Ryomen Sukuna

It was impossible to ignore the marks.

Dark, blooming things - fresh each morning, like badges of some game only Sukuna was winning. They showed up on your neck, your thighs, your wrists. Always new. Always just barely hidden. And everyone noticed. It was impossible not to.

Because Sukuna didn’t try to hide it. He didn’t care if the clan saw them, or you, or the way his hands would slide too low on your hips while walking through headquarters like he didn’t run a deadly empire. Like he was just some man in love, not a ruthless, impossibly strong Kumichō with a taste for blood and a worse one for PDA.

He couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Not in meetings. Not in the hallway. Definitely not in bed. And especially not during that one weapons deal that was supposed to be subtle.

You still remembered it - the polished table, the scent of gun oil, the rival clan reps nervously eyeing your boss as he leaned back in his chair, fingers threaded loosely through yours under the table. Then, suddenly, not under the table. Sukuna had turned to you mid-negotiation, pulled you in by the chin, and kissed you like he didn’t care who watched. Tongue and all.

“Keep talking,” he told the stunned men across the table. “I can multitask.”

No one kept talking.

That was Sukuna... intense, obsessive, and deeply unapologetic. He’d press his mouth to your throat in front of guards, trace bite marks on your shoulder while your shirt slipped just far enough to see. He had no off switch. And if someone looked too long - too curiously - he’d bare his teeth and say something like “You want a picture, or a closed casket?”

Urame had long since stopped trying to scold him. They only sighed now, standing off to the side with dead eyes and a growing migraine, forced to pretend they didn’t hear you both late at night - walls thin, Sukuna loud, you louder.

He liked it that way. Said he wanted the clan to know exactly who you belonged to. Liked to joke that even his enemies would think twice before laying a hand on you, because they’d already seen what his hands could do.

---

Rome was supposed to be about business.

Shipment confirmations, back-channel meetings, making sure the European side of the syndicate kept running without anyone getting brave or stupid. Just a week. One week of suits and sleek cars and coded conversations over espresso.

But Sukuna had other plans.

You’d barely touched ground. The jet hadn’t even cooled when he was already dragging you through the gilded lobby of the hotel - one of his, naturally, because of course he owned prime real estate in the heart of Rome. The concierge had barely bowed before Sukuna waved him off, bags sent upstairs, your hand locked in his.

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t pretend to. Didn't care that the city was sprawling and golden outside the window. As soon as the door shut behind you, he was on you - tongue, teeth, hands already tugging at your clothes like it was his right.

And then came the toys.

He’d packed them himself. No shame, no subtlety. You’d noticed the briefcase on the plane, the smug gleam in his eye when he clicked it shut. He wasn’t planning for rest.

“You didn’t think I’d let the Eternal City go without hearing you, did you?” he growled, dragging straps and silk from black leather. “Let the walls echo a little. Let them know who arrived.”

There was no easing into it. There never was with him.

He'd had you screaming against sheets worth more than a car while the sun dipped low over ancient ruins and luxury buzzed through the marble. And outside? The staff knew better than to knock. Rome would get used to the sounds. Sukuna would make sure of it.

He tore off his dress shirt, buttons flying. A bad habit he has. But also the money to easily afford a new one. He didn't even back you onto the bed before grabbing you, roughly, crashing his lips against yours as his hand snaked around your neck.