#tw. dark.

The room smells of musk and lust. It’s the stench of hours spent mindlessly humping and switching positions, cumming on your face and on your tits and deep inside you. It stinks a little and it’s fitting for Denji. Tireless and needy Denji, whose forehead beads with sweat and arms begin to falter, whose thrusts run shallow and sloppy as daybreak emerges.

“Can’t stop,” he says, breathless voice betraying his fatigue. Still, his hips rock back and forth, begging for more release. “Feels like you’re tryna s—squeeze every last drop outta me.” You shift uncomfortably, exhausted and in dire need of rest.

“Denji, ‘s too much.” Your insides ache from the constant abuse and you haven’t the strength to marvel his endless vigor. You paw weakly at his back and try pushing his shoulders. It’s useless, his body weight alone enough to keep your back flush to the mattress.

He smiles, taking a moment to pause, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Daww, so cute…”

Your head jolts back as he rams your pussy, cum gushing down your ass as each dirty squelch begins to fall back into rhythm.

“Has my baby gone dumb on their favorite toy?” he asks when you’re unresponsive, phasing in and out of consciousness with half-lidded eyes. Still, he keeps bottoming out inside you, abusing a spot so deep and sweet you struggle to form whole words.

“Ak—can’t, mmph..!”

He knocks the wind right out of you, pushing your thighs against his shoulders so he can fuck you deeper. The base of his cock feels even thicker this way, stretching you to your absolute limit. Your senses are so high strung it may as well be torture.

“Hmm, were you saying something?” he asks, as if you have the capacity to answer. He’s more than satisfied with the look on your face alone—a look that wavers between agony and content, hurt and delight.

He fucks you steadily that way, enamored in the little squeaks and yelps you make. What a perfect fuck doll you are, making such cute noises for him when you’re twitching underneath him. His jaw tenses and he realizes he’s close just from listening. He’d love to fill you up, stuff you full of hot cum, but instead he flips you on your side.

It’s embarrassing, the view he gets at this angle. Propping one of your legs in the air, he can fully appreciate your slants and curves this way—the arch in your back, the swell of your ass. His favorite view of all is that of his cock pulling out slowly, and suddenly ramming back in again. He loves the way you accommodate him, stretched to the brim, gasping every time he bucks his hips. Your mouth goes slack, open so wide that you’re nearly drooling. It’s a stupid, happy look, and it makes his thrusts run shallow.

He’s quick to pull out and kneel above your chest, his expression like that of someone making a right turn or getting the mail—unperturbed. It’s with an unceremonious slap that he measures his dick across your face, its length dwarfing your facial features. You eye it through a hazy lens, the heft of his cock balanced perfectly against your nose.

“Hah, that’s a good look for you.”

Your lips press together when he leans down, expectant of a kiss, but instead he spits on his cock—or perhaps, right on your face. You wince, the warmth puddling across your cheek. He covers your hand and wraps it around himself, jerking slowly until you follow. As you find your rhythm, his grip tightens, hand clenching hand. He forces a faster tempo, lips pursing when he’s close again, cock twitching with every stroke.

Okkotsu Yuuta is not a stalker.

Not when he signs on as teaching assistant for your gen eds, not when he’s hired at the café you frequent the most. It’s a coincidence, really—he doesn’t even know your last name. You’re sure of it when you leave spare change clinking in your wake, with that soft smile he flashes before attending to the next customer. Not an ounce of recognition, nothing. Just a simple barista and a hopeless kouhai whose face he’ll never ever commit to memory.

As dramatic as that sounds, you’re right. For a good while. Your formative years of college are spent in crowded lecture halls, stuffy and absolutely swamped. He just helps with “technical difficulties” and grades all the homework; name-face recognition isn’t exactly in the cards for him. You cross paths, he never notices, the end. 

Right?

A new semester ushers in a landscape awash with color, winds dotted with pink as the sakura come into bloom, and yet you still haven’t found yourselves on the same plane of existence. But he’s living in the same dorm now, which means he’s taking the same routes to school. A couple stations away means a handful of nerve-racking minutes in the same train car, on the off-chance that it happens. You’ll watch him in the corner of your eye sometimes, the way he fidgets with his headphones through the entire ride. You’ve never seen him sit still—probably because you’ve never seen him sit at all. It’s a sight you get to see about every other day now. Shaping up to be every single day, you’re realizing, but still, you could just as easily bike to avoid the whole ordeal, and also, who wouldn’t want to live in the cheapest dormitory around campus, and yes, Okkotsu Yuuta is very much not a stalker.

But sometimes you wish he was.

You try not to think about it, memories of persistent, roaming hands morphing into daydreams that star none other than your golden boy unaware, a self-certified teacher’s pet. It translates quite easily: he lures you to an unused classroom, or he corners you after hours in some random club room. Once in a while, he slips something in your morning pick-me-up. But sometimes, when you’re feeling extra lonely, sometimes you’re the one who makes the first move. Sometimes you’re asking him to tutor you in the comfort and safety of your own room, until his fingers are dancing up your skirt, way too short to not be asking for it. Suddenly he’s shoving much more than vile words up your pretty little mouth. You can’t scream; you can’t even breathe. His eyes crease, tender as ever as he tells you, knuckles grazing your cheek, that it’s gonna be okay—“It’ll be over soon, just hold still for me.”

It becomes a little more plausible as the attendees dwindle down at discussion. A dozen absent and he’s finally waving at you outside of class, even offers a meek ‘good morning’ when the train doors slide open. It’s exciting in the worst of ways. He knows you now, knows where you live down to the room number. 

”Don’t get shy on me now.” A voice from the past. ”Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?” A weight on your neck. 

You find yourself in a daze nowadays, little hands tucked away in the confines of soaked lace panties that cup the edges of your fingers like a photograph. And what a furious little slip-and-slide that makes you, rubbing circle after circle to imaginary violations, twitching under your sheets as you force your torso to endure another orgasm. A swollen clit and a soiled mattress are all you have to show for it. No boy in your phone, let alone your bed. Your fingertips push you into another fantasy and, in due time, you come undone again. You always do, a panting mess by the end of it, toes curled and thighs clenched, recovery time practically unheard of.

That night is the worst night of them all.

It’s hard to tell when you fall asleep, spent and exhausted. 

But it probably starts with the ghosts of lingering hands, the usual fare. They hold you in place, digging into your hips, leaving dime-sized bruises on your wrists. They shush you and bind you. They blur into one another, those unwanted touches, all the motions from grievances past. You’ve simulated it countless times and yet you’re numb with fear, the panic paralyzing every organ but the one in your chest, pumping and thumping away. Everyone knows the options of fight and flight by name. Lesser known is an act that discredits your stops, your nos. 

The traitorous inaction known as freezing.

You’re powerless to the night as it brings you a new terror to entertain, one of unfamiliar, timid little brushes that push back your hair and skitter down your tummy. Like the boy’s scared to wake you up. Like he needs to savor this moment, and slowly. 

“I don’t think you understand how long I’ve waited for this.” 

His breath tickles your ear, “Holding out on me, teasing me in front of the whole class.” His hands find their place on your shoulders, “Wanted to fuck these pretty little holes for years.” The fight goes out of you as one hand snakes down to your core, the other one thumbing at your lips. He chuckles as his forefinger discovers your slick, parting your labia with ease, trailing it all across your pretty pussy parts. He makes sure that you’re dripping with shame before forcing a sopping finger in your mouth.

“Taste that, princess? It means you’re ready for my cock.” 

You still as he works it inside you, rubbing his cockhead all over your sensitive nub like he’s lathering up, groaning with satisfaction as it finds a new home in your walls. He swallows the expanse of your body whole, the perfect size to crush you, the perfect size to gut you alive. A shell of yourself, the lone remains. It’s so different from when you do it to yourself, the languid strokes you make with your desperate fingers, struggling to stuff yourself whole. But he plugs you full, so much that the stretch burns, that your cunt fights to accommodate. He adores it, says you’re getting tighter on him, that your body was built for big, strong men to breed it. The noises are humiliating, speaking of a cock flooded with arousal, and a cunt that’s just as equally excited. The sloppy sounds spill one after another, slowing only as he turns you on your stomach, wrists pinned above your head.

Your walls threaten to push him out as he takes you from behind, thick dick bottoming out like it knows nothing of friction. His cock twitches and he pushes your legs together, like they’re the limbs of some inanimate fuckdoll. 

“Haah, so good for me,” he rasps, barely able to contain himself as the gummy surfaces hug his cock tighter. A few more thrusts and he’s done for, hot semen leaking from his tip, greeting you in little spurts. Even as he stills, you can’t move a muscle, caged between his arms as he cranes his neck over your shoulders. And of course it’s a perfect fit, his chin cradling your collarbone as he smothers you with gravity, cock still plugging you full of lewd juices. 

The door is ajar, you realize, as the light filters into your room, your eyelids fluttering open. Your legs cry for help even before you muster the strength to sit up, a piercing ache shooting through your abdomen. Fingers curled in your blankets, you hesitate to lift them. That familiar stench, the feeling of warmth that threatens to ooze onto your thighs. You know it before you see it—that it’s time to do the laundry. Another dream to erase.

You’re lugging the hamper out when you see him, a single raven-haired boy there to greet you, so different from the cruel man who molested you in the dark.

“H-hey!” 

He’s all tired eyes and overblown smiles. He’s clammy palms that sweep against black denim. And, as luck would have it, he’s locking the door right next to yours.

“My heating unit was bust, so they had me change rooms.” He pauses, laughs nervously like he has something to apologize for, and hooks a finger above his lip. “I guess that makes us next-door neighbors. I’m Okkotsu.” 

You seize, I didn’t know there was a vacancy on your tongue, the weight of your sins pulling at your hands.

“Ah! My bad,” he says, “I shouldn’t hold you up any longer.” His eyes dip into the basket as he passes you by, and it almost looks like he’s smirking as he notices the stains on your panties, with all its traces of wet, violated pussy.

“Looks like you had fun last night.”

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​

No more “I’ll do better tomorrow.” No more “I’ll do better today.” At best, Geto finds the passage of time irrelevant. At worst, a mockery by which he counts his days of self-loathing; he imagines he’ll count them ‘til they’re all but numbered. Where others may find, in each passing moment, a bouquet of opportunities, sprightly petals ready to blossom, he himself sees a barren hellscape, withered away to nothing but rot. It’s an impenetrable cage with no bars, an inescapable trap with no bait. He’s changed his clothes, his hair, his diet, his gym routine. He’s tweaked the wardrobe, padded the wallet with cash, branded the square inch of his brain with conversation starters and corny pickup lines. Fuck’s sake, he’s dabbled in corrective makeup, the so-called “war paint” of female sheep, slathered it into every pore—all but a charade. All but an illusion of a perfect, balanced, proportional face, toxic byproduct of a world ruled by beauty standards unachievable to those born without.

No more.

He’s burned the self help books, laid the friendly advice to sleep, ditched the notion of any salvation for a being even lesser than a beta cuck—a being such as himself. There are no prizes for those who square off against the social hierarchy. There is only the swallowing back of bitter bile, thin and warm and sour as it crawls up the stretch of his throat, only to slide right back down. It sets the pipeline from his mouth to his chest ablaze, steeps the esophagus in brimstone and fire, lights inside of him a personal slice of hell that he wants nothing more than to keep locked away in his gut. 

Fat chance of that; he can’t tell if it feels like a rock or a hole at the bottom of his stomach, eroded to rot by the burn of the acid, but either way it isn’t a pretty sight when he finally hurls. It’s a lifetime’s worth of grievances that he spews now, the waste he heaves nothing short of toxic as it exits the system in which it was made to ferment. 

If polite society will never love him, he supposes he’ll just be hated.

And hated he is, by none other than the writhing flesh and bone he currently holds by the arm and the neck, trapped between his taut body and a hard wooden desk. You’re bent over, face tinged with tears that drip down your lashes and sting along your cheeks, all the way down to the beginnings of your neck. It feels more like acid than water, liquid irritant threatening to sear your flesh through and through. It cuts like a knife, pierces hundredfold of what’s necessary to carve you skin-deep, guts you of your dignity and leaves it in the heap on the ground that’s your torn shirt and sopping panties. 

You could scream if you wanted to.

You should scream if you can.

Dorm walls are notoriously thin after all, the ones that square off Geto’s corner room no obvious exception. 

But the fear of being seen like this, sniveling and shaking and shivering, pants in a heap at your ankles and slick threatening to inch down your thighs keeps your mouth locked shut; of course, it only keeps Geto’s running.

“Still gonna tell me that no part of you wants this?” he sneers, thick fingers unfurling themselves where your pretty pussy parts, all puffy lips and sticky folds. 

He laughs when you attempt to rise, palm to the desk as you push with all your might, only to collapse under your combined weight. The fruitless struggle sends the blood straight to his cock; he’s infatuated with the soft sheen of frustration that trails down your face, captivated by the little ball your fist makes as he feels your chest heave and stutter.

“Girls like you always think they’re all that, but really, you’re nothing but talking fuck dolls when someone gets on top of you.” 

Geto’s fingers curl and flex inside you, broken sobs like music to his ears when he feels your walls sucking him deeper. His pants nearly undo themselves when he finally lets go of your wrist, fresh red bruises the very sign he needed to line his dick up with your entrance. Because the telltale hue means that you’re his for the taking, marked up and ready for his own personal use. He likens the dime-sized blots to a tattoo of his fingerprints, a branding of his DNA across the slim of your arm.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

His curse breaks where yours begins. It’s as if he’s rebelling against divine intervention, fomenting a counterattack upon those who’ve continuously excluded him from a sexual marketplace on discriminatory lockdown. It’s like he stands at the crest of the mountain that tops the whole wide world, beaten the rabbit hole of social standings at its own inconceivably shallow game when the head of his cock advances the boundary of your swollen lips.

He’s only ever daydreamed of this moment before, in pitifully slow motion withal, the warmth that encases him of surreal quality as you feel yourself hitting an all-time low. You’re flooded with all the trappings of an otaku shut-in—greasy locks and putrid boxer briefs—as he coats his cock in your traitorous arousal, drunk on the sudden power high.

“Fuck…” he’s talking to himself at this point, doing everything short of raving about your tight, disloyal cunt, thoughts clouding over with each erratic pump. “I’m gonna, gonna put you in your rightful place…” He’s nearly crushing you beneath him with rhythmless abandon, jerking his length in and out in its entirety, and it feels as though your heart pounds down your throat at the abrupt assault.

He’s laughing at how bad you’re taking it, how low your head dips as you try to ease the ache, forehead to the desk as he grips your hips and floors you to its surface. Black strands sweep along your back as he creeps forward, 

“I’m so much bigger than him, aren’t I?”

You can swear your heart seizes.

The passing thought inspires a cold sweat to bead along your nose and smooth across your palms, the treacherous realization that he and Gojo are of the same build, the same height. It seems equal parts gift and punishment, the fact that if you close your eyes for a second, it feels almost exactly like your boyfriend’s touch, with the way his knees lock you in place, oversized thumbs pressing into the soft of your stomach…

But not quite.

Even with your eyes closed you can still tell the difference, the musk-laced smell of week-old sweatshirt a far cry from Gojo’s designer cologne, the one with notes of the idiomatic flowers just so he can say that he smells like literal lilies. Tickle would be an understatement; the offensive scent traps your nose, hits it with its pungent sting and lingers when you open your tear-soaked eyes once more.

You’re too late; he’s eager to take your silence for admission.

“God, that’s satisfying,” he groans in your ear, shameless in his merciless thrusts as his pace reaches breakneck brutality. Undue pride becomes hellish excitement becomes haphazard ruts. You jerk when his tip greets your cervix, knocking against the fleshy wall as hurt spreads throughout your core. He strains against your deepest parts, grunts half-heartedly as the pumping comes to a halt, and spills everything he’s got inside of you. 

You don’t even notice when he shoots his seed, the warmth of the fluid incomparable to the burn of violation.

You only know for sure—with a sinking feeling—when he leaves your pussy agape with drooling, dripping fluids far too copious to be yours alone.

Spent and pang-riddled, you hardly register it when the world around you flashes white, courtesy of Geto’s cellphone. He smirks at your unshakable daze, crouching as he snaps more souvenirs. You think he’s talking to you, something about the makings of a promiscuous cockslut, when the world meets its end and the lights fade to black.

What a poor, lost little thing you are, trudging through the back alleyways of Tokyo with little to go on under the twinkling twilight. You stumble around in the darkness as if trying to outrun the first rays of sunlight, fingers fumbling to find purchase on the sides of buildings unfamiliar to you. You must’ve been drinking all night long to require wall support to keep you upright now, hiccuping as you drag your hands along the concrete. Truly the lowest of the low, a runt in a world teeming with lesser beings. Human swine would do well to know their limits, but apparently you don’t.

And what an easy target you make; a little too easy, even. You wouldn’t have a clue what was happening if Mahito cornered you now, idle transfiguration descending upon you with a single touch of the hand. 

But what a waste that would be, disfiguring a remarkable specimen like you, so utterly out of it that you can’t even tell that he’s right behind you—so dangerously close that he’s practically breathing down your neck as you make your way home.

Sure, Mahito has his pick of the city’s stragglers at all times of the day, but what suddenly draws him to you lies in how disheveled you look, the little bit of makeup you have on smeared across your face, that low cut shirt of yours riding even lower than it was made to.

Not to mention that he’s absolutely dying to get more acquainted with human “anatomy”—but he hates how his victims squirm and squeal when he takes his time, as if they have any chance of actually escaping him. It’s an insult, really, so he figures he’ll go after someone on the more... susceptible side. Someone who’s not only wandering around alone, but also on the brink of collapse, unable to call for help. Someone who makes no attempt to fight back, someone who will let him have his way with them, someone who doesn’t mind the intrusion simply because there is no alternative.

Someone exactly like you.

You’re making this way too simple, not a single look behind you as you stagger your way home. You even have the courtesy to leave the front door of your house ajar, the stupid little thing that you are, not an ounce of energy left to spare as you pass out into the bed.

He’s on top of you immediately, ripping your clothes off to ogle their contained contents. So this is the female body, he thinks, half mesmerized, half disgusted by the way your taut tits spill out from underneath your already revealing shirt. He studies every inch of your exposed skin carefully before rolling your sensitive nubs between his fingers, finding that they stiffen on command. Even when you’re out cold you react to his touch; he was right not to kill you immediately. 

His personal playground, exactly the way he wanted it.

Proportions aside, he finds that there are few differences between his male body and your own. But there’s something that piqued his interest at a movie showing once and he wants it to try for himself today. He palms at his erection, intrigued by his natural reaction to the sight of you all sprawled out. Is there really something so special about it? He can’t say he sees the appeal, but apparently his body can, his bulge pressing harder against the cloth the longer he looks at you.

His pants come undone when he feels his damp excitement through the fabric, glint of his precum illuminated by the kiss of the rising sun, satisfying heaviness of his dick bared to the ticklish air. He marvels at the way his hand fits perfectly around his length, fisting it as he stares at the rise and fall of your chest. This is the part that he didn’t get to see on screen, the part where he ruts against your lower half with his own.

It’s not like he knows what he’s doing yet, bucking his hips into the first thing he can fit his dick into: the space between your thighs. Mahito squeezes them together and slips his shaft between the plushy flesh, reveling in the chills that run up his stomach. It’s a nice visual, the way his cock disappears for a moment before resurfacing atop of your barren legs, and an even nicer sensation. But it doesn’t quite feel half as good as he thought it would be. His mind races with the flickering images of o-shaped mouths and curled up fingers. Humans are so… dramatic, he thinks to himself, pulling his meat out of the cushy canal of his creation.

But then his eyes wander to your silken panties, the one place he hasn’t ventured yet; how annoying that humans wear more clothes under their clothes. He laughs to himself when he pushes them aside to reveal a wet, pulsating mound. Now that’s more like it. A finger inches inside you, followed by another, as he tries to determine if it’s a good fit or not.

Well, he won’t know until he tries.

Burying himself inside your leaking cunt, he gasps at the way you hug him flawlessly. It’s warmer, so much warmer than your thighs, and suddenly it feels like he’s alive for the first time in his life. Your breathing changes as he starts to move, pushing your ragdoll figure into the mattress. Tingly pleasure envelops him entirely when little whimpers and moans begin to tumble from your lips.

Mahito bends over to meet your mouth, taste of hard liquor encircling his tongue as he forces it inside, exploring your wetness in its entirety. You share a soft groan when he adjusts his angle, hilt of his cock pushing against a spot so spongy and so textured that his sensitive head shivers in pleasure.

Fistfuls of flesh gathered in his hands, he continues to move by instinct, chasing after the milky cream that foams around the base of his cock. The slip and slide motion of each and every stroke seems to register even while you sleep, your hips rocking ever so slightly into his own, mouth moving open and shut but never quite overflowing with distinguishable words.

The lewd noises of your dripping pussy fill the room, second only to the clapping of skin on skin as his tender balls pound against you. Reckless abandon takes over and the snapping movement is driven by so much force that you begin to stir, eyes twitching.

But you’re not awake yet—responsive, but otherwise subdued. He knows because the things that spill from your lips next can only come from a person who can’t even tell that they’re being raped.

“It feels… so…” you whisper, and he pauses for a moment to listen to what you have to say.

“Feels so… full…”

He throbs at the words, instantly feeling himself grow harder, deciding that it’s time to try out one of his little “experiments.”

“Feels full, huh?” he says into the curve of your neck, crooked smile dancing on his lips. “Good thing I can make you feel even fuller.”

Reshaping himself is almost second nature at this point. Mahito stretches you out with the deft fattening of his cock, your walls drawing taut around him in turn. Snug, you become impossibly snug around him as you throw your head back, convulsing from the pressure. It’s an inhuman size, so monstrous that when he pistons his pelvis forward, he finds it substantially harder to bottom out.

The clear outline of his cock stares him in the face now, a delicious belly bulge shifting up and down with every slam. You struggle to catch your breath, the stimulation forcing you to release your hot, sticky fluids. Entire body shaking, you keen your satisfaction, stilling only when his thrusts run shallow.

A jittery feeling takes the human curse over, the buildup of all the sweet sensations bubbling over and bursting from his fully stimulated cockhead. He pulls it out to get a better look and ends up squirting all over you, shooting his seed onto your thighs and teats. How delightful, he thinks to himself, overjoyed by how it glistens in the full heat of the sun. The perfect present for you to wake up to.

It’s quiet now, only a soft pant—yours—audible in the spring of day. 

He ponders his options. You could take hours to come to your senses. But as much as he’d love to take off now, to leave you in total confusion and bewilderment, his desire to see the absolute horror cross your face as you take in the spatters of dried-up cum is even stronger. And eventually, he gets just that.

You don’t disappoint, bleary eyes fluttering open in your half-conscious state, locking with the curse crouched beside you, then darting wildly from the mess he’s made to the stitches on his face. How fortunate, or rather unfortunate; you were born with enough latent talent to be able to perceive him. You’d scream, but he’s already ahead of you, covering your mouth before you can produce a single squeal.

“Morning, dollface.” Tears prickle your eyes as you look on in fright, too afraid to move a muscle.

“I had a lot of fun in bed, didn’t you?”

You were stunned into silence when he first suggested it.

And how couldn’t you be? Any sane person would, or at least should, have recoiled at the proposition. Isn’t that right?

But he makes it seem so harmless, so innocent, somehow. Like it’s no big deal, far from uncharacteristic for either of you—just a walk around campus, nothing new there. He tells you this like you’re overreacting, slow on the uptake, taking far too long to reach a final decision. The rational part of your mind says it’s out of the option. But the irrational part is louder, all-consuming, domineering.

The irrational part says, out of all your options, it’s the only viable one.

“Come on, babygirl. What’s the harm of trying it out once?”

It’s always this way, always has been. He takes your hands in his with a dramatic swell, the sparkle in his eyes big and bright and gleaming, and you bite back the urge to pull away. You would break your gaze if you could, if he didn’t look so determined, if that twinkling blue galaxy wasn’t sweltering with hope and adoration. But you can’t, and he does, and it just about swallows you whole. 

The fact of the matter is, Gojo Satoru wants to take you out on a leash today.

Never mind today; he wanted this yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that, never one to shy away from his desires as you deliberated the entire time. By now he’s asked you to do this one, single thing for him far more times than you can count—initially playing it off as a joke, slowly feeling you out, gradually seeing how far he could push and pull until you explicitly told him no.

Except it’s never just one, single thing with him, and you—with the way you dance around the topic, hoping to give him the illusion that you might give in, or perhaps yourself the illusion of control—you never say no.

A simple line of defense, yes. Even you agree with that. But its execution? Around Gojo, it seems anything but.

Geto would beg to differ.

Geto.

The only other person privy to your latest concerns. The only other person you can bear knowing. And he’d be disappointed if only he could see you now.

Who are you kidding? He’s already disappointed.

A vague outline was all you gave him. A vague outline, you knew, not-so-deep down in your heart, was all you dare tell him—or anyone at all, really.

Because, sure, you’ve adopted a rather experimental lifestyle around Gojo, but that was supposed to be private. Reserved for behind closed doors, you thought, until now.

You were right in that the brooding brunette didn’t need every last grueling detail of Gojo’s newest request. He’s his best friend; he’s seen you at every single step of your whirlwind relationship together. The fervid beginnings, when the two of you couldn’t be physically separated, let alone in different rooms from each other. The ups and the downs, each one more intense than the last, each one blowing up in your faces before you ran back into each other’s arms and kissed and made up. You knew that much.

What you didn’t foresee, however, even as you recounted your latest grievance to him, was that nothing you were saying was new. To Geto it was regurgitated rhetoric, distorted and distressed, yesterday’s news—whereas you saw it as a unique conquest, a new hurdle to overcome.

“It almost amazes me how you can come up with so many new ways to say the same old thing,” he said, slanted eyes dull with apathy as they panned away from yours. “Almost.”

You could only choke on your words in response.

What Geto told you next is now a hushed murmur in the back of your head. It reverberates against your skull, pinballing against the walls of all that empty space and showing no signs of slowing down. It tells you to just say the magic word and it’ll be over, every last bit of Gojo’s borderline demands, washing away all of that white noise if only you’d breathe some life into it. That one word, the one that plagues your mind night and day, it begins to materialize upon your lips, poised and ready to spring into action, flexing on the tip of your tongue as if it were a wind-up toy. 

Just say it already.

Just say no.

But you’re always holding your tongue around the both of them, together or alone, whether on the bony roof of your mouth or its flexible, fleshy floor, biting your words back for an eternity and more. Perhaps you were only faking yourself out, simply going through—no, barely feinting at the motions so you can come back to this chapter of your life and say that you tried. The moment passes, the pause your boyfriend gave at the sight of your mouth ajar long over, his words beginning to bleed into your reality once more.

And he’s saying, “I bought such a cute collar for you, too,” voice rising and falling with lovelorn disappointment. You can’t help but wince at his gentle timbre, all too painfully aware that such a small investment is far from the root of Gojo’s displeasure. You can hear it in his tone, too, how his carefree singsong runs steely as his thoughts begin to wander, settling on a resigned indifference.

So you wander, too. Tear your eyes from his in search of something, anything that might lend a reason to divert your gaze. Your fingers encircle white leather before you realize it, turning the thin strip over in absentminded idle, silver o-ring jingling in place. The metallic clank doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You should at least try it on before I return it, don’t you think?” 

And you can’t find it in your heart to disagree, stiff choker tightening around your neck as he fumbles with the clasp. You trace the sanded edges before latching a finger—two fingers—beneath the leather material. 

Perfect. 

Perfectly irritating. Irritatingly perfect. It sits in the center of your neck without slipping, just snug enough that you can still breathe easy, comfortable and almost disturbingly so. 

“Well?”

White lashes flutter idly as he considers your reflection as if studying it. And with the hint of a smile behind you, large hands on your waist in the mirror’s image, you start to think for the first time that the collar really is a pretty number, and a shame and a waste to throw away. 

Because he looks so pleased now, creased cheeks and crinkled eyelids as he smooths his palms over your hips, like maybe you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever held. Because instead of the pouting you’ve come to expect, the declarations that you’re “no fun,” or that you’re “overreacting,” or that you need to “relax” you’ve come to accept, he simply brushes your hair to the side and rests his cheek against yours, warm breath just about tickling your chin.

It begs the question.

“Will you love me more if I do this for you?”

And it sends his eyes into a frenzied state, hungry void for pupils swallowing crystal irises with unabating greed, all frisky lashes and overeager ridges. 

Ideally, he’d take your hands in his, tell you that that wasn’t his intention at all and beg for your forgiveness. Ideally, he’d hold you close, say that he loves you no matter what and promise to never push you this far again. You know all of these self-evident truths and more, yet you still can’t stop your heart from skipping a beat when he tells you, voice hushed in awe, triumph washing over you in spite of yourself:

“Of course I will.”

It’s different when you actually go through with it.

You try not to regret your decision immediately when you’re chained to Gojo’s hand in public, dog leash swinging in the wind as you round the campus loop. What a waste of a beautiful day for you to be hanging your head low, tips of your ears burning with shame. You don’t even believe that you’ve agreed to this yourself as you search the faces ahead of you for a trace of anyone you might know, pushing down the urge to cross your fingers behind your back.

But Gojo himself? He loves the lingering stares to tiny little pieces, practically basks in the attention as he pushes his sunglasses back so they rest above his hairline. Airy tufts of white spill over the tinted lenses, billowy strands coming to rest upon his forehead. When you think of it as your gorgeous boyfriend showing you off, it makes it all a little more bearable, has you standing up a little straighter. But your heart nearly stops every time you think you recognize the passerby, and eventually you dread the sight of absolutely anyone in the distance, for fear they will finally be a person who knows and calls you by name.

Gojo takes quick notice, realizes you hardly want to take another step in this undignified manner, and thinks to himself that there must be a better way to go about the arrangement.

His solution is to turn your walk of shame into a crawl of shame.

“On your fours,” he says, delighted when you actually crouch to the pavement, thankful for an excuse to hide your face. He ruffles your hair and slaps your hand away when you try to pull your skirt down, enamored by the way it rides up and reveals the lacy material below. You suppose it’s a trade-off you’ll just have to take, and in a confession that gets caught up your throat, you don’t wholly mind it: the pairs of eyes you can feel burning through you, though real or imagined you can’t be entirely sure. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were Gojo. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were you.

In the corner of your eye, you think you see someone sneaking a picture, but you don’t dare lift your head for a closer look. Instead you track the ground for rubble, hoping you’ll get away without scraping your knees, shaky line for a pair of lips as micro cuts come to crisscross your legs.

The rest of the walk is spent with you crawling the ground, light breeze tickling your backside, every part of you flaunted as if you’re Gojo’s most prized possession. You had better be, you think to yourself as you circle back to his building, and luckily enough, he’s about to make good on that expectation. 

Maybe it’s the collar around your neck, or maybe it’s the surge of relief you get from returning, but by the time you meet the first glass door, you’re aching for whatever Gojo’s planned next.

He’s moving on predatory instinct the second you’ve set foot in his apartment, flushed lips curling around your own as soon as he pulls you up from all fours. A hollow knock sounds behind you as your heels strike the door, lower lip traced with a wet warmth until you’re gracious enough to grant him full access. He easily cages you with his entire frame, pressing that cute pink muscle in your mouth flat before writhing his own to the rhythm of his heartbeat, booming and ricocheting and alive.

It’s not nearly enough for either of you, of course, his hands beginning to roam all over your pliable form, all over his property, skirting along your outline and creeping closer still to the innermost curves of your contour cutout. Flitting fingers brush against your navel, dancing lower as you suck your tummy in by reflex, stopping right before the tingling bundle of nerves that just might explode as soon as he touches them. 

But he takes pause instead, presses his forehead flush against yours, jewel colored eyes waiting on you with intent. You swear they can see right through you, even sheathed behind a cluster of wild white lashes, gauge everything there is to know about you faster than you can say “blue.” The moment freezes over, two bodies still and unmoving until you suddenly remember your need for air, gasping when you realize you’ve been holding your breath. 

“Parading around as my personal fucktoy get you that excited?” he starts with a smirk, wide eyes drinking up your sharp inhale as if it were his own, inspiring pinpricks of heat to rise to your cheeks.

He hooks the hem of your skirt with his thumbs when he’s met with silence, pulls you from the doorframe just far away that he can release the elastic with a snap, silent snigger on his lips when it elicits a small sound of surprise from you. You nod in response, frantic bob of your head drawing a low growl from his chest and a “that’s right, I know what’s best for my pet,” as he lifts you off your feet and carries you to the bedroom.

Your body bounces back from the force with which he tosses you into the mattress, giggles erupting from your throat when he climbs atop of you, tugging at your leash. A thin stripe of saliva trails up and down the column of your neck, laving intermittently over the leather that encases your flesh. A coppery taste, of earth and salt and smoke, dances on his tongue as his front teeth sink into the stretch of your collarbone, nipping and sucking at the delicate flesh. You sink into the bed as you ease into his touch, but he doesn’t give you much time to get comfortable.

“Touch yourself, then,” he says, “if you like to be watched that much.” 

It almost sounds like a suggestion, especially with the way in which he uses the lightest touch to brush the stray hairs from your forehead, but you know better than that. Your fingers fly to the wet patch on your panties, thin material almost see-through with your slick, working the fiber flat against dampened skin. An echo of a chuckle reverberates throughout the room as he watches you, undoubtedly pleased by the way in which the fabric clings to your already dripping folds. 

Large hands have your legs spread wide open by the time you’ve traced the outline of your clit, your little show put on full display for him. They stay pressed against your thighs as you venture loose, round motions around your sensitive nub. Too timid. You tighten the circles into a coiled spiral, mustering the courage to go harder, faster, the friction of cotton against delicate skin drawing small mewls and sputters out of your trembling form. The delayed relief is sweet, your arousal crying into the pads of your fingers as you pick up the speed. The image burns itself into his brain, watchful eye unfaltering as you play yourself to your heart’s content.

The very air itself seems to buzz as you hold the other end of his gaze, thick fingers running along your sides as you start to roll your hips into the palm of your hand. He’s bent over you with the twitch of his pants, too worked up to remain a bystander any longer as he blows and sucks up your neck. The open-mouthed kisses only hasten the buildup, sensation shotgunning down your body from the surface of your nape.

But the coil in your core knots itself far too early for your taste, and you reel your hand back right before you can realize your peak. You opt to drag a lone finger down your slit instead, afraid that with too much pressure, you’ll come undone before Gojo has the chance to get his fill. 

Too late, too slow; he takes notice of your negligence immediately, eyes darkening at the pitiful way your hand skitters with abashment. He pulls away from the crook of your neck to get a good look at your dwindling handiwork, smirking to himself when you shrink in response.

“Having a little trouble there?” 

His voice is deceptively singsong as he takes your sluggish hand in his, guiding your knuckles back to that aching button that has you arching your back and curling your toes. He repeats the motion, half a mind to force an orgasm out of you right then and there when suddenly, a whimper—yours—sends his eyes darting back towards your own.

“No, not like this,” you say with strained breath, and he quirks an eyebrow in response, working your fingers into the fabric despite the interruption. “I want more, I need…” your voice trails off, a sorry attempt at stalling.

“Need what?” he asks as he catches on, shit-eating grin somehow audible without you even looking. You don’t know how he does it, how he locks his desires up as you squirm underneath him, waiting ever so innocently for a proper response.

“Need, need you,” you say under your breath, and he cocks an eyebrow, a clear sign of an underwhelming response. 

“Oh? I couldn’t quite catch that, princess.”

As if.

“I need you inside of me. Please, claim this filthy cunt,” you whine, determined to play, determined to win. Your hips buck into your interlaced fingers, searching desperately for the one word that’ll send him over the edge and finding it as the leather accessory rides up your neck—as if to remind you of its existence—“Master.”

And it does, it sends a jolt of heat to his groin, has him kicking his pants off and pinning your wrists into the sheets. It’s got him surging with primal need, tugging the pathetic mess of your soaked panties to the side with limitless hunger.

Because even though he’s drawn many names from your lips before, they’ve always been ones he’s insisted on, ones he’s downright pestered you about. Even the simplest “Satoru” was, admittedly, a struggle to pry out of you the very first time you got tangled in his sheets; you shielded your eyes then, cheeks burning and voice low as you whispered it in his ear. And look at you now, sprawled out beneath him as you edge yourself with a hand steeped in your own concoction, begging for his cock with that delicious nickname of your own admission, and it rings throughout his head like an addictive melody.

Master.

Master.

Master.

You can hardly recognize the noises he fucks out of you for the remainder of the night. He showers you with an unsavory slew of awful names, phrases you’ve never even heard aloud before, tells you that you’re his “freaky cocksleeve” and a “bitch in heat” as he jerks your leash without warning. And that’s exactly what you are, twitching for him like an animal as he screws you senseless, the most guttural of responses rising from your throat as he asks:

“Who do you belong to?”

And of course you respond, between labored pants, “You, master,” muscles taut as you fight for air, fingernails scrambling for purchase on his back but finding absolutely none.

It’s not until you’re entangled in a breathless mass that he pulls your head into his lap, strokes your cheeks and coos that you’ve been a good fucking girl, a thick mixture of his seed seeping from your gaping hole.

Morning always comes when you least expect it, sneaking up on you and peeking through the blinds before you’re ready to get going.

Gojo’s still passed out cold when you creep out of bed, only the most languid of movements used to pry yourself out of the mattress as your arms and legs ache for need of rest. The dull pain humbles you, delayed post-nut clarity finally hitting as you rub into your bleary eyes.

It feels like you’ve been struck by a train.

Your gait is but a tiptoe as you stalk towards his dresser, trembling hands slowly rummaging for something, anything that can provide you some cover. Your classes are starting soon, and whether his are, too, or whether he’s simply skipping out today, you know better than to rouse him from his toil-induced slumber. 

It’s nearly inaudible, the sound of the door closing behind you, clank of metal but a whisper as the soles of your shoes kiss up carpeted floor. You’ve left it unlocked, just the way your boyfriend likes it, a small assembly of what you hope he’ll recognize as breakfast perched upon the kitchen table—the last traces of your visit left behind in a neat and tidy little package.

Your eyes find Geto’s once you turn down the hallway, small black beads peering into yours before taking a lap around the block to assess the damage. He must not like what he sees, this tousled morning-after apparition, faint patches of indigo and violet creeping out from under your—no, Gojo’s—oversized sweatshirt, because it’s a solemn sigh that hits your ears next and not a “good morning” or even a simple “hey” that acknowledges you. 

Because he knows your average person wouldn’t notice the marks, too sheltered by all that thick cotton riding up your neck, purposefully pulled up just far enough that you wouldn’t see them unless you were looking. He knows your average person couldn’t have the slightest idea how you really scratched up your knees, pointillistic constellations of reddish purple threatening, however empty that threat is, to inch up your thighs. He scoffs.

“What do you even see in him?”

The words cloud the air before he’s completely aware of them, surprising the both of you as they surface.

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water: for starters he’s charming, engaging, lively and free-spirited. He’s beautiful and he adores you, you want to say, but even though you have all the correct phrases picked out, all strung together in the same time and place, they don’t seem to roll off your tongue quite right.

You seem so tired, forced laugh falling short where it should flutter out of your mouth, the usual cotton candy you spout crystallizing before it can materialize.

“I could ask the same of you.”

It traipses out of your mouth before you can give it permission, easing itself into the atmosphere before sinking like a stone. Truthfully you don’t care to hear an answer, if only to avoid giving your own. You usher yourself out, pushing yourself past the towering wall of a human and stalking down the nearest stairwell. 

Gojo knows just how to toy with your pride. But Geto? Geto knows how to slash it down to shreds. 

The silence is deafening.

Geto sighs once you’re out of earshot, turning his heel to continue his trajectory. If anything, he didn’t want to run into you today, either. He cringes at the small collection you’ve no doubt assembled yourself, of iced matcha and a granola bar, staring him in the face as he stalks into the apartment. For some reason it only feeds into his mounting dread, the rising unease of what he might find waiting for him in the bedroom. 

So he raps the bedroom door with his knuckles instead of barging in like he normally does, hoping in vain that he can get its sole inhabitant to lumber out himself. But of course Gojo doesn’t make it easy, letting out an obnoxiously loud yawn before stretching his lanky limbs with an equally obnoxious groan.

“You said to swing by this morning,” Geto half-yells, half says to himself, already prepared to turn tail and leave. He’s honestly surprised when he gets a legible response instead of the hungover mumbles he’s grown used to.

“Oh, that? Come in, it’s unlocked,” Gojo calls out, each syllable punctuated with tardiness. So Geto braces himself, puffing his chest out before giving the doorknob a firm handshake, stepping deeper into the belly of the beast. 

Geto was prepared to see many things when he walked through that door. Something like lipstick stains and flavored condoms, S&M paddles and ribbed dildos. Instead he’s met with something completely other, the evidence already cleared away. Whatever late-night exploits you enjoyed are long gone, not a trace left behind by now, privy only to a grown man slumped over the edge of his mattress, grabbing around under the bedframe. 

“Ahh, got it!”

With sleepy eyes Gojo lifts his head and presents to Geto the chrome colored box he’s fished out. It’s small and compact and ridiculously outdated, a conspicuous red button jutting out of its interface. He holds it up to his friend’s face, and the device finally registers.

A voice recorder.

“What, they still make those things?”

Geto schools his features easily, wiping the shock off his face before it can even materialize. It’s not exactly a lie; he knows he shouldn’t be surprised at all that Gojo has kept such an antiquated device for the occasion. 

“You act as if you’ve never seen one before.”

It’s a smirk that’s plastered all over their faces now, one that nearly matches the one across from the other, and knowingly so. The two burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all, Gojo slapping his knee and Geto clutching onto his sides. They’re not sure who starts it, but one of them high fives the other.

Girls like you are oh so naïve.

Your wish is granted for about a week total.

Gojo keeps his promise, of loving you more and loving you better, throughout the remaining weekdays. 

He takes you out for brunch, picks you up after class, and best of all, doesn’t ask anything more of you, doesn’t ask for anything better.

He opts to shower you with gifts instead, of stuffed animals and chocolates and bite-sized amenities, insisting that you take them all, no strings attached. Your nightstand overflows with his presents, mismatched tokens that remind you of his affection even when you’re not together. And although neither of you explicitly verbalize it, it seems like his way of apologizing. Silently.

You whole-heartedly accept.

This is the Satoru I fell in love with, you think to yourself as he pets your head one sunlit afternoon, grogginess setting in after a particularly big meal. You nuzzle into his lap and relish in the soft filtered light, sprawled out on your side on the living room sofa. He has you gazing upwards at a tap of the shoulder, all softened eyes and unkempt locks of hair, the smell of sandalwood and fresh dry cleaning enveloping you entirely as he leans in for a faint forehead kiss.

“What’s up?” you half ask, half mumble, eyelids heavy with sleep.

“Just wanted to see my princess’s face,” he says, a fleeting grin on his rosy lips. A hollow thud sounds as you play-punch him in the chest, but you roll over from your side to look up at him anyway.

“You happy now?”

“Overjoyed.” 

The two of you lock eyes, slivers of white hair undoing themselves from behind his ear as your breath syncs up slowly, gradually. He stares at you with such longing that you would think you weren’t laying right atop of him, and you struggle to hold your ground. 

“Are you—”

“Yup.”

You groan, eyes overcome with on demand prickling. “No thank you,” you proclaim as you squeeze them shut, uninterested in indulging him a staring contest. Moments pass and your eyes stay closed, a tide of tiredness washing over you. You loosen up, head rolling back as you allow yourself to relax. 

Big mistake. He takes it as an invitation for his hands to descend upon you, attacking your sides in an attempt to tickle, and you jerk away instantly.

“What the—Sato, cut it out!” You bat his arms away, one eye open as uproarious laughter fills your ears.

“If you’re gonna fall asleep then at least let me lay down too,” he says, drawing out the last word as he props your upper half up. He takes your place on the sofa before pulling you on top, and you huff as you fall into a pile.

“Jerk.”

“Your favorite jerk, though.”

Oh, he definitely feels it when you smile into his chest.

The weekend arrives without issue.

Wednesday night you’re watching the sunset over melon sodas.

Thursday night you’re falling asleep on Facetime.

Friday night you’re in the midst of downtown Tokyo, multicolored lights casting your faces in ethereal glow as you work against the hustle and bustle of regulars and tourists. Karaoke songs eat up the most of your visit, Gojo’s voice slowly going scratchy until the crowd finally works the nerve to drag him offstage. You spend the remaining time hopping restaurants, ordering exactly one dish at each location, slowly working your way through a full course meal. The waitress who serves you nothing more than a plate of gyoza gets an especially generous tip.

Dessert is by far his favorite dish: a deluxe parfait, served in a tall, American-style glass and filled to the brim with sorbet. You can still taste the fruit toppings, fresh and fragrant and honeyed on your tongues as you swap saliva in the back of his car. He cups your face with one hand and holds the small of your back with the other, pressing dangerously close against your body. When you finally have the chance to breathe, a thread of spit trails between your lips, in memory of your union. It glistens in the color of the muted city lights, persevering through the window tint in all of their electric might. A mischievous glint reaches his eyes, and all of a sudden he’s pulling you on top of his lap.

“We can get away with this much, can’t we, princess?”

And you oblige, patch of wetness already creeping through your panties as he starts to move, clothed cockhead grinding against the curve of your ass. He’s louder than usual, quivering groans crumbling as they reach your ears, his hips rolling in stuttering motions. You feel as if you’re aflame, pulsating with need, decadent sweetness enveloping your senses every time he pulls in for a kiss, every time he grazes you with his pubic bone. Your clit sings with praises as he pushes you down by the hips, whispering how good you’re being for him, how gorgeous you look in the dress he bought you, and you make a silent wish in the faint moonlight that the moment will never end.

But it seems that good things always meet their end, and come Saturday night, the monster rears its ugly head again.

Because on Saturday night, Gojo’s got you hanging on his arm, the two of you ascending concrete steps to the usual place. Same group of people, different game every week. The two of you are greeted with sweet sighs and boozy smiles, clink of bottles surrounding you as they prepare this week’s drinking game. Gojo’s a lightweight and Geto sticks to designated-driver duty, so it usually works out just fine.

Just not this week.

If Gojo was the sun, then Geto was the moon.

It always seemed to Geto that his best friend had everything in the world he could possibly need: looks, charisma, and status, all readily available to him without much effort of his own. And honestly? He loathed him for that.

As soon as the clock strikes midnight, Geto knows there’s absolutely no way he’s making it to the party. Instead he opts to spend Saturday night alone in the comfort, or perhaps the prison, of his own room.

Because the sun is a star that births brilliance, instilling vitality and inspiring vigor wherever it goes. Whereas the moon only picks up in the after hours, left to guide the lost and the wandering in the nighttime. He feels like he’s always scraping the bottom of the barrel, the pool of women he can choose from limited to the gaggle of bumbling stragglers who lament, still, the absence of the blinding sun. And for the past twenty or so years of his life, those bumbling stragglers have not so much as glanced back at him, too enchanted by the liveliness of day.

Worst of all is that softheaded people, scatterbrains just like you, they think they can fix Gojo, super-fucking-nova Gojo who burns it all up, destroying everything in his course of direction. Part of Geto thinks it’s absolutely deplorable, the way in which pea-brained whores throw themselves at him, hankering for his attention and jumping through all the hoops necessary to get just that. But part of Geto also wants to have his own stake in the fun, and Gojo—pretty boy, genetic-lottery winner Gojo knows this all too well.

The glint of the moonlight taunts Geto as it reflects off the silver-toned box in his hand, bold “STOP,” “REC,” and “PLAY” lettering practically chanting his name in the dim illumination. He was told that the handheld device was safer with him, well out of your reach in the confines of his single dorm, and he supposes that’s the truth, what with the lack of foot traffic in this cramped room that lacks of fresh air and sunlight.

It’d be doubly safer if he’d just tuck the abomination away, stick it deep in the corner of his sock drawer or perhaps somewhere underneath the bed frame, but he’s kept it well in sight ever since he first laid hands on it. He clutches it tightly as if it just might disappear when he lets go; chances like these are rare for him, to be so close in proximity to the wanton whines of someone he knows and sees almost daily. And if it’s anyone’s fault that you’re still fucking an immature bastard, a privileged manchild who gets pretty much everything he wants, it most certainly isn’t his own.

It’s just so exhilarating, to be able to cradle the cool metal in one hand, throbbing cock in the other, drawstring sweats already halfway down as he thumbs at his flushed, pink head. He’s kicking his pants off as he leans into bed, flat of his slicked-up fingers laving over the sopping tip that cries and weep for release. He’s already imagining it, the kinds of o-shaped faces you make with a leash dangling from your neck, bubbling with excitement and intoxication and jealousy at the mere thought. But he doesn’t start the audio yet, fumbling for his stash of lotion before moving to fist his cock in its entirety, twitching creature red with excitement as he jerks it up and down.

It feels so intimate to him, the fact that you’re so close yet so far away, musical mewls available on demand whenever he so pleases. He quickens the pace, palm of his hand practically flattening the vein on the underside of his cock as he starts to buck his hips into his tightening fingers. He’d just love to ram his dick down your throat one day, but for now he’ll have to make do with his hands.

He hits “PLAY” with bitter determination.

The very first sound of crumpling bedsheets has him curling into a full-body tingle. He’s close, so close he can almost taste it, but he keeps his concentration on the audio speaker, waiting for something, anything to heighten his arousal. He sucks in the cold air between his teeth, curses threatening to pour from his lips at how right, how wrong it all feels. The anticipation is short-lived, however, broken by the sound of Gojo’s voice, just barely recognizable in the speaker’s tinny, superficial quality.

“My, my,” the silver-haired deviant says, corners of his mouth undoubtedly upturned as he leans into the microphone.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Geto?”

The voice recorder hits the floor at the sound of his own name, blood pressure rising as his arms and legs tense up in disbelief. His own orgasm slips away and out of reach in an instant, petering out in wretchedly slow motion as his stiff cock throbs with pitiful languor. He wants to laugh, he wants to cry, wants to curse the world for ever thinking you were actually within his reach, wants to chuck the accursed gadget across the room and watch it scatter across the floor in glittering smithereens. Or maybe he just wants to cradle his head and sink into the ground, face his back to the despicable device for the rest of the night as the cold seeps into his sides, but he’s not even sure where the damn thing skittered off to and his head is spinning and his eyelids clench shut and the world just grinds to a halt.

Gojo doesn’t take the news well.

Gojo doesn’t want to take it at all.

You’re chatting up the party’s host, a premed student in the same year as him, when you first notice him glancing at his phone.

“So how are things? Between you two, I mean,” Shoko asks as she follows your gaze. 

“Couldn’t be better” is your absentminded answer, and she stifles a laugh—a perfect relationship with the Gojo Satoru? But you’re only half listening as she expresses her disbelief, eyes never quite leaving Gojo’s back as he shifts away from the mass of people and shuffles towards the windows, cell phone in balled-up hand.

The first call is inconspicuous enough—Geto has a habit of running late, after all. But when you excuse yourself to the bathroom and come back find to Gojo still holding the phone to his ear, half crouched with his lips screwed up in a pout, you know something’s off. Part of you doesn’t want to take your place beside him, but he pulls you down by the wrist, grip strong enough to leave dime-sized bruises.

They’re explaining the game of the night before you can ask him what’s up: a  pitcher of beer will round the group of players, all sat in a circle on the carpeted floor, each and every one taking turns trying to steal the last drop. It’s a familiar setting, the music but a hum in the background as the participants buzz with idle chatter, but the person beside you feels alien somehow. The woolen material pills underneath your toes as you curl them into little balls, eyeing him with a sideways glance. You know better than to raise the issue when his foot’s tapping the floor with such force, rapid rhythm almost matching the incessant pace with which he thumbs at his phone. He’s calling Geto three, four, five times before changing tack, demanding an explanation through text.

Shallow breaths are all that fill your lungs as you keep as still as possible, trying your best to get a good read on the screen. If the slump in his shoulders is any indicator, you’re sure he’s seething at the words that light it up. But before you can make out a single phrase, he’s slamming the phone down with one hand, clenching the pitcher of freshly poured beer with the other.

His turn to take the first swig.

He ends up gulping until you’re sure he’s out of breath.

“Whoa there, Satoru,” the person next to him says when he sets the pitcher down, nearly emptied. “What the fuck was that?” 

His wrist rises to wipe the corner of his mouth and he exhales sharply, as if his simple reply requires strenuous effort.

“DD bailed on us,” he announces, “fucking flake.”

“Maybe we should have you sober up, then,” someone else, likely Shoko, calls out from across the room.

The change in his demeanor is instant.

“Ah, we’ll make it back in one piece, won’t we?” Gojo’s glance darts sideways, playful lilt betraying the ice he has for eyes.

The room hushes, waiting for an answer, and you sit up straight when you realize who he’s asking. You quirk an eyebrow, amused. With his cheeks already flushed, what seems to be a pointed gaze unfocused and glassy, you can’t help but beg to differ. You know the answer he wants to hear with every bone in your body. But every fiber in your being knows the truth.

“Bullshit.”

The entire room erupts and it’s decided, against his will, that you’ll be spending the night.

Everything falls apart from there.

Shoko shows you to a guest room once the others begin to clear out, dark circles carved out by cool white fluorescents that cast shadows behind her puffy eye bags.

“Sorry it’s so small,” she says, gesturing at the lone mattress, creeping moonlight like a spotlight on its linen-lined surface.

“It’s everything we could ask for,” you say as Gojo falls into bed, sprawling out against the twin sized sheets. “Thanks for letting us crash.” She shoots him a tight lipped smile before placing a deft hand on your shoulder, brown locks cascading as she leans into your ear.

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?” 

The night is long and never-ending. 

Teeny tiny bits of skylight taunt you from above as Gojo proceeds to keep you awake well past twilight. He’s tossing and turning in the guest bed, kicking the blanket off the both of you with spiteful purpose, inviting in the cool night breeze. It nips you from your face to your toes, colder still even as he tightens his hold on you, and you decide to finally break the silence.

“You still mad about that one thing I said?”

He scoffs, huff of breath like a shot to your neck.

“You seriously have to ask?”

You tense up immediately, spine straightening flat against his chest as he continues, edge to his voice swelling as it looms behind you. “Honestly, who do you think you think you are? Always acting like you’re better than me.” Razor thin needles lodge themselves into your scalp as he pulls your hair back, your chin meeting chilled air as you offer up a whimper. 

“It’s not like that.” 

He only tightens his grip on your hair, pulling it back harder still.

“Think I need to remind you of your fucking place,” he mumbles as he presses into you, something stiff rocking against the fat of your thighs.

“Not here,” you breathe, eyes widening as you realize his intent, the alcohol in your system seeming to swirl in your head. He staggers his hips in response.

“Wasn’t a problem in the car.” 

“Satoru, they might hear us,” you say, the steel in your voice cracking as his free arm snakes around your side, searching for the hem of your pants. “Mercy,” you try again, the familiar, agreed upon safe word sounding foreign and unfamiliar when it comes out but a croak. It hurtles from the shelter of your lips, forever lost as the strain in his pants only grows, breath going ragged as he ruts into your hips.

“Just let me have this.”

And he revels in the way in which he easily overpowers you, enamored in how his towering frame nearly swallows you whole. When a particularly loud groan—one you’re sure anyone in a neighboring room can overhear—escapes his lips, you blister with shame, burying your face in the pillow, limbs aching for need of sleep.

And then his breath hitches as he chases after fireworks and explosions, captivated by the way that you squirm in vain. His palms claim your hips as his own, cockhead grinding behind you, servicing himself with feverish concentration. He presses your side into the mattress, ass cheeks squeezing together like a homemade fleshlight, and you arch your back in a sorry attempt at evasion. 

He groans in response, knees buckling together as he brushes up against the makeshift curve, and you stop struggling altogether. Your body buzzes from the touch, head swelling like a balloon, skin crawling from the jerky movements as you go limp as a ragdoll.

“God, you’re so good to me,” he says, praise anything but endearing when it hits your ears. It’s the same kind of acclaim he gave up just the night before, but it cheapens as he repeats it, banal phrase playing over and over in your head. He’s still humping your butt when he cums, shaky and delirious as he rides out the high, profanities rolling off his tongue until he’s shuddering himself to sleep. All is still once he’s blacked out from the stimulation, pitter patter of salted frustration the only movement left over as it soaks the pillowcase through and through.

You lay awake, caged by his toned muscle, trapped by his carbon curses, praying for sleep until the birds begin to chirp. They sing a song that they borrowed from the night, a harrowing lullaby that has you in a panic, slipping out of his grasp as you crawl out of bed. 

By the crack of dawn you’ve tiptoed into a cab, belongings clutched tight to your chest, apartment complex shrinking in the distance, but it never seems to get further away.

Geto hasn’t breathed a word about the voice recorder.

Geto doesn’t want to think about it all.

He’s paying for it now with a barrage of daily phone calls from none other than Gojo himself, who dials him day and night and morning, no regard for moderation. Geto regards the fallout as both of their instant karma, still miffed by the prank he’d just fallen for, but unwilling to reveal his folly. He fills the role of trusty confidant nonetheless, his betrayal as M.I.A driver long forgotten. It’s a spectacle, the frenzy Gojo is bound in, and he might as well watch from a front row seat.

But he hasn’t made a full recovery yet, forever irked at the pretty privilege Gojo takes for granted, the privilege he downright hoards for himself, barking into the speaker when he feels his blood begin to boil.

“Seriously, what did you do this time?” He wants to tear his hair out at Gojo’s stupidity, his utter lack of tact, wants to pull out his front teeth and pulverize the dental tissue into a fine powder when he’s met with momentary silence. 

It’s been a few days since you left the guest bedroom alone in the wee hours of morning, and Gojo hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since. You haven’t been answering his texts, his calls, Christ, he even tried your personal email, and now Geto finds himself shouldering the brunt of his correspondence, trying everything in his power to get him to calm the fuck down, albeit fruitlessly.

“Nothing we haven’t done before,” Gojo insists once he’s found his choice of words, spitting them out one by one, raking stiff fingers through colorless locks. “I got a little handsy, but it was seriously nothing.” Geto shakes his head and rubs his temples; nothing isn’t enough to make you walk out on him. 

“If you’re telling the truth, then stop worrying already.” A stray section of his bangs fall forward, sweeping over his eye as he slumps over in his chair. “But if you’re lying—” he starts, cut off by the sound of chaste knocks, an unassuming 1-2-3 kissing up at his door before he can finish. 

Saved by the mystery visitor.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d sigh relief, eager to break away from the droning and moaning of the spoiled brat on the other line. Instead he gives pause, as if weighing the cost of answering the door against the merit of staying put on the phone, moment’s hesitation only giving way to a guaranteed getaway.

“Hold on, I need to get this,” is all Geto says as he hangs up the phone, equal parts appreciative and skeptical of the person at his door. He isn’t exactly friendly with anyone on his floor, and few would show up here without asking first, so he peers through the peephole, curiosity getting the better of him.

And lo and behold, speak of the devil, it’s Gojo’s missing girlfriend, standing alone with her hands twisted together.

Amazing. You’re quite literally the very last person he wanted to see right now.

“Do you have any idea how worried he is?” Geto snaps when he answers the door. You have no idea what kind of mess he has on his hands. “Go and make up with your boyfriend already.” He moves to close the door but you react quickly, wedging yourself before the doorframe, eyes wide and pleading.

“I’m in trouble, so please...” You scramble for something half believable. “I can’t turn to anyone else.” He laughs in your face, eyebrows quirked with mirth at how genuine it almost sounds.

Almost.

“Don’t give me that.”

“No, I mean it,” you press on, unwilling to admit that anyone else who’d listen to your cries for help, from trusted family to doe-eyed friends, would undoubtedly have you in a beeline for the authorities. “You—you’re the only other person who can put up with Gojo.”

That gets him stopping in his tracks.

“Barely,” he scoffs, but the pressure on the door lets up. He hates that you have a point there. Hates that he can’t look away from Gojo and his silly antics and his daring ploys and especially hates that he has that in common with you. He wants to turn you away but you look so hopeful, ignoring the dulling pain of the door trying to crush your foot flat.

He bites the bullet.

“You know he’ll be pissed if he finds out you came to me first, right?” You screw your lips together when he cracks the door slightly.

“Well, he doesn’t really have the right at the moment,” you sniff, barging in when he lets go of the door completely.

The room is impossibly smaller than you ever imagined, in direct contrast to all the empty space in Gojo’s rental. It’s a wonder how all his necessities fit in the cramped shelves and tiny drawers, and you almost marvel at the scale of it until the sound of wood on vinyl tiling snaps you back to focus. A few stray articles of clothing are plucked from the ground and chucked to the corner before he’s pulling two chairs up, one for you and one for him. Once he’s sitting, you have his full, unadulterated attention.

Not that you know what to do with it.

It takes a while to find your voice, fiddling with your fingers as you try, unsuccessfully, to hold his gaze. There’s no clock but you swear you can hear the second hand ticking. The curtain’s closed but you’re sure you can feel the heat of the sun disappearing. You’re certain that it ebbs below the curve of the horizon as you watch, timidly, the tap of Geto’s wooden sandal. It remind you of the clack of Gojo’s dress boots, impatience slowly exceeding its carefully drawn bounds.

You time out a moment of silence.

And then another.

And then another, until Geto is staring you down expectantly, pinpricks for eyes. You take the hint.

“I said it.” You look down, fidgeting with your shirt. “I said no.”

His eyes soften immediately, struck by the raw edge of your voice, your inability to look him in the eye.

“And he didn’t respect that?”

“He touched me. When I asked him to stop.” The words have to force themselves out your throat, the little bit of courage you have all that keeps the walls from collapsing in completely. You take as deep of a breath as you can manage when the memory flickers through your mind, clear as yesterday. “He—he fucked me through his clothes.” Your head’s buried in your hands as you fold into yourself completely, rocking in place, and something rages inside of Geto.

“Wait, what?” Geto looks at you incredulously, disbelief scrawled all over his face, eyes narrowing when you keep your head down. “Through his clothes?”

You nod slowly, knowingly, and he feels as though the world is spinning all over again. The ground seems to shift beneath him as your face contorts in pain, saltwater already beading up along your lower lashes. That’s it? That’s what this entire circus is on about? He cards his hands through his hair as he tries to process it, shaking his head when you fail to respond. That’s all it takes for your whole body to quake, hard lumps bubbling up your throat at the bite of his words, breath stuttering irregularly as your windpipe starts to clench up. 

And then you’re crying, body wracked with hiccups as you try to quell the chills crawling up your skin. Your chest heaves in a sorry attempt to keep up with the lurch of your lungs, sputtering as you try to suppress your voice.

“God, you’re all so fucking annoying.”

He watches you bubble over, feeling his own emotions swell as they hit a critical mass, stomach churning at the sight. You couldn’t manage a comeback if you wanted to, a blubbering mess as you try to wipe your eyes dry. The small bit of composure that’s kept him whole these past few days finally snaps when the tears trail down your hands, no end in sight in the onslaught of waterworks.

“I bet you wanted it,” he continues, unfazed by the fattening tears, fingertips digging into his thighs as he spots the yellowed bruises he jacks off to at night. He leers at the fading brown and imagines them overlaid with fresh, new marks, gleaming blush and fiery crimson. “I bet sluts like you don’t care what happens as long as they get dicked down in the end.” A quiet sob tumbles out of you and your cheeks tingle with hurt, like you’ve been backhanded once, then twice.

“It’s n-not like that,” you finally manage to say, gasping through choked noises as he creeps closer, cloaking you in shadow. He stares vacantly from his vantage point, as if looking at an ant on the tiles.

“Then why don’t you walk away for real?” 

And that’s exactly what you should be doing right now, cornered by a large man in his dark, dingy room, but by the time you think to stand up he’s grabbing you by the wrists. He sends you barreling into the desk, spinning you around so your hands clutch the edge, chest pressing up against the surface. He pins an arm behind you with ease, kicking your legs wide open, and you flail the other in no particular direction.

“You secretly enjoy all of it, don’t you? You secretly get off on the idea of being raped by your boyfriend.” He sneers as you buckle underneath him, grazing his growing erection. “All worked up over a little dry humping? Get over yourself already. You females want to be hurt so bad.”

“Fuck you,” you manage between muffled sobs, chest feeling as if it’s about to break in half. “You’re j-just like Gojo.”

“Just like Gojo?” Geto echoes, free hand coming to snake between your thighs, voice catching as he speaks. “You’re sorely mistaken.”

You fall limp as he draws a single finger under your panties, tracing your hipbone as he muses. He imagines their contents, imagines how easy it would be to take you by force, sighing aloud at the prospect of doing it without.

“I can never be him.”