rotten romance

imagining an older geto—with a few greys in his hair and creases by the corner of his eyes—being that one hot single dad in your area. even the mere mention of his name brings a smile to people's face. they say he's the best cook working the grill at a barbecue, or that he's always so helpful and generous when he fixes a lightbulb, repairs a sink, maybe clean a pool. most of the time they go on about his perfect family with his smart, beautiful daughters and their three adopted dogs from the shelter.

everyone knows him and knows about him because this neighbourhood is small and gossip comes with that, people just love talking about him on a daily. it keeps the housewives occupied when they're meeting at the recreation center to watch him and gojo swim laps, and the other dads in town can't help but find him entertaining when they watch him go from making flower arrangements for his home to then chugging down a can of beer at the speed of light when japan tops their group for the world cup. he celebrates with his whole chest out, sculpted and broad, he's red in the face and so drunk yet looking incredible while at it. and it shows just how he's at his very peak, strong and still so hot-blooded even though he's nearing forty.

"don't you have a date tonight?" he asks when you're drying the dishes next to him and you catch his gaze lingering just a little longer over you when you reach up to grab a dishcloth. shirt riding up to reveal your bare torso, shorts hugged tight around the swell of your ass. turning away, he clears his throat before continuing in a strained voice, head hanging low, "a pretty young thing like you shouldn't be spending all her time with an old man like me," he quirks his lips up, chuckling to himself. and it stings because even when he notices you, a man like that wouldn't be impressed, wouldn't waste his time on you; he's too mature, too experienced. and he's smart enough to know that he should be spending time with someone his age, what would he have in common with a girl who was fresh out of college and had been tutoring his daughters every weekend just to get by.

sometimes when you catch him alone, you start to see him in a different light—he's having that little bit of time to himself, afternoons spent listening to his record collection, his back leaning against a window as he tunes out, writing in his journal because he heard it was a good way to decompress—so aware of him and his presence.

just like that time he invited you to the beach with them. nanako and mimiko are old enough to wander off on their own and he tells you the last time he brought them out here, they were still in floaties, drawing patterns on his face with sunscreen then proceeds to pull out a photo on his phone to show you. and here, among grains of sand, salt in the air, and a scorching sun, he is the only thing that makes your skin prickle. sweat beading over your neck at the sight of him lounging on a bamboo mat with one of his legs propped up, spread wide. a red shirt hangs loosely off his body, stark against his skin. there are gaudy leafy patterns all over it but he manages to pull it off.

and geto isn't the kind of man that would care because he's comfortable. secure. long gone are the days where he pierced his own ears and spontaneously got a tattoo of a dragon on his back because he thought it would impress women. but you think he never really needs to try, is the type of guy who's so oblivious to his charm. even now, as people walk by and stare at him, he's too focused on his book; likes to break them in, wear out the spine, so firm when he opens them up until they're folded over, pressing down on the binding with his large palms dwarfing the paperback, his long fingers flipping the pages swiftly. "you admiring the view?" geto pushes his sunglasses up on his forehead, shooting you a smirk and revealing the smile lines etched into his face. you know he's just teasing but you're flustered, can't help but think—yes, and what a view it is.

it starts feeling like pure torture and every night your hand trails over your panties, touching yourself. chasing the thrill, the thought of his body under you. oh those worn hands with veins bulging over his knuckles, his palms so big and so warm caressing over your thighs, gripping on the insides and pressing his fingers there, spreading you open the way he does with the books. with a little force but it would be so easy for him as he fucks up into you, getting all wet and slick. you picture his thick cock delving past your folds, fitting inside you and stretching you out, thrusting and thrusting as deep as he can, all the way to the hilt.

your heart starts pounding, thrumming in your chest and all you can hear is the muffled sound of it in your ears, you moans and cries you can't hide. so desperate to be his 'pretty young thing' to play with, you'd show him just how desirable he is, that none of the boys you ever dated could do to you what he does. no one makes you this hazy, this drunk and lustful and wanting. makes you cream all over your fingers and your vibrator every time you get to this part; what would he be like with a woman, what would he be like with you.

“i like my women quiet, and now i think you’ll do nicely.”

make it fit — naoya zenin.

warnings:

misogyny, a lot of it. T__T. naoya is really mean, dubcon/noncon(?), choking, size kink, dacryphilia, drool (it’s all just gross), degradation, praise but you can see the ulterior motive behind it, dumbification, one mention of a corpse.

word count: 854.

notes: i am... back from the dead?!? with this really gross awful unproofread misogynist naoya drabble. i have to credit @sukirichi, i’ve been reading a lot of your naoya stuff recently and it was so good that i somehow awoke from my 8 month writing coma to bang out this mini monstrosity. thanks for the inspo!!! <3 p.s. reader has female anatomy and gets called ‘good girl’ !

“you’re such a fucking crybaby,” he hisses, hips rolling into yours without regard for your comfort, forcing in what wouldn’t fit when he tried caring about your tears. “it took me so fucking long to get into your panties, i took you on so many— so many shitty dates, and let you talk about your boring self as if i was interested.” his voice is seething, the panties in question currently stuffed between your lips, muffling your sobs and resulting in a collection of drool from the sides of your mouth. his movements are animalistic, and you think about how stupid you were to believe he could actually care for you.

“and once i do manage to get you into bed,” he continues, a growl in his tone accompanying a particularly harsh thrust, “you won’t even let me fuck you. i tried to be nice, stretch you out a little, play with your stupid little cunt to shut you up for just a minute, but no—“ his voice suddenly becomes girlish and mocking, evidently an attempt to humiliate you further: “‘i can’t, i can’t— it hurts, stop—‘, such a fucking baby.”

he returns to his usual pitch to spit the insult right at your face, which is already streaked with tears, your cheeks hot and covered in smudged makeup- (you think back to getting yourself dolled up for the date, eager to see him again. he’s nothing like other guys, you’re sure! he’s so polite and charming, not at all like the sleazebags who usually try and chat you up. it’ll be different this time, you reason. you witness your vision tinge with black and feel his hand tighten around your throat, and realise how wrong you were.)

his grip releases your limp wrists- you’re fucked too dumb to try and push him off any more- and reaches for your chest, flicking a pert nipple with a harsh finger.

“fuck,” he groans, his hips stuttering for just a second before he pulls out, flipping your ragdoll-like body over and slipping in again, “you’re so wet... are you sure you weren’t pretending about it hurting, sweetheart?” his tone has turned condescending, and you hate how the nickname he’d used on your first meeting can still affect you. your answer never comes, evidently, and he chuckles darkly as he pushes your head down into the mattress by the back of your neck.

“god, you’re so much prettier when you keep your mouth shut, baby. no more— yapping, and rambling about your interests that i don’t care about, you’re so perfect like this. my personal fucktoy, huh? aren’t you my good toy now?”

it’s cruel, and he knows you can’t reply, so he yanks your head up by your hair, the sting causing you to cry out, and makes you nod for him.

“that’s right, baby. you don’t need to talk. i like my women quiet, and i think now you’ll do nicely.”

he lets your head fall to the bed again, your cheek smushed against the sheets as he pauses the pounding of his hips to reach for your face, grabbing the fat of your flushed cheeks and pulling the now soaked panties out from between your swollen lips.

“i’m sure you’ll know better than to take this as permission to speak, darling.”

words race through your thoughts, comprising contempt and indignance along with pleas- you try to say “please don’t stop”, “it feels so good” and the like, but it all comes out as slurred syllables; he fucks you so good to the point that you’ve lost the articulateness that you’re always so proud of.

“you good, honey?” he gazes at your face, and the way your tongue is lolling out of your mouth, drooling. “oh, you’re so gross.” the sentence is said with an obvious grin, the bastard’s proud of his handiwork. “but you know i love it.” his strong hand lets go of your face, instead moving to uncharacteristically gently move your hair from your face where it’s stuck to the mix of saliva and tears- the juxtaposition reminds you again of how you’d truly thought that he’d cared.

his hips are pistoning again, slower this time; you can feel every ridge and vein of his cock dragging against your velvet walls. a tap to your temple brings you out of your stupor- you’re mindless, you’re a mess, it’s humiliating, but he smiles down at you. “you still in there?” he taps again at your forehead and your eyes slide closed. “hey, hey. look at me. i don’t wanna fuck a corpse, you won’t squeeze me as good then.”

his remark somehow makes it through the fog in your brain and you blink up at him, chin crumpling and lips pouting in displeasure. “there y’are, baby. just wanted to make sure you’re still kicking.” the corner of his lip quirks up into a half-smile as his face comes close to yours, kissing the pout that’s formed there. he’s speeding up again and your eyes roll back into your head.