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You finally decided theres only him, and he convinced you of it, but you don’t care anymore…
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
You had stopped asking what day it was.
Time moved differently in the rooms without windows. Meals appeared when he decided you should eat. Clothes were whatever he laid out for you. The restraints came and went depending on his mood, but even on the nights he left your wrists free you rarely left the bed for long. There was nowhere to go. The door only opened for him.
At some point the anger had burned itself down into something quieter and far more dangerous.
You still remembered the apartment he had taken you from. The job at the support company. The friend whose casual touch had been enough to make him decide the outside world was no longer safe for you. You remembered the way you used to argue with him, the way you had looked him in the eye and told him he was becoming someone you couldn’t stay with.
Those memories felt thin now. Distant. Like stories that had happened to someone else.
What felt real was the weight of his arm across your waist at night. The way he watched you when he thought you were sleeping. The low, even sound of his voice when he told you that you were safest here. That he would never let anything hurt you again. That you were his.
You had started answering him.
Not always with words. Sometimes just by turning into his chest instead of away. By letting him pull you into his lap without stiffening. By falling asleep with your face against the side of his neck that stayed permanently cool, the contrast no longer startling.
You missed him when he left the room for more than a few minutes.
The realization had come slowly, then all at once. One afternoon you found yourself standing in the center of the main room after he had gone to handle something for the agency, arms wrapped around your own waist, waiting for the sound of the door. When it finally opened and he stepped inside, something in your chest loosened so sharply it almost hurt.
He had looked at you for a long moment, reading whatever was on your face, and then simply opened his arms.
You walked into them without being told.
That night he didn’t bind you. He just held you through the dark while you shook apart against him for reasons you could no longer name. At some point you had sex—slow, quiet, nothing like the desperate claiming of the earlier weeks. Afterward he stayed inside you for a long time, forehead pressed to yours, one hand splayed protectively over your stomach like he already knew.
You didn’t ask him to stop.
You didn’t want him to.
Days blurred again after that. He started letting you move more freely through the space. The ankle cuffs stayed in a drawer. He brought you books. He sat with you while you ate. Sometimes he talked about the world outside in careful, measured pieces—enough to remind you it still existed, never enough to make it feel real. You found yourself not reaching for it.
The morning everything finished, you woke alone in the bed.
On the low table beside it sat a small white box and a glass of water.
You knew what it was before you opened it.
Your hands didn’t shake as you followed the instructions. You had been expecting this, in the quiet way a body expects the inevitable after weeks of being kept full and claimed. The wait felt longer than it was. When the two pink lines appeared, clear and certain, you simply sat on the edge of the bed and stared at them.
Footsteps approached. Soft. Familiar.
Shoto stopped in the doorway. He didn’t speak. He only looked at the test in your hands, then at your face, and something in his expression settled into permanent, quiet certainty.
You didn’t hide it.
You didn’t cry.
You looked up at the man who had taken every choice from you until the only one left was him, and you felt the last thin thread of the person you used to be finally go still.
“I’m not leaving,” you said. Your voice sounded steady. Almost calm. “I don’t want to.”
He crossed the room, knelt in front of you, and rested his forehead against your knee for a moment like a man who had finally been given the only thing he had ever needed. Then he rose, took the test from your fingers, and set it aside. His hand settled over your stomach—warm on one side, cool on the other—exactly where it had rested so many times before.
“I know,” he answered.
You leaned into him, eyes still on the two pink lines lying discarded on the table, and let the last of the fight drain out of you completely.
There was nowhere else you belonged.
There was no one else left.
Only this.
Only him.
Part 3/3 of the only you series, you can find the other two part below,
Finally, after weeks, you cave into your dark desire of needing your crazy ass boyfriend’s cock…
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
Weeks Later
The room no longer felt entirely foreign.
You had stopped counting the days after the first week. The walls were the same soft gray. The bed was the same. The ankle cuffs had been replaced with softer restraints that still kept your legs open whenever he wanted them that way, but he no longer left you chained every hour. Some nights he even slept beside you, one arm locked around your waist like he was afraid you might vanish if he loosened his hold.
Tonight he had only bound your wrists above your head.
You were on your back, naked, the low lamp painting warm light across your skin. Shoto knelt between your spread thighs, already bare, his dual-colored eyes fixed on your face with that quiet, unblinking intensity that used to make your stomach flip when you were still free to walk away.
“You’re thinking about leaving again,” he said softly. Not a question.
You turned your head toward the pillow. Your voice came out thinner than you wanted. “I… I miss how we used to be. Before.”
“I know.” His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, slow, possessive. One palm was warm—almost hot. The other was cool enough to make you shiver. Temperature play had become one of his favorite ways to remind you who controlled every sensation in this room. “You miss me. You want me. You’re just still pretending you don’t.”
He leaned down and dragged the cold side of his mouth along the sensitive skin just above your hip, then bit—hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave a mark. You gasped. The sound made his cock twitch against your thigh.
“Still so responsive,” he murmured against the bite. “No one else has ever known how to touch you like this. No one else ever will.”
His warm hand cupped your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it hardened, then he switched—cold fingers pinching the same peak until the contrast dragged a broken whimper out of you. He did it again on the other side, fire and ice trading places, until your back arched and your wrists pulled useless against the restraints.
“Shoto—”
“I know what you need.” He settled lower, mouth open against the soft skin of your stomach, biting another possessive mark just below your navel. “I know exactly how wet you get when I use both sides of me on you. I know the sounds you make when you’re close. I know how you used to come on my cock when I talked about keeping you full.” His voice dropped. “Breeding you. Putting a baby in you so you’d never be able to walk away clean.”
Heat flooded your face. Your hips twitched despite yourself. He saw it. Of course he did.
He rose up over you, one hand wrapping loosely around your throat—not squeezing yet, just resting there, a quiet threat and a promise at once. The other hand guided the head of his cock through your folds, slow, deliberate, coating himself in how wet you already were.
“You’re hesitating,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “But your body isn’t. Your body remembers who it belongs to.”
He pushed in with one smooth, deep thrust.
The stretch pulled a helpless sound from your throat. He filled you completely, the way he always had, the way no one else ever could. For a moment he just stayed buried, forehead resting against yours, breathing with you while his hand on your throat tightened just enough to make every inhale thinner.
“Good girl,” he whispered. “Taking me so well. Even after everything. Even while you’re still trying to fight it.”
He started moving—slow, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive place inside you. The hand on your throat flexed in time with his hips, cutting your breath for a few seconds at the deepest point of each thrust, then letting you drag in air again. The controlled restriction made everything sharper. Your vision edged with light. Your wrists strained above your head.
His free hand slid between your bodies. Warm fingers found your clit and rubbed tight, perfect circles while the cold side of his body pressed along your side, the temperature difference making you tremble.
“You miss this,” he said against your mouth. “You miss being mine. You miss knowing I’ll never let anyone else have you. Say it.”
You shook your head, tears gathering even as your walls clenched around him.
He bit the side of your neck—hard, claiming—then soothed the mark with his tongue. “Say it, Y/N. Tell me who knows this body better than anyone. Tell me who gets to fill you until it’s dripping down your thighs.”
A broken sob left you. “You—ah—you do—”
“That’s right.” His thrusts turned harder, deeper, the hand on your throat tightening just shy of too much. “I’m going to come inside you. I’m going to keep you full until it takes. Until you’re carrying something that ties you to me forever. And you’re going to let me, because deep down you already know there’s nowhere else you belong.”
The praise mixed with the filthy promise undid you.
“Good girl,” he breathed as your orgasm started to crest. “My perfect girl. Taking every inch. Letting me breed you like you were made for it. Come for me. Let me feel it.”
You shattered around him, crying out against the limited air, body convulsing as pleasure ripped through the fear and the longing and the weeks of slow erosion. He followed a few strokes later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep with a low, guttural sound against your neck, hips grinding like he could force every drop farther inside.
He didn’t pull out.
The hand on your throat gentled, thumb stroking over your pulse. His mouth found the bite marks he had left and kissed each one, soft now. The temperature of his body evened out until he was simply warm against you.
“You’re staying,” he murmured into your hair, still buried inside you, still holding you open and full. “I’ll remind you as many times as it takes. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”
You turned your face into his shoulder, tears slipping free, body still trembling around him.
You didn’t tell him to stop.
You didn’t ask to leave.
And for the first time in weeks, a small, exhausted part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to.
After breaking up with your boyfriend, he gets a little crazy and decides to take matters into his own hands to get you back…
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
You woke up to the cold.
Not the temperature—though the air was cooler than your apartment ever got—but the kind of cold that settled behind the ribs when the body realized something was very wrong before the mind could catch up.
Your arms were stretched above your head. Soft but unyielding restraints locked your wrists to the headboard. When you tried to close your legs, metal rattled. Ankle cuffs. Thick. Heavy. Spread wide and chained to the foot of the bed so there was no way to press your thighs together.
You were still dressed. The same soft sleep shirt and shorts you had put on after work. But something warm and sticky had dried across the upper slope of your chest, just above the neckline. The scent hit you a second later—salt and something unmistakably him.
Your stomach turned.
The room was dim. No windows you could see. Concrete walls painted a soft, expensive gray. A single low lamp in the corner. The bed was large, the sheets dark, the whole space deliberately empty of anything that might tell you where you were.
Then you heard him.
Shoto sat in a chair a few feet from the bed, elbows on his knees, watching you the way he used to watch the battlefield—quiet, focused, already several moves ahead. His dual-colored hair was slightly messy. He was in a black long-sleeve shirt and dark pants, no hero costume. Just him. The man you had loved. The man you had left.
“You’re awake,” he said. His voice was the same low, even tone it had always been. No rush. No guilt.
You pulled at the restraints hard enough that the headboard creaked. “Shoto—what the fuck—untie me. Right now.”
He didn’t move.
Your voice cracked on the next words. “Please. Please let me go. This isn’t—this isn’t okay. You know this isn’t okay.”
Something shifted in his expression. Not anger. Not even the cold distance he sometimes wore in public. Something quieter and far more dangerous. His gaze dropped to the dried mess on your chest, then lower, to the way your body was forced open for him to look at. His hand drifted down and pressed against the front of his pants, openly palming the hard line of his cock through the fabric.
“I love it when you beg me,” he said softly. “You always sounded so pretty when you were scared.”
A broken sound left your throat—half sob, half furious denial. You twisted harder against the cuffs, legs straining uselessly against the chains. The movement made the sleep shirt ride up a little. You felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with skin and everything to do with the fact that he had already touched you while you were unconscious. While you couldn’t say no.
“You came on me,” you whispered. The words tasted like betrayal. “While I was asleep. You—”
“I needed you.” He said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “You wouldn’t let me near you anymore. You kept saying I had to change. That I was too much. That I scared you.” His hand kept moving slowly over himself as he spoke, eyes never leaving your face. “I watched you with that friend of yours last night. The way she touched your arm. The way you smiled at her. You looked… free. Like you had already started forgetting what we were.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You remembered the late dinner, the casual hug goodbye at your door. Nothing romantic. Just a friend. But he had been watching.
“I didn’t forget anything,” you said, voice shaking. “I left because you were becoming this. Because every time I tried to have a life outside of you, you looked at me like the world was something you needed to burn down to keep me safe. I still love you, Shoto. That never stopped. But I can’t be with someone who thinks locking me up is protection.”
He stood.
The chair scraped softly. He walked to the side of the bed and looked down at you—bound, marked with his release, legs forced open, eyes wet. For a moment the old version of him flickered across his face, the one who used to hold your hand under the table during late strategy meetings and listen when you talked about your work at the support company. Then it was gone.
He reached out and brushed a tear from your cheek with his thumb. The touch was almost gentle.
“You don’t get to leave again,” he said. “I tried doing it your way. I tried giving you space. All it did was let other people get close enough to take what’s mine.” His fingers trailed down your throat, over the drying streaks on your chest, and stopped just above your heart. “You’re safest here. With me. No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to make you smile like that. I’ll make you understand eventually.”
You shook your head hard, fresh tears spilling. “This is why I left. This exact thing. Please, Shoto—if you love me, let me go. Let me walk out of here and we can talk. Really talk. Like we used to.”
He leaned down until his mouth was close to your ear. You could feel the heat of half his body and the unnatural cold of the other.
“I do love you,” he murmured. “More than anything left in this world. That’s why I can’t let you go.”
His hand slid lower, resting heavily over the soft fabric between your spread legs. He didn’t push inside. Just pressed his palm there, feeling the traitorous warmth that had already started to gather no matter how much your mind screamed. You made a small, broken sound—half protest, half something you refused to name.
He exhaled like the sound had gone straight through him.
“You’re still wet for me,” he said, almost wonderingly. “Even now. Even while you’re crying and telling me this is wrong.” His fingers flexed once, deliberate. “I’m going to take my time. I’m going to remind you every single day why you’re mine until the only thing you know how to do is stay.”
You turned your face away, tears soaking into the pillow. Your wrists ached. Your ankles burned from the chains. Your body betrayed you with every slow pass of his hand. And somewhere under the fear and the fury and the grief was the terrible, familiar ache of still wanting the man who had decided the only way to keep you was to take every choice away.
Shoto stayed there, kneeling beside the bed, palm resting between your legs like a claim, watching every tear fall.
Aizawa takes care of you after fucking your brains out… a small continuation of Run Little Mouse.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
You didn’t move for a long time after the door clicked shut.
The apartment was quiet in a way that felt too big. Your wrists still ached faintly from the capture weapon. Your throat carried the ghost of the fabric that had been wrapped around it. Between your thighs was a slick, sticky reminder of exactly how thoroughly he had taken what he wanted. The ruined lace of your underwear lay somewhere on the floor in the dark. Your shirt was still tangled around your arms where he had shoved it.
You stayed face-down on the bed until the trembling stopped.
Then you slowly pushed yourself up, wincing. Every muscle felt used. Marked. You managed to free your arms from the shirt and drop it on the floor. The sheets were a wreck. You didn’t care. You just sat there on the edge of the mattress in the dark, bare and sore, staring at nothing while your heartbeat finally started to slow.
You had wanted this. You had poked and teased and sent that photo knowing exactly what kind of man you were baiting. You had seen the way other women looked at him and decided you were done sharing even the idea of him. And he had answered by proving he could walk into your home, pin you down, and ruin you without ever raising his voice.
It had been perfect.
It also left you feeling strangely hollow now that he was gone.
You stood on unsteady legs and made it to the bathroom. The light was too bright. You caught your reflection—hair a mess, faint red marks around your wrists and throat, a bruise already forming where his fingers had gripped your hip. You cleaned up as best you could with shaking hands, then pulled on an oversized sleep shirt and nothing else. The fabric settled against skin that still felt too sensitive.
You were halfway back to the bed when you heard the front door unlock again.
Your pulse jumped.
Soft footsteps. Familiar. He didn’t turn on any lights. Just walked through the dark like he already knew every inch of the place. When he appeared in the bedroom doorway he was still in the same black clothes from patrol, capture weapon loosely coiled around his neck again, hair falling into his face. He looked exhausted. He also looked like he had never planned on staying away for long.
He stopped when he saw you standing there.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then he exhaled, long and quiet, and crossed the room. He didn’t grab. Didn’t bind. Just reached up and cupped the side of your face with one rough hand, thumb brushing under your eye like he was checking for something.
“You okay?” His voice was lower than before. Rougher. The sharp edge from earlier was gone, replaced by something quieter.
You nodded.
He didn’t look convinced. His gaze dropped, cataloguing every mark he had left. The faint redness at your throat. The imprint of his fingers on your hip visible beneath the hem of your shirt. The way you were still standing a little carefully. Something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or just the weight of realizing how hard he had used you after already being run ragged from the day.
“Sit,” he said, gentler this time.
You sat on the edge of the bed. He crouched in front of you, still in his boots, and carefully took one of your wrists in both hands. His thumbs traced the faint marks left by the binding, checking the skin, pressing lightly to make sure circulation was fine. Then the other wrist. Then he tipped your chin up with two fingers and examined your throat with the same quiet focus he used when assessing injuries on students after training.
“Does it hurt?”
“A little,” you admitted. “Not bad.”
He made a low sound of acknowledgment and stood. You heard him move into the bathroom. Water ran. When he came back he had a warm, damp cloth and a tube of ointment you kept in the medicine cabinet for scrapes. He didn’t ask permission. Just knelt again, eased your shirt up just enough, and started cleaning the mess he had left between your thighs with slow, careful strokes. The cloth was warm. His hands were steady. There was nothing sexual in the touch—only thorough, almost clinical care that somehow felt more intimate than anything that had come before.
When he was done he smoothed a thin layer of ointment over the reddened skin at your wrists and the faint marks on your throat. His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary.
“I should have stayed,” he said quietly. Not quite an apology. More like a fact he was stating for both of you. “Left too fast.”
You watched him in the dim light filtering through the curtains. “You came back.”
“Yeah.” He capped the ointment and set it aside. “Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about you sitting here alone after I—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “After I handled you like that.”
You reached out and touched his forearm. The muscle under the black fabric was still tense. “I wanted it. All of it.”
His eyes lifted to yours. Dark. Tired. Searching. “I know. Doesn’t mean I get to walk out and leave you to deal with the drop by yourself.”
He stood, pulled his capture weapon off, and dropped it on the chair in the corner. Then he toed off his boots, stripped out of the outer layers until he was down to a black undershirt and pants, and climbed onto the bed behind you. Strong arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you back against his chest. He was warm. Solid. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing as he settled.
One hand slid under your shirt and rested flat against your stomach, not moving, just holding. The other came up and gently carded through your hair, working out the tangles his earlier grip had left.
“You scared?” he asked after a while, voice a low rumble against the back of your head.
You thought about it. About the photo from outside your window. About the way he had told you to run and then caught you so easily. About the fear that had threaded through the heat and somehow made everything sharper.
“A little,” you said honestly. “In a good way. Mostly I just… didn’t want you to leave.”
His arm tightened. “I’m not leaving again tonight.”
Silence stretched, comfortable this time. His fingers kept moving slowly through your hair. Every so often his thumb stroked absently across your stomach, grounding. You could feel the exhaustion in him—the long day of teaching, the longer night of patrol, the intensity of what he had done to you—but he stayed awake, staying present, making sure you came down properly.
After a while he spoke again, quieter.
“Those other women.” A pause. “You don’t have to worry about them. Haven’t for a while. You’re the only one I’ve been thinking about like this.”
You turned your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He met your eyes without flinching.
“Good,” you murmured.
The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, gone as quickly as it appeared. He leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to the side of your neck, right over one of the faint marks, then another to the hinge of your jaw. Soft. Unhurried. Nothing like the way he had taken you earlier.
“Sleep,” he said against your skin. “I’ve got you.”
You let your eyes close. His arms stayed locked around you, one hand still resting protectively over your stomach, the other curled loosely around your wrist as if to keep reminding himself the marks were only temporary. Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, the only sound was the steady beat of his heart against your back and the quiet promise that the man who had hunted you down and ruined you so thoroughly was the same man who had come back to put you back together.
You drifted off like that—sore, marked, and completely safe in the arms of the hero who had finally stopped pretending he didn’t want you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
In which Aizawa decides this game of cat and mouse has reached its end…
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
Aizawa Shouta was running on fumes.
The day had already been a special kind of hell—first-years nearly blowing up the training ground, a third-year with a newly unlocked mutation quirk that refused to listen, and enough paperwork to choke a lesser man. Then the agency call came in right as the final bell rang. Night patrol. Multiple villain sightings across the district. By the time the last capture was secured and the reports filed, it was well past midnight.
He was halfway to his apartment, capture weapon still loosely coiled around his neck, when his phone buzzed.
He almost ignored it.
Then he saw the name.
Y/N
A photo loaded. Soft lamplight. A bed. And draped across the sheets like an invitation—black lace, delicate, barely-there. The kind of underwear that would leave almost nothing to the imagination once it was on. The caption sat underneath, casual and sharp:
I bet you wish you could see this in person, huh?
Aizawa stopped walking.
The street around him faded. All he could see was that picture and the quiet, deliberate way she had been pushing lately. The lingering looks in the staff room. The way she leaned a little too close when she handed him coffee. The soft brushes of her fingers against his when she passed him files. And lately—especially lately—the edge of something sharper. He had noticed the way other women looked at him. Pro heroes. Support staff. Civilians who recognized the underground hero and decided he looked like something worth claiming. Y/N had noticed too. And she had started answering with bolder texts. Longer looks. More deliberate touches.
She was done pretending she wasn’t jealous.
And he was done pretending he didn’t want to ruin her for it.
He stared at the photo for a long moment, thumb hovering. Then he locked the screen without answering.
Left her on read.
Twenty-three minutes later he was standing across the street from her apartment building, capture weapon already loosened, eyes narrowed as he used a low-powered pair of binoculars he kept for exactly this kind of quiet work. The light was still on in her bedroom. Curtains half-drawn. And there she was—standing near the bed in a thin shirt and little else, phone in hand, clearly waiting for a reply that wasn’t coming.
He raised his own phone. Zoomed. Snapped the photo. Sent it with a single line.
Run, little mouse.
Your phone lit up.
The picture loaded first—your own silhouette framed in the window, clear enough that you could see the shape of your body through the thin fabric of your shirt. Then the message.
Your stomach dropped and twisted at the same time.
You knew that tone. You had been poking at it for weeks. Teasing. Testing. Watching him watch other women and deciding you were done sharing even the idea of him. You had sent the underwear photo because you wanted a reaction. You had not expected him to answer by proving he was already outside.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
You turned the bedroom light off.
Moved.
The apartment was small. Nowhere truly safe. You slipped into the closet first, breath held, listening. Then the bathroom. Then behind the couch. Every place felt too obvious. He was Eraserhead. He found people for a living. People who were better at hiding than you.
The front door unlocked with a soft, deliberate click.
You froze.
Boots on the hardwood. Slow. Measured. No rush. He wasn’t hunting yet. He was giving you time to feel it.
“I can hear you breathing,” he said, voice low and rough from the long night. “Poor little mouse. You started this game. Did you think I wouldn’t finish it?”
You stayed silent.
His footsteps moved through the living room. Past the kitchen. Stopped outside the bedroom door.
“I saw the picture,” he continued. “Saw what you wanted me to see. Then I watched you stand there waiting for me to answer like a good girl who thinks she’s in control.” A soft huff of almost-laughter. “You’re not.”
The bedroom door opened.
You were pressed into the corner behind the open closet door, pulse loud in your ears. He stepped inside. The capture weapon was already in his hands, white fabric glowing faintly in the dark.
He didn’t turn the light on.
He didn’t need to.
“Come out.”
You didn’t move.
“Last chance, Y/N.” His voice dropped even lower. “Or I drag you out myself.”
You bolted.
It was stupid. He was faster, stronger, and already between you and the only exit. You made it three steps before the capture weapon snapped out and wound tight around your waist and arms, yanking you back hard against his chest. The impact knocked the air from your lungs. His free hand fisted in your hair and tilted your head back so you had no choice but to look up at him.
Dark eyes. Exhausted. Hungry. Completely focused.
“There she is,” he murmured. “My little mouse finally decided to run.”
You struggled. He let you. Let you feel how useless it was while the binding tightened just enough to remind you who was in control. When you finally went still, breathing hard, he leaned down until his mouth was against your ear.
“You sent me that picture because you wanted me here. You wanted me to stop pretending I don’t think about bending you over every surface in the staff room. You wanted me to stop letting other women look at me like they have a chance.” His teeth grazed the shell of your ear. “Jealous little thing. I noticed.”
The capture weapon shifted. In seconds he had your wrists bound behind your back and a length of the fabric looped around your throat—not tight enough to choke, just enough that every breath reminded you it was there. He walked you forward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed, then forced you down onto it face-first. The mattress dipped as he climbed over you, knees bracketing your hips.
“Stay.”
You didn’t.
He shoved your shirt up and over your head, leaving it tangled around your bound arms. Cool air hit your skin. Then his hand. Rough. Possessive. Sliding down your spine, over the curve of your ass, between your legs. He found the lace you had teased him with earlier and made a low, approving sound.
“Still wearing them. Cute.”
He tore them.
The sound was sharp in the quiet room. Fabric gave way under his fingers like it had never stood a chance. He tossed the ruined scraps aside and pushed two fingers into you without warning. You were already wet. Humiliatingly so. He felt it and laughed once, dark and quiet.
“Look at that. Already soaked and I haven’t even touched you properly yet. Such a dirty little slut for me already.”
He worked his fingers in slow, deliberate strokes, curling them just right, then stopping the second your hips tried to chase the friction. Edging. Cruel. Exact. Every time you got close he pulled back, wiped his fingers on your inner thigh, and started again.
“Beg.”
You didn’t. Not at first.
He added a third finger and pressed his thumb against your clit, circling once, twice—then nothing. You made a broken sound against the sheets.
“I said beg, mouse.”
“…Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please touch me. Please—fuck—let me come—”
“No.”
He pulled his hand away completely. You heard the soft sound of his belt. Zipper. The quiet rustle of fabric. Then the blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance, not pushing in yet. Just resting there while he leaned over you again, mouth against the side of your neck.
“You’re going to take every inch like the good little whore you are,” he said, voice soft and filthy. “And you’re going to thank me for it. Understand?”
You nodded against the mattress.
He thrust in hard.
The stretch burned in the best way. He didn’t give you time to adjust—just set a deep, punishing rhythm that forced the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips. The capture weapon around your throat tightened whenever you tried to push back, a constant reminder that you weren’t going anywhere. His free hand pinned your bound wrists to the small of your back while the other reached under you to find your clit again, rubbing in tight, mean circles that kept you right on the edge without letting you fall.
“Feel that?” he gritted out. “That’s what happens when you tease a man who’s spent all night thinking about burying himself in you. You wanted me to stop playing. So I stopped.”
You were shaking. Close. So close it hurt.
He stopped moving entirely, buried deep, and pinched your clit hard enough to make you cry out.
“Not yet.”
You sobbed into the sheets. He started again—slower this time, dragging every stroke out until you were trembling, then slamming home once more. Praise and filth spilled from his mouth in the same breath.
“That’s it. Good girl. Taking my cock so well. Such a perfect little cumslut for me. Look how wet you are. Fucking dripping down your thighs like the desperate whore you are. You wanted this. You asked for this the second you sent that picture.”
The fear was still there—threaded through the heat. The knowledge that he had watched you from outside. That he had walked into your home like he belonged there. That he could have done anything and you would have let him. It made everything sharper.
He reached up and tightened the fabric around your throat just enough that your next breath came thinner. Not dangerous. Just enough to make your head spin while he fucked you harder.
“Come for me,” he ordered, voice rough. “Come on my cock like the good dirty little mouse you are. Now.”
You broke.
The orgasm tore through you so hard your vision went white at the edges. He kept thrusting through it, relentless, chasing his own release while you clenched and shook around him. When he finally came it was with a low, guttural sound against the back of your neck, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you.
He stayed there for a long moment, breathing hard, still buried to the hilt. The capture weapon loosened slowly. His hand stroked once down your side—almost gentle—before he pulled out.
You felt the loss. Felt the mess he left between your thighs.
He didn’t say anything else.
1/2 parts continued here: https://www.tumblr.com/macabreviridian/824444015105671168/stay-little
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