You Are Also Like Me

by starvingvictoriankitten

Summary:

What happens when, after your parents' messy divorce, you're sent to live with the only relative you have left—an uncle who is little more than a stranger? A man you should have remained distant from, yet somehow, you grow disturbingly close to all the same…

Notes:

title inspired by that one nastyona song :3

Chapter 1

Family.

The word had never meant much to you, not in the way it was supposed to. Not in a society that placed it above all else, where blood ties were sacred, where the collective always outweighed the individual.

Or maybe it was the absence of family that made the word feel so hollow.

You grew up alone—no siblings, no cousins, both sets of grandparents buried long before you could remember their faces. There was only one uncle on your father’s side, a man you had never even met.

You learned early on that you couldn’t quite relate to your peers. Their petty family drama, their sprawling holiday gatherings, the suffocating pressure their parents placed upon them—none of it resonated with you.

All you had were your parents. But even that was questionable.

They had married young, maybe in love once, but that love had long since rotted away.

You were never a person to them, not really. You were a desperate solution, a last-ditch effort to stitch their failing marriage back together. A flawed, misguided hope—if we have a child, we can’t get divorced. We have to stay together for her sake.

A cruel logic. Because what they failed to realize was that staying together for you meant nothing when all they did was rip each other apart.

And so you grew up in a house that wasn’t broken, technically—but shattered in every way that mattered. No one to share the weight of it with, no sibling to exchange tired glances with across the dinner table when the screaming started. No one to stand beside you as glass shattered against the floor, as venomous words filled the air thick enough to choke on.

Just you. Always just you.

And now, after years of trying to slap bandages over bullet wounds, they’ve finally had enough. Their marriage—held together by frayed edges and sheer spite—has unraveled for good. You’ve spent your entire life listening to them throw the word divorce like a threat, a grenade with the pin half-pulled. Now that it’s real, now that it’s happening, you should feel something.

Relief. Rage. Anything.

But all you feel is the quiet weight of inevitability.

And so, with no one else left to take you, they send you to the only family you have left—the uncle you’ve never really known. A man distant from your father, living a life so far removed from yours it may as well exist in another world entirely.

And you? You don’t fight it.

Because what’s the point? What was there ever to hold onto in the first place?

During the uneventful train ride, you wonder about the man you’re about to live with. You know he lives far from the metropolis, tucked away near the countryside, where rolling green hills stretch endlessly under an open sky. You know he was estranged from the family—and if the hushed whispers you weren’t meant to hear were anything to go by, there was a reason for that.

Your only real memory of him is from years ago, at your paternal grandfather’s funeral. There weren’t many people there—just a handful of unfamiliar faces, mostly distant acquaintances or old friends of the deceased. Sukuna hadn’t attended the wake, only appearing at the actual funeral ceremony at the funeral home. You remember because when he did appear the next day for the rites, it was clear that he lived up to the whispered rumors.

Pink hair, sharp red eyes, pierced ears, and most notably, tattoos - on his face. You were surprised he was let into the funeral hall at all, but even in this case it was likely only reluctantly allowed because he was a son of the deceased.

Throughout the ceremony you would sneak quick glances at this specimen of a man since he had to sit up front with you and your parents while the priest recited sutras. The air had been stiff, heavy with tension. You had a feeling you weren’t supposed to speak to him—not that you would have wanted to. By the end of the ceremony, you'd decided that his tattoos suited him, like they were natural markings he'd been born with.

Like they'd always meant to be there.

The last time you saw him was after the cremation, during the bone-picking ceremony. The most uncomfortable part. You remember standing beside him, both of you silent, the long chopsticks in your hands feeling too foreign, too delicate for something as heavy as death.

And then, the part you hadn’t expected—your parents introduced you to him. It had felt forced, an afterthought. Nothing more than a social obligation. Or maybe, in the wake of death, the funeral had made them consider a different kind of inevitability.

What would happen if one—or both—of them were gone?

You stood before him, stiff and uncertain, while he regarded you with the same distant suspicion you afforded him.

“Honey, this is your Uncle Sukuna. Do you remember him?” your father had asked.

Remember?

“No.”

Your mother let out a nervous laugh as Sukuna narrowed his eyes, just slightly. You narrowed yours right back.

A teenage girl who felt the need to prove herself—guarded, wary of others, unwilling to trust too easily. You had been like that even more back then, you remember.

“Oh, well, probably because you were so young.” Your father’s voice was light, too light, as if he were trying to smooth over something jagged. But then, Sukuna’s voice cut through, not directed at your parents, but at you.

"I remember you, you know."

A pause, a beat too long.

You had forced a polite smile, unsure what to say to that. It was unnerving, the thought that he apparently had memories of you when you had none of him.

That tense meeting was the last time you ever saw him properly.

Everything else is just speculation. Little fragments of conversations pieced together over the years, spoken in the dead of night when your parents assumed you were asleep.

Sukuna.

A name spoken with exasperation, sometimes wariness, and rarely, begrudging respect.

From what you’ve gathered, your uncle operates in the kind of business that’s at best morally gray and, at worst, outright criminal. Yakuza connections, maybe. Something lucrative, definitely. The money flows in too steadily for it to be anything ordinary.

And then there’s the fact that Sukuna does not care for family—not in a society that places it above all else. Where others are bound by tradition and blood, he stands apart, selfish and ruthless, unattached to anyone or anything. Not even to the last remnants of his family — after all his mother had died during his birth, leaving their father to raise two boys alone.

In that way, you think you understand him—there’s something familiar about that kind of detachment, the feeling of being an outsider to ideals you were supposed to uphold. But that’s where the similarities end.

Because while Sukuna abandoned those values entirely, you were still raised in them.

Resentful or not, you grew up under the weight of filial piety, conditioned to show deference, to keep your head down, to mind your place. Adults always called you shy with amused smiles, mistaking quiet obedience for timidity. Sukuna, though—he is powerful. Not just in the way money grants power, but in something deeper, something intrinsic. A man not to be crossed, nor to be trifled with.

And now, he is the one you’re meant to live with. But in the end he is family so he still gets to be entrusted with you, despite everything.

Somehow that word, that blood bond, means more than who he might actually be as a person.

---

 

The moment he opens the villa door, all the rumors fall into place. He looks the same as your faded memory of him - sharp features, outlined by face tattoos, blushed spiky hair in direct contrast with those stony, blood-red eyes. He's noticeably older now but somehow that makes him even more imposing, you think.

Not to mention he’s large. Very large.

He’s definitely hurt people.

But you remain unfazed on the outside, as you’ve been trained to do so your entire life, just clearing your throat and offering him a small, polite smile to match the borderline customer-service tone of your voice.

“Hi, Uncle. I’m—”

“I know who you are, kid. I did agree to take you in after all,” he states dismissively before stepping away from the door to let you in, leaving you to carry in your own bags.

You bristle slightly as you take off your shoes before awkwardly stumbling over the threshold with your bags.

Kid. You don’t like it, but you’re used to being dismissed by elders.

“Make yourself at home. You can take any empty guest room down the hall.” He leans against the wall, crossing his arms as his eyes rove over your figure, appraising his new ward.

“Of course, thank you,” you mumble with another polite smile.

He narrows his eyes ever so slightly, scrutinizing you. Sukuna has always been almost unnervingly observant, and right now he can pick up that there’s a certain sharpness in your eyes, behind the plastic mask of artificial courtesy.

It's a sharpness he remembers, though much better hidden now.

Sukuna smirks slightly as he watches you struggle a bit with your two suitcases, one large duffel bag, and purse. “Need help sweetheart? You can just ask, you know.”

He’s poking you, you can feel it in the slight lilt to his voice. Mocking your reserved demeanor, and evident wariness of him.

You look at him a bit suspiciously, before agreeing. No need to make yourself look like even more of a fool right now.

“Yes, that would be great. Thanks, Uncle.”

You think you might have heard him scoff under his breath at the title as he goes to pick up your bags with ease.

* * *

 

Over the next two weeks, you come to understand a few things—about him and about yourself.

For one, you’re almost certain now that whatever business he’s in isn’t exactly legal. Something underground, but hidden in plain sight.

His hours are odd and inconsistent, like he picks them. Some days he’ll be gone, others he won’t. Sometimes he’ll disappear just for a few hours —most notably when he’ll disappear for long stretches of the night, and you hear him enter the house when its nearly breaking dawn.

Sukuna also has a personal chef. The boy looks young, but his cooking is immaculate. He comes by a few times a week to prepare meals, and you’re not allowed in the kitchen when he’s working. You don’t pay him much mind, and he does the same with you.

Within just half a month, you and Sukuna settle into an unspoken rhythm, a quiet and uncomplicated arrangement that suits you both. You keep to yourselves, crossing paths only when necessary, never troubling the other. There’s no need for anything more than that.

And yet, in the silence, you feel it—his gaze on you, assessing, as if he’s seeing something beneath the surface. You ignore it, but you’re perceptive too. The way he interacts with you, the way he speaks, there’s something there. A kind of acknowledgment, an understanding he doesn’t voice. He doesn’t treat you with the same condescension as other elders, the ones who dismiss you as nothing more than a quiet, demure young woman.

No, there’s something else in the way he looks at you.

Then there’s the fact that he stepped in to help with your college tuition. You hadn’t even asked, but when he learned you weren’t sure you could continue due to your parents’ financial issues, he simply said—

"You’re a bright girl. You’re capable."

You had shifted awkwardly at the unexpected praise, murmuring a quiet thanks, unsure how to take it. You’ve never been good at accepting compliments.

Not to mention the indulgences.

Sukuna insists on supporting all your little habits—your skincare, makeup, perfumes, the clothes you scroll past on your phone. If he catches you lingering too long on an item, he tells you to get it. Encourages you, even.

Maybe that’s where the trouble began. Where you started to grow quietly, secretly attached to him, despite keeping your walls up.

After all, your own father never encouraged these things. He would mock you for wanting a new lipstick, call it unnecessary, a waste. A stingy man who would never spend a single yen on "nonsense" like that. Your mother helped where she could, but it came with its own complications—you had to be mindful of how much you spent, knowing it came solely from her pocket.

To put it simply, you were not used to a true male figure in your life, one that provided, that took care of you, that indulged you. While your father was present in your life physically, it was the only way he was ever there.

Overall, Sukuna has been unexpectedly…kind to you. You sense that there might even be some type of fondness that he kindles for you, a sort of affection that grows with each passing day. But old habits die hard, and so you simply cannot break out of your shell, and you remain guarded towards him.

Nearly a month passes like this — during the day when he’s out you’ll find ways to entertain yourself, sometimes even walk into town for a bit, enjoying the pleasant weather.

 

* * *

 

One evening you’re in your room when you hear an ambient noise through the walls, one so mundane that it almost goes unnoticed.

Television.

The man has a large, sleek, flat screen TV mounted on the wall but rarely uses it — if anything, you’ve become more familiar with it. It’s rare for him to have some downtime, and spend it doing something so…domestic.

You swallow, quietly getting out of the bed to pad into the living room. He doesn’t seem to notice you until the couch dips under your weight as you take a seat beside him on the leather, tucking your feet up under you.

You’re not entirely sure what brought you here, but something in you finds yourself craving his presence more than you expected. Perhaps it’s just your mind seeking some semblance of familial comfort after everything that’s happened.

Seeking his closeness, somehow.

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, understandably so, but he clears his throat all the same and shifts to make some more room for you.

There’s a tense moment, and you become acutely aware that something about this feels strangely…intimate. Even more so considering the fact that there’s still this obvious, overt gap between you two.

Distance.

And there’s an odd inert desire to cross this distance — not the normal obvious distance of getting to know your uncle. You don’t care much for that, and you doubt he does either. No, there’s a part of you that wants to skip over that and close the distance in a different way, probably in a way that shouldn’t ever be closed between family members.

But you don’t think about it, so it goes under the guise of an innocent craving for closeness. Daddy issues, at worst.

Right?

“Hey.” He greets you casually. “Did you eat yet?”

It’s a simple question, one that settles him further into the role of your pseudo-father figure now, a position that both comforts and unnerves you.

He seems at ease around you, and for some reason, that makes you more uneasy—his lazy confidence, that unshakable calm he carries with him, is impossible to ignore. But beneath that, there’s a sharpness, an intelligence that calculates each moment. And that, more than anything, makes you unsure of how to behave in his presence.

So you do what you’ve always done—clad yourself in the armor of clinical politeness.

You nod quietly, the silence stretching between you before he turns back to the TV, his attention shifting in a way that sends a faint pang of disappointment through you. The flickering light casts shadows across his angular features, outlining the sharp lines of his jaw, the prominent bridge of his nose.

You catch yourself staring at him a little too long during these quiet moments when he isn’t watching—your version of his stolen glances.

Well, not quite.

His glances are different - not stolen, exactly. His eyes remain on you, no attempt to hide it. He knows you won’t dare to look at him directly, so he watches for as long as he wants, letting the power of his gaze settle like a weight on your shoulders.

After a moment, Sukuna glances back at you, his eyes briefly catching yours before you quickly avert your eyes. “What do you like to watch on TV? Not much of a TV guy myself, but I figure a girl like you must have some favorite shows or movies…”

Do you even have a favorite show or movie? You’ve enjoyed plenty, sure, but nothing stands out enough to hold a real place in your mind. Maybe that's the point—having no preferences, no clear likes or dislikes, a blank slate for him to read.

You try to cover the blankness of your thoughts with a polite smile, answering awkwardly, “Uh… anything is fine. I’m not really picky…”

His gaze lingers on you a beat too long, like he’s peeling back layers with his eyes, the scrutiny making you fidget, your fingers nervously twisting the hem of your shirt. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, an unreadable intensity there, before he shifts back against the couch, stretching his arm along the backrest behind you—close enough to brush against you if he chose to.

“Feel free to pick something you like. I’m pretty easy.”

The space between you tightens, the air thickening with the tension neither of you acknowledges. His casualness, so at odds with the way you feel, makes your heart beat a little faster for no reason at all.

You really need to get a grip on yourself. He’s your uncle, after all, family.

“It’s fine. You can keep watching whatever you’re already watching,” you mumble.

He just sighs and at that moment you can feel it—your insistence on staying polite and formal is likely starting to frustrate him. A sinking feeling settles in your chest as you realize that he must be interpreting your reserved demeanor as coldness or even aversion.

Because he might not know you, but at the same time he knows you better than most do— that you’re not quite as meek as you make yourself out to be. That there’s a sharp mind in your skull, one that thinks a lot more than you let on.

He knows your sterile demeanor is…fake. And more than once in your life has a person mistaken your reserved nature for contempt.

You have a feeling if you don’t do something he’s going to…give up on you. Accept you as you present yourself.

So, without thinking, without fully understanding why, you lay down across his lap.

Your head finds its place against his thigh, the action almost impulsive—a way to break the tension, perhaps, to fill the space between you with something, anything. The heat of his skin against yours pulls at something inside you, though you can’t quite place it, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence.

A second stretches into an eternity.

You can feel him stiffen beneath you, the muscle of his leg hard under your cheek, his breath drawn in as though he’s caught off guard. His expression remains impenetrable—just the same unreadable mask he always wears. But you catch it, the tension, the slightest shift in his posture.

And you can’t help but wonder if this was a mistake, if you’ve just crossed some invisible line.

Sukuna takes a deep breath, his broad chest rising and falling beneath his thin t-shirt. He hesitates for a moment before slowly, gingerly, he allows his hand to come to rest on your shoulder, his long fingers splaying across your upper arm in a gentle, almost unconscious gesture of affection.

You let yourself breathe again.

He glances back at the TV, eyes fixed on the flickering screen as he finally speaks, low and slightly amused. “Alright just…don’t go falling asleep on me, now.”

Soon your body relaxes, a sort of fullness expanding in your chest that you’re not too entirely sure how to name.

Warmth? Affection? Tenderness?

Must be one of those.

The minutes stretch out, and with every passing second, you can’t ignore the way your body starts to crave more of his attention.

The steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scent of him, that undeniable masculine presence. It tugs at something inside you. You tell yourself you should pull away, should break the contact, but you don’t. You remain there, eyes closed, focusing on nothing but the feeling of his hand against you, your mind swimming in a haze of warmth and tension.

Then, your hand moves.

Unconsciously, almost mechanically, you take his hand and place it carefully on your side, just below your ribs. The motion feels strange, almost foreign, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. You close your eyes to hide the unease, trying to focus on anything but the pounding of your own pulse.

“Massage me... while you watch TV…” you murmur, the words escaping your mouth before you can stop them.

It feels absurd even as you say it.

A second passes, and your breath stays frozen, once again just waiting for him to turn you down. But the chance that he wouldn’t…well that was enough for you to push your luck like this, wasn't it?

Sukuna hesitates for a moment, trying to keep his own breath steady, uncertainty crossing over his features as he considers your unusual request.

He looks down to find your eyes have opened, gazing up at him with trust and innocence. False innocence probably, but it affects him all the same, triggering that masculine urge to please and keep you happy.

With a small, almost imperceptible nod, Sukuna begins to slowly massage your side with the pads of his fingers, his touch gentle and careful.

You exhale, relaxing into his touch, savoring it as he starts at your lower rib, thumb and index finger kneading the soft flesh in a circular motion.

Soon his massage slowly begins to creep upwards, and you keep your eyes closed, focusing on breathing steadily as his touch grows firmer, fingers sinking into the curves of your torso with each pass.

The sensation of your warm, pliable skin beneath his fingertips, separated only by a thin stretch of fabric, sends a strange tingling sensation up his arm but he ignores it, focusing instead on the task at hand.

Sukuna continues to watch the TV, his eyes glazed over as he loses himself in the mindless entertainment, all while his fingers work diligently at massaging your side. There’s a softness in this moment, one you’ve never known, and another kind of warmth that you aren’t ready to name.

Every so often, he glances down at you, probably checking that you’re comfortable and content, though there’s a spark of something more heated in his eyes.

And you?

You bask in this strange sort of power you feel, to have him indulging you like this -this large, imposing, and likely dangerous man that is still just a man all the same, with urges to please the woman in his care. Urges that you can appeal to all too easily.

“Mh… go... higher…”

The words slip out like a breath caught between hesitation and something far more desperate.

Sukuna’s breath hitches, the faintest flicker of something dangerous crossing his features.

He looks down at you, and for a brief moment, his eyes linger, the playful smirk on his lips betraying an undercurrent of something with a bit more of an edge. His gaze sharpens, taking in your every movement, as if savoring the effect his touch has on you. The way you melt at his fingertips, like you can’t help but respond to him, even in these small moments.

He knows—just as you know—that you’re alike in ways that are almost unnerving. The hunger you both share...the quiet hunger for control, for power, for the satisfaction of seeing the other bend, even just a little.

And of course you’re like him… you’re related after all. His niece through and through.

You’re coy, and he can’t help but enjoy it, but it’s a dangerous game. He leans in slightly, eyes darkening with a mix of amusement and something more primal.

“You’ll have to take off your bra, then.”

The words land like a slap, too casual, too direct. Your body freezes at the implication. The weight of his request presses on you like a suffocating fog, but you’re caught in the tension—caught in the act of something you can’t quite put into words.

“What?” Your voice cracks, almost a whisper, barely able to disguise the flutter of shock in your chest.

The corner of his mouth curls up, enjoying the effect his words have on you. It’s all in the way he looks at you—unflinching, his eyes glinting in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in your gut.

He wants you to be off-balance, wants to see the mask crack, even if only for a moment.

You stare back at him, heart hammering in your chest, pulse loud in your ears. There’s a voice in your head now, a frantic whisper clawing at you, urging you to stop before this goes any further.

What are you doing? What are you thinking?

But the more you listen, the fainter it becomes, drowned out by the pull between your body and the need to see this through.

The need to play along, just a little longer.

The voice whispers shame at the back of your mind, curling up like smoke—this isn’t you. This can’t be you.

But it’s too late.

Your fingers, as if of their own volition, find the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with the precision of someone who’s done this before, but never quite like this. It slips off your shoulders, and for a split second, everything feels suspended—too quiet, too still.

You discard the bra with a practiced flick, tossing it aside, and there’s a sickening moment where you realize just how far you’ve gone.

Sukuna hums softly, his eyes following the discarded undergarment as it falls to the floor, the motion oddly deliberate. When his gaze finally returns to yours, his smile is almost sweet, too serene to be entirely genuine.

“Go ahead and lie back down, then.”

Your skin prickles under the weight of his words. You exhale slowly, trying to steady your breath as you shift, lowering yourself back onto his lap.

You feel seen, bared, but not in the way that might comfort you.

It’s like you’re prey, exposed but not yet claimed, and the tension is unbearable. You’re still clothed, technically. But the way his eyes linger on you, the slow, deliberate way his tongue darts out to lick his lips—it strips away every bit of pretense, making you feel every inch of your exposed vulnerability.

Naked in a way that has nothing to do with fabric.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, hands coming back to rest on you.

Sukuna slowly trails his fingers upward, his touch growing bolder and more assertive as he maps the curves of your torso. He can feel the way your breathing changes, growing deeper and more measured as he massages the soft skin of your ribcage and the gentle swell of your breasts.

As he reaches the underside of your tits, Sukuna pauses for a moment. He knows he's treading on dangerous ground here, crossing a line that he swore he wouldn't. But the way your bra is laying on the polished hardwood, your chest heaving up and down, is enough to give in to the forbidden desire to touch you more intimately.

Sukuna swallows hard, a muscle in his jaw clenching as he wars with himself. But in the end, the need to please you in this way wins over his better judgement.

With a low, almost imperceptible growl, he begins to massage the underside of your tits, his fingers splaying out to cup the soft mounds and knead them gently.

He squeezes your clothed tits, and leans down, jaw brushing against your cheek as he murmurs in your ear.

“Is this better, sweetheart? Do you like it when I touch you like this?”

“Yes…” you say almost shyly, unable to look up at him. “Go…harder. Just a little.”

Your brain has shut off completely by now, like some other entity has taken over your body to speak through your lips while you’re lost somewhere far away. This is wrong, you know it is, but somehow you find yourself caring less and less.

Sukuna’s heart pounds in his chest, your words sending a jolt of electricity through his body, heightening every sense. He’s suddenly hyperaware of the heat of your skin seeping through the fabric, the way your flesh yields and molds to his touch, and it takes every single ounce of his self-control not to get lost completely in the sensation, to fucking rip your clothes off and just take you right there and then.

With another deep breath, Sukuna tightens his grip on your tits, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh with a newfound sense of urgency as he practically gropes you. He can feel your nipples hardening under his palms, the stiff peaks pressing against his skin as he kneads and massages you more roughly.

“You’re a sensitive little thing, aren’t you? Don’t tell me no other man’s touched your tits before…”

At the same time, his other hand slides down to the small of your back, fingers splaying across the curve of your spine as he pulls you more firmly against his lap, relishing in the way your soft curves press against the hard muscular planes of his own body.

You feel a wave of self-consciousness suddenly wash over you. Was it really that easy to tell?

Your cheeks burn when he just chuckles condescendingly.

Though soon enough his own breath grows ragged as he continues to touch you, his body reacting in ways it shouldn’t, cock slowly swelling in the confines of his boxers. But he can’t bring himself to stop, not with the way you’re sighing and trembling in his hands, not with the breathy, needy noises spilling from you, especially when you can begin to feel him harden under you.

You should feel uncomfortable, but the shame and disgust have long melted into a warm puddle of lust and arousal, that only increases when he leans down to nuzzle his nose into your neck, breathing deeply.

“Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

You swallow, heat flooding to your cheeks, the tips of your ears, and between your thighs. “Just this is fine, right now.”

A pause, and then without thinking—

“You’re such a good uncle, taking care of me…”

Your murmured praises strike a chord deep within him, and it’s twisted how his ravenous lust is mixed with genuine warmth and affection, refueling how he kneads and gropes your clothed tits, touch growing more confident and sure.

His fingers tease your nipple before pinching at it, pulling a gasp out of you and leaving them straining against the fabric of your top, visibly hard and aching for more. Sukuna’s other hand roams your waist and hip, spreading possessively over your flesh and pulling you even closer till he’s borderline grinding his fully hard dick against you through his pants.

He bends, pressing a chaste, lingering kiss to your temple, lips brushing across your forehead. “I’m going to be the best uncle I can for you.”

His hand slides lower, dipping teasingly into the waistband of your pants making you open your eyes to look at him, heart pounding in your chest.

Was this really happening?

But Sukuna pauses there, looking down at you. “Is this still okay, sweetheart? Tell me if I’m going too far.” He says gently. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or upset you in any way.”

His words churn in your gut, it’s almost like he’s doing it on purpose, with his sweetness and concern over you, as if to outline the familial relationship here.

You open your eyes and he can see the discomfort on your face at his words.

He can’t help but grin sharply, confirming to your horror, that he was indeed mocking you.

It's as terrifying as it is nearly impressive, how good he is at pretending.

You screw your eyes shut again, swallowing, before replying with a slight tremor in your voice. “It’s…yes, it’s still okay…” you whisper.

A thrill of perverse satisfaction shoots through Sukuna, at the way you whisper your consent even as your body trembles beneath his hands, even as he rubs the depravity of your desires in your face in a most cruel manner. Despite it, the need to make you feel good in a way no one else ever has fuels his own desire, a need that is too strong to resist.

And slowly, he allows his hand to slip fully beneath the waistband of your pants, fingers skimming across the surface of your lower belly. He can feel the way your body flutters and clenches at his touch, the way your hips subtly arch into his hand as if seeking more.

His other hand continues squeezing and groping your tits, growing bolder and more demanding. He pinches your nipple again, tugging at it, until you’re gasping and squirming beneath him, body writhing with an almost painful need.

“That’s it, just let yourself feel good…” he encourages you as his fingers dip even lower, tracing the edge of your panties, practically able to feel the damp heat emanating from your sex. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart. Tell me how you want me to touch you.” His touch caresses over the hem of your panties lightly, against your inner thigh. “I’ll do anything to make you feel good…”

“Anything?” you breathe, voice thick with unspoken desire.

The way you’re trusting him completely, putting yourself wholly in his hands… the power of it is intoxicating to him.

“Anything at all…” His fingers move again, brushing against your sensitive clit through your panties, making you bite your lip. “Until the only thing you can think about is me and the way I make you feel. All you have to do is…say it.”

It’s too much, and soon you’re whispering the words as you feel yourself get even more wet. Somehow it seems like your consent is some twisted means of humiliation.

“I…I want you to keep going… I wanna feel your fingers inside me.”

Sukuna grins wolfishly. “That’s a good girl. See where using your words gets you, sweetheart?”

As he speaks, his hand finally slips fully into your panties making you inhale sharply. You’re sensitive, almost painfully so, and it’s almost too much just to feel the rough pads of his fingers gliding through the slick heat, against the soft flesh of your inner folds.

It makes his cock throb painfully, feeling how wet you are, how ready and eager your cunt is for his touch.

The heat inside you, in between your legs, almost feels like a living thing at this point, writhing with a life of its own.

Sukuna begins to stroke and tease your pussy with slow, deliberate movements, skilled fingers sliding through your dripping wetness and circling your clit with maddeningly light touches. You swallow, trying not to buck your hips up.

“Dirty girl. I bet this was what you wanted all along, hm?” he purrs.

You gasp softly as he suddenly slides two fingers in. There’s a bit of a stretch, but other than that you don’t really feel anything, not even as he languidly moves his fingers a bit. You furrow your brows, a little confused and unsure of where to go from here.

Sukuna is just watching you impassively, calmly, before he smirks and abruptly curls his fingers into that one soft, sensitive spot on your anterior wall.

He never gets tired of toying with you, evidently.

And when he begins rubbing against the spongey tissue firmly, whatever was left of your mind blanks completely, eyes glazing over as you mewl and whimper like a bitch in heat, drowning in the pure ecstasy of his touch. The pleasure doesn’t feel entirely physical, no, it feels like something infecting your brain, making you moan involuntarily in ways you wouldn’t have ever expected.

“You like having your uncle’s fingers shoved in your cunt, sweetheart?” He curls his fingers more, harshly massaging your walls with increasing intensity and speed, making you cry out.

Sukuna's other hand simultaneously slides up under your shirt, finally pushing the fabric away to expose your bare tits to his hungry gaze.

“Y-Yes, oh god—” you whine when he leans down to latch onto one aching nipple, suckling and licking at it, grazing his teeth along the sensitive surface. His fingers continues to pump in and out of you, the obscene squelching noises drowning out the TV that has become nothing more than background noise at this point.

You think for the most part you know your body pretty well— after all you were certainly no stranger to regular self-pleasure.

But then he pulls you up a bit, till you’re sort of sitting, cradled against his chest. You wonder what’s with the change in position when you get your answer — his fingers sliding deeper, much deeper than yours can usually ever reach.

You squirm a little, unsure as to what could possibly feel good up there, where he’s practically brushing against your cervix. It doesn’t hurt as much as it feels like some kind of gynecological inspection.

“Go back to what you were doing before…” you huff, frowning a bit.

He grins lazily, self-assured. “Just give me a second. It’ll feel good, I promise.”

So you wait, and then his fingers hook into a tender spot, somewhere near your cervix, and once again you’re taken by surprise by the lewd moan falling from your mouth, your body seemingly reacting before even your mind catches up.

His grin widens, fingers moving with confidence, playing your body like an instrument as your eyes glaze over and all you can do is lean back into him, trying to spread your thighs wider despite your pants as you cry pathetically.

You think you’d already experienced all the physical pleasure there was to be experienced through the skillful work of your own fingers over the years, but this?

This is something new in it’s intensity, a beautiful euphoria that you can’t pinpoint the exact origin of but is certainly there nonetheless, almost overwhelmingly so as he keeps massaging firmly into the soft, silken flesh.

You’re panting and crying, fingers tangling in his messy pink hair, body tensing and muscles pulling taut as you hurtle towards your orgasm.

Sukuna redoubles his efforts to push you over the edge, murmuring against your breast with a low possessive growl. “Cum for me, sweetheart. I want to feel your cunt clench around my fingers as you scream.”

It’s wrong.

So wrong, that you’re cumming instantly, warm liquid gushing out, drenching his hand and your panties as you arch with a keening wail, walls spasming around his fingers. More fluid streams out like never before, drenching his hand, your panties, even dampening the inside of your pants.

And you think it’s over but it keeps going as he murmurs praises into your ear, practically juicing you like a fruit until finally there’s no more left to wring out of you.

Soon the sensations begin to fade and he slows down as your muscles go limp, trying to catch your breath as you mumble, “Thank you, Uncle…”

Because even in your practically incoherent state of mind, it's still been engrained into you, the manners you show to a guardian.

Sukuna grins, loving how easily you came undone with his touch.

He pulls his fingers out but continues to gently stroke the slick heat of your sex as you come down from your high, sliding across your dripping seam and teasing your clit with feather-light touches, smiling when he feels it twitch under his fingertip. At the same time, he presses soft, soothing kisses along your collarbone and the swell of your breasts, murmuring honeyed words against your skin.

You think they’re genuine, but you don’t know for sure, not anymore. They feel nice all the same.

As your breathing slowly returns to normal, Sukuna gathers you closer, wrapping his muscular arms around you and holding you against his chest.

His hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently over your lips as he tilts your chin up to face him. He leans down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering on your skin for a long moment before he pulls back to smile at you.

"You're welcome, sweetheart. I'm glad I could make you feel so good. That's what uncles are for, after all - to take care of their nieces and make sure they're always happy and satisfied.”

Your brain is too hazy to try and decipher his intentions right now, but you think his voice almost sounds sincere.

Which is both sickening, and comforting in its own way.

But post-coital bliss has your mind in a wonderful fog, and you gladly enjoy the lack of post-nut clarity at the moment as drowsiness starts to fall over you.

You don’t want to even begin to think about the consequences of your actions yet, of the onslaught of horrible feelings that will likely come for you when you wake.

Guilt, shame, disgust….

There’s nothing right now except for the lull of sleep, and his hand still in your panties stroking you gently, almost tenderly.

* * *

 

The smell of grilled fish lingers in the air when you wake up. For a moment, it tricks you. A scent too familiar, too ordinary — something safe.

But then your eyes open, and the illusion shatters.

You don’t move right away, still caught between the haze of sleep and the weight pressing against your ribs.

You remember being carried to bed. His arms around you. The warmth of his body, steady, inescapable. It wasn’t even late; you must have slept for well over twelve hours.

You note that your panties don’t feel uncomfortably sodden as you get up and out of bed — lucky for you that it dried up, because you don’t think you’d be able to bear that physical reminder right now.

Sukuna is in the kitchen, setting the table when you walk in.

Strange.

You sit down quietly, smoothing your hands over your lap. The food is neatly arranged—steamed rice, miso soup, grilled horse mackerel, tamagoyaki. The pickled daikon is sliced into even, paper-thin rounds.

A small, domestic scene, one that he’s made himself this morning — a traditional breakfast. It makes you even more nervous. You’d prefer him to have just disappeared again this morning, after whatever happened last night.

Sukuna sets a pair of chopsticks beside your bowl.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I let you sleep in. Thought you could use the rest after last night.”

Your stomach roils, but you just bow your head slightly.

“…You’re too kind.”

Sukuna hums, eyes glinting. “Am I?”

You pick up your chopsticks but before you can take a bite, he tuts softly.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

You pause, lifting your gaze.

He gestures toward the fish on your plate. “I deboned it for you.” His smirk is slight, his voice almost thoughtful. “You could at least say thank you.”

You blink once, slow. Then, with the same small, unreadable smile, you reply, "Of course."

If he wants to play this way, so be it.

You set down your chopsticks, folding your hands neatly and bowing your head just slightly - proper and polite.

“…Thank you, Uncle.”

There’s a flicker of something in his gaze, but he just laughs under his breath. “That’s cute.”

You pick up your chopsticks again, carefully lifting a bite of rice. The food is good—annoyingly good—but under his scrutiny, eating feels unnatural. Sukuna watches you for a while, resting his elbow on the table, before finally picking up his own chopsticks.

“This feels nice, doesn’t it?” he muses.

You swallow.

He gestures between the two of you. “Eating together like this. Feels kinda domestic, doesn’t it? Like a real family.”

Your hand stills briefly, before you lower your eyes.

“Is that how it feels to you?”

Sukuna smirks. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

You pause, as if considering his words.

“…If that’s what you’d like, Uncle.”

He narrows his eyes ever so slightly, evidently catching on whatever you’re playing at, but it’s soon replaced by a sardonic smile.

“Hah.” He shakes his head slightly, picking up his tea. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”

You sip your tea, gaze lowered, demure. “Why?”

“You already know why.”

A beat of silence, then, smooth as silk—

“You even told me I was a good uncle last night.”

The tea in your mouth turns to lead. His voice is warm, affectionate—mocking you in a sickening way.

Slowly you lift your head, blinking up at him. Your expression is quiet, almost docile—except for your eyes that are steady, sharp in a way that’s almost imperceptible.

"Did that make you feel good?"

For half a second, he freezes. Then, a slow exhale through his nose—sharp, short, almost a laugh. His grin returns, but something about it is different now. Not just amused, something else, something that feels almost predatory.

"Mmh. Maybe."

He sets down his tea and tilts his head to watch you. His voice dips lower, intentionally dragging out his next words that are clearly laced with some kind of poison.

"Want me to tell you how much?"

Your fingers tighten slightly around your chopsticks, and a shameful heat curls low in your belly that has nothing to do with the warm food you’re eating.

But you refuse to react, not outwardly.

Unfortunately Sukuna can be a very patient man, and so he waits. And the longer he waits, the heavier the silence becomes till it feels almost physically unbearable to you.

His smirk deepens as he watches the way your throat moves when you swallow, the slight shift of your shoulders.

Not quite fear, but something close enough.

You keep your eyes trained on your food. When you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper, measured and precise.

"That won’t be necessary, Uncle."

His grin widens, like he’s just won something.

"No? Shame."

Then, just as you think he might let it go, Sukuna reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger just a moment too long, but you don’t move.

He’s toying with you, the way you just tried to toy with him. Except that he’s better at it. Of course he is.

His thumb brushes your cheek, the touch deceptively warm, before he finally pulls away and picks up his tea again to take a slow sip.

"But you should know better by now than to…"

He exhales, eyes flicking back to you, lazy and satisfied.

"Start something you can’t finish.”

The words settle over you, heavy and inescapable. The food doesn’t taste like anything anymore, but still you look down at your plate and pick up your chopsticks to resume eating.

And as the silence stretches between you, as the warmth of the meal settles in your stomach, as Sukuna sips his tea with the easy contentment of someone enjoying a quiet morning at home—

It occurs to you— this does feel like a family.

* * *

For the next three weeks, despite that first charged evening, he isn’t overly lewd. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t demand.

He is, for all intents and purposes, good to you.

And it’s in the small moments that the illusion tightens around you, subtle, insidious.

Sukuna fixes the collar of your shirt without asking, his fingers grazing the nape of your neck—so slowly that the touch lingers long after it’s gone. He debones your fish every morning, setting it neatly on your plate, and when you forget to eat, he doesn’t scold you. He just watches until you pick up your chopsticks and take a bite.

And he hums, pleased.

A blood-bound bond exists between you, that much is undeniable, but it hasn’t grown organically. It’s been forced into being, shaped by proximity, by circumstance, by his hands closing around you like a vice. A connection built in weeks, not years. An imitation of something real, yet disturbingly real all the same.

Silences, thick and inescapable, begin to define your days.

You watch TV together, but you don’t watch. Sometimes his hand lingers on your ankle, light, absentminded. Sometimes you sit on opposite sides of the room, not speaking, doing nothing at all. But his presence coils around you, whether he’s touching you or not.

You are always aware of him.

Often he just spreads his legs without looking up when he hears you enter the room, silently telling you what to do. And whether he’s watching tv, reading something, or working on documents at his desk, you’ll always climb in, settling into his lap as you read your own book, scroll your phone, nap, or just stare up at him like the first time you found out he had reading glasses.

Until his eyes flicked to yours. “What?”

“Nothing. Just didn’t know you had glasses.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

And that is true, technically.

You might not know him, might not even understand him, not really. But in a way that unsettles you more than anything, you do. There’s something in your bones that recognizes something in his. It’s foreign and familiar at once, like slipping into a dream that isn’t yours—one that should be warm and safe, but only leaves you sinking deeper, disoriented, unable to wake.

Well, maybe it is safe in its own way.

There’s no more feeling that wretched sinking when your parents spit their words of hatred, when you feel like a child once again and trapped in a never-ending cycle, wondering day and night why things were the way they were. Holding and hiding your bitter resentment for them, and for the rules you were forced to play by in their world.

Maybe you were always meant for Sukuna's world, instead.

The times you do speak, it’s a careful, practiced game. Your conversations stretch like gossamer thread, delicate, precarious, laced with something sharp just beneath the surface. Sukuna tells stories about his past, but they contradict themselves—small details shifting, changing, slipping through your fingers like sand. You catch him, sometimes. Call him out.

He only smirks.

Other times, he lets you believe what you think you know, savoring the moment when you realize you were wrong.

And there are the other strange details of your relationship that would likely never be noticed by anyone else.

For example, names. The power they hold.

Sukuna says yours easily, effortlessly. Sometimes carelessly, sometimes deliberately, like he enjoys the weight of it on his tongue. If not your name, then something else—nicknames, condescending or affectionate, depending on his mood.

But you? You only call him uncle— mostly during times of your mock politeness.

It makes sense. It’s natural, even. You wouldn’t call an elder by their first name just like that. No one would think twice about it, so of course you don’t ever consider the deeper undercurrent behind it.

During one of these days, you’re in the usual position of trying to do something while he simply stares at you, intently. You don’t love it but you’ve grown used it, so you just continue to ignore him until he speaks.

“Say my name.”

You stiffen for some reason. “What?”

“Say it.” He leans in slightly.

Your throat goes dry and its suddenly pulled to your awareness how…uncomfortable the idea of saying his name sounds. Especially in front of him, to him.

“Why?”

But he just smiles lazily, smugly.

“Because,” he murmurs, “you never do. And I want to hear what it sounds like on your lips.”

A small thing. He’s certainly humiliated you in much worse ways.

And somehow this makes your skin crawl like its trying to get away from your skeleton.

But you know he won’t let up, so you steel yourself.

“Sukuna.”

You say it softly, almost defiantly, and a little too quick, like you’re eager to rid yourself of the taste.

For a moment there’s just silence.

Then his eyes darken and he exhales something almost like a laugh. “See? That wasn’t so hard was it?”

You grit your teeth and turn back away from him.

It would be easier if you could separate this relationship into some kind of dichotomy of pure, warm love, versus the ugly, corrupting nature of lust. But it's never that simple, is it?

Because the worst part -the part that burrows in deep, latching onto bone- is that for all the games, he does care.

Not just in the way someone owns something, not just in the way someone keeps something caged.

No, he wants more than that.

He gets angry when you distance yourself—not violently or loudly, but with a quiet, smoldering displeasure that weighs on you long after he’s gone.

Sukuna doesn’t merely want control; he wants your devotion. It isn’t enough for you to obey — he wants you to choose him, to believe in him.

And maybe some part of you already does, like it was inevitable, something that was meant to be, shaped by the specifics of your nature and your circumstances.

Sukuna, in an offhanded tone, asks if you’ve thought about leaving one evening, maybe even if just for a bit, to rekindle things with your parents.

You don’t bother to look at him, answering dryly. “You always act like I can’t live without you.”

“Can you?”

“Of course.”

He nods, taking a sip of his drink. “Say it, then.”

You blink.

“Tell me you don’t need me.”

The words send a shiver down your spine. It should be easy, so, so easy, but for some reason, you hesitate.

Sukuna waits, calm and expectant as usual. And you realize all at once that this is just another trap. If you say it, you’re giving him what he wants.

But denying it…feels something like lying, maybe trying to convince yourself, and just yourself, because he certainly already knows the truth. He’ll probably just press even harder.

So you stay silent.

He just snickers, before gently cupping your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up towards him.

“That’s what I thought.”

* * *

Another month passes since that night, and nothing explicitly... wrong happens.

Until another quiet, tense evening- it starts with a simple comment, lazy and sharp, thrown into the stillness between you.

“Have you had your first kiss yet?”

You freeze, abruptly torn from whatever mindless distraction you’d been staring at on your phone.

It’s not just the question—it’s how he says it. Careless, like a challenge, yet wrapped in an amusement that makes you feel like he already knows the answer.

You scoff, clicking your phone off and setting it down with more deliberation than necessary. “Of course I have.”

Sukuna hums, tilting his head, studying you with an unsettling focus. “Yeah?”

You narrow your eyes, already sensing that you've lost, in some way. Sukuna doesn't ask questions unless he already has an answer.

But there’s no way he knows. There’s no sign—nothing obvious at least—that would give him that answer.

Which means he’s assumed it, and that pisses you off in a way that makes you feel irritatingly defensive.

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, all slow playfulness and cocky ease.

“Is that so?” His voice drops lower, the challenge clear. “Who was it?”

Your lips press into a thin line. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I don’t think it happened.” His smirk sharpens, teeth flashing. “And I think you’re lying.”

Your stomach churns, heat crawling up your neck, but you manage to keep your voice steady. “I’m not. It was some guy at college.”

“Then prove it.”

“What?” you snap, voice tight, too sharp.

Sukuna gestures vaguely, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Kiss me.”

The words hang in the air between you, suffocating, thick with unspoken meaning. Your pulse stutters in your chest.

“No.”

Sukuna chuckles, low and indulgent, but there's something menacing underneath. “What’s the problem? If you’ve done it before, shouldn’t be hard, right?” He leans in, voice dropping a fraction lower. “Or are you worried I’ll notice how bad you are at it?”

The challenge is unmistakable. A baiting, dangerous game. He’s waiting for you to react, to falter, to prove him right - and you’re loath to admit it, but it’s working.

Your jaw tightens, eyes flashing. “You’re my uncle.”

He raises a single brow, unbothered. “And?”

“It’s... weird.” The word feels cold and heavy, but you cling to it, desperate for a defense.

“Weirder than anything else we’ve done?”

The words hit you like a slap, the reminder of what’s already been crossed—what’s always been crossed. You feel it coil up inside you, a sick, hot knot twisting in your gut. The silence stretches, suffocating, until Sukuna breaks it with that same, sharp smirk. He leans back, watching you, satisfied by the quiet defeat in your eyes.

"Go on."

You want to look away. Turn this whole thing off, end it here. But you know better. If you walk away now, he’ll keep pushing, keep bringing it up until you give in.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you shift closer, the space between you closing with suffocating inevitability. You hesitate, just for a second—before leaning in, pressing your lips against his in a quick, chaste peck.

It's barely a kiss. A breath. A ghost of a touch.

But the moment you try to pull back, his fingers curl around your wrist, stopping you, holding you in place.

A low exhale passes his lips. “That’s it?”

You’re frozen. His grip is tight around your wrist, but it’s the smirk on his lips that makes the blood rush to your face.

“Yes,” you snap, irritation rising. “You don’t expect me to make out with you, right?”

Sukuna clicks his tongue, shaking his head like he’s disappointed. “Tch. That wasn’t even a kiss—forget making out.”

“Yes, it was,” you hiss, trying to pull away, but his hold tightens. The challenge in his eyes burns.

“Not a good one.”

His gaze sharpens, enjoying your discomfort. The tension between you snaps, and you bite back a reflexive retort, but the words spill out instead, raw and defensive.

“Then how should I have done it, huh?”

His smirk widens, satisfied. The game has turned in a new direction. His fingers tighten slightly around your wrist, his thumb tracing over your pulse in deliberate, slow strokes.

“Guess I’ll have to teach you.”

Before you can process the words his hand is on you, pulling you closer. You’re caught off guard—his lips warm and insistent against your lower lip, taking, not asking.

You freeze. Unable to move.

Unwilling to move.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, voice dark and coaxing. “Relax. You’re too stiff.”

Your breath catches in your throat, body locked in place as his presence suffocates you, leaving no space between you to breathe. His words hang in the air, but you can’t answer. He’s already moving again, lips brushing yours with slow, practiced ease.

The kiss deepens, slow at first, drawing you in, until the tension you’d been holding onto crumbles. You start to follow his rhythm, even though you feel clumsy, out of place, and unsure of how to move. But his touch is warm, relentless in its familiarity, pulling you in deeper.

His hand shifts, fingers brushing the back of your neck, not holding, not forcing, but the pressure is there. The implication- that even if you wanted to pull away, you couldn’t.

You wouldn’t.

And then, his tongue. The wet heat of it, brushing against the seam of your lips, an invitation, an invasion.

The slight graze feels dangerously intimate, because it’s not uncomfortable.

Because it stokes a hunger in you, burning for more.

Instinctively you part your lips, letting your tongue brush against his, and it only deepens the sensation, that hunger building between you, consuming you. He slides his tongue in fully, unabashed, pulling you into a rhythm you can’t quite follow at first, but it doesn’t take long before you find yourself mirroring his movements, each shift, each breath like an urgent need.

Because truthfully, you’ve been aching for his touch since the first time you felt it, and now your fingers dig into his shirt, and soon you’re on top of him, the kiss frantic, messy, a blur of sensation and tangle of tongues as your body presses closer to his, desperate for more. A soft moan slips from your lips, mingling with his, and in your frantic fervor, you bite down on his lower lip, hard enough to taste copper.

He pulls away abruptly, the thread of saliva between you snapping. You’re panting, your chest heaving as you watch him, disoriented, dizzy, trying to catch your breath.

Sukuna’s breath is ragged too, but he doesn’t look at you like he’s out of breath. No, he stares at you like he’s seen something in you now—something sharp and dangerous. And for a moment, you could almost swear there’s anger flickering in his eyes.

No, not anger. Something more primal. Something hungrier.

He laughs lowly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Caught on quick, huh? If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you… liked it.”

His eyes gleam with knowing, and that smugness—you can’t stand it. But the heat between you hasn’t dissipated. It lingers in the air, too heavy to ignore.

“Like” was an understatement for what had just happened.

You stare at him, lips still tingling, and he leans back, content, as if this was always how it was meant to end—like you were always meant to unravel in his hands.

Almost like it was nothing.

He clicks his tongue, eyes flicking over you, unreadable now. Distant.

“Relax,” he drawls, voice dropping into something bored, almost lazy. “You look like you’re about to overthink it.”

Your stomach knots, the heat that had been burning in your chest turning into something colder.

You open your mouth—to say what?—but Sukuna is already shifting, his attention slipping away like you aren’t even there. He pulls his phone from his pocket, scrolling absently, dismissing you.

So you clench your jaw and begin to get up. But he grabs your arm, pulling you back down onto his lap.

“I don’t want to.” You mutter coldly, trying to get up again.

Sukuna spreads his legs a bit wider, wrapping an arm around your waist to tug you back into your place against him as he gives you a stern glare.

“Sit.”

You sigh in exasperation, but listen all the same, relaxing into his hold.

You don’t move, and neither does he.

* * *

Sukuna forgets — though more likely he just pretends to. But you don’t, or at least your body doesn’t.

For a good week you do your best to ignore it, but gods he makes it hard with the way he makes you sit on your lap, or those teasingly innocent touches.

And now here you are, after laying restlessly tossing and turning for hours in your bed, you've finally snuck into your uncle’s room.

He’s well asleep but wakes when he feels you crawling onto the bed, straddling his bare torso. You don’t know what’s wrong with you— for the second time its you that can’t restrain your urges.

But the veil of night inevitably gives way to restless, nocturnal desires.

Sukuna blinks the sleep away as he looks up at you.

“Do you need something?”

His hands slide up the sides of your bare thighs, brushing against the soft fabric of the nightgown you’d started wearing to bed because of how hot you’d been getting these past few nights.

They come to settle on your hips, gently.

You look down at him, hesitating, expression sort of conflicted like the thought of even saying the words would be physically painful.

So you just settle for a, “I can’t sleep.”

You think you might have caught the corner of his lips twitch ever so slightly, like he’s trying to hold back a smirk, forcing himself to stay serious and a bit stern in a way you’d expect of a guardian.

“Hm. I told you not to drink that coffee so late, didn’t I?”

The reason you came here is momentarily forgotten in favor of slight agitation, and the urge to defend yourself. “Four pm most definitely isn’t late.”

He narrows his eyes slightly but it melts into a slow smugness settling in on his features as his eyes roam your figure perched on him. He rubs circles with his thumbs where his hands are planted on your hips, a soothing and disconcertingly affectionate gesture.

“And here you are, still unable to sleep.”

You dig your nails into his skin slightly, jaw tensing as you scowl at him.

“That has nothing to do with the coffee,” you snap.

Sukuna can’t hold back his amusement anymore, you can see it clear on his face even in the dim light coming from the window. “Oh? What does it have to do with, then?”

He’s given you an opening, but cold realization washes down on you, and so you try to backtrack.

“I don’t know,” you mutter.

Sukuna’s hold on you only tightens, like he’s already expected that you’d try and leave. “Seems like you do, though.”

Then his eyes soften, as does his hold on you, going back to rubbing your skin gently. “Come on, you can tell me— I won’t judge.” He coaxes. “In fact…I gave you what you wanted last time, didn’t I?”

Your own judgement is clouded right now, by your hormones probably, because his persuasion works, a bit too easily when in any other circumstances you would’ve been more suspicious.

Because he’s right. He did give it to you. Maybe he’ll do it again.

“I…want you to eat me out.” A pause. “I’ve never…done that before,” you admit quietly.

It’s true — you’ve wondered for so long what it would feel like, just imagining the sensation of someone’s tongue lapping at your cunt would leave you aching. And now that you actually had the chance … well, you might as well take advantage of this opportunity, right?

“So this is what it’s about…” Sukuna takes in the way you’re practically trembling in anticipation. “Oh, poor thing, you’re all worked up, huh?”

You stay silent, hoping that enduring his mocking will get you where you want faster.

“How bad is it? Can’t sleep, can’t stop thinking about me?” And slowly he drags his hands down till the hem of your nightgown, where it meets the bare skin of your thighs.

Your jaw clenches, feeling more strained by the second. “Well are you going to do it or not?”

Sukuna skims his fingers along your skin, raising a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “I mean I don’t know…that would be kinda…wrong, wouldn’t it?”

“Wrong?” you sneer. “As if you cared about that before.”

“Well, maybe I care now.”

Frustration colors your face. “I guess I should just go then.”

He smiles in a way that tells you he’s up to no good, and that he certainly couldn’t care less about how wrong this is.

“Show me—” He grips the hem of your gown with one of hands, hiking it up till it’s just barely covering your panties. “—How bad it is. And maybe I’ll think about it…”

Normally you really would have more shame, but right now?

You huff and pull up the fabric of your gown till your navel, leaning back a bit so he can get a good view of your panty-clad cunt.

Luckily they’re not the skimpy ones — just a solid, simple bikini cut pair that cover your intimate areas.

And still you hate the lazy smirk that only grows on his lips as he takes in the damp patch on the gusset of your underwear.

But then he looks at you, expectantly, without saying anything though you understand all the same what he wants from you.

“I’m…I’m not ready for that..”

Somehow you can’t stand the thought of actually having to move your panties, bare your naked sex to him for him to ogle at. The thin fabric does make a world of difference here, especially when you’ve never been seen by anyone before, not down there.

The self-consciousness, the rawness, the vulnerability — it would be too real, yanking you out of this headspace that softens everything around the edges like right now, making it feel like some kind of hormonal fever dream.

Sukuna sighs, and the overdone disappointment stings all the same, just a bit. “Then you’re not ready to be eaten out either, girl.”

Your face crumples.

“But…since you need it so bad, I’ll do it through your panties - since you insist on keeping them on.” He snickers, making you pout a little.

But you’ll take anything you can get right now, and this might be the best compromise he's willing to offer you.

So you eagerly shuffle forward till your knees are planted firmly in the bedding on either side of his head, one hand holding your nightgown up and out of the way, and the other coming to grab onto the bed frame to keep you steady.

This new position, the proximity of his mouth to your pussy… it has your heart racing, skin flushing with heat. Your clit is so swollen with arousal, it practically has its own pulse, throbbing in excitement.

Sukuna’s hands come back on your hips, gripping them and lowering you till your cunt is barely a centimeter from his face. His warm breath tickles the exposed skin of your inner thighs, and he inhales deeply, making his own eye-lids drop low while you try not to feel too embarrassed.

The heady, musky scent of your arousal makes his head spin deliciously, before flowing straight to his cock.

And finally, finally, when he parts his lips and you think he’s about to get around to it, his eyes flick up at you.

“Oh and you’re taking out the trash,”

Your eyes widen incredulously, but he keeps going.

“As well as doing the dishes for the next two weeks.”

“Are you— I can’t fucking believe you.” You grit out. “Are you serious?”

Leave it up to your uncle to milk this situation for all its worth.

He wasn’t even eating you out directly.

“Dead serious. Two weeks. No complaining.”

You balk at the idea, need warring with pride and the fact that the two chores he named happen to be the ones you hate the most.

He raises his brows, before pushing you away a bit from his face. “Unless you want to go back to bed all frustrated—”

“Fuck, fine. I’ll do it.”

He smiles, satisfied. “Good girl.”

Then his hands pull you down again all the way, till you’re seated on his face.

He opens his mouth and that first pass of his tongue on your clothed cunt, sets your nerves alight, making you moan at the sensation.

The pliable pressure of the muscle feels good on your clit, even through the cloth.

He begins lapping with harder, stronger strokes of his tongue till the combined wetness of your slick and his saliva have the thin fabric completely soaked through.

You can feel more now — the heat of his tongue seeping through the sodden barrier, against your swollen clit.

Soft whimpers escape you as you grip the headboard tighter, looking down at him his mouth moving between your thighs, with practiced skill, glimpses of his eyes catching whatever they can of your expressions in the near darkness.

You can’t tell there’s a haze of his own lust clouding them.

“Mm, fuck—” You breathe, the repeated lashes of his tongue building the pleasure, making it stronger.

You grind your hips down for more of it, into his mouth, and soon his tongue is tracing the outline of your folds through the fabric, nudging and pushing against your clit.

“M-More…”

The urge to just rip the barrier of your panties out of the way is borderline unbearable, to just feel the wet heat of his tongue directly against your cunt…

But you don’t, savouring just this for now. And somehow the feeling of him eating you out through your panties almost feels filthier than the actual thing.

Suddenly, he closes his lips a bit, giving your clit a hard suck through the fabric.

The new sensation makes you gasp, grinding down into his mouth even harder.

“D-Do that again—”

He obliges, and settles into a rhythm of suckling your clit, tongue flicking against it while he does so.

The pleasure is immediate, hot like bolts of electricity shooting up your spine from your clit, and you feel yourself reaching your peak fast, practically able to see it over the horizon.

“Y-es, fuck, d-don’t stop—” Your broken cries raise in pitch as it builds and builds, and soon you’re floating, momentarily suspended in your orgasm, and you look down at him thinking maybe he's never looked as beautiful as he does in this second, before you're falling back down.

Finally you finish, panting, and there’s a few second of relief before you feel yourself start to get aroused again, just thinking about sliding that barrier to the side so he could lick your dripping folds directly—

But you lift your hips anyways, standing on your knees again as you peer down at him where he’s catching his own breath.

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t even need to ask to know the answer — he can tell enough from the way your cunt is clenching visibly through the soaked panties, from the way you’re looking needily down at him and his lips, not quite ready to pull away just yet.

“Please?”

“You won’t even show me your cunt and you want me to eat it?”

And yes that was precisely it — it was pretty dark in the room, and maybe he’d catch glimpses, but you know what he really means by show.

Bared, opened up before him, more like.

But before he can answer, he gives in, too easily. “Alright, then…”

And just like that you can feel his fingers moving, sliding the gusset of your panties to the side. You shiver, feeling the air tickling your exposed folds, brushing along the sensitive, damp flesh. You’re licking your lips, shivering at how dirty it all feels in way that only spurs on the wetness collecting between your thighs.

His tongue dips in abruptly and you inhale sharply, trying not to jerk up a bit from the sudden sensation. He licks a slow stripe along the length of your slit, puffy folds swollen with arousal.

Hot, wet, maddeningly good.

The words are stolen from you as he starts to probe with his tongue, exploring your most intimate areas, lapping at your arousal and groaning softly before licking teasingly on your clit.

You think you’re going to cum already, and it feels too good for you to care how pathetic that probably is.

Soft, breathy noises fill the room along with the slick sounds of him laving his tongue along your cunt, pushing you to the precipice, and soon you’re cumming—

The strokes of his tongue on your clit stop abruptly, pulling away entirely mid-orgasm. Instantly, it feels like your body’s gone cold from how that euphoric moment has been snatched right out of your reach.

The pathetic remnants of what was supposed to be your peak, ebbs away in a frustratingly unsatisfying manner.

“What—” You look down at him, eyes wide and brimming with frustration, just to find him with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

“Aw, you really thought I was gonna give it to you? That easy?”

Tears are filling your eyes, you know its stupid, but you can’t help it. “You said—”

He laughs, before pressing a chaste kiss lightly to your pussy and gently pulling your panties back in place. “Oh, you’re adorable. And here I thought maybe you’d actually have started to know me by now…”

You scramble back, flushing and fucking mad. Maybe feeling a little betrayed too. And stupid.

He only stretches a bit, licking his lips before leaning and settling back into bed, before smugly adding, “You can sleep here if you want…”

“God, fuck off.” You spit, crawling off the bed to back to your room. The worst part is starting up now, maybe as a result of the sudden clarity of mind he’s forcefully induced on you.

Shame will be coming for you soon, disgust not long after perhaps.

You don’t want to be here with him when they arrive as you once again think about what the hell is wrong with you.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” Is all he says as you leave his room.

 

You’re growing familiar with the fallout, though. Maybe you’re simply accepting that yes, there is something deeply wrong with you.

Sukuna is part of that acceptance—or maybe it was his plan to begin with. To pull back your layers, force you to look at the fetid rot inside. To break you down so he could build you back up in his image.

And it’s working, because not even a week later, there you are, willingly back in his lap as he works on various documents spread out on the desk in his home office.

During these times, Sukuna’s only half-working—the other half is spent teasing you, though he’d never admit that. He’ll give you random papers ranging from legitimate corporate paperwork to highly sensitive contracts laced with code, making you read them out loud just to watch you stumble over the formal language, under the guise of “helping him out.”

The text you currently hold is bloated with unnecessary jargon, winding sentences that seem to go on forever until they lose meaning.

"This agreement—entered into by both parties—stipulates that the acquisition shall proceed upon full liquidation of outstanding—" You trip over the next word, squinting at it. “...pecuniary obligations?”

"Debts," Sukuna graciously supplies, lips twitching. "Try to keep up."

"Why not just say that?"

"Because it’s more fun watching people sign away their lives when they don’t even understand what they’re reading."

There’s a slight chill that crawls down your spine, but you push forward.

Days pass.

You notice things. Little shifts.

Once, you fell asleep on his couch. When you woke up, there was a blanket over you—thicker than the ones on the couch. His.

Sukuna was still at his desk, flipping through paperwork. He didn’t even look up when you stirred, just flatly stated,

"You drool in your sleep."

You blinked blearily, frowning. “I do not.”

"No? Guess I should start taking pictures, then."

You grumbled under your breath and tucked yourself deeper into the blanket.

He’s also started feeding you sometimes. Picking food off his own plate, holding it to your lips wordlessly, the way you might feed a stray you’ve half-domesticated, half-possessed.

He doesn’t bring up how he humiliated you the night you couldn’t sleep—not explicitly, at least. But you still end up with a dishwashing and trash removal sentence, a punishment stretched across two long weeks, a constant reminder.

* * *

 

Eventually the day comes when you’re both forcefully tugged out of your little bubble — its your parents, calling him over regarding something about their ongoing separation.

You come with him.

The meeting is… tense. For obvious reasons, as well as less obvious ones — to your parents at least. But they try to stay genial, and so do you.

You know Sukuna’s watching you, but you aren’t too aware of it.

Of the way he sees how your mother still borderline coddles you because of her anxiety — telling you to eat more, saying you need to take your vitamins, and all that. Which is somewhat ironic because he knows she hasn’t really been great to you throughout your life either.

Your mother is emotionally unstable and while this means you are smothered in almost suffocating affection at times, in other moments it means she takes out the weight of all her anger, and sadness, and frustrations on you, that always leave you crying in a way that exhausts you.

But he sees it all the same.

You’re her little girl after all, no matter how much you grow. And your dad — he’s distant with you, as you are with him. But even through that, Sukuna can see that he does still love you.

It stirs something in him, something uneasy, when it should be tender and warm.

Perhaps the final straw is when he catches a framed photo of you in the living room, one he hasn’t seen before. You can’t have been older than nine, donning the most gleeful smile and that spark of mischief in your eyes.

The photo is a bit blurry, sunlight pouring onto your face, and you wear a small dress that’s a bright pink, your hair tied up two messy ponytails.

You. That image is you, the real you, before you grew up and the world dulled that spark.

But the most horrifying part is he can still see it — under all that dust, he can still see that little girl shining through.

You smile the same way still, in the moments when you’re really, truly happy and laughing.

It makes him feel sick.

You don’t even quite notice that he’s gone quieter as you drive back, troubled almost.

On the way you manage to rope him into stopping at a cafe so you can get a drink and a little snack. It’s all good and well till you’ve just finished ordering when the cashier looks up at him with a friendly smile. “And what can I get for your dad?”

Dad.

You tense, he freezes.

There’s a half second before he forces a neutral reaction, just a small, tight-lipped smile. You start to correct the cashier but Sukuna cuts in before you can.

“I’ll get an Americano. Hot.”

You’re not too terribly bothered — after all it’s reasonable why someone would think that. And after coming fully to accept the things you had to about the nature of your relationship with him, it doesn’t have as much of an effect on you.

Little do you know that it is Sukuna who’s more than just bothered — he’s deeply unsettled. Because someone else saw it. Someone else, without knowing anything, saw that kind of dynamic between you and him.

And it disgusts him, for the first time, because he sees himself through someone else’s eyes.

It’s wrong.

* * *

 

At first you don’t think much of it — the way the usual tension changes over the next few days, not into something sharp, but something cold. It starts off subtle — he avoids your gaze (very strange for him but you brush it off), keeps his distance (disappearing for "work" more often), barely acknowledges you.

He doesn’t cook for you at all anymore. If you sit next to him, he stiffens a bit before moving slightly away.

He doesn’t invite you to sit on his lap — he seems kind of strained around you.

Maybe it’s temporary you think, maybe something in his work that you don’t know about.

But it stretches on day after day, night after night.

He doesn’t tease you anymore. He doesn’t engage.

And you?

You’re growing frustrated, borderline panicked by each passing day, with every small rejection. It tears a hole inside of you for some reason.

You know this is good, that you should be glad — that finally your relationship with your uncle is distancing itself from the way it had previously crossed so many lines.

A normal familial relationship.

Yet some part of you is growing desperate in a way you hate, so one of those days you do something that had been quite normal before this sudden switch up — you climb onto his lap, while he watches tv.

He freezes before swallowing, and then sternly tells you.

“Get up.”

You look back at him, the challenge clear in your eyes. “Why?”

For once, you refuse to play games with him. Right now you want the truth, given to you straight and clear. And if he isn’t willing to give it to you, you’ll just have to extract it yourself.

His eyes fall on you, detached though there’s a hint of something more underneath, something you can’t quite decipher. “I’m serious. Get up.”

Your temper flares and so you do the opposite of what you’re told, settling further into him.

His eyes widen, but he forces himself to keep his voice cool. “It’s not…appropriate. We won’t be doing these kinds of things anymore.”

You recoil like you’ve been burned, but you don’t get up. “What?!”

You want to believe he’s just playing with you, like that other night when he pretended to care about the wrongness of it all.

But he looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him, at this moment.

“You heard me.”

Heat rushes over you, the bad kind, the one that makes your nerves prick and anger rise. “So, what — you just suddenly grew a fucking conscience overnight?”

“Something like that.” He mutters.

There’s a lump in your throat now, thick and unable to go down even when you swallow. “You… You can’t do that. It’s not fucking fair.”

He stays silent, and you feel frustration run hot in your veins.

“Fucking answer me. You said you’d…take care of me.”

“I lied. I won’t — not like that anyways.”

Tears well in your eyes, but you don’t care. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re fucked in the head if you think this is okay.”

Sukuna can’t hold his tongue any longer, and his eyes narrow dangerously as he stares you down. “Stop acting like a fucking child.”

The words hit harder than you would’ve expected for some reason, like some nerve has been touched, something deep down.

But he keeps going, leaning in to sneer cruelly in your face.

“You wanna know why? That’s fucking why. Because you’re still just a kid, a dumb little girl that can’t see past how horny she is for her own uncle.”

Your blood pounds in your ears, roaring, as he just pushes and pushes—

“I’m fucked in the head? What does that make you then, sweetheart? Stupid pathetic little thing, begging me to touch you because you can’t even fucking get off on your own—”

CRACK.

The impact echoes through the room, and the TV continues to play, though you and Sukuna are both frozen in shock.

You slapped him so hard his head jerked to the side, redness now blooming on his face from the impact.

Even your own palm stings.

But it feels good, too good, the thrill of it eroding the rest of your control as you climb on him, pinning him forcefully down onto the couch.

“What, you think I’m some naive, innocent little child? Is that it? A poor helpless little lamb at the mercy of some big bad wolf—” You grip his face, leaning down to snarl at him. “I am a grown woman, Sukuna, what the fuck do you take me for? Did you really think it was you in control this whole time? Is that it?”

Your grip tightens, nails digging into his burning skin, and still he watches, making no move to fight back. “You think I didn’t know what I was doing when I came to you, tempted you into getting me off that first time?”

And then he smiles wolfishly, like he’s fucking enjoying this. “You think you’re so smart don’t you, little girl?” He goads you on. “Hah— Fucking stupid bitch. What makes you think I wouldn’t have taken what I wanted from you anyways? As if you could even fucking stop me. You’ve always been at my mercy—”

A strangled noise chokes in your throat as your jaw clenches and before you can stop it you slap him again before grabbing him by the collar of his neck to yank his face up.

"MERCY? DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A WOMAN WHO'S AT YOUR FUCKING MERCY?"

Sukuna grins even wider, eyes on fire, gleaming dangerously. Only now you see a blood is beginning to seep from his lips, staining his teeth, but you couldn’t care less.

“Do it again.” He rasps. “Fucking hit me again sweetheart, go on.”

Sukuna looks borderline fascinated by you right now, like you’ve opened his eyes to some revelation. You have, though, your point has been well driven home, shattering the somewhat misguided new perception he’d held of you this last few days.

He wants to see more of it, so he pushes you on.

You grit your teeth, glaring venomously at him, at how he’s playing you, trying to win some agency back like this.

It makes you snap.

“Stop, just fucking STOP.” You’re smacking him not just on his face now, letting out the torrent of emotions building in you. You feel it now, how you’re like him — the urge to control, to win, the thirst for power over him turns you into a damn near bloodthirsty creature. Just like him.

“I corrupted you, Sukuna—” You hit him again, his cheekbone bruising now. “I fucked you up—”

And your desperate, violent attempts still do nothing to wipe that goddamn borderline manic smirk on his cut lips, not even despite how they’re bleeding. If anything it grows. “Not the other fucking way around.”

He sees you clearly now, like he’s finally made some sense of you, reconciled your parents’ sweet daughter with the complicated and raging woman that now sits on him, striking him over and over.

There is softness inside, sure, but it’s been long overgrown by thorns, pierced through by old, rusting nails.

And he loves it.

A low sound comes from him with the next hit, making you still momentarily, because it wasn’t a wince — it was a fucking moan.

Your blood boils. He’s enjoying this, you know it, but you can’t get yourself to stop.

So you do it again and again as you scream your words into his face. “You know why? Because you’re easy, you’re so fucking easy, just a pathetic man that’s a slave to his dick.”

Your palms are burning badly now.

“A pathetic man that would give into his fucking niece, because not even blood could kill the way it turns you on the moment a girl bats her lashes at you, or says sweet things—”

“Not just any girl—” He breathes. “You.”

“Fuck, just shut the FUCK UP.” You scream, your hot tears dripping onto his face, where a bruise is starting to bloom under the skin like watercolor on wet paper.

And then he laughs mocking, taunting, like you’re nothing more than a silly, harmless little animal trying to show its claws.

Nothing more than that teen girl from years ago trying to stand her ground, show the world -him- that she wasn't so **insignificant, so powerless.

He grabs your hips, grinding you onto his rock hard bulge, cock straining through his jeans. “This is what you do to me — all that you do to me.” He leans in. “And despite that, I still won’t fuck you, no matter how much you think you can tempt me—”

You don’t know what you want anymore. The original point has been long forgotten. All you know is that you hate him, that you just—

Face contorted in rage, you spit on him, and it lands right on his cheek before dripping down.

Both of you pause, once again. At first he’s surprised, but it slowly gives way to his feature darkening, eyes narrowing to near slits.

“You’ve fucking done it now, you little bitch.”

And suddenly you’re lifted and thrown onto your back like you weigh nothing, wrists gathered and pinned in just one of his hands, help up over your head to stretch you into a compromising position under him.

Your heart beats faster, and there's certainly a wave of trepidation washing through you now, but you keep up your front, just glaring at him as menacingly as you can manage.

He leans in closer to whisper in your ear, warm breath ghosting over your skin as his hand comes up to hold your jaw, thumb brushing over your lower lip.

“You wanna play like that, girl? Fine.”

The finger on your lip pushes forward, hooking itself into your mouth and pressing forcefully down on your tongue. “Open.”

You wait a second, holding his gaze with equal animosity before parting your lips slowly, hesitantly.

He grins, leaning in to purse his lips and spit right into your open mouth, the warm fluid sliding obscenely down your tongue.

“Good girl. Now swallow and say thank you.”

You swallow before coldly murmuring a quiet thank you. You should be mad still but…in a way you were getting what you originally wanted, right?

Sukuna lets out a short laugh. “See? You are fucking pathetic.”

And just like that, the anger returns, but you bite your tongue.

“All this talk and you were still too scared to show me your fuckin’ pussy. Because you’re just a dumb, inexperienced little girl that’s never even been with a man before. Isn’t that right?”

Then his expression shifts a bit — the anger morphing into some sadistic kind of hunger, especially when he sees that way you go silent, trying not to react.

One of his hand moves down, to abruptly give a harsh squeeze to your breast, making you squeak in surprise.

“When I ask a question, you answer, girl.”

Your lip curls, but you answer anyways. Just a plain, short, “Yes.”

“Hm.” He tilts his head slightly, appraising you. “Are you scared of being looked at like that?”

You stay silent, and something even more sinister creeps over him, eyes softening in faux sweetness.

“Oh it’s okay to be nervous your first time, sweetheart.” He hums, thoughtfully almost. “Tell you what — how about we take care of that little fear right now, hm?”

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head. The thought makes your mouth go dry for some reason.

“Aw, why not? We’re family sweetheart, you don’t need to be shy.”

“No.”

He looks at you, and sighs before loosening his grip on you. “See, I knew you weren’t ready for even that much.”

A different kind of fear threads through you now — that everything would go back to the way it had been these past, few miserable days.

“Okay, fine! I’ll do it—” The words spill out of your mouth too quickly, and now you know you can’t take them back from the way he’s looking at you. “What…do you want?”

Sukuna smiles, before getting off you. “Stand up.”

You hesitate before standing up off the couch. He grabs you firmly by the arms, moving you till you’re standing right in front of him, looking down at him nervously.

“Okay. Now strip.”

Sweat begins to collect on your palms as you try to take a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down.

The first part is easy enough.

You take off your shirt and your pants with relative ease, though it’s starting to get to you, having to stand half naked in front of him.

He leans back, smiling, relaxed. “Keep going.”

So you take off your bra, the air pebbling your nipples, as his eyes roam over your bare tits. Your heart is pounding now, practically in your throat, fighting the urge to cover up, to call this off.

You don’t make a move to slip off your panties, but then he nods towards them, signaling to continue.

So you force another deep breath though the air doesn’t quite reach the bottom of your lungs, and shut your eyes, before hooking your fingers around the waistband and sliding them down as quick as possible.

A pause, an unbearable one.

“Open your eyes.”

Your force your lids open, feeling borderline sick from being put on display like this, the pit in your stomach only growing as his eyes roam shamelessly, settling between your thighs, and staring like it’s the first time in the world he’s laid his eyes on a woman’s genitalia.

“Are we— Are we done?” You manage to squeak out.

His eyes flit up to yours, which are burning in embarrassment. “Done?” He chuckles lowly. “We’re not even close to done sweetheart.” And then he spreads his legs slightly, patting his thigh. “Come sit.”

You obey, awkwardly shifting over and perching yourself tensely on his leg, aiming to keep your legs closed as much as possible.

“Mm. Lie down actually on the couch.”

You’re too mortified to even object or fight back at this point so you meekly do as he says, laying on your back with your legs towards him, feeling so nervous that it’s nauseating.

He looks down, with a relaxed smirk. “Good girl. Now spread your legs.”

You freeze, staring at him in desperation for some mercy.

His expression hardens, gripping your thigh tightly. “Either you spread them or I’ll do it for you.”

And so you do it — slowly spreading your legs, barely able to look him in the eyes as you expose yourself. Your cheeks and the tips of your ears burn almost painfully, and never before have you felt such an overwhelming want to just simply disappear into nothingness.

He grins as he takes in the sight of your cunt, as if committing it to memory, and just when you think it can’t get any worse, you feel his fingers on the soft flesh, spreading you open.

You stifle your gasp, covering the lower half of your face with your mouth, wishing you could just cover your face entirely, though you know he probably wouldn’t allow you even that small bit of modesty.

Your skin crawls, especially down between your thighs where’s he’s exposed your innermost parts to the weight of his gaze that feels physical, inspecting your cunt with almost clinical thoroughness.

And somehow Sukuna decides this level of scrutiny isn’t enough, so he slides a thumb over the hood of your clit, lifting it up to take a good look at the little nub, making you let out a little cry in humiliation.

You can’t take it any longer, this examination of his, and you have to physically hold back from snapping your legs shut.

“Is…is it…okay?”

His grin widens, gaze flicking up to your face. “Okay? It’s more than okay. In fact…” His eyes lower, thumb brushing ever so slightly over your exposed clit. You jump at the contact, which hurts a little. “I wanna see how you play with this pretty little cunt…”

“H-Huh?”

“Go lie down on the floor, and spread your legs.” He lets go of your folds, finally giving you the slightest bit of reprieve. “And maybe if you’re good I’ll even let you watch me jerk off. Would you like that sweetheart?”

A wave of lust cuts through the shame at his words, and you answer a little too quickly.

“Y-Yes, please.”

“Go lie down, then.”

You do as you’re told and soon you have your legs spread in front of him, fingers snaking down to tease your folds. Sukuna leans back again, beginning to palm his bulge that grows even bigger at the show in front of him.

“Finger fuck yourself for me. Show me how you take care of yourself sweetheart.”

You exhale and slip one finger in, curling it and rubbing against your g-spot. The immediate wave of pleasure numbs some of the vulnerability that you’ve been drowning in, replacing it with arousal and need.

In and out, in and out.

You moan softly, spine arching off the floor as you begin to pick up the pace. Sukuna’s gaze grows even more intent, even more ravenous, dilated pupils drinking in every pump of your finger into your slick hole.

“Add another finger,” His voice is rough with his own arousal and he unbuttons his jeans, to palm his length through the thin fabric of his boxers.

You slide in another finger, whimpering with needy little noises as you continue to finger yourself, getting even wetter as you watch him getting more and more worked up from seeing you like this.

Sukuna watches, the way your fingers disappear inside you, the thin sheen of sweat covering your bare skin, your tits heaving with the force of your panting, skin beautifully flushed as you unravel more and more.

Finally it’s too much for him, his cock is painfully hard, and so he frees it from his boxers, hissing in relief at the grip of his hand around his length.

“Oh, fuck—” He groans, tightening his hand and starting to stroke his swollen length, using the sticky precum beading at his tip as lube, smearing it around the blushing head till it’s shiny with it.

You watch as you continue you to pleasure yourself, enraptured by the sight of his dick. It's as large and domineering as the rest of him, with veins crawling up his girth.

He has a very pretty cock, you think.

“Have you ever thought of me while fucking your little hole like this, sweetheart?”

“Yes…” You breathe unabashedly, too far gone and drowning in how erotic the entire scene was, practically drooling as you watch him tug on his turgid length.

“In my own -hah- home?” He rasps through broken pants, stroking his leaking cock faster and harder.

“Mhm…” You whimper, before admitting, “S-Sometimes in your bed, while you were at work—”

Sukuna nearly cums on the spot at your dirty confession, imagining you fingering your cunt on his bed, on his sheets, wrapped in his scent…

“Shit, my niece is fucking filthy…” He sees how your body tenses, no doubt about to cum from his words.

You love being degraded by him it seems.

“Just like me.”

“Oh f-fuck—” You cum instantly all over your fingers, muscles clenching and tensing almost painfully, back bowing off the hardwood floor as your drip all over it.

Luckily you come down in time to catch Sukuna cumming as well, eyes rolling back as thick white ropes erupt from his tip, splattering all over his abs. The spurts continue to come until he finishes, slowing down, with white liquid dripping down his skin.

“Shit...” He sighs as you pull your own fingers from your hole, catching your breath.

Your back kind of hurts.

"You did so well,” Sukuna takes in your prone form laying on the ground, fucked out and still trembling from your orgasm. “Come here, sweetheart. Let me hold you.”

You get up settling into his open arms, and for the first time there isn’t a wave of self-loathing afterwards.

No, it's different - this time, it almost feels like...acceptance. For the first time you’ve been seen in your entirety, laid bare before someone, then claimed regardless.

He wraps his arm around you, pulling your naked body flush against him, before tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“You’re fucking horrible.” You murmur half-heartedly. “If you’re gonna go back to telling me this is wrong and then ignoring me again I’d rather you just leave me alone right now.”

“It is wrong.”

You sigh.

And for a bit it's just both of you sitting silently with this strange weight.

“Six months.”

Your brows knit. “What?”

“You have six months,” he says again, slower this time, like he's still deciding. “Then you’re gone. Preferably back to college. A dorm, maybe. I’ll pay for it.”

Your stomach tightens.

“You’re kicking me out?”

“I’m setting a deadline,” he corrects. “By then, this—” his fingers twitch, “—ends. It has to.”

The words land heavier than they should. Your throat tightens. You’re not stupid—you know why. It isn’t rejection. If anything, it’s the opposite. It’s his last-ditch effort to claw back what remains of the role he was supposed to play, the duty he was meant to uphold. A brittle attempt at doing right.

Maybe it's true that lust is corrosive. But if it is, then love is what's left to rot.

You pause for a second, thinking, before agreeing as you lay your head on his chest.

“Fine.”

You feel his gaze flick toward you.

“But,” you continue, lazily tracing a finger down and swiping up some of the seed drying on his skin, “for the next six months, there are no more fucking lines.”

Sukuna stills, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

“No more stopping halfway,” you say calmly. “No more pretending. No more pushing me away one second and pulling me back the next. We do whatever we want. No hesitation. No guilt. No fucking lines.”

His expression darkens, and the air thickens as you lift your cum-covered fingers a few inches away from his lips, when his hand shoots out to grip your wrist in place.

He watches you in that way he does when he’s waiting for you to realize something too late.

You stare back at him.

“You really think you can handle that?” His voice is quiet, but there’s something dangerous in it, something that slithers beneath your skin and makes your heart stutter.

“You’re the one that gave me six months. Either you give me everything or we just end this right here.”

His eyes bore into yours, the space between you nearly vibrating.

And then, Sukuna smirks.

But it’s not a smug, victorious smirk — it’s cutting, laced with something ugly yet alluring all the same.

“You have no fucking idea what you just agreed to.”

“I don’t care.”

His eyes drag over you, slow, considering.

Then, finally, he breathes out a laugh, loosening his hold on your wrist.

“Six months, then.”

You smile, before reaching forward to brush your fingers against his lips, smearing the tacky fluid messily. He lets you do it, to your satisfaction, even as you lean in to kiss him like he taught you. The kiss is slow and sloppy, the taste of him on your tongue as you lick his lips. He grabs your ass, pulling you onto his hardening cock again with renewed interest as you make out, a smirk on his lips when he finally pulls away.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you, sweetheart.”

Chapter 2

Notes:

so. the second part became so long i decided to just split it and that's why it ends a bit abruptly!

anyways plss check the updated tags bc the only warning im going to explicitly state here is that a lot of the erotic elements are delivered with a heavy dose of discomfort, and this is intentional. also reader's daddy issues are explored more in detail.

“I want you to take my virginity.”

Sukuna’s eyes flit to yours as he takes another bite of his food, not answering right away, just watching you.

Annoying.

You put down your chopsticks and refuse to take another bite until he gives you some response.

Finally, he smirks at you, speaking lazily. “That’s a big step. You sure you’re still not just worked up from the other night or something?”

“That was like four days ago,” you hiss, “So no— it’s obviously not that.”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs as he chews. “Maybe you got all horny remembering it.”

You lean forward, teeth clenched, scowling at him hard enough to kill. “Can you please just give me a useful answer, for once?”

His eyes flicker down to the chopsticks laying across your plate of food. “Eat. I don’t pay Uraume as much as I do for you to throw a tantrum and waste your food.”

God he can really be insufferable sometimes.

“I’ll eat when you answ—”

“Eat. Now.” Sukuna’s voice drops to a stern command and he stills, watching you expectantly until you finally pick up the chopsticks and shove a bite of food into your mouth, angrily.

“Good girl.” He resumes eating, and you swear he waits a beat longer just to piss you off before finally adding, “I’ll do it whenever you sign up for classes.”

You stiffen slightly.

Classes. Six months.

You know damn well what you agreed to. Logically, it's the right move—and yet, any mention of it makes your chest tighten with a dull, anxious ache.

Makes you want to think about literally anything else.

But Sukuna—in the most ironic way—is actually good at getting you to do things. You know he won’t bend on this, not when it comes to your future.

“You know I’ll have to ask my parents about that, right?” you point out flatly. “Especially if you’re financing it.”

“Already spoke to them,” he says, casually.

“What?! When?”

“None of your concern. But your mom’ll probably call you later today or tomorrow to confirm, so might as well start prepping now.”

You stare at him for a second, then just huff. “Fine. You promise?”

“Of course, princess. You’ll have to show me proof, though.”

Reluctantly, you nod.

 

 

Just like he said, the call comes later that evening—your mother’s voice neutral, if a little relieved, as she runs through application deadlines and housing options. She doesn’t say it, but you can hear it in her tone—anything to get you back on track. Back to your degree, to who you used to be.

You tell her you’ll look into it.

And you do, sort of. You open your laptop that night, click through your old student portal and check a few deadlines.

But the tabs sit there open and unanswered.

Because you’ve always been like this—avoidant, stubborn when it matters most.

Maybe it’s fear.

Or maybe it’s something deeper, some twisted logic that if you never re-enroll, never hit submit, then the end of your six months here won’t come, and that staying will stay possible.

That Sukuna won't actually make you go.

But as the days pass, your need for him grows heavier. Hungrier. Harder and harder to ignore.

Sukuna promised you ruin and while you waited expectantly for the next three days, on edge and feeling like a fool, he gave you absolutely nothing, leaving you out to dry.

His way of messing with you, probably. Making you really beg for it.

Just like now — dangling himself just out of reach, so you’ll cave and sign up for those damn classes.

The day after he told you his condition, he’s definitely started playing with you more — not cruel, but deliberate.

Close touches, subtle innuendos, intense eye contact.

 

In the evening, when you come out of the bathroom with your hair still damp and dressed in pajamas, Sukuna calls to you from the dining table where he’s nursing a glass of whiskey.

You expect a lecture—maybe about forgetting to empty the dishwasher again—but instead, he catches your wrist as you pass. You let him pull you in, straddling his lap, pleasantly surprised.

His fingers skim your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“Make sure to dry your hair before bed. Don’t want you catching a cold,” he murmurs.

You snort under your breath, but don’t bother saying anything. In your experience, explaining to anyone your parents’ age that cold wet hair making you sick is nothing more than a myth, is a futile endeavor.

But then his lips are on yours—soft at first, then deeper. All tongue and teeth and the faint bitter taste of whiskey melting into your mouth.

Your hand slides into his hair as you tilt your head back, letting him in, sighing when he nips your lip. Your hips shift instinctively, seeking friction—pressing down against the bulge in his pants in a slow, barely-there grind. His hand slides to your lower back, holding you steady, letting you move just enough to feel it.

Ever since he taught you how to kiss, it’s secretly been one of your favorite things to do with him—making out at odd, quiet moments until you’re breathless and aching without even realizing how far you've gone.

But then he pulls back, leaving you flushed and involuntarily chasing after his mouth.

You blink up at him, frowning, your thighs still tight around him—and the smirk tugging at his lips tells you everything.

Abruptly, he pushes you off his lap and stands, tossing back the rest of his drink before looking down at you, smug.

“Well, I’m off to bed. See you in the morning.”

You shoot him the dirtiest look you can manage as he turns away, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Oh, and dry your hair. I’m serious.”

And with that, he’s gone—leaving you alone, warm, aching, and seriously considering banging your head against the wall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two more days pass, still no progress. You want him—crave him in the way your body always does—but your mind keeps recoiling from the one simple task that would make everything easier.

Instead, you take the long way around it.

Late at night, you drift to his room like it’s nothing, one of his shirts hanging off your frame soft and oversized, paired with the smallest pajama shorts you own. You don’t knock, as has become habit lately.

He’s seated in his bed, glasses on, looking at something on his phone, not even bothering to glance up when you speak.

“Can I stay here tonight?”

His eyes stay on the screen, reflecting on his frames. “You’ve got your own room. What’s wrong with it?”

You pout a little, speaking softly, “I just…don’t feel like being alone.”

There’s a pause as he scrolls, and you step a little closer, the air thickening.

“You said you’d do it if I signed up for my classes. I did.”

You didn’t—not yet, at least. But maybe if you keep him distracted, he’ll forget about that part.

Sukuna just cocks a slitted brow. “That’s funny. Don’t remember seeing any proof yet.”

You hesitate, but decide to push on anyway, hoping you can soon make him forget about the proof.

So instead of answering you climb onto his lap.

Sukuna stiffens, jaw ticking slightly, but he lets you.

You lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, shaky fingers coming up to unbutton the top of his shirt — in nervousness, frustration, need, you don’t know.

He doesn’t react, just watches you quietly, face impassive before quietly asking, “What are you doing?”

You swallow, trying to sound as confident as you can. “What do you think?”

His hand finally moves, up your back, till the nape of your neck, and you finally think you’ve won. You lean in slightly, but then he tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his narrowed eyes.

“You’ve gotten pretty brave…”

You gulp, and he smiles — all teeth, no warmth.

“You think this is how it works? You crawl into my lap, bat your lashes, and I forget every condition we laid down?”

Your throat tightens, despising how smug he sounds.

“It’s not like that,” you protest defensively.

“No? Then what is it like?”

You don’t answer, as his thumb brushes your lower lip. “I know what you want. You’ve made it very clear.”

Then he pulls away, leaving you sitting on his lap flushed and frustrated.

“You don’t get to change the rules just because you’re impatient. Desperate girls don’t make demands.”

“I’m not desperate.”

Your second lie of the night, and both of you know it.

He snickers. “What’s this little show then, hm?”

You bristle, and he leans in, speaking softly, just a little cruel. “Show me proof, princess. Otherwise you’re just pretending you want it.”

You’re not given a chance to retort before he lifts you off his lap, deposits you onto the bed like a doll, and goes back to whatever he was looking at on his phone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

If he was trying to get through to you, it certainly worked.

By the next night you’re standing in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes sharp, as he lounges on the couch, watching something on the TV.

“I did it.”

As usual, he barely looks at you. “Did what?”

“My application. I signed up for classes. Check your email.”

He’s quiet for a beat—then his phone buzzes, and he opens the attachment. Your name, bold and official.

All real.

He exhales, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Tch. Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“You said you’d stop dodging me if I did,” you say, voice taut.

Sukuna sets the phone down, gaze cutting toward you like a blade. “And you followed through,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches, pulse quickening.

Then he rises slowly, deliberate, until he’s standing in front of you. His voice drops; quiet, amused almost. 

“So that’s all it takes to get you to commit to your future,” he says, brushing your hair back. “One fuck from your uncle?”

You tense, but he just leans in to whisper near your ear, “I bet your parents wouldn’t be so proud of you for going back if they knew the real reason…”

You flinch, heat and humiliation mixing in your chest because of course he has to make this as vulgar as possible.

But you refuse to back down.

“You promised.”

“I did,” he says simply. Then he cups your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“Just remember,” Sukuna adds, gaze dark and steady, “You signed up for this.”

You don’t look away, not even as the air grows heavier, as you feel a certain thrum starting up between your legs.

“I know,” you whisper, throat dry.

He watches you for a long beat, eyes roaming over your face like he’s searching for hesitation. But you don’t give him any — you want this more than anything.

“Take off your clothes,” he says finally. It’s not a request.

You’ve done this before, you’ve done worse than this before, and somehow you’re still not entirely used to the feeling of undressing in front of someone — certainly not in front of him.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the hem of your shirt, but you do it, breaking the silence with the soft rustle of fabric, the whisper of cotton slipping off skin, revealing the expanse of your skin.

Next your pants, pulling at your ankles before you step out of them.

His gaze darkens with every inch of bare skin revealed but he doesn’t move to touch you, not yet.

He watches, waiting, expecting as your hands reach around back to unclasp your bra. It falls to the ground, exposing your tits, your tightening nipples.

You stand there, bare under his eyes that roam your curves, heart thudding, trying to ground yourself.

And still, he doesn’t touch you.

“Are you scared?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You swallow. “No.”

“Liar.”

You step forward anyway, closing the distance between you, resisting the urge to cross your arms over your chest. “Do it before I change my mind.”

His hand slides into your hair, firm but not cruel, tilting your head back. He looks at you like something he wishes he didn’t crave as badly as he did.

Something he wants to leave his fingerprints all over anyways.

“Six months,” he murmurs against your lips. “That’s all we’ve got. Then no more of this.”

“Then stop wasting time.”

That’s all it takes. He kisses you—nothing like the last time. There’s no pretense now, no power play. Just heat, and want, and something else buried beneath it all, something like the night he told you he wants to ruin you.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you to the bedroom.

There’s no hesitation in him, just intent.

You feel it in the way he throws you onto his bed, peels your underwear down your legs, the way he tilts your chin back to bare your throat to him, kissing it like something he owns. Kisses turn into something harsher, sucking, biting, and the rough scrape of teeth that stings enough to make you suck in a sharp breath.

You know now there’ll be marks of his claim littering your skin for days after.

But when he pauses—just for a second—eyes meeting yours again, it’s not just control you see there. It’s restraint.

A question, silent but real.

You answer it by pulling him down, mouth meeting his again.

And then there’s no more waiting.

There’s a sound that escapes you when his mouth finds your throat again—quiet, startled, and helpless. He drinks it in like it’s what he wanted all along.

Warm palms roam slowly, like he’s mapping out every fragile inch, learning you by feel, by the way you shiver under his touch as his he trails open-mouthed kisses down your neck, along your collarbone.

You wonder if this is what sex is supposed to feel like - being worshipped and ruined at the same time.

His hands make their way to your tits, tweaking one of your hard nipples between his fingers, before he bends to capture the other one in his mouth.

You whimper a little at the feel of his tongue tracing wet circles over the areola, then sucking hard enough on the bud for it to sting just a bit before he releases the pressure again.

"You really went and did it,” he mutters against your skin. “All that pouting, all that begging... just to get fucked like a slut.”

You swallow, your own trembling hands making their way to the hem of his shirt, tugging at it, craving more of him, the feel of his bare skin against yours.

Sukuna takes the hint, pushing off you with a low chuckle, just enough to pull his own shirt over his head. Dark markings crawl from over his shoulders, along his chiseled abs.

All muscle and sinew rippling under his flesh.

It occurs to you that you’ll never want a boy after this, not after you’ve been with a real man.

“It’s rude to stare,” he comments, arms flexing as he tosses his shirt aside.

“Give me some more to stare at,” you mutter shamelessly.

Eager to see him again, all of him.

Sukuna smirks, an arrogant gleam flickering in his eyes as he steps even closer, his body hovering over yours.

“Mm, you’re getting impatient again. We’ve got all night sweetheart.”

His eyes roam down to the apex of your thighs, where they’re clenching together, trying to relieve some of the ache.

“Spread yourself.”

You take a shuddering breath as you part your legs as wide as you can, heat flowing directly to both your cheeks and your cunt.

He lays on the bed, and you leak more arousal in anticipation of his face right in front of your folds.

“I said spread yourself, girl. Do I have to show you how it’s done?”

You frown at him, trying to keep your voice steady. “I d-did, can’t spread my legs any further than this—”

He clicks his tongue in annoyance, before taking your hand and using your fingers spread your inner folds open.

“Like this. Hold it.”

The flesh inside is softer, more sensitive, and you cringe when you feel it cool from air brushing against the slick skin.

“Why? It’s not…comfortable…” you mutter nervously.

“It’ll feel better,” he states simply, large hands wrapping around your thighs to pull you in closer while you try to breathe and stay calm.

You trust him and hold yourself open as he leans in, and in a moment you understand what he means now — his tongue hot and insistent against not just your clit, but the surrounding areas of your sensitive inner labia.

You can feel everything, every stroke of his tongue, every small nudge of it against your clit and your sticky flesh.

Bolts of pleasure light up your spine, as he works against your dripping cunt, lapping with increasing fervor. You whimper and quiver as he licks inside every crevice of your cunt, sucking on your clit, eating you out greedily.

You pant, feeling hot from your cunt all the way to the backs of your watering eyes as you twitch and tense, feeling yourself come closer and closer.

“Mmh, j-just like that, don’t -ah- fucking stop—” you whine desperately tilting your pelvis into his mouth for more, and soon you’re cumming all over his tongue, his hands keeping your thighs pried apart as they threaten to lock in around his head.

You finish, muscles laxing into a trembling mess and he intentionally gives you one last, harsh lash of his tongue right against your overstimulated clit, making you flinch in pain.

He pulls away, inspecting your sopping hole, humming in approval before standing up to slip off his pants.

Down they go, and you can’t help but watch the large bulge in his boxers straining against the fabric, a wet patch already formed. They slip off and you ogle unabashedly at his large, leaking cock, his hard length swaying slightly as he steps forward, crawling onto the bed.

His mouth latches back onto one of your tits, suckling and licking gently as he strokes himself a few times.

“You’re shaking,” Sukuna murmurs, almost amused.

“I’m not scared,” you breathe, though your voice wavers.

He smirks against the slick mess on your breast. “Maybe you should be.”

His hand trails down your waist, rough palm against skin, as he finally rests his cock between your thighs.

Warm, with a dizzying weight. Soft skin against skin.

Just the sensation of his bare cock on your folds feels oddly vulnerable and intimate, enough to make your ears burn hot.

Your stomach does a flip when you peer down, finally able to gauge the sheer size of him when his length is laying across your mons like this, his swollen tip reaching all the way till your navel.

Despite it, you could stare at his cock for hours.

And then it occurs to you—

“Wait, do you have a condom? I’m…I’m not on the pill.”

The words come out like a choked gasp, as though something inside you finally gives way. Your mind stutters, the fog of desire lifting just enough for the ugly reality to sink in. The heat that was rushing through your veins turns cold, a creeping dread that coils tight in your chest.

A terrible realization of what you’re actually doing. How real this all is. Because the chance of conception would be horrible enough on its own, but with a family member?

Well, that’s what the natural revulsion to incest was supposed to prevent, right?

Your body’s response is instantaneous—an involuntary shiver that starts deep in your gut, an icy feeling that spreads outward, stiffening your spine.

You thought you’d come to terms with this, but perhaps you hadn’t — not all the way, at least.

“I do, but I won’t use them,” he states coolly. “I have more than enough money to afford a plan B pill if needed.”

He’s right, but still…

Sukuna looks up at your face, taking in the hesitation written all over it.

“Having second thoughts?” he asks, voice too smooth, too knowing.

Were you? You don’t know.

Because in spite of the cold, you want this, and maybe the perversion of it all makes you want it more.

“You knew there wouldn’t be any holding back if we did this, didn’t you?” He drags his cock languidly along your glistening folds, the head of it catching on your clit over and over, as he speaks.

Cruelly slow.

Like he’s savoring every inch of your hesitation, every stifled breath, every twitch of uncertainty you don’t want him to see.

You can feel the heat in your cheeks, the hesitation still curling in your chest, but it’s fading.

Slowly, so slowly.

Your body betrays you, the cold tightening in your stomach transforming into something deeper, more urgent with every drag of his swollen head across your clit, pre smearing with your own slick.

Your hands, trembling but eager, make their way to his chest, pressing against his skin.

A part of you wants to pull back, to stop this madness—but the other part? It’s begging for more. The thrill, the perversion, it warms you.

You want to feel him completely.

“I did,” you whisper, “So don’t hold back. Even if you think you should.”

“So you’re really gonna let me do this?” he asks, his mouth brushing your collarbone, tone low and mocking. 

He wants you to want him, but he also wants to test how far you’ll go — and that contradiction is Sukuna’s affection.

You should say something. Anything.

But all that comes out is a soft gasp when his fingers ghost over your inner thigh.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I’ll make sure it hurts just a little. You’ll remember it.”

You hate how that thrills you. That you want him more for it.

His hand slides beneath your knee, hitching your leg up around his waist. You feel everything in that moment—his breath, his warmth, the coiled tension under his skin as he presses in closer.

“Breathe,” he says, right against your lips. “It’s just me.”

He finally pushes forward to part your lips, slow and deliberate, and you gasp. Building pressure gives way to pain, sharp and acute as you feel your walls stretching to accommodate him.

It burns.

“Uncle,” you gasp, hips reflexively trying to pull away from the intrusion in your virgin cunt.

But he holds you in place, murmuring against your panting lips, “Almost there, sweetheart. It’ll get better after this, I promise.”

You believe him, but your body reacts of its own accord — walls clamping down, trying to push out the invading length.

“It w-won’t fit—“ You start to panic a bit as you feel the burning stretch.

He hisses through his teeth at the tightening of your cunt, fighting the urge to simply slam in all the way as you wince and tremble.

“Fuck, you need to breathe, I’m serious — take deep breaths.”

“It hurts—“

“Breathe.”

You swallow and nod, forcing a deep inhale all the way into your belly.

As soon as you do, he slides in all the way in one final push till he’s bottomed out inside of you.

There’s a moment of stillness, where it all weighs down on you. The feel of him sheathed inside you, the stretch, his breath mingling with yours, the gravity of what you’ve let happen. What you wanted to happen.

He presses a quick, light kiss to your lips. “Good?”

“Uh, y-yes, I think so…” you reply unsurely, trying to get used to the feeling of something inside you. “Feels a little weird…”

“Mm, well we can stay like this till you’re ready for me to move again.” His lips pepper your face in gentle pecks. “I don’t mind having you cockwarm me.”

You stay there for a second, basking in this rare show of affection from him, as twisted as the circumstances might be.

And then, another deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s gonna hurt.”

You pull your face back to glare at him, finding his lips twisted into a smirk. “You fucking sadist, can you just do i— ahh!”

You wince in pain as he abruptly pulls out, till only his tip is left inside and he grins down at you wickedly.

“Okay w-wait not so fas— Uncle!”

Your sentence once again ends in a yelp as he slams back inside of you, hard enough to make your nails dig into his back as you jolt.

He groans obscenely in response at your heat enveloping him again, clenching down on him.

Your face is contorted now as you grit your teeth. “What is your problem?! I swear you’re doing this on purpose—“

“I told you I was going to make it hurt. Or do you not listen to the things you agree to?” he snaps back too quickly. A bit too sharply. 

“I—“ Your face crumples and you swear you see his eyes soften ever so slightly in response, like something akin to pity. Maybe realization that he’s being a bit too mean right now.

Especially given what’s actually happening here. You trusted him to take your virginity, after all.

You must look upset—maybe even a little scared—because something in his face shifts. That awful grin fades.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, his hand coming to cradle your cheek, slow, almost gentle. And then, as if to make up for earlier, “You’re doing so good for me, you know that?”

You blink up at him, breathing uneven. You don’t trust the softness, not from him. But you don’t pull away, despite your trembling.

His other hand strokes the inside of your thigh—too gently for someone who just made you cry out a moment ago.

“I’ll go slow,” he says, quieter now. “But it’s still gonna hurt.”

You bite your lip, nodding slowly. He watches your expression, like he’s testing how much of your fear you’re willing to swallow for him.

“But it’ll pass. It always does,” he says, brushing your hair back. “You just have to take it. Be good, breathe through it. I’ve got you.”

He grips your hips, and slowly pulls out again.

It burns still, but less.

And back in his cock goes.

You try to keep your breathing even, but it’s true, he shows restraint and goes slow enough for the pain to begin subsiding.

Sukuna watches you carefully, your lip still held between your teeth in slight discomfort, though your body starts to relax.

The pain might be fading, but you’ve heard it’s supposed to be replaced by pleasure. Except you can’t really feel any — you think his fingers felt better.

You look up at him. “More. Go harder.”

“More?”

You nod.

“Finally ready for me to actually start fucking you now?”

He smirks at the slight pout forming on your lips, soothing the slight sting of his teasing with another kiss to your lips as he begins to thrust faster.

You’re not sure when but soon your fingers are digging further into his muscle, anchoring yourself there as he begins fucking you with short, shallow thrusts, and soon your mouth parts around a sound you don’t even recognize.

He groans softly in response, and it’s not mocking now. It’s something raw, something real. “There you are, my pretty girl…”

His praise goes straight to your gut, coiling in with the heat slowly building there, more of your arousal lubing your silken walls making it a bit easier for him to slide in and out.

And then he stops.

You look at him confused, as he pulls away, standing on his knees, cock slipping fully out of your raw hole.

It glistens in the dim light, flushed and turgid.

“Just wait,” he says as he grabs a pillow from besides you, and drags it under your legs. “Here, put your butt on this.”

You’ve heard something about pillows making penetrative sex feel better — you figure that’s what this is as you shift downward till your ass is cushioned, pelvis raised slightly higher. He kneels a bit to the side, positioning one of his knees under the crook of your bent one, and grabs your other ankle, lifting your leg straight up.

You just can’t help the snarky words from falling out of your mouth, “Thought we were having sex, not doing yoga.”

He gives you a warning glare, the same disciplinary kind whenever you purposefully annoy him, or try to protest against some mundane chore he’s assigned to you.

And then he’s positioning his cock against your entrance again, the other hand coming to toy with your clit, making you sigh at the sensation.

“You’d better shut that mouth while I’m still trying to play nice, sweetheart.”

You want to say something but you feel the round head of his cock breaching your entrance again, and instinctively you tense up as he pushes inside.

There’s still pain, but it’s tolerable now.

Sukuna starts fucking you again, harder now, and this new angle makes you moan, back arching slightly off the mattress.

“Hnngh, m-more Uncle—” you whimper.

“What was all that you were saying about yoga, earlier?”

He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust, a high-pitched noise coming out of your throat as you savor his fat cock massaging that spot in your swollen walls that makes you feel utterly gone.

“’M s-sorry, I didn’t mean it,” you babble mindlessly, eyelids dropping as he fucks all the attitude right out of you.

His pelvis snaps forward, dark pink hair brushing against your burning skin, as he tightens his grip on your ankle, pulling your leg taut with ease.

“Silly girl,” he chides you, though his lips are pressing kisses along your ankle, down the length of your calf. “You never learn, do you?” he mutters against your skin. “Good thing I’m here to teach you your lesson over and over again…”

“Ha—ah!” you mewl when he abruptly bends your leg a bit, placing his lips to the back of your knee to suck and lick at the delicate, sensitive skin there.

“U-Uncle!” You moan and gasp in ecstasy, shivers running down your spine all the way to where his cock is thrusting into your drooling cunt.

And then you take a look at him, a good look at him, in the faint warm light of the bedside lamp falling over his features.

He’s familiar. Very familiar.

The broad shape of his muscular chest, the veins that run down the forearm gripping your leg, the set to his angular jaw as he fucks you, slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

You pull your leg from his grip slightly, moving around a bit in discomfort at staying in this physical position.

“Stop squirming,” he says authoritatively, like he’s talking to some petulant, hyperactive child.

“Mh, w-wait lemme just—” Soon you’re pulling your leg from his grip, planting your foot on the other side of his body as you stand on your hands and feet, arching your back, panting in desperation to feel more of him.

Sukuna lets you change positions, wrapping his arms to support your lower back as you grab his neck with one of your hands, undulating your hips so that his cock hits you in a new place — deeper than before.

“F-Fuck, greedy fucking girl—” he grits out and you can tell he’s losing his restraint now too, slowly focusing more and more on taking his own pleasure from your body rather than just giving. He thrusts into you harshly, kissing your cervix with each squelching movement, watching your tits bouncing on your splayed out torso.

“Yes, yes, fuck yes—”

The musky smell of sex, the salty tang of sweat-slicked bodies now permeates the air as you move sensually, trying to feel him deeper inside you.

“Good girl, keep going baby, just like that,” he rasps, voice rough with arousal as he ruts into you.

The furrow of his brows, the smell of his skin, the warm, steady weight of his hands holding you, supporting you.

Familiar.

“Ah, a-again, say it again, that I’m good—”

He slows down for a millisecond, eyes flicking to yours, at the needy look all over your face as you look up at him with pleading eyes, clouded and hazy with lust.

“Do you deserve that?” he breathes lowly, taking lead and fucking you harder with an intense pace you can’t keep up with. “My dumb, needy little niece. Wonder which side of the family you got all that desperation from, because it certainly isn’t mine—”

The sound of his heavy breathing, the shape of his smirk, slightly lopsided.

“P-Please!” Something claws in you, something desperate and vulnerable to hear it from him, to hear that praise and validation, god, why can’t he just give it to you—

To your dismay he sneers, too far gone in that side of him that needs to degrade you, hurt you, control you.

“Good? You’re bleeding all over my cock like a dumb piece of meat.”

“H-Huh?” You open your eyes, realizing they’re blurry with tears as you look at where you’re connected.

And it’s true, his cock is covered in streaks of red every time it pulls out to slam back into you again.

Maybe the sight should’ve alarmed you, or made you feel more cautious or whatever — what it shouldn’t have done was make you moan lewdly, clenching down on his length.

Sukuna notices your reaction, and it only sends him into more of a frenzy, gripping you so tightly he’s practically holding your nearly limp body up like a doll, as he fucks your hole.

“You like that? Sick little slut—” he growls, before leaning in to whisper in your ear, “You think your dad would still call you his daughter if he saw you like this?”

Your watery eyes widen, all the air sucked from your lungs as the words hit like a punch to the gut.

That’s what it is. Who he reminds you of, why he feels so oddly familiar.

Did you forget you were fucking your dad’s brother?

The similarities are undeniable now, a physical reminder of the genes you share.

Something twists in your gut, like a writhing serpent with the realization, yet your cunt leaks more and more, waves of shuddering pleasure only growing in their intensity.

Sukuna grins at your shock, before abruptly dropping you onto the bed, cock slipping out from your abused hole.

“Straighten your legs and turn on your side a bit.”

You obediently do as he tells you, and then he’s straddling your bottom leg, folding the top one and hitching it over his waist. You watch him, spine twisted so your torso lays supine on the mattress.

His other hand grips your ass, before he thrusts himself back into the warm, wet heat of your tight cunt, stretched perfectly in this position so that he hits you even deeper, like he’s in your lungs.

He watches the pout on your lips, the crestfallen expression on your tear-stained cheeks as he fucks you so good that he’s forcefully pulling moans from you.

“Still gonna look at me like that? Well cry if you need to — I’ll still be here, fucking you through it.”

And even as he’s fucking you, losing himself in your pussy, Sukuna’s mind is sharp — he knows the reason behind this change in your demeanor. What it is that’s bothering you.

It's the same reason you need him, need his validation right now, his words of praise and reassurance.

You don’t care if they’re fake.

“Mm fuck, p-please,” you pant incoherently between moans, crying out when he hits another spot that makes a rush of warm liquid drip out of you, coating his cock. “B-Be good to me—”

Sukuna snickers, reveling in the way you beg. “Why? I’m not your fuckin’ dad, slut.” He slaps one of your tits, making you jolt.

“S’kuna!” you cry his name, slurred with the weight of your tears, at how cruel he's being when you feel most vulnerable.

“I’m not him,” he repeats, hand grabbing your ass, digging his nails in till it hurts. You barely notice that pain amidst everything else right now, with the way he’s fucking you stupid. “But we are blood. That’s why you fit so perfectly around me. Your cunt was made for this, sweetheart.”

He grinds his cock inside you, making you squeal in both pleasure and shame and disgust at his downright disturbing words.

“Don’t say that! You’re gross-”

“Oh please. You fucking love it.”

“I don’t—”

Your words are cut off as a large hand wraps around your throat, pressing down onto your esophagus as he picks up the pace even more, heavy balls slapping against your skin.

“Say it and I’ll tell you all the things you wanna hear,” he whispers darkly.

You don’t have much resistance in you, not when he’s ruining you like this, when your cunt is simultaneously aching and sore but screaming in pleasure.

“I…I love it.”

“Love what?”

“How…fucked up this all is. That we’re related. And that..” you hesitate, and the grip on your throat tightens, making you wheeze a bit, the words coming out as barely more than a whisper from your strained throat. “And that you’ve been like a…father to me.”

“There it is,” he breathes triumphantly, loosening his hold on your neck though his hand still stays collared around it. “My good little girl. Finally being honest for once.”

His thrusts turn sloppy as he leans down to kiss you messily, and murmur against your skin.

“You’re so perfect, you know that? Smart, capable, pretty...”

You moan at his praise, feeling your pussy clench tighter and tighter around his pistoning length. The words go straight to your core, building and building, melting with the pleasure into something that threatens to swallow you whole.

“I’m so proud to call you my niece.”

You cum instantly, wet noises spilling out at you gush slick and kiss him messily, a thin droplet of drool running down the corner of your mouth. And then with a twitch of his cock and a guttural groan, warmth is spilling inside you, the most heavenly feeling, as he fills you with ropes of his hot seed.

A few euphoric moments of him emptying his balls into you, and then the cum stops flowing and he stills his thrusts.

Warm breaths fill the silence, then he’s collapsing on top of you, careful not to put the majority of his weight on top of you.

Your damp skin sticks against his, and he grabs your body as he spoons you from behind.

“You feel that?” He rolls his hips, slow and deep, his softening dick squelching inside the mess of fluids he’s plugged you up with. “This is what it means to be mine.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath as he pulls out of you, cock exiting your hole with a wet pop.

And then stillness. Too much of it.

The only sounds are the hum of the lamp and the uneven rhythm of your breathing. Your body curls in on itself instinctively, sheets tangling around your legs. You half expect him to push you away as you press your cheek to his chest, listening to the slow steady thrum.

He doesn’t. And the sound of his heartbeat is the only constant you have in the chaos still blooming inside of you.

Sukuna doesn’t speak. One arm lies draped lazily behind his head, the other wrapped around your waist—possessive, but not tight. His thumb strokes the small of your back, lazy and unthinking, like he’s petting a sleeping animal.

You don’t know what you expected after — a sharp word, a joke, indifference, maybe.

But not this. Not him letting you hold onto him like this. Not his lips brushing against your temple like it means something.

“You’re quiet,” he says finally, voice low and almost too soft. “Regret already sinking in?”

You don't answer with words. Just shake your head a little against him, like you're refusing to answer something you can't explain.

Numbness. And the physical need to feel him next to you. That's all you feel.

His hand moves up to your hair, fingers threading through it. “Hn. Didn’t think you’d cling like this.”

“I’m not,” you mumble, even as your fingers curl tighter in the sheet between you.

He chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Liar.”

There’s no malice in it, no mockery. Just a strange, patient warmth that makes your throat ache.

And when you finally dare to glance up at him—at the faint cut of his jawline in the soft light, at the familiar cruelty in his eyes dulled by something quieter—it aches deeper.

Not regret. Something else, something softer and more tender that feels like it shouldn't hurt.

And yet it does.

But then something shifts — imperceptible, but there. The slightest stiffening of his body under yours.

“You good?” you murmur, sleep-heavy, cheek still pressed to his chest.

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand lingers in your hair, then stills. His breathing changes—not relaxed, not calm; more like he’s suddenly aware of something he hadn’t let himself think about.

The silence between you stretches, no longer warm.

You’re already half-asleep when you feel the mattress shift, his voice cutting through the haze a moment later.

“Don’t get comfortable. We need to get you cleaned up, and more importantly you should go pee.”

You groan, dragging the blanket over your head. “Are you serious? I don’t need to go.”

He tugs the blanket down with one hand, unimpressed. “Yeah, well you’re still sticky, bruised and probably bleeding a little. Get up.”

You scowl. “So romantic.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic. I’m trying not to let you get a damn infection.”

“I’ll survive,” you mumble, rolling over.

And then—before you can react—his arms are around you, and he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing.

“Hey!” you yelp, squirming in his grasp. “Put me down! I can walk!”

“You had your chance,” he mutters, already heading toward the bathroom. “You made your choice when you started whining like a brat.”

“I am a brat,” you snap, arms crossed, glaring at his jawline. “And you like it.”

“Right,” he replies sarcastically, “Or maybe I just don’t feel like explaining to your parents why their daughter has a goddamn infection.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, but despite your annoyance, you can’t help but relax a little into his chest, finding some strange comfort in the way he holds you. Maybe it’s the fact that you know he’s right—he’s always right about these things, even when it’s irritating.

“Well actually you’d be the one explaining, in that case. Don’t want Mom and Dad to know the kinda things you’ve been up to, huh?”

You glower at him as he tries not to look too pleased with himself, dropping you clumsily to your feet in the dark bathroom.

You suppress a grimace as you feel his cum leaking out of you, sliding down your inner thighs.

It’s an odd, slightly disconcerting sensation.

“Can you at least try?”

“There’s nothing!” you snap, slightly embarrassed that the topic of you peeing is still being brought up. “I went….before, okay?”

Sukuna just sighs. “Make sure you do it next time. Don’t wanna deal with a UTI.”

You make a face but he’s already pushing you with a hand on your back to step into the shower.

The warm water hits your skin, and you shiver before it starts to soothe. You’re still sulking, arms crossed under the spray as Sukuna steps in behind you like it’s just another chore he has to handle.

“You gonna stand there pouting all night, or do I need to wash that attitude off first?” he drawls, already grabbing the wash towel like you’re completely useless.

You try to snatch it from him. “I can do it myself.”

“I’m sure you can, sweetheart,” he replies condescendingly sweet, though he holds the wash towel up and away. “But I can do it better.”

You glare at him, but he’s already starting to lather your arms, completely unbothered by your glare. “You’re so annoying.”

“No,” he says, deadpan, “You’re annoying. I’m just responsible.”

You let out an exaggerated scoff, but your shoulders relax under his touch. You hate how smug he is when he’s right.

“You know I hate it when you treat me like a kid.”

“You act like one,” he replies, adding more of the fragrant bodywash onto the towel, before forcefully spinning you around to face him. “Especially when you’re tired. Or hungry. Or pretending you’re not clingy.”

You sputter a bit at the sudden spray of water in your face, before finally giving him another cold look.

“Me? Clingy? Are you out of your mind?” you reply, genuinely a little offended for some reason.

He just snorts, clearly unconvinced, and drags the towel down your back with a slow, deliberate hand. “You literally cried the last time I left for more than two days.”

“That was once,” you bite back, jaw tightening. “And I was on my period.”

“You called it a ‘separation-induced emotional collapse,’” he quotes flatly, then dips the towel just beneath the curve of your ass like he’s cleaning you, though you know he’s doing it just to get a rise out of you.

You swat at his arm, but he grabs your wrist and pins it lazily against your side, still holding the towel in the other hand. The motion isn’t aggressive—just practiced, smooth, like he’s done this a thousand times before.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“I’m going to push you and you’re going to fall in the shower and not be able to get back up because of how old you are.”

He huffs out a short laugh through his nose, clearly amused. “Sweetheart,” he says, still calmly lathering your skin, “if anyone’s breaking a hip in here, it’s you. I saw you nearly sprain your knee trying to climb on top of me last night.”

“Once again, that was one time.”

“That was this week.”

You squirm against his grip, which only tightens slightly—enough to keep you still, not enough to hurt.

He lathers the soap with the cloth on your chest, then squeezes it till the foam drips lewdly down your breasts. You only notice what’s happening when he smirks, eyes trained on the bubbles traveling the curve of your chest.

You swat half-heartedly at his chest, cheeks burning. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins, utterly unrepentant. “You say that like it’s new information.”

“Sometimes I forget how unbearable you are when you get your way."

“And yet, you keep letting me have it.”

His eyes flick down again—languid, slow—watching the water and suds slide down your skin like it’s a show meant for him alone.

You roll your eyes and try to pull away. “Maybe I’m just too tired to argue.”

“Liar,” he murmurs. “You like it when I take care of you like this. Even when you pretend to hate it. Especially then.”

You stare at him like you're about to challenge him, but no words come out.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice low, fingers dragging just slightly along your waist now, “and I will.”

You look at him. He’s still holding the cloth, still waiting—for once, serious.

So you cross your arms to give him another stubborn look. "You forgot to get behind my ears, by the way."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, more like a warning.

“Don’t push your luck,” he says, but the way he tosses the towel over his shoulder and leans in tells you he’s taking the bait anyway.

You hold still, stubbornly proud, even when his hands bracket your jaw and tilt your head just so. He uses his thumbs first, rough pads gliding just behind your ears, then switches to knuckles as if he’s mocking the gentleness of the gesture.

“Since when you got so bratty?” he mutters. "This definitely can't be the same girl who showed up on my doorsteps a few months ago."

You glare at him, lips parting for a sharp retort—but he beats you to it, voice dipping just low enough to make your stomach flip.

“She used to be quiet. Timid. Didn’t even look me in the eye.”

You scoff dryly. "I’ve always thought you were unbearable. Difference is, now I say it out loud."

He huffs out a laugh, more breath than sound, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And here I was thinking you’d just grown attached.”

“Delusional and smug. Impressive combo.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, his fingers slide from your neck to your collarbone, slow and measured like he’s mapping you out again.

“Keep talking like that,” he murmurs, “and I’ll start thinking you enjoy mouthing off just to see what I’ll do.”

“Maybe I do.”

There’s a pause. A taut little silence between you—charged, waiting, thick with steam and something heavier than heat.

Then suddenly his grin widens, wicked and boyish all at once.

“Alright then,” he says—and then, without warning, he twists the shower handle.

A blast of cold water smacks your skin like a slap, and you let out a shriek, practically leaping backwards into him.

“Uncle!” you gasp, teeth chattering as you try to scramble out of the spray. “Are you insane?!”

He laughs—really laughs—arms effortlessly catching you as you flail, pressing you against his warm chest like you aren’t soaking and furious.

“You looked like you were overheating,” he says smugly, completely unfazed by your glare. And the ice cold water, for some reason. “Just trying to help.”

“You’re a menace,” you hiss, shivering as you try to reach around him for the handle.

His hand closes around your wrist before you can reach the knob.

“Easy,” he says, voice low but firm. “You’ll throw off your system if you change the temperature too fast too much.”

You blink at him, teeth still chattering, but he doesn’t budge. Just calmly reaches past you and adjusts the water himself—slowly, carefully—until it warms again, just enough to stop your skin from prickling.

“Better?” he asks, like nothing happened. 

“You’re lucky I don’t have hypothermia.”

He raises a brow, unimpressed. “You were flushed and bratty and needed cooling off. Don’t make me explain the logic.”

“There was no logic. That was violence.”

“Soft violence,” he replies. “Therapeutic, even.”

You open your mouth to argue again, but he’s already guiding you gently under the warm spray, his touch firm and no-nonsense now. Not serious exactly, but steadier.

“Head down."

You sigh, complying, letting the water run through your hair as he works shampoo into your scalp with methodical hands—fingertips massaging a little too well for you to keep up your grudge.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble.

“Mm. Probably.”

He finishes rinsing you off in silence, hands steady and impersonal now—guarded, almost, like the line between teasing and responsibility has been redrawn. 

 

Soon you’re out of the shower, wrapping yourselves in towels, drying your hair.

The bathroom is silent as Sukuna brushes his teeth. 

That feeling, in your stomach again. Something bitter and unpleasant.

Fear? You’re not sure of what.

“Can I…sleep with you here tonight?” you suddenly ask, voice smaller than you’d like.

Sukuna pauses, eyes flicking to yours in the mirror, and there’s something unreadable in them.

Uncertainty, maybe? 

You don’t want to think about it — the thought would only make you spiral. If he regrets this, if he sees you differently now.

Maybe he’s even disgusted by you. 

He spits into the sink, rinses, and sets his toothbrush down with a clack. For a second, he doesn’t say anything, and your chest tightens.

“Tch. You’re clingier than I thought,” he finally mutters, avoiding your eyes as he wipes his mouth with a towel.

But it’s not biting , it’s hollow. Deflection.

You flinch slightly.

“Sorry. I’ll just—”

“I didn’t say no.”

He cuts you off, voice quiet but firm, still not looking at you.

You freeze. “So… I can?”

He finally meets your gaze in the mirror — and for once, there’s no smirk, no mockery in his eyes. Just something tired, maybe even resigned.

“It’s your bed too,” he says after a pause. Then adds, almost too low to catch, “At least for now.”

Your eyes flit over to his toothbrush, and as quickly as you can, you reach for it.

But Sukuna’s faster. He grabs it out of your hand, squeezes the toothpaste, and tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“What are you doing?” you mumble, brows furrowed.

He doesn’t answer—just shoves the toothbrush gently between your lips and starts brushing your teeth for you, slow and deliberate.

“Are you serious right now?” you try to say around the bristles.

“Mm-hm,” he hums, condescendingly calm. “Since you probably can’t do anything without me, apparently. Mouth open.”

You try to pull back, but his hand is firm against your jaw. “Uncle.”

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Open your mouth wider.”

You glare at him, cheeks puffed up, while he carefully brushes in exaggerated little circles, way too pleased with himself.

“This is so demeaning,” you mutter.

He grins. “Is it? I think it’s adorable. You’re like a spoiled little cat. All hiss, no bite.”

When he finally pulls the toothbrush away, you shove him lightly in the chest, scowling.

“I hope you don’t do this with your girlfriends.”

He smirks, not missing a beat. “Well, you’re not my girlfriend, you’re my—”

"Do not," you quickly cut him off, shooting him a venomous glare.

You expect the usual smirk—that smug, needling grin he wears whenever he knows he’s gotten under your skin.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, there’s a flicker of something else—a beat of silence that lingers just a second too long.

Then he looks away, the moment slipping like steam through fingers. “Go put on your pajamas,” he says quietly. “I need to change too.”

Your chest sinks. “What? Why?”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns away. “Because we’re not animals.”

That gets under your skin. Deeper maybe, somewhere more sensitive. “Yeah, except we just fucked like animals, so—”

“It’s not about that,” he cuts in, too quickly, too quietly. “It’s just… better this way.”

You watch him, frustration rising like heat under your skin. “You said you wouldn’t do this.”

He pauses, back still turned. “Do what?”

“Draw lines.” Your voice comes out sharper than you meant it to—brittle, breaking around something you didn’t expect to feel. “You promised. Said you'd give me all of you. Until I had to leave.”

He’s quiet. His shoulders rise and fall with a breath that sounds heavier than it should.

You’ve hit something, and you both know it.

You press. “What—did you think I wouldn’t actually take it?” you sneer. “And you were the one accusing me of pretending to want it.”

That makes him turn, just slightly. His eyes meet yours, and for a flicker of a second, there's something raw in them.

Frustration. Guilt.

Or worse—fear.

But he doesn’t argue, just exhales through his nose, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

“Fine,” he says. “Get in bed. But don’t complain if you wake up with my elbow in your face.”

You roll your eyes, but move, letting the towel fall from your body. You’re bare, except for your panties—the liner catching the faintest trace of blood and what’s left of him.

You don’t look away as you straighten the blanket and peel it back, sliding under the sheet. It’s cool against your skin, kissing your chest where you’re usually too shy to sleep uncovered.

But not tonight.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him glancing—unsure, maybe even uncertain where the lines are anymore.

You don’t say anything. Just wait, still and quiet, as he kills the light and lies down beside you. The space between you feels fragile, thick with everything neither of you is saying.

At first, neither of you moves.

You lie on your side, facing the wall. He’s behind you. Not touching, not close.

You shift slightly under the covers. “Are you really gonna sleep all the way over there?”

You meant it to sound teasing—but it comes out... needy, almost.

A heartbeat passes and then the bed shifts as his warmth touches your skin, his body fitting behind yours. Not quite touching yet, but it’s much closer than before.

Tentatively, you push back, your back brushing his chest, careful not to let your ass brush up against his groin.

He doesn’t pull away, just lets out a long breath, like he’s been holding it this whole time.

“You don’t have to pretend it didn’t mean anything,” you whisper.

But you know that’s not the real question.

The real question is what this is, now, why he’s gone distant, why the warmth of his body doesn’t quite reach the space where you needed it to.

Guys pull away after sex — you’ve heard that.

But he isn’t just some guy, and this wasn’t supposed to be just sex.

There’s something more to his silence than that, you’re sure.

Or at least you hope.

That maybe the twisted, complex nature of your relationship would count for something here, where it matters more than ever, perhaps.

He doesn’t reply but soon his arm is slowly wrapping around your waist, pulling you into the expanse of his broad chest, fingers resting right beneath the curve of your breast.

They caress the underside so softly it almost tickles.

And then, softly—so quietly you almost don’t catch it—he murmurs against the back of your neck, 

“I don’t want to miss you.”

The closest he’s ever come to a confession.

 

You wake up to the smell of grilled fish and miso.

Sukuna’s here this morning.

You’d half expected him to fuck off to wherever he goes for work, just to avoid seeing you after last night.

And not necessarily the sex part—but the part after, where you slept tangled together, limbs knotted, his body curled around yours.

You swear that at some point during the night, between dreams, you felt one of his large palms gently cupping your breast.

Not sexually. More like the way a kid hugs a stuffed toy in their sleep. Something unconscious.

Possessive yet soft.

But now, there’s nothing in his place except rumpled sheets and an empty stretch of mattress.

You get dressed in your pants from last night, then pull one of his oversized shirts over your head to cover your chest. You’re not in the mood to cross paths with him in the kitchen half-naked, just to grab clean clothes from your own room.

Finally, you make your way to the dining table and slump into a chair.

Sukuna’s standing at the stove, hair still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up as he plates breakfast like it’s any other morning.

“You need to talk to your counselor today. About the dorms.”

You blink. “What?”

“For school,” he says, like you’ve asked something stupid. “Next semester starts in a few weeks. You still haven’t put in your housing request.”

You frown, slowly sitting up straighter. “Okay, well—good morning to you too.”

He finally glances over his shoulder. “Morning. Now eat.”

You study him carefully. There’s no trace of last night in his expression. No warmth, no softness, just that familiar sharp-edged irritation, like you’ve already done something wrong.

“You’re being kind of a dick this morning.”

“I’m being realistic,” he replies flatly. “You want to finish your program, don’t you?”

It’s true—you do want that degree. But something about the way he says it now digs under your skin.

“Yeah, but—why are you suddenly on my ass about it? You’re acting like I’ve been slacking or something.”

He doesn’t answer right away, instead sets a bowl of rice in front of you with a little too much force.

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” you challenge, looking up at him. “Why are you suddenly breathing down my neck about this stuff?”

Sukuna dries his hands with a towel, leans against the counter, and stares at you. His face is unreadable—annoyed, yes, but there’s something else under it. Distant and resigned.

“You said you wanted to go back,” he says simply. “I’m making sure you do.”

“Yeah, but why now?” Your voice rises before you can stop it. “We literally just—”

You stop, cheeks burning. “You know.”

He doesn’t flinch. “That doesn’t change anything.”

You push the bowl away. “Right. Of course it doesn’t.”

The silence that follows is thick and bitter.

“I’m not hungry,” you mutter, standing up.

“You need to eat.”

“Oh my god, can you stop acting like my dad for five seconds?”

He freezes.

The words land in the room like something dropped and shattered. You hadn’t meant to say it but there it is, ugly and raw.

He stares at you, jaw tight, eyes sharp. “I’m not your fucking dad.”

You cross your arms, scowling—but your insides are trembling. Embarrassed.

And you don’t even know why.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” he says, voice going cold.

His expression twists, sharp and mean. That look he wears when you push him too far—when he lets something rotting and cruel crawl to the surface just to watch it burn you.

“As if your dad’s ever seen you naked. Wrapped around his—”

“Okay, stop!”

He doesn’t stop.

His voice goes low. Flat and weaponized.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it when someone tells you what to do. You melt for it. Like a fucking pet. Tail wagging the second someone shows you attention.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, letting the silence stretch between each word.

“You want someone to feed you. Dress you. Tell you what’s good for you. Praise you when you behave. Punish you when you don’t. Isn’t that right?”

His smile is wrong. There’s no humor in it.

“You don’t want a dad. You want an owner.”

Your stomach drops.

“And you’d rather it be me than anyone else. That’s the sick part, isn’t it?”

You clench your jaw, knuckled white around the chopsticks you grip so hard you’re surprised they don’t snap.

“Don’t fucking talk to me like that,” you hiss, eyes burning.

His voice is equally low, gaze equally cutting. “Then sign up for your goddamn housing and make sure you’re out from under my roof in six months.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sukuna had almost forgotten what you were like before all this. Before you let him in.

But over the next few days, he remembers.

He remembers how cold you can be. How distant. How easily you can withdraw behind those walls of yours, quiet and unreachable.

Polite, even — that’s the worst part. Not cruel, not defiant. Just... cordial. Impeccably so. With that measured tone and perfectly impassive face, like he’s a stranger you owe civility to and nothing more.

You don’t sleep in his bed anymore. Most nights, you’re behind the door of your own room.

You wake up early, make breakfast before he’s even down the hall. You greet him with a sterile “Good morning,” eat when you’re supposed to, excuse yourself without fanfare.

And through it all, not once do you snap at him. Not once do you cry.

It’s this version of you — competent, composed, independent — that reminds him, with aching clarity, that you don’t need him.

You do the things he used to remind you about before he even opens his mouth. You fold your laundry without being asked. Clean your space, your dishes, your bathroom. You eat, on time, like clockwork. When you struggle with a jar, you don’t ask him. You run it under hot water, twist a rubber band around the lid, and open it yourself.

At first, it annoys him. Then, it sinks in.

You’ve always been capable. Always sharp, always resourceful. You could take care of yourself. You did, before him — before he inserted himself into your life.

But now he sees the truth, that all those moments when you leaned on him weren’t signs of helplessness. They were choices.

You let yourself rest, let yourself be cared for, for once. Gave up the exhausting self-sufficiency because, for the first time, someone was there — and you wanted that someone to be him.

No it was never incapability; it was surrender.

And now you’re showing him that you can go back to holding it all again, alone, if you have to.

And that, somehow, is worse than any screaming match, any slammed door.

You even inform him one evening yourself — perfectly neutral — that you’ve talked to the counselor. That you’ve applied for housing, and the results should get back in a few weeks.

In many ways, you are certainly much more tolerable than before.

And at the same time, in the most ironic twist of fate, he can’t stand it.

He can’t stand those guarded, polite smiles you give him. The way you clean your own dishes without being asked. How you only come to him, or speak to him, when it’s necessary. How you seem unfazed by his longer hours, how you barely seem to even care or notice.

Sukuna only realizes then how much you’d opened up to him, how much of you you’d let him see.

That the clinginess, the neediness he used to tease you for—those weren’t flaws. They were the soft depths you’d chosen to reveal beneath that armor he now remembers all too well.

The quiet trust behind it, the way you’d let him in.

And he’d taken your vulnerability and used it against you.

Vulnerability—somehow your greatest strength. Because he doesn’t know how to show it himself.

Doesn’t know how to be soft without destroying something in the process.

He knows—as your guardian—that whatever this is between you has to stop. That it’s fundamentally wrong, that you deserve a future untouched by this, by him. That you should go to school, finish your degree, meet someone your age, live clean and normal and free.

But as a man who wants a woman—wants you—he doesn’t want any of that.

He wants to keep you close. Keep you his.

Make sure no one else ever sees you the way he has, touches you the way he has, ruins you in the way he already has.

And gods, it would almost be easier if you didn’t look at him like that—like he’s worth everything. Like he’s still someone you want, even now.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

Which is why he had to draw the line and set the goddamn deadline.

Force you to take control of your own life, even if it hurts you. Even if it kills something inside him.

And the worst part is—it’s working, isn’t it?

You’re moving on. Maybe not willingly, nor gracefully, but you’re moving on.

And he’s stuck somewhere between what he owes you as your uncle… and what he wants as a man.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t say much these days to you.

But he starts showing up in small, quiet ways.

A freshly folded towel left outside your bathroom door. A full cup of barley tea placed by your laptop while you study. Groceries restocked with your favorite brand of yogurt.

Little things. Nothing dramatic, nothing direct.

You ignore them all.

Not because you don’t notice — you do. Every single one. But acknowledging them would mean softening, and softening would mean giving in.

And that strange, ugly ache still swells inside your chest every time you see him.

So instead you harden.

When he knocks gently at your door one night, a quiet “You eaten yet?” slipping through the wood, you pretend you have your headphones on.

He waits a few moments, doesn’t push.

Eventually, you hear his footsteps retreat.

You stare up at your ceiling and feel the guilt press against your ribs, dull and stubborn. But you don’t open the door.

Not yet.

Because some part of you still wants him to feel it. That you were hurt and that you’re not just going to pretend like it didn’t crack something open.

And until then, you keep that distance.

Even as it eats at you too.

 

A few days later, Sukuna finds you on the balcony.

You’re small in the dark. Knees pulled to your chest, sleeves tugged down over your hands.

It’s cold, but you don’t shiver.

He leans in the doorway for a long moment before stepping out. Doesn’t say anything at first, just pulls out a cigarette, lights it with a quiet flick, exhales a slow curling stream of smoke into the night.

You don’t look at him, but there’s that familiar ache in your chest. A tightness.

“You’re freezing out here,” he says eventually, like it’s casual.

Nothing.

He tries again. “Didn’t touch your dinner.”

Still no response, not even a shrug.

A longer pause this time. He shifts his weight, running a hand through his hair.

“You remember that stray cat? The one you used to leave food for down the block?” His voice is low, rougher. “Haven’t seen it in a while.”

You don’t respond but your fingers twitch.

Sukuna stares at the side of your face. The line of your jaw, clenched tight, the blankness in your expression.

But inside, you’re fracturing. You don’t know what it is — this urge to hurt him, to dig in the knife and twist, even if it hurts you too. 

Some side of you that’s simultaneously sadistic and masochistic, that wants to sabotage everything good, that enjoys the mutual pain.

You suppose that like your uncle, you have a cruel streak somewhere within you as well.

 

* * *

 

 

It's been a full week now.

Sukuna lingers in the doorway of your room, like he’s debating whether to say something or leave. Hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes low.

He doesn’t look like himself, not in the way you’re used to — no sharp smirk, no biting comment ready to tear into you.

Just that annoying silence again. Heavy and hesitant.

“You doing okay?” he asks, eventually.

You don’t look up from your notebook. “Fine.”

“...You eat anything?”

“No.”

A pause. You let it stretch out, wanting him to leave.

Or maybe, secretly, you want him to stay and try harder.

“I made soup,” he says. “You could’ve just—”

“I didn’t want it.”

He tenses — not a lot, but enough that you notice.

It makes you feel that rush of power, laced with bitterness. With hurt. And somehow you can’t stop yourself.

So instead you flip a page, scribble down a word you don’t care about.

He exhales sharply. “Look, I didn’t do it to punish you. I thought... if I didn’t give you a push, you’d never try. You’d stay here. Get stuck. With me.”

Now you glance over your shoulder, barely.

“So you thought hurting me was a favor?”

Your voice is flat, almost bored. It stings.

He clenches his jaw. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You finally lower the pen, clipping it to the side of the notebook to close it and keep it down. Then, you turn — calm, composed, lips pressed tight.

“No,” you say coolly, “I think you meant every word. That I’m a burden. That I should get out of your hair.”

“That’s not—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you cut in. “It’s fine. You want me to move on, right?” You smile a bit. “I have a date tonight, by the way. Don’t wait up.”

It lands exactly where you intended it to.

Sukuna goes still. A slow, bitter kind of stillness, the kind that simmers behind his eyes.

You walk past him without another word.

And behind you, he doesn’t follow.

 

Your date is forgettable.

Some guy from a dating app you downloaded on impulse a few nights ago, during a moment of defiance or loneliness — you can’t tell which.

He talks about cryptocurrency the entire time. You nod along, barely listening, more focused on finishing your ramen than the words coming out of his mouth.

When the check comes, he glances at it, then at you. "Want to split?"

You don’t even bother sighing, just slide your card forward and nod.

On the way home, the silence in the train feels more like relief than emptiness.

You realize it then — the whole outing was a quiet attempt to prove something. To yourself, or to Sukuna, you’re not sure. All it proves is that he’s still the one you think about, even when you're sitting across from someone else.

He would never ask you to split the bill.

And for reasons you don’t want to examine too closely, that thought makes your chest ache more than it should.

 

You unlock the front door quietly, out of habit. The home is dark except for the low flicker of a lamp.

You toe off your shoes, slip inside, and pause there for a moment — unsure why.

He’s not in the living room. Not in the kitchen. You glance toward his closed bedroom door

You expected to feel…something. Triumph, maybe. Validation. Or at the very least, distraction.

Instead, there’s only that dull, familiar ache settling back in your chest as you wash your face, brush your teeth, change into pajamas..

You should get to bed, sleep it off. Pretend the date meant something, that it helped.

But you don’t.

Instead, like some quiet pull you can’t resist, you drift toward his door, knock once — barely audible — and let yourself in without waiting for an answer.

He’s in bed, half-asleep or pretending to be. The soft glow of the lamp beside him casts shadows over his face. He doesn’t say anything when you approach, just watches you through lidded eyes.

You hesitate at the side of the bed.

Then, without a word, you crawl in beside him — careful, uncertain.

His body is warm, solid. You don’t touch him at first. Just lie there, facing away, the space between you sharp with tension.

Then, slowly, you feel the mattress shift. A hand brushes your back, barely there.

You don't speak; you don't need to.

Eventually, your hand finds his, and holds.

Not an apology. Certainly not a resolution.

But something.

 

You wake up before him.

It’s still dark out, just the faintest grey bleeding into the corners of the sky through the window. His room smells like sleep and the faint woody aroma of whatever soap he uses. You’re curled toward him, one arm tucked under your head, the other resting lightly near his chest.

Not touching. Just…close.

For a while you just lie there, heart aching and quiet. You hadn’t meant to come to him last night but now, in this slow, blurry moment, you realize it was the only place you could’ve ended up.

He shifts a little in his sleep and a quiet sound escapes him, the kind that makes your throat tighten for no good reason.

Finally he speaks, voice low and groggy.

“...You came home late.”

You don’t answer. Just breathe slowly, carefully.

His arm shifts, hand brushing your back again tentatively. 

“Was he any good?”

You let out the smallest breath of a laugh. Not amused, just tired.

“No,” you whisper. “He was boring as hell.”

A long pause. You don’t look at him, and he doesn’t press.

“Good.”

Another beat. You almost laugh again, but it catches somewhere painful in your chest.

So instead, you let your eyes fall closed again and say nothing.

His fingers linger on your back, warm and uncertain.

Still no resolution. Still no answers. But somehow, the silence between you feels less like distance — and more like a thread slowly weaving itself back together.

You fall asleep like that, side by side. 

 

* * *

 

 

A couple days pass.

Things don’t go back to normal, not completely, but the ice isn’t as sharp as it was before. You’re both still circling each other, careful, cautious.

But the air between you is a little less brittle now.

It’s late morning. You’re in the kitchen, halfheartedly eating some toast, still in your sleep shirt. He walks in, dressed and ready to head out, keys in one hand, phone in the other. He says nothing at first, just grabs a bottle of water and downs half of it.

You keep your eyes on your plate, but then, casually — maybe too casually — you ask,

“You working today?”

His brow lifts, ever so slightly though he doesn't turn to face you right away.

“Mmh,” he hums, wiping his mouth. “I am.”

You nod once, like that was all you wanted to know. But the smallest flicker of something akin to disappointment flashes across your face, and he catches it.

He leans against the counter, watching you for a beat too long.

“…You gonna miss me or something?”

You roll your eyes without looking up, cheeks warm.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He grins faintly — just a hint of smugness there, but it’s gentler than usual. Almost soft.

“Mm. That’s not a no.”

You snort under your breath and finally glance up at him, just for a second. He’s already turning toward the door, but there’s something lighter in the way he moves now like maybe your question meant more to him than it should’ve.

And maybe your asking it meant something to you, too.

You don’t say anything else as he leaves. But when the door closes, you sit there with your half-eaten toast and feel the quiet press of his absence in the apartment.

And this time, it doesn’t feel like punishment.

It just feels like… missing.

 

You don’t plan to wait up.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

You clean up the kitchen after dinner. Do a face mask, scroll on your phone.

You even get in bed at a decent hour, lights off, pretending you're tired enough to sleep.

But you don't; instead you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wrapped in too many thoughts and too much quiet.

You hear the front door open sometime after three in the morning. The soft shuffle of his shoes being kicked off and keys landing in the bowl. 

You could stay in bed.

You should.

But before you can put thought into it, you're getting up and padding out into the hallway quietly, not sure what you're doing, until you catch sight of him in the living room — jacket off, sleeves rolled up, rubbing his neck like it’s been a long day.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You hover a moment, then casually speak up, your voice quieter than you intend.

“Late.”

He glances up, just a little startled. But his gaze softens when he sees you — rumpled from bed, arms loosely crossed like you’re pretending this is some kind of ambush and not the result of waiting for him for over three hours.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says.

“You didn’t.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

There's a quiet tension that might’ve been awkward once, but now just feels…careful — like both of you are trying to speak without saying the wrong thing.

Then, after a moment, he gestures with his head toward the couch.

“Wanna sit with me for a bit? We can watch TV or something.”

You hesitate but only for a second.

“…Yeah,” you murmur. “Alright.”

You curl into the corner of the couch, and he sits down beside you — not too close, but close enough that your shoulder brushes his when you shift.

You just sit there silently, some late night talk show on the screen that neither of you are really watching, the clock ticking on the wall.

Neither of you says it, but you’re both thinking the same thing.

This… is better. You missed this.

The room is dim, the air thick with the remnants of the night. You can feel the weight of his presence even without looking at him.

It’s strange, how the space between you doesn’t feel empty tonight.

You sit, stiff at first, then relax, just enough for the warmth in the room to seep into you. You can hear him breathing — slow, steady, and soon the quiet becomes comfortable.

He’s the first to break it, his hand still lingering in the air, hovering above you, before he drops it to his lap.

“Go to bed if you’re tired.” His voice is low, almost absent, but there’s something in it — a softness you don’t expect from him.

You don’t answer at first. Instead, you just feel the weight of your own exhaustion settle in. The events of the night, the day before, everything else—all of it starts to catch up. You never realized how much you needed this quiet.

“Not sleepy,” you mumble.

“You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Then just let me.”

Your eyelids flutter, and the weight of sleep tugs at you, slow and irresistible. You try to fight it, but your body betrays you and involuntarily you lean back, just a little, and your head slips sideways.

His presence is warm, familiar, an anchor that you can’t seem to pull away from. Before you realize it, you’re not just leaning against the couch anymore. Your cheek is against his shoulder, your body curling slightly in towards him.

You don’t move.

His hand is still resting near you, just close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin if you shift an inch.

You want to move away, to keep that distance, but you’re too tired.

Too drained.

And, despite everything — despite the fighting and the sharp edges between you — you feel safer here.

You don’t notice when you finally drift off, your breathing evening out in rhythm with his.

Sukuna watches you for a moment, his gaze lingering on the top of your head. He doesn’t move, even as you shift slightly in your sleep, closer to him.

His hand hovers for a beat before he rests it on your head, just a light touch, like he’s afraid of waking you. Or maybe afraid of needing you.

He doesn’t let himself think about it too long.

He shifts slightly, adjusting his own position to make you more comfortable, but he doesn’t push you away or force you to go back to your room.

For the first time in a while, he simply allows himself to be in the moment with you, even if nothing is fixed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Slowly, your odd relationship begins to rebuild itself. Almost like nothing’s changed.

Which feels good, but you know is probably bad.

There isn’t much left for you to do regarding your college application now other than wait, which works in both your and Sukuna’s favors since he doesn’t have to ask you about it. And for a little while, you can both pretend like it doesn’t exist, like there isn’t a definitive end to all this.

You once again start bugging each other in that way, where it becomes a game to push each other’s buttons. The subtle jabs, the teasing remarks — it feels familiar, like slipping back into an old pair of shoes.

Comfortable, easy.

One morning, you deliberately make a mess with the breakfast dishes, leaving them in the sink just to see if he’ll say something.

He doesn’t disappoint.

“Spoiled,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the unwashed plates before he grabs his coat to head out for the day. You’re about to say something snarky back, but he catches you off guard when he pauses by the door. “I’m leaving. Don’t forget to eat. Don’t make me come back here to check on you.” His voice is sharp, but there’s something behind it that catches you off guard.

You don’t even reply, just raise an eyebrow as he walks out.

The day stretches on, and as usual, you find yourself stuck between the feeling of wanting to be left alone and the pull of his presence — a silent, strange comfort.

A few days later, you’ve had enough of your own thoughts spinning in circles. You’re lounging in the living room, scrolling through your phone when Sukuna walks in, the air shifting the moment he steps through the door.

“Made yourself comfortable?” he remarks dryly, nodding to the mess of books and papers scattered around the coffee table. You shrug, not bothering to answer, but he continues, his voice cutting through the silence. “You’re avoiding me again. Good to know I’m still that important.”

You roll your eyes but a tiny smirk tugs at the corner of your lips. “Oh? And how am I avoiding you?”

“You’re still keeping your distance. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” He leans against the doorway, his arms crossed, but there’s something different about the way he’s looking at you today. Less guarded.

Almost vulnerable, though he’d never admit it.

You don’t respond immediately, the tension in the air thick. For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, the game kicks in.

You look up from your phone, tilting your head with a feigned innocence. “And what about you? Still not asking about my college stuff? You’d think you’d care by now.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he smirks in that infuriatingly smug way. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to care? But I’m leaving it up to you. All of it.” His voice softens just a bit, and for a second, the tension fades. “Just don’t waste the chance.”

It stings. Not because of the words, but because you know they’re true.

And deep down, you’re not sure if you’re ready to make that choice.

 

* * *

 

 

Sukuna won’t admit it, but he’s secretly thrilled at the way you’ve started to cling to him again.

It begins with you sometimes crawling into his bed at night, asking if you can sleep with him.

He agrees, and soon the asking eventually just turns into you announcing that he’ll be sharing the bed with you.

And then the casual, domestic bickering returns full time to your daily life.

One morning you’re sitting at the breakfast table, innocently eating leftovers from last night as he opens the fridge to grab some milk from his coffee.

The carton is suspiciously light, but he tries his luck anyway, unscrewing the lid to pour some into his glass.

A single drop falls out.

He catches you trying not to look at him, clearly hoping to escape the reprimanding that’s about to come your way.

“Seriously? Can you just throw away the damn containers when they’re finished?”

You sigh. “Okay, I’ll do it next time.”

“You say that every time.”

“Okay what do you want me to do? Go back in time and throw the carton away? I just forgot.”

He narrows his eyes. Maybe he’d buy into it a bit more if he didn’t see how well you could really do things, when you weren’t talking to him.

Weaponized incompetency - that’s what this is.

 

If you’re not acting like some poor woman’s kind of shitty boyfriend, you’re acting like a spoiled pet.

You stand in the doorway to his office, arms crossed over your chest. Sukuna is bent over his desk, scribbling something on a piece of paper. He doesn’t look up at first, but you can feel his awareness of your presence, as always.

“I’m bored,” you announce, breaking the silence.

Sukuna barely glances up. “Do I look like your entertainment?”

“Not really,” you mutter, stepping closer. “But I’m here, so I thought you might want some company.”

He doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches until you can’t stand it any longer. You move behind his chair and sit down on his lap without asking. He freezes for a moment, but doesn’t push you off. His hands remain on the paperwork, not acknowledging the shift in your position.

You lean in slightly, eyes flicking to the paper in front of him. “What’s this? Planning to buy something else you don’t need?”

“Shut up,” he says, his voice rough but not unkind. “I’m working.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your weight a little to grind—barely—against his thigh. “It must be hard to focus when you’re this uptight,” you say, deliberately lazy in your tone.

He glances at you sideways. “I’m not the one climbing into someone’s lap uninvited.”

“Don’t need an invitation. It’s my birthright as your only niece,” you reply with a half-smile.

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t bother responding. Pen scratching against the page like he’s willing himself to ignore you.

You want his attention, maybe something more — to get a peek into his head

But you know him; he never gives anything away when asked outright.

That’s fine, you’ll go for the side door instead.

After watching him for a moment you lean in a little, voice laced with provocation. “Let me guess—you think this is annoying. That I’m clingy and that you’d rather be alone.”

He pauses just for a second, but you catch it.

Still, he doesn’t say anything.

Push a bit further.

You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Or maybe you’re just trying not to care too much. Wouldn’t want to make things messy, right?”

That’s when his pen stops moving. His jaw tightens, just enough to make you smirk.

“You don’t know anything about what’s going on in my head,” he mutters, low and sharp.

There we go.

“Well, maybe you should share then,” you respond casually.

He leans back in his chair slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, and you feel your breathing quicken.

Your pulse stutters—God, you’ve missed this. Missed him like this.

Sukuna grins slowly, in that way that tells you he’s up to no good as his hand finds its way to the curve of your hip.

“You really wanna know what’s going on in my head?” He shifts beneath you, just enough for you to feel it—hard and rising under your weight.

“Guess I do,” you breathe, feigning calm.

“I’m thinking,” he says lowly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “That the shipping clause in the new procurement contract’s gonna screw us if customs get nosy in Kobe again.“

You blink before your face settles into a scowl of irritation. “God you’re fucking insufferable,” you mutter, looking away.

“What, did you want me to say I was thinking about you?”

You give him a dry, biting, pointed look that makes him smirk even wider.

“Well I was thinking about you too….”

You freeze for half a second.

“…And how you still haven’t bought the milk you finished without telling me. Or taken out the goddamn trash.”

 

You turn away, trying not to let the dejection get to you.

Sure maybe you’re horny but it was more than that too — you wanted him to want you like that again.

To feel that he still desires you in the way you know he shouldn’t.

So you begin to get up with a sigh, when he pushes you back down abruptly before casually adding, “Oh and how I want your pretty little lips wrapped around my cock right now-” He grabs your hips, grinding your throbbing cunt right onto where his bulge is straining against his pants, “So I can fuck your throat till you choke on it.”

Your eyes widen, breath hitching a little in surprise.

Exactly the reaction he wanted, clearly, considering how it makes him smirk.

“Is that the kind of thing you wanted to hear? Huh?” he teases.

Yes, it is, but you’re feeling a bit more bratty after the way he just messed with you.

So you purse your lips, trying once again to climb off him. “Nope. Not anymore at least. I think I’m gonna go take out the trash actually since you were so concerned about that—“

His gaze darkens and before you can even catch the movement he’s gripping your wrist. “Knees. Now.”

You shoot him a glare. “And give me one good reason I should do that after that shit you just pulled?”

Of course the thought of getting to feel his cock in your mouth for the first time is more than arousing, but your penchant for demand avoidance proves to be just as stubborn.

“Because you waltzed in here practically begging for my attention—and now you’ve got it,” he says smoothly, thumb brushing along your lower lip, hand cupping your jaw. “Interrupting me while I’m working…”

His eyes drag over your face. “Might as well make yourself useful. Help me burn off some of this stress...”

You don’t respond, but you don’t pull away either.

He watches you, waiting. When you still don’t move, his hand trails lower—fingers wrapping around your throat with deliberate pressure.

“Get on your knees.” His voice drops, grip tightening just slightly. “I won’t ask again.”

You swallow hard, eyes locked on his.

Then you move.

He releases you as you shift, lifting yourself off his lap and lowering to the floor between his legs, gaze never breaking from his.

Sukuna’s eyes follow you, widening his thighs a bit more so that you have better access to the bulge now at your face level.

And before he even has to ask, you’re reaching forward, unzipping his fly to expose the swell in his boxers. He exhales softly when you finally pull down the waistband, freeing his erect cock, already flushed and leaking at the tip.

You swallow again, this time louder, the sound exaggerated in the quiet between you. He hears it, clearly, and lets out a low, amused snort.

“Nothing to say now?”

You give him another half-assed scowl, before returning your attention to his dick. His skin is tan against the dark pink of his hair, a contrast that draws your eyes before anything else. And when your hand finally wraps around him, the weight of him is undeniable—solid, warm, real.

His cock is just as imposing as the rest of him.

No wonder he acts like that.

“What do you want me to do?” you murmur, giving him an experimental pump of your fist, before bending forward to lick the pearlescent bead of pre gathered at his slit.

A little salty, maybe even sweet, ever so slightly.

Sukuna breathes a bit sharply at the touch, though his voice stays composed, condescending and arrogant as ever. “Suck it? Give me a blowjob? Want me to say it in another languag— ah, fuck,” he hisses when you deliberately stiffen the tip of your tongue, firmly prodding into his slit.

Not hard enough to hurt, but certainly enough to probably feel uncomfortable.

You lift away, stroking his length gently with a small satisfied smile.

“Was that good?” you ask innocently.

You know few things annoy him as much as your weaponized incompetency.

“Just open your mouth and let me fuck it since you can’t do it right yourself.”

You place one hand on his thigh, the other bringing his tip back to your lips to give it another kitten lick.

“In a moment.”

You tease your tongue around his frenulum, sliding your tongue up and down with soft, almost curious licks.

He lets you explore dick as you borderline inspect it, lifting his shaft to peer at the heavy balls sitting below before running your tongue along the seam with almost reverent carefulness.

Sukuna’s breath deepens, as you feel his hand coming up to knot in your hair.

“What’s this all about? Never sucked a dick before or something?” he murmurs, though he stays patient, letting you go at your own pace.

“I have. Just not yours,” you mumble, as you bring your lips back up, rubbing it against his sensitive glans just to see what it feels like.

Soft, so soft, almost satin-like.

You’ve sucked dick before, yes, but never felt the need to get so familiar with another man’s intimate areas, to take your time like you’re trying to permanently imprint the memory of it in your brain. You find yourself wanting to memorize every vein you trace with your tongue, the smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of him in your mouth.

Perhaps you understand now why he was so adamant on wanting to see every inch of your own pussy.

Not to mention no other man’s ever leaked as much precum as he is right now, oozing from his slit as you coat your lips with it in a slick sheen.

Sukuna’s muscles are visibly tensed beneath you, you can tell he’s reaching his limit from the steady tightening of the hand gripping your roots.

Good.

But you want to push him further, just a bit.

So you look up at him as you collect spit in your mouth, before parting your lips to drip it obscenely over his tip. And then, you blow on the wettened skin, ever so gently.

A notch forms between his brows, jaw clenching as it does when he gets irritated.

Suddenly your head is yanked back, scalp stinging from the harsh tug.

“Enough,” he growls. “Stick your tongue out like a good slut.”

You do as you’re told, and soon he’s taking his cock and rubbing it against the flat of your tongue as you gaze up at him.

“That’s it.” He slides cock off your tongue, and onto your face, slapping it against your cheek with a wet noise, your saliva sticking to you skin. “Now open up.”

You widen your jaw and take a deep inhale through your nose right before he slides his girth in, inch by inch, feeding it into your throat. Immediately your gag reflex kicks in as he goes deeper than you’d expected, sooner than you’d expected.

Sukuna only snickers meanly when he hears you choke a bit, your throat convulsing around his cock. “Too much?”

You narrow your watering eyes in defiance, inhaling again through your nose before remembering a trick you’d heard somewhere about squeezing one of your thumbs so you don’t gag.

So you ball your left fist around your thumb as hard as you can, and strangely enough, it works.

With that you hollow your cheeks and push your head down until your nose reaches the coarse hairs on his pelvis, taking in how tight your throat feels around his cock sheathed fully inside.

He smiles as you still a bit, the grip in your hair loosening so that he can stroke it instead, as he murmurs pleasantly surprised, “Oh, good girl. You learn fast, huh?”

Before he can do it himself, you begin moving your head back before sliding back down again, feeling the velvety skin of his shaft brush along your tongue as you bob your head up and down. Slick, squelching noises fill the study, your throat making wet clicks as it moves around him. You can feel your saliva starting to drool out, dripping down his shaft, some smearing on your lips and chin.

It feels sloppy, even more when you hear him groan in pleasure as he grips your hair again, the noise sending an unbearable warmth down to your core while you try to focus on keeping your teeth out of the way and breathing through your nose.

“Mmh, just like that baby, your throat feels so fucking good,” he rasps.

His praise goes right to your head, feeling much better than it had any right to.

It’s enough to make you push away the aching pain flaring in your jaw from holding it open, just to hear more of it, to show him how well you can please him. You unclench the fist you were squeezing to fondle his balls, caressing and massaging them delicately while you work your throat around him, rubbing your tongue along his length and letting more of your spit drip out and onto his cock as you swallow around it.

You know Sukuna. You know beyond a certain point of pleasure, his lust will morph into something worse, something vicious that likes to ruin.

And you know it's what compels him to abruptly grip your hair so tightly it stings, and thrust his hips so hard into your mouth with a guttural noise that you make a muffled squeak of surprise, losing your rhythm and feeling you gag reflex claw up your chest, trying to push him back out of your throat. He grins wickedly, cock only twitching in excitement when he feels you struggling to take him, only encouraging him to go harder, fuck your skull till tears are streaming down your face and spit froths at your lips and dribbles down. Strands of your hair stick to the mess, but he’s too busy bruising the back of your throat to care enough to peel them away.

“Hah, I think this is your birthright as my niece,” he sneers between pants, as you try and regain some semblance of control, fingers trying find some purchase on his thighs to steady you a bit. “Finally putting that fucking mouth of yours to proper use.”

You’d be annoyed normally, but in the hazy mess your mind is in right now, with nothing existing but the wet heat of your throat engulfing his cock, the musky scent of him and the stiff pain in your jaw, you’ve been reduced to a primal need to devote yourself to his pleasure. So you relax, and let him use your throat, gazing up at him through teary eyes, drinking the sight of his face contorted in pleasure, brows pulled together, bottom lip sucked in between his teeth.

Surrender.

Maybe he can sense the moment you finally do so because then his face is crumpling and you feel his hips stutter as he pulls back so his tip rests heavily on your tongue.

“Oh, fuck-“

Spurts of seed spread across your tongue as he fills your mouth, warm and viscous, as he fills your mouth. He finishes finally, pulling out his wet dick from your mouth with a satisfied sigh.

You don’t swallow; instead you keep his semen in your mouth for a bit, tasting it, feeling it, as he tucks himself back in.

The texture is somewhere between saliva and diluted syrup, and under the saline taste there’s a strange sweetness — warm, earthy, almost like the smell of skin after sex. You chase it with your tongue, savoring the taste not because it’s objectively good, but because it’s his.

And then, an idea comes to mind.

Before Sukuna can react, you’re getting to your feet and climbing onto him. You tilt his jaw towards yours, muffling his surprised grunt as you abruptly kiss him, pushing your way through his lips, guiding the slick taste into his mouth with the tip of your tongue

You more than half expect him to push you away, but he catches you off guard when he kisses you back instead, deepening it and groaning softly as sucks the cum off your tongue, some of the white fluid leaking down the corners of your lips.

When you no more is left, you pull away, breaking a thin strand of fluid connecting your wet lips.

You sit there for a moment, flustered and out of breath, before wiping your lips and face with your sleeve, scowling when he smirks at you completely unfazed.

“Was that supposed to be revenge? Because it kinda turned me on instead.”

“Sorry, I forgot you’re a fucking freak,” you comment dryly.

“Guess you got it from me.”

You glare at him again, pushing against his chest. “I’ve had enough of you.”

But Sukuna’s hand is trailing up your waist, coaxing you to stay there.

“Aw, and here I was thinking about rewarding you for your good work,” he purrs.

“Rewarding me?” you repeat, suspicious but a bit intrigued.

“Mhm,” he hums. “Get on the desk.”

Your brow furrows as you peek at the desk behind you, still covered in documents. “What?”

“You can move the papers to the side.”

You don’t move yet. “For what?”

Sukuna sighs. “Just do it. And take off your pants.”

And for some reason you comply, getting off him to hastily swipe the papers to the side before shrugging your pants down your legs and sitting on the desk in front of him.

He clicks his tongue. “No, I want you to turn around. I’m gonna eat you out.”

Oh.

You’re certainly not going to fight against that.

Sure he’s never eaten you out from the back before and the position makes you a bit nervous, but then you remember you only get him like this for a few more months and soon you’re climbing up all the way onto the desk.

You feel a bit more vulnerable like this with your cheek pressed against the cold hardwood, your ass presented to where you can’t see him.

“Perfect. Just stay still now.”

You hear him moving and a warm palm squeezes one of your cheeks, kneading the pliant flesh before his second hand joins on the other side.

“Okay…” you mumble, “Just don’t try anything …weird.”

He doesn’t respond, but you think you catch a light laugh under his breath.

Not a good sign, but you’re too far in now.

And then your panties are being pulled down your ass till right above your knees, and you can already feel how wet you are just in anticipation.

Sukuna doesn’t waste any time, and immediately his tongue is caressing at your damp folds, before slipping in and gliding through them till your clit. You moan softly as he begins lapping at your pussy, tingling heat building between your thighs as he licks you firmly, suckling on your clit in between.

Sukuna’s certainly talented at eating a woman out, you’ll give him that, because not even five minutes later you’re whimpering and shaking as the pressure in your clit builds till you cum on his tongue.

A few breathless moments and then you feel yourself loosening up again, coming down from your high, feeling much better now than a few minutes ago when you were sure he had some devious plans in mind.

“Shit, that was good,” you mumble as his tongue pulls away from your sopping cunt.

The relief you were basking in is ripped away when suddenly you feel him gripping your cheeks and spreading them apart.

Uncomfortable.

“I said no weird stuff—” Your words end in a squeak of surprise when you feel something warm and wet press against the tight rim of your asshole.

Heat quickly rises to your face in indignation as you shift, trying to get away from the ironclad grip he has on your ass. “Oh my god, do not do that—”

A sharp slap to your ass shuts you up as you wince in pain instead. “You should really try new things, you know that? It’ll get you a lot farther in life.”

“Uncle!” you cry out in mortification when you feel his tongue back on your hole, prodding at it. “Do we really need to do this?”

“Yes,” his answer comes between small licks at your hole, making you flinch when he abruptly spits on it. “How else will you take my cock up here if you can’t even take my tongue?”

“What!?” You squirm, twisting your head to try and look at him. “No, no, that is definitely not happening.”

“Why not?”

“Why does it have to!? Is my pussy not good enough for you?” You can barely see him behind you from the way he’s holding your ass firmly in place, but that won’t stop you from trying, even if it makes your neck hurt a lot.

You hear him audibly sigh against your hole. “Do you always have to fucking argue with me?”

And then maybe as punishment, or just because he likes to torture you, he presses the tip of his tongue firmly enough against your puckered hole that it actually breaches through. You yelp at the odd, visceral sensation

He pulls it back out just to laugh at you. “If you can go three minutes without moving around or fucking bitching, I’ll let you go. How about that?”

“You better put a goddamn timer.”

Sukuna sighs, but he agrees, setting the time on his phone before putting it back on the desk. “Now shut the fuck up.”

It is still far from comfortable, this strange new sensation, and at first you’re still fighting to try and not squirm, especially when his tongue presses teasingly into your entrance again, before probing a little deeper. You’ve never done this before, not even with your own fingers, really.

His tongue feels delicate and invasive at once- even though he’s barely in deep, it’s somewhere untouched. Yet somewhere along the way you stop tensing and just let him play with your hole, and when his tongue pushes a bit more insistently against the tight ring of muscle, a quiet whimper falls from your lips.

Then his fingers are joining by pushing into your wet pussy, and the feeling of him massaging your walls as his tongue works diligently at your other hole is enough to make you moan and melt into the touch.

You hate it. That’s he always right. That he really, definitely, knows what he’s doing if he’s actually able to make you enjoy this despite the discomfort and your initial reluctance.

And fuck, it feels good- dirty and sinful enough to make your arousal drip down his fingers and your hole clench around his tongue.

But then the shrill ring of the alarm cuts through, startling you and yanking you before you can fall deeper into the haze. You don’t even realize you’re panting till he pulls away and you turn to look at him, feeling a bit conflicted.

“You can…keep going,” you mumble. “It felt kinda good.”

And to that, Sukuna looks at you with amusement as he licks his lips.

“Oh, would you look at that? My dirty little niece actually likes getting her ass eaten,” he coos as you stare at him venomously.

“But,” Sukuna leans back into his chair, grinning lazily. “The timer rang, and I promised I wouldn’t go longer than that remember?”

Irritating, infuriating man.

But you did say that, so this one’s a bit fair, even if you always feel like he’s setting you up on purpose every single time.

You don’t say anything, just huff and roll over to pull your panties back up before sitting and getting off his desk, putting your pants back on.

Sukuna stands and stretches with a low grunt. “I’m gonna wash my hands. Then I’ve got work to finish.”

You nod, shifting a little where you sit, and watch as he disappears into the bathroom. The sound of running water fills the quiet room for a moment, then cuts off.

When he returns, drying his hands on a towel, his gaze flicks to you—still lingering where he left you.

He drops back into the chair, spreads his thighs, and pats one. “Come here. Sit.”

“Do you always have to talk to me like I’m a dog?” you mutter under your breath, though you quickly move to make yourself comfortable on his lap, resting your head against his chest as he gets back to work like you still can’t taste the faint astringent aftertaste of his cum in your mouth, or the dampness on the gusset of your panties.

Most odd of all, is that you feel content. Like your relationship has been restored back to how it’s supposed to be.

 

* * *

 

 

Your relationship not only returns to what it used to be, but becomes something even more—evident from the fact that you now regularly sleep with him at night. Hours of tossing and turning trying to fall asleep turn into minutes as soon as you’re next to him.

But with him next to you, the restless ache that builds in your body each night has nowhere to go—and you can’t exactly handle it the usual way with him lying inches away.

After a few nights, Sukuna can’t take it anymore.

You crawl into his bed again, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, and he lets you in without a word—again. You curl into him like you always do, seeking the warmth and safety he pretends not to offer. And as always, he runs his hand down your back, lets you rest your head against his chest, even pulls the blanket up over your shoulders without complaint.

But then it starts.

The shifting. The sighing. The squirming.

He can feel every frustrated twitch of your body, every little exhale like your skin is too tight to hold in whatever’s stirring inside. He cracks an eye open, jaw clenched. You’re on your back now, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it’s personally offended you.

He waits. One minute. Two. Then—

“You done?” he mutters.

You glance over, sheepish. “Sorry… I just—can’t sleep.”

“No shit,” he says, voice gravelly with exhaustion. “And you’re making it my problem too.”

You try to apologize, genuinely feeling kind of bad. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what it is—“

Sukuna just sighs and then his hands are sliding to your hips, pulling you closer against him.

You don’t say anything. Words are never needed with him — he understands what you need, even before you do. How to offer you some relief.

He notices how your breath hitches, thighs shifting as he slips his fingers under your top, skimming along your skin. He notices all the things you try to hide.

“What’re you…” Your voice trails off as his fingers dip lower, beneath the waistband of your pajamas.

“Shut up,” he murmurs gently, hands slipping fully into the waistband of your panties.

Lower and lower, till they brush against your slick folds.

“You really need me to do everything, huh?” he muses, his voice low and lazy. “Can’t even get yourself off like a big girl?”

“Sukuna,” you whisper, flustered now, but your legs shift again—nervous, needy.

“What?” he taunts gently, like he’s scolding a pet. “You want to toss and turn all night like a brat, or do you want to come so hard you pass out?”

You glare at him, cheeks flushed. “You’re such an asshole.”

He smirks, leaning down, mouth brushing just under your jaw as he deliberately dips a finger into the arousal collecting at your entrance, before puling it back out to smear your slick across your folds. “Yeah. And you’re wet for it.”

You let out a breathy sigh, just giving in, relaxing your body into his and letting him take over. One of his fingers slips inside you at first, and he presses it right against the spongey part of your wall. He can feel a throbbing under the sensitive, swollen flesh there, like your heart is literally beating in your cunt.

It makes blood flow to his own cock, but he ignores that for now.

He fingers you under the sheets, your juices spilling and dampening your panties, though you don’t really care.

Soft, wet noises are audible from under the blankets, amidst your small whimpers and mewls, grinding into his hand for more.

Finally you cum with a small cry, and when Sukuna pulls his hand back out his fingers are covered in a glistening glaze.

And just like he predicted, your body stays lax, satiated, no longer restless and squirming, and he can feel you starting to doze off against him.

But he’s Sukuna, so right before he lets you fall asleep he sticks his cum-coated fingers into your mouth abruptly.

You make a muffled noise of surprise, and agitation.

“Clean them,” he says plainly. “You made a mess.”

You’re too drowsy to really fight back anyway so you lazily suck his fingers clean, tongue licking at the crevices in between , the taste of your own arousal coating your tongue before you swallow it down.

And when you decide you’re done, you pull his fingers from your mouth with a soft pop, turning your head away in quiet defiance.

He snorts under his breath, wiping the damp fingers on your cheek just to get a rise out of you.

You groan, muffled against the pillow. “Can you not?”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, unbothered, like you’re the one making a scene.

You try to swat at him half-heartedly, but your arm's too heavy with sleep, and he easily catches your wrist, pinning it lazily to the mattress.

“Such a brat,” he mutters, voice low and warm near your ear.

You don’t bother answering, just sigh, turning your face into his chest instead, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing pull you down.

His hand lingers at your back, a quiet weight as you fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s something about growing up with very little family. No buffer—no siblings to confide in, no cousins to rely on, no grandparents to balance things out. Every relationship carries extra weight.

In your case, it’s your parents.

In an ideal world, this would’ve drawn you closer. A small, tight-knit family. But in reality, emotional absence from either parent creates a gaping void—whether you name it or not.

For you, it’s a paternal wound. One that only becomes glaringly obvious when Sukuna slips into your life, uninvited, into the role of a pseudo-guardian.

It isn’t some cliché Freudian desire to date your father; it’s something deeper.

What draws you to Sukuna isn’t the simple need for a father figure—it’s how he fills a hollow space inside you. And the quiet resentment that he wasn’t there to do it sooner.

But there are downsides to filling a wound.

You haven’t forgotten that moment—the horrible, embarrassing moment the morning after he took your virginity. When, raw and vulnerable, you snapped, calling him "your dad."

Neither of you ever brought it up again. And maybe that’s for the best, because the implication was too real.

Because while the sense of protection from him draws you in, it also comes with expectations you never asked for. Sometimes, when Sukuna acts like he cares, it feels like a leash—an invisible tether you never wanted, but can’t escape.

You don’t look too closely at it. You don’t ask questions. You don’t dig into why it feels this way, because deep down, you know that if you did, you’d start trying to excuse it. And that feels worse.

So you let it haunt you quietly instead. You let it settle in your bones, a constant undercurrent of discomfort that you’ve learned to live with.

And you don’t question it.

Not even when, one evening, in the middle of one of your usual bickering sessions, Sukuna announces—out of nowhere—that he’s taking you on a date. Especially since, according to him, your last one was pathetic.

You’re pretty sure it’s just his way of proving a point, another game to pass the time.

But still.

Your stomach flips. That giddiness bubbles up, childish and bright, almost shameful in its intensity—not because you crave male attention, not just because someone chose you.

But because he did.

Because it’s Sukuna, and everything he represents.

The one person who never had to care, who didn’t owe you anything—but still chose you, regardless.

And even if his gesture is wrapped in sarcasm and ego, it feels surprisingly pure. Like something tender buried beneath something cruel.

It disarms you.

Especially when he adds, almost carelessly, that you’ll need a new dress, proper heels, maybe even a little makeup.

“If I’m doing this,” he says, “I’m doing it right.”

Of course, you try to laugh off the part about him buying you things. You’ve been trained to never take from others, to never be the one who gets lavished with attention, and you don’t know how to accept it anymore. Or maybe it’s deeper than that. Maybe you’ve never known how to let yourself be spoiled.

Sukuna, however, just gives you that look—a sharp, unamused stare—and tells you to shut up.

So you do. You nod, face flushed, trying to hide the way your chest tightens. Not just from excitement, but from something heavier, something sharper. The ache of being cared for in a way you were never shown how to care for yourself.

Something dangerously close to wanting—no, needing—to be wanted in a way you never learned how to ask for.

 

* * *

 

 

Sukuna means it when he says if you’re doing this, you’re doing it right.

Which is how you end up at the store that weekend, standing in front of an employee assigning you a changing room.

You hold out the dresses draped over your arm—four of them—for her to count.

“Ooh, those are great choices. What’s the occasion?” she asks, smiling.

And then Sukuna appears behind you like some large, intimidating shadow, and you swear you can see her recalibrating behind that smile—trying to figure out if he’s your dad or an older boyfriend.

She definitely lands on the worse conclusion when he smirks and rests a hand on your shoulder.

“She has a date tomorrow night,” he says.

You force a small smile, shifting under his touch, laughing nervously. “Yeah.”

“Lucky guy,” she replies—now clearly convinced he’s your father.

You can take that big stall at the end,” she adds with a knowing look.

You blink, eyebrows knitting as you glance between Sukuna and the girl. “Oh, he’s not co—”

“Thank you,” Sukuna cuts in smoothly, steering you away before you can finish your sentence.

The second you're out of earshot, you twist out of his grip, shoving the door to the stall open. “There is absolutely no need for you to come in with me. Just stay out here. I’ll show you each one when I try them on.”

Sukuna tilts his chin toward the bench inside the stall. “See that? That’s for uncles supervising their bratty nieces. Tradition.”

He gives you a grin so filthy you nearly combust.

“Oh my god—shut up.” You glance around, mortified. “Don’t say shit like that. People’ll get the wrong idea.”

“More like the right idea. Hope they all know you suck your uncle’s—”

You slap him before he can finish, cheeks blazing, and yank him inside by the wrist as he laughs.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter.

The door clicks shut behind you. You hang the dresses up one by one, studiously ignoring him as you grab the first one off the rack.

Sukuna sprawls on the bench like he owns the place—and you. Legs wide, arms folded, eyes fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

You peel off your top, then pause at your waistband. “Can you, like…close your eyes?”

He opens his mouth—no doubt ready to say something disgusting—so you cut him off before he can get the words out.

“Ugh, never mind. Forget it,” you mutter, yanking your pants off anyway.

Now you’re hyper-aware of the mirrors. Of the lighting. Of the man sitting behind you who doesn’t even pretend not to stare.

“Can you not ogle me like some creep?”

He doesn’t blink. Just watches, then slowly palms himself through his jeans.

Your mouth drops open. “Seriously?!”

You yank the dress down over your chest, catching him trying not to laugh, which only infuriates you more.

“Need help?” he drawls.

“No.” You drag the dress into place and turn toward the mirror.

At least he’s stopped groping himself. But his gaze still drags over you like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Well?” you snap.

Sukuna tilts his head, chin resting in one hand. “Cute. But the next one’s tighter, right?”

You roll your eyes—trying to ignore the flutter in your chest—and grab the next dress. The tightest one. Black, short, zipper up the back. Of course.

You strip off the first dress without looking at him and step into the second.

It hugs you like a second skin. The zipper, of course, sticks halfway up.

You grunt, trying to reach around.

“Sure you don’t want help?” he murmurs, smug.

“I said no.”

There’s a pause. Then you hear the soft creak of the bench as he stands.

Your breath catches, as you feel him behind you before you hear him.

His fingers brush your spine lightly through the fabric. “Stop squirming,” he murmurs. “You’ll jam it.”

He tugs the zipper up—too slowly, too deliberately, the gliding motion grazing your skin like a tease. 

“There you go,” he murmurs as you look up.

The dress is black silk, soft to the touch and sinfully tight. It hugs every single curve without shame, the fabric catching the light in a way that makes shadows dance across your body. The neckline plunges just enough to make your pulse quicken, and the back dips scandalously low, exposing the gentle curve of your spine.

It stops mid-thigh—short enough to tempt, long enough to tease. The sleeves are off-shoulder, barely clinging to your upper arms, adding that extra edge of vulnerability, like the dress could slip just a little too far with one wrong move.

Sukuna’s gaze is unreadable as he takes in this one, but you’re too focused on one small detail to even worry about that.

Your hands pause at your lower stomach, fingers brushing the slight bump that feels more noticeable in this lighting, in this mirror, in front of him. You tug the fabric subtly, trying to flatten it, your face twisting with discomfort.

Sukuna’s eyes catch the motion immediately.

“What are you doing?”

You don’t answer, just keep adjusting, suddenly wishing the lights were a little dimmer. “It fits weird here. Makes me look—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice cuts clean and low, that stern, irritated tone.

You glance over at him, and his gaze has shifted—no longer teasing, no longer just looking for fun. 

“You look good,” he says simply. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Stop pulling at it.”

You try to deflect with a shrug, suddenly warm in the face. “Whatever. I just don’t like how it fits right here—”

Sukuna steps closer, towering behind you as his hands slip down to rest at your waist. His fingers settle exactly where you were trying to hide, pressing just enough for you to feel it.

“This part?” His voice dips. “It’s fucking hot. Not sure who put those silly ideas in your head.”

Your breath hitches.

His eyes meet yours in the mirror—not looking at you, looking through you, like he wants you to see exactly what he sees.

“Wear this one tomorrow,” he says, already deciding.

“What about the other ones—”

“No. This one.”

You try to argue, but the words feel thin. You just nod.

 

You make it out of the changing room alive—barely—and he lets you breathe for a while.

The next stops are easier.

He picks out a pair of heels you actually like, lets you test them with a spin, and even hums approvingly when you twirl for him.

Then he lets you drift toward the makeup section like it’s no big deal, arms crossed while you test swatches on your wrist. He even pays for everything without blinking, which should annoy you more than it does.

It’s... almost domestic. Almost.

Too domestic.

Which is exactly why the second your guard drops, he grabs your wrist again.

“Wait—where are we going now?”

Sukuna doesn’t answer. Just smirks and steers you with that same annoying confidence you’ve learned to hate.

And then you see the store sign.

Lace everywhere. Soft light. Satin mannequins. Entire walls covered in things no sane person wears unless they plan on not wearing them for long.

Your stomach flips.

“No. No, no, no—absolutely not—”

“You owe me- I sat through the whole makeup segment like a saint,” Sukuna says, voice low and lazy. “Besides what do you think we’re gonna do after I take you out to dinner? You didn’t think it was just that, did you?”

“Wh— First of all you were on your phone the entire time! Second of all, that’s not what I thought,” you stammer, heat crawling up your neck. “I mean—I didn’t think anything! And you could’ve warned me, you psycho!”

It doesn’t help that the saleswoman gives you a courteous, knowing smile.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he murmurs, already plucking something red and lacy off a nearby rack.

He starts picking things out way too fast—like he’s been here before, like he already knows exactly what he wants to see you in.

A red lace set that’s mostly straps.

A black sheer bodysuit with strategic cutouts.

Something so small and silky you’re not even too sure what it actually is.

Your mouth opens. “Are you—seriously?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “You said you’d try something on. Don’t get shy now.”

“I didn’t say I’d try on whatever sadistic thing you pulled off the wall,” you hiss, snatching the red one from his hands. The thing barely weighs anything—it’s just lace and suggestion.

He finally glances at you, eyes flicking down to the scrap of fabric in your hands, then back up to your face. He smirks.

“You’d look good in it.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I know your size.” He grabs another hanger. This one is deep wine-colored and... crotchless? You choke on air.

“I’m not wearing that.”

“No,” he says easily. “You’ll keep that one for later.”

Your entire face burns.

But there’s that spark again—the one he always knows how to strike. A tiny thrill under your ribs, curling somewhere low and secret. You hate how easily it lights up around him, how much worse it makes everything.

Your parents would skin you alive if they saw you come home with things like this.

And sure, maybe the lingerie is scandalous. Obscene, even.

But it’s also… beautiful. Beautiful in a way that makes you nervous. Erotic in a way that feels like it wasn’t meant for someone like you.

This is what people wear when they want to be seen. Worshipped.

Adored.

You’re not used to that, not sure you believe it’s something you’re allowed to want.

Maybe that’s why it unsettles you so much.

Why you keep glancing away from the mirror, like you’re afraid of catching your own eyes.

Why you deflect—tell him he’s a total perv for wanting to see you in all that stuff, pretending to be offended with each skimpier set he picks out.

Sukuna doesn’t seem to care. He ends up with half a dozen pieces slung over his arm—lace, mesh, satin, straps.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, trailing after him as he heads straight for the fitting rooms.

“Thank you,” he says, unbothered.

You glance around the store like someone might save you. The girl at the register doesn’t even blink as you pass by.

Clearly, she’s seen worse.

You make it to the fitting room and try—again—to shake him off.

“I’m going in alone,” you say, palm flat against his chest, blocking the door. “You don’t need to supervise everything, freak.”

He doesn’t budge, just glances over your head toward the row of fitting rooms, eyes flicking until he finds the one he wants.

“This one,” he mutters, guiding you toward the end of the row. You start to protest again, but he’s already turning the handle and nudging the door open with his foot like he owns the place.

“There’s a seat,” he says plainly.

You freeze. “There’s what?”

He gestures inside. And sure enough—tucked in the corner like some kind of luxury upgrade—there’s a little bench. Padded. Polite.

Utterly unbelievable.

“Why the hell is there a chair in here!?”

Sukuna shrugs, completely unfazed. “Probably for men like me. The ones who pay.”

You scowl. “You’re not coming in.”

But it’s already too late. He steps inside before you can close the door, brushing past you with that arrogant ease like this is just his natural territory.

The lock clicks behind you, and suddenly the space feels smaller. 

The room is too pink, the lighting too warm, too sensual. Too many mirrors.

You stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, lingerie in your arms, staring at him like maybe he’ll take the hint and leave.

He doesn’t.

He sits.

He sprawls on the little bench like it’s a throne, legs spread wide, one arm casually draped over the backrest. His gaze is lazy, almost amused, as he watches you, and it grates on your nerves more than it should.

You yank a hanger free, desperate to get this over with. You don’t even look at the tag, just grabbing the first thing that catches your eye—something black and sheer, satin and silk, its fabric soft but undeniably revealing.

You take a closer look.

A chemise.

But not just any chemise. The front has an open bust, leaving little to the imagination, with two thick ribbons dangling at either side—meant to be tied over your breasts.

You can't help but cringe; the ribbon looks thick enough to cover just your nipples probably, leaving everything else exposed.

“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, you are."

You sigh, a mix of frustration and resignation, and take off your top, holding the chemise against your torso, trying to get an idea of how it might fit.

“You need to take your bra off too," he adds smugly.

Your face burns, and you’re almost certain you can feel the heat creeping all the way to your ears.

You hesitate, the chemise still pressed against your chest, the weight of his words settling heavily in your stomach. You can feel the faint pulse in your throat, and despite the sharp burn of embarrassment, your fingers move to undo your bra, almost without thinking.

Sukuna watches you, the air around him thick with that same, unreadable calm. The amusement never leaves his expression, but it feels like there’s something more beneath it, like he’s watching a very private performance.

You pull the bra off, leaving you bare chested as you pick up the chemise to put it on.

Your nipples stiffen in the air, and you try not to look at the way his eyes are drawn to them, how he licks his lips.

You slip it on, the fabric soft and delicate as it caresses your skin, till the underwire sits right below your breasts.

Heat prickles all across your skin, and somehow you feel even more exposed with the lingerie outlining your nakedness.

With another swallow you lift the ribbons to your chest, across your nipples, when—

“Let me,” he says, voice low and smooth.

Intense, but not biting.

Soft, almost, though the look in his eyes certainly is not — closer to something much hungrier, instead.

But your beyond bound of arguing, not when you feel so vulnerable, so you turn around and timidly walk up to him till your breasts are in his face, holding the ribbons out for him.

He takes them from your hands without asking, holding them gently across your bare nipples. The fabric brushes your skin—soft, deliberate, teasing. Then he slowly begins to tie them.

He pulls the satin taut until the soft weight of your breasts spills out around it, obscene and almost delicate, like a gift he’s unwrapping in reverse before finishing it with a bow, neat and centered.

You stare at your reflection, heat blooming across your chest, your neck, your face.

“I look ridiculous,” you murmur, voice barely audible.

“Ridiculous,” he repeats, like the very word offends him. His tone turns low, almost lazy. “Then how come”—he takes your hand, guides it lower—“you’re doing this to me?”

He presses your palm against the growing bulge in his pants. Firm, heavy and real.

Your breath catches as your thighs tense. Your panties grow damp as your mind short-circuits, shame and arousal folding over each other like waves.

“Gonna call me a creep or a perv again?” he teases, almost gently. Almost fond.

No. Because those were only reflections of your own discomfort with yourself, weren’t they? Because right now you feel desirable, so his arousal makes you want more.

Surrender.

You give in, not caring that you’re in a public changing room, as you straddle his lap and settle, guided more by instinct than thought. Your lips find his—hot, searing, desperate—and he kisses you back with that slow, claiming hunger that always makes you feel like you’re being owned.

But even in that closeness, something twists under your ribs.

A voice.

Not loud, but constant, like pressure behind your eyes. It always shows up when you're too close to him like this, when it stops feeling like a game and starts feeling dangerous.

It reminds you, as it always does, that this isn’t forever.

That it can’t be, even if there wasn’t that goddamn deadline.

Because what you have isn’t just complicated— it’s illicit. Unnatural.

Wrong.

Something that can’t have a future, not with what he is to you and what you are to him.

Because of that twenty-five percent. That shared part of you that ensures this can never become love, only shame and ruin.

It aches, sharp and splintering, like a thorn working its way deeper into your heart.

You know you should pull back. That you should start untangling yourself now, before you sink too deep into something you’ll never escape cleanly.

But his mouth is like a sedative, his touch a kind of sweet anesthesia that dulls your self-preservation into a low, useless hum.

And so you don’t stop.

Because in this moment, he makes you forget.

Forget what’s right, what’s wrong, who the hell you’re even supposed to be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

when she tells him that he's acting like her dad, she doesn't mean acting in a paternal manner but that he's acting like her actual father

Chapter 3

Notes:

well...this fic is turning out to be longer than i expected so i'm just going to start uploading shorter chapters more frequently instead of like huge chunks or "parts"

chapter warnings: usage of "Dad" once during sex,,,also mild anal fingering

wc: 11.2k

You only meant to stay for tea.

Just an hour—maybe two—out of politeness, so your mother can check in on you, to ease her nerves. Which you know would be much worse if she knew you were going on a date with your uncle tonight — but you try not to think about such things, not in her presence anyways.

But your mother insisted you sit, that you eat something, that you stop shrinking like the world’s going to punish you for taking up space.

It’s after you’ve kicked off your shoes and padded into the kitchen that she notices.

She’s halfway through slicing apples when her gaze drifts downward.

“Are those new?” she asks, nodding toward the heels peeking out by the door.

You follow her gaze, heart skipping.

Maybe you shouldn’t have worn them to her house now that you think about it. You forget how observant your mother can be. But you couldn’t help yourself, you’ve been eyeing them since he bought you the heels yesterday, and so of course you had to give in to the impulse.

A mistake.

“They’re cute,” she adds casually, but there’s a pause too loaded to ignore.

You shrug. “Yeah. Kind of.”

“You don’t usually wear heels.”

“I’ve been trying things.” Another shrug. “Thought I should try looking a little more put-together.”

Her eyes go back to the apple, but her voice is firm. “Those aren’t cheap.”

You pretend not to hear her as you go to rinse your cup.

“And your lipstick,” she continues, eyes scanning you again. “It suits you. The color.”

You freeze. You’ve forgotten how exhausting her scrutiny can be.

A part of you wants to act like a teen again, to lash out and tell her to stop nagging you over small things.

But you’re older now, and lying feels even worse than snapping, so you just quietly say, “Uncle Sukuna got them for me. He took me out for a bit of shopping…”

That makes her stop moving completely.

She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, but you can see the emotions running across her face. “You shouldn’t let him buy you things. I mean you could’ve just asked me, I’ve never denied you things have I?”

Not really. You’ll give your mother that much, that she’s been much more supportive of your knack for shopping than you can ever imagine your dad to be, perhaps because she’s a woman herself.

She rarely complains either—you know her mother sees it as her pride to be able to provide for you.

And that having Sukuna do it instead wounds that pride.

And you know that pride is precisely why she’ll never admit to you she’s going through financial troubles because of everything going on.

That she’d tell you it’s not your place to worry about as her child. She’s never denied you, but all the same — maybe because of your father — you’ve been engrained with guilt over taking, especially when it comes to money.

You swallow. “It was just—he offered. I didn’t ask.”

Still, she doesn’t look thrilled, but then a little softer she finally replies, “You know I have to tell your dad about this. He’s his brother after all — he should know about this stuff.”

You don’t respond, because there’s not much point in doing so. You want to feel annoyed, want to feel like this is just your parents getting involved in something that’s not their business.

But the truth is it very much is their business — another small, slightly nauseating reminder that the man you’ve become far too involved with is part of your family.

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch when his phone rings later that evening.

You’re sitting on the couch, hair still damp, draped in your towel, half-reading, half-waiting for it to dry, for the night to begin, for him to say something.

Instead, he stands, leaving the room to take the call—but not fast enough for you to miss what he says before the door clicks shut behind him.

“…Yeah. I figured you’d hear.”

You shamelessly press your ear to the wall.

“…She’s fine. I didn’t buy her a damn car, just shoes and a few things.”

Then, “…No, you don’t have to pay me back. She liked them.”

A beat.

“…I’m not spoiling her. I’m giving her what you never did.”

The next part is too soft to catch.

When he returns, he doesn’t look angry, just tired.

“He’s pissed?” you ask quietly.

Sukuna tosses the phone down on the table. “Told me not to buy you anything anymore.”

You look at your hands, the chipped polish. You can feel your cheeks warming—not from embarrassment, exactly. More like something between shame and heat.

“I said fine,” he adds. “Didn’t feel like arguing.”

You nod slowly, but still the feeling doesn’t pass. You want to fold into yourself.

He leans in, fingertips brushing your knee, then sliding up, before settling at your jaw. He tilts your face to look at him.

His voice stays soft, but heavier now. “Next time, don’t tell them.”

“You know you don’t have t—”

“Tch. Enough.” He clicks his tongue, cutting you off. “Did you like what I gave you?”

You nod, too quickly.

“Then that’s all that matters,” he murmurs, letting your face go and leaning in to kiss your head.

 

* * *

 

You finally emerge from your room two hours later, nervous for reasons you can’t quite pinpoint.

Sukuna’s sprawled across the couch, looking at something on his phone. The black dress shirt’s sleeves are rolled up to expose the veiny length of his muscular forearms, hair gelled back just ever so slightly to tame the usual spiky mess on there. He wears black slacks, manspreading like a whore as usual, but you can’t lie—it does it for you.

Makes you almost want to forget about this date and crawl into his lap right here and now.

You clear your throat softly. “I’m ready….”

Sukuna finally looks up from his phone.

His gaze sweeps over to appraise your form with that knowing smirk, a glint of mischief in his eyes as they linger, deliberately. Putting to use that unique ability he has to make you feel exposed even though you’re fully dressed.

“Now turn,” he commands in that low, almost teasing tone.

You don’t want to do it. Every part of you wants to snap at him, refuse, but of course you do it anyway, spinning on your heels with a sigh. The fabric of the dress ruffles slightly as you face away from him.

You can practically feel his eyes boring into your back, like a physical presence that’s crawling under your skin. Holding your chin high, you pretend to be unaffected, though you’ve never gotten quite used to the feeling of being watched.

“Are you seriously just going to stare at my ass right now?”

“Mm, come closer.”

You turn your head to eye him suspiciously but reluctantly step forward anyways, till you stand right in front of his spread lap.

“Lift your dress.”

You narrow your eyes but your hands are already moving, sliding the fabric up your thighs.

“Higher.”

You grumble, raising the dress further, skin burning beneath the fabric as it rides up to your navel. He looks down at you, eyes scanning every inch of your exposed skin in satisfaction.

He lifts a hand to brush his fingers against the waistband of the panties he bought for you, the touch so soft, so intentional, that a shiver runs through you. They trace the edge right till your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you’re already dripping heat. A quiet laugh escapes his lips as he glances down at them, hand lingering right at the edge of the lace by the crease of your thigh for just a moment longer than necessary.

“Mm, nice,” he murmurs, smug almost. “I knew you’d wear them.”

The heat in your face rises, a burning flush of embarrassment and irritation.

And lust, of course.

“Can we go now?” You try to sound indifferent, but your voice catches, a little more desperate than you’d like. “Don’t we have a reservation?”

“Alright.”

You let out a breath and finally let your dress fall back into place, turning towards the door with a forced calm.

“One more thing, though.”

You freeze, agitation flaring up in your chest. “Wha—”

Before you can register it, his hand comes down with a sharp smack to your ass. You let out a startled noise and spin around to glare at him, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Really?” you snap, voice tight with frustration.

Sukuna smirks, his amusement more than evident. “Okay, now we can go.”

 

The restaurant Sukuna takes you to is an exclusive, high-end place, nestled on the top floor of a sleek skyscraper in the heart of the city.

The moment you step inside, you’re greeted with modern, chic decor—dark wood paneling, soft ambient lighting, and an open view of the city skyline framed by floor-to-ceiling windows. Servers move around with professional efficiency, carrying trays of sauced foods you can’t exactly name but look mouthwatering all the same.

Sukuna steps forward confidently, his presence commanding attention as he approaches the hostess station. The hostess, a young woman with an immaculate appearance, greets him with a practiced, polite smile. Her posture straightens when she sees Sukuna, a brief flicker of recognition passing over her face.

"Reservation under Sukuna," he says smoothly.

She quickly scans the screen before nodding and gesturing for a nearby server to lead you to your table. Her smile is polite, but there’s something in the way she addresses him that suggests she’s aware of his influence—perhaps even afraid of it, though she hides it well.

The server leads you through the spacious dining room, the ambient hum of quiet conversation, the clink of glasses, the rustles of movements. The entire place feels intimate, like a capsule of opulence floating above the rest of the city.

Sukuna snakes his arm around your waist as you walk with him, your heels clicking against the marble floor, the sense of being out of place overwhelming you for just a moment. But then, his presence is there beside you—tall, imposing, as if he were meant for this kind of world.

And the way he holds you says that you’re his, so if this is his world, it’s yours too now.

Which strangely enough, calms you.

They lead you to a corner table by the windows, the city below stretching out like a canvas of neon lights and glittering streets. The table is set for two, a delicate arrangement of flowers in the center, muted pastels that contrast with the dark elegance of the restaurant.

Luxury—something you’re not used to but can appreciate all the same.

The server pulls out a chair for you, his movements smooth and professional, before handing Sukuna the menu, bowing his head, and disappearing again. Sukuna passes his menu to you without a second thought, his fingers brushing over his glass of water as he stares at you like you’re the view.

“So,” he starts, “How much better am I already doing than that other guy?”

“You see a broke finance major obsessed with crypto as competition?” You tut, playfully shaking your head. “I’d have thought you would aim higher…”

“Aim higher, huh? I dare you to find someone better than me.”

And as you sit there, with a genuine, crooked smile on your face that tells him all he needs to know, there’s a sharp pang that suddenly strikes your heart.

It’s buried just as fast.

 

The night goes well.

Perfect, even.

Until that slip up.

“So nice of you to take your daughter out to a place like this,” the hostess smiled at Sukuna. “Not a lot of dads do that anymore.”

You don’t know what in the world possessed the hostess to say what she said—there’s simply no way she really believed that, did she?

The memory drifts up of the last time this slip up happened in public—how stiff he’d seemed afterwards, in retrospect.

But things are different now.

Probably not better, but different.

That much is apparent from the way Sukuna tries to keep his grin looking like a genuine smile as he replies, “Oh you know how it is. Gotta spoil your daughter before some other man does it…”

And you simply sit there blankly eating your food, for some reason. You know well enough he’s probably just trying to provoke you again, but it doesn’t quite land.

Something akin to…acceptance? No, that can’t be right.

All you know is you didn’t bother to even try and clear up the misunderstanding, just quietly kept on eating and sipping on expensive wine as Sukuna chatted about you to the hostess like you were his very loved and cherished daughter.

After the hostess leaves, his eyes flick to yours.

Watching, waiting.

You don’t mention it. Instead you bring up how good the wagyu is.

Sukuna narrows his eyes ever so slightly before he straightens up and gives you an easy smile.

Playing along. For now.

 

The drive home is quiet, the hum of the engine the only sound between you and Sukuna. The city lights have long faded into the occasional streetlamp along the roads that wind into the hills, casting long shadows over his face as he keeps his eyes ahead, one hand loosely gripping the wheel.

As the car slows to a stop at a red light, he lets out a low breath, like he's been holding it in the entire drive. Then, finally, he glances at you sideways, a slow smirk spreading across his face like he’s savoring whatever he’s about to say.

“So,” he starts, his voice even, almost casual. “The hostess tonight was cute, huh?”

You glance at him, not bothering to hide the edge of your amusement. “She seemed nice.”

“Mmm,” Sukuna hums. “She sure did seem to think we were... close.”

You don’t answer right away, but you feel the words stirring in your chest, itching to escape. You know where this is going. He’s going to poke and prod, like always.

Provoke.

“Not the first time it’s happened,” you murmur, perfectly neutral.

Except for the way you’ve started tapping your finger against your thigh, completely unaware.

Sukuna drums his own fingers lazily against the steering wheel. The light turns green, but he doesn’t move right away — just looks at you again through the mirror, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

“You’re fidgeting,” he calls you out lightly, almost sweetly.

You freeze for half a second before forcing your hand still.

He notices, of course. He notices everything.

"Don't worry," he drawls. "You’ll get used to it.” You grimace when you hear him try and stifle a snicker pre-emptively, already bracing for whatever horrid thing he’s planning to say next.

“Being my good little girl,” he finally get the words out, clearly trying not to laugh, the exact way you’d intentionally say something overtly lewd to a friend just to get a rise out of them. You honestly don't even know where he picked up that kind of humor. 

And unfortunately it lands right where he wants it to—with you trying physically not to cringe as you finally snap your gaze to him, and the most fescennine grin plastered on his face.

"You are not funny," you bite out. “Just—Just don’t talk to me for the rest of this car ride, okay?”

Sukuna just chuckles, clearly proud of himself for that one, as he eases the car forward.

"You could have corrected her," he says, so casually it almost sounds kind. "You’ve tried before."

Except this time, his words aren’t completely coated in irony.

The cabin feels too small, the air too thick. Your skin crawls — not with revulsion, but with something worse.

Hunger.

Shame.

But you can play too.

So you shift in your seat, turning just enough to sneer at him.

“What — you want me to call you Dad while you’re fucking me or something?" you hiss, sharp and vicious.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t falter, not even a bit.

Instead, he just lets you stew in the filth of your own words, how terribly you’ve hit something that should have been left untouched.

And finally, after a very uncomfortable pause, he speaks smooth as ever, if it weren’t for that slight bite of mocking amusement in his voice.

“A little eager, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Your brow pinches as you open your mouth to respond.

Nothing comes out.

You just swallow, fists clenching and unclenching as your skin crawls.

“Oh, come on. You don’t have to act like you didn’t like it,” he says, reassuringly almost.

For a second you hesitate, eyes flicking away.

“….Did you?” you ask quietly.

Your gaze is trained firmly on the blur of scenery outside, but you catch the slightest tick of movement from him in the corner of your eye.

A swallow, or perhaps a tongue wetting his lip.

“And if I said I did?”

You lose your breath for a moment, like your lungs have filled up.

“I’d say… you’re sick,” you whisper.

Though your voice lacks conviction — it’s thick with something else, instead.

He smiles wryly, eyes trained firmly on the road. “Must run in the blood.”

Right.

Blood that brims with something unnatural, something that should’ve been weeded out long ago.

Something that still exists there, undeniably in him and you.

Something that makes a part of you want to push this further — a morbid sort of curiosity, perhaps.

“Would you…” The words die on your tongue and you swallow, trying again. “Would you still feel the same about me… if I was your daughter?”

A loaded pause.

“I hope not.”

And for a second you’re taken aback by how sincere the answer is, the way there’s traces of something else in the way he says it as well— something you’d only be able to name as self-loathing, if you didn’t know any better.

His knuckles flex on the steering wheel — the only sign he’s not entirely immune to the ugliness spilling between you.

"You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Having an excuse for how fucked up you are."

You flinch, just slightly.

He notices.

"You could just blame it on me," he continues, almost pleasantly. "Say it wasn’t your fault. That you never stood a chance."

The headlights from an oncoming car streak across his face, and for a moment you catch a flash of something in his eyes.

Not guilt or regret, exactly.

Something meaner, like he’s daring you to be disgusted — with him, with yourself, with everything in between.

“I chose this,” you remind him evenly. “Even if it… bothers me. It’s as much my fault as it is yours. You know that.”

He stays silent, and you think it’s over then, right about to pull away to drown in the onslaught of emotions threatening to come up, when he speaks again.

He exhales slowly, like the admission scrapes his throat raw.

"I guess I would feel the same about you, in some respects, though."

“Such as?”

“I’d still see the other things in you that I see now — that you have a good head on you…You can go further than any of this fucked up family’s gone before, if you really wanted to.”

There it is—that reminder that it’s not just something ugly and fetid between you and him.

It twists inside you painfully, something sharp, embedded much deeper than it should be.

 

The rest of the drive is silent, even as he pulls into the large driveway and you step out of the car.

The door swings shut behind you with a muted click as you move on instinct, peeling off your shoes, stepping into the kitchen like you have some kind of plan.

You don’t.

You hear him behind you, the soft scrape of his shoes against the entryway floor, in the dark.

You’ve never liked the ceiling lights and this is the first time you’ve realized he doesn’t turn them on anymore when you’re around.

Instead you hear him moving and a soft click, before the home is bathed in the soft warm light spilling from the lamp beside the couch.

Sukuna lingers there — a heavy, quiet weight pressing against your back, even without touching you.

You mindlessly open the fridge, staring blankly into its hollow fluorescent gut.

There’s nothing you want inside.

You shut it again, a little too hard.

The sound is too loud in the silence, like everything else tonight.

You steal a glance over your shoulder, trying to be casual, but your body betrays you — stiff, wound too tight.

Sukuna’s still there. Watching.

His jacket is off now, dropped carelessly on the couch, abandoned like something he doesn't plan to pick back up.

You look away first, like you always do.

The countertop is cool against your palms as you press them flat onto the surface, grounding yourself, pretending there’s nothing clawing at the inside of your chest.

Not hunger, not fear…

What is there to say even? The silence seems loud enough as it is, weighed down by the weight of everything that’s already been said.

Of the rest that’s been left unsaid.

The sound of his footsteps come up behind you, the hairs at the back of your neck prickling, before the slightest brush.

His hand, reaching past you and grazing your hip like an afterthought as he grabs a glass from the counter.

You flinch, barely, but you’re sure he notices.

Still you stay facing the counter, breathing shallowly, pretending to ignore him, pretending you don’t feel him standing just a few feet behind you, close enough that the heat of his body mingling with yours.

Seeping into you, clouding your mind further.

It eases, just slightly, when he moves away to fill water from the sink, the squeak of the faucet slicing through the thick atmosphere, the quiet sounds of him swallowing.

A clink as he finishes, setting the glass back on the counter by you.

And once again the proximity of his presence closes around your throat.

For a second it’s silent. You think he’s going to leave.

But then his voice cuts through the silence, low and impossibly soft.

“Look at me.”

Your hands tighten on the counter edge, but you don’t turn. You can’t read his voice — if it’s gentle or if its something dangerous, and you feel a bit too fragile to find out which one it is right now.

There’s no reason for you to feel as tense as you do right now, you reason with yourself.

So, as if to prove a point to yourself, you let go — slowly, like prying yourself apart — and turn. He’s closer than you thought.

Sukuna stands there, eyes heavy-lidded, smoldering with something that makes your blood run hot.

Then like it's the most natural thing in the world, he reaches out.

Fingers ghosting lightly against your wrist in a fleeting, almost delicate touch.

He turns your hand over, slow, deliberate, like he’s inspecting something breakable, traces the veins threaded beneath your skin.

Your heart stutters against your ribs, but just when you think you might just able to keep yourself together he murmurs, in an offhand tone almost like an afterthought, “You looked beautiful tonight.”

Intentional or not, his words splinter the last barrier inside you, and finally it collapses.

One second you’re standing there, breathing the same charged air, the next your hands are in his shirt, fisting the fabric, dragging him down to you. Your mouth crashes into his, messy and furious, all teeth and desperation.

A low sound rumbles from deep in his chest, something dark, approving, and then he’s gripping your waist to pull you flush against him so hard it hurts.

You feel completely, utterly, sick with desire, and somehow nothing has ever felt so good. He tastes like smoke and something bitter, and you take it gladly, gasping against him as he backs you up roughly, pinning you between his body and the counter.

Your nails drag down his chest through the fabric, vicious and aching for more.

Sukuna hisses through his teeth, a sound that’s more pleasure than pain, and he roughly shoves his tongue deeper into your mouth like he’s punishing you for it.

Then he pulls back, breathing heavily before putting some more space between your bodies though his hands stay on your waist.

“Jump.”

“Huh?”

“Jump up. I’ll catch you.”

You can’t help the small giggle that escapes you. “Seriously?”

But you tense and jump anyways, wrapping your legs around him as he catches and holds you in place.

“Yep, seriously,” he murmurs as your lips find their way back to his.

You don’t even realize he’s moving with how far gone you are in kissing him hungrily, nipping his lips till they swell, until he’s suddenly throwing you onto the bed.

The air rushes out of your lungs as you hit the mattress, bouncing slightly.

“Turn around.”

You swallow, moving to turn and get on all fours in front of him, the hem of the dress riding up your thighs slightly.

Soon his hands are on your hips, palms roaming the curve of your ass, squeezing a globe of fat harshly enough to make you wince into the mattress.

Sukuna’s fingers skim lower to the hem of your dress before bunching it up above your hips.

“You’re gonna take it like this. Wearing this sexy dress I bought you, dripping for me,” he murmurs.

Your breath hitches slightly when you feel his fingers rubbing against your folds through the soaked lacy fabric of your panties. Finally he slides them to the side, uncovering your cunt already wet and aching for him.

And for the first time you don’t flinch in the slightest at being exposed to his gaze—instead you bask in it. Of being seen by him, your cunt throbbing where you can practically feel his eyes.

You arch further, spurred on by the low noise of approval he makes before his thumb dips between your folds, gliding along the slick heat.

“Fuck, you’re soaked. Probably already made a mess of those new panties, huh?” he purrs while you practically tremble with need.

He finally lets you feel the weight of his own hunger when he presses his clothed bulge against you, a throat groan escaping him as he grabs your ass to grind your pussy rougher against his hardness.

You bite your lip, moaning softly at the friction, chasing more of it until you’re unable to hold back any longer.

“God just put it in already… Don’t need to prep me,” you mumble into the mattress, against your better judgement.

You’re not nearly used to him enough to take him like that without something tearing.

You simply receive a light spank to your ass before he pauses and hums like he’s thought of something new, palm now rubbing over where he just smacked you.

“Honestly I wasn’t going to, just because of all your teasing tonight. But…” He grins deviously. “Now I have to.”

You scrunch your nose, lifting your head to turn around and peer at him. “Do you always have to be like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like—ugh! You know what I mean.”

He hums dismissively before smacking your ass again, making you hiss not out of pain, but out of annoyance. “Sit up.”

You do, but not without shooting him another glare.

“That’s it.” He guides you till you’re seated at the edge of the bed, legs spread till your dress rides up.

You watch carefully as he kneels on the ground between your knees, till your halfway covered cunt is in his face.

“Should I…take them off?” you ask hesitantly, feeling even more wetness slip out from your entrance in anticipation.

“No. Keep them on. We’ll just do it like—“ he shifts the damp fabric of your panties fully to the side. “—this.”

You breathe deeply, trying to keep yourself steady despite the need practically buzzing under your skin.

Your deep breathing exercise is promptly undone when he presses his lips to your cunt, his hands keeping your legs pried apart.

And as he gives you the first drag of his tongue, all the way up to your clit, his gaze flicks up to your eyes. Sharp, unwavering, carefully watching your reactions—watching you.

You’re not sure why it makes your face burn, clit throbbing harder under his tongue.

He licks you again before pressing his lips all the way against you, parting your folds with his tongue to dip inside, sliding against the sensitive inner flesh.

You gasp, breath shallow and uneven as he eats you out—thoroughly. By some point you’re pretty sure his tongue has laved across your folds, dipped into every single crevice, with an obscene kind of fervor. Like he wants you to start coming undone till the point the last vestiges of any shame finally melt away entirely and you lean back on your hands, tilting your pelvis further into his mouth.

You have no idea what he’s doing—if there’s any discernible rhythm at all. Not like you’d be able to tell anyway with the way you’re trembling and whimpering, drowning in all the wet, warm sensations between your thighs.

It builds in your clit like the most frustrating yet blissful itch, climbing towards your orgasm. Your cunt feels hot, so do your eyeballs from some reason. Your mouth dry from the way you’ve been panting through parted lips.

And the sheer mess he’s made….even his lips glisten with wetness, a combination of your arousal and his saliva, mouth completely coated in slick. The wet squelches as he tongues your cunt, running up and down your clit, massaging it.

He looks filthy. And beautiful.

Your hand shoots out, trying to grab on his hair, his head, him—

He catches your wrist and pauses.

You freeze too at the sudden loss of sensation, looking down at him in desperate confusion.

Slowly he lowers your arm back onto the bed, lifting his lips away just to warn you, “Hands to yourself.”

In the delicate state he’s unraveled you into, you just obediently do as he says, breathing labored as you tilt your hips up again, a silent plea for him to continue.

His lips are a mess. Your pussy is a mess. Even the inside of your thighs are all smeared with fluids. And of course the thin strip of your panties that was pushed to the side, is entirely soaked.

He gives you one more stern glance before sealing his wet lips back onto your cunt to resume. It doesn’t take long till you get to the point you were at before he stopped, whining and squirming, much more bothered by your panties than you expected, even if they weren’t in the way.

And in your desperation, you give in, pulling away a little with a small, “Wait—“

He lets you until he catches sight of you trying to slide your panties off, hungry to feel fully exposed to him.

Immediately his eyes narrow as he swats your hand away. “Tch. Dumb girl,” he chastises. “Can’t follow simple, basic instructions.”

You pout just slightly at his scolding, though you try your luck anyways. “Please?”

“No means no,” is all he tells you till his tongue is back in your cunt, and you forget whatever you were going to say.

Once again you build up near your peak, the most pathetic little noises falling from your lips.

You don’t care.

By now your hole is seeping copious amounts of slick with the amount of times he’s unintentionally edged you, your cunt sloppy and sticky, clit throbbing for release.

And this time—god bless—you finally feel yourself reaching your orgasm till it actually hits. You gasp, cunt clenching and fluttering in contractions from how intense your orgasm is.

“Ah—hh!” your broken cries come until you feel yourself coming down, breathing hard as he pauses, lifting his face away from your pussy.

There’s momentary satisfaction. And unfortunately that satisfaction unlocks another kind of need—this one, inside your walls.

“Fuck, I need you in me, please—“

“Not yet.”

“What?! Why?!” you question him.

He just grins —face glistening with fluids and all. “It’s foreplay,” he answers smugly, lowering himself back between your thighs.

Foreplay? This is torture.

You shiver when he sticks his tongue out to press the flat of it against your folds. Slowly he licks a wide, stripe up through the center of you.

Not enough to make your clit swell up again with renewed interest, but certainly enough to worsen the ache to feel some part of him inside you.

“What about…” You swallow thickly. “What about just fingers?”

He looks up at you pausing.

And then he *laughs—*meanly, condescendingly—till you burn in humiliation.

Even worse, he apparently considers your plea so dumb he doesn’t even bother responding to it, just going back to lap at your pussy.

You don’t know what to do at this point so you try and snap your legs close.

Some urge to just suffocate him, maybe.

You do manage it, but not for long. He wrenches your thighs open again so easily you don’t even know why you thought it would be of any use at all, trying to close them.

With a defeated sob, you collapse back into the bed, despising how frustratingly good his tongue still feels caressing your cunt, even as he denies you what you really want.

Maybe you can wait him out—surely at some point his jaw would get too sore, tongue too tired, right?

Twenty minutes, two more forced clitoral orgasms later, and you’re a mess—writhing, trembling, crying. So wet that some of its dripped down onto the bedsheets—and he’s still going.

Unfortunately the man has stamina. And you don’t have the endurance to withstand it anymore.

Even with every slight flinch each time the tip of his tongue rolls over your overstimulated clit, it doesn’t compare to the ache of feeling empty.

Fresh tears well in your eyes, skin stinging for some reason where trails of old tears are half dried on your face.

“Please,” you whimper. “No more…I need you to fuck me.”

There’s a sliver of hope when you feel his lips part from the mess he’s made between your thighs.

He hums, contemplating. “Say it like you mean it.”

You choke on another sob. “Please, fuck me! I don’t know how else to say it…”

There’s a sharp, wet sound when he smacks your cunt, right on your sensitive clit. You yelp and jolt, he just snickers.

“God you’re so pathetic. It’s adorable,” he purrs as fresh tears well in your eyes. How terribly well he’s ruined you.

And you must truly look pathetic, because he finally relents with a pitying sigh, standing back up to undo the buckle of his belt. “Go on, then. Show me how much you want it—arch like a slut.”

You don’t need to be told twice; you’re already scrambling to turn over, getting onto all fours despite the shakiness in your legs, before dropping your arms and burying your face in them.

Frankly you’ve never actually done it in this position before, so you just pray you’re doing it right. You wait, breath held as you hear him undoing his belt, the pull of his zipper so he can free his cock.

Your drenched panties are barely covering anything at this point—just sticking obscenely to the folds of your pussy—but you don’t dare try and slip them off without his permission.

“Mm.” His hand presses down between your shoulder blades. “A bit lower, ass higher.”

You adjust like he tells you, sure you’ll wake up with a sore back tomorrow morning.

“There you go. Good girl.”

You feel the fabric of your panties shifted all the way to side again, able to physically make out how sticky your cunt is when it’s exposed to the air.

Then, his blunt tip pressing into you as he grips your hip to keep you steady.

That’s the only warning you get before he pushes into you in a single thrust. You gasp and buck your hips a bit from the sudden pressure of being filled and the burn of your walls stretching around him.

It still hurts, but certainly not as much as last time.

Except this time Sukuna doesn’t give you a single second to adjust before he begins taking, length pulling out and pushing back into you while he groans deeply. And unlike last time as well, your own pleasure flares up almost immediately when he begins fucking into you, hitting that place deep inside that’s been practically waiting for his cock again since you felt it there the first time.

The noises of raw fucking fill the room, your own cries being somewhat muffled by the mattress your face is smushed into.

“S-So good, feels… so fucking good,” you choke out between thrusts that rock your entire body.

One of his hands crawls your body, wrapping around your throat to lift your face out of the mattress, bowing your spine almost painfully.

“Let me hear those pretty little sounds from that filthy mouth,” Sukuna rasps into your ear, his breath hot and steady, savoring this far more than he should. His nose skims across your hairline, almost tender. And if you weren’t already drowning in sensation, if your thoughts weren’t so fragmented, you might have caught it—that thread of something sinister crawling through his voice.

“Hm… what was it you said earlier, sweetheart?”

Your breath catches. The muscles in your thighs clench instinctively, your body attempting to brace against something it can’t name. But it’s no use. Another thrust of his cock knocks the air out of your lungs, shattering the coherence of thought before it can form.

“I think it was about-“

“D-Don’t—” you whisper desperately, the plea cracked and uncertain.

“—calling me something while I’m fucking you? Well,” he breathes, nipping the shell of your ear, “I’m fucking you now, aren’t I?”

Even under the pleasure you sense discomfort blooming, shame knotting tight in your chest.

You try to shake your head, a choked sound escaping you, but Sukuna just laughs under his breath, pace slowing just a bit.

“Come on,” he coaxes, disturbingly gentle as he tilts your head further back to meet your glossy eyes. “You were so mouthy earlier. Don’t go shy on me now.”

You know he remembers the look on your face in the car—the hesitation, the panic. And you know what he’s doing now.

Amongst other things you’ve learned about your uncle since he’s entered your life, is that he’s not free of shame like many seem to think. That would be too clean.

No — Sukuna feels shame. But he doesn’t flinch from it.

He wields it, like a blade honed for cutting others deeper than it ever cut him.

You turn your head, try to look anywhere except him, but his grip follows you and slides firm up to your jaw, guiding you back to his gaze like the most cruel kind of reverence.

And under the glaze of lust in his own eyes, there’s something sharp, like he’s dissecting you.

“I was… just trying to… piss you off,” you whisper desperately between pants.

Sukuna hums, slowing down a bit more to just grind his hard length inside you, his tip pressing into your cervix.

But then his mouth curves into something sharper and he pulls out nearly all the way just to slam back into you so brutally, a wail spills from your lips.

“You did a hell of a lot more than just that, sweetheart.”

He begins rutting into you harder, balls slapping against your clit as he hooks a thumb into your mouth to pull your head further back.

“Say it,” he orders, voice cold now. “Show me what a sick little thing you really are.”

You try to mouth out a word of defiance around his finger fish hooking you, but it comes out as just another pitiful noise, indistinguishable from all the other ones that you’re already making.

You burn all over, even the tears falling from your eyes feel like too hot on your skin. Somehow his cock must really be fucking you stupid because a twisted thrill runs through you at all of it, one that runs down your spine till your walls flutter around him.

And the lesser part of you finds yourself aching for his praise again, to just please him and give him what he wants, despite the perverse feeling rising thick and sticky in your chest like black tar.

“Please,” You choke on something. “F-Fuck me harder Dad, oh god—”

It slips out like bile in your throat, something so shameful and depraved that you’ll never be able to think about it again without your skin crawling.

And the moment it slips out he stills just slightly, before moaning low and absolutely filthy, hips snapping forward with a newfound intensity.

“There it is, baby. Wasn’t so—hah—hard was it?”

Sukuna’s hand lifts from your throat, sliding down your body instead as he leans over to trail kisses down from your neck to between your shoulder blades, over the soft fabric of your dress.

Gods, it feels dirty. And lovely at the same time.

Your moans come as high, broken whines, wailing into the sheets, his length gliding much more smoothly with the amount of arousal drooling out of your pussy.

He’s panting heavier now too, the uneven rise and falls of his chest against your back caging you in as he gropes your ass cheeks.

For a second you feel him pause, maybe even grab something from the dresser next to the bed by him.

“What…are you doing?” you mumble.

Sukuna just shushes you, thrusts slowed down to a languid drag of his cock in and out of your wet heat.

Then he pulls out all the way, leaving you dazed and painfully empty, before hooking his fingers around the waistband of your panties and sliding them down all the way to your knees.

“I would have raised you better, you know…” he murmurs almost casually as one large palm grips your ass cheek to spread it, giving him full access to your other hole.

Whatever little bravado you’d built up earlier immediately dissipates, given that you’re not entirely used to doing anything with your asshole, which still more or less remains as uncharted territory.

“Would’ve taught you how to take it up the ass like a good daughter…”

“God, s-stop saying shit like that! It’s turning me off,” you snap in mortification.

“You wish it was,” he laughs cruelly and you gasp at an unexpected sensation on the tight rim of your hole.

Cold, wet, slimy almost.

Lube.

Not even his cock pushing back inside you can dissuade the anxiety brewing in your mind now.

There is simply, and absolutely, no way he can fit inside there without severely injuring you.

Sukuna smears the lube across your hole with his thumb, the unfamiliar area now seemingly even more sensitive.

“What… What’s that for?” you finally ask nervously.

You think you might hear him laugh under his breath again, but his voice comes steady, if not a bit rough with lust as he slides in and out of you a bit faster.

“Relax. It’ll be just one finger. If it feels too uncomfortable, I’ll stop. Alright?”

Just a finger.

You hesitate for a second, swallow, then nod. “Okay…”

“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs, still moving slowly in and out of your cunt as the pad of his thumb grazes your rim like he’s testing the temperature of water, before pressing a little more insistently against your entrance.

You jerk a little despite yourself—not because it hurts, but because it feels so strange.

Inhale, exhale. Relax.

Sukuna mutters something you don’t quite catch, and his finger lifts momentarily for you to feel something wet drip onto your hole.

A shiver runs through you when you realize it’s his spit, but soon his thumb returns, pushing just slightly inward,

It doesn’t slip in at first. Your body resists on instinct, tight and unsure.

“Breathe,” he says quietly, almost like an order.

You do.

And this time, his finger sinks in just a little—barely a knuckle—but it’s enough to make your whole body tense. There’s no pain yet but it feels impossibly tight, like you’re clenching around something that isn’t meant to be there.

Your breath hitches.

Sukuna waits — even his cock buried deep inside you has stilled.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t push deeper.

His other hand strokes slowly down your spine. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”

Words that shouldn’t make you feel as hot as they do.

You hide your face in your arms, panting, trying to adjust to the new sensation of something inside both of your holes.

He curls the finger very slightly, testing your reaction.

It sends a strange jolt through your body—half discomfort, half pleasure, like something that’s never been touched before is waking up inside you.

“Still with me?” Sukuna asks.

You nod, unable to speak.

Your body is still learning what to do—how to open, how to take—but somehow you feel safer trying it with him than you could’ve imagined with anyone else.

He hums in satisfaction, then starts moving his cock inside you again. Slowly the pace builds, and along with it are gentle movements of his finger inside your tight asshole, all the friction building and blending into a sublime ecstasy.

This feels close. Intimate. Him exploring your body in ways you never thought you would permit anyone to do so.

That alone is enough to spark a new kind of pleasure.

“More, p-please,” you croak out as you arch your spine further, inviting him to go deeper in you.

His hips rock harder, though the pressure in your ass doesn’t change.

“Greedy girl,” he hisses through his teeth, massaging your inner wall with gentle movements as he breathes thickly behind you. “You’ll get hurt.”

“Don’t care, I can take it—”

“No,” he grits out, “Just—fuck— just shut up!”

Sukuna’s weight shifts above you, the heat between your clothed bodies no less restrained by the fabric as he bends over, till his face is next to yours, close enough you can make out the faint striations in his blazing irises.

Then his lips are claiming yours, the thrusts of his cock becoming sloppier as his body tenses, trying to push as deep as he can inside you.

He gives one last thrust before he starts spurting ropes of cum, pressing into you as his cock twitches and empties his balls into your waiting cunt. And the sensation of it sends you over edge, hurtling, biting harshly on his tongue as he swallows your cries. Both your holes clench, the walls of your cunt spasming around his length as your orgasm rips through your body. They contract so tightly he has to grip your hips just to keep your muscles from inadvertently pushing his cock out before he finishes cumming in you. Another rush of warmth—your own, this time—fills your channel, mixing with his cum till your combined fluids trickle out of your hole, covering his cock as it gives a final pump.

He stills, cock still plugged inside your swollen pussy as little aftershocks run through your body. Finally, he retracts his bleeding tongue from your mouth, leaving only the tang of iron and his warm breath mingling with yours.

First the thumb in your ass slides out, and then slowly he lifts himself off you to pull his cock out of your dripping cunt with a wet pop.

You lay there for a second — collapsed, flushed, breath slowing. Spent.

But you already know what he’s about to say.

“I’m not showering,” you mutter before he can open his mouth. “I already did before we left.”

There’s the sound of his pants being pulled back on, the metallic clink of his belt — though instead of threading it through the loops again, he just slips it off entirely and tosses it aside.

“At least go pee,” he says, tone brisk, familiar. That low, authoritarian edge he slips into too easily. “You need to make that a habit after sex.”

Despite yourself — despite everything — amusement bubbles in your chest. You sit up slowly, tugging your dress down, pulling your panties back into place. The post-coital ache between your thighs still hums, but there’s something bizarrely normal about this moment, too.

Not normal, no.

Just a vague acceptance of roles that should never overlap — caretaker, disciplinarian, lover.

Sukuna watches you closely, eyes narrowing as he catches the tiny smirk playing at the corner of your lips.

“What’s funny?” he asks, already suspicious. “I’m serious. You’re going after I’m done in the bathroom. And if you tell me there’s nothing in there, I’m making you drink water until there is.”

You snort, soft and tired. “Alright, alright. I’ll go. Stop lecturing me.”

He looks like he wants to snap back some quick, sharp retort, but instead, he just exhales through his nose, shakes his head, and heads for the bathroom.

You sit at the edge of the bed, feeling the fluids seep out from between your thighs. You just let them.

Finally he comes back, crosses his arms and gives you a stern look. “Go.”

With a sigh you try to stand, but your legs tremble so unsteadily beneath you, you nearly fall back on the bed. But Sukuna’s already at your side, holding you up. “Careful. Want me to carry you?”

“No,” you stubbornly refuse. With a deep breath you stand again, noting how oddly shaky your legs are. This time, you keep yourself steady.

“I’m good, I got it,” you say, pushing him off you gently.

Sukuna once again looks like he wants to say something, but he lets you go, watching carefully as you shuffle awkwardly to the bathroom.

You ignore how your thighs stick uncomfortably as you walk in, don’t bother turning on the main light, just flick the dim one by the mirror and sit down, elbows on your knees, head hanging.

It’s too quiet.

You hear the faint creak of floorboards just outside the door—he hasn’t walked away. Of course he hasn’t.

When you finish and step out, he’s there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Watching you.

“All good?”

You nod.

He doesn’t move right away. Then he hums, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you close like it’s nothing.

“Come on. Let’s get to bed.”

You glance up at him. “Do I have to wear my pajamas?”

A corner of his mouth twitches. “No.”

And just like that, you’re tucked into his bed, bare skin pressed to his. The scent of him—warm, familiar, faintly bitter—wraps around you like smoke.

You lie there, still for a moment. His hand rests loosely on your waist, thumb brushing lazy arcs against your skin.

It’s quiet again, but different from before. Softer.

You shift slightly, curling toward him until your forehead brushes his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand tightens—just briefly—like an involuntary response. You feel the beat of his heart under your cheek, steady and slow, and you fight the urge to open your mouth and lick or kiss his skin.

“Are you sleeping?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“No.”

You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. Typical.

“Want me to sing you a lullaby?”

“Definitely not.”

Stillness in lieu of you saying something back is interrupted by a sharp pinch in your abdomen, followed by a tense of your body.

Sukuna notices, lifting his head away slightly to peer at you in the dark. “Everything alright?”

You take a deep breath. The pain felt like a period cramp, but you aren’t due any time soon.

Another pinch. It only tightens when you shift a bit uncomfortably.

“I, uh…. I’m getting cramps.”

He pauses, the hand on your waist going still.

“Bad?” he asks after a beat.

You wince a little. “Kind of. Not period cramps, I don’t think. Just… sharp.”

“You probably didn’t drink enough water. Or I fucked you too hard.”

You groan lightly. “God, don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” he says, completely unapologetic. “You were trying to tell me to go harder too.”

Suddenly his weight lifts away from you as he moves to sit up, turning on the light on the dresser.

“Don’t need painkiller,” you mumble, already aware of what he’s up to as you squint your eyes in the light. “It’s manageable.”

“I don’t know why you act like you’re gonna get an award for suffering.” He dispenses two tablets and hands them to you along with the water bottle. “Sit up and just take the damn Advil.”

You grumble a bit under your breath but sit anyways, the sheets falling off the curves of your bare chest as you take the medicine.

You swallow the pills and hand back the bottle, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Sukuna sets it on the nightstand, watching you with that unreadable look he gets sometimes—like he’s cataloging your reactions for later, like he knows you better than you know yourself.

You lie back down with a quiet sigh, and he shifts beside you, drawing the covers up over both of you again.

“Happy now?” you murmur, eyes already fluttering closed.

You feel him shift again behind you, his hand smoothing down your side before tugging gently at your hip. “Uh-huh. Roll over.”

“Why?”

“Roll over,” he repeats, already guiding you gently to your side with one hand. The other slides to your lower stomach, warm and steady through your skin.

His hand comes to rest low on your abdomen, palm warm, fingers pressing just enough to soothe without hurting.

He’s quiet for a long moment as he works, the motion slow, steady. Not mechanical. Careful, even, as he gently kneads and massages the area.

“Unnecessary,” you mumble again though the sensation undeniably relaxes you, pulling your body further into the lull of sleep.

“Shut up and let me help,” he mutters back.

Your eyes flit closed, your breath deepens. The room falls into that hush where affection and exhaustion blur.

And now, in the stillness of his bed and the weight of his hand on your stomach, you feel it—not as pain, not yet. Just the faintest shiver beneath the comfort, a shadow forming behind the warmth.

In this comfort of the memory, a single seed of grief has been quietly planted.

You don’t name it, you don’t even let yourself acknowledge it yet.

But somewhere inside you, something starts to ache—gently, stubbornly, like your body knows before your mind is ready.

You’re past the halfway mark. Less than three months left.

And all of this—his bed, his touch, his closeness—is already beginning to taste like a memory.

 

* * *

 

You wake up expecting shame from the things that transpired the night before.

From the nature of what was said.

It doesn’t come then, or even later.

Instead there’s an odd…lightness. Like all the ugliness served as the cathartic release of something unwanted that would’ve otherwise grown like a tumor.

He doesn’t mention that part, and neither do you.

Something resolved for once, even if in its own convoluted way.

And as things between you and him go, you find yourself more eager on poking at his mind.

Few people in your life have ever been such a delight to trouble.

It starts off tame, as usual. You’re being unusually quiet — though Sukuna can still feel the impish hum of mischief radiating off you like static.

He doesn’t question it, hoping you’ll stay quiet.

You don’t.

You set your tea down with theatrical care, stretching your arms. “Couldn’t help but glance at a few of those files in your room.”

His hand pauses over the coffee pot for a fraction of a second — not enough for most people to notice, but you do.

He side-eyes you. “What files?”

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Something about that business trip to Hokkaido. You remember. The one you said was ‘routine.’”

His expression doesn’t shift, but you see it in the way his fingers curl a little tighter around the mug. “You already know I’m up to shady shit. What’s new.”

“Maybe the part where it looked like you got too close to someone you really shouldn’t have,” you say, your voice vague but deliberate, like you’re only half aware of what you’re implying.

Funnily enough, you’re not too sure what you’re implying either, but in his line of work “getting too close to the wrong people” can mean several things.

And like you hoped, it gets him.

The pause is heavier this time. He sets his mug down, the porcelain clinking hard against the table.

“You think I’d leave something like that lying around for you to find?”

Your smile sharpens. “No. That’s what makes this more fun.”

There’s a moment of silence, a slight narrowing of his eyes before he gives you a dry look. “Right. And what else was in this imaginary file.” He picks up his mug again, taking another sip, waiting to see what you’ll come up with.

“Some stuff about you.”

“Like?”

You bite your cheek, trying not to smile, attempting to keep your voice neutral. “That you watch a lot of sad movies. And that you used to box. And that your favorite food is hors d’oeuvres—”

Sukuna shushes you with a disapproving wave of his hand as you try not to laugh. “Enough. All of that is complete bullshit.”

“All of it?”

He stares at you. “Yes.”

“Even the boxing?”

His gaze turns suspicious. “What makes you think I used to box?”

Now you know he’s lying, testing to see how much you know.

And honestly it was just an educated guess — you’ve noticed the scars on the tops of his hands and knuckles, no matter how faded they may be. The way they seem to curl into a fist when he really feels pressured.

And just to confirm your theory, you’d abruptly clapped one of your hands near his face when you were sitting by him a few days ago.

Like you’d expected, he flinched—

And then scowled at you and asked you what the fuck your issue was.

Unbeknownst to him, he’d proven your guess, so you just stayed silent.

You sip your tea slowly, like you’re not watching him react. “Just a guess.”

He sets his mug down with deliberate care, a slow, muted tap against the wood this time. His fingers remain curled around the handle —the faint twitch of muscle betraying the thoughts forming behind his eyes.

“Mm. Good guess,” he says, voice so mild it sets your teeth on edge. “Almost as good as the one I made last week.”

You glance over. “What guess?”

He finally looks at you — cool, unreadable, eyes glinting like he’s already ten steps ahead. “Figured out your phone passcode.”

You go still, lips parting. His eyes drag towards the slight movement.

His face is impassive as ever. You think your uncle would probably be pretty good at poker, because his face alone tells you absolutely nothing about whether he’s bluffing or not.

So instead you try to think back if it’s possible he could’ve somehow gotten your phone password.

Unfortunately you’ve had the same password for the last…. well, ever since you first got the phone—1470963.

Not like you really even know the exact numbers; you just chose them because they make a pattern that’s easy to remember.

Maybe you typed it out in front of him too many times, and honestly you do leave your phone out in random places a lot.

The conclusion you come to is as unhelpful as any of his facial cues — maybe he’s lying, maybe he’s not.

And then just to stress you out even more while you’re in the middle of doing mental gymnastics, he casually adds, “Cute pics you’ve got in there. Very… expressive.”

Your blood goes cold, chest tightening. Because you do have things on your phone, things he would know better than anyone not to see. He’d never say directly either way.

Instead you stay calm on the outside. “Which ones?”

“You tell me.” He leans back in his chair like this is all hypothetical, like you’re just chatting. “Or maybe I’ll guess. You seem to like that game.”

“I didn’t peg you for the snooping type.”

“I’m not. You’re just sloppy.”

“Or you’re just bored,” you shoot back. “Can’t imagine someone like you has the time to scroll through selfies.”

His smirk grows, infuriatingly soft. “Selfies, huh?”

And because the silence stretches too long, and because it’s your turn to hold the knife, you say lightly, “Don’t tell me you were looking for nudes, uncle.”

That gets him — just a slight lift of his brow, but it’s enough. The use of that word is always loaded, especially when it comes with your quiet mockery.

“Not everything’s about your body, you know,” he murmurs lowly, before smiling again in that fiendish way. “Though if that’s what you’re worried about…”

“I’m not,” you say too quickly, voice dry.

He chuckles, slow and unbothered. “Mm. You talk big for someone who gets flustered this easy.”

“I’m not flustered,” you say, too evenly.

“Right.”

 

* * *

 

A few days later the home is quiet, the kind of silence that settles in after a long day. A low hum of some domestic cooking show plays from the TV.

Sukuna’s reading a file, one arm slung over the back of the couch, and you’re curled against his side, cheek resting lightly over the hem of his shirt.

His body is warm, solid. Comfortable, even if his attention isn’t on you.

Your fingers trace slow, absent-minded shapes along the side of his thigh.

For a while, neither of you speak.

Then, lightly you murmur, “I almost told someone about us today.”

The words come like breath, like nothing, but you feel the change in him immediately.

He doesn’t tense, not exactly. But the arm draped over the couch shifts slightly, like his whole body just recalibrated without moving an inch.

“Who?” he asks, voice measured.

You smile against his shirt. “A friend, asking me if I was seeing someone. Just almost slipped out.”

He says nothing.

You glance up, watching the side of his face. He’s still looking at the file, but his eyes aren’t moving anymore.

“Relax,” you say, voice low, teasing. “She probably didn’t even notice.”

You feel him breathe in slow and long through his nose.

And then he closes the file, sets it down on the coffee table, too deliberately, too carefully.

“You know that would’ve been a problem.”

“Thought you didn’t care what people think.”

“I don’t.” He turns his head slightly, finally meeting your eyes. “But I don’t like the mess.”

“Too late.” You smile, all edge now. “Should’ve considered that before you slept with your niece, don’t you think?”

That word still makes something flicker in his gaze. But he covers it fast—too fast.

And instead he melts back into an irritatingly casual demeanor. “Mm. Well I guess it won’t matter soon anyway?”

Your chest tightens a bit, a pinch of dread running through it. “What do you mean?”

He leans back, stretches a little more like he’s bored. “I mean I’m already seeing someone new. You’re gonna be leaving in a few weeks, right?”

The words plunge deeper than they should, cutting into something behind your ribs. Even though you know he’s fucking with you on purpose, it definitely hit a sensitive spot you would’ve rather left untouched.

You can’t help the stiffness of your spine, the way your mouth settles into a hard line. “You’re lying.”

Sukuna shrugs. “Believe what you want.”

“You don’t even look at anyone else.”

His mouth twitches—just barely—a sliver of a smile playing at the corner like he’s pleased it’s working.

“Doesn’t mean I won’t. This isn’t permanent, remember?” His hand brushes your hair back from your face, fingers lingering with a softness that feels more like mockery. You fight the instinct to slap it away, jaw clenched. “Just trying to be practical.”

You stay still, glaring, even as your chest compresses like something's caving in.

Logically, you know he’s lying. But emotions don’t understand the language of reason, and they react as though you’re being replaced.

Forgotten.

“Is she sweet?” you ask, voice brittle.

“Mm, she’s quiet. And she doesn’t lie for sport. Or play games with things she shouldn’t.”

Those things don’t hurt.

It’s the unsaid part that really stings—that this imaginary woman isn’t related to him by blood, and that means they have the opportunity for something real.

Uncomplicated.

Something you can never have, not with him anyway.

You’re not sure if he meant for it to hurt in that way, but either way, you’re effectively wounded all the same.

And yet at the same time you can’t blame him exactly, not when you started this game. You provoked and were bitten back— and you know better than anyone that Sukuna doesn’t play fair.

So instead you concede with a sigh, laying back against his chest, trying to push away the lingering hurt with the warmth of him.

“She doesn’t exist.”

Sukuna doesn’t answer right away, just lets his hand trail down your arm before curling loosely around your waist again.

“Neither did that file,” he says eventually. “Or that little slip up you were going on about, huh?”

You hum in response, not quite agreeing, not quite denying it. Your fingers start tracing idle shapes again, slower this time, gentler, as if trying to erase the sting of what just passed.

After a moment, he shifts slightly, reaching for the file and goes back to reading it like nothing happened.

 

* * *

 

Something shifts after that conversation.

Something he cracked open, probably unintentionally, during what was supposed to be one of your usual games.

It builds quietly, under your mind, only rearing its head a few days later.

You’re heading to bed when he tells you to come sleep, like always.

But this time, you shake your head.

“I’ll sleep in my own room tonight.”

Sukuna just looks at you for a long moment, then nods, simple and unreadable.

The next few nights, you toss and turn.

You lie awake thinking about college, about leaving.

About what your life is supposed to look like after this.

You imagine classes, a shitty roommate, some party in a few months where you're pretending to feel normal.

You wonder what future-you will think about all of this—if you’ll think about it at all.

You think about boys.

Whether you'll end up hooking up with someone your age.

Whether some cute guy will kiss you in a crowded dorm room with too-loud music.

Whether you'll ever be able to be touched like that by anyone else.

And the thought of anyone else's hands on you—not his—makes your stomach twist.

Makes something inside you go hollow and cold.

Sukuna doesn’t ask questions when after a few nights, you silently climb back into his bed like nothing ever changed.

 

Notes:

yes that part was uncomfortable but also kind of sexy to me SUE ME. anyways now that that's been "resolved" we can move onto slightly more lighthearted and still incestuous parts (but not in the faux dadcest way) ((well not too much at least))

Chapter 4

Summary:

cw: oral (m receiving)/deepthroating, degradation, ONE threaten of pissplay, somno kinda, anal play

wc: 13.9k

Notes:

don’t worry guys he doesn’t pee in your mouth im just weird abt him and i love him when he’s filthy

(if he did do it anyway it would taste good because Unc is well-hydrated)

Something’s shifted quietly, gently. Just beneath the surface.

Sukuna says nothing—not when you start waking up early just to make an extra cup of coffee for him along with your own just the way he likes it, not when you unload the dishwasher without a word, not when you stop asking for things altogether.

The little complaints, the teasing defiance, even the manipulative sweetness—it’s all gone quiet.

He watches, and waits, unsure if you’re playing at something or if it’s genuine.

He almost hopes it’s the former; he’d prefer the bite of a lie over the slow, dangerous burn of sincerity, and the sneaking suspicion of what that sincerity could mean.

A few nights pass like this, of quiet obedience and unasked affection. You wait for him to settle down before approaching—always in the evening, when he’s half-relaxed during his downtime.

Also the time when your touches aren’t as easily refused.

You’ve been initiating more, but not with urgency—with offerings.

Less teasing, more want.

And lately, that want often ends with your mouth around his cock—deeper, longer, until your jaw aches and your throat feels raw for hours after.

The first time you knelt in front of him like that, unsummoned, without a word, he looked down at you, the briefest flicker of surprise in his eyes. You’d waited, breath still, unsure if he’d reject you or perhaps mock you.

But all he said was, “You don’t have to ask.”

And that’s all it took for you to understand.

Tonight is no different.

He’s where you expected—sprawled on the couch, one arm draped along the backrest, a lowball glass in his hand, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers. His shirt is unbuttoned halfway, belt undone, like he hadn’t expected company but doesn’t mind it.

And of course he doesn’t bother to look up when you step in.

“You here to play housewife again, or just bored?” His voice is dry, unimpressed.

So he has been noticing.

The small, careful ways you’ve been better.

Quieter and more giving, like you’re trying to earn something, even if you haven’t admitted to yourself what.

You stay silent as you cross the room, till you’re right in front of him, before sinking to your knees between his legs.

You’re certainly learning to be bolder, more confident in how you express your desires to him.

But you’re still tearing down these walls, the ones that have been constructed over the span of years to shield your inner desires from direct view.

And so you bare yourself with all thoughts locked away and fleeting eye contact.

He finally looks at you—smoke curling from the corner of his mouth, gaze dark with a flicker of suspicion… or maybe amusement.

But he doesn’t stop you.

“Thought so,” he mutters, eyeing you. There’s a pause in which he watches as your hands slide up his thighs, tracing the muscle under his skin, before he adds, “You’ve been real fucking sweet lately. Quiet…Obedient. Practically trained.”

You’d think that should sound like a compliment but it doesn’t, not coming from his lips and how he says it.

“Not trained,” you correct quietly, laying your head down on one of his thighs, running your fingertips over the other one through the rough denim of his jeans.

“Maybe I just…want to be good to you,” you suggest.

Taking in the solidness of him under your cheek. The warmth. The traces of cigarette smoke that cling to his clothes.

“Be good to me,” he scoffs.

The clack of his glass being set on the side table, before he leans forward slightly, resting one arm on his knee as he brings the cigarette to his lips.

You can feel his eyes scrutinizing you.

“Bullshit. You want something don’t you?” he adds, voice dipping mockingly. “That why you’ve been so eager to have my cock shoved down your throat?”

You lift your eyes, throat tightening—but you keep your mouth shut.

It almost stings, the way he says it.

Like there’s no world where you could just want to be good to him. No version of you that isn’t difficult or manipulative.

It makes you wonder if you’ve ever been anything else in his eyes.

You don’t know how to tell him that maybe this isn’t about wanting something, but keeping some that already exists.

And maybe if you’re easier, if you can earn it…

Sukuna watches, and the smile he gives you doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“C’mon. Say something. Where’d that trashy little mouth of yours go?” he drawls. “That was half the fun.”

You reach for his fly in silence, ignoring whatever’s buzzing under the cloak you’ve thrown over all the thoughts stashed into the recesses of your mind, trying to focus on the present.

He lets you touch it, but only for a second. Then his hand closes around your wrist—not tight, but taunting. Deliberate.

“Playing dumb?” he asks softly. “Or did I really just fuck the fight out of you?”

A charged silence, as you offer nothing but an innocent peek up at him.

His brow ticks, eyes narrowing.

Without warning he leans in and exhales a drag of smoke directly into your face. Harsh and bitter as it invades your own nostrils.

A cruel kind of intimacy.

He watches your eyes water, watches the recoil you almost let happen.

But you swallow it down, staying kneeled there in place and just taking it. And his expression flickers—surprise, interest, deepened suspicion.

Hunger.

Because you both know how much you hate the smell of cigarette smoke, how you’d gripe about how the smell of it clung to everything.

And here you sit, taking it, as he blows it right into your face.

The air between you is practically humming, but you go back to undoing his fly with slow, practiced fingers.

The button slides open, then the zipper.

Despite his skepticism he’s still just a man—there’s a rather visible tenting in his slacks, straining free as you drag the zip down.

Sukuna watches you with a gaze that doesn’t soften. If anything, it sharpens the quieter you get.

“Really got nothing to say?” he mutters, voice cool and sardonic. “You used to talk back even when you were gagging on me.”

You tug his waistband low enough to finally free his length. To your private satisfaction you find he’s already erect—your silence clearly doing something to him.

Sukuna leans back, thighs spreading further apart as you take a second like always just to admire his cock. The sheath of skin already retracted to expose the shining tip, swollen and flushed red, the sheer size and girth of him.

“How far would you crawl now, huh? If I told you to open your mouth and keep it that way?” he casually muses, exhaling another drag of smoke, this time deliberately angled towards your face. “If I told you to take it like a hole instead of a person?”

You don’t break. Instead you wrap your fingers around his shaft, the heat thrumming under his skin, seeping into your palm, the familiar weight of it. When you lean forward and brush your lips against his base, it’s less eager and more intentional.

Borderline reverent.

His palm comes to rest against the back of your head, not pushing yet, but firm and steady like a claim.

And for all his taunting, all his goading, he lets you take your time on this part, like he always does.

It doesn’t go missed that the patience he graces you with as you hold his cock slightly to the side, leaning forward to brush your lips against inked muscled flesh on his inner thigh, is him indulging you and this little ritual of yours.

That while his cock leaks and probably aches with the urge to simply get straight to shoving himself in the warm crevice of your throat, you enjoy taking your time before, exploring his body to an almost unnerving degree, savoring his skin on your tongue— tasting the cloth you are both cut from.

That he isn’t a patient man by nature, especially not in the matters of his pleasure, that you know he’d much rather just take you now, and yet—

He doesn’t push as you drag him down with you to the crawling pace of this moment, as you flick your tongue up along his inner thigh, sucking and gently nibbling as you go. You lick along his groin, noting the subtle flex of his thighs under you as restraint coils tight under his skin, the slightest waver in his next breath like a shiver’s crawled up his spine and found release through his lips.

“I could ruin you right now… Slap you, spit on you—call you my personal cocksleeve, and you’d nod like it’s a fucking compliment.” His laugh is sharp, derisive, without a hint of mirth.

Another drag of his cigarette, slower this time. Less like mockery, and more like he’s filling this moment because it’ll all change the second you open your mouth.

“I could piss in your mouth right now, and you’d probably thank me,” he adds, with a scathing sneer.

On a worse day, you might have snapped back—maybe even bitten him—but now, even as his words scrape at you, you sense what lays beyond his cruelty. The edge of a warning, like he's testing limits he doesn't want to cross.

If only it was just about dominance, not something tangled and possessive that lets you have just this.

You breathe in slow and steady, your hand tensing lightly against his thigh as your mouth skims over the heat of his skin. Finally, your tongue settles at the base on the underside of his cock. With the tip of your tongue you trace the veins climbing his shaft leaving behind a wet trail—your careful touch a quiet offering in the charged stillness between you.

He offers no reaction besides the fixation of his gaze on you, but by the time your tongue drags up his frenulum, across the satiny flesh of his glans and into his slit, there’s precum already beading there.

You scoop it out with your tongue and swallow it like nectar.

Tastes like him—a flavour that’s grown on you so much that even feeling it coat your tastebuds sends heat pooling between your own thighs.

“I could take a photo. You, on your knees like this. Show it to your little friends or something,” he says idly.

This time your fingers on his thigh twitch.

He notices.

“There she is,” he says, darkly pleased. “Still hiding in there somewhere.”

Then without another word he presses down—almost rough.

And just like that you feel the last flickers of whatever patience he’s held onto so far snuff out, the chilling harshness quickly refilling that space.

You open for him, removing the hand curled around him to place it on his other thigh.

The stretch is familiar, heavy, your lips pulling wide and taut around him.

He watches you sink into it at your own pace, offering no help, no mercy—just waiting. The taste of smooth skin slides along your tongue as you focus on keeping your teeth out of the way, holding your jaw as wide open as possible.

And when your eyes finally lift to meet his, glazed and simmering with heat, he flashes you a mean smirk.

“Maybe you’re finally what I wanted all along—quiet and tolerable. Only opening your mouth to suck me off.”

You stare at him, taking a second to let your muscles adjust to the shape of him held down inside the damp warmth of your mouth and throat.

He clicks his tongue, disapproving. “Take it like a hole, remember?”

And now the hand on the back of your skull shoves you down all the way. Your throat constricts a little, nails digging into his thighs, eyes watering as the tip of your nose presses into the thatch of hair at his pelvis.

But you’re better at this now, so that’s the extent of your struggling.

Even when his grip stays firm, even when the tension in his thighs rises—subtle, but there—you stay where he holds you. Mouth full, breathing through your nose. Steady and composed.

Too composed.

You suppose he doesn’t like that, especially when his other hand brushes your cheek—knuckles first, almost gentle.

Almost.

But his eyes are borderline glaring into your glossy ones—still devoid of any hint of anger. You feel like he interprets your lack of any defiance as an act of rebellion itself, and you wonder when things became so backwards.

Or if maybe they were always like that.

He narrows his eyes, clearly unsatisfied with your lack of discomfort, that you aren’t really hurting for him the way he likes it.

You blink up at him.

There’s no answer he’s asking for, not one you can give like this.

He shifts his hips, only slightly—enough to test your balance, to see if you’ll gag, if you’ll falter.

You don’t. Your throat works around him, slow and practiced as you lave your tongue along his shaft, gathering spit on it till his length glistens and it slides in and out a bit smoother.

His thumb wipes at your swollen, slick lip. You taste salt, skin, the edge of something degrading in the way he drags it down your chin.

“You’re really gonna let me treat you like this?” he murmurs.

His voice sharpens, slicing through the air between you.

“Fine. Then don’t fucking flinch.”

His hand slips from your cheek to your hair, tightening, holding. It forces your head back just slightly, your jaw stretched around him till the ache flares in it, until your throat tenses and your eyes meet the gleaming crimson of his.

“You want to me to believe this little act?”

He grins wolfishly, all teeth.

“Then prove it. Take it. Stay quiet and still. No sounds, no tears, no fucking ego from you.”

He watches your lashes tremble, throat pulled tight around him, your eyes already glass with effort, and he smiles without a shred of warmth.

“Don’t give me a reason to miss your brattiness.”

He starts to move—slow at first, then harder, sliding back and forth in the tight channel with wet schlicks.

Not brutal yet, but steady and relentless—your eyes flutter shut, focusing on inhaling, exhaling through your nose, keeping your throat as lax as possible, trying to ignore the tight ache spreading from your jaw towards your temples.

“Uh-uh,” he snaps, giving your hair a sharp tug. “Eyes on me.”

You blink them open, breath catching. And he holds your gaze with a look that doesn’t soften—just burns—and you have to manually remind yourself to breathe through your nostrils again or this will become physically intolerable very fast.

A pause, before the smile twists back across his mouth, dark and dry. You swear you can feel his cock twitch in your throat as you stare into his pupils, blown out till black swallows nearly all the crimson.

A gaze that is sharp and unbearably present.

“There you go,” he rasps, swollen tip hitting the back of your throat over and over till it begins to feel raw. Strings of drool are beginning to drip from your lips, wet and tickling where they track down your skin. The messy sensation is discomfiting, like you’ve lost the autonomy to wipe it up and keep yourself clean.

His hand stays buried in your hair, guiding your rhythm like he owns every second of it.

And when you don’t let up—when you take it, take him, with tears pooling at the corners of your eyes and your hands still obediently steady against his thighs—

His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his breath comes harder.

A tear finally spills from your lash line.

And somehow, in the middle of his lust, he breaks into a fucking laugh. A scathing, derisory sound, deep in his throat.

“See, I knew it.” His thumb wipes away the droplet. “Honey, you’re not even good at being a little cocksleeve…toys aren’t supposed to cry,” he purrs, voice dripping in condescension, thumb tracing your wet lash line. “Leave this shit to the girls who actually know how to be used right.”

Your throat tightens, the throbbing behind your eyes sharp and hot, but you swallow it down—just like the rest. Like every sound you want to make, every flinch you refuse to let him see.

Though it hurts from the pressure building in your skull, to your neck beginning to ache from being bent back at this awkward angle—if you break now it’ll mean he’s right.

So instead you watch, borderline enraptured, in how shamelessly he takes his pleasure from you.

In the little knots of his brows knitting together as he gets closer, teeth clenched together.

Your eyes track the ink framing his face, dragging up to his furrowed brows, the double slits that mar the tail end of the left one.

But for whatever god forsaken reason, your eyes refill with tears and this time you can’t stop them from overflowing.

His eyes flick to the glistening drops rolling down, and for a second you think he’ll surely berate you for it.

He says nothing, though you catch a glint of something in the depths of his gaze—satisfaction maybe.

No words are exchanged now.

Just the obscenely wet shucking noises as he fucks your throat, the clicks of it working around him desperately.

And his breaths coming in harder, rougher.

You like that—hearing himself lost in the ecstasy of the filthy mess he’s making out of you, his skin slick with your saliva, some loose strands of hair sticking to your temples, others falling around your face.

As if, if you still manage to please him well enough he’ll forget how you’re soft—forget that you really can’t be perfect and unbreakable.

Maybe you’ll forget too, for a bit.

Until you feel his nails scraping your skin, carefully gathering the hair out of your eyes to hold them above your head and out of the way.

Whether to make your job easier or just so that he can see your lips wrapped around his length better, you don’t know, but the deliberation within the gesture sends something tumbling down from your chest into your stomach all the same.

You watch his lips part through glossy eyes, the streaks of half dried tears streaming down your cheeks itching a bit.

You’re sure he’s close from the tension winding through the muscles of his thighs all the way up to the set of his jaw and the furrow in his brow.

You’re reaching your limit too—the tightness aching and throbbing in your skull from how well you’ve kept your jaw open the whole time, even keeping your tongue soft and pliant as he pumps himself into you faster, thrusts with increasing vigor like he’s trying to leave permanent bruises on your soft palate.

Like he’s trying to mold your throat to the shape of him and his cock alone.

You let go, surrendering to the pain and pressure and discomfort of it all, allowing yourself to hurt and ache fully. You tighten your lips around him and suck as hard as you can through the ache, massaging the underside of his shaft with the bed of your tongue.

You don’t realize you’ve been whimpering slightly, every feeble noise distorted and muffled into choked noises with his crown pounding the tender flesh at the back of your throat. You’re more focused on the low, guttural growls vibrating from his chest and trying to fend off the gag reflex threatening to rise with the repeated abrasion.

The pressure on your scalp flares into a burning sting as he tightens his grip, using your hair to control your head, bobbing it up and down like a ragdoll. You clumsily slip your palm under his cock, cupping his balls in your palm, hot and heavy as the bounce with each motion.

The musk of skin, sweat, saliva, and precum makes your head swim feverishly, lids dropping heavy.

And you know for certain he’s about to cum when his balls tighten and lift in your palm and he abruptly shoves you all the way down onto his cock, till your lips are covering the rings tattooed around his base.

It’s hard to breathe with how forcefully he’s holding down your skull until finally his hips still.

When he cums it’s with a low low curse and a tight, sound from his chest as warm, viscous ropes are spurting into your gullet. You moan around his cock and try not to let up on the suction seal of your lips as he finishes, feeling it slide down your esophagus as he keeps you anchored by your hair. To keep you there through the last few seconds of it, through the raw, shaky exhale that leaves him slower than he probably wants it to.

His muscles lax, and you try to lift your head.

Sukuna doesn’t let you—instead he clicks his tongue, keeping himself fully sheathed in your throat.

“Swallow. I’m not letting you go till you do.”

You suppose you can’t exactly be mad about that considering the multiple previous occasions in which you’d settled on a new way to irritate him—especially since he was utterly unfazed by the shit you tried to pull that first time.

Though all it took to really get to him was the last time in which you simply grabbed a tissue and made a show of retching and spitting his cum out onto it.

All your efforts were very much rewarded in how pissed he got, though it did end in him making you lick it all back off the tissue. That part kind of sucked when you quickly discovered that cold cum is a lot more similar to raw egg whites than you’d like.

But you have no such intentions this time around, and so you swallow around him till it’s gone down all the way.

He hums when he feels it, finally sliding his softening cock from your mouth, still slick with your spit.

“Good girl.”

His hand finally eases from your hair to tuck himself back in, but the astringent aftertaste of him lingers at the back of your tongue.

You breathe—shuddering, sore, your throat raw—but before you can move, his fingers catch your jaw, forcing your head back, tilting your face up toward him.

“Open.”

The command is low and flat, the kind that leaves no room for refusal.

It’s not with hunger when he leans in as you part your lips, gaze sharp and cutting as usual—it’s with scrutiny.

Checking something, it seems.

His thumb presses at the corner of your mouth, dragging your lip down to expose the sensitive skin inside, the curve of your teeth.

His forefinger dips inside next, pressing against your soft upper palate, and you sit there, letting him probe around in your mouth searching for who knows what.

“Tch.” A quiet, dissatisfied sound in his throat.

“Stupid girl,” he mutters, thumb ghosting over your spit-slick bottom lip. “It’s like the one time I don’t keep reminding you to breathe, you forget how to do it right.”

But his voice is quieter now. The edge of cruel amusement is gone, leaving only this cold, exacting assessment—making sure you haven’t broken entirely.

Because if anyone ruins you, it won’t be carelessness. It’ll be him, on purpose.

His thumb traces your jawline, pausing where the hinge aches. A faint, thoughtful press.

“No tears,” he murmurs. “Not too much swelling. You’ll live.”

Then his palm slides around the side of your face, heavy and possessive. He pulls you forward, forcing you to rest against his thigh where the warmth of him seeps through, where you can feel the press of him still half-hard in his undone slacks.

"Sit," he says lowly. "Stay here a minute."

Not a suggestion, but you melt into it anyway.

He reaches for the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, like nothing happened, taking a slow drag as his other hand lazily cups the side of your skull, thumb tracing the curve of it.

Sukuna says nothing else, especially not about what this is really about.

And you’re grateful because you know he notices, that he never misses these kinds of things.

But if he doesn’t name it, maybe you don’t have to either.

So you stay folded against his thigh, trying to breathe through the ache in your throat, the damp heat in your lashes, letting him idly caress your head.

Times like this the air is thick, dense between you with something you can’t quite name, something that makes your heart sink in your chest—something between a quiet dread and inevitability.

The slow, sinking sense that no matter how good you try to be, it still won’t save you.

 

* * *

 

More often than not, you’re not completely nude when you sleep with Sukuna—sometimes a nightgown, sometimes pajamas with just your bra on top, sometimes braless wearing a loose oversized t-shirt and nothing but your panties on underneath.

Mostly because these nights are still as warm as ever despite the fact that summer is slowly bleeding into autumn.

And, well—because you feel safe enough around him to do so.

But you want something more tonight, the part of you that’s been aching for closeness, not comfort.

The house is quiet, lamplit and warm, the edges of everything softened by the late hour.

You brush your teeth beside him, after which he waits for you to change so that you can get to bed.

He’s already half-dressed down, just in loose sweats, leaning against the dresser and watching you through the mirror with that usual unreadable expression.

You strip your pants, your shirt.

And then you twist your arms back, unclasping your bra. It falls free, releasing your breasts as you peel it off your shoulders.

You’re sure you’ve caught his attention from that way your skin prickles with static, the way it does every time you feel his eyes crawling on you like something alive.

But he doesn’t move or speak.

You hook your thumbs under your underwear, slide them down slow and step out of them.

Fully bare now.

And still, the silence holds.

You hope he can’t make out the slightest tremor in your hands, the way you breathe a little too hard—half nerves, half excitement.

But you don’t quite have it in you yet to meet the intensity of his stare as you crawl beneath the covers, pulling the comforter up just enough to drape over your hip.

And finally after you settle in and lie on your side, there’s nothing else to do—so you force your gaze onto his, daring despite your hesitance.

His eyes are locked onto your body, unyielding as to anything going on behind them.

Finally he raises a brow, arms crossing loosely over his chest.

“Well,” he says after a moment, voice low, amused. “That’s one way to ask for attention.”

You blink at him, all false innocence. “I’m just getting ready for bed.”

He hums, like he’s considering it, gaze dropping deliberately over the expanse of your bare tits, then back to your face.

“Mm. Sure you don’t want anything else?”

Still, he doesn’t move—just lets the heat stretch thick in the air between you, waiting to see how far you’ll go.

You don’t say it out loud, but your eyes drift pointedly from his face to the waistband of his sweats.

A quiet, clear signal.

His mouth curves, just barely, into that infuriating little smirk.

“Now you want me to match? You get naked and suddenly it’s a dress code?”

For once you don’t talk back, despite the irritation pricking at you—just give the blanket the slightest tug, baring more of your hip, even as your heart pounds in your chest and you feel the tips of your ears burning up.

Because you know by now that a part of you likes to expose yourself to him, likes to feel more than a bit vulnerable.

He watches you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he slides a thumb beneath the waistband of his sweats, just enough to make your breath hitch.

And lets go, the band snapping softly against his skin.

He turns away, like it’s nothing.

“I don’t recall being invited,” he announces smugly, searching for something on the dresser. “Thought you were just getting ready for bed.”

You glare.

He grins.

And still he doesn’t take off a damn thing, because as always, everything just has to be a challenge with him.

So you concede, reaching your hand out to slowly slide up his thigh, till your thumb traces the drawstring at his waist.

You pause for a second, gauging his reaction.

He makes no move to stop you, so you lean forward, pressing a feather-light kiss just above the line where his skin meets the waistband, where the inked tail of the vertical tattoo on his abdomen ends.

His skin is warm, all taut muscle beneath your lips.

“Is this enough of an invitation for you?” you murmur, peeking up at him from beneath your lashes.

He lets out a slow breath, eyelids falling, gaze heating, as his hand comes up to your head. Not pulling or rough, not even snaking his fingers into your hair—just there.

“Mm…you always bite off more than you can chew,” he purrs, nails gently stroking along your scalp.

Petting you, lovingly almost.

As if that would ever stop you.

So you trail your kisses lower, following the dusty pink line of hair slipping beneath the edge of his sweats. Right above it you pause, rolling your tongue tenderly along the skin.

“I just wanna feel you while I sleep.”

You savor the sharp intake of his breath, the stilling and the slight twitch of of his fingers against your scalp like he means to tug at your hair—especially when you suck his flesh between your teeth.

“Keep teasing me like this and I might do something after you fall asleep,” he promises darkly with a wicked smirk.

Your eyes flick up to him.

Pausing, considering.

He looks at you like he’s expecting you to glare as usual, tell him off for his dirty jokes.

But now that you think about it…

He catches the way your expression shifts, like you’re contemplating it.

Because something flutters when you think about him having you like that.

Unable to stop him even if you wanted to.

“Huh. You say that like it’s supposed to scare me.”

His smirk deepens. “It should.”

It does, kind of.

Maybe why the thought of it makes you tingle all over.

“Mh.” You let your fingers slide just under the waistband of his sweats now, light, barely touching skin. “Depends on what you’d do.”

He watches you closely, amused. “You want me to spell it out?”

“Maybe.” You lean in again, brushing your mouth just below his navel. “Maybe I like surprises.”

The room holds still for a beat, like even the air is waiting.

Then his hand knots gently in your hair, still not pulling, just holding, possessive and deliberate.

It stays there just long enough to make a point.

“You wouldn’t last five minutes,” he murmurs, almost pitying. “It’d hurt. You’d wake up crying, begging me to stop...”

You freeze, and you wish it was out of fear.

Because something in his voice—that voice—makes your pulse throb a little harder between your legs.

It’s not the threat that gets to you, it’s the certainty of it.

You pull back just enough to look up at him, his hand still in your hair, face unreadable in the dim light.

“Then don’t stop,” you tell him quietly, steady. “Let me cry.”

His gaze sharpens, lashes lowering as he studies you. Like he’s trying to see past the bravado, dig down to the softest part of you and press.

Instead, he exhales a single laugh—dark, disbelieving.

“You’re a real little freak, aren’t you?” he murmurs, thumb brushing against your cheek now. “I don’t think you even know what you’re asking for.”

“Then show me,” you whisper.

A pause. A long one.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.

But his grip shifts—hand leaving your hair to trail down your back, with a kind of deliberation like he’s really thinking about it.

You wet your lips, thighs shifting under the covers.

Instead, he pulls away completely, and starts to undress—and it feels less like he’s giving in, and more like he’s setting terms.

“You want me in bed?” he says over his shoulder, voice casual again as he tugs off his sweats. “Fine. But I’m not touching you tonight.”

You swallow, trying not to stare too much at his naked form, at all the black ink stretching across tan skin that you selfishly hope no one else ever but you gets to see again.

He slides into bed beside you, bare-chested and smug, and pulls the covers over his legs.

“Feel free to lie there and think about it, though,” he adds lazily, turning off the light.

And just like that, the room sinks into darkness, the heat he left behind still buzzing on your skin.

And you lie there, awake.

Thinking about it.

 

* * *

 

The nights spent in Sukuna’s bed with this new dress code you’ve established, are just that—sleep. Strangely clean of the entanglement you’d once imagined.

Sometimes soft things happen; his fingers between your thighs while you sleepily fist his cock under the sheets

After that you sleep close, yes—breaths shared, warmth exchanged, even held at times—but never too tight, never tangled.

It’s satisfactory, in its own way. Safe in that small distance that still remains.

But this morning is different.

You wake to the sensation of skin on skin. Heat, dense and clinging, filling the space between you.

The thin grey light of dawn seeps through the curtains, soft and muted, but enough to reveal what your body already knows—that you’ve curled into him. Hard.

Your bare thigh hooked over his, chest pressed tight to his side. One of your arms draped, possessive and thoughtless, across the broad expanse of his abdomen, the other over his back. Where your flesh has met his, sweat slicks and sticks.

A slow, creeping awareness spreads through you, even in your half-asleep state.

God. When had that happened?

You shift minutely, pulse flickering under your skin. The mild uneasiness of it crawls along your spine—the awkward realization that you’d clung to him in sleep like a child with a doll.

Heat creeps into your cheeks. Shame, faint but sharp, though you have no idea why.

This feels a little too clingy, a little too needy, by even your standards. **

Too close.

You’re supposed to sleep near him—not on him.

Sukuna stirs faintly beneath your cheek, a deep breath rising in his chest. Not fully awake, but not so deeply asleep, either.

Carefully, carefully, you start to pull back—unhooking your leg, peeling your arm away like you’re scared to get caught.

But before you can retreat fully, his hand moves, sliding slowly up your spine, palm broad and warm as it flattens between your shoulder blades with quiet decisiveness.

“Stay,” Sukuna murmurs, voice low and rough with sleep. No bite, no mockery—just the raw grain of his waking breath.

You freeze, breath caught shallow in your chest.

His fingers flex faintly against your back—an unspoken warning not to pull away again. As if you’d be foolish to try.

As if you really even want to.

“Quit squirming,” he mutters, softer now. “You’re fine where you are.”

A pause.

You feel him shift, his head angling down, the faint brush of his breath stirring the crown of your hair.

Then, gently—surprisingly—his mouth presses there. A brief kiss, warm and weightless. Devastatingly thoughtless in its tenderness.

Like in these in between times when you catch the faintest streaks of softness that lurk within this hard shell of a man.

The lack of pretenses or games, feels safe, like it’s okay for you to be genuinely soft sometimes too.

Your chest loosens, and you melt like honey dissolving in warm water.

It’s okay to be soft.

The shame fades, quiet and subtle as the light of dawn creeping across the room.

He says nothing more, though his hand stays firm on your spine, keeping you folded against him—solid, steady, secure. The warmth of his body surrounds you, breath slow, heartbeat deep under your ear.

Sleep tugs at you again—soft and slow, pulling you down into the quiet.

And this time, you let it.

 

When you wake properly, the room is brighter—the pale slivers of morning sunlight slipping through the breaks in the curtains. Sukuna, predictably, is already gone from the bed.

His warmth lingers faintly on the sheets beside you.

 

The smell of fresh coffee drifts through the kitchen when you finally shuffle in later on, hair a sleep-mussed mess, the remnants of sleep still clinging at the edges of your brain.

Sukuna’s already there—leaning against the counter, scrolling lazily through his phone like nothing unusual happened.

Like last night’s words hadn’t twisted through your skull, knotting themselves tight in your chest.

And he was right—because you did think about it.

You still are.

Even now, as you watch the broad line of his shoulders flex with the tilt of the mug to his mouth, the memory needles at you like a splinter buried deep beneath skin.

‘Feel free to lie there and think about it.’

You are.

God help you, you are—and he knows it.

Because when you spend the entire breakfast silently staring him down, Sukuna—who normally stares right back (if not harder)—chooses this one rare time to focus on his food instead.

Just like that, the soft quiet of this morning—his warm hand against your back, the ghost of a kiss in your hair—dissolves back into the familiar tension that coils tight between you.

As he keeps pretending he doesn’t see you, doesn’t feel your eyes burning into him.

Doesn’t know what you want.

And honestly—you can’t figure out why he wouldn’t. This should be exactly the kind of thing he’d enjoy.

Like everything else between you, the denial only sharpens the edge, makes you want it worse, gives it weight in your mind.

You cross your arms, foot tapping against the floor, staring harder.

Until finally—when you’ve had enough—

“Why won’t you do it?” you blurt, the words slipping loose, sharp with irritation. “I mean, we’ve had sex before. It’s not that crazy to do it while I’m asleep—when I’ve given you permission.”

A pause.

“Still stuck on that, huh?” Sukuna drawls at last, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours, slow and unreadable.

And now you feel just the tiniest bit embarrassed so you stay quiet, lips pursed.

“Why do you want that?”

You falter, for less than a second.

Surrender? Do you think being that vulnerable with him will keep him from letting you go?

“Just wanna try something new, I guess. Some people think it’s like a kink or something.”

His eyes stay on you for a second, scrutinizing you. “I just don’t know if you’re ready for that. We only had sex what…twice?”

“So?”

You try to gauge his tone.

Genuine concern? Or just him being condescending again? Withholding things to make you squirm is exactly the kind of thing he’d do—and has done.

That’s the problem when the roles blur, isn’t it? Sometimes he speaks as your uncle, your guardian—calculated, careful, cautious. Other times it’s as your lover, or worse, the man who knows you too well and enjoys watching you come undone.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Sweetheart, I can barely fit inside you even when you’re awake.”

You stay quiet because that sounded a little bit like concern—and because he’s right, of course.

Maybe he really is in uncle mode right now.

“If you’re asleep, it’ll be up to me to decide when you’re ready or not. And if you aren’t aroused enough…”

He doesn’t have to finish that sentence. You know it would probably be an entirely different kind of pain, one with absolutely no pleasure, if you aren’t sufficiently turned on.

“I trust you.”

“That’s your mistake.”

Or not.

That reply wasn’t protective or concerning. The shift is subtle, but you catch it, and as soon as you do the instinct to snap back pops up.

“You’re telling me you don’t trust yourself to be able to get a girl we—”

The stern look he gives you now is old, familiar—the kind that used to make you shrink at the dinner table, mouth snapping shut before you earned a scolding.

Except now it also makes your thighs press together under the table.

God help you.

 

* * *

 

For the first few nights, you chastise yourself, telling yourself you’re just horny.

But by the fourth night, you swear he’s doing it on purpose—slipping into bed later than usual, letting the mattress shift just enough to press skin against skin, because that’s normal now—expected.

The silence between you feels thick with heat, his body warm and heavy behind you as you hum drowsily, already half asleep.

In that fragile moment before sleep pulls you under, you swear you can feel him tracing your curves—his hand sliding along your hip, over your stomach and thighs.

Never between them.

Sometimes his palm moves higher, cupping your breast. You shift slightly, even half-asleep, wanting more of that warmth.

And some mornings you wake tangled in sheets, flushed, a dull ache blooming inside you—because you know something hard pressed against you, even if nothing happened.

Did it?

You can’t be sure.

Maybe you dreamed it.

But the scent of him clings to your skin like sweat, and that’s enough.

He never crosses the line, never does what you begged for.

And that’s what drives you insane.

He doesn’t have to say no anymore—he just doesn’t do it, leaving you aching in silence.

For the fourth morning in a row, you steal glances at him across the breakfast table. He acts like nothing’s wrong—smiling, having the nerve to even ask if you’ve slept well.

You watch him, narrowing your eyes as his for a moment to catch that brief, knowing glint in his before he looks away, back to his coffee.

The quiet softness of the mornings, the warmth, the moments you cling to… they’re swallowed whole by the familiar, twisting tension that winds around you and him.

Night falls again, and this time you know you won’t sleep.

Not with the ache pulsing low inside you, not with this anticipation that feels like he’s waiting for you to crack.

He’s already under the covers, chest bare, the room thick with silence. You lie beside him, tense and frustrated, fingers digging into the sheets.

“Just do it already,” you mutter, barely audible.

His eyes stay closed, but you know he heard.

“You sure?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. You’ve asked for this before, but this is the first time you’ve said it like a challenge.

He turns his head to look at you, eyes lidded but sharp. “You’re saying I have permission to do whatever I want?”

“Yes.”

He hums, low and amused, then rolls to face you fully. “You won’t remember how it starts.”

Silence.

“What if it hurts? What if I make it hurt?”

You swallow. “If it gets too much….then I’ll trust you to stop.”

He leans in, slowly, in a way that makes you want to shrink back just a little. “You really think I’d stop just because you cry?”

You falter. Just slightly, just enough for your lips to part, hesitation flickering in your eyes—and he drinks it in.

“See?” he says so soft, it can only be condescending. “That’s why you’re not ready, sweetheart.”

But instead of pulling away, he reaches down and slips a hand between your thighs—just the barest graze of his fingers, testing, measuring.

You resist the urge to react.

And then, that smug smirk.

“Still,” he murmurs, “you’re wet.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, cruelly gentle. “So maybe you’re getting there.”

 

* * *

 

You snap.

Not in a storm of rage, but in that quiet, shaking kind of way that feels worse—like all your patience has finally rotted and turned you into some pathetic, trembling thing made of heat and want and ache and frustration.

“I’m not a child,” you bite out. “You keep acting like I’ll break. Like we haven’t already done the most fucked up shit.”

His eyes dart to you, expectantly like he’s waiting.

“So say it. Say what you want.”

You glare at him, jaw tight, but you say it.

“I want you to do it.”

The corner of his lip curls up, slow and taunting.

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘it’,” he says pleasantly.

Your lips purse together, teeth grinding.

But you know by now that the path of least resistance to getting what you want is by entertaining his bullshit.

“I want you to fuck me when I’m asleep. Would you like me to define what ‘fuck’ means as well?” you add dryly.

He stares at you for a moment, completely unreadable.

Then he smiles, just as amicably.

Reassuringly, almost.

That should’ve been warning number one.

A few weeks ago it certainly would have but now—now that you’ve seen more of him past those sharp edges and the moments he can actually be *tender…*you’re not so sure.

Benefit of the doubt, it is.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“So….when. Tonight?”

You furrow your brows. “Well I don’t want a warning. Just do it like…whenever I guess.”

“You want it to be a surprise.”

“That’s part of the fun, isn’t it?” Then you pause, taking a second to reconsider. “But I’m agreeing only for the rest of this week. After that you’ll need my permission again,” you add.

“Your consent has an expiration date?”

“Yes.”

“Smart girl.”

You can’t tell if he’s being genuine or patronizing so you just grace him with a mild, skeptical scowl.

“Alright then,” he finally agrees, brushing some of your hair from your face. “Since you’re so sure…”

“I am.”

“Mm.” He considers you for a second, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Well, guess I’ll just have to give you what you want…”

You narrow your eyes.

He’s practically daring you to rescind the invitation.

“Your intimidation tactics won’t work on me,” you state firmly.

“Good,” he replies, completely at ease.

Then he leans forward, a fiendish grin pulling at his lips till you can see his teeth.

You don’t like it when he smiles like that. Typically means he has some fun ideas up his sleeve—at your expense, of course.

You hold your ground, warily.

“I’ve been thinking about taking your ass for so long.”

You blink. “You wouldn’t.” You sit back, arms crossing tight over your chest—calling his bluff. “You were so worried about me getting hurt this whole time. You expect me to believe that?”

“Mm. I was concerned. Only because, as your uncle, I have to be,” he says smoothly. “But as my niece, I think you have the luxury of forgetting what kind of man I really am.”

“Still not buying it.”

Though your voice wavers—just slightly.

“Why wouldn’t I? You gave me explicit consent, didn’t you? Besides…” His gaze darkens. “You like the pain. Masochistic little tendencies and all that. And…well, it’s not like it’ll kill you…”

A pause. A slow smile.

“Might not be able to sit down for a few weeks, though.”

You swallow, nerves prickling sharp beneath your skin.

And when his eyes meet yours again, there’s no smirk this time—no teasing. Just something dead serious and ravenous.

Would he do it?

You think back—past the warmth, past the strange intimacy—to the man everyone warned you about.

The tattoos. The money. The stains of dried blood on his collar some nights when he came home late.

You don’t have to imagine cruelty. You’ve seen it up close.

Felt it.

And not just cruelty but the pleasure he takes in it.

“You want to bleed for me, is that it?” he murmurs. “You want to wake up aching and ashamed, with my cum dripping out of you?”

You freeze—not from arousal, exactly.

Just... a pause, like your mind struggling to catch up to the words.

He’s still watching you, sharp and quiet. Unblinking.

“You think I’m bluffing?”

No answer. You can’t give one.

He leans closer, you pull back ever so slightly without realizing.

“I’ve done worse to girls who didn’t beg half as sweet as you.”

Something cold slips down your spine as your breath sticks in your throat.

You tell yourself he’s joking.

And then he smiles.

That familiar, reassuring smile—like the last few minutes were just some fucked-up game.

“You can always take it back though,” he offers. “Or admit you can’t handle it.”

You should.

You should.

But something in you hesitates, something ugly and stubborn that wonders if this will buy you something—a bargain made in pain.

Not because you’re sure you want this, or because you feel ready—on the contrary you feel…bad about this whole thing.

But surrender feels safer than standing your ground.

Maybe it won’t even be that bad. You survived losing your virginity; you’ll survive this.

Control, you remind yourself. You’re still in control.

His permission runs out in a week. You’ll take it slow. You’ll stop him if you have to.

But deeper under logic, and lurking beneath reason, is something raw and pulsing.

Desperation, dressed as bravery.

This isn’t just sex. It never is with him.

“I’m not taking it back,” you mutter, low and steady.

He laughs—dark, surprised. “Seriously?”

You glare, swallowing down the fear curdling in your gut.

“I guess we need a safe word then.” He tilts his head, thoughtful. “How about that?”

It may very well be a genuine question, but it feels like mockery.

So you flinch, and end up snapping too quickly before you have a chance to think properly.

“No.”

Luckily for you, he doesn’t take that answer.

“Too bad, you’re getting one. It’s ‘time out’.”

“Fine,” you finally speak, measured. “But only to prove I won’t need it.”

He sits back, grinning and satisfied like you’ve made some deal with him you’re definitely going to regret later.

You explicitly consented anything—and you know anyone else would be absolutely baffled as to why you would do that if you’re so nervous, borderline scared.

They’d tell you the smartest thing is to take it back. You know the smartest thing is to take it back.

And Sukuna…is dangerous. Maybe even erring on the side of predatory at times.

But you won’t take it back, not when it comes to him at least.

You don’t know if it’s pride, some need to prove you can handle him, or something worse—some aching, twisted part of you that wants him to use you, to turn your surrender into survival.

Illogical thinking, of course.

You don’t give it much thought either way.

 

You take melatonin before bed that night, dry-mouthed and restless, stomach twisting in knots so tight it feels like you’ll choke on them.

The pills are bitter on your tongue. Not enough to drag you down into sleep easily—but you take them anyway, because God knows you won’t sleep on your own.

Not with him beside you, not knowing what he might do.

The hormone forces sleep to drape heavily over your mind like a weighted blanket, and when you finally drift under, it’s a thin, frayed thing. Shallow and suspended, like your mind refuses to fully let go.

The moment your eyes crack open hours later—before you can even see properly—you shift, just a little.

Though you know nothing really happened in the night since you’re sure you would’ve woken up, you tilt your hips, testing.

Sore? Aching?

No.

Everything feels fine.

Too fine.

And that is worse.

Because now the not-knowing settles heavy and cold in your gut as you wonder when he’ll do it, if he’ll do it at all.

Tonight, tomorrow, or perhaps the last night of the week when you’ll be completely off guard?

No clues, no hints, no tells.

He gives you nothing.

Not even when you glance at him over breakfast, pulse drumming behind your ribs like panic waiting to hatch.

Sukuna reads the paper, sips coffee, types on his phone like he’s answering emails.

Like everything is normal, like you didn’t explicitly beg him to do the one thing you now dread wanting.

And still, you say nothing either. As if you’ve both silently signed this sick contract, neither willing to name what’s coming.

Or, more like, you’ve signed a contract with yourself, one that says you can’t back out, because if you do…

Night after night, the pattern repeats. No touch, no shift in his breathing, no quiet weight moving behind you in the dark.

Only the endless waiting and anticipation thick in your chest.

By the fifth night, you’ve doubled the melatonin. Thrown in magnesium and L-theanine, too— anything to soften the sharp edge of your nerves.

But it doesn’t work, not really, because you lie there anyway, heart skittering like a trapped animal in your chest, staring into the dark, hyperaware of his sleeping form beside you and every breath he takes, stomach knotted so tight you think you’ll throw up.

Your mind won’t stop racing—obsessing.

If he’ll touch you tonight, if this is it, if it’ll really even be that bad—people do anal all the time, right?

And sure he’s big—really big—but…you’ll probably adjust, just like the first time you had sex. Hopefully.

And despite your desperate mental reassurance, you catch yourself thinking about that safe word.

Time out. Time out. Time out.

Repeating it in your head like a lifeline you might need, like maybe, just maybe, you will break.

It won’t be bad, you can take it, why are you even so goddamn nervous?

And still you lay here, waiting to see how far you’ll actually let him go.

 

* * *

 

You wake in the middle of the night to a strange sensation between your thighs.

His hard length between them, against your folds as he spoons you from behind.

And—

Wetness on your shoulder.

Sleep muddles your mind, enough that you don’t think, you just lay there compliantly and feel.

Open-mouthed kisses trailing along your shoulder, your neck.

It feels good and you find yourself shifting a little to feel more of it, some incoherent noise falling from your lips.

Sukuna doesn’t say anything, but you feel his breath, warm and humid against your skin.

And then a slight jostling movement between your thighs.

His hard cock parts your folds to glide between them, against the softer flesh inside. And caught in this hazy state, drowsiness and heat melting together, it feels blissfully dream-like.

You whimper ever so softly, breaths coming a little quicker as pleasure tingles in your clit with each nudge of his weeping tip smearing his pre against it.

He’s not going too fast or hard, but enough for the friction to feel good—for both of you apparently, from the way he’s panting against your skin

Another sigh falls from your lips as your bury your face back into the pillow, even as your hips still rock languidly in time with his, soft slick noises mixing into each other under the blanket.

Soon you hear a low groan from him, hips stilling and cock twitching, before scorching heat spills against your cunt. He murmurs something you don’t catch, kissing your neck as he cums.

You hum out a sleepy moan as he continues moving against you, spurts of his seed dripping down your folds till they’re soaked with it.

Drowsy, warm, and satisfied, you fall back asleep as his cum dries between your thighs.

 

* * *

 

You wake up and out of habit you scan your body, expecting an ache. There’s still none.

Then, last night comes back to you in fragments, so you lift the blankets and peer down, shifting your thighs a bit.

Sure enough there’s dried cum coating it, folds still a little tacky with your own arousal as well.

You recall it happening—and the memory is the complete opposite of what you’d braced for.

Gentle. Careful. Perversely kind.

As if you were too fragile to ruin after all.

You’re still sitting in bed, teeth grit, when Sukuna strolls back into the room, phone in hand, loose and casual like he hadn’t spent the last seven days feeding you fantasies he never meant to deliver.

“You’re awake. Sleep well?” he asks blandly, not even bothering to glance up.

“You’re unbelievable,” you spit, the heat in your voice cracking.

He lifts his eyes, slow and expectant. The corner of his mouth twitches, but not with surprise; with amusement.

“Mm. You’re in a mood.”

“I have every fucking right to be,” you hiss, arms folding tight over your chest, like that could hide the sting in your throat.

A soft scoff leaves him, like your words aren’t even worth arguing over. “If you say so, princess.”

“Are you proud of yourself?”

“For what, exactly?”

“You know what,” you grind out. “I fucking hate when you play dumb.”

He sighs like you’ve tired him. “And I hate it when you don’t know how to use your words.”

You bristle.

You hate him, gods you hate him.

“Did you get off on it? Watching me sweat, panic, not sleep a goddamn hour this week? Wondering when you’d finally—”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” he cuts in smoothly, mouth curling in the way that makes your stomach twist.

Your upper lip twitches, threatening to pull back.

“You’re a bastard.”

“And you’re a fool. Brave little fool.”

His phone clicks off and he comes to your side unhurried, all calm poison, until he’s standing over you, looking down like you’re something trembling and small caught in a jar.

“I gave you permission,” you growl bitterly. “And you didn’t even have the fucking balls to follow through.”

That earns you a sharp, low laugh.

“Oh, did my darling niece really think I’d fuck her till she broke and she screamed and bled?” he coos.

Your throat tightens when he crouches, getting in close, gaze heavy and gleaming.

“Too proud to admit she was fucking terrified so she dressed it up as consent, like a big girl.”

Anger and shame boils under your skin, flushing it hot as you pull the blanket tighter over your chest, hating that he can see you.

“Next time I’ll spell it out nice and slow,” he purrs. “Tell you which hole. Which position. How deep. How long. Shit, I’ll even tell you what color the goddamn sheets are gonna be. Would that make you feel safer, baby?”

You genuinely can’t remember the last time you’ve been this fucking pissed—till the point it makes your head throb, vision jittering at the sides.

“Go to hell,” you snarl venomously, biting your lip till it stings.

He stands, gaze dragging over you like hands. “Should thank me, really. I was gentle.”

“That’s not the fucking point!” you finally snap, breath catching, chest tight. “You made me think—”

Your voice breaks and you curse yourself as your eyes sting, water threatening the corners.

His gaze sharpens as if he’s thriving on this.

“Ohhh,” he breathes, soft and mocking. “Embarrassed now, are we?”

“Get out.” Your voice cracks. “I want to clean myself.”

But he only grins wider, wicked and boyish.

“Wanted to be split open and used. Instead you got my cum smeared on your cunt. Poor thing. Bet it’s still sticky down there.”

Your stomach flips, and you swallow hard against the sour lump in your throat.

“I want to scrub your filth off me,” you mutter.

He chuckles like you made his fucking morning, and at the door he pauses—just long enough for your heart to jump in your throat.

“I like you like this.”

You don’t bother to ask him what he means.

 

* * *

 

Were you genuinely sort of relieved when you found out that was the extent of what he was going to do?

Yes.

Are you still fucking pissed he messed with you like that?

Also yes.

And as fucked as it was does a part of you still—begrudgingly—respect it?

Maybe.

But that also means that you get the green light to pull some shit on him, guilt-free.

Whatever temporary docile state of mind you were in has been ripped apart by his antics…and the frustration that he got you again.

You never knew being known so well would be such an infuriating ordeal.

It’s three days later when you finally decide to return the favor.

You find him in his office, reading some papers, scribbling something with a pen.

So you step into the room, arms loosely crossed — nothing dramatic, just enough to look… composed.

And slightly off.

“We need to talk,” you say quietly.

That gets his attention.

He looks up, pen lowering just slightly in his hand. “Yeah?”

You take a seat on the couch, like you’re suddenly afraid of proximity.

“I’ve just been thinking,” you begin, voice low, perfectly neutral. “About us…what this is.”

He doesn’t say anything, just watches you carefully.

Eyes narrowed slightly, calculating.

You take a moment to dig deeper into some buried feelings, just so the whole farce seems as realistic as possible.

And slowly, the right emotions surface.

“I know this isn’t…right,” you say, trying to keep your voice even as your gaze lingers somewhere around his collarbone.

The words land heavy, you can practically feel the air in the room shift.

“I mean, I’m not stupid. I know what we’ve done. But I keep wondering if I’ve been so caught up in what I feel that I haven’t thought enough about what it is.”

Now you glance at him — briefly — and then away again.

“I’m just starting to…rethink all of it. That it’s not just dangerous. It’s—” you pause, let the weight of it hang. “—it’s messed up.”

That does it—you can see it in the tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers curl ever so slightly against his thigh.

Because you’ve officially gone there.

You continue quickly before he can say anything. “And look, listen. Obviously I knew it was fucked up from the start but I think I avoided trying to feel it.”

A breath, as you stare at the ground now.

“But lately, after what happened a few nights ago, especially…” You swallow thickly. “Sick.”

Your voice trembles, your eyes even tear up a little as you choke out the next part, “I just…sometimes I feel so fucking disgusted with myself,” A pause as you take a shaky breath, eyes focused firmly on the floor. “Like there’s something inherently wrong with me. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

There’s a pause, drawn out too long for your comfort.

You risk a glance up.

His gaze is fixed somewhere past the wall, unfocused, his expression tight in a way looks like someone who’s being forced to remember something they'd rather forget.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is rough.

“I mean… I really don’t know what you want me to say. This…”

This might be the first time you’ve genuinely seen him at a loss of words.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” you say quietly. “I just think…. maybe I need time to figure out whether I actually want this, or whether I just think I do because I’ve been… dependent.”

The word dependent cuts harder than it should.—which is exactly why you chose it.

He says nothing.

“I’ll tell you when you get back from work tomorrow,” you finish, standing up to head for the door. “I’ll decide by then.”

You don’t know for sure if he even has to go to work tomorrow—he probably doesn’t—but you pretty much just decided for him.

You linger by the doorway for just a second, softening your voice.

“And I want you to respect that.”

Then you leave the room—quietly, with just enough tension in your shoulders to look like you’ve been wrestling with this.

 

You feel a lot less guilty than you should as you sleep in your own bed that night. More like…satisfied.

And even more oddly…a little relieved.

That even if it was for the ruse it felt good to confess those ugly truths out into the open.

Cathartic, even.

Maybe even enjoying this weird sense of power over him.

 

The next morning he’s gone before you even wake up.

You spend the day doing your usual things, showering, eating food, watching shows, reading.

And maybe you’re just a little too excited when you hear the front door unlock. So you take a second to compose yourself, and put on that facade of hesitance.

You step out to find him in the kitchen, staring into the open fridge.

“What time are you thinking dinner?” he asks casually.

Too casually.

You try not to giggle because Sukuna never asks about dinner—he just decides and eats what the cook’s already prepared.

Or, of course, orders something overpriced.

And god, you love how you can practically feel how unsettled he is. Tiptoeing around you like he’s almost scared or something.

Dinner is quiet.

Not the normal, easy silence that often falls between you two, but an unnatural one.

Stiff and padded.

He eats slowly, methodically almost. More mechanical than anything else.

And you have to hide your entertainment as you easily eat your own food.

Finally you clear your throat. “Did work go okay?”

He nods. Doesn’t look up. “Fine.”

Another silence. You chew.

He doesn’t touch his glass of water.

Eventually, he leans back in his chair and looks at you, finally meeting your eyes. But not with warmth. Not with hurt. With a kind of focused, pointed patience that’s more unsettling than either.

“You said you’d have an answer for me by the time I got back.”

Straight to it. No fluff. Not even pretending to make small talk now.

You hesitate.

He watches that, too.

“I did,” you reply quietly, setting your fork down.

He nods once, slowly, then waits.

There’s something eerily calm about him. No sarcasm, no temper. Just control. The kind that makes you wonder if he’s already decided what he’s going to do—no matter what you say next.

You sit straighter. “I meant what I said last night. I’ve… been thinking about it.”

His face doesn’t change, like he’s waiting for a jury verdict instead of a conversation.

“And I think...I don’t want this anymore.”

You feel heat rise in your throat, raw and defensive.

“I’m not saying it wasn’t my fault too. It was. But these days…” You exhale sharply, eyes fixed on your plate. “It just feels like regret. Like something I can’t ever take back.”

That lands.

He doesn’t flinch, but you catch the quiet bob of his throat—subtle, but there. Enough.

“Regret,” he repeats, voice low and unreadable.

“Don’t worry,” you add quickly, cutting the air before it thickens. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Not my parents. No one.”

A long silence follows. He stares at you for a beat too long.

Then, without a word, he rises from the table. The scrape of the chair legs is soft but final.

He clears his throat as he picks up his plate.

“I guess that’s that, then. I’ve got work to finish.”

You know better than to believe he’s unfazed. His tone is steady, but there’s something too deliberate in it—like every syllable is a stone he’s carefully laying down to avoid slipping.

“You should get to bed soon,” he adds as he turns away, still even, still cool.

But you catch the stiffness in his shoulders, the faint hollowness in his voice, like he’s holding something in his mouth he doesn’t want to swallow.

 

You spend the next hour in your room—changing into sleep clothes, absently going through your skincare, doomscrolling without processing a single thing. You assume he’s in his office, “working”—or more likely, stewing in everything you just handed him.

You even go through some more old university material from classes, taking notes and completing unfinished assignments that aren’t due anymore. Perusing your notebook to look for some older information, you’re confronted with your own handwriting—notes quickly jotted down in the middle of a lecture months ago. You flip back to your freshest notes, ink barely dry.

Your handwriting is the same.

You’d almost expected that after everything—the things you’ve done, the things you’ve felt since moving here—it would have changed. Grown jagged or wild or shaky. Some outward proof of the quiet, terrible shift inside you.

But it hasn’t.

Unfortunately, it’s still the same.

Just like the way you still smile when something is funny. Like your eggs the same way. Still hold doors for strangers and say thank you without thinking.

It’s strange how even after everything some quiet stubborn core of who you are stays intact. Still you

You’ve not changed at all, and yet at the same time you’ve changed in a most inconceivable manner.

You snap the notebook shut, opting to roll onto your bed and shift your thoughts onto the current situation instead.

Even now you think you can still feel the imprint of his reaction--cold and harsh as always on the outside.

But there was the faintest flicker of something lurking under the sheet of ice.

What tugs beneath your chest isn’t hurt or even guilt—it’s satisfaction.

Not just because you got your petty revenge—but because he’s the one who gave you a deadline.

And now, knowing how close the end feels, you want him to ache the same way you did.

You roll onto your back, stare at the ceiling.

You tell yourself maybe you’ll let this ruse stretch another day. Let him sweat, let him lose sleep over it.

But who are you kidding?

You know yourself.

You know the soft place inside you reserved only for him is already starting to throb.

So, with a breath that feels heavier than it should, you push off the bed and pad toward the closed door of his office.

 

You don’t knock this time, you just twist the knob and slip inside quietly.

He doesn’t glance up, but you can tell from the way his shoulders stiffen that he knows it’s you.

The room is dim except for the glow of the monitor, cold blue light outlining his jaw, illuminating his frames. He’s pretending to work, but the stillness of his hands on the keyboard gives him away.

You know it because you do the same thing.

The room is silent, save for the soft noises of your feet against hardwood as you walk over like nothing’s wrong. Like you didn’t just rip open the air between you a couple hours ago.

You don’t ask when you slip onto his lap with the kind of confidence that borders on entitlement.

His hands stay lax on his thighs as you settle on his lap, the weight of you clearly familiar now, offering no other reaction except for the slightest curl of his fingers and the way he’s watching your face closely.

You can’t help yourself — your lips ache to be pressed against his.

But when you lean in for a kiss, he turns his head, just enough that your lips brush the curve of his cheek instead.

“You’re not serious,” he says, quiet but sharp.

You peer up at him, lifting your eyebrows. “About?”

His brow pinched and for a long loaded moment as he puts it together.

Then he scoffs under his breath, low and incredulous.

“Fucking brat.”

Your face splits into a wide grin, completely unapologetic.

The disbelief on his face melts into something dry and amused.

“Mm. That was mean. But—” He slips off his reading glasses, folding them closed and placing them on the desk. “—not creative. At all.”

You narrow your eyes at that, though a smile still tugs at the corner of your lips. “Excuse me?”

He hums, finally letting his hands rest at your hips, but still not pulling you close. “Guilt trip. Regret speech. Sudden moral clarity that maybe you shouldn’t be fucking your family members? Come on, you can come up with something better than that.”

“Huh.” And you slip back into sweetness, snaking your arms around his neck. “You know it wasn’t all just a lie.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.”

You tilt your chin up to bare your neck, and just like you wanted, he gives in and graces it with a soft kiss. “But you’re still here in my lap, so I guess it doesn’t matter all that much, huh?”

Now you huff lightly, turning your head to the side. “Yeah. Only because I…”

You momentarily lose your words when he gently bites the muscle flexing under the delicate skin of your neck, tongue flicking over it. “Mhm?”

“Because I forgave you for threatening to…” You pause. “…you know.”

“Fuck your ass?” he easily finishes for you, continuing to kiss down your neck as you grimace at his words.

Uncouth as always.

“Yeah. That."

He doesn’t bother with reassuring you that it was just a false threat. Instead he informs you, “I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to, though.”

You swallow, shifting a little.

“I just…I don’t know…” you mumble, sounding a little too unsure for your liking, in the way that comes with having no experience with something. “Wouldn’t that hur—”

The way he just laughs softly embarrasses you a little. “Sweetheart, you didn’t really think I’d do that without making sure you were ready first, did you?” One of his palms travels to your ass, giving it a squeeze. You wet your lips, shifting higher up onto him.

“It’ll take a few weeks’ worth of training before you can even think about taking it.”

“Training?”

“Mhm.”

You let him slide his hands under you pants, slipping beneath even your panties to grope your ass directly.

Warm, solid. Familiar.

“We’ll go slow…”

You breathe heavier as he kisses along your jawline, till the corner of your lips.

“Maybe eventually we can even get you some pretty little plugs.” His cock starts to swell in his pants against where you’re seating on him. “Would you like that?”

You swallow again.

“Okay…I trust you,” you whisper, trying to reach again for his lips with your own.

He turns his head like last time too, casually like you’re a distraction, and continues talking though you catch a glimpse of that infuriating smirk. “How about we try one finger right now? Like last time.”

You feel his grip tighten on one of your cheeks, before he pulls it to the side to emphasize his point.

He snickers when you squeak in indignation, squirming a little as you pull away from his face and glare.

“Right now? You don’t even have lube and I’m not doing anything down there without lube.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he purrs, flashing you a cocky grin as he pulls one hand out and reaches for the drawer.

And in barely a second he’s pulling out a bottle of lube.

You glare harder, eyes dancing suspiciously between him, the lube, and the drawer. “Why the hell do you even have that in there?”

“Situations like this, I guess,” he states as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Take off your pants.”

“All the way?”

“It would probably be easier if you did.”

So you carefully get off him, pulling your pants and panties down together as quickly as you can, stepping out of the garments before climbing back on him.

It’s ridiculous how hot it makes you feel when you earn a hum of approval from him, and a “That’s my girl.”

Your arms wrap back around his neck, leaning your face against his chest as he palms your ass again, adjusting your position to give him easier access.

The click of the cap opening, and you assume he’s squeezing some onto his fingers behind you.

“Stay still.”

You don’t get a chance to say anything before the cold, wetness smears on your hole, and you ending jolting reflexively anyways.

“I don’t think I’m ever gonna get used to that,” you mutter against his chest.

“You will.”

His tone gives you no hint as to whether that was supposed to be reassurance or some kind of threat.

You shiver a little as he squeezes a bit more out, rubbing it on your entrance.

Too cold now, too sensitive. A bit too vulnerable.

You don’t even realize you’re clenching till he tuts. “Don’t do that. You want to loosen not tighten.”

His word aren’t even dirty, just…calm and authoritative like he’s teaching you to do any other thing for the first time ever.

You’re not too sure how you feel about that, about how disconcertingly clinical this feels so far.

But you listen, trying to relax your muscles anyways, even as the tip of his finger comes down to circle gently around your rim.

“Look at me.”

You do, barely. Eyes lidded and hazy with lust yet still a bit uncertain.

“Breathe. And if it hurts just tell me.”

You push down the lump in your throat, and nod silently.

He looks at you too closely for a moment. Too much scrutiny than you’re comfortable with, at this moment.

You’re not sure what he sees, or what he’s looking for, so you stay quiet.

And then you gasp softly as his lips are suddenly slotting against yours, warm and insistent. His tongue teases against your lip and you part them with a little moan, quickly swallow when his tongue slides in, licking against your teeth.

You almost forget his finger is still circling the rim of your ass when it slowly starts to push in as you make out.

It doesn’t hurt.

Still feels kind of odd, but not in a bad way, especially when you’re so lost in his taste, his tongue and lips.

His finger continues to slide in and you twitch a little, stiffening up a bit without realizing. He pulls away just enough to murmur, “Relax. You’re getting tense again.”

“Sorry,” you mumble without thinking, immediately trying to loosen your muscles again.

“Shut up,” he says softly. “You’re doing great. Just a little more.”

You idly note that this might be the nicest he’s ever actually been to you as you grab his face with one hand, urgently pulling his lips back to yours so you can get lost in them again.

You barely even notice when his finger slides in till its full length, until he slowly slides it back out again.

“Relax,” he reminds you, stroking your back as he presses his finger inside again, slowly, all the way.

There’s some kind of deliberate motion of his finger inside your ass—slight pressure as he massages in tight little circles against the anterior wall.

“Mmph!”

The sudden moan falls out before you can even anticipate it, as an intense pleasure radiates outward from somewhere down there.

He smiles against your parted lips continuing the motion as you fall apart, into a trembling mess of whines and whimpers and shaky breaths. “Feel good?”

“Mhm!” You nod, fingers digging into his skin, the only thing keeping you grounded right now.

And you think it’s so unfair that he manages to discover all these hidden spots inside you, that make you so weak.

“Touch yourself.”

“Touch….touch myself?” you repeat dumbly, trying not to get fully stupefied from how good it feels.

“Touch your clit. Just trust me.”

You do—especially since he seems to know best about these matters.

So you automatically press your fingers into his lips, catching him off-guard for a fraction of a second. Then, he opens his mouth further, tongue uncurling to lave around your fingers.

When they’re sufficiently coated in saliva you pull out, snaking your hand down between your thighs to press the spit-slick fingers to your clit.

Little bolts of electricity shoot up from that alone. And when you start rubbing it till your clit is slippery with his saliva, somehow the pleasure increases in your ass too.

You rest your forehead on his chest, panting and whimpering, fingers working furiously between your thighs, his working in your ass. Neither of you seems to care about the mess of arousal you’re leaving on his pants.

It feels too soon, too empty, when his finger abruptly stops moving and slides out of you.

Your own fingers pause too as you peer up at him in confusion.

“You were tightening up again. Try and focus on keeping your muscles relaxed.”

You swallow, straightening up a bit. “Why’d you stop?”

“That’s enough for now. I said we’d go slow, remember?” he murmurs, quietening in possible protest from you with a soft kiss.

You pull away, suddenly conscious of how wet you are, hoping you didn’t make too much of a mess as you look down.

And of course there’s slick all over the dark fabric.

“Um….”

“Mm. Looks like someone got excited,” he comments.

You let out some noise between embarrassment and irritation as you scramble to get off him, and put your clothes back on.

He just watches silently for a few horrible moments that feel like some kind of humiliation ritual as you struggle a bit to get your panties on, missing the leg holes about twice in your haste just for you to struggle further.

Finally you get them back and finally look towards him, where he’s still sitting, staring.

You furrow your brows, feeling a bit awkward as your eyes drift back to the damp patch on his pants.

“I can…um…wash those for you—”

He stands. “Is that really all it takes to get you to do the laundry?”

You scowl, but he just grins as he heads to the bathroom.

“Don’t worry about it. Maybe I like cleaning up your messes.”

 

Notes:

so just to clarify the beginning part of this chapter is meant to show the "bargain" stage of grief, particularly of her grieving this relationship before it's even ended. reader has a subconscious reasoning that maybe if she does this or does that, it'll buy her more time.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Summary:

WC: 25k

cw: really bad uncle jokes

Notes:

SORRY for the long wait! i've been dealing with burnout, no motivation, school, etc. 🫠 frankly i do NOT like this chapter and that's part of why it took so long hahaha....

anyways i think this is a softer/less serious chapter-...i'm trying to fit in as much fluff adjacent content as i can right now and the next chapter or so before things go real downhill! :D

Flowers wilt, leaves begin to brown.

Cicadas drone through sudden monsoons and that strange, bittersweet panic simmers beneath the surface as schoolchildren sense the end of summer creeping closer.

Everything feels like it’s on the edge of spoiling. Fruit overripens, food goes bad too fast, tempers flare.

Summer is rotting.

And you pretend you’re not rotting along with it.

The lazy heat makes you neglect things—dishes pile up until you earn a lecture, a half-drunk cup of barley tea sits forgotten, the ice long melted into pale water, condensation pooling beneath it.

Drawn to the damp cool, house spiders crawl into the tub. They never make it back out, the porcelain walls too smooth to climb.

Still, one word from you is enough for Sukuna to sigh and get up from whatever he’s doing, muttering curses as he goes to remove it.

He cuts melon for you, peels white peaches and dices them without being asked.

You never bring it up.

Instead you sit in his living room with the windows open, in your underwear with an old, loose shirt you stole from his closet, drinking lukewarm soda that’s long gone flat and feeling like your skin doesn’t quite fit right anymore.

Never would you be allowed to dress so scantily at home with your own parents but when Sukuna walks in, he comments nothing more than telling you to correct your posture—"Sit like a person," he says—and you scowl, but you straighten your spine and pull your shoulders back.

Right now the floor fan hums, lazily circulating warm air the smells faintly of detergent and sweat and melon rinds.

The remote sits on the coffee table and you vaguely consider reaching for it—maybe to watch television, maybe just to do something—but then you remember the peach juice you spilled on it yesterday.

You tried wiping it down, but that tacky feeling on the surface still clings to it, the kind you hate feeling on your fingertips.

You’re certain Sukuna will have some exceptionally colorful words for you when he finds out—and threaten to never let you bring home another one of those beverages he already considers juvenile in their sugar content alone.

So you resign to continue sipping on the current sugar-laden drink you have on hand for now, idly considering painting your nails just so you won’t start biting them off again.

You’re not too sure where your planner is—maybe under the bed or in the laundry basket or something.

Doesn’t particularly matter either way.

There’s no talk of you leaving, not even in passing. There doesn’t need to be—not when the air itself feels suspended with the sense that something is winding down, and soon.

There was a time an idle mind itched at your skull till you gave it something to gnaw on. Time would be spent sprawled out across the floor or your bed, reading old college material in hopes of keeping the information fresh for when you planned to return so you could pick up right where you left off like nothing happened. Sukuna would find you buried in printouts, PDFs of textbooks, concentration so fierce it looked like you were writing a thesis.

These days, the papers sit untouched and curling at the corners; your laptop stays zipped inside your bag, gathering dust.

You refuse to look at your calendars and when your mother checks in regarding your housing status on phone calls, something inside you pinches like a pulled muscle and you resist the urge to snap at her.

Instead, slipping into these lethargic states whenever Sukuna’s not around has become your new routine. It’s been a long time since you texted any of your friends back, but your phone’s dead and lying somewhere on the floor of your room anyways right now.

Lazily downing the rest of your soda, you place the empty can on the coffee table next to the sticky remote. With a sigh you recline, letting your spine curve wrong and your thoughts flatten into a dull fifteen minutes of staring at the ceiling fan spin above and wondering what it would feel like if it fell on you.

A mild sting pricks your skin when you try to shift from your legs sticking with sweat where they’re pressed against the couch.

Somewhere along the way, you melt off of it and into a heap on the floor.

That itch sparks again on your thigh.

God, those fucking bug bites have been driving you crazy for the last two days. And as if one wasn’t enough there’s an angry, swollen red welt right next to the first.

So you scratch.

And scratch.

And scratch.

And really, it’s just ironically cruel how scratching simultaneously relieves and worsens the itch all at once.

“You’ll break the skin open.”

You jump, just slightly. Sukuna’s voice comes from behind you, casual and cool as ever.

Part of you wants to get annoyed at how he just gets to appear out of nowhere whenever he wants, but you remember this is his house that you’re squatting in.

You glance over your shoulder, fingers still ghosting your thigh. “So?”

“So you’ll scar. And I’ll be the one who has to listen when you complain about it later.”

He steps past you and kicks the back of your heel lightly with his.

You scowl and move your leg.

“I wasn’t complaining,” you mutter.

“You complain just by giving me those looks whenever you do something stupid.”

“What looks?”

“Like I’m the one who did it.”

Mostly because he’s actually kind of right and there’s no decent retort ready at the tip of your tongue, you just huff in response.

He cracks open the can of beer in his hand and takes a sip.

“Put something on it,” he adds after a moment, a bit softer.

You’re still staring at the ceiling fan, head tilted back against the couch, expression blank. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Ice. Tiger balm. Hydrocortisone. You’re a grown-ass girl, figure it out.” Then as if he remembers he’s supposed to be scolding you he adds, “And stop scratching it. What are you, a dog?”

This time he actually grins when you glower at him.

He disappears again and you begin to let yourself slip back into your listless state.

That’s promptly interrupted when he somehow reappears a moment later, beside you.

You barely notice him till a closed file is slapped onto the coffee table in front of you and he crouches till you feel his hand—cold, from the can of beer—press into your skin as he cranes his neck to look at the angry swollen bites himself.

You jolt just slightly as the sudden iciness on the warm, tender skin of your inner thigh automatically draws your attention away from the nagging itch of the bite.

You sneak a small glance at him. He’s still inspecting the inflamed mess you’ve made with those brows drawn together in their usual manner.

But the solution to your ennui has arrived and all that’s left is to provoke.

“Have you ever tried temperature play?” you ask mildly, stretching back against the couch behind you. “I feel like it could be fun.”

That makes him pause exactly where he’s at, hand still on your leg as he gives you a dry, testing look from under his lashes.

“Temperature play.”

“Mhm.”

“There will be no kind of play till you pick up the dirty dishes collecting in your room. Like I’ve asked you to do three times since yesterday.”

You sigh.

Dishes. Dishes. Dishes.

He’s right—messes in the house have a tendency to pile up quickly and you’ve been rather neglectful as of late. But simple tasks feel harder than they should these days.

“You’re no fun….I’ll pick them up today, I swear,” you add.

“Mm.” He rises to his feet, grabbing the can from the table, and the folder along with it. “And what’s your definition of fun?”

“Temperature play,” you remind him.

He gives you one of those looks from up above, the kind that tells you he already suspects you of being up to no good.

He does bite, though. Kind of.

“Go get some ice cubes,” he sighs, the couch dipping as he takes a seat. “We’ll see where I put them and how long you last before you’re whining at me to stop.”

Unfolding his reading glasses, he slips them on and doesn’t give the expression that crosses your face a single glance.

“My favorite part is when you making it seem like I’m a little bitch by conveniently leaving out the part where you’d probably be actively trying to give my clit frostbite,” you mutter, eyes rolling back up to stare at the ceiling fan.

“And you conveniently leave out the part where you’d be cumming from it.” There’s the sound of pages being flipped.

“Whatever. Are you going to work tomorrow?”

“Mh. Maybe.”

“Where do you go? Do you like have an office or something where you beat people up in a little cubicle?”

“I’ll let you guess on that one.”

Another flip of a page. You partly want to crawl up there and check out what he’s reading but you’re about eighty-five percent sure he wouldn’t let you.

“Mm. Well maybe not the cubicle,” you add like an afterthought. “I don’t think you do well with being contained.”

“…And what makes you think I beat people up?” he circles back.

Always the most active listener even if he’s intent on pretending otherwise.

You shrug.

He’s probably too meticulous to ever leave a trace of his “work”—not even a drop of blood on his clothing.

“Just a feeling.”

There’s a pause, then his voice slips in with a casual quietness that feels just a little too deliberate.

“Your parents give you that idea?”

The words hang in the air, light enough to pass for nothing.

Except this is the third time in two days he’s let something like that slip—barely noticeable, nearly offhand.

As if you wouldn’t have caught on by now to the little jabs he’s taking.

He’s irked by something, that much is clear. No, it feels more like that other thing you’ve sensed but never named—something tighter, more possessive, curling out of him in ways he doesn’t acknowledge.

If it were another man, you’d almost dare to say jealousy.

Turning towards him, your eyes narrow, the smirk sliding into something sharper.

“Been mentioning them a lot lately,” you say, feigning lightness. “Keeping count or are you just obsessed.”

His lip twitches as you rest your chin on his knee, but he doesn’t take the bait right away.

“So—what, do you want me to stop talking to them or something?” the words slip out before you can bite them back.

His gaze lazily flicks over, like he’s bored. “Never said that. In fact I think you should definitely keep in touch with your parents.”

“You don’t mean that,” you mutter, sharper than you intended.

That earns you a faint curve of his mouth, the kind that isn’t really a smile, and the weight of his hand on the back of your skull when you try to pull away. “And why exactly would I be competing with your parents over you for?”

The words land like his baited hook—light and easy, but you feel the tug under them and the shadow of something darker threaded in between.

You study him for a moment, trying to read if he’s joking, if he wants you to take the out and laugh it off. But the smirk doesn’t quite reach his eye.

“You just don’t like sharing,” you mumble under your breath.

His tongue presses into the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying not to laugh.

You’re already wound tight with tension shifts suddenly, pinching your cheek between his fingers.

“There it is,” he drawls, cooing at you. “My cute little brat. Look at that face.”

You jerk back, temper flaring as you slap his hand away. He only laughs under his breath, infuriatingly calm and satisfied he’s managed to get a rise out of you.

“Don’t,” you snap. “Ugh, you’re so gross.”

His grin only widens. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t—Ugh!” you groan, shifting away from him.

You know I hate when you talk to me like that, is what you want to spit out, but now familiar with his tendencies you figure that would practically just egging him on to do it again.

“Forget it,” is what you end with, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Mm,” he cuts in smoothly, the lazy arch of his brow making it clear he isn’t taking you seriously. “You’ll get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.”

It’s so condescending you could scream. Instead you sit silently with narrowed eyes.

When you don’t answer, his fingers flick at your cheek one more time before retreating.

“See? Much better. Calm suits you.”

You bristle, but if there’s one skill that’s vital to keeping yourself sane when living with Sukuna, that is the art of simply letting things go. Especially since more often than that it’ll probably come up again some time in the near future.

So with one last scowl and a huff, you push yourself to your feet and stretch as his attention returns to the papers at hand.

There’s a crack and a dull ache along your spine when you move.

“My back hurts,” you announce deliberately.

After irritating you this much, you deserve to be paid back.

He glances up at you.

“Yeah? I kept telling you to fix your posture, didn’t I?”

You stare at him.

His brows furrow, eyes narrowing. “Quit looking at me like it’s my fault your damn back hurts.”

He pauses, then finally sighs, leaning back to rub along his slitted brow.

“Go get some lotion. And don’t expect this to become habit.”

A satisfied smile crosses your face and you scamper off to find it.

A minute later, you return, tube in hand—some old body lotion you’d bought on a whim, scent labeled white peach and milk.

Considering the way he eyes the tube you hand him, reading the pink label as if it’s some personal affront, you already brace for a comment.

“Don’t start. I got it on sale, alright?”

“It was on sale for a reason.”

“Whatever. You have something more important to focus on,” you reply, arranging a pillow next to his lap. You pause, adding a, “please,” over your shoulder.

“You can’t just say ‘please’ and expect to get whatever you want,” he mutters dryly, watching you crawl onto the couch beside him.

Lying stomach-down across his lap with your head on the pillow, you fumble a bit to get comfortable, taking longer than he apparently has the patience to allow.

He clicks his tongue—because, of course, you’re simply not efficient enough for him. “What are you doing? Just lie down, brat.”

“Your legs are hard, and they’re pressing into my boobs and it hurts.”

He hums, acknowledging the complaint, then abruptly shifts his knee so it presses even more insistently against one breast.

“Ow!” you wince, twisting your neck to glare at him. “What is your problem?!”

He bites back a smirk but that telltale twitching of his lips gives it away.

“Maybe you should start wearing a bra around the house,” he suggests, grabbing a smaller cushion from beside him before you can respond. “Lift your chest.”

Lips pursed, you curve your back a bit to let him slide the pillow onto his lap, cushioning your chest from the hard planes of his legs.

You lay back down as he takes a moment to assess you. “Where does it hurt?”

“Upper back.”

Silence.

He sighs, catching onto the prurient motives you barely even care to hide.

Well…your upper back does kind of ache too.

“Take off your top then,” he tells you, stern tone nothing short of disapproving of your simpering. “And no funny business. This is going to be a back massage and nothing more.”

You peek up at him coyly with eyes that say ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about’ as you kneel to slip the top off.

“That means no happy endings, either.”

“Okay, okay…”

Torso now bare as you toss your shirt aside, you’re sure he definitely takes more than just a glance at your breasts. It’s too warm to even blame the air as your nipples begin to harden.

Laying back down, it strikes you how comfortable you’ve gotten with him.

“Saw you look.”

He snorts as the lid clicks opens so he can squeeze a slow ribbon into his palm before tossing the tube to the side. “Of course I looked, your tits were practically in my face.”

His weight shifts slightly, then there’s a slick noise followed by a cool sensation and the room floods with sweetness. Fruity and creamy, like something meant for licking off fingers rather than rubbing into skin.

You shiver when you feel the first touch as a gentle glide across your shoulder blades—lukewarm, almost lazy.

The scent clings between you, cloying and mildly laconic—too innocent of a scent for this.

“You smell edible,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

His hands are too capable for the motion to stay light for long, and soon he spreads the lotion like he means it, thumb catching the edge of a knot near your spine, fingers curling slightly against your ribs.

You sigh in relief, though it’s nearly something of a moan, quietly shifting your hips into a more comfortable sprawl beneath him. Soon your legs are lazily swinging in the air behind you too without you realizing.

“Your back's a mess.”

“So fix it,” you reply lazily, cheek smushed into the cushion, eyelids falling. “Show me what you’re good for instead of just picking on me.”

“Mh. I miss when you used to at least pretend to show some respect to your elders.”

His knuckles press into tight muscle, gliding along with the help of the cream smeared along the surface of your skin.

“‘Cause it turned you on?” you snark without thinking.

You don’t even register him wiping his palm against the cheek of your panties before a stinging pressure seizes your scalp, yanking your head back so you’re forced to look up at him almost upside down. The regret hits instantly—you should’ve kept your mouth shut until after the massage.

“Maybe I should remind you where your place is…” he murmurs, low and almost amused.

But the amusement doesn’t touch his grip.

The fist in your hair tightens until you wince, neck forced to arch in a helpless curve. Behind, your legs have stilled.

Your spine stiffens at once.

That tone, that position—his shadow over you, the pressure on your crown—cuts straight past your adult defenses and drags out that automatic, drilled-in reflex of deference.

The guilt. The heat of shame blooming behind your eyes.

For a moment, you really do feel small again—caught, chastised, pinned beneath authority you should have known better than to feel comfortable enough crossing lines with.

Some things really do stay longer than you think.

You swallow and blink slowly. “I haven’t forgotten,” you whisper, voice uncharacteristically timid.

“Act like it, then. Or hope I’m in a good mood.”

The words land with the same weight as his hand did, heavy with warning.

When he finally lets go, your breath escapes in an unconscious sigh—your head lowering slowly, automatically, the way a tamed thing folds back down once the leash is slackened.

For once, you’re unsettled.

It’s been so long since you’ve actually felt disciplined—and it rattles you that the man to force you back into that role is him, here, in this context.

His fingers resume their slow, practiced kneading into your muscles, gliding easily where moisturizer clings to your skin, the air still sweet and milky.

Suddenly he snorts under his breath, and you can’t tell if its derisive or amused. “So you do know how to shut up.”

Confusion prickles your chest.

The cognitive dissonance stings—one second you were comfortably teasing, sure of your grip on the dynamic, and the next you’re reminded with bruising precision who actually decides the rules.

“Yeah…” you mumble, subdued. “I guess.”

He snickers, genuine this time—unfiltered amusement.

“Wow—that’s what really gets under your skin? Makes me curious as to how my brother must’ve raised you…”

With a hierarchy stamped into the back of your brain.

Regardless, you can’t believe he really just fucked with you like that.

Asshole.

Your brows knit, irritation tangling with something else you can’t quite name.

For a moment, it had felt so real—like he’d slipped into that role effortlessly, without hesitation, as if he remembered it was his to play.

And that’s what unsettles you.

He’s good at facades, always has been—but you’d forgotten how convincing they could be, how easily he can make you question your footing.

And lying that well requires momentarily pretending its a truth.

“Honestly, it just…” You trail off, then shake your head. “Nothing. Forget it.”

You try to relax again, feigning nonchalance you don’t feel. “That was a dick move, though. Watch—next time you try it for real, I won’t believe you. And you can’t blame me.”

Sukuna’s laugh is low, edged with something darker than just humor.

“Trust me, sweetheart,” he drawls, leaning forward just enough to cut into your air. “If I meant it, you wouldn’t have the luxury of doubt.”

With that, his fingers are pressing into the muscles of your back again like nothing.

The passing minutes bring a gradual easiness that lets you slip back into your state before, so much so that you nearly fall asleep till the movements stop and you receive a complimentary flick to the back of your head to signal he’s officially past the limit to which he’ll pamper you.

“Unnecessary,” you grumble, rubbing the back of your skull.

“As was you once again treating me like your personal masseuse.”

“Only because you have the skills of one. If you ever want a job that might actually be legal, I know where you could start.”

He sighs, leaning back before delivering another swift and stinging flick to your back this time.

“Legal doesn’t make this kind of money.”

You make a noise of annoyance and let your feet swing far enough this time that one actually kicks his shoulder—much to your satisfaction.

“Try that again. Seriously, just try it.”

Turning your cheek just to glare at him from the side of your eye, you take care not to kick him again anyways.

Silence settles between you, as lazy as the mild draft of air from the fan humming above.

You expect him to boot you off his lap, but refuse to move until he actually does.

The room is warm and sweet and sleepy and you’re far too comfortable here to get off.

Suddenly, an idle finger traces down the length of your spine.

Instinctively a shiver follows his touch and you twitch a little, gasping softly in surprise.

His attention shifts to that.

“You’re still so sensitive,” he remarks. “Have I not been touching you enough?”

You swallow when his fingers ghost the small of your back again before drifting lower, pulling you out of the fog in your head and right back into your body, drawing heightened awareness to your prone position.

It never gets old, you open your mouth to say.

But you swallow those words, a better idea coming to mind instead.

“Guess not.”

Hoping you can persuade him to indulge you despite his strict no happy ending policy, you shift to perk your ass up and part your thighs just slightly.

Afraid moving will tilt his decision to the wrong side as he considers you, you stay still and silent.

“Move forward,” he finally says flatly. “I’m not stretching all the way there just to play with your pussy.”

Biting back a grin, you sit up as he picks up the cushion on his lap and tosses it to the side. He grabs you by the hips, practically manhandling you till your torso lays across the couch, your panty-clad ass a bit in the air where your hips rest on his lap.

“You’re sleazy, you know that?” he comments, more amused than anything.

Maybe, but it’s been hard to really feel bad about it lately.

At best, previous sexual encounters were interesting and maybe somewhat physically pleasurable. But in the last few months you’ve come to understand why sex is one of the things the world has revolved around since before history bothered to keep track.

Like Sukuna, you’ve always carried a streak of hedonism; the difference is that yours was disciplined into hiding by the pressures of civility.

Civility doesn’t exist here. Not in this house, not with him, not after the things you’ve already done—the skin you’ve already touched.

So, if there’s pleasure to be found, you’ll chase it. And if it comes with an expiration date, you’ll gorge yourself before time runs out.

His palm cups your clothed sex, though the damp heat’s already started seeping through with your arousal.

You wet your lips, resisting the urge to clench your thighs around his hand or grind down into it.

“Or maybe I’m just finally starting to meet you on your level.”

“Sure you want that? My level isn’t a place you come back from.”

He brushes his fingers along the length of your seam, and when he finally presses down onto your clit, the much needed pressure steals a gasp from you.

“Do I look like I’m not sure?” you breathe as he starts rubbing your pussy hard, the fabric starting to cling to your folds. Enough to set your pleasure centers thrumming—primitive systems with no need for embellishment.

It’s as simple as it feels good and it’s hot.

“You really don’t want me to tell you what you look like right now.”

You can only imagine how you must look—hips and ass now undulating as you give in to the urge and grind down on his fingers, rocking your cunt against it back and forth in time with his slow, steady movements.

“So easy to get you worked up,” he murmurs.

You can’t tell if he means it derogatively or he’s just commenting. Either way he’s right; you’re fidgeting on his lap, thighs tensing around his hand that’s surely at least a little sticky by now from slick saturating your panties.

Suddenly he spanks your clit.

You jump with a surprise moan.

Eyes widening a bit in amusement at your reaction, his fingers go back to steadily stroking you through your panties as you leak even more into your underwear.

“Oh? You actually liked that?” He scoffs, shaking his head as he chides you. “You’re so pathetic it’s almost endearing.”

Despite the ongoing pleasure, you frown.

“Do you ever get tired of picking on me?”

“Nope. And you don’t either,” he teases.

You whine softly at the sudden pressure when he presses directly on your clit with the pad of his finger.

“You suck,” you mumble with no real bite behind the words.

His hand smooths up your rear, lazily squeezing a bit of your ass. “Turn over.”

“Why?”

His touch drifts closer to the crevice between.

“Because you’re tempting me laying like this,” he murmurs. A finger dips between, separated only by a barrier of thin fabric as it presses teasingly against your hole.

Heat pools inside your stomach as you wet your lips. “That’s never stopped you before.”

“Neither do I have lube, nor the patience right now to hold you down when you start wiggling around because you’re uncomfortable.”

You sigh.

Unfortunately life doesn’t operate like the porn you watch time to time—practicing nearly every day for over a week and you’ve still not reached the point where he can try anything down there without lube.

Annoying, but it is what it is.

“Yeah, alright,” you agree.

Abruptly lifting your torso to flip over, you realize your tits are going to be fully exposed again—and with the thought comes that small, irrational urge to cover up; perhaps because he’s still fully clothed. Odd little flickers of self-consciousness that still sneak in, even though he’s seen you naked more times than you can count.

Comfort with nudity isn’t uniform, apparently.

So you keel over to pick up the discarded shirt, thinking he’ll stop you as you shimmy it back on, or at least mention it.

All he does is comment, “You’re fussy,” as he watches you straighten the top and lay back down to settle yourself in.

You flash him a cheeky grin, spreading your legs till one dangles off the couch and onto the floor.

“Then take care of me.”

He eyes you silently for a moment, something else flashing behind them so quick you can’t quite pinpoint what it is. Just as quick it’s gone, replaced by that usual air about him of casual arrogance.

With a sigh, his fingers find their way to your clit, pressing down till your spine reflexively arches slightly.

Propping yourself onto your elbows to watch him touch you, the physical need just grows at the sight of his large hand between your thighs. The summer heat feels almost sticky in the air around you now.

You chew on your lips, brows furrowing as the ache builds and when he finally shifts your panties to the side, exposing your glistening cunt to the sticky heat of summer and both your gazes, you almost thank him.

“Spoiled brat,” he mutters under his breath, finally swiping through your soft folds and all the arousal that’s gathered in them.

“Love you too,” you gasp at the contact.

A small smirk plays on his lips as he side eyes you like you’ve said the most curious thing while he continues to caress your cunt, beginning to rub circles on the sensitive flesh surrounding your clit.

And for a split second you second guess yourself, wondering if you’ve really said something odd or crossed some invisible boundary without realizing.

You’ve said it before, though, more casual and teasing than anything else.

He doesn’t say anything, so you let it go.

Not like you have much of a choice when he begins rubbing harder and faster, tight little circles right on that pleasure point, swollen and sensitive with blood. His hand looks good on your cunt, the sight as pleasing as it is erotic.

Your breaths start to come out ragged as you chew your lip, hips bucking or their own accord as you throb and tense and lose yourself under his touch. Beneath you, the feel his bulge growing as his hardening cock stiffens only helps drag you closer.

The fan continues to spiral above where you’re falling apart. You can feel the weight of his eyes on you but you’re afraid you’ll cum far too soon if you actually look at him.

“Feel good?”

You swallow, mouth somehow parched and salivating at the same time. “Y-Yeah—really good.”

He hums, and a sudden loss of the friction makes your breath stutter. You peek at him through heavy eyes as he brings his fingers to his lips and spits on them, gaze following as he brings them back to your cunt.

At the fleeting moment of cool stickiness where his saliva touches you, a shiver runs down your spine.

Pleasure quickly flares again when he goes back to rubbing fast, slick circles, fingers gliding smoothly with the mess of fluids coating your folds as your thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably.

“Hah—mmph!” Your palm clamps over your mouth and you moan into it, brows knitted in tight concentration, muscles straining and quivering as you try to spread your legs impossibly wider.

You watch his fingers between your legs with rapt attention, the titillating sight drawing you closer till you’re practically teetering on the edge of your orgasm, whimpering and whining desperately for release.

Almost, almost—

All your muscles tense, body stiffening up—

He stops.

He fucking stops.

You stare between him and your aching cunt, mouth agape, as he calmly lifts his hand away and the crotch of your panties shifts back into place a bit.

Your own hand drops.

“You’re not serious—Are you fucking serious?!”

His expression is infuriatingly calm…apart from his lip twitching at the corner as he languidly brings his fingers still moist with your slick to his nostril and inhales like he’s smelling a damn flower.

“Did you forget I said no happy endings?”

And oh— you can tell he’s trying so hard not to laugh.

You snap your legs shut like you’ve been burnt, glaring absolute daggers and practically trembling in indignation — and pent up sexual frustration, of course.

“You’re insane!” you hiss venomously. “And the next time you expect me to suck your dick guess what I’m going to do.”

“Oh, you think I need your mouth?”

Your upper lip twitches, close to curling back in a snarl.

He rolls his eyes. “Besides, is it my fault you don’t listen? Or maybe you really thought you could squeeze a massage and an orgasm out of me.”

Frankly, you don’t even know what to say so you give him the dirtiest look you can muster, wondering if you can possibly blow him up with your mind if you glare with enough hatred.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he coaxes, leaning back with the smuggest smirk of all time, a hand resting on your leg lightly rubbing it. It’s such a good caricature of affection that you just feel all the more wronged. “We can still watch TV or something— I mean there’s other ways to—uh…, spend quality time together.”

Deep breath.

Deep breath.

Your visibly upset state only feeds him.

Maybe there’s something to be learned from this, even.

You stare at him a moment longer, then crawl off to settle into the couch beside him.

“How do you always know I’m about to cum?” you ask, taking care to make it sound more slighted than like an actual question.

“That little face you make…and your clit starts twitching like it’s about to fall off,” he pauses, lip twitching as he hums like he’s contemplating something. “Didn’t know jumping beans were an actual thing.”

He gets to flash you that stupid, too proud, shit-eating grin for about a second before—

THWACK.

The cushion you’ve grabbed is slammed into his face so hard and with so much force that it makes the most satisfying noise.

“I hate you, I fucking HATE you!!” you bark, pushing the pillow against his dumb face as hard as you can, hoping that maybe if you’re lucky it’ll actually smother him to death.

A foolish hope, considering you can still hear his muffled laughter from behind it, as unapologetic as ever.

 

It’s later that evening, and you’ve definitely cooled off—probably due to fantasizing about some revenge plan.

You’re halfway down the hall when the faint sound of a muted click stops you.

The door to his office being locked shut.

You freeze. Sukuna’s voice drifts out from his office, calm, deliberate—almost hypnotic in its control.

Nosy as you are, you creep closer to quietly press your ear against the wall.

“…I don’t care how you spin it.” His voice is low and measured, but with an edge so sharp even you start to feel a little nervous. “Miss a single step, and it’ll cost more than just your reputation.”

There’s a pause, a subtle click of keys or a pen tapping, something small but precise.

“Yes, I know it’s delicate. That’s why I’m telling you to stay on script.”

Another pause, longer this time and the click of him flicking his lighter open. You can almost feel the other person squirming through the phone.

“Late transfers? Sloppy entries? That’s how people slip. That’s how you get caught.” His voice drops. *“*Do it clean, or don’t do it at all. Understood?”

There’s a longer pause—whoever’s on the other end of the line says something.

“Then he learns the hard way.” Sukuna’s voice is pure ice now, cold and distant, but with an undertone that makes the air in the hall feel heavier.

Goosebumps prick your forearms.

He’s definitely a bully to you half the time—but the realization weighs on you now that that was such a domesticated version of him that you’d actually forgot who he is to the rest of the world.

The place he holds, the livelihoods he probably has in the palm of his hand.

“Nobody keeps a knife in their back and complains about the blood.”

It’s hard to believe this was the same man giving you a damn back massage a few hours ago, laughing at his own shitty ass joke as you practically tried to kill him with that pillow—and still let you sit on him after and waste time watching TV.

There’s a faint chuckle, almost mocking, and then his tone sharpens even more than before somehow. “Good. Oh, and one more thing—don’t get cute with me. Money doesn’t lie, people do. Cross me, and I’ll personally make sure you’re in a hospital bed, eating through a tube.”

You duck back around the corner, heart pounding.

Even without understanding the full context, your stomach churns.

Yet as you walk to your room, you find yourself wondering if his hands still smell like white peaches and milk and you.

 

* * *

 

It’s twilight—the hollow hour between day and night when the world feels emptied out, and you with it. The last smear of sun fades, turtle doves coo in the distance, and you sink deeper into the mattress, the room unlit, held only in the dim wash of the sky until even that drains away, leaving you in near-total dark.

Another day gone. You grieve it as if tomorrow won’t be wasted the same way.

And the one after that.

And the one after that.

Even the bite on your thigh, now covered, has begun to heal past the point of which scratching at it still holds some satisfaction.

With the trivial fixes spent, you reach for the only indulgence that ever really works—him.

You drag yourself from bed and settle on the only worthwhile pursuit left: pestering Sukuna in his office.

Funny how this one cruelty remains, intact and familiar, while the rest of you has begun to dissolve.

Despite his offenses, he did, in his own way, make up for three days ago.

Tongue, fingers, cock—each had its turn between your legs, and only stopped when he was satisfied.

Sukuna’s at his desk when you amble in, jaw tense in concentration as he works through a series of documents. The low glow of the laptop illuminates his face, reflecting on his lenses, a few stray strands of hair falling near his eyes.

Stepping into his presence, your listlessness shifts into a restless boredom—and that’s always when the worst parts of you start to stir.

Arms crossed, you hover behind him, pretending not to watch.

“You’ve been in here forever.”

“Working.”

“I can see that. But why?”

“Bills don’t pay themselves.”

Not the answer you wanted, and he knows it.

Fine—he wants to play it that way.

A small, almost imperceptible smirk crosses your lips as you turn toward the door. “Alright… I get the hint.”

You pivot to leave, but his hand brushes the small of your back—not grabbing, just a reminder of presence.

“Don’t go yet,” he says, finally meeting your eyes.

You stop, one brow raised, letting the silence stretch. “I was just… stretching my legs.”

“Stretching, huh?” His gaze lingers, following the subtle sway of your movements. “Funny… you always seem to stretch toward me, don’t you?”

“Maybe it’s just that you happen to be the most interesting thing in my life right now.”

His arm extends—not quite to wrap around you, more like a precise herding—guiding you closer without fully claiming you yet.

“And yet,” he murmurs, low and teasing, almost a challenge, “I’m the most interesting thing that’s ever happened—or ever will happen—to you.”

“Well… that’s kind of bleak.”

“It’s not. You just expect too much out of life.”

Squinting, you debate on whether to decode his cryptic riddles or just move on.

You choose the latter.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing, or am I going to pretend to leave again?” you finally press again.

“Prete—” He narrows his eyes, putting two and two together.

“Attention-seeking brat,” he mutters under his breath.

“And it works, so…”

A faint smirk tugs at his lips, less like humor and more like him trying to keep it together as his patience frays in the best way. “You’re lucky I’m choosing not to wage this ego war with you right now.”

His hand drops away as he finally exhales through his nose, eyes drifting back towards the screen.

“I’m revising a clause we buried in the logistics contract for the Tokyo deal.”

You slide to lean on the edge of his desk. “Sounds illegal.”

He looks up at you, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes this time. “Only if you get caught.”

You hum, hoisting yourself to perch at the empty end of the desk.

“What’d you do today?” he asks suddenly.

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “…Stayed in bed. Watched some dumb videos. Napped.”

“All day?”

You shrug.

“Didn’t you want to go to that new store that opened in the square?” His voice is light but you shift a little.

You focus on the thread, yanking it till stitching starts to unravel from the inseam. “Thought I’d give your card a break.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. If I give you my card, it’s to be used.”

His eyes slide toward you, red glinting under the cold blue glare of the screen on his glasses.

“Don’t make me start wondering what else you’re sparing from me.”

Caught under his gaze, you force yourself to stop fidgeting, the words hanging in the air.

So instead, you straighten your spine and redirect.

Before he can say anything, you toe the leg of his chair lightly. “Can I sit?”

He sits back and regards you coolly for a moment, and finally nods toward a crisp stack of papers laying on top of an opened envelope. “Earn it.”

You blink. “What?”

“That one has a forged witness statement buried in it. See if you can spot what’s off.”

You eye the papers, then him. “You’re making me do homework?”

“You want the seat. That’s the cost.” His gaze drops to his lap, then back to your face. “Go on.”

With a sigh you scoop them up. Sukuna’s already turned back to his screen, but you know he’s listening.

You scan the documents—a witness header and an official looking police report clipped to the back.

You read aloud, “Jogging near the pier…heard a scream…saw two men struggling, one jumped into the water and disappeared.”

The statement is unusually neat—too detailed, with timestamps, clothes, even a little sketch.

“She said it was 4:17 a.m. when she saw them.”

“Mm.” Sukuna doesn't look up, but there’s a hint of interest in his voice now. “And?”

You hesitate, flipping back. “If it was really that early, it’d be close to pitch-black. How could she give a clear description of the suspect’s face?”

You skim further. “She says she jogs every morning at that exact time…”

Pier…

An idea forms.

So you pull out your phone, thumb tapping to search the tide report, in that location at that date and time.

“There was a high tide every morning that week.” You squint. “And that pier’s a really low one…it would’ve been underwater at four in the morning.”

That gets him—he looks at you now, expectant.

“She’s never even been there,” you conclude.

Sukuna leans back, steepling his fingers. “Good catch.”

“You knew that already.”

“I can still be impressed.”

An eye-roll escapes you, though your lips betray a stubborn little smile. “Whatever. Do I pass?”

“You pass,” he says, spreading his legs slightly.

He watches as you crawl onto him, settling comfortably against his frame.

“No better than a lapdog,” he sighs wryly, slipping the glasses off and folding the frames neatly at the edge of the desk, before his gaze darts down to you. “Should we get you one of those puppy pee pads too?” Your chin is grabbed and twisted. “Right there in the corner.”

You wrinkle your nose, face contorting fully when he pinches your cheek, crooning at you teasingly.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love it when I talk to you like this,” he purrs, with the cockiness that can only come with certainty.

You grit your teeth, but the soft press of his calloused palm against your cheek is undeniable.

Warmth seeps in, slow and grounding, and your lashes fall without realizing it. The tension in your shoulders loosens, a low hum escaping your throat as the sharp edge of annoyance softens.

“Why don’t you go work on your professional fraud instead of pretending I’m your pet.”

Sukuna pats your cheek, easing back just enough to glance at the document on the screen he’d been reviewing.

“Oh, you think it’s pretend.” His mouth crooks at one corner, eyes narrowing with a glint that prickles your skin, thumb dragging idly along your jaw. “Don’t be surprised if I put a collar on you one of these nights.”

You narrow your eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“Mm. But you would.” The smirk deepens, sly, savoring. “On all fours. Barking, if I asked.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You should be thanking me for being such a good owner.” His fingers catch a stray lock of your hair, absentmindedly winding it slow between knuckles. “I feed you, let you sleep in my bed…I even train you regularly.”

Heat licks your face, and you’re grateful he can’t see it with your cheek pressed against him.

“Shut up, quit calling it that,” you mutter, irritation fraying your tone, pulse betraying how easily he’s managed to claim these little corners of your mind.

The thoughts creep in at the worst times—while drinking coffee, folding laundry, washing your face—leaving your ears burning and your head spinning for no apparent reason.

“Would you rather we call it family bonding time?”

A past version of you would’ve been nauseated at that. But repeated exposure dulls the sharpest edges, and now the churn in your stomach is less horror and closer to the unease of a dirty joke told only to make you squirm for his amusement.

His quiet tittering swells into a proper laugh as you groan and try to push yourself off him. “You are sickening.”

“Sickening?” he repeats, arm tightening around your waist to keep you secure, despite your defiant wriggling. “I’ll hold you to that one when you’re moaning in my lap tonight and begging for ‘more’.”

This is a large chair and he is a large man so your attempt at escape is considerably hindered by you awkwardly trying to get up without just falling off.

“Let me go,” you demand. “You need to learn your words have consequences, so consider this negative reinforcement—ugh!”

“Nope.” His voice is calm, almost lazy in its certainty. “You came here to bother me, so now you’ll stay till I’m done with you.”

At this point, resisting takes more energy than it’s worth. You let out a soft sigh, lashes dipping as you peek up at him, shoulders slumping in reluctant surrender.

“Do you ever get bored of treating me as your personal chew toy?”

His playfulness does remind you of a tiger, shaking around some limp toy it’s been given, just like any other cat.

Mouth opening, he brushes his tongue against the tip of your ear.

“I’ll chew on you however much I want while I still can.”

At that you frown, but the half-assed urge to fight back has passed, swallowed entirely by something softer, pliable, and fully your own this time as fingers lift your chin to pull your face towards his.

You’re caught off guard when his lips brush yours, still a little tacky with lip balm—it’s usually you who steals the kisses.

Lips are unnervingly sensitive—more than fingertips, even—and you shiver as his tongue flicks out, tracing the seam of your mouth so lightly it tickles.

At last you yield, parting for him, and he takes his time licking over your teeth, gums, mapping the inside of your mouth.

The wet press of his tongue against yours sends flutters down your chest. Saliva mixes and you think you’ll never get tired of tasting him.

Moaning softly, you shift and tilt your face at an angle to deepen the kiss, chasing those familiar traces of cigarette smoke.

Your heart doesn’t quicken; it sinks, each beat heavy and slow as you straddle him completely.

His second hand finally abandons the pen and grips your ass, squeezing hard.

You breathe feverishly into his mouth, a familiar sensation of wetness blooming between your thighs—especially when his palms begin sliding up your body, under the fabric of your top, leaving a trail of goosebumps where they skim up to the soft fat on the underside of your tits.

You’re glad you’re braless tonight—by the time his hands cup the peaks of your breasts, your nipples are stiff, and your fingers are tangling desperately in his hair. You barely notice your hips starting to grind down against his groin, almost of their own accord.

Finally he cups your tits, the delicate skin so sensitive it magnifies the warmth of his touch, heat bleeding through flesh and into the hollow of your chest.

You whimper into him as he gropes your tits, thumbs circling over the peaked buds of your nipples. A sudden, delicious pinch of sensation makes your breath catch when he takes one of them to roll it between the pads of his fingers, and you don’t even care that you’re practically humping him at this point.

With a sharp curse, his lips are ripped from yours, hands hurriedly working at his fly.

You watch eagerly, nearly as restless as he is, until at last he finally manages to pull his cock free.

In the next breath he’s already reaching to grab one of your hands to hold it to your mouth.

“Spit.”

There’s only a half second of hesitation before you understand where this must be going, so you cup your palm and spit once, then again before he even tells you to, earning yourself a pleased hum from him that you soak up a lot more readily than you’d ever admit.

Once you’ve got a good amount, he pulls it to his hard length already weeping at the tip. Automatically, you curl your fingers around the girthy base, fingers encircling the black band that stand in sharp contrast to the tan of his shaft, feeling the heat pulsing from it. Collected saliva drips almost as lewdly as the shuddering breath he lets out in relief.

Like before, you find yourself wondering about the circumstances of that tattoo—a younger Sukuna, sprawled in the chair with that careless confidence, the buzz of the needle, the sting of ink pressed into such a vulnerable place.

Maybe there’s even a spark of something like jealousy that someone else got to leave a mark there.

Especially when it feels like he’s already etched something permanent into you.

“Tighter,” he breathes.

You squeeze tighter, unsure as to exactly how much pressure to apply around the shaft, somehow both pliable and firm.

Beneath the skin, blood throbs steadily under your fingertips, each pulse engorging the flesh as it fills and tightens.

“More. Don’t jerk me off like I don’t feed you.”

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” you mumble sheepishly.

His laugh rumbles low, threaded with a breathiness that makes your thighs clench and saliva pool thick at the back of your tongue. “You won’t, trust me.”

Palm wrapping your hand, he squeezes it into an even tighter fist.

“Fuck,” he groans. “There we go.”

He pushes into your hand and you begin stroking his cock in tight, steady pumps.

Up, down, up, down…

“Got it?”

You nod and his grip falls away, leaving you to work his length by yourself. Your brows pinch faintly, a flicker of concentration as you work to keep the motion steady.

Precum seeps from his slit, and realizing you’ve been neglecting the reddened tip, you reach your thumb over to smear the pearlescent droplets. Softly, you rub the stickiness over the smooth, sensitive flesh of his glans.

Your experimentation is rewarded with a sharp intake between his teeth.

Once you’ve settled into a steady rhythm, your lips find his again, nipping at them till he hisses and twitches in your palm.

Your tongue grazes along the edge of his teeth—hard against soft, cool against warm. The firm scrape of enamel is intimate; a sharp reminder that you’re inside his mouth, teasing spots that have bitten you more than once.

Lost in him, you barely notice when his hand closes around yours and squeezes tighter; a silent reminder without the kiss breaking as you’d accidentally been letting up the pressure while distracted.

Oops.

This time you commit it to memory and when he releases you, the force of your grip soon becomes instinctive.

Heat pools low in your panties, thick and insistent as you savor the rare control over his pleasure, teasing and coaxing every shiver and low groan from him.

And for once your tongue drives the rhythm now, for the first time it’s him sucking on it as you pump your fist faster, harder, feeling every tight flex of his muscles responding beneath your touch.

You feel lightheaded; like standing in a cramped bathroom with the shower scalding hot, steam swelling until the air thins, oxygen slipping away. Dizzy, on the edge of fainting, yet you can’t bring yourself to stop.

What little air you have left is shared with him, breath mingling in desperate pants against each other’s mouths. He’s aroused, so achingly turned on, and the thought keeps circling in your fevered mind, each pass fogging you up worse than the last.

His length has been slicked with pre, your palm sticky with the mess as you twist your fist at the top of every stroke around his swollen crown.

Your forearm is starting to ache but you barely notice, lost in your determination to pleasure him so well he that you can get him to unravel under your touch.

He’s so thick and heavy, the flesh of his shaft soft like satin, and by now your own cunt’s throbbing in tune with his cock pulsating in your hand.

The room tilts as your senses spin, drunk on the power of how completely you’ve undone him, each ragged breath from his lips threatening to become a moan.

You press closer, straddling him, your face just above his as he leans back ever so slightly, heat radiating between you.

Translucent fluid relentlessly continues to dribble down from his tip, and when you frantically shove your tongue impossibly deeper into his mouth, he takes everything you give him—greedily suckling and caressing it with his own.

More.

Your hand drifts upward, tracing the line of his neck to the edge of his jaw.

Tongues meet, sliding and slick, while your palm rests lightly against the side of his throat, the other hand diligently pumping him, having quickly picked up on how to flick your wrist and swipe your thumb to coax those little twitches of his cock and more precum dripping down.

Under the hinge of his jaw, your thumb presses in. Harder till you can feel his pulse under your fingertip, every pump of blood through his veins.

You’ve never held him like this.

He shows no sign of wanting you to stop, though—if anything you think the normally slow steady rhythm of his pulse starts to become more and more erratic.

At last your tongue retreats, leaving shared breaths hanging between you as you nip and suck at his lips, till you can taste the faint tang of raw flesh.

One final nibble, and you pull back just enough for a glistening strand of spit to stretch between your mouths before it snaps.

His eyes are pretty.

The limbal rings so dark, they make the red of his irises burn richer—striations catching the light like stained glass, giving them a depth that makes you want to either peel his eyelids back and lose yourself in them…or sink your teeth straight through.

But right now there’s more black than that shade of red you’ve memorized, his lids low and heavy.

It’s a rare sight, seeing him like this—lust-drunk, undone in a way that makes you ache, makes you feel like you could devour him whole.

“Stick your tongue out,” you whisper, nails dragging along his skin where your fingers curl in.

A silent, burning moment passes between you.

You slow the strokes of your hand wrapped around his length, throbbing and leaking so much it almost seems like it would be painful.

At last he relents, holding your gaze as his lips part on a soft sound. His tongue slips past with a teasing flick, and before you can stop yourself you lean in, swiping yours over his in a quick, hungry lick.

You think you catch the ghost of amusement—his lips twitching, eyes narrowing in a faint crinkle as he watches patient and expectant. You gather spit at the tip of your tongue, tighten your grip on his jaw, and let it fall—slow, deliberate strands dripping onto his waiting tongue.

You quickly resume the original pace, gliding your palm over the soft, glistening skin as you barely press your lips to his.

“You’re really going to make me say it?” you murmur against his mouth.

He only listens with a glint that borders on insolence, the curve of his lips almost daring.

“Should I thank you too?

You nip his lip sharply and suck it back between yours, as he swallows.

Below, your thumb grazes down his slit to the raised rim of flesh where his glans meets the shaft, delicate and careful in your movements. There, you trace his corona with pad of your finger, curious to see if it’s really as sensitive as it looks.

And oh—the shaky gasp that escapes him before he can stop it, the jerk of his hips under you—is nothing short of beautiful.

You grin against his lips, moving on to let your hand drift down his shaft, lower and lower till your palm cups his balls—partially out of curiosity.

Like the rest of him, they hang heavy and radiate heat in your hand.

“Is this okay?” you murmur, a little unsure if he even wants you pausing your strokes to fondle his balls.

This time you feel him smile against your mouth.

“Since when do you ask permission?” he says, voice low and warm as the hand on your ass smooths up to rub your lower back. “Or are you asking me if I like it?”

You half-laugh, suddenly a little self-conscious.

“I don’t know…Both, I guess.”

His nose grazes yours. “Mm. Sweet of you,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “But…unless I’m actually stopping you, you can do whatever you want to me. Thought we already established that.”

His words hang in the air as he skims his lips across your jaw.

“And yeah, I like it. Keep going. Bit late to start getting shy…”

He groans softly into your mouth when you begin delicately massaging them, the other hand sliding up to cup his cheek as you affectionately peck his lips once, then twice.

On your waist is one of his hands, the other squeezing your ass.

Finally you drag your hand back up, firmly gripping his shaft from the base as you break the kiss to look down at his turgid length as you pause and open your mouth to drip saliva on it again.

Tip glistening with fresh spit, you begin pumping again in slow, slick strokes.

His eyes track your every movement, and with both of you watching, the erotic weight of it swells.

Soft schlicks fill the space between you faster and faster, all the blood in his cock suffused towards the crown, deepening the flush there.

Every ragged ‘good girl, just like that’ spills out of him like a demand and a plea at once, keeping you moving despite the ache starting to bloom in your arm again.

So intensely locked in on jerking his cock, you’re momentarily taken by surprise when he grabs your chin to slot his lips against yours again. The kiss is more like an exchange of saliva with how slow and wet and sloppy it is.

He makes out with you like he wants to eat you, you make out with him like you want to crawl into his skin.

His cock twitches erratically and you’re sure he’s close with how his hips push up a bit, desperately trying to thrust into your touch, chasing more friction.

So with a deliberate touch, you caress around the raised edges of his tip, dragging a thumb to the underside and over that sensitive soft string of flesh.

Every muscle in his body tenses and a moan slips out in response to the unexpected touch.

Somewhat proud of yourself for finding his sweet spot, you continue stimulating his frenulum with a slick thumb alongside short pumps with the rest of your hand wrapped around his shaft.

You secretly hope for another moan—it doesn’t come, but you do get one last shuddering full body exhale from him before ropes of cum shoot out in rapid spurts. Pulling your head away, you peer down to catch the sight as you milk him through his orgasm, slower and delicate on the tip as he empties his balls in your hand.

Some of the creamy fluid catches on your fingers, some lands on himself in the thatch of hair sitting on his pelvis, dripping warm, potent, and viscous. as your satisfied hum resonates with his own low groan.

The air buzzes with post-coital bliss as he finishes, and you’re both left breathing heavy, your hand still wrapped around his spent cock, tacky and cool as cum starts to dry.

It was him who orgasmed, but you feel warm and boneless.

It’s not just lust, but a softness in your chest now—unwelcome, but undeniable.

You pull away, curling into him to rest your head below his chin. Neither of you speak, the silence comfortable in itself as you watch his cock start to soften, still slick and sticky.

And then you realize he’s rubbing your back, soothingly, in the most absentminded manner like he’s not even thinking about it.

An unconscious gesture.

Like he’s sensed the small shift in your awareness, he abruptly moves to shift you off him, reaching to tuck himself back in.

You know that sigh, the one that tells you the fun is over and it’s time for him to get up and clean himself off.

But your hand is already extending near his to stop him.

“Not yet.”

“I have work to finish.”

“Come on. Just a few more minutes.”

“Of what? Sitting here while cum dries all over me?” He moves to get up again. “We can do this after—“

His words end in a sharp breath as you graze your finger around his half-hard cock, still sensitive to any direct touch.

You collect seed wherever it’s painted on his skin with your fingertips, before bringing them to your mouth and licking them clean, rubbing the liquid over your palate before you swallow.

Something about the smell, the taste of it is absolutely fascinating, the way a challenging perfume intrigues the nose. The immediate saline tang a briny bitterness that curls and lingers at the back of your tongue. It tastes alive with its own animalic heat like only organic material made by a body can, and of course that faint, fleshy sweetness that can only have come from him.

“You taste good,” you murmur, sucking your finger.

It’s not obscene; more like how you clean your fingers after food at the table sometimes and he scolds you to go wash your hands like a civilized human instead.

“Cum doesn’t taste good, you’re just a slut.”

Though right now, he watches with an almost reluctant fascination as you do so, eyes sliding over to stare at him, completely unbothered by his quip.

Over and over till you’ve licked up as much of the cum splatters as you could.

Then before he can stop you, you quickly wrap your fingers around his cock, careful to be gentle as you tuck it back in and zip up his fly before leaning back and grinning at him.

He regards you with a dry, somewhat wary skepticism.

“Why the fuck are you looking at me like that? Am I supposed to praise you or something?” he asks suspiciously.

You nod as sincerely as you can, trying not to laugh. “For giving you aftercare.”

“And not for the handjob?”

You shrug. “That’s bare minimum. The aftercare isn’t.”

“Right…”

You snort, shifting to climb off him when his fingers close around your arm. “And where are you going?”

“You said you have work,” you remind him.

“I do. But stay,” his voice drops, softer.

“And do what? Solve more fraud cases?” The sarcasm leaves your mouth on autopilot, though it falters under the weight of his gaze.

You can’t read what’s moving behind his eyes, but you know it’s something.

“If that’s what you want to do…Or just sit, like we used to. Instead of by yourself.” He tugs lightly at your sleeve, coaxing you closer.

You feel funny.

Hollow in your chest, but full in your throat like the breath sticks and coagulates. It’s a painfully simple request, and yet tears threaten to rise without name or reason.

“And just…take up space?” you ask, yielding despite yourself.

“It’s yours to take up.”

A place carved out just for you.

Not smooth or polished, but hacked into being with jagged blades and harsh cleaves.

You bleed on the edges sometimes, yet nothing has ever fit so perfectly.

The words weigh down on you, till something delicate inside finally gives way.

And it won’t last.

“Okay, then…just for a little.”

 

* * *

 

Some time that week the cook boy falls sick, leaving you and Sukuna to fend for yourselves in the kitchen.

Of course, Sukuna could’ve ordered food from outside, but instead he chose this option. You suspect it wasn’t just about the meal—more about dragging you out of bed before you disappeared too far into the mattress.

Which is how you end up at the kitchen counter, half-dazed and clumsy with the knife, attempting to chop vegetables. Sukuna decided he was fed up with you doing nothing but annoying him while he cooked, or worse, not bothering to leave your room at all.

So here you are, absurdly large knife in hand, attempting to chop the shiny white onion sitting on the wooden board.

Sukuna’s behind you, watching, and silently sipping his drink as you clumsily slice through the bulb again and again, with jagged chunks.

It’s not that you’ve never cut an onion—any half decent meal, no matter how simple, will likely need onions.

The issue is you never learned to cut an onion, and so each time is an awkward guesswork.

There were no mother-daughter cooking lessons growing up (forget about your father), no one who bothered to show you how to hold a knife properly—maybe because no one noticed you needed showing.

Whatever the reason, it’s the kind of guidance you only notice missing years later, in moments like right now.

The cuts are uneven, some pieces too thick, another too thin. Juices run over the wood grain, and the sting pricking your eyes feels heavier than this damn onion deserves.

You’re trying to figure out how to maybe get an even slice for the next cut when Sukuna moves without warning, and suddenly he’s behind you.

He reaches his hand over yours, stopping the knife mid-air.

“You’re going to slice your finger off.”

You huff, not looking at him. “I had it.”

“Not with your wrist twisted like that,” he says dryly. “Here.”

He doesn’t ask permission before he adjusts your grip, guiding your fingers around the handle, his palm brushing over the back of your hand as he angles the blade for you.

The contact is warm—always too warm with him. Close.

The faint but distinct smell of him that always makes something curl low in your belly envelops you through the scent of onion, and somehow you forget how tall he really is until he’s looming behind you like this.

His presence commands attention; there’s simply no blocking it out—you’re left hyperaware of ever inch of him.

Then his other hand touches your waist, firm but not rough, as he shifts you slightly.

“You’re leaning wrong. You don’t need your whole body to do the work. Just your hand.”

The way you stiffen a little at the contact doesn’t go unnoticed by him, sharp eyes flicking over to you.

“You tense up every time,” he murmurs. “What is it you think I’m going to do?”

You’ve lived with him for months, yet your brain still short-circuits in these small moments. Your mouth goes dry, your hand trembles beneath his like a schoolgirl who doesn’t know what to do with herself.

And as always, Sukuna notices weakness only to exploit it.

“You think I’ll bend you over the cutting board? Right here in the kitchen?” He chuckles, low and amused. “That why your thighs are clenched?”

“Screw you,” you mutter, but your voice thins, breath snagging in your chest.

“Already trying to negotiate?” he drawls. “You usually wait until after dinner.”

You whip your head around to glare at him—a mistake.

He’s right there, close enough your nose almost brushes his, lips hovering at your cheek as you catch a bright flash of red.

Something ripples low in your stomach, like that sudden drop when the road dips under your tires, when for a split second your organs feel weightless and floating.

Honestly, you’re surprised you haven’t dropped the knife already—not that he’d let you.

You think he might just kiss you but instead his lips curl into a smirk, gaze darting to something past you. “You missed this.”

“What?”

He releases your hand, leaning forward just enough to pluck a wayward onion piece that made its way onto the counter beside you—barely a reason to invade your space like that, and he knows it.

His shoulder grazes yours as he tosses the slice into the trash behind you.

“You’re a terrible sous-chef,” he comments, voice rich with amusement. “Didn’t know kitchen duty included trying to get felt up.”

Your ears burn, but this one is just unfair.

“Me? I was just standing here trying to chop an onion,” you snap indignantly. “Maybe you should learn to keep your hands to yourself.”

“Huh.” He tilts his head. “I guess you’re right.”

You’re about to sarcastically thank him when the hand on your waist drops to abruptly squeeze your ass so hard it almost hurts.

You yelp and he laughs as you jerk away.

“Do you want me to drop this knife?” you hiss.

He doesn’t answer your question, neither does he apologize.

Instead, he shifts back in behind you like he didn’t just grab a full handful of your ass for absolutely no reason except that he could.

“You’re still holding it wrong,” he comments a moment later, eyes glinting as they flick down your frame. “But go ahead. I wanna see what face you make when you nick yourself. Bet it’s cute.”

You scowl, but your grip shifts. Slightly.

He sees it, and grins. “See? You do listen.”

“I’m never helping in the kitchen again,” you mutter as he finally steps away back to his drink.

Still, you try—you really do.

Grip corrected, wrist angled just so. You even slow your pace, determined to prove you can manage.

But the second Sukuna turns his back, your focus falters—maybe it’s the haze he’s left in your head, maybe it’s just you. Either way, it only takes a moment.

Between your clumsy technique, the heft of a knife too big for comfort, and the sheer slipperiness of onions, it happens fast.

The blade skids over a glossy layer, and a sharp sting blooms at your fingertip.

You hiss quietly, but he hears it anyway.

Shit.

The turn is immediate. “What did you do?”

You try to curl your fingers into a loose fist, hiding it by your side, mentally cursing yourself for such an idiotic mistake at the worst time. “Nothing.”

He’s across the kitchen in a few strides, already reaching for your wrist.

“Hey—”

He catches it, lifts it, and sees the small line blooming with red before you can finish.

His expression doesn’t change much, just that flicker of narrowed eyes, the slight draw of his brow.

“Are you serious right now?” he mutters, more disappointed than angry. “One onion. One knife. I turned around for two seconds. Right after I told you to be careful too.”

“It’s not even that bad—”

“That’s not the point.” He pulls the towel off the rack and presses it against your fingertip, firm but careful. “You get distracted too easy. You’re not cutting your thoughts, you’re cutting vegetables. Focus.”

Your teeth catch your lip as your chest sinks under the reprimand. It feels embarrassingly similar to being scolded by your favorite primary school teacher—gentle, disappointed, but enough to make your stomach knot.

He isn’t even angry, just weary in that dry, resigned way of his, like he’d already counted on you slipping up.

One clumsy mistake, and you’re already deemed incapable—and what stings a lot worse than the cut is that he’s not wrong.

“I was focusing,” you try to defend yourself weakly.

“Yeah, right.” His tone is sharp, bordering on sardonic amusement. “What, one small touch from me and you lose your brain?”

Heat flares in your face immediately. “I wasn’t—”

“Uh-huh.”

He doesn’t push it further as he holds your hand to look at the cut again. Relatively shallow and harmless, but deep enough that blood continues to well up between flesh that is visibly split.

Not to mention it’s starting to throb like a bitch—but you refuse to let that show.

With a sigh, he pulls open a corner drawer and retrieves a bottle of antiseptic and a band-aid. You freeze for a moment.

“You keep first-aid stuff in the kitchen?” you ask, careful to make it sound like a genuine question instead of an admission of failure.

Sukuna hums, still stern, though there’s that faint edge of amusement again. “Got them after the first time I saw you trying to slice an apple.”

You remember—months ago, still withdrawn in your shell. The apple had slipped on the board, jagged chunks collected mid-slice, frustration building. You’d silently (and foolishly) hoped he hadn’t noticed.

“Oh,” you murmur.

It’s almost funny, in a cynical sort of way—the man your parents always seemed wary of sees you, despite your tendency to hide.

Sukuna has a habit of correcting things. So you wonder if it comes from genuine concern for you, or if it has nothing to do with that at all—that perhaps it’s simply his nature to fix what he perceives as imperfect, particularly when he must coexist with it. And your very existence is a little jagged, always sort of fundamentally misaligned; flawed by nature.

It’s these imperfections he hones in on, compelled to adjust, smooth, or control—not necessarily because he cares, but because the imperfect demands it, and you are impossible for him to ignore.

Either way, that is how you ended up on this side of him.

The side where his hand gently nudges you toward the kitchen table as he adds, “But I’m glad we didn’t need them until now.”

“I can do it—” you start, but he ignores you and sits you down exactly like a kid who can’t be trusted with sharp objects.

“I guess I should’ve believed you when you said you couldn’t do it,” he mutters, pouring a bit of liquid onto a cotton pad.

“I’m trying,” you say, quieter now.

“I know. That’s the problem.”

You make a face, and he smirks faintly.

The antiseptic stings, but you stay still this time.

He doesn’t gloat or tease, just works with steady hands, winding the bandage around your finger tight enough to hold but not enough to hurt.

When he finishes, he lingers—his hand still cradling yours, thumb brushing once over the wrap. His eyes lift to your face, unreadable, studying you with that flat, patient look that always makes your chest tighten, like he’s deciding what to do with you.

Then—

“Ow!”

You squeak when he presses down hard on the covered cut.

He snickers as you snatch your hand back, scowling.

“Missed the face you made when you cut yourself,” he says easily, like it’s the most reasonable explanation in the world.

You’re left speechless, lips parting then shutting again, not sure whether to argue or just frown.

“You’re still banned from the kitchen though—especially the knives,” he adds, already pushing himself up.

“I can still stir or—”

“Nope,” he cuts in. “You’ve been demoted. You can go back to sitting on the counter and swinging your legs. That’s the most responsibility I’m giving you.”

It’s ironic, really—that was all you wanted to do in the first place. But now, climbing back up, you feel the sulk rising anyway.

It’s one thing to choose uselessness, another to have it imposed as proof of your incompetence.

And yet, when you glance down at your neatly wrapped finger, there’s a warmth you can’t quite shake. It deepens when he wordlessly slides your chopsticks away and replaces them with the kind made for an easier grip—like he’s already accounted for your flaws.

 

* * *

 

You hold up your nails to the light.

Trying to stray away from how often you’ve been biting at them lately, you incentivize yourself with a manicure.

The new nail polish you bought on his card is more than gorgeous — the problem lies in your painting skills.

Lack of practice.

And it definitely looks like it—streaky, uneven, spilling over the edge of your cuticle. You feel like a five year old trying and failing miserably to color within the lines.

And there is absolutely no way in hell you’ll be able to paint with your non-dominant hand.

So you pick up the nail polish bottle and step out of your room to search for Sukuna.

You find him in the back room—kneeling over a clean cloth, sleeves pushed to the elbows, a whetstone balanced beneath his palm and a glinting knife drawn slow, steady over it.

He doesn’t look up when you halt in the doorway. “I hear your bare feet before I hear your voice. You should work on that.”

You can’t think of a single reason why you would ever need to work on that, so you ignore the comment, drifting inside with your usual casual insolence. “Do you have a minute?”

“Does it look like I have a minute?”

Another precise stroke of the blade.

You squat next to him eyeballing the metal. “I just need a quick favor.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“I already know it’s stupid.”

You hold out your unpainted hand. “Can you do this hand for me?”

He finally looks at you, mostly like you’ve spoken in a foreign language.

“I am not painting your damn nails.”

“Please?” you press, eyeing the knife again. “You’re good with precision.”

He glares but you know he’ll do it—you knew before you even asked.

You plop down across from him, already unscrewing the cap. “Come on. I’ll sit still. Promise.”

His gaze drops to the hand you’ve already painted, and before you can pull it back, he catches it in his grip. Lifting your fingers closer to his face, he tilts them toward the light, scrutinizing your nails like he’s appraising contraband.

“What the hell is this?” he asks flatly.

“…Nail polish?” you offer, unsure, watching his expression.

The look he gives you is dry, unimpressed to the point of insult.

“I’ve been in places where they’d cut your fingers off for walking in with a job that ugly.”

Your mouth opens, a frown tugging at your brows, ready to defend yourself—that you don’t ever plan on visiting whatever the hell kinds of places he’s talking about—but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“Go get your nail polish remover,” he says, releasing your hand only to tap your knuckles once. “And my glasses.”

You don’t know whether to be touched or alarmed at how serious he is about this.

“Seriousl—”

“Now,” he orders you.

You return three minutes later with cotton rounds, acetone, your base coat—and of course, his glasses.

He slips them on as you sink back down in front of him, knees folding on the ground.

“Take off that….whatever you already have on there,” he tells you, turning back around to sharpen his knives.

You grumble as you start scrubbing at your fingers, cotton ball soaked and acetone biting at your skin. “I liked the color.”

“You picked a good color,” he says, still dragging the knife over the stone in a soft metallic whisper. “You just applied it like shit.”

You shoot him a look. “Maybe I don’t want your help if you’re going to just be a dick.”

“I don’t care what you want. You’re not leaving this room till those nails are proper.”

“Narc,” you mutter under your breath.

“I heard that.”

You choose to ignore him, removing your nail polish and reapplying the clear basecoats before finally holding your hands out to him, with a bit more dignity.

“I’m done,” you announce.

He wipes the blade clean and sets it aside, turning his attention back to you.

The way he takes your fingers one at a time to examine them one by one with such scrutiny is almost kind of funny.

Until he lets you know, “Your cuticles look like shit.”

You scoff, as he lets your hands go to unscrew the nail polish bottle like its some kind of weapon. “What, is this your way of flirting?”

“If it was, you’d be naked by now.”

You go quiet.

His gaze flicks up at your silence, then dips again as he steadies your hand in his, the bottle balanced near his knee.

He works slowly—precise and quiet—as if this were just another delicate job. The brush glides along the curve of your nail, light and exact, never once grazing your skin. His hands are steady. Too steady.

Honestly, it pisses you off.

“I don’t get it,” you mutter.

“What.”

“How are you this good at this?”

“It’s just hand control,” he says without looking up. “You either have it, or you don’t.”

“Are you saying I don’t?”

One nail done.

“You nearly sliced your finger off trying to chop an onion.”

“Exaggerating. I barely nicked myself,” you scoff.

“You’re not supposed to let the knife even graze your skin.”

You scowl, but he ignores it, switching to your other hand without being asked.

Second nail.

Then you notice—

“Wait. You’re left-handed? How did I never notice that…”

Sukuna hums. “Your grandparents tried to correct it when I was a kid.”

“How?”

“They forced me to write with my right hand. Smacked my knuckles with a wooden ruler whenever I slipped. Teachers tried the same.”

Third nail.

“Well, clearly it didn’t stick. Bet you doubled down—wrote with your left even more just to spite them. …That’s what I would’ve done.”

His eyes stay fixed on the pigment spreading across your fourth nail, though the faint curl of his mouth betrays the edge of amusement.

“Exactly. I practiced anywhere they couldn’t catch me. Once, I forgot about the ink smeared all over my hand when I went home. My knuckles stayed bruised for days after.”

He finishes your pinky with a sigh. “Other hand.”

You’re quiet for a beat as you hold it out to him.

Whenever your father mentioned his parents, it was always with reverence—saints, in his telling. The villain of the family was always Sukuna, the son who—according to him—put their mother in an early grave.

“What kind of kid were you?” you ask curiously, wondering if there was any truth in what you’d heard.

“You can probably guess.”

“Okay, what was the worst thing you did?”

He shrugs. “Depends on what you call worst. But if it gives you an idea…I first broke a bone at eleven.”

So rowdy, reckless, a boy who didn’t know where the line was.

Thumb.

“That must’ve sucked.”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well, it wasn’t my bone I broke.”

Your gasp makes your hand twitch, but his grip tightens instantly, keeping your index finger steady. “Stay still.”

“Was it…an accident?” The hope in your voice almost embarrasses you.

His eyes flick up, crimson and sharp, the answer clear before he even speaks.

Index finger.

You want it to be simple—to see him as a boy carved by cruelty, punished into hardness, villainized until he became the monster they named him. But simplicity doesn’t live here.

The child wasn’t innocent. The man isn’t, either.

Whatever truth lies between slips through your fingers.

You go quiet after that and Sukuna doesn’t care to ask why.

Middle finger.

And as unsettling as it is, you don’t pull away; you’re not sure you can. Your emotional tether to him is irrational and you know it, but it exists all the same.

Maybe there’s no answer to the contradiction, no clean way to solve what feels like a dilemma, and living with him means living with that.

So silence settles. You tuck the revelation away and focus instead on the gleam of lacquer spreading over the nail of your ring finger.

Before long, the quiet has less to do with what he revealed and more with what’s unfolding between you now.

The way his fingers circle your wrist, steady but unhurried. The deliberate glide of the brush across the bed of your pinky. The faint sting of acetone tangled with the faint cold metal of iron filings.

It feels…intimate. Careful, almost reverent.

Perhaps you should be more offput that he’s actually capable of this kind of gentleness, or that you actually enjoy it.

You don’t usually sit still this long, but you do for him.

Mostly because he’ll scold you if you twitch and redo the whole nail.

Finally all ten fingers are done, nails perfectly colored in.

You think he’s done but suddenly moves to the first nail he painted and goes over it again.

“…You’re doing two coats?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His thumb presses lightly at the pad of your own to tilt it just right under the light as he paints. The touch is so faint you almost miss it, like he’s not even thinking about how delicate he’s being with you.

“You want it to look like shit?” he finally says after finishing that nail and moving onto the next, calm like this level of care is completely standard.

“You’re putting more effort into this than your tax evasion spreadsheets.”

“Because I don’t need my spreadsheets jerking me off.”

Your breath catches in your throat. There he goes again, easily dropping something filthy in the middle of an otherwise normal interaction, just like that.

“So that’s what this is about?” you murmur.

“Mhm.” Index finger finished, he lifts your hand up to catch the light, admiring his work. “I think this color would look good wrapped around my cock…what do you think?”

You breathe steadily, trying to keep yourself from fidgeting. It’s not even what he says—it’s how he says it. Dry and offhand, like he’s barely thinking about it.

“I didn’t know you decided what we’re doing tonight. What if I have other plans?” you test, voice a bit too even.

“You don’t.” He lowers your hand back down. “And even if you did, you’d cancel them.”

Your fingers twitch slightly in his grasp.

Pausing on your middle finger, he looks up at you from beneath his lashes.

“Hold still.”

“You’re doing it on purpose,” you murmur.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to…fluster me.”

“I don’t try, sweetheart.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “You just embarrass easy.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already moved to the next finger, the fine brush moving with surgical precision.

While he works, you watch his face—brows drawn, mouth relaxed, completely focused. The angle of his jaw, the bridge of his broad nose that the glasses sit on. His tattoos—

“You’re staring,” he says without looking.

Pinky done.

“Am not.”

His eyes flick up, unimpressed. “You think I can’t feel it when someone stares at me?”

“I’m just watching the artist at work,” you say, a little too quickly as he lets go to pull up your second hand.

“Right,” he mutters, brushing the first stroke across your thumb.

Quiet drapes over the room again as you watch how satisfyingly he fills in the color.

Hands that have probably done more than just snap a bone by now, holding your fingers like he’s afraid they’ll break.

Finally he finishes, screwing the bottle closed as you admire your nails.

They’re perfectly painted, glossy like glass without a single smear of pigment out of place.

He leans back, giving your hand a light flick. “Don’t touch anything for at least ten minutes.”

“You’re supposed to blow on them for me.”

“I’m not blowing anything for you,” he says flatly, standing. “I did the nails. That’s my charity for the day.”

You hold your hands up like precious stones. “Still. I’d say this makes you a pretty good paternal figure.”

That earns you a look over his shoulder. “Don’t push it.”

“You’re nurturing me.”

“I’m trying to keep you from running around my house looking like a toddler with exceptionally horrid fingerpainting skills.”

“…..Same thing.”

He tosses the polish bottle back into your lap. “Go sit somewhere and dry before I regret being nice.”

You start to move, but your freshly painted nails make you hesitate. “Help me up.”

He blinks. “You’re joking.”

“I just got my nails done. You want me to smudge them?”

He sighs deeply like you're the bane of his existence, then hauls you up by the elbow with none of the delicacy he afforded your nails.

You wobble a little into his chest and smirk up at him.

“Thanks, Dad.”

 

* * *

 

Sukuna POV

You sit across from him at the table, scarfing down a red bean pastry while he eats his own food with that dry, measuring gaze.

It had taken a fight to get you out of bed at seven, but he managed.

Left alone, you’d sink deeper into the sheets, letting the hours bleed by while you convinced yourself he wasn’t paying attention.

He is, though.

And maybe a routine will help. A normal rhythm, something to keep you from slipping further into that strange exhaustion that isn’t sleep at all—just the quiet, creeping decay he’s starting to notice more and more around the edges, like the petals of a flower beginning to wilt at the tips.

Said “fight” this morning really just consisted of him yanking the blanket off of you as you scrambled and hissed and groaned and tried to curl into an even tighter ball into the middle of his bed.

A further lack of cooperation earned you a literal drag out of bed, your ankle firmly in his grip as you squirmed and lobbed a stream of petty insults.

Anyone else daring to talk back like that would have choked on their words.

You, however, only gave him a dose of amusement.

Even more so when you stalked to the table, arms crossed, lips pinched tight, and deliberately dropped into his chair.

He’d call you childish if he didn’t suspect this stubborn streak would stick with you ten years from now; some things simply never change

From the kitchen, he glanced over, one brow twitching, before turning back. “Did you make the bed?”

You scoffed. That was answer enough.

“Go do it. You know the rule—last one up makes the bed.”

Unfortunately for you, it was a perfectly fair rule. Muttering under your breath, you stomped back down the hall.

Three minutes later you returned—only to find him lounging in his rightful seat, cup hand, one leg stretched out. He didn’t even bother to hide the slow, smug grin curling his lip as he sipped his tea just to stoke your outrage.

It took a single sugar-laden pasty slide over towards you, and that carefully curated attitude started to melt away.

“When is cookboy coming going to be back?”

“Don’t call him ‘cookboy’—he has a name. Probably later this week…why?”

You shrug. “Just wondering.”

Another bite. You chew, and Sukuna watches your throat work as you swallow.

“Does he know about us?”

He picks up a grain of rice with his chopsticks without so much as blinking. “If he does, he’s being paid too well to care.”

Your brows pinch. “Okay…”

He eats, but his gaze never leaves you, quiet and steady.

They notice the way you tap your spoon against the rim of the bowl after every sip of miso soup. That one lock of your hair that you keep tucking behind your ear, just for it to fall loose again every time. The way you wrinkle your nose a bit whenever he picks at his fermented soybeans as if committing some offense.

Small, ordinary things—and yet, right now they set his pulse tight, reminding him of the heat that’s already been pooling low in his body since he woke.

Last night, he dreamed—a rarity in itself.

Nothing profound, nothing symbolic. Just his mouth on you, eating you out.

Maybe that’s why it stuck.

Most dreams—the few that he does have—scatter when he wakes, diluted by nonsense and half-formed stories.

But this one was stripped bare, simple enough to cut straight to the bone. Simplicity that only made it sharper, purer, undiluted by anything else.

And then there’s the distorting nature of dreams themselves; how they swell everything, magnify each sensation until the wanting bordered on unbearable.

By the time he opened his eyes, the taste of you was already burned into him, the fixation carved there in sleep with a raging erection to physically attest to it.

Immediately his half-lidded eyes, still bleary from sleep, searched for you—though that had become routine lately.

Some mornings, you sprawled across your side of the mattress, sheets tangled, the heat of the night leaving you restless while he barely stirred.

Other mornings, he’d find you clinging to him, so deeply asleep you were drooling a bit on his chest or your shared pillow.

Of course, you denied it, but the evidence was undeniable—and he didn’t mind. He’d wipe it clean, even close your mouth if he needed to.

And though he’d never admit it, but there was something almost endearing about it.

Today you were curled into yourself, content, more comfortable than you had any right to be around him.

Soft. Warm.

He watched you sleep as the first tendrils of dawn stretched across the pale blue sky outside the window, the slow rise and fall of your body.

And a sickening feeling grew, like something sticky in his chest.

Sukuna holds affection for you; this much is true by virtue of being his blood alone. People might think themselves above such instincts, until someone relies on them.

This is warmth he can handle, one that stays neatly in lines where its supposed to be.

The rest, however… it was easier than ever to twist into lust, given the state he’d woken in.

Lust which was familiar, unrelenting, and impossible to ignore.

Normally, he would’ve simply taken care of the situation in the manner that ends with you stirring and murmuring unintelligibly in your sleep, before fully waking later on to find the present he’s left you somewhere on your skin, though usually between your thighs (if he’s feeling especially ambitious he’ll attempt to gaslight you into believing he has no idea what you’re talking about or that mysterious stain).

He watched you and the thought of waking you up with his face between your legs did cross his mind, before he remembered you’d be woken early today—he might as well let you enjoy these last few minutes of sleep.

So he climbed out of bed, boxers pulled taut before the day had even begun.

Got ready, prepared food, brewed tea—mind half on the task, half on the memory of your taste coating his tongue, how your pussy feels all soft and tender, pulsing and twitching like a heartbeat under his lips, how you squirm and moan and cry, pulling on his hair and clamping your thighs around his head, and the smell of you—musky, buttery and a yeast-soft sweetness like fresh bread torn open.

The memory of it alone was enough to send more blood pooling in his already sizable erection.

He can taste the consequences now, in the bitter traces the green tea leaves on the back of his tongue, accidentally left to extract just a bit too long as he lost himself in the reverie.

Most of the time Sukuna reins himself in—he knows his nature, knows at least some semblance of restraint on his end would serve you both best.

And yet, more often than not, he ends up inside you anyway.

A lapse, a choice, a hunger—whatever one may call it, it only proves how constantly the thought of taking you lives at the front of his mind.

And last night’s dream painted a clear target on you, leaving him with only one aim for the day—ideally before noon.

Your eyes are still crusted over from sleep right now, hair mussed as you lick a drop of yolk from your finger like a little raccoon.

“Use the tissue.”

Under the table, his cock feels like its managing to swell even more.

“For what?” You pointedly show him the fingers you just licked clean.

“They’re covered in spit now. Great job.”

With a loud, exasperated sigh, you roll your eyes—just as he expected—and return to your food.

Finished with his own, he stacks his dishes neatly and waits, patient as ever.

When you finally polish off the last of your rice and sip your tea, you wipe your hands, gather your dishes, and reach for his. “Want me to take these?”

“Leave them. Come here.”

Your eyes meet his, and something unspoken passes between you, a heat that seems to bleed from him and into you, and you get that look in your eyes—the one that feels like looking into a mirror.

Dishes abandoned, in a few quick steps you’re close enough for him to loop an arm around your waist, drawing you onto his lap.

You make a little noise of surprise on feeling his erection poke against your ass, already fully hard.

“Were you— Did you get turned on from watching me eat?!”

You sound mildly concerned, almost.

He chuckles low, chest rumbling against your back as he noses along your hairline, inhaling your scent.

You smell as soft as you feel.

One hand slides around your torso to cup your breast, the other down your inner thigh, kneading the warm flesh there.

“Okay… did I do something?” you ask, curiosity threading through your words.

You’re melting into him, he can feel you responding to his touches—spine bowing, breaths quickening, ass pressing down onto his groin.

And despite it you still need to know the reason behind everything—in this case why exactly he’s touching all up on you.

He laughs against your temple, and answers honestly.

“Are you the only one allowed to get horny in this household?”

“…Oh.” You swallow. “So this is why you woke me up so early?”

Your teasing quickly dies down into a quivering whimper as he goes straight to slipping his hand right into your panties to brush against your folds.

“How many times have I made you orgasm in one session of eating you out?” he asks suddenly.

You blink, and swallow again. “Um…twice, I think…why?”

A roguish grin tugs at his lips. “I have a record to beat.”

“I guess so.”

He gives you a second, waiting for your brain to catch up.

“…Oh! You mean right now?”

His hand slides up your chest, tilting your jaw so your eyes meet his as you rest your head on his shoulder. “Do you have better things to do?” he murmurs, that sly, teasing edge sharpening in his voice.

You reach up, trying to kiss him—but he tilts his head, denying you with a laugh. “Not till I’ve kissed the other lips first.”

Much to his enjoyment, you scowl in brief pique.

“Okay, fine,” you mutter, half annoyed, half breathless. “Never thought someone could be condescending about giving oral, but somehow you make it possible,”

Lips folding into a pleased smile, soft kiss lands on your head before he nudges you off his lap, sending you to your feet.

 

Reader POV

You’re not sure what to do, so you wait for further instruction, assuming there’s something specific he wants; there always is when he pulls you close.

He’s already hard, and you realize he must’ve been that way since breakfast, watching you eat while his mind ran who knows where.

Sukuna is intentional with everything he does—from the exact cutlery he chooses at meals to the positions he fucks you in, everything is deliberate.

So of course this is, too.

And that’s why it startles you when he rises from the chair…only to sink down onto his knees before you.

Your brows knit instantly. It’s disorienting to see him there—beneath you, when he’s never anything but above.

“Wha—we’re doing it like this?” you realize when he grabs your hips and pulls them closer to his face.

“Don’t want to?”

“No I do,” you say quickly. “I was just wondering.”

That sharp, urgent hum of want courses through you, settling low where your panties are already beginning to cling.

“Were you…thinking about this all morning?” you ask between swallowing down saliva collecting on the back of your tongue over and over.

His fingers hook over the waist of your pajamas to slide them down while you watch with quickening breaths.

“…Maybe,” he answers teasingly, nose only a few inches away from the apex of your thighs.

Without thinking you immediately reach to pull your underwear down yourself—just to get your hand slapped away.

“Patience.”

You exhale in slight frustration, feeling your clit already starting to pulse under the cloth in excitement as he takes his sweet time skimming his lips to your inner thigh. “Instant gratification isn’t worth it.”

“Are you—” He gives a patch of skin a small kitten lick that makes you momentarily falter over your words. “Are you really going to lecture me while eating me out?”

“Giving advice and lecturing aren’t the same,” he murmurs against the wet patch he’s made with a few more licks that send shivers up your spine.

“Advice is supposed to be useful.”

His eyes flick up to yours, startingly bright before an abrupt pinch shoots up from your inner thigh where he’s given it a small but hard nip.

You jolt, wincing in pain. “Ow! Why are your teeth so sharp?”

He smirks against your skin, nibbling and sucking on it as he moves up. “I file them down every night just to bite you when you irritate me.”

“Of course you do.”

He shifts, settling onto your other thigh, where band-aids cover the mess you'd made of those bites.

“They like biting my thighs almost as much as you do.”

That earns a grin, all sharp teeth flashing. “Almost.”

Soon, he’s latching his lips on near the edge of your panties to suckle and nibble till the flesh is red and wet and your fingers have found their way in his hair.

Warmth presses horribly close to where you need it when he drags his tongue along the outline of your panties, right in the crease where your labia meets your thigh.

By the time he reaches your panties your breaths are shallow, lids low and watching him through lust-glazed eyes.

He does that thing that drives you insane—pressing his tongue on your pussy through the panties and licking upwards till he reaches your clit.

“Don’t do that. Not this time, please,” you plead, fingers tightening in his locks when he seals his lips onto you. He sucks your clit through the fabric before releasing the pressure again leaving the point aching with need.

“Shut up.” Another swipe of his tongue across it. “Your only job is to stand there and take it and you can’t even do that without whining?”

“Is this for me or you?” you hiss as he circles your clit through the now damp fabric.

“Me, obviously.” He pulls back just to blow softly on the soaked spot, clinging cold brushing over where there was the warmth of his tongue just a second ago. “Beg.”

“For?”

“What it is that you want.”

At that you lour—you hate begging. Half because of ego, half because you feel stupid…which is probably the point, but still.

Tongue back to applying pressure through the flimsy barrier between him and your flesh till you grit your teeth, you don’t have much of a choice.

“Please, let me feel your tongue directly without this fucki—”

“Language.”

You can feel the smugness radiating from him **as you clench your jaw, forcing a deep inhale.

“I want you to eat me out without my underwear on…Please.”

You wait, trying to stay still as he approves or not.

“Okay, now say sorry.”

“…For what?!”

He traces a light pattern over your clit, just to make sure you stay needy and aching as he aggravates the shit out of you. “For drinking all the soda and leaving me none.”

Unbelievable.

Your hand tightens in his hair, and you actually consider ripping his hair out.

“You don’t even like soda?!”

“Still could’ve left me some. What if I changed my mind?”

You stare in utter disbelief. “Change y—Ugh, okay fine! I’m sorry for finishing all the soda. Happy?”

His eyes glint where they look up at you, crinkled at the corners in amusement.

“Mm…Alright. Just because I’m feeling nice.”

Irritation pricks you, but relief follows when he finally concedes—leaning back to tug your panties down to your ankle. You lift your leg, ready for him to slip them off and toss them aside.

Except he doesn’t.

Instead, he holds them, eyes dropping to the gusset still glistening with your arousal. “Aww… look at how wet you are.”

Heat slams up your neck to your face, both hands flying up to cover the lower half of it in pure mortification.

“Ohmygod, stop?! What is wrong with you?!” you squeak, eyes wide with horror.

He only smirks, holding them a beat too long. In your panic you kick at him, but he catches your foot mid-swing.

“Stopit, I swear to god, I am being VERY turned off right now—!” you yelp, thrashing to free yourself as he snickers. “This is NOT FUNNY!”

It’s only three seconds, but it feels like forever before he finally tosses them away.

He grabs your hips again, but you try to push him off, suddenly feeling very exposed.

Eyes darting up, all the teasing drains from his gaze when he finds you actually pouting. “That was not cool.”

“You’re actually upset,” he notes, brows arching. “Why?”

It’s stupid—he’s done worse, teased you harder, pushed you much further.

But this is different; too ordinary and too personal at once.

Your stomach knots with an embarrassment you can’t shake—not just because this is objectively mortifying, but because it reminds you, with painful clarity, how new you still are to this, and how much of yourself you’ve entrusted to someone so far ahead in experience.

So you just stare, eyes wide and watery, into his assessing gaze.

“…If it’s about th—”

“No!” you cut in sharply, stomach dropping, arms folding tight across your chest. Especially when he says it like it’s a mere observation about the weather—no shame, no hesitation, not even teasing—just plain, clinical notice.

“Let’s… just not talk about it.”

For a moment, he simply studies you. And, for the first time, genuine confusion flickers in his eyes.

The contrast is almost comical—you want to disappear while he sincerely has no idea why.

It hits you that Sukuna doesn’t really understand embarrassment, maybe because it doesn’t exist in him.

And though he might not fully grasp what you’re feeling, he’s nothing if not a quick learner.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs at last, lips brushing your hipbone. “Didn’t realize it would actually bother you.”

It sounds strange on his tongue, apology. You want to believe it’s genuine. Maybe it is.

Does Sukuna enjoy humiliating you? Absolutely. But not like this—not by accident.

This time, he miscalculated.

“You suck,” you whisper, but with a faint smile this time. His kisses trail downward, his hands up to grab your ass, and you let them.

“…But it was kind of cute how wet you got them.”

Instead of bothering to snap at him or tell him to shut up, you just sigh.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make you forget about that real soon.”

“Hu—oh!”

You gasp, hips jerking when he suddenly licks you right in the soft center of your pussy.

Glancing down in surprise, you find him staring right back up at you in amusement, watching your reaction as he buries his tongue in your folds and drags it up across your clit.

A frisson of pleasure skitters up your spine, lighting up your nerves as you whimper. Your conversation has been entirely forgotten as he laps at your sex with slow sensual movements of his tongue, each pass over your clit making you tense.

A steady rhythm is set, your hand back on his head as he squeezes your ass harder and pulls you closer.

His tongue feels so incredibly hot on you, like he’s searing right through the flesh as blood runs up to your ears and arousal collected steadily at your hole.

Your breathy whimpers stagger when his hands move from your ass to your cunt, thumbing the lips apart so he can lick directly at your clit.

Tongue nudging and massaging over it with expert precision, you feel your orgasm rapidly approaching.

You tug at his hair, taking jagged breaths as your muscles stiffen and your thighs begin to quiver. Eyes fixed on his wet tongue prodding at the small nub of your clit, laving the entire surface where you already feel so sensitive in glossy spit.

The sight below you makes your blood run hot, rushing upwards to flood the delicate vessels in your ears and face, leaving them hot and tingling.

So overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure, already close to cumming you wind up tight, muscles stiff, fist clenching in his hair, jaw tense and brows pinched you can barely make any sound apart from breathing so heavy your head starts to spin.

Closer, closer—

“Can you l-look at me?” you ask, voice high and breathless, tension coiling and ready to burst in release.

Red irises flick up at you beneath his lashes and that does it for you.

You gasp and cum so hard that any sounds of pleasure are stuck in your throat where your breath has halted entirely.

A few euphoric seconds drawn out by him tonguing and sucking your clit harshly despite you yanking his hair like you’re trying to scalp him as your cunt flutters in his mouth from the intensity of your orgasm.

Finally it fades, the air you held exiting your lungs in a ragged exhale as you go limp despite your continued trembling.

fingers loosening their grip and body relaxing though you continue to tremble.

A few more licks and he pulls away as you realize—

“Less than two minutes,” he flashes you a wide grin, eyes bright, hair disheveled.

“Is this a game to you?” you mutter, unable to hide your mild chagrin at cumming this fast after all that foreplay.

“My favorite one.”

Grabbing your hips again, one of his hands slides down to pull on your knee. “Lift your leg.”

You blink, and raise your leg a bit, somewhat interested as to where this is going.

“Higher. Over my shoulder.”

Oh.

Arousal, much like intoxication, seems to dull your self-awareness and erodes inhibition. If not for the fresh wave of desire muddling your judgment, you might have lingered in hesitation before reaching for the chair.

You balance yourself and wrap your leg around his frame, so that you’re borderline straddling his face. One of his hands wraps around your calf, the other gripping your ass to keep you firmly in place.

Sukuna wastes no time, tongue already swiping across your damp folds to draw some soft noises out of you. He slides it back to your dripping hole, taking advantage of the easy access this position provides to it.

Tongue circling the entrance where so much arousal has collected, you shiver and gasp when it finally slithers in.

It might’ve been a bit unnerving feeling something wiggle around like it’s alive where only hard, solid fingers and cocks have been—if it didn’t turn you on so much.

He retracts his tongue, leaving cold emptiness inside and a frown on your face.

“Fuck yourself on it.”

When your gaze falls, you find that same unshakable certainty he always carries when issuing commands—unyielding, impossible to argue with even if you wanted to.

In this context, the sheer sureness of it sends your stomach tumbling.

“You want me to…ride your tongue?” you reiterate, dazed.

“Would you like me to say it in another language?” he asks pleasantly.

Huffing, you ignore the comment. “Are you sure I’m not hurting your shoulder?”

Your concern is rewarded with an abrupt slap to one of your ass cheeks that makes you wince and wonder what the hell is wrong with him.

“Do it.”

“Okay! Okay…”

Feeling his tongue probing in your hole again, you take a breath and start rocking your hips so that you can get a decent sort of up and down movement on it.

The first minute or so is you trying to figure out the mechanics.

The second is where it starts to feel good as you fuck yourself on the appendage a bit faster, rather crude squelches sounding from below.

Sukuna’s tongue was made for riding—strong enough like the rest of his muscles to remain stiffened the entire time, and blessedly long.

You choke on your whines when he makes a low noise below you, the sound sending vibrations running right up his tongue stuffed in your cunt till you shamelessly drip all over it.

The sensation is as lewd as it is intimate—like he’s making out with your hole—and that turns you on so much your thighs start trembling.

Suddenly his tongue pulls away and you find yourself whimpering at the loss of contact until he starts sucking your clit again.

And with the small break it was given your clit feels so much more sensitive, the waves of pleasure much stronger this time till you’re sure you’re going to cum again.

Soon your second orgasm is crashing over you, this time with your eyes hot and legs shaking so bad it becomes difficult to stand like in that position by the time it subsides.

A thin sheen of sweat coats your skin as you foolishly plead for a small break because your clit feels so sensitive right now, and your body weak—struggling to support itself.

You tell him that, there’s simply no way you can cum again; he doesn’t bother with a ‘You can,’ or a ‘You will,’ but a measured ‘we’ll see,’ spoken with such calm it borders on ominous.

That ends with you mewling and squirming as his mouth latches back on to suck and lick and nibble at your clit, just to feel you flinch.

Tears are dripping down your cheeks now and trying to pull away from the overstimulation results in him grabbing your hips to keep you rooted in place, as you sob that it hurts and truly you cannot cum again.

You should’ve known better than to doubt Sukuna because somehow you do achieve a third orgasm. The price is your legs nearly buckling, until you’re riding his face by necessity more than choice—he only seems pleased to bear the weight.

Sukuna’s never been one for the bare minimum—by the third orgasm he’d already broken his own record.

But apparently that wasn’t enough. No, the man has a voracious appetite, and you honestly can’t tell if it’s for your pussy or simply for the satisfaction of winning again and again.

Sometime between the third and fourth orgasm, your knees finally give out and you end up sprawled on the floor, legs useless as jelly. You’re absurdly grateful you ate beforehand, because enduring this much pleasure—this much torment—has drained you of everything else.

The fourth orgasm arrives almost impersonally—an involuntary seizure of muscle and nerve, imposed rather than chosen.

By now, you’ve lost all agency within the act; your body operates on its own circuitry, responding to him in ways it never would for you alone. What remains is the afterimage—sweat pooling, tears half-dried and irritating at the edges of your skin.

By the fifth orgasm, your voice has dissolved into nothing but garbled sounds, your body twitching and damp on the floor. For some inexplicable reason your nose runs, mixing with tears that cling wetly to your skin, an uncomfortable, messy testament to how throughly you’ve been undone.

Whatever was inside your skull has been liquified past the point of even giving a shit about what a mess you must look.

“No more,” you mumble your plea, pushing away his head. “Please.”

The sun is high now, spilling its light across the room as you lie on the floor, utterly spent—shaking and shivering despite the warmth, cunt puffy and so soaked it drips down onto the floor.

Sukuna eyes you sprawled on the floor like an insect that’s been crushed but left half alive, rubbing at his jaw that’s surely sore from the effort. There’s a wicked satisfaction in the way he surveys the mess he’s made of you.

“Fine,” he finally says, earning a breath of relief from you before he grins.

“Though…” he pauses, a darker glint flickering in his eyes as he leans over you, reaching a hand up. “You look… picture-worthy right now.”

“I wish I could keep you like this forever,” he purrs low, fingers trailing through the sticky remnants on your cheek, deliberately slow.

“With snot dripping out of my nose?” you ask half in sarcasm, half in defeat as your voice cracks.

“Adds to the charm.”

You frown, trying to hide the heat that creeps up your neck.

“Alright,” he murmurs, teasing yet firm, “we’re done. Actually.”

Too drained to argue—or even respond—you let him lift you off the floor. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Your legs dangle limply, head resting against his chest, docile as a feral animal finally placated.

After a few steps you sniff, voice weak. “Can I go back to bed?”

“You’re not sick. You’re not dying.”

“I’m not dying because I’m already dead. You killed me.”

Reaching the bathroom, he steadies you, looping an arm around your waist. He waits until your legs stop trembling like a newborn foal before letting go.

“Stop being dramatic,” he murmurs. “You’re exhausted, but tell me you didn’t like it.”

Before you can answer, his brows furrow—and suddenly your face is caught between his hands, one gripping your chin while the other drags across it with a rough familiarity that makes your skin tingle.

You squirm instinctively, snapping your head away as he steps back with a smirk. “There, that’s better.”

“Did you seriously just wipe my snot?” you gasp, half mortified, half dizzy from lingering pleasure.

He rolls his eyes, unbothered. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve had my tongue in your cunt for the past hour and you think I give a damn about snot?”

You clench your jaw at the bawdy comment and step into the bathroom, slamming the door on his smug grin.

Though four minutes later, the door creaks open just enough for you to peek your head out, cheeks flaming.

He’s leaning casually against the frame, holding your panties—the ones that had mortified you earlier—smirk tugging at his lips. “Looking for these?”

You snatch them from his hand and slam the door with a huff.

“You’re welcome,” he calls from the other side, voice teasing. “Could’ve let you come get them yourself just to see you prance around half-naked some more.”

“I would’ve wrapped a towel around myself, okay?!” you snap, face heating further. “Now seriously—go away.”

“Fine…for now,” you hear him say, hoping that’ll be the end of it.

A pause.

“…But you should learn to get over yourself soon.”

You yank the door open, panties now on to glare at him and hiss, “And why is that?”

“Because next time I might just keep them for myself.”

Grimacing, you wince, clicking the bathroom light off as you step out and hope he doesn’t really do that—half the things he puts you through feels like exposure therapy already.

“I’m going back to bed.”

A large hand presses against your chest, stopping you mid-step. You glance up to find him staring down at you—not mean, but firm.

“Two hours.”

“Three,” you counter. “I need it after what you did to me.”

“Two.”

“That’s not how negotiating works! You’re supposed to compromise—say ‘two and a half.’”

“Good thing this isn’t a negotiation.”

A spark of irritated defiance flares.

Half the time, you let him take care of you willingly, relishing the passivity—but moments like this, when your autonomy feels trampled, spark a real fire in you, borderline irrational in it’s intensity.

“And why exactly are you deciding my sleep?” you challenge, voice sharp, a tremor betraying more than irritation.

It’s the outline of what’s been left unsaid—that you know he probably sees your apathy, your quiet letting-go, and mistakes it for immaturity. You want the choice to decay, and yet here he is, forcing his rules into your body and mind.

His eyes narrow, and with a deft tug, he pulls your ear. Pain and heat shoot through you simultaneously. “My house, my rules, girl.”

You grab his wrist and twist, but the motion only hurts your ear more, stoking your temper. “Do you micromanage me because you have no one else under your control?” you growl. “Is that it?!”

“For your own sake,” he replies smoothly, coolness threading his voice, “I’d recommend not getting hissy with me right now.”

The calm in his tone almost makes you smirk—there’s a satisfaction in being taken seriously.

“Then let go of me.”

“Say it, and I’ll let you go.”

“Ugh—your house, your rules!” you spit the words, jerking back as your ear finally frees itself before you sneer without thinking. “And I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here.”

A pause. You worry you’ve crossed a line—or at least grazed it.

Instead, he smirks, amused but colder this time and gives a light push towards the bedroom. “Good.”

 

* * *

 

The silence is too loud.

Every tick of the pipe, every distant car, every flicker of the fan feels like it’s aimed at you. Like the whole house is waiting with you, holding its breath.

You keep pretending you’re not.

You hadn’t even meant to be here waiting—after all, he never made a promise.

More like a passing comment thrown in within what was probably really just a compromise when you said you really felt like having satay.

He didn’t even look up. “We’ve got food here and the place is closed anyway. Eat tonight, and tomorrow we’ll get your satay.” There was something between a (affectionate?) pet to your head and a ruffle of your hair in passing. “We’ll start that show too, if you want.”

That was last night, and you know he likely didn’t mean anything by it.

And you think maybe he’s got some invisible claws embedded in your brain or something, because for some reason, it filed those words away, saved them, and let them bloom into some kind of expectation without your permission.

The idea of going out to the square enters your mind, and drifts by and is soon forgotten with an equal lack of resistance.

So instead, you do things. Rearrange the couch pillows. Water a plant that doesn’t need watering. Open the fridge, stare at nothing, close it again. Finally fold clothes that have been strewn about your room for days, empty the trash can that’s piled with water bottles. Make some tea, drink it in the pervasive silence, and leave half of it which soon gets cold.

Scratch the bites, reopen wounds that should’ve healed by now.

You do them like rituals — like maybe if you keep moving, the itch under your skin will go away.

It doesn’t.

You check your phone without checking it—just glance, just in case.

Nothing.

That old, stupid lump that used to plague your throat when you were an anxious teen that was entirely too moody and too sensitive and too reactive is back right now. The one that always feels too big for how small the problem is.

He’s just late. It’s not about you. It’s never about you.

But that’s the part that hurts, isn’t it?

Growing up in isolation meant that you liked to believe you were above all this. Immune to need, too self-contained to ache for someone else’s attention.

Maybe you, foolishly, believed you would always be impenetrable.

But lately, it’s different.

Maybe it’s the sex—so much of it lately.

Well, not even sex, exactly—you think of how just yesterday you were clinging onto him, wet and soft and pliant in his lap, kissing along his jaw, trying to distract yourself by tasting his lips and not tense at that nearly burning stretch when he sunk a second finger in your ass for the first time.

You wish the sex would stay just as lust and nothing more, even tried to gaslight yourself into believing that you could keep this strictly as some kind of fucked-up friends with benefits (relatives with benefits?) kind of situation.

But even that much becomes difficult when he peels you open down till the most vulnerable parts of you and touches it that tenderly. For a man that can be as callous as him, you almost hate him for being as soft as he is with you when you’re spread open like that, trying to conceal how nervous you still get.

You know better though. You know him better.

The way he murmurs words of praise and reassurance to you without their usual coating of patronization, the way he presses his lips to yours with the sensuality of a lover’s, is enough to tell you he notices how quieter, how you burn up a little more, how you have to consciously resist the urge to tense up when he eases his fingers in and out of you, scissors them open.

Even when you feel so exposed it makes you sick, even when a sudden pressure was suddenly too much and you accidentally bit down on his lips till copper sampled your palate, and he didn’t even flinch, just continued to touch you like you were his.

The kind of exposed leaves something open inside you, even after it’s over.

You thought you could keep it clean. Keep your feelings separate.

But every time you let him in—through a touch that makes you shiver, a teasing that leaves you flushed, a moment that strips away your pride—you find that humiliation, embarrassment, vulnerability aren’t just exposure, but a language of closeness; and in his hands, they’re intimacy, even.

And now here you are. Staring at a door that won’t open, checking a phone that won’t light up, wondering if he’s forgotten you.

Or worse—wondering if he hasn’t, and just doesn’t care.

The sun sets, and you do a good job at blankly pretending to do things. Cicadas scream outside like it’s the last three minutes before the end of the world as you sit aimlessly on the couch, while night lowers like a veil over the last light of day.

It’s probably your fault for expecting things, especially when whatever this is, is something you should be letting go off, just to make that final cut easier.

Despite the tender touches, the small ways he looks after you, the flickers of enjoyment he never admits—you know he wants you gone. Worse, you know he wants you to want to be gone.

But you’ve never had anyone worth waiting for, so maybe that’s why you do it now.

You shower early, straighten the cushions, dim the lights the way he likes. Just in case he notices.

You don’t start the show without him. You don’t even touch the remote. You wait to eat, too.

Just in case.

 

It’s nearly two in the morning when you hear the familiar click of the front door unlocking. Relief strikes first, sharp and unsteady like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. But then something heavier follows, sinking in your chest like a stone.

You think about slipping off to your room before he comes in, but stop yourself. That would look guilty—that would look like something was wrong.

And nothing’s wrong.

It’s just another night. A normal night doesn’t include you hiding because you let your own feelings get hurt.

So you tuck it away—the sting, the ache, all of it—telling yourself you’re only making a big deal out of nothing.

When he comes in, you greet him as usual. It feels mechanical on your tongue, but if he notices, he doesn’t show it.

Before long he’s seated at the edge of the bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves shoved to his elbows like he got halfway through undressing and lost interest. You stay standing, arms crossed—not from stretching, but from all the things you won’t say simmering in your chest.

“Did you eat?”

No.

“Yeah.”

“So I won’t find the containers in the fridge still as full as this morning?”

It’s a stupid lie and you know it, but you tried anyway. No point doubling down when he’s already caught you.

“…Wasn’t hungry.”

He sighs, the sound heavy, practiced. “We’ve talked about this. You’re a grown woman—it’s not my job to spoon-feed you just to make sure you eat.”

That lands wrong, twisting something in you. Because the reason you didn’t eat was him—and sure he never promised, but you were still waiting. Because he didn’t call, didn’t text. Because you thought maybe tonight he’d notice. And instead he frames it as childishness.

He says grown woman like he hasn’t spent months dictating when you sleep, what you wear, how long you stay in bed. The irony stings, and with it, the small hurt in you curdles into something colder.

“Okay,” you answer flatly.

It’s a crack in your usual pattern. Normally you’d roll your eyes, toss something back—I didn’t ask you to, or I’ll live without one meal. Maybe even that you would actually enjoy it quite a bit if he spoon-fed you.

Tonight all you can give him is that clipped word, and the silence that follows makes it obvious—something is wrong.

Sukuna watches you for a long moment, and you sway a bit on your heels, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

“You’re quiet,” he says, eyes dragging up your body. “Too quiet.”

You shrug, keeping your focus somewhere over his shoulder. “Just tired.”

He makes a sound—dry, amused. “Sure you are.”

Then without rising, he reaches—hand curling lazily around your wrist, tugging you forward like it’s second nature.

“C’mere.”

You don’t fight it, but you don’t help either—just step between his knees, stiff and unreadable.

He places his hands on your hips, thumbs grazing in slow circles. The stern set of his mouth curves into something smug and a bit softer.

“You mad at me?”

“No?” You add too quickly, “Why would I be mad?”

Fishing, testing, hoping he already knows.

“Oh, come on.” He leans back slightly, tilting his head just to look up at you, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Was it because I came home late?”

You scowl, trying to step back, but he hooks an arm around your waist and tugs you in, snug between his legs.

“Was I supposed to rush home the second the clock hit ten?” he asks, tone all mock-innocence. “Did you have snacks waiting for me or something?”

He’s so close—close enough to the truth that you blurt it out.

“It’s not that.”

His hands stay firm on your hips, holding you there, red eyes patient and expectant, waiting for the explanation you can’t seem to give cleanly.

“It’s just—” You look away, fixating on some meaningless spot on the bedspread. “I don’t care if you’re out late. It’s just…you could’ve called. Or even texted. Y’know?”

A low hum of acknowledgment. “Didn’t know you waited for me like that.”

“I don’t.”

You did. Somewhere along the way, you started to.

He studies you, and under the weight of that gaze, you cave.

“Okay—sometimes I do. Kind of. But like…”

You drag a deep breath into your lungs, and it does absolutely nothing.

“You said satay,” you mutter, the words small, stupid, almost childish.

And maybe the most childish part is your complete inability to talk about this straight, the fact that you were never taught how. Another skill you didn’t realize was missing until years later, when it was already too late, when it mattered.

“And that show,” you tack on, voice faltering.

The lump in your throat lodges itself deep. You can’t bring yourself to look at him.

You feel so pathetic you almost shake with it.

Out of every humiliation he’s pulled out of you in bed, this feels worse. This feels like the one that might actually undo you.

“Whatever,” you say quickly, swallowing the lump back down. “Just forget it. It’s not a big deal.”

You try to squirm away again and he lets out an exasperated sigh, tugging at your waistband just enough to make your balance falter so that you can’t escape as he clicks his tongue. “Oh my god, can you quit that? Just stay for a second.”

Finally, you look at him.

His hair’s a little mussed from running his fingers through it, and his expression is frustratingly calm—like your mood doesn’t scare him at all. Like he’s used to this. Used to you.

Your lips twitch into a scowl. “I said forget it.”

“I’ll choose what I want to or don’t want to forget.”

There’s a pause before he adds, “I’ll let you know next time, okay? And—”

He tugs you closer to him.

“We’ll do it tomorrow, for real.”

“Don’t want it anymore,” you grumble.

“Fine. I’ll get satay and eat it by myself and you can just watch while you keep sulking.”

“I’m not sulking.”

He laughs softly, pressing a kiss just below your navel. “If you say so, sweetheart.”

You want to shove him, snap back at him—but his voice turns softer, and the shift is disarming.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You glance down. He’s looking up at you now, and the usual sharpness in his eyes is gentled by something warmer.

Not quite an apology, but close enough in the language of your relationship with each other.

“You don’t have to—” you start, but he pulls you in closer, one hand gliding up your spine, the other anchoring your waist, fingers pressing lightly into that familiar dip just above your hipbone.

“I want to,” he says simply. “You sulk so prettily.”

With a scoff, you try to wriggle back, but his grip holds—lazy but firm. He smirks up at you.

“Look at that. Still pretending you're not upset.” His voice drops, laced with faux sympathy. “Poor girl. Waited all night like a little wife, didn’t she?”

Your stomach tightens, heat prickling behind your ribs. “Don’t be gross.”

He grins. “But you like when I’m gross.”

His hands are still on your hips, but his mouth starts to move — a trail of warm, deliberate kisses pressed to your stomach through your shirt, intentionally just short of intimate. “All pouty now. You gonna pout all night? Or just until I put my hands down your—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you warn, cheeks burning.

“Mm. Fine. I won’t. I’ll just show you instead.”

His lips trail lower. Then back up again, slower this time, until he’s mouthing gently at your ribs.

You shift your weight, breathing a little harder than you’d like, but he doesn’t rush.

Instead, he leans forward, teeth grazing the hem of your shirt.

“Last chance to pretend you don’t want this,” he murmurs, voice half-laughing against your skin.

Your jaw tightens, heat flooding your face. “I wasn’t stopping you. But it seems like you want me to.”

“What? No…” His grin sharpens. “Just thought I’d make sure.”

He’s smug as hell, satisfaction glinting in his eyes at the irritation stamped across your expression.

And sure, you’re annoyed—but Sukuna has the kind of mouth that makes annoyance a useless weapon. So you only keep scowling, unwilling to move.

Your stubbornness only pleases him more. His grin widens when you still make no moves to even try and stop him, as he reaches over to grab the hem of your top and push it up, exposing your skin inch by inch up your torso.

The fabric climbs highs, until he finally pulls it up all the way to put your tits on full display. The fabric is pushed between your lips, and automatically you grasp it between your teeth, cloth drying your tongue.

“Good. Just hold it up there,”

You breathe steadily from your nose as his lips start above your belly button, pressing into soft flesh.

From there he trails warm, open mouthed kisses higher and higher as you watch with wide eyes.

Your half-erect nipples stiffen more as he finally cups your left breast in his warm palm, kneading.

The other receives his lips, as they press into the sensitive skin underneath. You gasp when he runs his tongue along it, before sucking it between his teeth hard enough that it pinches—and you actually moan softly.

A free hand of yours finds its way in his locks as he finally lets go with a wet noise. Peering down to see what he’s looking at with so much satisfaction, you find a purplish bruise forming right on your underboob.

He smirks, bringing his lips back to your skin, murmuring against it. “Your tits are gonna look even cuter when I’m done with them.”

“Mhn!” Your whimper is muffled by the cloth in your mouth when he finally takes your nipple into his mouth, and gives it a firm suck. You almost forgot how good that felt, but you’re quickly remembering as his tongue runs around your areola and the peaked nipple.

Every sensation is amplified there—his mouth hotter and wetter than usual.

He glances up mischievously then a quick bolt of pain zips through your nipple as he nips on it.

Panting slightly, your eyelids grow heavy and your thoughts begin to unravel when he starts suckling on the sensitive bud again, simultaneously roving his tongue all over it in between. Your hand finds his on your breast, nudging him to squeeze. He does, molding the flesh in his palm, teasing the tip between thumb and forefinger before flicking it so that a sharp breath escapes you.

“Again,” you murmur, muffled around the cloth held between your teeth.

Lips curl into a smirk against your skin as his eyes dart up and he does it again, hard enough that it stings and your breast sways slightly while you bite down, teeth threatening to puncture your shirt.

Before he can try again, you catch his hand and guide it to your mouth. His fingers stay pliant as you straighten them and slip them past your lips, coating them in your saliva.

You drag them back to your breast. Understanding your intent, he resumes rolling and pinching your nipple, now with spit slicking the skin, drawing out broken little sounds from your throat.

Fingers curling unconsciously into his hair, you pull him closer as he continues to suck your other nipples hard enough that it’s starting to sting.

The pressure only increases till you’re squirming under his touch, the pleasure intertwined with pain.

He suckles it till the area is sore and you whimper, finally pushing his head away so that he lets go of it with a wet pop.

Lips shining with spit as he smirks, he eyes the mess he’s made on your tits, pressing a thumb to the sensitive bud, rubbing gentle circles on it. “Too much?

Shaking your head, you guide him to the other breast.

Immediately he latches his mouth onto the nipple. Sucking for a bit, he gives it the same treatment as the other breast now being massaged by his hand. Every jolt of pleasure as he toys with your tit in his mouth flows straight down to your cunt as sticky arousal.

He withdraws from the glistening bud just to spit on it, then drags a cool breath over the wet skin. Your nipple tightens further instantly, and a weak, kittenish noise accidentally makes its way out of your throat at the sharp sting of cold replacing the heat of his mouth.

His smirk sharpens as he closes his mouth around it again. “Cute. You’re trained enough to beg without even using words.”

When he’s sucked to his hearts content and the pinch is harsh enough to pull a whine out of you, he lets go, leaving your skin aching and your cunt throbbing with need.

When his mouth lingers, lips tugging and tongue teasing, your nipples respond the way the rest of you does under his touch—tightening, swelling, tender against the heat of his mouth until finally the pinch is harsh enough to make you wince.

By the time he finally lets go, you’re already soaked through your panties, body wound so tight it aches. You’d take anything at this point—cock, fingers, whatever he decides to give—because you just need something.

He leans back, eyes dragging slowly over your chest, drinking in the sight of your nipples puffy and flushed from his mouth. His grin spreads, wicked and satisfied.

“Look at you,” he drawls, thumb brushing idly over the spit-slick peak just to make you twitch. “Your tits look perfect like this….Gonna suck your clit till it looks the same.”

Unhooking the shirt from your mouth, you let it drop, staring at him head-on.

“Please—I need something…inside,” you plead awkwardly, and unsure of how else to phrase it.

“Inside, huh?” he murmurs, pulling you closer. “And to think of the way you were sulking just a few minutes ago”

His fingers are already hooked into your waistband, and you instinctively tilt your hips to help him drag them down, slow and unhurried.

You bite your lip, anticipation building—until he stops.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Blinking, you follow his gaze.

The bites. Red and swollen, dotting your midthigh, some scraped raw. The same ones he explicitly told you not to touch.

And the same ones you’d scratched anyway, because it felt good—and, in your rush, you’d forgotten to cover them before undressing.

“…You didn’t even try,” he mutters, almost to himself.

Heat crawls up your neck. “I did. They just…itched.”

His fingers ghost over one, and you flinch.

He hums again, this time with that maddening edge of amusement. “Sure you did.”

Preparing for further admonishment, you stiffen and brace for whatever’s going to come out of his mouth next.

Instead, he exhales, long and slow, before bowing his head. His lips brush the angry skin, gentle, once…then again.

Eyes widening, you freeze, uncertain what to make of it—until his gaze flicks up.

And then his teeth sink hard into your thigh, just above the welts.

You yelp, hand flying to his shoulder.

“That,” he murmurs, voice sweet but wicked, “was for not listening.”

You glare. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.” His tongue drags over the fresh bite like it’s something to savor, and you shiver in lingering arousal despite yourself. “You don’t get to ignore me and still expect rewards.”

”This wasn’t a reward, this was you making it up to me.”

He sits back slightly, letting his hands slide up your thighs again—only to stop short right at the hem of your panties, frustratingly close to where you need him.

“I was gonna make it up to you so well it would’ve felt like a reward,” he says, almost wistfully. “But now? I think you’ll have to wait.”

“Wait?” you echo, outraged.

“Mhm.” He leans back on his elbows, watching your expression like it’s his favorite game. “Someone has to teach you about consequences…consider this gentle parenting”

You stand there stunned—heart pounding, more turned on than you want to be, and feeling stupid with your bottoms halfway down your thighs. So you just kick them off completely.

“Gentle parenti—Ugh! What’s it to you if I scratch my damn bug bites?!” you snap.

He regards you for a long moment, weighing whether your question is worth answering at all.

Then he tilts his head. “I’ll stop owning your body the day you say you’ll never fuck me again. Or ask me to fuck you.”

Your breath catches.

It feels like the rug has been ripped out from under your feet, like he’s yanked you back into the larger context at play. Panic claws at you; the thought that he could so easily rewrite your relationship, undo what’s become your anchor, is terrifying in its own strange way.

This isn’t right. It isn’t healthy. It isn’t good for anyone—least of all you.

But it’s familiar, and familiarity has become one of the last things you can cling to.

So you swallow hard and shake your head.

When he exhales, it’s almost soft. “Don’t worry. It won’t be mine much longer anyway. Then if you want to, you can peel your damn skin off for all it matters—and I won’t be there to stop you.”

No one will be there to stop you.

Tears blur your vision before you can stop them, and you turn away sharply.

The depths of your mind feel stirred, sediment rising from the bottom, things you can’t face without shattering what little composure you have left.

So you shove it all back down, burying it.

Focusing on bed, on sleep, is an act of self-preservation.

When you glance back, he isn’t grinning or smirking and that absence is somehow the most troubling of all.

You crawl into bed anyway, curling into the farthest corner, making sure he sees your displeasure.

The light clicks off. For a moment, there’s only pitch black before your eyes adjust, the faint silhouettes of the room outlined in moonlight.

He exhales through his nose, hooks an arm around your waist, and pulls you in like your squirming means nothing. If Sukuna decides he wants you somewhere, you will be there.

“You’ll survive,” he says, low against your hair, fingers tracing the curve of your waist.

You glare at the wall, cheeks hot, uncertain what he’s talking about—and unwilling to find out.

He shifts beneath you, and suddenly you’re flipped to face him. Letting out a soft protest, you try to wriggle free, but he only chuckles under his breath.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, tugging your leg over his hip like muscle memory.

Well, it is—for you.

The position slots you close, chest to chest. The one you like to fall asleep in, despite his grumbling that he’s never slept like this with anyone.

“Thought you hated this,” you mumble into his collarbone.

“I still do. You cling like a cat digging its claws in when you try to pick it up.”

But his hand presses to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

Breathing in the familiar scent of him, your pulse slows, the warmth of his body replacing the ache in your chest.

“Also… we’re still doing dinner tomorrow.”

Silence stretches.

“…Satay?”

“Yeah. That dry chicken you keep making me drive across town for."

Notes:

family reunion for Obon next chapter surely things will go well

Notes:

tumblr: @ccazimi

while i continue cross-posting the rest of my fics here