sumika!.ೃ࿔*:･

“You're going to kill him! The fight is over!”

The one in charge of financial bets grabbed Sukuna by the shoulders to separate him from the poor man with the bloody face who was barely standing. Sukuna huffed, letting him do it. The victim coughed up blood, and Sukuna smirked under his balaclava.

“You made thousands of dollars last night, Ryomen. You're truly the best,” the manager rubbed Sukuna's back appreciatively. Sukuna's eyes narrowed.

“Don't touch me unless you want me to make you as messed up as him.”

His interlocutor winced at his cold voice and moved away from Sukuna. The ruthless fighter left the ring without a glance at his fans who reached out to touch him. Sukuna was a celebrity in every area of ​​his life: in the world of Formula 1 and in the world of underground fighting. He was used to being adored, and that was what he craved.

When we didn't receive love from your parents, we became addicted to external validation. Sukuna learned very quickly that if he was going to be noticed by his parents, who were too busy taking care of his twin brother Yuji, he had to be the problematic and troublemaking brother. He embodied his role perfectly, and even at 27, he constantly had this need to prove to others that he existed.

He changed in the locker room and put on a black shirt. When he left the secret facility where clandestine fights took place, he was greeted by the light New York breeze, characteristic of January. He put on his helmet and climbed into his luxury vehicle. He drove down the road for several minutes, replaying the scene from earlier where he beat the shit out of his victim. A bulge formed in his pants and a wave of desire took hold of him. He stopped at a gas station, too excited.

Not caring about being in public, he took off his helmet and unbuttoned his jeans, still on his motorcycle. His hand palmed his erection through his boxers and let out a soft sigh as he visualized his opponent's frightened face with tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, Sukuna's breathing increasing as the images became more and more vivid. He freed his hard length of the fabric, and his thumb rubbed the slit, his digit pressing against his silver piercing. He smeared the precum onto the metal ball, and shuddered as the wind cooled him.

He leaned and spat on his dick, and with his palms, he massaged it up and down. He closed his eyes and imagined a pretty girl with a tearful face, sobbing pleas. Automatically, you materialized in his mind, and he squeezed his cock so hard it hurt.

He hated it when you crossed his mind. Despite the many years that had separated you, he felt like he was still that teenager pathetically in love with you. Except that wasn't the case. He wanted your downfall more than anything, to get revenge for the years of suffering he experienced in prison because of you.

It didn't matter that he deserved your revenge since he broke your heart; you were a traitor. And he despised people like you. One day, he would make you pay.

A noise next to him made him open his eyes, and an elderly woman was looking at him wide-eyed, her gaze fixed on what he had in his hands. Sukuna didn't care. He continued to run his hand along his length, maintaining her gaze. He hoped she was uncomfortable, and bonus points if she felt violated and hurled insults at him. The woman blushed and cleared her throat. She lowered her head to refuel her car. Sukuna rolled his eyes. Boring. He lost all his excitement. He got dressed and took control of his vehicle to return home under the moonlight.

────────

Instead of going straight to his fiancée's apartment, Sukuna entered the basement of the building where he had a private shooting range. He grabbed a gun and positioned himself to fire. Focused and expert, Sukuna never missed the center of his target. Having fallen in love with karting around the age of 6, it wasn't until he was 12 that he developed a passion for weapons. It started with collecting daggers he found beautiful, until Uraume, his best friend, got him to play Call of Duty, and he discovered more powerful weapons. In another universe, Sukuna wasn't an F1 driver but a sniper.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Yorozu's soft voice echoed behind him as he stared at his target, his left hand supporting his left wrist while his arm was raised. Sukuna didn't turn to look at her.

“I already told you not to call me that.”

“You’ll have to get used to it, we’re getting married at the end of the next F1 season.”

“I don’t even see you as human, stop acting so dumb and trying to romanticize our bond. You’re a tool for me,” he chided, and lowered his arms to put away his gun. He turned to his future wife, looked displeased, his features sharpening. Yorozu’s long black hair cascaded down her back, her light-colored eyes shone with a glint of desire as she wore a red lace nightie. The shade of red looked more vivid against her fair skin. Sukuna looked away, his fists clenched.

“You’re not my type, don’t try to seduce me. Just play your part.” Sukuna walked past her without a glance and slammed the door behind him.

Once in his luxurious, minimalist apartment (he didn't spend much time there with his F1 races), he took a shower and wrapped himself in the blankets of his king-size bed. A notification flashed on his phone screen, and his heart tightened when he saw that it was his twin, Yuji, sending him a photo from a show he had participated in.

Being autistic, Yuji's special interest was the piano. He was non-verbal, and therefore communicated his feelings through music. Sukuna had learned the piano out of jealousy, hoping his parents would compliment him as they did with Yuji, but it was as if Sukuna was invisible. All that mattered to the family was supporting Yuji and creating a safe place for his autism. Sukuna belonged in the trash.

He liked the image and replied with a short message. Sukuna knew it wasn't his brother's fault if he was neglected, but he still felt jealousy and resentment every time he interacted with his brother. But he loved him too much to cut ties, so he tolerated his mixed feelings toward him.

Sleep took over him, and he began to doze, his head on his pillow. Some time later, he felt hands caressing his back, his stomach, and a breath on the back of his neck. A cold shiver ran down his spine, and fear gripped him. Still lost between the world of dreams and reality, he thought it was his mother who had sneaked into his bed again to rape him at night. With a swift movement, Sukuna sat up, grabbed the person by the throat, and pinned them against the bed. His eyes fluttered open, his breathing rapid.

“You fucking whore.” He tightened his grip, a shadow passing over his gaze. “Do I have to kill you to get you to leave me alone?”

Yorozu's eyes were wide, her hands on Sukuna's wrists to stop him from choking her. “Kuna’, we've lived together for years and we haven't made love once.”

Sukuna winced at ‘kuna’, you were the one who called him that when he was little. But hearing the rest of the sentence, he snickered, the rough sound rumbled in his chest. "Make love to you? Who do you think I am, you fool? I don't make love."

Yorozu's breasts rose and fell with her ragged breathing. “Fuck me, then.”

“You wish. I wouldn't even fuck you on our honeymoon.”

Yorozu's face paled. “Why not?”

“Because all that shit is an arranged marriage. Nothing forces me to touch you. You didn't write 'sex' in your conditions.”

“Because it goes without saying!” she protested, her voice indignant.

“Buy yourself a dildo and leave me alone.”

Sukuna released her throat and stormed out of the bedroom. The only women who had ever touched him were you and his mother; he loathed women. If he didn't care about his F1 career, he would kill Yorozu right away. Maybe he should see a therapist for his fear of intimacy, but he didn't particularly want to heal. Sukuna loved how ruthless, violent, and selfish he was right now. It protected him from the thing that destroyed his life: love.

────────

You were the most beautiful woman Sukuna had ever laid eyes on. Yorozu was nothing compared to you.

Wearing a thick belt to serve as a bra, a long denim skirt, and black mules heels, you walked the runway with elegance and confidence, each step demonstrating your expertise in modeling. Your smooth brown skin glowed and your makeup was light; you didn't wear much artifice to highlight your naturally bewitching beauty. Your short hair was defined into beautiful coils, the dramatic baby hair on your forehead were decorated with white pearls in the bends. 

With narrowed eyes, Sukuna only paid attention to the show when you were there. He had been invited to New York Fashion Week this year, and it was the first time he'd seen you in real life since he broke your heart when you were 18.

He was used to seeing you on television, in magazines; you were one of the most popular models of your generation. But it was nothing to see you face to face. You were famous for your voluptuous body, which defied the standards of a model. Many people said you made it big in the modeling world thanks to your mother, who was a '90s supermodel. But Sukuna knew you'd worked hard to get there; he was there during your sessions learning how to walk and pose for runway shows as a teenager. You were both icons—you, the iconic plus-size model, and your mother, one of the most respected black models in the fashion world.

Everyone's faces were filled with wonder as you walked near the audience, while Sukuna glared at you. The people around him looked uncomfortable next to him, because Sukuna had a terrifying reputation. Having spent five years in prison for manslaughter, rumors spread that it was his money that saved him, that he had killed the victims in cold blood. 

Only he knew. Only he knew you were with him when he killed those people. Only he knew you laughed when he set fire to that abandoned house in the forest. Only he knew you were merciless, vicious like him. Only he knew you were a manipulative girl hiding behind a baddie persona. You weren't the bold, confident girl you showed the world. A monster. Like him. That's why he was so obsessed with you when he was younger.

His damaged soul found solace in yours.

One day, Sukuna would shatter your heart. When Sukuna hated someone, he wanted to kill them, beat the shit out of that person until they were disfigured. But he couldn't do that to you. That pretty little face of yours was worth millions; Sukuna wouldn't ruin your career, right?

No, Sukuna had other plans. When the time was right, he would unleash his revenge. He would break you the way you broke him. Make you taste the miserable life he experienced in prison. He'll fucking own your body and soul, and you won't be able to escape him, reducing you to a little thing begging to be spared.

Being married to Yorozu wasn't going to stop him from doing what he'd wanted to do for years. He will find a way. He had to.

────────

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Dim red and blue lights danced across your body as you swayed against strangers with a cocktail in hand. It was the fashion week afterparty, and you were surrounded by nothing but celebrities and models. You're the one by KAYTRANADA was playing in the bar, the song filling the room with a good vibe. Everything was going well until your eyes fell on the ghost of your heart in the middle of the dance floor.

Hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, Sukuna stood straight, his expression cold and distant. 6 feet 6 tall, with thick eyebrows and the right slit, a multitude of ear piercings, tattoos that stretched all the way down his neck, and massive muscles that made him imposing, Sukuna was the kind of man you always noticed when you walked into a room. His slightly wavy pink hair fell over his forehead, and framed his angular face. He wore a white, short-sleeved shirt and a burgundy tie that was mostly undone. A classy, casual look.

You frowned, not liking how flawless he looked. It would have been quicker to move on from him if he were as ugly as a louse. Rolling your hips, you approached him and took advantage of his vague gaze to bump into him. The contents of your glass spilled all over him, staining his clothes. You placed your hand over your mouth in mock surprise.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Sukuna looked up and his face hardened. 

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚.”

He had a way of saying your name, saying the syllables slowly, as if each one counted. Your stomach twisted at how your name rolled on his tongue. 

“Ryomen,” you smirked. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. The last time I saw you was…” You pretended to think with your index finger on your chin. “Oh,” Your eyes lit up with a cruel glint. “It was when I sent you to jail. So, how was it?”

His handsome face looked terrifying. His features sharpened and his red eyes darkened. 

“You want to show you how it was?”

With a swift movement, Sukuna grabbed a handful of your hair, ruining the defined curls and pulling you closer to him. Your body bumped against his muscular chest. You tried to back away, but his grip was so strong it hurt. He lowered his head to your ear.

“You’re fucking lucky you live in California, I would have ended your life a long time ago.”

A shiver ran down your spine, and your smile faded. It was Sukuna’s turn to smile, his lips curled into a menacing grin.

“What is it, ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚? I thought you were pretty confident. Where did your arrogance go?” His deep voice next to you made it hard to concentrate, and you glared at him.

“Let go of me, you son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, you’re right, my mother is a bitch. But so is yours, right? That’s why we loved each other before, remember?” His breath brushed your face, and your stomach churned at his threatening look. You swear that he was like a demon. “Don’t you get nostalgic for when we were teenagers sometimes?”

“You mean when you cheated on me to go with Yorozu, you bastard?” Your gaze was full of venom.

“I’m not a traitor like you, I never cheated on you. However,” he let out a low chuckle, “I admit it makes me happy to know that your childhood memories are tarnished by me. It even makes me hard, actually.” He pressed his erection against you and you placed your hands on his shoulders to push him away but he yanked you against him. “Women like you don’t know how to behave, you want me to teach you how to be a good girl? Maybe with that you’ll stop fucking all your model male colleagues.”

“You’re so obsessed with me that you keep up with my relationship news?” you asked in disgust, feeling his dick against your belly. “A killer and now a sexual harasser. Your situation doesn’t seem to be improving with time.”

“Oh baby, I always been a sexual abuser, have you forgotten what we used to do? All the kinks I created for you? I corrupted you.”

A shadow passed across your face. You didn’t want to think about all the twisted sexual things you did with him. You were two young and traumatized teens, so your sex life was doomed from the start. 

“Let go of me.”

“Tell Satoru that he will admire me from second place next season,” Sukuna let go of your hair and turned around without saying anything else.

You huffed. “You wish! My brother will beat you this year!”

He walked away, ignoring you, and you gave him the finger in the back.

────────

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟎 - 𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐲 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

For as long as you could remember, Sukuna had always been an asshole.

You met him at Merklay Park, near Beverly Hills, California. It was some time after your mother divorced your father and married Satoru's father, when you were 13. You used to design your clothes outside, inspired by the nature around you.

He was fighting with a younger boy he'd extorted. Ruthless. Violent. Barbaric. There was something sinister about seeing a pre-teen capable of such brutality, and the worst part was that he smirked while he beat his victim.

A normal person would have looked away or called the police. But you weren't a normal girl. You were an artist who aspired to be a fashion designer. So when people expressed intense emotions, it inspired you. In fact, you found him handsome. There was something poetic about the way he unleashed himself on the boy, something raw.

Caught up in it, every time you came to the park and saw him fighting, you hid behind a tree to watch him. Your heart always pounded, and you were still too young to understand why you got tingles down here as soon as your eyes landed on him.

He still had that effect on you, even after he'd broken your heart.

Sitting in the Ferrari team's conference room in the Italian capital, you shifted uncomfortably in your seat as Sukuna's gaze pierced you. Sukuna was the frightening definition of darkness. He wasn't an F1 driver who was adored for his good looks; most of his fans were intimidated by him. Rumors of his murders were still rife even four years after he was released from prison.

Early in his career, people said Sukuna had gotten into Formula 1 on the money and didn't deserve his place, but the second he became a driver at 23, he won every championship. There was no denying his talent.

“Why ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ is here?” Sukuna's deep, cold voice echoed through the room.

“My sister is going to follow me for the entire F1 season,” Satoru stated, adjusting his tie. “She wants to cheer me on since you ruined my last race last year.” He glanced at you and gave you a smile, which you didn't return because you were tense.

Sukuna's eyes narrowed on you, and the corners of his mouth lifted into a wicked smile. “You can't be that dumb and want to be close to me after what you did.”

Your face hardened, and you knitted your eyebrows.

“I'm doing what I want with my life, and I'm not afraid of you, Ryomen.”

The Ferrari team principal took a sip from his glass of water, watching you silently. Satoru grew impatient.

“Can we know why you invited us here? You know very well that Sukuna and I have been rivals for years. He stole first place from me.”

A dark chuckle escaped Sukuna's lips.

“Did I steal first place, or did it not belong to you?”

“You know perfectly well that you deliberately made contact with my car.” Satoru’s face twisted into a frown. “You never respect the rules.”

“The FIA ​​didn’t find any violations. Maybe you have trouble admitting that you’re no match for me.”

“That’s enough,” the director sighed. “The reason I brought you here, Satoru Gojo, is because Mercedes wants to make a transfer. They want to choose a rookie for their team and get rid of you because you’ve always finished second for the past four years. We agreed to remove Mahito from the team to accommodate you. You’ll be Mr. Ryomen’s teammate for the coming seasons.”

Your lips parted, your eyes wide. “But they hate each other!”

The old man shook his head.

“They're the best in Formula 1. We'll easily win the constructors' championship with you two.”

“Actually, that's a good idea,” Satoru grinned, and you turned to him, surprise flashing across your face.

“What are you talking about, 'toru? Sukuna is a bastard who made you miss out on last year's championship. How are you going to get along with him?”

“Exactly. Being on his team will make me improve more. And don't forget that I'm better. It's even more gratifying to crush him by being his teammate.”

“You're not going to crush anyone, dickhead,” Sukuna snickered. “All F1 drivers are below me, you're all my sons.”

“Okay, Nicki Minaj,” Satoru rolled his eyes. “Sorry to exist in your world.”

“But that's not all I wanted to say,” the director began. “Since you're the most popular drivers, everyone's going to be curious about how you'll compete together. So the marketing director decided we're going to do a tv show during the season.”

“I'm not here to do reality tv,” Sukuna scowled.

“It's so cool!” Satoru beamed, always loving to be the center of attention.

Sukuna glared at Satoru.

“You're a fucking child. I can't believe I have to work with a fool like you.”

“A child, yes, but the fool always ends up in pole position.”

“That's a bare minimum as a driver, idiot,” Sukuna muttered.

You fidgeted your hands, anxiety running through your body. You had agreed to follow Satoru during his Formula One season, to cheer him on after his defeat last year against Sukuna, but you hadn't anticipated him leaving Mercedes for Ferrari, and thus becoming your worst enemy's teammate.

The director gave more information about the program's schedule and what the big changes would be for Satoru. You weren't listening anymore and were lost in painful memories that dated back several years.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 - 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

“Why do you always cut yourself?” you asked, curiously looking at the still-red wounds on Sukuna's arm. Curled up against his chest as he lay on the grass in Merklay Park, he caressed your back with lazy movements. The sun beat down on you, the typical California heat, but you were too comfortable together to care.

You were Sukuna's best friend, of course you were going to ask him this kind of question one day. His cold expression betrayed no emotion, but he let out a soft sigh.

“To better cope with what I feel.”

“And what do you feel?” You cocked your head to one side. His eyes locked with yours, as your breath caressed his face.

“Despair.”

You played with the wavy locks that fell over his forehead. “I feel despair too.”

“Because of your mother?”

Your face darkened. “This bitch doesn't deserve my emotions. She's just a whore who can't keep her legs closed.”

Sukuna smirked.

“What you're saying is misogynistic, you know?”

“She's the one setting feminism back years by constantly getting remarried. It's like she can't be alone, it's pathetic.”

At 16, you were mature and noticed that your mother had psychological problems. She was a compulsive liar, a manipulator, and a cheater. She was awful to you, constantly putting you down because she saw you as a rival. You thanked her though for remarrying into the Gojo family because that way you met Sukuna and Satoru.

“Do you prefer your father or your mother?”

“Kuna’, my father is basically absent in my life.”

“I know,” Sukuna’s face softened. “But you always criticize your mother and never your father.”

“You do the same thing. You always complain that your father ignores and neglects you while your mother rapes you.”

“Because my mother acts as if I exist, so I guess I resent her less for violating me.”

“You exist, but at what cost? What's the point of her paying attention to you if it's to steal your innocence?”

“I'm seventeen, baby. My innocence is long gone. You still think of me as a fragile boy, even though you helped me burn down a house a few weeks ago. We killed people together.”

You chuckled, your eyes lit up with a playful glow.

“That was so much fun. We should kill people more often.”

Sukuna burst into a laugh, hugged you even tighter, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Something is wrong with your head, baby.”

“That's why you love me so much.”

“Right, I love you so much.”

When you looked up and met Sukuna's piercing eyes, devoid of the warmth he used to have when you were teenagers, your heart sank. How could a boy who had been your safe place for years become your enemy, toward whom you harbored boundless hatred? You were troubled teenagers, wounded by life, with no one to understand you, and when you met, it was as if the shattered pieces of your hearts had come back together to form one.

You thought your story was over, but it all started again. For many months, you were going to live with the man you hated. You should be scared. You knew Sukuna. He was everything a human shouldn't be. Merciless. Brutal. Cruel. But it wasn't fear that gripped you when his eyes lit up and he gave you the most sinister smile you've ever seen.

It was excitement.

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𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟏 - 𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐡𝐢𝐫, 𝐛𝐚𝐡𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You were the stupidest woman Sukuna had ever met in his life.

You knew he hated you, knew he was dangerous, that taking another's life didn't affect him, that he was an arsonist who hid his crimes behind his pyromania, that he was completely crazy. Yet, you agreed to be near him for the entire season. A normal person should have escaped and fled when they learned of the transfer. No, you had given him back his grin in the conference room. Sometimes, Sukuna forgot that you came from the same realm of darkness.

While you were with your brother doing race simulations, Sukuna placed cameras in your hotel room. His family was wealthy and owned a luxury perfume company, Rose Noire, so he had the means to do whatever he wanted. Asking for your keys by sliding bills across the counter was easy for him.

His revenge had just begun. He was going to break you, make you cry until you begged him to leave you alone. Make you his in the most twisted way, fucking you until you're sorry to even exist.

────────

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

'I will make you so terrified that you will pray everyday that I leave you alone.'

You were reading your usual dark romance books—the kind of problematic, unhealthy bookq that allowed you to escape and experience your worst fantasies—when you received this message from an unknown number. You chuckled and ignored it. It was probably a joke. Immersed once again in your protagonist's story, you sighed when you received a second message.

'˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. 26 years old. Gojo Satoru's half-sister. On bad terms with your mother because your last boyfriend cheated on you with her. Want to have a fashion brand but is afraid of not living up to her famous mother. Enjoy CNC.”

Your whole body froze, a sense of dread taking hold of you. 

'Who are you?' you answered him with trembling hands.

'You don't need to know me. Just do what I want.'

'What do you want?'

'Destroy you.'

You swallowed with difficulty. Your heart raced, your whole body still. Your intuition told you this wasn't a joke; this person couldn't randomly reveal such private information.

'You want money?'

'You think money will fix what you've done, you fucking bitch?'

'I don't understand what's going on.'

'I know, you've always been dumb.’

Always been? It was someone you knew. It was even more terrifying.

‘You don't want to tell me who you are?’

The stranger stopped responding, but your heart was still racing. You took deep breaths to calm your anxiety and went back to reading your books.

'How are you?'

A notification flashed on your phone; it was Nanami. He was a driver at McLaren, and you had met him during the press conference on Saturday, before qualifying. A handsome man, you naturally gave him your number. You were always looking for your perfect man to spend the rest of your life with, so you multiplied your partners.

'I'm waiting for the race to start so I can go to the VIP area.'

‘You’re going to encourage me?’

You grinned.

'I'm here for my brother, Nanami. But I'll throw champagne at you if you're on the podium.'

The stranger sent you another message.

'What's making you smile?’

Your smile faded. You studied your surroundings, looking for cameras.

'Stop talking to Nanami.'

Your eyebrows furrowed. How did he know you were talking to that man?

'I do what I want.'

'You think I'm playing with you?' I will end the life of any man who touches you.’

‘I don’t know how you got that information about me, but I’m not going to be intimidated by a stranger.’

‘Dumb bitch ‘til the end, I guess.’

A door knock sounded in the room, and Satoru entered your room. He shot you a goofy smile.

“It’s race time. Ready to scream my name for two hours?”

“That’s extremely weird put like that, ‘toru,” you chuckled and put your phone away. You didn’t want to worry your brother with your new stalker; it would distract him from Formula 1.

“Sukuna qualified first and I qualified second on the grid as usual,” he grumbled.

“That just means you only have one person to pass, look on the bright side!” You got up from the bed to pat him on the shoulder.

Satoru was your safe place. You'd never had a real family before your mother remarried, and you were grateful to have met him.

Even though he'd been a huge obstacle in your relationship with Sukuna when you were teenagers, you loved him more than anything. The Ryomen and Gojo both lived in Merklay, a town generally inhabited by millionaires, near Beverly Hills. The two families harbored endless hatred for each other because they both had the same background: they were Japanese who had settled in California and owned a luxury perfume company. They were competitors in America, and they'd warned you not to get attached to a Ryomen.

It was too late the day they told you that. You were already seeing Sukuna secretly, meeting up at Merklay's central park.

“Father is here,” Satoru scratched the back of his head, and your voice softened.

“Are you nervous?”

“I'm just tired of disappointing him every day.”

Satoru's mother was the CEO of the luxury brand; Satoru's father was a successful former F1 driver and eight-time world champion. Satoru had always grown up in his father's shadow.

“You know he's proud of you, no matter where you finish.” You hugged him. He leaned into your touch. “You're the one who puts this pressure on yourself to be as good as him.”

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚, they call me Cursed Toru because I always finish second.”

“You've already been world champion twice, you forget that quickly.”

“That was before that asshole Sukuna got into Formula 1. I don't know how he managed it when my dad did everything he could to avoid it. It's probably thanks to Yorozu.”

Your eyes narrowed. Yorozu was a girl who lived in the same neighborhood as you and Sukuna, and she was a childhood friend of Sukuna's (if he was capable of having friends). You had never been able to be friends because she was extremely jealous of your relationship with Sukuna. Your relationship worsened when Sukuna cheated on you with her. At least, that was your version. You hadn't forgotten how he claimed he'd never cheated on you. Maybe that idiot had a short memory. Or you didn't know something.

“Her family works for the FIA?”

“Yeah, her father is one of the assistant managers, and her uncle is the principal of the Red Bull team.”

Oh.

“Imagine if their relationship is fake and he got together with her because he knew your father would keep him out?” you mumbled, realizing it was very likely since Sukuna treated Yorozu like a pain in the ass in high school.

Satoru shrugged. “That manipulator would be capable.”

A hollow ache pierced your chest. If that were really the case, why did Sukuna have to break your heart and abandon you? Sukuna had never been anyone's first choice. His family only cared about his autistic brother. A glass child. The healthy child neglected while the rest of the family only paid attention to the one who was sick or disabled. That's why no one had ever noticed he'd been a victim of incest.

Sometimes, when you thought about his life, you wanted to cry. He was successful now, but he'd suffered so much. He was incredibly strong and resilient. But deeply damaged. That's why you'd loved him so much. Looking at Sukuna was like looking into a mirror. You had the same wounds and you knew how to heal them for each other.

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚, are you coming or not?”

You shook your head. “Yes, sorry.”

────────

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

His gloved hands gripped the steering wheel as he slowed to take the turn. The landscape around him was a blur due to the speed he was driving. He couldn't wait for the race to be over because the red Ferrari suit was making him hot.

“There's no one near you, you can go full speed,” the race engineer told him over the radio. “You really are the best, Ryo.” Sukuna smirked. He recognized the voice; it was Kenjaku. He'd been around since Sukuna started in F1; he would have called him 'friend' if he weren't so heartless.

He pressed the accelerator and enjoyed the adrenaline rush this action gave him. The car sped along the straight, before reaching a second turn. The soft tires squealed on the asphalt as he boldly took the turn. The Sakhir circuit was a succession of straights and slow corners, lacking the sweeping curves that made Formula 1 so spectacular.

“Easy,” Sukuna chuckled, recording yet another lap.

“Satoru and Nanami are behind you.”

The sweet sound of the engines roaring filled his ears, his favorite music. His car sped like a red lightning bolt, zipping around the track with ease and confidence, even as Satoru's car closed in on him. Sukuna gave him the finger and used his maximum speed to pull away.

He crossed the finish line and ended the race with a yawn. Too easy. He let the mechanics take care of his car as he took off his gloves. Journalists rushed towards him, but Sukuna pretended they didn't exist.

He took off his helmet, and fangirls shouted his name with signs featuring his face in close-up. His lips quirked up, amused. Did these stupid women know he was a psycho?

Nightcrawler by Travis Scott was playing during the trophy ceremony as Sukuna, Satoru, and Nanami took the top three spots. Your brother wore a tense expression and glared at Sukuna.

“Cursed Toru always confirms his curse,” Sukuna sneered.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Satoru gritted his teeth. “It's only the first race.”

“And your first loss of the season. Congratulations.”

The tradition of splashing champagne brightened Satoru's mood, and Sukuna slipped away to the VIP floor reserved for his family.

“Hey, sweetheart,” his mother greeted him in a soft voice. Her long pink hair cascaded down her back as her body was wrapped in a fur coat.

“Kill yourself,” he muttered, walking past her without a glance.

His father was sitting on the couch reading a newspaper. He didn't look up, just gave him a thumbs-up. Sukuna's jaw tensed. Of course. Everyone didn't care about his victory except his brother.

A gentle look passed across his face when he saw his brother watching ASMR videos of soap cutting. It had always calmed him.

“Sup.”

Sukuna ruffled his twin's hair without hugging him because Yuji hated being touched. His brother lifted his head and offer him a smile that reached his eyes. Since Yuji was non-verbal autistic, Sukuna had learned to speak sign language to communicate with him.

Yuji would raise his hands and say 'congratulations'.

“Thank you, but you should be used to having a talented brother.”

A chuckle slipped out of Yuji's mouth. 'Of course, you are really THAT man,' he communicated silently.

Sukuna nudged his shoulder. 'The pride of the Ryomen.'

“I'm proud of you too,” his mother joined in. Sukuna's eyes darkened.

“What don't you understand about 'kill yourself'?”

“Talk to your mother better,” his father interjected.

“I talk how I want to whomever I want, and you won't do anything,” Sukuna raised his voice.

“Don't shout, Yuji doesn’t like noise.”

“As if Yuji is the center of the world!” Sukuna clenched his fists.

An uncomfortable silence fell in the room and Sukuna stormed out, slamming the door. Breathing rapidly, he ran to the nearest bathroom. Once inside, he vomited. He'd met his mother's gaze for a few moments; it had disgusted him.

He wiped his mouth with toilet paper before going out and bumping into you.

“What the fuck are you doing in the men's room?” Sukuna asked, his voice cold.

“Why are you throwing up like you're sick? You should be in a good mood, your lame ass stole my brother's victory again,” you jabbed, your chin held high.

“The lame ass is your brother, dumbass.”

You washed your hands, ignoring him, and Sukuna's eyes fell on your ass and thick thighs, molded into your slim jeans. He licked his lower lips, his eyes predatory.

“Nice ass.”

“Kill yourself.”

“That's exactly what I told my mom earlier. She didn't listen.”

Your face softened. “You saw… your mother? Are you okay?”

“Don't be so stupid to worry about me. I'd kill you if I could.”

“I'm not an idiot. I just have empathy for anyone, no matter what's been done to me. Which you clearly lack.”

“Empathy is a weakness. I'm not interested in other people's suffering. But I am in yours, if I caused it.”

Your eyes shot daggers at him. “You're an awful human being.”

“You loved me before.” Sukuna left the room without looking at you.

────────

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟐 - 𝐣𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐡, 𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐢 𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐚 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The crew filming the show arrived during the second week when you arrived in Saudi Arabia. They were there mainly for Sukuna and Satoru, but they occasionally interviewed you. Satoru was in his element; he had an outgoing and cheerful personality and loved being filmed. Sukuna, on the other hand, wasn't. He ignored most of the questions and often slipped away to escape the cameras.

'I know you're still talking to Nanami.'

You were taking off your clothes in the hotel locker room, getting ready to go to the private pool when you received a message from your stalker. You rolled your eyes.

'I already told you I'll do what I want.'

'I think you don't quite understand your position in our relationship. I'm a predator and you're my prey.'

'Stop this corny ass shit.'

'You really want to provoke me? I wanted to start slowly with you.'

You ignored his message and put on your swimsuit. The pool was empty because it was 10 p.m. You dove into the water and made a few strokes before letting yourself lie on your back, arms outstretched from your sides. With your eyes closed, you jumped when you heard the lights go out, the area illuminated only by the underwater lights.

“Is anyone there?”

Your heart raced, and you approached the edge of the pool, inspecting your surroundings. You hadn't heard the door open, which meant the person had been there since you'd been undressing in the locker room. It sent a chill down your spine.

You waited a few minutes, your senses alert, before starting to swim again, thinking it was a technical problem. You turned in the water and hummed music, moving quickly and easily around the pool. You stopped looking around, busy thinking about what you were going to do tomorrow and playing in the water. When you reached the edge and turned around, facing the exit, your heart gripped with dread.

You screamed when you saw an imposing man leaning against the doorway. He was so tall that his head touched the top, and he was impossible to identify because he wore a ghost face mask. Dressed entirely in black, he took a few slow steps toward the pool. Petrified, you were unable to move, your eyes wide with fear.

He circled the pool to get to you, each step accentuating the pounding of your heart in your ribcage. Every cell of your being vibrated with terror.

“You’ve been a bad girl lately, am I right? You think you’re in control here?”

His voice was vaguely familiar, but deeper than what you were used to hearing. You swallowed with difficulty. He knelt beside you and raised a large, tattooed hand to caress your cheeks with his rough knuckles. You stood frozen, your whole body shaking like a leaf in the wind. Your stalker slapped your face violently, making you spin your head and let out a gasp. He grabbed a handful of your hair to pull you back close to him. His grip was so firm that you moaned in pain.

“Next time you don’t act like a good prey, I’ll rape you. Do you understand?”

You gave him a shy nod, sweat trickled down your brow.

“But today, I’m going to give you a little punishment. Call that an appetizer, baby.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he plunged your head into the water. You struggled, clawing at his wrist until it bled to let you breathe. You held your breath with difficulty. A sense of dread, slow and cruel, crept your spine, making every second feel like an eternity. When you began to stop moving, death arriving, and he let go of your hair.

You coughed, taking deep breaths, your body panicking from the near-drowning you had experienced. By the time you had finally regained your normal breathing, your stalker had disappeared.

────────

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Sukuna was only 18 when he entered prison. He was used to fighting with people younger than him, but for the first time in his life, he was confronted by someone older, bigger than him.

The first week had been the hardest. His roommate had tried to rape him in his sleep. An old man with a beer belly, he had rubbed himself against him before trying to undress him.

“Ryomen…”

He had been paralyzed, because he immediately understood what was happening. Except it wasn't his mother who was slim, it was a man much larger than him. He let himself be touched; the man ran his hand over his stomach and kissed his neck. Sukuna fought not to vomit. It was when his hand slipped into his jeans that he strangled him, like a reflex.

He'd been forced into solitary confinement even though he'd explained what the man had tried to do. The prison staff didn't care about that. He posed a threat to other inmates, and he already had aggravating circumstances.

In an isolated cell for two weeks, he'd spiraled. Being alone with his thoughts for more than 24 hours, without seeing sunlight, with nothing to do but sit and pace in the small room, it drove people crazy.

Sukuna still had these kinds of nightmares. He relived the moments when he was locked up, alone, a scared young adult, cursing the only girl he'd ever loved for doing this to him.

Sukuna woke up with a knot in his stomach. A hollow ache in his chest made it hard to breathe properly. He hated it when he had these kinds of cursed dreams. He'd rather relive his rapes than be locked in a room and spiral.

Dressed only in his gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, he put on his sneakers and left the hotel. The hotel had a garden, and Sukuna began to walk around it, hands in his pockets.

“Are you a nudist?”

He turned his head where the voice came from and narrowed his eyes on you. Dressed in your mini pajama shorts and tank top, you had deep dark circles under your eyes.

“Don’t disturb me, I’m not in a good mood.”

“I almost died a few hours ago. A little traumatized, but you must be happy, right? Someone is granting your wish.”

His lips curved into a wicked smile. “Tell me more.”

“I think they'll really kill me if I tell anyone.”

You already understood the implication of not telling anyone; Sukuna was doing his job well. Judging by your dark circles, you were already starting to get scared, and that was all Sukuna wanted. To make your life miserable like his had been in prison.

“Are you still cutting yourself?” you whispered, looking at the red marks on his wrist.

He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, taken aback. He hid his hands behind his back. If you looked too closely, you'd realize they were your scratches.

“None of your business.”

“I hope you see a therapist one day.”

Sukuna's face twisted into a scowl. “I would have been much better off if you hadn't sent me to prison. This is all your fault.”

“You talk as if you didn't actually commit these murders, Ryomen.”

“It doesn't matter, we promised each other we wouldn't tell anyone.”

“I would have kept my promise if you hadn't stood me up for our date and then I saw you in Yorozu's arms the next day, and you ignored me.”

Sukuna looked away, silent. In his contract with Yorozu, he was forbidden from explaining to you that his relationship with her was fake. Yorozu wanted everyone to think he was hers. It irritated Sukuna, but he had no choice if he wanted to secure his place in Formula 1. You folded your arms and gave him a glare at his silence.

“Are you ever going to explain?”

“You don’t deserve my time.” Sukuna stared at the flowerpots, avoiding your furious gaze.

“You're mad at me for sending you to prison, but what was I supposed to do? I was in love with you, Sukuna. So madly in love. I would have done anything for you. If you suffered in prison, how do you think I suffered when I waited for you at the restaurant and you never came? You think I didn't cry when you ate next to Yorozu the next day at school even though you knew she hated me? You think I was happy when I saw you blocked me everywhere without saying anything?” Your eyes stung, and your voice was hoarse. “I'm sorry you suffered in prison. I can't imagine what it's like to be locked up with strangers for five years, but you should have thought before breaking my heart. I'm not an idiot who lets people walk all over me easily.”

That's exactly why he loved you for so many years. Oh god, he loved you so much.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The love he felt for you was like a tsunami he was unable to control, overwhelming him in moments when he didn't want to be a slave to his heart. Then he remembered. The attempted rapes by his roommates. The solitary confinement cells. The indifference of the prison staff. The long training sessions outside to become stronger and defend himself better. The many times his life would have turned into a life of crime because of offers to work for a gang. His revenge, which he had planned long in advance. He remembered the hell of the facility, and he opened his mouth, his voice harsh.

“So for a few minutes of heartbreak, I have to suffer all my life? Do you think this kind of wound can be healed?” He approached you dangerously, a threatening look on his face. You backed away from the hotel wall. “You managed to move on while I'm affected every day.”

“Who told you I moved on?” you murmured. “You think I can move on from the love of my life? You think I don't think about you when I'm with other men?”

“You're talking nonsense, are you drunk?”

“I drank a few cocktails. I was anxious.”

“Dumbass.” Sukuna sighed. “There's no love between us anymore. I was never the love of your life. Stop saying stupid shit like this.”

“She'll never be me, you know that, right?” Tears of rage prickled at the corners of your eyes. “Understanding, acceptance, being seen for who you truly are without judgment, all of that, only I can give you that. She isn't even the half of me. You're miserable because you're making the wrong choices. You're staying with a woman who will never satisfy you, and you're breaking the heart of the only one who was your equal.”

Sukuna bit the inside of his cheek. You were pretty when you cried. He wanted to kiss you.

“Since when you're so sappy? Our relationship wasn't that deep.”

“We killed people together, Sukuna.”

“I killed people, you watched. You were never as crazy as me.”

“Oh, I need to kill people now to prove I'm the better choice?”

“Maybe, it will turn me on.” He rested his forearm above your head on the wall, his breath mingling with yours.

“I’ll never prove my worth to anyone, I know what I’m worth. Too bad for you if you can’t see what you’re missing.”

“Because if I left Yorozu right now, you would take me back?”

You paused. You sniffled and avoided his eyes. Sukuna smirked.

“Oh, you’re so down bad.”

“Shut up.”

Sukuna wrapped his hand around your throat and pulled you closer.

“You’re a lover girl, I forgot. Are you still reading your romances?”

You inclined your head, acknowledging.

“You know you'll never find protagonists like me. Crazy men who can kill, and can fuck you in a way that will earn me more years in prison? All your dark romance fantasies, you can have them with me. Too bad, I will never be yours. My type isn't the traitorous whore.”

He tightened his grip until your eyes widened and your breath hitched. You struggled against him, but Sukuna was stronger than you. It was when your eyes began to close that he let go of your throat.

“My love for you is in the past. You ruined everything when you betrayed me. Now, move on. Don't be so pathetic. I will end your life if you bother me again with your sappy shit.”

Sukuna put his hands back in his jeans pockets and moved away from you.

“You're the one who ruined everything!” you shouted. “Why is the blame always on me? Okay, five years in prison isn't cool, but you betrayed me first, you fucking asshole!”

Your outburst was met with silence as Sukuna walked back into the hotel without a word.

────────

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Nanami had won first place in this race, so to reward him, you gave him your body. Or was it the alcohol from the afterparty that had inhibited you?

The problem was, you were broken.

His slow thrusts bored you. You wanted him to treat you like a whore, to fuck you like he hated you. You thrived in pain. You wanted to be choked, spat on, hit, and slapped. Motionless and lying in the starfish position, you stared at the ceiling, absentminded and waiting for it to be over quickly.

It was moments like these that you missed Sukuna. Only he knew how to treat you in bed; he could fulfill any of your fantasies without judgment and in complete safety. He was an asshole, but he fucked you so well.

You avoided Nanami's gaze when it was over, hoping he hadn't noticed your moans were fake. You put on the miniskirt and bikini top you'd worn to the party again and left the hotel to smoke. Once outside, your eyes watered.

“Fuck,” you sniffled, wiping away your tears. You walked around the hotel and paused when you saw someone familiar.

Sukuna was still in the garden, looking at the flowerpots, his bare, shiny chest and messy hair as if he'd been struggling in his sleep because of a nightmare. Hands in his pockets, he had his usual cold expression.

“You fucked Nanami and are disappointed,” he stated bluntly, without looking at you.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, unable to stop them. You didn't even know why you were crying.

“It's none of your business,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse.

“I bet he was bad at it, he can't handle all that.”

His gaze roamed your body with a glint of appreciation and desire in his eyes, lingering on your breasts, accentuated by your bikini top.

“You wanna fuck me?”

“We both know you don't want to be fucked and you want something more sinister.”

“Will you give it to me?”

“I gave it to you enough when we were teenagers, find yourself another guy.”

“But what if I want you?”

Sukuna glanced at you, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Have you been drinking? You're always emotional like that when you're drunk. When you're sober, you'd rather die than say stuff like that to me.”

“I'm just…” You sniffled. “I don't know. I hate you, but sometimes I miss you. We were so compatible.”

“It was just sex.”

“It was so much more than that, you fucking asshole. Do you think Yorozu can do the rape roleplays we used to do?”

“I don't touch her, and I don't want to know.”

Surprise flashed across your face. “But it's been nine years since you're together?”

“And?” His voice was defensive.

The weight of realization made you dizzy. You gave him an arrogant smile.

“You still love me. You can't touch another woman because I was the only one you felt safe with.”

His face hardened and he remained silent, a storm in his red irises. You were awfully right. You burst into laughter, your shoulders shaking.

“I miss you and you can't move on, but we hate each other. Why are we so messy?”

“Shut up.”

“Just know if you wanted to rape me for revenge, you can,” you smirked.

He drew his lips into a thin line, a blazing fire in his eyes.

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” He pushed past you and disappeared into the hotel.

────────

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟑 - 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞, 𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

'I told you not to fuck Nanami. You need to be punished for real now.'

Goosebumps ran up your arms as you read the notification. Maybe something was wrong in your head, but you loved having a stalker. It was so much fun being afraid someone would hurt you. You were the worst prey, because being hunted was your kink.

You ignored the message and put on a pair of mini short and a sports bra in the gym locker room. The hotel you were staying at in Australia had a pool, sauna, and private gym. You waited until 11 p.m. to use the gym in peace.

To maintain your body shape for your modeling job, you did pole dancing. It was a tough sport that deeply worked your abs, arms, and thighs. You were still plus size, but your legs was so lean and pretty even with the fat, you were known for your figure in the fashion world. You'd been pole dancing since you were a teenager. Sukuna used to come see you at your sessions and ravish you afterward. 

Your heart ached. You missed that bastard painfully.

You grabbed the pole confidently, and in one fluid movement, you rose into the air and gripped your thighs around the metal bar. You spun and wrapped yourself around it with grace and elegance. Once you were hoisted to the top, your head touching the ceiling, the feeling of being watched paralyzed you.

You turned your head to inspect the room. The pole dancing room was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows that looked down on the weight room, so if anyone was there, you'd see them.

Like vertical poetry, you began to continue your figures, one by one. With absolute mastery, you perched your body on top of the pole and sat down abruptly on the metal bar, performing a perfect pole sit.

As soon as your ass touched the ground, the lights faded, plunging you into darkness. Your breath caught in your lungs, your heart pounding.

Footsteps sounded beside you. Out of survival instinct, you silently rolled on the floor to press yourself against the wall. You held your breath to prevent the stranger from hearing you. Your cunt throbbed, adrenaline and fear coursing through your body, making you so turned on. You felt like you were in a game.

“Hide well because if I catch you, I fuck you.”

The stalker's voice made the hairs on your back stand up. You put your hand over your mouth, your breathing quickening. You shifted to find a better hiding place but instead kicked a flowerpot.

“Stupid bitch,” your stalker knelt beside you and reached out to touch your body.

He lay on top of you on the floor, his erection pressing against your ass. His weight on you was similar to Sukuna's when he fucked you in brone prone, and the thought made you roll your eyes in pleasure. He buried his head in your neck, his hot breath caressing your skin. His hips rocked against your ass, rubbing his body. You weren't sad, traumatized, or scared. No, you were fucking alive. Every cell in your body vibrated with excitement, and you moved your ass to meet your stalker's fake thrusts.

He paused when he realized you were enjoying what was happening. His body tense against you. He pulled your hair to lift your head off the floor, his grip firm and rough.

“That's rape, you dirty whore. Stop gyrating your hips against me like you enjoy it.”

His mouth closed around your flesh, he bit down hard, his teeth sinking into your neck. You gasped, a wave of pleasure snaking through your lower abdomen. His free hand dug into your mini shorts to grab your clothed pussy. He grunted at the feeling of the wet fabric. His hips crashed against your ass, your pelvic pressing against the floor, and your hipbones slammed against the hardwood, making you moan in pain.

“What do I have to do to make you afraid of me, huh? Don't you understand what position you're in?”

His fingers slid under your thong, stroking the glossy folds. You ground against his hand, pants escaping your lips. This was so much fun. A boiling storm raged within you and overwhelmed all coherent thought. You were just vibing, living your darkest fantasy.

He parted your lips, gliding through your folds, to shove two digits up to your cunt. He plunged his fingers in and out, the lewd, wet sound of friction making your cheeks warm. The tips curled at your sweet spot and your legs trembled.

“Please, keep going,” you moaned.

Your stalker froze.

“The fuck you’re talking about?”

Blood rushed to your cheeks, making the tips of your ears hot.

“Mhm…”

“You're enjoying being raped?” he asked, his voice gruff and furious. “You’re broken, baby. I can’t save you.”

He got up from you, and you made a noise of protest. He couldn’t stop now! You heard his footsteps in the dark, and a door slam. Your shoulders slumped in disappointment.

────────

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Sukuna watched you masturbate through the camera he'd left in your hotel room with knitted eyebrows and a clenched jaw. The bulge in his pants might have indicated he was enjoying what was happening in front of him, but the truth was, he was mad as hell.

He tried every way he could to scare you, but everything he did turned you on. He knew you had weird kinks, but he thought it was just the case with him. That if an unknown person did it, you will be scared. You weren't. Or maybe you spiritually knew it was Sukuna ? 

Right after his attempted rape, you'd run to your room to stick your fingers in your pussy and hump your pillow. His eyes lingered on how your breasts bounced with every movement you made, your hips undulating against the cotton fabric.

"Fuck it," he muttered, pulling down the fly of his jeans. He was about to start palming his erection through his boxers, but he paused when you started moaning his name. A shiver chased down his spine, and his eyes narrowed on you.

Of course, you were thinking about him. It was with him that you did consensual non-consent when you were teenagers. You lived with constant pressure from your mother, always having to be perfect, so you let go with him. Being submissive wasn't something degrading for you, but something liberating. It was as if you released all the anxiety, all the tightness in your chest every time you saw your competitive mother, and let Sukuna take care of you.

An uncomfortable feeling he couldn't name bloomed in his chest. Even with all the pain he'd caused you by breaking up with you for Yorozu, without explaining his true intentions, he was still the safe place you came back to when you needed him. His dick softened, no longer in the mood. He looked away, avoiding seeing you on the screen, his gaze fixed on the wall of his room.

The unpleasant hollow ache in his heart, reawakening like a wound that had never healed, made him sigh. He zipped up the fly of his jeans and his eyes fell on his gun on his bed.

It didn't matter that Sukuna still loved you. It didn't matter how his chest fluttered when he thought about how much you still needed him. He had revenge to exact. He had to end up traumatizing you like you did when you sent him to prison.

If raping you in the dark turned you on, why not threaten you with his gun?

────────

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟒 - 𝐬𝐮𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐚, 𝐣𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐧 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

In the tv show that followed you, Sukuna and Satoru had decided to go for a hike in the forest. F1 drivers needed to exercise, and sometimes they took advantage of their travels to discover new places to practice their sports.

Surrounded by dark green trees with brown leaves, you shivered in the breeze that swirled around you. Dressed in a miniskirt and a crop top, you hadn't expected the temperature to drop so much upon arriving in Japan.

“Satoru's sister is really fine as fuck,” one of the sound engineers murmured next to his coworkers behind you, admiring the curve of your fat ass. You instinctively turned around to see who said that.

“You only have one job and you're already bad at it. Should I show you what a real brother would do if someone talked like that about my sister?” Sukuna's heavy hand crashed down on the man's shoulder, as he wobbled under the force of his palm.

“Uh, n-no…”

“Right, so shut the fuck up.”

Sukuna took a few long strides away from the idiot, coming up alongside you. You cocked your head to one side.

“You're such a feminist, defending me when I'm objectified,” you teased him.

Sukuna's cold eyes remained fixed in front of him, his palms tucked into his jeans pockets.

“I just want him to focus on his work. It's my reputation that'll suffer if the show is poorly recorded.”

“Right, Sukuna. You care so much about people's opinions.”

“I do.” His voice grew lower. “Why do you think I'm an F1 driver? Only attention whores would like my job.”

“Is my evil ex-boyfriend confiding in me about his mysterious personality?”

“You're the one who normally talks to me as if we don't hate each other's guts.”

You let out a heavy breath.

“I decided to be nice to you just for the duration of the Formula 1 season. We're constantly being filmed, I don't want to get backlash just because I was a bitch to the fan-favorite driver.”

His lips quirked up, curving into a wicked smile.

“Oh, you're going to be nice to me? How kind of you. I can break your heart and you will still be mature. You're the perfect woman.”

You crushed his foot and walked away, rolling your hips, fuming with anger. Behind you, Sukuna chuckled and licked his lips, staring at your body. The sound engineer had a point.

────────

Lost in thought, you walked along the forest path, not noticing that the group had moved away from you. You thought about Sukuna, your stalker, your mother, and your future fashion brand.

Being a model wasn't your dream; what you wanted to do was be a fashion designer. To have your own clothing collections and be able to showcase them at fashion week. But your mother criticized every choice you made, competing with you to ensure you were never the best anywhere. Want to be a model? You'll never be better than her because she was the best black model of her generation. Want to be a fashion designer? You'll never be better than her because she was now the art director of Chanel.

Focused on your thoughts, you didn't notice the man behind you.

“I'm back. Missed me?” He asked in your ear, pressing the barrel of his gun against your temple. You froze, your heart pounding in your chest, threatening to explode. “Let's play a little game together.”

“Y-Yeah?” All your senses were waking up, alert and hypersensitive. But it was the excitement coursing through your veins that was the most overwhelming feeling.

“I'll let you escape, but what if I catch you? I'll fuck you like you've never been, you hear me? And I won't stop even if you cry, you fucking traitor. Someone needs to ruin you for you to realize the consequences of your actions,” he threatened, his voice harsh and gruff.

He shoved you in the back, and you staggered but didn't dare run or turn around yet. You took a few steps before he fired on you, and it grazed your ear, which turned bloody. The fear of dying invaded you, like a sweet poison in your body, and you ran towards the deep forest, away from the group where your brother and the cameramen were.

The sweat on your back was building up quickly as his heavy footsteps echoed behind you, intensifying the frenzy that was about to take over your entire body. This was so much fun! Your breathing quickened, you took deep breaths every time your foot touched the ground, crushing the dead leaves.

You jumped and screamed every time he fired between your feet. He had frightening accuracy in his shots; he was probably a sniper. You hadn't thought about him much because you treated him like a real-life fantasy, but you were curious about who he was. After Sukuna, he was the first man who had really made you wet.

You scampered between the trees, but a branch that hit your head made you fall. You crawled to hide under a pile of leaves, not having time to get up, but your stalker easily grabbed your calf and pulled your body towards him.

He knelt between the leaves, and with his gun, he ran over your body, pressing the barrel of it. Your chest rose and fell frantically, your breathing ragged from the chase, and he pushed his gun against your clothed breast, making a dip in the soft flesh. You remained motionless, staring at his ghost face mask as your cunt throbbed and you took quick breaths. You hoped he was really going to fuck like crazy like he'd promised because you hadn't been satisfied with Nanami.

“Strip,” he commanded, positioning his gun in the direction of your head.

You swallowed hard and nodded. You slid your skirt down your legs, the wind caressing your skin covered in goosebumps.

“Why are you already wet?” The man glared at you through his mask.

“It's kind of my kink,” you murmured, your voice shy. “I'm not afraid of you. You could have killed me several times, but it seems like you're just trying to scare me.”

Fed up, your stalker removed his mask and your eyes widened when Sukuna shot dangers at you.

“You fucking whore, what do I have to do to get revenge on you?” He leaned down and grabbed your throat, squeezing it hard. You struggled against him, but in vain. His red eyes were furious, full of lust and madness. The eyes you loved the most.

“So you were the one doing all this? You're trying to get revenge for the years in prison?” You managed to utter in a frail voice with a weak smile. “Why can't you just kill me?”

“You know exactly why I can't kill you,” he snarled. “You're…”

He closed his lips, looking away, his face hard. He released your throat, and you coughed, hand on your chest.

“Rape me.”

His whole body tensed, but he remained silent.

“Kuna, rape me. Show me how much you hate me.”

“As if I'll give you the thing you want most,” he huffed.

“You don't want to see me cry and beg you to stop?”

He looked around to make sure no one was around to overhear their morally black conversation. His eyes fell on you, dark and burning.

“Take off your top.”

You grinned, and he wanted to hit you to make you stop smiling like that. But you knew he was never going to actually hurt you. His hatred came from a place of hurt, not malice. You had both hurt each other a lot and now had a messy relationship because of it. A mixture of hatred and love that few could understand.

Your top met your skirt in the grass, and he caught sight of you wearing only a thong. He missed your wide hips, which he could cling to when he thrust into you, and the pudginess of your belly that made you authentically you.

“You gained weight since the last time I saw you.”

“Is that supposed to hurt me? I don't care if you don't like my body.”

“Never said it wasn't a good thing and that I didn't like it.” He smirked. “Now, open your thighs.”

You spread your legs as he wanted, wincing as you felt the twigs dig into your flesh. Sukuna positioned himself between your thighs and rubbed the barrel of his gun against your clothed pussy, running along the clothed slit. Your thighs clenched around his hand, a heat crackling in the pit of your lower abdomen, the danger heightening the thrill of the situation. He slapped your leg and you flinched.

“I said open these fucking thighs.”

“Sorry.”

“Ah.” His smirk widened into a full sly grin. “Are you already in sub mode? Did you miss it?”

Before you could reply, he yanked away and ripped your thong and threw it somewhere in the forest where he didn't care. You made a sound of protest, but it was quickly replaced by pants as he stroked your slick folds with his weapon. It was so wrong and unhinged, but you were hooked. You rocked your hips against the revolver to push it deeper inside you.

“Needy slut,” he muttered. He leaned down, spread your lips with his fingers, and spat on your tight heat. He lifted his head, your gaze locked as he thrust his gun into you. A blazing red in his eyes, his stare electrified you. An 'o' formed on your mouth as you felt the metal sink into you, your walls clenching painfully around it.

“Kuna, you're such a bastard. You didn't prepare me beforehand.”

“You love me that way, am I right?”

You let out a chuckle, but your chest tightened. If only you didn't have this mutual hatred, this resentment, you'd be a happy couple. He'd encourage you in your career as a fashion designer, tell you to not care what your mother says, tell you that you're the best in his eyes, like he always did when you were teenagers. You'd be there for him every time he saw his mother, rub his back when the sight of her made him vomit, and not judge him for the way his brain worked, knowing that it all stemmed from trauma.

“You really ruined everything, ‘kuna,” you said, hurt in your voice.

“I don't deny that I did things wrong, but you didn't need to send me five years to hell.”

“What was I supposed to do? You—Oh my god!”

With his free hand, he stroked your throbbing bud, his index and middle fingers tracing circles around your clit. His other hand continued to move back and forth, plunging the gun in and out of you. Lewd, wet noises came from the union of your weapon and you. He angled his hand perfectly to hit that spongey spot inside you, making you writhe and moan.

“You're still the same unhinged bitch.”

“Speak of me with respect because we're the same.”

His eyes almost softened, almost. He quickened the pace of his gun-thrusts, his gaze narrowing on the way you were milking the weapon, a white ring around the rear sight. He stopped touching your clit to press a hand on your lower pudgy belly.

“Pochari,” he whispered, pressing harder to increase the sensations of his gun inside you.

That was the nickname he always called you when you were little. You always fought with him, thinking it was an insult, but over the years you'd learned it was a cute Japanese word for "chubby." Heat rushed to your cheeks at the sound of him calling you that, your chest fluttering.

“Don't call me that.”

“Why not?”

“You're the one who wants revenge and I'm the victim, there's nothing more between us than that.”

“Are you sure about that?”

He pulled out his gun—you protested, wanting your orgasm—slicked with your arousal, and brought it to your mouth. Your tongue swirled around the weapon, your cheeks burning. After that, he set it down in the grass and pulled down his pants and boxers just enough to be comfortable enough to fuck you. Your mouth watered at his pierced girth, thick and big, just like you remembered.

“Can I?” You held out a hand.

“Fuck off. You're my victim today.”

He pushed your hand away and wrapped your thick thighs around his waist, letting out a sigh at the sweet sensation of being surrounded by your plushness.

“Say red if you want to stop,” he murmured before sliding his dick between your folds, plunging between your velvet walls. He cursed under his breath at the familiar feeling of your warmth around him.

“Since when are you so considerate?” you teased him, placing your hands on his abdomen.

“Don't play with me, I've always fucked you with a safe word.”

His gaze lingered on how his girth disappeared inside you, gaining inches every time his hips moved forward a little more. He lifted his head and noticed your wince. He shot you a sly smile.

“What? Can't handle that dick?”

“Shut up. You gave me a safe word, but you're not doing anything special.”

“I'm not even deep inside, woman.”

You mock-punched against his muscular belly. “Don't call me that.”

“What do you want me to call you then?” His hips moved backward in an obscene wet sound before slamming against you. Hands gripping your sides, he was really getting into it, pistoning up into you. “Tell me, baby. What do you want me to call you? Sweetheart? My love? Do you want me to play the perfect boyfriend after you sent me to hell?”

“I was angry, I didn't want you to suffer so much, I—”

The sharp slap he gave you made your head spin, your cheek burning.

“You think I'm dumb, right? That you snitched on the police without meaning to hurt me?” He grabbed your throat again, his large tattooed hand wrapping around it. His aggressive and hard thrusts continued to abuse your cunt, making your walls spasm. “I see right through you, you traitorous fucking bitch.”

He squeezed your throat so hard that you rolled your eyes in pleasure, the sensations raised to the maximum.

“Keep fucking me like you hate me, please,” you manage to say, your voice trembling, panting softly as his dick plowed into you.

Sukuna's glare made you pulsate around him, turned on by how he was mad at you.

“You shouldn’t like this, woman.”

“I love how you fuck me, ‘kuna. You’ve always been the best at this nasty shit.”

A low chuckle escaped his mouth.

“Literally begging for my dick, aren’t you ashamed at all?”

“Nah, you won't tell anyone, it'll stay between us, right, 'kuna? You've always been the best at keeping secrets.” You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and pressed him against you, forgetting that you were in a forest and you were going to have the marks of the twigs on your back.

Sweaty chest squashed your own, he fucked to oblivion as he rutted into you, cock buried deep in your cunt, your pussy swallowing him and glinding up and down with each of his strokes. His piercing nudged your cervix every time he bottomed out, making you squirm and whimper.

Your pussy clutched onto his cock, and every time he brushed against your G-spot, you gripped his hips, telling him to go harder, as if you were never satisfied with his pace. He laughed at that, a brief moment of affection before he released your throat to take his gun.

“You're not scared enough f'me.”

He pushed the barrel of his weapon into your mouth as surprise flashed across your face. The metal tasted like you. Once deep in your mouth, he placed his index finger on the trigger, making you shudder with fear.

“What if I shoot?”

Tears welled up in your eyes.

“Awww,” he cooed, “don't be so upset, baby. Isn't that what you want? To get killed by a big, muscular, tattooed man who hates your gut?”

The wet squelching sounds of your pussy coating his dick could be heard as he rocked his hips into you—with force, with aggression, with greed. He craved, needed to see your lips parted, your eyes watering as you nails digged into his back. He coveted your distress. Choking sounds came from your mouth as he pushed his revolver as far back as possible.

Ironic or not, it was how you came. Almost humiliated, your cheek burning from the slap, and strangulation marks around your neck, your body was riddled with spasms of pleasure, like an overwhelming wave that took hold of you and left you quivering.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his handsome twisted into a frown, as your pussy pulsated around him. Your walls fluttered around him, and he slid in and out of you again, his violent thrusting stopping brutally as he emptied himself inside of you.

He pulled out of you and lowered his head just to see his cum coming from your twitching hole. With a smirk, he got dressed and stood up. Without a glance at you, he grabbed his gun and was about to leave before you grabbed his wrist.

“I'm not a cumdupster. We do whatever you want as long as there's aftercare afterward.”

Sukuna looked up in exasperation but leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. The action made butterflies swell in your stomach, and you smiled at him like an idiot—the smile a woman in love would give her husband.

“Don't look at me like that, I'm still an asshole, I hate you and—”

“Aftercare isn't just a kiss, 'kuna. You could carry me, my legs hurt.”

“And why would I do that?”

“You ripped my panties.”

“It bothered me to fuck you.”

“It was a Savage x Fenty, it's expensive, you dummy.”

“You're probably richer than me.” Sukuna waited until you were getting dressed before wrapping his arms around you to carry you bridal-style. You played with his wavy pink locks, a deep smile on your face.

“Are we back together?”

He paused and glanced at you with his eyebrows knitted.

“Are you serious right now?”

“Why not? If you're still mad at me, come release your hatred in my bed.”

His lips curved into a devious smile as he walked through the forest to find the path where your brother and the cameramen were.

“Oh, now you plan to make me come to your bed when I have too much hatred inside me?”

“Why not?” You yawned, hand on your mouth.

“I'm getting married.”

Your whole body froze, his words creating a heaviness in your chest. Yorozu, of course. You'd forgotten about her, too happy to have "found" your boyfriend again.

“You don't love her, you love me." You frowned.

“Even if you're right, I'm under a contract.”

“Why, 'kuna? You do whatever you want, you don't respect any rules, so why would you respect a contract that separates us?”

“You should have asked your father-in-law to stop preventing me from entering Formula 1; I would never have accepted the contract otherwise.”

You fell silent, unable to find anything to contradict him. Their love story was forbidden, doomed from the start. Sukuna's family would never accept a Gojo in their home, and Satoru's family would never accept a Ryomen. And now, Yorozu entered the equation. Thinking about all this was making your brain foggy so you rested your head on his chest, letting him carry you, wondering how much longer you had with him before he went back to his life with Yorozu.

────────

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

The weeks passed, punctuated by Sukuna's races and the nights he came to your hotel room to slut you out. There was nothing morally okay about your relationship: Sukuna was in a relationship and getting married, and you were his rival's sister.

Yet, it was impossible for the two of you not to touch and be intimate with each other. Grabbing your ass when you were alone, cuddling after sex when you were exhausted, a kiss on the forehead after a particularly violent intercourse... He even came to spend time with you when you were getting ready for the afterparties after the races, watching you do your baby hair, define your coils, and put on a short dress that revealed your voluptuous curves.

Sukuna loved you. He really did. In his own way, in a twisted way, with a little hatred, a little resentment. His love for you was like a rose, beautiful, blooming, but dangerous because of its thorns. Every time he saw you, he thought back to his misery in prison, to all those nights he fell asleep with a knot in his stomach, the fear that his roommate would try to rape him in his sleep because he was younger than him.

In a way, he had become a 'real man'—from a patriarchal point of view—thanks to you. Prison taught him how to defend himself no matter the size and age of his opponent, to trust no one, to be cold and impassive, and to observe people carefully, because you never know what's going on inside people's heads.

An uncontainable wrath was born within him after his release from prison—an anger directed at you. That's why he started underground fighting. Now, it's something that allows him to release the pressure of his job; it's part of him. He always wore a balaclava to avoid recognition, and was known worldwide for his tattoos, his muscles, and the fact that he never lost his fights.

As he pounded into you, one hand on the bedframe and the other around your neck, with your legs on his shoulders, he panted as if he were in the middle of a fight with an opponent. And it was real, because you were a formidable opponent—the guardian of his heart.

Arms wrapped around his shoulders, you whimpered at every drag of his dick, the pace so brutal that the bed slammed against the wall with a deafening thud. His thick veins pulsed against your walls, the squelch of pussy filled the room, and your tits bounced with each of his hungry thrusts.

Sukuna was traumatized by incest, he was unable to have sex while being submissive, it reminded him too much of how helpless he was in the face of his mother's sexual abuse. You were a perfect match, you, the woman who needed to let go by being submissive, and him, the man who needed to regain control over his body by being dominant.

“You're really the best 'kuna, I love you so much,” you moaned, hugging him tightly.

His eyes lit up with amusement.

“The fuck you're talking about? I'm fucking you like you mean nothing to me.”

One thing Sukuna noticed about you was that you had trouble moving on from people you loved deeply. You were unable to cut ties with your toxic mother, and you were unable to completely hate Sukuna for breaking your heart. It wasn't naiveté, but more love. When you loved someone, it was so intense that it was impossible for you to let that love evaporate. You treasured your loved ones in your heart, and when they did something bad, you always kept a door open for them.

In contrary, it was already almost impossible to be close to you. You were a confident woman, a little arrogant and passionate. You had grown up wealthy, so you had very specific requirements for your boyfriends. You slept with Nanami because he was rich and successful, but he didn't meet all the criteria you wanted.

The only man who met them all was Sukuna. That's why you couldn't move on. This man was your perfect match, your safe place since childhood.

“I don't care how you fuck me, I know you love me. Besides, everyone adores me.” You gave him an arrogant smile.

You looked pretty like this, he thought. He leaned over to kiss you and traced your lower lip with the edge of your tongue to coax you to open your mouth. Your lips parted and your tongues tangled together. He continued to roll his hips at a beastly pace, your thighs clenching around his head, and heat pooling low in your stomach.

The scene was domestic, intimate. You still had your satin bonnet on your head, your nightie still pulled up to your waist, and his silver chain tapped against your forehead every time his hips snapped forward. With an affectionate gesture, Sukuna pushed a curl back into your satin bonnet.

After you were done making love, you snuggled up to Sukuna.

“Do you still hate me?” you asked.

“Let's say I tolerate you. And you?”

“I tolerate you too.” You grinned. “You're still a selfish asshole, but I've grown to like you that way.”

A lazy smile on his face, he rubbed soothing circles over your back. He rested his chin on the top of your head and let out a soft sigh.

Sukuna couldn't have sex with other women who weren't you; you were the only one he felt safe with. He wouldn't be able to hug Yorozu like he does with you now. He saw women as manipulative, abusive, and rapists.

Secretly, he was jealous of all the boyfriends you'd had since him, even though his heart had never forgotten you.

He lowered his head, taking in the sight of you dozing off, and he told himself that you were meant to be together.

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˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟐𝟏 - 𝐬𝐚õ 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐨, 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐢𝐥 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Wrapped in your blanket, crouched in your bed in your hotel room, you sobbed. The rain outside tapped against the windows; the sound was comforting but couldn't soothe your inner turmoil.

Sukuna entered your room without knocking as usual, hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, before tilting his head when he saw you crying.

“Who stole your smile so I could break their jaw?”

Sukuna didn't like it when other people made you cry. You were his victim, his prey, his to break.

He arrived at your bed and leaned down to dry the tears that rolled down your cheeks with his fingers.

“My mother,” you mumbled. “I showed her the clothing collections I wanted to do for my fashion brand, and she criticized everything as usual.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why do you persist in having a relationship with your mother when she hates you?”

“I don't know. You hate your mother too, yet you're still in a relationship with her.”

His face hardened. “Our situations have nothing to do with each other. I can't tell my father what my mother did to me, because… Fuck, baby. You know exactly why I can't tell anyone.”

A gentle look passed across your face. “I know, 'kuna. It's hard as a man to admit that you were sexually abused by a woman. But you shouldn't feel like this; you were a child. You can't defend yourself in front of an adult when you're under 13.”

“Let's focus on you and your mother and not on the bitch who acts as my mother,” Sukuna cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “Show me your collections.”

You grabbed your laptop from your bedside table and opened the canvas pages where all your clothing designs were stored.

“The inspiration is Afrofuturism. It's the idea of ​​imagining Africa without colonization, but among Black Americans it became very popular in the 2000s with R&B,” you explained, your voice serious. “Music videos with black girls in futuristic outfits, platform boots, and lots of silver in their clothes, that's Afrofuturism.”

Sukuna's lips quirked up, amused by your nerdy expression and how passionate you were about your subject. But he never mocked you; he was as interested as you were; everything about you interested him.

“So I analyzed the work of an african designer Chris Seydoux, who brought mudcloth, an african fabric, to international fame. I took inspiration from Senegalese and Cameroonian fashion and researched different traditional fabrics.”

You showed your dresses, skirts, and tops, all with different patterns, inspired by different african fabrics, but with your own personal touch, so there were stars everywhere and silver.

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚, it's amazing.”

Flustered, you lowered your head.

“I want my models to be exclusively black and plus-sized women. I don't really care if my brand doesn't appeal to everyone; my focus is black women.”

“Why is your stupid mother criticizing such a good idea? I don't understand why she wants to crush all your dreams like that when you're talented.”

You shrugged. “I feel like all the fame she had in the '90s made her afraid of getting old and no longer being famous. So me, her daughter, a girl in her twenties, makes her competitive.”

“That's bullshit. Her famous time is over, it's your turn now.” He wrapped his muscular, tattooed arms around you, and you found comfort in them. “Don't listen to what she tells you, you're talented. You've been doing this since you were little. That's how I met you, remember? You were drawing in Merklay Park, and I was fighting with some innocent guy who didn't ask for anything.”

You chuckled and nuzzled his chest. “Yeah, I remember. I thought you were super fashionable while you were fighting.”

“There's something wrong with your head, baby.”

“You like me that way.”

He held you tighter. “Don't listen to that bitch. You'll be one of the best fashion designers of our generation, I'm sure of it.”

“You're so cute when you're like that, kuna.”

“Do you want me to stay in my 'my girl is the most talented artist ever' mode?”

“I'm your girl?” You raised your heads to look at him, and your gazes locked.

“No, but I wish you were,” he whispered, his voice intimate.

“You know the SpongeBob meme with the huge handcuffs with lots of space, so he wasn't really restricted? That's how I see you.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes. “You don't understand. You're not even supposed to know that my relationship with her is fake, I'm already breaking the rules.”

“No sex tonight, you put me in a bad mood with your bullshit.” You pushed him away to sit up in bed away from him, and he sighed.

“˚ʚ♡ɞ˚.”

You ignored him and slipped your headphones into your ear to work on your fashion designs. Sukuna stared at you silently before leaving your room with a frown.

────────

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝟐𝟐 - 𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐬 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You hadn't spoken to him all week, not even to congratulate him when he won the twenty-first race. Sukuna was in a sour mood. He had found the girl he loved again, but his past choices had to ruin everything. He didn't care about Yorozu; all he cared about was getting a spot in Formula 1.

Hands in his pockets, he moved through the crowd of people at the party, grunting every time a woman brushed against him, trying not to strangle them. His eyes searched for you, and when they found you sitting on the lap of Suguru, a McLaren driver, his stomach dropped.

From where he was, he saw your tongue curling around his, your smile against his, and Suguru's hands on your ass. He hurried to find the nearest restroom and threw up his dinner. There were two things that made him vomit: seeing his mother, and seeing you with someone else.

Was this the future that awaited him? Marrying Yorozu, having children with her while his heart longed for you? Seeing you go from boyfriend to boyfriend because no one satisfied you better than him, seeing you kiss and fuck other men while your perfect match was waiting for you in New York, stuck with a woman he didn't love as much as he did for you?

He sat on the bathroom floor, running his hands over his face, his body trembling.

Nothing had gone as planned these past few months. He had to get revenge on you, destroy you, break you. But all he did was fall even deeper into the abyss of love. Now, going back to Yorozu felt like sin. The mere thought of having to undress in front of a woman other than you gripped his heart with dread.

Just then, as if fate were mocking him, Yorozu called. He stared at his phone with a grim expression, but took the call.

“What do you want?”

“I sent the wedding invitations to everyone, and everyone will be there. Your mother wants to make the cake, does that bother you?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and took deep breaths. It was Formula 1 or you. And the more time passed, the more he regretted choosing Formula 1.

────────

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐚 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝟏 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 - 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐲 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Yorozu's wedding took place in the park where you and Sukuna had met, ironic as the situation was. Dressed in a black suit, Sukuna kept his lips tightly closed throughout the ceremony. He didn't laugh at Yorozu's family's jokes, didn't acknowledge the compliments he received for having finished first at the end of the Formula 1 season and Satoru only second, and didn't play with the children who tugged at his pants to play with dolls in the grass.

No, Sukuna, he was contemplating the disaster of his life.

Spending those few months with you had reminded him why he loved you. It was the little things like your focused expression while working on your laptop, how you constantly held your chin high as if you felt superior to others—you really felt that—, how you curled your toes every time orgasm threatened to overwhelm you, how you smirked every time you found something funny to say against his mean remarks, how you never let yourself be pushed around by others but remained vulnerable in front of people like your mother and him.

Yorozu wasn't even half of you. She didn't have your passion, your intelligence, your beauty. When Sukuna painted pictures of the woman of his dreams, it was a black woman with short curly hair, who always spent hours doing dramatic baby-hair styles, who wore a proud smile no matter what, who had the most empathetic heart and had curves that made any man drool, not Yorozu. It was even an insult to compare you to her.

Yorozu's wedding dress was a sequined white, with a low back. Sukuna held back his cussing, thinking you would have killed it in that outfit with your wide hips. His face was cold and distant, and he let himself be led around by his fiancée, who held his elbow. He was even depressed, realizing how miserable it was going to be. Just thinking about his honeymoon made his hairs stand on in disgust.

Yorozu was saying his wedding vows, talking about eternal love, shit that Sukuna couldn't care less about. He looked away, toward the west, where your mansion was. You still lived with your mother. Sukuna didn't know why you were such a masochist, but he didn't judge you. He, too, had affection for a mother who didn't love him.

“Mr. Ryomen?”

The priest addressed him urgently, as everyone was staring at them, waiting for the pink-haired man's wedding vows.

“I have nothing to say, continue the ceremony,” he muttered.

The priest scowled but couldn't say anything more, as the ceremony had to continue anyway.

“I pronounce you husband and wife,” he stated, raising his arms as all the guests began to applaud. Yorozu leaned forward to press a kiss to Sukuna's mouth, but he pushed her away. The applause stopped, an uncomfortable silence in the park.

“‘Kuna?” Yorozu frowned.

“Don’t call me that.” His heart squeezed painfully. Only you could call him that.

Yorozu’s eyes darkened, and she grabbed his arm with a tight grip to forcefully kiss him. Sukuna froze, shocked.

This was what was waiting for him. This was how women operated. They took what they wanted by force, making abusive contracts, without asking your opinion, like when his mother raped him. Shock slowly gave way to fury when he pushed her away so roughly that she fell backward. Screams rose in the park, people rushed to help Yorozu up, but Sukuna was already far away, hurrying to find his driver who was napping, waiting to be called for the honeymoon.

“Take me to ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚’s house,” Sukuna ordered, sitting down in the tinted-window car. His whole body was shaking with rage, anger, and helplessness. How could he have chosen Yorozu for almost ten years when the woman of his life was right under his nose?

The driver, who had known Sukuna since he was little, wrinkled his forehead in confusion. He knew your address very well, because for years, it had been a secret between him and Sukuna to take him to your house when your parents were away.

He did exactly as Sukuna asked, parking in front of your mansion. Sukuna took off his seatbelt and turned off his phone so he wouldn't receive incessant calls from his mother or his fiancé. He knocked on your door, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Mhm, yeah?” A sleepy voice answered, you opened the door in your nightie, still wearing your satin bonnet. "Who—Sukuna?"

Surprise flashed across your face, and Sukuna's lips crashed against yours. He cupped your face, stepped back into your mansion, and slammed the door with his foot. Craving, want, need—everything he felt was reflected in his kiss as you parted your lips, shocked by his brutal display of affection. The soft presses of his lips against yours transformed into devastation as his mouth molded against yours, and his tongue slid over yours.

“Sukuna, the wedding—”

“I don’t give a damn about that thing right now.”

He put his arms under your ass to lift you up and carry you to your room.

“Sukuna, my parents will be here any moment…”

“It’s a bit like when I used to sneak in to see you, right?”

You chuckled against his lips and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Yeah, it’s like that. Except back then, you were mine.”

“The thing is that I’m yours, baby. Painfully, absolutely, forever yours.”

“And the Formula 1?”

“I don’t care!” he sneered. “I don’t give a damn about anything, I just want you, damnit.”

He laid you down on the bed and took off your clothes, his own joining the floor. He gave you a little foreplay, but he was too eager to feel himself inside you to really get into it. When his dick sank into you, he sighed with relief, his eyes watering.

“‘Kuna… My pussy is so good you got emotional?” You smiled sweetly at him, raking a hand through his thick, unruly pink strands.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. “I loathed you for so long, I planned my revenge for 5 years, I had lots of ideas, what I did to you wasn’t even 10% of what I intended to do, but the second I was with you, I… Fuck, I’m so sappy right now, it’s so embarrassing.”

His hips rose just enough to drag his dick against your walls, then sank back down with a slick, obscene sound. Your breathing quickened, and you clenched your thighs around his waist. He peppered your face with kisses to relax you because of the sudden stretch.

“I don’t even know what to do, my mother will be so mad, Yorozu will break my contracts with the FIA, but… I don’t know, I don’t give a fuck. I just want…” He kissed you. “To be with you.”

Your hands clapped in his back, his pelvis pressed against your clit, rubbing at each of his slow thrusts.

“Does this mean you’re mine now?”

Sukuna nodded, his gaze locked with yours. He intertwined his fingers with yours.

“Painfully—thrust—absolutely—thrust—forever—thrust—yours,” he repeated, each roll of his hips sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

In the privacy of your bedroom, a place he had long missed, you reconnected with the only man you had ever truly loved.

────────

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

𝟓 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫

The São Paulo sun caressed the skin of Sukuna, you, and your 3-year-old daughter, Naya. Being autistic, Naya hated the feeling of sand on her body; she sat comfortably on her father's lap. He stroked her back, looking at her with affectionate eyes.

After the disaster at Yororzu's wedding, she complained to her father about ruining Sukuna's career. It worked because they replaced him with a talented rookie, who went on to win the next few races. But Sukuna was sure of his choice. He had decided to enter the world of professional boxing and was a famous MMA athlete. His years of underground fighting had taught him everything he needed; he just needed to learn the rules so as not to actually hurt his opponents.

A lot had changed in your life since you married Sukuna. Encouraged by him, you finally created your own clothing brand, and it was a success. Satoru's family didn't want to have any contact with you anymore, finding your choice unforgivable, but your brother still checked in from time to time. As long as you had him, everything was okay. You were now living in Brazil with your little family.

"Are you sure you don't want to go swimming, sweetheart?" you asked your daughter, and she looked at you with terror in her eyes.

A quiet laugh rumbled in Sukuna's chest.

“Don't torture our daughter, woman.”

“Okay, okay,” you chuckled, and leaned over to kiss her forehead.

This was the life Sukuna wanted. He wanted to protect his daughter as much as possible so she wouldn't have to go through what he had gone through when he was little with his mother. He trusted you, and that was the most important thing in your relationship. He had taught his daughter to always refuse to be touched if she didn't want to be, always asked her permission when he had to shower her, and was careful never to force her into something she didn't want. Consent was learned very early, and it was the focus of his education.

After your swim at the beach, it was late at night. You tucked your daughter into bed and started your favorite game. Sukuna, wearing only his sweatpants, hanging low and revealing his hip tattoos and sculpted abs, and his ghost face mask, with his gun in his hand, walked into your house. Hiding under your bed, you placed your hand over your mouth so he wouldn't hear your breathing, your heart pounding at each of his steps next to you.

Except he always found you. He grabbed your foot, trying to drag you out of bed, and you let out a small scream. You pretended to want to escape—you wanted him to slut you out like never before, but he knew that.

“Strip,” he threatened, his gun aimed at your head.

With a pout, you took off your clothes and knelt in front of him. Sukuna lowered his sweatpants and boxers, and gestured for you to come closer to take his erection in your mouth. You licked your lips, eager to please your husband. You took his hard length in your hand, looking up at him with soft doe eyes, making his dick twitch. When your lips wrapped around his cockhead, Sukuna closed his eyes in pure bliss.

It took a while, but you were finally together, the wedding ring around his finger glinting in the artificial light, a testament to his loyalty to you. And now you had all of eternity to have fun, do the most unhinged things, and heal from your traumas in a morally black way, but without judgment because you loved each other. You were bound. Bound by darkness.