Bunny ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

It all started with a gentle knock on the front door, mixed with the distinctive smell of something sweet and warm, like freshly baked cake, so out of place in the world of the apocalypse. But the smell was there, it was real, and it distracted him from whatever it was that he was doing with his crossbow. Perhaps he was polishing it.

Knock, knock, knock, knock.

Daryl's calloused fingers grasped his favourite weapon with surprising delicacy, as if it were not a deadly thing, but rather a delicate instrument on which he intended to play the sweetest melody. He got up from his chair and walked slowly, step by step, but not toward the door. He left that to Carol and even Rick—people much more reliable in social situations. His attention was drawn to the open window in the living room. The thin curtains moved slightly in the gentle morning breeze, and as he got closer, his nose detected the same sweet smell he had sensed a few seconds ago. It penetrated the fabric easily, as if it were no obstacle, and spread throughout the living room, settling on every surface in its path. He frowned, leaning his shoulder against the window frame and looking outside, his hunter's eyes carefully scanning the surroundings. From this perspective, the porch was barely visible, he couldn't make out the silhouette of the person standing there, but he could definitely smell a mix of apples, cake, and violets. This made him cautious, but also somewhat curious. He wanted to lean out further, but at that moment Carol approached the door and opened it, forcing the morning intruder to speak up. A moment later, your honeyed voice reached him for the first time, creeping over his body and enveloping him like a heavy blanket that stuck to his skin. One second he was himself, and the next something inside him flipped. An unfamiliar feeling. Warmth spread across his face, and he pricked up his ears, listening. He told himself it was just self-preservation, that he was being cautious, as always, protecting his friends and family. Because he didn't know you. Definitely. He had never heard your sweet voice before. He knew he would have remembered it. Maybe he had seen you somewhere in the last few days, he would have had to look at your face to be sure, but that melodious tone... No, he definitely didn't recognize it.

“I don't want to bother you, I just wanted to welcome you to the town,” you said, and normally such openness and enthusiasm from a stranger would annoy him, but he couldn't help feeling that it was... nice. Just... nice.

A spark of curiosity appeared in his brain, stimulating his nervous system, which he should have suppressed immediately, but since you had already entered his home, he should at least see your face, right? To know who you were. To recognize you in case of an emergency. He didn't know your intentions. Maybe this nice and sweet facade was just a game, a mask that would eventually fall. Because Daryl's instincts were never wrong, and when he heard you admit that you lived only two houses away, he knew something was wrong with you. Who shares such details with strangers? What if they were not good people? You're putting yourself in danger.

He felt anxiety wash over him, goosebumps appearing on his skin with every word you spoke. He could feel it in the air, filled with a mix of so many scents that it began to irritate him, he could practically taste the apple and vanilla on his tongue. It was sweet. It was tempting. It could be addictive. And most likely, it was fake. No, it definitely wasn't nice. He changed his mind. It was fake. It had to be.

Fake, fake, fake, fake.

He took a slow, deliberate breath and moved from the window toward the hall but stopped just around the corner where no one could see him. He knew that if he dared to take even one step outside the room, Carol would drag him into the kitchen for some big and unnecessary introductions, and he wasn't ready for that. In fact, he didn't want to meet any of the people who lived here. This town, this community... It was all supposed to be a dream, but somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was trapped. Locked in a cage. Like an animal in a fucking zoo. Meeting all these people wouldn't help him. Leaning against the wall, he listened to the conversation between you and his friend. There was a broad smile in your voice. You must be a very cheerful person. He frowned. He doesn't like cheerful people. They annoy him. Usually. But there was something in your voice that made him want to keep listening, even though you hadn't said anything important. It was just a normal neighbourly conversation. You wanted to welcome them not only in the town, but also in the neighbourhood. You brought them homemade apple pie — he recognized the smell, which made his mouth water. He couldn't even remember the last time he had eaten cake, and that thought almost made him take a step to reveal his presence, but he stopped himself. He certainly wasn't going to join anyone in the kitchen yet. Not while you were still at home. He doesn’t like strangers, and unknown women scare him even more. That's why he just listened, telling himself that he wasn't interested in you at all. He just wanted to know when you would leave, so he stood still, leaning on the wall with one hand, his ears pricked so as not to miss the door closing. But there was something... strange. He felt strange. Different. The sound of your voice was somehow hypnotic, delicate, but at the same time strong, soft as a feather touch. It made him want to listen carefully to your every word.

When you approached the door, he discreetly peeked out from behind the corner and saw your silhouette disappear on the porch. He couldn't see much, but enough to recognize you later when Carol forced him to attend a small gathering at Deanna’s house. He didn't want to go. He didn't like that kind of thing. He felt uncomfortable under all those curious glances, but he promised he would at least try a little for the group. For his family.

He heard you before he had a chance to get a good look at you. Your sweet, melodious voice made him turn his head in your direction as soon as it reached his ears, and when his gaze fell on you, he was sure that you were the morning intruder who had disturbed his peace.

And now he stands here like an idiot, feeling completely out of place and trying not to look. Don't stare. Why would he do that? He doesn't know you and knows nothing about you, except maybe that when you smile, little wrinkles appear at the corners of your eyes. He can't help but notice this small detail, even from across the room. You're talking to a few people, radiating warmth and kindness like rays of sunshine on a cloudy day. He notices it by accident, only because he happens to look at you right at the moment your mouth stretches into one of the brightest smiles he's ever seen. Nothing more.

He follows Carol like a lost puppy, relying on her to strike up a conversation while he stands quietly beside her, but wherever he goes, your presence somehow follows him. Are you some kind of a witch or something? It's not normal, it's not good, and it makes him shift his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He doesn't feel like himself. Why are his eyes trying to find you in a crowd of unfamiliar faces? Why are his hands suddenly itchy and sweaty? He wants to leave badly, but he will never break a promise he made. Rick is counting on him, and besides, Carol would track him down and drag him back home by his hair if he set foot outside the door.

“Hi, I'm glad you came.”

He almost spills his water when he sees you approaching. There's something about the way you move, so effortless, as if you're floating above the floor. Your hips sway with every step. Not that he's looking at your hips. He just glanced over, like he would at any other woman, right? Except... Daryl has never looked at any other woman that way. He never pays attention to the curves of their hips or thighs.

He lets out a grunt, looking away as if the sight of you burns him, and Carol nudges him in the ribs with her elbow.

“Don't mind him,” she says, trying not to scold him openly in front of you, but you can tell she really wants to. “He's just grumpy.”

He expects you to roll your eyes or comment that he should relax and talk to people. Or maybe ignore his existence completely, which would be the best solution in this situation, but you don't. No, instead, you almost give him a heart attack by giggling quietly. The sound seems to reach his soul and gently brush against it with your fingertips. Now he can see the wrinkles in the corners of your eyes up close. Damn, very beautiful eyes. Sparkling.

He holds his breath. Damn, since when can he see someone's eyes sparkle?

“It would be boring if we were all equally excited about everything, right?” you say, sending him a gentle smile. Him, not Carol. Not to both of them. Just him.

His heart does a spontaneous jump in his chest, and he feels the tips of his ears getting hot. He keeps reminding himself that this is probably all fake, but... You seem so genuinely nice. And kind. And pretty. He's never noticed a woman like this before. He's never paid attention to how their lips curve into a gentle smile, how their eyes sparkle in the warm light. Or how their hair looks so soft and shiny.

Damn, it suddenly hits him how much he wants to wrap that hair around his fingers and tilt your head back, exposing your long neck. It's a beautiful neck. He can see the outline of your collarbones and a single freckle in the hollow of your neck. He wants to press his lips against that spot.

“I hope you're having fun,” you say, distracting him from his thoughts, completely unaware of all the inappropriate scenarios playing out in his head right now. “Try the cheesecake, I baked it.”

He doesn't say a word, doesn't even open his mouth, and you're already gone. He's afraid he'll say something wrong if he opens his mouth. Damn, he's terrified. It's as if he regained his senses after you left and almost hit himself in the face. What the hell? He must be sick. Maybe he has a fever. He could already feel his face getting red and hot. Yes, it must be a fever.

“He could have at least said something,” Carol sighs, looking at him with genuine disappointment. If only she knew what was going on inside him, she would be glad he didn't speak to you. It wouldn't have ended well.

He watches you walk away and swallows hard. He sees your round ass perfectly exposed in tight black jeans and almost moans. What's wrong with him? He's never felt this way before. He's never paid so much attention to any woman before. He's never felt such a rush of adrenaline at the sight of anyone before.

Has he fallen in love with you? In just one day? After seeing you only once?

No fucking way. Daryl Dixon doesn't fall in love with anyone. His destiny is to remain alone for the rest of his life. He doesn't flirt, he doesn't get involved in relationships, and he doesn't deal with any of that intimacy nonsense. He hunts, kills walkers, and is always dirty. His hands are always covered in blood and zombie guts.

And you're so clean and delicate, so pretty and innocent. If he got close to you, he would destroy you. He would ruin you. He would...

Touch you. Lick you. Kiss you.

He would hunt you like a sweet little prey.

Fuck. He has to get out of here. He has to make an excuse and leave, because the situation is getting out of control. He feels like someone has poisoned him, put all these filthy, dirty thoughts in his head, and now is torturing him to see how far he can go. This isn't him. This isn't the man he is. The only things he hunts are animals in the forest. Maybe walkers. But not people. Not women. Not you.

“Are you okay?”

He looks at Carol with a vacant stare and nods, mumbling something about another glass of water, and heads for the furthest table he can find. He needs water, but in the form of an ice-cold shower to wash the madness from his head. If his friend knew what was going through his mind right now, she would throw him out of here. That would be a good solution, but he's not going to tell her anything.

As he reaches for the glass, a smaller hand appears in his field of vision, almost brushing against his. Almost in slow motion, he watches the slender fingers wrap around the wine bottle. Red nails, a gold ring. He knows. He recognizes you by your scent alone. Violets and something else, something sweeter. Maybe the cake you baked earlier. Or maybe it's the way your body teases him, inviting him to take a bite.

He clenches his jaw and grabs the glass. He has to leave, but his legs are paralyzed. Glued to the floor. All he can do is look to the side, meeting your eyes. And that will be his undoing, because that damn smile is still there, stuck on your face like a neon sign leading him to hell.

“It can be overwhelming,” you say, but he's too mesmerized by the movement of your lips, too mesmerized by your Cupid's bow to understand what you're saying. He's not quite sure what to do with his hands. You're so close to him and smiling so radiantly that he can't stop thinking about how perfect the shape of your mouth is. When you speak, he doesn't even hear the words. The sound suddenly becomes muffled, as if he were underwater, and he knows people are talking, but he doesn't understand a word. And to be honest, he's not even trying. He can't bring himself to be interested in anything other than you. He tells himself he's just being observant, as always, but for the first time, he sees things. Things he shouldn’t see.

“Huh?” he asks after what seems like an eternity. His face flushes.

“People,” you say, nodding toward the crowd, not discouraged at all. Even though you see the blush appearing on his cheeks, you are polite enough not to pay attention to it. No, you don't even look at him for more than a second. “The noise. It's strange to hear all these conversations after being outside for so long, isn't it?”

You turn away, leaning your back against the table, staring at the gathered people with an expression as if you were thinking intensely about something. Your lower lip is pulled between your teeth. You hold a bottle of wine in your hands, supporting it from below with one hand and grasping the neck with the other. For the first time in his life, Daryl Dixon begins to wonder what it would feel like to have someone's fingers wrapped around his dick. Your fingers.

“I guess so,” he mutters, trying to stay calm as his head is flooded with all these dirty thoughts and images with you in the middle. Chaos. Total chaos. His hands are shaking, he has to clench them into fists.

“Don't feel bad if you don't like it.”

Why are you being so nice to him? Why are you trying to strike up a conversation? Why are you messing with his head so much?

One last smile, one last look full of warmth and kindness, and then you walk away, leaving him alone. You don't intend to bother him. You're just trying... What exactly are you trying to do? Strike up a conversation? With him? Why?

And why can't he stop staring at you as you walk away, like some kind of weirdo? Something has happened to him today, and he doesn't like it. His senses are heightened, but at the same time dulled. He is conscious, but he feels as if his mind is floating somewhere above his head, refusing to accept any meaning. There must be something in the air. Some kind of toxin or something. Maybe the whole damn city is filled with it. It's the only explanation for his behaviour. The only one.

He lasts an hour, then apologizes to Carol and runs outside, not even wanting to see her rolling eyes. He wants to smoke. He wants to clear his mind. He wants to escape from you and your magnetic presence. As far away as possible. Maybe he should go outside the gate and spend the night alone in the woods, that would probably help.

He groans loudly as he takes a cigarette out of the crumpled pack, lights it, and inhales the smoke. His lungs fill with nicotine, but it doesn't bring him any relief, as he would expect. It doesn't calm his nerves or stop his hands from shaking. It does nothing good, only frustrates him even more.

Daryl was never the type of man who yearn over girls. Even as a teenager, when his hormones were at their peak, he didn't make a big deal out of looking at boobs or anything like that. He's not a virgin probably only because his older brother forced his girl at the time to have sex with him. Until now, he suspected he was asexual. He doesn't even masturbate that often, disgusted by the touch of his own hand. He never imagined what it would be like to have a warm body beneath him, someone moaning his name in his ear.

Before you, there was no desire. There was no greed.

Before you, he never felt his dick harden in his pants at the mere thought of someone's mouth. Someone's fingers.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. It's not just his imagination. His pants are getting tighter, and his semi-erect cock is pressing against the inner seam, making him hiss.

He throws his cigarette on the ground, extinguishes it with the heel of his heavy boot, and practically runs toward the house. A cold shower. He needs a cold shower immediately to wash this damn feeling off his skin. He feels dirty. He feels poisoned.

Something is wrong with him, and he desperately wants it to end.

When he reaches the bathroom and closes the door, he takes off his clothes in seconds, jumps into the shower, and turns on the water. The coldest it can go.

“Fuck,” he curses, punching the wall with his fist. The low temperature hurts his heated skin, but that's okay. It's refreshing. It wakes him up. It's exactly what he needs—a distraction. A distraction from you and the memory of your lips stretching into the most beautiful smile he has ever seen; your fingers wrapped around that bottle with such a gentle but firm grip; your swaying hips.

“No, no,” he mutters, clenching his teeth. His cock is now fully erect, ready and eager. “Stop it.”

He's gone mad, talking to his fucking dick. But of course, it's not listening. Not when his mind is still showing him all these images that have no right to exist. He tries to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth. It doesn't help. Nothing fucking helps. No, Daryl Dixon is absurdly and so incredibly horny that he doesn't even know how to deal with it. Well, there is one way that would work, but he doesn't want to do that. Not with you in mind. Not like some pervert who masturbates thinking about a girl he doesn't even know.

But he has to get rid of this erection, and fast.

“Damn...”

He grabs the first bottle of shower gel he can reach, opens the cap, and pours some into his open palm. He shouldn't do this. He knows he shouldn't, and he knows it's wrong, but when his calloused fingers wrap around his length and start pumping, there's no turning back. A loud moan escapes his lips as he rests his hand on the tiles, supporting his weight. He's never been so needy before. He's never been so horny. His own hand has never given him as much pleasure as it does right now, when all he can think about is how much more pleasant your skin would be.

It doesn't take him long to come in his hand, accompanied by a throaty growl muffled by his clenched lips. It doesn't take him long to feel that burning sensation, a mixture of shame and guilt, in his chest.

You old pervert, he thinks as he cleans himself up. You're sick in the head.

But this evening is just the beginning. The beginning of a much longer story that Daryl has yet to live, full of conflicting emotions, shame, and more sleepless nights with his hand in his pants, silently screaming your name in the darkness of his room.

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If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know <3

"Not really ladylike, are you?"  His laugh sickened you; he began to ramble, and you refused to listen. You hated the way he walked around like he owned the place, how everyone just listened to his misogynistic bullshit like it was normal. How he got off beating people, and yet he had the gall to call you unladylike when he was clearly dragged up, not raised. You were so far in your thoughts that you weren't even sure when he had gotten so close to you or when his friend had gotten off you.

"I think I'll have to teach you a lesson"

"Fuck are you-" the tug at your hair had pulled you out of your daze. Naoya lifted your head at an abrupt angle, forcing you to scramble to your knees. Biting your lip did little to mitigate the pain. 

"Tie her wrists." You watched as he undid his tie, passing it to someone behind you, and just as the confusion wore off, you were restrained. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" The pit in your stomach was growing. Surely he wasn't going to do this here? He unbuckled his belt, flicking his cigarette in someone's direction. Fear had overtaken your disgust as Naoya whipped his semi-hard cock onto your face, rutting against your nose. It was big, annoyingly so, and curved ever so slightly and smelt like himjust a lot muskier. 

"Defiance is cute and all," He smeared his tip on your lip, "But I prefer my women more obedient."

My woman, that phrase caused you to scrunch your eyes shut. You thought all this harassment was a sick game to him, but it was becoming clearer now that something twisted was happening in his mind. 

"Open up," His thumb tried to pry your lips open, but you clenched your jaw, resisting him. You were glad you did, as it softened the blow when his hand struck your face. 

The impact had turned your head to the left, and you slowly looked back at him, your shock changing into anger, then fear. The spiteful quip you had ready dissolved on your tongue as he yanked your hair back to look at him properly. The rage on his face was palpable. Maybe you shouldn't have pushed him so much? It was probably best to placate him.

"No way you're acting like a prude now," He positioned himself once again, pumping his dick lazily, "Not after what I saw in the alleyway."

Your blood ran cold, pupils shaking as you made eye contact with him. "Funny, huh? My cousin said he saw you at a dinner party the same night"

Suddenly aware of the whispering around you, you refused to look around. 

"Not as an attendee, of course." Naoya chuckled, almost pitying you. "Open."

His voice deepened, much more commanding this time. Not that he needed to be, you were already afraid of what he might say if you didn't.  He spared no time, sliding his dick into your warm, wet mouth. A satisfied groan rumbled in his chest as he bottomed out, pushing your nose into his pelvis, his pubes tickling your nose. You couldn't help but gag, the stretch causing your jaw to ache - your eyes crinkling with pain. 

"Fuck," He sneered at you, "Knew you'd be less of a pain in the ass with my dick in your mouth."

You could hear his friends cheering him on as he ragdolled you on his shaft, no regard for your comfort. Naoya knew you'd have a hard time taking him; money, status, power and a dick like this made people like him unnecessarily cocky. 

"Nothing like those old men, huh?" He muttered, but you heard him.  You had planned to take that event to the grave; it was part of why you were so desperate to get your money back. Missing a payment by just a day had led to Sukuna selling you off for the night. There was no way you'd get enough money in 3 days - the idea of what he may do to you next almost caused your heart to stop. 

Obscene gagging noises, along with your sobs, filled the small classroom. With your hands tied, you could only lean into him, unable to push away or tap out. Left at his mercy, Naoya would slam his pelvis into you, holding you there until you coughed, then he'd pull out, permitting you a second to breathe.  Demanding you tighten your throat as he slapped your cheek. Your body betrayed you as strained moans vibrated out, causing his pace to falter due to the pleasure. He loved it, the way you looked, swallowing all of him; he hated to admit it, but it did something to him.

Then you saw it, the unmistakable flash of a camera. 

The panic inside you was rising quickly, your vision getting blurry with tears. You needed to get out of here - unfortunately, your mental struggle led to you accidentally scraping Naoya.

"Crazy bitch." He hissed, pulling away from you hard enough that you fell back. You turned on your side, curling up to cough your lungs out. 

"Thought a slut like you at least be good at this." His remark earned snickers from the crowd. Looking at your surroundings, you realised he wasn't the only one getting off to your misery. People were watching you, pleasuring themselves to the depraved scene. You couldn't even hide your face. You clenched your thighs together, undeniable arousal building up inside you - when had you become like this?

Naoya left you little time to ponder, kicking you onto your back. His foot pushed your rumpled school skirt up for everyone to see your slightly worn white panties, soaked through. 

"What the fuck, you're actually into this?" His eyes roamed over your body, admiring the mix of pre-cum and saliva smeared around your lips, soaking through your shirt. The laughter around you caused your ears to burn in shame.  

You arched up from the floor, your knees flying together as the bully stepped on your clothed cunt. An ugly, almost pained moan was ripped from your lips. You tried to kick at him, only for him to grind his foot against your clit. 

"Hold her legs down." Naoya fished another cigarette from his pocket as one of his friends pulled your knees apart, bringing them to your chest. His hands were sticky; it was evident he had been jerking off to you with the others, his fluids leaking onto your skirt. 

You looked at Naoya with pleading eyes, but it was clear he had no sympathy for you. His eyes darted to your chest. "Haven't had a look at those tits yet, have we?"

His question was directed at no one in particular, but everyone seems to chime in, suggesting he strips you bare. How nice of someone to take the initiative to rip your shirt open for him. Embarrassed now that you’re not wearing a bra. He makes no comment, unsurprised by your “sleazy antics” and murmuring something about you asking for it.

Another random offers him a light.

"Stop, please, I didn't do anything to you!" You cry out, shaking hysterically, the cold nipping at your exposed skin. Mortified that you’re unable to help the fact that all this stress turned you on. A coping mechanism you had developed just by living in this god-forsaken town.

"I like that", Naoya flicked at his cig before getting on his knees between your legs.

"Begging suits sluts like you."

He pushes your knees down further, pushing the other guy aside. You're more than aware of what awaits you. You can feel the heat and weight of his cock through your damp panties as he rubs himself against you. Dribbles of his pre-cum mix with your slick.

"Please don't. please, please pleaseー" Your chants are like a prayer. It's the only thing you can do as you watch him rip the thin fabric barring his entry. The bored expression across his face is betrayed by the way his cock twitches with each 'please' from your lips. 

He presses his cigarette against your bare chest, evoking a scream from you, a smile from him. 

Naoya leans in, kissing your jaw and licking a stripe up to your lobe. He wants to kiss you, violate your mouth just like he’s done with the rest of your body, but for some reason - perhaps guilt- he hesitates. You flinch away, cringing at the feeling. "They said you're a special grade whore." He nibbles at your ear as he humps against your dripping cunt. 

His angry red tip pushes past the rim of resistance. "I'll be the judge of that." He leans back, positioning his large hands against your thighs. He can hear his peers jeering him on; who is he to deny the crowd?

"I’m going to fuck you. Right here. Everyone will see and know you’re mine." 

He slams into you with that declaration, and the audience gets rowdier as you cry out in pain at the sudden intrusion. Naoya gives you no time to adjust, nor does he care about loosening you up. In his mind, you have enough experience with men to naturally adjust to him. He rolls his hips against you as he bottoms out, tufts of wet hair brushing against your clit, sending shocks down your spine. "No surprise, you're good for this."

He can’t believe how tight you are, how greedily you suck him in despite how he forced his way into you. Naoya always had a feeling you were made for him, designed solely to wring his cock dry- he would make good use of this perfect pussy. 

Whatever fight you had has been fucked out of you. Broken moans punched out of you with each brutal thrust from him; his mind’s only task was to shift your womb, intentionally knocking at your cervix to see himself bulge through your belly. He should’ve done this earlier. The pain transforms into pleasure as his hand snakes up to pinch and pull at one of your nipples - more punishing than arousing. Your eyes roll back, overstimulation causing your body to tremble, unwittingly locking eyes with an audience member recording you. Your pussy clenches around your assailant, drawing a groan from him. 

"You like this, don't you?" He growls out, "Being fuck -fucked in front of a crowd " His hand comes down to strike your cunt with each word. Revelling in how your walls ripple with each hit, annoyed never knew you were such a masochist. He would’ve teased you more.

“N-Naoya, wait-” You moan out broken variations of his name, a knot forming deep in your stomach. It'd be humiliating to cum in these circumstances.

"Don't call me that, we're far from equals.” He spits out. 

"I'm your master" A calloused hand grips your face, stopping you from ignoring him.

 "Say it." His thrusts slow down, punctuating at your sweet spot. 

Drunk on the pleasure, you give in where you’d usually fight,  "M-master", your words once again fractured by the way the ridge of his tip scrapes against your gummy walls. You chant it, your brain pounded to mush by his unforgiving pace.

He palms your tit, pleased with how easily you give in, how pliant you've become. If only you were like this all the time, the two of you would get along much better; you just needed to accept your place. 

Beneath him. 

"That's it, dirty slut.", laughing at how you pulse at every degrading word from his mouth. 

"Cum for me." His tone is gentler than it's ever been with you and yet, still demanding. 

But you listen, you obey.

You can't stop your legs from trembling as you release, arching from the ground. Surprising yourself as well as others as you squirt, spraying yourself and Naoya, who expels a string of curses. His pace stutters, once, twice, before he pulls out, releasing over your dishevelled uniform.

"What a waste of my seed." His chest heaves as he clicks his tongue, "Not that you are worthy of it." His palm wipes your bodily fluids from his face. He looks over your slightly shaking form, his lust got the better of him - you were a good fuck anyway, so no loss there. 

Naoya thinks you're pathetic.

He stands up, tucking himself into his pants and buckling his belt as if nothing had happened. 

"Gimme your shirt, I don't wanna smell like that whore." He takes his own school shirt off, swapping it with one of his followers. Naoya throws the shirt over you, not to help you, but to stop the crowd from mixing their fluids with his own when they finish. 

You watch him finish dressing up, as you come to your senses. He pulls his hoodie on as he remembers he has something for you. 

Naoya throws your money at you "You're one expensive prostitute, huh." Smiling at his own joke as he and his entourage clear out the room. 

"See you later, slut."

Naoya can now be claimed as your love interest! It seems you don't have a choice in the matter.

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