#he looks so dumb... head empty... no thoughts...

"this is what happens when you fuckin' tease me, brat," he muttered, leaning in, lips brushing your jaw. "you go out in a little slutty skirt, nothing under, and dare me to lose control?"

he shoved two fingers inside you and you gasped, head falling back, thighs clenching around his wrist.

"keep 'em open," he growled. "you wanted this. now fucking take it."

he didn’t even unbuckle his seatbelt. just leaned closer, lips biting your throat while his fingers curled deep and fast, knuckles slick, your wetness coating his palm. you were already whining, trying to stay quiet as the sounds of schlk schlk schlk echoed in the closed car.

but then he pulled out. you barely had time to whimper before he was out of the car, walking around to your side. he opened the passenger door and grabbed your ankle.

"toji—!"

he yanked you halfway out of the car, feet on the ground, your upper body still sprawled across the seat, knees spread wide, skirt riding up. the whole garage was empty, but most likely not safe.

and you loved it.

"you’re gonna fuck me right here," he muttered, undoing his belt with one hand, while taking your seat in the car, cock already thick and flushed, leaking at the tip. he stroked himself once—then grabbed your hips and pulled you down onto his lap.

the first thrust was brutal. you choked on a cry, arms flying around his shoulders, pussy stretching full around his cock.

"so fuckin’ tight," he groaned into your ear, both hands gripping your ass hard, slamming you down over and over. "drippin’ all over me. and we’re still in public."

you tried to say something—tried to tell him someone might see—but he just grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back.

"let 'em see," he snarled. "let 'em see what a nasty little thing you are, bouncin’ on my cock in a fucking parking lot. no panties, no shame."

your moans were high, breathless, swallowed into his mouth as he kissed you hard, teeth clashing, your body bouncing on his lap with each punishing thrust. his cock hit deep, your clit grinding against the root of him every time you dropped. the car creaked with the motion. sweat slicked your spine. your thighs were shaking.

"toji—i’m—" you couldn’t even finish.

your climax ripped through you hard, legs locking around him as your pussy clenched like a vice. he grunted, bucking harder, his hands bruising your hips as he fucked you through it.

"that’s it," he growled. "cream on my cock. let me feel that messy cunt."

and then he was cumming too. his breath stuttered, his arms locked around you as he shoved himself deep and stayed there, cock twitching, thick cum spilling into you. you felt it drip back out almost instantly, trailing down his shaft, smearing onto his jeans.

the car was silent, save for your panting. you slumped against him. dazed. boneless. a complete mess. toji chuckled, "panties or not," he murmured against your neck, "you’re mine."

“damn,” he said, dragging the word out with a smirk, “didn’t know i was hosting a porn shoot instead of a costume party.”

everyone laughed. you blushed, tried to play it off, and he just winked, sipping his drink. no scene, no scolding, nothing. if anything, he looked like he was having the time of his life, cracking jokes, teasing you every time you bent over the bar or twirled on the dance floor.

but he never took his eyes off you. not once.

and now? now the mask had slipped.

he’d waited until the party was still in full swing, dragged you into the elevator with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, hit the button for his penthouse suite upstairs. by the time the doors slid open, his arm was around your waist like a vice.

“you’re a fucking menace, you know that?” he muttered as he shoved you inside, voice still coated in honey but laced with steel underneath. “little vampire slut costume, stockings, tits practically begging for attention—yeah, real funny, baby. had the whole crowd eating out of your hand.”

he tossed you onto his king-sized bed, silk sheets swallowing you up, and for the first time all night his grin was gone. his jaw was sharp, clenched, his blue eyes blazing as he stalked toward you, peeling off his jacket and tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

“don’t pout,” he said when you opened your mouth. “you knew exactly what you were doing. don’t play dumb.”

before you could argue, he was on you, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other dragging down your corset, fingers tugging so rough the boning groaned.

“god, this thing—” he sneered, leaning close, breath hot against your ear, “—cheap, slutty, nothing but a neon sign screaming ‘look at me.’”

he licked a stripe up your throat, nipped just below your jaw, and then—rip. the corset snapped under his grip, strings giving way like paper.

“oops,” he said, mock-innocent, smirk back in place now as he tossed the ruined piece aside. “guess it wasn’t built to last, huh?”

his free hand slid down, palming your breast roughly, thumbing your nipple until you arched under him. his cock was already pressed against you through his trousers, hard and demanding, and he rolled his hips slow, taunting.

“whole night, i had to watch people stare. and i smiled. i joked. i let you have your fun.” his voice had dropped low, dangerous, a growl under the sugar. “but don’t you ever fucking think i didn’t notice. i notice everything.”

he let your wrists go just long enough to flip you onto your stomach, his palm pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you down. the cape was still hanging off you, bunched awkwardly around your arms, and he laughed when he saw it.

“a cape?” he said, mockery dripping. “what are you, halloween dracula’s side piece? nah, baby, this has gotta go too.” he yanked it until the clasp at your throat snapped, tossing it over his shoulder without a second glance.

your ass was bare now, stockings torn from his nails, and he smacked it hard enough to make you jolt, a sharp crack filling the room.

“that’s better,” he drawled. “no gimmicks. just you.”

his zipper came down and then he was shoving into you, no warning, no pretense, burying himself deep until you gasped his name into the sheets.

“fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, hands gripping your hips so tight you’d bruise. “tight little cunt, soaking wet for me after strutting around like a slut all night. knew you wanted this.”

his pace was merciless, his cock driving into you so deep the bedframe groaned, the silk sheets twisting under your fists as you tried to hold on.

“you think i’m stupid?” he taunted, his voice breaking into harsh breaths as he pounded you. “you think i didn’t see how you loved it? the attention, the stares, the whispers. you liked it. you fucking loved making me watch.”

you tried to shake your head, but he pulled your hair back, forcing you upright, your back pressed against his chest, his cock still spearing into you without pause.

“nah, don’t lie,” he hissed in your ear, teeth grazing your lobe. “you’re mine. my bratty, spoiled little baby, but mine. and i’ll fucking ruin you till you remember that.”

his hand slid down between your thighs, rubbing your clit in rough, fast circles that made your legs shake. “you gonna cum?” he teased, voice ragged. “you gonna cum for daddy after parading yourself around like free candy?”

“please—” you choked out, body trembling.

“please what?” he demanded, thrusts even harder now, your whole body bouncing against him. “please let you cum? please fuck you harder? you beg so sweet, baby, say it louder.”

your words dissolved into sobs and cries as the pleasure snapped, your orgasm crashing through you like a storm, your body clenching so tight around him he cursed loud, a filthy groan tearing from his chest.

“fuck, yes,” he growled, driving into you harder, chasing his own release. “that’s it, that’s my girl—cum for me, squeeze me, god, you’re perfect—”

he came with a guttural shout, burying himself deep, filling you until it leaked down your thighs. he slumped forward, chest against your back, lips dragging across your shoulder, kissing the sweaty skin with surprising softness.

for a long moment, the room was only panting, heartbeats, the distant thump of music from the party below.

then, gojo laughed. quiet, low, smug.

“yeah,” he murmured against your skin, kissing your neck again. “you’re never wearing that shit again. consider it retired.”

he pulled out, flopped onto the bed beside you, stretching out like a man who hadn’t just torn your costume to shreds and fucked you senseless. he grabbed his phone from the nightstand, thumbs moving fast as he smirked at the screen.

“ordering you a new one,” he said casually. “custom made. slutty as hell, but only for me.”

and when you turned your head, dazed, to look at him, he only winked, throwing an arm around you and pulling you close against his chest.

“happy halloween, baby.”

GETO SUGURU

the way suguru had handled it from the very beginning was… infuriating. not loud, not explosive, not even as sharp as nanami’s cold disapproval—his rage was all in how quiet he was. you’d walked into his home library, done up in that ridiculous halloween costume—a skimpy angel getup, feathers clinging to your shoulders, short white dress cut so high it barely covered your ass, halo headband perched over your hair like a joke—and instead of barking at you, instead of dragging you away from the guests immediately, he only looked at you.

leaned back in his chair, whiskey glass in one hand, calm as a man watching rain slide down a window, and let his eyes run down your body with a slowness that should’ve felt flattering. but it didn’t. it made your stomach knot.

“hm,” he hummed, noncommittal, before taking a sip. “so that’s the role you picked for tonight.”

you tried to laugh it off, but he didn’t chuckle with you. didn’t even blink.

“cute,” he added after a beat, tone so calm it scared you more than yelling ever could. “and cheap.”

that was all he said before rising from his seat, setting the glass down without a sound, and motioning with two fingers for you to follow him. and of course you did—he didn’t ask, he never asked.

which was how you ended up here now, pressed against one of the towering bookshelves in the dim-lit library, your halo already on the floor, feathers scattered across the rug, your dress hiked up around your waist while he fucked you slow, deep, devastating. his composure hadn’t cracked—he still hadn’t raised his voice once—but every roll of his hips was heavy with possession, each thrust driving his point in deeper than words ever could.

“you thought i wouldn’t notice?” he murmured against your neck, his lips brushing your skin in lazy passes, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you. “thought i’d sit there sipping whiskey, pretending i don’t see every man’s eyes glued to my girl in a child’s costume?”

your fingers clutched at the shelf, nails digging into wood polished worth more than your rent, your body shuddering as he sank into you, stretching you out with deliberate slowness.

“you did notice,” you managed to gasp, your voice thin, but he only chuckled, low, amused.

“of course i noticed. i notice everything.” he tugged one strap of your dress down your shoulder, teeth grazing the newly exposed skin before he sank them in just enough to leave his mark. “you think i don’t know the way men look at you? like they could have a piece if they asked nicely enough? ridiculous. you should’ve been smarter.”

he slid a hand down, catching the flimsy hem of your dress, tugging until the cheap fabric strained under his fingers. he held it there, testing, savoring the little gasp you made, then with a sharp jerk, he ripped it. the sound tore through the library, loud in the quiet space, and he smiled faintly against your ear.

“there,” he murmured. “already better.”

the fabric peeled away like paper, slipping uselessly down your body in tatters. suguru stepped back just long enough to look at you, naked but for your stockings and the faint glitter still clinging to your skin. his eyes drank you in with a slowness that made you flush hot from head to toe.

“angel, hm?” he tilted his head, smirking. “sweetheart, you’re mine. no heaven, no halo, just me dragging you back down where you belong.”

his hand pressed flat against your stomach as he drove into you again, harder now, enough to force you up on your toes, his cock pushing deep until you cried out.

“god, listen to you,” he muttered, the smirk sharpening into something darker. “you love this, don’t you? love that i’m pissed, love that i’m tearing your little dress apart. you’re so wet i can barely keep control.”

his other hand slid between your thighs, fingers circling your clit with lazy precision, making your whole body jolt.

“tell me, baby,” he drawled, still calm, still collected even as his thrusts turned sharper. “did you wear it for them, or did you wear it for me? hm?”

“you—” you gasped, clinging tighter to the shelf, your body trembling. “i wore it for you—”

his grin widened, cruel and satisfied. “good answer. because i’d hate to think you were offering what’s mine to someone else.”

he fucked you harder now, pace quickening, his hand leaving your stomach to slide up, wrapping gently—firmly—around your throat, tilting your head back until your vision blurred with tears.

“look at you,” he muttered, voice still so calm it was maddening. “perfect, ruined, shaking for me. you’ll never wear another costume again. you want to dress up, you’ll do it in my bedroom, on my terms. understood?”

“yes—” you cried, choking on the word, your body quaking as his fingers on your clit pressed harder, faster, winding you tighter and tighter.

“say it properly.”

“yes, suguru, i understand—”

he groaned low, fucking into you with brutal precision now, angling so deep you nearly screamed.

“good girl,” he said, praise sliding out in that same smooth tone, as if he hadn’t just ripped your costume to shreds. “now cum for me. show me how much you love belonging to me.”

the orgasm ripped through you fast and violent, your cry echoing in the high ceilings of the library, your body spasming against him as you drenched his cock. suguru grunted, pace breaking, hips stuttering as he pressed in deep, filling you with a groan that finally cracked his composure.

he stayed inside you, holding you against the shelf, both of you gasping, sweat dripping down your back, the silence heavy but hot around you. when he finally pulled out, he let his fingers sweep through the mess dripping down your thighs, smearing it across your skin like art.

then he leaned close, kissed your temple with infuriating gentleness, and murmured:

“next time you put on something like that, you won’t be going downstairs. i’ll lock you in here with me until sunrise.”

and with that, he left you leaning against the shelf, costume in tatters on the rug, feathers scattered like snow, the faint scent of whiskey still clinging to his lips when he finally kissed you slow, sealing the promise.

NANAMI KENTO

the first thing he did was laugh. not loud, not mocking, but that dry little huff nanami always gave when something didn’t amuse him but he couldn’t quite hide his irritation either. you’d waltzed into his dining room, where he was pouring himself another glass of bordeaux, all decked out in a ridiculous halloween getup—short plaid skirt, white shirt knotted just beneath your tits, tie hanging loose around your throat like a parody of something innocent. he’d stared for a long second, glass halfway to his lips, before shaking his head like he was trying to figure out if you were serious.

“that’s what you decided to put on tonight?” he said finally, voice so flat it stung more than if he’d shouted. “all that money in your account and you walk into my house looking like an overpaid schoolgirl fantasy?”

you’d tried to joke, to tease, to brush it off. but he didn’t smile. he just tipped back his wine, swallowed, and set the glass down with a heavy clink against the marble countertop.

“cute,” he added, but the way he said it made your skin prickle. “very cute.”

and now here you were—thrown over his leather couch, cheek pressed into the armrest, skirt bunched up over your hips while nanami fucked you from behind like a man possessed. no scolding, no lecture, no raised voice—just the sharp slap of his hips against your ass and the quiet, measured sound of his breathing as he drove into you.

“thought you were clever,” he muttered, his voice low, precise, even as his thrusts turned brutal, each one angled to split you wide. his hands were splayed firm on your waist, fingers digging so deep you knew you’d bruise. “thought i wouldn’t say anything. thought i’d let you play dress-up, show off my investment like you’re on display.”

your moan tore out raw, back arching, nails clawing at the couch leather. his control was terrifying, infuriating—no yelling, no frantic jealousy, just calm, simmering possession carried out in the brutal roll of his hips.

“every man downstairs saw your tits spilling out of that shirt,” he said, not raising his voice, but his words cut clean as a scalpel. “they were looking, even if they pretended not to. staring at what belongs to me. and you—” his hand slid up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head back until your throat arched—“you fucking liked it, didn’t you?”

“n-no—”

his laugh was sharp this time, humorless. “don’t lie. you’ve never been good at it.” he jerked your head back harder, his breath brushing your ear as he hissed, “you wore that outfit to be fucked in, not to be seen. let me make sure you remember the difference.”

his hand left your hair, fisting in the cheap fabric of your shirt, yanking hard until the knot gave way. buttons flew, clattering to the floor like coins, and the shirt fell open, baring your chest. he didn’t even pause, just tore the tie off your throat with one sharp tug, tossing it aside.

“pathetic,” he muttered, staring at the flimsy cotton like it offended him. “this isn’t clothing, it’s garbage. and you—” his thrusts slammed harder, forcing a cry out of your throat—“you’re not garbage. so why are you wearing it?”

his palm came down on your ass, the crack of it sharp in the room, making your cunt clench tight around him. he groaned low, grinding deeper, cock thick and heavy, stretching you until you thought you’d split.

“too short, too cheap, too obvious,” he went on, like he was delivering a verdict. “you look expensive on my arm, you live expensive in my bed, and you walked out dressed like that?” his tone sharpened, biting, every syllable landing with precision. “you embarrassed me. do you understand?”

“yes—” you gasped, words breaking on your moan as he dragged out, slow and deliberate, before slamming back into you hard enough to rattle the frame of the couch.

“say it properly.”

“y-yes, sir!”

the faintest smile tugged at his lips, cruel, satisfied. “better.”

his hand slid around your front, fingers finding your clit, circling tight and unrelenting. “you’ll come for me like this,” he said, calm as if discussing business, even as his cock pistoned into you faster, “and when you do, you’ll remember—who you belong to, whose name you scream, who owns every inch of this spoiled little body.”

“kento—” your voice broke, high and desperate, your body shuddering.

“that’s right,” he growled, his composure finally slipping, his thrusts losing rhythm, rougher now, greedier. “say my name when you fall apart. not theirs. mine.”

you shattered, cumming so hard your legs gave out, your scream muffled against the leather. nanami groaned, low and guttural, his hand tightening on your hip as he fucked you through it, chasing his own release.

“fuck—” the curse tore from him, rare and raw, his body tensing as he buried himself deep, filling you with hot pulses until you were both trembling.

the room went quiet, except for the sound of your ragged breathing, the faint hum of the party still going downstairs. nanami pulled out slowly, deliberately, watching the mess drip down your thighs with a quiet hum of approval.

he tugged the ruined shirt the rest of the way off you, dropped it on the floor with disdain. “that,” he said, adjusting his tie like he hadn’t just wrecked you against the couch, “is the last time you ever wear something like this.”

he leaned down, smoothing a hand down your back, his tone softening—not kind, but decisive. “from now on, you dress how i tell you. you want to play pretend? then you play for me. no one else.”

he kissed your temple, light, almost reverent, before standing tall again, fastening his cufflinks as though he were preparing for a meeting instead of a party.

and then, with a final glance at the shredded costume on the floor, he added flatly:

“i’ll send someone to burn that.”

and just like that, nanami straightened his jacket, rolled his shoulders, and walked calmly back toward the door, leaving you spent, ruined, and stripped bare on his couch—your costume nothing more than trash at his feet.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

you didn’t even make it halfway across the living room before his voice stopped you cold.

“the fuck is this?”

low, gravel-thick, edged with a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all—just the barest curl of amusement masking a snarl. toji was slouched on the leather armchair, glass of something brown and expensive balanced between his fingers, legs spread wide like he owned not just the penthouse but the whole city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. he looked you up and down once, slow as molasses, eyes lingering on every inch of your halloween “costume”—tight red latex minidress, straps thin as floss, hem barely covering your ass, neckline so deep your tits were practically falling out, little devil horns perched in your hair.

you felt the burn of his stare more than the heat of the room.

“answer me,” he said finally, voice still smooth, but the muscle ticking in his jaw told on him.

“it’s halloween,” you offered, shifting under his gaze, gripping your purse tighter like that was a shield.

he hummed, leaning back further, sipping his drink, eyes never leaving you. “halloween,” he repeated, dragging the syllables slow. “that why you’re dressed like bait? walkin’ around in my house with your tits bouncin’ out, ass hangin’ loose like a free trial?”

you opened your mouth, but he was already setting the glass down on the side table, movements slow, deliberate. he pushed himself up from the chair, broad frame unfolding with lazy menace, stretching out his shoulders as if he’d been waiting for this all night.

“nah,” he said, shaking his head, smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “see, you think it’s a game. put on your cheap little devil getup, prance around like you ain’t mine. but i don’t play games, baby.”

he was in front of you before you could blink, one hand grabbing your jaw, tilting your face up to his. his thumb dragged across your bottom lip, pressing until your mouth parted, until you could taste the whiskey still clinging to his skin.

“this shit?” he flicked the strap of your dress, watching it snap against your shoulder. “this is a fuckin’ insult. looks like somethin’ i’d rip off a stripper in a backroom. you think you’re leavin’ the house in it?” he leaned down, lips brushing your ear, voice low and mean. “spoiler: you ain’t.”

you swallowed hard, heart thundering in your chest, and that only made his grin widen, sharp and cruel.

he shoved you back onto the couch, the leather cold under your thighs, and stood over you, arms crossed like a judge about to hand down a sentence.

“stand up,” he ordered.

you hesitated, and his brow arched, dark eyes narrowing. “don’t make me repeat myself.”

you stood, wobbling a little in your heels, and he circled you like a predator, eyes dragging slow over your body. his hand shot out suddenly, tugging the hem of your dress up, exposing the tops of your thighs, the skimpy thong beneath.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice low, rough. “this ain’t even clothing. this is a receipt that says, ‘fuck me.’” he slapped your ass, hard, watching the way it jiggled under his palm. “and you wore it in my house? where people could see?”

his hands were on you then, rough, greedy, dragging the dress higher, fingers digging into your waist, your ass, your tits.

“strip,” he said simply.

your breath hitched, eyes widening. “toji—”

“strip,” he repeated, slower this time, voice dropping even deeper. “or i’ll do it for you.”

your fingers fumbled with the straps, sliding them off your shoulders, tugging the latex down your body. the dress stuck to your skin, squealing as it peeled off, and you stood there in nothing but your thong and heels, flushed and trembling under his stare.

he whistled low, shaking his head. “look at you. pathetic little devil, actin’ tough till i say take it off.”

he shoved you back onto the couch, climbing over you, knees digging into the cushions, and his mouth crashed onto yours—rough, messy, all teeth and tongue and whiskey. his hands were everywhere, pulling, grabbing, pinching, squeezing like he couldn’t decide what part of you he wanted to ruin first.

his fingers hooked into your thong, snapping the band before yanking it down and tossing it aside.

“there we fuckin’ go,” he muttered, smirk curling as his hand slid between your thighs, fingers pressing against your folds, already slick. “wet. knew it. you like it when i’m mad, huh? like when i’m rough with you, talkin’ shit in your ear.”

“n-no—”

he slapped your pussy, sharp and sudden, making you yelp. “don’t lie to me. your cunt’s fuckin’ droolin’.”

two fingers shoved inside you without warning, thick and relentless, curling until your back arched, your nails clawing the couch.

“say it,” he demanded, fingers pounding into you, thumb circling your clit. “say you like it when i’m pissed.”

“i like it—” you gasped, the words tearing out of you.

he grinned, mean and satisfied, and pulled his fingers out, shoving them into your mouth. “suck. clean up your mess.”

you sucked, tasting yourself on his skin, and his eyes darkened, his cock already straining against his slacks.

he unbuckled his belt, slow and deliberate, leather hissing as it slid free. he tossed it aside, then shoved his pants down just enough to free himself.

“open up,” he ordered, slapping the thick head of his cock against your clit, smearing pre-cum across your folds.

you moaned, legs spreading wider without thought, and he chuckled low.

“knew it. fuckin’ knew it.”

then he shoved into you, one brutal thrust that had you crying out, back arching off the couch as he bottomed out, cock thick and heavy, stretching you wide.

“fuck,” he groaned, head dropping back, muscles flexing as he held himself there, buried to the hilt. “tight little hole, made for me. nobody else could take me like this. just you. my girl.”

he started to move then, slow at first, deliberate, dragging his cock out inch by inch before slamming back in, making you sob into the cushions.

“that’s it,” he muttered, pace quickening, rougher now, each thrust a punishment. “take it. take it like the greedy little devil you are.”

his hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur, your nails digging into his arm.

“look at me,” he growled, hips pounding into you, sweat dripping down his chest. “eyes on me while i fuck the attitude outta you.”

you tried, you really did, but your eyes rolled back when his pace grew relentless, when his cock dragged against that spot inside you that made your whole body quake.

“you wear that shit again, i’ll fuck you in the middle of the street,” he snarled, spit hitting your cheek as his lips brushed yours. “make the whole fuckin’ city watch while you scream my name.”

your orgasm built sharp, fast, your body trembling under him, his name breaking from your lips in high, desperate cries.

and he didn’t stop. didn’t slow. his thrusts grew meaner, rougher, the couch groaning under his weight as he pounded into you, fucking you through every shudder, every scream.

“cry for me,” he demanded, voice breaking into a growl, hand on your throat tightening. “cry, baby, let me hear how good i ruin you.”

and you did—tears streaking down your cheeks, voice hoarse, body broken open under him, every inch of you claimed, marked, possessed.

he leaned down then, pressing his forehead to yours, breath ragged, lips brushing your ear.

“mine,” he whispered, softer than everything else, but heavy enough to settle in your bones.

and he kept fucking you, slow now, deep, rolling his hips so every stroke pressed your body into the couch, branding you from the inside out—taking his time, savoring, mean grin curling as he murmured,

“you wanted a devil costume, baby? congratulations. you just fucked the real thing.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

the second you stepped out onto the marble landing in that getup, you felt it—his stare. sukuna didn’t whistle, didn’t tease, didn’t even blink. he was standing at the top of the staircase, whiskey glass in one hand, the whole skyline glowing behind him through the glass walls of his penthouse, and his eyes slid down your body so slow you swore he was peeling skin from bone. no smirk. no laugh. just that tight curl of his mouth and the way his jaw clicked once.

you wore it to piss him off. you knew you did. glossy black leather one-piece, straps cut so thin they bit into your shoulders, the center plunging down to your navel, hips cut out high so your thighs gleamed in the light, fishnets biting into soft skin, boots that clicked loud with every step. you’d topped it off with little cat ears like some last-minute joke, a tail pinned crooked to your ass.

“you’ve lost your fucking mind.”

he said it low, not shouting, but it carried all the way across the hall, over the chatter of the party still buzzing downstairs. every step you took closer, his gaze sharpened, stripping away whatever bravado you thought you had.

“you dress like that under my roof?” he continued, setting the glass down on the rail, both hands now free. “my house, my money, my rules—and you walk out like bait on a corner?”

you opened your mouth, but he raised a hand—just two fingers, sharp, enough to cut you off.

“don’t start.” his voice dropped, smooth but edged like a knife. “you’re not clever. you’re not cute. you’re begging for me to put you in your place. and guess what, kitten—” his grin unfurled, cruel and slow—“i’ve got all fucking night.”

and that was how you ended up here now—sprawled across the velvet chaise in his bedroom, cat ears crooked in your hair, leather one-piece already shredded down the middle, straps snapped from his grip. sukuna was kneeling between your legs, big hands gripping your thighs so tight you swore you’d bruise, his cock already deep inside you, moving slow, mean, like he had something to prove.

“you thought you’d get away with it, huh?” he muttered against your throat, his teeth dragging rough down your skin, marking every inch. “parade your ass around in this sorry excuse for a costume, make me watch every man downstairs undress you with their eyes—” his hips snapped forward, sharp, making you jolt—“nah. not happening.”

his hand slid up, wrapping around your throat, pressing you back into the cushions, forcing your gaze up to meet his.

“eyes open,” he ordered, voice gravel-low. “look at me while i ruin you. none of that shy shit. you wanted attention? you got it. all of mine.”

he shifted, rolling his hips deep, cock grinding against your walls slow enough to make you whimper.

“pathetic little slut,” he sneered, smirk tugging at his lips. “wearing scraps, makin’ me jealous on purpose. admit it. admit you like it when i’m mad.”

you gasped, shook your head, words lost. his palm tightened on your throat, not choking, just enough to command.

“say it.”

“i like it—” you whispered, breaking on the words.

he chuckled, low, dark, satisfied. “fuckin’ knew it.”

he leaned back, one hand yanking what was left of your one-piece further apart until it peeled off you completely. the leather flopped uselessly to the floor, forgotten.

“cheap,” he muttered, eyes raking over your now-bare body. “cheap little costume, trash on the floor. but you? you’re not trash. you’re mine. and i’ll prove it with every goddamn thrust.”

and then he picked up the pace. brutal. each slam of his hips against yours cracked through the silence of the room, the velvet cushions squeaking under the force, your body bouncing with every stroke. his hand dragged down to your clit, thumb circling hard, mean, making your thighs twitch.

“look at you,” he growled, gaze burning holes into you. “squirming, crying, dripping on my cock like it’s the only thing that keeps you alive. you think you could wear this shit for anyone else? they wouldn’t survive you. only me.”

he spat down between your tits, smeared it with his palm before squeezing your breast, pinching your nipple until you yelped.

“you’re mine,” he snarled, leaning close, forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “mine to dress, mine to strip, mine to fuck raw till you can’t walk straight.”

he flipped you suddenly, shoving your chest into the velvet, ass high, his cock never leaving you, driving back in with force that made you choke on a scream. his palm cracked across your ass once, twice, the sting blooming hot under his touch.

“this is the view they wanted downstairs,” he said, voice sharp, cruel. “your ass spread, your cunt stuffed, you screaming my name. but they don’t get it. no one gets it. just me.”

his hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back, your spine arching as he fucked into you harder, deeper, his cock splitting you open.

“cry for me,” he ordered, voice rough with pleasure and rage. “let the whole fucking city hear who owns you.”

your sobs spilled out, your voice breaking on his name, and he laughed, low and sharp, chest rumbling against your back.

“that’s it,” he muttered, hips slamming harder, every thrust a punishment. “pathetic little kitten, dressed up in scraps, thinking you’d get away with it. look at you now—ruined, marked, broken open on my cock. exactly where you belong.”

he didn’t slow. didn’t soften. every movement was sharp, deliberate, grinding you into the velvet until you were raw, until every nerve screamed. his teeth scraped your shoulder, his spit smeared down your spine, his hand shoved between your thighs again to play with your clit in fast, mean circles.

“you won’t ever wear that shit again,” he growled, his words biting into your skin as deep as his teeth. “you want a costume, you dress for me. you want to play kitten, you crawl on your knees in my bedroom. you don’t belong to anyone else. not for their eyes, not for their words, not for their hands. just mine.”

his hips rolled slower now, deeper, grinding into you until your body shuddered under him, until your thighs shook and your fists clawed at the cushions.

he leaned down, lips brushing your ear, voice low, steady, mean.

“remember this next time you think you’re clever. remember the sound of me tearing that costume off your body. remember how deep i fucked you. remember whose you are.”

and he stayed there, buried inside you, hand on your throat, body pressed against yours, moving slow, deliberate, claiming you with every inch—making sure you knew, bone-deep, you’d never belong anywhere else.

SHIU KONG

the elevator doors opened on the top floor of his building and you knew from the way the air felt that shiu kong had already seen you. his space was always dimly lit, expensive without being loud: black marble floors, a long stretch of windows framing the city below, soft jazz humming from some invisible speaker. he was leaning on the balcony rail when you stepped out, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a cigarette he hadn’t touched in minutes.

you’d chosen your outfit deliberately, half because it was halloween, half because you wanted to provoke him. a cropped biker jacket with nothing under it but tape across your nipples, a chain belt sitting low on your hips, and leather shorts cut like a second skin. thigh-high boots, black lipstick. nothing like the silks and dresses he bought you. you looked like a girl from a midnight video instead of a penthouse.

he didn’t even glance back when you approached. just dragged once on the cigarette, exhaled smoke toward the skyline.

“you’re late,” he said. voice low, unhurried.

“traffic.” you tried for a playful tone. “don’t i look good?”

he let out a small, humorless breath. “you look like trouble.”

he turned finally, eyes moving over you, expression unreadable. it was worse than anger. it was silence. he stubbed out the cigarette on the rail, flicked the butt into an ashtray, and walked toward you with that same slow, predatory stride that always made your stomach knot.

“spin,” he said when he reached you.

you blinked. “what?”

“turn around. let me see what you’re showing off.”

you did, slowly, feeling the chain belt shift against your skin. his eyes tracked every inch of you, and when you faced him again his jaw had tightened just enough to show through the calm.

“what’s this costume supposed to be?” he asked softly.

“a bad idea,” you teased, trying to defuse the tension.

he didn’t smile. “you’re right about that.”

he stepped in close, so close the smell of his cologne drowned the city air, and tilted your chin up with one finger. “you’ve been walking around my place looking like this all night. men staring. women whispering. and you’re proud of yourself?”

“it’s halloween, shiu.”

“no,” he said, still quiet but sharp now. “it’s a test. and you’re failing.”

before you could answer, his hand slid down to your throat—not squeezing, just holding, thumb stroking once over your pulse. the gesture was almost tender, but his eyes were not.

“inside,” he murmured. “now.”

he led you into his private suite, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. no one else around, no music now but the slow drag of his breath. he walked to the sofa, sat down, and gestured.

“come here.”

you walked over, your boots clicking on the marble. he reached up, grabbed the chain belt at your waist, and yanked you down onto his lap so you straddled him.

“you like attention?” he asked, voice still low but edged. “this is the only attention you get.”

his hands slid up under the jacket, palms rough against your bare skin, dragging over your ribs until his thumbs brushed the black tape on your nipples. he flicked it with a finger, peeling a corner up, smirking faintly.

“pathetic little strips,” he muttered. “cheap, like the rest of this outfit.”

he tore one piece off, slow enough to sting, then the other, until you were bare against his suit.

“better,” he said. “now you look like mine again.”

he pushed the jacket off your shoulders, letting it fall behind you, and ran his hands down your back, gripping your ass through the leather shorts.

“stand up,” he ordered.

you obeyed. he unbuckled your chain belt, letting it clatter to the floor, then hooked his thumbs under the shorts and dragged them down over your thighs, peeling them off until you stepped out of them.

“all night,” he murmured, eyes dragging over your now-bare body, “i sat there watching you play. i didn’t move. didn’t speak. and you thought that meant i didn’t care.” he stood, towering over you now, one hand sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “it meant i was waiting. now you’re mine to deal with.”

he turned you and pushed you gently but firmly toward the edge of the bed, bending you over it until your palms pressed into the silk cover. his hands spread you open, thumbs dragging along the edge of your panties, then yanking them aside.

“you’re already wet,” he said, voice flat but heavy. “figures.”

he undid his trousers, freed himself, and pressed the thick head of his cock against you. not pushing in yet, just sliding it along your slit, smearing you with him.

“how many times,” he murmured, “do i have to remind you? no parading. no invitations. just me.”

he gripped your hip with one hand, your hair with the other, pulling you back onto him as he slid in slow, inch by inch. no sudden thrust, no slap of skin yet—just pressure, depth, stretch, filling you until you trembled.

“yeah,” he said under his breath, rolling his hips once. “that’s better.”

he stayed like that for a long moment, buried inside you, making you feel every inch without giving you movement. his thumb stroked the nape of your neck, slow, almost absent.

“you wanted a reaction,” he said finally. “here it is. slow. steady. mean.”

then he started to move. not fast, not pounding, but long, deliberate strokes, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, hips pressing against your ass. his grip on your hip tightened each time you tried to squirm.

“stay still,” he murmured. “let me work.”

he dragged his hand down from your neck to your chest, cupping one breast, pinching the nipple between his fingers as he rolled his hips.

“look at you,” he said, voice rougher now. “walking around dressed like a sin and now trembling when i touch you. you don’t even know what you want.”

he shifted his angle, thrusting deeper, grinding against that spot inside you until your knees nearly gave out.

“hold yourself up,” he ordered. “hands on the bed. ass up. don’t you dare drop.”

he set a rhythm then, slow but merciless, each thrust dragging a sound from your throat. his free hand slid between your thighs, rubbing slow circles around your clit without letting you escape the movement of his cock.

“every man downstairs was thinking about this,” he muttered, leaning down so his lips brushed your ear. “you bent over, spread, my cock filling you. but they’ll never get to see it. only i get this.”

he thrust harder, deeper, once, twice, then slowed again, drawing it out, making you feel every inch.

“this is patience,” he whispered. “this is me teaching you what you can’t learn at a party. how to be still. how to be taken apart without permission to fall.”

he kept the slow grind, hips rolling, his hand still working lazy circles on your clit, voice low in your ear.

“next time you think about putting on a show,” he said, “remember this. remember how long i can keep you right here. open. waiting. wanting. mine.”

he didn’t give you release. he didn’t speed up. he stayed inside you, moving slow, deliberate, controlling every inch of the rhythm, every drag of his cock, every flick of his thumb. he whispered more slurred, mean little lines against your ear—how you’d looked in the outfit, how every man had stared, how he was going to erase it from your skin with each stroke.

and he kept at it, slow burn, rough and steady, no ending, no verdict—just shiu kong’s jealousy made flesh, his silence turned into movement, his composure grinding into you until the costume, the party, the provocation were nothing but a memory and you were exactly where he wanted you: bent over his bed, spread open under his hands, filled slowly, thoroughly, without a single word left to argue.

HIGURUMA HIROMI

you hadn’t expected him to look at you like that.

not hiromi. not the man who could sit through entire hearings without flinching, who could sip his bourbon neat while witnesses fell apart in front of him. but when you stepped into his office that night—heels sharp on the hardwood, skirt short enough to barely cover, neckline cut like an open file—his eyes cut through you like a gavel striking wood.

the costume was supposed to be playful. a parody, a twist on his world: mock silk robe tied at the waist but slit high, stockings clipped to garters, fake glasses with rhinestones, and that cheap toy gavel dangling from your hand. you’d thought he might laugh, tease you, maybe shake his head. instead, he only leaned back in his leather chair, steepled his fingers under his chin, and stared like you’d just walked into his courtroom without permission.

“that’s your attire for the evening?” his voice was steady, low, dangerous in its calm.

you shifted your weight, tried to smile. “it’s halloween. thought i’d…dress for the occasion.”

“dress for the occasion,” he repeated softly, as though rolling the phrase over like evidence. his eyes trailed down your legs, lingered on the exposed thigh above your stockings, then moved back up to your chest. “you walked into my home, in front of my guests, looking like a cross-examination waiting to happen.”

you opened your mouth to retort, but he raised one hand—precise, measured, final.

“objection,” he said, voice flat. “irrelevant.”

the word hit like a whip.

he rose slowly, unbuttoning his vest as he came around the desk. tall, broad, composed. he moved without haste, but every step was deliberate. when he stopped in front of you, his hand reached out, flicked the edge of your robe where it gaped open.

“cheap fabric. transparent intent.” he pulled the tie loose with one tug, watching the robe fall open to bare the corset beneath. “you dressed yourself as satire. my profession made into a costume. you think i won’t treat this seriously?”

his hand slid around your waist, pulled you forward until your ass hit the desk behind you. he tilted your chin up with two fingers, making you meet his eyes.

“answer carefully,” he murmured. “because you are under oath.”

your throat went dry. “i—i just wanted—”

“irrelevant.” he cut you off again, voice clipped. “what you wanted doesn’t matter. what matters is evidence.” his other hand dragged up your thigh, slipping beneath the robe to trace the line of your garter. “and the evidence is damning.”

he pushed you back onto the desk in one smooth motion, papers scattering under you, fountain pen clattering to the floor. his palm pressed between your breasts, holding you down as he leaned over you.

“exhibit a,” he murmured, tugging the robe off your shoulders until it slid down your arms, pooling at your sides. “indecent exposure.”

his hand cupped your breast through the corset, thumb dragging over the thin fabric, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

“exhibit b.” his voice stayed calm, almost bored, but the grip of his hand was ruthless. “intent to provoke.”

he pulled at the corset laces, untying them slow, deliberate, as if unraveling a case.

“exhibit c.” he smirked faintly when the garment loosened, your chest spilling free to the cool air. “disruption of order.”

his hand slid down your stomach, finding the waistband of your panties, hooking one finger beneath.

“and exhibit d…” he pushed them aside, fingers dragging through your slick folds, making you whimper. “admission of guilt.”

he pulled the finger back, slick and glistening, and held it up between you. his eyes cut into you like a verdict.

“you’re already wet. you were aroused before the trial even began. tell me, defendant—how do you plead?”

your breath hitched. “guilty.”

he smiled, slow, dangerous. “finally. some honesty.”

he undid his tie, looped it around your wrists, binding them together neatly, efficiently, before pinning them above your head.

“you are hereby restrained,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “pending further sentencing.”

he freed himself from his trousers, cock heavy, pressing against your thigh. then he lined himself up, the blunt head dragging along your slit, smearing your wetness.

“opening statement,” he whispered, before sliding into you slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch.

you gasped, back arching off the desk, but he pressed you down with one hand on your sternum.

“remain seated,” he ordered, thrusting deep until he bottomed out. “the court is in session.”

he set a rhythm—slow at first, devastating, each roll of his hips grinding into you like punctuation. his cock dragged along your walls, thick, steady, deliberate.

“cross-examination,” he muttered, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, making the desk creak. “do you admit you wanted this?”

“yes—” you gasped.

“objection.” his pace quickened, hips snapping harder. “too vague. clarify for the record.”

“i wanted you,” you cried.

his smirk widened. “sustained.”

his hand left your chest, slid down between your thighs, thumb circling your clit with ruthless precision.

“leading question,” he murmured against your throat. “do you belong to me?”

“yes!”

he thrust harder, sharper. “answer in full.”

“yes, hiromi, i belong to you!”

he groaned low, thrusts relentless now, pounding into you until the desk rattled beneath. still, his voice stayed measured, his words precise even through ragged breath.

“closing arguments,” he growled, biting at your collarbone. “you’re mine. no more costumes. no more theater. your body is the only testimony that matters.”

he didn’t let you cum. didn’t give you that verdict. he kept you on the edge, wrists bound, body trembling, his cock driving into you steady, controlled, like a ruling delivered stroke by stroke.

Steve grips at his steering wheel tighter than necessary. His jaw is set, eyes fixed on the road. He’s going a steady 30 MPH. Just like Nancy asked.

“The signals weak.” You mutter, mostly to yourself.

“Yeah.” Steve replies after a beat. His voice is rough. “It usually is.”

“No… it’s like super weak…” You say, twisting the wheel faster. “We’re losing him!”

“Wait, what?”

“Stop! Stop!!” You shriek, almost falling as Steve slammed on the brakes. You straighten back up, turning the wheel. It takes a few moments before you breathe out a sigh of relief, falling back in your seat. “I got him.”

Steve lets out a breath too, his hand coming off the wheel to rake through his hair. The van idles beneath you, engine humming quietly.

Your eyes stay locked on the dial, listening.

For a moment. Just a moment, everything is fine.

The signal is stabilized.

One minute passes.

And then another.

And another.

You grab the walkie talkie, “Hello? Is everything okay? Why aren’t we moving?” Static is your only response.

And then the lights start flickering all at once. You panic, smacking the frequency device in hopes it will work. It then shuts off along with all the lights and the van’s engine.

“No.” Steve says under his breath, turning the key. “Shit, shit!” He hits the wheel, the van letting out a honk.

You try moving the dial one last time, finally giving up.

The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. Not even the engine hum remains, just a thick and awkward silence.

The road is empty in both directions, swallowed by darkness. The van sits crooked on the side of the road, dark on the inside.

You can barely see Steve.

Minutes stretch. One turns into three and three turns into eight.

Steve then shifts, the chair squeaking.

“I didn’t mean it.” He says suddenly. Your stomach tightens.

“Mean what?” You ask, playing dumb. You didn’t want him to think you cared. Don’t let him have power over you.

“The thing I said.” He continues, voice quiet. “About Byers helping instead of you.”

You keep your eyes forward. “It’s fine, Steve.”

He shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

Silence feels the space again, heavier than before.

Steve rubs his hands together, trying to warm them. “I was just nervous.”

You press your lips together.

“I just— when things get bad… I default to what I know.”

Your fingers curl around the fabric of your seat. “And that’s Nancy.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

And that’s more than an answer.

“I trust her.” He finally says. “She’s good under pressure. She’s a leader.”

Is that why Steve is so into her?

Your throat burns. “I know what to do under pressure too.”

“I know.” Steve says quickly, shifting once again. “This isn’t about that.”

But it is.

“Then what’s it about?” You whisper, turning to look at him. You can barely see him, just a shadow.

You can hear him swallow. “It’s just… she’s just—“ He starts, then stops. “It’s complicated.”

You can’t help the way your heart aches. You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. You hated how your heart was beating so fast, it hurt.

As if someone heard your wishes, headlights finally crest the road.

Steve straightens. “Finally.” He rushes out, flagging down the car.

Relief floods the space, but it doesn’t bother touching the ache in your chest.

As Steve waves the car down, you stare at your hands. You don’t know what hurt worse, the conversation or what happened before you got in the van. You absolutely hated the effect he had on you; how your whole mood could completely do a 360.

A girl exits the car, eyes giddy with excitement. Like as if she just found a piece of candy on the floor. Steve says something and she immediately swoons.

You can’t help but roll your eyes.

He leaves her for a quick second, opening the back of the van. You two make eye contact for a quick second before he takes the jumper cables, slamming the doors.

You watch as he makes his way back to the girl, trying his best to flex his muscles as he popped the hood.

Is it bad if you say you would rather him be with this girl than Nancy? Anyone but Nancy.

And for the second time, as if the universe heard you and decided to work against you, the admiration in the girls eyes turned into disgust. As if she realized something or recognized him from somewhere. You can sense the tension from where you were.

“I stood up her sister like three times.” Steve says after he gets back in, staring at you as if nothing happened. As if he wasn’t just insulting you earlier.

Apologies don’t just fix everything.

You put your lips into a thin line, looking away.

Steve didn’t know if the tension was worse in here or out there.

The walkie talkie starts sparkling, and then a voice is heard.

Robins.

“H-h…. haylo??? ithanyonelisthening”

You snatch the talkie, “Hello? Hello? Hello?”

She said a few words you couldn’t understand before it finally became clear. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes! What happened? Are you okay?” You say quickly, hearing Steve shuffle closer to you.

“I’m fine— but Nancy isn’t! Her parents are in the hospital, and Holly is missing. The Demogorgan visited them!”

Your stomach drops.

“What?” Steve breathes at the same time you feel your chest tighten.

Robin’s voice crackles through the walkie again, frantic now. “And we can’t connect to Hopper. I don’t know what the fuck is going on!”

Steve’s already moving.

“We need to get to her.” He says immediately, voice sharp with urgency. “Now.”

You swallow, ignoring Robin. “Robin is okay—

“No, not her! Nancy. She’s probably terrified and alone!” He says, jumping out of the van. He doesn’t even bother talking to the girl before ripping the jumper cables out, dropping the hood.

You thought he meant Robin.

“We need to get there asap. Well, let’s stop by the flower—“

You don’t wait for him to finish.

The door slams harder than you mean it to as you shove it open and step out into the autumn night air.

“I can’t do this.” You mutter, more to yourself than anything. Your hands are shaking, from the news Robin just delivered and how Steve just kept on stabbing you in the heart.

You take a few steps away from the van, breathing hard, the world spinning around you.

“Y/N—“ Steve starts, following after you. His eyebrows where narrowed in confusion, his hands reaching out to you.

You spin around. “I’m so tired of everything being about Nancy fucking Wheeler! Nancy this, Nancy that! Like gosh, Steve, the relationship was forever ago! Move. on.”

Steve stops short like you physically smacked him. His face hardens. “Her family is in the fucking hospital.”

The words come out sharp and brutal, with intent to hurt. “And her little sister is missing.” He continues, voice rising as he takes a step forward, “Hopper is stuck and you’re standing out here yelling about ‘moving on’.”

You flinch but you continue to stand your ground. “I’m not yelling about moving on.” You say, voice shaking despite how hard you try to steady it. “I’m yelling because no matter what’s happening, no matter who’s hurt, or standing in front of you—“ Your hand lifts between the two of you, a helpless, broken gesture. “All you see is her.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “That’s not true.”

“It is.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You want the truth?”

You still.

“I don’t care how you feel right now.” He snaps. “If I have to choose where to be, it’s her. I’d rather be with her than you.”

The words land on you like broken glass.

Your breath catches so hard, it hurts. For a second, you think you might throw up. You didn’t want to replace Nancy. You just wanted to matter.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Both of you whip around.

Dustin limps into the faint glow from the streetlights, bike rolling next to him. He was bloody and bruised, as if he just came back from a WWE fight.

Steve gapes at him, frozen. “Henderson—! What the fuck!”

“I’m fine.” He bites, shoving past Steve to shove his bike in the back.

At least you both weren’t huge fans of Steve right now.