𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ ❝ 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐘 ❞

Sukuna wakes up before you.

It happens more often than not—his 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 don’t 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 there’s something wrong in his chest.

Sukuna glares at the ceiling, arms behind his head, jaw tight. He can’t think when you’re sleeping next to him like this, all soft and warm and fucking beautiful.

It makes him sick.

Because you don’t belong in his bed.

Not really.

You don’t belong in this world—his world.

You’re too fucking sweet, too logical, too innocent. You’re the kind of girl that should’ve been loved gently, cherished, worshiped, spoiled. Someone should’ve 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 weren’t already his.

He knows you’d never cheat.

He knows.

And yet.

His fingers twitch against the mattress. The memory of your voice, sweet and quiet, telling Gojo, “You’ll always be important to me,” gnaws at him like a beast tearing through his ribs.

It doesn’t matter that you were talking about friendship.

It doesn’t matter that he’s the only man you’ve ever kissed, the only one who’s ever touched you, ruined you, fucked you.

It doesn’t matter.

Because he matters.

Sukuna exhales slowly, hand curling into a fist. He shouldn’t be thinking like this. Shouldn’t be watching you like some lovesick idiot, shouldn’t be drowning in the fact that you’re his wife in title only—that 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 you—who will always own you.

But instead, his fingers brush against your cheek, his breath ghosting against your shoulder.

“Princess,” 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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