#((okay))

He doesn’t even pretend otherwise—because the moment he feels you reaching for him from behind, your hand barely brushing his lower abdomen, something in him snaps. That small touch, that quiet request, sends a dark, hungry heat rolling through him, and he leans over you like he’s already made up his mind.

And he doesn’t make it gentle.

“Look at you,” he mutters against your cheek, voice low and rough, like gravel sliding over heat. His arm tightens, wrapping around your face—flexing his bicep just because he knows what it does to you. “You get like this the second I touch you.”

You try to speak, but he shifts his pace— pounding into you slowly, deliberate—tilting your head back so your eyes meet his. Those red irises burn with that hungry, territorial look he only ever shows you.

He smirks.

“Yeaaaah, baby” he says, thumb brushing your jaw, “that’s the face I want.”

His other hand braces your waist with a possessive pressure that makes your breath stutter. He holds you there—completely, effortlessly—like he wants you to feel just how easily he can control the moment.

“Tell me,” he says, leaning in, “you want it rough tonight, don’t you?”

Sukuna doesn’t wait for an answer as he began his movements again—this time though, they weren’t considerate or gentle.

Your back arches under him as you near closer to your release, and he presses you down with an easy strength that makes your pulse jump. The way he moves against you is light and somehow heavy at the same time—controlled, dominating—each shift of his hips sending heat spiraling through your stomach.

“There it is,” he says. “My favorite reaction.”

And you couldn’t wish for anything more.