wanted to tap the tip of Nobara’s nose just to watch her swat at you and threaten violence.
You wanted to rest a hand on Megumi’s head and tell him, without words, that the weight of the world didn’t have to be his to shoulder alone.
But you never would.
Your hands stay buried in your pockets, curled into fists so tight the knuckles ached, as you follow Nanami toward the gate and whatever waited in Shinagawa, toward the one place where your touch was nothing more than another weapon.
…
The sky over Shinagawa had turned the colour of dried blood, thick with drifting ash and the copper reek of transfigured corpses. What had started as a containment mission had, in the space of a single heartbeat, become the single worst day of your long, cursed life.
Ryomen Sukuna stood in the centre of the ruined intersection like a god who had grown bored with this game, four arms flexing lazily, laughing in four different registers. Every step he took cracked the asphalt. Every breath he took felt like annihilation.
You and Nanami had never been meant for this. No one was.
“Nanami!”
Your voice cracks as you hurl yourself backward, boots skidding across broken glass. A wave of cursed energy carved the air where your head had been a half-second earlier. Sukuna’s face split into that wide, maniacal grin that meant someone was about to stop existing.
Nanami slides in behind you, tie already knotted tight around his knuckles, sleeves rolled high, sweat cutting tracks through the grime on his temples. Three hours of nonstop fighting had left him hollow-eyed, but his stance still never wavers.
“We need to fall back” he barks, Ratio Technique flaring as he drives a precise, brutal strike toward Sukuna’s ribs. “Regroup with—”
Sukuna twists away from the blow as though it were a breeze, laughing loud enough to rattle windows three blocks away.
“He’s not letting us leave!” you shout, voice raw. You slam your palms together, dragging a brutal fistful of years from your own lifespan, twenty… thirty, you stop counting, and turn the stolen time into a searing lance of cursed energy. The beam hits Sukuna square in the chest, forcing him back two whole steps. It was the first time anything had moved him all day.
Nanami’s eyes flick to you, wide with refusal. “Y/N—”
“Take the kids and go!” You didn’t look at him; you couldn’t afford to. Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara were crouched behind an overturned bus, pale and shaking. “I’ll buy you the minutes you need.”
“You’ll die.”
“No” you said, sharp enough to cut metal. “I won’t, I never do”
Something in your tone made Nanami go still. His eyes search your face for one heartbeat longer, then he gives you a single, curt nod and vanishes toward the first-years.
You turn back to the King of Curses.
He was already strolling forward again, unhurried, delighted.
“Alright” you mutter, rolling your shoulders. “Let’s do this.”
Your reserves are like a dying candle. Distance attacks are finished. There is only one option left now.
You need to close the gap. Touch him. Steal whatever monstrous lifespan he possesses and turn it into power.
You run straight at him.
The fight becomes nothing but fists and instinct. No technique, no elegance; just survival. His punches land like sledgehammers, every impact drives the air from your lungs, cracked ribs, split skin. You taste metal with every breath. You kept reaching, fingers brushing air again and again as he bats your hands away like gnats.
“Come on!” he crows, foot slamming into your sternum and sending you tumbling across the dirt. Gravel shredding your uniform, your palms. You roll, coughing blood, pushing upright on shaking arms. You spit a red clot into the dust before you look up again.
Sukuna’s crimson eyes glitter. “Weak” he sighs. “Far too weak for me.”
“Yeah” you rasp, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. A crooked, reckless grin pulled at your split lip. “Maybe. But you still won’t be able to kill me.”
The words light something feral behind his eyes. In less than a blink he is on you, fist burying itself in your stomach hard enough to lift you off your feet. Pain explodes white-hot. Your vision tunnels, darkness carving in from all sides.
On pure reflex you clutch at the front of his robe, anchoring yourself to him so you wouldn’t fly. Your right hand snakes between two of his blocking arms and slams flat against the centre of his bare chest.
You brace for the rush, the familiar, sickening flood of stolen life pouring into your veins like molten sunlight.
It never came. There was nothing.
Just skin. Warm, living skin beneath your palm.
For one impossible second the world narrows to that single point of contact. You feel the steady thump of a beating heart beneath muscle and bone. You feel the faint texture of markings under your fingertips, the impossible heat radiating off him.
Your head tilts, slow and curious, like a cat discovering a new sound.
Sukuna has gone perfectly still. His hand raised, claws extended for the killing blow, hovered inches from your throat.
You lift your palm a fraction, stare at it in open wonder, then press it back down again, harder, as if testing whether reality might change if you pushed firmly enough. Your fingers splay wide, tracing the ridges of muscle, the slight give of flesh.
It so warm, alive…real.
You look up at him, eyes bright with something dangerously close to joy.
“Do you feel that?” you whisper, voice trembling on the edge of hysterical laughter.
Sukuna’s lip curls, baring sharp canines. “I’m going to kill you” he hisses, low and venomous.
You don’t hear him. All you can do is stare at your own hand as though it belongs to a stranger. His next slash came fast, aimed to remove the offending limb at the wrist.
It stops short though when he realises you aren’t even looking at it, you’re not bothering to defend yourself. You were ignoring him completely, lost in the simple miracle of touch.
“You ignoring me, brat?” he snarls, stepping back, letting your fingers sleep free.
“Come here” you breathe, reaching with both hands now, palms open and hungry.
He takes another wary step back, four eyes narrowing.
“I need to touch you again.”
“The hell; keep your filthy hands off me.” He strikes your wrists away, but the blow carries no real force; just enough to warn, to create distance. You follow anyway, stumbling forward, fingers curling greedily on empty air.
“Just one moment, please.”
You lunge.
Both palms hit his chest again, slide upward in a frantic, reverent glide; over the slope of his collarbones, along the thick column of his neck, thumbs brushing the black markings beneath his lower set of eyes. You feel everything at once, the faint prickle of stubble along his jaw, the thrum of his pulse beneath the skin, the impossible warmth seeping into your cold hands like you’ve plunged them into fire.
You were shaking. Tears you didn’t know you still had gathered at the corners of your eyes.
It was all so surreal, like the world had tilted on its axis and crushed every rule you’d ever lived by into the cracked pavement.
Sukuna’s eyes narrow to molten slits, glowing with open contempt, yet he hasn’t moved. Hasn’t torn you apart. Hasn’t even shifted his weight. Four arms hung loose at his sides, deceptively relaxed, while the mouth on his stomach curls up in a silent snarl.
“I suggest…” he rumbles, voice rolling like thunder, low and guttural, the kind of sound that crawls between your ribs and rattles bones, “ that you take your hands off me. Now.”
You don’t. You can’t.
“I’m not taking anything from you…” The words slip out softly, dazed by this new experience. Your gaze stayed locked on the impossible place where your bare palms met his bare chest. No drain. No flicker of stolen years rushing into your veins. Just heat bleeding into your cold skin like sunrise after centuries of night. “I’m not killing you”.
Your fingers move on their own, greedy and trembling. They dig into the thick cords of muscle along his neck, feeling the way tendons shift and flex beneath the surface, resilient and alive. You trace the bold black bands that cover his chest and arms, following their paths with the pads of your fingers as though reading braille.
Every ridge, every dip, every faint scar you find sends a shiver racing up your arms and straight into your heart.
Sukuna’s breath hitches, barely. A fractional tightening of the abs beneath your fingers. The mouth on his stomach parts, tongue flicking once in irritation.
“So that’s your cursed technique” he sneers, the words dripping with disdain, yet still he doesn’t strike. He stands there, towering and terrible, and lets you map the topography of his body like it was yours to discover. “A leech. How utterly pathetic.”
You don’t answer. You’re too busy pressing both palms hard over his pectorals, squeezing experimentally, watching in open wonder as the muscle yields and then springs back. Your thumbs brushes across a nipple by accident, you watch in amazement as it stiffens under the fleeting touch, and a low, involuntary growl vibrates through his chest into your wrists.
Before the sound has fully left him, his leg moves.
The kick comes lightning-fast, heel slamming into your sternum with enough force to launch you clear off your feet. You fly back ten metres, hit the pavement hard, rolling twice through broken glass and ash before the world stops spinning. Pain explodes across your back, your ribs, your skull. Air flees your lungs in a ragged wheeze. You curl up instinctively, arms wrapped around your middle, coughing blood into the dirt.
Through the haze you lift your head.
Sukuna is already turning away, pink hair whipping in the wind, four arms folding across his chest like a king bored with a mildly entertaining insect. The distance between you grows with every lazy step he took.
“No—” The word tears out of you, cracked and desperate. You shove up onto your knees, one arm outstretched, fingers splayed wide toward his retreating back. “Wait—”
He didn’t wait.
In a ripple of cursed energy he’s gone, leaving only the echo of laughter and the lingering warmth still clinging to your palms like a brand.
You stay there on your knees in the wreckage, hand reaching for a phantom that had already vanished, chest heaving around the hollow ache of almost.
All you want, more than breath, more than survival, is to touch him again.
…
The common room at Jujutsu High smelled faintly of cedar shavings and old paper, the late-afternoon light slanting through half-closed blinds. You’re stood in the centre of the worn flooring, palms damp, heart battering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
Gojo lounges against the wall, one hip cocked, arms folded, that infuriating megawatt smile already locked and loaded. He bends forward slightly at the waist, presenting his face like a dare.
“Go on then” he sings, voice bright as fracturing glass. “Just don’t take too much, yeah? I still have plans for this century.”
Yaga sits hunched over his worktable in the corner, black glasses catching the light as he tilts his head up. “I really don’t think this is wise” he rumbles, the words half-lost beneath the rapid click-click-click of his felting needle stabbing into plush.
Your hand trembles in the air between you and Gojo, index finger extended. The distance feels like miles. His Six Eyes flickers toward you, glacier-blue and sparkling with wicked amusement.
“Go on” he urges again, waggling his brows in an exaggerated invitation.
You swallow the stone in your throat. One second of contact with Gojo Satoru would feel like drinking lightning from a bottle. But some desperate, foolish part of you still hopes. Hopes that the miracle on that blood-soaked street had rewritten the rules entirely. Hopes that you are finally, finally free.
You press your finger to his cheek before doubt can pull you back.
The moment skin meets skin, your world implodes.
Life, raw and infinite, slams into you like a freight train made of suns. Your knees buckle instantly. You tear your hand away, collapsing to the floor with a choked gasp, every nerve screaming from the overload. The influx is too much, too fast; your body convulses once, hard, then folds in on itself as nausea surges.
Gojo straightens, fingertips brushing the spot you’d touched, head cocked like a curious cat. “So I guess it still works” he murmurs, almost gentle. “How much did you take?”
“A day” you groan, curling onto your side, forehead pressed to the cool floor while your stomach tries to turn itself inside out. “Remind me… never to touch you again.”
He laughs, so bright and careless, and steps over you without ceremony, treating your sprawled body like a minor obstacle on his way to the door. “Noted.”
“Told you so” Yaga grunts, never once looking up, needle flashing as another cursed corpse takes shape beneath his hands.
No one else offers. Not Ijichi, not Mei Mei when she breezes through later, not even Shoko when she comes to check if you’ve concussed yourself on the floor. The invisible ring around you widens again, three feet of polite, flinching distance. When you stumble getting up, no hand reaches out to steady you. When you laugh too loud at something Nobara says, Yuji’s answering grin falters the instant your arm lifts in an aborted gesture that might have ruffled his hair.
You’re alone in your own skin again, sealed inside the same old prison.
And at night, when the dorm finally goes quiet, the memory of Sukuna’s warmth comes back to torment you.
You dream of it relentlessly. The impossible heat of his chest under your palms, the flex of muscle, the thud of his heart. In the dreams your hands didn’t stop at polite exploration. They slide over shoulders, down the ridged plane of his stomach, tangled in pink hair that feels softer than it looks. You dream of his four arms caging you close, of mouths that speak filth and praise in equal measure, of being pressed skin-to-skin with no death between you.
You dream of kissing him, of tasting blood and smoke and something darker. You dream of fingers laced tight, of walking hand-in-hand like that couple in the courtyard, drawing lazy circles over black markings while he pretends to be annoyed but lets you anyway.
Every morning you wake gasping, sheets twisted, cheeks wet. The ghost of his skin lingers on your fingertips like a stain you can’t wash off.
Sukuna is the exception.
The only exception in centuries of slow, starving isolation.
And of course, because the universe has always possessed a vicious sense of humour, the one person you can touch without killing is the single most wicked, most wanted, most untouchable being in sorcerer history.
Ryomen Sukuna, The King of Curses.
Your only salvation, and the one creature alive who would probably laugh themselves sick if they ever learned what you’d started to crave in the dark.
…
You start your desperate search in whispers.
Every question is wrapped in the facade of duty. “intel on high-grade movement,” “historical patterns of the King of Curses,” “any sightings of white-haired attendants in the north.” You volunteer for the worst missions, the ones that take you into abandoned mountain shrines, flooded subway tunnels, cursed villages half swallowed by frost, because the curses there are old enough to remember Heian gossip.
You sit across from them while they’re bound in talismans and chains, voice calm, asking the same three questions disguised as a dozen different ones.
Where does he rest?
Who serves him?
Who brings him meat and sake?
Most spit in your face, try to bite, try to kill.
You don’t sleep, and eating becomes an afterthought, a rice ball scarfed in the dark, black coffee that tastes like battery acid. Your reflection starts looking like something that crawled out of a grave, hollow cheeks, bruised eyes, hands that won’t stop shaking from caffeine and want.
Weeks bleed into one long, cold night.
Then, on a wind-scoured ridge in the Japan Alps, snow hissing sideways through skeletal pines, you finally crack the cipher.
Uraume.
They stand ankle-deep in fresh powder, white robes untouched by the storm, breath pluming in perfect silence. The moment you step into the clearing they know. Maybe it’s the way you’re swaying on your feet. Maybe it’s the tremor in your outstretched fingers or the raw, frantic edge to your voice that hasn’t felt human in days.
“Take me to him.”
Uraume’s face is porcelain carved from winter itself, no surprise, no fear, only the faint curl of disdain at one corner of their mouth. Pink eyes flick over you like you’re an insect that’s wandered too close.
“You must have a death wish” they hiss, voice soft, flat.
“I won’t do anything” you say too quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “I swear I won’t fight. I won’t—”
“Like you could.”
The contempt is obvious, so clean and cold. You flinch, but you don’t back down. Snowflakes melt the instant they touch your burning cheeks.
“I just… I need to see him.” Your voice cracks on the last word.
Uraume studies you for a long, frozen moment. The wind howls through the pines; somewhere far, far below an avalanche rumbles, flattening whatever's in its wake.
At last they tilt their head, the tiniest concession.
“Sukuna will enjoy this” they murmur, almost to themselves. A faint, humourless smile touches their lips, sharp as frostbite. “I’ll prepare your body. He prefers human meat.”
They turn without another word, robes flaring white against white, and begin walking deeper into the storm.
You follow, heart hammering so hard you’re half-surprised you’re still standing.
You are finally going to touch him again.
The air inside is thick with old blood and incense. Torchlight flickers across walls, throwing long, dancing shadows that crawl like spiders across the floor. At the far end, raised on a dais built from the bodies of things that were once mighty, Ryomen Sukuna lounges.
Four arms, four eyes, one heart beating slow and steady beneath skin painted in living ink. Pink hair spiked up wildly. Blood, someone else’s, still clings to the corner of his smirking mouth. He is sprawled upon a throne like a bored god amongst the carnage, legs stretched out, one set of arms folded behind his head, the other idly spinning a severed finger between clawed knuckles.
The moment your eyes find him, the knot that has lived in your chest for weeks finally loosens. Breath rushes into lungs you hadn’t realised were starving. Your knees almost buckle right there.
You take one involuntary step forward, both hands already reaching, fingers trembling with centuries of withheld need.
His voice cuts across the cavern like a blade dragged over stone.
“You brought me a leech, Uraume.” The words echo, amused and venomous. “I can’t eat leeches. They leave a sour taste.”
Uraume, still half a step behind you, opens their mouth, perhaps to explain, perhaps to apologise, but Sukuna flicks two fingers in a lazy, dismissive arc. The air ripples. Uraume bows low, robes whispering over the floor, and casts you one last glacial glance, equal parts disdain and promise of later dismemberment, before vanishing into the dark.
The great doors thud shut somewhere far behind you.
Silence falls, broken only by the soft crackle of torches. You drop.
Your knees hit ice-cold stone so hard the impact jars up your back. Your forehead follows, pressed to the ground in a bow that is half desperation, half surrender. Your whole body shakes.
“Let me touch you” you rasp, voice cracking like thin ice. “Once. That’s all I need. Please.”
A low, rolling laugh reverberates through the chamber, through your bones.
“You come into my house…” His voice is closer now; you feel the shift in air pressure as he leans forward on his throne of corpses. “…and you make demands.”
The words drip with contempt. A single clawed finger lifts, lazy, as though he’s already imagining how easily it could separate your head from your shoulders. “What a strange little leech you are. You don’t want something from me. You want to do something to me.”
You stay folded to the floor, forehead still touching stone, tears you didn’t realise you were shedding leaving hot trails down your cheeks and dripping onto the ancient floor.
“You’re the only one” you whisper, the confession torn out of you, voice trembling. “In a thousand years… you’re the only one I can touch without killing.”
The torches flicker. Somewhere high above, frost cracks along the rafters.
You wait, breath held, heart hammering so loudly you’re certain he can hear it, for judgment, for laughter, for the slash of claws that never comes.
Instead, there is only the slow, deliberate drag of bare feet across bone as the King of Curses descends his throne and comes to decide what to do with the creature begging at his feet.
His hand descends like judgment itself, and clamps beneath your jaw. His grip is like iron. Your head snaps up; the world tilts, crimson eyes filling every inch of your vision until the shrine, the torches, the bones, everything collapses into that searing gaze. Cursed energy rolls off him in waves so dense it feels like drowning on dry land.
“You’ll touch” he says, voice low, vibrating through the bones of your face, “where I allow. Understand?”
You try to nod. The movement is tiny, strangled by his hold. Satisfied, he releases you. You drop the short distance back to your knees with a soft thud, breath sawing in and out.
Then he extends one hand, palm down, fingers lax, lazy and disinterested. An offering and a test.
You don’t think. You simply lunge.
Your trembling hands close around his first, fingers wrapping around a wrist thick enough that your fingertips don’t even meet. The heat is immediate, shocking. You drag his palm upward, pressing it to your cheek like a man dying of thirst who has finally found water. The calloused skin sears away weeks of cold; the faint drag of claws over your cheekbone sends shivers racing down your spine. You turn into it, nuzzling shamelessly, lips brushing the heel of his hand, tasting iron and smoke and something darker that must be him.
A low, rumbling sound, disdain, disgust, or amusement, rolls out of his chest.
You can’t stop. You won’t.
Fever takes the reins. You surge upward from your knees, clumsy, frantic, and throw yourself against him. Arms wrap around the impossible breadth of his torso; you bury your face against the centre of his chest. Your palms skate over bare skin, greedy, memorising every ridge of muscle, every raised black marking, the faint texture of old scars.
You press closer, and closer, until there is no space left between you, until the heat of him bleeds through your uniform and brands itself into your bones.
Your hips move without permission, a helpless, animal like motion, rubbing against the hard plane of his body like a starved thing finally allowed contact. Your cheek drags back and forth over his sternum, chasing warmth, chasing proof that this is real. Breath comes in broken sobs against his skin.
He stands perfectly still, four arms hanging loose, towering above you while you rut and cling and tremble like something feral that has forgotten how to be human.
And still, beneath the disgust curling his lip and the cold amusement glittering in his eyes, he does not push you away. Not yet.
Your palms refuse to still. They glide over the broad planes of his chest, tracing every ridge and scar, then climb higher, reverent, back up the powerful column of his throat. Your fingertips sink into his hair, those wild pink strands that looked coarse from afar, and you freeze, stunned. It’s impossibly soft, like heavy silk sliding between your fingers.
“It’s like silk” you whisper, voice cracking open with wonder. Tears spill freely now, rolling down your cheeks and dripping onto his skin.
“Are you insane?” he growls, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.
You shake your head, frantic. “You don’t know what it’s like.” Your nails drag lightly down the nape of his neck, raising faint lines that vanish almost instantly. You lean in until your ear presses just left of center, right over the steady thud of his heart. “You don’t know what it’s like to never have touched anyone… never held someone’s hand… never been kissed.”
A low, grudging grunt rumbles out of him. Two of his arms lift, barely, as if making reluctant room for the creature clinging to his torso.
“You’re so warm” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut.
The mouth on his stomach speaks, voice rough as gravel dragged across steel. “You’re trembling like a virgin, little leech.”
You only hum, burrowing closer, chasing the heat, the scent, the impossible reality of him.
Then the world tilts.
One massive hand closes around both your wrists, yanking them from his hair. Another palms the center of your chest and shoves. Your back meets a frozen pillar with a soft thud that knocks the air from your lungs. Your captured wrists are dragged upward, stretched high above your head until you’re forced onto the balls of your feet, spine arching, body presented like an offering. The position leaves you utterly helpless, chest heaving, throat exposed.
Sukuna looms closer, crimson eyes glittering with predatory amusement.
“Do you want to feel more, little leech?” The mockery drips from every syllable. His gaze drags slow and deliberate across your tear-stained face, your parted lips, the desperate rise and fall of your chest. “Curious enough to find out what everything on me feels like?”
“Don’t call me that” you gasp, turning your face away, cheeks burning.
He leans in until his breath fans hot over your ear. “Well, little leech?” he croons, “I won’t do a thing unless you say it.”
You squirm, wrists twisting uselessly in his iron grip. He’s so much taller, broader; the pillar at your back is unyielding stone and he is living flame. His thigh slides between yours without warning, thick and deliberate, pressing up hard against the aching length straining your uniform pants. The pressure drags a broken sound from your throat.
“Please” you choke out, hips jerking involuntarily into the friction. “I—I want to feel—”
Before the plea is finished, his free hand seizes one of your trapped one and forces it downward. He guides your palm beneath the loose waist of his robes, past coarse pink hair and scorching skin, until your fingers close around one of his cocks, rigid, impossibly hot, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
You gasp, eyes flying wide. You can’t see it, only feel, but gods, the weight of it in your hand, the slick bead of pre-cum already coating the head, the thick veins that throb under your hesitant touch. You stare, transfixed, at the place where your wrist disappears beneath the fabric.
Of your own accord, you begin to move.
Slow at first, exploring, careful, then faster when his breath hitches. You trace every ridge, map every vein, spread the slick gathering at the slit so your hand glides smoother. His head tips back, throat working, a low growl building in his chest. You learn by the way his hips twitch, by the flex of abs, by the sharp inhale when your thumb sweeps just under the crown.
You tighten your grip, stroke faster, utterly drunk on the power to make the King of Curses shudder.
He snarls, something feral, and bucks hard into your fist, and cums suddenly.
Hot, thick pulses splatter over your trapped wrist, coat your fingers in viscous heat. You rub the viscous liquid between your thumb and forefinger, feeling the slippery warmth, the faint salt scent rising in the air.
Your hand is still curled around him when he finally lowers his head again, eyes glowing like fresh-spilled blood, a slow, dangerous smile curling across his face.
“Still curious, little leech?”
You nod before the question even finishes leaving his mouth, frantic, thoughtless, fever-hot. Anything. You would take anything he deigns to give you right now.
He laughs, sharp, cruel, delighted, and the sound slices straight through your spine.
Then the world tilts again.
One of his arms, thick as your thigh, slides under your ass and lifts. You’re airborne for a heartbeat, weightless, before he carries you across the shrine like you’re made of paper. The bone dais looms. He bends you forward over the armrest of his throne, crimson velvet plush and cool against your chest. Your toes barely skim the floor, your folded over the padded edge, spine arched, ass jutting high, utterly exposed.
“So eager for me” he mocks, voice dripping acid amusement.
Fabric rips. First your shirt, torn off your shoulders and thrown. Then, your uniform pants, torn like wet tissue, shredded down to your knees in one brutal yank. Cold air kisses bare skin, then his palms, rough and scalding, spread your cheeks wide. You feel the weight of his stare on your hole, clinical and predatory.
“You’re not going to take me like this” he says, almost conversational, one brow arched high.
You twist to protest, words already forming, but the sight steals them. He pinches the claws of his right hand between thumb and forefinger and snaps them off, index to ring finger, like breaking dry kindling. The black tips clatter to the floor. The fingers are still thick, still dangerous, but blunt now.
A second hand seizes your chin, wrenching you upright until your back almost touches his chest. Those three declawed fingers appear in front of your lips.
“Suck” he growls against your ear, teeth scraping the lobe hard enough to sting.
You open instantly. He thrusts them in without ceremony. They fill your mouth, heavy and salty, stretching your jaw. You swirl your tongue desperately, coating every inch, tracing the pads, the ridges of knuckles. Saliva pools, spills over your lip, but you don’t care. You suck like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.
He watches you for a long moment, eyes hooded, then pulls free with a wet pop.
The hand disappears behind you. One slick finger circles your rim once, twice, before pressing inside..
The intrusion is shocking, so foreign and thick. You gasp, body clamping down instinctively.
“Relax” he snaps, crooking the finger and dragging it out only to push back in. The burn is bright, but it fades quickly into something you have no name for. You force air into your lungs, force your muscles to yield.
He works you open with ruthless patience you never expected. One finger becomes two, scissoring, twisting, spreading saliva and slick until the burn melts into a heavy, electric ache. The third slides in alongside the others and you keen, high and broken, tears already leaking from the corners of your eyes to soak dark patches into the red velvet beneath your cheek.
He speeds up. The drag turns rougher, deliberate.
“Never been touched here either?” he sneers, curling his fingers just to hear the choked sob that rips out of you. “Pathetic.”
Then he shifts angle, knuckles pressing deep, and finds it.
You feel the stroke like lightning forking through every nerve. Pleasure flashes behind your eyes, white-hot, radiating outward until your toes curl and your thighs shake uncontrollably.
“Wha—” The word fractures. Your nails rake the velvet, tearing tufts free.
He laughs, low and vicious, and attacks that spot again, again, again. Each firm press drags another helpless cry from your throat, each drag back leaves you empty and begging.
“Stop—” you sob, not meaning it, not even close.
“Come on, little leech” he croons, seating all three fingers to the hilt and grinding mercilessly against that devastating place inside you. “Cum for me.”
You can’t breathe. Pressure coils so tight it hurts, coils tighter still, until something inside you shatters.
You come with a raw, ragged scream, entire body seizing, back bowing off the armrest as if an electric current is ripping through you. Pleasure crashes in endless waves, so intense your vision blacks out at the edges. Cum spills untouched between your belly and the velvet, pulse after pulse, until you’re limp and trembling and still twitching around the fingers buried deep inside you.
He keeps them there, pressed firm against that spot, milking every aftershock until you’re whimpering nonsense into the ruined cushion, tears and drool and sweat soaking the throne of the King of Curses.
Only then does he lean over you, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice velvet and venom.
“Good boy.”
He doesn’t give you even a single heartbeat to recover.
While the aftershocks still ripple through your thighs, he drags two fingers through the mess you left on the velvet, gathering the warm, slick spend. You hear the wet sound of him coating himself, then the blunt, impossible pressure of one thick cockhead nudging against your loosened rim.
There is no pause, no mercy, no slow inching in.
He simply grips your hips with two hands, spreads you wider, and drives forward in one relentless thrust. The stretch is blinding. Your vision whites out; your mouth opens on a scream that never makes it past your throat. He seats himself to the hilt in a single stroke, pelvis flush to your ass, his other cock pressing against yours, filling you so completely you can feel him in your spine.
Your hands scrabble uselessly at the fabric of the throne, fingers flexing and clenching around nothing. All you can do is breathe, shallow, desperate pulls of air, while your body tries to decide if it’s dying or ascending.
Then he moves.
He fucks exactly the way he kills. Overwhelming, brutal, absolute. Each thrust slams the air from your lungs, jolts your whole body forward over the armrest, only for his grip to yank you back onto him harder. The head of his cock drags over that devastating spot inside you on every stroke, relentless, unerring.
And yet you push back to meet him, greedy, shameless, chasing more each time.
His hands are everywhere, mapping you with possessive violence.
One hand grips your hip, digging bruises into your skin, anchoring you exactly where he wants you. Another palm splays across your chest, flicking a nipple hard enough to spark pain, then slides higher and collars your throat. He lifts, forcing your back to arch slightly.
A third hand wraps around your leaking cock, pressing it flush to his extra one, stroking both in perfect, cruel synchronicity with his hips, thumb swiping over the slit on every upstroke.
The fourth hand fists your hair, tilting your head back so he can crush his mouth to yours. Teeth catching your lower lip and biting down; blood blooms copper-bright between you. Tongues tangle, messy and violent, sharing spit and crimson while he growls into the kiss.
“More, more, more” you chant, delirious, the word slurring against his mouth.
He laughs, maniacal, delighted, and gives you everything. Hips snap harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off bone walls like war drums. Grunts tear out of him, animal and triumphant; your own broken moans answer every one.
You claw at the hand around your throat, not to remove it but to beg. “Please, please, hold me, touch me—”
“Pathetic” he snarls, but he obeys.
He hauls you upright in one smooth motion, chest plastered to your sweat-slicked back. The hand in your hair slides down to splay over your sternum, pinning you flush against him. The hand that had been choking you slips upwards and cups your cheek, tilting your head until it rests on the broad slope of his shoulder. Tears spill freely now, streaking over his fingers.
His thumb strokes once across your cheekbone, a feather-light, almost tender motion that breaks you open more thoroughly than anything else.
You shatter.
The orgasm tears through you like a blade, violent and total. Your whole body seizes, cock pulsing helplessly in his grip, ropes of cum splattering across the scarlet velvet in long, obscene arcs. You clamp down around him so hard he groans, raw and guttural right against your ear.
Two more stuttering thrusts and he follows. Heat floods you, thick and endless, painting your insides with pulse after pulse of his cum until it leaks hot down your thighs. His other cock paints the throne with cum, joining yours.
He stills, buried to the root, the only sound being your ragged breathing and the wet drip of spend hitting ancient stone.
Your legs give out completely.
He doesn’t let you fall.
Four arms tighten and hold you pinned against his chest, impaled and trembling, heart hammering against his ribs while the aftershocks roll through you both. Your head lolls on his shoulder, cheek smeared with tears and blood and his thumb still tracing idle, soothing circles you never thought the King of Curses capable of.
For a long moment, the only movement in the entire shrine is the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back, and the faint, lazy throb of him still inside you.
Hot seed trickles down the inside of your thigh as his cock slides free with a slow, wet drag that makes you shudder all over again. The sudden emptiness is almost painful, but his arms don’t loosen; they keep you suspended, impaled on nothing now except the cradle of his hold. Your toes barely skim the cold stone.
“That enough, little leech?” he purrs against the shell of your ear, voice mocking and warm all at once. The mouth on his stomach flicks a lazy tongue over your spine, tasting the sweat gathered there.
You turn your head. Tears still leak in steady tracks from the corners of your eyes, your lips are swollen, bitten red from his teeth, and when you speak your voice is nothing but a raw, hoarse thread.
“Not even close.”
The words come out steady despite everything, despite the shaking, the tears, the cum cooling on your skin and his still dripping out of you. It’s a dare, a plea and a vow all at once.
For one heartbeat the shrine is perfectly still.
Then Sukuna laughs, the sound rolls through his chest into yours like distant thunder.
“Greedy little thing” he murmurs, teeth grazing the hinge of your jaw.
One hand slides down to cup your spent cock possessively, thumb smearing the mess there. Another tangles in your hair again, gentler this time, tipping your head back so he can look straight into your teary eyes.
“Fine” he says, voice dropping to something dark and promising. “We’re just getting started.”
Do not replicate, repost, or STEAL DAMN YOU! (Cos it's mean...)
CAN SOMEONE PLEASE WRITE ME SUKUNA X READER (PREFERABLY MALE READER) WHERE READER IS A SORCERER BUT HE'S LIKE ANGEL FROM CHAINSAW MAN. HE IS IMMORTAL AND CAN NOT FEEL THE BARE TOUCH OF OTHERS WITHOUT TAKING THEIR LIFESPAN. THEN HE MEETS THE ONLY EXCEPTION TO THAT, THE KING OF CURSES. THEY FALL IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER AND THE READER IS SUPER TOUCH STARVED.
I am so fucking tired of rape fics. I am a sexual assault survivor and you sexulise rape. why. why do I work so hard to get better and it all get ruined by some horny asshole just like last time. THESE CHARATERS DONT WANT TO RAPE YOU. rape is horrible, its NOT sexy. its traumatizing. why do you keep talking about it and writing about it. STOP MINIMIZING MY PAIN WITH YOUR DERANGED FANTASIES.
Simon Riley isnt a rapist
Leon Kennedy isnt a rapist
and belive it or not Jonathan Crane ISNT A FUCKING RAPIST
yousharknotpass
discoholicmusic
izzy806
