Unpunishable

you didn’t react; despite the discomfort, you simply couldn’t. tonight was the opening for a brand you’ve dreamed of walking for. the dream got closer, it hovered over your head into space, you could feel its heat, yet your fingers trembled trying to catch a glimpse of it.

your stomach bubbled with nerves, tight and restless. each breath you took mimicked a shallow gasp that seemed to echo off the walls around you. your fingers were damp with sweat clutching your phone in your hand, the rectangular shape felt heavier than its weight suggested. when it vibrated against your palm with a frequency that matched the thudding of your heart, you unlocked it. a message from your boyfriend, satoru gojo, the heir to an empire of generational wealth and class glowed in stark white letters.

‘i’m sorry, i don’t think we’re going to work out.’

the reflection of the screen glinted in your eyes, catching the tears beginning to pool at the corners of your eyes, turning them into shards of glass, sharp enough to slice. your fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling, manicured nails tapping on the screen, typing and erasing, typing again before hitting send.

the little bubble turned green. your message did not go through, remaining unsent to him.

you locked your phone and let it slip from your grasp with the screen facing your lap. your expression twisted, a faint unnoticeable scowl tugged at the left corner of your mouth. your eyes stung, a hot sting that you itched to blink away, but you couldn’t. your breath hitched. you wondered if anyone noticed, perhaps no one did, or maybe they did. only to reduce it to nothing because it does not matter.

a finger lifted your chin without warning. a brush was brought to your lips and lightly tapped a burnt red color at the center of your lips. the spray, setting powder, expensive fragrances, a random guy bringing your gown, your assistant clutching her clipboard and screaming right at your makeup artist and hairstylist to hurry up because you only had 40 minutes for final fittings and last minute dress touchups.

you wanted to scream. to rip off the satin pink robe you were wearing, break everything and run away forever. run as far as you can until your name meant nothing.

but instead, you sat still, observing the reflection in the mirror, staring back at you as if to mock you. you breathed in and out. in. out. in, out again.

you couldn’t afford big feelings and throwing tantrums. not now. you just made it to the top. people were watching you closely more than ever. you couldn’t let your feelings slip into the runway, one misstep, one visible crack in the façade and the industry would discard you like last season’s collection.

you sat, endured your hair being tugged and brushed. you endured the brushes tickling your nose and your cheekbones. the chaos swelled outside, frantic rustle of dresses on hangers, models thumping on the floor with last minute practice.

after the makeup artist and the hairstylist declared that they were done you hurried to your changing room and slipped into your dress, a crew of three people helped you into the fabric, lace sliding up to press against your body. white lace gloves slipped onto your hands, tightening around your wrists and climbing up to embrace your arms. a matching lace blindfold was secured and pinned into your hair, just above the nape of your neck.

your hair was styled, the pins dug into your skull but it’s fine, you can manage it. you can handle it, you always do. your makeup was done, your cheekbones pink and glowing, your face pale and smooth with white setting powder. your outfit was being cut and pulled tight enough to hurt.

the pain was clean and sharp.

“shoes,” someone says. the heels are too high. they always are, and you always step into them.

“are you ready?”

you don’t answer, you only walk forward. the runway welcomes you with blinding white lights, coming down on you like waterfalls, harsh and fast. the violent strum of the violins tore through the silence. cold wind from the industrial fans hurled over your body like an avalanche. you inhaled through your nose, holding your breath in for a brief moment before exhaling, breath coming out shaky and weak.

you walked in, your face empty of any emotion. the audience stared with hunger, admiration, eyes sharp and predatory not because you wanted them to, but because you taught them how to, how to worship the perfection you embroidered through triumph. cameras followed you, shuttering and clicking in unison, recording every step you took, every dip of your shoulders perfectly timed.

you moved like liquid spilling over, one foot deliberately placed in front of the other, hips swaying with the rhythm of the violins. your chest pushed forward caged by the cruel, unforgiving corset squeezing the air out of your lungs. you taught your eyes to smile, despite being covered, projecting perfection when the world demanded.

in that moment you belonged to no one. not to the house, not to satoru, not to yourself. nothing belonged. not even your expressions, or your walk, or your outfit, even your body did not belong to you.

you did not think of the crowd devouring you, or the gasps of air you took. you most certainly did not think of satoru.

you were no longer a person here, you were an introduction. a billboard. a cover on a magazine. a walking object to set everything in motion, to hypnotize and ignite curiosity and greed within the audience.

the fabric of your dress whipped in the air, you looked clean, sharp, presentable. you looked like an image to consume.

when you made it to the end of the runway, you turned exactly as rehearsed and instructed. the fabric moved perfectly. your hair splashed innocently. your skin glowed beautifully. critiques took notes. your hair remained neat despite the wind. your lips parted ever so slightly, a tiny, calculated opening for the camera and the audience. the look lands as it was intended to.

you posed, you turned. posed again, turned. posed once more and turned around. you walked again, each step calculated and perfect. people looked for imperfections, for slight shifts in attitude, for any mistake that could cost you your career. phones and cameras recorded you, not even caring about what you thought of being recorded and taken pictures of.

for a fraction of a second, you felt nothing at all as you disappeared back into the shadows behind the stage. the opening was over. you had the audience under your spell. girls looked at you, some with envy in their eyes, some with adoration. hands reached to touch you, removing the fabric off your eyes.

your gaze observed your surroundings, standing still like a deer caught in headlights, not because you’re brave, but because moving feels impossible. your entire emotional edifice stood supported by a pin ready to bend and break. you noticed some girls dusting white powder off the tips of their noses, their faces drained of color and cheeks hollow. they all looked the same, long legs, eyes emotionless and feet swollen from walking shows after shows after shows the way you had before. you managed to breathe steadily once the tight corset was loosened, you made it back to your little private room the house has provided for you. your assistant followed, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

your heels scraped against the floor as you dropped to your knees, the dress still clinging to your body, the gloves limp in your hands. tears started to flow out of your eyes before you could even acknowledge them. your hand clutched at your heaving chest. quiet sobs came out, your heart that had been beating to the rhythm of applause now mourned a loss you cannot accept.

this was your purpose. to present, to look perfect and contained. it was your purpose to cry behind closed doors, to only let your emotions stream once the curtains were shut and the lights were out. your assistant stood behind, busying herself with collecting your things while you sobbed. it wasn’t her place to console you. she couldn’t hold you, comfort you, whisper that it’s going to be okay because it wasn’t her place to do said thing. the only thing she could do is listen to your quiet sobs and keep it all to herself, stacked in a box to hide from the public.

she offered you a box of tissues only after your tears had dried. you used the tissues to wipe the black streaks of mascara and eyeshadow off your face. staring at the gray smudge of your own misery on the white paper. she left you alone with yourself and your thoughts. the door shutting behind her echoed through the empty space.

satoru left you, vanishing from your life with a cold message. your friends stopped checking in with you after you got too occupied with work and fame. the only person who had been your anchor left and is no longer coming back.

you reached into the bag your assistant neatly packed, pulling out your phone. its glossy surface seemed to reflect a different version of you. bare, cracked, trembling. you unlocked it and dialed his number, it did not even ring before directing you to voicemail.

“satoru…” your voice, hoarse from crying, filled the empty room. “i don’t understand what happened, or what i did wrong, but i promise - if you - if — i could explain and —” your sobs cut you off mid sentence, coming out in a raw and broken sound that swallowed your words. you sat your phone down, voicemail still recording your desperate cries. “i’m sorry i - i don’t know what i did - please — don’t leave,” you hiccupped between each desperate sentence. you weren’t sure whether the voicemail will be heard or not, yet that didn’t stop you from sending multiple voicemails, desperately pleading him for something, anything.

you got out of your dress pretty soon and stood in front of the mirror in the little dressing room. you stared at your bare breasts, then your face, noticing how your eyes were bloodshot red, mascara smudged, hair askew and body trembling. you couldn’t hide it, no photoshop, makeup or luxury could hide what you feel inside. nothing could mask the frustration you harbored inside.

you felt more hollow than any hollow eyed mannequin wrapped in expensive fabrics.

in a fast motion you grabbed a white prada dress and lifted it over your head, not caring to fix your makeup or your hair. from your purse you grabbed a pair of expensive sunglasses, and secured them on your face. the black lenses covered your eyes thus sealing away what the public should not see. you aren’t meant to blend; you’re only meant to define. you’re meant to be the standard by which fashion, beauty, trends and perfection are measured. you looked in the mirror one last time, hands smoothing the wrinkles on your dress and fixing your hair.

even through the tinted shades, you couldn’t help but flinch at the strong flashing lights of the photographers and paparazzi’s cameras hitting your face. you pushed through a swarm of buzzing heads and hungry tongues. “how was the energy backstage?” a reporter held his microphone thrusting it forward, “how did you prepare yourself for a moment like this?” another chirped, “how did you feel guiding the water to the stream?” a third asked, his eyes glittered with the hope of a headline to break through. they mostly demanded you to pose, to smile, to present for the next article. you did exactly what they asked, feeding their greed.

you answered each question with practiced poise, rehearsed smiles and curated sound bites. each word you uttered was another thread in the tapestry they’ll stitch into their next article.

with your high heels clicking against the pavement, a sharp question pierced through the hum of the dialogue. “was there any tension between you and claire given your past feud?” you ignored the question, keeping your eyes forward, striding toward the open door of the black car waiting to whisk you away. settling down and getting comfortable on the cushion seat, door sliding shut, the realization hit you: no matter how many cameras flash, no matter how many magazines crown you, you will never be human in their eyes. you are an object for the fashion industry, an object to shape, move and display however they want.

your assistant trailed behind you like a lost puppy, slinking into the front seat next to the chauffeur.

staring outside the window your eyes followed the raindrops trailing down the glass. with each drop a memory of satoru came, wondering what you could’ve done wrong, contemplating on what made him make this final decision. it wasn’t new to you. your life has always been like this, shaped by choices others made for you.

a metallic taste settled on your tongue, bitter and cold. the car pulled up at the hotel, its light glowing among the neon lights of the street. you stepped out, your footsteps echoing in the lobby to claim the key to your room. your assistant lingered at the entrance leaving her to manage the chaos by herself. you were only staying for two nights before it was time to go back to your country.

inside the room, you tossed your heels by the edge of the bed with a soft thud. long forgotten sunglasses on your head landed on the quilt.

you climbed under the blankets, pulling the duvet over your head as if it might shield you from the world outside. the night stretched, endless and quiet, but your mind refused to settle. after hours of tossing and turning, you grabbed your phone from your purse and logged into your social media account, the feed greeted you with a tidal wave of reactions, hate comments, sharp criticism and a handful of comments from your fanbase clapping back at all the hate and harassment.

scrolling further you stumbled across a post by an unfamiliar username, sukuna, announcing the release of his album.

curiosity flickered to life, intrigued by the cover of the album you exited the app and opened spotify, typed “sukuna” into the search bar. the first track popped up titled “oh, babydoll”. the melody washed over you, guitar, slow drums, piano. an aggressive beat mixed with his voice and the sweet lyrics. on impulse, you returned to twitter and tapped the follow button on his page. the little icon changed its color, indicating you’re now a part of his digital orbit.

sleep finally pulled you under, the world outside dimmed as the early morning sun crept over the horizon. when you woke the first thing you did was check if there were any notifications from satoru. instead, there were only notifications from emails advertising new jewelry collections, a lovingly crafted message from your mother praising you for how you looked on the cover of vogue magazine and surprisingly, from sukuna not only following you back but also following your instagram as well.

your heart jolted with excitement. you quickly opened instagram and followed back. the excitement felt childish and strange in a way. it wasn’t a campaign, it wasn’t a partnership either. it was just a human reaching out to another human.

you sat on the edge of the bed, soft sheets cool against your warm skin, thumb scrolling through his page, zooming in and out on his pictures, liking a couple of them.

the meeting room was too cold, glass walled and overlooking the city which looked better from afar than up close. sukuna’s team had already arranged the table, tablets laid out, folders aligned, coffee cold and untouched.

sukuna sat legs spread, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, thumb moving up and down on his phone going through your page. every post was an ad. editorial. campaigns. one photograph framed closer to your face, lips apart, a muted light red cream bullet pressed on your lower lip. another, older picture of you stamped with “VOGUE” across the top. from the runway to your heart, printed neatly above your name.

sukuna tapped his foot against the ground, once, twice.

his manager cleared his throat. “the numbers are exceptional,” he started, “we’re not suggesting a scandal is imminent. but the pace is fast.”

sukuna lifted his gaze just enough to acknowledge his manager, then his eyes snapped back to his phone.

“PR dating works,” the publicist added, casual, rehearsed. a tablet slid across the table. “here’s a list of people we believe would be suitable.”

sukuna locked his phone, placed it next to him, and grabbed the tablet. he scrolled without enthusiasm.

an influencer, lips too big, features exaggerated and fake past believability, a selfie queen whose filters have erased any trace of realism.

a model, tall, long legs and pale skin, hair dramatic and bleached — reputation frayed within the industry.

an actress with controversy posed as mystique.

he exhaled, massaging his temples, and dragged a hand over his face. he handed the publicist back the tablet and reached for his phone.

“her,” the word landed flat and demanding.

“i want her.” the publicist leaned forward instinctively when sukuna shoved the phone into his face.

“she’s not on the-”

“i’m aware.” sukuna cut him off, eyes shooting back to the screen. “i still want her. we already follow each other on social media,”

“that’s a coincidence, not a strategy,” his manager interjected, as if his opinion had been solicited.

“things happen, dude,”

the publicist cracked his fingers. “what if she refuses?”

“she won’t,” he said.

“we will be in touch with the lawyer and her agency.”

when your flight landed you were oblivious to the events unfolding behind closed doors, your assistant informed you about a sudden, urgent meeting with your agency the following morning. by noon you sat in front of your team. the makeup from the morning had long since faded, leaving your cheeks raw and slightly pink.

the meeting room was adorned with framed pictures of your most iconic shoots, your agents, your publicist and your manager sat across from each other gazing at you. your assistant stood by the door, close enough to be available not close enough to interfere.

you crossed your legs and placed your hands one on top of the other on your knees.

“we are here to inform you about an upcoming arrangement,” your publicist began, his tone smooth as silk, “a PR opportunity, short term and carefully structured.” you blinked your eyes. “it’s beneficial, given your recent breakup, it’s in your best interests to keep up appearances.”

“a… PR relationship?” your voice was small, part of you disappointed in yourself that the public knows about your relationship, but of course they would find out sooner or later. what else did you expect? you swallowed the lump in your throat. “who is it?”

your publicist and your agent exchanged a brief glance. “it’s someone already well established, a rising star. you already have some digital overlap, you follow each other. it makes the narrative organic.”

your stomach turned and you dug your nails into your palm. you did follow a few celebrities out of admiration, it wasn’t rare.

“what — what if i refu–”

“you simply can’t.” your agent said, as if the decision had already been made. “it’s beneficial for you,”

after a brief back and forth between your agents and your publicist you were handed the documents to sign. a stack of glossy contracts. six months. for the public to watch. boundaries applied, physical contact only mandatory in public. renewals at mutual discretion. in the corner his name was signed.

you clutched the pen between your fingers, its weight familiar. your manicured nails tapped on the pen. it was soft, quick, swift. the ink bled from the pen in loops. your perfected signature from endless days of practice and signing contracts written on paper.

it was done. to your agency it was a strategic win, to you it was a prison door closing behind you. you stood up and walked out of the office without a glance, your high heels clicked against the polished floor, the echo a metronome of resignation.

your assistant trailed behind you.

in the elevator your assistant offered tissues, not because you needed them, but because you might need them. you watched the numbers as they decreased and clutched the tissue in your hand.

© 2026 @angelicwhispersofsin. plagiarism is not allowed. i do not consent to my work being translated, reposted on other platforms and fed to AI.

sukuna’s breath brushed against your neck, making you feel a ticklish sensation that caused you to squirm in your sleep. sukuna let out a soft laugh, his lips brushing against the throbbing vein on your neck. “i’m gon’make ya feel amazing, sweetheart. you’re going to love this, gonna feel s’good” his words slurred out. then, he pulled his hand back and moved it down his body, giving himself a gentle squeeze, palming himself through his boxers before freeing his girth. he spat into his palm and rubbed it along his cock, covering his erection in a slick layer of saliva. He took a deep breath and pumped himself up once, twice, three. with each pump, the speed picks up. his member stood angry and proud, the swollen red mushroomy tip shining softly in the dim glow of the moon.

he tugged at your underwear, pulling it to the side. he shifted to the side and, as he spread your petals apart, he aligned his cock with your entrance gently forcing himself into the tight space. he winced at how snug it felt. your velvety walls wrapped around him, wrapping him up in your warm embrace. your eyebrows furrowed together, and your lips parted ajar as he settled in.

you let out soft gasps and moans as sukuna relished in the warmth from your body. He eagerly moved closer, craving the pleasure you were giving him. you were so vulnerable, so innocent, and so fragile. his moved his hips slowly, wanting to handle you with ease and tenderness. his his own selfish desires took over, and he began to thrust hard against you, moving back and forth craving more of you. his cock strikes your sweet spot, touching your gummy area with the tip of his cock. making you jolt in your sleep. “you’re so adorable,” he said with a sigh, reaching out to gently push your bangs away from your forehead and tuck them behind your ears. “such a wonderful girl, my girl, my beautiful sleepy angel. mine,” he chucked softly, his tone filled with venomous desire while gently rocking his hips back and forth.

he typically lasts longer because he has better control. maybe it was the effect of the alcohol on him. after having a rough day, all he wanted was a little escape. sukuna felt like he was exploiting you in this vulnerable state. yet, if he spoke the truth? he wasn’t bothered at all. he just couldn’t bring himself to care about how you were feeling right now. he claimed he would make you feel better, but that was just a little fib. he only wanted to feel good himself. he needed to relieve himself, so he began to move in and out of you forcefully. “you’re so filthy so fuckin’ gross and disgusting!" he growled, “lettin’ me use you like this,” one arm cradled your chest while his hand gently kneaded against the soft flesh of your perky tits. his other hand held your soft and warm cheeks. “fuckin’ slut lettin’ me use you f’my own nee-needs. hah,” he spoke in slurred words, voice cracking as your walls gripped him in place like its the most normal thing ever. gripping him like it’s your nature.

“s-suchafuckin’ whore - my sweet angel - mphgg,”

sukuna normally has a lot of endurance, but as he felt the coil and warmth building in his lower belly, he let out a soft whimper next to your ear. he felt like his body was being engulfed in flames. he hated it. don’t get him wrong now. he loved your warmth and the nice way you engulfed him. yet, he hated how fast it all had to end. he began to move forcefully and rapidly, his chest rising and falling rapidly, diving in with intense energy. to his dismay, you began to make gentle moans, quiet gasps, and lovely melodic sounds. it didn’t help at all. your sweetness was pushing him over the edge. he tilted your face to meet his, he twisted your neck to the side and pressed his lips against yours, savoring your soft, and pump lips. it was like religion. drinking up your sweet sounds like a god holds his devoted followers’ prayers while they beg on their knees for their selfish desires.

at that moment, sukuna didn’t see himself as any superior to those weak and selfish individuals who only turn to their god when they need something for themselves. to him, you were like a god, and he was merely a devoted follower wanting nothing more than to fulfill his greed. at this moment, in this place, you were the only god sukuna could rush to.

sukunas cock pulsated inside of you as your walls instinctively tightened around him, milking him for all he has for you.

“so good, hah - yeahheh… jus’ like that,” He let his tongue hang out a bit, drool pooling and dripping from the sides of his mouth while he moved his hips in a shaky rhythm.

sukuna closed his eyes tightly, he winced, feeling both pain and pleasure as he let go, breaking the knot, his hot, sticky seed coming out on ropes and filling you up completely.

he felt really tired and weak. he felt terrible about what he had done. he felt guilt gnawing inside him as he carefully pulled out of you. he crawled between your legs and lifted the blanket to reveal your sleeping figure. there you were, sleeping soundly, looking so beautiful and innocent, unaware of what’s been done to your body. your eyes were closed, and your eyelids glowed softly in the moonlight. his senses shut down, ripping your panties and spreading your legs as he watched his white cum bleed out of your cunt.

he wanted to clean you and purify you again. he leaned in closer to your heat, sticking out his tongue and pressing it down flatly where his seed was seeping out of you. he eagerly drank in your sweetness, enjoying your divine honey taste while you slept peacefully, completely unaware of him. the mix of your sweetness and his cum created a bittersweet flavor in his mouth. he slowly licked from your opening to your sensitive pearl, taking it in his mouth.

he gently sucked on it, nibbling with his lips and teeth.

sukuna missed it at first. the way you sleepily and lazily called out his name with a huff as you stirred in your sleep, letting out a little sigh. but then you did it again, softly calling out his name. he reacted by sucking hard, opening his mouth wide, and trying his best to clean you up. he struggled to fully clean you off his filthy seed. you let out a loud moan, waking up as your eyelashes tickled your cheeks. You pushed yourself up on your elbows and looked at the view before you. sukuna raised his gaze, tears shimmering in his eyes, his lips and chin glowing. then, he lowered his face back between your thighs and softly grabbed one of your petals with his teeth, giving it a gentle tug.

you arched your back and ran your fingers through his hair.

“k-kuna wh-huh - what are you - ” you gasped, trying to catch your breath at the intense feeling and the tongue assaulting you. you gripped his hair, “hah r-righthnghhh – right there,” you moaned out in pleasure as you wrapped your legs around his neck.

sukuna’s tongue continued to explore you, delving inside you, nose nudging your sensitive bud. he licked you quickly and thoroughly. it was messy, his spit splattered everywhere, and your juices ran down his face. his deep groans resonated through you, pushing you closer to the edge as you called out his name. pleasure fogged your brain and your climax hit you. your sweet nectar gushed out of you all over his face.

sukuna happily finished every last drop. It was as sweet as honey to him. it was honey to him. sweeter than honey, tastier than wine. your essence was his unique take on something truly divine and special. he treasured your essence. it was the only pure thing besides you. he cherished it as something holy.

“im sorry,” sukuna said as he turned to you. “i couldn’t help it.”

you opened your eyes and gazed at him, chest heaving as you tried to steady your breathing.

“i-its okay - its all right,” you huffed out while your hand gently cupped his cheek, your thumb swiping over his facial tattoos.

“forgive me, my god, i tainted you.” there was a hint of possessiveness in his tone as he spoke. you wrinkled your nose at his words and let go of his face. a puzzled expression occupying your features. by now, tears had started rolling down his face.

“i tainted you with my filth. forgive me.”

sukuna wants your forgiveness. he meant it. he wanted you to forgive him for what he did, he wanted to lay on your altar while you sharpen your knife, he wanted you to slit his chest open. is it his fault? he could not hold back. he would do it over and over again. he wanted you to punish him so he feels better about what he did to you. can you blame him, though? he may repent, you may be clean of his filth. thats the difference between the two of you, you were pure. but he was filthy, disgusting, even. there is a barrier between love and religion, sukuna has merged these barriers, and in a way, he had crossed these barriers at once.