sugurouge

[sugurouge]

two souls entangled for eternity

THE CHIBIS ARE MAKING ME VIOLENTLY SOB EACH TIME HE IS SO GRUMPY!! MAKES ME WANNA PINCH IS CHEEK MHMHM

[sugurouge]

NEW THEME IS SO COOL AND THE COMM?!??!??!!! *^*

HEAD IN MY HANDS OVER THE COMM 😭😭 thank you mino <333

[sugurouge]

two souls entangled for eternity

THE CHIBIS ARE MAKING ME VIOLENTLY SOB EACH TIME HE IS SO GRUMPY!! MAKES ME WANNA PINCH IS CHEEK MHMHM

[sugurouge]

almost 2 am but i couldn't go to bed without changing my theme. i need to see this piece of art everywhere i go for a while💀

[sugurouge]

berry mdni dividers ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ་༘ credits to me. feel free to use and save. of course credit would be appreciated but it is not required. I’m just making these for fun <3 @bunnysp1ce @zhenyiuu @julesdesires @liliesdiary @tiamathh @garfieldissocool @cinnamonghostcrunch @bunnychronicless (won’t let me mention you so ummm awkward)

[sugurouge]

Professor SUGURU with his student next! honestly idk what he would teach though

-uncreative anon

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 Yandere Suguru Geto x Reader

⟡ AN: Hahaha, I love how this has turned into a series. I decided Suguru is gonna be a Philosophy/Ethics professor because of his whole moral dilemma in the show. I also really just wanted to use the Nietzche quote. I've gotta say this series excites me. What teacher will violate reader next? ⟡ CW: 18+ ONLY, NON CON, student/teacher relationship, PIV sex, drugging, choking, sugurus obsession with monkeys, professor gojo oml he's a menace someone lock him up

Nietzche once wrote “Man is more monkey than any monkey.”

A monkey can not think or act beyond primal instincts because they do not have the mental capacity to do so. Humans do, yet we choose to act on our urges anyway. In that way, humans are more monkeys than monkeys because we choose to be monkeys.

Suguru hated monkeys. 

Men who chased pleasure aimlessly, following their greed or lust like a dog on a leash. They were the reason humanity could never progress past its greatest challenges. No better than scum.

He thought that he was above them, once. 

But then he met you.

Suguru wasn’t terribly fond of the vast majority of his students. The college age demographic was full of monkeys. Entitled children who devoted their weekends to drinking and fucking each other like animals rather than studying, then come crawling to his office on Monday morning begging him to please change their grade. It made him sick.

You couldn’t be any less like them.

A brilliant young girl— one of the most promising he’s ever taught. You were leagues beyond your peers in your ability to grasp philosophical concepts. He rarely ever found a student whose arguments were even compelling, yours interested him.

He called you into his office after grading your first essay of the semester because he was almost certain you’d plagiarized it. He scoffed to himself as he read it, thinking it was a particularly poor effort at stealing. Most students at least knew to dumb down the work a little so it sounded like it was written by a college student. 

But when he called you in and began talking to you about the paper, it was clear that you actually had an incredibly firm grasp on the topic. What was supposed to be a 15 minute meeting turned into an hour long conversation about transcendental idealism. It only ended because he realized he was late for his next lecture. 

He let you out of his office with a newfound fascination. 

---

It was you who approached him for your second meeting. He received an email from you about a week later:

Hello Professor,

I hope this finds you well. I wanted to say thank you again for the conversation we had the other day. I really enjoyed it. I was wondering if I could ask for a favor.

I’m working on my senior honors thesis this year and I’m in the process of looking for a thesis supervisor. I was wondering if I could speak to you about my topic and see if we’d be a good fit. Even if you could point me in the direction of someone else who could help me, I’d be incredibly appreciative. 

Thank you,

(Y/N)

It’s a bit embarrassing how quickly he responded to set up a time and date. The prospect of mentoring you for the whole year; of having a set chunk of one-on-one time every week where he could pick your perfect brain and stare at your pretty face was mortifyingly intoxicating. 

He laid in bed that night, mulling over the morality of his desire for you. There was no doubt in his mind that he shouldn’t feel this way about a student. He has the power advantage in the dynamic, not to mention the fact that he’s nearly 10 years your senior, it’s wrong in every conceivable way to look at you with anything other than platonic affection. He doesn’t need to be an Ethics professor to know that.

But as his hand travels past his boxer waistband that night, it’s your face he imagines.

The two of you meet and quickly decide that you’ll work well together. You fill out some form and discuss your topic which is, rather ironically, the ethics of love and sex.

He feels as though the universe must be teasing him.

Still, he persists. Anything for his favorite student. You submit your thesis proposal and the work begins.

You meet every Monday and Wednesday after lecture—though he encourages you to stop in whenever you’d like. You read through your work and he challenges your ideas, watching you carefully as you write and rewrite, completely oblivious to the depraved fantasies playing out in his head. He’s grateful that his boner is hidden by his desk as you look up at him with those lovely eyes of yours and talk about sexual desire as innocently as the weather.

The moment you leave his office he’s locking the door, closing the blinds and unzipping his pants. Thrusting erratically into his hand as your name tumbles from his lips.

As he wipes the mess off his hand he reminds himself that the need for intimacy is a sentient desire. It's human to crave deep connection.

 It’s a weak attempt at making himself feel better.

But he can’t stop. He’s enraptured by you. Your beauty, your personality, your mind—each time you laugh, speak, cry, he falls in love a little more. It’s maddening, his desire for you. It haunts him every time you open the door to his office.

---

He was standing with Satoru one day outside of the biology building as he ranted about some kid named Yuji. He wasn't really paying attention, he was staring at you as you laughed with your friends across the quad.

Gojo huffed indignantly when he realized he wasn't listening. Nudging him to pay attention to him until he noticed what he was staring at.  

His blue eyes lit up mischievously.

“Oooooh, someones got a crush~” he sang, elbowing him playfully, “She’s awfully cute. How old is she? Sophomore? Junior? Senior?”

“What? No she’s-“

“ A freshman,” He gasps dramatically, “Suguru, I didn’t take you for a cradle robber-“

“Shut up.” he snaps as his friend cackles, “I’m supervising her senior honors thesis, freak. That’s all.”

Gojo scoffs, “I’ve known you too long to believe that bullshit. The last time I saw your eyes light up like that was when we read Allegedly of the Cave in high school.”

“It’s Allegory of the Cave-“

“Whatever,” he waves, “What I’m saying is she’s making you feel things.”

Suguru looks away with a frown, not wanting to dignify his claim but also incapable of denying it. Gojo sits back smugly.

“I know all that ethics stuff is important to you and I don’t pretend to know much about it, but I do know about biology and I know that science says it’s in our DNA to want to procreate.”

Geto squints, “Exactly what are you implying Satoru?”

He shrugs, “It’s not your fault if you have urges. It’s a basic principle of life—the sky is blue, the grass is green, and men want to fuck pretty women.” 

Geto scowls, “You’re disgusting.”

But his words stay with him.

---

The year goes on. Before he knows it, the spring semester is ending and it’s time for you to present your thesis to the panel. 

He’s upset that he won’t be working one-on-one with you next semester, but you’ll be in grad school for another four years. He’ll still have you in his classes most likely, and you’ll do your dissertation at some point, there’s no doubt you’ll want to be mentored by your favorite professor again.

He leans back in his chair, smiling at you proudly at the end of your second to last meeting.

“You’ve done well (Y/N),” he says, scrolling through the lengthy document on his laptop, “This is an impressive piece of work. You should be proud of yourself.” 

A soft blush blooms on your face, “Thank you Professor, I couldn’t have done it without you.” 

He shakes his head “The pleasure was all mine. If this is your thesis I’m excited to read your dissertation in a few years.”

“Ah, about that…” you laugh sheepishly, “I’m actually transferring for grad school. I got a decent scholarship from another university near where I live, I wanted to be a little closer to home.”

Geto’s heart drops to his stomach, he has to take a moment to recover from his shock before he can manage an answer.

“I see…” he mumbles, swallowing thickly, “That’s…disappointing”

You offer him a sympathetic smile. “I’ll still keep in touch of course! I’ll give you updates on how I’m doing.”

He hums. There’s an awkward silence that feels like it lasts an eternity. When the silence becomes too painful to bear, Geto clears his throat and closes his laptop.

“I’ll see you on Monday for our final meeting. Please make sure you bring paper copies of your thesis. I’ll hand them out to the panel on the day of the presentation…” You nod and gather your things, clearly eager to get away from the tension-thick room. You wave goodbye before quickly scurrying off.

He doesn’t even remember the drive back to his apartment—he’s in his office one minute and the next he's on his bed staring at the ceiling. 

Changing schools? After a whole year with him you were just going to leave? Don’t you realize that he’s devoted all he had this year to making sure you reached your fullest potential? That’s what love is, isn’t it? The mutual sacrifice of one’s self for the other? 

What if you go to this new school and another Professor decides to covet you? A pathetic monkey who could never love you like he could. You’d be dirtied by their touch, their ideas. The thought makes him sick.

Never has he met a woman with a mind like yours, he likely never will again. Now that he’s seen heaven, how was he supposed to go back? 

He needs you like he needs oxygen in his lungs. He loves you in an instinctual, carnal way that can’t be explained. He wants to take you, claim you, and keep you away from any other man who may try to steal you away from him.

His mind drifts back to Satoru’s words:

“It’s just a basic principle of life…”

Maybe he was right. Maybe the way he felt went beyond the bounds of morality.

---

You walk into his office that Monday for your final meeting. It’s late. Everyone has gone home for the night so the usually bustling building is eerily quiet. Your professor emailed you earlier asking if you could change the time of your meeting, said that he had a mountain of papers he had to finish grading and it would be a huge help if you could meet a little later. 

Of course you said yes. Anything for Professor Geto.

He smiles as he opens the door, guiding you in with a gentle hand on your lower back. 

You notice that the blinds are drawn. It’s odd. He never has the blinds drawn and it’s already dark outside, but you don’t question it too much. You’re just glad that the tension seems to have dissipated from the last time you saw him.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet a bit later with me. I really appreciate it.” he says as the two of you settle in, “Do you want something to drink?”

You smile, “No problem, and yeah. That would be great actually.” 

He hums, walking over to the kettle on the other side of his room to put water on. “Did you bring the paper copies?” He asks.

You nod, fishing through your bag and pulling them out.

“Perfect, could you put them in the bottom drawer of my desk please? I don’t want to lose them.”

You swiftly obey. When your back is turned he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the white pill he bought off a monkey in his ethics class who desperately needed a passing grade. He plops it in the cup with your tea bag, watching it fizz away in the hot water. 

He walks back to his desk and places the mug in front of you. 

“It’s hot, let it cool down a little before you drink.” 

You nod, thanking him as he takes his seat.

He walks you through some of the logistics of the presentation—where it will be, who will be on the panel, what you can expect before and after—all while keeping a careful eye on your cup. He starts to worry that you won't drink from it, but sure enough, just as he finishes you bring the mug to your lips. 

The drugs kick in almost immediately. He watches in awe as your eyes blow wide in fear, unsure of why your limbs have given out on you. He catches your head before it can hit his desk, fingers caressing the soft skin of your cheek, pants tightening around his growing erection.

A pang of guilt twists in his gut at the way you stare up at him, teary eyes blown wide in fear and confusion, silently pleading for him not to do this.

It’s almost enough to stop him.

Almost.

He lifts your body up and gently places you on top of his desk, your arm can only twitch weakly in protest as he lays you down on a pile of ungraded finals. It seemed like the monkey had made good on his promise and gotten him the right dose—just enough to make you pliant. He wanted you to be awake and conscious for this.

His eyes rake over your body as he works on taking off your shirt, revealing your soft torso inch by inch. Your body is sinfully perfect, even better than he’d imagined it would be. He’s gentle as he handles your smaller body, incredibly so. He refused to rape you like an animal. He was going to make love to you softly, reverently, until you lived and breathed him just as he did you.

A few whimpers fall from your mouth but he quickly shushes them with a kiss, wiping the tears from your droopy eyes with the pad of his thumb. His slender fingers toy with the waistband of your pants 

“You’re so lovely...” he breathes, ghosting his lips along your neck, “I’ve been waiting so long for you.”

Your jeans and panties are pulled down your thighs and calves until you’re completely naked and at his mercy. Your professor swallows thickly, dropping to his knees between your legs, holding them apart as he ghosts his lips over your cunt. 

“Oh (Y/N)...” he sighs, licking a languid swipe from the bottom of your slit to your clit and leaving a soft kiss over the little nub “You don’t have to cry, darling. I’m doing what’s best for you—for us.”

You whimper loudly. It seems like you’re trying to form a sentence but your lips and tongue are weighed down by the drugs. He smiles lazily and latches onto your clit, holding your hips steady as his tongue paints lazy circles over the delicate bud, sending shivers up your spine.

“I didn’t want to spring this on you, I thought that we’d have more time,” he mumbles into your now dripping pussy, “But when you told me you were to a school where I couldn’t protect you from all the filthy monkeys, I had no other choice.” 

Two of his fingers slide into your dripping cavern, thrusting back and forth slow and deep, exploring every nook and cranny of your tight cunt. Geto couldn’t wait to become familiar with it, to know by muscle memory where to touch to make you unravel. His hands travel to his own pants subconsciously as he thinks of all the ways he’ll have you—over his desk, on his bed, in the shower—he honestly didn’t care where it was as long as you were being worshiped by him and him alone.

He thinks of the students in his class—the boys who fucked different girls every night and then left without a word. Had those monkeys ever touched you? His heart sank at the thought. His poor, sweet girl, defiled by that scum. 

His blood boils as he thinks about it, fingers subconsciously pumping in and out of your cunt harder making you groan. In a way, this was the moral thing to do. Clearly you didn’t know what was right for yourself, he was just stepping in as an older, wiser man to protect you from harm. By taking you forcefully, he was saving you from the pain those other monkeys would inevitably cause you.

 He loved you. He’d cherish and take care of you until his dying breath. They wouldn’t. It might hurt you now, but eventually you’ll understand and be better off for it.

That’s what he tells himself as he lines up his cock.

You let out what he thinks is meant to be a scream, though it comes out as more of a loud groan. He smiles softly, kissing your tears away as he slowly pushes in, waiting patiently for you to adjust as he bottoms out.

“P-please…” he makes out in your cluster of mumbled whining. His heart hurts for you, it really does.

“This is good for you (Y/N). Don’t fight it. I’m gonna take care of you so well.” he groans, pulling his hips back slowly before sinking himself back into your warmth, establishing a steady, slow rhythm to get you used to the size. “You’re gonna drop out of that college for me and I’m gonna get you an even better scholarship here, alright? I know grad school is awfully expensive these days, and I can tell you from experience that untenured professors get paid nothing. It would be smart to start pinching pennies.”

He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, tangling a hand in your hair ever so gently, “Here, you have me. Your favorite Professor, right sweetheart? I want to see you succeed. I’ll give my all to you—as a teacher and a lover.” his thrusts quicken and his eyes light up with something between madness and delight as you clench around him.

“I’ll take care of everything. I have no doubt that your dissertation could be groundbreaking with the right direction. I’ll line up a nice job for you here once you graduate, and then…” his hips slow as he stares deep into your teary eyes, heart pounding in adoration, “...I think it would be cute to have two Dr. Geto’s in the Philosophy department, hm?”

Your stomach threatens to empty itself. You try to kick, scream, fight, anything but your limbs won’t work. Whatever he gave you was strong. You glare up at him, the man you once admired, and with the last of your energy, spit in his face.

Geto blinks a couple of times, hand traveling up slowly to touch the saliva dripping down his nose. As his fingers process the wetness his eyes darken, blood boiling hot at the triumphant look on your face.

“...You little bitch.”

You don’t have time to process his words before his hand is wrapped around your throat and he’s pounding into you with reckless abandon. No concern for your pleasure or comfort, only meaning to establish his control.

“You want to spit on me after I offer you everything? I could ruin your life if I wanted.” he snaps, ignoring your tears, “I’ll tell the panel tomorrow that I found out you’ve been cheating. You’re worried about grad school? You won’t even graduate.”

His lips curl up menacingly, picking up the pace as his orgasm approaches, “Don’t think you’ll sneak into another university either. The academic world is small. I have contacts just about everywhere and it would be easy for me to get them to blacklist you if I felt it was necessary.” he grunts, “Yeah, good luck paying your loans without a–fuck- job.” 

His thrusts become sporadic and he pulls out, turning your body around so that he’s jerking himself off right over your face. He lets out a low groan as he cums, face relaxed in euphoria as thick ropes spray all over your face and mix with your hot tears. 

He pants, looking down at your cum covered nose and lips. You look…pathetic. Absolutely defiled, like you’ve been bred by some kind of animal.

By a monkey.

Suguru feels a twist of guilt in his gut. Wasn’t this exactly what he promised himself he wouldn’t do? He let his emotions and desire control him—he hurt you. How was he better than any other rapist? 

It was for your own good he reminds himself. If the action is done with reason, then it’s a conscious decision. He’s not a monkey. He’s not a monkey.

He zips up his pants quietly and gathers his things.

“The drugs should wear off in about an hour, I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.” he says, unable to meet your eye, “If you show up for the presentation tomorrow I’ll take it as an acceptance of my offer. If not… well, I suppose you’ll be receiving an email from the university within the next few days.”

He leaves without another word.

---

He didn’t expect you to show up the next day, he really thought that he’d have to start preparing evidence to show the dean and other proctors, but to his surprise, you walked into the room right on time.

You were frazzled and looked like you hadn’t slept but you were there. You were accepting his love. He watched you giddily as you presented—very well, he notes, considering what happened last night. One of the other panel members nudged him and asked what was making him so happy. He just smiled replying that he was just so proud of his student.

Suguru holds the door for you as you walk out, squeezing your shoulder and congratulating you on doing such a good job before following the rest of the panel to determine the results.

After you get the good news, Suguru takes you back to his office because he has a “special present” for you.

As he spears you on his cock he thinks back to Nietzsche's words.

…Perhaps he was more monkey than he thought.

[sugurouge]

*ੈ‧₊༺ “SHE’S BEEN DANCING WITH THE DEVIL ALL NIGHT,”

— a casual night out at a party turns wild when you come face to face with a masked man.

characters: ghostface!itoshi rin (bllk) x fem!reader contents: explicit smut mdni !!! mention of drinking, unprotected p in v seggs, mutual + guided masturbation, slight oral fixation, a bit of choking, mirror seggs, dirty talk, creampie, college setting, hint of jealous!rin, swearing, reader wears a skirt

a/n: i didn't write this btw. my inner demon did. (blaming lumi for sending me that ghostface fanart of rin) 2k wc

you feel him before you can even see him.

it’s heavy and persistent, the weight of his gaze pricking the back of your neck like dry needles, except it’s making your muscles lock up tighter, not supposedly the other way around. you look around, eyes roving over the boisterous crowd and taking in the sight of some of them clad in costumes in some way or the other.

halloween had already ended, but there are people still in the festive mood, it seems.

your roommate had invited you to this huge college party at someone’s house, and with nothing to do with your time seeing as the midterms season just finished, you had agreed to come along. you thought the hang out would only consist of a few chats and drinks with friends, maybe a dance or two, the night ending with you going back home probably drunk and alone.

you just didn’t think some random guy would immediately take interest in you the minute you slid up to the makeshift bar.

reluctantly, you force yourself to focus on the conversation in front of you, barely taking in what the guy is saying. you can’t even remember what his name is and the department he’s from.

jirou… from the medic course? you think? you don’t know anymore. and frankly, you don’t care. you’re pretty sure he was flirting with you - still is, in fact. but again, you’re just not listening. not when as soon as the guy started talking, he appeared in the corner of your eye.

silent yet deadly imposing, he towers over most of the people here like he owns the place. clad in a black hoodie and equally dark pants, he looks almost out of place with those casual clothes, if not for the ghostface mask he adorns.

goosebumps prickle on your arms when you accidentally glance at the inky depths of the eyes on the mask.

“hey, you listening?” jirou’s voice takes you by surprise, and the glass of fruit gin your roommate had graciously requested for you almost slips out of your hand from your flinch, making the cold liquid inside to splash out to your hand.

“shit, sorry! i didn’t mean to startle you—“ jirou panics, but you’re already shaking your head and waving your hand off as you rise from your seat. “no, you’re good. i just - uh, i’ll be right back,” you lie through teeth.

you’d rather spend the next hour rereading the materials for your previous tests than listen to him talk for another minute, if you’re being honest. swiftly making your way to the washroom, you sigh wistfully at your lack of luck in getting a good new company tonight.

you don’t get far, unfortunately.

out of nowhere, there is a hand taking a hold on your elbow, causing you to let out a shriek as you’re being pulled into an empty room. the door closes, your back pressing against it as the culprit of said hand looms over you.

it’s the man from earlier. the one whose gaze had been burning holes in the back for your head from across the room. your body turns rigid, unnerved at the ghostface mask he’s wearing. “it’s you,” you whisper.

he doesn’t say anything, but his hand reaches up to your face, cradling your jaw with his fingers as his thumb places itself on your lip. your pulse quickens when he gently traces the seam of your mouth, pressing onto the plush cushion.

words instantly die on your tongue the moment he uses the same hand to hold yours— the one still sticky from the alcohol from earlier— and brings it to your lips. your breath hitches at the insinuation. “wh-what…”

without any warning, the masked man pushes your fingers in himself, breaching past your lips and into your mouth. a muffled sound rips out from you, one that takes both you and him by surprise.

holy shit, did you just pathetically whimper from having your own fingers shoved into your mouth? yes. yes, you did.

sweet and tangy tinges from the gin hit your tastebuds, and something inside you flares up then. the man lets out a hiss, palming his erection with his free hand when you swirl your tongue around and in between your fingers, taking them deeper into your mouth as your lashes flutter from your own action.

there’s a hushed curse, and suddenly you’re being shoved onto the bed in the middle of the room. you don’t fight it. you don’t even want to.

desire pools deep in your core, your body alighting from the sensitized nerves. you can feel yourself getting hotter, the growing wetness between your thighs making your panties feel uncomfortable to be in.

“hands and knees,” your breath stutters at the voice, pussy clenching around nothing as you move to obey his command. you’re doing something wrong, however, when he audibly clicks his tongue. “lower,” he says.

you bite down on your lip, finally understanding before you descend lower, your head laying on the bed and hips lifting in the air as you nervously fist on the sheets below you.

you feel so… exposed. vulnerable. and yet you’re so pitifully turned on you don’t know what to make of yourself.

shivering as his hands drops to your hips, he pulls your skirt further up to bare your ass for his eyes to see. he teases the hem of your soiled panties before tugging them down your thighs, cursing low under his breath at the sight of your wet, dripping cunt.

“play with yourself,” he instructs. swallowing down the nerves, you bring the fingers you’d sucked on earlier to your pussy, tentatively rubbing at your folds as more slickness seeps out from you.

you let out a small whine when you hear the clinging of his belt behind you. “faster,” he orders, and you do. your pussy clenches again, whimpering into the sheets as your fingers get more coated with your sticky wetness.

you can hear him breathing heavily, and you know he’s stroking himself at the sight of you. shoulders rigid against the bed, you desperately want to turn around, to see how he looks like, how his dick looks like.

“please…” you whisper. you almost rejoice then, when you feel the bed dips on both side, his knees appearing beside your own. “god, you’re so soaked i could just push it right in,” he groans.

and that’s what he’s planning to do.

grabbing both of your arms, he pulls you up to lean back against his chest, the soft material of his hoodie a contrast to the hard, throbbing cock against your back. the sigh you're trying to hold back feels fatally difficult after feeling the sheer size of him.

goddamn, he’s gonna make you feel so fucking full.

he rests his head beside yours, bare muscled thighs caging yours in between. “look up,” his voice enters your ears. you bring your gaze up out of mild confusion, and the gasp he elicits out of you is not just out of surprise.

right as you lift your head, he plunges his cock straight into your awaiting hole, straight away hitting the deepest part of you. what you didn’t expect however, is the mirror that sits adjacent to the bed, reflecting the obscene view of you getting railed by a ghostface from behind.

“f-fuck!” your sweet little cry causes his cock to twitch inside, a rough grunt ripping out from his throat. he barely gives you time to accommodate to his size - then again you don’t think you need any. you’re already dripping so much that his dick can easily mold your pussy to the shape of him.

“you’re so tight,” he starts thrusting in and out, cock dragging against your insides in the most delicious way. zaps of pleasure form at the base of your spine, your toes curling from the pure desire coursing through you.

“you love getting fucked like this, huh? love getting ruined by masked men?” he sneers through clenched teeth, one of his arms reaching to hold you captive by the throat and the other keeping a possessive hold around your waist.

you moan, a high-pitched and keening sound that echoes around the room. your filthy, desperate noises only grow louder when he picks up the pace, bullying his cock into your cunt just as desperately.

“pleasepleaseplease—“ you sob through the tightening of his lithe fingers around your throat, choking on the slight lack of air as his strained grunts causing you to clamp down on him.

you grip onto his forearm like it’s your lifeline, back arching as you can feel yourself getting into the precipice of your climax. the sound of skin slapping against skin bounces off the walls, the loud squelching of your pussy sending your mind into overdrive.

your eyes become heavily lidded, but you hold yourself back from closing them as you both continue to watch in the mirror, the unsettling look of the ghostface mask only adding to the tingling in your stomach.

“that’s it, baby. look at you. so pretty, so perfect,” he murmurs against your ear, clearly enjoying the debauched expression on your face, “gonna fucking destroy this pussy till you cum so hard around my cock, yeah? not even that pathetic excuse of a guy downstairs can wreck you as bad as i do,"

“yes, yes, only you, please wanna cum - mmnghfuck, please,” you slur, incoherent babbles beginning to fill your mouth as the the coil in your stomach draws taut.

he’s hitting all the right spots inside you, ones you didn’t even know existed, and the glimpse of the creamy ring around the base of his cock in the mirror from how much you’re gushing only gets you closer and closer to the edge.

his hand presses deeper into the soft dip of your waist, hints of red dents making their way onto your skin as he slams into you harder and faster. soon enough, the tightening in your gut snaps, your body trembling in his hold with a needy, wanton moan.

“so fucking good for me,” he growls, feeling your pussy squeeze down on him as he chases his impending climax. a few thrusts after and he’s stilling his hips, burying himself as deep as he can with a broken moan. warmth spills inside you, filling you to the brim as your pussy clenches down to milk him for what he’s worth.

the both of you heavily pant as you’re coming down from your high, flushed red from exhaustion and icky from the sweat through your clothes plus the bodily fluids dripping down where you two are still joined together.

your eyes, clouded and hazy, trails to the mirror in front of you. chest heaving, your mind turns dizzy as you stare at the ghostface, both of his hands slowly dropping to your hips.

one second your weight is fully leaned back against him, and the next you’re suddenly thrown onto the sheets, a depraved mewl slipping past your lips when your hole is suddenly emptied, thick globs of your mixed cum freely seeping out of your pussy.

he hovers above you, and your heartbeat quickens when he promptly reaches a hand to his face, grabbing the bottom of the mask to pull it off and toss it away.

dark ivy strands and teal eyes greet you, his hand ruffling the hair to somehow fix his disheveled appearance. “rin…” you breathe out, cheeks tinting with a darker crimson.

your eyes lock, something akin to that familiar connection you’ve always had with the striker clinks into place. “i knew it was you,” you mutter.

you knew from the very first time your eyes laid on him tonight, and you’d confirmed it when he’d first uttered a word to you.

his eyes gleam under the dim light of the room, and he closes the distance between you again as he reaches down to strip himself off the hoodie, toned chest and abdomen from all his rigorous soccer training coming into view.

“good. because i’m gonna fuck you without the mask this time,”

never posted two smuts in a row before dawg this is Not me

also not gonna elaborate on how rin even had the mask in the first place :p some ppl forced it onto him maybe (spoiler it’s bcsg)

art inspo by @/akatsuha tiktok.

©🅁🅈🄴🅂🄲🄰🄿🄰🄳🄴🅂. do not steal, translate or repost my work anywhere else !

[sugurouge]

❥ DRACULE MIHAWK X FEM!READER

❥ WORD COUNT: 2.5k

❥ WARNINGS/TAGS: knife play (and sword play), sword slicing clothes, sword against pussy, sword/knife against throat, sword to your mouth, (listen his massive sword is everywhere), some fear-play, semi-public sex, former student/master relationship, degradation, praise, some aftercare, creampie

→ Kinktober Masterlist ←

Time slows as your eyes catch the glint of a black blade. You see yourself in the mirror-finish; frightened, pressed with no escape. 

“I’m growing…tired of this little chase.” 

Cool metal kisses your chest, the heaviness of his sword lingering just above the panicked swell of your breasts. Mihawk gazes down, head tilting as he analyzes the predicament—you, back down in the filthy alley, heartbeat a sonorous tune up the spine of his blade.

“Sounds like someone is losing his edge.”

“I don’t have time for your brattiness. You’ve got quite the bounty on your head.”

He moves the massive saber lower, the trailing point curved, sharp. 

Threads begin to pop before the blade fully begins to slice through your shirt. Carbon steel stings cold against the heat of your tits. 

“I thought your precious world government would give me a pass, given that I’m,” you can’t help but suck in a quick breath as he presses down with his sword, slow, methodical, enough to hurt and not break skin, “y-your student.”

“Former student. Who is very clearly out of practice.”

“Took you two weeks to catch me.”

���Because I’m patient, sweetheart.” 

Though his patience seems to be running thin. You’ve never been on the receiving end of Yoru, the great sword only ever used when your master deemed it necessary. The weapon can cleave apart a war galleon, swing a shockwave to crumble glaciers. 

Yet now the midnight blade is gentle, precise, peeling away cloth until your breasts spill into the night air.

“Wh–what are you—?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he presses the tip of his sword to your throat, tilting your chin with the point, “you can benefit from a quick lesson.”

Your swallow rolls against the blade.

You’d be a liar if you said you’d never dreamt of this, of being at his mercy. Mihawk never crossed boundaries, not while you were his to teach. Only times change, tides shift, and now he’s taking what he wants.

He doesn’t have to tell you to be still. 

“Pretty.” He twists the wide sword flat, barely catching the hard peak of your nipple with the edge before smoothing over your skin with the blade. Your teeth grit as you shiver, trying to keep your breathing even. Mihawk repeats the motion, teasing your nipple until it hurts from the icy steel. “Sensitive, too.”

Nails scraping in the dirt, your eyes flash to the mouth of the alley, shadows passing in the street lights. 

Mihawk traces the deadly metal along the curve of your breast, so torturously pressing into the fat like he’s testing the elasticity. The blade pinches against your skin, not enough to draw blood, just enough to remind you of his meticulous control. 

Adrenaline lights up every nerve in your body as the weapon drags down, a stinging line drawn to your stomach. One wrong move and he could slice you open. Just a single squirm and the heavy sword would pierce skin, impale your insides on the most powerful sword on the four seas.

“Mi-Mihawk, please.” The tremble in your voice is a white flag waving.

“What are you begging for?” There’s a twitch at the corner of his sharp mustache, a smile, self-satisfied and impish. He presses the blade into the softness of your belly, prodding you, teasing. 

“Don’t hurt me, please, I-I’ll—”

“Do anything?” he cuts in, the smile shimmering up to his eyes, concentric rings focusing on how your thighs press together. Hot, needy, all the fight in you draining to one vulnerable point. 

“I won’t hurt you,” the promise comes with a shift of his sword, roaming lower, “just want to play with my catch.”

You try to concentrate on anything other than the weight of danger. A low breeze kicks against the crimson of his cape, mud and dust caking the hem. Yellow haze of distant street lamps reflects off his chest, sweat beading in the grooves of muscle—from the chase or his focus, you can’t tell. He looks a bit older than you remember, all the more wiser on how to play.

“Why?”

“Because I can,” he knocks his boot against your ankle, kicking your legs apart, “because I want to.”

Your tongue feels thick in your mouth. The world has shrunk to just you, the sword toying at the juncture of your thighs, and its wielder—nothing else matters. Not the voices in the distance, the hard dirt against your back, the thoughts you had prior to falling prey. 

It’s a surreal feeling of being caught between moments, between life and the fucked up desire to feel more of the crucifix sword against you. 

“Always guessed you were hiding a pretty cunt. Let’s see if I’m right.” 

The blade sinks between your open legs, knife’s-edge dragging along the seam of your pants. Unhurried, simmering like heat slicing through butter. 

Fear kicks in your chest, rings in your ears. He’s so close to the most sensitive part of you, the sword you always admired cutting through your panties. Cold steel like ice against your weeping flesh—you feel strings of your slick glide against the blade as he exposes you. 

You whimper as your bare cunt is spread delicately, the tip of the steel peeling apart your labia.

“Messy already.”

The precision he wields paralyzes you, the razor edge of the blade brushing against your swollen clit. Pleasure sings down your veins like the pinging of metal, chills erupting over your skin. You squeeze your eyes shut and will your body to stay still, for your hips not to buck. 

Mihawk teases your clit again, and again, swirling the sharp sword over the sensitive bundle of nerves. You choke back a sob, muscles in your thighs twitching as you try to stay calm as he riles you.

“Now what if I…?” he asks himself, the deep baritone of his voice laced with curiosity. 

You gasp as the black blade dips lower, curved point teasing your clenching hole. On instinct your legs try to close, stopped only by his quick reaction. His boot kicks at your knee, hissing like you’re ruining his concentration. 

“Easy, sweetheart. I don’t want to make this pretty pussy bleed.”

Patient as ever, he gives you a few moments to collect yourself, lungs taking in too much air. 

Then the sharpness of his sword pressed back into the squish of your cunt, tip barely easing open your hole like he’s testing, analyzing. A too curious predator prodding his meal. 

“Fuck, please…” you bite from between your teeth, clumping dirt in your palms as you fight not to move, fight the fear bubbling inside your belly. 

“Do you know what you’re begging for yet?” 

“Touch me. Please. I-I need something inside me.”

Mihawk circles your opening, spreading wet muscle, “Tempting words.” 

“You know what I mean.”

The blade skims up from your hole, passing through your folds, flicking over your clit with a metallic ping. 

“Clean your mess first,” the giant blade gleams as he so easily moves it over your panting body, bringing the tip to hover just above your lips, “then I’ll consider fucking you.”

Your eyes meet his, the shape of the sword going fuzzy in your vision as you evaluate him. Golden eyes are glazed over with lustful focus, watching, waiting. 

You don’t break your gaze as your tongue falls from your mouth, licking the underside of the blade. Tangy slick, viscous and gooey, meets your tastebuds. You’d be ashamed of your mess if it weren’t for the way his cock bulges in his pants, thick length throbbing down his thigh. 

In all your years of training, he never once let you touch Yoru. And now he’s flipping the edge over your tongue, washing the jet-black color in your spit.

“Does this please you, Master?” you drop the name like acid against the blade. 

“I could cut out your tongue.” He proves his point by digging the great sword into your wet flesh, just enough to hurt. He wouldn’t. But oh how he could. “If I didn’t have better uses for it in mind.”

Careful patience snaps. In a blur, the blade is gone, replaced by strong hands maneuvering how he pleases. A jerk and you’re off the ground, a push and your exposed tits are scraping a brick wall. 

Mihawk fingers the hole he sliced between your thighs, pant seams ripping farther apart as he spreads your thighs wide. 

His cockhead pops into your cunt, length sliding in deep as he groans against your back. 

“So wet from my sword.”

Spearing into the most intimate parts of you, Mihawk sets a grueling pace, heady slaps of skin on skin and his thick cock dragging along your walls. He’s working towards a goal, purposeful, kissing the back of your neck as he seeks release.

Your hands slide down the granulated wall, gritty brick digging into soft skin. Your nipples are puffy against the same treatment, tender breasts singing with pain. 

“Should’ve,” he inhales with a deep groan, distracted by the suck of your cunt, “known you were such a slut, should’ve made you beg for me sooner.”

You moan his name repeatedly, begging him not to stop, all hot whispers into night air. One hand dips around your body, deft fingers smearing over your clit. Orgasm quickly begins to bloom over your senses, making your toes curl and your back arch against him.

You stare at the ground as Mihawk continues to pump inside you, helplessly whining as he chases his high. You’re fine tuned to every thrust, the way he angles, enough to notice the little inconsistencies. A more shallow plunge, a longer pull of your walls along his shaft before his balls meet your ass. 

A hand latches to your throat, lifts your head and forces you back against him. He sucks at your neck, teeth nipping harder than his blade ever touched your skin. His cock swells at the new angle, pressing apart your gummy walls. Over and over he thrusts up into you, slick squelching from the intrusion, dripping down his balls. 

Mihawk fucks you through the gap he cut into your pants, seams now tearing down your thighs. 

“This how you want me to turn you in? Fucked open and dripping like a whore?”

Before you can register the movements, Mihawk unsheathes the knife that hangs from his neck, pressing it to the column of your throat. 

The soft scratch of his beard meets your cheek as the cold metal of the knife skates up your sweating skin. 

“Perhaps I can make you even more messy, hm? Since you get off on this shit.”

Your heartbeat pounds in your neck as you try to tilt away from the blade. Yet some part of you wants to press closer, feel the sharp edge dig into your vulnerable throat. Mihawk’s thumb pets the steel, purposefully keeping it steady as he grinds into your cunt.

“Fuck, fuck!” you choke down a whine.

“Worried? I could slice you open now— your bounty is dead or alive.” 

The realization of the true danger makes you weak, hands slipping down the wall. He could. He might. It would make it so much easier. Fuck you, gut you, take the prize. 

“P-please, don’t. Please. I’ll go with you, you can do whatever you want.”

Mihawk hums in a twisted pleasure, the sound snaking down your spine. The knife blade twists against your skin, tugging you closer to him. 

“Let me feel this slutty cunt cum, then I’ll decide.” 

A war breaks open in your mind, a battle between fear and ecstasy, swirling together into a messy battlefield that leaves you in a state of limbo. Neither side can win, not when you want both so badly. The fear makes you sweat, the bliss makes your pussy cream around the fat cock that keeps invading your insides. 

You’re overwhelmed, panting and whimpering as your former master uses his power and strength to control you in ways you never thought possible. 

The curved, sharp edge of the knife slides down your throat, resting at the base as Mihawk drives his hips harder, jostling you closer and closer to danger. 

And the danger is the spark in your belly, igniting the churning coil of shameful bliss that makes you want to sob. The fingers on your clit pick up pace, rubbing fast and mean until you feel too hot. 

“Oh god, please, please, I wanna cum, wanna cum so bad for you,” you grit your teeth as you focus on the blinding pleasure, chasing it up the cliff’s edge. 

“Do it,” Mihawk groans as he licks up your cheek, arching the blade at the base of your throat, “cum for me, sweetheart.” 

He holds the knife tightly to your neck as you come undone, the metal warm from your body. Your moan vibrates against the steel, sharp edge scraping until it hurts. The pain bleeds into pleasure, a wicked mixture that makes your adrenaline filled nerves explode with your orgasm. You feel like you’ve been smashed into by a tidal wave, a rush of emotions and bliss toiling over another in the current. 

You babble against the blade, nonsense and pleas. Mihawk follows your flow, pausing his thrusts as your cunt sucks around him. His fingers against your clit go soft, gentle swirls as you wind down from your high. 

“Shhh, I’ve got you, yeah,” he hums with delight as his cock begins to pulse and spurt, pearly strings dripping from where he’s plugged inside your pussy. The mess sprays into your ruined clothes, drools down your thighs.

Mihawk drags the knife over your throat, languid, smearing against the wetness of sweat. He traces the column of your neck, letting you feel the flat of the blade stinging over your skin. 

“You did good, sweetheart, so good.” 

After the knife is sheathed around his neck, he leans forward to trail kisses over your throat, tongue laving over the sore skin rubbed raw from the edge of his blade. 

Your heart is racing, pussy still tight with fear as he pulls his shaft from your swollen walls. 

Mihawk pulls you from the bricks and into his arms, petting your hair as your face tucks into his chest. 

“You feeling alright?” A kiss to your forehead makes you coo, nails digging into him.

“Yeah. Yeah,” you clear your throat, “I’m okay. Guess I’m going with you now.” 

A rare laugh rumbles in his chest. Smooth and soft, like a cat purring to soothe. 

“Yes, you are. But we’re going home. You clearly need more training, after all.” 

You still feel a little numb, arousal and adrenaline still buzzing down your veins. Mihawk brushes his thumbs over your cheeks, down your back, then steps away to pull his coat from his shoulders to wrap around yours. 

“And now I have much more…creative ideas for teaching you how to wield a sword.”

[sugurouge]

cannot stop hating and doubting everything i write, so i will continue to shit post and reblog fics 🙆🏻‍♀️

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HMMMKAKEA HAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH ITS FINISHED IM NOT OKAY IM NOT OKAY

waking up to seeing blade and me drawn by puri is like the best early christmas present i could've gotten myself ;-;

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i finally have narcissa hair 😭🤟🏼

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PLEASE how much longer must we waitttt

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hi :’)

AAAAA MY WAIF MY ONE TRUE LOVE

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y’all… u dont understand how much writing in the tags of someone’s creation means to them.. whether it’s fanart, a graphic, fanfic..,, there’s a 99% chance that person looks through their tags and a single opinionated comment in the tags can rlly brighten their day it’s just a rlly wonderful thing to see

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GUYS LOOK AT THE LITTLE CHEEKY SLY FOX THAT HE IS!! i didn't get around to sharing it until now and just kept it as a little treasure for myself. but let me finally show off another beautiful, perfect comm done by @sucodelauranja !! i love your art so freaking much, i can't wait to come back for more in 2025 <3 thank you again for bringing my little vision to life and all your kindness! i truly adore and admire you

[sugurouge]

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

[sugurouge]

! 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐟𝐭. 𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚

+ synopsis. you should’ve known better when you reached out to your ex 1 year after your break up to get your stuff back, especially when the both of you have so many unresolved feelings. of course discussions are bound to get heated very quickly, and getting pressed up against the wall was definitely not according to plan

+ cw. no curse au, kabedon, light angst, lots of reminiscing, ex! sukuna, he’s incredibly lovesick and jealous, you and your ‘new guy’ are broken up but he doesn’t know that (yet), lots of pent up frustrations, hatefucking, wall sex, cunnilingus, standing prone bone (?), biting, pet names (babe), making up, creampie, soft ending, 2,100+ words, MDNI

+ aki's note. this is part of @ficsforgaza's kinktober event (again, tysm for letting me join uwu). this is my first time writing sukuna this way and I’m ngl I kinda dig it!! thank you so much for the request @unheavenlypacked and for being so patient <3 ++ I know I went over the word count too but I couldn’t help it :’) hope you like it!!!

+ masterlists. general ┆ jjk ┆ kinktober ┆ ffg kinktober

In hindsight, maybe you should’ve just accepted his offer to drop off your things. After all, it has been a year. You’re almost certain he’s already moved on by now. But you were very particular about not wanting him to go through the trouble, even if he says it’s no big deal.

You should have thought this through.

He opens the door to the apartment you once shared, and you realize a mental note would have to suffice for now. Because of course he just has to be shirtless like he usually is whenever he stays home, body decorated with black intricate lines stretching and scattered everywhere. And you mean everywhere, including places only you and very few others are acquainted with.

He’s as pretty as ever.

To top it all off, he wears that all-too-familiar scowl that frequented his face whatever the emotion — whether he’s happy, sad, angry, or even horny. Something you’ve always found endearing.

You huff a heavy sigh when you realize the last time you saw each other, you were at each other’s throats. A quick mental pinch reminds you what you’re here to do and what you’re not here to do.

You know they lay of the land, you know where everything should be. There’s absolutely no need to delay things. You take one step to the open space to his side.

“If you’ll excu—”

An arm blocks your way and cuts your words off.

“Do you have to?” He lowers his head, face inching closer to yours.

You refuse to meet his gaze, eyes dead fixed on his taut muscles instead. This doesn’t help your case at all. You’re reminded of how much you used to run your fingers across every dip and mound, you’ve practically mapped his body like he’s done with yours.

“It’s about time.” You shift your gaze to the concrete wall before you start to get deeper into your thoughts. “Don’t you think?”

Sukuna clicks his tongue, clenching his fist before dropping his arm, finally letting you pass. He runs his fingers through his hair in defeat, something he usually does out of frustration.

“Suit yourself.”

…

You rummage through what used to be your side of the closet, shocked to find he’d kept all your things tidy. Like you never left.

“Find everything?” He comes up behind you close enough, you’re certain you’ll bump into him and areas you shouldn’t be. He runs his knuckles along the small of your back, a sense of hesitation in his touch sending shivers down your spine. Even now, this man has very little regard for personal space.

“Almost.” You lightly twist your body, enough to make him withdraw his hand.

Sukuna leans on the edge of the closet as he watches you empty out your belongings.

“So this new guy…” He gestures to the air. “Jo… Joso— what’s his face—”

“Choso,” you correct him. Your brows furrow upon realizing one of your shirts is nowhere to be found.

“Yeah, whatever,” Sukuna snickers. “How’s— uh… how’s that coming along?”

“You really care to know?”

“Fuck no.” Sukuna answers hard and fast, almost spitting to the air.

“Then don’t ask.”

Suddenly, you think to reach behind one of the neatly folded stack of clothes, and you hear him cuss under his breath. And lo and behold, you find your old, worn out, fitted shirt - one that used to make him absolutely go crazy when you wear it.

“Wonder how this ended up there?” Hooked on your finger, you wave the garment around while a guilty Sukuna looks away.

“Fuck.” He clicks his tongue, mumbling. “Can’t even imagine you wearing that in front of him.”

“Wha—” You jolt back, taken aback by his words. “Why do you even care?”

“You seriously going to ask?!”

You blink in disbelief, unable to wrap your head around what you’re hearing.

“You seemed to have no problem when I left, where was this attitude back then?!”

Sukuna jaws clench, taking a deep breath as he throws his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s clearly holding himself back. Slowly, he draws near you, looking into your eyes straight on.

“You told me you fucking needed space.” His voice is low but he emphasizes his words. “But…” His eyes dart to your lips and you don’t miss the way he licks his. “I didn’t ask you to go fuck someone else after 2 whole fucking months!”

“So it’s my fault now?” Your heartbeat thumps against your ribcage as he inches closer and closer to you. “You think I’m gonna sit back after 2 whole fucking months of radio silence?!”

“No!”

“So, then what did you expect me to do?!”

You subconsciously take a step back for every step he takes forward until your back hits the wall.

“I didn’t mean for any of that to happen! I—”

“You what?!”

“Fuck!” he cusses, and the last thing you see is the fist he throws back before you close your eyes and flinch. After that, you hear a thump over your head.

Your eyes flutter open to the sight of him looming over you, arm propped above your head, face just inches away from yours.

His chest heaves.

His eyes are fuming.

And the space is suddenly non existent.

He kisses you so fervently, as if a whole year without you has been torture and your lips are the remedy.

You want to scream at him, pull away and make him pay for what he’s done. The skin on your knuckles thin from how hard you’ve balled them into fists.

You press your knuckles flat against his abdomen, trying pushing him away. But the second your skin meets his, your hands flutter open, roaming his body as you instantly melt into his kiss. It’s ridiculous. This is ridiculous. It’s like you hadn’t just been on a rampage telling him what a big ass he is for how he treated you.

Your hands instinctively try to cup his face but are quickly caught by his, pinning them above your head.

Sukuna pulls away, making you whine at the abrupt separation. Your eyes are drawn to his lips like a moth to a flame. They look shiny from the kiss, and you try to lean forward but he’s got you nailed to the wall.

“Are you being serious right now?” You utter, putting a dirty smirk on his face. “Let me go!” You try to wriggle free off his hold. “Need to wipe that fucking smile off your face.”

Sukuna scoffs. He uses one hand to hold both of yours in place while he cups your chin, thumb glossing over your lower lip.

He takes a deep breath, smug dropping as he scans your face. “I’ve missed you.”

Those words hit the final nail in your coffin. At this point, you know there’s no turning back.

Before you get to answer back, he turns you around, cheek and chest flat up against the wall, entwining his fingers as he presses both your hands on either side of you.

Sukuna grunts, burying his face into your hair as he grinds his erection on your ass.

“Gonna make you forget all about him.”

“Actually, we’re not—” Sukuna doesn’t let you finish, capturing your lips once more.

He lifts your shirt above your tits, smiling in the kiss upon finding you bare underneath. Then he works your pants, pulling them down to your knees, locking your movements.

You hear him shuffling on his knees. You try to turn around but he stops you dead in your tracks. “Keep those fucking hands on the wall.”

Sukuna spreads your ass cheeks open before letting out a hot huff on your pussy. He draws a stripe on your slippery slit, and a moan escapes from your lips.

A soft, wet muscle flicks wonders on your clit, a sensation you’ve missed over the course of a year. You try your hardest not to break but he’s got you so weak in the knees with how good he licks your pussy.

“Sh-it!” You whine. Sukuna sucks your clit and buries his nose in your entrance, making you hold onto the wall for dear life.

A thumb enters your pussy, curling and hooking inside you as his tongue fiddles with your sensitive bud, and at this point you’re a crying mess. He pumps your pussy with two digits as his tongue flicks your clit so fast, you start shaking in your high, doing your best not to fall over.

“Fffuck, Sukuna!”

“God, I’ve missed that sound.”

You catch your breath. The familiar sound of his belt shuffling plays in the background. His pants drop to the floor and you feel his cock spring on your ass.

His wet tip leaves a trace of slick on your ass. His knuckles run up and down your ass as he pumps his cock behind you.

“Oh!” You flinch, mouth forming an ‘o’ and Sukuna chuckles, catching you off guard when he gathers slick from your pussy to lube his cock.

Head ducked, you press your forehead on the wall in your anticipation, feeling your hot breath fan your face as it hits the wall. You’d forgotten how big he is — jaw dropping when just the head of his cock stretches your pussy wide open.

“Sukuna, please— fuck!” Right on cue, his cock slides into you with ease, making you mewl like a kitty.

“Missed your tight pussy, babe.” Sukuna groans as he bottoms out, hand cupping and kneading your tit while he peppers kisses on your shoulder. “Fuck, babe, I’ve missed you.”

“S’kuna~” You tilt your head back and rest on his shoulder, humming his name in a tune that just scratches the itch in his heart and on his cock. “F-fuck me!”

He picks up the pace, practically ramming your body into the wall. His cock feels so good, stretching you out in ways no one’s ever been able to since you broke up. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss this — Sukuna whispering the nastiest nothings in your ear, mouth always preoccupied with yours, your tits, your skin, every part of you, fucking you like it’s always the first time.

“Say my name, babe. Fuck! I’ve missed you so fucking bad.” A hand finds your clit and rubs hard and fast and sloppy circles till you’re creaming on his cock.

“Sukuna! Don’t stop— ffuuck!” Your heart beats out of your chest as he fucks your high. Tears prickle your eyes and you’re reminded of a familiar euphoria — one you’d so painfully missed all year long without his company.

You feel a mix of pain and pleasure when teeth sink into your shoulder. You run your fingers through his hair, grabbing hold of his locks when he fucks you so deep his balls start to stick to your pussy. He releases a low grunt, shoving his cock into you a couple pumps more till he starts to fill your insides.

When his cock slides out of you, and his cum begins to drip from your pussy down to your legs, the realization hits the both of you of whatever the fuck just happened.

“I—” Sukuna breaks the silence, “I want you back. Please? Come back to me.”

You turn around seeing his pleading eyes. You weren’t even sure that was ever possible.

Sukuna waits for an answer, but you kiss him instead of giving him one.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” You wrap your arms around his waist, his softening cock pressing against you.

He lets out a low chuckle, corners of his lips upturned as he pulls you closer to him.

“Also, he and I… we’ve broken up months ago.”

The look on his face is priceless. He definitely feels cheated but that slowly turns into relief.

“You idiot. You could’ve told me that sooner.”

“Sorry.”

“Do me a favor,” he mutters. “Wear that shirt for me, please?”

In hindsight, it was a good idea to do this after all. You’ve got your stuff back, and your boyfriend. Plus it’s back to fucking like bunnies for an entire week straight.

pspsps. reblogs and comments are appreciated ♥︎