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He smells like blood, whiskey, and a fight he didnβt finish.
The bar is loud, but not as loud as the way his knuckles still buzz from cracking someoneβs jaw open in the ring. His head is spinning, body thrumming, and heβs got a mean fucking hard-on pressing against his zipper. His hands twitch at his sides, fists curling and uncurling. Too much adrenaline. Too much pent-up rage. And youβ
Youβre a soft thing sitting alone at the counter, oblivious to the storm about to crash down on you.
Too easy.
Sukuna’s a bad man, but heβs never been good at resisting temptation. And fuck, you look like the kind of girl who never gets into troubleβthe kind whoβs never had a man like him grab you by the wrist, drag you down into hell, and make you cry.
βHey, doll,β his voice is lazy, slurred from the liquor, but thereβs that glint in his eyeβa predator zeroing in on prey.
You freeze as he looms over you, all sharp teeth and sweat-slicked skin, his hoodie slung over his broad shoulders, the bruises along his knuckles fading into the inked lines of his tattoos.
βI know you.β
Your stomach knots. Heβs drunk, swaying slightly, but his grip on the counter is solid, trapping you in place.
βN-no, you donβt.β
Sukuna grins, slow and mean. βNah. I do.β He taps his temple, pretending to think. βIβve seen you before. On my phone. On my laptop.β His smirk widens when your face drains of color. βYou write that filthy fanfic shit, donβt you? The cute, soft, girly shit for losers.β
Your breath catches.
βDidnβt peg you for the type to fantasize about getting ruined.β He leans in, inhaling against your hair, letting his breath fan hot over your ear. βGood thing I donβt mind making fantasies real.β
You jerk back, but heβs faster.
His fingers dig into your thigh as he wedges himself between your legs, forcing them apart. The bar is too crowded for anyone to notice the way his hand drifts higher, slipping beneath your skirt, dragging his knuckles over your underwear.
βYou should be careful, yβknow,β he murmurs. βA cute little thing like you? Alone in a place like this?β His thumb strokes the fabric, pressing just enough to make you jolt. βSomeone could take advantage.β
βS-stopββ
He chuckles. βNah.β
And then he drags you off the stool, shoves you toward the dark back hall where the staff rooms are.
You fight. You struggle. You gasp out a weak protest, but Sukuna only laughs, twisting his fingers into your hair and yanking you close.
“Relax,” he slurs, biting at your neck. “I’ll make it hurt real nice for you.”
The door slams shut.
The lock clicks.
The world outside doesnβt matter anymore.
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