hiii ur red hood fic really opened my third eye like it was scrumptious !! but may i request tim drake with a bimbo/himbo reader (gn or whatever u prefer !!) who is tired of people thinking that they're the submissive one in the relationship by the media (doesn't help that tim likes to be a brat and feed into the rumors) so they take it upon themselves to put him in his place ! yummy brat taming mmm
“LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!”
pairing. Sub!brat!Tim Drake x Top!himbo!male reader
synopsis. Tim Drake has the internet fooled—he’s got everyone thinking he’s the one in charge, And you? The soft, golden retriever boyfriend who carries his bags. It’s cute. Until Tim starts leaning into the act just a little too hard. Now it’s time to remind your baby boy exactly who’s in charge—and shut that bratty little mouth the only way he’ll learn. — 4.6k
warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, brat taming, blow-job, soft dom, hair pulling, power play, dumbification, overstimulation, choking, light degradation, spanking, praise kink, subspace, name-calling (slut, baby boy, etc.), aftercare, Tim is a little menace <3
Tim Drake had been smirking all damn day.
It started small—barely-there glances during the morning interview, the casual way he leaned into your side when the camera panned your way. But it escalated. Fast.
By the time lunch hit, the internet was already eating it up. A now-viral clip of Tim sitting in your lap at last night’s gala, fingers twirling lazily through your hair while he whispered something into your ear. The caption? "tim got that man wrapped around his finger 😂😍"
You weren’t mad.
You knew what you looked like next to him—six foot something, soft-voiced, sweet to a fault. The golden retriever boyfriend. And Tim? Sharp suit. Sharp eyes. Sharper mouth.
Of course they thought he was the one in charge.
But Tim knew better.
“You’re really gonna let them think that?” you asked, sometime after dinner, when he curled up on the couch beside you, phone in hand and that same smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Think what?” he asked, too innocently.
You narrowed your eyes. “That you call the shots.”
Tim didn’t even look up. Just shrugged, thumbs still tapping the screen. “Well. I mean. Have you ever said otherwise?”
You stared at him.
He smirked wider.
“I’m joking,” he added, too quickly, slipping the phone into the pocket of his hoodie. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
Tim climbed into your lap again, just like he had in the video. He settled in like he belonged there—like you were his throne—and looked up at you, all lashes and mischief.
“I mean,” he said, voice low, “you don’t exactly correct people when they say I keep you in check.”
You arched a brow. “Because I think it’s funny. You, keeping me in check? Baby, you cry when I change the Netflix password.”
“Okay, that was one time. And I was stressed.”
You leaned in. “You pouted for three days.”
“I missed my show!”
Your hands found his waist, big and warm and just a little firmer than before.
“And now you’re feeding into it,” you murmured, tone dipping, breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. “Retweeting the edits. Dropping quotes in interviews. Looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asked, too fast.
“Like you want me to prove you wrong.”
That shut him up.
His breath hitched.
And when he met your gaze again, the smirk faltered just enough to tell you everything you needed.
You pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw, light and sweet.
Then you whispered, “Upstairs. Now.”
Tim didn’t move right away. He blinked up at you like he hadn’t expected you to actually say it out loud.
You arched a brow. “Did I stutter?”
He swallowed. “No, sir.”
God, he was such a fucking brat. You loved him.
You stood, tugging him up by the hand. “Then go.”
He turned, smirking again—but quieter this time—as he walked. And you let your eyes drag over the way his hoodie hung too loose around his waist, the curve of his ass in those smug little tailored pants.
You followed him up the stairs. Watched him slow at the bedroom door, as if debating whether to keep the act going or not.
He stopped just inside the room and turned. “You sure this isn’t about your ego?”
You tilted your head. “You sure you want to test me?”
Tim stepped back, slow, walking toward the bed. “I’m just saying… all those edits aren’t wrong.”
You stalked in after him.
“You mean the ones where I’m apparently your soft little boyfriend who gets flustered when you hold my hand in public?”
“Mm.” He sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at you. “I mean, you do blush kind of easy.”
You stepped between his knees. Let your hand curl into the collar of his hoodie and tugged him up, just a little.
“I blush because you’re cute,” you said, lips brushing his. “And also because I’m thinking about shoving my dick so far down your throat you forget how to spell your own name.”
That broke something.
Tim’s smirk cracked.
You pushed him back onto the bed, gentle but firm. He landed with a little oof, arms spread, eyes wide.
You pulled the hoodie off. Tossed it to the floor.
Then crawled over him, bracing your arms on either side of his head.
“You think you’re in charge?” you murmured, voice low. “You think you can keep running that mouth, posting those captions, letting people think I’m the one getting fucked?”
Tim swallowed. “I mean, technically—”
Your hand closed around his jaw.
Not hard. But enough.
His words cut off with a sharp inhale.
“You’re real bold for someone whose knees shake when I say ‘good boy.’”
Tim exhaled shakily. “...You haven’t said that yet.”
You smiled.
“Oh, baby. You’ll earn it.”
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
You dragged him upright by the wrist and sat down at the edge of the bed, spreading your thighs wide as you pulled him between them. He blinked at you, confused for half a second, until you patted your lap.
Tim’s eyes widened. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh,” you said, gripping his hips and manhandling him across your legs, “I am very serious.”
He squirmed. “You can’t be—this is childish.”
You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear as your palm settled against the curve of his ass.
“You wanna act like a brat, baby? Then you’re gonna get treated like one.”
Tim went very still.
His breath hitched when your fingers hooked into his waistband and tugged both his pants and briefs down to his thighs in one smooth motion.
“You should be grateful,” you murmured, smoothing your hand over his skin. “Most people don’t get punished this pretty.”
He made a sound—half protest, half flustered noise—but you didn’t give him time to think.
The first spank landed with a sharp snap of skin.
Tim jolted. “F—fuck—!”
You rubbed the spot you’d just struck, fingers tracing the flush rising there.
“Language,” you said calmly. “Now count.”
Tim hesitated. Then, sullenly: “One.”
You nodded. “Good boy.”
And brought your hand down again.
Harder.
Tim gasped. “T-Two.”
“Louder.”
“Two!”
Another slap. Sharp. Deliberate.
He arched off your lap with a hiss. “Three.”
You kept going. Not fast. Not cruel. But hard enough that each strike landed with purpose.
“Four… Fuck, five—!”
You raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”
Tim froze. “...Five.”
You hummed. “That’s not what I heard.”
He groaned into his arm. “C’mon—”
“No. Start over.”
His breath caught. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”
You smoothed your hand over his burning skin again, slow and warm.
“Don’t make me add more.”
Tim growled softly under his breath, but said nothing.
He took a breath.
And started again.
“One.”
Smack.
“Two.”
Smack.
He was breathing hard now. Not from pain—but from the pressure of it. The control. The way you wouldn’t let him wriggle out with sass or sarcasm.
You felt him twitch every time your palm landed, felt the slight tremble in his thighs. His hips had started to subtly shift with each strike.
And his cock—trapped between his stomach and your thigh—was getting hard.
You grinned.
By the time he reached “Eight,” his voice was cracking.
“...Nine,” he whimpered, burying his face in the sheets.
You held still. Let your palm rest on the warmth of his ass.
“You sure about that number, sweetheart?”
He sniffled.
“Yes—Nine, I swear.”
“Mm.” You gave it a moment. Let him breathe. Let him sweat.
Then delivered the final blow—firm, with your hand curled slightly to catch the same spot as before.
“Ten.”
Tim’s voice was raw. “T-Ten.”
You hummed in approval. Ran your hand down his back.
“Good boy.”
He shuddered.
The words hit harder than the spanks.
You leaned over him, letting your mouth graze his shoulder.
“Now,” you murmured, “maybe you’re ready to earn a little more.”
Tim stayed there a moment too long after the tenth strike. His head was down, cheek pressed to the sheets, hips lifted like he wasn’t quite ready to move—like the weight of you across his back had melted him into something obedient.
You rested your hand on the curve of his ass again, rubbing gentle circles into the pink skin.
“Look at that,” you said softly, fingers dragging down the side of his thigh. “Didn’t even need to tie you down.”
Tim made a sound—something caught between a scoff and a sigh. “You’re acting like this was your idea of mercy.”
You chuckled and leaned in, letting your chest press to his back, breath warm against his neck. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to be mean, you’d still be on the first round.”
He shivered. You felt it beneath you—the slight tightening of his core, the way his hips shifted just enough to let his hardening cock drag against your thigh again.
“I see the little show’s over,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. “Where’s all that confidence now, huh?”
Tim groaned quietly. “I hate you.”
You smiled, wide and full of teeth, and kissed his shoulder again.
“No, you don’t.”
You let your hand trail forward, brushing down his stomach, just barely ghosting the underside of his cock—enough to make him jolt, but not enough to give him what he wanted.
His hips jerked forward instinctively, but you pulled your hand away before he could grind against your palm.
“Nuh-uh,” you said, clicking your tongue. “Not until you ask.”
Tim twisted just enough to look at you over his shoulder. His hair was a mess, cheeks red, lashes wet. His glare didn’t have half the heat it usually did.
“You really want me to beg?”
You tilted your head and let your thumb drag over his lower lip, pressing just enough to part it.
“I want you to be honest. With me. With yourself.”
He sucked in a breath and held it. You waited, still stroking lazy circles on the side of his hip, letting the silence stretch like silk between you.
Then, softer than you expected:
“I want your mouth.”
You didn’t move.
You didn’t answer.
You just kept looking at him—slow, patient, adoring.
Tim swallowed. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again.
“Please.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Please what?”
Tim’s lashes fluttered. His hips flexed again, like his body was begging faster than his mouth could keep up.
“Please use your mouth. I—I want you to suck me off.”
You could see the tension in his jaw as he forced the words out, how much it cost him to say them without a smart-ass smile. No games. Just need.
You kissed his spine, slow and reverent.
“There he is.”
Then you flipped him.
Strong hands under his thighs, you lifted and shifted him effortlessly onto his back, laying him out like a gift on the bed. His legs dropped open on instinct. His cock twitched against his stomach, red and leaking.
You settled between his thighs and looked up at him with a grin.
“You want my mouth, baby?”
Tim nodded quickly. “Yes—please, just—”
You cut him off with a kiss to the head of his cock.
“Then you better keep still,” you whispered. “Or I’m starting from one again.”
He whined.
And you licked the drop of pre from his slit like it was honey.
Tim tried not to squirm.
Tried being the key word.
You hadn’t even taken him into your mouth yet—just kissed the tip, licked him slow, let your tongue tease the slit until he was gasping—and he was already trembling. His fingers twisted in the sheets, tight-knuckled and white, like he was holding onto something just to keep from falling apart.
You looked up from between his thighs, chin resting lazily on his hip. “You’re shaking already?”
Tim glared down at you. “You’re teasing me.”
You smiled. “I’m preparing you.”
His breath hitched.
“For what?” he asked, voice breaking on the second word.
You leaned forward, dragging your tongue from base to tip, slow and deliberate.
“To get fucking ruined.”
He groaned—loud and raw—and let his head drop back to the bed.
You took your time.
You let your lips part just around the head of his cock, letting it rest warm and heavy on your tongue, your hands bracing his hips down to keep him from bucking. He gasped the moment your mouth closed around him.
“Oh—fuck—”
You didn’t stop.
You went deeper, slow at first, letting the weight of him stretch your lips open until your jaw ached in the best way. Your tongue flattened beneath him, tracing the underside with every pass. You could feel every twitch, every pulse.
He tried to lift his hips again. You pressed down harder, holding him still.
“Stay. Still.”
His voice cracked. “C-can’t—fuck, you’re so—”
You took him deeper.
Tim’s breath choked off halfway through the word.
You swallowed around him, gagged once—deliberately—and moaned around his dick like he was the best thing you’d ever tasted.
He whimpered. “Oh my god—”
You pulled off just enough to speak, spit clinging between your lips and his shaft. You smiled, voice hoarse and low.
“You wanted my mouth, right?”
Tim nodded frantically, his pupils blown wide.
You licked a slow stripe up the side, fingers tightening around the base of his shaft.
“Then fucking take it.”
You dropped your mouth back down—and this time, you didn’t stop.
You pushed deep, let his cock slide past your tongue, past the gag reflex, until your nose was buried in the soft skin of his lower stomach. Your throat clenched around him instinctively. You heard the breath rush out of him like he’d been punched.
“F-Fuck—M/n—!”
You didn’t let up.
You pulled back only halfway, spit bubbling around your lips, and sank down again with more force—deliberately.
Tim was moaning now—long, drawn-out, helpless sounds that echoed off the walls.
You kept choking on him, mouth slick and hot, eyes locked on his face the whole time.
He looked wrecked.
Beautiful.
Totally undone.
“I can’t—I can’t—gonna—gonna—”
You squeezed the base of his dick and pulled off just in time.
Tim sobbed.
His hands reached for you on instinct, desperate, grabbing for your shoulders, your hair, your face. You caught his wrist mid-reach and kissed the inside of it.
“You don’t get to cum yet.”
He looked like you’d just killed him.
“You’re evil.”
You grinned.
“I’m thorough.”
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
You sat back on your heels, wiping the spit from your mouth with the back of your hand. Tim was panting, chest rising and falling like he’d just run ten miles. His thighs were still trembling.
You tilted your head, dragging your gaze down his flushed body.
“You’re shaking.”
His eyes fluttered. “That’s your fault.”
You laughed, rich and low, and ran your palms up his thighs—thumbs circling the twitching muscles, moving closer to where his cock still throbbed against his stomach.
“No, baby,” you murmured. “That’s yours. You’ve been like this all day, haven’t you?”
Tim didn’t answer.
So you leaned in closer. Let your mouth hover just above his navel.
“You were hard in the car. Hard when I told you to get upstairs. And I bet,” you whispered, dragging your fingers lower, toward his inner thighs, “I bet if I spread your legs right now...”
You paused.
Then pushed.
Tim’s knees dropped open without resistance.
And there—between his cheeks, slick already shining against his hole—you saw it.
You went very still.
“…Timothy Jackson Drake,” you said slowly, voice edged with something between amusement and hunger. “Did you prep yourself before I got home?”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just turned his head to the side, cheeks flushing deeper, the tips of his ears bright red.
You grabbed his chin gently and turned him back to face you.
“Answer me.”
Tim’s voice was hoarse. “...Yes.”
Your cock twitched.
You exhaled hard through your nose, trying not to let the groan slip free. But fuck—he really had. He’d done all this knowing how it would end. He’d spent the day riling you up, waiting for you to crack, knowing that when you did, you’d fuck him hard enough to shut that smart little mouth for hours.
“You’re such a fucking tease,” you muttered.
His lips curled into a small smile. “Takes one to—mmph!”
You kissed him—filthy, fast, full of spit and the taste of his pre. He moaned into it, open-mouthed, greedy. You pulled back only to let your voice sink into his throat again.
“You really want it that bad, huh? Couldn’t wait? Walked around all day with your hole fucking ready?”
Tim nodded fast, desperate. “I wanted you to make me wait.”
You blinked.
“Yeah?” Your voice dropped. “You like it that much? Laying there, open, knowing I wouldn’t touch you until you earned it?”
He bit his lip and looked up at you from under his lashes.
“I like being your problem.”
You groaned and kissed him again, hand sliding down between his legs, fingers slipping easily through the slick gathered around his entrance.
“You’re not a problem,” you whispered, sinking two fingers into him with no resistance, “You’re a fucking addiction.”
His voice came out wrecked—quiet, needy, breathless.
“Then don’t stop until I forget my own name.”
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
“F-fuck, M/n—too much, too much—”
Tim moaned like he’d lost his mind.
It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t contained. It was loud, cracked, real—the kind of sound that only came out when everything else had already broken down.
You had just pushed into him—slow at first, just enough to stretch him—but the moment your hips met his ass, flush, heavy, full?
He sobbed.
You gripped his thighs harder, pinning them to your sides. He was already shaking, the insides of his knees clenching around your waist like he was trying to keep you close and push you away all at once.
“You’re the one who got ready for this,” you said through clenched teeth, sweat already rolling down your neck. “You did this to yourself.”
Tim was barely listening. His hands were in your hair, on your shoulders, grabbing at your arms like he didn’t know what to hold onto.
“You’re so fucking deep—”
You leaned down until your forehead pressed against his, panting into his mouth as you rolled your hips once, slow and hard. He whined like a kicked dog.
“I’m not even moving yet.”
His whole body jolted when you pulled back and thrust again—harder this time. Sloppy. Loud.
There was no rhythm. No grace. Just slick skin, the sound of your cock sliding into his soaked hole, and the wet slap of your hips hitting his ass, again and again.
Tim gasped, voice high. “Don’t—don’t stop—just like that, just like that—”
“You sound so fucking needy,” you growled, hands sliding under his back to lift him, to pull him in tighter. “Is this what you wanted all day? Getting stuffed so deep you can’t even lie to yourself about who owns this pretty little ass?”
Tim couldn’t form words. His head tipped back, mouth open, voice caught in his throat.
You slammed in again, dragging a scream out of him. “Say it.”
His lips moved, but nothing came out.
So you stopped moving entirely—just kept yourself buried, cock twitching inside him, chest heaving. “Say it, Tim.”
His eyes snapped open. Desperate. Wrecked.
“You,” he croaked. “It’s yours, it’s all fucking yours—please, don’t stop—”
“Good fucking boy.”
You grabbed his legs, shoved them higher, nearly folding him in half, and pounded back in without mercy.
The moan that ripped out of him didn’t sound human.
You drove into him like you’d lost patience—like he needed to feel it in his ribs—and you knew the angle was hitting him dead-on because he kept clenching around you like he couldn’t take it.
His cock was leaking all over his stomach, untouched.
You didn’t reach for it. You didn’t need to.
Not when he was already babbling.
“Fuck—oh my god—yes, yes, right there—M/n, I’m gonna—”
You snarled and leaned down, biting at his neck just hard enough to make him jolt. “You better not cum without permission.”
Tim whimpered.
You could feel it—his whole body was right on the edge. His toes curled. His legs shook. He was crying, soft little gasps mixing with broken moans, eyes rolled halfway back.
“You wanna cum?”
He nodded frantically, face flushed and wet.
You slowed your thrusts, just enough to grind.
“Beg for it.”
His voice cracked. “Please—please, let me—let me cum, I can’t—I can’t hold it—please, sir—”
You slammed into him one last time, rough and deep, and held there, grinding into his prostate with punishing pressure.
“Cum for me, baby.”
Tim screamed.
His cock jumped against his stomach, ropes of hot cum shooting up his chest as he seized in your arms, whole body spasming from the force of it. His hole clamped down around your cock so tight it dragged your own release right out of you.
You didn’t even pull out.
You just buried yourself deeper, groaning as you emptied into him, your fingers digging into his hips, holding him still as you spilled everything inside him.
You stayed there—buried deep, panting against his throat, still twitching inside him as your cm warmed his already-slick hole. He was limp beneath you, chest rising in shallow pulls, lips parted in that dazed little O-shape that always told you you’d wrecked him just right.
But you didn’t move.
Didn’t pull out. Didn’t let go.
Instead, you kissed his cheek, soft and slow, and murmured, “You still with me, baby?”
Tim made a sound. Not a word—just a breathy little whimper that cracked at the edges.
You smiled.
“That’s a yes,” you said gently, brushing your nose against his temple. “Color?”
He nodded once against the pillow. “Green.”
His voice was small. Floaty. Like his brain had drifted somewhere far, and he was only now swimming back toward you.
“Good boy,” you whispered.
You pulled back just enough to look at him—his flushed cheeks, tear-slick lashes, and mouth still a little open like he hadn’t remembered how to close it.
“You look so dumb right now, sweetheart.”
Tim blinked at you slowly, like the words were getting stuck on the way to his brain.
You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
“You like getting used like that, huh?” you asked, voice soft and low, like you were telling him a secret. “Letting me fuck you stupid? Letting me fill you up ‘til you can’t even talk?”
He moaned again—soft, almost shy.
But you could feel his cock twitch against your stomach.
You hummed and rocked your hips forward, just enough to grind. Not thrust. Just let him feel the weight of you still inside him.
His body jolted like a live wire.
“Sensitive,” you said, smiling as he whimpered. “Poor baby.”
“I—I can’t—” Tim’s words stuttered out. “Too much, I already—”
“I know,” you cooed. “You already came so hard, baby. Made such a mess for me.”
You pressed a kiss to his collarbone, one hand sliding down to his thigh. You traced lazy circles on his skin with your thumb.
“But your pretty little hole is still so greedy,” you murmured, giving a slow, shallow thrust that made his eyes roll. “Look how it’s holding onto me. Like it doesn’t wanna let go.”
Tim keened. His fingers scrabbled at your shoulders, his whole body arching without control.
You kissed the underside of his jaw. “You can take one more.”
He shook his head—but his legs were already spreading wider.
You smiled against his throat.
“I’ll go slow,” you promised, voice velvet. “Won’t hurt you. I’ll make it so good, baby, you won’t even have to think.”
You started to move—deep, slow grinds that made him feel every inch. His walls fluttered around you, overstimulated, raw, and dripping, but he didn’t say stop.
He never did.
“Look at you,” you whispered, lips ghosting over his ear. “My sweet little thing. All open. All mine. Can’t even form a sentence.”
“C-can,” Tim gasped, but it was a lie and he knew it.
You chuckled low and deep. “Okay. What’s your name?”
He blinked.
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
You grinned. “That’s what I thought.”
Your next thrust was harder. Not punishing. Just firm. Measured. Intentional.
His whole body jerked.
You kept your voice soft. Sweet.
“You love when I talk to you like this, don’t you?”
Tim was crying again. Quiet, overwhelmed tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.
You kissed one. “You’re doing so good, baby. So fucking good for me.”
You shifted your angle, pulled one of his legs higher, and aimed a thrust directly into that sweet little spot inside him that made him scream.
His voice cracked.
His cock jumped, untouched.
“You gonna cum again just from this?” you murmured, breath warm against his lips. “Gonna let me fuck your brains out till there’s nothing left in that pretty little head?”
Tim nodded frantically. He was gone. Gone.
“I wanna—wanna cum, I wanna—”
“You need permission, baby.”
“I—I—please—please, let me—”
You slammed in one more time and held there.
“Do it.”
Tim shattered.
He came untouched—again—cock spurting weakly between you, body twitching under yours like he didn’t know how to stop.
You rocked through it, slow and careful, riding out his orgasm until he went limp again, arms wrapped around your shoulders, breathing soft and uneven.
And this time?
You pulled out.
He whimpered when you did.
But you kissed his lips, slow and sweet.
Then you cleaned him—gently, warm cloth and whispered praise, your fingers rubbing soft circles into his hips and arms while he blinked up at the ceiling, too blissed out to speak.
You crawled into bed with him afterward, pulling the covers over both of you, letting him curl into your chest like always.
He pressed his face into your neck and mumbled something soft you couldn’t quite make out.
You smiled and kissed the crown of his head.
“Love you too, baby.”
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
You were half-asleep.
Tim was curled into your chest, breath soft against your skin, legs tangled with yours under the blanket. He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Still twitchy, still sensitive. But content.
You were just about to drift off when the tablet on the nightstand lit up.
You didn’t even flinch at the ringtone—Wayne comms had a specific ping. One that usually meant: “Gear up.”
Tim groaned into your collarbone.
“Don’t answer it.”
You reached blindly for the device, not bothering to sit up. “It’s probably just an update.”
The moment you tapped accept, Dick Grayson’s face filled the screen. He looked sweaty, in uniform, leaning half-out of a fire escape window somewhere across the city.
“Hey, sorry, quick one—Tim are you doing Uptown or should I grab it?”
You blinked blearily, still squinting against the screen glare. “Tim isn’t scheduled for tonight.”
Dick frowned. “Really? I thought Tim was on the rota for North End—”
Then he paused.
And tilted his head.
“…Are you naked?”
You didn’t answer.
Dick’s eyes flicked to the side, squinting.
“Is that—oh my god, Tim?”
You turned the tablet slightly.
Just enough to show the very flushed, very shirtless, and very recently-ruined boy sprawled half across your chest, lips kiss-bruised, neck marked, hair destroyed. His eyes were open but barely.
He blinked once.
Then groaned into your shoulder, trying to hide.
Dick lost it.
“Oh my god. I’m hanging up. I am hanging up right now.”
“You could’ve just called,” you said calmly.
“I thought this was urgent!” he snapped, already fumbling for the end call. “I didn’t know I was about to see my little brother looking like—fuck, Tim, are you drooling?”
“I hate you,” Tim mumbled.
Dick’s cackle echoed even as the screen cut to black.
You tossed the tablet face-down on the nightstand.
Tim didn’t move.
You kissed his hair once and pulled him closer.
“I’ll cover your shift.”
He groaned again. “You better. He’s never gonna let me live that down.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
there's a writing blog @tsunaso that uses AI for their writing and pretends it's their own. when i pointed out all of the AI tells they blocked me so now i'm a sure they did it. (jokes on them i have a second account so i went through their posts and all of their work is AI)
anyway, for those that want to learn how to recognize AI writing tells except the obvious ones here's a link to a very useful video i found
be safe and remember that anything you make will be better than an AI slop because it came from your hearts ♡
Aventurine and his partner have been together for a while when they somehow try working through Aventurine’s past trauma by showing him what a true master is like (reader)
Note - heavy bdsm, master/slave, anything else you’d like but I would prefer this being a healthier one so not non/con or forced
Thank you! 💖💖
“LET ME SHOW YOU WHO I AM”
pairing. Sub!Aventurine x Top!male reader
synopsis. In where Aventurine finally submits on his own terms, he learns what it means to be touched without being taken. — 4.3k
warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, master/slave kink, collaring kink, light bondage, fingering, blowjob, handjob, overstimulation, begging, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, subspace, aftercare, safe word use, past trauma, discussions of past abuse, implied SA (not graphic), hurt/comfort
The room was quiet.
Not sterile. Not cold. It smelled faintly of lavender and wax polish—warm light spilling from a shaded lamp. The blinds were drawn. The door was locked.
Aventurine stood in the center of the room like a model in a glass case, posed. Perfect. Still.
He had removed his gloves first. Then his rings. Then his coat.
Every motion methodical. Almost clinical.
You’d seen him negotiate with CEOs more relaxed than this.
You sat on the edge of the couch, legs slightly parted, arms resting on your knees, watching him like he was something fragile. Not in the way that meant he’d break—but in the way that meant he already had, at some point, and learned to glue himself together into someone flawless.
And he was flawless.
That was the problem.
"You're not breathing," you said quietly.
Aventurine blinked. Then inhaled like he forgot that he needed to. A short, clipped breath.
He forced a smile. "I'm just… preparing."
"For what?"
He paused. "To give you what you want."
You let that sit.
Let him feel it.
Then you stood—slow, controlled—and stepped into his space.
"Look at me."
He did. Carefully. He always looked carefully, like his gaze was a scalpel and he was afraid to cut too deep.
You reached out, brushing your knuckles against his jaw. He didn’t lean into it. He didn’t flinch either. He simply absorbed the touch like it was something he had to endure—an input to be processed, not felt.
“I want you to listen,” you said. “And I want you to listen as Aventurine. Not as someone performing. Not as a client trying to impress me. As you.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “…I’m listening.”
“I’m not asking you to submit because I want to dominate you.”
He stiffened.
“I’m asking you to submit because I want to keep you safe.”
A silence followed. Longer this time.
You let your hand fall from his jaw and gently, deliberately, took his hand in yours. You turned it palm-up—his fingers were smooth, trembling ever so slightly.
You pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist.
“That’s the only reason,” you said. “Everything else—the commands, the structure, the rules… those are tools. Not punishments. Not games. They're ways to show you something you weren’t allowed to believe.”
He stared at you, eyes flickering. “Which is?”
“That being owned can feel like being protected.”
His lips parted—then closed again. He didn’t speak.
But he was still listening.
So you guided him to the couch. You sat down first, then tugged him forward by the hand until he was kneeling between your legs. Not to humble him—to center him.
"Now," you murmured, letting your fingers brush along his throat. “Let’s make something clear before we go further.”
Aventurine swallowed again. You felt it beneath your fingertips.
"You are mine only if you choose to be. And that choice doesn’t disappear just because you're in a collar or calling me Master."
His breath hitched. Slightly.
"You have a safeword. And you will use it."
You felt him tense—but it wasn’t fear. It was confusion.
“Why?” he asked softly. “Do you think I’ll regret it?”
“No,” you said. “I think someone else made you believe you weren’t allowed to.”
He froze.
And there it was.
That flicker. That twitch beneath the surface. You saw it behind his eyes—how he wanted to deflect, wanted to throw on that trademark smirk and laugh you off, pretend none of it reached him.
But it did.
Because the first time you called him "slave," he hadn’t flinched.
But he hadn’t melted either.
He had looked like someone waiting to be hurt.
Obedient, yes—but not present.
You didn’t want that again.
“I don’t want obedience like that,” you whispered.
His lashes flicked up. His eyes were wet—but not crying.
You kissed the space between his brows. “I want your devotion. Your trust. Not your fear.”
He went still.
“…Then I don’t know how to be yours,” he said softly.
You tilted his chin up.
“That’s okay,” you said. “I’ll teach you.”
𓆩♡𓆪
The collar was black. Supple leather, lined in deep velvet.
Not flashy. Not harsh. Nothing sharp or ornamental.
It wasn’t a trophy.
It was a promise.
You fastened it slowly around Aventurine’s throat, adjusting the buckle until it sat snug against his skin, resting in the hollow between his collarbones. His breathing had grown shallower with every click, every brush of your fingers. But he didn’t pull away.
He didn’t stop you.
And now—now he knelt.
He looked beautiful like that. Not just in the aesthetic sense, though he always had a way of appearing curated, even when undone. No—this was deeper. He looked like something offered.
The room was low-lit. Heavy drapes. No mirrors. No performance.
Just you and him, framed in candlelight and silence.
Your voice was the only thing allowed to break it.
“You’re trembling.”
His eyes flicked up, fast. Shame tightening his jaw before he could stop it.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” you said gently. “And that’s okay.”
He exhaled like the air had been trapped in his chest for years.
You reached out, brushing his hair from his forehead, slow. He didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t pull back. Still learning. Still testing the depth of the space you’d carved open between you.
“I want to hear you say your safeword.”
“…Now?”
“Yes.”
His lips parted, then closed again. A flicker of pride, of resistance. Not defiance—just fear dressed in finery.
You tilted his chin up, thumb dragging along the edge of his jaw.
“Say it for me, Aventurine.”
“…Citrine.”
The word hung in the air. Soft. Almost delicate. Like it didn’t belong in his mouth.
“Good,” you murmured. “That word is power. Not weakness.”
You saw it flash in his eyes. That old wiring. That ache. The way he’d been taught that power only came through performance or control, through being sharper, cleverer, faster.
And now here you were, asking him to surrender.
You reached for his shirt. Silk, crisp, fitted. The kind of thing he wore like a second skin. You undid the buttons slowly, not ripping or demanding, but unwrapping him like something valuable. Something earned.
By the time you slid it off his shoulders, his breath had quickened again.
“Color?” you asked softly.
He blinked. “Huh?”
You smiled. “Give me your color.”
“…Green.”
Safe. Uncertain, but safe.
You trailed your fingers down his chest—bare, smooth, too still.
“I want to see you move when I touch you. Not freeze.”
He swallowed hard.
You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear. “You don’t have to be perfect here. You just have to be mine.”
He shivered.
“…Yes, Master.”
There it was. That subtle quake beneath the surface. Not fear. Relief.
You reached for the tie you’d laid on the bed earlier—rich crimson silk, soft and long. A blindfold, if needed. A restraint, if wanted. But tonight, just a tether. You looped it gently around his wrists behind his back—not tight. Just a suggestion.
“Sit back on your heels.”
He obeyed.
You let the silence stretch, letting him feel the leash of your presence even without a word. Your gaze burned into him—watching the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his fingers twitched behind him, even restrained.
Then you spoke. Low. Commanding. Steady.
“Say it.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Say… what?”
“Who you are.”
His throat bobbed.
You took a step forward, letting your fingers trail beneath the collar at his throat.
“Say it, Aventurine. Who do you belong to?”
“…You.”
“That’s not enough.”
He shuddered.
“I belong to you,” he whispered. “I’m… I’m your slave.”
The words cracked on the edge of something old—something raw.
And you knew. That this wasn’t the first time he’d said it. But it was the first time he wasn’t punished for saying it wrong. The first time he wasn’t being used like a toy to be broken and left behind.
This was the first time he said it and wasn’t afraid.
You stepped around him slowly, trailing your hand across his bare shoulder as you did.
“You’re mine,” you said, voice smooth as heat. “Because you asked to be. Because I said yes. And now… I’m going to show you what that means.”
You stopped behind him, let your hand drop lower, brushing the curve of his spine.
“You’re going to listen.”
Your hand slid lower—over the waistband of his slacks, down to his thigh.
“You’re going to obey.”
You knelt beside him now, brushing your lips over his temple.
“And if I touch you and you shake, I’ll hold you.”
He let out a small sound—too raw to name. You felt his breath stutter. His entire body leaned just slightly into yours. Like the tension in his shoulders had finally started to give.
“Color?” you asked, voice warm.
“…Green,” he whispered.
You smiled.
“Good slave.”
His eyes fluttered shut. His lips parted. And for the first time since you’d collared him, Aventurine didn’t look composed.
He looked free.
𓆩♡𓆪
You guided him onto the bed slowly. Not forced. Not posed. You didn’t bend him—you invited him. And he followed.
The sheets were dark—deep maroon silk, soft enough to slide against bare skin without a sound. The collar caught the light in a subtle gleam as Aventurine lowered himself down, legs folded beneath him, arms still behind his back. You sat in front of him, letting the room fall to quiet.
He was breathing a little too fast again.
You reached out, cupping his jaw in one hand. His lashes fluttered.
“Color?”
“…Green,” he whispered.
Your thumb stroked his cheek. “You’re doing beautifully, treasure.”
His breath hitched again, this time from something that almost sounded like relief.
You leaned in and kissed him. Soft. Just once. And when you pulled away, you saw the dazed flicker in his eyes.
You didn’t ask for more yet. You just started touching him—slow strokes of your fingers over his chest, his arms, his thighs. Mapping. Worshipping. Letting him feel like something sacred.
“You’ve been holding yourself together for so long,” you murmured, tracing the hollow of his hipbone. “You don’t have to anymore.”
Aventurine’s body twitched under your touch, heat flashing across his face. He was already hard—aching against the front of his slacks, pulse pounding through him in quiet, desperate waves.
You kissed his collarbone, then lower. “I want to see what you look like when you come apart.”
He made a noise—small, breathy.
“I want to see how messy I can make you.”
Another whimper. This one sharper.
You undid the button on his slacks. Pulled the zipper down with slow, steady fingers.
"You’ve kept yourself so clean," you said. "So controlled."
You slid his pants down, along with his briefs. His cock sprang free, flushed red, already leaking.
"But this isn’t clean," you whispered, wrapping your hand around the base. “This is filthy. Needy. And it belongs to me.”
He shivered violently. You felt his knees twitch beneath him.
“You’re mine, Aventurine.”
He nodded. “Y-Yes, Master.”
You pumped him slowly—light pressure, thumb teasing over the slit. You kissed down his thigh as you worked, feeling the tension begin to fracture.
"That’s it," you whispered, lips brushing his inner thigh. “Breathe for me, pretty boy.”
He did. He tried. He was panting now, head tilted back, fingers clenched behind him like he didn’t know where else to hold the sensation.
“Such a good thing,” you crooned. “So obedient. So sweet. So ready to break.”
Your tongue flicked over the tip. He jerked—gasped.
"Color?" you murmured against him.
“…Green,” he rasped. “F-fuck—green—”
You hummed in approval, then dragged your tongue up his shaft, slow, tasting every drop he’d spilled.
"Look at you," you whispered, mouth just above his cock. "So wet already. You’d let me ruin you with just my tongue, wouldn’t you?"
He moaned—loud.
So you took him in. Not all the way. Just the head. Just enough to pull a shudder from his hips before you pulled off again.
“Not yet,” you murmured, hand stroking him again, firmer. “You don’t get to cum until you beg.”
You leaned up, lips brushing his ear.
“And not like a businessman,” you whispered. “Not like a negotiator. Like a whimpering little thing.”
His cock twitched in your fist.
"Say it."
“I—”
"Say what you are.”
“…Your p-pet,” he gasped.
You squeezed.
"Not good enough."
“I’m your—your toy—your slut—”
"Good," you growled. "Getting closer."
You tugged his head back by the collar, made him look at you.
"You’re mine, aren’t you?"
“Yes—yes, I’m yours—please, Master—please let me cum—"
And then he choked on a sound. His whole body jerked.
And the word fell from his lips:
“Yellow.”
You froze.
Not in fear. Not in failure.
In readiness.
Your hand left his cock instantly. You released the collar. Your voice softened.
“Hey.” You cupped his cheek. “You did perfect. You’re safe.”
His breathing was erratic. His eyes were glossy. But he wasn’t panicked. Not quite. Just too much. Overwhelmed. Drenched in sensations he’d never let himself feel before.
“I didn’t want to stop,” he said, voice breaking. “It just—just hit too fast—”
You nodded. Kissed his temple. Held his jaw steady.
“You did everything right,” you whispered. “I’m proud of you.”
He shivered. A small sound leaked from his throat—frustration. Shame. Something old.
You held him.
“You said yellow,” you murmured. “Not red. That means we slow down. We breathe. We check in.”
You reached for the silk tie around his wrists, undoing it gently.
He was trembling now.
And when he whispered, “I’m sorry,” you cut him off immediately.
“Don’t apologize,” you said. “Not for taking care of yourself. Not with me.”
He went quiet. Eyes searching yours.
“…So we can still—?”
You smiled.
“We’re going to continue. If you want to. And this time?”
You leaned in, kissed him slow, deep, open-mouthed.
“I want you to give me your surrender.”
𓆩♡𓆪
He was still shaking when you brought him back to the bed.
Not from fear. Not from regret.
From how much it was.
He let you hold him without asking. Let you kiss the top of his head, run your fingers down the back of his neck, cradle him in your lap like something precious. And when your hand slid to his thigh again—he opened his legs without hesitation.
“I want you inside me,” he whispered. “Please.”
Your fingers traced the line of his inner thigh, featherlight. “You sure?”
His breath caught.
Then, “Yes, Master.”
You smiled, leaned in, and kissed the side of his mouth. “Then I’ll give you what no one else ever did.”
He blinked, eyes fluttering.
“What’s that?”
You kissed his throat, tongue dragging over the edge of the collar.
“Time.”
You laid him out like he was something sacred—chest to the sheets, legs parted, cheek resting against a silk pillow. He looked wrecked already. Hair wild, skin flushed, cock twitching against his stomach. He still had the collar on.
Your hand ran down his back slowly, fingers trailing the curve of his spine. You watched his hips twitch in anticipation.
And then you whispered, “I’m going to stretch you open now.”
Aventurine shuddered.
“Not like them,” you added, voice low and warm. “Not fast. Not hard. Not careless.”
You pressed a kiss to the small of his back.
“Like this.”
Your hand slid between his legs, parting them more. You took your time with the lube—warm, slick, worked between your fingers before you ever touched his hole. You let your thumb rest against the rim, not pushing, just being there.
“Breathe for me,” you whispered. “Color?”
“Green,” he rasped. “Fuck, I’m green—just—please.”
You slid one finger in. Slowly. No resistance. Just heat. Just a shaky, desperate moan beneath you.
“That’s it,” you murmured. “That’s my good boy.”
He gasped into the pillow, his whole body tensing—then softening.
"You're so tight," you praised. "So soft inside. You were made for this."
You curled your finger, watching the way he arched, hips twitching.
“M-Master—”
You hummed, kissing the dip of his back.
“I know. It’s good now, isn’t it?”
He nodded, whimpering.
You took your time. You didn’t rush the second finger. You didn’t stretch him to watch him squirm—you stretched him because you wanted him to be ready. You wanted to give his body the chance to welcome you.
Not endure you.
Aventurine was panting now. His cock leaked freely onto the sheets. Every twist of your fingers sent a sob through him.
“You’re doing so well,” you whispered. “Letting me open you. Letting me feel how warm you are inside. This hole is mine now, isn’t it?”
He moaned—wrecked, high, humiliated.
“Yes, Master—it’s yours—just yours—”
You slipped in a third finger, carefully, watching his back arch as he cried out.
But he didn’t say yellow.
He didn’t say stop.
He pushed back.
You grinned.
“Oh, you’re greedy now,” you murmured against his ear, one hand reaching around to grip his leaking cock. “You want it all, don’t you?”
He whimpered. Nodded. Twitched in your hand.
"Say it."
“P-please,” he sobbed. “Please fill me—break me—fuck me full—I want to be yours inside—please, I need your cock—”
You laughed—low, hot, proud.
“Oh, my sweet little slut.”
He gasped—choked on it.
You leaned down, kissed the back of his neck. Then whispered, “You like being called that now, don’t you?”
“…Y-yes—”
“You like being my toy. My slave. My obedient little hole.”
His whole body seized.
“F-fuck—!”
You pulled your fingers out—slow, careful, teasing.
He sobbed at the loss.
You lined yourself up, pressed the tip against his stretched, slick entrance.
He pushed back instantly.
"Greedy thing," you growled. "Beg for it."
“Please, Master—please—fuck me—ruin me—make me your cumdump—please—”
And you gave him exactly what he asked for.
You sank in.
All the way.
Slow. Measured. No brutality. No rush. You slid into him inch by inch, letting him feel it, letting him open around it, letting the stretch burn sweet and thick as your cock filled his aching hole.
Aventurine gasped—his voice a cracked moan as his body trembled beneath yours.
“Oh, f-fuck—” he choked out, knuckles white as they dug into the sheets.
You leaned down, one arm braced beside his head, the other gripping his hip tight, keeping him spread open as your cock bottomed out, balls resting snug against his skin.
“There it is,” you whispered into his ear. “Feel that? That’s me, inside you.”
He whimpered. You felt the clench around you—tight, slick, hungry.
“This is what you needed all along. Not a man who takes. A man who fucks you like he owns every inch.”
You pulled back—slowly—and thrust in again, long and deep, your cock dragging against the sweet spot that made his legs shake.
He moaned—loud, broken. His cock throbbed untouched against the sheets.
You kept the rhythm slow, heavy, grinding deep with every thrust, pushing the sound out of him with every roll of your hips.
“Y-you’re so deep,” he gasped. “I—I can feel you in my stomach—Master—please—”
You kissed his neck, teeth grazing the collar. “You’re taking it so well. My pretty little whore.”
He shuddered. “Yes—yes—call me that again—”
You thrust deep—he jerked, crying out.
“Say it.”
“I’m your whore,” he whimpered. “I’m your obedient whore—use me—please—just—”
He clenched around you, hole fluttering, walls pulsing like he was already about to cum.
You grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back.
“Don’t cum,” you growled into his ear. “Not until you break for me.”
Aventurine whined, a high, needy sound, mouth open, drool slipping down his chin as you kept fucking into him—slow, deep, deliberate.
“Faster,” he sobbed. “P-please—Master—please fuck me harder—need it—need you to ruin me—”
You slammed in hard. He screamed.
“Oh, that’s it,” you growled. “You like it now, don’t you? You like being fucked stupid.”
“Y-yes—yes, I do—please—don’t stop—”
You pulled the leash tighter, using it to anchor him as you began thrusting fast, hard, pounding into his slick hole until the slap of skin-on-skin echoed with every deep, bruising thrust.
“You gonna cum like this?” you hissed. “Face in the sheets, used, leaking, begging?”
“Yes—yes—I’m your cumslut—I’m yours—only yours—”
His words collapsed into gasping cries, voice breaking every time your cock slammed into that same aching spot deep inside.
You reached under him, fisted his cock—already wet, throbbing, twitching.
“You want to cum, slut?”
He nodded frantically, tears slipping down his cheeks.
“Then fucking ask.”
“Please—Master—please let me cum—let me make a mess for you—please—”
You grinned.
“Cum for me, slave.”
He screamed.
His body seized, hole clenching so tight around your cock it almost pushed you over the edge. His cum splattered across the sheets in thick, hot streaks, and he collapsed beneath you—shaking, moaning, drooling, trembling with every aftershock as you kept fucking him through it.
He was babbling now. You didn’t need to understand. It was all yours.
You growled low, thrusting one last time and spilling inside him, hot and thick, grinding deep as you filled him to the brim. He sobbed into the sheets—completely broken open, your cum leaking from his fluttering hole as he whispered, “Thank you, Master,” again and again.
You kissed his shoulder.
“You did so well for me,” you murmured. “So good. So obedient. So mine.”
He made a small sound—something close to a sob—but there was no fear in it.
Only peace.
𓆩♡𓆪
You didn’t let go of him.
Not once.
Not when he came undone under you, not when his body collapsed into aftershocks, not when his sobs started—quiet and broken, into the silk sheets.
You stayed inside him, shallow and warm, one hand on his waist, the other splayed across his chest. His breath came in shivers. His body twitched with every small pulse of aftershock, still spread open, still marked by you.
And still, he whispered, “Thank you, Master.”
Over and over again.
Like a prayer. Like a child afraid of silence.
You kissed the back of his neck. Gently. “You don’t have to thank me for not hurting you.”
His fingers curled in the sheets. He didn’t answer right away.
You pulled out slowly. Your cum dripped down the inside of his thighs, hot and wet, and he didn’t move. He just exhaled—long, cracked, like the last of his performance was melting out of him.
You left only briefly. Warm towel. Cloth. Water. When you returned, he hadn’t shifted.
He was still kneeling.
Silent.
Shaking.
You moved behind him and eased him into your lap. Chest to back. He folded like he’d been waiting to. You wrapped your arms around him and held him there—wet, ruined, open—and he let you.
You cleaned him gently. Slow, soft, reverent. Not possessive now. Not hungry. Just present.
“I want to hear your color,” you whispered.
“…Green,” he breathed. “Just… slow.”
“Slow is good.”
Another breath. Then, quieter: “I don’t want to go back to my room.”
“You won’t.”
You tightened the towel around him, pressing your palm over his heart. The leather collar was still warm under your fingers.
“Does this still feel good?” you asked, thumb brushing it.
“…Yes.”
“Does it still feel like a leash?”
“No.”
“Good.”
You tilted his face toward you. His eyes were red, wet, shining.
He swallowed.
“I kept waiting for it.”
You blinked. “For what?”
“For the part where you stopped asking,” he said. “Where you just… took.”
Your breath stilled.
He looked down, shame creeping like old blood into his voice. “They didn’t ask. Not after I was sold. The first ones just—”
You adjusted your hold—firmer now. Grounded.
“I know.”
“There was a man who called me by my serial number,” he said. “Said names were for people.”
You didn’t speak. You held him tighter.
“I used to think… if I offered it first, let people use me, I was in control. If I moaned loud enough or spread my legs fast enough, maybe they’d forget I didn’t want it.”
His voice cracked. His jaw clenched.
“But none of them ever stopped.”
You found his hand. Laced your fingers through his.
“…And you did.”
You didn’t say of course.
You didn’t say I’m not like them.
You said: “You said yellow. So I slowed.”
And something inside him shattered.
He didn’t break pretty. He broke real. Face crumpling, shoulders shaking, tears falling hard against your skin as he buried his face in your chest and wept.
Not from shame.
From being seen.
You rocked him gently. Back and forth. Holding him through every sob, every tremor, every time he tried to apologize only to collapse again.
“I didn’t think I could ever be like this again,” he whispered.
“Like what?”
“Soft.”
You closed your eyes. Kissed his hair.
“You’re not soft. You’re just safe.”
His breath hitched.
“I don’t remember the last time I felt wanted,” he said, voice thin, “without needing to win something first.”
“You didn’t win me,” you murmured. “You let me hold you.”
His lashes fluttered. His voice dropped to a whisper:
“…Was I good?”
You cupped his cheek, thumb wiping a tear from his flushed skin.
“You were perfect.”
He laughed. It broke halfway. “I look pathetic right now.”
“No,” you said, smiling. “You look mine.”
He flinched—just slightly—but he didn’t deny it.
You kissed his nose. Brushed his damp hair back.
“Can I ask you something?”
“…Anything.”
“What do you want me to call you now?”
You didn’t rush it.
“You can keep Aventurine. Or Slave. Or…” You paused. “Kakavasha.”
He blinked.
His breath caught in his chest.
“I haven’t heard that name in so long,” he whispered. “It feels like it belongs to someone else.”
You nodded. “It does.”
He looked at you, startled.
You smiled.
“But maybe… that someone still lives here.” You placed your hand gently over his heart.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
His throat worked. His lashes fluttered.
hiii, I love ur writing, could u do a fic where Jason Todd is a mafia boss, and the male reader is his most loyal 'guard dog'? Jason literally treats him like one—giving him orders, rewarding him, keeping him close. Maybe there’s a moment where he calls male reader his 'dog,' and male reader just smirk and say, ‘Yeah? And who put the collar on me?’
thank u sm!
“BARK LIKE YOU WANT IT”
pairing. Sub!Mafia Boss!Jason Todd x Top!male reader
synopsis. In Gotham's underworld, Jason Todd holds the city by its throat. But every king has a dog at his heel—and M/n is loyal, brutal, and always watching. Jason calls him a mutt. But he forgets one thing—who put the collar on who? — 2.3k
Jason Todd ruled Gotham’s underground like it owed him blood. And in many ways—it did.
The Red Hood Syndicate didn’t move without his order. Rivals were ghosts before they made it to sunrise. Contracts vanished. Witnesses disappeared. And yet, for all the stories about Jason Todd’s brutality, his trigger temper, his high body count—
There was one man even the worst of the underworld feared more.
His shadow.
His guard dog.
You.
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
"You’re late."
Jason’s voice was sharp, not raised, but biting all the same as you stepped into his office, the double doors clicking shut behind you. You didn’t answer him. You never did when he was in one of his moods—irritable, pacing, hands stuffed into his pockets, a fresh line of blood drying down the corner of his jaw like he forgot to clean it off.
Or didn’t care.
He looked you up and down once. His mouth twisted slightly.
"You smell like smoke."
You stared, unbothered. "I burned a man alive in his own Porsche tonight. You wanted it done quiet."
He laughed. Dry. A little sharp around the edges.
“Messy job for quiet work.”
“Your note said ‘make it hurt.’ So I did.”
Jason stopped pacing. The city light from the penthouse windows caught across his eyes—green-blue, sharp as broken glass. He licked his lips once, slow. Then, “Come here.”
You didn’t hesitate.
Your boots echoed on the polished floor, each step solid. Intentional. Controlled. You moved like a weapon kept in a velvet box—danger tucked into civility, teeth beneath tailored suits.
Jason sat on the edge of his desk as you approached. Still calm. Still composed.
But his fingers twitched once where they gripped the edge of the wood. You saw it. You always did.
“You want to be praised?” he asked, tilting his head, voice half-daring.
"No." Your tone was even, flat, as you stopped in front of him. “I want you to stop testing me.”
Jason’s smile twitched. “But you’re so good when I do.”
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
It was like this. Always.
The tension. The push-pull.
He gave the orders. You obeyed. He treated you like property—his muscle, his executioner, his dog. And you let him.
But Jason, arrogant as he was, had always mistaken obedience for submission.
And that was going to cost him.
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
His hand lifted to your collar, two fingers brushing the sharp seam of your dress shirt. His knuckles grazed your throat, casual. Thoughtless.
But that’s where his control ended.
Your hand closed around his wrist.
His eyes jumped to yours, sharp with surprise—but not fear. Never fear.
“You like to call me your dog,” you said, low and measured. Your grip tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make him still. "Throw me scraps. Snap your fingers. Expect me to sit."
Jason’s breath hitched. Just a little.
Your voice dipped, threading a heat beneath the threat. "You like pretending I belong to you."
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His mouth was parted, his pupils wide, and every inch of him was screaming yes.
"So let me ask you something, Todd." You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice dark with knowing.
"Who put the collar on me?"
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
Jason shivered.
It was subtle—but it was there.
The slow exhale. The twitch of his thigh muscles. The flush creeping into his neck that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with being caught.
Owned.
He swallowed thickly. His hands clenched into fists against the desk.
And you—still gripping his wrist—lowered your mouth to his throat and let your teeth drag just beneath his jaw. Not biting. Not yet.
Just reminding.
Of what?
Of everything.
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
He jolted slightly under your touch. A sharp inhale. A curse under his breath. Then his voice—thin, almost petulant:
“You’re supposed to take orders.”
Your smirk was razor-edged.
“I do. Because I want to.”
Your grip dropped. But you didn’t move back.
Instead, you leaned in closer.
Jason didn’t flinch. He never did. But his breathing was heavier now, pulse hammering against his throat—visible. Vulnerable.
"You bark all day, but when I get too close," you whispered, dragging your hand down his thigh with deliberate slowness, "you start to sound like a mutt that wants to be bred, not obeyed."
Jason made a sound in his throat. Half-growl, half-gasp.
"Fuck you."
You grinned.
“You’d beg.”
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
He hated how much it was true.
He could sit on his throne all day—snapping orders, collecting blood money, running the city from his penthouse and dark alleys—but when you stepped into the room?
He was something smaller. Simmering. Waiting.
He wanted you to tear it out of him. To push him back onto the desk, force his legs open, make him say please.
You didn’t even need to touch him to get him there. He was already half hard just from your voice in his ear.
And you knew it.
You always fucking knew it.
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
“You don’t really want a guard dog,” you said, low against his throat. “You want a muzzle. You want a leash you can wrap around your own throat when no one’s looking.”
Jason’s fingers twitched again—this time reaching.
But not for a weapon.
For you.
And you let him. Just this once.
You let him grab your shirt, let him yank you in like he was desperate for something he couldn’t name. Your hand slid up the back of his neck, tangled in his hair, pulled his head back until he was looking up at you—eyes hooded, breathing uneven.
You watched his mouth part.
You watched the fight bleed out of his body.
And then, just loud enough to ruin him—
"Good boy."
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
The leash comes first.
Black leather, clean and heavy, pulled from your coat pocket like you were always planning to use it.
Because you were.
You knew Jason would mouth off. You knew he’d call you his dog again.
So now you’re going to make sure he was your bitch instead.
You’re sitting on his desk, legs spread, Jason on his knees between them—cheeks flushed, eyes glassy. Still pretending to be angry. Still acting like he’s got pride left.
"Take your shirt off."
He hesitates. Barely. Then obeys. Peels it off like it’s armor, like maybe the fabric will hold him together.
It won’t.
You pull the collar tight around his throat and let the buckle snap into place. His breath catches.
"Doesn’t it suit you?" you murmur, thumb brushing the pulse at his neck. "No tie. No suit. Just a collar. That’s how I like you."
Jason mutters something low under his breath.
You grab his jaw. “What was that?”
His mouth twists, defiant. So pretty like this. “Fuck you.”
You smirk. “You’ll get there.”
You shove two fingers into his mouth before he can talk back. He chokes slightly, but glares up at you through his lashes. You drag them deeper, until his throat works around the intrusion and his spit starts to run down his chin.
"You wanted to talk back?" you murmur. "Then earn the right to use your mouth."
Jason moans around your fingers, eyes fluttering.
His knees shift. He’s already grinding down against the floor, trying to rub the ache building in his pants. You grab a fistful of his hair and yank—his eyes fly open.
"Are you hard just from choking on my fingers?" you whisper. "Are you going to cum from being used like a toy, Jay?"
He shakes his head. He wants to say no. But you curl your fingers around the collar, tug—not hard. Just enough.
He whimpers.
"That’s what I thought."
You unzip. Jason’s eyes drop, hungry. You slap your cock against his cheek, watching the weight of it sink in before gripping his hair again.
"Open."
He does. Mouth wide, eager.
You sink in slow—and he moans. Not a groan. Not a grunt. A real, ruined moan, like he’s been waiting for this all week.
"You love this, don’t you?" you growl, hips pushing forward until he gags. "Love being on your knees like some two dollar whore. Mouth wide open. Ready to be used."
Jason’s face is dripping. Spit down his chin, lips stretched wide, pupils blown. He nods. He nods.
You grab the leash.
Just the feel of it in your hand makes him shudder.
You wrap it around your fist and pull. Not hard. Just enough.
"Good boy," you murmur.
Then you start fucking his throat.
He chokes.
Of course he does.
You don’t stop.
You let him gag, let his shoulders shake, let his tears spill over—he loves it. He’s rutting against the floor now, desperate, whining around your dick like you’re the only thing he needs to breathe.
"You gonna cum just from getting facefcked like a bitch?" you hiss.
Jason nods—fast, frantic.
You laugh. Spit in his mouth. Slap his cheek. Pull the leash again and hold him there while your hips snap forward with brutal rhythm.
When you pull out, he’s wrecked. His jaw is hanging open, tongue out, spit dripping down his neck. And he looks gorgeous like this.
You grab his face. Make him look at you.
“Say it.”
He pants. "Wh-what?"
"Say who owns you."
Jason hesitates—just a second.
Then: "You."
"Say it louder."
"You fucking own me," he moans. "I’m yours. I’m your fucking dog."
You grin.
"Now beg to get fucked."
He doesn't even pause.
“Please,” he gasps. “Please use me. Please, I—I need it—I’ll be good, I swear, just—please.”
And just like that, Jason Todd—the Red Hood, the most feared boss in Gotham—is on all fours, begging for the dick you’re about to be giving him.
Face red. Lips swollen. Hair stuck to his forehead. He’s panting now, thighs trembling as he tries to hold himself together, cock hard and leaking with no relief. The collar glints under the light, tight around his throat, leash trailing from your fist like a reminder.
Jason Todd doesn’t look like a mafia boss anymore.
He looks like a dog.
And he’s about to get treated like one.
“Get up,” you say.
He moves. Clumsy. Obedient. You shove him over the desk, chest flat, ass up, back arching perfect for you. The position makes him groan.
His pants are already gone. You never gave them back.
His thighs part without being told.
Ready.
“You were begging so sweet a second ago,” you murmur, palming his ass. “What happened to all that pride, Boss?”
Jason bites his lip. Doesn’t answer.
So you slap his ass. Loud. Sharp.
He jolts. “F-fuck—!”
“You forget how to talk?” you growl, leaning in close, letting your weight press into him from behind. “You forget who owns this?”
Your fingers drag down to his entrance. Wet. Twitching.
Jason gasps. “N-No—no, I know—I know—”
“Then say it.”
You shove two fingers inside him without warning. He screams. His back arches off the desk, legs shaking instantly.
“Fucking say it.”
“You—y-you own me,” he moans. “Please, please—I'm your fucking toy—”
You laugh against his ear.
“Yeah, you are.”
You press your cock to his slicked-up hole, teasing, dragging the head against him until he’s shivering and whining, back arched beautifully. The moment you press in—
He sobs.
"F-fuck—you're big—slow, slow—"
You don't go slow.
You grip the leash and pull as you sink in, one sharp thrust that fills him to the hilt. Jason’s scream gets buried in the desk wood, his fists clutching the edges like he’s trying to ground himself.
"You’re taking it," you growl. "Every inch. Just like you begged for."
Jason moans—high, desperate.
You start fucking into him, pace unrelenting, cock pistoning in and out as his hole squeezes around you so tight it hurts. He’s already leaking onto the desk, leaving a wet spot beneath him.
“Gonna cum like this?” you hiss. “No hands, no touch—just getting bred like the good bitch you are?”
He nods frantically, words lost in sobs and moans.
You feel the tremble before you hear the whimper.
Jason’s voice cracks. His whole body shudders. And then—his cock twitches untouched, shooting over the desk as his body clamps down around you.
He’s crying now. Quiet, desperate.
“C-Came—fuck, I came—”
You don’t stop.
“You think we’re done?” you growl, voice filthy. “You begged for it. Now fucking take it.”
You grab the leash, twist it around your fist, and pull his head back as you thrust harder, pounding into his overstimulated, raw hole until he’s a sobbing wreck on the wood, dripping and broken.
You feel it building. Heat low in your spine. Jason’s still twitching, every thrust making his legs shake, tongue hanging out as he begs for more, whimpers turning breathless.
“You want it?” you growl. “Want me to fill you up?”
Jason nods frantically, barely coherent.
“Fucking say it.”
“Please—please cum in me—want it—need your cum—breed me—!”
You snarl, bury yourself to the hilt, and let go.
Hot, thick, endless—you spill into him like you’re trying to mark him from the inside out. Jason gasps, back arching beautifully as he milks you, his hole clenching greedily with every spurt of release.
The air reeks of sweat, sex, and ownership.
And he loves it.
⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆
He collapses the second you pull out, limp and twitching, cum leaking down his thighs in thick streaks. His face is flushed. His eyes are barely open.
You wipe him clean with your handkerchief. Gently.
You kiss his shoulder once. Then his temple.
He breathes slow. Even. Peaceful.
And the collar? You don’t take it off.
You brush your fingers over it softly, smirking.
“You looked better on your knees than you ever did behind a desk.”
Jason—wrecked, dazed, marked from the inside out—manages a breathy laugh.
Could I get Zenitsu from demon slayer that swears he straight start to fall for male reader? Like maybe reader is confident and flirty/make dirty jokes with him but he is so deep in denial that he’s always refusing and stuff until he realizes he’s daydreaming of reader and wanting to go along with it?
Not sure if I’m describing it well, and you’re welcome to take the concept and run with it however you like but I thought bi disaster would be funny and a cute bottom
“IN A FLASH”
pairing. “Straight”!Zenitsu Agatsuma x Top!male reader
synopsis. Zenitsu is 100% straight—or at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. But between your constant flirting, your cocky smirks, and the unwelcome daydreams about being pinned against a wall, he’s starting to lose his mind. And maybe, just maybe… he likes it. — 1.7k
warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, dirty jokes, tiniest bit of power play, first time (with a man), overstimulation, handjob, aftercare
a/n: You did a great job describing what you wanted! Thank you for sending in my first request!
Zenitsu was not in love with you.
Nope. Not a chance. Absolutely not.
It didn’t matter that you were tall, confident, and smirked like you owned the place. It didn’t matter that you rolled up your sleeves during training, your arms a little too toned, a little too veiny for him to not notice. And it especially didn’t matter that you had a habit of leaning in too close, whispering dirty jokes just low enough for only him to hear.
Because Zenitsu?
Zenitsu liked women.
He loved women. Soft hands, long hair, big br—
"Are you blushing?"
The sound of your smooth, teasing voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts.
Zenitsu immediately flinched, whipping around to see you grinning down at him, elbow resting on his shoulder.
His stomach flipped.
"No! I—Why would I—?! I AM NOT BLUSHING!"
In his panic, he stumbled backward—tripping over absolutely nothing—and fell flat onto his ass.
You burst out laughing, loud and shameless, crossing your arms as you watched him writhe in his own embarrassment.
"You totally were," you smirked. "What’s the matter? My rugged good looks getting to you?"
Zenitsu felt his entire soul leave his body.
"SHUT THE HELL UP!" He practically threw himself back to his feet, pointing at you in a wild panic. "I AM 100% STRAIGHT, OKAY?! I LOVE WOMEN! BIG BOOBS! SOFT HANDS! LONG HAIR!"
You just raised an eyebrow.
"...Alright, bro. You want a medal or something?"
Zenitsu twitched violently.
This was your fault.
For months, you'd been torturing him.
The casual hand on his shoulder. The way you'd sit too close, your thigh pressed against his. The way your gravelly, stupidly deep voice sounded whenever you murmured some filthy joke into his ear, leaving him to short-circuit in real-time.
He hated it.
He hated you.
He was definitely not going to start thinking about it later.
Absolutely not.
─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────
It started small. Little things.
Like how your voice was kind of deep.
Not too deep—but just enough to make his stomach flip when you said his name.
Or how your hands were huge.
Not that he was paying attention to them. Not that he was imagining how they’d feel gripping his waist, holding his wrists, pinning him—
WAIT, BAD. BAD THOUGHT.
Zenitsu shook his head violently, slapping his own cheeks.
He was just tired. That was all. He needed to train more.
…But training wasn’t exactly helping.
Because lately, you were standing too damn close.
"Need help with your stance?" you murmured from behind him, your chest almost pressed to his back.
Zenitsu froze.
His entire body locked up as your hands brushed over his hips, adjusting him like it was nothing.
Like you weren’t completely ruining his life.
"I—I GOT IT!" he shrieked, flailing away from you like you were on fire. "THANKS, NO NEED TO TOUCH ME, I’M PERFECTLY FINE—!!"
You just blinked at him, amused. "Dude, chill."
Zenitsu was not chilling.
He was losing his fucking mind.
─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────
It got worse.
He started having thoughts.
Thoughts like, "What if he pushed me against a wall?"
Or "What if he held me down?"
Or "What if I just… let him?"
"NOOOOOOO—!!!" Zenitsu bolted upright in bed, screaming into his pillow.
What the hell was that dream?!
WHY WAS IT KINDA GOOD?!!
He buried his face in his hands, rocking back and forth in despair.
"This isn’t happening," he whispered. "I love women. BIG BOOBS. SOFT HANDS. LONG HAIR."
…Your hair didn’t look like a womans, but it always looked kinda nice.
WAIT, NO, STOP—!!!
Zenitsu launched himself out of bed. He needed a distraction. Immediately.
─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────
Zenitsu was determined to prove his 100% absolute heterosexuality.
Which is why, the next morning, he could be found on his knees in front of a random woman, gripping her hands, screaming into the sky.
"HELLO, BEAUTIFUL LADY! HAVE I MENTIONED I LOVE WOMEN?!"
The woman blinked. "…Are you okay?"
"I’M SO OKAY!" Zenitsu laughed, manic and desperate. "SO, SO, SO OKAY! WOMEN ARE BEAUTIFUL! GORGEOUS! PLEASE MARRY ME!"
You watched from a distance, arms crossed, fighting back a smirk.
"He’s been acting weird lately," Tanjiro mumbled beside you.
You chuckled. "Yeah. I noticed."
Zenitsu’s entire body stiffened.
Because your voice—your deep, amused, cocky voice—was right behind him.
He turned slowly, staring up at you with wide, panicked eyes.
"Yo," you grinned.
Zenitsu squeaked.
Just straight-up made a noise like a fucking chew toy and bolted in the opposite direction.
You laughed.
Because oh yeah.
You definitely knew what this was.
─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────
Zenitsu’s back hit the wall, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants.
His whole body was shaking, his hands gripping at nothing, his legs weak beneath him.
This was your fault.
You were too close.
You had him trapped, one hand flat against the wall beside his head, your strong, calloused fingers gripping his chin, forcing him to look up at you.
He tried to glare.
Tried to resist.
But his face was burning, his eyes were wide and panicked, his chest rising and falling way too fast.
This was wrong.
This was not supposed to happen.
"I—I don’t—” Zenitsu stammered, but his hips twitched forward, betraying him instantly.
You smirked. "Not like what?"
Your voice was too deep, too smooth, too much.
Zenitsu let out a sharp, shaky breath, his fingertips digging into the wall behind him.
"I—I'm not—"
He cut himself off, biting his lip hard, his eyes squeezing shut.
Because if he looked at you any longer, he was going to break.
And then—
You grabbed his chin, tilted his face up, and kissed him.
Zenitsu shattered.
A sharp, wrecked little noise escaped him, somewhere between a whimper and a gasp, his body going stiff—then melting completely.
His hands shot up to grip your shirt, his fingers fisting the fabric so tightly his knuckles turned white.
He didn’t pull away.
He couldn’t.
His whole body was burning, his mind spinning, his lips parting helplessly as you deepened the kiss, teasing, taking your time breaking him apart.
Zenitsu’s legs gave out.
You caught him instantly, one strong arm wrapping around his waist, keeping him pinned against you.
He hated how good it felt.
He hated how easily you overpowered him.
He hated that his dick was aching, twitching, throbbing, already soaked with precum—
But most of all?
He hated how much he loved it.
─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────
Zenitsu didn’t remember how you got him to bed.
All he knew was that he was on his back, his clothes half-off, his skin burning, and your hands were on him.
Too much.
Too good.
Too overwhelming.
His breath was shaky, his legs spread open beneath you, his whole body trembling like a leaf. He should’ve been embarrassed—should’ve pushed you away, should’ve pretended he didn’t want this.
But when you dragged your palm up his inner thigh, tracing over sensitive, untouched skin, his whole body jerked violently, a shocked little whimper spilling from his lips.
His hands shot up to cover his mouth, his fingers pressing against his own lips as if that could stop the noises from escaping.
You smirked.
“Oh? You like that?”
Zenitsu furiously shook his head, eyes blown wide, face burning.
"NO—"
You hummed, dragging your fingers up his trembling stomach, stopping just at the waistband of his underwear.
"You sure?"
Zenitsu bit his lip hard, his whole body twitching in anticipation.
He could feel himself leaking, soaking the fabric, his thighs clenched but trembling, struggling to stay still.
He was too sensitive.
Too needy.
And when you finally hooked your fingers into his waistband and tugged his underwear down—
Zenitsu gasped, his breath catching, his dick twitching against his stomach.
Fuck.
He looked away immediately, his chest rising and falling way too fast.
He couldn’t do this.
He wasn’t supposed to like this.
Then your fingers wrapped around him, slow, teasing, barely applying any pressure.
And Zenitsu cried out.
A sharp, wrecked moan slipped past his lips, his hips jerking forward before he could stop himself.
"S-Shit—"
You chuckled. "You're shaking."
"Sh-Shut up," he whined, his voice cracking, his fingers digging into the sheets.
He was burning up.
He felt too hot, too exposed, too weak.
But it felt good.
Way too fucking good.
Your grip tightened just slightly, your thumb swiping over his leaking tip, and Zenitsu’s whole body twitched.
His breath hitched, a choked moan spilling out.
"I-I—oh fuck—"
You smirked. "Already close?"
"NO—" Zenitsu’s voice cracked, his cheeks burning.
He was not going to cum just from this.
He was not going to embarrass himself like that.
He was not going to—
You leaned down, dragged your tongue over his tip, and Zenitsu screamed.
His fingers fisted the sheets, his whole body seizing up, his dick twitching violently.
And then—
He broke.
"OH—OH FUCK—"
His back arched sharply, his hips bucking up, his breath stuttering, and then he let out a wrecked little sob, cumming way too fast, way too hard.
His chest heaved, his legs shaking, his body completely wrecked beneath you.
You pulled back slightly, grinning down at him.
"That fast?" your voice was low, amused, teasing. "Thought you had more stamina, Thunder Boy."
Zenitsu whined into his hands, his whole body trembling, his mind completely blank.
He should’ve been mortified.
But then—
Your hand wrapped around him again.
And Zenitsu twitched violently.
"H-Hah—w-wait, I just—"
Your grip tightened slightly, stroking him slow, teasing, letting him feel the overstimulation creep in.
Zenitsu gasped, his hips jerking forward weakly, his thighs trembling.
"You're still hard," you murmured, voice silky smooth. "Guess that wasn't enough for you, huh?"
Zenitsu let out a broken little noise, his nails digging into your arms.
He couldn’t handle this.
He was too sensitive.
Too fucking weak.
"B-Be gentle," he whispered, his voice tiny.
You smirked, kissing his heated skin.
"No."
Then you kept going.
And Zenitsu?
Zenitsu didn’t stand a chance.
─────・୨ ✦ ୧・─────
Zenitsu refused to let go of you.
His arms were wrapped around your waist, his face buried in your chest, his breath still shaky.
You smirked, running your fingers through his messy hair.
"You okay?"
Zenitsu huffed weakly, his fingers tightening their grip on you.
"I still like girls," he mumbled into your skin. "I just… really like you too."
You chuckled. "Oh yeah?"
Zenitsu whined. "Don’t make me say it again—!"
You grinned. "So you liked it?"
Zenitsu froze.
Then, with a mortified little whimper, he hid his face in your chest.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
pairing. Omega!Mikey x Omega!Sanzu x Alpha!male reader
synopsis. karma reduced Sanzu Haruchiyo to nothing and took another omega down with him. — 5.7k words part one.
warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, dead dove, drugging, bitching, degradation, dubcon (due to altered state), dark omegaverse, humiliation, feminization, overstimulation, breeding, knotting, forced submission.
Sanzu didn’t know how much time had passed.
Minutes? Hours? It didn’t matter.
The heat was settling into his bones, wrapping around his spine like a slow, venomous snake. His body felt wrong—too hot, too needy, too fucking weak. He hated it. Hated the way his scent grew richer with every passing second, filling the room with a sickly sweetness that made his stomach turn.
It wasn’t his scent. Not the scent of an alpha.
The realization sent a fresh wave of rage crashing into his ribs, but it was a hollow kind of anger—desperate, useless.
The door creaked open, and Sanzu barely lifted his head before the thick, heavy presence of M/n’s scent filled the room. It should have been oppressive. It should have made Sanzu bristle with defiance.
Instead, it just made his stomach twist.
M/n strolled in leisurely, the smirk on his face downright amused as he took in the pathetic sight before him. “Well, well,” he mused, crouching beside Sanzu. “It’s setting in faster than I expected. You must have had a lot of suppressed omegan traits for it to be hitting this hard.”
Sanzu clenched his jaw, refusing to acknowledge him, but he knew—knew—M/n could hear the way his breathing had changed. Shallow. Unsteady. Desperate.
“Still in denial?” M/n hummed, his voice dropping into something lower, darker. “That’s cute.” He reached forward, barely ghosting his fingers over Sanzu’s jaw.
A violent shudder wracked Sanzu’s body. His own skin felt wrong, hypersensitive in ways he didn’t understand. He wanted to pull away, to snarl, to bite—but the moment M/n’s fingers brushed over his scent glands, his body froze.
Felt good.
No. No, no, no, no.
Sanzu jerked away with a choked noise, his breath coming out uneven. His entire body was trembling, his muscles twitching like he was going to rip himself apart. His scent thickened with frustration, humiliation, and something else—something darker.
M/n clicked his tongue. “Pathetic,” he muttered, standing up. “You should be grateful we’re keeping you. If I let you go now, you’d be torn apart by the first alpha that caught your scent. Maybe that’s what you deserve, though.”
Sanzu’s stomach twisted violently. His instincts recoiled at the thought—exposed, helpless, left to fend for himself in a world where he was nothing.
No pack. No status. No protection.
He needed—
Sanzu stopped breathing for a second.
He needed protection.
His body was crying for it, his instincts clawing at his mind, screaming at him to find someone stronger to keep him safe. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, but it didn’t matter—the panic was already setting in.
He needed—
The door opened again.
A sharp, unmistakable scent flooded the room, cutting through the haze in Sanzu’s mind like a blade.
Omega.
But not just any omega.
Him.
Sanzu’s body reacted before his mind even caught up. His scent spiked—needy, desperate, craving.
Fucking disgusting.
He felt bile rise in his throat, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the unbearable pull in his gut. The part of his mind still clinging to reason was screaming—raging against the betrayal of his own body, but it was already too late.
Because the omega had already noticed.
He stepped into the room without hesitation, his black eyes locking onto Sanzu with something close to boredom. His scent was sharp, unwavering, and infinitely stronger than what Sanzu remembered from that alleyway.
And Sanzu—
Sanzu leaned toward him.
It was so fucking small—just a shift in posture, the way his breath caught slightly in his throat—but it was enough.
The omega’s lips curled. “Are you serious?”
Sanzu swallowed thickly, his throat too dry, too tight. He wanted to say something, anything, but his body was moving on its own, drawn toward the closest source of comfort.
The omega took a step forward. Sanzu flinched.
Not from fear.
From restraint.
From the unbearable, crawling need under his skin.
A sharp scoff cut through the thick air. “That’s fucking disgusting,” the omega muttered, his voice filled with pure, unfiltered disgust.
Sanzu trembled violently. His breath stuttered, his scent betraying him even more, turning unbearably needy. He wanted to scream, wanted to rip off his own skin, wanted to run—but he couldn’t.
His body was begging.
And the omega could smell it.
M/n chuckled darkly from the doorway. “Ah… seems like he’s really starting to feel it now.”
The omega barely acknowledged him, his gaze still pinned on Sanzu like he was something rotten stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
Sanzu wanted to hate him. Wanted to spit in his face, snarl, demand that he wipe that fucking look off his—
But all he could do was stare, trembling, desperate, as his body betrayed him more and more with every second.
The omega sighed, voice thick with irritation. “What a waste,” he muttered. Then, after a moment, he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
“…Does he even know my name?”
Sanzu stiffened.
A slow, cruel smirk spread across M/n’s lips. “Oh,” he exhaled, amusement flickering in his voice. “He really doesn’t, does he?”
Sanzu’s stomach dropped.
The omega—the omega he had tried to take—stepped closer, just enough that Sanzu could feel the ghost of his pheromones press against his skin. He crouched down, leveling Sanzu with a blank stare.
“You really don’t know?” he murmured.
Sanzu’s mouth went dry.
The omega’s expression barely shifted, but something in his gaze sharpened.
“Sano Manjiro,” he said flatly. “But you—” His lips twitched up in a cruel, humorless smirk.
“You can call me Mikey.”
Sanzu’s heart pounded in his chest.
Mikey.
That name—he knew that name.
The second in command of Bonten. The most dangerous omega in the city. The untouchable king of the underworld.
The one fucking omega he should have never, ever laid his hands on.
Mikey stood up, rolling his shoulders like this conversation had already bored him.
“Keep him,” he muttered to M/n, already turning away. “I don’t care.”
The door shut behind him, and just like that—his presence was gone.
Sanzu barely heard M/n’s chuckle, low and dark in the back of his throat.
“Well,” M/n hummed, stepping closer, reaching down to cup Sanzu’s trembling jaw.
“Now you know.”
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Sanzu was losing.
His body was drenched in sweat, slick and trembling, heat curling through every inch of him like a wildfire he couldn’t put out. His breathing was ragged, uneven, little whimpering noises slipping from his throat no matter how hard he tried to choke them back.
Everything hurt—his stomach ached, his thighs shook, his hole clenched around nothing, desperate for relief that wouldn’t come.
It was so wrong—so fucking wrong—and yet, no matter how hard he fought it, his body was needy in ways he couldn’t ignore.
His pussy—no, not pussy, not that—his hole was aching, fluttering open and empty, making his hips twitch against the mattress.
And worse?
His dick—his useless, pitiful dick—was soft.
No knot. No hardness. Just a sad little thing, sticky with leaking slick, resting against his stomach, completely ignored by his own heat.
His body wasn’t asking to be fucked like an alpha. It wasn’t even acknowledging that part of him anymore.
It was begging to be bred.
Sanzu bit his lip so hard it split, blood mixing with the embarrassing, syrupy sweet scent pouring off him. His thighs pressed together, trying to rub some kind of friction against his swollen, puffy entrance, but it wasn’t enough.
It would never be enough.
The door creaked open, and Sanzu’s entire body froze.
A thick, powerful scent flooded the room—alpha.
His body reacted immediately, thighs tensing, hole fluttering pathetically. His head snapped up, and through the feverish haze clouding his mind, he registered M/n standing in the doorway, watching him with pure amusement.
“Tch.”
M/n stepped forward slowly, hands tucked in his pockets, completely unbothered by the thick, humiliating scent in the room. His sharp gaze flicked lazily over Sanzu’s wrecked form—his sweat-drenched skin, the way his legs shook, the pathetic mess of slick and shame pooling beneath him.
His lips curled.
“Look at you.”
Sanzu trembled.
M/n crouched beside him, resting an elbow on his knee, tilting his head. “What happened to all that attitude, hm?” he murmured, voice low, mocking. “You were barking so loud before. Now look at you—”
His eyes flickered lower, to Sanzu’s shamefully soft dick.
A slow, wicked smirk spread across M/n’s face.
“…Well. That’s disappointing.”
Sanzu’s stomach twisted into knots.
M/n reached out, gripping his chin, forcing Sanzu’s dazed, glassy eyes to meet his own. “Not even hard?” he murmured. His thumb ghosted over Sanzu’s lower lip, pressing down slightly, smirking when Sanzu’s mouth parted automatically.
“So useless.”
Sanzu let out a shaky breath, his fingers digging into the sheets. His entire body was burning, every nerve screaming for relief, but the humiliation coiling in his stomach was just as unbearable.
M/n hummed, tilting his head slightly. “I wonder…”
His free hand drifted lower, over the curve of Sanzu’s waist, his soft, pathetic belly, down to his thighs, which tensed beneath his touch.
Sanzu stiffened.
No. No, no—
But M/n ignored him, pushing his thighs apart effortlessly, exposing the soaked, puffy mess between his legs.
Sanzu whimpered.
“Awww,” M/n cooed, mocking, watching the way Sanzu’s slick dripped down onto the sheets. “All swollen and puffy. Poor thing. No wonder you’re suffering so much.”
His fingers ghosted over the sensitive, twitching entrance, making Sanzu’s entire body jerk violently. A choked, humiliating little gasp escaped him, before he could even stop it.
M/n’s smirk widened.
“Sensitive, aren’t we?”
Sanzu’s chest heaved, his thighs twitching, trying to press back together, but M/n’s grip on him was iron-strong.
The worst part?
His hole fluttered, clenching around nothing, desperately sucking in the air, trying to get something—anything inside.
M/n chuckled.
His fingers dragged lower, tracing the slick-drenched, swollen mess between Sanzu’s legs, his touch so light it made Sanzu’s breath hitch violently.
“Such a cute little pussy.”
Sanzu’s eyes went wide.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
“No,” he rasped, shaking his head, voice wrecked, barely there. “No, I—”
But M/n tapped a finger against his twitching, leaking hole, and whatever Sanzu was about to say vanished in a broken, needy little sob.
His body betrayed him.
M/n grinned.
“Ohhh,” he exhaled, mocking delight dripping from his voice. “You like that?” He pressed a little firmer, watching the way Sanzu’s entrance fluttered around the touch, how his body instinctively tried to take him in.
Sanzu’s breathing stuttered.
Tears burned at the corners of his eyes.
M/n leaned in, voice dropping to a low purr.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Say it.”
Sanzu shook his head, lips parted, breath coming in ragged little pants.
M/n’s smirk turned ruthless.
His thumb dragged down, slick gathering on his fingers, pressing just barely against Sanzu’s puffy, twitching pussy, pushing in just enough to make Sanzu’s entire body jerk violently.
A sharp, broken cry ripped from his throat.
M/n hummed, amused.
“There we go,” he murmured. “Just like a good little omega.”
Sanzu’s chest heaved, his entire body trembling as the heat twisted deeper, spreading through his veins like molten lava. His fingers dug into the sheets, his thighs quivering, still trying—weakly, uselessly—to press together, to hide himself from the hungry, amused gaze drinking him in.
But M/n wouldn’t let him.
“You’re still fighting?” M/n mused, tilting his head, his thumb dragging slow, lazy circles against the puffy, leaking mess between Sanzu’s legs.
Sanzu twitched violently, a humiliating, sharp gasp tearing from his throat.
It was too much.
The heat had already wrecked him, stripped him of everything, made his body hypersensitive—and now M/n was toying with him, pushing against the swollen, fluttering entrance just enough to make Sanzu’s instincts claw at his mind.
His body knew what it needed.
It was begging for it.
But M/n wasn’t giving it to him.
Not yet.
Sanzu bit down on his lip, his vision blurry, heat pooling low and deep in his gut. He wanted to scream, wanted to curse and fight, but the moment M/n pressed his fingers in a little deeper, a broken little sob escaped him instead.
M/n grinned.
“There we go,” he murmured, voice sickly sweet, mocking. “I knew you’d sound cute when you finally stopped pretending.”
Sanzu whimpered, hips jerking forward against his will, chasing more, desperate, needy—
M/n’s fingers vanished.
A sharp cry ripped from Sanzu’s throat, his body arching off the bed, his hole clenching around nothing, sucking in the empty air.
M/n laughed.
“Awww,” he cooed, reaching out to cup Sanzu’s jaw, tilting his flushed, tear-streaked face up toward him. “Poor little thing. Did you want something?”
Sanzu’s lips parted, breath hitching, his entire body burning. His scent spiked, thick with helpless, desperate need.
But he still wouldn’t say it.
M/n sighed, shaking his head, disappointed. “Still acting tough?”
Sanzu shuddered.
Then—
A sharp slap landed against his inner thigh, stinging, making him flinch and jerk.
M/n’s tone darkened.
“Say it.”
Sanzu’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his pulse pounding in his ears. His pride was dangling by a thread, fragile, barely holding on—
M/n’s fingers dragged lower again, teasing over the slick, messy folds, his thumb pressing against the sensitive, twitching entrance.
Sanzu gasped, thighs trembling, his body trying to sink down onto it.
But M/n still wouldn’t give it to him.
“Beg.”
Sanzu whimpered, fingers clenching into the sheets so hard his knuckles turned white. His mouth opened, but no words came out, just ragged little breaths, humiliated, broken noises.
He couldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
Another sharp slap to his inner thigh made him jolt violently, and M/n grabbed his chin again, forcing their eyes to meet.
“Be a good girl,” M/n murmured, his smirk widening, voice dripping with cruel amusement. “Tell me what you need.”
Sanzu’s vision blurred. His body ached, twitched, desperation clawing at his mind. His heat was devouring him, instincts screaming, pleading, demanding—
The words ripped from his throat before he could stop them.
“Please.”
M/n’s eyes gleamed.
Sanzu shuddered, tears spilling down his flushed cheeks, humiliation burning through him hotter than the heat itself.
M/n hummed, dragging his fingers lazily over Sanzu’s needy, dripping hole, making him whimper, squirm, gasp.
“Please what?”
Sanzu bit his lip, his throat tight, chest heaving. He couldn’t say it.
But his body was screaming it for him.
M/n sighed in mock sympathy. “Such a dumb little thing.”
Then—
His fingers pushed inside.
Sanzu gasped, his entire body arching off the mattress, a sharp, wrecked moan tearing from his throat.
It felt too good.
The stretch, the fullness, the way M/n’s fingers curled just right, pressing against something deep inside him, making his hole clench down, sucking his fingers deeper.
His useless, pathetic d*ck twitched against his stomach, leaking slick and precum, but still—still—not even half-hard.
His body had no use for it.
Only his soft, soaking-wet pussy mattered now.
M/n groaned, watching the way Sanzu’s swollen entrance clenched greedily around his fingers. “Ohhh, you were made for this.”
Sanzu let out a pitiful little whimper, his entire body trembling, his hips rolling down into the touch, chasing more, more, more—
M/n’s fingers slid out.
Sanzu sobbed.
“No,” he choked out, his hole clenching around nothing, slick dripping down his thighs, making a mess of the sheets beneath him. “No, no, please—”
M/n chuckled, his fingers coated in slick, watching the ruined, broken mess before him.
“Look at you,” he murmured, amused. “So desperate. So empty.”
Sanzu’s entire body shuddered.
M/n shifted, undoing his belt, pulling his pants down just enough to free his aching, heavy cock, already slick with precum, flushed, throbbing.
Sanzu’s breath hitched.
M/n’s fingers curled around his soft, dripping pussy, giving it a slow, teasing rub, making Sanzu cry out, his hips jerking forward.
“Want me to fill you up, sweetheart?” M/n murmured, mocking, taunting, rubbing his thick, leaking tip against the sensitive, twitching hole.
Sanzu nodded weakly, panting, lost, his body begging for it.
M/n’s smirk widened.
“Use your words.”
Sanzu’s breath came out in a ragged sob.
“Please, Alpha—”
M/n’s hands gripped his thighs, spreading him wider, holding him open and exposed.
Then—
He thrust in.
Sanzu’s back arched off the mattress, his entire body seizing, a sharp, broken scream ripping from his throat as his aching, swollen pussy was finally, finally filled.
It was too much.
It was perfect.
M/n groaned. “Oh, you were made for this.”
Then, he started moving.
Sanzu screamed.
It was too much—too deep, too good, the stretch burning hot and perfect as M/n’s cock forced him open, shoving inside with a single, brutal thrust.
His pussy clenched down immediately, desperate, needy, sucking M/n’s cock deeper, like his body knew exactly what it was made for.
Sanzu’s thighs trembled, his breath stuttering into a wrecked sob, and when M/n pulled back, only to slam in again, even harder, his body arched violently off the bed.
“Ohhh,” M/n groaned, hands gripping Sanzu’s hips hard enough to bruise, holding him still, pinned, completely at his mercy. “So fucking tight.”
Sanzu let out a broken whimper, his hands scrabbling at the sheets, his mind fogged and empty, drowned beneath the overwhelming, unbearable pleasure.
His useless little dick was still soft, twitching against his stomach, dripping helpless little beads of slick and precum—completely forgotten.
His body didn’t care about it anymore.
His body only wanted cock.
M/n’s hands slid up, gripping Sanzu’s waist, before he slammed him down onto his length, forcing him to take it all.
Sanzu screamed.
A sharp, wet slap echoed in the room as M/n’s hips smacked against Sanzu’s, stuffing him full, over and over, his pussy gushing slick, making a mess of both of them.
“Fuck,” M/n grunted, forcing Sanzu’s legs wider, watching his puffy, swollen little hole stretch around his thick length, sucking him deeper with every thrust.
“You like this, huh?” M/n mocked, snapping his hips forward, watching the way Sanzu cried out, his breath ragged, gasping, desperate. “This cute little pussy was made to be fucked, wasn’t it?”
Sanzu shook his head weakly, whimpering, but his body betrayed him completely.
His hips rolled back automatically, chasing each thrust, his insides clenching down, begging to be filled, bred, ruined.
M/n laughed.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice dripping with pure amusement, watching the way Sanzu’s hole clenched greedily, slick dripping between his thighs.
“You’re just a fcking pussy now, aren’t you?”
Sanzu let out a choked sob, humiliation burning through him, but he couldn’t stop.
Couldn’t stop taking it.
Couldn’t stop wanting it.
Couldn’t stop needing it.
M/n grinned, leaning down, his breath hot against Sanzu’s ear.
“Say it.”
Sanzu’s breath hitched violently, his body shuddering, overwhelmed, his vision blurred with tears.
He couldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
But then—
M/n’s fingers slid down, rubbing over his slick, swollen little dick, sending a white-hot spark of pleasure straight through him.
Sanzu screamed.
His entire body jerked violently, his pussy squeezing around M/n’s cock, soaking both of them in even more slick.
M/n chuckled, low and dark, his pace picking up, fucking into Sanzu even harder.
“Say it,” he growled, gripping his throat, his other hand still toying with Sanzu’s soaked little dick, stroking it in tight, warm palm.
Sanzu’s mind broke.
“I’m just a pussy!” he sobbed, screaming it, his body convulsing, drowning in mindless, unbearable pleasure.
“Good girl.”
M/n slammed into him one final time, shoving his cock as far as it could go with out catching on his knot, holding him there as his release spilled inside, filling Sanzu with hot, thick cum.
Sanzu let out a wrecked, broken moan, his back arching, his entire body shuddering violently as his own release ripped through him.
His pussy clamped down hard, milking M/n’s cock, desperate to be bred, his heat finally satisfied.
For now.
M/n pulled back slightly, watching as his cum dripped out, running down Sanzu’s thighs, pooling on the ruined sheets.
Sanzu was wrecked.
His breath came in ragged, choked sobs, his thighs twitching violently, his entire body overheated, soaked, ruined. His puffy, abused little hole was still fluttering, gaping, leaking M/n’s cum onto the sheets beneath him, his body still crying for more.
But his heat wasn’t over.
His instincts weren’t satisfied.
His pathetic little clit—his soft, useless excuse of a dick—twitched against his stomach, dripping slick, ignored, forgotten, completely useless to the heat wracking his body.
And then—
A new scent flooded the room.
Sharp. Cold. Omega.
Mikey.
Sanzu’s entire body tensed violently, his breath catching, his dazed, glassy eyes barely able to focus as he turned his head.
Mikey stood in the doorway, his dark, empty eyes dragging over Sanzu’s ruined form, his lips curling into a slow, disgusted smirk.
“Still in heat?”
Sanzu shuddered, a fresh wave of humiliation burning through him.
Because Mikey was right.
His body was still aching.
Still needy.
Still empty.
And Mikey could smell it.
M/n hummed, casual, lazy, watching as Mikey stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate, his scent curling around Sanzu like a noose.
“I was wondering when you’d give in,” M/n murmured, tilting his head. “Figured you’d be too disgusted to touch him.”
Mikey’s smirk widened. “I am disgusted.”
His sharp gaze dropped to Sanzu’s trembling, slick-drenched thighs, his ruined little clit twitching uselessly, and a low, mocking chuckle slipped from his lips.
“But he’s already dripping for me, isn’t he?”
Sanzu let out a soft, broken noise, his shame and desperation mixing into something unbearable.
Mikey stepped closer, the mattress dipping as he crawled over Sanzu’s body. At some point Mikey must off taken off his clothes because Mikey was pressing down against him, his own useless dick rubbing against Sanzu’s stomach, leaking precum.
Sanzu’s entire body tensed violently at the skin-on-skin contact, his instincts screaming at him to submit.
Mikey’s lips brushed against his ear, his voice a cold whisper.
“Little bitch,” he murmured.
Then—
His teeth sank into Sanzu’s scent gland.
Sanzu screamed.
His whole body arched off the bed, his clit twitching violently, slick gushing out of him, his heat kicking up even stronger as Mikey’s dominant omega scent poured into him.
Mikey licked over the bite slowly, savoring Sanzu’s pathetic little sobs.
“You’re so fcking weak,” he whispered, his hand dragging down Sanzu’s trembling stomach, his fingers ghosting over his pathetic, useless little clit.
Sanzu flinched violently, letting out a wrecked little whimper, because Mikey was touching it like it was a real pussy.
Mikey grinned.
“Awww,” he cooed, mocking, rubbing his fingers over the soft, twitching flesh, watching Sanzu’s entire body jerk uncontrollably.
“Look at this cute little clit.”
Sanzu sobbed.
Mikey’s fingers pinched it, rolled it between his fingers, rubbing tight little circles, and Sanzu’s breath hitched violently, his legs trembling as his body reacted against his will.
“Doesn’t even get hard anymore, does it?” Mikey murmured, his voice pure condescension.
Sanzu whimpered, shaking his head weakly, his body fighting him, his hips rolling into Mikey’s touch despite himself.
“Poor thing,” Mikey purred. “Bet it feels even better when I play with this messy little pussy, huh?”
His fingers dragged lower, teasing Sanzu’s drenched fluttering little hole, and Sanzu sobbed, his thighs twitching open even wider.
“Such a cute little thing,” Mikey whispered, mocking, taunting, pressing a single finger inside, watching Sanzu’s wrecked expression twist in unbearable pleasure.
Then—
M/n grabbed Mikey’s chin, yanking him up.
The omega snarled, but M/n just smirked.
“You’re awfully worked up for someone who wasn’t interested,” M/n murmured, his fingers dragging over Mikey’s entrance, rubbing over his slick-drenched hole.
Mikey’s breath hitched.
A sharp, violent shudder ran down his spine, his thighs twitching, pressing together instinctively, but M/n’s hand was already there, keeping them spread wide.
“Fuck off,” Mikey snapped, voice low, biting—but it wasn’t as sharp as it should’ve been.
Because his scent was changing.
It was subtle at first—just the slightest shift, something thicker, sweeter, mixing with the overpowering heat-heavy scent already filling the room.
M/n inhaled deeply, his grin widening.
“Ohhh,” he exhaled, his thumb brushing over Mikey’s slick entrance, feeling the way it fluttered under his touch.
“You’re feeling it now, aren’t you?”
Mikey tensed violently.
Because he was.
It had started the moment he walked into the room. The moment Sanzu’s ruined, heat-heavy scent hit him, the moment M/n’s thick alpha pheromones wrapped around him like a noose.
His body had reacted instantly.
He’d felt the tug in his gut, the slow, creeping burn pooling low in his stomach, the way his own slick started leaking out of him before he could even process it.
Sympathy heat.
He wasn’t even in his own cycle—his body was just responding to the scent of another omega in distress, to the dominant alpha presence pressing down on him.
It was natural. Instinctive.
And completely fucking disgusting.
Mikey clenched his teeth, his thighs trembling, his body fighting itself—but it was too late.
M/n chuckled darkly.
“You walked in here thinking you were better than him,” he mused, pressing his fingers against Mikey’s twitching, slick hole, watching the way it clenched down, desperate for something to fill it.
Mikey let out a sharp breath, his back arching slightly, his useless little dick twitching against his stomach.
M/n leaned in, his lips brushing against Mikey’s flushed, overheated ear.
“But now you’re just as bad,” he whispered.
Then—
He pushed a finger inside.
Mikey gasped, violently, his entire body jerking, his hole clenching down tight around M/n’s finger, sucking it deeper.
Sanzu watched.
Watched the omega who had mocked him, who had called him pathetic, who had looked at him with nothing but disgust—
Now writhing, panting, falling apart just as fast.
The realization sent a fresh pulse of slick out of Sanzu’s swollen, puffy little pussy, his thighs shaking, his own heat spiking again.
Mikey bit his lip hard, his breath ragged, his fingers gripping the sheets beneath him.
“Still trying to act tough?” M/n mocked, crooking his finger, pressing against that deep, sensitive spot inside.
Mikey let out a sharp, wrecked noise, his hips jerking forward, chasing the touch against his will.
Sanzu shuddered.
Because he recognized it.
That exact moment.
The moment when your body stopped listening to you.
When instincts took over completely.
M/n grinned.
“There it is.”
Mikey let out a ragged breath, his thighs twitching, his hole clenching hard around M/n’s fingers.
M/n leaned in, voice low, teasing.
“Do you get it now?”
Mikey trembled.
M/n dragged his fingers out slowly, leaving Mikey’s wet, clenching hole twitching around nothing, before pressing his slick-coated fingers against Sanzu’s entrance instead.
Sanzu gasped, his entire body arching, his soft, dripping little clit twitching uselessly against his stomach.
Mikey watched.
Watched as Sanzu’s puffy little pussy clenched around M/n’s fingers, his pretty little hole sucking them in greedily, instinctively.
Watched as Sanzu sobbed, wrecked, broken, completely lost in heat.
Watched as his own body reacted.
Slick dripped down his thighs, his entrance fluttering, aching, needing.
M/n smirked, watching both of them now.
“Two desperate little omegas,” he murmured, dragging Sanzu closer, grinding his slick-drenched pussy against Mikey’s dripping dick.
The contact was electric.
Both omegas let out a sharp, broken moan, their bodies trembling, reacting, needing more.
“Aw, fuck,” M/n chuckled, watching them twitch and whimper, their little cocks rubbing together, leaking slick.
“You’re both fucking ruined, aren’t you?”
Mikey growled weakly, trying to pull away—but the moment he moved, his dick dragged against Sanzu’s swollen pussy again, sending a sharp, violent pulse of heat through both of them.
Sanzu sobbed.
Mikey gasped, eyes wide, breath ragged.
M/n groaned, gripping Mikey’s hips, his hands strong, bruising, keeping him still.
M/n lined himself up.
Pressed the thick, leaking tip of his cock against Mikey’s twitching little hole.
Mikey’s breath caught.
He tensed.
M/n leaned in, voice low, rough, cruel.
“Since you think you’re so much better than him…”
Then—
He thrust in.
Mikey screamed.
His back arched violently, his hole clenching down around M/n’s cock, trying to suck him deeper, his heat finally, fully taking over.
M/n let out a low, satisfied groan, burying himself to the hilt, feeling Mikey’s tight, desperate little hole twitch and squeeze around him.
Sanzu watched, shaking, helpless.
Watched the strongest omega he knew finally submit.
And M/n?
M/n just grinned, grabbing Sanzu by the waist, forcing him forward, pressing their bodies together.
“Now,” he murmured, dragging his thick, hard cck out of Mikey’s soaked hole, lining himself up with Sanzu’s ruined, twitching pssy instead.
“Let’s see which one of you can take me better.”
Then—
He f*cked them both.
And neither omega stood a chance.
Sanzu’s wrecked little pussy clenched down greedily as M/n’s thick cock slammed into him, shoving him forward onto Mikey, their sweaty, slick-drenched bodies grinding together, their soft, useless little dicks rubbing with every brutal thrust.
Mikey’s mouth fell open, a wrecked, choked moan spilling out, his entrance fluttering pathetically, still slick with M/n’s release from the first round.
And now—
Now, he had Sanzu’s heat-soaked body pinned against him, rubbing against his aching, twitching, desperate little hole.
“You two are so f*cking filthy,” M/n groaned, his grip bruising as he slammed into Sanzu harder, faster, forcing the other omega’s body to grind against Mikey’s.
Sanzu sobbed, whimpering, broken, his legs shaking violently, his hole so swollen and abused it could barely hold M/n’s thick length inside.
But his body refused to let go.
Every thrust forced slick out of him, drenching both omegas in his heat-drunk mess.
Mikey hissed, his own body reacting, his entrance clenching, his hips bucking forward to meet the friction.
M/n grinned.
“Awww,” he mocked, watching Mikey’s wrecked expression twist in unbearable pleasure. “I thought you hated him?”
Mikey’s breath hitched violently.
M/n dragged Sanzu off his cock, watching his swollen, puffy little pussy clench around nothing, his slick dripping onto the sheets.
Sanzu whined loudly, his entire body jerking forward, desperate, needy, lost.
And just as quickly—
M/n shoved into Mikey instead.
Mikey cried out, his back arching, his hole stretching wide, swallowing M/n’s cock so deep his entire body shook.
Sanzu watched helplessly, watched as M/n buried himself to the hilt, stuffing Mikey full in one sharp thrust, watched as Mikey let out the most wrecked little whimper, his slick gushing around the thick length inside him.
“Ohhh, you’re calling me Alpha now?” he taunted, grabbing Mikey’s throat, forcing him to look up.
Mikey’s legs twitched violently, his face flushed, his breathing ragged.
M/n fucked into him harder, dragging another broken moan from the smaller omega’s throat.
Sanzu whimpered, his thighs clenching together, his own pussy throbbing, aching, his slick-covered clit twitching against his stomach.
“Look at you,” M/n murmured, watching as both omegas trembled beneath him, their bodies writhing, leaking, begging for more.
He reached down, gripping both of their chins, forcing them to look up at him.
“You’re both nothing but little cock-drunk whores now, huh?”
Sanzu sobbed, his body too far gone, his heat too overwhelming, his mind too ruined to do anything but nod.
Mikey squeezed his eyes shut, his lips trembling—but his body betrayed him too.
Because he nodded just the same.
M/n groaned, dragging himself out of Mikey, grabbing Sanzu, shoving back into his soaked little pussy instead, watching as the pink-haired omega collapsed backward, his entire body trembling, shaking, his pussy fluttering, welcoming every brutal thrust.
Mikey was panting heavily, his hole clenching around nothing, his body aching for more.
M/n smirked. “See, Mikey?”
He reached down, grabbing Mikey’s hips, lifting him slightly, positioning him over Sanzu’s heat-soaked body.
“Since you’re both so desperate, why don’t you fuck each other for me?”
Mikey’s breath stuttered.
Sanzu let out a wrecked, soft little sob, his body already moving on instinct, his hips rolling upward, rubbing against Mikey’s swollen, slick hole.
Both omegas gasped.
Mikey twitched violently, his fingers digging into Sanzu’s skin, his heat-soaked body grinding down automatically.
Slick poured out of them both, mixing together, making a disgusting, messy pool beneath them.
M/n groaned at the sight, gripping both of their waists, forcing them to grind harder.
“Fuck, look at you two,” he muttered, watching as they writhed together, slick-drunk and heat-crazed, rubbing their little pssies against each other, whimpering, gasping, too lost in need to care about anything else.
“You were supposed to hate each other,” he chuckled, his fingers digging in, keeping them moving, making them chase the pleasure.
“But now you’re nothing but my desperate little omega toys.”
Mikey let out a wrecked moan, his body shaking violently, his hole clenching down around nothing, his heat consuming him.
Sanzu was already gone, too deep in submissive omega bliss, his thighs trembling, his slick-covered clit twitching, completely, utterly broken.
M/n groaned.
“Since you both worked so hard—”
He grabbed Mikey, slamming him back down onto his cock.
Mikey screamed, his entire body arching, his hole sucking M/n’s length so deep his stomach bulged slightly.
Sanzu watched, panting, twitching, his own pussy clenching around nothing, jealous, needy, wrecked.
M/n fucked into Mikey harder, his pace brutal, merciless, making the omega collapse forward onto Sanzu’s chest.
Sanzu could feel the way Mikey trembled, the way his body shook, could feel the overwhelming heat radiating off of him.
And then—
M/n slammed in deep, biting down on Mikey’s scent gland, filling him, stuffing him full of thick, hot cum.
Mikey screamed, wrecked, mindless.
His hole clenched around M/n’s knot, locking him in place, milking him, his own release spilling out of him, mixing with the slick covering both omegas.
And then—
Sanzu whimpered.
Still empty.
Still aching.
Still needing.
M/n grinned, looking down at his ruined little omegas.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, dragging his fingers through Sanzu’s dripping slick.
pairing. Obito Uchiha x Top!Missing-nin!male reader
synopsis. in where obito is saved but by the wrong hands. — 3.5k
warnings. mdni, nsfw, rough sex, amab reader, aged up obito (the kannabi bridge incident happens when he is 18), dead dove, gore, physical and emotional abuse, manipulation, toxic dependency, dubcon undertones, exploitation of trauma, dark themes.
The acrid scent of blood and burnt wood hung heavy in the air as M/n knelt by the crumpled body. The boy was a mess—his dark hair matted with dirt and blood, his skin bruised and pale.
One leg was crushed beneath the rubble, the jagged bone peaking out of the skin of whatever remained. The fleshy tethers barely holding together as the wound sluggishly oozed blood.
It was clear to M/n that he wouldn’t be able to save the leg.
The boy on the other hand barely clinging to life yet—he was still conscious. He was mouthing words that M/n couldn’t make out but they sounded like names–Rin, Kakashi, Sensei.
M/n wondered who these people were to the boy as he stabilized him and whisked him away.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
His body was betraying him—his ears rang, breathing felt like knives, and his body oddly enough, felt numb. Is this what it felt like to die?
No—not yet.
He promised them that he would catch up, that he would surpass Kakashi, so he can’t give up. But his body is betraying him—giving up.
His vision is becoming cloudy, when suddenly he feels relief. He sees the figure of a person and he can’t help but think that Rin and Kakashi had come back for him— they even brought sensei!
With that thought he completely falls into unconsciousness.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
When he awoke, it wasn’t the cold of death or the warmth of his team by his bedside that greeted him. Instead, it was the subtle chill, that flowed from a nearby open window.
A flickering fire cast shadows on the walls of the small cabin, its light catching on the smooth walls. He tried to sit up, but pain shot up through his chest and down to his leg, forcing him back down with a sharp gasp.
“Don’t move,” a voice said, calm but firm.
Obito’s gaze snapped to the source. A man knelt by his side, his face partially hidden by the shadows. His presence was commanding, the kind that demanded attention without needing to ask for it.
The man’s hands moved with practiced ease as he adjusted the bandages around Obito’s chest, his touch surprisingly gentle.
“You’re lucky I found you when I did,” the man continued, his tone almost conversational. “A few more minutes, and you’d have bled out in the mud. Hell of a way to go.”
“Who… who are you?” Obito rasped, his throat dry and voice barely audible.
The man paused, tilting a cup of cool water to Obito’s lips— he opened his mouth before he could even think of checking for poison, the water soothed his achingly dry throat.
His dark eyes met Obito’s as he put down the cup on a nearby dresser. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that made Obito’s stomach twist.
“Just someone passing through,” he said after a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Call me M/n.”
“M/n…” Obito repeated, his voice cracking.
“Rest now,” M/n said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder when Obito tried to push himself up again. “You’re in no shape to do anything reckless. I’ve already stitched up that leg of yours, but if you move wrong, you’ll tear it open again.”
Obito’s gaze flicked to his leg, and his breath hitched at the sight of the crude splint and thick bandages wrapped around the stump where his lower leg used to be, it was gone from the mid-thigh. Panic clawed at his chest, his mind spinning as he remembered the boulder, the pain, the crushing weight that had pinned him—
“Hey.” M/n’s voice cut through the spiral, his hand gripping Obito’s shoulder more firmly. “Breathe. You’re alive. That’s all that matters right now.”
The words, though simple, anchored him. He inhaled shakily, forcing his mind to quiet, and nodded.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
Over the next few weeks, M/n tended to Obito’s injuries with a patience that bordered on tenderness.
He hunted, cooked, and even shared what little he had without complaint, though his sharp, calculating eyes always seemed to watch Obito too closely.
“You’re strong,” M/n said one evening, his voice breaking the quiet. He was crouched by a fire outside of the cabin, sharpening a blade as the light danced across his features. “Most people wouldn’t have survived what happened to you. But you did.”
Obito glanced at him, his expression guarded. He was still wary of this stranger, but he couldn’t deny that M/n had saved him. He owed him his life.
“I had to,” Obito muttered, his gaze falling to the fire. “Rin and Kakashi… they need me.”
M/n’s hand stilled, his blade catching the light as he looked at Obito. “Do they?”
Obito frowned, confusion flickering across his face. “Of course they do. They’re my teammates.”
M/n hummed thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the blade in his hands. “And where are they now?”
The question hit harder than Obito wanted to admit. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he looked away. “They probably think I’m dead.”
“Maybe,” M/n said softly, his voice almost pitying. “Or maybe they left you behind.”
Obito’s head snapped toward him, anger flashing in his dark eyes. “They wouldn’t—”
M/n raised a hand, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m not saying it’s true. I’m just saying you shouldn’t expect too much from people.”
His words lingered, settling over Obito like a shadow.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
The day Obito could walk again, he ran. His leg ached with every step, the crude prosthetic M/n had fashioned was digging into his skin—which to M/n’s credit said he would make a better one, one that would connect to his chakra and fit better. But he didn’t care for that right now—he had to see Rin, had to let Kakashi know he was alive.
But when he found them, the sight that greeted him shattered what little was left of him.
Rin’s body crumpled beneath Kakashi’s Chidori, blood staining the ground as her lifeless eyes stared into nothingness. Kakashi fell to his knees beside her, his expression twisted with grief, but all Obito could see was the blood on his hands.
Something inside him snapped. He wanted to scream, to cry, to kill, but his body refused to move. The world blurred around him, and by the time he stumbled back to the cabin, his breath was ragged and his vision was swimming.
M/n was waiting for him.
“Obito,” he said, rising to his feet as the younger shinobi collapsed into his arms. “What happened?”
“They… she…” Obito’s voice broke as he buried his face in M/n’s chest, his fists clinging to the man’s shirt like a lifeline.
M/n’s arms wrapped around him, his grip firm but not unkind. “Shh,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over Obito’s hair. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.”
Obito’s shoulders shook as he wept, the grief and anger pouring out of him in waves. And through it all, M/n held him, his gaze dark and unreadable.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
The days after Obito returned to M/n were a blur. He didn’t speak of what he saw—didn’t have the words to describe how Kakashi’s Chidori had ripped through Rin’s chest, how her blood had painted the earth. When M/n asked, his response was always the same: silence.
But M/n didn’t press him. He gave Obito space, kept his voice soft, his touch gentle, and waited.
It was on the seventh night, after another fitful sleep, that Obito finally broke.
The fire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows across the cabin walls. Obito sat hunched over, his face buried in his hands, his entire frame trembling with barely contained emotion.
“She’s dead,” he whispered finally, the words clawing their way out of his throat. “Rin’s dead. He… Kakashi… he killed her.”
M/n’s gaze sharpened, but his expression remained calm. He set down the blade he’d been sharpening and crossed the room to kneel in front of Obito.
“I see,” M/n said quietly, placing a firm hand on Obito’s shoulder. “So now you know.”
Obito’s bloodshot eyes lifted to meet M/n’s, confusion flickering across his face. “Know what?”
“That people betray you,” M/n said simply, his tone laced with pity. “The ones you love the most—they always do. Rin, Kakashi, your sensei—they all abandoned you when you needed them most. And now look at you.”
“That’s not true,” Obito muttered weakly, though the weight of M/n’s words pressed against him like a vice. “Rin didn’t… she didn’t abandon me.”
“Didn’t she?” M/n’s hand slid to the back of Obito’s neck, squeezing just enough to draw his attention fully. “You saw what she did, Obito. She chose to die. And Kakashi let her.”
“She didn’t want—”
“Then why didn’t she fight? Why didn’t she try to stay alive for you?” M/n’s voice hardened, though he kept his expression calm. “Because she didn’t believe in you, Obito. They didn’t believe in you. But I do.”
The words hung heavy in the air, sinking into the cracks of Obito’s broken resolve.
“I pulled you out of that wreckage. I saved you when no one else cared. Not Rin, not Kakashi, not anyone.” M/n leaned closer, his grip tightening slightly. “You only have me now. And I will never leave you. But you have to let go of them. Let go of the people who hurt you.”
Obito’s shoulders shook, his breath hitching as the first tears fell. And when M/n pulled him into his arms, cradling him like a fragile thing, he didn’t resist.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
It started as training.
At first, M/n’s methods seemed harsh but reasonable—he drilled Obito relentlessly, making him push past exhaustion, teaching him how to move with his new prosthetic.
The pain in his missing leg was unbearable some days, but M/n was always there, his voice unwavering: "Your pain is a gift. Learn from it."
Obito tried. He really did. But the grief still gnawed at him, slowing his movements, making him hesitate. He could still see Rin’s face, still hear Kakashi’s voice calling her name.
M/n saw it. He always saw it.
One evening, after Obito collapsed mid-exercise, chest heaving and body trembling, M/n’s patience snapped.
"You’re weak," M/n’s voice was cold as steel. "That’s why you couldn’t save her. That’s why they left you."
Obito flinched, his fingers clenching in the dirt beneath him. “I’m trying,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
"Not hard enough."
The kick came fast—M/n’s boot slammed into Obito’s ribs, sending him sprawling onto the ground. The air fled from his lungs in a choked gasp, pain searing through his body like fire. He curled in on himself instinctively, clutching his side.
His mind screamed at him to fight back, to retaliate—but he didn’t. He couldn’t.
M/n crouched down beside him, fingers gripping Obito’s chin, forcing his face upward. His dark eyes were unreadable, but there was something expectant in them. Waiting.
“Look at me,” M/n ordered.
Obito’s vision was blurred, pain radiating through his skull, but he obeyed.
The moment their gazes locked, a sharp snap rang through his head—a shift, a pull, like something deep inside him had finally woken up.
M/n’s expression changed slightly, his fingers tightening just a little. "Oh?"
Confused, Obito blinked, the world suddenly too sharp, too vivid, too clear. The flickering fire behind M/n cast shifting shadows across his face, the individual strands of his hair distinct in a way that shouldn’t be possible.
His breath hitched.
"The Sharingan," M/n murmured, a slow smirk curling his lips. "Three tomoe."
Obito didn’t understand at first. He blinked again, the clarity still there, still unnatural—and then realization hit him like a blade to the chest.
His Sharingan had fully matured.
The pain, the anger, the agony of loss—it had pushed him to this moment.
M/n had pushed him to this moment.
Obito shuddered, his lips parting as if to speak, but nothing came out. He felt sick, like something inside him had shifted permanently.
M/n’s thumb brushed over his split lip, smearing the blood there as if admiring it. "Now, do you see?"
Obito swallowed hard, his new vision locking onto M/n’s eyes.
"Pain makes you stronger," M/n murmured, almost reverently. He released Obito’s chin but didn’t move away. "You should be thanking me."
And Obito did.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
M/n hadn’t spoken in a while.
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The only sound was the dull drip, drip of blood hitting the wooden floor. Obito’s blood.
He knelt, panting, sweat and crimson streaking his face. His body ached, the dull throb in his ribs reminding him of the blows he had taken. His Sharingan still spun wildly, his breath sharp and uneven.
He had failed. Again.
M/n leaned back against the wooden table, arms crossed. He was watching—always watching—but his expression gave away nothing.
Obito’s stomach twisted. He had learned to recognize that look.
"Disappointing," M/n finally murmured, shaking his head.
Shame burned through Obito’s chest like acid. His fingers twitched where they rested against the floor, curling into fists.
Not enough.
He was never enough.
“I…” Obito swallowed thickly. “I’ll do better.”
M/n exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Will you?”
“Yes.” His voice was desperate now, raw with something frantic. He lifted his head, looking up at M/n with pleading, bloodshot eyes. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
M/n tilted his head slightly, as if considering it. Then, after a long moment, he moved.
He crouched in front of Obito, reaching out. His fingers caught Obito’s chin, tilting his face up fully. The touch was softer than it should have been, considering the pain he had just inflicted.
"You still hesitate," M/n said quietly, his thumb grazing the sharp edge of Obito’s jaw.
Obito shivered beneath the touch, not out of fear—but something else.
M/n’s voice dropped lower, his words slow, deliberate. “You hold back because you’re still clinging to them.”
Obito's breath hitched.
Them.
Kakashi. Rin. Sensei. The ghosts of his past still clawed at him, whispering in the back of his mind.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to drown them out.
“I don’t—” he started, but M/n’s grip on his jaw tightened just enough to stop him.
“Lying doesn’t suit you, Obito.”
Obito opened his mouth—to argue, to deny—but the words died before they could form.
Because M/n was right.
There was still a part of him that ached when he thought of Rin’s smile. A part of him that still saw Kakashi standing over her body in his nightmares.
And M/n had no patience for hesitation.
A sharp sting lashed across his cheek—fast, precise, controlled. Obito’s head snapped to the side from the impact, a choked gasp escaping him.
M/n hadn’t hit him hard. Just enough to prove a point.
“You need to let them go,” M/n murmured, his hand cupping the cheek he had just struck. His touch was warm, careful, fingers brushing soothingly over the red mark.
Obito’s breath stuttered.
The contrast—the sharp bite of pain followed by this—it left him reeling. His mind struggled to reconcile the two, to make sense of it.
But M/n made it easy.
M/n was always there, guiding him, grounding him.
"Do you trust me?" M/n asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Obito nodded, without hesitation. "Yes."
M/n’s fingers trailed down, pressing against the frantic pulse at Obito’s throat. He smiled, satisfied.
"Then prove it."
Obito blinked. "How?"
M/n leaned in, his lips almost brushing against Obito’s ear. "You know how."
And he did.
Burn it all.
Konoha. The village that took everything from him. The village that let Rin die. The village that would never accept him now.
Obito trembled. The hesitation was there—a flicker, a ghost of something old and useless.
Then M/n’s fingers curled around the back of his neck, holding him steady. The touch was possessive, grounding.
"You belong to me, Obito. And I take care of what’s mine."
Something in him snapped.
Rin was dead. Kakashi had left him. Konoha had abandoned him.
M/n was the only one who had stayed.
He exhaled shakily, feeling the last pieces of his past fall away.
"You’re right." His voice was different now—colder. Certain.
M/n grinned. "Good boy."
Obito let out a shuddering breath. And for the first time in his life—he felt free.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
Obito was on his hands and knees, his face pressed against the sheets, breath ragged, body trembling. His arms ached from holding himself up, but he didn’t dare collapse—not when M/n’s grip was so tight on his hips, bruising, possessive.
M/n was taking him apart.
Splitting him open. Stretching him too wide.
Each thrust was deep, unforgiving, his thick cock slamming into Obito’s abused hole, making his vision blur. The wet sounds of skin against skin filled the dimly lit cabin, mixed with Obito’s shaky moans and M/n’s amused chuckles and groans.
"Fuck, Obito," M/n groaned, dragging his nails down Obito’s back, leaving red lines behind. "You’re taking me so well."
Obito whimpered, his fingers clutching desperately at the sheets. His entire body was burning, a mix of lingering pain from training, exhaustion, and the unbearable pleasure coiling tight in his gut.
He shouldn’t love this.
He shouldn’t crave it.
But M/n had made him need it.
"M-M/n—" Obito gasped, his voice cracking as M/n suddenly thrust deeper, grinding against his sweet spot. His back arched sharply, his body betraying him, his walls squeezing around M/n’s thick length.
"What?" M/n taunted, fisting a hand in Obito’s sweat-damp hair, yanking his head back. He tilted Obito’s face just enough to see the tears clinging to his lashes. His smirk widened. "You crying for me?"
Obito bit his lip, choking down a whimper. He was so full, so overstimulated, so wrecked. His thighs shook from strain, but he didn’t want M/n to stop.
He needed it.
"Please—"
M/n’s grip tightened in his hair, forcing his head back further. His breath was hot against Obito’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.
"Please, what?"
Obito’s pride had long since shattered.
He didn’t care if he sounded desperate.
He didn’t care if he had to beg.
"Please fuck me harder—"
M/n groaned, slamming his hips forward in a bruising thrust. Obito let out a broken cry, his back arching beautifully beneath him.
"That’s more like it," M/n growled, setting a ruthless pace. Each thrust knocked the air out of Obito’s lungs, reducing him to whimpers and choked moans.
M/n was ruining him.
Breaking him in every way possible.
Obito’s dick dripped precum onto the sheets, untouched, twitching with every deep, brutal stroke into his puffy hole. He was so close, his entire body trembling, but M/n hadn’t given him permission yet.
"You wanna cum, don’t you?" M/n murmured, dragging his tongue along the shell of Obito’s ear.
Obito nodded frantically, his sore walls fluttering around M/n’s cock, sucking him in deeper.
"Then beg."
Obito didn’t hesitate.
"Please—fuck, please let me cum—"
M/n chuckled, his thrusts slowing, teasing. "So obedient now. What happened to all that defiance?"
Obito’s face flushed darker.
He was too far gone to fight back.
He was too addicted to M/n’s touch, to his praise, to the sharp edge of his cruelty.
"M/n—" he whimpered. "Please—need it, please—"
M/n hummed, pleased. His grip on Obito’s hips tightened as he slammed forward, hitting his prostate in brutal strokes.
"Cum for me."
Obito’s entire body seized up, his eyes rolling back as he came without a single touch. His cock throbbed, spilling hot streaks of cum onto the sheets, his walls clenching around M/n in desperate spasms.
M/n groaned, slamming into him a few more times before burying himself deep, spilling inside.
Obito shuddered violently, his body spent, legs weak and trembling.
But M/n didn’t let him collapse.
Instead, he pulled Obito up against his chest, his lips brushing against Obito’s sweat-damp temple.
"See how good you are for me?" he murmured, his fingers stroking Obito’s throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin.
Obito whined softly, leaning into the touch, into the praise.
M/n smirked.
"Good boy."
And Obito let himself sink deeper into M/n’s arms—deeper into the devotion he could no longer escape.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
Later that night, Obito knelt before M/n once more. His head resting against M/n’s lap.
The fire flickered between them, casting long shadows. M/n watched him with something unreadable in his gaze.
"What would you do for me, Obito?"
Obito didn’t even pause.
"Anything."
M/n smiled, reaching out to tilt his chin up. Their eyes met—Obito’s unwavering, the three tomoe in his Sharingan burning like embers.
"Then say it."
Obito closed his eyes and whispered:
"I’d let the world burn."
M/n’s smirk deepened. He leaned in, his lips barely brushing against Obito’s ear.
pairing. Slave!Suguru Geto x Top!Curse user!male reader
synopsis. m/n is involved in human trafficking, and suguru falls into his hands. — 2.1k
warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, dead dove, dubcon, human trafficking, slavery, physical restraint, manipulation, exploitation, dark themes, power imbalance.
The auction floor reeked of desperation and fear. Beneath the glamour and riches of bidders, soft sobs and whispered prayers filled the air, a background noise no one paid attention to.
Suguru Geto sat in silence, his long black hair hanging in tangled strands over his face. His hands were cuffed in front of him, his thin wrists rubbed raw by cold steel.
He was no stranger to this process. The handlers would parade him around, push his face toward the crowd, and croon about his “unique” talents.
They’d remind the buyers of how rare he was—"One of the few sorcerers in captivity,” they’d say. “A handsome one, too. Imagine the possibilities!”
He bit the inside of his cheek as he stood, forcing himself to stay still as rough hands grabbed his chin, tilting his face toward the light.
He caught glimpses of the bidders—men and women seated in shadows, their faces obscured by masks or veils. He’d learned long ago not to meet their gazes. It only made things worse.
“Fifty million,” someone called from the crowd.
“Sixty,” another countered.
The numbers climbed higher. Suguru’s stomach churned, but his expression remained blank. The money didn’t matter to him. It never had. No amount of wealth could change the fact that his life was no longer his own.
Then a voice cut through the din, smooth and commanding, “One hundred million.”
The room fell silent. Suguru’s head lifted ever so slightly, his dark eyes narrowing as he tried to find the source. A figure stood near the back of the room, dressed in sleek black.
You didn’t bother hiding your face like the others. Why would you? The confidence in your posture, the weight of your gaze, made it clear you had no reason to fear anyone here.
The auctioneer hesitated for a moment, then slammed the gavel down with finality. “Sold!”
Suguru’s shoulders stiffened. His fate had been sealed once again.
୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨
You didn’t speak to him until you were alone.
The holding cell where he’d been delivered was cleaner than most—if only marginally. A single cot, a sink, and a mirror bolted to the wall were all it offered. Suguru sat on the cot, his hands still bound, as he listened to your measured footsteps approach.
The door creaked open, and you stepped inside, shutting it firmly behind you. You took a moment to survey him, your sharp gaze sweeping over his thin frame and dirt-streaked face.
“You’re skinnier than I expected,” you said at last, your tone almost conversational.
Suguru didn’t respond. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
“You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?” you continued, crouching in front of him. Your voice softened, but there was an edge to it—a predator’s patience. “But you’re not broken. Not yet.”
His jaw tightened.
You reached out, and for a moment, he thought you were going to strike him. Instead, your fingers brushed his chin, tilting his face upward until his eyes met yours.
“Do you know why I bought you?” you asked.
When he didn’t answer, your grip tightened, your thumb pressing against his jaw. “Answer me.”
“…Because you can,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse.
You smiled faintly, though there was no kindness in it. “That’s part of it. But the real reason is your potential. You’re not like the others. You’re… special.”
Something in your tone made his stomach twist.
“I’ve seen what you can do,” you continued, releasing him and standing to your full height. “Swallowing curses? That’s quite the party trick. Dangerous, too, if you don’t know what you’re doing. But don’t worry—I’ll teach you. I’ll show you how to control it.”
He frowned, his brows furrowing. “Why? What do you want from me?”
You chuckled, the sound low and rich. “You’ll see soon enough. But for now…” You reached into your pocket, pulling out a key. “Let’s get those cuffs off.”
The sudden gesture of “kindness” threw him off guard. He flinched slightly as you stepped closer, but you only unlocked the cuffs, letting them fall to the floor with a heavy clink.
“There,” you said, stepping back. “Better, isn’t it?”
Suguru rubbed his wrists, his gaze wary. He didn’t trust you—he couldn’t. But for the first time in years, he felt the faintest flicker of… something. Not hope, exactly. More like curiosity.
୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨
Over the next few months, Suguru learned to navigate the strange, suffocating dynamic the two of them shared created. You were cruel but patient, demanding but generous. You pushed him hard, forcing him to confront the creatures that haunted him, but you also gave him food, clothing, and a bed that didn’t smell like rot.
At first, he fought you—quietly, subtly, but it was resistance all the same. He avoided your gaze, answered your commands with silence, and clung to the scraps of defiance he had left. But you were patient. You didn’t need to break him quickly.
One night, after a gruelling session, you found him sitting in the training room, his back against the wall, his head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, his dark hair sticking to his sweat-damp skin.
“You’re improving,” you said, stepping into the room.
He didn’t look at you, but you saw the tension in his shoulders.
“You’ve come a long way,” you continued, crouching in front of him. “But you’re still holding back.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” you interrupted, your voice firm. “You’re afraid of your own power. Afraid of what it means.”
You reached out, your hand settling on his shoulder. He stiffened beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away.
“But that’s why you have me,” you said softly, your thumb brushing against his collarbone. “To guide you. To take care of you.”
His breath hitched, and you didn’t miss the way his body leaned ever so slightly toward yours, like a moth drawn to a flame.
“You don’t have to be afraid, Suguru,” you murmured, your voice low and steady. “Not with me.”
For a moment, he let himself believe you.
୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨
The tension between you came to a head one evening as you sat together in your private quarters. The room was warm, the fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. Suguru sat cross-legged on the floor, his hands resting on his knees, his posture stiff but his gaze distant.
You watched him for a long moment before speaking. “Do you know why I haven’t sold you yet?”
He blinked, startled by the question.
You leaned forward, your elbows resting on your knees. “Because I see something in you. Something no one else ever has.”
His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face.
“You think you’re weak,” you continued, your voice softening. “But you’re not. You’re strong, Suguru. Stronger than you realize.”
He looked away, his jaw tightening.
You stood and crossed the room, kneeling in front of him. Your fingers tilted his chin upward, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You’ve given me everything except one thing,” you said, your tone laced with quiet command. “Your trust.”
“I…” His voice faltered, his throat dry.
“Do you trust me, Suguru?” you asked, your thumb brushing against his jaw.
His heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. He wanted to say no, to push you away, but the words wouldn’t come.
You smiled faintly, your hand sliding down to rest against his chest. “Good boy,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his.
His breath hitched, his body betraying him as he leaned into your touch, his resolve crumbling under the weight of your presence.
And when your lips met his, he didn’t pull away.
For a moment, he lets himself sink into the sensation of your lips pressed up against his. But that feeling is fragile and fleeting, cracked the moment your hand slid lower, resting just above his waist. Suguru’s breathing faltered, his dark eyes snapping to yours, wide and uncertain.
“What are you—”
“You’ve come so far, Suguru,” you murmured, cutting him off as your thumb brushed the sensitive curve of his hipbone. “But there’s still more I need to take from you.”
His chest tightened, his pulse pounding in his ears. “You—”
“Shh,” you whispered, your voice soft but commanding, your other hand pressing firmly against his shoulder to hold him in place. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
Suguru’s fingers twitched against the floor, his body stiff beneath your touch. He wanted to resist, to push you away, but his limbs felt heavy, sluggish.
You’d spent months unravelling his defences, picking apart the walls he’d built to protect himself, and now, in this moment, he realized he had nothing left to fight with.
Your lips brushed against the corner of his mouth, a teasing, fleeting touch that made him shiver. “You’re mine, Suguru,” you said, your breath warm against his skin. “Every inch of you belongs to me. Say it.”
He shook his head weakly, his jaw clenching in defiance. But when your hand slipped beneath his shirt, your fingers splaying across the hard planes of his stomach and the softness of his plush chest, he couldn’t suppress the quiet gasp that escaped him.
“Say it,” you repeated, your tone sharper now, your grip firm as you pulled him closer.
“I’m…” His voice cracked, his throat dry as shame and reluctant desire churned in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to meet your gaze as the words slipped from his lips in a broken whisper. “I’m yours.”
The smirk that curved your lips was triumphant, your hand trailing higher to press against his racing heart. “Good boy,” you murmured, the praise dripping with satisfaction. “You’re finally starting to understand.”
He let out a shuddering breath, his head tilting back against the wall as you leaned over him, your weight pressing him into the hard floor. His body was tense, his fingers curling into fists at his sides, but he didn’t pull away as your lips found his neck.
You kissed him softly at first, your mouth warm and insistent as it moved along his skin. But when your teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below his ear, he couldn’t stop the quiet sound that escaped him—a low, shaky moan that made your grin widen.
“That’s it,” you murmured, your hands sliding lower to hook into the waistband of his pants. “No more fighting. No more pretending. Just let me have you.”
His breath hitched as you tugged the fabric down, the cool air brushing against his flushed cock. He bit his lip, his face burning with shame as you pressed closer, your hands mapping every inch of his trembling body.
“You’re beautiful like this,” you said softly, your tone laced with both affection and possession. “Completely mine. Doesn’t it feel good to give in?”
Suguru didn’t answer, his breath hitching as your hand wrapped around his embarrassingly hard cock, your touch firm and deliberate. His body betrayed him completely now, his hips jerking into your hand as his resolve crumbled.
“Look at me,” you commanded, your voice sharp enough to cut through the haze clouding his mind.
He hesitated, his eyes flickering with defiance even as his body obeyed, tilting his head to meet your gaze.
“There you are,” you murmured, your smirk softening into something almost gentle. “Good boy.”
Your praise sent a shiver down his spine, his body trembling beneath your touch as you stroked him with practiced ease. His breaths came in short, uneven bursts, his head falling back against the floor as heat coiled low in his stomach.
“You’re perfect like this,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his in a teasing, fleeting kiss. “So sweet. So obedient. And all mine.”
He wanted to hate you. He wanted to hate himself. But as your hand moved faster, pulling him closer to the edge, he couldn’t think about anything else—couldn’t feel anything but the urge to cum into your warm sticky hand, the weight of your gaze pressing down on him until he couldn’t breathe.
When he finally broke, his release spilling over your hand in hot, shuddering waves, you caught his gasp with your mouth, swallowing the sound as you kissed him deeply. His body sagged beneath you, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths as the tension bled from his limbs.
You pulled back slightly, your lips curved in a satisfied smile as you brushed a strand of hair from his sweat-damp face. “What a privilege it is to serve, isn’t it?”
Suguru’s eyes fluttered shut, his body trembling as he let your words wash over him, too exhausted—too defeated—to respond.
