naeri ۶ৎ

“Good morning, sleepyhead!”

He comes in only wearing a pair of snug boxers—body stacked with brawn, not a single hint of Omega-like softness aside from his tousled bed hair. There’s a big toothy smile on his face—eyes are creased in cheer while carrying an overfull breakfast tray. You know you’re hungry, and yet you can’t bring yourself to feel anything but sick to your stomach by the horrid sight of his flaunted neck, decorated by a gory ring of your bitemark.

No. No, no, no, no, no! Fuck! “Tell me that’s not what I think it is…”

He laughs lightly with an awkward smile, apologetically scratching the back of his neck while balancing the tray in the other hand. “I’m afraid so…”

The world stops spinning, and for a moment, you think it might actually never start up again. Your throat snares, and you think you might throw up. How the fuck could this happen?

He sets the tray down next to you, then himself. The whole bed takes waves upon his weight. You remain still—eyes unrest and mouth hung.

“Hey, I know this might not be what we had planned, but…” he starts.

But you don’t let him finish before declaring, “I’ll take full responsibility.”

There’s nothing else to do, you think. The red string of fate has tied the two of you together. It’s sealed.

“There is no going back now.”

His face expresses shock, but if you’d taken a closer look, he’d probably not be able to hide it—the overwhelming sensation of victory. Oh, bless your Alpha pride. He knew you would say that.

He smiles softly. “I’m in your care then.”

It’s a work in progress after that—slow in the beginning, but that’s to be expected. You never pegged yourself to be the type who got caught up in the unmendable mistakes of a one-night stand, but then here you were—mated with a stranger, moving into his apartment because it’s bigger and closer to work, sharing the same bed and eating the same meals and helping each other through one another’s ruts and heats.

He's still no closer to being your type. In fact, he’s the total opposite—too giant to give you even a semblance worth of superiority over him. A couple of days ago, when he’d been searching for the remote in the couch you were lying on, he’d taken to pick you up instead of just asking you to move. It was completely humiliating. He’s so brazen, and it’s starting to become clear he’s doing it all on purpose!

He doesn’t get fussy when you state your claim of being the one on top—no, but what he does instead is somehow worse, going along with it with snide praise, grinning up at you, his big hands weighing heavy on your haunches as you roll them, calling you his good girl. It seems to humor him how it angers you—chuckling behind your hands as you layer them both atop his mouth, growling at him to “Shut up!”

No, he doesn’t mind letting you take charge. He rather enjoys the view of watching you ride—working so hard to appease him while he rests pretty and admires your body—all soft edges and plush curves. You tire quickly, though—poor thing, why don’t you leave the rest to him?

You had rejected it the first few times he’d offered. Your bruised pride simply wouldn’t have it—you’d rather you both stop than let him finish you off. But a couple more nights and you’d quicker come around than either of you expected—perhaps worn down by his constant nagging or simply fed up with your own failure—you let him assist by bouncing you on his lap.

You wouldn’t admit it to his face, never, but you’d enjoyed it far more than you could have ever thought…

Thankfully, your face in and of its own glory told him all he needed to know. It didn’t take long before he’d taken full advantage of it, nor for you to begin allowing it without being asked. Soon you were letting him fuck you against the wall, making the entire room shake—wall creaking and shelves rattling, pictures falling down. You hold your tongue and hold on tightly, arms and legs wrapped around him—moaning sweetly right by his ear. Fuck, you even bite him again.

As time passed, you came around to indulging more and more of his antics. Letting him fuck you from behind—hard and heavy and deep—thrusting into you while grappling your waist. You even go down on all fours when he does it—digging your claws into the sheets.

Lying belly-up beneath him still makes you feel nervous—and slightly ashamed—almost convinced something’s wrong with you for liking it. And yet you can’t help it. You know any other Omega wouldn’t fuck you like this. They wouldn’t have the stamina, the drive, or the desire. Not like him, who does it all like it’s his nature even when it shouldn’t be.

Guess you’re both freaks.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Amajiki ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Oikawa, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Bachira, Isagi ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

You ignore his hand and get up on your own, dusting down your pin-stripes with angry brushes—face pursed, almost pouty, but not quite, too stink-eyed as you lean in and jab a finger into his chest to punctuate your words, “Watch where you’re going next time, you…”

You soften up halfway through the sentence. It must have dawned on you as well. His scent. Not like other Alphas, but something else entirely—something that suddenly makes you blush all over, wide-eyed.

You don’t say another word, only giving a weak huff before turning tail and stomping away.

There’s something very cute about it—he’s left thinking while watching you, utterly stunned and still, replaying the events that just occurred over and over in his head—wondering how he’d never seen you before. You must work on a different floor.

Luckily, he’d made sure to read your name tag—pinned all properly on your chest like a badge of honor, neatly like the rest of you. Well put together from the top of your salon-styled hair down to the tips of your pointy black stilettos. Even with their added height, you must have been two heads shorter than him—no taller than any regular Omega.

It's no wonder he mistook you for one. You were as cute as one, too—like a doll he could put behind glass, up on a mantle, and keep forever. But oh my… that mouth on you and that awful snarl. Just like any other imposing Alpha, he supposed. Bratty and arrogant, quick to jump the gun and pick a fight instead of taking it for the simple accident it was.

He goes back and sets himself down by his desk—but he’s way too distracted to work now, too busy with the thought of you. That flushed face you showed him before teetering off was something he wouldn’t mind seeing again—also that cute scowl under certain circumstances and what type of expression you’d give him if he wiped it off.

He's lucky an office party came along so quickly. He wouldn’t usually go, but now he had a reason. He bet you’d be there—the way you were dressed when you’d bumped into him tells him you’re one to respect the memo—head to toe in such a neat suit, trying to come off as androgynous as if in desperation needing everyone to know you were an Alpha. It must be hard for you—looking like that but wanting to look… well, suppose more like him.

He's glad he never felt that way—wishing to be smaller and cuter like other Omegas. Sure, he’s been envious of them at times, but more so of their easy pickings and not their appearance. He’s happy being bigger and stronger—it keeps unwanted attention at bay. You probably struggle to do the same. He bets you get a lot of the wrong eyes following you. Yeah… you must attract the bad sort all the time—alphas swarming you only to catch your scent and lose interest. Or maybe not… Alphas are sick, after all. Come to think of it, most of them would probably get off on dominating another Alpha. In that regard, it must have been worse for you than for him. Luckily, both of your issues are now solved.

He wondered what you’d wear tonight. You’d look much better in something feminine and not that suit you’d been wearing. He hopes, but no, you’re wearing much the same thing—another tailored two-piece that all but drowns you.

He understands what you’re going for. You have to dress like that, or else what Omega would ever want you looking the way you do? Aside from him, of course.

No matter. When you move in with him, he’ll dress you in all the pretty things he knows you want to wear. After all, pretty colors, ruffles, and lace will suit you so much better.

“Hello again.” He approaches you by the hors d’oeuvres even after you’d visibly and explicitly chosen to ignore him.

You groan under your breath, responding without even bothering to look at him, “Do I know you?”

Your tough act is cute. He has to withhold a chuckle before answering, “Don’t remember? You called me an asshole a week ago.”

“You walked right into me, so it’s not like it wasn’t deserved.”

You have to love that arrogance—that air of unfounded superiority. He wonders, where do you keep it all? “Well, how could I not? You’re so small I didn’t even see you.”

You’re quick to bare your teeth—obviously, he hit a nerve—showing him that same snarl you’d done back then. Cute little canines—he bet they won’t even hurt going into his neck once you mark him.

“Watch your mouth, Omega.”

Still, with a small smile, he feigns surprise. “Wow—are you an Alpha? Funny, I didn’t know they came in such tiny packages.”

It flusters you, no doubt—your brows lowered into a full glower now. “And I didn’t know Omegas could be so rude.”

You turn to stomp again, as you’d done before—though this time, he grabs your arm before you’re gone.

You whip around with another bark, “Hands off—"

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes unexpectedly, giving you puppy-dog eyes you hadn’t thought him capable of. “I should have been more mindful of my steps. It was entirely my fault.”

You go still at the sudden show of humility and respect. Finding yourself softening by the tilt of his head, bowing at you in acknowledgment of your higher standing. Not that many bother doing that to you—between mistaking you for an Omega or otherwise neglecting your standing as an Alpha, both due to your physique. Seeing it up close and so abruptly flusters you.

“Let me get you a drink to make up for it?” he offers politely, almost in plead.

Struck with feelings of somewhat regret for your own uncouth attitude, you nearly accept on a whim. “That’s kind…” But then think it over. You don’t really want to lead him on, either. You nearly stutter, yet steal yourself. After all… “But you’re not really my type.”

He hangs his head with a dejected sigh, “That’s harsh.” But he’d already figured as much and didn’t really care. Giving you his most sorry grin, he insists, “Humor me anyway? Just one drink so I don’t feel like an asshole for the rest of my life.”

It’s clear you want to refuse—still, as suspected, your heart just can’t handle seeing a desperate Omega in need. Bless your dim Alpha instincts.

“Okay, fine. One drink, that’s all,” you end up agreeing. One drink can’t hurt, right?

You feel like a good Samaritan once the big hunk of an Omega runs off to fetch you a glass. Pitying him or even sympathizing, maybe—it can’t be easy for an Omega in the mating scene to look like that. No Alpha around would want an Omega bigger than them—it’s utterly emasculating, not to mention unnatural.

Of course, you’re aware you’re in much the same shoes as him—you’re not delusional. Only, it’s easy being an independent Alpha—you don’t mind being a lone wolf in the world—but Omegas were built to be domestic. So yeah, you pity him—the poor guy, he’ll probably never find a proper mate.

But you can’t let your pity grant him too many favors—you have no intention of taking on any charity case tonight, especially not a pity fuck. You’ll have one drink with him as a mutual apology. That’s all.

Luckily… one drink is all he needs. Add a little sprinkle of this and that in your glass, and you’re already in the palm of his hand.

He has to carry you bridal style before he’s even managed to lead you to the elevator—it’s empty all the way down to the garage. He puts you in his car, locks your seatbelt in place, then drives off. It’s honestly quite astounding how easy it had been. He’d thought trapping an Alpha would be a much more remarkable feat, an impossible one for an Omega—but this was no different from eating an unguarded piece of cake.

You’re drowsy as he carries you into his apartment. And that’s when the other drug kicks in. The overwhelming scent of being inside his nest sets off your rut like a matchstick being ripped along the red.

Your claws come out, puncturing his sheets as he lays you down on his bed.

You’re too delirious to do much but writhe—making it easy for him to unbutton your dress shirt, followed by your slacks. He has to scoff at your plain black boxers and binder bra. You poor thing, always trying to run with the big dogs when you’re no bigger than a bite-sized puppy. From now on, you’ll only wear lacey things he brings home for you. You won’t have to puff your chest—you can be as sweet and pretty as your delicate physique constitutes—his cutest, littlest, most perfect mate.

You gain newfound strength once he’s peeled your underwear down, baring your needy heat to his touch. Instantly, your arms spring into action, flinging themselves around him, pouncing like a predator at its prey with your fangs bared.

He stops you easily—placing his wrist between your teeth, using it as a muzzle. He chuckles, looking at you gnaw on it like a bone.

“I think the world has it all wrong,” he starts, though he’s not sure you’re even capable of understanding speech in your state. “Omegas are the ones better suited as leaders of society, not Alphas.”

As he talks, he continues with his ministrations, stroking your needy slit with a mean finger, swiping it cruelly before splitting between the folds.

“I mean, look at you—mindless in a rut, willing to pounce on anything that moves—like a wild animal.” Once he sticks his finger inside you, your teeth do his wrist the same justice—drawing blood, making him hiss through his smile, “I ought to keep you in a cage.” And yet he doesn’t pull either hand away. “It would suit you well—on your knees with a pretty leash and collar upon your throat.”

You’re wet in his hand—soaked and so warm he loses track of his own finger as if melting within you. His cock strains against his boxer, wanting to feel it for himself. But you’re still way too tight for that.

He feeds you another digit, and you moan—suckling on his wrist now more than biting, though still with your canines out and seeking.

“Look at these wittle teeth, tch—” he grins upon closer inspection, looking between them and your eyes—pupil-fat orbs, far gone in your instincts. “I bet they’re just itching for my neck instead, huh?”

The provocation seems to make you more desperate. Pumping you slowly, more so to stretch you out than stimulate, he can feel your breaths turn thicker with need, how you press your tongue against his wrist, wet and lousy, wanting for more.

“Well, go on then, Alpha...” He chuckles again, removing his arm from barring your mouth before wrapping your throat with the same hand, holding it like a collar, keeping you under control.

And then he bares his neck for you.

“I give my consent.”

♡ part two

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Amajiki ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto, Nanami ♡ HQ – Kuro, Oikawa, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Bachira, Isagi ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.

Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.

You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.

Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?

You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.

You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes. 

Shit, how’re you supposed to—

“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.

He sets out two plates before sitting down.

He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar—though not familiar in the sense that you remember going home with last night—no, that is still a complete mystery to you as you keep appraising at him, hoping to somehow trigger your recollection. He's got more tattoos on his upper-body, some hiding beneath the apron he's sporting—thick tribal-like markings you're not sure if hold any significance, but are sure as fuck very memorable. And still, none of it proves to be a good reminder. Other than that, he looks clean-shaven, with newly washed hair hanging in wet bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.

“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”

“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”

You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”

“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”

Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”

For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.

“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”

Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut.

Left choking on a “What?”

A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair quick. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly? 

“What the fuck’s going on?!”

He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life. 

“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”

Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with. 

Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”

Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?

“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you. 

The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.

“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”

Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind. 

Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar—with the only viable option being to bash you body against the walls and prey you were just having a psychotic break

In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”

But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”

Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first. 

And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.

You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while. 

And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide. 

Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested.

Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start begrudgingly piling up your plate.

Chewing gingerly on a scone, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face. 

You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…

Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…

And that’s when it hits you.

“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…” 

You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering. 

“Malevolent Kitchen!” 

You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.

Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”

“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.

You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…

You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.

There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.

It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…

“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember. 

True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit. 

“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”

Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea. 

“A cannibal?”

You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.

But he doesn’t.

No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.

It fully dawns on you then.

“Oh God, that’s what this is, isn’t it?”

The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.

And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.

“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”

And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke. 

Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.

“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”

The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.

You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”

Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.

Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”

You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”

You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi first is the least he could do.

You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”

You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”

So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.

In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.

But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out again, this time with a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”

To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”

—

You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you. 

Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be. 

He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him. 

But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.

He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun. 

And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.

Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances. 

But then again, none of them had ask to use the jacuzzi either.

You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild interest, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.

By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.

You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way—at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.

“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.

Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.

“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well. 

It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is. 

But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.

It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.

Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”

You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.

He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.

Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.

“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”

Oh, so that had been your concern. 

He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…

Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.

“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.

He halts. “What?” 

Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”

Oh, right. He chuckles.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.

“Hello? What’s so funny?” you ask again.

“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.

You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”

Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.

“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”

You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”

It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it. 

“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?” 

Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, seeking answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you. 

But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t really buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”

He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”

You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”

You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.

No, not at all. 

Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.

And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”

It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.

And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.” 

“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.

He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”

You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.

Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…

—

True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night. 

The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep. 

Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.

Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.

Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.

He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.

“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.

To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”

You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.

You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.

In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.

“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”

“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.

You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”

You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it. Given the man’s your cannibalistic captor, you shouldn't exactly be goofing around with him. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”

He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”

“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”

You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”

Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll  take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”

You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.

“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”

You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.

“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”

He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.

“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”

You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,” 

Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.

You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you? 

“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”

You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”

With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.” 

You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”

He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as faking a sick-day just to get out of work.

But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”

His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”

You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind. “Anything else I can help with?”

He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”

You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual, abstinent or scared he might actually grow attached while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”

—

A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.

He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.

In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.

Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself. 

He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.

“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to inspect your livestock safeguards. Everything seems to be in perfect condition.”

He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.

“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time.

“No,” he answers shortly.

To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”

He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”

You drop back down with a pout at the boring response, staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…” 

Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”

He ignores you and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.

“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your belly-button.

“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”

You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.

Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.

Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.

But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”

With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”

Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.

It’s beyond boring, making you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.

But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”

You lift yourself up from your slump, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.

You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”

As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”

It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.” 

—

More weeks pass. 

The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.

Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain. 

Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.

Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long. 

Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…

And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food—right in front of him, no less.

“Not up to your standards?” he questions.

You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.

During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.

But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something else, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.

Lonely is the word that comes to mind.

“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—a frozen pizza—anything but this gourmet stuff…”

He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.

“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”

Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.

It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.

“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.

“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard there before.

It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”

“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”

He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?

“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you. 

“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?” 

You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”

In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.

Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.

“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.

But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”

Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,” 

And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”

He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”

“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”

Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”

“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”

Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”

Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”

Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.

But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”

Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”

By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing.  “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.

“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.

But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”

He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”

His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding. 

You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”

“That’s it.”

It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think. 

One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.

“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him any further to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”

And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.

“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”

“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”

Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.

“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”

—

“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”

He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.

No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”

You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”

Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”

He can only sigh and admit defeat.

Still, you got one thing wrong. 

“I’m not the freak here…”

The four members of the Bakusquad are all gobsmacked at the domestic sight—the boss, their boss, their hard-headed macho boss, bending over and apologizing to this little omega half his size.

“Are you hungry?” you ask, peaking over the breadth of his hunched shoulders to the others with a warm smile on your pretty face. “I just finished dinner.”

“No,” Katsuki growls grumpily and winds his arms around you—like an old, tired dog, voice gruff, “Uninvited intruders don’t get my dinner.”

You only giggle it off, brushing his stubble with a soft hand, gently handling him further down to your level so you could place a kiss on his other cheek. “Oh, stop, Katsuki. Be nice to your friends.” 

Then you walk off to the kitchen.

Calling out sweetly over your shoulder, “I went a little overboard, so there’s more than enough for everyone.”

And by god, if they don't fall in love with you right then before they’ve even got a single word out.

But love at first sight isn't all so strange. None of them have ever seen an Omega outside of on film—much less been hit with the scent of one. They're all bewitched and confused at the feeling as they trail after you as if they've been compelled by some higher power.

"Please sit," you smile, gesturing to the long table where only two seats have been made. "Katsuki, hon, help me, please"

They all scoot into each their unplaced seat while your big lousy Alpha begrudgingly helps set the table for the unwanted dinner guests. They remain silent as you serve them like the perfect homemaker—all crimson-cheeked and ashamed at how they sniff after you as you pass them by.

You sit just as brightly despite the awkward tension. "Please, enjoy."

They all obey, eating in utter silence—every single one of them trying hard not to stare—and all failing miserably.

Kaminari's the first to speak, having been left shaken by curiosity he no longer could contain.

"So... did he kidnap you, or?"

It's a fair question to some extent. Omega's are a dime a dozen, all regulated strictly by protective institutions. You can't just find one to mate like in the old days. You need to apply for one and be vetted—not to mention they cost a fortune.

"Denki!" Kirishima whisper-shouts in admonishment, shaking his head from across the table.

"What? I'm I the only one who's thinking it?" he throws his hands up and defends.

Katsuki's fist strains around his fork, but you lay your mit atop his, and he calms down shortly.

“Don't worry, Mitsuki and Masaru made the arrangements and paid the dowry," you giggle, running your hand through your Alpha's ashen hair with fondness in your eyes. "I was a graduation present of sorts. They worried Katsuki wouldn't take care of himself once he started working and thought having a mate might help him with his busy day.”

If Katsuki appreciates you spilling his business like that, he doesn't say anything about it—just continues eating.

Denki sighs and sags in his chair. “I always knew Bakugou’s folks were loaded. How nice...”

Sero grins, “Your jealousy is showing.”

Denki pouts, “I’m not exactly tryna hide it.”

"Yeah..." Mina pipes up. "Can't deny I'm jealous, too."

Sero's grin falls as well with his confession, "Yeah, me neither, actually."

You keep smiling sympathetically, "Well, you're all welcome here—I don't mind the extra company."

"Really?" Denki lights up.

Mina and Sero, too—in awe and in unison, saying, "She's an angel."

"Get yer own," Katsuki grumbles. "Now shut up and finish your food. Then you're leavin'—all of you."

"Oh, come on, man," Denki whines. "Have a little pitty for your fellow Alphas."

"Let's stay respectful, guys," Krishima buds in lightheartedly. "Think about what you're asking."

Then, rethinking the conversation, the other three all realized how it had sounded, even though they hadn't meant it that way. And they all blush even darker than before.

And still, you just smile—alphas are all so cute.

Especially your hyper-protective one.

They have to tie your hands to something – where despite them being fruitless in their effort, they can become bothersome to leave free – often attaching them to the loop in your collar, so you keep them to yourself all cutely while they mark you with their fangs – making you into a pretty artwork with coarse fingers rubbing your perky little nipples into sore nubs.

You’re really just too cute; it’s cruel – looking up at them with those adorably big eyes and that button nose wrinkling on each little sniffle when you beg them to let you go. Lop-ears sadly framing your face – so soft in their hands and so sensitive it makes you bite your lip all preciously each time they give them a little nibble.

You sob under their touches – knees shaking – as Bakugou laps at your clit with chin stubble spikey against your puffy lips, gnawing some on the swollen flesh while sucking on you. His thick and eager tongue paints through your slit again and again and again on an unrelenting repeat – similar to the eager tail whipping behind him – swallowing all your juice down – growling ferally at the maddening taste while your thighs sweetly tremble around his jaw.

Deku bites on the plump of your ass, leaving spotted rings in the flesh. Cupping your buttcheeks – fully fitting in the palms of his mighty hands – he cards his claws into the fat and spreads them wide open for an attack on that pretty tight little ring hidden between them. You always whine so sweetly for him – your cute fluffy cottontail doing a little dance while he circles your rim with his tongue – warning you of what’s to come later in the day when he’s finally had the taunt hole fully stretched and as ready as it gets to take all of his fat meat.

He moans into you while thinking about it – about your cute bunny butt swallowing his knot and being blown full of his thick creampie. Going livid at the mere thought alone – his cock bobs impatiently against his abs while he forces restraint upon himself – knowing how if he tries splitting your poor little butt on his pole now, he’d most likely tear you apart.

Instead, he amuses himself by prodding the pretty hole with the tip of a very special golden carrot – fresh batteries turning your rim numb while he slides ring after thicker ring inside you until you close around the tuft of golden leaves at its end. Tugging on his cock impatiently, he places his head – fluffy pointy ear-down upon your belly – listening to the drums echo inside you as he turns the vibrations up high enough to feel it through your skin. 

Of course, he wants to make sure that his precious little bunny is prepped and ready before subjugating you to a nice close butt-fuck – being kind enough to satisfy himself with your mouth until then – making you cry and choke around his thickness, swallowing his cock down your tight throat until your little nose burrow in the dark green curls around his base – watching the pretty furrow between your brows beg for air as your eyes roll back and turn white with desperation.

He lets you eat his ass as mercy once you’ve choked him down long enough – to the point you’ve lost your pretty voice – holding you tight by the base of your lop-ear to make sure you don’t faint – thinking that there's nothing cuter than spitting on your chubby bunny-face while you dizzily comfort yourself by rubbing sweetly against his balls and taint. Messaging the softness of your ear, you only sob when he cups the back of your skull and starts lolling your wet teary lips against his rim – hearing him moan loudly when you’re finally coaxed into laying sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to his needy hole after he’s pulled enough on your ear to make you fear it tearing off – grabbing your skull and pushing you deeper when you so cutely listen to him tell you to slip it your pretty pink little tongue.

Bakugou also likes using your mouth on him. But rather than a deep-throat or a sloppy rim – he likes dipping his heavy balls in your tiny mouth, likes it when you kiss on them and ask for the cum stored inside – sliding your little hot tongue over them until they drip with your drool – having you lipping and mouthing the spine of his shaft – sliding it between your plump lips until making you take his head inside and lick the slit clean of his salty precum.

But more than childsplay with his cock on your cute face, he likes making you moan and cream on his dick – entirely obsessed with fucking your pretty pussy full of him – in pushing so deep he enters that special extra space reserved just for him and him alone – the one that has you screaming and shaking in uncontrollable spasms as you clamp down hard around him.

It feels extra sweet after Deku’s plugged your ass and turned up the vibrations – he feels it through the wall separating the holes and likes leaving his cock inside you for longer digs just to feel it strum all the way through to his core – he holds it there – completely sheathed down to the base, bottomed-out with his knot swelling up inside you, pumping you full of his hot cum before sloshing out – leaving you panting and twitching.

Pussy fluttering around his absence – he inspects you to see how good he has your tiny bunny-cunt stretched – grin widening in the same fashion when seeing how much of his cum your tightness pushes out before he fucks it right back inside you again.

It’s when you go numb – devoid of struggles and trembles with only a few shocks still ricocheting through you – that Deku finally kisses your cheek and forehead and lips and nose and chin while slowly pulling the carrot plug out of your stretched butt. 

He looks into the hole, smiling at the sight of it gaping for him – receiving a big blob of his spit – winking up at him like it can’t wait to be taken by his big dick. Putting four fingers inside the soreness, he tests to see how you react – cooing at you when all you do is moan tiredly in return.

He takes it slowly – pinching your buttcheeks in big hands while the hole swallows up his cockhead, encouraging you with softly belittling words – telling you that you’re such a good anal pet for him – such a good little bunny-butt – taking his cock all the way deep inside, letting him bottom-out with his knot getting thick inside you.

And Bakugou’s grip on you only tightens when he feels Deku’s member slide up and down alongside his on the other side of the thin wall separating them – completely mesmerized by the big belly bulge the two of them are making in your little body – taken and riveted by the thought of breeding you despite knowing that it would be impossible for you to carry either of their pups. 

None of it keeps him from emptying the full value of his balls inside you for the umpteenth time while Deku does the same in your tight butt – the both of them slobber at your neck while messaging you with big hands on your tits and hips, hissing out carnivorous desires your feeble constitution doesn’t understand before they sink their teeth down hard into the soft flesh of your vulnerable neck – claiming you as both their pretty little prey and silly little mate.

continuation

Their voices had you halt – reaching you through your fever – ears shifty, nose twitchy, eyes peeled.

“Tsuki? Zuku?” You called out in a hopeful whine – muffled in the laundry pile before you popped out of hiding, a head of tousled hair and a pair of puffy eyes on a face riddled with despair.

Naked and shifty – you looked a mix of manic and relieved when seeing them.

“Help me-” You sobbed, thighs remaining pressed and quaking, your bottom lip blubbering, lop ears more lopped than usual, hanging droopily, framing your cute little face like a portrait.

“Aw~ Poor thing~” Izuku drawled in a purr – feeling thrills carve up his spine and the quickening beat of his heart spread to every corner of his body – blood hot and thickening, rushing straight to his cock, growing heavy and taut in his pants.

You crawled over in a rush, slipping in and on the mess of clothes you’d made on the floor surrounding you. Shuffling the rest of the way on your knees until you reached the nearest of the two – your hands attacking his hips.

Almost making him stumble back, you began messily unbuckling his belt – desperate in your haste.

“Easy, Bunny- no need to rush~” Katsuki teased – having been the closest one you could get your hands on.

“It hurts- please… don’t be cruel- just… take it off-” You whined in a whimper – wrangling off his belt in a struggle – your fingers shaking desperately, hastily when tugging down his boxers to be met with his already fat and straining length arched and bobbing proudly against his stomach.

You wasted only a split-second, locking your mouth around the length at once when it reared its round head – sucking the tip eagerly and urgently – aggressively enough to make Katsuki suck his teeth. 

A shuddering moan escaped you next, followed by other blissful sighs when swallowing the taste. Continuing to suck rhythmically while feeling it soothe every flaming fiber throughout your body. Traveling down to your lower belly – making you flutter around nothing while slick escaped you, layered on your inner thighs.

Katsuki sighed then, halfway in relief and the other half in pleasure as you settled – having felt a flare of terror, thinking you were about to bite his cock off before you started sweetly glucking – your hot mouth full of drool and teeth tucked behind soft billowy lips.

He cupped your head in his paw, but it wasn’t necessary – you were determined enough on your own without his help. Nips perky as you swallowed him down to the base and hollowed your cheeks in a tight chock around him – hungry for it – needy and possessed by the white promise stored within the big beautiful sack of balls swaying with weight against your chin. A promise already coming through in sweet pre-spills making your mouth water and eyes roll back beneath your lids.

Tits bouncing as you moaned around his shaft – eyes closed and swept into a blessed state of frenzy at the taste with one hand between your thighs, touching yourself, and the other reaching for Izuku, becking him over with needy little grabs to the air. 

He unzipped himself for you, making the jump from Katsuki to him swift and easy for you – taking him in your mouth with a needy whine and a continuous string of whiney suckling mewls as you hurriedly sucked off and swallowed all the precum leaking from his head.

Your cotton tail wagged impatiently behind you, swapping between the two cocks while they silently smiled down at the view – both keeping an endeared hand on each of your lop ears, rubbing them encouragingly while watching you pop off one cock with a smack before downing the other in a gulp – chuckling at you when you eventually began desperately trying to press them both passed your lips.

Hot tears on your face, feeling your lower belly fold at the horrid emptiness inside – aching from the starving hunger that all but started to eat itself.

“Please-” You begged. Naked and dewy with sweat, blushed and drunken with tears glossing your cheeks, all puffy as you rolled back against the dune of soft laundry beneath you – thighs spread wide while you touched yourself with both hands between them. “Please, I need you~ both~ here, please~” 

Their ears spiked at your request, tails swishing behind them while the purr in their gut grew into a growl. You’d grown comfortable with them lately, and it showed – even in heat, you’d never been so brazenly lewd before.

“Please, it hurts- hurry~” You continued pleading, quaking where you lay with your lip tucked between your teeth and big eyes glistening, full of distress and prayer. Every inch of skin coated in something wet – pills of dew and streaks of tears, the rest a slick honeyed sheen – begging to be touched and tasted.  

They both lay down in the laundry. Crawling over on either side of you, each lifted and held a thigh to their chest, spreading you open – their minds in the same place, casting each other a heated glance while reaching for your pussy with their hands first - Katsuki working the clit while Izuku pumped your hole on two thick fingers.

“No- I want cock~ I need cock-” You protested with a whine, shaking your head while writhing between the two. Thighs tensing, trying to close while trembling small hands dove down to swat at their bigger ones.

“No, no, no-” Katsuki tutted, swirling your clit beneath rough fissures, making your hips buck. “Be a good bunny and cum first.” His voice a gravely guttural – having your toes curl, and fists clench.

“I can’t- not without cock-” You sobbed, head thrown back and nearly screaming before Katsuki shoved three fingers in your mouth, muffling any and all sounds you had – reducing them to sweet mews where you promptly started licking and suckling the digits for comfort.

“That’s it, don’t be a bratty bunny- you know the rules.” He soothed, continuing to flick your clit while your thighs trembled around them. “No cum, no cock.”

Deku fondled your chest while your cunt made out with his fingers, sucking and slicking them up. Hole fluttering, walls velvety and wet, spongey, milking him for more. Soon tightening up – choking – leaving no room.

You made a whine, feeling the coil in your lower tummy pull and tighten – getting so hot and knotted before snapping – breaching and bursting and gushing all over the hands who’d made it happen – leaving you to twitch and moan around the fingers stuffing your mouth. 

“Good bunny~” Izuku cooed, retracing his slicked fingers with a wet shlick. His eyes fixated on the arousal coating the digits – connected to your cunt in strings where you fluttered around nothing. He swallowed thickly, feeling his cock do a jump of impatience. “Now you get your reward.”

Katsuki pulled away from your mouth, wrapping the spit-glossed fingers around his needy shaft instead. Eyes on your dewy face – watching pills of sweat run from your forehead, similar droplets leak from the corner of your eyes, and other trails of spit trickle from your mouth where you were shakily left panting. 

“You still want this?” He whispered as both of them lined their cocks up alongside each other, ready to press inside you.

“Yes, please-” You sniffled, biting your lip while watching the sight – feeling everything inside you scream for it. “Give it to me~”

Izuku felt his curls stick to his face and the beating of his heart take another leap. You were being so cute and needy he could barely think straight enough to doubt if they’d both even fit. Right now, everything just seemed so right that nothing could go wrong.

“Okay, bunny-” He swallowed thickly, followed quickly by Katsuki’s grunt. “You asked for it…” 

Snuggling closer until their heads touched yours, hot breaths and lips and teeth and tongue licking your throat – sucking the scars left by their bites while beginning to push. Eyes no longer green and red but purely black – slowly sinking inside inch by inch, feeling you cramp around them as a squeal left you.

Back lifting, arching off the ground as you grabbed for their hands – crushing their fingers tight.

You squeezed your eyes shut whilst they held their eyes wide – watching their cockheads fight for space inside you in one massive belly bulge.

Your nail broke between your teeth as you looked at the revealing pics of you in your bedroom – wearing nothing but flimsy underwear. 

You looked back to the screen and continued scrolling through deals – but more than that, you were trying to distract yourself from what you really wanted to do…

Izuku had always been a source of comfort when it came to safety, and you know he’d come if you called, but since you broke up with him only a couple of months ago it seemed too selfish to ask. Besides, the reasons you broke things off were all because of his derogatory tendencies, and to beg him over because of something like this would only prove his point.

You couldn’t call him over. He’d see it as a win, and you’d decided you wouldn’t lose to his patronizing ways any longer. You needed to do this on your own – without his help.

You had to wait through the weekend until Monday to call a guy. A new box came both days, each one more terrifying than the last. But after installing a new alarm system you felt a little safer.

But the next box stripped that safety away.

I know I must be creeping you out. After all, you have no idea who I am, whereas I know you so intimately. But you shouldn’t feel scared. I would never hurt you. My gift to you today is proof of that.

P.S. Security systems aren’t enough to keep me away from you. 

Beneath the letters were more pictures of you – this time sleeping – inside the house. 

You fell apart – caving in, calling Izuku in tears, begging him to come over in a hurry. “Izu- please, please, please come home-”

He’s sitting on your couch only a curt fifteen minutes later, a tight arm around your midriff, holding you close for comfort while you sobbed against his chest – a furl deepened his brows while reading, holding your stalker’s letters in the other hand with green eyes narrowing for every sentence he finished.

I dream of making you mine. As I watch you sleep, I wonder what you dream of. You look so lonely lying there. Maybe if I keep you company, you’ll start dreaming of me too.

“How many of these have you received?” He questioned when done, looking around at the gift wrap on the floor, green-paisley-patterned, and the several boxes filled with crepe and untouched pieces of what looked like different arrangements of lingerie, candy, and sex toys.

“Four, I think…” You muffled against his tear-soaked shirt, clinging to him with your legs tucked onto his lap.

“Four? Why didn’t you call me sooner?” He echoed, looking down at you with heavy curls shadowing his eyes.

You looked up at him through the blur, lip sucked between your teeth before answering. “I- I went to the police-”

“The police? You went to the police instead of calling me?” He cut you off harshly, making you flinch.

“I-I-” You stuttered, crying, and he shook from his misplaced anger and took your face in his palms.

“Shh-sh- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.” He apologized with a kiss on your forehead before pulling you close to his chest again. “It’s just… this is exactly what I warned you about. You should have called me sooner.”

“I’m sorry.” You whimper, calming down to the warm strokes his large hand smoothed across your back.

“Shh- it's okay… I’m here now… and I'm not gonna let any sicko touch you. I promise.” He soothed – his voice a calm and strong anchor for you to grip onto. “Come, I’ll help you pack a bag. You’ll sleep at my place tonight.”

“Okay…” You sniffle. “Thank you.”

He drove with only one hand on the steering wheel, the other on your lap, holding your hand – your bag by your feet – and you’re reminded of the first days you started dating. Sleepovers and overnight bags – his hand between your thighs on the drive.

His new place is bigger than the last – like something out of a magazine. Modern and simplistic – a little too clean, maybe, but very stylish. 

You knew he’d been climbing the ranks a couple of spots a week since you broke up with him, but you hadn’t known the new paychecks could afford something like this. It made you feel a little guilty thinking about it, then a little embarrassed, causing you to flush – standing there in guest slippers, bag in hand – your presence sticking out like a sore thumb.

“You hungry?” He asked, shaking you out of your meekness, where you looked up with a small nod and a slight hum.

He smiled, turning to the kitchen. You were so cute.

At dinner, it almost feels like old times. Izuku plays with your legs under the table even though you give him a look. He gets you to giggle after a while, surrendering to his hopeless flirting. You help him carry the dishes after you’ve finished – and even though he has a washer now, you slip right into that old routine and start filling the sink with warm water and soap. And then you stand there, the two of you – shoulder to elbow, and your chest flutters, wondering if he was always that tall.

You blushed and ducked your head, not wanting him to see you getting so flustered. You pretended to be throwing some scraps in the trash and that's when your eyes caught hold of it.

Green paisley.

You’re stunned for a moment. Still crouched down, your head hovering over the trash – face blank, body still.

“You weren’t meant to see that.” Came a voice.

Izuku stood next to you. Washcloth in hand, dripping soapsuds on the floor.

You’re breath shivers in your throat, and you drop to the ground with a gulp, looking up at him – now with building fear accenting your still shocked expression.

You blink a couple of times, trying to make sense of it but getting nowhere. “W-why?” Left you then, along with sudden tears that started slipping down your cheeks.

And it really was the only question you had. Why would he do this? Why would he torment you like that? Why would he-

“’Cause you left… And I needed a way to get you back.”

You cringed. Feeling sick – almost sick enough to turn around and throw up the entire dinner in the trashcan, all over that stupid green paisley print. But you didn’t. “You’re pathetic.” – is what you said instead.

You got up from the floor. Upset tears still rolled down your face, but you were mostly just pissed – kicking off your guest slippers, you sat down atop the shoe bench and started doing your laces.

“I’m leaving. Don’t call me. If I ever see you near my place, I’m calling the cops.” You uttered, grabbing your bag before yanking the door handle.

It didn’t budge – some strange new type of locking mechanism, which really made no sense to have on the inside.

“I’m going home, Izuku. Unlock the door.” You huffed, turning around to look at him sourly, only he’d approached you all too silently – making you gasp to see him standing right behind you.

“You’re not going anywhere…”

You’re taken to the bed, kicking and screaming – then pinned by hands thrice the size of your own beneath the big-boned body they belonged to. And now you’re really feeling scared.

Before, it had been such a distant threat – something you could pretend wasn’t there for most of the day and otherwise deal with by the soothing presence of a weapon in your house or a quick phone call to the police. But now – there was no comfort to be found anywhere.

“Shh, baby~ don’t fuss. It’s better this way.” He tried soothing, holding your fighting wrists tightly above your head in one fist. The other kept your lips shut, muffling all screams. Barring your thrashing legs beneath his own. “You need me- you couldn’t even last a single week without calling me.” He justified, hunched over you with his mouth only an inch above the knuckles draping your mouth. “But that’s alright, I don’t mind it. I always planned on taking care of you.” He cooed, rubbing his nose sweetly against yours despite you trying to shake away from it. 

You felt something rub against your thigh, and you knew all too well what it was. Fat tears streamed down your cheeks, facing the next events.

But Izuku shared none of your discomforts, rocking the bump against you with a moan slipping into his rant. “You like the new place I got, don’t you? You can stay in all day- I’d give you all you’d ever need or want- you’d be so comfortable you wouldn’t ever even want to leave-”

He sounded just like the letters.

His voice calm and nearly innocent with its complete candidness.

Plain look on his face even when looking into your eyes that had gone completely moon-wide now.

“Much more than what you do with me I wager…” He smiled softly. Voice still smooth as he looked down into your pitiful pools of building anxiousness. “It would be fun to watch him ravish you.”

Your throat was tight as you swallowed. Trying to convince yourself he was only being cruel in his strange ways.

But something about the excitement in his bicolored eyes told you otherwise. Along the fact that he’d never been one for jokes.

“Or perhaps you’d like Midoriya instead?”

You shook just a bit by the thought. Recurring stories Shoto’d told you about the man. Stories resembling a callous and calculating villain, much less the number one hero. You wouldn't want to be caught beneath that nor the former.

“I can’t promise you he’d be any less rough than me though.”

You flinched when his hand started up again. Stopping in messaging your thigh to run fingertips so very cold up you belly and chest to where you heart couldn’t seem to calm down.

“Hm- Maybe one isn’t enough for you at all?” He questioned.

His slender hands rubbing your throat now. Stroking his thumb up and down your jugular.

“Would you like them both?”

He leaned forward until his bangs brushed against your forehead and his breath fanned across your lips. So close, you could see the blitz in his eyes. A look so crippling you felt he was undressing your soul just like he’d done your body.

His voice still so soft it was smothering.

“Maybe they’d bring along friends and we’d get to see how much you could take before breaking.”

You shuddered and broke from his eye-contact. Bowing your head with a small sniffle, followed by a whimper breaching from you as you shook your head.

“What’s this? You changed your mind?” He remarked.

“I don’t want anyone else.” You whispered weakly in the only voice you could manage at the moment.

Shoto’s icy palm cupped your cheek and raised your chin so he could level you with his eyes.

“No? You certain?” He whispered back and your entire body sprung with goosebumps. A tear running slowly down either side of your face as you chewed some on your lip.

Hands slack in his grip above your head.

“Yes, Shoto. I only want you.” You sniveled.

Another small smile crept onto his face as he looked upon your teary features.

“Such enthusiasm.” He commented. “My friends got you so hot and bothered.”

He blew on your neck and your breath hitched on your trembling lips.

While his firm lips kissed your throat.

“One phone-call, snowflake-” He moaned and placed another kiss upon your collar. “They’d be here in minutes.”

He let go of the grip he had around your wrists and moved to rub a nipple between his fingertips.

And his other hand moved to where it had been before.

Between your thighs, with cold digits running over your warm and soft core.

“Bakugou would be thrilled to break my girl over his knee… and Midoriya would love to comfort you afterwards.” He continued in a low murmur, but you shook your head at the nauseatingly scary thought.

“I don’t want them, I want you. I only want you.” You vowed with a tiny cry, as though you were begging.

“Mh…” Shoto hummed, peeking through his bangs at you before kissing a nipple and rubbing your clit. “Then act like it.”

MIDORIYA IZUKU

“Bunny~ I’m home!” Deku’s voice came booming from the outer-door.

You’d heard him pull up the driveway some minutes ago and were expecting him.

It wasn’t as if you thought it would help to hide…

But, knowing that wasn’t enough to stop you though.

“Bunny?” His voice came again, but you didn’t answer.

And then that nerve-wreaking chuckle came rumbling like thunder and you swore you were going to choke on the tremors of your own heart.

“You’ hiding from me, little one?”

You knew you were supposed to greet him by the door. Throw yourself into his arms as though he was all you’d been thinking of all day. But, you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

“Come out and play, baby-face~” His voice called once again and you had to cover your ears.

The crinkle between your brows just deepening where you sat on the cold hardboard floor of the closet. Rocking back and forth with your lip caught between your teeth. Trying to hold back the tears of dread

“Daddy’s brought a present for you~”

You nearly whimpered at that. Hiding your head between your knees

“Coming to find you, Bunny…”

You heard steps in the hallway leading to you. Massive thunderous steps you convinced yourself shook the thin walls of the wooden closet you sat in.

“And when I do…” He began warning. Another cripplingly low chuckle following the rumble in his rust. “We’re gonna go straight to bed.

Eyes wide as your stomach made a twist by the thought of hosting his massiveness inside. Cunt twitching involuntarily by the thought. Mouth watering as though you’d bitten your tongue too hard.

“We can have dinner later…” He dismissed. “‘Cause right now…”

His voice was close.

“All I want…”

Right outside.

“Is you.”

The closet door flew open and in the opening the giant stood towering in the light.

“There you are, Bunny.” He sighed. Eyes an ill luminescent green. Eerily lighting up his face like foxfire.

“No-” You whimpered. Hands stretched forward in and effort of warding him off. “Stay away- S-stop-”

He ignored you. Blissful smile on his face as he grabbed your wrist and threw your small body up over his shoulder.

“Why so jumpy, Bunny?” He asked innocently while putting his massive palm over the dome of your ass. Strong thick fingers carving into goosebumbed plush flesh before giving you a tiny smack

“Please, Izuku-” You yelped. “I- ah- I don’t want to- have sex with you. I don’t want-” You began crying. Banging your tiny fist on his back, even when it seemed so utterly pointless.

“Silly Bunny.” He dismissed with a chuckle. Kissing your hip. “Don’t you know?”

He bounced you off his shoulder for you to land on the bed.

“You always change your mind in the end.”

He climbed over you before you could gather yourself enough to crawl away.

“You always tell me you love it and make such happy noises for me when I make you cum.”

Your will and pride and anger told you to fight back, but fear and helplessness made you cry as you carried out your pathetic efforts. His words making you shudder and cringe as you felt the roughness of his hands greedily stroke upon your smooth skin.

“No-” You whined, trying to shove him away.

His wild curls tickling the skin of your chest as he buried his face between your warm pillowy tits.

“You just need to feel me first.” He urged in a mumble against your flesh.

Rubbing his stubbled chin against you while you wormed in discomfort beneath him.

“I’ve been wanting to feel you all day long.” He groaned. Grinding his bulge against your thigh. “I’m so ready to get inside you, I don’t think I’ll let you go again.” His voice moaned intrudingly load against you.

His large hands holding you still for him to use as he so wished.

“Just you and me, wet and warm and sticky until morning.”

Another cry broke form you, but was interrupted by the man’s distraction.

“Oh-” He exclaimed. “Almost forgot.”

His hands removed from you to fish something out of his pocket

“Your present…”

Pulling out a pink choker with a little jingle bell attached to it. He made some intricate adjustments with his fingers and the locking mechanism came undone.

“A pretty collar for my pretty pet.” He purred while snaking the necklace around your throat. Keeping it snug, though thankfully slack enough to be comfortable.

The humiliation wasn’t as merciful though.

Your eyes downcast, but could still spot Izuku’s salacious smirk where he leaned forward admiring his pretty possession.

“With this I won’t lose you again.” He voiced. Fingering a lock of your hair. Looping it around his pointer until you bit your lip and another tear slipped down your cheek. “No matter where you might wind up lost...”

He caught the rebel droplet on his knuckle while stroking your face. Giving your forehead a kiss, he began dragging the zipper to his hero-suit down his chest. Whispering.

“I’ll find you.”

SHINSO HITOSHI

You had your back hunched. Claws drawn.

He was back and it was time to stand your ground.

Your tail coiled tall in the air.

Sharp fangs flashed hostilely.

Eyes narrowed at the man in front.

Clad in only frilly lavender underwear and the collar you couldn’t for the life of you seem to rip off.

“Heh, kitten…” Your captor chuckled. “Best thing about coming home is you.” His mockingly sweet voice mouthed in that sarcastic drawl all his words always drip with. Endeared by your wild disheveled hair while casually removing the gadget belt to his hero costume.

Visibly happy to be home.

“I hate you.” You seethed and the man cocked his head at you. His face splitting into a wide yet lazy grin. Accompanied by an ugly chuckle dry in his throat. As jaded as his eyes.

“Oh?” He piqued. Unbothered, or rather amused, as he lifted his black sweater off over his head. “You hate me?”

He left the article on the floor. His complementary dark cargo’s hanging low on his hips without the support of his belt. A path of purple fluff peeking out, running from his crotch up his firmly carved stomach like an ant-trail.

Capture weapon dangling like the bands of a mummy around his shoulders. Crossing over his puffed chest decorated by tough scars and bruises.

“Nothing to say?” He teased and her eyes narrowed some more as she lowered herself even further.

Ready to leap.

“Nothing at all, Kitten?” He pushed. Slight edge to his tone with his hands held at the reins. Scarf stretched and winding between his firm fingers.

Ready to ensnare.

“Come on... pet. Say that again.” He coaxed, snapping the band between his fists. “Let me hear you loud and clear.”

You thought about it. As overwhelmed and frustrated as you were, filled with boiling rage and vexation towards your insane captor.

But, ultimately, you couldn’t risk being tricked into triggering his quirk.

“No?” He asked. Taking a threatening step towards you with brows high and testing.

Clicking his tongue with a sigh when you didn’t answer.

“Fine then-” He mumbled. “I guess foreplay’s over.”

Cracking his neck with a groan, he seemed relaxed and neutral with his eyes closed.

Before they snapped open again with newfound focus.

“Time for the main event.”

Binding-cloth flew towards you before you could even as much as think of clawing at the air in front of you.

Captured instantly.

All you could was whine and worm.

“Struggle all you want, Kitty.” Shinso chuckled, while pulling you towards him.

Like a spider would its prey.

“We both know you'll end up a wet whiny moaning mess once I get started with you.”

He had your wrist neatly secured behind your back with his capture weapon in no time.

Twirling you around, he pushed you onto the bed. Stomach first and face down.

Your tail up.

Curling around and just begging to be yanked.

Something of which Shinso did with glee.

His fist grabbing onto the tip of the soft brush. Before proceeding to wrap it around his hand like one would bandage a cut until hitting the base. Pulling some more. Making you hiss before crying.

“You can’t help the way your body reacts to me.” He purred. His lilac eyes reveling at the sight of your thighs starting to shake.

Giving a little gleeful chuckle. His other hand made itself known.

Stroking two thick fingers up the puff of the sore little pussy he’d fucked raw before leaving for work only some hours ago.

Still full with his cum. Still with the feeling of him deep in your guts. And of how he’d bred you dumb.

You couldn’t help but mew at the feeling. His rough finger-pads rubbing over the fine silk of your panties. Such playful friction it made you shiver. Where all you wanted was to rock yourself backwards and beg for more.

Shinso chuckled some again. Smirking once your cute ears parted atop your head.

“It’s only natural your instincts recognize who’s in charge.”

His smile wide and lazy as he watched you try to contain yourself. Even when he could smell it in the air as well as feel it in the heat warming his fingers just how wrecked and ready you were for him.

“Though… you should do yourself a favor, Kitty, and start listening to yourself-”

You made a hiss and bit out a flustered comment. “F-fuck you-”

Funny you’re the cat, but Shinso’s the one who’s always got your tongue.

And mind and body.

“Exactly right...” He simpered.

Admiring how your tense body turned soft and fight-less. Your back becoming a smoother slope as your ass arched into him. Your pretty face blanking as his quirk brought you to your knees as it always does.

“Fuck me.”

TIP-JAR

BAKUGOU, KIRISHIMA, DENKI, ENJI

But the thoughts do little more than anger him…

He shouldn't be the one groveling for a taste. He isn’t a quirkless nobody anymore. You’re the nobody. You’re the one in the crappy apartment with the crappy job and the crappy lifestyle. 

But then again… he’s the one so hung up he’s watching you every minute he can spare when he should be home getting some rest instead.

You’re still ruining his life… still making him feel like such a loser…

Looking at you walking from room to room, dressing in only a bra and panties as though teasing him, grabbing snacks in the kitchen before you curl up on your couch with a blanket, pressing play on that show you’re never able to finish because you barely ever have the time for yourself to do so. He thinks about what it is he actually wants from you – why he so often finds himself there on the rooftop, crouching with a hunter's grace until his knees ache, stalking you as you go about your mundane rituals completely oblivious to his existence.

He knows he wanted an apology from Kachan, but he doesn’t think he wants that from you. Reluctant to admit it, he’s afraid what he wants from you isn’t anything so simple it can be expressed through mere words.

Thinking about it – watching you while you, without a shred of guilt, simply go about living your life, never once thinking of him – he grows more certain that what he wants is to make you feel the same way he felt – to let you know what it’s like to be at odds with the entire world, to feel beaten and betrayed and hopeless and helpless, to feel crushed and entirely alone in your despair, never to know if you’re going to die that same pathetic way.

He wants to punish you. To break you down, so you all but beg for his forgiveness, for the mercy you never had the grace of showing him – only he would. Just when you’re at your lowest, he’ll extend a hand, kiss your forehead, and absolve you of sin – because he’s better than you.

That’s it. That’s what he wants.

For you to cry out that you don’t deserve him and his kindness – for you to admit that you’re a greedy fucking bitch who isn’t worthy of love the way he loves you.

And that’s exactly what he’s going to do. 

Karma must be on his side, he thinks – finding the balcony entrance unlocked – sliding it open with ease before stepping in quietly so as not to wake you where you lay without a care in the world.

You fell asleep on the couch again. Remote on the floor – dropped from the dangling hand peeking out of the blanket you’ve draped yourself in – the former glass of wine you’d poured yourself now sitting empty on the coffee table with only but a little drop of dried red lingering in its pit.

He crouches down before you – inspecting your face up close – noting down the differences arisen since when you were kids. Some mild crow’s feet in the corner of your eyes, some mascara smudged beneath them you hadn’t bothered getting off – but all in all, not much different from the pretty girl he had his first crush on.

You don’t look tired like him, even though he feels you should. You look good – peaceful and healthy – even happy.

He suddenly feels an immediate urge to leave – to go out the same way he came in and let you go. Deep down, he knows that’s what he ought to do – knows that’s the right thing – but… even deeper down his gut, there’s an even stronger sense rumbling as he slowly peels the blanket off your still body – and watching your soft skin as it gets hit by the moonlight spilling in through the windows, he accepts and makes peace with the fact that right now, the right thing isn’t what he wants to do.

As the blanket falls quietly into a warm heap on the floor, he’s stuck on grasping how much smaller you are. He reaches out a tattered hand only to hesitate again – reeling at how ugly it is next to you – who’s so pretty you could have been sculpted in the image of something divine. Heavenly delicate, a collection of fragile joints and soft limbs. 

This wouldn’t be a fair fight, even if he were still quirkless.

You couldn’t be much bigger than what you were when the two of you were kids – meanwhile, he’s become something nothing short of animalistic. Battle-worn and blood-bathed – kissed with scars and broken bones grown back crooked. Like an old tree, you can see the years of stormy weather on him – unlike you, who looks as though you’ve been lying right there, slumbering unbothered in wait for someone like him.

He’d like to keep you at home. All to himself – like in a harem – to be kissed by you and touched by you and spoken to in soft velvety whispers. You could make his meals and help rub the knots from his back, lull him to sleep on otherwise nightmarish nights, and kiss him good luck once he leaves in the morning.

He would come home to find you just like this. Peacefully sleeping, dressed only in silly little undergarments, waiting for him to come back to you.

And he could touch you just like this...

You wake up in a flurry and fall onto the floor – swearing to have felt something warm and rough brush against your skin. You hiss at the pain, sitting against the sofa you’d slipped out of – ass stinging, having hit the cold wooden paneling hard.

Shivering on a coat of goosebumps in the nippy air, you look at the blanket left on the floor next to you, wondering why you’d kicked it off before further furrowing your brows at how unusually chilly it is until finally looking to the balcony – and the open door you don’t remember opening.