masochisticluvr

Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.

Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.

You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.

Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?

You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.

You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes. 

Shit, how’re you supposed to—

“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.

He sets out two plates before sitting down.

He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar. His hair is newly washed, hanging in curly bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.

“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”

“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”

You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”

“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”

Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”

For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.

“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”

Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut. 

“What?”

A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly? 

“What the fuck’s going on?!”

He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life. 

“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”

Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with. 

Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”

Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?

“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you. 

The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.

“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”

Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind. 

Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar.

In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”

But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”

Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first. 

And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.

You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while. 

And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide. 

Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested. Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start piling up your plate.

While stuffing your face, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face. 

You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…

Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…

And that’s when it hits you.

“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…” 

You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering. 

“Malevolent Kitchen!” 

You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.

Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”

“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.

You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…

You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.

There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.

It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…

“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember. 

True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit. 

“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”

Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea. 

“A cannibal?”

You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.

But he doesn’t.

No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.

It fully dawns on you then.

“Oh God, that’s it, isn’t it?”

The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.

And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.

“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”

And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke. 

Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.

“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”

The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.

You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”

Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.

Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”

You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”

You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi is the least he could do.

You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”

You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”

So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.

In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.

But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”

To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”

—

You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you. 

Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be. 

He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him. 

But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.

He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun. 

And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.

Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances. 

But then again, you hadn’t proved to be very normal at all so far.

You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild curiosity, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.

By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.

You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way, at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.

“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.

Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.

“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well. 

It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is. 

But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.

It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.

Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”

You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.

He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.

Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.

“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”

Oh, so that had been your earlier concern. 

He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…

Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.

“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.

He halts. “What?” 

Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”

Oh, right. He chuckles.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.

“Hello? What’s so funny?” you ask again.

“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.

You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”

Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.

“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”

You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”

It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it. 

“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?” 

Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, looking for answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you. 

But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t actually buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”

He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”

You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”

You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.

No, not at all. 

Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.

And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”

It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.

And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.” 

“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.

He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”

You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.

Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…

—

True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night. 

The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep. 

Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.

Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.

Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.

He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.

“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.

To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”

You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.

You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.

In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.

“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”

“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.

You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”

You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it, given the man’s your cannibalistic captor you shouldn't be goofing around with. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”

He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”

“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”

You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”

Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll  take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”

You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.

“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”

You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.

“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”

He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.

“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”

You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,” 

Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.

You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you? 

“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”

You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”

With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.” 

You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”

He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as taking a fake sick-day just to get out of work.

But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”

His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”

You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind. “Anything else I can help with?”

He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”

You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual or abstinent while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”

—

A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.

He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.

In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.

Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself. 

He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.

“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to test your eye for precautions.”

He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.

“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time.

“No,” he answers shortly.

To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”

He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”

You drop back down with a pout at the boring response, staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…” 

Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”

He ignores you and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.

“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your stomach.

“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”

You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.

Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.

Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.

But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”

With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”

Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.

It’s boring, you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.

But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”

You lift yourself up from your slump, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.

You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”

As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”

It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.” 

—

More weeks pass. 

The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.

Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain. 

Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.

Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long. 

Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…

And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food.

“Not up to your standards?” he questions.

You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.

During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.

But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something more, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.

Lonely is the word that comes to mind.

“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—anything but this gourmet stuff…”

He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.

“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”

Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.

It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.

“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.

“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard before.

It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”

“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”

He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?

“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you. 

“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?” 

You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”

In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.

Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.

“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.

But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”

Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,” 

And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”

He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”

“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”

Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”

“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”

Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”

Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”

Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.

But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”

Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”

By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing.  “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.

“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.

But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”

He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”

His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding. 

You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”

“That’s it.”

It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think. 

One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.

“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him anymore to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”

And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.

“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”

“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”

Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.

“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”

—

“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”

He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.

No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”

You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”

Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”

He can only sigh and admit defeat.

Still, you got one thing wrong. 

“I’m not the freak here…”

for starters, till is not the type to engage in one night stands. if you want to get into his pants, you have to find your way into the deepest depths of his heart first.

if you do, then you're in for a ride when he — or the both of you — get the hang of things.

canonically, till is a timid individual with the occasional ferocious outburst, reflecting how he is in bed over the course of your relationship (or whatever you want to call it).

till doesn't have much, if any, experience. your first time with him is going to be his first time ever, and yes, he will be nervous. yes, you would need to guide him if you know how to, and if you don't, at least reassure him whenever his hands wander a little lower, whenever he begins to trail experimental kisses down your neck.

if you offer to take the lead, you'll quickly find out that till is sensitive. if feeling the touch of your fingertips against his inner thighs is enough to make his cock jolt, imagine what giving him head could do. his breaths turn ragged, his brows are tightly knitted and he's trying his hardest to not dig his fingers into your hair and make any brash movements. he's also trying his hardest to not cum the moment you have all of him down your throat.

is till vocal? yes, but not when you're getting started. as you bob your head up and down on his length, all you can hear from above you are the almost strained exhales coming from till, and, if you drag your tongue against the underside of his cock, you'll earn a surprised, dragged out moan from him along with the sight of him breaking the intense eye contact he's been maintaining to lean his head back against the pillows slotted underneath.

his cum? thick. salty. i said what i said — and he cums a lot, best believe that when that blissful sensation finally washes over him, his cum will drip down from the sides of your mouth even if you try to swallow all of it.

now that we discussed what he's like when receiving head, what's he like when giving head? one word — sloppy. he only has a vague idea of what he's supposed to do, but he tries to work with what little knowledge he has. he'll start out with a few kitten licks across your slit, heart fluttering inside his chest as the taste of you settles on his tongue. the more you encourage him with words of praise or just your moans of pleasure, the more confident he will get.

just give till a little bit of time and some freedom to see what he can and can't do, because in the end you'll discover that his head is lethal. eating you out like a man starved, lapping up at your folds and making out with your clit while two of his fingers pump in and out of your drooling cunt. we all know he's good with his fingers, c'mon now.

till will only pull away from your overstimulated pussy when you either pry him away from it with force or his cock is aching to the point where it hurts, all because he really wants to be inside of you. scratch that, he needs it.

onto the main course — much like how he struggled to not cum down your throat when you gave him the first head he's ever received in his life, till struggles to not cum prematurely before he can even get to sink his cock fully inside of your warmth. his eyes will flit continuously from where your bodies are connected to your face, checking to see if he can gauge any reactions from you.

when he's finally inside and you give him the green light to start moving, till will set a slow pace for both you and him. otherwise, his own composure (that is on the brink of ceasing to exist) will shatter, and worst of all, you'll be in pain. he doesn't want that. his body's a little stiff, his strokes aren't very languid, but the sheer length and slight girth of his cock make up for it since this is only the start.

when the faint traces of discomfort you feel start to fade away, till will make it his personal goals to — 1. not cum way too early on (yes, he's still holding back) and 2. mold your insides to the exact shape of his cock. his nails begin to dig into the flesh on your hips, he buries his head in the crook of your neck to muffle all the whimpers tumbling past his lips and, slowly, he pulls out almost completely to snap! his hips against yours seconds later, changing the pace to a feverish one.

for what feels like hours on end, till proceeds to jackhammer into your sopping cunt like a dog in heat, panting and whining against your skin, biting it harshly when he draws yet another orgasm out of himself — and, of course, you. that ferocious streak of his really comes out the more he gets lost in the feeling of your cunt clenching down on his cock, nearly forcing his movements to a halt.

by the time till pulls out, he feels like he's been milked dry and your juices have coated both the bedsheets underneath the two of you and his entire length. collapsing on top of you, heavy silence ensues as till catches his breath, mind slowly catching up to the fact that he wrecked your shit and vice versa — and it was the best first time experience ever.

the aftercare is kept to a minimum. not because till is a dickhead and doesn't want to engage in aftercare, but because he doesn't really know what it entails. he asks if you're alright, retrieves the nearest towel to clean the both of you up, then immediately passes out next to you.

it’s his job to make you feel comfy and right at home! why else do you think he raised the ranks it’s so that other tedious tasks are left for his subordinates

he doesn’t stay on your lap grinding his hole the whole day, of course!

he hides beneath your desk nestling between your legs during meetings, or else he would be blocking the camera and get in the way of your work

your meeting can tend to take a long time which is why he really likes to take it real long and slow with you

his main goal isn’t to be a brat or a tease but to genuinely to make you feel good and relax (do note that it is his intention but whether you actually relax is another story)

he likes to start by kisses all over your inner thighs and groping them to feel how thick and sturdy they are

this continues until he can see the bulge forming in your underwear and he likes to greeting it by burying his face right up to take a good smell of your cock right from the source

if you can’t tell already, he definitely has a scent kink and likes to smell your musk for a long time until he salivates from the smell and his mouth gets the itch

to warm up, he likes to shove it down all the way to the bar to really feel the stretch in his throat. he doesn’t move just sitting there cock warming you with his throat

if he feels that your cock is leaking too much precum and it’s getting hard for him then pulls out he swallows while keeping the head in his mouth before restarting all again

he likes to spread the precum all over your cock using his tongue to make sure the whole thing is nice and wet for him

if he wants a break then he sucks on the head, lazily swirling his tongue around the tip

sometimes he pretends that your cock is a tongue and pretend to kiss it like you’re french kissing

he loves making you leak so much that he can slurp that white sticky goo but he has to hold back to avoid making loud sounds for the mic to pick up

but once he gets the jist the meeting is heading towards its end. that’s when he really throws it all out the window and try to work you up in hopes that you would pound his tight hole he saved up for you after the call

he starts to deep throat make sure your cock is reaching the tightest area at the back, making sure to rock his head back and forth at a good pace

now this is when he really gets a bit adventurous and slurp loudly to make you hang up faster to avoid being caught

depending on how important the meeting is, you may leave early and let the rest finish up or lock his head with your thighs so he can’t move and forced to continue to cock warm you with his throat

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Aeres lets out a moan as you mercilessly enter him all at once without trying to loosen him up.

“M-mhm♡ I-mf sorryyy♡”

You were pounding him so fiercely, he could only bounce his body to the rhythm of your hips. Swaying back and forth as he clutched onto your desk for support and bucking his hips out.

“Sorry?”

You snorted. Kneading his fair butt, squeezing it right and letting it go to watch the slight jiggle at the release of contact. Warming his cheeks nicely with you palm before slapping his hard.

The sound echoed nicely in your office and Aeres whimpered at the pain, but continued to arch his back to meet your every thirst.

“You didn’t seem sorry with how much fun you were having between my legs, hm?”

You held his hips in order to thrust deeply yet again, and quickened the past.

“M-master ♡”

Aeres continued to moan out for you and moved his hips alongside your every thrust to get you to places deep within him that he would never be able to touch on his own.

“Use your words. Do you want to cum?”

You spat harshly at your maid, but his body could only break down the pleasure you were giving him and he was no longer capable of assembling words or able to convey them.

Aeres could only clench his hole tight and nod back at you with tears in his eyes, hoping that you would forgive him for disobeying.

Of course, you didn’t.

“You’re being quite naughty today, is that right Aeres?”

You snaked a hand down between his legs and found his member between your hands.

Aeres gasped at the unexpected touch, and his knees buckling at the warmth of your hands on his cock.

You found your way to the tip and firmly pressed your thumb at the tip.

Aeres knew exactly what you were going to do and whined against your desk. Although, he would sway his hips frantically to no avail to throw your hands off him. He knew better to grasp frantically at your hands to throw him off.

It was engraved in his bones and blood that he was for your pleasure. A bit of coyness would spice bedroom activities up but he would never openly defy against your wishes.

“Nghh~♡♡ your cock f-feels sooo good master ♡ its stretching my maid hole so well ♡”

Fuck, he was trying to sweet talk his out of this. You can tell, but you weren’t about to fall for it. You continued to hit it deep inside of him without release you hold on his twitching cock.

“Mhmm♡~ Master♡~ can we please c-cum together ah♡”

You can tell that he was about to cum, but do you let him have your way with you?

His flushed face and reddened buttocks paired with his glistening eyes while whimpering and moaning was satisfying but

“Nope♡”

You blocked the urethra firmly with your thumb and came inside of him with the base of your cock touching the rim of his hole.

Aeres whined at his lack of release and feeling himself being filled with your warm cum but before he could whine at you. He was flipped with his back flushing against the cool wooden table and the thrusting began again forcing the cum to bubble and come out.

“N-noooo♡ Masterrrr♡”

You smiled at his moans and pressed your lips together while nibbled at his bottom lip swallow the rest of his whines.

he turns his head to kiss you but you lean back. You can't help but giggle at his attempts to try and please you even while his hips jerk up into your unforgiving hand. He's trained so well.

"Youre so mean—hng!"

He keels over as you press your thumb into his tip, precum gushes out of the slit in an instant, and you swear you could hear him sob.

"t-that hurts.. (your name), please.." he sputters and writhes under your grasp, but his hips don't hesitate to move desperately now. he's so fucking embarrassed at the mess he's made already, and he hasn't came once. his pink tip puffy and glistening with his essence.

"You can take the pain.." Your lips quirk up into a devilish smirk; which he can imagine is plastered on your face based on your honeyed tone, but he has trouble looking at you, as his body involuntarily coils up.

He chokes on his own gasp of relief when you remove your thumb from his aching tip, he's eternally grateful, even if his mind is too fogged up to tell you. he lays his head back to rest against your chest, eyebrows knitting together, and lip trembling. his chest heaves with growing intensity each time your hand pumps his base; you can tell he's getting close now, so of course, you slide your hand off of it.

He cries out furiously, causing you to flinch, but you can't help the smile that forms when he tries to babble pet names and pleads. even though it's useless since they're shadowed by his rasped and feverish breaths, you appreciate the effort. His face contorts into a pathetic expression, and he looks up at you—seemingly unaware of how his hips keep bucking up into nothing.

this is the hottest thing i've ever seen

You reach out to wipe a tear threatening to spill out of his lower eyelid, while your other hand uses the blanket to dry off his cock. Then you finally lean in to kiss him, pressing your lips against his. his eyes flutter shut when you lick into his mouth, and allow his tongue to mingle with yours. you slowly close your lips around his tongue to suck on the wet muscle, bobbing your head as if it was his dick. Your hand creeps towards his unknowing cock, and You gently run your nails up and down the shaft. Causing him to shiver from such a small gesture makes you giggle into your boyfriend's mouth proudly.

you swallow his moans as you wrap your hand around his dry manhood, spine instantaneously arching. You pull away from the kiss when you pump him faster, the friction of your dry hand and his dry shaft rubbing against each other not slowing your movements down one bit. Not even when his eyes gloss over, when his nostrils flare, or even when he yelps in pain. You quickly feel the heat building in your core as he thrashes around, trying to escape the overwhelming feelings of arousal and pain youre inflicting on him.

"stop! stop, (your name)! it—Fuck!" he wails, panting shakily.

but his cries only spur You on. You lean in to nip and lick at his neck as he sobs in agony. tears start to dribble out of his eyes, contrasting the way he keeps bucking into your hand.

"it hurts! it hu-hurts!" a guttural cry tears out of his throat as you feel wetness suddenly drench your hand. salty liquid drips onto your tongue; it seems his tears made it down to his neck already, but it's hard to focus on giving him a hickey when he keeps seizing. You slow your movements down and lift your head up to look at the mess he's made.

Fuck..

drool trickles down the corner of his mouth, eyes blood shot red and skin stained from tears, hair drenched and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks, nose dripping with a disgusting mixture of sweat and snot, and chest heaving with quick and recovering breaths. Your eyes trail down to where your hand lies, holding the base of his raw, red, skinned cock. Shit. the wetness wasn't his cum, it was from serous drainage. (the clear/yellow liquid that comes out of a cut/injury). his peeled skin resigns under your fingernails, and he disorientedly looks at you, eyelids heavy. he mutters something, but youre too focused on his beautiful expression to listen, lapping up the drool that spills from his kiss-bruised lips. He whimpers at your soothing touch when you plant wet kisses on his forehead.

"hu...hurts..." his eyelids flutter closed. you worry that he's gonna faint, but he just seems exhausted for now.

"i know, let me take care of you." your hand trails along his chest, finding one of his nipples and rolling it between your fingers.

he can feel his balls aching for release, and his dick throbbing in anguish, nausea churns in his stomach at the thought of you touching it again. it hurts. so so so badly.

"No, no, please! please please please!" he hiccups.

"but don't you want to feel good? You dont wanna feel my cunt around you?" you taunt him.

"No—yes! i, i do!" he whips his head around to kiss your neck, trying to encourage you to fuck him.

You shamelessly laugh at his efforts, making his eyes gloss over once again.

the end ☺️

your friend called you up last minute, asking if you could dog-sit for the weekend. you agreed without hesitation—after all, how hard could it be?

when you arrived, the house was strangely quiet. following the instructions she’d texted you seemed straightforward:

- "make sure puppy stays hydrated. his water bowl is by the cage."

- "he only eats from the floor—use the dish labeled ‘good boy’ in the kitchen."

- "daily walks are a must. leash is hanging by the door."

- "if he’s restless or needy, give him belly rubs and scratch behind his ears. he loves that."

- "use the command ‘sit’ if he gets too rowdy. he’ll listen."

- "bedtime is at 10 pm sharp. puppy sleeps in the cage with his blanket."

easy enough. you made your way to the living room, only to stop short at the sight of a large, covered cage. oddly, you didn’t hear at shuffling or pacing from the inside. you hesitated, curiosity (and maybe a bit of dread) gnawing at you as you lifted the sheet.

and much to your surprise inside, curled up with a collar tight around his neck, a false set of fluffy ears, and a tail plug nestled firmly in place, was her puppyboy—her belonging. his eyes were wide and eager, cheeks flushed, cock already half-hard between his thighs, waiting for you to discover just what kind of "dog-sitting" she actually had in mind for you. he whimpered the moment you met his gaze, shifting so the tail plug wagged, desperate for your attention before you even said a word.

okay. um. what the fuck.

with a sigh, you slipped your phone back into your pocket, glancing down at her puppy—for the weekend, he was yours to take care of either way, you guessed. ugh. is this some sick joke? was she getting off thinking of this?

whatever. you’re getting paid. might as well play into it for a job well-done.

“come,” you motioned. he did. he shifted to sit back on his haunches, palms flat on the floor, thighs splayed wide so his cock jutted out, flushed and leaking, the head leaving a wet mark on his skin. the tail plug twitched with every little movement, the faux fur brushing against his lower back, and his knees bore fresh red marks from the roughness of the bottom of his cage. his tongue lolled out, panting in earnest, chest rising and falling with every eager, shallow breath.

why is his tongue out like that—no, don’t think about it, too late, thinking about it.

you tried to go about your day normally. but the sight of him—hips rocking, ass pressing up, shoulders hunched in a perfect, submissive arch at your side—made your mouth dry. the urge to grab his hips, to squeeze his trembling thighs, to press your palm between his shoulder blades and force him lower, was almost overwhelming. your cock throbbed in your jeans, straining at the zipper, as you watched him pant and whine, precum beading at his tip and trailing down to smear across his thigh and the hardwood beneath him.

god, he was such a tease—so needy, so eager to show off while you were scrolling on your phone or bushing yourself with something else. sometimes, with a shameless flourish, he would even drag his tongue over his own forearm, leaving a glistening wet trail, or roll onto his back, knees bent and legs spread wide, cock twitching as he wiggled for your attention.

once, when your patience was nearly gone and he deemed you weren’t paying much attention to him, he crawled forward and began rutting against your leg, desperate and mindless, his cock grinding against your calf, leaving a hot, sticky mess as he whined and panted, eyes wild with need. the humiliation and sheer animal desperation in his movements made your breath catch, restraint hanging by a thread as you watched his body tremble with every scrap of praise, every touch. you could see the muscles flex and quiver beneath his skin, the way he arched into every caress, begged for your grip, for your weight pressing him down in any way he could. it took everything in you not to snap right then, not to bend him over the nearest surface and rut into him until he was boneless and spent, so perfectly vulnerable and shamelessly inviting—every inch of him a living, breathing temptation. it was surreal, but you’d agreed to this, and the instructions were clear.

you set the thought to the side.

if he wanted to be treated like a dog, you would. a dog is just a dog; it can't think like a human, and communication doesn't work, so it's just an animal. you decided to think of it at that level. your tolerance was quite broad.

later, you poured water into his bowl and set it down, watching him scramble forward on all fours, knees scraping against the floor. he ducked his head, collar chain rattling, and lapped greedily at the water—his jaw moving clumsily, tongue flicking out, droplets splashing onto his chin and trailing down his bare chest. drool soaked his skin, trickling along the hollow of his throat, and the mess pooled beneath him.

“you’re drooling more than drinking, you know that?” all he did was rigorously nod his head in response.

when you set out his food next, he crawled to the dish, lowering his face until his nose bumped the rim, then shoved his mouth into the food, eating hands-free—shoulders and back flexing, ass high in the air once more, tail plug twitching visibly with each eager movement. his cock hung and swayed, hard and dripping, smearing more precum onto the floor with every shift. that was going to be a real pain to clean up.

you could see the heat staining his cheeks, his eyes flicking up for approval even as he stuffed his mouth, lips shiny and flecked with crumbs. every part of him—his trembling thighs, his flexed back, his parted lips and wet chin—was on display, a needy, pitiful thing desperate for your approval and utterly unconcerned with his own dignity. you ignore him again for your own.

leashing him for the daily walk, you clipped the collar and tugged, the leather digging into his skin as you guided him forward. he trudged after you on all fours, elbows and knees taking the brunt of the movement, his thighs trembling, knees red and sore from the hard floor. his cock bobbed with each shuffle, the shaft brushing against the cold hardwood, leaving slick trails as he moved, his hips swaying, the tail plug bouncing in time with your steps.

every time you paused, you let your hand tangle in his hair or scratched behind his ears, dragging your nails slowly down his spine—he whimpered, body arching into your touch, desperate for any scrap of attention. his ass wiggled, tail plug twitching as he tried to catch your eye, every inch of him on display for your enjoyment, shameless and obedient.

following the instructions to the letter, you couldn’t help but feel a strange satisfaction at how easily he fell into his role—and how naturally you fell into yours.

you watched him, crawling at your feet. the collar was a constant reminder of his status and your new authority, the metal tag jingling softly whenever you tugged it to steer him where you wanted. his whines were constant—high, pleading noises every time you pulled on the thing. it wasn’t helping.

really, you tried to contain yourself—you did. but a man can only handle so much.

sometimes, when you denied him a command or left him waiting, the whining would grow sharper, needier, until you couldn’t help but smirk and call him a needy mutt.

with every command you gave, “sit, roll over, stay,” he seemed to slip deeper into his role—submissive, needy, and desperate for your praise or discipline. his cock was already leaking, desperate and untouched. still, you made sure he earned every stroke, only rewarding him with a firm scratch behind the ears or a sweet word when he was being good for you. when you cupped his chin and made him look up, the helpless, wanton expression on his face made you want to see how much further you could push him.

you pressed your thumb to his lips, smirking. "tell me, puppy," you murmured, voice low, "your real owner is a woman, right? you belong to her, her collared little pet—she keeps you caged and marked, teases you with her hands and voice, but she can’t fuck you right, can she? i’m the only one who can split you open, fuck you so deep you forget your own name, make you drool all over the sheets just from getting filled. has she ever make you tremble and cry, leave you dripping and used, begging to be owned? or is it better with me—am i a better owner because i could actually fuck you, make you scream, bruise your hips, ruin you for anyone else? do you like how i treat you, even when i make you beg and whimper like this, would you like it if i stuff you full and make you take every inch?"

his response was immediate—a whine, choked and desperate, eyes shining as he nodded frantically, unable to form words but eager to please, shame burning in his cheeks at how easily he caved. "say it," you demanded, tightening your grip on his collar. "tell me whose you are, and how much you need to be my pathetic little pet—the only one who can fuck you right, stuff you so full you can’t even think."

he whimpered, voice shaky but eager to obey. "yours, sir. i’m yours. you’re the best owner—better than anyone. please, let me be good for you… i want to be your good boy. please fill me up.”

you made him crawl to you, guiding him by the collar, and forced him to kneel with his face buried in the bedding, ass high and waiting.

you pulled open and spat on his hole, your hands gripping his hips tightly as you forced him to arch his back, tail plug swaying with every movement. the sight of the plug already stretching him, the faux fur brushing his lower back, made your cock throb. you lined yourself up, pressing the swollen head of your cock right against the plug, letting him feel the blunt pressure of both at his entrance. slowly, you pushed in, not bothering to remove the plug—forcing him to open up, your cock stretching him impossibly wide around the thick toy, the tight ring of muscle swallowing it all up helplessly as you breached him. inch by inch, you fed your cock into him, the toy held firmly in place, the sensation of being pried open by both making him shudder violently. he gasped, body jolting as you bottomed out, the fullness so overwhelming his thighs trembled, his voice breaking into helpless, high-pitched moans. you paused, buried all the way inside, feeling the plug pressed hard against the underside of your shaft, the inner walls squeezed impossibly tight around both intrusions. he was stuffed, stretched to the limit, unable to close even a bit, his hole forced wide and gaping around your cock and the thick plug. you kept him like that, not letting him adjust, grinding your hips so he could feel every vein, every inch of you, the toy pushed deeper with every slow, deliberate movement. the strain of accommodating so much made him twitch, whole body convulsing from the strain, sweat slicking his skin as he babbled wordless pleas. only when you felt him relax—his hole spasming around the impossible stretch—did you start to thrust, shallow at first, your cock and the toy rubbing together inside him, making his insides churn, and his moans turn wild in no time. saliva dribbled down his chin onto the sheets, and the deep, relentless probing hit his solar plexus, the ache twisting into sharp, dizzying pleasure, his brows furrowing and eyes rolling as you used him.

the room echoed with the wet slap of skin against skin each time your hips met his ass, your cock splitting him open and making him gasp, hole stretched wide and twitching around both your length and the toy. you could feel the heat radiating off his flushed skin, sweat beading along the line of his spine as your palms slid over the tense muscles of his back, leaving streaks as you raked your nails down. each thrust was deliberate, meant to remind him exactly who owned him—your cock and the plug grinding together, making him cry out as you leaned over his trembling body, breath hot against his ear. you tugged his collar, forcing his head up, so you could see his tongue lolling, drool smeared across his cheek, eyes rolling back with every rough thrust.

his moans and needy whines filled the room—high, desperate, and punctuated by the jingle of his collar with every sharp movement. his knuckles turned white where he gripped the bedding, arms trembling from the force of your rutting, whole body shuddering at the praise you growled in his ear for being your filthy, obedient dog. he shivered and pushed back harder, chasing every scrap of attention you gave, his tail plug twitching in time with your rhythm, the inner lining of his hole, clinging to both of the intrusions, nearly protruding before retracting all over again.

you wanted to see how much the puppy could take.

you slapped his thigh, relishing the way he yelped, and ordered him to bark for you—his voice breaking as he obeyed, utterly debased and eager to please.

you grabbed the base of the furry tail plug and twisted it, making him sob as his muscles clenched around both your cock and the thick toy. the sensation forced more precum from his leaking cock, dribbling onto the sheets as he writhed and whimpered, hips jerking uncontrollably.

your free hand roamed his body, tracing every ridge of his spine, squeezing his ass, then spreading his cheeks just to watch your cock disappear into his hole and the plug stretch him wider with every thrust. you pressed a thumb down on the plug, grinding it in, he howled like an animal. when you pressed even hard, as if prying open the deepest part, he convulsed, unable to close his mouth. you reveled in the way his entire body convulsed beneath you, helpless and desperate.

you reached under him to wrap around his throat again, pulling him up so his back was flush against your chest. his breathing turned ragged, chest heaving, his pulse fluttering beneath your grip. you bit down on his shoulder, hard enough to leave marks, and felt him shudder, his breath stuttering as tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. with every brutal thrust, you could feel him clenching, desperate for more, his cock untouched and bobbing between his shaking legs, the tip smearing precum over the bedding. you reached forward and pinched his nipple, twisting it until he choked on a moan, then slapped his thigh again lightly in that red spot—just enough to make him gasp and rut into your touch, precum splattering with each frantic jerk of his hips. you spat into your palm and smeared it over his cock, stroking him slowly, teasingly, just to watch him sob in frustration when you stopped again. "beg for it," you growled, voice hot against his ear. "tell me you want to be fucked like this—tell me you love being my filthy little mutt."

you gripped his hips so tightly your fingerprints bloomed red on his skin, rutting into him until the bedding bunched beneath his knees and his arms buckled from exhaustion. his cries turned to broken sobs of bliss, drool pooling under his cheek, cock leaking in a puddle on the sheets. you bent low to kiss the side of his face—wet, flushed, and stained with tears—you could feel him trembling all over, thighs quaking, muscles taut as a bowstring as you denied him again and again, making him plead and babble for release.

you alternated between praising his obedience and degrading him, nails dragging down his sides, fingers digging into his skin, leaving raw red marks as a reminder of your ownership. you slapped his ass and watched the flesh jiggle, then pinched his nipples until he whimpered, rewarding his good behavior with a tug on his collar and a harsh thrust that made him yelp. you rutted into him hard, your cock driving deep with every thrust, the blunt force making him cry out, his voice raw and high-pitched. with every grind of your hips, you pressed the plug deeper into him, making him clench around you, his hole stretched and dripping. when you wrapped your hand around his throat, collar tight beneath your fingers, he whimpered your name, voice muffled and eager to be used, drooling onto the bedding as you kept him pinned. you leaned over, biting at his ear, then spat on his cheek and watched him shudder in desperate gratitude. every time your hips slammed into him, you felt the quiver of his thighs, the slick slide of sweat and skin, and the way his hole clenched desperately around you. he arched his back, pushing back to meet you, rutting against the sheets, desperate for friction to his own aching cock—which you cruelly denied. “bad puppy.”

he was a mess—spit smeared across his cheek, tears pricking his lashes, eyes unfocused, prattling broken pleas and praises as you used his body. his cock jerked and spasmed, untouched, as he came hard for you, painting the sheets in messy, desperate spurts. even as you kept fucking him, the overstimulation quickly built again—his hips shaking, whines growing higher with each thrust until he tensed and came a second time, cum leaking in thick, sticky ropes down his thighs. the raw need between you grew, the rhythm turning relentless, both of you lost in the sensory haze—muscles straining, bodies pressed together, the sharp scent of sweat, precum, and arousal thick in the air as you claimed him over and over, not stopping until you were both gasping and spent, his cum leaking messily beneath him, the bedding soaked with filthy puppy cum.

"you’re such a mess, aren’t you?" you murmured into his ear, voice rough with arousal as you ground into him from behind. "tell me who you belong to."

“you..."

you chuckled, smacking his ass hard enough to make him jolt. "that’s right. i want to hear you say it every time i fuck you. loud enough for the neighbors to know who’s making you bark."

"p-please— please, use me, m-make me bark, make me yours!" he begged, voice breaking as you pulled him up by the collar, forcing him to look at you.

"such a needy little thing," you taunted, leaning over to bite down on his shoulder. "is this what you wanted when you begged me to dog-sit? to be fucked stupid, to be nothing but a leaking, drooling mutt?"

he sobbed, pushing back against you, "yes, sir, please—want to be ruined, want to be your bad dog—please, please, use me."

every so often, you’d make him thank you, forcing him to repeat how much he loved being used, loved being nothing but a filthy mutt for your pleasure. "th-thank you, sir— thank you, f-for using me, f-for making me yours— f-for making me— feel like— like a real dog," he babbled, voice hoarse with desperation and bliss.

when you finally let him ride you, straddling your hips with the leash wrapped tightly around your fist, he bounced helplessly, whining and panting, cock swinging and dripping while you thrust up into him, making him clamp down and grind desperately for friction.

"look at you, riding my cock like you were made for it," you said, yanking on the leash so he gasped and arched, eyes rolling back. "whose filthy mutt are you?"

"y-yours! yours, sir, just for you—p-please, please, d-don’t stop! c-can’t stop—gonna—gonna cum again!" as you picked up the pace, he came with a loud, broken cry—hot, sticky ropes painting your skin and his own belly. even as he was still pulsing and leaking, you didn’t let up, you weren’t done yet, fucking him through the aftershocks, making him sob and beg as his cock jerked again, spilling another, weaker load with nothing left in his balls. you felt him clamp down around you, milking your cock until you finally gave in, groaning as you pumped your own load deep inside him, thick and hot, flooding him with your release. as you kept thrusting through the aftershocks, your cum and his mixed inside him, and when you finally pulled out, a thick string of cum stretched between your cock and his gaping hole before snapping, the rest oozing out in sloppy, glistening streams, dripping down his thighs to pool with the rest of his spent desire, your cum and spit, and everything else.

before you marked him, you pulled him back against you, spooning him close with his back pressed to your chest, one arm wrapped around his waist to keep him in place. you let him feel your breath against his neck, your hand splayed possessively over his belly as you ground your hips against his ass, holding him still and savoring the way he trembled in your grasp. that's when you started to leave your marks— everywhere you could reach, biting along the slope of his shoulder and the nape of his neck, your teeth sinking in deep enough to bruise, your nails raking down his sides and across his thighs. you wanted everyone to see exactly who had owned him that night—how his body was smeared with your lust, his skin painted in the colors you’d made. as you raked your nails down his back, you watched thin red lines bloom and fade, your fingerprints blooming purple on his hips where you’d gripped him the hardest, branding him as your filthy, fucked-out slut. some marks you left boldly, wanting them to be seen, while others you pressed into places only he—or his owner—would find later. not that you cared. she must have known this would happen. and if not, she was sorely mistaken about your character.

you bit down again, savoring the way he gasped and arched under you, the helpless way his cock twitched and leaked at every fresh display of ownership. the knowledge that she might discover them made you bite down harder, leaving a perfect ring of marks on his shoulder, your claim written in flesh—proof that he’d let another use him, that he’d let someone else make him this wanton and ruined.

leaning in, you pressed your lips to each bitten spot, whispering, “no amount of scrubbing will hide who you belong to now. you’ll remember me every time you see these marks—every time she touches you, she’ll know you’re nothing but a filthy, cheating mutt.”

as you dressed him after, your fingers lingered on each bruise, each swollen bite. “these marks are for her,” you said, voice low, “but these—” you pressed your thumb into a fresh bite on his hip, making him gasp, “—these are for me. she might see, and maybe she’ll guess, but only you and i will ever know how you begged for each one.”

he whimpered at your words, clinging to you with trembling arms, desperate for your praise and your warmth. you stroked his hair, wiped away the tears with your thumb, and whispered, "you’re perfect. my filthy, obedient, broken puppy."

he smiled through the haze, eyes glazed with satisfaction and exhaustion, "th-thank you, sir. thank you for— for everything."

exhausted and utterly spent, you gathered the puppyboy up in your arms and carried him to the bathroom. he whimpered softly, still trembling from your treatment of him, as you gently set him in the tub. you ran the water warm, lathered up a soft washcloth, and began to clean him—meticulously washing away the culmination of bodily fluids from his skin, the sticky streaks on his thighs, and the traces of sweat and cum from every inch of his body. you made sure to be gentle, running your fingers through his hair, washing behind his ears, and letting the water rinse away the evidence of what you'd done. at least at the surface level.

he leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut, letting out small, contented whines as you cared for him, your touch a stark contrast to the roughness from before. when he was clean and relaxed, you dried him off with a towel, wrapped him snugly in his blanket, and carried him back to his cage. only then did you lock him in, watching him curl up, limp and satisfied, ready for sleep.

you should feel guilty putting him back like this. you don’t.

"there we go. sleep tight, mutt. tomorrow we see just how much more stupid i can fuck you."

Twisting the handle of your door for what seems like the hundredth time today, he made sure to sway his hips as he walked towards you. Not that you'd notice, he scoffs. Your head perks up as you catch the glint of his snowy white hair, making sure to mute your microphone, grinning at your sulking boyfriend.

"hey 'toru, i'm almost done i promise sweetheart, then you can have all of my attention yeah?" you try to reassure, one hand reaching out to cup his pouting face, thumb going over to smooth the crease in between his brows.

"you said that aaaages agoo though.." he whines out, settling to getting on his knees and resting his cheek against your thigh, dangerously close to the growing hardness between your legs

he has half a thought to just straight up nuzzle his face into your bulge, before you tut and take his face in your hands again, slightly applying pressure onto his cock with your foot. Satoru immediately let's out a breathy moan, desperate for any kind of attention.

"poor baby, have I been neglecting you and this cute little cock huh?"

he nod's viciously against your palm, staring up at you with his best attempt at googly fuck me eyes.

"aww", you coo out knowingly, "c'mere 'toru i've only got a couple hours left, how about you be a good boy and keep me warm, and i'll reward you after?"

Satoru doesn't think he's ever scrambled into your lap faster. Clumsily straddling you with his creamy thighs, his bulge straining uncomfortably against its confines and his fingers already fumbling at your zip. Freeing you cock with a wet plop! and letting it slap against your stomach, you were sure that you saw a wet line of drool making its way down his mouth. Hastily, he pulled his pretty panties to the side, lining himself up with your length, already dripping with slick and plunged down in one go with a small gasp and a scrunch of his eyebrows.

You rubbed him through the now practically see through panties, fingers brushing across the slit of his cockhead, satoru letting out lewd cries and little moans as he arches into you, hips already starting to stutter and jerk back and forth.

"fuck..ngh.. feel's s'good" satoru babbles, trying to grind deeper before you hands suddenly grip at his sides, halting his movements. Snapped out of his trance, looking up at you through thick lashes and an utterly betrayed look in his baby blues, you couldn't help a sadistic smile pulling at your lips.

"good things come to those who wait baby, I said i'll reward you after"

"wha-what..b-but i need you now!" he pouts, dramatic as ever and only watches in horror as you lean over to unmute, one hand wrapped securely around his waist and the other already back to your controller. You wink smugly at the sulking mess in your lap before addressing your chat.

"sorry for the wait guys! "

@/monkeyblocker donated $20! : uhm..sorry but I dont think your mute button works.."

Fuck. Satoru was going to burn that damn computer.

Hikaru's bitching came with an easy solution, which came in the format of shoving your hand down his tight pants and restraining him over the ceramic toilet while you jerked him off. You had him pinned with your elbow squeezed around his neck, the other messy and slick as it roughly worked his cock. "Treatin' me-treating me like some dirty whore." He hiccuped, shaking his head back against you. His legs kicked up with a particularly hard squeeze, "God!"

In your arms, as much as he thrashed, Hikaru clung all the same. His spine arched, and his hips continually bucked forward into your all too kind warmth for the brat of an attitude he constantly shoves your way. One of his feet managed to prop up on the disability rail, and you quickly utilize the stretch to bend him further forward. Practically pumping his red cock into the ceramic bowl below you. "I'm yer boyfriend." He continued to sniffle, voice craking with every other syllable. "They're the whores! [name], they are, they are." You assume he's whining about your classmates, the ones who had kept you behind for only a quick conversation (apparently too long). "Fuckk, hah, hah,"

Through the white of his teeth, Hikaru hissed. His usual cool facade crumbled and was ruined under none other than your thrilling and cruel touch. Already, he had finished twice, yet still you continued to disengage his pleas. Determined only to wrangle the crux of his attitude out via his poor cock. "Why don' you ever listen to me? I-I-I, ah fuck me, fuck me." His head jerked to the side as he again fought back the urge to kick out. "Baby, please, I did nothing wrong!" If being annoying was enough of a crime, he'd be behind bars with charges racked up a mile long. Lucky for him, the only real punishment it garnered was more attention. Even if it was the overstimulating kind.

Hikaru's third climax wracked through the entirety of his body. At your ear, his jaw clenched up tight, as did the thick muscles throughout his body, down to the curled toes within his fancy dress shoes. The stream that spurted, however, was far less intense than the prior, as it weakly trickled down and into the water. The sight made you fondly huff. Slowly, you set him back up, only for him to stumble back against your reliable figure. For a long moment, you held him there, gently rocking back and forth as he caught his breath. "Hey," He rasped, reaching up to touch your ear. "Hey, tell me...tell me that you love me. How much?"

Hikaru hummed when you whispered back, saying all the little things he wanted to hear. "This isn't-I'm not," He shuddered, smacking his sticky, glossy lips, "happy. With you. This is so not how you treat the love of your life." He went on to sniffle, pulling you as close as he could. "I want love. Love...making, at home. Not here. M'not a whore." Hikaru restated.

"What's happening?" You huffed at him, attempting to reclaim a fraction of your dignity despite him seeing you in far worse states than this before. He'd held you when you were disheveled, thighs pinned to your chest as he prepared you for things you were supposed to do with your future husband one day. With sweat sticking to your forehead and your body shaking, face scrunched up with pure pleasure from his nimble fingers and tongues. He didn't even react at your obvious worry, watching you swallow hard as the panic still freely pounded in your chest, holding onto his strong forearm to steady yourself. "Where are we?"

He smiled at you, letting go of your side to caress your cheek, your heart stupidly fluttering at the gesture you both knew he shouldn't be doing. Not when he was meant to stand guard for you.

You were his duty. His life.

He was only ever supposed to be a supporting role in yours.

"Somewhere safe."

“Safe?” You echoed, blinking up at him without understanding.

“I brought your favorite books,” he murmured, softly stroking your hair as he looked down at you. “And more of those paints I got you last year for your birthday.”

“But why are we-”

“Your parents were about to sell you off to a brute,” he grimaced, even when he was speaking to you so tenderly. Dark eyes hardening as they narrowed just enough to let you know he was serious.

"He wasn't-" You started to protest, thinking back to the single time you'd actually seen him at a banquet a handful of months ago. Sure, you hadn't spoken directly to you, not when you were so closely supervised, but you watched him from across the room.

There were men far worse than that.

“He would have just used you for heirs while he slept with half his court,” he dismissively scoffed.

But, wasn’t that you were meant for?

A pretty tool to be purchased as a means for peace between kingdoms?

You always knew it would happen to you. The arranged marriage, having heirs, living in a foreign place with no friends.

All your manners classes, the rigid rules you'd spent your life learning, they were all leading up to this.

You were born to be a queen.

"I can't just run from my duty," you murmured, reaching back up to drag your thumb over his defined jaw, attempting to soften the blow of disappointment. He must've spent a long time preparing this place for you, ready to commit treason just to do what he thought was best.

Forever your knight, always thinking of you when you both knew that the feelings you harbored for each other would never amount to more than the handful of nights you'd stolen together.

"And you can't expect me not to do mine."

Your mouth hung open, not sure what to do with his defiance. Just staring at his unchanging expression, resolve etched into every strong line of his face while your hand fell from it.

“This is for your own good,” he promised, leaning close enough to press a chaste kiss to the top of your forehead. “You’ll see.”

You hadn't seen three months in.

He wouldn't let you leave.

Refused to budge even when you begged with your best set of puppy dog eyes as you asked about how your family was doing, if you'd been declared missing, what was happening back at home.

His jaw would always clench, dark eyes swirling as he cupped your face and told you that you worried too much.

Solemnly swore your parents weren't even looking for their missing princess.

No, apparently, they'd just sent someone who looked enough like you to not arouse suspicion to the prince you were meant to marry.

Suguru dried your tears with kisses, dragging his tongue over the damp spots they left, his honeyed voice reassuring you that no one could replace you to him.

An imposter was out there in your place, pretending to be you, and you were in a tower trying to find the positive in this...monotony.

It wasn't like it was so terrible being trapped here with him.

Homemade meals. No more awful meetings or balls you were forced to attend. Nights spent in the warmth of Suguru's body with no fear of getting caught and condemned for what your heart wanted.

The days drifted by lazily. Napping in your bed. Reading the books he brought you. Painting by the small window.

Pacing your floor when the minutes started to drag, counting how many steps it took to get from one side of the room to the other. You even started to teach yourself how to sew, although you had to practically plead with Suguru to bring you the supplies for them.

The tower itself was cramped. Your room led directly out to a spiraling staircase, with uneven stone steps and a nauseating drop down the middle. The steps widened as you went down, but you'd barely been able to bring yourself to make it further than Suguru's living space below yours.

It was bigger than yours, but more...quaint, you supposed?

Rickety wooden furniture. A thin blanket over his bed. A single table with two chairs for you to eat with him.

He knew you hated heights.

So Suguru usually ended up coming to you instead.

A picnic blanket spread on your floor. Flowers freshly plucked from the forest below. A candle lit like it made this romantic.

And despite your determination to convince him that you could both still return to the palace, or even start a new life in a quiet port town somewhere, you were the one starting to crumble under his coaxing.

What was so great about your old life anyway?

No one could make you do anything up here. For the first time, your life was now yours.

It took you another year to realize your life was actually his.

Well, considering you lost track of time, you could only guess it had been a year. Watching the seasons come and go, leaves falling off the trees and snow capping the branches until the weather warmed again.

There was only so much painting to pass the time you could do before everything became boring.

Staring out the window waiting for something to happen, Suguru's hand on the small of your back while he delicately brushed your hair off your shoulder.

There weren't any scissors for you to trim it with. Not a single sharp item left anywhere within reach. He refused to entertain the idea of chopping some of it off either, insisting on taking care of it himself, toying and twirling the ridiculously long strands down as they cascaded over your worn dress.

It had always been long, but whatever was in the food he'd been feeding you had made it grow far faster here, trailing along the floor wherever you walked. He brushed it out for you, washed it and dried it while he made excuse after excuse not to cut it.

"Let down your hair, princess," Suguru called out from below, and for a brief second, you considered telling him that his joke wasn't funny - even though you suspected after another year or two, it might really be long enough to reach the ground. You stared down at him as he shielded his face from the sun, a hand on your hip as your brows scrunched together.

"Come inside," you shouted, struggling not to frown as you watched him walk out of your line of vision, a basket slung over his shoulder, probably with food from the closest town - not that he'd ever let you see it for yourself.

No, he locked your door when he left.

Kissed your forehead and promised to be back as soon as possible whenever he had errands to run.

It took him nearly fifteen minutes to make it back up to your door, the keys clinking as he unlocked it from the outside, swinging it open with a loud creak as you refused to look back at him.

"How's my beautiful girl?" He murmured as he approached, lips grazing against the shell of your ear while his hands traced your frame.

"I'm getting sick of being up in here," you half-whispered as you confessed what had been plaguing you for weeks, your voice raw from how little you'd been using it lately. "Can't we go to a village? Just for a day? We could wear disguises or-"

"No," he firmly said, pressing a kiss on your collarbone as you let out an annoyed huff.

"Please, Suguru," you whined. "It's been so long-"

"I'm not taking any risks when it comes to you," he scoffed a little, as if you were asking him for something absurd.

"Didn't you say no one was even looking for me?" You tilted your head to the side, pushing out your bottom lip like it would make his impenetrable resolve finally fracture.

"Anyone who saw your hair-"

"So cut it," you stomped your foot, swallowing hard as your lashes fluttered up at him.

"No," he repeated, refusing to budge.

His fingers were already unlacing the back of your dress, making quick work of loosening it while you struggled to come up with an argument that might sway him just for him to spin you around to face him.

Could you somehow convince him to take you on just a single outing?

Was it truly too much? Were you a moron for wanting more than just this?

Your dress was falling by your feet before you could think of anything - and his mouth was on your throat to make sure you wouldn't be able to.

Kiss after kiss pressed against your skin, lips tantalizingly skimming along the tendon until his teeth were grazing over your jaw. His hands making their way over your waist, fingers digging into your sides as he suddenly hoisted you up.

Carrying you back to your bed, careful not to step on your hair as he continued to pepper you with his gentle affection.

"Did I not make it perfect for you here, princess?" He purred, tenderly placing you back down on the soft mattress, making sure to drape your hair off the side. His own was falling in his face as his mouth slowly traveled down the valley of your breasts, across your belly button and pausing just below it to peek up at you. "I try so hard."

He did, didn't he?

Suguru had risked his head just by bringing you here. Did his best to make sure you weren't wanting for anything - that you wouldn't go without the luxuries you'd be lavished in your entire life.

Couldn't you just be happy for him when he was working so hard for you?

"I know," you muttered softly, guilt creeping in while his soft purple eyes bore into you. "I just-"

"Want to throw away everything I've given you for what? You'd rather hang around some peasants than me?" He grumbled, stare narrowing as he pushed your thighs up against your chest, like he had some point to prove.

"No, that's not-" You started again, but then his fingers slipped inside you, two thick digits digging deeper to stretch you out - and shut you up.

"Not what?" He dryly mocked, cocking his head to the side, well aware you would't be able to answer as he shoved his fingers deeper, dragging them against your walls.

"Don't be mean," you hissed at him, chest constricting as your lungs squeezed in time with your cunt. Unable to breathe when his digits felt like they were forcing all the air out with each consecutive thrust.

"It hurts my feelings when you want to leave me," he said, but his condescending tone didn't exactly lend any credence to what he was saying. Still, your heart stalled anyway, mind instinctively working to win him back.

"I don't want to leave you," you argued. "Just here. For a little bit."

"For a little bit," he sarcastically echoed, an anxious pit opening in the bottom of your stomach as you shook your head.

"Suguru," you whined, wiggling your hips as he drove those digits all the way in, working you open with an almost clinical precision.

"What, angel?" He hm-ed, knowing exactly what you wanted - and pretending he didn't.

You knew you should be mad. Put your foot down and demand that he take you out. But when he was looking at you like this, his fingers dimpling your skin and his mouth pampering you, you couldn't bring yourself to do either.

No matter how much you missed the sun. Smelling fresh flowers in your garden. Talking to a stranger instead of someone you knew every damn detail of.

"Come on, Sugu, would it be so bad?" You tried to charm him, but he just clicked his tongue.

"What do I have to do to keep you happy, hm?" He asked, sapping your strength without even trying. Drawing it out with every fast drag of his fingers. "Fuck you until you forget about these silly ideas?"

He pulled his fingers out, mouth pressed in a thin line just for him to tug his pants down enough to free his cock.

It bounced up against his shirt, pre-cum leaving a stain on it before he wrapped his fist around his thick base.

Watching it bob as he got back on top of you, one hand still pressing your thigh down to keep you open as he nudged his fat tip against your entrance.

His chin tilting up as he started pushing in, his jaw flexing as his shoulders tensed, testing his own self-control with each inch he slid inside of you.

You used to think your knight was an expert at restraining himself.

Back when he'd keep a straight face during banquets despite how often you'd pester him about sneaking away. Composed and collected until he finally got to claim you in private.

And now, he'd stolen you.

Turned your dreamy little secret into a reality that had started to stretch towards a forever.

You were still reaching up for him, tangling your fingers in his dark hair while he reached up to softly stroke the top of yours. The weight of him pressing down as he drove his cock in further, making sure to fill you up until he was fucking every thought that wasn't about him out of that pretty head of yours.

"My princess doesn't know what she needs," he murmured, his voice thick with hunger, all dark and dangerous as he dragged you down with him.

"I need you," you whispered, voice cracking when he abruptly bottomed out, his tip smushed against your cervix as your mouth parted in a broken gasp.

You needed him to let you breathe a little. To understand that you couldn't just spend eternity in this little world he crafted for the two of you.

But none of it actually came out.

Just more messy moans, your fingers clawing at the blankets while he just thrusted into you again and again.

The bed whined under your combined weight, your thighs trembling as his hips smacked down into you. His mouth was colliding into yours, sucking on your bottom lip while he wrecked you without hesitation.

Trying to ruin you.

Rip your heart out to have for himself. Hold it hostage too.

"Maybe I should put a baby in here," he grunted when the kiss broke, his breath warm on your cheek as he gritted his teeth. Stare drifting down to your stomach with a determination you knew you should be scared of. "You wouldn't leave our baby, would you?"

He knew exactly what to say to get to you.

Which strings to pull to turn you into his perfect puppet.

No better than a plaything. A doll to be dressed up in his very own dollhouse.

"I-I-" You stammered, but shit, when he was stuffing you so full, you couldn't find enough sanity left to string coherent words together. Left writhing and whimpering as his cock rocked and rutted into all your favorite spots.

"You what? Want one?" He teased, your heart hammering faster at the idea of actually being pregnant.

Carrying his child while you were still confined to this room.

Would he be so overprotective to confine you to the bed next?

"It's okay if you don't know," he cooed, his soft voice pitching lower while the hand on your thighs slipped down so he could have fun with your clit next.

Massing it with intention, drawing rough circles over the sensitive bud while he clicked his tongue at you again.

"That's why I have to take care of you," he continued, pressing down harder, his cock pistoning back in with more force, making sure you didn't even have the air in your lungs to tell him that you didn't need to depend on him.

You loved Suguru.

But the only way he knew how to love you back was to suffocate you. You knew you were his world. He just had to make sure he was yours.

Perhaps you were a fool for thinking that you'd be able to find a way to express that to him. To change a man who already made up his mind.

"I love you," you started, swallowing hard as you tried to gather your focus enough to get the right words out this time, get him to see your side.

But then his lips were connected with yours, barely parting enough to breathe, "I love you too."

His hips slammed against yours harder, his fingers working faster, your stomach tied together in knots as the pressure pushed you to a precipice you knew you'd fall from.

"C'mon, princess, cum for me," he groaned in between kisses, swallowing your moan as your body unravelled for him in a bright burst of pleasure. Stars you sorely missed splotching across your vision as you scrunched your eyes shut, feeling him buried to the hilt as something warm started to fill you up.

Had he-

"I hope it's a girl," he muttered, half-collapsing on top of you. His forehead pressed against yours as he sucked in heavy breaths, his cock still throbbing as his cum leaked out inside you. "Or twins."

"Twins?" You echoed, dazed as you blinked up at him.

"That should keep us busy," he smirked, one corner of his mouth curling up higher than the other as he refused to pull out. Still lodged deep inside you like he wanted to make sure his seed took.

He readjusted you, pulling your legs down so he could lay on top of you fully, his firm chest pressed against your softer one, his calloused fingers caressing your cheek as he looked at you with that lovestruck stare you'd grown accustomed to.

Had it always looked so sly?

Or were you starting to piece together something you missed once the haze of sex started to dissipate?

"I'll always keep you safe."

As your lover? Your knight? Your warden?

You still weren't sure which when you woke up the next morning. The smell of sex and sweat still sticking to your skin as you rubbed your exhausted eyes and rolled over with sticky thighs.

The left side of bed was empty.

Only a warm spot where Suguru was supposed to be. Had he gone to make breakfast? Perhaps decided to spare you of more discussions of raising children in this lonely room?

You pulled the covers up to your chest as you sat up, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you stared at the ghost of your past life in the form of furniture and books you used to enjoy before you read them a hundred times.

A piece of paper was left on the nightstand, a small note you supposed Suguru must've written for you, neat letters informing you that he'd be out for the day and he left meals pre-made for you on a tray outside.

Maybe on a different day, you might've found it sweet.

But an idea sprouted in the back of your head, blooming quickly enough that you were scurrying over to your dresser to find something to throw on, hurrying to get dressed before opening the door to find the tray he mentioned.

Instead of taking a bite, you just brought it inside - and slipped back out.

Bracing yourself for the long walk down, holding your breath as you crept down the stairs, a lump in your throat that seemed to get larger with every step you took.

You refused to look at the bottom.

Slowly making your way, attempting to remind yourself that with each step you took, you were another one closer to a way out.

It wasn't like you wanted to run away.

Not really.

You doubted your family would take kindly to you returning. Especially not if their unwed princess came with the unexpected baggage of a child they'd consider a bastard. With a man of no noble blood or important background.

But you were sure that you'd die if you didn't get some fresh air soon, wither and rot up there in your single-windowed cell.

The end came into sight - the last stair just a few feet away, your feet scampering down as your excitement started to bubble over, your head snapping up to the-

Door?

There was nothing there.

Just stone walls with no way in or out.

Was it magic? Some seal on the outside that stopped anyone else from intruding on something they shouldn't?

You were simply stuck.

And you sincerely doubted any prince would be coming to save you.

a/n: feel kinda meh about how this one turned out but hope you guys enjoyed anyway <3 reblogs + comments always appreciated