𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩, 𝙮𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜

The word slips before you can stop it.

“You’re an asshole.”

The room goes dead silent.

Sukuna stares at you, then tilts his head back and laughs.

A full, barking, ugly laugh—like you just told the best joke in the world.

His grin is wide, feral, pleased. “Oh, babe. Finally got somethin’ to say?”

You regret it immediately.

His fingers curl under your chin, tipping your face up. You hate the way he looks at you—like you’re some cute little pet that finally learned how to growl.

“Say it again,” he drawls.

You clench your jaw, refusing.

Sukuna’s smirk twitches. And then—his grip tightens. Not enough to bruise, but enough to make your heart hammer.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. “Say it.”

You swallow hard. “You’re—”

His other hand slips under your shirt, trailing up your stomach.

“—a fucking asshole.”

His fingers clamp down around your throat.

You gasp, body tensing as he forces you back against the wall. The impact rattles through your bones, breath knocked from your lungs, but the way he looks at you—the heat in his gaze, the hunger—it’s worse than anything.

“Fuck,” Sukuna exhales, leaning in. “Y’know how long I’ve been waiting for you to snap?” His grip on your throat flexes, pressing just enough to make you lightheaded. “That shy little act—thought you’d keep playin’ innocent forever.”

You whimper, hands flying up to claw at his wrist.

But that only makes him harder.

You feel it, heavy against your thigh, and your stomach churns.

Sukuna loves this.

“You’re cute when you’re mad, baby,” he coos, dragging his lips along your jaw. “Almost makes me wanna be nicer to you.”

Almost.

But not quite.

Because the second his knee shoves between your thighs, spreading you open, you know exactly where this is going.

“Sukuna, don’t—”

He laughs again, grinding against you, letting you feel how much he doesn’t care.

“Ain’t my fault you got a mouth on you now,” he mutters, flipping you around, pressing your front into the wall. His fingers make quick work of your shorts, shoving them down, and then—he’s there. Heavy, throbbing, forcing himself between your thighs.

“Asshole, huh?” His voice is dark, amused. He doesn’t even warn you before he thrusts inside, forcing you open with a broken cry. “You’re mine, baby.”

His pace is brutal, his hands greedy, fingers leaving bruises as he slams into you over and over.

You cry out, but he just groans, burying himself deeper.

“Say it again,” he pants, fucking into you harder. “Call me an asshole again.”

But you can’t.

Because he’s already fucking the fight out of you.

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