Your body aches in places you didn’t even know could hurt. Your throat is raw, your skin is burning, and your legs? Completely fucking useless. But the worst part?

There’s an arm wrapped around your waist.

A heavy, tattooed, familiar arm.

Your stomach drops. Slowly—painfully—you turn your head, and there he is. Ryomen-fucking-Sukuna. Lying next to you, fast asleep like he didn’t just spend the entire night destroying every last shred of dignity you had left.

“Oh, fuck me,” you whisper, pressing a hand over your face.

Memories hit you like a damn freight train.

The club. The flashing neon lights, the bass rattling your bones, the overwhelming scent of alcohol and sweat. And then him. That smug, insufferable prick. You don’t even remember what started it—just that one minute you were hurling insults at each other, and the next, his hands were gripping your waist, and his mouth was on yours, all teeth and fury and pure fucking hatred.

It escalated so fast. Clothes ripped, nails dragging, his voice—deep, taunting—murmuring filth in your ear. You remember the sting of his teeth on your skin, the way he grabbed you like he was trying to break you, the sound of skin slapping against skin as he fucked you into his mattress.

Your face burns.

You should leave. You need to leave. But the second you shift, pain shoots through your core, a brutal reminder of just how thoroughly he ruined you.

Bastard.

Beside you, Sukuna stirs, exhaling a low grunt before his lips twitch into a lazy smirk.

“You’re still here?” His voice is thick with sleep, rough around the edges. “Damn. Didn’t think you’d be able to walk, but I figured you’d at least crawl your ass outta here.”

You shove his arm off you, scowling. “Fuck you.”

He chuckles, stretching his arms above his head. “You already did, sweetheart. Twice.”