What you weren’t used to, was the man standing only a few feet away from you with his gaze zeroed in on your back. Trying your hardest, you pushed the thoughts of him to the back of your mind; there were more important things to do, like finding a way to get away with murder.

Looking down, you saw the blood on your shirt and let out a sigh. That was another cute shirt ruined. Once your hands were clean, you reached to lift the bottom of your shirt before you felt a pair of hands take your waist.

Jumping in surprise, you turned to see Geto invading your space. His hair was down already, framing his face perfectly and his shirt halfway unbuttoned. 

“G–Geto, I need to–” 

“No need for the formalities sweetheart,” he grinned. 

“Suguru–” his name barely left your lips before he pulled you closer. Watching his name fall from your lips as they sounded each syllable had him ready to make you scream it for hours on end.

You watched as his massive frame caged you in against the wall, dark eyes tracing every movement you made. Before you could even think, you felt a pair of lips on your neck, pulling soft sounds from you. "You have any fucking idea how much I crave you?" His voice rumbled against your throat, making your knees weak.

Supporting your weight with his thigh between your legs, you couldn’t resist the urge to grind your hips against it as he made quick work of ridding you of your shirt. Tossing it behind him, Suguru grinned against the skin of your throat before pulling you along to the musty old bed, the mattress creaking as he almost threw you on it in desperation. 

Barely able to catch your breath, Suguru was on top pinning you down to the mattress as he claimed your lips with his, a low groan rumbling in his chest that had you shivering in place. 

Holding your hands beside your head, Suguru slotted himself between your legs with his hips rutting against yours at a slow rhythmic pace that had you moving in his hold trying to get more. 

Breaking the kiss, Suguru looked down at you and your flustered expression. Lips swollen and kiss-bitten, eyes glossy and the cutest pout he’s seen. With a wink, Suguru took off your pants before moving lower. 

“This pussy so good,” he hummed as he teasingly slid your panties down your thighs. “Can’t wait to eat every last bit of cum I can,” 

Suguru’s filthy words made you squeak in response. No matter how many times he said something like this, you weren’t used to it feeling your face heat up each time. 

Your thoughts were interrupted by Suguru throwing your thighs over his shoulders as he got right down to business and licked several long stripes through your folds effectively taking your breath away. 

Hands flying to his hair, you couldn’t help but pull him closer. Arching into his touch, you couldn’t fight the pleas begging him to keep going. 

“S–Sugu–!” You felt him moan, the sound rumbling against your aching core as he peaked up at you with a dangerous look in his eyes. If you didn’t know better, you’d say Suguru did this for your pleasure. 

But you did know better; Suguru ate pussy for his pleasure, not yours. There was nothing more he wanted than to have his face buried between your thighs at all times; in bed, in the car, hell even at the table. 

Suguru loved the taste of you on his tongue, especially after he’d spent hours fucking you sensless so your cum was streaked with his. The way your thighs would tense around his head, keeping him in place as you pulled his hair drove him further. 

There was nothing he loved more than having you unravel beneath him, reduced to nothing but a whimpering cum-covered mess. And that was exactly what he was going to do. 

Your moans turned into cries, as he brought you closer to your climax almost begging him to let you cum. The way his hands gripped your thighs were sure to leave prints, as he devoured your sweet cunt. 

Barely able to make out the mumbled words over your moans, you heard him say “Mine, all mine.” over and over as his tongue worked you into a state of pure bliss, cumming all over his face. 

The lewd sounds of him slurping up your juices, with the occasional creak of the bed filled the room before he sat up and brushed his hair back with one hand while the other spread your lips to give him a view of his good work. 

“Look at my baby, all worked up with that look on her face.” he hummed, “You’d think I just spent hours fucking you repeatedly.” 

You watched as he removed his fingers from your pussy, and started to unbutton his shirt the rest of the way with your desire leaving stains on the fabric. Suguru knew how to rile you up, and with the way he was looking at you while he undressed had you squirming. 

“Sugu–” you whined, eyes darting down to the v-shaped muscle of his hips where his pants were unbuttoned and his bulge pressing though. 

“Need you, need you in me–” 

There was a deep rumbling sound you knew to be his laughter, clearly amused at the sight of you eyeing him over begging to be filled with his cock. 

Shoving his pants down to his knees, you could see the outline of his cock through his boxers with a wet patch forming. The sight made your mouth water, you needed his cock and you didn’t care where he shoved it. All you knew was that you needed it in you, and you needed it now. 

Using his thighs to keep yours apart, Suguru leaned over you with his hair falling over his face. Having him this close, you could see streaks of your cum coating his mouth and chin, along with a streak of blood over his forehead. You knew he was a messy eater, but this was a different level of messy. 

“Like what you see, sweetheart?” he hummed, pressing his hips against yours making you gasp softly at the contact. 

Opening your mouth to speak, you didn’t get a word out before Suguru pressed his thumb to your tongue with a malicious grin on his face. “Of course you do, why else would you beg for me to fuck you?” 

Moving closer, he pressed his lips to the crook of your neck keeping your mouth open continuing to move his hips against yours. Suguru thrived off the pitiful moans you made, wriggling under his body as he pressed you deeper into the mattress. 

“Look at the way you’re drooling all over my thumb,” slapping your ass with his free hand before moving it up your body to your throat. Pressing your tongue harder, Suguru watched your eyes go wide as he tightened his grip around your throat cutting off your airflow just enough to make your mind go fuzzy. 

“So pretty like this, and all mine.” Removing his thumb from your mouth, Suguru pressed his lips to yours. 

His kiss was intoxicating, pulling every ounce of breath from your lungs as his hips continued to roll against yours, teasing you with the length of his clothed cock. Suguru was dangerous, you knew he was the second you met him. But it wasn’t the murder or the crimes he committed that made him dangerous; it was the way he had you drunk on nothing but his kiss making you pliable in any way he wanted.

The way he kissed you was messy. Messy, nasty and so fucking addicting with how his teeth clashed against yours, spitting in your mouth as he sucked on your tongue claiming you as his in every way he knew how. 

Suguru Geto was toxic, dangerous and it only made you want him more. 

With your fingers tangled in his hair, Suguru only grinned as he slowly removed his boxers, sighing in relief as his cock sprang free bouncing off your hips. 

“Feel what you do to me, huh sweetheart?” he groaned. “Feel how hard you make me with your sweet cunt and pretty little mouth?” 

Whines were the only thing to leave your lips, feeling the swollen tip of his cock stroke through your folds as he teased you mercilessly with the very thought of having inside you, splitting you in half with the sheer size of it. 

“Sugu–Sugu, please–” you nibbled on his lips, tugging on his hair with your thighs pushed up to give him better access. “–hurts how much I need you–” 

A high pitched squeal was pulled from you as Suguru pulled his hips back just enough to rub the head of his cock against your opening, coating it in your sweet nectar. The smell of sex was in the air, as you gasped for breath feeling him bully his fat cock in you slowly thrusting until he was buried to the hilt.

His moans mixed with yours, his breath fanning over your face as he continued his pace keeping his grip on your throat accompanied with the sound of the bed creaking and thudding into the wall with each thrust of his hips. 

“I wanna hear–fuck–wanna hear you say it.” he grunted. “Say you’re mine,” 

“Yours–all yours–” 

Granting you with another kiss, Suguru grinned as he picked up the pace moaning against your lips feeling your nails dig into his back. “That’s my girl, let me hear how good my cock feels stretching that tight little pussy of yours.” 

Your moans picked up, matching the pace of his hips as you clawed down his back crying his name; begging him to keep going. Nothing in your life had ever felt this good, not even when you were drunk trying to forget the horrors you’ve committed. Suguru knew how to make you forget, almost like he was trying to forget himself. 

Hearing his breaths speed up, you knew he was close and from the way you were clinging to him Suguru knew you were too. 

“Come on baby, cum on my cock and let me fill you; stuff you full with mine.” He panted, “Let me mark you as mine, all fucking mine.” 

Nodding your head, you arched into his chest drawing blood from his back as he brought you closer to your climax. 

“You’re mine,” he growled. “If anyone even thinks about touching you, I’ll rip them apart.” 

Listening to his words made you desperate, you’d be lying if you said Suguru’s possessiveness wasn’t hot, or the way he had to be the only one allowed to touch you made you feel things you never have before. 

“Sugu–fuck!” you felt your body shake from the force of your orgasm, panting heavily as he thrusted his hips a few more times before filling you with his hot seed, moaning against the skin of your throat. 

“So fucking good for me baby,” he hummed. “Pussy so fucking good, lips so good–fuck it’s like you were made to take my cock.” 

Your hands were in his hair now, threading it through your fingers as the two of you laid there letting the atmosphere settle around you. Suguru wasn’t a man to say what he was feeling, but the way he pressed soft kisses to the base of your throat as he held you close told you all you needed to know. 

He cared, in his own fucked up way, Suguru cared and that’s what mattered. 

“How about we shower?” you hummed, looking down at him. 

Glancing up at you with those beautifully haunting eyes of his, you could see the smile behind them. “Sounds like a plan sweetheart,”

Tremulously, you caution a glance upward, shivering in your grimy concert shoes at the thought of having to confront the absolute beast of a security guard who’d been eyeing you all night…

Instead, when your eyes finally grace the features of your obstacle, it is not at all the formidable security guard of your nightmares. In fact, the reality is much worse.

Looking down at you is Geto Suguru, ShinShow’s lead singer, in all of his six-footed, long, luscious haired, tattooed, gauged lobed, pierced-faced glory.

When you fail to produce any words, he smirks at you, seemingly relishing in the uncomfortable silence. With dawning horror, you realize that he intends to wait you out. His imposing stature is so broad and the dim hallway is so cramped that you would not be able to pass unless he let you. And, judging by his sardonically amused impassivity, he has no intention of doing anything of that sort.

Your gulp is audible in the dead quiet. Frozen, you linger in paralysis, an animal of prey caught in still waters.

“Well, you look lost,” says Geto Suguru, deceptively calm.

His face is the pinnacle of classic beauty: an unblemished, sanguine ivory mask. The deceptively easygoing set to his superhuman features sets the lids of his eyes low, cutting across the horizon of his irises in one neat, lethal swoop.

Any ShinShow fan with half of a functioning brain knows not to be fooled by this theatrical performance. It is this same, seemingly lackadaisical Geto Suguru who unleashes live performances inspiring pure, unadulterated horror and dread amongst an eager, addicted audience. His antics as the band’s front man have included, but are certainly not limited to: lovingly instructing his fans to refer to him as “Geto-sama”; regurgitating fake (?) blood on stage; displaying a seriously terrifying proficiency in martial arts as a form of choreography; and, of course, passionately and enthusiastically belting out self-composed lyrics lamenting the state of the world, the salvation to be found in existential dread, and the anarchist desire to destroy life as it currently manifests.

So, you know. Light work.

Point being: this is a man who you do not want to fuck around with. Even as a dedicated superfan, there are some risks best left unchallenged. You don’t even want to think about what he would say (or do…?) if he found out that you’d been sneaking around and preparing to break and enter into one of his bandmate’s dressing room…

“I am,” you lie, bowing your head in an attempt to shield your quivering bottom lip and your wet, shifty eyes. For some reason, you feel like he’ll see right through you if you let him. “Could you please direct me to the exit? I am very sorry to trouble you.”

Geto’s hearty laugh startles you into looking up at him. “Sure you don’t want a polaroid pic before you go?”

There are sparkles and glitter and sunshine and rainbows melting out of your head, leaking out of your ear canals, dripping down your neck and shoulders and onto the dirty concrete like liquified brain matter. “If—if you insist.”

This is how you find yourself posing against a disgusting brick wall with the one and only Geto Suguru. You would squee, if the thought of fangirling in front of Geto Suguru didn’t make you want to violently extinguish your own existence.

The only thing worse than fangirling embarrassingly hard in front of Geto would be the insinuation that he is your oshi and you are one of his “followers,” as he has lovingly (?) dubbed his personal fanbase. To bear the brunt of his condescending, considerably sadistic attitude which he wields against fans like a whip of love…

It would be indecent(ly erotic)! It would be humiliating(ly pleasurable)! You would not survive (with your dignity intact)!

Out of the kindness of his cold, dead heart, he takes multiple shots with you. The first picture sees the both of you shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling serenely at the camera – a standard shot for oshi and fan. The second picture is his signature M.O. for fanservice photos: your faces are deadpanned in joint, mildly disgusted unison, staring down the viewer with thinly veiled contempt. It’s a popular, ironic style for niche idols like ShinShow to poke fun at both themselves as well as the concept of idol fanservice in general. Secretly, you derive a different meaning entirely from the farcical display of scorn. It is as though you gaze at the viewer as a voyeur. Why are you here? Why are you looking at him? Why are you looking at us? Go away. You aren’t worthy.

The white-hot flash of a successfully snapped shot sears across your vision like the wink of a shooting star, immeasurably awesome, woefully transient. As you mourn this interaction’s inevitable end, Geto surprises you by asking if you’d like some digital photos as well.

Charmed, you find yourself unable to do anything but agree, albeit not too enthusiastically. Appearances are important, here.

After quickly unlocking the device, he smoothly slips your smartphone from your shaky, clammy grasp, raising it up to a fashionably high selfie angle. Inside the four-by-four digital reflection, you are confronted with a reality you have never dared hope to imagine:

Geto Suguru, long black hair loose and in disarray from a recent stage performance, makeup running down the chiseled planes of his face in pigmented rivulets, black-painted nails splayed in a facetious peace sign right underneath your chin.

Crap, his hand is really warm! You can’t help but to lean into the plush crevice of skin between his pointer and thumb…is it weird, that you’re kind of obsessed with how soft it is? For a seasoned musician with quite the gnarly disposition, his hands – much like the rest of him – are deceptively soft.

Is it really alright, to be this close to him? As he snaps the third and final photo, you lose yourself in the intoxicating sensation of skin-to-skin contact. Delusional from the proximity, your consciousness has been untethered from your body, entirely outside of the reach of normal human sensibilities. You are only slammed back into your own mind when a sudden, swift constriction of pressure on your lower jaw demands your attention.

Shocked, you try to turn your head to look up at your idol.  Subsequently, you are horrified to realize that it is his hand who restricts your movement.

In the mirrored image displayed by your phone camera, your trembling pupils track the slow spread of Geto’s lips which peel back from his teeth like unfurling layers of some fruit repulsively past the point of ripeness. Suddenly, his beautiful, white face of traditional peerless beauty now appears to you as an eerie mask concealing an unimaginably horrific reality.

“Did you know that I can smell your fear?” says Geto conversationally, still facing the camera, still smiling.

His mirrored image belies a reflection perhaps even more terrifying than an overtly antagonistic expression of anger or wrath. Instead of obvious malice, Geto’s undisturbed sanguineness installs within you a new and revolutionary kind of desperate terror.

“E-excuse me?” You ask, voice a tremulous, pitiful thing. “I don’t think I understand, Geto-san—”

Fast as lightning, and just as electrifyingly immobilizing, Geto’s large hand reaches upwards to smother your “You’ll use that mouth to properly address me Geto-sama, or you won’t use it at all. What is a follower’s role but to obey?”

A chill runs down the length of you, infiltrating your nervous system, hijacking your senses, arresting your higher functioning. Geto’s words sink in with fatal clarity: you are not escaping this. This is your fate.

Oddly, this realization excites you.

As though the line about smelling your fear wasn’t merely a maniacal bluff, Geto’s neatly-trimmed brows raise almost at the same time as you come to this conclusion. As a heady sort of anticipation fills your gut, his mask cracks for the first time, toeing the line between disgust and another, unnamable sentiment – one that lends a new kind of scintillating, sadistic twinkle in those small, dark eyes.

“Don’t tell me--” His fingers dig even more deeply into the supple flesh of your burning cheeks. “—that you like this.” Before you can curb it, a damning whimper flies forth from your dry throat, betraying your weakened knees, the weeping arousal between your quaking thighs.

More than being scared, you are egregiously humiliated. Not even a momentary reprive through fluttering your eyes shut is granted to you, for Geto violently shakes your skull in his palm until you are jolted back to staring into the selfie camera.

The frightened, excited tears that spill from the corners of your eyes only serve to further validate his salacious suspicions. “You do. How interesting.”

His gaze strays from your own in the phone camera, wandering to fixate on a point a few centimeters above your head. Is he plotting his next move? Does he know something that you don’t? Is he wholly sane?

Of course he isn’t! You scream at yourself, internally. Any guy who holds a girl hostage backstage is absolutely off his rocker!!

And yet – shamefully – you’re kind of into it.

Will you die tonight? Maybe.

Will you go out with a bang? Hopefully.

“Ghkfdbmmsnnmm,” you plea from behind his fingers. Graciously, he peels back his fingers, one-by -one, partially releasing your voice from his clutches even as he still hostages your face with cautious interest.

This time, when you speak, your voice sounds like a gunshot in the empty stillness of the desolate corridor. In this atmosphere, it feels as though there is not another soul alive besides you and your captor.

“Geto-sama. Please have mercy…”

He must be able to tell it’s an act. You don’t even sound convincing to yourself. The last thing you crave is his mercy.

“My, my. Such a turn this has taken,” he muses, fingers idly tapping away at your back molars. “What shall I do with you?”

Eat me alive, supplies your brain. “Whatever Geto-sama wills, it is my duty to fulfill.”

When you lock eyes in the camera, meeting each other’s gazes through the digital mirage for the last time, Geto shuts off the phone with one quick, decisive movement. You watch the system warning flash across the screen before everything goes dark and quiet. No more camera. No more phone. No more location services. The device drops to the ground with a heart-dropping clatter. You don’t have time to wonder if it survives the fall.

Geto turns to you for the first time in what feels like eons. Without the layer of pixelated filters softening the blow, being subject to his direct line of sight paralyzes you to the core.

“Get on your knees.”

Instantly, you obey. Refusal does not even cross your mind. The grimy floor rushes to greet your knees with a firm thud! The impact reverberates throughout your entire body, setting every single nerve alight with stimulation.

He draws over to you lackadaisically, like a tiger stalking its sure kill. Playing into it, you shuffle backwards, scraping your sensitive knees and shins against the unforgiving platform until your heels hit the wall behind you.

“Your fear is waning. You aren’t scared,” says Geto, undoing his fly. “You should be.”

Without further ado, he pulls out his dick and shoves it inside the wanton cavern of your willing, wanting mouth.

It happens so fast that your eyes can’t quite keep up with his movements, unable to visually register just how large his appendage is until it’s being stuffed down your throat. Bile rises to greet the tip of his dick and he is, apparently, into that. Makes it all the wetter.

For your part, you are struggling to maintain your initial excitement. In your lust-addled, starstruck stupor, you imagined that you and your idol shared a similar appreciation for the taboo mirage of consensually non-consensual liaisons. What you had failed to realize was that you were the only imaginary in this particular fantasy scenario. What used to exist merely as the stuff of wet-dream musings has now crystallized into a concrete reality; a reality wherein there are no safe-words, no underlying currents of care or affection, and no opting out.

You realize the extent of your disadvantaged position when Geto takes a break from brutalizing your esophagus to release you from his clutches and decides that he would rather rub his dick all over your face, instead.

Not only this, but he smacks you with it.

This isn’t even the stuff of brutal pornos. You’re no stranger to the horrors of exploitative snuff film, and even those seem to pale in comparison to the way he holds the back of your skull with one hand as he beats your cheekbones, your nose, your eyelids, your mouth, your chin, your jaw, even your fucking ears with his cock. From the crest of your hairline to the peaks of your clavicles, you are sodden with wet, sticky precum, battered with blooming bruises.

It all happens so fast that you barely have time to blink – definitely no time to indulge in the privilege of breathing. Geto’s movements become frenzied, harried, washing over you dark and fast like the rolling thunder of an impending typhoon.

Caught in the midst of severely troubled waters, ears roaring with adrenaline, blood, and terror, rooted to the spot by forces beyond your body’s will, your mind sparks to life with one last-ditch attempt at a moment of clarity:

What will you do?

>  Call for help.

No matter how hard you dig your nails into his dark denim-clad thighs, he refuses to relent, sparing your esophagus of the ongoing onslaught only when he teeters too close to the edge. He’s savoring this, you realize, horrified. He’s getting off on your exploitation, your fear.

This time, when tears spring to your eyes, it isn’t out of pure biological shock – as the shroud of dissociation unfurls itself to reveal your harrowing circumstances, a real and true wail of terror flies forth from your lips along with the icky mess of sex and violence that drips out, too, like black blood oozing from a fatal wound.

Your true oshi, Yuuta, would never do this to you… all you’d wanted was to catch a glimpse of him, to personally thank him for his efforts over the years, to validate his status as a beloved, successful idol. Your intentions had been so pure. How did it end up like this? Why was this happening to you? How could your tireless fan-labor over the past several years be rewarded with assault, careless indulgence, and sadism?

Sure, your relationship with Yuuta might be entirely parasocial in nature. Sure, you’ve never had a face-to-face interaction with him.

But he’s read your letters. He knows your username. He smiles upon your well wishes. Perhaps the fervor of starstruck adrenaline manipulates your common sense and higher reasoning skills, but, when you’re swept up in the neon, fluorescent sea of other dedicated fans with their slogan banners and Cyalume light sticks, it’s almost as though Yuuta’s eyes return to you, over and over and over again, throughout each song, during each break, with every ment section, and always during the final bow – almost as though he is wishing you, specifically, a most heartfelt thanks and good night.

These sentiments swirl within you, solidifying as a solid conviction to do something crazy, something unthinkable, something so far-fetched you must wonder if it will only serve to exacerbate the already dire situation from which you find yourself struggling to escape with your dignity and life intact.

Desperate times, and all that.

“Yuuta!”

Geto’s face falls through the floorboards. Attractive features twisting into ugly fury, he hurries to cover your mouth, to stuff you full once more with his immobilizing arousal, but a burst of hope animates your struggle and you avoid his attempted suppression, whipping your head to the side to shout out one last time: “Yuu-chan!!”

You don’t really know what you expect to happen. After all, who would Yuuta be willing to believe in this compromising position: his bandmate, alongside whom he has performed countless times, and rehearsed for countless hours; or a fan, who has been caught traversing in a restricted area that she was not supposed to be privy to, anyhow?

Soon enough, your questions are answered swiftly and decisively.

One moment, the man above you is making frantic movements to silence and subdue your cries for help; and the next, you suddenly find yourself on the opposite side of the corridor, hoisted over a meter into the air.

From this distance, Geto is no longer the all-powerful, imposing figure who had forced you to your knees and penetrated your mouth with little care for consent or decency. Now, he stands apart from you as a regular man – one with a certain element of trepidation lingering on his frame, if his wary eyes and shifting feet have anything to say.

You’re grateful to be rescued from his clutches once and for all...but how… who…?

No. It couldn’t be.

Almost fearfully, you chance a look upward, so that you might gaze upon the image of your savior.

What peers down at you is a sight you would never in a million years have hoped to encounter outside of your dreams.

Okkotsu Yuuta, bassist of the infamous underground idol group, ShinShow, your oshi of many seasons, and quite possibly the love of your life, holds you firmly in his large, capable hands, looking down at you with an impossibly familiar fondness and ill-concealed relief.

“I’m so glad I found you,” he whispers, just for your ears, “after all this time.”

Huh?

“You did the right thing by calling for me,” continues Yuuta, hoisting you up higher in his grip until you’re perched on his hip while he secures you with nothing more than one arm looped firmly underneath your backside. Your hands fly up to wind around his neck, fingers intertwining where the soft down of his unkept black shag feathers from obsidian softness to the pallid, sickly pale at the nape of his knobby neck. It doesn’t even take that much pressure against the flesh to feel the knobs of his spine. His skeleton cries out for attention, from the way his hip bone interjects in between the ball-and-socket of your pelvis, to the almost painfully secure insistence brought about by his protective (pointy) elbow underneath your plush under-thigh.

“Heheh, sorry, man! Thought she was up for grabs.”

Jesus, you’d almost forgotten Geto was still there, you were so enraptured by Yuuta’s calming oasis of a presence. At the sound of his voice, your head whips over to the offender, and you don’t know whether to feel dismayed or furious at his overly casual countenance. The cruel, sadistic man from mere moments before now stands with one hand jammed into a pocket with the other scratching at the back of his head. His eyes flutter shut, once more, restored back to their characteristic half-lidded state of perpetual serenity. Gone is the hard glint of malice that cut into you like a blade, leeching you of any and all hope or desire to live. It’s as though a switch has been flicked. It’s terrifying.

Uncontrollably, you shiver. From nerves or the stale dregs of your arousal, you cannot precisely discern.

You can’t see Yuuta’s face from this angle, but his voice resembles nothing from Geto’s easygoing tone. “I must have been remiss in my efforts to have given you that impression.”

“I mean, she came onto me. Wasn’t your fault. Happens to the best of us.”

Immediately, you protest Geto’s outlandish claims, shaking your head and tightening your already white-knuckled grip on the back of Yuuta’s oversized jumper.

“Not true,” you try to shout, but it leaves you instead as a hoarse whimper. Oh. “Was—was looking for you, Yuuta, promise. Went to your room…Got scared and lost. Then, he found me…”

“I see,” says Yuuta, speaking again in that low, quiet voice. The effect it has on you is the same as those twelve-hour calming frequency videos you play to fall asleep at night. Like simmering butter, you melt, powerless in the wake of powers far beyond your physical constitution. “Thank you for telling me. Can you close your eyes and cover your ears? You don’t need to see or hear this.”

Unquestioningly, you obey. When has Yuuta ever given you reason to doubt his trust, his loyalty?

With your primary senses of perception effectively dulled, all you are able to register is the slight jostling of your body as Yuuta’s own surges forward; the deep vibrations of his chest as he is presumably speaking with Geto; a couple of sharp movements that threaten your stability in his arms; and then, finally, a change in light and temperature. When Yuuta gently taps your forehead to signal that the worst is over, you hesitantly open your eyes, blinking back tears of light sensitivity and relief.

You find yourself in a room all at once unfamiliar and quite familiar. You’ve never been here, and yet, you immediately know where you are upon first glance. The sparse interior décor, the scattered scraps of black and white clothing, the array of misshapen, self-made erasers across the modest vanity, and next to them – the sight of several unsealed envelopes, all containing letters with your handwriting, laid out in chronological order, from the first piece of correspondence you’d ever chanced in sending to him to the most recent profession of your unwavering support and desire.

“I never travel without them,” he says, jolting you from your reverie. “They come with me to every show, every tour, every schedule, every shoot, every filming.”

What to say to this? What could you possibly offer him, other than the overwhelmingly huge sob that eclipses any form of a coherent response?

There’s too much that has transpired within the past two hours for you to properly and adequately process. You decide, instead, to accept everything at face value. There is no other alternative, not in this moment. You’d rather go back to Geto – you would rather die than question the forces above that have led you into Yuuta’s arms.

He accepts your tears in stride, extending his body ever-so-slightly to reach for an article that he then drapes over your quaking shoulders, your shivering limbs. When you blink back to the real world, you find that he’s adorned you with a peculiar black blanket – one with a strange, off-putting pattern of wide-open, bright blue eyes. They stare back at you in clinical analysis. You can’t help but to feel observed by the inanimate (?) object.

“Thank you,” says Yuuta, drawing your wandering gaze back to his lovely features now pinched with integrity, with concern, with intention, “for loving me. You don’t know how happy that makes me.”

“There’s no other choice for me,” you rush to answer, fingers coming up to claw at the distressed collar of his worn sweater. “It’s always been you. I couldn’t choose anyone else…that’s why…when he…when…”

Yuuta shushes you, mercifully. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore. I’ve taken care of it. You’re safe now. He won’t ever touch you again.”

His phrasing makes your eyes widen with trepidation. “What did you…?” You can’t even finish the thought.

“Nothing that he didn’t deserve. He knew the consequences of touching something that didn’t belong to him – all the rest of them should know as much, for that matter.”

“The rest…?”

To wrap your head around what he implies is a somewhat heretical notion to your poor brain, which is predisposed to perennial self-deprecation. There’s no way…

“You’re a very special human—fan.” Yuuta quickly corrects himself, but the utterance has already left his lips. “You are one of a kind and quite coveted. I’m very lucky to have won you over when I did. I will always treasure you. I will always want to keep you safe. Will you let me?”

“How could I not?” You demure, entirely entranced by his fanficul words. It’s like one of your favorite reader-insert narratives has materialized into your lived reality and wholly absorbed you in the fabric of its far-fetched, fictional fantasy.

Excited by your easy willingness, he draws your faces closer together, such that you are able to ascertain the unique quality of his mysterious, inviting dark eyes. They are not black, as you’d previously thought, but rather, an indescribable color that commands your attention, sucks in your assessment, compels you not to look away, never look away, until you’re able to figure out just what, indeed, lies within those irises; you fear the true answer may never come to you. You find that you are content to gaze into his murky depths anyways.

“Do you promise? Would you make a Vow with me?”

The way he says it sounds like something much more significant than a mere promise to let him guard you – and yet, perhaps this agreement is that significant to him. Immeasurable charmed by the prospect, you are the one who now draws closer, bumping noses with your oshi, your savior, the love of your life, as you impress upon his chapped lips an affirmation of your all-consuming dedication:

“I Vow to be bound to you,” you whisper, the words finding you as naturally as rainfall navigates to the earth’s waiting, fertile soil. “There is nothing I want more in this world… I’m so happy…” A passionate kiss seals the promise, one that tastes like sweat and salt and tears.

You do not yet realize what this Vow entails. You are not yet aware of the permanent proximity to Okkotsu Yuuta that you will be subjected to from this point forward. You have no way of knowing that you have just forfeited all autonomy or claim to live as a regular mortal for the rest of your days.

In this moment, all that comes to mind is the euphoric happiness of being wholly accepted and embraced by Yuuta. Matters such as your personal safety and security are now governed by a being outside of yourself – one who has proven himself worthy of such trust and confidence. You don’t need to worry about anything else.

Does anything else really matter, in the end?

[MAY YOU REST IN PEACE.]

When really think about it – as much as your throatfucked sensibilities will allow – there is only one ShinShow member who has, thus far, communicated in explicit, unambiguous terms, his very serious intentions towards you. And it is this ShinShow member, the main vocal, front man, and leader himself, Geto Suguru, who stands above you, now, legs parted in solid footing, hips thrusting with reckless abandon into the moist, tight cavern of your spasming throat.

Is this not a display of desire? Is this not the clearest form of yearning? Is this not a reward for your years of dedicated service and tireless efforts towards the good of the group’s – the good of his career?

Are you not being rewarded, in this moment?

Your brain comes back online, successfully recalibrating its perception of your current situation. Rather than continuing to struggle in true terror, your weak protestations are now purposefully pathetic. When you glare up at him, you take care not to blink away your tears, so that your running mascara and red eyes are made all the more alluring by your obvious misery.

Geto, as you’d hopefully anticipated, laps it up almost as though he is the one drinking eagerly from your performance. He groans, loudly, uncaring of the way his vocalized pleasure bounces from brick wall to slimy brick wall, ricocheting like trapped bullets. The sound of his enjoyment impacts you just as forcefully as a bullet, too; your abdomen clenches, your toes curl, and your eyes cross, overcome with the urge to double over in an all-consuming, entirely involuntary bodily response.

“That’s it,” he huffs, freeing one hand from your tangled locks to run a cursory pass through his own, impatiently shoving away stray strands of his long, luscious black hair so that he might enjoy the sight of ruining you with entirely unobstructed vision. “Good girl. You like taking it, don’t you? Let’s see how much more you can bear.”

A wretched, questioning whimper begs him to elaborate. He gives you your answer, soon enough, in the form of plugging your nose and shoving your head all the way down the length of him. You are forced to swallow him down so far that the tiny whisper of skin between the bridge of your cupid’s bow and the tip of your nose is pressed flush against his neatly trimmed pubic hair.

“I’m going to count to ten,” says Geto, cheerily. “And you’re going to try to stay conscious. It’ll be fun. Ready? Oops, I guess I already started, haha. Think of this as a trial period. Practice makes perfect. Okay, now I’ll really count. One…”

You fight against the primal urge to gag against his length. You lose that battle, just as you’ve long lost any right to your dignity or shame. It makes the suction around his cock all the wetter.

“Two…”

The tears collecting at your lash line are forcibly evicted, forced to dribble down your cheeks just as your mouth waters with the evidence of your brutal violation. So much of your makeup has watered off, at this point, that there is no longer a stinging sensation when your painstakingly applied product infiltrates your eyes. Or, rather, is the stinging dulled by the overwhelming urgency with which your body fights to breathe, to stay above water?

“Three…”

You are trying very hard to stay still. You want to hear him call you a good girl, again.

“Four…”

But your resolve is quickly threatened by your body’s internal flight-or-fight instincts. Unbidden, your hands fly up to his hips, trying in vain to push him off of you, out of your mouth. Geto’s bemused chuckle sounds tinny and faraway, as though he’s laughing at you from the other end of an abandoned tunnel. Thankfully, he recognizes the movement for what it is, and merely holds both of your hands to his hips with one of his own. After all, it’s not like he really needs to be clutching the back of your head to keep your throat wrapped around his cock – the grimy brick wall is more than enough of a suitable brace on the back of your skull.

“Five…”

From this point onwards, time, much like your own sanity, bends and breaks, defying the laws of known reality, snapping underneath the unstoppable force of Geto’s will. Who’s to say six comes next, and not some other, absurd digit? How are you even meant to keep track of linear constructions of time in your current state? How can you be a full, human being without regular access to oxygen – one of the fundamental staples of being a mortal on this planet?

You must not be human, in this moment, is the conclusion you eventually arrive at. You are merely a receptacle for Geto’s desire. You exist to answer Geto’s call. You were manifested in this world for the purpose of Geto’s satisfaction. This is what it means to truly support and serve your idol.

Because, after this experience, Geto is not just a musical idol to you. He evokes a yearning within you that strays along the lines of a much more primordial, ancient form of worship. He is your Idol.

So, when he finally deigns to grant you mercy (allegedly after ten seconds, but who can really say?), and the evidence of his satiated arousal is forcibly ejected straight down the back of your throat, the first words out of your mouth upon his compassionate release of your mouth are:

“Many thanks to Geto-sama.”

You barely recognize your own voice. Oddly, you can’t decide what’s more foreign to you: the hoarse quality of your freshly fucked vocal chords, or the odd, empty brokenness that renders your timbre devoid of any emotion or feeling.

Geto seems to lick the air itself, ingesting the remnants of a sufficiently salacious liaison. It’s a rather crude piece of performance art; he laps at something you cannot see, gulping it down with a peculiar expression. His throat bobs dramatically around the empty air. You wonder if this is a strange, post-coital ritual of his.

You hope to be granted the opportunity to bear witness to it again.

“That was delicious,” he says, which you find ironic because you are the one who was truly fed, tonight. “A worthy pet, indeed. I might have to keep you around. Hey, give me your LINE code.”

Dazedly, you start to move to your feet before he tuts disapprovingly. “Ah, ah, ah. Who told you that you could stand up? It certainly wasn’t me.”

Cowed, you bow your head and offer your phone up to him with two politely outstretched hands, gaze fixed steadfastly on your bruised and battered knees.

After he’s finished commandeering your contact information, you are sent on your way with a cheery “Great work tonight! See ya!” Without any further explanation. The 180 shift from sadistic, cruel omnipotent being to his usual collected, tranquil mask of polite mystique would be enough to give you whiplash if you weren’t already dizzy and disoriented enough from the activities of the evening.

With wobbly legs, an overly-wet mouth, ruined makeup, and Geto’s contact information stored squarely away in your phone, you find yourself alone and abandoned in the empty corridor.

[ROUTE CLEAR.]

CONGRATULATIONS! Alternate Endings have been unlocked for players who have cleared routes: CHOSO, OKKOTSU YUUTA, GETO SUGURU:

How will you exit the venue?

> Go back the way you came.

> Sneak out of the fire escape.