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——

You remember being laid across your bed, phone in hand as you yapped away to a new friend of yours. Now, you and this friend got along because he was the complete opposite of Sukuna. He didn’t threaten you over petty things, didn’t curse you out and call you mean nicknames, and most importantly, he wasn’t batshit crazy.

While you were busy half-listening to your friend’s voice on the line, you began to smell the faint scent of something acrid. The smell made your face scrunch up, nose crinkling as your brows furrowed and you glanced around your room. You thought that maybe you could’ve left the stove or oven on somehow, even though you don’t remember turning either of those things on..

The scent reminded you of burnt toast if it was intensified to the third degree so, clearly something was burning.

“Are you even listening to me…?” The man on your phone grumps. You could practically picture the pout on his lips, “Hellooo?”

Shaking out of what’s got your expression shifting, “Yeah-, yes, I’m here,” You replied hurriedly, “Sorry, Satoru, gimme a second.” You end up telling him as that smell from the first floor of your home began to grow stronger.

The whole thing was making you very uneasy and it didn’t take much for you to feel the panic seeping up into your veins as you slipped out of your bed and went rushing towards your door. As soon as you opened it, you were smacked in the face with clouds of thick, black smoke that made you cough, bringing one hand up to cover your nose as you ducked and walked out into the wall of heat coating your home’s air.

“You alright over there?” Gojo had asked you, having heard your coughs and even catching a faint crackling as the phone picked it up into the call.

Between another cough, “Yeah, m’fine,” You say jokingly, “My house is just on fire.”

“What??” He gasps, taking in the full severity of the situation, “Shouldn’t you be calling the cops or something?”

You’re leisurely making your way down the hall with your nose still covered and your body slightly hunched over so you don’t inhale too much smoke. This isn’t the first time a certain someone has set something of yours on fire so you suppose that’s why you’re more annoyed than you are scared as you make your way to the edge of your staircase.

Standing there, you lean into the phone a little more. “Yeah, I’m getting to it…” You tell Gojo, easing your way down the steps to peak around the corner and see that the fire is much bigger than what you were expecting.

Again, this isn’t the first time that “best friend” of yours went setting shit on fire in your house. But, this is the first time he set your actual house aflame. Your eyes widen and all that casualty you previously had died inside you as big, wild flames pop and crackle with heat from your living room.

“Oh shit,” You gasped, “S-Satoru, I’ll call you back.”

“Are you oka—“ Before he could even finish, you were hanging up and moving with shaky fingers to dial the police.

And somewhere under all those flames, you swore you heard laughing. Sick, maniacal, and twisted laughter—a sound of which you’d come to recognize anywhere.

Everything that happens after that is one big ugly blur of events. Such an innocent night had turned into something foul all because you’d called Gojo one of your best friends earlier in the day. You don’t even know how the fuck Sukuna got wind of that comment but low and behold, he was the one who set your living room on fire.

The cops were called shortly after you’d discovered the flames and you remember having to be transported out safely in the arms of one hulky blonde fireman, who Sukuna then tried to attack before he was swiftly arrested and pinned to the ground by policemen.

Outside of your home, the two of you had argued back and forth from a distance while they worked cuffs over his wrists. You don’t remember the details of what you’d shouted at him as most of what you spewed was in anger but you do still picture the crazed smile the man had on his face every time you said something especially vicious to him. That was exactly why he liked you so much–, or rather, liked being your friend so much.

Sukuna always adored how you never let him walk all over you, even after he’d literally burnt a part of your house down. 

Somewhere between him getting arrested and that sweet blonde fireman—who’s name you noted as Nanami—Sukuna happened to see a gently clothed hand cleanse your face from the few ashes that’d covered your features. The only thing you heard was a snap as he’d broken out of the cuffs and launched himself forward.

It was an even bigger mess from then on.

You barely remember seeing that poor fireman get punched in the face, to which you jumped up, went swinging at Sukuna and… yeah, it was bad. Really bad.

It took multiple police officers and firefighters to pry the two of you off of one another. Well, more like to pry you off of him. You’d landed multiple blows to his face and quickly caused his nose to bleed but, the thing about that entire altercation that had you livid was the fact that he was smiling throughout each second of it.

This was another thing that wasn’t uncommon for the two of you to do. You’d done almost everything under the sun towards one another within the past ten years that you were acquainted—which yes, includes fighting one another. Though, the fighting in question mostly consisted of you hitting him and Sukuna just taking it.

He may have been crazy in every other field imaginable but he'd, surprisingly, never hit a woman. Especially not you.

While you'd been beating up on the man and just before the officers had pulled you two apart, you do remember one more little detail that still manages to cling to your mind to this day.

It was just as an officer had shouted something along the lines of, "Stop right there!" that you recall the glint in Sukuna's eyes dimming and the way his smug smirk flickered. It seemed like reality had finally settled back into his head for a moment and even though you still had a partially bloodied fist hoisted up, ready to land on his face again, you swear that second stretched out longer than it should've before his voice came out ever so softly.

"Fun's over, huh?" Sukuna had whispered to you, as if he somehow knew and fully expected this to be his last moment seeing you. He understood that he was going to jail for all this but that wasn't exactly his biggest concern.

His main thing here was that he had to accept the fact that you probably hate him now—

"Fuck you." You spat, finally, before he could even finish his thought.

If the pill wasn't a tough one to swallow previously, it damn sure was then.

You were pulled off of him seconds later and he was dragged away—this time towards the back of a police car—and although there was something distant and somber about the way his eyes still lingered on you and that same fireman who came to help you, he kept those two words of yours in the forefront of his mind.

After all, it was the last thing you'd said to him.

“Are you okay?” Nanami ended up asking you as he stepped impossibly closer and was quick to tend to you as if his condition wasn't worse off. Concern was etched all into his features but, even though you heard him, your eyes were busy fixed onto Sukuna.

You managed a nod and felt the man's hands reach for yours to clean the blood off of them. You should've been able to take your eyes off of the same guy who literally just set your house on fire and then proceeded to attack someone just for helping you.

And yet, there you were, letting Nanami's smooth suggestion of, "Let’s get you checked out,” flow through one ear and out the other.

Even as he gently pulled you away from the scene, your mind was one big mess of confliction. You're supposed to hate Sukuna now, obviously. He was insane!

But... he's always been that way and somehow, you've always forgiven him for it. Maybe it was because there was more good with him than there was bad. Or perhaps it was because he was the only man you knew could match your crazy.

Part of you wanted to go and fight for Sukuna's freedom after the whole ordeal, y'know, that really delusional and stupid part of you. And the other half of you knew that the sensible thing to do here was to leave him where he was. Maybe a couple years in jail would do him some good.

Right?

——

That was five years ago from now, where your home has since been repaired and free of the violent crimes of which your ex-best friend committed against you.

Luckily, you listened to the logical half of your brain and went against fighting for his freedom or contacting him at all, no matter how many times you found yourself missing him.

These days you try to convince yourself that you don't even think about him as much but, every time you bring a new guy into your life it just feels weird or, something feels like as though it were crawling up your spine. Especially if you tried to talk to someone romantically.

You'd always experience this odd lump of guilt eating away at you and it made you feel strange considering the fact that you should feel free of Sukuna's control over you and who you date. You'd been in relationships before he was locked up, after all.

Even though most of them ended in the weirdest ways...

You remember how one guy told you how he didn't want to die just for dating you. At the time you laughed it off, thinking he was being dramatic, but looking back on it now... perhaps Sukuna had something to do with it?

There was also the time a guy completely ghosted you just a few days after you'd both admitted you were in love with one another. You don't know what that was all about but, again, looking back on it now...

To take your mind off of the man you're not supposed to be thinking about, you end up fishing for your remote after plopping down on your living room couch. The TV soon flicks on and you shove all thoughts of your ex-best friend into the very back of your mind where he belongs.

He's exactly where he's supposed to be now anyway; rotting in a cell somewhere.

On a brighter note, for the past five years straight you've been living your best life. For the most part, anyway.

You and that nice blond fireman got closer through the years and he often comes over to your house to give you some company after you'd explained how Sukuna was your closest friend years ago. You know Nanami visits you out of pity but, you never exactly reject him.

The only unfortunate thing about that situation is the fact that every time he flirts with you, you can't find it in yourself to reciprocate. There's nothing wrong with him and he'd be a good fit for you, truly. The issue here is that you can't ignore how wrong you feel when you're with him.

He could be doing nothing more than sitting on your couch watching TV with you and yet you felt as though you had Sukuna's eyes burning into the very back of your skull—watching, judging, daring. There was even a time you and Nanami tried kissing. He wasn't bad at it and neither were you, something was just wrong about it and you didn't know what it was.

Perhaps Sukuna had unconsciously conditioned you into some sort of deep rejection towards anyone that wasn't him and you hadn't realized it.

Things only became clear for you when the same thing happened with Gojo. Who you tried going on dates with, tried to let spoil you, and even tried sleeping with. All of which failed miserably, especially that last little act. You'd felt off the entire time, so much so that you don't even think you were turned on.

Which was crazy to think about considering he's Gojo Satoru! It's not like you weren't into him.

He'd treated and touched you better than any guy ever had before—as did Nanami—but maybe that was the problem. Maybe you didn't want something that was smooth and gentle with you. Maybe you needed the craziness you only knew to come with the asshole sitting in prison right now.

Or at least... the asshole that was sitting in prison.

The moment your TV finally turns on, there's a news report playing that instantly snatches up your attention and makes every vein in your body run cold. The report ahead explains how a man who'd been convicted for arson had recently escaped prison and has been on the run for at least three days now.

You swallow thickly and your eyes quickly flock around to various corners of your house. Three days? Logically speaking—and not like you looked this up before or anything but—that's about the same amount of time it would take for him to get to your house on foot...

You turn back to your TV and sink further into your couch, turning the volume up to listen intently to the rest of the report before you drive yourself insane. The fugitive could be anyone after all. Arson is a pretty common crime to commit, isn't it?

"—The man is said to be at least six feet tall with pink hair, dark red eyes, and tattoos all over his face," The woman on your screen adds on suddenly before a mugshot pops up just a few inches away from her.

Aaaand fuck, it's him.

You immediately shoot up from your seat and start rushing around your house to make sure all the doors are locked and that every window is shut tightly. Hell, you even consider bordering up all exits and entryways.

The sound of your heart racing in your chest thumps all the way up against your eardrums as you fight with the increasing sensation of paranoia rising within you. You move all throughout your home, slamming doors shut and double-checking each lock with slightly trembling hands.

You hate how all it took was one little report to have you all anxious and thinking about him again. It's been five years. Maybe you saw the report wrong, maybe it was about that younger, identical nephew of his...

No, no, that doesn't even make sense. He was just a kid the last time you saw him and from what you remember, he wants to be nothing like his crazy ass uncle.

Fuck.

Over six feet tall, pink hair, dark red eyes, tattoos all over his face... Only one person fits that description and you know it.

Fuck.

You saw his face too, you can't just ignore that and try to convince yourself it isn't him.

The news is still playing off in the background, echoing throughout the walls of your house almost hauntingly now as you struggle to ignore the punctuating reality of Sukuna no longer being behind bars.

"He's not coming here," You mutter to yourself, despite the suddenly pounding memories of him flooding right back into the forefront of your mind.

Fuck.

It's been five years, there's no way he's going to escape from prison just to come torment you again. Or worse, to come get revenge from you not coming to see him all this time...

Then again, if you still can't help but think about him in moments where you really shouldn't be, he's probably been doing the same thing. Hell, you're probably the only thing on his mind right now.

Something in your chest throbs at the mere idea. You don't know why that invoked such a physical reaction from you, it's not like you've ever liked the guy or anything like that.

Aside from the first few years of your friendship when you had the biggest crush on him.

But that was fifteen years ago, feelings like that don't linger this long. Feelings like that shouldn't linger for this long, not after he's burned down a quarter of your house and has been sent off to jail for it.

For a moment you consider dialing the police but, what exactly would they do aside from send an officer or two out to your house for the night? Your phone is in your hands now and all you're doing is staring at the screen with a million thoughts in your head.

You can't call the police, that'd just end in another big brawl between you and Sukuna before he's arrested again and, unfortunately, the last thing you feel like doing is fighting anymore. You don't think you have the energy for that, especially not this late into the night. So, you end up pocketing your phone and instead head back to your living room.

Up until you hear a sudden thud from somewhere behind your house.

Your heart sinks into your ass and you freeze. Straining your ears to catch more sounds, you slowly turn on your heels and creep back towards your kitchen. The floorboards beneath your steps creak softly but you swear you hear a distance set of steps creeping around as well.

Yet, when you stop, the sound stops as well.

So perhaps you were just driving yourself insane?

Yeah, that's probably it. It's been five whole years, Sukuna would not spend all that time thinking about you and then turn around and come back to the same woman who got him thrown into jail. He's crazy but he's not that crazy.

Taking one more stretchy moment to let the silence linger on, you release a long sigh and pace into your kitchen. Just in case, you still want to have a weapon on you in the event that your delusions turn out to be true.

Right before you reach the knives, the sound of your house phone ringing like something out of a cliche slasher movie cuts through the air and easily scares the shit out of you.

Flinching, you hurry over to it and scramble about to get the phone into your hands properly, quickly lifting it up to your ear. "Hello?" You call out with a slightly shaky voice.

At first there's no sound, just static. Which, of course makes you want to hang up.

You've never been a fan of scary shit and the only person who knows that about you is Sukuna. So if the creepy silence was telling you anything, it's that it was definitely him—

"Hey, have you seen the news?" Gojo's voice rings out to you after one too many deafening seconds of eerie silence.

With a heavy sigh of relief, you almost smile into the phone. Thank God it's just him. "Yeah," You reply half-breathily, "Of course I saw it."

There's a slight sound of shuffling over the phone and you think you hear keys for a moment, "Do you want me to come over? Y'know, just in case that maniac shows up?"

You're shaking your head before speaking, "No, no, you don't have to do all that, Satoru. I'm fine-, it's fine."

"You don't sound fine..." He points out.

You roll your eyes for a moment, hating how well he's gotten to know you over the past few years. Leaning against your kitchen counter a little, you glance over at the knives just a few inches away from you, "How do I sound then?"

Gojo scoffs harmlessly, "Shaken up."

You're quiet for a moment and within it, it's almost like your breathing is echoing around you. Ignoring the intensified sound, you shake your head and shut your eyes for a second to ground yourself, "I'm fine, really."

The man over the phone lets out a long hum and you could almost hear the skeptical look on his face, "I'd be over in fifteen minutes top, y'know... I just-"

"Satoru," You cut off gently, "Seriously, I'm okay. I... I know how to handle myself and I doubt he's even coming here. It's been three whole days after all. He's probably on the other side of the country by now."

"Right..." Gojo trails off for a moment before shrugging, even though you can't see it. "Well, if you're sure. Just uh," He clicks his tongue slightly and leans into the phone, voice getting a little louder against your ear, "Call me if you need anything."

"I will, I will." You promise, "Goodnight, Satoru. A-And don't call my house phone anymore, you scared the shit out of me."

He chuckles, "Sorry, you weren't picking up your cell so I got a little worried. But, yeah, goodnight, sweetheart."

You place the house phone back into its original place and the call ends there. Your hand lingers on top of the phone for a bit before you slowly slide your touch away and let your shoulders relax.

All the tension that'd been there just a moment ago has died down a little and you feel calmer now.

See? Everything is perfectly fine.

But, it wouldn't hurt to grab one of those knives just in case...

Fishing through the knife holder, you eventually pluck one up and bring it closer to you for inspection. You let the blade's end tap against your finger softly to make sure it's sharp, not exactly cutting yourself but just checking it out. Then, you breathe out another sigh as if to steady yourself again.

You had a weapon and you could call up Gojo if anything else went sideways so, everything was okay.

Just as you turn around, that last little thought of yours is practically fucked out of your head violently. There's a tall, brooding frame of a man standing a few feet away from you inside of your kitchen, the sight of him enough to make your entire body flinch with a physical force strong enough for you to drop the knife you just picked up.

You shoot down for the weapon you dropped and scramble it back up into your hands before rising up to your feet again, seeing that the man who'd just scared you hasn't moved an inch.

As your breath remains uneven and weighted with fear, the male inside your house is standing there with that signature smile of wickedness plastered all over his face. Cocking a thick pink brow, which you notice has two slits in one them, "'Sweetheart', huh?" He drawls, voice all dense with a baritone that fills every inch of the space between you both.

Your eyes are wide and frantic, running over every bit of your ex-best friend standing before you, trying to figure out whether or not this is real or just some fucked up nightmare. His hair, that same bright pink you know it to be, is all unkempt and wild atop his head as his eyes, low-lidded and dark, steadied onto yours.

"What the hell are you doing here?" You hiss out slowly, sounding unsure in your own tone given the abundant sense of unease inside you.

You watch his lower, rose-toned lip get pulled in between his teeth at the mere sound of your voice before his head angles to the side in slow motion. Then he lets his crimson eyes drag up and down the expanse of your frightened frame and swallows up every inch of you with his gaze alone. It's only been a few seconds and you felt as though you were shrinking under him already, despite the distance between you.

Sukuna's voice carries out with the same rasp that never fails to drive you insane, "Awh, come now," He coos with a pout of mocking smearing across his face for a moment, "Is this any way to greet your best friend? Pointing a knife at me as if it hasn't been years since we've last seen one another."

Your eye twitches in annoyance, "You set my fucking house on fire!"

He visibly reacts to the elevation in your tone with a rise of his brows and a slight adjustment backwards as if you'd pushed at him. "Surely you're not still mad about that," He purrs lowly before taking a small step forwards and ignoring the blade you have aimed his way.

You shift backwards but you merely meet the counter and realize you'd have to run left or right if you wanted to escape him. That, and most of the exits are somewhere behind him.

"You need to leave," You breathe hotly, "Get out before I call the cops again or I swear to—"

"Call the cops again?" Sukuna scoffs loudly and his next step closer makes the floor groan distantly under his bulky frame, "You think they can keep me locked up forever? I escaped once, I can do it again." Now he's only a few more steps away from you and you've yet to pry yourself away from your spot.

You hate how you can hardly move under his gaze, as if you'd been put under some type of spell or something, your body condemned to stay in place.

"And do you know where I'll come once I do?" He adds on slowly, sneaking nearer until he's only one step away from your personal space. "Right," The distance lessens as he takes that final step, "Back," Sukuna extends an arm out and you feel it brush against your side as he places his hand on the counter behind you, his lips grazing your ear now, "To you." he finishes off in a chilling whisper.

You fall impossibly quieter and he pulls away from your ear just to meet eyes with you, leaving you there to stare up at him with years of and years of emotions floating around your gaze. You wanted to say something, anything, but the only thing you could manage was a subtle twitch of your lips. To which he took as an opportunity to fill the silence.

Tone almost vulnerable if you listened hard enough, "I just wanted to see you," Sukuna admits, almost like he'd missed you or something.

Your grip on that rather useless knife of yours tightens, as does the feeling in your chest. You're standing face to face with him now, halfway trapped between his large body and the counter behind you.

And as if to unintentionally ruin the moment, his eyes sink further along your frame, drinking in your lack of a response to him and instead letting his expression color itself in amusement as he leans down to you and whispers, “You look good.”

The heated, “Fuck you.” that pours past your lips is instantaneous. You didn't even have to think about the words before uttering them, nor do you regret saying them to him in such a distasteful tone.

Sukuna hums somewhere deeply in his throat and draws himself back just a bit, “That’s what I’m here for, brat.”

You blink, “What?”

“Don’t you remember?" He continues, eyes studying every curve and twitch in your face as if he'd forgotten how expressive you could be. "All those years ago, that’s what you asked me to do, isn’t it?”

Your lashes are batting with perplexity now, “I didn’t ask you to do shit-”

“Well, that is the last thing you said to me.” He cuts off quickly. Then his hand moves off of the counter behind you and you instinctively draw your knife up, the tip of the blade tickling his chin and causing his head to tip back some. There's a faint hitch in his breath as he's caught off guard ever so faintly.

Testingly, your eyes remain vexing and pointing upwards on his, “So?”

His hand carefully reaches your wrist and his fingers curl around it, his touch a sense of gentleness you've never felt from him before. Sukuna was touching you as if you were made of some kind of porcelain—liable to break at any given moment. Which, naturally, had you even more pissed off. It lets you know that five years away from you did nothing but make him think he'd left you all fragile and on the edge of breaking or something.

“Are you really gonna sit there and act like you didn’t miss me all this time?" The fugitive questions further, voice an annoying cadence of softness. It was so out of character for him that it made you feel even more uneasy standing in front of him.

Something wasn't right here.

“I didn’t," You claim as if you hadn't spent over half of those five years doing exactly that.

“Mh," Sukuna hums again and this time his lips twitch back up into that usually smug smile, voice dropping, "Yeah? Is that what helps you sleep at night?”

To combat with his never ending smugness, you try to appear as nonchalant about it as you can and drag out your little white lie some more, “Yup.”

“Tch.” He's quickly irritated by that one word threading past your lips with such indifference, “So I set your house on fire one time and now all of a sudden ten years of friendship don’t mean shit to you?” He asks.

The statement itself was almost more concerning than the fact that he'd done that to you. You'd think five years in confinement would help a person think over their actions and actually consider the wrong in their crimes but apparently Sukuna Ryomen wasn't prone to such a thing.

“You tried to kill me, asshole.” You remind him for the nth time.

He talks half a step away from you and chuckles, “I’d never do something like that and you know it. If that fire had hurt you that day, I’d never forgive myself for it.” Sukuna claims in a weirdly endearing way.

You hate how that makes your chest do that weird clenching thing again, as if his words still had an honest affect on you after all this time. Somewhere distantly in your mind, you were screaming at yourself about how you should've called the police on him again when you had the chance, while you were still somewhat in your right mind. But now it was too late, you were already wrapped around his finger tightly with no desire to unravel yourself from him.

Before you can manage out another jab, he ends up bringing one of those large hands of his up to his sharpened jawline and then runs his palm over it carefully, gaze drooling out an emotion you don't care to acknowledge right now, “And I meant what I said,” He whirs, “You look good.”

Finally rolling your eyes elsewhere, “You shouldn’t be here.” You deflect.

Sukuna obviously doesn't move, “You’re not telling me to leave.”

“You need to.”

“Do you want me to?” He retorts, taking the following long second of silence as a decent enough response from you, “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

After which you allow yourself a moment to finally take the sight of him in. He's not as close as he was before which is somewhat helpful to your buzzing nerves but... fuck, he got even hotter within the time he's been gone.

Sukuna's always been tall but you swear he's grown a few more inches. All his features are sharper and more defined as if he hadn't let a day go by without properly taking care of himself, despite being locked away for so long. His body is staggering more so now than ever before as he stands in front of you clad in nothing more than a crisp white T-shirt and the rest of his prison jumper sitting low on his hips.

Now, this shouldn't be as distracting as it is but, as soon as you look down you can't help the way your eyes widen at the sight of the slightest sliver of smooth skin peeking out from the space between his lower abdomen and his pelvis. That bright orange fabric was way too low on his hips and you're sure he was aware of it too.

The toned V-line of his was adorned with trails of teasing veins that led to something you swore yourself up and down you didn't want to think about at all. But of course, it's hard not to think about it when you see that heavy tent in his crotch. You always knew Sukuna was... packing but, most times when you'd acknowledged it, you tried to shove the thought away just as quickly as it came.

It's a little hard to do that now when he's standing right in front of you watching you watch him. You don't even realize the way your eyes all but linger there as your lips part and a soft breath ghosts past them.

Then you're speaking your mind without thinking first, “You got… bigger.”

Your eyes are still glued to that outline of something bulky in his pants just before you hear him scoff at your shamelessness and force yourself to look up again. Sukuna's eyes look hungrier now. Shit, that wasn't your intention at all. You're should be kicking him out of your house right now-

“That’s what five years in a cell does to someone, woman," The man drawls, voice a pitch lower already.

One little moment of taking in his appearance and he was already feeling the effect you had on him. Moving your gaze away from his starved one, you resort to studying his now folded arms and how hefty they are tucked over his even broader chest. The tattoos across his skin still seemed as fresh as ever, almost as if not a day had ever gone by.

Clearing your throat and ignoring how hot you start to feel when your mind flashes an image of those same arms around you, “F-Five years in that cell and you still can’t even address me by my-” You're cut off when he looms closer all of a sudden, causing your stammered words to die out in your throat somewhere. He's mute as he draws close and then cranes his head down to your neck, inhaling you sharply. “...What are you doing?” You ask slowly, heart beginning to do that loud thumping thing again.

“You smell like another guy,” Sukuna utters a few inches away from your skin. It was almost as though he could see the scent of someone else on you before he even leaned in like that.

It gave you chills.

Trying to laugh his actions off again, you end up reaching a free hand up to his chest to try and lightly push him away, “What are you, a dog?”

“Woof," wisps out of his lips in a half-joking manner but with the way it slathers against your skin before the tip of his nose replaces the sensation as he zeros in on your neck, you're left struggling with a million and one emotions.

“The fuck…?” You whisper to yourself.

He only chuckles at your reaction, finding it rather cute, “Is that what I have to be to get in your good graces again?" Sukuna asks as his face adjusts to your neck and his teeth graze you, "Some kind of mutt?"

"No," You scoff, "Y-You're never getting in my good graces again." Your hand pushes at him again but even he could tell you don't mean anything by the gesture. Especially considering how you finally place your knife down somewhere behind you.

To which he smiles knowingly, "Oh yeah?"

"...Yeah," You manage out softly, turning your head to try and see what exactly he's doing.

"You don't sound so confident," Sukuna utters into your skin as if to let his words tattoo themselves into the area.

And hey, maybe you didn't sound confident because you weren't. So instead of searching for something new to say to him in response, you fall back on the same thing you've been saying to him for as long as you can remember. Angling your head elsewhere as you scoff a neatly said, "Fuck you."

"You keep saying that," He replies quickly while steadily gliding his head away from your neck and lifting. It's then that you're made well aware of how close he is to you now. Such little distance remains from his face to yours and all it would take is a short lean downwards for his lips to be against yours if either of you wished it so, "And I'm starting to think you want me to." He finishes off bluntly.

You blink out of your temporary daze just then, "What?"

"Fuck you," Your ex-best friend half-way clarifies, "It seems like you want me to fuck you."

"You-," Your words pause whilst your lashes flutter over one another, mind troubling itself trying to wrap around the audacity he seemed to carry after all this time. "You can't set my house on fire, go to jail for it, and then come back to me years later and try to sleep with me," You remind the man as you carry your stern gaze back up onto his, "Time does not equate to an apology, asshole."

Sukuna cocks a brow and bites back a laugh at the sound of that, "Is that what you need from me? A measly little apology?"

You scoff, "No, I don't need one from you but it would be nice-"

"I'm sorry." He says frankly, "Now, what else can I do to make up for it, hm?" His other hand presses behind you and you're trapped between both of his bulky arms before you even realize it, his voice dropping a tone and making the moment all the more intimate, "One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty nine days in which I have not seen nor heard from you and yet," You watch as his head tilts slowly and his eyes cascade down to the curve of yours lips, "You expect me to pry myself away from you?"

"Sukuna," You whisper, feeling almost suffocated in the lack of space between the two of you. Every fiber of his being was swallowing you up by the second and yet no matter how consuming it all felt, you couldn't find it in yourself to want to pull away.

You're unsure why his name even tiptoes past your lips like that when you carry no sort of argument against him any more. Sure, you should hate him now-, you think you still do but, it's hard to consider those emotions when he's so close.

Then his voice sinks another octave and your knees are feeling weak as his words exit him with something sinfully heated behind them, "I have missed you, achingly, for years," Sukuna claims, leaving you intoxicated in everything that pertains to him all over again. The tip of his finger meets your chin and forces your head further up, both of you now looking at the same thing now. "Yet you deny me. Why?" He questions.

You swallow thickly, as if that would lessen your nonexistent will to escape him, "You tried to kill me..." Your voice is meek and you hate every second of it, "Y-You set my house on fire."

The man fights with the smile that nearly broadens itself across his lips, "You remain unharmed."

"What about my home, Sukuna?" You ask in return, seeing as that is the most important thing here second to your well-being. Your tone is a little more sturdy now and he catches onto it, the sound making that undesirable glint in his irises return.

"It has been repaired, I see," He points out comically. After which his hand shifts and he holds the entirety of your jaw in his palm, thumb caressing your skin whilst he leans in and stops juuuust before his lips are on yours, "What more do you want from me?"

Your mouth trembles with the words that ached to leave them, unconsciously longing for the finality that is him kissing you at some point. You hated how in all the time he's been gone you'd done everything but move on and instead worked yourself up to a point so low in being touch-starved that you wanted to whine from the sheer closeness you shared with him alone.

"...Tell me why you did it." You eventually manage to demand from him.

He sighs but his answer is immediate, "You tried to replace me."

"What?" Your brows meet and your eyes shoot up to his, "No I didn't. I-I'd never-,"

"Gojo," Sukuna starts off interruptingly, allowing himself to meet those gorgeous pupils of pure vexing distaste he'd missed oh-so-graciously, "The fireman..."

"You can't be serious," You spat as you barely made an attempt to tug your chin out of his hold.

The effort you make is completely in vain since he only tightens his grip and this time tugs you impossibly closer, your breaths intertwining with one another now. "Forgive me," He demands, lips grazing the skin of yours as he does so.

Your mind halts every thought for a moment. The way he was looking at you alone was enough for you to have forgiven him a long time ago. Hell, you almost forget you were ever even mad with him to begin with. Sputtering, "I-I can't just-"

"Then let me apologize properly," Sukuna cuts off smoothly, words practically seeping out directly into your mouth now.

And all you could do was swallow down each one, completely entrapped in every thread of seductive manipulation he'd woven into you over the years. Your statement is airy as it strings out of you slowly, "You shouldn't even be here."

"I'm here because you need me to be," He protests.

You detest how true that may be but, you lie anyway, "No, I don't."

"Your body betrays your claims," The fugitive points out in the same way he always had whenever he saw directly through you, "Just look at the way you've leaned into my every touch as if you crave it—long for it, even," Sukuna continues on as his lips being to part over your own, ready to capture them in the sweetest, long overdue kiss. "Let me make my amends to you, woman." He requests of you kindly, shortly adding a borderline desperate, "Please."

——

You should never have given to that, really.

You were supposed to keep up with your act of stubbornness and not go back to your old ways of forgiving him no matter how wrong he did you. Yet, like any toxic relationship, you can't seem to find it in yourself to do that at all.

So here you are now, debauched and ruined in front of your own bedroom mirror. Having been put on display by the same man you were supposed to kick out of your home hours ago, you're busy bouncing up and down a looong expanse of his thick inches as he did nothing more than talk you to filth.

“Y’see this? See what’s all mine?” Sukuna rasps hotly against the sensitive shell of your ear, having one of his thick hands settled neatly onto the curve of your hips as he guides you up and down his swollen shaft with no sense of gentleness whatsoever. His other hand busies itself away with your jaw to keep your head facing the mirror just a few inches away from the edge of the bed where the two of you are sat, “Yeahhh, look how pretty she is taking all that cock. Taking all my cock. Uhuh..”

Your pussy is left swallowing up everything he stuffs up into you, singing out sloppy glistens of wetness and slick every time he hits that spot inside you no one else ever has or could before. All whilst your mouth dangles open, gorgeous strings of moans 'n whimpers gliding out of your throat and filling the air of your bedroom—the same bedroom he'd previously heard you talking to so many other guys in.

You never knew it of course; never knew that he had your entire home bugged from top to bottom, always listening to who you talked to and how you spoke to them. So five years ago, that might've been how he'd heard you call Gojo your best friend but, none of that matters much now. You're exactly where Sukuna has wanted you to be all this time.

“Fucked so stupid on it already,” He grunts at the way you're struggling to keep up your rhythm on top of him. “How cute,” Sukuna adds on cooingly, to which your cunt flexes ever so deliciously around his slobbering length.

Everything's a literal mess now.

You've got your neck plastered in spit and bite marks, all from the man who just swore he had to make sure you and anyone else who dare set their eyes on you after this knew you belonged to someone. The two of you have been at it for hours now and at this point you're hoping the police have long since forgotten about searching for him.

At some point you think you should've gone numb from the pleasure he'd given you but instead it was the exact opposite; you just couldn't get enough!

With the way your walls hugged the fat of his cock so snuggly every time he spoke, he couldn't help but carry out his teasing, “No one else has been in here, huh?” He asked, despite already being quite sure of the answer.

From drooly lips, “N-No, Sukuna,” You hardly manage out, especially with the way the wide crown of his cock is just thrashing up against your cervix, leaving the nastiest of kisses all against it so that you'll never forget the feeling, “Jus’ you.."

He smiles proudly at the sound of that and something in his chest swells dangerously. Hips bucking up faster-, harder to rudely knock up against the same place that's been gushing all over every inch of him for fuck knows how long now, "Really? So you were saving this pussy just for me, hm?”

“No,” You try huffing out. Instead, the short word comes out as more of a moan than anything but, all your syllables had been leaving you like that.

Just a few minutes ago he'd had you spread out over your bed and mumbled apologies into your cunt with nasty swirls of his tongue, inscribing every "sorry" into your walls with searing licks and lathers. It was the only time in all this that he'd gone somewhat quiet and instead let your pussy do the talking.

You hardly grasped what transpired from that to now since you're struggling to take everything he's giving you. Hell, you can barely get yourself to sink all the way down to that dark ink he's got wrapped around his cock, having told you that the tattoo there is—apparently—what you're supposed to be reaching with every thrust.

“Feels like you were,” He husks out thickly in between ragged breaths, grin only enlarging itself out across his slicked face, “Look at how sloppy she is around me,” And just as he says that, you're doing nothing more than watching the way your pussy lips drool so stupidly against the angry veins of his dick. To which he snickers into your ear just to tease you some more, “Such a wet lil' thing.”

You can't even control the way your head flops back somewhere against him, hips growing fatigued by the minute and throat hoarse from your pathetic mewls of pleasure, “Hnngh, S-Sukunaa."

The man only tuts before shaking his head a little to get the sweat-soaked pink locks of hair sticking to his forehead to move a bit, taking in the sight of how slovenly the both of you look right now.

With his lips sticking to the sensitive crest of your ear, he whispers ever so tentatively, “Made s’perfect for me,” A praise that only has you drenching the stretching girth that's tucked heavenly inside you, “Aren’t you?”

“M-Mhmm,” You agree instantly, of course. You think you've forgotten how to and the overall desire to deny him a long time ago from now.

Just then you feel a certain twitch spasming against your honeyed walls, causing a lewd squelch to ring out. Sukuna's breath gets even more breathier as his heavy balls ache for the release he's been saving just for you. “Slut,” He calls, almost as if that were your birth given name. “Look at me,” The same strong hand on your jaw forces your head to turn and your eyes meet his dilated pupils, “Can you feel that? Feel what you do to me? What you’ve been doing to me? Hm?”

Just as he asks you all those dirty questions, you feel him rolling the rest of his cock deeper inside you, trying to make that slathered tattoo disappear all the way past your puffy folds already.

“Yes,” You croak pliantly, earning a mocked pout of his kiss-bitten lips.

“Yeah? How do I feel inside there, huh?” He asks, just to earn a soft whine out of your throat instead of proper response. Then he cocks his brow up, “S’good you can’t answer me properly? Poor thing—here," All. of your breath is ripped out of your lungs as he then moves both of his arms down to swoop under your thighs and lift them up and out. Followed by which is him finding the nerve to stand with you in his hold.

You quickly find yourself in a full nelson before you have the time to break out of your cockdrunken state. The drool from your lips drips out onto the floor with soft, nasty splatters that match what's currently leaking all off of his balls and onto the floor.

Oh, the sight is nothing short of pure filth.

But—naturally—Sukuna's not phased by the change of positions in the slightest, "Tell me if this is better for you.” He taunts.

Better for you? As if. You could feel a tingling sensation thrumming all throughout your legs as they reduced to utter mush in his arms, especially as he starts moving. His thick cock dives in and out of your leaking hole, creating the prettiest sounds of nastiness that reverberate throughout the space around you.

Sukuna spreads you out impossibly wider with his rugged, tattooed arms secured too neatly under the plush of your thighs, having you take him fully now. Your hips feel wobbly whilst he hauls you up and down his cock, leaving you to do nothing but sop up everything he slid so thoroughly into you.

You're gasping when his wiiiide cock lodges so suddenly against your sweetest spot, “Kuna’, c-can’t—mmgh! Fuck! M’gonna cum,” You pant heavily, adding on a cute whine of, “S'too much!”

He's kissing somewhere near your neck now but you're too focused on the feel of his weepy head against where you needed him most to realize. Not until he starts that raspy purring against your hot skin, “Again? You like my cock that much?”

“N-No,” You manage to argue playfully, “I just-, mmnh! I-I like the way you fuck me.”

“Oh really?” He scoffs instantaneously, as if offended for a second. “And yet look at this messy pussy," Sukuna directs, causing your attention to shift down at the way you've left the creamiest mess of release all around that dark ink of his. "Crying alll around the same cock she hates.”

“Ohfuck,” You gape, eyes watering up again when he bites down hard at your neck. Something deep in the pit of your stomach felt as though you were bursting and fuck did it feel good.

So good that you're driven straight into overstimulation for the nth time of the night, all while sobbing and pleading for something—though you're not quite sure what for. It's not like you wanted a break by this point, no, no, you were much more interested in him breaking you.

So why does your body start squirming in his arms all over the place as if to escape him? You've no idea.

“Don’t do that,” Sukuna starts scolding you the moment he catches onto it, arms bulging around your folded body and locking you in place, “Take it, since you like the way I fuck. Take it, every fuckin’ inch—none of these-," His head angles up to lick the streaming teardrops off of your cheeks, "Mmh… sweet-, tears. Awh, look at you trying to run from it. S'this too much for my slutty girl?” He sears into you.

“Sukuna, please,” You beg. For what? You're still unsure but by this point you're unsure about everything. The only thing you can think about is the way he feels inside you.

He's still breaking out that smug smile of his, taunting, “Please what?”

“I-I can’t—“ You don’t even know what you were trying to say with the way your mind blanks and you cream around the thick of his cock yet again.

“Shh, shh, listen to her," Sukuna instructs, letting your gasps and cunt become the loudest things in the room. “Y'Hear that? That’s what good sluts sound like when they get fucked right.” He explains to you, talking into your ear once more just to have you spasming all around him for the millionth time. The baritone in his voice gets impossibly heavier in the next second, “Hah, ready to hear how they get bred?”

In response, all you can do is clench around him and manage a lazy, fucked-out nod of your head.

“Ohhh, you are, huh?” He coos.

“Uhuhh,” You babble, “Please ‘Kuna... N-Need it."

A scratchy grunt tumbles up from his throat, “Need what? Say it for me.”

“Cum inside me,” You say fully and almost perfectly for the first time in hours, “Fuck me full.”

He almost does at the sound alone but for some reason, he feels as though he needed to hold out just a little longer. "S'that what you need?" Sukuna huffs, thrusts entirely uneven now with the way his pearly 'n dawdling cockhead thwacked around your insides with no more direct focus, just feral need. "You need my cum inside you?"

"Yes," You weep delightfully.

Your best friend can only manage another, "Fuck, I've missed you so much." at the sound of that. Then he's spilling every globbing rope of cum inside you. His thrusts punctuating to make sure it takes, "Thought about you every. single. day."

"Sukuna," Your head is turning elsewhere again and for some reason he hates that.

So he's rasping a needy, "Look at me," all over again, swallowing down the terribly plead that nearly jumped out of his throat. Masking the near level of patheticness he'd reached, "Now tell me you love me." he demands instead.

Your mind may be a mush of cockdrunk and fucked-stupid but you still carry that same strength to push his buttons one more time, "F-Fuck you,"

Sukuna groans harshly and turns around with you. One second you're held tightly in his hands and the next he's laying you down on the bed flat with a rough grab on your head just to push it against your bedsheets. The next few moans that leave your throat are broken and muffled as he plows into you in yet another new position—prone bone—and driving his fat cock into every quivering crevice of your cunt.

His free hand presses down against the newfound arch in your spine and his dick feels even thicker inside you somehow. Eyes fluttering, you end up giving in without him having to say anything else, "F-Fuck! I love you, 'Kuna..." You sob into the bed.

He tugs your head up by your hair with a sharp pull, "One more time f'me?"

"Hnngh, I l-love you," You whimper.

He chuckles as if he's aware of something you're not, "Oh, I know you do, sweetheart, I know." Then he's leaning down, wide, muscular body caging yours as he speaks carefully, "You're never gonna send me off like that again, right?"

"Never," You're choking now, his hard tip kissing that spot of yours yet again.

"So obedient," Sukuna comments whilst practically spelling his name out into your cunt, "All I have to do is give you some cock for you to obey my every word, huh?"

You're nodding like some idiotic whore now, "Mhmm.."

"What a slut." He scoffs—as if he isn't into it or something—and then lets his eyes glide down your gorgeously ruined body, "My slut though, isn't that right?"

You don't even try to think before speaking. The words easy fall past your lips in a wispy puff, "All yours S'kuna."

"Juuust as I fuckin' thought," He breathes out in return. And then with one last little snicker, his voice dips to something so quiet that you nearly miss the way he finishes off with a softened, "'Love you too, woman."

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You don’t notice it straight away. You’re too busy whistling an off-key 90s ballad on your way back home, juggling a tote stuffed with colorful balls of yarn and a paper bag full of bagels from the bakery down the street. The owner, Dmitriy – austere as ever in his early seventies – always slips in an extra piece, and always reminds you, less and less subtly each time, that his grandson from Moscow is single. 

The blue-eyed boy is polite enough, if you don’t count the way he stares like he’s trying to see through your soul. There's this air of casual indifference to him that you’re not exactly into (You like loud declarations of love and being unapologetically affectionate in public), but also this sort of weird intensity whenever he thinks you're not looking.

Still, you never have the heart to turn down the old baker’s earnest attempt at matchmaking, so you put up with a few stilted conversations whenever you find his grandson milling behind the counter.

Now, back to the present.

You find yourself staring quizzically at the slim parcel you’ve pulled free from a bunch of junk mail littering the small compartment. It weighs almost nothing. 

You give it a careful jiggle. Something rattles back at you. 

(There's a faint sound emanating from when you shake it, almost as if it’s… ringing?)

The box itself is nondescript—except for the rectangular card laid on top, in 300gsm premium stock, one you’d expect to be used when announcing someone’s nuptials. It offers no other clue as to what’s inside. No return sender, no stamps. 

Nothing at all, except for a short, elegant script written neatly across the front: Your end of the deal. 

Any chance at ominous gravitas, though, is promptly ruined by the fluorescent pink Post-It slapped to the side. You peel off the bright sticky paper, squinting at the rushed scrawl: Send out ASAP to this location—your address and house number aggressively underlined—and I mean FAST. Call Jake at this number when you’re done.

And below, almost too helpfully, is the number of this Jake person.

You already chalk it up to a mix-up. Your area shares a postal code with another suburb, and the mailboxes around here have seen their fair share of misplaced deliveries. An easy enough mistake to make, if not exactly the most convenient. 

Poor guy, you think sympathetically. Whoever Jake is, he must really need this package expedited if he’s placing a rush order for it.

With nothing else to go on, you decide the simplest thing is to call the man himself. You fish out your phone, punching in the digits. It picks up on the second ring.

“Y’sent it?” a gruff voice demands, loud in your ear.

You brighten instantly. “Hi! I think I have your package?”

Dead silence.

“…Um, hello?” you try again.

All at once, panicked whispers erupt through the line, and you catch two (maybe three?) voices talking over each other.

“Who the hell is that–”

“Did he—fuck! That motherfucker can’t do one FUCKING thing right, I swear–”

They sound frantic, the type of frantic that belongs to people who’ve just lost something they really, really shouldn’t have. You picture poor Jake at his wits end, probably tearing his hair out from all the worry. 

You’re about to jump in and reassure them that the item is safe with you when the call drops. You glance at the home screen, bemused. 

With a shrug, you head upstairs.

In the foyer, you tug your scarf loose and drop your things by the door. The matte black package sits cushioned between balls of indigo and baby-blue yarn, looking absurdly out of place. The sight makes you grin.

The door clicks shut behind you just as your phone buzzes again. You pick up with a chipper, “Y’ello!”

A distinctly masculine voice greets you without preamble. “Who gave you that number?”

You blink, the smooth baritone not what you were expecting. Definitely the voice of somebody who doesn’t belong on the other end of a misdial. 

“Oh, hi! Is this Jake?” you guess, crouching to untie your shoes. You switch the call to speaker, balancing your phone on your knee. “There was a note stuck to the box, so I figured I’d call! Looks like the address got mixed up, but that’s okay—we get those sometimes, no biggie. I can send it back, or if you prefer, I can drop it at the post office–”

The man cuts straight through your rambling. “You will head to the location provided. Be there in thirty minutes.”

The line goes dead before you can get another word in. You stare at your phone, baffled, still crouched over one untied shoe. Geez, Louise.

Not even a minute later, you get a text—a long string of numbers, no explanation.

You frown, thumb hovering before you type: Sorry, I don’t get it? Is this some kind of code?

Almost instantly, another message comes through. A pinned location. You stare at it for a solid minute before it clicks. Oh. Coordinates! They’re coordinates, dummy. 

...Whiiiiich is kind of a weird way to drop a meeting spot, but hey, you’re already getting the vibe that your mystery caller’s a little eccentric.

You react with a thumbs up and fire off one last reply—

Shoot, right! See you there, stranger! :)

I meant Jake, sorry! This is Jake, right? Just making sure I don’t get it wrong >.<

- - No dice. Oh, well.

_____

The meet-up spot your stranger acquaintance picked turns out to be a small park by a quiet riverbank.  

Getting there is easy enough; just a short bus ride and a few minutes walk away, though the last stretch takes you a little off the main path—secluded, the kind of place you probably wouldn’t stumble into by chance. You don’t think much of it. 

Now you’re on a bench, legs swinging while you scroll through your phone. Dusk has started to settle, the last bit of sunlight filtering through the trees, when the loud purr of an engine breaks you out of focus. 

A black SUV pulls up, dragging your attention away from a strawberry roll cake recipe you’d just downloaded off Pinterest.

Two men—you assume—step out of the SUV synchronously, masks covering their faces. The design is quite avian, with the red-tipped beaks and slitted eyeholes, like something out of a Spirit Halloween clearance rack. They scan the perimeter with a certain vigilance that feels wasted here, considering the only company apart from yourself is a passing cyclist and a handful of frogs loitering by the water’s edge.

Another man emerges. Taller. Broader. Dressed immaculately in a pair of tailored suit trousers and a charcoal button-up, accentuated with a burgundy pattern that looks suspiciously like someone took a paintbrush to it. A shock of white hair gleams golden against the fading light, and the whole look reads more “high-end masquerade” than “novelty Samhain.”

Sharp red eyes zero in on you. Then on the package.

You light up, waving like you’ve just spotted a neighbor across the street. That must be him. “Hi there!” 

His gaze snaps back, and there’s something almost clinical in the way he takes you in. The first thing that comes out of his mouth: “You opened it?” 

You shake your head quickly. “No, no– of course not!”

This seems to put the reticent man at ease, if only by a fraction. Until you add—

“I, ah, shook it a little, though. It made this ringing sound.”

A beat. 

Flatly, he repeats, “…You shook it.”

Your eyes widen, realizing too late that the object inside could’ve been more fragile than you thought. “Just a little!” you insist, earnest as ever. “Like, barely. I promise.”

He holds your gaze, inscrutable. Then, without warning, a crimson-black mist unfurls over the parcel in your lap. In the blink of an eye, the box is gone.

Your jaw drops. “Whoa, that’s amazing. How’d you do that?” Your eyes sparkle with unfiltered wonder. “Are you, like… a magician?”

He doesn’t deign to respond, looking exceedingly underwhelmed by the assumption. 

You nod, undeterred by the lack of answer. “Right, right. Trade secret. Got it.” A magician never reveals his tricks, after all. Maybe they’re LARPers? Oh, maybe they’re a stage act!

While you’re busy puzzling over the man in front of you – and, by extension, the two others now milling by the water, idly weighing pebbles to skip – Sylus finds himself sharing the same sentiment, studying the… peculiar woman before him.

He already knows the facts; dug through the records, sifted every dull scrap of your life from the databases on the way over. A civilian. Unremarkable as they come. One of his men had been careless enough to place something highly classified in your hands. Careless enough to pay for it with his life. Still, he wants to be certain whether you’re truly as harmless as you appear.

He entertains the alternative, if only briefly. Sylus lingers on the wide, unguarded smile you’ve plastered on since his arrival, traces the offensively loud pattern of your jumper and the frankly horrendous article of clothing on your head. And perhaps it’s a front, some asinine attempt at lulling whoever’s on the other end of the phone into a false sense of security.

But then there are your eyes. Painfully guileless. Reminiscent, almost, of an innocent fawn. And that utter disregard for your own safety—naivety in its purest, stupidest form—makes something in his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t dare dignify with attention.

(How profoundly inconvenient.)

“If you know what’s best for you, you will not speak of what has transpired here today.”

You cock your head confusedly. “Wha– who would I tell?”

His expression doesn’t shift – save for the subtle twitch of his lips, gone before you can begin to register the reaction. “Go home, little doe.”

He turns, a sharp flick of his hand pulling the masked men from their pebble-skipping contest. They instantly fall in step behind him.

“Well… nice meeting you, Jake!” you call out.

That earns a pause mid-step. A short, incredulous huff slips out before he can stop it. 

Glancing back, his mouth curves with the faintest trace of amusement. “Skye,” he corrects.

“Huh?” You tilt your head just so, and the resemblance is almost painful—like a puppy waiting for instructions it doesn’t understand. The baffling sensation in his chest returns.

“You can call me that.”

“Oh!” You perk up, and Sylus can almost imagine the tail wagging behind you. “Nice meeting you then, Skye!”

You don’t expect him to reply. You’ve already filed your mystery person as the stoic, quiet type. So it catches you off guard when he reluctantly parts with—

“…Likewise.”

And then he’s gone before you can even think to offer your own name. 

What an odd guy, you muse. Still! You made a new friend today, and that always counts as a win in your books. 

As you start to make your way back home, you find yourself idly wondering what kind of pastries Skye likes.

You glance at her in the mirror. “Whatchu’ mean?”

“I mean he looks bored, like he doesn’t wanna be here.” Another pipes up, fixing her curls. “Yeah, I don’t think he looked away once the whole time we were dancing.”

“Girl, stop.” You laugh, but they’re all giving you that you know we’re right look.

“She’s not lying.” Your best friend says, smoothing her leave-out down with a pocket brush kept stashed in her purse. “He looks tense. Like, scary tense. You think he’s having fun?”

You hesitate, dabbing the corners of your lips with gloss. “…Probably not. No. You know he doesn’t go out. Clubs aren’t his thing.”

“Okay, but he came out for you.” Another says, pointing at you with her powder puff. “So don’t let him sit there looking like Secret Service all night. He’s scaring the hoes.” 

“That part!” One of your friends calls from inside a stall, the door clicking shut behind her. 

You laugh again, but softer this time, tucking the gloss back into your purse. She’s only saying that because earlier she thought some guy had curved her— too intimidated to come up to the section y’all are in to talk to her. 

“I’m just saying.” She adds, zipping her purse. “Maybe pull him in a little. Dance with him, something. Make him feel part of it before he kills somebody.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you fix the strap of your dress. “Fine, fine. I’ll talk to him.”

“Please girl, ‘cause I could finish another bottle. It’s too early to be going home.”

When you finally push back into the crowd, the heat hits you again— music pounding in your chest, lights flashing across sweat-slick faces. Your boyfriend Sukuna is still sitting exactly where you left him, posted at the edge of the booth like he owns it. Well, technically he does for the night at least. Shades still on, jaw tight, phone in his hand like he’s scrolling, you catch a cup shifting in his grip every now and then— he’s making himself look busy, but you know damn well he’s not looking at anything important.

And now he’s watching you cross the floor. Slow. Head to toe. Like every second you were gone cost him something. If looks could kill, half the club would be gone by now. Maybe it’s the way his grip on that small cup tightens for a second when your eyes meet, something about it makes your stomach twist.

“Hey, baby!” You purr, sliding up next to him and slipping your arm through his like you’re calming down a pit bull. “Miss me?”

Lowering his shades, he drags his eyes from your legs to your face, mouth twitching with a shrug. “Nah, just countin’ how many guys stared at you since we walked in.”

You laugh, lifting off him to reach for the pitcher of water on the table in front of you to pour yourself a glass.

“Don’t do that. It’s a club. That’s what people do.”

“Yeah, well…” His gaze drags slowly over you like he’s trying to memorize every inch and curve. “They need to un-do it before I cause a problem up in here.” 

You just smirk, sipping slow. “Mm. Somebody’s jealous.”

“Somebody’s real fuckin’ observant.” He mutters, tugging you closer by the waist like that’s gonna fix anything. He’s not mad at you, pissed for coming here if anything. You’ve seen him at his worst enough times to tell the difference.  

He always hated this kind of scene— the blaring music, the crowded dance floors, the neon lights bouncing off bodies pressed together. He’d made that clear every time you and your girls went out, but tonight, after a heated argument about him being too controlling, he decided to prove a point.

Spitefully. He bought a whole section for you and your friends, smugly declaring that if you wanted the club, he’d give you the club. But you know him too well; he didn’t drink much, hated the chaos, hated the tight outfits you wore, the way you acted when you had one too many drinks in your system. He was already twitching at the first thump of the bass when y’all walked in. 

Thinking to yourself— you’ve got to do something, because his attitude is not going to be what sours your mood tonight. Maybe if you get him a little tipsy, loosen that iron grip just enough for him to let go and have fun without realizing he was enjoying himself, then maybe y’all both can have a good night.

Spotting your girls making their way closer to your section, you lean into him further, brushing your lips against his ear just to watch him twitch. Something about the way he tilts his head back makes you wonder if he’s already had a little drink before this.

“‘Relax, ‘Kuna. Matter of fact, how about we get us some more shots?’ 

He blinks at you, deadpan like you said something off. “Us?”

“Yeah.” You point over to where your girls are. “That’s what boyfriends do, right? Show out. Keep your girl and her friends happy.”

“Where they start doing that at?” He laughs like you’ve lost your mind for asking, setting his cup held in his hand down on the table. The look on his face makes you grin so wide your cheeks hurt. He hates this. You know he does, that’s why you love doing it.

So maybe you did lose your mind. Getting the section was already a stretch, but it’s a fact to everyone who knows Sukuna that he doesn’t give handouts, let alone to your homegirls, but it’s worth a shot. 

“If you ain’t treating, you ain’t tricking.” You set your finished glass down next, kicking a leg up and over his lap, letting it rest there just long enough to make him shift. His hands wrap around your legs like he wants to do more than just look.

He freezes for a beat, jaw tight, trying to hide the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t play with me.” He says, narrowing his eyes, voice low, like he’s counting down how many seconds you got left to cut it out.

Rising to your feet, you let your hips sway just enough to draw his eyes, fluttering your lashes slow and deliberate.

“Baby, I’m not playin’. We like Casamigos…” You drag the words out, letting your smirk do half the talking.

He exhales, leans back, giving you that slow, knowing look, and you grin to yourself, satisfied— because let’s be real, you’ll always get your way one way or another.

With a playful toss of your hair, you turn back toward your girls to meet them on the dance floor, letting him watch as you disappear into the crowd, the smirk still lingering on your lips.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re sliding back into the booth with your girls, and there’s a tray of shots on the table— glasses clinking like music. You cheer with them, throwing back tequila like water, and before long you’re warm and giggly, pressed against his side with your fingers hooked in his belt loop. 

“Kuna’, help us finish this bottle. Can’t have it go to waste.”

You’re close enough now that your knee brushes his thigh every time you shift. His eyes drop there, then back up at you with that lazy, irritated stare that really means he’s thinking something else.

“You really want me drunk?” His hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb grazing skin like he’s trying to distract you. “For what?”

“So you’ll stop mean-muggin’ everybody in here.” You giggle, leaning off him to pour a shot halfway, holding it to his lips like you dare him to refuse.

He does. Instead tilts it towards you, watching as you take it slow, his fingers brushing your lips on purpose. Heat rushes to your face, but you play it cool, reaching for the bottle of cranberry juice to fill up a cup, throwing it back quickly like the burn didn’t faze you. 

“Two more— me and you.” You lift the bottle up, showing how much is left. He hasn’t had a taste of this liquor yet, though you know he caught a sip of something earlier, just enough to make his eyes linger on you differently. Meanwhile, between you and your girls, you lost count a couple shots ago.

“Look at you, already drunk.” His voice dips, rough in a way that makes your stomach tingle, taking the bottle from your grip.

“This how you get when I’m not around?”

Your lips curve as you let him have it, leaning in close enough that your breath grazes his jaw. “I’m not that drunk. Tipsy if anything, but not drunk.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” His eyes cut to yours, lingering like he’s searching for the lie. 

“Please? Finish it with me?” You whine

“I still have to drive, don’t I?” He sets the bottle down slow, like he wants you to know he’s the one in control— even when you’re trying to play. 

“Call your friends over. We all can split it since we’re not wasting.” 

Calling your girls back over, Sukuna moves to pour six shots, one for each of you, nearly finishing the bottle out. The girls cheer like it’s the biggest win of the night, clinking their glasses against his before tossing theirs back. He hesitates for half a beat, then downs it, jaw flexing as the tequila burns its way down.

“See? Was that so bad?” You grin like you just scored a winning shot. He shakes his head, setting the empty glass down, but you’re already moving to pour another. 

“Don’t get cute.” He grumbles.

“Too late.” You laugh, sliding it toward him before he can protest. “C’mon. Loosen up. Dance with me after this one.”

That earns you a sharp side-eye, but you know you’ve got him. It’s in the way his hand is already resting on your thigh, squeezing just enough to remind you who you’re teasing. He tips the second shot back without another word, face balling up. He slams the glass down with a whistle, shaking out his arms, and that’s when you know the heat of the liquor starting to run through him.

The bass drops hard enough to rattle the table, and you don’t even wait for him to think twice. Fingers laced through his, you pull him up, ignoring the curse that slips from his mouth as you drag him into the smoke and the lights, a grin breaking across your face when you feel him follow without resistance.

You can’t say what happened between then and now, other than the fact that you’re down in the garage being buckled into the passenger seat of his car. Your entire body light, lips buzzing from laughter and lime, the world feels like it’s tilting, like it’s been set to a softer, slower spin.

His hands are steady on the seatbelt buckle, veins in his forearms jumping as he clicks it into place before jumping into the driver’s side then turning to ask if you’re all good, before backing out.

The drive is quiet except for the hum of the engine and your shallow breaths, your thighs pressed together because every time his hand slides up your leg at a red light, your body lights up feeling sensitive. If you were any more sober, you’d be less ashamed to tell what followed next when his fingers brushed against your pussy, but that’s what tints are for.

By the time you make it through the front door of your shared condo, you’re not sure if you walked in or if he carried you. Everything's a blur now— the slam of the door, the sound of your heels hitting the floor, his jacket dropping somewhere you don’t care to look— because the only thing you can focus on is him. His weight against you as your back meets the bed, his breath hot and sharp in your ear.

“Had me sittin’ there watchin’ you all night, little ass dress ridin’ up, dancin’ like you ain’t got nobody at home. You know how bad I wanted to drag you outta there?”

Your head is spinning, but it’s not just the tequila— it’s him. The way his mouth claims yours before you can even think of an answer, the taste of liquor on his lips, his hands everywhere at once like he’s trying to make up for every second you kept him waiting. You melt easily under it, giggling into his kisses when he lifts you clean off the bed just enough to slip your dress and thong off, like you weigh nothing.

The bed catches you in a soft bounce, his mouth brushes yours again, slower now, teasing, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth until your toes curl.

“Look at you.” He murmurs against your chin, voice rough.

“Drunk off your ass and still so fuckin’ pretty. You know how many dudes were starin’? How many I wanted to break in half for even thinkin’ about you?”

Your laugh is breathless, shaky. “You’re so jealous…so fucking jealous.”

“Damn right.” His smirk is dangerous, something serious behind it, that makes your stomach tingle. “They get to see you like this. Only me.”

When he kisses you again, it’s slower, deeper, like he’s trying to swallow every sound you make. His tongue slides against yours, sloppy and hungry, and you can taste the tequila on his breath when he groans into your mouth.

Your hands tug at his hair, as your knees fall open without thinking, giving him space to press in. A moment after, he’s trailing wet kisses from your chest to your stomach, pausing to swirl his tongue just above your lower belly before traveling further to kiss at your pussy. Within seconds those kisses turn into licks with his tongue flat against your clit, heavy enough to make you feel pinned in the best way.

“You feel that?” His voice rings, lips brushing your inner thigh as you catch your breath.

“Been wantin’ this all night. Watchin’ you out there, dressed like that, lettin’ those bastards look at what’s mine.”

You can’t even answer— just a breathless whimper when his fingers slip in slowly for you to feel every inch of them, curling. Then he moves, flips you like it’s nothing, strong hands guiding you flat onto your stomach.

Your face sinks into the sheets, hips tipped up just enough for him to squeeze your ass, the sound of his belt loosening and pants dropping to the floor quieter than your moans as you rock back needy, chasing his fingers to fill you up again. Pushing his dick through your slick folds, he sinks in deep from this angle. The sound you make when he bottoms out is filthy, your head spinning as he sets a brutal rhythm— each thrust punching the air from your lungs. 

He groans, palm sliding up spine, pressing until your stomach flat against the mattress and you’re taking him the way he wants.

“Stay like that. Don’t move. Just lay there and take it for me.” 

You do. You take it, face buried in the sheets, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth as he fucks you hard, your body rocking with every deep, punishing stroke. You’re too inebriated to make this any sexier for him, eyes threatening to roll to the back of your head each time he hits up against that bundle of nerves that makes your toes curl. 

For all that shit he talks about hating you drunk, you know he eats it up. Love how loose you get, all giggly and slick-mouthed, talking back like you don’t know who you’re speaking too. Loves how easy you are to handle, body gone soft, limbs like damn Jell-O every time he puts his hands on you.

Drunk sex is your favorite for a reason— because when you’re like this, he takes full advantage, folding you into any position he wants, fucking you deep until you can’t do anything but moan and whimper.

Right as you reach a hand back to spread one of your cheeks, he pins your wrist back down, hips slow, almost stop, and you whine at the sudden loss of motion. He’s still deep, buried so far it aches, but he just stays there, pulsing inside you like he knows you’re seconds from falling apart. His mouth drops to your ear, voice low and hot enough to make your stomach tingle.

“You feel that, baby?” His words flow like honey, coming off more as taunt than a question.

You nod quick, breath shuddering, but that’s not enough for him. Never is. “How that feel?” He presses, hips giving the smallest grind that has your toes curling. 

“‘So good.” You whine, pushing back hard, desperate to get more of him, all of him, anything but this teasing. 

“More! More! More!” You rock against him, needy, trying to force the rhythm back, but he’s stronger— holding you there, feeling his smile against your back as your walls flutter around him. Then he eases his hand, shifting his weight off you to give you just enough freedom to grind back on him, pussy hugging him tight. “Fuck— Fuck— Yes! More!”  

“Fuck…you’re so wet baby. I’m not even moving, that’s all you.” He murmurs against your shoulder, hot breath fanning against your skin. You can hear it in his voice how weak you got him, and it makes you whimper even louder, feeding him every broken whine slipping past your lips.

“Move! Please! I wanna cum, I wanna squirt on you.” Your words come out rushed, as if begging alone could make him snap.

You don’t care how desperate you sound, you need him fucking you so hard you’re gushing around him when it’s due. You think you hear him growl out something along the lines of promising to give you exactly that, but you’re too drunk, too wrecked, too focused on the grip of his hands pinning your hips down.

You feel the mattress dip on your right as he hikes a leg up, planting it besides your head, shifting into a new angle that gives him even more leverage to fuck into you. The thrusts hit deeper, rougher, downright nasty. His dick got you so stretched out you already know the second he busts, that cum’s going to be spilling easily.

With one hand gripping the sheets to keep yourself from riding up the bed, the other slips between your thighs, fingers circling your clit in messy, desperate strokes. Your body trembles with every pass, that familiar heat rushing to your pussy as you inch yourself closer and closer to your orgasm.  

“This my pussy!?” He growls low through clenched teeth, his weight crashing down on your ass as he pounds into you back to back, he’s fucking into you like a man possessed— hips snapping, strokes deep and ruthless, not a single flutter in his pace.

“Yes!” You cry out brokenly, you’re so close, so damn close, already starting to feel your pussy squish around him, your wetness trickling down your thighs. You’re about to squirt— you can feel it, fuck, he can feel it too— your whole body gives it away in the way your voice and legs start to shake.

“This always gonna be my pussy?” His question rips through the air right before the sting of his hand landing upside your ass. One slap, then another, and another, each one knocking a moan out of your throat. Your fingers don’t stop— they can’t stop— tight circles spinning on your clit like your life depends on it. Sex feels so fucking good drunk, right behind being high. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Yes!” It’s almost a sob.

“Huh!?” Another smack, even sharper, echoing. “You never gonna give nobody my pussy?”

“No! Fuck— No!”

“C’mon then! Show me this my pussy!” His voice is pure sin, all possessive and demanding.

“Yes— yes— Kuna’, baby— don’t stop! Don’t fucking stop!” It rips out of you, wild and shameless, right as your orgasm hits, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your whole body shakes, squirting around him, wetness gushing down your legs as his name keeps falling off your lips like a prayer. A brutal, nasty groan rumbles from his chest, as he buries himself to a hilt, dick twitching, filling you full.

For a second, all you can hear is the wet, filthy sound of your pussy talking back, sucking him in. He pulls out slow, then sinks back in even slower, humming like he wants to memorize the way you feel.

When he finally pulls out of you completely, it’s with a wet pop that has your hips trembling. He crashes back against the mattress, breathing like he ran a 4K. You’re no better with your chest heaving, face buried in the sheets, trying to remember how to breathe. Your thighs are still trembling so you’re half convinced they might give out if you even think about moving. The sheets under you are a mess— sticky, damp, and smelling like cum. 

Beside you, you hear him exhale sharp through his nose, humming deep and satisfied. For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of his breathing— before the mattress dips again. 

“You made a fucking mess.” He murmurs, voice rough, sliding a hand down the curve of your spine. Stopping at your ass, squeezing lazily, messaging the muscle out. His fingers then drag through the slick between your thighs, and you flinch, hips jerking.

“Kuna’” You whimper, breath still catching. Your voice sounds wrecked, throat raw from all the crying and moaning you’ve been doing. 

“What?” He leans down, lips brushing your ear as his hand presses down against your lower back, keeping you still. “Don’t start actin’ shy now. You just squirted all over this dick like a good girl.”

You groan into the pillow, heat flooding your cheeks as his fingers glide through the mess of your pussy, lazy and teasing. When you look back, you catch him bringing them up to his mouth with zero shame, sucking them clean with a hum that sends another shiver through your spine.

“Drunk sex ass.” He teases, lips curling against your skin as he kisses the back of your neck. “Got you talkin’ all that ‘don’t stop, baby’ shit like you wasn’t tryna fight me when I first got in it.”

You let out a breathless laugh, face still buried in the sheets, too tired to argue. He’s fucking right. And he knows it. For a moment, neither of you move. His hand stays on your ass, thumb stroking lazy circles, while you feel your heartbeat slow to something steady. It’s quiet now— except for the soft hum of the A/C in the background and the faint wet sounds when he drags his fingers through you one last time before finally letting go. 

“C’mere.” He says, voice softer now. Grabbing a handful of tissues he wipes you down slow, surprisingly gentle for someone who just fucked you into the mattress like that. You peek back at him, lashes low, and he smirks, tossing the tissues aside before pulling you into his chest. His skin is hot and sticky with sweat, and you sink into him without thinking, letting his arms lock around you, as he throws the blankets over you both.

“That’s my pussy.” He mutters again, low and possessive against your temple, before pressing a wet kiss there that makes your face ball up. You should say something smart, roll your eyes and tell him to shut the hell up. But all you can do is hum, eyes feeling heavy, because if this is what being his means— warm and wrecked and too tired to move— you’re not complaining.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ 

“I said that?” He shoots you a look over his shoulder, stirring the creamer he just added into his coffee. The two of you are in the kitchen, enjoying breakfast this morning— delivery, of course, spread out across the table, because neither of you were fit enough to stand over a stove after last night.

For the past twenty minutes, you’ve been recapping everything that went down, from estimating the amount of liquor you drank, to what the bottle girls wrote on their signs each time they marched out.

For the most part, you’re on the same page— until you got to the part where he cracked you down so good, he knocked out before he could clean his own nut off the bed. He doesn’t remember anything after getting through the front door, barely recalls driving home, or the filthy shit he was talking while he was deep in you. Sukuna’s always been possessive— you knew that a month into dating him, when he made you delete every guy in your phone and proved exactly why. But last night? Last night was something out, and it definitely needs a conversation.

“Yes! Yes, you said that! You don’t remember?” You press, driving a knife through your pancakes a little harder than intended. You’ve been going back and forth for minutes now, and he’s refusing to admit he could have possibly said the things he said. 

“No.” He mutters, turning back to his coffee with a lazy shrug. “I was drunk as fuck.”

“You had two shots! Two!” You throw up both hands, fork and knife tight in your grip like you’re holding the evidence in court. 

He glances at you then, grin slow and sharp. “Could’ve been two shots of anything.” He taps the spoon against his mug and sets it down with a clink. “Maybe I’m a lightweight.”

You blink at him, stunned, squinting like you’re trying to figure out which alternate reality you woke up in. Because this? This makes zero sense.