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nimueshell · 14 days ago

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̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅ Petals & Gunpowder (S.R)

Summary: You’re just a florist with trembling hands and a quiet life, until Sukuna, the city's most feared mafia boss showed up inside your shop with blood on his skin and that crooked, carnivorous smile.

Substance: florist!fem reader, mafia boss!Sukuna, floweshop au, size kink, rough sex, mafia au, praise kink, blood mentioned, thigh riding degradation, Sukuna is WHIPPED, possessive behavior, car sex, semi-public sex (car), multiple orgasms, hands on the wheel n ur ridin’ that dick, Sukuna wants you BAD, hurt/comfort, pet names, cockwarming, creampie, fingering (in a fucking resturaunt), blow job, man-handling, happy ending.

W/C: 12.6k

The bell above the door chimed softly, the delicate little ding you'd chosen to fit the mood of your flower shop–a gentle sound, unobtrusive and sweet, meant to welcome grandmothers and bridesmaids and flustered men looking for apology bouquets.

It wasn’t meant to herald him. It wasn’t made for the slam that followed it, loud and jarring and swift enough to make the door rattle on its hinges, sending a sharp gust of wind through the open entryway and blowing dried petals off the counter.

You didn’t look up right away. You were bent over your arrangement table, scissors in hand, carefully trimming stems and sorting through a bundle of soft blush roses and pale white freesia.

Your dress swayed gently with your movements, the lightweight cotton clinging to your thighs and catching at the curves of your hips every time you leaned in, and your apron–cream-colored with a faded floral print, tied with a wide ribbon at your back–was already stained with green and pollen.

You had your hair pulled back in a loose braid, secured with a ribbon the color of rosewater, and the backroom was warm with sunlight, the scent of baby’s breath and eucalyptus clinging thick in the air. The world smelled like morning. Just like a garden. Like safety.

But that door slam–that shift in the air–sent a tremor of dread down your spine, enough to make your fingers falter on the stem you were trimming.

You looked up slowly, scissors still in your hand, and when your eyes landed on him, your breath caught mid-inhale.

He stood just inside the doorway, half-shadowed in the filtered sunlight, a towering figure of violence in repose. His black button-up clung to him like a second skin, thin enough to reveal the hard planes of his chest and the strain on his shoulders at the seams.

The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing veined, muscled forearms slick with blood, the kind that had already dried at the creases of his wrists but still shone wet across the curve of one bicep. His black jeans were torn at the knee and dark at the thigh, but not from fashion–they were soaked through with blood, and there was something thick and sticky on the toe of his boot that smeared against the white tile as he stepped inside.

And his face–his face was a masterpiece of chaos. Sharp and cruel, strikingly symmetrical in an off-putting way, with a jaw that could cut through glass and lips curled into something other than a smirk. His peach-pink hair was swept back with one lock falling loose across his forehead, wild and stained at the ends with a darker red that wasn’t dye.

His eyes were alive–burning with a kind of cruel, amused glow that made you feel like prey even before he said a single word.

You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath until he tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” he said, voice low and amused, “you gonna scream, or are you just gonna stare at me all day, sweetheart?”

Your mouth opened slightly, but the only sound that came out was a quiet, breathy “Oh.”

The scissors slipped from your hand and clattered to the floor.

He chuckled at that–an honest sound, deep in his chest, like he wasn’t just covered in someone else’s blood and bleeding from a gash near his collarbone. He stepped forward, not hurried but deliberate, his boots echoing across your tile like thunder in a church.

“I need a place to sit for a bit,” he said, his eyes flicking lazily to the nearest surface–your worktable, crowded with roses and buckets of floral foam. “You don’t mind, do you, flower girl?”

You blinked, the words struggling to form in your throat because he looked like he belonged in a back alley with a cigarette and a gun, not between bundles of baby’s breath and pastel carnations.

“I…this is a flower shop,” you said, your voice barely steady. “You can’t just–”

But he was already moving, brushing past you with a heat that made your skin flush despite the tension in your spine, his bloodied fingers catching lightly on the ribbon at your waist like it was just something in the way. He didn’t pull. He didn’t tug. He just let the pad of his thumb drag across it like he wanted you to know he could.

“I know what it is,” he said, settling himself into your work stool like he’d been invited, legs spread, one elbow draped over the edge of the table while the other hand reached up to run through his hair. His eyes never left you. “You sell flowers. You arrange them. You smell like sugar and wet leaves. It’s adorable.”

You should’ve run. You knew that. You’d seen the reports, the warnings on the news, and the grainy black-and-white footage of crime scenes left behind like art installations in red. The King of Curses, they called him. Not officially–there were no official records. Just whispers. Just the name Sukuna bleeding into every darkened corner of the city like smoke.

And he was here, in your shop, bleeding across your floor, sitting on your stool like he hadn’t just left a body cooling outside in the alley.

“You’re Sukuna,” you said, almost stupidly, like you needed to hear it out loud to make it real.

His grin sharpened.

“Ding ding,” he murmured, lifting one bloody finger like a buzzer. “I guess flower girls can be smart too.”

You flinched. Not visibly, but you felt it, like your nerves were raw beneath your skin. Still, you didn’t step back. You didn’t run. You weren’t even sure why. Maybe it was the way his voice settled low in your stomach, like heat curling around your spine. Maybe it was the blood.

Maybe it was the fact that something about him didn’t just frighten you; it intrigued you. Like a match held too long between your fingers, burning and beautiful and impossible to let go.

“You need stitches,” you said instead, voice quiet.

He shrugged, the movement languid and uncaring. “I need a cigarette and some whiskey, too. But I’m not asking.”

You stared at him for a moment, your heart still pounding like a drumbeat in your ears. Then you moved–slowly, carefully–toward the back of the shop, your bare feet silent against the tile.

You grabbed the small first aid kit from the drawer near the back sink and returned with it clutched in both hands, your fingers shaking slightly around the edges of the box.

He watched you the whole time.

You set the kit on the edge of the table and hesitated. “Can I…?”

His eyes dropped to the space between you, then flicked back up.

“You can touch me,” he said, voice suddenly quieter. “If your hands don’t shake too much.”

You hated how your cheeks warmed at that.

You stepped closer, reaching for the ruined buttons of his shirt, your fingers brushing lightly over his chest as you peeled the sticky fabric back. The gash was just beneath his collarbone, shallow but angry, and it oozed fresh blood when you pressed the gauze to it. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

You tried not to stare at the ink that coiled down his chest and ribs, intricate lines of black etched into skin that felt too warm under your palms.

“You’re not afraid,” he said suddenly, voice close.

You didn’t look up. “I am.”

He smiled again. This one was smaller. Fewer teeth.

“But you’re still touching me,” he murmured. “That’s brave, flower girl.”

Your lips parted slightly, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The sunlight caught in his hair, casting a peach-gold halo around the sharp planes of his face, and you thought–not for the first time–that nothing about him should’ve been beautiful, and yet everything was.

He smelled like blood and cigarettes and something ancient beneath it all, and your fingers trembled only slightly as you reached for more gauze.

“You’ve ruined my floor,” you said, finally.

He laughed.

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“You’ll buy me a new one,” you repeated, your voice flat as your fingers pressed fresh gauze to his bleeding chest.

His skin was hot beneath your hand, firm and unyielding under the pads of your fingers, but the blood oozing between your knuckles was real, and sticky, and too thick for you to pretend any of this was normal.

“Mm.” Sukuna tilted his head back lazily, resting one elbow on the table behind him, his body was stretched and relaxed like he hadn’t just threatened to ruin your entire world a moment ago. “Tile’s ugly anyway. Might as well let me give the place a facelift.”

Your jaw tightened, not because you disagreed–truthfully, you’d been saving for months to replace the worn tile–but because the way he said it grated against something inside you.

He talked like he could buy anything. Like nothing he touched mattered unless he could break it, bleed on it, or fully own it. And maybe he could.

“You bleed on everything you want to fix?” you muttered.

He cracked an eye open and smiled again, slow and lazy and wolfish.

“Only when I’m being polite.”

You didn’t answer that. You weren’t sure you could. His presence made you feel like you were constantly walking across thin ice layered over something hot and hungry and pulling you downward with every step.

He wasn’t even trying to be intimidating anymore–not really–but there was something in the weight of his gaze, the low heat in his voice, and the way he took up space in your shop without apology that made it clear he didn’t just expect to be obeyed. He expected you to want to.

You grabbed a bottle of antiseptic and dabbed some onto a clean cloth, gently pressing it to the wound. He didn’t flinch, didn’t hiss, and didn’t curse–just watched you, his eyes half-lidded and lips parted slightly as if amused by your attempt at carefulness.

“You’ve done this before,” you said softly. It wasn’t really a question.

"Had it done to me before," he said, his voice like whiskey filtered through a low growl. “Usually not this gently, though. You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you?”

You didn’t respond, because you knew better than to give men like him anything too easy. Instead, you reached for the gauze again, winding it tight across his chest and securing it in place with a piece of medical tape.

The angle brought you closer to him than you’d intended, your face just inches from his throat, and you could smell the sweat on his skin, the faint hint of cologne beneath the iron-heavy scent of blood, and something darker–like scorched leather and the memory of fire.

You should have stepped back the moment you finished. You knew that. But you didn’t. Not immediately. Not until you realized he wasn’t breathing evenly anymore, that he was watching you with that same slow-burning intensity he’d worn the moment he walked in.

“You’re trembling,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. Not cruel, not mocking–just observant. Your fingers shivered as they touched his collarbone, as if he could read the movement of your lungs beneath your ribs.

“I should be,” you whispered. “You’re a killer.”

Sukuna didn’t laugh this time. He just looked at you–looked through you.

“And you’re a florist,” he said after a long pause. “What a pair.”

You swallowed thickly and finally took a step back, your knees stiff and awkward as your body remembered how to move. You dropped the bloodied cloth into the waste bin near the door and turned toward the sink to wash your hands, trying to ignore how the air behind you felt heavier now. You could hear him shifting on the stool again, the creak of the wood under his weight, and the low scrape of his boot against the tile, and then he was behind you.

You didn’t need to turn to know… You could feel him.

“You got a bathroom in here?” he asked, his voice closer than it had any right to be.

You nodded, staring at the porcelain sink. “Left of the backroom.”

He didn’t move right away, just stood behind you, so close you could feel the heat rolling off of him, the quiet hum of something volatile just beneath the surface of his stillness. And then he leaned in, just a little, just enough that his breath brushed the shell of your ear.

“You always help bleeding strangers, flower girl?”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Your fingers dug into the edge of the sink.

“No,” you breathed.

“But you helped me.”

You didn’t answer.

He moved away, finally, his footsteps slow and echoing as he wandered toward the back hallway. You heard the door creak open, then close with a soft click, and suddenly the shop was too quiet. Too still. You realized you were shaking, really shaking now, and you gripped the sink tighter just to feel something solid under your palms.

What the hell were you doing?

Why were your thighs clenched under your dress?

Why hadn’t you called the police?

The questions echoed and tangled in your chest, and none of the answers made sense. Because yes, he was terrifying. Yes, he was a killer. But he was also magnetic–dangerous and beautiful and burning so hot you could still feel the imprint of his presence on your skin, like he’d reached out and branded you with his gaze alone.

You detested how alive you felt in his shadow and how thrilled you were by it.

You turned the water on, scrubbing your hands clean, watching the blood swirl down the drain in pale pink ribbons. You rinsed your arms, your wrists, and your fingertips until they stung with cold, and the faint floral scent returned.

When you turned around again, he was back.

He stood in the doorway, half-shirtless, the ruined black button-up clinging loosely to his arms now, his broad chest still wrapped in your gauze. He had splashed water on his face, rubbing away most of the dried blood, but the angry gash on his temple still stood out, raw and red.

“You got anything to eat in here?” he asked, like this was the most normal visit in the world.

You blinked at him, incredulous.

“Do I–what?”

“Food, princess. Something soft. Bread. Pastries. Whatever you people keep next to tea.”

You stared at him. “I’m a florist. Not a bakery.”

He sighed, long-suffering, and flopped back onto the stool like he was exhausted. “Should’ve shot the guy faster. Wouldn’t have had to run if I hadn’t taken my time.”

You opened your mouth to ask if he was serious–but stopped. Of course he was. He wasn’t trying to impress you. He was just existing, comfortable in the mess he made. And you–like an idiot–were still standing there, heart hammering and cheeks flushed and thighs still too warm beneath your cotton skirt.

You walked toward the mini fridge at the back of the shop, still on autopilot, and pulled out a wrapped scone from a glass container. You’d made them the night before, made of lavender and lemon. You didn’t even think as you offered it to him, like you weren’t standing in front of a war criminal in pastel gingham and floral print, offering him pastries.

He took it without a word; he peeled back the wrap and took a bite.

And then, shockingly–he moaned.

“Oh, fuck me,” he groaned. “That’s good.”

You blinked, stunned.

“Didn’t expect that.”

“I bake,” you said automatically. “For customers. Sometimes for me.”

He took another bite and gestured with his free hand. “You got a man?”

You stared at him.

“What?”

“You heard me.” He licked a bit of sugar off his thumb. “Someone who’d be pissed that I’m sitting here bleeding all over your floor and making you blush.”

You felt your face heat.

“I don’t–” you started, then shook your head. “It’s not your business.”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “That’s a no.”

You bristled, annoyed by his smug tone and by how easily he read you. “Why do you care?”

Sukuna stood then, stretching tall, the muscles in his abdomen flexing under the soft gauze. His jeans still rode low on his hips, and you hated the way your eyes dipped down. Hated more that he noticed.

“I don’t,” he said, stepping toward you. “Not in the way you think.”

You held your ground.

He stopped in front of you, barely a breath between your bodies.

“But if you’re gonna feed me, fix me up, and look at me like that?” His voice dropped, low and thick with heat. “Then you better start thinking about what you want from me, flower girl.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

He leaned in, just close enough for his breath to brush your lips, and whispered, “Because I take what’s mine. And if you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m going to find out what kind of sounds you make when I bend you over that bouquet table.”

You gasped–sharp and involuntary–and he grinned.

Then he stepped back, licking the last of the scone crumbs from his fingers.

“Thanks for the snack,” he said, strolling toward the front door like he hadn’t just turned your knees into jelly. “I’ll be back.”

You watched him leave in stunned silence, the bell above the door chiming once as it shut behind him.

⋆˚✿˖°

The front of the flower shop was unusually quiet that afternoon, save for the crinkle of a chip bag and the occasional hum of a pop song leaking out from a half-broken speaker near the register. The bell above the entrance was still, the breeze outside warm and lazy, sunlight spilling in over rows of freshly misted peonies and wildflower bundles.

Nobara Kugisaki had one leg hooked over the other, her foot tapping the air in a rhythm that matched the beat of the song she wasn’t really listening to. Her stool teetered slightly as she leaned back on it, completely at ease, a half-eaten bag of spicy chips in her lap and a soda can sweating beside the register.

Her feet were up on the counter, a sight that would’ve made you groan if you’d seen her, and there were definitely a few crumbs in the petal tray beside the register. But you were in the back–fussing with a bridal arrangement, hands elbow-deep in blush garden roses and baby’s breath–so Nobara took full advantage of the peace.

That is, until the bell above the door suddenly chimed with a sharp ding, followed by the low creak of the door swinging open and a gust of wind heavy with exhaust fumes.

She didn’t look up right away.

“Hey,” she said through a mouthful of chips. “We close at–”

Then she looked.

And choked.

She spluttered violently, chips flying from her lips as she tried to sit up straight, but the stool betrayed her, its back legs kicking out as she tipped, flailing, and fell ass-first behind the counter with a crash and a loud, undignified “Fuck!”

With the late afternoon sunlight behind him creating long shadows on the floor, Sukuna Ryomen appeared more like a monster than a human as he stood in the doorway. His peach-pink hair was swept back in clean waves today, a few lazy strands hanging in his face, and he wore a black double-breasted jacket over a black silk shirt, open halfway down his chest to reveal the ink curling around his collarbones.

His matching slacks were tailored to perfection, and his boots, polished to a lethal shine, thudded once against the floor as he stepped in fully. Three other men followed behind him–two flanking him like bodyguards, one lagging just a little, chewing gum and looking distinctly uncomfortable surrounded by so many daffodils.

“Fucking hell,” Nobara muttered from behind the counter, scrambling to her feet with wide eyes as she slapped chip dust off her pants and tried to look like a functional employee.

Sukuna surveyed the shop in one long, slow sweep, his brow ticking slightly as his eyes landed on the counter display–soft plush teddy bears arranged among lilacs and hydrangeas–and he made a sound in his throat that might’ve been a scoff or a sigh or some terrible combination of both.

He stepped toward the counter, slow and deliberate, the sharp click of his boots echoing with a predator’s rhythm.

Nobara straightened so fast she cracked her back. “Can I help you?” she asked, voice too high.

Sukuna didn’t answer at first. He stopped in front of the register, leaned forward slightly, one hand braced on the counter as his height brought him down to eye level with her, and tucked his other hand into his coat pocket. He tilted his head, eyes heavy-lidded, and said her name like it was a question he already knew the answer to.

“You’re not her.”

“Nope,” Nobara said, popping the ‘p’ as she pushed her sleeves up to her elbows. “She’s in the back. You want me to–?”

“Where is she?” he asked, his voice smooth but laced with the kind of danger that made her stomach do a weird little drop.

Nobara blinked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, because there's no way he was asking for you like that, “Wait, who?”

He smiled, slow and cold, and said your name. Without hesitation or preamble, he acted as though it tasted good.

Nobara blinked again. Oh, she was wrong he was in fact looking for you. Without a moment notice, she screamed for you while turning around.

From the back room, your hands were wrist-deep in a bouquet of white roses and forget-me-nots when you heard her.

“What?!” You shouted back, fingers still weaving wire through the stems.

“Uh,” she called again, her voice breaking slightly, “you’ve got a... visitor?”

You frowned, your brow pinching, and stepped back from the bouquet to wipe your hands on the towel tied around your waist. Your dress fluttered with the motion–a handmade thing you’d sewn from soft ivory fabric patterned with tiny blue flowers, cut to flatter your frame in the way you liked.

The bodice was corseted just enough to push your breasts up high and firm, the neckline a soft scoop that left your collarbones exposed and dusted with shimmer. The waist was cinched tight with a sash in the back, making the gentle swell of your hips all the more pronounced. The skirt fanned out in soft layers, grazing your knees with every step.

You didn’t think much of it as you stepped through the curtain, pushing your braid over your shoulder, your hands brushing at the wrinkles in the skirt as you emerged.

And immediately froze.

Sukuna Ryomen turned toward you with a gaze that burned.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

The rest of the shop seemed to vanish behind the thrum of your heartbeat pounding in your ears. His eyes dragged down your body, slow and unapologetic, tracing the curve of your breasts in that tight floral bodice, the slope of your waist, and the gentle bounce of your hips as you stood in the doorway, blinking at him with wide, unsure eyes.

And then, out of nowhere, he said:

“You’ve got birthing hips.”

The air went dead silent.

One of his men coughed so violently he nearly choked. Another let out a quiet “Jesus Christ” and turned toward the succulent shelf to busy himself. The third made a noise like he was stifling a laugh and promptly bumped into a display of tulips trying to cover it up.

You stood frozen in place, your jaw slightly slack, your cheeks burning like hellfire had crawled under your skin. Nobara was making strangled wheezing noises behind the counter, her face buried in her arm.

Sukuna stepped forward, slow and measured, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Did you make that dress?” He asked, his voice low and rough and entirely inappropriate given the context.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“It suits you.”

You wanted to smack him. You also wanted to die. You also wanted to turn and run into the walk-in cooler and never come out again. But you stood your ground, even as your thighs clenched and your palms grew sweaty against your skirt.

“What do you want, Sukuna?” You asked, finally, carefully.

He smiled at the sound of his name in your mouth.

“You,” he said.

One of his men made a quietly horrified noise.

Nobara whispered, “I’m gonna kill myself,” behind her hands.

Sukuna’s gaze didn’t waver. “Relax, flower girl. Not like that.” Then, smirking wider, “Unless you’re offering.”

Your eyes narrowed, and he held up a hand, palms out in mock surrender.

“I came to place an order.”

You stared at him. “You’re a mafia boss. What the hell do you need flowers for?”

He tilted his head, watching you like a tiger watching a fawn.

“Maybe I’m sending a message,” he said. “Maybe I just want to see what you’ll make when I don’t give you any rules.”

You blinked.

“...What?”

“You heard me.” He nodded toward the counter. “Write down whatever you think fits me. I want it in three days. Wrap it nicely. I’ll pick it up myself.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly parted, struggling to decide if he was serious or fucking with you.

“Fine,” you said after a beat, voice tight. “But it’s gonna be expensive.”

His grin was molten. “Baby, I hope so.”

The men behind him groaned like they were in actual pain.

“Let’s go,” Sukuna said, turning to them, his coat flaring behind him. “We’re done here.”

As he walked past you, he leaned in, low enough that only you could hear him, and said,

“Don’t wear anything less flattering next time. I’d hate to be distracted when I bend you over that counter.”

You gasped audibly, and he laughed–full and delighted–before the bell chimed again and he disappeared out into the sunlight like a fucking fever dream.

You stood there in stunned silence, your breath shaky and your heart clawing at your ribs, your body buzzing with adrenaline and embarrassment and a molten throb deep in your gut that you absolutely refused to name.

Nobara popped her head up from behind the counter.

“I hate you,” she said. “But also... that was hot.”

You closed your eyes and exhaled.

⋆˚✿˖°

Three days passed in a syrupy kind of haze, stretched out and too full of thoughts you didn’t want to have. You kept your hands busy in the shop–wiring stems, fluffing petals, cataloging new shipments–but nothing dulled the way your mind kept circling back to the sound of your name on Sukuna Ryomen’s tongue.

You tried to ignore the way you caught yourself glancing at the door, half-expecting the bell to chime before the clock struck noon, or the way your fingers tapped the counter with impatient energy as you worked on wedding arrangements you could no longer focus on.

Every time you looked at the cooler, you saw the bouquet waiting for him, and it made your stomach twist in a way that was neither fear nor excitement but something filthier–something dangerous and far too alive.

The bouquet wasn’t a peace offering. It was a weapon, disguised in velvet and lace. You started with datura–delicate, curling white blossoms that looked like soft trumpets but reeked of poison beneath the perfume. You handled them with gloves, snipping their stems and setting them high in the arrangement like a crown.

Beneath them, you layered monkshood, its rich, deep violet flowers peeking through the foliage like secrets, followed by glossy black berries from a branch of belladonna nestled between curling ferns.

You added a bleeding heart for irony, then snapdragons and strands of hemlock that brushed the bottom edge of the bouquet like teeth. Every bloom was soft. Every one of them could kill you.

You didn’t explain it to anyone. Nobara had peeked into the cooler once, lips twisted in awe and mild concern.

“You made that for him?” she asked, sucking powdered sugar off her thumb, her brow quirked as she stared at the bouquet like it might whisper curses.

You had only nodded, peeling off your gloves and rinsing your hands at the sink.

“It’s a gorgeous fucking arrangement,” she said. “But it looks like it wants to hurt someone.”

You simply replied, “That’s the point,” and went back to work.

You didn’t mention how your hands had trembled a little while tying the black silk ribbon, or how you couldn’t stop picturing his face when you slipped the finished bouquet into the cooler like a caged predator.

By the time Friday rolled around, you were restless, your skin too sensitive beneath your dress, your nerves electric. The flower shop was quiet around three in the afternoon, and you were alone at the register, legs curled under you in the cushioned stool, flipping through invoices with half your attention.

Your dress was soft again today–another handmade piece of cotton muslin, this one ivory with gold thread embroidery along the bust and waist, cinched tight with a floral sash at the back. It hugged your chest just enough to leave your shoulders bare and your breasts slightly lifted, the neckline dipping low, your collarbones catching the late sunlight spilling through the windows.

Your hair was loosely curled and pinned back, soft strands framing your face, your lips tinged faintly with berry gloss. You weren’t going to admit, even to yourself, that you’d dressed like this because part of you wanted him to see it.

The bell chimed once, clean and clear.

You didn’t look up immediately, but you didn’t need to. His presence hit you first–the sudden change in the air, the way it pulled tighter, heavier, and more intimate. The first crack of thunder before a downpour was how it felt. You looked up, breath catching in your throat as Sukuna stepped inside like he had every right to be there, which he did, in that sharp black coat left open to reveal a silk shirt beneath, loose at the collar, chest half-exposed and inked with swirling black lines.

His slacks were tailored perfectly, his boots clicking neatly against the tile, and his peach-pink hair was styled with deliberate mess, a single loose strand hanging down over one glowing eye. He looked less like a man and more like something carved out of want, out of violence and desire and dry humor–all confidence and dangerous charm, like the moment between a match strike and a fire.

“You always smell like this,” he said, his voice low, smooth, and warm like sin slipping behind your ear. “Or is it just for me?”

“Sure,” he said, stepping forward slowly, his eyes flicking over your body without shame, the way a man looks at something he’s already claimed. “But it clings to you. You smell like sugar and cut stems. It’s a problem.”

You closed the folder in your lap and set it aside before standing, straightening your skirt with one hand as your gaze met his.

“It’s a flower shop,” you answered, your voice calm even as your pulse started racing. “It smells like flowers.”

“Not for me,” you said, holding your ground as he neared.

“No,” he said, stopping in front of the counter. “But it will be for me if I can’t stop thinking about it later.”

You ignored the way that made your stomach tighten and moved to the cooler, reaching inside with slow, deliberate care as you lifted the bouquet from its glass shelf. You held it between both hands, cradled against your chest like a gift or a curse, the dark blooms dripping elegance and quiet threat beneath their polished silk ribbon. When you turned back to face him, Sukuna’s mouth twitched faintly into something unreadable.

“That’s for me?” he asked, voice suddenly quieter.

You nodded once. “Every flower in here is poisonous. Most of them could kill you if you ate them. Or touched them the wrong way.”

His lips parted just enough to show the edge of his teeth. “That a warning?”

“No,” you said, voice steady. “It’s a reflection.”

You set the bouquet down gently on the tissue-lined surface and leaned over to untie the envelope, glancing inside only briefly. It was at least double what you’d normally charge.

For a moment, he just looked at you–no grin, no smartass reply–just eyes locked to yours like he was trying to feel every word from your mouth through the space between you. Then he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a thick black envelope. He dropped it on the counter without counting it.

“Keep the change,” he said, his voice low and almost distracted, his gaze still fixed on your lips.

“Excessive,” you murmured.

“Your work’s worth it,” he said, stepping closer. His fingers brushed the ribbon on the bouquet absently, dragging down the silk until it pooled slightly against the counter. “You always put this much effort into your arrangements?”

“Only when I don’t want to be forgotten.”

He grinned at that. “Not a fucking chance.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but then he did something that caught you completely off guard. He reached into his coat again and pulled out a second bouquet. Smaller. Wrapped carefully. Delicate, yet strong in its colors–burgundy ranunculus, midnight cornflowers, ivory anemones, and little strings of clematis winding around the base, all tied with a soft red velvet ribbon.

You stared at it for a full five seconds.

“You brought me flowers,” you said finally, your voice flatter than you meant.

“Don’t read into it,” he said, watching your face. “I didn’t pick ‘em. I had someone put it together. Just told them what I wanted it to look like.”

You reached for it slowly, your fingers brushing his as you took the stems, and for the first time since he’d walked in, you couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“They’re beautiful,” you said softly, almost shyly. “I didn’t expect…”

“I don’t give gifts,” he said. “But I give back.”

You swallowed, nodding, the velvet ribbon brushing your wrist like a second pulse.

Sukuna looked at you for a long moment, then tilted his head slightly, his voice lower now. “Go out with me.”

Your eyes flicked to his. “What?”

“I want to take you somewhere. Nothing fancy. No setup. Just dinner. Somewhere I can see you in this dress under different lights.”

You stared at him, chest tight with nerves you hadn’t felt in years. “Why?”

"Because I want to know how you speak when you aren't behind the counter. I want to know what you order. I want to know what makes you laugh. I want to see how far down that ribbon goes when you sit down in a booth.”

You should have slapped him. You should have turned him down on principle. But you didn’t. Your fingers were still curled around the stems of the bouquet he brought you, and your heart was thudding somewhere under the corset of your dress like it was trying to claw its way out.

“Yes,” you said, your voice soft and serious.

He smiled slowly and broadly, and for once, it wasn't cruel. It wasn’t dangerous. It was simply pleased.

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”

And with that, he turned and walked out, the bell chiming softly behind him as he left you standing there in your best dress, holding flowers you hadn’t made, your whole chest buzzing like someone had cut open your ribs and whispered something obscene into the center of your heart.

⋆˚✿˖°

The ride had been quiet, not out of discomfort, but tension. That humming silence in which there was too much going on beneath the surface to be disturbed by small talk. He’d picked you up in a sleek black car with windows tinted so dark they may as well have been mirrors.

The driver didn’t say a word. Sukuna hadn’t either, not until you slid into the seat beside him and the door closed with a soft finality.

He didn’t compliment you, didn’t react overtly to the way the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your thighs when you crossed your legs, or how your perfume clung like a promise in the narrow space between you, but the way he looked at you for those first three seconds had been enough.

Slowly and deliberately, his gaze lowered to the low neckline that scooped just above your breasts. Then, as if he were memorizing every curve, he dragged it down your body before turning to face the front with one hand resting idly against his thigh.

That silent decision not to say anything had set your skin on fire.

You were now sitting across from him in a private room of a restaurant with no outside signage, one of those word-of-mouth establishments that only the wealthy, violent, or terrifyingly connected seemed to frequent.

The room was dim, intimate, and rich in detail, with mahogany-paneled walls, gold-dusted sconces that burned low like candlelight, velvet drapes drawn back from tall, soundproof windows, and a ceiling fan turning slowly overhead to circulate the faint scent of saffron, smoke, and honeyed wine.

You sat in a curved booth made of deep red leather, polished so smooth it barely creaked beneath you, and the table between you was set with silver cutlery, a half-finished bottle of wine, and a floral centerpiece that looked tame and fragile compared to what you could have made yourself. You wondered if Sukuna noticed that.

Your dress clung like sin–midnight blue satin that hugged your hips and cinched your waist, sliding down your body like it had been sewn in place.

The fabric shimmered faintly with each breath you took, each tiny movement of your thigh beneath the table. It dipped low across your chest, leaving the tops of your breasts perfectly framed, flushed from heat and the two glasses of wine you'd nervously sipped before he even ordered anything.

Your shoulders were bare, skin brushed with highlighter, your collarbones catching the light like an invitation. Your hair was pinned up in a loose, romantic twist, a few strands falling on purpose to frame your face, and your lips were painted just slightly darker than your natural tone–enough to make them look bitten, but not enough to look desperate.

Sukuna sat across from you with his legs spread slightly under the table, one arm draped along the backrest of the booth, his posture casual in the way men are only when they know they control the room.

He wore black again, naturally, but tonight it was more decadent–slim tailored pants and a button-up shirt left open at the collar to expose the top of his chest and the thick black ink that curled along his skin. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing the sharp veining in his forearms, and there was a lazy confidence to the way his fingers traced the edge of his wine glass.

His peach-pink hair was pushed back away from his face with a slight wave, one piece falling forward just above his brow, and the candlelight flickered faintly against his cheekbones and jaw like even the fire knew better than to burn too close.

He hadn’t said much since you sat down, only giving the waiter a nod before requesting privacy, but that didn’t mean the room lacked communication.

His eyes did all the talking. They stayed on you–hovering shamelessly at your chest, dropping to the curve of your hips when you shifted your weight, then returning to your face like he wanted to see if you’d noticed how thoroughly he was undressing you.

You didn’t speak either, not at first.

There was nothing to say that wouldn't sound like stalling, and you had the strange feeling that if you opened your mouth, you'd either laugh nervously or beg for something you couldn’t name yet.

“Eat,” he said finally, his voice low and thick with restraint. He tilted his head toward the untouched plate in front of you, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t bring you here to starve.”

You glanced at the dish, realized you didn’t even remember the waiter bringing it, and picked up your fork with a slightly unsteady hand. The food was expensive, probably perfect, but you couldn’t taste it–not with the way his eyes followed the movement of your lips every time you raised your glass to drink or pushed a bite past your mouth.

He hadn’t touched his food either. His wine, yes. His silverware, no. It became apparent after five minutes that he hadn’t brought you here to eat either.

“I wasn’t sure you’d say yes,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

You lifted your gaze from your plate, your throat tightening slightly. “Why?”

He shrugged, swirling the wine in his glass lazily.

“You’re careful. You act like you’re not scared of me, but your hands shake when I touch you.” He took a sip. “Women like you don’t usually say yes to men like me unless they’re running from something worse.”

You didn’t flinch, but you didn’t answer either. Instead, you held his gaze, not challenging, not cowering–just steady. And for a brief moment, you shared something other than flirtation, danger, or tension. It was understanding.

An acknowledgement that this wasn’t a first date. That none of this had ever been innocent.

Then he reached into the side of the booth and pulled something from the interior pocket of his jacket. He didn’t make a show of it.

Didn’t speak. Simply place it on the table between your wine glasses with the same ease that you would set down a napkin or phone. You recognized it right away, the matte-black finish, the light weight, and the subtle glint of the safety catch. A pistol.

Your body went still.

He watched your face closely as your eyes dropped to it. There was no real fear, but there was caution. Tension. Your fingers froze around the stem of your glass, and your breath came a little shallower.

“I’m not going to use it on you,” he said after a beat, his voice softer than before. “I don’t even want you to be scared of it. I just don’t hide shit from people I want to keep around.”

You blinked slowly, processing the weight of that statement–people I want to keep around. You didn’t ask what that meant. You didn’t ask who else had seen his weapons, or what kind of promises he made with his hands that weren’t verbal.

You just nodded faintly and took another sip of wine, your hand finally steadying.

A silence stretched between you again, but this time, it didn’t hum with nerves.

It was weighted with something else entirely–desire thickened by awareness, the kind that made your thighs press together beneath the table, your dress tightening slightly at your waist as your spine straightened under his gaze.

Then he spoke again, quieter than before, and the change in tone sent a shiver down your back.

“Come here.”

You blinked, the words taking a moment to land.

“I said come here,” he repeated, nodding toward the seat beside him. “Sit on my lap.”

You opened your mouth to answer, unsure if you meant to protest or breathe his name, but your legs were already moving. You slipped from your side of the booth with care, smoothing your skirt down with one hand as you rounded the table.

Your heels clicked softly on the floor, muffled by the heavy carpet, and as you approached him, he watched every movement–his eyes flicking from your knees to your hips to the slight sway of your chest and finally to your face, his lips parting just slightly as you stepped into his shadow.

His hands reached for your waist as you stood beside him, the pads of his fingers dragging over the fabric of your dress like he was already imagining what it would feel like without the barrier of silk.

He guided you down slowly, one hand on your hip and the other sliding to the small of your back, and you settled onto his thigh, your legs draped to one side, your hand braced on the top of his chest to steady yourself.

The position forced you close–closer than you’d ever dared to be–and you could feel the hard muscle of his leg beneath you, the warmth of his skin under the fabric, and the slow, dangerous pace of his breath brushing your throat.

“You always sit this pretty,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down the curve of your waist, “or just for me?”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. He could feel the way your breath hitched, the way your hand curled tighter into his shirt, and the way your body softened against his hold.

His hand slid to your hip again, gripping tighter now, not enough to hurt but enough to claim. His nose brushed your jaw, and he inhaled once, deeply, like he was memorizing the scent of your perfume, the warmth of your skin, and the tension in your spine.

His lips never quite touched you, but they hovered–dangerously close–just over the shell of your ear as he murmured, “I’ve thought about this since the moment you walked out in that fucking dress.”

You turned your face slightly, not daring to look him in the eyes, and he responded by tightening his grip again, dragging you half an inch closer, enough that you could feel the heat from the place his thigh pressed between your legs.

Your breath caught audibly, and he smirked, his voice dipping into something darker.

“You gonna let me touch you, flower girl,” he asked, “or are you gonna keep pretending you didn’t come here hoping for exactly this?”

Your lips parted, but the words didn’t come. Maybe they were never meant to. The room felt warmer now, thicker, like the air itself had grown heavy with want, with the kind of lust that made your skin buzz and your chest rise too fast.

Sukuna’s hand, still anchored firmly to your waist, moved slowly downward until the heel of his palm pressed against the flare of your hip, fingers flexing against the silk of your dress like he could feel the heat of your skin underneath.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t–not with how dizzy you felt from his scent alone, how close his breath was as it fanned across your throat.

Then, deliberately, he brought his other hand up, sliding it along the length of your thigh where your dress clung the tightest.

He dragged his palm up slowly, fingers spread, thumb pressing into the soft curve of your inner thigh until you shifted without meaning to, hips tipping forward and body arching faintly into the pressure.

He exhaled a quiet, almost amused breath against your skin, and you shivered when his nose brushed just under your jaw.

“So soft,” he murmured, voice hoarse with restraint. “You really wore this for me, didn’t you?” He kissed you then–not on the lips, but lower, right beneath your ear, where your pulse fluttered like a bird’s wings.

His mouth was warm and smooth, lips firm, tongue flicking out to taste you as if he already knew you’d be sweet, as if he was right and he just wanted you to feel how thoroughly he planned to prove it.

He didn’t ask permission when he dragged that same hand further up your thigh, palm cupping the heat between your legs through your dress, his grip steady, possessive, his fingers pressing into the soaked satin stretched tight over your cunt.

You gasped, the sound soft and shocked and completely involuntary, and Sukuna’s mouth curved into a grin against your skin.

“That wet already?” He whispered, dragging his hand slowly, rhythmically over your core.

“Didn’t even touch you properly, and you’re already fucking soaked.” He raised his head just enough to look at you, and the heat in his eyes was enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.

“You want to ride my thigh like some desperate little thing?” he asked. “Or are you gonna sit still and pretend you don’t want me to ruin this pretty dress?”

You didn’t answer with words. You couldn’t. Your hips moved on instinct, the drag of satin against your clit making your eyes flutter, your fingers tightening around the front of his shirt as you ground down against the thick muscle of his thigh.

The pressure was just enough to send a sharp pulse of pleasure up your spine, and you let out a shaky breath that could have easily been a whimper. Sukuna growled low in his throat and slid his hand up your back, pulling you closer, chest to chest, so close you could feel his heartbeat where it pressed against your ribs.

He kissed you then–hard and filthy and without warning, mouth slanting over yours with heat and hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips as his fingers dug into your hip to grind you harder down against his thigh.

The kiss was messy, open-mouthed, teeth clashing for a second before he sucked on your tongue like he wanted to devour you whole.

Your lips parted in a gasp when he broke away, only to kiss you again, slower this time, his mouth hot and slick and possessive as he stole every breath you tried to take.

His hand moved back between your thighs, rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit through the fabric while you rocked against him, the friction of satin and strength and heat making your whole body ache with want.

“Fuck,” he muttered, biting your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp. “You’re fuckin’ trembling. You really gonna come just from this?”

You moaned softly against his mouth, your hips moving more desperately now, chasing every stroke of pressure as your clit throbbed under his hand.

He caught your chin in his fingers and tilted your face up, forcing your eyes to meet his even as your hips moved faster, thighs shaking.

“Look at me,” he said, voice thick and dark. “I wanna see your face when you come.”

You tried to keep your eyes on his, but it was too much–the way he touched you like he already owned every inch of you, the way he watched every twitch and shiver like he was memorizing how to break you open with nothing but his hands and his mouth and that fucking voice.

His thigh flexed beneath you, solid and strong, and your cunt clenched hard around nothing as the heat in your stomach coiled tight, tighter, your movements frantic now, too slick, too fucking close.

Then his hand slipped lower, fingers dragging the fabric of your dress to the side until the thin scrap of your panties was the only thing between his touch and your soaked pussy.

He groaned at the sight, thumb pressing hard against your clit as his other fingers dipped beneath the fabric and found your slit, soaked and throbbing, lips already spread from how much you'd been grinding.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. He just pushed two fingers inside you, slow and deep, his thumb still circling your clit as he curled them up to find that spot that made you cry out loud, your hand flying to his shoulder for balance.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he hissed against your neck, pumping his fingers deep inside you, fucking you on his lap like he couldn’t wait to see how your cunt would feel around his cock instead.

“Tight and wet and fucking greedy. You’re sucking me in like you’ve needed this all fucking week.”

Your moans spilled out of you now, breathless and broken, your hips jerking with every thrust of his fingers, every drag of your clit against his palm and thigh, your muscles coiled so tight you felt like you were going to shatter.

You reached for his face, kissing him hard, messy, teeth and tongue and desperation as your orgasm started to build too fast, too sharp, everything hot and wet and perfect.

“Come on,” Sukuna growled, voice rough in your ear. “Come for me, flower girl. Let me feel how wet you get when you break.”

His fingers fucked you faster, harder, the wet sounds of your cunt obscene in the quiet room, his thumb pressing mercilessly against your clit until your legs gave out and you came with a cry muffled into his shoulder, your entire body tensing as the orgasm tore through you.

You shook against him, your cunt fluttering around his fingers, soaking his palm and the silk of your dress, your face buried against his throat as your breathing came ragged and fast.

He didn’t stop until you were limp, until the aftershocks made you twitch, until he was sure you couldn’t take anymore.

Then, finally, he pulled his fingers from you, lifting them slowly to his mouth and sucking them clean like he didn’t care how filthy he looked, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Tastes like heaven,” he murmured, and you were already sinking against him again, thighs slick and trembling, dress wrinkled and bunched around your waist.

Your lipstick was smudged, mouth open in disbelief at what just happened in a restaurant booth where someone could walk in at any moment.

One second you were still collecting yourself, the next you were on unsteady legs and flushed skin clinging to Sukuna's arm as he walked you out of the restaurant’s back hallway. The scent of him clinging to your skin like the ghost of what he’d just done to you.

Your panties were still soaked beneath your dress, clinging uncomfortably between your thighs, and every step made the aftershocks of your orgasm pulse quietly in your core.

The hall was dim and empty, the luxury restaurant already halfway closed to the public at this hour, and the silence between you wasn’t awkward but thick with heat, like the night itself was holding its breath.

He kept a hand on your waist as you exited through a private back entrance, one he’d arranged without you even realizing it, and the heavy door clicked shut behind you with a finality that made your breath catch.

The parking lot was nearly empty, all but one sleek black car pulled up against the far end, tinted windows and matte paint that gleamed like oil under the streetlamp.

"Wait what happened to the driver?" you asked, looking up at him as he stared ahead.

When he opened the car door, the interior light flickered on to reveal the wide, leather backseat already pulled forward, the cabin practically humming with warmth. You hesitated for a half-second, unsure if he meant for you to slide in first or–

"Told him to leave the car to me," he muttered briskly, walking you across the pavement slowly, his hand never leaving your body. His thumb was rubbing gentle circles against your hip like he hadn’t just fucked you on his thigh minutes ago.

His hand dropped to the small of your back and pressed you in, not roughly, but with purpose, guiding you as you slipped into the backseat and settled into the leather with your thighs still pressed tight and your dress bunched slightly at your hips.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, and then he was there, stepping in after you, stretching his long body across the width of the seat like the space was made for him. His knees bracketed yours as he adjusted, slouching slightly with his legs open, eyes raking over you with a hunger that hadn’t dulled in the slightest.

Your breath trembled when his hand came up again, this time resting on your thigh, fingers spread wide over the still-warm silk of your dress.

He didn’t speak–just looked at you, his face cast half in shadow from the faint streetlamp outside, and there was something about the way he sat there, so composed, so calm, with his hand gripping your thigh and his breathing thick and low, that made you shift closer without thinking.

You weren’t thinking, not really, as your hand found the front of his slacks. He was already hard. Not just firm or thick–massive. You could feel the sheer size of him through the fabric, and your fingers curled slightly, the outline of his cock making your throat go dry.

You glanced up at him once, but he didn’t stop you and didn’t even flinch. He just watched as you moved, as you slid your hand along the length of him, as your mouth parted with the realization that you weren’t sure you’d even be able to fit him in your mouth, let alone take him fully.

But you still tried.

Your fingers worked at his belt, slow but clumsy, the tension making it nearly impossible to focus. You got it undone, finally, then unzipped his slacks with trembling hands, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet car.

He shifted slightly to help you, and your breath caught when his cock sprang free–long, thick, flushed deep with arousal, the tip already glistening. He was fucking huge.

Huge enough to make your thighs clench in unspoken fear and desire, and big enough to make your heart race with heat and nerves.

You leaned down slowly, your hair falling over your shoulder as you curled your fingers around the base of him. He was heavy in your hand, hot and pulsing against your palm, and you licked your lips once before lowering your mouth.

Your lips wrapped around the tip, tongue sliding against the head as you sucked gently, uncertain, trying to mimic what you’d seen in porn and what felt right.

You hollowed your cheeks slightly, sliding down as far as you could, but it wasn’t far–your jaw stretched uncomfortably wide, and you could feel yourself gag slightly when you hit the midpoint.

Sukuna groaned low in his chest, his hand sliding into your hair to cradle–not guide, not force, just hold–and the warmth of his palm made your stomach tighten.

You sucked him slowly, clumsily, your tongue dragging along the underside as you moved your head, your hand working what your mouth couldn’t reach. You tried to breathe through your nose, your eyes beginning to sting as the pressure built, but you didn’t stop.

You wanted to do it right. You wanted to please him.

“You’re not good at this,” he muttered, voice rough and full of restraint, “but fuck, you’re trying.”

You whimpered around him, your cheeks heating in shame, but he didn’t push you away.

He stroked your hair again, gentler this time, and you felt him twitch in your mouth. “Pretty mouth. Gonna make me come if you keep sucking me like that, messy and desperate.”

You moaned softly around him, your tongue swirling, mouth wet and noisy now, saliva dripping down your chin as you pumped his cock with both hands and lips, letting the tip drag against the roof of your mouth before pulling off with a gasp.

“Fuck,” you breathed, wiping your chin with the back of your hand. “You’re too big–”

He cut you off by grabbing you under the arms and dragging you onto his lap with a low growl, your dress riding up to your waist as he settled you across his thighs.

“Good thing I’m not asking for your mouth anymore,” he said, voice thick with hunger, one hand wrapping around the back of your neck as the other pushed your soaked panties to the side.

You were wet. Still. Your folds slipped easily under his fingers, slick with arousal and need, your cunt pulsing at the thought of him inside you. He lined himself up without ceremony, and before you could say a word, the thick head of his cock was pushing between your lips, stretching you wide as he sank into you slowly.

Your mouth fell open, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure built–tight and hot and overwhelming. He was huge and too thick, the stretch almost unbearable, and your fingers dug into his shoulders as you gasped.

“Fuck–Sukuna, you’re–”

He kissed you with such force to shut you up, tongue sweeping into your mouth as he bottomed out, your body trembling around him as your cunt spasmed at the fullness, the pain mingling with the sharp edge of pleasure.

He didn’t move at first, letting you adjust, your breath panting into his mouth, your nails scratching down his chest as you tried to relax.

Then he rolled his hips once, slow and brutal, and your eyes snapped open.

He fucked you slow at first–deep thrusts that dragged every inch of his cock through your slick walls, his hands gripping your ass as he pulled you down hard to meet every thrust.

The sound of wet skin filled the car, obscene and filthy, your cries muffled against his neck as he whispered filth into your ear.

“You’re taking it so fucking well,” he groaned. “This tight little cunt’s made for me. I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t think.”

You could barely breathe, let alone think. Each stroke hit deep, grinding against that spot that made your vision blur, and your hips rocked to meet him, desperate for more, for faster, for harder. He gave it to you.

He lifted your hips and slammed you down on his cock again and again and again, his pace brutal now, his breath ragged in your ear as your walls clamped down around him.

You were close again–too close–your thighs shaking, your nails leaving half-moons in his skin. Your orgasm ripped through you fast and sharp, your scream caught in your throat as your cunt fluttered wildly, gripping him hard, soaking his lap as you came with a sob.

He didn’t stop.

He pulled you closer, held you tighter, and kept fucking you through it with the kind of punishing rhythm that triggered shock waves throughout your entire body. His cock swelled inside you, and his pace stuttered.

Then he growled in your ear, “I’m gonna fill you up.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t breathe. You just nodded, clinging to him as he buried himself deep one final time and came with a deep, guttural groan, his cock pulsing as he spilled hot inside you, the pressure of it so intense you whimpered again, cunt still fluttering from aftershocks.

You stayed there like that–panting, wrecked, full–with your forehead pressed to his collarbone and his hands stroking your back, slow and soothing, as if he hadn’t just fucked you within an inch of your sanity in the backseat of a goddamn car.

Once again your body was limp in his lap, your dress still bunched at your waist, your breath sticky against his throat, and the next his hands were under your thighs, lifting you with ease, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist like you were afraid the contact might break if you let go.

He carried you to the drivers car door like you weighed nothing, opened it with one hand, and dropped into the driver’s seat with you still fully seated on him, facing forward, your slick thighs spread over his lap as he adjusted the mirror like this was the most natural way to operate a vehicle.

“I’m not getting out,” you murmured as he reached past you to buckle the seatbelt around both your bodies, his hand grazing the side of your breast as he clicked it into place.

“Didn’t ask you to,” he said, voice thick with arousal and amusement, his mouth brushing your jaw as he started the car. “You’re staying here until I say otherwise.”

The engine purred under you, and so did he. You could feel the swell of his cock beneath you again, not fully hard yet but thick and alive under your soaked panties, still twitching occasionally inside the confines of his slacks.

Your dress was a mess around your hips, barely covering anything, and your skin felt raw in the best way, every bump in the road sending a new jolt of overstimulation through your core.

His hand gripped the wheel, casual and possessive, while the other rested low on your thigh, his thumb brushing slow, hypnotic circles into your skin as the city lights passed in smears of gold and red.

The car smelled like sex and heat and expensive cologne, and you couldn’t stop shifting on his lap, your cunt still leaking from earlier, sensitive and needy, like your body didn’t realize he hadn’t finished with you yet.

You weren’t sure what possessed you–maybe the wine, maybe the high from your orgasm, maybe just the knowledge that this man could ruin you and would happily do so again–but you rolled your hips against him, slow and deliberate, your head resting against his shoulder as you pressed down on his cock through his pants.

“You’re insatiable,” he muttered, glancing down at you with a grin that bordered on feral.

“You made me this way,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper as your hand slid between your bodies to unfasten his belt again.

His breath hitched as he drove one-handed through a red light, not even flinching when someone honked in the distance. You pulled his cock free again, thick and flushed and heavy in your hand, and shifted your hips until he was pressed directly between your soaked folds.

It wasn’t inside, just nestled there, warm and slick, the head dragging through your dripping cunt as you rocked forward.

“You better not make me crash,” he growled.

“Then drive faster,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

The next ten minutes were a blur of traffic lights, you grinding down against him while he cursed under his breath, his hips lifting off the seat every time your clit caught the ridge of his cock.

By the time the building came into view–tall, modern, the kind of tower that screamed power and privacy–you were dizzy with need, and he was fully hard again, cock throbbing against your swollen pussy as you whimpered into his throat.

He parked in a private underground spot, shut off the engine, and had you out of the car in seconds. Your legs wrapped around him again without hesitation, arms clinging to his neck as he carried you to the private elevator, tapping a key card to a panel with the same hand gripping your ass.

The moment the doors closed, his mouth was on yours again–hot, devouring, impatient–his tongue thrusting between your lips as he ground you against the bulge in his slacks.

“I should fuck you right here,” he growled against your mouth, biting your lower lip until you gasped. “You’re dripping all over my fucking clothes.”

You could barely answer, barely breathe. Your whole body felt like an extension of his grip, and every drag of his hands made you twitch with want. But he didn’t fuck you in the elevator.

He waited until the doors opened directly into his penthouse–a massive, open space with black marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, dark furnishings, and the scent of leather and money everywhere. He didn’t flick a single light on. The city lit the entire room in blue and gold.

He kicked the door shut behind him and didn’t stop walking until he hit the center of the living room. He didn’t set you down. He adjusted his grip and slid your body down just enough to press the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, your panties shoved aside, your thighs barely hanging onto his hips.

“I need to taste you screaming again,” he muttered against your neck.

And then he pushed inside–slow, thick, all of him at once.

You gasped, tightening your arms around his shoulders as he filled you to the brim. There was no easing in this time. There was no time to breathe, adjust, or plead.

He fucked you standing with brutal strokes, your dress bunched around your waist, your breasts pressed against his chest, your mouth falling open with every thrust as your back scraped faintly against the smooth front of his shirt.

The sound of your cunt squelching around him echoed in the open space, lewd and shameless, and he grunted with every movement, his hands gripping your ass as he bounced you on his cock like you weighed nothing.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned. “I’ll never stop thinking about this pussy.”

You moaned louder, unable to hold it in, your face buried in his neck as he fucked you harder, faster, the slap of skin against skin almost drowned out by your cries.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t falter. He simply held you there, cock pistoning into you with obscene force as he shifted slightly, adjusting his angle until you were clawing at his back, your voice catching in your throat.

When he finally dropped onto the massive couch behind him, he never let you go. He landed with you still on his cock, the shift in angle making you arch like you’d been electrocuted, and his hands gripped your hips so tight you knew you’d bruise.

He thrust up into you, lifting you slightly only to slam you back down, again and again, the entire couch shifting beneath you.

“That’s it,” he panted, mouth against your throat, “take it, baby. Take all of it. You’re fucking made for this.”

You could barely answer. Could barely think. You were already so close again, cunt fluttering with every thrust, your clit dragging against the edge of his pelvis until the pleasure built sharp and cruel and blinding.

You cried out as your orgasm slammed through you, cunt spasming around him, and he cursed low in your ear, groaning as he slowed just enough to let you feel every inch as he fucked you through it.

When your body went limp, shivering in his lap, he didn’t stop. He leaned forward, mouth catching yours again in a deep, slow kiss, and thrust up one final time–deep, hard, buried to the root–and came with a ragged groan, his cock twitching as he filled you again, his breath hot against your lips.

His hands stroked your back, your hips, and your thighs as you came down from the high, your chest heaving against his, and after a long, quiet beat, he exhaled and leaned his head back against the couch.

“This place could be yours too,” he said, voice thick, almost lazy, as if the offer had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to be said aloud.

You whimpered softly in response, too wrecked to form words, but the way your nails curled against his chest made it clear you heard him–and that some part of you wanted to believe it.

⋆˚✿˖°

The room was quiet, lit only by the faint blue wash of early morning threading through the sheer curtains. The penthouse was still, the city below distant and muffled, its sounds too far away to touch the silence curling in the air.

The bed beneath you was massive–king-sized, maybe bigger–draped in dark linen that smelled like him, warm and thick and masculine, laced with the tang of sweat and sex.

Your body ached in a way that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the way Sukuna had fucked you like he was trying to bury himself into your skin and never come back out.

You tried to shift, just slightly, but the arm around your waist tightened instantly. His body was flush against yours, bare and solid behind you, chest to your back, one leg slotted between yours to keep them spread even in sleep.

His cock was still inside you–soft now, but thick enough that your cunt clenched involuntarily at the stretch. You were sore, used, leaking his cum down the inside of your thigh, your pussy still swollen and raw from how many times he’d taken you last night, and yet–he hadn’t let you move.

Not when he slipped into you again late at night, not when he mumbled something possessive against your shoulder and wrapped his arms around you like a temptation, and not even now, as your body squirmed faintly from the dull, needy ache that was beginning to build again.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, voice dry and hoarse, but your hips betrayed you, rocking ever so slightly against the cock nestled deep inside you.

He groaned low behind you, his voice still heavy with sleep, his lips dragging against your nape. “You awake now?” he murmured, the rumble of his voice vibrating against your spine. “Good. Stay still.”

You let out a breathless sound, something between a whimper and a plea, but you didn’t move away. His hand slid up your body, over your ribcage and beneath your breast, cupping it lazily as he pulled you tighter against him.

His thumb brushed over your nipple slowly and deliberately, and your cunt clenched around him instinctively, wetness gathering despite the soreness.

“You feel that?” he said, voice rasping against your ear. “You’re already fuckin’ wet again, and I haven’t even moved.”

Your hand reached behind you, weakly pressing at his hip in protest, but he just chuckled, biting down on your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp.

“Let me warm up inside you,” he whispered. “Just for a bit. I wanna feel you wrapped around me while I wake up.”

You trembled under the weight of his body and the heat of his cock inside you, unable to fight the slow, creeping pleasure curling back into your belly.

He wasn’t moving–just staying buried inside you, full and heavy, his hands smoothing over your waist and stomach like he was mapping out all the ways you’d already given in to him.

His mouth returned to your neck, kissing the bruises he’d left the night before, lips dragging over each one like a signature.

“You look pretty like this,” he said, voice thick with fondness and filth. “Fucked out. Full of my cum. You can't even think clearly, can you?

You whimpered, your head lolling back against his chest. “Hurts,” you whispered. “I’m sore.”

He hummed in mock sympathy, but his hand was already sliding down between your legs, fingers brushing your clit with a featherlight touch.

“I know, baby. That’s how it should be.” He kissed your temple, his cock twitching faintly inside you. “You’ll get used to it.”

You didn’t try to fight it. You were too far gone. Too warm. Too full. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach and kissed your neck again, this time slower and softer, and the way he held you made your chest ache.

“I’m gonna build you a garden,” he muttered against your skin. “Right outside the city. Something huge. Roses, nightshade, all that shit you like. You’ll have a whole fucking glasshouse if you want it.”

You let out a faint laugh, breath hitching as his fingers moved more firmly over your clit. “You don’t know how to garden.”

“I don’t need to,” he said, smirking. “I’ll buy a mansion with one. Or shoot some fucker who already has it.” He kissed the side of your throat again. “Some rich asshole with a pretty Alice in Wonderland spread. I’ll hand you the deed with blood on it.”

Your cunt clenched again, and he groaned deep in his throat. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he whispered. “Waking up in a bed like this, my cock still inside you, a dead man’s garden waiting outside.”

You could barely answer. You were already grinding down again, slowly, your body ignoring the soreness as slick began to drip once more from your cunt, your clit brushing the curve of his palm with every desperate shift.

He laughed again, low and pleased. “Good girl. Now let’s see if I can make you come without even pulling out.”