ππ‘π πππ ππππ ππ« ~ β ππππ ππ πππππ β
Sukuna wakes up before you.
It happens more often than notβhis body is too trained for the ring, too restless, even after fucking you into unconsciousness. The room is dark, but the city bleeds in from the blinds, stretching gold and red across the sheets, across you.
You sleep like you belong in another world.
Your back is to him, bare, smooth, flushed from where he bit you. You donβt stir when his fingers trace up your spine, featherlight, following the bruises he left on your wrists, the crescent-shaped welts on your hips.
He should feel proud of them.
Should feel satisfied.
But thereβs something wrong in his chest.
Sukuna glares at the ceiling, arms behind his head, jaw tight. He canβt think when youβre sleeping next to him like this, all soft and warm and fucking beautiful.
It makes him sick.
Because you donβt belong in his bed.
Not really.
You donβt belong in this worldβhis world.
Youβre too fucking sweet, too logical, too innocent. Youβre the kind of girl that shouldβve been loved gently, cherished, worshiped, spoiled. Someone shouldβve taken you on shy little dates, kissed you softly under streetlights, given you a fucking ring before ever putting their hands on you.
Someone who deserves you more.
You stir, a soft breath escaping your lips. His eyes flicker down.
You had friends before him.
Gojo was one of them.
That bastard, smiling at you, playfully tugging your sleeve, talking to you like you werenβt already his.
He knows youβd never cheat.
He knows.
And yet.
His fingers twitch against the mattress. The memory of your voice, sweet and quiet, telling Gojo, βYouβll always be important to me,β gnaws at him like a beast tearing through his ribs.
It doesnβt matter that you were talking about friendship.
It doesnβt matter that heβs the only man youβve ever kissed, the only one whoβs ever touched you, ruined you, fucked you.
It doesnβt matter.
Because he matters.
Sukuna exhales slowly, hand curling into a fist. He shouldnβt be thinking like this. Shouldnβt be watching you like some lovesick idiot, shouldnβt be drowning in the fact that youβre his wife in title onlyβthat if you had a choice, it would have never been him.
He should mock you like always.
Should yank you into his arms, wake you up with his teeth on your throat, remind you who owns youβwho will always own you.
But instead, his fingers brush against your cheek, his breath ghosting against your shoulder.
βPrincess,β he mutters, voice low, almost too quiet to hear.
You shift slightly, pressing closer in your sleep, seeking his warmth.
And Sukuna closes his eyes.
Because hell is empty.
And all the devils are here.
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