𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝘿𝙚𝙫𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙂𝙤𝙙

You don’t register the pain at first. Your brain, so hopelessly human, stutters over the sheer impossibility of it.

The teeth.

Rows upon rows of fangs sink into your shoulder, puncturing through skin, through muscle, through bone—your body snaps beneath the force, your nerves lighting up with such impossible agony that your scream chokes in your throat. The wet squelch of your own body giving way, the crunch of your clavicle fracturing in his jaw, the spray of hot blood hitting your cheek—it’s all so visceral, so real, that your body floods with animal terror.

The monstrous thing pinning you down is laughing.

Sukuna—if he can even be called that anymore—is all mouths and hands and hunger. His monstrous second mouth, the one gored into his abdomen, drips with your blood, the lips curling into a grin even as his real mouth licks the crimson from his fangs.

“𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨,” he murmurs, voice a purr of absolute indulgence, “𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙚𝙫𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙙.”

Your hands scrabble against the ruined ground, your body a broken, wrecked thing beneath him. A long, clawed finger tilts your chin up—forcefully, cruelly, delicately—making you look directly into those inhuman eyes.

A King. A Predator. A Monstrosity.

You’re not sure if you’re shaking from pain or fear or the sheer impossibility of surviving him.

And he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

Your thighs tremble against his hips, utterly dwarfed by the sheer enormity of him. His body—scarred and tattooed and wrong—presses against you with an intoxicating heat, suffocating in its weight. You can feel the brutal strength in his grip, in the way he palms your stomach like he owns it, his claws dragging possessively over every inch of your trembling skin.

He shifts, and you feel it. The thick, monstrous lengths pressing against your cunt—far too big, far too wrong. A sob spills from your lips as his hand forces your legs further apart, his nails digging into the soft flesh of your inner thighs.

He laughs again, and this time his abdomen-mouth grins so wide you can see his own fangs buried in his own gums.

“𝘼𝙬𝙝,” he coos, voice dripping with amusement, “𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜?”

His hips snap forward.

You scream.

It hurts. God, it hurts. The sheer stretch, the way your body nearly rips around him, how the force of it drives the breath from your lungs—he is splitting you open.

His groan is a monstrous thing, rumbling through the cavern of his chest, his claws tightening their bruising grip on your thighs.

“𝙔𝙚𝙨,” he purrs, rolling his hips deeper, forcing more of himself inside, stretching you to the brink of ruin. “Cry louder.”

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