#fourarms

“Oh, I’ve been wanting to do this,” you snap, shoving a finger into his chest. “You act like the world owes you something just for breathing. Newsflash—being ancient doesn’t make you wise. Just old and insufferable.”

“You think you’re cute when you talk like this?”

You lean in close. “I know I am.”

He steps forward. You match it. Toe to toe. Breath to breath. Your bodies don’t touch, but the heat between them is nuclear.

“You don’t shut up.”

“You don’t listen.”

“I should end you.”

“You can’t.” You tilt your head. “That’s the part that really gets you, huh?”

He laughs once—sharp, mirthless. “You think I won’t snap you in half?”

You hum, running your fingers slowly up his sternum. “You haven’t yet.” wild-eyed and seething, toe to toe with him. “Do you ever stop being a psychotic, smug, tattooed—thing?”

He shrugs, totally unfazed. “Only when I’m inside you. You’re real quiet then.“

You blink. Then smile. The worst kind of smile.

“Oh, I was quiet?” you hum, stepping close enough that your breath touches his collarbone. “That wasn’t me begging, baby. That was me mocking how fast you were about to come.”

His jaw clenches. Just a flicker—but you catch it. And you pounce.

You run your hand up his chest, slow and casual like you’re not actively trying to set him on fire. “You hate that I talk back, huh? Hate that I don’t bow. That I touch you like you’re mine.”

“Don’t push me,” he growls, grabbing your wrist—but not moving it. Not really.

You smile wider. “Why not?”

“Because I will pin you down and shut that brat mouth so thoroughly you’ll forget how to argue.”

“Oh, now that sounds familiar…” you coo, stepping around him like a vulture, dragging your nails across his back. “Funny. That’s exactly what you did last time… Missionary, remember? How sweet of you.”

His head snaps toward you. “You said that just to piss me off.”

“I said it,” you purr, coming back around to his front, “because it’s true. You like looking me in the eye when I talk shit while you fuck me.”

You cup his jaw, gently. Deliberately.

“So we can keep arguing.”

Sukuna twitches like he’s two seconds from exploding.

“I swear,” he growls, voice low and ruined, “I will spawn my other set of arms just to hold down every cocky limb you’ve got and fuck the fight out of you.”

You moan quiet and fake and theatrical. And then your fingers slide to his sides. Lower. You hover them just above the faint raised scars, where the other two arms emerge when he goes full beast.

His breath catches.

You drag your fingers in a slow, sensual circle over them. Then down. Then up again. Featherlight.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, honey.”

He grabs your chin—hard. His face is inches from yours. He’s breathing heavy now, and not from anger. From restraint. His mouth parts once, twice, but nothing comes out.

You lean in, smug, sweet.

“Four hands,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his, “and still not enough to handle me.”

The room feels hot. Charged. Like lightning could strike from the ceiling.

“I could rip your soul out right now,” he mutters, low and hoarse.

You smile. “You won’t.”

His grip falters.

“I should leave you here,” he growls. “Make you wait.”

You laugh—light and dangerous, brushing your nose against his cheek. “You’re gonna kiss me instead.”

And he does. Not gently. Not sweet.

It’s all tongue, frustration, teeth clashing against yours, his hands bunching the back of your shirt like he wants to destroy it. Like he wants to destroy you.

But still your hands never leave the scars. Not for a second.

And the second he pulls away, breathing ragged, his voice gone wrecked—

You say it again. “Missionary.”

He exhales like you just stabbed him in the chest.

“You are so lucky I’m in love with you.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, tracing his scars again. “I am.”

He’s still breathing hard. So are you.

Your shirt is crumpled where his fists clung to it, his spit’s still on your tongue, and his kiss still burns like a bruise under your lips but you’re not backing down. Not even an inch.

“Missionary,” you whisper again, a soft lilt now. Like a lullaby designed to provoke murder.

Sukuna’s jaw tics. His hands curl at his sides, claws twitching like he’s fighting the urge to shred something—preferably clothing. Maybe the wall. Possibly you. For fun.

“You are so goddamn lucky,” he says, voice shot to hell, “that I don’t toss you through this wall and fuck you so deep you forget how to form vowels.”

You hum like that’s a bedtime story. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“It’s a warning.”

“Mm. I don’t do well with those.” Your fingers crawl back to the scars again—those raised, reverent places where his other arms live. “You keep giving me reasons to misbehave.”

“Touch those again and I will use them.”

“I’m counting on it.”

The tension snarls. You can feel it wrap around your throat—coiling like a noose, like a fuse. His aura shimmers off him in waves, and you know he’s this close to losing the last thread of patience he pretends to have.

So you tilt your head. You bring your fingers just under his jaw, tracing the underside of his throat, slow like molasses.

“C’mon, Sukuna,” you murmur, “you gonna pin me down again? Gag me? Hold me open with all four hands and tell me I should’ve known better?”

His eyes blaze. You know that look.

“You want it so bad,” you whisper, nose brushing his again, “but you’re scared you’ll make it too good and I’ll never shut the fuck up about it.”

A silence drops. Thick. Cold and hot at the same time. And then he lunges. Not to fuck. Not yet. To grab. One hand on your throat. Not choking—yet. Just holding. Testing the fit of your neck in his palm.

His other hand claws into your hip and yanks you forward until your bodies slam together.

“Do you want to be ruined?” he asks, low and guttural, his lips grazing your cheek. “Like truly. Completely. No dignity left. Just drooling and sobbing and begging me to stop.”

You smile like a goddamn devil. “You think I’d beg you to stop?”

Sukuna’s breath hitches. That’s the thing about you. You never mean to get under his skin—not really. But you live there now. Like a parasite with great legs and a worse attitude.

He exhales through his nose. “You’re not scared of me.”

“No baby,” you say, softly.

He stares at you. There’s something else beneath all the filth. Something wild. Terrified. A man with too many hands and too few people who can touch him without flinching.

“You should be,” he growls, but it comes out broken.

You just lean in, lips brushing the corner of his mouth, whispering like a secret you’re never taking back:

“Four hands. One attitude. Guess we’re both fucked.”

His mouth collides with yours again—but it’s different this time.

It’s desperate.

Like kissing is the only way he remembers he’s still here, and not some raging god spiraling through hell. His teeth catch your lower lip, then he sucks it between his like he’s punishing it. You groan, finally, and he grunts in reply—dragging you into him by your neck.

You let him. For a second.

And then? You laugh against his mouth.

He pulls back, panting. “What?”

You grin, breathless. “Still missionary.”

And this time— He actually growls.

You tilt your head at him, sweetly. “What, out of insults already?”

Sukuna exhales through his teeth. “You are not fucking normal.”

“Neither are you. We match.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You lean in, lips brushing his again, wicked and airy.

“You’re the one hard right now.”

His nostrils flare. His pupils twitch. He lifts one hand to cup your jaw, the other wrapping tight around your waist—and pulls you in like he might actually devour you this time. No grace. Just hunger. Rage. Need.

But you’re still not done. Still smiling.

Still gliding your fingers down his ribs, over his scars like they’re your favorite parts of him. Like you’ve already memorized every ridge. Every threat.

“You gonna grow those extra arms or just keep talkin’ about it?” you breathe, mouth right against his, all heat and venom. “Don’t be shy, big guy.”

Sukuna stills. You feel his body tense, coil—like a snake about to strike. And then you feel it.

A third hand.

Touching your side. Just below your ribs.

Still human-warm, but wrong. Slicker. Stronger. Thicker fingers that curl like they’ve waited all day to feel you squirm.

Your eyes go wide—and then you laugh. Loud. Giddy. Unbothered. Delighted. “Well, well, well…”

Sukuna’s smirk is damn near lethal.

The fourth hand slithers into place around your throat before you can blink—tight, hot, thumb resting on your pulse like it’s claiming territory.

“Fucking warned you,” he growls, voice so low it buzzes against your lips.

You can’t stop laughing. “Oh my god,” you gasp, breathless. “You really pulled the freak card.”

He squeezes your throat just enough to make your knees buckle, and you gasp, eyes rolling back for half a second before he lets go—slowly. Teasingly. Just enough pressure to feel it, not enough to hurt.

The third hand slides lower, palm flattening over your stomach now. Exploring. Teasing.

The top two hands? One still fists your shirt. The other cups your face with surprising gentleness, like he wants to ruin you soft. You shudder under him. But not in fear. He sees it. Feels it. And smirks wider.

“I should tie you to this wall,” he says, voice half a purr, half a threat. “One arm for each wrist. One for that mouth. And one for—”

Your fingers cover his lips.

“No spoilers,” you whisper, eyes gleaming. “I want to be surprised.”

His tongue flicks out to lick your fingers.

You gasp and he laughs, finally, devil-deep and satisfied.

“You’re a menace,” he says.

“You’re obsessed with me.”

Another hand cups the back of your thigh. Lifts. Pins.

You hiss, more breath than sound, but he hears it.

“I could fuck you right here,” he says, mouth dragging along your jaw. “Up against this wall. No warmup. Just all four arms holding you wide open, writhing, drooling.”

You moan. Accidentally. He grins against your neck. “That’s what I thought.”

But you’re still not backing down. You whisper, teeth sharp, voice barely audible:

“Still missionary, though.”

His whole body goes rigid. All four hands tighten in different places. His breath catches—growls—and he bites your collarbone. Not enough to break skin. Just enough to warn.

“You little shit,” he whispers, hot and close.

You smile. “Prove me wrong, then.”

You’re pinned.

One thigh hoisted against the wall.

One hand wrapped around your throat.

One cupping your ass, fingers digging in like they’re claiming it.

The fourth? Cruising slow and low along your inner thigh, the promise of filth curling closer with every second.

You’re barely breathing now—partly from the grip on your throat, mostly from the way he’s staring at you like he wants to break something inside you. Something soft.

“You’re not even fighting me anymore,” Sukuna murmurs, gaze dragging down your face to your lips, then to your chest. “What happened, brat?”

You try to smirk. Fail.

Because he ruts against you—slow and heavy, hips rolling into yours with dangerous precision, like he’s testing how far he can go without you losing your damn mind.

Your head tips back with a moan that’s barely masked.

“Hmm,” he hums, one of his hands sliding up under your shirt now, trailing over bare skin. “Thought you had all that attitude, baby. Where’d it go?”

You gasp, fingers gripping his shoulders as another hand—you’ve lost track of which one now—grabs your jaw and makes you look at him.

“I’m waiting,” he says, low and sharp. “Say something. C’mon. One more smartass comment. I dare you.“

So you whisper— “…Still missionary.”

He slams his hips into you so hard your breath flies out in a noise between a whimper and a laugh, and then all four hands tighten—one on your throat, one hauling your thigh higher, one up your shirt now, playing with your nipple through your bra, and the last sneaking between your thighs, palm pressing right against the heat of you through your pants.

“You just don’t shut the fuck up,” he growls, voice guttural, ruined, desperate now. “And you think that makes you powerful?”

You’re panting. Wet. Nearly trembling. But your smile stays. Smug. Addicted.

“I think,” you whisper, “you love it.”

Sukuna bares his teeth—grinning like a predator—but his hands never stop. One drags your shirt up, baring your stomach, then higher, watching goosebumps ripple across your skin.

“You like being pinned?” he asks.

“Obviously.”

“You like my hands?”

“Which one?”

He laughs. Low. Sick. Like it hurts. “Oh you’re so fucked.”

The fourth hand—the one between your thighs—starts grinding against you now. Slow at first. Then firmer. Then circling, dragging obscene pressure where you need it most, making your hips buck without permission.

“You’re soaking through,” he mutters, breath ghosting your neck. “All talk until I touch you, huh?”

You moan, soft and strangled. He doesn’t let up.

“You’re gonna come like this?” he taunts. “Dry. Clothes on. Four hands holding you in place. Not even fucked yet.”

You try to snap back. Something, anything—

But he tightens the hand at your throat and you whimper.

“Oh yeah,” he purrs, “there’s the brat breaking.”

You claw at his chest now, nails dragging down his tattoos, desperate to ground yourself but it only fuels him.

One hand wraps in your hair, yanking your head back.

“You gonna beg?” he asks. “Say please?”

You stare at him. Breathless. Eyes wide. “No.”

He grins. “Then I’m not stopping.”

And he doesn’t. Not for a while.

Not until your hips stutter and your mouth parts and your eyes glaze—and then you moan, loud and broken, hips grinding down against the pressure of his palm.

And Sukuna? He groans like it physically affects him.

Your back hits the mattress so hard the bed screams. Not that you hear it over your own laughter—full, wild, manic.

Sukuna is on you like a curse with a mission. Clothes? Ripped. Shirt? Gone. Pants? Shredded like paper under clawed hands. Your bra snaps and flies halfway across the room. Your underwear—barely survives the first yank before it’s just strips.

And still you’re laughing.

“You think this is funny?” Sukuna snarls, eyes glowing, crouched between your legs like the beast he is.

You throw your arms around his neck, yank him down, and whisper sweet as sin: “As I told you… you little bitch—” And moan. Loud. Like you planned it that way.

Your laugh follows—louder now, wrecked, breathless, as your legs hook around his waist and your hips roll up, lining him up perfectly. His cock drags through your slick folds like a fucking promise, heavy, thick, pulsing.

He growls. You grin.

And then he slams in.

All four hands grip something. He’s everywhere, and deep, and you scream like it’s an exorcism. “Yeah?” he snarls, hips crashing into you with brute force, breath hissing against your mouth. “You want missionary, you get it.”

His hands grab your legs, folding you up beneath him, knees pinned to your chest like he’s trying to bury you into the mattress and break something sacred.

You moan again louder, higher—because fuck, it hits so good.

“Look at me,” he growls. “You talk all that shit, now look at me while I ruin your fuckin’ life.”

And you do. Eyes locking. Mouth open. Drool slipping down the corner of your lips as your body jerks with every goddamn slam of his hips.

“You’re shaking,” he mutters, one hand sliding between your bodies, thumb pressing hard against your clit as he fucks you deeper.

“I’m coming, dumbass—” you cry out, laughing through it, stars exploding behind your eyes.

Your body convulses, legs spasming in his grip—and he doesn’t stop. Just drives in deeper. Harder. Like a punishment. Like a gift.

“You said missionary like it was an insult,” he spits, watching your tits bounce, your chest heaving, your mouth open in wrecked moans. “But this—this—is how I make you mine.”

One hand leaves your jaw, slides to your throat again—tight, warm.

“You love it,” he hisses.

You whimper, mouth twitching in a smile even as your eyes roll back. “I love… making you mad.”

His hips slam forward—your whole body jolts. He’s twitching inside you now, thick, stretched, relentless. Another hand leaves your wrist, slides under your thigh and lifts, changing the angle just enough to hit everything.

You scream, choking on air and pleasure and his name.

“Who’s the little bitch now?” he grunts.

“I still am,” you sob through a laugh. “You’re just my bitch.”

And he loses it. He bends down, presses his forehead to yours, teeth bared.

“Say it again.”

“My bitch.”

He snaps his hips—once, twice—cruel, fast, right against your sweet spot and suddenly you’re gasping, clawing at him, your whole body arching into a second orgasm you didn’t see coming. Your brain short-circuits. He fucks you through it. Won’t stop. You cry. Tears stream sideways down your temples.

He kisses them. “You gonna keep laughing now?” he pants, chest heaving, still moving inside you. “Or you done being a little shit?”

You try to laugh—but it comes out a sob.

And then quietly. Stupid. Soft. “…I love you, you fucking freak.”

He freezes. For just a second. And then leans in. Real close. Smirks. “I know.” And keeps fucking you.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t pause.

Not when you say I love you, not when your body trembles beneath him, not when tears streak hot and shining from your temples down into your hair. He just fucks you harder.

“You don’t get to say that,” Sukuna grunts, hips crashing into yours with bruising rhythm. “Not after all that shit. Not after missionary. Not after ‘you little bitch.’”

You try to respond, but all that comes out is a half-scream, half-laugh—wrecked and wet and dizzy. Your body won’t stop convulsing. His cock drives in deep, so deep, over and over, hitting the same spot, splitting you open like he’s trying to brand it.

“You’re crying,” he mocks, panting. “Aw, what’s wrong, sweetheart? Can’t take it?”

One of his hands cups the back of your head like a lover. Another still clamps your thigh wide, shaking from how hard it’s being held open. One presses down on your stomach like he wants to feel himself move inside you. The fourth is still at your throat, controlling your breath.

“I can take it—” you gasp, barely able to speak.

He slams in again. You choke on a moan.

“Really?” he growls. “Because your pussy’s twitching like she’s about to give out.”

You let out a sobbing laugh. “You’re—fucking obsessed.”

And he smirks. “No shit.”

His mouth comes down—biting your neck, your shoulder, your mouth. He devours your lips like he owns them. Like he needs them to stay alive.

He’s losing it. You can feel it. His rhythm is messier, desperate, still brutal but shaky—like the tension he built in you is finally snapping back at him.

“Say it again,” he pants. “Say you love me while I’m splitting you in two.”

You can barely breathe. Barely see. But you do it.

“Sukuna,” you whisper, a broken, feral grin twisting your lips. “I love you—I fucking love you—”

He groans. Your whole body jerks when he slams in one last time—so deep you swear it hits your damn soul—and he stays there, grinding slow and hard, like he wants to fuse with you from the inside.

His cock throbs, twitching and then hot release floods you, thick and endless. You moan so loud it breaks into a sob, eyes fluttering shut, muscles spasming uncontrollably around him.

And Sukuna still doesn’t pull out. “You take it,” he breathes, hips still moving in little thrusts. “Fucking brat. You take all of it.”

Your legs twitch. Your voice is gone. The hand on your stomach slides down—over your soaked, ruined pussy—and pushes down on your clit again. You shriek. “S-Stop—” you hiccup-laugh, tears falling faster, voice cracked. “You’ll break me—”

“You’re not broken yet,” he growls, staring down at you, sweat dripping off his jaw. “So I’m not done.”

You scream again—sharp, feral—as your third orgasm rips through you with no warning.

He leans down, all four arms still holding you wide, mouth at your ear. And whispers “I love you too, baby.”

Then he fucks you through it again.

You don’t even remember the second time he came.

You think it happened somewhere between your fourth orgasm and the moment he shoved your thighs so far up, you saw stars. Maybe you blacked out for a second. Maybe your body just gave in. You’re not sure.

All you know is— He was loud.

So loud.

And when he finally spilled again inside you, it was with a growl that sounded like it came from the deepest part of his chest. Like it hurt. Like it healed something.

Then he collapsed on top of you.

Heavy. Breathless.

You could barely feel your legs. Your throat was sore. You were soaked, bruised, shaking, and still grinning like a lunatic even as your brain stopped functioning.

He moved.

Not away. No, no, never away.

He hovered up, looked at you. Really looked at you. Still inside, still catching his breath, all four hands trembling from the tension finally spilling out of him. You blinked at him—dry mouth, fucked-out, mascara ruined, cheeks wet with tears you didn’t remember shedding.

“…S’kuna?”

“Shh,” he said, eyes impossibly soft. “Don’t talk.”

He kissed you. Gently.

Just once. Then once more, right in the center of your forehead.

You flinched a little when he pulled out, groaning low as his release leaked from you, down your thigh, onto the sheets. You squirmed. He caught your hips with all four hands and stilled you.

“Don’t move,” he said, firm but quiet.

“Sukuna, I—”

“Shut up, brat. I got you.”

And then he was gone—only for a second.

When he came back, it was with a wet cloth, a clean towel, and the kind of focus you’d expect from a doctor. Not a war god with four arms and a reputation for eviscerating people who blink wrong.

He kneeled between your thighs like he hadn’t just ruined you. Like he hadn’t mocked you for crying and then kissed every single tear off your face.

And he cleaned you.

Gently. Unbearably gently.

He didn’t speak, just pressed the warm cloth to your inner thighs, wiping carefully where you were red and trembling and raw. Every few seconds, he’d pause just to look at you—like you might vanish if he blinked.

You groaned once when he dabbed between your legs too tenderly.

His thumb traced your hip. “I know.”

You exhaled, trying to sit up. He shoved you back down with two hands flat to your chest. “Lie down.”

“Sukuna—”

“I said lie down.” His voice dropped, but his gaze stayed soft. “You let me break you. Now let me fix you.”

That shouldn’t have made your chest ache.

But it did.

He kept going, cleaning every inch of you like a man possessed. Towel under your hips, cloth dragging slowly over sticky, sensitive skin. When he was satisfied, he tossed it aside, pulled a blanket up—and then slid in next to you.

Wrapped himself around you. Head on your shoulder. Legs tangled with yours. One hand on your stomach, one under your head, one gripping your thigh like a leash, and the fourth gently brushing your hair behind your ear.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly—like a secret he hated giving up: “…I meant it.”

You turned your head, dazed. “What?”

His mouth hovered over yours. “I love you too.”

You blinked.

And he smiled. Too sweet. Too soft. Like he might eat your heart just to make sure it never loved anyone else.

Then, whispered against your cheek: “You say ‘missionary’ one more time and I’m bending you over everything you own.”

You wheezed. But all you could do was nuzzle into him. Whimpering. Laughing. And when he felt your body relax completely under all four arms he pulled the blanket tighter.

And kissed your shoulder like it was the only thing that ever kept him sane.

You enjoyed yourself. I will not make you admit it.

The Masterlist is right here, pretty thing. If you still want more, Requests are open.

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