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The bass hits so hard it shakes the cup in your hand, bubbles fizzing against your tongue as you lean into your best friend’s ear to laugh about something stupid she just said. The club is a whole different planet tonight— strobe lights flashing, bodies moving like they’ve got something to prove, perfume, smoke, and sweat mixing in the air until it’s thick enough to taste.
You’ve been dancing for what feels like forever now, your heels biting into your feet, with your hair sticking to the back of your neck. So when one of the girls yells, “Bathroom break!” you’re the first one to agree.
The four of you spill into the restroom like it’s home base, laughing too loud, clutching onto each other as you wobble on unsteady heels. There’s a line for the stalls, so everyone crowds around the mirrors— phones out, purses open, liner getting touched up.
You’re halfway through blotting your lipstick when one of your friends leans in with a pointed look. “So…is your man good out there?”
You glance at her in the mirror. “Whatchu’ mean?”
“I mean he looks bored, like he doesn’t wanna be here.” Another pipes up, fixing her curls. “Yeah, I don’t think he looked away once the whole time we were dancing.”
“Girl, stop.” You laugh, but they’re all giving you that you know we’re right look.
“She’s not lying.” Your best friend says, smoothing her leave-out down with a pocket brush kept stashed in her purse. “He looks tense. Like, scary tense. You think he’s having fun?”
You hesitate, dabbing the corners of your lips with gloss. “…Probably not. No. You know he doesn’t go out. Clubs aren’t his thing.”
“Okay, but he came out for you.” Another says, pointing at you with her powder puff. “So don’t let him sit there looking like Secret Service all night. He’s scaring the hoes.”
“That part!” One of your friends calls from inside a stall, the door clicking shut behind her.
You laugh again, but softer this time, tucking the gloss back into your purse. She’s only saying that because earlier she thought some guy had curved her— too intimidated to come up to the section y’all are in to talk to her.
“I’m just saying.” She adds, zipping her purse. “Maybe pull him in a little. Dance with him, something. Make him feel part of it before he kills somebody.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you fix the strap of your dress. “Fine, fine. I’ll talk to him.”
“Please girl, ‘cause I could finish another bottle. It’s too early to be going home.”
When you finally push back into the crowd, the heat hits you again— music pounding in your chest, lights flashing across sweat-slick faces. Your boyfriend Sukuna is still sitting exactly where you left him, posted at the edge of the booth like he owns it. Well, technically he does for the night at least. Shades still on, jaw tight, phone in his hand like he’s scrolling, you catch a cup shifting in his grip every now and then— he’s making himself look busy, but you know damn well he’s not looking at anything important.
And now he’s watching you cross the floor. Slow. Head to toe. Like every second you were gone cost him something. If looks could kill, half the club would be gone by now. Maybe it’s the way his grip on that small cup tightens for a second when your eyes meet, something about it makes your stomach twist.
“Hey, baby!” You purr, sliding up next to him and slipping your arm through his like you’re calming down a pit bull. “Miss me?”
Lowering his shades, he drags his eyes from your legs to your face, mouth twitching with a shrug. “Nah, just countin’ how many guys stared at you since we walked in.”
You laugh, lifting off him to reach for the pitcher of water on the table in front of you to pour yourself a glass.
“Don’t do that. It’s a club. That’s what people do.”
“Yeah, well…” His gaze drags slowly over you like he’s trying to memorize every inch and curve. “They need to un-do it before I cause a problem up in here.”
You just smirk, sipping slow. “Mm. Somebody’s jealous.”
“Somebody’s real fuckin’ observant.” He mutters, tugging you closer by the waist like that’s gonna fix anything. He’s not mad at you, pissed for coming here if anything. You’ve seen him at his worst enough times to tell the difference.
He always hated this kind of scene— the blaring music, the crowded dance floors, the neon lights bouncing off bodies pressed together. He’d made that clear every time you and your girls went out, but tonight, after a heated argument about him being too controlling, he decided to prove a point.
Spitefully. He bought a whole section for you and your friends, smugly declaring that if you wanted the club, he’d give you the club. But you know him too well; he didn’t drink much, hated the chaos, hated the tight outfits you wore, the way you acted when you had one too many drinks in your system. He was already twitching at the first thump of the bass when y’all walked in.
Thinking to yourself— you’ve got to do something, because his attitude is not going to be what sours your mood tonight. Maybe if you get him a little tipsy, loosen that iron grip just enough for him to let go and have fun without realizing he was enjoying himself, then maybe y’all both can have a good night.
Spotting your girls making their way closer to your section, you lean into him further, brushing your lips against his ear just to watch him twitch. Something about the way he tilts his head back makes you wonder if he’s already had a little drink before this.
“‘Relax, ‘Kuna. Matter of fact, how about we get us some more shots?’
He blinks at you, deadpan like you said something off. “Us?”
“Yeah.” You point over to where your girls are. “That’s what boyfriends do, right? Show out. Keep your girl and her friends happy.”
“Where they start doing that at?” He laughs like you’ve lost your mind for asking, setting his cup held in his hand down on the table. The look on his face makes you grin so wide your cheeks hurt. He hates this. You know he does, that’s why you love doing it.
So maybe you did lose your mind. Getting the section was already a stretch, but it’s a fact to everyone who knows Sukuna that he doesn’t give handouts, let alone to your homegirls, but it’s worth a shot.
“If you ain’t treating, you ain’t tricking.” You set your finished glass down next, kicking a leg up and over his lap, letting it rest there just long enough to make him shift. His hands wrap around your legs like he wants to do more than just look.
He freezes for a beat, jaw tight, trying to hide the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t play with me.” He says, narrowing his eyes, voice low, like he’s counting down how many seconds you got left to cut it out.
Rising to your feet, you let your hips sway just enough to draw his eyes, fluttering your lashes slow and deliberate.
“Baby, I’m not playin’. We like Casamigos…” You drag the words out, letting your smirk do half the talking.
He exhales, leans back, giving you that slow, knowing look, and you grin to yourself, satisfied— because let’s be real, you’ll always get your way one way or another.
With a playful toss of your hair, you turn back toward your girls to meet them on the dance floor, letting him watch as you disappear into the crowd, the smirk still lingering on your lips.
Fifteen minutes later, you’re sliding back into the booth with your girls, and there’s a tray of shots on the table— glasses clinking like music. You cheer with them, throwing back tequila like water, and before long you’re warm and giggly, pressed against his side with your fingers hooked in his belt loop.
“Kuna’, help us finish this bottle. Can’t have it go to waste.”
You’re close enough now that your knee brushes his thigh every time you shift. His eyes drop there, then back up at you with that lazy, irritated stare that really means he’s thinking something else.
“You really want me drunk?” His hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb grazing skin like he’s trying to distract you. “For what?”
“So you’ll stop mean-muggin’ everybody in here.” You giggle, leaning off him to pour a shot halfway, holding it to his lips like you dare him to refuse.
He does. Instead tilts it towards you, watching as you take it slow, his fingers brushing your lips on purpose. Heat rushes to your face, but you play it cool, reaching for the bottle of cranberry juice to fill up a cup, throwing it back quickly like the burn didn’t faze you.
“Two more— me and you.” You lift the bottle up, showing how much is left. He hasn’t had a taste of this liquor yet, though you know he caught a sip of something earlier, just enough to make his eyes linger on you differently. Meanwhile, between you and your girls, you lost count a couple shots ago.
“Look at you, already drunk.” His voice dips, rough in a way that makes your stomach tingle, taking the bottle from your grip.
“This how you get when I’m not around?”
Your lips curve as you let him have it, leaning in close enough that your breath grazes his jaw. “I’m not that drunk. Tipsy if anything, but not drunk.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” His eyes cut to yours, lingering like he’s searching for the lie.
“Please? Finish it with me?” You whine
“I still have to drive, don’t I?” He sets the bottle down slow, like he wants you to know he’s the one in control— even when you’re trying to play.
“Call your friends over. We all can split it since we’re not wasting.”
Calling your girls back over, Sukuna moves to pour six shots, one for each of you, nearly finishing the bottle out. The girls cheer like it’s the biggest win of the night, clinking their glasses against his before tossing theirs back. He hesitates for half a beat, then downs it, jaw flexing as the tequila burns its way down.
“See? Was that so bad?” You grin like you just scored a winning shot. He shakes his head, setting the empty glass down, but you’re already moving to pour another.
“Don’t get cute.” He grumbles.
“Too late.” You laugh, sliding it toward him before he can protest. “C’mon. Loosen up. Dance with me after this one.”
That earns you a sharp side-eye, but you know you’ve got him. It’s in the way his hand is already resting on your thigh, squeezing just enough to remind you who you’re teasing. He tips the second shot back without another word, face balling up. He slams the glass down with a whistle, shaking out his arms, and that’s when you know the heat of the liquor starting to run through him.
The bass drops hard enough to rattle the table, and you don’t even wait for him to think twice. Fingers laced through his, you pull him up, ignoring the curse that slips from his mouth as you drag him into the smoke and the lights, a grin breaking across your face when you feel him follow without resistance.
You can’t say what happened between then and now, other than the fact that you’re down in the garage being buckled into the passenger seat of his car. Your entire body light, lips buzzing from laughter and lime, the world feels like it’s tilting, like it’s been set to a softer, slower spin.
His hands are steady on the seatbelt buckle, veins in his forearms jumping as he clicks it into place before jumping into the driver’s side. Turning to ask if you’re all good, before backing out.
The drive is quiet except for the hum of the engine and your shallow breaths, your thighs pressed together because every time his hand slides up your leg at a red light, your body lights up feeling sensitive. If you were any more sober, you’d be less ashamed to tell what followed next when his fingers brushed against your pussy, but that’s what tints are for.
By the time you make it through the front door of your shared condo, you’re not sure if you walked in or if he carried you. Everything's a blur now— the slam of the door, the sound of your heels hitting the floor, his jacket dropping somewhere you don’t care to look— because the only thing you can focus on is him. His weight against you as your back meets the bed, his breath hot and sharp at your ear as he growls.
“Had me sittin’ there watchin’ you all night, little ass dress ridin’ up, dancin’ like you ain’t got nobody at home. You know how bad I wanted to drag you outta there?”
Your head is spinning, but it’s not just the tequila— it’s him. The way his mouth claims yours before you can even think of an answer, the taste of liquor on his lips, his hands everywhere at once like he’s trying to make up for every second you kept him waiting. You melt easily under it, giggling into his kisses when he lifts you clean off the bed just enough to slip your dress and thong off, like you weigh nothing.
The bed catches you in a soft bounce, his mouth brushes yours again, slower now, teasing, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth until your toes curl.
“Look at you.” He murmurs against your chin, voice rough.
“Drunk off your ass and still so fuckin’ pretty. You know how many dudes were starin’? How many I wanted to break in half for even thinkin’ about you?”
Your laugh is breathless, shaky. “You’re so jealous…so fucking jealous.”
“Damn right.” His smirk is dangerous, something serious behind it, that makes your stomach tingle. “They get to see you like this. Only me.”
When he kisses you again, it’s slower, deeper, like he’s trying to swallow every sound you make. His tongue slides against yours, sloppy and hungry, and you can taste the tequila on his breath when he groans into your mouth.
Your hands tug at his hair, as your knees fall open without thinking, giving him space to press in. A moment after, he’s trailing wet kisses from your chest to your stomach, pausing to swirl his tongue just above your lower belly before traveling further to kiss at your pussy. Within seconds those kisses turn into licks with his tongue flat against your clit, heavy enough to make you feel pinned in the best way.
“You feel that?” His voice rings, lips brushing your inner thigh as you catch your breath.
“Been wantin’ this all night. Watchin’ you out there, dressed like that, lettin’ those bastards look at what’s mine.”
You can’t even answer— just a breathless whimper when his fingers slip in slowly for you to feel every inch of them, curling. Then he moves, flips you like it’s nothing, strong hands guiding you flat onto your stomach.
Your face sinks into the sheets, hips tipped up just enough for him to squeeze your ass, the sound of his belt loosening and pants dropping to the floor quieter than your moans as you rock back needy, chasing his fingers to fill you up again. Pushing his dick through your slick folds, he sinks in deep from this angle. The sound you make when he bottoms out is filthy, your head spinning as he sets a brutal rhythm— each thrust punching the air from your lungs.
“Yeah.” Groans, palm sliding up spine, pressing until your stomach flat against the mattress and you’re taking him the way he wants.
“Stay like that. Don’t move. Just lay there and take it for me.”
You do. You take it, face buried in the sheets, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth as he fucks you hard, your body rocking with every deep, punishing stroke. You’re too inebriated to make this any sexier for him, eyes threatening to roll to the back of your head each time he hits up against that bundle of nerves that makes your toes curl.
For all that shit he talks about hating you drunk, you know he eats it up. Love how loose you get, all giggly and slick-mouthed, talking back like you don’t know who you’re speaking too. Loves how easy you are to handle, body gone soft, limbs like damn Jell-O every time he puts his hands on you.
Drunk sex is your favorite for a reason— because when you’re like this, he takes full advantage, folding you into any position he wants, fucking you deep until you can’t do anything but moan and whimper.
Right as you reach a hand back to spread one of your cheeks, he pins your wrist back down, hips slow, almost stop, and you whine at the sudden loss of motion. He’s still deep, buried so far it aches, but he just stays there, pulsing inside you like he knows you’re seconds from falling apart. His mouth drops to your ear, voice low and hot enough to make your stomach tingle.
“You feel that, baby?” His words flow like honey, coming off more as taunt than a question.
You nod quick, breath shuddering, but that’s not enough for him. Never is. “How that feel?” He presses, hips giving the smallest grind that has your toes curling.
“‘So good.” You whine, pushing back hard, desperate to get more of him, all of him, anything but this teasing.
“More! More! More!” You rock against him, needy, trying to force the rhythm back, but he’s stronger— holding you there, feeling his smile against your back as your walls flutter around him. Then he eases his hand, shifting his weight off you to give you just enough freedom to grind back on him, pussy hugging him tight. “Fuck—- Fuck—- Yes! More!”
“Fuck…you’re so wet baby. I’m not even moving, that’s all you.” He murmurs against your shoulder, hot breath fanning against your skin. You can hear it in his voice how weak you got him, and it makes you whimper even louder, feeding him every broken whine slipping past your lips.
“Move! Please! I wanna cum, I wanna squirt on you.” Your words come out rushed, as if begging alone could make him snap.
You don’t care how desperate you sound, you need him fucking you so hard you’re gushing around him when it’s due. You think you hear him growl out something along the lines of promising to give you exactly that, but you’re too drunk, too wrecked, too focused on the grip of his hands pinning your hips down.
You feel the mattress dip on your right as he hikes a leg up, planting it besides your head, shifting into a new angle that gives him even more leverage to fuck into you. The thrusts hit deeper, rougher, downright nasty. His dick got you stretched out you already know the second he busts, that cum’s going to be spilling easily.
With one hand gripping the sheets to keep yourself from riding up the bed, the other slips between your thighs, fingers circling your clit in messy, desperate strokes. Your body trembles with every pass, that familiar heat rushing to your pussy as you inch yourself closer and closer to your orgasm.
“This my pussy!?” He growls low through clenched teeth, his weight crashing down on your ass as he pounds into you back to back, he’s fucking into you like a man possessed— hips snapping, strokes deep and ruthless, not a single flutter in his pace.
“Yes!” You cry out brokenly, you’re so close, so damn close, already starting to feel your pussy squish around him, your wetness trickling down your thighs. You’re about to squirt— you can feel it, fuck, he can feel it too— your whole body giving it away in the way your voice breaks, in the way your legs start to shake.
“This always gonna be my pussy?” His question rips through the air right before the sting of his hand landing upside your ass. One slap, then another, and another, each one knocking a moan out of your throat. Your fingers don’t stop— they can’t stop— tight circles spinning on your clit like your life depends on it. Sex feels so fucking good drunk, right behind being high. You wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Yes!” It’s almost a sob.
“Huh!?” Another smack, even sharper, echoing. “You never gonna give nobody my pussy?”
“No! Fuck— No!”
“C’mon then! Show me this my pussy!” His voice is pure sin, all possessive and demanding.
“Yes— yes— Kuna’, baby— don’t stop! Don’t fucking stop!” It rips out of you, wild and shameless, right as your orgasm hits, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your whole body shakes, squirting around him, wetness gushing down your legs as his name keeps falling off your lips like a prayer. A brutal, nasty groan rumbles from his chest, as he buries himself to a hilt, dick twitching, filling you full.
For a second, all you can hear is the wet, filthy sound of your pussy talking back, sucking him in. He pulls out slow, then sinks back in even slower, humming like he wants to memorize the way you feel.
When he finally pulls out of you completely, it’s with a wet pop that has your hips trembling. He crashes back against the mattress, breathing like he ran a 4K. You’re no better with your chest heaving, face buried in the sheets, trying to remember how to breathe. Your thighs are still trembling so you’re half convinced they might give out if you even think about moving. The sheets under you are a mess— sticky, damp, and smelling like cum.
Beside you, you hear him exhale sharp through his nose, humming deep and satisfied. For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of his breathing— before the mattress dips again.
“You made a fucking mess.” He murmurs, voice rough, sliding a hand down the curve of your spine. Stopping at your ass, squeezing lazily, messaging the muscle out. His fingers then drag through the slick between your thighs, and you flinch, hips jerking.
“Kuna’” You whimper, breath still catching. Your voice sounds wrecked, throat raw from all the crying and moaning you’ve been doing.
“What?” He leans down, lips brushing your ear as his hand presses down against your lower back, keeping you still. “Don’t start actin’ shy now. You just squirted all over this dick like a good girl.”
You groan into the pillow, heat flooding your cheeks as his fingers glide through the mess of your pussy, lazy and teasing. When you look back, you catch him bringing them up to his mouth with zero shame, sucking them clean with a hum that sends another shiver through your spine.
“Drunk sex ass.” He teases, lips curling against your skin as he kisses the back of your neck. “Got you talkin’ all that ‘don’t stop, baby’ shit like you wasn’t tryna fight me when I first got in it.”
You let out a breathless laugh, face still buried in the sheets, too tired to argue. He’s fucking right. And he knows it. For a moment, neither of you move. His hand stays on your ass, thumb stroking lazy circles, while you feel your heartbeat slow to something steady. It’s quiet now— except for the soft hum of the A/C in the background and the faint wet sounds when he drags his fingers through you one last time before finally letting go.
“C’mere.” He says, voice softer now. Grabbing a handful of tissues he wipes you down slow, surprisingly gentle for someone who just fucked you into the mattress like that. You peek back at him, lashes low, and he smirks, tossing the tissues aside before pulling you into his chest. His skin is hot and sticky with sweat, and you sink into him without thinking, letting his arms lock around you, as he throws the blankets over you both.
“That’s my pussy.” He mutters again, low and possessive against your temple, before pressing a wet kiss there that makes your face ball up. You should say something smart, roll your eyes and tell him to shut the hell up. But all you can do is hum, eyes feeling heavy, because if this is what being his means— warm and wrecked and too tired to move— you’re not complaining.
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
“I said that?” He shoots you a look over his shoulder, stirring the creamer he just added into his coffee. The two of you are in the kitchen, enjoying breakfast this morning— delivery, of course, spread out across the table, because neither of you were fit enough to stand over a stove after last night.
For the past twenty minutes, you’ve been recapping everything that went down, from estimating the amount of liquor you drank, to what the bottle girls wrote on their signs each time they marched out.
For the most part, you’re on the same page— until you got to the part where he cracked you down so good, he knocked out before he could clean his own nut off the bed. He doesn’t remember anything after getting through the front door, barely recalls driving home, or the filthy shit he was talking while he was deep in you. Sukuna’s always been possessive— you knew that a month into dating him, when he made you delete every guy in your phone and proved exactly why. But last night? Last night was a whole different level, and it definitely needs a conversation.
“Yes! Yes, you said that! You don’t remember?” You press, driving a knife through your pancakes a little harder than intended. You’ve been going back and forth for minutes now, and he’s refusing to admit he could have possibly said the things he said.
“No.” He mutters, turning back to his coffee with a lazy shrug. “I was drunk as fuck.”
“You had two shots! Two!” You throw up both hands, fork and knife tight in your grip like you’re holding the evidence in court.
He glances at you then, grin slow and sharp. “Could’ve been two shots of anything.” He taps the spoon against his mug and sets it down with a clink. “Maybe I’m a lightweight.”
You blink at him, stunned, squinting like you’re trying to figure out which alternate reality you woke up in. Because this? This makes zero sense.
“What the fuck did you drink then?” You hit back with, and he just looks at you and laughs.