pixeld0ll

[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)

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

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He shouldnt be allowed to look this fine......... *sighs*

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Blind!Reader AU

In which the King of Curses stumbles upon a blind woman one day. (Heian AU) (Header art by @/kcokaine_)

⚠️: implied sexual assault (NOT by Sukuna) in the first chapter.

Chapters

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Headcanons

Sukuna x Blind!Reader (18+)

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now guys listen: shibari master sukuna

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guitarist x biker sukuna the things you’re doing to me

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what’s this substance all over my screen?!?!?!?!?!?!?! EVERYONE LOOK AT THIS

A lost deer in the forest... Size diff hit's just diffrent and right...

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needy asshole

bonus:

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can’t stop thinking about electric guitarist sukuna like i need to write him

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Minors Do Not Interact (18+)

ANAKIN SKYWALKER gets jealous way too easily for his own comfort.

anything can send him into a fit of hot, possessive anger. a bartender who insists that your drink is on the house, an overly friendly vendor at the market… just the thought of it will send him into a frenzy, pulling you aside at the first chance he gets and grabbing you by the jaw before he starts brutally making out with you. you melt right into his touch, though, tense body softening in his grip as you let him lick into your mouth like he hasn’t tasted you in ages, like he needs you to breathe.

it’s not long from there that he has you bent over the nearest surface, sliding in and out of your sopping cunt from behind. with his grip tight on your hips, his thumbs are brushing you where they press into the dimples on your lower back, pinning you right where he wants you and angling your pussy perfectly so that his heavy balls slap right against your puffy clit with every angry thrust.

his hands reach under your arms and land on your bouncing tits before he pulls your slick back flush to his strong chest. golden curls fall in front of his forehead when he cranes his neck down, panting right beside your ear. you can’t help but go limp in his grasp when you feel his skilled fingers gently tweak your sensitive nipples, pussy gripping onto him for dear life. electricity shoots through your body, stretching to every nerve ending and gradually heating your core with that familiar feeling you know too well.

“you’re mine.” he growls in your ear. “say that you’re mine.”

grinds his hips against your ass, rocking his thick cock against your throbbing cervix and your head falls back against his shoulder with a desperate moan. you’re helpless.

“oh my—“ you whimper, “oh, anakin-!”

“say it,” he commands, voice low and precarious.

but it’s so hard to find the words he’s looking for when he’s clouding your head with lust, his name stuck on an endless loop like a prayer: anakin, anakin, anakin!

“‘m yours!” you moan out, volume uncontrollable.

“yeah…” he coaxes, proud smile audible in his voice, “that’s my good girl.”

he dips his head down and attaches his mouth to the soft skin beneath your ear, resuming his harsh thrusts, hips slapping against your ass.

he’s so mean when you fuck, it’s like an entirely different side of him. always teasing you, pushing your body to the limits… it’s nothing like the anakin that finds comfort in rubbing your hand with his thumb when he reaches for you, or the one that kisses you so sweetly on your forehead with every hug… but you wouldn’t change this version of him for anything. he knows every inch of your tender body like the back of his hand, he knows how to fuck your so good that it hurts.

it’s not long before you feel that familiar pressure coil in the pit of your stomach, slowly getting tighter and tighter with every thrust and threatening to snap. anakin knows you’re close, too. he can tell by the way your hot cunt is squeezing him, swallowing him whole and milking his cock. he drops his flesh hand down between your legs and loosely plays with your puffy clit, teasing you just to work you up more until you’re toeing the line of release. you’re a moaning mess in his arms, legs shaking beneath you as they threaten to give out.

“look at you,” he grunts, bringing his other hand around to your hip again to hold you in place. “shaking underneath me… you like getting fucked like my little slut, huh?”

his words set you on fire, holy body heating as you tumble towards your orgasm.

your eyes screw shut and your jaw hangs slack against him, name spilling out of your mouth like a mantra.

“ani-! ani— please, ani!” you cry, hand reaching for his prosthesis and holding it tight.

his cock twitches inside you at the sound of your high-pitched begs, and his thrusts suddenly become desperate as he slams his hand down on the surface in front of you, pinning yours in place and grounding himself as he chases his release.

“no one else fucks you this good, is that right?” he babbles mindlessly, fingers rubbing harsh circles into your clit. “tell me how much you need me.”

with a sudden gasp, the coil snaps, and and waves of pleasure crash over you like a storm. your velvet walls clamp down on him, and a shiver racks through his body when he buries himself deep inside you, cock twitching as it fills you up. his jaw clenches as he lets out a deep growl, riding out his high.

your head spins as you fall limp onto the surface in front of you, letting out soft moans as your sensitive body twitches and you find yourself mumbling promises under your breath.

“I need you, ani…” you pant, “please, I need you…”

a/n: hi lol if this looks familiar its bc i posted this on my alt and then decided to just post it to main <33 hope u enjoy!

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how would you guys feel if I started posting multifandom work?? 👀

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Hiii, <33333

so i read one of your sukuna fics positively loved it and i wanted to know if i can request for one and what chaharacters i can request for. (:

thx

-ina

HELLO LOVELY!!! omg thank you so so much im so glad you enjoyed!!!! please please feel free to request i would love it so much!! as of now im only writing for sukuna and nanami since they're my boys <33 but in the future i might do some multifandom stuff!

i absolutely love to fullfill any requests you and others may have, nsfw included!!

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if anyone is interested in me making a couple more parts to this lmk!!! thank you so much for all the love <33

Tear you apart

tags: sukuna x fem! reader, nsfw, mdni, trueform!sukuna, degradation, size kink, humiliation, they both freaky idk

an: HIIII this is my first fic in like 4 years so please bear with me!! huge huge shoutout to @cinnamorollcrybaby for inspiring me to start writing again, ur the bomb.com <3 i hope u all enjoy!!

words: 8.4k

It’s your third year at Jujutsu High, and the urge to summon Sukuna gnaws at you day and night. Ever since you first heard about the King of Curses, a part of you has been… intrigued by the four-armed, two-faced legend.

You still remember the day Maki told you about him, after teasing you for knowing so little about the world of curses. Your face flushed in embarrassment as you grabbed a strand of your hair, twisting it in your fingers—a nervous habit.

“Alright, newbie,” Maki had said, her face shifting to something more serious. “Ryomen Sukuna is known as ‘The King of Curses.’ According to dumbass Gojo, he looks mostly human—aside from having four arms, two faces, two sets of eyes. Fucking—seven feet tall or something like that.” She paused, picking up her cursed tool to sharpen it.

“He ruled in the Heian era, like, a thousand years ago. He’s the definition of pure evil. Killed thousands—maybe millions. No one fully understands his technique. He could rival Gojo, honestly.”

Your eyes had gone wide. How had no one ever told you this?

“Eventually, they defeated him—or sealed him or whatever. The story gets fuzzy,” Maki continued, placing her blade down and removing her glasses to clean them with the hem of her shirt.

“His twenty fingers were cut off and scattered. Jujutsu High has a few. Some are used to attract cursed spirits, and of course, some are in the hands of curses themselves.”

You swallowed hard, trying to picture Sukuna in your mind. Would he be grotesque, like the curses you fought on missions? Or would his ‘human’ form make him... a little sexy?

You couldn't lie—seven feet tall made your ears perk.

What the hell? You shook your head. You can’t be thinking like that. A sorcerer shouldn’t wonder if a curse is hot. They’re curses. They must be exorcised.

“…Is it possible for him to come back?” you asked quietly, half-hoping the answer was yes.

“Oh yeah,” Maki said, and your eyes widened further. You weren’t expecting that. She chuckled at your expression. “You’re cute. Your first time fighting a special grade’s gonna be fun. But yeah—two ways Sukuna could come back. First, someone eats his fingers—becomes his vessel. The second? You don’t summon him exactly—you enter his domain. Not sure how that would work, or if it even can. I mean, who the hell would wanna find out?”

You laughed softly with her, opening your mouth to ask more—but were interrupted.

“Maki! Y/N!” Panda called from the top of the staircase. “Come inside! Gojo’s got a mission debrief!”

You and Maki exchanged a glance before standing and heading toward the large cursed corpse that awaited you. But your mind swirled with questions. You made a mental note to check the library after the mission—to learn more about him.

That obsession never left.

It grew. Festered. You tried to ignore it, to suppress the dirty impulses and morbid curiosity—but one day, it became too much. You gave in. Hours turned into weeks, scouring books, blogs, and old scrolls. Your room became a shrine of obsession—papers, texts, ancient diagrams… even a blog written by someone who claimed to have contacted Sukuna before. They said the summoning didn’t fully work, but symbols appeared, questions were answered, and something watched them.

And now… here you are.

Three years later.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of your dorm, surrounded by red candles and ancient Heian-era symbols scrawled in your own blood. It hurt to collect—but the pain was nothing compared to the hunger to see him. To know him.

It’s well past midnight—close to 2 a.m.—and you've cast a veil to prevent any sorcerers from detecting your energy. You take a shaky breath, reach for the wooden box, and slowly open it. Inside rests a talisman-wrapped finger—one of his.

You bite your lip as you begin unwrapping the paper, whispering the chant you painstakingly pieced together from hundreds of texts:

"I seek the gate carved in sinew and stone, Where curse-born kings reign from bloodied throne. Let flesh wither, let truth distort, I step where the living hold no court."

"With eyes unblinking and heart laid bare, I cross the threshold—if I dare. By tooth, by nail, by cursed design, I enter the Shrine where Sukuna lies."

"Ryomen Sukuna, let the veil be torn. May my soul walk where gods are shorn."

"Open the gate. I offer my name."

"And enter now your cursed domain."

You place the unwrapped finger into a circle of blood and whisper your name into the dark.

Nothing happens.

Minutes pass.

Your eyes flutter open, disappointment filling your chest. Of course it didn’t work.

“I can’t believe I thought this would—”

Suddenly, a wave of nausea slams into you. The room spins. You stumble forward—but instead of grabbing your bedpost, your hand meets something horrifying: a pile of skulls. A river of thick, dark-red liquid flows beneath you.

You scream and jump back, hands clamping over your mouth.

“You dare to enter my domain,” a deep voice growls behind you, “and shriek like a brat—nearly louder than the thousands I’ve sliced in three. Bow before me, insolent fool… or I’ll do the same to you.”

You freeze. Your heart races as you slowly turn, legs trembling.

A figure looms behind a towering column, hidden mostly in shadow.

Four arms. More than seven feet tall. Colossal.

It’s him.

Your breath catches.

You remember something from that blog: Sukuna enjoys disobedience. Your survival instincts scream to kneel, to beg. But a darker part of you whispers: Keep going.

“…And what if I don’t?” you call out.

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, letting the blood-red light reveal his face.

“If you refuse,” he says with a sinister grin, “I’ll break your limbs, tear you apart, and feast on what’s left of your pitiful little body.”

He stands over you now, red eyes gleaming, drinking you in. His voice is cruel—yet somehow intoxicating.

“Don’t even think about running, little human. You’re nothing. A bug. A speck waiting to be crushed.” He leans in, towering above you. “So tell me—will you obey your king?”

You scan his body—your question from three years ago answered in full. Is he sexy? Hell yes.

Towering, muscled, with four arms that could break you in two. His robe clings just enough to reveal the outline of his powerful chest and abs. Four crimson eyes burn into you with heat and hunger.

You suppress every rational thought.

“I never said I wanted to run,” you whisper, locking eyes with him.

His brow raises, amused. “Oh? You have guts, insolent little thing.”

He steps forward again—closer now. So close his heat radiates against your skin. He leans down, lips nearly brushing your ear.

“You’re not afraid of me, eh?”

You gulp, trying not to tremble. “What if… what if I said I am afraid?” You look up. “And what if I said… I like that I’m afraid?”

He freezes for a moment—then smirks. A devilish, dangerous grin.

“Oh really?” he murmurs, voice low and sinful. “You like being afraid of me?”

You bite your lip, breath hitching. His massive body makes your knees weak. You stumble slightly, grabbing his bicep to steady yourself.

He growls at the touch.

“So what if I do?” you breathe, looking up at him through long lashes.

You step onto your toes, rising to meet his face. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Sukuna lets out a low, guttural chuckle—one that vibrates through the stone walls of his domain and sends a tremor down your spine.

“What am I going to do?” he repeats mockingly, his voice silk and poison wrapped into one. “You come crawling into my domain, bleeding for me, begging for my attention... and now you ask me what I’m going to do?”

His four hands move at once—two clasp behind his back again, composed and regal, while the others reach out. One wraps around your chin, lifting your face to meet his eyes, while the second hand trails slowly down your side, ghosting over your waist as if memorizing the shape of you.

“I could tear your soul apart and scatter it across the cursed realm,” he purrs, leaning close enough that you can feel the chill of his breath. “Or—” his eyes flicker, pupils thinning like a predator’s, “—I could reward your... dedication.”

His thumb strokes your lower lip, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. His eyes scan your face like he's searching for the slightest twitch of fear, the tiniest crack in your bravado.

“You’ve been watching me. Studying me. Craving me.” His voice dips lower with each word. “Why?” It isn’t a request. It’s a command.

You swallow hard, feeling your heart thudding against your ribcage like a drum of war. You should lie. You should apologize. But the part of you that brought you here, that carved your own blood into summoning circles, speaks louder.

“I wanted to see if the stories were true,” you whisper, breathless. “If a curse could be beautiful. If danger could be divine.”

His smirk curves into something more dangerous, more unhinged.

“You think I’m beautiful?” he says with mock surprise. “How quaint. Humans and their need to romanticize their own destruction.”

Then, in one swift movement, he steps even closer. You’re practically caged now—his enormous frame casting a shadow over you, the air around him thick and humming with power.

“Let’s see if your devotion is more than words,” he growls. “Prove it.”

Your lips part, the words stuck in your throat. “How—”

“You summoned me,” he interrupts. “Now submit.”

One of his hands lifts, tracing a symbol in the air that glows briefly before disappearing. You feel your knees weaken again—not from fear this time, but from the raw, oppressive aura that crashes over you like a wave. It's overwhelming, like gravity has tripled in an instant. You nearly collapse again, but his hand steadies you by your hip.

He leans in, his voice a whisper against your skin:

“Worship your king.”

He watches you tremble, your breath shallow, your thighs pressed tight. Your silence only fuels the hunger in his eyes.

Then he angles down, lips grazing the shell of your ear, voice low, guttural, and cruelly sweet:

“God, you’re so fucking pathetic.”

You inhale sharply, body going still.

“Transporting yourself into my domain just to be used,” he growls. “You wanted this. Came crawling into the lion’s den just to be ruined, didn’t you?”

One of his hands snakes behind your neck, yanking you closer until your chest presses against his rock-solid torso. His other hand slides slowly, deliberately down your body—past your waist, to your hip, fingers flexing possessively.

“You want me to destroy you from the inside out. You want to be wrecked so badly that no other man will ever satisfy you again.”

His voice dips darker, each word dripping with venomous promise.

“You want to be fucked so hard you forget your name—but not mine. No. The only name you’ll ever remember is mine.”

He yanks your head back slightly to make you meet his eyes. All four of them burn with sadistic glee.

“Ryomen Sukuna. Say it.”

You do. Weakly. Breathless.

He chuckles.

“You want me to defile you—mark you so deeply you bleed my name. I’ll give it to you. I’ll ruin you.”

He leans in until your lips almost touch, his breath hot against your skin.

“I’ll fuck you until your voice breaks, until you’re sobbing, a drooling, trembling mess who can’t even beg properly. I’ll make you scream. I’ll make you bleed. I’ll own you.”

His hand tightens at your throat—not choking, but enough to make your head spin deliciously.

“When I’m done with you,” he snarls, “you’ll be nothing but flesh. A whimpering, broken toy that exists to please me. You’ll crave my touch like a curse.”

His thumb presses against your bottom lip, forcing it down.

“But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, barely able to breathe. Every part of you burns—fear, desire, the overwhelming thrill of submission.

“Yeah,” he hisses, grinning like the devil himself. “You would. You dirty, desperate little slut.”

He tilts his head, mock sympathy in his voice.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s worth it. You’ll forget everything you were. Everything you wanted. The only word you’ll know...”

He leans in, brushing his lips against yours—barely.

“...is my name.”

Your breath stutters as his thumb slides down your chin, dragging it open until your lips part with a soft gasp. Sukuna hums, a low, vibrating sound in his throat that’s equal parts cruel and amused.

“So easy to break,” he murmurs, eyes devouring your expression. “And you want it. You want to be reduced to a whimpering little pet in my grasp. Filthy.”

His hand leaves your throat—just long enough to trail down your side, the weight of it scorching through your clothes like a brand. Four hands. Four points of contact. You barely register where he’s touching anymore, only that you're utterly surrounded by him. Caged.

“You’re trembling.” His voice is soft now. Dangerous. A hiss laced with anticipation. “Not from fear. Not entirely.”

You try to speak, but no words come. Sukuna notices. He always notices.

“Look at you,” he grins. “On the edge of reason. You’ve thought about this, haven’t you? For years. Dreamed of what I’d do to you. What it would feel like when I finally touched you.”

One hand grabs your jaw again, forcing you to meet his gaze. All four eyes bore into yours—two mocking, two ravenous.

“Thats right, I was aware every time you thought about me. I saw those dirty little fantasies late at night. Now you’re here. And I’m real. And I promise you this—when I’m done, you won’t want to go back.”

Your knees threaten to give out. His body is so close. Heat rolls off of him like steam from a fresh kill. You can smell the iron in the air, the faintest metallic tang of blood soaked into the stones beneath you. His domain is alive, pulsing—watching.

He steps closer still, and his lips hover a breath away from yours.

“You summoned me,” he whispers darkly. “You walked willingly into the lion’s jaws.”

He leans down, mouth brushing the corner of yours, just enough to make your head spin.

“Now beg,” he growls. “Beg to be devoured.”

And just as his mouth descends toward yours in a twisted parody of a kiss, the world around you goes darker—red lightning crackling through the shadows like veins, the temple stone beneath your feet pulsing with cursed energy. The air thickens, pressing against your skin like a second body. The veil between power and pleasure snaps taut.

Everything is trembling on the edge.

The moment before the storm.

The exact place you’d wanted to be.

You kiss him back with equal ferocity, matching his hunger beat for beat. His lower hands make quick work of your oversized t-shirt, claws slicing through the fabric like it’s nothing more than paper. The sudden tear and the rush of cool air against your bare skin draw a gasp from your lips—but he doesn’t waste the opportunity. His tongue slips into your mouth, skilled and unrelenting, claiming every inch as if he owns it. Which, in this moment, he does.

A helpless whimper escapes you, and the sound earns a guttural, possessive growl from deep in his chest. His upper hands find your breasts, easily engulfing them—his fingers rough, greedy, squeezing with a pressure that borders on painful. You arch into his touch even as you flinch, the sensation overwhelming in the most intoxicating way.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down the column of your throat, licking and biting with the same cruel precision he likely used to kill a thousand men. When he finds a particularly sensitive spot, you moan, voice hitching—and the smirk that spreads across his lips against your skin is unmistakable. He’s found your weakness, and now he plans to exploit it.

Without warning, sharp pain rips through your neck as his fangs sink into your flesh. Your eyes roll back, the coppery tang of your blood mixing with the heat of his breath. You cry out, instinctively reaching for him, fingers tangling in his hair in a desperate attempt to pull him away.

But Sukuna is far from done.

He growls again, grabbing both your wrists in one hand and forcing them behind your back with humiliating ease. The other hand holds you in place by the waist, and he laps at the blood trailing from your wound, his tongue slow and deliberate. Worshipful, in a twisted, terrifying way.

He doesn’t stop. He dives back in, sucking, biting, marking you over and over until your neck blossoms in deep reds and violent purples. A crown of bruises worn only by the damned.

You’re trembling now, not from fear—but from the unbearable rush of it all.

And Sukuna? He’s only just begun.

He reaches one of his lower hands between your thighs, brushing aside your pajama shorts with an effortless motion. With a flick of his wrist, he hooks a finger into the waistband of both your shorts and panties, tearing them apart like wet paper. The sound of fabric ripping echoes in the chamber, followed by the soft whisper of cloth hitting bone as your clothing falls to the ground in tatters.

With his other lower arm, he lifts you like you're weightless, hands gripping your waist with practiced strength—rough, yet with a frightening kind of care. Like a predator who doesn’t want to break the prey until the right moment. As he ascends the pile of skulls, you instinctively avoid looking down, unwilling to think about who they once were. You focus instead on him—on the sensation of his body pressed to yours, on the terrifying comfort of his grip.

His lips never leave your neck. His fangs, already stained with your blood, drag against your skin in a cruel promise. Your neck, once smooth, now blooms with dark marks—bruises, welts, cuts—a living canvas of his possession.

A sudden wave of shame crashes over you as the reality of what you’re doing sinks in. What would your fellow Jujutsu sorcerers think if they saw you like this? Marked by a curse—the curse. You feel the weight of your choices bearing down.

He feels it too.

Without a word, he hurls you onto his throne—a towering, jagged seat of bone and twisted steel, as brutal and imposing as its master. You hit the seat with a thud, breath stolen from your lungs, your body trembling with a mix of fear, guilt, and something darker.

A strong hand seizes your chin, tilting your face upward. You look into four burning eyes, full of scorn and amusement.

“Tch. Look at you,” he mutters. “Trembling like a leaf, after crawling into my domain on your own. I don’t let just anyone in here, you know.” His other hand cracks against your cheek with a sharp slap, the sting blooming instantly across your skin. “Well you're in luck. I've always wanted to defile a jujutsu sorcerer. Its just my luck a fucked up pretty little whore dropped in my lap.”

Tears spring to your eyes, not just from pain, but from the shame curling deep in your stomach.

“You really are pathetic, aren’t you?” he growls, voice low and dangerous. “Three years you spent digging into my legacy. Feeding your obsession. And here you are—just another filthy human slut desperate to be touched by something monstrous.”

He cages you in, all four arms braced on either side of you, his massive form casting you in shadow. You feel like prey. Trapped. Hunted. Your heart races.

“I can smell it, you know—the guilt,” he sneers. “But I can also smell the truth underneath it.”

He leans in close, his lips brushing your ear.

“You want them to know. All those little sorcerers you call friends—you want them to see the marks I leave on you. You want them to know who you belong to now. Don’t you, little whore?”

You freeze. The thought had crossed your mind once. Maybe more than once. But hearing it said aloud—so crudely, so accurately—makes your throat tighten.

“I asked you a question, whore.” His voice sharpens. “When your king speaks, you answer.”

You gulp, nodding.

He growls softly. “Ah, no. Not enough. I want words, not whimpers. So mouthy before, and now you cant even get a coherent sentence out. I havent even fucked you yet, how pathetic.

You look up into his eyes—terrified and trembling, but unable to lie to yourself anymore.

“Yes,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Yes… I want them to know I’m yours.”

He smiles—a twisted, triumphant expression that sends a chill down your spine.

“Good girl,” he says, lips curling back to bare his fangs. “Because from this moment on, you are.”

Suddenly, his grip tightens, and before you can process what’s happening, you feel a rush of pressure between your thighs — not one, not two, but three of his massive fingers drive into you without warning. The sudden stretch steals the breath from your lungs.

“You want it, do you?” His voice is a low growl, vibrating through your chest like thunder. “Then beg, pet. Beg for your king.”

Your words crumble into gasped half-sentences, muffled moans, and desperate little pleas as your body writhes helplessly in his hold, trying to match his rhythm. Every curl of his fingers makes your vision blur, the relentless pace driving you higher, faster.

“Oh, you can do better than that.” His voice darkens, almost mocking. “Beg for your king like the filthy little whore you are. Say it. Show me.”

His thumb finds your clit, pressing in tight circles that send shocks up your spine. Your back arches against him, mouth falling open with a sobbing moan.

“F-Fuck, please,” you choke out, barely coherent. “Please—please, I need it—need you—Sukuna, please—”

The moment his name falls from your lips, everything changes. He lets out a feral noise that’s somewhere between a snarl and a groan, and before you can even mourn the loss of his fingers, he buries his dick deep inside you with a savage thrust.

You cry out, not just from the stretch, but from the overwhelming sensation that follows — the heat, the fullness, the way your body clenches around him like it was made for this. Made for him.

His breath stutters against your skin. “Tight little thing,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You feel that, don’t you? How you fit around me so perfectly. It’s like you were always meant to be mine. God, you can fucking see my dick in your stomach.” he groans out. Its been so long since hed taken anyone like this; and though he’d never admit it to you, you’re the best pussy he’s ever had. 

You don’t even have time to answer. Your body moves on instinct, spasming around him as your climax hits you in a sudden, overwhelming wave. He holds you steady, one arm wrapping around your waist like a steel band, the other gripping your thigh as he starts to move — deep, slow, brutal.

“Already?” He chuckles darkly. “You must be a virgin Cumming so quickly… How precious.”

He leans forward, forcing you to meet his eyes — those four blazing orbs searing into your soul. “Look at you. Wrecked, ruined, and I’ve barely even started.”

One of his hands slides up, fingers wrapping around your throat — squeezing slightly to constrict your breathing slightly. “You’re mine now,” he says, tone calm but laced with threat. “Every breath you take. Every sound you make. Every time someone even thinks of touching you, they’ll see me in your eyes.”

You can barely think, barely speak, every nerve set alight as he starts to move again — unrelenting and commanding. All that’s left is the sound of your whimpers, the heat of his breath on your skin, and the terrifying, intoxicating truth:

You don’t want to be anywhere else.

“Mmf- s-sukuna-” you moan out, knees falling open as you completely submit, showing just how much he can use you. “Mm… let you do anything..” 

He stops his momentum immediately, making you actually tear up, missing his dick pressing against your cervix, hitting the right spots every time. 

“What the fuck did you just say?” his eyes flash, sadistic smirk forming across his face. One of his hands grips your chin harshly, and he spits, spits, in your face. “Say. that. Again.” 

You gasp, his saliva trailing down your cheek. You gulp before responding quietly. “I’d let you do anything you want to me.” your voice is slurred with pleasure slightly, and you swear his eyes glow red when the words leave your lips. 

He drops your chin and shoves you down, hooking your legs around his waist. 

“You innocent, little thing. You have no idea what you’ve done.” he purrs in your ear. 

“I’m going to fucking tear you apart.” 

Suddenly his mouth is on your breasts, biting and sucking, and he resumes his cruel thrusting pace, making you scream out in surprise. He grabs a nipple into his mouth, biting down on the taut bud just enough to send jolts of pain and pleasure through your body. His hand grips your other breast, rolling your the nipple between his large fingers and pinching. 

He looks up at you, mouth still moving on your breasts, and he actually has to close his eyes to keep himself from cumming. 

Your head is lolled to the side, eyes dazed and rolled back. You’re flushed and sweaty, hair sticking to your forehead, mouth open as actual drool dribbles out. 

His marks completely cover your body, and he absolutely knows there is no way of covering them up. You look like you're in pure ecstasy, and he engranes the image in his mind to use at a later date. 

Another orgasm pours over you, and Sukuna lets out an animalistic growl as you squeeze around his dick. 

“Fuck- tightest little cunt- god, I can’t wait to fucking fill you up.” 

You moan at his words, and he continues fucking into you roughly, finally releasing your neck as finger-shaped bruises begin to form. He holds your hips down, bringing another hand to your clit, flicking at rubbing it harshly.  

A third orgasm crashes over you, catching even you off guard. Sukuna barks out a yell, sinking his teeth back into your neck as he makes four deep thrusts, your constricting walls finally breaking him. He growls and falls against you, spurting load after load of hot, sticky cum deep in your cunt. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, feeling him fill you to the brim. 

For a moment, the only sound that lingers in the heavy air is the ragged rise and fall of your breathing, tangled with his own. Sukuna releases your wrists, and to your surprise, his movements shift — not harsh, not greedy. He pulls out of you with an almost reverent slowness, your body still trembling from the aftermath.

You whimper instinctively, still aching, still stretched far beyond your limits. His deep, throaty chuckle rumbles through the chamber as he watches you tighten around the emptiness he left behind.

“There, there, little girl,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek with unexpected tenderness. His clawed fingers trail your jaw, soft for the first time. “You got what you wished for.”

Through your half-lidded eyes, you catch the faintest hint of something new tugging at the corners of his mouth. Not smugness. Not triumph. Something quieter. Older.

A single, large hand cups your cheek, his thumb swiping gently beneath your eye. “Sleep now, pet,” he says, voice low and velvety. “Perhaps I’ll grant you another visit.”

The world goes dark not with fear, but with surrender.

Sunlight filters through the narrow cracks in your curtains, speckling your room in faint gold. You blink against the light, breath catching as memories rush in—vivid, violent, visceral.

You jolt upright and immediately regret it, pain flaring through every muscle. So it was real...

Gingerly, you swing your legs off the bed, feeling your thighs protest every movement. Every step toward your vanity is a struggle—your body marked, exhausted, claimed.

And when you catch your reflection, you freeze.

Your neck and chest are a canvas of bruises, deep purples blooming across pale skin like morbid blossoms. Small bandages pepper your body—tucked neatly over teeth marks, scratches, and raw places only he could’ve reached. You stare, wide-eyed, as a blush rises to your cheeks.

Did the King of Curses… bandage you?

Your hand comes up to touch one of them, and something twists in your chest. Not fear. Not shame.

Possession.

A flicker in the mirror draws your attention. For a brief second—too fast to be certain—you swear you see four crimson eyes watching from the shadows behind you. A whisper of heat coils at the base of your spine.

Then it’s gone.

But you know better now.

This isn’t over.

You had opened a door. And Sukuna… would never lets his plaything close it again.