𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚

Mornings always start like this.

You wake up to the feeling of something heavy, something suffocating. His arm slung over your waist, his chest pressed into your back, his breath against your neck—hot and lazy, even in sleep.

You shift, barely, and his grip tightens.

“You move, I break your fuckin’ legs,” Sukuna grumbles against your ear.

You freeze.

His lips curl against your skin, and you feel the smirk before he even chuckles. You hate how easily he reads you, how easily he enjoys this—you, trapped under him, knowing damn well there’s no escape.

“Get off,” you mutter, voice hoarse.

“Say please.”

You stay silent.

Sukuna laughs, rolling onto his back—but before you can even think about slipping out of bed, his hand grips your wrist, yanking you on top of him. You land hard against his chest, and you can feel him.

Hard.

Needy.

But he’d never admit it.

“You gonna be good today?” His fingers dig into your waist, idly rubbing circles into your hip. “Or you gonna piss me off?”

You glare at him. His smirk deepens.

He wants you to fight. He likes it when you fight.

“Fuck you,” you snap.

His grin turns sharp. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

Before you can shove him away, he flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your thighs. His cock grinds against your stomach, thick and heavy through his boxers.

And he’s already pulling your shorts down.

You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s stronger. He’s always stronger.

“Sukuna—”

“Shut up,” he growls, shoving your panties aside, lining himself up.

And then—he’s inside.

No prep. No warning. Just him, slamming into you, stretching you open in a way that makes you bite your lip hard enough to bleed.

Your hands shove at his chest, desperate, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Don’t start whining now,” he sneers, rolling his hips, slow and deep, making you feel every inch of him. “Should’ve been a good girl.”

Your body clenches involuntarily, and he groans, head dropping to the crook of your neck.

“Fuck, baby—” He bites down, sharp, making you jolt. “You’re so fuckin’ tight in the morning.”

You hate him.

You hate how much he enjoys this, how much he needs this, how much he refuses to admit it—always acting like you’re the desperate one, like you’re the one who keeps coming back to him.

But you never had a choice.

And you never will.

His thrusts pick up, brutal and relentless, forcing ragged gasps from your throat. His grip on your wrists tightens, his teeth scrape against your skin, and when he feels you getting close—when your body betrays you—

He laughs.

Because you’re his.

And there’s nothing you can do about it.

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