𝑏𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑒

He nods quickly, “I wanna… I need something for when I’m gone.” He says, looking up at you through his lashes, his gaze sending sparks down your spine. You nod your head, and Yuma quickly sets up his phone, presses the recording button, and gets back into his original spot.

You ruffle his blonde hair as you uncross your legs, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss on his lips. “Why don’t you show me how much you’re gonna miss this?” You spread your legs slightly, your nightgown hiking up teasingly. You watch as Yuma’s pupils dilate and his breath quickens. “Go ahead, Yumi.”

He leans in, kissing your thighs, pushing up your nightgown more, pushing your legs apart farther as he moves forward. Nuzzling into your core, his nose brushes against your clit in quick succession. Your lace panties are completely soaked through, and Yuma is sucking at the barrier, whimpering needily as his hips twitch to grind against the air.

You weren’t only teasing yourself; you knew how much Yuma got off pleasuring you. He had come untouched a couple of times, just eating you out. “You can take them off.” He whines again at the permission as his fingers hook on the waistband of panties and pull them down.

His mouth begins watering, and his cock jumps against his jeans at the sight of your pussy weeping for him. He whines again, placing a single kiss on your clit, your hips buck forward. He takes the sudden movement as a sign of encouragement and dives in, any thoughts of taking it slow gone as he makes out with your weeping pussy, one of his hands tracing patterns on your knee, making its way closer to the junction of your thigh.

The wet sounds of slurping and your moaning are music to your ears as you grind against Yuma’s face, fingers tangled in his hair as you find purchase in your wet hole, moving just right and curling them, hitting the spot that has your legs tightening around his head.

Your moans and sighs come out faster and faster the closer you get to the edge. Your fingers begin pulling on his hair, and he whimpers as he rubs against the friction of his jeans. “I’m close, Yuma.” You moan as his eyes close in concentration. “Open your eyes. I want to look at you when I cum.”

His eyes snap open, drinking up your form, your nightgown covering his favorite parts of you. Your little pudge, your full tits that bounce when you ride him, and finally his eyes find yours, mirroring your half-lidded gaze consumed with lust. His fingers slide in and out of you fast but slow enough that they catch every ridge of your gummy walls. You squeeze his fingers, and he whines as he pulls back to watch his fingers disappear inside of you.

You spasm around his fingers, and he leans back down, tongue flicking your clit as you orgasm. You somehow snake your fingers even deeper into his hair, making sure he can’t move away until you are ready. “Fuck, Yuma, right there, fuckkkkkkk.” You moan loudly as you arch off the bed, Yuma’s own whimpers matching the climax of yours.

You finally let go of your breath, calming down slightly as you let go of Yuma, who was still slurping at your sopping folds. Your hips jerk in overstimulation. You push his head away, and he whines, looking up at you. “More, more, please,” he begs.

“No more of that, Yumi.”

“Please.”

“Be a good boy and take off your clothes. How about that?”

He gets up swiftly, taking his shirt off his body. Your eyes trail down. He, in your words, was sculpted with god’s grace, even if he didn’t believe it because he wasn’t as “ripped” as his other members. Your eyes continue their path till you notice a dark spot on Yuma’s jeans.

“Yumi baby, did you cum?” You arch an eyebrow.

He looks down at the floor, his ears turning bright red. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. You just—you were cumming—and you tightened around my head,” he rambles.

Tsk was the only sound you made as you rose off the bed and helped him take off his jeans, the fabric overstimulating. Yuma whines and tries to catch your wrist as you slowly move them. “Please, p-please.”

“Weren’t you a naughty boy who came without permission? I don’t think you should get to ask for anything,” you say sweetly, littering kisses on his neck and collarbones as you push his jeans down, letting them pool at his ankles.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to; I won’t do it again.” He whimpers as you palm him through his boxers that were wet with his own cum, his hips bucking against your hand. His eyes welled up in tears, threatening to fall if he didn’t get them in check.

“I know, baby, but you already broke the rules once tonight,” you purr softly, applying more pressure to his bulge. Panting sobs leave his throat as you move faster, feeling his cock twitch. Finally, you end your teasing, pulling down his boxers, the cold air hitting his hot member as it springs and hits his stomach, cum from his earlier release coating him.

You push him down on the mattress as he lies sprawled out for you. You quickly straddle his hips, your entrance hovering over him, and a wicked smile plays on your lips as you grab his length and stroke it, his hips jumping up, chasing the feeling. “Please let me fuck you?” he whimpers.

“Don’t forget who is in charge here, Yumi,” you say as you line yourself up and drop slowly, both of you moaning at the stretch of Yuma and how tight you were for him. Once he is finally all the way in, you lean down, placing your hands on his chest and kiss him. The camera was long forgotten and the video even more so. “Look at you so needy after making a mess in your pants like a horny teenager.”

He whimpers as tears fall from his face. He looked like a mess, and god did you love the mess he was. Finally giving in, you move your hips and grind on him. His hand finds its way to your hip; you grip them both and pin them above his head. “No touching.”

“Please, please.” You begin bouncing, his pleas falling to deaf ears as he whimpers louder, not caring who hears, his fingers digging into the sheets above his head. His eyes find your breasts as they bounce close to his face, and he begins to drool, too fucked out to even form full thoughts.

You clench around him, and you feel his abs flex, signaling how close he was getting. His tears were falling in puddles, his hips twitching as he tried to pull his arm away to touch you, only allowing you to tighten your grip. You feel your own orgasm getting closer as you bounce faster, the sound of your ass hitting Yuma’s thighs filling the room.

“Please, please let me cum.”

“You can wait a little longer, right?” he nods as he bites his lip, internally trying to stop himself from cumming even though he was so close, his thighs shaking, but he couldn’t let you down again.

“You look so pretty like this,” you say, kissing his tears as you move your hips faster, trying to bring him closer to the edge.

Your thighs began to shake, and you know it’s only a couple of thrusts before you cum, and Yuma looked so pathetic, clawing at the sheets. “You can cum, baby.”

His eyes widen as he feels you squeeze him, his hips thrust up as he moans freely. Your orgasm comes crashing down on you, and Yuma follows shortly after, shooting cum inside your gummy walls. You ride him through it as your own orgasm passes. “Thank you, thank you, fuckkkk.” Yuma moans.

Spent, you collapse on him, kissing his chest. “Thank you, y/n. I’ll use this every night while I’m on tour,” he says, playing with your hair.

“Every night, yumi.”

no “i love you.” no explanation. just the faint smell of his cheap cigarettes and the echo of a door slamming somewhere you couldn’t follow.

you sank to the floor right there in your work clothes, the cheap polyester of your blouse sticking to your skin, and cried until your throat hurt. you had no close friends to call. no savings. the landlord’s number was already lighting up your cracked phone screen.

the first collection call came two days later. you stammered that your father was gone. the voice on the other end went silent, then laughed once, low and ugly, before hanging up.

you didn’t know they were already watching.

it was the fifth night when the knock came—sharp, three raps that rattled the thin door.

you were in an oversized t-shirt and soft shorts, hair still damp from a lukewarm shower, curled on the couch with a library book you couldn’t focus on. your heart jumped into your throat. another knock, louder.

“open the door. we know you’re in there.”

you crept forward on bare feet and peered through the peephole.

three men stood in the hallway. the one in front was tall, broad through the shoulders, dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled once at the forearms. sharp jaw. dark, assessing eyes. a faint scar along the inside of his elbow. he looked expensive and lethal all at once. beautiful features that still held that scary sharpness, his presence filled the cheap hallway like he owned the building.

wang yixiang.

you didn’t open it.

the lock gave way with a splintering crack. you stumbled backward with a small, terrified sound as the three men stepped inside. the two flanking him moved like they’d done this a hundred times—efficient, unhurried. one checked the bedroom. the other stayed by the door.

nicholas’s gaze swept the tiny living room, then landed on you. something shifted in his expression. not surprise exactly. interest. possession, already forming.

“wang yixiang,” he said, voice low and smooth with the faintest trace of an accent. “your father owes the wang family a significant sum. where is he?”

your back hit the wall. your arms wrapped around your middle instinctively. “h-he’s not here. he left. days ago. i—i don’t know where he went. please, i don’t have anything to do with—”

the searcher returned from the bedroom. “cleaned out. nothing of value except her.”

nicholas stepped closer. you flinched hard. he stopped, head tilting slightly as he studied the way you trembled.

“then the debt transfers,” he said calmly. “family pays what family owes. you’re coming with us. collateral.”

“no—!” the word tore out of you, high and panicked. “i don’t have money! i work at a bookstore, i barely make rent! he left me here! he doesn’t care—”

“doesn’t matter.” nicholas nodded once to the men. “take her. gently. she’s not to be damaged.”

you fought. weakly, because you had never learned how to fight. one of the men caught your wrists and zip-tied them in front of you with surprising care not to cut skin. a soft black cloth bag slipped over your head. you whimpered.

“don’t scream,” nicholas murmured near your ear. his voice was almost kind. “it won’t change anything. and i don’t enjoy hurting pretty things that don’t deserve it.”

the car ride was long and silent except for your quiet, hitching sobs. leather seats. the faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, expensive. you could feel him beside you in the back seat, the heat of his thigh not quite touching yours.

when the bag came off, you were standing in a large bedroom inside what looked like a private estate on the outskirts of the city. high ceilings, dark polished wood, a massive bed with crisp white sheets, an attached bathroom. the windows were reinforced. the door had a heavy deadbolt on the outside.

“this is where you’ll stay,” nicholas said from the doorway, hands in his pockets like this was a business transaction. “food will be brought three times a day. if you need anything—books, clothes, whatever—tell the guard outside. behave, and you’ll be comfortable. fight, and…” he shrugged one shoulder. “comfort becomes optional.”

tears spilled hot down your cheeks. “why are you doing this? i’m innocent. i didn’t even know how much he owed—”

“in this world, innocence is a liability.” his eyes flicked over you—your bare legs, the way your tied hands trembled against your stomach, the wide, wet eyes you couldn’t hide. “your father made his choices. you get to live with them.”

he left. the lock clicked.

you curled into a ball on the bed and cried yourself hoarse.

the first week passed in a strange, suspended haze.

meals arrived on trays—proper food, better than anything you could have made. the silent guard never spoke. you tried once. he stared through you like you were already furniture.

you explored the room. there were books on the shelf—classics, some chinese poetry, a few modern thrillers. a television with cable but no streaming, no internet. the bathroom had soft towels and expensive soap that smelled like the cologne nicholas wore.

on the third day he returned.

he entered without knocking, closed the door, and pulled the single armchair closer to the bed before sitting. black shirt again. the tattoo on his forearm was visible now—a stylized dragon coiled around a sword. wang family mark, you would later learn.

you sat on the edge of the mattress, knees pulled to your chest, watching him like he might lunge.

“how are you settling?” he asked, conversational.

“i’m a prisoner,” you whispered.

“you’re protected collateral.” he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “do you know how much your father owed us?”

you shook your head.

“enough that even if you worked every day for the rest of your life at that little bookstore, you’d never clear the interest.” his voice was matter-of-fact. “we reached out through every channel. he’s gone. no response. no attempt to bargain for you.”

the words landed like stones in your stomach. fresh tears welled. you tried to hide them, but he saw.

“crying won’t bring him back,” nicholas said, softer. “but here, at least, no one will touch you unless i allow it. the wang family has rules. you’re under my personal supervision now.”

“why?” the question slipped out before you could stop it.

he studied you for a long moment. “because when i walked into that apartment and saw you—trembling, alone, trying so hard to be brave—i decided you were mine to handle. the others wanted to auction you off or use you to send a message. i said no.” a small, almost fond curve touched his mouth. “consider it mercy.”

mercy. from the man who had zip-tied your wrists and locked you in a gilded cage.

by day seven you had started counting the hours between his visits.

when he didn’t come on day five and six, the guard simply said “boss busy” and left your tray. you paced. you read the same page of a book three times. you stared at the ceiling and wondered if anyone had even noticed you were gone. your job had already replaced you—some chirpy text from your manager about “no call, no show.” no one else had texted.

on day eight nicholas returned carrying a book.

he set it on the bed beside you. “thought you might like this one. girl finds her strength in a place she never expected.”

your fingers brushed his when you took it. you yanked your hand back like you’d been burned, cheeks flaming. “thank you.”

he watched the blush spread across your face with open fascination. “you’re still polite. even now. most people in your position would be spitting curses.”

“i’m scared,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “yelling won’t change anything.”

“smart girl.” he reached out slowly, giving you time to flinch, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingertips were calloused but careful. “the world outside these walls would have eaten you alive, you know. shy little thing like you, no connections, no money. at least here you’re fed. protected.”

funny. protected by the man who kidnapped you.

you didn’t say it. you couldn’t. because some broken, lonely part of you was starting to understand what he meant.

he sat on the edge of the bed this time, closer than before. “the wang family has been in this city for three generations. my grandfather started with one gambling den and a knife. built it into import businesses, clubs, protection. debt collection is just one arm. we don’t like loose ends.” his eyes met yours. “your father was a loose end. you… you’re something else.”

your heart was beating too fast. “what am i?”

he smiled, small and sharp. “mine.”

the rain kept falling.

by the middle of week two, the pattern had settled into something that almost felt like routine. nicholas visited almost every evening. sometimes for ten minutes, sometimes for nearly an hour. he would pull the armchair close to the bed or sit on the edge of the mattress and talk to you like you were a person instead of a debt that needed guarding.

he told you more about the wang family in pieces. his grandfather had started with nothing but a single gambling den in the old district and a willingness to use a knife when collections went bad. his father had turned it into something bigger—import businesses that moved everything from electronics to things that never appeared on manifests, a handful of high-end clubs that laundered money and hosted men who liked to pretend they were legitimate. debt collection was still the ugly heart of it. nicholas spoke about it without apology, but you noticed the way his jaw tightened when he mentioned his father.

“he expects me to be the same kind of man he is,” nicholas said one night, voice low. “ruthless. efficient. no loose ends. when i told him i was keeping you here instead of selling you or making an example, he laughed. said i was getting soft.” his eyes flicked up at the ceiling and then to you. “maybe i am.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. so you stayed quiet, knees drawn up, watching him from the safety of the pillows. he didn’t push.

on another night he asked about your father. you told him the truth in small, halting pieces—how your mother had left when you were twelve, how your father had started drinking more, how the gambling had gotten worse in the last two years. how you had spent most of your life trying to be small enough that he wouldn’t notice you, wouldn’t get angry.

nicholas listened without interrupting. when you finished, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the same careful gesture he’d used before.

“he left you with nothing,” he said quietly. “and still you’re trying to defend him in your head. that’s the part i don’t understand about people like you.”

you looked down at your hands. “i don’t know how to stop.”

“you will,” he answered. “eventually.”

by the end of week two you had started counting the hours until his visits the way you used to count the minutes until your shift at the bookstore ended. when he missed one evening because of “business,” the guard outside your door simply said “boss busy” and left your tray. you paced. you read the same paragraph four times. you caught yourself listening for footsteps in the hallway like a stray dog waiting for its owner.

when he finally came the next night you almost smiled before you could stop yourself.

he noticed.

“you missed me,” he said. it wasn’t a question.

you flushed and looked away. “it’s just… quiet when you’re not here.”

nicholas didn’t tease. he simply sat on the bed closer than usual and let the silence stretch until you filled it. you told him about the underlings you sometimes heard through the door—rough voices, laughter that didn’t sound kind, the occasional sound of something heavy being dragged. you admitted, voice small, that it scared you.

for a long moment he didn’t speak. he simply watched you with those dark, assessing eyes, the ones that always seemed to see too much. then he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture so careful it made your chest ache.

“mm…they should scare you,” he said finally, voice low and even. “most of them enjoy fear. they like the way it makes people small and obedient. but they won’t touch you.” his fingers lingered at the side of your neck, thumb resting over your pulse. “i made that very clear. the first one who forgets who you belong to will lose more than his tongue.”

you shivered. not entirely from the words.

nicholas noticed. of course he did. he always noticed.

“saw that you almost smiled when i walked in tonight,” he continued, quieter now. “you caught yourself, but i saw it. you were relieved.” he didn’t sound mocking. he sounded… pleased. like he had been waiting for this exact crack in your walls.

he let the words hang between you for a moment, watching the way your shoulders drew tighter, the way your fingers twisted harder into the fabric of your shirt. 

then he moved closer on the bed, not asking, simply closing the last bit of space until his thigh pressed solidly against yours and his arm settled around your back. his hand found the nape of your neck again, thumb resting over your pulse like he was taking measure of how fast it was racing.

you didn’t pull away. that was the part that made your stomach twist the most.

nicholas’s fingers stroked slowly along the side of your throat, almost absentminded, like he was soothing something skittish. “relief is a dangerous thing,” he said quietly. “it means you’re starting to separate me from the rest of them. from the men who laugh in the hallway. from the ones who would have already broken you open and thrown the pieces away.” his thumb pressed a little firmer against your pulse. “it means some part of you has already decided i’m the safer option. and you hate that, don’t you?”

you stayed quiet, staring at your own hands. the silence felt heavier than it should have.

shame crawled hot under your skin, thick and suffocating. you hated how easily your body had stopped fighting his closeness. how your shoulders had loosened the second his arm came around you. how some exhausted, traitorous part of you had actually leaned into the warmth of his chest instead of pulling away. 

you had spent your whole life trying to be small enough to survive—first with your father, then with the world that had never wanted you—and now here you were, letting the man who had taken you by force and locked you in this room stroke your throat like you were something he was gentling.

it made you feel sick. it made you feel pathetic. and worst of all, it made something small and desperate inside you whisper that at least when he was here, the fear was quieter. at least when he touched you, you weren’t completely alone.

you hated yourself for that thought more than anything else.

nicholas watched you for another long moment, thumb still resting over your pulse like he could feel every shameful beat. then he stood. the loss of his warmth was immediate and jarring. you hated that too.

he reached down and patted the top of your head—once, twice—the way someone might soothe a well-behaved pet. the gesture was gentle. it was also deeply condescending. his fingers lingered in your hair for a second longer than necessary before he spoke.

“i’ll be leaving for a few days,” he said, voice calm and even, like he was discussing the weather. “business in another city. my father wants me to handle something in person. i won’t be able to visit while i’m gone.”

the words landed like ice water.

your head snapped up before you could stop it. the panic was instant and humiliating, rising fast in your chest. a few days. he had missed nights before because of “business,” but he had always come back the next evening or the one after. 

this felt different. longer. more final. the thought of waking up in this room without the possibility of his footsteps in the hallway, without his low voice filling the silence, without the careful weight of his hand on your neck—it made something crack open inside you that you didn’t want to examine.

you opened your mouth, then closed it again. you didn’t know what you had been about to say. please don’t? how long is a few days? what if something happens while you’re gone? the questions were pathetic. you were pathetic for even thinking them.

nicholas saw it all. the way your eyes widened. the way your hands twisted tighter in your shirt. the way your breathing had gone shallow. he didn’t smile, but something satisfied flickered behind his eyes.

“you’re panicking,” he observed, almost gently. “interesting.”

you looked away fast, shame burning hotter. you wanted to disappear. you wanted to crawl under the blankets and pretend you hadn’t just reacted like that to the news of his absence. but your body wouldn’t cooperate. your heart was beating too hard. the room already felt emptier, even when he hadn’t left yet.

he reached down again and tipped your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze. “the guard will still bring your meals. you’ll still have your books. nothing in this room will change.” his thumb brushed once across your bottom lip. “but you won’t see me. you won’t hear my voice. and you’re realizing you don’t like that very much, are you?”

you tried to pull your chin away. he didn’t let you.

“i told you once that you would stop defending him in your head eventually,” nicholas said, quieter now. “this is the same thing. you’re starting to understand that the only person who comes back for you is me. the only person who chooses to keep you soft instead of breaking you is me. and now that i’m taking that away for a few days, you’re scared.” his fingers tightened just slightly on your jaw. 

“good. that means you’re learning.”

he let go of your face and patted your head once more, slower this time, almost like he was rewarding you for the panic you couldn’t hide.

“i’ll be back before you have time to forget what my hands feel like,” he said. “try not to spiral too badly while i’m gone. i want you in one piece when i return.”

he turned and walked to the door without looking back. the lock clicked shut behind him with the same final sound it always made.

you sat there for a long time after, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around yourself like they could replace the weight of his arm. the shame sat heavy in your chest, thick and bitter. you had almost smiled when he walked in tonight. you had let him hold you. you had felt relief when he touched you. and now the thought of him being gone for days made your stomach twist with something dangerously close to grief.

you pressed your forehead to your knees and tried to breathe.

it didn’t work.

the room was already too quiet.

you wondered if this was what dying felt like.

it was funny, in a sick, twisted way. 

here you were—sobbing so hard your throat had gone raw and your voice had collapsed into something hoarse and broken at the fact your kidnapper that left you alone for a few days. every unexpected sound in the hallway made you flinch so violently your whole body jerked. the tray of food the guard left went mostly untouched. you couldn’t bring yourself to eat. you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything except sit on the bed with your arms wrapped around your knees and wait for footsteps that never sounded like his.

why did your heart hurt this much?

the question circled endlessly, mean and relentless. nicholas had kidnapped you. he had zip-tied your wrists, locked you in this room, and told you in that calm, certain voice that you belonged to him now. he had taken everything from you—your freedom, your future, even the small, sad life you’d been living before. and yet the thought of him not coming back made something inside you feel like it was caving in.

you tried to rationalize it. maybe you were just scared of what would happen if he died out there on whatever ugly business his father had sent him to handle. if nicholas was gone, there would be no one left to tell the others to keep their hands off you. you would either rot in this room until someone remembered you existed, or they would drag you out and use you the way nicholas had once said they wanted to. that was the logical explanation. that was the one that didn’t make you feel completely insane.

but it wasn’t the whole truth, and you knew it.

the truth was uglier. the truth was that some broken, lonely part of you had started needing him. not just his protection. him. the low sound of his voice. the careful weight of his hand on the back of your neck. the gentle feeling of his fingers in your hair. the way he looked at you like you were something he had chosen to keep instead of something the world had thrown away. you hated yourself for it. you hated how easily you had leaned into his chest that last night. you hated that you had almost smiled when he walked through the door. you hated that his absence felt like a hole in your chest that nothing else could fill.

every time footsteps passed in the hallway, your heart would lurch—stupid, desperate hope—only to crash when they kept moving. they never slowed. they never stopped at your door. and every time it happened, the ache got worse. you would press your forehead harder against your knees and try to breathe through it, but the sobs would come anyway, quiet and wrecked, until your voice gave out completely.

you told yourself it was fear. you told yourself it was survival instinct. you told yourself anything that made the feeling make sense.

none of it helped.

the two weeks had felt like dying in slow motion.

you had stopped counting the days properly after the first week. time blurred into long stretches of staring at the ceiling, jumping at every sound in the hallway, and trying not to fall apart completely when the footsteps never belonged to him. 

you told yourself he was probably dead. that his father’s business had finally taken him the way it took so many others—another body in whatever ugly war the wang family was always fighting. the thought should have brought relief. instead it left you hollow and sick, because if nicholas was gone, then so was the only thing keeping you from becoming exactly what he’d warned you about.

but when the familiar rhythm of his footsteps finally reached your door, your heart slammed so hard against your ribs you thought it might actually burst.

the door opened.

he looked wrong.

the white button-up was wrinkled and half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms so the pale scar near his elbow stood out stark against his skin. a black vest hung open over it, tie pulled loose and crooked like he’d been yanking at it. his face was the worst part. tired, bloodshot eyes that still burned with something sharp and unhinged. dried blood streaked across his jaw and one cheek, flaking in places. more of it crusted on his fingers. he looked like he hadn’t slept. like whatever he’d done out there had followed him back inside this room.

you wondered if the wild hammering in your chest was fear or relief.

maybe both.

it didn’t matter. the second he stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind him, the relief died screaming.

nicholas crossed the room in three long strides. his hand shot out and gripped your jaw hard, fingers digging into your skin as he forced your head back. some of the blood still partially wet on his knuckles smeared against your cheek. up close, he smelled like gunpowder, sweat, and something metallic.

you made a small, broken sound.

he didn’t speak at first. he just looked at you—really looked—like he was checking to make sure you were still exactly where he’d left you. his thumb dragged roughly across your bottom lip, smearing a trace of blood there too.

“two weeks,” he said, voice low and rough, nothing like the calm tone he used to use. “and you still look at me like that. fuck.”

you tried to turn your face away. his grip tightened until it hurt.

“don’t,” he warned. “i’ve spent fourteen fucking days thinking about this room. about you in it. about whether you were still here or whether someone had gotten stupid while i was gone.” his other hand came up and fisted in your hair, yanking your head back further. “and the second i walk in, you look at me like you don’t know whether to be scared or happy i’m alive.”

tears stung your eyes. you hated that he could still read you so easily.

nicholas leaned in until his blood-streaked face was inches from yours. his breath was hot against your mouth.

“which one is winning right now?” he asked. “fear? or relief?”

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. your throat had closed up.

he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. it was sharp and exhausted and a little unhinged.

“doesn’t matter,” he murmured. “both work for me.”

his hand left your jaw only to shove you backward onto the bed. you landed hard. before you could scramble away he was on you, knee between your thighs, one hand still fisted in your hair while the other ripped at the front of your shirt. buttons scattered. he didn’t bother being careful. he yanked the fabric apart and dragged his bloodied fingers down your chest, leaving faint red smears across your skin.

“wait—nicho—”

the word barely left your mouth.

nicholas didn’t let you finish.

his hand clamped over your lips, hard, smothering the rest of his name. the blood on his fingers smeared across your mouth and cheek as he shoved you deeper into the mattress.

“don’t,” he warned, voice low and ragged. “don’t say my name like you’re still allowed to tell me no.”

you made a muffled, panicked sound against his palm. he ignored it. with his other hand he finished tearing your shirt open the rest of the way, buttons pinging across the floor. his bloodied fingers dragged down your bare chest, leaving red streaks over your skin like he was marking you.

“two weeks,” he muttered, almost to himself. “two fuckin’ weeks of thinking about this. about you. about whether someone had touched what’s mine while i was gone.” his knee forced your thighs wider. “and you’re still trying to say wait? thought you’d learned. thought my absence would be enough to break you so i wouldn’t have to take.”

“guess not.”

he moved his hand from your mouth only to shove two fingers past your lips instead, pressing down on your tongue. you gagged around them. the metallic taste lingering on your tongue. he didn’t care.

“open properly.”

when he pulled his fingers out they were wet with your spit. he didn’t give you time to breathe before he was undoing his belt one-handed, the other still fisted tight in your hair. he freed his cock—already hard, flushed dark—and dragged the head across your lips, smearing precum and a faint trace of blood.

“clean it.”

you hesitated, tears already spilling. nicholas yanked your hair hard enough to make your eyes water and pushed forward, forcing the head past your lips and into your mouth. he didn’t ease in. he thrusted shallowly at first, then deeper, using your hair as a handle to fuck your throat in rough, impatient strokes. you choked around him, hands flying up to push at his thighs. he caught both wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head against the mattress.

“that’s it,” he growled, hips snapping forward. “take it. you spent two weeks crying over me—now you can choke on me instead.”

he used your mouth until your jaw ached and tears streamed down your temples, until spit dripped down your chin and onto your bare chest. only then did he pull out, breathing hard, and flip you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing. he yanked your hips up, shoved your face into the pillow, and pushed two fingers into you without warning.

you were wet. shame burned through you at how easily your body betrayed you.

nicholas laughed once, low and mean. “look at that. missed me that much, huh?” he fucked you with his fingers hard and fast, curling them cruelly until your legs shook. “say it. say you missed me while i was gone.”

you shook your head into the pillow, sobbing. he added a third finger and curled them up—hitting that spot so perfectly that your legs shook and your mouth betrayed you by letting out pathetic muffled whimpers and whines.

“say it or i’ll make it hurt more.”

“i—i missed you—” the words came out broken and muffled.

he pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his thick cock in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. you cried out into the pillow. it stung. it wasn’t like you’d been a virgin. you’d done less than savory work to keep food in your stomach but it had been awhile—not to mention, he was big. maybe not extremely long but long enough that you occasionally felt his cock press against your cervix. more than you’d ever taken. 

he didn’t give you a second to adjust. he fucked you hard and deep, one hand still fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tightly you knew there would be bruises.

“two weeks,” he snarled against your ear, pace relentless. “two weeks of thinking about this pretty little cunt. about how tight you’d get when you’re terrified. about how cute you look when you cry.” he yanked your head back by the hair, forcing your back to arch. “and you were in here wondering if i was dead? pathetic.”

you were sobbing openly now, overwhelmed, but your body kept clenching around him. nicholas noticed. of course he did.

“still getting wet for me even while you’re crying,” he said, voice rough with something between anger and satisfaction. “cute. you’re learning well.”

he reached around and rubbed your clit in tight, brutal circles while he kept fucking you. the combination was too much. you came with a broken, humiliated sound, walls fluttering around him. nicholas groaned, fucked you through it, then pulled out and flipped you onto your back again.

he shoved back inside before you could catch your breath, pinning your wrists above your head. his blood-streaked face hovered over yours as he fucked you slower but deeper, grinding against that gummy spot inside you with every thrust. you could feel your vision begin to blur. the overstimulation drowning you within its waters.

“look at me,” he ordered.

you tried. your eyes, red and wet with tears. he looked down at you with sharp cat like eyes—and god, did he look like he wanted to devour you whole.

“you’re mine,” he said, voice quieter but no less intense. “even when i’m gone. even when you’re scared of me. even when you hate yourself for missing me.” his hips snapped forward harder. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing throughout the room.

“say it while i’m inside you. come on, pretty girl.”

“i’m yours—” it tore out of you on a sob.

and thats all it took, your admission of giving yourself up to your captor. nicholas’s rhythm faltered as he buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural sound, flooding you in hot, thick pulses. he stayed there, cock twitching inside you, forehead pressed to yours as he caught his breath. all you could do was whimper at the warm heavy feeling of his cum filling you up.

for a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the wet sound of him still inside you.

then he kissed you—slow, almost gentle, tasting like copper and exhaustion.

when he finally pulled out, he watched his cum leak out of you with dark, satisfied eyes. he dragged two fingers through it and pushed them back inside you, like he was making sure it stayed.

“missed you too,” he murmured against your temple, voice rough. “more than i should’ve.”

his bloodied fingers stroked your hair almost tenderly while you shook beneath him.

“glad i kept you. my perfect collateral."

𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗲ㅤ © ㅤ ( 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱 — 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆, 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲, 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘇𝗲, 𝗼𝗿 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗔𝗜.​ ㅤ ❤︎ㅤ 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 . )

you turned your head, cheek pressed to the cushion. “yeah?”

he didn’t look at you right away. his ears had gone a little pink.

“shibari,” he said. then, quicker, like he needed to get it out before he lost his nerve: “i’ve been looking into it. not the suspension stuff—i’m not that good yet. just… tying. the way it looks. the way it feels. i thought maybe… if you wanted… we could try it. together.”

your cunt clenched so hard around nothing it almost hurt.

yuma finally glanced over, nervous but hopeful. “i bought some rope. soft stuff. i’ve been practicing on a pillow like an idiot for two weeks. i know the basic chest harness and a box tie. i watched a bunch of tutorials on safety and circulation and shit. i even bought safety shears.” he rubbed the back of his neck. “i just… i keep thinking about how pretty you’d look. and how much i’d like to see you let go like that. completely. but only if you want it. if it’s too much, we can forget i said anything.”

you sat up slowly. your heart was beating in your throat.

“i want it,” you said, and your voice came out rougher than you expected. “i’ve been wanting… something. i don’t know how to explain it. it’s not that what we have is bad, it’s just—”

“safe,” yuma finished quietly. he nodded like he understood. “i’ve felt it too. like we’re in this really good rhythm and i don’t want to mess it up, but part of me keeps wondering what it would feel like if i pushed a little harder. if i made you really helpless for once.”

the honesty in his voice made something in your chest loosen.

you talked for almost an hour after that.

he showed you the rope—deep black, soft cotton, nothing cheap. he let you feel it between your fingers. he explained the ties he wanted to try, showed you pictures on his phone (all artistic, consensual, beautiful). he told you he’d practiced the release knots until his fingers ached. you set a safeword together—the same one you always used, just in case. you talked about what “green/yellow/red” would look like when you couldn’t use your hands. you talked about aftercare. about what you both needed if it got intense.

by the time you went to bed that night, you were so wet you had to change your underwear.

you didn’t do it right away. yuma wanted to make sure he was actually ready, not just horny and impulsive. so for the next week and a half, it became this slow, delicious secret between you.

he’d text you during the day—pictures of rope laid out on the bed, or a new tutorial he’d found, or just a simple thinking about you tied up rn. can’t focus at work.

you’d send him back increasingly desperate replies.

one night he came over after a late practice and spent an hour just tying your arms behind your back over your clothes, nothing sexual, just practicing the tension and the feel of the rope on skin. he checked your circulation every few minutes, made you wiggle your fingers, asked if anything pinched. when he finally untied you, your arms were warm and heavy and you were so turned on you almost begged him to fuck you right there on the living room floor.

he didn’t. he kissed you slow and deep and told you, “not yet. i want the first time to be right.”

the night it finally happened, the air in the apartment felt different the second you walked in.

yuma had cleaned. really cleaned. the good candles were lit—the ones that smelled like sandalwood and something sweet. the bedroom was warm, low light, sheets fresh. the rope was already laid out on the bed in neat coils, safety shears on the nightstand like a quiet promise that if it got too much—there was an immediate out.

he met you at the door with a kiss that tasted like nerves and mint.

“you sure?” he asked against your mouth, hands sliding under your jacket to rest at your waist. “we can still just watch a movie. no pressure.”

you looked up at him—your steady, careful, secretly filthy boyfriend—and felt something molten settle low in your stomach.

“i’m sure,” you said. “i want this. i want you to tie me up and fuck me until i forget how to think. and i want to feel it tomorrow.”

yuma’s smirked at your words—exhale shaky as his hands tightened.

“okay,” he whispered. “then let’s do it right.”

he took his time undressing you.

not rushed, not frantic—slow, almost worshipful. he peeled off your layers one by one, kissing each new inch of skin like he was mapping it for the first time. when you were finally bare, he stepped back and just looked at you for a long moment, eyes dark.

“on the bed,” he said quietly. “on your back first. arms up by the headboard.”

you obeyed.

the first touch of rope against your skin made you shiver.

yuma started with the chest harness.

he worked in sections, explaining softly as he went—not because you needed the tutorial, but because talking seemed to steady his hands. the rope slid over your ribs, under your breasts, around your back. he pulled it snug but not tight, checking the tension with two fingers every time. when he finished the first layer and the rope framed your tits, pushing them forward slightly, he sat back on his heels and stared.

“jesus christ,” he breathed. “you look… fuck.”

you could feel how wet you already were, thighs pressing together instinctively.

he kept going.

the box tie for your arms took longer. he wanted it perfect—secure enough that you couldn’t slip out, comfortable enough that you could stay in it for a while. he guided your arms behind your back, wrapped your forearms together, then started the intricate pattern across your upper back and chest that locked everything in place. every new pass of rope made you feel smaller, more contained, more his.

he checked in constantly.

“still green?”

“wiggle your fingers for me.”

“tell me if anything goes numb or tingles wrong.”

between sections he kissed you—your mouth, your throat, the tops of your breasts where the rope framed them. by the time he finished the final knot at the small of your back, you were trembling, cunt throbbing, so turned on it almost hurt.

yuma sat back and looked at his work.

you couldn’t move your arms at all. the chest harness made every breath feel more deliberate. your nipples were tight, sensitive from the way the rope pushed everything forward. you felt displayed. owned. perfect.

“color?” he asked, voice rough.

“green,” you managed. “so green it’s embarrassing.”

he laughed, shaky, and leaned down to kiss you again—deeper this time, one hand sliding between your legs to find you soaked.

“good kitty—fuck,” he whispered against your mouth. “you’re dripping already and i haven’t even touched you properly.”

he took his time after that too.

he ate you out while you were bound, slow and thorough, like he had all night. he used his fingers and his tongue until your thighs were shaking around his head and you were begging—actually begging—in a way you hadn’t in months. when he finally pushed inside you, it was with a low groan that sounded like he’d been holding it back for hours.

the sex was intense in a way it hadn’t been in a long time.

with your arms bound you couldn’t touch him, couldn’t pull him closer, couldn’t do anything but take what he gave you. yuma used that. he held the chest harness like a handle, pulling you onto his cock with every thrust. he fucked you deep and steady, angling his hips exactly right, one hand working your clit in tight circles until you came so hard your vision whited out and you sobbed his name.

he followed soon after, burying himself deep, filling you up with a broken moan against your throat.

for a while afterward, there was nothing but breathing and the warm, heavy press of his body against yours.

then he tried to untie you.

it started fine. he loosened the decorative wraps on your chest, kissed the marks they left behind. but when he reached the main knot at the small of your back — the one that held the entire box tie together—his fingers slowed.

“…yuma?”

he tugged once. twice. frowned.

“it’s not—shit. it’s not moving.”

you felt the first real thread of unease curl through the afterglow.

he tried again, gentler, then with more pressure. the rope didn’t give. if anything, it seemed to have cinched tighter from the way you’d been moving and sweating and arching under him.

yuma sat back on his heels, staring at the knot like it had personally betrayed him.

“i don’t understand. i practiced this. i did it exactly the same way on the pillow.”

your shoulders were starting to ache now that the adrenaline was fading. not painful yet, but a deep, warm heaviness that wasn’t comfortable anymore.

“yuma,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “it’s okay. just… try the safety shears if you have to. i don’t mind losing the rope.”

he shook his head, jaw tight. “i don’t want to cut it if i don’t have to. the whole point was to be able to untie you properly.” he tried again, fingers working carefully at the trapped tail of the knot. nothing. “fuck. i think it pulled in on itself when you came. the tension’s all wrong.”

he worked at it for another ten minutes, growing more frustrated with every failed attempt. you could feel the shift in the room — the post-sex haze turning into something tighter, more anxious. your arms were definitely starting to protest now. not emergency-level, but enough that you were acutely aware of how immobile you still were.

yuma finally sat back, breathing hard, and reached for his phone on the nightstand.

“i’m calling nicholas.”

you blinked. “nicholas? why?”

yuma was already scrolling, ears red. “because he’s done this before. not with me, of course—with other people. remember that night we were all drinking at k’s place and he started talking about that ex who was really into rope? he said he learned how to tie and untie properly so he wouldn’t fuck it up. and he’s… he’s good in situations like this. calm. i trust him.”

he looked at you, phone already ringing.

“only if you’re okay with it. i can keep trying, or i can cut it right now. your call.”

you hesitated for half a second — the idea of nicholas seeing you like this, naked and bound and messy with yuma’s cum still leaking out of you, sent a confusing rush of heat through your already sensitive body—then nodded.

“okay,” you said quietly. “call him.”

nicholas arrived twenty minutes later.

he knocked once, let himself in when yuma called out, and stepped into the bedroom with his usual easy posture—hoodie, sweats, hair still damp from a shower like he’d come straight over. his eyes flicked over the scene once, quick and assessing: you on the bed, still mostly tied, flushed and marked, yuma sitting beside you looking stressed and guilty.

he didn’t laugh. didn’t make a joke right away.

he just closed the door behind him and said, “hey. you okay?”

the question was directed at you.

you swallowed. “yeah. arms are getting sore but circulation’s fine. just… stuck.”

nicholas nodded, then looked at yuma. “you tried the usual release?”

“everything,” yuma said, rubbing his face. “i think i pulled it too tight during… y’know.”

nicholas’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t comment. he moved to the side of the bed, crouched down so he was level with your back, and gently touched the stuck knot with two fingers. his hands were warm. steady.

“yeah,” he said after a moment. “it’s seized. sweat and movement’ll do that, especially if the tail got trapped. i can work it out, but it’s gonna take time and i’ll have to be careful. cutting’s always an option if you want out fast.”

he glanced at yuma, then back at you.

“i’m happy to help. no judgment, seriously. but i’m not gonna lie—walking in here and seeing you like this…” his voice dropped a little, teasing but not cruel. “it’s doing things to my brain. so if i’m gonna sit here and work on this knot for the next twenty minutes, i need to know what the vibe is. because i can be very professional about this. or…” he let the sentence hang. “i can be helpful in other ways too. if that’s something you’re both open to.”

the room went very quiet.

yuma’s hand found yours—or tried to, since your arms were still bound. his fingers brushed your hip instead.

“baby?” he asked softly. “what do you want?”

you looked at nicholas—calm, patient, giving you every out in the world—and then at yuma, whose ears were burning red but whose cock was already half-hard again against his thigh.

the slow burn that had been building all week, all month, all the quiet frustration you’d both been feeling, suddenly had somewhere to go.

you took a shaky breath.

“um…i want…” your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “i want you to help with the knot. and i want… whatever else happens while you do it. if yuma’s okay with it.”

yuma’s exhale was shaky, but when he spoke, his voice was steady.

“i’m okay with it,” he said. “more than okay. i’ve been thinking about it since i called him, honestly. seeing you like this… with someone else looking at you…” he swallowed. “it’s doing something to me i didn’t expect. so if you want this—if you want him to touch you while he gets you out—i’m in. i’ll be right here the whole time.”

nicholas’s smile was small and warm and a little dangerous.

“alright,” he said quietly. “then let’s take our time.”

he started with the parts of the harness that weren’t stuck—loosening the chest wraps first, working slowly, deliberately. every time a strand of rope came free he ran his fingers over the marks it left behind, soothing the skin. his touch was confident in a way yuma’s had been careful. different. new.

“you did good work,” he told yuma without looking up. “the harness is clean. it’s just this one knot that’s being a bitch.”

yuma didn’t answer. he was watching nicholas’s hands on you like he couldn’t look away.

nicholas kept talking as he worked—low, conversational, but the words started to shift.

“bet you felt real pretty while he was tying you,” he murmured, fingers brushing the side of your breast as he loosened another wrap. “all wrapped up and helpless. yuma’s got good taste.”

you shivered.

he noticed.

his hand paused, then deliberately stroked down your side, over the curve of your waist, down to your hip. not quite between your legs yet. just… close.

“you use the color system?” he asked, fingers lingering on the inner of your thigh.

you nodded.

“good to know, ”nicholas said, voice low and approving. “i’ll keep going slow, though. i’m still gonna work on this knot, but i’m not gonna pretend my hands are only here for the rope anymore.”

his fingers finally moved higher.

he didn’t rush. while his left hand stayed busy loosening the last stubborn sections of the chest harness, his right hand slid fully between your thighs. two fingers dragged slowly through your folds, gathering the mess yuma had left inside you earlier and spreading it up over your clit in one long, deliberate stroke.

you gasped. your hips twitched up before you could stop them.

nicholas made a quiet, pleased sound.

“still so wet,” he murmured. “even after everything. yuma really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

yuma hadn’t moved from his spot on the edge of the bed. his hand was wrapped around his cock again, stroking slow and tight, eyes locked on nicholas’s fingers as they circled your clit with lazy, confident pressure. his breathing had gone shallow. every time nicholas touched you, yuma’s hand moved a little faster.

nicholas kept talking as he worked—low, conversational, almost gentle even as his words turned filthy.

“bet you felt so pretty while he was tying you up,” he said again, softer this time. “all wrapped up and helpless. couldn’t do anything but take what he gave you. and now look at you.” his fingers dipped lower, pressing two inside you without warning. the stretch made your back arch. 

“still letting someone else touch you while you’re stuck. such a good girl.”

you whimpered. the remaining ropes dug into your flesh as your body tried to move on instinct.

nicholas’s fingers curled inside you, slow and deep, finding that gummy spot that made your thighs shake. his thumb stayed on your clit, rubbing tight little circles that had you seeing stars almost immediately. he was still loosening rope with his other hand, like this was the most normal thing in the world—like fingering you while he untied you was just another part of helping.

“color?” he asked again, voice steady even as he pushed his fingers deeper.

“mmph—gre-green.” you managed, voice cracking.

“good.” he rewarded you by adding a third finger, stretching you open while he worked at a particularly stubborn loop behind your back. “you’re taking me so well. yuma, your girl’s greedy. she’s squeezing my fingers like she wants more already.”

yuma’s voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“bet she does,” he said quietly. “she’s been like this all week. every time i texted her about the rope she’d send me these desperate little replies. i think she’s been waiting for something like this. fuckin’ needy kitty”

nicholas hummed, pleased, and leaned down to press a kiss to your inner thigh — soft, almost sweet—before he pulled his fingers out. he wiped them slowly on your skin, then shifted up the bed so he was kneeling beside your head.

he didn’t ask this time. he just tugged his sweatpants and boxers down in one smooth motion, then tapped the head of his heavy cock against your lips.

“open.”

you did.

he fed his cock into your mouth slowly, letting you feel the weight of it on your tongue. one hand braced on the headboard, the other still occasionally tugging at the rope behind your back. he didn’t thrust hard at first—just shallow, controlled movements that let you adjust. spit gathered at the corners of your mouth and dripped down your chin. he didn’t wipe it away. he let it make a mess.

yuma moved closer without being asked. he sat right beside your head, one hand stroking your hair, the other still working his own cock. every time nicholas pushed deeper into your throat, yuma’s fingers tightened in your hair—not pushing, just holding. grounding you.

“fuck,” yuma whispered. “you look so good like this. taking him so deep while you’re still half-tied up.”

nicholas groaned low in his chest, hips rolling forward a little more. his free hand slid down to your chest, fingers tracing the remaining ropes that framed your tits—pinching at your already sensitive nipples. 

you whined around his cock, causing him to buck slightly into the warmth of your mouth.

“she’s good at this,” he said, voice rougher now. “mouth feels like heaven. you’ve been keeping this all to yourself, yuma? selfish.”

yuma didn’t argue. he just smirked, eyes dark, hand moving faster on his cock.

nicholas pulled out of your mouth after a few minutes, cock shiny and wet. he wiped the head across your lower lip, smearing spit, then shifted back down between your thighs. he dragged his cock through your folds once, twice—slow, teasing.

“is this okay—?”

nicholas’s voice was low, rough around the edges, but steady. he was holding himself right there, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance, not pushing in yet. one hand braced on the bed beside your hip, the other still loosely tangled in the remaining rope at your back. his eyes flicked up to your face, then over to yuma, giving both of you the space to answer.

you nodded, voice small but clear. “green. it’s okay. i want it.”

yuma’s hand tightened in your hair for a second before he answered too, voice hoarse.

“yeah. it’s okay. just… don’t cum inside her.” his ears were burning red, but his cock twitched visibly in his fist. “i want to watch you use her. but i also don’t want my girlfriend pregnant with my best friends baby so… pull out just to be safe.”

nicholas’s mouth curved into that small, dangerous smirk again.

“got it.”

he pushed in.

slow. the stretch was deeper than his fingers had been, thicker, and you felt every inch as he sank into you. the remaining ropes creaked as your body tried to arch. nicholas stayed buried to the hilt for a long moment, letting you feel every inch while he finally worked the last of the main knot free. when it gave, he didn’t untie you completely. he just loosened the box tie enough that your arms had a little more room, then started to move.

“fuck,” he breathed. “so warm. so fucking tight even after yuma used you.”

long, deep strokes that rocked you up the bed. one hand on your hip, the other sliding up to fist gently in your hair, pulling your head back so he could watch your face while he fucked you. the remaining ropes creaked with every thrust. your chest harness stayed on, framing everything, making every breath feel tighter.

yuma leaned in and kissed you—messy, open-mouthed, swallowing your moans while nicholas fucked you harder. his hand found your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple where the rope pushed it forward.

nicholas’s pace stayed steady, controlled, even as he reached down to rub your clit with his thumb in tight, relentless circles.

“gonna come again,” he said, not a question. “i can feel it. you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

you came with a broken sob, thighs shaking, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the intensity. the overstimulation hit hard — too much, too soon after everything — but nicholas didn’t stop. he fucked you through it, pace never faltering, thumb still working your clit until you were crying from how good it felt and how much it was.

yuma kissed the tears off your cheeks, murmuring praise against your skin the whole time.

“look at you,” yuma rasped, voice low. “taking him so well while you’re still half-tied. my good kitty.”

nicholas made a pleased sound at the nickname and rewarded you by picking up the pace just a little. his hand left your thigh and slid up to your chest, fingers tracing the rope before he pinched one of your nipples, rolling it between his fingers until you whined around a moan.

“she likes that,” nicholas said, almost conversational, like he was giving yuma a tip. “gets tighter around me every time i play with her tits.”

he kept fucking you like that for a while—deep, steady, letting the pleasure build slow and thick in your stomach. his free hand eventually drifted down between your legs again, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight, relentless circles that had your thighs shaking in minutes.

the overstimulation was creeping in fast. you’d already come twice tonight; your body was sensitive, oversensitive, but nicholas didn’t let up. he kept the pressure on your clit steady while he fucked you harder, the wet sound of it filling the room alongside your broken little noises.

“too much?” he asked, voice still low but teasing now. “or are you gonna be a good girl and come on my cock like you’re supposed to?”

you couldn’t answer with words. you just nodded frantically, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how intense it felt.

nicholas’s hand in your hair tightened—not yuma’s gentle hold anymore, but a firm grip that pulled your head back so he could see your face while he fucked you.

“use your words, kitty.”

“g-green,” you gasped. “please— please don’t stop—”

“good girl.”

he fucked you harder after that.

the pace turned rougher, deeper, the headboard knocking softly against the wall. every thrust jolted you up the bed. the remaining ropes dug into your skin in the best way, a constant reminder that you were still bound, still helpless, still at their mercy. nicholas’s thumb never left your clit. he rubbed it in tight, fast circles that had you shaking, babbling, tears slipping down your temples.

yuma leaned down and kissed you through it—messy, open-mouthed, swallowing your moans while his hand worked his cock faster. every time you clenched around nicholas, yuma groaned like he could feel it too.

he pulled back, lips pink and a line of spit still connecting your mouths until he spoke.

“want me in your mouth, baby?”

yuma’s voice was low, rough with how turned on he was. he was still stroking himself, eyes flicking between your face and where nicholas was buried inside you. his hand in your hair was gentle, but there was a new tension in it—like he was holding himself back from just taking.

you nodded, voice hoarse. “yes. please.”

nicholas made a low, approving sound and slowed his thrusts just enough to let yuma move. he kept one hand on your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles that made your whole body twitch, while the other stayed fisted in the remaining rope at your back.

yuma shifted up the bed, kneeling beside your head. he tapped the head of his cock against your lips, smearing pre-cum across them.

“open up for me, kitty.”

you did.

he slid into your mouth with a shaky exhale, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other stayed tangled in your hair. he didn’t thrust hard at first — just rocked forward in shallow movements, letting you adjust, letting you taste him while nicholas kept fucking you from below.

the dual sensation was overwhelming.

nicholas’s cock hitting deep with every roll of his hips, his thumb never leaving your clit. yuma’s cock heavy on your tongue, stretching your mouth, the hand in your hair tightening every time you moaned around him. the remaining ropes creaked and dug into your skin with every movement, a constant reminder that you were still bound, still at their mercy.

“fuck,” yuma groaned, hips stuttering. “your mouth feels so good. look at you—taking both of us like this. my good, needy kitty.”

nicholas’s pace picked up again, rougher now. the wet sound of him fucking you filled the room alongside the obscene, slick noises of you sucking yuma’s cock. every time nicholas thrust in hard, it pushed you forward onto yuma’s cock, making you take him deeper.

nicholas’s free hand slid up to your chest, fingers tracing the rope before he pinched your nipple again, rolling it between his fingers.

“she’s squeezing me so fucking tight,” he said, voice strained. “every time you pull her hair she clenches around me. you feel that, yuma?”

yuma’s hand tightened in your hair on purpose, pulling just enough to make your scalp tingle. you whined around his cock and nicholas groaned at the way your cunt fluttered around him.

“yeah,” nicholas rasped. “just like that.”

he leaned down and spat on your clit—hot and filthy—then rubbed it in with his thumb, mixing it with your slick and the reminisce of yuma’s release. the extra wetness made everything more intense. you were shaking now, thighs trembling, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as the overstimulation built and built.

yuma noticed. he wiped one of your tears with his thumb, voice softer even as he kept fucking your mouth.

“you’re doing so good, baby. taking us so well. you can come again, can’t you? be our good girl.”

nicholas’s thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster.

“come on, kitty,” he coaxed, voice low and rough. “come on my cock while your boyfriend fucks your throat. wanna feel you fall apart.”

nicholas’s thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, relentless.

the pressure built fast—too fast. your body was already oversensitive, trembling, tears slipping down your temples from how intense everything felt. nicholas’s cock kept hitting that deep, perfect spot with every thrust. yuma’s hand tightened in your hair, pulling just enough to make your scalp burn in the best way while he fucked your mouth in shallow, controlled strokes.

you came hard.

it hit like a wave crashing over you. your whole body locked up, thighs shaking violently as the orgasm ripped through you. a broken, muffled sob escaped around yuma’s cock as your cunt clenched down hard around nicholas—and then you squirted.

hot, wet release gushed out around nicholas’s cock, soaking his hips, the sheets, and the remaining ropes. your vision whited out for a second. your body convulsed, another smaller spurt following the first as nicholas kept rubbing your clit through it, fucking you through the intense, overwhelming orgasm.

“fuuuck— there she is,” nicholas groaned, voice strained. “good fucking girl. look at you squirting all over me.”

yuma pulled out of your mouth just in time to watch, eyes wide and dark with awe.

“holy shit, baby…” he rasped. “you’re so fucking pretty.”

nicholas didn’t stop moving right away. he fucked you through the aftershocks, slower now but still deep, letting you ride out every twitch and pulse. only when your body finally started to go limp did he carefully pull out, his cock shiny and wet with your release.

he stroked himself fast, eyes locked on the mess between your legs and the way you were still trembling.

“shit—gonna come—” he warned, voice tight.

he came with a low, rough groan, thick ropes of cum painting your stomach, your chest, and the black ropes still framing your tits. he kept stroking through it, marking you while you were still shaking and teary from your orgasm.

yuma was right there beside your head, breathing hard. the sight of you squirting, crying, covered in nicholas’s cum seemed to push him over the edge too.

“fuck—can i come on your face, baby?” he asked, voice wrecked. “or in your mouth?”

you nodded weakly, still floaty. “mouth… please.”

yuma shifted forward again, tapping his cock against your lips. you opened for him without hesitation. he slid back in with a shaky moan and only lasted a few more shallow thrusts before he was coming too—hot and thick on your tongue. he pulled back just enough at the end so some of it spilled onto your lips and chin, marking you there as well.

for a long moment, the only sounds in the room were heavy breathing and the quiet creak of the remaining rope as your body slowly relaxed.

nicholas moved first, gentle again.

he carefully worked the last of the box tie free, massaging life back into your arms with steady hands. he checked your circulation, pressed soft kisses to every deep red mark the rope had left. yuma helped too—stepping away only for a second to blow out the candles, grab a warm wet cloth to wipe you clean, bringing water, pressing kisses to your wrists, your forehead, the center of your chest.

when you were finally completely free, they both helped you sit up slowly. nicholas supported your back while yuma made sure you drank. nicholas was the first to speak, voice quiet and a little rough.

“you good?”

you nodded, still floaty and sated. “yeah… really good. that was… intense.”

nicholas stayed long enough to make sure you were steady, long enough to ruffle yuma’s hair on the way out and say, casual as anything.

“soooo—same time, next week…? i’ve got ideas.”

yuma let out a quiet, breathless laugh, ears still pink as he waved him off.

“get out of here, man.”

the door clicked shut behind nicholas, and the apartment suddenly felt much quieter. just the low hum of the city outside the window and the soft sound of both of you breathing.

yuma turned back to you immediately.

he helped you sit up properly, then pulled you gently into his lap so your back was against his chest. his arms wrapped around you, warm and solid, one hand stroking slow circles over your stomach while the other rested over your heart. he pressed a long, soft kiss to the side of your shoulder, right over one of the faint rope marks.

“you okay?” he asked quietly, voice still a little rough. “really okay? that got… intense at the end.”

you nodded, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. your body still felt loose and heavy, pleasantly sore in all the right places. the marks from the ropes were already starting to bloom across your skin—faint red lines across your chest and arms that would probably darken by morning.

“i’m good,” you murmured. “really good. it was a lot, but… in the best way. i liked it. all of it.”

yuma let out a slow breath against your skin, like he’d been holding it in.

“yeah?” he asked, a little shy. “even the… watching part? me letting him touch you like that?”

you turned your head enough to look at him. his cheeks were still flushed, but his eyes were soft and open.

“especially that part,” you said honestly. “seeing how turned on you got… hearing you call me your good kitty while he was fucking me… it did something to me.” you reached up and touched his cheek. “and the way you were still so gentle with me the whole time. it made me feel safe. even when i was completely helpless.”

yuma’s arms tightened around you. he buried his face in the crook of your neck for a second, breathing you in.

“i didn’t know i’d like it that much,” he admitted, voice muffled against your skin. “watching him use you. seeing you fall apart like that. and then getting to be part of it too…” he pulled back just enough to look at you again, eyes warm. “it felt really good. like… i got to share something with you and still have you at the end. i liked taking care of you after. both of us taking care of you.”

you smiled, soft and a little sleepy.

“i liked that too,” you said. “all of it. the ropes. the way you two worked together. the way you looked at me the whole time.” you paused, then added quietly, “and i really liked squirting like that in front of both of you. felt… filthy. in a good way.”

yuma groaned softly, hiding his face in your shoulder again.

“don’t say that right now or i’m gonna get hard again,” he muttered, but you could feel him smiling against your skin.

you laughed, quiet and content.

the two of you stayed like that for a while—just breathing together, yuma’s hands slowly stroking over your arms and sides, checking the rope marks, pressing kisses to every one he found. eventually he helped you to the bathroom, ran a warm bath, and got in with you. he washed your hair gently, massaged your shoulders, and made sure every trace of cum and sweat was gone. you leaned back against his chest in the water, eyes half-closed, while he murmured soft praise against your temple.

“my good girl,” he whispered. “my brave, perfect kitty. thank you for trusting me with that. for trusting both of us.”

after the bath he dried you off carefully, rubbed lotion into the faint rope burns, and dressed you in one of his big soft t-shirts. he changed the sheets while you sat on the edge of the bed sipping water, then pulled you under the covers with him.

you curled into his chest, one leg thrown over his hip, his arms wrapped securely around you. the city lights glowed faintly through the curtains. everything felt warm and quiet and safe again.

yuma kissed the top of your head.

“next week…” he said after a moment, voice low and thoughtful. “if you still want to… i think i’d like to try again. maybe let nicholas tie you this time. or maybe just the two of us first, so i can practice more.” he paused. “or both. whatever you want.”

you smiled against his chest, already half-asleep.

“whatever we want,” you corrected softly. “we are in this together.”

yuma’s arms tightened around you one last time.

“always. together,” he agreed.

he held you close as you drifted off—marked, loved, and already dreaming about ropes, soft hands, and the loud, sweet and steady boy who had started it all.

𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗲ㅤ © ㅤ ( 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱 — 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆, 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲, 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘇𝗲, 𝗼𝗿 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗔𝗜.​ ㅤ ❤︎ㅤ 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 . )

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: nekoz debut on my blog ~ ! i love this duo so im so surprised this is my first time writing them hehe i actually got this idea whilst chatting with my sweet wife @jyuugoyasmine n jus had to make it a reality bc this plot was too good to pass up on so this is lowk for her hehe (˶ ´༥` ˶) i hope u all enjoy this ~~ pls lmk ur thoughts n opinions ! i loveeee when u guys interact w me (˶˃ ᗜ ˂˶)

all you wanted to do was quietly use the bathroom and you decided to leave the light off to like… save energy. only to end up being scared out of your skin by one of anton’s late night companions.

“god, what the hell!” the girl jumped backwards, almost hitting her head on the doorframe as you reached to cover yourself. “who are you??”

you raised a brow. you knew who she could have been, but—

“girl, who are you?” you countered.

you knew damn well you should have kept your mouth shut, because you got called the fuck out. ‘well, anton didn’t say he had a girlfriend, are you his girlfriend? did i just wreck a home?’ uh.. no. ‘how come you weren’t here when we got back but you’re here now?’ uhh… ‘if you’re not his girl, and he has no roommates, why are you here in the middle of the night?’ … — deep down you knew you were the problem here.

unlike anton, you weren’t lucky enough to have parents who would pay for you to live in a nice little apartment for the entirety of college, so you lived with your two roommates; one of which was at the height of a lover’s quarrel with her partner. things had gotten so bad between them that the morning of this incident — or rather the morning before — seeing as it happened at around 2am, anton kindly agreed to let you come back to his place after you finished work, and spend the weekend there. and so, you weren’t there when anton and this poor girl got back to his apartment, because your shift ended about an hour after they had knocked each other out. you poor soul.

“why would you say that?” anton laughed at you, “you don’t live here.”

like you didn’t know that… asshole. you flopped down in one of the dining chairs, attempting to flip your half drank water bottle, at his kitchen table. and failing. “i just couldn’t stop myself from giving attitude. because, why are you trying to talk to me and i’m on the toilet… i needed her gone out the room.”

“well. she’s never gonna text me now.”

“no?” you rose a brow at him, “well, would you have responded?”

anton was notorious (within your two person friendship) for losing the numbers of girls that he slept with. that or somehow indirectly manifesting for them to lose his number, so he had no choice but to move on to the next. he didn’t see this as sleazy, fuckboy activity, however. he was simply just moving forwards through life. so in response to your question? anton just smiled back at you from where he was stood in the kitchenette. he didn’t know the answer. not for sure at least.

“you know she thought we were dating. she was so mad at you.”

his eyebrows shot up, “well, did you defend me?”

“i said i would never date you, and that i was visiting because of the thing with my roommate.” in a display of nonchalance, you pressed down on your baby hairs and just looked on at him.

“wow,” anton pushed up off the counter and took his bowl to the sink. “that’s sweet of you.”

“y’know.” you waited for him to turn back and face you. “if i was one of these girls, i would hate the both of us.”

“why?”

you looked towards the ceiling, as if to try and find the words to say. “well, i feel like i’m always here— like at your place. and we know almost everything about each other, i got a key to your house; we’re just, like, a little too close.”

“first of all, you’re not here enough—”

you shot him a glare and he threw his hands up in defence. “anton, do you not see the problem with that statement?”

anton pursed his lips in supposedly deep thought. “damn. i think you’ve been cockblocking me.”

the way your brain short-circuited hearing him say that— usually it was you cursing. never him. “you’ve been cockblocking yourself, toni.”

“no, but i’m being serious. the girl i brought home was not the first girl i talked to that night. that usually doesn’t happen.” anton came to sit by you at the table, putting a chair right next to yours but turning it the opposite direction so he could be facing you. subconsciously, you rest your feet on his thighs causing him to catch your ankles in his hands as you tried not to roll your eyes at possibly the most sleazy, frat boy coded statement you had ever heard.

“do you actually hear yourself sometimes? this is not the sweet toni i grew up with. you’re something else.”

“god, you’re right.” he laughed out. “i think all the attention is getting to my head.”

you leaned forward towards him, “oh, you think so?”

anton pushed your shoulder gently, “leave me alone, i’m coming to terms with it, i’m—“ he struggled to find the word, “i’m self-reflecting.”

and then he paused. “does our friendship get you any less romantic attention?”

“hmm.” you had to think about it. though anton claims not to be a fuckboy intentionally — or what you liked to call a ‘self-proclaimed pussy magnet’ — you knew yourself that you weren’t as… sexually outgoing (?) as anton. “no less than i had before, i guess. people that know you, know about our weird little friendship and then; you poor thing, you have to talk to two girls before you can get laid. but the people that know just me don’t necessarily know about our weird little friendship.”

“huh.”

“‘cause i’m not trying to be like one of those girls that tells everyone about, ‘my homeboy this, my homeboy that’ and then everyone assumes we’re fucking and i cant even defend myself.”

anton tried to ignore his face warming up, “no, yeah. hah, is that really a thing?” a thought was definitely being formed.

“yes, bro, even i cringe at it. i don’t wanna be that girl.”

“wait so, some of these guys, these friends, are actually like, sleeping with each other?” anton scratched the back of his neck, that was prickling with nerves.

“i mean, yeah, probably. the way they act.” you just laughed obliviously while anton’s mind started to fill up with ideas. like, say, if you were the kind of person who talked to others about your friendship with anton. would people think you’re so close that you might as well just.. be with each other? would people accuse you of sleeping together or dating even if you weren’t?

“yo, imagine if that was us…”

your head jolted in his direction and pure confusion painted your features in an incredulous expression, “anton, can you not… oh my god.”

his head dropped in laughter. as well as defeat.

but you missed that, so you continued. “no, that would be horrible. why would you even put that in my head?”

“so, i’m actually right here.” anton waved his hand at you and you laughed.

“no, no,” rushing to defend yourself, “not in a mean way, i just. i wouldn’t like the attention from people and, yeah, no. i don’t know.”

“yeah, okay. i get that.”

“why do you ask anyway? what would you think if it was us?” you prodded back. you would never let him ask such a stressful question without getting him back. you needed to get even.

“oh.” anton was starting to think he should have never tried it with you. however. you getting that nervous from his initial asking the question gave him a slither of confidence. “i mean. i think that it would be interesting. it’d be kinda cool to see if we could get to know each other any more than we already do.”

“in what sense?”

“like sex stuff.” anton’s voice was soft and quiet. “like what you’re into, stuff like that.”

“wouldn’t you like to know, chanyoung.”

he smiled at you, squinting in acknowledgement of your teasing “i would. tell me something.”

you gave it some thought before replying, “are you serious?”

he replied, “are you?”

you weren’t entirely sure what that meant, but you took at as a case of ‘i am if you are, and if you’re not, neither am i.’

“okay, anton. it’s 9 in the morning, but uh.. i like a submissive man.”

the tips of anton’s ears grew hot. “oh, wow. tell me more.”

you laughed in his face. because no way these are the lines he uses when he’s picking up girls every other night. this was going to be the most embarrassing conversation you had ever had. like, ever. you crossed your legs over each other, still over anton’s thighs.

“there’s nothing more to that statement really. your turn.”

“i like… kissing. but not just kissing like.. kissing.” he dragged the word out a little, really putting umph on it like you were gonna know exactly what he was talking about. you were so annoyed.

“be so for real for a second.”

“what?!”

you sighed. “no, cause i really got a lot from that, thank you. now, i wish i’d kept quiet.”

“what, no! i’m just bad at explaining things.” you tried to retract your legs from anton’s and he grabbed your calf in attempts to stop you from curling in on yourself out of pure embarrassment.

you covered your face. “yeah, really bad.”

“listen, i could show you better than i can tell you.”

“i bet you could, toni, but that’s not gonna turn back time.” you immediately shot him down. before you realised. “wait okay, show me.

“oh, i didn’t think you’d agree. i thought the idea of getting intimate with me was horrible?”

“i mean that’s if people are aware of it and like… try to talk to me about it at school. right now, nobody knows. so i guess it’s less horrible.”

“alright, c’mere.” anton held out his hand for you to lean into, taking your face in his hands and pressing his lips to yours. gently pecking your lips a couple times before ghosting the tip of his tongue along your bottom lip, asking for permission. he ran the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip before pulling away just slightly to whisper, “can you open up a little?”

you furrowed your brows up at him and he took that as confusion, laughing a little “i wanna put my tongue there.”

you parted your lips a little and he kissed you with tongue, making the both of you sigh quietly. with each movement of his jaw and of his lips against yours, his tongue made contact with yours and it triggered a build of warmth in your lower abdomen. each time his tongue licked into your mouth, it pulled a whine out of the back of your throat. your hands rose up into his hair and you breathing started to quicken. at this point, even though you were feeling significantly warmer than you did a few seconds ago, you still didn’t realise what made this any different from ‘regular’ kissing. you figured anton was just being dramatic. that was until he sucked your tongue into his mouth along with your bottom lip. this made you straight up moan — you had to pull away.

“holy shit, anton.”

anton wiped the saliva off of his plush lips with his thumb. “see it’s like kissing but it’s kissing.”

“what the hell.” you huffed out in a deep exhale, twisting a curl around one of your fingers. you didn’t even know what to do with yourself after that.

anton tried to stop his eyes from dropping down to your heaving chest in the tight baby tee you were wearing as pajamas. he wanted to remain composed after putting the moves on you; maintain his shy, yet simultaneously confident demeanour. and then he remembered what you mentioned earlier. anton softened his voice ever so slightly. —if that was even possible.

“you know, you’re a really good kisser.” he held eye contact with you and the delivery of his sentence immediately made you wet.

“um, thank you.”

anton leaned closer to you, keeping his voice hushed despite the fact that you were the only two people in the apartment. “i didn’t expect it too, but kissing you made me really hard.”

“shit, really?” you were overwhelmed. you had just been kissed breathless by your best friend and now he was laying his truths all out on the table.

“i know you feel a type of way about it, but… i wanna fuck you."

“anton…”

“please,” you felt his thumbs rub you from both sides of your hips that he was now holding in his hands. he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth that made your eyes flutter closed. “i know it would feel so good.”

“toni, when you ask me like that—“

“you like that?” anton practically purred before attaching his soft lips to the curve of your neck. his hand slid down the front of your pajama pants to start rubbing you over your panties at a torturingly slow pace. “when i beg you like that? i know you do, you’re soaked.”

“fuck, toni…” you grabbed onto his shoulder for balance, lifting one of your knees higher to grant him a better angle at rubbing those tight circles over your bundle of nerves.

“hey, look at me.” he rubbed your clit faster, “can i make you cum before i fuck this pussy? huh? please?”

you could only lean back and moan in response.

“come on you gotta tell me. can i please?”

“mm-hm. yes, yes, baby.”

you dug your nails into his bicep and he groaned. “can i get i kiss, too?”

in a low whine, you pressed your lips to his, moaning into his mouth as you started getting closer to orgasm.

“yeah, moan for me just like that, baby. that’s so fucking hot. you gonna cum for me?”

you nodded at him and he continued with the same relentless pace of his fingers against your clothed clit until your hips started to shake with your orgasm.

“fuck, you’re so sexy when you cum for me. you gonna let me fuck you, mama?”

you were breathless in shock. in all your years of being friends with this anton, he had never talked so nasty.

anton swiftly lifted you onto the table and yanked your pajama pants down with your panties. with big, soft hands, he kneaded your thighs, “you’re dripping in front of me.”

“well, i just came.”

this made anton laugh, “well, i’m gonna make you cum again. ‘kay?”

you nodded as he pulled his dick out of his basketball shorts and started to jerk himself off, rubbing his tip against your slit. you went to hold onto his back with one hand and he took this as a sign that you were ready for him. pushing into you slowly, he muffled his own moan against your lips.

somehow, after only just put his dick in you, he was already a mess. “mmh, fuck you feel good. you feel so good around me.”

anton’s arms wrapped under your thighs, and started bringing your hips to meet his faster.

“fuck, toni, right there!”

he moaned into a sloppy kiss to your lips, “mm, right there? ‘m i hitting it right?”

“yes, keep going. you’re doing so good..”

anton didn’t change his position, only moving one of his hands to start rubbing your clit again. “fuck, keep talking to me like that.”

you held his neck to pull him closer to you, “you’re so good. and you look so pretty when you’re fucking me.”

all of your praise was going straight to anton’s dick. he was visibly finding it increasingly harder to keep himself together. he leaned forward to get closer to you, grinding his hips into yours. peppering kisses all over your bare chest.

“ah- uhm, i wanna cum. wanna cum for you.” anton’s voice was barely above a whisper as he rambled against your chest, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth to mumble his pathetic sounds. although, to no avail, he was still mumbling to you, teeth grazing the skin.

“you can cum toni, i’m close too.”

“you gotta cum first, baby,” what a gentleman. “if you cum first that’s gonna make me c-cum.” anton whined flicking his tongue against one of your nipples as if to punctuate, “ugh, please.”

maybe about 30 more seconds of anton’s desperate whimpering pushed you over the edge. and you didn’t want to dwell to much on why this was, but it was surely one of the most pleasurable orgasms you had ever had. and the irregular clenching of your pussy around his dick was completely it for him. he pulled out of you cautiously and instead of jerking himself to completion all over your naked body, he was reduced to grinding against your wet pussy, panting and sighing until his own orgasm washed over him.

“shit, anton are you crying?” you cradled his face, wiping away a stray tear with your thumb. he couldn’t even reply — he was inside of you, but you fucked the shit out of him.

“i’m a fuckin’ mess. i think we might have some built up tension or something.” anton got up from where he was leant against your chest. he pulled his shorts up and flopped down into a dining chair, dropping his head down onto one of your thighs where your legs were hanging off the table.

you shifted from your position of sitting up on your elbows to laying your back flat on the kitchen table. “don’t even say that.”

“okay.”

the two of you sat in your silence. it was comfortable silence for you, you hoped it was for him too.

without moving from where he was laid on your thigh, anton’s hand tapped against your leg to grab your attention. “so was that horrible for you, or?”

you could only laugh. “shut the fuck up, anton.”

pine barrens, new jersey. 1.1 million acres

the drive down south was roughly 3 hours, give or take. anton was quiet, as he always is, throughout the drive. the both of you wanted to have a quiet weekend away from the hustle and bustle of the city, and he suggested that the both of you could take a short trip to the cabin his family owned in the new jersey woods. he says the view is beautiful, surrounded by pine trees, the air crisp and clean. there's a lake facing the cabin where he used to go fishing with his father when he was a child. what better way to unwind than to reconnect with nature?

"we're almost there," he says, calmly, eyes fixated on the road ahead and hands on the steering wheel. as you both got deeper into the woods, the trees started becoming thicker, branches like black veins, twirling upwards into the grey sky. you passed by a faded, rusted metal signboard- welcome to pine barrens, new jersey. the car's gps signal started to glitch, and your phone's signal started to falter. you got slightly nervous, but he says that it's common, the connection around these parts is weak.

"how long more, anton?" you ask, reconnecting and connecting your phone's data signal again and again.

"20 minutes," he answers. not curt, but not kind either. you nod. it has been a long drive, after all… you place a warm, comforting hand on his thigh to reassure him, but he doesn't react. his facial muscles tight and concentrated on the road, his eyes partially covered by his glasses.

the cabin soon appeared at a isolated clearing, small and quaint. it was surrounded by trees on each side, and strategically located facing a lake. there was a small shed next to it. anton killed the car's engine.

"welcome," he said.

the inside of the cabin was well-furnished, small but cozy, two bedrooms (one for his parents, and one for him and his brother, you presume), a kitchen, a living room with a fireplace. there was a old family picture on the fireplace, and some other decorations. it looked just like how you'd imagine how a cabin would look like.

"it's a little dusty, huh… haven't visited in awhile," he says, almost apologetic.

"i like it, it's cute and cozy," you leaned in to kiss his cheek.

you unpacked your belongings while anton went out to check the gas, electricity and to gather and cut up some firewood. he returned with wood, placing it in the fireplace. the wood caught fire, crackling. the both of you quickly cooked a simple carbonara meal on the gas stove, with the ingredients you brought. the night fell into a comfortable rhythm, having dinner and drinking wine infront of the fireplace, just talking and enjoying the tranquility of the cabin. soon, midnight arrived and the both of you retreated to a bedroom, falling asleep.

you woke up in the middle of the night to the sheets rustling and movement. you rub your eyes, vision slightly blurry. anton was sitting up in bed, staring at the closed bedroom door.

"anton?"

he didn't answer, but turned his head slowly to you. his eyes weren't the usual, soft, warm eyes, but something hollow. something omnious.

"you shouldn't have come," he says, his voice flat and empty.

"haha-… anton? you're scaring me," you laughed nervously.

he blinked, and the emptiness in his eyes faded. he smiled, his usual smile.

"oh, sorry…. bad dream…" you nodded sympathetically, sitting up to hug him. he must've been tired from work recently, and having to drive that long. you got up to get him a cup of water. he thanked you sheepishly, drinking it in one gulp like he was parched. the both of you went back to sleep.

the next morning, something felt off, different about him. he stared blankly at breakfast, picking at the scrambled eggs and toast, and spoke slower than usual, as though he was clouded with heavy thoughts.

"everything okay, anton?" you asked, concerned. maybe he wasn't feeling well? maybe he didn't sleep well because of the nightmare?

"there's something here…" he said flatly, looking straight at you. your skin crawled. "w-what, anton…?"

he shook his head suddenly, like a dog trying to shake off water. "oh. nothing, just tired." he stepped out of the cabin, saying that he wants some fresh air and needs to gather somemore firewood. you nod, slightly worried but letting it go.

he spent about an hour outside. you looked out of the window and saw him moving around outside but didn't think much of it. you curled on the couch with your coffee, trying to scroll social media with the weak connection that your phone could receive. sigh.

he came back inside a while later, his flannel shirt rolled to his forearms, dirtied. he held up an axe, and smiling. that wrong, unfamiliar smile. the axe was rusted, but the edge was sharp and gleaming. just sharpened. you raised your eyebrow at him. he sets it near the door, and walked in without a word.

after lunch, anton's actions became stranger. he stood at the window, staring out quietly to the woods, his hands unmoving by his side. you called out to him multiple times, but he didn't respond. you chatted with him, going on and on, trying to fill the silence. you talked about work, the weather, how calm and relaxing it is here, and that the both of you should come more often.

"hey, anton? you okay, baby?" you asked him curiously. he was always one to let you talk while he was more than happy to listen, but it seemed odd that he wasn't even responding with nods today.

he turned, his eyes was that strange, emptiness. he smiled at you.

"shall we go for a walk?" he suggested. you nodded, smiling at him.

you followed him out the door, putting on your flats. the sky was grey, the sun was starting to set. the woods seemed to be quiet, like as though time stopped. there was no birds chirping, no wind rustling. just the sound of the crunch of fallen tree leaves beneath your feet. anton carried the axe by his side. it looked heavy, but he carried it with an ease.

"anton, where are we going? do you need more firewood?" you asked innocently, since he had brought the axe along.

"you'll see."

the both of you walked for what felt like forever, but in reality, it was probably only about 30 minutes. the trees started to grow thicker, the light from the sky growing dimmer. you continued chatting with anton, but it seemed one-sided. he only hummed and looked ahead as you spoke. you started to get nervous, your heart pounding. but you continued to try to keep your cool, continued to chat and pretend like everything's fine. but you're scared. you've lived in the city your whole life and had never been to the woods…

"it's so peaceful out here, i'm glad we came, anton," you chattered nervously.

anton stopped, and turned to face you.

"you're scared," he said matter-of-factly, like he could see right through you. it wasn't a question.

"no, i'm just.. a little tired, anton…" you laughed, nervously, your hand gripping your elbow, shivering from the cool forest air.

"you should be scared."

anton lifted the axe and swung it at in your direction. not at you, no, but at the tree right behind you. he missed you on purpose, almost like a warning shot. the blade buried deep into the bark, splinters flying. you screamed, and stumbled backwards, your back falling into the foliage.

he smiled widely. that wrong, twisted smile.

"run."

you quickly pulled yourself up, and ran. you turned and he was still standing still, watching you, giving you a headstart. you didn't know which direction to run. the cabin…? or the main road? you don't know how many kilometers out you are. you were too lost, too deep in the woods. the branches brushed past you, hitting your face. scratches bloomed on your face, your lungs burned. you heard him walking, not far behind you.

"you're not trying very hard," he mocks, yelling out at you. the sound of his voice echoing in the woods. you tripped over a large tree root, and your flats fell off. you quickly scrambled up, your feet dirtied and bloodied, running over the broken branches, the jagged rocks and forest floor foliage digging into your bare soles. your feet, knees, your white sun dress and hands are all scraped up and covered in dirt. the adrenaline racing in your body numbed out the pain temporarily.

the woods was endless, the light in the sky slowly fading. your eyes scanned the woods that never changed, seemed as thought you were running in circles. until you spotted a large, fallen log. the tree must've been hundreds, hundreds of years old. it was massive and uprooted. you ran towards it, crouching and hiding against the wood, damp and surrounded by fallen pine. you brought your knees to your chest and clamped your hand over your mouth. what was going on…? what happened to anton-…?

the fallen leaves crunched underneath his boots, the sound heavy and devastating. anton was right there, barely a few meters away, scanning the area for any signs of you. you could hear his breathing, steady and calm, a stark constrast to your quickened breaths, gasping for air. you tightly pursed your lips and squeezed your eyes shut, holding your breath.

you heard his boots circling around the log, to your left, then behind, then fading. he must've went to look elsewhere. you waited for ten seconds. twenty seconds. you had to make sure that he really had went away. your lungs burned, but after awhile, you dared to breath, letting out a sigh of relief. you thought you couldn't outrun him, after all, he was once a competitive swimmer… but you managed to.

then you saw it.

the metal axe cut through the air, swinging at your face. it landed just mere inches from you.

anton didn't go away, he had circled steathtily behind you.

"thought you lost me…?" his voice was kind, smiling. "i was just letting you rest, sweetheart…" he released the blade from the bark and pressed the dull end against your cheek, wet from tears. you inhaled the bloodied smell of rust. you stumbled back, your palms scraping against the bark and ran again, deeper, and deeper into the woods. you felt disorientated, running till your bones and every muscle in your body hurt.

the trees parted open, to a clearing. an abandoned church.

you ran inside without hesitating.

the large crucifix was still hanging on the wall. the stained glass windows were shattered, the glass shards laying on the floor, glinting like precious jewels. religious paintings on the walls were faded and withering, crosses fallen on the floor, the wooden ornaments and pews were damp and rotting.

the air inside was dusty, thick and suffocating. the scent of incense lingered, like it had seeped into the walls. you ducked underneath the back rows of the pews, hiding underneath the seats, covering your mouth with your palm to dampen the sounds that come out subconciously.

you heard the wooden doors creak wide open, his boots softly hitting the wood. thud, thud, thud… he walked down the aisle, slowly, the sound of the axe scraping against the floorboards.

he reached to the front of the altar, dropping the axe. he clasped his hands together and closed his eyes.

"we have come together in this church today… in the presence of God..." his voice, reverent, ever so gentle and as soft as a sound of a dewdrop…. "to give your consent to the holy sacrement of this matrimony."

your blood went cold at his words, your palm tightening across your face to quieten your whimpers of fear. it feels like this was all planned... you were led into this church.

"sorry, my bride-to-be is shy…" you shiver at his words that seem to be directed to no one in particular. he opened his eyes and scanned the rows of pews. as if instinctively, he slowly walked down the aisle till he reached the back row.

"there you are," he walked over and swung the axe right above you, cracking open the wood of the pew that shielded you from him. you screamed as the wood splints above you, wooden shards flying in all directions. he grabbed you by the wrist, harshly pulling you to the aisle. your body slams against the damaged pews, bruising. you fell to your face at his feet, then he lifts you up by your neck like a mother cat carrying its kitten.

"i always wanted to walk down the aisle with you…" he admits with a shy, boyish smile. his voice shifting back to the soft, tender voice that you've always known. he roughly drags you with a bruising grip, his axe in his other hand, slowly grating against the floor. your bare feet stumble against the damaged wooden floors and the broken glass shards, making it even more bloodied.

he started humming, a broken, eerie, lifeless, yet familiar tune. here comes the bride, all dressed in white…

the both of you stopped at the front of the altar. he turned you to face him.

"do you promise to love and cherish each other, in the good times and the bad times, in sickness and in health?"

you throat closed up, like an allergic reaction, tears streaming down your face.

"i do," he says his vows with a relaxed smile, like this is the most natural thing in the world, like he has waited his whole life for this.

"say i do," he threatens, his voice shifting back, grip tightening on the axe. "say i do, or i'll…"

"i… i- i do..". your dream was always to get married to anton and to have a beautiful wedding with him. not like this.

"i love you, y/n… till death do us part," he lets go of the axe, slides his hands into your hair, bringing you in for a kiss; soft at first, like the anton you always knew. then deeper, painfully biting at your lips, forcefully shoving his tongue down your throat.

"let us consummate this sacred union…"

he roughly pushes you down, forcefully bending you over the altar, the wooden edges digging painfully into your hips. you try to fight back, but you can't. anton seems.. stronger than usual.

"stop it-.. anton!" you scream, but to no avail. he pushes the dirty, bloodied white linen of your knee length sundress up to your hips and rips off your underwear. you hear his pants unzipping, his length pressing against you. your nails scrambled against the altar, scratching against it, your nails- usually beautifully manicured are now caked with dirt and dried blood.

he flips you around as though you weighed nothing, then forces his length in without preparing. you scream in pain, the wretched sound resonating against the hollowed church walls. he moves at an inhuman speed, hammering in and out of you, your vision spinning. the wooden splinters dug into your back, coupled with the painful thrusts. a sharp pain, burned your body, as though you were an unholy being doused in holy water.

you glance up at the statue of jesus on the cross above you, his head bowed, face frozen, turned away. his eyes closed as though he couldn't even bear to look at you, at what was happening infront of him. your lips moved, you weren't religious, but you tried to pray. nothing came out. anton laughs.

"don't look at him, look at me," he roughly grabs your face, his thrusts never relenting. your eyes focus on anton's face, searching for the man that you knew and loved. his eyes, that were usually dark brown, warm like hot chocolate, were now black, flat, devoid of feelings. this wasn't anton… it was something wearing his skin…

"anton," your dry, pained throat croaks out. everything feels unfamiliar, his hands on you feel different; like he has never touched you before, learning you for the first time

"anton's not here now," …that thing finally admits, that since the both of you arrived here, anton is no longer. "he put up a good fight, but i'm sure he'll like this."

"no-! anton wouldn't!" you scream, trying to fight back with whatever little strength you had. 'anton' laughs evilly, brutally keeping his pace. it snarls, demonic, never slowing down. it isn't a human. it doesn't stop. your vision starts to fade.

god loves you, but not enough to save you.

alternate ending (can skip)

you awake in cold sweat, dressed in your pyjamas, lying on the bed in the cabin. the morning sunlight filters through the windows. you gasp, shooting up in shock. you grab at your body. you don't feel any pain. there are no wounds, no scraped knees. you look at your hands. your nails are still perfectly manicured. you smell the scent of bacon and you hear the sizzling of a pan. you got up and slowly, quietly walked out.

anton's in the kitchen, cooking breakfast, humming a tune on the radio. he stops and looks at you, smiling. you can't decipher it anymore.

"morning, what's wrong? you look like you seen a ghost," he says, curiously. he places the bacon and scrambled eggs on two plates.

"nothing… must've been a nightmare," you answer dazedly, scratching your head. it must've been a bad dream, no doubt about it. it doesn't make sense. but that dream was so... real… so vivid.

he laughs, gesturing for you to take a seat at the dining table. "coffee, tea, or orange juice?" he asks.

"uhh…. coffee, i guess, thanks," you take a seat at the dining table. you look around the cabin, and caught sight of the axe… by the door. anton places the plate of breakfast infront of you.

"uhh… what's that, anton?" your finger shakily points to the axe. his sight follows the direction of your pointed finger.

"oh! i need to cut some firewood later. shall we go for a walk?" he suggested, smiling at you.

your heart sank to your stomach.

you woke up tied to a chair, your head throbbing painfully. you recall walking home back from work, before a black van suddenly pulled up next to you along the quiet street. you were knocked out with a blunt object across the back of your head and dragged into the van. you don't know where you are right now. it's cold, dingy, suffocating. the lightbulb above your head blinks omniously.

the man standing opposite you clears his throat. he's intimidating, towering over you. his hair bleached blonde and a large scar on his forearm. your wrists and legs sting from where you are bound to the chair with rope. you try to tug at the binds, but it’s tight. the chair creaks from your movement, but it doesn’t move even a little bit.

"awake? finally." 

"where am i..? what-...?" your voice was hoarse. 

"oh, where are my manners?" he steps closer towards you. 

"my name is nicholas. your father owes my old man money. alot of money," he tilts your head, examining your face. "didn't know he had such a pretty daughter"

"my parents are divorced! i- i haven't seen him in years!" you try to defend yourself. nicholas shrugs. he doesn't care. the feeling of dread grows deeper in your stomach. 

"how about this.." he takes out a revolver,  and spins the barrel. "russian roulette. there's one bullet. if you win, the debt is gone.. if you lose..." your eyes widen in panic and you shake your head at the implication. no. no. no. 

the revolver glints under the lightbulb. your throat goes dry. you have never seen a gun in real life before. 

"i don't take no for an answer, by the way."

he frees your wrists from the binds. his calloused, rough fingers softly running against the raw, red marks, chafed by the rope. a tenderness that is so contradicting, so out of place.

"don't try anything funny," he warns. the blood rushes back into your hands, feeling numb. you couldn’t try anything even if you wanted to, your legs are still tightly bound to the chair. 

"i'll go first." 

he brings the muzzle of the revolver to his temple with a practiced ease and quickness, like as if he's done this a million times before. he probably has. you try to look away, afraid and shivering. cold sweat pours down your back.

click. 

it's empty. he smiles calmly at you. 

"see? easy. your turn" he instructs, positioning the gun in your hands, his hands forcefully placing your fingers curled around the trigger. he guides the revolver to your temple, helping you to hold it up. the cold metal is almost painful as it digs against your heated skin. you squeeze your eyes shut, quivering like a leaf. your legs tremble against the chair that you're tied to, the tight ropes digging even more into your flesh. he's pressed up close against you. you could smell the faint scent of cologne and cigarettes. you could almost feel his heartbeat against your body. he's too close...

he pushes down on your finger. 

click. 

empty.

you let out a wrecked sob, gasping for air. your abdomen clenches from fear. 

"beginner's luck," he smirks.

your hand drops from the revolver, a slight, temporary relief washing over you. he brings the gun back to his temple. slower this time, dragging things out like as if he's savouring it.

"third time's the charm," he says, almost charismatically. you can't stop trembling. he smirks, enjoying seeing you cower and panic.

click. 

empty. 

"oh? guess i'm lucky too," he cheerfully exclaims. the resonating sound of his laughter echoes in the room and in your head, and you just want to cover your ears to block out the sound and cry. but you can't move your hands at all. in a second, he shoves the gun back in your hands and roughly lifts it to your temple. you can feel your stomach twisting in agony and your legs shaking so hard that the chair is rattling against the floor beneath you.

as you close your eyes, you recall the last time you saw your father. the slam of the door in the apartment where you once lived with your parents. the bills on the dining table, the debts, the arguments your parents had over money and his gambling addiction. your mother's tears and the way she hugged you, her hands in your hair, comforting you. the years where your father had gone no contact, almost as though he disappeared off the face of the earth. no phone calls, no wishing you happy birthday, nothing. and now, leaving you with the burden of this debt. 

you don’t even have the strength to lift your hands to hold to gun, practically being propped up by his hands. he pushes your finger against the trigger. 

click. 

empty. 

you're sobbing hysterically at this point, hot tears streaming down your face. but he doesn't stop. he won't let you off.

nicholas watches you, an unreadable emotion on his face. he takes the gun back from you, putting it to his forehead. 

"if this one goes off, you'll win.. although my blood'll probably stain your clothes," he teases without even a hint of seriousness, like this is all just a game to him. a sick game. 

click. 

it's empty. 

he lets out a shrill, maniacal laugh. his three shots are over, he has technically won. he's safe. he points the muzzle of the revolver back to you. he does it slowly, almost mockingly, like how an animal would toy with it’s prey first before devouring them.

this is the sixth shot, the final shot. this is it... you're going to die.

"no... no... please-," you beg him for your life, your final chance at redemption. your body is full on shaking at this point, the adrenaline rushing in your veins making your heart race painfully.

he lets out a sigh, like this is still just a game for him. he steps even closer now, aiming the muzzle right in the middle of your forehead, like a target on your head. he does it for you this time, your hands immobilized from fear. his finger rests dangerously on the trigger. the metal of the gun is warm now, from the body heat of the both of you.

"bang" his voice is soft, almost tender and kind. 

click. 

the sound of the final shot is loud, ringing in your ear. but, it's.... empty. you're still alive. your chest heaves in rapid, hyperventilated breathes. the building, painful pressure in your bladder bursts, your body convulsing. a warmth floods down your thighs, soaking your skirt. it trickles down your legs, wetting your socks, and dripping onto the cold concrete floor beneath you. you notice it, but your head is spinning, you don’t even have the strength to be ashamed. you slump against the chair, your sweat, tears, and your piss mixes and run down your twitching body. your vision blurs.

nicholas lowers the gun and opens the chamber. he tilts it forward to show to you.

there was no bullet. this whole time, the revolver was empty. you stare at the hollow circles.

"no bullets," he says, smiling. "i just wanted to mess with you."

he crouches to look at you, his face levelling with yours. his hand rests on your thigh, rough and burning hot. the wet fabric of your skirt has cooled by now, sticking onto your skin. you flinch at the difference in temperature. but he doesn't move away.

"you know... there's another way you could pay off the debt. less dangerous," he suggests.

"but you said- ... if i won, the debt would be gone...?" you manage to gather your words, shock re-entering your system. he tilts his head in fake confusion for a second.

"oh, right. i did say that," he shrugs. "yeah, the debt is paid. but there's still the interest, silly!"

your stomach drops. of course, you should have seen this coming. there's always a catch.

"your father's been in debt for a few years, so... and the interest compounds like, monthly?" he's smiling widely at you, like as if he's explaining a joke to you.

you think of your father again. the way he never answered your calls or messages, begging him to be responsible and clean up his mess. the way you and your mother had to work hard and scrape together money to clear the remaining legal debts he left tied to your mother's name. you had thought that the worst of it was over... you thought wrong.

"there's two ways you can pay it off..." nicholas leans closer, his lips soft against your ear. you shudder. you can feel his sharp eyes on you, like a predator eyeing his prey.

"you're a smart girl, aren't you? you know what i mean... you have a pretty face, you'd be popular, wouldn't you-?" his thumb caresses your cheek. of course you know what he's implying. you know what kind of illegal crime that the gangsters run.

"or..." his voice becomes lower, softer. "you could sleep with me, just me." he offers. he makes it sound like he's being generous. the lesser of two evils. you weigh both options, both rotten. he says it like as if you had the freedom of choice, but you know that you don't have that luxury. his earlier words rang in your ears. i don't take no for an answer.

"so, what's it going to be?" you look at the floor, unable to look at him. you feel disgusting as you sit in the puddle of your own piss, already cold by now. the sickening way the fabric clings onto you, just like the sins of your father that you had to carry. you feel disgusted with yourself as you open your mouth to answer.

"okay," you didn't specify which option you've chosen, but he breaks into a wide grin. you don't need to say it, he already knows.

"good choice," he pats your head, gently, almost affectionately. rewarding you like you're a new little pet who has quickly learnt a new trick. his hands lift your face again, wiping away at the fresh tears that have started to fall down your cheeks again. he crashes his lips onto yours, harshly kissing you.

"don't cry, i'll be gentle."

you knew nicholas from way back in university. same major, same class, but different friend groups. he's handsome, but he was always bothering and teasing you, whistling whenever you walked past him.

"nice skirt," he'd 'compliment', except it wasn't really a compliment, and felt more like a catcall… you rolled your eyes and ignored him. you hope you'd never encounter guys like him after graduation.

but what rotten luck. here he is, three years later, working in the same company, the same office as you. to make matters even worst, his desk is right next to yours. ugh. he's still as infuriating and flirty as ever. he doesn't stop making inappropriate passing remarks to you, as childish as always. it seemed like he never matured mentally. he'd tell you how pretty you still look after all these years, and how 'cute' you are when you get annoyed. and he still uses that 'nice skirt' compliment. but all you do is shoot him a sharp glare. you don't want to give him the satisfaction.

it's a thursday night, 8pm. the office is mostly empty, even the ones that were working overtime had already left. you're drowning with work piled up, multiple reports and spreadsheets due tomorrow but you can't seem to get it right. you sigh loudly in frustration, rubbing your temples. your head and eyes hurts from staring at the computer screen for hours.

"still here?" nicholas appears by your desk, a teasing smirk on his face, his annoying voice interrupting your thoughts. you let out a 'tch', not in the mood to deal with him.

"deadline." you answer curtly, eyes still fixed onto your computer screen.

"i finished my part like last week," he mocks, rubbing salt in your wound. your right eye twitches, feeling your anger boiling, looking up at his smug face. "i could help you finish your report."

"yeah, like hell you will," you raise your eyebrow him. "what's the catch? buying you coffee for a week?" nicholas shakes his head, laughing.

"no, not that," he steps closer, stopping right to you. "you know what i mean… suck me off and i'll help you finish your report."

"are you crazy? fuck off, wang," your eyes narrow in anger and disgust at his lewd proposition. you have half a mind to email HR and report him for sexual harassment right there and then. maybe then he'll finally leave you alone.

"fine, fine.. suit yourself then." he shrugs, putting his hands up in surrender. you stare at the computer screen, and you can feel another headache incoming. there's still so, so much work. you really should have started this task earlier, and you doubt that you could finish this by today. he starts to turn to walk away. if caught, you and nicholas could lose your jobs. but desperate times call for desperate measures. you wanted to go home, you really, really hated working overtime. you have a headache, your body hurts, you haven't had time for lunch and theres a pile of chores waiting for you at home.

"wait," you call out. he stops and turns back. "you're a pervert, but fine… " you quietly accuse him. "just this once, alright?" he's smiling mischeviously from ear to ear. he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. he's taking pleasure in seeing your predicament. what a sadist...

"where?" you quickly question him, your eyes nervously looking around the office. "here's fine, i checked the locations of security cameras when i first joined so that i can slack off without getting caught. the security cameras don't monitor this area." he shrugs, sitting on his office chair. you roll your eyes. of course he out of all people knows the best way to slack off. he leaned back on his office chair. you sigh, getting up and approaching him.

you knelt inbetween his legs, the carpeted floor dulling the sound of your knees hitting the surface. he looks around the office once more to see if there's anyone around. the office cubicles are empty, computers screen black and the printers and copiers turned off. he gives you a nod to go ahead. you're really going to do this. your hands are slightly trembling. you can't tell if it was from the amount of caffeine you consumed today or from the fact you are about to do something so obscene and risque in the office.

your fingers held onto his zipper and unzipped his office slacks. his fingers run through your hair, encouraging you on. you look up, and he's still smirking at you. god, how you wish you could wipe off that infuriating smirk off of his face. you help to slide his boxers and slacks off, and he's already half hard, leaking precum at the tip. your hands wrap around him; warm, soft, but slightly hesitant. his hips jerks forward instinctively, chasing after the delicious, warm friction. you open your mouth to take him in slowly.

"fuck-," he mutters, his head tilting back against the office chair. his fingers tangle in your hair, gripping it gently, trying to guide you to bob your head up and down his length. as his erection grows to full hardness, you realize that he's just too big; you try to slacken your jaw and relax your neck to take in as much as him as possible.

he bites his lips to stifle his moans, trying to be quiet. but his hips subconciously move on it's own, forcing his length deeper and deeper into your throat.

"yeah, like that-…" he moans softly, gripping the locks of your silky hair tighter, manhandling your head as he pleases. he's so big, the bulbous tip continously hitting the back of your throat. with every thrust, it drags against the palate. your tongue instinctively licks around his cock and you could feel every vein, and every drop of precum. your saliva makes each thrust even wetter and messier, thick droplets dripping down your chin and down your neck. the wet sounds are loud in the otherwise quiet office.

"close-," he warns, his hips rutting quicker and quicker against the roof of your mouth. it's so warm, and wet and the soft muscle of your tongue swirling makes it feel like heaven for him. he rocks his hips as deep as he possibly can, forcing himself down your throat with no regard for your comfort. your eyes water as you glare up at him, your palms angrily slapping his thighs. but he doesn't go slower. he doesn't stop. that defiant look in your eyes only spurs him on, as he continuously slams down your spasming, clenching throat. it's so tight, and he loves it so much. his eyes rolls to the back of his head.

without a warning, he ungraciously cums down your throat, holding your head tightly so that you wouldn't be able to move back. his hips rode out his orgasm, thick ropes of cum filling your throat and mouth. the salty, musky taste making you grimace. ugh... you stand up quickly, snatching a piece of tissue from the tissue box on his desk. you spat out as much cum as you could and glared at him. your knees were shaking and stinging, feeling raw from the carpet burn and your jaw aches from the stretch of his cock. your scalp hurts from the way he roughly tugged at it. he takes a tissue and wipes himself off, giving you a sleazily and satisfied smirk. you can't stop glaring at him, your hair messy from all the pulling and your eyes watering from the stretch. oh how badly you wish you could slap that smug look off his face.

"10 out 10, not bad at giving head", he comments like as if this is a normal, everyday occurrence between colleagues. a peer evaluation, if you will. he's pulling his boxers and zipping his pants up. you scowled at his degrading remark. not bad? but your mouth is too sore to argue back, so you don't say anything. he walks over to your office chair and takes a seat, cracking his knuckles. he examines the work on your computer. there's still many things left to do.

"i'll handle it. you can go home now," he waves you off, starting to type on your computer keyboard. you don't thank him, still wiping the corners of your lips. the salty taste is heavy on your tongue and your throat is raw and tight.

"see you tomorrow." you hum at him, taking your bag and starting to walk away and go home.

it's 10.30pm, you're in your apartment, already showered and eating a late dinner. you made sure to brush your teeth twice and gargle mouthwash for longer. your phone dings. you just received a text message from nicholas.

"just finished. told you i'll make it before the deadline." you roll your eyes and ignore his text.

𑣲𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨

this is a nsfw/dead dove blog, please do not interact if below 18+ and if you do not like dark content.

i am born in 2000

i write mainly for &team, but i am open to writing for riize's anton/sungchan and nct wish's riku/sakuya. english is not my native language so there might be some mistakes/errors >_< everything is by default fem reader!

✘won't write - ageplay, scat, raceplay, emeto, necro, male reader, ddlg, idol member x idol reader, mommy kink, minors

✔︎will write - most dead dove elements except the ones i state i won't write, sfw, fluff, angst

❤︎personally like - stalking, coercion, gaslighting/manipulation, mindbreak, domestic violence, non con, gunplay/knifeplay, ed related

this list is non-exhaustive, might've missed out on somethings and will add/edit along the way, so feel free to ask me anything!! requests are always open, but i'm a little slow, give me some time to write♡ feel free to send anything in my inbox, requests, ideas, thoughts, criticism/tips/or even just randomly chatting about idols or topics. happy reading!

𑣲𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

&team

stalker fuma

coworker fuma

drugdealer bf yuma

boyfriend jo

yuma ignores your safeword

russian roulette nico

twin taki

sh enabler yuma

office harem — nico | ej | yuma | jo | taki | yudai

riize

purple.

your safeword with yuma.

"say the safeword and i'll stop," you recall his promise to you at the start of your relationship when you first started to get intimate with him. "no questions asked," he pecks the top of your head reassuringly.

during the course of your relationship, you've used it before. the first time when you weren't feeling it because you were having a fever, and the second time was when he got too rough. both times, he stopped immediately the moment you said the safeword. both times, he would softly kiss the top of your forehead, stroke your hair and comfort you. you believed him. well, at least you did.

there were times when you caught small moments of his that felt off, things that you can't quite put a finger on what to name it. maybe you'd say no to something he wanted. maybe you weren't in a mood to sleep with him. maybe you told him to slow down. you'd catch a tinge of something dark flash in his eyes, and his jaw would clench, a vein visibly popping in his neck. but you brushed it off. he would never hurt you. he has never hurt you before.

but tonight... you're not so sure. he had wanted to try out double penetration with a vibrator, pleading you with those eyes. you were hesitant at first. you've never done anything like that before. it seemed... painful. you could barely even take him on normal days, but you figured you'd try. worse case scenario, you told yourself that you'd use the safeword.

"yuma-" you whisper out, trying to get his attention. he's slowly pushing at your entrance, the stretch starting to get uncomfortable. the vibrator's already inside of you, buzzing. he had already prepped you earlier with his fingers, pouring enough lube just in case.

"just relax..." he coaxes, almost sleazily. the initial stretch was unbearable, painful. you'd never felt anything like this before. his finger just weren't enough compared to this. you feel like you're being torn apart at the seams. your body tries to push him out, clenching painfully around him.

"purple," you whisper out the word to the best of your ability, tapping out early. you feel your breath being knocked out of your lungs.

he stills for a moment. it's over, you feel a wave of relief. you wait for him to pull out, to comfort you. to say "it's okay" and stroke your hair like he always does, and always has.

he doesn't.

"you're fine," it's a sharp statement, not a question. one that's challenging you, as if asking you if you dare to go against him. you feel his fingers grip into your hip tighter, digging into your hipbones as he continues to push in. he's supposed to stop, you said the safeword. but he doesn't. a dreadful, sinking feeling settles in the pit of your stomach, like heavy lead being dropped onto you.

"yuma-.. purple-" your voice cracks, louder this time. you try to push his chest away, but it's futile. he doesn't move, not even an inch. he's too strong, almost like a wall of well built muscle from all those gymming sessions. a part of you always knew that physically, you're no match for him.

"always like this..." an annoyed tch leaves his lips. "always gotta listen to your bitching..."

your throat tightens. you've never heard him speak to you like that. so bitter, so venomous... like resentment that has been quietly brewing beneath the surface.

"please-.. baby.. purple-" you desperately try to push his arms away, but your defiance only spurs him on. the more you try to fight him, the more he pushes in, and the more you feel like you are being split open. a burning, scraping sensation against your walls. it's overwhelming, the buzzing from the vibrator inside your body only getting stronger, and stronger, the sound filling your ears. you could feel the static-like pain all the way in your toes, like stepping into a pile of needles. you feel like you're about to die.

"i. said. you're. fine." he repeats, more like a snarl this time, each word harshly punctuated with a thrust. his voice is annoyed, like he's dealing with a child throwing a tantrum. "you're dripping. you like it, don't you?"

you shake your head. no, i don't like it. it's not me, it's the lube, you try to say, but your tongue feels heavy and can't form the sentence. tears start to form in your eyes, blurring your vision. you don't know if it's from the pain of being ripped apart or from the way he's treating you. "no- purple- please, purple-"

he's all the way in. a sharp pain, like as if you were stabbed, shoots up your spine, emitting a scream from your lips. he's not gentle at all. rough and impatient, like he's tired of waiting, tired of you.

"see? told you, you like it," his hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up, as if to prove his point. his fingers press into the soft skin right underneath your jawbone. he can feel your veins pulsating, your heart rate spiking from fear and pain, but he doesn't care. his eyes are cold, empty, his pupils black. you don't recognize this man infront of you anymore. your manicured nails try to claw at his arms, desperately trying to make him stop. red scratch marks start to raise on his arms. he hisses at the sharp sting and roughly releases your jaw, letting your head drop back onto the pillows. you catch his left eye twitching in anger. the darkness inside of him that you were never able to name. his hand slides down to your thigh, roughly pushing your legs further open and starting to move quicker.

"purple," you whisper again, a sixth time. the word comes out like a pathetic whimper, barely audible, your voice breaking. "please- purple- yuma- purple... pur-"

his hand slams onto your mouth, clamping it shut. his palm presses so hard that you can feel your teeth digging into your lip, a metallic taste blooming in your mouth from your lip being split. you can feel his cold metal rings, grinding into your facial bones.

"just shut up for once," he doesn't even look at you. he just keeps on thrusting in, and out, the sickening sound of skin slapping filling the room. putting all of his weight onto you, crushing you into the mattress.

you can't breathe. your lungs burn from the lack of oxygen and the tears streaming down your face drowns what little oxygen you could receive inbetween the gaps of his fingers. you can't open your mouth anymore. you lost count of how many times you said 'purple'. the safeword dies in your throat, swallowed down with the rest of the words you couldn't say to him.

it was never meant to keep you safe.

The mattress yields beneath your knees with a whisper of cotton and compressed springs. Each forward shift drags a soft rustling through heavy silence.

Your heart thuds hard and wet against your ribs—thud-thud-thud—so loud you're certain Maki can taste the vibration thrumming in the back of his throat.

"Take what belongs to you," you murmur.

The challenge crosses the space between you. Refuses to retreat.

Maki's eyes flicker with amusement. That signature smirk tugs at his lips as he leans back slightly. "Are you offering… or demanding? Big difference there."

He lies spread at the top of the bed like a guillotine blade. Polished. Patient. Waiting for the neck to offer itself to the drop.

His shirt gapes open, sleeves slipping down slack arms to expose the taut stretch of his pectorals and the sharp, shadowed trough beneath his ribs—skin dipping in a dangerous trajectory toward his groin.

His sweats are shoved down. The band caught beneath the swell of his hipbones. Black fabric stark against the jutting flesh he holds in one loose, working fist.

The slide of his palm is audible—the squelch of suction breaking and reforming with each upward drag. Thumb swiping through gathering slick at the tip, spreading it until the head glistens like oil on water in the low light.

"Does it matter when I'm already on my knees?" you taunt softly, voice trembling with want even as you try to sound bold.

"You talk a big game for someone who's about to choke on cock."

The words arrive from behind you like thunder rolling across a dry plain. Nicholas's rough, gravelly timbre cuts through the room, low and dripping with dark promise.

Your stomach performs a sudden inversion. A gravity-defying flip that leaves you breathless and weightless.

The bravado in your throat dries up instantly.

Nicholas loves the way your body jolts at the sound. You hear the slow metallic rasp of his zipper—teeth separating tooth by tooth with a sound like grinding bone—followed by the soft rustle of fabric as he yanks his hoodie off and tosses it aside.

It lands on the floor with a muted thud. Strangely loud in the charged silence.

Maki's smirk deepens, eyes gleaming with amusement as he looks down at you. Pupils blown wide with anticipation. The tip of his cock already beading with evidence of his impatience.

"Suck him," Nicholas demands, voice sharp and commanding. Leaving no room for argument.

"Relax, man. She's down here already looking cute." Maki shoots Nicholas a playful look.

"Cute is nice," Nicholas murmurs, dragging his thick cock along your soaked folds, "but she looks fucking perfect stuffed full of cock."

"Maki… I thought you'd be just as greedy," you murmur, biting your lip as you glance up at Maki.

"Oh sweetheart," Maki coos, voice dripping with honey as he cups your jaw gently. "You really think I'm not dying to feel that pretty mouth?"

Nicholas spanks your ass sharply. "You hear that, baby? Maki's dying for your mouth. So stop talking and start sucking."

You lean forward. Lips brush the glistening tip in a soft, almost reverent kiss. The skin is fever-hot and velvet-smooth against your mouth. A bead of precum smears across your lower lip like liquid sin, and you taste him—salty-sweet. Addictive.

Your clit throbs in response.

Maki lets out a shaky exhale above you, watching you looking like sin made beautiful.

You part your lips.

Slowly circle your tongue around the swollen head, tracing every ridge, every sensitive edge with teasing strokes. You feel him twitch hard against your tongue, the thick vein on the underside pulsing as you lave over it again and again, coating him in warm, wet spit until he glistens obscenely.

"Look at you putting on a show with your tongue," Maki smirks. "Trying to make Nicholas jealous of how well you treat me while he's back there being mean?"

You open wider.

Sink down.

Taking more of Maki into the wet heat of your mouth.

"Oh, fuck—"

The stretch is delicious. Your lips drawn tight as bowstrings around his girth as you bob slowly, hollowing your cheeks with every upward drag. The room fills with filthy sounds—the slick glide of your tongue working him, the soft gagging when you push him deeper into your throat, the obscene wet noises of your mouth laboring.

You start to pull back up for air.

Nicholas strikes.

He drives forward without warning, burying his thick cock to the hilt inside you in one savage, merciless thrust. The sudden brutal stretch punches a sharp, muffled cry from your throat—the sound instantly swallowed, vibrating hard around Maki's length as Nicholas forces your head down at the exact same moment.

His large hand shoves firm against the back of your head, pushing you relentlessly forward until your nose is pressed flush against Maki's pelvis. Skin to skin.

Maki's cock slides straight into your throat. A sword sheathed completely, cutting off your air as Nicholas bottoms out deep in your pussy. Two invaders meeting through the thin wall of your body.

Your eyes fly wide.

The overwhelming double intrusion hits like a freight train. Your throat convulses violently around Maki, gagging wetly as tears instantly spring to your eyes, blurring your vision. Your pussy clenches hard around Nicholas's thick cock, fluttering and spasming from the sudden, too-full stretch, muscles gripping him like a fist.

Drool bursts from the corners of your stretched lips, spilling messily down your chin, dripping onto your chest in thick strands.

"Fuck— there we go," Nicholas taunts, voice smug. "One good thrust and she's got you all the way down her throat. You're welcome for speeding her up, man."

"You're such— an asshole," Maki laughs breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan. "But fuck, I'm not complaining."

"Asshole, huh?" Nicholas smirks, thrusting sharply once to make you jolt. "Tell me, baby— how's—ah… my cock feeling buried all the way inside you right now?"

The words make it out to your tongue and no further.

Maki's hand tightens in your hair. Firm. Unrelenting. Keeping your head pinned down flush against his pelvis. His cock stays buried to the hilt in your throat, throbbing hot and heavy, completely cutting off your air.

You can't pull back even an inch.

All you manage is a wet, garbled moan that vibrates helplessly around his length as tears spill freely down your cheeks.

Nicholas doesn't wait for an answer.

He starts thrusting again in deep, punishing strokes that rock you forward onto Maki's cock with every snap of his hips.

You're completely trapped between them.

Your mind is pure static—can't breathe, too full, he's so deep, they're both so deep, I'm going to break—while your body betrays you completely. Your throat convulses wildly around Maki, and your pussy clenches greedily around Nicholas with every punishing thrust, slick dripping down your thighs.

"Can't answer me, princess?" he mocks, voice rough with pleasure. "That's okay. Your body's honest enough."

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

masterlist

debrief time: apologies. if this chapter seems low in quality, please understand the author was navigating a crisis. the author was forced to write this under hostile working conditions (weno posted on instagram). get me out of horny jail or put me in solitary confinement atp.

"You're soaked," Yuma says, as if he's commenting on the weather.

The mattress surrenders beneath his weight, a slow exhalation of springs that seems to prophesy the evening's trajectory, and you immediately regret having him over because you know exactly what that look means.

Yuma’s gaze carries something that says he is already three moves ahead in a game you hadn’t agreed to play, descending your body with the migratory certainty of a bird returning to warm climates.

His palms slide along your thighs like he owns the property, a man possessed of one useful skill and absolutely no shame about invoicing for it.

The sheer gall of it, the casual occupancy… you want to scream.

“Let me take care of you,” he says, already dragging you to the mattress edge by your hips, handling you like furniture. “That’s what I’m here for. Isn’t it?”

He looks up from between your legs with that expression—the smug bastard face that suggests he thinks he is doing charity work and you should be writing thank-you notes. You should close your thighs, make him work for it, make him beg. But your body has already opened, slick and traitorous, a convenience store with broken locks.

He thinks that look is smugness. He thinks he's counting coup, checking boxes, doing the bare minimum with maximum fanfare. He's half-right—he is performing. But not for your gratitude. He's performing because if he stops being theatrical for even one second, you'll hear his heartbeat in his throat. You'll see how his hands want to shake.

If he looks like he owns this moment, maybe you won't notice how utterly ruined he is for you.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" you manage, but the words emerge fractured, breaking apart on the last syllable because his breath is warm against your inner thigh, a ticklish heat that makes your hips jerk in a spasm you can't suppress.

"I'm pathetic, I know," he murmurs, and the vibration travels through your flesh like ripples across still water, reaching the center where you are already beginning to ache. 

The laugh that escapes you is unplanned, sharp as broken glass, slightly unhinged. "You know?" You try to glare down at him, but he is kissing higher now, ascending toward your core, and your vision is fragmenting. "Ah— Finally, some self-awareness."

He arrives at the apex of your thighs and presses his mouth against the cotton barrier, the fabric dampening instantly beneath his lips. 

The underwear is doing his work for him, soaking up everything you're trying to hide. You're still pretending to be demure, still acting like this is something happening to you rather than something you're drowning him in. The only question left is how long he makes you wait before he collects.

It’s somehow more obscene than nudity, this translation of flesh through fiber, the way he mouths you through the cloth. You feel the words form against your most sensitive skin: "Fuck, I can smell you. Open wider."

Your legs spread before you can stop them, muscles stretching, hips tilting up in offering. You watch him inhale, eyes closed, face slack with hunger, and the sight is ridiculous except your underwear is soaked through, clinging to your lips, doing nothing to hide the slick mess you have made.

Fuck it. You’re past pretending.

You hook your fingers in the waistband and pull the fabric aside yourself, exposing everything to the cool air and his stupid, pretty face. "Since you can't wait."

Yuma whines—actually whines, pathetic and grateful—and the sound makes your arousal and secondhand embarrassment fistfight in your chest. The cotton falls away and suddenly he’s staring at god—or whatever deity decided to make women look like this, open and glistening and furious about it. 

“Here,” you say, like you’re tossing him scraps. Like this isn’t the whole feast.

Then his finger is pressing against you, breaching your entrance with a slick resistance that gives way like silk tearing. The slide is mist and masonry, a single digit parting your slick folds with a sound that belongs in kitchens, in shame, in the wettest parts of night.

You want to become steam, to rise from your skin and condense against the ceiling, anything but remain here in this mortifying liquidity, this undeniable proof that you have been waiting for exactly this.

"Fuck," he says, looking up with dark delighted eyes. "I mean I wouldn't mind begging." His finger curls, rough pad dragging against your front wall with unerring accuracy. "But you saved me the humiliation." A second finger pushes in, stretching you with a burn that makes your spine try to leave your body. "So how's this for thank you?"

The fullness is devastating, a weight and presence that hits your most sensitive spot like a debt being collected, principal plus interest coming due all at once.

Then he begins to move. Not fast, not yet. But with the steady rhythm of tides reversing, of moons pulling oceans back and forth across the same hungry shore. Each withdrawal is a loss, each return a claiming. You are arching into it, meeting his thrusts, your body making payments in gasps and tremors, interest accruing with every slick slide of his fingers pressing that exact spot like he is reading the ledger of your nerves and finding every entry marked due.

Your head thumps back against the headboard with a sound you can't control. "Holy shit… keep going— so good—"

Your brain is screaming at you to shut up, to stop sounding so desperate, but your mouth has disconnected from the shame center entirely. You are gripping the sheets like you are falling from a great height, which you are, coming apart at the seams while he works you with the focus of a craftsman assembling something precious.

He keeps the rhythm steady because if he goes fast, if he gives you what you're begging for with every roll of your hips, you'll come and it'll be over. And he's not ready for this to be over. The wet sounds are loud, rhythmic, the slick friction of his fingers in your soaked cunt filling the room.

You might as well be making a puddle on the sheets. This is a crime scene.

"Shh." He leans forward, his breath a warm current against your trembling thigh, fingers still crooking in that rhythm that promises annihilation. "Relax, baby." Another devastating curl, his touch excavating something buried deep in your core. "I love you. Can you feel how much?"

Yes. Fucking yes and you feel it like a fever, an infection, something catching.

And you realise it because you’re already riding his face, hips rolling in circles, grinding down on his tongue with an orgasm already cresting like a freight train with no brakes.

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masterlist

pls pls pls interact pls reblog pls comment pls slide into my dms i crave validation and friendship is beautiful and so is enabling each other's obsessions and i built this house specifically for collective mental illness we can all hold hands and descent into madness pls i dont bite viva's house is open (,,>ヮ<,,)!