𝑨𝒓á𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒐 🫐

Everything, everything, feels smaller. Except what actually matters. That, of course, feels grotesque. Rotund. (It’s not, Tomura insists. You’re not. He calls you pretty and kisses your neck and your stomach and so much more besides. You believe him some days. Not on others.)

Tomura sneers. He scrunches up his face and shakes his head, like you’re some wayward dog who won’t listen to the man that feeds him every night. 

“My problem is that you’re watching that shit on purpose.”

If your eyes could roll any harder, they might fall out. “Yeah. People usually watch videos on purpose.” You crane your neck back to your phone, intent on ignoring him.

It’s his turn to huff, and you can hear the thump of his head hitting his pillow behind you. “I mean, you’re watching it to… to…” You can almost hear the way his hands must be moving in circles, searching for the right word. You could offer it up to him on a silver platter, because he’s exactly right: You’re watching it to trigger yourself.

“I’m watching it,” you insist, the lie sticky on your tongue, “Because I find it interesting.” 

Another thump. Another sigh. It feels like a victory, sharp in your stomach, tight in your chest. 

“I wish you’d stop doing stupid shit.”

Asshole.

“I wish you’d stop acting like my father,” you murmur. Your thumb finds the screen and you unpause. The video springs to life again in all its pocket-sized glory. Which is just as well, because the quality of the video is shit. But it wasn’t like secondhand VHS rips of foreign eating disorder movies from the early 2000s were going to be in 4k. Didn’t matter. 

There’s yet another thump, yet another sigh, but this time he simply springs to life on his bed and lunges for your phone. You’re not expecting it, and he throws you off balance. It takes no time at all for him to wrestle it away from you and chuck it across the room.

It smacks against the wall and you can hear a crack–probably the screen, motherfucker–before it lands on the carpet. Or rather, lands on a pile of dirty laundry on the carpet. Tomura’s been busy with the League and you’ve been busy with self-pity.

Stupid tears spring to your eyes without your consent and you shove him away from you. It doesn’t do much good. Despite his wiry frame, he’s strong; it’s how he’s gotten this far, you think. How the League has managed to stick together and crawl out further and further from the gutter.

(You try not to pay too much attention to the goings-ons. But you know they’re winning more than often now. Know they’ve got big plans. Tomura keeps bringing up some ‘shithead named Overhaul’ and who knows how that will end up.)

Your gaze catches his and it makes your empty stomach curl. He looks annoyed. Tired. Fed up, Fuck, who wouldn’t be? He’s probably been thinking of ways to get rid of you for ages now. Bury you six feet under or not even bother to bury you, dump you in some alley and-and-and you just want to make it stop.

“I want to go home,” you blurt, choking with tears that haven’t yet fallen.

He rolls his eyes like he’s heard it before, and he has. “Yeah?” A finger scratches at his ear. “You want to go home so you can… what?” There’s a bit of venom there, venom laid bare by irritation, peeled back like a raw found. “So you can stay home and eat a bunch of food and puke it up without me to stop you?”

It hurts. It really hurts. Why does it hurt so much for him to say shit like that?

“Shut up,” you spit. “Shut up shut up shut up.” The phone is forgotten, even if the sediment you were stirring up is still there, making everything all grey and murky. That was the point, wasn’t it? Keep it at the forefront of your mind so it doesn’t float away. “You don’t fucking get it.”

And then he’s on top of you, the world heavy with his bodyweight pinning you down. His hands keep your wrists steady, one pinky out so you don’t turn into dust caught in his bedsheets. “Then explain it. Explain why you’re doing this shit when you’ve been…” He sighs, he huffs. “When you’ve been better lately. You haven’t been wanting to do it.”

He’s right. You haven’t wanted to; you’ve been eating. Normally, or so they say. The buzz in your head that makes you want to eat-too-much or purge it all out or do something, anything, to gain control over food and weight and your whole fucking life, has been quiet. Almost silent. 

And that’s the fucking problem.

What do you do, when you stop throwing up and the world keeps on spinning?

There was surely a time when you didn't think like that. When you were a kid and you ate pizza and didn't think about grease and calories all layering up to add to your thighs. When you would eat a bowl of cereal and not contemplate eating a second, third, fourth, just so you can feel stuffed enough to spew it back out again. When the world didn't revolve around chewing and puking and the number on the scale.

Maybe this is what it felt like. You're just here. You eat food and it doesn't bother you. Tomura offers you a bowl of rice and you eat it. If you feel a little full, eh, not a big deal. It doesn't bother you at all.

(Untli it bothers you that it doesn't bother you, anyway.)

But where does it leave that you who was in between? The you who knew the calorie count of your safe foods by heart; the you who would do exercises underneath your work desk after lunch, to burn more calories, to make it feel safe. The you who turned on the sinks in public bathrooms to hide the sound of gagging, of food splashing into dirty toilet bowls.

Where is she? Was she you? Just who are you, now?

And it all articulates into a single, choked out sentence:

“I don’t know who I am without it.”

Your cheeks feel hot and you might be crying. Either way, his eyes just bore into yours, and you look away with something like shame. “I don’t even think it’s gone. Just quiet. Like turning the volume down on the TV or something. But without that… who the fuck am I?”

He looks at you like you’ve got two heads, and you expect him to call you stupid or crazy or annoying. Instead he huffs out through his nose, hot air landing on your face.

“You’re mine,” he says. Simple. Easy-fucking-peasy. “That’s all that matters.” One hand on your wrist relents, moving instead to cup your cheek, that killer-pinky still jutting out like the world’s fanciest lethal machine. “Stop thinking about that other stuff. Just be mine. Okay?”

Your heart thumps inside your chest, pulsing against his palm still held against your wrist. 

“Okay.” The words choke on tears. Or maybe air. Or both. Doesn’t matter, they’re pitiful either way. 

He pulls you up, yanking until you’re awkwardly cradled in his lap. The bed is lumpy. He’s going to get a new one, he says, just as soon as they’re done with this next step. There will be a lot of new things, apparently. New places, new people. 

A new world. All with a place for you.

“Mine,” he murmurs, chin against your shoulder, hair tickling your exposed skin. “Okay?”

One of his hands snakes around your waist, and you try not to think about it. Your hand fishes for the controller and you let his Playstation spring to life, whirring for all its got on a disc drive that is perhaps beginning to malfunction. 

He lets you choose the game without a word. His chin sinks down against your shoulder again, cheek half-nuzzling yours. 

“Okay,” you reply, late and quiet. 

You were a good person. Not like, a great person. There weren’t going to be any newspaper write-ups how an angel of a good Samaritan went missing and the whole town is wringing their hands over your mysterious disappearance. 

But you were good, at least. You weren’t mean to anyone who didn’t deserve it, you didn’t litter even when it was very very tempting, and you’d certainly never done anything to warrant being kept like some sort of bizarre pet from a villain who swung between almost-bratty tantrums to sniffing your hair and telling you how pretty you were.

(I mean, being told that you’re pretty isn’t so terrible. But it comes across less like a nice compliment and more like really-fucking-creepy when the person saying it is keeping you pressed against his stomach, a suspiciously hard lump pressing against your back.)

Still. You didn’t deserve this. No one did. Not even that bitch of a neighbor who kept accusing you of dumping out the trash cans in the middle of the night; which, as it turns out, had actually been Shigaraki rifling through the apartment building trash looking for souvenirs. Used tissues. Underwear you gave up on. Things like that. Because y’know. Really-fucking-creepy.

And a truly awful latest development in your shitty new life has you refusing to leave bed, no matter how many times he pokes his head into the bedroom and tells you to get up. Get up, you need to eat; get up, don’t you want to get dressed? Get up, get up, get up. He’s bored of you laying in bed all day.

There’s concern lacing his voice too, but who cares about that? He can choke on his concern.

“Hey,” he says, and this time he’s not just poking his head in but standing next to the bed. Hands on his hips, a frown (when you glance) on his face. “What’s wrong with you? Get up. You haven’t been out of bed since yesterday. It’s… stupid.” 

Fat fucking chance. Fat fucking chance. Not just because of the depression (you know enough to know that you are, in fact, depressed as hell) or the need to retain some sort of control over your spiraling life but because if you get up… well.

If you get up, he’ll see the blood stain on the mattress, on your clothes. Period blood, of course. It’d come overnight, because no self-respecting period shows up at a time when it’s convenient. It’s like an overbearing aunt that no one likes but she pushes her way into your life every month anyway, always when you’re in the middle of dinner or when you’ve finally fallen asleep.

And now, it’s showed up while you were sleeping, all the while gradually soaking through the flimsy nightgown you wore. Soaked right through your underwear, too, and you can feel a bit of it between your thighs. 

It feels warm and cold at the same time, ugh, and if you stand up it’s only going to get worse. It’ll slink out of you like something wet and congealed, because gravity makes everything grosser. And does Shigaraki have pads? Probably not. You’re sure as hell not going to ask him. 

It had been luck that kept your period away the first few months. Or stress. Although once he’d started fucking you (and it didn’t take long) the question “Am I pregnant?” had crossed your mind more than once, but when you felt no developments, no stirring inside, you’d let that thought ease away out of mental preservation.

Maybe being pregnant would have been better. At least you wouldn’t feel so awful and sticky and humiliated. And you wouldn’t be sitting here, grinding your teeth down, wondering how you’ll ever get the blood stain out of the mattress, find a pad or something similar, and get new underwear all without him seeing.

You couldn’t. Impossible. So you’ll just stay in bed forever and ever and ever. 

“Hey.”

This time his voice is right against your ear and you curl up further, hands clapping over them, giving your tight grip on the blanket covering your lower half, a rest. 

“Go away,” you say, voice tight and low and you hope angry sounding. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

A huff, breath blowing right through your fingers, tickling your ear. “No. It’s my room.” He grabs your blanket, no doubt pinky out, and you have just enough reflex to return your hands to their former position and tighten your grip. “Get up.”

He yanks on the blanket and your stomach flips but you keep it together, pulling back with as much force as you can to keep it in place. “I said go away. I don’t want to get out of bed, and I don’t want to see you.”

Shigaraki rolls his eyes. He’s used to your fights, maybe. Although you’d been a lot quieter about them in the past few months, because yelling all the time gets tiring. Makes your throat sore, too.

“Where’s this coming from?" Another yank. Something wiggles low and slimy inside your stomach because you know he could end this at anytime. Either by simply using his actual strength to pull the blanket away or turning it to dust. “You haven’t been this bitchy in a while now.”

“Fuck you,” you spit. Y’know what, this is all so unfair. Ridiculous. Bullshit-fucking-ridiculous. “You’re a fucking–a fucking asshole, you know that?” Your fingers tighten so much on the blanket, your lifeline, that they actually hurt. “You k-kidnapped me, you keep me here like some… some sex doll, and now you’re bossing me around like I don’t have feelings.” 

Oh damn it. What started off as an angry rant, an attempt to let some of your justified rage leak out like carbon monoxide, ends with your voice sounding choked. Choked from tears and depression and lord knows what else. Stale air and video games and the knowledge that you’re probably going to die in here. He’ll get bored and kill you or you’ll die from a heart attack or some hero will bust in and assume you’re his villainous squeeze and take you out as a precaution.

And now, well. Now you’re crying, still holding the damn blanket, but unable to see much as hot tears make your vision all blurry. 

“Hey,” he says, and he’s crawled onto the bed with you–oh fuck don’t let him see–and he’s got both arms on other side of your head now, his body poised above yours like a snake. “What the hell is the matter with you? You’re all depressed, then you’re pissed, now you’re all… weepy.” One hand goes to your face and you squeeze your eyes shut as he wipes away a tear, too roughly. 

There’s annoyance in his voice, though it’s laced with that concern again. And again, he can simply choke on it. Might make it easier for you, actually. Imagine the headlines: Notorious villain chokes to death on an inch of concern he mustered for his kidnapped victim. Whoop-de-doo.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you bite out, and you hate the way you sound like you’re going to cry. Oh, well. You are crying actually. Still. You hate the way it leaks out through your voice. It’s not fair. You can’t have anything to yourself. Not your tears or your body or even your own stupid period. 

Your hands grip tighter on the blanket and it’s only then that he looks down at the way your fingers tighten on the only barrier between Shigaraki and your blood-stained thighs. Thoughts dawn on his face and you feel sicker with every moment.

“What’re you hiding?”

Fuck.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit, nothing.” He grips the blanket himself again, pinkies up. “Why won’t you let me see underneath the blanket? What’re you hiding?” Irritated and concerned, but a different type of concern. He probably thinks you’ve managed to get a knife or a sharp pair of scissors or something else you could stab him with. If only. 

“I said it’s nothing! Leave me alone!”

“You aren’t allowed to hide shit,” he says, and the tug he gives feels performative. One last chance to give it up before he just yanks it away from you. And maybe you think about it. Maybe the thought crosses your frazzled little mind. Tell him and things will be easier.

Well you know what? Fuck that, and fuck him, and fuck your stupid menstruation. You curl your legs in and with every ounce of strength you can muster, kick them out, knocking him squarely (if a bit lopsidedly) in the chest. 

He’s caught off guard, that’s for sure. Because he does fall back. Not all the way. Like, an inch or two, maybe. From surprise more than anything. You’re not some buff Hero with leg muscles that could crush steel. You’re just you, muscles weak from ill-use over the past few months making things an even less fair fight.

Still. The sound of your feet connecting with his chest is something you’ll carry in your pocket for a while.

The look that crosses his face as he regains his bearings? Also something you’ll carry, but not for the same reasons.

“You’re being a bitch,” he says, a snarl crawling across his features. “I don’t know why, but I know it’s going to stop. I’m too tired for this shit.” Without another word or pretense of a dual between you, he grips the blanket between his fingers (all of his fingers) and it doesn’t matter that it’s just a blanket and not a living thing, you will never get used to the sight and sensation of Shigaraki Tomura turning things to dust with a touch of his hands.

The blanket goes to ash around you, but the coating of gray and brown flecks isn’t enough to hide what’s underneath. Your nightgown and the mattress and your thighs, and the redness binding them together. 

It’s quiet for a moment. A few ticks of the clock, if Shigaraki had a clock on the wall, which he does not. 

And then he snickers. 

Snickers. Heated humiliation is already burning from your chest to your face, and indignation makes it all taste sour.

“Fuck you,” you croak, hot tears and all. “You’re an asshole.” And he is an asshole, a jerk, a fuckwad, a piece of shit. You tell him as much in muttered words, curling up harder on the bed, like that will undo the sight of the blood underneath. 

Fucking period. Fucking heavy flow. 

You half-expect him to call you a bitch again. Or to grab you by the ear and pull you forward, to threaten to put you over his knee like a child for continuing to act up. 

What he does is infinitely worse.

“Aw,” he coos, actually coos at you. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have called you a bitch. Poor thing.” He crawls forward on the bed,  hands brushing away the dust of the blanket. He doesn’t put up the pretense of a fair fight this time, gripping your thighs and parting them with little effort, turning you over on your back in the process.

Laid bare, blood and all. He’s seen you more naked; he’s been inside you, for goodness’ sake. But somehow, Shigaraki staring down at the bloody patch of underwear, the stain that’s leaked through the front and back of your nightgown and left a splotch of red on his mattress, makes you feel more vulnerable than ever before.

“Hey!” He might not put up the pretense of a fair fight, but that doesn’t mean you don’t try to squirm out of his grip. “Don’t–stop it–fuck you!”

He coos again, a soft, almost guttural sound. It makes your stomach hurt and flip all in one. Stupid fucker. You’re about to huff something out, another insult, a meaningless threat, when his hands creep closer up your thighs. It tickles, and you jerk, but he doesn’t stop until his hands are resting on your stomach.

“Does it hurt?” 

You hate this, you hate him. You grimace, because of the closeness, the humiliation, the fact that you’re stuck on this bed with nowhere to go. But you answer him. Maybe it’ll make him go the hell away sooner.

“No.” The word is ground out with your mouth clenched. “I don’t get cramps until the second day, usually.” As if he needs to know this. You almost roll your eyes at yourself for giving that much away.

“You know,” he drawls, and you ought to guess what he’s going to say before it ever crosses his lips, “I’ve heard that orgasms help with cramps.” 

You look at him like he’s just told you he’s going to kill someone. (Which he has done. And will keep doing. You try not to think about that too much.) 

“I’ll just… take some painkillers, it’s fine.” You try to curl up again, but he ignores your efforts. It’s easy enough for him to keep you right where he wants you. Which, at the moment, appears to be directly underneath him.

“Don’t have any.” A grin. Lecherous jerk. “I don’t mind a little blood.” His hands shift now, and every muscle in your body tenses as he parts your thighs. Some of the blood that’s gotten onto your thigh smears against his thumbs, but he pays it no mind.

“Please, c’mon,” you try, some sort of frail, bitter weakness coming through. For once, you wish he’d have a bit of pity and let you be alone.

He doesn’t.

Instead, his thumb swipes over the soft pad of your underwear, where dark red blood has soaked through during the night. Your breath hitches, you jerk. It only makes him happier. So he does it again, this time pushing harder, trying to find–what? Your clit? It doesn’t matter, either way, it’s an awful feeling.

You’re too sensitive and it feels gross and you do manage to snap one of your thighs up. It doesn’t stop him from doing what he wants, but at least you get an inch of control back.

“Don’t. I don’t like it.” 

His mouth twitches, almost a frown. Maybe he’ll get pissed and force himself on you. Maybe he’ll get pissed and storm off and come back six hours later and act like nothing happened. (This would be preferable.) 

But no. Instead, he coos again, all sweet syrup and honey. 

“Aw, poor thing. You’re so sensitive.” Whether he means physically or emotionally, he doesn’t say, and you don’t care to ask for a clarification. You just want him to go away.

Ugh, doesn’t he have any shame? You’ve got it in spades, enough that you swear it should be visible, leaking out of every pore in your skin. It’s bad enough being here. Worse having your period. And it’s agony to have him so close, to have him touching you. 

“Can you please get off?” You try not to sound like you’re going to cry, but it doesn’t really work. The more upset you sound, the more he feeds off you. But it’s hard to stay steady when you’d really love to curl up and die right now. “I just want to get cleaned up.”

At this, he does seem to pause. And when you look at him, he’s frowning. Not in a pissed off way. Just a “I’m thinking” way. Which is better, you think. 

For a minute, at least, and then he smiles a perfectly irritating smile.

“Don’t get up. I’ll clean you up.”

“You don’t have to–”

He pushes one hand on your stomach again, a silent order–sit, stay. 

“Oh, but I want to,” he says, like you ought to be grateful. “Besides, you shouldn’t strain yourself when you’re on your period. Just lie here and rest up and I’ll take good care of you. I’ve got everything you need in the bathroom, don’t you worry.”

He punctuates the last words with gentle pats to your stomach, and it takes every ounce of energy not to snarl at him. It would probably only egg him on even more.

The only thing you can do is thump your head against the pillow and listen as he trods off to the attached bathroom, and you hear the sound of running water, of opening and closing cabinets. His voice has a slight echo as he calls out from the room: 

“Are we supposed to stuff the rag inside, or just put it underneath you?”

so then you’re a few months into dating yuuji, he’s taken your virginity and indulged the kinks you thought you might have had before then… it never comes up. not to you at least — you catch whispers of those before you, sticking to the walls at parties it’s hard to miss what they say about the all star jock and your boyfriend … it makes your stomach turn. not because of jealousy, but because you want to know what it’s like.

yuuji would rather indulge your desires over his. spend hours between your legs running languid and lewd circles over your swollen clit — he makes out with your pussy as though he’s running out of time. trying to do everything he can before he’s caught in the act or your body gives way. from sucking slick from your folds, to drooling on your pussy lips, and fucking your quivering hole with his tongue like it’s his dick. he hardly wastes a second.

it’s not until he feels you push his head lower, stuttering broken letters that crumble like chalk into moans, that yuuji realises how much you want something else.

“you gotta use your words if you need somethin’, baby,” yuuji coos, words all wet as they fall from his gleaming, swollen lips. he blows cool air over your feverish mound, watching you clench around nothing. watching arousal run in pearlescent beads from your sex down between your cheeks. “what’s the matter, mama? talk to me.”

“want you to — oh!” you squeak at the cruel sensation of itadori’s teeth graze your beating clit.

he whispers hot into your pussy, folding your knees into your shoulders with one hand. “want me to what? speak up, pretty.”

“eat me lower…” you cry, feeling his smile spread into your sluice sloppy cunt. “e-eat my ass.”

“yeah? you’d let me?” a grin is painted onto yuuji’s lips, wicked but not cruel. just carefully crafted excitement that buzzes in the charged air like particles of kinetic energy fired up. you feel it trickle into your sex as the jock inhales you like you’re oxygen. spitting onto your mound and smearing it into your clit. “fuck, you’ve no idea how long i’ve been wanting to. needing to. kinda my thing and i love this pretty ass, baby. i really do. you’re heaven sent, made for me. my good girl wants me right here, yeah?” the drawl to his voice mimics a whine, needy and hungry like his own greed has pulled him open with nimble fingers that toy with his cracks.

his own creep lower, take the globes of your ass and knead them raw in an attempt to ground himself. pink hair sinks lower too, wisps of cherry blossom tickling the soiled backs of your thighs as though they are trying imitate the kiss of a spring breeze against the back of your neck. yuuji leaves a trail of open mouthed, treacly kisses from your cunt to your asshole, moaning desperately at your flavour as it rolls across the palette of his tongue.

“s-sensitive, yuu!” you squeak at the new pressure, clenching in two places around nothing — pushing out a fresh wave of violently hot slick.

he makes somewhat of a chuffing sound between sucking on your rim and coming up for air. he could die, drown himself in your flavour and never surface again simply because you feed him so well. douse the fires of his appetite with what your body has to offer. the hybrid noise comes out as wrecked in his throat. “i know, baby, i know. ‘m sorry, i know. just hold on a sec… trust me. s’gonna feel so good.”

to soothe you, make it easier for you to take him — yuuji tacks two fingers on your little pleasure bud that swells prominently between your puffy folds and attentively knocks it back and forth. the motion contrasts with the insistent, wet slurp of his tongue whilst he circles the rim of your ass — sucking your pussy juices into his mouth and spitting them back onto the second tight hole. frothy from his added spit.

“m so lucky, my good girl gets off on having ass played with. doesn’t she?” thick fingers replace his tongue at the puckered entrance, just one for now. he’d never want you to feel hurt by him. your back arches where you stretch over him, gripping every segment of his finger as it passes deeper into your warm walls. “fuck, you’re so right. look at you squirm, mama. you take it so well.”

meeting his brown eyes, calid and mirthy. yuuji latches back onto your pussy — entire mouth engulfing the length of your slit, pink muscle squirming against spoken walls to thrust, much like he would with his cock, and you ripple around him desperately every time. “taste so good, fuckin’ dripping for me.” he says, heady and hungry, chin wet and lips raw? moaning against you impatiently because all he wants is for you to cum.

when yuuji switches, tongue back in your ass and fingers rubbing your clit in misshapen circles — you squeal so high that the sound shoots down his spine and his eyes roll back into his skull, cock rubbing itself sore against the bed.

“can feel you… s’like you’re all the way in my throat. s-so deep, baby.” your voice is a tremor, barely holding itself together whilst your sanity comes apart. it’s true, his fingers scissor your clenched hole as if to make room for something thicker, girthier later on.

“hmm, you like that? me in your tight, warm little holes,” he’s got filth locked and loaded behind his teeth that graze your clit here and there — ecstasy striking you like a lightning bolt. yuuji’s pitch rises like hot air over cold, whiny and needy as though he’s seconds away from losing it all. “cum for me baby, i know you need it. let go for me baby. c’mon, come on. ohoho, shit. there it is…”

yuuji laughs brightly as you squirt — as if the very sight is the reason why the word joy holds its meaning. the corners of your world turn fuzzy with a black vignette as if a cloak of night has been pulled over your eyes. for a second, your presence in the world slips like it was always meant to be fleeting — you are sure that your heart pauses in place and your lungs exhale their last breath all while static jump-starts across your brain, cables crossing. electricity crackling. the jock licks you clean throughout, tongue curling to cover your clit, dipping lower to gather what juice runs between your ass cheeks. glistening, glazed — a sweet treat that has him bucking wildly into the bed until you’re both coated in your own mess.

“holy shit,” he licks his lips clean, wipes the remainder of your orgasm from the corners of his mouth with the back of hand in a manner that’s so sexy it gears you up for another turn. “you gotta let me do that more often. you cum so hard.”

you reach for him as he crawls up the bed to join you, the scent of yourself permeating his skin whilst he peppers you with affectionate kisses. “only if you fuck me there with your cock next time.” you beam, too buzzed to keep on being shy with your words.

yuuji’s eyes roll back into his skull and swears he might actually die.

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occasionally he’ll pull out, uncaring of your protests, the rough seat of his palm connecting with your ass in a way that reminds you how good you get it when you’re good. your cunt aches with the stimulation where your as stings from every spank delivered. you’re asked to count every one — tripping and stumbling over numbers and the syllables of his name on your drooling tongue.

“thought you were a smart girl, don’t you know how to count?” yuuji’s voice echoes rough and bemused — cheery in the same tone parents use seconds before delivering punishment. it strikes fear in your heart but you pour liquid lust into his lap all the same. “let’s do it together this time, silly little thing.”

counting is much smoother when he guides you a long, sounding out each letter to every number just to make sure you understand. treating you as though you really are just a dumb little slut between every round of spanks.

it’s even worse when yuuji has you face down, ass up and throwing it back onto the thick stretch of his shaft. he finds it adorable that you still have enough sense about you to take him all the way to the hilt, work yourself forwards and backwards on him — apologetically squelching around him in a plea for more. it doesn’t matter how much you cry or whinge, yuuji refuses to move more than slow, barely-there bucks of his hips forward into yours. with his size he is able to press down on your gummy g-spot regardless, grin slanted on his lips when you begin to cry out for help.

part of the sorcerer thinks to indulge you with kisses pressed to your crown candy webbed words of adoration. instead, his large hand on the back of your neck — not squeezing, just a reminder — pushes your teary face further into the sheets.

“so much nicer to me when you’re goin’ dumb on my cock,” he laughs because you’re so ruined, still grinding back on yuuji diligently — creaming around his base with a frothy white ring that tangles in his happy trail. you feel him nuzzle your womb, precum smearing along your insides and he’s barely had to move. not when he’s in so deep. as far as he can go with his thick girth and your tight, sluice cunt. “you want me to move? to fuck this dumb puppycunt up? i know it’d do you some good, get you so sweet ‘n you’d go all dumb, act like you don’t know how to think.

yuuji leans over you then, until the heat of his chest and racing heart mould like clay to the curve of your spin. thrusts turn heavy, forceful and his pace becomes quick and merciless — the smack of his skin and balls against you replacing any thought in your mind. you can’t spare him any thank yous since the pleasure crosses your wires and you turn too brainless for feedback, melting into a series of babyish babbles, squeaks and suctioning squashes.

“don’t got a mean streak in your body. just like acting out for my attention. don’t worry, baby. you’ve got it.”

end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!

“—who are they?” yuuji asks abruptly. not to be rude, but to be curious. his clawed pointer finger signals to the pic-chure once again.

the ink has carefully crafted faces of people you love most — who’s everlasting support for your dreams landed you a position here, who’s hearts you miss every single day and think of when night crawls over land.

“my friends from back home,” you say wistful, longing. it’s painted on the face blurred by the blush of the pinky-orange sky. he knows that feeling very well, it beats through his chest when he looks at you. “i won’t get to see them for a while.”

“just … human friends or human lovers?”

you squeak, nearly tipping forward into the waves. yuuji’s large hands are gentle on your hips — steadying you in your seat on the edge of the pier. “just friends! i’ve never… i’m not so lucky with love.”

the merman lets his voice fall into the quiet depths of silence as he ponders. only for a second, enough to let his heart decided what comes next with the turn of the tides. “i’ll be back.” he says in a tone not stern but one that keeps you rooted to your spot — and with a swish of his striped tiger shark tail, he disappears into aquamarine and frothy peaks.

just for a second. leaving you with the gulls and the rush of waves for company. you wonder why your pulse races and why your skin feels warm to the touch for reasons other than the sun.

“back.” when yuuji returns, another magnificent splash — you nearly jump into the water once again. his damp hands settle you but your heart does not still, mimicking that of stormy weather that disturbs peaceful waters. his brown eyes melt in the evening sunlight, they unravel you just a bit because they are all too kind. soft in comparison to the hard line of his torso that must taste like salt and sea. your gaze follows droplets that run down his chest and merge where his v-line disappears to the sea.

“for you.” your eyes snap back up to where yuuji holds out a hand to you — the queen conch shell dwarfed in the palm of his hand. reminding you of how magnificent of a creature he is. your fingertips brush his claws as he passes it to you, two hearts stutter. “inside.”

acting on his guidance, you shake the shell and into your hand rolls a pink pearl. in the hands of the sun’s rays, an undulating pattern is revealed — resembling that of flames. the silky pattern of the milky pink pearl glistens for you under evening light.

you look up again, mystified to find yuuji watching you eagerly. you know what it is, how rare it is. a one in fifteen thousand chance of finding such a beautiful and natural pearl — and the merman has gifted it to you as though its rarity weighs nothing on his mind.

yuuji has bought you gifts before. shark teeth and whale bones, sea shells and and even sea jellies but nothing as grand a this.

“for me?” you whisper, surprise and gratitude cracking open in the fragile cage of your chest.

yuuji nods once, timid almost. “in our culture we gift pearls to people we care about,” he explains, his timbre voice a harmony with the sea’s ambience. “not to friends, to lovers.”

his words sink into your bones like stone in water, his current would drag you under if given the chance. lovers, not friends. there’s a million things you want to say to the merman, a million feelings you want to convey before your time together is up for today. for now, you clutch the pearl to your chest — the glitter of appreciation to your eyes almost pearlescent itself as you smile.

he mirrors you, tail swishing in relief.

“let’s take a picture together,” you breathe. “as lovers, not friends.”

end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!