#tramua

Jason: *kidnapped him*. Oh? who pushed you off?

Tim; myself

Jason:

Tim:

Jason: *calling bat man*. Take your child back-

` ♬ PRIVATE LESSONS

A/N: I just want to lowkey write something, and since everyone lowkey making every single jjk guy like into a random scenario or different au's. I lowkey just want to do something with whiplash, and my orchestra trauma. A fun fact about me, I was in orchestra, and I played the cello for 8 years, and it was my living nightmare being in that class and playing the instrument. Like it was BAD, I was literally being humiliated and had to play multiple times BY MYSELF in front OF EVERYONE. So, yeah also it just triggered something in me, since I saw a post from @sweethearticism, from her post of the Sukuna ballerina au, and I like orchestra, ballet, basically synonymous with each other.

WARNING: blood, finger injury, cursing, physical abuse, violence (throwing things), coercion, dacryphillia, hands being compared to meat (ngl I got nauseous while writing this), sadism, p in v, heavy smut, long fic, this obviously more bastardized version ay, and misuse of a cello.

PAIRING: Conductor! Sukuna x Reader

WORD COUNTER: 6.1k

The warm lights hit your body while your eyes were scanning the music in front of you. Arrangements of notes from short eighth notes to whole notes littering across the pages, your fingers were on autopilot playing each and every note.

Your fingers are moving down and up the fingerboard, extending your pinky fingers towards G sharp. The lights buzzed like dying insects, while they cast a dark shadow. You sat up towards the edge of the chair, the brown, mahogany cello was between your thighs. Your thighs started to ache from your thighs clenching against, you would probably have bruises and indents on your thighs. The cello rested against your body; the mere warmth of your body temperature was a contrast to the cool, wooden mahogany.

"Shit..." you muttered to yourself, another note word, another mistake. You felt your thumb pressed harder against the backside of the fingerboard, with indents on your fingers from the bow. You bit down on your lip in pure concentration. Your eyes flickering toward each bouncing note, as your foot tapped itself against the ground, keeping tempo.

It was another of HIS arrangements, hard music, hard notes to shift to, first position to seventh position. It's Ryomen concerto, and of course, it was in the key of E, with so many codas you couldn't even flip the music fast enough to keep up with the crescendo from measure forty-eight to sixty.

Your eyes were hazy with sleep, but your hands were already moving, each string pressing against your fingers, littering them with indents from how much pressure you applied. You swore you could feel him near you, which made you anxious and nervous.

You looked ahead of every note as your fingers pressed harder against the metal strings. You could imagine him in front of you, the entire menace, all six-foot-four of him, wearing one of those tailored black button-downs rolled towards his elbow, revealing his forearms inked with jagged tattoos; he always looked like he was already looking down at you.

Made you sick to your stomach. Each step you took as you entered the hall made you more anxious. He was a conductor, a reason, a masterpiece at making music, perfect, a master of his work. He is a god in the music world and an executioner of hope and dreams. Just another of Dante's warnings, He is an inferno, He is a god, He is a demon, He is a living reincarnation of satan, he is what YOU want to be.

He is a nightmare, your living nightmare, every person, who is cultured with classic music wanted to be in his elite orchestra. It made you wonder about your first time playing with him as conductor.

"Again," He snarled, his voice low, while he just stared at you. You felt your body in flight or fight mode, the screw of the bow partially stabbing into your thigh. Before you could notice, he was circling you slowly, like a predator to its prey, ready to sink its teeth into a small animal, but the small animal was YOU.

You can hear those very same shoes clicking against the wooden floors, scuffing the floorboards. You felt the stares from the rest of the ensemble on you, from the violins, violas, and basses. All of them staring at you, waiting.

Was it your punishment, your very own solo?

"C'mon, I thought you wanted your own solo, you said you forgot there was a rest in the measure, hm?" He muttered, now he was right beside you.

A solo for forgetting the single rest, it was humiliation. You felt your face heating up in embarrassment. You moved your fingers against the fingerboard, first position, your bow in another. You were trembling, the string digging itself into the calluses of your fingers, from endless repetition, tiny wells of blood dripping into the steel strings.

You were playing a piece, a bastardized arrangement of Shostakovich Concerto No.1, arranged and changed by the one and only Ryomen Sukuna.

There was no mercy for wrong notes, no room for sorries, no room to stop. You glanced at him, his eyes were like blood, staring into your e/c ones. You inhaled, pressing the bow against the steel strings, bow poised, and began playing.

The beginning whole note of B sharp spilling out, the low resonance of the cello rumbling out of the f-holes. Your left hand is pressing two fingers against the G string, down to the fourth position to E. Your hands are dancing along the neck of the instruments, index pressing on A, middle shifting towards the D, and a vibrato.

Your fingers pressing against the note were tight, but as you played, your pinky flipped, accidental extend fourth finger.

You played a G sharp instead of a natural G.

Everyone could hear it, a sour note, it didn't fit into the music, didn't make sense in the music, it was UGLY, DISCORDANT,

A MISTAKE.

Sukuna's hand shot faster than you could realize the mistake you had made, his palm against your left hand, hard, painful, it was deliberate.

You felt the sting, your skin getting hot. You wanted to cry, embarrassment filling your body, your throat clenched down on itself. You were trying not to cry, no, not in front of him.

"Did you hear that?" He questioned; he was in front of you, staring down at you. Watching every expression that crossed your face, your glazed eyes, while you tried not to cry.

"Pathetic," He hissed, his hand gripping your music stand. There was a look of disdain that crossed his face when he looked at you. He took your hand forcefully, fingers clamping against yours, forcing them back into position; his grip was bruising.

It didn't make it better, with the calluses against your fingertips.

"Play the notes, again," He commaneded, he was closer now, his bigger hands pressing your fingers down on the fingerboard, his eyes not leaving your anxious, scared one. His grip was iron, thumbs digging into the meat of your hands.

You obliged and played each note while he forced your fingers to play them properly. It hurt, hurt badly, you felt your fingers cutting against the steel. The pressure against the steel, being stained in fresh crimson, blood. He purposely smeared each droplet of blood against the fingerboard until it was coated in red.

You bit back a yelp, an 'ow', your teeth biting against themselves, as you moved your right hand, playing the notes. You felt humiliated. He was moving your hands like a puppet, your bow drawing against the strings, steady and long bows.

The shift came, and you didn't make it in time.

wrong.

too slow.

The note was flattened before the fifth measure ended. The sound hung in the air; it was like a gunshot.

You felt yourself shaking, your breathing getting heavy. You looked up, and he was already glaring at you; no, it was worse than a glare.

It was hate, like you wasted his time. He didn't just slap, but yanked the cello from you, ripping it from your thighs. He had the neck of the cello with one massive hand; his other hand seized your wrist, twisting it back in a lock, which made your upper arm pang in pain.

"Are you stupid, or just dumb?"

"...What?" You mumbled, your voice was laced with fear.

"Do you think you belong here? In my very own fucking orchestra. I've had students who'd rather chew glass and cut themselves than play like this. You play pathetically, look at you... so fucking weak."

He finally released you, only to snatch the bow from your other hand. Just a vicious flick, purposely dragging the tip across your left knuckles. It was enough to reopen some splits, making you bleed more. The humiliation was worse than pain, worse than getting punched in the stomach. You could still feel eyes on you, some amused, some in fear, some with pity for you.

You felt those fucking tears pricking against the corners of your eyes, before you could actually feel them, you blinked, some slipping down your cheek.

You heard something being thrown, wood crashing against the floorboards. He threw your bow, beyond the music stand, into the shadows of darkness. The entire ensemble was silent; there wasn't any rustling of sheet music, no shifting, nothing, just eyes on your humiliation.

The low hum of the lights, as you felt the wet drips of your fresh wound hitting the polished wood. His shadow swallowed you whole. He loomed closer, "Are you crying?" he asked. Your eyes widened as you tried to widen your eyes, but he already saw you.

"Are you serious? How old are you that you are crying?" He sneers, grabbing your hand in that very iron grip. "Eyes on the fucking music," He barked, "From the top of the coda, measure forty-eight, and if I hear that fucking G natural isn't crystal clear, you can pack up and leave."

He released your hand, your hand was already ruined with calluses, and already wounded. He pushed the cello back into your grip, and your eyes looked at the discarded bow.

But your attention was brought back to him, already with a new bow, rosining the new bow, before throwing it back to you. You fliched, as you caught it in your grips.

"Play," He demanded again, his arms crossed.

You forced the new bow against the string. The low B-sharp whole note played again, then your left hand danced against the neck again. Your index on the A string, middle shifted on D, and pinky stretching toward the extended fourth.

The sound of a foot tapped erratically against the floor, keeping the tempo of the music,

Allegro.

Fast.

Lively.

With life, how ironic.

You played, trying to not cry. The words running through your head, 'Don't cry, not here at least.'

You finished with that very note, of G natural.

Perfect, you looked up at him, and he had already uncrossed his arms, the black fabric rolled up over his taut muscles, his blood eyes never leaving you.

He stepped back and nodded.

"Everyone, beginning of measure twenty, everyone better fucking play it properly," He ordered, looking at you before making his way back to the raised podium.

But now, you are alone, by yourself, flipping through the music sheets on the music stand. Jotting notes to yourself,

Red ink scrapping itself against the white pages, frantic notes in the margins, 'SHIFT CLEAN FROM THIRD POSITION TO SIXTH POSITION' you wrote it in roman numerals.

Highlighting the sudden shifts and tempo changes, which are frequent throughout the measures. The yellow highlights scratching across the tempo changes, this piece was a minefield, each note or rhythm that goes askew just blows up the whole ensemble.

Your foot tapping erratically againist the floorboard, trying to keep the constant allegro, even as exhaustion made your eyes heavy with sleep. Your brain refused, even as sleep tried to tugged you.

'Just one more run through,' that's what you told yourself.

'Get it right before he makes you play tomorrow. Don't give him another reason to—'

The heavy oak double door creaked open, and you were snapped out of your thoughts. Your head snapped towards the doors, your eyes dilated back in fear,

anxious.

It was HIM, all of him. With that very predatory glaze, but now his pink hair was pushed back, and some strands had fallen loose. His cold, bloody eyes lock onto yours. The corners of his mouth twitched; it wasn't a smile,

mockery.

He was clapping as he walked down the empty aisle. Each clap echoed through the empty hall, like a gunshot.

Each slow. deliberate, mocking clap made you feel anxious, made you want to run,

Run and hide somewhere else.

"Bravo," he drawled, voice dripping with amusement, his own sick amusement. "You managed to finish one of the measures without crying. How nice," He said, then smirked at you.

You froze, your bow hovering over the strings. Your e/c eyes watching him, your heart beating against your ribs, trying to rip itself out of your chest. You were fracturing under his sadistic stare,

He walked up the side stairs, the sound of his shoes clicking against the scuffed wood. He circled around you once again, slow and deliberate. He stopped in front of your chair. You felt his shadow swallow you whole, even under the fluorescent lights.

"Again," he commanded, his arms crossing over his broad chest. "From that very measure. This time... I want to hear the full section and make sure the shifts are clean. Full bow, no more of that whimper shit."

You swallowed hard, nodding to his words. Your fingers ached as you positioned them on the fingerboard, your index on the A string, already in the first position. Your bow was already against the string as you played.

The chord rang out, low and rumbling, then fell to a docile sound. Your left hand was already sliding down the fingerboard, first to fourth, you hissed quietly. You felt the wells opening themselves up, as blood welled up instantly, slicking the fingerboard in your blood, making every slide slippery.

Your thighs clenched against the mahogany wood, the edge digging into your soft flesh.

Measure twenty-six. The shift came too slow, the note flattening itself into a natural, just slightly. Nobody would have been able to detect it, but HIM.

He would, and he did. His hand was already out, hitting your palm like a whip. The pain spread throughout your hand; the impact was vicious and strong.

"Wrong," he snarled, "Again..."

You barely have time to recover before he forcefully took your hand, tilting your wrist, and forcing your fingers into the exact position, pressing down with his own strength.

His thumb is digging into the meat of your hand, making your fingers dig into the strings, grinding into it. Fresh blood smearing against the steel strings, and droplets landing against the sleek mahogany wood.

"You know you're being pathetic, right?" he hissed, leaning closer to you. The cello acted as your protective guard. You looked up into his eyes, "Look at yourself... messy, bleeding, all over my instrument again. Were you crying? Do you think tears will make me soft? Do you think your pain and tears are an excuse for your shitty fingerings?"

His degrading words burned worse than the injuries on your fingers. You felt familiar tears pricking against your waterline. You blink them back in fury, "Sorry..." you mumbled out.

"I don't fuck about your sorry, get it right," He slams down the music table in front of you, making you flinch.

"Faster," he barked, "Music isn't just pretty little melodies, it's blood, sweat, and tears. That's what I want to hear."

You felt your breathing coming in raggedly. Your hands were getting sweaty again, your foot tapping against the floor, as you played.

The piece was made for blood and sacrifice, your sacrifice.

When you finally reached the end, without the sour note. Your hands trembled violently as you hissed in pain from the salty sweat entering the open wounds. Your hands looked like meat, swollen, lacerated, and finlamed.

The pain ranged constantly through you.

He looked at you, stepping back. He clapped, your own abysmal work, being complimented by him, through mocking claps.

"Small improvements, marginal," he said. It sounded like he didn't mean it at all. "But you keep on playing like a frightened child. You're quivering like your cello is about to break in your grips."

He moved again, closer towards you. One large hand reached open, grabbing your chin, tilting your face up until he saw your full face. His thumb smeared the streak of your own blood across your cheek, and lower his thumb across your lips.

"Again," he ordered, voice low.

"From measure twenty. This time, if I see you cry, I'll make sure tomorrow you play by yourself, now play my little cellist."

You lifted the bow with shaking fingers, the wood already slick with your dried blood.

And you played again.

While he watched you in pain, his smirk never leaving his lips as your blood kept staining the instrument.

It's been four hours, four fucking hours. You were on the brink of insanity, your bow arm was tired, and it was dropping like dead weight. The wood, already slick with a fresh coat of your sacrifices, blood, and rosin, stained the lower strings.

The G natural rang out, no sour notes, no flattened bullshit that was supposed to be notes. Your left hand throbbed with open wounds; it looked like your hand had reached the butcher block. Fingers swollen, calluses split. There were still bits and patches of crimson oozing out of the gashes.

His gaze still on you, he didn't clap; maybe he was tired.

You doubt it; he just gave you a nod, curt, dismissive. He stepped down from the raised platform.

"That's enough for tonight," he said, "Pack it up. Hall's closing in ten"

You nodded, already grabbing the neck of the cello, and you hissed in pain from the grip. Already, walking back,

"And Y/N..."

You turned, "If I see any blood on the wooden floor, I'll make you lick that shit up, am I understood?"

You nodded, your chest heaved. Your shirt was practically drenched in sweat, your lips bitten raw. You were exhausted, just tired. You didn't trust your voice to respond, sliding the bow from the music stand.

4:27 am, that's what the digital clock read. It was ironic that the rest of the world was sleeping, while only you were here. Your shoes scuffing the floors, the buzzing fixtures are only being the witness of your abuse.

You walked on shaky legs, your thighs screaming from hours of clenching around the cello, you knew bruises were problaby stain your soft flesh. The instrument felt heavy in your hands. You pulled the endpin back into the instrument, the rockstop already in your hands.

You loosened the hair of the bow and slid into the velvet-lined compartment, then zipped the rockstop. You put in the cello first, and then rosin, cracked, and overuse into the pouch with the rockstop.

You slipped the sheet music into the folder. Your hands were useless; you just bit your lip and zipped up the body fully, hissing at the contact. The final zip echoed through the halls.

You were finally done. No more, no more of the reincarnation of Satan, himself mocking you. No more of him looking at you in disdain, at least for now.

You stood up, hauling the cello case onto your back, walking back towards the stage. He didn't move; he just leaned against the raised platform, and he still had that mocking grin on his face.

You straightened, "Done," you muttered, your voice hoarse. You began to descend down the staircase of the stage, "...No, you're not, my little cellist."

You paused, turning around to him. He was looking at you, probably could right through you.

You watched as he pushed off the podium and went down the stairs. His footsteps were unhurried, already closed in the distance quicker than you could even think with your tired brain.

But your heart was slammed against your chest, and confusion flickered over your face. "What... do you mean?" you rasped,

"You said... the hall's closing. I packed up. I—"

He just cuts you off with a chuckle, the sound made your stomach drop. His free hand came up, cupping your chin. "First chair," he said simply. Your eyes widened.

First chair.

First chair in Sukuna's orchestra, that... more than anything. It was a golden ticket, the kind of opportunity and recognition that can do wonders for anyone with a music career.

"The empty seat at the front of the string section. The same exact one that every little prodigy wants in this conservatory, probably kill for it, my personal attention every single fucking day."

The exact chair that is closest to the conductor gets the solos, RECOGITION.

Your eyes widened, you looked at his face, was this just a cruel joke, a lie? You couldn't believe it, not one bit, coming from him, right now, felt like a trap.

Felt like you were signing your life away, already surrounded by inferno. "I... I don't understand," you stammered out, "After tonight? After I fucked up the shifts, and... I have cried in front of everyone—"

"Exactly, because of tonight," he interrupted you, stepping closer to you, until you felt him, felt his body heat radiating against your body. His chest brushes against yours, forcing you to look up at him.

"Are you serious?" You asked, your brow furrowed. "Would you think I would joke about something like this. Tell me, my little cellist, would anyone in this orchestra bleed for me like you did? You kept playing even with your hand looking all fucked up, taking humiliation. That kind of desperation is rare." His smirk widened, and you still looked at him, watching every cruel expression pass his face,

"But first chair... is important. You do know that?" He asked,

You nodded frantically, "Y..yes, I do."

"Private audition. Tomorrow night. My place," Sukuna said, watching the way your tired eyes widened, his thumb dragging your blood-streaked jaw, pressing hard enough to reopen the wound. "You'll show up, and I'll see if you're worth sitting in the first chair."

That was the last thing he said to you before leaving. The heavy oak doors clicked behind him. You stood frozen there, still trying to break what he said down to yourself. The cello case was digging into your shoulders; you blinked.

You looked down at your fingers, battered up, bloody, and bruised. You noted you would need bandages for them, but

Private audition.

Tomorrow night.

His apartment.

The words looped around your tired brain, like a broken coda. First chair, golden seat, golden opportunity. One that every prodigy wants, would sell their souls for, recognition, being one of Sukuna's personal, unrelenting attention every day from him.

The price, you knew it wasn't playing any of this bastardized music, maybe a blood-soaked rehearsal, but the way he touched your lips made your stomach drop.

Those reddish eyes staring into yours, devouring your fear, the way you trembled when he yelled at you.

You didn't sleep when you got to your place, couldn't, barely ate either. Your brain was hyper-focused on what would happen. You stared at the ceiling of your dorm, fingers already wrapped in fresh gauze. You looked at your hands, and it was already red.

By 9 PM, you were already there. Already standing outside of his place, it's a quiet place, better than the shit-hole you stayed at. Upscale part of the city, makes sense, he's an infamous arranger and composer.

The cello case was already digging into your face, you cleaned yourself up, less sweaty than before, and more confident. But your e/c was still shadowed with exhaustion and fear.

You raised your fist to knock on the door of his penthouse, but the door was already open.

He filled the frame, dressed in his singular button-downs.

Informal, no podium, no yelling, just him. You looked at him; his hair was already tousled, and his own eyes were raking your appearance.

"You're late," he flatly said, stepping aside just enough for you to squeeze past. His apartment was probably something that you would have guessed, minimalistic, dark wood floor, floor-to-ceiling window, and a grand piano in the corner, it was dominating the living space.

Your eyes looked over, and snapped at a single area.

Black chair, and music stand already set up, and a single cello, his. You realized, guessed you didn't need to bring yours. You set the case against the wall with a wince. When you unzipped the case, your hand was shaking and aching.

"I...I'm sorry... the train—"

"I don't care, save it." He cut you off, circling behind you while you lifted the cello. You felt his hand heavy on your shoulder, thumb pressing against the bruise on your shoulder, where the neck leaned against.

"You won't be using your cello, you'll be using mine. ...Also, strip the gauze. I want to see your sacrifices for me."

Your breath hitched, but you obeyed, hissing as you peeled the bandages off. The sight of your battered hands made your stomach twitch. Raw, torn open by constant dedication.

"Good girl," he murmured, was the praise mockier, or genuine, you didn't care, you just wanted to get it over with.

"Now sit. Play the full Ryomen Concerto from the top. No sheet music. From memory. And if you make a mistake..." His hand slid down your arm, fingers wrapping around your ruined left wrist, "I'll consider this audition a fail, and kick you out, okay."

Your lip quivered before you nodded.

"Good," He said, pulling up another black chair and sitting right in front of you.

You sat down on the black chair, his cello leaning against your sternum, as you held your bow. Your thighs were already aching as they clenched around the warm mahogany body, which felt heavier.

The wood cool against your skin. The instrument was probably of higher quality and expensive. You took a breath, positioned the bow lower on the neck, and began.

The opening B sharp rumbled out, resonating through the instrument as you played. Your left hand moved from countless hours of memorization of the music. Your index is already on the A, shifting toward D sharp, and your pinky is stretching to the extensions. The notes poured out of the instrument, gritty, dark, just a bastard of music.

He watched every single movement; his gaze burned into you.

You made it through the pages, your brain hyper-focused on every note and rhythm. But then he moved, you felt his hand on your left knee, pushing it wider.

The cello's curved body pressed harder against your clothed cunt, the edge grinning subtly into you. You faltered for a moment but focused, almost a sour note.

You hit measure one-twenty, his finger trailed higher, up against your thigh. His hand slipped under the hem of your pants. His fingers are brushing against the damp fabric of your panties.

"Pathetic," he drawled. He was amused. You were already wet, wet from his cruelty, wet from humiliation. "You must be really desperate for first chair, aren't you?"

You felt his thick fingers push your panties to the side as he slid his digits into you. The stretched burned, you gasped. Your bow jerked slightly. But you forced it back into position, next was third to sixth position, towards the G sharp.

Sukuna curled his finger deeper into you, pumping slowly at first, faster, matching the tempo of the concerto. The vibrations from the cello are buzzing through your body, against your clit. The blood from your hand is already welling up, smearing blood against the strings.

"Faster," he commanded, his thumb finding your clit, pressing down on it. "Make the crescendo mean something, something in your pathetic life."

You played through them, notes turning frantic and raw. You felt tears already forming, you blinked them back. Feeling that familiar pleasure coiling in your belly,

Unwanted.

Overwhelming, with pain and pleasure, a pure juxtaposition of each other.

You reached the coda, back to measure ninety. The shifts again, your pinky started to tremble on the extension, but his finger never stopped, thrusting deeper, scissoring, curling into that spot that made you see white.

The music stayed perfect, each note played and registered.

Until the very last note, the final ring of the chord off the c string. Your pinky landed on G sharp. He smirked, shoving his third finger into you. The stretch was brutal, thumb still on your clit. His freed hand shot out and deliberately nudged your pinky just enough to flatten the note.

SOUR, UGLY, MISTAKE.

It sounded like a gunshot; it was a string that broke the camel's back. You froze, the chord still vibrating off the string, your chest heaving. Your cunt clenching helplessly around his thick fingers.

"Failed"

That he simply said, taking his finger out of you, while it clenched around nothing. "Wait— that wasn't fair— you—"

He cut you off with a low chuckle, standing up fully, towering over you. "One mistake, just at the end. After all the perfect sound...You let me ruin it."

You wanted to cry, you felt tears already forming, and your throat felt like it was closing on itself. He fisted your hair, yanking your head back. "...You moved my finger, you—"

He just laughed in your face again, his grip hurt, the sting in your scalp mixed with your life, all your life's hard work crashing down around you. "Fair?" he sneered, leaning down until his face was inches from yours,

"You think any of this fair? You have bled for me. You have cried in front of the entire ensemble, like a weak, desperate vermin. And now you're sitting here, my fingers just in pussy, while you play my music— you are really pathetic." His freed hand, hand covered in your slick, thumb pressing against the soft flesh of your cheek. "One single mistake, that's all it took, hm. How sad"

He released his grip from your hair, yanking the neck of the cello with one hand, leaning against the wall.

"Get up. Strip," he ordered, his voice dropped an octave. "Everything off. Now. Or I'll just rip it off myself, make sure how the whole ensemble knows how you got first chair."

Your head slammed against your ribs, that part of your brain that wasn't fractured from concerto triggered you. This wasn't about music anymore, was it even to begin with?

The golden seat and attention. It was a trap, a trap that you walked right into, bleeding and wet for the devil himself.

You looked at him, hesitating, trembling on the black chair. Your thighs pressed together, and as time passed, his patience snapped.

Already grabbing onto the hem of your top, ripping it upward in one brutal motion. The fabric tore as he yanked it off you; your chest was exposed to the open, cool air. His hands already made quick work with your pants and panties, already off in one motion. You were completely nude in front of him, body on display.

He examines you, drinking you in with his eyes, "Just look at you. First chair prodigy, reduced to this—naked, dripping down your thighs because your conductor finger-fucked you while you played." His cruel tone made it worse, salt to the wound.

The humiliation burned through your body; maybe it was the mix of your ruined hands and his attention on you. The cool wood pressed against your bare ass. He kicked your legs wider apart, exposing your soaked pussy.

"No more playing," he growled, already unbuttoning his black shirt, slowly. Already revealing his built figure, his tattoos running through his body, and his abs. "You failed the audition... so, you're going to earn it, the only way a weak, pathetic, little progidy you can."

When he freed his cock from his pants, made you stop thinking. It was thick, heavy, and already leaking from the pink tip. The sheer size of it made you sick, as your pussy clenched around nothing. Sukuna fisted the base of his cock, coating himself in your slick, and the faint traces of your blood smeared all over.

"Beg for it," he ordered, slapping the head of the cock against your cheek, making you flinch. Your cheek just heated up, "Beg for first chair, like a desperate whore you are."

Tears slipped down your cheeks, mixing with the smeared blood and slick on your face, "P-please Sukuna.. please just fuck me.... I need it."

He didn't wait, already grabbing your hips, cocking it up. In one brutal force, he slammed into you, stealing your breath.

The stretch was worse than you thought, your velvet walls stretched open around his thick ock. Your ruined hands flew up againist his chest, only leaving smears of your blood on his skin.

He didn't care, just fueled him with cruelty. He laughed, bottoming out with a wet slap against your hips, his heavy balls smacking into you. "Fuck— that's it," he growled, "Tight little pussy, just swallowing him, look at you, desperate little whore." He muttered, thrusting his hips into you, forcing a gasp out of you.

He didn't care if you didn't adjust to his size, his hips snapping back, and drove forward again. The black chair creaked beneath you, your breast bouncing at every thrust. Your mouth fell open, with broken moans and sobs. Every single brutal snap just sends jolts through your body, hand still against his cheek. Blood from the gashes just bleeding against him.

The mix of pain, desperation, and hope blurred into a sick, coiled thing that bloomed in your belly. Tears were already streaming down your cheeks as you gasped. "S-sukuna— ah— too s'much" you cried out,

"Too much?" He laughed in your face, one hand fisting your hair, yanking you up, forcing you to look at him. "You bled for hours on a stupid instrument. Let me finger you while you played, but now, you want to complain when I finally get to fuck you."

Every word burned through your skin, as he puntacted very single word, grinding his hips against yours, making your toes curl. "Take it. Take every fuckin' inch, if you're desperate for that spot."

He shifted your hips, angling them as he hooked your bruised thighs. Licking and leaving bites right on your bruise, while he drove his cock deeper into you, bullying that sensitive spot.

The coil in your stomach snapped, feeling a sharp pleasure coursing through your body, your walls spasming, and gushing around him. Your sobs leaving your lips, he groaned at your pussy clenching around him.

He fucked you straight through your rushing orgasm, hips snapping harder, as he chased his own release while you trembled beneath him. "Such a fuckin' good girl for me," he mocked, "God, you so fucking easy."

He yanked you off the chair, spinning you around, bending you over the seat. Your chest pressing against the black chair, already thrusting back into you, making you scream. The new angle just made you sensitive, his big hand slapping against your clit.

"Again," he ordered, the same words he used, abused in rehearsal, you cracked. Your vision blurred with tears and stars. Your pussy pulsing and squirting around him, before your legs gave out.

He held you by your hair, pounding into you with relentless force, with a guttural growl, he buried himself to the hilt, and came into you hard.

Thick, hot ropes of cum flood deep into you. You moan at the sensation, filling you until it's too much and starts leaking out of you.

Once he pulled out with a wet sound, the filthy mixture of cum, blood, and slick stained your bruised thighs. Your hand still throbbed, blood on the chair.

Your breathing was heavy as you leaned against the chair.

You felt his shadow over you, already tucking his soft dick into his pants. He just looked down at your ruined body. "First chair is yours," he said flatly, "Starting tomorrow. But don't think this was a one-time thing."

He fisted your hair once again to tilt your tear-stained face. "Private lessons, every single night," He whispered into your ear. Your eyes widened before he released his grip.

"Clean up your mess. Then get out. Tomorrow night, same time. Don't be late this time," He muttered. You simply nodded.

You stayed slumped against the chair, long after the door clicked shut behind him.

The chair was yours, first seat. The price was paid, your soul given to the very demon of a conductor.

But he only started collecting.

Now, it was a year later— you were standing out of your seat, watching the full crowd, applauding.

A standing ovation just for you, countless claps echoing through the conservatory was profound. Your eyes watched as they clapped, you turned to your right.

HE was watching you, clapping for you. Was it mockery, no, was he impressive.. you rather not know, you looked back.

Your cello in your right and your bow in your left, you took your bow, you receding your standing ovation.

HE was right, blood and tears, countless hours, and sacrifice.

You have already crossed into the fiery, pits of inferno… with your sacrifice received. A sacrifice is just a needless, fleeting thing that is needed to be remove for the human being to ascended

For you, it was need.

Your sound is no longer wimpy, no longer pathetic, desperate or like a church mouse. It is brash, loud, with a bite in each measure,

You were the personification of sforzando, a single dynamic, and the storm was yet to cross over.

But you would do it again,

Even if it for HIM to look at you, to have his attention wholeheartedly in your hands.

As you stood up from your chair, still in your position as FIRST CHAIR.

— ❦.

Bon The Rabbit & OC

***TW: BLOOD & LIGHT GORE***

This took me almost thirteen hours 😭

I think this is good enough though because I don’t think I can go on.

please don’t let this flop 🥀🥀

Update: I LIVE (barely)

Series: Trouble in Hawkins

Paring: Steve Harrington x OFC Henderson! Billy Hargrove x OFC Henderson!

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: language, heartbroken, death

˖ ݁˖ MASTERLIST ˖ ݁ ݁˖

Stepping outside, they see the men Hopper called finally arrived so some men go to the group to check on them. After getting some assistant, Skylar sat with Max and Robin, as two of them held ice packs to where they needed them. With no words being spoken, Max and Skylar held hands with their free ones leaning on each other.

Once Steve gets finished getting looked at by paramedics he makes his way over to where Skylar was sitting. As soon as their eyes locked, he quickens his pace till he stops in front of her. Letting go of Max's hand, Skylar wraps her arms around his neck as he pulls her up and holds her close to him.

Seeing over his shoulder a bit she sees Joyce hugging Will crying as she notices El looking for Hopper. Right away, Skylar notices El start to cry so she lets go of Steve rushing over to comfort her, "No." She cries into Skylar's chest as she rubs El's back.

"That's not cop like!" Painting

Finally some dogman angst! I'm quite happy with this one