Hey ya'll i wrote this instead of doing homework. It's honestly just straight up Sukuna thirst. fem!reader x Sukuna. It's a oneshot from a story I'm making and I don't know if I'll ever post the whole thing tbh. Anyway, Sukuna and you are teaming up to fight a big baddie and basically you're a bada** sorcerer who doesn't take sh*t from anyone, even him. So slay. I kinda plop you in the thick of things. you can use temporal manipulation as your technique, so you're basically a time wizard.
Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only, references to past arguments, sparring, OOC Sukuna, major possessiveness, dacryphilia, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), p in v, marathon sex, mating press, fingering (f receiving), slight handjob, doggy style, prone bone, a lot of similes.
Let me know if I missed anything!
You and Sukuna didn’t speak the rest of the morning. The bunker wore your combined silence like a bruise.
By noon, you had sorted the black char of the bathhouse into notes and diagrams, pinned a threadbare map to the wall, and brewed tea strong enough to solder a spine. Sukuna haunted the edges of the rooms, a storm testing doors, never quite crossing a threshold. He hadn’t knocked on your bedroom door. He hadn’t left. Both were admissions.
When the kettle clicked, you set a cup on the table without looking at him. “If you want me to stop ‘tearing time open,’” you said, the quote a precise cut, “then you should learn what it takes to keep from snapping it. Training. My domain.”
His eyes slivered. A scoff curled at his mouth, familiar armor, still dented. “You want to teach me,” he said, like the words themselves were provocation. “In your house.” He didn’t mean the bunker.
“On neutral ground,” you corrected. “Where I can set guardrails. Where you can… see.”
“See what?” He wanted you to say it. Me. Want me. Choose me.
“How it feels,” you said, “when I hold a moment still so you can cut through the right one.”
A pause. Enough for the room to notice the kind of mercy embedded in the phrase hold a moment still for you.
He took the tea and didn’t drink it. “And if I break your guardrails?”
“Then you’ll learn why I have them.” Your gaze lifted and met him. No tremor. Only the calm you wore like a blade, honed by the fight you two shared in last night, not dulled. “But not here.” You nodded to the floor, meaning the bunker, the thin walls, the listening ears of students. “There.”
His pulse thumped against his tongue. He set the cup down without tasting it. “Open it.”
You inhaled, exhaled, and then… did.
The domain bloomed around you both like a room remembering itself. The bunker fell away in folds, paper screens of reality sliding back, until the space brightened into a white-edged dusk, a spacious hall with no visible walls. The floor was smooth, dark, reflective; lights hung like distant stars at shoulder height, each one pulsing faintly, suspended in place. When they moved, the stars trembled, and the reflections beneath their feet showed not quite what was happening, but what could happen a second from now, a second ago: ghosts of motion, shimmering extras.
“Welcome,” you said, voice steady but softer in here, as if the air were tuned to it. “Ground rules.”
Sukuna watched his breath fog briefly, then vanish. The room had temperature without cold, heat without burn. “Rules,” he echoed, amusement low. He rolled his shoulders, the ink across them flexing like a threat.
“One,” you said, holding up a finger. “No lethal intent. If you aim to kill, the domain will lock. We’ll be statues until it decides we’ve learned our lesson.”
“Threat or promise?” He tilted his head; the extra eyes blinked slowly.
“Two,” you continued. “No domains within domains.”
He made a small, disappointing sound.
“Three,” you said, and the star-lights sharpened. “You listen when I say stop.”
That was the one that set his pulse off-pattern. He took a step closer without meaning to. “And if I don’t?”
Your gaze didn’t move off his face. “Then the room will.”
They stood inside each other’s gravity, the suspended lights quivering like heartbeats on strings. He could smell the tea still. He could hear the shape of your breath. The dream flickered across his mouth like a curse he couldn’t speak aloud.
“Show me, then,” he said, voice roughened by too many answers he refused to give. “Teach me your tricks.”
You didn’t say they’re not tricks. You lifted your hand, fingers splayed, and the nearest five lights dimmed and brightened in sequence. “These are pivots,” you said. “They are pausing points I can push against. If I choose one-” you reached toward a light, and it steadied under your palm “-we stand in that second as long as I can hold it.”
“For how long,” he asked, circling you, “before it costs you.”
You didn’t look at him to answer; you watched the light. “Longer than before. Less than you’d believe.”
He smiled without humor. “I believe I hate it.”
“Then you’ll learn to hate it usefully.”
He moved first, because of course he did, closing the distance, testing the floor with a long, uncoiling stride. The domain accepted his weight, the reflection under him lagging half a heartbeat as if the glass wanted to warn future-him he was coming. You slid to meet him, no flinch, hands empty. The first exchange was simple: a feinted strike from him (a hand, not claws), a sidestep from you, small enough to be rude. His fingers brushed your sleeves, caught nothing.
He obliged. Faster now. A real reach, he swept a hand for your wrist, the other for your shoulder, to lock and pivot. You let him have the shoulder, twisted under the wrist, set your palm lightly to his sternum and pressed. Not strength. Placement. The pressure of a second made denser.
The star to their left brightened; the room tightened, held, and his momentum bled off like water through cloth.
He snarled, exhilarated despite himself. “You’re cheating.”
“I’m teaching you not to waste force on the wrong second.”
He changed angles, impatient; you shifted; the air held, released, clutched again as you touched a light without looking at it. It was like sparring on a staircase only you could see, every step a chosen moment. His instincts, trained on size, speed, ruthlessness, pressed, adapted, pressed harder. He found himself grinning with his teeth. He found himself hating that he liked the shape of your control.
“Again,” you said, and he heard the heat under it now, the carryover from the night before, that thin place where discipline had burned away.
He surged. You pivoted. Both of you collided.
Not clean, not pretty, but real, which meant elbows and breath and the swearing intimacy of two people who’d run out of polite distance. He caught your forearm; you caught his wrist; you both locked and turned and he used his weight without mercy. You slid with it, bent, and then stopped it- pinned a second under his feet until his balance lied to him. He recovered with a laugh that had too much want in it.
“Stop liking it,” he growled at himself.
“Stop pretending you don’t,” you shot back, and only when the words left your mouth did you realize you’d said them aloud.
You both froze for a sliver of a second- not because the rule demanded it, but because truth had just put a hand on the back of your necks.
Sukuna moved first, because he would rather hit a wall than stand still inside that touch. He feinted high, went low, caught the back of your knee and swept. You went down with controlled grace, rolled, and he followed, not giving you space, like tide on a rock. Your palm flashed to a star; time thickened; his hand hit the floor an inch from your shoulder with a thud that should have cracked stone and didn’t.
He hovered over you on one hand, the other braced, the angle of his body a cage without pressure. His hair fell forward, beckoning a hand to brush it away from his forehead. The ink at his jaw looked darker here, as if the room liked him marked.
“Yield,” he said, hoarse.
“No,” you said, breath steady, eyes brighter. Your hand slid off the star; the room’s hold loosened. “Stop asking for words you haven’t earned.”
He smiled like a sinner at a sermon.
He shifted his weight to pin your wrist- not pain, not even force, just an undeniable geometry that said I could. You flexed against it, testing; he felt the tremor in your forearm and hated that it turned into heat in his throat. He lowered himself half an inch, enough that the breath between you had to choose whose mouth it belonged to.
“This is where you fold,” he murmured. Command and confession.
“This is where you listen,” you said, and pulled- not time, not yet: his attention. The light over his shoulder brightened. The reflection under them showed a possible version of the next second where you shoved him hard enough to break the moment.
He laughed under his breath. “Do it.”
The second shattered like glass. He rocked; you rolled; you came up in the same beat, facing, closer than before. His hand found your hip, palm spanning heat and fabric; your fingers took his wrist and then his jaw, pushing his face away even as you stepped into him. The star-lights pulsed in a stupid, honest rhythm- two quick, one long- as if the room had decided it would like to be a heart.
“Again,” you said, and it wasn’t about sparring anymore and both of you knew it.
You both circled, not stepping back so much as giving the room time to keep up. He lunged; you cut; he trapped; you slipped; he pressed you into a column that hadn’t been there a breath ago, forearm braced beside your head, his body a wall. The column vibrated like a tuning fork struck by a name he hadn’t said aloud.
“Say it,” he demanded, low, ruined. “Say you’re mine.”
“Not yet,” you breathed- exactly as in the dream, and he rocked like the world had decided to conduct current through his bones.
He dropped his head, mouth near your ear, heat threatening to turn the rule about no domains into a dare. “I hate your rules,” he said. “I hate your not yet.”
“Then fight me for the yes,” you said, and shoved off the column and into him so hard your chests slammed. His breath left on a sound he didn’t let become a groan.
He crashed you to the floor because there was nowhere else to put what was happening. The domain softened the impact, greedy for their noise. You tried to twist out; he caught your thigh; you caught his shoulder; he pinned your wrists one-handed and you- stopped. Not because you couldn’t break it- you could- but because the stopping itself said I choose this more loudly than any yes he could force.
He went very, very still.
It scared him, that stillness. He looked down and didn’t disguise how he was looking. Your hair had fallen over your cheek; soot still marked a line at your temple from the bathhouse. You should have looked wrecked. You looked like a decision.
“Last night,” he said, the words rough, unwilling, true, “wasn’t fiction.”
Your heartbeat tripped against his wrist. “I know.”
“I wanted to kill you this morning,” he said, and his mouth twitched like it was smiling at a private sin. “Because I couldn’t.”
“I yelled at you,” you said, a smaller sin, said like a larger one. “Because I didn’t know how else to-” you cut it off, shook your head, swallowed.
He leaned closer until your mouths were a breath apart. “You want to keep yelling,” he asked, “or do you want me to shut you up and be useful for once.”
Your laugh was a single, shocked exhale.
He didn’t wait for your response. Instead, he kissed you.
Not polite, real. The kind of kiss that takes a fight by the throat and teaches it a different rhythm. His mouth hit yours sure, hot, his hand leaving your wrist to frame your jaw because the angle mattered, because seeing your eyes close while he took your mouth mattered. You made a sound, small, involuntary, that went through his spine like a blade dipped in lightning. He groaned into you, pressed down until the room’s lights trembled like glassware on a table in a passing train.
Your hands were free; you put them on his face and then in his hair and then at his shoulders, pulling, not patient. He chased everything you asked for without letting you ask twice. He kissed like a man who had always preferred violence because it was easier than pleading and had just learned that begging could be done with lips and tongue and heat without ever saying please.
He tore his mouth away a fraction. “Say my name.”
You did. It tasted better here than in the dream, because this room had gravity and consequences. He took your mouth again, deeper, rougher, until there was nothing left of the fight in it but strength.
“Look at me,” he ordered between kisses, because he needed your eyes on his hunger like he needed the sound of your breath.
You did. “You’re infuriating,” you whispered against his mouth.
“Say you’re mine,” he demanded, already moving to your jaw, your throat, the place where he’d almost bitten in the red room.
“Not yet,” you said- barely. “Show me.”
He swore softly, low, pleased, furious. “I’ll show you,” he promised, and pushed your wrists above your head again- gentle, checked, then firmer when you nodded. His other hand slid down, learning, asking, taking- all of it within the careful law of your domain, all of it with enough roughness to be his and enough consent to be theirs.
The lights drew closer as if the room wanted to see. Reflections below them lagged: one second behind, one ahead, their shadows kissing before their mouths did, their bodies already arching where their real selves were just beginning to move.
He huffed a laugh into your throat and kissed the spot like he was staking the claim, then returned to your mouth to negotiate terms. The negotiation looked, sounded, felt like heat- and the kind of surrender that doesn’t bow so much as choose to stop bracing.
“You’re not a weapon,” he ground out between kisses, new truth scalding. “You’re-”
“Don’t name it,” you warned, breathless. “Show it.”
He did. The spar dissolved into a press of bodies, into the slide of palms and the thunk of a shoulder meeting the floor, into small bitten-off noises and half-laughed insults that both of you understood as the opposite. When he lifted his head, you pulled him back down. When you arched, he matched. The domain warmed around you as if the temperature were a vote.
Somewhere in it, he went quiet with words and loud with breath. Somewhere in it, you let the last of not yet drop away in the way your hands stopped testing and started taking.
He broke for air, forehead resting against yours, both of you panting, grinning a little like fools who’d outrun something with teeth.
“Training,” he said, and the word was almost tender, which made him scowl to balance it. “We’re terrible at it.”
You smiled in a way that made his chest feel like it had been rebuilt without permission. “Then we’ll keep practicing.”
“Say it,” he tried, out of habit.
“Soon,” you said- and then you didn’t let him ask again; you pulled him into another kiss that made soon feel like a rope you’d tied around his ribs.
He rolled with you, put his back to the floor and dragged you over him, hands braced on your hips like a man finally admitting he intended to live. The lights dipped low, gathering them into a smaller world.
You kissed him harder, and the domain’s stars went steady, as if this were the second you had both decided to stay in.
The rest was heat, and closeness, and the kind of care that looks like possession because it refuses to let go. Your jacket began to melt into piles of fabric, torn from his eagerness. His hands gentled when you guided them. Yours tightened when he growled into your throat, both of you paused, breathing one breath, when want threatened to outrun the rules, and then moved together through the opening you’d made.
When you tipped from sparring into something unabashedly not, he didn’t ask again. He showed. And when you answered, it wasn’t with a word but with the press of your mouth and the exacting, generous way you let him hold every second without breaking it.
The domain dimmed to the pulse you both created.
You were already past the point of no return. The domain felt it and drew the lights in, a loose constellation tightening around you as if the room wanted to learn the rhythm of your bodies. The floor kept your weight like a promise. Your reflections caught up, then lagged again, as if the glass wanted to watch twice.
Sukuna’s mouth was on yours from the first breath- hot, claiming, sure. You answered like a match dragged across stone, striking again and again until the air between you burned. He swallowed the small sound you made and chased it with another kiss, rougher, a line he kept crossing and remapping because the shape of your consent was a thing he wanted to memorize by feel.
“Look at me,” he rasped against your lips. His hand slid to your jaw, thumb catching the hinge where your pulse beat sweet nothings, just for him. Only for him. “Eyes on me.”
You gave him what he asked for. The steady, fearless gaze that undid him more than anything else.
His voice, a low menacing omen in any other situation, dragged over gravel. “Watch me.”
His hands traveled- jaw to throat to shoulder- mapping with intent. He did not paw; he placed each touch like a claim he fully intended to defend. Fingers spread at the base of your throat, felt the jump there, slid lower to the edge of the fabric of your shirt and tugged, testing. Your breath pitched. You didn’t stop him, so he kept going, palms flattening over warm skin, heat meeting heat, the rough scratch of his calluses turning into the kind of friction that made you arch because you wanted more of exactly that.
“Here,” he said, discovering a hard nipple beneath his fingers that made you exhale on a broken thread. He pressed his mouth there, over the thin material, wetting it quickly, and felt your hand come into his hair, fingers tightening with a quiet, devastating trust.
He made a low sound that wasn’t a word. His second set of eyes slid half-closed; the first pair burned.
He pulled back a fraction to look at you properly. Soot still haunted one cheek; the line of your mouth was swollen from his attention; your hair had come loose around your face in a way that made something obscene and tender tangle in his chest. “Mine,” he said, softer now, like a vow he was sick of resisting. “Mine.”
Your answer was to lift his shirt. No hesitation. Fingers at the hem, palms skimming up, learning him: the heat, the hard plane of his stomach, the slow tug of breath under your hands as you pushed the fabric higher. He raised his arms and let you take it off like you were stripping off armor he pretended he didn’t need. The tattoos across his chest and shoulders caught the domain’s light; the room seemed to approve, drawing nearer, warmth blooming as if recognizing a design it liked.
Your hands returned to bare skin. He hissed when your fingers curled at his sides, blunt nails dragging lightly; it was such a small thing, it made him dizzy with want. You leaned in and put your mouth to his throat, and he had to shut his eyes for a heartbeat, or he would’ve begged for more.
“You taste like earth,” you murmured there, lips brushing the pulse that had sprinted since the bathhouse. “You taste so good.”
He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped- raw, aroused, feral. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“You’ll live,” you said, and bit him lightly because you could, and because the way his breath tore on a grunt when you did was something you wanted to hear again and again.
He took the hint. His mouth found the line of your jaw, the corner of your lips, the place just below your ear where your composure thinned. He kissed like a man who had decided to stay alive for something. His hands slid lower, found the shape of your waist, the curve of your hips, the heat where the fabric of your pants began was becoming an obstacle. He palmed you there through clothes first, pressing, testing pressure. The way you tipped toward him was a better answer than any yes.
“Tell me if I overstep,” he said, rough with wanting and restraint.
“You’ll know,” you said, and guided one of his hands under the hem of your shirt.
Skin. Heat. His breath hitched like he’d been struck. He looked at you once, a question that had never passed his mouth before. You nodded, and he swallowed it like the first drop of water after days of thirst. His palm slid up over your stomach, the flex and give of living muscle under his hand making him half-drunk. He mapped higher, slower, learning what made you inhale sharply and what made you sigh, lingering where your body asked him to linger.
“Good,” he said into your throat, voice gone hoarse and warm with praise. “Good girl.” He felt you shiver and smiled against your skin, pleased and possessive in equal measure. “You like that.”
“Don’t get cocky,” you managed, and he laughed into your collarbone like a man who’d just found a door he didn’t intend to let close.
He took his time with your mouth again, because the sound you made when he kissed you deeply might have been the thing he wanted most in the world. His hands traveled greedy routes- under your shirt, cupping your breasts, around to the small of your back. He gathered the fabric and pushed it up, and when you lifted your arms to help him, he felt the tiny tremor in your biceps from holding back and almost groaned at the trust implied in that small admission. He took the shirt off and tossed it somewhere the domain would keep safe and returned to you like a tide returning to the shore.
“Mine,” he said again, lower, more certain, mouth moving down to taste the new skin he’d bared. He kissed slow, learning with his tongue and the edge of his teeth where you were softest, where you gasped, where you whispered his name like it was something you were deciding to keep. His mouth, his tongue, his lips on you felt like dying and going to heaven.
He began to suckle at your breast, his left hand coming up to cup the other tightly, not wanting to miss out on the delectable treat in front of him. Saliva began to pool and drip, his mouth popped off, leaving a wet, raised, pink nipple behind. He groaned and quickly moved to the other side.
“You taste good, too,” he offered, his voice laced with addiction. “Like plum blossoms.”
“Sukuna,” you breathed, and added, quieter, “yes.”
He stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he made a sound that might have been a thank you spoken in a language too old for the room to translate, and his hands slid lower.
He didn’t rush. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He traced the line of your hip with his thumb, drew circles that became a rhythm, then shifted his weight and let his mouth and teeth occupy you while his hand slipped beneath the waist of your pants. Heat met his palm in a way that made his control lurch. He clenched his jaw and watched your face while he explored- light touches at first, barely-there passes that had you chasing him without moving, then firmer, more exact. He stayed just this side of too much because he liked the way your breath broke when he found the line between the two.
“Look at me,” he said again, because he wanted your eyes when he did this. You gave them. He watched them go wide as he ran the tip of his fingers through your slick, watched the moment your body arched into his hand, watched you bite back a sound and then let it out, watched you choose not to be silent as the thick digit of his middle finger slipped into you, his index finger rubbing firm circles over your wet clit.
“Mine,” he growled. “Now say what you want.”
“You,” you said, shameless when it mattered. “More.”
His smile went wicked and grateful at once. “That’s right.” He obeyed, adjusting pressure and pace until the shape of your sounds told him he’d found the path he wanted them both on. He kissed you again because he couldn’t not, because he wanted to taste the sound while he pulled it out of you, because he wanted to be the air you used to say his name as a second finger entered you alongside the first.
Your hands were not idle. Somewhere in the heat, you had dragged him closer, exploring him with the kind of deliberate curiosity that made his sanity untrustworthy. You pushed your hand under the waistband of his pants, fingers hot against his skin, palming his thick, hard length. He swore, low and helpless, and the room pulsed like it approved. You stroked slowly, testing how he broke, and he let you, because the control he’d kept like a knife was turning into something else in your hands- willingness.
He was hard and throbbing in your grip. You didn’t want to reason through the logistics of fitting him inside you, but you clenched anyway at the thought. A slow stream of precum was greeting the slide of your hand, making it slicker, hotter.
“Careful,” he warned, voice shredded by pleasure. “Any more of that and I’m not responsible for my actions.”
“Good,” you said, and the pleased cruelty in it made him kiss you with his teeth.
He recovered, because his pride demanded he do more than come apart in your grip immediately. He pinned your wrists with a hand behind your back, gently, a question. You rolled your wrists once, then stilled, not because you had to but because you liked what it did to his breath to feel you hold still under his hand.
He bent to your throat and spoke there. “I’m going to take this slow,” he said. It was both a promise and a threat. “And then I’m not.”
“Yes,” you whispered, the sound melting into a gasp when his mouth moved lower and his hand returned to its work with more focus. He drew patterns on your skin with his lips and tongue, let his teeth mark gently and then soothe, praised you under his breath in broken little fragments he might have been ashamed of anywhere but here. “That’s it. Good. Give it to me.” He didn’t mean to surrender. He meant the sound. He meant your truth. He meant the way your body moves for me when you stop arguing with yourself.
Your mouth found his jaw again, nibbling and tipping his face up. You kissed him hard, and the way you started to move against his hand- seeking, confident- made his restraint vibrate with strain.
He freed one of your wrists and dragged your hand down his chest, across his stomach, lower- guiding you to hold him the way you liked being held. When you did, he swore again, and his head fell backward. “Yes,” he said, breathless, undone. “Like that.”
The domain made itself smaller around you: the lights sank toward the floor; the reflective surface dimmed to a warm gloss that threw back only heat and motion. It was as if the room wanted to put its hands over your shoulders and listen with its whole body.
With a final groan into your mouth, your remaining clothes began to disappear. Fabric gathered in his hands and was slid off. He bared skin until you didn’t have any clothing left to hide behind and covered as much of it as possible with his mouth and hands. You did the same, unmaking him with efficient touches and patience that had finally decided to burn.
He put his palm flat over your heart as he pulled you underneath him and felt it thrum against his skin. It was obscene and holy, and it was the first time he’d understood that obedience could be a kind of worship without weakness in it. His hand over your heart spread to hold you down, as his other hand travelled down your thigh, pulling your leg up at the knee to open for him.
“Tell me when you cum,” he said, lost and found in the same breath. “Tell me when.”
“Yes,” you promised, and tried to tug his mouth back to yours like a tether. But he refused to come. Instead, his mouth travelled down, down, down, a trail of fire as his tongue licked a trail to your slick pussy. The first kiss was immediately followed by a groan as he lapped at your clit. And that’s when he decided he didn’t need air anymore. All he needed was your taste on his tongue.
His tongue flattened and licked you, starting at the base of your hole, coming up until he reached the top of your clit, like licking melted ice cream off a cone. Another moan as he settled in to devour what he considered his now.
Your voice had left you. Gone were any inhibitions you had as Sukuna worshipped you with fervor, bringing his hand back to your opening and driving two thick fingers back into you, curling up to hit a sweet spot you’ve never been able to reach on your own. He mercilessly denied you any reprieve as his mouth attached to your clit and his fingers danced inside you with harsh taps.
He knew what he was doing. He knew the way a storm knew when to break- the air changed, the pressure shifted, your breath hitched and turned into a sound he wanted to live inside. He stayed exactly where he was, exactly how you needed, until you went tight and hot under his hand. “I’m- oh God- I think I’m going to, already, I- “you shook against his mouth with a quiet, ruining release that made him say your name like a man dying.
He didn’t stop kissing you. He didn’t stop telling you good, good. He rode the aftershocks with you, slowing his hand, easing you down until your breath returned to something like rhythm. Then he lifted his head and looked at you, open in a way he’d never let anyone see. “Mine,” he said again, but it was softer now, a vow with no edges. “Please.”
The please shocked them both. But what defenses did he have left, with the taste of your pussy forever etched into his being? He swallowed it and kissed you again.
“I can say please, too,” you whispered against his lips.
He stopped, stilled like a predator does before he goes in for a kill. He didn’t know how badly he wanted to hear you say it before now, but now that you’ve put it out there, he knows he must have it.
“Please, Sukuna, fuck me, please.”
You traced his ink with your tongue. He swore and pushed his head back, eyes closing because looking made it worse, better, unbearable. Your hands went everywhere you wanted; he followed, greedy and grateful. You teased him with the same precision he’d used on you- mirroring pressure and pace until he was cursing in a language the domain didn’t know.
He was going to fuck you. He was going to do it right fucking now. He was going to be inside you.
He gripped both of your legs and brought them up to your chest then in a mating press, because he needed to. Not to dominate- no- but because he wanted you entirely beneath him so he could see every moment of this. The world narrowed to your mouth, your hands, the sounds you made when he moved over you exactly the way you’d been craving. He slid a hand down, under, gripping your ass tightly.
His other hand came up to grip the base of his shaft, and he brought the tip to slide up through your dripping lips, his precum and your slick mixing together in the most intoxicating potion he’s ever encountered. He does this once more- twice- three times before your hips start gyrating up to meet his thrusts.
“Tell me yes,” he said, the last request he had left.
“Yes,” you said, unguarded. “Yes.”
He moved- and the domain seemed to bow its head.
The tip of his thick cock entered you first, your back arched to meet him, and his hand slammed down on your tummy. “Stay still,” he growled, “Don’t move yet.” His jaw formed a hard line as he felt the first press of himself inside you.
Your words had deserted you as your lips parted to try and accept his weighty shaft. Your tight grip finally giving way, allowing him to sink in just the slightest bit.
A groan leaving him, “You’re so tight here.”
A small retreat, and then he’s feeding his cock back into you, “We’ll fix that, angel, don’t worry.” Your moan was the only response you could muster.
His breath tore up from somewhere he’d never shared, the harsh sounds tucked into his praise as he told you over and over how good, how perfect, how his you were, as his thrusts began to reach deeper and deeper.
His control was fraying with each new pound into your pretty pussy. The sounds of wetness, his and yours, echoing around you both as your hands came up to grip his chest, trying to breathe around him inside you.
“How does it feel? How does it feel to be filled by me?”
You answered not with words but by taking him deeper, by pulling him down when he would have tried to be careful, by meeting him with a hunger that matched his own.
He talked because he had to. The words fell out of him between clenched teeth, low and rough and honest in ways that would have shocked him yesterday. “Mine. Look at me. That’s it. Take it- good- don’t look away. Say my name. Again. Again. Angel. Perfect. Mine.”
Each word punctuated by his member roughly pushing inside you until, finally, finally, he bottomed out.
You didn’t say mine back. You said yes and Sukuna and more, and when his hands trembled where they framed your face, you covered them with your own and held them steady.
He found a rhythm that felt like something you’d been building since Shibuya, since the kiss you didn’t finish, since the fight that should have broken them and didn’t. The domain’s lights pulsed to their pace. The reflections beneath you showed echoes of themselves a heartbeat ahead, already there.
He wasn’t moving fast, just deep and hard. As much as you might have wanted him to hurry, your nails scraping down his arms, your hips trying to move faster, he wouldn’t be rushed. He kept going. Knew the end for you both was inevitable, but he was fucked if he didn’t take the time now to show you what you can expect from being his.
Slowly, driving you both up that mountain, until eventually even he was having trouble not absolutely pounding down into your addicting cunt. His pace increased. His breathing grew ragged as he felt the pulses of your pussy intensify around him, clenching around him tightly, close to milking his release from him, whether he wanted to or not.
“I’m going to cum again.” You found your voice, and suddenly it became very important to you that you tell him. “I don’t- Sukuna, I can’t- I can’t stop, I’m going to cum!”
He needed to see you cum again so badly. Needed that clenching he felt around his fingers happening around his cock. His fingers travelled down to your clit, rubbing hard circles as he decided to make more demands of you.
“Look at me when you cum. Now,” he said, voice ragged. “With me.”
You nodded and let go. Let go to fall more deeply into him; he felt it everywhere, felt you tighten around him, felt the heat climb and climb until the only thing left was to fall. His hand came up to hold your chin in an iron grasp, forcing you to face him as you both unraveled.
As he came closer to that edge, his pace became unbearably quick, shoving you off the edge as he felt you start to tighten and pulse around him, hot and soft, and melting him from the inside out.
“Fuck yes! Fuck, shit- yes, that’s right, make me cum in you, angel. That’s- that’s prefect, you’re perfect.” He buried his face in your neck and gave in with a sound that would have terrified anyone who didn’t know what it meant.
You took him with you, clutching him in, closer, breath breaking into a cry he swallowed greedily, like a man starved for you for a century and finally, finally fed.
It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t clean. It was yours.
When it was over, he stayed inside the moment like a man who’d learned from you how to hold time still. He didn’t pull away. He pressed his forehead to yours and tried to catch a breath that didn’t feel like it would cut him in half.
The two of you didn’t move for a long minute. The domain held its breath with you, lights dimmed to a warm pulse, the floor humming faintly like a drum under skin. Sukuna’s weight was still on you, he was still inside you, half propped on his forearms, his mouth resting at the hinge of your neck. He wasn’t gentle by nature, but something about this first time had left him cautious and reverent, as if the second he let go he might shatter the very thing he’d finally gotten to hold.
“Don’t do that,” he muttered, voice wrecked- too honest. “Don’t make me soft.”
You turned your head just enough to brush your lips over his temple. “I didn’t,” you whispered. “You did.”
He huffed a laugh that sounded like surrender refusing to be named. “I thought I wouldn’t be able to stop,” he said, the words rough against your skin. “Wanting you. If we did this.”
“Then don’t,” you said, simple as a blade set on a table. “Want me.”
Silence bit down. He lifted his head, eyes burning like banked coals given air. Something in his control snapped- not into danger, but into need that had finally decided to speak without a mask.
“I want you again,” he said, not a request.
“Yes,” you breathed, immediate.
He rolled away only to pull you with him, already moving, already remapping the room to his body’s urgency. The domain responded: stars slid lower, the floor warmed under your knees. He pressed you forward, guiding, claiming, a hand at the small of your back, the other braced firm at your hip. “Hands,” he ordered, voice gone deeper, darker. “Down.”
You went, palms to the floor, back arched, hair falling over your shoulder in a dark spill. He took a breath and knelt behind you, the ink on his arms curving with the flex of muscle as he gripped. He looked down and every line in his face sharpened- want, hunger, something close to awe punched through with a streak of cruelty he couldn’t quite sand off.
“Mine,” he said yet again, low and absolute.
“Yours,” you answered without hesitation.
He closed his eyes at that, just for a heartbeat, and then he came forward and took, not gently this time. The sound that ripped out of both of you when he did would have frightened a saner house. He set a rhythm like a verdict- harder, deeper, a pace that made the stars pulse in time. His hands clamped at your hips, then skimmed up your ribs, then slid back down, gripping hard enough to make you gasp.
“Tell how it feels,” he ground out, breath hitching, voice frayed.
“The best,” you cried, the word breaking into air. “Yes, so good, Sukuna-”
“Louder.” He dragged you back to meet each thrust, the slap of skin on skin a drumbeat under his command. “I want to hear you. Let the walls learn it. Who do you belong to?”
“You,” you gasped. “Yours-God-yes-”
He groaned like praise and possession had become the same thing in his mouth. “That’s right.” His fingers dug in. “Harder?”
“Harder,” you begged, and he obeyed without hesitation, pace shifting, angle shifting, relentless. You took it- took him- with the kind of trust that made his chest ache, pushing back into each motion like you’d decided to meet him where he lived.
The domain narrowed, bringing the stars so close they looked like candles set around a bed. Reflection turned to heat-shadow, catching flashes of you both that were a heartbeat ahead- his hand sliding into your hair, your head tipping back in a line of surrender, the slow arch of your spine as pleasure hit and hit again.
He found the rhythm that made your voice go bright and helpless and held it mercilessly. “Faster?” he bit out.
“Faster,” you choked, and he laughed, sharp and ragged, delighted by your shamelessness. He gave it to you- speed that bordered on savage, control so tight it felt like a wire pulled out of his own muscles and wrapped around them both. He was verbal because he had to be; the words fell like commands and vows at once. “Look at me. Finally got it how you’ve been begging for it, huh?” He fisted a hand in your hair, not cruel, angling you just enough that when you glanced back, he could see your eyes. “Don’t look away. That’s it—good—good girl.”
The praise did something to you. He felt it. You made a sound-sharp, breaking-and your whole body went hotter under his hands.
“More,” you gasped. “Please—”
He snarled, animal and grateful. “Ask me like that again.”
“Please.” You were shaking now, caught between bracing and letting go. “Sukuna-please-”
He bent over you and put his mouth to your shoulder, teeth scraping; his hand slid from your hip to find the place that tipped you over the edge, pressure exact and ruthless, in rhythm with his body. You broke in his hands- noisy, unashamed, the sound hitting him like a punch, tearing a hoarse curse out of him. He didn’t stop. He kept going through it, kept drawing it out, because the dark pleasure of knowing he was the one doing this to you was a hunger with its own teeth. He groaned into your skin, words dissolving. “Yes- give it to me- there- there- that’s it-”
Your voice pitched higher, beautiful and wrecked, and then- unexpectedly- you sobbed, a bright burst of sound that wasn’t pain, wasn’t fear, wasn’t anything but too much.
He froze for a sliver of a second, shock slamming into his spine- then realized what it was. Overwhelmed. Overstimulated. Tears on your cheekbones shining in starlight. He felt you still moving under him, still pressing back, still saying yes and more even as tears tracked into your hair.
His vision went dark at the edges with pleasure so deep it scared him. He thrust again, harder, and watched another tear fall. A low, broken laugh tore out of him. “Oh, angel,” he rasped, the endearment rough as a bruise. “Look what I’m doing to you.”
“Don’t stop,” you cried, desperate. “Don’t you dare stop.”
That undid him. He fitted his hand over the back of your neck and pressed, not to hold you down- but to hold you together. “I won’t,” he promised, and the promise felt like a chain he wanted willingly. “You’re mine. You asked for this- say it- say you pussy’s mine.”
“My pussy’s yours,” you sobbed, voice cracking on the words. “All of me- yours- Sukuna-”
He swore like a prayer and drove into you harder, faster, brutal with precision, never losing the rhythm that kept you right where he wanted you. The room shook- lights quivering, floor humming, reflection blurring to heat. He watched your hands clutch the floor, watched your back flex, watched the wet shine on your cheekbone and felt a dark, possessive joy like a storm hitting land.
“Look at me,” he demanded again, and when you turned he kissed the corner of your mouth, tasted salt, groaned against it. “Beautiful,” he said, lost. “Perfect. Mine. Say it again.”
“Yours,” you gasped. “Yours- yes- oh God- harder-”
He gave you everything you asked for. His breath went wild; his hands trembled with the effort not to lose the edge. “Say my name.”
“Sukuna,” you cried, and his control shattered and reforged in the same breath. He slammed you both closer to the end, voice breaking on pure need. “With me,” he growled. “Now- give it to me, angel- now-”
You did. You came apart with a cry that would have been a scream if he hadn’t caught it with his mouth, swallowing the sound like a man desperate to keep what he’d made. He followed on the next heartbeat, a rough, helpless groan torn out of him, his body locking, shaking, burying himself in the moment like he could live there forever.
He didn’t pull away. He stayed inside it. Inside you.
You break together- and he doesn’t stop.
Sukuna’s body locks, shudders, and then keeps moving through the peak like momentum itself is starving. “Take it,” he growls into the damp curve of your shoulder. “Take all of it.” You cry out- pleasure too bright, nerves singing- fingers clawing for purchase on the slick floor as he drives through the aftershocks. Your whole body tightens around him and then trembles, breath stuttering.
“Please-” you gasp, and it’s not a plea to end; it’s a plea to survive more.
“I know,” he snarls, voice broken open, pace ruthless. “You can take it. You can take me.” He swears when your answering sob turns into his name, hands sliding to your hips to haul you back into every merciless stroke. “That’s it. Yes. Yes. Look how pretty you are when I fuck my cum back into you, baby.”
The domain leans in- stars dropping lower, the floor heating under skin, reflections blurred down to heat and motion. It’s too much and exactly enough.
He rakes a hand over the back of your neck and pulls you down as he goes with you, chest to your back, covering you. The press is absolute: his ribs caging your lungs, his mouth at your ear, his weight pinning your hips, the drag and push of him relentless. You feel consumed; he feels anchored. You both gasp in the same broken rhythm. Your body tries to lessen the onslaught of feeling Sukuna is forcing on you but scooting away, but he doesn’t allow it.
“Down,” he orders against the shell of your ear, breath searing. “Don’t run from me.”
“I’m not,” you pant, tears slicking your lashes, cheek pressed to your forearm, but you are. You try to push back into him, try to take it like he demands of you. “I’m here. Yours.”
He curses, vicious and grateful. “Good girl.” His hand slides over your splayed fingers, lacing them to the floor, holding you there while he moves. “Louder. Let me hear it. Say my name.”
“Sukuna-” you choke, and he groans like the word fits him better than oxygen.
He’s rough- unyielding, pace like a verdict- but he’s not careless. One arm hooks under you to lift you just enough; the other cradles your jaw, tilting your face so he can take your mouth from the side. He swallows your broken sounds and gives back his own, praise spilling out between raked breaths and gravel-thick commands.
“Look at you,” he hisses, eyes fever-bright, each thrust punching the air from both of you. “So beautiful it hurts. Do you hear me? Impossible girl.” He mouths at the hinge of your jaw, teeth scraping, then gentles, and the contrast makes you sob. “Strong. Smarter than anyone in the room. Mine anyway.”
“Yours-” you gasp, wrecked and sure.
He laughs- a rough, stunned sound that crumbles into a groan when you push back greedily. “That’s right. Don’t hide from me. Give me every sound.” His pace snaps harder, faster. The stars shiver; the floor hums under you like a drumhead. “Say it. Say yes.”
“Yes!” It rips out of you, raw. “Harder- please-”
He gives it to you. He gives all of it- hips snapping, hand tight in your hair, teeth at your neck, whispering filth and worship in the same ruined tone.
“Faster- oh God-” Your voice breaks, body caught on that cliff’s edge where pleasure turns liquid and blinding. You try to curl from it; he pins you carefully and keeps going, and the helpless noise that tears out of you makes his control snarl and bow.
“Good,” he praises, relentlessly. “Take it. That’s it- there- there. Don’t hold back.” He kisses the wet at the corner of your eye as if it belongs to him, and something in him goes dark and incandescent at the same time. “Cry for me. Let me hear you.”
You do- sound bright and aching, overwhelming-tears slicking hot across your skin, not pain, not fear, just too much. He feels you shake, hears that thin, shattered breath, and his jaw flexes as a bruise-colored pleasure blooms low and heavy: I did this. I’m the one making you feel like this.
“Angel,” he rasps, voice tearing. “Look what I’m doing to you. Look how you take me.” He presses them flatter, chest locked to her back, their bodies so tightly fit there’s no air where they meet. “You’re perfect. Say it’s mine. Say you’re mine.”
“Yours,” you sob into the floor- no hesitation, no pride left to hide behind. “I’m yours- Sukuna- don’t stop-”
He answers with a sound that’s half curse, half prayer, pace turning brutal with precision. He threads your fingers, crushes your hands to the floor beside your head, and mutters into your hair, no space between words and thrusts:
“Strong. God, you’re strong. So damn clever. I hate it. I love it. You save us and then make me crazy. Mine anyway. Beautiful- do you hear me? I said beautiful. Don’t argue. Take me. Take it.”
You can’t argue- your breath won’t let you. You can only nod small and frantic, can only push back and meet him, can only give him every sound he demands, every yes, he asks for, until the world narrows to his voice in your ear and the unstoppable rhythm, he’s driving you with.
He feels you tighten- feels that trembling gather like a storm head. “Now,” he orders, voice shredded. “With me. Give it to me.”
You break first- crying out as if something inside you has been opened and light is pouring through. He keeps moving through it, drawing it out, praising you like a man at the altar of a god he finally respects. “Yes- good- mine- don’t you dare hide- let me hear you-”
He follows a breath later, a rough, helpless sound ripped out of him, every muscle locking, every ragged inhale punching his mouth open. He shakes over you, stays inside the moment like he’s learned how to hold seconds still with his body the way you do with your hands.
He doesn’t stop right away. He can’t. He pushes through the pulse, deeper, slower now but no less intent, chasing every last flicker from you. Only when you’re a trembling sigh in his hands and he’s shaking with spent effort does he slow and still, panting against the back of your neck.
For a long heartbeat, neither of you moves. Only your breath. Only your hearts.
Then he eases back a fraction, one hand still laced with yours, the other smoothing your hair out of your face in slow, reverent strokes. “Too good for me,” he murmurs, voice raw. “Too strong. Too clever. Mine anyway.” A kiss to the crown of your head, shockingly soft after the way he’s used his mouth. “You hear me?”
“I hear you,” you whisper, voice wrecked and warm. “Yours.”
He exhales like a man spared.
Carefully, he draws himself out of that closeness. You feel the slip and the loss, the last shuddering pull of him leaving you, and then the immediate, inescapable heat of them-mingled, warm- finding its way down the inside of your thighs. The domain doesn’t look; it simply glows, as if understanding even this is its business to hold.
He stares, hand still braced over your knuckles, watching the evidence of everything you’ve just done spill out and mark you. Something ragged and possessive drags through his chest. He swallows hard and lowers his mouth to your shoulder, speaking against skin he’s already kissed a dozen times tonight.
“Look at that,” he growls, voice almost hoarse with awe and hunger. “Look at what we made. My mark on you. Our heat- running because I put it there.” His tone trembles on the edge of a groan. “It makes me want to never stop.”
You exhale, shaky, turned molten by the confession more than the act.
He presses his forehead to the back of your neck, fingers lacing tighter with yours, the last of his anger burned down to embers that only know how to warm. He breathes you in- salt, heat, plum blossoms, them.
“Mine,” he says one more time, not as a threat, not as demand. As a promise.
“Yours,” you answer, and the word sounds like always.
The domain lifts its stars a little higher, softens the floor beneath you, tucks the night close around your bodies and your breath. He stays draped over you, both your hands tangled, until the room’s hum becomes a lullaby.
And if his mouth curves against your skin, and if his voice falls to a whisper that sounds suspiciously like reverence- well, that’s between the two of you and the dark.
