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His voice is thunder.
An eruption of rage, raw as the first sin, as he watches youβwatches the way your eyes, foolish and trembling, flicker toward another.
“Do you think I don’t see you?”
He stands before you, wings unfurled in a halo of searing light, the mockery of an angel. Archangel Sukuna, the one sent to protect you from damnation, is the very entity who brings it upon you. But even now, even as you quake beneath his gaze, you feel the weight of another presenceβGojo Satoru. The demon who lingers at your periphery, his shadow curling at the edges of your existence.
Sukuna sneers.
The idea of your attentionβyour thoughts, your breath, your gazeβstraying toward the contract demon is intolerable.
His fingers close around your throat, forcing your head back so you are forced to drink in his fury, the blood-red glow of his four eyes burning through your very soul. The air is thick with something unholy, something that strips you raw, leaves your body screaming for escape even as he presses into you, his form a paradox of divine wrath and carnal hunger.
“You are mine,” he growls, his lips grazing your ear, his teeth sharper than any mortalβs. “A guardian angel only protects what belongs to him.”
You try to speakβto deny, to begβbut the breath leaves your lungs when he presses you against the altar behind you, his strength immeasurable, his body a prison of muscle and malice. The celestial gold of his markings gleam, veins pulsing with divine ire as he strips you down, as he carves possession into your very flesh with every bruising touch.
Your struggles are an insult.
He forces you open, fingers pushing into you, stretching, violating, sanctifying in his own perverse way. “This is where your devotion should lie,” he murmurs, the mockery of a prayer as his grip bruises your thighs, spreading them further apart. “Not in him. Never in him.”
He doesnβt wait. He doesnβt give you time to prepare, to deny, to plead. He thrusts into you, a brutal snap of his hips that shatters your resistance, that drags a choked cry from your lips. His cock stretches you beyond reason, beyond mercy, and his laughter is cruelβmocking your body’s unwilling acceptance, the way you tighten around him despite the violation.
“Feel that?” His breath is fire against your cheek, his fingers tangled in your hair as he pulls your head back, forcing your eyes to meet his. “Thatβs me. That’s what you’ll remember every time you dare to look at him.”
He fucks you like heβs etching his existence into your bones, punishing, merciless. Each thrust drives his name into the very fabric of your soul, branding you in ways no contract ever could.
And when he finally stills, when his warmth floods you in a vicious claim, you knowβ
You are his.
And there will never be salvation.
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