The morning sun had just begun to crawl over the city skyline, its rays filtering through the massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Golden streaks of light painted the sleek marble floors and cast soft, radiant lines across your bare thighs as you padded barefoot around the open kitchen. The quiet thrum of a lazy playlist hummed through the speakers, something mellow and seductive that made it impossible not to sway your hips in time with the beat.
Sukuna’s shirt clung to your frame like a second skin. Oversized, threadbare from years of use, the once crisp fabric now softened and stretched from being worn too many times. The hem barely skimmed the underside of your ass, lifting just a little more with every sway of your hips, threatening to show more than it hid. The sleeves, far too long for you, drooped over your elbows, occasionally forcing you to shove them back just to hold the spatula properly.
You hadn’t realized how much the scent of him lingered in the cotton, distinctly him nor how instinctively you’d pulled it from the floor last night, slipping into it as you left the bed. It was comforting and somehow addictive in a sense.
What you did notice? The eggs were close to burning.
“Shit!” You flipped them over with a frustrated huff, hips still swaying slightly to the rhythm echoing in the air. Too wrapped up in saving your breakfast, you didn’t hear the creak of the bedroom door. Didn’t catch the slow, barefoot steps padding up behind you, deliberate and heavy, like he had all the time in the world.
But you did hear his voice.
“Well, well,” Sukuna drawled, voice thick with amusement. “Is that my shirt you’ve got on?”
You jumped, spatula nearly flying. “Holy shit, Sukuna! That’s one way to kill someone, scare ‘em into cardiac arrest.”
He didn’t laugh. He just leaned against the counter, watching you like he was starving. Eyes dragging over your frame with that sinful smirk tugging at his lips.
“Looks good on you,” he murmured, arms folding, tattoos twitching along his forearms as he shifted.
You blinked, cheeks heating. “Love it?” You turned, half shy, half teasing and did a playful little spin, spatula still in hand. “Might keep it forever.”
His eyes raked down your body, slow and unapologetic. “Tch. Might be a little too short,” he muttered, voice low and dark. “Not that I’m complaining.”
You raised a brow. “Problem?”
“That breakfast’s about to run cold,” he muttered, stalking closer. “That pan can wait. But you?” A smirk tugged at his lips. “You’ll be gasping against this counter before I’m through.”
He was already walking toward you before you could shoot back something snarky.
His fingers ghosted up your thighs as he stood behind you, large hands gripping your hips, thumbs pressing just above the hem of his shirt. You gasped as he tugged the fabric up, exposing skin inch by inch, watching your breath hitch when he found out you weren’t wearing anything underneath.
"This how you act when I’m not watching? Shameless little thing." His voice was low, rasping now, hot in your ear. “You trying to get fucked over breakfast, sweetheart?”
You were already bracing against the edge of the counter when he kicked your legs apart with his knee.
“I was cooking,” you whispered, breath stuttering as his hand slid between your thighs, fingers already stroking you with purpose. “You’re distracting me.”
“You distracted me first,” he said. “Tch. Like hell I could sleep with you flaunting yourself like that. Keep tempting me like that and I’ll make sure you can’t walk straight today.”
You gasped as his fingers teased you, circling but never quite giving. “Didn’t mean to-”
“Yes, you did.” He grabbed a fistful of your hair and pressed you down against the cold marble of the countertop, your cheek hitting it with a soft thud. His other hand pulled the shirt up past your waist and bunched it at your back. “You fucking did.”
You moaned into the counter, heat pooling between your legs. Sukuna’s breath fanned your ear as he leaned over you, his voice dripping with dominance. “Bet you’re wet already. All because I looked at you.”
Well, he's not wrong.
Two fingers slipped inside you, slow and deep, and your back arched, body desperate for more. He was relentless, curling his fingers just right, enjoying the sound of your muffled moans against the countertop.
“So messy,” he murmured. “Dripping all over my fucking shirt. How am I supposed to let you finish cooking now?”
“I-I wasn’t even done with the eggs-”
“Cry about it later,” he cut in, voice rough, dark with amusement.
You barely had time to react before he yanked your hips back, sweatpants already shoved low on his hips. One hand gripped your waist, the other guiding himself to your entrance and then he pushed in with one brutal thrust.
The air vanished from your lungs. The stretch ached, delicious and overwhelming. Your fingers scrambled for the edge of the counter, nails biting into the surface as he set a vicious pace, fucking you like he owned every part of you.
“Wait- Sukuna, fuck, I-”
He curled a fist in your hair and pulled, just enough to tilt your head back toward his mouth.
“Shut up and take it,” he snarled. “You look better like this anyway. Bent over my counter, dripping for me, still wearing my shirt like you’re fucking mine.”
His hips slammed forward again, hard enough to make the plates rattle.
“Shit,” you whimpered, “it’s too-”
“Too what?” he growled, lips brushing your ear. “Too good? Too deep? Too fucking late now.”
You couldn’t even form words. All you could do was take it, his thrusts punishing, his grip bruising, your toes curling against the cold tile.
“Look at you,” he breathed. “I’m not even halfway done, sweetheart.”
You whimpered, lost in it, in him. Sukuna was the kind of man who fucked like he was claiming something ancient like this was a rite, a ritual.
Each thrust carved his name into you, deeper than anything ink or words could reach.
The shirt you wore, or rather his shirt was soon tugged roughly over your head and flung somewhere across the kitchen.
“You don't need that anyway,” he muttered, voice rough as he pressed his body fully against yours, skin to skin.
His hand splayed across your stomach, holding you steady while he leaned in, mouth dragging down your spine. The contrast of his lips against your burning skin made you tremble, and then he bit right between your shoulder blades, enough to make you flinch.
"You tremble like a maiden touched for the first time. Pathetic." he murmured, kissing over the sting before moving lower.
You gasped, another helpless whimper spilling from your lips when his hands slid up to grope your chest, rough and possessive, thumbs teasing over sensitive skin. His teeth grazed your nape, and then he sank lower, mouthing at the curve of your shoulder.
Your arms were trembling, slick with sweat, barely keeping you up as his thrusts grew rougher and deeper, each one punching the breath from your lungs. You could hear the wet slap of skin, feel the way your walls clenched greedily around him. He groaned, low and dangerous behind you.
“Fuck look at you,” he gritted out, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. “Milking me like it’s all you know how to do.”
Your moan cracked mid breath. “Kuna..”
He cut you off with a sharp tug to your hair, forcing your head back. “Don’t you dare- just take it. Take everything.”
You were unraveling fast, your body coiled tight, vision blurring as heat built in your core.
He must’ve felt it too, the way you clenched harder with every thrust. “Just like that,” he rasped, breath hot on your ear. “Make a mess all over this fucking counter.”
And when you did, shaking and gasping, he didn’t let up. He chased his own high through yours, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a savage curse.
You barely had time to catch your breath, body still trembling and skin flushed when Sukuna finally pulled back, dragging one last kiss along your shoulder. His hand lazily grazed over your hip then landed a sharp slap to your ass, the sound cracking through the kitchen as he stepped away, exhaling through his nose like he’d just conquered a battlefield.
He glanced at the stove, then clicked his tongue.
“Burnt the damn eggs,” he muttered. “Breakfast’s fucked.”
You let out a shaky breath, slowly pushing yourself upright on unsteady arms, still dazed and aching as you reached for the hem of his discarded shirt. Your fingers fumbled a bit, but you managed to slip it back over your head, lips curling into a weak, breathless smirk as you glanced over your shoulder at him.
“…Didn’t hear you complaining about the main course.”
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Heian Era! True Form! Sukuna x Servant! Fem! Reader
‧₊ ᵎᵎ 1.9k words
⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ Summary:
Waking up from a bad dream, your first instinct is to reach for Sukuna.
Whatever he is, a monster or something darker, you’ve learned to tolerate him, even live with him after he burned your village to ashes and took you under his wing.
You serve him in all the ways he deems useful, but that doesn’t mean you’re through yet. After all, you’re just trying to survive.
And apparently, even the worst dreams can feel better than reality.
Screams tore through the air, jagged and raw until they dissolved into the hungry roar of the fire. You ran barefoot over splintered earth as the smoke clawed down your throat. Your mother’s voice called your name once, twice, before it was swallowed whole by the collapse of your home.
You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. The stench of charred flesh stuck to you like a curse.
And then, nothing.
You jolted awake, breath tearing in and out of your lungs, the phantom heat still clinging to your skin. The room was dark, lit only by the slow burn of braziers in the corners. Shadows clung to carved pillars, the air heavy with incense and something metallic beneath it. The walls seemed to press in, not claustrophobic but watchful like the place itself knew who ruled here.
Ryomen Sukuna’s chambers were not meant for rest. It is a place where only the worthy lingered, and only at his will.
You had earned your place here.
A cook, a cleaner, a strategist, someone sharp enough to keep pace with his mind, and someone skilled enough in your own cursed technique to make yourself indispensable.
He had taken you under his wing when he found you, the sole survivor crawling through the ashes of the village he’d just burned. Since then, you had been many things to him. Sort of a weapon, a company, someone to bear the brunt of his temper and someone to warm his bed when it pleased him. You cooked, you cleaned, you thought fast, you fought faster.
Above all, you endured him.
Tonight, you were here for another reason: guard duty. Your technique heightened your senses beyond the ordinary. You're able to catch the faintest disturbances before they breached the threshold.
Sleeping in his chambers meant you could react before a threat even existed. But tonight… the threat had been only in your head.
You shifted on your mat near the door, heart still refusing to settle. It was ridiculous, you knew, to be this rattled over a dream when you had seen far worse in waking life. Still, your gaze drifted to the futon in the center of the room, the faint rise and fall of the figure sprawled there.
You stood before you could stop yourself.
“Lord Sukuna-”
His eyes snapped open, red cutting through the dark like a blade. “What the hell?”
“I… it was a bad dream, and I thought I should-”
“You woke me up because of a fucking bad dream?” The words were a growl, incredulous and edged with irritation, as if the very idea offended him.
You froze, then gave the smallest nod.
He studied you, the stiffness in your posture and the faint tremor in your hands. His lip curled, a sliver of amusement breaking through the irritation. “Seriously? You’re paranoid again, aren’t you?”
“It felt real,” you murmured, gaze falling to the floor as if the weight of your own words shamed you.
“I told you that shit’s just in your head.” He let out a low and humorless laugh, the sound dripping with mockery. “Pathetic.”
You bowed your head, the instinct to retreat kicking in. He was right, you were here to protect him, not burden him with childish fears. You turned back toward your mat.
“Come here."
You stopped, glancing over your shoulder.
“I said,” his voice dropped lower, “come here. Let me prove you’re safe.”
You approached, tentative steps crunching against the silence. His gaze tracked you the whole way, unblinking, like a predator indulging a trembling prey. When you reached him, you half expected him to pull you in at once but instead, he shifted just enough to make space beside him, the smallest invitation.
You sank down, wordless, the air between you thick. His eyes never left yours, and you could feel them even as you tried to glance away. Slowly, two of his hands rose to your shoulders, heavy and grounding.
“It’s just a dream,” he murmured, voice a low rumble. “You get that?”
You nodded, a small and reluctant tilt of your head.
He leaned in, not enough to kiss but close enough for the barest brush of his lips to ghost against your temple. The warmth of him lingered there for a beat, and then he eased you back, guiding you to lie down. When your head touched the pillow, his touch withdrew.
Guilt prickled at you. Waking him for this suddenly felt foolish. The irrational fear still coiled in your gut though, the reminder that you were stuck here with him in moments like these.
You turned away, curling on your side, facing away from him. The mattress dipped with your weight, but the air around you grew still again. Sleep threatened to reclaim you.
And then..
A firm tug on your waist pulled you backward until your spine met the solid heat of his chest. His breath fanned over the shell of your ear, each exhale warm and deliberate. His arms encircled your waist, both of them, until you realized there were more.
His third hand slipped beneath the fabric of your yogi, hooking under your top leg and pulling it up until your foot found the mattress for balance. The position left you open and helpless, his fingers dragging over your folds with maddening patience.
The fourth hand slid to the curve of your neck, palm spanning it, thumb under your jaw, the weight and pressure coaxing your head back toward his mouth.
“Close your eyes… I’ll give you something better to dream about.”
When he spoke, his voice wasn’t loud, it was intimate. Every syllable sank into your skin before it reached your ears, the kind of tone that made your pulse stumble. You could feel the weight of him shift closer until the heat of his body was a solid wall against your back, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.
A breath hitched in your throat, spilling out as a soft, involuntary moan. “Lord Suku-”
“Feel that?” His whisper was molten, dragging slow over your nerves. “You’re warmer when you’re scared… I like that.”
Two fingers traced along your folds with a practiced familiarity, unhurried yet certain as though he’d memorized every way your body reacted. The rough pads of his fingers caught on the slickness there, knowing exactly how to coax your muscles into tightening under his touch. Your legs threatened to close the gap, instinctively trying to push away from the overwhelming sensation, but his grip kept you open, forcing you to take every stroke.
His lips lingered beside your ear, pressing a trail of messy, noisy pecks along the sensitive skin just behind it, each one damp and deliberate. The wet sounds mingled with your ragged breaths, his mouth dotting your neck like he wanted to mark every flinch and shiver that ran through you.
On the other hand (literally), his fingers slid deeper between your folds, sinking in just enough to make your hips twitch. The slow press made it impossible to think straight, your walls fluttering helplessly around him, his chest pressed flush to your back, arm hooked around your waist to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
“Please sukuna.. I can’t hold it anymore-” the admission slipped out between ragged breaths.
“Pathetic little thing,” he murmured almost to himself, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “You’re not gonna come until I say so.”
Sukuna’s grip tightened, thumbs pressing into your clit just enough to make you gasp.
“I’m gonna- fuck.. just move, please.”
“Ah-ah,” he drawled, “don’t start squirming now. I said you’ll come when I let you.”
His hands loosened from your waist only to find the knot of your yogi, tugging it free in one sharp pull. The fabric parted under his touch, slipping from your frame until it hung loose at your shoulders, baring you entirely. His eyes darkened at the sight, a smirk curving his lips.
“Going around with nothing under this… just for me?,” he murmured, the words dripping with approval. “Good. Saves me the trouble of tearing them off you.”
Your thighs twitched against the grip of his hands, muscles trembling with the effort of keeping still. Every nerve screamed for release, your hips shifting despite yourself, chasing friction only for his hold to tighten in warning.
A choked whimper slipped from your lips before you could stop it, your fingers digging into the thick muscle of his forearms.
“I.. I won’t,” you gasped, shaking your head, voice breaking with need. “I won’t do it again.. please..”
His mouth curved into something cruel, eyes glinting like he already knew you were lying.
“What was that?” he taunted, voice deep and unhurried. “Can’t hear you when you’re whining like that. Speak properly.”
You tried again, hips jerking despite the punishing hold on you. “Please, Sukuna, I’ll be good- I..I promise.”
“Beg,” he ordered, and you realized he hadn’t slowed for even a second. If anything, his pace was merciless. Heat coiled tighter and unbearable, until he slid another thick finger inside you, stretching you wide.
"That’s cute," he drawled. In one swift motion, both of the hands gripping your waist slid to the back of your yogi hunging loose on your shoulder before tearing them apart, the fabric splitting open under his strength. The seam gave way first, then the rest followed, shredded in seconds, scraps falling onto the mattress, some scattering across the floor. With the back ripped wide, you were left completely bare, nothing between you and him. "Try again, brat."
"Suk- Lord Sukuna, m-may I please come?"
The hand on your neck gripped tighter, cutting off just enough air to make your vision spark. You squirmed under him, muscles trembling, but you persisted, voice breaking into desperate gasps. "Please… Lord Su..kuna. I-I’ll do anything you need, just let me-"
A slow and cruel smirk curved his mouth. "Pathetic little thing… you sound just right when you’re begging." His grip eased just enough for you to gasp for breath. "Go on then, make it messy."
The flood of sensation was overwhelming, every touch, every stroke, every whisper driving you closer to the edge. Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling unevenly, your body trembling under the weight of all the pleasure.
Then without warning, the two large hands that had been gripping your waist slid upward settling firmly over your breasts. The added pressure, the slick glide of his fingers sent sparks shooting straight through you, intensifying everything tenfold.
You could feel it building, the tight coil inside you winding faster and faster, until finally with a shuddering gasp, you came undone, your whole body folding into the delicious release.
Panting still, chasing ragged breaths that wouldn’t come fast enough to calm your racing heart, you thought it was over.
But just when you thought it was over, the dark, amused voice rumbled low beside your ear, “Good girl...”
Your breath was still ragged when you felt the shift, no time to rest. Without a word, his grip tightened on your hips, pulling you up and spinning you around sharply. Before you could react, he shoved you forward, chest pressed to the mattress, ass raised high.
“On all fours,” Sukuna commanded. His wicked grin spread wide as his eyes darkened with hunger and control. “You haven’t taken my cock yet.”
── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ── ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ── ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
this one's inspired by a tiktok video i saw and since i'm a certified sukuna gooner through and through, i can't let this idea slide.
You’ve got an exam to cram for but Sukuna had other plans who's determined to remind you that no amount of studying can keep him from having your attention.
Night had long since settled, the glow of your desk lamp the only thing keeping the room from falling into complete darkness.
The air was still heavy with the remnants of earlier, clothes tossed carelessly to the side and the sheets behind you rumpled, carrying the faint warmth of Sukuna’s body. He hadn’t bothered to put much back on afterward, just lounging in nothing but his boxers, sprawled across your bed like a king on his throne.
You, on the other hand, had forced yourself into motion the second you remembered the mountain of readings waiting for you. With an exam looming tomorrow, guilt clawed at you until you left his arms for the desk trading his heat for the cold blue glow of your laptop screen. Now here you were, hair still a little mussed, skin still humming from his touch, sitting cross legged in nothing but your undies and an oversized shirt, highlighters scattered across open pages.
Minutes had turned into hours, the sound of pages flipping and your pen scribbling filling the silence.
Sukuna had been watching at first, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement at your determination. But amusement quickly soured into impatience.
His eyes followed every shift of your body, every little frown on your lips and every stretch of bare thigh under the desk light. You had no idea what kind of restraint it took for him not to haul you back into bed right then and there.
Finally, his patience snapped.
The scrape of sound against tile made you jolt, the sudden pull of your chair breaking your focus. Before you could even protest, your seat was spun halfway around. Sukuna loomed over you, leaning down until his shadow swallowed you whole, his scent and his heat pressing into your space. One hand gripped the armrest of your chair, the other came down hard on the desk beside you, pinning you in place as easily as if you were prey.
“You’ve been at this all night,” he rumbled, voice laced with both irritation and something darker.
His hand slid from the armrest to your bare thigh, fingers gripping firmly at the upper part before caressing the sensitive skin, the pressure just shy of bruising. His tongue clicked against his teeth, mocking and impatient all at once. “Don’t tell me you’d rather fuck around with these books than pay attention to me.”
Your lips parted, a weak protest dying before it could leave your mouth. He was too close, too much, the raw weight of him pushing against your already frayed nerves.
You hadn’t been ignoring him, not exactly. But hours had passed since he’d had you tangled up in his sheets and from the look in his eyes, Sukuna wasn’t interested in being ignored anymore.
“Sukuna,” you murmured, reaching up to cup one side of his face, your thumb brushing along his cheekbone before dragging lightly over his bottom lip. The warmth of him made your chest flutter but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “I can’t fail this test, I gotta study.”
For a moment, he only stared, eyes half lidded as your thumb teased over his mouth. Then his lips parted, catching the pad of your thumb between his teeth in a lazy bite that sent a jolt down your spine. He kissed it afterward, smug and sultry all at once.
“Mm. And here I thought you just enjoyed torturing me,” he muttered. Then he leaned down, pressing his mouth against yours, slow and hungry, stealing your breath before you could form another excuse.
When he pulled back, a wicked grin curved his lips. “Shit… academic stress looks strangely hot on you. No wonder you’re so damn irresistible tonight.” His hand squeezed your thigh again, sliding higher just enough to make your pulse stutter before easing away. “But-” his voice dipped low, “if you’re that serious, I’ll let you study. Doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere.”
With that, Sukuna gripped your chair and spun you back toward the desk, the motion abrupt enough to make your papers shuffle. He stayed close, towering behind you, his heat blanketing your back. With a quiet exhale, you steadied your pen again, eyes dragging back to the notes in front of you determined to push on with your studies even with him looming so close.
“Tch. Look at you,” he drawled, fingers brushing through your hair before gathering it in his hands. “Cute. Bet you're still dripping from me yet still pretending those books matter.”
“Cute. You’re a real comedian, Sukuna.” you shot back, not even looking up.
The brush of his knuckles at the nape of your neck made your breath catch. He tugged gently, gathering your hair then deftly twisted it back, tying it into a loose hold with the band that had been sitting forgotten on the desk. His touch wasn’t delicate, Sukuna was never delicate but it was sure, careful in its own way, pulling your strands out of your face so you could focus.
He leaned down as he worked, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “There. Pretty little thing, all tied up neat.” He smirked against your skin, voice dripping with heat.
One of his hands braced against your desk, the weight of him sinking into the wood, while the other curled around your neck, not squeezing but firm enough to guide and to remind you of just how easily he could pull you back into him. He tilted your face a fraction closer, his breath hot against your cheek. “Now I can see your neck when I lean over you. Don’t tempt me, or I’ll mark it up while you’re reciting whatever boring shit you’re cramming.”
“Wow, real supportive. Gonna drool on my notes too?” you shot back, eyes flicking up to meet his as you tilted your head just enough to catch his expression.
“Go on. Study. I’ll keep my hands busy for now. But when you’re done…” His teeth grazed your skin before his mouth trailed up, lips pressing a lingering kiss just behind your ear. The hand he had wrapped around your neck tilted your head, granting him perfect access to your throat, to the vulnerable spot he claimed with heat and purpose. His voice dropped low, almost a growl. “I’ll fuck every bit of that review right out of your head later.”
Meanwhile, the hand braced on your desk wasn’t still, fingers curling closer until they brushed the hem of your shirt, teasing lower. The faintest ghost of a touch skimmed over your entrance, not enough to distract entirely but enough to remind you of exactly what he intended once your studying ended.
Or will you?
── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ── ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ── ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
RAAAAAAH i missed writing my glorious king sukuna !! 𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯
this one’s dark, twisted and all consuming. this is my personal vignette of what sukuna might be like as a lover: possessive, cruel, and controlling in the most unholy ways. expect violence, pain, and praise wrapped in the kind of devotion that hurts.
please read at your own risk. if any of this sounds uncomfortable, feel free to scroll.
⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ Contents:
Read At Your Own Risk!, MDNI 18+, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Dom! Sukuna, Sub! Reader, Mention of Blood, Mention of Violence, Slight Physical Violence, Possessive Behavior, Riding, Degradation, Praise, Restraint
Sukuna wasn’t affectionate.
He didn’t cradle. He didn’t kiss you like he missed you. He didn’t call you “mine” with tenderness. No, when Sukuna claimed you, it was with blood and a splash of violence like owning you meant conquering you.
You weren’t a lover. You were his favorite possession.
His pet. His plaything. His prize.
He fucked you when he wanted, how he wanted, with no need for rhythm or care.
If you were lucky? He’d let you earn the right to touch him back.
Most days, your hands weren’t even allowed to graze his skin, not without permission.
And on nights like this, when you were needy, soaked through with desperation, begging for more?
He didn’t give in. He gave opportunity.
“Get on my lap,” he said. “You want it? Then work for it.”
That’s how you found yourself here: naked, shaking, and straddling the King of Curses like a trembling little sacrifice. Your wrists pinned behind your back, his nails tight around your throat.
He hadn’t moved once.
This was all you.
You’re already on him.
Naked and gasping, straddling his lap as if the throne was built for this, for you. For your knees digging into cursed stone. For your body trembling from effort. For the sound of skin against skin echoing through his domain like prayer.
But your hands are useless.
Pinned at the small of your back by one of his massive palms, wrist to wrist in a grip that burns, held there like he’s daring you to collapse. His other hand stays at your throat, a constant reminder of who owns the rhythm, the pace, the air in your lungs.
You’re riding him, trying to, at least. Every thrust of your hips takes everything you’ve got. No leverage. No balance. Just you, shaking, sweating, barely able to breathe.
He watches with that apathetic smirk, head tilted, jaw resting lazily on his knuckles like a king watching a peasant put on a show.
“That’s the best you got?”
His voice is low, rough. A rasp soaked in mockery. “Tch. Put more effort into your performance.”
Your thighs burn. Your breath comes out in short gasps against his mouth. But you keep going.
Because you know what it sounds like when you get it right.
You know what it means when that grin fades, when the muscle in his jaw ticks and that low, guttural sound tears from his chest without warning.
And when you finally draw it out of him, he huffs a sharp breath, head falling back slightly. For a second, just one, he moans.
You feel it. Victory. Brief and trembling.
But he doesn’t let it last.
His claws dig harder into your wrists. The hand on your throat tightens just enough to make your vision flicker.
“You’re struggling,” he mutters darkly. “Keep. Up.”
Your knees ache, grinding against the jagged edges of his stone throne. They’ve long gone numb shaking under the weight of your own body and the burden of pleasing his. Sweat clings to every curve. The sharp scent of blood trails down from your throat, where his claws pierce just enough to make it drip.
And still, you move.
Because he hasn't.
Because he won't.
Sukuna lounges like a god. Spine slouched against his throne, thighs spread like he owns the plane you breathe on. And he does.
The only parts of him that move are his hands.
One is coiled tight around your throat, possessive, controlling, daring you to fall apart.
The other has your wrists pinned behind your back in a single, punishing grip, like he’s holding a leash made of bone and will.
He doesn’t thrust. Doesn’t move.
“You wanted this,” he drawls, voice soaked in malice and amusement. “Then show me.”
Your body burns. Wrists numb. Knees raw. Every roll of your hips is another plea for approval, another crawl toward satisfaction he refuses to hand you.
And still you move.
Dragging yourself through hell, for him.
Because maybe that’s where you belong.
His gaze sharpens when your movements start to slow, hips faltering with fatigue.
“That’s the best you got?” he murmurs, almost bored. “I hate repeating myself. I said keep up.”
You swallow a cry, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you push down on him again, harder. Deeper. Your body protests, slick and sore, but your pride screams louder.
“Don't disappoint me,” he adds, and you swear you feel him twitch inside you when you do exactly that.
Your eyes sting. Knees slipping. Muscles giving out. You’re falling apart right there in his lap and he just watches with a grin that grows sharper every time you struggle and still keep moving.
“Sukuna…” you choke out, voice trembling. “Please..”
He grips your jaw hard, dragging your face up to meet his.
“You don’t demand me,” he hisses, voice low and deadly. “You serve me.”
He still hasn’t moved. Hasn’t thrust once. Hasn’t even leaned forward.
And yet you’re unraveling.
You’re the one doing the work, the one offering everything, tearing yourself open in the middle of his domain just to feel the subtle shift of his breath when you finally draw a quiet, involuntary moan from his lips.
That sound? It's everything.
You earned that.
“Good girl,” he mutters finally, watching you ride with trembling thighs.
Your thighs are burning. Vision blurry. You're close, so close and the cruel arch of his brow says he knows it. He feels it in the way your walls clench around him. The way your hips stutter, desperate to keep rhythm even as your body begs to give out.
And when the first broken sound slips from your throat, a soft, helpless whimper, he laughs.
Low. Dark. Cruel.
“Finally,” he huffs, lips curling into a twisted grin. “There it is. Cry for me.”
You're already there. Body trembling violently, lips parted, tears catching on your lashes. Every whimper is an admission: you’re his, you’re his, you’re his.
“You look pathetic,” he says with that deadly calm. “But fuck, you're doing exceptional.”
You come undone with a strangled moan, no hands to brace yourself, no softness to fall into. Just him, his cock buried deep, his claws tight on your throat, his voice cutting through the haze like a command from hell.
“That’s it,” he growls, watching your back arch, your shoulders strain, your entire body tremble from the effort.
“Come for me. Make a mess.”
And gods, you do.
Your climax hits like a curse, violent and overwhelming. With your wrists still trapped behind your back, there's nothing to brace against, nothing to cling to.
You shatter around him, body jolting, moans caught in your throat, your slick soaking his lap. You try to move through it, hips rolling weakly, chasing every drop of release you can find. But your strength is gone.
You're gasping. Whimpering still.
And he's laughing again, quiet, almost pleased.
“Was that all?” It was barely a whisper, but it felt like a verdict.
And then his hand shifted.
Clawed fingers slid from your throat to your cheek, cupping it with surprising ease. His thumb brushed just beneath your eye, smearing tears and sweat and blood without a word.
He leaned in so close, you held your breath. He pressed a kiss to your temple.
A beat.
Maybe two.
Then, finally..
He let go.
Your body collapsed forward into his chest, spent and broken and utterly his.
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Ending your toxic relationship with Sukuna felt like the right and responsible thing to do. But, it took its toll on both of you. And somehow, you find yourself giving in to him again. And for now, that’s enough.
⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ Contents:
Read At Your Own Risk!, MDNI!, Established Relationship, Toxic Relationship, Angst, Gaslighting, Suggestive Sexual Description, Pet Names/Nicknames, Mention of Jealousy, Mention of Possessiveness, Emotional Manipulation, Break Up, Mention of Alcohol, Mention of Drug Use, Slight Physical Violence
The shouting bounces off the marble walls of Sukuna’s penthouse again.
It’s been like this for weeks now. Arguments that spiral from nothing, flaring up like lit matches in a room already soaked in gasoline. Sometimes it’s a glance. A word. A name. A moment that means nothing to you, but everything to him.
Tonight, it’s Gojo.
Of course it is.
The way he laughed a little too loud at your joke. The way he stood too close. Sukuna’s voice had been sharp the moment the door shut behind you both. And it only got worse from there.
It always does.
The fights never start big. But with Sukuna, it doesn’t take much. He loves hard. Possesses harder. And lately, it feels like everything you do is a threat to him, real or imagined.
You can’t even remember what the last argument was about. Probably just as pointless as this one.
But this one… this one feels heavier.
“He was flirting with you.”
“He wasn’t, Sukuna. That’s just how he is. You’ve known him for years.”
“Doesn’t mean I trust him around you.”
You press your fingers to your temples. “He respects us. Me. He didn’t cross a line.”
Sukuna steps closer, voice low and sharp. “He touched your back.”
“It wasn't like that! I almost slipped, alright? It was an act of help.”
He scoffs. “That’s not funny.”
You don’t say anything. You just shake your head and walk past him.
To the balcony.
The floor to ceiling glass doors open onto a private terrace overlooking the city, quiet, cold, and detached, like the two of you lately.
You step out, the night air biting against your skin. Pull a cigarette from your coat pocket. You haven’t smoked in months, not since he asked you to quit.
But tonight? You need something. A silence you can inhale.
The flame clicks. You light up. Inhale. Exhale. Let the smoke fill the spaces where words no longer work.
Then you hear the door slide open again.
He joins you. Wordless.
He stands beside you for a beat, hands in his pockets. Then, without looking,
snatchhh
He takes the cigarette from your fingers and drops it to the concrete, crushing it beneath his shoe.
“You said you were done with this,” he mutters.
You barely glance at him. “You said a lot of things.”
His eyes cut toward you. “Why are we doing this?”
“I don’t know anymore,” you say, voice low but steady. “But I know I can’t keep doing this.”
He turns to face you fully now, expression unreadable, jaw tight. “So what, you’re just gonna walk away?”
You hold his stare. Exhausted. “Why are you like this?”
“What?”
“Don’t pull that shit on me, Kuna.” The name comes out sharp, frustrated. Too familiar for someone who’s been treating you like a stranger lately.
Silence falls. Not heavy, just cold.
You think maybe you went too far. Maybe you’re being dramatic. It always comes to this, gaslighting yourself into believing the weight in your chest is just another bad day, not the pattern it’s always been.
So you step closer. Try softness, because anger never works.
You reach up and cradle his face in your hand. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry,” you whisper. Your thumb brushes his cheek, and he doesn’t pull away.
He leans into the touch, eyes closing for half a second. His hand comes up, covering yours, holding it there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“I love you,” you say.
It slips out too fast, but you mean it. You still mean it. That’s the sick part.
But he doesn’t say it back.
His hand is warm, your palm still cradling his cheek, but the silence is deafening. It’s not new. He’s never said it back. Not once. Not even when he’s holding you like he owns you. Not even when he’s tearing the world down for the idea of you.
That’s the problem, isn’t it?
You pull your hand back slowly. His fingers twitch like he wants to keep it there, but you let the distance settle between you both.
And just like that, something cracks.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you say again, quieter now. Not a cry for attention. Just truth.
And this time, you mean it.
You walk.
“What the fuck?” Sukuna’s voice cuts through the silence behind you, sharp and incredulous. “You just said you love me and now you’re walking away?”
You stop, fingers already grazing the door handle. “And you do?” you snap, whipping your head around to face him. “You never say it. Not once. You just expect me to know?”
His chest rises and falls, the anger starting to crack beneath something heavier. “Jesus! Give me a break.”
“Exactly,” you say, voice trembling but this time, not from anger. Just tired. “I’m giving myself one.”
You don’t wait for his answer. You step out.
The door shuts behind you with a quiet click, but the sound feels final. It feels like loss.
And still, you keep walking.
Your legs move on instinct. Your mind doesn’t register much, just that the marble beneath your feet turns to carpet, turns to tile, turns to pavement. Somewhere along the way, you realize you’re crying.
Quiet tears. Slow. The kind that fall without permission, without the drama of sobs, just heartbreak leaking through the cracks.
You love him. You do. And maybe you always will.
But this? This version of love? You can’t live inside it anymore.
You tried. God, you tried.
You gave him patience. You gave him understanding. You let him hurt you because it felt like passion.
But tonight, it just feels like pain.
──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ──── ──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ────
SUKUNA'S POV
It’s been two weeks since the breakup.
And fuck, it hurts.
He never thought he’d say that, never thought he’d feel like this. But here he is, drowning in it. The quiet. The ache. The space in his bed where you used to lie.
He’s not stupid. He knows he messed up.
It wasn’t just the fight. It wasn’t even about Gojo. It was everything that came before., his silence, his refusal to say it back, to admit just how deep he was in. You said you loved him. He stood there like a fucking statue.
Now?
Now, he’s halfway through typing 'I miss you' only to delete it before his thumb even brushes 'send.'
He’s called you, twice. Maybe three times. Never left a voicemail. Just stared at your name glowing on the screen like it might change its mind and answer him anyway.
He’s parked outside your place once, maybe twice, hoping to catch a glimpse of you leaving at the time you used to. You never came out.
And the silence that followed?
Worse than any fight you’ve ever had.
So he drinks. Of course he drinks.
One glass. Two. A bottle later and it still doesn't numb it.
He even opened that cigarette box, the same one he once slapped out of your hand. Said it was bad for you. Said he couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt.
Hypocrite.
He lit one anyway. Didn’t even cough.
He’s tried going out. Let his friends drag him into clubs, bars, lounges. Let strangers flirt, lean in too close, say things you’d never say.
But none of it works.
None of them are you.
Because no matter how loud the bass is or how strong the liquor, you’re still in his head. In his hands. In the space he swears still smells like you.
And worst of all?
He can’t forgive himself.
Because he knows, he knows, that if he’d just said it back… if he’d just let himself be honest for once in his fucking life…
You’d still be here. Here with him.
Wrapped up in his sheets. Wearing one of his shirts. Sleeping with your cheek pressed against his chest like you used to. He remembers the sound of your breathing in the quiet of early mornings. The way you’d mumble in your sleep. The way your fingers always found his even when you were unconscious.
God, he misses you.
And now? Now all he does is replay memories and build fantasies.
If andwhen, he sees you again, he won’t waste it.
He pictures fucking you from behind, pounding on you hard until you're blabbering about nothing but nonsense and solid bullshit. Oh, how he'd force down his length on your throat until you're so sorry and numb. You’d whimper his name. He knows it. Shed tears maybe.
But then, just as quickly, it flips, because no matter how much he wants you, he can’t forget that he’s the one who messed it all up.
So yeah, he’d kiss you slow.
Real slow.
Let it linger.
He’d press his forehead to yours, wrap his arms around you like he means it this time because he does. He did. He just never knew how to say it.
But now he does.
If he gets the chance… he won’t just take you.
He’ll keep you.
──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ──── ──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ────
YOUR POV
Ever since the breakup, things have felt… strange. Not easier, exactly. Just different.
You miss him. God, you do. Every day. Every damn second when the world slows down long enough for you to remember how he looked at you, how he touched you like he couldn’t get enough. You miss the quiet moments most. The early morning warmth of his hand tangled with yours. The sound of his laugh when he actually let it slip. The way he said your name like he owned it.
But still, you feel lighter now.
No more rules. No more unspoken boundaries. No walking on eggshells to keep the peace. No more second guessing every move, every word, afraid it might trigger another argument. You're not constantly bracing for a storm that never ends.
So you carry on.
Trying, at least. Working on yourself. Rebuilding routines. Washing your sheets more often. Lighting a candle. Reading again. Eating alone without feeling hollow. Some nights are okay. Others? You cry yourself to sleep so quietly the pillow doesn’t catch it all. It’s exhausting, the longing, the mourning of a love that wasn’t gentle.
You don’t go out much. No appetite for it. No interest in small talk or the hum of strangers' laughter. But you're not isolating yourself either, not completely. Just protecting your peace.
That’s when Nobara texts you.
Night out. 9 PM. Don’t ghost. You promised.
Crap. You did. A month ago, before everything fell apart. Back when everything still felt fixable. You scroll back through the messages and find the plans: bar downtown, drinks, dancing, healing through the holy trinity of bad decisions and good friends.
You hesitate, but only for a second.
You need this. God, you need this.
Even if it stings.
Because yeah, Sukuna’s friends became yours, too. You all clicked too well. Laughed too hard. It felt natural. They welcomed you like you were one of them. And you don’t regret that. Not even a little.
Breakups shouldn’t mean erasing people who made you feel safe.
So you start getting ready.
And even if your hands shake when you zip up your dress, you tell yourself: You’re not doing this for him.
You’re doing it for you.
It was just a regular night out with the people who’ve somehow become your constants, your shared friends. The ones who never picked sides, never asked questions, never poked at the sore parts unless you offered it up first.
A group message. A location dropped. And just like that, you were slipping into something simple, swiping gloss on your lips, grabbing your keys.
You drove yourself there. Windows down. Music a little too loud. The city buzzing like it was daring you to feel alive again.
The bar wasn’t fancy, just tucked near downtown, half dimmed with amber lighting and soft enough music to still hear laughter over it. But the second you walked in, it felt… natural.
No pressure. No awkward silences. No tiptoeing around the obvious.
Maki greeted you first, dragging you to the table like it was muscle memory. Nobara pulled you in for a quick hug that smelled like peach and vodka. Inumaki raised a peace sign, mouthing something you guessed was “hungry?” or maybe “happy?”, either way, he handed you a plate full of fries before you could sit. Megumi, somehow high already, passed you a joint with that subtle smirk of his.
You danced. Laughed. Swore a little too loudly when Nobara dragged you into the center with Maki and the three of you moved like you didn’t have anything to prove. At one point, you leaned into Megumi, giggling about something stupid he said, and he just blinked slowly at you like yeah, you're healing.
They didn’t treat you like you were breakable. No one gave you that sad, tilted head. No one told you it would be okay.
They just made it feel like it already was.
And Gojo? Not there. Off somewhere doing God-knows-what. Maybe a blessing in disguise. He’d ask too many questions with that stupidly beautiful face of his and you were just here to breathe.
The drinks flowed. The music pulsed. And for the first time in a long while, you weren’t thinking about Sukuna.
…At least, not all the time.
The night felt long in the best way.
Laughter lingering like smoke, the buzz of alcohol curling warm in your chest, and the faint ache in your cheeks from smiling too much.
Someone, probably Nobara, suggested one last stop before calling it a night. A different bar. Somewhere with better music. Less crowd. Or maybe just somewhere new to make more memories you’d barely remember in the morning.
You didn’t object. None of you did.
Gathering your things felt like a group effort, jackets tossed over shoulders, empty glasses pushed aside, a chorus of “Did we close the tab?” and “Who’s got the keys?” and “We walking or driving?”
You were halfway to the door, the floor oddly soft beneath your boots, when your heel caught the edge of a step. Your balance teetered, your heart lurched.
But a steady hand caught your wrist. Another braced your back.
Megumi.
Quiet, solid Megumi.
“You good?” he asked, voice low and calm like always.
“Yeah,” you breathed, blinking hard and letting out a soft laugh. “Too good, maybe.”
He didn’t smile, not exactly, but his mouth twitched like he wanted to. He helped you upright again, hand firm at your elbow until you found your footing.
“Careful,” he said simply, eyes flicking down at your shoes like they were the enemy.
You gave him a sheepish look. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn these.”
“You always say that,” he murmured, but didn’t let go. His hand stayed firm around your arm, guiding you gently down the rest of the steps, steady and patient like he already knew you were a little too far gone to be trusted on your own just yet.
Outside, the air hit cooler, crisp against your flushed cheeks.
──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ──── ──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ────
SUKUNA'S POV
Sukuna’s phone buzzes.
Megumi: You still dropping by?
He stares at the message, jaw clenched. He doesn’t respond.
Fuck.
He wants to. God, he does. But he can’t bring himself to. What if you’re there? What if you’re not? What if seeing you does something to him he can’t control?
The room spins a little, not from the drinks, not tonight, but from the way his thoughts spiral. He exhales, settling back into the leather couch, fingers drumming restlessly on his thigh. He was just about to put his phone down when another notification lights up his screen.
Nobara posted a story.
He taps it open.
Laughter. Flashing lights. The gang crowded into a booth, clinking glasses, dumb grins all around.
Then you.
You’re in the middle of it all. Laughing. Alive. Beautiful.
His heart kicks.
There’s a drink in your hand and someone’s arm too close to your side, Megumi, maybe? He doesn’t look long enough to figure it out. Rage bubbles somewhere deep, uninvited.
No. No, no, no.
He’s up before he realizes it. Car keys in hand.
He tells himself he’s just going to see. That he won’t even get out of the car.
But even he knows that’s bullshit.
The address tagged in Nobara’s story?
Already in his GPS.
And he’s driving.
To you.
──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ──── ──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ────
Outside, the air hit cooler, crisp against your flushed cheeks. The buzz in your chest hadn’t left, not fully, but it was calming now. Less dizzy, more dreamy.
You stepped out first, your heels lightly clicking against the pavement as you adjusted your coat. Megumi followed close behind, still steadying you from earlier, hand just lightly on your arm, making sure you didn’t stumble again. The others were filing out after, their laughter echoing behind.
You didn’t even notice the black car pulling up.
Didn’t notice the tall figure stepping out, locking the door, heading toward the bar with his hands in his pockets and hell in his eyes.
Sukuna saw everything.
His steps slowed.
You.
Megumi.
Too close.
You were laughing about something, brushing a hand through your hair, eyes shining. Megumi leaned in slightly, saying something you couldn’t hear over the music still bleeding out the bar doors.
But Sukuna saw. Or at least, he thought he did.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding down like he was holding back a growl. His fingers twitched at his side. Not fists yet but close. So fucking close.
You hadn’t seen him yet.
But he saw enough.
It looked wrong.
Looked like betrayal.
Looked like Megumi broke the unspoken boy code.
Looked like you’d moved on.
And it burned.
His steps faltered, his chest caving with something between fury and heartbreak.
Because for a second, it really looked like he was too late.
Too fucking late.
“There he is!”
“Sukunaaa!” someone else called out.
You turned.
And just like that, sober.
Like the alcohol evaporated from your veins, replaced with something sharp and gutting.
Your eyes locked.
Pain. Heat. Regret. All of it in his.
He didn’t stop walking.
Didn’t say a word.
Then,
CRACK.
A fist collided with Megumi’s jaw.
“Bro, what the fuck?!” Megumi staggered back, clutching his face, stunned.
The group erupted.
“Yo!”
“Chill, chill, what the hell?!”
“Sukuna, what’s wrong with you?!”
Sukuna just stood there, chest heaving, voice low and sharp when he finally spoke.
“Out of everyone… you, Megumi? My fucking girl?”
Megumi scoffs, hands raised but jaw tight. “What the hell, man? I was just guiding her, she almost slipped.”
“Fuck off.”
“Geez, you're welcome. And oh, she’s not even your girl.”
That hit harder than any punch.
Sukuna steps forward again, but instead of throwing another one, his hand grabs yours. “That’s it. You’re coming home with me.”
“What..?” you manage, still processing, heart thudding against your ribs. You barely even notice your heels moving, body already being pulled along.
“Sukuna-” Nobara starts, but he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to.
But Sukuna’s grip doesn’t loosen. His other hand reaches for the passenger door of his car, yanking it open like it offended him.
“Get in.”
“My car..”
“You’re drunk,” he snaps, jaw clenched. “Yeah, yeah. Like you can drive.”
“Sukuna, stop!” You finally yank your hand free, stumbling a step back. “What the fuck? What do you want from me?”
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t yell. Just looks at you like you’re already slipping away again.
“I love you.”
His voice is low. Calm. So calm it disarms you.
“I love you,” he says again, gentler this time. “Let’s talk this through. I miss you.”
He reaches out, hands brushing along the sides of your arms. It’s not rough, not possessive, just tender.
But you’re not ready for tenderness.
“Fuck off,” you hiss, shoving his chest.
And then..
“I love you,” he repeats.
And kisses you.
Not hungry. Not desperate. Not angry.
Just loving.
Like he’s hoping you’ll kiss him back. Like this kiss is a question. Like maybe, just maybe, he still has a chance.
When the kiss finally breaks, neither of you moves far. His forehead leans gently against yours, breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between.
“I love you,” he murmurs, voice raw now. “So damn much.”
Your eyes flutter shut.
And for a moment, there’s nothing else. No yelling, no tension, no aching silence, just the two of you, still here.
“I love you too,” you whisper back, and it feels like finally exhaling after weeks of holding your breath.
His arms wrap around you again, firm but not forceful. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
But you don’t.
You stay.
“I’ll fix this…” he says, voice low, almost like a promise to himself.
You open your eyes, looking at him.
His grip on you tightens just slightly, not possessive this time, but pleading. Vulnerable in the way only someone truly scared of losing can be.
“If you’ll let me.”
And for the first time in a while, you see it, all of it.
The man who hurt you.
The man who loved you.
The man who’s standing here now, asking, not demanding, for a chance.
