because the words “rape fantasy” aren’t ones that should fall from pretty little lips like yours. “daddy,” he can understand. “choke me,” he gets. but “breed me by force?” yuuta pales at the very thought. thinks he’d rather cut off his own hands, and truly believes it. he’s sweet like that, he puts your comfort snd safety first. but it’s not what you want, and it’s most certainly not what you need.

so you ease him into it, baby steps, right? it’s not his fault he’s so nice. but it’d be nicer if he’d rip your tights to shreds, nicer if he’d force your legs wide open, nicer if he’d stifle your screams with your soiled panties. you whisper it in his ear as you’re jerking him off—how good it would feel to be violated by your loving boyfriend—it’s only fap material, yeah? but then he’s coming undone in your hand, chest heaving with labored breath, eyes glazed over, and a seed is planted.

you have him good. you have him like pavlov had his dogs. you have him itching for your unprepared pussy, hungry for your blood and tears. the hand stuff and the dirty little nothings aren’t enough anymore. soon he’s daydreaming about the real thing, head full of cotton as he considers, seriously, how hot you’d look trying to push him away.

he plays the part flawlessly, gleam in his eyes as he grinds up against you when you least expect it.

“we’re doing this right now?” is all you ask, not yet onto his game, preoccupied with some other task.

he scoffs, “daddy’s gonna use his baby girl’s cunt whenever he pleases,” and it’s then that you notice how humorless his expression is, so uncharacteristically cold, face framed in shadow by untidy bangs. you stiffen, moving to back away but it’s too late, his hands pushing you over the nearest table so your breasts flatten and your ass sticks out. he’s forcing himself between your legs like you always asked for, groaning at how wet you already are, how much he knows you want this.

“I—god, for crying out loud!” 

Deft fingers find his temples and rub, but it does little to mitigate the tension in his body. Stomach clenched, hands drilling holes into his skull, Kuroo’s eyes finally go from sweeping the floor to meeting your gaze. His brows collect in the middle of his forehead, dark pupils boring into your core, and silence ensues.

You take it as a chance to snatch your phone away.

His eyebrows twitch, but it’s the huff and puff of air you notice first. It’s a heavy sound, followed by a raising of his arms in defeat. He lets them fall to his sides, palms outstretched with all the melodramatic flourish in the world, hard thud preceding a new torrent of lashback.

“So it’s a crime now?” Your lips flatten, grip tightening on the device. “To check up on my girlfriend like a loving boyfriend should?” He says it with a snarl, that cool, sly persona of his all but abandoned, as the edge in his tone morphs to something less explosive and more calculated.

“Last I checked, ‘checking up on your girlfriend’ doesn’t mean going through my fucking phone.” 

You stand your ground against six feet of lanky legs and toned muscle as best you can, chest puffed, hackles raised. The worst thing about your boyfriend—if you should even call him that now—is his uncanny ability to read the mental state of anyone and everyone. Especially when they’re at odds with him.

“You know you’re way overreacting, right? I just—you know I just want to help.”

“And you can manage just fine without invading my privacy,” you say, steeling yourself. He can’t keep getting his way. He can’t keep cornering you, trapping you, whatever it is that he’s playing at when he talks you out of your so-called ‘moods.’

But it’s all too easy to falter under the piercing eye of a scheming bastard.

“Everything I do is for us, and yet all that’s on your mind is how to act out? Give me a break.” One foot in front of the other is all it takes for the tilt of your head to slant at dangerous angles. He looks down upon you, features in shadow but eyes in full gleam, expectant palm open and outreached. 

You know what he wants.

Your neck hurts from craning.

You won’t hand it over.

You can’t help but choke the words out.

“You do it, you do it for yourself.” 

It’s but a mutter but he hears you clearly. His face nears and you startle.

“You say it’s for us but you—you don’t even share anything about yourself! You do all these things to figure me out, but when I ask a simple question like—like what are you afraid of, or what’s your family like, or, or how the fuck are you feel, feeling,” you run yourself out of words as he hovers dangerously close, watching, waiting. The pause feels like a kick to the stomach, like you’re sinking in cement.

“Are you done yet?” 

Your jaw clenches and unclenches but no noises come out. The fire in your gut quells but you still try to rekindle it. By the time you have anything to say his arms wrap around you, slowly, methodically, a boa come to squeeze you dry of fight.

“You don’t need to act so tough around me.” He rocks your body—stiff with unease—side to side, balls of your feet scrambling to absorb the brunt of your stress. “You get worked up so easily. You’re more sensitive, temperamental. That’s why I keep it away from you.” The reasoning seems logical enough but the pit in your stomach drops further. Your shoulders find the sense to knock against his iron hold but he pulls you tighter, voice dropping as he leans into your ear.

“I take good care of you, don’t I?”

When he holds you so closely it takes everything in you not to go limp and ragdoll. You’re supposed to be walking out the door right about now, but he has that loathsome, horrible, wonderful ability to make you feel like home is right in the crook of his elbows. No matter. He’s used to abusing your soft spots, but this time—

Oh.

You stupid, stupid girl.

When you’re pressed up against him like this, it’s impossible not to feel what’s growing in his boxer briefs. It doesn’t take his hands snaking down your waist to know what’s at stake, and all those embers of anger turn to fright.

“K-Kuroo, not now.”

He just kisses you on the cheek and hauls you to the nearest piece of furniture. You push at his chest, hands forming loose imitations of fists, feeling cheated and tricked, and that’s when you realize you’re empty-handed. 

“Yes, now. Baby girl, you need me.” 

You fall back into the couch and he crawls atop of you. His fingers find the hitch in your panties and knead, tracing spirals that cause your nerves to shatter and your thighs to clench. You will yourself to rise but he pushes you back with ease, single-handedly, literally, pads of his fingers forcing you down by the chest. When did he even take your phone? And where did he put it? He lifts your shirt and pushes your bra up in your confusion, turning you on your stomach as he laces an arm across your chest.

“Look how much your body loves me.” He fondles a pert nipple while his mouth finds its way to your neck, kissing his way up to your chin. Hot breath reaches your ear and he’s licking up its shell, a soft shudder his reward. He bites your earlobe and this time he gets a little whimper. “See how well I know it?” You can hear the shape of his mouth, with its upturned corners and cheshire cat teeth. Taunting you. Flaunting his control.

And you melt.

“Kuroo…” you whimper, column of your neck flush against the cushions, throat seizing up as your body loses reasons to struggle. He strokes your hair, steadily, knowingly.

“It’s better this way, isn’t it? Just leave things to me, babydoll.” 

You flinch as warm kisses dot the length of your back, hands trailing down your sides, exposed and bared to the cold. For need of warmth, for need of skin on skin, you arch into his touch as his fingers hook your panties and pull. You think to swing your legs but they don’t move; a captive to his hold. He handles your body like it’s his own, hand on the small of your back as he parts your slit with his tongue. He knows your sweet spot well but his movements are treacherous, sliding in between your folds but barely grazing that bundle of nerves, encircling but not quite brushing it. 

When he finally bumps it, a little flick that has your thighs crushing his head, he has you right where he wants you. He’s quick to draw back, the whine that bubbles up your throat like music to his ears. He slides a finger in on his next downward stroke, a second following soon after, smooth, even motions that scissor your insides open. Prepping you. Readying you for his cock.

It takes a throaty chuckle for you to realize you’re bucking your hips to his steady movements. Pacify your clit, pump his fingers, lick you up and down, repeat. His head pulls away as his fingers curl inside you, hint of a smile as he says, “Daddy’s cunt looks so happy.” Soiled digits come to prod at your lips until you part them open, the taste of sex violating your mouth as they converge down your tongue. You gag a little, unable to jerk away so long as his body cages you like this. It’s bitter. And it’s dirtying the couch. You struggle to catch your breath when his weight finally lets up, head spinning as his fingers retract from the base of your tongue.

There’s two faint thuds of soft material hitting the ground, and then he’s forcing himself between your legs, engorged cock sliding down the snug of your ass. Your head whips back to confirm it, a girthy cock laving itself in your pussy juices, unwrapped… raw.

“Daddy needs his special girl to remember this moment.” You shake your head and have the thought to thrash, but he holds you down with ease, stuffing the side of your face into the cushions as he lines his cock with your dripping hole. “You belong to me, and you’ll come to understand that”—the motions to resist snuffed before you could even start.

The pressure knocks the wind out of you. He sinks inside you in his entirety, hips slamming into yours in a single motion. With quick succession he pumps away, flat against your frame as he practically humps you, groaning in little spurts that tickle your nape. He fills you to the hilt each time, moaning something about how great you are together, how obvious it is that you’re made for him. You lay numb with panic, walls clutching him tighter as he curses something under his breath, taking your pussy faster despite the vacancy of your gaze.

The haze hits you like a curtain. Your eyes gloss over and it feels like you really are his baby doll, sucking him in even when you’re being forced. Passive snivels wrack your body and it takes all your being just to focus on the fibers of the upholstery fabric. Tightly woven. Probably soaked with your slick. He reaches his climax in a frenzy, filling you up as the last of your thoughts empty. A sick warmth spreads inside your swollen pussy with those last few snaps of his hips, cock twitching out every last drop of his seed, your body as fucked-out as fucked-out can be.

Kuroo has no intention of letting you in. But that doesn’t mean he’ll ever let you go.

🏷 @hqintheclub​

tch.

he catches your eye as he purses his lips and encircles your clit. his hands iron your thighs into the mattress and you can’t help but whine as your head rolls back, pussy pulsing in pleasure.

“toshiii, i need it inside me…”

he stops immediately, waiting patiently for you to look back up so he can meet you at eye level.

“that’s not how good girls ask, is it?”

“toshi, sir.” you try to swallow your anticipation back, pausing as you deliberate—but it seems like there’s no pretty way to say it. “please, i really need—”

“what you need is a good spanking, young lady,” he suddenly growls, flipping you over like a ragdoll, hauling you over his knee. you struggle, kicking your legs in mock protest, shaking your head furiously all the way until his hand makes contact with your eager, perky ass. you hear that ugly ricochet of a sound before you can even feel it, the blood rushing to your buttcheeks before you can even yelp.

“you’re gonna trust daddy to do what’s best for you?”

you’re quick to push an “mhm” out your throat, at a volume that pales in comparison to mere moments ago, tame and dispirited. a bad answer.

smack!

“can’t hear you,” he says, voice steely. you wince at the pain, the sting doubling as you reconsider, mind struggling with the words to string together.

“i, i trust my daddy to guide me…” you can’t help but pout a little, eyelashes batting for effect. “without him, i’m nothing.”

“that’s a good girl,” he says, stroking your hair, caressing your chin. he kisses your temple, palm of his hand coming to cradle your red asscheek.