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He doesnβt need you to like it.
The sweat-stained, blood-stinking air suffocates you, the metallic tang of violence thick in the underground boxing ring. Men roar for carnage, the dim yellow lights flickering over the caged arena where Sukuna basks in his brutality. His knucklesβsplitting open freshβslam into a manβs temple, sending him crashing to the mat, unconscious before he even lands.
A knockout. Again.
The crowd erupts. Money exchanges hands. The announcer screams his name. But itβs Sukunaβs eyes that find you, locking onto your frozen frame in the front row. You hadnβt wanted to be here. You never want to be here. And yet, you always end up where he puts you.
His mouth quirks up, all teeth, all vicious delight.
Heβs coming for you next.
βYou never cheer for me.β
The locker room stinks of sweat and leather. You shrink back as Sukuna wipes the blood from his face, smearing it across his cheekbones like war paint. Heβs still bare-chested, bruised, glistening with the evidence of his victories.
βI hate this,β you whisper.
His laugh is a scrape against your bones. βYeah? And yet, here you are. Like a good little fan.β
You flinch when he moves, the damp towel tossed aside, his hands free now. He knows you better than you want him to. Knows the way you tense when he steps closer, the way your breath stutters, your knees threaten to buckle. Not from fearβno, he wishes it were fearβbut from the betrayal of your own fucking body.
His fingers hook beneath your chin, forcing you to look up. Your lips part on instinct, a protest you donβt get to voice because he crushes his mouth over yours, swallowing everything you donβt say.
The kiss is violent, like him. Itβs a fight he wins before it even begins.
You donβt remember how you end up bent over the locker room bench, only that Sukuna is the one who puts you there.
Your skirt is bunched at your waist. Your pantiesβa fragile little thingβare ripped away without care. Heβs rough, forcing your knees apart, one big hand gripping the back of your neck to keep you down.
βYou hate this?β he taunts, breath hot against your ear. His cock grinds between your thighs, heavy, hot, teasing. βThen tell me to stop.β
Your silence feeds his cruelty.
He doesnβt ease you into it. He never does. The stretch burns, a sharp, overwhelming invasion as he forces himself inside. You cry out, nails scraping against the cold wood beneath you, but Sukuna only groans, savoring how tight you squeeze around him, how you pulse despite the way you fight it.
βYeah,β he pants, pulling back before slamming deeper, forcing pleasure where you refuse it. βI knew youβd be this good.β
He fucks you like he fights. Like he owns you. Like there was never another option but thisβlosing to him.
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