#tw non consensual kissing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

Text

Glass Girl — MV1 + OP81

Summary — Maya Horner was raised to be perfect — polished, silent, smiling. The daughter of a pop star and a motorsport legend, she learned early that love was conditional and softness was weakness. Then came two drivers: one all fire, the other quiet steadiness. Neither asked her to perform. They just saw her for who she really was, and chose her despite it all.

Pairing — Max Verstappen x Maya Horner (OFC) x Oscar Piastri (MMF)

Warnings — Bad parenting, TW disordered eating (encouraged from childhood), throuple (mmf), D/S dynamics, non-consensual touching (not between the main characters), strong language, time jumps.

Word Count — 9.5k

My Masterlist

The hotel bathroom is marble and chrome; and it’s really cold. Maya sits on the edge of the bath with a white towel wrapped around her, makeup absolutely perfect. Always perfect.

Her phone buzzes where it’s facedown on the sink vanity. Probably her mother. Maybe a stylist update. Probably a reminder not to eat before the party so the dress fits the way it’s supposed to.

She hasn’t eaten all day.

Not because she forgot.

It’s one of the only things that’s completely hers—this control. Everything else; her schedule, her wardrobe, her smile, her voice—is curated by committee. But this? What she puts into her body, or doesn’t?

That’s hers. And it’s hers alone.

She stands and looks at her reflection. The daughter of a motorsport king and a pop legend. She knows exactly what she’s supposed to be. Shiny. Sculpted. Successful. A walking billboard of two very different empires.

She touches the necklace at her throat. A gift from her dad, probably chosen by an assistant. She can’t ever remembering being hugged by him for longer than three seconds at a time. She’s never cried in front of him without being sent out of the room.

The girl in the mirror is flawless.

She hates her.

Maya wraps her arms around herself. Not for warmth, there’s never enough of that, but for pressure. To feel something and grounding. She digs her fingernails into her skin just to feel the pinch.

Tonight, she’ll smile. She’ll flirt with men twice her age in tailored suits who call her darling and look at her like she’s a prize to be won. She’ll be photographed beside champagne towers, caught mid-laugh for magazines that will call her “elegant” or “high-value,”. She’ll laugh with billionaires she barely knows, play the role so well no one will question whether she even likes the game.

Her mother will press an air kiss to both cheeks — careful, performative — and murmur, “Good girl,” because it’s the highest compliment she knows how to give.

Maya turns to face the dress laid out on the bed.

Gold. Strapless. Short in the front, ankle-length in the back. Something the stylist said would make her look “regal and expensive.”

She hates it.

It isn’t her.

She likes soft things. Silk. Blush pinks and pale pastels. She likes feathers, maybe, or beading that glitters softly under warm lights — not this loud, metallic glare. She wants to feel delicate, not displayed. She wants to feel like a girl, not a product.

But no one ever asks what she likes.

No one ever has.

—

The car door opens, and the flash hits before her heel touches the ground.

She steps out like she’s done this a thousand times—because she has. One leg, then the other. Chin lifted. Shoulders back. Smile soft but controlled. The driver offers a hand. She doesn’t take it. She never does.

Behind her, the red carpet glitters with a curated selection of Monaco’s elite — racers, musicians, heirs, actresses who always laugh a little too loudly when the photographers call their names. Everyone knows the rules here. Everyone plays their part.

And she is very good at hers.

The gold dress catches the light like flame, like money, like something she’s been told she should be. She smiles for the cameras. Tilts her head to the side, the way the photographers like. She even gives a little wave. Not too big. Just enough.

Her mother is already inside.

Her father is on the terrace talking shop with someone from Liberty Media.

She walks alone.

People turn to look at her — and not just the paparazzi. She sees the way some women measure her, the way some men assess. But none of it touches her. It can’t. She won’t let it.

She moves through the party like a ghost in gold, offered flutes of champagne she doesn’t drink, compliments she doesn’t believe, questions she doesn’t want to answer.

“Who are you wearing?”

“Will you be at the paddock this weekend?”

“Is it true you’re seeing Lando Norris?”

Smile. Nod. Laugh. Deflect.

All of it is noise.

Until she feels it — not a sound, but a pull. Like gravity, sudden and unwanted.

Two sets of eyes.

Across the room.

Watching her.

One pair of eyes is storm-dark — intense, unblinking, charged like thunder held just behind his pupils. Max Verstappen. The lion. Known for his fire, his brutal honesty, his refusal to play nice for the cameras.

The other pair is cooler. Quieter. Greenish-gold and devastatingly observant. Oscar Piastri. Reserved but impossible to ignore. The kind of quiet that makes people lean in closer — and underestimate him at their own peril.

They’re standing close. Not touching, but close enough. Close enough for the rumors to feel real.

Because everyone’s heard them by now.

The whispers. The speculation. The way they were always together — in the paddock, in hotel lobbies, spotted at private dinners where the other drivers weren’t invited. The tabloids were spinning theories like silk; rivals turned lovers, lovers turned something else. No one knows for sure.

But the photos don’t lie.

Max, leaning into Oscar’s space, laughing like only he can. Oscar, looking at Max like he already belongs to him.

A scandal. A headline. A PR nightmare.

And they’re both looking at her.

Not like a party guest. Not like a name. Not like a legacy.

But like a secret they’re dying to unfold.

She feels it—how their attention cuts through everything. Through the cameras, the noise, the men in suits who want her because of who her parents are. Through the dress she hates and the face she’s painted on.

They’re not seeing her image.

They’re seeing her.

And it terrifies her.

Because she wants to let them.

God, she wants it so badly it makes her stomach twist — to drop the smile, to let her shoulders fall, to go to them and say, please, just hold me for a while. Just let me rest.

But she doesn’t move.

She stands there, still and golden and trembling beneath it all.

Because not a single person has ever looked at her like that before.

And now, there’s two of them.

—

The Oxfordshire house is quiet in the way big houses often are — not peaceful, just empty. Too many rooms. Too much space. Not enough love.

She sits at the breakfast bar, the marble countertop cool beneath her bare arms. Outside, the countryside rolls out in perfect green waves. Inside, everything is polished and still. Museum-like.

Her father stands by the espresso machine, sleeves rolled up, phone in one hand, half-listening. She used to love mornings like this. Before she understood how many of their conversations were just… PR briefings in disguise.

“You’ll be traveling with me this year,” Christian says, like it’s already been decided. No smile. Just a sip of coffee, a glance at his calendar. “Full season. We’ll do media prep in Milton Keynes for you.”

She blinks. “Why?”

He looks up, frowns at her like she’s somehow missed the obvious. “Because it makes sense. You photograph well. You’re part of the family—might as well show the world what that means.”

She lets that sit between them. Part of the family.

The Red Bull family. The Horner family. The brand.

Not the daughter.

Not the girl.

“Is that… what you want?” She asks, softer.

Christian’s brows furrow slightly. Not with cruelty — just confusion. Like he doesn’t understand the question. “It’s what’s best,” he says, putting down his cup. “The more attention on the team, the better.”

She nods slowly. Her hand curls slightly around her glass. “Okay. I didn’t have anything else planned for this year anyway.”

He gives a tight, approving smile. Then he’s already moving on — into emails, logistics, contracts. His affection is efficient. Conditional. Not unkind, but not enough.

Her mother is nowhere to be seen. Probably in London. Or LA. Or at a spa with someone from Vogue magazine.

She’s used to it.

She’s always been told she has everything — the bloodline, the platform, the wardrobe, the name.

But none of it has ever felt like hers.

Not the legacy. Not the house. Not even her own future.

Outside, the wind brushes softly against the tall hedges in the garden, making them sway like they’re bowing to something. Or someone. Even nature bends here.

She looks at her father.

Really looks at him.

The sharp lines of his profile. The calm efficiency in his movements. The way he speaks with confidence not because he’s certain, but because he knows certainty is power.

And for a moment — a breath, a blink — she wonders; ‘Is this what it feels like to hate someone?’

The thought startles her. It’s not sharp, not violent. It’s worse. It’s cold. Hollow. A slow, creeping realization that maybe love was never given freely — only traded. That every nod of approval, every plane ticket, every high-end dress was just… currency.

She doesn’t hate him the way people hate villains in stories. She doesn’t want to scream or shatter anything. No, it’s quieter than that.

She hates that he doesn’t see her. Has never tried to.

Nausea clings to her skin. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then gets up and goes back to her bedroom.

—

The air in the stables smells like cedar shavings, hay, and early summer rain. It’s the only place on the estate that ever feels real.

She walks past the stalls in her boots and riding coat.

In the far stall, ears flicking at the sound of her footsteps, is a tall dapple grey mare with a proud gait and watchful eyes. The stable plaque says Blue Echo, a name chosen by some branding consultant years ago. Something elegant. Powerfully feminine.

But to her?

She’s just Princess Daisy.

“Hi, baby,” she murmurs, stepping into the stall. “Miss me?”

Princess Daisy nudges her gently in reply, warm breath puffing against her shoulder.

She buries her fingers in the horse’s mane and rests her forehead against the soft arch of Princess Daisy’s neck. The mare shifts slightly but doesn’t move away.

She closes her eyes.

And for a few rare, precious seconds—she can just be a girl with a horse.

A girl who likes silly names and soft animals and the wet hay smells in the rain.

Tomorrow, she’d be on a plane to Bahrain.

The reminder settles over her like a shadow.

Bahrain is heat and concrete and lights that don’t go out. Her father will walk ahead of her through the paddock like he always does — brisk, focused, already talking strategy. She’ll trail behind in heels she didn’t choose, in outfits pre-approved by someone from marketing, her paddock passes swinging from her neck like a collar and chain.

They’ll call her the Red Bull princess. They’ll talk about how lucky she is.

She’s learned not to flinch at that word anymore.

She hasn’t felt lucky in a long time.

But… Bahrain also means them.

Max. Oscar.

She hasn’t stopped thinking about them for weeks — not since the event in London.

She doesn’t know what it means; the way they look at her. She doesn’t even know what she wants from them. Not really.

But tomorrow, she’ll be on a plane to Bahrain.

—

It’s 3:12 AM.

Maya walks barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, ghosting past closed doors and floral arrangements that all smell the same. The nightmares had been bad tonight — hot hands around her ribs, a voice telling her to smile while she couldn’t breathe. She’d woken up gasping. Like always. Like clockwork.

This is what she does.

Walks until the world quiets enough to let her sleep.

But tonight, she’s not alone.

At the end of the hallway, two figures step out of the elevator — laughing, low and quiet, until they see her.

Max. Shirt half-buttoned, curls still damp.

Oscar beside him, hands in his pockets, always slightly behind, always watching.

All three of them stop.

She doesn’t say a word. Couldn’t find them even if she tried.

Max’s eyes darken. His jaw tenses. He’s already scanning her — not like other men do, not with hunger. With concern. With sharp, unapologetic focus.

Oscar tips his head slightly. Reading her, quietly.

“You okay?” Max asks, as they approach. His voice is low, rough around the edges.

She hesitates. Then nods.

They don’t believe her.

She should say something cool. Flirty. Maybe bring up the race weekend. That’s what she’s been trained to do.

But she’s so tired.

“I get nightmares sometimes,” she says instead. “I walk them off. It’s not a big deal.”

Oscar steps closer, voice soft, steady. “Every night?”

She shrugs. Doesn’t answer. That’s enough.

Max’s fists curl at his sides — not angry at her. Frustrated. Protective.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you back.”

She should say no. Insist she’s fine. She’s an adult, she’s capable.

But she doesn’t. She just nods.

And it’s strange — how easy it is. How they move with her like they’ve done it before. Max takes the lead, always scanning. Oscar stays beside her, not touching, but close.

They don’t talk. Don’t ask stupid questions.

They’re just there.

At her door, Max leans against the frame. “Do you know when it’s going to be a bad night?”

She nods.

Oscar meets her eyes, calm and unwavering. “Text us. Doesn’t matter what time.”

Us, he says. Like they’re one unit. A package deal.

She blinks. “I… don’t have your numbers.”

Oscar holds out his hand. She fishes out her phone — bubblegum pink case, a sparkly charm hanging off it.

He frowns when he sees there’s no passcode. Doesn’t comment. Just types.

Max watches. Then tips his head. “Don’t walk alone at night again, liefje. I mean it.”

She swallows. She should argue. Be sharp, defensive. Strong.

Instead, she just wavers. “Okay,” she whispers.

Max starts to reach for her — then pulls back.

Oscar doesn’t. He brushes a strand of hair from her face, featherlight. Like touching something breakable.

She closes the door gently behind her.

Then leans against it, heartbeat still uneven.

For a moment, she thinks, ‘maybe I could’ve asked them to stay.’

Not to sleep with her. Not for anything like that. Just… to be there.

To sit beside her in the dark until the world felt safe again.

But she didn’t.

She never could.

Instead, she crawls into bed.

And, for the first time in a long time—she sleeps without nightmares.

—

The paddock smells like heat and asphalt and engine oil — familiar and choking.

Maya walks two steps behind her father, sunglasses shielding her face. Every movement is rehearsed. Casual, but camera-ready. Effortless, but flawless.

She hasn’t eaten today. Not really. A half spoonful of yogurt, picked apart like a battlefield.

It’s not hunger, exactly. It’s just pain, now. But it’s familiar. She likes it, in a way. Craves it.

“Chin up,” the press officer mutters beside her, clipboard in hand, headset pressed to one ear. “And smile. Not the polite smile — the good one. The Geri smile.”

Maya’s lips curve on command.

“You’ll be shadowing the team today, then joining your father for the press walk at two. BBC wants a short segment on ‘Red Bull’s focus on family and legacy.’ Don’t make it about yourself. Make it about the team. Say something about grit and heritage. Try not to blink too much.”

She nods like she’s listening. Like she cares.

They pause outside the hospitality suite. A photographer raises his lens.

“Angle your shoulders a little—yes. That’s it. Beautiful,” the press officer says, voice like lacquer. “Your mum’s bringing back the Spice Girls for the anniversary next month. You’ll probably be part of that too, so start thinking about your wardrobe. No feathers.”

No feathers.

She loves feathers.

Her stomach turns.

Inside, Max is already sat near the coffee station, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. His eyes flick to hers as she steps in — just a second. Just enough.

Oscar isn’t Red Bull. He shouldn’t even be in this part of the paddock. But he’s here, standing in the far corner with a drink in hand, casual as anything. Somehow, no one questions it.

When Maya passes them, Max’s hand brushes lightly against hers. On purpose. Just once.

She doesn’t flinch. But she feels it all the way up her spine.

The press officer pulls her aside before she can speak.

“You’ve got two minutes before your father goes live. Repeat after me — ‘It’s about legacy, about excellence, and about pushing beyond limits.’ Again.”

Maya says it like a spell.

Legacy. Excellence. Limits.

They clap her on the back and smile like she’s done something brilliant.

But all she can think about is the yogurt she didn’t finish, and the way Oscar looked at her like she didn’t have to say anything at all, and the warm tingle that shot straight to her heart from Max’s touch.

—

She finds him by the McLaren garages, perched on a flight case, nursing a protein bar and a can of Monster.

“Oh hi, Princess Red Bull,” Lando grins, hopping down. “Gracing me with your royal presence?”

Maya huffs a laugh. “Sir McLaren. Still pretending to like those things?” She nods at the protein bar.

“I like the idea of them,” he says. “It’s the never-ending chewing I can’t get behind.”

She smiles.

Lando has always been like this — irreverent and bright and just enough of a nuisance to keep her grounded. Like an older brother who knows all your secrets and still thinks you’re worth teasing.

He ruffles her hair, because he knows it’ll mess up the look the press team spent twenty minutes on. “You look tired.”

“I’m always tired.” She sighs.

He stops, looks at her properly. “Bad night?”

She nods, and his hand drops from her hair to squeeze her shoulder. Gentle. No pressure to talk. Just knowing. Just safe.

But then someone calls her name — loud, exaggerated — and when she turns, there’s a camera pointed straight at them. A pap, just beyond the fence, zoom lens already snapping. Another angle for the internet to twist.

Lando sees it too. His jaw tightens.

“Great,” he mutters. “Tomorrow’s headline: ‘Horner Heiress and Lando Norris—Mid-Paddock Rendezvous or Something More?’”

“Why can’t they just leave me alone?” Maya looks away, eyebrows drawn, stomach clenching tight.

Lando gives the camera crew a shitty look. “Wish I could tell them to fuck off without losing my job.”

She shrugs, suddenly cold. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Yeah, well… fuck ‘em.” He spits.

She blinks at him. Wants to hug him — wants to let him hold her and kiss her forehead the way he does when there isn’t any cameras around to take something viciously innocent and turn it into a sexually charged headline.

Instead she just gives him a tight smile and mutters a quiet, “See you later,” and puts the persona back on. Poised. Perfect.

A complete lie.

—

Engineers crisscross with tools and telemetry, mechanics crouch low beside the car. They’re five races into the season, and tensions are sky-high.

Maya’s off to the side, as always. The silent mascot. Polished, painted, press-ready. Her hair’s done. Her makeup’s perfect. There’s a microphone waiting for her just beyond the paddock cameras.

She hasn’t eaten since Wednesday — fasting was healthy, that’s what her mother had told her a million times as a teenager.

She’s dizzy.

And then it happens.

A hand — not anyone she trusts — brushes too close to her waist. Too familiar. A laugh follows. Low, sleazy. One of Checo’s engineers, older, always looking a little too long, a little too interested. His voice cuts through the buzz. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re going to cause even more of a ruckus than usual in that dress.”

It’s not the worst thing she’s ever heard. Not even close. But today, it breaks something.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice slices out, louder than she meant. Louder than anyone’s ever heard from her.

People turn. Eyes shift.

He raises his hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Easy, princess—”

“I said don’t fucking touch me!”

Silence crashes over the garage like a dropped wrench. Everything stops.

She’s shaking. Her breath is ragged. She can feel it happening — the panic, the heat in her chest, the cold in her fingertips.

And then she’s crying.

In front of everyone.

Mascara streaking. Breath stuttering. Completely, heartbreakingly exposed.

Christian’s voice cuts through the tension. Cold. Humiliated. “Maya. Now is not the time.”

It feels like a slap.

She stares at him. At everyone. At their shock, their discomfort. She’s made them uncomfortable.

Of course she has.

And so—she runs.

Out of the garage. Past the cameras. Past the clicking lenses and the whispering media handlers scrambling after her. She can’t breathe. She can’t think. She doesn’t know where she’s going until—

“Lando!”

His name is barely a sound, but he hears it. Sees her stumbling through the paddock, heels in her hand, tears on her face.

“Oh shit,” he breathes. “Hey, hey, come here—”

But she’s already moving past him, too far gone.

It’s Oscar who catches her.

He’s just stepped out of his driver’s room when she crashes into him, trembling and breathless and half-sobbing.

“Maya—”

She clings to him, fists curled in the front of his hoodie, crying so hard it hurts to breathe. Oscar doesn’t ask. Doesn’t hesitate. Just wraps his arms around her and pulls her inside, closing the door behind them.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

She folds into him like paper.

“I— I just—”

“I know,” he murmurs, already reaching for his phone.

He calls Max.

“She’s with me,” he says, voice tight with something sharp. Protective. “Something happened. She needs you. Now, Max.”

—

Maya feels smaller than usual. A fragile thing, curled into herself on the narrow cot bed in Oscar’s driver’s room, her head resting against his chest, tucked beneath his chin. She’s not crying anymore, not really, but her eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, blinking slowly like she’s afraid that if she lets the tears fall again, they might never stop.

Oscar holds her gently, like he knows exactly how close she is to splintering again. Like if he breathes too loud, she might vanish.

Max had arrived in a blur — storm-bright eyes, clenched jaw, voice hushed but heavy with concern. Now, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough for her to feel the quiet thrum of his presence, but not close enough to crowd her. Max always knows when to be heat and when to be shelter.

“You okay?” Oscar asks, his voice low, careful. He doesn’t expect an answer. The question isn’t for her, not really. It’s for himself. For Max. For the quiet ache in both their chests at seeing her like this.

Maya nods — a twitch more than a motion — as if the truth is too loud to say aloud. She curls her fingers tighter into the fabric of Oscar’s hoodie, her knuckles pale. It smells like him. She thinks she could fall asleep like this. If her body would let her. If her mind would stop shaking.

“You know,” Max says after a beat, casually, like they’re talking about the weather and not the way her skin is stretched too tight across her frame, “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat anything in two days.”

Her stomach twists. “Dunno,” she mumbles. “Not hungry.”

Not a lie. Just a truth she’s learned to live inside of. The empty ache of it is more familiar than the weight of food in her body. Hunger feels like control. Like safety.

“You’re not doing that anymore,” Max says, firmer now. He reaches over, lays a hand gently on her shoulder. The heat of him sinks through the cotton of her oversized hoodie. “You hear me? We’re not going to let this happen.”

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say she’s fine. She isn’t. And she’s too tired to pretend. Too tired to wear the perfect smile or make excuses.

Max exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair, tension simmering beneath his skin. “Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath — not at her, never at her — just at the mess of it. The pain she’s been carrying alone. The silence she’s been drowning in.

His tone softens again, the sharp edge blunted by tenderness. “No more making your own calls if this is what they look like. No more hurting yourself just to keep up the act. We’ll decide things now.”

Oscar shifts, his arm around her waist tightening slightly. He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb stroking her arm in slow, calming circles. Then he speaks, gentle but firm. “From now on, we’ll take care of you. That’s the deal. That’s what you need, I think.”

She finally looks up at him. Blinking, broken, her expression so raw it almost hurts to see. There’s no mask here. No practiced smile. Just Maya — stripped of every performance, every expectation. She looks so young. So exhausted. So desperate to be loved right.

“Yeah,” she whispers, voice barely audible. “Yeah, I—please.”

Her voice cracks mid-word. It breaks something in both of them.

Max’s breath catches, his eyes softening as he reaches for her. “Come here, Maya.”

Oscar helps her shift, and she slides out of his lap, her whole body trembling with the effort. She lets Max pull her in, lets him hold her like something precious — not because she asked him to, but because he knows she needs it. She always needs it.

He gathers her against his chest, one arm around her back, the other curled protectively over her legs as he cradles her in his lap like she weighs nothing. Like she’s something delicate and treasured.

Max mutters something sharp and aching in Dutch against her hair, lips barely touching her temple. His voice breaks on the last syllable.

“Niks van jou over, baby.” There’s nothing left of you.

Not accusation. Just sorrow. Truth. She’s a whisper of herself now, and it’s killing him to see it.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, so quietly they almost miss it. “I’m sorry.” Her voice catches again, frays at the edges. She says it like a reflex. Like she’s used to apologizing for her own existence.

“Don’t,” Oscar says gently. “You don’t need to be sorry. Not ever.”

Max holds her tighter, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’re going to fix everything. You hear me? No more of this… act. No more acting. You’re going to be exactly who you are, Maya, and that’s exactly who we want.”

She believes him.

Not because of the words.

But because of how he said them.

Like he meant it.

Like his word was law.

—

Max’s suite is warm, lights dimmed low. Maya’s curled up on the plush couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly of Oscar’s cologne. She hasn’t said much since they brought her back, just let herself be gently guided, repositioned, and reassured. Max and Oscar have made it almost effortless—wordless, even.

Oscar sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, carefully unwrapping takeout containers from room service. He opens each one slowly, as if not to overwhelm her, arranging little piles of food like offerings: soup in a delicate ceramic bowl, plain rice, soft bread rolls, slices of mango she’d admitted were the only fruit she actually liked.

“You don’t have to eat a lot,” he says softly, eyes flicking up to her. “Just something. Okay?”

Max, standing behind the couch, rubs a hand down the back of his neck. “It’s a good start,” he adds, “but we have no expectations.”

Maya nods, small and silent, and takes the spoon Oscar offers. She eats slowly, every bite like a whisper, like her body doesn’t quite know what to do with being taken care of. But she eats.

Max disappears into the bedroom for a few minutes, and when he returns, he’s holding something carefully folded in his hands. “Here,” he says, offering the bundle. “Figured you might want something to sleep in.”

She blinks, takes it from him with trembling fingers. It’s soft. Pale pink. Satin. The cuffs and ankle hems are feathered, delicate and girlish in a way that sends a jolt through her chest.

She sucks in a silent gasp.

Because she’s seen this before. This exact set. A matching top and bottom with candy-colored buttons and wispy little ankle feathers. It’s one of the first things she ever pinned to her secret “want want want” board on Pinterest. She’s stared at that set more times than she can count. Longed for it in that way she’s learned to bury—sweet, soft things that felt too childish, too indulgent for the life her parents demanded she perform.

She looks up, wide-eyed, confused. “How—?”

Oscar, still cross-legged at the table, doesn’t even pretend to look guilty. “You left your laptop open a few weeks ago. Your Pinterest tab was still up.”

Max shrugs, unbothered. “You said you never get to want things. Thought we’d start with these.”

Her throat closes up.

She presses the satin close to her chest and covers her mouth with her hand, and to her horror, the tears come fast. Her shoulders shake, and she ducks her head, trying to hide it, to shove the reaction down where all her emotions usually go—but she can’t.

Oscar is on his feet in seconds, next to her before she can move. “Hey, hey—it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Max crouches in front of her, brushing a thumb under her eye, catching one of the tears. “You’re allowed to cry, baby. Doesn’t make you weak.”

“I just…” She tries to speak but it breaks apart in her throat. “It’s stupid, it’s just pyjamas—”

“It’s not stupid,” Oscar cuts in gently.

She clutches the fabric tighter and gives in to the sob stuck in her throat. For the first time, the tears don’t feel like shame. They feel like a release.

Later, she changes into the pyjamas, and they’re a little big, and the sleeves fall past her wrists, and the feathered cuffs brush her ankles with every step. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt more like herself. Not the Red Bull princess. Not Horner’s daughter or Geri’s publicity machine.

Just Maya.

Soft. Girly. A little fragile, but held together by hands that want to protect, not mold.

When she walks out of the bathroom, Max is already under the covers. Oscar’s flipping through TV channels with the volume low, but both of them look up the second they see her.

Max whistles under his breath, lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There she is.”

Oscar doesn’t even smile—just stares at her like she’s something holy. “You look exactly how I thought you would.”

“Like what?” she whispers.

“Like yourself,” Oscar says.

—

Over the next few weeks, they fulfil their promise in tender, small ways.

Maya stands behind Max, a quiet shadow in a branded cap. The sun is relentless, and her skin’s too pale for this heat. Oscar’s the one who notices first.

“You’re squinting,” he murmurs, sliding a pair of sunglasses onto her nose. “Take mine.”

She starts to shake her head, but he’s already pulling his hat lower to shield his own eyes. She doesn’t give them back.

Max passes her his water bottle without looking, like it’s muscle memory to provide for her.

No one comments. But the cameras do catch it. And people start to talk.

—

They’re at a grid dinner before the summer break.

She barely eats.

Max doesn’t call her out on it, doesn’t lecture. He just cuts his steak into bite-sized pieces and nudges his plate toward her, like it’s hers, like it’s obvious.

Oscar orders her a dessert she once said she liked in a half-forgotten conversation, and when it arrives, he says nothing — just waits. She takes a spoonful and doesn’t realise she’s smiling until he smiles back.

—

Oscar presses a soft kiss to her temple before the elevator closes, like it’s second nature. Max trails a knuckle down her spine with a look that promises he’s always watching over her. It’s subtle. Intimate.

They don’t need to say the word ours. Everyone sees it.

And people continue to talk.

—

She shows up late to media training, lashes clumped from crying, collarbone sharper than it was two weeks ago. The press officer says, “Try to smile more, Maya, you look ungrateful.”

Max hears it. He’s across the room in two strides.

“You don’t get to talk to her like that,” he says flatly. “Have some fucking humility.”

The room goes silent.

—

It’s after qualifying in Singapore. She’s in the garage corridor, still wearing Max’s fireproof jacket draped over her shoulders when her father finds her.

He’s quiet at first. Scarily calm. “This thing you’re doing,” he says, tone cold and precise, “with Max and the McLaren kid—it ends now.”

Maya doesn’t flinch.

“You’re embarrassing your mother. You’re embarrassing me. Do you understand? You look needy. Weak. Do you want the press to call you a liability? Is that what you want?”

Her throat closes. Her fingers tremble. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just lets the words keep hitting. Like they always have.

He steps closer. “You were meant to carry your surname with grace. And instead you’ve latched onto two drivers like—”

“Like what?” Max’s voice cuts in, sharp and deadly.

Christian turns. Max is already standing between them.

“She’s mine,” Max says, low and dangerous. “Ours. And if you don’t want the best driver on your team walking out mid-season, I suggest you shut the fuck up and stay out of this, Christian.”

Oscar’s there too now, not as loud, but just as present. Always behind, always backing her. “They like it,” Oscar says calmly. “The media. The public. They think it’s sweet — that she can finally be herself. That she’s finally being taken care of. Loved.”

Christian scoffs, mouth twitching, shaking his head and looking like he might explode.

Max doesn’t move. “You’re a fucking coward,” he says quietly. “You throw money at her instead of love and call it parenting. You ignore the fact that she’s killing herself because it’s an inconvenience to you. Well… she’s not yours to hurt anymore.”

Maya is shaking. Oscar’s hand is on her back. Max opens his arms wordlessly.

She steps into them without hesitation.

And when Christian walks away, furious and silent, she doesn’t look back.

—

It’s late. The city lights flicker below them like stars scattered across the sand.

There’s a linen-covered table set for three, candlelight dancing in the breeze. Oscar had picked the restaurant. Max had reserved the whole rooftop. She hadn’t even been told where they were going—just that she should wear something soft, and pink if she wanted.

She had. A silky dress with a bow at the back. Pearl earrings. Her heart on her sleeve.

They don’t rush dinner. Oscar orders for all of them, but always checks with her first. Max brushes her knuckles with his thumb every few minutes like he can’t quite believe she’s real and needs a reminder that she is.

There’s laughter. Champagne with fresh raspberries. A moment where she forgets to shrink herself.

After dessert, she leans back in her chair, barefoot now, cheeks warm from the alcohol. “So this is a date?” she asks, half-teasing, half-afraid of the answer.

Oscar glances at Max, then back at her. “Yes.”

“You didn’t ask,” she says, tilting her head.

Max’s voice is low, serious. “Because we weren’t going to give you room to say no. Not in the way you usually do. You say no to kindness. To care. Not because you don’t want it—because you think you’re not allowed to have it.”

She looks down. The vulnerability stretches between them like thread. Thin. Fragile. Shimmering.

“We’re in love with you, Maya,” Oscar says, steady and calm. “Have been for a while. Since Bahrain, since London, probably.”

Max reaches for her, puts his hand under her chin, tilts her head up. “You don’t have to do anything. Say anything. Be anything. Just… existing is enough, liefge.”

“We’re just asking you to let us love you,” Oscar finishes.

Her bottom lip trembles. She presses her hand over her mouth like that will stop it, but it doesn’t. “You don’t even know all the messy parts,” she whispers. “You think I’m sweet and good. But I’m—I’m so tired. And I’m not always good. I’m… I’m a lot.”

Max stands. Walks behind her. Presses a kiss to her hair and murmurs against her ear, “We want all of it.”

Oscar reaches across the table and holds her gaze. “You’ve just never been loved right, I think.”

She breaks.

Not in a loud way.

Just a slow inhale, a few tears slipping down her cheeks, her hands shaking as she lets Max pull her to her feet and into his arms. Oscar wraps his arms around both of them. They stand like that—on a rooftop above the desert, the girl they’re already in love with finally, finally starting to believe them.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she says into Max’s chest. “The three of us. I’ve never—“

Oscar kisses her shoulder. “That’s okay.”

“We’ll show you,” Max promises, holding her tighter. “Every day. For as long as it takes.”

—

It’s raining in Barcelona.

Not a storm. Just a soft, endless drizzle.

They’re in Oscar’s hotel room. Max is asleep — sprawled sideways across the bed, one arm over his eyes, shirtless and worn out from media rounds. There’s a tiny freckle on his shoulder and Maya is struck with the urge to kiss it.

Oscar is sitting on the floor with her, both of them tucked against the wall by the window. She’s in one of Max’s old Red Bull hoodies, swimming in it. Her bare legs are tucked under her, knees touching Oscar’s. Her damp hair smells like jasmine.

They’re listening to the rain.

He’s been reading to her. Something calm. Poetic. He reads slowly, like the words are delicate things. She hasn’t really been paying attention. She’s just been watching his mouth move. Breathing.

She interrupts him with no warning.

“I love you.”

Oscar blinks. His lips part, then close again. He sets the book down slowly.

“I love you,” she says again, to make sure he knows it. “You and Max. It’s not new. It’s just—now it doesn’t feel too scary to admit.”

Oscar cups her cheek, gently pulling her gaze up to meet his. “We love you too.”

“I know.” She smiles, wobbly.

Max shifts on the bed with a sleepy groan, rubbing his eyes. “What’d I miss?”

Maya crawls over to him slowly, climbs into his arms, and says it again.

“I love you.”

Max stills. Then smiles. He cups her face and kisses her forehead. “Liefje,” he murmurs, kissing her again. “You’re everything.”

Oscar joins them, wrapping around both. The three of them curled into the sheets, quiet and close as the rain falls outside.

—

It’s late. The kind of late that wraps everything in a hush, the lights dim and warm, the air thick with stillness.

Maya is curled between them on the hotel sofa, tucked into Max’s side, her legs draped across Oscar’s lap. There’s a documentary playing, something about old race legends, but none of them are really watching.

Oscar’s hand traces absent circles on her calf. Max’s thumb brushes along her shoulder where her silk robe has slipped, and she doesn’t move to fix it. She feels safe like this. Weighted. Held.

“I like this,” she murmurs, the words barely louder than the hum of the TV.

Oscar looks down at her. “Like what?”

“This,” she says again, quieter now. “You. Him. Here.”

Max shifts just enough to lean in and press a kiss to her temple — tender, slow. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Then Oscar’s voice, soft but sure. “Never.”

She lifts her head, just enough to look at them both, and her heart stutters at the way Max is already watching Oscar. The fire and the calm. Always orbiting each other, always steady. Like they’d found something solid long before she was ever part of it.

And then — like they’ve done it a thousand times — Max leans in, fingers brushing Oscar’s jaw, and kisses him.

It’s unhurried. Familiar. The kind of kiss that feels like home, and she watches it happen with her chest aching in the best way.

When they pull back, Max glances at her, just a hint of a smirk curving his mouth. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed,” she whispers.

Oscar’s fingers find hers. “You’re ours.”

And just like that, her world tilts a little closer to whole.

—

The building is pale pink stucco with tall windows and soft gold accents. The sign reads The Princess Daisy Foundation.

Maya’s wearing a gown the colour of strawberry milk, with a tulle overlay and delicate pearls stitched into the bodice. Her heels sparkle. Her nails are glossy and pale. Her smile, for once, is real.

“They said it wouldn’t be taken seriously,” she says into the mic, voice calm but warm, “that no one would support a charity for underprivileged girls to study ballet. But they were wrong. People just had to be reminded what true, authentic beauty looks like.”

The crowd claps. Cameras flash. Oscar hands her the scissors. Max presses a kiss to her temple once it’s done. Neither are on the stage, but they’re close. Always close.

—

The magazine is high fashion. Not tabloid. Not gossip.

She’s not in a power suit. She’s not reinvented.

She’s herself.

Feathers. Lace. A sheer pink blouse with a velvet bow tied at the collar. Hair curled softly, glitter dusting her collarbones. The spread is titled Soft is Strong.

They call her a disruptor. A visionary. A symbol of femininity without apology.

In one of the outtakes, she’s sitting on Max’s lap, Oscar’s hand on her thigh. It never runs, but she frames it in her home office anyway.

—

She’s barefoot in the paddock — her heels in one hand, the hem of her ruffled dress knotted up slightly to avoid engine grease. Max is arguing with GP about race strategy. Oscar is reviewing telemetry data on his phone.

Maya’s sipping an iced lavender latte when a tiny dot of a girl comes running up to her, flanked by two out-of-breath guardians.

“Hi Maya.” The girl says shyly. “I love your dress.”

Maya hands her latte to Oscar, who doesn’t even need to look up from his phone to take it. Then she crouches down and adjusts the girl’s glittery headband. “I love yours too,” she whispers, like it’s a secret between them. “You sparkle in the sunshine!”

When the photo of them gets posted by the girls parents, the caption goes viral: “She’s like if a cupcake had a heart (and two boyfriends).”

—

They’re at a party.

Christian is there.

So is Geri.

Maya greets them politely. She doesn’t flinch. She’s radiant in silk and diamonds and a matching custom clutch that says good girl in pink rhinestones — a reclamation, not a reminder.

Max is on her left. Oscar on her right.

When a journalist tries to bring up her rebellious phase, Max shuts it down with a single look. Oscar gently steers her away, murmuring, “You look like a dream,” and her laugh sounds like wind chimes.

—

There’s a photo on their kitchen fridge of a much younger Maya — awkward, unsure, all eyes and shadows.

Beside it, there’s one from just last week; she’s lounging on their balcony in a cloud of pastel robe, eating a croissant and reading French literature, Max kissing her shoulder, Oscar curled beside her with his nose in his phone.

In both photos, she’s looking at the camera.

She only recognises herself in the second one.

—

The house is quiet.

There’s birdsong from the trees outside the open windows, the soft hum of a coffee machine, the occasional sound of a little girl giggling.

It’s a peaceful quiet. The gentle kind.

Maya stands barefoot on the balcony, wrapped in a silk robe the color of rose quartz. The hem is trimmed in delicate feathers.

There’s a half-drunk cappuccino beside her. Her fingers are dusted with flour — she’s trying to bake something today, even if Oscar ends up taking over halfway through like always. Max is still asleep, she thinks, though she heard him stir when she slipped out of bed at dawn.

Below, the garden is blooming. Lavender and soft pink roses, a stone path that leads to the small dance studio she had built on a whim — or maybe not a whim at all. The ballet charity is doing well. Better than she imagined. Sometimes, when she visits classes and helps the girls with their ribbons, she feels like she’s rewriting her own childhood, one gentle hand at a time.

She turns as she hears the sliding door open.

Oscar steps out, barefoot, shirtless, wearing sleep-soft shorts and blinking into the light. He walks straight to her and presses a kiss to her shoulder. “You’re up early.”

“Had a dream,” she murmurs. “Not a bad one. Just… vivid.”

He rests his chin on her head. “Want to talk about it?”

She leans back into him. “No. Maybe later.”

Max appears a few minutes later, hair wild, expression fond and grumpy all at once. He kisses her without a word and steals the rest of her coffee.

They stand there together in the morning sun, warm and safe and quiet.

Oscar’s hand finds hers. Max’s arm settles around her waist.

There’s no performance.

No audience to entertain.

There’s just love.

A squeal — high-pitched and girly — splits the quiet morning like sunlight through lace. Then, the balcony doors burst open, and a blur of pink tulle and fluttering white feathers launches herself outside.

“Daddy!”

Oscar catches her mid-air like he was waiting, arms instinctively cradling her as she giggles and wriggles against his chest. She’s dressed like a ballerina — a soft pink leotard, satin slippers with little ribbons tied messily at her ankles, and a tiny feather boa draped around her shoulders.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, spinning her once, pressing kisses across her cheeks as she squeals with laughter. “What are you doing up so early, huh?”

“Had a dream,” she says seriously, parroting Maya’s earlier words. “That the kitchen turned into a castle and the fridge was made of cake!”

Oscar gasps. “A cake fridge? Why didn’t I dream that?”

“Because you’re boring, daddy,” she says with complete confidence.

Maya laughs and walks toward them, curling herself into Max’s side as he stands behind her, arms wrapped around her middle. His chin rests on her shoulder, his hair still a little wild from sleep. She feels his breath against her skin, hears the soft sound he makes when he sees his daughter light up in Oscar’s arms.

“She’s wearing feathers again,” Max says against her ear, his breath a tickle. “That’s your fault.”

Maya hums. Shrugs. “She wanted a ‘Mummy dress’ today. Couldn’t say no.”

Max kisses the curve of her neck. “I wouldn’t have, either.”

Gia, their tiny, perfect girl, reaches out one hand toward her mother. “Mummy, daddy said I could wear my crown to breakfast.”

Oscar looks betrayed. “No, I didn’t—!”

“You didn’t not say it,” she grins.

Max chuckles, the sound low and affectionate. “She’s got you beat, Osc. You’re hopeless.”

She has them all beat, is the thing. This little girl—drowning in love and affection and never wanting for anything.

—

Inside, the kitchen smells like cinnamon and sugar, something bubbling gently on the stove. Oscar sets their daughter on the counter, steadying her as she swings her legs in excitement, reaching for a tiny crown resting beside the fruit bowl. Max lifts it with two fingers, exaggeratedly serious as he places it on her head with a little bow. “Your Highness.”

She beams, the sunlight catching in her curls.

Maya watches them, heart aching with a kind of joy that still feels new sometimes. She leans against the doorway, arms folded loosely across her chest, letting herself stay in the moment a little longer.

On the fridge are photos. Lando, her brother in all ways but blood, had taken most of them.

Oscar’s mother, kneeling in the garden with Gia on her lap, both of them grinning wide. Max’s father teaching her how to drive a go-kart — a day that ended with a kart in the wall and a lot of apology ice cream. There’s one of Maya too, half-laughing, mid-spin in the living room, her daughter in her arms, both in matching pink feathered robes.

Maya’s daughter doesn’t know her maternal grandparents. Not really. They’ve met, yes. Christian had flown into Belgium once, uncomfortable in the stillness of their home, talking more about Max’s contract than about his granddaughter’s third birthday party. Geri had sent expensive, ridiculously expensive dresses by courier.

Maya only let Gia wear them in the garden, where they would get covered in mud and water and sand.

Maya never let them stay long—her parents.

She wouldn’t risk it. Not for a second.

She knows what inherited silence feels like. What praise laced with expectation can do to a child’s pure heart. She remembers being told to smile when she wanted to cry, to suck in her stomach and keep her chin up and never — ever — be soft.

She’d walk through fire before letting her daughter carry that same weight.

So instead, her little girl grows up in ballet slippers and glitter crowns, with two fathers who would rearrange the stars if she asked them to — who teach her strength isn’t silence, and kindness is power, and softness isn’t something to outgrow.

And Maya learns too. Every day.

Oscar hands her a mug of warm milk and honey; not breakfast, just something to warm her up. Max brushes a kiss across her temple before pulling their daughter into his arms and dancing her toward the dining table.

She closes her eyes for a second.

This is the life she built from the ruins of the one she survived.

And it’s hers. Every breath of it.

1K notes · View notes

specialgradefckr · 5 months ago

Text

Heartline Gone Flat

Sequel to: Beat Your Heart to Death

tw: explicit content, extremely unhealthy relationships. gojo/geto, gojo/reader, geto/reader, stsg/reader. female!reader. pining. mind games. catfishing. non-consensual filming. extremely under-negotiated kinks. safe? maybe. sane? it's INsane. consensual? allegedly.

bondage. knife play. it gets fucking crazy. no one retains any degree of sanity by the end of this fic. every single character is deathly allergic to honest/healthy communication. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

You're not stupid. You notice the cameras.

It's not easy, mind you. Suguru - it had to be Suguru, Satoru didn't have this kind of calculated approach to anything - had hidden them reasonably well.

But the flash of a light, a glint where there shouldn't be one... suddenly you were finding cameras everywhere.

At first, you wondered. Why the hell would they bother spying on you? They already fucked in the living room. Groped each other right in front of your salad.

And then, this one time. Suguru had just finished eating their little hookup girlfriend out, his lips still wet and sticky while he lifted up his head.

He met your eyes. Dark and violet and... hungry. He didn't look away. All his pretty words, all the honeyed excuses that you know would pour from his lips, and he didn't look away.

No, your gaze was only broken by a head of white hair, Satoru pulling in to steal a kiss. Blue eyes glinting at you, so bright you have to look away.

He'd wanted you to see. They both had.

You know it, now. But why are they watching you?

And you think back.

Missing panties. Your vibrator dying on you constantly. Your lube running out. Your toothbrushes wearing out quickly.

Suguru does the laundry. He knows where everything is, like the clean freak malewife mother hen he is. Satoru keeps using your bathroom even though he and Suguru have their own.

So they're fucking with you. They're fucking in front of you. They're spying on you while you try to fuck yourself.

All that and they won't fuck you, won't even try.

Why? Why why WHY WHY! What do they want? What are they fucking doing?

Suguru won't tell you. He'll deny it's even happening. Satoru -

You don't like that shimmer. The way his eyes seem to stare right through you. His ethereal beauty.

The lurch in your chest every time he looks at you.

You'd had time to come to terms with your crush on Suguru. It had been a slow burn, a low simmer, a pull in the back of your mind that makes you nod your head and smile and sigh every time he asks you for something, every time he makes some excuse.

Suguru was comfortable. A well-loved, soft blanket you couldn't bear to wash, couldn't sleep without.

What you feel for Satoru makes you want to throw up. Shove him down, bite into his fucking neck and eat his heart straight out of his chest.

Every time you see him with Suguru it makes your fingers twitch. Your cunt clenches - do you want him inside you? Do you want Suguru inside you instead? Do you want his pretty mouth pressed up between your legs, pretty blue eyes gazing up at you, tearing up as he suffocates on your cunt?

Who the fuck knows. But you want, you know you want him. Like nothing you've ever wanted before in your life.

But you can't have him. You can't have anything, and, as far as you can tell, they're fucking taunting you with it.

So when you see the cameras... the next time you catch them fucking, Satoru moaning loudly, as if exaggerated, Suguru muttering dirty talk that could have come straight out of a porn script -

Well.

If they're filming you... and if they're so determined to be your personal porn stars...

Why not oblige them?

There's this man at the club that Suguru doesn't like.

They try not to bring men back too often. Women work better, make you more jealous. And he'll admit he doesn't like the thought of Satoru wanting a dick that's not his. He knows Satoru feels the same.

Though, with the way this pink-haired, tattooed man is looking at him, it looks like Satoru's whore instincts have gotten ahead of him.

"Who the fuck is that guy?" He whispers, bitingly, a hand over Satoru's hip. Mean, grasping.

Satoru laughs, but it's an uncertain sound. "Sukuna, I think. I remember him from tinder a couple years ago."

"Matched with him?"

"Guess so."

They don't have to wait long to see what the guy wants. How he glares at them both. Larger hands snatching Satoru's wrist, glaring down as Suguru when he tries to shove him back.

"Whore," Sukuna spits, glaring down at Satoru, "I paid you good money and you fucking blocked me?"

What?

"The fuck are you talking about?" Satoru snaps, as Suguru's mind races.

Is Satoru fucking around? But they spend every moment together. And he sounds genuine.

Sukuna isn't dissuaded. He snarls and sneers and acts like Satoru is playing dumb, until he finally pulls out his phone, revealing a series of DMs with someone called...

SatoSugu <3

What?? Who???

"You told me you weren't exclusive with your little boyfriend here," Sukuna growls, "Guess that was a fucking lie, too. Keep a leash on your slut, yeah, Daddy Suguru?"

And though Suguru does like to think of himself as having paternal energy - for a man like Sukuna, that's a bit on the nose.

Satoru recognizes some of the pictures on the DMs, though.

They're selfies (thirst traps, really) that he's sent... to you.

It only takes a little digging from there. SatoSugu <3 is an OnlyFans account - and a big one.

There's regular uploads. It's full of shots of the two of them, sometimes shorts, sometimes even videos a few minutes long.

The angles are a big scuffed but the audio is usually good. Some of them look like they might have been recorded from a phone -

And they're all set inside your shared home.

"Well, well, well," Satoru says, sounding much more composed than Suguru is feeling, "Looks like we got more of an audience than we were looking for, huh?"

At least most of these are showing his good side. Oh, he looks hot in that one...

He remembers that time, too, where Suguru was especially pent up...

Satoru scrolls through the feed with a smile on his face.

He pays the subscription fee, too - ooh, you were making good money off of this - and licks his lips at all the saucy content.

Really, he should be thanking you for the archive. But after using them to make money without their knowledge, surely you owed them at least one... collaboration.

Suguru does not feel the same.

It's not a surprise - Satoru has always had a bit of an exhibitionist streak.

For him, it was different. Satoru had his own ways of being territorial, but Suguru was possessive, in a dark, heady way Satoru loved to stoke.

You were allowed to see because you were theirs. You were a part of this relationship, whether you knew it or not. Even if you hadn't claimed their bodies yet, you had their hearts.

Random girls they brought home - those were unimportant. Quickly discarded. Tools to be used to make you jealous; they got only as much contact as was strictly necessary, and no more.

But this?

Showing them off - showing his Satoru, the one he'd so carefully reduced to tears and quivering. His strong, beautiful Satoru, full of energy and slutty dramatics, meant exclusively for your eyes and his?

And him; you've been pining for Suguru for years. Now you're letting strangers see him in his most intimate moments?

It's... diabolical. Exploitative. A master stroke of manipulation, taking advantage of their attempt to make you jealous, reducing it to a moneymaking scheme.

As much as he hates to agree with Satoru, it is kind of a turn on.

He can't quite call it a betrayal. You must have found the cameras they'd planted, set some of your own, knowing they might not notice the extras.

There's a special sort of rage billowing in his chest at the thought of everyone who got to see him and Satoru without his consent. But he's not so foolish as to think he didn't have this coming.

The question was, why did you do it? Are you angry? Are you trying to profit off them?

Knowing Satoru, he'd be pleased with either answer. But Suguru wants more.

Suguru wants anger. He wants your gut to sear with fury like his does, he wants you to be seething at the both of them. Apoplectic.

The time to prod you, taunt you, lead you into making a move is over. This is your answer - infuriating and enrapturing.

His mind twists and turns at Satoru's suggestion. Collaboration.

Turnabout is fair play, after all. And nothing quite turns him on like scheming and fucking.

Perhaps he and Satoru will have to make the first move. This battle is yours... but the war?

Oh, it's only just begun.

When you do meet their accusations, you do so head-on, shameless.

"Oh?" Your tone is tinged with mock innocence, "I didn't realize you had a problem with people watching you. Sorry about that."

There's not an inch of apology in your voice, of course.

In fairness, it wasn't even an unreasonable assumption. They'd fucked in plain view in your living room.

"That doesn't explain the man." Suguru says, unwilling to even say Sukuna's name.

But you know what you did. He knows you do.

You meet his eyes with a gaze you've never shown him before, heavy with the new arrival of old grudges. It hits him like a hunger pang.

"I thought you were looking for a third." You say. "You're always bringing people back home. I didn't think you were exclusive."

Suguru savors the bitterness in your voice. Why not me, you never asked me, it should have been me.

Delectable. Every last chocolate-coated note of longing burnt to a crisp.

"So you pretended to be Satoru?" The white-haired dog of a man slinks up to his side, arms crossed. As if he cared.

Their eyes lock onto the pink slip of your tongue licking between your lips.

"It looked like a perfect match. You've both got a preference," You drone, "Strong guys, tall guys. He's stronger and taller than either of you, and his dick is bigger, too."

That has them freezing up. Tense. Air thickening with it.

He can feel Satoru nearly vibrating next to him. Straining against an invisible leash.

"That doesn't mean you can just impersonate us."

You fix him with a look the tired fingers of his thoughts are not able to unwind. Suguru could spend hours looking at you, picking apart every single inch of your expression.

He'd love every second of it.

"So?" You ask, challenge in your tone.

He smiles, eyes half-lidded as he closes in. "So, we both agreed... if we're going to be on the page, it's only fair if you go on there with us."

You take a step back, but it's not far enough. Satoru's lean, muscled form presses into you from the side.

"Yeah, babe," Satoru sings, "Isn't it time for you to upload? Come on, we can't disappoint the masses."

Boxed in, walled off. Suguru crowds you with the heat of his body, broad shoulders.

Ah, there it is. The nervous flick of your eyes, the tightening of your expression. Readying yourself for the crash.

Like white water breaking against the rocks. You've always been so malleable to him, so predictable in your moods, and yet somehow vaster and greater than he could ever command.

He thinks your lips on his, your waist encircled in his arms, is a fine start to mastery.

Of course, Satoru can never let him have anything - arms tug at his shoulders, a chest closing in from the side.

He moves to sandwich you between them, letting Satoru slot himself behind you. He knows it already, in the cracked blue intensity of Satoru's gaze, Suguru knows he's hard, desperate to grind himself against you.

"Oh, but you're not into me, are you?" You brandish the words like a dagger, "And we've been friends for so long, Suguru. We're all roommates, too. I wouldn't want to make things weird between us."

The pointed barb makes him laugh in spite of himself.

You still won't say it. Won't say you want them. You don't push them away, don't do anything to stop this -

You want him to say it first. And if Suguru isn't careful, Satoru might just sell them out to get his dick wet.

So he smirks, letting one hand trail down and underneath your waistband. Grasping your face by the chin and tilting it to look towards a planted camera. Satoru takes the chance to kiss your cheek.

"Oh, we play with girls all the time, Satoru and I, and you didn't mind recording," he purrs into your ear, knowing this isn't what you want to hear. "Don't you think you owe this to us? After putting us up without our permission, you should at least put yourself out there too, no?"

"Yeah," Satoru says, like the obedient, horny lackey he is, "What he said."

How eloquent.

"Since you both agreed on this," You say beneath lowered lashes - but this close, Suguru can feel how your cheeks have warmed, "You must have an idea of what you want to do with me."

Anything. Everything. He wants to toss you down, eat you up, watch Satoru fuck you from a million angles while he directs, fuck Satoru while he fucks you and vice versa -

But he can't let you goad him into saying it. Even under pressure like this, you're trembling, but not as trapped prey. You're burning from the inside out, fighting the urge to grab and hold and have them.

"Oh, I know we do. Satoru," He purrs, "Come here and help our dear roommate put on a real show, would you?"

Satoru groans as he thrusts into you. Hand on hip. Clingy, needy.

"Did you like it," he pants in your ear, like he's the one getting fucked, "Did you like showing us off? Showing me off?"

Egging himself on. A match that lights itself and burns up too close to your fingertips.

He has you on his lap, too close and yet not close enough. Facing forward, towards the camera in Suguru's hands (is it even turned on? you can't tell, can't look away from the hunger in those violet eyes).

Satoru's other hand winds around your ribcage, clasping one of your breasts, squeezing and groping freely.

"Showing that prick my - hngh, my selfies just for you?" He whispers, "Did you have fun pretending to be me? Teasing him, then blocking him? Did you think to yourself, you'll never have him anyways, you can never have my Satoru?"

A laugh comes out from his mouth, thundering through you, his muscled chest pressed to your back.

You want to see him. Pretty, beautiful Satoru - he's finally fucking you, and you can't look him in the eyes.

Suguru does. Suguru's eyes flick towards him, meeting his gaze. Just over your shoulder.

After all those years lusting for him, you finally have him and you can't even have him.

And it's glorious. It feels amazing, like nothing you've felt in your entire life.

He's good, so good at this, pressing into you just hard enough, just enough friction, the hand on your hip darting over to rub over your clit while he whispers his dirty talk in your ear.

"Did you like leading him on only to dump him? Wanna keep me all to yourself?" His voice is hot, breathy, dripping with thrilled arousal.

"Answer him." Suguru says, and he sounds so faraway, even though he's right there.

Watching. Filming. Directing, even.

Satoru's only fucking you because he told him to. The circles over your clit send you clenching, quivering, and Satoru whispers for you to answer, come on, did you like it? Do you like them?

"Of course," You choke on the words, "It was fun messing with Sukuna. But I felt bad for him, you know? Catfishing is one thing, but it would be cruel to inflict the real you on him."

There's a laugh from Suguru, even as Satoru's fingers dig into you. He leans over your shoulder just enough to stare at you from the corner of your eyes. Grinning.

You meet Satoru's crystal-blue gaze, lips curling into a shaky smirk.

"You're such a whore," You drawl to his face, gasping as he thrusts harder (his cock throbs at the word whore, this goddamn slut), "You vain fucking bitch, you love flirting, showing off your body, but I know when you and Suguru fuck, you make him do all the work."

Reaching around with one hand, grasping the toned tightness of his ass, you squeeze - even as a swipe of his fingers over your clit takes your breath away.

"Yeah? Then what am I doing now, babe?" Those eyes glitter at you. Satoru's locked on you, not looking away for an instant.

He's so fucking beautiful, all smirking and shining and heavenly flesh against your own.

And you feel Suguru's gaze like a leaden weight. Lick your lips.

(He's not yours. You can't have him.)

"Suffering, probably," You dig your nails into his ass and he hisses, cock twitching inside you, "Poor little pillow princess Gojo having to put in some effort for once."

Satoru's smile bares teeth at your use of his surname.

(Don't, Suguru mouths in warning, while your attention is fixed on him.)

"Ha!" It's a dry laugh, biting, feral, the words he wants to say stuck in his throat, "Fuck you!"

"You are," Suguru drawls, "Poorly."

"And fuck you, too, bitch, your hole is next," Satoru pants, thrusting hard and fast.

(He wants wants want wants WANTS. But Suguru wants, too. And he has you now, doesn't he?)

You keen as he drives into you, quick movements, fast circles over your clit that match the friction in your cunt. Closer, closer.

Something in his face spurs you on. Heart racing the words out of your mouth, "You gonna cry when you cum, baby?"

Taunting, snide, the words don't match the way your chest lurches as he hits a spot inside you, and heat spurts in your lower half.

It's agonizing and ecstatic; the hand not coaxing your clit into bursts of heady pleasure grasps your breast, clutching you back against him.

There's a noise from across the room, a shift or something, but it feels so loud to your ears. Like Suguru refuses to be ignored. Even in this one perfect moment of your fantasies come through -

Or maybe you just like him too much to forget he's here. To keep yourself from glancing over at him.

But Satoru isn't looking at Suguru. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, leaning his face into your neck as he groans, languid thrusts of his release jerking against your hips.

You feel wetness against your neck, hot, slick. Licking at you.

"No, but maybe you will," He purrs, sucking marks into your skin.

Hands roaming. Legs hooking over yours, limbs wrapped around you, refusing to let go.

You blink, hard, and no tears come out. Must be dehydration.

Suguru's eyes are burning holes in you. Even Satoru stiffens behind you. (His cock stiffens, too - is he really that much of a whore, or has Suguru trained him or something?)

"Ah-ah-ahhh," Suguru tuts, but it's a cold sound.

His eyes are sharp, pointed, "That can't be all. This is for the audience, after all. You should put on a good show."

It's almost malevolent, how he relished in your expression when reminding you of the shared pretense.

You meet his eyes with your own burning gaze.

"This is all for content, right?" The words are full of malice, of challenge.

You match him, smile for hateful smile.

"We should do things you two haven't done before."

Suguru had to hand it to you.

He didn't expect Satoru to be the first person to peg him.

Oh, technically, perhaps it could be considered from you. After all, it had been inside you, first.

"I seem to have run out of lube," You'd explained coyly, "You don't mind, though, right? Here, I'll donate some of my own."

So Suguru had sat and filmed while Satoru fucked the dildo into you. Rubbing it over your cunt even though you swatted at him, rushing him to put it in and lube it up.

Your hands on Satoru's dick in return, grasping tight and unforgiving. Like he wasn't already hard enough. Jerking him until he spurted all over your palm.

You rubbed that on the dildo, too, once he'd pulled it out of you. You couldn't stop a tight hiss at that.

Suguru keeps the vision of it in his mind's eye as Satoru fingers him open. Hands still wet with his cum and yours.

(It keeps him hard. That little gasp you made, breathy, a touch overstimulated, so soon after your last release.

What a large refractory window. He wants to break it open.)

The dildo is hot pink, bulging. Suguru had mocked it when they'd found it in your cabinet. Satoru thought it was cute.

By the smirk on his face, his opinion hasn't changed.

"Get on with it," Suguru grunts, shifting his legs to give him better access. Glancing at you, camera in hand. Eyes locked.

"Yeah, yeah," Satoru says, blithe as ever. Rubbing the dildo's bulbous, silicone head against his hole, "Coming right up, cockslut."

He can't help a scoff. "You're one to talk."

He's still half-worried Satoru will confess his undying love to you just to get his dick wet. Give up the game before it's really started.

"Wonder what the title for this should be?" You muse, "Slutty twink ruins goth's hole, no lube? You guys sell so well."

Suguru almost chokes out a laugh at that. You and Satoru, cut from the same cloth. He'd seen it earlier.

A pair of whores talking each other through it.

(It's never failed to make his blood burn.)

"I think we're owed a little more participation from you," Suguru licks his lips, "Come over here."

A trickle of desire he lets through. Just a droplet, really.

He watches your eyes dilate at the sight.

(Oh, you want him. You want him you want him you want him you want him and it's the most potent aphrodisiac he's ever known.)

The camera is abandoned on the table. Maybe he was in frame, maybe he wasn't.

What's far more important is you, between his legs, as Satoru sits him back on his lap. Up on his thighs, giving him space to slowly drive the dildo in.

And even though Satoru's face must be just behind him, a grin he can hear - Suguru knows you're staring at him. Trapped in his gaze.

Your hands crawl up his thighs. Shaking as Satoru stretches him. Working up to the cock that's now tall and pulsing against his lower abdomen.

The hunger in your eyes makes him tense. He's leaky already, not from how expertly Satoru is nudging his prostate, but from how you look at him like a dog staring at a steak after it's been told no.

Your eyes glancing between him and his cock.

Something flutters in his stomach. Burns in his gut. Soars in his chest.

This is love, isn't it? It must be love, this high he sees looking at your face pressed against his dick like you can't quite believe you're there.

(Finally finally finally fuck - )

He chokes, arching his back and moaning. Wincing his eyes shut to hide how they water.

Satoru's hand grasps at his hips, the other one shoving in - tight, tight, fuck, it burns -

And then it's soft, and wet, and perfect, your lovely mouth opening up around his dick.

Tongue gliding over it like you can lick away years of longing. Savor the fruit of your yearning. Devour him entirely.

He feels like he's melting. Red-hot bursts of pleasure as Satoru pumps into him and you - your eyes - fuck fuck fuck your mouth, warm and melting around his cock until he can't tell where he ends and you begin.

His hand reaches your face before he knows it. Cupping your cheek.

What face is he making right now? He can't think about it, can't think about anything but him inside your mouth and your face in his hand.

You lean into it, eyes half-fluttering, blissful, sucking and drooling around him.

That's what gets him. His cock pulses, and throbs, and he doesn't have a moment to warn you, but you swallow around him anyways. Suckling as you pull away, glancing up at his face.

A drop of his cum gets on your mouth. Thoughtlessly, his thumb swipes it away, but it lingers on your lower lip. His eyes linger, too.

Something twists in his chest.

He doesn't know what does it. If it's that moment of vulnerability, all the soft, tender parts exposed that he has to lash out to protect. Or if being able to finally touch you has unfettered something cruel and wild inside him.

Or maybe it's just the sick, twisted desire to win. To watch you cave in on yourself from the hunger, starved until you become just as willing to draw blood as he is.

But Suguru knows he says it with an awful, mean smile.

"You can add on Slut used for both holes to that, too," He snarks, his hand moving back to cup your cheek.

Soft, so soft. Face crumpling at his touch. Fighting not to show it.

"You sure seemed to enjoy it," You say. Heart on sleeve.

He wants to rip it apart. Ribcage open, heart bare and beating.

"Satoru's better, of course," He strokes your cheek in mock affection, "But it'd be unfair to compare you to him. He's special."

Thumb over the twitch in your cheek.

(Won't you bare your fangs? Won't you bite? Tear in?

If you won't, then he will.)

"I've never had anyone like Satoru. He always knows just what to do... maybe he's a born slut," Suguru chuckles, low, feeling your cheeks heat against his fingertips, "Or maybe he just knows me that well. Loves me that much."

He can feel it, he thinks. Your poor trembling heart, your face growing hard like armor.

What are you thinking now? I love you, too? I'd love you even more? I've loved you longer, forever, how can you not see -

"Sure he loves you," You bite out, "He loves your dick."

You're hungry, so hungry. Starved of his affection. And he's dangling it in front of you now -

So why won't you bite?

Satoru's not entirely sure how it got to this point.

Suguru, tied to a chair, arms strapped down. The vibrator - the one he'd sabotaged so many times - strapped to his dick, all swollen and purple and dribbling pitifully in overstimulation.

HIs eyes are red-rimmed, bloodshot. Sweat in a sheen over his broad shoulders. Lips in a thin line as he struggles not to make a sound.

He's so handsome, even like this. Maybe more like this, Satoru thinks, and then buries the thought deep as if to hide it from Suguru's ravenous gaze.

(He thinks he knows anyways. Suguru always knows, knows everything. Satoru could see things but Suguru understood them.)

It started somewhere with the bindings, he thinks.

A tone of measured challenge in your voice that Suguru couldn't resist.

Suguru thinks he's some kind of director. But you'd baited him with raised stakes, and then offered him an out.

"It's okay if you don't want to. I know you and Satoru aren't there yet in your relationship. If you don't want to do it with me, just say so."

It's not a bluff Suguru could easily call.

Telling you he doesn't want you, they don't want you, would be an outright lie, a hole he doesn't dare dig for himself.

"Do it. Tell me you don't want me. Tell me that and we can stop here."

You offer him your beating heart on a platter, well-disguised. Tone even as you give him the knife and hold if over your chest.

He couldn't call you out. So he had to raise.

Hands behind his back, at first. Then he's tied to a chair.

Satoru makes good use of it. So do you. Hands and mouth and tongue and teeth, everywhere.

Your lips are so soft and yet they sting his skin, dripping venom with every word.

Raise, raise, always raise. As high as you'll take the stakes. He'll never back down.

A vibrator, remote controlled. Satoru getting the chance to hold the camera.

Suguru just barely catches him half-filming while he palms his cock to you grinding against his dick in his lap.

"Do you like it, Suguru~?"

He doesn't know who asked him.

But he knows you're not fucking him yet, you haven't said it yet (that you want him, need him, love him can't live without him say it say it SAY IT ALREADY).

And he can't lose, he can't lose, not to you, not you.

That's when he called for the whip. It's a fine thing, a short flexible band of leather.

And then Satoru had licked his lips, itchy fingers, pulling his shirt over his head, and Suguru realized that if he went ungagged he would ruin everything.

So that was how the gag got into Satoru's mouth. He's drooling on it now.

And the sight of you muzzling Satoru had been enough.

Suguru felt ravenous, vile. He saw an opening and went in, fangs bared.

"Want to make him cry for you??" He taunts, "He's a pretty crier, even prettier when he cums. Maybe you can do with that whip what you couldn't do with your cunt, hm?"

"Shut up or I'm gagging you, too. Turn around, Satoru."

And Satoru bared the pale, flawless expanse of his back to be whipped, had to have his hands smacked away form his cock while Suguru cooed about how pretty he was.

How you asked if he liked it that much. If he was a slut for everyone, or just for the pain. If he'd take anything you would give him -

He's chomping at the bit. Ball gag. His mouth isn't full enough. He wants to taste you.

Satoru's back is burning by the time you shove him onto the floor.

"Unbind me," Suguru had ground out, "I'm so hard - fuck, I want to take him now."

"Too fucking bad. I'm busy -"

"You looks so good all red and whipped, baby." Suguru interrupts, ignoring you completely, "Like you were born for it. Look at me. Look at me."

And Satoru did, making eye contact over his shoulder, past you -

Yeah, Satoru thinks. That's how he got here.

On his still-stinging back beneath you, shirt off, watching you straddle him in all your furious glory.

Knife in your hand. His chest bared as you seethe.

He tries not to pant so hard - it's tough, you're rubbing right up against his dick and this is about the hardest he's been in his life.

"You really are a fucking slut," You say, words dripping over him with your hateful gaze, burning like acid.

Every inch of his is aflame. It's agonizing, it's euphoric - it's like your anger is a part of him. Surging in his veins.

Blade pressed to his skin. Sharp. Beautiful.

You are beauty incarnate, in his eyes. Satoru knows he's never seen anything as beautiful as you are right now.

"Worthless fucking whore, doing whatever you're told," You spit, "Letting your body get carved up for porn. Is this all you're good for, Gojo?"

He blinks, eyes wet. Don't call him that. You can't call him that! Not now!

Satoru knows it. By the touch of your knife on his skin and the touch of your eyes on the knife. Your entire world is narrowed down to this moment where he's letting you do anything to him.

He's so good for you, so still. Looking up at you with his big, beautiful sparking eyes.

All lean muscle and power and strength just lying under you and taking it.

Sure you call him a whore, you must be jealous over Suguru, but he knows you can tell. Just by how he looks at you.

Laying beneath you all docile, stronger than you and delighted to take a knife to the chest from your hands. This is love, you must know love when you see it.

And he feels it, moving, lines drawing over his chest.

Your name. Your NAME.

He feels it, in his chest, literally every stroke of the knife splitting through his skin.

Satoru's eyes tear up, pain and pleasure white-hot and pulsing towards his dick. It's throbbing, desperate.

All he can do is whimper, whine. This is why he was gagged, because even through it, he's chanting.

Fuck, fuck. You're carving your name onto him. Onto his chest, onto his heart.

He fucking feels it, he feels you leaving this mark on him, this mark that can only mean you, he's yours, he's all yours and he always will be.

Looking up at you. Your eyes, feverish, frenzied. Full of him.

Hands bloodied as you guide the knife.

Oh, he tries not to pant. He wouldn't want to mess up your work. He tries not to buck up into you, but it's a lost cause, like his cock has a mind of its own. Like it knows where its home is now.

Skin splitting, blood pooling over his chest. Over his heart.

He feels it leaping out to you. Like it'll flutter right out of his chest.

You want it. You want it so fucking bad, he can see it in your eyes.

His arms itch to take the knife from you. Satoru cries into the gag, fruitlessly, because don't you understand?

Can't you see? He'll cut it out and give it to you, it's all yours!

You can have it!

The words pour out of his eyes, like he can tell you, like you'll understand if only he looks at you long enough.

You have to understand. Of course you do. You're his whole world right now, and he's yours, he can feel it.

Satoru knows it like he knows that satisfaction in your eyes.

You lick the blade clean. It has his dick drooling.

yours. yours yours i'm yours, i've been yours, baby, look at me. you see it. you see how good it feels for me, being yours?

i love it. love you.

Feels like his heart is leaking out of his mouth. Every word he can't say. Useless, dribbling, skin-warm and wasted.

Tears streaking down his face. And he meets your eyes and you can see, he's sure, you can see it -

"Satoru," you choke out, cracking like his name has carved your throat like you've carved his chest. Shifting against him.

Oh, fuck.

Heat bursts in his lower half. Yeah... yeah, he just came from that.

Sucking in air desperately though his nose. Blinking away tears in his eyes. His face is a sticky, wet mess. Abs coated in his own cum.

Ruined beneath you. And you look enraptured.

Fuck. Fucking hell. It's the greatest moment of his life.

He spares a flick of his gaze to Suguru, poor Suguru, all alone on the corner watching.

And it's so easy just to tell him with his eyes. They know each other that well.

This could be you down here. This could be her under you, for all you know she'd let you. You're so fucking determined not to say you want it that you handed this to me.

Some things about Suguru, he really doesn't get.

Oh, well. Finders keepers.

Her name is on my chest forever, now. No matter what she does with you, she'll always have done this with me, first.

You have it. You have what you wanted, now. Finally.

Satoru is underneath you. Suguru is in the corner, fucking watching. Like he's been making you watch your crushes fuck for months on end.

Your handwriting has never been as beautiful as it is on Satoru's pale, perfect skin.

Now it's split by the letters of your name. You don't even feel bad.

He wanted it. Leaned into every inch of the cut.

Those beautiful blue eyes. Looking at you, you, you.

His gorgeous chest red with your name and he's completely transfixed, Finally it's just you, his attention is all on you -

The flick to the corner and you know instantly. Suguru.

It's always him. You can't even have Satoru to yourself for five minutes, and you can't even blame him for it.

Not when you want Suguru, too.

(but you can't have him. you can't have anything you want, not really, can you?)

Your hands are shaking. You don't even notice it. Adrenaline pours through you. Flight or fight.

You look at Satoru's chest. It's really only barely bloodied.

The knife is warm in your hand. It was so easy.

Cut him deeper. Cut him open.

You want to cut his fucking heart out and take it in your hands. Rip up that pretty face. Put out those beautiful gemstone eyes for straying.

Ruin everything you love about him. No one will want him then. Suguru won't want him.

(can you have him then?)

The edge of the knife is against his throat and you're ready to just slide it across his neck -

and -

Satoru is looking up at you again.

(cut him. cut his throat. kill him now. fucking whore, how could he -)

Wide blue eyes sparkling with untamed affection. Lovesick. Adoring.

(it's not for you. this isn't yours and never will be.)

His mouth is gagged but his face just lights up when he sees you, all bright and eager and -

(you love him. you love him so fucking much.)

Suguru calls your name and your heart is burning again -

(you love him. it hurts.)

The knife falls, unbloodied, from your hands.

You get up.

You walk away.

1K notes · View notes

yandere-daydreams · 5 months ago

Text

tw - non/con, kidnapping, LOTS of non-consensual touching, threats of violence, implied public sex, and unbalanced power dynamics.

Geto Suguru is a surprisingly tactile man.

You wouldn't expect it from a man so cold, so withdrawn, so prone to keeping his hands tucked in his sleeves away from any filthy, undeserving lesser beings like yourself, but it's not hard to spot once you know what you're looking for. When his girls were young enough to put up with it, he always had at least one, if not both of them in his arms, and his preferred form of greeting towards those in his select, but not exclusive inner circle has always been a hug, kiss, or some combination of both. Even when he claims he can't stand to look at you, when he orders you to bathe in scalding-hot water before admitting you so much as might be worth of his affections, he never lasts more than a few minutes before slipping in beside you with excuses of 'you're not thorough enough' or 'I can't even trust you to do this correctly' ready on his tongue. It might be sweet, if it wasn't so controlling. You're not really in a place to complain, though.

He likes keeping you close. For someone he claims is nothing more than a pest, he treats you akin to a lapdog; constantly calling your name, constantly petting through your hair, constantly keeping you pressed against his side or slotted against his chest or perched on his lap, an arm as thick as your leg wrapped around your waist to better snuff out your attempts to squirm. Any attempts to withdraw before he allows you to are met with punishments of the most severe order. You don't like being at his beck and call, having to sit through his depraved sermons for the sole reason that he doesn't trust you to leave his sight, but it's better than being shackled to his bedpost for another four weeks. You can be a lapdog, so long as you aren't a collared one.

Even the politest touch he offers you is unspeakable invasive. You're not sure how he manages to turn something as simple and as shallow as grazing you're lower back into yet another show of his authority over you. Part of it just might be the whole 'genocidal cult leader' shtick (it's hard not to find someone a little creepy after they've abducted, tortured, and traumatized you), but you'd like to think that even if you had entered into his company more willingly, you'd still find his intimacy more than a little off-putting. The worst of it comes at night, when he assumes you're asleep. The way he holds you to his chest, clings to you like a child does a stuffed animal might be cute in another context, but it rarely serves to endear him to you. If anything, it only proves that even unconscious, his greatest pleasure in life is smothering you.

Worst of all, he's handsy. That, in itself, shouldn't be all that surprisingly, but the lecherousness of it, the shameless of it still manages to leave you as disgusted as you are unnerved. It's rare for a full hour to pass in his company without his hand slipping under the collar of the silken kimono's he dresses you in and groping at your best until he's left indents in the shape of his blunt nails. Other times, his fingers will find their way underneath your skirts or into the waistband of your shorts while he's preoccupied with another matter, splitting you open on his fingers with all the attention one might pay to tying their shoes or brushing their hair. If you're lucky, he'll choose a private moments, one where you'll be forced to fall apart for his entertainment alone, tucked safely away from the prying eyes of his co-conspirators and congregation.

You don't get lucky very often.

Sometimes, you think he does it just to be cruel. He does most things to be cruel, and this would be far from the only way he's cruel to you, in particular. But, when drapes himself over you at night, when he drags you so suffocatingly close to his side, when he grinds his palm into your most sensitive point of vulnerability and whispers so possessively that you ought to be thankful for each second long he lets you live, it's not cruelty you see in Suguru's dark eyes, but rather something much, much more dangerous.

Desperation.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #geto suguru x reader #yandere geto suguru

1K notes · View notes

slutoru1207 · 3 months ago

Text

Sinister!Mark x reader

TW: Non-consensual behavior (forced kiss, possessive behavior) Psychological manipulation (Sinister Mark’s obsession and controlling tendencies) Cannibalism mentions (if referenced) Violence & murder implications (his goal to kill this universe’s Mark) Stalking/obsession themes (his fixation on the reader) Unhinged behavior (his unstable and psychopathic nature)

The air felt thin. It wasn’t just fear squeezing the breath from your lungs—it was him.

You had barely processed what had happened before you were here, in a place too beautiful to belong to him. A meadow stretched out before you, vibrant and untouched, the kind of place that should’ve been peaceful. But peace didn’t exist when Sinister Mark was near.

His hands rested on your shoulders, a twisted gentleness in his grip. He had flown you here in a blur, no warning, no struggle—just an undeniable force sweeping you away before you could even scream. Now, you were standing in the soft grass, the scent of flowers clashing violently with the coppery tang of him.

Blood. Dried and fresh, clinging to his suit, his skin. He reeked of it.

And yet, his golden eyes were soft as he looked at you, lips twitching into a sick sort of smile. “God, you’re real,” he murmured, almost like he was in awe.

You swallowed hard, willing your voice to be stronger than your shaking body. “Mark—”

His grip tightened instantly, fingers digging into your skin just enough to make you wince. “No,” he snapped, voice sharp before melting into something dangerously sweet. “Not him. Not anymore. That’s not me. Not since I lost you.”

Your heart hammered in your chest. You didn’t dare move.

His eyes flickered, pupils blown wide with something unreadable—something wrong. “You don’t understand what it’s like,” he whispered, leaning in close, his breath warm against your cheek. “Losing you? It broke something in me. I tried to fix it. I tried to fill the hole you left, but nothing worked.” He laughed, soft and breathy, like he was telling some kind of joke only he could hear. “Not even them.”

Them. You didn’t want to ask. You didn’t need to.

His fingers traced along your jaw, slow and possessive. “But now… now I have you again.” His lips curled into a grin that sent ice through your veins. “And I’m never losing you this time.”

Your breath hitched. “Mark, you don’t have to do this—”

“I do,” he interrupted, eyes burning with something wild. “You don’t get it. He took you from me. He gets to have you, to touch you, to love you—” His jaw clenched, fury flashing across his face before twisting into something worse. “And that’s not fair.”

You knew who he meant. Your Mark. The one he was hunting.

Sinister Mark tilted his head, watching the realization sink into you like it delighted him. “Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed, voice syrupy and condescending. “Don’t look so scared. I’m not gonna hurt you.” His smile widened, teeth flashing like a predator playing with its food. “Him, though?*” He exhaled sharply, eyes darkening. “I’m going to rip him apart. I’m going to take everything from him. Just like he did to me.”

Your stomach dropped.

His hands slid down to your arms, firm, controlling. “And then?” He hummed, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, sighing like he had missed the taste of your skin. “Then, we can finally be together again. Just like we were meant to be.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

Sinister Mark leaned back slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes, his own glowing with raw, unhinged devotion. “Aren’t you happy?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

His hands tightened on your arms, his grip firm but deceptively gentle, like he was holding onto something fragile—something he refused to lose again. His golden eyes burned into yours, searching, desperate yet dark with something twisted.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “How many times I’ve dreamed of you, of us.”

Your breath hitched as his hand lifted, fingers tracing over your lips with a kind of careful obsession, like he was memorizing them. “And now you’re here,” he whispered. “Mine again.”

Before you could even think, before you could pull away or say something wrong, his lips crashed against yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. A claim, a possession, a forceful reminder that you belonged to him—at least, in his mind. His fingers curled into your hair, holding you close as he deepened the kiss, drinking in the moment like he’d been starving for it. And maybe he had been. Maybe in his fractured, broken mind, this was the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

Your hands trembled against his chest, the warmth of his body contrasting the ice-cold fear crawling up your spine. His heartbeat was steady—too steady, too controlled for someone as unhinged as him.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath heavy but content. A slow, wicked smile curled on his lips as he exhaled like he had just found peace for the first time in years.

“There,” he murmured, brushing his thumb against your cheek with eerie tenderness. “Now the universe feels right again.”

part 2

#mark grayson x reader #invincible show #invincible fanfic #mark grayson invincible #mark x reader #invincible smut #invincible x reader #sinister mark #invincible season 3 #invincible #invincible fanart #invincible comic

1K notes · View notes

sidemari · 29 days ago

Text

• After Dark •

A NSFW compilation of short texts (not so short) about their kinks. This could also be called "1 character, 1 kink".

Characters included: Childe, Diluc Ragnvindr, Dottore, Kaeya Alberich, Kamisato Ayato, Ningguang, Scaramouche, Wriothesley and Zhongli [separately] x Fem/AFAB/GN!Reader

TW: Aphrodisiacs; BDSM dynamics; bondage; brat taming; breeding kink; consensual non-con; creampie; DD/LG; dirty talk; edging; exhibitionism; fingering; masturbation; oral sex (F/M receiving); overstimulation; praise kink; sub/dom dynamics; vibrators; unprotected sex. Let me know if I missed any.

WC: 10k+ (all of the stories together, of course).

Forgive me for any mistakes, I'm exhausted, and I won't read this giant post over again for the next few weeks, lol.

Childe

Consensual non-con. (Fem!Reader)

You were lying on the sheets, your wrists tied above your head with a bow he had tied himself — tight enough to keep the fantasy alive, but soft enough not to hurt you.

“Look what we have here…” Tartaglia’s voice sounded deep and theatrical, as if he were playing a character. He was looking down at you with a wild glint in his eyes, the crooked smile of someone who was having fun — but with his heart pounding with desire and zeal for you. You squirmed, trying hard to look scared, even though you knew that was exactly what he wanted.

“P-Please… Don’t do this…” You whispered, trembling on purpose, playing the role perfectly.

“You should know that you can’t tease someone like me and still get away with it, princess…” He growled, pulling your legs to the edge of the bed. The way his eyes bored into yours, even when he was playing his role, was still full of adoration. “It’s too late to regret it now.”

The sheets under you were damp with some of the essence that insisted on seeping from you, due to your anticipation. Your nipples were hard beneath the thin fabric of your nightgown, and he noticed every reaction — every little sign that you wanted this as much as he did.

“You’re so wet…” He commented as he slid his fingers between your legs. “You’re begging me with that little body, even though you’re saying ‘no’ with your mouth.” He leaned in and whispered against your ear, “But I know your body better than anyone, my love. I know when it’s desperate for me.”

“P-Please, don’t do this to m-me… I’m… so sorry for—” But he didn’t let you finish. He thrust into you hard, in one motion, eliciting a scream from you that was a mix of shock and pleasure. You arched your body, pulling at the sheets, feeling the heat rise like an overwhelming wave.

“Beg me.” He ordered, his voice hoarse with lust. “Tell me you need it. That you can’t live without my cock ravishing your cunt.”

“Ajax, please, use me… Fuck me until I can’t think anymore…” You moaned, your eyes moist, no longer from pretense, but from real, deep pleasure. His hips moved with rhythm and strength, your name escaping between his lips. The act had already given way to surrender — the game was exciting, but what made it all intense was the trust between you.

He leaned in, his red hair wet with sweat, his eyes fixed on yours.

“Is everything okay?” He asked softly, breaking character for a moment, just to be sure.

You nodded with a lascivious smile. “I can still take much more, love…”

And he provided that to you, until your legs were trembling, until your eyes watered with pleasure, until your voice broke. And when it was all over, he released you with loving hands, kissing each mark and scratch, wrapping you in his arms as if you were fragile.

“It was perfect.” He whispered. “You’re perfect.”

Diluc Ragnvindr

Bondage. (Fem!Reader)

The flames in the fireplace cast warm shadows over the stone walls of the room. The unmistakable aroma of wine and wood filled the room, and the silence was broken only by the soft crackling of the fire. You sat on the edge of the bed, your heart racing, your eyes attentive to Diluc’s every move as he walked back towards you.

He looked even more imposing under the golden light, his red hair loose over his shoulders and an expression that mixed concentration with restrained desire. In his hands, he held the red satin strips that you had timidly suggested the night before.

“Are you sure about this?” He asked in a low, husky voice, kneeling before you. His hands caressed your thighs gently, reverently, as if preparing the ground for something deeper. “I only want this if you want it too.” You nodded, your face hot, your breath shallow.

“Yes. I do. Just… just take care of me.” A small smile appeared on his lips — a rare, intimate smile that made your chest tighten.

“Always.”

Patiently, Diluc led you to the center of the bed. His kisses came slow, intense, as he took his time to undress you, piece by piece, as if each button and strap were a ritual. When you were naked beneath the fine linen sheets, he pulled away just enough to tie your wrists with the satin, crossing them over your head and securing them firmly to the headboard.

“Let me know if it’s too tight.” He said, caressing the skin of your arms, his dark eyes assessing your expression every second. You felt the knot tighten securely, but it didn’t hurt. It was firm… comforting, even. You trusted him. You always had.

Diluc lay back down beside you, his fingers gliding over the curves of your bound body, his eyes exploring every detail as if he were memorizing the landscape of the woman he loved. He leaned in, kissing your collarbone, your jaw, until your lips parted reflexively.

“You’re so beautiful like this…” He murmured against your skin. “Surrendered, only mine.”

His words made something inside you melt, even more so when his hand went down between your legs and found you already wet, hot and pulsing.

“Already so wet… I’ve barely touched you.” He chuckled softly, a deep, satisfied sound, before pressing his thumb against your clit and making slow, teasing circles. Your hips moved instinctively, but he held them back with his other hand, holding you in place.

“No.” The word was spoken tenderly, but full of command. “I’m the one in control here.”

You bit your lip, arching your back with a restrained moan. Tied up and exposed, each touch felt more intense. Diluc knew that. He knew your body like no one else. His fingers danced between torture and pleasure, making you writhe under the delicate control he masterfully exercised. His breathing was also heavier, his dark eyes fixed on your face, capturing every reaction. He alternated soft caresses with firmer touches, sometimes leaning in to kiss your breasts, sometimes whispering praises in your ear:

“You endure so much for me… so obedient…”

“You’re driving me crazy like this…”

“I need to hear you beg, love.”

You felt yourself getting close. Your body trembled, your muscles contracted, your orgasm building like an inevitable storm. But then, just as the wave began to rise, he stopped. He removed his fingers, went back to kissing your neck, leaving you on the edge — dragging your pleasure with refinement and intention.

“D-Diluc, please…” You whimpered, your eyes watering, your body arching toward him. “Don’t stop…”

“You haven’t reached your limit yet,” He replied quietly, his voice low and husky, his fingertips tracing your abdomen. “I want you to need this. To really beg for me.” You panted, your body too hot and sensitive. Each pause was sweet torture, a flame that burned without consuming — until the desire became something deeper, more urgent. And then, when you finally moaned his name, begging without pride or shame, he smiled.

“Good girl.” He positioned himself between your legs, kissing you hungrily, his entire body pressing against yours. The heat of his skin, his weight, the firmness with which he held your hips — everything about him was absolute. When he finally entered you, slow, deep, your body cried out in relief. It was as if everything fell into place — as if the universe were spinning on its axis again. He groaned softly, his lips against your neck, his hips moving with a rhythm that was torturous, but felt so good.

“You’re perfect. So tight… You take me so well…” His voice was hoarse from pleasure. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this… about you, trapped, moaning my name…”

The restraints kept you from touching him, but that only made everything more intense. You felt vulnerable and adored at the same time. His thrusts became harder, but the bed creaked in protest as he lost himself in you.

“Look at me.” He pulled your face with one hand. “I want to see your eyes when you come for me.” And you obeyed. There was no other choice, no other destiny, no other name to say but his as your body shattered with pleasure — the orgasm ripping through every inch of you hot, overwhelming. Diluc continued for a few more seconds, until he spilled himself inside you, trembling, his face hidden in your neck.

When your breathing returned to normal, he carefully untied your wrists, kissing every red mark left by the satin. His fingers caressed your arms, your hair, your waist.

“You were wonderful,” He murmured, pulling you to his chest. “Thank you for trusting me.” You smiled, tired, satisfied, whole. In the flames dancing in the fireplace, everything seemed safe. Everything was love.

Aphrodisiacs. (Fem!Reader)

You were sitting on the couch in Diluc’s private library, wrapped in a light robe, your body still tingling from the wine he had brought. But it wasn’t just any wine. It tasted exotic, sweet and spicy — with something that made you feel warm from the first sip.

Your heart beated faster, your skin felt more sensitive, and every glance Diluc made in your direction made your breath falter. He was there, standing in front of the bookshelf, watching you with those intense red eyes, like embers about to catch fire. There was a small smile on the corner of his lips — a smile that betrayed that he knew exactly what he had done.

“This wine…” You began, your voice lower than you expected. “There’s something more to it, isn’t there?” Diluc approached slowly, his hands in his jacket pockets, his eyes fixed on yours.

“It’s a special batch. Made from a rare variety of fruits grown in the fertile soil of Sumeru. Some say it… stimulates the senses.” He stopped in front of you, leaning down just enough to touch your chin with two fingers. “Do you feel it?”

You nodded, your lips parted, the heat growing in your lower belly like a fire slowly spreading. He gently removed the robe from your shoulders, exposing your skin to the warm air of the room.

“You look so beautiful like this… all flushed, breathless…” He knelt between your legs, his fingers sliding up your bare thigh. “Sensitive.” His lips brushed against your skin, each kiss sending electric waves to the core of your body. It was as if each touch of his tripled in intensity. The wine, or whatever it was, made your body beg for more — made you writhe under the softest caresses, yearning for something that had yet to come.

He pulled your legs up to his shoulders with ease and buried his face between your thighs, his hot tongue sliding inside you with precision, firmness, and calculated pleasure. It was almost cruel, the way he used his mouth — as if he studied your reaction to every movement. You moaned, your hands going to his hair out of reflex, but he held them with one of his large hands, keeping you in place.

“Stay still,” He murmured against your skin. “Let me take care of you.”

And you tried. But it was impossible not to writhe, not to moan, not to beg. The heat was too much. Your body throbbed, hungry, desperate for release. And when you were finally on the edge, arching your back and gripping the seat under you, Diluc stopped. His red eyes rose to yours, hungry, and a little cruel.

He stripped off his own clothes, revealing the strength contained beneath his formal attire, his muscles defined in the firelight. When he lay down on top of you, the heat of your two bodies met like a spark in gunpowder. He entered you slowly, filling you completely, and you both gasped in unison.

“You’re… tight,” he whispered through his teeth. “Like you’ve been waiting for me for days.” His movements began slowly, deeply, and you felt every inch of him as if it were the first time. The aphrodisiac made your body vibrate, your skin tingle, your senses plunge into a pleasurable torpor. It was impossible to control your moans, the way your body trembled beneath him, the way your hips sought more. Diluc bent down, kissing your neck, your shoulder, biting carefully.

“Are you this sensitive because of me? Because I filled you with that wine, knowing what I would do to you later?” The answer escaped like a sob of pleasure.

“Yes…” He increased his pace, his movements more intense, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the muffled room. His hands held your waist firmly, keeping you in place as your body was taken deeper, faster, harder.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your mouth. “Only mine. I want you like this… writhing in pleasure, calling my name, begging for more.” You couldn’t think, speak or breathe properly. The pleasure came like violent waves, and when it arrived, it was overwhelming. Your body arched, your eyes rolled back, your moans were lost in Diluc’s mouth as he also spilled himself inside you, with a low, hoarse grunt, full of pleasure.

He stayed there for a while, still on top of you, kissing your forehead and stroking your hair. Then, he pulled you to his chest, covering the two of you with a blanket.

“Next time,” He said with a satisfied smile, “I’ll use a smaller dose. Or maybe not.”

Overstimulation. (Fem!Reader)

The night had started slowly. Calm kisses, hands exploring patiently, and tender whispers exchanged under the soft light that entered through the mansion’s windows. Diluc was always meticulous with everything he did, and with you it was no different. He made love like someone who appreciates a rare wine — slowly, savoring your every reaction, every sigh.

But that night, there was something more. A glint in his eyes, something hungry, that made your entire body react even before the first most intimate touch. He wanted more — and he wanted you to feel more.

Your eyes met his for a moment, and all you could do was nod, already feeling the heat begin to pulse in your belly. Diluc smiled — not that gentle smile of his usual, but a slower one, full of dangerous promises.

The sheets were rumpled beneath you, your hair spread across the pillow as he settled himself between your legs again. You had already gotten there — not once, but twice. Your body was trembling, sensitive, a little fragile under the touch of his hands… but still hungry.

“Look how wet you still are for me,” He whispered, sliding two fingers inside you, slowly, almost reverently. You gasped, your body reacting with small spasms, as if you were on edge — and you were.

“Diluc…” Your voice was broken, pleading, but he just smiled and lay back down between your thighs. The first touches of his tongue were almost unbearable. Your skin reacted with small tremors, the pleasure coming fast, too aggressive, as if every nerve was screaming with the accumulated intensity. You tried to close your legs, instinctively, but he held them firmly.

“Don’t run away now, my dear,” He said in an almost serious tone, looking at you with his red eyes burning with desire. “You can handle it. I know you can.”

And he went back to licking, slow and deep, exploring you with the precision that only he had. His hands held your thighs open, pinning you to the bed as if he wouldn’t let you escape for even a second. Your head threw back on the pillow, moans escaping loudly, uninhibited, because you could no longer control anything.

It was too much. Everything was too much. His mouth, the heat, the perfect and cruel rhythm, the feeling of being consumed entirely. Your entire body trembled, and when the orgasm arrived — a third, overwhelming one — he didn’t even give you time to breathe.

“Diluc, please… I… I can’t take it…” You whimpered, almost sobbing, your body contracting as if you were running away and searching for more at the same time.

“Of course you can,” He murmured, his fingers now replacing his mouth. Two firm fingers, thrusting in and out of you at a torturous pace, while his other hand caressed your clit with soft, rhythmic circular strokes. “You’re so good for me… you always give me everything.”

You whimpered fearlessly, shamelessly — your moans mixing with disjointed words, your eyes watering. Each wave of pleasure was more intense than the last, each one stealing a piece of your air, your strength. And yet… you didn’t want him to stop.

Diluc was visibly aroused by your surrender. His eyes were glued to your body, to the way you trembled and moaned and begged. He climbed on top of you, pressing your body against his, and aligned himself with your entrance again — hot, hard, hungry.

“One more,” He whispered against your mouth, his lips crashing to yours in a searing kiss. “Just one more for me, love…” And when he entered you, everything went blank for a second. Your body, which already seemed about to collapse. He moved with force, with need, each thrust deep and accurate. The sound of your bodies colliding filled the room, his moans mixing with yours as he held your face, his eyes fixed on yours.

Your entire body exploded in pleasure once more, with such intensity that tears escaped your eyes. You moaned loudly, your whole body arching, your hands gripping the sheets as if you were going to come undone.

Diluc hugged you tightly, burying his face in your neck when he came too, with a hoarse moan. His body shuddered against yours, and then everything was quiet for a moment — just your hearts beating fast, your breathless, sweaty, and exhausted.

He kissed your forehead gently, running his fingers through your heat-soaked hair.

You smiled against his chest, your body still trembling, but completely sated.

Dottore

Sleepy sex. (Fem!Reader)

The lab finally fell silent. Vials still pulsed with faint blue glows, remnants of some unstable mixture he had decided to leave for the next day. For the first time in hours — maybe days — Dottore was without his mask and his impenetrable posture. Just a man with heavy eyes and slow breathing, slumped on the couch in the next room, his shirt half open and his hair still a little messy from the last time he ran his hands through it.

You approach him silently. He knows it’s you even before he opens his eyes, and he murmurs something hoarse, low, almost swallowed by fatigue.

“You should be sleeping…” But his arms open anyway, as if his body were defying its own order.

When you lie down next to him, he immediately pulls you onto his lap, burying his face in your neck as if he were trying to hide from the world. There’s something curious there — he seems more fragile than you’re used to seeing. The defenses that always make him so hard to read were now slowly melting away in the heat of your skin.

“You calm me down.” He confesses softly, between warm kisses on your shoulder. His voice is still slurred, half-sleepy, but the desire… that was already starting to boil beneath the surface. His hands slide down your thighs more slowly than usual, as if he were too lazy to let go of his control — but also without the slightest desire to resist you. Each touch of his is a little more needy than technical. You see him without any armor, and yet so sure of himself, even tired.

Your lips meet slowly. It’s a lazy, slurred kiss… but full of that typical Dottore intensity. He murmurs against your mouth:

“Do you want this now?” And when you respond with a whispered yes, he sighs as if he already knows. “Of course you do. You always know how to make me weak…”

The excitement grows between kisses and touches exchanged in silence, almost respecting the tiredness that weighs on both bodies. Still, there is something delicious in losing yourself like this — in bodies intertwined without haste, in moans muffled by the pillow, in panting breaths that mix.

Dottore’s surrendered more than ever. With half-open eyes, he observes your every reaction, even as he moans softly as he feels you mount him with the calm of someone who knows all the shortcuts to your pleasure. His hands hold your hips, sometimes tightly, sometimes just caressing you with his fingertips, as if he wanted to prolong that moment as much as possible.

You move your hips slowly, feeling every inch of him, feeling how his body trembles beneath yours.

“You’re driving me crazy…” He says, his voice deep and broken.

“Then go crazy with me.” You reply. And he does exactly that.

There, between the rumpled sheets and the drowsy smell of experiments and desire, Dottore lets himself go. Cumming with you on top of him is almost cathartic, as if his own body were thanking you for letting him come undone like that — tired, vulnerable, but satisfied.

Then, he keeps you there, lying on his chest, fingers drawing circles on your spine. The drowsiness is now real, deep… but in the midst of the torpor, he still says with an almost choked voice:

“You are the only experiment I never want to end.”

Kaeya Alberich

You being on top. (Fem!Reader)

He loves to tease. You know that. Just look at him, with that crooked smile and his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. But behind the sharp words and calculated charm, there is something else — something that only you know.

It is the Kaeya who moans softly when you hold his chin firmly and tell him to stay still and obey. It is the Kaeya who shudders when you push him against the bed and ride him at your own pace, making sure to control every moan, every sigh, every tremor of his body.

“Are you that sensitive already?” You ask, feigning innocence as you move over him, slowly burying his cock deep inside you, staying there for a few seconds, grinding your hips against his, before starting the movements all again. He bites his lip, his eyes moist with pleasure — that pleasure that burns in his chest, that almost hurts because it feels so good.

“You’re going to kill me, love… I can’t take it—”

“Yes, you will. You’ll take it because I want you to.” And he obeys. Always.

He loves seeing you on top — literally and emotionally. He loves when you hold his wrists against the mattress and straddle him with a sweet, dangerous smile on your lips. He loves feeling his entire body begging for release, while you deny it, only to see him begging for more.

“Touch me… Please, just a little—” His voice breaks, choking, and he turns his face away, ashamed of his own weakness. But you hold his chin, forcing him to look you in the eyes. “Or else… At least let me touch you…” His hands struggle against yours, winning and lifting one of them to touch your breast, squeezing it devotedly. You pull his hand away, preventing him from touching your body under the threat that you wouldn’t let him cum if he did.

“Look how beautiful you are like this… Whimpering and almost crying just because I’m giving you pleasure in my own way.” The moan that escapes him is almost a sob. A muffled sound, drenched in emotion and desire. You don't need to do anything else — just exist, and he's already surrendered.

“Can I?” He bit his lip, trying to hold your hips only to have you slap his hands away.

“Can you what? Use your words, Alberich.” Heavens, iit was so good to see him like this, escaping his dominant and sharp personality.

“C-Can I cum? I'm so close, p-please…” Your movements became faster and your own hands guided his so that one of them stimulated your clit while the other squeezed one of your breasts, teasing your nipple every now and then. That was your way of saying — without words — that he could cum. And he did, becoming a whimpering mess under you.

“Remind me to tease you more often if you're going to treat me like this.” He murmured, before pulling you off of him so that you two could switch positions. “Now I need some revenge, right?”

Bondage. (Fem!Reader)

You were there, your wrists tied above your head, your back against the mattress, your body exposed and heated by his voice. Kaeya was an expert at seduction, but with you… he sometimes left a little teasing aside, just to show how much he knew what he was doing.

“Don’t worry, love,” He whispered, adjusting the tie on your wrists with surprising care. “If you want me to stop, just say so. But something tells me you won’t.”

The fabric he used to restrain you was soft, allowing it to be firm enough to impede most of your movements. His kisses spread like slow fire — down your neck, against your collarbone, across the curve of your breasts. Your eyes returned to his for a second, and Kaeya gave you that mischievous and affectionate smile, his fingers sliding between your legs, teasing you just enough to make you gasp.

“Look at you… You’re already so ready, and I barely touched you.” His fingers penetrated your folds, curving to reach your g-spot with ease and mastery. It was almost as if he had memorized your body: every curve, every sensitive spot. Teasing was a game he mastered.

Then he bent down and devoured you with his mouth while his fingers didn't stop their movements. His tongue lapped at you with a precision that made you writhe, tied up, completely helpless in the face of the pleasure he administered with dedication.

"Stay still for me, darling," He murmured against your sex, his dark blue eyes fixed on yours. "Let me take care of everything." And you let him.

The world was reduced to his hands, his mouth, the weight of his body on yours. He made you ask — not beg, because he knew the difference. He wanted to see you surrendered, but with pride, surrendered to him because you trusted him, not because you were forced. And that made him crazy with desire.

When he finally entered you, your moans mingled with his, muffled by deep kisses. The thrusts were firm, constant, followed by sweet and dirty words in equal measure.

"Just like that… You're mine, all mine. I'm going to remind you of that every time you cum around me." And you both came, strong and overwhelming, the waves of pleasure washing over your bodies. He released you afterwards, with gentle hands, worried eyes, covering you with kisses and caresses.

"Did I tie you up too tightly?" He asked, caressing your cheek affectionately.

"No, I like it when you do that." You kissed the corner of his mouth. "Can we go again?"

"Always."

Aphrodisiacs. (Fem!Reader)

You didn’t know exactly what he had put in that wine — but you knew he wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want. Kaeya was a tease, but he loved you. He loved the way you trusted him even when your eyes were clouded with desire, even when your body trembled for more.

“Just a touch of something special,” He whispered against your lips, holding the glass that was still between his fingers. “Something to... ignite what’s already burning.”

The drink tasted sweet, almost fruity, but the effect was immediate: your skin tingled, every heartbeat seemed to echo between your legs, and Kaeya’s presence, with his scent, his smile, and his cool fingers against your warm skin, became unbearably addictive.

He noticed the effect, of course he did. He sat behind you, pulling you onto his lap calmly, his chest against your back, his hands traveling over your body, mapping it with care and intention.

“It’s hot, hm? It’s the aphrodisiac... But it’s also me.” He chuckled softly, kissing the side of your neck. “Your body knows who it wants.”

You moaned softly when his hands reached your breasts, squeezing them gently, his thumbs playing with your nipples through your thin clothing. Your hips moved unintentionally, seeking friction, relief — and Kaeya guided you with pleasure.

“You’re sensitive... So beautiful like this. I could make you cum with a touch.”

He laid you down with all the care in the world, removing each piece of clothing with lingering kisses. His fingers stimulated your sex just enough to make you shiver, and he smiled, fascinated by the intensity of your reaction.

The aphrodisiac pulsed in your blood like fire, and Kaeya enjoyed every second — with patience, with precision, with desire. His touch was the final dose: you came with just his fingers and tongue, your entire body arching in response.

“That’s it...” He whispered, between kisses on your belly, moving up to your lips. “I want to make you come like this again and again.” And he really did.

With his body pressed against yours, his eyes fixed on yours, Kaeya penetrated you slowly, moaning with the pleasure of being inside you — and feeling how hot, tight, desperate you were. You scratched his back, and he moaned back, asking for more.

“It’s my fault,” He murmured with a dirty smile. “I left you like this... and now I’m going to fix it.”

Overstimulation. (Fem!Reader)

He had already made you cum once. Then twice. And now your body felt like it was about to collapse under his every new touch.

“Kaeya… P-Please…” You moaned, your voice broken by the excess of pleasure, by the tremors that ran through your open legs, still exposed to him.

But he didn’t stop.

His tongue moved slowly over your clit, as if savoring your every reaction, every involuntary spasm, every breathless sob that escaped your lips.

“You can still take more, can’t you?” He asked in a low voice, his lips wet with your essence, his eyes half-closed and hungry. “Your body is begging me even if your mouth says otherwise.”

You tried to close your legs, but his arms were firm, keeping them apart. Kaeya was gentle, but determined. The pleasure was already unbearable — and yet, you wanted more.

“You look so beautiful when you crumble like that,” He whispered, before lapping at you again more firmly, his fingers sliding inside you with ease, curling at the exact spot that made you gasp. Your back arched once more, the orgasm ripping through your body with force. He felt it and smiled, because he knew there was more to come.

“How many times can I make you cum before you pass out in my arms?” He murmured against your skin, kissing your inner thigh, his fingers still inside you, moving slowly, as if he was testing the limits of your sensitivity.

You whimpered, struggling weakly, your body already too sensitive, your clit throbbing, your mind clouded by so much pleasure.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” He whispered, moving up to your lips and kissing you tenderly. “You’re doing so well...” Kaeya entered you slowly, feeling how you trembled, how your body pulsed around him, completely surrendered. He moaned against your mouth, pleasure consuming him too.

“Let me take you to the edge… Just one more time.” He asked, his voice choking with desire and affection. “I’ll take care of you later, I promise.”

And you let him. Because there, even in the midst of the chaos of absolute pleasure, Kaeya was your safe haven — even when he made you forget your own name with yet another orgasm that made you see stars.

Kamisato Ayato

Bondage. (Fem!Reader)

You had lost count of how many times Ayato had told you that he loved seeing you surrendered to him. But there was something in the way he said it — with that serene smile, his clear eyes fixed on yours — that made everything inside you warm. With him, even submission was wrapped in elegance and reverence. And that night, the touch of the silk tying your wrists only confirmed that.

The softness of the sheets contrasted with the gentle tension of the ribbons that held your arms above your head, firmly on the back of the bed. Your legs, equally spread and immobilized with delicacy, made you feel vulnerable... and deeply desired.

Ayato was kneeling between your legs, impeccable even in that intimate moment. No part of him seemed out of control — everything was calculated, refined, even the way he ran his fingers through the ties to check if they were tight enough without hurting your skin.

“You trust me, don’t you?” He asked softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead, then your lips sweetly.

“Of course I do.” You replied, your voice trembling with anticipation.

“Good girl.” He whispered with a crooked smile that made your stomach turn. “Then let me guide you tonight.” His hands were as gentle as they were firm. He began exploring your skin with light touches, trailing his fingers along the curves of your body, slowly moving downward. He kissed each spot patiently, with a silent adoration that made your skin shiver from head to toe. And then he stopped, observing your bound body as if it were the most precious of works of art.

“You look so beautiful like this... exposed just for me.” He said in a low tone, almost like a prayer. “Every sigh you take, every shiver... it’s all mine.”

You gasped as you felt the tip of his tongue slide down your belly, rising to the base of your breasts, where he stopped to nibble lightly. The restraints made it impossible for you to try to squirm, and that only made each touch intensify. You were surrendered, and he knew it.

Ayato brought his fingers to your intimacy, touching slowly, exploratively. Your hips moved, an involuntary reaction to the growing pleasure, but he held you firmly.

And with that, he bent down, his tongue taking the place of his fingers. Ayato’s tongue was a precision weapon. He knew exactly where to lick, where to suck, when to speed up and when to stop just to watch you writhe, begging for more.

The tension of the tapes on your wrists made each sensation even more vivid. Your senses were heightened, your body reacting to each stimulus as if it were the first. Your moans became pleas, and when the first orgasm came, you practically cried out in pleasure, trembling under his touch.

He climbed up your body, his chest pressed against yours, his eyes staring into yours with a glow that was both hungry and calm at the same time.

"You're not done yet," He whispered, his lips almost touching yours. "Not until I say so."

And then he positioned himself and penetrated you slowly, with an almost cruel slowness. You were so sensitive that the simple act of feeling him inside you drew a loud moan. He moved firmly, controlling each thrust, watching every expression on your face, as if memorizing every nuance of yours.

The silk ribbons held your arms in place, and that only intensified everything. You couldn't touch him, couldn't pull him closer, only feel — and obey.

“You’re mine.” He whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “So obedient, so perfect for me…” The climax came again, even stronger, making your vision blur for seconds. Your entire body trembled, sweat stuck the strands of hair to your forehead, and all you could do was call his name, as if it were all that mattered in the world.

And when he finally came undone on top of you, with a low, satisfied groan, Ayato wrapped his arms around you, whispering praises, loosening each bond with affection. His kisses were now tender, and he murmured between one touch and another:

“You were wonderful... as always.”

Aphrodisiacs. (Fem!Reader)

The evening began with a treat. Ayato appeared with a small, ornate wooden box adorned with the Yashiro Commission seal and a delicate silver-blue bow. He handed it to you with a restrained smile, but his eyes — always so serene — gleamed with something more mischievous.

“A special Sumeru delicacy.” He explained, sitting down next to you. “Sweets made from the nectar of a flower called the Nilotpala Lotus. They are known for their… stimulating properties.” You looked at him with a mix of curiosity and amused trepidation.

“Stimulating how?” Ayato smiled, taking one of the small candies with graceful fingers and bringing it to your mouth.

“Why don’t you try it and find out?” Your distrust didn’t last long. You always trusted him — and besides, the scent emanating from the little box was sweet, delicate, and enveloping, like jasmine with a hint of honey. When you bit into the first sweet, a warm wave ran through your body. It wasn’t just the taste — melting on your tongue like silk — but the sensation that was slowly spreading through your limbs. Heat. Sensitivity. A silent awakening in every spot of your skin. Ayato watched, enchanted by every expression that took over your face.

“It’s starting to take effect, isn’t it?”

You nodded, taking a deep breath.

“It’s like… my body is more alive.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

He moved closer, his fingers gliding along your bare thigh with reverence. The contact made you hold your breath — a simple touch sending shivers that seemed to run down your spine. Ayato smiled with silent pleasure, as if appreciating the fruits of a carefully laid plan.

“You’re so sensitive… so receptive.” His lips touched your collarbone, then your neck. “Every part of you is begging for attention.”

Gently, he laid you down on the sheets, pulling the fabric of your robe with slowness. The cool air against your exposed skin contrasted with the heat building inside. Ayato took his time — he explored every inch of you with kisses and caresses that set you on fire. He knew your body like no one else and seemed determined to enjoy every second.

When his mouth found the curve between your legs, you gasped. His tongue was patient, meticulous, eliciting reactions heightened by the sweets. It was as if his every touch was magnified tenfold — and you couldn’t escape the sensation.

“Ayato—!” You moaned, your hands gripping the sheets.

“Yes,” He murmured between kisses, “I want you to say my name like that. I need to hear you come undone for me.” His fingers gripped your thigh more firmly, preventing any movement. Each lick was a delicious torture, each pause a subtle punishment. You felt the muscles in your stomach contract, the heat between your legs growing until it became unbearable.

“Please... more...”

“More?” He teased, looking up with that calm smile. “But I’ve barely begun.” When he finally entered you, with the same careful rhythm, your bodies fit together as they always did — perfectly. But now, with the aphrodisiac coursing through your veins, it was all too much. Too intense. Too pleasurable. Each thrust was deep, calculated, and you whimpered in pleasure, completely surrendered to this man who never lost control — except when he wanted to make you lose yours.

“You’re so beautiful like this... all surrendered, all mine.” He whispered against your ear, the sound of his voice like velvet on your skin.

Your orgasms came in waves, shaking your body with force and he was there, steady, attentive, guiding you through it all, as if it were the only thing that mattered in the world. In the end, he held you against his chest, running his fingers through your sweat-dampened hair.

“Maybe we should bring more of those sweets home.” He whispered. “Or maybe… you only react like that to me.”

Overstimulation. (Fem!Reader)

The night was silent inside the Kamisato residence, and the intimacy of Ayato’s room seemed separated from the rest of the world. Candles in thin holders cast soft shadows on the walls, and the light scent of sakura petals invaded the room through the half-open window. You knew him well — every subtle expression, every restrained gesture. And you knew exactly how to make him lose that control.

Ayato lay on his back on the futon, his hair slightly messed up by the silk pillow. The blue yukata he wore was loose, his chest partially exposed, rising and falling with his already irregular breathing.

“Are you comfortable?” You asked, your voice soft as you caressed his abdomen with your fingertips.

“Yes,” He replied, his tone low, almost a whisper. “But you… are playing a dangerous game, my dear.” You smiled, leaning in to kiss his collarbone.

“Maybe I am.” Your fingers slowly moved down, tracing the length of his cock before wrapping your hand around it with precision. The moan that escaped Ayato’s lips was suppressed, but you felt his body shudder.You started slow, almost lazy, and his eyes closed as his hips lifted, seeking more.

Your tongue collected the pre-cum that leaked from the tip of his cock, tasting it before taking his length into your mouth, sucking just the tip before sucking him completely — the head of his cock hitting your throat and making you choke on sinful sounds.

“You’re already so sensitive…” You murmured, watching his skin react, his entire body arch in response.

“You… always know how to disarm me, don’t you?” He said with a crooked smile, trying to maintain his composure even though his toes were already twitching.

The first time he came was quick: he’d been on edge since the very first touch of you — hot spurts of cum hitting your throat, and you drank all of him with need. But you didn’t stop. You continued to stimulate him, now with slower, delicately torturous movements from your hand, that stroked his cock with devotion. Ayato gasped, his neck and back arching.

“Wait… ah! You’re teasing me—”

“I’m taking care of you.” You whispered, caressing the side of his face. “You always take care of everyone and everything. Now it’s your turn to surrender, Ayato.”

The second time came with more difficulty. He groaned your name, his hips shaking as the pleasure coursed through him again, this time more intense, more desperate. His eyes were watering, and you leaned in to kiss away the silent tears that trickled from the corners of his eyes.

“You’re doing so well,” You praised, and he shivered all over at the compliment whispered in his ear. “So beautiful, so obedient.” Ayato smiled, his lips trembling, his cheeks flushed. “You’re cruel, love…” You just laughed softly.

“Cruel? Never. I am devoted. To your pleasure, at least.” And when he reached his third orgasm — shaking, sobbing, completely lost in the touch, in the words, in the suffocating intimacy of that room — you wrapped your arms around him, kissing his forehead tenderly.

“You were perfect,” You whispered, stroking his hair as he caught his breath. Ayato smiled, tired, satisfied.

“I love you.” He murmured against your neck.

“And I love seeing you like this… All mine.”

Ningguang

Exhibitionism. (GN!Reader)

It was night in Liyue, and the high moon was shedding its silvery light over the rooftops of the Jade Chamber, making everything even more luxurious and enchanting. You were there, alone with her, after a long day. Ningguang, as always, maintained her impeccable posture, sitting elegantly on the divan in the center of the hall with large windows, which offered a full view of the city below.

"Close the door." She said, her voice like silk, low and sure. "And stay where you are. Don't come any closer yet."

You obeyed, not understanding at first, but soon your eyes fixed on the way she stood up. The soft light illuminated her contours as she slowly dropped the white robe she was wearing, revealing the scarlet lingerie, convenient, tailored. It was delicate, lacy, with small provocative slits on the sides. She turned to the side, purposefully, knowing exactly how the curve of her waist and hips would steal your attention.

“I spend my days being admired by everyone. Desirous glances, restrained suggestions. But tonight,” She walked to the glass windows and stood there, facing the city, “Only you will see me like this... and only you will be able to touch me... When I allow it.”

The position was daring. Anyone with a well-positioned around that building could, in theory, see that enchanting silhouette through the windows. But Ningguang didn’t seem worried. She was in complete control of the situation — and you knew she wanted it that way.

She glanced over her shoulder, her red lipstick contrasting with her pale skin and her steady gaze.

“You like seeing me like this, don’t you?” You nodded, your breath catching in your throat.

Then, with calculated slowness, she reached for the clasp of her bra and unclasped it, letting the garment slide off her shoulders. Her exposed breasts were exposed under the moonlight, and the view was as mesmerizing as it was forbidden. She didn’t cover anything, showing herself with all the naturalness of someone who controls her own desires — and those of others.

“You’re so quiet…” She teased. “Did the image of me undressing for you in front of all of Liyue leave you speechless?” Her hands then went down her own thighs, until she reached her panties. She didn’t take them off right away. She just moved them a little to the side, revealing just enough to drive you crazy with desire. Her fingers slid there, and an almost silent moan escaped her lips. She touched herself in front of you, slowly, with evident pleasure. “Stay there. And just look. I want you to learn... that my lust is a gift I grant you.”

Little by little, her body began to move more rhythmically, her hips undulating slightly against her hand, her moans becoming more frequent, although muffled by her ladylike composure. She arched her back against the glass, knowing that this accentuated every curve, every tremor, every breath.

You wanted to touch her. You wanted to be part of it, but she hadn’t let you yet. Then she stopped all stimulation abruptly, earning a curious look from you. She turned slowly, her hair fanning out over her bare back as her gaze met yours — steady, warm, with a glow of victory.

“Come.” She said, holding out a hand. “You’ve endured my teasing well. Now you can worship me up close.”

Scaramouche (Wanderer)

BDSM, brat-taming. (AFAB!Reader)

You teased him. You knew exactly what you were doing — every defiant look, every insolent retort, every cheeky smile. You knew Scaramouche wouldn’t let you off the hook. And that was exactly what you wanted.

He sat cross-legged, watching you with feigned boredom and a sharp glint in his eyes. The silence was thick in the room, until he leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, and spoke in a low, harsh voice:

“Say one more word in that tone, and I’ll make you regret every syllable.” You smiled. Sweet, defiant.

“What if I want to be punished?” It was too fast. In the blink of an eye, he was on his feet. You barely had time to step back before you were gently pushed back against the bed, your body restrained firmly. His fingers gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“You don’t want punishment. You want attention. And you’re begging for it in the most childish way possible.” He growled. “But I’ll give you what you want. Only my way.” He tied you up with leather handcuffs attached to the corners of the bed. There was no rush. He made sure to maintain control over every movement, every touch. The straps tightened just right — security and submission. You bit your lip, already feeling the heat building between your legs, and he laughed mockingly.

“Look how you look just being restrained... so easy to read. So predictable.” He leaned down to your ear, his voice a whisper full of promise. “And you love it. You love challenging me just so I can bend you.” Scaramouche then slowly removed his blouse, letting you watch — like a small visual punishment. Without being able to touch, without even being able to brush your fingertips. He came closer again, his eyes sparkling, his fingers tracing your exposed body with a sharp caress.

“You’re going to beg today, you know?” He said, his hand squeezing your thigh firmly. “And I won’t give in until I hear you ask for it. No smiles. No sarcasm. Just you, little brat, surrendering.” You shivered under his touch, feeling his power wrap around you like an invisible chain. And for the first time that night, you were speechless. He smiled. A victorious smile, dark, hungry. “Good, you finally understand who’s in control here.”

Scaramouche pulled away just enough to let you feel the emptiness of his absence. The handcuffs forced you to stay exactly where he wanted you — exposed, vulnerable, irritatingly aware of your own arousal. His gaze slid over you like a cruel caress, and the smile that formed on his lips promised no relief, only torment.

“Did you really think you’d get what you wanted that easily?” He knelt between your legs, his fingertips sliding along the inside of your thigh but never reaching where you needed him most. “Not after all that petulance.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your skin — a touch that was almost chaste, almost pitiful. Almost. You arched your hips, desperate for more, but he pressed his hands against your thighs, keeping you still.

“Tsk.” His tongue ran a lazy path, too hot and too light at the same time. “So sensitive... Already shaking from that? And you think you’re strong.” You moaned softly, trying to press yourself against him, but the chains wouldn’t let you. And he smiled, cruel and calm.

“Not until you ask. Not with the boldness from before. I want your real voice. I want your surrender.” He then brought his hand between your legs, running his fingers over your sex without actually touching. Just the heat of the contact hovering there, making you cry out in frustration. Your body begged, throbbed, but he just watched. “Do you really think you’re going to cum before I let you?” He laughed, soft, contempt slipping through every syllable.

“You have no control here. I’m the one who decides when and if you deserve it.” Then he went down again, with his tongue, his fingers. The pleasure flared like fire. You arched, trembling, almost reaching… And he stopped. Nothing. Cold, suddenly. You gasped, desperate.

“N-no… please, Scara, don’t do this—” He looked at you, and his gaze was pure dominance.

“You’re going to beg for real. You’re going to moan my name and call me master in that sweet little voice. Or you’re going to spend the whole night like this — trembling, wet, and empty.” His finger came back, teasing. Another slow kiss, a warm breath. But it was all superficial. Punishment disguised as affection. And you were already starting to give in. You bit your lip, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. Your entire body ached with need, and yet he hovered there, cruel and serene, as if your suffering was entertainment.

Scaramouche tilted his face, his eyes narrowed in pure delight as he watched you squirm.

“Almost, aren’t you? That cheeky little mouth has lost its power. Where did all that teasing go, hm?”

His fingers slid in again, this time touching exactly where you wanted it most — but only for a second. A warm, lingering touch and then emptiness again. You gasped, sobbing, your hips trying to follow the absent touch.

“P-Please…”

“Please what?” He murmured, with a satisfied smile. You hesitated, pride throbbing in your chest. But it was useless. You were already defeated.

“Master…” The word escaped in a broken voice. “Please, master… let me cum. I need…”

“Ah…” He sighed with pleasure, as if those words were sweeter than any moan. “Now my little brat knows how to behave.”

He returned with his fingers, his mouth, his body — all at once, without mercy. The touches came fast, intense, too skillful to resist. You moaned loudly, feeling the orgasm build up like a colossal wave. The tension made you tremble, the pleasure bordering on unbearable.

“Cum for me. Now.” He ordered, his voice low and hoarse. “Show me who you belong to.” And you broke: your body buckled, the chains rattling with the force of your climax. A hoarse cry escaped your lips, his name lost between sobs and moans. He held you tightly, whispering praise, guiding each spasm of your body.

“Look at you… So beautiful, begging and cumming like this, all mine…” When the tremor passed, you could barely breathe. But his smile said he wasn’t done with you yet. “Now that you’ve learned your lesson… let’s see how many more times you can obey.”

Wriothesley

Breeding kink, praise kink. (Fem!Reader)

There’s something about the way Wriothesley watches you that goes beyond lust. It’s control, care, and such a genuine desire to see you rendition to him — completely vulnerable — that makes it impossible not to surrender to him.

When he praises you, his voice is low, gravelly, almost a whisper as he explores your body with caresses, touches, and kisses. His cock brushes against the folds of your sex, which is crying out to receive him after so much teasing, but penetration doesn’t happen — he continues using the tip of his cock to stimulate your hard, swollen clit, occasionally putting just the tip inside you, but never penetrating you completely. Your sanity was running out. You needed him, you needed him to fill you, stretch you, mark you as his.

“Wriothesley… please!” You moaned in frustration, your hands gripping his biceps, your nails digging into the skin. “Fuck me already.”

“Patience… Didn’t you say you’d be a good girl for me?” His words silenced your desperation — you wanted his approval, his praise — even if it meant your frustration would only grow. You nodded, biting your lip and leaning your head back against the pillow as you felt your orgasm approaching. It was almost strange how just the act of grinding against each other could completely break you. More moans left your lips and he smiled.

“You’re perfect.” He murmured, thrusting into you without warning, reaching the deepest point inside you in seconds. That was enough to make you cum, your walls contracting against his cock, milking him. “Fuck, always so tight… and so warm…” He pulled you into an urgent kiss, his orgasm approaching as well.

“Cum inside me…” You begged against his lips, your nails scratching his back, your body jerking against the sheets with every thrust of his hips. “Please, I’ve been a good girl.”

“You look so beautiful like this, begging for me… Your body knows you belong to me, can you feel it too? It’s begging me to fill you completely, to plant my seed in your womb.”

“I…” You could barely speak, a second orgasm quickly approaching. “I want to feel you stay in me for hours, I want to feel you dripping out of me just so you can fill me up again.”

“So tight, s-so hot…” He bit his lip, his words failing and his eyebrows furrowing, a clear sign that he was about to cum. And he did: hot and deep. Spurt after spurt of his seed invaded your womb, marking you completely as his. “Good girl... My girl. So obedient, so perfect, so… mine.”

Zhongli

Edging, use of vibrators. (Fem!Reader)

The room was calm, silent, as if the world had stopped to watch you both. Zhongli always treated pleasure with reverence, as an art that required patience, study and devotion.

You were lying between the silk sheets, your body already covered in a thin layer of sweat, the sheets messy beneath you. Your legs trembled slightly, and your breathing came in ragged pants. The vibrator in your intimacy vibrated in a soft, continuous rhythm — but never enough.

Zhongli was beside you, on his knees, his golden eyes fixed on each of your reactions. His expression was calm, almost solemn. As if he were praying with his eyes, adoring each sigh that left your lips.

"You're doing so well, darling." He murmured, his voice deep and calm, almost a whisper that touched your core. "So sensitive... so obedient."

The vibrator was lightly pressed against your clitoris, and you gasped, your hips arching reflexively. But, as he had done before, he pulled the toy away before your climax. Again. Once more. You moaned in frustration, almost tearful, feeling your own essence drip down your thighs.

"Zhongli… Please…" Your voice was a raw, trembling plea. He smiled gently, caressing your face with his fingertips, as if you were made of porcelain.

"Patience, my dear. Pleasure must be built, polished… almost like a rare jewel." He slid the vibrator over you again, this time with a light circular motion, unhurriedly. "When I allow it, it will be the kind of pleasure that will completely break you. Isn't that what you want?"

You whimpered in response, feeling every inch of your body tremble under the touch of the toy and his words. The moans came low, almost desperate, your mind clouded between torment and ecstasy. And he watched, mesmerized by how beautiful you were as you lost control for him. And then he finally whispered those words against your ear.

“Come for me…” You knew you were lost — and at the same time, exactly where you wanted to be.

The permission came as a blessing, and you came hard, your body arching in pure bliss. The sounds that escaped your lips were hoarse, beautifully uncontrolled. And Zhongli didn’t look away for a second: he matched every spasm of your body with his firm hands on your thighs, keeping the vibrator gently pressed against your clit even as you shuddered in extreme sensitivity. You gasped, breathless, and yet… yet you wanted more.

“You look so lovely like this.” He murmured, tracing the contour of your belly with his fingertips. “So surrendered… So mine.”

You tried to push the toy away with trembling hands, but he held them easily, his fingers intertwined with yours. His gaze was calm, but there was a spark of raw desire burning behind the gold of his eyes.

“I’m not done with you yet.” And then he turned the vibrator back on — a lower intensity, but focused, insidious, teasing exactly where you were most vulnerable. You let out a sob of pleasure, your body convulsing in immediate response.

“Zhongli… It’s too much, I can’t—”

“Shh…” He leaned down, kissing your lips tenderly. “You can, I know you can. Trust me.”

He knew your body like he knew the stories of every era of Teyvat— deeply, with respect, with adoration. Every pause between moans, every quiver of your muscles, every new limit crossed was memorized by him — memorized with mastery, just like the stories he had once told you.

“You deserve every drop of this pleasure.” He whispered in your ear, as his cock finally replaced the vibrator. “And I will be here to guide you through it.” You whimpered — a beautiful, husky, indecent sound — as your second orgasm came fast, violently, stealing your breath, your strength. But he didn’t stop his thrusts, because Zhongli didn’t love in a hurry. He loved like a god who had all eternity to worship his favorite mortal.

Breeding kink, DD/LG and praise kink. (Fem!Reader)

The candles cast a soft amber light over the room, dancing over the contours of the antique furniture and heavy curtains. Zhongli was meticulous even in his intimate moments — everything around him seemed carefully prepared to make you feel adored. And it worked.

You lay between the silk sheets, your breath held as he knelt between your legs, his golden eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that made your entire body shiver.

He leaned forward, his hands firm on your thighs, spreading heat wherever he touched. “You’re perfect like this, you know that?” His voice was deep, sweet, enveloping like a balm. “So receptive, so mine… Just like the good little girl you are.” His kisses began softly, almost reverently, on your abdomen, then below your navel, until he was inside you again — slowly, deeply, filling you as if each movement meant more than just physical pleasure.

“Zhongli, please…” You whimpered, your hands finding their way to his back.

"You drive me crazy." He murmured against your neck, his thrusts deep and slow, his hips pressed against yours as if he wanted to merge the two of you into one body. "Every time I feel you like this, so hot, so tight... All I can think about is filling you to the last drop." Your moans were interrupted only by the words he whispered in your ear, between kisses and caresses that left your skin on fire.

"I’ve been thinking about fucking a baby into you…" Zhongli brushed his lips against your ear. “Every single day, every now and then, I catch myself thinking about knocking you up, making you round with my child, tying your soul to mine because of our heir…” His thrusts became more rapid, almost violent as he continued his monologue. “Would you like me to do so, my girl?” Your eyes widened — you suspected he had some kind of breeding kink, but having him finally admit it… it made your heart warm up in adoration.

“I’ll happily nurture your heir inside my womb.” You reassured him.

"You deserve to be praised, adored… You deserve to be filled with me, like the good girl you are." You felt him grip your waist, keeping you in place, as if he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t disappear. The pleasure was intense, pulsating — and he knew exactly how to handle every second of it. "Atta girl... Just like that, love, you're taking me so good.”

“Daddy… I’m…” That name slipped from your lips unintentionally, and you felt aroused by it. You had never called him that, even though you fulfilled the role of being his little girl. “I’m so close, please, daddy… Cum inside of me.”

When he finally reached his limit, his moan was muffled against your skin. His orgasm provoked yours: your cunt convulsing around his cock, milking every last drop of his cum out of him, the contractions of your walls helping his seed reach deep inside of you, invading your womb without warning.

The silence that followed the climax was thick and full of meaning. Zhongli didn’t pull away immediately — instead, he remained above you, his body still entwined with yours, his fingers slowly tracing your waist, as if he wanted to memorize every curve again.

Your breathing was irregular, your eyes half closed as you felt the heat of his body mixed with yours. There was still the sensation of his semen inside you, hot and abundant, as he had promised.

The kiss he placed on your forehead was slow, like a seal of care. Zhongli then pulled out of you calmly, carefully observing your reactions, as if any discomfort you felt was a crime he would never forgive himself for committing. He lowered his gaze to where your bodies separated, and the sight made him let out a heavy sigh — satisfied, possessive, enchanted. And even breathless, he still whispered with possessive caress:

“Look at you…” He murmured, his fingers tracing the inside of your thigh, where his cum dripped lazily. “So full of me…”

You moaned softly, shuddering at his touch, and Zhongli smiled. A small smile, but full of tenderness. He rested his forehead on yours, his nose lightly brushing against yours, before murmuring in the softest voice you had ever heard as his fingertips caressed the skin of your lower bell in an instinctive, protective way.

“You make me want a future.” He murmured, kissing the top of your head. “With you. With the two of you.”

978 notes · View notes

snail-day · 2 months ago

Text

Hush Now, Sweet Lamb

Sum: When the spankings won't stop unruly darling lambs, perhaps a lobotomy will.

Yandere! Geto x Reader

WC: 3.9k

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Lobotomy, Body Horror, Non-consensual medical procedure, Gore, Non-con/dub-con, Drool, Vore/Cannibalism (idk he licks the needle), Mental Regression, Death, Unreliable Narrator, ANGST, No happy ending, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. MDNI

a/n: Hugggeee shout out to @pink-cakes-and-treats for hearing me ramble about this for like what seems like months. Thank you for being my buddy and yapping with me about horrific ideas <3

“I love you.” The words managed to scrape from your throat as if broken glass, torn from the depths of you, raw and trembling, drowned beneath sobs that had started as fragile whispers - please don’t do this. Please. But pleading never worked with him. Not anymore. Not now that he believed in something greater than mercy.

I love you.

Three little words, simple on the surface. But words like that, they grow claws in the wrong hands. Those are words that dig deep. They change shape. Once, they meant comfort. Now, they meant surrender.

A slow blink of your eyes, vision awash with salt and candlelight, and tried to look at him clearly.

Geto Suguru.

The man who stood before you cradled your face like a lover - not the monster delivering your demise. Those violet eyes, once soft and bright with life, were now eclipsed by the sermon room’s dim, flickering glow, like stained glass in a cathedral set aflame. Somewhere within those depths, buried beneath devotion and delirium, was a love that hadn’t died. Instead, the love had festered.

You wanted to close your eyes. But even the darkness behind your lids pulsed with memories of him. The boy next door with pink, sun-kissed cheeks and chubby fingers that always curled around yours. The boy who kissed your scraped knees after washing them clumsily with water that was always too cold. Who made a whole ceremony out of applying Doraemon band-aids, pressing the softest kiss on top of the bandage, despite your complaints about cooties.

He used to say, “I’ll protect you.” You had, foolish and small at the time, believed him.

You remembered your mother’s fingers ruffling his inky, silken hair, laughter spilling from her lips like sunshine on a summer's day - He’s so strong, isn’t he? Like a little guardian angel.

But angels don’t whisper in tongues only curses understand.

Angels don’t weave bindings made of curses around the people they claim to love.

Angels don’t press needles into soft, trembling skin and call it mercy.

The curses - grotesque, sinewy things born from nightmares and grief - curdled in the air around you like sour smoke. They slithered closer, tighter, their slick, obsidian tendrils humming with quiet, predatory malice as they coiled around your limbs, your throat, your wrists. They weren’t angry. No. They purred. Like obedient beasts, eager to serve. And their master, well, he wanted you still as a sacrificial lamb. Fitting for his little nickname for you. His little lamb.

Suguru - who had always moved with the effortless grace of a man both adored and feared - looked almost divine in the candlelight. A priest cloaked in ritual and reverence, lit from below like a god born of scripture and shadows. Or perhaps a martyr - beaten holy by his own devotion. His shadow stretched across the altar like a veil of ink, falling over you where you lay: trembling, meek, and bare as birth, reduced to little more than breath and bone.

Not a woman. Not even a body.

Just a vessel. Just a lamb. Who had become soft. Submissive. Shorn of will. A beloved offering, cradled in ritual, smothered in grace. Something holy only to him. You tried to run in your mind as he stepped closer, tried to fold yourself into some memory where he was still safe to love.

You remembered the summer festivals, when fireworks lit the sky and he bought you watermelon-flavored ice you could barely finish. You remembered sitting on his porch, legs kicking in sync, cicadas screaming so loud it almost drowned out the silence between your hearts. You remembered the way he used to almost hold your hand. Always almost. Until he didn’t.

You remembered that day at the train station - he was leaving for that strange religious school. His shoulders had grown broader. His smile softened. “I love you. Stay safe,” you had said, like you knew something was already being lost.

He stared at you through the closing doors, lips parted in surprise. And then his hand rose, maybe to hide a blush. Maybe to keep from reaching out.

You blocked him after that. His messages grew too much. The words were too insistent. Desperate of sorts. You didn’t know why. You only knew your body was warning you, whispering in every nerve: This love will consume you.

And now - here you are. On the altar. Bound and beautiful in his eyes. A sacrament. He still reaches for you with that same tenderness from your childhood; the same hands that once held juice boxes and glow sticks now steadied a needle. The metal glinted as he lifted it gently, reverently. Not like a tool. Like a gift.

Like he was about to free you from something as a chilling smile curled upon his lips. Soft. Adoring in more ways than one. That left an unshakable unease rippling through your skin.

“Don’t cry,” Suguru whispered, brushing a tear from your cheek with the roughened pad of his thumb. “You’ll feel so much better soon. I promise. Then you won’t have to be afraid anymore.”

Your gaze flickered to the ceiling. Candles flickered like stars. The kind you used to wish on together.

It's funny how you used to think monsters lived under the bed. But the real ones? They grow up beside you. They kiss your wounds. They fall in love with you. When they finally snap, they smile as they make you forget everything you ever were.

You didn’t scream, just a shallow gasp. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because screaming no longer belonged to you. Nothing did. Not your voice, not your body, not your memories. Not even your pain.

It all belonged to him now.

The first prick of the needle behind your eye slid in with a sickening certainty - too precise to be mercy, too gentle to be anything but intimate. You felt it bloom inside your skull like a flower made of splinters. It slipped past flesh like it was always meant to find you there. As if your body had been made for this moment. As if your skull had been carved to cradle his madness.

And in that stillness, something warm trickled down your temple.

He wiped it gently with his thumb, kissed the damp skin with trembling lips. “Shhh, my sweet little lamb,” he whispered, low and soft, as if you were a child crying over a scraped knee. “I know. I know it’s frightening. But I promise you - it’s all for your own good.”

His voice trembled not with guilt but with awe. Like he couldn’t believe he was finally holding you like this. Like he was performing communion - your blood, his wine. Your silence, his scripture. You wanted to move. To recoil. To bite. But your limbs were tangled in a lattice of cursed tendrils, slithering just beneath your skin now - stroking you, soothing you, restraining you. They purred when he touched you. They loved you because he did.

You blinked. Or tried to. The world fuzzed, then snapped. The light was far too bright. Or maybe it was inside your head now, blooming behind your eyes like rot disguised as sunrise. He hummed under his breath, some soft, low hymn that no god ever asked for. And you thought or at least did your best:

This is the boy I loved. The one who carried your schoolbag when it rained. Who tucked tissue in his sleeve just in case your nose ran in the cold. The boy who picked you flowers with dirty hands and whispered, One day, I’ll marry you.

You remembered the shape of his laugh. The way his cheeks would puff when he was sulking. How he used to stand too close, hoping you’d notice. You remembered the way his hands used to shake the first time they touched yours.

They weren’t shaking now.

His hands were steady as death as he adjusted the needle, guiding it deeper with the devotion of a priest performing holy rites. You felt it slip - inside.

Your vision shuttered. The pain was distant now. But the wrongness, that had the luxury of staying and growing in the pits of your stomach.

“You were too soft for this world,” Suguru murmured, pressing his cheek to yours. “Too delicate. That’s why I had to take you. The world would’ve broken you. Used you up. But I kept you safe. I preserved you.” He smelled like incense and iron. Like sweat and sanctity. You could feel his smile against your skin, stretched wide, trembling with overwhelming joy.

“And now… now you’ll finally be perfect. Pure. Still. A lamb in the arms of her shepherd.” Your lips parted, but no words came. Your tongue felt thick. Like it didn’t remember language. Something fizzled - snapped. You twitched again. He caught your jaw in his hand and steadied you, looking into your eyes like he was watching the stars flicker out one by one.

“I used to wonder,” he said softly, “why you kept trying to run. Even after I gave you the twins. Even after I gave you a purpose. A family.”

He tilted your head back. A trickle of blood slipped down your nose. He didn’t wipe it away this time. He watched it.

“You were just scared, weren’t you?” he whispered, nearly too soft compared to the ringing of bells in your ears. “Still clinging to the old world. But that world is gone, my love. I burned it down - for you.”

You remembered the smell of it. The fire. The smoke. The wet, coppery heat of your mother’s blood soaking into the hem of your pajamas.

You remembered him cradling your body as your knees buckled, stroking your back as you retched. Whispering into your ear like a lullaby, “Don’t cry, little lamb. They were wicked. They would’ve turned you against me.”

And then he had carried you through the carnage like a bride.

He took you into the cult’s sanctum and gave you a bed, a brush for your hair, and two scared children who clung to you like reeds in a storm. Girls whose names you didn’t even know until they started calling you mama.

He carved a home from your prison - a gilded cage lined with velvet and rot. Kissed you goodnight like a good husband would.

He called you blessed. In front of his followers, he praised your existence like a miracle, declaring it a divine mercy that a non-sorcerer like you still drew breath within his arms.

As if your survival was a gift. As if your captivity was sacred.

Every time you fled, every time you clawed your way toward freedom, gasping for air outside the pretty cage he built - he found you. Forgave you after he had the luxury of breaking you.

With the kind of love that tasted like blood in your mouth. The kind that turned screams into moans as he dragged you to the dirt, pinning you down on cold, splintered floors in whatever half-lit corner you thought might hide you.

With chains that bit deep into your wrists as he forced your legs apart, lapping at you like a beast in heat - obsessive, starving, single-minded - until your cries melted into gutted whimpers, soaked in shame and submission.

With arms that clamped around you as he rutted into your limp, trembling body, whispering filth like worship against your throat. He liked to hold you close while he took you. Said that’s what good husbands do. Said it made him feel close to your soul.

“I could’ve punished you,” he whispered now, nose brushing yours, dragging you from your thoughts. “I could’ve let them tear you apart. But I didn’t. I saved you. And now, I’m saving you again.”

The needle pushed deeper. A strange warmth bloomed through your skull - thick, slow, unnatural. Then cold. Then silence.

Something vital inside you didn't have the grace of death, instead, the fight in you burned out. It gave up as you tried to gasp outwards. Your chest rose, then failed. Your throat strained, but no sound came, just a trembling echo of what used to be a voice.

The motion hitched halfway through your lungs and collapsed in on itself like wet fabric. Your throat made a sound, but it didn’t belong to you. Not anymore. It dragged out garbled and raw, something caught between a sob and a death rattle. Like your body had already started mourning itself.

“There now,” Suguru sighed, almost dreamily. He sounded like a man slipping into silk sheets, not someone pressing steel into brain tissue. “It’s working.” You felt his breath against your cheek, humid and reverent, as though your suffering was a sacred thing to be exhaled over. His fingers moved through your hair with that same obscene gentleness he used on the twins when they cried. Like he believed he was comforting you. Like this wasn’t desecration.

“You won’t need memories where we’re going,” he whispered, fingers sticky with whatever he’d pulled out of you. “You won’t need thoughts. Or fear. Or doubt.”

You blinked, at least, you think you did. Your eyes were open. Or partly. But the light fractured, soft, too gold, too much. The world stuttered and blurred around him like a fever dream unraveling into a nightmare.

His voice curved into a smile. “You’ll only need me.”

You weren’t sure when it happened. When your eyes dulled. When your breath fell into someone else's rhythm. When the needle slid out, smooth and glistening, red and glinting like something freshly birthed.

You didn’t feel it. But you heard it. A soft, wet pop - like something precious giving way inside your skull. A balloon rupturing in thick fluid. He hushed you as your body spasmed, more out of instinct than resistance.

“Don’t move, little lamb,” he murmured. “Don’t scramble what’s left.”

You couldn’t have moved if you tried. Your limbs had forgotten themselves. Your muscles were pudding beneath your skin, twitching without coordination. Your mouth hung open uselessly.

That was when the drool began. Thick, ropy strings of it, tinged pink and metallic, sliding down your chin in slow, shameful drips. It clung to your lips like it didn’t want to leave. Slid over your teeth. Fell in beads to your collarbone.

You tasted it as the saliva filled your mouth - thick and warm, crawling slow over your tongue like something alive. Copper. Meat. Rot. And something else. Something wrong. Something slick and electric, like licking the edge of a live wire soaked in acid. Your mouth tasted like what you used to be. Like memory liquefied. Like identity spoiled into nectar.

And Suguru… watched. Watched like he was witnessing a miracle unravel. Like your unraveling was the miracle. His gaze devoured you, eyes wide, glassy, rapt. Worshipping the mess of you. The way your lips hung open. How your drool pooled like syrup along your chin. The way your body, even now, still gave. His fingers trailed adoringly along your jaw, collecting the viscous spill of drool-blood-spit that clung there like a sacrament. He brought it to his mouth.

There was no hesitation as he licked the obscene liquid from his knuckles slowly - slowly - as though savoring something rare and precious. Letting the fluid coat his tongue. Letting your essence melt into the heat of his mouth like the candy he used to feed you.

He swirled it across the roof of his mouth like wine, eyes fluttering closed, lashes trembling. Releasing a soft, breathless sound close to ecstasy from his lips as his gaze flicked to the needle. The needle was still warm and glistening, still wet with the remnants of your mind. With a reverence that bordered on religious delirium, he leaned in and dragged his tongue along its length, slow, unhurried, adoring.

Suguru licked it clean the way one might lick honey from a spoon. Red. Silver. Viscera-smudged. He moaned, quiet, breathless. A sound that would be beautiful, if he wasn't such an insane bastard. Oh, how he moaned, like the taste of you, your thoughts and ruin, was from one of his holy sermons. As if your suffering was something sweet.

He lifted the object of demise like it was precious. Sacred. Like it belonged in a reliquary, not his hand. But Suguru never did worship like the others did. No, he needed to taste divinity. To consume it. To consume the fight you're leaving behind.

So he brought it to his lips.

Opened his mouth.

And lowered his head.

His throat welcomed the steel like it was communion. The glinting metal disappeared inch by inch, his lips stretching, jaw relaxing as he swallowed it down. Past tongue. Past teeth. Down, down, until the hilt kissed his lips, and his throat bobbed around it. Pretty, violet eyes that rolled back, lashes fluttering, a soft groan slipping from deep in his chest.

It wasn’t pain.

It was rapture.

He held it there for a moment - the instrument of your undoing lodged in his throat like a holy relic, his breath trembling around it. Then he pulled it back out - slow, glistening, wet. No longer coated with your blood, but his saliva.

Suguru looked back at you with something like ecstasy, and everything inside you screamed to recoil. But your body didn’t move. Couldn’t. You could only watch him watching you. His teeth, once pearly white, were now stained a soft pink as he spoke.

“I’ll always love that little fight in you,” he said, crouching beside your slack, drooling face. His thumb dragged your lip down slightly, just to watch it bounce back up uselessly. He smiled. “But in my new world…”

His voice lowered, thick with affection.

“…pets like you don’t need to fight.”

He cupped your face between his palms, cradling it like a fragile fruit, kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips - smeared in drool and blood, the flavor of your mind still on his tongue.

And then he kissed you deeper.

Your jaw didn’t move. Your lips didn’t purse. It didn’t matter. He kissed you like you were kissing him back. Like your silence was consent. When he pulled away, strings of spit - your spit - clung between your mouths like a web. He licked them away. Didn’t waste a drop of the sweetest nectar known to man.

-----

The air was warm today.

Cherry blossoms fluttered like slow snowfall across the temple courtyard, sticking to your hair, your lashes, the white fabric of your dress. The wind teased them loose from the trees, scattering them like blessings. You didn’t move when they landed on you. Didn’t blink when one brushed across your cheek and stayed there.

You just sat on the stone steps, knees tucked to your chest, head tilted toward the sun. A trickle of drool slid from the corner of your mouth, glistening in the light like nectar.

And you were smiling.

Suguru stood just behind you for a while, watching. Breathing. Listening to the soft rustle of petals and the small, wet click of your throat when you swallowed.

You looked so content. So quiet.

So loved.

He approached slowly, letting his sandals scuff against the stone so you’d hear him. Not that it mattered. You no longer startled when he moved. You no longer stiffened under his gaze.

When he knelt beside you, your head turned - just slightly, slow as honey dripping from a spoon. Your eyes fluttered toward him, soft and unfocused.

And then you smiled again.

That was the worst part. The best part. The part that made something in his chest crumple and swell at once.

You smiled like you loved him.

“Hello, my sweet little lamb,” he murmured, brushing a blossom from your hair. You didn’t react, but you leaned ever so slightly into his palm as it cradled your cheek. The skin beneath his hand was warm. Damp with sweat. Or maybe just the sun.

Your lips parted. “Sun…” you said, voice slow and syrup-thick, your tongue barely moving. “...pretty.”

It nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Yes,” Suguru whispered. “So very pretty. Almost as much as you.”

He sat beside you and wrapped his arm around your waist. You didn’t lean in. You just… folded. Like your body recognized the weight and allowed it, welcomed it out of some primal muscle memory. Like an animal curling into its pen. He pressed a kiss to your temple. The scar was healing. Still red. Still swollen. Still a reminder.

Of what he’d done. What he’d chosen.

Sometimes, he dreamed of the needle. Of how your body twitched when it pierced the soft tissue behind your eye. Of how the drool began, slow at first, then steady. Of how your voice choked itself trying to say his name one last time.

And sometimes, in the rare moments when guilt crept in - when he remembered the way you screamed and kicked and begged him not to - he would look at you now.

Look at this.

The sun glowing on your skin. The way you tilted your face toward the warmth. The way your hand twitched faintly, as if reaching for him. The way you smiled when he touched you.

And the guilt would go quiet.

How could it be wrong, when you were so peaceful now? When you smiled at him like he was everything?

He whispered into your hair, “You’re happy, aren’t you?”

You blinked slowly. Your head lolled toward him. Another strand of drool slipped down your chin, caught on your collarbone. A blossom landed there. You didn’t notice.

“Pretty…” you murmured again, eyes glassy. “Suguru…”

His heart hammered once, twice. Pounding against his chest. The sound of his name - spoken like a lullaby. Like a sacred word. Not with fear. Not with rage. Just soft devotion. He swallowed thickly. His hands trembled as he pulled you closer. Pressed his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much it aches. I’d do it all again, you know that?”

You stared past him.

“I had to,” he said, his voice cracking, guilt peeking through like weeds beneath stone. “You would’ve left me. You did. Again and again. I couldn’t let you. You understand that now, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. But your hand - slow, clumsy - found the edge of his sleeve. Your fingers curled around the fabric and stayed there.

His breath hitched. That touch, that tiny act of agency, undid him. It didn’t matter that you no longer understood who you were, who he was. That you barely spoke, barely moved without prompting.

What mattered was this: you reached for him.

“You love me now,” he whispered, and it sounded like confession. “Even if you don’t know it. Even if you can’t say it. I made it true.”

A breeze passed. More petals fell. Your dress fluttered gently against his leg, and your head dropped against his shoulder.

Suguru held you tighter. As the twins ran around the garden barefoot and full of giggles, collecting flowers for their mama's flower crown. A mama that will no longer run away. You smiled as you watched, and Suguru believed - truly, deeply - that you were happy with this makeshift family.

"I love you," He whispered, pressing another lingering kiss to your temple. Three little words that made his heart swell for his little lamb.

#yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere #jjk geto #dead dove do not eat #yandere geto suguru #yandere geto x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere suguru x reader #yandere jjk #yandere geto #yandere suguru #yandere suguru geto

510 notes · View notes

depravitycentral · 5 months ago

Text

Yandere! Sanemi Shinazugawa NSFW Profile

Yandere! Sanemi Shinazugawa x fem! reader

Tw: stalking, kidnapping, mentions of non-con and dub-con, public masturbation, voyeurism/non-consensual voyeurism, exhibitionism, spitting (m and f receiving), dick slapping, cumplay, possessiveness, mild gore, mentions of death, Stockholm Syndrome/reader is implied to start liking him, Sanemi is kind of a hot mess approaching sex so hopefully that has been conveyed, I hc hard that Sanemi is a virgin so don't bother fighting me on it, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 15K

HABITS:

Intimacy is very much not something that Sanemi is familiar with. He’s never even considered taking a partner, staunchly ignoring his fellow Hashira’s taunts (almost exclusively from Tengen and the odd, poorly-timed comment from Giyuu) about how he’d just ‘calm down’ a bit if he had a pretty woman to relieve his stress onto.

And while he’s mature enough to admit there’s probably some truth to that, he’s still rejecting the very few advances that come his way. He’s not only entirely uninterested in dealing with the intricacies and expectations of a relationship, but he’s also convinced that due to his traumatic past and the way he deals he interacts with those he loves, he’s unfit to be a partner.

He doesn’t think he has the capability to properly commit himself to someone, to become emotionally dependent on them – and frankly he doesn’t want them to become emotionally attached to him, either. It’s just too risky considering his job and his habits in battle – every night is a question of survival, missions leaving him so bloody and battered that it’s a miracle he pulls through, a miracle that Shinobu doesn’t just kill him herself with how often he winds up in her infirmary.

It’s just wildly unpractical – and it’s not like he chooses to become so horribly, deeply obsessed with you. He’s angry in the beginning, genuinely trying to hate you and distance himself from you in every possible way, but you’re like some irritating, persistent bug that manages to crawl back to him every time he thinks he’s shaken you off.

(A mindset that makes him feel incredibly guilty later on, ashamed of himself for having thought of you in such a derogatory, rude way. This is particularly true because now he’d be absolutely devastated if you were to leave his life, panic and terror engulfing him because no no no you’re not allowed to leave him.)

But once the feelings have been cemented and Sanemi finally, finally accepts that he can do nothing to change him, that outlook on intimacy being unavailable begins to change. Of course, he’s not immediately grabbing and groping at you, nor is he fantasizing about the way you’d look underneath him whimpering and writhing as he fucks into you.

(Wet dreams aside, of course. He doesn’t often wake up to messy, sticky sheets, but the shame that swallows him when he does is so palpable that even his fellow Hashira notice. Rengoku will ask in a much-too-loud voice if he’d slept well, if he’s okay, why there’s still a slight flush on his face, leaving Sanemi to only snap at him and storm out of whatever area they’re in.)

No, his fantasies are genuinely more innocent in the beginning – virginal, really, with the way he blushes a light pink at the thought of wrapping you in his arms, the simple idea of hugging you being enough to get him covering his mouth with his palm, too flustered to function. The mere concept of you pressing a kiss to his cheek – not even his fucking lips – gets him feeling hot under the collar, body too warm for him to sit still, needing to blow off the steam and refocus himself before he embarrasses himself in front of you.

It makes him feel weak, really, how these simplistic, easy forms of intimacy and affection are able to affect him in such a profound way, and as time passes it’s really only natural for his imagination to start turning lewder. It’s not something that he thinks of on his own necessarily, if only because there’s a large mental block there where he tries to separate the thought of you from anything he deems disrespectful or dirty.

He tells himself that you’re pretty, not sexy. (But oh god does he think you’re sexy, everything from your voice to your hair to your skin making him drool like some sort of perverted old man, blood rushing between his legs when he sees you bite your lip or flick your hair, having to quickly excuse himself for fear that you’ll see the way his pants are growing sinfully tight.)

You’re sweet, not naughty. (But oh, Sanemi wouldn’t mind if you were a bit bratty in bed, if you had a rebellious streak to you and made him work for it, made him put in every ounce of effort just to get you creaming on his fingers or tugging on his hair or letting him spill every last drop of cum he has to give you inside that tight little cunt of yours.)

It’s a strict boundary for him, but all it takes is a single seed to be planted that ultimately breaks his moral high ground. Perhaps it’s Rengoku noticing off-hand that Sanemi seems to be a bit quieter these days, the former laughing loudly and congratulating Sanemi on finding that beautiful woman Tengen was talking about – tell me, does she satisfy you in all the ways you require? It makes Sanemi sputter and cough slightly, shocked at both Rengoku’s observational accuracy and the insinuation of you pleasuring him.

(And also seething in jealousy because how the fuck does Rengoku know about you? Has he met you? Has he fucked you? Is that why he’s thinking about you in a sexual manner?)

He tries to stop it, but it’s too late – there’s a quick, shockingly explicit image of you on your back, knees folded up to your chin and Sanemi’s cock stretching you so widely that you’re crying, nails scraping down his back and moans of yes yes please more ‘Nemi please falling past your lips.

He’s ashamed of himself, training until he nearly blacks out from the exhaustion, Iguro shocked and mildly concerned at just how hard and raggedly he’s pushing himself.

(And, out of respect for the unspoken friendship between them, he ignores the way Sanemi’s been sporting a raging hard-on for the duration of their some three-hour sparring session, cock swollen and not settling down for even an instant. Frankly, he’s amazed Sanemi could fight as well as he did considering his situation.)

It’s shameful, Sanemi thinks, and it leaves him utterly mortified that he's letting his more primal thoughts win, but once the door opens he can’t quite shut it. He still tries – pushing idle thoughts of you on your knees for him out of his mind, cursing under his breath as he follows a few feet behind you, acting as your shadow and trying so, so very desperately to not notice the way your kimono is spread tightly across your ass. It’s commendable, really, just how long he manages to keep himself accountable, but it becomes more difficult the more time he spends watching you, seeing aspects of you that are really much more personal than he has a right to know.

And the final straw comes one sunny afternoon, when you’re walking with him down the rather crowded street of your town. He’s accompanying you because ‘it’s too crowded for you to be out alone’, as he’d told you, and he’s staying close to your side, careful not to touch you but always in your peripheral.

And really, maybe he’d had a point – because all it takes is a single shove from a woman next to you, and suddenly you’re falling forward, arms automatically reaching out to steady yourself but instead slamming into Sanemi’s chest, his noise of shock and the feeling of your thumbs touching his bare skin distracting him enough to leave the two of you tumbling the to the ground.

And of course you land on top of him – directly on top of him, with your kimono slightly askew and your clothed breasts pressed up against the expanse of his exposed chest, able to feel the fullness and softness of them. Your breath’s fanning against his neck as you blink and mutter a quick apology, your ascent ungraceful as you accidentally grind your thigh against his crotch, a small, nearly mute groan falling from his lips at the action.

He’s dazed, cheeks flushing a warm pink color and his eyes wide as they stare at you, even as you stand up and try to help him up. But he just can’t move – the feeling of your skin and body against his is too fresh in his mind, imprinted and replaying over and over as he closes his eyes.

And even the feeling of your hands grasping onto his as you try to lift him to his feet is sending him dangerously close to the edge, already feeling himself growing hard and his breathing getting labored.

He doesn’t say a word of it to you, only grunting at your frenzied apologies, not trusting his voice because he’s sure if he tried all he’d manage to push out would be a weak moan of your name. He takes you back to your home immediately, dropping you off in an uncharacteristically abrupt manner, only stopping to make sure you make it past your front door before he’s practically sprinting off, only able to heave in the deep breaths once he’s a good mile or so away from your home.

It’s only then that he finally lets go of the desperate, difficult breathing techniques he had to employ to keep a check on his cock, stopping himself from getting fully hard and only making the smallest of tents in his pants so as to not catch your attention. But as he heaves, wild eyes staring up at the sky, he’s clutching onto the fabric of his haori, knees slightly weak as he stumbles into the surrounding forest.

He’s in an empty area, and as he ventures deeper into the trees and shrubbery, he finds himself leaning against a nearby trunk. Fuck fuck fuck, all he can think about is the way your body was so warm and how you fit perfectly against him, as if your body was molded to fit his. It’s driving him crazy – everything feels too hot, sweat beading at his temple and his palms clammy. He tries to regain his breathing but it’s still coming out ragged, winded and sloppy, his cock so hard that it hurts, mind swirling with thoughts of you and only you.

And even after ten minutes of trying to calm down, Sanemi eventually curses, eyes squeezed shut and palm slapping the trunk of the tree as he realizes that the only way to get his body under his control again is to deal with the problem. It’s embarrassing, more than anything, and he quickly glances around the thickly forested alcove he’s found himself in, the daylight trickling in through the gaps in the trees and illuminating his chest.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Sanemi undoes his belt, the metal sounding loud in the quiet of the forest but slightly muffled by his breathing. It makes him bite his lip, flushing an ever deeper red color, but he shimmies his uniform pants down slightly, just enough to rest under the curve of his balls, staring with pinched brows at the way his cock is absolutely red – it’s swollen, almost visibly pulsing, so heavy that it only stands at a measly ninety degrees.

After a moment of contemplation Sanemi almost, almost tucks himself back into his pants, the guilt at masturbating to you nearly overwhelming, but then he’s hearing your voice in his head, ringing through and saying Sanemi thank you for catching my fall, Sanemi Sanemi Sanemi…

He’s spitting into his palm before he can stop himself, fingers wrapping deftly around his base and immediately flicking up and down, a mixture of a groan and a sigh of relief slipping from him as he finally, finally gets stimulation. His eyes close and he rests his arm against the tree over his head, leaning his forehead against his forearm.

He’s immediately imagining you – the feeling of your chest pressing against his, and images of times he’s accidentally seen you nude while peeking in through your windows crossing his mind. (And truly, they had been accidental – he’d looked away as soon as he regained his senses, blushing bright and running a hand through his hair, waiting for a good twenty minutes to ensure you were properly clothed before he chanced another glance.)

They’re so fucking perfect – he’s never felt a pair of breasts in his life but he’s sure yours are unbearably soft, that they’d be dense and squishy and perfect to squeeze and paw at. He’s biting his lip as he remembers the way your nipples look, licking his lips and even puckering them slightly as he imagines sucking at them, wondering with a particularly harsh tug of his cock whether you’d keen and sigh and moan.

His fist gets tighter as he thinks of the way your knee had brushed against him, balls clenching a bit at the idea that you’ve touched his cock, even accidentally and through multiple layers of clothing. He can’t help but imagine your hands wrapped around himself, fingers daintier and prettier than his own calloused, scarred ones, and his eyes peel open to watch them run up and down his length, looking crude and barbaric as he fucks into his fist harder, his hips starting to move in tandem with his wrist.

You’d look cute, he decides, when you jerk him off – you’d be such a juxtaposition, with feminine hands and soft skin against his masculine, thick cock, and the thought alone makes him grit his teeth, embarrassment and pleasure creeping up his spine because fuuuck he’s never felt this close so quickly before.

His mind snaps back to right before the fall, and suddenly he’s gasping your name and opening his eyes wide as the phantom touch of your fingers against his bare chest hits him, hips stuttering and sounds that are much too high-pitched for his liking filling the small forest area.

He’s turning around, back slamming against the trunk as he continues his brutal pace, keeping his fist stationary as his hips thrust and pound away, imagining it’s your pretty cunt instead. His free hand comes up to his face, the feeling of you grabbing at it and clutching your fingers against his driving him to press his palm tightly against his nose, deeply inhaling and sliding down the trunk a bit as he catches what he thinks is a very, very faint whiff of you on his skin.

His head tilts back, his thrusts getting sharper and more carnal, unconsciously angling them to brush against the top of his hand, where he knows you like best. He’s inhaling over and over again, smelling his hand like some dog, only pulling away to briefly lap at his palm, tongue lolling out and licking long, fat stripes across the skin, desperate to taste you, too.

He’s breathing hard, panting and chanting your name like some sort of prayer, the pleasure in his navel starting to build and grow. You’re just so fucking perfect, and he just knows you feel soft and warm and god he can’t fucking wait to touch you and feel you and pleasure you and make you moan his name and come for him and oh god oh fuck it’s coming it’s coming –

He nearly yells your name as cum oozes from his swollen tip, biting back the gaspy, airy groans that threaten to spill from his lips as his hips wildly jerk, uneven thrusts complimented by his abs clenching so tightly that his knees go weak, crouching against the base of the tree trunk.

He’s panting still, chest heaving as if he’d just run for hours, his face still flushed as he looks up, trying desperately to regain his senses. He’s still clouded by the smell and taste of you, and he only moves his hand to come clutch at his uniform, grabbing the same spot you’d grabbed earlier, squeezing at the fabric so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

There’s a trail of cum on the forest floor in front of him, white slowly cooling and smearing against the leaves, but Sanemi can’t find it in himself to care. There’s guilt settling deep in his chest as he comes down from his high, cock going pathetically limp against the waistband of his pants. He curses, closing his eyes and covering them with his hand, shame weighing heavily on him.

He’d just masturbated to you and reached the fastest orgasm of his life because of it.

It feels like some sort of selfish defeat, and he’s filled with self-loathing as he makes his way back to the Wind Estate for a change of clothes, berating himself for his weakness and promising to never give into his hormones like that again.

And yet, a mere five days later, he’s got his fist wrapped around himself again, fantasies of you bouncing in his lap like he’s just some toy for you to use racing through his mind, his composure slipping because he’d give absolutely anything to be of use to you, even just as something to get you off and discard afterwards.

It makes him feel pathetic, like a perverted, sorry excuse of an admirer of yours, but he just can’t help himself – how can he, when his every waking thought revolves solely around you?

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your Ass

In general, Sanemi loves the parts of you most that are the softest and the squishiest. He’s all hard lines – plains of muscle that’s rock hard to the touch, scars that are ragged and bumpy against the smoother texture of his skin. He’s all hard edges, but you’re the complete opposite – you’re sweet and soft, and Sanemi naturally gravitates towards areas that really showcase this.

Consequently, he finds his hands edging close to your ass from pretty much the beginning of your sexual relationship. He likes how plump the area is – he adores when you wear shorter skirts around him, or, ideally, just the pretty, lacy panties he buys for you with heat on his cheeks and embarrassment creeping up his spine.

(Of course, he’d bought many of them long before he’d stolen you away, long before he’d ever touched you in any serious capacity. He’d seen them when he was passing through an adult shop on a mission, and while he’d felt like a massive pervert for it, he’d purchased a pair that’s a particularly eye-catching emerald green, white lace trim at the edges and a matching garter belt and bra to go with it. He’d been mortified when he’d returned home and stared at the fabric, the fatigue and adrenaline having finally worn off, but the mere idea of you wearing the pretty fabric was enough to get him breathing heavy. It was enough to get him covering his mouth with his hand, cock painfully hard because even his imagination of how your pretty ass cupped by the cheeky underwear would look is enough to get precum staining his pants.)

When he’s kissing you, his hands are resting on your ass, groping and idly squeezing, playing with the fat and very, very gently slapping at it, kissing you even harder when he feels the way you squirm and yelp.

He prefers positions where you can make eye contact, but the somewhat rare times he has you bent over, Sanemi is absolutely feral – he’s smacking your ass and pounding into you as hard as he can, his grip on your hips tight enough to bruise as he loses himself in the way your ass ricochets against his pelvis, the wet slap slap noise forcing him to get on one knee, mounting you even more, fucking you like an animal.

(And while he’s not the absolute loudest during sex, you’ll hear some of the filthiest, foulest things fall past his lips when he’s fucking you from behind – he'll have you in prone bone, breath hot against your ear as he tells you that ‘s fucking tight, you’re so damn tight, fuck fuck fuuuuck, his voice groaned and strained as his hips punctuate each curse. And his grip on you is tight – fingertips digging into the plush of your hips and lovehandles, gripping hard enough to leave small imprints behind, feeling like he’s clutching onto you, like he’s scared you’ll disappear.)

He’s not picky about your shape, either – you could have perfectly round, full cheeks or very little definition and he’d still be in love, his fingers still twitching and flexing at his side with the urge to reach out and squeeze, to knead at the skin and hear the way you’d yelp and cling onto him.

(Perhaps you’d even smack his hand away, embarrassment creeping up your spine and your flustered expression making him lick his lips, hellbent on making you come so many times the only thing you can think of is him him him. He always has grand plans to tease you, wanting to have you looking at him with glossy eyes and be completely under his thumb, but every time he gets you naked in front of him it’s him who’s at your beck and call, pathetically eager to do whatever you wish.)

He won’t try to touch you until you have a more established sexual relationship in place, which will take several months of being trapped with him to achieve. But once the floodgates are opened he becomes extremely touchy – he’s always got his hands on you, squeezing and groping and touching, and you’ll often even find that when you’re laying on your front, he’ll come lay behind you, shyly at first as he places his cheek against the soft skin, a hand gripping onto your thigh as he relaxes, too embarrassed to make eye contact but basking in the softness of you, in the peace of the moment, in the way you’re really here, with him.

He loves the rest of your body too, of course, but his natural resting place for both his hands and eyes is your ass, and he’s not nearly as subtle as he hopes he is.

(Not at all, but there’s almost something endearing about it – the quick-tempered, serious Hashira so blatantly ogling you, his lips parting and his nostrils flaring as he stares, almost unblinking. It makes you feel good, truly, flattered despite the perverted nature of his staring. And so as time passes you’ll find that you can excuse it, his bashfulness and obvious attraction to you almost flattering the longer you go without other human contact.)

His Abs

By and large, Sanemi desperately wants to impress you.

He lives for your praise, finding that the sweet words slipping from your lips are enough to leave him feeling like he’s floating, a sort of genuine joy he hasn’t felt in years settling into his chest, making him fight off a smile. As such, he’s very, very attentive to your reactions to his body.

Years of pushing himself to become stronger and battling so often have left his body riddled with muscles and scars, leaving him in peak physical health. And you’ll know this from nearly the first moment you meet him – after all, it’s difficult to not notice the little peek-a-boo at his abs in his uniform, the skin defined and often glistening with sweat.

He’s proud of his chest, and he has to swallow very, very hard the first time he catches you glancing at the exposed skin. It makes his ego inflate, something pleasant licking at his chest because oh, were you just checking him out? It doesn’t matter if you were or not – because to Sanemi you were, and that fact doesn’t leave his mind for weeks.

He’s proud of his abs, and quickly grows to love showing them off to you. He elects to keep a shirt on for most of your early time trapped with him, not wanting to scare you or frighten you by being half-undressed. (He doesn’t want you be to feeling pressured into anything, because while he would never force you into anything even remotely sexual, he doesn’t want there to be any sort of dubious fear or doubt motivating you to finally seek out intimacy with him. Aside from your kidnapping and the stalking, of course. And the way his desperation for you is so thick it leaves you squirming in discomfort.)

But once your sexual relationship starts?

Oh – he’s constantly shirtless, purposefully flexing when you’re nearby so that his abs stand out more defined, pectorals looking firmer, the muscles of his back standing out and practically begging for you to run your finger over them. He loves when you trace the lines of his six-pack, your soft finger dipping between the muscles and sending shivers along his skin because fuck, even just your finger is getting him hot under the collar.

Press kisses against the area, murmuring to him that he’s so strong and that you feel so safe with you ‘Nemi, I know you could protect me from anything. He’ll grumble under his breath but the blush sporting his cheeks and neck give him away, as does the way his hips involuntarily and imperceptibly buck.

Kiss further down to the happy trail of silvery hair leading below the waistband of his pants, the skin ticklish and sensitive enough to leave him sucking in a breath, his fists tightening until his knuckles are white because oh, you’re such a damn tease. When you’re perched on top of him, rolling your hips and letting him cup at your ass to help guide you, rest a hand against his abs and he’ll groan, the muscles clenching underneath your palm.

(Often, when he’s getting too close to his orgasm and he doesn’t want the moment to end quite yet, he’ll pull you forward so that you’re straddling his stomach, looking up at you with dazed lilac eyes, telling you in a hoarse, heady voice to grind on me, use me, ‘m all yours. He wants you to touch his abs, to feel your cunt scooping and rubbing against the planes of muscle. He wants to watch the way your face contorts as you catch your clit on a particularly raised section, maybe even on a scar, his orgasm slowly – very slowly – fading off but his cock still remaining starkly at attention. You’re just so damn pretty when you’re smearing slick against his skin, the sight wanton and lewd but feeling so very right. And later that night, when he’s helping you to the bath and diligently washing your body, he’ll scowl before he washes off his own abs, slightly pissed that he has to wash away the trace of you.)

He just likes you to touch what he’s so proud of, and each and every time you have a remotely positive reaction towards them, Sanemi is in heaven. After all, you’re looking at him, and that’s something that makes both his cock and his heart swell.

DRIVE:

Sanemi is, for a lack of a better term, sexually frustrated. He’s never touched anyone before and never been touched himself, and even touching himself is something he rarely partakes in. Every ounce of irritation, anger, anxiety, and stress is taken out via rigorous training and often yelling. When he feels pent-up he finds that a good, quick spar is often a more effective way to quell it rather than jerking off.

Not to mention, there’s something about masturbating that makes Sanemi feel even more lonely and frustrated than before – it hurts slightly to know that he doesn’t have anyone to be thinking of, that while he saves men and women with partners and lovers, he’s not quite like them. Hell, even a few of his fellow Hashira have partners, someone to touch them and hold them, reassuring them and comforting them when the nightmares of screaming family members and demons become too much. It makes him feel pathetic when he feels sorry for himself for being so painfully alone, and this results in Sanemi avoiding pleasuring himself as often as possible.

But of course, biology has other plans for him – he’s in the sexual prime of his life, and when he can’t quite seem to work off the steam with a thorough work-out or eventful patrol, he’ll begrudgingly resort to his hand. It’s typically impersonal, wrapping his fingers around himself and steadily jerking up and down while he closes his eyes and bites back his groans.

He’s not thinking of anything in particular – maybe imagining it’s the hand of some mystery woman replacing his own, but nothing more than that. It’s fast, too, the pleasure slowly mounting and then crashing through him, gritting his teeth as he finishes and promptly cleaning up, wanting to waste no more time with it. It’s all just so very clinical, almost – even when he’s horny, even when the frustration mounts so high that it’s unbearable.

And while he’s slow to warm up to fantasizing about you in a sexual capacity, Sanemi’s irregular indulgences in lust remain. Of course, it’s much, much better now – now that he has someone to actively close his eyes and think about, imagining your voice and your body and your touch. It’s infinitely better because while you’re still not by his side or touching him with your own hands and lips and cunt, he can still fantasize that one day you will, that one day you’ll want him like he wants you.

And it’s enough – his sex drive is still fairly low, and even once he begins actively having sex with you it remains on the lower side. He’d just truly rather hold you or listen to you speak than pin you down and fuck you.

(Or have you pin him down and ride him until he’s shooting blanks and tearing up with red cheeks and fisting the sheets so hard his knuckles are white.)

But of course, he’s only a man and those urges do hit him – enough so that he has a sort of system in place for signaling that he’s feeling hot, that he’s restless, that he’s mentally undressing you and planning out all the positions and ways he can get you creaming on his cock. His signals aren’t particularly graceful, either – it starts with him sitting closer to you, his body completely tense and every muscle clenched.

(He does this unconsciously, both as a way to control himself from just reaching out and snatching you, and also to subconsciously make himself seem bigger, to look stronger and more masculine, to appeal to your more feminine side. He’s not even aware he does it, and if you point it out he’ll vehemently deny it, calling you deluded and making some comment about how you’re projecting your own lewdness onto him, but he knows you’re right, and he also knows he can’t stop it.)

Then he’ll start looking at you with more focus. He’s always staring at you, those wide eyes never leaving your form, but now he’s doing things – again, unconsciously – without realizing that give it all away; licking his lips, adjusting his pants, swallowing audibly.

It’s all things that you’ll notice, and depending on how far along you are in your captivity with him, your response to these signals dictates whether or not you end up with cum smearing the inside of your thighs – if you grimace and shy away from him, Sanemi will clench his jaw, nod slightly and look away. He’ll immediately get up and leave the room both from embarrassment and hurt at your rejection, and to avoid making you feel any sort of pressure or guilt to give him physical intimacy.

But if you scoot in closer, clench your thighs a bit, give him that sultry fucking look you know he loves, then he’s immediately kissing you, big hand cupping your cheek as the other latches onto your breast, kneading and squeezing as he groans against your lips.

And it’s messy – the kiss is all tongue and spit, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he presses his body into you as far as he can, desperation and relief flowing through him because the feeling of your skin against his is satisfying parts of him he didn’t even know existed. If you accept his advances, he’ll maneuver you onto your back, nudging between your thighs and immediately licking and sucking away, the loud suction noises making your cheeks feel hot and making it difficult to not squirm around.

(Something that strokes Sanemi’s ego but also frustrates him because he wants you to lie still so he can properly touch you. He can’t go at the pace and angle you like when you’re wiggling around, so he’ll just take a thigh in each hand and keep you steady, using his strength to pin you down so that you can’t move away from his eager, sloppy mouth. Because he wants absolutely everything to be perfect – he wants you to feel so good that you’re begging for him, associating him with pleasure, knowing that he can and will give you exactly what your body needs.)

He’ll make you finish on his tongue and only then will he start working his pants down, cock already so red and wet with precum that it’s a miracle a single brush against your cunt doesn’t make him immediately release. The sex is eager – that’s really the only word for it, because Sanemi’s grabbing every part of your body he can reach, hands unable to stay still because he wants to feel everything, mapping every inch of your body with his fingers so that if somehow you disappear, he’ll remember everything. He’s handsy, and yet his hips are absolutely brutal – he’s fucking into you like a wild animal, hipbones smacking against your ass in a bruising rhythm that leaves your whole body bouncing, every soft, jiggly bit of you drawing his attention and only making him go harder because he wants to see more more more.

But he’s loud, too – all kinds of curses and rough, uneven praises of the way you feel and how you look are falling past his lips, voice sounding nearly pained with the overwhelming amount of stimulation you’re giving him.

He’s truly pussydrunk in every sense of the word – so when he very unnaturally and awkwardly tries to put his hand on your thigh when he’s signaling he’s feeling hot and needy for you, just know that you’ll have a lot of difficulty walking the next morning.

That said, Sanemi will absolutely never force you into anything sexual without your explicit (and frequent) verbal consent.

Despite his rough-around-the-edges appearance, he’s staunch on his moral beliefs that sex is something intimate that should be reserved for partners who truly care about each other. He believes that it should be something enjoyed, something meaningful, something wanted – and so, to have you actively fighting him or not engaging in what he’s doing to you would leave his skin crawling, disgust and a new, different kind of shame seeping through him.

(Different if only because up until that point, everything he’s done he’s been able to spin as somehow being for your safety – stalking you to make sure no one bothers you, learning all your habits and favorite foods, clothes, and hobbies letting him notice any deviations signifying something is wrong. Hell, even kidnapping you has some benefits for your safety – no demon is stupid enough to enter the Wind Estate, and he’ll be damned before he lets any strangers in with the possibility of coming into contact with you.)

But intimacy is different – he’s not good at being vulnerable, and to be naked with you, to hold you in his arms and feel your hands caress the parts of his body that are deeply scarred and unused to touch is a new level of unguarded that makes him anxious. He’s so used to keeping up a pseudo-façade of being reckless and wild and in these moments all he wants is to let you see him raw, the real Sanemi Shinazugawa that wants you so badly that it physically hurts.

And so, if you don’t want him he’ll respect that – it hurts, of course, and he’ll have trouble facing you for the next few days, but he's man enough to know that your consent is key. But it’s also this crippling fear of rejection and putting himself in a position of possible weakness with you that bars him from trying to progress your sexual relationship for a long, long time.

He’s desiring you in risqué and lewd ways long before he’s stolen you away, but it’s difficult to act on those, to put himself out there and risk your harsh, painful rejection of him.

(And he’s convinced you will reject him, if only because despite his persona, Sanemi harbors insecurities about his ability to be loved. He thinks there’s something deeply wrong with him, something that makes others fearful of him and something that will deter anyone from getting too close. Besides Genya, of course, but the matter is complicated.)

And so, he holds himself back from making any sort of move in your sexual relationship – he wants to either have you bring it up, or to keep everything between you as strictly protector-protectee as possible, even if he craves to touch you and lay with you.

But, like most things in your relationship, Sanemi’s restraint snaps one day. To be fair, it’s not entirely Sanemi’s fault – months of repressing his sex drive and ignoring the tantalizing way you look in the kimonos he hand-picked for you leaves him on the brink of exploding, so pent-up and sexually frustrated that it nearly drives him mad.

The final straw is a particularly brutal, gut-wrenching mission – he’d been tasked to stop a demon in a few towns over, a simple mission that he really, really should’ve been able to fix much quicker. But the demon was smart and seemed to sense his approach, and the carnage was far, far greater than Sanemi was expecting. Small children stained red with parents dismembered a few feet away, visible bite chunks leaving the smell of rot and death heavy in the air. It left his stomach churning, but what truly sent him off the end was hearing a small sob after he’d sliced the demon’s neck, the little boy crying next to what Sanemi could only assume was his dead mother.

That in itself wasn’t out of the ordinary, but the boy’s striking, uncanny resemblance to his own brother Koto makes him stop in his tracks, lips falling open like a gaping fish. He’s frozen, simply staring like some fool, but then everything happens much, much too fast.

The demon’s suddenly swooping in, the boy’s head severed in the blink of an eye, a deranged cackle falling from the creature as a resounding crunchnoise fills the air. Sanemi’s thrown into a state of rage, immediately killing the demon and stabbing at it repeatedly. He’s cutting up each and every part of the monster (careful to avoid touching the boy’s head, though), yelling and cursing at it for what feels like hours.

By the time he’s done there’s tears pricking his eyes, and the walk back to his Estate is blurry and heavy with his own grief. He hasn’t cried in years, but something about the little boy’s face and the weight pressing on his back leave him with wet cheeks, the shoji door quietly sliding open to your room before he can catch himself.

You’re still awake, and he doesn’t even have the right mental state to be angry at you for cutting your sleep. He’s quiet, simply staring at you from the doorway as you wearily approach him, concerned and slightly scared because there’s blood smeared across his uniform and his eyes are bloodshot.

Sanemi? Your voice is weak, and you gently, hesitantly press a hand against his trembling fingers grasping onto the scabbard of his sword.

He swallows harshly, eyes locked onto yours. He whispers your name, voice low and hoarse, but before you can say anything he’s wrapping his arms around you, clutching onto your so tightly that your breathing is restricted. It leaves you yelping, unsure how to respond to the uncharacteristic affection, but the shallow shaking of his shoulders makes you soothingly run a hand through his hair.

Sanemi… You trail off again, but he only hugs you tighter in response. It’s some ten minutes before he finally sniffles, mumbling something against your clothed shoulder that you can’t quite hear.

When you don’t respond, he grips you tighter, pulling his face back just a hair to say again please, I need you to touch me.

It makes you stiffen in his grasp, and that makes him panic. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, I just – he stops, swallowing again and letting his weight sag against you even more. I just can’t be alone right now.

And maybe it’s the vulnerability in his tone, the strange, gentle side of him you so rarely see, or maybe it’s your own longing for human contact and touch that drives you to press a kiss against the crown of his head.

He gasps sharply, his grip loosening ever so slightly. You take the opportunity to gently pull back, grabbing his wrist and leading him over to your bed in the center of the room. He’s staring at you with wide, puffy eyes, shellshocked and unable to say anything as you grasp at the edge of his uniform.

Your voice is still soft as you tell him take this off, no blood on my bed, and he’s only staring for a single, long moment before the fabric is flying over his head, his pants quickly falling suite and leaving him bare aside from a pair of thin undergarments sitting dangerously low on the sharp v-line of his navel. He’s still looking at you, eyes wild and wide, his chest rising and falling so quickly that it almost worries you.

You’re much slower when you peel away your own sleeping clothes, leaving your body in only a thin, light-weight slip that makes Sanemi lick his lips. You’re so fucking pretty – it’s making something in his chest ache, his palms flexing by his sides, brain warring between the extreme emotional distress and arousal at seeing your partially exposed body and your desire for him.

You step forward, palm pressing against his cheek, and slowly pull him to you. Letting your lips ghost against his for a moment, you press a soft, barely-there kiss against the corner of his mouth. Murmuring his name, you feel the way his whole body shivers.

Finally, finally, you press your lips against his, moving slow and trying to let him relax into it. He’s still so tense – he wants this badly, but now that it’s actually happening he’s freezing up a bit. He’s dreamed and fantasized about this moment for months, lying awake and feeling pathetic for imagining that you could want him like this.

But the moment passes and he’s suddenly kissing you back, his movements sloppy and uncooridinated, evidence that he’s never done this before. But you take it in stride and pull back, the sound making his nostrils flare. He moves forward, chasing your lips, but you stop him with a lay down with me, please Sanemi.

And it’s as if he’s some well-trained pet – he’s immediately laying down, body tense and taut over your blankets, and he watches with baited breath as you straddle him, your thighs warm against his skin and oh god oh god –

He can feel it – can feel you.

You’re incredibly warm, the heat permeating through his underclothes as you press against his cock, the sensation forcing something that sounds much too similar to a moan to slip from his lips. It feels surreal – and when you start slowly moving your hips, grinding on him in teasingly slow, agonizingly pleasurable little circles, Sanemi’s gripping at your thighs, his self-restraint nearly buckling.

The evening passes full of slow, tender touches, exploring fingers and tongues covering every inch of your skin and his. The sex is soft, thrusts gentle and deep, rolling and pressing against every spot that makes your toes curl. He’s kissing you the whole time, grasping onto your skin like you’re his life line, a near-growl coming from somewhere deep in his throat when you take even a hand away from holding him. He wants your fingers tunneling through his hair, your leg wrapped around his waist, your nipples brushing against his own.

It's heaven, he thinks, and though he tries to hide his face as he ruts into you, the tears return to his eyes and before he knows it he’s chanting a slurred, choked mantra of your name, timing with his thrusts and begging you in a near-incomprehensible plea of never leave me, you can’t leave me, I won’t let you leave me.

It’s only after his hips stutter, a gasp of your name and his hot breath going ragged in your ear that he finally goes limp. He’s still inside you, the last throbs and bits of his orgasm rocking through him, but he’s carefully maneuvering your bodies so that he’s laying behind you. You’re caged in his arms – a heavy, muscular limb wrapped around your waist, body molded to yours and pulling you flush against him. He falls asleep like that – flaccidly inside you, his breath in your ear, his grip on you remaining deadly tight even as dreams overtake him. And eventually, you fall asleep too – exhausted, confused, and embracing this small, intimate moment even if you’ll regret it.

He’s gone the next morning, the covers wrapped up to your chin, the blankets and sheets on his side perfectly pristine.

He doesn’t mention that night for the foreseeable future, embarrassed and angry at himself for giving into temptation and allowing himself to be so weak in front of you. He’s worried that you might regret it, that you’ll find him disgusting for being so wanton and blatant in his begging for you, and he bars himself from engaging with you sexually again. (Out of embarrassment, out of shame, out of fear because god, he’s never been as desperate and depraved as he was the moment he slipped inside of you, and how would he react the second time? The third? The tenth?)

He won’t acknowledge that it happened, but you’ll notice the glances he starts throwing your way, the way his gaze lingers on your body, how he stiffens up the moment you get even remotely close to him. It’s a stark contrast to the man who’d been groaning out your name like salvation the night before, but just know that if you were to approach him, Sanemi will be putty in your hands.

If you were to kiss him or touch him or tell him how badly you need him, he’ll fold. He’ll get onto his knees, mouthing at your cunt and struggling to mutter out how he’d thought you’d never ask, fuck.

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Cumplay

While Sanemi will bend to your whims almost always in bed, there are a few very, very specific things that he won’t compromise on.

That is, he absolutely must finish either inside you, down your throat, or on your body. It’s a possessiveness thing for him – he’s in ecstasy and still slightly shocked that you’re touching him (and letting him touch you), but it’s still not quite enough. He’s licking and sucking at your neck, leaving marks and hickies and the imprint of his fingertips lightly against your skin, trying to mark you up as his his his. He wants to leave a physical imprint of his possession over you, because while it feels dehumanizing to think of you as his, he can’t help the way it makes something in his chest twist in just the right way, nor can he help the way his cock stands up at attention, growing hard just at the mere idea of physically making you his.

And Sanemi quickly finds the quickest, easiest way to claim you as his is to leave you absolutely dripping with his cum. He’s territorial, completely believing that you’re his woman and he is your man. It’s this possessiveness mixed with his obsession over being your protector that drive his compulsive need to fill you with every last drop he can give you – it feels better this way, more natural. It’s like he’s giving you what you desire – he’s giving you everything he can, the most intimate, sacred part of him, something he made for you and you alone.

And so, every time he’s got hic cock out and your kissing, sucking, touching, or fucking it, Sanemi’s throwing his head back and groaning, all sorts of filthy, dirty promises about how he’s going to finish for you falling past his lips.

He’ll have you on your knees, his thighs tense and his abs clenching, his hand in your hair and fighting very, very hard to not pull you down until his cock’s in the back of your throat, choking and gagging you. (He wants to – god does he want to, but he doesn’t want to hurt you, so he’ll stop himself. A mind-numbing orgasm with your hot little tongue pressed against his underside isn’t worth you being angry or hurt.) He's groaning your name and telling you that that you’re gonna – fuck, gonna take it all, yeah? Gonna swallow every last fucking drop, o-oh fucky baby, god wanna see you swallow ngh –

Your hand is wrapped around his girth, wrist flicking up and down so quickly that it makes him pant, your free hand delicately groping and squeezing at his balls. He’s bucking up against your tugs, a red flush on the bridge of his nose as he grunts, rushing forward to kiss you with way too much tongue, pulling back only when he starts shuddering, breath ragged as he tells you that he wants to finish on your chest, voice getting slurred and strained as he tells you he’s gonna come on your tits, god so fucking pretty fuck fuck fuck –

(He’ll stare with this sort of boyish look in his eye and something feral, predatory at his handiwork once he does, white smeared across your skin and leaving a film that he rubs at with his thumb, pinching your nipple and licking his lips when you squirm.)

He’s got you pressed into a tight, suffocating mating press, his forehead pressed against yours and his hands holding your knees up, the angle and feeling of you making teeter on the edge. ‘M gonna, ‘m gonna come soon, where do you want it? He’ll ask, eyes fluttering shut as you clench down on him, only to open wide when you whine out to finish inside ‘Nemi, please please please want your cum!

And it’s lewd and dirty and it gets him fucking into you deeper, hips snapping into yours so hard that you’re physically moving up the length of the bed, his voice a growl as he grins, groaning yeah? Want me to come in this tight – fuck, tight little pussy? So damn greedy, fuuuuck, you better take it, don’t let any drip out or I’ll have to fill you again. He’ll press kisses against your lips, jaw, and neck, his voice growing louder as he growl again between each kiss.

And when he’s right on the edge, his thrusts growing uneven and choppy, his eyes are meeting yours again as he gasps take it take it take it, cum spurting from his tip and leaving you feeling warm and so very, very full. He produces a lot with each orgasm, seeming to never stop as it oozes from his hyper-sensitive tip, and Sanemi uses it to his advantage.

He’s obsessed with looking at the product of his orgasm – he’ll kneel between your legs so that your cunt’s eyelevel and simply stare as his cum slowly leaks out, down the grooves of your folds and over your pert hole, dripping onto the floor below you and making him scoff. He’ll scoop it up with a single finger, pushing it back inside of you and kissing you to muffle the sound of your surprise, slightly embarrassed because he absolutely can’t let even the smallest amount not end up inside you.

When you’ve convinced him to be a tad bit rougher as you bob your head between his legs, Sanemi will grant your wish and finish on your face, groaning and biting his lip at the way you look, his cum dribbling down from your lips to your chin, dripping down to land on your nipples, thighs, other parts of your body.

(And as disrespectful as it felt to finish there, Sanemi secretly loves it – he won’t request it because he doesn’t think you’d enjoy it, but he’s nursing a fantasy that you’ll let him smear his cum all over your lips and cheeks, and then simply not clean it for the rest of the day. He wants the physical evidence of his intimacy with you to be constantly visible, so that every glance reminders him that you wanted him, that you were practically begging him for his cock like some common whore. You aren’t, or course, but the possessive, animalistic part of him that desires rough, carnal sex with you is satisfied by the idea, something primal about the idea of leaving a mark of him him him against your pretty face. He’ll never bring it up, simply stewing on it in silence, but if you were to mention the idea, or tell him that you want to keep his cum really anywhere against your skin, you’ll witness something that absolutely mortifies him – a dry orgasm paired with a sad, shocked little whimper, the embarrassment and unexpected pleasure making him too ashamed to even look at you for a few hours afterwards.)

He just really likes the concept of leaving you stuffed full of him. (And there’s a small part of him that hopes desperately with every load he gives you that it’ll finally take. He’s always fantasized about having a family with you, but with each time he stuffs you full, he can only get closer and closer to the dream, the mere idea of you pregnant enough to get him hot under the collar and desperate to get his hands on you.)

And to his credit, this kink goes both ways – he’ll gladly let you cover every inch of his skin in your spit and slick, rubbing yourself against his body and licking at him until you’ve had your fill.

(And fuck, if you squirt? He’s wearing it like a badge of honor, pride and arousal coursing through him in such potent amounts that he’s nearly dizzy, nearly unable to function because god he needs to fuck you and make you do that over and over again until you can’t anymore.)

He’s just possessive, and while you might initially be rather disgusted simply by his eagerness and fixation on it, eventually you might even find it hot, too. Because really, he may be deranged, a stalker, horribly and uncomfortably dependent on you for his emotional stability and health, but isn’t there something so very sexy about a grown man moaning in your ear and begging you to please let him finish inside you?

Voyeurism

Perhaps it’s a remnant of having stalked you for so long, but there’s something that gets Sanemi so fucking hard about watching you pleasure yourself.

There’s layers to it – of course he loves the physical sight of you with your fingers stuffed into your cunt, tits spilling out of your lounging shirt, thighs quivering and your lips parting into that pretty ‘o’ shape that Sanemi wants to fill with his fingers. He loves the way you look all fucked out, pretty and writhing and gasping, letting all your natural sounds out because there’s not a soul around to hear you and you can be truly free. So yes, from a purely carnal, sexual standpoint, Sanemi very much enjoys the sight of you touching yourself.

But even beyond that, there’s something morbidly fascinating and addicting about it – there’s something indescribably intimate about watching you at your most vulnerable, those lilac eyes widening and staying transfixed on every aspect of you that he can. He’s watching like a hawk as you squeeze at your breast, watching to see if you pinch at your nipple or roll it, if you squeeze hard and hold it there or opt for weaker but more frequent squeezes.

He’s carefully watching your fingers, analyzing the patterns and shapes you’re drawing against your clit, how fast you’re going and whether you vary anything or keep it all consistent.

(He’ll even press his fingers against the expanse of his forearm as he watches, mimicking your motions against his own skin in an effort to practice, to learn by muscle memory exactly how you like to be touched so that once he gets you naked and spread out for him, he can be exactly what you want and give you exactly what you need. He’ll do this with the way you finger yourself, too, guessing at the particular angles you’re reaching for based on the way your wrist flexes, how your knuckles move. He’ll go home and practice this, too, using his pillow as a poor stand-in for your body and practicing thrusting in the pattern you seem to like, angling his hips to brush against the spot that always gets you gasping, buffing up his stamina because he’ll be damned if the first time he gets you naked underneath him is thwarted by his own physical inabilities.)

It helps him feel connected to you like this – easier to pretend that he’s the one making you moan and curl your toes rather than your own hand or the toy you’d purchased for yourself.

(A toy that he absolutely fucking hates, always glaring at it and scoffing because he’s sure that he could fuck you so much better – he’d get the angle right, he’d get the depth perfect, and he’d do all the damn work – you just need to lay there and look pretty, grasp onto him and moan his name and he’ll take care of the rest. He'll always take care of you, after all, and he wants the sex to be absolutely perfect, for you to crave him even a fraction as much as he craves you.)

And even once he’s forced to steal you away, these habits of peeping in on you while you’re lost in your own little world don’t magically disappear. It’s more difficult now, sure, because standing and peering through your window was always easier, always less risky, but Sanemi becomes too desperate and in withdrawal to stop himself.

His lucidity leaves him feeling guilty every time, but he’ll crack the door into your room open ever so slightly, having returned home from a mission or an errand earlier than he’d told you. He’ll peek in, doing his best to move slowly and silently to avoid grabbing your attention, and he’s immediately got his hand in his pants, gripping himself so tightly and harshly that it nearly brings tears to his eyes.

His orgasms are always stronger when he’s got you in his sight, and as he times his strokes with your thrusts inside yourself, he’s clenching his abs and shaking, hips coming up to thrust and rut against his fist. He’s staying deathly quiet, intent on hearing the sound of your moans and the wet squelching of your cunt sucking your fingers in again and again. And when he comes, he’s praying that you’ll finish at the same time, forcing himself to stop and endlessly edging himself just so that you can come together, to have something romantic and sweet like a simultaneous release.

(Of course, the aftermath of cum staining the front of his trousers and his upper thighs is less sweet, but Sanemi can’t quite care – even as it dries and grows cold, feeling slimy and sticky against his skin. He’s too transfixed watching the way your chest slowly stops heaving, how you relax and bask in the afterglow of your orgasm, how you idly play with your nipples and smile up at the ceiling, and if he tries harder enough - pretends hard enough, really - he can even hear you murmur his name.)

The intention is relatively sweet, no matter how deranged and creepy he may feel for actively spying on you as you undress, but he’s just a man, and how can a man be expected to deny himself the viewing pleasure of the woman he’s so madly, pathetically obsessed with?

But unfortunately for Sanemi, you’re not as oblivious as he hopes – you’ll notice the way he lingers at your door, his occasional soft, shuddering gasps not going unheard even over the sound of your own moans. You’ll see his shadow against the door panels, even seeing the shadow of his cock when he pulls it out of his pants, the mere sight making your orgasm hurtle closer and closer, even despite your shame at finding your kidnapper’s cock arousing.

You’re not blind, and it’s almost therapeutic to watch how easily he falls apart for you, the shadow of his back hunching over slightly as you both near your ends, the wet squelching sounds of his fist going up and down just barely audible if you strain yourself hard enough. It’s endearing, in a fucked-up sort of way, but if you were to ever mention something about it, Sanemi will immediately bristle, embarrassment crawling up his spine and his cheeks glowing a soft, subtle pink, entirely caught off guard and unsure of what to say.

(He’s mortified that you know, that he’d been caught, if only because now he’s absolutely convinced you must think of him as a pervert, as a monster, and it kills him to know that it’s true. And yet, there’s some small, masochistic part of him that’s almost glad, finding the whole situation so, so very hot because now he can’t help but wonder if you’d started touching yourself on purpose, perhaps wanting to draw him out, perhaps wanting to listen to him losing his fucking mind over your naked body. You naughty, naughty thing.)

And so, once your consensual sexual relationship begins, Sanemi is using every piece of knowledge he’d gathered from watching you to his advantage – he’s not wasting any time putting all that practice into use, curling his fingers and rubbing and kneading just how you like it, watching with wide, almost nervous eyes to see how you react, hoping that he’s doing good and making you enjoy it, enjoy him.

He wants you to tell him how it feels, to hear you say that it’s good, that you love it when you touch me ‘Nemi, and that alone gets him doubling in his efforts, frantic to get you to orgasm for him and only him, filled with a sort of crazed need to be the one to finally, finally bring you your high.

And as time passes, you’ll notice that Sanemi tends to bring this kink into the bedroom, too, even when you’re fully aware of his presence – he’ll tell you to touch yourself, settling across the bed, and slowly fisting at his cock, licking his lips and watching with rapt attention as you spread your legs, playing with yourself and humming his name.

But it’s not quite the same as when you were alone, though, and Sanemi will tell you to act like I’m not here, don’t make shit up or fake your moans. He wants the authenticity, the rawness, the realness of you fully indulging in yourself.

It’s in these moments that you’ll see the more submissive side of Sanemi – the small part of him that absolutely loves when you ignore his existence, pretending he’s not fisting his cock like a madman simply to the sight, smell, and sound of you. He likes the way that you’re not paying him any mind, completely focused on yourself, Sanemi merely a bystander and watching you. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s in these moments that his obsession only further solidifies, his feelings for you growing stronger and latching into him deeper, like claws that make him shiver in pain-tinged pleasure. Because really, he can only consider himself lucky and cruelly blessed for getting to see you like this, for being allowed so close to you as you gush on your fingers and pinch at your nipples. It’s an honor, even if that explanation makes you shift uncomfortably and try to ignore the reverent look in his eye.

You’re just so damn pretty, can he really be blamed for wanting to stare and stare and stare?

Marking

While hyper fixated on your health and safety in every aspect of his obsession, one area where he’s ever so slightly lenient is in bed. He’ll outright refuse to do anything that draws blood or involves hitting you, but there’s something rather tempting about the idea of leaving a trace of himself after he spends hours upon hours getting you to come on his fingers and cock.

He likes the reminder that he’d been able to pleasure you, the feeling enough to get you moaning and clawing at his back and whining his name. And so, Sanemi develops a liking for leaving all sorts of hickeys and love bites all over your body.

He’s passionate when he fucks you, leaving kisses on every inch of skin he can reach and grasping onto you tightly enough that sometimes bruises appear.

(And he feels guilty for it, in the beginning, always scowling when he sees them the next day. But alongside the guilt there’s something good – something that makes him smug, pride settling in his gut because those are his fingermarks on your body, showing that he attends to your more intimate needs. Reminding him that you let him attend to those needs – that you let him kiss and hold you, that you let him squeeze and grope at your skin, that you let him spread your legs and push himself inside until he’s filling every possible inch of you, connected with you in the most raw, natural way. It’s romantic, almost, and it makes Sanemi squirm slightly just thinking about it because oh fuck, now he’s hard again and really you should take some accountability for showing off your collarbone and the barrage of hickeys like that…)

He’s not picky about where or how he does it, either – what you’ll mostly be covered in are hickeys, the dark spots dancing in patterns all along your neck, shoulders, collarbone, inner thighs, and even your stomach and ass. His favorite is your neck, though. He likes the way you get all breathless when he kisses and sucks and licks at the skin, the sensations making your breath go light and airy against his ear, the harsh puffs of air blowing against the tufts of white hair on his head.

And he’ll leave all over your neck – at the juncture at your jaw, sucking a few right below your ear.

(He’ll take a few moments to lightly nibble and bite at your earlobe, liking the way you whine his name and tell him to stop being weird, but it’s endearing, the way you clearly like it and are just saying that to keep up images. Silly girl.)

He’ll flutter kisses along the column of your neck, tracing your windpipe and smiling against your skin when you swallow heavily. He’ll suck dark hickeys into the flesh of your shoulders, the soft slope the perfect canvas for him to leave littered with his marks. Sometimes he’ll randomly pick spots, the final result looking a little unorganized but still enough to make his heart swell and his breathing to get heavier. Other times he’ll very strategically place them – spelling out an ‘s’ character or a heart or something sappy that leaves him feeling a bit embarrassed but he just can’t help it.

Your neck is his favorite because of the intimacy and the difficulty of hiding the particularly high ones, but your inner thighs are a very close second. When he settles onto his stomach and spreads your legs, mouth hovering over your cunt and his warm breath making you twitch, he’ll take his time kissing up the space from your knee to your pelvis, taking the skin between his teeth and lightly nibbling, pressing dark sucks against the area and loving the way you squirm underneath his rather harsh grip on your thighs.

He’s a tease once he grows confident in the fact that you crave intimacy with him, loving the way you get desperate and beg him to give you what he knows you need. (He’d watched you with enough consistency and thoroughness for all those months before stealing you away and now he knows your tells – the way your face looks, how you sound, how your body jerks and shakes, hell, even the way you smell when you get close.)

He’ll push you right up to the edge, fingers working magic in a come hither motion against that spongey spot inside of you that makes your whole body tense in pleasure, all while his thumb is rubbing circles at your clit that leave you bucking your hips and chanting out his name. He’ll get you right there, then pull back, going back to your inner thigh and working on a fresh, new hickey, the loss of stimulation making you pout and whine for him to touch you again.

He’ll only roll his eyes, pulling back with a loud thwap noise as the suction breaks, your slick still visible on his lips, chin, and cheeks. So demanding, he’ll start, sending a sharp brush of his fingers over your clit that gets you gasping.

He’ll hold out for a while longer, milking out the way you plead with him, before he’ll eventually give in and get back to your neglected cunt, bringing you to your high and rutting at the bed below him with the way you writhe and cry out. And for the next few days, every time he sees that particular hickey he’s suddenly way too red, sweaty and panting and growing more desperate by the second to give you more more more, wanting your whole body to be evidence of his presence in both your life and your bed.

And he’ll proudly wear any marks you make on his body, too – leave hickeys and love bites against his skin and he’ll only shiver and let his eyes roll to the back of his head. He’ll encourage you to run your nails down the expanse of his back when he’s got you in missionary or a press, growling your name as his hips fuck into you harder, faster, with more intent and purpose.

(And later, when he’s dressing himself and happens to see himself in a mirror, he can only gulp, thumb tracing along the scratch marks and blemishes left behind from you. It makes him giddy, often absentmindedly running a finger over them while he travels to missions, during pointless conversation, during times when he’s away on a mission and starting to think himself into a panic about how you’re doing, if you’re safe, if you’ve escaped him somehow. It calms him and only kindles his feelings for you, the knowledge of you willingly leaving your mark on him enough to get him licking his lips and palming himself over his pants, trying to restrain himself so that he can get you to leave newer, fresher marks.)

He just likes the idea, and while he’d never bite you hard enough to cause genuine pain or give you a hickey so deep that it hurt, he will be marking you from head to toe so that everyone you come into contact with (no one besides him, really, but that’s besides the point) cannot deny that you are Sanemi Shinazugawa’s woman.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Slapping

But in a very, very specific way – Sanemi treasures you, idolizing and worshipping you to the point of self-loathing, and consequently he’s not terribly mean in bed. Once a steady sexual relationship is established between the two of you, he’ll get more vocal and adventurous, adapting to what you like.

(And he’s willing to do just about anything you want of him sexually – he’ll get on his knees and kiss up your thighs, lapping and sucking at your cunt until you have to physically push him off of you, slick smeared across his lips, cheeks, and chin while he stares up at you, equal parts hazed and irritated that you’d pulled him away. He’ll let you climb on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head and letting you play with his cock until he’s near tears, the edging and phantom touches making him grit and groan, desperation eating away at him because your touch feels so good but oh – it’s the attention you’re giving to him that ultimately makes him paint your fist white.)

And though he’s not naturally inclined to be degrading towards you during sex, there’s one stark exception – that is, there’s something that makes the possessiveness and territorial feelings Sanemi harbors for you flare up when he smacks you with his cock. Nothing too hard, of course – the intention isn’t to hurt you or bruise you, but rather it’s like staking his claim on you.

It’s like showing you that you belong to him – he’ll grip himself at the base, biting his lip and flexing his arm as he shifts his weight, hovering over you and smacking his fat, soaked tip against your pretty, puffy clit, stifling a groan at the way you jerk at the contact.

He’s smacking himself against your folds, the wet and tacky noise making his fingers tighten against the pillow under your head, his breath getting heavier because fuck, you look so damn pretty underneath him like this, reactive to his cock even when it’s not inside of you.

He’s tracing his tip against your lips when you’re on your knees for him, whispered chants of your name falling from his lips as he lightly taps his tip against your cheeks, your lips, your outstretched tongue.

(And, after he smacks himself against your tongue, if you smile and giggle ever so slightly? Well, don’t be surprised when he stiffens up, his orgasm crashing through him after a mere minute of your hot, wet mouth around him. Don’t be surprised when he starts cursing and murmuring things under his breath right on the brink of his high, your name mixing with gravely I love you’s as he gives you rope after rope after rope of his cum, hot and potent and made with only you in mind.)

He just likes the physical action of it, the way that even something so small gives him the slightest bit of acknowledgement that you’re his, that you’re here and touching him and looking at him just as he’s been fantasizing of for so long. It’s hot, he thinks, and while he’d be extremely reluctant to actually hit you during sex, he’s rubbing and smacking his cock against every inch of your body that he can – your face, your ass, your tits (he especially loves to rub his cum-soaked tip against your nipples, watching as they get hard and get glossy in the candlelight), your thighs, hell, even your arms.

He wants to claim every part of you, and so between covering you in his cum and the imprint of his cock, you’ll be fully and utterly his.

Spitting

Again, it’s a possessive thing – tying into his desire to mark you as his and only his, Sanemi grows a penchant for spitting. It’s something he harshly avoids when you first begin your intimate relationship, finding the act too disrespectful and frankly gross to partake in. He’s worried you’ll find it derogatory and that you’ll see him as some misogynistic freak who views you as his property.

(Which is, in some ways, ever so slightly true – he does see you as his, but it’s reciprocal. You’re his just as much as he’s yours, and if you want to think about in such a crude, black-and-white way, then yes – he sees you as his property. But he’s your property, too, if it makes you feel any better.)

And frankly, he won’t bother indulging in the kink unless you initially bring it up – he’s too tied down to this philosophy and he doesn’t want to risk you getting disgusted or turned off when he’s touching you.

But if you bring it up and use a lot of ‘please’ and compliments, Sanemi will cave.

It’s awkward the first few times, hovering over you and perched on his elbows, nose scrunching slightly because he’s not sure how to do this in a way he thinks will be sexy for you. He wants to live up to your fantasy, so he presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, collecting the saliva, before puckering his lips, letting the glob fall with a rather obnoxious noise.

Your mouth’s already open for him, tongue lightly sticking out and your eyes half-lidded with lust, and the mere sight alone makes Sanemi gulp, scared he might accidentally drool into your mouth.

(Though, perhaps you’d like that – you’re a freak, he thinks, but it still makes his cheeks feel hot, his cock jumping against your thigh, his Adam’s apple harshly bobbing.)

It’s in the moment when he watches his spit land on your tongue, pretty lips closing and the swallowing motion you make exaggerated and loud. He’ll pause, staring down at your lips in a daze, before suddenly telling you to do that again, the sight so strangely erotic that he needs to do it again and again and again.

It strokes something in his ego – some sort of feeling of dominance and claim on you, marking his territory by making sure you’ve got a little piece of him in you. Soon he’s cupping your jaw every time your clothes get stripped off, forcing your lips to open and immediately spitting onto your tongue, watching with hazy eyes and a small smirk as you obediently swallow, the sight never failing to get him even more eager to spread your legs and sink inside of you.

It gets to the point where it even becomes a non-sexual thing sometimes – it feels too good to be showing such an obvious sign of claim on you that he’ll slowly kiss you in the mornings, your soft lips and little sighs making him light-headed. He’ll pull back, his morning voice hoarse and gravely as he tells you to open up, immediately spitting into your open mouth and following it up with a few kisses against your jaw, a murmur of good morning.

He likes to start the day with it because it puts him into a good mood – a light, peaceful one, quelling the jealous, anxious worry that you’ll leave him, that you’ll be snatched up by another man, that you hate him.

And his fixation for spitting doesn’t just end at your mouth – he’ll spit onto your cunt when he’s kneeling between your legs, two thick fingers rubbing the fluid against your pretty folds, taking extra care to let it lubricate his fingertips before he presses quick, steady little circles against your clit.

He’ll spit into his own hand, coating his fingers and slowly pressing them into you, grunting at the way you gasp out and tighten impossibly around them. It’s lubrication, he thinks, and the idea of his saliva being in your pussy makes him shiver, the thought so dirty and taboo and so very good.

And he’d be happy if you wanted to return the favor – he’ll look at you expectantly, irritation evident in his gaze, before he sits down and forces you to stand over him, his own mouth open and awaiting. He likes it for all the same reasons, just reversed – he likes the idea of you wanting to stake your claim on him. He wants to feel wanted and cherished by you, and if you were to spit into his mouth it’d be direct evidence that you want him, at least in a sexual capacity.

It’s thrilling, frankly, and it leaves Sanemi eagerly swallowing, immediately attacking you with passionate, needy kisses and wandering hands that swiftly find purchase in groping at your ass.

He just thinks it’s romantic, and he’ll do everything in his power to win points with you. Anything to get you liking him more, craving him more.

BIGGEST FANTASY:

Despite holding status as both a Hashira and your captor, Sanemi is very, very shy about asking you for any sort of deviation in the bedroom. It’s a combination of things that hold him back – fear of rejection, mainly, but also embarrassment because he’s worried that you’ll think he’s strange for wanting to try certain things.

Namely, Sanemi desperately, desperately wants you to sit on his face.

He has no sexual experience and hadn’t even been aware this was an option until he’d accidentally overheard a conversation between Uzui and a (very uncomfortable) Giyuu, and while he’s ashamed to admit it he’d stuck around, eavesdropping just around the corner as Giyuu asked the older man what exactly that meant (only to very quickly regret it, his cheeks flushing a light pink and not even bothering to make up an excuse as he hurried away).

It’s where the woman sits down on the man’s face, giving him better access to pleasure her with his mouth! It’s quite flashy, and a good view, too.

Sanemi had been flustered at his words, too, but had spent the whole day struggling to get the thought out of his head. Fantasies about eating you out and making you fall apart with just his tongue and fingers had long been circling through his head, keeping him up at night and forcing him to wrap calloused fingers around his cock, holding the scrap of fabric from your kimono he’d managed to snag between his teeth, groaning and growling at the mere thought of what you taste like.

But this?

This is risqué, vulgar, perhaps even crude – and something he grows more and more antsy to try with each passing day, unable to stop his gaze from lingering on your thighs, biting his lip and imagining the way they’d feel around his head.

He generally likes sexual positions and scenarios where you’re getting most of the pleasure, genuinely getting off on the idea of being useful to you in the bedroom. And he finds the idea of being so surrounded by you – his sight, his hearing, his taste, his smell – enticing, loving the idea that he gets to spoil you by working at you for hours and letting you ride his face, all the while getting to indulge himself in all things you.

And he truly wants you to use him – he wants you to grind your hips against the expanse of his tongue, to let your clit press against his nose and hump at it. He wants his entire lips, chin, and cheeks to be smeared with your release, to have it seep into his skin and soak in so that he has a piece of you with him always, a reminder that you let him touch you, pleasure you, that you want him.

“Are you sure about this, ‘Nemi?” You ask, biting your lip and watching as he scowls. He’s laying down in front of you, clothes thrown off to some other part of the room and his cock already half-hard, flushed a deep pink color.

He’s cocking his brow at you, embarrassment creeping up his spine. He knew you’d find this weird – stupid Tengen, giving out stupid advice.

“Yes, hurry up!” He snaps, swallowing and looking away for a moment to collect himself. Excitement and anxiety eat away at his stomach. He’s surprised you’d agreed to this, given the way he’d very haphazardly and defensively presented the idea. He’s pleased, of course, but now there’s that familiar self-imposed pressure to make sure that he preforms perfectly, that you enjoy every minute of it, that you’ll be satisfied and happy with his performance.

When you still don’t move, his scowl morphs into a frown. He opens his mouth to speak, to reluctantly tell you that you don’t have to unless you want to, but your small nod and footsteps towards him snap his jaw back up.

He’s practically brimming with anticipation, fists clenched at his sides.

You step over him, slowly kneeling down and standing on your knees. You’re hesitating, shuffling forward but scared to lower yourself those last few inches, and Sanemi grumbles underneath you.

“I don’t fucking bite,” he starts, hands coming up to grip at the plush of your thighs. He guides you up further, moving you forward and forward until your cunt’s directly above him, a shaky exhale brushing against the sensitive skin of your folds and making you shiver.

“Now just sit down.” He tells you, squeezing his fingers as if imploring you to just do as he says. You lower down but still leave most of your weight on your own legs.

He inhales deeply, the sound filling the room and making you blanche, embarrassment eating away at you. Sanemi groans at the scent of you, the familiar musk making his cock throb even harder against the confines of his pants.

He’s slow when he starts – kitten licks against your clit and large, flat licks along your folds. His eyes are fixed on you’re the whole time, staring and transfixed, trying to note every minute, small change in your expression.

He’s steadily tonguing at your clit now, and a moan rips its way out of you before you can really stop it. Closing your eyes, you focus on the feeling of his tongue against you, his fingers pressing against your thighs, the brush of his hair against your bare skin.

But then he’s suddenly grabbing onto the globes of your ass, pulling you down down down –

“Sanemi!” You gasp, the sensation so much stronger now that you’re flush with his face. He’s using his strength to pull you down – muscles flexing in an effort to keep you still and exactly where he wants you.

Lilac eyes stare up at you half-lidded, the taste of you clouding his senses and leaving him eagerly licking for more, slurping at you with lewd sounds that only serve to get him harder and harder.

Soon your stationary position isn’t enough, though, and he’s guiding your hips in a forwards-backwards motion, effectively grinding you against his lips and noise. Your breath catches as the action and Sanemi swears he sees stars – you’re so damn pretty, and Tengen had been right about the view. He can see your face, feel your thighs around his head, and see your pretty tits from up close.

He’s gripping onto you so tightly that you can’t even try to break the control he has over your movements – he’s pulling you across his face in a rhythm that makes your breath stutter and your hands blindly reach out to steady yourself on anything nearby. It ends up being the wall in front of you, both palms laying flat against the paneling as you pant and sigh his name. His nose is pressing against your clit, the sensation only causing you to shake as he slowly builds up your orgasm.

He pulls away for the smallest moment, licking his lips and squeezing your ass even harder, kneading at your cheeks and spreading them apart from one another. “Use me, ride my face.”

You blanch at his words, doubt settling in your chest, but at the insistent tug of your cunt back down onto his face, you can only shakily sigh, taking his advice and slowly starting to gyrate your hips. The response is immediate – a groan of satisfaction from Sanemi, his tongue efforts doubling as you control the pace, smearing your cunt against his skin and feeling like you’re suffocating him.

He’s in heaven, meanwhile, tasting you with a fervor and lightly bucking his hips, the phantom ghost of your touch through his clothing making his mind spin. You’re so damn pretty and perfect and lovely and when you’re using his face like your own personal pillow to hump and fuck, how can he complain?

He can’t, which is why he’s groaning equally as loudly as you when you reach your high a few minutes later, your shakes and shivers against his skin leaving him drooling at the sight of your back arching, tits jutting out and your thighs clenching even tighter around himself. You’re so attractive like this – all sexy and adorable even when he’s doing such filthy things to you, and it’s the sight and knowledge that he’s the one making you feel this good – that it’s his face and tongue and cheeks and body – that are getting you to violently jerk and moan his name, fresh rounds of slick dripping against his tongue and making him groan tightly against you.

And you’ll be able to tell just how much the mental and physical pictures affected him because once he’s had his share – pulling four or five orgasms out of you with just this method – there’s a distinct wet spot over his trousers, seeping across the fabric and leaving everything thick and warm with cum.

But don’t worry – there’s plenty more where that came from that he’d love to you.

Plenty.

#yandere kny #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #yandere ds #yandere demon slayer #yandere sanemi #yandere sanemi shinazugawa #yandere sanemi shinazugawa x reader #_kny #_sanemi shinazugawa #_lee's profiles #kny smut #sanemi smut #sanemi shinazugawa smut

506 notes · View notes

dog-bimbo · 6 months ago

Text

nasty, 1cky bf!shiu headcanons tw fem!reader, dark content, smut, explicit language, p in v, unprotected sex, dumbification, humiliation, degradation, breeding kink, mentions of babytrapping and gangbanging, recordings and non consensual sharing of said recordings, threesomes, anal, shoe humping, power dynamics, shiu is older than the reader (18+ only!), spanking, intimidation involving a lit cigarette, hickeys 18+ only minors and ageless blogs do not interact !part two

nasty, 1cky bf!shiu loves loves looooves when things get sloppy. sloppy kisses after a long day of work, sloppy blowjobs till he can see strings of saliva and cum breaking off after he has busted a load, sloppy pussy eating till his face is glistening with your slick, sloppy sex cuz he goes for a round two just to make sure that he has fucked the cum deep inside till he's kissing and stretching ur cervix in that mean mating press

speaking of mating presses, i'm pretty sure that nasty, 1cky bf!shiu also loooooooooooves breeding you like there's no fucking way the condom stays on for more than one round and while he's kind of iffy about kids, he'd love to see your womb swell with his babies. he has definitely tried to babytrap u multiple times </3

nasty, 1cky bf!shiu records his sweetheart in slutty outfits or something like that cuz i knoooooooow he has an old handycam lying around to try out shit like this with you. he's alright with anything as long as it's short and skimpy but a playboy bunny suit is what he likes the most. he sits on the couch, one hand holding the camera and the other ashing the cigarette inside the empty beer can—he looked a bit intimidating. you stand in front of him with your hands tied behind your back, your thumb and index fidgeting with the silky fabric of the cuffs. it's a bit dark as he had dimmed the lights down for a more sensual feel to all this.

nasty, 1cky bf!shiu is older than you, more experienced and has a refined taste in the things he enjoys. he prefers details in his p0rn0s—the material of your stockings and the skin that peaks out of it, your clothed mound, your quivering lips, the bump of your throat bobbing slightly as you swallow, sweatdrops slowly trickling down your skin... you look back, blushing as he looms through your rear end, capturing the swell of your ass with his cam. "higher." is all he murmurs. you lower your face and arch your back a little higher. you're getting more and more debased as he zooms. as you squirm into the sheets, his hands grip around your waist and he flips you over, shocking you out of your bashfulness for a mere second before he spreads your legs and settles between them. "'nuff of this..." and he looks even scarier from this angle with his grin... "you're not gonna show this to anyone, right?" you pout, "no fucking way," he reaches out to caress your cheek softly, "i'm not that kind of a jackass, doll."

but nasty, 1cky bf!shiu is exactly that... at some point, he has shown all of these recordings to his closest clients and the assassins that he brokers. their crotches go damp just thinking about being in you for 3 seconds. he's into sharing just to see you broken. sometimes you're sandwiched between his sweaty, pervy clients, sometimes it's toji who's just as sweaty and pervy but easier to look at. whoever it is, pind1cks or horsec0cks, you feel so fucking full cuz he never lets them fuck your cunt cuz that's molded just for him and no one else. everything else is free range—your mouth, your hands, or the clients personal favourite—your ass.

there are times when nasty, 1cky bf!shiu makes you ride his shoe... the delicious friction that the stitches and the laces provide makes you forget all the humiliation that you're going through right now. he's got a bored look on his face but his cock's straining his damn boxers as you're humping him stupidly. if he's feeling generous, he's gonna provide more friction by rubbing his outsole against your clothed mound.

when you get off the sick shit, nasty, 1cky bf!shiu pounces on the opportunity to degrade you. sometimes it's the cute ones like dollface and sweetheart and bunny with that cruel, condescending tone. but sometimes it's cumslut and cumdump and many other colourful words with this sharp bite that each and every syllable bears. you're his dumb little bimbo bitch and he's gonna remind you of that time after time.

nasty, 1cky bf!shiu isn't too afraid to be rough with you. he likes getting the burnt end of the cigarette just close enough for you to flinch out of fear, he likes the red blossoming on your skin everytime he spanks or smacks you during sex, he likes it when you gasp the minute the sharp slap on your cunt shocks you out of that blissful haze and there's absolutely nothing he loves more than your hickeys turning purple the next morning...

#shiu kong #shiu kong x reader #shiu x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #shiu kong smut #shiu smut #jjk shiu

511 notes · View notes

gothgleek · 8 months ago

Text

Your Boyfriend’s Mom! Alicent x f!Reader- NSFW Alphabet

You’re dating Aegon but when he’s being an ass, you’re fucking his mom.

TW: modern au with sexual situations and a little bit of dark!Alicent that includes brief mentions of non consensual nudes.

Border by @saradika-graphics

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Alicent is often wracked with guilt about sleeping with her son’s girlfriend until you roll over and cuddle her. Then she melts into your arms.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

She loves her hair and takes multiple steps to ensure it stays thick and healthy. Alicent also likes her neck because of the way you kiss her there.

She loves your tits- I mean, smile. Just one look and her day is immediately better.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Alicent is a squirter, pass it on.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Those blurry pics she posts on her instagram story? Yeah she’s not bad with technology, she’s posting pics have been while you were eating her out.

Also, in a bit of Dark!Alicent- she has the nudes you sent to Aegon downloaded on her phone.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Outside of her husband, she has read a lot of vintage smut books but those pale in comparison to what the two of you get into.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

She likes to ride. Alicent likes when you’re in control but if you give her just a little power, she’ll have you seeing stars in no time.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Before she’s giggling at all your jokes, during she’s desperate, after she’s got that guilt setting in. And so the cycle continues.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Bush! Bush! Bush!

She used to wax because that is what her husband preferred but now she’s letting it grow free with the occasional trim now and then.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Alicent wants to be romantic but she knows you’re not the person she can do that with. You’ll both say sweet nothings to each other but that’s as far as the romance really goes. Sometimes she’ll fantasize about romantic and loving sex while she masturbates.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

You took her to the store to buy Alicent’s first vibrator and she uses it almost every night. She sends you pictures as well.

Sometimes when you visit Aegon, she will masturbate in the hopes you catch her.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

She is working up the nerve to invite you to a long weekend that will involve roleplaying as her favorite characters. Perhaps even having you hunt her down in the woods and taking her amongst the trees. She’s also into the idea of filming you.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

She’ll tell you it’s in her car by the lake outside of town but it’s really in Aegon’s bed. Something about the guilt makes it feel super sexy.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

She lets you hit it because you make her laugh.

Also, pictures of yourself in green lingerie and pearls. She likes you in all lingerie but green has a special place in her heart.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

She’s not into hair pulling or extreme bdsm. She still considers herself vanilla. Also, she won’t have sex in places that are too public because she doesn’t want the other PTA moms talking about her.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

She’s such a pillow princess, she’s never going down on you… unless you ask nicely. But even then, she’s doing it so you can eat her out.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Most of your encounters are quickies so fast and rough is the name of the game. Occasionally, she’ll ask you to be a little romantic but even then it’s gonna be fast.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Most of the time you two are having a quickie in the car, in the bathroom, or on Aegon’s bed. The two of you rarely have time to slow down.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Alicent isn’t a huge risk taker. Sure she’s fucking her son’s boyfriend, often in public, but those are in controlled environments like abandoned parking lots, empty parks, and her pool. She doesn’t have any interest in bdsm.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

She can cum 3-4 times with you in relatively quick succession. She had reached a number of ten orgasms in one day, just through the course of the day rather than all at once.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

You bought her her first vibrator and butt plug. Then she bought herself some nipples clamps to surprise you when you got home. Those are her only toys (so far).

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

If she’s feeling frisky, Alicent will tease you in public- running her hands over you, placing her hand on your thigh, and whispering sweet nothings. By the time you two end your in bed though, she wastes no time.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Despite being a secret, she is so incredibly loud- this is the first time she’s ever received pleasure and passion. Alicent will shout your name, beg, moan, and on a few occasions, knocked over loud objects so she can get fucked. You’re genuinely surprised no one has caught the two of you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Alicent went to the Sept to beg for forgiveness after sleeping with you for the first time. Then she went to the parking lot and had sex with you again.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Her breasts grew to an even C cup after having kids, she also has some softness in her arms and belly.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

It comes in cycles. Ovulation horny has taken her to places she would rather forget about afterwards.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

She’s out like a light. But the slightest noise will wake her up so she’s caught you sneaking out to go back to Aegon’s room.

495 notes · View notes

on-leatheredwings · 1 year ago

Text

False Pretenses (18+)

Yandere ! Damian Wayne x (Fem) Reader

romantic, 18+ > summary: Damian needs an heir someday, and he knows your body can provide that. > tw/cw: stealthing/baby trapping. there is consensual sex under false pretenses, so this could (and should) make this fall under dub- or non-con! there is also a brief mention of somnophilia. Plus, some breeding kink, praise kink. Also some weird thoughts about (cis) women who are fertile being ‘ideal’ and a preference for biological children. Just a warning. > word count: 5088. jesus christ. > [a/n: (smokes a blunt). ] > again 18+ only, damian wayne is 21

So, Damian has a breeding kink.

You sit in bed (his bed), knees to your chest, trying not to smile.

The covers are wrapped around your bare body as you recall the night prior’s events.

Last night was the farthest you two have gone physically. You’ve made out, of course. That was in short order after officially becoming a couple, the both of you starved for the other. You’ve groped each other, both over and under your clothes… You’ve given him a handjob… (To his utter dismay that you’ve brought him to orgasm first rather than the reverse.) And last week, you took him in your mouth for the first time. But yesterday night was the first time you had been on the receiving end.

Now, you are no virgin, but the memory does make you clutch your metaphorical pearls. You didn’t know simple fingering could be so… perverse.

Damian’s two middle fingers are thrusting back and forth into your trembling cunt. Your ears are steaming at the resulting noises filling the air. They’re lewd, and entirely involuntary on your part. Sweat on your temple drips, your torso heaves with shaken breath. Your damp back lies flush against his hard chest, two perfect puzzle pieces. Damien’s chin rests on your shoulder, allowing him to have a beautiful view of the mess you’re making on his slender digits. Viridian eyes have their entire focus on you, utterly fascinated.

The look in them is enough to make you blush, even if two of his fingers weren’t in you right now.

Sinful, reverent whispers into the shell of your ear marvel about how well you’re doing, how prepared you’ll be to take him afterwards. Damian’s free hand rests on your abdomen, pointedly over your womb.

He’ll fill you. Breed you. After all, you can handle that. You were basically made for it. He knows you’d be perfect at it.

Chin resting on the palm of your hand, you come back to the present.

Yeah, that was really turning him on, you mull, with almost academic interest. Your lips curl into a catlike grin. How curious!

Hey, you aren’t judging! You can see the appeal. After all, you hadn’t exactly been complaining last night… just caught off guard.

You sit with your thoughts as Damian washes up in his restroom.

It is in his bedroom you currently lounge, absentmindedly fiddling with satin sheets. His bed is large enough to drown in. His room is a wash of dark emerald greens and deep blues, with golden accents. On a table sits a sheathed sword, its grip a beautiful gold.

Both of you are college students finishing up your last semester. During the school season, Damian stays in his penthouse. Yes, his penthouse. Why he couldn’t just stay at his billionaire father’s mansion, you don’t know. Bird has to leave the nest sometime, you suppose.

Slowly lowering your knees and letting your back hit cool sheets, you lie down. You get lost in the ceiling – a beautiful Arabesque pattern is subtly molded across its expanse. Damian’s culture is so cool. Such was a sentiment you had communicated in such words, and he simply kissed your knuckles with a proud curve of his lips, and thanked you for the compliment. You blush.

Ugh. Damian is so cool.

You start pulling up every uncool thing about him in your mental reservoir. You can’t have him getting a big head, after all. Or rather, can’t have his head getting any bigger.

Hmm… breeding kinkster, breeding kinkster, thy name is Damian Wayne.

You blink dumbly.

Breeding... breeding…

Pregnancy.

Your body stiffens.

Wait. Does this… does that mean something? Is that like. A thing? What people call foreshadowing? You sit up, disturbed.

At that exact moment, Damian saunters out of the washroom. His eyes catch yours immediately, as if drawn by magnetism. He is still shirtless, navy blue sweatpants looking entirely artful on his tall, bronze body. His usual shrewd expression relaxes at the sight of you.

At the sight of him, your heart skips a beat, and not out of admiration for his looks. It was like you had been caught red-handed, speculating things. Sometimes you swear he knows what you’re thinking.

He stalks toward you, eyes loving. He places a kiss on your lips, punctuating it with “Good morning, my love.”

“G-good morning,” you return, painfully aware of your nakedness under his sheets. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He places kisses on your bare shoulder, trailing down until he’s kissing your hand. While normally you’d be melting, you remain stiff.

Damian pecks one last kiss when you blurt, “Do you want kids?”

You inwardly smack your forehead. Well, you weren’t one to shy away from a tough conversation. For better or worse.

Damian stirs, blinking at you.

You continue, trying not to wilt, “Do… Do you want kids? I-is that something you want? Like, someday?”

How the hell did this not come up sooner, you don’t know.

… Well.

Perhaps it hadn’t come up because your relationship was fairly new. You’ve known Damian for five years now. And for the last two, your relationship had been under a taxing, soul-sucking ‘will-they-won’t-they-it’s-complicated’ vague denomination for quite a while. Both of you knew each of you had feelings for the other. But Damian confessing his vigilante secret and his assassin past was quite the double whammy.

Damian was resolute in keeping you and himself safe and alive, but you had to think critically about a future with him. Eventually you said fuck it, throwing caution to the wind because you loved him, and you wanted him. And he, you.

Officially, it’s only been three months of dating – and you both are young. You both are in your last year of college. Talking about kids felt … fast.

Damian remains silent, face tentative. Having been leaning over you, he now sits on his bed, looking thoughtful.

“... Is that something you want?”

You sigh. Of course he’d turn it on you.

“I…” Your throat feels tight. God, why can’t we just enjoy a damn honeymoon phase… “I mean…? I’m… open to it. But yeah, it seems kinda… Like. I don’t know. That’s a lot right now.” Your voice is uncharacteristically small and meek.

You should stop there. Keep it vague. Keep things light. But you know which side of the fence you’re leaning on, and so should he.

“A-and you know– like, you know I didn’t have a good relationship with my mother– I just. Don’t know. If ever. I guess?”

You sit in awkward silence with him. You pray God just decides to smite you where you sit, because Christ. That was horrible.

Things like this could break a relationship, you know. And your chest clenches painfully at the thought of separating from Damian.

Damian takes in your words, nodding. He’s usually so easy to read – you’re well-versed in Wayne-nese by now, having spent a lot of time with him and the rest of his family. But he seems to be withholding his inner thoughts intentionally from you. Your heart sinks.

You nudge him with your feet.

“Damiii. Do you?”

Damian’s eyes glimmer with characteristic haughtiness, instantly making you warm. He crawls forward, hands sinking into the bed by your hips. He nips at your nose before locking lips. It’s a sweet, sweet kiss that’s like candy, until you feel the stroke of his hot tongue. You moan freely, not caring that he’ll likely tease you later for being so easy.

He retreats, licks his lips.

“You fiend,” you blurt. The insult rolls off him.

“What I want is to be with you.” You swallow dryly, heart thumping like a chorus line. You wouldn’t be surprised if Damian could see literal hearts in your eyes.

He puts a hand on your knee, stroking softly. You feel mollified at the action. Damian only did that when everything was alright.

“We’ve got class. If you get dressed fast enough, I’ll buy you that confectionary you’re always wanting.”

You stick out your tongue. “It’s a frappe,” you say, adding before he could say otherwise, “and yes, it is real coffee.”

Back from class, you decided to read on his living room recliner while he drew in his study. Damian indeed sketched, as he did everyday. Unsurprisingly, you were the subject, along with your favorite flowers. But Damian chose his study, rather than drawing you from life, because he also wanted to check if today was the day he thought it was. He opens the drawer of his wooden desk, papers neatly filed. He picks up a sleek black folder that spends most of its time laid in hiding underneath.

…

So, for the record, Damian did not lie.

He merely obfuscated an answer with a truth.

He does want to be with you above anything, and if children were out of the question due to natural causes… sure, he would learn to get over it. His brothers are all adopted and are as legitimate heirs to his father as he. But as it stands, Damian needs an heir someday and he knows your body can provide that.

… A not-insignificant part of him quietly admits that he simply wants his children to be blood-related. He’d never express this to anyone. His brothers are adopted, so how could he? But instilled from infancy into Damian was that he was the result of two genetically perfect individuals.

So why shouldn’t his child be the genetic amalgamation of you and him, both of whom are also two perfect beings? The thought of impregnating you sounds… good. Ideal. Natural, even. Call him a romantic.

When opened, inside the folder is a calendar for the year, with no notes or writing. Some days are blank. Some are highlighted in either red or green.

His eyes skirt down to the current day of the calendar, and Damian's pleased to see it is indeed among a week that's painted in green. Today is within the ideal window leading up to your ovulation.

You've said in passing that your cycle is pleasantly regular and Damian's past investigations have proved this to be true. Not that he asks anymore. He snorts, remembering how last time you looked at him incredulously and asked if he was a Republican, since he was “all up in your womb.”

However, you do keep menstrual products in your bag when he’s predicted it. You also spend quite some time at his place, so he does note when there’s pad wrappers in his bathroom trash bin.

Last year, the day he knew you were the one – his One – he brewed you a tea before bed. Its sedative contents ensured you wouldn't wake, and you were out like a light within minutes. So, Damian pulled off your pants, and collected a specimen from you as you slept. Of course, he did so with sterile, sexless precision – Damian wasn’t a pervert or deviant. He sniffs. He’s better than that. Even if his hands did linger.

Test results proved you were healthy and fertile. He recalls this with pride. As expected, you were perfect in all things. Damian closes the folder and ruminates in his seat.

Damian had assumed so, but now you’ve confirmed with him that you’re unsure about raising children based on your history with your own family. He hears you. As if he doesn’t have his own slew of mommy problems. If you bring it up again, he’ll wave you off. You’ll be an amazing mother. You just need a push, and you’ll be confident soon enough.

His fingers steeple. Hm… There’s the issue of having children before marriage… He doesn’t know how you feel about children outside of wedlock, but it’s not as though you’re very traditional. You don’t seem to have a problem with the fact that’s how he was conceived. It’s not a big concern regardless, because Damian is going to marry you anyway. If it’s an issue, you both could marry in as soon as a month.

It all works out.

It’s perfect, he thinks.

Damian puts up his sketchbook and folder alike, heading to his bedroom to change. It was about time he put his plans into action, and he knows just how to usher it into fruition.

“That doesn’t look like a very satisfying read,” Damian says, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

You don’t look up from your book, your cringing face only deepening.

“Well, that’s because it isn’t. I was lied to! By my favorite Youtuber! By BookTok! And fuck it, by the government–”

"My love."

“You ask for one slow burn rivals-to-lovers and instead you get him fawning over her within three chapters–”

“My love,” he repeats, though amused.

“And let’s not even start about how this prose is abysmal–”

“My love.”

Since it was said oh-so-sweetly, you look up from your book.

Damian is... oh. He's in that outfit he knows you like. The League of Assassins one that's sleeveless, dark, and form fitting with gorgeous gold trim. It turns his body into a marvelous painting of black and gold on the tanned backdrop that is his skin. And you’ve told him so… Except his eyes. His beautiful, intense green eyes. He straightens from how he leans against the wall, stepping closer.

You toss your book, not even watching its trajectory. It takes out a vase on the way down and you still don’t spare it a glance.

"Damian Wayyyyyne," you sing, hopping up to stalk toward your prey. Your hands land on his chest. Hello, tig ol' biddies, you cheer internally. It takes considerable restraint to keep from saying it aloud – you know Damian gets all flustered with his delicate sensibilities. “Why, are you trying to seduce me?”

An elegant, thick brow rises in amusement. Well, that was exceedingly easier than expected.

“That depends entirely on whether it’s working.”

“Oh, it’s working,” you say, running your hands down to his abdomen. His hands rise to capture yours.

“Tt.”

Damian takes steps backward, leading you by the hands into his bedroom. Your leer grows even bigger. Oh, yes. You two lock eyes the whole while until you reach the foot of his bed, merriment and attraction dancing in both pairs.

You push him onto the bed, on all fours above him. You dive down for a deep kiss, tongue eager for a dance. Eventually it’s you who separates to breathe, panting lightly. The sight below you is one for sore eyes, Damian Wayne lying with eyes glazed with lust. He’s acting awfully agreeable, and you can’t say you don’t like it.

“Habibti, I want you.” Damian slides his hand to cup your crotch. You shiver, at his touch and his words.

“And you have me,” you say, voice warm. “Habibti.”

He smirks, probably thinking your accent could use some work.

“It’s Habibi, coming from you.”

You nod shyly, but you can have a lesson later. You’re about to slip off your pants when he brings your hand in between your bodies, placing it on his crotch. You sharply inhale. He’s hard, and straining against sinful, elastic tights.

“... And I mean, I want all of you.”

Your brows rise. So, he wanted to go all the way today? You feel your cheeks and crotch flood with heat. You find it easier to nod your head rapidly, lest you start barking. At your agreement, Damian’s face washes over with anticipation. You’re glad it’s not just you over the moon at the prospect.

You both rip your clothes off manically, laughing and elbows butting into each other’s sides. Damian expertly flips positions, boxing you in with his knees. You exclaim in surprise, a sound that drifts into shaky breaths and mewls of pleasure as he runs his fingers over your breasts, your stomach… He wets his fingers with his mouth before his digits start circling your clitoris.

You inhale sharply, mesmerized by the cyclical motion. Never until Damian has sex felt so flustering. Just watching his administrations was overwhelming, let alone the feeling– Your head reels back from an electric shock of pleasure. You gasp into the air.

"W-wait... wait, you have a condom, right…?" you whisper, though you have half a mind to just go without. You need him.

Damian tensed.

"I... I don't like how it feels." You raise a brow. You've heard condoms can feel like a second skin, especially nowadays. Then again, men were always complaining about them. It's not like you had the necessary equipment to confirm, so hell if you knew how it felt.

You place your hands on his cheeks, and his hands ghost over your wrists. You bite your lip.

"Well… Just this once? And if... it's that important to you, maybe I'll get on birth control–"

His head jerks as if struck, his brows furrowed.

“No.”

You stare, agape. There’s a small pause, both of you staring at the other. Damian’s face looks as though he’s betrayed himself. Your boyfriend didn’t strike you as so… traditionalist, to say the least. Lord knows you wouldn’t be with him if he was… so you will hear him out before nurturing any suspicion.

Sitting up on your forearms, you ask, “... What do you mean ‘no’?”

"I mean… I…” Damian sighs, looking utterly frustrated with himself. “I mean, you don’t need to.”

You blink and raise a brow, unimpressed.

“... Because?”

Damian’s jaw hardens. He grits out, “Because, I'm… sterile."

You flinch, purely from surprise. Damian merely stares, eyes narrowed in what you presume is annoyance at himself.

Uh. Okay, hello brand new information? Why hadn't this come up before? Well, it is pretty sensitive information. And since you hadn’t had penetrative sex yet, why would he have brought it up? And today was the first day you had even thought about kids. It… makes sense.

"Y-you are...?" You settle down, much like a cat whose hair is lowering from standing on end. "Okay… okay...” Damian remains stony, but he cringes at your clear relief.

Mistaking it as embarrassment, you quickly stroke his cheek. “No, baby, I'm sorry about that." You could assume it's quite emasculating. Men and their complexes about performing and wow, suddenly the breeding kink makes sense.

“So, you can’t…” you trail off. Knock me up? remains gracefully unsaid.

Damian nods stiffly. He really does hate lying to you like this. "I've been told it's very... unlikely." In reality, Damian knows his sperm count, and he's verified there should be no issues with reproduction. You both are in peak condition.

Despite the heat raging in your pants and your body begging can we just fuck already, you furrow your brows. All of this sounded fine, but it was still just… you needed specifics. To be safe. After all, there’s no rush, is there? Even if your pulsating cunt would beg to differ, painfully aware that two naked people were in a bed not doing naked-people-things.

"When did you get tested? And w-why? I mean, you're only twenty-one."

He waves his hand, snorting with his typical condescension. "I'm an heir to a dynasty – as soon as I was of age, it behooved us to know."

Us. That’s not a you-and-me “us”. You cringe, thinking about Talia and Ra's Al Ghul making it their business to know Damian's fertility. What an invasion of privacy for him… And no wonder he thought nothing of being in your body’s business as well.

"Well, unlikely is still possible, right?” You fear any surprises. Lord knows it would be just your luck to get fertilized by the un-fertilizable. You point at him. “And we should be using condoms anyway! It's not just pregnancy we should be afraid of."

Damian wants to assure you how insanely low the chances are of an infertile male getting anybody pregnant, and is about to do so, when his eyes narrow.

"Is there a reason we would need to protect against venereal diseases? There are none between the two of us." You flinch at his tone, colored with the acidity of jealousy. Suspicion.

The implication (accusation?) causes you to glare at him.

“...Yeahhh, okay,” you reply coldly. “Moment's ruined.”

You push him off you, but in a panic, he hisses your name. You flinch. At your wary expression, the color drains from his face.

“I… I’m sorry,” he says, brows furrowed and looking utterly ashamed. “I… I’m sorry.” You don’t meet his eyes, simply nodding. He places kisses on your wrist, shoulder, nose. Damian sometimes had his moods, although he was truly confusing you today.

“It’s fine, really,” you reassure. And it’s true, it was mainly the heat of the moment. You were sure Damian could never really scare you.

Your words don’t persuade the shame and fear out of his eyes or lighten the heaviness of his brow. You smile, huffing. Taking his face into your heads, you kiss him chastely on the forehead, nose tip, both cheeks. Until you punctuate the action with a kiss to his lips.

“Damian, really.”

Damian nods stiffly. He’ll never truly forgive himself, but he’s probably okay enough for now.

You shift on the bed, and there’s the telltale sensitivity between your thighs. Damn it. You still want him. You two stare at each other, still very naked and aroused. You turn the idea in your head … He’s sterile, right? And pregnancy is your only reservation.

As if hearing your thoughts, Damian’s face fills with determination.

“... I-it’s–” okay, let’s have sex anyway, you are going to finish.

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts. You blink. He leans toward you, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. You’re sure he’s about to kiss you, when he suddenly withdraws.

Your eyes catch the glimmer of some metallic object. He holds a silver square wrapper in between his fingers, likely plucked from beneath his pillow.

You look at him, and he says frankly, “I’ll do anything for you.”

You melt… before grinning, catlike. “My, my. So it seems Mr. I-Don’t-Like-Condoms still prepares a contingency plan. Very Son of Batman of you–”

“Shut it,” he groans, dotting kisses along your neck to make you do just that.

You feel relief flood your bloodstream. Then it is quickly replaced with raging desire. Oh, finally.

“Lay back,” he says, too soft to be an order. You do so without fanfare, a little curious as to why he’s not following you. Then you see him scoot back, feel him hike up your lower half, and you feel a thrill of excitement.

You squeak, feeling your ass leaving the bed entirely. A pillow is quickly placed underneath, and you are feeling quite pampered.

There’s curious licks along your labia, to which you twitch.

Damian finds his way to your clitoris, suckling and stroking heavily with his tongue.

“Hhnngh,” you speak. Keep going. Right there.

“Truly, a poet,” Damian’s voice says, muffled. You bite your lip, unable to retort because it feels too good. Damian is curious, experimenting. You know he’s gamifying this, responding and changing his strategies entirely on what draws the most unintelligible noise out of you. He slips his tongue in, and you grasp at his hair. He responds by pumping it back and forth.

Eventually, you do fear he’ll bring you to orgasm with this alone, when you both have more plans for the evening.

You wipe a layer of sweat from your temple, panting. “I’m ready. I’m ready,” you say, tugging meekly at short black locks.

Damian hums, and the vibration hits you straight in the clit. He sits up on his forearms, lips delightfully messy. His cheeks are ruddy and his brows are pinched with effort, chest heaving for breath. He looks very good like this.

“I’m ready,” you say again. Damian doesn’t need to be told twice. Your head hits the back of the pillow, and you close your eyes as you catch your breath. You hear the rustling and discarding of a condom wrapper. Damian positions himself accordingly, hands sunk into the bed on either side of your waist.

“Ready?” he asks. His eyes hold… shyness, if you can believe it. You stroke his cheek, grinning.

“Always ready for you,” you respond. You make sure to sit up. You want to see.

You watch, fascinated, as the head of Damian’s cock slowly disappears into your body. The consonance between seeing it and feeling it only stokes the fire of your arousal.

You moan openly, the sound making your ears heat. Damian dares to chuckle, and you claw his back in retaliation.

“Oh, shut up, and go deeper,” you breathe, eyes fluttering with pleasure. You didn’t realize how much you missed this. The feeling of being filled, of being full. You didn’t realize you could miss something you never had as well – Damian felt like he belonged in you. You feel every inch of you work to accommodate his sudden presence.

“And how can I deny such a request?” he gasps aloud, voice strained.

You feel more than a little pride that you were among the few who could make Damian bend to your whims with this (or any) level of subservience. The proud, proud Damian Wayne. The same Damian that sinks into you further, into your tight, hot wetness. He finally bottoms out and you exhale.

“You’re… a perfect… fit,” you say, dazed and in between pants.

Little do you know the resulting pang that shoots into his groin at that statement. He grasps you harder, maybe even enough to bruise. He needs you badly. He needs to fill you badly.

Damian leans even more forward, and you squeal. You’re just along for the ride at this point. He does all the necessary machinations to fold you in half, thighs bending back.

"W-wait," you stutter, but it falls on deaf ears.

He’s really stretching the limits of your flexibility here. Before you know it, you’re in a mating press.

“Damian,” you moan, because you’re too overstimulated to say much else.

“You’re perfect,” he says into the shell of your ear. “You can take this. You were made for this.” You nod, slack-jawed. He rocks into you, skin slapping against skin as your pelvises meet. Your eyes flutter and roll back.

“I could spend forever filling you up. I could spend forever watching it spill out of you.”

You close your eyes, cheeks aflame, much too embarrassed by his perverse whispers. You feel … almost ashamed at how much it arouses you. Almost. Majorly, it’s fulfilling a dark fantasy you didn’t know you liked.

“... Come inside me,” you breathe, unable to say anything more. You were embarrassed enough. He was using a condom, it was assumed he would be. But hopefully he’d see you were participating in his little fantasy, that you liked it too…

His thrusts are unyielding, and they only get harder, faster, more desperate as the time passes. Damian finishes with a groan, his abs clenching and flexing with effort.

You welcome it, taking it all because he’s right, you were made for this. In this moment, it’s like you were entirely made for this.

To your surprise, there’s sudden stroking on your throbbing clit, and that brings you to the finish line as well.

Your head jerks back violently, body snapping to attention as you ride the wave of an orgasm. A gasp by your ear. You’re clenching around Damian’s length, wringing him dry.

He collapses, narrowly keeping himself from squashing you flat. The two of you are a tangle of sweaty limbs, chests heaving.

“You’ve got to get out of me sometime,” you tease.

You’ve both been lying like this, too taxed to move for maybe ten minutes now.

“Is that so? Honestly, I could die here without complaint,” Damian says, and you get the feeling he’s dead serious. Nevertheless, he rolls away. He does not let you go far, wrapping his arms around you. You shiver at the feeling of him unsheathing himself, suddenly feeling empty.

… And wet. Wetter than expected.

You keep from flushing. Damn, you were really enamored with him, it seems.

You rub your thighs together, relishing in the feeling. Until you pause.

… No, like, you’re really wet.

You slowly sit up, investigating. To your surprise, you’re leaking… cum. And clearly not just your own. It’s smattered down your thighs, sticky. When you pause and can literally feel the cum drip out of you, you exclaim.

“Fuck… fuck.” You put a hand to your dripping cunt, and are surprised when it indeed comes back wet and pearlescent white. It’s for real.

“What’s wrong?” you hear, but you hardly register it.

You pull at a scrap of wrinkled plastic, pulling it out. The condom is shredded. It broke.

“Damian. It broke.”

You stare at it dumbly. It broke. You feel the onset of fear creep by… it’s held at bay, when you feel Damian hushing you, stroking your shoulders.

Damian holds you, asks why are you worrying…? He told you there’s no way. He can’t, he’s sterile.

You dumbly nod, combating fear by reasoning with yourself. Well… you were about to have sex without it anyway, after all. What does it matter if the condom broke?

You suppose it’s just the shock of a failsafe… well, failing to save you. So why do you feel so disconcerted? What’s this niggling feeling, you wonder. You stare at your inner thighs. His cum paints you like a mark.

“It’s nigh impossible,” Damian states. He’s doing what he does best – nullifying your emotions with facts. He pulls you back into his arms, your back against his chest. “The condom was really for your peace of mind. It’s not like it did anything.”

You don’t speak, simply staring at the condom in your hand. You nod.

“Really, there’s no point in wearing condoms from now on anyway. They break.”

Damian’s fingers trace circles on the bone of your shoulders. “I mean, they’re practically pointless. And either way–”

With his long reach, he grabs his phone off the nightstand. He pulls up an article, illustrating the likelihood of him successfully inseminating you.

“See?” he says. “It’s not a factor.”

Unwilling to let whatever strange funk you’ve entered ruin the afterglow of your orgasm, you nod again. You turn your head halfway, smiling. Of course, without missing a beat, Damian kisses you sweetly.

To hell with the condom. And to hell with getting stuck in your head. Lord knows you overthink everything. It’s as Damian says.

His fingers dance on your abdomen, and it tickles.

It’s impossible.

#yandere damian wayne #yandere batfam #damian wayne x reader #girllllll #i just have to post this already im tired #mine

3K notes · View notes

infernal-matriarch · 14 days ago

Note

2!!! For Charlie and Val

A FUCKED UP KISSING MEME

2. a kiss when it’s not allowed.

"I SAID NO--!"

Charlie furiously pushed against the moth, craning her head back away from him, already knowing exactly what he was going to do. She knew he'd probably punish her for resisting but she didn't care. She would still fight every time because she would not let him break her spirit.

She refused to give him the satisfaction.

She pressed her lips together the moment his mouth met hers and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to pull away from him as much as possible.

#🌈ᴄʜᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴ ʙᴇʟʟᴇ: ᴄʜᴀʀʟɪᴇ #❖ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴ ɪꜱ ᴀ ʟᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ: ᴀꜱᴋꜱ #❖ᴘʀɪᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜱᴏᴜʟ: ᴄʜᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ #non consensual tw #non consensual kissing tw #the delightful temptation

1 note · View note

tteotlma · 10 days ago

Text

full of you

Mueheueheuheheuehe

werewolf! joel x reader 2.4k/w

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, werewolf knotting, full moon sex, supernatural elements, rough sex, size kink, overstimulation, deep penetration, cock-drunkenness, fluid play (drool/slick/cum), consensual power dynamics, light choking, intense scent marking, possessive behavior, knotting/breeding kink, primal desperation, marking with teeth (non-breaking skin), manhandling, muscle worship, emotionally charged dominance, begging, praise kink, brief emotional vulnerability, post-orgasmic clinging, knot-induced lock-in, mild somnophilic undertones (reader too fucked out to respond), feral!Joel, soft aftercare in context of overstimulation

a/n: everybody say thank u shmeed!

Okay, imagine, but imagine werewolf Joel with a fat knot… It’s a full moon, so he’s a little—okay, a lot—worked up. You guys have been in bed for the better half of an hour at this point. The room reeked of sex, joel’s promise of opening the windows long gone, beads of sweat trailed down the side of his face while sweat pooled in the crevice of your collarbones.

“Fuck, that’s it baby.” Joel grunted. His hands were practically bruising your hips, his fingernails leaving crescent moon indents onto your plush skin. He had you on top of him (one of his many fave positions) legs spread on both sides of him. He’d currently been spending the last then minutes trying to get you to take his full cock but he’s only been able to get his tip past your tight hole despite the amount of precum that was leaking from the tip.

You couldn’t help it. It was just too good.

Once you’d feel the ridge of his penis slip through your folds the stretch would overwhelm you and you’d clench up causing Joel to hiss.

“Ah,” He jolted beneath you, as you rested your palms on his softened stomach. “You gotta relax, baby.” He would say through gritted teeth. You’d hum in response, your eyes clenched shut as his nails left light scrapes against your skin, your flesh molding beneath his command.

“I-I’m trying,” you’d hiccup, moan caught in your throat. Small whimpers left your lips as the burn of your thighs from holding yourself up above him was getting to you. The sting and stretch of it all wash pushing you to the edge. “But I can’t, I…” You clenched your thighs around your wrist, almost willing to crush his chest with your knees. You were close, your hands subconsciously tightened around the course curls beneath his belly button.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but that ain’t gonna happen,” he said, voice gruff. He quickly sat up, throwing you off balance while he placed a hand behind your head, and wrapped the other around your throat, “If you’re gonna come,” he pulls you close, breath on your lips. “You’re gonna come cause I stuffed you full of my cock.” Despite the desperation of it all, he lays you gently on your back before mounting you—not once letting his dick slip from your cunt. All you could do was mewl beneath the weight of his body. Tears filled your eyes.

“I tried,” you whined softly, “I really did.” You sniffed. You didn’t know why you were getting emotional, but it was probably out of frustration. Joel quickly moved his hand from your throat and brushed the hair out of your face. He shushed you, placing a small kiss on the corner of your lip.

“I know you did, baby,” he whispers, his thighs warm against the back of your legs. But I can’t have you do all the work, can I?” You shake your head softly, and he smiles, his teeth peeking through his lips.

He leans down to kiss you, as you throw your arms around him. His lips are soft and warm as they move against yours. His hands roam around your body, grabbing at your curves, and he squeezes particularly hard at the flesh of your thigh, causing you to whine into his mouth. He takes that opportunity to explore your mouth.

When his tongue enters your mouth, your breath hitches. One of the many indicators that Joel was teetering between the edge of lycanthropy and sentience was how his mouth flooded with saliva, and his teeth began to sharpen, aching like something beastly was trying to break through. You guys would never fight for dominance; instead, Joel would always deepen the kiss by putting a hand at the nape of your neck and pulling you close like he was minutes away from devouring you.

You never voiced this, but somehow, he found out that you liked the feel of tracing his sharpened canines against your tongue. At the same time, your hands would pull at the hair at the base of his neck, loving the way he grew rougher, heavier, more beast than man with every second. Animalistic.

“Plus,” he murmurs, pulling back, leaving a string of saliva between your lips, “we both know I like you better this way.” He slides out, dragging a moan from your throat, then flips you onto your stomach with ease. Suddenly, you're facing the end of the bed, heart racing.

Before you can even respond, he’s already lining the tip back up to your hole—then he pauses. Doesn’t move. You push up onto your elbows, glancing back at him, only to find his eyes fixed between your legs. He lowers himself, slowly, deliberately his large hands coming to spread your cheeks before he gently opens his mouth.

The tip of his tongue slips out, and a warm trail of saliva drips from it—falling onto your quaking cunt, sticky and slow, like he wants you to feel every drop. You let out a soft mewl, and he watches your pussy clench as his drool drips between your folds. A dark chuckle leaves his lips and he grabs at the base of his dick, sliding it between your newly soaked heat. A low grunt escaping his chest as his other hand grabs at your curves.

You subconsciously pull forward, away from him and he pulls you back slapping his cock against your cunt. Your body jolting with pleasure, each soft drag of his sac against your clit.

F-fuck, Joel,” you whimper, and he leans forward, pressing his hairy chest against your back, the heat of him anchoring you in place.

“Nuh-uh, baby,” he’d murmur, a smirk in his voice. His hand on the curve of your back slides up to your neck, guiding you down into the mattress as he presses a soft kiss to your bare shoulder. Once you were face down in the mattress, your voice muffled against the sheets, he wasted no time lining himself back up to your heat. His cock ached—so hard and swollen he barely had to touch your cunt to feel the pulse of need between you.

“Now, sit nice and pretty for me,” he growls, voice low and rough with restraint. He waits for your nod—barely—before landing a sharp smack to your ass, the sound echoing in the heat-thick air. His hand lingers, squeezing a fistful of flesh, watching it jiggle under his touch like he owns it. Then he drags the swollen head of his cock along your clit, slow and deliberate, and the sound you both make is animal—raw, guttural, hungry.

“Fuck, wolfie—” you whisper, breath hitching as he lines the tip up with your entrance. He slides in easily at first, until he reaches the thick ridge of his head, where your body resists with a trembling squeeze.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he groans, leaning into you, his chest pressed flush to your back. His voice is low in your ear. “I know you can take me.” One hand moves to sweep your hair away from your face, while the other wraps around you, fingers sliding down to find your heat, slow and certain. His middle finger hooks beneath your clit and you cry out, and he’s able to inch further.

“That’s it, good girl,” he murmurs in your ear, the scrape of his stubble grounding you. His fingers keep working you open, slow circles around your clit before pressing right onto it—pulling waves of pleasure from deep in your belly. It’s that flutter, that perfect tension, that lets him sink in deeper. With a grunt from him and a cry from you, the thick ridge of his cock finally slips past as your hand reachs out and clecnehs around the blanket beneath you.

“Fuck, yes,” he groans, throwing his head back, mouth slack. “Good puppy.”

“S’big,” you drawl, breath hitching, your hands scrambling to grasp anything that might anchor you—anything to hold onto as sanity slips through your fingers.

Joel chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest, pressed firm against your back. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs,

“I know, baby. It’s too much, ain’t it? But you’re takin’ it so fuckin’ well,” Joel grits out, voice thick and breathless, his chest smothering your back as his fingers keep working your clit—slow, tight circles that make your cunt flutter around him, sucking him in deeper with every pass.

His thrusts are still shallow, still trying to be careful, but he’s struggling. You can feel it in the way his hips twitch, the way his cock throbs inside you like it’s begging to be buried to the hilt. And he doesn’t stop touching you, rubbing and teasing every slick, swollen part of you because he knows the more he makes you feel good, the more your body gives. The more you open up for him.

You’re losing it. Hands scrambling at the sheets, at the loose clothes, at your chest, absolutely anything to anchor you as the pleasure crests and crashes through you again and again. You’re gasping into the mattress when you glance up and see it—the moonlight spilling through the window, painting you both in silver-blue, catching the sweat and the way your bodies shine.

And Joel’s panting above you, gritting his teeth, chest heaving against your spine. He’s barely holding it together. You can feel it.

Your hand reaches back blindly, dragging along the hard line of his stomach, down to where his pelvis meets your ass—and then your fingers brush something hot, swollen, throbbing.

His knot.

He hisses, loud and sharp. “Baby—baby, don’t,” he groans, voice damn near cracking. You can feel him trembling, feel how bad he wants it—how close he is to losing the last thread of control.

And suddenly, it hits you: he’s been struggling just as much as you have. Maybe more.

You glance back, lips parted, breath ragged.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, voice shaky with want. “You can move. I can take it, Wolfie.”

That name alone almost makes him come.

You shift your hips, adjusting to take him deeper, your body sore and aching and drenched, but desperate for more. He growls low in his throat, hands grabbing your hips, tight enough to bruise.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Fuck—yes.”

He doesn’t wait. His lips fall to your back, kissing, biting, panting into your skin. Then he starts moving. Not gentle. Not restrained. Just raw, deep, hungry.

“God, yes—unh—so good,” he groans, fucking you harder now, his hips slapping against your ass, cock stretching you wide, the thick swell of his knot grinding harder with every thrust.

“Goddamn, this pussy—fuckin’ delicious, baby girl—fuck.”

His fingers are still playing with your clit, now rougher, sloppier, dragging the slick that’s escaped your hole around and teasing every tender spot like he’s trying to make you fall apart on purpose.

You’re a mess beneath him. “Fuck—fuck—yes, Joel—oh my god—so fuckin’ big—are you gonna come in me?” Your voice is wrecked, your legs shaking, drool on your lips, and tears in your eyes.

“Yes, baby—fuck yes—I’m gonna come,” he growls, rutting into you like he’s lost his mind.

“This pussy’s so goddamn perfect—I can feel you every fuckin’ time I thrust—tight little thing, takin’ it all.”

“Yes—yes alpha’s in my guts—fuck—so deep—”

“Yeah, baby—puppy’s gonna make me come—fuck—”

“Come in me, Joel, please—I can take it—I can whatever you give me, Wolfie!”

“Yeah, you can, baby.”

He grabs your hips hard, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, and yanks you back into him with a brutal, unforgiving snap. The momentum lifts your knees partway off the bed, toes barely grazing the sheets as he slams forward, rutting deep with a single, savage thrust.

That’s when you feel His knot—fat, swollen, pulsing— forces its way in with a filthy, wet squelch, your cunt stretching wide around the thick mass of him. It burns and splits, a slick, obscene pressure that makes your back arch and your jaw drop, but your body takes it. Fucks itself open around it. Locks him in.

Your scream catches on the edge of your breath, stuck somewhere between a sob and a moan as your entire body seizes. Your pussy clenches down in frantic, desperate spasms, locking around him like it’s never going to let him go milking, twitching, sucking at him so tight it’s like your body is begging to be filled again and again.

You're trembling, gushing, mouth falling open with a silent cry as pleasure rips through you like lightning, all heat and sharp-edged need.

“I’m coming—I’m coming—fuck—I’m coming—Joel!”

And that’s all it takes.

Joel snarls, hips jerking as he buries himself fully, knot swollen tight and locked, his cock twitching deep inside as he comes hard, endless, hot. You feel it flood you, feel it leak out around where he’s stretched you to the limit, feel it pulse through every nerve ending like a live wire. And then his teeth sink into your shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to claim, to mark. He groans against your skin, still grinding slowly, stuck deep inside you as your bodies pulse together, knotted and messy and trembling in the moonlight.

You’re both panting—ragged, uneven. The only sound in the room is the slick, obscene squelch of his cock grinding in slow, shallow rolls and the wet drip of his cum leaking out around the knot that still stretches you wide, still keeps you full.

“Fuck…” Joel breathes against your skin, voice hoarse and heavy with everything he just gave you. “You did so fuckin’ good for me, baby.”

You can’t even speak. Your cheek is pressed into the sheets, eyes half-lidded, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, completely wrecked. Your thighs twitch every time he moves, a shiver running down your spine when he licks the bite on your shoulder slowly and reverently.

His knot is still locked tight inside you, keeping your hips pressed together, his cock still twitching, pulsing deep in your overstimulated cunt. Every little movement sends a fresh wave of slick dripping down your thighs.

His arms wrap around your waist, holding you there, still, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he might unravel.

“Just stay like this,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “Let me keep you full a little longer.”

And you do because you don’t want to move, either. Not when you’re this warm, ruined, and full of him. The moonlight glows soft and cold against your skin, but between your bodies, everything’s heat.

-----

PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

a/n: asks are open; also do u guys notice reoccurring themes lol oops

kitty go meow?

#pedropascal #pedro pascal #joelmiller #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #jackson!joel #pedro pascal fandom #joel miller smut #neighbor!joel #joel miller fluff #tlou

325 notes · View notes

specialgradefckr · 6 days ago

Text

Careful What You Wish For...

...Because you just might get it.

The clone you've made of Satoru Gojo is, much unlike the original, quite taken with you. Or, more accurately, you've been taken by him. But you don't mind... right?

This work is part of a series! Read the first part here!

tw: explicit content. dubcon. drugging. yanderes all around. non-consensual cloning. non-consensual exhibitionism, voyeurism, recording.

"See, isn't this just perfect?"

You can't answer, of course, though you don't have to - it is perfect, after all. Satoru knows you very well.

Every last fold of your cunt, every pulse and throb of your clit, the exact degree he should curl his fingers to make you whimper and sob while his other arm squeezes you close and he presses nibbling kisses into your neck.

It's perfect. Everything is. You're so much happier like this.

Oh, he'd tried talking. But there wasn't anything he could say, no combination of words that would alleviate your unfounded fear that he - the actual strongest sorcerer in the world - was somehow an unwilling captive forced to accept your affection.

To fix this, he had to get to the heart of the issue. Dig his fingers deep, deep in, press hard, in long strokes -

"Hngh - nngh!"

You whine, high pitched and pitiful in a way that makes his heart clench. He just can't help it; you're so cute, so helpless, entirely at his mercy, all hazy and fucked out. Satoru kisses your cheek, rubs his thumb over your clit.

"Nnnh..!"

Makes his dick hard, too. You can feel it, can't you? So hard, just for you, just like you trained him. Just like you wanted. Grinding into your ass. Even incoherent, blinded by overstimulation and drugged into docility, you know him.

Satoru can see it all. Your nervous system all lit up, flickering like a dying neon sign. Reward centers glowing like embers as he strokes your poor, tender bud.

There it was - the heart of the issue. Your big beautiful brain; overworked and overwhelmed.

You think too much. Satoru can fix that. And he will - since he's so nice. Since he loves you.

And of course, how could you continue to suspect that he's your captive, if he's the one who takes you captive?

It's poetic, really, when he thinks about it. He really is good at everything. You'll know his love when you see it, because you'll recognize it. The shape of your love, returned to you.

"Ahhh... aughh... hng~"

It's so easy to wrench another orgasm out of you. Your cunt is slick, pliant, so perfectly sized to his long fingers that reach on, press on just the right slot, all while rubbing circles over your clit.

With fascination he watches. Neurons firing off as the pleasure shoots through you, the pure dopamine flooding through your cute little head in the aftermath.

Astonishing. It's like every single thing you do makes him like you more. You're pretty when you cum, pretty when you're pleased, when you're exhausted. Just one look at you and he's hard again, or burning with the urge to snuggle, or spilling with love confessions he know you won't believe.

He can see every single brain cell firing off in your head but he never gets tired of guessing what's on your mind. In fact, it just makes him more curious.

If he didn't know for certain he was a clone - that another Satoru Gojo walked the earth, and had done so for decades - Satoru would truly, genuinely believe that he had been custom-made for you.

"Hey," He nudges your shoulder, tipping your face up to look him in the eyes.

Glassy, dreamy, there's only the barest stirring of recognition in your gaze, but that's okay. He can work with that.

"Who loves you most in the whole wide world? Hm?" Satoru purrs, cupping your cheek with one hand.

Your head presses into his hand, like you don't even have the strength to hold it up.

So weak - so adorable. Something hot and thrilling churns in his chest at the thought; like you're weak, something that needs protecting. Needs him.

"Who?" He urges, nuzzling his face close to yours. "Who loves you most? Tell me, baby, and you'll get a reward~"

"Ah... hhhn..." Oh, poor, pretty thing. Not a thought going on in your head.

"It's me!" He says, laughing, kissing you on the mouth. Tasting you with a flick of his tongue over your limp one. Pulling away, licking his lips. "It's Satoru. Can you say that for me? Sa~to~ru~"

"S-sato..." Slumping forward, you nearly fall, but Satoru's arm is ready to pull you back against him.

"Baby..." He kisses up against your cheek, "Come on, you can do better than that. Wake up for me, okay? Don't you wanna come out and talk?"

A hand reaches up, over your brow, stroking gently. Tenderly.

"Tell me who," He breathes, hooking his head over your shoulder with a sigh, "Tell me who loves you most in the world, baby... you've got to practice this..."

"Satoru... How did you...?" Your eyes blink, slow and bleary, dilating until they focus on him - where they should be.

"There you go," Satoru crows, though you probably don't remember his question.

With a gentle hand caressing your hair and an even softer smile, he kneels at your bedside. Give you a view of his pretty face you like to stare at so much.

See, he's generous. Nicer than you'd been. But that's okay - he likes being nice to you. He likes you.

Even if it was going to take a hundred years to get that through your poor, neurotic, anxious little brain; he'd enjoy every second of it.

"How...?" You murmur, eyes focusing onto him.

That's his darling. Always overthinking. But he did a good job - it's okay to brag a big, right?

"The biometric locks were sealed with your eyes," Satoru says, grinning widely, "So that's what I used."

His fingers trace over your temple. Thumb feathering past your eyelid, your fluttering lashes.

A nail digs into the skin at the edge of your eye. Pressing hard, harder, enough to draw blood. Your eyes widen - he can see the alarm bells ringing.

"Don't worry," He laughs, pulling his hand back, licking the blood off. Your gaze is heavy on him, locked in. Like it should be.

Satoru leans in close, kissing at the cut on your temple. Licking over it. There's heat there, and something else; he relishes how your body tenses in confusion at it.

He pulls away, lips stained red, and swipes his fingers over your temple once again. Pulls them away to show them to you - unbloodied.

"Reverse curse technique," He half-crows, licking his lips while he stares down at you.

The shock is naked on your face. Really? It's that surprising?

"I've got to say, I'm a little offended," He lurches forward, leaning over you. Crossing his arms and resting his head on them, "Don't tell me you thought I was like that loser. I can use it on myself as well as others. It's really not that hard, he just sucks."

"I - you took out my eyes?" Your whole form stiffens up, heart lurching, "While I slept?! How did I not wake up?"

Ohhhhhh, that's what it was.

With a laugh, he pulls out another hand, "That one's actually really easy when I can see your central nervous system. Here - "

"You can see-"

A finger taps, gently, in the center of your forehead, and your words stop in their tracks. You stare forward, almost puzzled for a second, and then your eyes roll back as you slump over, asleep.

"Night~" Satoru says, crooning your name as he kisses over your forehead, smoothing your hair back.

Gently, he sets you down on the bed, settling you carefully into place while he lies next to you, holding you against his chest.

His smile is brilliant as he snaps the picture.

Of course, the whole area where you were was covered in cameras, too, but who didn't love a good selfie? Satoru knows someone who'd like it.

He gets why you have the setup. Really, it's perfect - he can watch you all day if he wants to. You're always asleep when he's not there, though - it would be downright cruel otherwise. Why have you awake only to leave you all by yourself?

It'd ruin all your progress, if you've even made any yet. Poor thing. It hurts his heart just to think of how you'd feel, lonely and abandoned like that.

Thought, he has to admit, it would be ever so lovely to come home to you after that. But it remains just that, a daydream, something to amuse himself with as he watches you on the camera feed.

A little sigh escapes him. Lovestruck. He can't help it, really, you're just that cute.

And up here in this lab, he really does have all the angles.

Not just of what he's done with you, but also what you've been doing him, since his very earliest memories.

All his training sessions, the fun ones, and the agonizing ones. Your punishments, your rewards. Every moment of fun or affection together.

Mostly, though, he's compiling the training.

Little vignettes of how you'd stuck that cock ring on him, left him home alone to moan and squirm and cry, unable to get over the edge. How you'd cooed at him, whispered in his ear, forced him to confess his love and devotion for you when you finally allowed him release -

Ahhh. Fond memories. And how can he forget you showing him how to eat you out? That was a fun one, too, not really laced with pain, just your playful hand tugging in his hair, a tweak against his nipples, or a foot on his dick.

God, he wants you to step on his dick again. It felt so fucking good having you grind into it, with force, he'd burned with desire and heat and the overwhelming need to explode all over you.

Other times, too, where you'd showed him how to enjoy any touch on his cock. It all felt good, coming from you; your hands, your foot, your tits, your cunt.

One time you'd made him cum just from tweaking his nipples - that was such a treat. Took you days of edging him to tears, begging for release, but you were right in the end; he could do it.

Satoru could do anything if it was for you.

He's too impatient, too horny to try to cum like that again, not when he can just stick his cock inside your sweet, welcoming cunt at will. But he remembers the lesson.

Right now, it's you who needs training. And he puts that together, too. Some of the best pieces are there!

How you're limp in his arms as he makes you ride him, bouncing you up and down on his cock while you ragdoll against his shoulder, panting and whimpering and clinging to him weakly for dear life.

Another time where he has you in his lap again, but this time facing away from him. How his long fingers press down on your tongue and you drool on it, suckling mindlessly while he creams your cute little cunt.

What better way to teach you how much he wants you than showing you over and over again how hard you make him? Not very creative, he'll admit, but he's got time. He can think of more ideas.

Other than that, he's here to watch over the "original". See if there are any tricks left.

It was confusing for a bit, watching him. He figured out all the limitless techniques easily enough - those were fine - but it took a while to learn how to use reverse cursed energy. And a bit longer to use it on someone else.

You'd gotten a bruise from walking into something while climbing out of bed. Satoru would have pulled you away - but you'd had him all tied up for some punishment or another.

Just goes to show, you didn't know what was best for you. Your anxiety was hurting you. Stopping him from protecting you.

It felt like such a relief when he finally was able to heal you up. Finally, he had mastered all the techniques of the original - he could stand as his equal.

Except, Satoru Gojo - Gojo, rather - can't perform reverse curse technique on other people. He teaches first years, the most vulnerable students, often by tossing them directly into danger to fight on their own... and he can't heal other people?

And then he'd watched more and more, waiting to see what was so good about this guy. What he had that made you fall in love to begin with.

Snarky humor? Maybe, but Satoru's just as funny (if not more). Insulting attitude? That would just make your insecurity worse. Looks? They're great and all, but they're identical. Confidence?

Well, if it was his confidence that had roped you in, Satoru's got heaps of that as well.

It's crazy, how hard he's searched this loser's life for a single redeeming moment or feature.

No hobbies. No friends, really. No girlfriends for sure. Satoru kind of suspects he doesn't have regular sex - or worse... he couldn't be a virgin, right?

Satoru hasn't seen Gojo satisfy a single woman (or man) since he started watching, but maybe his personality was just that repulsive, despite having the world's most perfect body?

Honestly, he's drawing a real blank here. Why doesn't this guy do anything but work? Satoru puts together that the dude is killing curses (which can't be captured on video) but like... so what?

He's got money. He's got looks. He's got confidence. Why is he alone all the time? Is it really just because he's afraid someone will get hurt and he can't heal them?

What an absolute chump. Just learn how to do it. How can he suck this badly? Is he stupid?

It haunts his mind. Satoru wonders if maybe Gojo is just so genuinely unlikeable that he's never had a friend before and doesn't know what human companionship is like.

Can't miss what you've never had, right? That would make sense. It's really the only explanation for turning down someone like you.

That's what plants the idea, he thinks. Or so he tells himself.

But deep down, he knows it's just about his ego. The stinging thought that no matter how you loved Satoru now, you'd loved Gojo first.

It's okay, though. You have Gojo's number on your phone -

And Satoru know just what to send him.

Gojo had to admit - you were determined.

What you were determined to do by sending him all these videos and pictures of yourself with the admittedly convincing doppelganger (if it hadn't been straight video editing magic), he wasn't sure, but you were determined.

"Oh, happy for you babe. But keep it between you and him next time, yeah? Little creepy of you to share all this with some stranger."

No response. Just more videos.

"Listen, I don't care about your sex life. This is getting kinda cringey and desperate. He's not even that good-looking."

The guy in the videos is eerily good-looking, actually. The closer he looks, the more it... it really does look like him.

And like the freak you are, you call the guy his name. Satoru.

"Seriously, stop it or I'm blocking you."

It doesn't stop. It never stops. If anything, it gets more risqué. More... obscene.

The double of him in the videos gets more desperate. More clingy. Begging on his hands and knees, clawing at your thighs, crying in your lap for a taste of your cunt.

"What's wrong with you? Fucking freak. How funny would you find it if I were sending you this kind of shit? Lay off."

The voice sounds like him too, but he's never said those words. Certainly not with your name attached to them. I love you, I love you, you're my whole world, my everything, I swear, I love you, it's like a chorus.

"This is so obviously desperate and staged. I feel sorry for you. Not enough for the pity fuck you're hoping for, though, so fuck off."

It's so like him it's starting to get really fucking creepy. They say everyone has a person who looks exactly like them but this is just too much.

Gojo knows you watch him, spy on him, you even stole some of his things back in the day - you'd sent an apology text and he hadn't heard from you since. Though he could still tell you were watching, it wasn't all the time.

But where would you get footage to edit something like this together? You couldn't possibly be this good.

What was this? What the fuck did you want?

And then - he sees it.

It's not obvious. Only in a scene later on. He can only tell by watching, re-watching carefully. Even with the six eyes, on video it's hard to see.

A bruise. On your upper thigh. Barely there anymore, but he sees it.

And then. The double, your hired whore or whoever he is, kissing up your leg, mouth watering for your cunt -

After he passes over the bruise, it's gone. Completely. Like it was never there.

Like it was healed.

Except, you're not a sorcerer. You could see curses - even had some cursed energy - but you have no curse technique. No way could you pull off reverse curse technique.

And as time goes on he starts to notice other things.

At first, he didn't block you because he was curious. It looked like him in the thumbnail, after all. You were basically sending him your homemade porn, it was only polite to take a look!

Plus, maybe you were having some kind of episode or something. It could be a cry for help!

If he jerked off to one or two of them... or more... if he got hard seeing his own face painted in desperation, laving over your cunt, red-eyed and teary as hands tug in his hair... if he bought a cock ring for himself and stroked along to the body double's agony, edging until he gets to the part where you come home and let him open...

If he gets hard every time he sees you've texted him a new video, it was just porn.

It's not his fault, either. He told you to stop, and you didn't! In fact, you never responded to any of his texts. Didn't pick up any of his calls.

His calls. He called you. With video, even!

Sure, you ghosted him after the rejection until now, but this was crazy behavior. You were absolutely crazy for him, you literally stalked him for months, and this was him calling you!

Something is off. Gojo works around sorcerers - around crazy people. He knows crazy, and that's what you are, deep down to the core.

Researching him, watching him, looking up everything around him, leaving absolutely no stone unturned in the pursuit of his affections. Honestly it was kinda flattering! Creepy, but flattering.

Point is, you were crazy. fucking crazy. And even if you were completely over him (which, come on, how could you be?), why would you reach out again like this?

Why make such an obvious, desperate bid for his attention and then not accept it when he deigns to give it to you?

And when it came to the videos, they've started to get kind of... worrying.

In the earlier ones, it was obvious you hired some male hooker to dress up as him and boss around. Generic, but hot. Very femdom. He could respect it. Get off to it, even.

The hooker, or escort, or whoever he is - he's convincing. Too convincing. He's obviously happy to be there, even though you seem all to willing to slap him around, chew him up and spit him out, step on his -

Anyways, the point is. The escort had been a willing participant from the start. But you're starting to look... less so.

At first he thought you were just drunk, or high on something. And yeah, it was hot. Seeing you limp and boneless and making low, little noises as his perfect copy folds you over, manipulates you like a doll.

There's an appeal to it, he'll admit. You're smaller than him - the double has a similar frame, all broad, terribly tall, long, muscled limbs that bend you in half and bounce you on his dick like a living fleshlight.

Then the way you cum - you're so unguarded, so open. Face flushed, panting open-mouthed, twitching in the aftershocks as your lover holds you close. Drooling freely over his fingers, his cock.

It's hard not to wonder what it feels like. Being there. Inside you.

You weren't his type before, but he's touched himself so many times to you - and 'him'. You scolding him, punishing him, teaching him.

He's watched you force him to eat you out for hours, and thank you for it. And god if it didn't make him hard.

Gojo can admit, he's a little jealous of the double. What an easy life he has; jerking off with his cock stuck in a ring, waiting for hours for you to come back.

To some people that might sound like agony. To him, it sounds like something to do to himself during missions to make them more fun.

Rile himself up, stick the ring on, fight and kill while he's hard until he can get home and watch, listen, to you coming back and cooing at him before you grant him sweet release.

Suddenly, you're not just hot. You're erotic. Instantly arousing. The sight of you makes him hard and seeing you like this? Undone? Weak and pitiful and clinging to him - god, fuck. It does something to him.

And then there's the way the double looks up into the camera. His eyes are - fuck, they look a lot like his. Could it be some kind of visual effect? He can't tell over a video.

But as they keep coming, Gojo can just tell. There's malice in there. Pure disdain and loathing. The double touches

...and the he puts together something he should have known since the beginning.

Why weren't you answering him? Why did you keep sending these videos? Why did you call that man "Satoru"?

It all falls into place instantly. How did he not realize sooner? There's only one thing that would prevent you from picking up his calls. A freak like you would never willingly pass up on his attention, but if -

For the first time in years, Satoru Gojo makes a call and tells the Higher Ups he'll be out for the next couple days.

He has to get to you.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk smut #satoru gojo #satoru gojo smut #gojo x reader #x reader #clone!gojo #yandere!satoru gojo #yandere x reader #clone x reader #yandere!reader #yandere x yandere

652 notes · View notes

atzloverr · 9 months ago

Text

Ateez as yanderes - how they fell for you

!!!TW: Yandere!!!

warnings: includes yandere themes, kidnapping, non-consensual touching, drugging, stalking, female reader, (more warnings for the individual scenarios)

yes they do vary in length but I kinda just write them as i go, it has nothing to do with how much i “like” them

and also, I could write any other scenario where they’re completely different from this, I just thought this would be fun

masterlist

Hongjoong

cw: kidnapping, jealousy, non-con touching, college/school au

The most jealous of them all

Can’t even stand the thought of you talking to let alone looking at anyone other than him

Gets really scary when he’s angry, but tried his best to be patient when you don’t listen

Makes sure you only see him. Only touch him. Only love him. And if you refuse to do so, expect to be taught a lesson you will never even dare to forget.

Don’t worry though, he’ll gently kiss your tears away and carefully treat your wounds afterwards.

It all started when he saw you in class one day, not having really thought about you before, but he noticed how pretty you really were.

When he was grouped up with you for a project, he noticed just how kind and thoughtful you were, his little interest in you blooming into something stronger.

He didn’t know why yet, but seeing other guys at school approach you made his blood boil.

You were too good for those unworthy scum bags. Too pure. Too perfect. (He made sure to take care of them later)

Hongjoong felt himself becoming more and more obsessed with you, not a single day passing without the thought of you invading his mind.

What made Hongjoong snap was when a guy came up to you, touching you so familiarly and with such carelessness.

Seeing you laugh at this guy’s jokes, lightly touch his arm or even just bless him with your presence, made Hongjoong realize something

You needed to be protected. Your beauty needed to be savored, your skin never touched by other guys.

The only one worthy of you, was Hongjoong.

He knew what you really needed, who you really were.

He had made sure to learn all about you before finally making you his once and for all.

The two of you were meant to be together forever, and Hongjoong would never let anyone else come in between the two of you.

Seonghwa

cw: kidnapping, bondage, stalking, blackmailing, masturbation, Seonghwa is a creep in this lol, they work at the same workplace

Seonghwa is a quiet and attentive type of yandere

Would secretly admire you from a distance for years, before even gaining the courage to speak to you

He couldn’t help but think of you whenever he sees something cute or couple-like, secretly dreaming of a future shared with you.

As much as he wishes he could just approach you, he’s so scared of you disliking him in any way

And even though he seems like a sweetheart, you wouldn’t think the same if you caught him digging in your drawers, trying to find a new clothing item to bring home with him

One day, he finally approached you at work, even though you worked in completely different departments of the company.

Your eyes widened when he informed you that one of your coworkers had been fired, for acting inappropriately in the workplace.

You were really shocked, remembering how friendly he was, always telling you good morning and good bye.

Of course, he hadn’t actually done anything wrong, but Seonghwa figured the man was being way too friendly with you, almost flirting with you.

No, Seonghwa couldn’t have that, so he took matters into his own hands, blackmailing his way into getting the douchebag fired.

That man wouldn’t go near you again, Seonghwa made sure of it.

You thanked Seonghwa for the information, and got back to your own work.

You didn’t notice the way the dark haired male practically ran to the bathroom after you brief encounter, needing some type of release after finally doing what he had been wanted to do for years.

He pumped his hard cock, thinking about the way you looked at him. He had never been that close to you, he had never seen you look up into his eyes like that.

He realized that this couldn’t be it. He had to interact with you again. He couldn’t have it any other way.

After a few months had passed, you found yourself growing fond of your coworker, talking to him at work almost every day, going out to have lunch or simply meeting up to discuss work.

You didn’t think much of it, but Seonghwa sure did.

He had to admit he was proud of himself, having gotten so close to you in such a short time. He had to face his fear of approaching you, and when he did, it was the best decision of his life.

He was happy with his accomplishments, but couldn’t help but crave for more. It was so frustrating, having to act as if he barely knew you, when he in fact knew next to everything about you and your life

He knew exactly what your underwear smelled like that day when he first talked to you, and what you watched on your TV that same night.

As he got closer to you, he also got more bold with his stalking.

He started spending nights in your room, watching you closely as your chest rose and fell. He even got so far as to cuddling up to you when you were asleep, making sure you wouldn’t wake up.

But one night, you did.

Seonghwa got a little caught up in the moment as he cuddled you, moving a tad bit too much for it to go unnoticed. He didn’t notice when you slowly stirred awake, but suddenly, you let out a scream of terror at the feeling of someone in your bed.

Your wide eyes met each others, and just as you were about to question him, he put a hand over your mouth, making you squirm in panic

Seonghwa didn’t know what to do. Would this ruin everything? He couldn’t even think, but he was soon on top of you, his panicked voice trying to get you to calm down.

He could only think of one solution, that wouldn’t get him in any sort of trouble.

So here you were now, tied up in Seonghwa’s bed, a gag in your mouth, choking down all your desperate screams.

The man you once thought of as a sweet coworker, just laid next to you, hands grazing your arm in an attempt to comfort you in your time of horror.

Tomorrow, he knew what he would do.

He just hoped that your boss wouldn’t be too sad about the news of your… accident.

Yunho

cw: possessive behavior, slut shaming, ripping clothes, I’m sorry Yunho

Yunho can still find himself reminiscing about the old times, back when you first met.

Oh, he remembers it like it was yesterday, when he saw that beautiful smile of yours for the first time.

Yunho’s friend had a birthday dinner, and when they were going over the invitations, Yunho heard a foreign name pop up.

“Y/n? Who’s that?” Yunho asked curiously, trying to search for your name in his mind, but finding nothing.

“Oh, she’s a new friend from work! I’m sure you’ll like her! She’s super friendly!” his friend explained.

Yunho never expected to feel this way when he saw you.

Unfortunately for him, he showed up a little late to the dinner due to traffic, but when he arrived his eyes immediately found yours.

He didn’t believe in ‘love at first sight’, but if there was something like it, he was sure this was how it felt.

Throughout the night, he found himself drawn to you in some special way, your personalities seeming to go hand in hand. You laughed at his jokes, he laughed at yours.

After the dinner, Yunho had made one thing clear to himself.

You needed to become his. As soon as possible. So when you messaged his number that he had given you at the dinner, he found himself lighting up in joy and excitement.

You were going on a date with him.

Oh, he just couldn’t wait, to see you again, and just get to know you! He hadn’t been this interested in someone so quickly for a long time.

It didn’t take long before you and Yunho were dating. He made sure to take you out again only a few days after your first date, feeling eager to know more about you.

Everything felt perfect in your newly announced relationship.

But not for Yunho.

He couldn’t suppress it anymore. He felt so incredibly protective over you, it physically irked him to let you leave him for just a second.

As much as he tried to let you go out and have fun, it just felt so wrong. He didn’t want to be an overprotective boyfriend, but he didn’t view this as being overprotective. This felt like the bare minimum.

One night, when you got dressed to go to a friend’s party, Yunho couldn’t stop himself.

“Are you really going to dress like that?” he spat at you, almost sounding offended.

You gasped at his comment. “What is that supposed to mean?” you questioned, feeling your blood already boiling at his question. Oh, how you hated when guys acted like this.

“I mean, are you going to try to impress someone else?” he asked, still wearing that scowl on his face. You scoffed.

“I’m not having this conversation—“

“Yes you are,” Yunho raised his voice. Your eyes widened in surprise. He had seemed so sweet until now. This was a whole new version of him. One that you didn’t enjoy.

He stepped his large body in front of yours in the hallway of your apartment, pinning you against the wall.

“You have to understand,” he started, his eyes looking dark and scary. “That you’re my girlfriend now, and you can’t go around dressed like a slut anymore.”

You fought the urge to slap him across the face, and instead just barked back at him, “Excuse me!? Do you think you own me or something?”

Yunho squinted slightly.

“You know what, yes, I do.”

You were about to laugh at him, thinking that this was some sort of joke, but when he suddenly picked you up bridal style and harshly threw you down on the bed, you couldn’t mutter a single sound.

“Do you know what types of men will be there?” he asked, his hands moving down to the hem of your dress.

“How do you know that they won’t just,” he started, his hands ripping the fabric of the dress. “Touch your skin? This dress is so short, it won’t exactly be hard for them!” he argued.

You yelled at him to stop, but his hands continued tearing your dress into shreds.

You felt tears spilling out of your eyes, sobs escaping you as he exposed you in your underwear.

“You’re mine, do you understand!?” he asked, almost screaming at you.

You flinched at his anger, but forced a nod. Something changed in his gaze, making it softer once again.

“Good,” he said, his head resting on your bare stomach.

“I think you’ll stay home for tonight, hm?” he almost whispered, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

You had a rough few days ahead of you.

Yeosang

cw: school/college au, kidnapping, non-con touching, yeosang is delusional

His love for you started as a harmless crush.

Seeing you in the corridor and finding you pretty, or just hearing your voice as you raised your hand in class made him feel shy and giggly.

It went by so quickly, and suddenly this little crush had turned into something much stronger.

He soon noticed how big of an impact you had on his life

You were the only thing on his mind every single day, and it came to a point where he couldn’t stand not seeing you, even for just a day.

He wanted to spend every waking moment with you, making sure you and him can get to know each other better, and become closer to each other.

He even started envisioning a future with you, kids and all.

Even though you had only had some brief interactions with the man, he sure valued those moments, still thinking about your sweet laugh and beautiful smile.

He knew what he had to do, scared he would go crazy if he didn’t.

One day after school, he innocently invited you over for tea, making sure you felt comfortable in his home, before drugging you and keeping you there for as long as he sees fit (probably forever)

You couldn’t understand any of it, barely even remembering speaking to the boy, but when you acted confused by his actions, he only grew angrier

“Don’t you remember that time? When you dropped your book and- and I helped you pick it up!?” he asked furiously. Your eyes widened at his words.

He was surely crazy.

Although he kidnapped you, he still felt shy around you at times, biting his lip and blushing slightly when even being in your presence

He’ll shyly cuddle up to you when you fall asleep, finally seeing you so peaceful and quiet, just how he likes you

When you scream at him, begging him to let you out, he’ll just treat it like a tantrum, putting you in ‘timeout’

He really tries to explain his feelings to you, only thinking that it’s rational for him to protect you

He “only does it out of love” and gets so frustrated when you can’t understand that.

San

cw: reader likes to party, reader gets drunk, kidnapping, stalking, jealousy, possessive behavior

You caught his eye in a bar one night, wearing a tight dress, showing off your body in a way that turned everyone’s eyes towards you

San was no exception, his gaze plastered on you the entire night, as you got more and more drunk

He had to keep an eye on you, making sure that no creep would try to make a move on you or hand you a spiked drink

When the end of the night came, none of your friends were with you anymore, so you were far from safe on your own

San approached you, steadying you with his strong arms, causing you to lean on his frame

He could tell you were confused, and decided to introduce himslef

“My name is San, what’s your name?” he asked, trying to find your unfocused gaze

You muttered out your name, your breath reeking of alcohol.

San smiled kindly, and sat you down on a barstool, still keeping his steady arms around you

“You want me to help you get home?” he asked, his kind eyes making you feel an immediate sense of comfort.

“Yes please,” you muttered out.

As he gave you a piggyback ride home, you slurred out a small ‘thank you’.

San couldn’t hold his smile at your cute behavior, looking at your face as you almost fell asleep at his shoulder

Oh how things were changed now.

Ever since that night, San had found himself missing you, even though you only met when you were drunk

He made sure to give you his number, telling you to call him if you needed anything, however, you hadn’t reached out again.

San felt himself getting angrier by every moment. Didn’t you value that night you had together? I mean, he took you home and took care of you when you literally couldn’t even walk.

He knew you meant no harm though, no, his little sweetheart would never try to hurt his feelings.

San decided that he couldn’t handle thinking about you like this anymore, so one night, he decided to find where you were, using different means to find out what you were going to be doing this weekend.

He wasn’t surprised that you were going to another party, so he decided to get himself invited as well.

What he never expected, was to see you with some dude, making out in the corner of a room as if you had no shame

His eye twitched in rage, but he knew he had to be patient.

When the party was finally over, you were of course, drunk again, and he decided that this was the perfect time to make his move.

“H-hey, have we met?” you laughed, almost falling into his arms as you approached him.

San only smirked.

“Come with me and I’ll tell you,” he smiled. If this had been anyone else, you would never had agreed to it, but something in you told you to trust this man.

You found yourself leaning against a tree, no other people in sight, except for the handsome man standing before you.

“Tell me,” you commanded, your words still slurring together.

“Oh don’t worry, I will,” he said, before you felt a harsh pain in your head, and you fell down to the ground.

You couldn’t scream, you could only slowly fade away into unconsciousness as the man slowly picked you up.

Plastering a few kisses to your head, he smiled, way to innocently for what he was doing.

“Finally I can take you home, my little bunny.”

Mingi

cw: implied kidnapping, best friends to (lovers), possessive behavior, drugging, jealousy

Mingi had been your best friend ever since back in high school

You still remember how he would beg you to hang out after school, telling you that you were going to ‘study’, just to lure you in to a mario kart tournament

You were so thankful to have such a sweet friend by your side, always supporting you when you needed it the most, and serving as a pillar in your life when everything else seemed to go downhill

Mingi had made sure that’s what you viewed him as. The reliable friend who would never fail you.

He had to make sure you loved and trusted him more than anyone else

At first, he thought it was just a friendly affection he held towards you. When he felt his fists clench in anger when you talked to others, he just thought of it as a will to protect you, his friend

But now he was sure it was more than that.

During all of these years, he watched as boy after boy failed you. He couldn’t help but feel a small wave of excitement when you came crying in his arms, telling him that you got failed again.

As much as he hated seeing you so sad, he just loved that you always seemed to come crawling back to him.

Well, that was, until now.

Mingi watched carefully through your window, making sure his loud breaths of anger weren’t heard by you and your new ‘boyfriend’.

As much as he loved hearing your moans, he couldn’t stand them when it was because of some other dude.

The only ones valuable enough to touch your sweet body, were you and him. Anyone else pleasuring you deserved hell.

So when Mingi heard you moan out this new guy’s name in ecstasy, he felt sick to his stomach.

He waited and waited for this guy to show his true colors, and break up with you.

Mingi hadn’t seen it yet, but he was sure this guy had a bad side too. Even if he was kind to you, Mingi knew that this guy wasn’t the one.

Because Mingi was the one.

He had to make sure he was, even if it would take time for you to realize it.

Seriously, how dense were you? Mingi thought. How couldn’t you notice his love towards you? Did all those tender moments of affection mean nothing to you?

One night, Mingi decided that you had spent enough time with your boyfriend. This had to end, before it escalated into something bigger. He didn’t even want to think about you two moving in together, getting a dog, having kids…

No! He had to do something about it. He wanted to try talking about it with you first, so when you came over to spend the night, Mingi decided to ask you about it.

“Y/n, this new guy, he…” Mingi started, avoiding your gaze. “New? We’ve been dating for months!” you laughed. “But yeah, what about him?”

Mingi felt so tingly when you looked up at him with those beautiful eyes, so he couldn’t even meet them, scared that he might let out some inappropriate noise.

“Well, is he really the one?” he asked, looking down to the floor.

You stared dumbfounded at him, but continued to play it off as mere curiosity from your friend.

“Yeah, I think he might be.”

You had to admit Mingi was acting strange. His gaze was unfocused, as he grumbled something incoherent.

You dismissed the conversation, and swiftly changed the subject.

“So, how’s it going for Yunho? I heard he got a new job?…”

Mingi couldn’t focus on your words right now, as much as he wanted to hear your beautiful voice.

You were clearly serious about this guy, so talking you out of it wouldn’t work. You trusted your boyfriend way too much, and raising your suspicions would take way too long.

He had to go through with plan B, as much as he hated it.

You lay down next to Mingi on the couch, carelessly sipping your drink. You had decided to put on a movie, and as much as you loved this movie, you couldn’t help but feel sleepy already.

You found yourself slowly dozing off on Mingi’s shoulder, your body feeling weak suddenly.

You tried to form words, but felt too tired to even speak. You barely even noticed as Mingi’s strong arms swiftly picked you up.

He finally met your gaze, after what had felt like an eternity. To your surprise, his expression showed nothing but sadness.

“I’m sorry Y/n,” he said, walking into his bedroom. “But it’s for the best.”

After hearing the distinct sound of the door closing and locking, you found yourself lulled into a deep slumber, tucked under Mingi’s soft sheets, his arms cradling your body.

When you were finally fast asleep, Mingi took the opportunity, and told you the three sacred words he had been holding back from you for all these years.

“I love you.”

Wooyoung

cw: cheating, stalking, taking photos without consent, implied kidnapping, manipulation, masturbation

Wooyoung will get what he wants, no matter the cost

Even if that means ruining years of friendship, and breaking your heart in the process, he had to do the necessary things to get you

Breaking your heart wouldn’t even be the hardest part, after all, he wouldn’t mind breaking you completely, just so he could build you anew.

Wooyoung and his best friend were inseparable, it was well known for everyone they knew

Being childhood best friends, Wooyoung was sure nothing could ever come in between their bond

That was, until you entered the picture

Wooyoung was more than excited to hear that his friend had gotten a new girlfriend, and he couldn’t wait to meet the girl, having heard such good things about her

His jaw dropped when his gaze met your form

You were stunning

He had to raise his eyebrows at his best friend, as if saying ‘damn, how did you manage to get that?’

As you politely shook his hand and introduced yourself, Wooyoung couldn’t help but notice something

You were way too good for his best friend

Even though they were good friends, he couldn’t deny that this guy wasn’t the nicest to girls, looking back at his past girlfriends, who basically all ended up cheated on by him.

Although his relationships usually ended within the first few weeks, two months had now passed since Wooyoung’s friend met you.

It had gone unnoticed by you, but for these two months, Wooyoung had gotten incredibly smitten by you

He found himself looking forward to seeing you, and would use any excuse possible to get you alone with him

You were just so much better off without his friend.

Without that guy, you could be your interesting and authentic self without being held back.

As smart as you were, Wooyoung knew you weren’t that bright. You didn’t even notice when he snuck his phone under the table to take a quick snap into your skirt, or when he always managed to end up in weird positions with you when he “fell asleep.”

At night, Wooyoung would desperately hump into a pillow while listening to an audio of your voice, imagining you laying right beneath him.

He couldn’t take it anymore, he had waited long enough.

Luckily, he knew exactly how he would manage to pull this off.

He happened to know his best friend a little too well.

One night, Wooyoung invited you two to a party as plus twos, begging you to go, telling you just how fun it was going to be.

You fell for his cute little smile as he blinked at you, asking you to pleeease come with him.

He smirked when you finally said yes, slowly making his way to his end goal.

He had to execute this perfectly, making sure he would be portrayed as the hero, and your boyfriend as the villain.

Well at the party, you found yourself sitting in a corner of the room, laughing and dancing to the music. Wooyoung had for some reason insisted you were going to hang out at that specific spot for a while.

After a little while, Wooyoung snaked a hand around your waist, telling you to go have a drink with him.

He gave you and your boyfriend that classic innocent smile, feeding onto the illusion that he was someone with no ill intent whatsoever.

When you took off, Wooyoung quickly fished out his phone from his pocket, sending a message.

Wooyoung made it so that he could still keep an eye on your boyfriend, while you stood opposite from him, not having any idea of what was happening behind you.

While you two chatted away, your tipsy state making you talkative, Wooyoung watched as the girl slowly approached your boyfriend

He studied the way she slowly sat down on your boyfriend’s lap, who had already managed to get way too drunk

Right when he could tell she was about to make her move, he smiled at you.

“Let’s go back to your boyfriend, shall we?”

As you turned around, Wooyoung’s arm still holding your waist, you couldn’t help but gasp in surprise

Were you really seeing things clearly?

As you slowly walked closer to them, you realized that this was no illusion

There your boyfriend sat, some girl on top of him, making out with him passionately, his hands roaming her barely dressed body

Your legs suddenly felt weak, but Wooyoung kept you on your feet

“Oh my god, Y/n,” Wooyoung breathed out sadly, holding you closer. “I’m so sorry…”

You felt tears stream down your cheeks as you stepped even closer to the two, seeing the way her hands guided his as she practically grind on his lap.

You didn’t want to believe your eyes, but you had to.

Suddenly, your body was turned around, and you were dragged out of the room. In what felt like a matter of seconds, you were outside, Wooyoung’s arms wrapped tightly around your shivering body

You sobbed quietly into the fabric of his jacket, as his hand found your hair.

“Shh it’s okay Y/n,” he comforted, slowly rocking you back and forth. “How about you sleep at my place tonight, hm?”

You nodded violently into his shoulder, tears continuing to stream down your cheeks.

What you never saw, was the way Wooyoung smiled in satisfaction, sending the girl a last message.

“You can back off from him now, I’ll pay you tomorrow.”

Jongho

cw: implied kidnapping, stalking, non-con kissing, mentions of weight loss, obsessive behavior

The first time Jonho saw you was at an art gallery, slowly inspecting the art pieces as you walked by them

As much as he wanted to keep his eyes on the art, you were the only thing he could keep his attention on

You stood there in your long dress, modest but oh so tempting, staring at the painting before you in a lonesome awe

He found himself being drawn to you. It was something about your energy.

“What do you think?” he asked in a low voice, walking up to you, still keeping you at a respectful distance, but close enough to make the conversation private.

“It’s interesting. The artist has done a really great job at portraying the beauty in the horror of her expression,” you said, eyes not wavering from the painting in front of you.

The unknown man next to you just hummed in agreement, but in reality, he wasn’t even looking at the painting. He had seen it earlier, so he knew exactly what you meant.

The painting depicted a woman, watching in terror as an unknown creature tries to attack her. Amidst of the scenery, there is a beauty, that not everyone could understand.

You understood exactly what was intended in the piece, making Jongho feel nothing but excitement bubble up inside of him.

“What’s your name?” you asked, averting your gaze towards the man. His eyes widened slightly before he answered.

“Choi Jongho,” he answered, smiling warmly at you.

You introduced yourself as well, bowing slightly.

After about an hour, you and Jongho had been chatting away about the various art pieces in the gallery, discussing your interpretations.

You were impressed at Jongho’s open minded approach, making you feel comfortable when you didn’t even know the man.

Having to say goodbye felt sad to you, and as much as you wanted to ask him for his number, you just couldn’t find the courage.

Ever since you parted that day, you had been the only thing on the man’s mind. He tried to recall every single word you said about each peace, wanting to imagine your voice uttering the words of pure intellect and interest.

When going to other galleries, Jongho always hoped to see you once again, but he never found you.

He knew it was wrong, but he wanted to know what you were up to. Were you avoiding him? Or did you simple lose interest in art? No, that couldn’t be. The way you spoke so fondly about it showed that art meant a lot to you.

Jongho had to find out. So he did the necessary thing to do so.

He simply used his computer skills to find out more about you. He had your name, so with enough time and effort, he would surely find you.

And indeed, he did find you.

When he saw your picture pop up on his computer screen, he felt a jolt of joy.

He found out everything he needed to know, and the next day, he was making a phone call to have flowers delivered to your door.

He couldn’t wait to see your reaction to them, waiting patiently at his hiding spot.

When your form finally came into view, Jongho felt himself stiffen up.

You didn’t look like yourself.

You had clearly lost weight, looking pale and tired. Your eyes were barely even opened as you inspected the bouquet of flowers.

You picked them up, and then quickly entered your apartment again, quickly closing the door

Jongho was at a loss for words.

This wasn’t how he remembered you. You weren’t this lifeless last time. You hadn’t looked so empty of emotion, so distant.

With your recent appearance, you now invaded Jongho’s mind more than ever before.

What had happened to you since last time? Jongho had to find out.

After hours of digging, he still couldn’t find anything. No traumatic past events. No dead family member. Nothing.

After sending you another bouquet, once again watching you from his hiding spot, he couldn’t bare it anymore.

Seeing you like this physically hurt him. He felt his heart clench at the mere sight of your weak self, and he needed to take care of things.

So the third time he sent you flowers, he decided to give them to you personally.

He breathed in and out heavily, waiting for you to appear at the door. It took you way too long for his liking to finally open the door, revealing your even more malnourished self, dressed in pajamas even though it was midday.

“Jongho?” your voice sounded out, your eyes widened slightly.

He smiled fondly at your memory of his name. So you did remember the meeting you had.

“Hello, Y/n,” he greeted, handing you the flowers. You blinked at the gesture.

“Are you the one who—“ you started, but Jongho had other plans.

“Let’s go inside, shall we?” he asked.

Your eyebrows furrowed when he invited himself in, stepping past you, and into your chaos of a home.

You tried to protest, but he just gave you a stern look. You were so confused at his attitude. What happened to that respectful man you had met at the gallery?

“What’s going on? You look tired, Y/n,” Jongho asked, voice laced with concern.

You gasped slightly at his familiarity, almost feeling insulted by the sudden question.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you what’s going on? How did you find out where i live? And what are you doing here in the first place?” you raised your voice, pointing at him.

The look in his eyes remained unchanged, a small frown on his lips at your questions.

“That’s not what really matters, Y/n. What’s happened to you?” he asked, giving you that pitiful look you hated.

The way he kept repeating your name didn’t fail to make you uncomfortable.

You backed away from him slightly, dropping the bouquet, but was suddenly grabbed by the wrist by an iron-like grip.

“Answer me, Y/n,” he demanded, a stern look in his eye.

You squirmed in his grip, spitting insults at him, but it was like you had no effect on him.

Soon, it just led to him being pinned over you on your couch, his hands on either side of your head.

Your eyes were wide in fear, and you felt forced to answer the question he had been urging you to answer for the past agonizing minutes.

“Okay, okay! I got dumped, okay!?” you yelled at him, tears starting to gather in your eyes.

He froze, but soon regained composure. “So what? That’s no reason for you to destroy yourself,” he stated. You blinked at his audacity.

“You have no idea what I’ve had to go through—“

A kiss.

That’s what interrupted your answer of rage. A slow, but firm kiss on your lips. You couldn’t even find the energy to fight him off, already being weak as it was.

When he finally disconnected from you, tears had started streaming down your face.

His hands found your cheeks, wiping the warm tears away.

“Don’t worry Y/n,” he tried to comfort you. “I’ll never make you go through something like that again.”

You shook your head in confusion.

“With me, you’ll be happy. I’ll make sure everything gets back to normal again,” he cooed, eyes inspecting your face.

“Now, let’s go home, shall we? This place probably just reminds you of him.”

Hope you enjoyed!!! Requests are open

masterlist

551 notes · View notes