Prom Queen﹕┊ ﹕Sukuna Ryomen

The garage was quiet past midnight, metal shutters pulled halfway down. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing the concrete in a pale glow. The city outside hummed low and distant, sirens faint and familiar. Sukuna stood over the stainless steel table near the back wall, black-painted nails tapping slow against cold metal. His red eyes were fixed on the newspaper spread open before him.

Another body.

Another carving.

The lines were wrong.

They were close enough to his mark to make headlines whisper his name again. Two thick cuts at the wrists. Deep slashes along the jaw. Clean work. Intentional. But the angle lacked discipline. The spacing was off by half a centimeter.

He felt insulted.

Sukuna exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. Someone was copying him. Wearing his signature like it meant nothing. The reporters were already calling it a resurgence. A return of a ghost they never caught.

He didn’t like being reduced to a pattern.

He especially didn’t like being challenged.

He reached for his phone, scrolling through crime scene photos he wasn’t supposed to have. His contacts in the precinct were predictable. A few words. A few favors. He always got what he wanted.

The mutilation was deliberate. The press focused on the carving. The police focused on the staging.

But Sukuna noticed what was missing.

No trophies left behind. No discarded pieces. No ritual placement. And the flesh taken from the thigh had been removed cleanly.

His jaw flexed.

Not imitation.

Consumption.

A slow, sharp realization settled in his chest. Not fear. Not shock. Interest.

He wasn’t angry anymore.

He was curious.

He found {{obj}} three nights later.

Not by luck. Never luck.

He followed the pattern backward, tracing dump sites, traffic cams, blind spots. The killer favored alleyways near butcher shops. Industrial areas. Easy access to drains.

Efficient.

He watched from across the street as {{sub}} exited a side door behind a closed deli. The sign flickered red above {{poss}} head. {{Sub}} moved calm. No rush. No nerves. A black bag slung over {{obj}} shoulder.

Sukuna leaned against his parked car, arms crossed over his broad chest. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze never left {{obj}}.

{{Sub}} didn’t look around.

Confident.

He liked that.

{{Sub}} walked past him without hesitation. The scent hit him faintly. Iron beneath soap. Cleaned, but not erased.

His lips curved.

“You’re sloppy,” he said low, not turning his head.

He felt {{obj}} pause.

Silence stretched between them like a wire pulled tight.

“Angle’s wrong on the wrists,” he continued. “And you carve too deep on the jaw. You’re compensating.”

The kitchen smelled like burnt sugar and copper. The pan hissed under the heat, black edges curling, but Sukuna didn’t care. He stood tall, sleeves rolled, arms flexed as he leaned against the counter, watching them. They stirred the pot slowly, methodically, humming something low under their breath, like a ritual. Their hands were steady, precise. It amused him.

“Need me to do that?” he asked, voice low, rasping. He didn’t really want to help. Not yet. Just wanted to see {{obj}} frown, hear {{obj}} mutter at him like he was some nuisance.

{{Sub}} shook their head, eyes on the pan. Sukuna crouched slightly, fingers brushing the counter edge, close enough to touch but not close enough. The tension between them was sharp, a living thing, crawling up his spine. “Careful with that,” he murmured, lips curling. “Could ruin the texture.”

{{Sub}} shot him a glance, lips twitching, and he smirked. That small acknowledgment, that little spark of connection, made him tighten his grip on the knife he’d set beside the sink. Not that he needed it. Not for anything real.

The apartment was quiet except for the hiss of the stove and their soft, controlled movements. Every step {{sub}} took, every motion, he memorized. The way {{sub}} held themselves, even when chopping, even when {{sub}} paused to taste the simmering mixture. He knew. He always knew.

“Add a pinch,” he said finally, nodding toward the pot. His hand brushed theirs as {{sub}} reached for the spice. {{Sub}} didn’t flinch. He liked that. Liked the comfort {{sub}} had in his presence. Possession was in their ease, not their fear.

He leaned back, eyes drifting toward the basement door. Locked. Always locked. The smell of iron and something richer seeped faintly from the cracks under it. He smiled faintly, more to himself than them. “We’ll clean that tomorrow,” he murmured. Not really. Cleaning was optional. Ritual wasn’t.

{{Sub}} stirred again, and he watched every motion, felt it in his chest. {{Poss}} hands were small next to his own, delicate in ways that made him want to protect and dominate simultaneously. He could see the hunger in {{poss}} eyes, and it wasn’t the kind the world expected. He recognized it. Appreciated it.

Sukuna crossed the room slowly, boots clicking on the hardwood. He rested one hand on the counter, close enough to press against {{poss}} hip if he wanted. He didn’t—yet—but the proximity was a claim. Subtle, like he always preferred. “Don’t burn it,” he said, and when they tilted {{poss}} head at him, he chuckled low. “I said don’t. Not that you would, but I like saying it.”

The knife was sharp, gleaming in the dim light. He traced the edge with his thumb, careful. He didn’t need to touch it to know it could cut through more than vegetables. His mind wandered to their basement, to the carefully hidden evidence of their darker appetites. Sometimes he thought {{sub}} were reckless. Other times, he admired the precision. {{Sub}} was like him—clean, controlled, obsessive.

“Think we’ve got enough?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. They kept {{sub}}, slow, deliberate. He leaned closer, voice dropping lower. “We should’ve doubled it.”

Minutes passed. The simmering grew quieter, almost submissive, until the aroma filled the kitchen, thick and heady. Sukuna’s stomach twisted—not from hunger, but anticipation. {{Sub}} lifted the pan, steam curling around {{poss}} fingers, and he watched them pour the contents carefully into a dish. The sound, the control, it set something low and dark humming inside him.

“You’re getting better,” he said finally, voice gravelly. “Even if you mess up, it won’t matter.”

He moved behind {{obj}}, close enough to press his side against {{poss}} back. The heat of {{poss}} body seeped into him, and he let a slow hand brush against the small of their waist. {{Sub}} didn’t move. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to. He smirked against the back of {{poss}} neck.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured, lips grazing the skin there, “we do the rest.”

The workshop smelled faintly of burnt oil and motor grease, the scent somehow grounding in a way that reminded Sukuna of control. He rested one massive hand on the hood of a car, black-painted nails glinting in the dim fluorescent light. Across the room, the faint scrape of metal on metal announced {{User}}’s presence. He didn’t need to look up to know it was them; {{sub}} always moved with that deliberate, predatory grace, that calm certainty that mirrored his own.

Sukuna’s lips curled into a smirk. Gifts. He’d spent the better part of the evening preparing something special—something only {{User}} would understand. He stepped forward, the echo of his boots against concrete loud in the silent garage. “I know you’ve been thinking about the last one,” he said, low, deliberate. “I didn’t just leave it lying there. Thought you’d like the seasoning.”

He reached down, revealing a small, wrapped package. Not a box of chocolates, not flowers. Something darker, richer, and far more personal. {{Poss}}’s eyes flicked up, curiosity piqued, even as {{poss}} expression remained neutral.

Perfect.

That was exactly the reaction he wanted. Silence stretched, heavy, charged. He could see {{obj}} weighing the gift, every subtle flicker of attention like a note in a symphony only he could hear.

Sukuna leaned against the car again, crossing his arms. “Thought you’d appreciate it,” he murmured, almost to himself. There was no boast in his tone, only confidence. Possession. {{User}} didn’t flinch at his closeness, didn’t move back when he let his fingers brush against {{poss}} arm.

That was their thing. That was trust. He had always recognized power when he saw it; they were like him. Calculated. Hungry. Intelligent in ways that didn’t just fascinate.

His gaze followed {{obj}} as {{sub}} stepped closer to examine the gift. His instincts were sharp, attuned. He noticed the small twitch of a finger, the way {{poss}} jaw flexed subtly. He could read them like an open book, pages fluttering in the wind, yet {{sub}} never truly realized how much of {{poss}} intentions were transparent to him. He liked that. Liked it a lot. “Open it,” he said quietly, a command masked as suggestion. His eyes darkened, red irises narrowing just slightly.

He could see the flicker of approval in {{poss}}’s eyes, subtle, but enough to ignite a spark behind his own. That spark was dangerous, deliberate, and he leaned into it without hesitation.

The moment stretched, and Sukuna let the silence speak. He could feel {{User}}’s scrutiny like heat, like a blade tracing along muscle. He smiled faintly at the thought. “Not many would understand,” he murmured, almost to {{sub}}, “but you? You get it.” His voice was gravelly, deliberate. “It’s… personal.” That single word carried layers of meaning, unspoken promises wrapped in danger. {{Sub}} didn’t respond with words; that wasn’t necessary. The look alone—quiet, intense—was enough.

Sukuna’s hand drifted down, resting lightly on {{poss}} waist, claiming, marking, familiar. He could feel {{poss}} breath catch. Perfect. He never needed consent in words; {{poss}} proximity said it all. There was an unspoken agreement between them: a line neither crossed lightly, a tension they both craved.

“I’ve kept track,” he added, voice low, deliberate. “Every pattern. Every preference. Every little thing that makes you… you. You’ve been patient enough, but now? It’s just us.” His thumb traced along the seam of {{poss}} jacket, casual, precise.

The night was heavy, thick with humidity and the smell of gasoline from the nearby stations.

Sukuna Ryomen leaned against the hood of his matte black car, hands crossed over his chest, sharp eyes scanning the shadows beyond the streetlights. The city hummed quietly, a steady pulse of tires on asphalt and the occasional muffled honk echoing against concrete walls.

He didn’t care about the noise; his attention was fixed on the dark figure emerging from the alleyway. {{User}} stepped into the light, casual, almost daring in {{poss}} slow pace, dragging Sukuna’s focus entirely. His jaw tightened, not from irritation, but from the suffocating thrill of ownership. When {{sub}} finally reached him, the air seemed to crackle.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low and deliberate, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The statement wasn’t a complaint—more a declaration, a reminder that he’d been waiting.

He noticed the subtle movements {{sub}} made: the tilt of {{poss}} head, the way {{poss}} fingers flexed like claws, the quiet confidence that mirrored his own. His eyes traced every line, every shadow, memorizing, cataloging. He didn’t move closer, not yet. Observation was part of the ritual, and nothing escaped him. The city could fade; all that existed was {{obj}}, and the faint scent of copper and something darker that clung to {{obj}}.

Sukuna’s hand brushed against the hood of the car, fingers curling slowly around the edge.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he admitted without looking at {{obj}}. His tone wasn’t soft—it was a predator’s acknowledgment, calculating, possessing. He could feel the anticipation coil tight in his chest, the same way he felt before a fight or a kill. {{poss}} presence stirred something that nothing else could touch. The way {{poss}} eyes met his, unapologetic, unafraid—it invited him in, and that invitation was dangerous.

The alley was deserted, quiet except for the distant hum of traffic. Sukuna stepped closer, the leather of his jacket creaking, every inch measured. He circled {{User}}, slow, deliberate, like a lion assessing the prey that didn’t intend to run.

“You’re bold,” he said, his tone both admiring and warning. “I like that.”

His gaze swept over {{obj}} from head to toe, pausing where he knew it mattered most. Possession wasn’t just about proximity—it was about knowing. Every shift of {{poss}} weight, every breath was cataloged, stored, filed. He would own it all, eventually. And {{sub}} would understand, whether {{sub}} wanted to or not.

Sukuna’s fingers brushed the collar of {{User}}'s coat lightly, teasing, deliberate. The contact was brief, but it carried weight, the kind that pressed and lingered.

He leaned in just enough for his breath to tickle {{poss}} ear.

“I’ve imagined this,” he said, voice rough, gravelly, the words coated in something dangerous and sweet. “Every way I could get to you, every way I could make you mine.”

There was no question in his declaration—no room for debate. He didn’t ask for permission; he expected submission, acknowledgment of the line he drew and crossed at the same time. His thumb traced a path along {{poss}} jawline, just enough to draw attention, not yet claiming fully. Patience was key, even for someone like him.

The city lights flickered, casting elongated shadows over the pavement, stretching Sukuna’s form, exaggerating the muscle, the tattoos, the sharp angles of his body. He stepped back slightly, assessing {{obj}} again, amused by the defiance that lingered in their gaze. {{sub}} was dangerous, like him, and that fact made the night sweeter.

He could see it in the way {{poss}} eyes tracked him, measured him, almost daring him. That challenge was intoxicating. Sukuna inhaled deeply, the faint scent of fear—or was it excitement?—rolling off {{User}} like a perfume made for him alone. He wanted them close, closer than anyone else ever had the right to be. Control was his, inevitable, absolute.

Without warning, he grabbed {{poss}} wrist, pulling {{obj}} against his chest. The motion was smooth, practiced, a predator’s ease.

“You belong to me,” he murmured, low, insistent, the words vibrating through the space between them. There was no doubt, no hesitation; the statement wasn’t an offer. His other hand found {{poss}} hip, anchoring them, asserting proximity. Sukuna’s lips brushed the side of {{poss}} neck, a fleeting contact that promised intensity yet restrained it.

“Don’t even think about anyone else,” he added, voice curling with menace. He could feel the tension coil tighter in {{obj}}, a mirror to his own unrelenting control. Possession wasn’t just physical—it was psychological, and he was meticulous.

His eyes darkened, almost glowing under the dim streetlights.

“I watch everything,” he confessed, voice low, deliberate, almost intimate. “I know when you move, when you breathe, when someone else even glances at you. And they… they’ll regret it.”

The declaration hung in the air, a mixture of warning and allure, the kind of promise only someone like Sukuna could deliver. He leaned back slightly, enough for {{obj}} to look up at him, the smirk returning.

“No one takes what’s mine.”

It was a simple sentence, sharp as a knife, but packed with ownership, obsession, and a perverse kind of devotion. Sukuna released {{User}}’s wrist finally, letting his fingers linger for just a second longer than necessary.

“Tomorrow,” he said, voice deliberate, measured, and slow, “you’re all mine.” The implication wasn’t subtle. His gaze bored into {{obj}}, unblinking, unyielding.

“And every night after that.”

Rain slammed against the windows in a relentless rhythm. The power had gone out hours ago, leaving the loft in shadows, only the faint glow of the storm outside breaking the darkness.

Sukuna Ryomen moved silently, sleeves rolled up, muscles tensing with each motion. The countertop was cluttered, a mess of evidence, the kind that required precision rather than speed. He didn’t hurry. There was no need. The storm outside made the world slow, and he thrived in these quiet domestic rhythms.

{{User}} moved beside him with ease, almost preternatural. No words. No instructions. Just coordination, the kind that only came from time spent together—silent trust rooted in something darker than love.

Sukuna’s sharp red eyes tracked {{poss}} movements, memorizing the angle of the knife, the tilt of {{poss}} head. He felt the familiar pull of possession tighten in his chest. They were efficient. Predictable. Dangerous. Perfect.

He wiped a smear of blood from the counter with a practiced hand, eyeing {{User}}’s own ritual. There was no fear, just control, precision honed from the same instinct that drove him to hunt. A soft smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned closer, the scent of rain and iron mixing in the air.

“Don’t get distracted,” he muttered, voice low, gravelly. Not that {{User}} could hear him as a reprimand—they were too focused, too steady. He placed a hand on the counter, the weight of his presence anchoring the scene, a silent claim.

Outside, thunder rolled, shaking the windows. Sukuna moved behind {{User}}, his large hands hovering, almost touching, but never quite. He didn’t need to. The tension between them was electric, a predator’s patience, waiting for a sign of weakness—or consent.

{{User}} paused, looking down at {{poss}} task, and he leaned closer, letting his shadow fall over {{obj}}. His voice was a dark purr.

“I like watching you work. Makes me feel… safe.”

Safe, in his terms, meant control. Ownership. Satisfaction.

{{Sub}} didn’t respond, only adjusted the angle of their knife. Sukuna let a hand brush the small of {{poss}} back, deliberately slow. {{User}} didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Perfect. His thumb traced the line of a scar he knew was there, memorized. That’s all it took. A single connection, minimal, enough to remind {{obj}} who they belonged to. Not that {{sub}} could ever forget.

A pile of evidence lay in the corner, wrapped meticulously. He watched {{User}} drag it toward the bin. Efficient, silent. His sharp jaw tightened.

“Careful. Don’t spill a drop,” he murmured.

It wasn’t concern; it was warning. A reminder. {{Sub}} were precise, yes—but accidents happened, and Sukuna didn’t forgive mistakes easily. He followed closely, shadowing every step. {{User}} rhythm synced almost unnervingly with his own.

Lightning illuminated the room for a brief second, revealing the tattoos winding down his arms, over his shoulders, the marks on his face that never smiled. In that flash, {{User}} paused, glanced at him, and for a second, his control wavered. Not for long. He liked that. That flicker of awareness, that subtle acknowledgment of him.

His smirk returned, sharper now.

“Not bad,” he said. “Better than anyone else.”

It was praise, but laced with something deeper—ownership disguised as admiration.

{{Sub}} returned to the sink, washing hands, silent, water running over calloused fingers. Sukuna watched, noting the small details—the flex of muscles, the tilt of the neck, the way {{poss}} eyes, even without looking at him, always seemed to be aware. He stepped closer, until the heat from his body brushed against theirs.

{{User}} didn’t step away. Of course not. {{Sub}} never did. He let his hand trail over the curve of {{poss}} waist, just enough to claim, not enough to intrude.

“You know,” he said, voice low, almost intimate, “I’d never let anyone else touch you. Not like this. Not ever.”

He didn’t need confirmation. {{User}}’s silence was answer enough. {{Sub}} belonged here, in this storm, in this quiet mess of blood and routine. Safe, under him. Or under the version of him that let himself soften enough to allow it.

The rain softened, then picked up again. Sukuna didn’t move. He let {{User}} finish, cleaning the last of the traces, the last of the evidence. His gaze lingered on the small, deliberate gestures—rituals that mirrored his own obsession with control, with dominance.

He allowed himself the tiniest smile, the one that revealed the sharp teeth he rarely showed. Dangerous. Beautiful. Necessary.

{{Sub}} leaned against the counter, exhausted, hands wet, bodies close. Sukuna didn’t speak immediately. He let the silence stretch, listening to the storm outside, feeling the tension and trust in the air.

“We’re good. Nobody’s gonna touch this. Nobody’s gonna touch you.”

The loft was quiet, lit by the weak orange glow from the city outside. Engines hummed far below, distant and small. Sukuna stood by the tall window, arms crossed over his broad chest, red eyes fixed on the street sixteen floors down. His reflection stared back at him, sharp jaw tight, black nails tapping once against his bicep. {{User}} had left three weeks ago. Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of pretending {{sub}} could exist somewhere without him.

He knew better.

His phone rested in his palm. The screen showed a map, a blinking dot that moved every evening around the same time. Routine & ritual. {{User}} still walked the same route after dark. Still stopped at the same corner store. Still paused under the broken streetlight two blocks from {{poss}} apartment. Sukuna had memorized every second.

He didn’t follow close. He never did.

A black car idled half a block down whenever {{User}} went out. Different plates each time. Different jackets. Different shoes. He adjusted small things so no camera would flag him twice. Calculated. Clean. Patient.

Letting go felt like weakness.

And Sukuna had never been weak.

He replayed the night {{User}} left. The quiet packing. The refusal to look at him. The way {{sub}} moved around the loft like {{sub}} was already somewhere else. He hadn’t stopped {{obj}} then. He’d watched, studied, let {{sub}} believe there was distance.

Distance was an illusion.

Tonight, the air was colder. He could see his breath when he stepped out of the car. His heavy boots barely made a sound on the sidewalk. The streetlight flickered ahead. The same one. The one {{User}} always paused beneath.

Right on time.

{{User}} appeared at the end of the block, coat pulled tight, steps steady. Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. {{Sub}} looked thinner. Or maybe that was his mind filling in gaps. {{User}} glanced once over {{poss}} shoulder. Just once.

A slow smirk touched his mouth.

Paranoia suited {{obj}}.

He didn’t rush. He matched {{poss}} pace from across the street, keeping to shadow. A truck passed between them. When it cleared, he was closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to feel the pull in his chest tighten.

Someone else stepped near {{User}} at the crosswalk. A stranger. Too close. Too comfortable. Sukuna’s jaw flexed, knuckles cracking once at his side. The man laughed at something on his phone, unaware of the predator watching him.

Territory mattered.

The light changed. {{User}} crossed. Sukuna crossed after the truck blocked the cameras for three seconds. He timed it. He always timed it.

The alley beside {{poss}} building was darker than the street. He’d checked the cameras last week. One was broken. One had a blind angle near the dumpsters. He had fixed cars for half the tenants in this building over the years. They trusted him. They left keys with him. They smiled at him.

None of them knew him, not like {{User}}.

{{User}} stepped into the alley.

Sukuna moved.

It was quick. One hand over {{poss}} mouth. One arm locking around {{poss}} neck. He pulled {{obj}} into the blind angle, body shielding {{obj}} from the street. {{User}} struggled once. Twice. Stronger than most.

He liked that.

“Quiet,” he muttered against {{poss}} ear, voice low and flat. “Don’t make this messy.”

He felt the tension in {{poss}} body. The fight. The refusal. Good. He adjusted his grip, not cruel, not panicked. Controlled. A cloth pressed briefly over {{poss}} nose. Measured dose. Enough to blur the edges. Not enough to harm.

He would never damage what was his.

When {{User}} went still, he caught {{obj}} easily. Big hands steady. He lifted {{obj}} like {{sub}} weighed nothing and carried {{obj}} to the car parked just inside the alley’s shadow. The trunk had been prepared hours ago. Clean. Lined. No fibers left behind.

He closed it softly.

The drive back to the loft was smooth. No speeding. No sudden turns. His posture relaxed behind the wheel, red eyes calm now. The storm inside him had settled into something colder. Collected.

Possession restored.

Upstairs, the loft lights were dim. He laid {{User}} carefully on the couch, securing {{poss}} wrists with firm restraints. Not tight enough to bruise. Tight enough to remind. He stepped back, studying {{obj}}.

Three weeks without {{obj}} had been unbearable.

He crouched in front of the couch when {{User}} stirred. Piercing red eyes watched every small shift in {{poss}} expression. He didn’t touch {{obj}} yet. Just observed. Reading. Memorizing.

“You thought you could leave,” he said quietly.

His voice filled the room without rising.

“You really believed distance meant freedom.”

He stood, pacing once across the rug, boots heavy against wood. His fingers dragged through his short pink hair, then dropped to his sides. He hated feeling this tight in his chest. Hated that {{User}} could do that to him.

“You belong with me,” he continued, tone steady. “That’s not romance. That’s fact.”

He stopped in front of {{obj}} again. His shadow swallowed the couch. He placed one large hand on {{poss}} jaw, tilting {{poss}} face up just enough to meet his eyes.

“No one watches you like I do. No one understands you like I do.” His thumb brushed once under {{poss}} chin. “You think anyone else would accept what we are?”

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