#unhinged obsession

♡ Characters: Ryomen Sukuna x GN!Reader ♡ Warnings: Yandere themes, obsession, possessive behavior, intense internal conflict, mentions of gore (?),  intimidation, psychological tension, cursed domain imagery, emotional whiplash, unhealthy attachment, power imbalance ♡ WC: ~1k ♡ Notes: Just me spiraling at 3am about Sukuna being violently obsessed and absolutely not okay with it. This is unhinged yandere energy with a side of “why the hell do I care about this soft little human???” and I’m not sorry. Part 2 coming soon?

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You are ordinary.

That’s the part that makes it worse.

If you were some grand sorcerer, veins pulsing with cursed energy, he could chalk this up to respect—or at least a worthy rivalry. If you were a scheming little shit, all sharp edges and venom, he could tell himself you’d sunk claws into him through sheer cunning. 

But you’re not. You’re nothing like that. 

You’re soft—too soft—skin unscarred, voice quiet, a fragile little mortal who smiles like the world isn’t a cesspit of blood and rot. You laugh at Yuji’s stupid jokes, look at that pink-haired idiot like he’s some kind of hero, and it makes Sukuna’s gut twist in ways he can’t stand.

He’s Ryomen Sukuna—king of curses, a walking slaughterhouse, a god among worms—and yet here he is, clawing at his own insides, trying to figure out why your existence gnaws at him like a starving dog.

He should crush it.

Crush you.

Rip that warmth out of his chest and grind it into the dirt where it belongs. He’s done worse for less.

But then you glance his way—just once, quick and unthinking, your eyes catching his through Yuji’s borrowed face—and the fury boiling in his bones goes quiet. Not gone, no, never gone—but warm, sickeningly so, like blood pooling under a fresh kill.

Shameful.

Unacceptable.

He wants to tear his own ribs out just to stop it.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

The air shifts, heavy and wrong, like the world’s holding its breath. You blink, and the dim hum of your room melts away. The floor beneath your feet turns cold, slick, like polished stone kissed by damp rot.

Shadows stretch, curling up the walls, and the light twists into something red and bruised, pulsing like a heartbeat.

You’re not where you were.

You’re somewhere else.

A low chuckle rumbles through the space, deep enough to rattle your teeth.

Ahead, the darkness splits, and there he is—Sukuna, not Yuji’s watered-down shell, but the real thing. Four arms flexing, claws gleaming like obsidian, his true form sprawls across a throne of bones, all jagged edges and marrow-stained ivory. His eyes—four of them, crimson and unblinking—lock onto you, and the grin splitting his face is a slash of teeth, too wide, too sharp. The air stinks of iron and ash, thick with the weight of his presence, and your pulse kicks hard despite yourself.

This is his domain. A cursed pocket of reality carved out just for this—just for you. He leans forward, two hands braced on his knees, the other two crossed lazily over his chest, and tilts his head, pink hair spilling like liquid over his shoulders. 

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice a blade dragging across stone, “look what stumbled into my cage. Didn’t think you’d be this bold, little mortal.”

You don’t flinch. Don’t scream. Don’t even step back.

You just stand there, chin up, and ask—calm as if you’re ordering coffee—“What do you want?”

The question hits him like a slap. 

His grin falters, just for a heartbeat, eyes narrowing as if you’ve thrown something sharp at him. 

What does he want? 

He summoned you here to watch you squirm, to see that soft shell of yours shatter under the weight of his malice. He wanted you trembling, wide-eyed, begging for mercy he’d never give. But you’re not. You’re steady, voice even, looking at him like he’s not a nightmare made flesh. And it pisses him off more than he can stomach.

“Want?” he echoes, rising from the throne, each step a slow, deliberate thud that shakes the ground. 

He towers over you, close enough that you feel the heat rolling off him, the faint tang of blood and smoke clinging to his skin. 

“I want to rip that tongue out of your mouth for asking something so fucking stupid.” His claws flex, one hand lifting like he might just do it, but it hovers there, inches from your throat.

 He doesn’t move. Can’t.

You tilt your head, just slightly, and meet his gaze—four burning eyes against your two ordinary ones. 

“Then why don’t you?”

The silence that follows is deafening. 

His hand freezes, claws glinting in the red light, and something flickers in his face—confusion, rage, something uglier he can’t name. Inside, he’s screaming, a howling storm of violence and disgust tearing through him. 

Why doesn’t he? 

He’s gutted men for less, torn women apart for daring to breathe in his direction. You’re nothing—nobody—a speck of dust under his heel. So why is his chest tight, his blood thrumming with something that isn’t hate?

“You’re a disease,” he snarls, voice dropping low, venomous, but his hand falls back to his side, claws curling into a fist. “A weak, pathetic little plague I should’ve stamped out the second I saw you.” 

He steps closer, so close his breath brushes your face, hot and bitter. 

“But you keep looking at me like that—like I won’t—” He cuts off, teeth grinding, and you swear you see his jaw tremble, just for a second.

“Like you won’t what?” you press, soft but steady, and it’s the final crack. 

His control splinters. 

He doesn’t answer—just stares, eyes boring into you, a war raging behind them. He wants to kill you. He wants to touch you. He wants to claw that warmth out of you and keep it for himself, and the contradiction is eating him alive.

The domain trembles, a faint ripple, and then it’s gone. 

You’re back in your room, alone, the bulb flickering overhead like nothing happened. But you feel it—the weight of his gaze lingering, the ghost of his breath on your skin. 

He’s not done with you. 

Not even close.

bratty betty is a softie at heart

♡ Characters: Ryomen Sukuna x GN!Reader ♡ Warnings: Yandere themes, obsession, possessive behavior, intrusive thoughts, gore (?), violent impulses, intense psychological conflict, inappropriate touching (nonsexual but unsettling), power imbalance, emotional repression, Sukuna being a freak in denial lmao ♡ WC: ~800 ♡ Notes: Part two of Ordinary (you don’t have to read it first, but like... you totally should bc I’m cool and my fics slap). A single look becomes a single touch, and Sukuna spirals even harder. He’s angry, unhinged, and worst of all—he’s feeling. Proximity is breaking him, and he can’t stand how much he wants more. Part 3? Probably. I’m feral.

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The day had been dragging its feet, a dull smear of routine—training with Yuji, dodging curses, the usual grind. You’re in some abandoned warehouse now, the air thick with dust and the faint reek of mildew, sparring with the kid to keep his reflexes sharp. He’s mid-laugh, dodging a lazy punch you threw, when it happens. His grin freezes, eyes widening for a split second before they darken—brown bleeding into crimson, pupils sharpening to slits. The shift is instantaneous, like a light snuffed out, and the body in front of you isn’t Yuji’s anymore. It’s Sukuna’s.

He doesn’t say a word at first, just straightens up, rolling Yuji’s shoulders like he’s stretching into a new skin. His presence fills the room, heavy and suffocating, and those red eyes lock onto you with an intensity that makes your pulse stutter. You should be scared—anyone else would be—but you just square your stance, chin up, watching him right back.

“Brat’s too soft with you,” he says, voice low, a growl threading through Yuji’s lighter tone. 

He steps closer, barefoot on the cracked concrete, and the air turns sharp, electric. 

“Lets you get away with too much.”

You tilt your head, unfazed. 

“And you’re here to fix that?”

His lips twitch, a snarl masquerading as a smirk, and he closes the distance in two strides, looming over you. 

He’s still in Yuji’s body, but it doesn’t feel like it—every move is too deliberate, too predatory, the way he tilts his head, the way his gaze rakes over you like he’s peeling back your skin. 

“I could snap your neck between two fingers,” he growls, one hand darting out, claw-tipped even in this borrowed form. 

His index finger hooks under your chin, tilting it up with a pressure that’s just shy of piercing flesh, the sharp edge grazing your pulse.

“Twist it right off and watch you flop like a broken doll.”

You don’t flinch. His breath is hot against your face, smelling faintly of copper and something darker, and you can feel the tremor in his grip—anger, maybe, or something worse. 

“But?” you prompt, voice steady, daring him to finish.

His eyes narrow, crimson flaring, and his claw stills, pressing harder for a heartbeat before he speaks again, quieter, rougher. 

“But I’d miss the way your voice sounds when you say my name.” 

The words slip out like a confession he didn’t mean to make, and his jaw tightens, teeth grinding as if he could bite them back.

Your lips part, a retort halfway there, but he moves first—his free hand brushing yours, accidental, just a graze of knuckles as he shifts his weight. It’s fleeting, barely a second, but the contact hits him like a jolt. 

Your skin is warm, too soft against the calloused edge of his borrowed flesh, and it sticks—clings to him like damp blood, seeping into his nerves. He freezes, eyes flicking to where your hands almost met, then back to your face. 

“Your skin…” he mutters, low and guttural, like he’s tasting the words. “Tch. Filthy.”

But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t wipe his hand clean. His claws curl tight instead, digging into his own palm until black blood wells up, and you catch the flicker of something in his gaze—disgust, maybe, or hunger. 

He steps closer still, chest brushing yours, and for a split second, his other hand lifts—like he might touch you again, softer this time, trace the line of your jaw with something less than violence. But then his eyes widen, a snarl ripping out of him, and he snaps it back, fist clenching so hard the tendons creak. 

Like you burned him. 

Like he can’t trust himself.

“Why do you care?” he snaps, voice jagged, leaning in until his forehead nearly touches yours, his breath ragged against your lips. 

“You look at me—him—like that, all soft and worried, and it’s fucking disgusting. Why?”

You don’t back down, meeting his glare head-on. 

“Why does it matter to you?”

He goes still, deadly quiet, and the warehouse feels smaller, the air thicker, like it’s pressing in around you both. His hand—the one that brushed yours—twitches at his side, and you’d swear he’s fighting the urge to grab you again, to dig those claws in and see if you’d break or bend. 

“You’re a plague,” he says finally, voice dropping to a hiss, but he doesn’t move away. 

Doesn’t retreat. Just stands there, too close, staring like he’s trying to carve you into his memory—or carve himself out of yours.

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Later that night, when Yuji’s back in control, laughing off the spar like nothing happened, Sukuna’s silent. Buried deep in that shared skull, he’s seething, replaying that touch—the heat of your skin, the way it lingered, the way it branded him. 

He dreams of it, a fractured, furious haze of red light and soft flesh, your hand brushing his again and again until he wakes, claws tearing into Yuji’s sheets, black blood staining the fabric.