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sex therapy :: 01. dr. fushiguro

chapter tags/warnings: misogynistic! naoya. strong language. infidelity/adultery. sexual frustration. degradation. humiliation. classism. manipulation undertones.

word count: 4.9k

notes: this is my one wattpad book which was removed (at nearly 1M!). they can’t stop me from sharing this book with others, so here we are. <3 this book is laced with my own relationship experiences plus my favorite movie Titanic! enjoy, and likes/reposts/comments are appreciated! xoxo

fic masterlist | 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. 08. 09. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

𝗔𝗖𝗧 𝗢𝗡𝗘 • 【 he loves me, he loves me not 】

Dr. Toji Fushiguro.

That was the name of your sex therapist.

Keep reading

"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

saving

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space.h e’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

meanboyfriend!toji fucking his innocent virgin girlfriend :3

your ruffled lace socks are on either side of his head as he rolls his hips against your plush ass, thick cock stretching you past your limits. he looks down at your soft belly, eyes gleaming with amusement as he watches the way his cock bulges through it. "am i too big for ya' baby?" he coos, there's so much mock softness in his voice it’s almost sickening, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand like he actually gives a damn. "i can see myself inside of ya'."

a choked whimper is all you can manage to respond with, your fingers dig into his muscular arms as he leans over you to steady himself on top of you, caging you in beneath his heavy body. you squeeze your eyes shut as you feel his fat cock sinking itself deeper from the new position, splitting you open and it burns. the stretch forces a high, broken whine from your throat, your walls fluttering helplessly around him.

clinging to his strong arms, your eyes flick nervously to the plushies lined up on your shelf—those innocent little stuffed animals with their glossy plastic eyes all pointed your way. they’re watching.

it makes your face burn hotter.

toji notices. of course he does.

“what is it, princess?” he teases, slowing his thrusts just enough to draw your attention back to the deep ache between your legs. “your little friends seein’ you get fucked for the first time?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, hiding your face in his arm. “d-don’t look at them…” you mumble, humiliated.

he laughs, a low, breathy sound, and leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “you’re so fuckin’ cute.”

then he shifts, hips snapping forward, forcing another whine from your throat as your gummy walls flutter around him, trying and failing to accommodate all of him.

toji clicks his tongue, leaning down to press a firm kiss to your damp forehead. "does it hurt, baby?"

"n-no... keep going." you huff softly, biting your lip.

you're a mess beneath him, cheeks flushed, sweat sheening your skin, hair sticking to your forehead in damp strands. your lips are kiss-swollen, puffy from the way he's been biting at them. your tits bounce with every sharp thrust, every punishing grind of his hips, pulling ragged cries from your throat.

he knew it was your first time, and he'd actually debated wether he'd be sweet to you, do that cheesy romantic shit he hated, whisper pretty words and take it slow—play the role of the perfect boyfriend only for tonight. or if he should fuck you hard, that would he fuck you so good, so deep, until then only word you could babble was his name. now that he's inside of you, it's starting to feel like a mix of both.

grunting, he hooks his arm under your back and lifts you off of your bed, hugging you against his chest tightly as if you weigh nothing. your arms wrap around his neck, legs locking tight around his waist as he keeps bulling his cock into you, hitting your cervix so hard you swear he's gonna break you.

his breath his hot against your face as he inhales your sweet perfume sharply, furrowing his brows as he keeps fucking you until you start going limp in his arms.

“i’ll love you forever, you hear me?” his voice is rough, almost strained.

a weak, breathless “yeah.” is all you can say.

but toji smirks, knowing you'll remember this for the rest of your life.

half of yall gotta be high.. 😭

---

☆ EMERGENCY COMMISSIONS / SIGNAL B👀ST☆

Hi, nice to meet ya! I'm Leon and my life has rapidly fell apart since August 2024. This was due to my dad's sudden decline from what we thought was from MS, but from a rare stage 4 colon cancer.

With that, there's a threat of homelessness for my mom, who has sacrificed her life for my dad and our entire family.

○ WHAT WE NEED ○

- About 5,000 USD minimum. This will cover moving expenses at the very least.

● WHAT I'M OFFERING ●

- $3+ doodles through my Kof-fi or DM me!

- $5 to $10 messy colored sketch commissions (some examples here)

- Virtual nerd yard sale through Mercari (I got a Daft Punk ita bag, keychains and all sorts of fun things will be uploaded over-time.)

- A discount for stickers through my sticker shop here. Discount code is: SOS2025 [I have a LOT of sticker designs. Shipping is forever and always free. Waterbottle friendly and weather resistant.]

- Novel writing critiques, beta reading and sensitivity reading (DM me but know my pricing is extremely cheap with This Economy, I don't want to break anyone's bank)

- Business stuff such as cheap logo designs, email templates, commercial t-shirt designs, business cards, I can help with that.

♡ IF YOU JUST WANNA HELP ♡

- GoxFundxMe here lol 🚑

- Donate to my Kofi ☕️

- I have CashApp, Venmo and Zelle, but I feel more comfortable sharing that via DM.

♡ BOTTOM LINE ♡

I really sincerely appreciate your help. My goal is to cover the finances so that my family can be able to focus on grieving my father and have some peace.

If you can't donate, I seriously appreciate any reblogs and signal boosts. The support I've been given from strangers has drastically boosted my faith in humanity so thank you!

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

JAILBREAK. — SUGURU GETO. ☆

synopsis. you hate your job as a part time correctional officer. things change once you have to “babysit” one of the dangerous criminals of the a-block floor, suguru geto. but girl, maybe sleeping with an egotistical cocky ass inmate might have been your biggest mistake yet.

wc. 5.5k

warnings. modern au, fem!reader, pwp, inmate geto, corruption kink, degradation, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, geto has a tongue piercing, hair pulling, praise, overstim, reader’s kinda delulu

an. thank uuu @osaemu for beta readin someee!! inmate geto is my new hyperfixation omge

it was as if each shift became longer and longer, your daily occupation, nothing special, nothing fancy, just a correctional officer at some high maintenance prison near the city.

the stench of musk and sweat wafted around you, such a reoccurrence that it was practically normal. it was around midnight, as how most of your shifts were, and as you trod towards the secluded darkened space for only the inmates dangerous to themselves and others, you intake a breath before swiping your key near your hip, preparing to unlock the glass-like metal steel door.

“oh,” you close the door behind you, and that familiar deep voice does something to you.

what…?

you don’t know, but it had such bass in it, you turned to face the inmate, no one other than suguru geto. “…yo,” he mocks, giving you a sly head nod, his eyes scan up and down your body, your uniform and then your own meets his pursed lips. somehow, he managed to find a cigarette. again. “hmpf. they got the newbie watchin' me again? you do know that gun on your hip isn’t a toy, right?”

your eyebrows twitch, and your facial expressions formed into a deadpan as you walked towards him with his daily meal in hand. “yeah and i’m not afraid to use it on you if necessary.”

“ooh. rookie’s got jokes, that’s cute.” he grins.

you murmured, and he only smiles, he knows you didn’t mean that, he pissed you off, even if he wasn’t saying anything exactly. pulling out your staff notepad checklist of where you usually kept track of all the inmates attendance and meals, you uttered, “but anyways…” you blowed, “no one fed you today, suguru. you must be starving.”

“yeah, 'm starvin’ ‘n more ways than you can imagine, princess,” geto hums, and you suddenly freeze once the inmate stands up firm and tall. he’s just so damn big—broad wide shoulders, long slight shaggy dark toned hair, and with a split-second gaze, you look near geto’s orange jumpsuit. the bulge, yeah you spotted that immediately, but his tattoos…

his fucking tattoos.

“can you at least try to behave for a few minutes.” you sighed, and he's already getting on your last nerve. he could tell too…and damn was he was just getting nothing but pure amusement from your sheer irritation.

“eh, depends,” he speaks in a low gruff, his attention was on you and only you, raising his darkened thin arched brows before his lips converge into a witty smirk. “ya gonna feed me my food, babe? oh, you should know. poor inmate like me can’t feed myself when i’m all,” and he pauses while speaking, placing his hands in his lap — giving his wrists a slight shimmy and you hear the metal dance against his skin. “…handcuffed.”

it took everything within you to not smack this arrogant suave bastard, geto flirted with you whatever chance he got, with no shame either. you’re a pretty girl, well mannered, yet never took anyone’s shit, he liked that about you.

your job wasn’t to be taken lightly, it could be considered scary at times with the various inmates you have to deal on a day to day basis, but simply, you were just a girl with an attitude. but he wasn’t fond of brats, especially brats like you.

“…fine,” you mumbled, making your way towards him. he sat on the steel uncomfortable bed that was as usual, never made. geto practically lived in solitary confinement, they don’t call him the suguru geto for a reason. his name was known amongst many, he was feared worldwide. geto wasn’t exactly a good guy, far from it actually.

he’s a criminal and his record was… definitely spine chilling to say the least. “don’t try anything, just open your mouth.”

“hm, alright then.” he happily complies, his demeanor changes just a bit, and he’s more playful. geto opens his mouth just slightly and you spot tiny dimples form near the corners of his lips, and you gradually stick the spoon into his mouth, feeding him whatever food was made for the inmates of the night.

baked mash potatoes, geto stated it was one of his favorites and you just so happened to remember. a smile forms on his lips as you feed him. your eyes darted towards him, and now he’s just staring intimately at you.

that smirk that forever rested against his pink thinly parted lips.

“m-mhm.” he grunts, and your eyes widen just a bit, he was messing with you, and you don’t even realize geto’s got his hand gripped on your waist. stroking a thumb against your belt, you felt the feeling of him rubbing all against the firearm that was strapped tightly on you.

before you could smack his hand, geto swiftly brings you on top of his lap, stealing out a gasp from you at how quick he was with his movements. the silver spoon sticks out his mouth before you take it out, only to return him with an irritated glare.

“what do you think you’re doing?” you uttered, growing quite embarrassed yet trying to maintain a level-head.

“told ya,” he grumbles, swiping a tongue against the excess mash potatoes that remained near his lips. “i’m hungry, babe. that was good, but i’m not satisfied. i need more.”

“inmates in solitary confinement aren’t allowed to have seco—”

“pretty girl, you know what i’m talkin’ about,” geto chuckles, and you shiver a bit from feeling the soft pads of his thumb brush against the belt of your waist again. you were in uniform but this entire position was so dirty. not to mention, it’s not like this place of the prison was exactly secluded. it was, but there was bound to be people were walking by. “i’ve been seein’ the way you stare at me.”

he was just infuriating, but you didn’t know how to reply so…you didn’t. you just sat there on the inmate’s lap, with a quite dumb expression and he’s just eating it up. “geto—”

“it’s just you ‘n me, girl,” he slyly whispers, and his voice drops just a bit as he stops you from speaking. his touch against your waist just gave you more and more goosebumps. all the way up until you felt it. geto infamous boner that hid beneath his jumpsuit. he’s been incarcerated for at least three years now, in and out. he was for sure horny. you could just tell from his seductive gaze. “don’t gotta be shy. was waiting for you to show up if ‘m being honest. you’re not like the rest, y’know?”

that’s when you gasp, realizing his handcuffs were off — he must have took the key from your pocket, because he was just feeling you up now. you let off a surprised noise once you felt geto starting to make you grind against his lap, feeling his hefty bulge.

“sugu-” you mumbled, and he’s just staring at you with a sly grin pressing onto his lips, only before he leans directly up close to your neck, giving a part near your collarbone a soft deep suck.

you whine from feeling the near sharp edges of his teeth lightly dig into your skin, playfully.

“mhm, pretty thing like you isn’t fit to be workin’ here. cutesy little prison guard,” he sung, his warm breath wafts against your skin, “crushin’ on your inmates is real unprofessional, ya know. you could get fired.”

he was right, you could get fired. and perhaps he wasn’t lying about the second part too—you’d be a liar if you said you didn’t find suguru geto the slightest bit of attractive. because he was, he and you both knew it.

“don’t be stupid. i’m not crushing on you,” you denied, yet embarrassingly enough, your eyes widen at feeling geto air your words — his thick stubby fingers, two of them specifically runs down between your legs and you gasp again. “are you…crazy? there could be cameras in here.”

“so.”

“so? you’re trying to get me fired?” you raised your eyebrows, sitting up from his lap, and he’s playing with you entirely. stroking a rough scarred hand down your back. if it was any other inmate, you’d barely give them a second glance.

geto gives you direct eye contact, and he looks so handsome and lean back, but his messy long black strands of bangs nearly covers his eyes, making him appear to be ten times more feared.

“maybe,” then he chuckles. “it’s okay, if it makes ya feel any better. i fantasized about you at least once or twice while being secluded from the other inmates in this hellhole. i prefer you over the other annoying officers who’re always givin’ me shit.”

you were about to speak but suddenly you couldn’t—you realized how close you were to geto, propped up on his lap, propped up on his bulge. were you really throbbing right now? oh you definitely were.

pulsing, itching, aching.

“soooo, when was the last time you got laid?”

this guy.

“excuse me?” you stammer, entirely being taken aback. such smug fell off his tone, he cocked his head a certain way to let you know he was being genuine. in his own way, of course.

geto’s always been one to flirt with you whenever it was your shift to supervise him. his comments were always so bold. he’d purposely pitch his tone a bit low whenever he spoke to you, no one else. perhaps it was the incarcerated felon crushing on you.

“you heard me,” he mutters, giving you a sly glance. he ghosts a few fingers against your waist. you still don’t know why you’re happily sitting on his lap, but you were comfortable to say the least. “with your long hours i pretty much figure you don’t even have time to finger yourself, let alone get laid. poor baby.”

“…just shut up.” you chastised, his soothing warm words, the way he delivered those last two words as a form of mockery. it made you throb, you pinched yourself, feeling yourself grow out to be hot. 

“make me, girl.” he faked a pout on his lips, almost as if his speech was purposely dumbing you down, solely from the tone. geto teasingly cocks his head towards the right and a teeny smile stretched against his lips. 

and you did. 

he was just poking fun at you—you loathed it, the tension between you and geto, his expressions were relaxed and smug like you won’t do anything. 

so, what did you do? 

you silenced him…with a kiss. 

he’s taken aback, you’re taken aback, you don’t know what came over you but you just couldn’t stand him talking. 

his sly grin, you desperately wanted to wipe it off his face. geto leans back against his bunk. his breath gets caught in his throat with the way you initiated the lustful kiss, parting your mouth open just a bit. 

you can feel geto reaching for the firearm near your hip but with quick reflexes you smack his hand, and he chuckles, pulling you closer towards him. 

he tasted sweet, with a tang of spice. leaning his head forward, he felt your warm breath shudder against him which makes him let off a low grunt once he feels you start to rock against his lap.

geto didn’t expect for you to trail a finger down his jumpsuit. the soft nearly wrinkled fabric, unbuttoning it and he shudders at how you’re all frisky and bold. 

“easy now officer,” he whispers before pulling away, lips pink and glistening with a bit of spit. his voice was a mere rasp and it made you throb. “when i said make me, that’s not what i meant,” and then he smiles, tugging on your work pants. “but you’re something else. take off those pants, i’ve been meaning to show you something.”

geto wanted to show you his tongue, specifically his tongue piercing. not necessarily show you but make you feel it. 

when you kissed him, you felt it tickle against you. the tasteless titanium rubbing against your tongue. it left you all hot and bothered. 

he had you currently laid flat on your back, an entire needy mess, despite it only being a few minutes. how embarrassing…

it was just the way he curled his tongue, flicking it against your pussy, he’s sloppy. two big hands squeeze and grip against your inner thighs, long strands prickling against your legs as he swirled his tongue against your slit. 

“f-fuck,” you’d gasp out, tilting your neck down to stare at geto. he’s already returning your eyes with a coltish glance, puckering his lips briefly to create kissed everywhere between your legs. your hands rummaged through his long silk hair. giving it a firm tug, that earns a low grunt from geto that makes you pulse even more. “tickles, suguru.”

“does it?” he purrs in a cheeky tone, slowly flicking his tongue against your clit—you jounce, a gasp gets caught in your throat at the way the piercing shifts against your folds. the slight coldness of it makes your thighs ache for more “mhm. can’t get enough.”

you pant, tugging and gripping roughly on his hair, geto’s nose deep, his tongue was so greedy. it was just the way he grazed and moved his tongue against your labia. your two sweet flaps, you grew more whiny by the second. 

“s-suguru,” you’d squeak, biting down on your lip. you knew how wrong this was, so why did it turn you on even more? “think…think ‘m getting close.”

“yeah yeah, keep your legs open.” he cuts you off, and you stare down at him. he’s so nasty with his tongue, taking a brief second to spit right on your cunt, dragging a thumb between your slit. “do you get wet like this for all your other inmates?”

you stared down at him, feeling yourself grow more and more aroused by the second—your response was just giving him a subtle head shake. “no, just you.”

“just me?” he repeats, lowering his voice and it’s so attractive. “maybe you really are crushin’ on me.”

“shut up..” you hissed. your breathing started to become more and more erratic, your ears rang and you pulsed from how close you were starting to approach towards your orgasm. 

geto’s entire chin was polished with your sweet slick—covered in nothing but all of it. such a messy eater, each time you tug on his long strands of hair. his husky pitched groans continued to make you pulse.

his piercing slowly lapped against your cunt, and you gasped at the feeling of him inserting a finger inside slowly. 

“ooh, ‘s close isn’t it?” he teases, peppering kisses near your thighs now, nibbling on it playfully with his teeth. “you gonna make a mess for me? slutty prison guard?” 

“y-yes.” you squirmed, your hands idly dragging him closer against your pussy. he chuckles, his technique snatching your breath away quite literally. “suguru… gonna come. wanna cum.”

he lays his tongue flat, lapping and lapping against your clit, giving it a long sweet suck to where his mouth starts watering from the taste and you moan. “ask nicer. where’s your manners huh?”

“p-please,” you whined, growing frustrated, so pent up—your walls clenched around the two fingers he now had buried deep into your cunt. you whimper from the mere stimulation, the way he toys with your g-spot with his lengthy slender fingers had you throbbing pathetically. “let me cum please, s-suguru.”

“oh but i don’t know,” the inmate teases, using his free hand to pry open your thighs a bit more. the cute pout that spread across your lips at his words was so adorable, “aw poor baby,” he hums, playfully blowing against your pussy to watch you writhe in pleasure and utter desperation. “you’re so cute when you’re desperate.”

“suguru, please, please..” you whimpered, not even caring how you sounded. your sweet voice reverberated against the walls of the secluded kept room, own words coiling at your throat. 

he smiles. “how about this,” and for a terse moment…he stares right at you. with his tongue going over his lips, savoring your taste. “i let you cum, you promise to get me out of here.”

….

help him break out? 

all this so you could orgasm….

you swallowed, chest heaving and your legs felt nearly nonexistent. geto looked serious though, brushing a thumb against your sloppy clit. he awaited your answer and you were deep in pondering thought.

you’d for sure get fired, then again you did hate your job. 

the fact that you were even contemplating letting an inmate break out just to cum. you just wanted a release so bad, the way his tongue lapped against your pussy, the smooth texture of it flicking back and forth to where your toes curl. you wanted more, and maybe it was a bit concerning that you started to not even care about your profession anymore. 

“promise..”

“oh..?” he slyly remarks, for sure you were gonna at least deny or call him crazy, but a straight answer. he was amused—and the needy look on his face was all he needed to see. “hm, it’s a deal then. go ahead ‘n cum, pretty girl.”

your back arched in ecstasy, he’s holding onto your hips departing his fingers from inside you, and just his tongue’s doing the main finish. you shuddered as you felt yourself vibrate and twitch. the build up had you clenching around nothing but air. “f-fuck…” 

scorching, your body radiated and carried so much heat around it, your eyes started to roll and roll towards the very depths of your head. once you came, you slump back against the rickety mattress, one hand still firmly maintaining its grip on geto’s hair. 

“there there, ‘s okay,” he slyly purrs, making sure to clean you with his tongue. for a split second his eyes close, and geto brings a few kisses against your folds before sitting up to stare down at you. “c’mere.”

you sit up, giving geto a cute needful glance, you craved more and he knew that. you leaned in to kiss him, and he returns it with such filthy passion. geto’s handsy, his slick-smeared lips ghost against yours before he deepens it. a groan gets caught in his throat, and you whine once you feel him lay you down on your back.

he leans up against you and eagerly, you give the orange fabric pants of his jumpsuit a cute tug, a sign for him to take it off. 

“such an impatient little thing,” he murmurs right into your mouth. you whined, wanting him to keep kissing you but he keeps breaking away purposely, watching your lips quiver in desire. “how bad do you want me?”

“s-suguru.” you pouted, your hand finding its way towards his bulge. the strain in his pants, all because of you. 

“don’t ‘suguru’ me,” he rasps in a mocking tone, his body pressed against yours. and only then did you realize the size difference, how buff and well toned geto was. he was an inmate after all, he always had a consistent workout schedule. geto’s dark eyes stare into yours before he brushes a thumb against your glossed lips. “talk to me nice in that pretty voice of yours. you want me? say it then.”

the disappointed pout you had displayed on your lips remained there as you spoke, only to hear how whiney and desperate you were. 

“i want you suguru, please.” you sigh. 

“girl…you’re so unprofessional,” he snickers, a swift snicker leaves from his lips before you hear him shuffle in his suit. pulling down his matched set pants, he tugs near the edge and it goes down. “feel how hard you make me, officer.”

and you let out a soft gasp. 

geto lightly grabs you by the neck, and you let off a needy moan once he starts to rub your face against his boxers. the very imprint of his bulge. “all your fault. got me throbbin’ for you...”

“suguru,” you whined, a small pout spreading on your lips each second he continued to tease you. “suguru, s-stop teasing me.”

“just jokin’,” you plop down on your chest, the moment he lightly shoves you forward against the plush-cushioned bed frame. it creaked from the movements, quite rickety. “oh wow,” he utters in a low voice — quickly averting his eyes towards your work pants, briefly pulling them down to come full-view of your ass. “do correctional officers just…not wear panties or…?”

you let off a moan, feeling him skim a few fingers against your ass, holding back a noise once he presses the leaky fat tip of his cock against your throbbing entrance. 

“i…i forgot.” you whined, mouth watering — you wanted more than anything for him to be inside already. “i was rushing.”

“uh huh,” geto rolls his eyes, and you stared directly at him. the plump fat head of his swiped against your wet folds, a few taps and you were about to go crazy. “ooh. look at you trying to rush me.” 

he was such a tease, you could hear the playfulness in his tone. as geto hovered over you, he took a few moments before slowly easing his way inside you. 

his jaw clenches, and it’s sexy…

the way his muscles would tense all because of you. you were panting, legs just dumbly sprawled out. maybe it was unprofessional, participating in sexual activities with an inmate—yet, you just couldn’t help yourself. all the built up tension surrounding between the two of you. perhaps it was bound to happen. 

“fuck, ‘s warm..” he grunts, and he’s just barely halfway in. you chewed near the inside of your lip, nails clawing down his buff arms and he starts to pant himself. geto was huge. emphasis on huge. 

his happy trail was mesmerizing to look at, the way he had slightly black curly hair coating near the lower half of himself. it was well trimmed, yet much visible to see. the more he gently makes his way inside your cunt, you felt every mean inch. the curve geto had—it was hefty, you felt yourself starting to drool. 

a single vein throbbed, and you felt it. geto bites his tongue marginally. and once he’s fully in, he gives you a coy expression. 

“may i move, officer?” he snickers. 

“p-please.” you whimpered. 

“okay.” he hums, and the bass to his voice was just enough to get you wet. far wetter than you already were. such smoothness dripped from it, it was a deep pitch that always made your heart flutter and sink. 

once he starts up just a single thrust, your body jolts back and you gasp—finding your arms to suddenly grab onto him. 

geto chuckles. “dramatic thing, aren’t you.” you moaned, nails continuing to drag down how skin as you’re laid flat against your back. the angle was so deep and thorough, each hit against your pussy had your kind spasming. in an entire frenzy of you will. 

he leans in to pepper kisses all over your face, strands of his hair that was out tickled against your skin. by this point, he’s buried deep. your head goes back a bit and…oh, that same curve that he had, it continuously made an appearance. 

geto was buried between your legs, hefty sack just thwacking against you. your legs were perfectly bent, shoulder width apart. “f-fuck,” you’d stammer, suddenly clamping all around him. it took a few deep vigorous thrusts, but at this point he’s got your pussy memorizing his lengths size. geto spreads his knees for a more thorough base, his movements were so sloppy you could barely think straight. let alone process anything. “suguru, ‘s right there.”

“right there what?” he teases, leaning in to nibble near the bottom of your lip. the thin fabric of his jumpsuit brushes against your skin—you were just a mess. pulse after pulse, you wouldn’t be surprised if your brain was short circuiting. “i can’t hear ya when you mumble, baby.”

“fucking-” you spat, and he chuckles once you’re cut off with a deep kiss. geto vary’s his stance against you, and slides his tongue all throughout your mouth. it’s a rough and passionate kiss—so much so to where, he has you catching his breath. once you pull away, you moan, being brought back to reality from his ruthless smacks he’s making with his dick. “keep…keep hitting me there.”

he hums, giving your bottom lip a slow playful bite again, still ramming his hips against you at such a filthy pace. “is that an order?”

he was so annoying, that two second glance he’d give you—a smirk pressing against his lips, he definitely knew how to get under your skin. “please,” you corrected yourself, nails still running down his back. it pierced against his skin, earning a low husky grunt from him. “keep hitting me in that s-spot, suguru.”

“since ya asked so nicely,” he purrs, sneaking another kiss. this time near the very corner of your mouth. the taste was just glacé, sweet and all. simply divine.

you moaned into his mouth, and as his body weight pressed against yours — you shivered. he’s such a tease, geto starts to lightly ghost your cell keys against your bare tummy. your back arched immediately, the coldness of it just grazing against your skin. “you’re so sensitive.”

his soft, teasing words rang throughout your ears, and as you clung onto him—you felt yourself coming closer and closer. he gripped onto your legs, slightly raising them upward and you moan from the deep deep angled. “o-oh my god.” 

geto’s shallow mean strokes had your eyes rolling all the way back….way back to the very depths of your skull. if you weren’t drooling then, you certainly were now.

the moment he sees you pouting from how he cockily starts to slow down—geto pushes a bit more deeper, grinning from your legs now locking around his waist. 

moments later though, you both freeze at hearing the sound of footsteps approaching near the solitary steel door. 

right when you about to orgasm, you both stare at each other — and it’s another officer. you could tell by the loud echo of the keys dangling against their hips. 

“officer, you alright? been in there a while. we’re finishing up roll call then it’s time for the inmates to sleep.”

shit. 

you couldn’t stay quiet, that’d be suspicious, and you knew you had to say something. geto chuckles, still buried balls deep inside of you, leaning in to give your neck a long suck. your hands ran through his hair and you bit your lip, trying to muster up what to say. 

“your subordinate’s talking to you,” geto teases, and you gasp from how he suddenly pistons his hips, such sloppy ruthless thrusts your breath was merely taken away. “don’t be a rude girl.”

“s-shut up,” you whined, putting a hand in his face and he playfully kisses it. you stop a moan from escaping your lips before you project your voice lightly. “uh, yeah. everything’s good. inmate suguru geto’s asleep. i’m just—just finishing up then i’ll take care of his dishes.”

“alright,” the lower rank replies, and your legs start to shake and jostle against geto. he’s staring at you, just wanting for you to slip up. a few awkward seconds pass before the officer continues to speak. “are we still on for tonight?”

you gulped, and geto raises his brows before whispering into your neck. “…oh, tonight, yeah?”

by all means, you felt so embarrassed, heat rises up to your cheeks as if your entire body wasn’t already burning up from his weight pressing down against you.

you ended up cumming mid-convo, and had to cover your mouth to not be so noisy. you clenched all around geto, just a twitching and spasming mess. 

“y-yeah, we are.”

“good, good,” he speaks through the other end of the closed steel door. poor officer, he sounds so ecstatic, a bit of confidence running through his tone. “i’ll see you then, pumpkin.”

geto blurted out laughing and you had to slap a hand against his mouth. the moment the coast is clear and he walks away, you glare and he simpers. 

“pumpkin,” he repeats, mimicking your co-workers accent. “i didn’t know you had plans. have me looking like a fool, hmpf.”

“my private life isn’t your busin—” and you get cut off once geto abruptly sits you upright, to where you’re just straddling him. you moan, your cunt still being stuffed full of his thick inches — and for a moment, you felt his vein prod against you. 

geto groans, seeing how your pupils were all dilated from your recent release. “yeahhh, it isn’t,” he says, grabbing ahold of your waist. you’re rocking back and forth and he’s so thick that you’re just completely cockdrunk and dizzy. “but ‘m having too much fun with you.”

you gasp once you feel the back of geto’s hand roughly smack your ass again, and again, and again. he loves the recoil — you hiss from the sting as your hips roll and maneuver against his lap. “you’re such a dirty girl. i don’t want you to go on that date. stay with me.”

“y-you can’t be serious.” you muttered, arms thrown over his neck. and for a brief moment, it was almost as if you heard a faint of jealously lingering on his tone. it made you throb, this high and mighty notorious inmate feeling this way…for a nobody like you. 

“dead serious, baby,” he utters, and you can sense geto’s close too from the way his jaw tightens. his head tilts back and he bites down on his lip. “that way i won’t be less lonely. talking to the wall ‘n everything.”

oh right, he was in solitary confinement. purposely secluded from the other guards and inmates. geto was considered a danger, yet here you were — stupidly bouncing on his dick. 

“but ‘m not so lonely now that you’re here,” he coos against your ear, and you whimper once he drags a hand down between your legs. he gives your pussy a few mean spanks and you whimpered. “fuck, keep moaning in my ear like that ‘n i’m gonna give you so much of my cum.”

“i need it.” you pleaded, tears swelling up in your eyes, you genuinely didn’t know what got over you — your body was so achy, each time he traced his fingers down your body, you whined. you didn’t care anymore, you just wanted to be filled. 

geto groans, and his hefty base kept smacking back against you, your hips jerked as you tightly held onto him, marking up the very inner part of his neck with soft bite marks. 

“f-fine,” he grumbles, and his voice gets a bit high, he’s growing out to be sensitive from the pressure building up. he even gets a tad bit whiney himself. the constant skin smacking makes him kiss his teeth, and his head throws back yet again—long pretty hair flowing against his shoulders. “god, you’re so fuckin’ nasty. riding me this g-good.”

you even start to tug on his hair, and that makes him moan even more. not like he minded. it turned him on, needless to say. 

once geto came, it was thick, so much that it instantly spilled out of your cunt. you paused your hips, and he silenced his groans by grunting against your neck. he’s shaking just as much as you were — and it came out in velvety ropes, spurting and spurting. 

“take it all,” he hisses, gripping onto your waist tightly. you whimper, grinding against him just for a few seconds and he’s for once speechless. “damn, those hips of yours is so deadly, fuck.”

you whined, sitting up and he pulls out of you, watching his own cum spill and drip out. geto brings a thumb towards your clit to smear it all over your pussy, an image that was a something he’d never erase from his mind. 

you panted, hitting your back against his bunk while geto leans in to kiss you deeply. you kissed back, dragging your tongue against his, feeling his warm breath fan against yours before he pulls away with a weary expression. 

“good girl,” he murmurs, peppering a soft kiss near the side of your mouth. “remember my promise?” 

“yeah.” you exhale, trying to catch your breath. your legs felt like jello — head clouded and entirely empty, not a single thought in your mind. 

he smiles. “good. because i forgot to tell ya something else,” and you stare at him, a soft confused head tilt, watching him re-adjust his jumpsuit, pulling his boxers and pants part up. “have fun being in solitary by yourself.”

“wait w-what?” you stammer, and reaches the door, your own keys in hand — and you couldn’t have felt anymore stupid. geto chuckles, with a sly shrug. “princess, you were so gullible. letting me take your keys,” and he unlocks the huge latch before grinning. “but hey, don’t feel too bad. you have a date tonight.”

you glare, overwhelmed with emotions before spitting out a, “fuck you.”

“you literally just did,” he wriggles his eyebrows. “don’t worry. i’ll come back for you,” and then he opens the steel door.

yet before slamming it, he gives you a wink and that same sly grin. “nah i’m just kidding, no i won’t. sorry.”

To set the scene I was drinking my chocolate milk and i was reading threw this and when i say i nearly died reading this draw dropped mind blowing and toes are CURLED amazing.. just amazing. If you would of know how many times i had to lock in to not look suspicious you'll get my pain..

Hiii Mark!! I love your fics on this account and the old one and I was wonder could you make a Michael Myers x male reader. It doesn’t have to have plot it could just a smut!! I love you so much and have nice day!! ❤️

MICHAEL MYERS X MALE READER

I’m trying to learn how to write bottom reader better, since I have a few requesting asking for bottom reader though I suck at it and I s mostly write for top.

⚠️Warnings!!- Detailed Smutt!! Big dick Michael, bottom reader, no pronouns used for reader but amab reader, rough, no affection, multiple creampie, knife mentioned, multiple rounds, no mercy, and etc.⚠️

Your vision was getting blurry from the pleasure, you forgot about all sense of your surroundings, and the only thing your mind was focused on was the big dick moving back and forth inside you.

Michael had a hard grip onto your hair pushing your head down into the bed while his other hand gripping onto your hip. 

Though vision blurry you could make out the blood soaked kitchen knife right in Michael’s arm reach. 

The sound of your moans and whines and also your bare skin slapping against Michael’s Coveralls. The zipper was down to the mechanic outfit so his chest and stomach was exposed. His movements were fast and uncaring. He didn’t care that he already came in your hole many times during the night. 

Your hole was leaking out his cum, your breathing was very as he thrusted relentlessly. He had no sign of being tired or looked like he was stopping soon.

Your cock also had cum drizzling out of it, cum leaking out of the tip as it hanged in between your legs untouched. Every time you try to catch a glimpse of Michael he’d shove your head down back into the bed. But whenever you did manage a quick glance to behind he has his mask up over his mouth breathing heavy, but quietly as he thrusted deeper. 

With legs trembling and also with your back arching you were overwhelmed. His large dick would thrust and graze your prostate like it was nothing as be thrusted faster and deeper.

Large hands on your hips would tug and pull your body down on his cock not caring if you wanted to or not. Your hip started to get a hand print, from how harsh and strong he was holding you.

Your lower body began to give out, you couldn’t even hold up your ass up anymore as your legs were shaking. Soon enough your hips fell down on the bed as you held the sheets for dear life. 

You quietly moaned and whimpered begging for him to stop, but you just felt his cold look through the mask, the pleas and begs to stop falling deaf to his ears.

As you gave out he stared down you menacing as he pulled out of your cum full hole. He let go of your hip and pulled his back dish before using the now free hand to jerk off your cock he slowly mounted on top of you and began to rub his wet creamy cock against your ass. 

He moved his cock up and down against your cheeks before eventually finding your hole again and thrusting fully inside.

You let out a raspy loud moan as he went back to fucking you relentlessly. Your head was spinning as the hand he was using to hold your hand went to your throat wrapping his large hand around your throat.

He pressed his chest against your naked bare back as he drilled his cock inside of you. You could feel his balls slap against your ass harshly as he pounded inside of you not holding anything back.  

He haven’t squeezed or tightened his grip yet, he just kept it there fucking you deeply and roughly.

His full weight against you as he was mounting on top of you. 

Your legs were tangled with his own, his clothed legs forcing your legs down so you couldn’t escape from him. You felt his boots against your feet as squirmed around.

As you moaned louder and louder the hand around your throat tightened its grip. Not even to hurt you or make you pass out just enough for you to know who’s in charge. 

You could feel the cold mask against your neck and ear as he was on top of you. You could swear that you feel his cock bulging inside of your stomach. You moaned louder and louder as you came again, white steaks of cum spurting out of your cock while you struggled to your eyes open. 

Your mouth hanged open as you panted and tried to keep your breathing steady. Your hips squirmed and trembled as you came untouched, you were embarrassed from how many times you already orgasmed from just getting fucked in the ass. 

Your was squeezed around his cock as you tried to ride out your orgasm. 

Your face was flushed as your eyes began to roll back from pleasure. 

With sudden movement Michael went up and began to actually choke you as he thrust became animalistic as his boots dig against the bed. Your breaths got chocked as you gasped and such as his hand tightened.

With his groans and deep grunts becoming more audible. He drilled his cock deeper then ever shooting his load into you once more. 

You began to feel light headed as you couldn’t breathe properly and fully. Your tongue rolled out of your mouth as you felt his cum from the previous rounds leak out of you. Your hole overfilling with his seed, as Michael thrust got slow but still hard he finally rode out of his orgasm as he let go of your throat.

But still, after all this time. You still felt his hard cock pulsing his cum inside you. And with the look you could feel from behind you. Michael showed no signs to being close to done.

Letting go of your throat Michael used both his hands to hold both of your arms pulling them back raising you up from the bed as he went back to drilling his cock inside you.

The headboard banged and hit against the wall as the bed squeaked.

With your arms behind you getting pulled in a strong and rough grip you looked in front of you in daze looking at Michael’s blood soaked knife.

You could feel the cum leak down onto your thighs and landing on the sheets below. 

Your mind was fuzzing and almost turning blank as he began to destroy you physically and mentally with his cock.

THE END

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