because i say so

by bellybawmb

Summary:

a blessing came to kill god--

instead, there was religion.

Notes:

it's been forever, and im back with a new name--hope you freaks enjoy!

tell me how u like it!

 

The air inside the dressing room was thick with the tang of sweat and stale cologne, the flickering fluorescent light buzzing faintly like the hum of a neon sign outside some dingy, late-night dive. This wasn’t a stadium—not yet—but selling out the biggest club in Shibuya? That was its own kind of filthy glory. The walls pulsed faintly from the bass bleeding through from the stage, a constant reminder of the chaos building on the other side of the door.

 

This was their biggest gig yet, and Sukuna knew it. He could feel it in his bones, a jittery, electric sort of tension that crept under his skin and refused to let go. He leaned into it, though—thrived on it, even.

 

The mirror in front of him was cracked at the edges, but that only made his reflection more interesting. He tilted his head, his crimson contacts glowing faintly under the grimy vanity lights. The sharp lines of his jaw and the almost cruel curve of his lips were a deadly combination, and he knew it. Sukuna didn’t need anyone to tell him he looked good. He just did. Hell, the whole world knew it, or at least anyone lucky—or unlucky—enough to catch him on stage.

 

The scarlet of his eyes looked damn near natural against his wild, sharp features, and the smirk he wore? That was pure art. Or pure chaos. Depends who you asked. The outfit tonight—ripped leather pants, a chain or two hanging dangerously low, and a sleeveless mesh top that exposed every carved muscle—was practically a weapon. He turned slightly, catching the faint glint of the tattoos snaking up his arms in the dim light. He looked like sex and violence personified, and he fucking loved it.

 

They screamed for him, those rabid kids packed shoulder to shoulder out there. Worshiped him like he was some kind of punk rock deity. Sukuna knew it wasn’t just the music that brought them running—though, damn, the music was good. No, it was him. The magnetism. The presence. He could feel their collective breath hitch the moment he stepped on stage. Could see the glazed, wide-eyed stares that locked on him, begging for even a second of his attention. Some of them would probably faint tonight. They always did.

 

A sharp-toothed grin stretched across his face at the thought, his chest swelling with something just shy of smugness. No, screw that—it was smugness. He was a god up there, and everyone else? Just lucky to bask in his glow.

 

Before he could lose himself too deep in the fantasy of his own grandeur, there was a sharp knock at the door, followed by the voice of his eternal headache.

 

Sukuna finally wrenched himself away from the mirror, tearing his gaze from the perfection staring back at him. There was only so much time he could spend admiring a god before the god had to actually show up.

 

“‘Kuna!” Satoru called, his singsong lilt practically oozing through the wood. “Openers are finishing up, baby. Let’s roll out!”

 

Sukuna rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of his head. The grin that stretched his lips was more feral than friendly as he yanked the door open. Sure enough, there was Satoru, leaning so far into Sukuna’s personal space he could practically feel the minty ghost of the guy’s gum. His bleached hair was a mess of deliberate chaos, and his sunglasses—completely unnecessary indoors—perched at an obnoxiously smug angle.

 

“You’re lucky I don’t clock you for calling me ‘baby,’” Sukuna drawled, his voice low and laced with threat, though the smirk tugging at his mouth softened the blow.

 

Satoru’s grin only widened, sharp and mischievous. “You’d miss me if you did. And besides, it’s kinda hot when you’re mad.”

 

Sukuna groaned, shoving past him and into the hallway, but not before catching the sound of Satoru’s delighted laugh trailing after him.

 

Down the dim corridor, they found Shoko leaning lazily against the wall near the door to the stage. Her petite frame was swallowed by an oversized hoodie, the hem stained with something she probably didn’t remember spilling. A cigarette dangled precariously from her lips, the ash threatening to fall onto her combat boots.

 

“About time,” she muttered without looking up, exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled lazily around her head like some apathetic halo.

 

“Chill, Shoko,” Satoru said, flashing her his trademark grin. “It’s not like they’ll start the show without us.”

 

“They might if it means they don’t have to hear you talk,” a voice cut in, sharp and low.

 

Kento was already by the door, bass slung over his shoulder with a quiet sort of menace. His blonde hair was slicked back, and his expression was as pinched as ever, like he was constantly bracing himself for the next dumb thing Satoru would say.

 

Satoru didn’t disappoint. “Oh, Kentoooo~” he crooned, sidling up to him with a wicked glint in his eye. “Did I tell you? Suguru thinks you’d look phenomenal in our bed.”

 

Kento’s scowl deepened. “You’re insufferable.”

 

“And you’re hot when you’re mad,” Satoru quipped, shameless.

 

“Seriously, Gojo, give it a rest,” Shoko deadpanned, tapping the ash from her cigarette without so much as a glance. “We’re all tired of your horniness.”

 

“Not true,” Satoru said, wagging a finger. “Suguru’s never tired of it.”

 

“Can you two idiots focus for five seconds?” Sukuna cut in, voice like a whipcrack. His grin was gone now, replaced with the predatory intensity that took over whenever he was about to step on stage.

 

The room fell quiet, save for the muffled roar of the crowd on the other side of the door. Sukuna’s lips curled into something dangerously close to a snarl as he glanced at his bandmates.

 

“This isn’t just another gig,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “We’re gonna make those bastards out there feel it tonight.”

 

Shoko took one last drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out against the wall. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with.”

 

Kento adjusted his bass strap, muttering something under his breath about “showboating egomaniacs.”

 

And Satoru? He just grinned like the madman he was, tossing an arm around Sukuna’s shoulders as they made their way to the stage. “You know they’re not here for us,” he teased, voice dripping with faux sweetness. “They’re here for you, ‘Kuna. Their glorious, terrifying, and occasionally charming god.”

 

Sukuna shoved him off with a snarl, but his grin was back, sharper than ever.

 

“Damn right they are.”

 

As they pushed through the door, the roar of the crowd hit them like a tidal wave. The stage lights were blinding, the heat immediate and all-encompassing, and for a moment, Sukuna stood there, soaking it all in.

 

This was his altar, his kingdom. And the worshippers were already screaming his name.

The roar of the crowd was deafening as Sukuna stepped onto the stage, the harsh lights blinding him for a split second before the world snapped into focus. This was his domain. The writhing mass of bodies pressing against the barricade, screaming themselves hoarse at the mere sight of him, was his congregation. And Sukuna? He was their wicked, unforgiving god.

 

Behind him, Shoko leaned back on her drum throne, cigarette clamped between her lips as if the buzz of the club wasn’t loud enough to swallow her indifference. She didn’t need to try; the heavy, pounding rhythm she unleashed on the kit spoke louder than words ever could. Each stroke of the drumsticks hit like a gunshot, the gritty edge of the sound slicing through the humid air of the venue.

 

Nanami’s bass followed suit, growling low and dangerous as his fingers moved across the strings with precision that belied his ever-present scowl. Satoru, already at his spot, teased his strings, letting a high-pitched wail cut through the cacophony.

 

Sukuna soaked it all in, the screams, the smoke, the strobe lights that painted the stage in a hellish red glow. His grin widened, feral and unforgiving. His body moved in time with the pounding rhythm, hips circling slow and deliberate, a predator sizing up the herd.

 

The bass rumbled like an earthquake under his feet, Shoko’s relentless drumming driving the pulse that matched the energy in his veins. He was on fire. And then, as if on cue, someone fainted—right there in the front row, crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut.

 

Perfect.

 

But Sukuna wasn’t interested in the fainthearted. His sharp, scarlet gaze swept over the rest of the crowd, searching, hunting. His eyes skimmed over the glitter-streaked faces, the arms reaching out for him as if he were salvation. They wanted him so badly. But who deserved him?

 

Then he saw them.

 

A figure in the front row, their night-blue eyes slicing through the chaos like a knife. They weren’t screaming, weren’t crying, just staring up at him with an intensity that made his grin falter for half a second before it returned, sharper, darker. They were unreal, ethereal even. Gorgeous in a way that didn’t seem entirely fair.

 

What the hell are you?

 

The question buzzed at the back of Sukuna’s mind as he prowled closer to the edge of the stage, his grin widening into something wolfish. He couldn’t look away, not that he wanted to. They weren’t just pretty; they were a fucking masterpiece. The kind of pretty that felt like a challenge. The kind of pretty that made him want to break them, to see what those piercing eyes looked like filled with ruin.

 

And just as the first verse was about to spill from his lips, Sukuna thought to himself, tonight, you’re mine.

And Sukuna fucking thrived in it.

He didn’t sing the first verse—he spat it. Words filthier than the floor beneath his boots, dragging syllables through grit and venom. He leaned down toward the crowd, baring teeth between lines, tongue flashing between lyrics like he was tasting them raw.

But still, every beat, every breath, every second, his eyes kept flicking back to them .

They were unreal. Even under the grime-streaked lights, even soaked in the sweat and screams of the pit, they looked untouched. Too poised, too still. It pissed him off. It thrilled him. Everyone else had lost their minds—clawing for him, sobbing, choking on the smoke and the noise—but this one? They hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t so much as blinked.

The thought turned over in his head, bitter and fascinated. He wanted to crawl into their mind and rip it apart. Wanted to shove his hand down their throat and make them feel him. Make them react. Make them tremble.


By the second song, Satoru was already climbing where he wasn’t supposed to, standing wild on the edge of a towering speaker with one leg bent and his guitar strapped like a weapon. His solo shredded through the club, messy and too loud—exactly how it was meant to be. Someone in the pit screamed his name, and he blew them a kiss.

Nanami had lost his shirt entirely, his body a taut line of motion, sweat glistening on scarred skin. The man was locked into the rhythm like a machine, jaw clenched, bass snarling like it had a mouth of its own.

Shoko’s hair was plastered to her face, cigarette long gone, but her eyes were lit up like she was on something—pure drum-fueled madness, half-possessed, half-serene, like she’d become part of the beat.

And Sukuna was center-stage, pure deviance.

He dragged the mic stand with him like a leash, circling it slowly as he rolled his hips to the beat—obscene, fluid, like sex itself. And he saw it— finally —in those night-blue eyes. The twitch. The subtle flicker. The slight shift in posture.

He had them now.

“You,” he growled into the mic between verses, voice low, dirty, and unmistakably directed. “Yeah… you.”

He didn’t need to say more. The crowd screamed, thinking it was them, but his gaze was pinned to that one face. That one fucking challenge. That gorgeous, unreal little enigma he was going to drag back to hell with him after this set.

The verse hit again. Louder. Filthier. Sukuna ripped his shirt at the collar, baring inked skin beneath flashing lights, sweat dripping down his neck. He laughed into the mic, wicked and wild.

Tonight wasn’t just a show.

It was a hunt .


He strutted, prowled, rolled his hips in time with the beat like he was fucking the music itself. The spotlight hit him just right, bouncing off the sheen of sweat on his chest, off the metallic sheen of his piercings, his sharp cheekbones, his wicked, wolfish grin. The crowd was completely unhinged—hands reaching, people trying to claw their way to the front like salvation was just past the barricade.

 

But he wasn’t giving it to them.

 

Not tonight.

 

His eyes—vicious, slitted behind his scarlet contacts—stayed locked on them.

 

That pretty little thing in the front row.

 

Still not screaming. Still not crying. Still not reaching.

 

But something had shifted. Their lips were parted now. Their chest rising just a little faster. And those eyes—night blue and electric—were locked on him like they were trying to pin him down.

 

They weren’t afraid.

 

They should be.

 

He dragged his tongue across his bottom lip and leaned into the mic, voice a low, lewd growl between lines.

 

“You gonna keep starin’ like that, baby?” he said between verses, breath ragged from how hard his body was working. “Or you gonna beg?”

 

The crowd exploded, deafening cheers and moans and cries of "SUKUNA!" erupting like an orgasm from the pit.

 

But he only looked at them. The blue-eyed watcher.

 

His mind was racing with thoughts—images—fantasies of pulling them backstage, pinning them to the wall, wiping that unreadable look off their face with teeth and bruises. He wanted to hear them break.

 

Wanted to see what someone that pretty looked like when they shattered.

 

The set raged on—every track filthier than the last, each lyric dirtier, each chord lower and meaner. The lights flashed like strobes during the bridge of their most obscene track—“Black Honey”—and Sukuna dropped to his knees at the edge of the stage, grabbing the mic with both hands, snarling each word like a weapon.

 

His eyes never left them.

 

When he sang the filthiest line, the one that had gotten them banned from three venues, he smiled right at them.

 

As if to say, this is what I’d do to you if you let me.

 

By the time the final song bled out into a long, distorted outro—Shoko still hammering the toms, Satoru practically vibrating with glee as he stood now on top of an amp, screaming into the chaos, and Nanami breathing hard and feral with sweat dripping from his chin—Sukuna stood center stage, heaving and soaked, the mic hanging loose in his hand.

 

And then, just before the house lights started to fade—before the security moved to disperse the pit and the band slinked back into the shadows—he pointed.

 

Right at them.

 

A slow, deliberate motion. His eyes still burning.

 

He mouthed the words—

 

Stay. There.

 

Then turned on his heel and vanished backstage, body still buzzing from the set, blood boiling with want, mind ravenous.

 

Because tonight?

 

Tonight was far from over.


Backstage was a whirlwind of heat, noise, and adrenaline still pulsing like war drums beneath the skin. The hallway behind the stage was dim and narrow, lit only by the flickering of a busted fluorescent panel overhead and the low-red glow spilling from the exit signs. The band had just stepped off, their bodies steaming in the aftershock of the set, the sound of the crowd still thunderous behind the walls—chanting, stomping, screaming for more.

 

But Sukuna didn’t give a fuck.

 

His mouth tasted like copper and whiskey, his chest was still heaving, and his ears were ringing, but none of it mattered.

 

Not compared to them.

 

That unreal little thing in the front row. The watcher.

 

He’d burned their image into the inside of his skull.

 

Sukuna stormed past a poor tech who barely had time to scurry out of the way, nearly knocking over a rack of guitars on the way to the green room. Satoru shouted something behind him—probably about how they nailed the set, or maybe about how Nanami’s tits were out for the entire third song—but Sukuna didn’t bother responding. He shoved the door open and kicked it closed behind him, fists clenched at his sides.

 

He was still too wired. The lights, the sound, the heat of it all were stuck to his skin like sweat and sex.

 

He tore the wet shirt from his body, throwing it to the floor, pacing like a caged animal. His skin gleamed with salt and heat, the tattoos that coiled down his sides and across his back twitching as his muscles flexed. He could still feel the rhythm in his bones—Shoko’s drums pounding in his chest like a second heartbeat, Nanami’s bass growling through his spine. But louder than anything else was the echo of his own voice, his own want.

 

He licked his lips and looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

 

Not from nerves.

 

From need.

 

From the fucking need to tear something apart. To have something.

 

Someone.

 

The knock at the door was sharp—three firm raps.

 

Sukuna stilled, bare chest rising and falling as he stared at the door. His tongue dragged across his bottom lip, slow and deliberate. If it was some tech or groupie who’d gotten the wrong room, he’d bite their head off and toss the rest down the corridor.

 

He didn’t say anything. Just waited.

 

The door opened anyway.

 

Satoru, still high off the show, poked his head in, shirt open, chest smeared in glitter and someone else’s lipstick. He had a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a water bottle in his hand.

 

“I figured you’d want this,” he grinned, tossing the bottle to Sukuna, who caught it one-handed without breaking eye contact.

 

Satoru stepped further in, closing the door behind him. “You were feral tonight, man. Like… more than usual. Kinda hot.”

 

“Get to the point,” Sukuna snapped, cracking open the bottle and swallowing half of it in one go, water running down his chin and neck.

 

Satoru’s grin twisted, cocky and knowing. “You had your eyes glued to the front row the whole set. That little blue groupie, right? The one with the arms crossed, looking like they wanted to fight you and fuck you at the same time?”

 

Sukuna didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

 

Satoru laughed, low and smug. “I thought so. You’ve got it bad, huh?”

 

“They’re still out there?” Sukuna asked, voice low, almost disbelieving.

 

Satoru checked his phone, which lit up with a flood of tagged photos and shaky concert footage. He tilted it toward Sukuna and scrolled. “Mhmm. They haven’t moved. Crowd’s thinning out, but they’re still at the rail. Watching the stage. Waiting.”

 

Sukuna’s grin was slow and cruel. “Good.”

 

He wiped the sweat off his face with a towel and tossed it aside, grabbing a black hoodie from the rack—no shirt underneath. He zipped it up halfway, just enough to cover his chest but not his tattoos. The hood stayed down. He didn’t want to hide.

 

He wanted them to see him.

 

“Satoru,” he said, stretching his arms as if preparing for a second set, “get security to pull them backstage.”

 

Satoru’s brows lifted. “Didn’t peg you for the romantic type.”

 

Sukuna flashed him a grin full of teeth. “Who said anything about romance?”

 

Satoru gave a low whistle. “You break this one, don’t expect me to clean up the mess.”

 

But he was already texting someone on staff. It was happening.

 

Sukuna could feel it.

 

And just as he turned back toward the mirror to check his reflection one last time, the door cracked open again. This time, a security guard leaned in and nodded. “They’re coming.”

 

Coming.

 

His pulse kicked up again.

 

Sukuna leaned against the vanity, palms flat on the counter, staring at his own reflection. His red eyes burned back at him, rimmed in sweat and eyeliner, wild and dark. His grin came slow. Lazy. Mean.

 

*Tonight, you’re mine.*

 

And you’re going to wish you never looked at me like that.

 

🔪

The hallway smelled like sweat, steel, and something burnt—probably ozone from the busted light fixture above his head. It flickered with a sickly strobe, casting pale light across Megumi’s face as he followed the security guard deeper backstage, each step slow, deliberate, silent.

 

He looked out of place in the haze of post-show chaos, but he moved like he wasn’t. Like he belonged here.

 

The last of the crowd’s screams were distant now—fading like the tail end of a prayer—but the pulse of the performance still echoed inside his bones. He could feel it, like phantom hands gripping his ribs and dragging their nails across his lungs.

 

Sukuna’s voice had been a living thing. His presence even more so.

 

And Megumi? He had stood perfectly still through every violent, filthy, thunderous track. Not swaying. Not cheering. Not singing.

 

Just *watching*.

 

The crowd around him had become little more than noise. Like gnats swarming a god.

 

He didn’t want to worship Sukuna.

 

He wanted to *devour* him.

 

He kept his expression flat even now, though his heart was a war drum in his chest, beat for beat matching the basslines that had torn through the floor earlier. The shadowed path between stage and green room was nothing but a narrow artery, still pulsing with heat, but his strides were sure. Balanced. Controlled.

 

Inside, he was on fire.

 

His fingers twitched at his sides. He’d dressed with precision: loose dark jeans that slouched low on his hips, ripped where they needed to be, stitched where they didn’t; a form-fitting, sleeveless mesh top beneath a buckled vinyl jacket that reflected red like blood under the hallway lights. His dark hair was tied at the nape, disheveled in an intentional way, his fringe nearly shadowing those glass-cut cheekbones and storm-born eyes.

 

Night-blue. Icy. Penetrating.

 

People always told him he looked otherworldly. That there was something not right behind his gaze. A little too blank. A little too deep.

 

They weren’t wrong.

 

He paused as the guard knocked once on the green room door and pushed it open with the half-respectful, half-annoyed grunt of someone used to being ignored. The air inside was hotter, heavier, thick with something unspoken and humid—like violence and sex waiting to uncoil.

 

And there he was.

 

Sukuna.

 

He was leaning against the vanity, hoodie zipped low, chest still gleaming with sweat. His tattoos peeked out from the fabric, ink black and red like his gaze, and those scarlet contact lenses caught the overhead lights with a demonic glow. His smirk was slow, deliberate—like a wolf welcoming the lamb inside its den, just to see what it would do.

 

Megumi stood at the threshold, silent.

 

He didn’t look nervous. Didn’t look like some groupie trembling to meet their idol.

 

He looked *hungry*.

 

He stepped forward, slow, letting the door close behind him. The click of it echoed far too loud in the silence between them.

 

Sukuna tilted his head, eyes dragging over him, leisurely and unrepentant.

 

“You’re prettier up close,” he said, low and amused. “Didn’t think that was possible.”

 

Megumi didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. He just stared, like he was memorizing every inch of the man in front of him.

 

“I’m not here to be pretty,” he said flatly. His voice was low—unshakably so. Velvet iron.

 

Sukuna’s brows lifted, and then that grin curled wider. “No? Then what *are* you here for?”

 

Megumi’s lips parted slightly. Just enough to speak, not enough to reveal what was really going on behind his eyes.

 

“A taste,” he said.

 

It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t even bold. It was just true.

 

And the moment it left his mouth, the air between them changed.

 

Sukuna stepped forward like he’d been *waiting* for that answer—like the leash had just been slipped off. He stalked up to Megumi, crowding into his space until there was barely an inch between them.

 

“You know,” Sukuna purred, voice pitched low, breath brushing Megumi’s jaw, “the ones who say that usually don’t survive me.”

 

Megumi’s eyes finally blinked—slow, deliberate, and dead calm.

 

“Then maybe,” he whispered back, “you’re the one who gets eaten this time.”

 

Sukuna laughed. Loud and unholy.

 

He liked him already.

 

Dangerous.

 

Fucking *perfect.*

The laugh curled out of Sukuna’s throat like smoke—low, lascivious, edged with something dark and amused. He leaned in closer, just enough for Megumi to feel the heat radiating off his skin, but not touching. Not yet.

 

"Got a mouth on you," Sukuna murmured, eyes dragging over Megumi’s face, lingering at the curve of his lip, the line of his throat. “That’s cute. Dangerous, but cute.”

 

Megumi didn’t flinch. His breath was steady, his posture loose. Relaxed, even. Controlled in a way that made most people nervous, but Megumi had long since learned how to weaponize stillness. He let Sukuna circle him, predator and prey, keeping his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket.

 

He wanted to be watched.

 

He wanted Sukuna to look at him and think, mine.

 

He just didn’t want him to realize—yet—that the hunter was already halfway into the trap.

 

“You don’t really like cute, though,” Megumi said simply, glancing at Sukuna out of the corner of his eye, those impossible blue irises catching the low light and flashing something cold. “Do you?”

 

Sukuna’s smirk widened, sharp as broken glass. “No,” he admitted, voice rough and amused. “I like ruin.”

 

Then, without warning, his hand shot out and grabbed the front of Megumi’s jacket, yanking him in until their chests nearly touched. “I like to watch people come apart.” His breath was hot against Megumi’s cheek now, his grip tight, domineering. “You gonna give me that?”

 

Megumi let out a soft sound that almost could’ve been a laugh. He tilted his chin up slightly, letting Sukuna’s breath kiss the skin just beneath his ear.

 

“Maybe,” he replied, deadpan. “If you’re any good.”

 

That earned a growl.

 

Sukuna shoved him back a step—not rough enough to bruise, but just hard enough to let Megumi feel the restraint it took not to slam him into the wall and get this whole game started without ceremony. He was twitchy with adrenaline, still high from the stage, the sweat not yet dried along his neck and jaw.

 

There were bite marks still on his shoulder from last week’s fling.

 

He was always ready to fuck or fight—usually both.

 

Megumi just rolled his shoulders and readjusted his jacket, looking mildly bored as if he hadn’t just been manhandled by a man who'd nearly come in his pants from eye contact. “So you brought me back here to intimidate me, or do you actually have some follow-through?”

 

Sukuna’s grin cracked wider. There was a flash of teeth this time—too many teeth.

 

He stepped forward again, slower now, deliberate. His hands found Megumi’s hips this time, gripping tight through the denim and dragging him close. Their bodies pressed flush, and Sukuna let out a low hum, almost approving, as he leaned in.

 

“You know what I like?” he muttered, voice low, gravel dipped in heat. “I like a mouth that says one thing, but a body that says another.”

 

Megumi’s breath hitched—but only once.

 

Because Sukuna wasn’t wrong.

 

Even through the layers of his practiced composure, his body was giving him away. His thighs were tense, just a little too ready. His chest brushed Sukuna’s as he breathed out, slowly. He didn’t push away.

 

Didn’t want to.

 

“You’re warm,” Sukuna murmured against his neck, dragging his nose along the line of Megumi’s jaw. “You feel like sin.”

 

“I’m flattered,” Megumi said dryly, one hand lifting to press against Sukuna’s stomach—fingers splayed, firm, but not pushing. Testing. Touching.

 

His nails barely skimmed the lower edge of Sukuna’s hoodie zipper. Lower.

 

Sukuna’s breath hitched this time.

 

Then his hand was gripping the back of Megumi’s neck, rough and claiming, thumb rubbing over the knob of his spine.

 

“Tell me your name.”

 

Megumi smiled.

 

Slow.

 

Cheshire.

 

“You’ll forget it once I wreck you,” he said.

 

And for the briefest second, Sukuna blinked. His grip faltered.

 

Not much. Just enough for Megumi to feel the tug of control shift. Just enough to know the leash wasn’t so firmly around his neck after all.

 

Sukuna recovered fast, laughing again, voice hoarse and thrilled. “God, you’re gonna be fun.”

 

He pushed Megumi backward, toward the worn leather couch shoved against the far wall of the green room. Megumi let him, walking in reverse, breathing in every second of this game. His knees hit the edge of the couch, and he let himself fall into the seat—legs parted, casual, inviting.

 

His eyes dragged slow up Sukuna’s frame, from boots to waistband to chest to mouth.

 

Then he said, voice deceptively soft:

 

“So? You gonna play with your food, or you gonna eat?”

 

Sukuna didn’t answer.

 

He just dropped to his knees between Megumi’s legs, fingers already curling into his thighs with bruising pressure, and Megumi let his head tip back against the wall, a small smirk curling at the corner of his mouth



Sukuna’s breath was hot against his skin—hungry, impatient, and just shy of unhinged.

 

He started with his teeth.

 

No gentle buildup, no sweet pretense. Just a sudden, brutal bite into the soft inner flesh of Megumi’s thigh, deep enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth. The sting bloomed sharp, and then—like a sick twist of instinct—it unraveled into something good. Something that made Megumi’s breath catch and his hips tip, muscles flexing under the weight of it.

 

And Sukuna noticed.

 

His pupils dilated, mouth dragging open over the fresh mark he’d left, panting into the skin with a noise too close to a moan. He hadn’t even touched Megumi properly yet, and already he was vibrating with heat, drunk on it.

 

“You liked that,” he muttered, voice low, rough, pleased.

 

Megumi didn’t grace him with a reply. He just stared down at him, jaw tight, chest rising and falling in steady, sharp breaths.

 

His silence wasn’t passive. It was a warning.

 

Sukuna, of course, mistook it for submission.

 

He licked his lips and shoved Megumi’s jeans down without ceremony, tugging until they were trapped low around his knees. The underwear beneath was barely clinging to him—dark, soaked, and pulled tight to the curves between his thighs.

 

When Sukuna pushed them aside, he paused.

 

Just for a beat.

 

His mouth parted, breath catching.

 

Megumi was already slick, cunt flushed dark and wet, his cocklet stiff and flushed where it peeked between his folds, twitching slightly as the cool air kissed it. Sukuna stared like he’d just found gold buried in velvet—like he couldn’t believe how pretty it all was, how thick and swollen his cocklet had gotten from just a few minutes of teasing and pain.

 

It was filthy.

 

It was perfect.

 

“God damn,” Sukuna growled, not bothering to hide the reverence as he gripped Megumi’s thighs and hauled him closer to the edge of the couch.

 

And then—he buried his face.

 

It wasn’t soft.

 

Sukuna groaned into him, dragging his tongue through the slick heat with a single, greedy stroke before locking his mouth over Megumi’s cocklet and sucking.

 

The pressure was intense—too much, too good, and Megumi’s reaction was instant.

 

His back arched. A sound tore out of him—sharp, high, and completely involuntary. His legs flexed, his heels digging into the edge of the couch, but he didn’t pull away. He arched into it, one hand gripping the armrest so hard his knuckles went pale.

 

Sukuna felt him unraveling.

 

His mouth worked in deep, wet strokes, sucking Megumi’s cocklet hard between his lips, grinding the flat of his tongue beneath it. The taste of him—slick and heady—coated Sukuna’s tongue, and he groaned like he’d found his new favorite sin.

 

One hand kept Megumi spread open, fingers slick with arousal as they slipped down, dragging along the rim of his cunt, pressing just enough to tease.

 

“You’re soaked for me,” Sukuna rasped between strokes, his voice thick and wet against him. “Fucking leaking.”

 

Megumi’s response was a choked gasp, eyes squeezed shut as his thighs quivered around Sukuna’s shoulders. His cocklet throbbed in Sukuna’s mouth, painfully hard, aching from how precisely, how roughly it was being handled.

 

Still, he bit the inside of his cheek. Held the line.

 

He had to.

 

Even as his chest heaved—top scars shifting under the sweat-streaked mesh of his shirt—he wouldn’t give Sukuna more than that.

 

But Sukuna wanted everything.

 

He flicked his tongue, fast and tight, then slowed, letting the suction linger. His mouth worked with obscene devotion, his groans vibrating through Megumi’s cunt until the boy could feel them in the pit of his stomach.

 

His body gave him away. The clench of his core. The flush creeping up his throat. The unspoken plea stitched into every breath.

 

“You gonna come just like this?” Sukuna growled, lips slick, tongue teasing. “From your cunt in my mouth?”

 

Megumi managed a breathless, hissed reply: “You talk too much.”

 

Sukuna grinned against him—wild and vulgar—and then sucked harder, deep and focused, two slick fingers pressing just inside the entrance of his cunt.

 

Megumi’s eyes snapped open—his breath punched from his lungs—and suddenly he was bucking, trembling, jaw slack as the pleasure crashed through him.

 

Not a word left his mouth.

 

But Sukuna could feel it.

 

Megumi clenched around his fingers, his cocklet twitching in his mouth, body shaking beneath the weight of it. His orgasm was quiet—silent even—but devastating.

 

And Sukuna, flushed and grinning, licked him clean.

 

Every drop. Every twitch. Every aftershock.

 

Because as far as he knew, Megumi was prey.

 

But Megumi?

 

Megumi was just getting started.

Sukuna didn’t stop.

Not even after Megumi came.

If anything, it fueled him.

The way Megumi shook—tense but controlled, throat bobbing with swallowed sounds—only seemed to push Sukuna further off the edge. He wanted to see how far that control went. How much Megumi could take.

How much he could pull out of him.

Sukuna’s fingers were still inside him, slick and curling just enough to make Megumi twitch with aftershocks, and his mouth never once left his cocklet. If before he’d been devouring, now he was ravaging . His suction was harsher now, tongue relentless, lapping and flicking over the sensitive tip until Megumi couldn’t stop the way his hips twitched with overstimulation.

And still —Megumi didn’t push him away.

Didn’t cry uncle.

Didn’t beg.

He gasped, sure. Whined, just barely. But his face never cracked, not fully. Even as he trembled, his hands gripped the cushions like he was holding himself down—not trying to escape, but anchoring himself so he wouldn’t give in too soon .

Sukuna groaned into him, loud and primal, his eyes wild when he glanced up. “You’re fucking unreal.”

Then he pushed deeper.

Two fingers became three, stretching Megumi’s cunt until it throbbed around them. The wet sound of it was obscene—filthy, raw—and Sukuna didn’t care. He wanted to hear it. Wanted to see him dripping around his hand.

He thrust harder.

Sloppy. Deep.

Each movement rocked Megumi against the back of the couch, making his thighs spread wider, twitch harder. His cocklet was flushed and twitching, thick from stimulation and already starting to pulse again under Sukuna’s relentless tongue.

And Megumi—

He let it happen.

He let it —

And waited.

Watched from behind heavy lashes, lips parted just enough to draw in breath, body shaking, inviting . Sukuna was starting to sweat, his breath ragged, his hair sticking to his temples as he moved faster, rougher, groaning every time he felt Megumi clamp down around his fingers.

“Fuck—you’re squeezing me,” Sukuna hissed, biting at his thigh again. “You want me to wreck you that bad?”

Megumi tilted his head, a faint, breathless smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His voice, low and wrecked, was still clear enough to cut:

“I thought you liked ruin.”

Sukuna growled—an honest, guttural sound—and shoved his fingers in deeper, tongue dragging a wide, filthy stripe over Megumi’s cunt as he moved.

And that was when Megumi moved .

Fast.

One hand shot out, curling into the messy strands of Sukuna’s hair, gripping tight at the root. His thighs snapped in, trapping Sukuna’s face between them—not to stop him, but to own the position.

Megumi looked down at him now, flushed and glistening, panting and in control .

And Sukuna—

He froze.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for Megumi to smile.

Sharp.

Satisfied.

Then he rolled his hips against Sukuna’s mouth, slow and deliberate, grinding his cocklet against his tongue like a demand. Like a dare.

“Since you’re already down there,” Megumi murmured, voice low and breathy, “why don’t you stay there?”

And Sukuna—

God help him—

Obeyed.

Sukuna didn't take kindly to being handled—especially not like that.

 

The pressure of Megumi’s thighs bracketing his face was possessive, commanding, and for a split, electric second, Sukuna’s brain short-circuited with the rush of it. The arrogance. The sheer audacity. This pretty little thing with a ruined cunt and a cocklet twitching against his tongue had the nerve to hold him down—to grind on his face like he owned it?

 

And fuck if Sukuna didn’t moan into him.

 

But it didn’t last.

 

Because Sukuna was not the kind of man to just roll over and be conquered. He didn't submit. Not to fans. Not to lovers. Not to anyone.

 

His fingers twisted deeper, curling cruelly inside Megumi's cunt, pressing against the spot that made his legs jerk, and with a sharp growl, Sukuna bit again—this time higher up, just beneath the seam of his thigh and hip. Not soft. Not sweet. Enough to mark. To warn.

 

Megumi gasped—body snapping taut—but to Sukuna’s growing fury and fascination, he didn’t loosen his grip.

 

He tightened it.

 

His fingers knotted tighter in Sukuna’s hair, holding him in place with no hesitation, and rolled his hips again, slow and punishing. His cocklet dragged across Sukuna’s tongue, heavy and wet, glistening in the low light like something Sukuna should be worshipping.

 

And still, Megumi didn’t moan. Didn’t beg. Just looked down at him with a flushed, trembling mouth and eyes that dared him.

 

A perfect siren. Stoic. Seductive.

 

Defiant.

 

“You can bite harder than that,” Megumi rasped, voice tight with restraint. “Or are you just all bark?”

 

That did it.

 

Sukuna’s laugh was guttural and mean, mouth still slick with Megumi’s taste. “You wanna play that game, sweetheart?”

 

He yanked himself free with a sudden, brutal twist—fingers slipping from Megumi’s cunt with a lewd, wet pop—and shoved the boy back into the couch. His body pinned Megumi’s before he could right himself, straddling his hips, chest flushed and glistening under the gaping black hoodie.

 

Megumi exhaled hard, blinking up at him, not startled—expectant.

 

Sukuna leaned in close, his nose brushing Megumi’s cheek, his breath wrecked with heat and ego.

 

“You’ve got a death wish,” he hissed, one hand pressing between Megumi’s thighs again, dragging through the mess he’d left. “You think you’re gonna topple me? That I’m just gonna let you ride my face and take control?”

 

Megumi’s hand shot up again, fingers curling under Sukuna’s jaw, grip firm and deliberate. His thumb pressed against his cheekbone, and his voice was calm, steady.

 

“I think you’ve already let me.”

 

For a moment, the tension held—like a match hovering above gasoline.

 

Then Sukuna lunged.

 

He crushed their mouths together, all tongue and teeth and spit, his body grinding down against Megumi’s, pinning him hard into the couch cushions. His other hand grabbed Megumi’s thigh, wrenching it up so their hips aligned, so he could feel the slick press of that cocklet against his pelvis, hot and twitching.

 

Megumi kissed back with equal violence, hips snapping up, hands clawing at Sukuna’s back—not to escape, but to fight for leverage. He bit Sukuna’s lip until he tasted blood, then licked into his mouth like he meant it, every kiss a challenge.

 

It was messy.

 

It was brutal.

 

It was a fight neither of them wanted to win too quickly.

 

“You don’t get to win just ‘cause you’re pretty,” Sukuna growled, fingers slipping back into Megumi’s cunt again, knuckles deep. “I’ll split you open before you ever get the upper hand.”

 

Megumi was panting now, lips red, jaw clenched tight, but his voice—his voice—still carried the edge of quiet dominance that infuriated Sukuna to his core.

 

“Then you’d better try harder.”

 

And just like that, the ugly little battle raged on—hips bucking, teeth clashing, bodies slick with sweat and spit and want. Sukuna was ruthless, trying to fuck the defiance out of Megumi’s body with every curl of his fingers, every grind of his hips—but Megumi met him at every step, riding the edge, breathing through the pain, eyes locked on him with something far too calm for someone being fucked this hard.

 

He was playing the long game.

 

And Sukuna didn’t even know yet that he was losing.


Sukuna was slipping.

 

Not in control. Not anymore.

 

The grip he had on Megumi's thigh was bruising, and the fingers inside him were unrelenting now—deep, unforgiving, curling like they meant to own him. Slick coated Sukuna’s palm, leaking down to his wrist, and the sounds it made—wet, rhythmic, feral—only drove him harder.

 

But Megumi—gorgeous, maddening, infuriating Megumi—still hadn't broken.

 

So Sukuna tore.

 

His free hand snatched the mesh top at Megumi’s chest and ripped it clean open, fabric snapping at the seams like paper. The room was immediately filled with the sound—loud, jarring—and the sharp intake of Megumi’s breath, more from the force than the shock.

 

Bare skin met the open air, and Sukuna wasted no time. He dove, biting at Megumi’s chest, teeth dragging over the sensitive lines of his top scars like he meant to brand him. His mouth latched over a nipple, harsh and sudden, biting and sucking until Megumi’s back arched and a breathy, ragged sound spilled out that wasn't quite a moan, but damn close.

 

“That what you wanted?” Sukuna snarled against his skin, dragging his tongue across the mark he'd just left before moving to the other side. “You wanna be bruised, huh? Wanna feel me etched into you?”

 

He sucked hard—mean—and Megumi twitched.

 

Then Sukuna sat up.

 

His fingers didn’t stop. In fact, they fucked deeper now, palm flush to Megumi’s heat, curling with intent. His other hand dropped to his waistband, jerking it down with a rough motion, just enough to free himself—

 

And fuck.

 

It was a lot.

 

His cock slapped heavy against Megumi’s chest as he shifted forward, fat and flushed, slick already beading at the tip. He braced one knee on either side of Megumi’s ribs, his massive frame looming above, and Megumi could feel the weight of him.

 

Could see the smirk curling Sukuna’s lips as he slapped the thick head against his mouth.

 

“Go on,” Sukuna panted, voice ragged. “Open up, baby. Show me how cockdrunk you get before I even fuck you.”

 

When Megumi didn’t immediately move, Sukuna grabbed his jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks, prying his mouth open.

 

“Don’t play shy now,” he growled, and then—

 

He snapped his hips forward.

 

The fat head of his cock forced its way past Megumi’s lips, dragging over his tongue with a filthy sound, and Sukuna shuddered like it nearly broke him.

 

“Fucking hell,” he hissed, eyes rolling back for a moment, hand tightening in Megumi’s hair as he bottomed out into his throat with a brutal snap. “Your mouth—shit, your mouth’s perfect.”

 

Megumi gagged once—but he didn’t stop him. His hands flexed where they gripped Sukuna’s thighs, but he took it, throat clenching around the girth, saliva already dripping from the corners of his lips. His jaw ached. His lungs burned.

 

But his eyes—those unblinking, night-blue eyes—stayed on Sukuna the whole time.

 

Unwavering.

 

Triumphant.

 

Sukuna was too gone to notice.

 

He was fucking into Megumi’s mouth now—slow at first, then mean—spitting praises between each thrust like he couldn’t hold them in.

 

“Look at you,” he rasped. “So good like this, fuck—you love being used, huh? Look at your face. Taking it like you were made for it.”

 

Each thrust snapped his hips forward, smacking into Megumi’s lips, spit slicking his cock as it disappeared again and again into the warmth of his throat. Sukuna’s breath hitched.

 

His abs tensed.

 

He was losing it.

 

But Megumi—

 

Megumi was only just starting to win.


The air was thick—humid and pulsing, clinging to skin and breath like smoke after a fire. Sukuna was feral now, rutting into Megumi’s mouth like it was his last salvation, sweat dripping down his chest, fingers flexing hard in Megumi’s hair.

 

His cock was relentless—thick and flushed and far too much—and every brutal thrust dragged a slick, obscene sound from Megumi’s stretched mouth. The wet slap of skin meeting lips, the choked, lewd gks every time Sukuna bottomed out, the heavy breathing tangled between—it was enough to drown in.

 

And Megumi—

 

He was drenched.

 

His thighs trembled violently where they were still spread open, pinned beneath Sukuna’s weight. His cocklet was twitching, aching with pressure, leaking into the wrecked mess of his folds as Sukuna’s fingers continued to drive into him with punishing force.

 

Every curl of Sukuna’s hand inside his cunt sent a new jolt of white-hot pleasure up his spine. The pads of those fingers were relentless, dragging across swollen spots already sore from earlier attention. The rhythm was messy now, erratic—meant to push, to ruin, to pull every reaction out of him whether he gave permission or not.

 

And Megumi moaned around Sukuna’s cock.

 

Not just once.

 

It kept happening.

 

The sound was muffled, choked, bubbling from the back of his throat as drool spilled past his lips and down his chin. His jaw had gone slack around the intrusion, lips swollen and pink, stretched around Sukuna’s cock while spit and precum glossed the length and smeared down his cheeks.

 

His lashes fluttered, vision hazy with tears that kept falling no matter how hard he tried to blink them back.

 

Overwhelmed.

 

Out of breath.

 

But he didn’t stop.

 

Couldn’t.

 

Sukuna growled above him, voice hoarse and breaking as his hips stuttered forward. His thighs trembled under Megumi’s grip.

 

“Fuck—listen to you,” he panted, shoving deeper into Megumi’s mouth, eyes dropping to take in the sight. “You’re moaning while I ruin your throat.”

 

He pulled out just enough to let Megumi breathe—and the second his cock slipped from his lips, a thick string of spit hung between them, glistening like silk, smeared over his lips and chin.

 

Megumi gasped—ragged and wet—his tongue instinctively following the head of Sukuna’s cock like his body couldn’t stop craving it.

 

His voice cracked around the wreckage in his throat.

 

“Don’t stop.”

 

Sukuna grinned, flushed and furious, and shoved back in without warning.

 

Megumi choked, his head pressed back into the couch, fingers digging into Sukuna’s thighs, but he still didn’t push him away. If anything, his hips bucked into the hand still buried in his cunt—needy, trembling, drenched.

 

The squelch of Sukuna’s fingers working inside him was filthy—wet, sloppy, loud with every thrust of his hand, only made worse by how Megumi clenched around him with every pump.

 

His body couldn’t lie anymore.

 

He was shaking.

 

His cunt throbbed and tightened as if trying to hold Sukuna’s fingers in place, like his body didn’t want to be empty again. His cocklet was so swollen it rubbed against the curve of Sukuna’s palm every time he thrust in, and the friction alone had him gushing again.

 

There was no calm left. No poise.

 

Only desperation.

 

Megumi sobbed around Sukuna’s cock, a raw, overwhelmed moan hitching in his throat—and that sound pushed Sukuna over the edge of restraint.

 

“Shit—fuck—you’re gonna make me come,” he growled, voice trembling. “You hear that? Gonna paint your fucking throat for how good you take me—fucking hell, you were made for this.”

 

And Megumi moaned again.

 

Crying. Shaking. Coming undone.

 

And deep in the haze of slick and overstimulation, one thought clawed to the surface through all the white noise screaming in Megumi’s skull:

 

He had meant to break Sukuna.

 

But right now—right now—he was the one being ruined.



Sukuna was trembling now.

 

His cock pulsed with every thrust, veins thick and twitching where it disappeared past Megumi’s lips. His thighs were locked, rigid with restraint he didn’t actually possess, breath pouring out of him in ragged bursts as he watched the mess unfolding beneath him.

 

Megumi was absolutely wrecked.

 

His face was soaked—mouth stretched wide and ringed with spit, drool clinging to his chin, his cheeks, pooling in the hollow of his collarbones. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed and wet, tears streaking freely now, and his throat convulsed around Sukuna’s cock every time it shoved deep again.

 

And still he moaned.

 

Those desperate, obscene little sounds muffled around the girth of him, swallowed down with spit and precum, as if he couldn’t help it. As if Sukuna’s cock was coaxing sound out of him the same way his fingers were coaxing slick.

 

Megumi’s hips were twitching. His cunt was gushing, thighs shaking and coated in a slick sheen of arousal that smeared Sukuna’s hand every time his fingers curled inside. The squelch of it was drowned only by the wet slap of Sukuna’s hips and the shameless moans echoing in the room.

 

Sukuna was staring, wild-eyed, flushed to the tips of his ears.

 

He looked insane.

 

And he loved it.

 

“Fuck—fuck, look at you,” he gasped, voice high and cracked. “You’re taking it so fucking good—god, you want this, huh? Want me to fill you up, make that filthy little mouth choke on it?”

 

Megumi groaned in response, eyes rolling back slightly, his tongue curling under Sukuna’s cock even now—inviting, begging without a word.

 

And that was it.

 

No warning. No mercy.

 

Sukuna snarled something broken and incoherent, one final snap of his hips driving him deep—and then he came.

 

Hard.

 

It punched out of him with a guttural moan, cock twitching violently between Megumi’s lips as hot, thick ropes of cum flooded his throat.

 

Megumi choked immediately—body flinching, jaw slackening as the sheer volume hit him—but Sukuna didn’t move.

 

He held him there, cock throbbing with every pulse of release, hand locked in Megumi’s hair as he panted like a man possessed.

 

And still it spilled.

 

Too much.

 

Far too much.

 

The first bubbles of it frothed at Megumi’s lips, slipping free around the corners of his mouth, trailing down his chin in fat, pearlescent streaks. His throat convulsed again, finally dragging a gasp of air between bursts of cum—only for more to spill past his lips, dripping onto his chest, his stomach, everywhere.

 

Sukuna looked down at him—unmoving.

 

Grinning.

 

Wide and wicked, his chest still heaving.

 

He dragged his cock out slow, wet and glistening with a line of spit and seed connecting them, and watched more of it spill from Megumi’s mouth.

 

It dripped—obscene and messy—onto his flushed skin, over the bruises and bitemarks Sukuna had left across his chest, catching on the sharp edges of his top scars like Sukuna’s come had decided to mark every part of him.

 

“Fucking beautiful,” Sukuna rasped, voice frayed, dizzy with pleasure. “God, look at that—look at what I did to you.”

 

Megumi was still catching his breath—his mouth hanging open, throat raw, lips glossy and trembling. His chest rose and fell in shallow, fast bursts, a flush crawling from his throat to his cheeks, and even now—wrecked, ruined, used—those blue eyes met Sukuna’s again.

 

And they dared.

 

Because Sukuna thought he’d conquered him.

 

But Megumi…

 

Megumi had let him.


Sukuna didn’t even breathe before he moved again.

 

Still flushed from release, cock glossy with spit and cum, he shoved himself up just enough to yank both their pants the rest of the way off. His movements were rough, almost careless—like he didn’t see the point in taking his time now that Megumi was open, gasping, dripping, and trembling beneath him.

 

Megumi’s thighs were slick where Sukuna’s hand gripped, dragging them back, folding him cruelly in half until his knees nearly touched his chest. His body was still shaking from being choked and filled, but Sukuna only grinned wider.

 

He leaned in—massive and wild—and his hand clamped down around Megumi’s throat.

 

Firm. Controlling.

 

Not enough to cut air—yet—but enough to own the moment.

 

“Still breathing, sweetheart?” he rasped, eyes gleaming, sweat dripping down his neck. “Good.”

 

Because he didn’t wait.

 

He shoved his cock in with no warning—no teasing, no prep beyond the stretch of his fingers from before.

 

And he was so much bigger.

 

The stretch was immediate, brutal—Megumi’s cunt clenched and recoiled, struggling to take the thick head before Sukuna forced more in, snarling above him, gripping his throat tighter as Megumi’s back arched off the couch.

 

A broken, guttural cry spilled from Megumi’s lips—raw, dragged from the base of his spine, too loud for the room but swallowed instantly by the music still pounding beyond the green room walls.

 

No one would hear him.

 

No one could save him.

 

And Sukuna loved it.

 

“Fuck, listen to you,” he groaned, hips driving deeper. “Crying just from the stretch—god, you’re so fucking tight. Can barely get it in.”

 

He sank another inch, watching Megumi shake, eyes screwed shut, lips parted in shock, his fingers clawing at the leather of the couch. Sukuna’s cock pulsed inside him, hot and full, splitting him open inch by aching inch.

 

And still, Sukuna didn’t let up.

 

“Little cock can’t handle it, huh?” he growled, gaze darting down between them. “Look at that pathetic thing twitching. Poor thing’s desperate and dripping, and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

 

His free hand moved to Megumi’s cocklet—barely two inches long, flushed and engorged, twitching helplessly in the slick between his folds.

 

Sukuna sneered. Cruel.

 

“This is your cock? Seriously?” he laughed, voice soaked in mockery. “No wonder you’re this easy. No wonder your cunt clenches every time I open my mouth.”

 

And it did.

 

He felt it—tightening around him, fluttering, pulsing like Megumi’s body agreed with the shame even if his mouth didn’t.

 

“Ohhh, you like that,” Sukuna hissed, grinning like the devil. “You like when I call you out. Say it. Say how easy you are. Say how desperate your little cock gets when I degrade you.”

 

Megumi bit his lip hard, eyes wet, throat flexing beneath Sukuna’s grip—and still, he was clenching.

 

Sukuna snapped his hips forward.

 

Megumi screamed.

 

The sound cracked open his lungs, his cunt giving way to the full, brutal stretch as Sukuna bottomed out in a single punishing thrust.

 

And then—just to twist the knife—Sukuna slapped at his cocklet.

 

A sharp, mean flick of his fingers that made the whole thing jerk and twitch, glistening where it drooled over Megumi’s cunt. Then he pinched it—two fingers pressing just hard enough to make Megumi sob.

 

“So sensitive,” Sukuna purred, tone mock-sweet. “So fucking sad. Look at it jump when I touch it. Doesn’t take much, huh? Just a little slap and this poor thing acts like it’s gonna cum.”

 

Megumi trembled beneath him, his breath catching, tears spilling over his lashes as he shook with the force of it—and Sukuna just kept fucking him.

 

Brutal. Deep. Unrelenting.

 

“You’re mine now,” Sukuna snarled, breath heavy against his cheek. “My pathetic, cockdrunk toy. So pretty—so fucking pretty when you cry like that.”

 

And the only answer was the sound of Megumi’s cunt gripping him tight, wet and shameless around his cock as he dragged another ruined moan from that open, trembling mouth.



The rhythm was savage. Flesh against flesh, wet and obscene. Sukuna was merciless above him—hips slamming into Megumi’s ass with thunderous precision, each thrust so deep it punched the air from his lungs. The stretch burned. His cunt throbbed, messy and raw, clinging to Sukuna's cock like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted him out or deeper.

 

And Sukuna—

He was eating it up.

 

Still gripping Megumi’s throat like a leash. Still spitting filth into the hot space between their mouths.

 

“This what you needed, huh? Someone to ruin you?” he growled, sweat dripping from his jaw, chest flexing with every brutal snap of his hips. “You were made for this. For me.”

 

It was meant to shame. To dominate.

 

But to Megumi, it was affirmation.

 

His hands—numb and trembling—clawed weakly at Sukuna’s biceps, as if to ground himself, as if the pain and pressure of being fucked open could keep him from slipping too far. But it was already happening.

 

The edges of his thoughts were starting to fray.

 

He’d come here with purpose. He had told himself—rehearsed it over and over—that he would take his time. Get close. Charm, seduce, then strike.

 

Sukuna was everything he’d been searching for. The shape of power, of violence, of masculinity stripped of all civility. Sukuna was pure.

 

And Megumi had wanted to capture that.

To immortalize it.

To make something final of a man too beautiful and monstrous to be real.

 

But now—

 

Now his god was on top of him.

Splitting him open.

Using him like a hole.

And moaning about how good he felt.

 

Megumi was crying again, but it wasn’t just from the stretch anymore. His mouth fell open, his jaw slack, his tears falling freely into the mess pooling on his chest.

 

He looked up at Sukuna, eyes wide and glassy, and for the first time, the words came unbidden.

 

“God…”

 

Sukuna grunted, hips stuttering at the sound, hand tightening slightly around Megumi’s throat.

 

“What was that?” he rasped, lips curling into a grin. “Did I break you already?”

 

But Megumi just sobbed out another moan.

 

“My god…” he breathed again. “You’re my god. I was right—so perfect—you’re perfect.”

 

Sukuna’s brow twitched, not in confusion, but pleasure.

 

Of course he was being worshipped.

Of course this mess of a boy was finally realizing the truth.

 

He thrust harder—meaner—his balls slapping against Megumi’s ass with every vicious slam of his hips. “Fuck yeah, I am,” he snarled. “Say it again.”

 

Megumi whined—helplessly, worshipfully—as his cunt spasmed around him.

 

“My god—fuck—you’re—You’re the only man. The only one. I—I wanted to—” His words broke into a gasp as Sukuna slammed in again, grinding deep and making his cocklet twitch from the inside out.

 

He was losing it.

 

He’d thought he could conquer Sukuna.

Outlast him.

Play the game, poison the well, and end him.

 

But nothing in all his planning had accounted for this.

For the feel of Sukuna inside him, splitting him, owning him.

 

For the way the pain turned sweet, and the degradation turned divine.

 

“You were never meant to be mortal,” Megumi panted, voice cracked and warbling as his brain scattered. “You’re not. You’re—"

 

Another thrust.

 

Another moan.

 

“—the form of man. The concept of power. Of control.”

 

Sukuna’s grin went wild.

 

He had no idea Megumi was unraveling. No idea that every fucked-out praise was laced with madness, that Megumi had come here to kill him—elevate him into some posthumous divinity—before Sukuna had taken the reins and shattered his resolve into pulp.

 

All he heard was devotion. Worship. Victory.

 

“That’s right,” Sukuna snarled, laughing low in his chest. “Say it again, you pretty little toy. Say it while I fuck you stupid.”

 

And Megumi—

 

He sobbed.

 

Because he was already there.

Already conquered.

The couch beneath them had gone damp—slick with sweat, spit, and slick, the cheap leather groaning beneath their bodies as Sukuna drove into Megumi again and again, the force of each thrust rocking the entire frame.

 

Sukuna’s cock was soaked now, every inch coated in the slippery mess of Megumi’s cunt, a ring of glistening fluid gathering at the base with every brutal withdrawal. The stretch was obscene, the way Megumi’s body swallowed him up so wetly, so tight, clenching without rhythm or control—just desperate, involuntary spasms as his body tried and failed to keep up.

 

The sound of it was deafening between them: the wet slap of skin, the squelch of every thrust, the faint pat pat of Megumi’s cocklet tapping against his own pelvis as Sukuna thrust so deep it nudged every nerve inside him raw.

 

“Fuck—listen to that,” Sukuna panted, eyes wild, sweat streaming down his temple as his pace stuttered. “That’s your cunt, baby. That’s how wet you are for me. Soaked like a bitch in heat.”

 

Megumi cried out, legs trembling in Sukuna’s grip, toes curling as his hands scrabbled uselessly at the couch cushion. Every word struck something in him, and it only made his cunt squeeze tighter around Sukuna’s cock—milking it like it wanted to keep him.

 

Sukuna felt it.

 

“Don’t fucking clench like that unless you want me to come in you,” he growled, dragging his cock out slow—watching Megumi’s cunt stretch around it, pink and messy and glistening—and then slamming it back in so hard it knocked the air out of both of them.

 

Megumi sobbed.

 

His cocklet—barely two inches of swollen, aching flesh—twitched where it was pinned between them, leaking weak spurts of clear fluid that smeared wetly across Sukuna’s stomach.

 

Sukuna looked down at it, snarling with amusement. “Look at that. Pathetic little thing. Crying like the rest of you. Leaking like it’s got something to say.”

 

He slapped it again—quick and cruel, two fingers flicking it like an afterthought—and Megumi jerked beneath him, a broken moan caught in his throat, spit dribbling down his cheek.

 

The slick noises grew louder, wetter, worse, every movement squelching between Megumi’s thighs as Sukuna fucked him into the ruined cushions. Fluid was everywhere now—slick running down his ass, dripping onto the floor in thick, shining trails, gluing their skin together at the hips.

 

Sukuna’s breathing got heavier.

 

Ragged.

 

Unhinged.

 

His cock was twitching inside Megumi with every thrust now, sliding in so deep that his pelvis pressed flat to Megumi’s ass, the stretch hitting deeper than his fingers ever had. Megumi’s cunt squeezed tight and wouldn’t let go, like it had molded to him, like it was dragging him to the edge alongside the boy who had once planned to end him.

 

And now—

 

Now Megumi couldn’t think.

 

His mind had gone white with sensation, his body just a vessel for Sukuna’s pace, Sukuna’s voice, Sukuna’s cock, dragging ruin from every nerve ending. His mouth hung open, tears streaking down flushed cheeks, throat raw from sobbing—but still, the words came:

 

“My god—fuck—Sukuna, my god—please—”

 

And Sukuna—grinning, flushed, soaked with sweat and soaked in worship—just kept going.

 

He was going to break Megumi open and fill the cracks with himself.



Sukuna’s grip tightened around the small of Megumi’s back, palm splayed wide, fingers digging into sweat-slick skin as he pulled the trembling boy flush against him. The shift in position was fluid and cruel—seamless in its force. Sukuna dropped back onto the couch, thighs wide, spine arched just enough to keep Megumi open, legs draped over his, cunt still stretched wide around the thick weight of Sukuna’s cock.

 

Megumi landed on him hard—deep—and the sound that broke from his throat was wrecked.

 

A sob. A moan. A sound scraped from somewhere between agony and worship.

 

Sukuna groaned in return, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, the friction grinding into places Megumi didn’t even know were sensitive. One arm was still locked around his waist, holding him in place like he belonged there, while the other snaked up his back to grip the nape of his neck.

 

“You feel that?” Sukuna rasped, voice rough with exertion and ego. “Feel how deep I am?”

 

He rocked upward, hard, and Megumi jerked with it, a gasp ripped from his lungs as his arms curled instinctively around Sukuna’s shoulders—half for balance, half for mercy.

 

But Sukuna didn’t give mercy.

 

His eyes dropped down, ravenous, watching the way Megumi’s stomach twitched beneath the strain. He could see the way his entire body was reacting—tight, drawn in, every breath a trembling mess.

 

“You’re stretched around me so good,” Sukuna murmured, almost admiring, his voice thick with filth. “I can feel everything. Every fucking flutter. You’re holding me like your life depends on it.”

 

Megumi let out a soft cry, more air than sound, his hips twitching with every shift of Sukuna’s. His cunt was sore, flushed, aching from how deep he was being split, the constant friction dragging every shattered nerve raw.

 

But worse—what made it lethal—was the way it felt.

 

The pleasure was unstoppable.

 

Relentless.

 

Sukuna was in him, not just physically, but in every twitch of his mind. Every breath, every muscle clench, every sobbed moan that slipped from his lips—Sukuna was inside all of it.

 

And he couldn’t get away.

 

Didn’t want to.

 

He was coming undone in the arms of the very thing he’d come to destroy.


“You came here all cocky, all mysterious—thinking you could handle me,” Sukuna went on, voice thick with satisfaction as he stared up at Megumi’s ruined face. “But look at you now. You’re shaking. You’re soaked. You’re clenching around me like your body’s afraid I’ll leave.”

 

His hand dropped again, fingers trailing between Megumi’s thighs—wet and warm and obscene—before he flicked his cocklet again, swollen and flushed against the mess of his folds.

 

“Even this sad little thing can’t lie,” Sukuna sneered. “Look at it. So stiff. So pathetic. You’re leaking like you’re grateful.”

 

Megumi gasped, the slap of Sukuna’s fingers making his hips twitch involuntarily.

 

The wet sound of their bodies was overwhelming now—sticky, messy, loud. Sukuna’s cock dragged out of him only to plunge back in with a slap that echoed off the walls, punctuated by the ragged breaths and half-broken moans spilling from Megumi’s parted lips.

 

Tears streaked down his cheeks now in earnest. The stretch. The pressure. The relentless, impossible pleasure. His body had stopped fighting.

 

And his mind—

 

His mind was slipping.

 

“I wanted to kill you,” he confessed in a shattered whisper, the words bubbling from somewhere deep and spiraling. “I thought I was strong enough. I thought I could outlast you. Break you. But…”

 

His head tipped forward, lips dragging against the curve of Sukuna’s throat.

 

“You’re everything,” he breathed. “You’re too much. I couldn’t stop you even if I wanted to.”

 

Sukuna chuckled low in his chest, breath hot and pleased.

 

He didn’t understand. Not fully.

 

But he liked the sound of it.

 

Liked the worship.


“Say it again,” Sukuna demanded, fucking up into him harder now, voice brutal. “Tell me what I am to you.”

 

Megumi choked on his breath, his mouth open, words spilling without thought.

 

“My god.”

 

Another thrust.

 

“Y-you’re—the only one—”

 

Another grind, deeper than before.

 

“I c-can’t—can’t even—think—”

 

And Sukuna just laughed, his voice low, victorious, and laced with hunger.

 

“Good,” he hissed, one hand trailing down to smear slick from between Megumi’s thighs over his own fingers. “Then you’ll remember this every time you try to think again.”



Sukuna’s grip shifted, just barely, when something caught the low, red-tinted light from the corner of his eye. A glint of metal. Chrome, dulled at the edge by smudges and sweat.

 

He didn’t slow his thrusts—if anything, the discovery seemed to push him harder, his cock slamming into Megumi’s cunt with a lewd, wet slap, each movement deep and thick and cruel.

 

But his eyes—

 

His eyes were locked on the hilt of a knife, half-tucked in the crumpled pocket of Megumi’s discarded jeans, draped messily over the arm of the couch like an afterthought.

 

Like a forgotten plan.

 

Or a failed one.

 

Sukuna let out a short, breathless laugh. Not shocked. Not angry.

 

Amused.


Sukuna saw it instantly.

 

And he grinned.

 

He reached back without stopping, fingers snatching the blade from the pants.


The knife glinted in Sukuna’s hand like it belonged there. As if it was just another extension of him—sharp, confident, devastating. The same way his cock split Megumi open, dragging sob after sob from his throat, the blade now kissed his skin: cold and deliberate, tracing along the curve of his cheek with a reverent mockery that made Megumi shudder.

 

“Brought this for me, huh?” Sukuna rasped, voice a low growl near his ear as he rocked his hips upward, slow and punishing. “You wanted to fuck me and stab me in the same breath?”

 

Megumi shook his head—or tried to. But Sukuna’s fingers were already buried in his hair again, holding him still. The knife slipped lower, trailing along the column of his neck, the edge just barely grazing the thin skin there. Enough to make his pulse hammer. Enough to make his breath hitch.

 

His cunt clenched hard around Sukuna’s cock as he cried out—half from fear, half from the way it all burned together, nerves fried and raw.

 

“F-Fuck—” Megumi gasped, head falling back, “I didn’t—It wasn’t—it wasn’t supposed to—*ah—*like this—”

 

“Oh no, don’t stop now,” Sukuna purred against his jaw, voice sticky with amusement, his next thrust deep and merciless. “Say what you meant.”

 

He dragged the flat of the blade down Megumi’s chest, slow, slipping over the flush of sweat and bruises, tracing the soft slope between the raised lines of his top surgery scars. It hovered there—just long enough to make Megumi's breath catch in his throat, just long enough to make his cocklet twitch where it was trapped between them, sticky and flushed, drooling pathetically against Sukuna’s abdomen.

 

“I—I came to—” Megumi’s voice cracked. Sukuna was still moving inside him, rolling his hips up with a rhythm that wasn’t fast, but deep—devastating. “I was gonna—preserve you—immortalize—”

 

Sukuna’s laugh was low and violent, hips snapping up again to pull a sob from Megumi’s throat.

 

“Immortalize me?” he repeated, licking the corner of Megumi’s mouth. “You were gonna be the artist and I’d be your masterpiece? That it?”

 

Megumi whimpered, tears clinging to his lashes, hands shaking where they grasped at Sukuna’s shoulders—nails biting into skin.

 

“I d-didn’t know—” he breathed. “Didn’t know I’d feel this—f-feel everything—” His voice was ragged, breaking under each thrust. “You’re… you’re strong—so strong—I thought I could take you, thought I could end it, but—” He moaned, high and breathless as Sukuna hit something sharp inside him, his whole body twitching.

 

“You can’t be touched,” Megumi choked. “You’re untouchable. You’re what a man should be—what I should be—and it—it hurts—fuck—hurts how much I love it—how much I love you—”

 

Sukuna groaned, and the sound was almost reverent.

 

The knife slid lower, cool against Megumi’s belly, circling around his navel, then resting just below—right above where they were connected. Sukuna didn’t press, but he threatened to.

 

“Do you feel it now?” Sukuna asked, voice lower than ever, words grinding into Megumi’s skin as much as the blade. “Your god inside you?”

 

Megumi nodded—helplessly, endlessly—eyes rolling back for a beat, lips parted around a breathless moan.

 

“I c-can’t—can’t hold it—” he whined.

 

Sukuna moved his hand.

 

Dragged the flat of the blade down to Megumi’s thigh, where bruises bloomed from his earlier grip.

 

Then—flicked.

 

The tip of the knife bit into his skin just enough to leave a shallow, stinging line—not deep, but enough to make Megumi cry out, cunt clenching tight in a gush of heat.

 

“See?” Sukuna crooned, licking up his throat, cock grinding into the slick that poured down his length. “You worship me with every inch of your body. Even when you bleed for me.”

 

Megumi could only sob and nod again, trembling.

 

“Shhh,” Sukuna purred, wrapping his arms tighter around Megumi’s waist, pinning him in place as he thrust up again—hard enough to jolt his entire body. “You’re not weak. You’re not less.”

 

He shifted the knife, now held at the nape of Megumi’s neck, pressing the flat edge there like a brand as he leaned into his ear.

 

“You are the perfect man,” he growled.

 

His next thrust made Megumi scream, cunt squeezing so tight Sukuna shuddered against him.

 

“Because God says so.”

 

He bit his earlobe.

 

“I say so.”



Sukuna never stopped.

 

The rhythm of his hips stayed relentless, brutal, dragging his cock through Megumi’s overstretched cunt with the same savage precision that had broken him open again and again. His body was soaked—slick with sweat and slick and tears, his muscles shaking not from exhaustion, but from want.

 

Megumi was gushing.

 

Again. And again. Sukuna had long lost track of how many times the boy had come—each time his cunt convulsed, coating Sukuna’s thighs with another fresh wave of slick, his cock barely able to move with how tight he was gripping him.

 

And still, Megumi moaned.

 

Still, he clung.

 

His voice had degraded into hoarse babbling, stuttering broken words between sobs and breathless pleas, none of it coherent except for the repetition—over and over again—of Sukuna’s name.

 

“—my god—Sukuna—please—’s too much—perfect, perfect, perfect—”

 

Sukuna leaned back just enough to look at him, and what he saw made his cock twitch deep inside that wrecked little body.

 

Megumi’s mouth hung open, tears streaking down his face, lips red and bitten. His eyes were half-lidded, glossy with something beyond sense. Gone. His hands trembled where they clung to Sukuna’s shoulders, like the only thing tethering him to earth was the god between his legs.

 

And that delighted Sukuna.

 

He grinned, breath ragged and teeth bared, sweat dripping from his jaw as he dragged the flat of the knife along Megumi’s chest again—slower this time. The tip traced between his nipples, down the center of his sternum, over the bruises and bite marks Sukuna had already left.

 

He didn't ask permission.

 

He pressed in.

 

Not deep. Just enough to split skin—shallow red lines following his cock’s rhythm, the cuts blooming as Megumi twitched, his thighs jerking in Sukuna’s grip.

 

“Fucked you stupid, haven’t I?” Sukuna panted, voice slick with glee. “You don’t even know how many times you’ve come, do you?”

 

Megumi sobbed through another orgasm, cunt fluttering wildly around him, slick dripping down to the couch and onto the floor.

 

“Gonna ruin this couch,” Sukuna snarled, eyes wild. “Ruined you. You were gonna kill me and look at you now. Crying, squirting, begging like a fuckin’ altar boy.”

 

He thrust up again, sharp, watching the way Megumi arched, watching the shimmer between his thighs.

 

“Fuck,” he hissed. “That’s it—again. Again. Gush all over my cock, pretty boy. That’s what you were made for, isn’t it?”

 

The knife dragged over Megumi’s thigh now, slow, painting slick smears where blood had already risen in faint pink stripes. Not maiming. Not meant to destroy. Just claim. Just to mark him again and again with the same reverence Megumi had tried to give him.

 

“You understand now, don’t you?” Sukuna growled, voice lower, darker, more intimate than ever. His hand tightened in Megumi’s hair, yanking his head back so their eyes locked. “What I am. What I do.”

 

Megumi’s breath hitched.

 

“Y-yes…” he whispered. “You’re everything. You’re all of it—I-I can’t—can’t be anything else—”

 

“You don’t need to be,” Sukuna cut in, grinning against his cheek. “You’re perfect now. You’re mine now.”

 

Another sharp thrust. Another squirt. Another desperate cry.

 

“I’m keeping you,” Sukuna growled, licking a stripe over the side of Megumi’s throat. “You hear me? You’re mine. I’ll keep you like this. My little shrine. My pet. You’re the perfect man, baby boy.”

 

His voice dipped lower, hot and final as his cock split him again, throbbing with power and ownership.

 

“Because God says so.”

 

A cruel smile stretched across his lips as Megumi choked on a sob.


Sukuna’s eyes were wild—glass-bright and ravenous—as he pressed the blade to his own palm and drew it across the skin in one slow, sure line. Blood welled immediately, dark and viscous, spilling over his lifeline and down the side of his hand.

 

Megumi’s gaze locked on it, eyes going wide, lips parted around a breathless moan that wasn’t even trying to hide the hunger behind it.

 

“Go on,” Sukuna rasped, holding his palm forward, letting the blood drip—thick and heavy—onto Megumi’s trembling mouth. “Drink.”

 

And he did.

 

Megumi lunged for it, lips closing around the edge of Sukuna’s palm with a need that bordered on starvation. His hands clutched at Sukuna’s wrist, small fingers wrapping tight like he could anchor himself to that bleeding hand alone. He drank greedily, tongue dragging over the cut, lips sucking, swallowing everything that spilled from his god.

 

Sukuna groaned, head tipping back against the couch, the sight of it—Megumi lapping at him like a starving, devoted thing—enough to make his cock twitch violently inside the boy’s ruined cunt.

 

“Fuck, that’s it—good boy,” he growled, hips starting to move again, grinding up into Megumi with a sharp, unrelenting rhythm. “Look at you. Drinking from me like I’m your altar. Filthy little angel.”

 

Megumi whimpered around the hand he clutched, still licking, still suckling like every drop mattered—like it was holy. And all the while, Sukuna pistoned into him, each thrust driving slick, ruined sounds from where their bodies met.

 

He adjusted his grip, dropping back into the couch more fully, letting his thighs spread wider, letting gravity drag Megumi down with every thrust. His free hand still held the knife—sticky now with blood and sweat—and he dragged the flat edge reverently along Megumi’s chest.

 

“See these?” Sukuna murmured, pressing the blade lightly over one of Megumi’s top scars, tracing it like scripture. “You’re already perfect. Already shaped yourself for me. Like you knew—knew you were mine from the start.”

 

Megumi gasped, hips rolling down with each slow, deep thrust, cunt clenching like his body was trying to hold Sukuna in forever.

 

“My angel boy,” Sukuna purred, dragging the blade to the other scar now, following the line with wet, heated reverence. “You were made for this. For me.”

 

He bit at Megumi’s throat again, tongue lapping at sweat as he grinned against his skin.

 

“You knew I was your god before you ever laid eyes on me.”

 

The words rolled from his lips, giddy and cruel.

 

“And I see you now.”

 

He gave a particularly vicious thrust—deep, punishing—and Megumi cried out, head lolling back, the last of Sukuna’s blood smeared across his lips like a kiss.

 

Sukuna laughed lowly, voice thick with pride as he looked at the wrecked boy in his lap—flushed and slick and shaking, barely holding onto coherence.

 

“You had such a mouth on you earlier,” he said, grinning wide. “So smug. Thought you had me figured out.”

 

Megumi’s chest heaved, tears still streaking his cheeks, but his eyes—his eyes were clearer now, not from peace, but from surrender. He had fought so hard. Planned so carefully. But Sukuna had peeled it all away.

 

And now, he saw him.

 

Not just as a man. Not just as a killer. Not just as a god.

 

As the truth.

 

“Will you tell me your name now?” Sukuna asked, voice quiet but taunting.

 

There was a long pause, broken only by the steady slap-slick of their bodies, the knife tracing delicate patterns over Megumi’s trembling chest.

 

Then Megumi swallowed, voice barely audible.

 

“…Megumi.”

 

Sukuna stilled.

 

Just for a second.

 

Then he smiled.

 

Slow. Sharp. Triumphant.

 

“Megumi,” he repeated, letting the name roll over his tongue like a secret made flesh. “Pretty name. Doesn’t suit how filthy you are like this… but I’ll make it mean something.”

 

He licked his lips, blood still drying on his hand, cock still buried deep in the boy who had once tried to destroy him.

 

“Mine now,” Sukuna said, curling his arm tighter around Megumi’s back, dragging him down onto every thrust. “My Megumi.”

 

And Megumi—sobbing, soaked, and broken wide open—could only nod, drinking from his god like a disciple, and clinging to the only truth left:

 

He had never stood a chance.



Sukuna’s pace was wild now—dangerous, even—his hips crashing up into Megumi’s cunt like a storm, like a beast finally unleashed. Every thrust sounded thick, wet, final. The air between them was humid with sweat and sex, loud with the obscene slap of skin and the slick squelch of their bodies slamming together. Megumi was sobbing into Sukuna’s mouth now—breathless and clinging—babbling prayers and apologies, reverence and need all tangled up in every broken exhale.

 

But Sukuna couldn’t stop thinking about the name.

 

Megumi.

 

A whisper on bruised lips. A surrender. A gift.

 

It echoed in Sukuna’s ears like a divine joke—one the world didn’t realize it had made. A name that meant blessing.

 

And it was.

 

Sukuna laughed through his teeth, breath stuttering as he rocked deeper, burying himself fully, completely—feeling the way Megumi’s cunt clenched around him like it couldn’t survive without the pressure.

 

“You know what your name means?” he snarled, grinning down at him, blood and spit streaked over both their chins. “Blessing.”

 

He bit Megumi’s jaw, hard enough to make the boy flinch, before he groaned and thrust up again, cock twitching from how tight the boy stayed, even after being fucked to pieces.

 

“Megumi,” he moaned again, the name tasting sweet on his tongue now. “A blessing. My little blessing sent to worship me. You came here to kill me—and instead, you found your god.”

 

His voice dropped lower, almost in awe, his grin twitching wide at the corners.

 

“Would’ve been beautiful, you know. A man like me—perfect—getting taken out in a blaze. Cut down by some righteous little weapon.”

 

He thrust again—hard, obscene—watching Megumi’s back arch, cunt fluttering around him like it was grateful.

 

“But no,” Sukuna murmured, eyes dark. “Instead… a blessing found me. And you begged to stay.”

 

He groaned, hips snapping faster now, sweat running down his chest, his voice shaking with pleasure. “A blessing on his knees, licking blood from my hand, letting me use him like a hole—and all the while praying for more.”

 

The way Megumi looked at him—eyes wide, glassy, mouth open, lips trembling—undid Sukuna.

 

He wrapped a blood-slick hand into Megumi’s hair, jerking his head back, so they were eye to eye when he came.

 

“Mine,” Sukuna breathed, body locking beneath him, voice cracking as the first pulse of his orgasm slammed through him. “My blessing.”

 

He came hard, cock twitching violently as thick, molten ropes of cum spilled inside Megumi’s cunt—pulse after pulse, so much, hot and obscene. It leaked back around his cock with each thrust, dripping down the backs of Megumi’s thighs, onto the couch, the floor. The mess of it was devastating—claiming, branding.

 

Sukuna didn’t stop. He kept fucking into the overflow, grinding deeper through the spasms of his release, until his whole body shook, thighs locked, moaning against Megumi’s mouth.

 

“You hear me?” he panted, voice shaking as he thrust the last of himself into Megumi’s stretched, soaked body. “You’re the perfect man. Because God says so.”

 

His mouth pressed hot and wild against Megumi’s lips, grinning between kisses.

 

“Because I say so.”

 

And as the aftershocks rolled through them—Megumi limp, overflowing, and held tight in the lap of the monster he came to destroy—Sukuna kissed him like benediction.

 

His blessing.

 

Notes:

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