𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓫𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝓮.

"Go ahead. Keep flirting. Just remember who you belong to when I fuck the attitude out of you."

❤︎ Synopsis. They’ve never been the jealous type—cool, composed, untouchable. But the moment they see you smile at someone else, something inside them snaps, something dark, something dangerous… and now, they’re going to make sure you never forget who you belong to.

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Soft! Modern AU! Various x Fem. Reader (separate)

♡ Characters Include. Nerd! Gojo, Biker! Soft! Sukuna, Professor! Half-Dragon! Rex Lapis, Academic Rival! Alhaitham, Older Brother! Sunday, Father! Human! Boothill, Step Brother! Caleb, Bully! Soft! Bakugo, Fuckboy! Atsumu, Virgin! Barou

♡ Kidnapper x Captor Series. The Thirsting - Part 3

♡ Word Count. 19,504 (about 1.5K each character)

♡ TW. dom + top + older + soft sadist yanderes, non-con + rape, BDSM + DDLG + slight masochistic reader, incest, language, forced orgasms, overstimulation + raw fucking, inappropriate use of kinks, food play, degradation + humiliation, implied blackmail, semi-public sex, physical assault, slapping + spanking + biting + choking + punching, fingering, general manipulation + gaslighting + abuse + trauma, abuse of authority, fingering, fear + primal play + dacryphilia, needles + drugging, slight omegaverse inspiration, breeding + knotting, stalking, forced infidelity, revenge pornography, slight brat taming

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝! 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✦✧✦✧

He’s never been jealous before.

Not once in his entire life. Not when his classmates paired off in high school, not when his friends bragged about their conquests in college, not when some girl he fucked once or twice found someone else to warm her bed.

Because why the fuck would he? He’s Gojo Satoru.

There is no competition.

But then there’s you.

And there’s Ryōmen Sukuna—the leather-clad, cigarette-smoking, law-breaking bastard who somehow got his claws into you first.

Sukuna, with his wolfish grin and blood-stained knuckles, who does whatever the fuck he wants whenever the fuck he wants, dragging you along for the ride. He treats you like you’re his little doll, something to dress up and fuck rough and parade around like a prize, and you—

You love him.

It drives Gojo fucking insane.

Not that you notice, oblivious little thing. Always so focused on whatever book you’re burying your nose in, sitting pretty in class, and looking like you don’t belong anywhere near someone like Sukuna. Like you belong somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet.

Somewhere with him.

It’s not that Gojo wants you in any particular way. That’s what he tells himself. He just hates seeing you wasted on someone like Sukuna. You’re too intelligent to be following around a fucking brute. Too soft to be caught up in that bastard’s world.

He tells himself that’s all it is. That the slow burn under his skin whenever he sees Sukuna wrap a hand around your throat is nothing but disdain. That he doesn’t think about it, not really, when he watches you leave campus on the back of Sukuna’s bike, gripping onto him like your life depends on it.

And then one day, it happens.

You walk into class with bruises on your thighs. A few peeking out beneath your skirt, just barely visible when you shift in your seat. Sukuna’s marks, no doubt. The realization slams into him like a freight train.

You let that bastard fuck you raw last night.

And Gojo feels something new. Something ugly. Something that tastes like fire and blood and mine.

And it only gets worse. Because you’re happy.

You sit there, twirling a pen between your fingers, a small, barely-there smile tugging at your lips. And for the first time, Gojo wants to ruin you.

You don’t get to smile like that over another man.

Not when he’s right here.

So, he waits.

Because Gojo is patient. He can bide his time. He can play his game. You don’t even realize what you are to him yet, what you’ve always been. But you will.

It starts with little things. The way he blocks your path in the hallway, leaning down close to murmur something about how pretty you look today. The way his fingers brush over yours when he hands you a paper, lingering just a second too long.

The way he talks about Sukuna.

“Can’t believe you’re still with that asshole,” he says one day, watching you pack your bag after class.

You don’t even look up. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

His grin is sharp. “Like what? Like he’s a thug who treats you like a fucking accessory?”

You glare at him. He loves the fire in your eyes. Loves how defensive you get. “You don’t know anything about us.”

“I know enough.”

“And I don’t care.”

You snap your bag shut and move to brush past him, but he catches your wrist. It’s the first time he’s ever touched you with intent, and he can feel the pulse beneath your skin jump. Can see the way your breath hitches, just for a second.

It makes him want to tear you apart.

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low. Intimate. “I’m just looking out for you.”

You yank your hand away. “Stay the fuck out of my business, Gojo.”

He watches you walk away, the heat from your skin still lingering on his fingertips.

Oh, sweetheart.

You don’t get it, do you?

You are his business.

And he’s only just getting started.

✦✧✦✧

It starts with a drink.

Sugary, sickly sweet, laced with something invisible to the eye but potent enough to make your limbs go loose, your breath slow, your thoughts grow thick and sluggish. You barely register the way he watches you as you take another sip, tongue peeking out to swipe the remnants of syrup from your lips, a movement that makes his fingers twitch around his own glass.

"Atta girl," Gojo murmurs, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "See? I knew you could have a little fun."

You blink up at him, confusion flickering in your gaze, but it doesn’t last. The drug is already sinking its claws into your nervous system, dulling your instincts, numbing your resistance. You sway, and before you can even think to catch yourself, he does it for you. Hands smooth, deceptively gentle, gripping your waist like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

"Oops," he chuckles, breath warm against your temple as he steadies you. "Looks like you need some help, sweetheart. Good thing I’m here."

You try to push him away, but it’s useless. Your limbs don’t listen, fingers barely managing a weak grasp against the fabric of his hoodie before slipping away. Panic flutters in your chest, but even that feels distant, like you’re experiencing it through layers of cotton. You know something’s wrong. You know this isn’t right.

But Gojo is already moving, already sweeping you up in his arms like you weigh nothing, already carrying you somewhere quiet, somewhere away from prying eyes.

Somewhere Sukuna won’t find you.

✦✧✦✧

The first thing you notice when consciousness fights its way back is the smell of sugar.

The second is the weight pinning you down.

Something sticky smears across your stomach, a mess of syrup and melting cream dripping between your thighs, coating your skin in a way that makes your stomach churn. The sheets beneath you are ruined, stained with streaks of something viscous, something pink, something white.

Something sweet.

And then there’s him.

Gojo is above you, one knee pressing between your legs, forcing them apart. His glasses are gone, his eyes bare, sharp and hungry, filled with something terrifying and possessive and hot. His hands are coated in the same sickly mess, fingers smearing remnants of some dessert along your inner thighs, his thumb dragging along your folds in a slow, lazy stroke.

"Knew you’d look good like this," he muses, tilting his head as he watches you try—try—to move, to resist. "Covered in sugar, begging to be tasted."

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out beyond a soft, broken noise. You feel like you’re drowning, every nerve slow to respond, every movement sluggish. He notices, of course he does, and his smirk deepens.

"Don’t worry," he coos, fingers dipping lower, pressing, pushing, spreading. "You don’t have to do anything. Just lay there and take it like a good girl."

"Gojo—"

"Mm, nah," he muses. "Think I like it better when you call me Satoru."

Your breath comes fast, ragged. You can’t think, can’t breathe past the lingering fog in your brain. "What—what the fuck are you doing?"

He laughs. Actually laughs.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, leaning down until his breath fans over your lips, the scent of sugar thick between you. "What do you think?"

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow, deep. His tongue parts your lips effortlessly, sliding past them to taste the remnants of chocolate he forced down your throat. He groans against your mouth like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, like he’s been starving for this, for you.

You try to turn away, but he fists a hand in your hair, tugging you back into place. "Nah, baby. Don’t be like that. You’ve been teasing me for months." He nips at your bottom lip, sharp enough to sting. "Time to take responsibility."

You barely have time to gasp before he’s shifting, yanking your camisole down to expose your breasts. The cold air makes you shudder, but the heat of his mouth replaces it instantly, lips closing around your nipple as he groans, sucking deep.

"Fuck," he mumbles against your skin. "Taste even better than I imagined."

Tears sting at your eyes. "Please—"

"Oh, we’re getting to that part," he says brightly, grinning up at you with sugar-slick lips. "Begging already? Cute."

His hands roam lower, hiking up your skirt, fingers slipping beneath your panties. He finds you dry—of course you are, this is sick, this is wrong—but he only hums, unfazed.

"Don't worry, baby. I got somethin' for that."

You hear the crinkle of plastic before you feel it. Something cold presses against your clit, sticky and thick, and then he's rubbing it in, spreading the sweetness over your skin. The scent hits you immediately—strawberry syrup.

"Told you I had a sweet tooth," he murmurs, before dipping his head down and licking a long, slow stripe up your slit.

You choke on a sob, body jerking against the silk restraints, but he just presses you down harder, pinning you in place as he feasts.

Your body jerks as he sinks in, one digit first, then another, twisting and stretching as something wet and humiliating drips between your thighs, mixing with the syrup and cream. You want to fight. You want to scream. But all you can do is whimper, your limbs useless against his weight, your body betraying you in the worst way.

It doesn’t take long for your body to betray you. The drugs still lingering in your system make everything hazy, pleasure and disgust blurring at the edges. He moans when he feels you getting wet, tongue pushing deeper, lapping up the mess he made.

You’re shaking when he finally pulls back, lips and chin glistening. He licks them clean, eyes half-lidded with something almost like reverence.

"Fuck, look at that," he breathes, eyes locked on the way you shudder, the way your walls clench around his fingers despite yourself. "See? I told you. You were always meant for me."

The camera clicks.

Your stomach drops.

Your head lolls to the side, and there it is—his phone, propped up, recording everything. Every sound, every movement, every twitch of your body beneath him. Gojo leans in, his breath hot against your ear, his fingers still moving, still fucking into you in slow, deliberate strokes.

"You know, sweetheart," he murmurs, nipping at your jaw, "I think Sukuna should see what you look like when you’re with a real man."

Terror crashes over you like a tidal wave.

"He thinks he owns you, but he doesn’t. Not like I do." His tongue flicks out, dragging along the shell of your ear. "Not like I will."

And then he’s pushing inside you, tearing you apart, stretching you too much, too full, too deep, his weight pressing you down, trapping you beneath him as he starts to move, each thrust dragging a broken, unwilling noise from your throat.

You scream—or try to. But it only comes out as a choked gasp as he snaps his hips forward, splitting you open with several deep thrusts.

"Fuck, you're tight." His voice is rough, strained. "Like a fuckin' vice, baby. Gonna ruin you."

He means it. He pounds into you like he’s got something to prove, like he needs to brand himself into your skin. He keeps the phone steady the entire time, angling it to capture every detail—the tears streaking your cheeks, the way your breasts bounce with each brutal thrust, the raw stretch of your cunt around his cock.

"Bet Sukuna thought he had you all to himself," he pants, biting at your throat hard enough to leave a mark. "Bet he thought you were his."

He fucks you harder.

"He’s wrong, baby." His teeth scrape against your ear. "You’re mine."

✦✧✦✧

And worst of all—you can’t stop him from filming every second of it.

Hours later, when your body is sore and wrecked and trembling, when your voice is hoarse from crying, when your skin is marked and ruined with his touch—

The video sends with a simple press of his finger.

A message attached.

Your little doll looks better in my hands.

And then Gojo grins, licking the last traces of sugar from his lips.

"Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted."

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 ✦✧✦✧

There wasn’t a single soul on the block who didn’t know the name Ryōmen Sukuna.

The man was a legend. Or a menace, depending on who you asked.

With ink crawling up his neck, silver piercings glinting under streetlights, and a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips, he had the kind of presence that choked the air out of a room. Sukuna didn’t ride a motorcycle; he owned the road. His name was etched into asphalt, into the bones of men who had crossed him, into the terrified whispers of those too weak to hold his gaze. He didn’t do relationships, didn’t believe in love, and certainly didn’t give a damn about anyone other than himself.

Until you.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

This world—his world—was a warzone of fists and gasoline, of blood and engine oil smeared into pavement. You didn’t belong anywhere near it. But somehow, some way, you had stumbled into the orbit of the devil himself, and instead of burning, you had stayed. You were a contradiction, the kind that pissed him off because he couldn’t figure you out. Small, quiet, way too smart for your own good. You never reacted to his taunts the way others did. He’d call you names, push your buttons, just to see how you’d crack—only for you to blink up at him like he was nothing but white noise.

He should have crushed you. Broken you down into something small and trembling. That was what he did to people who didn’t know their place.

But you had this strange habit.

You cared.

Not for him—fuck no, you weren’t that stupid—but for things that had no business surviving in a place like this.

Stray cats. Limping dogs. That one scrawny little brat who hung around his nephew, Yuji.

It started with the kid. Some dumb punk, maybe thirteen at most, all gangly arms and scraped knees. Sukuna hadn’t given him a second glance—wasn’t his fucking problem—but then he saw you crouched in front of the boy, voice soft, brows furrowed in concern as you pressed a bandage over a wound that wasn’t your responsibility.

“Hold still,” you had murmured, not even sparing Sukuna a glance as you focused on the boy’s bleeding hand. “You’re blessed it’s not deep.”

The kid had blushed like a damn idiot. Sukuna almost ripped him off the curb right then and there.

But the worst part? That was only the beginning.

Because it wasn’t just one kid.

It was all of them.

Yuji. His quietly sassy friend, Megumi. That bratty girl with the sharp tongue, Nobara. Stray kids, teens with nowhere to go, the ones no one gave a shit about—you had a soft spot for all of them, and Sukuna hated it. Hated how easily they flocked to you, hated how you spoke to them like they mattered, hated how you let them steal bits and pieces of your attention that should have belonged to him.

Hated that he cared at all.

✦✧✦✧

It came to a head one night at the shop.

The garage reeked of oil and cigarette smoke, engines grumbling as Sukuna’s boys worked on their bikes. The door was open, summer air thick with the scent of asphalt. He was leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you talk to Yuji and his little band of idiots.

His nephew was grinning, the usual dumb, wide-eyed expression on his face as he listened to whatever you were saying. Megumi looked mildly disinterested, but he was paying attention in that brooding, quiet way of his. Even Nobara, brat that she was, had softened, hanging onto your words with an expression Sukuna didn’t like.

They looked at you like you were something holy.

And you? You let them.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, the embers crackling like a warning.

“Oi.”

You turned, blinking up at him. There was no fear in your gaze—there never was—but he saw the way you stiffened, the way your fingers curled slightly at your sides, bracing for whatever storm he was about to bring down. The kids went quiet. Yuji’s smile faltered.

Sukuna flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot.

“You got a fucking job here, or are you running a damn daycare?”

You exhaled slowly, but you didn’t flinch. “They’re just hanging out.”

“They’re a fucking distraction.”

“They’re kids.”

Something sharp crawled up his spine. He took a slow step forward, crowding into your space, forcing you to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. “They ain’t your fucking responsibility.”

Your gaze flickered—just a flicker, but he caught it. A crack in that perfectly composed exterior. And fuck, he hated that he noticed, hated that he wanted to peel you open and see what made you tick.

“They’re not yours either,” you murmured, voice even.

His lips curled. “You sure about that?”

You said nothing.

He scoffed, stepping back. “Get back to work.”

The kids scattered, taking the hint. But Sukuna didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off you as you finally turned away. He should have been satisfied. He should have let it go.

But he wasn’t. And he didn’t.

Because as much as he hated it—

He wasn’t the only thing you gave a damn about.

And that? That pissed him off more than anything else.

✦✧✦✧

The heat of the garage clung to your skin, thick with the scent of gasoline, metal, and the faintest tinge of nicotine. The rumbling laughter of Sukuna’s crew faded as you stepped inside, the weight of his gaze already sinking its claws into your spine. You barely had time to register the shift in the air before a rough hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you past the workbenches, past the half-built motorcycles, straight into the dimly lit back room.

The door slammed. The lock clicked.

A slow, dragging inhale came from behind you, the burn of cigarette smoke laced with something darker, heavier. "You got a fucking death wish, sweetheart?" Sukuna’s voice slithered down your spine, low and sharp.

Your pulse stuttered, but you didn’t shrink. You knew better. Showing fear only made him worse.

"I don't know what you—"

"Don’t fucking play with me. That little shit outside—the one sniffing around you like a damn dog. You like that? You like letting these punks think they got a shot?" He was behind you now, heat bleeding through your clothes as he loomed close. His fingers grazed your neck, featherlight. "'Cause I don’t fucking share."

Your breath caught. "He's just a kid."

"Bullshit."

Fingers curled in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing your gaze up to the ceiling. The stretch burned, your scalp prickling where he held you in his grip. He wasn’t gentle. He never was.

"I see the way they look at you. The way you let them. Walking around here like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. What kind of fucked-up game are you playing, huh?"

You swallowed. "I’m not playing anything."

"Then why the fuck are you shaking?" Sukuna’s lips ghosted against the shell of your ear, his breath scalding. "Not so tough now, are you?"

A sharp pull dragged you backward, your body colliding against his chest. His grip shifted, fingers closing around your throat—not squeezing, not yet, just holding. A warning. A promise.

"Tell me to stop." His voice was velvet wrapped around barbed wire. "Go on. Say it."

Your nails dug into his wrist. Your body locked up. The air between you crackled, an electric storm of defiance and something far more dangerous.

You didn't say a word.

His chuckle was a slow, lethal thing. "That’s what I fucking thought."

The world spun as he shoved you forward, your palms smacking against the cold surface of the metal workbench. You barely had time to catch yourself before he was on you, his body caging yours, heat radiating off him like fire licking at your skin.

"You wanna act like a fucking tease? Letting those little shits think they got a chance?" He ripped at your waistband, the rough fabric of your jeans dragging against your hips as he wrenched them down. "Fine. Let’s see how much you like attention when it’s mine."

A choked sound caught in your throat, your fingers scrambling against the metal as his hand pressed down between your shoulder blades, forcing you flat against the workbench. Cold steel bit against your stomach, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of his body.

"Sukuna—"

A sharp slap across your ass made you jolt. "You don’t get to fucking talk."

Another strike, harder this time. Your breath left you in a shuddering gasp, humiliation curling in your gut. He was reveling in this—the way your body responded, the way you couldn’t stop it.

"See, this is the problem with you," he mused, dragging his fingers along the curve of your ass, down to where you were embarrassingly slick. "You walk around here, thinking you’re untouchable. Like you’re better than all of us. But look at you now. Bent over my fucking workbench. Dripping."

You squeezed your eyes shut, heat burning through you. "Fuck you."

His laughter was dark, razor-sharp. "Oh, you will."

The sound of his belt unbuckling sent a fresh wave of dread slamming into you. Your stomach twisted. You tried to push up, to scramble away, but his hand pinned you down, fingers tightening around your throat. Not enough to cut off your air. Just enough to remind you who was in control.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "You're mine, sweetheart. Every fucking inch of you."

The blunt press of his cock against your entrance made you freeze, your breath catching as the reality of the situation crashed over you. This was happening. There was no stopping it.

Sukuna didn’t wait. Didn’t ease in, didn’t let you adjust. He was cruel, relentless, pushing in deep with a low, guttural groan that sent a violent shudder ripping through you. The stretch burned, every inch forcing your body to accommodate him, to take him whether you wanted to or not.

"Fuck, you feel good like this," he rasped, his grip bruising as he held you still, his hips snapping forward in sharp, punishing thrusts. "So tight. Bet none of those little shits could ever fill you like this. Bet you wouldn't let them."

Your nails clawed at the metal, your body trembling as he fucked into you with a brutal, single-minded focus. There was no tenderness here, no gentleness. Just raw, unchecked possession, his jealousy bleeding into every vicious snap of his hips.

"Gonna ruin you, sweetheart. Make sure every time you fucking walk, you remember who did this to you. Who you belong to."

The worst part?

Somewhere in the haze of pain and shame, a tiny, treacherous part of you believed him.

His pace quickened, his breathing ragged against your ear. "Tell me," he growled, his fingers tightening around your throat, dragging you upright so your back was flush against his chest. "Tell me who fucking owns you."

You clenched your teeth, refusing.

He let out a dark chuckle, his free hand dipping between your thighs, rubbing tight circles against your clit. "C'mon, sweetheart. Say it. Or I swear, I won’t let you fucking come."

Your body betrayed you. The pleasure coiled, white-hot and unbearable, the cruel rhythm of his fingers forcing you closer and closer to the edge. Your breaths turned ragged, your body trembling.

"Say it," he snarled.

You bit down on a whimper, your pride warring with the overwhelming sensation that threatened to consume you.

His teeth scraped against your throat. "Last chance, baby."

The coil snapped.

Your body convulsed, pleasure tearing through you with brutal intensity, and the word slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

"You."

His groan was raw, triumphant. "Damn right."

His pace turned erratic, his thrusts growing rougher, deeper. His grip on your throat tightened, his other hand branding your hip as he chased his own release, his body tensing before he buried himself deep with a shuddering groan, claiming you in the most primal way possible.

The room spun.

The only sound was your ragged breathing, the slow, languid drag of Sukuna's fingers over your skin as he pulled back, tucking himself away like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn't just shattered you.

Like he hadn't just marked you as his.

A rough hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes burned into yours, dark and possessive.

"Next time," he murmured, his thumb dragging over your lower lip, "you remember who the fuck you belong to."

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you slumped against the workbench, wrecked and ruined, with his name carved into your very bones.

And the worst part?

You knew this was only the beginning.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫! 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧! 𝐑𝐞𝐱 𝐋𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐬 ✦✧✦✧

There was a time when you were obedient.

That was the only way he had ever known you—an intelligent woman with sharp wit but the necessary restraint to respect his word. You were raised well, crafted under the precise structure of discipline he so generously offered. His lectures, his lessons, his expectations—what you were, what you knew, what you excelled in—were all by his design. Your education, your intelligence, your success belonged to him.

And now, you're ruining yourself.

He does not react, not at first. That has never been his way.

As the professor of history, a strict and authoritative figure, he does not succumb to the petty whims of lesser men. Rex Lapis has lived countless lives in countless forms; he has ruled, destroyed, built, and endured. He has been the father of nations, the warlord of centuries, the god of unbreakable contracts. Mortal pleasures are fleeting distractions.

And yet—

He sees you, his precious, obedient girl, transformed into something unrecognizable. You used to listen. You used to lower your gaze in his presence, used to nod obediently when he assigned you readings, used to hang onto every word like scripture. You used to understand your place.

Now? Now you dress yourself in sin.

Short skirts, tight blouses, jewelry that catches the light like bait. Your nails are manicured like talons, your lips glossed, your scent laced with something wickedly sweet.

You smile at men. You let them touch your wrist, your shoulder, your waist. You let them speak to you, let them lean too close, let them believe—foolishly—that they could ever deserve your attention. And worse than that? You encourage it.

He watches as you laugh at some dull, brainless boy’s attempt at wit. Watches as you tilt your head, watches as you slide your fingers along your own exposed throat in a thoughtless, meaningless gesture, something unconscious, something only an observer as keen as himself would ever notice.

A lure. A trap.

Rex Lapis was never meant to feel the things he does now. A god does not succumb to the venom of jealousy. But when he sees you flirting, your body language betraying every sharp, calculating game you play—he knows you’re not just naive. You’re choosing this.

You’re choosing to act out, choosing to defy him. And he will not allow it.

✦✧✦✧

The first time he speaks to you about it, it is a warning.

“Sit.” His voice is measured, controlled. The very sound of it, low and commanding, makes the air in his office still.

You hesitate, and that hesitation alone sparks something primal in him, something he does not allow himself to feel.

“Now.”

You sit.

His office is quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on his desk. You fold your arms, cross your legs, and regard him with feigned innocence.

“Do you think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

You blink, and he knows you’re considering your answer. A lesser man would be fooled by your performance.

“I don’t know what you mean, Professor.”

Lies.

His fingers tap against the desk in a slow, deliberate cadence. “Your grades have not faltered. Your academic standing remains pristine. And yet, your behavior has… changed.”

You lean back, entirely too confident. “Is that a problem?”

His jaw tightens. You smile. You’re goading him. He knows it, and yet, that knowledge does not lessen his ire.

“You’re dressing like a slut.”

You don’t even flinch. Instead, your lips curl, as if amused. “And?”

Rex Lapis has never been a man to act on impulse. His control is absolute, honed through centuries of war and diplomacy. And yet—

You are testing him. Deliberately. Consciously.

Why? What changed? What made you so reckless, so insubordinate, so eager to provoke him?

He leans forward, his golden eyes locking onto yours.

“You are an intelligent woman.” His voice is smooth, sharp as a blade. “You are capable, cunning, and perceptive. So tell me, little one—why are you acting like a cheap, brainless whore?”

Your breath catches, just slightly.

And there it is.

The subtle break in your performance, the flicker of something beneath your confident facade.

But you recover too quickly, tilting your head in mock curiosity. “Oh? You disapprove?”

A taunt.

The heat in his veins surges. Rex Lapis is not a man who allows disrespect. His patience is legendary, his composure unshakable—but the moment you choose to play this game, to behave as though his word, his presence, his influence no longer holds dominion over you—

Something inside him shifts. He lets the silence stretch. Lets the weight of his presence, the gravity of his authority, press against you.

“You will cease this behavior.”

You laugh. It is a quiet, dangerous thing.

“Or what?”

His grip tightens against the desk. There it is—the line you have drawn, the challenge you have issued. You are waiting, watching, daring him to prove that he still holds control over you.

And Rex Lapis? He is not a man who tolerates defiance.

You have made a grave mistake, little one.

He will not be ignored. He will not be disrespected.

And most of all—

He will not allow you to forget who you belong to.

You realize your mistake too late.

The door slams shut behind you, locking the two of you inside his office. The sound is final, inescapable, ringing in your ears like the toll of a death knell.

Your breath hitches. A lifetime of instinct screams at you to run, to escape, to do anything but remain under the weight of his unrelenting gaze. But you don’t move. Not because you don’t want to—but because his presence roots you in place.

Rex Lapis—Professor Zhongli—does not look human in this moment.

His golden eyes are slitted like a predator’s, his sharp features even sharper in the dim glow of the antique lamps lining his office. His long fingers press against the heavy mahogany desk, tightening just enough that you hear the creak of wood under his strength. His posture is composed, still, the control of a man—a god—who has never known jealousy until you forced it into his veins like poison.

He was never meant to feel this way.

And now, you will suffer for it.

Your back hits the wall before you can even think of fleeing.

A sharp gasp leaves your lips as he is suddenly there, his presence overwhelming, too much, pressing against you like a force of nature. His large body cages you in, his scent wrapping around you like an inescapable fog—amber, sandalwood, dragon’s breath.

"You think this is a game?" His voice is quiet, but no less terrifying.

His fingers slide along your jaw, tilting your chin up. His touch is deceptively gentle—but there is a dark promise behind it, a warning that should send you to your knees in terror.

You try to shake your head, try to deny, but his thumb presses against your lips, silencing you.

"Do you know what you have done, little one?" You swallow hard.

"You—" Your voice breaks. "—are my professor."

He chuckles. A deep, dark, humorless sound.

"I was never just your professor." And then he's kissing you—if you can even call it that.

His lips crash against yours, brutal, consuming. His large hands seize your waist, yanking you against his unyielding body. There is no tenderness, no softness—only raw possession, only a claim being forcibly carved into your flesh.

Your fists slam against his chest, a pathetic attempt to push him away. He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even acknowledge your resistance.

"You wear the scent of another man." His breath is hot against your ear, his voice dripping with venom. "Tell me, did you think of me when you let him touch you?"

You try to speak, try to deny, but it’s useless.

His grip tightens. "I should tear you apart for this."

And then he does. Fabric rips.

A sharp gasp tears from your lips as he shreds your blouse like it’s made of paper, leaving your exposed skin to the mercy of the cool air. You barely have time to process it before his hands are on you again—searing, possessive, everywhere.

"Pathetic," he sneers, fingers bruising your waist. "All this effort to make yourself desirable. Do you think it gives you power? Do you think batting your lashes makes men weak?"

You cry out as he yanks you forward, bending you face-first against his desk. His large hand presses against your back, keeping you in place as his other hand rips away the remainder of your clothing—until you are bare, exposed, completely at his mercy.

"You are nothing without my approval."

You tremble, "You— You can't—"

But you already know the truth. He can. He will.

Something presses against your entrance—thick, inhumanly thick. Your breath falters, a sob choking in your throat. The sheer size of it is impossible, terrifying.

"You will take it." He gives you no choice.

Your scream is muffled by the wooden surface of his desk as he buries himself inside you in one devastating thrust. Your walls stretch, burn, struggling to accommodate the sheer, monstrous girth of him. It feels impossible, like he’s splitting you apart, too much, too much—

"Hah… still so tight."

His voice is ragged, strained, but there is no mercy in his movements. He pulls back only to slam back in, forcing your body to take every punishing inch of him.

"Struggling?" His chuckle is cruel, mocking. "How quickly you forget—I made you. You exist to serve me."

Your fingers claw against the desk, desperate for purchase, desperate for relief. But there is none. There is only the merciless pace he sets, each thrust harder, deeper, forcing the air from your lungs.

He grabs your hair, yanking your head back. "No more games, little one. You will remember your place—beneath me. Belonging to me."

Tears slip down your cheeks. He thrusts, forcing a shattered moan from your throat. And he laughs. A dark, guttural sound—victory.

"That’s it… you feel it now, don’t you?" His hips snap against yours, filling you too deep, stretching you too wide. "No other man will ever satisfy you now. No one else will ever reach this far."

Your mind is breaking, slipping into a haze of overstimulation, of helplessness.

And he knows it.

He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "Say it."

You shake your head, refusing—

He thrusts deeper.

A broken scream rips from your throat.

"Say it. Admit it."

Your body is betraying you, pleasure writhing through your veins despite the pain, despite the degradation. You are losing. You are his.

"You…" Your voice is weak, trembling, a ghost of resistance—

His claws dig into your waist, his hips snapping harder.

"Say it."

And finally—

A whisper, choked, shattering:

"I— I belong to you."

A satisfied growl rumbles in his chest.

And then—

The knot swells.

Your eyes widen, realization slamming into you too late.

"No—!"

But he doesn’t stop. He forces his knot inside you, locking you in place, keeping you stretched around his massive length. Your body convulses, a scream wrenched from your lips as the overwhelming sensation breaks you.

And then—

Heat floods your core.

His release bursts inside you, filling you too much, too deep, spilling into every crevice of your body. You shake, panting, spent, ruined. His arms wrap around you, holding you there, keeping you trapped against him.

And then, a whisper against your temple—

"Now you will never forget."

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥! 𝐀𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ✦✧✦✧

He has never been jealous before. Never needed to be.

Emotions were nothing more than mild inconveniences—obstacles that lesser men allowed to cloud their judgment. He prided himself on his logic, his detachment, his unshakable rationality. There was no need for frivolous distractions like lust, love, or petty human possessiveness.

And yet. You have proven to be an exception. An aberration. A crack in his carefully curated world of control.

You.

The same sharp-tongued, insufferably intelligent girl who has been a constant thorn in his side since your first year at the university. You, who challenged his theories, defied his logic, and matched his wit blow for blow. A perfect foil, an exquisite rival—one he should have discarded as nothing more than another intellectual adversary.

But you were never just an adversary, were you? Not to him.

He watched you. He studied you. He cataloged every detail of your existence with the same precision he applied to his research. He knew the cadence of your voice when you argued, the way your lips curled when you called him an asshole, the way your hands trembled when he leaned too close during debates.

And yet, despite all his meticulous observations, despite all his efforts to remain detached, you still managed to slip through his defenses and plant something insidious inside him. Something irrational. Something dangerous.

Something he didn't recognize until he walked into the campus library and saw you sitting across from Arataki Itto.

The brute. The fool. The brain-dead delinquent who barely scraped by on assignments.

You were tutoring him. Your head tilted as you explained a concept, your expression patient. The same patience you had never once afforded him.

That should have been enough to irritate him. Enough to make him scoff and walk away, dismissing you as a fool wasting your time on someone so beneath you.

But then Itto laughed. Loud and carefree, like he had every right to bask in your attention. And then—then he saw the way Itto looked at you.

Like you belonged to him.

A noise he didn’t recognize slipped past his lips, something low and guttural, something wrong. His fingers twitched, and for the first time in his life, his own thoughts were incomprehensible—disjointed, a mess of static and white-hot noise.

You noticed him then, your gaze flickering up in that way that always made his breath hitch, the way you always felt him before you saw him.

“Hey, asshole,” you greeted flatly. “Need something?”

Yes. You.

His eyes darkened. His jaw clenched. “We’re leaving.”

You blinked, expression turning annoyed. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t acknowledge you. Didn’t even spare a glance at Itto—he wasn’t worth it. His hand wrapped around your wrist, his grip tight, final.

“Now.”

✦✧✦✧

He doesn’t speak as he drags you to the apartment you both unfortunately share, his grip unrelenting, his pace unforgiving.

You’re seething. Your protests are sharp, livid, but you might as well be screaming into the void. His mind is already made up.

The moment the door slams shut, his patience snaps.

He pushes you up against it, one hand gripping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” he murmurs, voice quiet—too quiet. A stark contrast to the unhinged glint in his eyes. “Did you think I’d tolerate it?”

You glare. “You’re insane.”

He hums. “That’s not an answer.”

You try to push him off, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice dropping into something nearly affectionate.

“You’re mine.”

It’s not a declaration of love. It’s a fact. An irrefutable, undeniable truth.

Your body stiffens. “I’m not—”

His lips brush the shell of your ear. “Say it again.”

Your stomach twists.

“I-I’m not yours—”

The moment you refuse him, his grip tightens just enough to make your breath hitch. His laugh lingers, low and vibrating against your skin like a terrible promise. "Wrong answer," he murmurs again, savoring the way your pulse quickens beneath his fingertips.

You barely have time to struggle before he hauls you deeper into the apartment—past the living room, past his bedroom, straight toward the one door you’ve never been allowed to open. His private sanctum. His domain.

The sex dungeon.

A sharp click of a lock disengaging, and the heavy door swings open. The sight within is both horrifying and meticulous. Leather, steel, chains—everything gleaming under dim, ambient lighting, arranged with the kind of obsessive precision he dedicates to his research. It is clinical. Cold. And yet, it pulses with something raw and violent.

Your stomach twists. “You—you fucking psychopath—”

He doesn’t respond. He simply pulls you inside and lets the door shut behind him. The finality of it is suffocating.

The first thing you feel is the cold bite of metal as he fastens a collar around your throat—tight, unyielding. He takes his time, securing each buckle with slow, deliberate movements, drinking in the way your body shudders beneath him.

"You always fight," he muses, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear. "That’s what makes this fun. But let’s see how much fight you have when I break you."

The bindings come next—your wrists locked above you, pulled taut by an overhead chain. Then your ankles, strapped apart with a spreader bar, leaving you exposed, vulnerable. The way he looks at you then—like a prized specimen under a microscope—makes your skin prickle with equal parts rage and something else you refuse to name.

"Do you even understand what you’ve done?" he asks, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. "Do you know what it felt like to see you with him? Laughing, indulging him like he had the right to breathe the same air as you?"

You grit your teeth. "He’s my friend, you controlling freak."

His expression darkens. "Friend?"

His hand strikes your thigh, the sharp sting making you jolt. He watches the way your breath stutters, the way your body instinctively reacts. His smirk is knowing.

"That was a warning," he says. "The real punishment starts now."

What follows is merciless. A methodical deconstruction of your resistance. He tests your limits with cruel efficiency—flogger, riding crop, clamps, vibrating toys that push you to the edge only to deny you release. Every gasp, every involuntary twitch is studied, analyzed, exploited.

“You look so pretty like this," he muses, tracing the welt blooming across your thigh. "All this defiance—it’s adorable. But we both know how this ends."

Your body betrays you. Humiliation burns hot in your cheeks, but he revels in it, drinking in every reaction like a man starved. His hands, his voice, his relentless control—it consumes you whole.

By the time he finally takes what he wants, you are too wrecked to fight. His possession is absolute, branding itself into your skin, your bones, your very breath.

✦✧✦✧

The first thrust knocks the breath from your lungs.

He doesn't give you time to adjust. He doesn't give you anything except the overwhelming force of his cock slamming into your cunt, the brutal stretch forcing a choked scream from your lips. The chains above rattle as you jolt, wrists tugging at the cruel metal, body writhing against the bonds that keep you helplessly spread open before him.

Alhaitham watches with clinical detachment, like he's studying the way your body reacts, the involuntary tremors, the way your walls clench and struggle to accommodate him. His grip is unyielding, fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he holds you still, his pace punishing. The wet slap of skin against skin echoes in the dimly lit dungeon, each thrust deliberate, methodical, precise.

"You always fight," he muses, voice smooth, cold. "And yet, here you are. Helpless. Spread open for me."

Your breath hitches at the sick pleasure in his tone. It’s not lust—not entirely. There’s something deeper, something darker in the way he drinks in every quiver, every choked sob. He’s reveling in it.

You squeeze your eyes shut, turning your head away, biting down on your lip to suppress the sounds threatening to escape. It’s humiliating. The slick wetness betraying your body, the way he forces pleasure and pain into the same unbearable space. Your defiance only fuels him.

"Still trying to act stubborn?" he scoffs. "Even now?"

A sharp slap lands against your inner thigh, the sting making you jolt. His other hand slides up your stomach, fingers curling around your throat, squeezing—not enough to cut off air, but enough to remind you of his control. His grip tightens just as he angles his hips, hitting that devastating spot inside you that sends white-hot electricity shooting through your nerves.

Your body betrays you.

A strangled moan escapes before you can stop it. He stills.

Then—

He laughs.

It’s low, cruel, dripping with triumph. He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "There it is. The sound I wanted."

Your nails dig into your palms, the bite of your own restraint almost enough to ground you. Almost. He resumes his pace, faster now, sharper. Every thrust forces a new sound from you, a broken whimper, a stifled gasp. He drinks them in like they’re proof of his victory.

The collar around your neck digs into your skin, tight enough to remind you that you belong to him now. The cuffs securing your wrists creak as you thrash, but there’s nowhere to go, nothing to do except take what he gives. And he gives you everything.

"This," he breathes, voice dark with satisfaction. "This is what happens when you push me. When you let another man think he has a chance with you."

His fingers find your clit. A cruel, slow circle.

"Was he better than me?" His tone is light, mocking. "Did he make you feel like this?"

You hate him.

You hate the way your body responds, the way heat coils low in your stomach, the unbearable tightness building with every stroke. You hate the way he knows, the way he sees through you, the way he never lets you hide. His control is absolute, orchestrating your pleasure and your suffering with the same meticulous precision he dedicates to everything else.

The coil snaps.

Pleasure rips through you violently, too much, too sharp. Your body seizes, back arching, toes curling, a shattered cry breaking free from your lips.

And Alhaitham—

He doesn’t stop.

"Look at you," he breathes. "So desperate. So weak. You break so easily."

You barely hear him through the haze of overstimulation, the unbearable sensitivity as he continues thrusting, fucking you through the aftershocks, prolonging the agony of pleasure turned cruel. Your throat is raw from the sounds you can’t hold back, tears burning hot at the corners of your eyes.

"Good girl," he murmurs, voice smooth, condescending. "Now let’s see how many more times I can make you come before you break completely."

He doesn't stop.

And you are left with no choice but to endure.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 ✦✧✦✧

The champagne flute trembles in his hand.

Not enough to draw attention—no, never enough for that. His grasp remains firm, his smile impeccable, his demeanor as polished as the diamond cufflinks at his wrists. But the tremor is there.

He watches you from across the grand ballroom, golden light bathing your delicate frame as you twirl in the arms of your fiancé. Phainon. A man of high status, of prestigious blood. A man your parents deemed worthy of you.

A man who is not him.

Sunday has never felt jealousy before. He doesn’t entertain such base emotions, much less let them control him. He is above such vulgar impulses—always has been. But now, as he watches you tip your chin up at Phainon with that demure little smile, as his gloved hand settles against the bare skin of your lower back, something curdles in Sunday’s chest.

He does not move immediately. He takes his time, swirling the golden liquid in his glass as he sips, assessing. Analyzing. He is nothing if not meticulous.

His sister, Robin, tugs at his sleeve playfully. “You’re awfully stiff, brother. You look like you’ve swallowed something foul.”

His eyes flicker to her. She is beaming, utterly oblivious. Sweet, innocent Robin, who has never needed to question the things he keeps from her.

“You approve of this match?” he asks smoothly, voice betraying nothing.

Robin grins. “Of course! They look perfect together, don’t they?”

Perfect.

Something in his chest twists, tightens. He sets his glass down, offering his sister a small, tight-lipped smile before excusing himself. He does not make a beeline for you immediately—no, that would be foolish. Instead, he moves with grace, lingering along the edges of the crowd, watching, waiting, calculating.

Phainon leans in, whispering something against your ear. You laugh—soft, shy, utterly unlike the way you are with Sunday. You never laugh like that around him. You only look at him with wary, sharp eyes, as if trying to decipher what lurks beneath his poised exterior.

You are so cautious. So careful.

And yet you have failed to consider the most important thing: He is a patient man. But not a merciful one.

Radiant and oblivious, smiling up at your fiancé as he leads you in a slow, poised waltz. Phainon, the golden boy, the heir of another prestigious family. He holds you with the ease of a man who believes he owns you. His gloved hand lingers at the small of your back, fingers curling ever so slightly. It is possessive, almost territorial.

It makes something in Sunday snap.

The realization is an ugly, monstrous thing: You're mine.

Not by blood, not by law. But something deeper, something primal, something that makes his fingers flex around the stem of his wine glass.

She does not belong to another man. Not like this. Not when she has always been his to mold, to shape, to control.

The moment the dance ends, Sunday moves. He is a shadow in the lavish crowd, gliding towards you with unshakable intent. Your eyes widen when he appears, your lips parting slightly as if sensing the shift in the air, the creeping wrongness clinging to him.

"Brother," you greet, voice hesitant.

His smile is kind, affectionate. A perfect deception. "May I steal the bride for a dance?"

Phainon hesitates, but he is polite. Foolish. He steps back, offering a gentlemanly nod.

Sunday takes your hand. His grip is firm, almost bruising.

"I thought you didn't care for these things," you murmur, trying to read his expression.

"I don't," he replies smoothly, leading you to the center of the ballroom. "But I care about you."

The waltz begins, and you are trapped. Sunday moves with a precision that makes your heart race for all the wrong reasons. He guides you effortlessly, his grip just a touch too tight, his presence suffocatingly close.

"You looked beautiful with him," he muses, voice deceptively soft. "So radiant, so peaceful."

Your throat tightens. "I—"

"I almost believed it. That you could belong to someone else." His fingers dig into your waist, his breath warm against your ear. "But you wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

The dance slows, the air thick with something unspoken, something suffocating. Your heartbeat hammers against your ribs.

"Sunday, let go."

His smile remains, but his grip tightens. "Not yet."

His free hand glides down your back, tracing the dip of your spine through the thin fabric of your gown. It is too much, too intimate.

"You're trembling," he notes, voice almost amused.

The waltz ends, but he does not release you. Instead, he guides you away from the ballroom, seamlessly slipping through corridors unseen.

You struggle. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere private. We have much to discuss."

Your pulse is frantic. "Let go."

He doesn't.

✦✧✦✧

The first thing you notice when you awaken is the cold.

The second is the sensation of silk, smooth and cool against your bare skin.

Your breath hitches. You try to move, only to find your wrists bound above your head, your legs spread apart by soft, unyielding restraints. Panic blooms in your chest, violent and immediate. Your head whips to the side—and there he is, seated beside the bed, his elegant frame bathed in the dim glow of candlelight.

Sunday.

He does not speak at first. He merely watches you, one leg crossed over the other, the very picture of composed authority. But his eyes—his eyes tell another story.

“Phainon must be disappointed,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Losing his precious fiancée on the night of their grand celebration.”

Your stomach twists. “Sunday—”

A gloved finger presses against your lips. “Shh. Not so loud, little wife.” He exhales softly, almost as if amused. “Or have you already forgotten your place?”

Your place.

Your mouth goes dry. “You’re insane.”

He hums, trailing his fingers down the length of your jaw. “Am I?” He leans in, breath warm against your cheek. “And yet you let him touch you. Let him hold you.” His voice hardens, sharp as a blade. “Tell me, did you enjoy it?”

You recoil, struggling against the restraints. “Let me go.”

He sighs. “You’re making this difficult.” He reaches for something beside him—a knife, gleaming under the candlelight. Your heart stops.

“You don’t listen,” he murmurs, dragging the flat of the blade against your throat. “I give you everything. And yet you still act as though you belong to someone else.”

He leans down, lips brushing against your ear. “Shall I remind you who owns you, little wife?”

The blade disappears. His hand replaces it, wrapping around your throat with just enough pressure to make you gasp.

Then he kisses you.

It is not gentle. It is not kind. It is a punishment, a claim—a searing, possessive thing that steals the air from your lungs. His other hand drifts down, grasping at your thigh, pushing it further apart.

“You’ve always been so obedient,” he breathes against your lips, pressing his hips against yours. “And yet you disobeyed me tonight.”

A gloved hand trails down the curve of your stomach, slipping between your thighs.

You jerk against the bindings, breath coming in panicked gasps. “Sunday—don’t—”

His fingers stroke, slow, precise. “Do you know what happens to disobedient little wives?”

Your body betrays you. He is cruel, measured—he knows exactly how to unravel you, how to coax the reactions he desires.

“You let him touch you,” he murmurs. “You let him put his hands on what is mine.” His fingers press deeper, his grip on your throat tightening. “Tell me—did you wish it was me instead?”

You shake your head furiously, eyes burning with fury and shame. “I hate you.”

He smiles. “I know.”

His gloved fingers trace absent patterns against your stomach, a featherlight touch that makes you shudder. "You're shaking," he murmurs, almost curious. "Are you afraid?"

Your breath hitches. "Sunday—please—"

"Please?" He exhales a quiet chuckle, his other hand reaching for your face. He cups your cheek with a tenderness so at odds with the sharp glint in his eyes. "You begged him like that too, didn't you?"

The mention of Phainon sends a fresh wave of dread through you.

You shake your head frantically. "No—I didn’t—"

"Liar."

The silk of his gloves drags down your throat, down to your collarbone, teasingly slow as he watches your every reaction with surgical precision.

"It’s cruel of you," he muses. "To make me feel this way. Do you understand what you've done to me?"

His hand slips lower, ghosting over the curve of your breast. Your back arches involuntarily, the restraints biting into your wrists. He watches the reaction, inhales softly, then presses his thumb against your nipple through the thin fabric of his glove.

"You make me ugly," he whispers. "You make me cruel."

You whimper, turning your face away. But his other hand grips your chin, forcing you back to him.

"No, no, little wife. No running away. Not when I’ve finally claimed what’s mine."

His gloved fingers pinch, roll, tease with an agonizing slowness. Heat coils in your belly, shame burning under your skin.

You grit your teeth. "I hate you."

His lashes lower, a delicate flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Then, suddenly, he moves—leaning in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his fingers slide lower.

"Such wicked words from such pretty lips," he murmurs, the barest hint of a smile in his voice. "But I don’t believe you. Not when your body sings for me so sweetly."

His hand drifts between your thighs, fingers pressing against the slick heat there. You jolt, thighs instinctively trying to close—but the restraints keep you spread, exposed, helpless.

Sunday clicks his tongue, featherlight strokes parting your folds. "So wet," he notes, voice deceptively gentle. "And yet, you claim to despise me. A contradiction, don't you think?"

He slides a single finger inside you, slow, controlled. You choke on a gasp, body arching as he curls it just so, just enough to make your stomach tighten.

"You’re trembling," he observes, pleased. "Do you remember how you looked at him? That sweet little smile? Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t care?"

He adds another finger, scissoring them, stretching you open with patient cruelty. Your breath stutters, heat coiling unbearably tight.

"I care," he breathes, pressing a kiss to your throat. "I care so very deeply. More than you could ever comprehend. And yet, you still insist on testing me."

His fingers withdraw, leaving you empty. Before you can protest, he’s undoing his belt, the soft clink echoing in the quiet room.

Your stomach twists in fear—and something else.

Sunday notices. He always notices.

"Look at you," he murmurs, stroking himself with unhurried grace. "Already shaking, and I haven't even begun."

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Please—"

His fingers thread into your hair, jerking your head back. "Look at me."

You do.

His expression is serene, beautiful even. An angel carved from marble. But his eyes burn, his restraint fraying.

"Say it," he orders, voice softer now, coaxing. "Say that you belong to me."

You shake your head, tears spilling down your cheeks.

His grip tightens. "Say it."

His hips press forward, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance, teasing, pressing—but not yet giving you the relief you dread and crave in equal measure.

Your pulse hammers against your ribs, breath shallow, body betraying you in the worst way.

"Say it," he breathes, rocking forward just enough to make you whimper.

You choke on a sob. "I—I belong to you."

He exhales softly, pleased, and then, without further warning—he sinks into you.

The stretch is unbearable. He is slow, deliberate, pushing inch by inch, watching your every reaction with rapt fascination.

You cry out, wrists pulling against the bindings as your body struggles to accommodate him. But he only hushes you, stroking your thigh, whispering sweet nothings that do nothing to mask the cruelty of his claim.

"There you go," he soothes. "Taking me so well. Just like you were made for me."

A single thrust, deep and unforgiving, robs you of breath. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust—he sets a punishing rhythm, each snap of his hips forcing sobs from your lips, forcing pleasure into your unwilling nerves.

"Mine," he breathes against your skin. "Always mine."

You don't know how long it lasts. Time becomes meaningless, reduced to the obscene sounds of skin against skin, of your own traitorous cries, of his measured breaths as he claims you over and over.

Your body gives out before your mind does, pleasure crashing over you in a humiliating wave. He watches you unravel, drinks in the sight of you breaking beneath him.

His lips press against your temple, deceptively tender. "Good girl."

And then he ruins you. Again. And again. And again.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 ✦✧✦✧

The bar reeks of whiskey, sweat, and desperation. Ain’t nothin’ new. Ain’t nothin’ Boothill ain’t used to. He’s been sittin’ in joints like these since he was old enough to throw a punch, old enough to fuck, old enough to carve his name into the world with blood and bullets.

And yet, tonight, somethin’ gnaws at him deep. A slow-burnin’ rage, coiled tight in his gut like a rattlesnake ready to strike. It ain't the booze or the sorry-ass excuse of a jukebox croonin’ out some sad, forgotten tune. Ain’t the busted floorboards or the smell of stale beer stickin’ to his clothes.

It’s you.

You, sittin’ all sweet and soft, laughin’ at some fucker’s joke like he’s got the right to make you smile. Like he’s got the right to be anywhere near you. And it don’t sit right with him. Don’t sit right with him at all.

Boothill’s watched you grow up in the shadow of his sins. Watched you turn from a wide-eyed innocent little thing, to a woman with a smile that could ruin men. And Lord help him, he knows what kind of world you’re livin’ in. Knows it like the back of his damn hand. Knows what men see when they look at you.

Knows ‘cause he’s one of ‘em.

He’s kept his distance. Fought like hell to keep his hands clean where you’re concerned. But you—

You’re makin’ it real damn hard tonight.

The bastard next to you leans in, whispers somethin’ low, and you—hell, you tilt your head just so, give him that look like you ain't got a care in the world. Like you don’t see Boothill sittin’ across the room, eyes cuttin’ through the dim light, fixin’ to murder a man where he stands.

He ain’t never been jealous. Ain’t never had reason to be. But tonight, he knows what it feels like. Feels it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his fists curl ‘round the neck of his beer bottle, white-knuckled and near crackin’ the damn glass. Feels it in the way his blood runs hot, his cock half-hard just from watchin’ you toy with another man like he ain’t sittin’ right there, like you ain’t been his since the moment you took your first breath.

And then that bastard touches you.

Fingers draggin’ slow over the inside of your wrist. Familiar. Too damn familiar.

Boothill’s on his feet before he even registers movin’. One second, the fucker’s grinnin’ like he’s just won the damn lottery, the next, his face is meetin’ the table with a sickening crack. The room goes silent, all eyes on Boothill as he presses the bastard down harder, watches the blood trickle from his busted nose.

“Git,” Boothill spits, voice like gravel. Ain’t loud. Ain’t a need for it to be. It’s the kinda command men listen to.

The bastard don’t argue. Don’t even look back as he stumbles out the door, one hand clamped over his face.

Then it’s just you and him.

You’re starin’ at him, wide-eyed, breath caught somewhere between shock and somethin’ else. Somethin’ that makes his cock throb against the seam of his jeans, makes his hands twitch at his sides, itchin’ to grab hold of you and make sure you never pull some shit like this again.

You done fucked up, darlin’.

And you’re about to learn just what that means.

✦✧✦✧

Boothill ain't never been a good man. Ain’t never claimed to be. Grew up mean and wild, fists first, questions never. Ain’t had no mama worth a damn, just a father who taught him that the world don’t give a shit ‘bout weakness. Taught him how to fight, how to fuck, how to take what’s his and never let go.

Then came you.

A mistake, some might say. A product of a night he barely remembers, a woman whose name he don’t give a damn about.

But when he first saw you—so small, so damn helpless—somethin’ inside him shifted. Weren’t love. Weren’t nothin’ soft. Just a realization.

You were his.

And Boothill don’t let go of what’s his.

Raised you the only way he knew how. Taught you to shoot, to stand your ground, to never let no man take what ain’t his to take. Kept you close, closer than he should’ve. Closer than was right. But you never questioned it, never pulled away, just looked up at him with those big eyes like he hung the damn moon.

But you ain’t a little girl no more.

And tonight? Tonight’s proof you need a reminder of who you belong to.

✦✧✦✧

The truck’s cabin smelled like whiskey and smoke, thick with the scent of leather and old blood. The weight of his glare pressed against your back, heavier than the boot he propped on the dash, rattling the empty beer cans that littered the floor. The neon lights of the bar you’d just stepped out of still flickered behind you, casting slashes of color against his weathered face.

He hadn’t spoken since dragging you from that dive, his fingers leaving bruises around your wrist. Boothill never got jealous. Not once in your life had he ever reacted to the men you flirted with. You’d spent years pushing, provoking, knowing how much he hated seeing you giggle at some dumb bastard’s joke. But tonight was different.

Tonight, he snapped.

You felt it the moment his fingers dug into your skin, dragging you through the lot like you weighed nothing. Felt it when he threw you against the side of his rusted-out truck, the door creaking open with the force of his shove. The cold leather of the seat bit into the backs of your thighs as he climbed in after you, slamming the door so hard the frame shook.

The silence crackled like static between you.

“You real proud of yourself, sugar?” His voice was slow, syrupy-thick, the drawl edged with something rough. His cowboy hat sat low, shadowing his gaze, but you could feel the weight of it, feel it tracking every twitch of your breath.

You didn’t answer. You never did. That was part of the game.

His nostrils flared as he exhaled, the scent of cigarettes and bourbon hot against your skin. “Ain’t gonna say nothin’?”

Your lips barely parted before his hand was on your throat, squeezing just enough to steal your air. Your pulse hammered against his palm, and your fingers clawed at his wrist, useless against the solid heat of him.

“Nah, you ain’t got to,” he muttered, leaning in until his lips nearly brushed yours. “I get it, baby girl. You think you’re real smart. Think you can fuck with me.” His grip tightened, his breath heavy against your cheek. “But you just made the biggest fuckin’ mistake of your life.”

He released you so suddenly you gasped, your hands flying to your neck as you sucked in desperate lungfuls of air. Your victory was short-lived. Before you could shift, before you could scramble for the handle, he had you flat on your back, his massive frame caging you against the cracked leather seat. His knee wedged between your thighs, prying them apart, while his fingers snapped the buttons of your blouse one by one.

“Lettin’ some little shit put his hands on you,” he hissed, his teeth grazing your ear as he wrenched your top open. “Let him think he could touch what’s mine.”

Your breath hitched, your body thrashing as his hands moved lower, tearing through the fragile fabric of your skirt like it was paper. His calloused palm pressed flat against your stomach, pinning you in place as he loomed over you, eyes dark with something primal, something possessive.

“You think this is funny?” he snarled. “Think I won’t fuckin’ ruin you for that?”

You barely managed to shake your head before his belt unbuckled, the metallic jingle swallowed by the low rumble of his growl. His cock was already hard, thick and pulsing against your trembling thigh. The realization sent a fresh wave of panic through you, your nails biting into his forearm as you struggled.

He only laughed.

“Oh, sugar,” he drawled, voice thick with condescension. “You picked the wrong fuckin’ man to piss off.”

His hand gripped your hips, dragging you down the seat, positioning you exactly where he wanted. The truck’s frame creaked as he pressed closer, the heat of him branding your skin even through the layers he hadn’t torn away yet.

His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, almost gentle, before tangling in your hair and yanking your head back. His lips ghosted over your throat, lingering at your pulse point, relishing the frantic flutter.

“Gonna fuck you right here, baby girl,” he murmured. “Right where any bastard passin’ by can see.”

Your stomach lurched, shame burning hot in your chest. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Except he would.

The first push stole the air from your lungs. He was too thick, too big, stretching you open with no warning, no mercy. Your nails scrabbled against his chest, your body arching, trying to escape the overwhelming intrusion.

“Fuckin’ tight,” he groaned, voice ragged. “Knew you’d be. Knew no worthless piece of shit’s ever been where I am.”

Tears burned your eyes, a choked whimper slipping past your lips. He only grinned, his grip tightening, keeping you exactly where he wanted as he pushed deeper, filling you until there was no space left between your bodies.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Take it, baby. Take your daddy’s cock.”

Your stomach twisted, revulsion and humiliation warring with the relentless sensation of him inside you. Your body betrayed you, slick growing against your will, easing his brutal thrusts as he set a punishing pace.

“Fuck, shit,” he gritted out, his cowboy hat tipping back as he rolled his hips, dragging every inch of himself against your unwilling walls. “Ain’t never lettin’ you tease me again. Ain’t never lettin’ some sorry bastard think he can have what’s mine.”

His fingers wrapped around your throat again, cutting off your weak protests. His free hand slid between your thighs, his thumb pressing cruel circles against your clit, forcing your body to react, forcing pleasure through the horror.

“You feel that?” he whispered against your lips. “Feel how fuckin’ good I make you feel?”

You wanted to scream, wanted to deny it, but the pressure coiled tight in your gut, your body betraying you in the worst way. His thumb pressed harder, his cock slamming into you with brutal precision, and the pleasure cracked through you like a whip.

The orgasm hit you like a betrayal, leaving you shaking beneath him, gasping, shuddering. His laughter followed, low and dark, filled with cruel satisfaction.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

His thrusts grew erratic, harder, sharper, until with a final groan, he buried himself to the hilt, his release spilling inside you, marking you from the inside out.

The silence that followed was deafening. His breath was ragged against your skin, his weight still pinning you down. Your body ached, every inch of you raw and used, slick with sweat and shame.

Slowly, he leaned back, dragging his fingers through the mess he made between your thighs. He lifted his hand, spreading his fingers, smearing it across your stomach with a smirk.

“Now,” he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “Now you know who you fuckin’ belong to.”

He pulled back, zipping his jeans like nothing happened, like he hadn’t just destroyed you in the cab of his damn truck.

You barely registered the door opening, barely registered the sharp night air kissing your ruined skin.

But you felt his hand on your ankle, dragging you toward him.

“C’mon, sugar,” he said, his voice thick with amusement. “We ain’t done yet.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ✦✧✦✧

You never noticed his eyes on you.

Caleb had always been your older stepbrother, the reliable, easygoing one. The towering giant with a lazy smirk, always ready with an arm slung around your shoulders and a dry, teasing remark at your expense. You never thought twice about the way he looked at you, how his eyes followed your every move, how he lingered when you left a room. It had been years of patience, years of carefully curating the role of the harmless, goofy brother.

Until now. Until this.

Your lips, swollen, wet—tainted by someone else.

A kiss. Not his.

Your fingers curled around the front of your dress, oblivious, adjusting the hem, smoothing out creases like nothing had changed. Like you hadn’t just shattered the careful, painstakingly built restraint he’d held all these years.

Caleb stood just beyond the club’s exit, breathing slow, measured breaths. His fists clenched inside his jacket pockets, nails biting into his palms.

You didn’t know he had been watching.

You didn’t know that your crush—the man you’d been pining for—had been nothing more than an insect under his shoe, a passing amusement, one he had tolerated because you had never acted on it. Until now.

His jaw ticked. A muscle twitched beneath his cheek.

You would have gone home with him. Caleb could see it in the way your body had swayed, unconsciously leaning closer, in the half-lidded gaze you had given the bastard. The fucker wouldn’t have needed to work for it, wouldn’t have needed to carve his way into your life the way Caleb had for years.

No. He wasn’t letting that happen.

It had taken him this long—too long—to realize that waiting was a fool’s game. That pretending to be patient, that pretending to be the ‘nice guy,’ had only given you time to slip further away from him.

Never again.

✦✧✦✧

The first time Caleb realized you were his, you were six years old.

He had just turned ten, and his mother had sat him down, voice soft, hands gentle, and told him he was getting a little sister. He had scowled, kicked at the leg of the coffee table, and declared that he didn’t want one.

But then you arrived.

Small. Fragile. Helpless. You had stared up at him with wide, unblinking eyes, and something in his chest had shifted. You had reached for him, tiny fingers curling around his thumb, and it had clicked.

Mine, his young mind had whispered.

He had taken the role easily, instinctively. No one picked on you. No one got too close. He was always there, hovering, watching, ensuring that no harm ever came your way. At school, on the playground, at home—his presence was a constant shadow, an unshakable force. You had looked up to him. You had trusted him.

But then you grew up.

And suddenly, he wasn’t the only one in your world anymore.

At fourteen, you had your first crush. Some idiot kid in your class, some faceless, nameless little shit that had made you blush and giggle in a way that made Caleb’s teeth grind. He hadn’t understood it, hadn’t been able to place the slow-burning anger that festered in his stomach. He had shoved it down, convinced himself it was just overprotectiveness.

At sixteen, you had your first boyfriend. Caleb had hated him on sight. He had never been cruel, never outright told you that you were making a mistake—but the guy never stuck around long, did he? None of them ever did. A comment here, a well-placed insult there, a few carefully crafted rumors whispered into the right ears, and they would be gone, scurrying off like frightened rodents.

You never noticed the pattern.

You never noticed that the common denominator was him.

At twenty, you had your first heartbreak. He had watched, expression unreadable, as you curled into yourself, as you moped around the house, as you swore off men altogether. It had taken everything in him not to smile. He had comforted you, held you, whispered reassurances into your hair, all the while knowing that this was for the best.

He could wait.

He could always wait.

But then tonight happened.

And now? Now he was done waiting.

✦✧✦✧

The night air still clings to you, the last remnants of the club’s heavy bass rattling in your bones, your body still warm, still buzzing from the heat of the dance floor. You don’t notice him. Not at first. Not when you step out onto the street, not when you inhale deep, reveling in the cool relief of fresh air, not even when you shift your dress over your thighs, fingers smoothing over the fabric without thought.

But he notices you.

Caleb had always noticed you.

His fingers twitch, tightening inside his jacket pockets. His heartbeat is slow, measured, calculated, but the muscle in his jaw ticks, his temple throbbing. It’s a mistake, isn’t it? Letting you out of his sight. Thinking you were still the good girl, his good girl, untouched, untainted. That you would never stray. But here you are, skin flushed, lips swollen, kissed by someone else.

His stomach knots, his lungs empty, a deep, burning pit opening in his gut.

It’s not jealousy. It’s not.

It’s rage.

He follows you home.

You don’t realize it. Not when you fumble with your keys, not when you slip inside, humming softly under your breath, not when you lock the door behind you, confident in your solitude. Caleb has always been good at waiting. Good at biding his time. But tonight, the patience he has cultivated for years has finally snapped.

And you will know it.

Your bedroom is warm, the air thick, the lingering scent of perfume and alcohol clinging to your skin. You don’t hear him enter. Don’t hear the door ease open, don’t hear the soft sound of the lock clicking back into place. But you feel it—

The shift in the air. The sudden, stifling presence behind you.

“Did you have fun tonight?”

The voice is low, smooth, almost lazy. Familiar.

Your blood runs cold.

You whirl, eyes going wide, breath stuttering in your throat. Caleb leans against your door, the barest hint of a smirk on his lips, but there’s something else, something unreadable in his gaze. Something that makes your stomach twist.

You take a step back. “What are you—?”

“Answer the question.” His voice is sharp, cutting through your feeble protest, his eyes pinned to you like a predator, like he’s already decided something you aren’t privy to yet.

You swallow hard. Your fingers clutch at your dress. “Y-Yeah.”

His smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens, slow and knowing, curling at the edges with something dark, something dangerous. “Yeah?”

You don’t notice the movement. The way he closes the distance between you in one smooth stride, the way his hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“That why you let him put his hands all over you?”

Your breath hitches.

You barely have time to react before he shoves you back, the force knocking you onto the mattress. Your vision spins, the world a blur of movement and heat, but before you can scramble up, he’s there, a knee pressing between your thighs, pinning you down.

Your hands push against his chest, weak, useless. “Caleb—!”

A hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back, exposing the delicate curve of your throat. His breath is warm against your skin, his lips barely ghosting over your pulse, drinking in the way it hammers wildly beneath his mouth.

“You let him touch you.”

A shudder wracks through you. “I—”

“Did you let him fuck you?”

Your breath stutters, horror clawing at your chest. “No!”

His fingers tighten, tilting your face, his eyes burning into yours. “Did you want to?”

The heat of his body is unbearable, suffocating, his presence swallowing you whole. Your silence is enough of an answer.

Caleb clicks his tongue. “Slut.”

Your gasp is swallowed by his mouth. It isn’t a kiss. It’s a brand, scorching, claiming, his teeth dragging against your lower lip before sinking in, the sharp sting of pain forcing a whimper from your throat.

His hands are everywhere—gripping, tearing, claiming. Your dress is bunched up around your hips, your panties tugged down, and there’s no hesitation, no pause as he presses a knee against your stomach, keeping you down as his fingers slip between your thighs.

“So fucking wet,” he breathes, almost laughing. “You really are a whore.”

You thrash, panic surging through you, but he’s stronger, so much stronger, and the weight of him pressing against you leaves no room for escape.

“Caleb, stop—”

A sharp prick at your thigh. A sting, barely noticeable at first, until—

Your body ignites.

A slow, pulsing heat unfurls in your stomach, blooming outward, spreading like wildfire through your veins. Your skin tingles, too sensitive, your limbs suddenly weak, boneless. Your breath comes in short, shallow gasps, and the realization slams into you, cold and unrelenting.

The needle. The drug.

Terror claws up your throat.

“Shh,” Caleb soothes, brushing damp hair from your face, his fingers light, almost gentle. “It’s just to help.”

Your body betrays you. Heat pools low in your stomach, your muscles twitching with need, your thighs trembling beneath his weight. Your mind screams, begs, fights against it, but your body—

Your body begs for more.

Caleb hums, watching you, fascinated, delighted. “See? So much easier when you listen.”

His hand grips your hip, flipping you onto your stomach, his palm pressing between your shoulder blades, pinning you down. There’s no preamble, no hesitation. His cock drags against your slick folds, teasing, tormenting, before—

A sharp thrust, a brutal stretch. A broken cry rips from your throat, your fingers clawing at the sheets, at anything, but there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to run. He’s too big, too deep, the burn of it splitting you open, wrecking you.

Caleb groans, his fingers digging into your waist, holding you in place as he pulls back, only to slam into you again, setting a brutal, punishing pace. “This is what you needed,” he breathes, voice thick, strained. “Not him. Me. Always me.”

Your mind fractures, pleasure and pain a twisted, tangled mess, the drug dulling the edges of your resistance, leaving you pliant, shaking, helpless beneath him.

He fucks you like he’s branding you, like he’s making sure there will never be another, that no one else will ever touch what belongs to him.

And you know, deep down, that he’s right.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲! 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨 ✦✧✦✧

You think you're clever about it. Discreet.

You're not the type to scream and flail like some mindless fangirl, throwing yourself at the feet of some celebrity or fictional character with doe-eyed devotion. You don't prattle about your obsessions in public, don't gush to your friends, don't leave a visible trail of your affections for just anyone to follow.

But you're obsessive. He can tell.

You hoard. You hyperfixate. You dedicate yourself to the things you love with an intensity that borders on madness, a quiet, insidious fixation that no one notices because you keep your voice down and your hands still. The signs are subtle, but he sees them. The methodical way you collect merchandise, the careful way you arrange it. The deliberate ritual of your mornings when you check the forums, the auctions, the new drops. The way your fingers linger on the edges of your phone screen, scrolling through the latest art of your precious prince charming—your perfect, fictional man.

And fuck, it pisses him off.

At first, he doesn’t care. He barely notices. It’s just some dumb little hobby of yours, another quirk of your quiet, weirdo personality. He’s known you forever, sat next to you in class, tormented you when you least expected it, because you were easy to push, easy to rile up. Even when you didn’t react, he could feel the tension in you, could sense the way you seethed beneath the surface. He liked that about you. Liked getting under your skin, even if you pretended he didn’t.

But then he starts to see it.

See the way you linger at the bookstore, fingers ghosting over the limited-edition hardcover of the latest volume like you’re touching something sacred. See the way your lips press together in concentration when you're hunting for merch, tracking down obscure, expensive collectibles with a drive he never thought you were capable of. See the way your eyes—your unreadable, guarded fucking eyes—go soft and distant when you stare at the screen of your phone, transfixed by some new voice line, some stupid romantic scenario featuring him—that prince of yours, that perfect, spineless little fantasy you keep feeding into.

It starts to get under his skin.

It starts to make his blood boil.

He’s never been jealous before. Never needed to be. He doesn’t do jealousy. It’s a useless emotion, a fucking weakness. And besides, who the fuck would he be jealous of? No one in this goddamn world is better than him. No one.

But then there's you. And your stupid, childish obsession with him.

He sees it all, piece by piece, and it grates at him like a fucking wound that won’t close.

You don’t even like guys like that in real life. That’s what pisses him off the most. You’re quiet, but you’re not naive. You don’t buy into the bullshit, the fake romance, the perfect gentlemen with their fake-ass smiles and their pretty, empty words. You don’t trust people like that. He knows you don’t.

So why the fuck is he different?

Why the fuck does this goddamn, nonexistent, pretty-boy bastard get to have your fucking heart in the palm of his hand?

He starts watching you closer. More than before. More than he should.

You don’t notice, of course. You never do. You think you’re so damn careful, so subtle in your affections, but you’re not subtle at all, not to him. He sees the way your fingers tremble when you finally win a limited-edition figure off some overpriced auction site, sees the way you press the box to your chest, inhaling shakily like it’s something precious to you. He sees the way you handle your collection, dusting each piece meticulously, arranging them just so.

He catches the way you react when you play the game—when you interact with him, that pretty-faced fantasy. Your breath hitching on certain lines, your lashes fluttering when he calls you princess.

Princess.

His fingers curl into fists.

The realization creeps in slow, insidious. It doesn’t hit all at once. It sneaks up on him in little moments, in the tension that coils in his gut when he watches you indulge in this stupid fucking fantasy, in the way his fingers itch to take it away from you.

Because that’s what he should do, right?

That’s what he’s always done. He’s always made your life harder, always reminded you of your place, always knocked you down when you got too comfortable, too secure. It’s practically second nature to him at this point.

So why hasn’t he done it yet?

Why is he watching instead?

He doesn’t realize he’s spiraling until he starts seeing red at the mention of the guy’s name. Until he hears some stupid fucking voice line from your phone during lunch break and feels his throat tighten, his teeth clench.

Until he finds himself waiting to catch you in the act, hovering just out of sight when you unbox some new, expensive piece of merch, watching with narrowed eyes as you cradle it so fucking tenderly, as if it’s something that actually deserves that kind of treatment from you.

Like he doesn’t deserve it more.

Like he’s not the one who’s real.

It all clicks into place when he catches himself fantasizing—not about you, not about your body, but about wrecking everything you’ve built up. About shattering every one of those delicate little figures, about deleting your save files, about ruining this for you so thoroughly that you’ll never even think about that stupid fantasy again. About leaving you with nothing—nothing but him.

His fingers twitch at the thought.

He lets himself think about it, lets the image settle in his mind: You, crying, devastated, completely and utterly destroyed. Because of him. Because he took it all away from you.

And then he lets himself imagine what happens after.

When you finally turn those unreadable, guarded fucking eyes on him—not with disinterest, not with fleeting irritation, but with fear.

When you finally realize there’s only one man in your life who actually matters.

And it sure as hell isn’t some fictional, spineless little prince.

No, he’s the only one who gets to own you.

And he’s going to make damn sure you fucking learn that.

✦✧✦✧

The destruction is methodical. Calculated.

It’s not like he flies into a mindless rage. No, that’s not how this works. That’s not how he works. He’s angry, yeah. Furious. But it’s a cold, simmering kind of wrath. The kind that spreads slow, poisoning everything it touches.

Your books, your posters, your neatly organized shelves of merch—all of it reduced to shredded paper, shattered plastic, broken fucking dreams. He tears down your shrine with his bare hands, watching with vicious satisfaction as your perfect little world crumbles beneath his fingers. The limited-edition figure you tracked down for months? Snapped in half. The signed illustration you framed and kept pristine? Ripped to shreds.

He doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left but debris.

And that’s when you find him.

Your gasp is sharp, raw.

“Katsuki—”

Your voice is tight with something unfamiliar. Something he’s never heard from you before. Panic.

And then—something else.

Anger.

It’s brief, but it’s there. A flicker of fire in your normally composed expression, a spark of real fucking rage as you take in the wreckage. For once, you don’t just swallow it down. For once, you fight back.

Your hands shove at his chest, weak and useless. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

His grip is on you before you can take another breath. Fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to look at him.

Oh. Oh.

He wants to fucking ruin you.

“Wrong with me?” His voice is low, dangerous. “What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?”

You twist in his hold, teeth bared. Good. Fight him. Struggle. Make this fun. “You destroyed my shit, you psycho—”

His hand clamps around your throat, cutting you off.

Your eyes widen. He can feel your pulse hammering beneath his fingers, a frantic little bird trapped in a cage. Your nails dig into his wrist, desperate, but he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t want to. His cock is already hard, already aching.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dark and insidious. “Getting all worked up over some fake fucking asshole.”

Your body jerks as he shoves you against the nearest surface—your ruined desk, your broken shrine, the wreckage of your obsession scattered at your feet. You’re struggling, but it’s useless. He’s bigger. Stronger. And he wants this. Wants you.

His knee wedges between your legs, forcing them apart. His free hand rips at your clothes, tearing fabric, exposing soft, untouched skin. The sight of it—the vulnerability, the unwillingness—sends a violent shudder through him.

“You want perfect, huh?” His teeth graze your jaw, your throat. “Some weak-ass, spineless little prince to whisper sweet nothings in your ear?”

He yanks at your underwear, dragging it down, shoving it aside.

A rough, gloved hand forces your thighs open further.

“Too fucking bad.”

He’s not sweet. He’s not gentle. He’s not what you want.

He’s what you need.

The first thrust is brutal. Unforgiving.

You gasp, a broken, choked-off sound that makes his blood fucking sing. Your nails carve lines into his arms, his shoulders, your body tensing like a vice around him. Fuck, you’re tight. So tight it’s like your body is trying to reject him, like you’re not ready, like you can’t take it.

Too bad.

He buries himself deeper, grinding against the resistance, forcing your body to mold around his.

And the look on your face—

Fuck.

Tears spill down your cheeks. Not silent ones. You’re making sounds, now. You’re whimpering, gasping, pleading.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He fucks you through it, against it, into it.

Your hands push at him uselessly, your thighs trembling. The raw friction is unbearable, agonizing. His grip is bruising, his pace merciless, and yet—

Your body is betraying you.

He feels it. The way your walls spasm around him, the way your breath catches on every thrust. You’re still fighting, still crying, still shattering beneath him—but your body is starting to take it.

Good.

He forces your face to his, biting at your lips, your jaw, tasting your tears. “Cry all you want,” he growls. “S’not gonna change shit.”

Your body is his now. Your fucking soul is his.

And if you ever—ever—so much as think about another man again—

He’ll do worse than this.

Much, much worse.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐛𝐨𝐲! 𝐀𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮 ✦✧✦✧

You never realized just how deep the rivalry ran. Not until it was too late.

Atsumu had always been a bastard. The kind of asshole who charmed his way into your friend group with an easy smirk, all swagger and arrogance, making the people around him simultaneously hate and love him. He was the type to push boundaries, to make crude jokes, to tease until it was cruel. But he never seemed to care—not about anyone, not about anything.

You never thought he cared about you, either. Not really.

His twin, on the other hand, was everything he wasn’t. Osamu was steady where Atsumu was reckless, kind where Atsumu was caustic. You gravitated toward Osamu naturally. He made you feel safe, like the world was a little less chaotic when he was around. And, perhaps most damning of all, you liked him. Not Atsumu. Never Atsumu.

The Miya twins had always been your constants.

They were your childhood, your tormentors, your so-called best friends. The neighborhood kids whispered about how you, the quiet, deadpan girl, managed to keep up with them—the golden storm and the shadow beside him. But you knew the truth.

You weren’t special. Atsumu had told you that enough times growing up.

“Yer like a lil’ pet, y’know?” he’d say, a teasing grin stretching wide, the same one that made girls' knees buckle in high school but made you feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. “Me ‘n Samu, we share ya.”

He never meant it romantically. It was an ownership thing. A possessiveness that had nothing to do with love. The twins were like that—selfish in the way brothers could be, hoarding whatever they deemed theirs. You were no exception.

But then Osamu broke the rules.

You weren’t supposed to have a favorite.

✦✧✦✧

Atsumu had always been a fuckboy. That much was obvious. He flirted with everything that moved, never meant a word of it, and laughed at anyone who took him seriously. Women adored him.

You were different, though. Not in a way that made you special. Just… separate. An anomaly he could never figure out. You never giggled at his teasing. Never rose to his bait. He’d spent years pressing all the right buttons, poking, provoking, waiting for you to crack. But you never did.

Even now, at twenty, when he saw you at the summer festival—dressed in soft colors, yukata swaying against your frame—your expression remained impassive, empty. Like you weren’t even really there.

Except—you were. With Osamu.

And that—that made something in him break.

It was instinct at first. A twin thing, maybe.

He’d been in the middle of another meaningless hookup when the feeling crawled over him—restless, wrong. He’d abandoned the girl without a second thought, following the tug in his gut.

Then he saw you. Saw his twin with you.

The two of you stood near a food stall, Osamu’s arm lazily draped over your shoulder, his hand casually brushing against the fabric of your sleeve. It was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. Not when you were letting him. Not when Osamu was looking at you with an expression he’d never worn before.

And worse—

You were looking back.

Atsumu felt sick.

He watched from the shadows, eyes trained on the tiny, almost imperceptible shifts in your body language. You never let people touch you. Even he, who had spent a lifetime testing your patience, never got that kind of softness.

And Osamu—he fucking knew that.

Because they were twins. Because he understood you just as well as Atsumu did.

So why the fuck did he think he could have you?

Why the fuck did you let him?

Atsumu had never been jealous before.

Sure, he’d fought with Osamu his entire life—over grades, over volleyball, over dumb shit that never mattered. But it had always been fair game.

This wasn’t.

Osamu had stolen something that Atsumu hadn’t even realized belonged to him.

Something he wasn’t willing to share anymore.

✦✧✦✧

You didn’t notice the shift immediately.

Atsumu had always been an asshole. That much was normal.

But there was something different now. A new edge to his cruelty. A sharper bite to his words.

When he cornered you after practice one evening, it didn’t feel like the usual teasing.

“You been avoidin’ me?”

His voice was light, casual. But his eyes—they weren’t.

You barely glanced up, unmoved. “No.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Liar.”

He stepped closer, too close, his presence suffocating. The gym was empty now, the lights dimming. Your fingers curled at your sides, but your expression remained blank.

“You pissed about somethin’?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Silence.

And that—that pissed him off more than anything.

His hand shot out, gripping your jaw, tilting your head up. Your pulse was steady against his fingers, your face devoid of fear.

“You like him that much?”

The question caught you off guard. Your brows furrowed slightly. “What?”

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, not gently.

“You like Osamu that much?” he repeated, voice dangerously soft.

You didn’t answer.

Something flickered in his eyes—something dark, something dangerous.

Your knee jerked up, aiming for his crotch, but he was faster—always faster. His hand shot out, catching your leg, shoving it back down. And then—

Crack.

Pain exploded through your skull.

Your vision blurred, the sharp impact of his fist knocking your head against the metal with a sickening clang. The world swam, and for a split second, you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

And when the world went dark, he smiled.

✦✧✦✧

You wake up to the feeling of something wrong.

The air is thick, oppressive, pressing down on your chest before you even fully register where you are. It’s dark—too dark. Your room isn’t supposed to be this dark. Panic scratches up your throat as you blink, trying to adjust, trying to move—and then you realize.

You can’t.

Your wrists are bound above your head, the coarse bite of rope digging into your skin. Your legs are spread, ankles tied to the foot of your bed. The position is humiliating, leaving you open, vulnerable, entirely at his mercy.

And then you see him.

Atsumu, perched on the edge of the bed, shirtless, his lean, athletic frame cast in sharp relief. There’s something in his golden gaze that makes your stomach twist—something feral, something unhinged.

“Ya talk in your sleep, y’know.”

Your throat clenches. You pull against the ropes, but they don’t give. “Atsumu—”

He clicks his tongue, reaching out to grab your chin, forcing you to look at him. His touch is rough, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

“Say his name again,” he murmurs, voice low, dripping with venom.

Your brows furrow. “What?”

But then you remember.

The dream.

The warmth of Osamu’s arms, the softness of his voice, the way you whispered his name like a prayer.

Realization dawns in Atsumu’s eyes, and his grip tightens. His smirk stretches wider, crueler. “There it is.”

Your stomach plummets. “Atsumu, please—”

The slap is sudden, a sharp crack splitting the silence. Your head snaps to the side, the sting searing across your cheek. Tears burn at your eyes, but you don’t cry. You refuse.

“Don’t beg,” he sneers. “Ain’t gonna change a damn thing.”

His fingers thread into your hair, yanking your head back. His breath is hot against your skin, his teeth grazing the curve of your jaw.

“Ya really think I’d let that slide?” His voice is almost amused, but there’s something darker beneath it, something lethal. “Ya dreamin’ about my brother while yer mine?”

You shake your head frantically. “I—I’m not—”

Another slap. This one harder. Your ears ring, a whimper escaping before you can swallow it down.

He laughs. “That’s cute, sweetheart.”

His hands move lower, fingers hooking into your shirt. With one brutal yank, he rips it open, buttons flying. The cool air kisses your exposed skin, and you shudder.

Atsumu hums, dragging a finger down the valley of your chest. “Ain’t nothin’ 'Samu can do for ya that I can’t do better.”

You thrash, trying to kick, but your legs are bound, useless. Your struggles only seem to amuse him.

“Aww, look at ya.” He grips your chin again, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Fuckin’ helpless.”

His hands travel lower, skimming over your stomach before settling between your legs. You clench your thighs, but it’s pointless. He yanks your underwear to the side, exposing you. The cool air is unbearable, and you feel the heat of his gaze as he drinks you in.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “So fuckin’ pretty.”

You bite your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

But he doesn’t need one.

His fingers part you, dragging through your folds. He groans, low and guttural, as he spreads you open, his touch rough, possessive.

You jerk against the bindings, but he just presses down harder.

“Atsumu, stop—”

The punch knocks the breath from your lungs.

Your vision goes white for a second, your body convulsing from the sheer force of it. Your lip splits, the metallic tang of blood filling your mouth.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he growls.

You cough, gasping for air, but he doesn’t give you a moment to recover. His fingers plunge inside you without warning, two thick digits forcing their way in. The pain is immediate, sharp, and you cry out, your body convulsing.

“Fuck, yer so tight,” he grunts, scissoring his fingers inside you. “Knew ya’d take me good.”

Tears spill down your cheeks as he stretches you open, his pace unrelenting. He crooks his fingers, pressing against something that makes you jerk involuntarily, a traitorous spark of pleasure blooming through the agony.

He notices.

And he laughs.

“Look at ya,” he taunts. “Cryin’ and drippin’ all over my fuckin’ fingers.”

You shake your head, denial bubbling in your throat, but he’s already pulling his fingers free. He shoves them into your mouth, forcing them past your lips.

“Suck,” he orders.

You gag, trying to turn away, but he grips your jaw, keeping you in place. His fingers press against your tongue, the taste of yourself coating your mouth.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “Good girl.”

When he finally pulls his fingers free, he reaches for his waistband. Your stomach lurches as he tugs his pants down, his cock springing free—thick, flushed, leaking.

“You wanna be fucked by a Miya so bad?” he growls. “Guess I’ll give ya what ya want.”

Before you can even scream, he’s lining himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

Then he slams inside.

The pain is blinding. A raw, splitting agony that rips through you, and you sob, body seizing around him. But Atsumu groans, head tilting back, shuddering at the way you squeeze around him.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he pants. “Made for me. Not him. Me.”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t let you adjust. He sets a brutal pace from the start, pounding into you with unrelenting force. Each thrust is punishing, every drag of his cock inside you a brutal, violating stretch.

You scream, but it only seems to spur him on.

“Mine,” he snarls, his teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Mine, mine, mine.”

His nails rake down your thighs, leaving burning red welts in their wake. His hands find your throat, squeezing, cutting off your air until your vision dots with black.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you like he’s trying to break you, like he’s trying to brand himself into your very soul.

And maybe, in some sick, twisted way, he already has.

Because when he finally cums, spilling deep inside you with a groan of satisfaction, you know one thing for certain.

You will never escape him.

Never.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮 ✦✧✦✧

He has never been jealous. Not once in his entire damn life.

Barou Shouei does not give a fuck about people. He doesn’t need anyone, doesn’t rely on anyone, and certainly doesn’t let petty emotions like jealousy get in the way of his dominance. The field is where he thrives, where he obliterates every other weakling with pure, unshakable will. His pride is an unbreakable fortress.

Or at least, it was. Until you.

You were different. Not in the way that people throw around that word like it means something, but in a way that pissed him off in ways he couldn’t explain. You were too easygoing, too warm, too open. It wasn’t that you were an extrovert—you weren’t. You were quiet, withdrawn even, but once people got close enough, you let them in. Too much, too easily.

And they all fucking loved you for it.

Shidou, that damn freak, always found ways to tease you, dragging you into his chaos just to see you laugh. Rin barely tolerated anyone, yet even he spoke to you without that disgusted look on his face. Chigiri, Bachira, Nagi, hell, even Ego himself had a certain level of begrudging respect for you. It made no sense.

But none of them compared to Isagi.

He doesn’t understand it at first. He’s not like Isagi, he doesn’t think in complex strategies or analyze the people around him. But he knows when something is off. And when it comes to you, something is definitely off.

The way you and Isagi are together—it's different.

You’re best friends. You’ve known each other forever. You grew up together, you say, laughing when Barou throws an insult at you the same way he does to everyone else, and you don’t flinch. “Guess I had practice,” you say, nudging Isagi, who just smirks.

Practice. Like you were already used to dealing with people like him.

That thought doesn’t sit well with him.

It only gets worse from there.

You’re always with Isagi. Always talking, always laughing. You have inside jokes he doesn’t understand. There are casual touches—too casual, too easy. You’re not fucking dating, he knows that, but something about it still pisses him off.

And then, the moment that finally breaks him.

You’re on the sidelines during practice, watching the others play while Barou finishes a drill. You’re leaning against Isagi, scrolling through your phone as the bastard peeks over your shoulder, grinning.

“You still have that picture of me?” Isagi laughs.

“Shut up, it’s a funny photo,” you snicker, nudging him away, but not before Barou catches a glimpse of your screen. It’s an old photo of Isagi—one where he looks ridiculous, probably mid-blink, caught at the worst possible moment.

It shouldn’t fucking matter. But it does.

Because you’re smiling. Because you kept it. Because it’s him.

Barou clenches his jaw, forcing himself to look away. The irritation lingers like a bitter taste in his mouth. He tells himself it’s just because he hates Isagi. It’s because the guy is annoying, always yapping, always acting like he’s smarter than everyone else. That’s all it is.

But that doesn’t explain why, later that night, he can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About the way you look at Isagi, about the way you laugh, about the way you never fucking laugh like that around him.

And then it clicks.

It’s jealousy.

Barou Shouei is jealous.

The realization is as infuriating as it is undeniable. It festers inside him like a sickness, twisting, seething, growing stronger with every second. And once he acknowledges it, there’s no stopping it.

He starts watching you more. Studying you. Not in the way Isagi would, not with careful analysis or logic, but with pure instinct. He notices things he never noticed before. The way you adjust your grip on your water bottle, the way your fingers twitch when you’re thinking, the way your lips part slightly when you’re surprised.

He notices the way people look at you.

The way Isagi looks at you.

The way they touch you.

The way you let them.

And it pisses him off more than anything ever has.

You don’t notice it at first. Why would you? Barou has always been Barou—distant, irritable, impossible to deal with. But something shifts.

He starts standing closer to you. Just enough that you feel his presence looming over you, a silent reminder that he’s there. He interrupts conversations you’re having with other people, not even looking at them as he pulls your attention back to him. When Isagi cracks a joke, Barou shuts it down with a sharp glare before you even have a chance to laugh.

And then there are the touches.

They start small. A hand on your lower back when he walks past you. Fingers brushing against yours when he hands you a water bottle. A grip on your wrist that lingers just a second too long.

You think nothing of it.

Until the night he finally snaps.

It happens after another practice, late at night. You’re packing up your things when he corners you, blocking your exit with his sheer size alone. You don’t even have time to react before he’s pressing close, his breath hot against your skin.

“You’re too fucking friendly,” he mutters, voice low, dangerous.

You blink, confused. “What?”

“With everyone,” he growls, his fingers tightening around your wrist. “You let them get too close. You let him get too close.”

Realization dawns in your eyes, and for the first time, you look uncertain. “Barou, are you… jealous?”

The word is a spark to gasoline. His grip tightens, yanking you closer, his body caging you in.

“Shut up,” he snaps. “You don’t get to fucking say that.”

You swallow, your pulse quickening. “I don’t—”

“Do you have any idea how fucking stupid you are?” His voice drops lower, rougher. “The way you act, the way you let them touch you—you don’t even notice, do you?”

You stiffen. “They’re my friends.”

“They’re fucking men.” His jaw clenches, his eyes dark with something unreadable. “And you’re mine.”

Your breath catches. “Barou—”

He doesn’t give you a chance to finish.

The kiss is brutal, all teeth and possession, swallowing your gasp as he pins you against the wall. His hands grip your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He’s not gentle. He’s not kind. He’s claiming you, taking what he’s already decided is his.

You struggle, pushing at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

“You think Isagi would stop me?” he breathes against your lips, his voice a dangerous whisper. “You think any of them would?”

✦✧✦✧

Barou isn’t stupid. He doesn’t miss the way your lips part, the flicker of something—excitement?—sparking in your eyes before you shove it down. You pretend to be flustered, pretend to be afraid, but you aren’t. He can see it. He can feel it in the way your body responds, the way your fingers twitch like you want to fight him and taunt him all at once.

And that pisses him off more than anything.

“You’re fucking enjoying this.” His voice is low, disbelieving, a snarl curling his lips as he stares you down. The air between you is electric, crackling with something dark, something raw.

You blink, but your silence is telling.

Barou’s fingers dig into your hips, holding you in place, his body pressing you against the wall. There’s no escape, not unless he allows it. And he won’t.

“I should’ve known,” he breathes, tilting his head, his eyes narrowing. “You always liked pissing me off, didn’t you? Always running your mouth, always hanging off Isagi like some needy little bitch.” His lips curl into a cruel smirk, something dangerous lurking beneath. “But you weren’t doing it to be nice, were you?”

You swallow. Say nothing.

Barou chuckles darkly. “You were waiting for this.”

His grip tightens, and your breath hitches as he drags you closer, his body heat suffocating. He’s always been big, but like this, caging you in with sheer dominance, he’s terrifying.

And you fucking love it.

The realization twists something in his gut, makes his blood burn hotter. He should be furious. He should hate you for this. But all it does is make his cock throb, make his need for control snap into something more vicious, more primal.

“You think this is a game?” he hisses, his breath hot against your ear. “You think you can play me like some cheap fucking toy?”

You smirk. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Barou snarls.

The next thing you know, you’re on the ground, your back hitting the cold floor with a dull thud as he yanks you down with him. His hands are everywhere, rough and unyielding, dragging your clothes up, shoving your legs apart like you belong to him.

And in this moment, you do.

Your laugh is breathless, teasing. “That all you got, King?”

Something dark snaps in his eyes.

His fingers wrap around your throat, cutting off your next taunt as he forces you to look at him. His grip isn’t enough to choke you—yet. But the threat lingers, heavy and thick, and your body shivers with anticipation.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he mutters, shoving your legs wider, pinning you down with nothing but brute force. “Always running your mouth, always fucking testing me.” His fingers tighten slightly, just enough to make your pulse pound against his palm. “You really don’t know when to quit.”

You gasp, your nails digging into his arms, but it’s not in protest.

And he knows it.

A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face. “You like this,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His free hand slides down, shoving aside the last barrier between him and what he wants. “You fucking love it when I treat you like shit.”

Your body betrays you. The way you shudder, the way your hips arch involuntarily against his touch, the way your breath catches—he doesn’t miss a single thing.

“Filthy little thing,” he mutters, his voice thick with something dark, something possessive. “You were never innocent, were you?”

You smirk up at him, defiant even now. “Never.”

Barou doesn’t give you time to prepare.

The stretch burns, his cock forcing you open with no patience, no mercy. You gasp, your fingers clenching around his wrist as your body struggles to take him. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t give you a second to adjust—because you don’t fucking deserve it. You wanted this, you pushed him, and now you’re going to take everything he gives you.

His pace is brutal from the start, every thrust knocking the air from your lungs. He grips your hips hard enough to bruise, slamming you down onto his cock like he wants to break you.

“You think Isagi could do this to you?” he growls, his teeth grazing your jaw. “Think he could fuck you like this?”

Your moan is involuntary, wrecked and breathless, and that only drives him further.

Barou snarls, his grip tightening. “Fucking answer me.”

Your eyes flutter, your mind fogging with pleasure, with pain, with the sheer intensity of him. “No,” you gasp. “Only you.”

He fucking knew it.

His thrusts get rougher, punishing, his dominance absolute. He’s never been jealous before. Never let himself care. But now, he understands.

Then, finally, he speaks.

"Try that shit again," he mutters against your ear, his voice still rough, dangerous. "I dare you."

You grin.

Because now, you know exactly how to break him.

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles , @xileonaaaa , @neuvilletteswife4ever , @poopooindamouf

Test-Phase TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @imnotabot28 , @han11dh , @loserworld , @esthelily

Character TAG LIST of “HSR Sunday”: @yandere-romanticaa

karaoke session

saving

Imagine Being Bonten's Receptionist (Bonten x F Reader) - Tokyo Revengers

PART 1: FIRST DAY/INTRODUCTIONS

TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT

Bonten is Tokyo's most notorious crime syndicate but has an office like any respectable business. even if it was a front. Each member had an office, there were a couple of meeting rooms, and they even had other staff who like you were sworn to secrecy or face deadly consequences. The pay was better than any other place you'd interviewed at, and the hours were reasonable, but you were expected to be flexible if needed to come in early or stay later.

The reception area had a few sofas and tables, and your counter was the first thing you saw when you got off the lift. You couldn't actually enter the offices behind you unless you had a key card or you buzzed them in. It would be quite lonely out here on your own or so you thought.

Hajime Kokonoi had hired you, he said it was because you looked trustworthy, and of course, you made a joke that he'd probably had your background checked. He told you to your face he had and you were the most worthy applicant. When you pushed for more he sealed his lips. On your first day, he put a very nice vase of flowers on the reception counter stating it gave the place more life, but it was a bouquet of your favourite flowers. So you thanked him and he said it was nothing, even though a couple of flowers had to be imported. You heard he was stingy with money.

You were typing away when Takeomi Akashi walked out of the offices with an unlit cigarette between his lips not noticing your presence, because he was busy cussing the lighter that wasn't working. 'Excuse me, let me help you,' you call out, grab the lighter from your bag and walk over to him. 'Who are you?' he asks confused, and you explain as you light the cigarette. 'Thank you, you smoke?' he enquires and you shake your head, and explain your friends do and on nights out you'd rather them come to you than a stranger. 'Smart girl, never smoke.' Takeomi now knew who to come to when his lighter wouldn't work.

Kakucho walks out of the lift on his phone, 'good morning,' you say politely. The poor man jumps out of his skin and nearly drops his phone on the marble floor. You apologise profusely for scaring him and his face gets a little redder the more you talk to him. It's not lost on you that he's not so subtly checking you out, in fact, you find it kind of cute when he should be intimidating. 'Nice to meet you, err I have to go,' he stutters and makes a quick escape into the offices. At the end of the day, he introduces himself properly, telling you if you need anything you can call him. It had been a while since a guy had given you his number.

Word spread by lunchtime about the new hire and that's when you met the Haitani brothers Ran and Rindou. Hajime had warned you to be on your guard, you were innocent and the brothers would try to taint you. 'hello beautiful, I have a reason to come into the office more now,' Ran croons, leaning over the counter staring at you with lustful eyes. You sit up straight, 'it's nice to meet you, but nothing's going to happen.' Ran looks hurt while his brother laughs, 'Maybe you're not as much of a charmer as you think brother. Call me Rindou.' and you're shocked when he takes your hand and kisses it. You would almost believe he was a gentleman if he didn't have the same lustful eyes as his brother. You smile and remove your hand from his, 'I don't know what game you two are playing but it won't be easy. I've been warned.' the brothers exchange a look and huff, 'Koko,' they say in unison. You nod and go back to your computer. Little did you know that your rejection ignited a challenge between the brothers to see who could win you over first.

After the Haitani brothers, you thought you'd be left alone but there were a couple of cocky male employees who thought they could flash expensive suits and watches while being drenched in overpowering cologne. Unlike the brothers these two immediately violated your personal space making you feel uncomfortable, 'can you leave me alone please?' you ask, 'get away from me,' you insist. One of the men goes to grab your arm 'Know your place bitch--' when he's grabbed himself and thrown backwards. Kanji Mochizuki stands guard in front of you, 'the lady said no, just wait until the boss here's about this.' Then men scurry off scared by the threat. He turns to face you with a warm smile, 'Sorry about that, they won't cause you any more problems. Give me a shout if anyone else makes you feel uncomfortable.' you weren't quite sure what to make of him, but you just got your second number of the day.

Hajime or Koko as he told you to call him asked you to stay late to accept a parcel for another member. This is where you met Bonten's no.2 Haruchiyo Sanzu and the leader Manjiro Sano. You were taken aback seeing Sanzu covered in blood while Mikey didn't seem to have a single scratch on him, both looked equally intimidating and you didn't want to get on either of their bad sides. You gulp and look down at the parcel you'd not long signed for seeing it was addressed to Sanzu, 'good evening I have a parcel for Haruchiyo Sanzu.' both men stare at you, Sanzu looks manic while Mikey looks bored. 'Thank you, lovely lady, pink looks good on you,' Sanzu chuckles and takes the parcel before skipping into the office. You brush imaginary creases off your light pink blouse, 'well I guess I'll be going then, have a good night sir,' you pick up your bag, turn off the monitor and stand up noticing Mikey hadn't moved his eyes from you, 'are you okay sir?' you ask. He blinks a couple of times, 'Yes, get home safe,' you nod and press the lift button, feeling a little uneasy having Mikey continue to stare at you.

When you returned to your apartment, you threw yourself on the bed, thinking about your interesting first day of work and all the Bonten members you'd interacted with. This was going to be an interesting job.

lol

I made and posted this on tiktok and disappeared. I have no idea how to use the app. I'm a loyal instagram user and refuse to be a tiktok immigrant. Let's see if it can blow up here 😭

Edit/video © me

i just know irl nanami would have the FATTEST ass guys pls back me up on this😠😠

he does and i confirm it

With him, there’s no ‘no’. Only ‘yes, sir’.

❤︎ Synopsis. Obsession unfolds as a powerful figure locks his gaze on you, intent on bending your will and breaking your resistance. In his world, love is just a tool for control, and surrender is inevitable.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Itoshi Rin x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Itoshi Sae x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Michael Kaiser x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Isagi Yoichi x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. A Slave to His Will - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 4,056

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non con, possessiveness, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non con kissing and touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats, degradation, verbal abuse, mature language

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.

♡ Itoshi Rin.

The air around you was frigid, oppressive, each breath you drew cutting sharp like shards of glass in your lungs. The room itself felt less like a space and more like a void—a place where shadows bled into each other and time slowed to a crawl. It wasn’t empty, though. It was filled with him. Rin Itoshi’s presence didn’t just occupy space; it consumed it, swallowing every ounce of air and light until all that remained was the unbearable gravity of his attention.

He stood across from you, his posture deceptively calm, but his eyes—those glinting, venomous teal—spoke volumes. They didn’t see you; they scorched you, flaying you open inch by inch, revealing every fear, every insecurity you thought you’d buried deep. He didn’t need words to tell you what you already knew. You were his focus now. And Rin’s focus was a weapon more devastating than any blade.

When he finally moved, it was with the deliberate, measured precision of a predator closing in on wounded prey. Each step seemed to reverberate through the space, the sound of his soles meeting the floor a dark metronome marking the seconds before you unraveled.

“You don’t understand yet, do you?” His voice slid through the room like oil, suffocating and smothering. It wasn’t booming; he didn’t need to be. Rin spoke with a low, simmering intensity that demanded silence, demanded submission.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smirk as he studied you like one might study a puzzle missing its final piece. “Do you know what it’s like to burn so absolutely for something that it becomes the only damn thing that matters? To be willing to destroy yourself and everything else just to take it, to own it?”

The silence stretched as your breath caught, your lips parting, though no sound escaped. He didn’t need a response. He wasn’t asking for permission. His gaze dropped to your trembling hands, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his face.

“You’re afraid,” he murmured, the statement dripping with satisfaction. “Good.”

Rin was suddenly in front of you, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body, a stark contrast to the glacial tone of his voice. His fingers brushed against your jaw, soft at first, barely a whisper of contact. It wasn’t kindness, though—just a mockery of it. When his hand tightened, tilting your face upwards to meet his gaze, there was no softness left, only an unyielding grip that said everything he didn’t.

“You’ve already lost, you know.” His eyes bore into yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw something deeper—something feral, desperate, and wholly consuming. “From the moment I decided you were meant to be mine, it stopped being a choice. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

His free hand moved to your wrist, encircling it with ease. His strength wasn’t overbearing, not yet, but the implication of it was clear. He didn’t need to hurt you to make you understand just how powerless you were. That realization crept over you like ice, numbing and inescapable.

“You think this is about affection? About love?” His laugh was razor-sharp, cutting through the smothering tension like a blade. “You really are naive.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your temple, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver crawling down your spine. “This is about control. About devotion. I don’t care if you fight. I don’t care if you wail or beg. You’ll stay exactly where I want you until you understand what it means to belong to me.”

Rin’s hand slid down your arm, his fingers intertwining with yours for the briefest moment before pulling your hands together, binding them in his grip. There was no tenderness in the motion, only an inexorable assertion of dominance. He didn’t look at you like a person. He looked at you like an extension of his will, a piece of his identity he was determined to carve into shape with his bare hands.

“You’ll break,” he said simply, as if it were an inevitability. His tone was soft now, almost contemplative. “And when you do, I’ll revamp you into someone worthwhile of standing at my side.”

His lips hovered just above yours, tantalizingly close yet deliberately distant. He wasn’t giving you what you wanted—or what you feared. This wasn’t about the act itself. It was about the power in withholding it, in watching you crumble under the unbearable weight of his attention.

“Say my name,” he commanded, his voice as sharp and unyielding as tempered steel. “Say it like you acknowledge who you belong to alone.”

You hesitated, the words caught somewhere between your throat and the pounding of your heart. His grip tightened, just enough to remind you of how easily he could crush you. “Say it,” he growled, his patience fraying at the edges.

When you finally whispered his name, barely audible, a flicker of triumph danced in his eyes. His smirk widened, splitting his face into something cruel, something monstrous.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his tone laced with mockery and satisfaction. “Now, let’s see how far you’re willing to fall for me.”

And as he pulled you closer, as his touch turned rougher, hungrier, you realized too late that Rin Itoshi wasn’t a man. He was a storm, a force of nature that would consume everything in his path. And you? You weren’t just caught in its wake. You were the eye of it, the singular focus of his ruinous obsession.

────────────

♡ Itoshi Sae.

He watches you like a predator studying its prey, his teal eyes narrowing with the precision of a sniper’s scope. In the dim light of his apartment, the air is heavy with unspoken tension. His presence feels suffocating—an invisible hand curling around your throat. Itoshi Sae’s gaze is unwavering, dissecting every twitch of your fingers, every shallow breath, every faltering word that escapes your lips. He doesn’t speak right away. Silence is his first weapon, sharp and calculating, cutting into your composure like a scalpel. When he finally does speak, his voice is soft, measured, but each word lands with the weight of a falling guillotine.

“You don’t even realize how pathetic you look right now, do you?” he mutters, his tone devoid of empathy, yet laced with a hidden clinical curiosity. He steps closer, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the hollow quiet. “It’s fascinating, really. How easily someone can be stripped of their pride.”

You flinch as his hand reaches out, but there’s nowhere to run. His fingers trace the line of your jaw, their touch featherlight, but you can feel the intent behind them—cold, assessing, as though he’s handling a fragile object he intends to shatter. His lips curve into the faintest semblance of a smile, but it’s a lifeless thing, a grim mockery of warmth.

“Do you even understand what you’ve done to deserve this?” he asks, tilting his head. The question hangs in the air, rhetorical and cruel. He doesn’t wait for an answer. Sae doesn’t need your words; he thrives on your silence, on the way your trembling body speaks volumes.

His hand slides lower, over the curve of your shoulder, down your arm, his touch methodical, almost mechanical. Each movement is deliberate, precise, as though he’s memorizing the map of your body. When his grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin, it’s not enough to bruise—not yet—but the promise of pain lingers in the air like static before a storm.

“Weak,” he speaks, almost to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought you’d be different. But in the end, you’re just like the rest of them. Fragile. Pathetic.”

He takes a step back, his hand falling away, but the reprieve is an illusion. The distance between you is a leash, not freedom. His eyes remain locked on you, dissecting every reaction, every flinch, every unsteady breath. Sae’s control is absolute; even in his silence, he commands the room, bending reality to his will.

“Look at me,” he commands, his tone low and cutting. When you hesitate, his lips curl into a sneer. “Did I stutter?”

Your eyes meet his, and the intensity of his gaze feels like a physical blow. There’s no mercy there, no compassion—only an abyss of calculated cruelty. He steps forward again, closing the distance, until you’re forced to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. His hand rises, fingers curling around your throat, not tight enough to choke, but firm enough to remind you of the power he holds.

“Struggling would be pointless,” he says, his breath warm against your ear. “But go ahead. Try. Amuse me.”

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, your hands pushing against his chest in a futile attempt to create space. His grip tightens in response, the pressure against your windpipe making it harder to breathe. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. Instead, he watches with a detached curiosity, as though observing a lab experiment.

“Pathetic,” he repeats, his voice dripping with disdain. “Is this really the best you can do?”

When he finally releases you, you collapse against the wall, gasping for air. He doesn’t give you time to recover. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back until you’re forced to look at him again. The smirk on his lips is faint, almost imperceptible, but the malice behind it is undeniable.

“You should thank me,” he says, his tone deceptively calm. “I’m teaching you your place.”

The words cut deeper than any physical wound, and he knows it. Sae’s cruelty isn’t born of chaos; it’s calculated, surgical. He doesn’t just break you; he dissects you, piece by piece, stripping away your defenses until there’s nothing left but raw, trembling vulnerability.

And then, when you think he’s finished, he rebuilds you—but not as you were. No, Sae shapes you into something else entirely, something that fits his vision. His obsession isn’t love; it’s a dark, twisted form of control, a need to possess and dominate every aspect of your being.

“You’ll learn to obey,” he says one night, his voice a venomous whisper in the dark. “Or I’ll make sure you never forget the consequences of disobedience.”

The words linger in your mind, a constant reminder of the cage he’s built around you. Even in his absence, you feel his presence—an invisible hand guiding your every move, a shadow that looms over every thought. Sae’s control is absolute, his dominance inescapable. And in the rare moments when his mask slips, revealing the depths of his obsession, the darkness in his eyes is enough to make your blood run cold.

“You’re mine,” he says one night, his voice trembling with an emotion that’s almost human. But the glint in his eyes is anything but tender. “Even if I have to break you to keep you.”

His kisses are bruising, his touch possessive to the point of pain. He marks you, both physically and emotionally, until there’s no part of you left untouched by his influence. And yet, despite the horror, there’s a part of you that can’t escape him. Because Sae doesn’t just break you; he makes you believe that you were never whole to begin with.

And in his mind, that makes you his—irrevocably, undeniably, his.

────────────

♡ Michael Kaiser.

Michael Kaiser is not a man who plays by halves. Perfection, domination, and the art of dismantling his rivals—these are the tenets of his life, the doctrines by which he reigns supreme both on and off the field. Control is his lifeblood, his religion, and for as long as he can remember, the world has bent to his will, obedient to the designs of its self-crowned emperor.

Until you.

You, with your fragile defiance and trembling courage, have carved a fissure in his perfect, unyielding universe. He hates you for it, as much as he is enthralled by you. You are an anomaly he cannot ignore—a splinter lodged deep beneath his skin, festering, driving him mad.

And tonight, as the air grows heavy with the weight of unspoken words and dangerous promises, he watches you like a predator. His gaze lingers on the way you shrink back, cornered yet refusing to crumple entirely. It is infuriating. It is intoxicating.

“Do you even realize,” he begins, his voice a low snarl that echoes through the dimly lit room, “what you’ve done to me?” He steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, a calculated menace radiating from every fiber of his being. The light catches on his tattoos, twisting chains and roses that writhe across his skin like living things. “You’ve turned my life into chaos. My life. Do you know how unacceptable that is?”

You say nothing, your lips pressed tightly together, though your trembling form betrays you. It fuels him, this tiny rebellion. He could crush it—crush you—with ease, but where would be the satisfaction in that? No, he wants to see you fight. He wants to see you lose.

“Answer me,” he commands, his tone icy now, each word a blade slicing through the silence.

When you finally stammer a response, it’s barely above a whisper. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” he interrupts, his laughter sharp and humorless. He takes another step closer, and the distance between you vanishes like smoke. “Didn’t mean to? Didn’t notice? Or didn’t care?” His hand shoots out, gripping your chin with a force that leaves no room for resistance. “Because I can assure you, liebe, I’ve noticed. I’ve noticed every single time you’ve made me feel—” He cuts himself off, his jaw clenching as if the very idea repulses him.

There is something feral in his eyes now, a hunger that makes your breath catch. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, the touch almost gentle, but the tension in his grip is unmistakable. He leans in, so close that his breath warms your cheek. “Do you want to know what it’s like?” he murmurs, his voice a venomous whisper. “To have everything under your control, everything perfect, only for someone like you to come along and ruin it?”

You try to look away, but his grip tightens, forcing your gaze back to his. “No,” he says, his voice a low growl, “you don’t get to look away. You don’t get to pretend this isn’t your fault.”

His other hand moves to your throat, fingers splayed against the delicate curve of your neck. He feels the erratic rhythm of your pulse beneath his touch and smiles—a cold, cruel thing that bares his teeth like a wolf. “Ah, there it is,” he breathes, his thumb pressing just enough to make your head tilt back. “Fear. It suits you.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before his lips brush against your ear, his voice dropping even lower. “You make me weak,” he hisses, the words filled with venom. “Do you understand how disgusting that is? How infuriating it is to crave something as broken and defiant as you?”

The mask of control he wears so effortlessly slips, just for a moment, revealing the raw, seething obsession beneath. “But don’t worry,” he continues, his tone softening in a way that only makes it more terrifying. “I’ll fix that. I’ll fix you.”

Before you can process his words, he moves. His hands slide down your arms, his grip firm and unyielding as he pulls you closer. His lips find your skin, leaving a trail of bruising kisses and sharp bites. Each mark is deliberate, a claim etched into your flesh. He revels in your protests, in the way you try—and fail—to push him away. “Keep fighting,” he murmurs against your collarbone, his breath hot and ragged. “It only makes it more satisfying when you finally give in.”

Your struggles only seem to amuse him, his laughter rumbling low in his chest. “Do you know what I’ll do to them?” he asks suddenly, his voice taking on a darker edge. “All those fools who think they can touch you, who think they can have you? I’ll destroy them. I’ll make them regret ever looking at what’s mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone is suffocating, the weight of it pressing down on you like a physical force. He steps back, just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression a twisted mix of adoration and hatred. “You’ll see,” he promises, his voice soft but deadly. “I’ll show you what happens to anyone who thinks they can take you from me.”

And then he’s on you again, his touch alternating between cruel and tender, his words a dizzying mixture of threats and endearments. He breaks you down piece by piece, his dominance suffocating, overwhelming, until you are left with nothing but the reality of his obsession.

When he finally pulls away, his hands still lingering on your skin, he smiles. It is not a kind smile. It is the smile of a man who has won. “There,” he says, his tone almost gentle. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

But you know, deep down, that this is only the beginning. For Michael Kaiser, love is not a gentle thing. It is a war, a game of control where surrender is the only acceptable outcome. And you are his trophy, his prize, his victim.

You may have defied him once, but in the end, there is no escaping him.

────────────

♡ Isagi Yoichi.

The room was steeped in silence, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint, rhythmic ticking of a clock buried somewhere in the shadows. It was the kind of silence that amplified everything else—the quickened hitch of your breath, the faint rustle of fabric as you tried to edge back, and the subtle scrape of his shoes against the wooden floor as he closed the distance. Isagi Yoichi was nothing like the boy you thought you knew, the one with the eager, boyish grin and the kind of enthusiasm that made people underestimate him. That version of him had been shed, discarded like dead skin. What stood before you now was something raw and unrelenting, a creature shaped by obsession and honed by the cold, unyielding weight of his own ambition.

His presence was suffocating, a wall of quiet menace that pressed down on you, leaving no room for escape. He tilted his head slightly, watching you as one might a trapped animal, his sharp blue eyes reflecting a glint of something darker, something that thrived on your fear. There was no anger in his gaze—no fiery outburst, no theatrics. It was colder than that, infinitely more chilling. Isagi didn’t need to raise his voice; the intensity of his silence spoke volumes.

“You don’t get it yet, do you?” His voice was low, almost gentle, and that softness made it infinitely more terrifying. Each word felt deliberate, precise, like the ticking of the clock—unavoidable, inescapable. He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “You think you have a choice here? That there’s some world where you can walk away from me? What are you? A damn idiot?”

Your back hit the wall, the cold surface biting through your clothes, and you realized you’d run out of space. His body was too close now, towering over you, his scent invading every breath you took. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was overwhelming, a mix of sweat and something sharper, metallic, like adrenaline distilled into a tangible form. His hand reached out, skimming along the edge of your arm with a touch that wasn’t quite gentle. It wasn’t cruel, either—it was assessing, clinical, as though he were studying the tension in your muscles, savoring the way your body betrayed you.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth curling upward into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. It wasn’t the kind of smile that reassured—it was cruel, mocking, the kind of expression that turned the air around him icy. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “What is it? Fear? Shame? Or are you just starting to realize what this means for you?”

You swallowed hard, but your throat felt dry, constricted, as though even that small act of defiance might provoke him further. His fingers moved upward, brushing against your jaw, and your body froze under his touch. It wasn’t a question of whether you could fight back; it was the knowledge that resistance would only make things worse.

“You think I don’t see it?” he asked, his tone sharper now, though his voice never rose above that measured, calculated calm. “The way you look at people. The way you laugh, like it’s nothing, like I’m not standing right here, watching you give them parts of yourself that don’t belong to them. That don’t belong to you.”

His grip tightened, his fingers curling under your chin to force your gaze upward. Those blue eyes—sharp, unyielding, like frozen shards of glass—bored into yours, peeling away every layer of defense you might have built. “Look at me,” he demanded, though the command was almost a whisper. “I said, look at me.”

You obeyed, if only because there was no other option. The intensity of his stare was suffocating, like standing on the edge of a cliff with the ground crumbling beneath your feet.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?” he asked, and there was something unnervingly reverent in his tone now, as though you were the culmination of some grand, twisted dream he’d nurtured in secret. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to need something so badly it fucking hurts?”

His hand moved again, this time skimming down your side, his touch possessive, leaving behind an invisible trail that burned like a brand. When he kissed you, it wasn’t a kiss—it was a claim, raw and feral, a battle for dominance you’d already lost. His lips were demanding, his teeth grazing your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, though you couldn’t tell if it was intentional or simply a byproduct of his hunger. When you tried to push him away, your palms pressing weakly against his chest, he caught your wrists with ease, pinning them against the wall above your head.

“Don’t,” he warned, his voice dropping to a growl, the sound rumbling through his chest like the distant echo of a storm. “Don’t fucking fight me.”

His weight pressed against you, his body a cage as much as his words were. His breath was hot against your neck, his teeth dragging along your skin in a way that made your heart lurch violently in your chest. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze again, his expression dark and unreadable.

“You think this is love?” he asked, his voice dripping with something bitter, almost mocking. “Love is weak. Love makes people hesitate. And I don’t hesitate. Not when it comes to you.”

He tilted his head slightly, as though considering his next move, his eyes never leaving yours. “No, this isn’t love,” he said finally, his tone softening, though it only made the words more chilling. “This is something better. Something stronger.”

When he moved again, it was with deliberate purpose, his hands rough and unapologetic as they claimed every inch of you. His touch left no room for doubt, no space for protest. He wasn’t gentle—not because he couldn’t be, but because he didn’t see the need. You weren’t something to be coddled, not in his eyes. You were his, and he was going to make sure you understood that in every way possible.

“You’ll thank me for this one day,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow. But eventually, you’ll see. You’ll see that you were always mine.”

When he pulled back, his grip still firm on your chin, he studied you like an artist admiring their masterpiece. His thumb brushed against your lip, smearing the faint trace of blood he’d left behind, and his smirk returned, darker and more dangerous than before.

“You’re perfect,” he said, almost to himself. “And I don’t lose perfect things.”

Then, leaning in so close that his lips barely ghosted against yours, he whispered his final, bone-chilling promise: “And I don’t fucking share.”

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST: @uniquecutie-puffs , @ikevampharem , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

HUH!!???

When they're both voiced by Landon McDonald>>

Now I'm imagining Hoshina being a househusband and Kazuki slaying kaiju.

[ID: Left picture: a screenshot of Hoshina Soshiro from Kaiju no. 8. Right picture: a screenshot of Kazuki Kurusu from Buddy Daddies. ED.]

Idk what to caption

🚨URGENT🚨

Please stop ✋🚨 you're the only hope to save a child🥺

My son Mohammed is in critical condition after being shot by Israeli drones. He has been taken to the operating ⛺️ and urgently needs treatment outside the Gaza Strip.

I lost most of my family. I'm afraid to lose my son too 🥺 .

I need your help please donate and share, evry contribution, no matter how small, brings us hope in these dark times.

Mohammed deserves to live a happy and healthy life, just like every other child on this earth.

Please Donate now:👇👇 👇

gofundme.com

Donate to Join Us in Our Struggle: Save Our Family from War in Gaza, organized by Ghazal Naseer

‎‏Dear friends, ‎‏My name is Ghazal Naseer, from pales… Ghazal Naseer needs your support for Join Us in Our Struggle: Save Our Famil

—————————————————————————

✅️My campaign is vetted by el-shab-hussein& Nabulsi's, my number verified on the list is ( #355)✅️ 👇

https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/u/0/d/1yYkNp5U3ANwILl2MknJi9G7ArY4uVTEEQ1CVfzR8Ioo/htmlview

——————————————————————————

Stray dog (Part 2)

To find the most recent chapters, please go to @doggoboigaugau 's masterlist

Sorry it took me quite long lmao TToTT School and work deadlines are killin' me.

Pairings: Ghost x Soap x Male Reader

Summary: Male Reader is traumatized and refuses to open up to 141. Soap found out something horrible going on with him and told Ghost about it.

Word count: 1910

Warnings: Smoking. Mention of attempts to self-h@rm.

The next morning you woke up with a throbbing headache. It was so bad that you felt like hundreds of needles were jabbed into your eye sockets and every time you blinked, those needles plunged into your brain, sending a sharp and chilling pain to the crown of your head. This was by no means a strange occurrence for you though, given the fact that every night the base celebrated a party you always indulged in this self-sabotaging habit. 

Still, no matter how bad the situation was, you still had training to attend to, tasks to get done, reports to compile, and a miserable life to live. You turned your head to look at the clock, silently praying that it wasn’t too late. 

It was 13:00 in the afternoon already. 

“Shit!” You threw an arm over your forehead. Nice, you missed the morning training session. It was your responsibility today to train the new recruits and now you messed up the whole Task Force’s schedule once again just because you could not handle your pathetic emotions properly. The thoughts of giving up flooded your mind yet again since it was no use in waking up anyway, it was too late to do anything useful. The other team members were already aware of how irresponsible you were as you continuously failed to be on time for training the newbies. And what about the newbies’ impression of you? Probably an unreliable man who was no longer fit to be a member of a special Task Force that was particularly famous for its efficiency. Or maybe you were never fit to be one to begin with. 

Why didn’t the others wake you up? You had worked here long enough to know how scary and irritated Ghost could get when people missed his training session. There were even times when he immediately had the unpunctual soldiers pack their things and get sent to another department because he couldn’t fuckin’ stand people disrespecting his schedule. 

“Maybe they forget about my existence. Maybe I wasn’t that big of a part of this Task Force.” You mumbled to yourself, trying to pull your tired body out of the heavy blanket. As much as you wanted to give up, the desire to be important to someone, something, or some organization, …just anything, urged you to wake up and keep trying. You wanted yourself to be seen.

Upon opening the door of your stuffy room, you instinctively covered your eyes as they were attacked by rays of blinding sunlight. Your room was too dark and gloomy, doors and windows tightly shut all day and night, no wonder you would react so unfavorably to the bright sunlight that is often associated with positive moods by most people. 

The base was unusually quiet. You didn’t meet a single soul on your way to the kitchen to fill your hungry stomach. No Soap cracking stupid jokes with his heavy Scottish accent and laughing loudly to them himself, no Gaz cursing at his jokes, no Roach laughing at the two dumb manchildren, no Price sighing and telling them to at least be less raucous. You tried to shrug the nasty nagging feelings off, but it soon became unbearable when you walked into the kitchen and saw all the dirty dishes in the sink. 

“They have finished their lunch.” And they had it without you. The people you considered to be your own family, much closer than the biological family that you had cut all contact with, didn’t wake you up from your drunken sleep, totally forgot your existence, and enjoyed a meal together like there wasn’t anything missing. You knew damn well that you were overexaggerating the seriousness of the situation, but you just couldn’t help it. 

‘What am I to them?’ That question kept spiraling inside your brain, worsening the headache that you were already having. In a brief second, all the nagging feelings were anthropomorphized into a disgusting creature with multiple heads and mouths by your ailed mind, shrilly screaming out your deepest thoughts that were fraught with insecurities. Your legs were rendered weak and you collapsed on the floor. Supporting your weakened body with all four limbs, you took heavy breaths, trying to calm yourself down.

A few minutes later, you managed to put yourself together enough to stand up and get out of the base, on the way you didn’t forget to grab a pack of cigarettes. You felt stupid to resort to nicotine as a way to fight against all those feelings, but you didn’t know a better way. There were times when things were so bad that you had no energy left to hide your conditions from your teammates, and Price was concerned. He used to have you talk to some therapists, and not surprisingly to you at all, they could not handle you for long. No one ever could. 

You were now standing in the parking lot with a cigarette in your mouth. You sighed, clearly satisfied with how strongly its bitter taste stimulated your taste buds. When you first arrived here as the newest member of Task Force 141, Soap and Gaz always joked that you’d become Price’s smoking buddy, but that did not happen. The image of you standing with Price awkwardly because you two couldn’t find a mutual topic for a conversation made you feel too uncomfortable to even try, so you kept avoiding the older man or pretending to not hear his offer until he just stopped inviting you. It was so obvious that the men wanted to get closer to you, they wanted to earn your trust, to make you feel at home and be yourself among them, yet you kept pushing them away. And now perhaps they had stopped trying all together. It was not their fault. It was yours. 

But why it was so painful? You were supposed to feel relieved that they had given up so that you didn’t have to blame yourself every time you turned their kind offer down and saw the sadness drawn on their faces. ‘Why do I keep feeling like shit no matter what I do?’

Feeling that the intense emotions that were barely suppressed by the nicotine started to get out of hand again, you cupped your head with both hands, the half-burning cigarette fell to the ground. Suddenly, your eyes caught the red burning tip of it, together with how the paper wrapping around the nicotine was slowly burnt to black. At that very moment, a dark but familiar thought popped up in your mind. You bowed down to pick up the cigarette, blankly staring at it resting between the two fingers of your right hand. Then, your eyes turned to your left hand, examining your spotty lower arm. It was full of the small round scars that were caused by burning your arms with the burning tip of a cigarette. You had noticed Ghost looked at these scars of yours many times; luckily he never asked about them. The army was a place filled with people who had different background stories and bore numerous scars, so it wouldn’t be abnormal for you to have some that were a bit funny-shaped.

‘Should I do this again?’ 

Maybe you should. It helped with the emotions. Well, temporarily, but that was good enough.

Just as you were about to press the burning tip into your lower left arm, someone threw their whole weight into you. You were hugged by two strong arms and the cigarette was again dropped to the ground.

“There you are! I’ve been finding you everywhere!” It was the Scot man. “Are you smoking? Gosh, I hate this smell! Price’s cigars are much better!”

‘The ones that smell good are never bitter enough.’ You thought to yourself.

“Have you had lunch, pretty boy?” Soap pinched your dumbfounded face.

“Not yet.”

“What? Unbelievable! Get to the kitchen with me right now, Sergeant.” The man literally manhandled you straight from the parking lot into the base, leaving you no time to object.

As you two arrived at your destination, Ghost was already sitting there, sipping some coffee. Soap forced you to sit down right next to him while he proceeded to walk to the fridge and pulled out a dish, putting it inside the microwave oven. 

“Here you are, babyboy~” He put the hot meal in front of you. You chose to ignore the pet name and his flirtatious voice simply because he had started doing it to you ever since you start working here. It was just one of his signature thing, you should not fall for it and mistake it as a sign of interest that could develop into romantic feelings. 

“Thanks, Soap.”

“Aw, don’t be so all worked up and formal, babyboy. Ya’ welcome~”

Silence fell over the three of you, until you just felt so awkward that you had to speak up, “So… how was this morning?”

“It was fine. Ghost stepped in your place and took care of the training.” Soap replied.

You carefully glanced at Ghost, just to find that the man already looked at you, which made you tremble slightly. The skull mask on his face made him too difficult to read, you couldn’t tell whether he was annoyed or he just gave up on expecting something greater from you. 

Soap laughed at your reactions, “It’s okay. You were drunk so Price agreed to let you sleep. Also, Ghost volunteered to help you with the training so he probably doesn’t hold a grudge. Am I right, Ghostie?”

The masked man didn’t answer; instead, he turned back to his cup of coffee.

You quickly finished your meal and left, saying that you should do training by yourself. The truth was you couldn’t stay there any longer, you didn’t want to disturb Ghost and Soap’s rare peaceful time together. You had already made too terrible an impression on Ghost, it’s best that you did not mess up again. As a result, you also missed their conversation. It was not intended for you to listen to anyway.

“You’re right. He did it.” Soap’s voice was solemn, with no sign of flirt or unseriousness like a few minutes before.

“You mean the scars?” Ghost looked up at him from the cup.

“Yeah, the round scar marks that you’ve told me many times.”

“It was just my guess. How do you know he really did it?”

“I found him in the parking lot. He was holding a burning cigarette and about to press it into his left arm.” 

A few minutes of silence passed until Ghost spoke up, “Fuckin’ hell.”

“I asked Price about his past, I know it’s a nosy thing to do, but I wanted to help. Unfortunately, Price knows nothing either. Y/n… the boy never opens up to us.”

The two men sat quietly, exchanging worried looks with each other. If only you could know how much they cared for you, maybe you would find it easier to accept their love and help. Yet, even if they told you, even if they desperately showed you so many times that they cared and loved you so much, would your brain allow your heart to welcome them just like how it used to welcome other people you had met earlier in your life, the ones who left you wounded and made you the way you were today? 

If someone asked you that question, you’d just offer them a weak smile and simply say: “No”. You're now too tired to hold on to any crumbles of hope left in your broken soul. You'd like to give up.

to be continued i guess :")

Taglist: @aphroditeslovr @prestigeghoul @edgyboi10000 @c0nny3917 @peter-the-pan @lovecats123451