𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝙬𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙜𝙖𝙢𝙚

It was supposed to be a joke.

A little lesson. A punishment.

But when he sees the way your hands tremble as you grab your bag, the way your breath stutters like you’re holding back something ugly and raw—he knows he fucked up.

You don’t get jealous. Not the way he does. You don’t throw tantrums, don’t claw at him, don’t make a scene. No, you just pull away. You clam up. Shut down. Turn into a fucking ghost.

And he hates that more than anything.

So he tested you.

Made sure you saw him with her—some faceless bitch, giggling at something he didn’t even fucking say. Let her sit too close, let his hand rest low on her back, let her touch him—because surely, surely, that would make you snap.

But you didn’t snap.

You just left.

Now, you’re standing in his doorway, avoiding his gaze like the thought of looking at him makes you sick.

He leans against the frame, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Oh, fuck off with that face.”

You flinch. Subtle, but he sees it. And for the first time in his miserable, violent life, guilt gnaws at him like a rabid dog.

“You wanna break up,” he scoffs, trying to shove it down, trying to be an asshole about it. “That it?”

Your throat bobs. Then, quiet, brittle— “Yeah.”

His heart stops.

No.

No.

The laugh that rips from his throat is humorless, venomous. “Yeah, right.”

You sidestep him, trying to get past, and something in him snaps. He grabs you—too rough, too fast—slamming the door shut, caging you between it and his body.

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he growls.

Your breath catches, eyes wide, and for the first time in his life—you look genuinely afraid of him.

Good.

Maybe that’ll remind you who the fuck you belong to.

He doesn’t give you a chance to argue. Doesn’t give you a chance to beg. His mouth crashes against yours—hungry, brutal, teeth scraping, tongue forcing its way in. His hands are already yanking at your clothes, shoving up your skirt, tearing at your underwear.

You shove at his chest, desperate. “Sukuna, stop—“

He yanks your hips forward, grinding against you, letting you feel how fucking hard he is. “Too fuckin’ late for that, sweetheart.”

He drags his cock through your folds, forces himself in without care, without mercy. You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, but he holds you in place, swallowing every broken sound.

“You ain’t ever leavin’ me,” he snarls, driving himself deeper, faster, pushing you against the door until it rattles. “I don’t care how fuckin’ upset you are.”

Tears streak down your face. And for a moment—just a moment—his gut twists.

Then he thrusts harder.

Because if you won’t be his willingly—

Then he’ll make you.

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