sukunasfangurl

the weight of him on top of you is the same. as is the snapping thrusts of his hips into yours and the gentle circles he traces over your clit and the way he moans your name once he’s sheathed fully inside of you. it’s the same.

but it’s not the same as taking him raw. it’s not the bulge of his veins against your velvet walls. nor is it the beading precum at his tip dripping inside of you, or the filthy fucking drawling moans he lets out when he fills you to the brim.

“you’re so beautiful,” he's moaning like he's in heat. completely enthralled with every aspect of your being, satoru groans and moans and snaps forward into you like he's trying to breed you regardless.

and you're so full, stretched to your limits with his cock pulsing inside of you, but you don't feel satiated like you could. you've tasted it once, the feel of his cum spilling into you, the knowledge of what it could do to you. to him. he would look good as a dad. god, him holding a baby in his arms...

"pull out."

gojo stops immediately at your words, blinking the lust from his eyes in an immediate shock change of expression. he's looking you over, making sure you're not in any pain, before pulling out of you completely with no questions asked. he's always been good like that—sure, he'll whine about wearing latex but he'd never push you past your spoken limits.

"you wanna stop?" he asks gently, already reaching for a washcloth to wipe you down with. his eyes watch you carefully, obsessed with your interest and comfort: you have to stop yourself from laughing at his panic. "we can watch some TV or go to bed or i could make you—"

his words die in his mouth when you reach down to his still-hard cock and slowly pull the condom that covers it from the top. it slides from his length with a little resistance before finally pulling over the head and snapping back at your hand with a subtle sting.

"fuck me," you meet his eyes.

"what? you said—"

"satoru. fuck me. breed me, even. how many other ways do i have to put it? i want you to fuck a baby into me."

he blinks again. no witty comment, no awful smirk or joke about being a dilf. you've gone and rendered satoru speechless. when he does finally move his lips, it's not to dirty talk you like expected.

"we aren't married."

you can't help but laugh. "what?"

"i'm going to marry you first, and then you are going to make me a dad. i have it all planned out, babe, we can't have drunk honeymoon sex if you're pregnant. though you would look fucking beautiful on a beach somewhere with a baby bump. god now i'm conflicted."

"you have it planned?"

the thought of satoru planning this out hits you, him thinking about a future with you, a ring on your finger, embracing the stress of parenthood together so well that when the kids move out and you're old and grey, you abhor having a silent home.

"so are you going to propose or not?" you look at him.

again, he blinks. "right now?"

"why not? do you have a ring?"

satoru looks at you, smiles, and slips off the bed—still naked—to reach into the bedside drawer. a small black box sits in his top drawer, ironically under a pile of condoms. he holds it in his hand and returns to you with a kiss to your knee, and then one to your inner thigh, and another just above your clit. he works his way up your stomach, of course stopping to bite at your nipples when he reaches your chest, and then presses himself fully against you once his lips find yours.

when he pulls away, you're met with the sight of a ring you had pointed out to him months ago. had he really been planning this long? "i knew i was going to marry you on our first date," he says, but then counters, "actually, that's a lie. it was when i tasted that sweet pussy of yours for the first time, but that's not as romantic."

you smile, bracing yourself for a long-winded speech when satoru suddenly pushes the tip of his now-uncovered cock inside of you. you gasp, and he swallows it with a kiss before taking your hand in his and slipping the ring down your finger with a breathy; "will you marry me?"

"yes," of course, is your answer. which warrants a sudden deep thrust from your now-fiancé as he bottoms out inside of you.

"yeah?" he nips at your neck. "you'll marry me? gonna make me a dad too, huh? gonna fill you up, baby, gonna breed you out and—"

"i thought you said—"

"changed my mind. now, lift your legs up: you're not leaving this bed until i've knocked you up, pretty."

You take his thumb in between your lips for a moment to suck, your hips unconsciously rocking forward to feel more of him—more of his thickening cock that's busy jumping up against the fabric between you both. You longed to feel him fuck you full again and kiss that spongey spot inside you that always makes you sob out his name.

Batting your lashes pliantly, your lips wetly pop off of him as you pout, "Please, Hiro?"

Higuruma shakes his head almost disappointedly, "Please what, sweetheart? If you can beg, you can beg properly. Tell me exactly what it is you want from me, yeah?"

"I told you already," Your pout deepens and he fights the urge to mock you. "I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me."

"Atta' girl, that's all I wanted to hear." He rolls his hips up slowly to grind up against your slobbering cunt, swallowing down a groan at how soft you feel even with all the water between your bodies. "Go on then, take it. You know it's all yours."

You don't waste a single second upon hearing that. Your hands fly down to tug at his belt, letting it fling out of the tub and land somewhere on the bathroom floor with a rough clatter—shuffling beneath the bath water to unzip him, and then reaching a hand into his boxers to finally pull his cock free.

The plump head flops out first, landing up against his clothed abdomen with that sinful left curve. The sight alone has you letting out an embarrassingly desperate moan before you lift yourself and let his hands guide you by your waist until you're hovering over him.

Then, you hesitate for a second and he lifts a dark brow.

"Don't get shy on me now," Higuruma warns, tipping his head to the side and letting his grip travel down to your hips to ease your body where he needs it, "You said you wanted to ride me so, ride me. Show me how pretty you look taking my cock, c'mon."

Feeling a bit more encouraged, you finally let your hand wrap around his wiiide base and hold him in place as you sink down on him. His mushroomy tip smears your pussylips apart and chokes a moan out of both of your throats. Your lashes flutter as you continue to travel down—inch by sprawling inch—and his eyes never leave your body.

"So gorgeous," Higuruma whispers softly before using one hand to push you further down and the other to come up 'n squeeze your tits.

It's not long before both of you are getting into the rhythm of things. By the time your cunt swallows up every inch of him, left to clench and throb around his bulging base, Higuruma's got his lips latched to your perky nipples, sucking it into his mouth and letting his tongue waft around carefree.

The feel of his sloppy mouth is only lost when you get more desperate, your hips now rocking up 'n down his cock as he thwacks! against that gummy spot inside you over and over and over again.

Then his hips are bucking up into yours and the bath water is just splashing and splashing, a pool left on the outskirts of the tub—surely to be a hazard for the two of you later. His hands are at the purchase of your hips again, aiding you in your bouncing while he peers up at you with pretty glossed-over eyes.

Higuruma's a mess of pants and soft praises, words rolling off of his tongue, "Look s'beautiful fucking yourself on my cock like that. Bet it feels s'good, huh?" He teases, earning a cockdrunk nod of your head and then cracking a dazed smile at you, "Yeahh? You like fucking yourself on me like this?"

Your response is mumbled out to him but he gets the idea with how frantic your movements become.

Only a few more minutes of that pass before he's pinning you in place above him and scrunching his brows, staring dead up into your eyes before bucking his hips up with fervor.

Whatever moan was on its way out your throat trips against your vocal cords as air is politely stripped from your lungs.

Then his breath grows ragged and all thoughts between you are lost before something soooobs out his cockhead in gooey gushes, his cum flooding your walls and feeling all the more goopy inside you with the addition of the bathwater.

perm everything tags:

@navyllll @2kool4skoolll @daxphoriax @gorouenjoyer @blubearxy @wonderfullymickey @iaintblockinnobody @kitassecretgf @nanamitiddiechomper @ohreallyfriend 

@withersworld @suguphile @megottheswaskikacooooke @kvsqkiii @yourlocalcatscammer @lucy-lulu @sukubusss @sweetieelilii @lisabelhyhn @serenadesvt 

@riameriash @arminseas2 @palanggaaa @makingtimemine @theodoresvalentine @blcknebula @remscreams @jaibunni @blkkizzat @a-jazzy-bee @sktvienna 

@chloeee20 @naoybby @lanamyersismywife @strwbrrymoonwrites @andhereweareallalone @sindulgent666 @bypanana

He’s been functioning on autopilot ever since you laid the divorce papers on his table on a random Tuesday morning. It got worse when the divorce was finalized not even a month ago. No appeals, no extensions. Just a clean, almost amicable severance.

A colleague once told him: “It’s a simple case of trial and error, Higuruma. All marriages are like that.”

Hiromi’s forehead creases whenever he remembers it. To him, it was never supposed to be trial and error, especially not with you.

Against his better judgment, Yaga somehow convinces him to agree to a blind date. Says it helped him cope with his own divorce. Hiromi knows better. The man simply doesn’t accept no without exhausting every argument first.

Now, he is seated at a small round table with an unreadable expression and with nothing but Yaga’s voice replaying in his head: 'Doesn’t hurt to try.'

But the universe has a twisted sense of humor.

Because seated across the table is you, staring back at him with the same frozen disbelief written across your face.

Both of you look away almost immediately. Hiromi adjusts his collar. You, on the other hand, casually lift your champagne flute and take a slow sip to steady your nerves.

For a fleeting moment, you consider excusing yourself to the bathroom and never coming back. But after the agonizing length of the divorce, the paperwork, the signatures, and the finality, you decide against running and just give him some grace.

Hiromi clears his throat and reaches for a single red card from the deck sitting in the middle of the table. His eyes skim the question before he exhales quietly.

“Care to tell me something about yourself?” His voice cuts through your thoughts. “Any hobbies? Interests?”

“As if you don’t already know,” you reply flatly while idly sliding a finger along the rim of your glass.

He exhales through his nostrils. He tells himself to be controlled and measured. “Just answer the question.”

You tap your fingers against the table with gaze wandering around the room. “I used to be a pianist before I became a wife.”

“You have a grand piano that only ever collected dust,” he says with something tight flickering behind his eyes. “It was your choice to quit playing.”

“After you said I didn’t have to play a million shows back to back,” you shoot back. You lean forward, elbows on the table. “How about you? Anything new you’re up to?”

“Not much has changed in my routine,” he answers plainly.

You let out a bitter chuckle. “Must be nice. At least your focus is solely on work now.”

Hiromi presses his lips together. After a beat, he draws another card from the deck. The moment he reads it, he stops himself from rolling his eyes.

“What are your deal breakers when dating?”

You sarcastically laugh at his question. “Are you kidding me?”

He looks at you blankly. “Well? The question isn’t answering itself.”

“I don’t like men who treat every disagreement like legal case." You deadpan at him. “I hate men who catalogue every mistake, see my emotions as something to cross examine, and– get this– refuse to admit their fault.”

Hiromi smirks. “I thought you liked highly opinionated men. What changed?”

You inhale sharply. “I don’t like it when they get unreasonable.”

His brow lifts with amusement. “Unreasonable in what sense?”

“In the sense that they don’t back down during small arguments,” you snap, “like we’re fighting in court instead of having a conversation.”

Hiromi leans back, arms crossing, smirk deepening. “Isn’t that how communication works?”

Heat creeps up your cheeks that you glance away. “Yeah, but—”

“But what?” he cuts, and his posture straightens instinctively. “You want compromise without concession. That’s not how problems are resolved.”

“Oh my god,” you scoff. “Listen to yourself. We’re on a blind date, not in a court room! Hold a fucking conversation, will you?”

“A conversation requires structure,” he counters. “You can’t keep spitting out bullshit and expect me not to question them.”

“And that’s exactly the problem!” Your voice rises. “Every time I tried to tell you how I felt, you treated it like I was exaggerating.”

“Because you never explained yourself clearly.”

"I do. You just want me to lay them out like evidence just to be heard,” you snap. “I wasn’t some client in a case, I was your wife.”

His jaw tightens. “And yet you walked away just like that.”

You laugh sardonically. “Oh. Like I never begged you to come home before midnight? On our anniversaries?”

Hiromi frowns at this. “You know how my job is.”

“I was losing you,” you say quietly. “And you didn’t care enough to notice.”

Silence looms over briefly. Then, he coldly says, “Resorting to divorce was unnecessary.”

"Wow. Just Wow. You–"

From the neighboring table, a silver-haired man wearing a name tag that reads 'Satoru' slams his hand down.

“Jesus Christ,” he yells, “just fuck it out!”

Your eyes widen in horror now that everyone's heads are now on your table. When you look back at Hiromi, something languid has entered his gaze. It is dark, slow, and very familiar.

“Should we head home?” he asks softly.

It’s absurd, really.

After the divorce is finalized and a stupid blind date, your ex-husband's face is buried between your legs, greedily lapping at your cunt while three fingers stretch you open.

The thing is, no matter how many times you finger fuck yourself or put the rose on blast, you’ll never finish the way Hiromi makes you do.

“Oh my god—” You clutch his hair. “—Hiro.”

You squirm, but he grips your hips and pulls you closer, groaning into you as he devours every sound you make.

Your body is a shaking, and you've now turned into a moaning mess beneath his touch. Hiromi's fingers pump perfectly while his tongue abuses your clit, circling until your vision whites out.

“Fuck— gonna cum again.”

His eyes burn with lust as you buck your hips. He pulls back just enough to speak. “Yeah. That’s right.”

There were no intelligent words that came to mind, all you could let out are whimpers and sobs of pleasure as another orgasm took over your body. 

Hiromi lets out a dark chuckle as he licks the corners of his mouth hungrily while wiping the bottom of his chin with the back of his veiny hand.

You know him like the back of your hand. Sure as hell know that he's far from over. So it was no surprise when he suddenly carries your limp, overstimulated body on top of him.

“Hiro,” you murmur weakly. “I’m too tired to ride you.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Holding your hip to lift you, Hiromi aligns his cock at your entrance. Then, he sinks you down onto his cock. “I’ll do the work.”

You gasp when his fat cock fills you to a hilt. “You’re– too big for me.”

“No, you just–” he grunts. “You’re tighter.”

He wraps his arms around your waist, and pounds in and out of you in deep, deliberate strokes, making you shriek against his neck. It doesn't help that he keeps whispering low, gutteral grunts against your ear.

“Hiro– fuck!” 

You whimper, but your words fall on deaf ears as his swollen cock pistons even deeper with deliberate, hard strokes. Your eyes roll back in pleasure, and your walls clench hard at how much his cock brushed on your sweet spot over and over.

“Cum again for me.”

“I dont–” you chok the words out as best you can, “–don’t think I can.”

Hiromi grips your ass with both hands, pushing it down further at his length so he can fuck you even deeper than he already did. “You can. We've done this before.”

With tears of pleasure pooling at the corner of your eyes, you mutter, “Hiro, I can’t.”

“I said,” But he slaps your ass, leaving a red mark across the skin. “Do.” he slammed his hips harder at each word for emphasis, “It.”

And you do.

You hiss against his neck as he quickens the pace, hips snapping harder, deeper. The overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body makes your toes curl, and with your eyes squeezed shut, you let the orgasm crash over you, leaving you shaking in his arms.

He keeps fucking you through it. Deep, rough, and unrelenting, until you’re both chasing the edge together, riding each other out in the same breathless moment.

“Happy anniversary,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder endearingly, but all you could respond is a tired hum.

"Hiromi."

"Hm?"

“Nice fuck,” you whisper. "I'm starting to think," you pant in between your sentence, "the divorce was a mistake."

Hiromi scoffs out a wry chuckle.

"Never should've happened in the first place, by the way." He looks down at you lovingly, and plants a soft kiss on your temple, "We can can re-marry any time next week if you'd like."

You smile to yourself and mumble, "I would love that."

wia says: for our husband's animation debut hee~

The afternoon line moved in patient little shuffles. A toddler cried at the front end of the store, and somewhere in aisle seven, someone dropped a jar of pasta sauce with the dramatic commitment of a Greek tragedy.

You didn’t even flinch. You just counted tablets, checked an interaction screen, and thought, Please let everyone be kind today.

That was when you saw him.

At first, it was just a shadow crossing the pick-up lane—too tall for the world, shoulders filling the space like the building had to breathe around him. Then the details sharpened: pale pink hair buzzed close, a face that looked carved out of irritation, tattoos climbing his arms like black vines that had decided to stay forever.

He stood there like he didn’t wait in lines. Like lines waited for him.

One of the pharmacy techs—Mika—smiled her retail smile and chirped, “Hi! Name and date of birth?” The man’s eyes moved, slow as a blade leaving its sheath, and landed on you behind the counter. Not on Mika. Not on the register. On you—like your existence was a new sound he was trying to locate.

“Ryomen,” he said, voice low and flat. “Sukuna Itadori.” Mika typed, still smiling. “And your birthday?” He recited it, bored, eyes never leaving you. That alone was unsettling—most people looked away when they gave personal information, like it was polite to pretend they weren’t handing you a piece of themselves.

Sukuna didn’t pretend anything.

Mika’s expression shifted the smallest bit when she saw the profile. New patient. New meds. The kind of prescriptions that came with notes and caution flags and the invisible weight of someone finally saying, Alright. We’re going to try something different.

She reached for the bag in will-call.

Sukuna’s hand rose, palm out, stopping her like a traffic light.

“No.” Mika blinked. “Um—sorry?” He nodded toward you with his chin, like it was obvious. “I want the pharmacist.”

A small pause fell into the air. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… present. Like the pharmacy itself tilted its head.

Mika glanced at you, eyebrows lifting in a Can you take this? question.

You exhaled through your nose—quiet, controlled—and set your tray down.

“Of course,” you said, stepping forward.

Your voice was gentle, but your posture was pure professionalism. You didn’t hurry. You didn’t shrink. You simply arrived at the counter, hands folded, eyes lifting to meet his.

Up close, he was worse.

Not because he was handsome—he was, in that dangerous way people warned you about with the phrase trouble. Not because he was tall—though he was, towering enough that you had to tilt your chin to keep eye contact. Not because he was built like a door that lifted weights.

It was the look in his eyes.

Red-brown, sharp, watchful. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to be disappointed and was still hoping you might surprise him.

“Mr. Itadori?” you asked, because you were polite even when your pulse tried to sprint. “Sukuna,” he corrected.

You nodded once. “Sukuna. I’m Y/n. I’m the pharmacist on duty.” His gaze flicked to your name tag, then back up. “Y/n,” he repeated, like he was testing the shape of it in his mouth.

You slid the bag toward you, glanced at the label, and kept your tone calm. “This is your first fill with us. I’m going to review your medication with you—dosage, common side effects, and what to avoid.” He leaned in a fraction, forearms on the counter. Tattoos flexed as he moved. The scent of him reached you—clean soap and something mineral, like cold metal warmed by skin.

“Side effects,” he murmured. “Yeah. Let’s talk about those.” You kept your face neutral, but your brain whispered,

Please be normal. Please be normal.

He wasn’t.

“What’s it do to my sex drive?” he asked, casually, like he was asking if you had paper or plastic bags. Mika made a strangled sound behind you. Someone in line coughed, suddenly very interested in the greeting cards.

You stared at him.

He held your gaze with the calm confidence of a man who had never been embarrassed in his life. “And before you say ‘everyone reacts different,’” he added, voice dropping, “I’m an athlete. I need my body working. All of it.” Then he gave you a slow blink that was somehow a wink without technically being a wink. “I can go all night,” he said, like he was sharing a fun fact. “It’d be a tragedy if the meds took that away from the world.”

Your expression didn’t change.

It wasn’t that you didn’t understand the implication. You did. Unfortunately. Vividly.

It was that you refused to reward it.

You lifted the leaflet, tapped it once with a neatly trimmed nail, and said, “Sexual side effects are possible. If you experience changes, you should speak with your prescriber. Do you have any other questions that are actually relevant?” Mika choked harder. You heard a stifled laugh from somewhere down the line.

Sukuna’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, like your deadpan had struck something in him that wanted to live. “Mm,” he hummed. “I like you.” You kept reading off the counseling points like your life depended on it. “This medication should be taken once daily. Try to take it at the same time each day. It may cause drowsiness, dizziness, nausea—”

“Will it make me less… angry?” he asked, quieter now.

That one landed different. Not flirtatious. Not stupid. Just raw, slipped under the counter like a note you weren’t supposed to see.

You softened your voice without meaning to. “It can help. Especially if you give it time and take it consistently.” He looked at you like he didn’t enjoy needing anything. “Time,” he repeated, as if the word tasted bitter.

You nodded. “Time. And routine.” He stared, then reached into his pocket and placed his ID on the counter—too carefully, like he didn’t trust himself to move too fast. “Y/n,” he said again, and your name sounded like a warning and a compliment in the same breath. “Tell me the truth.” You met his eyes. “Okay.”

“If I take this,” he said, “am I going to feel like someone else?” Your throat tightened, just a little. You’d heard this question in a hundred different forms—Will I still be me? Will my thoughts still belong to me? Will I lose my fire? Will I lose my edge?

You didn’t give him a rehearsed line. You gave him the truth you could safely hold.

“It shouldn’t erase you,” you said softly. “It should give you more space to breathe inside yourself. If it ever feels wrong—if you feel numb or unlike yourself—you talk to your provider. We adjust. We don’t suffer in silence.” Something flickered behind his eyes—annoyance, relief, suspicion, maybe all of it braided together.

Then, because he was him, he tilted his head and said, “So you’re saying you’ll take care of me.” Your cheeks warmed. “I’m saying I will do my job,” you replied.

He smiled this time. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… pleased.

“You’re sweet,” he said. “It’s cute.”

“I’m professional,” you corrected. “You’re both,” he said with a smirk, you handed him the bag and the paperwork. “Do you have any allergies?”

“No.”

“Any other medications you take?”

“Sometimes protein powder,” he said. “Sometimes violence.” Mika audibly inhaled like she’d just swallowed a cough the wrong way.

You blinked once. “We’ll start with the protein powder.” He chuckled—low, brief. The sound startled you more than his words. It made him seem… human. Like there was a person in there under the anger and the edges.

He took the bag, but didn’t move away. Just stayed, leaning in like the counter was a fence and he didn’t want to leave the yard you stood in.

“So,” he said, “when do I see you again?”

“Your next refill date is on the label,” you told him evenly.

He lifted the bag, glanced at it, then looked at you again like the label was a suggestion, not a schedule. “Yeah,” he said. “But what if I have questions?”

“You can call the pharmacy.”

“I don’t like phones.”

“You can ask any pharmacist.” He stared at you. Slow. Heavy. Like he was setting down a decision. “No,” he said simply. “I’ll ask you.” You held your composure like it was stitched into your ribs. “We have multiple pharmacists.” He leaned closer, voice dropping into something that vibrated in your chest. “I need the real one.” Your stomach flipped, traitorous and soft.

You didn’t curse. You didn’t snap. You didn’t flirt.

You simply lifted your eyebrows. “Sukuna, are you refusing counseling from anyone else?” He stared back, completely serious. “Yes.”

Mika’s eyes went wide with Is that allowed?

You exhaled quietly, like you were releasing a patient prayer.

“Fine,” you said. “If you have questions, you can ask me when I’m on duty.” His mouth curved again—victory, wrapped in velvet. “Good,” he said. “Because I do have a question.” You didn’t even sigh this time. You just waited.

He tapped the bag lightly. “If this makes me calmer,” he said, “and less obsessive… will I still want things?” You watched his face for the joke, for the crude punchline, for the easy innuendo.

It didn’t come.

Instead, his eyes stayed on yours, too intent, like he meant things in a way that wasn’t just about bodies.

You swallowed. “Most people still want things,” you said carefully. “Sometimes they want them in a healthier way.” He nodded once, like that answered something he hadn’t said out loud.

Then he straightened, finally stepping back.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.” You lifted your chin. “Take it as directed.” He paused at the edge of the counter, glanced over his shoulder.

“And Y/n?”

“Yes?” His gaze slid over you—not lewd, not careless. Just aware. Like he noticed the way you held yourself, the way your softness didn’t mean weakness. “Maybe one day,” he said, voice lazy again, “you’ll let me give you my own personal medicine.”

Mika made a sound like a dying battery.

You stared at Sukuna with the same straight face you’d given him all along.

Then, very calmly, you said, “If you’re experiencing delusions, that is a side effect you should report.” For a second, he looked stunned. Then he laughed—real laughter, low and dangerous and delighted—and walked out of the pharmacy like he’d just won something.

You stood there, hands folded, heart doing a ridiculous little dance inside your ribs.

Mika leaned in, whispering, “Who was that?” You watched the automatic doors slide shut behind him, the winter light swallowing his silhouette.

You spoke softly, mostly to yourself.

“Trouble,” you said.

And as you turned back to the counter, the phone rang—one of those sharp, ordinary sounds that kept the world moving—while you tried very hard not to wonder how soon “next refill” could possibly come.

Friday nights at the pharmacy always carried a particular kind of exhaustion—one that clung to your sleeves and crawled up behind your eyes, the kind that made the fluorescent lights feel personal.

So when you heard, the next morning, that Sukuna Itadori had fought the night before, something in you tightened.

Not curiosity. Not excitement.

Just… a quiet, reluctant awareness. Like a storm report you didn’t ask for, but still read anyway because you needed to know where the wind might hit. You didn’t follow his career. You didn’t watch clips. You didn’t scroll past headlines the way other people did when they wanted to feel alive through someone else’s chaos.

You didn’t like fighting.

You liked calm. You liked clean counters. You liked the soft clink of pill bottles. You liked order, and routine, and the steady reassurance of labels that told you exactly what something was meant to do.

And yet—when you got dressed that morning, you took a few extra minutes.

You fixed your curls until they fell in obedient ringlets, glossy and thick, framing your face like they belonged there. You smoothed a little cream into the ends with careful fingers. You put on the smallest swipe of mascara, barely enough to count.

It wasn’t for him, you told yourself.

It was just… for you.

But your reflection looked back with an almost-suspicious sweetness, and you felt your cheeks warm as if your mirror had caught you hoping.

The pharmacy doors chimed sometime after nine.

You didn’t look up right away. You were checking a profile, eyes scanning for interactions, mind in its tidy little corridor of clinical focus.

Then you heard the change in the air.

The subtle pause at the counter.

The way your tech’s voice lifted—nervous, amused, trying not to sound intrigued.

And you knew.

Mika cleared her throat. “Uh—hi. Can I help you?” A familiar low voice slid over the counter like smoke. “Yeah. I’m here for the pharmacist.” Mika tried. She really did. “We can counsel you—”

“I don’t want ‘we.’” You could hear the smirk in his tone. “I want her.” You closed your eyes for half a second.

Not because you were angry—though you were definitely annoyed—but because your heart did something completely unhelpful, fluttering like a trapped thing.

You set your pen down with exaggerated calm, then stepped out from behind the workstation.

Sukuna stood there in a fitted hoodie that looked like it was fighting for its life across his shoulders. His buzzed hair was still damp, pale pink and close to his scalp, and he had that post-training heat clinging to him—clean sweat, sharp soap, something metallic and bright.

He looked… awake.

Not in the polite way people looked awake after coffee.

In the way a blade looked awake after being sharpened.

There was a faint bruise at the edge of his cheekbone that hadn’t fully yellowed yet, and a small cut near his brow like a careless punctuation mark.

His eyes found you instantly and the second they did, his mouth curved, slow and pleased.

Like he’d walked in already knowing you’d be pretty.

You hated that your pulse noticed.

You approached the counter, posture perfectly professional, voice soft enough to be kind but firm enough to be a boundary.

“What was going on?” you asked, because he always arrived like a disruption and acted like it was your fault.

Sukuna didn’t even pretend to be here for a refill.

He pulled something from his pocket and slid it across the counter toward you with two fingers.

A ticket.

Black, glossy, heavy stock—one of those tickets that didn’t look like paper so much as a promise. VIP lettering caught the overhead lights.

You stared down at it.

Then you stared up at him.

“What is this?” you asked, even though you already knew. Your stomach had answered before your mouth did.

His smirk deepened. “My fight.” You blinked once. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.” He tilted his head, watching your face like he was waiting for some reaction he could collect. “You should come.” You didn’t touch the ticket. Like it might burn you. Like accepting it would be the same as agreeing to something you hadn’t said yes to. “Sukuna,” you said gently, “this is—unprofessional.”

He leaned closer, forearms resting on the counter like he belonged there. Tattoos flexed beneath his sleeves. His voice dropped, warm and too intimate for a pharmacy at nine in the morning.

“You’re a pharmacist,” he murmured. “You like… aftercare.” Your face stayed neutral on pure willpower. “Aftercare isn’t a medical term,” you replied, even though the words sounded a little too careful leaving your mouth, like you were stepping around a puddle you didn’t want to admit you’d noticed.

His eyes flickered, amused. “It is if I say it is.” You glanced down at the bruise near his cheekbone, the cut at his brow, and felt something tender tug at the inside of your ribs—something you didn’t want to name.

“Why are you giving this to me?” you asked softly.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Because I want you there,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Your throat tightened.

You kept your voice steady. “I don’t—watch fighting.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “Watch me.” You looked at him, and his gaze held yours, steady and bold and too sure.

Then he tapped the ticket lightly with one knuckle.

“And after,” he added, lazy and cocky again, “you can fix my bruises.” Your brows lifted. “I’m not a nurse.”

“You’re close enough.” His grin sharpened. “You’ve got that gentle little voice. You’ll do great.” Mika made a small, helpless noise behind you, like she was watching a rom-com she hadn’t paid for.

You exhaled, the sound barely more than air. “This is inappropriate.” Sukuna straightened, as if he’d heard you but didn’t accept the premise.

He set the ticket down with slow certainty—like a man placing a coin on a counter, already convinced the purchase was complete.

Then he leaned in one last time, eyes on yours.

“See you tonight, Y/n,” he said.

You opened your mouth to argue.

He turned and walked away before you could.

Just left the ticket there.

Like you were going to pick it up.

Like the world always did what he wanted.

The doors chimed as he exited, and the pharmacy felt too bright again, too normal, too clean for the way your heart was misbehaving.

Mika crept up beside you, eyes sparkling with wicked delight. “He is… actually insane.” You stared at the VIP ticket like it might start talking. “He shouldn’t do that,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her.

Mika’s smile widened. “He’s not exactly a ‘should’ kind of man.” You swallowed, still staring down.

All day, the ticket sat in the back of your mind like a little weight.

Between counseling patients on antibiotics and explaining prior authorizations and repeating the same gentle script you’d always used—Take with food, call us if you have questions, no, don’t double up, yes, please drink water—your thoughts kept drifting.

Not to the fight.

To him.

To the way he’d looked at you like you were something he wanted to keep in his hands.

You tried to focus. You really did.

But you caught yourself imagining his bruises.

His cut.

Your fingers—gloved, of course—dabbing antiseptic.

The absurd intimacy of tending to someone who was built for damage.

The idea made you feel warm and ridiculous.

And nervous.

Near the end of your shift, Mika leaned against the counter, casual like she wasn’t about to push you off a cliff.

“You’re going,” she said. “I’m not,” you replied automatically.

Mika hummed. “You’re going.” You frowned. “Why are you acting like you control my decisions.”

“Because I like joy,” she said. “And because you’ve been walking around all day like someone put a secret in your pocket.” You tried to look offended. It didn’t work. Mika waved her hand. “Leave early. We’ve got it handled. Go… do whatever this is.”

“This is nothing,” you said, but your voice came out too soft, too unconvincing.

Mika’s eyes narrowed. “Your mascara begs to differ.” Your cheeks warmed instantly. “I always wear mascara.”

“Mm-hm.” She smiled like she’d caught you stealing candy. “Go.” You hesitated long enough for your conscience to wrestle with your curiosity.

Then you sighed.

“Fine,” you said quietly, like you were agreeing to a chore instead of a choice that made your stomach flutter.

You went home and stood in front of your closet longer than you should have.

You told yourself you were dressing comfortably.

You told yourself you didn’t care what you looked like.

You told yourself the black long-sleeve was just clean and simple and easy, but when you pulled it on and it hugged your curves—when the mirror showed you soft and shapely and a little too pretty for your own comfort—you paused.

Not because you were trying.

Because you weren’t.

You chose jeans that fit the way they were supposed to—snug at the waist, fitted at the thighs—and when you turned sideways, you let out a small breath, surprised at your own silhouette. Your hair fell down your back in thick ringlets, framing you with that natural softness you couldn’t hide even when you wanted to.

You didn’t add jewelry. No perfume. Nothing dramatic.

Just you.

Just… slightly braver than usual.

The drive to the arena felt surreal.

Streetlights blinked on one by one like the city was exhaling into night. Traffic thickened closer to the venue, headlights pooling like water. You followed the signs, parked, and sat for a second with your hands on the steering wheel, heart tapping an anxious rhythm.

You could still turn around, you told yourself.

You could drive home.

You could return to your quiet apartment and your safe routines and pretend you’d never accepted anything from a man like him.

But your fingers had already touched the ticket.

You got out of the car.

The arena loomed bright and loud, all banners and bodies, and you felt small walking toward it—small, and out of place, like you’d wandered into someone else’s movie.

At the entrance, security scanned your ticket.

The staff member’s face changed—respectful, quick. “Right this way.” You swallowed. “Okay.” They led you through a corridor where the sound of the crowd grew heavier with every step—bass thumps of music, shouts like waves, the electric hum of anticipation.

You were guided into the private area.

It was quieter than the main seating, but it still throbbed with noise beneath it—like you could feel the energy in the floor. Plush seats, a small table, a view that made your stomach dip. People in nicer clothes sat around you, laughing, sipping drinks.

You sat stiffly, hands folded in your lap, trying not to look like you didn’t belong.

Because you didn’t.

A screen lit up with highlights, and the announcer’s voice rolled through the arena like thunder.

Your palms dampened.

You didn’t like violence. You didn’t like the idea of bodies as entertainment. You didn’t like the way the crowd sounded hungry and yet… you were here.

Because Sukuna had looked at you like you were the only soft thing in the room worth reaching for.

Lights dimmed.

The first fight began.

You flinched at the first sharp impact—two bodies colliding, the sound somehow louder than it should’ve been. You tried to focus on the rules, on the structure, on the idea that this was controlled, sanctioned.

But your shoulders stayed tense.

You found yourself watching the referees more than the fighters. Watching for safety. Watching for stopping points. Watching for the moment someone would say enough.

You took slow breaths, the way you taught anxious patients to do when they came to pick up meds they didn’t want to need.

Around you, people cheered.

You didn’t.

You simply watched—eyes wide, heart uneasy—trying to understand why anyone craved this.

And then, between fights, a movement near the VIP entrance caught your attention.

A familiar shape.

Too tall. Too broad.

Sukuna appeared at the edge of the private area like he owned the air itself.

He wasn’t in his fight gear yet—still in warmups, loose pants, a jacket zipped partway. His hair looked freshly dried again, and there was a calm to him that made him even more dangerous, like all the anger had been leashed tight for later.

His eyes swept the room.

Then landed on you.

And the smirk returned, immediate and satisfied—like a lock clicking into place.

He walked over with unhurried confidence, gaze never leaving your face. People glanced up, murmured, shifted to make space without being asked.

He stopped in front of you, towering just enough that you had to tilt your chin again. “Well,” he said, voice low, amused. “You came.” Your heart stuttered.

You tried to sound composed. “You left the ticket.”

“That was the point.” He leaned down slightly, voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in your ear, not in public. “I wanted to see if you’d do what I asked.” You frowned, though your cheeks warmed. “That’s… manipulative.” He shrugged like it was a compliment. “And yet.” You exhaled softly. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

He studied you—your curls, your black top, the way you held yourself like you were trying to be invisible and failing.

His eyes darkened with approval. “You look good.” You blinked. “Sukuna—” He cut you off with a lazy little smile. “Don’t start. Just take it.” Your lips parted, then closed.

You forced yourself to ask the sensible thing. “Are you hurt?” His gaze flicked over your face, then softened—almost imperceptibly. “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

That answer should’ve unsettled you.

It did.

He sat down—too close, far too casual—like it was normal for him to fold himself into your space. His knee brushed yours, and the contact sent a small spark up your leg, stupid and bright.

“You look like you want to run,” he murmured.

You stared forward at the cage. “I don’t like this.” He hummed. “I know.”

You glanced at him, surprised.

He met your eyes. “You’re too soft for it.”

You didn’t like the way that sounded—like softness was a limitation.

But the way he said it… wasn’t insulting.

It sounded protective.

It made your throat tighten anyway.

Sukuna leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head like a man settling into a theater seat. “Just watch. I’ll make it quick.” You frowned. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can.” He turned his head, gaze pinned to you again. “Because you’re here.” Your heartbeat stumbled.

Then an official approached, speaking quietly to Sukuna. Sukuna listened with a bored expression that didn’t match the intensity of the room.

He stood, towering over you again.

His eyes dragged over your face—slow, possessive in a way that made you want to scold him and blush at the same time.

“Stay,” he said.

You blinked. “I wasn’t—”

“Stay,” he repeated, voice sharper now, like it mattered. Like you mattered.

You nodded once before your mind could argue.

Sukuna’s mouth curved, satisfied.

Then he walked away, disappearing into the corridor like a promise you didn’t know how to hold.

A few minutes later, his name boomed over the speakers.

The crowd erupted.

Your stomach dipped.

Lights flashed. Music surged. The atmosphere changed—thicker, wilder, like everyone suddenly leaned forward at once.

And then he was there.

Sukuna stepped out into the arena lights, and the roar around you became physical—vibrating through your bones, rattling the air in your lungs. He moved like he belonged to that sound, like it fed him. Like he wore noise the way other men wore cologne.

He looked… different.

Not softer.

Not calmer.

Just focused—cold, bright, terrifyingly controlled. His shoulders rolled once. His jaw flexed. His eyes scanned the crowd, then lifted briefly toward the VIP section.

You swore he found you instantly.

That smirk flashed again—quick as a match strike.

Your heart jumped.

Then the cage door closed.

The bell rang.

You braced yourself without meaning to.

The first exchange happened fast—feet shifting, hands snapping out, the sound of gloves and skin and impact echoing in a way that made your stomach twist.

You hated how much the crowd loved it.

But you couldn’t look away from him.

Sukuna moved like a predator.

Not frantic. Not sloppy. Every motion had intent. He slipped a punch like it was nothing, countered with something sharp and clean, forced the other man back with the effortless confidence of someone who knew exactly how much power he had.

Your hands curled in your lap.

You didn’t cheer.

You didn’t smile.

You just watched with a growing knot of worry that made your throat tight.

Because you’d seen bruises on him before and you’d realized, somewhere in the middle of counting pills and fixing curls, that you didn’t like the idea of anyone hurting him.

Not even if he chose it.

The other fighter rushed him, trying to close distance, and for a second you felt your breath catch—fear flashing through you like a cold splash.

Sukuna didn’t even look panicked.

He caught the clinch, turned it, drove the man back into the fence with brutal efficiency. Not excessive. Not theatrical. Just… decisive.

Your stomach turned.

The referee watched closely.

The crowd screamed.

Sukuna worked—short strikes, pressure, control—and when the other man tried to twist away, Sukuna dragged him down with a takedown so clean it looked like choreography.

You flinched at the sound of bodies hitting canvas.

Then Sukuna was on top, posture low, heavy, controlling. Not wild. Not cruel. Just complete.

It was horrible and mesmerizing all at once.

Your fingers pressed into your palm until you felt your own pulse.

The other fighter struggled. Sukuna adjusted. The referee hovered.

And then—so fast you almost didn’t understand it—Sukuna shifted, locked something in, and the other man tapped.

Tapped.

It was over.

The bell rang again.

The crowd exploded like fireworks.

You sat frozen, heartbeat pounding, relief washing through you so hard it made you dizzy.

Sukuna rose, chest heaving, sweat gleaming under the lights. He looked to the referee, then to his corner, then—like he couldn’t help himself—his gaze cut up toward the VIP section again.

This time, he didn’t just glance.

He stared.

And you felt it—felt the way his attention wrapped around you, heavy and sure, like a hand at your waist.

Then he smirked.

Like he’d done it for you.

Your cheeks warmed, even as your stomach still churned.

The officials swarmed him. His team surrounded him. Someone lifted his arm. Cameras flashed.

You sat there, a soft thing in a loud world, trying to steady your breathing, trying to convince yourself you hadn’t just watched a man win a fight and felt… something embarrassingly close to pride.

Around you, people stood and toasted and laughed.

Mika texted you a single message:

HE WINNING???

You stared at your phone, then at the cage, then back again.

You typed:

Yes. He’s okay.

You paused, then added:

I think.

Your phone buzzed with her reply almost instantly.

GO FIX HIS BRUISES, ROMANTIC DOCTOR LADY.

You didn’t reply.

Because your heart was still trying to climb out of your chest.

A few minutes later, movement stirred in the VIP corridor again.

Sukuna appeared, freshly towelled off but still damp, still warm with adrenaline. He had a new bruise blooming along his ribs, and his knuckles looked red and sore. There was a faint split at his lip that made something in you ache.

He looked wired.

Alive in a way you didn’t understand.

His eyes found you immediately.

And when he walked over, the crowd noise seemed to dull around the edges, like your world narrowed to the space he took up.

He stopped in front of you, smirk sharp, voice low.

“See?” he said. “Quick.” You stared at the bruise, then at his lip, then up into his eyes. “You’re bleeding,” you murmured.

His grin turned wicked. “You sound worried.” You straightened your shoulders, trying to reclaim professionalism like a shield. “It’s… my job to care about injuries.” He leaned closer, eyes bright. “That’s not your job.” Your breath hitched, very small.

He tapped his lip with a knuckle, as if inviting your gaze. “You gonna fix it?” You swallowed. “Do you have a medic—”

“I do,” he cut in smoothly. “But I wanted you.” Your face heated. You tried to keep your voice calm. “Sukuna, you can’t keep saying things like that.” He smiled like you’d told him a joke. “Why not?”

“Because…” You hesitated, honesty snagging in your throat. “Because it’s not appropriate.” His gaze softened for a split second, then sharpened again with that cocky edge he wore like jewelry. “You still came,” he murmured.

Your lips parted. Closed.

You hated how true that was.

He bent slightly, lowering his mouth closer to your ear, voice dropping into something that made your skin prickle.

“Come over,” he said. “After this.” You blinked, startled. “What?”

“My place.” His eyes held yours, steady and daring. “We’ll have drinks.” You didn’t curse, but you felt like your brain did. “I—” You swallowed. “That’s… that’s not—” Sukuna straightened, smirk returning like a familiar sin. “Relax. I’m not saying we’re getting married.” Your cheeks flamed.

He looked pleased by that too.

“I’m saying,” he continued, voice lazy, “you came all the way here, watched me do my job, and you’ve been staring at my bruises like you want to press kisses on them.” You nearly inhaled wrong. “I have not,” you whispered.

His smile widened, pure menace. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not,” you lied softly.

He leaned down again, just enough that his voice felt like it brushed your skin. “Come over.” You stared at him—this towering, tattooed man with a split lip and a smug grin, looking at you like you were the prize he’d already claimed.

And you should’ve said no.

You should’ve stood up, thanked him for the ticket, and left.

Instead, your heart beat quietly, insistently, like it had its own agenda.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your seat.

And Sukuna watched you—patient in the most dangerous way—like he had all the time in the world to wait for your answer.

You heard yourself say it before your brain could intervene. "Okay." The word came out soft, barely more than a breath, like you were afraid if you said it any louder, you'd scare yourself into taking it back.

Sukuna's eyes flashed—something dark and pleased and victorious all at once. "Yeah?" he murmured, leaning closer, like he wanted to make sure he'd heard you right.

You nodded, throat tight. "Just… for a little while." His smile curved slow and dangerous. "Sure," he said, in a tone that suggested he didn't believe the 'little while' part for a second. "Just for a bit." He straightened, offering you his hand.

You stared at it—bruised knuckles, tattoos wrapping around his wrist like they were holding something wild in place—and then you took it. His palm was warm, rough with calluses, and when his fingers closed around yours, you felt the strength in them. Not crushing. Just… present. Like he could hold on as long as he wanted and you wouldn't be able to pull away.

He helped you stand, and suddenly you were too close to him, the heat of his body radiating through the small space between you. He smelled like sweat and clean skin and something faintly metallic, and it made your head swim.

"You drove here?" he asked.

You nodded. "Yeah."

"Follow me, then." He released your hand slowly, fingers trailing against yours as he let go. "I'm not far." You swallowed and nodded again, not trusting your voice. The walk back through the arena felt surreal—like you were moving through a dream where everything was too bright and too loud and your body didn't quite belong to you. Sukuna walked ahead, glancing back every few steps like he was making sure you hadn't bolted.

You hadn't. But you thought about it.

Your car was parked in the lot, and when you unlocked it with shaking hands, Sukuna leaned against the driver's side door of a sleek black car a few spaces down—something expensive and low to the ground that looked like it had opinions about speed limits.

"You good?" he called over.

You looked at him across the parking lot, standing there like he owned the asphalt, and your stomach flipped. "Yeah," you called back, voice steadier than you felt.

He smirked. "Don't get lost." Then he slid into his car, and the engine purred to life—a low, rumbling sound that you felt in your chest. You got into your own car, gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor you to reality, and watched as he pulled out of the lot.

You followed.

The drive wasn't long, but every minute of it felt like your nerves were being pulled tighter and tighter, wound around a spool that was running out of thread. You kept your eyes on his taillights, your mind racing with a thousand thoughts that all contradicted each other.

This is a bad idea. This is exciting. You should turn around. You don't want to turn around. He's your patient. He's not your patient right now.

Your hands tightened on the wheel.

The city lights blurred past, and then you were pulling into an underground garage—concrete and steel and the echo of your engine cutting off as you parked beside him. Sukuna was already out of his car, waiting, hands in his pockets like he had all the patience in the world now that you were here.

You got out slowly, clutching your purse like it might protect you from your own decisions.

He tilted his head toward the elevator. "Come on." You followed him across the garage, your footsteps too loud in the quiet space, and when he pressed the button for the elevator, you stood beside him in silence.

The doors opened with a soft chime.

You stepped inside.

He followed, and the space immediately felt smaller—too warm, too close. He pressed a button near the top of the panel, and the elevator began to rise.

You watched the numbers climb.

15… 20… 25…

Your heart climbed with them.

When the doors finally opened, you stepped out into a hallway that was all clean lines and soft lighting, and Sukuna led you to a door at the end.

He unlocked it with a keycard, pushed it open, and stepped aside.

"After you," he said, voice low and amused, like he knew exactly how nervous you were.

You stepped inside and stopped.

The penthouse was… enormous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, showcasing the city sprawled out below like a carpet of lights. The space was open—sleek, modern, expensive in a way that didn't need to announce itself. Dark hardwood floors, minimalist furniture in shades of black and gray, a kitchen with marble countertops that gleamed under recessed lighting.

It was beautiful. And it felt… empty.

Not physically—there was furniture, art on the walls, a massive sectional sofa that looked like it had never been sat on—but emotionally. Like no one really lived here. Like it was a space designed to impress, not to comfort.

Your apartment was small and cozy, full of throw blankets and plants and mismatched mugs. It smelled like vanilla candles and old books. It felt like home.

This felt like a showroom.

"You like it?" Sukuna's voice came from behind you, and you turned to find him watching you with that same unreadable expression. "It's… big," you said softly, because you didn't know how to say It's beautiful but it doesn't feel like you without sounding presumptuous.

He smirked. "That's what she said." You blinked at him, and despite everything—despite your nerves and the surreal nature of being here—you felt a laugh bubble up in your throat.

You tried to suppress it.

Failed.

It came out as a soft, helpless giggle, and Sukuna's smirk widened into something that looked almost like a real smile. "There she is," he murmured, stepping closer. "I was wondering if you were gonna stay scared all night."

"I'm not scared," you said, even though your pulse was racing. "Liar." He moved past you into the kitchen, and you watched as he opened the fridge—a massive stainless steel thing that probably cost more than your car. "What do you want to drink?" You hesitated. "Um… water?" He glanced at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Water."

"Yes."

"You sure? I've got—" He rattled off a list of things you barely registered, your brain too busy trying to keep up with the fact that you were in Sukuna's penthouse, alone, at night, after watching him fight. "Water's fine," you said, voice a little firmer. He shrugged, pulling out a bottle of water and a bright blue Gatorade for himself. He poured your water into a glass—actual glass, not plastic—and handed it to you. Your fingers brushed his as you took it, and the contact sent a little spark up your arm.

"Thanks," you murmured.

He twisted the cap off his Gatorade and took a long drink, his throat working as he swallowed, and you found yourself staring at the line of his neck, the way his tattoos disappeared under the collar of his shirt.

You looked away quickly, taking a sip of your own water.

"Sit," he said, nodding toward the sectional.

You moved toward it, perching on the edge of one of the cushions like you might need to run at any moment. The leather was soft and cool under your thighs, and you set your glass down on the coffee table—a slab of dark wood that looked like it had been carved from a single tree.

Sukuna dropped onto the couch beside you—not across from you, not at a polite distance, but right beside you, close enough that his thigh almost touched yours.

You felt the heat of him immediately.

"So," he said, leaning back and draping one arm along the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing your shoulder. "You gonna tell me what you thought?"

"About what?" you asked, even though you knew.

His smile was slow and wicked. "The fight." You looked down at your hands, folded in your lap. "It was… intense."

"Intense," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "That's it?" You glanced at him. "I don't like violence."

"I know." His gaze was steady, unrepentant. "But you watched anyway." Your cheeks warmed. "You asked me to."

"And you came." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Why?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I don't know."

"Liar," he said again, softer this time, and his fingers brushed against your shoulder—just a whisper of contact, but it made your breath hitch.

"I'm not—"

"You are." He shifted closer, and now his thigh was pressed against yours, solid and warm. "You know exactly why you came." Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. "Sukuna—"

"Say it," he murmured, and his hand moved from your shoulder to your hair, fingers threading through your curls with a gentleness that didn't match the intensity in his eyes. "Say why you came." You stared at him, at the bruise on his cheekbone and the split in his lip and the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

"Because you asked me to," you whispered, his smile was slow and satisfied. "Good girl." The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you hated how much you liked the sound of them in his voice. His hand slid from your hair to your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. "You're so fucking sweet," he murmured, almost to himself. "It's gonna ruin me."

You didn't know what to say to that. So you didn't say anything.

You just sat there, frozen, as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin.

"Tell me to stop," he said quietly.

You should have. You should have said stop and this is a bad idea and I need to go home.

But you didn't.

You just looked at him, your lips parted, your breath coming too fast.

And Sukuna smiled like he'd won something— his thumb traced your lower lip, and your breath caught.

"You're not gonna tell me to stop, are you?" he murmured.

You shook your head, just barely.

"Fuck," he breathed, and then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was nothing like you'd imagined—not that you'd been imagining it, except you had, you absolutely had—it was rough and hungry and tasted faintly of blood from his split lip. His hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you in place as he kissed you like he'd been thinking about it for days.

You made a soft sound against his mouth, and he groaned in response, his other hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer.

You went.

Your hands found his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt, the heat of his skin, and you kissed him back with a desperation that should have embarrassed you but didn't. He pulled you into his lap with an ease that made your head spin, and suddenly you were straddling him, your thighs on either side of his, your hands braced on his shoulders.

"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, pulling back just enough to take you in—your flushed cheeks, your swollen lips, the way your chest was rising and falling with quick breaths. "You're so fucking pretty." You opened your mouth to respond, but he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your shirt.

You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his hips shifting beneath you in a way that made you acutely aware of how hard he was. "Sukuna," you breathed, and his name in your voice seemed to do something to him.

He groaned, low and rough, and his hands moved to your hips, grinding you down against him. The friction made you whimper, and he did it again, harder this time, his mouth moving to your neck. "You have no idea," he muttered against your skin, teeth grazing your throat, "how long I've been thinking about this."

Your head fell back, giving him access, and his mouth was hot and demanding, sucking marks into your skin that you'd have to cover tomorrow.

Tomorrow felt very far away.

His hands slid under your shirt, palms rough and warm against your bare skin, and you arched into his touch.

"Bedroom," he growled against your neck. "Now." You nodded, breathless, and he stood with you still wrapped around him, your legs locking around his waist as he carried you across the penthouse.

You should have felt self-conscious—about your weight, about how desperate you must look—but Sukuna held you like you weighed nothing, his hands firm on your ass, his mouth still working against your neck. He kicked open a door and carried you inside, and you had a brief impression of a massive bed and more floor-to-ceiling windows before he was laying you down on the mattress. You looked up at him, breathless and flushed, and he stood over you for a moment, just looking.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he muttered, and then he was on you again, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that made you feel safe and trapped all at once.

His hands were everywhere—pulling off your shirt, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, sliding your jeans down your legs until you were bare beneath him except for your panties. He sat back on his heels, looking at you spread out on his bed, and his expression was something between reverent and predatory.

"Fuck," he breathed.

You resisted the urge to cover yourself, your hands fisting in the sheets instead.

He pulled his own shirt over his head, and you got your first real look at him—all hard muscle and ink, tattoos covering his chest and arms in intricate patterns that you wanted to trace with your fingers.

You reached up, tentative, and he caught your hand, bringing it to his chest.

"Touch me," he said, voice rough.

So you did.

Your fingers traced the lines of his tattoos, the hard planes of his muscles, and he watched you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. When your hand drifted lower, brushing the waistband of his pants, he caught your wrist.

"Not yet," he said. "You first." And then he was kissing his way down your body—your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. His mouth closed over one nipple, and you arched off the bed with a gasp.

He hummed in approval, his hand sliding down your stomach to the waistband of your panties. "Can I?" he asked, and the fact that he asked—that he paused to make sure—made something in your chest tighten. "Yes," you breathed.

He hooked his fingers in the fabric and pulled them down, tossing them aside, and then you were completely bare before him. He settled between your thighs, his shoulders forcing your legs wider, and you felt exposed and vulnerable and so turned on you could barely think.

"So fucking pretty," he muttered, and then his mouth was on you.

You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, and he groaned against you, the vibration making your hips buck. He ate you out like he was starving, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, and you were already so wound up that it didn't take long before you were trembling on the edge.

"Sukuna," you gasped, "I'm—"

"Come," he growled against you. "Come on my tongue." And you did, your orgasm crashing over you in waves that made your vision white out, your thighs clamping around his head as you shook apart.

He worked you through it, only pulling back when you whimpered from oversensitivity.

When you finally came back to yourself, he was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Good?" he asked, voice smug.

You couldn't even form words. You just nodded, breathless and boneless.

He chuckled, low and dark, and then he was stripping off the rest of his clothes.

When he was finally naked, you couldn't help but stare.

He was… big. Everywhere.

Your eyes widened slightly, and he noticed, his smirk widening. "Don't worry," he said, crawling back over you. "I'll make it fit."

You were on your hands and knees on his bed, your back arched, your face pressed into the expensive sheets that smelled like him—clean and sharp and male. Sukuna was behind you, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other wrapped around your front, his fingers working your clit in tight, relentless circles.

And he was fucking you.

Hard.

Deep.

Fast enough that you couldn't catch your breath, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but take it and moan and feel. "Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned in your ear, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck. "So fucking perfect." You whimpered, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he thrust harder, the sound of skin against skin obscenely loud in the quiet room. "You like that?" he muttered, his fingers pressing harder against your clit. "You like me fucking you like this?"

"Yes," you gasped, the word barely coherent. "Yes, oh, yes—" He groaned, low and rough, and his hips snapped forward again, burying himself so deep you saw stars. Your second orgasm was building already, coiling tight in your belly, and you could feel yourself getting wetter, could hear it in the slick sounds of him moving inside you.

"That's it," he growled. "Fuck, you're dripping for me. You gonna come again? Gonna come on my cock?" You nodded frantically, beyond words, and his fingers moved faster, his thrusts harder, and you were right there, right on the edge— And then he laughed.

Not a cruel laugh. Not mocking.

Just… amused.

"Fuck," he said, his rhythm faltering for just a second. "I forgot to take my meds." Your brain, fogged with pleasure, took a moment to process that, and then you felt him shift, his body leaning away from yours slightly, and you heard the sound of a pill bottle opening. You turned your head, dazed and disbelieving, and watched as Sukuna—still inside you, still hard, still moving in slow, lazy thrusts—popped open his prescription bottle with one hand.

He shook two pills into his palm, tossed them into his mouth, and then reached for the water bottle on his nightstand.

He took a drink, swallowed, and set the bottle back down.

All while still fucking you.

"Sukuna," you groaned, half scandalized, half delirious. "Are you serious right now?" He leaned back down, his chest pressing against your back again, his mouth right against your ear. "What?" he murmured, his voice full of dark amusement. "You told me to take them at the same time every day." You made a sound that was half laugh, half moan, because this was obscene and inappropriate and somehow the hottest thing that had ever happened to you.

"You're insane," you gasped. “Yeah," he agreed, and then he thrust hard, making you cry out. "But you like it." You couldn't argue with that.

His hand returned to your clit, and his pace picked up again, faster now, harder, and you were so close you could taste it. "Did I do a good job?" he growled in your ear, his voice rough and possessive. "Taking my meds like a good boy?" You whimpered, nodding frantically. "Say it," he demanded, his fingers pressing harder. "Tell me I did a good job."

"You did," you gasped. “God, Sukuna, you did so good—" He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back, and his thrusts became almost punishing, chasing his own release now. "Gonna fill you up," he muttered. "Gonna make you come one more time and then fill this pretty pussy up. You want that?"

"Yes," you sobbed, because you were so close, so fucking close— "Then come," he growled. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it." And you did.

Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your whole body seizing, your walls clamping down around him so hard he cursed. "Fuck, fuck, yes—" He thrust twice more, hard and deep, and then he was coming too, groaning your name into your neck as he spilled inside you.

You collapsed forward onto the bed, and he followed you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress, both of you breathing hard. For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then Sukuna shifted, pulling out slowly, and you whimpered at the loss.

He rolled onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest still heaving.

You turned your head to look at him, your body still trembling with aftershocks. "You really just took your meds in the middle of sex," you said, your voice hoarse.

He lowered his arm and looked at you, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Yeah," he said. "I did." You stared at him for a moment.

And then you started laughing.

You couldn't help it—it was absurd and ridiculous and so perfectly him that you couldn't do anything but laugh, your body shaking with it.

Sukuna watched you, his grin softening into something that looked almost fond.

"You're fucking cute," he muttered.

You were still laughing, breathless and spent and completely wrecked, when he pulled you against his chest, and for the first time since you'd met him, Sukuna looked like a peaceful menace, a menace you had to refill his prescription in 2 weeks.

But maybe the only medication he needed was just his pharmacist.

this was a brain rot idea I had like a long time ago, you're welcome😩

He tried to leave you the house in the divorce, offered you a frankly ridiculous amount of alimony when it didn't work, making bids like it would get you to talk to him, letters he had delivered through his lawyer to yours that you never read.

But you were sick of being tied to him.

Not that anyone would believe it when you were being stretched past the brim by him now, the filthy fucking smacks of his balls against your skin and the thumps of the headboard hitting the wall drowning out the sorrow you were still stewing in.

The sex was starving and sloppy, all that big tough talk and bravado from the Sukuna you used to know replaced with drunk, sappy bullshit you didn't believe.

"I fuckin' love you, baby," he groaned, grinding his molars before he bit down on the nape of your neck, holding you there while you went stiff at the words. Pointedly aware it would probably be the last time you'd hear them. Making another promise to yourself that you wouldn't be in this position again. "I missed you so goddamn much."

The silence was palpable.

Painfully present underneath the rough sound of his hips slamming into your ass, biting your bottom lip to stop yourself from saying anything back.

It would be a lie to say you loved him back.

You didn't remember the day you stopped.

Your affection died a slow death. Pieces of your heart chipped away with each missed date, each day that passed where your messages were missed, every damn time he forgot to kiss you before he went to work. Distance just sort of did that.

And Sukuna was simply a hard man to put up with even when he wasn't around. You weren't exactly easy either, but you knew when to call it at least, when to stop clinging to something that obviously wasn't working.

"Why the fuck did you leave me?" He grunted, rutting in faster, as if this was the time to talk about the dissolution of your relationship. You guessed maybe he was thinking about it too. Replaying the good and the bad trying to find a way to deal with how things were.

"Don't act like you don't know," you hissed back, biting your lip hard as you felt his teeth skimming back over your throat, his greedy hands gripping your hip harder as he tried to remind you what every ridge of his cock felt like.

"I just fuckin' came home, and you were gone."

You wished you could believe he was half as gutted as he sounded.

He probably just missed having his laundry done and food ready for him even if it was cold by the time he ate it. You wouldn't be surprised if it had taken him a week or two to even piece together that you weren't there.

"Surprised you noticed," you sarcastically mumbled, and he let out a low ha that ate at you more than it should. Clawed its way under your skin as you ignored the hurt in it.

"God, you're so fuckin'-" He started, groaning as he tried to shift his fingers down to your clit, rubbing it with no real rhythm. You flinched at his touch, sucking on the inside of your cheek.

"What?" You dared him to finish.

"Frustrating," he spat.

His fingers twitched over the sensitive bud, your knees digging deeper into the mattress and threatening to buckle as he buried himself even deeper into your pussy, the one that used to belong to him before everything ended up so screwed.

He finished in his own way, warm ropes of cum filling you up no matter how frustrating he thought you were. Still playing with your clit, massaging it in harder, faster, and you just let out a fake moan, content to play along to fulfill what he wanted once more.

For old times' sake.

You didn't really blame him. Not totally.

A lifetime ago, you'd taken each other's virginity in the backseat of his car, listening to him grunt and grumble while he clumsily tried to make his dick fit inside you. Neither of you had any other partners. Slept around to see what you liked, what you wanted. Just did what you could to make what you already had work.

And now you both knew that it wasn't that easy.

So what if he didn't make you cum?

Sukuna pulled out, his cum still leaking out, his tip smearing what dripped against your ass as you tried to hide your disappointment.

"Was there someone else?" He asked, his thumb running over the thick stuff. "Some asshole try to steal you from-"

"No," you crudely cut him off, your thighs aching and muscles tensing as his weight shifted off the bed.

"I don't fucking understand," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as you rolled off the other side.

You felt out-of-place. Not totally understanding yourself either as you shuffled on your feet. He was already starting towards the open door of the attached bathroom.

Maybe finally starting to see this stalemate for what it was.

"I was gonna clean you up," he gruffly muttered, and you weakly shrugged your shoulders, brushing past him to turn on his shower.

You didn't answer him when you stepped inside it.

Just let the warm water wash away his cum, scrubbing your skin like you could remove any sign of him being there.

He got in behind you, his hands trying to sneak back onto your waist, to drift across your stomach and use the bar of soap as an excuse to touch you more, but he still seemed to miss the obvious.

You couldn't go back.

Even if you allowed yourself to sleep next to him in a new bed, curled up on the blanket as far from him as you could get, ignoring his whispered attempts at reconciliation in your ear as he tried to tuck you back against your chest, dozing off to the sound of him asking for a reason you were sick of spelling out.

This was the most attention you'd get from him.

He was too selfish to see that you couldn't let your world revolve around him again. Too conceited to accept that you didn't view your relationship the same way anymore. Didn't need him how he needed you.

And when the morning came, it was you who was sneaking out of his bed, throwing on your clothes and glancing back over your shoulder at him.

You hated how nostalgic you felt watching him snoozing, the sun on his tanned skin, tattoos starting to fade with time as he slept with his forearm half covering his face. Just the shape of his mouth, the tip of his nose peeking out beneath it. His wedding band glinting gold, still marking him as yours when you were trying to snip every tie.

Your own ring was sitting in the bottom of your jewelry box, hidden underneath old necklaces and bracelets, somewhere you didn't have to see it.

Shutting the door softly behind you when you left, purse slung over your shoulder as you scrambled to return back to your own apartment.

He tried to text you. Almost every day, actually, all sent from random numbers like he finally fucking figured out for sure that you blocked him. Funny, wasn't it, that he probably realized that faster than you moving out of your old place?

But leaving him in the past was harder when you missed two periods in a row and had to face the two fucking lines on the four different pregnancy tests you'd taken.

You took the fucking plan B just for it to fail at the worst possible time.

It wasn't like you were stupid enough to think a baby would have ever saved your marriage. But you sincerely doubted it would resurrect something already dead.

Pregnant.

Like, a real fucking fetus growing inside you, one that was half a man you had sworn you wouldn't see again.

What the fuck were you supposed to do?

You poked the croissant in front of you, glaring at the chocolate drizzle like it was responsible for the fact you wouldn't be able to stomach it without getting sick rather than Sukuna's.

Calling in reinforcements in the form of your friends who were already sick of hearing about your ex-husband, sitting in the corner of a coffee shop while you mourned the overpriced, over-caffeinated beverage you were craving.

"What's your problem?" Shoko snorted, rubbing the exhausted rings from her eyes before she brought her coffee to her lips.

"I'm pregnant," you bitterly mumbled, just for her to almost spit it out. Might as well finish ripping off the bandage. "And it's Sukuna's."

Shoko's brown eyes darkened, hand reaching out for the pack of cigarettes on the table before she hesitated and pinched the bridge of her nose instead.

"How far along?" She frowned, pressing for another detail you were embarrassed to confess to. You shrugged your shoulders, like you hadn't done the mental math a hundred times by now. Two months since that night you made the grave mistake of sleeping with him? Give or take a week? "Have you told him?"

"Of course not," you huffed.

Sukuna was insufferable even when he didn't have a reason to be.

If he knew-

"Tell who what?" A warm voice chimed in, a hand grazing over your forearm before Suguru claimed the seat next to yours.

Shoko snorted, and he shot her a half-annoyed glare, dragging his chair closer as the feet of it scraped on the linoleum.

You glanced up at him, already peeling the skin off your cracked lips as you tried to work out how to tell your best friend that the man he told you was bad fucking news far before you ever married him had knocked you up.

But Shoko beat you to it.

"Guess who got her pregnant?"

reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated <3