jeon wonuwu

Temptation floods from him, spilling out and creeping throughout your room like a plague of darkness. It’s what he is, and he wields it against you. From beneath your safety net of blankets, whimpers tumble from your lips. Wetness escapes you.

Whining, you squeeze your thighs together.

He groans, the fountain of which all immorality is birthed; its depth is inhuman—a growl sounding of legends steeped in religious paranoia, unholy in nature. His eyes roll back at the sound—the smell.

The bed dips. He’s at your side instantly.

“The pain you must be in.” Shivers wrack your body. Goosebumps pop and prickle upon your skin like static as talons trace its warm outline. Aizawa craved the warmth of your insides, the heat of your bodies entwined. “I could relieve it for you. I know it hurts. Let me deliver you from it all. I’ll replace it with pleasure beyond your human understanding.”

He’s intrigued when a meek voice pipes up, muffled but still delicious; one he wouldn’t mind swallowing.

“no.”

“A voice of such allure could make even the proudest angel fall. What have you to gain from denying your body the release it seeks? Why not let me alleviate our suffering?” His touch left a fiery trail from your chest to the start of your waist. It started innocently, but he could only masquerade in light for so long. Aizawa revealed himself for what he was; he showed his true colors, showed the lust he burned with—the craving of your skin on his.

“For every agonizing ache you experience, know that mine is tenfold.”

The touch of this being heated you to the core. It temporarily cooled the temperature you boiled with. Your body responded to him, rising to meet his shameless fingers. It dampened your bottoms to the point of ruin.

Teeth rend the soft inner tissue of your mouth, withholding the moans you knew he’d feed from. It’s worse than anything you’ve ever experienced, the painful clenches that come one after the other; you shook as though taken with sickness.

Aizawa fed from the scent of your arousal. He paid his gratitude with a guttural growl. It’s bittersweet; it added upon his misery from the need he languished in.

The affliction sweetened his pleas.

“Do you not believe me?” Asking you to trust him by his word alone was asking for the sun and stars given his status. He couldn’t fault you for that. “Shall I give you a token of goodwill?” His purr reverberates through you, reaching deep into your soul. It’s an intimate caress, the decadent husk of a baritone kissing your skin. That bid is candied sin, a temptation straight from Sheol.

“Hah!” Your pleasured cry is accepted graciously.

“W-wha—?!” The sensation of something entering you stole your voice. It came and went in delicious friction—never too fast and never too slow. Not ‘something’, you know what it felt like. It shouldn’t be possible.

“what are you doing?!” Your mewl is gasped delight, shock, and terrified confusiosn.

He deigned no reply. With closed eyes, Aizawa matches your deepened breaths. Talons bunch the fabrics of your bedding. His chest rises and falls as he pants from the pleasure flushing his cheeks, adding color to his waxen complexion.

Clutching tighter at the covers strangled in your grasp, whines play on your lips from the rocking your body endures. The leisured pace that was meant to acquaint sped to something praise-worthy.

Aizawa drank each noise you offered unto him; your offerings were sweet incense. The increased friction between your thighs is your reward.

Warm and filling, you’re stretched to perfection. Heat settles in your belly, the pleasant sensation that came after a meal—the starved clench of rapturous walls finally fed and satisfied. The pounding at your flesh tenderized you, softening the resistance that tempted him into madness, but one he relished. His pleasure is forged from fire. From his suffering, the victory will be all the sweeter, more so than the fucked-out expression you wore so well—the velvet mouth of paradise swallowing him, accepting him into heaven. Shōta learned to love your denial, dug through the briar-patch until he found that silver needle, the pleasure in pain. He transformed it to ecstasy that displayed the white of his eyes.

Stiff legs part for him, inviting him deeper. An emphatic yes, yes to the mind-dulling euphoria that delighted you to goosebumps, that had you flushing with gratification. Your every atom sang, your body vibrated with a feeling of bliss it couldn’t contain. Letting it wash over you, you grind into the nothingness, chasing nirvana. Whatever was pleasuring you is so incredible, you beg within your mind for it to never cease.

Aizawa answers your prayer. There was no other besides him. It couldn’t be meant for anyone else.

The angle changes; the new trajectory has wet-warmth splashing your thighs.

He succeeds. You’re malleable and subdued, no better than a bitch in heat. Your limbs are jelly, melting right from under you. He doesn’t need to mold you, not when you’re already in the state he wants you: spread, pliant and willing. Begging. The demon has you shouting with joy.

Your stomach tightens in a familiar fashion. Desperate for that mounting pressure to reach its crescendo, you can’t bring yourself to care about much else. However he’s doing it, you want him to fuck you through your orgasm and in to the next.

His gaze felt as if he saw every sin you’ve ever committed, every sinful thought you’ve ever had.

“Do you see now the pleasure I could give?” Your will is weak; he sensed it breaking. Your weakened state empowered him. Through your debilitating desire, his influence increased. It bore down heavily against you. Your lust was the feast of the century.

Aizawa turned it against you.

Like many of his kind, he was too cocky for his own good. The demon couldn’t resist taunting you after all you’ve subjected him to. He above all should know of the fall that came with pride.

“Where is that resolve you deprived me with? I almost miss it. I wonder how long you could’ve held out before I bested you?”

You stood no chance against your base needs.

“I ponder further, if your pleasure is as rapturous as my pain was excruciating?”

Aizawa isn’t vocal by any means. His miming of your cries is meant to mock and deride for the misery you caused him. Yet, he moans them as if they come from the heart.

Although his vocalizations are insincere, the quiet gasps are authentic. The closer he draws to his end, the quicker they come.

His words are ice water on your senses. You became aware of yourself, how you were so quick to flip on your backside and let him...? it? use you mere seconds ago. You’re able to snatch the remaining threads of resolve he’d plucked at. The creature pushed and pushed, refusing to take no for an answer. Eager for your surrender. He tried your strength, your willpower. Night after night he chipped away at your self-restraint, painting promises of the most salacious scenes—fantasies of your wildest dreams he’d be ever so pleased to make a reality. A god of false light he might be, he could still perform miracles for you.

He was no divine being, but you could pray to him; you could worship him with the fruit of your lips, its thankful hymns. He’d collect payment in the hushed curses sighed under your breath; the more blasphemous the better. Lay upon him screams most obscene, the most sinful you could muster. Make a joyous noise upon your lord, your master. He wanted to be your slave and patriarch. If you surrendered yourself before him, he’d show you the worship in his tongue, the veneration you clawed into his non-existent heart; he was dying from the ache in his knees, the near irresistible urge to bow. Aizawa would display the servitude he was created for. Although forsaken, it was his original purpose. You reawakened them, but he acknowledged no other god beside the beautiful creature before him—the one who loved to deprive him, withholding that brilliance beneath layers of polyester. Should you humble yourself, this prince of darkness would grant you sovereignty. In you, there was a queen, if only you’d make him king.

Shōta unwound you little by little—a string of yarn he pulled at until you came undone.

Your thighs snap together with a dull ‘pap’. The onslaught doesn’t let up regardless of how hard they press. You whiteout on the next thrust, ears ringing in disbelief of the euphoria that spread like wildfire, starting from your core and overtaking your entire being as pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave. Color explodes in your vision, its picture returning in bubbles at the corners. Like an old TV screen slowly fading into view. They quadruple among themselves until you can discern the faint lighting your cover allowed. He’d chosen that exact moment to strike home, and he’d hit the jackpot.

Lost in the feeling of you, his image flickers in holographic fractures of light. As if it were a mere illusion. It slipped through fictive hands; the waning grip on his corporal body weakened at each minuscule gyration of the hip, struggling to hold himself together and retain his form. The last of his composure was a fraying rope, one that was down to its last thread. The kaleidoscope-sight eludes your eyes, unaware of the light-show taking place in your bedroom.

Even the display itself is an optical delusion. It’s phosphorescent; he had none of his own. It’s a stored reflection of luminescence. He absorbed light like a sponge. Should it dim, Shōta would be without form.

His lips fall open, broad chest expanding in a muted gasp. Although he has no light, he positively glowed. He was on the cusp of white-hot hysteria that would leave him in convulsions, begging to be pushed off.

Your orgasm is his. When the fire of passion consumed him, you’d dance with him in the flames.

The air he drew exhales from your lips as they stretch in a rictus, wordless, but still depraved. Knee-wobbling kisses come one after another, absolutely worshiping the pair between your legs. You jerk instinctively, trying desperately to stay your hips that just itched to rut against them and snag the liberation dangled in front of you that would liquefy your bones. The canines of your teeth leave ugly indents as you clamp down on aforementioned bones; the horrible grind of rock at tender ligaments reigns you in.

That taste of revelry aggravated your thirst for release. Clenching the pain between resolute palms, you use it to find your bearings and stay focused. Cotton-mouthed, you’re unable to form words around the moans lodged in your throat; the itch in your esophagus is maddening and corrosive, wanting—no, needing to scream your peace. Pleasure robbed you both blind, snatching the ability to communicate from your lungs, leaving nothing behind but desperate, filthy noises of unrestrained passion. Confused speech like the Tower of Babel.

Internal protests rock the foundation of your mind with clamor until they can be vocalized.

‘No!’

‘NO!’

His gratified sigh is heaven-sent, those deep respirations of breath climbing higher and higher. Moaning a wanton plea, his lower half reaches toward the ceiling, lifting into that building sensation tingling his skin.

Your lips could set the stars ablaze. In your tongue lies the power to relieve that burning need, that coiling and curling in your waist—his and yours both, that teased unbelievable rapture when the dam eventually burst. He could take you to paradise if you’d only speak it. Shōta could have you basking in glory.

The stars are already alight, bursting in mini fireworks as your pelvis fizzled in anticipation. A pleasant burble that left you figuratively drooling. Your groan is guttural and primal, free of pretty propriety as an invisible tongue swipes over your clit like it’s the last meal of its life. The demanding appendage is savoring and starved. It’s enough for his cock to twitch. He adopts the sound, converting it to impatient longing. Pink with cupidity, he languished the tiniest hint of a keen, his over-sensitive balls cried for release. The demon’s cherubic cockhead wept his need, plump, pretty, and rosy. That incredible length jumped with each pitiful string.

“Ask of me,” A breathless waver rose from his diaphragm, thick with wanting. “ple..please.” He bucks helplessly like the lowly cretin he is. The tightening of his sack has him forgoing previous agenda, ready to throw himself at your feet. Aizawa longed to grip his aching cock, but it wouldn’t satisfy. He could jerk himself until his lap was a mess of white from multiple emissions, until your name was tattooed on his tongue; he’d lift it on high then drag it to the depths of hell as he defiled it, shivered to it, and chanted it like an incantation. Fruitless. Nothing but a respite. His salvation would only be found in your insides. Therein lied his problem. He couldn’t act if you didn’t permit. In every proffered kiss was a supplication. He prayed upon your name, groveling for your mercy. Shōta begged and pleaded for you to douse the fire in his belly by setting him aflame, to bestow the desperately needed relief of release.

Instead, you use them to speak that word he abhorred.

“NO!!!” It roared with a fury from hell.

His wail is the damned, mournful and tortured. Shattered that his orgasm has been ripped from him.

Like so many times before, you deny him. It snapped that remaining string of sanity.

It’s illogical how you denied yourself. And for what? You weren’t only making this more difficult on yourself, you’re tormenting him in the process.

That wonderful stimulus ceased, leaving him teetering on the edge he was this close to toppling over. Alone and abandoned.

Shōta’s torment is so great, he’s tempted to rip out clumps of onyx satin and froth at the mouth in frustration.

Your denial is maddening. Intoxicating.

A warm body pressed flush against you. The shriek you give up puts a hunger in knife-like teeth. “Hear me now, little master.” His voice hisses like a kettle, angry from the heat it suffers. One that’s been burned too many times.

“I promise you this. You’ll be afforded the same mercy you’ve given me these past fortnights. I’ve done all the waiting I’m willing to suffer.”

The security blanket he’d been so kind to let you cleave to is callously torn from sore fingers.

What a morsel of a mortal. He purred after the sight.

His influence flourished thanks to your lust, the heat that surged through your veins. With it, Aizawa inspires a flood of biblical proportions. An insufferable throb, a fever you can’t sweat out—a thorn in your side as he whispers unmentionable, deplorable nothings in your ear. The worst he could think of. Packaged torture that he regifted, and wrapped so sinfully with a bow.

“You fed me well. Let me return the favor.” A purr, the deepest his voice could muster. The vibration kneads your ovaries. You reply with a bitten-off keen.

“You’ve got an itch,” Pinpricks tap at your skin.

Your flesh called to him.

The recoil is ineffective; you’re already merged with the mattress as you gape in wide-eyed horror, knowing exactly what he’s referencing.

“a void that I could fill,”

“Guh-!” Thickness reclaims you, re-molding soft walls around its shape, reminding you of its awesomeness, carving out its name. A declaration of claim. Of ownership.

Just one pump, quick and vigorous.

“and scratch oh-so-wonderfully.” Nails trace the downward length of your arm as it slowly departs, massaging and rubbing every nerve-ending. Those deep kisses are heavenly in every meaning.

“If you’ll get on your knees before me.” And beg.

Your rebellion is met with amusement. How like little humans. It was ingrained in your nature much as it was his. Shōta couldn’t fault you for that either. He could kiss that sneer right off your face. An all too reminiscent smolder flaying his skin, a pleasant lick of flames. The adorable pout of a mouse squeaking up at a lion. Just ripe for the taking.

With a flick of his pointed tail, he pounced; swooping down to annihilate that pesky distance. That terrified shriek is devoured. He drinks those terror-stricken noises down like wine, snatching them off your tongue and gulping them down his greedy gullet. Shōta takes his unsatisfied appetite out on your lips—chewing, licking, and tasting the sweet ambrosia of your fear, the lingering lust your palate is saturated with. The stifled croak emitted when his cock sought the warmth of your dripping pot has his eyes in the back of his skull. His filthy moan joins the vibration in a shared resonance.

“So fucking sweet.” He groans before lunging back in with a vengeance. Overwhelmed by the sheer uncontrollable force of this demon’s kiss, you turn to petrified stone beneath him, yielding to his assault, to such an unstoppable force that’s unwise to reckon with. Squashing any resistance, your arms are pinned by invisible hands before you can even blink. It’s a manner of speech as you don’t dare take your eyes off him. You can’t. Stuck like a deer in headlights watching the horrible collision of lips. Rising out of the soot are two red dots. They peek to appraise you. The creature’s spreading grin is a sixth sense rather than a sight you witness. Try as you might, your pulsing core is ungovernable in seeking the heat dragging over the part in its moistened lips as he ravages both pairs. Aizawa is swift to force those hips back into submission with a sharp thrust.

For all of that accursed refusal, there’s a contradictory yes in your drunken gaze.

It’s all he needs.

Your mouth is pried open, so he can imbue you and taste every sinful word you’ve ever breathed. So he can eat you alive and suck on your soul. That uncomfortable swelter ramps to an inferno as he tries his damndest to dry hump the life out of you.

As you’re both wound tighter and tighter—a coil ready to snap, your thighs give way for him.

His curr is beastly. A rumble of satisfaction. Rolling you down into those cute cotton sheets, he kisses with a vehemence your pussy contracts spastically over; it practically throws itself at him to match those mindless ruts. His lips taste of desperation, of incurable starvation.

Shōta doesn’t take foreplay lightly. He kisses you so thoroughly, it’s consuming. Mouth-fucking those broken whines from your throat as his tongue glides across the sensitive pink of your gums—teasing the roof of your mouth that triggers body-shuddering tingles, he brings you to that ledge again; the air swirling with high hopes as you await the plunge. His member is hotter than it has a right to be, than any normal human should be. It caught perfectly against your engorged clit, perked and primed from his lavish attention. Telltale electric charge invigorates your skin, setting its hairs on end. Every facet of you enlivens: pupils blow in amazement, your lonely womb winks to attract company as tendrils of blackness crept in the sides of your vision, abuzz with chaotic energy; you gear up for the dive you’ve taken so many times, but one your body still has to psych itself up for, coaxed with relentless patience while it shook, toeing the edge.

Just as you feel the rushing air of your free-fall, Shōta detracts his warmth, the pleasurable press of his cock. Leaving you high and dry.

Karma is a bitter bitch. His farewell kiss is perfect revenge.

You bewail the loss of contact.

A smirk toys with his lip, flashing a glimpse of razor-sharp fangs that flirt danger. The sweetest little delicacy. Shōta licks his teeth as if he could taste it, and your misfortune.

His kiss served its purpose. You aren’t pouting at him, instead gawking at the curled horns atop his head, curling inwardly towards a sinuous sea of black.

“Do you like them?” His tail follows their curvature, the tip contours in a heart. “Does my form please?”

It’s akin to someone asking whether or not you like their third leg, a feature they shouldn’t have. He’s...Its? handsome—rugged beauty, but in a comely sense. If ‘just rolled out of bed, but I’m hot so it doesn’t matter’ were a person, he’d be it.

Despite their oddity, you’re bewitched. You’re drawn to them like any curious wonder. That spiral captivated, had its own magnetic pull by the way your hand raised. You aren’t certain why, perhaps to see if they were real, reaching out to test reality. You fear the world around you will shatter along with the illusion should it be a hallucination. What’s more concerning, you aren’t certain if you want the trance to end.

He gave off temptation like mega corporations puff smog.

It’s droll how humans became fascinated with simple marvels. Although he appreciated your appraisal, Shōta halted that unassuming digit in its tracks.

“I wouldn’t advise touching them. Not unless you’re wanting to get bent in unspeakable ways the good lord never intended and bred like livestock.”

On your knees. Like a bitch in need.

“They’re terribly sensitive things. And you’ve whittled my patience to a severed string.”

You rebound with such speed, one would think you’d been burned.

His smirk is the devil himself as he vanishes from view, dropping so only the tip of his head is visible. Commanding your gaze, he left sensuous kisses down your chest, slow and seductive. Each one placed with care, a certain reverence. His eyes are a flickering fire, a smolder of violent passion, inflamed with untamed lust. Volcanic. Encompassing a heat that burned the surrounded area, charring his sclera a molten black. That powerful glare hitches your breath. It forces you to maintain contact with him. You watch him plant those red-hot kisses down your abdomen, on the separating line of your waist. Looking you dead in the eyes, he leans to kiss the fat of your vulva, right in the center. The cant of your hip is helpless. Like the whine that tapers into a falsetto. He rewards that abandonment of modesty by placing one right at the start of your soaked lips.

“Good fucking girl.” For each shameful shove, and every sinful grind of that sweet pussy against his face, he gives another rough smooch to your concealed clit. You’re given as many as you like, as many as you can handle, so long as you can keep strength in those hips. When you lose it, too glazed from the pleasant sparks, he licks a long stripe from the beginning of your slit to its tip.

“You’re sweeter than buttercream.” Aizawa has one helluva sweet tooth. If you’d been able to hold out, he would’ve kissed that pretty little peach until it creamed. And shoved his monstrous tongue so deep, he tasted the womb that would soon house his young.

Thinking of the brood he’d give you, singed claws scour the expanse of your tummy, rubbing gentle circles around the swirl of your belly button as he waited for you to catch your breath. The thought of breeding you has him rumbling like a cat. The demon went through all the trouble of gathering emissions. He won’t let the seed he collected go to waste.

Laying in the cradle of your thighs, he basks in your disgruntled expression—the scowl that’s too exasperated to be effective.

“What’s your name, sweet sinner?”

Your jaw locks firmly.

Oh?

He had ways of loosening those lips. If something traditional wasn’t your speed, he had something that was sure to please.

Your eyes are the size of the moon. His are an eclipse, clouded in mischief. You wail, the loudest and strongest you ever have, a terrified, overwhelmed belt that came from your innermost man. That scream depletes every ounce of air from your lungs. The ungodly stretch is overpowering, awe-inspiring. It’s out of this world. Your lower half lifts as you shriek. Incapable of coping with the mind-melting euphoria. It’s pleasure in its purest form, raw and too much. It scorches with the corrosive burn of concentrated mouthwash. You’re brought to tears, twitching weakly and whimpering. Thick muscle that pulsed and breathed gorges your cunt, one that had its own heartbeat. The mass of it alone spit in the face of physics, making a mockery of the limitations set on this plane. A tentacle crammed so tight it bore against your cervix. It even writhed, licking your g-spot. Thrashing wildly, it played every node and pleasure receptor like a glissando. While you had the most spiritual experience of your life, he looked on with demonic delectation. A pleasance so open and flagrant. His grin is that of a wolf, a vicious baring of teeth glinting with sinister carnality. That maw of chiseled steel cuts into his cheeks, accentuating high bones and rounding them to apples—deadly daggers sharpened to their peak. Gnashing with ferocious delight. Complacency rivaling a panther whose prey is trapped under its paw, reveling in vain entertainment while he watched you squirm.

“What am I to call you then? What name befits the mother of my children?”

That little detail goes unheard, drowned out by your squalls for mercy. You need it to stop.

Knowing you aren’t in any condition to answer him, he muses. “I’ll just have to come up with something; won’t I, whore?” It’s not an insult, but a delicious shiver that curls your toes. A shudder that incites a gasp. It’s spoken with adoration, the likes of a pet name.

“I’m not..” pant “not a whore.” You manage breathlessly.

The tip of his tentacle roughly laps against that gummy cornucopia, creating such bliss. The pressure is insufferable. Your delighting cry betrays you, colored with unmitigated eroticism. It’s nigh pornographic.

‘Too much...too much.’ Your subconscious moaned.

“‘I’m not a whore.’” He ridiculed. The high nasal of his voice is a poor caricature.

His kitten is practically purring from pleasure.

“You sure writhe like a whore.” It’s punctuated with a purposeful shove that absolutely breaks you, sobbing freely and openly. The shrill from your larynx funnels with the explosive wrath of a hurricane. Powerful. And overtly emotional.

“You moan like one.”

You persist, shaking your head in passionful revolt.

A rallying challenge in blood red eyes.

He does something with that incorrigible but so, so very wonderful bulge where you’re strangulating abused covers—holding on to your waning sanity.

“You drip like one.” His accusation follows an abandoned inhale, making you feel violated and hot all at once. He released it through a groan so immoral, that low-pitched growl hitting you in all the right places.

“Those dewdrops do wonders for me.” His eyes disappear in their sockets. You gape, blushing in figurative shame over his behavior. It isn’t a hue that stains your cheeks, but they burn all the same from a secondhand embarrassment he’s too lawless to be affected by.

He smiles, the original Cheshire Cat. “Pennies from heaven.”

This…this thing did not just refer to your vagina as heaven.

“And if I did?” A playful challenge, unlike the previous, but it burrows like maggots penetrating the soft rotted flesh of decayed fruit. Left out in the sun and swarmed by flies. It still cut like a knife. Laid out on this bed, you’re dissected and taken apart. The taunt stung with an authority you can’t contest. “If I said it was a fortune this creature doesn’t deserve, but one I’ll claim dominion over. What then?”

Aizawa gently fondles your stomach amidst it all, giving it such sweet pampering. He made love to every stretch mark.

Your glare makes the demon crave your lips again.

“Those bedroom eyes. You really shouldn’t spoil me like this.”

“I’m not a whore.”

It’s interesting that’s what you chose to focus on.

“I can make you one.” The promise pervading his statement makes you wish it were a threat.

You undergo a torturous lashing that has you falling in love with the alien addition. Shōta acts as your pitiless tormentor. One tentacle becomes many. Your channel is beyond overstuffed, the full length yet to bottom out. Through discernment, you know there’s more. There’s no room in your dilating heat—struggling and failing to adapt to the stretch, so those tendrilous ghost-like limbs crawl as snakes over your body; a looming fog slowly overtaking you, one of outstretched hands clawing violently for you, thirsting to get their paws on the warmth your skin teased. If you weren’t feeling them—living the caress of invisible hands, your wavering sanity would come into question. They left no surface unexplored as they grab your breasts, rolling them eagerly like joysticks.

Using your nipples as analog buttons, Shōta gains control over that tempting mouth of yours with his thumbs.

“Tell me what you are.” He demands.

You’re on the edge of consciousness, finally succumbing to the stimulus you’re flooded with, but too wired from the constant feedback for sleep’s comforting wiles. You’re offered no rest, given no reprieve.

“Tell me who’s whore you are. Let me hear how much of a slut you are for daddy. Who do you belong to?”

The fissures marring your tenacity give way to ugly cracks. It takes one tap at your wall of wonders for it to crumble.

Enough. Enough. “I’m a whore! I’m your whore!” It bites, the sensation comparable to holding a bunch of sour candy on your tongue. You’re too far gone, too desperate, to feel the immensity of the burn. Your words come as a strained whine—feeble, but you manage them.

“And what are you to call me?”

“No, please! That’s so mortifying!” You launch backwards, furiously shaking your head. Shōta takes it upon himself to personally grind your clit in rough circles.

The tentacles pushing and twisting for your submission are as ruthless as he is.

“D-daddy, I’m your whore! …Please stop, please.” How can you be so tense, yet lax at the same time?

Delicious as your squirming is, there’s something you still owe him.

“Your name.”

“(Name!)”

Aizawa hums a sigh, chewing over the name you supplied. His tongue pokes around the inside of his cheeks as if he were contemplating its flavor. After the hell he put you through, that absolute bastard had the nerve to leer and say, “I think kitten is the nicest ring I could give; the most ravishing robe I could clothe you in. My love will be your crown.”

-

“Stars are fascinating, aren’t they?”

You’re thrown by the change in direction. The question is out of left field.

You stare, offended stupefaction. The conversational tone and flippant attitude is just another bruise.

“Even after they’re long gone, their majesty is still hung upon the heavens—an eternal legacy.”

Where the hell is he going with this?

“I’ll rejoice in your fall,” Your corruption. He’ll drag you down by your ankles if need be. “marvel at the spectacular descent.” Into darkness. “You’ll be feeling the afterglow of our union weeks after.”