Da Babiest Of Dollz

And that’s how you found yourself in your current position: sitting on his large, extremely expensive speaker, watching Choso bite his pick as he tuned his instrument, and a little confused as to what your skirt had to do with anything. “What exactly am I supposed to do?”

Shrugging, he replies, “Sit there and be perfect. I just want to play you something I’ve been working on.”

You love when he plays music just for you. It’s one of the reasons why you’ve always had a crush on him; he knows how to make a girl feel special.

Giddy, you wait for him to start. A mischievous cock of a brow your only warning.

Choso plays majestically, like he always does — nimble fingers press and pluck strings expertly, instinctively, as if he was born with a guitar in his hands. It’s been a point of envy, for as long as you’ve known him, how passionate he is. Intimate, enchanting, and bewitching don’t even begin to cover how amazing it is to watch him play. 

You’re not the only one who thinks so; girls often flock to his garage when he and his brothers are playing. How far they get from there though, you don’t know and are too scared to ask. You like to think you’re the only who’s actually seen the inside of their home, who’s been allowed to play with little Yuji, or has actually stepped foot inside Choso’s bedroom.

He bites his lips, arms flexing, showing off distinct veins and you think it’s downright pornographic. The way his hips move too, grinding against mahogany wood, has you captivated, leaning over to get closer, to feel the heat he exudes, to feel his muscles flex and contract, wishing it was you he was holding close to his body.

Something is different, however.

He isn’t getting lost in the music like usual. 

No, he’s not staring at the note sheets or where his fingers are dancing on the instrument. He’s staring right at you, watching you squirm. You gasp.

The vibrations…

They’re reverberating in your body, almost as if you could feel him inside, touching and groping, teeth scraping and piercings prodding where you’re most sensitive.

“S-stop,” you breathed out, jaw dropping. But he can’t hear you over the pounding music.

Choso groans, head thrown back and playing a particularly heavy riff. It runs straight through you.

That bastard had impure motives. 

Every note, every thrum, high and low, goes straight to your clit. Bolts of lightning sparking dizzying desire inside you, settling in the pit of your stomach, and tickling the peaks of your tits. You’re panting, unable to tear your eyes away from him. He commands attention, always has when he plays. Whilst being mild, bored and brooding is his default setting, he’s dominant, electrifying, and downright sadistic on stage.

You thought he didn’t know he switched at all, but now, you realise, he's always known exactly what he was doing. 

How long had he been planning this?

How did he know exactly what chords to play to have your eyes rolling back? What strings to pluck to get your toes curling, thighs shutting tight, and fingers gripping the edge of the speaker?

Garage door still wide open, you can’t seem to find it in you to care that the neighbours across the road might be watching, that they might know exactly what you’re doing on the speaker, and what’s about to happen. Somehow, the weight of eyes on your body only urges you on.

“Oh god,” you rasp, chest heaving.

You don’t notice it until it’s too late — your hips grinding against the wood of the speaker in time with the way he subtly grinds his cock against his guitar. He holds it firmly, but tenderly, hands so in tune with the curves and ridges, and you wonder if he’d hold you the same, or if he’d be more punishing.

His tongue is poking the inside of his cheek, pierced brows furrowed in concentration, strands of hair sticking to his forehead. He’s never looked hotter.

The literal climax of the song is approaching. The notes are building, getting faster and faster. His fingers move at incredible speed, too fast for you to keep up with. Dark eyes dare you to jump off, to cut this short, but you don’t. You ride the speaker like it’s his fingers. 

“F-fuck,” you moan out, back arching and thighs quivering. “Shit -ngh!- Choso.”

Your panties are soaked.

Distantly, you get why he was so ecstatic to see you wearing a skirt; there might as well have been no barrier between you and the vibrations he was feeding to your greedy pussy. 

Bleary eyes opening, you pant, desperate to catch your breath. He is too.

Choso rolls his shoulders, a flush growing underneath the tattoo that stretches over his nose and cheeks, pierced tongue sliding out to lick his lips. He’s just as out of breath, a shudder running down his spine. It’s a familiar sight. One you see here and there, late at night, when he thinks he’s alone. It’s how he looks right after he’s…

That’s when you see it. 

The dark spot growing in his jeans. You gasp.

He’s about to say something, but you don’t let him.

You run out of there faster than if you were being chased.

When you turn back just briefly, however, you don’t miss the way his fingers slide against the wet mark you left, nor how he brings it up to his nose at first and then into his mouth, all whilst never breaking eye contact. His wink’s the last thing you see before you run back home, embarrassed but so so turned on.

One cowardly peek at his window later in the day, though, has you smacking your forehead. It doesn't say 'Come? :)' like you initially thought. Instead, it reads:

'Cum? ;)'

Suguru leads you deeper into the warehouse, past humming money counters and more cutting tables, before the two of you start climbing the metal stairs—your short pleated cheer skirt swaying, varsity hoodie bunched at your waist, like this is just some campus field trip and not a weekly pickup worth a few grand in green.

Upstairs is part narco showroom, part luxury trap house.

Stainless steel counters gleam under spotlight strips. Vacuum-sealed bricks stacked with military precision. Rows of jars and labeled containers.

A fully stocked bar. Pool table. Card table.

And smack in the middle of it all: a California king bed with black satin sheets—bold enough to face a 90-inch TV with surround sound, like Suguru’s ever had to bother with the ‘Netflix’ part before getting to the ‘chill.’

Likewise, Suguru doesn’t have to say a word.

You already know where to go.

However, Suguru always gives you a choice.

While he’s loading up your bag, you can sit at the bar if you’re not down—he’ll even toss you a nug for the road, no questions asked.

But you always choose the bed anyway. Crossing the room to sit, legs folded all pretty-like, expression bored—like you’re counting down the minutes until you can leave. Pretending you’re not playing by his rules and you wouldn’t uncross your legs for him with a mere look.

Like you have no idea what’s coming next.

You do.

It’s all part of the game.

What isn’t a game, though, is the intensity of the bong hit you just took when Suguru finally returns—tossing your bag aside and dropping onto the bed beside you. It always feels like a truck slammed into your lungs, the sear promising an even bigger high. Like clockwork, one pull and you’re already melting into the sheets. Your body thrums, your vision softens at the edges, breath ragged from coughing.

Suguru’s shit always has that effect, potent and paralyzing. He’s the best, and the only, distributor in the area for that reason. 

And still?

It holds no candle to the high you get off Suguru’s cock.

You tell yourself this time, like you do everytime—that this is the last time—the last hit, the last fuck, the last time you let him put you on your back and rearrange your guts like you’re some little plushie toy he can press into shape. 

That you’d be stronger this time and resist falling-in even deeper with the kingpin.

“HAH—Fucccck! S-Sugu!”

Oopsie. 

Welp—too late now.

Because right now?

You’re ass naked in Suguru’s inky sheets while he looms over you, folding you like origami into the filthiest mating press known to man—ass lifted, tits pressed into your ribs, knees brushing your ears.

Toes scrabble uselessly at the sheets bunched near your head, hands digging into your own thighs for leverage, though all that really does is hold you open. Exposed, twitching and helpless Suguru molds your body like you were made for this: to be split open and gasping underneath him.

Druglord!Suguru who grins wickedly—sweat trailing down his inked throat as his Cuban link swings and gleams above you, catching the light with every thrust.

“NGHH...FUH!”

Your moans spill out in broken little gasps—barely even words now—just pathetic noises from the way Suguru’s fucking you stupid, each ruthless clap of his hips knocking the little sense you do have right out of you.

Thank fuck for pilates and cheer—otherwise, your spine would’ve snapped in two by now.

Even so, the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely is the weed flooding your system—your high rolling in thick and heavy.

Your muscles melt into warm goo, sparking your hypersensitive skin like a tripwire. Every shift of air sends shivers skating down your spine, each one crashing into the next.

Your eyes are punched so deep into their sockets—like the rest of your guts—you certainly wouldn't see it if something did snap under the force of Suguru’s hips slamming into you.

Suguru knows your body too well by now—knows exactly what strain to lace your lungs with. The kind of indica that drapes you in heat and keeps you pinned, helpless, while every deep drag of his cock lights you up from the inside out.

Even high himself, Suguru moves like someone vibrating on another plane of existence. The sativa blazing through him like a current only sharpens his focus to an unnatural degree. His movements are too clean, each penetrating thrust calculated—like he’s studying the way your pussy squeezes around him each time just so he could ruin it better with the next thrust.

That’s why the very second your body starts adjusting to the rhythm?

Suguru changes it. He always does.

One moment he’s pounding into you like he’s trying to fuck through the mattress—and the next, he’s grinding lazy, maddening circles deep in your cunt. The head of his cock, dragging heavy against your walls, rolls up to lodge next to your womb in a brutal wave that crests with the nastiest smooch onto the opening of your cervix.

No matter the pace though, you’re still left gasping for air.

Suguru’s so deep, it feels like he’s fucking into your throat.

Wait—or maybe that’s just the phantom sensations from earlier when he nested himself in your throat, the throb of his girth still haunting your vocal cords. 

Hard to tell anymore.

Of course, none of it would be half as overwhelming if Suguru wasn't so psychotically entrapping you with soul-piercing, unblinking eye contact—like he’s sadistically savoring every second of you unraveling on his cock.

The sheer intensity of fucking the druglord while high would be terrifying… if it wasn’t such a goddamn turn-on in itself.

He always fucks you with the desperation of a man getting his last taste of pussy before a 30-year RICO sentence.

“Fuckin’ s'tight, fuck!”  Suguru growls, his sultry voice dripping heat straight into your core. 

Every prominent vein of his cock carves itself along your walls, mapping out the trail of your utter ruin.

“Takin’ me so well pretty girl—always coming back to Daddy—begging me for more…cause Daddy knows just the way she likes it, yes?” 

You try to answer but all that comes out is a thin, pitiful whine. It's all too much—from how hard Suguru’s grip is bruising your ankles, half-crescents digging into your soft flesh—to his balls sharply smacking into your ass, bouncing droplets off onto the sheets with every thrust. 

“What’s that? You like how I fuck you?” 

Is he serious!? Was that supposed to be a rhetorical question?!?! 

“S-Suuuu—guu-rgh!”

You barely manage even that, choking on your own moans. You’re down to single syllables now.

Suguru leans in, pace not slowing for a second, as he breathes warm puffs against your cheek before licking a drop of sweat off your skin—the sweat he dragged out of you.

Suguru’s the one doing all the work, but your body feels completely wrung out from the mere effort of taking it. Every single muscle in your body trembles under the fury of his cock.

“Shhhhh, Bunny.”

You’d talked out of turn and you didn’t even realize it.

Suguru doesn’t allow insubordination but he’s satisfied given the utterly ruined state you’re in nonetheless.

It's his doing after all.

“Me and this pretty pussy are talking now, baby. You know better than to interrupt Daddy when he’s handling business.”

And right now? She is the business.

Your pussy finally speaks up, she's doing all the talking now—gripping him tight like she knows the filth’s for her. Every wet suck and squelch gets louder, messier, needier—like she’s desperate to make a sloppy little scene just to keep him happy.

You know Suguru’s close too when that iron control of his starts to slip—just barely, but enough to feel it.

His stare falters, his cock gives a dangerous twitch and his thrusts stutter as he tries to keep from busting right then and there. He groans low, jaw clenched, like he’s trying to fuck the orgasm back down into his balls so he can ruin you for even longer.

“That right, pretty pussy, tell me more.”

You don’t have to though, he can already feel it.

“Tell Daddy more about how good his cock makes his lil’ stoner slut feel.”

Suguru breathes out a dark chuckle when you seize around him, licking lazily across your swollen, spit-slick lips—right before he slams into you again with a brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

Your head spins. You’re too folded up to breathe deep, thighs cramping from how long he’s had you bent in half, ribcage crushed under your own legs.

Whatever scraps of sanity you had left are long gone. You can’t even hold back your cries now—not that you’re trying. The whole damn warehouse could probably hear the way he’s wrecking your poor little cunt. Not that it matters.

They’ve heard it all before.

Just another weekly reminder of exactly who this pussy belongs to.

“Hnnnngh!”

The next brutal smack of your bodies colliding finally pushes you over the edge.

Everything fractures—sound, light, the entire room blurring into searing white heat as euphoria floods your system. Your body trembles violently as your orgasm surges like a tidal wave before crashing, dragging you under to drown in overstimulated ecstasy.

Desperate to ground yourself, your hands reach blindly, tangling in Suguru’s sweat-slick hair. Raven strands cling to your knuckles as you fist the back of his scalp and yank him into you—lips crashing against his.

The tug of your fingers, the bittersweet taste of your tongue—still tinged with the spunk he so generously fed you earlier—and the way your gooey core is practically melting his cock off... it’s all enough to finally send him over the edge.

With a deep, heady growl, Suguru breaks the kiss, spilling inside you. Thick pulses of heat flood your cunt, his cock twitching as he empties dredges of cum inside you in slow, aching spurts.

Suguru doesn’t pull out right away. He just stays there—buried deep—forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling, cock lazily sloshing in the mess he made of your guts.

His gaze stays fixed on you, unbroken, savoring the way you melt for him as his hands knead your jelly‑soft legs, patiently working the feeling back into them and he gently unfolds you.

When Suguru finally pulls out, he collapses beside you with a grunt, chest rising and falling in quick, heavy breaths. One arm slings across your waist—like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Your highs have neither of you moving for any immediate aftercare, that all could wait.

A small sated sigh leaves you summon enough will to drag the previously discarded sheet over your shoulders like you just survived something heroic. Which, honestly, you kinda did. Your hips are definitely going to hate you at cheer practice later.

But that was a future you problem.

Nuzzling against Suguru, you release a sigh that’s half purr, half yawn. Ready to get some well earned zzz’s. 

High-after-sex naps really are the best.

You're just starting to drift when—

“I know you aren’t trying to nap when you know you have class in an hour, Bunny—Get up.”

Suguru’s unimpressed tone slices through your haze, denying you your sleep.

You groan and roll your eyes under your lids, not bothering to open them. Your first instinct is to be a brat about it—but honey always works better than vinegar. 

Time for plan B. 

Whimpering sweetly and clinging to Suguru tighter, you bury your face in his chest with a dramatic little pout.

“Are you tired of me already?” you mumble, voice muffled. “Tryna kick me out before your next cheerleader plug gets here, Sugu?”

You tilt your face up to look at him, batting your lashes with your best doe-eyed look—even if your eyes are still bloodshot.

But Suguru isn’t moved by your tricks.

“Nah, never, Bunny. I only have the patience for one bratty slut—I’m just not tryna be responsible for you flunking out.”

Urgh.

You fling the sheets over your head, refusing to move.

Okay… so maybe you have been skipping one too many classes. 

And maybe Suguru is the main reason you’re currently dragging a C in Biology.

And normally, he wouldn’t give a fuck. He doesn’t typically micromanage your life, so long as it doesn’t interfere with his.

But you’d made the dumbass mistake of letting him see your text to a friend about failing a couple midterms. Ever since then, he’s been on your ass about school—threatening to withhold dick, even dangling your plug status, like it’s some academic award for good performance.

Which you can’t even tell him to fuck off over either. 

Why?

Well, the gag is it's Druglord!Suguru whose the one paying for your entire tuition in the first place. 

Ever since you helped patch him up one day (he was walking around with a shallow stab wound and refused to go to the hospital), he said you had a knack for it and wanted you to be his personal nurse. Telling you to switch your sociology major to nursing and he'd pay for it all—back loans too.

You’d laughed at first, but he wasn’t joking.

Apparently, he’s got Shoko as a doctor on call, but she refuses to get involved in his cartel shit unless he’s literally on death’s door.

So now you’re his backup plan—his personal on-call plug-nurse-situationship.

“Don’t wanna! Today isn’t even a lab. It’s just a dumb lecture. I can catch the recording ya know!” you whine petulantly.

Especially after how hard he just fucked you.

Suguru’s bed is warm, the weed is still swirling in your system, and your body feels like it was steamrolled. Even if you wanted to move… yeah. 

No.

Not happening.

But Suguru doesn’t give two shiny fucks about your excuses. He answers you with a stinging smack across your already sore hips.

“FUCK—ow, Sugu! Quit it!”

You finally uncover your head, a bratty frown on your lips—though it melts quickly into something a little more sultry as you kiss his chest, lips brushing the faded ink on his sternum.

In a last ditch effort, your fingers drift lower, feather-light down the ridges of his abs. You feel them flex under your touch. He’s still high, still sensitive. You know damn well what your hands can do to him right now.

“Mmmmm, but Daddyyy,” you coo, tongue flicking up his neck to his lips, peppering kisses over the hard line of his mouth. “...You could teach me way more about biology right here.”

You start to slide lower, determined to make your case.

When Suguru suddenly sits up, firm and unbothered. He peels you off of him with all the effort it takes to brush lint off a jacket.

And then comes the look. The Scarface one.

Motherfuck.

Yeah… you’re not winning this.

That doesn't mean you have to like it though.

You let out a huffy little breath, arms crossing tight under your chest.

“Fine. I’ll go,” you grumble, already pouting. “...But I’m not going sober.”

You toss him a side glance, defiant to the end. “You still got some of that special Sour Diesel? Roll me a few for the walk back to campus since you wanna kick me out so bad.”

Suguru shakes his head with a chuckle—of course his spoiled little Bunny had the nerve to ask for some of his personal stash, grown by his own hands in his private hothouse, like it was nothing.

“Yeah, sure Bun…”

Suguru swings his legs off the bed and reaches for his slacks, pulling them on. There’s a smirk tugging at his mouth when he looks back at you.

“Though, not like I don’t already give you enough of my shit for free—but yeah. If it gets your bratty ass to class? I’ll roll the good shit.”

Pause.

For free?

Did this man say for free?!

He could at least have the decency to give you a few premium joints for the road if he was going to fuck all the feeling out of your legs. How exactly were you supposed to walk to class like this?

Heated, before Suguru could even stand up straight, you grab him and yank him back onto the bed.

“Oh, and just what the hell is that supposed to mean?” you screech.

Climbing onto his lap, your palm lays flat against his chest, glaring down at him like you’re ready to square up, deadly druglord be damned.

“Like a recovery joint after you fucked my legs numb isn’t a fair trade?!””

Suguru laughs outright, deep and amused, clearly enjoying how fired up you are.

He looks at you like a smug owner eyeing his favorite bratty kitten, giving your bare ass a few soft, patronizing pats that only fuels your fire.

Suguru really can’t believe how clueless you are sometimes—but then again, he didn’t start fucking you for your brains—as a testament to your slipping grades.

But Suguru’s smart enough not to say that out loud—unless he wanted you to swing on him for real.

Which would only end one way: him having to fuck the brat out of you all over again. And clearly, judging by that mouth on you—he didn’t do a thorough enough job the first time.

If it came to that? Yeah, you definitely wouldn’t be making it to class.

Not for the rest of the week at least.

“It means,” Suguru says calmly, arms sliding around your waist, “that you’re lucky that sweet lil’ pussy of yours grips like Harambe did the kid.”

Gagged, your entire face falls flat.

“Otherwise,” he continues easily, “I wouldn’t be lettin’ a bratty stoner bunny like you smoke up all the product you’re supposed to be sellin’.”

“Geto Suguru!” you snap, using his full government as you push away from him to cross your arms.

“Are you actually fucking serious right now?!”

Suguru's grin widens. “As a heart-attack.”

Pulling you back to him, his hands settle on your hips as his eyes flit over you with that patronizing, sexy smolder that makes it really hard to stay mad. 

You have to actively remind yourself not to kiss him. Not to let this slide and immediately fold.

Because sure, you like to light one up as much as the next stressed out college student.

And maybe—just maybe—you skim a little off the top now and then. Just a nug here, a gram there. Nothing major.

BUT—you always sell, like… 99.9% of the shit he gives you.

No way the big-time narco god, Geto Suguru, is seriously tripping over some kief crumbs.

“Bunny, baby,” Suguru drawls, “you’re always coming back with a lighter stack. You seriously think I don’t count my money? Even from you?”

Bristling you chew your lip. Suguru’s tone is amused but there's a threat simmering underneath. 

Your jaw tightens, mind racing over the possibilities of what he could be talking about.

Okay… so being 100% real, maybe you weren't really counting things like you should be and a few bills disappeared. It’s not like you were pocketing it for yourself!

The real problem is that Suguru’s a major hardass about zero-digital footprints.

No Venmo. No Cash App. No exceptions.

Which leaves you hauling around wads of sweaty crumpled bills thick enough to shame a stripper.

“That’s the point,” he’d once said, smirking. “Stripping’s the perfect cover for a pretty lil’ bimbo like you if you ever get stopped.”

Please. As if you’d ever get caught. 

No one ever suspects the bubbly cheerleader to be a walking dispensary. 

Perfectly discreet.

And the math… well. Math’s never really been your strong suit, which is just all the more reason Suguru should let you be the exception!

“Business that bad, Suguru?” you say, with sass as you attempt to push him away for good this time and get up. 

You’re so done with this conversation. 

“Didn’t know you’d get so twisted over a couple missing twenties.”

Unfortunately—Suguru’s not done yet, not by a long shot.

His arms tighten around you, fast as solid muscle locks you in. Suguru hauls you against his chest, squeezing right to the point before it actually starts hurting you for real, making you look up at him. 

His mask slips just enough to show something colder underneath, something far dangerous he tries to keep hidden from you.

“Twenties?” Suguru repeats, lowly, nearly purring. “Oh, sweet girl. Try hundreds.”

Hundreds?! 

You gulp. Well, shit.

Were you really shorting him hundreds each time!?

Your stomach sinks. No wonder he thinks you’re smoking up his supply instead of selling it. You’d almost rather he think that you were some ditzy pothead than assume you’re skimming cash on purpose.

You know what he does to the people who cross him.

You knew better. And so did he. You didn’t need to steal anyway—you had his black card, and you could fuck nearly anything else out of him, if you really wanted it.

“You’re fuckin’ up my books, lil’ stoner Bunny…”

Your attention snaps back to Suguru, and for a split second the dangerous glint in his eyes sends a chill down your spine.

But just as fast—it’s gone. Like it was never there. The storm clears on command, the kind of break-neck control that always makes you wonder how an actual human could manage.

The heaviness in the room lightens instantly as Suguru releases his hold on you, hands returning to the bed as he cocks his head with a chuckle, returning to his laid back charm.

“But like I said.” Suguru muses, “I like you. And that crazy wet cunt of yours. S’all good, Bunny. We’re straight.”

His fingers stroke the top of your head, petting you like he didn’t just threaten you a breath ago. You tense at first, still reeling from his Jekyll and Hyde routine.

But Suguru just laughs, pressing a kiss to your cheek, all warmth and indulgence—like a man reassuring his favorite pet after a scolding.

“I stopped counting your numbers toward quota a long time ago anyway,” he adds with a shrug. “Business is good—so I can afford to let you play around with a few stacks every month.”

Your pride flares instantly, though your voice comes out smaller than usual, your hurt apparent.

“Play around?” you pout. “You act like I’m just some bimbo with a backpack, Suguru. I run that campus for you!"

“That you do, Bun,” Suguru says, hiding his smirk behind a look of appeasement.

He doesn’t bother explaining the full picture.

You don’t need to know he’s got other runners tucked around the outer edges of campus. You couldn’t cover the whole university alone, even if you tried. 

But Greek life, athletics, student dorms, even the occasional high-ranking faculty? Those are your zones.

Suguru didn’t put you there by accident. He knows discretion when he sees it. Knows a cute bubbly cheerleader with lashes and lip gloss could move more product through a frat house than five sketchy dealers in hoodies ever could.

Still, he can’t resist the adorable little pout on your lips now. You’re sulking—genuinely surprised you came up that short, so naive, that’s why he has to watch out for you like he does.

Suguru presses a second kiss, this one to your forehead, before pulling his discarded button-down over your head.

You melt automatically, arms around his neck, cheek against his shoulder as he stands, your legs hooking loosely around his waist for balance.

“Aw, don’t pout, princess,” he murmurs, rubbing slow circles into your lower back. “You know I’d never lie to you—and the truth could never be a diss.”

Well, Suguru wouldn’t tell you a flat out lie. 

He absolutely lies by omission though, withholding plenty of information from you for your own safety—and plausible deniability. 

Sniffing petulantly, you can’t say he’s wrong. But you've never been the type to take an L quietly.

With you securely in his arms, Suguru walks you to the steel table near the edge of the loft. The surface of the cold industrial table bites at the bare skin of your thighs as he sets you down. You suck air through your teeth, adjusting the hem of his oversized button-down—practically a dress on you—as your legs swing lightly off the edge.

The air is thick with weed, tobacco, the warm cling of sweat from earlier as Suguru gets to work. You're lost in thought as you hear the dull scrape of metal as Suguru opens the grinder, the slow, unhurried thnk-thnk-thnk as he twists it. 

He rolls like he fucks—with just enough arrogance to remind you he’s the best at it—and everything else he does.

Suguru doesn’t look at you, but he feels the tension in the silence regardless.

However he is happy to let you stew.

And you do—chewing at your bottom lip and twisting the hem of his shirt around your finger, fuming in your seat. 

Letting him scold you was one thing.

But calling your business playtime?! 

Like you’re not out there moving serious weight between dorms, frat parties, and half the athletic department?

You know he doesn’t expect you to pay him back for the stacks you’ve supposedly gone “light” on.

You wouldn’t even be breathing right now if that was the case. 

But it's his cockiness and the utter arrogance of it all has you still heated.

You shift your gaze, “Say Suguru.. if I wanted to square up…”

Cigarette between his lips, Suguru glances at you through his lashes but says nothing and keeps rolling.

“…what would it take?”

He exhales, the smoke curling from his lips like a warning of his waning patience.

“Don’t start, Bunny.”

Pushing down the urge to recoil, you turn to face him defiantly, both hands landing on the hard metal table, heel nudging his thigh.

“So...six grand sound fair, Boss?”

Suguru's hands pause mid-roll, head tilting just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. One brow lifts slowly.

Then Suguru snorts, the low rasp of it wrapped around a cocky grin.

“You barely bring back two on a good week. Don’t tell me you’re planning on slanging ass behind the sciences building now?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, looking at him with the best serious look you can muster, trying to emulate him.

It’s a piss poor attempt that only has Suguru snickering as he ashes his cigarette and turns to you. in appraisal.

“Not that I don’t think the goods would sell, Bun—”

Suguru pats your leg with a lecherous grin.

”—but I'm known for pushing narcotics, not pussy—and I'd like to keep it that way”

Returning to his task, he licks the edge of the paper and rolls, dropping the finished joint into a baggie before moving onto the next. 

You close your eyes and take a deep exhale. Yoga breaths, inner peace and namaste, girl—do not take the bait! You know he wants you to mouth off so he can end this, but you won’t play by his rules this time.

You press on, too stubborn to just let it go.

“It’s 4/20 this Sunday, ya know! People are desperate, Sugu! I could charge double, easy—I’ll bring in six.” You lift your chin in confidence. “Three for the product, three extra—to pay back what I owe.”

Suguru leans back on his stool, arms crossed. The cigarette returns to dangle from his lips.

His eyes roam your face, reading every defiant flicker in it. You're just as stubborn as he is.

Head tipped in consideration, Suguru raises a brow. “And you’re serious?”

“As a heart-attack.”

You simper, throwing his words back at him, invigorated by the opportunity to prove yourself and prove Suguru wrong.

Touché, Suguru thinks, humming. He knows you won’t let it go—and it’s his fault for starting it in the first place.

There’s a brief silence before he exhales deeply, smoke blowing out of his nose as he's come to a decision.

“Alright,” Suguru says, exhaling. “Bet.”

“However…” Suguru's eyes thin into slits, “no selling off-campus.”

“Yup.” You nod.

“No digital payments.”

“Duh, Sugu.”

“And..” Suguru starts with a grin “No help from your little stoner boyfriend.”

You blink, frowning. Suguru knew he didn’t have you locked down by any means but he’d never actually brought up you seeing other guys before.

“Which ones?” you say flippantly, testing him.

He smirks. “Exactly.”

You roll your eyes, but you're smug despite yourself. The thrill of the bet is already stamped across your face—you’re already anticipating victory.

Suguru shakes his head with a smirk and tosses a baggie across the table. A half-dozen joints, wrapped in your favorite pink papers.

“Good luck, Bunny.”

His smile lingers, but his eyes darken just slightly.

“You’re gonna need it.”

You move to hop off the counter—only for his hand to stop you. Suguru grips high on your inner thigh, still moist with his seed.

“But if you come up short again, Bunny…” There’s a darkness surrounding his words, spoken like a true druglord. “If I don’t have my money by 4/20...”

Your breath stills.

"...then you'll really owe me." Suguru's mouth curves again, all lazy menace. "I’ve got something in mind too... just been waiting for the right time to get you to do it.”

Before your thoughts can spiral, Suguru shifts again—smooth as ever.

He leans in to kiss your thigh, ash falling from his cigarette with the motion.

“But if you win…” He shrugs with mock-casualness. “I’ll use that extra three grand to get you something nice. Maybe a few Agent Provocateur sets.”

Your eyes light up. “Forreal!?”

Suguru nods. He doubts you’ll make it—hell would probably have to freeze over—but he’s been wanting something from you for a while. 

This is just the perfect way to collect on that.

You scoop the ziplock bag as Suguru finally lets you hop off the table and get dressed.

Just a few extra racks. That’s all it’d take.

Then Suguru would see. You weren’t just a warm hole and a pretty face.

You are just as much about your fucking business as he is.

And you’d prove it.

Game on.

                        all rights reserved. blkkizzat©2023-2026

an. will drop at least 1 PT a week!

You are wishing you’d at least taken Shoko’s advice and stuffed a protein bar in your purse. Your strength is fading by the minute.

Searching for space to breathe, you slip out of sight, wedging yourself between a Heian-era statue and a looming grandfather clock. The wall meets your back, cold wood biting through the silk of your dress, offering the faintest thread of relief.

Gradually, the nausea eases with each measured sip of air. Still tucked out of sight, you’re content to linger on the edge of the room’s grandeur. The sitting room—though calling it that is laughably humble—is pristine. Larger than your entire apartment. A museum of power and wealth, its priceless relics are curated down to the millimeter.

Every piece has its place.

Every place has a meaning.

Every meaning, tied to a legacy of tradition you were never meant to understand—let alone belong to.

The thought alone was enough to make the walls feel like they’re closing in. 

Thankfully, the tense air stirs—broken by a gust trailing behind a flock of waiters in twin-tailed coats. They move like ghosts. Each step is purposeful, gliding across the polished marble floors without a sound while balancing trays of sculptural hors d’oeuvres and glittering flutes of champagne. 

The elite they serve pay them no mind, as if the refreshments before them had simply manifested out of thin air. In turn, the waiters remain unnervingly synced to every guest’s needs before they can be spoken.

Well, every other guest, that is.

Even the servers pretend you’re invisible, floating past with practiced ease.

That’s fine. You’re used to it. In their eyes, you’ve always been a weed growing wild in their carefully pruned garden.

You don’t belong.

That truth drives itself deeper with every clink of glass and every shrill burst of haughty laughter echoing through the room. The longer you’re here though, the more you’re convinced it isn’t hunger making you ill—it’s the grotesque display of merriment before you.

For them, it's a celebration.

For you, it might as well be another funeral.

The thought of saying ‘fuck it’ and walking out is more than tempting. Especially when you’re surrounded by people who’d prefer if you never existed.

You remind yourself once more why you’re so hellbent on enduring this slow torture—well, because you've been named a beneficiary in the last will and testament of none other than the genius inventor, pharmaceutical juggernaut and your ex-fiancée:

Gojo Satoru.

Gojo’s been gone a month, but the pain hasn’t dulled. It’s only grown meaner, more invasive—like something rotting in the very core of you. 

Dissociation has become your only reprieve. You prefer the reality in your head to the one where you're forced to live without him. Some days, you worry you’re losing your mind and if not for Shoko and Utahime’s reassurances, you might believe it. You only wish one of them had come with you. 

No amount of money could buy the warmth or soul so glaringly absent from the Gojo manor. For anyone who really knew Satoru it was no mystery as to why he hated his family and their home. 

There’s nothing left of him here. Nothing to find but the final words he left behind, sealed in a will scheduled to be read at exactly 3 o’clock.

You glance up at the grandfather clock. 2:50 p.m. 

Only ten more minutes. You’ve already survived twenty.

Closing your eyes, you will the world away.

You’ve gotten good at this. Recalling him in conjured daydreams that land somewhere between memory and hallucination—too vivid to be real, too distant to touch. Everything dulls—voices, movement, light—until it all slips from focus like a dream you’re not ready to wake from. And just like that… he’s there.

Barely beating the sun, Satoru crawls into bed just before sunrise, the sterile scent of the lab clinging to his skin. He curls around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, whispering sweet contrition into the space between your shoulder blades—promises to make up for the missed dinners, the forgotten date nights, the long days he holed up in his lab like a hermit.

His arms wind around your waist—tight, sinewy, familiar—and you just melt. All the tension releasing from your muscles as if only when he’s holding you does your body know how to rest. You never fought him about it. Never had the strength. Not when he was warm and here, not when you only had a few fleeting hours before he’d return.

Like a ritual, come morning you’d turn in his arms and trace the slope of his nose down to the soft bow of his lips. Gojo always slept heavier than you, but he’d stir eventually, blinking up at you with a lazy grin before dragging you closer, like the inches between you offended him.

You remember the way his fingers dug into your hip, the press of him impossibly close.

You remember his voice, words softly slurred by affection and exhaustion.

“My pretty doll…”

Except this time it doesn’t feel like just a memory.

His words echo in your ears, and a puff of warm air—sweetly tinged with mochi—tingles across your skin.

Satoru.

Similar to being yanked out of sleep mid-fall—your eyes snap open just as your body jolts forward.

BAM!

Crystal shatters and plates crash to the floor. The impact of it all knocks you back against the wall. Yet the poor waiter you collided with isn’t as lucky—he hits the ground hard, his tray of delicacies strewn in ruins.

Like a record scratch, the room cuts to silence. The hush is brutal like a guillotine.

The whispers they saved for behind your back now hang heavy in the air, unsaid but understood, as dozens of eyes land on you—cold, sharp, full of disdain.

You do your best to ignore them though and help the waiter, yet you’re quickly intercepted by other staff, who are seemingly more concerned for the disturbance you caused rather than the condition of you or the waiter.

You stammer through apologies that none deem worthy of acknowledgement and they quickly shrivel on your tongue. 

The only sound remaining is the scrape of glass being swept away.

They don’t speak. They don’t have to. Their eyes say it all:

Stay out of the way. You’ve done enough.

You step back, heart hammering, there’s a chill in your blood as a primal ripple of unease pricks your spine. 

You felt it—real enough to leave a wake of goosebumps.

His breath. 

The feather-light drag of his long, nimble fingers across your ribs.

But that’s impossible. Pull it together, girl!

Lately, it’s been harder and harder to tell where your imagination ends and reality begins.

You hear Shoko’s voice in your head: “It’s nothing to be concerned about. It’s only natural you’ve been a bit out of sorts.”

As if a bit out of sorts could even begin to cover it. Calling your stress “a lot” would be the understatement of the century.

Yet when your stomach twists violently, this time it’s not only from sickness but a primal feeling deep in your gut, one of danger. 

You can’t do this. 

You have to get out. Now.

Yet no sooner than you decide to make a run for it does the grandfather clock chime for three—and, on cue, the heavy mahogany doors creak open to reveal the late Gojo Satoru’s right hand.

Geto Suguru.

Tall and composed, Suguru casts a striking silhouette. Like space bent to his will the moment he appeared, Suguru doesn't need to say a word to get the attention of the room, all eyes are already on him as he speaks. 

“Ladies and gentlemen…,” his voice carries with effortless command, “...your attendance for the reading of Gojo Satoru’s final will is appreciated. Let us not delay. Please proceed to the study.”

The Gojo family complies—but out of necessity, not respect. Their noses lift a little higher as they pass Suguru, deliberately avoiding his gaze rather than risking the challenge they’d find there. Even the proudest among them know better than to cross him without cause.

You haven’t moved though and when his eyes find yours they soften with the quiet comfort of someone who’s known you for a long time.

“Hello Suguru.”  you greet him as he approaches, trying not to wince at how weak you sound.

“You’re looking gaunt.” Suguru flatly states, giving you a once over.

You blink at the blunt audit of your physical deterioration.

Well, ‘hello’ to you too, dick.

But you don’t have the energy to be annoyed with Suguru. You’re well aware the exhaustion is written all over your face—evidence of how poorly you’ve been taking care of yourself. And you know Suguru is in performance mode: his usual civilities buried beneath the mental and emotional armor he wears to command respect from the Gojo clan.

Still, his presence steadies you—a familiar point of gravity in a world that won’t stop spinning without Satoru. He’s grieving too, you’re sure of it. Besides, in your current state, you’re in no place to judge how anyone else copes with loss.

With a quiet hum of disapproval at your appearance, Suguru lifts a hand, stopping a waiter headed toward the study.

“And this is?” Suguru addresses the server.

“Smoked Hare and Foie Gras Terrine en Croute, Mr. Geto, sir.”

Suguru nods as if he was accessing its nutritional values before he accepts the plate and turns, pressing it into your hands. 

“Eat.”

You blink again, caught between confusion and defiance. The prospect of escaping becoming less and less viable. 

 “I—I can’t. I’m not—”

Suguru’s brow lifts, cutting you off cold. 

Sigh—you know that look.

“Be a good girl,” Suguru chides quietly. “Toru would curse me from the grave if I let you starve. Are you taking the supplements Shoko recommended?”

Wait—what?! How does he know?

“She told you that?”

“I asked,” Suguru says simply. “You’ve been looking like hell lately. No point pretending.”

Even though you know they all have your best interests in mind, you’re tired of your friends infantizing your grief, like you’re a child. But tests of will aren’t something many could win other than Satoru when it came to Suguru or Shoko, especially when they were right.

Without a leg to stand on, you simply take a bite. A burst of mild savory flavor hits your palette, the smooth richness melting on your tongue.

Damn, rich people have good fucking food. 

You weren’t going to eat more out of spite but now you finish it eagerly, not realizing how famished you've become until the first few morsels reach your empty tummy. 

Suguru smiles triumphantly and instructs the server to put a few more on your plate before dismissing him. 

“Come,” Suguru says, his hand closing over yours with quiet certainty. 

When you hesitate, he gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze—a promise that the both of you are in this together.

“Don’t shrink yourself for them. Satoru would never stand for that.”

Releasing the breath you weren’t even aware you were holding you try to return Suguru’s smile but the mask you wear isn’t nearly as strong nor practiced as his own. 

“I know, I-um, I’m just feeling a bit warm is all. Perhaps I need some air….”

Another lie that you can tell Suguru sees through, though out of courtesy his expression never changes.

“Your attendance was requested by the only person who matters. Remember, you’re the person here Satoru loves most.”

Correction—loved. 

The bitter snark never surfaces though, your throat is far too tight now to speak or to challenge the gentle pressure Suguru’s applies in guiding you toward the heavy doors. 

Your heartbeat thrums in your ears with every step, knowing these words you’ll hear from him will truly be his last.

If the reception hall was grand, the study is nothing short of breathtaking—a room that could rival the library of an old castle, an ode to European old-world elegance. The towering walls are paneled in dark polished wood, gleaming softly in the amber glow of sconces. Rows upon rows of books stretch toward the vaulted ceiling, overlooking a wrought-iron staircase that spirals to a second-floor balcony wrapping the room, where even more books line the shelves.

You hated the reception hall’s staged pageantry—but this room? This room feels lived in.

Heavy cerulean drapes frame tall windows, allowing in only a sliver of autumn light. The golden sheen and scents of aged paper, smoke and leather warms the earthy tones of the room—but still does nothing to thaw the chill that sets into your spine. 

All the Gojo main and extended family are already seated. Despite the size of the room, the presence of dozens of chairs makes it feel crowded—stifling. Suguru leads you to the last remaining seat: a cushioned bench tucked beside a grand piano in the back corner.

Once you’re seated, Suguru takes his place beside Higuruma—Gojo Satoru’s personal attorney—standing like a sentinel as the lawyer unlocks a portable briefcase and retrieves a sealed folder.

Suguru clears his throat to speak, but it fades into the background as a wave of heat climbs up your neck. Now, you wouldn’t be lying if you said you needed air. But it has nothing to do with the cozy lighting or the layers you’re wearing.

Gojo isn’t even cold in the ground, and already the vultures are circling—beautiful, twisted, white-haired creatures, hungry to strip his legacy down to the bone.

They were all millionaires, of course. But none as famous, or as filthy rich, as the late head of the family. Now, every one of them is perched on the edge of their seat, waiting to hear who he named as his primary successor.

And there’s plenty to inherit.

Gojo Satoru: the tech and pharmaceutical mogul who cured diseases with sustainable technology, and made the Gojo name synonymous with power even outside of Japan.

Gojo was revered by the public, feared by rivals, worshiped by investors and heralded as a notable genius with more than a few nobel prizes—then, just like that—he was gone.

A lab explosion, they said. Some blamed alcohol or drug use, others whispered about sabotage from jealous competitors or scheming relatives. A few even wondered if he’d taken himself out intentionally. 

Yet it was ruled by police to be a tragic accident.

The news completely leveled you. You’d just begun trying to piece yourself together after your breakup—if you could even call it that. By the time Satoru died, he’d technically been your ex-fiancé for six months. 

Officially, you were ‘on a break.’ 

Unofficially, it was an empty threat—you were fed up with coming second to his work and wanted him to be scared of losing you.

Long nights in the lab turned into no nights at all. Even when he was home, his mind was trapped in some government project that consumed him.

One morning, after lying awake until sunrise waiting for him, you told him you were done.

You only meant to be gone a week or two. Just long enough to scare him into realizing what he stood to lose. But when he didn’t call, didn’t even bother to chase you—those weeks stretched into months, and slowly, painfully, you started to move on.

And the most painful part? He let you go.

There was love in his eyes, you could recognize that much. The kind of love that let you walk away if it meant you might be happier without him.

You told yourself you were brave. Strong for leaving.

But now? You’d trade anything for one more minute.

The guilt eats at you. That he’d let go of everyone—his staff, his support system—and faced everything alone. That his isolation and lack of self-care might’ve cost him his life.

And you feel so stupid, so small, realizing the truth far too late—Satoru wasn’t ever choosing work over you—he was choosing the world.

Few people have the brilliance, power, and wealth to truly make a difference. Satoru did. His company saved millions.

But you didn’t want his money. Or his legacy.

You just wanted your ‘Toru’ back.

Even if you were second to the world—even if he gave you only the pieces he had left—having any part of him would’ve been enough.

Regrets race in your mind until a voice cuts through you like a scalpel.

You look up, startled—one of the Gojos, his aunt, a woman in her 50s with a fox fur draped around her kimono, is pointing at you with a disdainful curl of her lip.

“...and she certainly doesn’t belong here!”

Others murmur their agreement. Some just stare, waiting for you to be escorted out.

Suguru doesn’t flinch but he does look annoyed.

“Everyone present today is here at the late Gojo Satoru’s request and so they will remain until we are done,” he says coolly. “No exceptions.”

Gojo’s aunt adjusts her fur with a huff. Her adult son, Gojo’s cousin, rises beside her, puffed with false confidence.

“Yes, of course Geto yet that's why we are all here, yet I’m sure there were amendments to be made. Let’s not drag this out unnecessarily. She has no claim. Either we deal with her now, or later—in court.”

Suguru narrows his eyes at the younger Gojo clan member, who is doing his best not to cower as he looks around for the support of his family. 

“Satoru's will was updated 11 days before his death,” Suguru says evenly. “And she is still referred to as his future wife.”

That information hits like a punch to the gut. 

Future wife?

You hadn’t spoken to Gojo weeks before the explosion and you were always the one reaching out to him, checking-in, although they mostly went unanswered. 

However, despite a lack of contact or relationship at all, he never erased you from the will.

He still thought you were getting married, even at the end.

You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood.

“Of course she’ll fight us in court, using our money no doubt”, someone else scoffs and the room murmurs in agreement. “A little nobody clinging to scraps.”

“Madame Gojo,” the cousin calls out now to the silent woman near the front. “Say something!”

Satoru’s mother, who has yet to acknowledge you since your arrival, finally looks your way—her hauntingly beautiful gaze cold and unreadable—she speaks as if you aren’t even in the room.

“Calm yourselves. Let her have whatever trinkets my son chose to leave her. Any substaintial entitlements have always been on the condition of her producing heirs.” 

Her icy words freeze the very blood in your veins. 

“Thus, we should consider it our blessing that those abominations were destroyed right along with my son.”

You’d been so consumed by grief, it hadn’t even occurred to you to think about the embryos—frozen over a year ago in hopeful preparation for the future you and Satoru had planned.

You weren’t even sure what you would’ve done if they had survived. But they were something you made together, created in love and meant for a life that would never come. 

For that alone, they deserved more than to be reduced to ash.

Tears sting the corners of your eyes, but you hold them back, unwilling to break—not here.

You don’t speak. You don’t have the words to defend yourself but thankfully, you don’t need to. 

Suguru does it for you.

“Enough!” Suguru’s command snaps like a whip, cutting through the chatter.

“We may have Mr. Higuruma with us today, however this is not a court nor a democracy. There will be no debate on Satoru’s wishes until after this session is concluded. Anyone unable to comply from this point forward may be removed—forcibly if necessary.”

The room, once boisterous with contention, is now quiet. None risk being thrown out with billions on the line.

“Please.” Suguru gestures for Higuruma to continue.

Higuruma opens the leather folder before him with a heavy breath, as if this isn’t the first monetary squallable of the Gojo clan he’d suffered.

“All are gathered here today as witnesses to the last will and testament of Gojo Satoru, former CEO of Six Vision Industries and head of the Gojo clan,” he states. “At the deceased’s request, I’ve been instructed to begin with the following recording.”

Higuruma pauses, as if he anticipates objections. When none come, he presses play.

"Hey, *tap**tap* this thing on—oh, what…heh… Hiya! If you're hearing this, there’s a 99.9% chance I’m dead.  Tragic, I know, but contain your sobs. I, Gojo Satoru—Founder and CEO of Six Vision Industries, decorated genius, poster boy for pharmaceutical tech, breaker of markets, and occasional fashion icon—hereby submit this final, binding testament to my professional brilliance and general hotness...”

“An unbearable jester even in death.” 

Someone quips and the room fills with hushed amusement which earns the room a silencing glare from Suguru. 

But you’re just in awe of hearing his voice again, a sad smile on your lips as the tape continues.

“Thanks to yours truly, I took the Gojo name from a legacy only remembered in ancient text to a global powerhouse. I cured diseases your ancestors thought were curses. I put our bloodline back where it once was—not just to be feared, but worshiped.  You can thank me later. Or not. I know how most of you feel. Let’s not fake civility now that I’m dead. Each of my accomplishments underlined every one of your shortcomings, while my choices offended your ridiculous sensibilities based on archaic traditions.  Especially yours, mother. I hope all my money makes you prouder than I ever could..."

There’s a few quiet scoffs at the disrespect yet at your mention they silence themselves before Suguru could.

"Now… to my future wife..."

Your throat tightens and you close your eyes, envisioning him before you.

Princess. My pretty girl. I’m sorry. I didn’t want it like this. I never wanted to leave you for a second. But I promised I’d always watch over you—and I meant it. Still do. Please know just because you can’t see me…doesn’t mean I’m not there. Rest assured, the unseen will be made visible—in good time. I love you, in this life and the next. Everyone else can suck it though! …… …… …… ….Yo Sugu, I’m done! How do I turn—"

The recording clicks off and quiet whispers of disapproval rumble throughout the Gojo clan.

By the time your eyes open again, the tears are already falling. Your chest burns, like something inside you is collapsing.

Will readings are meant to bring closure. But this feels like torture.

A part of you wishes you hadn’t come. Because hearing his voice—knowing how he felt—hurts more than thinking he didn’t love you anymore.

Higuruma speaks and attention is on him once more.

“Next is—hm.”

Attached to the crest sealed will is a smaller envelope with instructions. Higuruma frowns as he opens and reads the contents, his questioning gaze flicking towards Suguru.

The closed-eye grin Surguru returns is tight but knowing, almost diabolically so. 

Higuruma sighs, shaking his head.

“My apologies, but… this reading cannot proceed.”

“What exactly do you mean, ‘cannot proceed’?!” 

Protests ripple across the room, the fury in them uncaring of Suguru’s threats.

“The will is explicit,” Higuruma says flatly. “If any of the named individuals are not present at the time of reading, there is a grace period before the remainder can be opened. As of now, someone is still missing.”

“That’s outrageous,” one of the older Gojos barks. “No one’s missing!”

“Someone is,” Higuruma repeats. “It’s clearly written here and I am bound by the law to comply.”

The room breaks into dissension—minacious voices layered atop one another in a rising storm.

You barely hear them.

The weight of Satoru’s words constrict tighter around you, crushing your ribs, cutting off your air supply.

He still loved you—still saw a future.

And now there’s no future to be had.

Your body’s reaction is visceral. Lurching toward the nearest container, a sizable potted plant, you proceed to vomit up what little Suguru made you eat.

The room warps at the edges as sound distorts, your vision narrows to a tunnel of light and shadow as you try, foolishly, to stand up.

Wrong move. 

Your knees immediately buckle.

Yet it’s warmth, not hardwood, that you feel as strong masculine arms ease you back into your seat. His playful hum tickles your neck while his scent—white amber and mandarin—is so familiar it makes your heart throb.

For one impossible second, you feel whole again.

But it’s just that—impossible. 

Your vision clears and you see your savior is none other than Suguru, because of course it is.

Still that scent? Unmistakably Satoru. 

You swallow hard. Maybe Suguru wears it in remembrance. Maybe he’s as desperate as you are to keep some part of Satoru alive. 

Or maybe it’s just your grief clawing at your sanity.

God, you’re really starting to lose it, aren’t you?

“You have to take better care of yourself.” Suguru chides softly, his tone far gentler now that this event is clearly over.

“Let's get you out of here, hm?”

Suguru turns towards Higuruma who, for his part, looks more bored than bothered by having the full fury of the entire Gojo clan aimed at him, swarming around the desk.

“I’d consider this light work for Higuruma—and you’re unwell. I’m taking you straight to Shoko.”

Your mind cycles through plausible deflections: 

That you can stand just fine. 

That you only need a minute and maybe some water—instead of being practically force fed fatty proteins you can’t digest. 

That you’d be perfectly fine if you went straight home and there’s no need to worry about you.

But none of that is true—and you’re too worn down to argue, you just want to leave. 

Preoccupied with their fortune on the line, no one notices you and Suguru's departure.

Or so you think.

One crystalline pair of eyes doesn’t follow the noise.

Gojo’s mother remains seated in silence, chin high. She briefly glances at your departure before her crystalline gaze returns to the spot where you fainted.

A curtain there stirs.

But there is no window open, no breeze.

The matriarch's expression remains unchanged—only the soft creak of lacquer betrays her nerves as her fingers curl, tightening around the fan in her lap.

…𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝.

⿻𝐚/𝐧: how was that for a preview? hehe can't wait to drop the fic in its entirety! (plus the main banner which is a video i made!) reader really going thru it y'all!! let me know your thoughts 😮‍💨

Holy fucking coW, this is not a drill this is nOT A DRILL.

You squealed watching the mail truck drive off from the post you'd been stalking for hours—barely containing yourself from tearing the package to shreds the moment it's in your hands after rushing back inside.

Weeks had gone by, WEEKS, waiting for the beauty so gracefully wrapped in a shimmery tulle. Delicately peeling it away, you practically creamed yourself the second you pulled it from its satin bag.

It was finally in your hands, your fingers tracing over the glossy cover and raised title, not believing you were finally witnessing it in all its glory. And God, that new book smell was like crack.

Isn't It Sweet?

You nodded, biting your lip, agreeing with one of your favorite authors of all time as you marveled at their latest limited-book release.

One of only 1000 copies.

You remember how shaky your hands were when you ordered it, having set 4 or 5 alarms to make sure you didn't miss out on the drop. But you probably should've won an award for the world's fastest order the way you secured the bag with the quickness. And after daydreaming about it for days, you wanted nothing more than to hug it into your chest like a newborn babe.

Anyone who knows you would agree and say you're an avid reader (as if your overflowing bookshelf isn't enough evidence.) Still, you would say you were maybe just slightly above average—only spending about 5 to 6 hours a day gluing your eyes to books and words. Fully immersing yourself in endless lives, worlds, and universes was nothing as long as the life was worth living. And you're no stranger to all kinds of genres.

The classics. Sci-Fy. Horror. Smut. Occasional non-fic and self-help because it pays to be well-rounded. Romance is often hit or miss, but it has its moments.

What?

Oh ya. That's right.

That said smut.

And oh baby, does it have its claws in you.

Especially when it comes to fanfic.

Are you the world's biggest nerd? Maybe not (that's a lie; you've cosplayed and been to a few conventions—you're too far in the trenches, beloved, and it's okay), but the second someone mentions anime, you almost break your neck to listen in. Waiting to see if your favs are mentioned.

With most of them, you come for the action, laughs, and often heartbreak. Your latest fav was a great example of all of the above and taking the anime world by storm. The storyline and PTSD you get from watching it are part of the reason why, but truth be told, it's mostly because of the real gems you get if you stay. Gracing the screen from the first episode to the last.

Drop-dead gorgeous fictional daddies.

Being ate up around the world for being too good to be true. And there are more than enough of them to build a harem all wrapped up in a cute, gory little bow.

And you're the baddest of the down bad.

But you're not alone.

Oh dear love, very, very far from it.

The simps are everywhere. 

And you're the queen of Delulu Land, full of edits, cosplays, AUs, and art galore of anything you could ask for. And who could forget the stories?

Just the sheer amount of raw, raunchy, unsolicited smuttiness you get out of those is enough to make anyone sweat like a sinner in church. And you keep coming back for more.

It amazes you, the quality of content you get from those fandoms written by everyday people that even rival popular published works. But God, you can't even begin to imagine the sheer amount of batshit-crazy and unhinged energy it must take to think up and create such toe-curling filth.

Be there you were. Holding your second hardcopy fanfic that managed to make it off of the internet. About to shamelessly indulge your tastes once again. 

It didn't help that the cover was positively delish. It had a dark and mysterious air that you instantly recognized and made you feel a little funny. The infamous style belonged to one of your fav fanfic artists, and you couldn't believe the collab of your dreams was real.

Your bath was about to be one for the books, and you wanted to wait until you were simmering in the tub to open it, but you just had to get a sneak peek of the author's note at least.

You laughed, expecting nothing less as you read the gaggorific but true words. They're so unserious.

But this bath was about to be.

Rosy scents filled the bathroom as you lit a few candles and drew your bath, sprinkling salts and tiny petals into the bubbles.

Anyone on the outside looking in would think you were preparing for a date, and in a way, they would be right, but this solo ritual was routine anytime you got your hands on a good, smutty story.

Sighing, you sank into the cloud of bubbles, your muscles instantly relaxing in the hot, steamy water as you exhaled your cares away and let your head fall back against the fluffy body pillow.

The water felt amazing, and you could spend forever soaking in paradise, but slowly, your face began to warm. Not just because of the sweltering bath curling waves of steam around your body but also because of the heady thoughts that floated through your brain when you remembered why you were there. And so you pulled the caddy into the tub, your heart fluttering as you set up your book and dove in.

Fruity notes coated your tongue as you sipped a new wine between scenes, warming not just your tummy but also your core. Desire steadily built as you flipped through the pages, eyes soaking up the words as the scenes played in your head like you actually had the privilege of being a voyeur of such vulgar moments.

Your hand absent-mindedly drew small circles on your neck the more you imagined and read about your fav fictional daddy. Hearing his voice, trailing your finger down your chest as you envisioned his sharp, sultry eyes. That face he makes when he's being a big, tough, serious guy and somehow your hand ended up between your thighs, fingers lightly tapping your gradually pulsing clit.

And fuck were you jealous.

Your fav warned you about being in her bondage and restraint era, but the OC was going through it—manhandled and dealt with in a way that made your pussy throb until you couldn't take it anymore and slipped your fingers in to feed it.

Mewling, your fingers flexed inside you, feeling so warm inside your walls that ached so much you could feel a heartbeat when you dove in and out—moaning and working to sync with the story's vulgar pleasures.

But no matter how romantic the atmosphere was or how turned on and desperate for release you were, your dainty fingers, as cute as they were, were simply no match for the level of smut between those pages, and soon you found yourself drunk and pouting. Failing to properly reach those deliciously sweet spots inside you and leaving you unsatisfied and craving the only thing you knew could actually give you what you needed.

Your boyfriend.

And you knew if the day ever came when he did even a smidge of the things you'd seen in that book, you'd absolutely fall apart in his hands while blubbering ‘thank you’.

If only you weren't too chickenshit to just open your mouth and ask your angel of a boyfriend for it.

Suguru is such an, oh God—(insert animalistic noises)—you could eat that man for DAYS.

But truth be told, you weren't the usually overly confident bad bitch that made boys fall to their knees with Suguru. In fact, when you first saw him around, you were actually very intimidated.

Right off the bat, everything about him was different, way different.

His casual but cunty style screamed curated but careless when he walked around looking like he was fresh out of a Japanese street-style magazine. Often dressed in dark, baggy clothing that added to his mellow, mysterious aura—only to quietly flex on niggas by adding minimalistic but expensive layers of jewelry and accessories.

But what really made you weak the first time you saw them are the crown jewels that tie his look together—his piercings. The one in his eyebrow made it look sharper when he raised it, and whenever he tucked a strand of hair, you'd notice his cuff earrings fitting snugly on his cartilage that perfectly complimented his gauges. And—fuck—you could go on and on for days about how you constantly had to resist the urge to smash your lips onto his just to feel his snakebites.

You were doomed.

There he was, this tasty but nonchalant, cool guy. Reserved. Exclusive. And picky. 

Never ever ever in a million years did you think you could bag a walking piece of art like that. 

Don’t get it twisted; you are THEE shit and always the prize, but this time, it was less about looks and more about personality. And compared to Suguru? You were like a baby Powderpuff, sweet and bubbly, while he was a panther: sly, magnetic, and quick to ghost anyone who tried to get too close. 

Hot and impossibly hard to get. 

No wonder everyone wanted him.

Even without the competition, you were sure he probably had a thing for someone more his vibe, like big titty goth bitches, and you wouldn't blame him. Because sugar and spice just do not mix.

But fate had a funny way of humoring you, and one day you were unexpectedly thrown into each other's lives in a way that couldn't have been anything but the stars aligning.

The Panther and the Powderpuff.

Who knew you two would be a recipe for...perfection? And to your surprise, it was Suguru who latched on first, finding you simply addicting.

You were this vibrant, unapologetic good girl, sugary sweet and full of life, while he was this introverted yet magnetic loner, secretly craving someone to satisfy his sweet tooth.

Everyone else had been mere distractions, superficial, and a waste of his time.

But when the universe suddenly dropped you right into his lap, everything he thought he knew about loving someone changed.

The chemistry was undeniable and Suguru was selfish, wasting no time taking you off the market after only a few dates because the thought of you with anyone else made his stomach twist. But honestly, he had you hooked from, "Hello, my name is...", and ever since, you still find yourself unbelieving your luck—and the way he treats you.

From the unconditional princess treatment to every small or large sentiment you could wish for, Suguru does it all without hesitation. Knowing you deserve nothing less and leaving no room for anyone else to even try to compete. Often making you blush like a little schoolgirl who doesn't know what to do with herself because of his cool candor but loud love. Leaving you gagged and absolutely feral for him.

But it was simple for Suguru. He never questioned his instinct or need to have you. He just knew what he wanted, what he needed. 

You. 

You stir something deep in him, and he’s simply a slave to that insatiable urge to care for you in ways only he can.

Your sweet, raven-hair simp—always waiting and ready for you to pepper his blissful face with kisses every time you love on each other. Leaving you with no doubts that he’s yours and you’re his.

And he constantly reminds you that he can and will match your freak as his hands never seem to be able to stay off of you just as much as you think about sinking your claws into him.  

You practically jumped at any opportunity to have your way and slut out that man in all his panty-dropping glory—when he lets you—but you firmly drew the line at vanilla.

In a perfect world, you could live freely as the truly unhinged and slutty succubus you were and let this man dictate your every waking moment, body, and soul however he pleased—just like many of the books you obsess over. 

But you couldn’t risk scaring off your dream man with your Freak-a-leek fantasies. 

You had to be quiet with it. 

There was no way Suguru would be into that stuff.

Besides, it’s not like you were missing much. 

Suguru and Satisfaction go hand-in-hand, and your oh-so-thoughtful boyfriend is damn-near dedicated to making sure you spend your nights repeatedly moaning his name. Whether it’s by slurping you up with his tongue just for a taste or slow-stroking your insides until you soak the sheets before fighting over who's sleeping in it. Naturally reading your body with ease and filling you to the brim with butterflies until you claw his back then milk him dry. 

But every now and then, you couldn’t help but wonder…what would happen if one day he just happened to tap into that subtle but smug big dick energy and took the reins?

Alas, you’d rather sneak away every blue moon and submerge in the depths of smut than confess. Settled and content with getting your fix when you could, but that night, you found yourself growing more frustrated the longer you tried.

No matter how hard you concretrated, no matter how detailed and lewd the images and sounds were in your head, you were hell-bent on shooting stars into your eyes with every trick you knew in the book yet failing to bring yourself rapture with such feeble fingers. 

Eventually, with a final but not yet defeated groan, you decided to stop toying with yourself and return to Earth. Slightly disappointed but relishing in the fact that you always had access to the ultimate trump card, no matter how your smutty escapades went. You might not get to play 9 and ½ Weeks with your boyfriend, but he always guaranteed to fuck the ever-loving shit out of you and give you everything you need anytime you get all dolled up for him.

Your hand glided down your silky thighs, feeling smooth like butter as you caressed them, and you nodded. Mhmm, you were gonna get tore up tonight.

After finishing your bath, you dressed your body in your favorite lotion and serum combo before slipping into the silky lingerie Suguru randomly bought you a few weeks ago. He had been doing that more lately, coming home with all kinds of catered gifts and this one was by far one of your favorites and fit so perfectly. Now, all that was left to do was wait for him to get home and peel it off.

He’d been out most of the afternoon hanging with the guys while you did a few chores and stalked your mailbox. Suguru said it was supposed to be chill, but with the sun setting soon and knowing that Satoru was invited and without a doubt responsible for why Suguru was still not home, nine times out of ten, they ended up playing basketball. 

Your boyfriend is already pretty active, but anytime Satoru comes around, he gets turned up times ten and things get real competitive, real fast. Almost always against Sugu’s will, but he’d rather entertain Toru to make him shut up and eat his words than back down. And like a good girlfriend who knows all of her boyfriend’s dumb little weaknesses, you were exactly right.  

You missed the sound of his umbrella as he came through the front door, smoothing back his hair from the rain you didn’t hear while in the bath.

“I’m home, Love,” he calls out, and his gentle yet sultry voice paired with your pet name always makes you blush.

His natural scent was the first thing to hit your nose when he entered the bedroom, mingling with the wine steadily warming your body. Expecting you to nearly tackle him with a hug as you usually do after hours of being apart, he braced himself, but when he found you poised on the bed, relaxed and waiting for him, his mouth dropped, his heart once again racing even though he was sure he burned through his adrenaline playing basketball. 

You looked downright delectable.

“Hi, baby,” you laughed, smiling at his expression as you crawled towards him. The silky fabric draped in soft folds over your body, shifting and riding up just enough to reveal tantalizing glimpses of skin as you moved—clinging to your curves like a second skin. Everywhere he wanted his hands to be. 

Imagining you in it when he picked it out was one thing, but seeing you in it, right in front of him, well fuck—you looked so perfect now, he’d probably die seeing it around your ankles later.  

He drew a breath, unable to believe his luck or imagine a better view than the one of looking up at him with doe eyes while on your hands and knees. Just for him.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, the soft blend of rose and vanilla flooding his senses as you pulled your body close before realizing he was soaking wet.

“Ahh! Babe!” You jumped back. “You’re wet.” But his warm hands had already settled on your waist, firmly holding you in place. He smirked and stole a quick peck, and the familiar tease of his lips soon made you forget all about how cold and drenched he was as you melted into his touch, his lips making you more and more needy every time they met yours. 

He smiled against your lips, noticing you were more excitable than usual as you deepened the kiss, your heartbeat thudding against his chest as you pressed closer.

“You’re going to *peck* ruin your lingerie, Pretty,” he teased. But you clearly didn’t care, and he softly chuckled, having to reel it in for the both of you as he gently pulled away. “Let me hop in the shower first, ya?”

But when he looked into your puppy-dog eyes as you knelt before him, the thought of walking away felt nearly impossible. You wore that little frown and plea in your eyes that silently begged him not to leave, and any other time, he’d give right in. Instead, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, sending warm tingles to your tummy and making it just a bit easier for both of you. With your patience recharged, you perked up and switched gears, asking about his day as he settled in.

He casually shrugged, saying everything was cool. Yu called him, Toru, and Kento over to try out the latest 2K game, and though Toru was always down to hang, he spent the entire time groaning because, surprise, surprise, he was awfully bad at it—no matter which version he played. After losing one too many 1v1s to Suguru and the others, he let his butt-hurt ego get the best of him and suggested they ditch the “baby game” and play some real basketball.

Suguru knew it was just a cop-out for Toru sucking, but he also knew Toru wouldn’t stop whining until he got a chance to redeem himself. At least the day was nice enough for Suguru to humor him—until their Opp, Toji, showed up trying to start shit and ruin a good time as per usual. Lucky for him, the rain came in out of nowhere and cleared everyone out just before the gang could pop off, and blah blah blah, proper name, place name, backstory stuff. 

Suguru sounds so lovely when he talks, but you were only half-listening, completely mesmerized as he pulled his sopping, wet shirt over his head and revealed his toned body and tats.

No one would ever guess that his chest and sides of his torso were inked unless he showed you. The intricate dragon tattoo weaved across his shoulders and down the full sleeve of his arms, but that was the only evidence that he’d taken a needle to his skin. It’s like a special little surprise reserved only for those he wants to see, and you never get tired of drooling over it—or him, watching him shyly smile as he noticed your gaze and gave you a playful wink before disappearing into the bathroom.

You sank into the bed with a pout but managed to distract yourself as he showered. Suguru loves a long, hot one, and he definitely took his sweet time that night. You figured he deserved it after such a hectic evening and told yourself that the wait to quell your fire was just a little bit longer. 

But your impatience would cost you, as you failed to notice that in your haste to get ready for Pound Town, you’d forgotten to do something very important. 

Suguru came out whistling, a cloud of steam pouring into the bedroom as he stepped through, a towel wrapped low on his hips. His long, slightly towel-dried hair clung to his face in cute, messy stands, and he shot you a soft, knowing smile as he crossed the room. You were so adorable, waiting on him like a pup, shamelessly following his every movement with your gaze.

He laughed, “You look comfy.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” you pouted. “You were in there forever.”

Suguru grinned, reaching for the towel draped around his neck. “Yeah? I guess I got a bit distracted.” He moved toward the dresser, lazily pulling it open. “Did you have a good day?” 

Suppressing the urge to be frank, you nodded. If only he knew. “It was okay. Nothing special.”

“Oh, real?” He raised an eyebrow, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re in such a good mood, though. Didn’t get into anything exciting?”

Just failed to get off to one of the smuttiest fics ever written. 

“Nope,” you quickly replied, chewing on your bottom lip. As thoughtful as it was for Suguru to be a loving boyfriend and ask you about your day, you wished he’d chat less and fuck your brains out more. Fuck the clothes, fuck the pleasantries. And it was painfully obvious by the way his sharp, purple eyes took in your antsy body.

Pulling out some clothes, his lips curved into a smile. “You seem a little…eager tonight. Did my girl miss me?” But he didn’t really need to ask. He knew that you were practically in heat and only added flames to the fire by casually throwing on his favorite PJs that hung loosely around his v-section and slipping on a black wife-beater that hugged his torso(I know, that's a CRAZY name for an article of clothing).

Your pussy clenched—Yes God, YESYES STOP THE TORTURE!—silently screaming for him to just stop teasing and give you what you wanted before you exploded, but all you could manage was a whimper and frantic nod, knowing you were just seconds away from showing him exactly how much you did.

Suguru’s smile deepened watching you struggle, amusement dancing in his eyes as he sauntered towards you. “How ‘bout we burn off some of that energy then, hmm?” His weight sank into the mattress as he crawled onto the bed, closing the space between you and softly pecking your lips with every word. “With. A. Game.”

But the way heat flared in your chest as you helplessly fell under his kiss, you didn’t know if you could handle whatever his mischievous little mind was thinking. Still, you felt your body betray you, naturally unable to resist him and growing curious—no, needing—to do just about anything he asked if it meant he would continue kissing butterflies into you. 

With heavy-lidded eyes, you asked what game, growing breathy as you imagined every raunchy couple’s game you could think of. But your anticipation quickly turned to confusion when you felt him pull something from behind his back.

“Let’s read something new tonight,” he grinned. And you damn near went into cardiac arrest. 

With your mind solely focused on getting your hands on your boyfriend, you had completely forgotten about your book, leaving it in the bathroom to be discovered by Suguru the moment he stepped inside. 

And, oh baby, was it insightful.

You gaped, too stunned to speak as he pulled you toward the end of the bed. He settled on the bench and patted his lap, inviting you to sit, but you were frozen in place, absolutely mortified and refusing to believe this was real life.

You were caught, your mind filling with millions of thoughts all wondering how the hell your own carelessness after months of being “careful” ended up outing you, and it took him firmly calling you again before you finally found the courage to move, your brows furrowing as reality hit you. 

Now your boyfriend definitely knew how much of a menace you were—one of those Godforsaken BOOKTOK GIRLIES, of all things—and should’ve been running for the hills.

But he only looked at you lovingly, gently guiding you into his lap and making sure you were comfortable before his arms settled around your waist. He cleared his throat and held the book in front of you. “I’ll start,” and he began where you left off—on one of the smuttiest scenes in the story. 

“Taichi had seen what your mouth could do.” Oh no. “Never failing to command everyone’s attention before you cleared a room with just your words. Now, as his thumb softly traced over those same desirable lips that held so much power, his cock jumped at the idea of them wrapped around it.” 

Holy shit. 

Reading it was one thing, but being forced to hear from the last person you’d expect in the most naturally seductive voice imaginable was absolutely killing you in more ways than one. Especially when he was leaning right into your ear, his chin softly resting on your shoulder as if he were reading you a lullaby. 

Heat flooded your face, but Suguru’s voice was steady and calm—completely unbothered as if he weren’t reading about your smuttiest innermost fantasies and making your embarrassment skyrocket. You felt so vulnerable and exposed and dirty and like you couldn’t get enough air and fuck—you didn’t know what Suguru was trying to prove or if this was his wicked way of trying to embarrass you before breaking up with you, but the torture was too much, and you had to get out of there.

Panicking, you tried to get up, but no-no—he wasn’t about to let you slip away from storytime that easily, and his arm snaked around your waist and secured you against him with a gentle but unyielding grip. His legs followed suit, quickly wrapping around yours and locking you in place, and you gasped in disbelief when your thighs effortlessly parted and exposed your pretty, clothed pussy.

Helpless whines escaped you, and he tsked, smiling at your sudden innocence. Like you couldn’t believe this was really happening. Like you couldn’t believe that the same filth you craved, obsessed, and dreamt over was now spilling from your boyfriend’s pretty mouth, sounding like a limited-edition audiobook Fanfic girlies could only dream of. And if you thought there was no possible way to make the situation worse than it already was, Suguru decided to take things up a notch and bring the book to life.

His lips lightly brushed your shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin as he nuzzled your neck and inhaled your scent. Pressing kisses to the back of your neck, he stole a breath from your lungs when he nipped your ear. Perfectly mimicking the story’s peak and leaving you completely at his mercy as the lines between fantasy and reality blurred.

His hand around your waist trailed across your stomach with a deliberate slowness, traveling down until he grasped your inner thighs, knowing this was one of your most sensitive spots and drawing possessive lines that made your clit begin to tingle and swell through your panties.

Inching closer and closer, the sly smile in his voice grew, and your breath grew shallower until it hitched, sparks igniting when he ghosted over your clit. Your thighs trembled, but his voice remained smooth and unwavering.

Suguru noticed a twisted sense of satisfaction growing within as he felt you squirm, simultaneously struggling to close your legs even though you throbbed like crazy for more. You were caught between sheer embarrassment and undeniable arousal. Not knowing which to give in to.

He pressed his cheek to yours. “You’re so cute when you blush,” he murmured, becoming distracted by your reactions as he poured out endless praise—so flustered, so sickenly distraught and overwhelmed, but it only made him smile.

You always get so shy when he compliments you. His usually confident girl easily coming undone with only a few soft words and a glint in his eyes. And he loved it—the way you always tried to pretend you weren’t seconds away from completely unraveling when he flirted.

He hummed thoughtfully, wondering how long you could keep it up this time. And what it would take for you to fold.

“Finish up for me, pretty girl,” he decided, and handing you the book, his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your panties and brushed your soaking folds.

You stiffened, the sudden warmth snatching your breath and making it impossible to get a single sentence or objection out. 

“C’mon baby,” he kissed your shoulder, fingers stilling right on your clit. “You have such a pretty voice.” 

The fucking Devil.

You let out a shaky moan, not knowing whether you hated or still loved him in that moment, but either way, you sure as hell weren’t going to let him see you crack, and you drew a breath.

Clearing your throat, you swallowed thicky and mustered up the steadiest voice you could to prove you wouldn’t just be a victim of this wicked game of his. And you were doing so well, for a sentence or two. Until his slick fingers started to call your bluff and gradually began to draw slow, precise circles right on your swollen bud. 

And God help you, you couldn't stop the stutter.

“Sm-smeared mas-sc-scara ran hah down y-your f-face.” You paused and closed your eyes, wetting your lips before continuing. “You’d p-pay for your ah used and…and b-br-bruised t-throat in the morning bUT,” you yelped when he squeezed your waist. “It-it was a small price to p-pay to taste a c-cock sss-so d-delish.” 

Suguru chuckled lightly, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on you. But it wasn’t enough. 

He needed to see you completely fall apart. 

His free hand glided upward and fondled your breast, his thumb taunting and brushing over your nipple. You instinctively arched into his touch, a series of soft whimpers escaping your lips as he rolled them between his fingers until they were sensitive and hard. 

Your body couldn't decide which overwhelming sensation to focus on—the weight of his fingers just sitting and taunting your clit or the jolts of pleasure running to your core with each pinch of your nipple. Both sent messy moans tumbling out of your mouth. 

He grinned against your shoulder. “You’re so responsive tonight,” he said, adding to the heady mix of lust and frustration. Building you up and bringing you down in a vicious cycle as every time you crept closer and closer to losing it, he was quick to slow and remind you to keep going.

But your thighs kept quaking and your breath kept hitching and you could only squirm so much trying to rock into his touch and steal Heaven, but his fingers were light and easily kept you right on the edge. Touching only your clit and leaving you distraught as your poor, neglected walls began to ache. 

But your desperation was too loud to ignore, and knowing you wouldn’t give up, he smirked—like boyfriend, like girlfriend—and he nipped your ear, pulling back the hood of your clit before he strummed his fingers over it. Fast. “Go for it,” Suguru whispered. 

And fuck, it took all of 2 seconds for your legs to become a vibrating mess and made him wrap his tighter, your breath going light as you rose up on your toes. 

Whimpering. 

Heart racing.

Eyes drawing closed as you mentally sang his praises for allowing you to finally cum. Walking you to the line of release and rapture with every flick of your hot clit and every breath on your skin right up until he stopped.

You let out a defeated scoff.

You weren’t getting off that easy.  

He pulled the long-forgotten book from your hands, and you yelped, suddenly being lifted and bent over his knee. He gave you a second to adjust, then secured you with an arm around your waist, rolling up the hem of your dress before his heavy palm settled on your ass, fingers languidly massaging your cheeks.

You felt so plush as he caressed your skin, gripping you lovingly between his fingers before he delivered a heavy slap.

“Why’d you keep this from me?”

A shriek died in your throat, a million things instantly flying through your head. Shock from this stranger you called a boyfriend, how you ended up here, how no one could’ve ever convinced you that this situation only found in books and on the internet would actually happen to you. 

Endless things to think about but nothing to say.

“Oh, we’re being shy now?” Any other time, you would spend hours yapping Suguru’s ears off about one thing or another and he’d dote on every word. But now they were escaping you. 

*SLAP!*

And he gripped your cheek to soothe the sting, fingers running over the raised marks the rings he never takes off left on your skin.

He hummed, eyeing the soaked patch on your panties, biting his lip seeing you’d gotten even wetter since he bent you over his knee.

His fingers couldn’t resist gently dragging over your clothed folds, just light enough that it felt like a ghost and made you shudder. You pushed back, trying to chase it, your mind borderline broken and desperate to quench your insatiable thirst, but found it impossible to move. 

“Let’s try this again.” And he delivered a slap even harsher than the last, making you squirm under his tight grip. 

Obviously, you hadn’t learned your lesson from earlier, and when you tried to get away, Suguru swiftly pinned your arms behind your back and didn’t skip a beat, landing another series of slaps on the same spot since you wanted to be so damn difficult. 

You knew you couldn’t escape but neither would your words, silent screams building up as you just had to lie there and take it. Emotional turmoil churned within, leaving you questioning everything you thought you knew about Suguru who was promptly lighting your ass up. Bringing to life each hot sting that you’ve fantasized about in stories, on TV, and in the dirty thoughts of your boyfriend maybe one day warming up to the idea—but not like this. This was so sudden. Too much. So overwhelming to the point that nothing came out of you but feeble whines and stuttering breaths until you were on the verge of tears when “I’m sorry!” finally slipped from your defeated lips.

Suguru froze. 

His heart thumped. 

And in the span of a few seconds, Suguru learned a few things about himself. 

1. He hadn’t expected himself to be able to break you so quickly. You’re as tough as he is, hell, even tougher sometimes, and only admit defeat when you absolutely cannot fight anymore. 

2. He hadn’t expected to fall head over heels in love with the sound of your cries and heavy breaths as you tried to gather yourself. 

Knowing he was the cause and this was the effect of you being worn out and surrendering made his dick thump against your stomach. 

He rubbed slow, soothing circles on your flushed cheeks.

“It’s ok baby, it’s ok,” he shushed, and you felt so pitiful yet turned on that you could cry. But as much as he wanted to relish in your punishment for keeping secrets, he also needed to reveal one of his own. “Because I’ve known for a while.”

“You wHAT?” Your voice cracked. If you could look him in the eyes, you would just so he could see how utterly flabbergasted you were because there was no freaking way. “How??”

“C’mon babe,” he snickered, “You watch DevilBoy Games, a lot, and Toru told me how you DBG girls are, I’ve seen you drool over that crazy guy with bags under his eyes.”

“He’s not crazy,” you huffed, “Just misunderstood.”

He laughed, lightly squeezing your thigh. “He kinda looks like me.” 

“Get over yourself.” And you’d cross your arms if he weren’t still holding them.

He tsked. “Are you really surprised, love?” he asked, smirking before completely reading you, mentioning that there was no way you thought he wouldn’t notice the nights when you would stay up late, blushing at your phone. 

Never once wondering if you were talking to some other guy or anyone else, but putting two and two together pretty early on when you said you were having reading time on your favorite social platform known for its…content. Scrolling the site for hours just to soak up pure filth. 

As secretive as you tried to seem about it, the obsession never stopped you from being bold enough to do it in bed.

Suguru pouted. “So, you don’t like me enough or what?” he asked, his tone teasing yet laced with genuine curiosity. He often wondered why you didn’t just say anything—how you could be so close to him and dive into your fantasies but not act on them. 

Your face instantly heated. “It’s not…it’s not like that at all!” you stammered, struggling to find the right words. “I just—it’s different, okay?”

He cocked his head. "Different how?"

“I don’t know I…–I honestly didn’t think you’d be into that stuff,” you admitted, feeling more vulnerable than ever and even a little guilty. You deflated. “I thought you’d think I was weird.”

"My baby? Weird?” He chuckled softly, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. "That can’t be it.” And he leaned close. “Or maybe you just thought I couldn't handle it," and his eyes gleamed.

Your stomach dropped, eyes going wide as you were once again left shocked and speechless. But Suguru let go of your arms, satisfied enough with your confession and ready to play now, for real.

Your pussy practically swallowed your drenched panties that clung to you as he pulled them to the side, the cool air kissing your folds before you felt his warm fingers swirl over your glistening vulva.

He smiled—you were so sensitive—bucking at the languid strokes as he gathered your slick. He’s always been gifted with his fingers and quick to make you fall apart from the slightest touch.

He bit his lip, unable to resist lightly dipping his fingertips in just to bring them to his mouth and give you a taste.

“So fucking good.” He could play with you forever. Licking his lips, he parted yours, transfixed on your walls that clenched around nothing. Desperate to take his fingers that teased desperate whines out of you. 

“You gonna keep any more secrets from me, baby?” 

You shook your head, desperate to do or say whatever, which Suguru knew, but he needed you to mean it. 

He’d been edging you for almost half an hour now and his own dick was just as strained and blue-balled as your pussy, but he could and would hold out as long as he had to to make sure you’d never feel ashamed enough to hide any parts of you ever again. He just needed to hear the words, and he dipped just the tip of his finger inside you. “Say it.” 

“I promise, Sugu, never again,” you pleaded, your voice shaking. "I’ll never keep anything from you again, just please, I—” you almost choked. "I need you so badly.”

The words spilled out you, sounding so pretty when you begged. And when he finally believed you, your mouth fell open, but nothing came out—a breath catching in your throat and eyes fluttering at that familiar stretch as he slowly pushed in. Walls finally sucking in the fingers they’d been so hungry for.

You could’ve came right then. 

“Fuck,” he swore under his breath. You felt like home. 

Your spongey walls squished and pulsed around him like a heartbeat, his fingers sinking in slow until you drew a sharp breath, your leg twitching.

Right there, he smiled, almost instantly finding that gushy spot of yours that makes you see white. 

He whistled—this mouth-watering position not only gave him an immaculate view of your ass he wanted to sink his teeth into but also let his peace fingers perfectly angle and beckon your gspot. 

His other hand slowly spread you wide, and he cooed, marveling at how easy he slid in and out, his fingers hooking with each dip as he took advantage of the easy access and sent sparks to your toes.

Your teeth tugged at your lip, brows drawing together. He was pushing so sinfully into you, his fingers flowing like waves with the full intent to draw your orgasm out of you as he’d done millions of times before. Always leaving you breathless, heady, and unbelieving how natural it was for him to bring you to absolute shambles.

His pace was agonizingly slow, plunging in and out with a deliberate rhythm that had you trembling and your lip sore from biting and stifling your pathetic moans. His dick painfully throbbed against your stomach, the heat of it branding your skin with each ragged breath you took trying to contain yourself.

After keeping you on the edge for so long without mercy, he was about to send you plummeting into the deep end, his own restraint slipping with every passing second as his pace gradually increased, your slick beginning to pool around his fingers when you felt your orgasm coming on. 

Your muscles tightened around him as he pushed you towards your peak, the sound of his fingers fucking into you rivaling macaroni but had to battle your fat mouth spilling out moans like a starving slut. 

“Ssh ssh ssh.” His hand slipped over your mouth. “I wanna hear her, she sounds so pretty.” And without restraint, the squelches of your pussy fucked the air, your drool slipping through his fingers and dripping down the side of your mouth. And just as you felt time slowing, he quickly swapped fingers, his middle and ring fingers angling down and furiously hitting that blinding spot that sent your eyes rolling.

Forgetting how to breathe, your cherry-O raced around the corner, aiming to crash right into you. Slowly, you began to arch your back into his hand, core tightening. And when you drew a deep breath, eyes screwing shut as you held it, his voice was deep and low to reassure you. “It’s okay baby, let it out.” And he racked his fingers until the pressure of your orgasm burst open.

"ohoHfuckfuCKFUCK SUGUSUGUSUGUOHMYGODIMCUMMING!" You clutched his calf and toppled over, your fluids spilling around his fingers and down your thighs, making a complete mess on his pants.

“Gooood girl, just like that,” he said almost desperately, biting down on his lip to stifle his own moans, but his fingers didn’t slow down, jiggling into you until you were writhing and begging for relief. He just had to make sure he got it all out, his silky fingers swimming deep into your sopping and noisy pussy until he wrung out all your shudders then slowed until your breaths somewhat returned to normal.  

You came down, releasing your grip on him, your calves sore and aching from being on your toes.

Suguru smirked and licked his fingers clean, impressed by the sight of you lifelessly hanging over his legs: pathetic, spent, and cute.

After a moment of just holding you, he leaned down, pressing a kiss on your slightly reddened cheek before giving you an unexpected but quick lick of your pussy that made you twitch.

Yup, good and sensitive, just like he liked it.

Gently rubbing your back, he hummed. “Is my little slut satisfied?”

“Suguru!” Un uh—now he was calling you names?? You barely managed to open your eyes, still in a daze as you tried to look at him.

“What?” he shrugged. “Just making sure…the author said you wouldn’t be,” he cocked a brow with a playful smile. “...Right?”

…the godforsaken author’s note. 

“For all my sluts who’d rather be fucked by fictional men than real ones.“

You ran your limp noodle of a hand over your face and groaned. Just when you thought the night couldn’t get any more humiliating, your fave author doubled back and helped you stumble into more trouble.

But Suguru wasn’t offended, not even a little bit. If anything, he looked amused, a slight smirk gracing his lips with a flicker of something else in his eyes. 

He’d been waiting for an opportunity like this and bided his time. Now, every little secret and hidden desire you thought you’d keep forever buried in those books was out in the open and his for the taking—and he was ready to tear them apart.

“Suguru, I—” 

“It’s ok,” he shushed, his thumb brushing your bottom lip as he tenderly cupped your face. But the hairs on the back of your neck stood up when you saw that sly grin spread across his face before he said, “We’ll see about that.”

Things were a bit…different..after that night. 

It wasn’t something either of you discussed outright, but there was definitely a shift—an unspoken understanding that lingered in the air between you.

At first, it was like you were meeting for the first time all over again, and you slipped back into that shy, uncertain girl you were when Suguru first came into your life. Every knowing look he gave you, every slight touch, had you blushing, anticipating. As if you, once again, had no idea how to handle him—or how he would handle you. 

He was slowly unveiling the quiet power you never knew or expected him to possess. And he was making sure you wouldn’t dismiss it again.

Now, it was you who hesitated before speaking, nervously fiddling with your fingers any time he asked you something even slightly suggestive before your eyes would dart away in embarrassment—not knowing that Suguru was absolutely loving this budding dynamic. 

He would tease but never pushed too hard because he was patient. Always patient and watching with that soft, amused smile anytime you fumbled for words or tried to play off how flustered you were. Gradually coming to terms with the fact that your boyfriend—the same one who always gave you a gentle look and treated you like you were more than precious—was more than willing to cater to and control you until you creamed and cried. 

But honestly, not much had changed for Suguru. He still carried that same calm, subtle soft-dom energy that had always drawn you in—now there was just a label for it.

But there was a subtle shift in the way he handled you, like a quiet reminder that he knew you now—all of you. And he made one thing clear and made sure you understood it—closed mouths don’t get fed—and it was a lesson you had to learn quickly, especially after you promised not to keep any more secrets. And whenever you’d shy away or fall into your usual silence, Suguru would tilt your chin and hold your gaze with those piercing, violet eyes. “Use your words, Pretty,” he’d say, and your cheeks would burn with embarrassment, but you’d still push through because you knew he was right. 

So you stayed true to your word and began looking for all the ways you could experiment and get what you wanted…in the only way a little gremlin like you could…by getting him riled up. And for a minute, he would just take it on the chin. But then he discovered breath play. 

You were really getting on his nerves one day.  

But you felt like you would actually die if he left you to hang with the boys when something in you was practically begging you to crawl into his skin. He was about to leave out wearing your favorite hoodie of his too, the one that's slightly cropped and hangs just above his midriff, and you sulked because you knew that any thirsty bitch in the vicinity would try to be on him like white on rice even when Suguru never paid them any mind. 

Besides, he had already fucked you silly that morning and had been pampering you with kisses all afternoon, so he didn’t understand why you were being so clingy. 

But you were craving something else. A bit of something to eat.

And instead of just telling him that you wanted his dick down your throat and past your tonsils, you decided to block the front door, cross-armed, scowling, and staring at the appetizing outline on his basketball shorts. Jealous that they got to hold his heavy balls all day instead of you.

His fingers snapped, “Babe,” the sound pulling you out of your silent tantrum and making you look at him with wanting eyes. “What’s up with you?” he asked, his tone a mix of amusement and exasperation. 

But you just couldn't bring yourself to say it, so you deepened your silent pout until he pinched his nose and sighed.

“Then move,” he started, stepping closer, but you shook your head and widened your stance like a toddler.

A smirk played on his lips as he loomed over you, taking in your pettiness before his hand thudded next to your head.

You jumped, but your defiance didn’t waver, your eyes lifting to meet his. His smug expression only deepened as he shifted, the heat of his coveted dick pressing against your thigh in a way that made your breath hitch.  

“Move,” he repeated, but you just pressed your lips tighter, your eyes challenging him. 

His other hand slid up, fingers gently curling around your neck and thumb brushing over your pulse. "We doing this again?" he asked, low and laced with threat.

What could you say? Old habits die hard. 

But he knew what you wanted. The way you thickly swallowed and wet your lips, eyes darting to the growing tent between you, spoke volumes even when you wouldn’t.

“Fine,” he said, and before you knew it, your knees were hitting the ground, his hand settling on your head and making you slink to the floor. He tilted your chin. “Open that pretty mouth since you don’t want to use it.”

And at his gruff command, your tongue lolled out, unapologetically.

He tsked, tucking his lip under his teeth at your display. 

You’re the most difficultly-easy person he knows next to Satoru, quick to make the simplest things complicated sometimes, and this time, he was going to give you exactly what you were asking for, but not without reprimand. 

His thumb landed on your pink tongue, pressing and holding your gaze.

“You want it?” You caught a subtle thump, and he palmed his shorts. “Oi, up here” He held your jaw, cocking his brow.

His smirk was devilish, a knowing glint in his eye watching you grow needier by the second—unable to focus on anything but the desperate need for him to turn your throat into a daycare. 

Tongue trapped under his thumb, you finally answered him in the only way you knew how, and he watched with parted lips as yours closed around his finger with an eager nod. 

You were going to be the death of him.

With a tug of his shorts, your fat reward sprang forth, almost brushing the tip of your nose—already leaking stringy globs of precum for giving him such a hard time.

Your eyes sparkled. Suguru has such a pretty dick. One of the prettiest you’ve ever seen that’s girthy, long, and perfectly made for your greedy throat. 

It was heavy on your tongue as he tapped it, teasing your palate and holding it out for you to give it a taste.

Less was said, and you gladly accepted your meal, the taste of him coating your tongue as you swirled around the tip before sucking it into your mouth.  

Suguru’s knees almost buckled as you lapped at him like ice cream, your tongue tracing up and down his shaft before placing gentle kisses under his tip. His face went warm, his fingers threading through your hair as he fought to maintain control. “Don’t—ngh—tease. Suck it—mmph—properly.” And with a firm press to your bottom lip, he coaxed your mouth open before pushing in and filling it completely. 

You gagged, and a deep exhale left his lips feeling your warm mouth finally wrap around him, your eyes watering as the weight of his dick fully seated on your tongue and made your lips stretch to savor every inch.

“That’s it—mphm—take it all.”

His hips automatically moved at the feel of your throat, his head softly falling back feeling you relax and hum around him. He couldn’t help but gently thrust, his spongy tip kissing the back of your throat and making you blink back tears as he tested your limits. And you only made it harder for him to hold back with the way you ate him up like candy. 

Even though head is a game, you never play. All day, you’d been torturing yourself, once again denying yourself of your insistent need to swallow his kids in the name of shame, but once the reins were off, you wasted no time satisfying your craving—knowing exactly how to get Suguru to blow his load.

And fuck was it a losing battle for him to try to keep the tendrils of his orgasm at bay while also trying to remember that he was supposed to be teaching you a lesson.

As he said, closed mouths don’t get fed, and he started pulling away with a satisfying ‘pop’ every time you got too greedy. Rubbing his dick over your lips with a grin before snaking back in and taking you further and further down each time. 

He groaned watching you take him, your eyes meeting as you looked up. The new cut in his brow made them look even sexier when he bunched them, complementing the low and husky look in his eyes you’d never seen before you sent them rolling when he wrapped your hair around his fist and pushed in to the base.

“Hah.” His breath hitched as you swallowed. Once. Twice. Holding you down a sec before he pulled out with an exhale. And as he watched your heavy breaths, struggling to collect yourself but looking up at him with a starry-eyed but fucked out gaze, he got an idea. 

“Why do you act so innocent all the time?” he huffed, pushing back in. “Look at you,” his thumb stretched your lips, “Choking on my dick and loving it.” Always the innocent ones, he thinks, full of frills and freaks. 

And you couldn’t deny how the slow and lewd way he fucked your throat made your pussy drip like a waterfall, uring you to rub fast circles across your throbbing clit, but he knew you would try. 

You were a cock-drunk slut, after all, always getting off when he stretched, used, and abused your throat to his satisfaction, so he knew he would have to lock your hands away to keep your mouth open and you focused since you wanted to taste him so badly.

Still fucking your throat, he said, “Take a breath, baby,” and soon after, you gagged when he leaned over you. “Hold it,” and he pulled the string from his hoodie and began counting. “One, two, three.” Bringing a flood of tears to your fluttering eyes as he sank deep into your throat and tied your wrists behind your back.

Air. God, what is air?? Your lungs screamed for it, stomach tight, but your pussy clenched so sinfully tight from the lack of it. 

You didn’t know it then, but this was an accidental deep dive into something you’d both come to love. The control, the discipline, the trust. The skill you had to possess as a certified throat goat. And most of all, the uncertainty of never knowing when he was going to allow your next breath. Every time counting down until you were squirming for air before pulling out with an exhale as if he were breathing with you.

He ogled at the messy evidence of effort plastered on your face, strings of spit connecting from your lips to his pink tip. His dick twitched at your huffs and tear-streaked face and he rubbed your puffy lips. “Fuck, you’re so pretty, baby,” and the words went straight to your swollen clit before he continued playing with you.

He loved how your throat closed around his dick when you swallowed, like you were trying to milk him for every drop. Sucking, blowing, and swallowing til your throat knew every vein and his orgasm was coming and coming fast. His stuttering hips and tightening grip on your hair were enough evidence if the low moans competing with the sloshes of your throat weren’t. 

Heat pooled in his stomach, brows furrowing as he locked eyes with a borderline whiny look. He licked his lips. “Ready for me to cum for you, baby?” he asked in that breathy voice he always does before he unravels. And your dick-drunk nod, knowing you were about to earn your meal, was all he needed to cup your jaw, making sure you looked him right in the eye as the coil in him snapped.

“Fuck, hah, I’m cumming,” and he groaned, biting his pierced lips and slipping all the way to the base til your nose brushed his tufts of hair and he filled your throat. 

Ropes of cum poured out of him, and he went dizzy, his mouth falling open with shaky moans watching your spaced and gone face as he came down your throat. Your wrists strained against the tie as your throat constricted, but you swallowed his throbbing cock with ease like it was the only sustenance you needed. Pumping you full until he was a soft and empty gummy worm in your mouth. 

He shuddered and collected his breaths, slowly pulling from your lips with a sigh. You hummed and licked them—most of your lunch had gone to your stomach, but remnants remained on your tongue, warm and delicious. 

"ThAnk," you cleared your throat. "Thank you," you huffed, throat raw and voice cracking, but he just shook his head and smiled. You were above asking for what you wanted but never forgot to be grateful when you got it.

He swiped your chin with his thumb. "You're a brat," and you beamed, lifting your chin. Because he didn't know how right he was.

And while that was just the beginning of your exploration of power dynamics, it quickly became a very slippery slope. Because while you might've thought you were the expert in all things whips and chains and excitement, Suguru had been quietly doing some research and taking hellah notes. And taking one directly from you, he soon began to make a few secret purchases of his own.

Suguru has his hobbies. 

He likes to read, play sports to stay fit, and enjoys spending time in nature when he can. Outside of that, he’s pretty simple. 

But there’s a little-known fun fact about your beau—he’s a secret artiste.

It’s rare that he’ll break out his paints and easel, but once every blue moon when his inner Picasso strikes, he’ll sit for hours, brush to canvas until it all pours out of him. 

You always find yourself in a trance watching him in that element—his quiet intensity as he gets lost in space and creates galaxies. But even though Suguru isn't loud about his talent, he’s actually very creative and always looking for different ways to release and create. Never shying awaying from trying new things and always looking for new mediums. And canvases. 

You slightly winced, then moaned. 

Wax is hot in more ways than one, and it’s just perfect for when Suguru wants to creatively get his hands on you.

He loves creating delicate patterns on your back, savoring every moment and watching your face twist between pain and ecstasy as he skillfully lets the wax drip. Never too much at once, the hot lines spill and cool across his favorite canvas—your skin. There's a world of difference between paper stretched across wood, and the softness beneath his hands, and your skin is far lovelier, simply irresistible. 

His hair brushed your skin as he leaned down, his lips tracing down your back and between the patterns. So soft against his lips. All of you, from your neck to your chest to your tummy, softly mold under his fingers like clay when he worships you like art, and sometimes he’ll drip hot lines down your inner thighs and plush cheeks just so he can melt his lips between them—feeling so lucky to have the privilege to feast on a masterpiece. 

Your own little van Gogh, drowning his nose in your folds and bringing curses to your lips.

You knew Suguru was a modern-day Michelangelo with a paintbrush, but now your once shy and reserved man was having too much fun exploring all the unconventional ways he could create art—and slowly crossing over into a world of kinky debauchery. 

And at the end of every session, he never forgets to take a Polaroid picture to show you and keep for himself. A little testament to his sentiments and sensuality. It wasn’t all just about whips and chains after all. 

You also needed—

Buzz! 

Your eyes screw shut and you tense but can’t move because of the

—rope.

“Hey,” Suguru snaps. “I said keep your eyes on me,” and you shot daggers at him because how the hell could you when you’ve been overstimulated for hours and have already cum, twice?  

Eyes softening, you whimper, but your heart sinks when he just rolls his eyes.

Fuck. 

You really did it this time. 

Your boyfriend has a lot of patience, a thin line for everyone else but a lot for you. But God, do you know how to fucking tap dance on it sometimes.

“Did you think you were cute?” his face screwed. “Dancing in sections and on bars. Guys?” The vibrations increase, and you double over whining.

In all fairness, you did beg him to come out with you and your girls earlier, but your boo has been working on a big project lately and was understandably beyond tired. Still, you complained, eventually giving up and still going out without him, but you didn't expect a play-by-play of your night and mini rebellion to end up all over your equally drunk friend’s Snapchat—or for Suguru to see it. 

You picked a hell of a time to act out too, because, after weeks of secretly practicing his newest obsession, Suguru had finally perfected it: the harness prayer tie, and watching your wrists struggle against his work was the most satisfying confirmation of his skill he could’ve asked for. 

The skill and intricacy of restraint and rope play was the perfect balance between tapping into his creative side and reeling you in when you got out of hand—now proving very useful after you had fully pissed him off. 

Leaning down, he grips your face. “You wanna act like a slut so badly, I’m gonna treat you one.”

But he didn’t just give you the dick you’d been acting out over right away though—he hardly thought you deserved it. 

Instead, a vibrator has been nuzzling your clit for hours after he woke you up the following morning and went to work with his tie—your blubbering whines falling on deaf ears as he overstimulated you until you felt ruined and raw.

Sniffling, you plead, “I’m sorry, Sugu.”

“You’re always sorry,” he bites back, his hand wrapping under your jaw. “And so fucking greedy, you know that? I bet you still want me to fuck you stupid like the cock-thirsty slut you are even though you’ve been begging me for a break.” And your stomach pangs, a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your thighs despite the rawness because he was more than right. 

“You want attention so bad, you want me to fuck you so bad,” he pulls your hair, making you look straight at him. “Then beg,” and the serious way he looks at you makes you actually start to feel bad for upsetting him so much.

Swallowing your pride, tears prick the corners of your eyes. “Please,” you whimper, “I’ll do anything just please…please fuck me.”

And the words had barely left your lips when fear shot through you, his eyes darkening as you quickly realized that you should’ve been more careful with what you wished for. 

Without warning, he placed you on the bed and flipped you over. Gripping your hips, he hastily pushed you down into a grade-A arch and tucked his tee between his teeth, springing his cock free before knocking a breath out of you with one swift thrust. 

You both gasp, every muscle tensing as your Earths shatter.

Suguru nearly collapses. Your tight pussy that's been dripping and yearning for hours is easy to slide into yet struggles to accommodate his fat girth, but that doesn't stop him from reeling his hips back and pushing in even deeper.

You nearly draw blood from your lip as he begins to thrust with a pent-up intensity that's been building since last night, nearly blue-balling himself to take care of you in your drunken state and fighting the urge to say fuck it and punish you right then and there.

But now that you were good and sober and overly sensitive, he could finally ruin your dick-starved pussy and fuck you blind. 

His hold on you tightens, his knuckles turning white as he fucks into you with a primal urgency. Not caring if you can take it or not because he needs his dick burned into your brain in a way you wouldn’t forget. Besides, who could possibly hold back when you feel so fucking good wrapped around him? Mind-numbing in a way he can never get enough and desperately needs more, and he grips the divots of your waist and pulls you closer, making struggled whines fall from your mouth as he makes you simply take it.

The nerves of your pussy are on fire as every inch of him stretches and hastily fills you, the persistent vibrator on your clit still buzzing and sending you spiraling.

The way he's manhandling you, the soreness in your wrists, and the relentless rhythm of his hips all blend into a rush more intoxicating than anything you had last night until you're overwhelmed and bucking to get away. 

“Uh-uh, don’t run.” And his hand wraps around your neck, pulling you up and back against him, two fingers hooking in your mouth and making you arch so deliciously that every kiss of your cervix sends spasms through your walls and coaxes his cock for everything he’s got. 

"You feel that?" he snaps. "I fucking bet you do." And your breath grows lighter and lighter until your head goes dizzy, your body turning to Jell-O and slowly melting into the bed, but he follows you down and deepens his stroke. You lose your arch, but with one quick thrust, your nails are digging into your palms. He slaps your ass, punishment for making him mess up his rhythm, before hiking you back up and resuming the brutal pace.

Your mind goes blank and his hair falls from its neat bun, sticking to his sweat-slicked forehead from how hard he's fucking you and leaving you caught between begging for mercy and craving more of this delicious torture.

"Look at you," he growls, "Fuckin' brat—ngh—this is what you wanted, right?" And you can barely form a coherent thought, let alone speak, your reply coming out as garbled moans, but Suguru is having none of it, his hand sliding from your neck to your hair and pulling your head back. You cry out, the sound muffled by his fingers still hooked in your mouth as he bottoms out inside you. "I asked you a question," and the room fills with obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin and fumbling 'yeses' from your mouth as he bullies your cervix. 

"Fuck hah," his brows furrow, "you drive me crazy, you know that?" he says, voice strained. "You wanted attention?" he breathes, "Well, now you've got it. Every. Fucking. Inch of it." and each word is punctuated by his leaky tip, making your overstimulated pussy clench and draw a sharp hiss from his lips.

"That's it, baby," his rhythm slightly falters. "Squeeze my cock. Show me how sorry you are." And his hand slips from your lips and snakes around your front, pressing the vibrator even harder against you until the delicious stretch of his cock and the merciless buzzing becomes too much to bear.

Your vision blurs, your thighs quaking and trying to draw together, but there's no escape. 

"You right there?" He pushes through the familiar clench of your walls. "Then cum for me," Suguru commands, and the words are the final push you need for your orgasm to rip through you like lightning—your body involuntarily arching as waves of hot, white pleasure crash over you.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou," you helplessly choke out, walls spazzing and gripping Suguru's cock like shackles, pulsating around him until it forces his own to come chasing after yours.

He struggles for breaths, "Where do you want it, baby?" But it was just a formality, a silly question really, because there was no way he could pull out of your vice-grip. He just needed to know you wanted it as badly as he wanted to fill you up.

"Inside, please, inside me, please," you stammer, still reeling from your own orgasm before he sends you into another, pulling you taunt by the rope and flushing you against his waist.

"Take it," and his moan is low and guttural, his fingers digging into your hips and locking you in as his body tenses, his hot seed flooding and filling you to the brim.

Your eyes meet the top of your head as you cum again in tandem, bliss rippling through your bodies.

"Fuck, c'mere." His lips crash onto yours in a searing kiss, plunging his pulsing cock deep into you one more time as he rides out the last waves of his orgasm, pumping out the last of his seed until you're both panting and trembling and he feels his cum oozing out of you.

Slowly, Suguru releases his grip on your hair, deeply exhaling as he gently lowers the both of you to the bed, his softening cock still nestled inside you. You whimper at the still buzzing vibrator, and he finally switches it off, tossing it aside.

He presses soft, soothing kisses to your shoulder. "You did so well, baby," and he carefully unties the rope, his touch tender and apologetic as he massages the faint marks and kisses your wrists. 

Out of everything you do together, inside and out of your newfound dynamic, this is his favorite part of all: putting you back together after breaking you into pieces.

His unwavering desire to care for you never changes, even when you do the absolute most just to get his attention and show him that you're just as obsessed with him as he is with you—your private but unmistakably commanding Panther and his secretly kinky Powderpuff princess who was now hanging on to life by a thread.

He softly laughs, slinging your limp arms around his neck and pulling you lovingly into his chest as you breathe. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your rib, his lips peppering your head with kisses as he sighed, feeling your heartbeat slowly sync with his.

But after a few moments in each other's arms, a curiosity that's been living rent-free in Suguru's head for quite some time now rears its ugly head—and he just has to know the answer.

"Sooo," he drawls, "... Taichi or me?" And you almost snort, a smile tugging at your lips as you nuzzle his chest. You look up at him with a playful gaze only to find him deadass—figuring that after a day like today, there would be no better time to officially find out if he's finally settled the score with your anime husband.

Your eyes smile, and you reach up with the little strength you have to gently stroke his face and softly kiss his jaw.

You contently sigh. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, babe.”

extended angel's note: oh god what can i say...

i can confidently say that this took me the entire month of september to write and it's definitely the hardest pieces i've worked on so far god bLESS

y'all have no idea how much word count RESTRAINT i had to use just to keep this reasonable (i do have a slightly extended version just for myself tho 🤭)

this was supposed to drop on my bday (unironically the day JJK ended) but life is life 🤠