Claim Me, Keep Me
Note: The orange-colored text is the characters' inner feelings/monologues during or after certain events. The blue-colored text is used to provide additional context or information—it’s not part of anyone's internal monologue but helps clarify the scene or character dynamics.
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Content warnings: NSFW, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, unhealthy/toxic attachments, toxic mindsets, power imbalances, predator/prey dynamics, pet names, cursing, some canon divergence, slightly ooc Sanzu, virginity loss, fingering, explicit sex, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up guys!), dirty talk, belly bulge, creampie, graphic descriptions of sexual acts, slightly dubcon, yandere smut, finally feral Sanzu, long ass chapter
A/n: Guyzz, this is my first time writing actual smut, so please forgive any mistakes. I really tried my best—I hope it lives up to the build-up of the story and doesn’t disappoint. I had to do a TON OF RESEARCH (don't ask how) to get this right, so enjoy every twitch, clench, and whimper 🥵💋
Also, was listening to this while writing: 🎵 Give You What You Like by Avril Lavigne (Fifty Shades of Grey Version) 🎵
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🔥PART 31🔥
Then... don't.
The two words cracked the silence like ice underfoot, sudden and dangerous, exposing the depth beneath.
His breath caught in his throat.
That was all it took.
The last thread of control didn't just snap—it shredded, tearing through him like a live wire.
No sooner had the words left your mouth, his body stiffened, an unyielding, predatory stillness. The carefully constructed facade, the razor-thin control, shattered into a million sharp pieces the instant your voice filled the space between them.
He didn’t reply at first, his gaze deepening to an abyssal black, storm clouds swirling in its depths, promising a deluge he could no longer hold back. Every breath you took seemed to draw him closer, as if the very air between you thickened with the volatile, unspoken things you were both desperately trying to suppress.
Then, with an almost terrifying, savage calm that belied the inferno raging beneath his skin, he moved forward.
Before you could even blink, his hand was in your hair, fingers tangling, possessive and rough, in the silken strands, gripping hard enough to make your scalp tingle as he wrenched your face up to meet his. His lips slammed down on yours again, a searing, devouring kiss, so bruising, it felt like a punishment.
For all the nights he’d waited.
For every time you’d run.
For every inch of space he'd ever given you when every fiber of his being screamed to simply take.
It left you utterly breathless, taking everything you had left to give and demanding more.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle.
This was him—raw, urgent, desperate. Like he wasn’t just reclaiming you but branding his presence into your very being—every blistering kiss another step closer to something wild, undeniable, and irreversible.
He backed you against the door with a force that knocked the air from your lungs, leaving you breathless and trembling. His body slammed into yours, pressing, molding, as he leaned into the kiss, consuming you whole. Every inch of him was against you—his solid chest grinding into your slighter frame, his hips locking against yours with deliberate intent, the scorching heat rolling off him like a furnace, devouring the last breath of space between you. You could feel the primal hunger in him, the need to possess, thrumming through every fiber of his being, vibrating against your own.
Your hands moved without thinking, clutching at the taut fabric of his vest, fingers digging in, as if the thin barrier between you was the only thing keeping you from drowning in the intensity of him, being utterly consumed.
Sanzu tore a guttural growl from deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your lips and into your soul. His hands slid down, gripping your waist, fingers digging into the tender skin through your damp clothing, anchoring himself to you. When he finally pulled away, breathless and shaking, he pressed his forehead to yours, his grip still a fierce, unyielding vice on your body, as if he truly feared that if he let go, you might dissolve into the air or simply cease to exist.
“You wanted this,” he rasped, his voice thick with unbridled desire, a dangerous rumble that sent shivers down your spine. His hand slid down your back, tugging you closer, his lips hovering a breath away from your own, his words a seductive, absolute truth:
“There’s no going back now.”
Every word felt like a brand on your soul, seared into your consciousness. The storm inside you—your fears, your doubts, your lingering resistance—faded, incinerated under the sheer, overwhelming weight of his words, of the undeniable way he made you feel wanted in a way no one ever had before.
You weren’t just some fleeting moment. You weren’t some passing fancy.
You were his.
Utterly, irrevocably, his.
Sanzu’s hands were rough and possessive as they skimmed over your figure, the heat of his palms burning through your clothing, pulling you closer, tighter as if every inch of your body was a claim he was making.
The world outside seemed to disappear, shrinking, dissolving into nothingness. There were only the two of you in that narrow space, suspended between the storm and the intensity of your need for each other. He leaned in again, his lips brushing, teasing, and scorching a trail against your jaw, his voice dropping to a dangerous, hypnotic whisper:
“I’m not letting you go. Not again, not ever. You’re mine, and I’m gonna make sure you never fucking forget that.”
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The lock clicked behind you. You didn’t remember him reaching for it, didn’t process the sound, yet the finality of it resonated deep in your bones.
Your apartment was dim, quiet… an ephemeral peace that shattered the instant the door slammed shut with a resonant thud, and his mouth was back on your neck, teeth dragging a delicious, dangerous line along your skin, a shiver chasing the sensation. He was breathing heavy now, ragged and desperate, the sound a low growl in your ear. Like he was fighting the primal instinct to simply devour you whole.
You barely had time to toe off your shoes, one slipping uselessly to the floor, before his hands were on your thighs, strong, unyielding, hoisting you up like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist out of sheer, mindless instinct.
“Been thinking about this,” he growled against your throat, voice low and gravel-deep, a raw rasp that vibrated through your bones, “since the day you walked into my office.”
You gasped, a sharp, choked sound, as your back hit the wall—again—and his hips started slamming against yours—a hard, slow, deliberate rut that left no doubt of his need already straining between you. His hands slid under the hem of your F/C dress like they had every right to be there—like he was done pretending they didn’t.
And you let him.
Because this wasn’t about sweetness.
This was about surrender.
About letting the storm swallow you whole. About not pulling away this time. About wanting—quietly, selfishly—the one person you'd never stopped loving.
“Say it,” he rasped, his voice cracked with a raw yearning against your collarbone, his hot breath ghosting across your skin. “Tell me you’re mine.”
Your eyes, wide and dilated, met his. You were gasping for breath, your lungs burning, but the word came out anyway—a soft, breathless sigh, a fading echo of your resistance.
“Yours.”
The word hung there—fragile and final.
Whatever tether was still holding him back—it snapped, violently.
And in the very next breath, he was already carrying you through the darkened apartment like a man possessed, his boots heavy, purposeful thuds against the floorboards, your body clutched to him with a grip that felt unshakable, like letting go wasn’t an option.
The door to your bedroom crashed open under the sheer force of his shoulder, the sound echoing in the sudden, deeper silence. You barely had time to register the familiar darkness before you were dropped onto the bed, the mattress groaning softly, catching you with a muffled thud—but Sanzu didn’t follow immediately.
He stood at the edge of the bed like something out of a fever dream—a dark silhouette carved by the pale glow of streetlights spilling through the window—wet, breathing heavy, every inch of his lean, soaked body vibrating with restraint he was losing by the second.
His hand moved up to his throat, fingers curling under the collar of his white dress shirt, still damp from the rain, clinging to the defined cut of his chest and the prominent ridge of his collarbones.
Then, with a slow, deliberate drag—he pulled his tie loose.
It slithered from his collar like a dark, velvet snake, a silent threat unfolding, falling to the floor with a soft, almost reverent whisper, a discarded restraint.
You sat up slightly, breath caught somewhere between your ribs, your thighs pressing together without meaning to. But your eyes… your eyes never left him, fixed, mesmerized, on his every deliberate movement.
Sanzu was silent as he worked through the buttons of his vest—each one undone painfully slow, his knuckles grazing the fabric like he was savoring the moment, prolonging your agony and his own. He dropped it beside the tie without a care, a soft heap on the floor. Then came the shirt. The first few buttons he tugged loose with sharp, practiced movements, a flash of skin, a hint of muscle… but by the time he reached the last ones near his belt, his head lifted, his gaze locking with yours across the dim expanse.
His eyes were wild, blazing with a desperate, untamed fire. Daring you to stop him.
You didn’t. You couldn't.
He slid the shirt from his shoulders, the damp cotton hissing faintly as it dragged against his arms before falling away, revealing a body laced with scars—not grotesque, but a brutal testament to the life he lived. Faint bruises, jagged reminders of past fights, healed cuts mapping across sculpted muscle. He was built like a blade honed by violence and obsession—and somehow, every inch of him, every mark, every hard line, looked like he belonged nowhere but here, with you.
He crawled up onto the bed with a predatory grace that stole your breath, the mattress sinking with a soft sigh under his shifting weight. You gasped when his knee slid between your thighs, his body towering over yours, casting you in his shadow—but he didn’t touch you yet, not with his hands at least.
Instead, he kissed you, again.
Hard.
Fierce.
Messy and wet and unforgiving.
You could taste the hunger, the sharp edge of his desperation, on his tongue, feel it in the way his hand fisted in your hair again, tugging, pulling your head back slightly to expose the vulnerable curve of your throat—hot, open-mouthed, unrelenting. He nipped, licked, and lingered—tasting you like he’d been starving for it. Like he didn’t care if he left marks. Like he desperately wanted to.
And all the while, his fingers were at the top of your dress, working the buttons with maddening precision—slow, deliberate, like each undone clasp was a promise, a tease, a warning of just how thoroughly he was about to ruin you.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
Each soft sound was a warning. A countdown. A promise.
By the time he reached the last, his hand was already sliding underneath, the cool brush of his knuckles along your bare shoulder making you shiver. He pulled the fabric down your arms slowly, an almost reverent unraveling, peeling it from your body like it was something sacred he was uncovering.
And when he leaned back just enough to look down at you—still in your bra and panties, breathless and trembling, laid bare before his gaze—his expression shifted.
Not mocking. Not surprised.
But solemn. Intense. Something akin to awe.
And then his eyes softened—an almost imperceptible shift—as they dragged over every inch of newly exposed skin. The cool air kissed your bare stomach, your thighs, your trembling legs… and then it hit you. You were in nothing but your bra and panties, laid out beneath him like a secret exposed—and the realization struck like ice, a shockwave of sudden self-consciousness.
Your breath caught, a sharp, ragged gasp, and without thinking, your arms flew up, crossing tightly over your chest, hands clutching at your shoulders as if you could physically hide yourself, shield your most vulnerable parts from the overwhelming intensity of his gaze. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, a desperate clench, a flush crept down your neck, and your heart stuttered wildly in your chest like a trapped bird wanting to bolt.
You felt too bare. Too utterly, shamefully seen.
But Sanzu noticed. Of course he did. He always did. His gaze, a heavy weight, burned on every inch of your skin.
He hovered over you, bracing himself on one hand, his arm a taut line of muscle, while the other reached out slowly, deliberately, a silent command. It pushed your arm aside with gentle, yet undeniable insistence, slowly prying your shield away until you were left exposed, unable to hide. Then his thumb brushed along your flushed cheek, rough and calloused, a startling contrast against your heated skin. The same fingers that had held knives, that had been stained with blood, were now caressing you like you were porcelain.
“Scared?” he asked lowly, his voice a molten rumble of honey and sin, a dark whisper that coiled directly into your ear.
You hesitated. Your face felt like fire, a furious blush spreading, not just from heat, but from a sudden, profound awareness of everything about this moment.
You couldn’t look at him, not fully, not when he was this close, this imposing, this raw. Not when he was everything—temptation and danger, intertwined. Your tongue felt thick, a knot in your throat.
“I just…” You swallowed hard, the sound loud in your own ears. Your gaze flickered to his, then away, landing on the dark pulse beating rapidly at the base of his throat. “I’ve never… this is…”
He went utterly, unnervingly still, every muscle in his body suddenly rigid, waiting.
Not frozen with disbelief. Not recoiling. Just still.
But it wasn’t surprise that locked him in place.
It was absolute, chilling confirmation.
Because he already knew.
Of course, he knew.
He had a file on you—a real one. Tucked somewhere in his encrypted archives like a classified treasure, every detail meticulously cataloged. Birthdate, address, allergies, past employers, favorite brand of lip balm—and yeah, your relationship history. Or, more accurately, the stark, telling lack of one.
The way you always avoided parties. How no one ever made it past a second date. How you scratched your own wrist, a nervous habit, when you were anxious. How you flinched every time the conversation even brushed against something intimate. It was all in there, every nuance, every subtle tell. Every secret habit you thought was your own, every preference, every fear—he had a record of it. He’d meticulously stitched together the fragments of your life he could access, building a portrait of you from the outside in. He’d studied you like a goddamn religion, devoured every morsel of information until he knew you better than you knew yourself.
He didn’t know the exact curve of your smile when you genuinely laughed at a private joke. He hadn't seen the specific way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you were truly happy, or the soft, unselfconscious hum you made when lost in a book. He hadn't felt the warmth of your hand in his during a quiet, ordinary afternoon, or heard the sleepy murmur of your voice just waking up. He’d missed twelve years of mundane, beautiful moments, twelve years of your real, unobserved life that existed outside his meticulous surveillance.
But what he did know, what he had confirmed, was this. This unblemished innocence, this untouched vulnerability
So when you whispered “I’ve never…” with that breathless flush on your cheeks and arms crossed over your chest in a desperate, futile attempt to hide yourself, he didn’t freeze because he didn’t know.
He froze because he did.
Because hearing it from your lips, soft and trembling, vulnerable in the dim light, made it real. Made it irrevocable. And his mind short-circuited with the sheer, potent force of it.
A slow, wicked smirk curved across his lips—not mocking.
Triumphant. Reverent. Viciously possessive.
You couldn’t see his face—not fully, not with the dim light and your own swirling vision—until he moved his hand again, slowly, deliberately, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.
You’d never seen them look like that.
Not feral. Not cold. But darkened by something profound, something deeper than desire—possession and awe, all at once.
His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.
“No one’s ever touched you like this?”
You shook your head, a tiny, barely perceptible movement, your cheeks burning hotter.
He cursed under his breath—soft, a low, guttural sound, but not angry. More like unholy reverence, a sound of profound impact.
His thumb moved down, a rough caress, brushing your lower lip, lingering, tracing the trembling curve.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice raw, thick with an emotion you couldn't quite name, but felt deep in your core.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
You whimpered—just a sound, barely a breath—but it was enough.
Enough to make him lean in, pressing his forehead to yours, hard and desperate, like he needed to ground himself or he’d lose control completely.
“You’re letting me be the first?” he murmured, so quiet it made your toes curl, a fragile question layered with disbelief and something like profound gratitude.
The air felt charged, thick with the weight of his question, the enormity of what you were about to give him. He was waiting, his eyes, dark and searching, locked onto yours, demanding an answer that felt like a surrender in itself.
When you finally spoke, it was a whisper, your voice barely audible, a fragile thread of sound against his skin, laced with a vulnerability that tore at something deep inside him.
"If it’s gonna be someone... I’m glad it’s Haru-kun."
That was it.
That was all it took for something inside him to fracture.
He kissed you again—but this time, slower. Deeper. A profound, all-consuming kiss, as if he needed to memorize the very taste of your innocence. His tongue forced its way between your lips, hot and wet and frantic, a desperate exploration, like he was trying to taste your voice from the inside, to find the source of that soft, sacred sound.
And as his hands returned to your body—scouring over your sides, your ribs, your waist, the aching curve of your hips—you felt him worshipping, not just touching. He was now consumed by a sacred urgency, but still desperate. Still rough, undeniably, but guided by something deeper than mere lust. It was desire made sacred, a terrifying devotion.
It was desire made sacred.
And he was about to make you feel every single moment of it.
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You could barely hear your own voice over the pounding in your chest, but he did.
His name—Haru-kun—left your lips like something reverent.
Soft. Shy. Yours.
A whispered confession that detonated everything.
His mouth moved from your lips to your throat, a searing, possessive trail, licking, nipping, biting the delicate skin beneath your jaw. You arched into him, an involuntary movement, your breath stuttering as he sucked a burning mark right above your pulse—high enough, deep enough, that you’d never be able to hide it. He muttered something filthy against your skin, words lost in a raw growl as he moved lower, trailing down your collarbones, teeth scraping lightly, leaving a trail of goosebumps and fire as he went. His lips paused right at your breastbone, his breath warm, a searing heat against your skin, a silent promise of what was to come.
His hands returned to your back—searching, needing. His fingers were already working the clasp of your bra—quick, practiced, unnervingly efficient, ike this wasn’t the first time he’d undressed you, only the first time it wasn’t just in his head. The second it came undone with a soft click, the straps slackened, and he didn’t just slide it off—he peeled it from your body, slow and reverent, like unwrapping something exquisitely fragile he was sure he didn't deserve but was going to utterly ruin anyway.
And the second it left your chest—his gaze, hot and heavy, raked over your bare chest like a physical touch—slow, heated, unblinking. Your breasts rose and fell with every shallow breath, nipples already stiff from the chill in the air and the unbearable tension curling low in your stomach. He took a slow, deep breath, like he was trying to burn the image into his skull, etch it onto the backs of his eyelids so he could see it every time he closed his eyes.
And suddenly—it was too much.
Your hands flew up, instinctive and clumsy, trying to shield yourself from that unbearable intensity. Your eyes darted away, the shame burning through your face and throat.
He didn’t stop you this time.
He just sat back on his heels, eyes raking over your body like a man who had finally seen God—and realized He’d made you just for him.
“Fuck me,” he rasped, jaw slack, pupils blown wide. “Look at you…”
His hand ran down his own face, like he was trying to stop himself from snapping completely. His voice cracked, rough and low.
“You’ve been hiding these from me? All this time?”
A dry laugh, half-mad with disbelief. “That’s fucked up, angel.”
His tongue dragged slowly across his bottom lip. His hand flexed once on the bedsheet, restrained—barely. The air between you pulsed, hot and electric, and you knew—whatever control he’d been holding onto was about to snap.
He didn’t wait for you to respond.
His fingers curled around your wrists again—slower this time, but no less possessive. He yanked your arms away from your chest with a grip that was tight, almost bruising, then shoved them above your head and pinned them there in one large hand, pressing your wrists into the sheets like he was staking a claim.
“No more hiding,” he snarled, the sound raw and visceral, “Not from me. Especially not these.”
The very next moment, his mouth was on you.
He didn’t kiss, didn’t ease, didn’t tease.
He devoured.
There was nothing soft in the way he latched onto your breast—his mouth was hot, open, desperate—like he’d been starving and you were the only thing that had ever tasted like salvation. He sucked hard, tongue swirling, licking, flicking, and dragging over your nipple in messy, hungry strokes before his teeth sank in with a firm bite that sent a bolt of heat straight between your legs. You arched off the bed with a high, broken whimper you didn’t even recognize as your own.
“Fuck,” he groaned, voice thick with praise and hunger. “That’s it—fuck, that’s the one. Give me that again.”
He pulled off with a slick pop, panting hard, lips red and shining. Then—without pause—he turned his head and dove for the other breast, just as greedy, just as wrecked. His mouth closed over the second nipple with the same frantic reverence, sucking hard, tongue rolling and circling, flicking in tight, wet strokes that made your thighs tremble. He moaned into you—guttural, gutted—like the taste alone was driving him insane.
At the same time, his free hand moved with filthy intent, dragging across your chest to reclaim the breast he’d just left behind. He palmed it greedily, spreading his fingers wide, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. He pumped it in his hand, kneading it like he wanted to memorize the weight, the shape, and the way it twitched under his touch. His fingers found your nipple—still slick with his spit—and rolled it between his thumb and index finger, twisting just enough to make you whimper, then again, and again, until it was stiff and raw with need, until your moans dissolved into stuttering little cries and your legs kicked beneath him like your body didn’t know how to survive the heat.
You weren’t just embarrassed anymore. You were wrecked—dizzy, overwhelmed, overstimulated by the ferocity of his hunger and the unbearable pressure building low in your belly.
His mouth was everywhere.
His voice, ragged.
His restraint? Gone.
“They’re even better than I imagined,” he growled against your chest, voice wrecked, a raw, ragged sound torn from him. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve fucking waited to do this.”
He bit again—harder, a sharp, possessive nip that made you gasp—then kissed the sting away, lapping at the red mark he’d left, an act of savage tenderness.
“These are mine now. All of you is mine.” His words were a low, absolute decree, a brand burned onto your skin, into your soul.
The way he said it made your toes curl and your breath catch, because even through the heat and the chaos and the sharp snap of his teeth, you could feel it—this wasn’t just lust.
It was possession.
Madness.
Worship.
And you were drowning in it.
The grip on your wrists loosened—just slightly. Enough to let you move. A silent dare, an invitation to resist. But your hands didn’t go back to covering yourself.
They clutched the sheets. Tight. White-knuckled.
You couldn’t look at him—not when your whole body felt like it was burning from the inside out, not when every nerve was straining under the weight of his mouth, his hands, his breath.
Because he was still kissing, still biting, and still wrecking you.
“H-Haru—!” you mewled, your voice high, trembling, fingers twisting the sheets like they were the only thing keeping you grounded.
“Oh?” he drawled, lifting his head for just a second. His lips were slick, glistening with spit. “You gonna moan my name like that when I’m inside you too?”
Your breath caught, a tiny, wrecked sound slipping from your throat—something between a whimper and a sob—and it made his grin go feral.
His hand slid down your body, tracing the line of your stomach to your trembling hips, then lower, until he reached the band of your panties and hooked his finger just beneath it, letting it snap lightly against your skin. He then moved lower, hand slipping between your thighs, spreading them just a little wider before he dragged two fingers down the slick inside of your leg, slow and deliberate, teasing you with the barest edge of touch—just enough to make your body twitch, enough to make your thighs clench helplessly around nothing.
Then finally, finally—his fingers brushed over the soaked cotton of your panties. Your whole body jolted like he’d electrocuted you, a strangled gasp bursting from your lips as your hips bucked up into his hand involuntarily—as if your body was already answering for you.
“Ohhh, fuck…”
His groan was filthy—a deep, raw rumble, ripped from his throat and soaked with visceral satisfaction. He pressed his mouth to your chest, breathing you in like your scent was the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Fucking soaked,” he muttered against your skin, tongue dragging lazily along the underside of your breast. “You’re shaking… and you’re dripping. You want this bad, don’t you, baby?”
You tried to respond. You really did.
But all that came out was a broken, breathless sound—a needy little whimper that made his cock twitch, a hard, insistent jump against your thigh, and his grin twisted even darker.
“That’s okay,” he cooed, low and dangerous, peppering kisses between your breasts.
“You don’t have to say it. I already know. I felt it. Every time you flinched under my hands, every time you looked away from my eyes, every little innocent breath you took—I knew.”
He paused, licking slowly up the center of your chest, drawing out the exquisite tension.
“Knew you’d be like this under me. Shy. Soaked. Fucking perfect.”
And then—he moved.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, tugging once—slowly. But he paused, waiting, his gaze dragging up your body like a brand, a slow, deliberate consumption that left you shivering.
“Lift your hips for me.”
You obeyed—because of course you did.
Because you couldn't not obey—not when his voice was laced with that dark, silk-wrapped authority, not when your body was buzzing like it was strung too tight. You lifted your hips for him—awkward, trembling, your movements clumsy with anticipation—offering yourself up with a shy, wordless surrender that made him growl.
He dragged your panties down so slow it was maddening—teasing the curve of your hips, your trembling thighs, as if unwrapping you was some holy ritual he wasn’t going to rush. The fabric clung to your soaked center for a second too long, the dampness obscene as it pulled free, sticking just slightly before it slid off your legs entirely.
He threw them on the floor like they meant nothing.
He knelt between your thighs—gripping the insides and pushing them open—slow at first, like he was savoring the resistance, then wider, wider, until you were completely exposed to him, trembling under the weight of his stare. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh, holding you there, splayed and helpless, like he wanted to take his time memorizing the way your pussy looked just for him.
His fingers then slipped between your slick folds, slow and filthy, parting you with deliberate precision—just to watch, just to see how your wet little pussy clung to his touch, shiny and swollen and already dripping for him. He dragged two fingers up your slit, gathering the mess you’d made, then spread you wider with his thumbs, staring like it was the most heavenly, obscene thing he’d ever fucking seen.
“Look at that. All this just from sucking your pretty tits?”
He looked up at you from between your spread thighs, lips parted and swollen—slick from spit, flushed and bruised from how savagely he’d worked your tits. His mouth hovered just inches from your dripping pussy, breath ghosting over sensitive skin as he stared up through his lashes with that fucked-out, feral look—like he was daring you to move, daring you to stop him, knowing you wouldn’t. His shoulders pressed against the insides of your thighs, keeping you wide and open, completely at his mercy.
“You’re desperate, baby. Fucking soaked and trembling. Bet you’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t you?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your mouth opened, but only a wrecked, whining sound came out—something high and pleading.
He simply grinned.
Dark. Twisted. Dangerous.
“Too fucked out to talk already?” he chuckled, fingers dipping just barely inside. “And I haven’t even put my cock in yet.”
You hissed—hips jerking up off the bed—because fuck, even that tiny push of his fingers was too much. He pressed two fingers right to your entrance, keeping them there, just barely dipping in before pulling back, teasing you with shallow pressure that had your cunt fluttering around nothing. His thumb worked slow, steady circles over your clit—obscene and unrelenting—each stroke slick and warm, dragging a new moan from your lips while your thighs trembled around his shoulders.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he muttered, breath hot against your soaked pussy, lips brushing your inner thigh, “You’re gonna fucking squeeze me so good, baby. First time, and I’m gonna ruin this pussy for anyone else.”
He dragged his tongue along your inner thigh—long, wet, open-mouthed kisses, each one messier than the last, saliva trailing down your skin as he inched closer to your soaked cunt like it was the only thing that could save him. You were shaking again, moaning through clenched teeth, gripping the sheets in white-knuckled fists while your thighs trembled around his shoulders.
He wanted to taste you—fuck, he needed to. His mouth was salivating for it, the scent of your soaked pussy driving him half-feral. He wanted to spread you wide, bury his face between your legs, and eat you until you cried. But his cock was throbbing—hard, leaking, twitching against his stomach—and he was so fucking close to losing it that the thought of waiting even another second made him groan through his teeth.
Not this time, he told himself. I’ll have her mouth, her pussy, her thighs—every fucking inch of her—whenever I want from now on.
But right now?
Right now, he needed to be inside you.
Raw. Deep. Claiming what was his.
One hand slid slowly up your leg, his thumb dragging along your inner thigh with teasing, possessive pressure, while his other hand gripped his cock through his pants—stroking himself slow and hard, trying to keep control, trying not to just lose it and fuck you raw like every cell in his body was screaming at him to do.
“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he growled, voice dark and reverent. “Your pussy’s practically begging for me, and I haven’t even touched her yet.”
Your whole body twitched at the filth in his voice—raw, low, addicted. You never felt so naked in your life—and not just physically. Instinct made you try to close your thighs, a panicked twitch—but he was faster.
His hand shot out, fingers wrapping tight around your knee, forcing your thighs apart again—slow, firm, unrelenting—until you were spread open, wide and trembling.
“No,” he said quietly, but with steel beneath the softness, leaning back over you slightly, “Not tonight.”
His voice didn’t rise, didn’t need to—it held a calm finality, like the decision had already been made.
“I’m not letting you hide a single fucking inch.”
His hand started moving—fingers sliding through your slick folds, spreading you, teasing you like he was testing just how much you could take.
“Fuck…” he muttered, staring at your cunt like it was holy. “So tight…”
He circled your entrance with the tip of his middle finger, slow at first, then pressing—just enough to make your body tense beneath him.
He slowly shifted forward until his face hovered just above yours—his bangs falling into his eyes as he stared down at you like he wanted to devour every flicker of expression. His gaze dropped to your parted lips, then back to your glassy eyes, watching the way you shivered under him like it was his favorite thing in the world.
“Gotta open you up a little, baby,” he whispered, his lips brushing your cheek as he slowly pushed the first finger in. “I know you want me inside—but if I don’t loosen this sweet little pussy first, I’ll split you in half.”
You whimpered, clinging to his shoulders, hips twitching helplessly as the stretch hit—deep, unfamiliar, just on the edge of too much. It would’ve hurt more—should’ve—but your pussy was soaked, slick enough that his finger slid in with a slow, obscene ease that made your face burn.
“That’s it,” he breathed, watching your face like he was memorizing every twitch and gasp. “Good girl.”
He fucked you slow with just one finger, curling it just right, dragging it along your inner walls, until your breath came in short, choked little gasps. His other hand slid up your body and caressed your waist, grounding you as he watched your face change—from tension to something looser, softer.
“Doing so good for me, angel,” he muttered, his finger curling slowly and deliberately as your slick heat clenched around him.
“So fuckin’ tight. Can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock. You’re gonna lose your mind, baby.”
Then he slowly pushed a second finger in, and you gasped, eyes widening instinctively—but he just kissed your jaw, breath hot and sweet and wicked.
“Shhh,” he cooed, “I’ve got you.”
He pumped both fingers into you slowly, letting you feel every inch, every drag, every pulse of his knuckles as your warm walls fluttered around him—wet and tight and dripping, your cunt practically sucking him in like it was begging for more. His thumb brushed your hip while his lips dragged along your throat, and you clung to him like you’d fall apart if he stopped touching you.
“That’s it. That’s my girl,” he whispered, curling his fingers again.
“Getting you ready. Just a little more…”
He was panting now—visibly straining to keep control.
You could feel his cock pressing hard against your thigh, still trapped in his pants, twitching with every desperate pulse of his restraint.
His hips rolled against you without meaning to, grinding the thick length of him into your thigh like he was trying to relieve the ache—but it only made it worse. The fabric between you was damp with precum, the heat of him searing through every layer. He gritted his teeth, his whole body coiled tight with the kind of desperation that bordered on pain.
“Can’t wait any more,” he growled finally, withdrawing his fingers with one last slick pump.
“I need this pussy. Right. Fucking. Now.”
His hands moved fast, tugging his belt open, popping buttons, dragging the fabric down his hips—and then his cock was free, flushed and hard and leaking, standing thick against his stomach.
He was on top of you in the next instant, eyes blown black with lust, his voice dropping to a husky, dangerous whisper:
“Last chance, baby,” he rasped, "You ready to be mine?”
Your thighs trembled, still spread open and fluttering from the stretch of his fingers, but you nodded, a small breathless movement.
But that wasn't enough.
His hand slid up, fingers curling, gripping your chin, guiding your face to his—firm but careful, like he didn’t want you looking anywhere but straight into his eyes.
“Use your words,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, lips barely a breath from yours. His eyes flicked down, dark and wild, watching every twitch of your expression like he was feeding on it.
“Tell me you want it. Say it for me, baby.”
You could feel the warmth of his breath—so close it made your own mouth part on instinct, your next inhale shaky and shallow.
“…Yes,” you whispered, lips wobbling, voice cracking. “Want you... Haru-kun.”
That was all he needed.
He lined himself up, nudging the swollen head of his cock against your entrance, hot and slick with your arousal, then pressed in—slow and deep—stretching you inch by inch like he was carving his place into your body.
You hissed, arms flinching up to grab at his shoulders, then wrapping around his neck like you needed something to hold onto as he pushed deeper and deeper. His fingers dug into your thighs, forcing them wider, angling your hips just right as he sank deeper—thicker, fuller—until you could barely breathe.
Your walls clenched hard around him, struggling to adjust to the stretch—deep, aching, so full. Your eyes fluttered shut from the sheer overwhelm of it all, nails digging into his back as you whimpered, tears prickling in your lashes.
But his voice snapped you right back.
“Eyes on me,” he warned, leaning down until his nose brushed yours.
Your lashes lifted slightly, heart stuttering as you met his gaze—sharp, dark, and wild.
“Don’t look away,” he said, cupping your face roughly with one hand. “Not when I’m inside you for the first time. I want you to remember this—all of it.”
The friction was a white-hot agony that stole your breath, but beneath the sting was a different kind of fire, a deep, aching burn that clawed its way up your spine. His own groans were low and primal, a ragged litany of your name whispered against your lips as he leaned down to kiss you again—this time, it was a slow, consuming kiss of ownership. His tongue slid against yours lazily, like he had all the time in the world—like he was giving you this last moment to breathe before he dragged you under.
“You feel that?” he rasped. “That stretch? That fullness? That’s me. I’m the first. I’m the only. You’re mine now, baby. Say it.”
Your breath caught in your throat as he bottomed out—hips flush with yours, his cock buried completely inside you—thick and pulsing.
"Yours,” you breathed, voice shaking.
“Damn fucking right you are.”
He kissed you again—harder this time, hungrier—his teeth nipping your lower lip as he rolled his hips, just once, just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.
“So fuckin' deep,” he growled against your mouth. “You feel that, baby? Right here.”
His hand slid between your bodies, placing it on your lower belly where the outline of his cock bulged under your skin—hot, thick, real.
“That’s me,” he whispered. “Deep in this pussy. Right where I fucking belong.”
He pressed his palm once—firmly—right against the bulge, eyes flicking down to watch the way your body responded.
You shuddered, sharp and uncontrolled, your head tipping back, lips parted in a soundless moan as your spine arched beneath him.
His hand stayed there, fingers splayed possessively over the swell in your stomach as if to prove—viscerally—that you were his from the inside out. Like his cock wasn’t just buried in you, but claiming space where no one else could ever reach.
"You feel how full you are?" His voice dropped to a low, rough purr.
"You think anyone else is ever seeing you like this? Touching you like this ever again?”
He rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding deeper into that spot.
He thrust once—every inch slowly dragging against your raw, trembling walls. The bulge shifted under his hand, obscene and undeniable, and he groaned, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.
“You’re gonna feel me every time you sit down,” he snarled, jaw clenched as your pussy squeezed him. “Every time you close your legs. Every time you fucking breathe.”
Your moan shattered in your throat, high and broken, as your legs locked around his waist without thinking. You clung to him like you were drowning—arms wrapped tight around his neck, face buried in the crook of his throat, gasps spilling out between whimpers of his name like it was the only word you still remembered.
And then he began to move.
Not fast—worse.
Slow. Vicious.
He ground his hips into yours with filthy, punishing purpose—pulling out until just his swollen tip kissed your entrance, slick with both of you, before driving back in inch by inch, splitting you open all over again. Your walls spasmed around him, stretched taut, fluttering helplessly from the overwhelming, suffocating fullness.
Every stroke was a claim. Every thrust dragged his cock against your sensitive virgin walls, forcing your body to remember him.
“You’re mine now,” he growled against your throat, hips rolling in deeper. “Inside and out. Say it.”
You whimpered and muttered something incoherent, a desperate, broken sound.
“No, sweetheart,” he snarled, his hand tightening on your thigh, his grip hard, an almost painful anchor against your shaking skin. “Say it. I want to hear you fucking say it.”
“…I’m yours,” you whispered, the words a fragile, trembling exhale, a soft confession that was almost lost in the room’s tense silence.
“Louder.”
The command was a low, dangerous rumble in your ear, the force of it making you clench around him.
“I didn't hear you, baby. Tell me who you belong to.”
“Yours, Haru-kun—! I’m yours!” The words ripped from your throat on a breathless gasp, a raw, primal cry of surrender.
“Good fucking girl.” He said it like a promise. A reward. And his hips slammed into yours, a powerful, punishing thrust that drove a moan from your lips and made your vision whiten.
He wasn't soft anymore. The last shreds of his restraint had dissolved into pure, unadulterated need.
He drove into you, again and again, with a ferocious, punishing rhythm that left no room for thought, only sensation. His hips collided with yours, a powerful, relentless metronome of possession, and with every thrust, he seemed to be claiming you, branding you, burying himself so deep inside you that you felt him in your very bones.
Your body responded before your mind caught up—clinging, trembling—like you didn’t even know how to exist without him anymore. His cock drove deep—so deep—you could feel him pressing places you didn’t even know existed, the stretch riding that impossible edge between too much and not enough.
He braced one forearm beside your head, fisting the sheets, the other gripping your thigh like a handle, dragging your leg higher as he fucked you hard, every movement calculated to make sure you remembered how he felt inside you forever, a brutal, unforgettable intimacy.
You were gasping, squirming, twitching—a frantic mess of limbs and choked-off moans, your body arching into his with every ruthless grind of his hips. Your walls clenched around him, soaked and fluttering, caught in that frantic rhythm of need that made thinking impossible. He had you pinned, opened, taken—obsession bleeding into every motion, years of silence and grief and fury crashing down on your body with punishing clarity.
"That’s it, baby," he groaned, voice sharp and wrecked as his hips snapped forward, grinding deep into that spot that made your legs jerk.
“Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like this pussy was made for me.”
You whimpered—completely overwhelmed, thighs trembling around his hips, nails digging into his shoulders, trying to hang on. Your virgin body was clenching, spasming, too tight and too slick, unable to keep up with the stretch, the pace, the depth.
You felt raw, overstimulated, wrecked—and he loved it. He fucking thrived on it.
Sanzu leaned back just enough to look at you—really look at you.
Your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your dazed, teary eyes blinking up at him like you didn’t even know yourself anymore, and he was the only one who ever truly could. Like he’d pulled something out of you that no one else would ever be allowed to see.
“You feel that pressure, sweetheart?” he rasped, dragging his cock deep, slow, relentless.
“That heat building right here—”
His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding through the slick mess he'd made of you, then zeroing in on your clit with surgical precision, rubbing slow, tight circles that sent a fresh jolt through your spine, your breath catching in little gasps as your hips rocked helplessly into him.
“That’s your orgasm, baby,” he murmured, voice low and dark and hungry against your throat.
“And you’re gonna give it to me.”
Your head rolled back, jaw slack, a cry tearing from your chest as the pressure built—hot, unbearable, dizzying.
“You’re so close,” he panted, his voice a low, ragged rasp, eyes never leaving your face. “I can feel it. This tight little pussy’s throbbing, baby. She wants to come. You want to come for me, don’t you?”
Your thighs quivered, your cunt clenched around him again.
His voice dropped lower—deadly, reverent, dripping with filthy adoration.
“Come on, angel. Let me feel it. Let me feel this virgin pussy break on my cock.”
You choked—a shameless, a desperate, pleading sound torn from your throat.
“Let it go,” he breathed against your mouth, hand tightening on your hip, his grip a punishing anchor.
“Be a good girl and come for me. First time—mine. Always. Fucking. Mine.”
And then you shattered.
Your orgasm hit like lightning—your whole body arching off the bed, trembling as your climax ripped through you—violent and all-consuming—pulsing with wave after wave of raw, helpless pleasure. You screamed his name, eyes squeezing shut, walls clamping down around him in tight, rhythmic spasms that dragged a broken gasp from his lungs.
“Fuck yes,” he groaned, voice shredded. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.”
But he didn't stop there—
He kept thrusting through it, fingers still teasing that oversensitive bundle, drawing every last wave from you until you were whimpering, wrecked, barely able to breathe.
You feel that, baby? How fucking tight you get when you come—like your pussy’s trying to keep me in there,” he snarled, eyes wild.
You couldn’t respond. Couldn’t even think anymore.
You just clung to him like a lifeline, wrecked and wide-eyed, your cunt fluttering around his cock, soaking and desperate, like it never wanted to let him go.
“You were made for this,” he growled against your neck. “Fucking designed for me.”
You barely had time to breathe, still trembling from the aftershocks of your first orgasm, your body hypersensitive and twitching with every subtle movement—yet he was still hard inside you, still throbbing. The way he looked at you—hungry, fixated, almost reverent—made your stomach twist and your legs try to close, but he wasn’t letting you go.
Because he wasn’t done. Not even close.
“One wasn’t enough,” he growled against your throat, voice still shaking from restraint.
“Not after all that running. All that teasing. I’m not stopping until you come again—with my cock buried deep inside you, filling you so full you feel it for days.”
And you knew—knew by the way he moved, by the way his pace started to build, faster, rougher, more relentless—that he meant it.
Sanzu Haruchiyo was going to fuck you through the mattress. Break you open. Mark you so deep you’d still feel him days later—aching, breath hitching at the ghost of his cock stretching you open for the first time, memory alone enough to make your legs tremble.
****************************************************
Your body was still convulsing from that first orgasm—legs splayed open and twitching, thighs sticky with slick, your cunt raw and fluttering around his cock. You hadn’t even caught your breath, chest heaving, lips parted, when he started again—no pause, no mercy.
Just Sanzu—thick and unrelenting—slamming into your overstimulated pussy, like he owned it, like he was trying to drill his very existence into your core.
“Still shaking,” he rasped, leaning over you, eyes locked on your face as he drove into you hard and deep, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the room.
“Still fuckin’ wet. This pussy knows it’s mine.”
He was still fully seated inside you, cock throbbing, dragging against your soaked, swollen walls in long, punishing strokes. And the second your hips twitched, trying to squirm away from the pressure, his fingers dug into your waist like iron clamps, anchoring you to the mattress.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” he growled, voice low and feral as he snapped his hips forward, knocking the air from your lungs with a bruising thrust. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Your back bowed violently, another sob catching in your throat as the pleasure twisted sharply—past sweet, past overwhelming—into something so intense it almost hurt. And he reveled in it.
“I'm not done yet,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Not after waiting this long. Not until I've claimed every fucking inch of this virgin pussy.”
He was now draped over you—chest flush to yours, slick with sweat, his weight pinning you down, cock buried to the hilt and grinding deep, slow, relentless. His mouth hovered by your ear, words seething out between clenched teeth—half threat, half desperate promise.
“You’re gonna give me another,” he growled, hips rolling with brutal precision, each thrust grinding into that aching, oversensitive spot that made your legs quake. “You’re gonna come on my cock again. Because of me. Only me.”
One hand hooked around your thigh and yanked it higher up, folding you open, pinning you in place—so he could slam in deeper and rougher. He kept hammering that one spot inside you over and over—perfect angle, brutal depth—like he knew your body better than you did. His cock was hitting so far inside that it punched the air from your lungs in a ragged, broken gasp.
You were long past words—past sanity—just a twitching, overstimulated wreck pinned beneath him, slick and shaking, barely able to breathe. Every brutal thrust punched a broken sound from your throat, a strangled whimper that cracked into silence as your body jolted under the pressure. Your cunt was raw, soaked, clenching down helplessly, overstretched and aching, nerves screaming with every grind of his cock against that ruined spot inside you.
You could no longer tell where the pleasure ended and the pain began; everything blurred into heat and slick and sound, your nails scrambling for something to hold onto, mouth falling open, but nothing coming out. Your eyes fluttered, barely staying open—vision hazy, breath hitching—as the pressure tipped you so far over the edge you felt yourself start to slip, right on the verge of blacking out.
He didn’t tolerate it.
“No,” he snapped, one hand flying up to grip your jaw, forcing your head back until your teary eyes locked on his. “Eyes. On. Me."
Tears spilled freely now—not from pain, but from the unbearable overload. Your body was wrecked, trembling, barely holding together under the pace he’d set. Every nerve was alight, every muscle wound tight and screaming for release. You were burning—utterly ruined—and he owned every second of it.
“That’s it,” he murmured, almost lovingly, stroking the tears off your cheek as his cock kept pounding into you.
“You’re gonna come so hard you forget your own fucking name.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth, your second orgasm detonated. It crashed into you like a fucking explosion—no build-up, no warning, just blinding white heat and a scream torn from your throat so loud it echoed off the walls.
Your cunt clamped down around his cock in a vice, squeezing so hard it was like you were trying to wring every drop out of him, milking him through each brutal, shattering wave. Your back arched. Your nails tore down his skin. Your eyes rolled back as your breath caught—completely undone.
“Fuuuck, baby,” he snarled, never slowing, thrusting right through the spasms. “Tightest fucking pussy—won’t let go. You were fucking made for this cock.”
And still—he didn’t stop.
His pace shifted—rough, erratic, unhinged—grinding into your cervix with every desperate stroke as the control he’d clung to was finally on the verge of shattering.
“You ready for it?” he growled, voice dark and wrecked, one hand cradling your cheek like you were fragile—right as he split you open on the next thrust.
“Gonna come inside this sweet little pussy. Fill you up ‘til you’re leaking for days?”
You couldn’t speak, your mouth open in a soundless gasp, your head spinning, mind white-hot and blank from how deep he was, from how long he'd kept you on the edge, from the endless overstimulation. There was a faint, pathetic tilt of your hips — a broken reflex, the kind your body made when your mind was too far gone to stop it.
“Fuck—”
He slammed forward, hard enough to rock the bedframe, burying himself so deep you swore he was in your throat, a solid, punishing weight that took your breath—and then he came.
Hard. Hot. Endless.
A guttural moan tore from his chest as he emptied inside you in thick, molten waves, his cock twitching with every spurt. You could feel the heat flood your womb, pooling deep inside, messy and raw and filthy.
“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, lips brushing yours, his cock still throbbing deep inside your soaked cunt.
“Take all of it. Every fuckin' drop. You feel how deep I am? That’s how I want you. Full of me.”
He didn’t pull out, didn’t even try. He stayed buried inside your slick, used pussy—still pulsing, still hard—as cum dripped out around the base of his cock, hot and sticky, soaking your thighs and the sheets beneath you.
His hands never left your body—one stroking your trembling thigh where it was still folded tight, the other brushing sweat-drenched hair from your flushed, ruined face.
“You’re finally mine,” he whispered, raw and possessive.
You nodded—barely aware, lips parted, eyes glassy and unfocused.
Wrecked. Branded. Full.
And then he kissed you—deep and slow, dragging your soul out through your mouth like he’d already taken your body. His tongue tangled with yours, a final, possessive taste, a silent promise that you were now his, utterly and irrevocably.
ALL CHAPTERS
