[show me where it hurts.]

Hawks isn’t a job like those, though. He’s more of a vanity project, an impulse target. You’ll go easy on him—you’ll just get his savings account info and take a few rent payments out of it. No harm, no foul. Won’t even make a dent in his hero income, you’re nice like that.

“So…Keigo…do you trust me?” You rub your ass against the stiff bulge and trace fingers down the rigid bones at the top of his wings. You’re laying your quirk on so thick you can almost smell it in the air, you can almost taste it. So can he.

Hawks breathes in and his whole body trembles. “Course I do, angel, of course…fuck, I…” He blinks quickly. You can see it bearing down onto him, pushing away his self-interest: your influence, your charisma. Your quirk. The lights change and the melted gold of his eyes is slashed pink-purple-blue in the reflection. Wings curl around you, closing you in like an embrace.

“Can you do something for me?”

“…sure, if you want…?” Anything you want, anything for you, his hands say, hovering, almost touching your thighs, but Hawks won’t touch you until you give him permission, he can’t.

“Anything?” you ask, staring deep into his eyes like this is a romance novel and not a private room where you’re about to steal from the #2 hero. It’s like hypnosis, to be honest. Needs a connection.

“Anything, angel,” he breathes.

[BNHA] Todoroki x reader /// Experience

Summary: Todoroki knows his relationship with his boss will only work as long as there are no strings attached, but the arrangement gets a lot more complicated when her ex comes back into the picture.

Warnings: office relationship, alcohol mention

Status: 5.3k words written out of 8k (??? who fucking knows) total

They’re both laughing now, giggling like schoolchildren testing out curse words for the first time. The look on Todoroki’s face must not be as neutral as he wants it to be, because Kaminari notices—turns toward him and asks, “what do you think, Todoroki?”

It’s harmless. Todoroki knows that, knows Kaminari and Ashido don’t mean anything by it. It’s the same thing the other students do in university with good-looking professors and TAs, the way they’ve always done. And even though Todoroki doesn’t really understand the way they see you (hot for teacher? ice princess?) he can’t really admit he disagrees.

“Todoroki? You okay?” Ashido frowns and waves her hand in front of his face. “You’re totally zoned out tonight.”

“…I should go,” Todoroki says, standing suddenly and collecting his coat from the seat next to him. Ashido and Kaminari protest (“it’s early! you’re not even drunk yet!”), but he ignores them. “I have to go back to the office.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re going to work even more,” Kaminari moans while Ashido nods ruefully along with him. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

Todoroki doesn’t need to work. He needs one of the account files for a deadline this weekend, and that’s what he tells them while he calls a car to take him back. He could get it tomorrow, Saturday—which is what he was planning to when he left this evening—but he wants to be there now, for some reason…it’s past 9PM on a Friday, and there’s no reason that you’d still be there, but…

There you are, sitting alone in your office, facing the view of the late-night skyline through your window. The sky is flat purple-black—there’s too much pollution to see the stars here in the city, Todoroki knows that—but the surrounding buildings are shimmering in the dark. You turn when you hear the door to the office open, and the expression on your face is like you’ve been caught in a private moment, something you didn’t intend for him to see.

“…Todoroki.” Your mouth moves around his name like you’re testing it. “You’re back.”

“I need to pick up the Steubens file,” he says slowly, hoping you can’t hear any hint of uncertainty in his voice. He didn’t drink much (two, two and half maybe, and his tolerance is always better than people think it is) but he doesn’t want you to think he’s been irresponsible.

“You should take a break this weekend. Don’t worry about the deadline, I’ll take care of it,” you tell him, letting your gaze flick over him. You frown a bit and he wonders what you’re seeing—his dress shirt unbuttoned under his collarbones and the sleeves rolled up past his forearms; his hair a little rumpled out of the style he puts it in for work. “Were you out with the interns? You didn’t need to come back to the office.”

Todoroki pulls long fingers through his hair and you follow the movement. “I don’t mind.”

You have this way of looking at him—always appraising, evaluating him against some secret standard that he may or may not measure up to. Kaminari’s theorized that it’s an intimidation tactic. It makes the other interns squirm, but Todoroki doesn’t have trouble holding your gaze. “If you insist,” you say finally. “But you shouldn’t work too hard. You should enjoy life while you’re young.”

The file is in the cabinet at your right, exactly where Todoroki knows you keep it. He should just take it. He should leave the office and go home, go to sleep. He should stop—standing here, in front of your desk, looking down at you, wanting you. Your hands, your voice, the soft bow of your lips… Maybe he’s less sober than he thought he was. He wants to touch you. He wants to be touched.

“(Y/N),” he says. It isn’t supposed to sound like it does, like a sigh. “I’m sorry…I’ve been drinking.”

You’ve already turned back to the screen of your computer, but you still shrug. “Why are you sorry? You’re an adult, what you do on you own time isn’t any of my business. As long as you’re getting your work done…”

“Not for that,” Todoroki says. “I’m sorry for this.” And he leans down, folds his hand under your chin, and kisses you.

You’re stiff for a second—he can feel the surprised intake of breath with your mouth against his—but he pushes closer to you and you relax, fraction by fraction. Your mouth tastes fresh and sweet, like peppermint. His hand finds the desk—bracing himself, he feels like his knees might give out—and the edge of one of your documents bites into the side of his palm. Let this be real, he thinks. Don’t let her move.

Closer, he has to be closer to you.

Todoroki kisses you harder.

[BNHA] Overhaul x reader /// do no harm

Summary: He'd forgotten what it feels like to want something this badly. (—over the course of his imprisonment in Tartarus, Chisaki develops a fixation on a young researcher sent to rebuild his arms.)

Warnings!!!!: prison setting, ableism, mentions of injury and unethical medical/prison practices, mentions of drug addiction, Chisaki's mental state is not healthy, this one's gonna be pretty fucked ngl

Status: 1.8 words written out of an infinite amount total...seriously I have no idea for this one, it's been marinating in my head since I first created this blog :x

Red—

Lights, cold. His eyes are already open. In the exam room. Someone’s speaking, not the doctor, not one of the nurses, someone else.

Someone else?

White, white. Someone’s hand hovering over his shoulder, latex gloves brushing his skin. Not a doctor. You don’t feel like a doctor. You keep— skimming over his chest, too nervous to really touch him. Your hands are warm in the center, cold at the fingertips. You touch him like you’re afraid. You feel—

He can—he can smell you. Everything here smells sterile and chemical and he got used to it, let it fade into the background until the millisecond of metallic blood smell after they take the needle out of his leg makes him ill. Overhaul breathes in and smells you, smells the soap you washed your hair with. Something—something sweet? He can’t— he can’t— why are you so close? You want him to lie down. Why are you touching him? You’re not a nurse, not a doctor. He feels dizzy breathing you in.

Your voice. You’re telling him to lie down again. He’s trying to ignore you like he ignores everything here but your voice is—

softer, lighter. Different. Don’t look. Don’t listen. Close your eyes, Overhaul thinks to himself, ignore her.

“Please,” you say. “Chisaki.”

You’re touching him now, getting ready to push him flat on his back like an invalid, and with the phantom limbs he can feel sometimes itching and aching in thin air, he wants to wrap his fingers around your wrist and break it.

You pleaded. You said his name. He hasn’t heard his own name in—a year? Two? How long has it been?

He lies down.

He wants to sleep again. He knows what they give him—he knows the name of the drug cocktail and all the chemical compounds that make it up and he knows the effects it can have when taken long-term. It’s a sedative, it makes him feel numb and sometimes if he’s numb enough he can even manage to enjoy it. But if he’s not he feels himself lying there while the drugs crawl through his circulatory system and into his brain, eating away at the parts of himself that he used to think were worth keeping. God, god, it feels filthy. He would purge himself—rip himself to shreds and put them back together clean—if he could.

He wants to sleep, but the smell of your soap—

“Chisaki, do you know why I’m here?”

I don’t know, he thinks. I don’t care.

“It’s about your arms.”

Overhaul doesn’t have arms. The prostheses are controlled externally by people who think Shigaraki should have finished the job. He can barely feed himself without assistance, can’t even piss without getting permission from one of the penal officers to activate the bionics. They’re not his arms.

“I’m here to see if I can…fix them.”

Overhaul closes his eyes. Black.

[BNHA] Shigaraki x reader /// it will come back [pt. 4]

Summary: You have a bad habit of picking up strays, and the half-dead villain you find bleeding out in a dumpster is no exception. [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Warnings: mentions of injury, pain, fear, this is an extremely rough draft ngl I really need to edit :/

Status: 5.2k words written out of maybe 8k total

His bedroom looks like you would’ve thought it would look like if you had ever thought about it. Nice computer with two monitors, some books, lots of gaming stuff. A map above the computer pinned with documents, newspaper clippings, pictures, some of which extend past the wall and onto the ceiling. Serial killer shit. Fitting. The window is blocked out with heavy curtains, and the only light in the room comes from the purplish gleam of the monitors. Tomura sets you and your bag down on his unmade bed and pulls your ankle into his lap along with some ice cubes in a towel, a roll of Ace bandages, a white plastic pharmacy bottle that rattles when he drops it on the mattress.

“Um—I can do that,” you say, but Tomura ignores you, peeling your sock down and wrapping the bandages around your ankle. “You don’t have to—it doesn’t have to be that tight.”

He ignores that too. You’re almost glad that you’re in pain. It’s giving you something to focus on besides his hands.

“Why were you at the bar?” Tomura asks.

“I…don’t know, I got lost on my way back from work.”

“You don’t get lost.” He coils the bandage around one more time before tucking the edge under to hold it in place. “Were you looking for me?”

You inhale, counting out three beats to make sure it doesn’t sound too fast. “It was just a coincidence.” He doesn’t look convinced, so you shrug, hoping you look more nonchalant than you feel. “Really.”

Does he know?

He couldn’t. There’s no way. Stop talking, don’t tell him anything he doesn’t need to know. Stop thinking about him killing kids.

Tomura’s done wrapping your ankle, but he’s not moving away from you. “You shouldn’t go out in the rain like that. You could get sick.”

“You’re…you’re one to talk.”

“You’re different than me. You break so easily.” His grip moves up from your ankle and his hands are cold from the ice. Your ankle feels stiff, achy. You can’t remember the last time you were in this much pain.

How much will it hurt if Tomura touches you? You can’t take your eyes off his hand, stark white and threaded with blue veins against the dark fabric of your skirt. You saw the cast Aizawa was wearing, the gauze taped on his face, the way he winced a little bit whenever he moved quickly back at the hospital. You can’t even imagine how that feels…to have your living body flake off into dust, from your skin all the way down to your bones.

Oh god. Oh god, oh god. Don’t cry. You’ll get out of this. He’s not going to hurt you. Just play along.

Tomura runs a hand over your ankle again and a sound comes out of your mouth that you can’t even categorize. “Is it really that bad?” he asks, and it’s almost worse to know that he’s asking out of genuine curiosity. God knows what he’s been through in the past week—the gunshots. the infection—must have felt a thousand times worse.

You try to slow your breathing but you’re having a hard time remembering what it’s supposed to sound like. “I think I need to see a doctor."

“You’re acting weird.”

You let out a high, tense laugh. “It really hurts, Tomura, what do you expect?”

“No…you’ve been acting weird since I called you earlier.” Red eyes narrow into slits and move over the strained look on your face. “Maybe you did get sick.”

“Sure. Maybe.”

Tomura lifts the back of his hand to his own forehead and then reaches out to you to compare your temperature to his, only—you don’t see that. What you see is the leader of the League of Villains with his hand out, so close to your head that you can make out the dirt under his fingernails. You see the police sketch of his villain costume from one of the articles you read, those grey embalmed hands trapped in rigor mortis around his limbs and his face. You see the news photo of the kids from UA. High school first-years, but some of them looked younger. Like the green-haired kid…you would have guessed 13 years old, 14 maybe. They did an interview with the girl—the cute one with big eyes and a frog quirk? The one he almost killed? She said she could smell the dead hands on Shigaraki’s costume when he was two inches away from her face: chemical antiseptic almost like perfume, layered over something rotting.

Tomura’s not wearing his costume now. He’s never worn it in front of you. But you almost feel like you can smell it anyway.

[KNY] Sanemi x reader x Rengoku /// to the hilt

Summary: After an injury that ends your career as a demon slayer, you struggle to adjust to your newfound vulnerability and the protectiveness of the the two Hashira who consider you their responsibility. (—Sanemi makes threats, and Rengoku enforces them.)

Warnings: protective/patronizing behavior, mentions of injury, dependent reader, possibly coercive vibes??, Rengoku doesn't make an appearance in this excerpt (he shows up later)

Status: 2.8k words written out of 6–7k total

"How many times do I have to tell you you’re not strong enough to be using your hands?” Sanemi's voice is thin with anger, and he lets you hear it. Of course he’s angry. It’s like you’re doing this on purpose, making yourself sicker, forcing him to force you to give up already. The flash of pain that passes over your face is almost enough to make him feel guilty, but you should know better by now. What’s the point of trying to go through the motions? You’ll never fight again. “You don’t need to be useful.”

“I know! I’m not… I know I’m not healed enough, I get it. Do we have to talk about this?”

He glares—do you really understand?—but he lets it go. Settles back, keeps the peace, for your sake. For now. “Just keep eating.”

You oblige gratefully, digging into the food that’s left as quickly as you seem to be able to. Sanemi watches and keeps his mouth shut even when you fumble. He’s too angry with you, too pushy sometimes. He knows. But how else is he supposed to keep you from making your injury worse? If you didn’t need him—him and Rengoku, at least—you’d just leave. Sanemi’s never suggested it himself (to be honest, he doesn’t even let himself think about the possibility of you leaving the dojo), but you could. You’re here because you want to be. Because you’re not strong enough to set your own limits, follow the boundaries you’ve been given in order to heal. You need them. You need them to keep you safe.

Through the window, the moon is rising little by little, saturating the courtyard outside with watery light. There’s a lamp in your bedroom but it’s unlit—seems like you prefer the dim light of the outdoors and the faint glow of the hallway through your door. Were you just sitting here in the dark before he came?

The image comes to his mind too easily—you sitting at the window in your thin kimono for hours, staring blankly as the world outside dips into night. It doesn’t fit you…or at least it doesn’t fit the person you’re supposed to be.

(the person you were before.)

“Why is it so fucking dark in here? It’s depressing,” he asks, stacking your discarded dishes and setting the tray to the side once you’ve finished. The only thing left is the sake bowl, which you lift to your mouth very carefully before patting your lips dry and offering it back to Sanemi.

He takes it, still waiting for your response, but you wait for him to drink before you answer. “It isn’t that dark with the moon out like this.”

You’re right, in a way. By now Sanemi’s vision has adjusted enough so that he can see everything from the moonlight alone—weeds poking out from the stone slabs outside, rippling movement from the wisteria flowers, and…

…the unbound hair unfurling like a halo around your face, your rumpled kimono baring a little too much of your throat, the shadows that your eyelashes paint down over your cheekbones when you close your eyes. Sanemi exhales, shifts back and takes another sip from the bowl. “Are you tired? Did you want to sleep?”

“No, I—“ you turn to the side, looking deeper into the bedroom so your face is caught in shadow for a second. Like after all of this, you can’t look him in the eye when you say it. “You’re leaving for a mission tomorrow, aren’t you? I thought…maybe you would come. And we could have a drink.”

Ah…she doesn’t want to say it. That’s fine. Sanemi knows what you need.

You extend a hand out for the bowl that the two of you have been trading back and forth, but your fingers don’t meet the ceramic—he’s already reaching out for you, pulling you in toward him, and when you bite your lip and nod he lies you down until your back meets the tatami below. Here, right here. Your body underneath his, the only place where he can really convince himself you’re safe.

You fumble to untie the sash of your kimono, slipping awkwardly over the bindings every time you try to get ahold of them, but Sanemi settles himself over you and pins your wrists down and forces your trembling hands into stillness. “Let me,” he says.

Bokuto’s really nice and also stupid hot so he’s probably sooo ran through like king you don’t have to hook up with every girl who asks how big your hands are 😭

Honestly he kind of gets taken advantage of because he underestimates how much he’ll connect feelings w/ sex and always ends up a tiny bit heartbroken when girls tell him he’s ‘cute but not relationship material’

Obviously this is pre- meeting you though. Once he starts seeing you he’s truly obsessed and doesn’t even register other girls flirting 🥺

Anyway the point of this is that you’d probably think he’s clueless in bed before you fuck him. Like okay of course he’s going to be enthusiastic and of course his dick is big but does he have the skill? Can he back it up ?? but since he actually has a lot of experience the answer is yes, yes he can

Also yes, his dick is big (a strong competitor for biggest in hq imo)!! and he doesn’t want to hurt you but he also doesn’t have such a good awareness of that possibility. He loses that awareness sometimes when he’s feeling you around him, wanting more of that feeling so bad it’s hard to pay attention to anything else

Praise praise praise! Bokuto needs affirmation—needs you to tell him his cock is so big, feels so good inside your pussy filling you up, needs to hear how good he is and how much you want him 🤍🤍

He gives praise too but it doesn’t even register as praise to him, he just says whatever comes to mind when he’s inside you and it comes out of his mouth sounding like worship

A moaner. None of that fake shit though, Bokuto’s just naturally loud—whining and groaning and panting your name in your ear when he cums inside you. He’s not subtle and even though he’d be embarrassed if your neighbors asked him to keep it down or something, he can’t make himself care that much in the moment (honestly he kind of wants people to hear—his voice and your voice and the sound of his bed frame smacking against the wall every fraction of a second while he fucks you)

Physical contact is so important to Bokuto. He wants to smother you with his whole body on yours, feel your skin touching his in every place it possibly can because he needs to be covered in you and vice versa. He’s gonna be putting his full weight on you until you tap out and tell him “okay I love you and I need you but I also kinda need to breathe” :0

Let’s be honest Bokuto’s a sub-leaning top, no? He loves topping you, loves moving with you and changing pace and positions to get deeper but he’s also super into you telling him what you want him to do to you. Same with kinky stuff—he doesn’t really come up with it himself but if you say something like “hey um what would you think if I wore handcuffs next time” he would be soooooo into it and would not be able to focus on anything else for the foreseeable future because he’s too busy fantasizing about it

Not incredibly possessive but he has his moments. He might get a bit insecure in group settings/threesomes bc he wants to be your #1 but he would be down for a threesome with someone he really trusts (like maybe Akaashi 😳)

Kissing is a must. If you stop kissing Bokuto he’ll tell you “hey—hey, kiss me, kiss me right now, fuck, I can’t, please—please just kiss me okay?”

Cockwarming. Enough said.

favorite position: missionary or lazy doggy/lying down doggy, basically anything where he’s lying fully against you and he can feel every movement you try to make and how you’re breathing. Wants to feel your heartbeat while he’s fucking you. When he starts dating you he has a fantasy of falling asleep with his cock still inside your warm, fucked-out pussy, but he’s too embarrassed to bring it up on his own at first

kinks: praise, duh. Creampies if you’re on bc. Bokuto’s into Shibari aesthetically but he’s not good at tying the knots :< Also roleplay? esp things like you dressing up as a school teacher and him as a student >///< but all in all he’s pretty happy with vanilla sex. Intimacy and care for one another are really the only things that he considers absolutely necessary in his sex life 🤍

not into: sadism—Bokuto has a really hard time causing you pain even if it’s something you’re asking for. If you want to try S&M he’ll do his best but it will take a lot of negotiating and reassurance on your part for him to give you more than a half-hearted slap on the ass and he’ll never get super into it. See also: no-kissing sex and degradation—not his thing, never been a fan, not into it—it just ruins the vibe for him and it makes him sad. But in the end he’s a puppy dog and he will do anything for you if you ask him sincerely ♥︎

Oikawa Tooru

If “service dom” had a definition in the dictionary there would be a little picture of Oikawa next to it. He jacks off fantasizing about how good he can make you feel more often than the other way around

It’s easier that way—if for whatever reason he can’t actually fuck you for a few days, he can at least get himself off remembering how your pussy clenches and drips on his fingers when he makes you cum

Up until meeting you he was kind of a serial monogamist so he has the most serious relationship experience of anyone on this list. Even though he wishes he’d met you sooner, he’s still grateful for those experiences bc it makes him a better bf to you ❤️

and also. it makes him better at fucking you.

Oikawa knows you so well. Your reactions, the subtle changes in your expressions and the little twitches in your muscles that tell him what you’re feeling and where. You have no opportunity to hide anything or hold out from him—he can basically read your mind while he’s fucking you. So when he asks you things like “oh…you liked that, didn’t you? you got—mmh, got a little tighter baby—you want me to keep doing that?” he’s not asking because he really needs to know—of course he knows. He just wants to tease you and make you squirm

In his mind sharing is caring!! Oikawa definitely gets hard thinking about fucking you along with his friends/teammates. It’s a mixture of wanting to show you off (his perfect, sexy girlfriend, the way you moan, the way you cry, the way you feel when you cum—he should get to brag about how lucky he is to have you, right?) and wanting to give you every kind of experience and pleasure. Watching you fall apart on his cock can be even more fun when you’re trying to take someone else’s too

He’s typically very secure and doesn’t get jealous in threesomes. It helps that even though he doesn’t come off like a hard dom per se, he does prefer to take on the ‘highest’ dom role in group scenes even if it isn’t obvious at first. He likes to be in control and he gets a kick out of teaching the others how to fuck you & thus proving that no matter who’s touching you, you’re still his at the end of the day

Stroke game is immaculate. Oikawa knows your body better than you do—knows when you want it rough and fast and nasty and when you need it slow and deep. His dick has a nice curve and he knows how to use it, very good at finding your g-spot and paying extra attention to it

Likes edging you and sometimes himself too. Oikawa’s so good with your body that it really doesn’t take much to make you cum…like come on, he wants to enjoy it, doesn’t he? And you get so sensitive after you finish—it should make sense that he wants to make it last as long as possible. Oikawa could get you off anytime, easily, but he prefers to drag it out until you’re trying to touch yourself and begging him to give you that release, because it’s so much better when he does it. You look so cute like that ♡

Little bit of an oral fixation. Likes to make you suck his fingers and spit in his mouth. Likes to bite and leave hickeys and lick. “If you really love your girl there’s no part of her body you won’t put in your mouth” 100%

Making you cum is way more important to him than cumming himself. Yes, he loves the feeling of cumming all deep inside you, but he’s always going to put your orgasm first. As long as you’re with him you’re basically guaranteed multis every night

Praise but it’s condescending. Degradation but it’s affectionate. In the end, it all comes from a place of love ❤️

favorite position: anything where he can see your face and has a pretty good amount of control over the movement, like you on your back on a table or missionary with your legs on his shoulders. Likes some nice deep penetration and access to your clit, he’s all about that blended orgasm 😌

Oikawa really really wants to look at your expressions and talk to you during sex (not…conversations, but he needs to be able to tease you and make fun of you!!) so he prefers face-to-face positions. Eats pussy with you upright whenever possible, e.g. you sitting on the edge of a bed with one foot up and the other on his shoulder

kinks: Oikawa is pretty adventurous and has tried a lot of different things in the past, but what he really wants is to do all of those things with you. Favorites are the praise/degradation combo (his specialty) and light bondage along the lines of cuffs or gags (not so much full restraints unless it’s a special occasion—he likes changing position and anything too complicated makes that difficult). Oikawa has a thing for titles and would definitely appreciate being called ‘senpai’ or ‘sir’ as the mood hits you. All in all sex is supposed to be fun and playful and he wants to explore all the different ways he can make you feel good <3

not into: Oikawa is actually pretty down if you want to dom him but he’s kind of annoying as a sub so be prepared for that… Also he’s not a good candidate for angry sex/break-up sex/fight sex because he gets carried away with his emotions and has a bad habit of taking it too far with degradation/control when there are unresolved issues between the two of you :( However he’s aware of this & so he’s usually careful to keep sex off the table if his emotional state is going to make things sketchy—your comfort/safety/pleasure are his #1 priority during sex and always ♥︎

Kuroo Tetsurou

Kuroo has suuuuch a high sex drive, but it takes him by surprise when you two start dating because he’s never really felt this way about sex? Before you his sex life felt pretty boring honestly—he jacked off a few times a week to mediocre porn, passed through his occasional hookups and maybe even a few relationships, had sex that he always felt like he should enjoy more than he actually did

And then you. Jesus fucking Christ. Every time you sleep together, it’s like a revelation—so this is what it’s supposed to feel like? this is how it’s supposed to be?

It doesn’t really make sense—Kuroo was always fulfilled with his sex life and he thought he was having pretty good, even really good sex, but it’s so different with you. He wants you all the time, wants to be fucking you all the time. Even when he’s inside you it feels like he’s not close enough. It’s torture, but he loves it. He’s a grown ass man but when he’s with you he feels like a hormonal teenager

Sex is super…sensory?? for Kuroo. Like he thinks your voice is so so so sexy and your body is so so so perfect and your face is so so so cute. The way you moan makes him dizzy and when you’re away, he gets hard listening to voicemails of you saying his name on repeat—“bye Tetsurou, I love you—Tetsurou—Tetsurou—I love you—“

At this point he rarely even jacks off anymore because the real thing is just so much better.

Kuroo’s in love with your body and the way it moves. Doesn’t give a fuck if your titties/ass are little or big or whatever, he wants his hands on your skin at all times 💙 Kuroo loves sleeping in bed with you and if the two of you are spending the night together not a single second passes when he’s not petting your waist or grabbing your titties like a security blanket. Body worship is par for the course—foreplay isn’t complete if he hasn’t kissed every inch of you and given you little lovebites on your ass your chest your inner thighs…

Very very fixated on your pussy. Kuroo eats pussy like it’s his life’s calling. If he had to pick between only receiving head or only eating pussy for the rest of his life it would be sooo hard to choose—he’d agonize over the decision, stay up all night thinking about it because he loves the way you suck his cock BUT ultimately he doesn’t think he could live without the taste of your pussy. His life would always be missing something 😔

“Come sit on my face right now baby, I wanna taste you”

Honestly he’s terrible abt it bc he’s really good but he does not. let up when you cum. Maybe a few minutes in you’re already squirming and pushing your cunt up away from his face and crying because “Tetsurou Tetsurou please, I’m cumming, I—fuck!” and your pussy gets so wet and sensitive so how is he supposed to let you go when you try to pull off?

Nah nah nah, quit trying to move. He barely got a taste, and you’re think you’re going to get off easy? Kuroo’s using all that volleyball strength to lock his arms around your thighs and keep you riding his tongue until you’re squirting and squealing. So adorable, so yummy. Unless you give him the hard ‘no’ he’ll be down there for hours before he finally gives in and fucks you—nothing better than your soft, squishy wet pussy clenching around him with the aftershocks after you’ve cum so many times you couldn’t even stand up by yourself if you tried <3

favorite position: you sitting on his face and 69 are both pretty high up there. For proper fucking, Kuroo’s partial to doggy—the view is a big draw, not to mention access to your ass. Also a big fan of you bouncing in his lap with your boobs in his face

kinks: overstimulation. Kuroo’s very into teasing you so he gets off watching your bratty little protests turn into incoherent whining with his tongue pressing over your clit or his cock halfway into your guts. He’s also a bit into public sex/exhibitionism—closing the blinds and fucking you over his desk on his lunch break, petting your pussy while you try to talk on the phone, christening bathrooms and back hallways at every fancy restaurant and club he takes you to. His addiction to your body definitely manifests as a desire to record you at all times too—he wants to take videos of him fucking you, you masturbating, you crying out his name while you cum, anything he can use to get off you when he can’t have you live and in person. Whatever nudes you send him are his most prized possessions

Not that Iwaizumi can really blame him. Yes, Oikawa’s a vain bastard, but Iwaizumi feels it too—the nervousness, this excitement at the thought of seeing you again. It’s been four months since you insisted on leaving the compound to live independently—and didn’t they tell you it was going to end badly? Iwaizumi spent weeks trying to convince you that it was stupid to play pretend at a normal life (“come on princess, you know your father wants you to stay here, you know it’s not safe”), but you just had to pack your bags in the middle of the night and leave the family behind. You’ve always been headstrong. Neither of them want you to go through any hardship, but at least this time maybe you’ll have learned your lesson. Maybe this was for the best.

Well…it’s a lot easier for him to see it that way when he’s standing ankle deep in the bodies of the people who stole you. As much as Iwaizumi wants to have you back now, it’ll have to wait until he’s sure that every single one of your kidnappers is dead.

“She’s not a crybaby. Not anymore,” he says. It’s true that you used to cry whenever you were scared as a kid, and it didn’t help that as the former boss’s daughter you had plenty to be scared of. Iwaizumi has fond memories of wiping your tears away and telling you it was going to be alright after your father reprimanded you for something you did wrong, and it doesn’t surprise him that Oikawa feels the same way. You’ve always been so hard to pin down—always slipping up, always talking back—except when you’re crying. Back then, it was the closest you ever came to relying on the two of them.

But that was a long time ago. You’ve toughened up since you were little. It’s been years since Iwaizumi’s seen you cry.

“I guess,” Oikawa whines, stepping smoothly over another man lying prone on the floor as he makes his way to the backroom where you’re being kept. “But don’t you miss it? She was so cute back then.”

“She’s still…” Iwaizumi trails off, wondering if you can hear them through the locked door between you. If your eardrums are undamaged from the gunshots (Iwaizumi made sure to use a silencer, but you’re sensitive), you’ll be pissed if you hear him call you cute. “…She’ll be happy to see us either way. She’s been here for days.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Then let’s hurry up and get it over with.”

One of the men on the ground is making a kind of…gurgling sound, and Oikawa kneels halfway down to make sure he’s not going to get back up, peeling back the edge of the bomber jacket the man is wearing and revealing a red stain spreading out from behind his ribs. “This is the last one. Still holding on, but he’ll bleed out by the time we take her out of here.”

“Stand back,” Iwaizumi says flatly, and as soon as Oikawa is out of range, a final gunshot cracks through the room to finish the dying man off.

“Oh—putting him out of his misery, are we? How generous.”

“Not generous. Impatient.”

Iwaizumi scans the room again, counting the bodies, checking for any last subtle breaths. There’s none. The door to the backroom is locked from the outside only—clearly your kidnappers were more concerned about you escaping than the possibility of anyone getting through the small army of guards outside the door. He only has to flip the lock and then the handle is yielding under his grip.

And it’s just like he pictured it. You’re tied to a chair, black cords looping around your ankles and your waist and your wrists and binding you to the wood. You look, predictably, like you’ve been wearing the same clothes for a week, but still—even with the greasy hair, even with the mussed clothing, even with your face obscured by a wad of fabric gagged into your mouth and a blindfold—Iwaizumi can’t help the rush of relief that comes from seeing you alive. And you’re safe, too. Now that they’re here for you.

Oikawa goes to you first, and Iwaizumi lets him. Oikawa’s the family head so he’s the first one who gets to touch you. Iwaizumi knows that’s how it is. Oikawa bends down next to you and when his hands go to undo the gag first instead of the ropes or the blindfold, Iwaizumi rolls his eyes privately. Fuck, how badly does the idiot want to see her cry?

The fabric is soaked with spit when Oikawa pulls it out of your mouth—you must have been trying to talk with it in. Maybe you were screaming. Iwaizumi wishes idly that he’d left some of the men outside alive—it could have been slower, he could have really made it hurt—but the wave of fury passes. It’s done. You’re fine. You’re safe now.

You open and close your jaw a bit, stretching out the sore muscles, and when you finally speak your voice is hoarse from a combination of neglect and likely dehydration. “Hajime? T—Tooru? It’s…you, right?”

“How did you know?” Oikawa pouts.

“I, um, heard the shots…I know what your gun sounds like—” Oikawa’s thumb rubs lightly over your cheek as you’re talking (probably subconscious, Iwaizumi doubts he even knows he’s doing it) and you jerk away from his hand. “Don’t touch me like that! You smell like blood.”

“Oh…I’m sorry,” Oikawa laughs softly, not moving his hand from your face. You’re still blindfolded, but he’s staring at you anyway in pure rapture. The wriggly movements of your body against the rope tell Iwaizumi that you’re waiting for them to untie you, but he holds back—considering the way Oikawa’s drinking in this image of you, it seems like he wants to savor this moment a little longer. Iwaizumi can’t say he doesn’t understand.

Really, it’s just that you’re usually so hard to pin down.

“Are you—aren’t you going to untie me?” Your voice sounds a little nervous now. Iwaizumi’s getting tired of waiting for his turn to touch—he kneels next to you, across from Oikawa, and laces his fingers into yours, pulling your hand awkwardly away from the place where it’s still tied to the arm of the chair. “—Hajime? Is that you?”

“Just give us a minute, princess,” he breathes, folding each finger down until your smaller hand is swallowed up in his grip.

“Were you scared?” Oikawa asks, and Iwaizumi wonders if it’s as obvious to you as it is to him that part of Oikawa wants the answer to be yes.

“No, um…” You’re turning your head blindly between the two of them, obviously trying to sort out whose hand is whose—who’s touching you, and where—but does it really matter? As long as it’s one of them? “I wasn’t. Not really. I…I knew you would come.”

“Good girl, good girl.” Oikawa’s hand tilts your chin up. “Are you ready to come home then? If you can admit it, I’ll untie you.”

“Come on…” It doesn’t feel quite right to hold you hostage like this, but then again Iwaizumi’s lost his sense of what right is when it comes to you. Maybe love isn’t supposed to be this obsessive, but by now it’s been so long that neither of them can tell the difference. Can you really fault them for that?

“It’s okay, Hajime, um—I’m ready.” You swallow roughly, turning back to where you think Oikawa is stroking your face. “Tooru…can I go back to the compound? I want to…go back…”

Even so many hours past sunset, the river that cuts through the center of the island is darker than the night and twice as cold. You haven’t forgotten the cautionary words the team leader imparted on your group before you came to the island: how easy it would be to get caught under the current, how quickly the icy water would seep into your limbs and your blood and your heart. You’ve been following the river because there are no paths and no markers, but you keep a safe distance—that is, until you see it.

A flash of light reflecting back from something under the surface. A rippling tongue of silver cutting through the black water. You start, shiver. You look again for the fish (how could it be a fish, though? nothing that big lives in the water here) but the churning waters are dark again. Just to prove to yourself that you’re being silly, you take a few slow steps closer to the bank—crouching low to keep your balance, shining your flashlight into the river, straining your vision to stare into the depths.

And someone—something—looks back.

You know about the fight or flight instinct, how the nervous system kicks into gear with the right stimulus; that reminder that humans are prey animals too. But you don’t run, and you don’t fight. Every muscle in your body stills, locks into place. You freeze. The thing in the river places its hands on the bank to rise half out of the water and tilts its head to the side; stares into your face. And you stare back at it. Behind it, in the river, you see hints of what caught your eye earlier: a silvery tail, like a fishtail but impossibly long, winding effortlessly through the water and keeping the creature’s torso afloat.

Your knees and the heels of your palms press into the ground. The ice underneath stings through each layer of clothing that was supposed to protect you from the elements, biting a little deeper with every second you spend sitting rigid and looking at the creature in front of you. Run. Run. Run, you think.

It blinks slowly, pale lashes shuttering down over kaleidoscopic eyes that your mind can’t seem to categorize into human or inhuman. You’re so focused on its face that you don’t see its hand move, don’t even know it’s reaching for you until you feel the icy weight of it against your cheek. Its lips part—those teeth, oh god, oh god—and it speaks something in a low, eerie voice that you know by instinct wasn’t built for human language.

(You don’t understand then—the version of Japanese he learned so many decades ago was too archaic and too heavily inflected by his unnatural manner of speaking for you to comprehend. Later, when you’re able to understand him, he’ll repeat what he said that first time he saw you kneel down by the edge of the water like a frightened doe: he’ll tell you he laid his hand on your bare skin and felt the beat of your heart and did his best to remember the human word for warm.)

But you hear different.

You hear the whispered, slithering curse of a monster from a nightmare—a beautiful one, but still. Your prey instinct thrills into pure terror, and finally a thought rips its way to the surface. You know—your brain knows, the logical part of you that you’re supposed to rely on—you know what you need to do. You have to get away. Heave your shivering body off of the muddy snow and force it into motion. You know this, you should know this, and yet the fear radiating through your body is concentrated not on your legs, but on the point where the—

—the what? the mermaid? the monster?—

—this thing is touching you, its fingertips resting delicately on your cheek. The body below the human torso resembles something between a shining fish and an eel, but the skin touching yours would almost feel human if it weren’t so cold. (Like a dead man. Like a dead thing, your mind tells you, and if every hair on your body wasn’t already pricked up in goosebumps, it would be now.)

The nails, too—not like a person’s nails you’ve ever seen—thick and long, tapering into points that could tear your flesh open like paper if the thing in the water decides to move them just a fraction of an inch down into the delicate tissue of your cheek—and because you can’t stop yourself, you don’t do the sensible thing. You don’t run. You release something that sounds like a choked scream (you can see the steam of it staining the frigid air white more than you actually hear it) and you force your stiff muscles to take hold of the creature’s wrist and try to drag his hand somewhere, anywhere it isn’t touching your face.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You’re going to die here, aren’t you?

The terrible, beautiful form before you flexes, rippling like a current’s passing down from where your covered fingers are feebly trying to pull at the cold, thick mass of its arm; in an instant, it’s lifting itself out of the black water to tower over you, and it—

Not it. Him.

The thing, the monster in front of you isn’t human, but from the waist up you can’t help categorizing it—him—as male in your head. Even without considering the dozen feet of his tail, it’s a body with power threaded into every centimeter of flesh: muscular, serpentine almost, and larger than a human man’s but unmistakably male, even if the slick contours of his abdomen, his pectorals, the V-shaped muscles framing his hips and disappearing into scales below would be better suited to a stone carving of a pagan god than any man you’ve ever seen in real life.

The wrist you naively thought you could move is so large that despite the added bulk of the mitten you’re wearing, your fingers aren’t even close to meeting around it; when he bows his head toward yours, forcing you to arch your own neck back to avoid another unwelcome touch, the pristine architecture of his face fills your field of vision. In the periphery, you see a few wet strands of silver-gold hair slip over his shoulder and onto the surface of your puffer jacket, dripping frigid river water into the nylon and the fill until it soaks through to your collarbone.

More important than that, though, is the way he’s looking at you. He’s surprised, or you’d think so if this were a human and you could trust your interpretation of his wide eyes and his head cocked to the side, the slight part of his mouth and the way it curls up at the corners—some mixture of shock and delight, like a child who’s managed to catch a bird in his hands and can’t really believe his good luck.

You feel the muscles in his arm contract and then the grip you had on him is inverted—it’s him squeezing long, agile fingers around your wrist, easily spanning the width of it even over the thick sleeve of your jacket, nails stroking over the fabric like he’s deciding whether or not to shred it to get at your skin.

After a moment of deliberation, where you scrunch your eyes closed and grimace away from the cold seeping off him in waves, you feel the synthetic texture of your insulated mitt slipping over your hand—he’s taking your mitten off? You chance a quick look over, and he’s already tearing through the thick wrist strap with a single swipe of his claw to pull the mitt over your hand and drop it limply to your side. It’s too cold here for bare hands—you instinctively try to draw your hand back, curl your fingers into a fist, but the creature doesn’t let you—a short hiss escapes his mouth, and then his own hand is flattening against yours, forcing your fingers straight so he can—

—it’s strange. Almost like he’s comparing the size of his hand to yours. But that wouldn’t make sense, would it?

With the damp cold of his palm aligned against the warm softness of yours, you can tell that his hand is enormous—each fingertip outstretches easily five, six centimeters past yours, even without the added length of his sharpened nails. The stillness, the strangeness of the comparison quiets the part of your mind that’s curled in on itself with sheer terror enough that the researcher in you can start making notes—skin resembles human’s but slightly…smoother? glossier? could be something covering the surface along with water—abnormally large hands but seem to correspond with body size—small amount of transparent webbing between the fingers…

The massive hand pressed into yours shifts by a few degrees, fingers finding the gaps between yours, lacing your hands together and applying pressure until, until—

You flinch, trying without success to yank your hand away from the source of the pain and you speak without thinking. “—stop—stop, that hurts!”

He stops, easing the pressure on your delicate hand, but only by a little. Curious eyes move back to you, lingering over the movement of your mouth when you speak. His own mouth opens, and you force your gaze back up to his multicolored eyes so you don’t have to look at his teeth.

“h—ur—hur—ts?”

You frown through the persistent ache in your wrist—did he just—? Is he trying to imitate you?

“hur—ts?” the creature says again in that low, slithering voice that still feels wrong somehow. “it—hurts?”

“Can you understand me?” you gasp, the words leaving your mouth so quickly that your breath in the cold air clouds his beautiful face for a moment.

His head dips into a fluid nod. “—can— un—under—stand.”

You’re marveling at the discovery—not only can this creature sort of…mimic human speech, it seems like there’s a chance he actually understands what you’re saying. Does that mean he’s met humans before? Is he part human—some kind of human hybrid, a species never before believed possible until you stumbled across it on a completely unrelated research project? What does this mean—for your team, for your career, for the world? Never mind that he’s still gripping your hand so hard that the bones are starting to throb with pain—for the first time since you spotted his tail moving through the water, your fear moves to the back burner. Instead, your mind is humming with the possibilities of this finding.

Which is why you don’t notice him leaning in closer until it’s too late.

“sm—ell— g—ood. smells—good,” he repeats breathily, the air exhaled from those unearthly lungs washing like a cold rain over the side of your cheek. His face—so much larger than yours—is nudging up against the place where your jaw meets your throat, breathing in your scent. You can feel the brush of his pale eyelashes against your sensitive skin.

“want to— t—taste—want to—eat—”

You’re so numb from the cold that you barely feel the razor-like edge of his claw slice through your bared skin, drawing a shallow cut from your thumb down the back of your hand to the bulge of the carpal bones in your wrist. It’s not deep—the pain isn’t even as noticeable as the strangeness of the heat you feel seeping from the injury a second later—which you realize, as the creature pulls back just enough to lick over it—is blood.

Your blood.

He’s lapping at your blood.

You try to scramble to your feet, boots scraping haphazardly against the slippery coating of snow on the ground only to pull him closer by his grip on your hand when you stumble back almost flat to the earth. You prop yourself up on your elbows and then he’s looming over you, nose almost touching yours, the bulk of his broad chest gleaming white like the snow underneath you.

He’s smiling—beaming down at you, eyes wide with joy, such an angelic kind of beauty that for a second, despite everything, your heart seizes up with longing—ribbons of metallic hair curl around his face as they dry or drip down over his chiseled shoulders like rivers of gold—his eyes shimmer in a million colors you couldn’t put names to, almost luminescent even in the scattered halo from the flashlight you discarded a few feet away without thinking—this monster, your angel of death staring you in the face, so beautiful it hurts to look at him—

Stop freezing. You have to run. You have to do something. Your adrenaline isn’t working right, it’s pinning you into the frozen earth just as surely as the creature on top of you. The weight of his body—the juncture between his human abdomen and the tail—settles between your knees, forcing your legs wider to accommodate the mass between them. His mouth moves and again you’re transfixed piecing together his fractured speech.

“you—taste good—soft— sw—sweet. want to—touch—feel. inside.” His low, raspy voice is laced with something besides pleasure—hunger? you can’t tell, you’re not sure, but it has to be—and his eyes drift closed happily as he speaks, one thick arm curling underneath your rigid body to draw it up against his. “let me—inside—? let me feel inside—”

“Get off me!” Do something. Now. You don’t know what he’s talking about (‘feel inside’? what the fuck?), but considering common sense is telling you that there’s a decent chance you’re about to be wolfed down like Christmas dinner, it can’t be anything good.

You struggle awkwardly against the pressure of his arm, but you’re nowhere near worming your way away from him when your bare hand scrapes roughly into the dirt near your leg searching out the pocketknife you keep zipped into one of your chest pockets. Somehow you have a hard time believing the 6cm blade you use to clean under your fingernails is going to do a whole lot of good against the literal monster that’s wrestling you into the snow at the moment, but maybe a decent slash over the face could distract him enough for you to get away?

It doesn’t matter, though—as soon as the back of your thumb makes contact with the rough fragments of ice littering the ground, your escape attempt is thrust to the side in deference to the line of fire screaming out from the cut on your hand. A mixture of clean and dried blood smears out over the dirty snow and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from whimpering like an animal.

The pressure against your chest lets up as the monster…sits up, or whatever the anatomically-correct equivalent position is, staring down at you with patronizing concern over his face. “it hurts?” he asks slowly, almost mockingly, but your eyes are fixed on the newly-reopened injury spilling a few final drops of scarlet into the white canvas underneath. So red, like…

The flare.

The fucking flare you were given, for emergencies only.

You’re an idiot.

Before the creature can resume its attack, your abused hand shoots to the thigh pocket where the flare is resting parallel to your leg—you can barely get your cold fingers to move to the right position but you force the stiff digits to grip the zipper and yank it open, bending a few of the metal teeth in the process. He notices you moving, but just cocks his head to the side again, waiting patiently to bat aside whatever pathetic resistance attempt you’ll mount this time—and then you have it—the long rod of the flare is resting in your hand and you slide it out of the pocket to point it out to the side as far from your body as possible—

his eyes narrow a little and he makes to reach out for you again, probably wondering what you’re holding—

your team leader taught you how to use these flares on the first day of the boat trip: hold it downwind remove the cap strike the lid like a match—and in the chaos you barely remember to turn your face away and close your eyes but you do and then—

Heat explodes through the icy air as the black behind your eyelids blooms scarlet from the light of the flare. You can hear it hissing and spitting—or is that the monster?—but more importantly you can feel it, the fiery warmth roasting through the darkness at the end of your arm. You thrust the flare upward blindly (careful not to let it anywhere near you but so desperate at this point that you’d take a nasty burn over being eaten alive) and an instant later you feel the weight of his body lift off you. You don’t have any time to waste—it’ll only burn for a minute, and with the frost still biting through your lungs you’re not going to be running as fast as you’d like—but hey, he’s part fish, right? So all you have to do is get away from the water. At least…you hope.

56 seconds left. You toss the still-burning flare to the side and roll in the other direction, squinting through the all-encompassing red glow to make out the plastic glint of your flashlight. You spot it, dive for it, and wrap your undamaged hand around the familiar grip, tucking the other into the pocket of your jacket for warmth. 49 seconds left. You can hear him behind you—growling or something in that creeping voice—but you can’t look back. Can’t look into those eyes, or you’ll be trapped again, pinned and licked and taken. You haul yourself to your feet and pick a direction—doesn’t matter where, as long as it’s away from the scarlet fire of the flare and the river and him. 43 seconds left.

Behind you, the growling has started to sound like laughter.

Run. Run. Run.

///

In the morning, you wake up cold.

You’re nested in your bedroll, but icy sweat is soaking through the fleece lining of your undershirt and your whole body is shaking trying to get you warm again. What a horrible dream, you tell yourself. Just a bad dream. You’re still wearing your outdoor jacket but that must be because you were so tired after the job you were assigned yesterday that you forgot to change into your nightclothes, so silly. One of your hands feels prickly and achy and it stings but that must be because you scraped it on something while taking samples. So careless of you. What a horrible dream, you tell yourself.

The morning light filtering through the tent is silver-grey, almost gold at some angles. You stare into the perfectly normal light, straight up into the place where the sun should be behind the fabric. There’s condensation collecting on the ceiling of the tent; when it drips down onto your bare face, you have this strange idea—that the sudden shock of cold water spilling down your cheek feels almost like…

You show up for Friday office hours two minutes early for your 30-minute slot, as usual, but this time Akaashi’s made sure not to schedule anyone else after. The two of you need time…and privacy. When you set your bag down next to the chair and move to sit, he asks you to please lock the door before you do, and you comply without a second of hesitation. So obedient…really, maybe this isn’t your fault? Maybe you just have a hard time saying ‘no’. That’s something you’ll need to work on.

You have a list of questions written out in your notebook to ask from this week’s course content, but before you can flip it open Akaashi shakes his head. “We can go over your questions later—for now, there’s something else I’d like to discuss with you. If that’s alright.”

Of course it’s alright, and you tell him so, practically vibrating in your seat from your eagerness to please. Akaashi sighs. This is going to hurt, but it’s necessary. He shifts the computer monitor on his desk to face you, and then the video he saw a few days ago on one of the campus social pages is playing across the screen: a cell phone camera recording of a girl at a party wearing lingerie and not much else, holding a can in one hand and a plastic shot glass in the other, grinding into the lap of the man she’s sitting astride with tipsy abandon—until another man pulls her up to stand, winds his arm around her waist, and grips her chin to push a sloppy kiss into her mouth.

“Is this you?” Akaashi asks, even though he knows it is. Six different people have left comments tagging your profile, a few of them accompanied by comments about your apparently less-than-pristine reputation around campus. In the video, the image of you tips her head back, kicks her leg up to hook around her partner’s hip, and grins, pupils reflecting scarlet for a second as the man holding her sucks a spot on her neck. In person, Akaashi can see that you’ve clearly tried to layer makeup over the hickey—it’s a good effort, but now that he’s noticed it’s obvious it’s not natural.

Your mouth falls open a fraction. “Professor—that’s, how did you—?”

“You’re going to ask me for a recommendation at the end of the semester, aren’t you?” Akaashi sits back in his office chair, folds his arms over his chest. “Your work in my class has been excellent and I’d like to be able to give you one, but I’m not sure this is the kind of behavior I can endorse.”

“Professor...” You’re scrambling now, eyes going wide as you try to mount a defense. Under the table, your hands are wringing one another. “That was—it was just a stupid party, I had no idea someone was recording, I promise!”

“From what I understand, this wasn’t an isolated incident—was it? Acting like this in public, where anyone can see… And I’m sure you know that once something’s on the internet, it’s there forever. If you consider this an acceptable way to present yourself, I don’t think I’ll be able to write a recommendation for you.”

“Please, professor?” This comes out in a little gasp, like you can’t believe what he’s saying. Surely you didn’t think you could get away with this forever? Your eyes keep flitting between the video (which is still playing on repeat) and his chest, because you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. At least you’re not trying to brush it off—you’re clearly embarrassed, and there’s no way Akaashi’s imagining the heat spread over your features. “I’ll—I’ll try to get it taken down! This isn’t what—I mean, I know it’s stupid, but this isn’t how I really am! Please?”

“I don’t believe you, (Y/N)…you look like you’re enjoying the attention. As a matter of fact, I think you’re still enjoying it.”

Under the little skirt you’re wearing—and how did Akaashi never notice before how short your skirts always are?—you fidget, uncross your legs and then cross them again, almost revealing a flash of the dark fabric in between. “Wh-What? No, I promise, I’m not…”

“Then I’d like you to prove it to me.” The words are out of Akaashi’s mouth before he can stop them, but he doesn’t have the willpower to take them back. Maybe—if he’s being honest with himself—this is what he wanted all along.

“I have no idea what you’re saying…” Pretty eyes blink up at him, and he’s glad to see you’re not about to cry. That will make the next part easier.

Akaashi leans in. “What I’m saying…is that a girl who gets off on being being recorded while men play with her probably also gets off when she watches the video. Is that correct?”

You flinch, making shocked eye contact for the briefest of seconds before looking back into your lap. “O-Of course not!”

“I don’t believe you,” Akaashi says calmly.

“But how am I supposed to prove that?”

Fuck…he might get fired for this, but making you squirm like this is worth it. “Show me that you’re not wet.”

Akaashi thought it might take you a minute to understand, but apparently you get his meaning immediately—all the fidgeting stops, and you go completely still aside from your soft lips mouthing the word ‘wet’.

And then—without saying anything else, so smoothly that Akaashi thinks for a second that this is a fantasy and not the reality of his student stripping for him—you shift in your seat to roll your sheer black tights down one leg at a time, stand, and then reach up under your skirt to slide your panties down your thighs. When they’re pooled at your ankles, you step out of them, bend gracefully at the knees to collect them off the floor, and then drop them on his desk. “…See?”

Do you expect him to…check? That you’re not wet? Well, he would, but he’s too focused on the fact that you’re in front of him, all soft thighs and flushed skin, biting your lip and staring to the side. You’re evil, you’re terrible, playing innocent like this. You know exactly what you’re doing…making him want you this badly.

“Come here,” he says, “come closer. I’d like like to confirm.”

And you’re still so eager for his approval, so desperate to please—you walk over to him until he’s close enough to pull you onto his chair to straddle one of his thighs, almost mirroring what you did in the video—on Akaashi’s monitor the recording is still on a loop, but neither of you have enough spare attention to look. His hands meet your bare thighs and stroke up your hips (and you’re so submissive like this, the pliant flesh of your body contrasting perfectly with the muscularity of his), bunching your fitted little skirt up around your waist to expose your pussy.

Still holding your skirt up with one hand, Akaashi tilts the other over your skin and pets a finger from your cunt up to your clit. In truth, he couldn’t say for sure if you got off while watching the video, but the slick gathering over your pussy now is damning. Your breath hitches when he touches you and then releases all at once—whether from the shock, the pleasure, or the shame, he’s not sure. “I’m sorry, professor,” you murmur as he strokes over your pussy, and through the material of his pants he can feel you shaking.

You’re getting wetter and wetter riding his thigh while he layers light touches onto your clit. His student, in his office, while his colleagues and your peers flit around outside with no clue as to what’s going on behind just one locked door… You’ll leave a wet spot on the fabric if you keep this up, and that’s not even going to be the most conspicuous of your problems—Akaashi should be irritated, shouldn’t he? You’re just proving his point, proving you’re a filthy little girl who can’t control your desires—but he’s finding it difficult to process rational thought at this point.

Maybe it’s alright for you to act like this after all. Maybe he just needs to make it obvious to you that there is a time and a place for you to be naughty: whenever he wants you to, and in his lap. Maybe if you were being satisfied, you wouldn’t feel the need to—

A soft chime hits the air, and both of you are jarred for a second. What? Damn it, now of all times—

You exhale in a perfectly muted moan, and then bring a trembling hand up to check your watch. “P-Professor? I have to go—my next class—“

Akaashi pushes his thigh up into the wet spot between your legs and you squeak. “Are you sure?”

You seem to think on it, looking back at him with an expression of pure longing, but the alarm sounds again and you shake your head. “Yes, I—I really have to go, I’m sorry.”

“…If you insist.” Akaashi’s hands leave your waist, letting you up so you can quickly gather your things and smooth the wrinkled skirt back into place while he watches.

Once you’re satisfied (despite still looking deliciously embarrassed) you reach toward the desk to pick up your discarded panties—but Akaashi’s already beaten you to them, picking up the crumpled ball of black fabric and sliding it into his own pocket. “Professor?” you ask hesitantly. “I, um, I need those…”

There are footsteps outside the thin paper wall that separates the room you’re hiding in from the hallway. They’re slow, light, measured. He’s not running—it’s the rest of you who are desperate, scattering like roaches in daylight to avoid him. And you’re the same, cowering in the corner of this empty room, drowning in the heavy silk of your kimono. Trying to convince yourself that the sour acid smell is so strong that you can’t make out the blood.

The footsteps halt just a few feet from where you’re hiding and your heart seizes when you hear them stop, wait. Listening. Listening for you. You wonder if he can hear your heart beating as loud as you can. Why did he stop?

He can hear you, you know he can hear you.

It’s too late. Your hands are shaking as you do it but you force yourself to sink into a bow, kneeling, facing the floor, even as you hear the scrape of wood sliding against wood. The door of the room opening. You’re not really sure why bowing feels right, but it does—half because some animal sense is telling you that this is no ordinary demon, and half because you’re too afraid to face your death directly, if that’s what he is. Your forehead almost meets the tatami mats and the bells in your hair chime lightly and his footsteps pad across the floor to stop in front of you. The burning smell thickens.

“Look at me, human.”

You don’t want to—you don’t want to look, but his voice is a command and there is no will in your body strong enough to deny it. You lift your head from the floor, still kneeling, and force yourself to meet his eyes.

A demon…?

You’re not sure. In the stories, demons are ugly. You’ve only ever seen them in scroll paintings: horrible slavering monsters, grotesque distortions of mundane beasts. Repulsive things. Less than human. But the demon in front of you (if he is a demon) is something else. He’s not human—you’d know that by the color of his eyes, if nothing else—but he’s beautiful. Colder and more beautiful than pure winter snow. As soon as your eyes meet his, you’re held captive; you couldn’t look away if you tried…

But that doesn’t mean you can’t smell the dark splatters of blood slashed in arcs over his clothing. Or the hissing miasma of poison issuing off his clawed nails.

“Girl…will you not attempt to run? Or do you believe I will grant you mercy if you beg for it?” His inhuman gaze travels down your body and you press your palms into the floor to make your shaking less obvious. “Are you not afraid? Answer me.”

“Yes,” you whisper. You’re terrified, paralyzed by fear and the overwhelming knowledge that you have never in your short life been closer to death than you are now. Even if you thought you could escape by running, you don’t think you could compel your muscles to move.

His eyes narrow. “You knelt before I entered the room.”

“I…yes…it was…” Your breath is coming quickly now, as if your lungs can’t get enough oxygen. Why is he talking to you? Isn’t he going to kill you? Will he tear you apart with his claws, or will he simply snap your neck?

“Speak clearly.”

You try, but your throat is seizing up with terror and your mind is going blank. The poison will probably hurt more…you picture him reaching toward you and digging the claws into your skin, letting the acid eat through your flesh… “I knelt…out of—out of respect…”

“Hm?” A flicker of an expression passes his face, but you can’t name it. “So here is a human who knows her place, at the feet of her superior. Your kind is usually so arrogant.”

If you were in your right mind you’d take offense at this demon having the nerve to call you arrogant, but you’re not foolish enough to anger a creature whose bare hands could tear you to pieces without a single thought. “Sir—sir, please—“

“Not ‘sir’. Lord. You speak to the inu daiyokai Sesshomaru, son of the Inu no Taisho, Lord of the Western Lands.”

Lord of the Western Lands? You’ve never heard of any such title, but you know not to question him. “My lord—” you gasp, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment because the heat behind your eyelids cannot be allowed to break. “My lord, please, is there anything I can do to serve you?”

“How could you serve me? What use could you possibly have?” Sesshomaru’s face remains impassive, but out of the corner of your eye you can tell that his hands are no longer glowing green with poison.

You don’t know what ridiculous idea you’ve latched onto in your desperation, but he doesn’t seem to be killing you yet, so you have no choice but to keep at it. “Th-this place is a teahouse! It would be an—an honor to entertain such an esteemed guest.”

“A teahouse,” he repeats.

You swallow and attempt to suppress the sense that you’re digging your own grave every time you speak. “Yes, my lord… I-I could perform a tea ceremony? Or if you would prefer to drink, I could pour for you. Or I could—I could play—“

You’re cut off by the sudden movement of Sesshomaru in front of you as he crouches to your level—you’d pull back, but as soon as the thought crosses your mind you feel his hand wrapping around your chin, tilting your face up. “The tea ceremony and shamisen…surely these are not your only talents, girl.”

Don’t move. Keep still. The sides of Sesshomaru’s long nails press lightly on the tender skin under your chin. You stare straight forward and don’t speak.

“I do not think I am mistaken.” His other hand comes up and you close your eyes, only to feel the pad pressing into your lower lip and then tracing the red makeup on your eyelids. “This is a whorehouse.” Sesshomaru’s voice is low, pensive, as if he’s talking to himself. His hand ghosts over your head and before you can register that he’s touched you, the pins and combs from your updo are ringing down against the floor and your hair is springing loose.

“…It is, my lord,” you answer after a beat, as it occurs to you for the first time that there may be something this demon is more interested in taking than your life.

“Stand,” Sesshomaru says, and when you’re too stunned to obey immediately, he grips you by the collar of your kimono and pulls you upright. Your knees almost buckle and he folds his arm behind your back, propping you up against him. “Calm yourself.”

The spikes on his breastplate push into your chest. You try to feel out for something reassuring—a crease in his brow, a flush in his cheeks, body heat, something human—but there is no trace of a flaw in his perfect composure. His hands are cool where they touch your skin. You have to…he wants…

But does he even want you? You tip your head up from his shoulder to face him and his lip curls like he’s about to snarl. There’s no heat in his gaze. His eyes are so cold that you feel gooseflesh stand up on your arms, as if a spirit is dragging its icy fingers down your spine. There’s no way he’s attracted to you—how could he be, when the expression on his face is nothing less than consummate disgust?

Sesshomaru does not want you. You’ve misinterpreted something. Because every sense in your body is telling you that when you look at him, you are looking into the face of someone who hates you. You are going to die, like the customers in the rooms next door, like the other girls who had the misfortune of coming across him before you did and trying to run. You are going to be killed.

You try to flinch back, put some space between the two of you, but his arm is rigid behind you and you aren’t given an inch. He eyes narrow a fraction and his grip tightens, thumb pressing into your spine through the many layers of your kimono. “Such a cowardly species. Even a geisha is so skittish.”

And then he grips your jaw and presses his mouth into yours.

Your pulse stutters and trips. The kiss is light, but Sesshomaru’s hold on your body isn’t. He pulls away and you suck in a dazed breath. “L-Lord Sesshomaru…”

“Undress me,” he orders.

///

Warm, Sesshomaru thinks. You’re warm.

Your heat pushes into him through your hands ghosting over his body as you fumble with the straps of his armor and then unfold the robe from your own narrow shoulders. When he had you pinned against his chest, he’d felt the warmth of your body even through every layer of fabric and metal that separated you from him. And when he kissed you, he’d felt that same sultry wet spread inside your mouth.

Perhaps this is why his father has come to prefer mortal women.

He stops you before you take off the last layer of his kimono. When you finally slip the last piece of clothing from your shoulders, Sesshomaru wastes no time in pulling your naked body into his, holding you by your shoulders when you try to stumble back from him. Your skin is fever-warm to his touch—you’re so pliant, so malleable—but you’re no less terrified than you were when he walked into this room and found you kneeling in front of the bedroll with your forehead pressed to the ground. You’ve been obedient, which is good. Your obedience is the only reason you’re alive. But your fear is wrapping around your body so thick he can smell it, and it’s making his blood rise.

His cock twitches where it’s pressed against your stomach through his clothing, and you suppress a gasp, but when he scratches the blunt edges of his fingernails over your skin you can’t hold back the squeak of surprise. Like a frightened rabbit, he thinks with—pleasure? Which is odd, and yet…

Seeing this human girl submitting, delicate and vulnerable and so obviously aware that she is beneath him, is a pleasure.

“Tell me, girl. Why do you fear me?”

You’re acutely aware of your own nakedness, not to mention his, especially when his cock is pressing insistently into your abdomen. Why is he asking you—? Of course you’re afraid. How many corpses did he leave on his path here? “You—you killed—“

“Not just that. You know to fear me. Your body knows. If I came upon you in the dark, if you were blind and deaf, you would still know to fear me.”

When he speaks, you can see flashes of his canines, sharper than any human’s. He’s right. You would know. “You’re a demon,” you murmur.

“And you are a human. A very weak one.” A claw traces your cheek and you shudder. “Your kind is prey to mine. Prey to be killed…and eaten.”

Are you going to be eaten?

“This is unnatural,” he muses under his breath, lowering his mouth to your throat. “Obscene.” You feel the brush of his lips on the artery in your neck and wonder if he can sense the pump of your blood, responding to his touch. “Sick.”

And then Sesshomaru—he nips that spot on your neck. The bite isn’t near hard enough to hurt, but it shocks you because you’ve never felt teeth so sharp against your skin. You whimper, and even to your own ears, it doesn’t sound like a whimper of pain.

“Despite every danger I pose to you, you seek pleasure. Humans are such base creatures.”

It’s not fair—it’s not even true, is it? You’re going along with this to appease him. You shake your head lightly, but you don’t resist when he pushes you down into the bedroll. Do you even want to resist?

Submit, your body is telling you. Submit. Submit.

You couldn’t resist. It would be impossible even if you tried. You barely have time to register him tipping his head to the side and and acknowledging your silence before the pressure on your arms increases and air whips through your hair and then the back of your head hits the mattress. Sesshomaru kneels on top of you, knees framing your hips, his loose kimono draping open to reveal a sliver of his pale chest.

“Do you mean to disagree with me?” The lack of inflection in his voice betrays nothing, but you scramble to deny it.

“No! No, my—my lord, please of course I—I’ll do whatever you want—ah!” You cut yourself off with a yelp as he reaches down and wraps his fingers around one of your thighs, unceremoniously dragging your leg up to wrap around his hip.

“But this is what you want.” Sesshomaru reaches down to your cunt and slides two fingers up against your slit, slow and careful so that his nails don’t touch you.

This part is warm too. Warm and wet and sticky, coating his fingers in clear liquid. You must be able to feel how wet you are—and you do, judging by the way your body is squirming and wriggling every time his touch passes over your clit.

Ah…you should stop squirming. For your own good. The feeble little movements of your body underneath his just make him want to pin you harder, force you to be still, force you to surrender.

You buck your hips up against the movement of his hand, wary of his nails but unable to keep yourself from pushing your clit against his fingers. It doesn’t make sense. You’re still scared of him—every time your gaze crosses his, you’re reminded that the man between your legs isn’t even really a man. He’s a demon.

A demon, a demon…

A demon’s fingers are caressing the length of your slit. A demon is crouching over you, covering your chest with his while you rock yourself into him. A demon is lowering his face into your shoulder, breathing in and lapping at your skin like he can smell you. Like he can taste you. Which, you think belatedly (because most of your attention is focused on the things Sesshomaru is doing between your legs), he probably can.

“What…what are you doing,” you gasp halfheartedly as he licks again at the side of your neck. Maybe you shouldn’t ask, but you still haven’t ruled out the possibility that he’s going to eat you, and you’d at least like to know if that’s what he’s preparing for.

To your surprise, he looks…taken aback? It’s hard to tell when his expression changes so little, but he pulls back from you and takes his hand away from your cunt, leaving you feeling needy and anxious. “Humans lack marking customs? How vulgar.”

“Marking…?” you ask. Sesshomaru sits up away from you and you quickly prop yourself up on your hands and draw your legs back toward yourself so you’re sitting in front of him. He sounded displeased. You can’t—you have to give him what he wants. “We do, my lord! Humans—we can leave marks, if, if you would like—“

“Show me.”

You wait a moment and he doesn’t move, so you hesitantly crawl toward him, dragging out each step and letting your knees sink into the cushions because you have no idea if you’re doing the right thing or signing your own death warrant. You reach out, but your hand stills before you can touch him. ‘Marking’ is juvenile, isn’t it? Kiss marks are usually forbidden for customers; they’re considered unprofessional in your line of work. But that’s human ettiquette. Perhaps for demons, it’s something entirely different. Sesshomaru did call himself inu daiyokai—a dog demon, then.

Gathering up the measly courage you still possess, you pick up the collar of Sesshomaru’s kimono and pull it to the side, exposing a patch of the pristine skin where his neck meets his shoulder. He doesn’t move to assist you, so you have to climb into his lap to get close enough. You brush away a few strands of his hair—so long!—and set your mouth against his skin.

How hard should you…? Well, he’s a demon lord, so you doubt you’re capable of harming him. Still, you bite and suck carefully, only increasing the pressure when you feel no sign of resistance from Sesshomaru. When you’re satisfied, you pull back and assess the small bloom of purple-red standing out in stark contrast to his pale skin. Half bite mark, half bruise—you haven’t done this in years, but this is what he wanted, isn’t it?

“This is a human mark?” Sesshomaru’s face is inscrutable as he pets the place where you left the hickey.

You nod slowly. “Is it—is it not good enough?”

“It is faint. But I cannot expect more from a mortal.” His hand moves to your chin, forcing your jaw open so he can push a few clawed fingers between your lips and run them over your canines. “Your teeth are blunt. Useless.”

He pushes his fingers deeper over your teeth and you feel saliva gathering on your tongue, an involuntary response to your efforts to keep your mouth open and still. You can taste yourself…the juices from your cunt on his fingers. “L-Lord—Lord Sesshomaru,” you stutter when he finally pulls them out.

You’re so warm, so soft. Like sinking into bathwater. Sesshomaru wants to be inside you.

“Lie down,” he commands, and when you tentatively lower yourself onto your back he releases a barely-audible sigh of annoyance. “On your stomach, girl.”

You must take a second too long to comply with the command, because in the next moment you feel Sesshomaru above you, flipping you over as easily as if you were made out of paper. You squeak in surprise—the smooth cold of his touch, the edges of his inhumanly long nails grazing over your skin—but that doesn’t stop him from effortlessly pulling your body into alignment with his: him above you and you lying on your belly with your back arched so that your hips can meet his. You squirm your hands under your torso and try to lift yourself off the bedroll, but he pushes you back down without mercy. “Do not test me.”

“No—n-never, never, my lord,” you gasp out as his hand curls around your hip, just as you feel the hard length of him press against your backside and then—slowly, slowly, slide into your cunt. Fuck—this is happening, it’s really—happening, this demon is fucking you. You’re terrified, but you can also feel the slickness of your pussy stretching around him, your body subconsciously giving in to the unwavering dominance of the demon—the man—on top of you.

“Are you still frightened…? And yet you respond so easily,” he says, stroking up the length of your side again and feeling you shiver.

“Yes, I...yes?” You squeeze your eyes closed, focusing on the sensation and trying to drive out everything else. He’s big—pushing you to your limits trying to fit his cock inside and you don’t even sense his hips against you yet. And the feeling—cool, uncomfortably cool in a way that sets every nerve on edge, overly sensitive to every deep place where your body meets his.

It’s like—you can’t even describe it, you know you have to be quiet and obedient for him but your instincts are pulling you in every direction at once—you want to run you want to hide you want to rock your hips back and feel him bottom out, make him fuck you like an animal—and this thought combined with the friction of his cock over that patch inside your drooling walls forces a whine out of your mouth. Apparently he likes it—two fingers pet over your clit and the muscles of your cunt twitch desperately, begging to be filled.

With his body curled over yours like this, you must be able to feel the rumble of his breath as he growls in pleasure. You were—you are better than perfect, your kind, your race—or maybe it’s just you. Your body, the warm wet softness of it. Taking him in, dripping around him as he starts to pump in and out of you, pushing his cock a little deeper with each thrust. Your breath is laced with the high-pitched whimpers and moans you’re not able to suppress, and it’s strange—earlier the sound of your voice (so pathetic, so human) disgusted him, but now?

“Such a weak little thing,” Sesshomaru says, voice low and intoned with something like approval. “I know it hurts…”

You bite your lip roughly and shudder as the head of his thick cock kisses against your womb. It does hurt—you’re no innocent maiden, and it isn’t as if you’re not used to clients being much rougher with you than this, but you’ve never felt so helpless… You can’t even adjust to him, can’t even pull away from him on the plush bedroll because he’s holding you in place, positioning you as his tame little toy with his nails scraping threateningly against the top layer of your skin every time you try to move…

“…but you take me very well. Like your body was made for this—to be bred like this.”

The pace of his thrusts is picking up, knocking your breath into sync every time the weight of his body slaps against yours. His own breath is getting heavier too—you start at the feeling of him folding his torso lower against you, locks of hair spilling over your side in a silver curtain. Once again you want to pull yourself up off the futon, but he isn’t going to let you—a pale hand layers over yours, tendons flexing as he laces his fingers into the spaces between yours. And your nerves are wound so tight with what you’re feeling—the pleasure, the fear, all of it pulling you tight like a harp string—that you aren’t paying quite enough attention to what you’re hearing, until you realize—

Like your body was made to be bred like this.

If you had the strength to actually pull yourself away from the punishing force of him fucking you, you would now; as it stands, you’re too weak to do more than pull uselessly at his grip and shake your head. “No—m-my lord, please—I can’t, my lord, p-please don’t—“

A cold laugh, one that sounds like anger, and Sesshomaru presses the flat of his hand to your stomach, feeling out the path of his cock pushing into your tight, plush body. “Insolent girl. You demand me that I mate for pleasure alone, like—a human…? Your species…your arrogance knows no bounds…”

“Please,” you moan softly. The weight of him—on top of you, inside you, everywhere you can feel—is driving you out of your mind. He’s going to—mate, like he said, he’s going to spend himself deep in your cunt and breed you. “Please—please, I can’t, I can’t—“

The distress in your voice is almost unsettling to Sesshomaru, and this reaction catches him off guard—it’s the intimacy of this action, of fucking you like a legitimate mate (you! a girl, a human, so powerless that resisting him has barely occurred to you!) that’s forcing him to be aware of your fragile emotional state. But demons—dog demons especially—are more attuned to their instincts than humans, the physical responses of their bodies and their partners’, and everything in your body is screaming out acquiescence, submission, fertility.

“Liar…” Sesshomaru murmurs, petting again over your womb and rolling his hips into yours. You’re so wet that he can hear the sounds of your coupling echoing over the walls, the slap of flesh against flesh from where your cunt has dripped slick down your trembling thighs. The sweet, dizzying scent of your arousal (and his) is so thick in the air that he can barely smell the rancid smoke and blood outside—every time he inhales, he feels almost intoxicated by it. You’re not quite in your heat but there’s an edge of it in your natural scent, something rich and heavy underneath all the layers of perfume and oils decorating your skin.

He didn’t come here, to the mortal world, with the intent to mate with a human. Certainly not with the intent to breed her, but…

Sesshomaru takes a deep sigh again and swirls a fingertip over the little bud of nerves at the top of your slit and everything in you convulses, squeezing down on his cock so tight that for a second he can barely move. At this point, there isn’t much that could stop him from finishing inside you, even if he wanted to.

“—please, please—”

…Well, there isn’t much, but the incessant reminder of his instinct to treat the soft, vulnerable body underneath him as a proper mate doesn’t seem to be letting up. The obvious pleasure you’re feeling from having your cunt filled up like this hasn’t stopped you from continuing to whimper and shake your head in denial of what your body is telling you. Your distress seems to be bordering on helplessness now—he can smell it on you—a bitterness folded into that irresistible sweet, and even though he wants to ignore it…

For your part—it doesn’t feel right, none of this—it’s like what he was saying earlier, how this is obscene and you know deep in your core that he’s right. A demon, a dog demon, fucking you like he owns you, ruining your pussy and digging shallow scratches into you to hold you in place—breeding you—you should be afraid, and you are. You should want to cry, and you do. But you shouldn’t like it like this at the same time—you shouldn’t feel your cunt fluttering around him, shouldn’t feel your juices slipping over your body and his, you shouldn’t be wishing he would let you move just a little so you could move your hips back, fuck yourself on his cock like you’re supposed to—how can you want this, both of these things, stop and don’t stop, pull out and cum inside so deep you’re marked with it—

Your head is spinning. You’re too dizzy to think but you hold onto this knowledge, the only certainty you have left: it’s wrong. You can’t you can’t. There’s nothing you can do to stop him but you can’t keep yourself from pleading senselessly with what little breath you’re able to articulate— “please—please—my lord—Sesshomaru—please don’t…”

—and just when you don’t think you can take it any longer, it turns out that he’s at his limit too. The demon growls and brushes your hair away from the side of your neck so he can nuzzle into your pulse point, lap at the thin layer of sweat collecting there. “Quiet,” he hisses, voice labored. “I will not—I have no intention of…fathering…a bastard.”

“Oh—ohhh…” you whine, letting some of the panic drain out of you. You’re not—he won’t—thank god, thank god… The broad muscle of his tongue runs stripes across the side of your throat in a manner that you almost understand is supposed to be comforting, and he keeps rubbing at your clit, coaxing something out of you that you don’t think you should be allowed to give. You want to ask why—why is he stopping himself? why is he touching you? why does he care?—but you know better.

Sesshomaru’s teeth are too close to your neck like this. He should pull back, shouldn’t tempt himself…he knows this, and yet. The smell of you, your relief, your pleasure, the climax that he can feel creeping up on you through the tension in your muscles. It would be unnatural not to do it. The faint little bruise you left on him when he asked about human marking customs is probably already healed, but there’s a phantom ache on his throat reminding him of it—proof that you have no idea what a true mark is supposed to look like.

If he marked you, it would probably take weeks to heal…months. He knows humans are such fragile creatures—it would leave a permanent scar, wouldn’t it? A reminder etched into your skin with his teeth, his claim, his subjugation of you. A demon lord’s power over a human woman. As it should be…why would you be permitted to forget?

He drags the length of his cock out and pushes back in slowly, feeling your insides stretch around him and paying special attention to the way your legs quiver like a newborn foal’s when his cockhead presses against that gummy patch in your inner walls. You’re close to finishing—the fluttering of your cunt and the needy twitch of your hips is proof enough of that. The marking will hurt, but you’ll have to take it well enough when you’re creaming yourself around him.

The fingertips massaging your clit speed up, and you choke out a moan. “Oh—it feels—my lord, please, I—I’m going to—“

Without a hitch in his relentless pace, Sesshomaru pulls back from where he’s been laving over your neck so he can speak lowly into your ear. “This will be painful…”

…What? you think, too focused on the way he’s touching you, fucking you, building up your orgasm to really care what he’s saying. Just like that—just a second more and I’ll—

“Endure it,” Sesshomaru commands, and just as you feel yourself tip over the edge and lose yourself in pleasure, there’s a surge of something behind you, on top of you—some energy, something that makes every hair on your body stand on end because of how inhuman it is, and then—

—ah, it hurts, it hurts…

he’s biting you, teeth puncturing the skin of your shoulder and holding you down in this position of undeniable surrender. The pain is overwhelmed by your sopping cunt clenching around him, all of the sensation rolled together and crashing over you like a wave—and you feel it, feel yourself go under for a second—your vision winking to black as you open your mouth and wordlessly keen like an animal. Tears prick your eyes (from the pain in your shoulder or the force of your climax—you can’t even tell the difference at this point) and you try to pull back and wipe your face but you’re too weak for it. Sesshomaru’s arm is flexed, still holding your hand down and locking you in position. He pulls back from your neck and you can hear his own breath falling out of rhythm, the uncontrolled jerks of his hips into you as your pussy seizes up on his cock.

It takes a moment—a long moment, maybe even longer than that—before you’re able to muster up the strength to speak, but he’s lapping at the mark on your neck and every time his tongue passes over it, the sharp ache of the wound lessens by a fraction. “Did you—was that a demon mark? You marked me?”

Sesshomaru’s chest moves slowly as he pulls out of you and forces his breath to calm—he hasn’t done this in a long time, hasn’t had reason to—and the sight of the claiming mark is waking up something predatory in his blood. He feels—closer to his true form than he should in this appearance; the demon blood is racing through him, youki prickling over his skin and drawing him into you, into the place where his teeth were sunk in your neck—(he did try, he tried to hold back) but even so it’s more pronounced on you than it would be on a demon: a ring of shallow red welts punctuated with the harsher points where his canines drew blood, the flesh puffed and bruised darker than the surrounding skin. Such things are meant to be temporary and periodically renewed between mates, but yours will be permanent.

And still. Still. He wants to do it again. Leave proof of his ownership on every patch of untouched skin on you. Ruin you for anyone else who sees you like this—better, better yet, make sure he is the last, the only one who will ever see you like this, have you like this, ever again.

You asked something. She asked something. Your heart is beating like you’re afraid. You asked if he marked you. He can taste your blood in the air. Sesshomaru’s mouth moves and it wants to speak in the voice of an animal, of a demon, but you won’t understand. “…Yes.”

Oh…he wants to look at you, wants to see the evidence of what he’s done to you in your face. Humans have so little control over what they let themselves feel. “Look at me,” he says, and despite the tremors still passing over you, you tentatively raise yourself up on an arm and twist to look back at him.

The second you reluctantly meet his gaze, your meek expression shifts into horror. “L-Lord—Sesshomaru? Your eyes…”

And it’s then that Sesshomaru realizes what he’s done, what he’s doing. He’s sustained the partial transformation he took in order to mark you, and you’re seeing it now—the scarlet eyes, the exaggerated markings, the sharp canines, each feature a shade closer to his genuine youkai form. You flip onto your back and then edge back on the bedroll, but he feels you—trying to get away, she can’t—and pushes you back down to hover above. “Did you forget…what I am, girl?”

Human speech feels like a labor—his mouth should be touching you, tasting—marking you. Again. He should be inside you, feeling your soft, sticky cunt bathing him in warmth. Here, listen, you’re a human but it doesn’t matter now. You can take it because you will, you have to. You came so quickly—it must be easier, faster for humans than demons—and Sesshomaru wonders idly how many times you’ll cum before he does, whether you’ll be able to hold yourself together or—

No—no. A stubborn drop of blood wells up in one of the welts on your shoulder and then smears down, leaving a trail of rich red on your skin until Sesshomaru lowers himself down to lick it clean, letting the smell, the taste of you spread over his mouth. He won’t let you. He won’t let you fall apart. You don’t have a choice.