Untitled

It’s utterly nerve-wracking. ‘Cause he isn’t only your boss, he’s also sort of… well… really hot. Always dressed sharply in a tailored pin-striped suit and those sharp-tipped newly-polished shoes—hair slick with a fresh barbershop cut and a chiseled face to match.

He smells good, too. And it all just makes it extra awkward for you. Especially when you stay late together, alone. He’ll remove his tie and jacket, then button up his collar and roll up his sleeves—flexing those burly arms of his and that fat wristwatch that’s worth more than your entire life savings. 

That neat hair of his will start to fall apart as the late hours take their toll, getting disheveled and only sexier for it—and the way he’ll drag his ring-clad fingers through it with a groan, looking at you with such a fierce glare, you actually have to calm your breath and suppress the urge to rub your thighs together.

But although his voice is definitely something you could dream about, you could do without it when he talks down to you, always admonishing you, grumbling about what a poor employee you are, how you only give him more work to do, how he should be compensated for it. 

You’re certain he’s going to fire you soon.

And it turns out soon is even sooner than you’d thought or hoped.

This is it, you think, once he calls you into his office. He’s finally going to do it. You’re going to have to find a new job now—without a good recommendation to help you out, no less. Knowing him and how much he despises you, he’ll probably give you a really poor review on top of it all—he might even call around to make sure no one ever hires you again. 

You’re almost about to cry.

“You’re about the worst employee I’ve ever had,” he states, sitting behind his desk with you standing before him, twiddling your fingers while looking sorrowfully down at your heels, hoping he’d have enough mercy to at least make it quick. “But since firing people is fucking impossible nowadays, I’m just gonna haf’to relocate you somewhere else you won’t be damn useless.” 

You look up at that. Tears held back in surprise. 

Wait, so… he’s not firing you?

He sighs, looking through your employee files, making the changes, “And given it’s the only job open right now, starting today, you’ll be my new personal assistant.”

Gathering everything, he brandishes the documents with his signature, then looks up at you while sliding the pen and papers over.

“Think you can handle that?”

Stunned, you only briefly think about how you’re overqualified to be a personal assistant, but at the same time, you couldn’t really find it in yourself to care, blinded with relief that you hadn’t been sacked.

You just nod your head all prettily, signing just as quickly while vowing, “I’ll try my best, sir.”

He becomes significantly nicer after that—always praising you for a job well done and giving you pretty gifts on top of your paycheck, which, funny enough, is nearly double what it used to be, all the while telling you how lost he’d be without you there keeping his life together. 

You can’t help but let it all go to your head, completely forgetting that you had bigger plans than being an assistant.

He brings you everywhere he goes now. Out of the building on business meetings, out of the country on business trips. Expensive dinners, fancy hotel rooms, big yachts and galas. You can’t complain—too busy picking your jaw up from the floor—too busy to notice his leer and how he plans to keep you by his side for the rest of his life—too busy to understand that when he stays work late, he doesn’t mean doing paperwork.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Enji, Aizawa, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Nanami, Geto, Naoya, Megumi, Toji, Higuruma, Kusakabe ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae ♡ AOT – Levi ♡ DS – Muzan, Sanemi ♡ HxH – Chrollo

Tuesday is your old classmate who just moved in across the hall. 

It’s a funny coincidence, you both agree, as neither of you lives in your hometown anymore—what a small world, huh?

You’ll meet each other in the mornings when you both set out for work and small talk on your way down the stairs, then up the stairs when coming home again. It’s impressive how often it happens.

He’s always asking for the two of you to catch up—always inviting you over for dinner to talk about old times and what you’ve gotten up to since. 

You never know what to say… You don’t feel like the two of you were all that close during school, so you’ve turned him down each time, hoping if you ask him for a rain check enough times, he’ll eventually just forget.

But after coming home, tired after a grueling Monday and an even harder Tuesday, on top of realizing you didn’t have anything stocked up in the fridge, you end up agreeing to his home-cooked meal when he offers in favor of ordering takeout.

He lights up at once, “Great!”

It’s a bit of an overreaction, you think. But hey, he just moved here—maybe he hasn’t made any friends yet. It’s not easy being in a new place—he’s probably dying for some company. 

Shoot, now you feel a little bad for not having agreed earlier. You remember how it had been yourself when all you ever did was go to work every day—not knowing what else to get up to in the city. Maybe you could give him a hand, tell him about a few places—just to help him get on his feet.

“Yeah, just let me shower and change, and I’ll come over,” you say, unlocking your apartment. 

“Sure thing! See you soon!” he cheers, watching you go with a big beaming smile on his face, only turning around to unlock his own place when you’d closed your door.

He’s a little strange, you can’t help but think—or maybe he’s just that eager. Thinking about it, you don’t remember much about him from college. Honestly, he’s one of those faces that just sort of end up blending into the background. He never made any impact in class or at any parties or other gatherings. You don’t know, he was always rather quiet. You don’t remember him having any friends either. 

But whatever, people change, and he seems nice enough—maybe he was just more concerned with his average. Fucks knows you weren’t.

You shower quickly, not bothering to wash your hair or put on anything too nice. It’s only a Tuesday, after all—it should be casual. A bralette, boxers, baggy T-shirt, shorts, and slippers later, and you pop out the door and knock on his.

He’s quick to answer. “Hey! Come in, come in—it’s almost done!”

“Cool, thanks,” you say. “Smells good.”

He ushers you to take a seat at the tiny kitchen table he has. Similar to yours, actually—these apartments aren’t all that big. Still, his place is poorly furnished. But then again, he only moved in a little while ago, so you won’t judge.

He rushes over with dinner shortly. Spaghetti, meatballs, and red sauce. A classic. You’re not complaining. However, you could have done without the candles and moody lighting. It’s the kind of thing you’d expect from a corny date, but you decide to ignore it.

“Wine?” he offers despite it being only Tuesday. 

You know you probably shouldn’t, but the start of the week has been hard, and you honestly wouldn’t mind the good night's sleep that follows a few glasses of red or anything that would make the affair go over a little more smoothly.

“Sure, why not.”

And yet, it’s still a little awkward. You don’t know what to talk about—you just end up droning on about work, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Then you remember what you’d thought about earlier and start talking about some of the places and things he should check out now that he lives here. You try asking him about his work and why he decided to move here, but he doesn’t seem very interested in talking about himself.

After finishing, it isn’t long before you feel drowsy. You blame it on the wine at first—starting to think it was time you thank him for the hospitality and excuse yourself. But as soon as you get up, you’re already falling over.

No worries, though. He’s been waiting and ready to catch you for a while.

“It took you some time to agree to come—I was afraid you’d never say yes, but I’m glad you finally did… I was about to take other drastic measures…”

You’re so sleepy it’s suddenly impossible to grasp what he’s saying—as well as have any sort of grasp on the situation while you’re being carried bridal style away from the living room, through a door into a very dark room.

“I bet you don’t remember me that well, huh?” he continues as he lays you down on something soft, something that swallows your body in a way you can’t really decide if it feels nice or not. 

He keeps talking while you try to figure it out, “Hm, that’s fine. I remember you very well.”

You connect one and two associations and come to conclude the thing beneath you is a bed. It ripples and dips with the added weight once your neighbor crawls over you. Your body doesn’t yet recognize being alarmed, but something behind the fuzz that’s taken over your mind still has enough common sense to make you feel as if something’s not right.

“I just had to follow after you, you know?” he keeps rambling, but you’re only barely able to listen. “I just needed some time to save up the money and all, but I was right behind you. And made sure I’d get this apartment right next to yours.”

He looks at your pretty face—all spaced out—stroking your cheek all slow and delicately.

He sighs, “Heh, I know they say that if you love someone, you should let them go—but I just couldn’t find it in me.”

His hand travels further down—eyes following the trail. Down, down, down, until reaching the hem of your shirt.

“I had a crush on you since day one, you know?” he confesses while pulling your tee up over your bra, exposing your pretty chest to him. He licks his lips, breath shuddering, and yet he keeps preaching despite it, “All three years. I wanted to tell you, but you were always surrounded by those pesky friends of yours. It was impossible to catch you alone.”

He feels your skin with a gentle touch as if in reverence. Still, now that you’re getting used to the effects of whatever it is he’s drugged you with, you’re lucid enough to feel the treacherous hard-on he has rubbing against you. 

“Unlike me…” He stills for a moment, and something dark takes over. “I was always alone.”

Beyond uncomfortable, beyond alarmed, you’re fully terrified now. You want to scream, but you can’t find the strength to move, even just a finger. Completely limb, and yet not numb, but sensitive to all his awful touches.

“But that’s all in the past.” He smiles. “Now that I finally have you all to myself.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Tenko ♡ JJK – Yuuta ♡ HQ – Yamaguchi ♡ CSM – Yoshida ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Nirei

Wednesday is the cheerful clerk who works at your local grocery store. 

You like doing your grocery shopping on Hump day. It only makes sense, after all—you’ve made it through the first half of the week and deserve to spoil yourself a little! 

He’s only just a bit older than you and yet still plays the older and wiser card—all in good fun, though, making a few comments about your lifestyle, jokingly telling you that “Candies are strictly  for the weekend, you know?” A brow quirked while looking at you slyly.

And you’ll return his banter, giggling while saying, “A little fun never killed no one.”

It’s an innocent flirt the two of you share—neither of you really expects anything in return. He’s just a really friendly guy—always coming over to help you in the store. Tall as he is, he reaches the top shelf, barely needing to stretch his arm. Sometimes, he’ll even take a look at your shopping list and help you gather everything, bag your items, and then carry them out to your car as if the two of you are the people around and the store isn’t filled with dozens of other shoppers in bigger need of his assistance.

He mostly only sees you on Wednesday, but he knows your entire life story and your day-to-day schedule the way the two of you end up talking. Usually, people would be wary of sharing things with strangers, but you trust him with so much exactly because he is a stranger—treating him no different from a confidant. No one knows you as intimately as him. He knows all your little habits—from what you eat on a daily basis to what brand of soap you use, even what type of tampons and pads you like. 

He doesn’t appreciate you eating things outside of the groceries the two of you pick together. He fucking hates it, actually—it makes it feel like you’re cheating on him. Every time you eat out, order in, go to a bar or cafe, even a fucking candy store is like a stab to his back and heart all at the same time. It drives him crazy—he might just burn all those places down to the ground. 

But he never lets any of that show when you’re in the store. It’s not your fault after all that there are so many temptations out in the world. You just need a little help saying no.

You don’t have to worry though. After he becomes your boyfriend, he’ll be that help for you. 

Yeah, all you have to do is stay home and he’ll make sure you get what you need. He won’t let you indulge as much as you do now, of course, but he won’t be too strict either, so don’t fret. 

He’ll make sure you get all the right nutrients to lead a long, happy, healthy life—get your body ripe and ready to start a family. 

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Geto, Gojo ♡ HQ – Daichi, Kuro, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Yukimiya, Aiku ♡ WB – Suo, Umemiya, Togame

Thursday is your is your random-ass friend who’ll drop by unannounced. It’s never anything crazy, though—no, just a fun hang-out to get a little headstart on the weekend. He’ll bring a joint or maybe some gummies—he likes to keep you guessing. And the two of you will watch cartoons or shitty reality TV, play a round or a dozen of Mario Cart or the like—giggling over each other’s commentary.

He’s chill, laidback, a fan of both comfortable silences and making good conversation. A really good friend.

Yeah, a really good friend who likes sticking his tongue down your throat when you’re knocked out from all the laced drugs he keeps passing you. 

“God, you’re so clueless,” he moans when bearing over your passed-out body where you lie all comfortably oblivious on the couch. “Just a naive cutie pie who’s gonna get her gullible little pussy used.”

You make him so hard—you have no idea how he licks your face and kisses your eyelids. Drunk of the power he has over you and feeling all but unhinged because of it. 

He feels your limp tongue with his fingers, playing with it while grinding against your thigh. Breaths thick with lust—eyes half-mast, getting overstimulated by all the nasty things he’s going to do to you and how you will never ever find out about any of it.

“You know I fuck you raw every time I come over? That’s right, every single time,” he laughs and shudders in delight, whispering the truth into your ear despite knowing you’re in no state to hear it. 

“Mh, I use this body like my own personal sex doll. There’s not a spot left I haven’t touched.” He tugs down your top and takes both your tits in his hand, squeezing them as if they belong to him because, in his mind, in these special precious moments he shares with you, there’s not a part of you that doesn’t belong to him and there’s not a part of you he can’t do whatever he wishes with.

And so, he sucks and licks your pretty tits too and keeps raving, “You’re all mine, every single part of you—I own it all.”

He pulls up your skirt and strokes your cunt through your panties, sliding his fingertip through the slit as if he’s teasing you even though you’re going to stay just as unresponsive no matter what. But in his mind, he imagines it wants him—that your pussy desperately craves him without you knowing—that it’s a secret the two of them share with each other and that they're somehow in cahoots on keeping you oblivious.

“You’re always so tight and wet—it takes everything in me not to cum inside, but we wouldn’t want you figuring things out and ruining our fun, now would we?” he rambles, finally sliding your panties to the side so that he could slip his digits within, pumping you sweetly while you sleep oh-so-soundly and blissfully unaware, getting you good and ready to take his cock in the next minute.

“Yeah, it’s gonna stay our fun little secret forever.” 

♡ BNHA – Denki, Kirishima, Dabi, Hawks, Shinso ♡ JJK – Geto, Gojo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Lev, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Karasu, Shido ♡ WB – Togame

Friday is the bartender at your go-to club. 

He’s seen you in every state of drunkenness possible—from tipsy, plastered, sloppily drunk to flat-out shit-faced. You’re a bit of an alcoholic, you know that? Once you start, you can’t seem to stop yourself. If someone puts a drink in front of your face, you dont even think before grabbing it—all laughs and zero critical thinking.

Of course, the way he overserves you, you’re bound to get fucked up.

“Wanna go home…”

He holds your drowsy body against his chest, keeping you upright.

“My shift’s done, and my place is right above here, so you don’t gotta worry,” he says, soothing you as you cling to his side, utterly unable to stand on your own two feet, flinching at the flashing strobe lights and wincing from the blaring party music—feeling as if there’s a seismic eight earthquake raging on inside your poor head.

“Where’ my friends?” your words are so slurred, they’re barely audible. 

But he hears you, chuckling before cooing at you, “Let’s get you someplace comfortable, and then we’ll contact your friends, okay? Sound good?”

You burble a few incoherent sounds before uttering out a weak, “Okay…”

“Alright then, baby, don’t worry, I got you,” he purrs in return, getting a better grip around your body as he leads you out of the club, into the elevator, and up to his flat.

“I feel sick…” you mumble, whimpering.

And he coos, “I know, baby, it’s okay, I’ll help you.”

He leads you to his bathroom, setting you down on your knees in front of the toilet. You don’t think much of it when he lifts up your little party dress and tugs it off over your head—feeling as if he’s just making you comfortable. Yeah, he's just taking care of you.

“Let’s empty that system of trash, yeah?” 

He gets down on his own knees just behind you, cradling you as he gathers your hair back with both hands—gripping it a little too tightly in a single fist before being just as rough, sticking two of his thick digits deep into the back of your throat. 

You immediately gag and throw up. 

And he hums, sounding pleased while praising you, “That’s a good girl—get it all out.” 

He doesn’t pull his digits out despite you struggling, trying to wrench away—no, he just uses his bigger body to keep you pressed and hunched over the toilet bowl while finger-fucking the back of your throat—smiling sadistically while at it.

“Come on now, baby, I know you got more in there. Let it out.”

He keeps you there for half an hour, making you dry gag and spit, mascara streaming down your pretty face as he feels your smaller body convulse under his weight. Fuck, it’s enough to make his cock pre.

“Good girl,” he purrs, petting your hair and placing a kiss on your temple, all while you shudder and sniffle. “Let’s get you washed up, hm?” 

He reclaims his harsh grip on your hair, just as tightfisted, using it to make you crawl across the tiles until reaching the tub. He takes his place behind you—trapping you between his legs, thighs, and crotch, keeping you locked against the porcelain edge while he fetches the showerhead and immediately sprays your face with the cold at full force. 

“Open up, baby, let’s wash your mouth out.”

You yelp, whining, but he finds your protesting more amusing. Finding your nose with his other hand, he pinches it shut. Making you gape and gasp for breath through the water stream. 

But he doesn’t leave it at that. No. The shower head is about the same size as your fist and proving to be just small enough to allow him to force it into your mouth—all but waterboarding you.

He has to chuckle at your fussing—you’re so weak he barely has to put in any effort keeping you in place—he nearly busts in his pants feeling it. But the best part is how when he lets go of your nose, the water starts coming up and out your nostrils.

He let’s go before you drown, of course. Snuff isn’t on the menu tonight. He’s been stalking you for far too long—he can’t just waste it with foreplay.

You collapse on the floor, shivering and coughing—head a spinning mess, still wasted, riddled with shock yet stifled by exhaustion to do anything but lie there, trembling against the wet tiles.

“No, no, no, baby, you can't fall asleep yet. The party’s still far from over,” he admonishes, giving your cheek a few small slaps before grabbing your upper arm and pulling you up. “Yeah, come here—I’m far from finished with you...”

He carries you out of the bathroom and drops you on his bed. 

“God, you’re fucking dumb,” he grabs your face, pinching your lips while giving it an ugly kiss. “Did your mommy never tell you not to go home with strangers, huh?”

Leaving you there, he goes off to find your purse.

“Let’s let your friends know you’re home safe, hm.”

You try getting up while he’s gone, crawling around in the bedsheet like a worm, but not managing to get anywhere. 

He watches you and scoffs while typing up a message, hitting send to your most recent group chat. It only takes a minute before all the dumb bitches you call friends send hearts in return, saying how fun tonight was.

They have no idea what they’re missing out on.

He saunters back to you. Enjoying every second of watching you squirm. Thank fuck for alcohol, and god bless dumb party girls.

“Where do you think you’re going, huh?” He grins while grabbing your ankles and pulling you to the edge of the bed. “You’re not going anywhere, baby—you’re staying right here with me where I can have my fun with you.” 

His hands go up and down your soft skin, thinking of all the pretty marks he’s going to leave on you before curling his fingers around your slutty string panties.

The lace is all wet from his earlier actions as he tugs it down your thighs and legs, tossing it over his shoulder before spreading your legs and pulling you even closer. 

“Aw, you got your pussy all clean-shaven for me?” he awes with a smirk, “What a good girl you are.”

He’d planned on having a bit more fun with you before giving in to his urges, but seeing your pretty little cunt so ready to be fucked, he couldn't be asked to wait any longer, needing to fuck you like he’d been wanting to ever since he first spotted you in the club so many TGIFs ago.

“You sure like to party, don’t you?” he rasps while buckling up his belt and zipping himself down, letting his pants drop before grabbing his painfully hard cock. “Always at the club shaking this pretty little ass of yours—just a dumb party animal, huh?” He just knows your little cunt’s going to squeeze him tight like a trap—he isn’t even going to give you a finger test before bullying himself inside.

“Yeah, you like having fun—you havin’ fun now, babe?” he bows down, biting your cheek while putting his head to your entrance, pressing inside despite the resistance. 

He was right—you are fucking tight, taking his cock just the way he thought you would.

“Fucking slut,” he groans as he starts thrusting, hugging your thighs tight. “Begging to get gangbanged out on that fucking dance floor—dancin’ like a fucking stripper for free and for all to see.”

Fuck, how he’s going to ruin you—give you a necklace of hickies all around your throat as he fucks you into a mess, then press a beer bottle inside you once he’s done—keep his cum in you all night long.

“You deserve to be used. And I’m gonna use yah for all you’re worth.”

♡ BNHA – Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks, Shinso ♡ JJK – Geto, Gojo, Naoya ♡ HQ – Kuro, Sakusa, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Karasu, Shido, Aiku ♡ DS – Sanemi ♡ WB – Kaji, Togame

Saturday is a gym-bro. There isn’t a day he doesn’t go. Yep, not even Saturday.

You try to go as often as you can muster. But no, you don’t go every day, especially during the weekend—and that gives him a good reason to come up to when you do—teasing you about how he missed you last time. Acting all smug and cocky when asking you what bad habits you got up to on Friday that made you skip out.

He makes you feel sheepish standing next to him as he all but bullies you for being an itty-bitty weakling. 

He’s not exactly being fair. It’s not as if you’re especially weak compared to everyone else. It’s just that absolutely everyone’s an itty-bitty weakling standing next to him. The guy’s pure muscle and taller than most of the equipment, for crying out loud!

One time, he’d demonstrated his strength by daring you to hang from his bicep. And sure enough, he could lift you like you were nothing. Using you like a dumbbell—which is what he’ll sometimes call you.

You’re pretty sure he’s flirting with you. It’s flattering, but honestly, you think guys like him are a bit too much. His leg has the same girth as your thigh, and so does his neck—not to mention how you think he has enough strength in his hand alone to pulverize your skull in one simple squeeze.

Besides, he’s way too full of himself. You get being proud about health and fitness, but holy shit, does he never shut up? He’s always bragging about how much he benches and how many reps he does every day—and on top of everything, he seems to always be watching and studying you, commenting about your form, and mansplaining how you can get better.

He gets on your nerves. 

But then again, the guy does seem to know what he’s talking about. And after several weeks of neither seeing nor feeling much results, you finally decide to let him help you out.

And he does. Taking you through all the motions, from warm-ups to really pushing yourself, and now, the cool-down stretches. 

Though… you can’t exactly say there’s much cooling down involved in the way he has you full-feverish, sweating more than you did during the actual workout. In the locker room, suspended against his swole chest with his arms locked around your thighs, folding you clean in half, fingers locked behind your neck as he bounces you on his thick length. And fuck, even his fucking dick is riddled with muscles and veins—feeling as if he’s fucking you with an arm the way he’s stretching you out and punching your guts to mush.

“You holdin’ out, dumbbell?” he mocks, knowing you’re a mess. “Tap out any time, yeah?” 

Fuck him, you think—as if you can move your arms in this position—as if you can even speak or make any sound except full-on panting like a bitch and drooling like one too.

One more hit, and you’re spraying—and he insists on fucking you just as hard through it. Straight pounding your wet cunt until he’s sure you’re empty before dropping you back down on your own two feet.

But just because you’ve cum like a shower doesn’t mean he’s done. No, far from it, as he rushes you up against the lockers next and continues where he left off. 

The cool metal feels good against your cheek, so good you don’t even mind how he’s pressing you flat and free of air—keeping your neck in a chokehold and your hair in his other fist while fucking into you from behind.

“Trust me, this is way better exercise for someone like you,” he grunts with a grin, feeling you go limp. Your knees shot and your whole body listless, kept up solely by his strength like a puppet on strings.

He rasps out a laugh, “I’ll be your personal trainer, free of charge—just meet me after my reps, and I’ll put you to work and make sure you go home feeling proud.”

Yeah, sure, if you don’t pass out before then.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Hawks ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Toji ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Kunigami, Shido, Baro, Aiku ♡ DS – Akaza ♡ WB – Togame

Sunday is the religious guy who always comes and knocks on your door to share his faith. 

You don’t share his views, but you’d invited him in for lemonade and pastries once. 

You don’t know exactly why. You usually just say no thank you and close the door, but that time, well, you’d just finished making cupcakes, and the house smelled like a bakery—it seemed like a waste not to have company.

Sundays were usually so anticlimactic you never really knew what to make of them. But after that, you came to really enjoy spending them baking, always trying out new fun recipes. And before you even knew it, since he always came knocking on your door on Sundays to enlighten you bout God, it quickly became a thing of ritual for you to invite him in.

You’d always thought strictly religious people such as him were more… how do you say… fanatic? Or, at the very least, be somewhat passionate about talking about their God. But he doesn’t seem to be very interested in telling you about that at all. No, he seems much more invested in you and how you’ve been since last time.

Oh well, you think—maybe he’s more accepting of people having different life views and isn’t deadset on changing minds after all. Maybe that was never his agenda—maybe he’s simply a good samaritan going door to door to see if he’s needed or wanted. That is what religion is all about, after all.

Little do you know, though… he’s not really a religious guy at all… 

No, he’s actually a serial killer who’d been hunting for his next victim. 

He thought you were just perfect, exactly his type—pretty and kind and dumb, just like prey should be. Oh, but then, you became a little too perfect, didn’t you? Inviting him in with such big doe eyes, despite living all alone, feeding him cupcakes, and telling him tales about your life as if he isn’t a total stranger. You might as well be begging him to make you his victim.

But he can’t waste perfection. 

And so, instead of abducting you and frolicking in your screams as he cuts you up into a dozen pieces, he abducts you and frolics in your screams as he sucks your pussy into a dozen orgasms.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Shoto, Denki, Hawks, Mirio ♡ JJK – Mahito, Geto, Gojo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Lev, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ CSM – Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Bachira ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Tomiyama

The way he says it leaves very little up for debate. In fact, it leaves you mute each and every time. 

It was nice in the beginning—you didn’t protest to anything other than his overpriced gifts. You were flattered and blushy and giddy and more than happy to sit pretty for him for hours at a time while he sketched and sculpted and painted and whatnot. It was essentially nothing in comparison to the luxuries he gave you in return.

But you think, at some point along the way, he must have forgotten that he only owns the artworks he makes of you—not you yourself.

“N-naked?” you stutter, looking at him wide-eyed where he stands in his usual apron—flecked with the proof of your countless sessions. Honestly, it was getting to be a little strange posing for him in a room stuffed with a myriad of sketches, paintings, and statues of yourself. Hadn’t he had enough?

“I can’t capture you correctly when you wear all these rags,” he says—clinically, though with a pinch of impatience just shy of vexation—eyeing you from head to toe, almost with a look of disgust while beholding your clothes, despite being the one who’d bought them. “They obscure everything. So take them off.”

You knew he’d probably had about a hundred models undress for him, and stand here—old, young, men, women—you knew it probably didn’t mean much to him. He probably regarded it the same way he does everything—without even batting an eye. However…

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do that…” You fiddle with your fingers, standing there, still dressed despite him standing ready at his easel, foot-tapping while waiting for you, already with a stick of charcoal between his fingers. 

“Why are you making a fuss? You think I haven’t seen a naked body before?” he jokes, but without humor—no, rather strictness as if you’re wasting very precious time. “This is standard practice—don’t make it anything than what it is.”

There he goes again with those very final words that make you feel all in all kind of silly.

You bite your lip and mull it over before ever-so-begrudgingly uttering a weak little, “Okay…”

You suppose he was right. This is a job, and it’s just nudity—just another shape in the eyes of an artist—it doesn’t mean anything—is what you tell yourself while you undress. Still, you can’t help but feel flush—heart pounding in your chest as you fold your clothes all neatly for some other nervous reason. 

“Resume the pose,” he says—almost like a drill sergeant. And you jump into place, timidly rushing over to the chaise where you lie down like before.

This does feel like it would be a better painting, you admit. More reminiscent of Renaissance art and such. Not that you know much about it, but thinking back to field trips through the museum, you seem to remember having seen plenty of portraits of naked ladies lying on pretty but uncomfortable sofas just like this.

He seems very invested, at least. A deep furl between his brows, nearly scowling at you while he works—though you’ve come to learn that it’s just his concentration face.

After a while, he sets his charcoal down and wipes his blackened hands on his apron.

You sit up, asking, “Are you done?” All but ready to leap from your seat to your clothes and finally cover yourself again.

“No, keep still,” he all but reprimands—voice intense as he stalks across the floor over to you with determination written plainly across his face.

You draw back in place as he rests his knee on the chaise and leans forward. It wasn’t uncommon for him to come and correct your pose, but you couldn’t help but flinch this time around, feeling just a bit too exposed.

His hands are warm and overworked, both dry and a bit clammy all at the same time. You didn’t mind much when you wore clothes, but it felt a bit too intimate now as he touched your bare skin. But you bear with it despite that.

Eyes closed, you repeat that same line from before—it doesn’t mean anything, this is standard practice, it doesn’t mean anything.

It works in calming your breath for a moment, but then he grabs your tit.

You gasp, jolting back while stuttering, “Wha–what are you doing?”

And yet, he keeps his steal gaze just as fixed and unfazed as before, sighing at you as if you were overreacting, before stating rather simply, “Getting a better understanding of your body.” He then reaches toward you again, showing no concern for how you shrink away. “It’s easier to replicate when I know it by hand.”

Again, you let his voice silence you, and again, you closed your eyes and let his hands wander—around your chest, up your neck, down your belly, and then—

“Wait! That can’t be necessary—” you blurt out, this time with your arms and hands shooting forth to distance him.

“Oh, trust me—it is.” Again, he pays you no mind, simply bearing over you with his entitled hands roaming whatever place he so wishes and chooses. Only clicking his tongue at you when you squirm, “Don’t fuss.”

You don’t exactly push him away, though you don’t exactly make his pursuit easier for him—lying there beneath his touches, wiggling and whimpering, though not really protesting either as he feels your slit.

Your fingers curl into his arms, gripping his messy shirt streaked with paint and coal—as his fingers run through your lips, teasing your entrance and your clit. He twists his hand around and presses his thumb down on the pearl after it perks for attention, then enters you with his pointer finger—drawing out wetness before promptly feeding you another.

You bite your lip as they curl and spread within you, testing you out while rubbing firm circles into your clit.

Gingerly, your hips return it, starting to move in tune with his ministrations. Thighs trembling, keeping your eyes squeezed tightly shut as you start to pant—small moans leaving your lips with every breath, feeling it build within you—a small flame at first, nursed until it fills and all but fights for room within you before finally bursting.

“That’s it—that’s the expression,” he purrs—voice much softer than usual—cupping your face with his other hand, holding you steady while taking in those dopey eyes sparkling with pleasure and those parted lips that never dare speak up—eyeing you like he's the proud owner of a prized possession. “Perfect.”

He hums, sounding pleased, then gets off you shortly after, sauntering back to his easel.

“You can get dressed now. I got what I needed,” he states, picking the stick of charcoal up again, ripping the last sketch off for a fresh sheet before starting anew as if nothing had happened.

And you, still lying there, are left just as mute as usual.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shoto, Touya, Hawks, Shinso, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Megumi ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Oikawa, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae, Baro ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Muzan, Sanemi

Wrath is your ex-boyfriend who refuses to get it through his thick skull that the two of you are over.

Any time you talk to another guy, he beats him up—to a fucking pulp, no less. 

He’s always been that way, and still, it wasn’t always like this…

You started dating each other when you were young. He was rough around the edges, and you liked that about him—tattoos from his neck down to his ankles—the type your parents would have a heart attack if you ever brought home.

He was going to be a professional fighter, he’d say—mixed martial arts. He had all the rage and zero technique, but still, he’d land some of the best on their ass all through pure strength of will alone. 

He was near impossible to train, though—always too wired to be able to take any pointers. And that’s why he needed you. You were his reliever. He’d fuck you like it was his last day on earth, and suddenly he’d be able to do anything. Like an enhancement drug, everything would start moving in slow motion, and he could somehow see all the moves of his opponent before they ever made them.

You admit you liked hearing him preach about it. It made you feel important—made you feel as if half the win, or at least some of it, was yours. And when he started raking in the dough as the champion, winning multiple titles across several tournaments, you were more than happy to be his lucky charm and cheer him on from the sidelines.

But then, you had this awful and sudden feeling of being just that—a tool for his success and nothing else. Sure, he’d give you presents—pretty things he thought suited you well—but you hadn’t gone on a date since his career started, nor had you had a proper sit-down dinner together either. He’d stick to his diet regime, be out training at the gym all day, and you’d be home, going about your own business.

And while you were doing that, you’d think—about the nature of your relationship. And what you found is that all it really entails in the end is him demanding a fuck whenever he needed it—before a tournament, before training, before an interview. And then, after coming to that glum conclusion, you can’t help but feel like nothing more than another one of those items he keeps loose in his gym bag.

And those thoughts only got validated when you tried denying him sex for the first time…

You were just curious, really—curious to see what he’d do. If he’d beg, if he’d plead, if he’d say boo, don’t be that way while down on his hands and knees for you.

But of course... he can’t get anything else but angry.

“If you’re not gonna give me the one thing you're useful for, then what the fuck do I keep you around for?” is what he’d said—no, barked. “You think you’re special? If you’re not gonna put out, I might as well go out and find me someone who will.”

He’d fucked off to some other room with a huff and left you standing there. 

And you don’t know, amidst the shell shock and the ache of your heart coming undone... suddenly, you had no idea why you were there or with him or what you were supposed to do—and when you found no answer to any of those questions, it made no sense for you to stay. And so you went to your shared bedroom—or his bedroom, as a matter of fact, which you’d stayed in for the last months—quickly grabbed your things—your things specifically, and not all the other stuff he’d thrown at you—and stuffed it all haphazardly in your bag, then gone out to the entryway to put your shoes on.

That’s when he’d reared his head again with the gall of asking, “Where the fuck are you going?” 

He hadn’t had that same raised tone as before. No, this time it was lowered—frayed—with a touch of urgency and unease as if balancing on the edge of a knife—as if he knew he'd done something wrong and was reaping the consequences and yet still hadn't the balls to simply apologize and correct it.

And so, you hadn’t answered him.

“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” he’d stated then, coming closer, ready to grab your arm with that hint of alarm in his voice increased. “Hey, I asked you fucking a question—”

That’s when you’d twisted around and slapped him. You’d put all your might into it as well, though you doubt it compared to much of what he’d felt in the ring. 

And still, he’d looked at you as if he’d just lost all his titles. 

He hadn’t said anything else after that—just stood there with his mouth agape as you opened the door and slammed it shut behind you. In fact, you don't think he even dared do so much as take a breath.

You’d gone and crashed at a friend's and rethought your life. There was no way you could ever go back, after all—not after what he’d said. Treating you like a stay-at-home whore. Who the fuck does he think he is?

What an asshole—you'd tried convincing yourself as you cried yourself to sleep…

The days and weeks after were nothing if not fucked up and toxic, to say the least. You’d go out to have a fun time and try to forget about him, but he’d always show up out of the blue to ruin everything—being his usual douche self. 

Though… you can’t exactly claim to be any better than him—not after finding yourself in bed with his number-one up-and-coming rival.

Of course, it ends up all over the news—big headlines plastered on every gossip platform pushing your private affairs for all to see—a real media circus if there ever was one.

You end up back in his apartment. To talk, he’d said—a pretense you had a hard time believing in. He’s never been one to talk much. Honestly, you don’t know why you even bothered coming over when he asked. There might even be a chance he’ll kill you. This is how most homicides start, after all.

The two of you sit in silence for a couple of minutes. You look off to the side, waiting for him to speak because fuck knows you have nothing to say. 

Meanwhile, he just stares at you—his big, hulking body leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands braided before his face. It’s the type of posture he’ll have when sitting in the corner of the ring—he’s got that same look in his eyes, too, deadset on you.

It makes you a little nervous, actually—maybe he really does plan on killing you.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks suddenly.

You almost scoff—almost roll your eyes, but you end up simply returning his dead glare. “Is that really what you asked me here for?”

He doesn’t answer that question. He just keeps staring at you.

You huff out a sigh, “I don’t know, maybe I just wondered what it would be like to be fucked like a woman for once and not someone’s toy.” 

You don’t know why you decided to take it there when you both know why you’d done it. What other fucking reason would there be other than to get back at him? It’s a stupid question to begin with, and so you give it a stupid answer in return. And you won’t deny it feels fucking good—seeing him like this. Five o’clock shadow, eyebags, and uncut, disheveled hair. 

He looks like a wreck, and rightfully so. Fuck knows what a mess you’d been before you finally managed to drag yourself out of bed. Funny what the single simple thought of revenge can do for someone so lost.

He scrapes his thumb down his jawline, over his stubble—a deep sigh running through him as he leans back on the couch. Offering no other reaction as he says, “I can sit here and act threatened, but you and I both know he was shit compared to me.”

He throws his arms up against the headrest, chin tipped up. Thinking he can hide it, thinking you can’t see right through him—to how hard he’s fighting to upkeep the poker face. 

He’s forgetting who his opponent is.

“I know you, babe—I know your body. And there's no fucking way some shitstain you just met–”

“His dick was bigger,” you interrupt—face blank because two can play that silly game, and you do it better.

He’s shut up for a moment—you can see a vein pulse, but it’s quickly stifled, and he smirks instead, snickering despite his grit teeth, “Sorry, that must'a hurt given how much you cry with me.”

This time, you don’t refrain from scoffing and rolling your eyes, “That's all you have to say? Thought you were a fighter.”

“You want me to get jealous? Is that it?” he accuses then, starting to crack, throwing your scoff back at you, “Tch—should've fucked somebody important then.”

This time, you skip the eye-roll and flat-out laugh instead, “I'll keep that in mind. Next time, I'll call up your dad-”

That did it—got him out of his seat and everything. “Shut your mouth.” Standing big and hunched, all muscles and fury.

And you react in kind. Glad that you’re finally getting somewhere. “Make me.”

"You're fucking–" He clenched his fist in the air, scrunching his face in frustration, withholding a growl before releasing a heavy sigh instead.

Dropping his arms, shoulders slumping—hanging his head the same way whilst mumbling under his breath, “Fuck this… fuck this entire thing.” 

And just as quickly as he’d sprung to his feet, he flopped down on the couch again. 

“I don't wanna play games…” He looks up at you—now with the look of a starved and beaten dog. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

He reaches out slowly—big hands cradling your thighs, pulling you towards him gently, and you let him—put off by that strange new look in his eyes.

“You can fuck half the world, and I'd still only want you.”

It’s an odd confession. Unexpected coming from him. You’d anticipated more of a fight, not whatever this is. Looking at you with glossy eyes on the verge of tears. Suddenly, you feel kind of mean, struck with this sense of guilt for having reduced him to such a state.

“Don't take the high road. It doesn't suit you,” you declare, though without much bite.

And he just sighs, “Fuck that, we’re even now.” Pulling you even closer still—into his lap—he makes you straddle him. Forehead to forehead without kissing you yet. “So, are you gonna let me fuck you, or are you really gonna make me beg?”

And though you would kind of like to see what he’d look like on his knees, the sight of him like this was good enough proof that he’d learned his lesson despite it not being an apology.

Besides, he'd been all too right when he’d said the other guy couldn’t fuck you like him.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ HQ – Kyotani, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Shido ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ HxH – Uvogin

Sloth is a street urchin.

You volunteer at the homeless shelter and can’t help but feel extra sorry for him. He’s only around your age—so young yet with no future to speak of.

This winter, given it’s going to be an especially harsh one, all volunteers have been asked if they have any spare room they can be so kind as to give to those less fortunate. And though you’re not that well off yourself, you still have an extra room you’ve only been using as storage.

So, unable to look the other way, you decide to clean it out, get a bed, and host him.

You took precautions first, naturally—just to be safe. But, from what you could tell, he’s neither a drug addict nor has any criminal record to speak of. No, he’s just another abandoned kid who'd society had failed.

This is the least you can do to correct its wrongs.

And, of course, he falls in love with you for it. Not only do you give him a place of rest—but you make him warm food, give him fresh clothes, do his laundry, draw his bath, watch movies with him every night, and always ask him if he has everything he needs. You even cut his long, shaggy hair for him and give him luxuries such as face-lotion. 

You’re a saint, too good for a filthy sinner like him, but he’ll never let you know that... No, your pity feels too nice—taking such good care of him—he’s going to leach off of you and your honeycomb heart for the rest of his life if he can help it.

He doesn't look too bad after he cleans up, and after a few more weeks of eating well and getting enough rest—he stops lurching and starts standing up straight, looking lanky and lean with muscle—at which point you can’t deny he’s even a little hot. You know… in that scrappy sort of way.

You feel weird about it, of course—guilty even. He’s a homeless guy you’re housing—you’d be nothing if not downright evil if you took advantage of him. But after a few weeks of settling in, he starts feeling like more of a normal roommate and not a stranger. And with that familiarity, you both lose the distance and become more lax and loose around each other—wearing less, talking casually, not afraid to brush up against each other, and before you even know it, you find yourself folded in half beneath him on the living room couch.

You don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into—but his cock’s so big he’s pounding the sense right out of you with every thrust.

He’s not even going fast. No, rather slow, actually—taking his time as if savoring it. But that doesn't take away from the pleasure bubbling up inside of you where his strokes hit so heavy, resting deep within, so fulfilling that it all but replaces your better judgment with the sole need to squeeze him with all you've got.

“Mh, you’re pussy’s so nice and warm—I could stay inside you forever.”

You’re so wet it’s ridiculous—like never before—like you’re the one who’s been starved and neglected and not the other way around. Getting your breath all but knocked out of you, getting fucked so utterly full, he’s making you kick your feet and curl your toes in the air, bucking your hips back into him like you’re desperately begging for more.

He’s got your knees hooked over his arms, keeping you neatly pressed under him. “You’re so good to me—so, so sweet, you must be the sweetest girl in the whole entire world. My guardian angel.” 

All you’re able to do is babble and moan in return—misty- and cross-eyed with your dewy face cradled in his hands. 

You just hold onto his wrists while he speaks fondly against your lips, “You saved me when no one else even bothered looking. Let me return the favor—give this pretty pussy all the thanks it deserves.”

When he re-angles and hits you in a different spot, the switch in your lower belly is immediate—making your whole body seize up and shiver, breath shuddering in your throat, followed swiftly by a pulse migrating from your core all throughout your body, tasting oversweet on your tongue enough to make you drool. 

He locks lips with yours, slurping your spit up sloppily and keeping himself fully sleaved as you peak—feeling your wet, gummy walls tighten and flutter, rippling along his length like a rush of kisses. 

Then, right before it fully dies down, he picks up the pace again and rekindles it—because fuck knows he’s well-rested and over-due and the farthest thing from done with you just yet.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Denki, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks, Shinso ♡ JJK – Mahito, Gojo, Yuji, Megumi, Yuuta, Choso ♡ HQ – Kuro, Lev, Miya twins, Suna, Tendou ♡ CSM – Denji, Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Nagi ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Togame

Gluttony is a five-star chef. 

You start off as a waitress at his restaurant. And yet, he’s the one who developed an appetite—for you and your pleasing smile and that busy-bee swing you have in your hip as you hop around from table to table. 

He licks his lips at the sight of you more than he does the food he makes. He even had the uniforms altered in your image—made the skirts shorter and shirts tighter.

He's utterly shameless, but who can blame him? You’re such a little bite-sized treat—he just has to taste you.

And taste you, he most certainly does. 

For breakfast and for brunch and lunch and dinner and supper, as well as a midnight snack.

“Your pussy juice is my favorite,” he groans from between your legs.

Fat-muscled chef’s arms, tattooed with all types of silly patches, curled tightly around your thighs, keeping you close despite those times you try and push away when it gets to be a little too much—because fuck knows he doesn’t have the same reservations. Nose and tongue and chin deep in your slit, slurping you down while filling you up with his words, “I want to flavor every meal I make with you.”

You keep a hand over your face, kissing your knuckles, sometimes with a bite—whimpering pitifully, “Gross…”

Of course, you can’t help but cringe when he says things like that. He’s your boss, after all, not a porn actor. Still, you don’t say it with much conviction. It’s just that you get so embarrassed you don’t know what else to say.

He chuckles, still with his face buried. “Don’t be childish.” Words muffled as he doubles down on his efforts of sucking on your clit like a piece of candy.

“I’m not,” you whine. “You're just weird.”

He smacks off of you at that, a refreshing sigh leaving him rugged and raspy, a devilish look in his eyes as if he’s about to eat you for real. “I’m a world-renowned chef—are you implying I don’t know my flavors?”

Everything in your gut coils with anticipation, nearly rumbling with need, while he pulls your lower half up and even closer—face glossy with the way he’d gorged himself already—licking his teeth now as he refocuses on your clit alone.

Flattening his tongue on it while he speaks, sounding like some type of beast, “I’ve tasted everything the world has to offer. And I'm telling you, this pretty little thing between your legs is the best there is.”

You can’t stand looking up at him. Beyond embarrassed, you hide your face with both hands. Mumbling out a weak, “Pervert...”

Again, he snickers, shaking his head as if he’s ripping into flesh when he’s really just got his tongue out—straight motorboating your poor pussy.

When done, he drops you onto the bed again, grinning while replying to your insult, “Can’t argue with that,” before promptly kissing and licking up your belly—with fingers replacing his tongue, pumping you on his knuckles, getting you ready. 

He groans when his mouth reaches your chest, lips wrapped around a nipple, “If only these titties had milk. I could feast on you from every position.”

You don’t know if you should giggle or grumble—he’s such a baby—and a spoiled one at that. But really, his fingering is making it difficult to do anything but stammer and try and keep it together, “We talked about this—I’m not taking hormones just to breastfeed you, you weirdo.”

He whines then, “Please—it’s my only wish in the entire world—I need it.”

You struggle to argue, feeling like you’re under siege—an onslaught set out to make you breathless. “Well—” you pant, gritting your teeth and bearing it. “We can’t always get what we want.”

“Oh, I’ll see about that.” He takes it as a challenge, this time really locking his lips around your nipple and suckling—releasing just briefly to say, “I bet if I suck on these babies enough, they’ll give me what I want.”

He keeps his fingers working diligently while at it—used to multitasking—curling and spreading them out within you, pumping you so fast, you barely have the time to beg him to “Stop that—” before you’re already shaking and cumming for what must be the seventh time already.

He laughs breathily, kissing your teat goodbye as he lifts himself up again. Pulling his fingers out of you, he brings them to his lips and blithely sucks them off. 

“You know I can’t stop, dear. I’m so hungry—I’m ravenous.”

You watch him from over the tips of your fingers. So hot and mortified you think you’re soon to pass out. Breathing heavily behind your hands, muttering, “You’re a glutton—that’s what you are.”

Again, he just cheerfully snickers, bowing down to your halfway-hidden face with a smile. “I hardly see how it’s my fault I can’t get enough of you.” 

He spreads your legs again and finds his place between them.

“You’re the one who got me hooked—so you better take responsibility for it.”

♡ BNHA – Kirishima, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Toji, Todo ♡ HQ – Bokuto, Ukai ♡ BLLK – Baro, Aiku ♡ AOT – Zeke ♡ DS – Doma ♡ HxH – Uvogin ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

Lust is your boss. He's the owner of the strip club where you work, your pimp when money’s tight, as well as the porndirector of all your lovely little films.

Yeah, you might as well have a tramp stamp of his name on your ass, the way he practically owns you…

He's around ten years older and has basically taught you all about sex from when you were only a fledgling in the industry. You live at his studio above the club since he keeps all your money in a bank account under his name, calling you his little sugarbaby and telling you you’ll get an allowance and that you can get more if and when you ask him nicely and tell him what it’s for. 

“Don’t be a brat, baby. You know how I hate it when you're a bad girl,” he says when you raise the topic of moving out, treating it as if you’re a child threatening to run away from home.

“I don’t belong to you. Give me what you owe me.”

Honestly, you have no idea where you got the courage. 

But is it courage? Or is it just plain stupidity? Because, though you’re increasingly more terrified as you quickly watch him lose his temper, it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. And so, if you knew this is what was going to happen—why the fuck would you put yourself through it?

Must be madness.

“I give you everything, don't I? Food, clothes, a home,” he chastises, bearing over you while you’re down on scuffed knees, holding your wrist in a bruising grip and your face just as fiercely—nearly tearing the skin off your cheeks with the bite of his nails.

“And still, you have the fucking nerve to act like a goddamn bitch.”

You hiccup on sobs, spluttering out a desperate “Please—I’m sorry–”

"You and your entire slut body belong to me, you understand that?"

"Yes-yes—please—I'm sorry! You're right! I belong to you! I'm sorry!"

That seems to calm him just a bit—at least enough to take the bite away from his voice, now cooing at you in an ugly mocking attempt at sweetness, “Yeah, you do every single little thing I ask. ‘Cause if you’re not gonna behave like a good girl, I have no other choice but to treat you like a bad one.”

He lets your audience be rowdier than usual that night, allowing them to slap and grab, then forces you to have an extra rough shoot afterward—with tighter bondage, more toys, bigger guys making use of you like a piece of meat, smacking and choking you as they find out how many cocks your holes can fit, every last one finishing on your face.

Then, when you’re all done and all used up for the day, he brings you upstairs—home, sweet home—where he treats you to some much-unwanted after-care...

You shiver and shake despite the hot water. Sitting in the bathtub, laying back with your spine against his chest, feeling thin like a sheet of paper, all crumbled up and torn—sniffling and sniveling as the after-shock of the day still ricochets through you like wind through a hollow husk.

“The shoot today was rough, huh?” he drawls, washing you with his own hands. Stroking your poor sore cunt despite how it makes you whimper. “Yeah... was it a little too rough for you, hm?” 

You don’t do anything in return—but your body language says enough on its own, and he allows it to be your answer.

Sighing heavily, he wraps you up with both arms and squeezes you tighter, chin resting atop your head.

“You know… if you’d just be my good girl, I’d give you a good girl to-do list. Let you stay here all day, do some house chores while I’m gone, make love when I get home, hm? Doesn’t that sound better?”

He traces a welted bruise on the inside of your thigh, one you got from the shoot—roughly the shape of a hand, and a dozen more others layered on top of it. It makes you suck in a hiss.

“But if you’re gonna be a bad girl, then this is what you get.” 

He settles into the grove of your neck, purring against your ear. “Are you gonna be my good girl from now on? Hm?”

You bite your lip, breath shuddering while nodding pitifully.

And still, he insists, “Say it so I can hear it.”

The water’s gone cold around you—just like everything else, as you say, “I’ll be a good girl.”

He seems pleased, at least. Nuzzling against your cheek with chin stubble and a smirk, asking, “Yeah? Whose?”

Your voice is small and pathetic, nearly a wince, “Yours.”

He groans then, “That’s right. My good girl.” Lifting his hand from the water, he takes hold of your chin, fingers pressing into those designated sore spots as he angles your face toward him and gives you a heartless kiss before growling against your lips, “And don’t you ever fucking dare forget it again.”

After he’s finished washing you up, he carries you out to bed. It's one you fear much more than the one down in the studio.

Because in this bed, just like every night in this hellhole… he starts teaching every last one of your holes who they belong to.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ BLLK – Reo, Shido, Aiku ♡ AOT – Zeke ♡ DS – Doma, Muzan, Sanemi

Envy is your enemy. 

Or, well, no, he’s not your enemy, but you’re most certainly his enemy. 

You’re just not aware of it because of what a ditzy and clueless airhead you are. 

But fuck, he can’t stand you—you and your fake personality, acting all bubbly and sweet, cheering him on, always telling him to do his best—condescending little bitch acting like everyone’s friend—like he doesn’t see through you right to your rotten core. You don’t fool him—he knows you’re as bad as the rest of them, so just quit pretending like you’re better or something.

You’re under the false impression that the two of you are friends. You just think he has a strange sense of humor, but you laugh politely even when you don’t always get the joke.

Well, maybe it’s not so much politeness, but the fact that you have a big fat hopeless crush on him.

It infuriates him. He throws your niceties back in your face as insults, and you just laugh. How low do you think of him? Honestly? How tall is that high horse of yours that you have your head constantly in the clouds?

Poor you… you just think he’s so cool—always saying what he feels like, not a lame people-pleasing goodie-two-shoes such as yourself. You can’t help but follow him around like a lost puppy all day long. You’re always making sure you sit next to him during lectures—heart almost beating out of your chest, holding back from squealing when your prayers are answered, and the two of you are finally paired for a project together. 

It really feels like the universe is on your side, and so you just can’t stop yourself from going the full mile—making chocolates and preparing him a hand-written love letter. You know he’ll think you’re a little silly, that he’ll make fun of you for it—but you can’t expect to get anywhere without putting your heart on the line, can you? For a chance at love, the risk must be worth it!

Yeah, you’re such a hopeless romantic—you feel it as he punches his fist through your ribs when he rips out your poor heart and stomps all over it. 

“I fucking get it already! You’re little miss pretty and popular. Would you quit rubbing it in my face, or do I really have to spell it out for you? I. Don’t. Fucking. Like. You,” he seethes through grit teeth. “Go pick another one of the hundreds dying to be your partner and leave me the fuck alone!”

You shrink where you stand, shocked doe-eyes rapidly welling up like a flood, lips wobbling as you choke on your words, “Oh… okay… I’m sorry… I just… I–”

“You-you-you what?” he barks at your stuttering. “Spit it out already! What the fuck do you want?”

“I just-I-I just always thought you were amazing. So…”

His face contorts, scrunches up in a grimace different from anger, though not without it, as he spits out, “What the fuck are you on about now?”

But his voice is a little diminished now, with confusion usurping the place of his hate, suddenly feeling a little out of sorts because… what did you actually just say?

“I just, I really like you–” you repeat, hanging your head, only barely able to mumble through the tears blocking your throat. “But I guess I’ve just annoyed you all this time—I’m sorry...” 

Only now does he notice you’re trying to hand him something—a flat little box with a pink note attached. 

“This is for you, but I understand if you don’t want it.” Unable to look up, you just stretch your arms out until it gently bumps into him. 

Baffled, he accepts without thinking.

“I’m sorry—I’ll leave you alone from now on.” And then you run off, disappearing with a sob that all but shoots him through the chest.

And slowly bleeding out, he remains standing there, eyes glued to where you'd left—mouthing the word what…

What did you just say? 

Like? Him?

Did he mishear you, or did you just confess? 

No way—that can’t be it, right? 

But what the fuck is this heart-shaped letter, then?

"What the fuck did I just do?"

You look like you’ve been crying your eyes out all night the next day—your usual bubbly personality reduced to a ghost in a shell, walking the hallways like a zombie, slowly and without purpose, eyes on the ground—letting everyone bump into you.

You don't even so much as bat an eye when someone runs straight over you, fully knocking all your books and folders onto the floor. 

You just get on your knees and start recollecting them.

A newfound hate flares up within him at the sight. “Hey, you!" He stomps over. "Watch where the fuck you’re going next time, dipshit.” 

You look up at the sound of his voice—flinching before you notice it’s not directed at you.

No, rather, he’s got a boy up against the lockers, lifted by his collar onto the tip of his toes. Face only a few inches from his, glaring at him harsher than he’d glared at you yesterday.

“Now apologize to the girl before I punch your ugly face in.”

You stare at the altercation with large eyes, only able to blink as the boy who’d bumped into you starts spluttering on the verge of tears, “I–I’m sorry–I didn’t see you! Sorry!”

You don’t answer. Shocked and speechless, you remain on the floor in confusion, asking yourself why’s he doing this? Didn’t he cuss you out yesterday, or was it all a bad dream like you'd hoped?

He throws the boy on his way, then gets on his knees down alongside you—proceeding to help you gather your things.

You only watch on in wordless bewilderment until he starts muttering something under his breath.

“I’m sorry I made you cry yesterday.” He stacks all your things in a neat pile next to you while continuing his apology. “And for being an asshole. You didn’t deserve that.”

He keeps his eyes fixed to the floor where his hands busily roam around until there was nothing more to retrieve.

He then hesitantly looks up at you—eyes flittering—a little too ashamed to hold your gaze as he says, “Your chocolates were really good.”

That’s when your heart starts fluttering again—as if new life was just breathed in and revived it.

He can see it as well—how you light up like a rekindled candle.

“They were?” you gush, shuffling closer on your knees all excitedly—face brighter than the sun on cloudfree summer day.

It blinds him—nearly stunts him, only able to utter a meager, almost shy, “Yeah.”

He then slings his bag in front of him and pulls something out.

A lunchbox. 

“I made you these..." he swallows thickly. "As an apology…”

He’s utterly red—from the tips of his ears to his neck and entire face, even his hands.

“For me?”

“Yeah..." He reaches it over stiffly. “They’re not as good as yours, though...”

You eagerly accept despite his nervousness, popping the lid off where the two of you sit—right there in the middle of the hallway floor, with other students walking around you like water passing two rocks in a stream.

His blush grows ever more intense as you pick one of his crudely made chocolates up, not even examining it before throwing one into your mouth.

It was his first time making anything that required a recipe. And they most certainly did not come out well, but he figured the embarrassment was part of his atonement.

He didn’t actually expect you to try them.

But there you are—lying through your teeth, saying, “I think they’re great!”

He can only scoff out a soft laugh. “Of course you would.” 

Turns out, you really are just a nice person after all. You don’t have the heart to be mean at all, do you? Yeah, you don’t even have it in you to feel any of the ugly things he keeps inside. In fact, he bets you don’t even have the means of knowing such ugly things exist.

That must be what he’s envied about you all this time…

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Shinso ♡ JJK – virgin Sukuna, Megumi ♡ HQ – Tsukishima ♡ BLLK – Rin, Sae ♡ DS – Genya, Gyutaro

Greed is your clingy childhood friend. 

He doesn’t want to share you with anyone and gets viscerally jealous each time you hang out with others. It’s as if he feels boils rising beneath his skin, simmering with a violent need to kill anyone and everyone you ever come into contact with—even if it’s just a passerby who accidentally brushes against you.

He can’t stand other people—how they think they can just come along and be your friend when he’s been your friend since you both were in diapers. What? Do they really expect him to share you with them? Just like that? No way. You’re his best friend. They should all go find themselves their own.

Actually, the term best friend doesn’t even really cut it… It’s a little too childish. You’ve both grown out of it. And besides, it never really fully encompassed what the two of you actually are to each other. You’re so much more than just friends, after all. Yeah, what you really are is soulmates. Yeah, that sounds more right. Soulmates.

And the bond between soulmates is like the bond between an addict and their favorite drug. You wouldn’t ask an addict to share his favorite drug, now would you? No. Not unless you’re prepared to either kill or be killed.

But he can’t say he blames them for wanting you, either. Of course, they’d want you—anyone would.

He pities them, actually. And you make it no better for the poor suckers, stringing them all along—acting as if there’s enough of you to go around. Well, there just isn’t. And even if there was, he shouldn't have to share you with anyone.

Yeah, the problem here is you. You don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand that you’re his. 

Well… seems like he’ll just have to teach you once and for all, now, doesn’t it?

“What’s… this?” you mumble groggily once you wake, sluggishly tugging your bound wrists—not yet aware of what they are. Your eyes blow wide once you do—voice turning sharply frantic, “What’s happening?”

“We’re having a play date like we used to.” He comes into view just as the panic sets in—and though his face has all the familiarity to be a sign of comfort, his words evoke no such feeling within you.

“Remember? How we used to play house?" he says. "Granted, we're a little older now… so I thought I’d change it up a bit.”

He stands before the bed you’re currently lying tied down on. But he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s something very wrong about all of him. Seeming way too at ease for the situation.

“Instead of making mud pies…” he continues. “I'm gonna fuck you and give you a creampie.”

Your heart lurches up into your throat at his words, and you choke. Your clothes from the day have been removed, leaving you naked. You spot them lying on the floor in a heap while you spastically look around for clues as to “What the fuck’s going on? This isn’t funny–”

“Shut up,” he says—his demeanor still as nonchalant as he climbs on top of you and pushes something past your lips, nudging it deep down in your throat.

Feeling it as it scrapes your tongue, you can tell it’s your lace panties, and you gag—shaking your head, trying to dislodge both it and his fingers, but he holds you steady.

“I have things to say. So, be a good friend and listen.”

You start crying then—brows cinched as you look up at him in terror, full-tremoring now while struggling under his weight and the all-too-intimate way he starts touching you.

“I'm glad you’re still a virgin…” he suddenly says, running his hands down your breasts, catching your nipples between his fingers.

You twist in disgust, halfway convinced you’re having some godawful fucked up dream—that this just can’t be happening—but somehow, at the same time, something deep in your gut that’s been lying there for a while ignored by your kind heart doesn't find it completely without warning, having felt how strange he'd been acting as of late—always looking at you a certain way and saying certain concerning things—certain concerning things he’s saying right now, “I’d kill all those little toy friends of yours if you were ever so stupid to let them have it.”

He glares at you—looking every bit angry, and yet you can’t describe it exactly. Something about that look in his eyes makes him seem like a complete stranger to you. Then he cracks a smile, and it makes it all the worse. Bowing down until his forehead presses clean against yours, noses rubbing against each other.

“But I think you knew. Didn’t you? Knew how it wouldn’t be right. Knew it was mine to take.”

He shuffles backward until he’s separating your thighs instead of straddling your waist. And you croak with an especially full-chested sob as his touches travel further down along with him—with savage goosebumps running rampant across your body once he rubs his thumb crassly over your slit.

“You see?” his breath shudders in his throat—thick with something mortifying that’s bound to ruin you forever. “It’s so happy to see me.”

You whine and scramble, trying to force your thighs shut—but he has the upper hand—keeping you spread with his body while two of his fingers slip through your lips and bully themselves inside.

He pumps them in and out with zero regard to how you recoil—only sneering at the way you worm in disgust, “At least your pussy understands where its loyalties lie.”

It’s not long before his ministrations draw wetness, and he pulls them out—inspecting them in the dim light he’s left on. Rubbing the digits together before putting them in his mouth.

You close your eyes with a whimper while listening to the sickening sounds of him sucking them clean.

He puts both hands around your neck next. He doesn't squeeze hard, but your breath stops nonetheless. Eyes stinging with both spent and still-welling tears.

“I’m upset with you,” he states, brushing his lips over your parted ones, still stuffed and silenced with your own underwear. “But I’ll forgive you if you apologize and swear to me that you meant it when you said we’d be friends forever.”

That look in his eyes—you still can’t explain it. Desperate, desolate, deranged, and enraged—something downright sick.

“But since you can’t talk right now, you’ll have to prove it some other way...”

One of the hands disappears, and you hear the following sounds of a zipper being undone, then the rustling of his pants being shoved down.

“Cum on my cock, and I’ll know.”

The room tastes of blood and something rotten as he frees his cock and graces your clit.

“Actions speak louder than words anyway, after all, don’t they? So cum on my cock, and I’ll cum in your pussy, so we can seal our friendship again—just like the time we married each other on the playground.” 

He enters you, and you think you might just die in the mix of horror and grief.

And yet you remain perfectly alive—even as he rips through you and splits both you and your heart apart.

“You can think of this as the honeymoon,” he whispers. “Always and forever, happily ever after, never apart.”

♡ BNHA – Deku ♡ JJK – Gojo, Yuuta ♡ HQ – Tendou ♡ BLLK – Bachira ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Nirei

Honestly, you thought his senior age was going to keep him mild and mannered and more than happy with some short, sweet vanilla sex. You’d be long gone ages ago if it weren’t for the binding contract you’d signed back when the two of you hadn’t even started the arrangement and you thought the worst thing he would ever ask for was anal.

You really should have read the fine print. But alas, here you are… kissing his boots with only yourself to blame. And you mean that in a literal sense.

“That’s a good girl. Lick it clean. Earn it,” he groans from above.

You try to block it out the best you can. Keeping your eyes closed, you envision it’s anything else. The only issue is that you’ve yet to find anything that has the same leathery texture as a dress shoe. 

At least he isn’t stomping on your head, though he might as well be—the way he’s stomping on your pride like a spent cigarette and all but grinding it into nothing, no embers left.

“Mmh, that’s enough for now, com’ere,” he says after a while. “On the bed.”

You really wish that were better. But far from it.

“Look at you—groveling for coin—offering your body to a man twice your age.” He tuts his tongue at you where you lie before him, thighs spread, presenting yourself in the missionary position he loves so much, giving vanilla sex a bad name. 

“Not a shred of pride left in you, is there? Just a humble little slut ready to take everything and anything this old man gives her.” He feels the smooth inside of your thighs with both hands, stroking and feeling you up like putty with an ugly smile on his face. 

“Open your mouth for me, baby,” he demands while leaning forward. 

And you obey, already knowing what to expect but having no legal stance to disobey despite desperately wanting to. Eyes closed while rolling your tongue out like a welcome mat.

The disgust ignites goosebumps across your body, spreading instantly like wildfire in a dry field—bone-dry despite the blob of spit he’d dropped on your tongue.

“Drink up.” He’s gleeful as he watches you swallow and downright delighted when raising his brow, asking, “What do we say?”

What pride you have left, you swallow to make space for the words. “Thank you, master.”

“What a good girl,” he praises, now with his hands at the meeting point. “Spreading your legs so wide, showing me your pussy.” 

His thumb is crass, pushing your slumbering clit like a button. You’re quite certain he likes you dry. In fact, you’re sure he prefers it. Or else he’d put his drool to better use instead of making you swallow it.

“Such a pretty thing—and you’re giving it all to me just for some spare change?” he cooes—playing a game, using your pussy instead of a gameboard. “What a poor baby—needing to whore herself for a living.”

The slaps makes blood rush to your cunt, followed by unwilling wetness. And again, all you can say is, “Thank you, master.”

And that’s how it goes. Him, going in raw with his viagra-spiked cock and a fist wrapped tightly around your throat, slapping your perky titties while they bounce as he abuses your womb—uncaring if you cum, only caring for how hard you squeeze and milk him.

Your eyes roll back, trying to let your mind take you anywhere else. But at least you’ll be rich by the end of your contract, you think.

You desperately need it—now more than before. 

You know? To pay for all the therapy you’re going to need.

♡ BNHA – Enji, AFO ♡ JJK – Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ BLLK – Aiku ♡ AOT – Erwin, Zeke

Patience is your therapist. 

You’d been a real wreck. Not really an alcoholic but more or less—a destructive whore, at least.

Something about getting old had you feeling a little crazy, making you act like a teenager discovering booze and sex as if for the first time. Blacked out after yet another day of ill choices, you'd been rolling around in bed and wallowing in the sickness, when you felt a sharp and sudden sting. Rushing to the bathroom, chanting curses out loud, you'd turned around before the mirror and found a pair of angel wings tattooed on your lower back.

And it was in the following moment that you finally decided it was high time you sought professional help.

Best decision of your life. Hands-down. You’d always been skeptical about therapy, but he’s really made you turn over a new leaf. You regret ever having waited. What’s not to like? Having a nice older gentleman listen to all your issues and troubles, giving his sage advice in turn, always warmly thanking you for showing up and telling you how he hopes to see you the same time next week. 

He’s like a father. Teaching you self-respect, how not to invite random men back home from the club, keeping you from falling off track, going weeks and months now without a single drunken night full of stupid decisions, he’s even helped you with cutting off toxic friends without any lingering feelings of guilt haunting you.

For the first time in a very long time, you finally feel your age—still young and free, but ready to let the wild part rest, fully prepared to live your life responsibly as an adult should. 

He listens to you ramble, telling him you feel like a new person, thanking him for all his help, saying that he’s cured you. And all he does is smile—that kind old smile you’ve put all your trust in. 

He really has fixed you, hasn’t he? Polished you like a dirty dime he’d picked out of the gutter. Looking like a sloppy whore he’d found in the worst part of downtown, now sitting there all pretty like a good god-fearing girl.

You were a real handful, you know that? He’s had to be very patient with you. And now, all that patience has finally borne fruit. He never once doubted it would—those who wait never wait in vain.

“I’ve been saving up for this. Haven’t cum once since we started seeing each other,” he groans, hands tangled in your hair, holding your face steady while your arms and hands twist to be freed, using all the air in your lungs to scream—but to no use. Nothing ever leaves these soundproof walls. It’s all confidential. 

“Be a good girl now and relax your throat, this pretty face of yours isn't going to fuck itself. And I’ve got two big balls' worth stored up all for you,” he hums, sending his cock through the ring-gag he’s fixed between your teeth, paying your throaty wails no mind, liking how they strum his length as he props your mouth like a pacifier, watching the fearful tears trail down from your terror-wide eyes, nose leaking above the pretty circle of your widely-stretched lips. 

He only smiles as his cockhead presses up against the back. 

“Gonna give you a nice big reward for finally completing your sessions—so be sure to swallow every drop once it comes.”

You try to pull your hands free for dear life, but the white straitjacket is a contraption meant for the most volatile of patients, not mild-issued muggles such as you. And so he abuses your throat to his heart’s content while you struggle—hacking away at your uvula and enjoying the tight way you gag around him until he finally stills up, throwing his head back and blowing his load right onto your tongue with a loudly enjoyed “Fuck yes!”

It's thicker than you’ve experienced before, and there's a lot. A whole mouthful and more—so much it’s spilling down the side of your chin, running the same path as the drool before it.

“There's more, baby,” he insists in a last-gasp voice, slowly rubbing your face into his crotch. “Wait for it… Get every last drop.”

You sob with his cock in your mouth—his pulsing tip pressed up against the inner-wall of your cheek, making it bulge on the outside, feeling the rest of his load pump out onto your taste-buds, making you retch. And still, he keeps gyrating against your face, slowly, savoring it, wiping himself against the wet, welcoming bed of your tongue, letting it tease the last of him out.

Then he sighs, full-chested and pleased, before backing up and tilting your head up.

“Swallow,” he orders, looking into your open-ring mouth and the pretty white he’d just dumped inside it. Keeping you still with a firm grip around your jaw when you try to shake and spit to the best of your ability. 

His gritty fingertips are rough against the softness of your cheeks, pinching them hollow while he sighs, “I’m a very patient man, sweetheart, I can stand here all day with my cock in your face if that’s what it takes. ‘Cause sooner or later, one way or the other, you are gonna take your medicine like a good girl.”

You refuse. But after a small while, you fear it’ll take the wrong pipe as you feel it starting to trickle down your throat on its own, and you cave. Swallowing harshly—open-mouth and all.

And he grins. “Good girl.” Giving your jaw a jiggle while leering down at you.

“Next is your yellow medicine.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks ♡ JJK – Kenjaku ♡ BLLK – Aiku

Diligence is your personal trainer. 

He’s uber professional, not letting you give up or rest before you’ve completed your goals for the day, and always making sure you stretch properly after. 

You didn't know things were weird. You thought it was normal. How could you have known? You’ve never had a personal trainer before. So what if his bulge squeezed tightly against your mound? It’s not exactly avoidable in this position, and he’s only helping you stretch, right? What’s the harm? You wouldn’t exactly be able to get into this position on your own, now would you? Folded flat, knees by your head, feet behind it, thighs on par with your spine. Never, not even in a million years, would you ever be able to manage!

“Get off!” you squeak—all air pushed out of you. “This is not–”

Okay—that's what you were going to say, but the word is robbed. Trampled by the guy squatting above you—using your own bike shorts and panties against you, having pulled them down to your ankles and wrapped the crotch around the back of your neck—keeping you fixed in the odd position all to his liking.

“I don’t think so, baby. I’ve put in the work,” he gruffs. “And now I'm gonna reap what I sowed and get my dick’s-worth out’a this tight little pussy of yours—give it a good workout just like I did the rest of you, train it to take cock like a champ. Then we’ll see about rewarding it with a little clit-rub—if you’re a good girl, that is.”

He pulls himself out of his sweats while you flail around like a flibbed bug that’s had all its legs ripped off—achieving nothing except exhaustion as he taps your bared pussy with the thick curve of his cock, fucking himself through the chub of your gathered lips for a moment before pressing through them, bullying your hole open with his fat tip—not even savoring it with going slow, but pile-driving himself ball’s deep on the first thrust. 

And even then, when buried from stem to stern, he only whistles at the tightness for a fleeting moment, offering but a breathy chuckle. Holding your thighs in a squeeze while all but sitting on top of you as he starts to pound you fast and utter fucking silly—ball’s slapping your ass while you cunt starts spitting, making noises that have you squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head trying to block it out.

“No slacking now, squeeze me with all you got!” he encourages strictly despite the way you refuse, treating it the same way he does when you try to weasel out of doing all your reps. “I wanna feel this pretty little muscle of yours work for it!”

You can’t control it, but you do exactly as he says. Struggling for air in the pressed position—only able to wheeze out moans like a squeaky toy. Feeling him pound your guts—almost like there’s someone kicking you in the stomach. There isn’t much left for you to do but tighten up every core muscle.

“That’s what I thought—sex is the best trainin’ for girls like you,” he laughs with rust. “It’s only natural. Men put in the work, and bitches put out to repay ‘em.” 

Free of air and all sensible thinking, you can only dumbly nod in agreement while he continues to jeer from above, “Lucky you, huh? Allowed to lounge around all day—just a lazy little stay-at-home slut.”

♡ BNHA – Kirishima, Dabi, Hawks, Natsuo ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Gojo, Toji ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Shido

Temperance is your health trainer.

He keeps you on track, telling you when and what to eat and when and how to work off the calories. You don’t know why you hired him exactly... Suppose you just wanted to know what it would be like, as well as a little curious about the results. 

And sure enough, you are losing weight—but holy hell if it isn’t the worst you’ve felt about yourself ever. You’re hungry all the time, and none of your clothes fit anymore. You just wear baggy stuff and feel miserable all day long.

So you decide to quit. You’re going to call and tell him tomorrow. But for tonight, you’re going to enjoy a big tub of Ben & Jerry's to your heart's content, and nothing and no one is going to stop you. And tomorrow, you’re not even going to bother beating yourself up about it.

Or… at least, that’s what you thought…

But it turns out he’d planned a surprise visit.

“You indulged. And now we gotta take out the trash.” His voice is cold and sharp, laced with a certain anger, joined by a streak of sadism as his fingers claw into your cheeks, holding you steady while forcing the digits of his other hand into your mouth, clawing the tips down your throat where he curls them harshly into your tongue.

“Don’t struggle,” is all he says to your screaming, having tied your wrist behind your back with one of your knee-high fuzzy socks—those you wear when you want to cuddle up and get all cozy by yourself—now being used to keep you on your knees before the couch, where he’d caught you red-handed like a pig rolling around in its own filth.

You throw up violently. All melted ice cream with bits of cookie-dough still intact.

“That’s it, come on now—everything must out–” he drawls through gritted teeth, holding you in a tough grip to keep you from fighting as you start coughing and retching around his sticky fingers that don’t stop their pursuit but continue to bury themselves as deep as they can reach down your gullet, as if he wants to reach all the way down into your stomach and start hand-shoveling. “Every last crumb of junk until there’s nothing left.”

You only notice the raging bulge in his pants once you’re done, once every last drop of stomach acid is spent, and you’re left hollow on the inside. That’s when you notice it—how horribly hard it all had made him.

“I thought I could be lenient…” he clicks his tongue. “But I see now, I was wrong.” 

He breaths heavily as he starts pulling you away from the mess—nasty grip in your hair—dragging you across the floor, down the hallway, towards the ajar door at the very end—the one that gives a sneak peek at your bed.

“I should have gone with my instincts from the get-go,” he states. “A girl like you should be on a strict diet of cum and nothing else. So, you better make it a habit of swallowing every drop.” 

There’s a raspy laugh—halfway unhinged, halfway deadfast.

“I don’t think it’ll be too hard for a glutton like you.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Overhaul, Mirio ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Daichi, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae ♡ AOT – Erwin ♡ WB – Umemiya

Chastity is your crazy cult leader.

A middle-aged madman who happens to be obsessed with preserving your virginity.

He’s sick with it—utterly unhinged. Concealing your pussy behind black tape, two strips marking a cross upon your entrance—or, your purity, as he likes to call it—cooing at you about how cute it is, how it needs to be preserved.

He doesn’t kiss you, either. 

And the restriction makes him so hard—fucking his meat through those pretty pious lips, feeding you his cum when you haven’t even had your first kiss yet. It makes him all feverish from head to toe. 

“Don’t worry,” he’ll say, vowing, “I’ll protect your virginity until the day I die, I promise.”

It only makes you shudder and sob. All but begging him to take your pussy instead when he starts prepping your ass with rough fingers.

He just shakes his head and mollycoddles you, “No, no, no, sweetie—your precious virginity is something to cherish, not something for you to throw away.”

You keep begging as he eases into you, softly bouncing you on his lap, balls-deep in your tight ass, fucking you leisurely whilst cuddling your bound body—a hand holding your cunt, cupping it over the tape, giving it a few soft strokes every then and there—as if consoling it for being denied.

“I know, I know, baby—it’s so overwhelming, isn’t it? You want cock in your sweet pussy so bad,” he all but mocks your whining, rubbing one of your nipples between his fingers—twisting, pinching, and pulling—making you squirm, wanting to rub your thighs together so bad, but not allowed to. 

“Don’t worry, I’m here to keep you pure, baby. I’ll never let anything corrupt your sacred little virgin gem.”

You all but grind against his hand, but he keeps the touch so light it only serves to make you wish for more. The tape all but peels off on its own like a wet bandage from how slick you get. Pussy all chubby with need, desperate to be touched—but cruelly ignored.

He sighs sternly, “Such a needy little virgin.” Clicking his tongue, he huffs again. “Look at the mess you’re making.”

Your cunt drips down his balls where he’s busy stuffing your ass, filling it up with cum from the sight of how wrecked you look—pussy throbbing with need, all glossy and begging to be sated. 

He only smiles, ball’s spent and satisfied, cock softening as he shakes his head at you.

“I’ll have to wash you extra thoroughly tonight.”

He carries you bridal-style, then washes you without even touching it, only with a soft stream of cold water rinsing all the arousal off—like he’s watering a plant—making the waste of pussy juice run down the drain.

And then he fixes a nice snug chastity belt around you—to keep your grubby hands away from playing with yourself.

“Poor thing—I know it’s torture,” he coos, watching you cry for some relief, trying to rub yourself against his thigh. “But I can’t give you what you want.”

The smile on his lips is all but a sneer as he kisses your forehead, hugging you close and rocking with you as if to comfort you.

“Nothing is ever ruining your sweet virginity.”

No, no, nothing at all. It’s all for him to admire—his greatest, most sacred possession. If anything were to happen to it, it would be nothing short of a travesty—he’d be livid with grief.

So you could only regret it when he walks in on you after coming home one day, only to find it butchered…

It’s like stepping into a crime scene. 

Your chastity belt has somehow been pried off and thrown aside, discarded like unwanted trash.

Your precious nightgown has been done the same injustice, lying in a torn heap just shy of the bed.

Then there’s you—lying in a puddle of your own undoing, high off of bliss with three fingers savaging your poor, sweet virgin pussy—every jerk off your hips furthering your fall from grace.

That’s when he realizes… he’s been treating you like something sacred for so long… when really, all this time you’ve been nothing but a filthy whore.

That’s right… a slut who’s only good for being a dirty hole he’s going to bury all his sin inside—like a dumpster. 

And since you brought it all on yourself, you’re not allowed to regret it now. A whore should be used several times every single day by her master—so much she should never be able to leave the bed again.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Aizawa, Overhaul, Mirio ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Kenjaku ♡ AOT – Erwin ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya

Gratitude is your traditional husband.

And you’re his sweet and pretty stay-at-home wife. 

You wake up and make the bed in the morning, air out the house, beat the carpets, do the laundry, and tidy up room after room—it’s never much when you do it every day—after which you take a long shower where you do all sorts of maintenance, go to your wardrobe and pick out a flowy dress, apply a modest amount of makeup before the mirror, and do your hair up all nicely. 

And then you get started on making dinner, frilly white apron tied together behind your back in a pretty bow, priding yourself on making everything from scratch.

While it simmers and cooks, you clean up and make sure everything’s perfectly splendid for when he comes home. Setting the dinner table with candles and flowers you went out and picked while tilling the garden earlier, then fixing his plate, so that everything’s ready and waiting for him when he comes through the door.

You greet him with a smile and a hug, and a soft “Welcome home~” 

And he in turn smiles lazily and says “Thank you, sweetheart—something smells good, ” and kisses you on the cheek, giving your ass a firm squeeze before lowering his voice into a rusty rumble, “Almost as good as you look.” 

You only giggle, asking, “Really?” Feeling flush and ticklish in his hands as they continue to roam freely, up and down your thin dress, burying his face in the dip of your neck and inhaling your fresh scent. 

“Mh, good enough to eat.”

You take his hungry kisses with an open mouth, letting his tongue make a home down your throat and only moaning sweetly in return. And when he finally parts, you use what breath you have to ask, “After dinner?” 

It would be such waste if the food got cold after all.

He groans, squeezing you tightly against his body, letting you feel the firm bump, before sighing with rust and conceding, “Not a second after.”

The two of you take your seats on either side of the table, then hold hands in the middle. Eyes closed, he begins like usual, “I’m grateful for my beautiful home, the delicious food we’re about to eat, and my loving wife, who makes me the luckiest man in the world.”

And then you, “I’m grateful for my beautiful life and my amazing husband who makes it all possible.”

Then you eat. You ask him about his day, and he answers in detail, and you listen as if his office antiques are your obsession. And after dinner, you take the dishes while he goes to get himself washed up.

You’re all smiles when he returns, ready to make his every desire come true—right there on the cleared table if that’s what he wants.

“I have something for you,” he says. “Close your eyes and turn around.”

You do as suggested, spinning around with your back to him. He takes off your old pearl necklace and replaces it with something light and cold. You turn back around, holding the pretty diamonds in your hand while looking down with them in your reflection.

“Do you like it?” he asks, calm smile on his lips, watching you with love and something darker you never dare put a name to.

You only beam, bright enough for none of it to matter, jumping into his arms while squealing, “I love it!”

He hugs you back, like before, molding you against him, chin on your shoulder and voice at your ear, “Aren’t I good to you?”

“Yes, the best,” you agree.

“Yeah? Show me. Take off everything except your new gift.”

Of course you do, obeying so prettily, like it’s your favorite thing to do, stripping yourself down until you’re just a pretty pin-up doll in a nudie magazine he’d bring with him into war.

“God, I love you, my pretty housewife,” he chants when he has you up against the wall, greedy hands gripping your ass, propping you up to take him as he fucks the moans off your soft lips. “Prettiest in the world and all mine, ain’t that right?”

You nod sweetly, breathing in his exhale like it’s your very life-essence.

“Yeah? You belong to me?” he moans, mouth finding your ear, nibbling on it before sucking your neck full of teeth marks that have you nodding faster. 

“Mh, say it,” he growls under his breath, all raggedy and hot. “Let me hear your pretty voice.”

“I belong to you,” you gasp, “Yours–all yours.”

He grins against your throat, “That’s right. ” 

Hips stilling, he makes sure he’s all the way inside you, spilling his worth right at the mouth of your womb and feeding it all his worth.

“There’s nothing else you want...”

Mumbling into your wet skin, sore from his endless attention.

“You just wanna be my happy housewife forever…”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Touya, Hawks, younger Enji ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Naoya ♡ BLLK – Baro, Aiku

Charity is a goodwill worker. 

You’re a throwaway, and oh, such a skittish little thing—he can’t bear the thought of leaving you to fend for yourself out in the streets all alone with all those ruthless thugs. You’ll be eaten alive! No, he just has to take you in—he’s got more than enough space—no payment required. Trust him, just seeing you get out of those filthy rags is more than enough.

Oh, and aren’t you a sight for sore eyes when you’re cleaned up all nicely? All soft skin in your birthday suit while he lathers you up in expensive lotion.

You may squirm now, but you’ll thank him later on. He just needs to teach you first. Come time, you’ll learn to like eating out of his hand. He might have wrangled you in from the streets like some sort of wildling, but you’ll be a housebroken pet for him soon enough, you’ll see. You’ll love all his soft touches so much you’ll moan for him in the sweetest gratitude.

“Poor baby… you’ve probably never been in a soft bed like this before, huh?” he hums when he has you down on his Egyptian sheets, tied up with silken rope—so that you don’t hurt yourself.

“Please, please, please don’t, please,” you whimper and squirm as he crawls on top of you, terrified out of your sweet mind where you lie, spread open like a starfish that’s had its arms pinned down with nail and hammer. 

“You don’t have to beg me, darling—I’ll give you everything I have and more,” he only croons while pumping your pretty freshly-shaven pussy on three of his thick fingers, making sure you’re all wet and ready for the next thing.

“No, no, no, please–” you whine, sobbing, trying desperately at twisting and hiding, but kept right where he wants you as he lifts his heavy cock between your thighs, kissing and licking your wet slit with his tip before finding purchase at your entrance.

“No—” you croak as he starts easing inside, treading your pretty cunt over his length, fitting him all snug with a sting that makes your breath erratic, looking down at it as if you expect to be split in two.

He pushes his palm down on the bulge when he’s buried to the hilt.  

“There we go, all seven inches,” he hums, roosting inside you without letting up, keeping you propped full while feeling you squeeze him tight like a vice.

“Ah, please, pull it out, pull it out!” you shriek, wiggling your hips, wanting to escape higher up the bed, but kept in place by the leashes holding your feet tied to each bedpost.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, leaning over and licking up the pained tears running down your cheek. “I'm not forgetting about your little clitty.”

Next to you, resting heavy in the bed, was a big black wand with a power cord plugged into the wall. You’d never seen anything like it before—it looked more equipped to be a power tool than something belonging in a bed.

You’re convinced he’s planning on drilling a hole through you when he picks it up and turns it on, buzzing loudly and spinning full circles around itself.

“No, please!”

He brings it down right above where he has you stuffed, pressing it against your clit, merrily kneading the pearl to his heart’s content with the viscous vibrations—paying your protests no mind.

“Ah, no, please! Please turn it off!” you wail while shaking, immediately taken by a vivid toe-curling climax, looking like he’s exorcising a demon out of you with the way you lay there spasming and drooling.

“Yeah, you like that? Your pretty pussy’s hugging me so sweetly, so, so good–”

He only hums as your voice reaches highs he bets you didn’t even know you were capable of. Watching your chest arch off the bed and your hands wring themselves silly. He only responds by beginning to roll his hips back and forth, fucking your pussy while it makes a mess everywhere.

“Aww, you’ve been neglected for so long, haven’t you, baby?” he babies, “I can feel it—so touch-starved you’ve already wet yourself.”

He smiles and turns up the power on the toy while he says it, making your clit go both numb and haywire under the attack. It isn’t long before your lower belly twists in desperation yet again, making you pant as it unravels.

“That’s it, baby, let go for me,” he encourages, watching you tense up and shiver, feeling your pussy throttle him tightly. “Such a sweet girl. Go on, cum as much as you want. I’ll take good care of you from now on—you won’t ever go without again”

Once more, he turns up the power and sends you into another thrashing seizure, making you think you’re going to die—panting and drooling and sweating, feverish and delirious, moaning around his salty fingers as he messages your tongue and fucks you with slow abandon.

“I’ll give you everything you deserve,” he smiles, watching you all but lose your mind. “And more.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Gojo, oldman Yuuta ♡ HQ – Bokuto, Miya twins ♡ CSM – Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Isagi, Aiku ♡ AOT – Erwin, Zeke ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

Why did absolutely everyone decide to show up today?

Oh fuck it, this isn’t high school. College bullies surely don’t bother with petty cases like this, right? They’re all about their frat initiations and rivalries to have enough spare time to beat him up over improper seating. Oh, but what if you’re one of their girlfriends—you’ll tell on him, and then he’ll definitely be beaten up, maybe even killed.

No. He’s overthinking—like always. No one is that mean. If you don’t like him sitting there, you’ll just tell him. And he’ll move. No harm done. Right? He’s not sitting in the stairwell when there’s a perfectly good and empty seat right there, right? Is he?

Yes. Yes, he is. 

“Hey, if you’re looking for a seat, this one’s empty,” a sweet voice calls out over his inner monologue, making him clutch the strap of his bookbag tighter with a flinch of his entire rigid body—his eyes peeled as he looked around to try and find the source of the sound even though he knew where it had come from. It’s as if the possibility of your voice sounding like anything aside from a she-demon was out of the question. But no, it is you. 

But there’s no way you’re talking to him, so he looks around again—there must be someone else in need of the seat aside from him. But then, why are you looking right at him? Are you pulling some type of prank? Are you really that cruel? You’re probably filming him or something—live-streaming—the chat’s blaring with ew, what a creep and omg, uggo alert right about now. He should just go home before the jocks, along with the rest of the internet, can get him.

“Are you okay?” you ask—but no, he must be hearing you wrong—there’s just no way, even though you’re looking right at him. “I think it’s starting soon—you should probably sit.”

It’s as if his fight or flight response is broken because he does the exact opposite of either—as if on autopilot, sitting down in a rush against his better judgment.

The lecture starts shortly, solidifying his choice, but he can’t pay attention. No, he needs to keep his guard up. Any second now, someone’s going to do a drive-by and throw a milkshake at him or something vile of the like, and you’ll have filmed it all even though he can’t spot you holding a phone—and then the entire hall would burst into laughter at his expense.

“Pst—” A soft whisper comes from next to him, from between the gloss of your pretty lips. You smell like candy and fruit, and it makes his gut tighten—both from anxiety and something more shameful. “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a pen I could borrow? Mine’s all out’a ink.”

You give him an awkward smile, and he very nearly runs away. But no, he’s glued to the seat—with nervously wrecked hands shaking as he bends for his bag and unzips it, reaching for his pencil case painfully slow as if disarming some type of bomb. Redoing the same when he opens the case and rummages for a viable pen he could offer.

When he hands it to you, he’s almost sure you plan to stab him with it. But you do no such thing.

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver!” You cheer instead, beaming with a much brighter smile than before. “I owe you!”

His ears ring with your praise. Blushing beat red as he rips away from your gaze—still unable to focus on what the professor is preaching—not when from out of the corner of his eye, he can see you sucking on his pen like a lollypop—or something else not so innocent.

Oh, he’d been so wrong.

So, so, so very wrong.

You do smile. You smile a lot, actually. You just have one of those faces that rests bitchy. But still, bubbly airhead or not, a girl like you still shouldn't be seen with a loser like him. It’s social suicide. And still, you’re on your knees before him in a dirty little bathroom stall—the same dirty bathroom stall he feared getting a swirlie, scraping the walls with his nails to try and thwart his assailants—only, now clutching the walls for a much different reason, holding on for his mortal soul as you seek to suck it out of his fat throbbing cock.

You want to repay him—you’d said—for the pencil. He hadn't understood why you’d winked at him before you’d all but dragged him off and flung him inside the men’s bathroom, having his very life flash before his eyes.

You both make the sloppiest sounds as you make an utter mess on and of him, making him cry on all fronts—cock weeping with thick pearly beads of pre while his eyes well up with tears down his flushed face, all sweaty with panic and bliss. 

The moans springing from his chest are virginal and raw and sweet music to your ears, panting for you like a puppy—you’re sure they can hear him out in the hallway when passing by. One of his hands clasps itself on top of his mouth, holding tightly to keep it all within—eyes shut and brows cinched. And yet, he makes no effort to shove you off—hips left jerking and jittering in response to your refined technique where you take him deeply, all the way down to the base, hallowing your cheeks, throttling him with your throat as your tongue wipes his creamy slit clean.

It’s painfully clear he’s never experienced anything like it, but that’s what turns you on the most. Sick as you are, you could suck him dry and savor every drop of him, knowing you’re the first ever to get a taste. But no, by now, your pussy’s so soaked you feel yourself dripping past the soggy lace of your panties, running down your soft thighs in waste.

He’s misty-eyed when you pull off with an ever-cruel pop—a sick mix of relief and sorrow warping his chest, feeling conflicted by the pulse making him think he’s on the verge of a heart attack if you continue—and another strumming his cock, making him think he’s going to keel over and die if you leave him unfinished.

Even so, he’s in a state of complete shell shock as you mount him on top of the toilet seat he’s melting against. Chest heaving, watching you as you lift your skirt up and peal your slick underwear to the side for him to lay his bleary swiveled eyes on your bared and dripping pussy.

“I love nice guys like you—” you moan, pouring the honeyed words down his throat as you ghost his parted lips with your spit-slicked ones, straddling his lap and shimmying ever closer until your tits squish against his chest. “They make me so wet, I lose all self-control.” 

He gulps in your shadow, looking up at you for mercy—cock twitching painfully between your thighs as your wrap your hand around his base real snug, giving him a nice tug as you line him up with your needy heat—making him all but squeal beneath you.

Your other hand makes its way into his hair, braiding your fingers within the locks to hold him steady—gently pulling his head back while leering down at him like caught prey. Playing with him just so, teasing him with your words, all in your sultry voice, making his head spin hot with a fever, “You’ll be a good boy and fuck me, won’t you? Pretty please?”

His breaths are heavy and wet, coming out shaky with his instant answer, “Y-yes—” all weak in a pathetic whimper that almost has you cum too soon.

“You’re so nice~ thank you,” you croon against his lips, kissing him sloppily with your tongue in his mouth as you shift your hips and start lowering your sopping cunt down upon his seeking length, taking him in with greedy ease, eagerly gripping his soft cockhead like a toy in a claw machine.

“Fhu—fuck—” he stutters under his breath, whinging before planting his teeth into his lip to keep it at bay—feeling like putty beneath you, sweaty and heavy and dumb, eagerly wanting all which you sought to give him—only more flushed at your mean undertones as you play with him like food on a silver platter.

You sling your arms around his neck and push your chest harder against him, moaning all too brazenly, “Oh! Fuck yes—that’s so good,” you sing while slowly taking him in further. “A nice guy with a big bad bully’s dick is the best!” 

He whines in return as his inches get eaten—each devoured one by one until his tip kneads into the mouth of your womb.

Sighing happily, you kiss his cheek and put your lips right at his ear with another wanton whimper, “You fill me up so so good.” Roosting on the size, thighs resting flush against his, feeling all giddy as it stretches you out oh-so-nicely. “Such a good toy-cock for me,” keening at the way it twitches inside you, pulsing in response to your tight walls, clenching it in ways it’s never before felt.

His eyes are already rolling back into his skull once you start lolling your hips—riding him, but keeping him deep at all times—lifting just enough for it to pull out only a little before sinking back down, making it settle into that perfect needy little spot inside you that makes your whole body shiver in delight.

“Mmh,” You suck his ear lobe, releasing it with a soft bite, before smiling down at him and his sweat-pilled expression. Cooing at him, “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

He can’t even answer with words anymore, only giving a dumb mewl as he nods his head. But, of course, you’re already well aware.

“Mmh—” your eyes gleam with delight, giving his lap a mean ride, leaving him all but breathless, before asking, “D’you like it, virgin boy? ‘You like my pussy? Like the way it milks your chubby cock for your cum?”

He nods again, even more eagerly this time—looking downright pathetic in every sense of the word.

“Do you want to?” you offer to his desperation, feeling as though he’s falling apart at your fingertips, needing you to hold him together. “I’ll let you since you’re such a sweet guy—” you tease while clenching his cock, making it impossible to want anything else no matter the consequence. “In exchange for a favor, of course.”

He couldn’t care less what the favor was—way beyond willing to pay any price you ask of him as he finally makes a move and grabs your hips with a strength you hadn’t thought he had the balls to perform, planting you down firmly and holding you with such need as his hips jitter and stutter—resting his cheek on your shoulder in drool and tears with a lovesick groan leaving him as he fills your pussy up with his creamy spend.

His whole body shakes—spasming in cute little aftershocks as he clutches onto your body, hugging you tightly.

You respond in kind, cuddling him and kissing the top of his head. “That was so warm and filling—what a good boy—you did so well,” you murmur ever-sweetly while petting his head, combing through his sweaty locks with your long glitter-pink nails—keeping your voice saccharine. “Did you enjoy yourself, hm? Your first time cumming in pussy instead of your dirty ol’ sock?”

You pick his face up—cupping his sloppy jaw in both palms—his eyes half-mast and glazed as you nose-kiss him with a smile on your face.

“You loved it, didn’t you? Silly virgin boy…”

Your cunt tingles at the sight of him—wrecked beauty, sweaty and undone. You feel his cock unswell inside you and decide to lift off and release him—letting it flop out and splat on his tummy in a puddle of slick.

“Look,” you fuss, holding his face in direction of it. “You made such a pretty mess—isn’t it lovely?”

Your pussy is left glistening and puffy, still wanting and waiting for its final hurrah. Your breath turns headier and so does your voice, now with a new darkness to it as  you whisper, “Time for that favor, sweet boy.” 

He blinks dumbly, impossibly hopeless, wrapped so tightly around your pinky it’s pitiful. Of course, you take advantage—guiding his head to level with your cunt. 

“Open wide, tongue out flat.”

He obeys wordlessly. And oh god it makes your gut stir viscously—watching his tongue loll free between parted lips.

Your voice flares with bliss at the sight, shy of unhinged, as you giggle breathily, “That’s right—taste the pretty mess you made.”

He’s pushed face-first, trapped between your thighs with his jaw like an open cup beneath you, tonguing the mixed slick from your slit and slurping it all up without shame.

And fuck—it feels so good, you lose even more of your mind while tugging him even closer—all but pulling him off the toilet seat, making him kneel down on the floor instead. And still, he makes no effort to escape, but the opposite—seeking to go deeper into your cunt, crying into you as he laps up every last drop of yours and his arousal—making your thighs quake around him, grinding down against his mouth, onto his eager tongue, having it pet your clit over and over until you also come to the same sudden stumbling halt.

“Yes—yes! Oh, fuck! I’m gonna—it’s coming—”

And there it goes, ripping along your loins, surging from your lower belly. With both your hands tangled harshly in his hair, he’s not going anywhere, lips locked with yours as it starts pouring.

You’re squirting on him—hot and hard—on his tongue, inside his mouth, down his throat, in his belly. You’re squirting on him and he’s drinking it, he realizes—but even so, he isn’t able to stop. Instead, he unwinds his jaw even wider, digs his tongue deeper, and accepts every drop of the warm stream as it drenches his face and splashes down his collar and shoulders, utterly soaking his shirt, making in see-through as it clings to his chest like a second skin.

You’ve closed your eyes and thrown your head back, basking in every last little twitch of your body as you relieve yourself all over his face.

Finally, after a moment, you let go of his hair and step back—feeling refreshed and happy with your work—seeing the poor loser sit before the toilet, all drenched and exhausted with his limp cock spent and messy, looking like a beautiful wreck.

You smile, pulling your panties back in place, and you skirt down again before unlocking the stall and opening the door, only looking back at him for a moment, tapping your nail at a few matching pink scribbles written on the wall. “Here’s my number and address if you wanna have more fun." And then you leave, just like that. "Bye-bye~”

♡ BNHA – Amajiki, Deku, Shigaraki, Shinso ♡ JJK – Yuuta, Choso, Nanami ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Kenma ♡ CSM – Denji ♡ BLLK – Isagi ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Sakura, Nirei

The bell rings as sharply as ever as the teacher dismisses the class with a tired wave. 

“God, class was brutal.” Alice adjusts her book bag as she casts a weary look towards you. “I think I might strangle myself if I have to hear derivative one more fucking time.” 

You drag your hands down your face. “I hate math.” You groan. 

“Who doesn’t?” Sam mutters from behind you. His blond hair is a mess of curls and the flesh under his eyes dark. “I swear, those fucking nerds who say they like math have got to be lying. They fucking have to.” 

You glance up at the clock ticking softly above Mr. Abass’ whiteboard. Half past two, the minute hand ticking closer and closer to the next notch. 

“At least Latin will save me.” 

Sam casts you a dubious look. “Dead languages saving lives? How ironic.” 

Alice snorts out a laugh, before quickly whipping her head back and forth to make sure no-one heard besides the three of you. “Why didn’t you just take Mandarin like I did? Zhen Laoshi is ten times better than Mrs. Berzosa or Mr. Flaven.” 

You roll your eyes as you finish shoving in your last book in your already crammed bag. “Mm, yeah, no. I don’t have the time or headspace to learn how to write characters too.” 

“Mrs. Berzosa lets us actually eat in class, instead of starving her students.” Sam pipes in. 

Alice pushes his shoulder, to which Sam sticks out his tongue. 

“We’re gonna be late, guys.” You remind them with a huff of a laugh. 

“What are you, a toddler?” Alice grunts as she pushes her book bag up her shoulder, walking towards the door. 

Sam replies with an articulate middle finger towards her direction. 

–

You have to run to reach your Latin class in time. Your black Mary Janes got scuffed in the process–one of your teachers had accidentally stepped on your foot by accident, to which you had replied with a strained, “It’s fine.” when he uttered a hasty apology. 

Your already worsening mood sours when you spot a familiar head of black hair. 

“Looks like someone was in a hurry.” Viktor flashes a quaint smile. “What took you so long, [Name]?” 

“I’m not late.” You grunt as you take a seat next to him. God curse Mr. Flaven for his wonderful idea of making you two sit together. 

Viktor had always been the most charming boy in class. With his porcelain skin that reminded you of those Matryoshka dolls, and even darker eyes that seemed a bit more unnerving than pretty, he always captivated his audiences like how actors took the spotlight. The only thing that would have marred his face was his nose–straight and almost uplifted, as if he was looking down on everyone. Yet he seemed to have made it work, with the way you always overheard the girls next to you at lunch coo over it. You even remember hearing Sam say that some of the boys thought it was kinda hot too. 

When you first met Viktor, you were kinda captivated by him too. In a fifth-grade-girl-gets-her-first-crush type of way. The first day back from school, you had dressed up all prim-and-proper like your mother deemed you to be. A cute, blue-plaid dress with a collared shirt underneath. Tights that always were a bit too snug on your legs, and your signature Mary Jane’s. Your mother had dressed you up and had taken a million pictures, calling you the cutest girl on the block. The kids snorted and started making fun– as always–but it didn’t help that you were also the bossiest girl there. 

Viktor wasn’t very much different. His mom had also dressed him up, too–white collared shirts, dress pants, his hair even slicked back. The kids didn’t make fun of him; probably because he had messed his hair up on purpose when his mom left, or the fact that he was a boy and you were a girl and a girl who always tries to look pretty just gets made fun of in the end. Either way, you thought you saw a kindred spirit in him. 

You couldn’t have been more wrong. 

It all started when your teacher had asked the class who their favorite character in the book your teacher had assigned was. The answers were as simple as one could get, except for the fact that both Viktor and you had decided to argue on which character was better. 

Then, when the annual science fair came around, both you and him fought for top spot. 

The list went on and on; your tumultuous past intertwined with his own. From grade five to grade twelve, your hatred for him seemed to only grow, like a snake squeezing its prey with more fervor the closer to death it was. Likewise, Viktor’s enamoured vitriol for you grew too. 

The wooden seats of your prep-school makes your butt hurt as you try to situate yourself in a more comfortable manner. Where’s the tuition even going towards? You think. 

The class softens as Mr. Flaven hobbles toward the whiteboard. As always, he takes a deep breath before beginning his lesson–something about Cicero and his De re publica. You cast a quick glance towards Viktor, who watches the board and Mr. Flaven with unraptured attention. 

That is, until he turns his dark black eyes on you. 

You flinch back, much to his chagrin. “Bored?” He whispers, his tone lazy as he spins a pen between his fingers. “If you wanted to take something easier, you should have just chosen Spanish.” 

“Funny joke, Viktor. But last I remember, wasn’t it you who chose to take Mandarin before switching into this class?” You retort. 

“Something you’d like to tell the class, Miss [Last Name]?” Flaven’s gravelly voice interrupts, and as you quickly return to face the board you already find that his beady eyes have narrowed unto you. 

You can hear the soft giggles of your classmates as you mumble, “No, sir.” 

God, did you wish to slap the amused smirk off of Viktor Semyanova’s face. 

…

Cicero was the most boringest man on earth. That is your conclusion after translating around three pages of the De re publica. 

You could sympathize with Mark Antony’s vivid hatred for the man–he spewed so much nonsense you had the inking horror that you would be able to hear Cicero’s words in your dreams. 

The library is soft, a quiet sanctuary to your budding thoughts. You had called your mother earlier that day, right when school ended, citing your reasons as to why you had to stay so late. Your mother believed you, of course, because she knew you had no real social life to speak of. Something she took pride in. 

You believe you spent more hours in this library than you have in your own bedroom. You even have a favorite spot–the small nook right beside the window–which reflects the sunset’s light in luminescent rays, a favorite librarian (Mrs. Turning always gave you a cookie whenever you worked late), and the imitation of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus next to the Greco-Roman Mythology section always struck you with a sort of wonder-lust you couldn’t really describe. 

Flipping from one page to another, your brows furrow as the latin words seem to blur together into one horrid cacophony. Mr. Flaven had assigned five pages of translation; a surprisingly lax amount considering the nightmarish assignments he had given you the past week, but a punishment in-it-of-itself. 

You’re contemplating on which bridge to throw yourself off of when the soft sound of footsteps interrupt your thoughts. 

“You’re in my spot.” 

You glare up at Viktor, who looks down at you with heavy-lidded eyes. “I don’t see your name on it.” 

He smiles, though it’s more condescending than ever. “Still translating? Cicero’s works can’t be that taxing for you, can it?” 

You take a glance at his book-bag. The contents are sparse, minimal–nothing overflowing, no last-minute papers. Instead, a book peeks out. You can barely catch the title, but your eyes narrow as you make your conjecture. “The Aeneid, really? Trying to score points with Flaven now?” 

Your words come out as more hiss than true, civilized speech. 

Viktor raises a brow, taking out the book with a nonchalant air. He plops himself besides you on the loveseat, his legs crossed as he examines the cover. “Flaven loves it. I prefer the Iliad, but what better way to expand my horizons?” 

A scoff escapes your lips. “How machiavellian of you.” 

His eyes find yours, a slow grin spreading on his face. “If I’m Machiavelli, what does that make you?”

You stand up abruptly. “Done with this conversation–that’s what I am.” You make to leave, when cold fingers grab onto your wrist like a snare. You whip your head back, your mouth open to unleash the bubbling fury that’s been ready to spill since forever, when you’re cut off. 

The look in Viktor’s eyes is almost frenzied. 

He seems to realize his mistake a second too late, judging by the way he releases your wrist like it burns him. His face turns stony, before smoothing over to the perfectly charming expression he always wears. “Leaving so soon? You almost forgot your paper.” He croons, his tone dripping with condescension. 

You flex your fingers. You think your wrist might be bruised, the way he held onto it so tight. Fucking bastard. “Thanks.” You grunt out, reaching for your paper just before he snaps it right out of your reach. 

“What the fuck–” 

“Careful now, corculum.” Viktor raises a brow, and you bite your tongue at his next words. “We’re in a library. You should really keep your voice down, hmm?” 

“Give it back.” You grit, lunging for it again. But this time, he evades, a satisfied smirk on his face. 

“You used the wrong tense here–” He observes as he dodges you again. “And another, right after!” 

“Give it back!” You whisper-screech, eliciting a laugh out of the dark-haired boy. 

“You’re like an animal!” He cackles. “If you just needed help, you could ask, corculum. I’m right here–”

Your nails dig into the soft flesh of his cheeks. It leaves three, sharp red lines that seem to burn on his pale skin. 

You both stop. 

His eyes are wide, the pupils almost blown-out to oblivion. Your hands are shaking; there’s a bit of his blood under your nails. 

You yank your paper from his limp hands, turning away from him as quickly as you can before storming out. 

You try to ignore the fact that you can feel his eyes burning holes behind your back. 

…

You try to squash your guilt with justifications you try to believe. 

He left a bruise on your wrist, just like you expected. It hurt, and it was on your dominant hand too. You were justified in enacting revenge; he had harmed something of value to you, and you had harmed something of value to him. 

That’s what you keep thinking of the next day, when you see his face again. His cheekbones, so sharp and pretty, are marred with three red lines that he doesn’t even hide. When Nessa asks what caused it, he doesn’t even look your way. His words are short, clipped: “It was a cat.” 

He doesn’t look at you at all, not even when you sit next to him after Flaven starts the class. Doesn’t even glance at your direction. The only time he does look at you is when you wince after applying pressure to your bruised hand, but even then he doesn’t look at you, but at your hand instead. 

You try to catch his expression. When he spots you looking, an undecipherable emotion flashes in his eyes before he turns back to the board. 

The rest of class goes by in a blur. You don’t even remember half of the shit Flaven even said. 

Alice is the first one to bring up your… “funk.”

“What’s up with you, girl? You look like you just lost the light in your eyes.” She glances at you with a frown on her lips. 

Sam slings an arm across your shoulders, his blond hair tickling the top of your head. “Alice, we all know what's up. It’s that little son of bitch.” 

“Viktor, at it again?” Alice twirls her dark brown hair. “I can’t believe how he makes everyone…fucking swoon, or whatever.” 

You let out a sigh. “It’s…not that. I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.” 

Alice pulls you closer to her, untangling you from Sam’s limbs. She whispers in your ear, “If it’s girl stuff than don’t worry about it, I’ve got some ib–” 

You shake your head. “It’s not that, Alice, but thanks.” You mumble. Sam glances at your wrist, and a knowing look flashes in his eyes. 

He brings up your limp wrist in the air, and a huff escapes your mouth as you ask, “What’re you doing…?” 

“It’s your wrist. You can’t write anything now so you’re worried about deadlines and stuff. Don’t worry ‘bout it, the teachers will get it. But, how did you even bruise this thing in the first place–?” 

You snatch your wrist away, awarding yourself with a sharp wince. “Fell.” 

Alice hums. “How articulate.” 

“What more is there to say?” You grumble. 

Sam glances at both you and Alice, before mumbling to himself, “Women, amirite?” 

“Take that back!” Alice kicks him in the shin. 

“I’m joking! I have two moms y’know? How can I be a fucking incel when I have two moms!” 

…

Dinner is a silent affair at your house. 

Your mother comes home late and tired, like always. A single mother who works day in and day out at the pharmacy, certain luxuries have to be sacrificed. Like the luxury of being energetic when you come home–when you see your daughter for the first time that day.

She asks the first question. “What’s wrong with your wrist?” 

You keep wincing whenever you touch your spoon. She must have noticed it, with her sharp eyes–like always. She seems to notice a lot about you, yet nothing at the same time. 

“I fell, mom. Nothing crazy.” 

Your moms brows furrow. “How are you going to write with that hand?” 

You press your lips together. “The teachers understand that I can’t use my wrist as much as I’d like. They gave me extensions on essays. For math I just tough it out.” The words come out of your mouth like a recitation.  

“You should have told me earlier. I could have wrapped it for you.” 

“You were tired, I couldn’t–” 

Your mother hums. “You know I’m never too tired to take care of you.” 

Your stomach churns with guilt. Why is it that guilt has become your most prevalent emotion? First it was Viktor, with his horrible face. Then it was your useless wrist, which would do nothing and caused problem after problem. Then it was your mother; always your mother. 

“Could you wrap it after dinner?” You mumble. 

“I can.” She nods. 

–

Junior Year. Last day of school. 

Viktor is leaning against the bannister railing of an open balcony. His face looks soft, sweet almost, in the golden light decorating the alcove. 

An end of the school year party, hosted by one of your rich classmates. She and Viktor ran in the same circles, gossip told you. Both of them had the same rich-snobbiness that came with money, you concluded. 

You take your side besides him, and follow the direction of his eyes–to the bottomless expanse of indigo-blue that now paints the night sky. 

“I hate summer.” Viktor confesses. 

You arch a brow. “Have a personal vendetta against a season now, Semyanova?” 

He lets out a laugh. It sounds a bit carefree. “Maybe. We’re a bit alike, don’t you think? The only emotion we seem to have is hate.” 

“Keep telling yourself that,” you scoff. “We are nothing alike.” The lie easily escapes your lips as you lean closer toward the railing, your eyes catching his. “What is it about summer that you don’t like?” 

He hums. “It’s a wretched season. Too hot. The sun shines too bright.”

You have a strange inkling that he’s withholding information. It makes you strangely annoyed–why couldn’t he share his reasons with you? Did he think you wouldn’t be able to understand? You could. You would. 

“Where are your little followers?” He suddenly asks. “Anya and…the other one?” 

“Alice. And Sam.” You correct, furrowing your brows. “How do you not even know their names? They’re your classmates.” 

“Names are a bit irrelevant, don’t you think so, [Name?]” His eyes find yours, the dark expanse almost abyssal compared to the darkness surrounding you right now. You don’t like how he’s looking at you, but you can’t seem to pull away from him. “After all, no-one remembers a person’s name. They remember actions. Achievements.”

“The Egyptians believe that names created a part of their soul.” You blurt out. 

Viktor arches a brow, a smile playing on his lips. “Do you believe that?” He whispers softly. 

You can’t help but say, “I do.” 

“I didn’t know you were so sentimental.” 

“Unlike you, I appreciate emotions. See? I’m not only filled with hate.” A smug smile graces your lips, and for a split-second you catch Viktor’s gaze dropping down to witness it. The moment you catch him, however, his eyes snap back to yours and the intensity is startling. 

“I’ll see you, then.” He mutters, almost instantaneously. He brushes past you, his hand barely grazing yours, and as you turn you watch as the last of him leaves your proximity. 

You stay rooted to your spot. 

–

You like to think that you enjoy history. You find it interesting–the tales of war, the whispers of deceit, how every action a person produced still had ripple-effects that one could still  feel today. 

You don’t know why you can’t bring yourself to enjoy this, then. Mrs. Ramirez is talking about Octavian Caesar and the start of the Roman Empire–riveting stuff–but all you can think about is how she kept praising Viktor for his essay and barely gave you a glance when she handed in yours. An A. You had gotten an A–a beautiful 97% which decorated the white sheet with red ink. And yet, all you could think is how Viktor got a 98. How Viktor’s essay sparkled while yours dimmed the more and more you furiously looked over it. 

Mrs. Ramirez black hair is slicked back into a sharp bun, her cat-eye glasses prim and proper as she discusses the intricacies of the second triumvirate, but all you can look at is Viktor’s back.

He sits up straight, never slouching like it’s a personal slight. His eyes always face the board, his undivided attention solely on how to get his next hundred. He still wears the scars you gave him with a gruesome sort of vitriol, almost like he’s dangling it over your neck. 

Your hand softly throbs at the thought. 

When Mrs. Ramirez dismisses the class, she pulls Viktor towards the side. Your eyes narrow, before picking your bag and waiting outside. 

When Viktor leaves the classroom, you pounce. 

“Currying favor with Ramirez?” You hiss. 

“How’s your hand?” He replies instead, a smug smirk on his face. “I saw you wincing during class. Does it still hurt?” His voice is filled with faux sympathy. 

“Don’t ignore my question!” 

“It pains me to see you…well, in so much pain. But then again, really, I’m doing you a favor of even asking how you are. You marred me, too.” He motions to his cheek, the previous red scars a pale pink now. 

“You fucking deserved that!” You bring up your own wrist, shoving your sleeve down and presenting the soft skin of the inside of your wrist. “You hurt me first.” 

Viktor’s black eyes fix onto your wrist. He stares at it for so long that you can feel your hand going numb. 

You’re about to put your hand down, to leave and walk away with a huff, when he snatches your hand from you. It hurts; the way he grips onto it makes the bruise seem to swell and ache even more. And then–

He fucking bites. 

You let out a yelp. You shove your hand out of his grip, your eyes widening at the sight of it–mangled with bitemarks and what seemed to be blood. The pain wasn’t bad, but it still stung. Stung more than anything you’ve ever really felt. 

Viktor’s eyes are dark, but blown out of proportion. Fucking psycho. The thought keeps repeating in your head, and it’s the truth. 

“What?” He tilts his head, coy as a lamb. “With all that whining, I thought you wanted a kiss to make it feel better?” He flashes you a small smile. 

A shaky exhale escapes your lips. “Fuck you.” 

Viktor shrugs, the words not phasing him in the slightest. “How creative.” He muses, before glancing at his watch with airy disinterest. “I have an internship to be at, so let’s cut this short.” 

“You don’t get to make the demands here! Not after you–you bit me, and then–” 

Your words seem to spark some life back in him, as he hums. “So? What do you want me to do about it?” 

You try to ignore the anticipation in his eyes. But, it’s hard. It reminds you of a long-buried memory when you and Viktor competed for student council president. He had the same predatory gleam as he watched you fumble your speech at the last second, watched you trip over the words and seal your fate. 

He was always so excitable when he smelled weakness; like a predator catching the first taste of blood. 

You reach out for his wrist–hardly making note of the soft blue veins gracing the delicate flesh–and you bring him in closer. From this distance, you can feel his breath on your nose, see the little beauty mark that dots the underside of his eye. “You’re not going to haunt me every time I fucking see you,” You can hear the desperation in your voice as you hiss. “And when we graduate, you’ll be nothing more than a footnote in my life. Don’t think you’re anything more to me than that.” 

His eye twitches, and he stills. “You don’t get to decide that,” He murmurs. 

You faintly think that if anyone saw the two of you right now, they would think you both look like a pair of lovers. With your hand on his wrist, with his eyes on yours, you almost feel like one too. But instead of blossoming love, all you feel is hate and torment. 

You let out a huff of a laugh. “So? It doesn’t matter who decides, as long as the result is the same.” 

You let go of his wrist, dropping it unceremoniously as you turn on your heels and leave. 

You wonder what expression Viktor Semyanova is wearing. 

…

Graduation day feels like a noose on your neck. 

You shouldn’t have been so disappointed when your principal had told you what an honor it was to be salutatorian; how hard you must have worked to get second place. You shouldn’t have been so disappointed when you asked who was valedictorian and a familiar, hauntingly horrible name was the answer. 

Alice is busy looking at her mirror as she examines the dress she’ll be wearing for the afterparty. She’s wearing a pretty, luminescent turquoise that matches the same soft shade of blue that is her eyes. Sam is on his phone–he wears a wrinkled white button up and dark slacks that look like he got them straight from the laundry pile. 

“You look positively horrible, Sam.” Alice rolls her eyes, catching your own from the mirror and giving a look that screams, can you believe this guy? 

“No-one’s gonna see what I’m wearing under my gown, Alice.” Sam retorts, too busy playing whatever game is on his phone. 

“And the afterparty?” You ask, giving him an amused look. 

“Everyone will be too happy to escape the hell-hole known as school to care,” The blond replies with ease. “And I’ll be too busy eating to care what people think.”

You always envied Sam; his indifference was a stark contrast to your own anxious behaviors. Maybe it was the perfectionist inside you that made it so you couldn’t even think of looking less-than-perfect; the insistent itch to not just look it, but to be it. 

You twiddle with your graduation cap, tugging at the tassel. Alice places hers securely on her head, the cap decorated with photos of you, Sam, and her. A snort escapes you as you catch a selfie of you and her posing in front of Sam’s sleeping body, a painted-on mustache and goatee decorating his face. 

“At least someone's looking cute,” The brunette winks at you, and a small grin flits onto your face. You had decided to wear your favorite dress for the occasion–you think the color compliments your skin. 

Sam pouts. “Man, even when I do dress up no-one ever calls me cute,” He mutters. 

Alice glares at him. “You are so annoying, has anyone ever told you that?” 

“Yeah, this one stuck-up prick named Al-” 

“Guys.” You glance at them, your tone brooking no further arguments. “If you two keep this up, we’ll be late for our graduation. I didn’t work my ass off to miss half the ceremony.”

Sam mumbles something under his breath, before grabbing at his keys and twirling them off his index. “M’kay, ladies. We ready or what?” 

Alice huffs as she walks past Sam. “Hurry up, gramps. You heard [Name].” 

“I’m literally the one driving you, so show some respect!” Sam calls out, and Alice responds with an elegant middle-finger. 

You let out a laugh. “Alice, showing you respect? Never in a million years, Sammy.” 

You pat his shoulder sympathetically, and let out a louder laugh when Sam groans. “God, how did I even become friends with that witch?” 

You shrug as you leave Alice’s room, giving a quick wave to Alice’s parents–who are busy fretting over their camera–and entering the garage. “Y’know Alice, she’s a force to be reckoned with. That’s how she got into one of the top art colleges in the country.” 

Sam hums, something flashing in his eyes as he twirls his keys. “Yeah, she’s something all right.” He takes a quick glance at you. “So, what about you, huh? You’re the one going to the top-fucking-uni in what–the world?” 

You let out an embarrassed laugh as Sam unlocks the car, opening the backdoor with a flourish as he waves you in. “My essay wasn’t even that great.” 

Sam settles in the driver seat, and he checks his watch with an exaggerated groan. “Miss Alice Levene was the first to leave the room and she’s the last to get in the car,” He adjusts the rearview mirror, before turning around to face you. “Heard Semyanova’s comin’ with ya. How you feeling about that?” 

You blanch. “What?” 

Last time you checked, Viktor had never expressed interest in your desired college. He didn’t even tell anyone which colleges he applied too–much less which ones he got in. You had rolled your eyes and crossed your arms when you heard the rumors; of course, it was always like him to revel in mystery. “W-when did you hear that?” You're ashamed of how you stammer over your words. 

Sam shrugs, before finally letting out a sigh of relief when Alice hurriedly enters the garage, almost tripping over her heels. “Semyanova told me himself during math. God, I hate the guy–such a prick.” 

Alice shoves herself in shotgun as she hurriedly fixes up her hair. “Sorry, sorry,” she hurriedly says as Sam gives her a glare. “I couldn’t find my phone.”

“And you call me a screenager,” Sam runs the engine. 

The ride is shorter than you imagined. Usually, it feels like forever getting to your high school, an eternity of navigating traffic and worrying over tests and school. You should feel happy that the drive is short and sweet, that you are practically on time for your ceremony. But instead, you feel a sinking feeling in your gut. 

“You’re not going to haunt me every time I fucking see you,”

“And when we graduate, you’ll be nothing more than a footnote in my life. Don’t think you’re anything more to me than that.” 

Your words keep repeating in your head. You had been so confident then. 

You thought you could escape Viktor Semyanova. It’s almost sickening, the irony in your words. He was like fucking Orpheus, following you into the goddamned underworld. 

You rub your wrist as you rest your head on the car window, Sam’s early 2000’s music playing in the background. 

When at last Sam figures out how to park (because the boy is horrible at it, and, much to your chagrin, Alice is so done she forces Sam to get out and makes herself do it instead), the three of you guys finally make it to your graduation ceremony. 

The football stadium is huge, and you almost trip over Alice as you try to steady yourself in your heels. Your high school has always been large, and so is your graduating year. Sam is surveying the stands, eyes narrowed before they light up and he starts waving almost comically. 

You follow his eyes and spot his mothers, and you give a small wave. Alice beams as she waves back, too, but her eyes are more focused on where her parents are in the crowd. “God, if they’re still aren’t here yet because of the camera–” 

You try to spot your mom, but you can’t find her. You quickly avert your gaze, a cold, crushing feeling enveloping your heart. 

The three of you take your places in the front, and you catch Sam bouncing his leg; His nerves are apparent, you can tell by the way he’s commenting on everything to Alice. You like to think you’re hiding it better, as you play with the tassel of your cap again. 

Opening the ceremony off is no joke, even though it isn’t as important as valedictorian. You’re kind of dreading hearing Viktor’s speech. 

You hope he doesn’t sit next to you. 

And as luck will have it, he does. 

Alice shoots the black-haired boy a glare, but Viktor brushes it off as he sits down. His posture is straight, but he looks relaxed. “Don’t be so uninviting, Levene. It’s not like I had a choice, sitting here.” He doesn’t look at Alice as he says those words, instead, focusing his gaze on the make-shift stage with an almost bored look. 

“You’re such an ass, Semya–” Alice begins, before getting cut off as the ceremony starts. 

You clench your hands as you get up. You can vaguely feel the eyes of Viktor on your back, but you try to ignore it as Alice mouths, you got this! and Sam gives you a thumbs up. 

Walking up the steps of the stage feels like climbing Everest, like your Atlas and you have to hold up the sky. You don’t really know why–you’ve spoken plenty of times before, had to swallow up the feeling of nausea and fear more times than you can count. Maybe it’s because no matter how hard you look, you can’t find your mom in the crowd. Or maybe, it’s because the only eyes you can see are two, dark black pupils that stare at you like you're the only thing that matters. 

You hate those eyes. You hate the feeling of them on you. 

You can practically hear him in your ear as you adjust the microphone in front of you. Second place. Is that all you’re good for? Silver? 

It’s not fair that some people are always destined for gold. 

“Good evening, parents, students, and faculty…” You think you’re a bit in a daze. You can feel your mouth moving, but it’s almost like you aren’t the one controlling it. 

“...on such a joyous day like this one, I can’t help but remember a quote my Latin teacher–you all know our joyful teacher, Mr. Flaven–would say to us, as we approached the beginning of summer…” You can hear soft laughter as the students catch Mr. Flaven making a face; he always hated being described as anything remotely optimistic. 

“...Non nobis solum nati sumus, not for ourselves alone are we born. Throughout the years I’ve spent here, working alongside my classmates who I will always remember as friends, those words have never been truer. We all are a vital note in the orchestra of life, and we all have something beautiful to give to those who hear the music.” 

The rest of your speech goes by quickly, and as you leave the stage with thunderous applause, and with Alice grinning ear to ear and Sam laughing, all you can think of is one thing. 

This thunderous applause will be nothing, compared to what Viktor creates. 

It’s a depressing thought. Alice is whispering how great your speech was, but all you hear is the silence coming from your left. Viktor hasn’t said anything since your salutations, and as your principle makes his way up, you even spot him glancing at his nails in boredom. 

You can feel your jaw clench. 

When at last it’s Viktor’s turn to say his speech, he walks with the confidence of a god. It’s really not fair, the way his marble mask doesn’t crack even once. When he gets up on the stage, he smiles charmingly. 

“First, I’d like to offer my compliments towards my principle, my teachers, and my classmates whose tireless labor has created the fruits we are celebrating today, not to mention that beautiful salutatorian speech,” Viktor’s voice is as smooth as honey, and when he catches your widened eyes, his smile turns even sharper. 

“My name is Viktor Semyanova, and I am honored to be able to witness the trials and tribulations that our class has faced and overcome…”

You grit your teeth. How dare he look so effortless, how dare the light seem to shine on him just a little more brighter than it does for the rest? Your hands curl into the material of your graduation gown. 

It hurts.

You always wanted to be valedictorian. All those late nights, cramming for tests and memorizing concepts, feel more like a fever dream now. All those days where you had rejected your friends’ offers of fun, seem futile and a waste of memory. The college acceptance letter on your desk seems more like a mockery now, knowing that in a pool of candidates, you were second-best to an even more shining star. 

If Viktor Semyanova  was Caesar, then you were Brutus–forever written down as history’s bane of greatness. If he was Augustus, then you were Antony; the loser of a game set up long before you were born. If he was Achilles, then you were Hektor. 

Promised death and obscurity, while that bastard had statues carved in his name, epithets crafted for his very image. 

“Just like how my salutatorian quoted Cicero, I’d like to quote another great man, too. A quote that I think fits all of us perfectly.” The way he says salutatorian makes your stomach clench. It’s like he’s rubbing it in your face–that you're second best and he will always outrank you. 

“‘Have I played my part well in the comedy of life? If so, clap your hands and dismiss me from the stage with applause.’” 

The applause is deafening. 

…

Your cheeks hurt from smiling. 

Alice’s parents are ushering you and Sam to “smile, with your teeth this time!” While Alice keeps telling her parents to adjust the camera, or leading the three of you to other, more scenic spots. Your mother, who you found just a little while after the ceremony, keeps wiping her eyes. She’s talking to Sam’s mom right now, while Sam’s ma keeps trying to fix Sam’s messy blond strands. 

“Really, do you ever brush this mop?” 

“I do, actually!” Sam’s voice is all high and pitchy, his face slightly red as he keeps taking glances at Alice, whose snorting at the whole affair. 

“Never really seen you with a hairbrush, Sam,” She adds, giggling even harder when Sam’s ma starts up again. 

“You did so well up on stage,” Your mom pats your cheek. “I recorded it–you looked very beautiful, I can’t believe my girl is growing up.” 

You squirm, trying to make sure no-one but Sam and Alice are here to watch you mom pinch your cheeks. “Mom, I’ve been eighteen for half a year now–” 

You mom sniffs. 

You shuffle from one foot to another. “When’s the afterparty again?” You call out to Sam, who checks his watch. “In around an hour.” 

“What?” Alice splutters. “An hour? Why did no-one tell me? I’m so sweaty under this gown, and don’t even get me started on my hair–dad, stop taking pictures!” She groans. 

Your mom takes a glance at you. “No drinking. You better be responsible. Whose hosting the party, again?”

“It’s the same girl who always hosts the end-of-year parties, mom. Beatrice.” 

“Beatrice…” You mom mumbles, before taking a glance at Sam’s mom. “Let’s still keep in touch, Xuan. It’ll be so lonely without these rascals, huh?” 

As the rest of the parents start grouping up and conversing, Sam raises his hand goodbye before Alice practically drags you back into Sam’s car. 

An hour later, you’d like to think that you and Alice cleaned up well. 

Sam, however, is still in his wrinkled button-up. 

The party is already in full-swing, and, to your exasperation you can already see the red party cups you know full well have alcohol in it instead of soda. You swiftly dodge what looks to be an already drunk girl as she giggles and sways to the music blasting from the living room. 

Beatrice’s house is huge, more a mansion than anything suburban. Sam is already making a beeline for the drinks. 

“He’s gonna be soooo out of it in the morning,” Alice tsks. 

You shrug. “I kinda want some.” You’ve never really drank before, but today feels different. The swirling, empty void in your gut needs to be filled with something, and there's nothing better than liquid joy to do the job. 

“You? Want alcohol?” Alice asks, amazed. 

“I’m feeling adventurous tonight.” You reply smoothly, already following Sam’s direction. 

When you reach him, he’s already chugging down what looks to be his third cup. A small group surrounds him, all of them chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!” 

Sam slams the cup down, and groans. “This shit tastes like crusted up piss on a gas-station toilet.” 

Alice looks like she’s about to puke. “The fuck?” She whispers, more to herself than anyone in particular. 

A boy–he looks to be a jock–with a buzzcut grimaces. “That’s fucking disgusting, dude.” 

A girl with dyed blue hair mumbles, “No wonder Mrs. Carter loved him; I can’t stop fucking imagining it.” 

“That bad?” You glance down at his empty cup. Sam mumbles something unintelligent. 

“I’m only drinking that stuff if you do, too.” Alice tugs at a stray strand of brown hair. “If I have to go down, I’m taking you with me.” 

You glance at the kitchen counter where the red cups filled with the stuff lay. You take a gulp, before snatching one and bringing it to your mouth in one motion. You chug it down. 

How could you be so stupid? 

It burns your throat and makes you want to puke. You almost start coughing it back up, because it tastes so vile. 

At least Alice follows suit, but she almost spits it out all over Sam. “Shit, shit, shit, this is so gross.” 

You’re already feeling tipsy. The dim lights of the party seem to blur, and you let out a small, unrefined giggle. 

“This shit’s strong as fuck,” The jock-dude mutters as he takes a sip of his own cup. “Where did Bea even get this?”

“I stole it from my dad,” Comes a reply. You turn your head to spot a girl, dark brown skin shiny with what you guess is glitter. “You should be lucky I’m even giving it to you guys, considering it costs like half a grand.” 

Beatrice smiles, though it looks more condescending than anything. “Look’s like our salutatorian is a light-weight.” She twirls a dark, curly strand over her well-manicured finger. “First time?” 

“She looks like she’s about to faint.” Comes a snide remark, as Viktor Semyanova makes his way to Beatrice’s side. 

You bite your lip, trying to balance yourself as you mutter, “This isn’t even alcohol–it’s fuckin’ poision.” 

Sam’s words slur as he places his forehead on the cool countertop of the kitchen. “What–what she said.” 

You're too out of it to catch the intensity of Viktor’s stare, and you have to steady your hands as you support Alice, who keeps coughing and hacking away. 

“Well, I’m glad you got your first…well, first, at my party, then.” Beatrice snickers. “Here’s hoping you experience more!” She turns to Viktor, before muttering loud enough for you to hear, “Fucking virgin.” 

You suppress an eyeroll. So what? You were going to the top-fucking-college in the whole country–

Your mood instantly sours. 

You take a glance at Viktor, who quietly chuckles at Beatrice’s remark. His hair is slightly windswept, and the low-lights highlight his sharp cheekbones. It didn’t even matter, at this point, which reward or achievement you had under your belt. Viktor had the same, had more, had everything. 

Your mouth opens to say something, when Alice groans, “I think I’m gonna barf.” 

“Me too.” Sam grunts, before he takes Alice's hand. “Le-let’s go have a bonding experience in the bathroom.” 

You blink. “Y-you guys can’t fucking leave me to go puke your guts out–” You hiss, but then Alice looks like she’s about to turn green and Beatrice’s eyes widen. “Oh no, you are not throwing up on the carpet–!” Beatrice starts pushing them both towards the nearest bathroom, leaving you and Viktor alone. 

You hate being alone with him. 

“You’re holding up surprisingly well, for your first time.” Viktor says softly, his fingers tightening around his own cup. It isn’t the same red–it’s clear, filled with what looks to be water. 

“This is-isn’t my first time,” You lie, your words a bit slurred. Why are you even lying in the first place? 

Viktor raises a brow. “Totally,” he muses. 

“Why are you going to the same college as me?” You blurt out. 

“What?” His tone is more bitter than surprised. 

“You’re following me. You’re fucking haunting me–stop it.” God, the alcohol is messing up your brain. Starting a fight with Viktor in public? A new low, even for you. 

Viktor’s eyes darken. “Why would I turn down an acceptance letter from a top university? You’re so fucking prideful, thinking everything I do is for you.” 

“Y-you’re so horrible,” You stammer over your words. You don’t know if it’s because of the alcohol, or it’s because Viktor keeps looking at you with something more terrifying than hate. The party is in full swing right now–it’s only you and him in the kitchen, while the rest of your class is in the living room. “You have something against me, e-ever since you sprained my wrist in the library–” 

Viktor’s lips collide onto yours. 

To call it a kiss would be a lie. It isn’t; It isn’t romantic, or sweet, or filled with love and longing. It’s a conquest, all tongue and teeth and you think he even bites your lip and draws blood. His hand, originally cradling your cheek, lowers down and starts groping at your breast. 

You try to nudge your head away, to break the kiss, but it just seems to drive him even more. He deepens the kiss, shoving you towards an abandoned alcove away from the party. 

When his lips finally leave yours, you're disgusted to find his eyes blown out and his cheeks painted a soft pink. “You–” 

“You call me horrible?” His hand comes to muffle your mouth, effectively silencing you as he leans in. “You’re so fucking pathetic. You’re so desperate to be me–that you can’t help but want me.” A horse, mocking laugh escapes his lips. 

“You think you hate me? Sometimes, I just want to take a knife and shove it in you. Isn’t that romantic?” He sneers. 

Your eyes widen. 

“All we do is hate and hurt each other, don’t we, corculum?” He whispers, his eyes trained on yours. “We’re just filled with hate, you and I.” 

You feel his hand lower, before hooking a finger under the hem of your dress and hiking it up. You let out a muffled shriek, but his hand clamps around your mouth even harder–you can faintly smell his cologne, vetiver and cedar. 

A rueful smile paints his face. “You’re not even putting up a fight? Is this a little end-of-the-year gift you’re giving me?” 

He shoves his knee between your thighs, and slowly lifts his hand off your face. He rests his forehead on yours. He’s so close you can count his lashes, see the way they touch the soft flesh of his cheek. 

He starts stroking your clothed cunt with an aching sort of tenderness. It adds to your drunken delirium; alcohol and a heady amount of desire filling you to the brim. But it still hurts, feeling your core drip with something akin to arousal. 

“God, you’re so fucking wet.” Viktor rubs tight circles over your clit, and a soft mewl escapes your mouth. This is so embarrassing. Why aren’t you doing anything to stop it? 

You feel pathetic. 

He hooks a finger under the lace of your panties, and shoves it to the side unceremoniously. Shoving a finger in your pussy, he sucks in a breath. “And tight, too. I almost feel bad for you–having you first like this.” Despite his words however, he doesn’t seem to care–not when he’s curling his finger so sweetly like that, not when you have to bite your lip just to stop from whimpering. 

He shoves another finger, scissoring your hole as he mutters, “I’ve been thinking about this-about you, for so long…” He nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck as you cover your own mouth this time, trying to silence the moans–or maybe the cries–that betray you. “...you’re so fucking pretty, huh? Sweeter than Aphrodite,” He nips at the delicate skin of your neck, spreading you out on his fingers as he adds, “But just as cruel.” 

“S-stop,” You whisper. It’s a futile attempt, you don’t even think it carries any weight. Viktor will still keep going, because that’s who he is–a man that takes, and takes, and takes. And you? Well, you don’t even know what you want–not when you feel like you're in Elysium and Hell at the same time. 

“You’re a liar,” He mutters, but at the same moment he takes out his dripping digits. Your cunt clenches on nothing, weeping as it mourns the loss of Viktor. He brings his fingers to your mouth, tapping your chin with his other hand for you to open your mouth. You do. 

He shoves his fingers–drenched with your wetness–on your tongue. “Look, here’s the proof.” 

While you suck on his fingers, he nudges your thighs open with his other hand. Smirking, he coos softly. “Practically dripping.” He looks back up at you. “Keep sucking on my fingers, corculum. We wouldn’t want everyone to hear you getting fucked, would we now?” 

You glare up at him, and he laughs. He has the fucking audacity to laugh. “Shit, you look so pretty right now.” 

He presses his fingers on your tongue, and unbuckles his black slacks. Grabbing your hand, he presses it against his growing bulge. “See how hard you make me? This is all for you.” 

You watch as he shoves his cock out, pressing it against your dripping cunt. It’s huge, the thought barely registers in your mind. And then, with it comes pure, blinding panic. It’s not going to fit. 

You’ve never been crazy about sex. It just…never came up, ever, in your life. You were too busy writing essays and papers to have time to fool around with other people; and, then again, you never really believed other people would want you. Even Alice and Sam weren’t much for it, either. Sam was demisexual, and Alice was way too shy to ever even talk about it. 

It didn’t mean that you were absent of desires, though. You had your fair share of late nights, where you imagined pretty black eyes looking up at you from between your thighs. But panic and fear are funny, fickle emotions. They come at the worst time, coming at you like a thousand knives stabbing a body. 

“Stop, stop–” You hiss, but Viktor silences you with a kiss. And then–

It fucking hurts. His cock snatches on your entrance, and he practically groans into your mouth as he slowly shoves it in your tight hole. Your hands, previously at your sides, grab onto his broad shoulders. You dig your nails into the expensive material of his button-up. “You're so tight,” he growls.

When he finally sheaths himself in you, it feels like hell. A terrible, aching hell. Your hole struggles to accommodate his girth, and while Viktor rubs quick circles on your clit, it still takes you a minute to adjust before he starts thrusting into you. 

The pain that once filled you now slowly ebbs away, replaced with burning pleasure. Viktor groans in your ear, whispering soft nothings and what seem to be threats at the same time. 

“You’re so sweet for me-”

“-You’re so pitiful, it irks me-” 

“I hate you so much.” 

You want to echo the sentiment, but the way his cock fills you up makes you feel delirious. It’s so sloppy, too–the way he kneads at your tits, or the way he puts his hand under your dress and feels you up makes you almost melt. The way he drives himself deeper into your cunt makes you see stars.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.” Viktor whispers the words so lovingly, you think you see white. You come undone on his cock right there and then, clenching and spasming as you milk him for everything he’s worth. 

And he gives it to you–with a kiss so brutal it draws blood, he shoves his cock and fills you with a warmth you didn’t know he was capable of. 

You two stay like that for what feels like hours. You, staring into his black eyes that seem to have no light in them whatsoever. Him, watching you with a look you could never really decipher. 

…

Freshman Year. Last day of school. 

It’s sunny. Unbearably so, given the fact you’re all wearing uniforms that are way too itchy for what it’s worth.  

You tug at your collar. 

Viktor Semyanova sits next to you on the grass, seemingly unperturbed by the heat. At the age of fifteen, he looks surprisingly handsome given the fact that every boy next to him is sweating buckets and looks like they’re undergoing the terrible turmoil of puberty. You wonder how he keeps his stupid face so free of acne. 

“An end of the year group exercise” is what Mr. Flaven had called this little excursion. Really, it seemed to you that it was just an excuse for Flaven to torture his latin students with the summer sun. 

Flaven turns a page, his tone dreary yet also captivating at the same time–a feat only he could ever achieve. 

“‘Fool, prate not to me about covenants…’” 

You take a glance at Viktor; he seems entranced. You can tell by the way his eyes are solely focused on Flaven. Viktor always had a horrible staring problem.

“‘There can be no covenants between men and lions, wolves and lambs can never be of one mind, but hate each other out and out an through…’” 

You rub your hands on the soft blades of grass that tickle your skin. It’s hot, but it’s a nice day out, you blearily think. You could fall asleep here–maybe if you were lucky, a soft breeze would grace you with its presence. 

“‘Therefore there can be no understanding between you and me, nor may there be any covenants between us, till one or other shall fall.’”

It’s not that bad. It really isn’t. Maybe you had a rush of judgement, but now that you think about it, it’s a good day. 

You smile. 

As Flaven continues his reading of The Iliad, you take a glance at Viktor again. 

You find that his eyes are already on you.

Yandere!Imagines

Short: Double personality boyfriend (GN Reader) (Parody)

Short: Coming out as genderfluid

Short: Yandere with a blind Reader

Short: Sleepyhead Reader

Short: A yandere like Courage the Cowardly Dog

Short: Overconfident Yandere

Short: Dumbass!Reader

Short: Severance-inspired Yandere

Short: Oblivious Yandere

Short: Yandere Clone

Short: Yandere Clone (cont)

Short: Yandere too confident to be jealous

Short: Yandere Partner who shares

Short: Yandere Exorcist with Demon Reader

Anon Short: Yandere Pizza Guy

Yandere!Tumblr Writer x Literal!GN!Reader (Parody)

Yandere!Male x Willing!GN!Reader (Parody)

Yandere!Gamer Boyfriend Scenarios (GN Reader) (Parody)

Yandere!Characters

Yandere!Bad Guy x GN!Reader [Tig]

Yandere!Headless Biker x GN!Reader

Cute!Twisted!Yandere x Fem!Reader

Cute!Twisted!Yandere Short

Yandere!Lawyer x Embroiderer!Fem!Reader

Yandere!Patient x Psychiatrist!Fem!Reader

Nerd!Loser!Yandere x Bully!Fem!Reader

Yandere!Host x GN!Reader

Yandere!Artist x GN!Reader

Yandere!Caretaker x GN!Reader

Yandere!Nun x Fem!Reader

Yandere!Hacker x GN!Reader

Yandere!Delinquent Siblings x GN!Reader

Yandere!Politician x Bratty!Fem!Reader

Yandere!Politician: Breaking up with him

Yandere!CEO x Fem!Reader

Yandere!CEO's wife [Doodle]

Yandere!ASMRtist x GN!Reader

Yandere!ASMRtist x GN!Reader 2

Yandere!Crime Boss x GN!Reader

Yandere!Crime Boss x GN!Reader 2

Yandere!Magical Boy x GN!Reader

Yandere!Senpai x GN!Reader

Magical Boy x Senpai Duo [Doodle]

Yandere!Con Artist x GN!Reader

Yandere!Con Artist in Mob Psycho 100 [Doodle]

Yandere!Mushroom Boy x GN!Reader

Yandere!Mushroom Boy: Chomping [Doodle]

Yandere!Cowboy x GN!Reader

Yan!Cowboy as a Cat!Hybrid [Doodle]

Yandere!Professor Preview [Doodle]

Yandere!Professor Nudes [Doodle]

Yandere!Best Friend x GN!Reader

Yandere!Goth Cowboy x GN!Reader

Yandere!Classmate x GN!Reader

Yandere!Hikikomori x GN!Reader

Yandere!Jester x GN!Royalty!Reader

Yandere!Emperor x GN!Reader

Yandere!Characters [Series]

Masterlist here

Misc

Yan!Burger [Meme]

Yan!Gamer Boyfriend [Meme]

Types of Fairy!Readers [Doodle]

Fairy!Reader [Doodle]

Yandere!OCs as sharks

Cuddly OCs

Which OCs would let you bite them

OCs with menstruating Reader

Yandere!OCs with Y/N Plush

Platonic Yandere!OCs