Nanadookiee

A dog’s purpose

Submissive! Naoya Zennin x dom! fem reader. FYI, it’s a bit dark. Mentions of abuse, bondage, peeing, mindbreak, a little bit of pain infliction. He’s wearing a bitchsuit and is on piddlefours. I’d recommend searching this up if you want a better idea on his position during this story. Also, based on the few stories on my page, you can tell I have something for puppy boys 😕

The room smells of stale sweat and desperation.

It's a small, windowless space. A former storage closet, perhaps a servant's quarters in some forgotten wing of the Zenin estate. The only light comes from a single bare bulb overhead that flickers every few seconds. It's been hours, but feels like days. Time has become a slippery thing, measured not in hours but in the erosion of his spirit.

The mattress on the floor is thin and sagging. Naoya Zenin lies on his side, legs tucked slightly toward his chest, the same position he's held for what feels like an eternity. His dyed blonde hair which is more so just green hair, once meticulously styled to perfection, now lies lank and greasy against his forehead. The sharp, aristocratic angles of his face are hollowed by exhaustion, his brown eyes dulled.

In the corner sits a chipped ceramic bowl filled with water. Beside it, another bowl contains something that might generously be called food—a greyish, mushed-up paste that smells faintly of meat and grain. It's been there since morning. He ate some of it. On all fours. Face-first. The memory makes his stomach turn.

And then, the final piece of humiliation. Spread across the floor near the door, a rectangular dog peeing mat. Disposable. Absorbent. Printed with little paw prints around the border as if that somehow makes it less dehumanizing. He hasn't needed it yet. He's been holding, fighting his own body with the last shreds of his Zenin discipline. But the pressure in his bladder is becoming impossible to ignore, and the realization that he will eventually have to crawl over to that mat, squat over it like some housebroken mongrel—

The door opens.

No knock. No warning. Just the sudden intrusion of light from the hallway, cutting a harsh white wedge across the grimy floor. Naoya flinches, instinctively curling tighter into himself. The bare bulb above seems to dim in deference to the brightness spilling in.

You stand in the doorway, silhouetted against the polished wood corridor beyond. You don't step inside. You don't need to.

He looks up at you from his mattress on the floor. His cracked lips part. A sound tries to escape—perhaps a plea, perhaps a curse, perhaps just her name—but nothing comes except a dry, rasping exhale. The heir of the Zenin clan has been reduced to this: a creature who waits, who endures, who has learned that survival means silence until spoken to.

Ever since that night—the night you walked through the estate gates and painted the Zenin compound red with the blood of his family—he has been unmade. Piece by piece. Layer by layer. You killed them all. Every sorcerer, every elder, every cousin. Everyone except him. He still doesn't know why. Probably because of the way he treated you back when you were just a helpless girl. Before you surpassed him, something he still isn’t willing to admit.

Your gaze sweeps over the room—the mattress, the bowls, the peeing mat—with clinical detachment. If you feel satisfaction at how thoroughly you've broken him, it doesn't show on your face.

"Get up," you say. Your voice is calm. Absolute. It leaves no room for anything but obedience. "You're going to follow me."

You step back from the doorway, making space. Naoya's body moves before his mind has even finished processing the command. His muscles, sore from hours of stillness, scream in protest as he pushes himself up onto all fours.

You begin walking away and he follows.

The hallway stretches endlessly before him. Each shuffling movement showcases his restriction. Naoya Zenin, heir to a name that once commanded fear and respect, now exists solely within the confines of his bondage. The bitchsuit is a masterwork of gleaming black leather, locking his knees and elbows into an acute, permanent bend. He cannot stand. He cannot straighten his limbs. His world is reduced to the fifteen inches between his padded knees and elbows, the polished floor, and you.

The gag stretches his jaw wide. A thin strand of drool has already begun to escape the corner of his mouth, a glistening thread that sways with his laborious crawl. His pride, once a towering inferno, is now a tiny, sputtering ember.

You walk ahead of him, a vision of casual dominance.

Click, click, click, is the sound your heels make. In your hand, you carry a slender, elegant riding crop.

Naoya tries to match his rhythm to yours—left knee, right elbow, right knee, left elbow—a humiliating, rocking motion. The muscles in his thighs and shoulders burn. He’s a Zenin, crawling like a common dog. His cock, traitorously, hangs heavy and half-hard beneath him, swaying with every lurching step like a slab of meat on a butcher’s hook.

He grunts against the gag as one of his knee pads slips slightly on a wooden plank out of place. The tiny misstep jolts through his locked joints, causing a sharp jarring pain. His rhythm falters. He pauses for a fraction of a second, just to breathe, just to steady himself.

Thwack.

A sharp, focused sting blooms across the lower curve of his right buttock. It's not a brutal blow, but it's perfectly placed, a mark that makes him flinch and whimper against the gag.

"Did I say you could stop?" Your voice is calm, devoid of anger, yet it cuts through him more effectively than any cursed technique. He can feel your gaze on him now.

Naoya's head jerks up at the sound of your voice, his hair falling messily across his wide eyes locked onto you. He shakes his head quickly, frantically—no, no you didn't, you didn't say I could stop—the motion desperate and jerky, like a dog trying to appease its master. The gag makes the movement clumsy, ungraceful. A thin strand of drool flicks from the corner of his mouth, catching the light before it splatters against the floor.

A hot wave of shame washes over Naoya. He looks back down and renews his efforts, his movements becoming more frantic, more eager. The sound of his knees and elbows scuffing against the floor fills the hallway. He’s panting now, short, sharp breaths forced through his nose around the gag. The drool drips onto the marble, leaving a faint, shameful trail in his wake. He crawls faster, fixated on the sight of your heels, on the hem of your attire.

With a surge of desperate energy, he closes the small gap he’d created. He’s right behind you now, his head almost level with the back of your knees. He can smell you—a faint, clean perfume mixed with the intoxicating scent of power. He lets out a small, involuntary whine from deep in his throat, muffled by the gag. It’s a sound of pure, pathetic canine need. He wants to nuzzle your leg, to feel the fabric of your clothing against his hair, a silent, doggish plea for acknowledgment despite all the abuse you’ve put him through. All he has is you now. You’ve made sure of that.

You stop without warning. Naoya, so focused on chasing you, nearly bumps his snout into your calf. He freezes, every trembling muscle locked tight, his back a sloping line of submission. His heart jackhammers against his ribs. The silence is thick, heavy. He hears the subtle shift of the riding crop in your hand. He braces for the sting, a punishment for his earlier hesitation, for his presumptuousness in getting so close without permission.

Instead, the silence stretches. One heartbeat. Two. Three.

You turn slowly, and Naoya squeezes his eyes shut, bracing. The crop. The scolding. The cold disappointment. He knows these things now. He's learned the shape of your displeasure.

But nothing comes.

He dares to crack his eyes open and finds you looking down at him. Not with the clinical detachment from before, not with the sharp edge of command. Your expression is unreadable for a moment, and then—

You smile.

It's not a cruel smile. It's not predatory or mocking. It's sweet. Bright. The kind of smile someone gives a beloved pet who's just done something impossibly endearing. Your eyes crinkle at the corners. Your whole demeanor shifts, the crop hanging loose and forgotten at your side.

"Good boy," you say, and the words hit him like a physical blow. "Such a good boy, Naoya."

He makes a sound against the gag. Something strangled. Something breaking.

You tilt your head, that radiant smile still in place, and your voice drops to something soft and warm—the voice someone uses to coo at a puppy. "Do you want a belly rub? Hmm? Does my good boy want a belly rub?"

Something inside Naoya Zenin shatters.

It's not a crack. It's not a slow crumbling. It's an absolute, catastrophic demolition of everything he was, everything he tried to hold onto. The last wall, the final brick of pride he'd kept clutched to his chest in the dark of that storage room doesn't just fall. It explodes.

A sound rips out of him. High-pitched. Desperate. A keening whine that starts deep in his chest and punches its way past the bone gag, filling the marble hallway with raw, animal need. His eyes, those sharp brown eyes that once looked down on everyone, are wide and wet and begging.

He doesn't think. Thinking is gone. There is only the need, obliterating everything else.

Naoya flops onto his back with all the grace of a dog throwing itself at its owner's feet. His bound limbs stick up awkwardly, knees and elbows bent, but he doesn't care, can't care, because you're still smiling and he needs—he needs—

He writhes. That's the only word for it. He arches his spine and wriggles on his back, presenting his belly—his vulnerable, exposed stomach and chest—to you with utter, shameless desperation. His bound arms flail uselessly. His hips buck against nothing. The gag muffles his frantic whining, but it can't silence it entirely. The sound echoes off the marble walls, a continuous, pitiful cry of please, please, please.

He's going to die. If your hand doesn't touch him in the next five seconds, his heart will simply stop. He knows this with the same certainty he once knew his own superiority. He will die right here, NOW, on this cold marble floor, a bound and broken thing, because you smiled at him and he needs—

You crouch down.

The sight of you descending to his level, the rustle of your clothing, the way your smile softens into something almost fond—it pulls another desperate whine from his throat. His hips buck harder. His cock, already hard, bobs against his stomach, leaking a thin trail of precum onto his own skin.

"There we go," you murmur, and then your hand makes contact with his belly.

The touch is gentle. That's what destroys him completely. Not pain—he's learned to take pain. Not command—he's learned to obey. But this soft, affectionate touch, your palm pressing flat against the planes of his stomach and then rubbing in slow, warm circles?

He's never felt anything like it. No one has ever touched him like this. Like he was precious. Like he was good.

Naoya screams against the gag. It comes out as a muffled, high-pitched wail, his entire body convulsing. The pressure that's been building for hours, for days, for his entire miserable life—it crests, crashes, and then his cock jerks violently and erupts.

The first rope of cum splatters across his own chest, hot and thick and startlingly white. Another follows, painting a stripe up toward his collarbone. And another. And another. His hips pump uselessly into the air, his bound limbs trembling, as wave after wave of release tears through him. He can't stop. He can't control it. He's coming apart, literally and figuratively, and your hand never stops moving—gentle, circular rubs across his belly as he coats himself in his own release.

The whining doesn't stop. It might be his voice now, permanently. The sound of a dog who's finally, finally been told he's good.

When the last spasm fades, Naoya goes limp. His chest heaves. His limbs, still locked in their permanent bend, fall slack against the marble. Cum pools in the dips of his collarbone, drips down his sides, sticks to your fingers where they still rest on his belly.

He's floating. Somewhere far away. Somewhere soft.

And then, because his body is no longer his own—because it's yours, all yours—the muscles he's been clenching for hours finally give out.

A warm wetness spreads beneath him, pooling on the polished marble. The sharp smell of urine cuts through the air. Naoya doesn't even have the strength to be mortified. He just lies there, in a puddle of his own making, covered in his own spend, while you crouch beside him with that gentle smile still playing at your lips.

The heir of the Zenin clan is gone. In his place is only this: a panting, trembling, emptied thing, staring up at you with hazy brown eyes that hold nothing but devotion.

You give his belly one final pat.

"Good boy," you say again, and Naoya's eyes flutter closed.

Can you count the change for me, puppy?

Submissive puppy! Reiner Braun x dominant fem reader. He’s in heat, he’s eager to please, and so so desperate for some relief. His head is a fuzzy mess and you’re the only one who can help him. His dear Owner.

The air in the apartment was too still, too warm. Every sound was amplified—the hum of the refrigerator, the drip of the kitchen faucet, the pounding of Reiner’s own heart. The fluffy blond ears that had lain flat against his head for the last hours suddenly pricked forward at the sound of the door unlocking. She looks down and finds him knelt on the entryway floor, his broad shoulders bowing, head dipped in a silent, needy greeting.

She paused, a soft smile touching her lips. Freeing a hand, she gave him a slow, thorough scratch behind his ears. “Hello, sweetheart.” Her voice dropped into that warm, fond tone that never failed to draw a soft whimper from his throat. For a precious second, the fire within him banked, soothed purely by her touch and presence.

He rose and followed the rustle of paper bags as she walked to the kitchen, his bare feet padding softly on the floor behind her. He watched, transfixed, as she began unpacking, placing cans on shelves, vegetables in the crisper. He was burning up from the inside, a low fire that had been smoldering for days and was now on the verge of bursting.

His skin felt two sizes too small, stretched taut over muscles that twitched with a nervous energy. The worst of it, the shameful, undeniable core of it, was the slick heat between his legs. His cock, thick and aching, was a fountain, leaking steadily through the soft grey fabric of his sweatpants. He could feel the swollen knot at the base, a heavy, pulsing weight that he was desperately trying to ignore.

He was in heat.

And she was right there, on the other side of the kitchen island, putting away the last of the groceries.

Reiner stood by the table, his large frame trembling with the effort of holding still. He focused on his breathing, on the feel of the cool laminate floor under his bare feet, on the crisp scent of the grocery bags—anything to anchor himself. He wanted to be good. He needed to be good. To be more than just an animal driven by base instinct. He was her puppy, her Reiner, and he lived for the quiet pride and satisfaction in her eyes when he pleased her. He wouldn’t mention it. He wouldn’t draw attention to the damp spot darkening his sweatpants or the way his scent had turned cloying and sweet. He would be the epitome of obedient devotion.

“Reiner,” her voice was calm, a balm and a torment. It slid over his fevered skin, making him shiver. She held out a small ceramic bowl filled with coins and a few crumpled bills. “Count the change for me, puppy. Tell me how much we have left from the fifty.”

It was a simple task. A mundane, everyday thing. A test of his focus, a gift of normalcy. His heart swelled with a pathetic gratitude. She was giving him a job. She was treating him like a person.

“Y-yes, Owner,” he managed, his voice rough. He took the bowl carefully, their fingers brushing. The brief contact sent a jolt straight to his groin, and he had to bite back a whimper. He set the bowl on the table with a soft clink and began.

“A twenty,” he started, his tongue feeling thick. He laid the bill flat. “A ten.” Another.

His hands were shaking. He could see the blur of his own fingers. “Five ones.” He fumbled, dropping one of the dollar bills. It fluttered to the floor. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, bending to retrieve it. The movement pressed his trapped, swollen flesh against the seam of his pants, and a fresh wave of dampness spread. A low groan died in his throat.

He straightened up, his head swimming. The numbers on the coins seemed to dance. “Quarters…” he whispered, picking one up. Its coolness was a shock. “Four quarters is… is a dollar.” He placed them in a little stack, but his coordination was gone. The stack toppled, coins scattering across the table with a loud, accusatory clatter.

A sound of pure frustration, half-growl, half-sob, escaped him. He tried again, his movements growing more frantic. “Dimes… five dimes is… fifty… no, fifty cents…” The logic was a tangled knot in his fuzzy mind. The scent of her, of home, of her, was everywhere, drowning him. All he could think about was the desperate, throbbing need, the empty ache that begged to be filled, the instinct to present, to beg, to breed.

“Reiner,” she said again, her tone unchanged. Observant. Patient. It shattered him.

Tears, hot and shameful, welled in his eyes. He swiped at them angrily with the back of his hand, sniffling. “I’m s-sorry, Owner. I can do it. I can.” His words were starting to slur, the edges softening with his distress.

He gathered the coins into a chaotic pile, trying to separate them by touch, but his senses were all wrong. The nickel felt like a quarter, the penny like a dime. The world had narrowed to the heat in his blood, the damp cloth clinging to him, and her patient, watching silence.

“I just… the quarters, and the… the…” He lost the thread completely. A fat tear rolled down his cheek and plopped onto the table. He was a failure. He couldn’t even count change. He was just a leaking, knotting animal, useless to her. A choked apology tumbled from his lips, messy and raw. “’M sorry. ‘M so sorry. Head’s all… fuzzy. Wan’ be good for you. Wan’… please…”

He stood there, shoulders hunched, huge body trembling violently, tears cutting clean paths through his flushed cheeks, staring helplessly at the scattered money. They glittered like tiny, mocking eyes.

The silence that followed was the loudest sound Reiner had ever heard. He couldn’t look at her.

He heard the soft pad of her bare feet on the floor as she came around the island. Not hurried. Deliberate. Each step was a tremor that traveled up his spine. She stopped just behind him.

He could feel the warmth of her body, could catch the clean, utterly her scent cutting through the sugary, cloying fog of his own distress. It was agony and salvation.

“Reiner,” she said, and her voice was so close, so soft. It wasn’t angry. It was… considering. “Stop counting, puppy.”

A fresh sob hitched in his chest. Even the simple task was being taken from him. He was too far gone to be trusted with it. He nodded miserably, his hands falling limp at his sides, fingers still smudged with the metallic scent of coins.

“Look at me.”

It took every ounce of his crumbling will to obey. He turned his head, his movements jerky, and lifted his gaze. Her eyes weren’t on his face. They were lower, studying him with a calm, clinical intensity that made his skin prickle. He followed her line of sight.

The patch. It was no longer just a damp spot. It was a dark, undeniable stain on the soft grey fabric, centered perfectly over the swollen outline of his cock. The fabric was taut, stretched obscenely over the thick shaft and the pronounced bulge of the knot at the base. As he stared, horrified, a fresh, pearl-white droplet seeped through the material, adding to the wet patch, gleaming in the kitchen light.

A wounded, high-pitched sound escaped him—a pure, animal whine of embarrassment and unbearable arousal. The sight of his own leaking, the evidence of his complete lack of control, triggered another helpless spurt. He felt it, hot and slick, adding to the mess. His knees buckled, literally giving out under the twin weights of shame and need.

He didn’t hit the floor. He caught himself on the table edge, but it was a near thing. Instead, he sank down into a crouch, then onto his knees, the position instinctive, submissive. He shuffled forward on his knees, the rough laminate a friction against his sweatpants, until he was at her feet. He pressed his fevered forehead against her shin, nuzzling into the space just above her ankle, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps against her skin.

“Owner… Owner,” he begged, the word slurred and thick, barely comprehensible. His mind was dissolving, eaten alive by the fire in his blood. Language was a distant concept. All that was left was need, and her. “Hurts… it… aches… so empty… ‘m sorry… ‘m a mess…”

He tilted his head back, looking up at her through a blur of tears and desperate want. His eyes were wide, pupils blown dark, reflecting nothing but her. He was panting, his lips parted, a thin string of saliva connecting his lower lip to his chin. The civilized man was gone, scoured away by the heat. What knelt before her was raw, primal need housed in a trembling, powerful body.

“Please…” he keened, his hands coming up to clutch weakly at the hem of her jeans. He didn’t pull, just held on, anchoring himself to her. “Help… help your puppy. Your good puppy… pwease. ‘M your animal… you see? You see what I am?” The admission was a guttural groan. “Can’t… can’t think. Only need. Need you. Need… please.”

He rutted forward, a small, helpless jerk of his hips, grinding his swollen, soaked cock against the air, against nothing. The friction of the wet fabric was a torturous tease. A full-body shudder wracked him, and another trickle of pre-come leaked out, a fresh dampness spreading under her gaze.

“Tell me what you need, Reiner,” she said, her voice still that maddeningly calm pool in the center of his storm. But there was a new edge to it, a subtle sharpness of possession. “Use your words. Beg properly for your Owner.”

He cried out, the sound broken. Words. Words were so hard.

“Need… need you to touch,” he gasped, his forehead rubbing against her leg. “Need your hand… your… your mouth… anything. Need to be full. Need my knot… need it to catch… to lock…” The words were filthy, primal, falling from his lips in a ragged stream. “Wanna breed, Owner. Wanna be good, wanna be used, make the ache stop… make your puppy feel right… please, please…”

He was babbling, falling forward until his chest was on the floor, his arms wrapped around her calves, his face buried against her feet. His hips canted up, presenting the soaked, straining fabric of his sweatpants to her, a silent, shameless offering.

“I’m yours,” he slurred into her skin, his voice muffled, trembling with a devotion that went deeper than bone. “All yours. This is all for you. This mess… this need… it’s yours. Do anything. Just don’t… don’t make your puppy wait. Can’t… can’t be good anymore. ‘M just a thing that needs you.”

He was utterly helpless. An animal, just as he’d said. Every shiver, every leaking pulse, every whined syllable was a testament to it.

She didn’t speak for a long moment. She simply looked down at the powerful curve of his back, the desperate arch of his presented hips, the dark, soaking proof of his ruin. A slow, deep breath filled her lungs—his scent, sweet and cloying and utterly desperate. It was a perfume of pure vulnerability.

Her fingers, when they finally moved, didn’t go to him. They went to the hem of her own shirt. The soft, whispery sound of cotton sliding over skin was deafening in the silence. Reiner’s muffled crying hitched. He stilled, his entire being focused on the subtle rustle above him.

She let the shirt fall, a silent pool of fabric on the floor beside them. The clasp of her bra came next, a definitive snick that made him flinch. That, too, was discarded. Then her hands went to the button of her jeans, the zipper a slow, deliberate rasp.

Reiner dared to lift his head. His eyes, blown black and swimming, traveled up the length of her legs, over the newly bared skin of her stomach, to her breasts, and finally, to her face. Her expression was not one of heated passion, but of profound, focused possession.

“You see me, puppy?” she asked, her voice low. “I am here. All of me.”

A choked sob was his only answer.

She stepped out of her jeans and underwear in one fluid motion, kicking them aside. Now, she was just as bare as he was—but where he was a trembling, leaking mess of need, she was calm, grounded, utterly in control. A goddess regarding her subject.

His eyes were locked on the junction of her thighs. She was wet. Gloriously, shamelessly wet. The sight of it—the slick evidence that his state, his helplessness, had done this to her—made him shiver.

“You did this,” she murmured, following his gaze. “This is your doing, Reiner. Your heat. Your beautiful, messy need.” She took a single step forward, until she was standing over him. “Now. What did you beg for?”

“T-to b-breed,” he stammered, the words a hot gust against her skin. “Please, Owner. Need to. Need to be inside. Need to… to lock. To fill. Please.”

“Then take what’s yours,” she said.

It was not a gentle permission. It was a final, shattering order.

A sound ripped from Reiner’s throat—a growl tinged with a sob of gratitude. His hands, which had been clutching at nothing, rose. They were huge, shaking violently, but they went to her hips with a reverence that belied their size. His touch was feather-light at first, a disbelieving skim over her skin. Then, as if confirming she was real, his grip firmed, pulling her the last inch toward him.

He didn’t stand. He didn’t need to. He simply leaned forward, his nose burying itself in the soft thatch of hair between her legs, inhaling deeply, a starving man at a feast. A ragged, worshipful groan vibrated through him and into her. “Mine,” he slurred, the word a prayer against her skin. “My Owner.”

Then he guided her down, onto him.

The first touch of her slick, hot flesh against the weeping head of his cock was an electric shock that snapped his spine straight. His eyes rolled back, a silent cry on his lips. He was so sensitive, so swollen, that the mere contact was almost too much. He fumbled, his earnestness making him clumsy. He rubbed against her outer lips, missing his mark, his hips making abortive, frantic jerks.

“Shhh,” she soothed, her own breath catching. One of her hands came down to cradle his fevered cheek, the other reached between their bodies. Her fingers, cool and sure, closed around his shaft, guiding him home. “Here, puppy. Right here.”

And she sank onto him.

The world dissolved into a white-hot singularity of sensation. Reiner’s mouth fell open in a soundless scream of relief as her incredible, tight wetness sheathed him, swallowing his aching length inch by devastating inch. It was too much. It was everything.

The empty, frantic ache that had tormented him for days was suddenly, blissfully filled. He bottomed out inside her with a final, deep grind of her hips, and he felt the thick swell of his knot press insistently against her entrance.

For a moment, they were both utterly still, locked in that first breathtaking join. Reiner was panting, tears streaming anew down his face, this time from an overwhelming, soul-deep relief. He was inside. He was home.

Then, the instinct took over.

His movements, when they began, were exactly as she had observed—clumsy and earnest. There was no practiced rhythm, no artful technique. There was only a deep, primal drive to push, to press, to get deeper. His hands slid from her hips to her backside, clutching her to him as he began to move, his thrusts shallow and frantic at first, driven by a need too long denied.

“Oh, god… Owner… Owner…” he chanted into the hollow of her throat, his face buried against her skin. Each drive of his hips was a desperate, grateful sob. The slick, wet sounds of their joining filled the kitchen, an obscene counterpoint to the drip of the faucet. He was everywhere—his heat, his scent, his uncontrollable tremors, the sheer, overwhelming force of his need.

He was trying so hard to be good, to be careful, but the heat had stripped him of all finesse. He was just a beautiful, broken animal, fucking up into her with a pure, unadulterated hunger. His knot bumped against her with every inward thrust, a persistent, thickening pressure.

“That’s it,” she whispered into his ear, her own composure beginning to fracture as he hit a spot deep within her that made her vision spark. Her nails dug into the sweat-slick muscles of his shoulders. “Take what you need. Breed your Owner. Make it stick.”

Her words, that filthy, perfect permission, shattered his last vestige of control. With a groan that was part triumph, part surrender, his thrusts became harder, deeper, more possessive. His body coiled, every muscle straining. She could feel him swelling inside her, the knot beginning to stretch her, to catch.

“I’m… I’m gonna… gonna knot!” he wailed, the warning a raw, torn thing. His rhythm broke apart into sheer, piston-like drives, his hips slapping against hers. “Please, let me… need to lock, need to fill you—”

The climax took him like a seizure. His whole body locked, arching violently against her. A broken, endless shout was torn from his throat as he came, not in spurts, but in a deep, flooding rush that seemed to have no end. At the same moment, his knot swelled to its full, impressive size, popping past her resisting muscles and locking them together with a final sense of rightness.

He poured into her, a hot, claiming rush that went on and on, his body jerking with each pulse. He was sobbing openly now, great, heaving cries of release and devotion, his arms locked around her like iron bands, holding her impossibly close as he spilled his love and devotion deep inside her.

Slowly, the violent pulses subsided into gentle, aftershock throbs. He was still tied to her, still buried to the hilt, his enormous body trembling with the force of his release. He went limp, his weight sagging against her, but she held him up, her own legs weak.

They sank together to the kitchen floor in a slow, graceless collapse of tangled limbs, still joined. Reiner’s head lolled onto her chest, his breathing a ragged, wet drag. He nuzzled blindly against her skin, his lips forming silent words against her sweat-damp breast: Yours. Yours. Yours.

The kitchen floor was hard and cold, but the space where they were locked together was searing hot. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a heavy, sated stillness. The scent of sex and salt and satisfied heat now hung in the air where the scent of desperation once had.

She stroked his sweat-soaked hair, her fingers gentle. He was no longer a trembling mess of unmet need. He was a claimed, knotted creature.

“Good puppy,” she murmured, her voice thick with her own satisfaction. “You did so well.”

Walk ‘Em Like a Dog! (But, like, Tomura Shigaraki is the dog)

Mentions of subby Tomura Shigaraki x dom (fem) reader, tied up Tomura, puppy play, gag, chastity cage, tears, darcyphilia, denying release/pleasure.

The air in the abandoned bar was heavy with dust and the stale stench of decay. A single bulb dangled overhead, its weak light stuttering and flickering, throwing long, twisting shadows across the cracked walls.

Tomura Shigaraki, the man who had bought Japan to its knees, was on all floors, his skin pressed into splintered boards. His pale, scarred body was sheened with a thin layer of sweat, trembling with the effort of holding the position. His limbs were bound tightly together with rough, synthetic rope, biting into the flesh of his biceps. Everything hurt.

A cruel white gag, shaped like a ridiculous dog bone, was stuffed between his teeth, forcing his jaw wide and trapping a constant, low whine in his throat.

His head hung low, wild hair falling over his hollowed eyes. Once, those eyes burned with defiance and rage. Now, they were rimmed red, unfocused, pleading.

But the true center of his torment was between his legs. His pathetic, leaky cock had been imprisoned for two months in a sleek, tiny metal chastity cage. The skin around it was an angry, frustrated pink, and a single, glistening bead of pre-cum welled at the tip, a useless testament to an arousal he couldn't satisfy. It ached with a deep, hollow throb that radiated through his entire body, a constant, humiliating reminder of his state.

A cracked armchair sat a few feet away, its leather peeling like old scabs. You sat in it, legs crossed, posture relaxed, as if this wasn’t the most dangerous man in Japan kneeling before you. The only sound was his ragged breathing and the soft, metallic clink of the key that dangled from a simple chain around your neck. It rested in the dip of your breasts, a tantalizing promise of a release he knew was never to come.

"Look at you," you murmured, your voice a silken whip in the quiet room. "My little puppy. So desperate. Are you going to make a mess on my floor?"

He shook his head frantically, a strangled noise escaping the gag. His dry, cracked lips tried to form words around the silicone, but all that came out was a pathetic, "Mmmph!"

You uncrossed your legs and leaned forward, causing him to flinch like a beaten dog. You placed the tip of your boot directly under his caged cock. A full-body shudder wracking his frame. You applied the barest amount of pressure.

"Two months," you purred, watching the way his eyes, wide and red-rimmed, rolled back in his head. "Sixty days since this useless little thing has been allowed to get hard. Since it's felt anything but the cold embrace of its cage. Does it hurt, puppy? Does it ache?"

He nodded, a frantic, jerky motion. Tears of pure frustration welled in his eyes. He hated this. He hated you. He hated the way his body betrayed him, the way his very soul seemed to curl around your voice, desperate for any scrap of attention, even if it was scorn.

"You'd do anything to be free, wouldn't you?" you asked, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You'd bark for me. You'd lick my boots clean. You'd beg."

You lifted your boot and used the toe to nudge his chin, forcing him to look up at you. The key swung, catching the dim light. His glazed eyes locked onto it, hypnotized.

"But you're not getting it. Not yet." You smiled, a slow, cruel curve of your lips. "I want that pink, leaky thing between your legs to shrivel up like a raisin. I want it to forget what it's like to be a cock. I want it to be nothing more than a cute, little ornament for my good boy."

A broken sob escaped him. He tried to press his hips forward, seeking any kind of friction against your boot, but the movement causes him to lose his balance, resulting in him toppling sideways onto the floor with a dull thud. His cheek pressed against the cold wood. A short laugh escaped you at the pathetic display and you pulled your foot away, not bothering to help him up.

"Ah, ah, ah," you chided. "No rubbing. Bad dog." You stood up and walked a slow circle around him. He tracked your movement, his body turning in a clumsy, shuffling crawl. "The great Tomura Shigaraki. The man who decays entire cities. Brought to his knees, drooling around a dog bone, his little dick locked up because his owner said so. It's all you are now. My pet. My desperate, leaking, pathetic pet."

You stopped behind him, looking down at his bound form. He was trembling violently, his back muscles taut with strain. You knelt, your breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. His toes curled up, a fresh wave of pre-cum beading at the tip of his cage.

"You see this key, puppy?" you whispered, pulling the necklace forward so the cold metal brushed against his cheek. He whimpered, nuzzling against it instinctively. "It's so close. It's right here. And it's going to stay right here, between my big tits you dream of nuzzling your face in, until I decide you've earned it. Until I'm convinced that this," you trailed a single, sharp nail down the length of his spine, making him jolt, "this entire, broken body belongs to me. Not to your sensei. Not to your rage. To me."

You stood up again, leaving him cold and bereft. You walked back to your chair and sat, picking up a book as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture.

"Now, stay," you commanded, not even looking at him. "And think about what a good, chaste little puppy you're going to be for me."

Tied up katsuki getting teased by his gf!

Mentions of subby Katsuki x calm dom (fem) reader, tied up katsuki, nipple sucking, tears, darcyphilia, edging, strokes, handjob.

The only sounds in the room were the frantic, ragged pulls of Katsuki’s breath and the soft, obscene wet sound of your mouth on his skin.

He was a masterpiece of tension, strung up on the bed with his own capture weapon, the thick bands of orange fabric cinched tight around his wrists and ankles, anchoring him spread-eagle to the four posts. Every corded muscle in his arms and abdomen was rigid, trembling with the strain of holding back, of trying and failing to maintain control.

You were draped over him like a contented cat, your body a warm, languid weight on his. Your head was pillowed on his chest, your focus entirely on one pebbled, abused nipple. You sucked on it slowly, deeply, your tongue flicking over the hypersensitive nub with a rhythm that was driving him out of his mind. It was red and wet and so overly stimulated he was half-convinced, in his delirium, that if you just sucked a little harder, it might just fall off.

And your hand… Gods, your hand.

It was wrapped around his cock, which was an angry, leaking, throbbing shade of red. You weren't jerking him off. That would imply a pace meant for conclusion. No, you were stroking him. A maddeningly slow, torturous up-and-down motion with a slick, tight fist, using his own pre-come as lubrication. It was a lazy, almost absent-minded rhythm you’d maintained for what felt like an eternity. An hour? Maybe more. Time had lost all meaning in the haze of this exquisite agony.

“F-Fuck… you…” he gritted out, his voice a shattered, hoarse thing. It lacked all its usual fire, all its explosive power. It was the plea of a broken man.

You hummed against his nipple, the vibration shooting straight down his spine to his already over-sensitized cock. Your thumb circled the weeping head, smearing the pearl of fluid around in slow, deliberate circles.

“I know, Katsu,” you murmured, your voice a soft, warm puff of air against his damp skin. “I know.”

A tear, hot and furious, escaped the corner of his eye, tracing a path through the sweat on his temple and into his spiky blond hair. He tried to arch his back, to thrust up into that infuriatingly perfect fist, but the bonds held him fast. He was completely, utterly at your mercy.

“Please…” The word was torn from him, so quiet it was almost inaudible. It was a word he hated, a word that tasted like defeat. But the need was a physical pain now, a tight, coiling thing in his gut that was screaming for release.

Your hand stilled. Completely.

His entire body went rigid, a silent scream locked in his throat. The absence of sensation was somehow more torturous than the slow stroke.

You lifted your head from his chest, your lips swollen and glistening. You looked at his face—the clenched jaw, the tear-streaked cheeks, the desperate, pleading crimson of his eyes. You saw the war there, the pride shattering into a million pieces under the weight of his need.

You leaned forward, your lips brushing his ear. “Please, what, my love?” you whispered, your voice dripping with a gentle, devastating dominance. “Use your words.”

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully. The humiliation was a live wire, but the need was stronger. Pride was a luxury he could no longer afford.

He took a shuddering breath, his eyes squeezing shut as another tear escaped. “Please… let me come.”

The permission, once given, shattered the last of his resistance. A broken sob escaped him.

And you rewarded him.

Your hand began to move, but not with the torturous slowness of before. The lazy circles became a focused pressure on the bundle of nerves under the head. The languid strokes vanished, replaced by a firm, fast, perfect rhythm he knew was meant for his end. It was a piston-like motion, tight and demanding, your slick fist moving over his heated flesh with a purpose that was both merciful and devastating. The sound changed, too—from soft, wet slides to a quicker, more urgent friction that filled the room. His chest rose and fell, soft pathetic whimpers leaving his lips one after another as he drew closer and closer, teary eyes locked onto your moving hand, practically begging you not to stop. It was only a dozen strokes, maybe less, before the coil snapped.

He cried out, a raw, guttural sound as his orgasm ripped through him, violent and overwhelming. His body bowed against the restraints as he spilled himself over your fist and his own stomach in hot, pulsing stripes, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. He shuddered through it, completely spent, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.

As the last tremors wracked his frame, you gently released him. You leaned over him again, brushing the damp hair from his forehead before placing a soft, reverent kiss on his lips.