Ryomen Sukuna did it for the love of the game—there was no question about it.

Infamous for his malevolent nature, not a single soul—including you—would ever assume the King of Curses took pleasure in being an eater. Not when he wore that wicked grin so easily, not when destruction came as naturally to him as breath.

And yet—

He did.

He loved it.

Not as a means to an end. Not as something fleeting or convenient. No—Sukuna took his time. He savored it. Relished every reaction like a connoisseur with a taste far too refined for restraint.

It was indulgence in its purest form.

His second favorite pastime.

The first, of course, being the chaos he left in his wake—but this… this was different.

This was his.

He reveled in the closeness, in the way your body betrayed you so easily beneath him. The trembling, the sharp inhales, the way your composure unraveled piece by fragile piece. He paid attention—memorized it—like it was something worth studying.

Worth perfecting.

It sent something electric down his spine every time—jagged, thrilling, coiling low in his body. A satisfaction that built slowly, deliberately, fed by every shift, every sound, every helpless response you gave him.

And he was greedy with it.

Always had been.

Before you, there had been others—concubines, distractions, passing amusements he’d indulge in when the mood struck. He had taken his fill, discarded them, and moved on without a second thought.

But you—

When your paths crossed, when he claimed you as his wife as if it were the most natural thing in the world—you became something else entirely.

Not fleeting. Not forgettable.

You stayed.

And that made you dangerous.

You ignited something restless in him. Something that refused to be satisfied, no matter how much he indulged.

A hunger with no end.

How could he ever resist now?

Pinned beneath him, your hips held immobile by unyielding strength, a low, pleased sound rumbled from deep within his chest—less restrained than before, less concerned with hiding it. A predator content with its feast.

Your body reacted instantly—arching, trembling, overwhelmed by the attention he gave so deliberately. Every flick against that swollen nub above was intentional. The measured drag of his tongue from entrance to peak drawn out.

He wasn’t rushing.

He never rushed.

Why would he, when he enjoyed it this much?

Your fingers curled into the sheets, breath faltering as wave after wave crashed over her without mercy, leaving behind only gasps and wet heat spilling freely onto his mouth… his chin… the sheets beneath them both.

But Sukuna only tightened his hold.

He liked it when you had nothing else but him, and he lingered far longer than necessary—far longer than kind.

Because he could. Because he wanted to. Because he enjoyed the way you unraveled when he did.

Only when your strength had all but given out—until every muscle quivered under taut skin dusted in sweat and morning light—did he finally pull away slowly. Reluctantly. As if even now, he considered going back for more.

His glistening lips curved, eyes heavy with satisfaction, dark and knowing as they dragged over you. There was no shame in it. No hesitation.

Only pride.

A faint, amused exhale left him.

“…You taste better than the last,” he said casually, as if comparing fine wine rather than speaking about something far more personal.