#oooooh can u tell i am going through some major brain rot for him rn???? bECAUSE I AM

[inkykeiji]

character: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, overstimulation, blood, toxic relationship words: 747

as much as sukuna would love to deny it, he has a habit. 

it’s unintentional, it’s instinctual, and it’s almost always entirely your fault. 

it appears when he teases you—a simple quirk up of the left side of his mouth, something that grows from a toothless smirk to a gleaming grin at your inevitable whine of his name, all scrunched up and filtered through your petulant little pout. oh, how precious. 

it’s accompanied by a sharp glint of amusement in his eye; something that flickers, that flares, the more upset you get, the more you grumble and scowl and sulk. because it’s so cute, baby, he’s murmuring through the steadily spreading lopsided smile slapped across his face, cooed out words oozing condescension, just how easily he can work you into a frenzy.

it appears when you’re riding him—a soft tugging at the left corner of his lips as he watches you bounce and rock and gyrate on his cock, using it as if it’s your favourite toy, just like he told you to. his usually keen stare is lidded, having turned melty and thick while observing you above him, because god, you’re so gorgeous; rolling whites of your eyes framed by fluttering lashes, dainty hands splayed wide on his chest and nails digging into plush muscle for leverage, fragments of his name and his title leaving your tongue in the sweetest little huffs, each one shoved from your chest with every graze of his cockhead over that engorged patch of flesh, puffy and swollen and buried deep inside of you.

it appears when he’s eating you out—vicious and vigorous and downright voracious—after you’ve lost count of how many times he’s forced you to cream on his tongue, immense pleasure having mollified your brain to a sticky goo, steady streams of glittering salt cascading down your cheeks, face twisted up somewhere between pleasure and pain.

you can feel his lips spreading against your licked-raw cunt, crooked simper reflected in his rust irises, curved mouth slippery as it glides over your slit, screwing up a little further on the left side just like it always does, the bottom half of his face soaked with his spit and your slick.

that skewed smile stretches unnaturally wider as you squirm beneath his grasp, nails scrabbling at whatever they can find—the cotton sheets and his scalp and those hulking shoulders—spine contorting off the bed and chest heaving with the cries that keep ripping up your throat, ragged and hoarse.

the strong arms wrapped around your thighs tighten, forearms weighing on the joints, effectively trapping you in his grip, tangled up in his limbs. two pairs of hands stay curled around your hips, pinning them to the mattress, twenty fingers flexing, leaving fresh steaks of blood across your pelvis, sticky and steadily oozing from the piercing claws gorging on your flesh.

it appears when he hurts you, hands too rough, grip too tight, tone too harsh—a worming sort of leer slanted to the left, something smug and arrogant smeared across his face when he soils your skin with him, a collar of twenty fingers etched into your neck in grotesque shades of plum, or twin sets of handprints stamped into your ass, swollen and stinging. it’s something that takes shape when your fragile veins snap beneath his touch, flooding your flesh with irregular blotches of purples and blues and speckled crimson; something that surfaces when yelps fracture in your throat and sobs hitch in your chest, so heavy your ribs shudder with them.

it appears when you do something so unbearably adorable, something so endearingly stupid, that he just can’t help but snort or snicker, the left side of his mouth twitching with mirth, something he desperately tries to smother, something he devastatingly discovers he can’t. 

because maybe he doesn’t even want to anymore, tired of fighting, tired of feigning. maybe it makes him feel something irritatingly unfamiliar, something much too human, something that binds itself to the void buried beneath his ribcage.

maybe it fills that void with something irrevocable, irreversible, unpreventable. maybe it fills that void with something bright and airy and warm, when you tell him you like his crooked smile, when you tell him it has got to be one of your favourite things about him, your favourite feature of his, happy to see it even as he drags you through hell with it carved into his face.