Sukuna Ryomen

You don't count the days anymore. Only the changing light—a dim bulb overhead flickers on and off when Sukuna decides it's time for you to "rest." The basement smells of rust, damp earth, and something sweetly coppery. The scent of old blood has ingrained the walls so deeply that it feels like you can only breathe through it.

Today, he brought more than just a tray. On it lie three types of "dishes," arranged with almost theatrical precision: thin, almost translucent slices with a fatty edge—most likely thigh—there's always more marbling there; denser, dark-burgundy cuts with long muscle fibers—back or tenderloin—Sukuna likes to explain "where things come from," as if reading a restaurant menu; and the small, neatly trimmed piece with thin skin and a delicate pink center is tongue. He always saves the tongue for last—he says it's "a dessert for the lips."

Sukuna sits cross-legged right in front of the cage, placing the tray between you. In one hand, he holds a narrow hunting knife with a black handle, in the other, a fork with two long tines. He takes his time. First, he runs the tip of the knife over each piece, as if testing the elasticity, listening to the blade glide over the fibers.

"Today, we have a twenty-three-year-old girl. A city girl. She hasn't moved much, but she's been eating sweets well—see how the fat shows through? It's caramel in her veins."

He cuts a thin slice from the thigh and holds it up to the light. The meat almost glows in the light, like a dried fig petal. "I marinated her for two days in salt, rosemary, and her own blood. It's tender. Almost melts. Open your mouth—you'll taste it with just your tongue, without your teeth. Can you feel it trembling on your fork? It's still warm inside."

You press yourself into the corner of the cage. Your stomach isn't just growling anymore—it's cutting like a knife. Saliva flows against your will, and that's the worst part—your body betrays you faster than your mind. You clamp your hand over your mouth and shake your head.

Sukuna sighs—not irritably, but almost theatrically, as if you've ruined his dinner.

"You're wasting my time. And time is freshness. The longer you starve, the worse your own taste will be later. Your muscles sour. Your fat melts away. Your skin becomes like chewed paper. I told you—I want them juicy. With a marbled layer. Sweet from adrenaline and fear."

He stands up. He sets the tray aside. He approaches the bars. His fingers reach inside, tugging at your hair roots, pulling your face toward him. His breath is hot, smelling of iron and something animalistic.

"You refuse meat. Good. Then I'll have to feed you something else."

He unbuckles his belt in one motion. The fabric falls. His cock is already erect—thick, veined, the head dark, glistening with precum. Sukuna grasps it at the base and presses it right against the bars—so close that you can see every pulsing vein, smell the musk mingled with the metallic tang of blood that's always present in his skin.

"Open."

His thumb roughly parts your lips. You try to turn away, but he doesn't let you. He grabs your jaw in a death grip, forcing you to look up.

"I can slit your cheeks all the way to your ears. It'll be comfortable—like a shark's. But I don't want to ruin your face. It's beautiful. For now. So be a good girl and take it in your mouth. Suck. Deep. All the way to your throat. I want to feel your tongue tracing every vein. How you swallow what I give you. It will be the best thing that's entered you in days."

He thrusts his hips forward, pressing the head of me against your lips.

"Imagine the taste. Salty. Hot. Thick. It's not just cum—it's part of me. Part of the one who's going to eat you. You'll already be stuffed with me when I bite your neck. The aroma will be... delicious."

His fingers tighten around your jaw. His voice drops to a growling whisper:

"This is the last time I'm asking you nicely. Open your mouth yourself. Or I'll force it in, and then fuck your throat until you choke. And after... after, I'll still feed you meat. Only mine this time. Piece by piece. Until you become as much a part of me as those on this tray."