pixeld0ll

[pixeld0ll]

been working on like 4 different fics so be prepared to be spammed soon hehe

[pixeld0ll]

MMA Fighter Sukuna!!

(Also a shading study of @/kcokaine!!)

[pixeld0ll]

To love me better

Tags: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna x fem!Reader, american!Reader, forced/arranged marriage, dark romance trope, dead dove, age gap romance (reader is around 21-22, Sukuna is 37), cursing, suggestive language, use of nicknames like “doll” and “angel”, use of y/n, NSFW, MDNI, Sukuna is his own warning, description of violence including murder.

Synopsis: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna owns all of entertainment district. You’re trying to work to put yourself through law school. He has a proposition for you, and you have one for him. Chaos ensues.

An: Toji has entered the chat. I wonder who else will make an appearance. Hey, so this part is pretty short. I’m sorry. I just need to find my groove again.

Part one. | Part two. | Part three. | Part four. | Part five.

*art creds for sukuna image goes to @.maru6 here on tumblr

The sound of the gunshot rung in your ears.

The restaurant was painfully quiet. Before the gunshot, you hadn’t even realized that it was nearing closing time. Almost all of the patrons had left besides the man who your future husband just murdered.

“Get over here,” Sukuna ordered lowly over the phone. He pulled the cellular device away from his ear, and he tapped the end call button.

His eyes slid over towards your trembling form, and he raised an eyebrow as if to challenge you to say something.

Your throat was painfully dry as you looked up at him. Why did you actually believe he’d keep you out of his business?

With another snap from his fingers, the waiter reappeared at his side. His face paled as his took in the grizzly scene at the booth right behind you.

Sukuna handed over the gun to the waiter. “Get rid of it.”

“Yes boss,” the waiter responded mechanically with a small bow. He then scurried off to god only knows where.

This had to be a nightmare. Surely, he didn’t just kill someone right in front of you.

Your body was still shaking, but the adrenaline was slowly tapering down, being replaced with anger. “How could you? We just made a deal, signed a contract, everything!”

Sukuna looked over at you, and he scoffed a small laugh. “I believe I remember telling you that I would keep you out of my life as much as possible. This was non-negotiable.”

“You killed a man right in front of me! I’m an accessory to murder, dammit.” Tears brimmed in your waterline.

“Technically, I killed a man behind your back, kitten. You never actually saw me pull the trigger, now did you? Who’s to say I was even the one who killed him?”

Your eyes widened in horror as he was playing semantics with you. He just put this permanent necklace collar around your throat and immediately went back on his promise.

You looked away from him, unable to truly deal with him right now.

Footsteps emerged from the open part of the restaurant, and you glanced over nervously. What if it was a cop? Surely, the authorities have been alerted? All of the kitchen staff can’t be in on this.

Instead of an officer, a tall beefy man with muscles bigger than your head, black hair, and green eyes walked up. He had a scar on the corner of his lip and a lazy smirk on his face.

“Took you long enough, Zenin,” Sukuna quipped as he pulled out his phone.

“Calling me a Zenin is about as accurate as calling you an Itadori.” The man had a raspy voice and a nonchalant attitude as he casually strolled into the restaurant. Your eyebrows furrowed, contemplating the name he had mentioned. Itadori. Where have you heard that name before? “What do we have here?”

“He’s a grunt of the Gojo Clan. I’m honestly disgusted that he sent someone as incompetent as him to tail me.”

“I was talking about the pretty one who’s still alive,” the man said, slowly eyeing you up and down. “What’s a cute little thing like you doing here?”

Your jaw slightly dropped as he casually flirted with you as if there wasn’t a dead man behind you. Before you could even think of a response, your future husband decided to speak up.

“You’re gonna end up like the bastard with a bullet hole in his head if you keep flirting with my wife, Zenin.” His jaw hardened, staring down at the other man.

“Oh? So it’s like that, huh?” he asked, not losing the smirk. “My mistake then, Misses Sukuna.”

You thought better than to respond based off the look Sukuna gave you.

The Zenin man strolled closer towards the lifeless body with an air of aloofness about him. He looked down at the bloody scene before shrugging. “What do you want?”

Your future husband fixed one of his cuff links on his shirt before sparring the grunt a passing glance. “Mail his head directly to that imbecile’s doorstep with the exception of the eyes. Send one to the Geto man he seems enthralled with, and send the other eye to Hiromi Higuruma.”

“You can’t—!” you blurted without thought. You couldn’t believe he was actually planning on mailing your professor an eyeball.

Both Sukuna and the Zenin man looked at you with amused looks.

The yakuza lord took three calculated steps towards you. He watched you shrink back away from him with reserved pain. He had been building your trust slowly, but it had all withered away with a simple action.

Still, he reached out to you, a curl of your hair around his finger. Your teeth were practically chattering in fear while he was so close. Was he going to punish you for your outburst?

“You’re very naive. It’s rather alluring, but let me educate you anyway.” He slid his palm over your cheek, gently coaxing you to tilt your head up at him. “The man that’s dead on the floor? He had been tailing us for most of the evening. While he could’ve been just gathering intel, he also could’ve been waiting for an opportunity to strike.”

You swallowed thickly. “That’s not enough for a death sentence,” you whispered quietly, carefully. You didn’t want to piss him off, but you also wanted to make it very clear that you were against this. You wouldn’t just acclimate to this type of life, and you weren’t just going to sit quietly while he did whatever he wanted.

His red eyes met yours, and for a moment, you thought you fucked up. “When I’m with my wife, it is. Make no mistake, kitten. I’m very serious about your protection. No one is going to get the jump on me while you’re on my arm.”

He continued, “As for mailing an eyeball to your professor, that’s just a warning. He’s the only person I suspect that would tip Gojo off about our location.”

Immediate disbelief filled you. “You’re simply paranoid if you think a lawyer like Hiromi Higuruma is in the Yakuza’s pocket.”

Sukuna gave you a feline grin. His fingers pinched your cheek in a teasing manner. “Your naivety is showing again, kitten. I have you in my pocket, don’t I?”

Your face warmed with embarrassment, and you mentally scolded yourself for feeling butterflies dance around your stomach. This man is a cold blooded killer. He just showed you what he’s capable of. How could you feel this way from some meaningless words?

“Send me receipts once it’s done, Toji.” Sukuna ordered before he nodded his head towards the door, signaling for you to follow him. His slid his hand down to your arm. He didn’t grab you, but it was enough to show that he wasn’t leaving without you.

What other choice did you have? You were stranded in the middle of the entertainment district without him. Hesitantly, you followed him out of the restaurant, keeping your head tilted down as you mulled over your life choices.

Meanwhile, Sukuna’s body felt… heavy. He didn’t expect disappointing you to have this much of an effect on him. He had played by the rules, hadn’t he? Was he supposed to just allow lowlife thugs to disrespect him in his own territory? Was he suppose to risk your safety and just hope that the Gojo clan wouldn’t strike?

Unfathomable, he thought. You didn’t understand the dangers of being with him just yet. He wasn’t going to risk your safety simply because you were naive to believe you’re untouchable.

Sukuna knew the moment the Gojo clan found out that he had a weakness now they would stop at nothing to use it against him. He would do the same to him, which is why he mailed his “presents” to Suguru Geto. As far as Sukuna could tell, the young man with long dark hair wasn’t in on the Gojo empire, but it sent a message to Gojo that Sukuna knew how to strike where it hurt.

If he took his wife from him, Sukuna would take his beloved too. Both of them would forever be alone, playing this cat and mouse game.

He glanced down at you again and tightened his jaw. You looked like some sort of kicked puppy, believing he had truly betrayed you and found some loophole in the contract to exploit.

His chest burned with barely contained anger. If he planned on dragging you into his lifestyle, he would’ve just said it. He had been very clear and upfront about his intentions, and yet you still believed him to be some sort of conniving snake.

Once you two were at the car, he opened up the door for you and let you get. You flinched as he shut the door a little too hard before climbing in on the driver’s side.

The ride was silent and tense. You felt every single second of it, and it was excruciatingly painful.

The sky had fallen dark, showing off the bright colorful lights of the entertainment district. You stared out the window at the hordes of people club hopping and visiting street vendors.

“How much of this do you own?” Your question surprised Sukuna. He had expected the silent treatment to last much longer.

“My name is on majority of the deeds. If my name isn’t on the deed, I own a good portion of equity in the business,” he answered carefully.

You kept your gaze out the window. The thought of looking at Sukuna made your chest feel tight. “Even the small street vendors?”

Sukuna tapped his finger against the steering wheel. He wasn’t a fan of dancing around the conversation like you weren’t upset with him. “They own most of their business. I merely make a small margin of profit off sales and such. I have no interest in micromanaging properties.”

You hummed thoughtfully, finally sitting back in your seat. You folded your hands in your lap. “How did you know that guy was from the Gojo clan?”

There it was. “I could tell. He was sloppy while trying to take pictures of us for confirmation. The waiter had also confirmed it.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Thinking back, you tried to pinpoint when the waiter had said anything about the gentleman behind you.

“Don’t stress yourself thinking too hard kitten. It was a signal you wouldn’t have noticed anyway.”

You took a deep breath, filling your lungs up with oxygen as you tried to settle the waging war inside of you. On one hand, he had done it to protect you. On another hand, he took a life right in front of you.

“It was jarring,” you muttered, allowing for a moment of vulnerability seep through. “I didn’t like being in that position.”

Sukuna quickly looked over at you. He could mark this down as yet another time you managed to catch him off guard. As much as Sukuna didn’t want to admit it, he hadn’t thought about how you must’ve been scared. Your body had been trapped in a fight of flight mode.

He had been raised around death his entire life. His family had been in this business for generations. It was ingrained in him. Everyone he worked with was used to it, or he didn’t give a damn about them to notice if it bothered them.

You were different — not a co-conspirator, not a business partner. You weren’t raised in this life, and while it was Sukuna’s duty as your husband to protect you from it, it was also his duty to make you feel safe.

You didn’t feel safe when he shot and killed that man. It was too sudden. He hadn’t properly explained or given you any sort of warning. He had gotten tunnel vision.

“That’s a fault on my end. I will not put you in that position again, angel.” It wasn’t an apology, but it was all he knew how to do: be better moving forward.

You stared at him in slight disbelief. Admitting he was wrong was something you hadn’t expected from a yakuza lord.

Feeling your stare, he grunted in response, causing you to shift your gaze elsewhere. He took accountability. He gave you his word he wouldn’t do it again, yet you found difficulty believing his word after such an incident.

You shifted your gaze out the window, deciding that you’d just need time to think. You needed to gather yourself, but it appeared as though Sukuna wasn’t going to afford you the opportunity.

“Where are we going..?” you questioned, shooting a look of confusion and slight fear towards him. He hadn’t taken the turn to head back to the student housing. Is this when he offs you?

Any look of guilt or concern had vacated Sukuna’s sharp features. He turned his head to give you a one-over, and a predatory grin curled on his face. “Home.”

“My student housing is…” your voice trailed as you pointed a finger back towards the exit he should’ve taken.

“Oh doll, are you still in shock?” he asked with a twinge of mockery in his tone. “Do you not remember agreeing to stay in the guest room until we are officially married?”

Fuck. You had completely forgotten about the clause. “I didn’t think that was effective immediately. I don’t have any of my things. I need clothes and hygiene products—“

“I can assure you, angel.” His fingers gently cascaded over your thigh until he cupped your flesh with such care that all your senses melted into him. “Despite your incessant worrying and forgetfulness, I have things under control. All you need to do is sit there and indulge me, yes?”

Your body felt warm, and you couldn’t decipher whether it was from his caressing touch or from how he took charge of the situation. Slowly, you eased back into your seat. What else were you to do? Jump out of his moving car on the freeway?

“Good girl,” he praised, giving your thigh a delicate squeeze. Your breath lightly hitched in your throat from the sensation, and your core involuntarily clenched around nothing. His touch felt like flames licking at your thighs.

You tried to will your heart to stop racing, but you subconsciously knew you were willingly going into the lion’s den.

Taglist (50/50): @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah @lizatonix @starmapz @everywonuu @totallygyomeiswife @sukubusss @depressiondiaries @t4naiis @hishearttohave @soraya-daydreams @lulunx @s-1-xx @el-lise @prettyngeto @marifujioka @iheartlinds @gina239 @actuallynarii @shxyxyxxxx @krispycreamepie @emoedgylord @nina-from-317 @pandabiene5115 @paintedperidot @dissociativewriter @lmaoshush @ninani-nanina @sadrna @boisenberry77 @tojifush @erwinawesomeness @meanwhilesomewhereelse @safasz @kassfunk19 @moncher-ire @gradmacoco @riahlynn-102 @diduzzula @juiceeypeach @kunasthiast @jinxiewritings @mordacioust @rinofcike @therealjustpeachesback @cutesytwt @loonytunesmith @stargirl-mayaa @dyavorange @beau-regards

[pixeld0ll]

Tear you apart

pt. 1  | pt.2 | pt. 3  | pt. 4 (coming soon!) tags: NSFW, MDNI, ryomen sukuna, sukuna x reader, sukuna smut, jujutsu kaisen smut, sukuna fanfiction, jujutsu kaisen x reader, dark content, dark romance, nsfw fanfic, possessive sukuna, masochistic reader, degradation kink, sadism and masochism, size kink, rough sex, aftercare, marking kink, carving kink, curse!sukuna, sukuna's domain, bratty reader, power dynamics, worship kink, dubcon elements, twisted romance, jujutsu kaisen fanfic, jjk x reader, sukuna x you, smut fic, yandere vibes, obsessed sukuna, cursed bond, forbidden love

an: thank you so much for your patience, here is part three!! i hope you all enjoy, pls comment if youd like to be added to the taglist!! CONTENT WARNING: this part contains a scene where sukuna brands reader by burning his initials into her thigh, if that makes you uncomfortable, please refrain from reading!

words: 4.9k

He didn’t mean to show up again. Not so soon, not so easily. But here he was—again.

Hovering just outside the edges of your awareness like a curse crawling beneath your skin, burrowed into your blood where he left himself inside you, deeper than just cock and teeth. His energy lingered. Familiar. Claimed.

"Tch." Sukuna clicks his tongue, perched in the shadows of her mind like a god staring down at a worshipper who didn’t know she’d bent the knee. you were dreaming again. Of him. Of his voice, his hands, his teeth. The way he made you sob and scream and beg.

And fuck, did you look good when you broke.

He watches you twist beneath your blankets, sweaty, flushed, thighs pressed together. Moaning his name like it was prayer and blasphemy all at once.

He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t. But the moment your hips roll into the mattress, chasing friction, something in his gut twists. Not anger—no, something worse. Hunger.

“Pathetic little thing,” he mutters aloud, but it doesn’t come out as cruel as he wants it to. His voice is hoarse. Feral. Almost... fond.

you gasp in your sleep, whispering something that makes his smirk freeze on his face.

“Need you…”

His four eyes narrow.

He’d taken many humans. Shattered them. Ripped them apart, fucked them into madness. None lingered. None called him back. None tasted like you—sweet and dark and soaked in guilt.

This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

you weren't supposed to mean anything.

But here he is—unable to keep away, slipping into your dreams unbidden, marking you again and again, if only to remind himself that you are his.

"You're making me weak, girl."

 The thought should piss him off. But it doesn’t. Not the way it should.

Instead, he steps forward from the shadows, ghosting behind your dreaming form. His fingers twitch. He wants to touch. Claim. Consume. He shouldn’t. Not tonight.

But then you whimper again. His name. Soft. Fragile. Desperate.

And fuck it all, his chest hurts.

He leans over her, lips brushing the curve of your ear in the dreamscape.

“You keep calling for me like that,” he growls, voice silk over steel, “and I’ll never leave you alone again.”

You gasp, breath hitching, her body arching toward the sound. You don't realize just how his you are.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s been a week since you shattered the barrier between yourself and Sukuna.

And what a week it’s been.

He doesn’t pull you into his domain every night—but he’s always there. Sometimes in your dreams: fleeting glimpses of his eyes in the dark, the ghost of his voice in your ear, the phantom press of rough hands on your skin. You wake up breathless, thighs slick, heart pounding, certain you can still feel him.

Other nights, he does drag you into his world, and you don’t return unmarked. You wake up bruised, aching, and trembling, with gauze carefully placed over bite wounds and angry, blooming hickeys carved into the curve of your throat and chest. It’s possessive, deliberate—he leaves you a mess, and then dresses your wounds with the same hands that created them.

And you let him. Worse—you want him to.

You’ve taken to wearing turtlenecks, high collars, and oversized hoodies to hide the evidence. But as summer creeps in and the weather climbs higher with each passing day, you’re starting to suffocate under the layers. Every breath feels thick. Every movement sticks to sweaty fabric. But you keep the marks covered. You have to. You don’t trust yourself not to want to explain them.

Today, you’re already sweating by the time you arrive at training. You settle into your usual spot, heart still heavy with the remnants of another dream—the kind that left your legs shaky under the weight of reality.

Gojo strolls in, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, carrying a box of popsicles like this is summer camp and not combat training. He holds his gaze on you.

"Y'know, not that I’m complaining,” he says, “but you’ve been wearing turtlenecks like it’s the middle of December.” He gestures vaguely at your hoodie. “It’s pushing eighty degrees out. You hiding hickeys or developing a new fashion disorder?”

You laugh a little too quickly, tugging at your sleeve. “I get cold easily.”

He hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t press. “Right. Just don’t pass out mid-roll. I’m not hauling you off the mat again.”

You force a smile, but your pulse hammers.

The lesson begins. You move through the drills as best you can, trying to ignore the ache in your muscles and the dull throb in your thighs. But you’re slower again. Sloppier. Again. 

When Gojo pairs off with you to demonstrate a maneuver, he moves with his usual playful ease—trying his best to lighten the mood. Then your sleeve rides up as you raise your arm for a block.

His hand stills.

His fingers had been positioned to guide your elbow. But now they tighten just slightly around your forearm, his thumb dragging over the edge of a faint bruise on your wrist. It's almost healed—but it’s there. A thumbprint. Perfectly shaped. Deep.

His smile falters.

Just a flicker. Just for a second.

You freeze, eyes locking with his. His sunglasses are still on, but his expression is just a little too careful now. A little too neutral.

His fingers ghost over the bruise—and in that instant, you feel it.

Him.

A familiar chill creeps up your spine, like smoke slithering through your nerves. It starts in your chest, slides up your throat, settles behind your eyes. It’s his voice—low, dark, and dripping with menace.

“What the fuck does he think he’s doing, touching what’s mine?”

Your breath catches.

Not here. Not now.

Your knees wobble for a split second, but Gojo’s expression turns unreadable, turning back to the class, giving instructions like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just touch you. Like his hand wasn’t wrapped around your bruised wrist—Sukuna’s mark.

You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, trying to focus on the lesson, on anything. But Sukuna’s presence presses in, sharp and seething, curling behind your ribs like a blade.

“I let you play your little human games, but this—this is crossing a line.”

His voice drips with possessive fury, yet there’s something colder beneath it—something dangerous. You try to push him away, to quiet him, but he’s not done.

“He saw it. He touched it. You let him.”

Your stomach flips, a sick mix of guilt and heat pooling low in your abdomen.

I didn’t let him, you think desperately. It just happened—

“You didn’t stop him.”

You can feel his grin even though you can’t see it. A cruel twist of satisfaction and punishment.

“Maybe I should leave something deeper next time. Something no one else would dare lay a hand near.”

A pulse of heat flares between your legs at his words—shameful, involuntary. You curse yourself for it. But he feels it.

He chuckles, voice now a dark purr.

“There she is.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard, grounding yourself in the pain. You need to focus. Gojo’s already calling out your name again, waiting for you to rejoin the group.

You force your body into motion, but Sukuna’s voice follows you, coiling around your thoughts.

“Next time he touches you…” His voice drops, low and venomous. “I’ll make sure he loses the fucking hand.”

—-----------------------------------------------------

That night, you sit cross-legged on the floor of the dorm’s common area, warm light spilling across the carpet. Megumi, Yuji, and Nobara surround you, game controllers in each of your hands, the low hum of the console filling the space between rounds.

“I’m so glad you’re finally up for playing again!” Nobara groans with exaggerated drama, flopping backward across the floor. “Having to deal with these two bozos alone is practically torture.”

“Hey!” Yuji shouts, tossing a pillow at her.

Megumi lets out a grunt. “You weren’t exactly pulling your weight last round, Nobara.”

You giggle, shaking your head as you nudge Nobara with your shoulder. The laughter is easy, infectious. A small ache blooms in your chest—bittersweet. You didn’t realize just how much you missed this. You’ve been distant lately, too exhausted after training sessions… and other things… to do anything but collapse in your bed, mind and body wrung out.

“I needed the break,” you admit, trying to keep your tone light. “But I’m back now—and I’m about to leave all of you in the dust.”

You mash the A button on your controller as the countdown starts in Mario Kart, determined to get the boost at the beginning of the race.

“Oh, you wanna go like that?” Yuji leans forward, eyes narrowing. “You’re on.”

“You’re all talk,” Megumi mutters, his concentration already locked in.

“You’re all dead,” you say with a smirk, taking an early lead as your kart flies down the track, expertly weaving between turns and hazards. It’s almost second nature—like muscle memory from a happier, less cursed time.

The room is filled with trash talk and chaos. Shells are thrown. Screams erupt. Nobara swears like a sailor as she tumbles off Rainbow Road.

Your heart races as you approach the final lap—still in first place, barely ahead of Megumi. Your fingers are a blur on the buttons, every ounce of your focus dialed in.

“God, how are you so good at this?” Yuji whines, already in seventh.

“You forget,” you say breathlessly, “I trained for months to beat you guys.”

And then—

“Tch. Look at you. All worked up over a children’s game.” His voice drips into your mind like oil in water—dark, smooth, inevitable. “Bet you’d make prettier noises with my fingers back inside you.”

Your eyes widen, pulse hitching as heat explodes through your core. Your kart veers too wide on the final turn—fingers suddenly slow, clumsy, distracted.

Megumi shoots past you in an instant.

“NO—!”

You lurch forward, trying to recover, but it’s too late. The finish line zips past. Second place.

Yuji howls with laughter. “What happened? You had that!”

You blink, pulse pounding in your ears. Sukuna's chuckle rumbles low in the back of your mind, pleased with himself.

Fucking asshole. You think to yourself, knowing he heard.

“Uh… I don’t know. Just… choked, I guess.”

“Since when do you choke?” Nobara narrows her eyes at you. “You were literally kicking our asses.”

Megumi studies you quietly. “You okay?”

You try to smile, cheeks burning. “Yeah. Just… zoned out.”

But Yuji’s already squinting like a detective. “Wait a second. This weird behavior—skipping hangouts, looking like a zombie in class… Are you—” His grin grows wide. “Are you secretly dating someone?”

Your breath catches. “I—what? No! Of course not.”

“Oh my god,” Nobara gasps. “She is! Look at her face. She’s literally blushing!”

You try to cover your face with your hands. “Stop. You’re being ridiculous.”

But your friends are too caught up now, voices rising with guesses and teasing accusations. You force out a laugh, but inside you’re unraveling.

Because Sukuna’s voice curls into your thoughts again, low and delighted:

“Sweet little liar. Should I leave another mark next time—somewhere they won’t miss?”

You squeeze your thighs together instinctively.

“Careful, little girl,” he adds with a dark purr. “You’re starting to miss me.”

And you do.

God help you—you do.

Later that night, after the teasing finally dies down and your friends say their goodnights, you slip back into your room with a racing heart and a head full of thoughts you can’t shake.

The laughter, the comfort, the soft thrum of belonging—it should’ve left you feeling warm.

Instead, you ache.

Not physically, for once. But in that deep, vulnerable place you’ve been trying to ignore since him.

You shut the door quietly behind you, leaning back against it and closing your eyes. You can still feel his voice echoing in your skull, still taste the phantom touch of him along your throat.

Your fingers tighten around the hem of your hoodie.

“You’re losing it,” you whisper to yourself.

But then—

Warmth. Pressure. Arms.

Strong ones.

Before you can react, before your knees even buckle, you’re not in your bedroom anymore.

The air shifts. Thickens.

The scent of iron and smoke hits your nose, the flicker of flame casting an eerie glow on bone-covered walls. Your body is still halfway limp, but you know this place by now.

You’re in his domain.

You’re in his arms.

“Miss me?” Sukuna’s voice hums against your ear, mocking and intimate all at once. His arms curl around your waist from behind, solid and possessive, pulling you flush against him. “You practically begged for this earlier. Thought I’d be a generous king.”

Your lips part, but no words come out.

“I watched you all night,” he continues, nose brushing along your jawline. “The way your thighs clenched. The way you squirmed when your little friends got too close. Pathetic.” He chuckles, low and mean—but there’s a hushed reverence to the way he holds you. “And yet…”

He turns you slowly, backing you up until your spine presses against a wall of smooth, pulsing stone. His four eyes drink you in, unblinking.

“…you’ve never looked prettier than you did choking on my name in your head.”

Your breath hitches. Your fingers twitch at your sides.

“Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking about me,” he growls, pinning you with a look that could break nations. “Your mind is an open book, pet. And it’s all filled with me.”

He leans down, breath hot against your lips. But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

“Tell me something,” he murmurs. “When they were laughing… when they said you were blushing, was that guilt I smelled, or pride?”

His hand moves to your throat again, gently now, his thumb brushing your pulse.

“You don’t even know anymore, do you?”

And that’s what terrifies you most.

Your lips part with a shaky breath, trying to hide how easily he disarms you—but he catches it, of course he does. He always does.

“Oh?” Sukuna tilts his head, grinning wide. “Still got that fire in you?” His voice drips with amusement as one of his lower hands grips your thigh, lifting it up so you’re forced to balance on your toes. “Don’t tell me my little plaything still thinks she can pretend she’s not desperate for me.”

You roll your eyes, jaw tight. “You’re not that special.”

Wrong answer.

You barely register the blur of movement before you're slammed against the stone wall with enough force to steal your breath. Not enough to hurt—not really—but enough to remind you exactly who you're dealing with.

“All this attitude for someone who moaned like a whore the last time I touched her.” His mouth is at your throat again, sharp teeth grazing your skin as his fingers slip under your shorts and drag them down. “Didn’t seem to mind how special I was when you were cumming around my cock.”

You grit your teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction. “You talk a lot for someone who can’t make me beg twice.”

He stops.

The grin fades.

And for a moment, everything is too quiet.

“Is that a challenge, pet?”

You blink up at him, defiant even as your thighs clench.

His smile returns—slower, darker, more dangerous. “Good.”

Then all four hands are on you. Peeling away layers, forcing your legs apart, pinning your wrists above your head while he sinks to his knees.

“Since you’re clearly still confused,” he mutters, “let me remind you exactly who you belong to.”

He buries his face between your thighs with brutal, practiced ease—licking deep, slow, then fast and devastating, fingers digging into your hips to hold you still. You buck and whimper, fighting not to give in too fast, but it’s hopeless. He’s had time now—time to learn you, time to ruin you.

“Fuck—Sukuna—”

“There’s my name,” he growls, lips slick with you. “Say it again.”

You pant, face flushed, trying to twist away—but it only spurs him on.

One upper hand grabs your jaw, forcing your head back. “Say it.”

“Sukuna—fuck—I hate you—”

He laughs, sharp and guttural. “Liar.”

And then you’re there, trembling and gasping as he rides you through your high, holding you against the wall until your legs give out.

But he doesn’t stop.

He carries you effortlessly to a flat stone altar, as if you weigh nothing — a prize, a possession, or perhaps just a plaything. And then he throws you down like one, your body bouncing slightly against the cold, rough surface.

Before you can so much as blink, he’s already on you — above you — his claws trailing dangerously close to where you need him most. One hand grazes your inner thigh, slow and deliberate, the slight sting of a nail making you twitch.

He kisses down your neck, dragging sharp teeth across old bruises and hickeys, refreshing them with vicious purpose. His mouth lingers at your pulse, tongue laving over the marks before biting down just hard enough to make you gasp.

One of his massive hands moves lower, grabbing at the flesh of your thigh, squeezing and spreading until you're whimpering. The other travels up to press against your stomach, pinning you. A third grips your hip. The fourth wraps gently around your throat — not choking, not yet — just a silent, looming threat.

His breath stutters against your skin, and he growls, low and strained.

“These thighs… this body…” “Fuck.” “Never thought a little human could feel so fucking good.”

You whimper at his words, hips rolling up to meet him instinctively. You crave it — his body, his strength, his ruin. The hunger in your eyes makes him laugh, a dark, knowing sound that vibrates against your chest.

You’re rewarded with a shove — your hips pressed harshly against the altar as all four of his arms hold you down in place. There’s no escape. Not that you’d ever want one.

“W-Will you just fuck me already?” you pant, desperate and wrecked, your voice ragged from the need burning inside you. “Please—”

A mistake.

The second the words leave your lips, the amusement in his expression disappears.

He growls.

The hand at your throat releases — only for it to grip both sides of your cheeks roughly, yanking your face upward to meet his glare. His grip is rough, almost bruising, and his eyes are aflame with something unhinged.

“Enough, you needy brat.” “Too much of a slut to understand your place?”

He leans in until your noses nearly touch, his voice a venomous purr.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do. You shut the fuck up and take it. Like a good girl.”

 “My good girl.”

The words go straight to your core, and you bite your lip, dazed, trembling under his gaze. Your nod is small but submissive — your body pliant beneath him.

He releases your chin, roughly shoving you back against the altar. His hands return to their places — one on your hip, one on your stomach, one curling possessively around your neck again, and the last sliding between your thighs.

He squeezes your flesh one last time, letting his claw drag threateningly slow across your skin.

And then… he speaks.

“Hold still.”

Then you feel it. At first, it’s subtle — a slow, creeping burn. Sharp, but not unbearable. A prick. Then pressure. Your body jolts in confusion, but his weight presses you firmly in place. Immobilized.

“What the hell—what are you—?”

You try to twist beneath him, breath hitching, but he doesn’t respond. Not yet. He’s focused. He carves.

A single claw drags in slow, deliberate strokes across the top of your thigh. Not shallow — no, deep enough that you feel it down to your bones. A shudder racks through you, a cry caught between fear and something darker, heavier.

And then it hits you — too late to stop it. You know exactly what he’s doing.

When he finally pulls back, your eyes drop — pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

R.S.

Carved fresh and red just above the soft curve of your upper thigh. It doesn’t bleed. It doesn’t sting. It burns — hot and heady, like a brand. Like a mark of ownership.

You should be horrified.

Instead, a sick sense of pride curls warm in your chest.

Owned.

Sukuna hums above you, the sound low and pleased. He admires his work with the smug satisfaction of an artist.

“This one’s permanent,” he murmurs, and then he leans in — his tongue dragging slowly along the raw mark.

Your body arches on instinct, a strangled whimper slipping past your lips. The jolt of sensation shoots straight up your spine, white-hot and dizzying.

“So next time one of your little classmates sees you in the locker room…” he whispers, breath ghosting over your skin, “When that blindfolded bastard you call a teacher gets a peek of something he shouldn’t…”

He pauses. You meet his gaze.

And for a split second, behind the cruelty in his eyes, behind the sadism and pride — there’s something else. Not quite soft. But… something. Something like longing.

“They’ll know,” he breathes. “You’re mine.”

You gasp as his cock suddenly presses against your entrance —thick, hard, already dripping.

“No hiding this time, pet,” he growls as he thrusts in, deep and punishing. “I want them all to see what their perfect little girl let crawl between her thighs.”

Your head rolls back, mouth open in a silent moan as he starts to move—rough, deliberate, and absolutely unrelenting.

“You wanted to be defiled by evil?” he snarls, hand wrapping around your throat again. “Then be ruined by me.”

And in the depths of his domain, under blood-red skies and bone-carved thrones, you fall apart all over again.. And again… and again.. with his name on your tongue and his mark carved into your skin.

His hips slam into yours, each thrust ruthless—measured only by how much he can make you writhe.

Your back arches off the altar stone, hands grappling for anything to hold onto. But there's nothing.

Just his body, his hands, his weight caging you in like prey beneath a beast.

“You love this,” he hisses into your neck, his breath hot against the fresh bruise he left there last time. “All that whining, all that fire—and you still spread your legs for me like the perfect little pet.”

“F-fuck you,” you manage, breathless, legs trembling around his waist.

He grins, fangs gleaming. “You are.”

And he slams into you harder—so deep you see stars. You cry out, pleasure curling up your spine like fire, and he doesn’t slow down.

His fingers—all twenty of them—explore your body with maddening precision. One hand grips your hip tight enough to bruise. Another snakes between your thighs, fingers pressing against your clit in wicked, lazy circles that make your breath catch in your throat.

“I can feel you clenching,” he growls, lips brushing your ear. “You’re close again, aren’t you? How many times do I have to fuck you senseless before you admit this is what you were made for?”

Your only answer is a broken moan.

But it’s enough.

“Pathetic, messy, little thing,” he snarls, the pace of his thrusts shifting—grinding, deep, angled perfectly to keep you straining toward release. “Getting off on my cock like you don’t have anything left of your pride.”

His thumb drags over the mark he carved into your thigh—R.S.—and you whimper.

“Say it,” he demands.

You shake your head.

He bites.

You cry out, stars dancing behind your eyes.

“Say it,” he growls again.

“I—I belong to you,” you breathe, so soft he almost misses it.

His hips stutter.

Something wicked and quiet slips into his expression, and for a beat, he looks almost possessed by it.

“Again,” he commands, voice low, barely human.

You meet his eyes, flushed and breathless and soaked in sweat. “I belong to you.”

And then you shatter.

Your orgasm slams into you like a tidal wave, ripping through your nerves, arching your spine, and leaving you trembling beneath him. Your moans turn to cries—half sob, half pleasure—as he drives you through it mercilessly.

Sukuna lets out a guttural growl, every muscle in his body tensing as he follows. He doesn’t stop—doesn’t even slow down—chasing the last tremors of your release until he’s spilling into you, voice a feral snarl in your ear.

When the haze finally clears, he’s still over you—panting, wild-eyed, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. You’re wrecked beneath him, body marked, trembling, soaked and ruined and… something else.

In the most twisted, possessive, chaotic way—he adores this. Admires the way you fall apart for him, then crawl right back with fire in your eyes.

And maybe that’s what scares you most of all.

Because when he finally moves off you, trailing kisses across your neck and thigh—so soft they sting—you feel it again.

The pull.

The desire.

The need to have him look at you like that. 

To feel him close, surrounding you. 

To always be the only one he carves his name into.

For a while, the only sound is your breathing. Shaky. Shallow.

You’re sprawled across the altar, still trembling from the aftershocks. Sweat slicks your skin, your lips parted as if you want to speak but can’t quite summon the words.

Sukuna lingers above you, watching.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk or tease like he usually does.

He just watches you — and the strange way your lashes flutter as you blink at him, half-conscious, dazed and boneless. His hand moves without thought, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. You flinch at first, but then...

You lean into it.

His touch.

And that—that makes something twist low in his gut.

He starts to move off you, ready to cast you back to your own world the way he always does, but then you shift suddenly. Quietly. Almost childishly, you curl into him, cheek against his chest like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

“Don’t,” you whisper. Barely audible. “Not yet…”

His breath catches.

Not yet?

He peers down at you, four crimson eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t want to leave?”

You shake your head, still half-asleep.

“I like it here,” you murmur. “With you…”

He stills completely.

No one's ever said that to him. Not in a thousand years. Not even the ones who worshipped him. They came to him to beg. To fuck. To bleed. To die.

Not to stay.

You shift again, curling tighter into his side, one hand resting lightly on his chest—right over where his heart should be. And when he doesn’t say anything, you let your eyes drift closed.

“You don’t sleep,” you whisper, voice soft and barely there. “But if you did… I’d want to fall asleep like this.”

It’s stupid. So stupid. Softness like this doesn’t belong in a place built on blood and bone. It doesn’t belong with a curse like him.

But you say it anyway.

And you mean it.

Sukuna doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. He just looks at you—this strange little human, marked and ruined and wholly his.

And for the first time in centuries… he doesn’t send someone away.

He wraps one arm around your waist. The other brushes over the letters he carved into your thigh. seared in your skin, a brand and a promise.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters against your hair, lips brushing your temple.

But he doesn’t let you go.

Not yet.

You're out cold in his arms, breath soft, your body heavy with exhaustion.

Sukuna watches you, still stretched across the stone altar, curled against him like he’s anything other than a curse born of blood and malice. Like he’s something safe.

He should send you back now.

He always does.

But tonight, something in him resists. Lingers. You asked to stay — and now, even in sleep, your cursed energy pulses faintly, wrapped around his like a tether.

It’s weak. Human. But it clings to him. 

And for the first time, he doesn’t pull away from it.

His hand settles on the small of your back, and with a flicker of cursed energy, he tears a seam between your world and his. Not the violent rip he normally uses — but something softer, more careful. One of his hands presses to your chest, fingers splayed over your sternum, and he follows that flicker of energy back to you.

Back to your world.

When the veil lifts, you’re both in your dark dorm room. The smell of you is different here — soft, real, surrounded by traces of coconut bodywash and laundry sheets and candles and something warm he can’t name. His nose wrinkles at first.

Then he gets used to it. 

You murmur something in your sleep as he settles you into the bed — barely awake, but still seeking him out. Your fingers clutch weakly at the edge of his sash as if to say don’t go.

He should leave.

He really should.

But his body doesn’t move.

Not yet.

Instead, he sits on the edge of your bed, watching you turn into the sheets like you’re trying to disappear into comfort. You don’t even know he’s still here. And maybe that’s the strangest part of all.

His hand reaches out — tentative, foreign — brushing hair from your face. You stir but don’t wake.

And then, almost like he’s in a trance, Sukuna lays down beside you.

The bed creaks under his weight — made for a human girl, not a creature like him. But he shifts until he fits, one of his arms sliding beneath your pillow, the other draped across your waist. You instinctively tuck yourself closer, your cheek resting just under his collarbone, sighing softly in your sleep.

He watches you for a long time, jaw tight, four eyes half-lidded in something that almost resembles peace.

And when he finally closes them?

It’s not quite sleep.

But it’s the closest he’s come in a thousand years.

------------------------------------------------------------

taglist: @anfasith @dovey-quacks2332 @chlsa @fatcouchpotato @iaur @exitingmusic

[pixeld0ll]

Desk Job - Sukuna R.

about. It started with tutoring Yuuji so he wouldn’t flunk Judo. It ended with you bent over a desk by his tattooed, foul-mouthed twin who can’t flirt without blushing. Sukuna's a menace—but around you? He stutters, he simps, and he falls. And you?You might just let him.

pairings. Sukuna x Fem!Reader

words. 5.45k

content. highschool au, yuuji and sukuna are twins, sukuna doesn't know how to act around you, desk sex, public sex, puppy love, oral, kissing, cursing, kaori being the mother of the year, manhandling, dirty talk, creampie, size kink, pet names.

notes. can't believe i spent the entire day writing this

The door slammed open like it owed somebody money.

“The fuck—Ryo!” Kaori’s voice cracked from the hallway. “Don’t fucking slam it, this isn’t a damn barn!”

“Kasan, relax,” came the drawled reply—gravel-rough and half-laughing. “Door’s the problem, not me.”

She stormed into view, hands on her hips and wet dish towel hanging from her shoulder. “You come home two hours late lookin’ like a fucking gang member, and your brother has a guest. So don’t be a dick for five fucking minutes.”

Sukuna snorted, dragging a hand through his hair and tossing his hoodie off one shoulder. The sleeve slipped down his inked forearm—black lines coiling around thick muscle. He had an eyebrow piercing, silver glinting in the hallway light, and two tattoos sneaking out from under his tank top and crawling up his neck.

"A guest?” he scoffed. “What, the dumbass get himself a girlfriend?”

Kaori smacked him upside the head so hard his eyebrow ring clicked.

“Don’t fuck this up.”

She vanished down the hall, mumbling about folding towels and “raising wolves.”

Sukuna rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck—and walked into the living room like he owned it.

"Who the fuck is—”

He stopped mid-step.

And mid-sentence.

There you were. Sitting perfectly on the edge of their couch, hands folded over your notebook, knees together like a good girl, skirt riding a little too high to be legal. You had soft little lashes, lips with a subtle gloss, and a nervous tilt to your head when you looked up at him.

Big, blinking eyes.

And a voice that came out like a damn whisper.

"...hi.”

He stared.

Sukuna fucking froze.

His brain had been fully ready to launch into a tirade about strangers on his couch—but your voice was shy. Polite. You looked like a daydream someone dragged into his house and dropped onto the cushions with your skirt hiked halfway up your thighs.

And your nose—fuck. You had one of those noses that looked like it would twitch if he kissed it.

So instead of opening his mouth and talking shit like usual—

He glitched.

No smirk. No snark. Just a wide-eyed "what the fuck" as heat bloomed up the back of his neck.

You shifted slightly, tugging your skirt down with one hand, cheeks warm.

"Sorry—um. I’m here to tutor Yuuji? I didn’t mean to just, like, sit here, I thought.”

And oh no. You were apologizing. You were sweet.

Sukuna blinked. He hadn’t moved. His fingers twitched like he forgot how doors worked.

Then the front door opened again, and salvation arrived with ADHD energy and a half-open juice pouch.

“Yo! Shit—sorry! Coach made me stay to help clean mats. I think I stepped in someone’s sweat.” Yuuji stumbled in and paused.

Looked at you. Then looked at Sukuna.

Then squinted. “Why’re you just standing there like a serial killer?”

Sukuna blinked again. Jaw tight.

Yuuji leaned closer. “Wait—yo, are you blushing?”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m not—” Sukuna snarled, yanking his hoodie fully off now, heat crawling down his neck like betrayal. “Go hose your crusty ass down before you sit near her. You smell like a gym sock.”

Yuuji barked a laugh. “Nah, nah, you’re red as fuck. You good? You got a fever or did you just find religion looking at her legs?”

Sukuna shot him a look that could’ve curdled milk.

“I hope you fail so fucking hard they put you in kindergarten."

“Kasan said not to be a dick,” Yuuji sang. “You’re being a dick.”

You sat there, blinking, overwhelmed, high-key blushing, and not knowing what the fuck you’d just walked into. But you offered the shyest smile, still holding your books like a lifeline.

And Sukuna looked at you one more time before turning away, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like:

“Fucking pretty girl sitting there like a damn angel... fuckin’ hell...”

The moment Sukuna disappeared down the hall, his tattooed back still stiff with what could only be described as a tantrum in disguise, the room finally settled.

Well, almost.

Yuuji flopped onto the floor beside the coffee table, cracking his back and sighing like he'd just been through war.

“Dude. I am so sorry,” he said, looking up at you with genuine guilt in his big dumb brown eyes. “He’s... like that. All the time. It's actually a medical condition. Chronic asshole disorder.”

You giggled under your breath, still holding your notes, legs crossed neatly beneath you. That tiny, amused sound made Yuuji blink.

"Wait, are you laughing?”

You nodded. “A little. He’s—something.”

"He’s a bitch,” Yuuji offered with a shrug. “But you get used to him after, like, six years of trauma.”

That earned a real smile from you, shy and soft. Then you adjusted the hem of your skirt and shifted closer to the table, laying your notebook out and pulling out a pencil.

“For the record,” you said gently, glancing up at him. “I didn’t offer to help. Your mom asked me directly. She said if you didn’t pass your exams, they’d pull you from judo and she’d have to deal with you moping around the house. So... she kinda begged.”

Yuuji’s jaw dropped.

“Kasan begged? Like, begged-begged?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Her exact words were: ‘He’s a good kid but dumb as fuck. Please save my sanity before I bury him in the yard.’”

Yuuji let out a wheeze of laughter. “Sounds about right.”

He pulled out a crumpled worksheet and a mechanical pencil with no eraser.

“Okay. Teach me, sensei.”

15 Minutes Later…

You were halfway through explaining basic math when the hallway creaked.

You barely had time to turn before the door swung half-open again, and he was back.

Sukuna leaned on the frame like he was summoning drama with his biceps alone. Tank top clinging to his chest, tattoos peeking from under his collarbone, sweat still drying on his neck.

“Hey. Twerp. What’d I fucking say about moving my stuff?”

Yuuji didn’t even look up. “I didn’t touch your shit, jackass. I just cleaned the shelf so there’s space for my notebooks.”

“So you moved my shit.”

“I organized it.”

“That’s worse.”

You stayed quiet, still holding your pencil in mid-air, watching them spiral.

"Jesus fucking christ, Sukuna, get a hobby.”

“I have a hobby. It’s keeping your dumb ass from lighting the house on fire.”

They kept bickering. You shifted back slightly, waiting for the testosterone fog to clear, but it didn’t. It was like they forgot you were even there. Sukuna stepped closer, all heavy footfalls and angry muscle.

“You breathe like a donkey when you chew. You’re lucky anyone’s helping you study at all.”

“You’re lucky I don’t kick your ass.”

“Try it, and I’ll put you through the fucking coffee table.”

You finally blinked, set your pencil down, and softly said:

“Are you two done?”

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t mean.

But it landed like a slap to the face.

Sukuna stopped mid-step, eyes snapping to you like he’d only just remembered you were real. And standing there—sweet little voice, lips parted slightly, pencil tapping against your notes—you looked so innocent. So unbothered.

Sukuna glitched again.

Stood there like he got hit by a truck made of softness.

"I—uh…” he started. Then immediately panicked. “I didn’t—fuck, I wasn’t tryin’ to—shit.

Yuuji blinked. “You good?”

Sukuna didn’t answer. Just looked at you again. Eyes flicked down—skirt, knees, your hand adjusting your glasses—and back up.

“You’re, uh—yeah. Whatever. This is fucking dumb.”

He turned on his heel like the room was on fire, shoulders tense, ears red.

“Enjoy failing, dipshit,” he tossed at Yuuji without looking back.

“You’re such a fuckin’ drama queen, man.”

The door slammed shut again. This time quieter. Like Sukuna didn’t want to scare you off.

You exhaled slowly.

Yuuji just gave you a sideways glance.

“...Please don’t mind him. He’s, like, that with everyone. Except… apparently not with you.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“You just made Sukuna stutter. Do you know how many teachers would kill for that kind of power?”

You bit back a smile, staring back at your notes. “Maybe he’s just scared of failing too.”

Yuuji laughed. “He’d rather eat glass than admit that.”

You smiled quietly, but in the back of your mind, all you could hear was the way he’d stammered.

And the way he’d looked at you like you were the only goddamn thing that mattered in the room.

The front door creaked open around 8:47 PM, long past when the street outside had gone dark.

Sukuna shoved it closed with his shoulder, sweat still clinging to the back of his neck, gym bag slung low off one shoulder. He dropped it in the hall with a dull thud, stretching one arm over his head as his tank top rode up just enough to show a line of ink across his hip.

He was tired.

His body ached.

And from the kitchen—

“AHHH—wait, wait, wait—NO YOU CAN’T PUT THAT THERE, THAT’S DIVISION—”

Yuuji’s voice. Loud. Dumb. Echoing.

Sukuna scowled instantly.

“Can you be any louder, fuckface?” he barked as he stepped into the kitchen, jaw tight and heavy footsteps following behind him.

He looked every inch the menace: damp tank top clinging to his chest, black sweatpants low on his hips, a chain around his neck, brow furrowed like the whole world existed just to piss him off.

And then—

You turned to look at him.

Eyes soft. Smile small.

“Hi, Sukuna.”

Like he didn’t just growl at the air like a fucking Rottweiler.

Like you hadn’t even flinched.

And just like that, it hit him again.

Your voice. That damn voice. Sweet and smooth like honey on his eardrums. You were still in your school uniform, skirt riding up a little where you sat on one of the stools at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled neatly, hands folded in your lap like you were trying to kill him slowly.

He glitched. Just like the day before.

Only this time—

He managed to reboot.

“Hey. You… havin’ a good time?” he mumbled, rubbing at his neck as he stepped further in, trying to act casual while very much not being casual.

Yuuji, sitting across from you, raised a brow. “Since when the fuck do you care if someone’s havin’ a good time?”

Sukuna ignored him. He was already grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge like that would cool down the fire crawling under his skin.

“You’re… good at teachin’,” Sukuna added, voice a little rough, a little low.

Your eyes lit up.

“Oh—thank you. He’s actually learning.”

“I heard that,” Yuuji cut in, deadpan.

Sukuna leaned against the fridge, arms crossed now, muscles tight and visible, and gave you this slow once-over—not creepy, just… stuck.

Your lip gloss was still shiny.

He could smell something sweet. Your shampoo maybe. Or you.

And your legs were crossed so delicately beneath you, skirt still a little too short, knees brushing together like they hadn’t wrecked his entire fucking night yesterday.

Yuuji furrowed his brow, looking between you both. Something was clicking in his little hamster brain.

“Wait a second…”

Sukuna tensed.

“No way.”

Don’t.

“OH MY GOD, YOU LI—”

THWACK.

A spatula soared across the room and smacked Yuuji dead in the forehead.

“OW! What the fuck—”

From upstairs, Kaori’s voice exploded.

“YOU BETTER NOT BE TOUCHIN’ MY FUCKIN’ KITCHEN TOOLS! I JUST CLEANED THAT SPATULA, YUUJI!”

“I DIDN’T EVEN TOUCH IT—IT HIT ME!”

“GOOD. NEXT TIME I’LL THROW THE WHOLE DAMN PAN.”

Sukuna was trying not to laugh. His hand covered his mouth, shoulders shaking a little.

Yuuji looked between you two again. “Seriously, what the fuck is going on here?”

And Sukuna—cool now, back in control just enough to be dangerous—tilted his head and looked right at you.

“You got a boyfriend, ma?”

Oh.

The air went still.

Your lips parted.

Yuuji froze.

Sukuna didn’t blink.

“Huh?” you asked, blinking twice like you weren’t sure if you heard him right.

He stepped a little closer, licking his lips like he regretted saying it but also meant every fuckin’ word.

“Said—" he repeated, lower this time, "'m just askin'. You got someone?”

You swallowed. “No. I… don’t.”

“Huh,” Sukuna exhaled, looking away briefly like he needed to cool the fire in his own chest. Then he smirked—just a twitch of it. “Good.”

You blinked again. “What?”

“Nothin’.”

Yuuji’s mouth dropped open. “I fucking KNEW it—”

Another spatula ricocheted off the cabinet.

“FUCKING HELL, KASAN!”

“DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE!”

“I’ll head out now,” you said gently, clutching your bag to your chest as you stepped into the living room, your uniform sweater pulled snug over your shoulders. “Sorry for staying so late, Kaori-san… I had extra classes, and Yuuji really wanted to finish the lesson.”

Kaori, who’d been curled up with a blanket and a rerun of some violent cooking show, turned her head with a big smile.

“Aww, baby, it’s fine,” she said, waving her hand like it was nothing. “If anything, thank you for bein’ patient with my dumbass son. I wouldn’t last two hours with him and a math book.”

You giggled softly.

Then Kaori blinked at the wall clock.

“…It’s almost 9 PM,” she said, frowning. “Hell no, you’re not walkin’ home alone this late.”

You straightened a little, lips parting. “Oh! I’ll be fine, really—”

“Nope,” Kaori cut in, already rising off the couch and stretching. “One of my boys is walkin’ you. Yuuji!”

Yuuji peeked into the room, shirt half untucked, hair messy. “Yeah?”

“Grab a damn jacket and walk her home.”

“Alright, I got it,” Yuuji said with a shrug. “It’s no big—”

“I’ll go.”

Sukuna’s voice dropped into the room like a thunderclap.

He appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like he was posing for a thirst trap. His tank top clung to him like sin, and the tattoos on his arms peeked out, teasing over thick muscle.

Yuuji frowned. “Why? I said I’d go.”

Sukuna snorted. “You punch like a bitch.”

Yuuji blinked. “The fuck does that have to do with anything—”

Kaori stepped beside Yuuji with a grin like she was watching a romantic drama unfold.

“Alright, cool,” she said, smirking as she crossed her arms. “Go on then, Romeo.”

Sukuna didn’t answer her. His eyes were already on you.

He walked over slowly, his boots low and heavy on the floor, stopping just a foot in front of you.

He looked down on you—taller, bulkier, eyes burning just a little too long on your lips.

Then he licked his canine slowly.

Smiled.

And said in a voice so soft it curled around your ribs:

“You good walkin’ this late, pretty girl?”

Your breath hitched in your throat.

You blinked up at him, smiling like an idiot—nervous, soft.

“I-I mean,” you stuttered, “Not really, but… thank you for offering.”

He huffed a little laugh through his nose and tilted his head.

“Mhm,” Sukuna said, gaze dropping to your legs before catching himself. “Figured.”

The red in his cheeks was absolutely not helping his cool factor.

But of course, you didn’t even notice—too distracted with adjusting your bag strap and not tripping over your own nerves.

He opened the door for you with a casual flick of his wrist and nodded for you to go first.

You gave Kaori a small wave. “Good night, Kaori-san!”

“Night, baby,” Kaori smiled.

The door closed behind you both.

Silence.

And then:

“…Did you see that?” Yuuji whispered.

Kaori side-eyed him.

“See what?”

Yuuji’s jaw dropped. “He—he was blushing.”

Kaori raised a brow, smirking. “No shit.”

Yuuji’s hands flailed. “He likes her!”

Kaori leaned down, squinting at him.

“You just figured that out?”

“He was—he did the voice!”

Kaori gasped. “The voice?”

“The ‘pretty girl’ voice!”

Kaori covered her mouth. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I’m not even joking, kasan, he didn't even swear.”

Kaori clutched the wall like she was about to pass out from secondhand embarrassment. “No fucking way."

“I SWEAR TO GOD, KASAN.”

“Jesus christ,” she muttered. “My boy’s down horrendous.”

The night air was cool, crisp, brushing against your arms as you stepped onto the sidewalk.

Sukuna followed behind you, shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweats like they were the only thing keeping him grounded. His shoulders were hunched a little, like maybe he was trying not to walk too close—but you noticed his steps always stayed in rhythm with yours.

It was quiet for a beat. Then—

“You always stay this late?” he asked, his voice low, but not rough. Just warm. A little too warm.

You glanced at him with a shy smile. “Only when Yuuji actually wants to study. Which isn’t often.”

Sukuna huffed a laugh through his nose. “Can’t believe you agreed to tutor him. Should get paid for that.”

You smiled wider. “I am getting paid. He’s giving me coupons he made on MS Paint.”

That got him.

Sukuna laughed—a real one. Deep and rich, like you’d cracked through his armor for just a second.

“Fuckin’ idiot,” he muttered, shaking his head with a crooked grin.

You both fell into silence again, the kind that wasn’t awkward—just close.

Sukuna glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. You looked real soft in the streetlights. Hair catching the orange glow, the little crossbody bag swaying at your hip, skirt just barely brushing your knees.

God. You looked so good. Too good.

He cleared his throat. “You cold?”

You shook your head. “I’m okay.”

“…You sure, ma?”

That nickname again. Like it slid off his tongue on instinct.

You felt heat crawl up your neck. He didn’t even say it dirty—but it still hit.

Sukuna scratched the back of his neck like he regretted it the second it left his mouth. “Sorry, that—uh… habit.”

You laughed lightly, not mocking, just fond. “No, it’s cute.”

He blinked.

“Cute?” he repeated.

You gave him a look like duh. “Yeah.”

He stared straight ahead, face definitely not burning red.

“…Tch. You’re cute,” he mumbled under his breath before he could stop himself.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

A beat passed.

“Wait—fuck,” he muttered, stumbling slightly over a crack in the sidewalk.

You looked at him with a grin. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, standing taller, trying to salvage whatever dignity he had left. “Did that shit on purpose. Testing reflexes.”

“Sure you did,” you laughed.

Sukuna bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling too hard. You were fucking laughing again and it sounded like something he wanted to bottle and keep in his back pocket for when the world pissed him off.

“Let me carry your bag,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“Didn’t ask if I had to. Said lemme,” he said, reaching out, palm up.

You hesitated. Then gave in.

Your fingers brushed when he took it from you.

And everything in him froze.

Her fingers are soft. She’s close. She smells good. She’s looking at me like I’m not a complete fucking disaster.

Sukuna’s brain had one thought:

Oh, how good you’d look under me, takin’ my co—

Nope.

He blinked hard, jaw tightening. He exhaled sharply through his nose like it would physically push the thought out of his skull.

“Y-You alright?” you asked gently, noticing the slight furrow in his brow.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, clearing his throat again. “Just… had a long day.”

You smiled, heart thudding a little harder in your chest.

You reached your building a moment later. Lights were off inside. Quiet. Still.

You turned to him.

“Thank you for walking me.”

He shrugged a little, trying to look cool.

“Wasn’t gonna let you walk alone. S’late. Creeps out.”

You smiled again.

He shifted the bag off his shoulder and held it out to you.

Your fingers brushed again as you took it.

That damn electric touch.

He sucked in a slow breath through his nose.

“Night, Sukuna.”

He paused, eyes on your lips for a second longer than necessary.

“Night, pretty girl,” he said quietly.

And you swear his voice dropped just to say it.

He turned before you could see the smile tugging at his mouth.

Didn’t want you to see how soft his eyes were.

Didn’t want you to see how he was chewing his lip like an idiot the entire walk back.

The living room was comfortably packed—Nobara hogging the blanket, Megumi looking painfully neutral, Yuuji sitting cross-legged on the floor chewing popcorn like it owed him money. You were tucked on the couch between them, your skirt riding just a little too high on your thighs from how you were sitting, but no one was paying attention.

Except someone was.

You just didn’t know it yet.

The movie wasn’t even halfway through when the door clicked open, and loud voices flooded in.

“Bro, he faceplanted so hard I felt it in my spine,” came a deep voice, rough and unmistakably amused.

Sukuna.

You didn’t turn right away, but you heard him. You felt it.

Then came another voice, smooth and shit-eating: “And then he tried to pretend it was on purpose. Like, sir, you just ate concrete.”

Gojo.

“Bet he’ll still post a thirst trap later,” Suguru added, voice warm and lazy.

As the trio passed through the hallway toward the kitchen, Sukuna’s voice trailed off—until he caught sight of the group huddled in the living room.

His gaze found you first.

The second your eyes met, the chaos around you faded into background noise.

It was sharp—how he looked at you.

Eyes dragging across your lashes, your soft lips, the curve of your cheek. You were hugging a pillow to your chest, thighs bare under that skirt, a little messy from laughing too hard earlier. Too sweet. Too innocent.

Too dangerous.

His smirk twitched at the corners. Just enough to show a sliver of his canine.

You blinked back at him, lips parted slightly like you weren’t sure what just happened.

And then Gojo leaned in like he felt the tension crackle.

“Yo, heard you’re getting tutored, Yuuji,” Gojo called out, hands in his pockets.

Yuuji groaned. “Don’t start.”

“Oh no, I think it’s cute,” Gojo grinned. “A little brain-dead golden retriever with a pencil in his hand? Adorable.”

“I swear to god—” Yuuji started.

“He didn’t even know how to spell judo,” Megumi chimed in, deadpan.

“That’s not even true!” Yuuji barked back.

“Okay, spell it,” Nobara challenged.

Yuuji froze.

“…With a ‘g’?” he guessed.

You burst into quiet laughter, covering your mouth.

Sukuna rolled his eyes hard enough to see stars. “You fuckin’ moron.”

Then, as he passed by Yuuji, he paused.

Didn’t look at him. Just said, low and flat:

“Stay the fuck outta my room. And keep your little friends outta it too.”

And then, with a glance toward you—lazy, warm, heavy:

“Ma’s good though.”

Your breath hitched.

Just a second. Not long enough to question. Not long enough to catch anyone’s attention.

But Megumi looked at you anyway.

Nobara’s eyes narrowed slightly.

And all Yuuji did was exhale slowly through his nose.

Smart boy.

Gojo made a low whistle. “Damn, alright.”

Sukuna didn’t say another word. He just kept walking, Suguru trailing after him with a low chuckle and Gojo still rubbing his ribs from where Sukuna had elbowed him earlier.

You blinked at the hallway where they disappeared.

Silence hung in the air for a moment.

Then—

“You okay?” Nobara asked.

“…Yeah,” you murmured. “I think so.”

“You’re not tutoring him too, right?” Megumi added.

You smiled, just a little.

“God, no.”

The movie was halfway forgotten by the time you quietly excused yourself from the couch.

“Restroom?” you asked, voice soft so only Yuuji would hear.

He pointed down the hallway. “Second left. Black door’s Sukuna’s—ignore that one.”

You nodded, whispering a thanks before slipping away, careful not to trip over Megumi’s stretched-out legs or Nobara’s scattered snacks.

The hallway was quieter. Dimmer. Like the noise of the living room got sealed behind a curtain. You padded softly, eye catching the black door Yuuji had warned you about—Sukuna’s room—right next to the slightly cracked bathroom door.

You reached for the handle when—

“You alright?”

A deep, smooth voice behind you.

You jumped, heart nearly catapulting out of your chest. Your back instinctively pressed against the bathroom door, hand still on the knob as you turned your head—

And there he was.

Sukuna stood just a few feet away. No hoodie now, just that thin black tank clinging to his bulked chest and inked arms. His damp hair had dried messy, sticking up in careless tufts. The glow from the hallway light caught the glint of his brow piercing, and the corner of his mouth pulled into that smirk.

You swallowed. Hard.

“I—I was just heading to the bathroom,” you said quickly, trying not to trip over your own words. “Yuuji said—next to the black door. I wasn’t gonna—”

He stepped closer. Slow. Purposeful.

You froze.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and teasing, head tilting slightly as he stared down at you. His frame caged the space between you and the door, and your eyes involuntarily flicked down—shoulders broad, chest heavy with breath, tattoos peeking from his collarbone and sliding down his arms like inked sin.

You nodded, eyes wide.

Sukuna leaned in.

“You really shouldn’t be walkin’ around this house alone, ma,” he murmured, voice dipped in that dangerous calm, like it was just a passing observation and not a threat to your self-control. “Never know what could happen.”

His face dipped down, hovering just close enough to brush your cheek with his lips—barely there. More breath than contact. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up.

“‘Specially lookin’ the way you do,” he added, low. “Fuckin’ skirt ridin’ up like that… standin’ there like you don’t even realize it. Gonna kill me, baby.”

You didn’t know where to look—his lips? his lashes? the way his hand was braced just above your head on the doorframe?

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound warm and cruel.

“God,” he whispered, gaze sliding down your body slow enough to sting. “Bet you’d sound so pretty beggin’.”

The sound of loud laughter burst through the black door—Suguru and Gojo, loud as hell, laughing at something that ended in a loud bang and Gojo yelling, “IT WASN’T ME!”

Sukuna sighed.

“Fucking idiots.”

And then—before you could say anything—his hand came to your waist and he slid you swiftly into the bathroom behind you.

Click.

The door shut with a quiet snick.

Now it was just you. And him. In a small bathroom. Alone.

You blinked up at him, mouth parted, unsure if you should be turned on or nervous or both.

His arm was braced beside your head. His eyes were dark, eating up the inches of space between your bodies.

He didn’t move away.

“Didn’t want them sayin’ shit,” he muttered, voice quieter now, but still thick with heat. “‘Specially not Gojo. Fuckin’ mouth on that guy.”

You swallowed. “Right…”

Sukuna didn’t look at the mirror. He didn’t look away.

He looked at you.

“Could barely handle you smilin’ at me earlier,” he said, a whisper now, all rasp and heat. “Then you laughed. That little skirt ridin’ up every time you sat back…”

He leaned in, nose brushing your cheek—not kissing. Just inhaling.

“I swear to fuckin’ god, ma… I ain’t even touched you and you already got me goin’.”

Your breath hitched.

His lips hovered by your ear now.

“I’d be real fuckin’ gentle with you, y’know that?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again. A tiny red hue crept up his neck and onto his cheeks.

And then—

“What the FUCK—you're spilling it, Gojo!"

Suguru’s voice outside, followed by something crashing.

Sukuna exhaled through his nose, eyes closing for a second like he was restraining every violent impulse in his body.

Then he looked at you again.

Soft. Real soft.

“Bathroom’s yours,” he said finally, voice still low but... gentler.

He opened the door just a crack and checked the hallway.

Then he looked back at you with a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“I’ll be right out here, ma.”

And with that, he left, closing the door behind him.

Leaving you breathless in the silence, heart racing.

You really hadn’t meant for today to be this chaotic.

Between your teacher holding you back for extra help and your club running ten minutes late, there was no shot you’d make it to Yuuji’s house after school for tutoring. You texted him—quick apologies, lots of "I promise I’ll make it up to you" energy—and he texted back immediately:

Yuuji: classroom 3-C’s free, just come here!! i skipped judo for u (feel special pls)

You smiled, stuffing your phone into your bag as you hurried down the empty hallway. The school was quiet now. All that after-school noise had drained out with the sun, leaving just the flickering of tired fluorescent lights and the soft echo of your footsteps.

You reached 3-C, hand hovering over the knob, and pushed the door open with a gentle creak.

"Yuuji?" you called softly.

But it wasn’t Yuuji.

Your words stopped dead in your throat when you saw him.

Sukuna Itadori.

Not your student.

Not the twin you were supposed to be tutoring.

He sat like he fucking owned the place—head tipped back on the chair, thick thigh spread lazily, one leg propped up on another chair, arms draped back like he was on a throne. Tattoos peeked from under the sleeves of his black tee, and his brows arched when he heard your voice.

His gaze slid to you slowly.

"Oh," he drawled, smirk tugging at his mouth. "It’s you."

You blinked, confused. "Yuuji texted me—"

"Yeah, he made me sit here instead. Had to help some girl in kendo tape her wrist or some shit." He tilted his head mockingly. “Hero shit. Told me to stay put and wait for his cute little tutor.”

Your throat tightened. "You’re not even in this class—"

Sukuna’s smirk widened, flashing his sharp canine.

"Scared, pretty girl?" he said, voice dipping, slow and smug.

"You afraid I’m gonna bend you over this desk, ma?"

Your mouth dropped open.

He stood up in one fluid, almost animal motion, tossing the chair back with a casual nudge of his boot. Now he towered in front of you, arms loose at his sides, chains at his neck shifting as he moved.

You took a step back on instinct.

He followed. One step.

"Yuuji’s not comin’ for a while. Said I should keep you company," he murmured, voice sticky-sweet and slow like honey. "Didn’t mind the job."

Your back hit a desk. You gripped the edge as he leaned in, not touching you yet—just hovering. Watching the way your eyes fluttered. The way your lips parted, just a little.

He licked his bottom lip lazily, ringed fingers brushing over your waist like he had all the time in the world.

"You think I don’t see it?" he said, voice so quiet you almost missed it.

"The way you look at me when I walk in the room. Tryin’ not to stare at the ink. The piercings. That whole 'I’m a good girl, I don’t think bad things' act."

Your breath hitched. "I—"

"Yeah?" he murmured, fingers slipping up the curve of your waist.

"That right?"

He leaned in closer, voice nearly brushing your lips now.

"You looked at me that first night like I was gonna ruin you."

You opened your mouth but nothing came out.

He tilted his head, eyes darker now—hot and slow and sinful.

"And I wanted to. Still do."

He grinned when he saw the way your knees nearly gave out.

"Mhm… got you blushin’ now, huh?" he whispered, hand still warm at your hip.

"You gonna tell me to stop?"

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

His nose brushed yours.

"You think about it too, don’t you?"

You gave the smallest nod.

He smirked, the kind of smirk that always got him in trouble.

"That’s what I thought."

And then—finally—he kissed you.

Slow at first, like he was savoring it. The curve of your mouth, the taste of your lips, the shocked little noise you made when he deepened it. His hand slid up your waist, gripping your ribs, pulling you in like he was trying to memorize every inch of you through your clothes.

And for once, he didn’t say a damn thing.

Because your kiss said all of it.

You didn’t even remember how the kiss deepened. One moment you were standing by the desk, and the next you were seated on it—your legs parted by Sukuna’s hands, his body between your thighs, his mouth dragging heated, groaning kisses down your neck like he was losing control by the second.

“Fuck—” he muttered, breath heavy, nose brushing under your jaw as he pressed you back gently, one big palm sliding across your lower back to ease you down flat against the desk. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you, ma?”

Your fingers fisted the back of his shirt, knuckles brushing his tattooed skin underneath as he kissed down the front of your chest, mouthing over the top of your shirt like he could bite through it.

“I’ve wanted to taste this pussy since the fuckin’ first time I saw you,” he grunted, and the rawness in his voice made your thighs tremble around him.

“S-Sukuna—” you breathed out, already melting at the sound of his rings clicking against your thighs as he pushed your skirt up. His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not once. He looked straight at you while he slipped his fingers under the hem, slow like he was giving you a chance to stop him.

But you didn’t.

Didn’t want to.

Not when he looked at you like that—cheeks pink, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he was fighting himself.

“Yeah?” he asked lowly, cocking his head, face so close to your inner thigh it burned. “You want this, ma? Want me to make that sweet lil' pussy cry?”

You nodded, lips parted, heart slamming against your ribs.

That’s all it took.

His hands dragged your panties down, soft fabric catching around your thighs as he hooked them around your knees and pushed them wide open.

And then—

“Goddamn…” Sukuna muttered, like he hadn’t expected you to be this wet already. He dragged two fingers up your folds, slow, and looked up at you as you gasped. “Shit, pretty thing—you were waiting for this, huh?”

His tongue came next.

Hot. Heavy. Hungry.

He didn’t ease into it. Sukuna kissed your pussy like he missed it—like he’d been dreaming about it, getting drunk off the thought of you. The first lick made your back arch. The second had your moan caught in your throat.

“Oh my god—”

“Mhm,” he hummed into you, tongue flattening against your clit in long, messy strokes, each one more desperate than the last. His hands held your thighs apart, fingers digging into soft flesh as he licked you like he had something to prove.

And he did.

“I could fuckin’ stay here,” he groaned, lips glistening, voice rough against your skin. “You taste so goddamn sweet, ma. Gonna be thinkin’ about this every time I see you sittin’ all pretty with that skirt on.”

You bit down a whimper, hand flying to his hair—tugging.

That only made him moan into you.

“Yeah? That good, baby?” he murmured, tongue teasing your clit in slow, tight circles now, just enough pressure to make your stomach clench. “Let me hear you.”

He sucked.

You cried out.

His arms wrapped under your thighs and held you in place, his tongue relentless, hot and messy as it worked you open, up and down, lips locked around your clit like he was trying to make you forget how to fucking breathe.

You were trembling—fingers in his hair, heels digging into the edge of the desk—your body unraveling under every filthy whisper he muttered between licks.

“Shit, this pussy’s mine now, huh?”

“Bet you’re gonna think of this every time you sit in class.”

“Keep fuckin’ moanin’ for me like that, ma—I’ll give you anything you want.”

And when he felt you start to shake—legs clenching around his head, breath caught in your throat—he pulled back just enough to say:

“Cum for me. C’mon—be a good girl. Let me taste it.”

And you did.

Hard.

Crashing into him with a soft cry as your orgasm tore through you, Sukuna groaning as he lapped it up, hand stroking your thigh soothingly even as his mouth kept working you gently through the aftershocks.

When he finally pulled away, chin slick, eyes dark and wild, he just smirked—leaned up over your body again and muttered in that smug, low voice:

“Told you I’d ruin you.”

Your breathing still hadn’t settled. Your skirt was still bunched around your waist. Sukuna stood between your legs, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth with a slow exhale like he was trying to collect himself—but even that cocky smirk was a little dazed.

“That good, huh?” he muttered, smirk turning sharp as his hands found your thighs again. “Fuck—you taste better than I fuckin’ dreamed, ma.”

You swallowed.

He looked so undone—hair a little messy from where your fingers had grabbed at it, cheeks still faintly pink, eyes so blown out and hungry that it was almost dizzying.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, watching him. Something flickered in your chest. A jolt of boldness.

“I wanna taste you,” you said, and your voice was softer than you meant it to be, but it still made Sukuna go still.

His brows lifted just slightly.

Then he laughed under his breath—low and disbelieving, that kind of sexy rasp that hit you right in the gut.

“You tryna kill me, baby?” he said, stepping back just enough. “Goddamn. Alright—c'mere, then. Knock me the fuck out.”

You slid off the desk slowly, and he didn’t stop watching you—not once—as your hands dragged up the hem of his tank, nails brushing across the warm skin of his abdomen. His breath hitched when you touched his belt.

“You sure?” you asked, still a little shy, still looking up at him with those soft lashes—and fuck, that was doing something to him.

“Ma…” Sukuna’s voice dropped an octave, a hand brushing the side of your face as he tilted your chin up. “I just ate your pussy like a fuckin’ man starved. You think I’m gonna say no to feelin’ that pretty mouth around my dick?”

He bit his lip.

“Do it. Fuckin’ ruin me.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You undid his belt and pants slow, fingers brushing over the waistband of his boxers. The bulge pressing against the fabric was ridiculous, and Sukuna was already breathing harder before you even touched him.

When you finally tugged him free, his cock was heavy in your hand—hot, thick, flushed deep red at the tip. Sukuna groaned, head tipping back.

“Shit—yeah,” he hissed through gritted teeth, watching as you slowly wrapped your fingers around him. “Just like that, baby. God, your fuckin’ hands…”

You looked up at him as you leaned in, tongue flicking the tip first—just teasing—and Sukuna nearly staggered.

“Holy fuck—” he choked, hand shooting out to grip the edge of the desk behind you. “Ain’t even in yet and I’m losin’ it.”

You smiled a little—satisfied.

Then you licked a slow, wet stripe from the base to the tip, tongue dragging against the vein, eyes locked on his face. His jaw clenched. He hissed.

You wrapped your lips around the tip, and that’s when he groaned—deep and raw.

“That mouth—fuck, that mouth was made for this, wasn’t it, ma?” he gasped, hand twitching like he wanted to grab your hair but didn’t dare push. “Shit. You look so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

You hummed softly, hollowing your cheeks as you took more of him in, bobbing your head slow and deep—lips slick, tongue dragging just right. His hips twitched, one hand clenching the edge of the desk tighter, the other buried in his hair.

“Goddamn, baby—so good, shit—so fuckin’ good at this, yeah? That right? You want me to cum down that throat?”

You moaned around him, letting your fingers play at the base while you sucked him deep, watching the way his abs tensed and his eyes fluttered shut.

And Sukuna—loud, cocky, arrogant Sukuna—was barely breathing.

“Gonna make me cum so fast—f-fuck—shit, fuck, I can’t—baby, your mouth—”

His hips jerked once.

“Take it, take it, just like that—fucking hell—”

And with a deep, guttural groan, his hand finally slid into your hair, holding you close (not pushing, never pushing), as his climax hit him hard—his voice hoarse and cracking, eyes fluttering, body trembling slightly as you took every drop of him.

When he finally opened his eyes, flushed, panting, he looked down at you like you were made of gold.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, pulling you up slowly, carefully, hand on your jaw as he kissed you rough and breathless. “Swear to fuckin’ god, you’re gonna kill me.”

The kiss hadn’t stopped.

Not when Sukuna gripped the back of your neck and dragged you back into his mouth.

Not when your back hit the desk with a hollow thud and his tongue shoved past your lips like he owned your breath.

Not even when he flipped you around like you weighed nothing.

Your palms slapped the surface of the desk. Your chest pressed against the cold wood, your skirt pushed up to your waist by Sukuna’s large, rough hands. You gasped when you felt him behind you—heavy, hot, the blunt press of his cock against your soaked core through your panties.

“Holy shit,” you whispered, already shaking. “Wait—Sukuna, you’re not gonna—”

He leaned over you, chest against your back, breath on your neck.

“You think I’m not gonna fuck this pussy after the way you looked at me today?” he growled, grinding against you slow. “After that sweet mouth wrapped around my dick like it belonged to you?”

You whimpered—your hands clenched the edge of the desk.

He laughed. Low. Dark. A sound that made your knees buckle.

Then—snap. The sharp sound of your panties tearing off you echoed in the room.

“Fuck—so wet for me already, ma,” Sukuna said as his fingers dragged through your folds. “You want it, huh? Want me to break you open on this desk?”

“S-Sukuna—wait, you’re too—”

“I know, baby,” he said, mocking pout in his voice, even as he lined himself up behind you. “Too big, right? ‘S not gonna fit? That what you were about to say?”

You nodded, gasping, already trembling under the weight of his hand on your lower back.

“Mm,” he grunted. “That’s cute.”

The thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance.

Your breath hitched.

Then—he pushed in.

Slow at first, just the tip, and already it burned, stretched—he was so goddamn big.

“F-Fuck, Sukuna—” you cried, gripping the desk like it could anchor you.

“There you go,” he growled, inching in deeper. “Take it. Take every fuckin’ inch, ma.”

“S-So big,” you sobbed. “It’s not gonna—ah—!”

“Oh it’s gonna fit,” he snarled against your ear. “Gonna make it fit.”

And then he slammed the rest of the way in.

You screamed.

Not in pain—but in shock, in pleasure, in the overwhelming stretch and fullness. The desk creaked beneath you.

“Fuuuuck—tight fuckin’ pussy—like a fuckin’ glove,” Sukuna grunted, bottoming out inside you, his hand gripping your waist so hard there’d be bruises. “You feel that, baby? That’s all of me. Fuckin’ deep, yeah?”

You whimpered something incoherent, drool slipping past your lips.

“Shit—you’re fuckin’ ruined already, huh?” he chuckled, slowly pulling out halfway before snapping his hips back in. The sound of skin slapping echoed like sin. “Can barely breathe with this cock in you, huh?”

You were sobbing now—tears from the pleasure, the overwhelming pressure and drag as he started moving in brutal, hard thrusts. Each one shoved you forward on the desk, your cries cut off by the thick air of the room.

“S-Sukuna—” your voice broke.

“I know, ma,” he rasped, one hand sliding up your back, holding your shoulder. “I know you wanted it this bad. Don’t fuckin’ lie. You dreamt about this, didn’t you? Bent over like this—me fuckin’ you dumb in the middle of a classroom.”

“Y-Yes—fuck, yes—”

“That’s right,” he growled, hips snapping harder. “Say my fuckin’ name while I fuck you open.”

He reached under your stomach—fingers dragging to your clit.

You nearly collapsed.

Your legs shook, your cries turned to sobs. Sukuna was relentless—brutal thrusts, filthy praise, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you like he knew your body.

And he did.

Because when he leaned in close again, he kissed your neck and said, voice low and almost too gentle, “This pussy’s mine now, right, baby? Say it.”

You moaned.

“Say it.”

“It’s yours!” you cried. “Fuck—Sukuna, it’s yours!”

His groan was animal.

Then he started really fucking you—faster, rougher, harder, the sound of your bodies crashing into each other obscene, wet, messy. You felt your climax hit like a wave, clenching around him, crying out loud.

And that was it.

He pulled you back by the waist, slammed into you one last time and groaned your name into your skin as he came hard—deep inside, grinding through every last pulse.

Your bodies shook. The desk creaked again under your combined weight. The room was silent except for your gasping breaths and the rustling of your bodies collapsing together.

Yuuji wasn’t expecting visitors.

It was Sunday.

And Sunday meant exactly three things: cartoons, junk food, and no damn tutoring.

So when the doorbell rang at 1:43 PM and interrupted his third rewatch of The Notebook, he groaned and dragged himself to the door in his hoodie and boxers, expecting a package or maybe Nobara with complaints about Megumi again.

What he wasn’t expecting—

“Y/N?” Yuuji blinked, half-squinting like you were some kind of hallucination. “Wait, what the fuck—what are you doing here? We don’t—uh—we don’t do tutor stuff on Sundays. It’s illegal. Or something.”

You just stood there on the porch with your little shy smile, hands behind your back, looking cute and dangerous. Like the calm before a hurricane. Like someone who had definitely done unspeakable things with his twin brother in public education property.

Before you could answer, a loud, familiar voice came from behind him.

“Move, brat.”

Yuuji yelped as he got physically shoved aside like a beanbag chair. Sukuna stepped into the doorway—shirt half tucked, chain glinting, eyebrow piercing catching the sunlight, literal hickey on his neck—and greeted you like it was a fuckin’ rom-com.

“Hey, baby,” he said, grinning like the bastard he was.

Your eyes softened. You smiled so sweetly, stepping up on your toes and grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. Sukuna—actual devil in Adidas sweats—immediately leaned down with zero hesitation and kissed you. One hand already wrapping around your waist, the other shamelessly squeezing your ass like Yuuji wasn’t right fucking there.

Yuuji’s eye twitched.

He was still standing in the same spot. Watching. Processing.

Watching again.

“...”

You giggled when the kiss broke and leaned into Sukuna’s chest as he muttered something against your hair. Probably filthy. Definitely illegal.

Sukuna, smug as hell, glanced over at his twin with zero shame.

“What?” he asked, like he didn’t just tongue your tonsils in front of his entire bloodline. “You said we didn’t have tutoring today.”

Yuuji blinked.

Then again. Then again.

“You guys are fucking?!”

You just smiled, cheeks warm. Sukuna reached over and shut the door in his face.

divider by: @cafekitsune

[pixeld0ll]

i wanna change my layout but idk what colors to do… IDEAS PLS

[pixeld0ll]

Revenge is Best Served in Bed

tags: mdni, nsfw, sukuna x f!reader, gojo x reader(past), gojo is readers ex (theyre together for first part then break up), revenge sex, size difference, rough sex, spite sex, dirty talk, power play, possessive sukuna, light aftercare, gojo kinda mean in this ngl, petty behavior (and its HOT!!), overstimulation, slight angst

an: had this ideaa driving home and now im obsessed with it i hope you all enjoy!!! <33

wc: 6.0k

You’d been standing in front of the mirror for too long.

Fussing with your hair, adjusting your neckline, smoothing the fabric of your dress until your fingertips went numb. You’d changed three times before settling on this one—tight in all the right places, a color that made your skin glow, just a little too short if you bent the wrong way.

You looked good. You knew you looked good.

So why hadn’t he said anything?

Gojo had barely glanced up from his phone when you walked out of the bedroom. Just a distracted hum of acknowledgment, fingers flying across his screen, something about a mission detail he couldn’t afford to miss.

Not a compliment. Not even a look.

And now, here you were—at some overcrowded rooftop party in the middle of the city, surrounded by half-drunk sorcerers and strangers, standing alone while your boyfriend laughed at something Geto said across the room, an arm casually thrown around Nanami’s shoulder like this was his real relationship.

You shifted your weight in your heels, fingers curled tightly around your drink. Your face was starting to hurt from holding a polite smile.

He hadn’t even introduced you to anyone.

You blinked hard, willing the sting behind your eyes to vanish before it turned into something worse.

No. Not here. Not like this.

The music was too loud, the lights too bright. You slipped out the nearest exit—some side door that led to a quieter balcony, cold night air brushing your skin like a slap.

You leaned against the railing and stared out at the city, willing yourself to calm down. Don’t cry. You’d tried so hard tonight.

“You gonna jump or just cry dramatically into the skyline?”

The voice came from your left—low, teasing, edged with dry humor.

You turned your head—and froze.

The man leaned against the wall in the shadows, a cigarette burning between two fingers. His face was partially lit by the orange glow as he inhaled—sharp jaw, dark markings curling across his skin, eyes like blood and smoke.

You hadn’t seen him inside. You would’ve noticed.

“I’m not crying,” you muttered, wiping under your eyes quickly.

He shrugged like he didn’t believe you but didn’t care either. “Fair. You don’t look like the crying type.”

You arched a brow. “What type do I look like?”

He grinned, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to decide how much trouble to cause. “The kind of girl who doesn’t belong here.”

You crossed your arms, glancing sideways at him. “Do you belong here?”

“Not even a little.” He laughed to himself, blowing smoke out over the edge of the balcony. “But that’s never stopped me.”

You should’ve walked away. Gone back inside. But something about his energy was magnetic—unfiltered, untamed, the exact opposite of the polished, distant world you’d just stepped away from.

“You here with anyone?” he asked, like it was casual. Like he hadn’t been watching you closely since you stepped outside.

You hesitated. “…Yeah.”

He gave a mock grimace. “Shame.”

His eyes flicked down your body, slow and unbothered, but not disrespectful. Like he appreciated what he saw and wanted to make sure you knew it.

“Whoever it is,” he added, “must be an idiot.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He pointed at you lazily with the hand holding his cigarette. “You’ve got tears in your waterline, a death grip on that dress like you’re holding yourself together with thread, and the guy’s not even out here looking for you.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit,” he said, voice quieter now, still cocky but not cruel. “But a man who lets a woman cry alone in the cold while he parties like a king?” He shook his head. “That’s not a man. That’s a fucking disappointment.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s… it’s Gojo.”

A beat of silence.

Then he let out a harsh, sharp laugh—more like a scoff. “Of fucking course it’s that bitchass.”

Your eyes snapped toward him.

He looked amused—furious, even—but not surprised. “Everything about you screamed ‘too good for that self-absorbed peacock.’” He threw his cigarette over the railing and turned to you fully, eyes glittering. “What’d he do this time? Forgot your name? Asked you to hold his mirror?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. Just a small one, but real.

And he noticed.

The moment was cut short by the sound of the door swinging open behind you.

“[Y/N]?”

You turned, already bracing yourself.

Gojo stood in the doorway, expression darkening the moment he saw you—and who you were with. His entire body shifted in that instant: shoulders squaring, voice tighter than it had been all night.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped, eyes locked on Sukuna.

Sukuna just smiled—lazy, unbothered, like this was the most fun he’d had all evening.

“Talking,” he said coolly. “Something you seem to be pretty shit at.”

Gojo stepped forward, pulling you subtly behind him. “Don’t talk to her.”

Sukuna cocked his head. “You don’t want me talking to her? Maybe try not making her cry, dumbass.”

“She’s mine,” Gojo snapped, voice low and dangerous. He glances at you, finally noticing the dots of mascara under your eyes. His brow furrows softly before turning back to Sukuna.

Sukuna’s grin turned downright feral. “Any man who makes a woman cry with sadness instead of pleasure isn’t a man at all.”

A tense silence fell, heavy with everything unsaid.

You felt Gojo stiffen beside you. Felt his jaw clench. But for the first time all night, your heart wasn’t sinking—it was racing.

Gojo snarls under his breath before his fingers wrap around your wrist—tight, possessive, leaving no room for argument. He turns without another word and yanks you behind him, tugging you away from the balcony and back toward the party.

“We’re going home,” he growls, voice low and sharp with anger.

Your heels scuff the concrete as you stumble to follow, but your gaze stays locked over your shoulder—locked on him.

Sukuna doesn’t chase. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches with that smug, knowing smirk curling his mouth, eyes glowing like fire in the dark as he takes another long drag of his cigarette. Smoke coils around his face like a halo of sin.

Your mouth parts, slightly agape.

No one’s ever spoken to Gojo like that. No one’s ever riled him up like that.

No one’s ever read you like that.

That one brief look—those few words—had cut deeper than all the silence you’d endured lately.

Your heart thuds in your chest, not from Gojo’s grip or his tone, but from the way Sukuna had looked at you like he’d already figured you out—and didn’t pity you for it.

Not weak. Not forgotten. Seen.

The door slams shut behind you, cutting off your view of him. But even as Gojo leads you to the car in silence, your mind stays behind—still burning with the image of Sukuna standing in the dark, grinning like the devil who just found a new soul to play with.

The ride home had been silent.

Gojo didn’t say a word. Neither did you.

You felt the weight of his anger like smoke in your lungs—simmering, silent, unresolved. His fingers stayed clenched on the steering wheel the whole time. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain.

And when he collapsed into bed twenty minutes later, still fuming and emotionally absent, you were left sitting at the edge of the mattress—your dress still on, your makeup smudged, your heart still pacing like it hadn’t left the balcony.

You glanced over your shoulder.

He was already asleep. One arm slung over his eyes, mouth parted, white hair a mess against the pillow. You used to think he looked peaceful like this.

Now he just looked distant.

Your eyes dropped to the phone on the nightstand—his phone. He always kept it locked, always face-down. But tonight, in his rush to strip off his clothes and throw himself into bed, he must’ve forgotten.

It lit up when you touched the screen. No passcode. Just a lazy swipe to unlock.

You hesitated.

You shouldn’t.

But your fingers were already moving—opening his messages, flipping through notifications, backtracking into his contacts like muscle memory. You didn’t know what you were looking for.

Until you found it.

Blocked. Tucked at the very bottom of his list.

Only one name.

Sukuna.

Your pulse stuttered.

Why had he blocked him? Not just muted—blocked completely. Deleted messages. No call history.

You clicked the contact anyway.

No photo. Just a number. Just the name.

Your hands moved before your brain could catch up. You took a screenshot and sent it to yourself. Then you deleted the evidence from his photo album and recent texts, making sure nothing looked disturbed.

By the time you put his phone back where it was, your hands were shaking.

You curled into the far edge of the bed with your own phone in hand, staring at the message you’d just sent to yourself—the string of digits that felt like it burned on your screen.

Why had he blocked him?

Or maybe the better question was—

Why couldn’t you stop thinking about him?

Sukuna’s voice replayed in your mind like a sin you wanted to taste again.

“Any man who makes a woman cry with sadness instead of pleasure isn’t a man at all.”

You squeezed your thighs together.

And wondered how long you could go before texting him.

The sun was barely up when you slipped out of bed.

Gojo didn’t stir. Just shifted slightly under the sheets, face buried in his pillow, breathing slow and even.

You padded out of the bedroom in silence, feet cold against the hardwood as you moved through the dim apartment. The walls were too white. The floor too quiet. Even the kitchen, usually a safe space—coffee, toast, soft mornings—felt sterile this time.

You stood there with your hands wrapped around a warm mug, untouched.

And waited.

The minutes ticked by.

And when you finally heard the shuffle of blankets and the creak of the mattress, your heart started pounding like it already knew what was coming.

He stepped into the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his face, hair mussed, wearing nothing but boxers. He didn’t look angry. Just tired.

Detached.

“Hey,” he muttered.

No kiss. No “good morning.” No arms around your waist. No mention of how you’d gotten out of bed without waking him, or if you’d slept at all.

Just that one word. Like you were a roommate. Like you were anyone.

You didn’t answer.

You just stood there, mug pressed to your chest like armor, staring at the grain of the table.

Gojo finally glanced up, sensing the change in the air. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated. Your throat ached. But you made yourself meet his eyes.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected.

“I think we need to break up, Satoru.”

The silence was instant. Loud.

His brows drew together in confusion, like you’d just spoken another language. “What?”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the mug.

He stepped closer, a hint of frustration already creeping into his voice. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m serious.” You held his gaze, though it hurt to do it. “This… whatever we’ve become… it’s not working anymore.”

“Not working?” he scoffed, tension rising in his shoulders. “Since when?”

“Since always,” you whispered.

He stared at you like he was trying to make sense of a bad dream. Then something in him cracked—and his voice got louder.

“Who is he?”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“You met someone, didn’t you?” he accused, voice sharp, like he wanted to pin the blame on anything but himself. “That guy from last night—outside. The fucking curse user? That’s it, isn’t it?”

Your lips parted in disbelief. “Satoru, no—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, stepping closer now. “You think I didn’t see how you looked at him?”

Your hands started to tremble.

“It’s not because of him,” you said, voice breaking, “I’m leaving because of you.”

He froze.

And then, quieter, through clenched teeth: “Then tell me what I did.”

You laughed bitterly, even as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “You didn’t do anything, Satoru. That’s the problem. You haven’t made time for me in months. You don’t listen, you don’t look at me, you forget things I tell you ten seconds later. It feels like—like you don’t even like me anymore.”

“I’ve been busy—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“I know,” you said. “You’re always busy. Everyone needs you. You’re the strongest.”

Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper now.

“But I needed you too.”

Silence.

The tears finally slipped down your cheeks, and you made no move to hide them. You didn’t need to protect his feelings anymore. Not when yours had been neglected for so long.

Gojo opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He didn’t try to hold you. Didn’t say he was sorry. Didn’t say he still wanted you.

And that was your answer.

You wiped your cheeks, quietly placed the mug in the sink, and walked past him toward the bedroom to pack your things.

—----------------------------------------

You’re sitting in your apartment—your real one. The one Gojo never truly settled into. The one that always smelled faintly like lavender dryer sheets and loneliness.

You never officially moved in with him. But somehow, it still feels like you’ve come back from war.

Your knees are pulled to your chest, a worn, gray cat plushie crushed to your front like a lifeline. It still smells faintly like your childhood room. Safety. Home. The opposite of how your heart feels now.

Tears still sting the corners of your eyes, hot and heavy, even though the crying’s stopped. You’re emptied out. Hollowed.

The screen of your phone glows against the shadows of your room.

You stare down at the message you typed hours ago. Your finger hovers over the send button.

You: Hey. It's me. Can we talk?

Simple. Almost too casual. But you’ve retyped it a dozen times already. This was the least desperate version.

The contact is still just a number. You haven’t saved his name.

But your chest tightens just looking at it.

You remember the way Sukuna looked at you that night on the balcony—head tilted, mouth full of fire and sin, like he could see you even through the dark.

And he didn’t look away. He didn’t flinch.

He called Gojo a bitchass. Said you deserved better. Said no man should ever make a woman cry without earning her tears through something far less innocent.

Your thighs press together before you can stop them.

You shouldn’t do this.

You know what kind of man Sukuna is—arrogant, cocky, dangerous. He’s not safe.

But Gojo was supposed to be safe. And look how that turned out.

You whisper to no one, “What the fuck am I doing…”

And then— You hit Send.

The message disappears into the digital void. You drop the phone onto the mattress like it might burn you.

Your heart pounds in your chest.

You wait.

One minute. Two. Three.

Then the screen lights up.

Unknown Number: took you long enough, princess. where are you.

You stare at the screen, heart pounding, thumbs twitching.

He replied in under a minute.

Of course he did.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard again, hesitant.

You: I’m home. Just… been a rough day.

The read receipt pops up instantly. He’s waiting.

Typing…

Then:

Sukuna: bet it has. was it hard dumping that pretty boy in his own house?

Your breath catches.

You never told him. But somehow, he knows.

You: ...So you heard.

Sukuna: oh, sweetheart i didn’t hear i felt it the second you stopped pretending he was enough

You swallow hard.

Your chest rises and falls a little too fast. Your thighs squeeze a little too tight. You want to blame the breakup. The loneliness.

But it’s his voice—bleeding through your screen, taunting you, coaxing you.

You: You’re cocky for someone who barely knows me.

Sukuna: nah. i knew everything i needed the second you walked outside looking like heartbreak in heels. told you, didn’t i? whoever made you cry had to be a fucking idiot.

You clench your jaw, your face heating. You should stop. You should put the phone down.

But instead—

You: You really think I looked that bad?

Sukuna: nah, princess. you looked like sin wrapped in satin. just pissed it wasn’t my hands fucking up your mascara.

A sharp inhale slips past your lips.

Your legs uncurl from beneath you, stuffed animal tossed aside like a forgotten shield. You don’t even realize you’re biting your lip until the taste of it hits your tongue.

You: You’re such an asshole.

Sukuna: and you like that. especially right now.

You hesitate. Then:

You: What would you do if I came over?

A pause.

He’s typing. Then stops.

Typing again. Longer this time.

And then—

Sukuna: i’d make you forget that white-haired fuck ever touched you. i’d ruin you, sweetheart. slowly. properly. make you cry for a better reason.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, trying to breathe through the ache settling deep in your core.

You shouldn't want this.

But fuck, you do.

You don’t even remember standing up. Don’t remember grabbing your jacket. Only the last message you send, before you walk out the door with your heart hammering and heat pooling between your thighs.

You: Send me your address.

You almost lose your nerve in the elevator.

The city lights blur past the glass walls as you rise—heart pounding, legs trembling, throat dry. Your reflection stares back at you in the metal paneling: mascara smudged, lips raw from biting, hair a little messy.

You’d barely changed. Just grabbed your jacket and keys and left.

Your phone buzzes once in your hand. A message.

Sukuna: top floor. end of the hall. knock loud, sweetheart. i’ll like hearing you beg.

Your stomach flips.

You hate how your thighs clench at that.

By the time you reach his apartment door, your pulse is in your throat. The hallway is empty, dark and quiet. His door is tall and intimidating—just like him.

You stare at it for a second, breath catching.

Then you raise your fist and knock.

One beat. Two.

Nothing.

Then—click.

The door creaks open, slowly. Only a sliver at first.

Then a voice, smooth and dripping with smugness:

“Took you long enough, pretty girl.”

The door swings open fully.

And there he is.

Sukuna stands in the doorway with no shirt, just a pair of black sweats slung low on his hips. He’s barefoot, covered in black ink and muscle—chest broad, abs cut like marble, tattoos crawling up his throat and across his pecs like they were painted by sin itself.

He’s massive. Monstrous.

He fills the entire doorway. You feel small just standing in front of him—your head barely reaches his chest, even with your boots on. He looks down at you like a wolf looks at a trembling rabbit.

And he grins.

“You look smaller than I remember,” he says, head cocked slightly. “Or maybe I just like seeing you like this. Nervous. Flushed.”

Your breath stutters. “I’m not nervous.”

“Mm. Liar.” His eyes drag over you slowly, hungrily. “Didn’t even bother changing. Must’ve been in a real hurry to see me.”

You scowl, but your body betrays you—fidgeting slightly under his gaze, thighs rubbing unconsciously.

He leans one forearm against the doorway, towering over you now, tongue brushing his lower lip. “Gonna stand there all night, sweetheart?”

You blink.

He raises a brow. “Or are you gonna come inside and let me make you feel something for once?”

That does it.

You step forward—and he doesn’t move.

You stop short, chest nearly brushing his abs.

He smirks wider. “Gonna have to squeeze past me, baby. You sure you can handle all that?”

You meet his gaze, defiant even as your knees go weak. “I came here, didn’t I?”

Sukuna’s grin sharpens—teeth flashing.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, stepping back just enough to let you in, “you did.”

His hand brushes the small of your back as you pass—just enough to make your skin erupt in goosebumps.

The door shuts behind you with a quiet click.

And suddenly, you’re alone in his apartment, in his space, standing beneath his gaze—and for the first time in days...

You don’t feel invisible.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing the silence.

His apartment is darker than you expected—warm-toned, minimal, dangerous in its simplicity. Clean, but not in a tidy-boyfriend way. Clean like a predator who doesn’t leave evidence behind.

You shift, suddenly aware of the sound of your own breathing.

And then he’s there—behind you.

Too close.

You feel the heat of his chest, the energy of him, like static about to arc. His voice hums low at your ear.

“So.” “Did you come here to cry some more, or are you finally ready to feel something?”

You turn to face him, slowly.

He's still shirtless, tattoos crawling like vines over his chest and arms. Every inch of him screams danger. His pink hair is a little tousled, eyes gleaming red in the low light—sharp and amused.

Your voice comes out quieter than intended. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it’s fucking delicious,” he murmurs, dragging his eyes down your body like a slow exhale. “You showing up on my doorstep, all soft and wet-eyed, looking for something rougher than love.”

You clench your jaw. “I didn’t say that.”

“No,” he grins, stepping closer again. “But your body did.”

He doesn't touch you—of course he doesn’t. He doesn't have to. Just looms, like he could devour you if he wanted. His chest practically shadows your whole upper body. 

“You miss it yet?” he asks, voice lower. “Being wanted?”

You look away, and he chuckles.

“That’s a yes.”

“You’re full of yourself,” you mutter, stepping past him to put some space between you. “You think I came here to jump into bed with you? This isn’t some porno revenge fantasy.”

Sukuna laughs—deep, mocking. “Sweetheart, if this were a porno, we’d be halfway to a creampie on your ex’s hoodie by now.”

You shoot him a glare, cheeks heating.

“And don’t worry,” he adds, lips quirking, “I know you didn’t come here to fuck.”

He pauses.

Then, with a glint in his eye—

“You came here to want to.”

You stop breathing for a second.

He watches it all—the way your fingers twitch, your lips press together, your thighs shift again like they’re trying to not respond to the pull of his voice.

You hate how right he is.

“Poor little thing,” he says, softer now. “You were starving. And he didn’t even notice.”

You flinch.

It’s too close to the truth.

Sukuna doesn’t gloat. Not really. He just watches you with a predator’s stillness, like he’s waiting for you to break.

You swallow, trying to ground yourself. “I didn’t come here for pity.”

“Oh, I’m not offering it.”

He steps closer again, slow this time, almost gentle—if that word could ever exist in his world.

“I’m offering you something else.”

You look up at him. And you hate it—you hate how small you feel, how hot your cheeks are, how part of you wants him to push and push until you fall apart just to prove Gojo was never enough.

He leans in, breath ghosting over your ear.

“You’re not over him,” he murmurs. “But you will be—once I’m done with you.”

Your breath catches.

You can feel the goosebumps rise on your arms.

Still, you whisper:

“Then do something about it.”

For a split second, the air stands still.

Then—he moves.

In a blur of motion, he's on you.

A large hand clamps around the back of your neck, fingers digging into the nape like he owns it. His other arm snakes around your waist, yanking you forward as he towers over you—and then he's kissing you.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Devouring.

His mouth crashes against yours, all heat and teeth and intent. His grip tightens, head tilting as his lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding past to take what he’s been holding back from the second he opened that door.

You gasp, fists clutching at his chest to stay grounded. He’s so much bigger up close like this—his frame utterly consuming yours. Your toes barely graze the floor as he lifts you slightly with his hold, body pinned flush against hard muscle and inked skin.

“You want me to do something?” he growls against your lips, voice breaking into a low snarl. “This is what you fucking came for.”

You moan before you can stop it.

Your arms loop around his neck, desperate to pull him closer even as he takes his time bruising your lips, teeth nipping your bottom one until it stings.

He breaks the kiss only to tilt your head back further, exposing your throat. He doesn’t kiss it—not yet. He just breathes hotly against your skin, lips hovering just out of reach as his fingers tighten possessively in your hair.

“You want me to make you forget him? Say it.”

You squirm under his grip, lips parted, breath hitching. “S-Sukuna—”

“Say it.”

Your voice shakes—but you obey.

“Make me forget him.”

He grins against your jaw. Triumphant. Dangerous.

“Good girl.”

Then he lifts you—literally off your feet like it’s nothing.

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, arms clinging to his neck as he carries you toward the bedroom, mouth trailing open-mouthed kisses along your throat now, nipping your collarbone hard enough to leave a mark.

“You’re mine tonight,” he rasps, voice thick with promise. “And when I’m done—”

His hips roll up between your thighs as he walks, grinding slow and deliberate—

“—you’ll forget any name that isn’t mine.”

He carries you into his bedroom like you weigh nothing—like you belong in his arms, clawing at his back, breathless and needy.

The room is dim, soaked in shadows and heat. You barely register the scent of cigarettes, leather, and something so male before he tosses you onto the bed.

You bounce slightly against the mattress, your breath catching.

Sukuna towers above you—broad chest heaving, pupils blown wide with lust, jaw flexing like he’s holding himself back.

For a second, he just looks at you. Drinks you in.

Then climbs over you, one hand planting beside your head, the other sliding up your thigh until your skirt bunches around your hips.

“Still want me to do something about it?” he rasps, voice like gravel and sin.

You nod, lips parted, but something sticks in your throat. A weight.

A memory of cold silence. Of Gojo’s turned back. Of feeling invisible even while being held.

And then, softly—almost too quiet to hear:

“...Sukuna?”

He pauses.

Looks down at you, brows barely twitching. Waiting.

“Gojo was always… gentle.”

A beat of silence.

Then your voice again—barely a whisper, but it lances straight through his spine.

“Don’t be gentle.”

His jaw tightens.

His hand on your thigh grips harder. His breath darkens. His whole body tenses like a fuse just hit the flame.

“Oh, baby,” he growls, lips curling back into a wicked grin. “You don’t know what you’ve just asked for.”

Then his hand wraps around your throat—not choking, just holding, just claiming—as he leans down to kiss you again, harder than before. His teeth scrape your lip, tongue pushing deep and demanding. You gasp, your body arching beneath him, hips rolling up on instinct.

He pulls back just enough to growl against your lips:

“You want me to fuck you like I hate him?”

You nod, breath trembling. “Yes.”

He lets out a sharp, guttural sound—somewhere between a laugh and a snarl.

“Then I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget how to say his fucking name.”

He doesn’t waste time.

The second you give him permission, Sukuna’s mouth crashes into yours like a war drum, lips bruising, tongue invasive. He tastes like smoke and dominance—like danger.

Your body’s pinned flat beneath his, his weight deliciously suffocating. He doesn’t give you a second to think.

His hand slides between your thighs, gripping your panties and ripping them off in one savage motion. The sound of tearing fabric tears a gasp from your throat.

“So wet already,” he growls, sliding two fingers through your folds, smearing your slick like he owns it. “Bet he never even made you drip like this.”

You moan, back arching.

“Tell me,” he demands, rubbing lazy, taunting circles around your clit. “Did he ever fuck you like he meant it?”

You shake your head.

“Did he ever make you beg?”

“N-No…”

“Then I’ll teach you how.”

He sinks two fingers into you with zero warning—deep and rough. Your hips jerk, a sharp cry ripping from your throat.

“That's it,” he snarls, lips grazing your ear. “Cry for me.”

His fingers curl, dragging along your walls like he knows exactly where that spot is—and he does. Of course he does. He watches you unravel with sick pleasure, your thighs trembling already.

“Fuck—look at you. Gripping me like you were made for this.”

You whimper his name and that breaks something in him.

Sukuna pulls his fingers out and shoves them into your mouth.

“Suck.”

You do, lips closing around him, tasting yourself on his skin. He watches, eyes burning red, chest heaving.

“Good girl.”

Then he’s unbuckling his belt, pants shoved down just enough. His cock slaps against his abdomen—thick, hard, leaking.

Your mouth falls open. It’s massive. Way bigger than Gojo’s.

He sees your expression and laughs.

“You’re gonna feel this in your stomach.”

He grabs your legs, yanking you to the edge of the bed. No prep. No warning.

“Take a deep breath, sweetheart.”

And then—he thrusts in.

You scream.

The stretch is brutal, the burn immediate. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t let you adjust. Just pistons into you with a punishing rhythm, like he wants to fuck Gojo out of your memory—out of your soul.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Take it. Fucking take it.”

Your fingers claw at the sheets. Your thighs tremble. Your voice is breaking on every moan. He’s relentless.

He grabs your hips, slamming you down onto his cock harder, deeper, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room.

“Say my name.”

You barely choke it out—“Sukuna—!”

“Louder.”

“SUKUNA—!”

He grins, feral. Leaning over you, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple.

“That’s right. Scream it. Let the whole fucking city know who you belong to now.”

He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and fucks into you deeper.

You cry out, eyes rolling back. You’ve never been this full, this wrecked. Your body’s already close—your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave as you clamp down hard around him.

“Fuck—yeah, squeeze me just like that,” he groans, eyes dark with lust. “You were made for this cock.”

You sob his name as you cum, trembling under him.

But he’s not done.

He flips you over without warning, face down into the mattress, ass up. You barely catch your breath before he shoves back into you with a growl.

“We’re not finished.”

He fucks you like he owns you. Like your body is a message. Like every thrust is revenge.

You’re not sure how many times you cum—once, twice, maybe more. He doesn’t stop. Not until your voice is hoarse and your knees give out.

Finally, with a grunt and a low growl of your name, he buries himself deep and spills inside you—hard.

You feel it all.

The way his fingers sink into your hips as he rides out every last pulse.

The heat of his cum leaking out around his cock.

The silence after, filled only by the sound of your breathing.

Then, Sukuna leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Still thinking about him?”

You shake your head, dazed, ruined.

He chuckles low.

“Didn’t think so.”

You don’t remember collapsing. Your body’s wrecked—twitching, trembling, boneless.

You’re lying face-down, cheek pressed into his mattress, still gasping for breath. Your skin’s hot, sticky with sweat. Your thighs are shaking, sore, the stretch of him still a dull ache inside you.

And then—you feel him.

Not rough. Not grabbing.

Gentle.

Sukuna’s large hands smooth up your spine, slow and soothing. He’s not talking. Just dragging his palms across your back like he’s grounding you—like he’s anchoring you there, to him.

He exhales through his nose, and for a second, it’s like he’s… thinking.

Then, his voice comes—low, hoarse. Not mocking.

“You okay?”

Your breath hitches. You nod into the pillow.

A beat passes. Then another.

You flinch slightly when the bed shifts—expecting him to get up. Walk away. Be done with you now that the tension’s snapped.

But instead—you feel the mattress dip beside you.

And then, something shocking.

A warm, rough palm on your cheek.

Turning your face toward him.

You blink up at him—eyeliner smudged, lips kiss-swollen, hair a mess. He just looks at you, not saying anything.

His expression isn’t smug anymore. Not cruel. Not sharp.

Just… unreadable.

Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with what he’s feeling.

“He didn’t deserve you,” Sukuna mutters finally, thumb brushing your cheekbone in the barest touch. “Fucking idiot.”

You don’t say anything. You just look at him.

And for once, Sukuna doesn’t look away.

His hand slides from your cheek to your waist, curling there possessively as he pulls you into his chest. Not to fuck. Not to tease.

Just… to hold.

“You stayin’ the night?”

You nod, cheek resting over his heart now. It’s pounding. Heavy.

“Good,” he says. Voice rasping. “Didn’t feel like letting you leave anyway.”

There’s silence for a long time.

Then, so soft you barely hear it:

“...You did good, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches.

Because that—that meant something. More than all the filth, more than the hatefuck, more than anything else.

That wasn’t revenge. That was real.

And in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, you finally let yourself fall asleep.

You wake up slowly. The sheets are soft, warm—and they smell like him. Smoke, leather, and sweat. Your body aches deliciously, sore in places you didn’t even know could be sore. A reminder of last night with every breath.

Sukuna’s not in the bed.

You blink blearily, sitting up on shaky elbows, the oversized blanket falling off your bare chest. You hear low movement—drawers opening, something clinking in the kitchen.

Then—your phone vibrates against the nightstand.

Incoming Call: Satoru

You freeze.

Your heart lurches. Your fingers twitch, halfway toward it.

But before you can reach it—

A hand snatches it up. His hand.

Sukuna’s standing at the doorway to the bedroom, shirtless, coffee mug in one hand, your phone in the other.

Hair messy. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Gold chains glinting against his throat.

He looks down at your screen, smirks, and answers it without a fucking care.

“What.”

Your stomach flips. “Sukuna—!”

He ignores you, putting the call on speaker as he leans against the doorframe.

Gojo’s voice comes through, sharp and pissed.

“Who the fuck is this?”

Sukuna’s smile widens—feral. His eyes flick to you, still naked in his bed, then back to the phone.

“She’s busy.”

“Where the hell is she—?”

“In my bed,” Sukuna says, sipping his coffee like it’s the weather report. “Sleeping off the five times I fucked her last night.”

You slap your hand over your mouth, eyes wide in shock and mortification—and arousal.

The silence on the other end is deafening.

Then:

“You fucking—”

“If I were you,” Sukuna cuts in, voice suddenly ice-cold, “I’d delete her number and learn how to jack off. You had your chance. You wasted it.”

Gojo’s breathing ragged through the speaker.

“Put her on the phone.”

Sukuna tosses your phone on the bed like it’s trash.

“She’s not interested, bitchass.”

Then he ends the call.

You stare at him, stunned, lips parted. A loud laugh escapes you.

He walks back over, casual as hell, climbs onto the bed, and kisses you slow—like he didn’t just emotionally obliterate your ex with five words and a dick print.

“You hungry?” he murmurs against your mouth. “Or you want round six first?”

[pixeld0ll]

Tear you apart (pt. 1  pt. 2)

tags: sukuna x fem! reader, nsfw, mdni, trueform!sukuna, degradation, size kink, humiliation, pain kink, possessive!sukuna, they both freaky idk

an: EEEEE thank you all sosososoooo much for all the love!! Please enjoy part 2 <3 

words: 3.8k

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at your reflection—the bandages, the bruises, the dull ache radiating from deep within your core. There’s no mistaking it.

What happened in Sukuna’s domain wasn’t a dream. It was real.

A knock at your door jolts you out of your daze.

“You up?” Yuuji’s voice is muffled through the wood, tinged with concern. “Gojo’s waiting for everyone.”

Though the forecast promises a hot day, you hurriedly tug on a high-neck sweatshirt, wincing as the fabric scrapes over one of the bite marks blooming on your shoulder. You tug the sleeves down over your wrists and press your hands to your cheeks, trying to will away the heat rising there.

You can’t afford to look guilty. Not today.

Opening the door, you find Yuuji standing there. He looks down at you, brows immediately knitting together.

“Damn, Y/N… you okay?” Concern flickers in his eyes. His voice is soft, careful.

Your stomach twists. “Y-yeah. Just didn’t sleep well. Had a bad dream,” you mumble, hugging your arms around yourself as you step past him, heading toward the classroom.

You hope he lets it go. Because if Yuuji noticed something was off…

Gojo definitely will.

Yuuji lingers behind for a second, watching you walk. His eyes narrow slightly, his fingers twitch.

“Weird…” he mutters under his breath. “Why do I sense another cursed energy around her?”

He jogs to catch up, falling into step beside you. He doesn’t say anything at first—just watches from the corner of his eye. You flinch subtly with each step, your pace a little too careful.

He decides not to push. But he knows something isn’t right.

“Ah, sleeping beauty has arrived.” Gojo’s voice rings out the moment you step inside the classroom. He’s leaning lazily against the desk, blindfold pushed just enough to reveal a sliver of crystalline blue eyes that scan you far too intently.

Your stomach flips. You feel nauseous all of a sudden.

“You look like hell,” he continues, but his tone is teasing—too casual. “Nightmares? Or just up all night fantasizing about me?”

You try to laugh, but it comes out strained. “Maybe in your dreams, Gojo.”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short,” he says with a wink. “You’re definitely the type I’d dream about.”

Your heart skips a beat. You press a hand towards your chest, breath catching.

Gojo pauses. His grin falters just slightly. He tilts his head.

“...You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

You force a nod, eyes avoiding his. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He studies you for a beat longer. And just as he’s about to speak again—

“He’s annoying.”

Your breath catches. The voice slithers through your mind like smoke, curling around your thoughts.

Sukuna.

You go still.

“The way he looks at you. Like he could ever touch what’s mine.”

Your lips part, wetness curling between your thighs. You barely hear Gojo calling your name.

“I can still feel you, pet. The way you clenched around me. The way you screamed. That part of me I left inside you… it’s listening. Watching.”

Your knees threaten to buckle, thighs clenching, remembering how good he felt.

“Y/N?”

You blink. Gojo’s in front of you now, brows furrowed, a hand hovering near your shoulder like he’s unsure whether to touch you.

You force a smile, too sharp at the edges. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “Zoning out with a full body blush and almost falling on your ass?”

Your eyes widen. You hadn’t realized—

He leans in slightly, voice low. “Tell me what’s really going on.”

And again, like a possessive shadow curling in your bones, Sukuna whispers:

“Tell him, and I’ll show you what it means to really bleed for me.”

Your breath catches, a war igniting in your chest.

Between right and wrong. Pain and pleasure. Control—and the bliss of losing it.

You take a shaky step back.

“I’m fine, Gojo. Just need some air.”

Before he can protest, you’re already walking away, heart pounding. You feel Sukuna’s laughter coil inside your skull like velvet chains.

“Ill be back, little one.”

___________________________________________________________

That night, you lie awake in bed, fighting sleep like it’s the devil himself.

You’re exhausted—bone-deep tired—and all you want is to curl up and let the REM cycle pull you under.

But he said you’d see him. And you’re not sure if you can handle that.

Your bed is too warm. The sheets too soft. The pillow too plush. Everything feels too much, too inviting—and soon, despite your fear, sleep wins.

Your breathing slows. Soft snores slip from your lips as your heavy eyelids finally give in.

It’s a battle you didn’t want to lose. But you did want to lose it. Didn’t you?

Then— A hand.

You feel it first: large, rough, demanding, wrapping around your ankle.

Then another, sliding up your thigh—gripping, squeezing.

A third clamps down on your waist, sharp nails biting into soft flesh.

A fourth wraps around your wrist, and before you can scream, you’re being pulled. Yanked down— Falling. Falling. Falling.

Your stomach flips. You brace for impact.

Your eyes snap open— And you land in a graveyard of skulls.

A river of thick, dark-red liquid snakes beneath your feet. The air is heavy, choking with a crimson haze.

You’re back. In his domain.

“I told you I’d be back,” a low voice hisses in your ear.

Your heart seizes. Your eyes widen in terror as a flood of heat rushes between your thighs.

He chuckles darkly.

A hand wraps around the back of your neck, yanking you backward—flush against a bare, unrelenting chest. You gasp, breath catching in your throat as his skin burns against yours.

You tilt your head back, looking up with wide, innocent eyes.

His gaze drops to meet yours. A slow, sinister smirk curls his lips.

His eyes—dark, hungry, knowing—gleam in the blood-red light.

“Oh, pet,” he purrs. “Did you miss me?”

You cross your arms defiantly, trying to ignore the way your hands tremble.

Of course, he notices.

“You really couldn’t wait a single night, huh?” you sneer, forcing the words past the knot in your throat. “Is my pussy just that good?”

His brow lifts, amused—and intrigued. Most wouldn’t dare speak to him like this. Especially not twice.

“Says the little brat who nearly came just from hearing my voice in her head,” he drawls, the smirk curling on his lips making your stomach twist. He lets go of your neck with a rough shove, stepping around to face you fully.

Your breath stutters. You weren’t expecting that kind of comeback.

“I-I did not,” you snap, voice higher than intended. “I was in the middle of class with my teacher—what did you expect me to do when a demon suddenly starts whispering in my brain?!”

He cuts you off with a lazy wave of his hand. “You talk too much.”

Your jaw drops. “You’re really fucking annoying, you know that?” you mutter, eyes narrowing. “Can’t believe I wasted three years trying to meet you.”

His expression doesn't change—but something in the air does.

He steps forward. One slow, deliberate stride. Then another. You feel yourself instinctively taking a step back, but it’s useless—he’s already there.

A single clawed finger hooks under your chin and tilts your head up, up, up. He’s towering above you, his crimson gaze boring into yours. You freeze. Your heart pounds like war drums inside your chest.

“Why do you think you’re here?” he murmurs, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You’ve been nagging at my brain that entire time, you know.”

You swallow hard, trying not to lean into his touch. His finger is barely pressing against your skin, but the weight of his presence is crushing.

He leans in—so close you can feel his breath at your ear.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice low and deadly. “Say you regret summoning me.”

You hesitate, unsure if it’s a bluff.

“...Do it,” he hisses, mouth ghosting along your jaw. “Lie to me.”

When you say nothing, he laughs. A dark, guttural sound that makes your knees weaken.

“There it is,” he purrs. “That’s what I wanted to see.”

Then, in a blink, he’s behind you—an arm wrapping tight around your waist, yanking your back against his much larger chest. His other hand drags slowly down your neck, fingertips grazing each sensitive bruise.

“You wanted me,” he growls, breath hot against your skin. “And now I’m part of you. You thought one night would be enough?”

You squirm in his hold, heat pooling between your thighs despite yourself.

“Fuck off,” you whisper.

His grip tightens instantly.

“No, no, no, little girl. You don’t get to want me, take me, and then act like you’re in control. That’s not how this works.”

You try to turn your head, but he leans down and bites your shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, but just enough to make you gasp.

“You’ve already let me in,” he breathes. “Body, mind, soul.”

His tongue licks over the bite mark, before he bites harder, drawing beads of red. “And I’m not leaving.”

His tongue drags over the bite on your shoulder—slow, possessive—and your breath hitches.

“Still pretending you don’t want this?” he murmurs into your skin, his voice like velvet over glass. “Even now? With your thighs clenching like that?”

“I’m not,” you gasp, but your hips betray you—grinding back into the hardness pressed against your ass. He chuckles darkly.

“Liar.”

His lower arms snake around your waist, one hand flattening against your stomach, the other sliding down—down—between your legs. He doesn’t bother undressing you. With a single sharp flick of his claws, your shorts are shredded. He palms your heat through the soaked fabric of your panties.

“Already soaked,” he growls. “So desperate for me, even after I ruined you last time. Or maybe… because I did.”

You shiver. “You’re full of yourself.”

“And you’re full of me,” he shoots back with a grin. “Or you will be.”

His fingers press harder, rubbing slow, punishing circles over your clit through the thin cotton. You try to stifle the whimper that slips out, but he hears it anyway—and groans in approval.

“I love that sound,” he murmurs. “Make it again.”

You snap your thighs together instinctively, trying to push his hand away, but he just laughs—low and dangerous.

“Still bratting, even when you’re soaking through your panties for me?”

He turns you to face him, easily hoisting you up by your thighs. You yelp, arms flying around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You gonna keep mouthing off?” he asks, grinding your soaked core against the thick bulge straining beneath his pants. “Or are you finally ready to be honest?”

You bite your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a moan as his cock presses just right. “What if I like mouthing off?” you say breathlessly. “Maybe I like making you work for it.”

His eyes flash crimson. “Then I’ll make you work for it too.”

With one hand, he yanks your panties aside, the soaked fabric sticking to your folds before tearing away. His cock presses against your entrance, hot and hard and huge.

“You know what to say,” he whispers darkly, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness, teasing your swollen entrance.

You do.

And you hate how much you want to say it.

“…Please,” you whisper.

He stills. “What was that?”

You grit your teeth. “Please. Please fuck me, master.”

He growls—a low, primal sound that vibrates in your chest—and the next second, he’s inside.

Your breath leaves your lungs in a choked gasp.

He bottoms out in one brutal thrust, your back arching as the stretch burns—but god, it’s so good. You cling to him, trembling, walls fluttering around him as he groans into your neck.

“So tight,” he hisses. “Still not used to me, even after I’ve claimed you.”

You can’t even speak, just gasp as he begins to thrust—deep and punishing, every stroke slamming into that spot that makes your vision blur. His lower hands grip your thighs, keeping you open and helpless. His upper hands roam—one gripping your jaw, the other palming your breast roughly through your shirt.

“You feel that?” he pants, cock dragging against every trembling nerve inside you. “That’s what happens when you act like a little fucking brat. I ruin you.”

You sob—half pleasure, half overwhelmed—and he smirks.

“Say it again.”

“P-please…”

“Say what you are.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m yours,” you cry out, head lolling back.

He snarls in approval, speeding up his thrusts until your legs shake, your walls pulsing around him like a vice.

“Mine,” he grits out. “And I’m not done with you yet.”

Your mind is barely clinging to thought—each thrust of his cock drags a desperate whimper from your throat, each grind of his hips pushes you closer to the edge.

“You gonna cum already?” he mocks, eyes blazing red, fangs bared in a wild grin. “Haven’t even gotten serious yet.”

Your body betrays you.

Your legs tremble violently around his waist, hips jerking helplessly against him as your walls clamp down so hard around his cock that he groans—deep and raw—his fingers bruising your skin where he grips you.

“Ohhh, you’re close,” he growls. “Right there, aren’t you? Fucking pulsing around me like a needy little toy.”

“D-Don’t stop—please, Sukuna—please, please—” you're babbling, the words tumbling out between sobs and gasps, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity.

His thrusts grow harsher, deeper, fucking you through the slick tightness of your orgasm building—coiling in your belly like lightning about to strike.

“You wanted me,” he snarls, fucking into you like he’s trying to brand the shape of his cock into your soul. “You got me. Now fucking take it.”

And then—

You break.

Your orgasm rips through you like wildfire—violent, unstoppable. Your eyes roll back, a wail tearing from your throat as your whole body convulses. Your pussy tightens around him like a vice, milking his cock with wave after wave of unbearable pleasure. You sob out his name, drooling, incoherent, trembling in his hold.

He growls something primal—feral—and stills deep inside you as his cock throbs and twitches, spilling hot, thick ropes of cum into your spasming cunt. The sound he makes is pure filth—guttural and low, echoing through the blood-red haze of his domain.

“Fucking mine,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot on your lips.

You're still shaking, twitching, clenching around him even as your orgasm fades—your body boneless in his arms. He doesn’t let you go. Not yet. His cock stays buried inside you, and you feel the mess dripping down your thighs, feel the weight of him even now—owning you.

One of his lower hands lifts to your face, gently brushing your damp hair back.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, tone quiet now. “So good when you're broken. My perfect little toy.”

You whimper weakly, lips parted, barely able to breathe.

“Get some rest, little one,” he whispers. “Because next time… I won’t be so gentle.”

And with that, your vision begins to blur at the edges—his domain falling away as your orgasm-wrecked body collapses into sleep, his presence lingering in the back of your mind like smoke, wrapping around you, somehow warming and comforting.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake with a sharp inhale.

Your sheets cling to your body, damp with sweat—your breath ragged, your skin still tingling. The vivid echo of Sukuna’s voice lingers in your head like a curse. “Next time, I won’t be so gentle…”

The room is quiet. Morning light trickles through your curtains, painting soft gold across the floorboards. You sit up slowly, and the ache in your muscles is immediate—deep, real, undeniable.

You shift beneath the covers and feel it—slickness between your thighs. Your face burns with heat.

Was that real again?

With trembling fingers, you pull back your blanket and drag yourself toward the vanity. You hesitate before looking—almost afraid of what you'll find. But curiosity wins.

The mirror confirms everything.

Purple bruises—new ones—bloom along your hips and waist. Faint bite marks decorate the curve of your neck, your inner thigh. There’s even a faint ring of red where his hand had circled your throat. Not yesterday’s wounds. These are fresh.

Your breath catches.

He visited you again.

You raise your hand to your neck, fingers brushing the dark bruise just below your jaw. Shame and desire war inside your chest like fire and oil. You should be terrified. You are terrified.

But god… you’re wet again.

You force yourself to move, tugging on a thick turtleneck and dark leggings, wincing as the fabric presses into the raw skin on your thighs. Your bra’s useless—too many bruises—but you have no time to be picky. A swipe of concealer under your eyes and a flick of mascara is all you manage before someone knocks at your door again.

This time, it’s Gojo.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart. Hope you’re not still sore from yesterday,” his voice is sing-song, teasing, muffled through the wood.

You freeze.

Not from the words—he always flirts—but the timing.

You yank your sleeves over your wrists, heart pounding, and call back, “Just tired. I’ll be out in a sec!”

You hear his lazy chuckle retreat down the hall.

You catch your reflection one more time before leaving the room.

You don’t look like yourself anymore.

You look like his.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Gojo’s voice cuts through the haze, breezy and teasing, but undercut by the sharp glint of awareness he never really hides. His sunglasses shield his eyes, but not the way he scans you—head to toe, as if your soul might be peeking through your collar.

“You’re late,” he adds, twirling his staff like a baton. “That’s twice this week. Should I be offended… or concerned?”

You force a smile, even as pain prickles beneath your clothes. “Sorry. Bad dreams.”

He chuckles. “Y’know, I’m starting to think you’ve got more nightmares than Megumi. And he’s a wannabe emo.”

He tosses you a wooden staff. You fumble it.

Pain lances through your palm—not from the catch, but from the tender skin beneath your sleeve. The spots Sukuna marked burn faintly, as if freshly touched.

You shift your stance, trying to ignore how every muscle aches—how your thighs still feel parted, bruised, owned.

Gojo’s voice cuts back in, gentler now. “Hey. You good?”

“I’m fine,” you answer too fast. Too flat.

His expression doesn’t change, but you know he doesn’t buy it.

“Okay,” he says slowly, gesturing for you to square up. “Show me what you’ve got.”

You move, but it’s stiff. Disconnected. The second he steps close to adjust your grip, fingers brushing your waist, a shudder wracks your whole body.

You flinch. Hard. Against your will. 

He steps back immediately.

“That wasn’t nothing.”

You avert your gaze, blinking too fast, trying to swallow the knot forming in your throat. “Didn’t sleep well,” you mutter.

Gojo studies you.

“Didn’t sleep well… or didn’t sleep alone?” His tone is playful, but his eyes aren’t smiling anymore. And when you don’t react—don’t laugh, don’t snap back—the silence that follows stretches tight as wire.

“You’re not the type to get rattled easy,” he murmurs. “So what’s going on, kid?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

What could you say?

Sorry, Gojo. I think Sukuna left a part of his cursed soul in my body and now he’s using my dreams like a sex playground. Oh—and the worst part? I don’t want him to stop.

So instead, you straighten your spine, teeth grit against the ache that pulses between your thighs. The shame that pulses deeper.

“Can we just train?” you ask, voice low, brittle.

Gojo watches you for another beat, his mouth a tight line. Then he nods, stepping back.

“Yeah. We can train,” he says. Quieter. “But I’m not dropping it.”

You nod back, but your pulse hammers with guilt. You wish you could tell him. You wish you understood what to tell him.

You raise your staff, and the sparring begins—but you’re barely present. Your feet drag. Your reflexes lag. Gojo knocks your weapon from your hands in two strikes flat.

“That’s the third time,” he says, watching you stoop to retrieve it. “You’re way off today.”

You curse under your breath, fingers trembling as they curl around the staff again.

Gojo doesn’t miss it. He never misses anything.

“Hey.” His voice is softer this time. “If you ever need to talk… you know I’m here, right? Whatever’s happening—curse or not—you don’t have to deal with it alone.”

You nod once, but it feels like a lie.

Resuming his teachings, Gojo circles you, eyes narrowed. You’re holding the staff tighter now, too tight, like your grip is the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

“Relax your stance,” he instructs, stepping behind you again. “You’re stiff. That’s gonna get you knocked on your ass.”

His hand reaches out to touch your shoulder—to guide you into better form—but the second his fingers press against the fabric of your shoulder, your body goes rigid.

Then—

“Don’t let him touch what’s mine.”

The voice slithers into your ear like smoke, low and velvet and dripping with malice. Your blood runs cold.

You freeze.

Gojo stills too, his hand pressed against your shoulder gently, brows pulling together.

You can feel Sukuna’s energy rise in you like a ripple, subtle but undeniable. It curls beneath your skin—like a hand coiling around your throat, not quite squeezing.

“He’s lucky I don’t rip that smug head off his shoulders,” Sukuna hisses, his voice tinged with amusement and possessiveness. “But if you want to play innocent in the daylight, pet, you better act the part.”

Your breathing falters. You don’t dare move.

Gojo’s hand slowly retreats, and he steps back, jaw tight.

He felt it. You know he did.

But he doesn’t say a word.

Instead, he exhales through his nose and turns slightly, giving you a chance to collect yourself.

You’re shaking—just slightly—but you push through it, adjusting your grip on the staff. Your skin still tingles from Gojo’s touch… or maybe from the phantom presence of the curse curling around inside you like smoke and sin.

Gojo picks up his own weapon again.

“I’ll go easy on you,” he says after a pause, voice lighter again. “Just for today.”

But his posture is stiffer now. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And though he doesn't speak it aloud, you feel the question hanging thick between you:

What the hell is following you, Y/N?

You pretend not to notice.

But deep down, part of you hopes Sukuna was watching. That he will punish you for it later.

And that terrifying, twisted part of you?

It hopes he makes you beg for it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

tagged: @fatcouchpotato @iaur @exitingmusic

[pixeld0ll]

Revenge is Best Served in Bed

tags: mdni, nsfw, sukuna x f!reader, gojo x reader(past), gojo is readers ex (theyre together for first part then break up), revenge sex, size difference, rough sex, spite sex, dirty talk, power play, possessive sukuna, light aftercare, gojo kinda mean in this ngl, petty behavior (and its HOT!!), overstimulation, slight angst

an: had this ideaa driving home and now im obsessed with it i hope you all enjoy!!! <33

wc: 6.0k

You’d been standing in front of the mirror for too long.

Fussing with your hair, adjusting your neckline, smoothing the fabric of your dress until your fingertips went numb. You’d changed three times before settling on this one—tight in all the right places, a color that made your skin glow, just a little too short if you bent the wrong way.

You looked good. You knew you looked good.

So why hadn’t he said anything?

Gojo had barely glanced up from his phone when you walked out of the bedroom. Just a distracted hum of acknowledgment, fingers flying across his screen, something about a mission detail he couldn’t afford to miss.

Not a compliment. Not even a look.

And now, here you were—at some overcrowded rooftop party in the middle of the city, surrounded by half-drunk sorcerers and strangers, standing alone while your boyfriend laughed at something Geto said across the room, an arm casually thrown around Nanami’s shoulder like this was his real relationship.

You shifted your weight in your heels, fingers curled tightly around your drink. Your face was starting to hurt from holding a polite smile.

He hadn’t even introduced you to anyone.

You blinked hard, willing the sting behind your eyes to vanish before it turned into something worse.

No. Not here. Not like this.

The music was too loud, the lights too bright. You slipped out the nearest exit—some side door that led to a quieter balcony, cold night air brushing your skin like a slap.

You leaned against the railing and stared out at the city, willing yourself to calm down. Don’t cry. You’d tried so hard tonight.

“You gonna jump or just cry dramatically into the skyline?”

The voice came from your left—low, teasing, edged with dry humor.

You turned your head—and froze.

The man leaned against the wall in the shadows, a cigarette burning between two fingers. His face was partially lit by the orange glow as he inhaled—sharp jaw, dark markings curling across his skin, eyes like blood and smoke.

You hadn’t seen him inside. You would’ve noticed.

“I’m not crying,” you muttered, wiping under your eyes quickly.

He shrugged like he didn’t believe you but didn’t care either. “Fair. You don’t look like the crying type.”

You arched a brow. “What type do I look like?”

He grinned, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to decide how much trouble to cause. “The kind of girl who doesn’t belong here.”

You crossed your arms, glancing sideways at him. “Do you belong here?”

“Not even a little.” He laughed to himself, blowing smoke out over the edge of the balcony. “But that’s never stopped me.”

You should’ve walked away. Gone back inside. But something about his energy was magnetic—unfiltered, untamed, the exact opposite of the polished, distant world you’d just stepped away from.

“You here with anyone?” he asked, like it was casual. Like he hadn’t been watching you closely since you stepped outside.

You hesitated. “…Yeah.”

He gave a mock grimace. “Shame.”

His eyes flicked down your body, slow and unbothered, but not disrespectful. Like he appreciated what he saw and wanted to make sure you knew it.

“Whoever it is,” he added, “must be an idiot.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He pointed at you lazily with the hand holding his cigarette. “You’ve got tears in your waterline, a death grip on that dress like you’re holding yourself together with thread, and the guy’s not even out here looking for you.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit,” he said, voice quieter now, still cocky but not cruel. “But a man who lets a woman cry alone in the cold while he parties like a king?” He shook his head. “That’s not a man. That’s a fucking disappointment.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s… it’s Gojo.”

A beat of silence.

Then he let out a harsh, sharp laugh—more like a scoff. “Of fucking course it’s that bitchass.”

Your eyes snapped toward him.

He looked amused—furious, even—but not surprised. “Everything about you screamed ‘too good for that self-absorbed peacock.’” He threw his cigarette over the railing and turned to you fully, eyes glittering. “What’d he do this time? Forgot your name? Asked you to hold his mirror?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. Just a small one, but real.

And he noticed.

The moment was cut short by the sound of the door swinging open behind you.

“[Y/N]?”

You turned, already bracing yourself.

Gojo stood in the doorway, expression darkening the moment he saw you—and who you were with. His entire body shifted in that instant: shoulders squaring, voice tighter than it had been all night.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped, eyes locked on Sukuna.

Sukuna just smiled—lazy, unbothered, like this was the most fun he’d had all evening.

“Talking,” he said coolly. “Something you seem to be pretty shit at.”

Gojo stepped forward, pulling you subtly behind him. “Don’t talk to her.”

Sukuna cocked his head. “You don’t want me talking to her? Maybe try not making her cry, dumbass.”

“She’s mine,” Gojo snapped, voice low and dangerous. He glances at you, finally noticing the dots of mascara under your eyes. His brow furrows softly before turning back to Sukuna.

Sukuna’s grin turned downright feral. “Any man who makes a woman cry with sadness instead of pleasure isn’t a man at all.”

A tense silence fell, heavy with everything unsaid.

You felt Gojo stiffen beside you. Felt his jaw clench. But for the first time all night, your heart wasn’t sinking—it was racing.

Gojo snarls under his breath before his fingers wrap around your wrist—tight, possessive, leaving no room for argument. He turns without another word and yanks you behind him, tugging you away from the balcony and back toward the party.

“We’re going home,” he growls, voice low and sharp with anger.

Your heels scuff the concrete as you stumble to follow, but your gaze stays locked over your shoulder—locked on him.

Sukuna doesn’t chase. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches with that smug, knowing smirk curling his mouth, eyes glowing like fire in the dark as he takes another long drag of his cigarette. Smoke coils around his face like a halo of sin.

Your mouth parts, slightly agape.

No one’s ever spoken to Gojo like that. No one’s ever riled him up like that.

No one’s ever read you like that.

That one brief look—those few words—had cut deeper than all the silence you’d endured lately.

Your heart thuds in your chest, not from Gojo’s grip or his tone, but from the way Sukuna had looked at you like he’d already figured you out—and didn’t pity you for it.

Not weak. Not forgotten. Seen.

The door slams shut behind you, cutting off your view of him. But even as Gojo leads you to the car in silence, your mind stays behind—still burning with the image of Sukuna standing in the dark, grinning like the devil who just found a new soul to play with.

The ride home had been silent.

Gojo didn’t say a word. Neither did you.

You felt the weight of his anger like smoke in your lungs—simmering, silent, unresolved. His fingers stayed clenched on the steering wheel the whole time. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain.

And when he collapsed into bed twenty minutes later, still fuming and emotionally absent, you were left sitting at the edge of the mattress—your dress still on, your makeup smudged, your heart still pacing like it hadn’t left the balcony.

You glanced over your shoulder.

He was already asleep. One arm slung over his eyes, mouth parted, white hair a mess against the pillow. You used to think he looked peaceful like this.

Now he just looked distant.

Your eyes dropped to the phone on the nightstand—his phone. He always kept it locked, always face-down. But tonight, in his rush to strip off his clothes and throw himself into bed, he must’ve forgotten.

It lit up when you touched the screen. No passcode. Just a lazy swipe to unlock.

You hesitated.

You shouldn’t.

But your fingers were already moving—opening his messages, flipping through notifications, backtracking into his contacts like muscle memory. You didn’t know what you were looking for.

Until you found it.

Blocked. Tucked at the very bottom of his list.

Only one name.

Sukuna.

Your pulse stuttered.

Why had he blocked him? Not just muted—blocked completely. Deleted messages. No call history.

You clicked the contact anyway.

No photo. Just a number. Just the name.

Your hands moved before your brain could catch up. You took a screenshot and sent it to yourself. Then you deleted the evidence from his photo album and recent texts, making sure nothing looked disturbed.

By the time you put his phone back where it was, your hands were shaking.

You curled into the far edge of the bed with your own phone in hand, staring at the message you’d just sent to yourself—the string of digits that felt like it burned on your screen.

Why had he blocked him?

Or maybe the better question was—

Why couldn’t you stop thinking about him?

Sukuna’s voice replayed in your mind like a sin you wanted to taste again.

“Any man who makes a woman cry with sadness instead of pleasure isn’t a man at all.”

You squeezed your thighs together.

And wondered how long you could go before texting him.

The sun was barely up when you slipped out of bed.

Gojo didn’t stir. Just shifted slightly under the sheets, face buried in his pillow, breathing slow and even.

You padded out of the bedroom in silence, feet cold against the hardwood as you moved through the dim apartment. The walls were too white. The floor too quiet. Even the kitchen, usually a safe space—coffee, toast, soft mornings—felt sterile this time.

You stood there with your hands wrapped around a warm mug, untouched.

And waited.

The minutes ticked by.

And when you finally heard the shuffle of blankets and the creak of the mattress, your heart started pounding like it already knew what was coming.

He stepped into the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his face, hair mussed, wearing nothing but boxers. He didn’t look angry. Just tired.

Detached.

“Hey,” he muttered.

No kiss. No “good morning.” No arms around your waist. No mention of how you’d gotten out of bed without waking him, or if you’d slept at all.

Just that one word. Like you were a roommate. Like you were anyone.

You didn’t answer.

You just stood there, mug pressed to your chest like armor, staring at the grain of the table.

Gojo finally glanced up, sensing the change in the air. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated. Your throat ached. But you made yourself meet his eyes.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected.

“I think we need to break up, Satoru.”

The silence was instant. Loud.

His brows drew together in confusion, like you’d just spoken another language. “What?”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the mug.

He stepped closer, a hint of frustration already creeping into his voice. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m serious.” You held his gaze, though it hurt to do it. “This… whatever we’ve become… it’s not working anymore.”

“Not working?” he scoffed, tension rising in his shoulders. “Since when?”

“Since always,” you whispered.

He stared at you like he was trying to make sense of a bad dream. Then something in him cracked—and his voice got louder.

“Who is he?”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“You met someone, didn’t you?” he accused, voice sharp, like he wanted to pin the blame on anything but himself. “That guy from last night—outside. The fucking curse user? That’s it, isn’t it?”

Your lips parted in disbelief. “Satoru, no—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, stepping closer now. “You think I didn’t see how you looked at him?”

Your hands started to tremble.

“It’s not because of him,” you said, voice breaking, “I’m leaving because of you.”

He froze.

And then, quieter, through clenched teeth: “Then tell me what I did.”

You laughed bitterly, even as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “You didn’t do anything, Satoru. That’s the problem. You haven’t made time for me in months. You don’t listen, you don’t look at me, you forget things I tell you ten seconds later. It feels like—like you don’t even like me anymore.”

“I’ve been busy—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“I know,” you said. “You’re always busy. Everyone needs you. You’re the strongest.”

Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper now.

“But I needed you too.”

Silence.

The tears finally slipped down your cheeks, and you made no move to hide them. You didn’t need to protect his feelings anymore. Not when yours had been neglected for so long.

Gojo opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He didn’t try to hold you. Didn’t say he was sorry. Didn’t say he still wanted you.

And that was your answer.

You wiped your cheeks, quietly placed the mug in the sink, and walked past him toward the bedroom to pack your things.

—----------------------------------------

You’re sitting in your apartment—your real one. The one Gojo never truly settled into. The one that always smelled faintly like lavender dryer sheets and loneliness.

You never officially moved in with him. But somehow, it still feels like you’ve come back from war.

Your knees are pulled to your chest, a worn, gray cat plushie crushed to your front like a lifeline. It still smells faintly like your childhood room. Safety. Home. The opposite of how your heart feels now.

Tears still sting the corners of your eyes, hot and heavy, even though the crying’s stopped. You’re emptied out. Hollowed.

The screen of your phone glows against the shadows of your room.

You stare down at the message you typed hours ago. Your finger hovers over the send button.

You: Hey. It's me. Can we talk?

Simple. Almost too casual. But you’ve retyped it a dozen times already. This was the least desperate version.

The contact is still just a number. You haven’t saved his name.

But your chest tightens just looking at it.

You remember the way Sukuna looked at you that night on the balcony—head tilted, mouth full of fire and sin, like he could see you even through the dark.

And he didn’t look away. He didn’t flinch.

He called Gojo a bitchass. Said you deserved better. Said no man should ever make a woman cry without earning her tears through something far less innocent.

Your thighs press together before you can stop them.

You shouldn’t do this.

You know what kind of man Sukuna is—arrogant, cocky, dangerous. He’s not safe.

But Gojo was supposed to be safe. And look how that turned out.

You whisper to no one, “What the fuck am I doing…”

And then— You hit Send.

The message disappears into the digital void. You drop the phone onto the mattress like it might burn you.

Your heart pounds in your chest.

You wait.

One minute. Two. Three.

Then the screen lights up.

Unknown Number: took you long enough, princess. where are you.

You stare at the screen, heart pounding, thumbs twitching.

He replied in under a minute.

Of course he did.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard again, hesitant.

You: I’m home. Just… been a rough day.

The read receipt pops up instantly. He’s waiting.

Typing…

Then:

Sukuna: bet it has. was it hard dumping that pretty boy in his own house?

Your breath catches.

You never told him. But somehow, he knows.

You: ...So you heard.

Sukuna: oh, sweetheart i didn’t hear i felt it the second you stopped pretending he was enough

You swallow hard.

Your chest rises and falls a little too fast. Your thighs squeeze a little too tight. You want to blame the breakup. The loneliness.

But it’s his voice—bleeding through your screen, taunting you, coaxing you.

You: You’re cocky for someone who barely knows me.

Sukuna: nah. i knew everything i needed the second you walked outside looking like heartbreak in heels. told you, didn’t i? whoever made you cry had to be a fucking idiot.

You clench your jaw, your face heating. You should stop. You should put the phone down.

But instead—

You: You really think I looked that bad?

Sukuna: nah, princess. you looked like sin wrapped in satin. just pissed it wasn’t my hands fucking up your mascara.

A sharp inhale slips past your lips.

Your legs uncurl from beneath you, stuffed animal tossed aside like a forgotten shield. You don’t even realize you’re biting your lip until the taste of it hits your tongue.

You: You’re such an asshole.

Sukuna: and you like that. especially right now.

You hesitate. Then:

You: What would you do if I came over?

A pause.

He’s typing. Then stops.

Typing again. Longer this time.

And then—

Sukuna: i’d make you forget that white-haired fuck ever touched you. i’d ruin you, sweetheart. slowly. properly. make you cry for a better reason.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, trying to breathe through the ache settling deep in your core.

You shouldn't want this.

But fuck, you do.

You don’t even remember standing up. Don’t remember grabbing your jacket. Only the last message you send, before you walk out the door with your heart hammering and heat pooling between your thighs.

You: Send me your address.

You almost lose your nerve in the elevator.

The city lights blur past the glass walls as you rise—heart pounding, legs trembling, throat dry. Your reflection stares back at you in the metal paneling: mascara smudged, lips raw from biting, hair a little messy.

You’d barely changed. Just grabbed your jacket and keys and left.

Your phone buzzes once in your hand. A message.

Sukuna: top floor. end of the hall. knock loud, sweetheart. i’ll like hearing you beg.

Your stomach flips.

You hate how your thighs clench at that.

By the time you reach his apartment door, your pulse is in your throat. The hallway is empty, dark and quiet. His door is tall and intimidating—just like him.

You stare at it for a second, breath catching.

Then you raise your fist and knock.

One beat. Two.

Nothing.

Then—click.

The door creaks open, slowly. Only a sliver at first.

Then a voice, smooth and dripping with smugness:

“Took you long enough, pretty girl.”

The door swings open fully.

And there he is.

Sukuna stands in the doorway with no shirt, just a pair of black sweats slung low on his hips. He’s barefoot, covered in black ink and muscle—chest broad, abs cut like marble, tattoos crawling up his throat and across his pecs like they were painted by sin itself.

He’s massive. Monstrous.

He fills the entire doorway. You feel small just standing in front of him—your head barely reaches his chest, even with your boots on. He looks down at you like a wolf looks at a trembling rabbit.

And he grins.

“You look smaller than I remember,” he says, head cocked slightly. “Or maybe I just like seeing you like this. Nervous. Flushed.”

Your breath stutters. “I’m not nervous.”

“Mm. Liar.” His eyes drag over you slowly, hungrily. “Didn’t even bother changing. Must’ve been in a real hurry to see me.”

You scowl, but your body betrays you—fidgeting slightly under his gaze, thighs rubbing unconsciously.

He leans one forearm against the doorway, towering over you now, tongue brushing his lower lip. “Gonna stand there all night, sweetheart?”

You blink.

He raises a brow. “Or are you gonna come inside and let me make you feel something for once?”

That does it.

You step forward—and he doesn’t move.

You stop short, chest nearly brushing his abs.

He smirks wider. “Gonna have to squeeze past me, baby. You sure you can handle all that?”

You meet his gaze, defiant even as your knees go weak. “I came here, didn’t I?”

Sukuna’s grin sharpens—teeth flashing.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, stepping back just enough to let you in, “you did.”

His hand brushes the small of your back as you pass—just enough to make your skin erupt in goosebumps.

The door shuts behind you with a quiet click.

And suddenly, you’re alone in his apartment, in his space, standing beneath his gaze—and for the first time in days...

You don’t feel invisible.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing the silence.

His apartment is darker than you expected—warm-toned, minimal, dangerous in its simplicity. Clean, but not in a tidy-boyfriend way. Clean like a predator who doesn’t leave evidence behind.

You shift, suddenly aware of the sound of your own breathing.

And then he’s there—behind you.

Too close.

You feel the heat of his chest, the energy of him, like static about to arc. His voice hums low at your ear.

“So.” “Did you come here to cry some more, or are you finally ready to feel something?”

You turn to face him, slowly.

He's still shirtless, tattoos crawling like vines over his chest and arms. Every inch of him screams danger. His pink hair is a little tousled, eyes gleaming red in the low light—sharp and amused.

Your voice comes out quieter than intended. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it’s fucking delicious,” he murmurs, dragging his eyes down your body like a slow exhale. “You showing up on my doorstep, all soft and wet-eyed, looking for something rougher than love.”

You clench your jaw. “I didn’t say that.”

“No,” he grins, stepping closer again. “But your body did.”

He doesn't touch you—of course he doesn’t. He doesn't have to. Just looms, like he could devour you if he wanted. His chest practically shadows your whole upper body. 

“You miss it yet?” he asks, voice lower. “Being wanted?”

You look away, and he chuckles.

“That’s a yes.”

“You’re full of yourself,” you mutter, stepping past him to put some space between you. “You think I came here to jump into bed with you? This isn’t some porno revenge fantasy.”

Sukuna laughs—deep, mocking. “Sweetheart, if this were a porno, we’d be halfway to a creampie on your ex’s hoodie by now.”

You shoot him a glare, cheeks heating.

“And don’t worry,” he adds, lips quirking, “I know you didn’t come here to fuck.”

He pauses.

Then, with a glint in his eye—

“You came here to want to.”

You stop breathing for a second.

He watches it all—the way your fingers twitch, your lips press together, your thighs shift again like they’re trying to not respond to the pull of his voice.

You hate how right he is.

“Poor little thing,” he says, softer now. “You were starving. And he didn’t even notice.”

You flinch.

It’s too close to the truth.

Sukuna doesn’t gloat. Not really. He just watches you with a predator’s stillness, like he’s waiting for you to break.

You swallow, trying to ground yourself. “I didn’t come here for pity.”

“Oh, I’m not offering it.”

He steps closer again, slow this time, almost gentle—if that word could ever exist in his world.

“I’m offering you something else.”

You look up at him. And you hate it—you hate how small you feel, how hot your cheeks are, how part of you wants him to push and push until you fall apart just to prove Gojo was never enough.

He leans in, breath ghosting over your ear.

“You’re not over him,” he murmurs. “But you will be—once I’m done with you.”

Your breath catches.

You can feel the goosebumps rise on your arms.

Still, you whisper:

“Then do something about it.”

For a split second, the air stands still.

Then—he moves.

In a blur of motion, he's on you.

A large hand clamps around the back of your neck, fingers digging into the nape like he owns it. His other arm snakes around your waist, yanking you forward as he towers over you—and then he's kissing you.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Devouring.

His mouth crashes against yours, all heat and teeth and intent. His grip tightens, head tilting as his lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding past to take what he’s been holding back from the second he opened that door.

You gasp, fists clutching at his chest to stay grounded. He’s so much bigger up close like this—his frame utterly consuming yours. Your toes barely graze the floor as he lifts you slightly with his hold, body pinned flush against hard muscle and inked skin.

“You want me to do something?” he growls against your lips, voice breaking into a low snarl. “This is what you fucking came for.”

You moan before you can stop it.

Your arms loop around his neck, desperate to pull him closer even as he takes his time bruising your lips, teeth nipping your bottom one until it stings.

He breaks the kiss only to tilt your head back further, exposing your throat. He doesn’t kiss it—not yet. He just breathes hotly against your skin, lips hovering just out of reach as his fingers tighten possessively in your hair.

“You want me to make you forget him? Say it.”

You squirm under his grip, lips parted, breath hitching. “S-Sukuna—”

“Say it.”

Your voice shakes—but you obey.

“Make me forget him.”

He grins against your jaw. Triumphant. Dangerous.

“Good girl.”

Then he lifts you—literally off your feet like it’s nothing.

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, arms clinging to his neck as he carries you toward the bedroom, mouth trailing open-mouthed kisses along your throat now, nipping your collarbone hard enough to leave a mark.

“You’re mine tonight,” he rasps, voice thick with promise. “And when I’m done—”

His hips roll up between your thighs as he walks, grinding slow and deliberate—

“—you’ll forget any name that isn’t mine.”

He carries you into his bedroom like you weigh nothing—like you belong in his arms, clawing at his back, breathless and needy.

The room is dim, soaked in shadows and heat. You barely register the scent of cigarettes, leather, and something so male before he tosses you onto the bed.

You bounce slightly against the mattress, your breath catching.

Sukuna towers above you—broad chest heaving, pupils blown wide with lust, jaw flexing like he’s holding himself back.

For a second, he just looks at you. Drinks you in.

Then climbs over you, one hand planting beside your head, the other sliding up your thigh until your skirt bunches around your hips.

“Still want me to do something about it?” he rasps, voice like gravel and sin.

You nod, lips parted, but something sticks in your throat. A weight.

A memory of cold silence. Of Gojo’s turned back. Of feeling invisible even while being held.

And then, softly—almost too quiet to hear:

“...Sukuna?”

He pauses.

Looks down at you, brows barely twitching. Waiting.

“Gojo was always… gentle.”

A beat of silence.

Then your voice again—barely a whisper, but it lances straight through his spine.

“Don’t be gentle.”

His jaw tightens.

His hand on your thigh grips harder. His breath darkens. His whole body tenses like a fuse just hit the flame.

“Oh, baby,” he growls, lips curling back into a wicked grin. “You don’t know what you’ve just asked for.”

Then his hand wraps around your throat—not choking, just holding, just claiming—as he leans down to kiss you again, harder than before. His teeth scrape your lip, tongue pushing deep and demanding. You gasp, your body arching beneath him, hips rolling up on instinct.

He pulls back just enough to growl against your lips:

“You want me to fuck you like I hate him?”

You nod, breath trembling. “Yes.”

He lets out a sharp, guttural sound—somewhere between a laugh and a snarl.

“Then I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget how to say his fucking name.”

He doesn’t waste time.

The second you give him permission, Sukuna’s mouth crashes into yours like a war drum, lips bruising, tongue invasive. He tastes like smoke and dominance—like danger.

Your body’s pinned flat beneath his, his weight deliciously suffocating. He doesn’t give you a second to think.

His hand slides between your thighs, gripping your panties and ripping them off in one savage motion. The sound of tearing fabric tears a gasp from your throat.

“So wet already,” he growls, sliding two fingers through your folds, smearing your slick like he owns it. “Bet he never even made you drip like this.”

You moan, back arching.

“Tell me,” he demands, rubbing lazy, taunting circles around your clit. “Did he ever fuck you like he meant it?”

You shake your head.

“Did he ever make you beg?”

“N-No…”

“Then I’ll teach you how.”

He sinks two fingers into you with zero warning—deep and rough. Your hips jerk, a sharp cry ripping from your throat.

“That's it,” he snarls, lips grazing your ear. “Cry for me.”

His fingers curl, dragging along your walls like he knows exactly where that spot is—and he does. Of course he does. He watches you unravel with sick pleasure, your thighs trembling already.

“Fuck—look at you. Gripping me like you were made for this.”

You whimper his name and that breaks something in him.

Sukuna pulls his fingers out and shoves them into your mouth.

“Suck.”

You do, lips closing around him, tasting yourself on his skin. He watches, eyes burning red, chest heaving.

“Good girl.”

Then he’s unbuckling his belt, pants shoved down just enough. His cock slaps against his abdomen—thick, hard, leaking.

Your mouth falls open. It’s massive. Way bigger than Gojo’s.

He sees your expression and laughs.

“You’re gonna feel this in your stomach.”

He grabs your legs, yanking you to the edge of the bed. No prep. No warning.

“Take a deep breath, sweetheart.”

And then—he thrusts in.

You scream.

The stretch is brutal, the burn immediate. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t let you adjust. Just pistons into you with a punishing rhythm, like he wants to fuck Gojo out of your memory—out of your soul.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Take it. Fucking take it.”

Your fingers claw at the sheets. Your thighs tremble. Your voice is breaking on every moan. He’s relentless.

He grabs your hips, slamming you down onto his cock harder, deeper, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room.

“Say my name.”

You barely choke it out—“Sukuna—!”

“Louder.”

“SUKUNA—!”

He grins, feral. Leaning over you, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple.

“That’s right. Scream it. Let the whole fucking city know who you belong to now.”

He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and fucks into you deeper.

You cry out, eyes rolling back. You’ve never been this full, this wrecked. Your body’s already close—your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave as you clamp down hard around him.

“Fuck—yeah, squeeze me just like that,” he groans, eyes dark with lust. “You were made for this cock.”

You sob his name as you cum, trembling under him.

But he’s not done.

He flips you over without warning, face down into the mattress, ass up. You barely catch your breath before he shoves back into you with a growl.

“We’re not finished.”

He fucks you like he owns you. Like your body is a message. Like every thrust is revenge.

You’re not sure how many times you cum—once, twice, maybe more. He doesn’t stop. Not until your voice is hoarse and your knees give out.

Finally, with a grunt and a low growl of your name, he buries himself deep and spills inside you—hard.

You feel it all.

The way his fingers sink into your hips as he rides out every last pulse.

The heat of his cum leaking out around his cock.

The silence after, filled only by the sound of your breathing.

Then, Sukuna leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Still thinking about him?”

You shake your head, dazed, ruined.

He chuckles low.

“Didn’t think so.”

You don’t remember collapsing. Your body’s wrecked—twitching, trembling, boneless.

You’re lying face-down, cheek pressed into his mattress, still gasping for breath. Your skin’s hot, sticky with sweat. Your thighs are shaking, sore, the stretch of him still a dull ache inside you.

And then—you feel him.

Not rough. Not grabbing.

Gentle.

Sukuna’s large hands smooth up your spine, slow and soothing. He’s not talking. Just dragging his palms across your back like he’s grounding you—like he’s anchoring you there, to him.

He exhales through his nose, and for a second, it’s like he’s… thinking.

Then, his voice comes—low, hoarse. Not mocking.

“You okay?”

Your breath hitches. You nod into the pillow.

A beat passes. Then another.

You flinch slightly when the bed shifts—expecting him to get up. Walk away. Be done with you now that the tension’s snapped.

But instead—you feel the mattress dip beside you.

And then, something shocking.

A warm, rough palm on your cheek.

Turning your face toward him.

You blink up at him—eyeliner smudged, lips kiss-swollen, hair a mess. He just looks at you, not saying anything.

His expression isn’t smug anymore. Not cruel. Not sharp.

Just… unreadable.

Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with what he’s feeling.

“He didn’t deserve you,” Sukuna mutters finally, thumb brushing your cheekbone in the barest touch. “Fucking idiot.”

You don’t say anything. You just look at him.

And for once, Sukuna doesn’t look away.

His hand slides from your cheek to your waist, curling there possessively as he pulls you into his chest. Not to fuck. Not to tease.

Just… to hold.

“You stayin’ the night?”

You nod, cheek resting over his heart now. It’s pounding. Heavy.

“Good,” he says. Voice rasping. “Didn’t feel like letting you leave anyway.”

There’s silence for a long time.

Then, so soft you barely hear it:

“...You did good, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches.

Because that—that meant something. More than all the filth, more than the hatefuck, more than anything else.

That wasn’t revenge. That was real.

And in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, you finally let yourself fall asleep.

You wake up slowly. The sheets are soft, warm—and they smell like him. Smoke, leather, and sweat. Your body aches deliciously, sore in places you didn’t even know could be sore. A reminder of last night with every breath.

Sukuna’s not in the bed.

You blink blearily, sitting up on shaky elbows, the oversized blanket falling off your bare chest. You hear low movement—drawers opening, something clinking in the kitchen.

Then—your phone vibrates against the nightstand.

Incoming Call: Satoru

You freeze.

Your heart lurches. Your fingers twitch, halfway toward it.

But before you can reach it—

A hand snatches it up. His hand.

Sukuna’s standing at the doorway to the bedroom, shirtless, coffee mug in one hand, your phone in the other.

Hair messy. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Gold chains glinting against his throat.

He looks down at your screen, smirks, and answers it without a fucking care.

“What.”

Your stomach flips. “Sukuna—!”

He ignores you, putting the call on speaker as he leans against the doorframe.

Gojo’s voice comes through, sharp and pissed.

“Who the fuck is this?”

Sukuna’s smile widens—feral. His eyes flick to you, still naked in his bed, then back to the phone.

“She’s busy.”

“Where the hell is she—?”

“In my bed,” Sukuna says, sipping his coffee like it’s the weather report. “Sleeping off the five times I fucked her last night.”

You slap your hand over your mouth, eyes wide in shock and mortification—and arousal.

The silence on the other end is deafening.

Then:

“You fucking—”

“If I were you,” Sukuna cuts in, voice suddenly ice-cold, “I’d delete her number and learn how to jack off. You had your chance. You wasted it.”

Gojo’s breathing ragged through the speaker.

“Put her on the phone.”

Sukuna tosses your phone on the bed like it’s trash.

“She’s not interested, bitchass.”

Then he ends the call.

You stare at him, stunned, lips parted. A loud laugh escapes you.

He walks back over, casual as hell, climbs onto the bed, and kisses you slow—like he didn’t just emotionally obliterate your ex with five words and a dick print.

“You hungry?” he murmurs against your mouth. “Or you want round six first?”

[pixeld0ll]

Tear you apart (pt. 1  pt. 2)

tags: sukuna x fem! reader, nsfw, mdni, trueform!sukuna, degradation, size kink, humiliation, pain kink, possessive!sukuna, they both freaky idk

an: EEEEE thank you all sosososoooo much for all the love!! Please enjoy part 2 <3 

words: 3.8k

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at your reflection—the bandages, the bruises, the dull ache radiating from deep within your core. There’s no mistaking it.

What happened in Sukuna’s domain wasn’t a dream. It was real.

A knock at your door jolts you out of your daze.

“You up?” Yuuji’s voice is muffled through the wood, tinged with concern. “Gojo’s waiting for everyone.”

Though the forecast promises a hot day, you hurriedly tug on a high-neck sweatshirt, wincing as the fabric scrapes over one of the bite marks blooming on your shoulder. You tug the sleeves down over your wrists and press your hands to your cheeks, trying to will away the heat rising there.

You can’t afford to look guilty. Not today.

Opening the door, you find Yuuji standing there. He looks down at you, brows immediately knitting together.

“Damn, Y/N… you okay?” Concern flickers in his eyes. His voice is soft, careful.

Your stomach twists. “Y-yeah. Just didn’t sleep well. Had a bad dream,” you mumble, hugging your arms around yourself as you step past him, heading toward the classroom.

You hope he lets it go. Because if Yuuji noticed something was off…

Gojo definitely will.

Yuuji lingers behind for a second, watching you walk. His eyes narrow slightly, his fingers twitch.

“Weird…” he mutters under his breath. “Why do I sense another cursed energy around her?”

He jogs to catch up, falling into step beside you. He doesn’t say anything at first—just watches from the corner of his eye. You flinch subtly with each step, your pace a little too careful.

He decides not to push. But he knows something isn’t right.

“Ah, sleeping beauty has arrived.” Gojo’s voice rings out the moment you step inside the classroom. He’s leaning lazily against the desk, blindfold pushed just enough to reveal a sliver of crystalline blue eyes that scan you far too intently.

Your stomach flips. You feel nauseous all of a sudden.

“You look like hell,” he continues, but his tone is teasing—too casual. “Nightmares? Or just up all night fantasizing about me?”

You try to laugh, but it comes out strained. “Maybe in your dreams, Gojo.”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short,” he says with a wink. “You’re definitely the type I’d dream about.”

Your heart skips a beat. You press a hand towards your chest, breath catching.

Gojo pauses. His grin falters just slightly. He tilts his head.

“...You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

You force a nod, eyes avoiding his. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He studies you for a beat longer. And just as he’s about to speak again—

“He’s annoying.”

Your breath catches. The voice slithers through your mind like smoke, curling around your thoughts.

Sukuna.

You go still.

“The way he looks at you. Like he could ever touch what’s mine.”

Your lips part, wetness curling between your thighs. You barely hear Gojo calling your name.

“I can still feel you, pet. The way you clenched around me. The way you screamed. That part of me I left inside you… it’s listening. Watching.”

Your knees threaten to buckle, thighs clenching, remembering how good he felt.

“Y/N?”

You blink. Gojo’s in front of you now, brows furrowed, a hand hovering near your shoulder like he’s unsure whether to touch you.

You force a smile, too sharp at the edges. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “Zoning out with a full body blush and almost falling on your ass?”

Your eyes widen. You hadn’t realized—

He leans in slightly, voice low. “Tell me what’s really going on.”

And again, like a possessive shadow curling in your bones, Sukuna whispers:

“Tell him, and I’ll show you what it means to really bleed for me.”

Your breath catches, a war igniting in your chest.

Between right and wrong. Pain and pleasure. Control—and the bliss of losing it.

You take a shaky step back.

“I’m fine, Gojo. Just need some air.”

Before he can protest, you’re already walking away, heart pounding. You feel Sukuna’s laughter coil inside your skull like velvet chains.

“Ill be back, little one.”

___________________________________________________________

That night, you lie awake in bed, fighting sleep like it’s the devil himself.

You’re exhausted—bone-deep tired—and all you want is to curl up and let the REM cycle pull you under.

But he said you’d see him. And you’re not sure if you can handle that.

Your bed is too warm. The sheets too soft. The pillow too plush. Everything feels too much, too inviting—and soon, despite your fear, sleep wins.

Your breathing slows. Soft snores slip from your lips as your heavy eyelids finally give in.

It’s a battle you didn’t want to lose. But you did want to lose it. Didn’t you?

Then— A hand.

You feel it first: large, rough, demanding, wrapping around your ankle.

Then another, sliding up your thigh—gripping, squeezing.

A third clamps down on your waist, sharp nails biting into soft flesh.

A fourth wraps around your wrist, and before you can scream, you’re being pulled. Yanked down— Falling. Falling. Falling.

Your stomach flips. You brace for impact.

Your eyes snap open— And you land in a graveyard of skulls.

A river of thick, dark-red liquid snakes beneath your feet. The air is heavy, choking with a crimson haze.

You’re back. In his domain.

“I told you I’d be back,” a low voice hisses in your ear.

Your heart seizes. Your eyes widen in terror as a flood of heat rushes between your thighs.

He chuckles darkly.

A hand wraps around the back of your neck, yanking you backward—flush against a bare, unrelenting chest. You gasp, breath catching in your throat as his skin burns against yours.

You tilt your head back, looking up with wide, innocent eyes.

His gaze drops to meet yours. A slow, sinister smirk curls his lips.

His eyes—dark, hungry, knowing—gleam in the blood-red light.

“Oh, pet,” he purrs. “Did you miss me?”

You cross your arms defiantly, trying to ignore the way your hands tremble.

Of course, he notices.

“You really couldn’t wait a single night, huh?” you sneer, forcing the words past the knot in your throat. “Is my pussy just that good?”

His brow lifts, amused—and intrigued. Most wouldn’t dare speak to him like this. Especially not twice.

“Says the little brat who nearly came just from hearing my voice in her head,” he drawls, the smirk curling on his lips making your stomach twist. He lets go of your neck with a rough shove, stepping around to face you fully.

Your breath stutters. You weren’t expecting that kind of comeback.

“I-I did not,” you snap, voice higher than intended. “I was in the middle of class with my teacher—what did you expect me to do when a demon suddenly starts whispering in my brain?!”

He cuts you off with a lazy wave of his hand. “You talk too much.”

Your jaw drops. “You’re really fucking annoying, you know that?” you mutter, eyes narrowing. “Can’t believe I wasted three years trying to meet you.”

His expression doesn't change—but something in the air does.

He steps forward. One slow, deliberate stride. Then another. You feel yourself instinctively taking a step back, but it’s useless—he’s already there.

A single clawed finger hooks under your chin and tilts your head up, up, up. He’s towering above you, his crimson gaze boring into yours. You freeze. Your heart pounds like war drums inside your chest.

“Why do you think you’re here?” he murmurs, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You’ve been nagging at my brain that entire time, you know.”

You swallow hard, trying not to lean into his touch. His finger is barely pressing against your skin, but the weight of his presence is crushing.

He leans in—so close you can feel his breath at your ear.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice low and deadly. “Say you regret summoning me.”

You hesitate, unsure if it’s a bluff.

“...Do it,” he hisses, mouth ghosting along your jaw. “Lie to me.”

When you say nothing, he laughs. A dark, guttural sound that makes your knees weaken.

“There it is,” he purrs. “That’s what I wanted to see.”

Then, in a blink, he’s behind you—an arm wrapping tight around your waist, yanking your back against his much larger chest. His other hand drags slowly down your neck, fingertips grazing each sensitive bruise.

“You wanted me,” he growls, breath hot against your skin. “And now I’m part of you. You thought one night would be enough?”

You squirm in his hold, heat pooling between your thighs despite yourself.

“Fuck off,” you whisper.

His grip tightens instantly.

“No, no, no, little girl. You don’t get to want me, take me, and then act like you’re in control. That’s not how this works.”

You try to turn your head, but he leans down and bites your shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, but just enough to make you gasp.

“You’ve already let me in,” he breathes. “Body, mind, soul.”

His tongue licks over the bite mark, before he bites harder, drawing beads of red. “And I’m not leaving.”

His tongue drags over the bite on your shoulder—slow, possessive—and your breath hitches.

“Still pretending you don’t want this?” he murmurs into your skin, his voice like velvet over glass. “Even now? With your thighs clenching like that?”

“I’m not,” you gasp, but your hips betray you—grinding back into the hardness pressed against your ass. He chuckles darkly.

“Liar.”

His lower arms snake around your waist, one hand flattening against your stomach, the other sliding down—down—between your legs. He doesn’t bother undressing you. With a single sharp flick of his claws, your shorts are shredded. He palms your heat through the soaked fabric of your panties.

“Already soaked,” he growls. “So desperate for me, even after I ruined you last time. Or maybe… because I did.”

You shiver. “You’re full of yourself.”

“And you’re full of me,” he shoots back with a grin. “Or you will be.”

His fingers press harder, rubbing slow, punishing circles over your clit through the thin cotton. You try to stifle the whimper that slips out, but he hears it anyway—and groans in approval.

“I love that sound,” he murmurs. “Make it again.”

You snap your thighs together instinctively, trying to push his hand away, but he just laughs—low and dangerous.

“Still bratting, even when you’re soaking through your panties for me?”

He turns you to face him, easily hoisting you up by your thighs. You yelp, arms flying around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You gonna keep mouthing off?” he asks, grinding your soaked core against the thick bulge straining beneath his pants. “Or are you finally ready to be honest?”

You bite your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a moan as his cock presses just right. “What if I like mouthing off?” you say breathlessly. “Maybe I like making you work for it.”

His eyes flash crimson. “Then I’ll make you work for it too.”

With one hand, he yanks your panties aside, the soaked fabric sticking to your folds before tearing away. His cock presses against your entrance, hot and hard and huge.

“You know what to say,” he whispers darkly, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness, teasing your swollen entrance.

You do.

And you hate how much you want to say it.

“…Please,” you whisper.

He stills. “What was that?”

You grit your teeth. “Please. Please fuck me, master.”

He growls—a low, primal sound that vibrates in your chest—and the next second, he’s inside.

Your breath leaves your lungs in a choked gasp.

He bottoms out in one brutal thrust, your back arching as the stretch burns—but god, it’s so good. You cling to him, trembling, walls fluttering around him as he groans into your neck.

“So tight,” he hisses. “Still not used to me, even after I’ve claimed you.”

You can’t even speak, just gasp as he begins to thrust—deep and punishing, every stroke slamming into that spot that makes your vision blur. His lower hands grip your thighs, keeping you open and helpless. His upper hands roam—one gripping your jaw, the other palming your breast roughly through your shirt.

“You feel that?” he pants, cock dragging against every trembling nerve inside you. “That’s what happens when you act like a little fucking brat. I ruin you.”

You sob—half pleasure, half overwhelmed—and he smirks.

“Say it again.”

“P-please…”

“Say what you are.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m yours,” you cry out, head lolling back.

He snarls in approval, speeding up his thrusts until your legs shake, your walls pulsing around him like a vice.

“Mine,” he grits out. “And I’m not done with you yet.”

Your mind is barely clinging to thought—each thrust of his cock drags a desperate whimper from your throat, each grind of his hips pushes you closer to the edge.

“You gonna cum already?” he mocks, eyes blazing red, fangs bared in a wild grin. “Haven’t even gotten serious yet.”

Your body betrays you.

Your legs tremble violently around his waist, hips jerking helplessly against him as your walls clamp down so hard around his cock that he groans—deep and raw—his fingers bruising your skin where he grips you.

“Ohhh, you’re close,” he growls. “Right there, aren’t you? Fucking pulsing around me like a needy little toy.”

“D-Don’t stop—please, Sukuna—please, please—” you're babbling, the words tumbling out between sobs and gasps, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity.

His thrusts grow harsher, deeper, fucking you through the slick tightness of your orgasm building—coiling in your belly like lightning about to strike.

“You wanted me,” he snarls, fucking into you like he’s trying to brand the shape of his cock into your soul. “You got me. Now fucking take it.”

And then—

You break.

Your orgasm rips through you like wildfire—violent, unstoppable. Your eyes roll back, a wail tearing from your throat as your whole body convulses. Your pussy tightens around him like a vice, milking his cock with wave after wave of unbearable pleasure. You sob out his name, drooling, incoherent, trembling in his hold.

He growls something primal—feral—and stills deep inside you as his cock throbs and twitches, spilling hot, thick ropes of cum into your spasming cunt. The sound he makes is pure filth—guttural and low, echoing through the blood-red haze of his domain.

“Fucking mine,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot on your lips.

You're still shaking, twitching, clenching around him even as your orgasm fades—your body boneless in his arms. He doesn’t let you go. Not yet. His cock stays buried inside you, and you feel the mess dripping down your thighs, feel the weight of him even now—owning you.

One of his lower hands lifts to your face, gently brushing your damp hair back.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, tone quiet now. “So good when you're broken. My perfect little toy.”

You whimper weakly, lips parted, barely able to breathe.

“Get some rest, little one,” he whispers. “Because next time… I won’t be so gentle.”

And with that, your vision begins to blur at the edges—his domain falling away as your orgasm-wrecked body collapses into sleep, his presence lingering in the back of your mind like smoke, wrapping around you, somehow warming and comforting.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake with a sharp inhale.

Your sheets cling to your body, damp with sweat—your breath ragged, your skin still tingling. The vivid echo of Sukuna’s voice lingers in your head like a curse. “Next time, I won’t be so gentle…”

The room is quiet. Morning light trickles through your curtains, painting soft gold across the floorboards. You sit up slowly, and the ache in your muscles is immediate—deep, real, undeniable.

You shift beneath the covers and feel it—slickness between your thighs. Your face burns with heat.

Was that real again?

With trembling fingers, you pull back your blanket and drag yourself toward the vanity. You hesitate before looking—almost afraid of what you'll find. But curiosity wins.

The mirror confirms everything.

Purple bruises—new ones—bloom along your hips and waist. Faint bite marks decorate the curve of your neck, your inner thigh. There’s even a faint ring of red where his hand had circled your throat. Not yesterday’s wounds. These are fresh.

Your breath catches.

He visited you again.

You raise your hand to your neck, fingers brushing the dark bruise just below your jaw. Shame and desire war inside your chest like fire and oil. You should be terrified. You are terrified.

But god… you’re wet again.

You force yourself to move, tugging on a thick turtleneck and dark leggings, wincing as the fabric presses into the raw skin on your thighs. Your bra’s useless—too many bruises—but you have no time to be picky. A swipe of concealer under your eyes and a flick of mascara is all you manage before someone knocks at your door again.

This time, it’s Gojo.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart. Hope you’re not still sore from yesterday,” his voice is sing-song, teasing, muffled through the wood.

You freeze.

Not from the words—he always flirts—but the timing.

You yank your sleeves over your wrists, heart pounding, and call back, “Just tired. I’ll be out in a sec!”

You hear his lazy chuckle retreat down the hall.

You catch your reflection one more time before leaving the room.

You don’t look like yourself anymore.

You look like his.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Gojo’s voice cuts through the haze, breezy and teasing, but undercut by the sharp glint of awareness he never really hides. His sunglasses shield his eyes, but not the way he scans you—head to toe, as if your soul might be peeking through your collar.

“You’re late,” he adds, twirling his staff like a baton. “That’s twice this week. Should I be offended… or concerned?”

You force a smile, even as pain prickles beneath your clothes. “Sorry. Bad dreams.”

He chuckles. “Y’know, I’m starting to think you’ve got more nightmares than Megumi. And he’s a wannabe emo.”

He tosses you a wooden staff. You fumble it.

Pain lances through your palm—not from the catch, but from the tender skin beneath your sleeve. The spots Sukuna marked burn faintly, as if freshly touched.

You shift your stance, trying to ignore how every muscle aches—how your thighs still feel parted, bruised, owned.

Gojo’s voice cuts back in, gentler now. “Hey. You good?”

“I’m fine,” you answer too fast. Too flat.

His expression doesn’t change, but you know he doesn’t buy it.

“Okay,” he says slowly, gesturing for you to square up. “Show me what you’ve got.”

You move, but it’s stiff. Disconnected. The second he steps close to adjust your grip, fingers brushing your waist, a shudder wracks your whole body.

You flinch. Hard. Against your will. 

He steps back immediately.

“That wasn’t nothing.”

You avert your gaze, blinking too fast, trying to swallow the knot forming in your throat. “Didn’t sleep well,” you mutter.

Gojo studies you.

“Didn’t sleep well… or didn’t sleep alone?” His tone is playful, but his eyes aren’t smiling anymore. And when you don’t react—don’t laugh, don’t snap back—the silence that follows stretches tight as wire.

“You’re not the type to get rattled easy,” he murmurs. “So what’s going on, kid?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

What could you say?

Sorry, Gojo. I think Sukuna left a part of his cursed soul in my body and now he’s using my dreams like a sex playground. Oh—and the worst part? I don’t want him to stop.

So instead, you straighten your spine, teeth grit against the ache that pulses between your thighs. The shame that pulses deeper.

“Can we just train?” you ask, voice low, brittle.

Gojo watches you for another beat, his mouth a tight line. Then he nods, stepping back.

“Yeah. We can train,” he says. Quieter. “But I’m not dropping it.”

You nod back, but your pulse hammers with guilt. You wish you could tell him. You wish you understood what to tell him.

You raise your staff, and the sparring begins—but you’re barely present. Your feet drag. Your reflexes lag. Gojo knocks your weapon from your hands in two strikes flat.

“That’s the third time,” he says, watching you stoop to retrieve it. “You’re way off today.”

You curse under your breath, fingers trembling as they curl around the staff again.

Gojo doesn’t miss it. He never misses anything.

“Hey.” His voice is softer this time. “If you ever need to talk… you know I’m here, right? Whatever’s happening—curse or not—you don’t have to deal with it alone.”

You nod once, but it feels like a lie.

Resuming his teachings, Gojo circles you, eyes narrowed. You’re holding the staff tighter now, too tight, like your grip is the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

“Relax your stance,” he instructs, stepping behind you again. “You’re stiff. That’s gonna get you knocked on your ass.”

His hand reaches out to touch your shoulder—to guide you into better form—but the second his fingers press against the fabric of your shoulder, your body goes rigid.

Then—

“Don’t let him touch what’s mine.”

The voice slithers into your ear like smoke, low and velvet and dripping with malice. Your blood runs cold.

You freeze.

Gojo stills too, his hand pressed against your shoulder gently, brows pulling together.

You can feel Sukuna’s energy rise in you like a ripple, subtle but undeniable. It curls beneath your skin—like a hand coiling around your throat, not quite squeezing.

“He’s lucky I don’t rip that smug head off his shoulders,” Sukuna hisses, his voice tinged with amusement and possessiveness. “But if you want to play innocent in the daylight, pet, you better act the part.”

Your breathing falters. You don’t dare move.

Gojo’s hand slowly retreats, and he steps back, jaw tight.

He felt it. You know he did.

But he doesn’t say a word.

Instead, he exhales through his nose and turns slightly, giving you a chance to collect yourself.

You’re shaking—just slightly—but you push through it, adjusting your grip on the staff. Your skin still tingles from Gojo’s touch… or maybe from the phantom presence of the curse curling around inside you like smoke and sin.

Gojo picks up his own weapon again.

“I’ll go easy on you,” he says after a pause, voice lighter again. “Just for today.”

But his posture is stiffer now. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And though he doesn't speak it aloud, you feel the question hanging thick between you:

What the hell is following you, Y/N?

You pretend not to notice.

But deep down, part of you hopes Sukuna was watching. That he will punish you for it later.

And that terrifying, twisted part of you?

It hopes he makes you beg for it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

tagged: @fatcouchpotato @iaur @exitingmusic

[pixeld0ll]

˚₊‧꒰ა lifeguard! sukuna x local beachgoer reader

# goyangi's fav tropes: heatwave induced horny, enemies-to-lovers energy, flirts to provoke, public teasing while on duty, fingers between your thighs under your towel, dragging you into the lifeguard tower during break, calling you a slut with his mouth on your chest, tongue on your sunscreen-slick skin, jealousy sex after some other guy helps with your umbrella, biting the strap marks of your bikini into your shoulders

part of 𐙚 goyardgoyangi's summer festa!! ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

He’s a problem.

That’s what you decide on day four of watching him peel off his shirt at the edge of the lifeguard tower, saltwater dripping down the grooves of his abdomen like he’s the center page of a summer fantasy you never asked to have. He’s tall, arrogant, and barely looks at anyone— until you.

The first time it happened, you thought it was a coincidence. A flick of his dark, brooding gaze in your direction as you sprawled on your towel, book resting open on your stomach. But then it kept happening. His sunglasses would dip just enough to peek over them.

His mouth would quirk when you caught him.

And then came the remarks.

“You actually know how to swim, or just tan all day?” he’ll ask, pausing by your chair with a dripping rescue float over his shoulder and an arrogant grin like he already knows the answer.

You roll your eyes. “I’d drown on purpose if it meant you’d shut up for five minutes.”

He snorts. “Cute. Shame I’d have to save you anyway.”

The game started there. No rules. No one keeping score. Just the constant push-pull: your flippant smirks, his growled comebacks, the unspoken dare to "do something" each time you caught the other staring too long.

But today? You’re ignoring him.

Not intentionally at first. You’re just sun-drunk, halfway through a steamy romance novel, and too lazy to do anything more than stretch and sip your watered-down lemonade.

It’s a quiet afternoon, and the breeze is soft, your limbs heavy with heat. You haven’t looked up at the lifeguard tower in over an hour.

What you don’t see him climb down.

Cold drips onto your bare stomach, the shock of it making you flinch. An ice cream cone, already half-melted, lands squarely in your lap. Vanilla seeps between the curve of your thighs and your towel, sticky and sweet.

Your book slides off your chest.

You blink up through your sunglasses.

Sukuna stands above you, shirtless, tattooed, unapologetic. Arms crossed like he’s proud of himself, one brow lifted in challenge.

“Gonna pretend you didn’t notice me all afternoon?”

You stretch slow, lazily, like a cat in the sun. “Wasn’t pretending,” you murmur, brushing a drip of ice cream off your stomach with your pinky. “I didn’t notice you.”

His jaw flexes.

You pick up the cone with delicate fingers, a small smile tugging at your lips. The vanilla’s warm now, melting fast under the sun— but you don’t care. You bring it to your mouth and let your tongue swirl around the tip, slow and deliberate, catching the drip before it reaches your knuckle.

His silence is deafening.

You take another lazy lick, lips wrapping around the ice cream with a soft sound, and smile when you see the flicker in his expression, tight jaw, blown pupils, hands twitching at his sides like he’s thinking very un-lifeguard-like thoughts.

“Didn’t peg you for the wasteful type,” you murmur. “That was six bucks’ worth of sugar you just dumped on my bikini.”

His eyes trail down your body, lingering where the ice cream has started to run between your breasts. “Didn’t peg you for the type who’d lick it up so damn slow.”

You tilt your head. “Worried someone’s watching?” you whisper, voice syrupy sweet. “Or do you just wish it was your fingers instead?”

Sukuna doesn’t answer. He just stares, stares like he’s calculating the exact amount of self-control he still has left.

“Thanks for the ice cream,” you purr, lips glossy with vanilla, tongue darting out one last time to clean the edge of the cone. “You always do this for beachgoers? Or am I just special?”

He finally steps closer, one hand braced against the back of your chair, dipping down until his mouth is beside your ear.

“Special?” he rasps. “Nah. You’re just a fucking menace.”

His breath is hot. It brushes over your jaw, your collarbone, makes goosebumps rise under sun-warmed skin.

And just like that, he turns and stalks off to get lunch, the line of his back disappearing behind the tower.

You take another bite of the melting ice cream, smug as hell.

But you’re not the type to let things go easily, so you decide to find him during his break.

Sukuna's crouched behind the tower, cigarette lit between his fingers, smoke curling through the sticky summer air. His red uniform shorts hang low on his hips, a towel tossed over one shoulder, muscles flexing as he exhales.

You close the distance between you anyway, the air thick with the smell of salt and smoke and sunscreen. You’re still holding the half-melted cone, dripping down your fingers.

He notices.

“Messy girl,” he mutters, flicking the cigarette away. “C’mere.”

You don’t question it. You step in close until your knees bump his. He grabs your wrist, licks the melted vanilla from your skin slow and deliberate. His tongue is hot and wet and dirty, curling between your fingers before his teeth scrape your palm.

Your breath catches. “Fuck…”

Sukuna grins. “Thought that’d shut you up.”

You shove at his chest (he’s burning under your palms) and he grabs your hips, dragging you forward until you’re straddling one of his thighs, back pressed to the wood of the tower. His hands snake up under your towel, fingers skimming the sides of your bikini.

“You gonna be a sweetheart and stay quiet?” he murmurs.

“In public?” you whisper, heart thudding.

He chuckles, low and rough. “Tower blocks most of it. And I’ve got a few minutes.”

You bite your lip, arousal pooling fast as his fingers dip lower.

“You get off pissing me off,” he says, pressing a hand between your thighs, fabric dampening instantly under his touch. “Walking around like this, distracting me all shift, bending over in front of the water cooler—”

“I didn’t—”

“Liar.” He slips a finger beneath your bikini, finds your clit, rubs once, hard and slow.

You gasp, hips twitching.

“I’m working, and you’re over there moaning in your chair, legs all spread while you read some shitty romance novel.”

“It’s not shitty,” you whimper.

He laughs into your neck. “You’re right. It’s funny. Bet the guy in the book doesn’t even finger her under a towel behind a lifeguard tower.”

You want to slap him. Or kiss him. Probably both.

But then he slides two fingers into you, curls them just right, and all you can do is gasp his name.

“Look at you,” he groans, pressing his mouth to your collarbone “Fucking soaked. Could feel it before I even touched you.”

You grip his shoulders, nails digging into his sun-warm skin as your hips roll into his hand. The slick sound of his fingers pumping in and out of you is sinful in the quiet.

Two fingers curl deep, knuckles slick as he fucks them into you slow, deliberate, messy. The wet sound of it is obscene in the hush between the dunes, drowned only by the crash of waves and your ragged, bitten-back whimpers.

“You act like you hate me,” he murmurs, lips dragging over your shoulder. “But your pussy says otherwise.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss, but it’s shaky, broken, way too close to a moan.

He chuckles, thumb pressing into your clit with a teasing pressure that makes your knees threaten to buckle.

“You wish,” he mutters. “But you’ll take this instead.”

He fingers you deeper, faster now, until your legs tremble and your stomach coils tight. You can’t stop the little gasps that escape, even when you slap a hand over your mouth.

He grabs your chin with his free hand, tilting your face toward him. His eyes are half-lidded, blown with lust under the shade.

“No hiding. Let me hear you.”

“Sukuna—”

“Say it.”

“Y-Your fingers, god— they feel so fucking—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he snarls, pressing his forehead to yours, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “I know. You were soaked before I even touched you. Sat there for hours reading your stupid little book, legs open, pretending I didn’t exist, and all the while you were thinking about this, weren’t you?”

You shudder. “Maybe.”

He grins. “Maybe, huh?”

His hand moves faster. Deeper. The squelch of your cunt around his fingers grows wetter, louder. He’s close, so fucking close, his breath hitching every time you tighten around him.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks, teeth grazing your neck. “Be a sweetheart for me, yeah? Or do I have to make you cry for it?”

“Suku, fuck—”

Your orgasm hits hard. You clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, thighs trembling around his. He makes rides it out with a smug look in his eyes, fingers pumping slowly until your hips start to twitch.

When he finally pulls back, he licks his fingers clean. “Tastes better than the ice cream.”

You stare at him, dazed, bikini bottoms soaked and bunched around your thighs. Your breath catches, chest still fluttering from aftershocks, and you barely manage the words:

“You’re disgusting.”

You expect him to laugh. Maybe throw another smartass comeback, flick your thigh and walk off cocky.

But instead—

His eyes flash. And then he’s on his knees.

“What are you—” you start, but he doesn’t let you finish.

He shoves your towel to the sand, grabs your thighs with both hands, and drags you to the bottom of the tower like he’s starving. Spreads you open like you belong to him.

“You think that was disgusting?” he rasps, hot breath fanning over your folds. “Then you’re gonna fucking hate what I do next.”

His mouth is on you before you can even gasp.

Tongue flat and filthy, he licks you up from the base of your cunt to your clit, slow and deep, moaning into the taste like he’s already addicted. Your back arches, hands flying to his hair— fuck, it’s soft, and fuck, he’s good at this.

Too good.

“S-Sukuna— fuck, oh my god—”

He groans again when you say his name like that, mouth never leaving your pussy. His tongue devours you like he’s doing it out of spite, flicking and flattening, sucking your clit just to hear your breath stutter.

And then, without warning, his hips jerk.

He ruts against the sand, grinding into his own shorts, chasing friction like he’s possessed. You hear the quiet, wet sound of it— feel the twitch in his shoulders, the tension in his grip.

“Sukuna,” you gasp, tugging his hair, thighs trembling around his ears, “are you— are you fucking cumming?”

He groans into your cunt, hips still rocking, and you realize— he is.

His cock twitches in his shorts, his release hot and sticky against the fabric, soaking through his red swim trunks as he moans into your pussy, like getting you off pushed him over the edge too.

You’re soaked, overstimulated, and dripping down his face— and he’s licking all of it up like it’s his fucking job.

When he finally pulls back, lips glossy, chest still heaving, he smirks up at you.

“Fuck, sweetheart” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you taste like a fucking dream.”

You’re speechless, blinking at him as he stands, abs tense beneath the sheen of sweat and come still staining the front of his shorts.

He runs the back of his hand across his mouth, licking what’s left off his fingers.

“Still think I’m disgusting?” he smugly teases.

You shift, legs wobbling as you slide off the towel, reaching for him, half-lidded eyes dragging down the tight stretch of his stomach to where his cock twitches beneath his shorts.

“I want it,” you murmur, voice hoarse, ruined. “I want your dick, Sukuna.”

He huffs out a laugh, low and wicked.

“Yeah?” he mutters, tilting his head. “You want me to fuck you right here, sweetheart?”

You nod without shame, desperate, still dripping from his mouth, his fingers, his words. You grip his hips, fingers slipping under the band of his shorts. “Please. I want you inside me.”

His eyes flick to the beach, still empty behind the tower, still just the two of you.

For a second, you think he’ll give it to you.

You think he’ll finally snap and slam you against the wall, fuck you until you can’t remember your name. Your body leans into him, already ready, already begging.

But then—

“Nuh uh,” he says, voice mocking, and grabs your waist.

He pulls you off his lap with an infuriating ease, like you weigh nothing, like he didn’t just come in his fucking shorts over how you tasted.

“Fix your towel.” He smirks. “Break’s over.”

You gape at him. “Are you kidding—?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the “p” as he adjusts himself lazily, arms stretching overhead like he isn’t half-hard and smug as fuck. “You want my cock, sweetheart? Then next time, don’t ignore me all afternoon.”

You start to pull your towel down, muttering under your breath, flushed from arousal and frustration.

But just before he walks off, he bends low again, lips brushing your ear.

“Think about me while you clean up,” he says. “And if you really want it…”

He lets his hand trail over your stomach, just above your waistband.

“…come ask nicely next time.”

[pixeld0ll]

you can't get enough of your husband, so what happens when your needy antics go sideways? wc: 2.4k — 18+

art from takeo72 on twt

“Please?”

“No.”

You cast your cheek towards your husband, a sulk on your lips as your thighs began to rub against each other, a soft sigh trickling like honey from your plush and parted lips.

Nanami’s eyebrow quirked, distracted as he was adjusting his leopard tie in the mirror and fidgeting with his frames. “Darling. You’re killing me.”

You pouted but kept your lips zipped, scrunching your nose, arousal pooling in your boy shorts. The silk linens were now tossed off of your shared bed during your tantrum, your tank top displaying your erect nubs.

Your husband couldn’t help but to be irrevocably enamored with you, his hardened length pressing into the crotch of his tan suit just at the needy display. He sighed, placing a knee on the bed and leaning down to pepper gentle kisses along your shoulder just past the strap of your tank. “You know,” he whispered into your supple skin in that husky voice of his that always had your stomach somersaulting, “the second I get back into bed with you, I won’t be able to get out.”

You groaned, skin flaring in heat where his plush lips made contact with. “Then don’t gooooo,” you whimpered. Facing him, you wrapped your nimble fingers around his tie and tugged his lips to yours. He lost his balance, hands falling beside your head and caging you beneath him. “Baby…” he murmured reluctantly, slightly breaking the kiss, before pressing against you again, suddenly lost in the newly-wed reverie.

“Just five minutes,” you whispered before sliding your slick muscle between his parted lips, earning a throaty groan from him, bordering a primal growl. Your hands scoured his clothed back, gripping his muscles and feeling his heavy weight settle atop you.

But, to your sorrow, he gathered his mental bearings and broke the kiss, face slightly flushed and eyes dazed. He pressed his forehead against yours, breath shallow, restraint dangling on a precarious thread. “I’ll be home before you know it,” he started.

You let out an exasperated sigh, your sexual frustration reaching a peak as you flipped over, all sense of rationality replaced with lust. 

The two of you had gotten back from your honeymoon only a few days ago, yet neither of you could get enough of each other.

Mornings began with him pressing his bulge into your back, half-asleep and lashes fluttering, before you’d rut back and soon enough he’d be sliding lazily and sloppily into you. The sun had barely kissed the clouds.

Cuddling on the couch turned into cockwarming after his calloused and dexterous digits would use your tits as stress balls.

You’d be making yourself a snack and he’d be on his knees, spreading you wide open and licking long languid strips through your drooling folds until you’d released your sweet juices all over his tongue.

And as the fucking tease he was, he’d pop the pineapple you were cutting into his mouth before cradling the back of your head and kissing you so hungrily—juices dripping down the both of your chins.

As night would fall, the two of you would be counting down the seconds before one of you had their hands on the other, groping and squeezing like animals starved.

He’d pound you into the mattress until all you could remember in your fucked out brain was his name and he was shooting blanks.

“Be a sweetheart and kiss me goodbye,” he chuckled, grabbing his briefcase. He could find you nothing but endearing, needy for your husband to a point it drove you up a wall.

You had your face smushed into his pillow that smelt so much like him it only made this entire ordeal even more vexing. Ignoring him, you let out a huff.

Nanami only stood patiently, knowing you’d give in within moments.

And you did, lifting your head and tossing your legs over the edge of the bed. He looked down at you in admiration, cupping your cheeks before pressing his lips against yours.

You hummed, leaning up and clutching his blazer, feeling something akin to desire entangled with yearning coiling in your gut.

He pulled away, yet again, and wrapped his bulging arms around your head, skimming his hands through your hair as he held your sitting form against his midsection.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you whispered, feeling incredibly clingy this odd morning.

Nanami tossed his head back, his hold only tightening. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱❀ • ❀⊰ ━━━━⋆⁺₊⋆ 

Fiddling with his leopard print tie, he tugged at the knot in efforts to relieve the feeling of being utterly choked from its hold.

As soon as he stepped into the office, that feeling of being incredibly uncomfortable in public began to set in. He couldn't focus on his PC, eyes glazing over, his head throbbing with a pulsating restlessness, mouth dry with the bitter taste of his black coffee.

His lips were the slightest bit chapped, nibbling at the skin and miffed that he'd forgotten his chapstick back home.

His suit had been dry cleaned wrong, only noticing now how the fabric was stiff as cardboard and suffocating against his rippling muscles.

Glancing at his TAG Heuer Carrera Calibre 16 that suddenly felt incredibly heavy on his wrist, he checked the time and let out a guttural groan.

9-5's never went by quickly, as expected, but it only seemed to drag on today of all days.

He picked up a stack of sheets, searching for a document for a clientele profile, when his finger pad snagged on the corner and a jagged fresh cut broke skin.

He winced, staring at the injury before letting out a sigh.

He direly needed a break.

Picking up his phone, he opened up his messages to send a reply in hopes to ease his discomfort.

hubby 💍: How’s the day treating you, darling? 

You were scrolling on your phone, leaning against the stovetop, when the notification came through, a gentle smile tugging at your lips.

you: making your favorite pasta, babe. why're you texting me at work? you never text me at work.

He crossed his legs under the table, leaning back with a sigh as he thought about you in his apron.

hubby 💍: My attentive and doting wife. You didn't need to do that, you had a long day as well.

You giggled, bringing the wooden spoon to your lips for a taste, taking notice that you'd gotten the seasoning just right. He seemed to remember quite the morning you’d had.

you: oh baby. you have no idea the day i’ve had.

He cocked his head, resting a hand against his armrest as he adjusted in his cramped seat. But he barely took notice of the nuisance as he texted you.

hubby 💍: Well, do tell, sweetheart. What have you been up to?

You spun around, stomach feeling jittery at what you were about to do. Was this a bad idea? Probably.

Nanami set his phone down, face up, as his knee bobbed up and down for the next couple of minutes. He felt impatient awaiting your incoming text, blankly staring at his email and not registering a single thing.

His mind was solely on you.

The gentle buzz against his desk sounded and he couldn’t help snatching his phone to check your message.

His lips downturned as the screen illuminated his face, all he received was a notification to renew his gym membership.

He scowled, opening your text to see you’d only left him on read. What on earth were you doing?

“Hey, man. You got that clientele report?”

A hand brushed against his shoulder, Nanami’s scowl only deepening as his boss entered his personal bubble.

Sifting through his annoyingly organized folders, he slipped a packet out and handed it over to his boss without a word.

The man straightened out, placing a hand against the headrest of Nanami’s chair as he took the report in hand and read it over. “Wow. You ever take a breather? Meet some girls?”

Nanami could feel a shudder run down his body, but remained composed nonetheless. “No, sir. I hear you haven’t heard the news of my marriage.”

“Oh, I have,” he waved a dismissive hand, eyes squinting at the annoyingly perfection of the report before returning back to his employee. “Doesn’t mean I—Woah.”

Nanami glanced behind him to see his boss staring wide-eyed at him before shifting his gaze to Nanami and then back to his lap.

His eyebrows knitted as he followed his eyeline, only to see—.

“Fuck.” Nanami rarely curses. 

Unless it’s bedroom talk.

His hands flew to his phone resting on his thigh, flipping it over and eyes bulging wide.

There were a few gut-wrenchingly silent moments where neither of them moved an inch, not sure if they’d both dreamed what they’d witnessed.

What had he seen?

A photo. Of you. Wearing Nanami’s apron and nothing but. Resting on your tummy on the kitchen counter, A Red Delicious between your teeth, bare legs dangling upwards as you showcase your arch and that perfect ass.

you: dinners served ;p 🍎 

“Now I see why you don’t get out much,” his boss chuckled, smacking Nanami’s shoulder in a congratulatory manner before laughing to himself and sauntering off.

Nanami’s teeth grinded against each other, flipping his phone back over after ensuring no one was around.

hubby 💍: You’re gonna regret that when I get home, darling.

You cocked your head at his text, pulling your lip between your teeth, pretending like you weren’t more excited than nervous to see what had him so cross.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱❀ • ❀⊰ ━━━━⋆⁺₊⋆

5:00 pm couldn’t come sooner.

You’d made the bed, folded your laundry, went on a walk, made dinner, started up your knitting again before getting frustrated like normal and giving up, and tried to watch your TV show.

But your mind was far too preoccupied.

Or, for a more accurate explanation, your cunt was throbbing.

You were sitting at the kitchen island, legs crossed atop a stool, fingers drumming against the counter top as a raunchy scene came on.

Heady moans and grunts resonated from your laptop, enough to have you slipping your fingers down your panties. Your fingers were cold, sliding between your dripping folds as you clenched the marble counter, tossing your head back. Juices collected upon your palm, your clit so sensitive it nearly hurt.

You bit your lip, a digit circling your slick entrance before glissading in.

“Fuck,” you groaned, feeling your tight pussy clench around your finger, throbbing with an overwhelming need.

You curled your finger, nudging that tender spot that had you shuddering, and all you could imagine was your husband's hands roaming you and fingering you in all the places you couldn’t reach. It didn’t take him long to memorize all of the spots that had you painting his wrist with your creamy and gushing juices.

“K-Ken…” you huffed out, eyebrows knitted as you slipped another digit in.

You didn’t even notice the keys turning in the lock before your husband pushed his way inside.

Caught in the act, you stopped your motions immediately, hiccuping as you watched your husband kick his shoes off, toss his briefcase to the side and begin shedding his blazer and loosening his tie.

The sight had you keening like a lovesick puppy, curling your fingers even deeper at that sight and rubbing the hood of your clit against your palm.

Nanami was before you in just a few quick strides, and only then did you notice the uncharacteristic anger coloring him.

“Baby?”

His pupils were blown and lids hung low, muscles rippling against his blue top, chest heaving with deep exhales. And within seconds, he began working his belt. “On your knees.”

Your eyes widened, a light feeling in your stomach at his commanding tone, before removing your curious hand from your panties and falling to your knees, bare caps resting against the cool tile.

He dropped his tan dress slacks and boxers in one fell movement, his erect cock swinging free and slapping the side of your face. You gasped, his swelling cockhead already leaking pre from the slit, veins protruding from his shaft throbbing with each passing second.

He curled his fingers around his length, giving it a few pumps before pressing his sticky tip to your lips and coated them with a layer of his seed like lipgloss in a sultry motion that had you slack-jawed. “Hands behind your back.”

One thing about Nanami? His tone was so supreme and husky when he wanted it to be, and you had yet to gain a semblance of your dignity—immediately crossing your hands behind your back and clasping one wrist with your hand.

He cocked his head, feeling your tongue lick kitten stripes across his tan cock, inhaling sharply. “Oh, so someone wants to be a good girl now, huh?”

You nodded, leaning forward slightly to take him between your hollowed cheeks, but your husband only cruelly pulled away. “Words. Use your words.”

You choked on whatever sanity you had, eyes following the salty slick trickling from his circular and pulsing tip. “I’ll be your g-good girl,” you sighed out, chest aching with a need to feel him bruising your throat.

“Oh really?” He quirked, eyeing you down the bridge of his nose before skimming fingers through your hair. In one tug of your hair, he had peering up at him with batting lashes, your wet orbs telling him you were nothing but ready to be ruined.

But Nanami was oh so mean.

With his free hand, his meaty fingers wrapped around his girthy member, pumping himself right in front of your mouth. Your tongue lolled open, pitchy whines leaving you as you so desperately wanted just a taste.

“Pretty girl wants to suck me off, huh?” He grunted, squeezing his dick like a vice, eyes swimming with a fervid desire at your desperate state, noticing the way you inched towards humping his leg.

“Mhm!” You hummed, head pushing against his tight grip against your hair, swirling your tongue across your lips to taste his salty seed, your arch so deep he wanted to see if he could curve his cock down your tight throat and reach your lungs.

“Well,” he huffed, glasses fogging up from the utter heat he was exuding, every muscle contracting as he neared his peak, seconds away from painting your pretty and suspecting face white.

“Should’ve thought about that before you decided to be a little cyber slut.”

[pixeld0ll]

I LOVE DILFS

[pixeld0ll]

yes, chef! - ryomen sukuna

pairing: reader x modern!Sukuna, f!reader x Sukuna, chef!reader x chef!Sukuna

synopsis: you get hired for an unpaid internship position at three michelin-star restaurant owned by none other than world-renowned chef, Ryomen Sukuna. you're obviously attracted to him, so now you gotta juggle that and also try to survive through your first three weeks.

content/warnings: MDNI, enemies (?) to lovers, pining, mutual pining, workplace romance, power dynamic, implied age-gap sorta, Sukuna is an asshole, swearing, workplace harassment, light smut, heavy petting, kissing, arguing, use of she, no use of y/n

word count: ~8.3k

~ ~ ~

Malevolent Shrine. That was the name of the three-Michelin star restaurant you found yourself standing outside of, neck craned back, stomach feeling queasy as you gripped onto your bag tightly. At first glance, the name was kind of off-putting, a little too sinister for such a popular spot, but it was indeed very popular, one of the best restaurants in the country with a waiting list of three months. 

You opened the double doors, and stepped inside, putting one shaky foot in front of the other. It had a dark industrial interior, blackened steel, furniture made of charred wood, with crimson accent lighting lining the walls. The decor consisted of repurposed butcher hooks hung up high, art pieces of twisted cuts of meat and old-school butcher diagrams. Dark blues rock played softly in the background, adding to the dusky ambience. You’d never seen a restaurant quite like this before, used to all the fancy, fine-dining spots you frequented in culinary school when you were doing research. This was why you wanted to be here, to stand out, to do something different. 

You waited at the front of house, feet shuffling nervously as employees bustled around, preparing for service, laying down napkins, polishing cutlery. All the workers fit the vibe of the place perfectly, wearing black aprons with blood-red stitching and sporting heavy combat boots. Each one of them sported piercings, tattoos of some sort, or dyed hair. You swallowed thickly as you toyed with your own piercings, inwardly hoping they’d be enough to fit in the crowd. 

Someone finally noticed you, a rather important looking individual, no doubt the restaurant manager. You recognized them from your interview for the unpaid internship position a while ago, but they seemed to not recall. They had milky-white skin to match their white hair cut into a bob, a splash of dyed red hair on the back. They hurried you over with a flick of their finger. 

‘’New cook right?’’ They said, eyeing you up and down with a hint of disdain. You nodded quickly as you introduced yourself. ‘’Uraume. General manager.’’ They replied, introducing themselves again, ‘’You’re early.’’ 

‘’My mom always said, being on time means you’re late!’’ You chirped without thinking, and you immediately wanted to slap yourself as Uraume arched an elegant brow. Awesome, embarrass yourself, why don’t you?

‘’Choso, our floor manager, will give you a quick tour, show you everything you need to know. Service is in five hours.’’ Uraume stated, ignoring your little quip. ‘’Sukuna will be around for the staff meeting, you can meet him then.’’ 

Ryomen Sukuna. The executive chef and owner of Malevolent Shrine. A world-renowned chef for his talents with bold and dark flavours, having won his first Michelin star the same year he opened this restaurant. He had been in the top ten best restaurants twice, in the top fifty nearly every year for ten years, named Best Chef four times by Restaurant Magazine, and a dozen other accolades won internationally. He was an artist. A god amongst chefs and restaurateurs alike, and you’d be lying if you hadn't almost pissed your pants when you got accepted as a cook after a grueling, multiple-interview process. He was the man you wanted to meet.  

You nodded at Uraume, and turned to see the man who was no doubt Choso making his way over. He had dark, spiky black hair tied up in two buns, a tattoo across his nose, and dark-eyebags. He looked exhausted, but he was giving Uraume his rapt attention as they introduced you to him. 

‘’Nice to meet you.’’ Choso said in a low, calm voice as the two of you shook hands, ‘’Let me give you a tour, yeah?’’ You followed him, trying to absorb as much information as you could as Choso drifted around the restaurant. 

‘’I’m sure you know our concept already,’’ Choso was saying, ‘’This is the front of house.’’ You just kept nodding as you took in your surroundings. Tables with no white tablecloths, just wood and iron tables stained dark from years of meat and fire, open kitchen concept with visible flame-grilling and meat cleavers for diners to enjoy. It was intimidating to say the least, but you couldn’t ignore the spark of excitement thrumming in your veins. 

‘’This is our maitre d’, Jogo.’’ Choso introduced quickly, pointing to a short man with brown hair and one eye, the other covered by a patch. You waved, and Choso swept on, taking you into the back of house. The kitchen was cold, clean, silver steel, and other cooks were already at work, busy prepping for service. Choso took you to each station, introducing you to each cook, showing you where the walk-in was, the pantry, the bar, and pretty much everything that was to be known about the restaurant. You wished you had a notepad, a dozen names and places swirling around in your head. 

Choso eventually got to the end of the tour, ending off with introducing you to the Sous-Chef, Sukuna’s second in command and half-brother, Jin Itadori. He gave you a kind smile as you told him your name. He was tall, with pink hair and gentle eyes, a stark contrast to his brother who you’d only seen in magazines, newspapers, and on the internet. Jin gave you a more in-depth run-down of the kitchen and stations, and you listened with rapt attention. If there was one thing you weren’t going to do, it was fail. Not here. 

‘’Tonight, you’ll be stagiaire, chef.’’ Jin explained. Bottom of the brigade hierarchy, where intern-chefs often started, with everything to prove and everything to lose, on trial to see if they’d eventually get hired. ‘’You’ll be assisting Hanami, our grillardin.’’ Hanami was a tall, stern-looking woman, with ivy-tattoos snaking up her long arms. Assisting the grillardin on your first night at Malevolent Shrine almost made your heart sink. Grilled items were Hanami’s job, and in a restaurant like this, a carnivore’s haven, it would be argued to be one that would put the most pressure on your shoulders. You squared your shoulders as Hanami gave you instructions. You could do this, you could do this. 

‘’I’m surprised Uraume picked you.’’ Hanami said suddenly as the two of you worked together, making your cheeks flush. There was no malice in her tone, just a calm observation. ‘’I don’t doubt your qualifications were sufficient, chef, but they typically choose the best of the best, who also fit with the concept of the restaurant.’’ You chewed the inside of your cheek. You knew you probably stuck out like a sore thumb, but you’d be damned if you let that hold you back. You were talented, you knew it, even though every restaurant like this was a proving ground, you were ready to work your ass off to show you belonged here. 

‘’Guess Uraume had some slim pickings, chef.’’ You joked nervously as you sharpened your knife. Hanami didn’t smile. 

‘’No such thing in this place.’’ Hanami said simply, ‘’Don’t be nervous, or pretend you’re not. Any sign of weakness and you’ll get killed in this place, chef.’’ You knew Hanami spoke figuratively (hopefully), but it didn't stop the shiver running up your spine. 

You continued working, doing a decent job of keeping up with Hanami. She was quiet, and spoke in a monotone-bored voice no matter what was happening, but she guided you along the way, showing you the ropes of her station. You appreciated it, thankful to whatever higher power was out there that you hadn’t been shoved with the typical asshole chefs that were abundant in the restaurant industry. 

As the time ticked closer to service, you met the other chefs du partie. Mahito, the blue-haired saucier with scars all over his body. Dagon, the garde manger, Toji Fushiguro, another grillardin, and Suguru Geto, the poissonier. All experts in the kitchen, all well-known in the culinary world. The best of the best, and somehow you’d found yourself among them. Other line cooks milled about, taking a seat next to you as the entirety of the restaurant staff sat in the front of house, the meeting starting soon. Uraume was talking in a low voice to Choso, and Jin was busy talking on the phone frantically. You played with your fingers as you looked around, tugging at your chefs coat as you felt the nerves start to set in within you. 

The room went silent when a hulking figure stepped through the front door. Ryomen Sukuna. When he walked into the room, he commanded it, and you were a bit surprised that people weren’t falling to their knees to worship him. He was tall, impossibly tall, taller than Jin, with black tattoos coiled around his muscled forearms and lining his wickedly handsome face. One deep, crimson-red eye surveyed his staff, like he was looking down on some ants, the other side of his face scarred from a cruel burn he’d gotten in a kitchen accident many years ago. His lips twisted into a scowl as he stood in front of everyone. 

All you could do was gape at him, and you had to check to make sure your jaw hadn't dropped to the floor. Sukuna, in the flesh, and startlingly more sexy than you had anticipated. God, the idea of making a fool of yourself in front of him made you want to throw up. Uraume startled you out of your thoughts as they began the meeting. 

‘’Okay, so we got several VIPs dining with us tonight-’’ They began, rattling off the names of celebrities and actors that made your eyes widen in shock, ‘’Unfortunately Satoru Gojo made a reservation too, so it’s very important that everything is perfect for that little twat.’’ You blinked. Satoru Gojo? He was a new, up-and-coming chef, close to winning his first Michelin star at his own restaurant to which he worked as the Executive Chef, the Six Eyes. People saw him as Sukuna’s biggest competition. 

Sukuna growled, a deep sound in his chest. ‘’Who let that asshole make a reservation?’’ He asked. His voice was a rasp, heavy and grating. You wanted to hear it again. Jin gave his brother an apologetic glance. 

‘’You crashed his restaurant without even bothering to make a reso, you know.’’ He said, his jovial tone the complete opposite of Sukuna’s. Sukuna just rolled his good eye and crossed his arms, muttering something below his breath. Your gaze followed his every movement, his every breath, as if you could absorb some of his greatness just by being in his orbit. 

Uraume kept going; ‘’On the menu tonight, servers listen up, bone-in tomahawk rib-eyes, charred leg of lamb, pork shoulder, and whole-smoked quail, if you have any questions, ask Jin, not Sukuna.’’ Sukuna seemed uninterested in the meeting, thoughts clearly elsewhere, and as soon as Uraume was done, everything covered, everything perfect, he turned and shouldered his way into the back of house. 

Service started in thirty minutes, and as you diligently prepared Hanami’s station, you felt a hand land on your shoulder. You turned to see Jin, smiling down at you, and only a couple paces away, Sukuna. You felt your heart drop to your stomach, mouth going dry as you glanced between the two brothers. 

‘’This is our new chef, Ryomen.’’ Jin said, saying your name, ‘’I’m sure you know my brother?’’ 

Your entire life and culinary career flashed before your eyes. You wanted to make a good impression, no, you needed to make a good impression. This was it, this was your chance to show Sukuna that you belonged here, that you were the right pick for the job. 

Obviously, as you lifted your hand to shake Sukuna’s, you fumbled with your knife, and it clattered to the ground. Your face burned as you scrambled to get it. Idiot, idiot, idiot! You leaned up, biting your lip as Sukuna shook your hand, his rough hands making your heart beat faster. He regarded you with an unimpressed look, a hint of disgust. Okay, ouch. 

‘’Sorry, uh-’’ You mumbled, letting your hand drop to your side, ‘’I’ll clean that, um, it’s such an honor to meet you chef. A huge honor. It’s an honor for me to be here, a real privilege-’’ 

‘’Her? Uraume picked her for the internship?’’ Sukuna’s voice cut through your babble, and you felt your blood run cold. You felt small, tiny, the size of a gnat as Sukuna looked down at you. Was it over? Was Sukuna going to crush your dreams of getting hired here at this very moment?

‘’Come on, Ryomen,’’ Jin tried to smooth out, ‘’It’s her first day, and you know Uraume doesn’t pick people who aren’t qualified to be here.’’ You wanted to throw yourself at Jin’s feet for standing up for you, but all you could do was chew on your lip, holding back tears of embarrassment. No weakness, not in front of him, or ever. You’d long been told you were too sensitive for this world of chefs, and for the most part they were right, but you’d proved them wrong, you’d proved every mentor and classmate wrong. However now, standing under Sukuna’s judgement, you felt the cracks start to show. Get it fucking together, you told yourself. 

Sukuna just grunted, giving you one last once-over before he turned and stalked to his office. Jin turned to you, patting your shoulder in an attempt to comfort you. 

‘’Don’t take it personally. Ryomen is like that with all the new chefs, you should’ve seen Dagon on his first day.’’ Jin said, laughing, even though you found none of it very funny, ‘’You held it together pretty well, kid. Just tough tonight out and Sukuna will come to…tolerate you. He tolerates us all.’’ And with that, Jin sauntered off. You stood there alone, too scared to wipe the misty-tears in your eyes. You took a deep breath in, then out, calming your heart as best you could. If you were going to survive in this place, you were going to have to put your tough-guy face on, even though you weren’t sure if it felt like you at all. 

~ ~ ~ 

Service at Malevolent Shrine could only be described as organized chaos. The kitchen was alive with shouting, cursing, prickly jabs, flailing arms, but the food was getting pushed out fast. Everything was cooked to perfection, under the watchful eye of Sukuna. All the chefs moved like a machine, Jin running the expo like he was born doing it, calling for hands, the servers filing in and out of the kitchen. 

You kept your mouth shut, head down and hyper-focused on your station, following Hanami’s every order, reading her movements and learning as much as you could. Your attention was often ripped away, eyes flickering over to Mahito, who shot condescending insults in your direction at every hesitation in your hand. You took the verbal abuse with a yes chef and a no, I’m not going to fuck up chef, and you kept your head in the game. Once you were in the zone, you were in the zone. 

Sukuna barely spared you a glance, thundering commands and inspecting every dish. You weren’t sure what you expected, definitely not Sukuna showering you with encouraging praise, but it would have been nice if he at least gave you a nod, something. You tried to count your blessings that he wasn't yelling at you or breathing down your neck with that dark-red, judgmental gaze. 

Then, everything came crashing down around you, literally. 

You didn’t know Mahito was behind you. He didn’t warn you, he didn’t say the obligatory behind! So when you took a step back, Hanami’s plated and ready tomahawk rib-eye’s in your hands, you only felt Mahito’s foot behind yours at the last second. You stumbled back with a yelp, dropping the plate, and it crashed to the floor with a terrific crack as the food went everywhere. You landed on your behind, the air knocked out of you, and Mahito let out a shrill cackle. Embarrassment flooded through you, hot and sick, your face flushing red as you scrambled to your feet. You were sure your heart was about to fall out of your sore ass as you mumbled out trembling apologies, your throat starting to close up. A gaggle of servers leapt in to help clean, practiced movements as they quickly and methodically gathered up the plate and the ruined food. 

‘’I’m sorry chef,’’ You rasped out to Hanami, who was already re-firing a new rib-eye. You wanted the floor to open up underneath you and swallow you whole. Every eye in the kitchen was on you, the fucking intern who’d messed up, who didn’t belong. You could almost hear their whispers. 

‘’The hell are you doing?’’ Sukuna snarled from the front of the kitchen. He was leaning over the table, knuckles white as he shot you a terrifying glare. ‘’Get back on the line. If you drop one more thing, you’re done.’’ You nodded enthusiastically, trembling hands grabbing your knife as you tried to focus again. You saw Mahito out of the corner of your eye, slinking back to his station. You knew he was an asshole, but sabotage? He’d tripped you, just to torture you, putting the whole kitchen back by a full minute. You risked a glance at Sukuna, who was still glaring daggers into you. 

You knew Sukuna saw everything. Anything that happened in his kitchen, he knew about, so how come he wasn't yelling at Mahito too? That prick had ruined the flow, not only yours, but everyone’s. This has to be some sick joke, an elaborate plan to get you to run out of the restaurant with your tail between your legs. You choked back a sneer as you avoided Mahito’s gaze. Whatever. You knew every kitchen had a guy like him, you could take it. You’d just cry about it later. 

Service finally finished, and you were completely spent. You had managed to keep it together for the most part, not dropping any more plates, but your performance wasn't exactly stellar. Sukuna had only yelled at you a couple times, pointing out your sloppy work, your slow hands. You sighed deeply, from your chest, as you closed the bathroom door behind you. You trudged to the lockers, sore fingers undoing your chef’s coat. Frustration followed you like a cloud. Your first day hadn’t gone at all like you wanted, your job even harder to do with Mahito looming over your shoulder with his sharp tongue. Momentary doubt flickered in your mind. Hanami hadn’t gotten upset with you, but you worried that she was already thinking you didn’t deserve to be here. Negative thoughts ran through your mind, and you found it hard to ground yourself in reality, when suddenly you heard voices around the corner. You froze, keeping out of sight as you heard Mahito’s voice.

‘’I’ll give it two days for the fresh meat to start bawling and just quit.’’ He snickered. You clenched your jaw. You knew he was talking about you. Toji and Jogo’s chuckles echoed in the hall.

‘’Did you see her face? Goddamn pathetic.’’ Toji taunted, and you weren't even there to taunt.

‘’Don’t know what Uraume was thinking when they picked her. She’s never gonna make it.’’ 

That was the last straw on the camel's back. 

You tried not to run, your legs taking you out the back door, leaving your belongings behind. Leaning against the cold, brick wall of the building, you let yourself fall apart. Breaths came out in choked, tiny gasps, hot tears running down your face. You wrapped your arms around your trembling shoulders, trying to give yourself some comfort as you cried. 

‘’Fucking glad you didn’t cry in there.’’ A growl came from the shadows. You yelped in shock, stumbling back and hitting your head against the wall. The dim light of a cigarette lit up Sukuna’s scarred face, shadows painting a sinister look in his eyes. Just what you fucking needed. Ryomen Sukuna getting a front-row seat to you cry like a damn child. 

‘’Chef.’’ You gasped, wiping at your watery eyes. ‘’I didn’t see you there, I’m sorry.’’ 

Sukuna looked at you, his usual arrogant gaze gone. He looked bored, but that was better than looking angry. 

‘’Mahito giving you a hard time?’’ He asked, smoke billowing from his mouth like a fire-breathing dragon. You considered your options before responding. In any normal workplace situation, you might say yes, tell your boss about how Mahito purposely tripped you, that it wasn't your fault that the kitchen was set back, it was his. Dissolve yourself of blame. But this wasn't your typical workplace.

‘’No chef.’’ Was all you said as you met his gaze. You weren’t about to go crying to Sukuna about some bully. Not today, or ever. Sukuna tilted his head up, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his boot. He stepped forward, into the light of the street lamp. 

‘’You need to toughen up.’’ Sukuna told you, crossing his beefy arms in front of his chest. ‘’Or you’ll never make it.’’ Irritation flared up in you at his words and you bit back a sharp retort. You’d gone past the point of angry tears and were just plain pissed. 

You just laughed softly, putting your hands on your hips. ‘’I think I toughed it out pretty well in there, chef.’’ You replied. You weren’t one to yell, not one to scream out insults or fight back with a sharp tongue. You didn’t need to, because it didn’t feel like you, and because you proved you were better, every single time. Sukuna’s eyes flickered over your face, analyzing you, as if he had expected you to lash out at him. 

‘’You can back out now if you want.’’ He drawled, ‘’So what if you don’t fit here? You’ll fit somewhere else.’’ There it was, that condescension and arrogant tone that seemed to be automatic for him. Already counting you out. Sukuna took a step closer to you, looking down at you from his full height. It irked you a bit, how hot he was. Not only was he a prick, but he was a hot prick, and if you were someone else, and he was anyone else, you wouldn't hesitate to jump his bones. 

But that wasn’t you. 

‘’All due respect chef,’’ You began, squaring your shoulders, ‘’It’s been one day. I’m gonna keep going, and deal with it how I deal with it.’’ You smiled at Sukuna, hoping you could pass it off like you had your shit together. Sukuna stared at you for a moment, eyes narrowing, then he clenched his jaw. Something that looked like annoyance flashed over his face. 

‘’Don’t think a girl like you knows what she’s getting yourself into.’’ Sukuna muttered. You didn’t bother asking him what he meant by that, you didn't want to know. 

‘’Doesn't matter, because I’m gonna find out, chef.’’ You replied easily. 

‘’We’ll see about that.’’ He said in a low, rough voice. Sukuna took a step closer to you, towering far above you. He smelled like smoke and fire, heat rolling off him in waves and you felt your skin tingle at how close he was. His eyes burned into yours, practically breathing the same air. ‘’Have a good night, chef.’’ The last word rolled off his tongue, almost teasing, and he moved past you, brushing against your shoulder as he left you standing there. 

~ ~ ~

Your first week at Sukuna’s restaurant passed both quickly and agonizingly slow. You survived through every service, a couple fuck-ups here and there, but you were learning. Your skills had improved, not that you heard it from Sukuna, but a couple encouraging words from Jin and Hanami were enough to get you through the day. The most you got from the pink-haired executive chef was a nod, the occasional approving grunt, but they made you beam with pride all the same. 

Mahito continued to be a major pain in the ass, doing everything he could to trip you up, to catch you off guard. The blue-haired chef didn’t let up on the insults and barbed comments, but you took it on the chin with a silent glare or a heard, chef. There wasn’t much else you could do about it. Sure, you could yell back, maybe give him a taste of his own medicine, but you were too busy trying to keep afloat you definitely couldn't manage that. You avoided most confrontation, so enduring Mahito’s endless torture was just something you had to suck up. 

You knew Sukuna noticed. His crimson eyes would flit between you and Mahito, face as impassive as ever or with a hint of entertainment in his cocky grin, like he was watching a pair of chihuahuas go at it. Honestly, you were just happy that it wasn't Sukuna himself making your life a living hell. You saved your tears of frustration for the privacy of your walk to the bus stop at the end of the night, pulling yourself back together on your own with a tub of ice cream or a greasy take-out meal. 

Other than that, you were starting to slightly settle into the environment of Malevolent Shrine. Hanami gave you a thumbs-up once, and Choso would sneak you some of the bar’s curated whiskey you’d been eyeing. Even Toji started to tolerate you, clapping you on the back with a huge hand, saying that you weren’t as terrible as he thought. Yeah, you were pretty damn proud of yourself. 

It was Monday night, service finally over with, and mostly all the staff had left, leaving you alone in your rumpled and stained chef’s coat hunched over your notebook you carried with you everywhere in case inspiration struck. You’d been drawing food since you were young, both imagined and actual plates you’d made in high school and in culinary school. If you saw something that got the cogs in your mind turning, you whipped out your notebook, pencil at the ready as you sketched out your idea. You went in with colored pencils after, in the hopes of one day making them into reality. You mostly kept the drawings to yourself, your own little creations that you spent hours pouring over. 

While you leaned over your drawing on the silver service table, you heard heavy footsteps approaching you, and looking up, you almost snapped your pencil in two as Sukuna gave you a strange look. He was in his crisp, white chef’s coat, unbuttoned to reveal a toned chest covered by a black wife-pleaser. You chewed the inside of your lip. Did he really have to look so damn good all of the time? Your stomach tightened as you tried to find words that wouldn’t embarrass you. 

‘’Hey chef-’’ You began, but Sukuna raised a tattooed hand, silencing you. 

‘’What are you doing?’’ He rumbled, his voice deep in his chest. 

‘’Oh, uh, nothing-’’ You stammered, putting down your pencil, ‘’Sorry, am I not allowed to be here?’’ Sukuna ignored your question as he made his way over to stand behind you, looming over your shoulder, his manly smell wafting into your nose and making your heart constrict. Your hand went to cover your drawing automatically, without thinking, and Sukuna reached down, hand pushing yours to the side so he could see. 

‘’You drew this.’’ He said, not so much a question but a statement. You tried to ignore how your skin burned where he had touched you. Shifting nervously in your seat, you nodded. 

‘’Yes, chef.’’ You said softly, a little embarrassed, ‘’I hope it’s okay…it’s just I felt a little inspired and I like to draw out my ideas, you know?’’ Sukuna leaned against the table, still very close, and he took your notebook from your grasp without even asking. You bit your lip, panic rising in you, not because they were private, but because they were all your work, your ideas, and now one of the best chefs in the world was flipping through them. This was definitely a nightmare scenario for you. You could see it now, Sukuna would scoff, toss your notebook on the floor, snap at you and tell you they were garbage and that you should never touch a pencil or a pot again. Your heart raced in your chest, closing your eyes, waiting for the hammer to drop. 

‘’They’re beautiful.’’ Sukuna rasped, and you whipped your gaze up to stare at him, mouth opening in shock. He was turning the pages with care, care you didn’t think he possessed in those huge mitts of his. Sukuna almost seemed frustrated with you, or himself, you couldn’t tell, but still…

He said your drawings were beautiful. Your heart soared, up into the sky, into the clouds as a beaming smile grew on your face. 

‘’You think so?’’ You breathed, then you blinked, ‘’Uh, I mean, thank you chef.’’ Sukuna’s eyes shifted to your face, expression still unreadable. He set your notebook down, fingers tracing over your newest creation. 

‘’Yeah, a bit dainty for my taste but, they look good.’’ He said grudgingly, ‘’There’s some decent ideas in there.’’ Good. Decent. Sukuna gave you crumbs but you gathered them up like gold nuggets. This was the most praise you’d received from him since, well, ever. 

‘’Thank you chef, I really appreciate it!’’ You couldn't help but grin up at him, ‘’See this one? I thought of it tonight during service, so I had to draw it out as soon as possible. I know we don’t do a lot of desserts, but I was thinking of something like this-’’ You pointed at your drawing you’d been working on, ‘’Smoked chocolate torte and-’’

‘’Bourbon-blood orange bread pudding.’’ Sukuna finished for you, leaning in closer as he examined your drawing. You nodded excitedly, he’d read your mind. 

‘’Yes, chef! I was about to draw some bacon-maple ice cream too, you know, thought it’d be a good pair with the pudding.’’ You explained, and Sukuna sighed. 

‘’Those…sound pretty good.’’ He forced out through clenched teeth. Why did compliments leave his lips like it pained him to choke out? You had to suppress a laugh. ‘’Quit all the smiling, chef.’’ Sukuna growled, leaning back and crossing his arms. You blinked, bringing your hand up to cover your winning smile. 

‘’Sorry chef, just excited.’’ You replied, your voice betraying your glee. Sukuna scratched the back of his neck. The kitchen was silent, and it was just you two. You’d never been alone with Sukuna before, and something heavy hung in the air between you. The way he was looking at you made your stomach do a flip, his eyes burning in the dim light. 

Sukuna grunted. ‘’How long have you been drawing?’’ He asked finally, tilting his head, extending a hand on the table to lean on it. Your eyes flickered to his hand, noticing it was inches from yours. Was Sukuna really making conversation with you? Asking you personal questions? You had to be hallucinating. 

‘’Since I was seven, I think.’’ You shared, having to break eye-contact with Sukuna lest you burst into flames, ‘’I always drew food. It was awful at first, but the more interested in cooking I became the more I practiced and I never stopped. It’s my form of journaling I guess, since I’m too impatient to write things out.’’ Sukuna chuckled, low and fucking sexy. 

‘’Funny, since jotting down some ideas definitely takes less time than these damn gorgeous pieces of art.’’ He murmured, a hint of humor in his voice. Your face burned, the word gorgeous slipping from his lips sounding like sin, and you had to remind yourself he was talking about your drawings and not you. As if. 

‘’Well, I think words just don’t quite capture the same as the drawings.’’ You mumbled, avoiding his gaze, ‘’Besides, I half the time I can’t even think of the proper words, so the only way to get my thoughts out is with this.’’ Your hand smoothed over your notebook, suddenly finding the pages much more interesting than Sukuna’s stare. 

‘’I know what you mean.’’ He said. You felt a sudden rush of warmth as his hand reached up to grab your chin gently, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. Your eyes widened at the sudden contact, but before you could move, Sukuna pushed your head to the side, pointing with his free hand to the art on the wall. ‘’Those are mine. I paint sometimes too.’’ 

‘’You’re kidding…’’ You whispered, staring at the artwork, a picture-perfect painting of a smoking dish that looked so real you could almost smell it. ‘’You painted the art around here, chef?’’ Sukuna’s fingers tightened on your chin for a moment, thumb rubbing over your skin before he dropped his hand from your face. Butterflies erupted in your chest as you returned your gaze to his. 

‘’I did.’’ Sukuna replied, cocky, but not too arrogant. You groaned, rolling your eyes playfully.

‘’Of course you’re amazing at that as well.’’ You joked, tilting your head up towards him. ‘’It’s not even fair at this point, chef.’’ It was Sukuna’s turn to roll his eyes, mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile. ‘’When did you start painting?’’

‘’My parents thought it might keep me out of trouble in middle school. Figured I could ‘harness my passion in a healthy way.’’’ He told you, ‘’Guess it ended up working out.’’ 

‘’Yeah, that’s putting it lightly, chef.’’ You laughed, resting your chin on your hand, ‘’Maybe you could give me some pointers.’’ 

‘’Think what you need pointers in is your cooking.’’ He pointed out with a raised brow, and if his eyes weren’t glittering with humor you’d feel a little embarrassed. As you and Sukuna chatted a bit more, you noticed the time. With a mumble, you excused yourself, grabbing your things to stuff into your bag, but as usual your clumsiness made you make a fool out of yourself again, colored pencils clattering to the floor. 

‘’Oh shit-’’ You sighed, dropping to your knees to grab them, but you were met with a large hand reaching for them. You chanced a look up to find Sukuna’s face inches from yours, his hot breath fanning over your cheeks as he bent down to help you. You felt your fingers brush against his, the soft contact sending electricity through your veins as you found yourself trapped in his eyes. He was staring hard, frozen like a statue, and for a second, his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was reflexive, how you bit your lip under his hot gaze, and you let your eyes drift down to his lips. They looked soft, inviting, calling out your name. 

The sound of another pencil rolling off the table and hitting the floor broke the heavy tension, and Sukuna blinked, rising to his feet quickly and taking a step back. His eyes flashed with annoyance as his jaw clicked, and you scrambled to your feet, mouth too dry to say anything. What the hell just happened? You quickly gathered up your things, shoving them into your bag. 

‘’Have a good night, chef.’’ Was all you managed to croak out, hurrying out of the kitchen, ears burning as you fled. Sukuna didn’t say anything, and you didn’t look back. 

~ ~ ~ 

You wouldn’t say it was awkward as you stumbled through your second week of service at Malevolent Shrine. Sure, you and Sukuna didn’t find yourselves alone for any awkwardness to happen, and your shy glances in his direction didn't help, but it wasn’t bad. 

Except it was. It was bad, really, really bad, because Sukuna was sporting a chip on his shoulder and all his rage was directed at you. Service was torture, and even Mahito couldn’t find the time to step in and add his own abuse between Sukuna berating you, telling you that you were moving too slow, plates not plated perfectly enough, making you do them again, and again, and again. Sukuna zeroed in on any slip-up and went on a tirade about how you were doing a terrible job, even when you weren’t doing a terrible job. He made up things to call you out on, and even Jin had to tell him to take it easy. Dagon and Toji gave you pitying looks, and Choso would try his best to be positive, but it was still awful. You just squared your shoulders and took it, but confusion clouded your nights, making you toss and turn in your bed as you dreaded the next day. 

Had you done something wrong? Had you pissed him off when you shared your drawings? Did he hate you? When he looked at you that night, the two of you on your knees and leaning in close, it didn’t look like hate. In fact, if you were encouraging your delusions, you could even assume he’d wanted to kiss you. You were an idiot. That week, you avoided Sukuna like the plague, hiding whenever he came stomping down the hall, ducking out of the restaurant as fast as you possibly could. It sucked, because you wanted to be around him, you wanted him to be close to you, to look at you again like he’d looked at you that night. 

Running your hand over your face in one exhausted motion while sitting on the bus one night, you mentally kicked yourself. You were crushing on an asshole. A total, grade-A, painfully handsome asshole who hated you, and who also happened to be your boss.

It was Friday night. Service was long and gruelling and you were stationed with Mahito, of all people, no doubt Sukuna purposely putting you there to give you a last kick up the ass. As you stood there, stirring the same pot for hours because that’s what Mahito ordered you to do, you considered quitting for the first time since you’d started there. Sukuna had it out for you, Mahito too. Why put yourself through this? It wasn’t like Sukuna was going to hire you after your trial run anyway. 

Then it happened. Mahito messed up. The sauce he’d prepared was too acidic. Way too acidic. You made a face as you tasted it, and Mahito gave you a glare. You knew Sukuna noticed because he was stomping over to you, but luckily for you, you’d prepared a second-batch. You shoved the handle into Sukuna’s hands, mumbling that you’d made a back-up, just in case, and if you weren’t so damn tired, you would’ve jumped for joy as Sukuna grunted out something that sounded like approval, still giving you an icy stare as he snarled at Mahito to get his shit together. 

The win didn’t last long though, even though Mahito grudgingly thanked you for saving his ass, and even went so far as to be nice to you, Sukuna managed to find something to bully you about later. Your plating of the sauce was too messy, were you completely incompetent? Did you even pass culinary school? 

You were alone in the locker room, hunched over with your head in your hands, trying to find the energy to pick yourself up and head home, when suddenly you heard him. 

‘’You’ll get a hunchback sitting like that.’’ His rumble echoed in the room. You slowly lifted your head to look at him, just about ready to blow up. This fucking guy. 

‘’Excuse me?’’ You muttered, grinding your teeth as you sat up. Sukuna regarded you, leaning against the wall, dressed in a tight, black shirt, chef pants hanging low on his narrow hips. 

‘’You did fine tonight, by the way.’’ Sukuna said, ignoring your question. You felt like you were gonna pop a blood vessel. Your hands tightened into fists as you stood up, glaring up at your boss. 

‘’Fine? I did fine?’’ You hissed, ‘’That’s real funny because the entire night, no, the entire week, you’ve been riding my ass even when you didn’t have a damn reason to.’’ You expected Sukuna to start going off on you, for anger to flash in his crimson eyes, but instead he just looked at you, almost cautiously. 

‘’I’ve been doing a damn good job Sukuna, and you know it. Everyone knows it. I’ve kept going, excelled wherever you put me, and yet you’re still treating me like I don’t belong here, and I don’t get it. I don’t fucking get it!’’ Your voice shook with anger as you rambled on, ‘’So why the fuck are you going so hard on me, huh?’’ You didn’t even realize you’d called him by his name instead of the honorary chef, but you didn’t care. Sukuna growled, pinching the bridge of his nose. You knew you were red-faced and angry as you faced off with him, but you were surprised he wasn’t hitting back. 

‘’I’m pushing you.’’ He rasped, eyes screwed shut like he had a migraine. You scoffed. 

‘’Pushing me? You don’t even give me any feedback! How the hell is that pushing me?’’ You challenged, taking an angry step forward. 

‘’Because you need to adapt. You need to change. You have to.’’ Sukuna replied in a low voice as his gaze settled on you. You stared, confusion bubbling up inside you. 

‘’Change?’’

‘’You need to toughen up. Get meaner. Like me, like everyone else here.’’ He explained, his hands falling to his sides where they curled into fists. You rubbed your face, closing your eyes and shaking your head in frustration. 

‘’That isn’t me.’’ You whispered, just loud enough for Sukuna to hear, ‘’That isn’t me and it’s not gonna be me. I’m not gonna bend and break, turn into someone I’m not just to fit in. I’ve come this far being who I am, and I’ve done a hell of a good job. I will excel as a chef being me, and you’re not gonna convince me I have to change. I’m not going to change. I won’t.’’ You gave Sukuna a hard stare as you finished your little speech, hoping you’d gotten your message across. Sukuna said nothing as he looked at you, but his jaw tightened, something simmering below the surface.

‘’You don’t understand.’’ He said in a dark voice, ‘’I need you to change.’’ You blinked, jerking back as hit words hit you like a train. 

‘’Sorry?’’ You hissed, heart pounding in your chest. Sukuna groaned, and he pushed himself off the wall. He moved quickly, like he was desperate for something, and in a second he had you pushed up against the wall, both his huge arms caging you in, his head hanging over you as he scowled. His closeness made you shiver, but you were too shocked to move, to even utter a single word as you stared up at him. Sukuna’s eyes found yours, glaring down at you, angry, but his lips were parted, twisting into a plea. 

‘’I need you to change because I can’t fucking handle you.’’ He uttered roughly, ‘’I can’t deal with you, who you are, how goddamn…soft, and-and kind you are, how pretty…’’ His hand came down to brush over your cheek gently, like you were made of glass, sending your heart in a spiral. Sukuna’s eyes were hazy, like he was in a dream as his eyes bore into yours with intense longing that brought the softest of sighs to your lips. 

‘’I can’t handle how brilliant you are, and I hate how much I can’t handle that I want you.’’ 

Oh.  

Sukuna’s eyes fell to your parted lips, his imposing body pressing up against your own, and you could feel the heat of him, his taut muscles feeling like a brick wall. You wanted to say something, anything, but you were scared that if you opened your mouth your voice would shake. The two of you stood there in silence for a moment, and you swore you could hear Sukuna’s heart beating in his chest. Both his hands slowly fell to cup your cheeks, sliding down to your neck, burning-hot palms making you swallow hard. 

‘’Can you handle how much I want you?’’ You finally said, voice weak and soft. Sukuna blinked, then huffed out a rough, almost crazed laugh, and then he kissed you. 

Sukuna’s lips seared your mouth, hot and tasting of smoke as he pressed you up against the wall. Your head was spinning, engulfed by his smell, his touch overwhelming you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting more, needing more. Sukuna’s hands fell to your hips, pulling you flush against his chest, growling into your mouth as his tongue swiped across your lips. You moaned softly, fingers tangled in his salmon-colored hair, melting into his arms as you felt his knee push up between your thighs. The kiss was hungry, tight desire coiling in your stomach and as if he could read your mind, Sukuna’s hands went to your chef’s coat, tearing off the buttons with ease. 

‘’You’re so damn distracting.’’ Sukuna growled in frustration as his mouth left yours and travelled to your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, ‘’Can’t focus with you around me, fuck-’’ He swore as you rolled your hips, grinding on his knee, desperate to quell the tight longing in between your thighs. You tilted your head back as Sukuna’s teeth sank into your soft skin, nipping at you, filthy moans tumbling from his mouth, like he was getting off on just tasting your skin. 

‘’Really? I couldn’t tell.’’ You whispered, breathless, barely managing to form a sentence as your hands ran over Sukuna’s muscled, tattooed arms. God, he was strong. Sukuna’s deep laugh reverberated down his chest as his lips fell back on yours. He tugged off your chef’s coat to reveal your tank top, huge hands running up your torso to cup your chest, squeezing, and you whimpered. 

‘’Didn’t think such a sweet mouth could make such filthy sounds, doll.’’ He hummed, lips crashing back down to yours, forcing your mouth open as he hitched your leg around his waist, fingers gripping your thigh tightly. ‘’Shit, we shouldn’t fucking be doing this.’’ 

‘’Don’t care.’’ You mumbled, face flushed red. 

‘’Watch it.’’ Sukuna hissed, one hand gliding up underneath your shirt, feeling your skin with calloused fingers, and you shuddered. He pulled you off the wall, and you both stumbled into his office, his mouth never leaving yours, as if he needed the taste of your lips to function. Sukuna showed no hesitation as he kicked the door shut, pulling you onto his lap, one hand wrapped around your neck, the other sliding under the waistband of your pants. ‘’You taste so fucking sweet.’’ His breaths were coming fast, panting as he bit your lip. ‘’Driving me insane, girl.’’ 

You giggled into the kiss, your thighs opening for him, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt. ‘’Sorry chef.’’ You teased as you leaned back, breaking the kiss, and Sukuna almost pouted at the loss. A wicked grin spread across his lips, flashing his canines at you. 

‘’Come back here.’’ He growled, pulling you towards him. As you kissed him, your hands blindly fumbled at his zipper, shaky but sure. His hand came down to grab yours, stilling your movements. ‘’You sure you want this?’’ He asked you, crimson eyes studying yours, ‘’Because I want it. Want it really fucking bad, doll.’’ You shivered, biting your lip as you nodded eagerly. 

‘’Good girl, good fucking girl.’’ He mumbled, his hands diving under your panties, fingers reaching the wet spot between your legs and you let out a pathetic moan as you felt the warmth of his hand finally give you some release of tension. Sukuna let you unzip him, feeling how hard he was for you and you almost paled as you felt how damn big he was. Sukuna smirked, cocky as ever. ‘’See what you do to me, doll?’’ 

“S-Sukuna-“ you gasped out as white-hot pleasure flooded your vision, Sukuna’s fingers expertly curling into you. Sukuna grinned as he stared up at you, mouth open, eyes awe-struck. 

“Yeah, that’s it baby.” He groaned, “Fuck, if I knew how much you wanted me I’d have done this sooner.” 

The office was filled with the sounds of heavy moans and whimpers, but it came to a crashing halt when the sound of footsteps sounded outside. Sukuna and you froze just as you had raised your hips to sink down onto him, your heart racing as you strained your ears to hear. Sukuna growled when he heard a knock at his door, his fingers clenching tightly over the soft skin of your thighs.

‘’You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me-’’ He muttered, giving you a glance, eyes flickering over your flushed face and kiss-stung lips like it pained him to stop what he had been doing. ‘’Keep your mouth shut, hm?’’ He said quickly, voice quiet, giving your cheek a quick kiss before he helped you off his lap. You shrank away, trying desperately to not let out a groan of frustration at the loss of contact with Sukuna, your core aching as you tugged up your pants. Sukuna cracked open the door just enough to peer through and see who it was. 

‘’The fuck do you want?’’ He grunted, and you could see his hand tightening on the doorframe, knuckles flexing. 

‘’Wanted to see if you wanted to join us for a drink.’’ Toji’s voice carried through the entryway, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Here you were, hiding in your boss’s office, like you were a couple of teenagers getting hot and heavy in a school broom closet, seconds away from getting caught red-handed. 

You could almost hear the eye-roll Sukuna gave to Toji. ‘’No thanks, now fuck off.’’ 

The door slammed in Toji’s face without giving him a chance to reply, and Sukuna turned back slowly, resting his back against the door as he took a deep breath. His crimson eyes found you once more, his mouth turning up into a sly smirk. You couldn't help but smile too, cheeks heating up now that the heat of the moment had been interrupted. 

‘’This is your chance to walk away.’’ Sukuna said, running a hand through his hair as he watched you squirm under his hot gaze, ‘’Walk away before we make a mistake.’’ You tilted your head, gazing up at him as he took a step towards you.

‘’Doesn’t seem like you want me to walk away.’’ You teased, voice shaky as Sukuna backed you into his desk, huge hands going to your hips as he lifted you easily onto it and slotted himself between your thighs. 

‘’No,’’ Sukuna whispered softly as he leaned in, kissing your neck gently, sending shivers up your spine, ‘’I don’t want you to walk away. Want you here. With me.’’ You hummed in satisfaction as your hands smoothed over the huge expanse of his back, feeling the tightening of his muscles beneath your fingers. Sukuna peppered your neck with kisses, nipping at your skin and leaving marks you were sure you’d have to cover up the next day. His fingers brushed across the bare skin of your torso, digging in once he found his hold and gripping you tightly, like he was afraid you’d run. 

‘’Does this mean I’m getting hired now, chef?’’ You asked, laughing as Sukuna buried his face into the crook of your neck. Sukuna sighed. 

‘’You’re fucking unbelievable.’’ He grunted, but you could feel him smiling against your neck, then after a moment, he took your face in his hands and kissed you again.

~ ~ ~

a/n: been rewatching the bear...got sukuna chef brainrot and this is the result, let me know if u like ;)

[pixeld0ll]

Revenge is Best Served in Bed

tags: mdni, nsfw, sukuna x f!reader, gojo x reader(past), gojo is readers ex (theyre together for first part then break up), revenge sex, size difference, rough sex, spite sex, dirty talk, power play, possessive sukuna, light aftercare, gojo kinda mean in this ngl, petty behavior (and its HOT!!), overstimulation, slight angst

an: had this ideaa driving home and now im obsessed with it i hope you all enjoy!!! <33

wc: 6.0k

You’d been standing in front of the mirror for too long.

Fussing with your hair, adjusting your neckline, smoothing the fabric of your dress until your fingertips went numb. You’d changed three times before settling on this one—tight in all the right places, a color that made your skin glow, just a little too short if you bent the wrong way.

You looked good. You knew you looked good.

So why hadn’t he said anything?

Gojo had barely glanced up from his phone when you walked out of the bedroom. Just a distracted hum of acknowledgment, fingers flying across his screen, something about a mission detail he couldn’t afford to miss.

Not a compliment. Not even a look.

And now, here you were—at some overcrowded rooftop party in the middle of the city, surrounded by half-drunk sorcerers and strangers, standing alone while your boyfriend laughed at something Geto said across the room, an arm casually thrown around Nanami’s shoulder like this was his real relationship.

You shifted your weight in your heels, fingers curled tightly around your drink. Your face was starting to hurt from holding a polite smile.

He hadn’t even introduced you to anyone.

You blinked hard, willing the sting behind your eyes to vanish before it turned into something worse.

No. Not here. Not like this.

The music was too loud, the lights too bright. You slipped out the nearest exit—some side door that led to a quieter balcony, cold night air brushing your skin like a slap.

You leaned against the railing and stared out at the city, willing yourself to calm down. Don’t cry. You’d tried so hard tonight.

“You gonna jump or just cry dramatically into the skyline?”

The voice came from your left—low, teasing, edged with dry humor.

You turned your head—and froze.

The man leaned against the wall in the shadows, a cigarette burning between two fingers. His face was partially lit by the orange glow as he inhaled—sharp jaw, dark markings curling across his skin, eyes like blood and smoke.

You hadn’t seen him inside. You would’ve noticed.

“I’m not crying,” you muttered, wiping under your eyes quickly.

He shrugged like he didn’t believe you but didn’t care either. “Fair. You don’t look like the crying type.”

You arched a brow. “What type do I look like?”

He grinned, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to decide how much trouble to cause. “The kind of girl who doesn’t belong here.”

You crossed your arms, glancing sideways at him. “Do you belong here?”

“Not even a little.” He laughed to himself, blowing smoke out over the edge of the balcony. “But that’s never stopped me.”

You should’ve walked away. Gone back inside. But something about his energy was magnetic—unfiltered, untamed, the exact opposite of the polished, distant world you’d just stepped away from.

“You here with anyone?” he asked, like it was casual. Like he hadn’t been watching you closely since you stepped outside.

You hesitated. “…Yeah.”

He gave a mock grimace. “Shame.”

His eyes flicked down your body, slow and unbothered, but not disrespectful. Like he appreciated what he saw and wanted to make sure you knew it.

“Whoever it is,” he added, “must be an idiot.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He pointed at you lazily with the hand holding his cigarette. “You’ve got tears in your waterline, a death grip on that dress like you’re holding yourself together with thread, and the guy’s not even out here looking for you.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit,” he said, voice quieter now, still cocky but not cruel. “But a man who lets a woman cry alone in the cold while he parties like a king?” He shook his head. “That’s not a man. That’s a fucking disappointment.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s… it’s Gojo.”

A beat of silence.

Then he let out a harsh, sharp laugh—more like a scoff. “Of fucking course it’s that bitchass.”

Your eyes snapped toward him.

He looked amused—furious, even—but not surprised. “Everything about you screamed ‘too good for that self-absorbed peacock.’” He threw his cigarette over the railing and turned to you fully, eyes glittering. “What’d he do this time? Forgot your name? Asked you to hold his mirror?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. Just a small one, but real.

And he noticed.

The moment was cut short by the sound of the door swinging open behind you.

“[Y/N]?”

You turned, already bracing yourself.

Gojo stood in the doorway, expression darkening the moment he saw you—and who you were with. His entire body shifted in that instant: shoulders squaring, voice tighter than it had been all night.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped, eyes locked on Sukuna.

Sukuna just smiled—lazy, unbothered, like this was the most fun he’d had all evening.

“Talking,” he said coolly. “Something you seem to be pretty shit at.”

Gojo stepped forward, pulling you subtly behind him. “Don’t talk to her.”

Sukuna cocked his head. “You don’t want me talking to her? Maybe try not making her cry, dumbass.”

“She’s mine,” Gojo snapped, voice low and dangerous. He glances at you, finally noticing the dots of mascara under your eyes. His brow furrows softly before turning back to Sukuna.

Sukuna’s grin turned downright feral. “Any man who makes a woman cry with sadness instead of pleasure isn’t a man at all.”

A tense silence fell, heavy with everything unsaid.

You felt Gojo stiffen beside you. Felt his jaw clench. But for the first time all night, your heart wasn’t sinking—it was racing.

Gojo snarls under his breath before his fingers wrap around your wrist—tight, possessive, leaving no room for argument. He turns without another word and yanks you behind him, tugging you away from the balcony and back toward the party.

“We’re going home,” he growls, voice low and sharp with anger.

Your heels scuff the concrete as you stumble to follow, but your gaze stays locked over your shoulder—locked on him.

Sukuna doesn’t chase. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches with that smug, knowing smirk curling his mouth, eyes glowing like fire in the dark as he takes another long drag of his cigarette. Smoke coils around his face like a halo of sin.

Your mouth parts, slightly agape.

No one’s ever spoken to Gojo like that. No one’s ever riled him up like that.

No one’s ever read you like that.

That one brief look—those few words—had cut deeper than all the silence you’d endured lately.

Your heart thuds in your chest, not from Gojo’s grip or his tone, but from the way Sukuna had looked at you like he’d already figured you out—and didn’t pity you for it.

Not weak. Not forgotten. Seen.

The door slams shut behind you, cutting off your view of him. But even as Gojo leads you to the car in silence, your mind stays behind—still burning with the image of Sukuna standing in the dark, grinning like the devil who just found a new soul to play with.

The ride home had been silent.

Gojo didn’t say a word. Neither did you.

You felt the weight of his anger like smoke in your lungs—simmering, silent, unresolved. His fingers stayed clenched on the steering wheel the whole time. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain.

And when he collapsed into bed twenty minutes later, still fuming and emotionally absent, you were left sitting at the edge of the mattress—your dress still on, your makeup smudged, your heart still pacing like it hadn’t left the balcony.

You glanced over your shoulder.

He was already asleep. One arm slung over his eyes, mouth parted, white hair a mess against the pillow. You used to think he looked peaceful like this.

Now he just looked distant.

Your eyes dropped to the phone on the nightstand—his phone. He always kept it locked, always face-down. But tonight, in his rush to strip off his clothes and throw himself into bed, he must’ve forgotten.

It lit up when you touched the screen. No passcode. Just a lazy swipe to unlock.

You hesitated.

You shouldn’t.

But your fingers were already moving—opening his messages, flipping through notifications, backtracking into his contacts like muscle memory. You didn’t know what you were looking for.

Until you found it.

Blocked. Tucked at the very bottom of his list.

Only one name.

Sukuna.

Your pulse stuttered.

Why had he blocked him? Not just muted—blocked completely. Deleted messages. No call history.

You clicked the contact anyway.

No photo. Just a number. Just the name.

Your hands moved before your brain could catch up. You took a screenshot and sent it to yourself. Then you deleted the evidence from his photo album and recent texts, making sure nothing looked disturbed.

By the time you put his phone back where it was, your hands were shaking.

You curled into the far edge of the bed with your own phone in hand, staring at the message you’d just sent to yourself—the string of digits that felt like it burned on your screen.

Why had he blocked him?

Or maybe the better question was—

Why couldn’t you stop thinking about him?

Sukuna’s voice replayed in your mind like a sin you wanted to taste again.

“Any man who makes a woman cry with sadness instead of pleasure isn’t a man at all.”

You squeezed your thighs together.

And wondered how long you could go before texting him.

The sun was barely up when you slipped out of bed.

Gojo didn’t stir. Just shifted slightly under the sheets, face buried in his pillow, breathing slow and even.

You padded out of the bedroom in silence, feet cold against the hardwood as you moved through the dim apartment. The walls were too white. The floor too quiet. Even the kitchen, usually a safe space—coffee, toast, soft mornings—felt sterile this time.

You stood there with your hands wrapped around a warm mug, untouched.

And waited.

The minutes ticked by.

And when you finally heard the shuffle of blankets and the creak of the mattress, your heart started pounding like it already knew what was coming.

He stepped into the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his face, hair mussed, wearing nothing but boxers. He didn’t look angry. Just tired.

Detached.

“Hey,” he muttered.

No kiss. No “good morning.” No arms around your waist. No mention of how you’d gotten out of bed without waking him, or if you’d slept at all.

Just that one word. Like you were a roommate. Like you were anyone.

You didn’t answer.

You just stood there, mug pressed to your chest like armor, staring at the grain of the table.

Gojo finally glanced up, sensing the change in the air. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated. Your throat ached. But you made yourself meet his eyes.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected.

“I think we need to break up, Satoru.”

The silence was instant. Loud.

His brows drew together in confusion, like you’d just spoken another language. “What?”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the mug.

He stepped closer, a hint of frustration already creeping into his voice. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m serious.” You held his gaze, though it hurt to do it. “This… whatever we’ve become… it’s not working anymore.”

“Not working?” he scoffed, tension rising in his shoulders. “Since when?”

“Since always,” you whispered.

He stared at you like he was trying to make sense of a bad dream. Then something in him cracked—and his voice got louder.

“Who is he?”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“You met someone, didn’t you?” he accused, voice sharp, like he wanted to pin the blame on anything but himself. “That guy from last night—outside. The fucking curse user? That’s it, isn’t it?”

Your lips parted in disbelief. “Satoru, no—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, stepping closer now. “You think I didn’t see how you looked at him?”

Your hands started to tremble.

“It’s not because of him,” you said, voice breaking, “I’m leaving because of you.”

He froze.

And then, quieter, through clenched teeth: “Then tell me what I did.”

You laughed bitterly, even as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “You didn’t do anything, Satoru. That’s the problem. You haven’t made time for me in months. You don’t listen, you don’t look at me, you forget things I tell you ten seconds later. It feels like—like you don’t even like me anymore.”

“I’ve been busy—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“I know,” you said. “You’re always busy. Everyone needs you. You’re the strongest.”

Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper now.

“But I needed you too.”

Silence.

The tears finally slipped down your cheeks, and you made no move to hide them. You didn’t need to protect his feelings anymore. Not when yours had been neglected for so long.

Gojo opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He didn’t try to hold you. Didn’t say he was sorry. Didn’t say he still wanted you.

And that was your answer.

You wiped your cheeks, quietly placed the mug in the sink, and walked past him toward the bedroom to pack your things.

—----------------------------------------

You’re sitting in your apartment—your real one. The one Gojo never truly settled into. The one that always smelled faintly like lavender dryer sheets and loneliness.

You never officially moved in with him. But somehow, it still feels like you’ve come back from war.

Your knees are pulled to your chest, a worn, gray cat plushie crushed to your front like a lifeline. It still smells faintly like your childhood room. Safety. Home. The opposite of how your heart feels now.

Tears still sting the corners of your eyes, hot and heavy, even though the crying’s stopped. You’re emptied out. Hollowed.

The screen of your phone glows against the shadows of your room.

You stare down at the message you typed hours ago. Your finger hovers over the send button.

You: Hey. It's me. Can we talk?

Simple. Almost too casual. But you’ve retyped it a dozen times already. This was the least desperate version.

The contact is still just a number. You haven’t saved his name.

But your chest tightens just looking at it.

You remember the way Sukuna looked at you that night on the balcony—head tilted, mouth full of fire and sin, like he could see you even through the dark.

And he didn’t look away. He didn’t flinch.

He called Gojo a bitchass. Said you deserved better. Said no man should ever make a woman cry without earning her tears through something far less innocent.

Your thighs press together before you can stop them.

You shouldn’t do this.

You know what kind of man Sukuna is—arrogant, cocky, dangerous. He’s not safe.

But Gojo was supposed to be safe. And look how that turned out.

You whisper to no one, “What the fuck am I doing…”

And then— You hit Send.

The message disappears into the digital void. You drop the phone onto the mattress like it might burn you.

Your heart pounds in your chest.

You wait.

One minute. Two. Three.

Then the screen lights up.

Unknown Number: took you long enough, princess. where are you.

You stare at the screen, heart pounding, thumbs twitching.

He replied in under a minute.

Of course he did.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard again, hesitant.

You: I’m home. Just… been a rough day.

The read receipt pops up instantly. He’s waiting.

Typing…

Then:

Sukuna: bet it has. was it hard dumping that pretty boy in his own house?

Your breath catches.

You never told him. But somehow, he knows.

You: ...So you heard.

Sukuna: oh, sweetheart i didn’t hear i felt it the second you stopped pretending he was enough

You swallow hard.

Your chest rises and falls a little too fast. Your thighs squeeze a little too tight. You want to blame the breakup. The loneliness.

But it’s his voice—bleeding through your screen, taunting you, coaxing you.

You: You’re cocky for someone who barely knows me.

Sukuna: nah. i knew everything i needed the second you walked outside looking like heartbreak in heels. told you, didn’t i? whoever made you cry had to be a fucking idiot.

You clench your jaw, your face heating. You should stop. You should put the phone down.

But instead—

You: You really think I looked that bad?

Sukuna: nah, princess. you looked like sin wrapped in satin. just pissed it wasn’t my hands fucking up your mascara.

A sharp inhale slips past your lips.

Your legs uncurl from beneath you, stuffed animal tossed aside like a forgotten shield. You don’t even realize you’re biting your lip until the taste of it hits your tongue.

You: You’re such an asshole.

Sukuna: and you like that. especially right now.

You hesitate. Then:

You: What would you do if I came over?

A pause.

He’s typing. Then stops.

Typing again. Longer this time.

And then—

Sukuna: i’d make you forget that white-haired fuck ever touched you. i’d ruin you, sweetheart. slowly. properly. make you cry for a better reason.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, trying to breathe through the ache settling deep in your core.

You shouldn't want this.

But fuck, you do.

You don’t even remember standing up. Don’t remember grabbing your jacket. Only the last message you send, before you walk out the door with your heart hammering and heat pooling between your thighs.

You: Send me your address.

You almost lose your nerve in the elevator.

The city lights blur past the glass walls as you rise—heart pounding, legs trembling, throat dry. Your reflection stares back at you in the metal paneling: mascara smudged, lips raw from biting, hair a little messy.

You’d barely changed. Just grabbed your jacket and keys and left.

Your phone buzzes once in your hand. A message.

Sukuna: top floor. end of the hall. knock loud, sweetheart. i’ll like hearing you beg.

Your stomach flips.

You hate how your thighs clench at that.

By the time you reach his apartment door, your pulse is in your throat. The hallway is empty, dark and quiet. His door is tall and intimidating—just like him.

You stare at it for a second, breath catching.

Then you raise your fist and knock.

One beat. Two.

Nothing.

Then—click.

The door creaks open, slowly. Only a sliver at first.

Then a voice, smooth and dripping with smugness:

“Took you long enough, pretty girl.”

The door swings open fully.

And there he is.

Sukuna stands in the doorway with no shirt, just a pair of black sweats slung low on his hips. He’s barefoot, covered in black ink and muscle—chest broad, abs cut like marble, tattoos crawling up his throat and across his pecs like they were painted by sin itself.

He’s massive. Monstrous.

He fills the entire doorway. You feel small just standing in front of him—your head barely reaches his chest, even with your boots on. He looks down at you like a wolf looks at a trembling rabbit.

And he grins.

“You look smaller than I remember,” he says, head cocked slightly. “Or maybe I just like seeing you like this. Nervous. Flushed.”

Your breath stutters. “I’m not nervous.”

“Mm. Liar.” His eyes drag over you slowly, hungrily. “Didn’t even bother changing. Must’ve been in a real hurry to see me.”

You scowl, but your body betrays you—fidgeting slightly under his gaze, thighs rubbing unconsciously.

He leans one forearm against the doorway, towering over you now, tongue brushing his lower lip. “Gonna stand there all night, sweetheart?”

You blink.

He raises a brow. “Or are you gonna come inside and let me make you feel something for once?”

That does it.

You step forward—and he doesn’t move.

You stop short, chest nearly brushing his abs.

He smirks wider. “Gonna have to squeeze past me, baby. You sure you can handle all that?”

You meet his gaze, defiant even as your knees go weak. “I came here, didn’t I?”

Sukuna’s grin sharpens—teeth flashing.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, stepping back just enough to let you in, “you did.”

His hand brushes the small of your back as you pass—just enough to make your skin erupt in goosebumps.

The door shuts behind you with a quiet click.

And suddenly, you’re alone in his apartment, in his space, standing beneath his gaze—and for the first time in days...

You don’t feel invisible.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing the silence.

His apartment is darker than you expected—warm-toned, minimal, dangerous in its simplicity. Clean, but not in a tidy-boyfriend way. Clean like a predator who doesn’t leave evidence behind.

You shift, suddenly aware of the sound of your own breathing.

And then he’s there—behind you.

Too close.

You feel the heat of his chest, the energy of him, like static about to arc. His voice hums low at your ear.

“So.” “Did you come here to cry some more, or are you finally ready to feel something?”

You turn to face him, slowly.

He's still shirtless, tattoos crawling like vines over his chest and arms. Every inch of him screams danger. His pink hair is a little tousled, eyes gleaming red in the low light—sharp and amused.

Your voice comes out quieter than intended. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it’s fucking delicious,” he murmurs, dragging his eyes down your body like a slow exhale. “You showing up on my doorstep, all soft and wet-eyed, looking for something rougher than love.”

You clench your jaw. “I didn’t say that.”

“No,” he grins, stepping closer again. “But your body did.”

He doesn't touch you—of course he doesn’t. He doesn't have to. Just looms, like he could devour you if he wanted. His chest practically shadows your whole upper body. 

“You miss it yet?” he asks, voice lower. “Being wanted?”

You look away, and he chuckles.

“That’s a yes.”

“You’re full of yourself,” you mutter, stepping past him to put some space between you. “You think I came here to jump into bed with you? This isn’t some porno revenge fantasy.”

Sukuna laughs—deep, mocking. “Sweetheart, if this were a porno, we’d be halfway to a creampie on your ex’s hoodie by now.”

You shoot him a glare, cheeks heating.

“And don’t worry,” he adds, lips quirking, “I know you didn’t come here to fuck.”

He pauses.

Then, with a glint in his eye—

“You came here to want to.”

You stop breathing for a second.

He watches it all—the way your fingers twitch, your lips press together, your thighs shift again like they’re trying to not respond to the pull of his voice.

You hate how right he is.

“Poor little thing,” he says, softer now. “You were starving. And he didn’t even notice.”

You flinch.

It’s too close to the truth.

Sukuna doesn’t gloat. Not really. He just watches you with a predator’s stillness, like he’s waiting for you to break.

You swallow, trying to ground yourself. “I didn’t come here for pity.”

“Oh, I’m not offering it.”

He steps closer again, slow this time, almost gentle—if that word could ever exist in his world.

“I’m offering you something else.”

You look up at him. And you hate it—you hate how small you feel, how hot your cheeks are, how part of you wants him to push and push until you fall apart just to prove Gojo was never enough.

He leans in, breath ghosting over your ear.

“You’re not over him,” he murmurs. “But you will be—once I’m done with you.”

Your breath catches.

You can feel the goosebumps rise on your arms.

Still, you whisper:

“Then do something about it.”

For a split second, the air stands still.

Then—he moves.

In a blur of motion, he's on you.

A large hand clamps around the back of your neck, fingers digging into the nape like he owns it. His other arm snakes around your waist, yanking you forward as he towers over you—and then he's kissing you.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Devouring.

His mouth crashes against yours, all heat and teeth and intent. His grip tightens, head tilting as his lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding past to take what he’s been holding back from the second he opened that door.

You gasp, fists clutching at his chest to stay grounded. He’s so much bigger up close like this—his frame utterly consuming yours. Your toes barely graze the floor as he lifts you slightly with his hold, body pinned flush against hard muscle and inked skin.

“You want me to do something?” he growls against your lips, voice breaking into a low snarl. “This is what you fucking came for.”

You moan before you can stop it.

Your arms loop around his neck, desperate to pull him closer even as he takes his time bruising your lips, teeth nipping your bottom one until it stings.

He breaks the kiss only to tilt your head back further, exposing your throat. He doesn’t kiss it—not yet. He just breathes hotly against your skin, lips hovering just out of reach as his fingers tighten possessively in your hair.

“You want me to make you forget him? Say it.”

You squirm under his grip, lips parted, breath hitching. “S-Sukuna—”

“Say it.”

Your voice shakes—but you obey.

“Make me forget him.”

He grins against your jaw. Triumphant. Dangerous.

“Good girl.”

Then he lifts you—literally off your feet like it’s nothing.

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, arms clinging to his neck as he carries you toward the bedroom, mouth trailing open-mouthed kisses along your throat now, nipping your collarbone hard enough to leave a mark.

“You’re mine tonight,” he rasps, voice thick with promise. “And when I’m done—”

His hips roll up between your thighs as he walks, grinding slow and deliberate—

“—you’ll forget any name that isn’t mine.”

He carries you into his bedroom like you weigh nothing—like you belong in his arms, clawing at his back, breathless and needy.

The room is dim, soaked in shadows and heat. You barely register the scent of cigarettes, leather, and something so male before he tosses you onto the bed.

You bounce slightly against the mattress, your breath catching.

Sukuna towers above you—broad chest heaving, pupils blown wide with lust, jaw flexing like he’s holding himself back.

For a second, he just looks at you. Drinks you in.

Then climbs over you, one hand planting beside your head, the other sliding up your thigh until your skirt bunches around your hips.

“Still want me to do something about it?” he rasps, voice like gravel and sin.

You nod, lips parted, but something sticks in your throat. A weight.

A memory of cold silence. Of Gojo’s turned back. Of feeling invisible even while being held.

And then, softly—almost too quiet to hear:

“...Sukuna?”

He pauses.

Looks down at you, brows barely twitching. Waiting.

“Gojo was always… gentle.”

A beat of silence.

Then your voice again—barely a whisper, but it lances straight through his spine.

“Don’t be gentle.”

His jaw tightens.

His hand on your thigh grips harder. His breath darkens. His whole body tenses like a fuse just hit the flame.

“Oh, baby,” he growls, lips curling back into a wicked grin. “You don’t know what you’ve just asked for.”

Then his hand wraps around your throat—not choking, just holding, just claiming—as he leans down to kiss you again, harder than before. His teeth scrape your lip, tongue pushing deep and demanding. You gasp, your body arching beneath him, hips rolling up on instinct.

He pulls back just enough to growl against your lips:

“You want me to fuck you like I hate him?”

You nod, breath trembling. “Yes.”

He lets out a sharp, guttural sound—somewhere between a laugh and a snarl.

“Then I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget how to say his fucking name.”

He doesn’t waste time.

The second you give him permission, Sukuna’s mouth crashes into yours like a war drum, lips bruising, tongue invasive. He tastes like smoke and dominance—like danger.

Your body’s pinned flat beneath his, his weight deliciously suffocating. He doesn’t give you a second to think.

His hand slides between your thighs, gripping your panties and ripping them off in one savage motion. The sound of tearing fabric tears a gasp from your throat.

“So wet already,” he growls, sliding two fingers through your folds, smearing your slick like he owns it. “Bet he never even made you drip like this.”

You moan, back arching.

“Tell me,” he demands, rubbing lazy, taunting circles around your clit. “Did he ever fuck you like he meant it?”

You shake your head.

“Did he ever make you beg?”

“N-No…”

“Then I’ll teach you how.”

He sinks two fingers into you with zero warning—deep and rough. Your hips jerk, a sharp cry ripping from your throat.

“That's it,” he snarls, lips grazing your ear. “Cry for me.”

His fingers curl, dragging along your walls like he knows exactly where that spot is—and he does. Of course he does. He watches you unravel with sick pleasure, your thighs trembling already.

“Fuck—look at you. Gripping me like you were made for this.”

You whimper his name and that breaks something in him.

Sukuna pulls his fingers out and shoves them into your mouth.

“Suck.”

You do, lips closing around him, tasting yourself on his skin. He watches, eyes burning red, chest heaving.

“Good girl.”

Then he’s unbuckling his belt, pants shoved down just enough. His cock slaps against his abdomen—thick, hard, leaking.

Your mouth falls open. It’s massive. Way bigger than Gojo’s.

He sees your expression and laughs.

“You’re gonna feel this in your stomach.”

He grabs your legs, yanking you to the edge of the bed. No prep. No warning.

“Take a deep breath, sweetheart.”

And then—he thrusts in.

You scream.

The stretch is brutal, the burn immediate. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t let you adjust. Just pistons into you with a punishing rhythm, like he wants to fuck Gojo out of your memory—out of your soul.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Take it. Fucking take it.”

Your fingers claw at the sheets. Your thighs tremble. Your voice is breaking on every moan. He’s relentless.

He grabs your hips, slamming you down onto his cock harder, deeper, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room.

“Say my name.”

You barely choke it out—“Sukuna—!”

“Louder.”

“SUKUNA—!”

He grins, feral. Leaning over you, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple.

“That’s right. Scream it. Let the whole fucking city know who you belong to now.”

He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and fucks into you deeper.

You cry out, eyes rolling back. You’ve never been this full, this wrecked. Your body’s already close—your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave as you clamp down hard around him.

“Fuck—yeah, squeeze me just like that,” he groans, eyes dark with lust. “You were made for this cock.”

You sob his name as you cum, trembling under him.

But he’s not done.

He flips you over without warning, face down into the mattress, ass up. You barely catch your breath before he shoves back into you with a growl.

“We’re not finished.”

He fucks you like he owns you. Like your body is a message. Like every thrust is revenge.

You’re not sure how many times you cum—once, twice, maybe more. He doesn’t stop. Not until your voice is hoarse and your knees give out.

Finally, with a grunt and a low growl of your name, he buries himself deep and spills inside you—hard.

You feel it all.

The way his fingers sink into your hips as he rides out every last pulse.

The heat of his cum leaking out around his cock.

The silence after, filled only by the sound of your breathing.

Then, Sukuna leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Still thinking about him?”

You shake your head, dazed, ruined.

He chuckles low.

“Didn’t think so.”

You don’t remember collapsing. Your body’s wrecked—twitching, trembling, boneless.

You’re lying face-down, cheek pressed into his mattress, still gasping for breath. Your skin’s hot, sticky with sweat. Your thighs are shaking, sore, the stretch of him still a dull ache inside you.

And then—you feel him.

Not rough. Not grabbing.

Gentle.

Sukuna’s large hands smooth up your spine, slow and soothing. He’s not talking. Just dragging his palms across your back like he’s grounding you—like he’s anchoring you there, to him.

He exhales through his nose, and for a second, it’s like he’s… thinking.

Then, his voice comes—low, hoarse. Not mocking.

“You okay?”

Your breath hitches. You nod into the pillow.

A beat passes. Then another.

You flinch slightly when the bed shifts—expecting him to get up. Walk away. Be done with you now that the tension’s snapped.

But instead—you feel the mattress dip beside you.

And then, something shocking.

A warm, rough palm on your cheek.

Turning your face toward him.

You blink up at him—eyeliner smudged, lips kiss-swollen, hair a mess. He just looks at you, not saying anything.

His expression isn’t smug anymore. Not cruel. Not sharp.

Just… unreadable.

Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with what he’s feeling.

“He didn’t deserve you,” Sukuna mutters finally, thumb brushing your cheekbone in the barest touch. “Fucking idiot.”

You don’t say anything. You just look at him.

And for once, Sukuna doesn’t look away.

His hand slides from your cheek to your waist, curling there possessively as he pulls you into his chest. Not to fuck. Not to tease.

Just… to hold.

“You stayin’ the night?”

You nod, cheek resting over his heart now. It’s pounding. Heavy.

“Good,” he says. Voice rasping. “Didn’t feel like letting you leave anyway.”

There’s silence for a long time.

Then, so soft you barely hear it:

“...You did good, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches.

Because that—that meant something. More than all the filth, more than the hatefuck, more than anything else.

That wasn’t revenge. That was real.

And in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, you finally let yourself fall asleep.

You wake up slowly. The sheets are soft, warm—and they smell like him. Smoke, leather, and sweat. Your body aches deliciously, sore in places you didn’t even know could be sore. A reminder of last night with every breath.

Sukuna’s not in the bed.

You blink blearily, sitting up on shaky elbows, the oversized blanket falling off your bare chest. You hear low movement—drawers opening, something clinking in the kitchen.

Then—your phone vibrates against the nightstand.

Incoming Call: Satoru

You freeze.

Your heart lurches. Your fingers twitch, halfway toward it.

But before you can reach it—

A hand snatches it up. His hand.

Sukuna’s standing at the doorway to the bedroom, shirtless, coffee mug in one hand, your phone in the other.

Hair messy. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Gold chains glinting against his throat.

He looks down at your screen, smirks, and answers it without a fucking care.

“What.”

Your stomach flips. “Sukuna—!”

He ignores you, putting the call on speaker as he leans against the doorframe.

Gojo’s voice comes through, sharp and pissed.

“Who the fuck is this?”

Sukuna’s smile widens—feral. His eyes flick to you, still naked in his bed, then back to the phone.

“She’s busy.”

“Where the hell is she—?”

“In my bed,” Sukuna says, sipping his coffee like it’s the weather report. “Sleeping off the five times I fucked her last night.”

You slap your hand over your mouth, eyes wide in shock and mortification—and arousal.

The silence on the other end is deafening.

Then:

“You fucking—”

“If I were you,” Sukuna cuts in, voice suddenly ice-cold, “I’d delete her number and learn how to jack off. You had your chance. You wasted it.”

Gojo’s breathing ragged through the speaker.

“Put her on the phone.”

Sukuna tosses your phone on the bed like it’s trash.

“She’s not interested, bitchass.”

Then he ends the call.

You stare at him, stunned, lips parted. A loud laugh escapes you.

He walks back over, casual as hell, climbs onto the bed, and kisses you slow—like he didn’t just emotionally obliterate your ex with five words and a dick print.

“You hungry?” he murmurs against your mouth. “Or you want round six first?”

[pixeld0ll]

street racer! sukuna's car is in the shop (he takes public transit)

my take on a meet cute <3

You almost miss your bus.

Running on exactly three hours of sleep and a warm matcha latte, dragging your tote bag behind your shoulder like a corpse, you step forward to ride the escalator when—

Oh.

Oh.

He steps on just before you. And you swear the air shifts.

He’s tall. Built like something wrong—like too many sharp edges forced into a beautiful man’s body. Tight black tank top clinging to broad shoulders, rings catching the shitty underground lighting, a half-zipped jacket hanging from his frame like he forgot to care. But it’s the tattoos that get your attention. Not just the sleeves—though those are there, snaking down thick forearms—but the ones on his face. Deep black. Not drawn.

Inked.

Art.

You’ve seen bad face tats before. Laughed about them with your friends. But these?

They belong to him. Like they were born on his skin. Like the devil wanted to walk the earth and this is the body he chose.

He stretches his neck once, lazy and fluid, before his gaze flicks in your direction.

And lands.

Dead-on.

You’re still halfway onto the escalator, clutching your tote like a deer caught mid-existence. Your breath catches. A beat. Then another.

His mouth quirks. Just slightly.

And then he turns, walking off toward the metro bay—hands in his pockets, silver chain glinting at his collarbone.

What you don’t know is:

He’s already seen you.

More than once.

Once, coming into the metro building with your keys in your mouth and your shoe untied. Once, falling asleep against the window of the bus, latte long gone cold in your hand. Once, standing too close to the yellow line with your earbuds in like the world couldn’t touch you.

At first, you weren’t special. Just pretty. Out of place in the cold gray metal of city transit.

But the more he noticed you, the more it irritated him. Or maybe... amused him.

Because Sukuna fucking hated public transit.

He hated the smell. The flickering lights. The way the seats squeaked. The fact that it rattled like it was held together by prayer and duct tape.

But his car was in the shop—some blown transmission alert turned into a bigger issue, and now he was saving up for a full engine swap. Custom parts. The kind of thing that meant renting a car wasn’t worth the money, even if every cell in his body screamed to get off this goddamn metro.

So he rode the stupid train like everyone else.

Hands in his pockets. Hood up some days. Sitting silent, fuming, headphones in but no music playing. He didn’t like talking to strangers. Didn’t like being looked at.

But he did like watching people.

People revealed everything when they didn’t know they were being watched.

And you? You were the most interesting thing on the whole miserable route.

Because he could feel you watching him. Every single time.

He’d step onto the train car and your gaze would snap to him before you even realized it.

And then—every time he glanced back, every time he shifted close to your seat, every time he stood near your handlebar grip—you’d look away. Fast. Like it burned. Like pretending he wasn’t there could erase him.

He didn’t mind it.

No—he liked it.

He liked the nervous little flick of your eyes when he stood beside your seat.

He liked the way you suddenly busied yourself with your phone like it had become the most fascinating thing in the universe.

He liked that you never stared outright, but still somehow always noticed him first.

At first, he thought it was just coincidence. Maybe you took the same train. Maybe the time aligned.

But then it happened again. And again. You kept showing up. Same stop. Same cart. Same warm matcha in hand. Same soft way you brushed your fingers through your hair when you sat by the window.

Sukuna never said anything. Never stared long enough to make you bolt.

Just watched. Waited. Counted how many mornings it would take before you snapped and looked him in the eye.

(So far: eleven.)

What amused him most was how hard you tried to act like you didn’t see him. Like he was just another guy on the metro.

Just some asshole with tattoos and bad manners and a worse temper. You were good at pretending. He’d give you that.

But he could see the flush in your cheeks when he stood too close. He could see your fingers grip your phone tighter when he slid into the seat across from you.

He could feel the ripple of attention—your attention—like a thread drawn tight between you.

And for now, he didn’t tug on it.

Not yet.

But every day, he sat a little closer.

Every day, he watched you fidget.

Every day, he waited.

Because you hadn’t figured it out yet.

You do find out his name a few days later. Not from him—of course not. He doesn’t say shit. But you hear the security guard mutter it as Sukuna taps his card at the turnstile.

“Racer devil’s still takin’ the 47? Must be down real bad.”

Racer.

That explains the aura. You know exactly the type—the kind who tears up city streets at 3 a.m. in a borderline-illegal Nissan and drinks White Monster like it’s an identity.

But Sukuna?

He doesn’t feel like Monster.

He feels like blood in your mouth. Like engine smoke and something purring under your skin.

He starts showing up every morning. Same stop. Same time. Always looking like the world had the audacity to wake him up.

You notice he almost always has a cup in hand. Coffee. Dark, probably. Bitter, maybe not. You start wondering what he drinks. Black? Or something sugary, disguised in a plain white cup—maybe a frappuccino he doesn’t want anyone to know about?

You never know what car he boards. He’s intimidatingly handsome and unfairly magnetic, and it makes you too nervous to look up from your phone to properly check. But somehow… he always ends up in the same transit cart as you.

And some sick, stupid, hopeless part of you wonders if he does it on purpose. If he scans the carts for your face. If he ever looks up just to see which one you’re in.

Even though he never speaks.

Even though some mornings he’s on his phone.

Most of the time, he just stares out the window like it owes him money. And yet—he always finds your cart. Every damn time.

He knows exactly which doors open nearest your favorite bench. He learned the rhythm of your schedule before you even noticed him.

His car was out of commission for a week, and he should’ve gone back to driving as soon as he fixed it. He didn’t.

Because the one thing better than racing adrenaline?

Was watching you try not to stare.

Until one morning, you have to squeeze past him to take the last seat.

“Careful,” he murmurs. His voice is rough—like gravel and smoke—but smooth around the edges. “You’re gonna make it a habit.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks down at you, bored eyes half-lidded, mouth twitching into something just shy of smug.

“Staring.”

Your face flushes so fast you nearly combust. “I wasn’t—”

He hums. Doesn’t say you were. Doesn’t say you weren’t.

Just moves, slipping into the seat across from yours. Legs spread, one ankle resting on his knee, like he owns the whole damn row.

Right in front of you.

[pixeld0ll]

Tear you apart

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 (coming soon!) tags: NSFW, MDNI, ryomen sukuna, sukuna x reader, sukuna smut, jujutsu kaisen smut, sukuna fanfiction, jujutsu kaisen x reader, dark content, dark romance, nsfw fanfic, possessive sukuna, masochistic reader, degradation kink, sadism and masochism, size kink, rough sex, aftercare, marking kink, carving kink, curse!sukuna, sukuna's domain, bratty reader, power dynamics, worship kink, dubcon elements, twisted romance, jujutsu kaisen fanfic, jjk x reader, sukuna x you, smut fic, yandere vibes, obsessed sukuna, cursed bond, forbidden love

an: EEEEE thank you all sosososoooo much for all the love!! Please enjoy part 2 <3

  words: 3.8k

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at your reflection—the bandages, the bruises, the dull ache radiating from deep within your core. There’s no mistaking it.

What happened in Sukuna’s domain wasn’t a dream. It was real.

A knock at your door jolts you out of your daze.

“You up?” Yuuji’s voice is muffled through the wood, tinged with concern. “Gojo’s waiting for everyone.”

Though the forecast promises a hot day, you hurriedly tug on a high-neck sweatshirt, wincing as the fabric scrapes over one of the bite marks blooming on your shoulder. You tug the sleeves down over your wrists and press your hands to your cheeks, trying to will away the heat rising there.

You can’t afford to look guilty. Not today.

Opening the door, you find Yuuji standing there. He looks down at you, brows immediately knitting together.

“Damn, Y/N… you okay?” Concern flickers in his eyes. His voice is soft, careful.

Your stomach twists. “Y-yeah. Just didn’t sleep well. Had a bad dream,” you mumble, hugging your arms around yourself as you step past him, heading toward the classroom.

You hope he lets it go. Because if Yuuji noticed something was off…

Gojo definitely will.

Yuuji lingers behind for a second, watching you walk. His eyes narrow slightly, his fingers twitch.

“Weird…” he mutters under his breath. “Why do I sense another cursed energy around her?”

He jogs to catch up, falling into step beside you. He doesn’t say anything at first—just watches from the corner of his eye. You flinch subtly with each step, your pace a little too careful.

He decides not to push. But he knows something isn’t right.

“Ah, sleeping beauty has arrived.” Gojo’s voice rings out the moment you step inside the classroom. He’s leaning lazily against the desk, blindfold pushed just enough to reveal a sliver of crystalline blue eyes that scan you far too intently.

Your stomach flips. You feel nauseous all of a sudden.

“You look like hell,” he continues, but his tone is teasing—too casual. “Nightmares? Or just up all night fantasizing about me?”

You try to laugh, but it comes out strained. “Maybe in your dreams, Gojo.”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short,” he says with a wink. “You’re definitely the type I’d dream about.”

Your heart skips a beat. You press a hand towards your chest, breath catching.

Gojo pauses. His grin falters just slightly. He tilts his head.

“...You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

You force a nod, eyes avoiding his. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He studies you for a beat longer. And just as he’s about to speak again—

“He’s annoying.”

Your breath catches. The voice slithers through your mind like smoke, curling around your thoughts.

Sukuna.

You go still.

“The way he looks at you. Like he could ever touch what’s mine.”

Your lips part, wetness curling between your thighs. You barely hear Gojo calling your name.

“I can still feel you, pet. The way you clenched around me. The way you screamed. That part of me I left inside you… it’s listening. Watching.”

Your knees threaten to buckle, thighs clenching, remembering how good he felt.

“Y/N?”

You blink. Gojo’s in front of you now, brows furrowed, a hand hovering near your shoulder like he’s unsure whether to touch you.

You force a smile, too sharp at the edges. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “Zoning out with a full body blush and almost falling on your ass?”

Your eyes widen. You hadn’t realized—

He leans in slightly, voice low. “Tell me what’s really going on.”

And again, like a possessive shadow curling in your bones, Sukuna whispers:

“Tell him, and I’ll show you what it means to really bleed for me.”

Your breath catches, a war igniting in your chest.

Between right and wrong. Pain and pleasure. Control—and the bliss of losing it.

You take a shaky step back.

“I’m fine, Gojo. Just need some air.”

Before he can protest, you’re already walking away, heart pounding. You feel Sukuna’s laughter coil inside your skull like velvet chains.

“Ill be back, little one.”

___________________________________________________________

That night, you lie awake in bed, fighting sleep like it’s the devil himself.

You’re exhausted—bone-deep tired—and all you want is to curl up and let the REM cycle pull you under.

But he said you’d see him. And you’re not sure if you can handle that.

Your bed is too warm. The sheets too soft. The pillow too plush. Everything feels too much, too inviting—and soon, despite your fear, sleep wins.

Your breathing slows. Soft snores slip from your lips as your heavy eyelids finally give in.

It’s a battle you didn’t want to lose. But you did want to lose it. Didn’t you?

Then— A hand.

You feel it first: large, rough, demanding, wrapping around your ankle.

Then another, sliding up your thigh—gripping, squeezing.

A third clamps down on your waist, sharp nails biting into soft flesh.

A fourth wraps around your wrist, and before you can scream, you’re being pulled. Yanked down— Falling. Falling. Falling.

Your stomach flips. You brace for impact.

Your eyes snap open— And you land in a graveyard of skulls.

A river of thick, dark-red liquid snakes beneath your feet. The air is heavy, choking with a crimson haze.

You’re back. In his domain.

“I told you I’d be back,” a low voice hisses in your ear.

Your heart seizes. Your eyes widen in terror as a flood of heat rushes between your thighs.

He chuckles darkly.

A hand wraps around the back of your neck, yanking you backward—flush against a bare, unrelenting chest. You gasp, breath catching in your throat as his skin burns against yours.

You tilt your head back, looking up with wide, innocent eyes.

His gaze drops to meet yours. A slow, sinister smirk curls his lips.

His eyes—dark, hungry, knowing—gleam in the blood-red light.

“Oh, pet,” he purrs. “Did you miss me?”

You cross your arms defiantly, trying to ignore the way your hands tremble.

Of course, he notices.

“You really couldn’t wait a single night, huh?” you sneer, forcing the words past the knot in your throat. “Is my pussy just that good?”

His brow lifts, amused—and intrigued. Most wouldn’t dare speak to him like this. Especially not twice.

“Says the little brat who nearly came just from hearing my voice in her head,” he drawls, the smirk curling on his lips making your stomach twist. He lets go of your neck with a rough shove, stepping around to face you fully.

Your breath stutters. You weren’t expecting that kind of comeback.

“I-I did not,” you snap, voice higher than intended. “I was in the middle of class with my teacher—what did you expect me to do when a demon suddenly starts whispering in my brain?!”

He cuts you off with a lazy wave of his hand. “You talk too much.”

Your jaw drops. “You’re really fucking annoying, you know that?” you mutter, eyes narrowing. “Can’t believe I wasted three years trying to meet you.”

His expression doesn't change—but something in the air does.

He steps forward. One slow, deliberate stride. Then another. You feel yourself instinctively taking a step back, but it’s useless—he’s already there.

A single clawed finger hooks under your chin and tilts your head up, up, up. He’s towering above you, his crimson gaze boring into yours. You freeze. Your heart pounds like war drums inside your chest.

“Why do you think you’re here?” he murmurs, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You’ve been nagging at my brain that entire time, you know.”

You swallow hard, trying not to lean into his touch. His finger is barely pressing against your skin, but the weight of his presence is crushing.

He leans in—so close you can feel his breath at your ear.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice low and deadly. “Say you regret summoning me.”

You hesitate, unsure if it’s a bluff.

“...Do it,” he hisses, mouth ghosting along your jaw. “Lie to me.”

When you say nothing, he laughs. A dark, guttural sound that makes your knees weaken.

“There it is,” he purrs. “That’s what I wanted to see.”

Then, in a blink, he’s behind you—an arm wrapping tight around your waist, yanking your back against his much larger chest. His other hand drags slowly down your neck, fingertips grazing each sensitive bruise.

“You wanted me,” he growls, breath hot against your skin. “And now I’m part of you. You thought one night would be enough?”

You squirm in his hold, heat pooling between your thighs despite yourself.

“Fuck off,” you whisper.

His grip tightens instantly.

“No, no, no, little girl. You don’t get to want me, take me, and then act like you’re in control. That’s not how this works.”

You try to turn your head, but he leans down and bites your shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, but just enough to make you gasp.

“You’ve already let me in,” he breathes. “Body, mind, soul.”

His tongue licks over the bite mark, before he bites harder, drawing beads of red. “And I’m not leaving.”

His tongue drags over the bite on your shoulder—slow, possessive—and your breath hitches.

“Still pretending you don’t want this?” he murmurs into your skin, his voice like velvet over glass. “Even now? With your thighs clenching like that?”

“I’m not,” you gasp, but your hips betray you—grinding back into the hardness pressed against your ass. He chuckles darkly.

“Liar.”

His lower arms snake around your waist, one hand flattening against your stomach, the other sliding down—down—between your legs. He doesn’t bother undressing you. With a single sharp flick of his claws, your shorts are shredded. He palms your heat through the soaked fabric of your panties.

“Already soaked,” he growls. “So desperate for me, even after I ruined you last time. Or maybe… because I did.”

You shiver. “You’re full of yourself.”

“And you’re full of me,” he shoots back with a grin. “Or you will be.”

His fingers press harder, rubbing slow, punishing circles over your clit through the thin cotton. You try to stifle the whimper that slips out, but he hears it anyway—and groans in approval.

“I love that sound,” he murmurs. “Make it again.”

You snap your thighs together instinctively, trying to push his hand away, but he just laughs—low and dangerous.

“Still bratting, even when you’re soaking through your panties for me?”

He turns you to face him, easily hoisting you up by your thighs. You yelp, arms flying around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You gonna keep mouthing off?” he asks, grinding your soaked core against the thick bulge straining beneath his pants. “Or are you finally ready to be honest?”

You bite your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a moan as his cock presses just right. “What if I like mouthing off?” you say breathlessly. “Maybe I like making you work for it.”

His eyes flash crimson. “Then I’ll make you work for it too.”

With one hand, he yanks your panties aside, the soaked fabric sticking to your folds before tearing away. His cock presses against your entrance, hot and hard and huge.

“You know what to say,” he whispers darkly, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness, teasing your swollen entrance.

You do.

And you hate how much you want to say it.

“…Please,” you whisper.

He stills. “What was that?”

You grit your teeth. “Please. Please fuck me, master.”

He growls—a low, primal sound that vibrates in your chest—and the next second, he’s inside.

Your breath leaves your lungs in a choked gasp.

He bottoms out in one brutal thrust, your back arching as the stretch burns—but god, it’s so good. You cling to him, trembling, walls fluttering around him as he groans into your neck.

“So tight,” he hisses. “Still not used to me, even after I’ve claimed you.”

You can’t even speak, just gasp as he begins to thrust—deep and punishing, every stroke slamming into that spot that makes your vision blur. His lower hands grip your thighs, keeping you open and helpless. His upper hands roam—one gripping your jaw, the other palming your breast roughly through your shirt.

“You feel that?” he pants, cock dragging against every trembling nerve inside you. “That’s what happens when you act like a little fucking brat. I ruin you.”

You sob—half pleasure, half overwhelmed—and he smirks.

“Say it again.”

“P-please…”

“Say what you are.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m yours,” you cry out, head lolling back.

He snarls in approval, speeding up his thrusts until your legs shake, your walls pulsing around him like a vice.

“Mine,” he grits out. “And I’m not done with you yet.”

Your mind is barely clinging to thought—each thrust of his cock drags a desperate whimper from your throat, each grind of his hips pushes you closer to the edge.

“You gonna cum already?” he mocks, eyes blazing red, fangs bared in a wild grin. “Haven’t even gotten serious yet.”

Your body betrays you.

Your legs tremble violently around his waist, hips jerking helplessly against him as your walls clamp down so hard around his cock that he groans—deep and raw—his fingers bruising your skin where he grips you.

“Ohhh, you’re close,” he growls. “Right there, aren’t you? Fucking pulsing around me like a needy little toy.”

“D-Don’t stop—please, Sukuna—please, please—” you're babbling, the words tumbling out between sobs and gasps, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity.

His thrusts grow harsher, deeper, fucking you through the slick tightness of your orgasm building—coiling in your belly like lightning about to strike.

“You wanted me,” he snarls, fucking into you like he’s trying to brand the shape of his cock into your soul. “You got me. Now fucking take it.”

And then—

You break.

Your orgasm rips through you like wildfire—violent, unstoppable. Your eyes roll back, a wail tearing from your throat as your whole body convulses. Your pussy tightens around him like a vice, milking his cock with wave after wave of unbearable pleasure. You sob out his name, drooling, incoherent, trembling in his hold.

He growls something primal—feral—and stills deep inside you as his cock throbs and twitches, spilling hot, thick ropes of cum into your spasming cunt. The sound he makes is pure filth—guttural and low, echoing through the blood-red haze of his domain.

“Fucking mine,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot on your lips.

You're still shaking, twitching, clenching around him even as your orgasm fades—your body boneless in his arms. He doesn’t let you go. Not yet. His cock stays buried inside you, and you feel the mess dripping down your thighs, feel the weight of him even now—owning you.

One of his lower hands lifts to your face, gently brushing your damp hair back.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, tone quiet now. “So good when you're broken. My perfect little toy.”

You whimper weakly, lips parted, barely able to breathe.

“Get some rest, little one,” he whispers. “Because next time… I won’t be so gentle.”

And with that, your vision begins to blur at the edges—his domain falling away as your orgasm-wrecked body collapses into sleep, his presence lingering in the back of your mind like smoke, wrapping around you, somehow warming and comforting.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake with a sharp inhale.

Your sheets cling to your body, damp with sweat—your breath ragged, your skin still tingling. The vivid echo of Sukuna’s voice lingers in your head like a curse. “Next time, I won’t be so gentle…”

The room is quiet. Morning light trickles through your curtains, painting soft gold across the floorboards. You sit up slowly, and the ache in your muscles is immediate—deep, real, undeniable.

You shift beneath the covers and feel it—slickness between your thighs. Your face burns with heat.

Was that real again?

With trembling fingers, you pull back your blanket and drag yourself toward the vanity. You hesitate before looking—almost afraid of what you'll find. But curiosity wins.

The mirror confirms everything.

Purple bruises—new ones—bloom along your hips and waist. Faint bite marks decorate the curve of your neck, your inner thigh. There’s even a faint ring of red where his hand had circled your throat. Not yesterday’s wounds. These are fresh.

Your breath catches.

He visited you again.

You raise your hand to your neck, fingers brushing the dark bruise just below your jaw. Shame and desire war inside your chest like fire and oil. You should be terrified. You are terrified.

But god… you’re wet again.

You force yourself to move, tugging on a thick turtleneck and dark leggings, wincing as the fabric presses into the raw skin on your thighs. Your bra’s useless—too many bruises—but you have no time to be picky. A swipe of concealer under your eyes and a flick of mascara is all you manage before someone knocks at your door again.

This time, it’s Gojo.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart. Hope you’re not still sore from yesterday,” his voice is sing-song, teasing, muffled through the wood.

You freeze.

Not from the words—he always flirts—but the timing.

You yank your sleeves over your wrists, heart pounding, and call back, “Just tired. I’ll be out in a sec!”

You hear his lazy chuckle retreat down the hall.

You catch your reflection one more time before leaving the room.

You don’t look like yourself anymore.

You look like his.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Gojo’s voice cuts through the haze, breezy and teasing, but undercut by the sharp glint of awareness he never really hides. His sunglasses shield his eyes, but not the way he scans you—head to toe, as if your soul might be peeking through your collar.

“You’re late,” he adds, twirling his staff like a baton. “That’s twice this week. Should I be offended… or concerned?”

You force a smile, even as pain prickles beneath your clothes. “Sorry. Bad dreams.”

He chuckles. “Y’know, I’m starting to think you’ve got more nightmares than Megumi. And he’s a wannabe emo.”

He tosses you a wooden staff. You fumble it.

Pain lances through your palm—not from the catch, but from the tender skin beneath your sleeve. The spots Sukuna marked burn faintly, as if freshly touched.

You shift your stance, trying to ignore how every muscle aches—how your thighs still feel parted, bruised, owned.

Gojo’s voice cuts back in, gentler now. “Hey. You good?”

“I’m fine,” you answer too fast. Too flat.

His expression doesn’t change, but you know he doesn’t buy it.

“Okay,” he says slowly, gesturing for you to square up. “Show me what you’ve got.”

You move, but it’s stiff. Disconnected. The second he steps close to adjust your grip, fingers brushing your waist, a shudder wracks your whole body.

You flinch. Hard. Against your will. 

He steps back immediately.

“That wasn’t nothing.”

You avert your gaze, blinking too fast, trying to swallow the knot forming in your throat. “Didn’t sleep well,” you mutter.

Gojo studies you.

“Didn’t sleep well… or didn’t sleep alone?” His tone is playful, but his eyes aren’t smiling anymore. And when you don’t react—don’t laugh, don’t snap back—the silence that follows stretches tight as wire.

“You’re not the type to get rattled easy,” he murmurs. “So what’s going on, kid?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

What could you say?

Sorry, Gojo. I think Sukuna left a part of his cursed soul in my body and now he’s using my dreams like a sex playground. Oh—and the worst part? I don’t want him to stop.

So instead, you straighten your spine, teeth grit against the ache that pulses between your thighs. The shame that pulses deeper.

“Can we just train?” you ask, voice low, brittle.

Gojo watches you for another beat, his mouth a tight line. Then he nods, stepping back.

“Yeah. We can train,” he says. Quieter. “But I’m not dropping it.”

You nod back, but your pulse hammers with guilt. You wish you could tell him. You wish you understood what to tell him.

You raise your staff, and the sparring begins—but you’re barely present. Your feet drag. Your reflexes lag. Gojo knocks your weapon from your hands in two strikes flat.

“That’s the third time,” he says, watching you stoop to retrieve it. “You’re way off today.”

You curse under your breath, fingers trembling as they curl around the staff again.

Gojo doesn’t miss it. He never misses anything.

“Hey.” His voice is softer this time. “If you ever need to talk… you know I’m here, right? Whatever’s happening—curse or not—you don’t have to deal with it alone.”

You nod once, but it feels like a lie.

Resuming his teachings, Gojo circles you, eyes narrowed. You’re holding the staff tighter now, too tight, like your grip is the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

“Relax your stance,” he instructs, stepping behind you again. “You’re stiff. That’s gonna get you knocked on your ass.”

His hand reaches out to touch your shoulder—to guide you into better form—but the second his fingers press against the fabric of your shoulder, your body goes rigid.

Then—

“Don’t let him touch what’s mine.”

The voice slithers into your ear like smoke, low and velvet and dripping with malice. Your blood runs cold.

You freeze.

Gojo stills too, his hand pressed against your shoulder gently, brows pulling together.

You can feel Sukuna’s energy rise in you like a ripple, subtle but undeniable. It curls beneath your skin—like a hand coiling around your throat, not quite squeezing.

“He’s lucky I don’t rip that smug head off his shoulders,” Sukuna hisses, his voice tinged with amusement and possessiveness. “But if you want to play innocent in the daylight, pet, you better act the part.”

Your breathing falters. You don’t dare move.

Gojo’s hand slowly retreats, and he steps back, jaw tight.

He felt it. You know he did.

But he doesn’t say a word.

Instead, he exhales through his nose and turns slightly, giving you a chance to collect yourself.

You’re shaking—just slightly—but you push through it, adjusting your grip on the staff. Your skin still tingles from Gojo’s touch… or maybe from the phantom presence of the curse curling around inside you like smoke and sin.

Gojo picks up his own weapon again.

“I’ll go easy on you,” he says after a pause, voice lighter again. “Just for today.”

But his posture is stiffer now. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And though he doesn't speak it aloud, you feel the question hanging thick between you:

What the hell is following you, Y/N?

You pretend not to notice.

But deep down, part of you hopes Sukuna was watching. That he will punish you for it later.

And that terrifying, twisted part of you?

It hopes he makes you beg for it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

tagged: @fatcouchpotato @iaur @exitingmusic