#object!sukuna

painting!sukuna

cw: dub-con, p in v sex, sex toy usage, reality tv, Sukuna is his own warning, crack-ish

a/n: late to the party is better than not showing up i think

It was a lazy Sunday morning when you left the house, excited to wander estate sales and thrift stores for little oddities to spice up your house. You had been working back to back shifts for weeks, almost no breaks but when you did it was spent sleeping all day just to do it all over again. But today! Today was the first break you had in a while, a three day weekend and to end it sweetly, you do some shopping. 

Nothing had caught your eye at the other thrift stores. Creepy but probably not haunted dolls and ugly trout china.

So when you rolled up to an estate sale you were excited. Like you were meant to be here. Most had been picked over, only a few things left over from the auction, some fur coats, antique but chipped decor, but your eyes drifted to something in a corner. Covered in dust, morbid and grim was a painting of eyes. Stark red and glossy like they were looking out at the crowd. Like it was watching you, a grotesque series of eyes on a fleshy mound. 

Gross. 

Ew.

It was so eerie and you had to have it.

It was surprising that it was so cheap but you happily carted it away, ignoring the relieved looks of those getting it out of their hands.

And then there was the painting, feeling right at home on your wall. He liked being surrounded by your morbid little treasures. The snake skeleton reminded him of his time in his shrine. The candles were easy on his eyes. 

He liked the bones. The dark colors. It reminded him of his shrine from way back when. 

He watches for months. You never come home with anyone. Pathedic really, if not for the fact he knows they could never please you like he could. You spend nights watching sad television shows and reading the raunchiest books. But you seem happy and he is happy to watch fools run around naked on islands or read over your shoulder the filthiest words known to man.

And in the end he finds pleasure in watching your hands sneak into your shorts. Press circles into your clit, shoving your face into the pillow to muffle your cries, and when thats enough he watches you reach over and pull a small black vibrator from your drawer. You call it “Toji” sometimes you scream it.

Sukuna is a better name. Better to scream too.

However, there was one thing that he was displeased with. You were careless. An imbecile. Forgetful. Each Wednesday night at 7 o'clock a new episode would air of his favorite television show, but you, a disappointing human, would get distracted. He was missing the opening while you would be making dinner in the kitchen. Folding laundry. Working.

Disgusting.

He had no choice. He had little control trapped in his cursed form, but he could throw himself off the wall. He was heavy and dramatic.

The crash would always scare the daylights out of you but you would switch on the tv after noticing the time and hoping to calm your nerves.

However, you started to bring over people to “fix” him.

A landlord. “I’ll call a handyman but maybe just get rid of that disgusting thing.”

A handyman. “Nothing wrong with the wall, but the painting is ugly—get rid of it?”

A psychic. “There is a strong presence in this painting!”

A priest. “It’s a demon.”

But nothing would stop the strange way your painting would fall each week, same day, same time.

It had been quite awhile by now, those who offered help eventually suggested giving the painting away unable to think of another option but you didnt want to. Something just compelled you to keep the ugly, disturbing, freaky ass painting even after all the hassle. Besides, you figured out if the tv was playing that shitty reality show you loved so much when it aired, you would be safe from it jumping off the wall and frightening you. It didn't really do anything else.

It was fine.

Until it wasn't. 

It's Wednesday and while you usually return around 5 o'clock, today you were nowhere to be found. Sukuna waited rather patiently he might add, giving grace where he usually wouldn't because for the last two months you had been on time before it was 7:05pm.

Then 7:07pm

At 7:12pm he threw himself off the wall hoping to summon you but to no avail, instead, the picture hit the ground with a sickening crash. The frame cracked, canvas bent and he felt the hard floor beneath his bare ass for the first time in centuries.

The curse was broken.

He’s shoving past throw pillows and blankets looking for the goddamn remote second later. Because he has to do everything around here. 

When that doesnt help hes ripping open the pillows, fluff going everywhere. When he lefts put a sneeze he had to freeze before remembering thats what it was.

The coffee table is the next victim, getting showed around. Its always in his way but too short to see it was fucking useless. Its turned on its side everntually.

And when nothing gives way to his remote he kicks over the couch for good measure.

Nothing.

Still nothing. 

In the past his irritation wouldve been cause to level cities but now it’s all directed at you. He looks around the trashed apartment. You bought him yet left him in this squalor, messy, dump of an abode with no entertainment. 

His gaze casts to the fridge where you often ate. He’s hungry.

Inside isn’t much but it will do till you can bring him better he supposes. So, he begins eating everything in sight.

It's not long before he makes it out of the living room and the kitchen and the bathroom and into your room where he finds “toji” as you call it. He presses in the small cylinder and it vibrates to life. He cycles through the settings trying to turn the offending device off before finally succeeding. He lets out a “tsk” before dropping it on the bed and moving on to other drawers.

He looks to the clock, fucking missed his show and you werent even fucking here.

His irritation bubbling again before his eyes clock the photo. On you nightstand, he could see it from his place on the wall. Hes looking down a picture of some fucker you kept there like an idol, never liked it there. It could see you better than him.

It lands on the ground with a sickening crack.

It is late, and just as you have packed up ready to head home after late shift you feel grateful knowing you probably missed the picture falling.

Oh, when did you pack the remote in your purse? You had been so scatterbrained lately.

You step into your apartment, not even clocking the lights on until you're closing the door. Behind you, you hear a deep voice scoff,

“Fucks sake, finally!”

You go rigid, your spine going ramrod straight as you slowly register the situation. The lights on, a stranger's voice—

You turn to leave. No need to see it to believe it. Time to go.

The doorknob twists in your hands, pulls towards you. You see the light from the hallway through a sliver of space.

SLAM!

A large veiny hand with dark graphic tattoos blocks your way and keeps it shut. You close your eyes and breathe in but struggle to breathe out, instead forcing yourself to turn around slowly.

The same tattoos from the assailant's hands can be traced up his arm and to his face. A shock of pink in his hair distracts you for a moment.

Chiseled jawline, dark eyes, high cheekbones. Why he kinda…

“You’re late.” He snaps. Moment gone, filled with fear and fury. And he’s naked?

Maybe the moments back? You cant help but stare at the hard plains of his muscular body. The v-line tapering to the monster between his legs. Tattoos you never would’ve expected.

Why he kinda…

“Who are you?” You snap back though it wasn't the smartest idea. You struggle to stare him in the eyes.

“You stupid or somethin?” He wonders outloud, looking incredulously down at you.

What was this guy? 6’5? 

All you can do is gap at him, offended and dumbfounded. He spoke too casually for an intruder but too aggressive for a friend.

Then your eyes drift past him to your totalled apartment. Absolutely trashed, though the tv was unscathed.

The painting cracked on the ground, a symbol broken on the back.

“The demon,” you whisper, not really believing it yourself.

He chuckles, “Half right, curse,” Then he's grabbing a lock of your hair, “Your curse.”

“I-,” you start, not even sure where the sentence was going, “I don’t think,”

“Naw, you don't get to think,” he reprimands, large hand squishing your cheeks together, lips pursed.

“The remote?” He finally asks.

“Whuat?” You sputter.

“Where is the goddamn remote?” He snaps.

You glance at your bag. 

“Dumb slut,” he’s swearing, dropping your face. “I missed my show because of you!”

You glare at him, confused. Angry. 

“Now, you're gonna entertain me,” he snarls.

Oh, you’re in trouble.

You weren't sure how you were in this position? Why you were in this position? Was a good face card all it took to get you to fold?

And fold you it had. Your legs propped up on his shoulders as he worked you up with that stupid little vibrator and his fingers.

Mind you “Toji” as you so lovingly called the vibrator you named after the hunk in 2B never failed to get you off but this was excessive. Two orgasms already and only now was the man working his fingers into your hole, something you often neglected in preference of just your clit and a quick “O.”

“Please, please,” you beg as he pressed you towards the precipiece. He presses your vibrator against you harder and knocked the air from your lungs when he started changing up the pattern. 

“Don’t! I’ll-,”

“You’ll what?” He taunts.

“I don't know!” you cried but you felt it coming, and you were a little scared.

“I’ll stop if you say my name,” he offers an olive branch.

“N-name?” You pant. You were hazy and disoriented, did he tell you his name?

Did you know his name?

Were you getting off to a nameless man?

“I don't know it!” You cry.

He swore, maybe an oversight on his part, but as he watched you clench around his fingers he didn't care.

“Sukuna,” He mutters. He really liked the way you squeeze his fingers at his name. He laughs, knowing he couldn't let you go. Wouldn’t let you go.

“OK! Ok, Sukuna!” You cry.

But instead of stopping or letting you come, he took it up a knotch: sending you over the edge and down a fucking reviene.

“Now, scream my name instead,” he commands.

“Ssukuba!” You slur.

He chuckles darkly, he liked this game. He presses harder.

You cry tears on your lash line.

“Su-.”

“Su-,”

“SUKUNA!!,” you finally choke out squirting all over him.

He groans satisfied, “Wanted to do that for a looong time,”

Your breathing is ragged. That painting just fucked the life out of you with his hands.

You stare at the ceiling, panting. Eyes glazed over. Mind fuzzy. Then, you feel it. Something hot and hard and heavy slap against your clit. You jolt.

Your eyes refocus and he's—Sukuna— staring down at you.

“Wha-,”

But he doesn't wait for you to catch up to what should be the obvious course of action. He read so in your books.

He is pressing in, stretching you wide and full.

You can't breath, he’s in your chest.

“Oh, God!” You choke out hands latching onto the sheets for dear life.

“Naw, not god,” he grunts.

Fuck, you were tight.

And he’s shoving your knees to your tits, thumping into you with no mercy. The rhythm causes you to chase another high prematurely. You can only look in his eyes, think about that painting.

Did he always have four eyes? Maybe you were just seeing double.

His thumb reaches your clit easy, pressing into you with his whole body until you feel white hot and come once again. He fucks you through it and ypu throw your hands down trying to stop him but to no avail. Only for his hips to stutter and rhythm to become sloppy before you feel his hot seed filling you.

God, you hope paintings can't impregnate people.

divider credit: @/sisterlucifergraphics

paintings by cisse (me)

all original work belongs to ME @cisse-writes | do not copy, repost, or feed my work into AI.