☆ ♡

Pea and I also post individually, if you want to check that out!

Val’s Tumblr: @glitterforashes

Pea’s Tumblr: @peachringpunk

can’t wait to see you! <3

ꫝꫀꪶρ ꪑꫀ ρꪶꫀꪖᦓꫀ

I’m not gonna lie, I think I’m having the worst creative block ever right now 😭 I’ve been wanting to change up the way I write and make my stories feel more alive and memorable, but my brain is lowkey fighting me every step of the way.

So I need help from all the fandoms I’m in if you have any fanfic ideas, prompts, characters, ships, reader inserts, tropes, literally anything you want to see me write, send them to my inbox.

I’m trying to post at least 10 new stories before August just to test different styles and ideas, so if there’s something you’ve been wanting to read from me, this is the time to say it 👀

Update ;)

If can write whatever as long as it’s something that not in my don’t. I mostly focus on x fem reader but!! I do write for other genders and stuff

So anything is possible

Character x character

Character x fem

Character x male

Character x reader (non gender)

Last thing it doesn’t have to be smut if their something soul crushing you want to reader or fluffy marshmallow you want to see send it in

𝔈𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔩𝔢𝔡

Asking your boyfriend if he’ll pull your hair

Ch: Sanji, Zoro, Law, Ace, Sabo

Word count: 6.3

Warning: Hair pulling, spitting, face fucking, office sex, riding, missionary, fem rev, male rev, fingering, spanking, angry sex, kitchen sex, p in v, nipple play, drunk sex, rough Zoro, mean Sabo, raw, teasing, jealousy.

An: I finally posted this. It's not really my favorite, but I hope you like it. @blushinglemon

Sanji

You have to beg this man to pull your hair, like, actually, on hand and knees, because he just doesn’t want to hurt a hair on his love's head.

You can only get him to do it if you do what he likes.

That thing is putting his two favorite things together: you and food.

So just be prepared to feel sticky after it’s all said and done. All I'm saying

Safe to say you’ll both be happy by the end of the day.

The kitchen was a symphony of sizzling pans and Sanji’s quiet, focused humming. You watched him from the doorway, noting the sharp line of his shoulders and the precise flick of his wrist as he seasoned a pan-seared scallop. The air was thick with garlic, white wine, and the promise of a meal that would make you weep. But you weren’t here for the food. Not tonight.

You’d been dancing around the issue for weeks. The lingering touches when he handed you a plate, the way his blue eyes darkened when your laugh echoed in the galley. The man was a fortress of chivalry, a knight in a crisp black suit who would sooner throw himself into the sea than risk making you feel like anything less than a lady. It was maddening. You didn't want a pedestal. You wanted the man beneath the suit, the one with the calloused hands and the hungry gaze he thought he hid so well.

You took a breath, the scent of him—tobacco, sea salt, and sage—cutting through the gourmet aromas. You walked to the central island, the marble cool under your palms. He hadn’t looked up, his concentration absolute.

“Sanji.”

“Hmm? Dinner in ten, my darling. The beurre blanc needs just a moment more to reduce.” His voice was a smooth, distracted melody.

“I’m not hungry for dinner.”

That got his attention. He glanced over, a charming, puzzled smile on his lips. “Nonsense. Everyone is hungry for my cooking.”

You leaned forward, letting the neckline of your shirt gape just enough. You saw his eyes flicker down for a millisecond before snapping back to your face, a faint blush on his cheeks. “I’m hungry for you.”

The spatula in his hand stilled. The smile vanished, replaced by a tense, guarded expression. “Don’t say things like that. It’s not… proper.” He turned back to the stove, but his movements were stiff now. “You deserve romance, candlelight, and courtship. Not… this.” He gestured vaguely at the steamy, chaotic kitchen.

“I deserve what I want,” you said, your voice dropping low. You came around the island, standing close enough to feel the heat from the burners. “And I want you. I want you to stop treating me like I’ll break.”

“Because you might,” he said, the words torn from him. He finally looked at you, and the raw want in his eyes stole your breath. It was there, a wild, barely contained thing, warring with a lifetime of conditioning. “The thought of being rough, of losing control… I couldn’t bear it if I hurt you. Not a hair on your head.”

You knew then. Pleading wouldn’t work. Logic wouldn’t work. There was only one key to this particular lock. You’d seen the way he looked at you sometimes when you ate, a strange, potent mix of culinary pride and something far more primal.

You reached past him, not for him, but for the small bowl of fresh, plump strawberries he’d been hulling for dessert. Your fingers closed around one, its ripe red surface glistening under the kitchen lights. You held his gaze, your lips parting as you slowly brought the strawberry to your mouth. The first bite was deliberate, the juice bursting on your tongue with a sweetness that made your eyes flutter closed for a moment. A tiny drop escaped, tracing a slow, tantalizing path down your chin.

Sanji’s breath hitched, his hands tightening around the edge of the counter. You could see the battle in his eyes—the need to stay composed, to resist, warring with the hunger you were stoking. You took another bite, letting the fruit linger on your lips, the juice glistening like a temptation he couldn’t ignore.

Then, with a suddenness that made your pulse leap, his hand shot out. His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping firmly but not painfully, pulling your head back just enough to force your gaze to meet his. His breathing was ragged, his blue eyes dark with a heat you’d never seen him fully unleash before.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he growled, his voice low and rough.

You smirked, licking the juice from your lips, and then you let the half-eaten strawberry slip from your fingers onto the counter. “I know,” you murmured, your voice a sultry challenge. “Are you going to stop me?”

For a moment, it seemed like he might. His grip loosened slightly, his internal struggle clear on his face. But then, with a growl of surrender, his fingers tightened again, pulling your head back further, exposing your neck. His other hand came up, brushing away the stray drop of juice from your chin with his thumb before he leaned in, his breath hot against your skin.

“No,” he whispered, his voice a mix of warning and promise. “But you’re going to regret pushing me, love.”

And in that moment, you knew you’d finally broken through.

Sanji froze. His entire world narrowed to that droplet.

You let the strawberry fall from your fingers onto the counter. You leaned in, your lips a breath from his ear. “Taste it,” you whispered, your voice husky. “Come on, cook. Don’t let it go to waste.”

A shudder racked his frame. His hands, which had been gripping the counter’s edge, knuckles white, lifted. One cupped your jaw, his thumb, rough from knifework, swiping through the juice on your chin. He brought his thumb to his mouth, his eyes locked on yours, and sucked it clean. The sound was obscene in the quiet kitchen.

That was the switch. The last thread of his restraint snapped with an almost audible twang.

His mouth crashed onto yours, not with the gentle reverence you were used to, but with a desperate, starving hunger. It was all heat and demand, his tongue claiming yours, tasting the strawberry, tasting you. The spatula clattered into the sink, forgotten. He lifted you onto the cool marble of the island, pushing bowls and utensils aside with a reckless sweep of his arm. The world was steam, spice, and Sanji.

His kisses trailed down your neck, hot and open-mouthed, as his hands worked frantically at your clothes. “You play a dangerous game,” he growled against your skin, his breath scorching.

“I know,” you gasped, arching into him as his fingers found your breast, his thumb circling a taut nipple through the fabric. “Now play with me.”

He made a sound like a wounded animal, all frustration and unleashed desire. He yanked your pants down your hips, the air cool on your suddenly exposed skin. He knelt before you, there on the kitchen floor, but the act wasn’t worship. It was devouring. He pushed your thighs apart, his gaze blazing as he took in the sight of you, wet and ready just for him.

“Mine,” he breathed, the word more possession than endearment, and then his mouth was on you.

You cried out, your head falling back. His tongue was an artist’s tool, used now for pure, sinful pleasure. He licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, then circled the aching bud with an utterly maddening precision. He alternated between broad, flat strokes and sharp, focused flicks, his hands gripping your hips to hold you still as you writhed against his mouth. Every nerve ending was on fire, the pleasure coiling tight and deep in your belly.

“Sanji… please…”

He understood. He rose, fumbling with his pants, his eyes never leaving yours. He was beautifully, fully hard. He lined himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging against your soaked folds. He paused there, trembling, a final war in his eyes.

You reached down, wrapping your hand around him, guiding him to you. You looked up at him, your eyes pleading, your body begging. “Now. Don’t make me beg anymore.”

With a ragged groan, he surrendered. He pushed into you, one slow, exquisite inch at a time, filling you completely, stretching you in the most perfect way. The feeling was overwhelming—the fullness, the heat, the rightness of it. He stayed buried to the base for a heartbeat, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting.

Then he moved.

It was nothing like you’d imagined. It was better. Hard, deep thrusts that drove the air from your lungs, each one punctuated by the slap of skin and his guttural curses against your skin. He hit a spot deep inside that made you see stars again and again. The kitchen around you blurred—the simmering pots, the forgotten food; it all faded into a haze of sensations. Your nails dug into the shoulders of his suit jacket as he pounded into you, the marble counter solid and unyielding beneath you.

“Is this,” he grunted, his rhythm becoming frantic, “what you wanted? This… mess?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, the coil inside you winding impossibly tight. “More.”

He slammed into you, one final, brutal thrust, and you shattered. Pleasure erupted through you in blinding waves, your body clamping around him, milking him as your cries echoed off the copper pans. With a shout that was half your name, half a sob, he followed you over, his own cum pulsing deep inside you, hot and endless.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and a pot bubbling over somewhere on the stove. He was still inside you, slumped against you, his face buried in your neck. You were both a sticky, sweaty, glorious mess. He finally lifted his head, his expression one of dazed awe and a hint of horror.

“Oh, god,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “The… the beurre blanc is ruined.”

You let out a breathless, giddy laugh, your fingers tracing the shell of his ear. “Worth it.”

He looked at you, at the wreckage of the kitchen, at the two of you joined together amidst his culinary domain. A slow, real smile, one you’d never seen before—unburdened, possessive, and sated—spread across his face.

Zoro

You don’t even have to ask him; he just does it without second thought.

He curls his finger deep into your hair and pulls it, causing you to lean back into him.

He's rough about it just like he is with most things, and don't try to complain about it; he’ll just pull tightly and say, “You asked for it."

He loves to do it while he's fucking your face; just something about the way you try to catch your breath when he pulls on your hair gets him every time.

He also loves the afterglow you have on your face, makeup all smeared and your hair all messed up like you just walked through a storm; your look alone makes him want to go for a round two.

The tension had been building for weeks, a slow, simmering pot about to boil over. You’d been so busy with Sanji, planning that surprise party for Zoro’s birthday, that you’d missed the signs. The way Zoro’s usual grunts of acknowledgment had turned to silence, the way he’d stop his katana drills to watch you walk away from the kitchen, his jaw tight. You thought you were being clever. He thought you were being his.

It all shattered when he stormed into the galley. You were laughing, wiping flour from your cheek as Sanji twirled, a plate of delicate appetizers in his hand. “For you, my darling, only the finest—” The cook’s words died as the door slammed open.

Zoro didn’t speak. His eyes, dark and sharp as his blades, locked onto you. In three strides, he was across the room, his hand closing around your bicep with a grip that brooked no argument. He dragged you from the stool.

“Zoro, wait, I can explai—”

“I don’t want to hear another thing about that shitty cook.”

His voice was a low, vibrating rumble that cut through any protest. He hauled you through the ship, past a wide-eyed Usopp, and into the men’s quarters, kicking the door shut behind you. The dim room smelled of him—of steel, salt, and clean sweat. He released your arm only to push you backward until your knees hit the edge of his bunk.

He stood before you, a monument of frustrated muscle, and began stripping his haramaki and pants with brutal efficiency. There was no ceremony, no slow seduction. This was a claim. His cock, already thick and half-hard, sprang free, and the sight of it, of his intent, sent a heat pulsing straight to your cunt. You knew this dance. You knew his moods.

You didn’t wait for a command. Your hands, trembling slightly, not from fear but from a desperate kind of anticipation, reached for him. You wrapped your fingers around his base, feeling the hot, velvety skin over the iron-hard core. You leaned forward, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his cock, from base to tip. A deep, guttural groan tore from his chest, and the sound was better than any praise.

Emboldened, you took the swollen head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the crown, tasting the first salty hint of him. You teased the slit, loving the way his abdominal muscles jumped.

“Stop teasing.”

The words were a growled warning. A heartbeat later, he took control. His hands clamped on the sides of your head, and he thrust forward, sheathing his entire cock down your throat in one smooth, punishing stroke. You gagged, tears springing to your eyes as your body convulsed around the sudden, overwhelming intrusion. He didn’t pause. He didn’t care. He set a ruthless, driving rhythm, fucking your face with the same focused intensity he used to split boulders.

You braced your hands on his powerful thighs, the muscles there flexing with every thrust. The world narrowed to this: the slap of his hips against your face, the salty-bitter taste of him, the strain in your jaw, the desperate need for air. You pushed back weakly, a primal instinct for breath, but he was ready.

His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back sharply and arching your throat. The sudden sting was electric, a bright pain that melted into a deep, submissive thrill. He held you there, immobile, his cock still buried deep.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he rasped, his breath coming in harsh pants. His hips gave a shallow, possessive grind. “You’ve been running from me all day. So you’re going to sit there and take my cock like a good girl. Got it?”

You blinked up at him, tears blurring his fierce, satisfied expression. He took it as assent.

“Good. That’s what I like to see.”

He released your hair, but only to guide you back to him, resuming his pace. This time, the rhythm was different. It was still dominant, still rough, but it was for you. He watched you, his eye dark with a feral hunger, mesmerized by the messy, desperate picture you made. Each time he pulled back, you gasped, dragging in ragged breaths, your lips swollen and slick. Each time he plunged back in, you swallowed around him, a tight, wet suction that pulled another ragged groan from him.

His fist returned to your hair, not just holding it now but using it. He’d pull back, stretching you taut, then push you down, controlling the depth and speed. The slight burn on your scalp synced with the fullness in your mouth, creating a feedback loop of sensation that had you wet and aching between your legs. You could feel him thickening, the rhythm becoming more erratic, more urgent.

He was close. You could taste it, feeling the tension coiling in the base of your spine. With a final, brutal yank on your hair that tilted your face up to his, he drove himself balls deep and held. A hot, pulsing flood erupted down your throat. You swallowed convulsively, taking every drop as he shuddered through his release, his groans echoing in the quiet room.

When he finally slid out, you collapsed forward, hands on the floor, coughing, dragging in sweet, clear air. Your makeup was smeared, your hair a wild, tangled mess from his hands. You felt thoroughly used, utterly wrecked.

Zoro looked down at you, his chest heaving. His gaze traveled over your flushed face, your glazed eyes, and your bruised, parted lips. The aftermath. The storm he’d put you through. A low, appreciative rumble sounded in his chest.

“Look at you,” he muttered, his voice gravelly with spent passion. His thumb, surprisingly gentle, swiped at a streak of mascara under your eye. The contrast to his earlier roughness made you shiver. The possessiveness in his gaze didn’t fade; it transformed, heating anew. He was still hard, or hard again, his cock resting heavily against your cheek.

He curled his fingers back into the mess of your hair, not pulling yet, just owning the grip. “All messed up. Just for me.” He leaned down, his breath hot on your ear. “Think you can handle round two?”

Law

He gives you a long, judgmental look, almost like you've grown two heads.

After a while of you asking, he’ll finally ask, "Why?" When you tell him that you just think it would be hot and that some of your other friends talked about it, he just shrugs and says, “Fine.”

It took him a while to see the appeal, but after pulling your hair a couple of times and seeing the flustered look on your face, he couldn’t help but want to do it all the time.

Now, sometimes he just pulls your hair to make you stop running around, knowing exactly what it does to you, especially when he's drunk.

Music thumped through the hull, a frantic heartbeat echoing the laughter and shouts from above. The air in the shared cabin was still and cool, a stark contrast to the sweaty, rum-soaked chaos of the deck party. You were still buzzing with it, the ghost of Usopp’s tall tales and the silly, breathless races with Chopper and Luffy dancing in your veins. You hadn’t even heard him calling your name. Not the first time, nor the second.

It was on your fourth triumphant lap, skirt fluttering, that you felt it—a firm, inexorable tug at the very end of your ponytail, snapping your head back just enough to steal your momentum.

You whirled, a giggle dying on your lips.

Trafalgar Law stood there, his expression an impenetrable mask of patience worn thin. The fingers of one hand were still loosely wrapped in your hair, a silent claim. The yellow of his gaze, usually so analytical, held a dark, simmering heat that had nothing to do with the party.

“Come on,” he said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the distant music. “You’ve had your fun.”

You wheezed out a protest, but it was pointless. He didn’t listen. His grip tightened, not painfully, but with absolute certainty, and he turned, leading you—no, towing you—by your hair toward the cabin door. It was a dominant, possessive gesture that sent a jolt straight to your core, melting the playful energy into something liquid and warm.

Once inside the familiar space, your bravado returned. As he released you to shut the door, you darted for it, a giddy laugh escaping as you stuck your tongue out at him. Freedom was two steps away.

You didn’t make it.

His hand fisted in your hair again, a sharper, more deliberate pull that stopped you dead. He yanked you backward, your spine meeting the solid wall of his chest with a soft "oof." His other arm banded around your waist, locking you in place. You could feel the hard length of his cock already pressing against your lower back, a promise and a threat.

Then his fingers were tilting your head back, his mouth capturing yours in a deep, consuming kiss.

It was all command and hunger. His tongue swept past your lips, neither asking nor taking. You met him with equal fervor, a fight for dominance that you knew, with thrilling certainty, you would lose. Your tongues tangled in a wet, heated dance that tasted of spice and the faint, medicinal hint that was uniquely him. Your hands came up, clawing at the front of his shirt and clinging for balance as the world narrowed to the slick heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, and the possessive groan that vibrated from his throat into yours.

When he finally broke the kiss, a thin, glistening string of saliva connected your lips for a heartbeat before snapping. You stared up at him, your breath coming in short pants. His eyes were half-lidded, the gold nearly swallowed by black, focused solely on you.

“Go lie on the bed,” he instructed, his voice gravelly with want. “Pants off. Legs spread.”

A shiver, delicious and deep, wracked you. You didn’t hesitate. You never did, not with him. Not when he used that tone.

You turned, your fingers fumbling with the tie of your skirt as you walked the few steps to the bed. You let it fall, then hooked your thumbs into your panties, drawing them down your legs. You left a trail of clothing, a breadcrumb path of surrender, before climbing onto the cool sheets. On your back, you let your knees fall open, presenting yourself to him completely, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Law watched, a slow, approving smirk touching his lips as he removed his shirt, the intricate tattoos stretching over his muscles. He approached not like a lover but like a conqueror surveying his prize.

He knelt at the edge of the bed, his hands firm as they hooked behind your ankles. In one smooth, powerful motion, he dragged you to the very edge, your ass barely on the mattress. He pushed your thighs wider, then settled his shoulders between them, his large hands spreading you open further for his inspection, for his pleasure.

The first touch of his tongue was a flat, broad stroke from your entrance all the way up to your clit.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed. Oh god.

He hummed against you, the vibration making you twitch and gasp. He did it again, slower this time, lapping up the wetness that had already gathered, tasting you with a focused intensity. His tongue was clever and relentless. It circled your entrance, dipping inside just barely, teasing, before swirling up to pay devastating attention to your clit.

Flick, circle, suck. He varied the pressure and the rhythm, keeping you teetering on a knife’s edge. He’d flatten his tongue and rub broad, maddening circles, then point it and tap at the swollen bud with rapid, precise flicks that made your toes curl and your hips jerk.

“You taste,” he murmured, his breath hot against your soaked skin, before he licked another long, slow stripe, “so fucking sweet.”

The praise, growled against your most intimate flesh, unraveled you further. You were a writhing, pleading mess, your hands fisting in the sheets, then tangling in his dark hair. You didn’t pull, just held on as he feasted.

He slid one hand up your inner thigh, his thumb finding your clit as his mouth moved lower. His tongue speared into you, deeper this time, a rough, fucking motion that made you see stars. He fucked you with his tongue, his thumb maintaining that perfect, circling pressure, and you could feel the coil in your belly tightening, tightening.

Just as you were about to shatter, he pulled back. You whimpered at the loss, a sound of pure need.

Law looked up, his chin glistening with your arousal. His eyes were wild and possessive. “Not yet,” he commanded, his voice thick. He leaned in again, but this time he replaced his tongue with two fingers, sliding them into you with ease, crooking them just right. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking it deeply, ruthlessly between his lips as his fingers pumped inside you.

The dual sensation was too much. The coil snapped.

Your orgasm ripped through you, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your body bowed off the bed. Waves of electric pleasure pulsed from your cunt, milking his fingers, as he continued to suck and lick, drawing out every last shuddering ripple until you were limp and trembling.

Slowly, he withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. He rose to his feet, looming over you, his need visibly straining against his trousers.

“Good,” he stated, as if grading your performance. He unfastened his belt, the leather sliding free with a sharp, promising sound. “Now it's my turn."

Ace

He laughs at the idea at first, thinking you're joking.

When he sees you're actually serious about it, though, it's game over.

He's the type to pull your hair while he's fucking you as a missionary.

He will pull your hair so that he can spit in your mouth.

The whiskey was a warm, liquid blur in my veins, a familiar haze that blurred the edges of the cabin and melted the space between us. Ace’s laugh was a low, gravelly rumble next to me, his arm slung over my shoulder, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my bare thigh. Your clothes—a scattered trail of jeans, a t-shirt, and his flannel—were lost somewhere between the door and the couch, casualties of our weekly ritual.

The ritual always ended the same way.

His hand was already there, sliding under the thin cotton of your panties, his palm rough and warm against your skin. You arched into him, a sigh escaping your lips as his thumb found the slick, aching center of you: just a hint, a tease. Your head fell back against his chest.

“You’re so wet already,” he murmured, his voice thick with drink and desire. His other hand came up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple until it hardened into a tight peak against the fabric.

You didn’t answer. You just turned, crushing my mouth against his in a kiss that tasted of whiskey and need. Your hands fumbled with the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down, freeing him. He was already hard, the length of him hot and heavy against your stomach.

Time lost its meaning. Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe it was the sheer, grinding feel of him. He shifted you, pulling you onto his lap, your back to his chest. One strong arm wrapped around your waist, holding you steady. The other hand stayed between your legs, his fingers playing over your clit in a dizzying, inconsistent rhythm—soft circles, then a sharp, fleeting press—that made your hips jerk and your breath catch in ragged gasps.

Then he entered you.

Slow. So damn slow. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, a tantalizing pressure, before he finally pushed in. A full, deep stretch that made your eyes roll back. Oh god. He filled you completely, a perfect, burning fit. He began to move, a steady, relentless pump that ground into your very core. His fingers kept working your clit, the dual sensations coiling a tight, desperate spring low in your belly.

Your mouth found his chest. You leaned forward, taking one of his nipples into your mouth. You licked it, then rubbed your teeth against the sensitive nub. He groaned, a sharp, gratifying sound, and his thrusts became harder, faster.

“You feel so fucking good, babe,” he mumbled into your skin, his breath hot on your shoulder.

You only moaned into him, the sound vibrating against his chest. Your nails dug into the muscles of his back, seeking purchase, scratching shallow trails across his skin as he drove into you. The pleasure built, a rising tide threatening to pull you under. His hand on your stomach pushed down, firm pressure, making you feel every inch of his penetration, how deep he was fucking you, and how he owned the space inside you.

I’m close. So close.

The warmth bloomed first—a sudden, liquid heat spreading through your hair, a wetness trickling down your scalp. Then the tug. A firm, possessive pull on my ponytail that yanked your head back, forcing your eyes open.

You looked up. Ace’s face was above you, flushed, sweat beading on his temple. His grin was lazy, dumb, and utterly triumphant. “Come on,” he breathed, his voice husky. “Open that pretty mouth for me.”

He licked at your bottom lip, a slow, wet stroke. You obeyed, your mouth falling open in a pant.

Right then, you felt it. Something wet and warm slid across your tongue—the taste of him, of you, salty and intimate—until it hit the back of your throat. His spit. He’d pulled your hair to make you watch, to make you taste every bit of him as he fucked you.

“Fuck,” he gasped, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. “I can never get tired of that. You look so good for me.”

His hand left your stomach, cupped my jaw, and pulled you into a kiss. It was rough, playful, and full of tongues and possessions. Exactly like him. Your mouths moved together, messy and hungry, as his cock continued to plunge into you, each thrust jolting through your body and into the kiss.

The coil snapped.

Orgasm tore through you, a white-hot lightning bolt that seared up from your clit and deep from where he filled you. Your body convulsed around him, a series of sharp, uncontrollable clenches. You cried out into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss. He held you tighter, his movements becoming frantic, driving into you, tightening rhythm until he shuddered, a harsh groan breaking from his lips as he spilled into you, his heat joining mine inside.

He finally broke the kiss, panting. His eyes, dark and satisfied, locked onto yours. He brushed your cheek with his thumb. “Ah,” he sighed, a world of affection in that single sound. “I love my dirty girl.”

Sabo

He's super polite about it, but is perplexed about what made you want to do this.

He'd ask if you’re okay first, maybe even slightly concerned. If you reassure him.

Sabo is sneaky; he looks soft but can be really mean at times. Moments like those are when he loves to pull your hair.

Oversimulation and hair-pulling are his go-tos when you are acting bratty.

The last of the commanders files out, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving only the hum of the overhead light and the heavy scent of ink and spent coffee. You push back your chair, the legs scraping loudly in the sudden quiet, already turning toward the exit. A week of whispered promises broken by urgent summons, of cold sheets, and of a colder spot beside you in the bed. Today, you’d decided, would be different. The slit in your skirt was daringly high, the neckline of your top dipping just so. The slow brush of your foot against his calf under the massive war table was a calculated risk.

His voice stops you cold, not with volume, but with tone. It’s the voice he uses for insubordinate recruits. Dear. Where do you think you’re going?”

You freeze, your hand inches from the doorknob. You glance back. Sabo hasn’t moved from the head of the table, but the easy, diplomatic smile is gone. His face is a placid mask, but his eyes, those sharp blue eyes, are dark with a promise that makes your stomach flip. “Why don’t you go ahead and close that door? Lock it for me as well, dear.”

The order is soft and absolute. A shiver, equal parts fear and electric anticipation, races down your spine. You do as you’re told, the solid thunk of the bolt sliding home sounding impossibly final in the silent room. You lean against the door, waiting, your earlier bravado evaporating.

He doesn’t speak. He simply crooks a finger, gesturing you forward. Each step across the polished floor feels like a mile. When you’re within arm’s reach, his hand snaps out, not harshly, but with undeniable authority, wrapping around your wrist. In one smooth, effortless motion, he stands and guides you, then places you onto the wide, polished surface of the strategy desk. Maps and reports scatter, fluttering to the floor like fallen leaves.

“You thought,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear as he leans over you, caging you in, “you could just waltz in here, dressed like a temptation, and tease me all through that meeting… without being punished?” His free hand smooths over the bare skin of your thigh, exposed by the rucked-up skirt. The touch is deceptively gentle.

You bite your lip, refusing to answer, a last spark of defiance. You want to see the mask crack. You need to.

Thwack.

The sharp, sudden smack to your ass cheek is a shock of pure sensation—a bright, stinging heat that blooms through the thin fabric of your underwear and vibrates deep into your flesh. You gasp, your back arching off the cool wood.

“So now you can’t speak?” he asks, his palm circling the already-warming skin. “You were sure mouthy earlier with those little sighs and shifts in your chair.” His smile returns, but it’s different now—predatory, intimate. “Since you felt the need to be such a tease, you can do all the work today.”

He sinks back into his high-backed chair, rolling it closer to the desk’s edge. His hands go to his belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet room. He frees himself, his cock already fully erect, jutting proudly against his stomach. The sight, after so long, sends a fresh pulse of wetness between your thighs. “Go on,” he says, his words clipped. “Ride it. Show me how needy you really are.”

Hands trembling, you push your damp panties aside, holding his gaze. You position yourself over him, the broad head of his cock nudging against your entrance. You sink down in one slow, excruciatingly delicious slide. The feeling of him stretching you, filling you after the weeks of absence, is so intense it borders on pain, a glorious, full ache that makes your vision blur. A broken moan escapes you as you bottom out, your hips flush against his.

“There,” he breathes, his composure slipping for a second, his head falling back. “Now move.”

You do, setting a punishing pace from the start, bouncing on him with a frantic energy born of frustration and pure, unadulterated lust. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin fills the office. You watch his face, your pleasure magnified by the sight of his controlled facade unraveling—his lips parting, his eyes squeezing shut, a deep groan tearing from his throat as you clench around him. His obvious pleasure eggs you on, and your first orgasm crashes over you quickly, a sharp, convulsing wave that makes you cry out and falter for only a second before you force yourself to keep moving, chasing the next.

By the third, your thighs are screaming in protest, a deep burn setting into the muscles. Your movements become sloppier and slower. A low groan of exhaustion slips out.

Thwack.

Another stinging smack lands on your other cheek, making you jolt. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” Sabo chides, his hands gripping your hips to steady you. His smile is back, wicked and delighted. “Don’t tell me my dear is all worn out. I know you can do more.” He releases you, leaning back to truly watch, as you struggle to continue. You squirm, the overstimulation becoming a sweet agony, feeling like you’re trying to both escape and impale yourself further on his relentless length.

After the fourth shattering climax, you break. Tears of overwhelm prick your eyes. “P-please,” you beg, your voice ragged, your body slumping forward against his broad chest. “Sabo, please… I can’t… you take over. Please.”

“Ah,” he sighs, the sound rich with feigned sympathy. He thrusts upwards once, a shallow, pointed movement that makes you gasp and your inner muscles clutch him tightly. “I don’t know. You were the one being so needy. But now you can’t even handle me?” The slight movement sends another jolt of unbearable pleasure through your oversensitive clit, now swollen and throbbing. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, a hot tear tracing a path down your cheek and onto his skin.

You feel him shift. “Fine,” he whispers into your hair, his arms wrapping around you to hold you close. “I guess I’ll take over. But we’re not stopping until I say so. Got it?” He doesn’t move, waiting. You manage a weak, desperate nod against his shoulder. “Good girl,” he purrs, one hand coming up to swipe the tear from your cheek. His thumb brushes your lower lip. “That’s what I like to hear.”

𝔐𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰 - 𝔶𝔲𝔧𝔦 ☕︎ྀི

Summary. He’s exhausted from telling you how cute you are and watching you not believe him. So instead, he shows you because actions always speak louder than words.

word count. 4.5k

Warnings. fem! chubby reader, office worker Yuji, pwp, unprotected sex, modern au, he's a little dumb, praise, impact play, fingering, mirror, nipple play, biting, grinding, a little mean, not proofread,

an. This took me a bit, but it was really fun to write for him. This is a modern AU with older Yuji. I hope you enjoy it! @blushinglemon

Yuji was the golden boy of his workplace—charming, handsome, and constantly surrounded by people who wanted his attention. So when a coworker jokingly asked, “Be real, man. Why’d you pick her? You know you’ve got girls everywhere.” Yuji blinked. Then he smiled—wide and easy, the kind that always looked honest.

“Because I love her,” he said.

That was it. No buildup. No joke. Just facts. A few people laughed like he was kidding. Someone else snorted. Yuji only shrugged and went back to eating like he hadn’t said anything wild. But later, he thought about it. And he decided, Okay, maybe they just haven’t met her properly… so I’ll show them. Over the next few weeks, Yuji called you constantly.

“Hey, I forgot my lunch again. I know, I know—I’m dumb. Can you save me?” “Hey, uh, I forgot my notebook. Can you bring it? Also… I wanna see you.” “Are you nearby? Come say hi!” “Baaabe, I swear I left my charger at home. Please.”

Every time you walked into the office, Yuji lit up like a puppy seeing its favorite person. He’d wrap an arm around you, kiss your cheek, and introduce you to everyone like he was showing off a treasure. You thought it was sweet—hell, amazing even—getting to see him every day, all dressed up and in his element.

Until one day, when you stopped in the bathroom to freshen up before heading home. Two women walked in behind you, not realizing you were in a stall.

“She’s cute, but… you know.” “Maybe he makes her bring him stuff so she walks more.” “He could do better.”

You froze, your mind racing. Why was he calling you so often? Could he really just be calling so you’d walk more? Was he suddenly unhappy with your body? Your chest tightened, your eyes burned, and your thoughts spiraled a mile a minute. You left quietly, hands shaking. After that, you stopped bringing him things.

When Yuji asked, you said things like: “I’m at the gym.” “Sorry, I’m trying this new weight-loss smoothie.” “Wish I could, but I’m out on a run. Love you, though.”

Yuji was proud at first—he always supported you—but something felt off. You sounded tired. Quieter. Still, he brushed it aside, frowning at his phone. Oh… okay. Have fun? Don’t overdo it, alright? About a month later, Nobara approached him at work.

“Itadori… you should check on your girlfriend.”

Yuji’s head snapped up. “Why? Is she okay?”

Nobara sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I saw her at the gym. She looked… exhausted. Like she was pushing herself too hard—no breaks, legs shaking. I tried to say something, but she just smiled and laughed it off. I thought maybe you could talk to her. You’re her boyfriend, after all.”

Yuji’s stomach dropped. Did something happen? Did I do something?

He decided to talk to you after the upcoming office dinner—a dinner he insisted you attend so you could see his coworkers in a calmer setting, not rushed and tense like they were at work.

You spent days preparing. You’d lost some weight. You bought a new outfit. When you stepped out of the bedroom, Yuji’s jaw dropped.

“…Whoa,” he murmured, laughing as he rubbed the back of his neck and walked over, hands resting gently on your waist. “You always look good. You know that?”

You turned away, embarrassed. Yuji always said that, but his dumb smile and sweet words still made your face heat up. You reminded him you needed to hurry so you wouldn’t be late.

At dinner, everyone wanted Yuji’s attention. He joked, poured drinks, and cheered too loudly—but under the table, his hand stayed on you. Squeezing your thigh. Tracing lazy circles. Brushing your knuckles when he felt you tense. He didn’t even realize he was doing it. He just liked touching you.

You felt safe whenever he was near… yet unease still lingered. The thought that everyone believed you weren’t good enough for him wouldn’t leave. Eventually, you excused yourself for some air and went to the bathroom, fixing your makeup and trying to make everything look perfect.

On your way out, you heard voices.

“He hasn’t looked at her once all night. Poor girl,” a man scoffed. A woman laughed. “If he wanted someone real, he could have me. I could take him easily.”

Your heart cracked. You’d tried so hard to be perfect—and still, it wasn’t enough.

You walked past them without reacting, returned to the table, and smiled through the rest of dinner. Yuji, tipsy and clingy, leaned into you, but you stayed quiet.

At home, you helped him onto the couch and started making some hangover food. The thoughts wouldn’t stop. Yuji deserves someone like Nobara.

Arms wrapped around you from behind.

“Baaabe,” Yuji slurred happily, “Gojo said if you’re free, you should come to the next office party. Some of the higher-ups want to meet you.” You forced a smile. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. They won’t take you seriously if they see me with you.” He hugged you tighter, tickling your sides. “No way. You’re way too cute and pretty for that.”

But your thoughts twisted into monsters.

You’re clumsy. You’re slow. You’re no match for him. You don’t even know what he likes about you.

“You should date someone better than me!” you shouted.

Yuji froze—then laughed softly, hugging you even tighter. “No way. I love you. And the only way you’re getting rid of me is if I die.” Something about that made your throat close. You turned and pushed him away. “Yuji, I’m serious.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered over and over, staring at the floor. Look what you did. You’re pathetic. Yuji was quiet for a moment. Then, gently, “Do you feel uncomfortable when you’re with me?” You shook your head, still apologizing. “I love you,” he said softly. “No matter how you look. No matter your size. Why can’t you see that?”

He picked you up and carried you toward the bedroom. “Since you don’t believe my words… I’ll show you with my actions.” He kissed you deeply, slow and sure, until you finally pulled back, covering your face.  “I can’t take it anymore,” you cried. “The whispers. The insults. People are saying you’ll leave me—that I’m not good enough. There are better options out there.

You sobbed. “You’re perfect. Everyone loves you. It feels like I’m just dragging you down.” Yuji waited until you finished, then gently pulled your hands away, wiping your tears with his shirt. “Stop listening to other people,” he said quietly. “Focus on how I make you feel.”

He kissed your cheek, steady and warm, letting his shirt fall somewhere behind him.

The argument had been stupid. A silly, petty thing about you doubting yourself again and him finally reaching his limit with your stubborn insecurity. The words had been sharp, leaving cuts that felt like they might never heal. I think we should take a break. You’d said it to hurt him, to push him away before he could see the mess you believed yourself to be. The silence that followed was worse than any yelling.

Now, you’re standing in the dim bedroom, the fight’s echo still vibrating in the air. He’s behind you, his breath warm on the back of your neck. His hands, which moments ago were gesturing in frustration, now settle on your hips. There’s no more talking. The tension has melted, shifting from emotional to something unbearably and undeniably physical.

His fingers find the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t fumble. There’s a deliberate, possessive efficiency to his movements. The soft cotton is pulled up and over your head, discarded without a glance. Your bra clasp gives way under his practiced touch. The cool air kisses your skin, raising goosebumps, but it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating from him. He spins you just enough to face him, his dark eyes drinking you in. “Look at you,” he murmurs, the anger gone, replaced by a raw, hungry awe. “Just look.”

His palms slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. A shiver, deep and involuntary, racks your body. He sees it, a slow smile touching his lips. He pushes your pants and panties down in one smooth motion, and you step out of them, feeling utterly exposed. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans. The rough denim grates against the backs of your thighs as he pulls you flush against him.

You can feel him. All of him. You can feel the hard, unyielding plane of his chest pressing against your back. His arms, with their solid strength, wrapped around you, crossed over your stomach, and held you tight. And, most insistently, the thick, rigid length of his cock, trapped behind his zipper, pressing into the plush curve of your ass.

He begins to move.

A slow, deliberate grind. The denim is a rough, thrilling friction against your sensitive skin. With each backward roll of his hips, you feel him—the formidable outline, the heat, the promise—getting harder, thicker, and more insistent. It’s a claiming. A wordless argument of its own.

“Look,” his voice is a low growl in your ear, his breath hot. “Because of you. Because of this gorgeous body, my cock’s rock hard. It’s fucking aching.” One hand slides up from your stomach to cup your breast, his palm fitting perfectly over the swell. His fingers find your nipple, already peaked and tight from the cool air and his proximity. He toys with it, a gentle pinch, then a slow, circular rub that makes you gasp. “Look. It pokes out the second I touch it. So good. So perfect.” He gives your right nipple a firmer squeeze, not painful, but enough to send a jolt of pure, sharp pleasure straight to your clit. You whimper, your head falling back against his shoulder.

“I love you,” he says, the words simple and devastating amidst the sensual assault. He says it like a fact, like the reason for all of this.

His lips find the ridge of your spine. Soft, open-mouthed kisses trail from your shoulder blade down to the small of your back. Each one is a brand, a point of searing heat. His hand stays on your breast, kneading, possessive. “Spread your legs, love,” he instructs, his voice thick.

You obey, your mind hazy, your body operating on a primal frequency all its own. You widen your stance, and the moment you do, he shifts. The hard ridge of his clothed cock slides down, finding the slick, hot seam of you with unerring accuracy. He presses it there, against your clothed, sensitive folds, and rocks forward.

“Oh, fuck,” you choke out. The friction is maddening, incredible. Through the layers, you can feel your own wetness soaking through, creating a damp, hot patch on his jeans.

“Look at you,” he whispers, his voice full of dark wonder. “Look at how your body reacts. It’s so fucking honest. So cute.” He grinds again, and a broken sound escapes you. You try to form a sentence, to resurrect some shred of the argument, of your dignity. “But… I hate it,” you manage, the protest weak, breathless.

He goes still for a heartbeat. The silence is heavy, charged. Then his lips are on your neck, a quick, firm kiss that feels like a punctuation mark. “I guess I’ll just have to show you.”

In one swift, powerful motion, he bends, hooks an arm under your knees, and lifts you. You’re cradled against his chest for a second before he sits on the foot of the bed, depositing you in his lap. You’re facing the large, ornate mirror across the room. He arranges you with deliberate care: your back to his chest, your legs parted wide over his thighs, your entire naked body on display.

Your reflection stares back, wide-eyed and flushed. You see the sweep of your hair, messy from his hands. You see the red marks his mouth left on your back. You see your breasts, full and tipped with tight peaks. You see your cunt between your legs, glistening visibly even from this distance. And you see him behind you, half-clothed, his expression one of intense, focused ownership.

“Look,” he says, his hands smoothing over your stomach, holding you in place. “You’re leaking. And you said we should break up.” He chuckles, a low, warm sound. “Clearly, your body doesn’t want that. It knows.”

One hand drifts down, through your curls, his fingers sliding through your slickness with an appreciative hum. He doesn’t tease. One long, thick finger sinks into you, deep and slow. Your cunt clutches at him instantly, a silken, wet fist.

“Good girl,” he groans. “You’re soaking my fucking finger. Do you want my cock that much? Hmm?” He begins to move it, a slow in-and-out that has your hips trying to follow. Then he curls it, rubbing the pad firmly against that spongy, electric spot inside you.

Your back arches. A sharp, punched-out moan tears from your throat. Your inner muscles clamp down on his finger violently.

“Fuck, love. You love when I play with you right here, don’t you?” His voice is ragged with his own need. “Every time. Every single time I touch you here, you tighten up so sweetly. Like you’re begging for it.” He picks up the pace, his finger pistoning in and out, that curl on every inward stroke relentless. He gives you no chance to adjust, to breathe. The pleasure is a tight coil in your belly, winding hotter and tighter with every pass.

“Can I add another?” he asks, his lips trailing those soft, distracting kisses down the column of your neck, along your cheek. It’s a courtesy, but the hunger in his tone makes it a demand. You can only moan, a high, tearful sound of pure need. It’s answer enough.

A second finger presses alongside the first. There’s a delicious, stretching burn, then it slides in, quicker than the last, welcomed greedily by your slick, clinging heat. He scissors them gently, stretching you wider. “You like my fingers all deep inside you, don’t you? Filling you up?” He’s fucking you with his hand now, a steady, deep rhythm that brushes that perfect spot on every thrust. Your mind is going white, static filling your vision. The knot in your stomach is a live wire. You’re panting, little breaths that do nothing to steady you.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you breathe out, the words barely audible. You’re not even sure what you’re apologizing for anymore. For the fight? For the way your body is betraying your words? For needing him this desperately?

He chuckles again, the vibration rumbling through his chest into your back. “See?” he says, his fingers never slowing. “When I touch your cute body like this, you can just feel how much I love you.” When you don’t respond, lost in sensation, his free hand comes down on your ass in a quick, stinging slap.

The shock of it jolts through you, a bright spark of pain that melts instantly into a deeper, warmer pulse of pleasure. You cry out.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, his voice dangerously soft.

“No,” you whimper, the truth dragged from you. “Please, no.”

He turns your face towards his and captures your mouth in a deep, sloppy, claiming kiss. His tongue invades, tangling with yours, tasting you. You kiss him back desperately, your hands coming up to clutch at his hair. Your mind whites out completely, reduced to the duel of your tongues and the exquisite penetration of his fingers.

He breaks the kiss, both of you breathless. “I bet you’re not satisfied with just my fingers, are you?” He speeds up, his fingers ramming into you, curling and poking relentlessly at that glorious, swollen spot inside. The coil snaps.

“Please!” you sob, the word ripped from your soul. “I want you. Inside. Now.”

He doesn’t give it a moment’s thought. He slowly pulls his fingers out, the drag exquisite and agonizing. He brings them to his lips, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror, and gives them a slow, thorough lick, humming in appreciation. He watches, fascinated, as your empty hole tries to clench around nothing, a flutter of pink, slick muscle. Once he’s had his fill of the sight, he moves.

He lifts you off his lap and lays you down in the center of the bed, face-first into the pillows. The scent of him, of you, of sex, is overwhelming. You hear the rustle of clothing, the jingle of his belt, and the zip of his fly. The anticipation is a physical ache. You try to push back, to thrust your hips into the air, seeking friction, seeking him.

Another light, sharp smack lands on your upturned ass. “Fuck,” he grits out. “I was trying to be gentle. But seeing you like this… I don’t think I can be.”

You feel him kneel behind you, feel the heat of his bare skin, and feel the weight of him as he leans over you. The broad, velvety head of his cock nudges against your entrance, slick with your juices. He pauses, teasing, letting you feel the immense pressure.

Then, in one deep, ruthless thrust, he buries himself to the base.

claimed, and the air leaves your lungs in a shocked gasp. He’s so big, so deep, stretching you so perfectly full. For a second, there is only the overwhelming sensation of being impaled, claimed, and occupied.

“Ah, fuck! You feel amazing,” he groans, his voice strained. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust. He sets a punishing pace immediately, fucking into you like a man possessed, driving all his body weight into the curve of your back with each powerful slam. You swear you can feel the plush, swollen tip of him kissing your cervix with every deep dive.

“You’re… you’re going too deep,” you mumble into the pillow, the words shattered.

“You’re so fucking cute, I can’t help it,” he pants, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. You shake your head in a weak, reflexive denial. The response is another quick, sharp smack to your ass, followed immediately by a thrust so deep and powerful it seems to touch your very clit.

It sends you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashes through you without warning, a detonation of pure, blinding pleasure. Your cunt convulses around him, milking his length in frantic, rhythmic pulses. A ragged scream is muffled by the pillow.

“Did you just cum?” he asks, wonder and triumph in his voice. He never stops moving, his pace becoming even more relentless, spurred on by your climax. “Did you just cum from me thrusting inside you? God, you’re perfect.” His fingers find your swollen, hypersensitive clit. “And when I thrust and play with your clit like this…” He gives the little nub a pinch, then rubs it in tight, dizzying circles. You shriek, the sensation almost too much. “…you moan so loudly. So prettily.”

You shake your head, trying to ignore his words, to retreat from the overwhelming intensity. Another hard smack lands on your now-warm, tingling ass. The pain-pleasure mix is intoxicating.

“So why,” he grunts, slowing to deep, measured, soul-stirring thrusts, “do you keep reducing your confidence like this?” Each word is punctuated by a drive of his hips. “I’m the one who’s filling your insides with my cock. I’m the only one whose opinion of you matters. Got it?” To emphasize his point, his hand comes down on your ass in a rapid, stinging volley—slap, slap, slap—each one syncing with a deep plunge.

“Fuck, are you going to cum again?” he marvels, feeling your inner walls begin to flutter and tighten anew. “Your body is so fucking lewd. So perfect, babe.” He suddenly hooks his hands under your waist and flips you onto your back in one fluid motion. He looms over you, his expression fierce with adoration and lust. He sheathes himself inside you again in the new position, the angle even more profound.

“Look, babe,” he says, his voice softer now. He places a large, warm hand flat on your lower stomach, pressing down. “This is where my cock hits you. Can you feel it? Both inside and out?” You can. You feel the thick intrusion and the pressure of his hand from the outside, as if he’s cradling himself within you. The intimacy of it steals your breath.

“Can you feel how deep I’m going?” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “How hard I’m trying to fill you up? Not just with my cum… with my love.” He lifts one of your legs, placing your calf over his shoulder. The change in angle is devastating; he’s hitting places that make you see stars. “See? If you weren’t made for me, we wouldn’t be feeling this good.” He gives you a quick, sweet kiss. Then his hands grip your waist, and he slams you down onto his cock, driving up into you at the same time. “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be doing this with you.” Another kiss, this time to your temple. “And since I’m the one saying it… you believe me, don’t you?”

He waits, his hips still rolling in slow, deep circles. You’re speechless, lost in the sea of sensation and emotion. When you don’t answer, he smiles, a dark, playful smile. “I guess I’ll just have to ask this cute cunt of yours.” With that, he starts thrusting again, harder than before, his pace becoming frantic, desperate. The slap of skin, the wet, filthy sounds of your joining, the creak of the bed—it’s a symphony of raw need.

Then, he stops. He slowly pulls out, leaving you gaping and empty, a cold ache where he was so hot and full. You whine at the loss.

“Look,” he says, his voice hoarse. He kneels beside you, his cock standing proud and glistening with your shared slickness. It’s thick, veined, and beautifully hard. “It’s like this because of you.” He taps the leaking tip against your cheek, a warm, wet brand. “It gets like this any time I see you. Sometimes I have to stop myself from just pouncing on you.” As he speaks, he begins to stroke himself, his fist moving slowly up and down his cock. At the same time, two of his fingers from his other hand slide back into your wet, hungry cunt. The dual sensation—watching him pleasure himself while being filled—makes you moan loudly, your back bowing off the bed.

“I think you’ve finally learned your lesson now,” he says, his fingers doing a gentle scissoring stretch inside you. Then he pulls them out and, without wasting a second, replaces them with the head of his throbbing cock. He pushes in slowly, inch by exquisite inch, his eyes locked on where you’re joined. “Look how my cock goes deep inside your tight cunt,” he breathes. “Like we were two puzzle pieces made to fit.” He grabs your legs, pushing them back towards your chest, folding you almost in half. The vulnerability is total. The penetration is complete. With a groan, he thrusts in, balls deep.

“Fuck! Look at you take it all. Like the amazing girl you are.” He starts to fuck you in earnest, nice and hard, his cock slamming in and out of your gripping heat, giving you no time to recover, no space to think. “You turn me on so much,” he grunts, leaning down to kiss the inner part of your thigh, a tender gesture amidst the brutal pace. “You can really feel how much I love you. How much your body loves me.” You try to stifle your moans, to hold them back, a last vestige of control. It earns you another stinging slap on the ass. “Don’t hold back,” he commands. “I want to hear your cute moans. I want everyone to know who makes you sound like that.”

He fucks you even harder, his rhythm becoming erratic, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The pressure in your own core is a supernova waiting to happen. “I’ll keep calling you cute while fucking you until you accept it,” he promises. “Now, let me see that cute face.” He leans closer, his forehead against yours, his eyes boring into you. You’re so close. So is he. You can see it in the tension of his jaw and the wild look in his eyes.

With one last, deep, grinding thrust that seems to touch your soul, he stills. A guttural roar tears from his throat as he comes. You feel the hot, liquid pulses deep inside you, painting your inner walls, a claiming so profound it brings tears to your eyes. “Fuck, I’m cumming! Are you? Come on, let’s cum together!”

His words, the feel of his cum, and the overwhelming rightness of it trigger your own. Your second orgasm is different—deeper, warmer, a flood of release that washes through every cell. You clamp down around him, milking every last drop of cum from him as you cry out his name, your body arching sharply off the bed. A milky-white ring of your combined release forms around the base of his cock where he’s still buried inside you.

In the heavy, breathless aftermath, you reach up, your arms weak, and pull him down into a soft, lingering kiss. You break it just enough to whisper against his lips, your voice raw with emotion and exhaustion, “I love you.”

You feel his cock, still semi-hard inside you, give a weak, answering twitch. His face, so fierce moments ago, flushes. He looks almost boyish. “Come on,” he mutters, hiding his face in your neck. “Keep talking like that and you’re begging for another round.”

𝔄𝔩𝔴𝔞𝔶𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤

Summary: What begins as quiet resentment and careful observation slowly twists into obsession. He meant to ruin you, to tear apart the perfect life he envied—but when you’re paired together, plans unravel.

C/w: biting, praise, fem Dom, riding, oral (fem rec), messy, begging, fishnets, stalking, power kink, orgasm control, overstimulation, cum eating, raw, choking,

W/c: 5.8k

An: Happy Day 23 of Kinktober! This fanfic is a little on the more darker and weirder side with stalker/yandere Gyutaro. Also not proof read @blushinglemon

He observed you long before you noticed him. Most people at school saw him as the ugly, sickly-looking guy who was always crouched over his desk with ragged nails, muttering under his breath. Those who did catch him talking often said how much he despised those who were fortunate. And you just happened to be the type of person he despised the most: a scholarship student surrounded by wealth and luxury, you brought light with you everywhere you went, and he despised that.

He despised how no one shone brighter than you and how expensive your clothes were. How your smile came so naturally, how with one conversation you had friends and professors who admired you, and a future literally handed to you with a golden spoon. You strolled about carrying everything he'd been denied since birth.

So his fixation didn't begin with admiration; it grew from hatred. It was a plan for breaking you down socially and emotionally, rather than physically. He wanted to pull your gorgeous, glossy life apart, exactly the way he peeled his own skin back when he was enraged.

You were someone who "had too much" for him, someone from whom he could justify taking everything.

So he watched.

Followed.

Listened.

Learned.

He took notes. Pages have been filled out. Personal life patterns. Weaknesses. Pals who trusted you too easily, all the way down to those who were your pals because of your celebrity and wealth. Secrets you shared with your girlfriends in the hallways. Your routines. Even your flaws, which you attempted to hide from the world.

The scrapbook he started began as a roadmap for your prompt destruction.

But somewhere between spying on you laughing with your friends and watching you cry alone in an empty classroom one morning, he started to see his intentions perverted, and he began to feel like he should be the only one to witness your agony.

His hatred started to soften. Began curling into something he couldn't place.

He was enraged when he realized he was tracing the form of your smile with his fingertips over a photo he had stolen and chopped your eyes out of. Envious. He tore at his arms with his claws, ripping his own skin because how dare his body betray his mind? Why was he feeling things for something he wanted to see scream and fall apart? Why was his mind gradually shifting away from his own control? Why was he suddenly thinking of methods to make you his and his alone?

Even with these thoughts, he kept looking and collecting. He kept feeling that peculiar sickness in his chest whenever someone else talked to you, whenever he said you were crying over some loser guy.

Even as his infatuation grew darker, more controlling, unpleasant, and desperate, life continued to move around him and around you. People continued approaching you, laughing with you, touching your arms, and whispering secrets, and he began to wish he could cut their mouths from their faces. Every grin you gave to someone else scratched on his insides like broken glass. Despite all the time he spent observing you from the shadows, you remained remote, unreachable, an entire world away from him.

So when fate (fate being me fr) finally brought your lives together, when your name was suddenly shouted alongside his in the same sentence for a project, it felt like the ground moved beneath him. Meanwhile, you had no idea the storm was heading directly at you.

You didn't know him; you knew about him since he always sat in the back of the classroom, extending himself out the window, but you didn't know him.

You just knew his name because your teacher said it in that "he's smart but weird" tone. The tone grownups adopt when they want to compliment someone but can't hide their discomfort is one you're all too familiar with.

So when you were partnered up for the assignment, your friends chuckled behind their hands, murmuring together.

"He's so creepy."

"I heard he has a sister complex."

"I feel bad for you getting stuck with that guy."

"Good luck, girlfriend."

Their voices were so harsh that you couldn't help but wonder what they said about you when you weren't present. Of course, they yelled it loudly enough for you to hear, but there was no use in ruining your circle for home, weirdo.

Gyutaro was just sitting there, watching you listen to them. A small grin on your lips, but a strain in your jaw, and fingers fumbling with your notebook. You weren't laughing with them, really. But you weren't defending him, either. Why would you, though?

You did not know him.

He expected you to roll your eyes. Avoid him. Whisper that you're too busy and ask the teacher for a new partner. That is what normal people would have done. Instead, you did something he was unprepared for. You walked up to him after class. Without hesitation. Have no fear. There was not even a trace of contempt. Just you.

"Um, Gyutaro, right?" You inquired, pressing your binder against your chest. "Do you want to meet up after school to go over some project ideas?"

It struck him like a blow to the ribs. Hard.

You were speaking to him.

Look at him.

Waiting for a response.

Nobody ever waited for him.

His breath faltered, and for a brief moment, he felt heat creep up his neck—jealousy, rage, and longing all twisted together into something sharp. He wanted to snarl at you for being friendly. He tried to shove you away because you were too close. He wanted to grab you by the throat for staring at him as if he wasn't disgusting.

Instead, he said, "Tch." Whatever. "If you want."

Your smile softened.

Not pitying.

This is not a hoax.

Warm.

And it ruined him.

"Great," you said. "My house is nearby. We can walk there after the final block."

Your house.

A place he had always despised you for having. A place he had previously intended to demolish. He wanted inside for many other reasons.

And when he followed you out of the classroom, staring at the back of your neck and bouncing your hair with each step, you didn't notice how his fingers trembled at his sides. You didn't see the yearning in his eyes.

You didn't notice the moment fanaticism devoured whatever remained of his original plan.

But he did.

He was already anticipating what he would uncover and take from your room.

Your place was everything he expected it to be—warm, clean, and comfortable.

Everything he never had.

Everything he resented.

He stood just inside the doorway, shoulders tense, eyes darting everywhere like he was searching for traps.

You kicked off your shoes and smiled over your shoulder.

“Make yourself at home.”

He almost laughed.

Home?

He’d never even had one of those. But you said it so casually, like the words meant nothing.

You led him upstairs, chatting about project ideas, but Gyutaro wasn’t listening. Not really. He was too focused on the sway of your hips, the bounce in your step, and the way your fingertips brushed the banister.

Every movement you made went straight into that rotting little scrapbook in his brain.

Your bedroom door opened with a soft creak.

His breath caught.

It was exactly what he imagined.

Soft colors. Polished furniture. A bed big enough for two. Photos of you and your friends are lined up neatly on a dresser. Perfume bottles. Makeup. Clothes that probably cost more than he made in a month.

It felt like stepping into everything he hated…

Everything he wanted…

Everything he wished he could shatter.

“Is this okay?” you asked, pulling out your laptop.

He nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Whatever.”

You set up your things, rambling something about scheduling, but he wasn’t paying attention anymore. Not when he noticed something else—

Your phone buzzed on your bed.

A guy’s name showed on the screen.

Jealousy tore through him like a blade.

That sharp, ripping kind of anger that made his nails itch to dig into skin—his or someone else’s. He clenched his fists. You sighed. “Ugh. I’ll be right back. I have to grab a charger. Don’t touch anything!” You laughed playfully as you left the room.

But the moment your footsteps faded

He moved.

He went straight to your desk.

Your drawers.

Your shelves.

He knew exactly what he wanted. Something small. Something personal. Something that would smell like you, feel like you, and prove you belonged to him even if you didn’t know it yet.

A ribbon.

A pen.

A photo corner sticking out of a notebook.

He took the first photo of one of you with your friends, smiling under the sun. His thumb brushed your face. His own smile twisted into something crooked and mean.

“Better,” he muttered, ripping the edges so only you remained.

From his bag, he pulled out the battered, overstuffed scrapbook. Its edges were frayed. Some pages were stained with his blood. He flipped it open, page after page of you staring back at him.

He slipped the new picture into the most recent section.

Perfect.

You looked perfect.

He was so absorbed, so overwhelmed by that sick-sweet ache in his chest, he didn’t hear your footsteps returning until—

“Gyutaro?”

His head snapped up.

You stood in the doorway, eyes wide, staring straight at the scrapbook.

At the pictures.

At the ripped edges.

At the notes.

You plastered it across every inch. And he added a new piece like it was nothing. For a moment, the room was silent. Completely still. Your breath hitched. His heart slammed against his ribs. He expected screaming. He expected you to run. He expected the disgust he’d always told himself you’d feel.

So when you whispered, voice trembling,

“…Is that—me?”

He froze.

Your eyes were wide—not terrified. Not yet. But shocked. He laughed sharply, brokenly, and defensively.

“Yeah. Are you going to cry about it? Call me a freak?” He stood, shoulders hunched like a cornered animal. “Go ahead. Tell the whole school. Call the cops. I don’t care.”

You swallowed, eyes flicking down the messy pages again.

“…I’m going to call the police,” you said slowly, voice shaking.

That…

That got him. His expression twisted, panic flaring, and jealousy and possessiveness crashed into each other like broken glass.

“N-No, you’re not.”

His voice cracked into a growl.

“You—you can’t. I don’t—I don’t have anybody else. Daki—she needs me. I can’t—don’t make me go away.”

He stepped toward you.

Desperate.

Cornered.

Violent and vulnerable all at once.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he rasped.

“Just… don’t turn your back on me. Don’t leave me like everyone else.”

Your pulse hammered, heat crawling up your neck. You should have screamed. You should have run. You didn’t. Instead, something dark and electric tightened inside your chest. You stepped closer—too close.

Close enough to see the wild desperation in his eyes.

“Anything I want?” you murmured.

His breath hitched.

He nodded.

Your fingers brushed his jaw.

His entire body shuddered.

“There is something I’ve always wanted to try that my past boyfriends wouldn’t let me do,” you whispered, leaning in—

“Being a Dominatrix.”

His eyes widened.

Shock.

You didn’t raise your voice; you didn’t need to. After everything he’d done to try to tear your life apart, every lie and every calculated plan he had in his scrapbook to bring her to ruin, you somehow still found a way to get control.

“God, I hate rich people, but fuck, she’s hot when she's angry,” he whispered to himself low enough that you couldn’t hear.

So you began to step closer, slow and deliberate.

“You want me all to yourself,” you said quietly. “You wanted to decide how our lives turned out. You tried to break me first. Remember that.”

He swallowed, eyes dropping straight to the floor.

“Good,” you said. “Because now you’re going to listen.”

Your voice sharpened, taking on a cool authority he’d never heard from you before.

“Start by going to the bottom dresser drawer. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you from now on. No arguments. No games. You follow my instructions, and maybe, maybe you can start to understand what it feels like to feel pretty instead of disgusting.” He hesitated a moment too long.

“Now, or do you want me to call the police?” you said

He moved quickly this time, like someone who finally understood he'd pushed the wrong person too far. And for the first time, you felt your own power, something you actually earned, deserved, and completely uncompromised.

You watch him cross the room, every step stiff with nerves he’s trying—and failing—to hide. His shoulders are tight, his jaw clenched, like he’s bracing for something he can’t name.

He stops in front of the dresser.

For a moment, he just stands there, staring down at the bottom drawer like it’s something dangerous. His hand lifts slowly, hovering, hesitating. You can see the way his fingers tremble before they finally curl around the handle.

He glances back at you—quick, uncertain—like he needs one last confirmation that this is really what you want.

You don’t say anything.

You just hold his gaze.

That’s enough.

He turns back and pulls the drawer open.

The sound is soft, but he reacts like it’s loud, like the entire room shifts with it. You see his shoulders jump just slightly as the folded stockings come into view. His breath stutters. His fingers twitch.

From where you’re standing, you can see the exact moment it hits him, the reality of the command you gave, the trust you expect, and the control you’re quietly claiming.

He reaches out, hesitating only a heartbeat before touching the fabric. You watch the way his fingers sink into it, slow and careful, as if even that small action is overwhelming.

He doesn’t speak.

He stands there, holding the folded stockings, his fingers curling around the fabric as if it were heavier than it should be. You watch him carefully, your eyes sharp, unblinking. The air is thick with quiet tension—like the room itself is holding its breath.

“Put them on,” you say, your voice calm but firm. No hint of malice, no laughter. Just authority.

He swallows hard, jaw tight. His hands shake slightly as he takes his pants off and slowly starts to lift one leg, carefully pulling the stocking up. Then the other. Each movement is slow, deliberate, and precise. He’s tense but obedient, completely aware that you’re watching every step.

You don’t look away. You don’t need to. The quiet control, the way he follows your instruction without question, is enough. You see the conflict in his eyes—pride, embarrassment, obsession, and that strange, unnameable feeling he’s been battling since the moment he started collecting you.

He finishes, standing stiffly in front of you. His gaze flickers to yours, searching, waiting, unsure if he did it right.

“Good… Now go lie on the bed,” you say simply, letting your tone carry all the weight of your control. No other words are needed.

You had never felt this amazing before; you were accustomed to being everyone else's plaything, doing whatever they wanted, and dating anyone they wanted, but now seeing some creepy turn into your plaything was giving you a high you don't believe you'll ever get back from.

He stood at the foot of the bed, rigid and exposed in his boxers and the delicate lace stockings. The contrast was dizzying—the harsh lines of his tense body against the feminine fabric you’d forced him into. His breath came in shallow, ragged pulls.

“All the way on the bed and on your back,” you commanded, your voice low and even.

He obeyed, moving with a stiffness that spoke of a war between shame and a dark, thrilling obedience. The mattress dipped under his weight. He stared at the ceiling, refusing to look at you, but you saw the frantic pulse in his throat.

You climbed onto the bed, kneeling beside him. The silence was heavy, broken only by his shaky exhale. You let it stretch, letting the anticipation coil tightly in his gut. Your fingers, cool and deliberate, traced a line from his knee, up the sheer lace of the stocking, to the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.

He flinched, a full-body shudder wracking his frame. “D-Don’t…”

“Don’t?” you repeated, your voice a soft, dangerous whisper. Your nails dug in just enough to make him gasp. “That’s not a word you get to use with me. You wanted all of me. You took pieces of me without asking. Now you’ll take what I give you.”

You lowered your head, and your mouth found the same spot on his thigh. Your tongue flicked out, a brief, wet stroke that made his hips jerk. Then you closed your teeth over the quivering muscle and bit down.

He cried out—a sharp, broken sound that was half-pain, half-surrender. You held the pressure, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling the tremor that ran through him. When you released him, a perfect, darkening mark was already blooming on his pale skin. A brand.

“Mine,” you breathed against the hot, damp skin.

You moved upwards, a predator claiming its territory. Your lips and teeth found the sharp line of his hipbone, the soft plane of his lower stomach, and the vulnerable hollow of his throat. Each bite was followed by the soothing lap of your tongue, each kiss a promise of possession that left a purple blossom in its wake. He was writhing beneath you, his hands fisting the sheets, a continuous, low whine building in his chest.

His boxers were tented, straining, a desperate plea. You hooked your fingers in the waistband and peeled them down, freeing his erection. He was painfully hard, leaking. A raw, needy sound escaped him at the exposure.

You looked down at him, at the complete picture of his surrender—the lace, the marks, the utter want. “You’re prettier like this,” you murmured, wrapping your fingers slowly around his length. “All desperate. All for me.”

He whimpered, his eyes squeezed shut. You stroked him once, twice, a slow, torturous friction that had his back arching off the bed. But you stopped before he could tip over the edge, smiling at his frustrated groan.

“Not yet.”

You shifted, straddling his hips. You took your clothes off slowly so he could see the new parts of your body. Come to life. After you were done, you finished taking the rest of his clothes off and threw the pile of clothes somewhere to be found later. Once you were down, you took his throbbing cock in your hands, guiding him to your now sloppy cunt.

You watched his face as you sank onto him, inch by excruciating inch. His eyes flew open, wide with shock and overwhelming sensation. His mouth dropped open in a silent scream as you took him fully, sheathing him inside your heat.

He felt so good filling you up just right. You began to move, a slow, rolling grind of your hips that had him seeing stars. You set a brutal, perfect rhythm, using him for your own pleasure, each rise and fall a testament to your control.

“Look at me,” you ordered, your voice breathless but firm.

His glazed, tear-filled eyes focused on you. He was completely unraveling, his breath sobbing in his throat with every thrust.

“You thought you could break me?” You panted, leaning forward to bite his earlobe. “You thought you could own me from the shadows?” You dug your nails into his chest, riding him harder, faster. “This is what ownership looks like.”

His whimpers turned into full, shuddering cries. “P-Please…”

“Please what?” you taunted, not breaking your rhythm. “Please stop? Or please don’t stop?”

You could feel him tightening, his whole body coiling like a spring. You slammed down onto him, grinding against him, milking him for every drop. “Come for me.”

It was less a command and more a release of the tension you’d wound so tightly. He shattered with a broken cry, his orgasm tearing through him violently. His hips bucked wildly underneath you as he spilled himself inside you, wave after wave of pleasure that seemed to drain the very life from him.

You didn’t stop. You kept moving, riding him through the intense overstimulation. He sobbed, thrashing his head from side to side, his hands coming up to push weakly at your hips. “N-No more… too much… s-stop…”

You captured his wrists, pinning them to the bed above his head, and leaned close, your lips brushing his. “I decide when we’re done.”

You continued to move, a slow, relentless rhythm that had him crying openly, tears tracing paths through the sweat on his temples. He was hypersensitive, every movement a jolt of electric sensation, his spent cock twitching inside you. He was babbling, a mess of pleas and choked sobs, completely and utterly ruined.

You finally stilled, feeling his entire body go limp beneath you, spent and trembling. You released his wrists and looked down at your work. The once-defiant stalker was now a whimpering, marked, and crying mess, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. You traced a possessive finger over the darkest hickey on his neck.

His eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide, swimming in a sheen of overwhelmed tears. His lips part, trying to form a word, a name, or a plea, but only a wet, ragged breath escapes. I… I… He is utterly spent, a beautiful, broken thing beneath you.

You do not allow him the dignity of finishing. You lean down, your hair curtaining his face, and your mouth finds his. It’s not a kiss of affection but of reclamation. You bite his lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make him gasp into your mouth, his body jolting beneath yours. You swallow the pathetic, whimpering sound he makes.

“I told you you were not done until I say so,” you whisper against his lips, your voice husky with your own power. You can feel him, still semi-hard and incredibly sensitive inside you. You give a slow, deliberate grind of your hips, a circular motion that makes his breath hitch into a sob.

”P-Please,” he finally manages, the word cracking in the middle. ”No… can’t…”

“You can,” you counter, your voice dropping to a low, mesmerizing hum. “You will. You tried to take so much from me. My privacy. My peace. My image. Now you’ll give me everything you have left.”

You begin to move again, a slow, torturous undulation. His head thrashes side to side on the pillow, a fresh wave of tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. His hands, which had fallen limp, rise to push weakly at your thighs. His touch is feather-light, trembling.

You catch one of his wrists, pinning it to the mattress beside his head. Your other hand comes up, and your fingers lace tightly across his throat.

His eyes fly open, wide with a new, primal fear that sends a thrilling jolt straight through you. He freezes, every muscle in his body locked in tense anticipation.

You don’t squeeze. Not yet. You just hold the potential there, your thumb resting against the frantic, rabbit-quick pulse hammering beneath his jaw. You can feel every desperate beat of his heart against your palm.

“You wanted to consume me,” you murmur, watching the terror and arousal war in his gaze. You press down, just a fraction. His breath hitches, a choked gasp escaping his parted lips. His hips give an involuntary, tiny thrust upwards, a reflexive search for friction even in his panic. ”Now see how it feels to be devoured.”

You increase the pressure.

It’s not enough to cut off his air, not truly. It’s just enough to make every breath a conscious, difficult effort. To make him acutely aware of the fragile column of his throat in your hand. His face begins to flush a deep, beautiful crimson.

And you move. You set a ruthless, driving rhythm, riding him with deep, punishing strokes that jolt through his oversensitive body. Each time you sink onto him, your fingers tighten just a little more. Each time you rise, the pressure lessens, giving him one gasped, glorious breath before you take it away again.

He is babbling, a continuous, slurred stream of consciousness lost to sensation. “Too much… oh god… ’s too much… it’s good… please… stop… don’t stop…”

His free hand claws at the sheets, his back arching off the bed. His body is a mess of contradictions—trying to escape the overwhelming pleasure-pain while simultaneously chasing it. His cock, which had begun to soften, is rigid and throbbing inside you again, responding to the dizzying lack of oxygen and the relentless friction.

You lean close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. ”Come for me again,” you command, your voice a dark promise. Your grip on his throat tightens to its peak, and you piston your hips faster, nailing that perfect, deep spot inside you with every stroke. ”I want every last drop. I want you empty.”

His eyes roll back. A guttural, choked cry is torn from him, a sound you feel vibrate against your palm more than you hear. His orgasm hits him like a seizure, his entire body locking up, straining against your hold. You feel the hot, pulsing cum inside you, weaker than the first but no less intense for him.

You don’t let go of his throat. You don’t stop moving.

The overstimulation is absolute agony for him. He screams, a raw, broken sound, thrashing beneath you. Tears pour down his temples, soaking into his hair. His pleas are incoherent now, just fractured syllables and sobs. He is a whimpering, crying mess, completely and totally ruined. Spent in every sense of the word.

Only then do you release his throat.

He drags in a huge, ragged, whooping gasp of air, his chest heaving. He coughs, his body convulsing. His eyes are unfocused, seeing nothing. He is limp, boneless, a puppet with its strings cut.

You finally still your hips, though you remain seated on him, feeling his softness inside you. You release his wrist and gently trace the vivid red marks your fingers have left on his neck. You lean down and press a soft, almost tender kiss to the bruised skin.

He flinches at the touch, a fresh, silent sob shaking his frame.

You smile, a slow, possessive curl of your lips. You run your hand through his sweat-damp hair, a mockery of comfort. ”There,” you whisper. ”Now you’re mine. All of you.”

His eyes slowly focus on you, filled with a devastating mix of terror, awe, and something horrifyingly close to worship. He opens his mouth, his voice a shredded, broken whisper.

”Y-Yours.”

The word is a confession, a surrender, the final crumbling of every wall he’d ever built. You feel the truth of it in the limp weight of his body beneath yours, in the hot, wet evidence of his ruin still pooling inside you.

You don’t move off him. Not yet. You savor the feeling, the absolute fullness of your control. Your fingers, still tangled in his damp hair, tighten just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind him.

“Yes,” you affirm, your voice low and impossibly calm. “Mine. And what’s mine, I take care of. And what's mine always cleans up their mess.”

His brow furrows in exhausted confusion, his tear-glazed eyes struggling to focus on you. He doesn’t understand. He’s too spent, too thoroughly broken, to anticipate your next move.

You shift your weight, lifting yourself off him with a slow, deliberate motion that makes him gasp at the sudden emptiness. You kneel beside him on the bed, looking down at his ruined form—the lace stockings, the map of purpling bites and marks, and the sheen of sweat and tears.

“Sit up,” you command, your tone leaving no room for hesitation.

A weak, broken sound escapes him. He can’t. His limbs are lead, his will utterly extinguished.

“Now,” you snap, the single word cracking through the room like a whip.

He flinches, the sound jump-starting his broken system. With a tremor that runs through his entire frame, he obeys, pushing himself up on shaking arms until he’s sitting slumped before you. He won’t meet your eyes.

You reach between your own legs, gathering the slick cum, evidence of his climax, on your fingers. You bring them to his lips, watching his face closely.

His eyes widen. He understands now. A fresh wave of shame and something else—something darkly eager—flashes across his features. He tries to turn his head away, a last, pathetic gesture of defiance.

Your free hand snaps out, grabbing his jaw, forcing him to look at you. Your grip is firm, unyielding. “Open.”

His lips part on a shuddering sob. You slide your slick fingers into his mouth.

The taste is immediate—musky, salty, uniquely him, mixed with the essence of you. His tongue flinches back for a second, his body recoiling from the act, but you hold his jaw steady. You watch, mesmerized, as his eyes screw shut, as his Adam’s apple bobbles with a reluctant swallow.

“Clean them,” you order, your voice a husky whisper. “Get every last drop.”

A tear traces a new path down his cheek, but his tongue moves. Tentatively at first, then with a strange, growing fervor. It flicks against your fingertips, lapping at the taste of his own release. A low, guttural moan vibrates against your skin. It’s a sound of utter degradation, and it makes your cunt clench with renewed heat.

You pull your fingers away, now clean. He sways, his breath coming in ragged pants, a string of saliva and cum connecting his lower lip to your hand for a second before it breaks.

“Good,” you purr, and the praise seems to shudder through him more violently than any punishment. “But we’re not done. That was just the appetizer.”

You move, settling onto your back beside him. You pull him down with you, a guiding hand on the back of his neck. “The main course is still being served.”

You don’t have to spell it out. He knows. The understanding is there in the way his body goes rigid for a moment before going completely pliant.

You guide his head between your thighs.

The first hot, hesitant breath he exhales against your sensitized flesh makes you jerk. He’s trembling, his entire world reduced to the scent and sight of you, laid bare before him.

“Do it,” you whisper into the quiet, charged air.

His tongue touches you.

It’s a tentative, shaky stroke, almost chaste. But the effect is electric. A jolt of pure pleasure arcs through you, and you can’t suppress a sharp, gasped, “Oh.”

The sound seems to unlock something in him. His initial hesitance evaporates, replaced by the same obsessive focus he used in his stalker’s notebooks. Now, instead of cataloging your movements from afar, he is cataloging your taste, your sounds, and the way your body shudders under his mouth.

He licks a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and you moan, your head falling back against the pillows. Your fingers find his hair again, not guiding, just holding on as waves of sensation crash over you.

He learns fast. His tongue circles your clit, light and teasing, before flattening against it, applying just the right amount of pressure. He drinks from you, his movements growing more confident, more desperate. It’s as if he’s trying to devour you whole, to consume you in the only way he’s now permitted. His nose presses against you, his breath hot, his moans vibrating against your most sensitive skin. The obscene, wet sounds of his worship fill the room.

You’re climbing fast, your hips lifting off the bed to meet his mouth. “Yes… just like that… fuck, Gyutaro…”

Hearing his name on your lips in this context sends him into a frenzy. His hands, which had been lying limp at his sides, come up to grip your thighs, digging into your flesh as he holds you open for his feast. He’s not just obeying anymore; he’s pleading with his mouth, begging for your approval, for your sweet slick.

The orgasm builds swiftly, a tight, coiling pressure in your belly. “Don’t stop,” you pant, your voice strung tight. “I’m going to come. You’re going to taste all of me.”

He redoubles his efforts, his tongue fucking into you, lapping at you, relentless and perfect.

You shatter. A raw, guttural cry is torn from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Your back arches off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head as you ride his face, grinding against his mouth as the waves of pleasure roll through you.

He doesn’t pull away. He drinks it all down, moaning into you as if your orgasm is his own, his own hips shifting against the bedsheets, searching for friction he’s not permitted to have.

When the last tremor subsides, you go boneless, collapsing back onto the mattress. Your grip on his hair loosens. He pulls back slowly, his breathing as ragged as yours. His face is glistening, soaked with you. His eyes are dazed, his lips swollen and slick. He looks utterly debauched, and a profound, possessive satisfaction settles deep in your bones.

You hook a finger under his chin, forcing his gaze to yours. “How do I taste?”

His voice is wrecked, a raw scrape of sound filled with awe and terror. “Perfect.”

You smile, a dark, victorious thing. “Now you know what you really are. Not a predator. Not a master. You’re my pet. My thing. And you’ll always come back?

He doesn’t answer with words. He just leans forward, his eyes closing, and his tongue darts out to lick one last, lingering stripe up your inner thigh, cleaning away a stray trickle of your combined slick.

“You know, if it wasn't for that little book of yours, I never would have imagined you'd be into this or me. Then again, who doesn't like me? "You add," watching as he finishes up before looking up at you.

"What are you talking about? You've never seen my book until today," he says, trying to catch his breath. You don't say anything right away; you just push him off of you and stand all the way up before strolling over to your window, not caring that you're nude.

"You left it in your desk one day. I was going to give it to the teacher and have him give it back to you, but then a picture of me slipped out, so I peeked inside, and what do you know, it was filled with me and all your dirty thoughts."

What better way to piss of your ex then send him a video of you and your demon boyfriend going at it

This is just a little story post mostly smut hope you enjoy . Sorry if the grammar isn’t the best it’s not proof read

Happy 21 day of kinktober @blushinglemon

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔲𝔰

Summary: A simple night patrol turns into a revelation when you and Denki fight side-by-side with perfect, undeniable chemistry. After a teasing-filled mission and a quiet moment on the roof, Denki finally drops the jokes and admits he likes you—really likes you. One honest confession and a spark-filled kiss later, neither of you can pretend it’s just “partners” anymore.

C/W: Fingering, cream pie, praising, sub reader, Dom Denki, unprotected sex, rough sex, fem reviving, multiple rounds, messy sex, sensory dep, electricity, shower sex

WC: 4k

An: Day 19. I hope you guys enjoy; sorry that I'm super late. @blushinglemon

The night patrol was supposed to be simple: clean up a group of tech thieves downtown and head home before midnight. With Bakugo on point, “simple” went out the window five minutes in.

“Quit lagging, Sparky!” Bakugo barked, blasting open a warehouse door.

“I’m not lagging, dude! You just run like an explosion!” Denki shot back, electricity already crackling along his fingertips. You followed behind with Sero and Mina, sighing. “Remind me why we let them lead?”

Mina giggled. “Because it’s fun to watch them yell at each other.”

The team moved in fast. Denki took out the lights with a quick burst—clean, precise. You covered his flank, using your quirk to pin two fleeing thieves. It was smooth, almost wordless teamwork.

“Nice catch, partner,” Denki said, brushing past you with that easy grin of his. “Focus,” you muttered, ignoring the tiny jolt in your chest that had nothing to do with electricity.

A few more minutes, and the fight was over. Bakugo stomped off to report to dispatch, leaving the four of you to wrap up.

“Not bad,” Mina said, leaning on a crate. “You two were totally in sync. Cute.” Denki flushed a little. “We’re just good partners, that’s all.” You crossed your arms. “Exactly. Partners.”

Mina smirked. “Mmhm. Sure. Keep telling yourselves that.”

The ride back was quiet. Everyone split off at HQ until it was just you and Denki again, walking the dim hallway toward the locker rooms. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving a tired, buzzing kind of silence.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “You, uh… got a scratch on your cheek.” You frowned, touching it. “Oh. Didn’t notice.” Denki stepped closer before you could react, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. “Got it.”

You froze. His hand lingered for just a heartbeat too long before he stepped back, grinning like it meant nothing. “See? I can be gentle.” 

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to hit you,” you muttered, but your voice was softer than you meant it to be. He laughed. “You say that every time.” Later, after the debrief, you found him on the roof—the same spot he always ended up after missions. The city lights reflected in his eyes like sparks waiting to jump.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up here,” you said, stepping beside him. Denki shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Brain’s still wired.” He smiled faintly. “Pun intended.”

You snorted. “Terrible.”

He grinned wider. “You look terrible.” You rolled your eyes, but he wasn’t wrong. That stupid, cocky smile had grown on you in ways you didn’t want to admit.

“Hey,” he said quietly after a while. “Are you okay? You were pushing hard tonight.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

He gave you a look. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You drive me nuts, y’know that? I swear, one of these days you’re going to scare the life out of me.” You glanced over, smirking. “I thought you liked a little shock.”

He barked out a laugh, but there was something real underneath it. “Yeah, but not when it’s you in the middle of the blast zone.” The quiet stretched. Wind tugged at your hair; the city hummed below. Denki’s voice softened.

“Can I be honest for a sec?”

You nodded.

He hesitated, scratching at his jaw. “I don’t know how to shut it off around you. The jokes, the flirting—it’s just easier than saying what I actually feel.” Your breath caught. “And what’s that?” He met your gaze, all humor gone. “That I like you. A lot more than I should.”

You blinked, heartbeat loud in your ears. “Denki…”

He laughed weakly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just had to get it out before I short-circuit from keeping it in.” You took a small step closer. “You really are an idiot.” He smiled, soft and crooked. “Yeah. You're an idiot, maybe?”

You rolled your eyes, but your hand found his jacket anyway, tugging him down just enough to kiss him. It wasn’t perfect—your noses bumped, your heart pounded—but it was warm and real, sparks flickering faintly between your palms. When you pulled back, he was grinning like a fool. “So, uh… that’s a yes?”

You laughed. “That’s a ‘shut up before I change my mind.’”

“Can’t promise that,” he said, leaning closer again.

This kiss was different. Less surprise, more intention. His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your jawline with a tenderness that made your knees feel suspiciously weak. And then you felt it—a faint, thrilling crackle of energy, a static buzz that passed from his skin to yours, raising every tiny hair on your arms and sending a shiver straight down your spine. It was just a whisper of his Quirk, a subconscious leak of the power thrumming through him, and it lit up your nerve endings like a live wire.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, his breath coming a little faster. “My place?” he asked, the question hanging in the charged air between you.

You didn’t trust your voice. You just nodded.

The trip to his apartment was a blur of buzzing anticipation and stolen glances in the dim elevator. The second your door clicked shut, the playful bravado he wore like armor finally, completely fell away.

He backed you against the door, his body a solid, warm line against yours. “I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. “For so damn long.”

His mouth was on your neck, your jaw, capturing your lips again in a deep, searching kiss that tasted like ozone and want. You fumbled with the clasps of his hero costume, your fingers clumsy with need, until he gently stilled them.

“Let me,” he said, his voice a low thrum. “I wanna…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, a stronger, more focused wave of electricity cascaded over you. It wasn't a shock; it was a surge. A delicious, paralyzing current that locked your muscles for a glorious second, making you gasp into his mouth as a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure rolled through you. Your costume, designed to insulate, did nothing to stop the sensation from igniting your skin.

“Just a little,” he murmured, his hands sliding down your sides. “To feel you…”

He made quick work of your clothes, his own soon joining the pile on the floor. He led you to the bed, laying you back against the pillows, his gaze dark and full of awe as it traveled over your body. He kissed a path down your sternum, over your stomach, his hands following everywhere he touched, leaving a trail of tingling, hypersensitive skin in the wake of his carefully controlled power.

Then he paused, a mischievous, wicked glint in his gold-flecked eyes. “Trust me?”

Before you could answer, he brought his hands up, palms facing your ears. A low, resonant hum filled the air, and then… silence. The world went muffled and distant, as if you’d been plunged deep underwater. You could see his chest moving with his breath, see his lips forming words you could barely hear, but the usual ambient noise of the apartment—the fridge, the distant traffic—was just… gone. Your sense of touch, however, exploded.

Deprived of sound, every sensation became magnified, overwhelming in its intensity. You felt the dip of the mattress as he moved, the whisper of the sheets against your legs, and the warm puff of his breath on your inner thigh. You gasped, the sound strange and hollow in your own head.

He smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his lips you felt more than saw. He hooked your legs over his shoulders, and his mouth found your cunt.

The sensation was earth-shattering. The soft, wet heat of his tongue, lapping and circling, was everything. But then he added the spark. A gentle, precise flicker of current directly on your clit.

Your back arched clean off the bed, a silent scream caught in your throat as a bolt of white-hot pleasure, sharp and perfect, tore through you. He did it again and again, a devastating rhythm of soft licks and sharp, electric jolts that had you writhing, grasping at the sheets, utterly at the mercy of the sensations he was conducting through your body. The sensory deprivation made it an all-consuming universe of feeling, each tiny shock a supernova in the silence.

Just as you were teetering on the very edge, he pulled away. The world rushed back in—your own ragged breaths, his low groan—as he released the field of static around your head. You were dizzy, disoriented, and panting.

“Not yet,” he said, his voice rough with his own need. He flipped you over onto your hands and knees, his body covering yours. One hand gripped your hip, the other finding your wet cunt, sliding two fingers inside you with a groan. “God, you feel…”

He curled his fingers, and a low, sustained current flowed into you. It wasn’t a jolt this time; it was a vibration, a deep, internal thrum that made your muscles clench around him uncontrollably. You cried out, pushing back against his hand, seeking more, always more.

He withdrew his fingers and positioned himself at your soaked entrance. “I can’t wait,” he growled, and he pushed into you in one smooth, electric slide.

You both groaned in unison. The feeling of him filling you, stretching you, was magnified a thousandfold by the residual energy buzzing across your skin. He set a fierce, steady pace, each thrust sending new waves of current through you. Tiny arcs of light, visible in the dark room, danced where your skin met his.

“You’re so perfect,” he choked out, his rhythm starting to falter. “So… fucking… perfect.”

His control was slipping. The currents became less precise, more wild, arcing across your back and thighs like miniature lightning storms, each one a jolt of pure ecstasy. You felt the coiling tension in your own belly snap. Your climax ripped through you with the force of a thunderclap, your body seizing around him, milking him, pulling a guttural shout from his lungs.

He drove into you one last, deep time, and you felt the hot, thick ropes of cum fill up inside you as his own quirk short-circuited completely in a final, glorious burst of light and sensation that left you both trembling and collapsed onto the sheets.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing. The air smelled like rain and sex and burnt ozone. Denki shifted, carefully pulling out and rolling to your side, gathering you against his chest where his heart was still hammering against his ribs.

He nuzzled into your hair, his voice a sleepy, satisfied mumble. “…told you I could be gentle.”

You let out a breathless laugh, swatting weakly at his arm. “That was not gentle.”

He grinned, the familiar, cocky spark back in his eyes even as they drooped with exhaustion. “Okay, maybe not. But you liked it.” His hand stroked down your back, a simple, comforting touch now, all the electricity spent. “So… does this mean I get to keep you?”

A breathless laugh escapes you, your body still humming with the aftershocks. “Keep me? You barely survived the first round, Sparky.”

His grin is pure, unadulterated lightning. “Is that a challenge?” He rolls, pinning you gently beneath him again, his weight a familiar and welcome anchor. The playful glint in his gold-flecked eyes is back, but it’s layered now with a deep, possessive warmth that makes your stomach flip. His fingers trace idle, tingling patterns on your hip. “Because I’ve got a whole lot more charge left in me.”

You arch a brow, trying for nonchalance despite the way your pulse is already kicking up again. “Oh yeah? Gonna try and short-circuit me?”

“Nah,” he murmurs, leaning down to brush his lips against yours. The contact sends a fresh, gentle buzz through you. “Gonna light you up from the inside.” His hand slides from your hip, down the curve of your thigh, his touch sparking a trail of goosebumps. “Turn you over for me?”

The request is soft, a question, not a command. You answer by shifting under him, rolling onto your stomach, and then pushing up onto your knees. The cool air of the room hits your back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he settles behind you. His hands glide over your ass, squeezing gently, worshipfully.

“So damn perfect,” he breathes, and you hear the raw awe in his voice. It unravels something deep within you.

One hand stays on your hip, holding you steady, while the other traces the line of your spine. You tremble, anticipating the spark. It doesn’t come. Instead, he leans forward, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the small space of your back. The sweetness of the gesture is almost overwhelming.

Then his fingers find you again, slick and eager from before. He slides two inside with a low groan, and the stretch is blissful and familiar. “You’re still so ready for me,” he whispers, curling his fingers.

You push back against his hand, a soft moan your only answer. You feel his breath hitch.

“Alright,” he says, his voice dropping into a register that’s all thrilling promise. “Ready?”

His hands come up, palms facing your ears again. That same low hum fills the air, and the world vanishes.

Silence.

It’s absolute. You can’t hear your own breathing, the rustle of the sheets, or the pounding of your own heart. Your vision sharpens on the rumpled comforter in front of you, every fiber in hyper-focus. Your sense of touch becomes your entire universe.

You feel the mattress dip as he moves. You feel the warm, calloused grip of his hands on your hips. The blunt, insistent pressure of him on your cunt.

He pushes in.

The sensation is staggering. The thick, slow stretch of him filling you is all you can process, a blissful, overwhelming invasion. Deprived of sound, the feeling is magnified, drawn out, every millimeter of his entry a seismic event in the void.

He bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, and you both hold there for a timeless moment. You feel the tremble in his thighs pressed against yours. Feel the frantic beat of his heart through where his hands grip your skin.

Then he moves.

The first thrust is a slow, deliberate drag that makes you see stars behind your eyelids. The second is harder, punching a silent gasp from your lungs. He sets a rhythm that is both punishing and perfect, each drive sending shockwaves of pure sensation through your silent world.

You feel his control begin to fray at the edges. A faint, pleasant tingle starts where his hands hold you, a precursor. It spreads, a low-voltage current skating over your skin, making every nerve ending sing. It’s not enough. You push back against him, a wordless plea for more.

He understands.

The next thrust is accompanied by a sharp, brilliant crackle. A jolt of his Quirk, perfectly aimed, arches through your core. Your back bows, a silent cry trapped in your throat as the electricity intertwines with the friction of his cock, creating a feedback loop of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. It whites out your mind, leaving only feeling.

“God… you feel it….” The words are a vibration against your back, a muffled rumble you feel more than hear. He’s losing his grip on the sensory deprivation, his own pleasure breaking his concentration.

Another thrust. Another, stronger surge of power. It lights up your insides, every nerve screaming in ecstasy. You can feel him everywhere—the solid heat of him pistoning inside you, the electric current weaving around him, and the delicious strain of your muscles. You are nothing but a vessel for the lightning he’s conducting through you.

His pace becomes frantic and erratic. The sensory deprivation field flickers, sound rushing back in waves—his ragged, grunting breaths, the wet, slapping rhythm of your bodies meeting, your own high, keening whines.

“I can’t… I’m gonna…” he chokes out, his voice strained.

The dam inside you shatters. Your orgasm erupts without warning, a silent, convulsing wave that locks every muscle in your body. You clamp around him, milking him, and the sensation pushes him over the edge.

With a guttural shout that seems to shake the room, he drives into you one last, deep time. You feel the hot, pulsing release of his cum inside you, a flood of warmth that seems to go on and on. His Quirk short-circuits in a final, glorious burst, a cascade of sparks that dance across your skin like tiny stars before fizzling out.

The silence he’d created snaps back completely, leaving you both in a heap on the bed, panting and trembling. He collapses over your back, his weight heavy and satisfying. You can feel the frantic hammering of his heart against your spine.

His thumb strokes your cheek, the simple touch still buzzing with the faintest remnant of his power. That dazed, lottery-winning grin hasn’t left his face. “Told you I had more charge.”

You shift against him, your skin hypersensitive and still humming. “You’re insatiable.”

“Only for you,” he says, and the raw honesty in it makes your breath catch. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss that tastes like exhaustion and ozone. When he pulls back, he wrinkles his nose playfully. “We’re kinda… sticky.”

A laugh bubbles out of you. “You think?”

He shifts, sitting up and pulling you with him. “C’mon. My shower’s big enough for two.” He stands, offering a hand, his lean form silhouetted against the city lights bleeding through his window. You take it, and a tiny, happy arc of electricity jumps from his palm to yours, a secret little hello.

His bathroom is surprisingly tidy, all clean lines and warm light. He turns on the water, testing the temperature with his hand before guiding you under the spray. It’s blissfully hot, washing away the sweat and the lingering static. He reaches for a bottle of shampoo, but you intercept his hand.

“My turn,” you murmur, squeezing a dollop into your palm.

He looks surprised, then delighted. “Yeah?”

You nod, working the lather through his surprisingly soft blond hair. His eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh escaping him as you massage his scalp. It’s domestic. Intimate in a way that makes your chest feel tight. You rinse his hair, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the strong column of his neck. Your hands slide down his chest, over the defined muscles of his abdomen, and he watches you through half-lidded, gold-flecked eyes, his breath hitching.

Your fingers curl around his length, already hardening again under your touch. His head falls back against the tile with a soft thud. “Fuck…”

You stroke him slowly, the water sluicing over your joined hands. “You recover fast, Sparky.”

He captures your wrist, not to stop you, but to feel your pulse against his thumb. “It’s you. You’re my catalyst.” He turns you gently, pressing you against the warm, wet tile. His body molds to your back, his erection nestling against the cleft of your ass. “Want to feel you,” he breathes into your ear, his voice low and wanting. “Like this.”

One hand slips down your stomach, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps. He doesn’t tease. His fingers find your clit, and you gasp, arching back against him. He circles the sensitive nub, once, twice, with a maddening softness. Then his fingertips begin to glow, a faint golden aura surrounding them.

The first spark is a gentle zap, a direct hit that makes your knees buckle. He holds you up, his arm a strong band across your torso. “Okay?” he murmurs, his voice thick with concern and desire.

“More than okay,” you manage to choke out, pushing your hips back against him.

He lets out a ragged breath, and the current intensifies. It’s not a jolt anymore; it’s a sustained, vibrating hum of pure energy, focused entirely on that one exquisite point. It’s like every nerve ending in your body has rerouted itself to where his fingers are working magic. Your vision blurs at the edges, the sound of the shower fading into a distant roar. The sensory world narrows to the water on your skin, the cool tile at your back, and the electrifying pleasure building between your legs.

His other hand joins, sliding down, two fingers pushing inside you with ease. He crooks them, finding that perfect spot, and sends another, deeper pulse of electricity straight into your core.

You cry out, the sound echoing off the tiles. Your inner muscles clench around his fingers, trying to milk the sensation. It’s too much. It’s not enough. The dual assault—the precise, vibrating torment on your clit and the deep, throbbing current inside you—is unraveling you completely.

“Denki…” It’s a plea, a prayer.

He understands. He withdraws his fingers, and you nearly sob at the loss. He turns you around to face him, his eyes dark with primal need. He hoists you up effortlessly, your back against the tile, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He guides himself to your entrance, and with one powerful thrust, he’s buried inside you.

The water cascades over your joined bodies. He holds still for a moment, just feeling you, his forehead pressed to yours. “You’re everything,” he whispers, the words barely audible over the spray.

Then he begins to move. It’s a different rhythm now—deep, rolling thrusts that leverage the wall for support. Each one rocks through you, hitting that same deep spot his fingers found. His control over his Quirk is seamless now, a part of the act itself. With every inward thrust, a wave of that same vibrating energy courses through his cock and into you, lighting up your entire nervous system.

You’re so close, teetering on a precipice made of lightning. You can feel your own release coiling, tight and urgent. He feels it too. His movements become more frantic, his breathing ragged in your ear.

“Look at me,” he gasps. “I wanna see you.”

Your eyes, which had screwed shut from the intensity, flutter open. You meet his gaze. The gold in his irises is practically shimmering, alive with power and adoration. It’s that look that pushes you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a breaking wave, a silent, screaming release that seizes every muscle in your body. You clench around him, and the sensation is his undoing. With a guttural groan, he drives into you one last, final time, his own climax triggering a massive, uncontrolled surge of his Quirk.

It’s not Sparks. It’s a flashbulb pop of pure energy that whites out your vision for a second. The pleasure is magnified a thousand times, electrifying every cell as you feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release filling you, claiming you. The creampie is a warm, satisfying flood amidst the electric storm, a grounding point in the overwhelming sensory chaos.

The current dies as quickly as it came. He slumps against you, both of you trembling, held up by the wall and the water. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his lips brushing your skin. “I think… I actually short-circuited that time,” he mumbles, his voice slurred with spent pleasure.

You can only hold onto him, your own body humming with the aftermath. The water begins to run cool. He slowly, carefully, lowers you until your feet touch the floor, though your legs feel like jelly. He reaches behind you and turns off the shower.

preferably canon katsuki, as in, he doesn’t say more than like a sentence at a time, majorly grumpy but absolutely whipped for (y/n), just doesn’t want to admit it. I give you creative rein for the rest 🙂‍↕️

mwah kisses u thank you ily

𝓢𝓪𝔂 𝓘𝓽, 𝓓𝔂𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽

Summary: You swore up and down Bakugou hated your guts—just like everyone else’s. But then he started walking you home, checking up on you, and picking fights that felt a little too personal. You didn’t know what to think. It took Mina, a party, and one reckless night to make you realize he might actually be into you—for real this time.

C/W: Fingering, cream pie, praising, sub reader, Dom Bakugou , unprotected sex, rough sex, fem reviving, multiple rounds, messy sex, service kink kinda

Wc:5.5k

An: Day 17, Sorry, I got a little behind, so this is kind of super late. Went and fixed some of the grammar, so hopefully it flows better @blushinglemon

Your day ends later than usual, the sun long gone by the time you trudge down the agency steps. Patrol ran over. Paperwork ran over. Hell, your breathing ran over. All you want is sleep. You don’t expect anyone else to still be here—especially not him.

Katsuki Bakugou is leaning against the railing outside, arms crossed, eyes on his phone. The streetlight casts gold over his ash-blond hair and the furrow between his brows. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“…You’re late.”

That’s it. No hello, no “are you okay?” Just that.

You blink. “I had extra reports.”

“Tch.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. You’re not sure if he’s annoyed… or relieved.

You move past him, worn out. “You didn’t have to wait.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” he snaps immediately.

Of course not. Katsuki Bakugou doesn’t wait for anyone. He just happens to be here—at the exact time you finish. Every night. You sigh and start walking. He follows a few steps behind—silent, heavy-footed. Your accidental shadow.

Halfway down the block, exhaustion catches up to you. You stumble slightly—nothing serious, just clumsy fatigue. You don’t fall, but he clicks his tongue behind you.

“Watch it,” he mutters, still not looking at you.

You glance back. “Why are you even walking me home?”

“Crime, dumbass,” he replies instantly, clipped and rough. “The city’s not safe.”

You hum. “Hm. That must be it.”

His eyes flick to yours—sharp, dangerous. Don’t push it.

You don’t speak again until you reach your door. You turn softly. “Bakugou—”

He’s already looking away, fists jammed in his pockets, jaw tight as if the words choke him. His foot taps once—impatiently. That familiar twitch of nerves he’ll never acknowledge.

You smile. “…Thank you.”

He scoffs but doesn’t walk away.

Silence hangs. Long. Heavy. Then—

“…Text me. When you’re inside.”

Barely above a whisper. Rough. Strained. Like it physically hurts him to say it.

Your chest tightens. “…Katsuki.”

He finally looks at you. Really looks. Eyes blazing, everything loud in the way he doesn’t move.

“Don’t make me say it again,” he mutters, low.

You step closer, brave. “Say what?”

His nostrils flare. He hates this game. Hates that you know he won’t win it. His hand twitches—like he wants to touch you and won’t let himself.

“Just—” his teeth grit, “hurry and go inside.”

You nod, stepping back. But before you turn, you rise onto your toes and kiss his cheek.

He freezes—absolutely, completely paralyzed.

You whisper, “Goodnight, Katsuki.”

You don’t wait for a response as you slip inside. The door clicks shut. Outside, under the dim streetlight, Katsuki Bakugou presses his palm to the cheek you kissed, scowling at nothing.

“…Damn woman,” he mutters under his breath.

But he doesn’t move until he gets your text.

“I’m home.”

His reply comes seconds later: “Good.”

After that, you throw yourself into bed and finally let exhaustion pull you under.

The next afternoon, you meet Mina and a few of your friends at her apartment to pick out something for the party Denki’s agency is throwing. The three of you scatter across her bedroom, tossing dresses, skirts, and tops onto the bed, laughing and critiquing each other’s choices.

“This one’s too plain,” Mina says, holding up a glittery top. “You need something that says, ‘I’m fun and sexy, but also classy.’”

You giggle, spinning in front of the mirror in a fitted fur jacket over a simple dress. “Sexy me?”

“Absolutely, girl. Gotta look your best,” Mina teases, smirking. “Especially if you want Bakugou to see you.”

You freeze mid-twirl. “Wait… no way he actually likes me for real, right?” You laugh nervously, brushing it off.

Mina raises an eyebrow, grinning. “Oh, come on. You know he’s obsessed. The way he follows you around, the way he glares at anyone else looking at you… that’s textbook Bakugou behavior.”

“Obsessed?!” You protest, trying not to laugh too loudly. “Nah, that’s just him being annoying, not—”

“Pfft, sure,” Mina interrupts, rolling her eyes playfully. “Keep telling yourself that, but we all see it. He’s completely whipped, whether he admits it or not.”

You shake your head, smiling but a little flustered. “Yeah, sure. He’s not really like that. He’s grumpy, always has a million other things on his mind…”

“Uh-huh,” Mina says, waving her hand. “Grumpy and secretly in love. Classic Bakugou. Don’t worry, you’ll see at the party.”

You laugh, trying to push the thought away, but there’s a flutter in your chest that you can’t ignore. The rest of the afternoon is spent trying on options, teasing each other, and debating shoes. Every laugh, every twirl makes your anticipation for the party grow—and somewhere in the back of your mind, you can’t help thinking about who’s going to be there waiting for you.

The evening of the party arrives faster than expected. The Heights Alliance lounge buzzes with laughter, music, and the occasional shout from a game gone wrong. You step inside, feeling the thrill of being among friends, but your thoughts can’t help drifting to one person in particular.

Bakugou is already there, leaning against the arm of a couch with his usual scowl, arms crossed. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone unless necessary—and of course, his eyes immediately find you. There’s a tightness in his jaw you can’t miss, a subtle tension that makes your stomach flip.

You take a deep breath and weave through the crowd to find your friends, laughing when Mina shoves you lightly.

“See? I told you—he’s going to be staring all night.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “Yeah, right. He’s just… grumpy.”

Mina winks knowingly. “Sure, keep telling yourself that, babes.”

Your attention shifts to the doorway as Monoma struts in, a smug grin plastered across his face. He immediately spots you.

“Ah, you must be the famous cutie Denki’s always talking about—the one that hangs out with that lame guy Bakugou,” he says, tilting his head. “Looking very nice tonight. Care to dance? Or maybe just keep me entertained?”

You laugh politely, brushing off the comment. “Thanks, but I’m good for now.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightens visibly. His amber eyes narrow, and his entire posture stiffens like a drawn bowstring. He doesn’t say anything, but everyone can feel the tension radiating from him.

Monoma doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he does and enjoys it too much. He sidles closer, resting a hand lightly on your arm.

“Don’t tell me the big, scary Katsuki Bakugou gets jealous?”

Your heart skips. You glance at Bakugou—he hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, but his glare could melt steel. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

You clear your throat nervously. “Monoma… maybe give me some space?”

He smirks, ignoring you. “Oh, come on, don’t be shy. I’m just saying you look… impressive tonight.”

That’s it. That’s the spark. Bakugou doesn’t shout or blast anything, but the air around him crackles. You can almost feel his quirk itching under his skin. Swallowing hard, you step between them, your hand pressing lightly against Bakugou’s chest.

“Katsuki, stop.”

His eyes snap to yours. You see the struggle in them—the war between restraint and explosion. His fist unclenches slightly, though he doesn’t look away from Monoma.

“He was touching you,” he mutters, voice rough.

“He’s just being friendly,” you insist, though your voice is softer now.

Bakugou’s whole body tenses. “If that’s what you call friendly, you need your eyes checked,” he growls.

You feel the weight of his words—the truth he’s been biting back for so long. Your breath catches. “Katsuki…”

He exhales sharply, turns, and stalks toward the exit. Without thinking, you follow him. The door clicks shut behind you, leaving the two of you in the quiet hallway.

“You can’t just—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t,” he hisses, jaw tight. His hand twitches, tension radiating from him. “Don’t just let anyone else touch you.”

You stare at him, heart pounding. “…Why?”

His nostrils flare. His voice drops to a trembling growl. “Because… you’re mine, dumbass.”

You blink. “What?”

He steps closer, forehead almost touching yours. “You. Are. Mine.”

You stare up at him, breathless. “Wait—you like me? Like… like-like me? No way grumpy Bakugou actually has a thing for me.”

“Oh my god, dumbass, just shut up and kiss me,” he snaps, grabbing you before you can react and pressing his lips hard against yours.

His hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasp into the kiss, your fingers curling into his shirt as his mouth moves against yours—hungry, desperate, like he’s been holding this in for years. When he finally pulls back for air, his forehead rests against yours, breath ragged. His amber eyes are wild, shining with fire and something softer beneath it.

“That answers your question, dumbass?” He mutters, voice low and raw.

You smile, lips brushing his. “I don’t know… think you might have to show me again.”

He huffs a laugh, rough and low. “You’re impossible.”

You grin. “You like me that way.”

He rolls his eyes, hand still resting on your waist. “Yeah. Unfortunately, now come on, let's get out of here.”

Once you get to his house, he doesn’t give you a chance to respond, to tease, or to even breathe. His mouth crashes back onto yours, a desperate, hungry claim that steals the air from your lungs. This kiss isn’t like the first one. It’s not a question or a clumsy confession. It’s a promise. A raw, unfiltered declaration of everything he’s been too stubborn to say.

His hands are everywhere at once, rough and possessive, sliding from your waist to your back, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the hard, defined planes of his chest and the frantic, pounding rhythm of his heart hammering against your own. The faint, familiar scent of nitroglycerin and clean sweat floods your senses, and it’s the most intoxicating thing you’ve ever smelled.

You melt into him, your arms winding around his neck, fingers tangling in the surprisingly soft spikes of his hair. He groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your entire body, and nips at your lower lip. You gasp, and he seizes the opportunity, his tongue sliding against yours in a fierce, dominant dance. It’s all heat and demand and a barely contained urgency that makes your knees weak.

This is Bakugou. All of him. Unfiltered intensity.

He breaks the kiss, both of you panting, foreheads resting together. His amber eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, fixed on your swollen lips.

“My place,” he rasps, the words scraped raw from his throat. It’s not a suggestion.

You can only nod, your own voice lost to the tidal wave of want crashing inside you.

He doesn’t let go of you. His arm stays locked around your waist as he practically carries you down the hall, away from the muffled party sounds, his stride long and purposeful. He fumbles with his keys, his usually precise movements slightly clumsy, and shoves the door open, pulling you inside his apartment.

The door slams shut, the sound echoing in the stark, clean space. And then his mouth is on yours again, his back pressing you against the cool wood of the door. His hips pin yours, and you can feel the hard, insistent length of him straining against the fly of his jeans, pressed against your stomach. A shuddering moan escapes you.

“Loud,” he mutters against your lips, though he sounds almost proud.

One of his hands slides down your side, over your hip, and grips your thigh, hiking your leg up around his waist. The new angle grinds him against your cunt, and you cry out at the sudden, shocking friction, even through the layers of your clothes.

“Katsuki…”

He buries his face in the curve of your neck, his breath hot and ragged on your skin. His teeth scrape lightly over your pulse point, and you arch into him, a silent plea for more. He answers with a low growl, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin there, a possessive brand that makes your head spin.

“Mine,” he breathes into your neck, the word a hot, damp vow.

His free hand comes up, his calloused fingers wrapping around your throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. A dominant, steady pressure that makes you feel utterly claimed, utterly his. Your breath hitches, and you look into his eyes. The question is there, unspoken but blazingly clear.

Yes, you think, hoping he can see it in your gaze. Yes, yes, yes.

A dark, satisfied smirk twists his lips. His thumb strokes the line of your jaw once, a shockingly tender counterpoint to the firm grip, and then his mouth finds yours again in a searing kiss. His fingers tighten, just a fraction. Just enough to make the world narrow to the point of contact, to the feel of his lips, to the hard heat of his body against yours. The slight constriction sends a dizzying, illicit thrill straight to your cunt, your body clenching with desperate need.

He finally releases your throat, both hands moving to the hem of your dress. He yanks it up and over your head in one impatient motion, tossing it aside without a glance. His eyes rake over you, drinking in the sight of you in your simple lace bra and panties. The intensity of his gaze is almost a physical touch.

“Fuck,” he exhales, the word reverent and rough.

He strips off his shirt, and then his hands are on your bare back, frantically working the clasp of your bra. It gives way, and he pulls it off, his palms immediately cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already taut nipples. You gasp, the sensation electric.

He drops to his knees in front of you so suddenly it makes you jump. His hands hook into the sides of your panties, and he drags them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. He helps you step out of them, and then you’re completely bare before him, pressed against his front door.

His gaze is predatory and worshipful. He leans forward, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady. He looks up at you from his knees, and the raw hunger in his expression is almost enough to make you come right there.

“Gonna taste you,” he growls, and it’s a dark, delicious threat.

He pulls you down to the floor with him, onto the plush rug, not giving you a second to think. He lays you back, following you down, covering your body with his. He kisses a blazing trail down your stomach, over your hip bone, his stubble a rough, exquisite friction against your sensitive skin.

And then his mouth is on you, his tongue lapping a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds. You cry out, your back arching off the floor. He groans, the sound vibrating through you, and his hands slide under your ass, lifting you to his mouth, holding you open for him.

He eats you out with the same fierce, focused intensity he does everything else. There is no hesitation, no gentle exploration. He knows what he wants, and he takes it. His tongue flicks and circles your clit with ruthless precision before plunging deep inside you. The dual sensation is overwhelming. You’re writhing beneath him, your fingers clutching at his hair, not sure if you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away from the sheer, unbearable pleasure of it.

“Katsuki… I’m… I can’t…”

He redoubles his efforts, sucking your clit into his mouth, and you shatter. Your orgasm crashes over you, a wave of pure, blinding ecstasy that whites out your vision. You gasp his name, your body trembling uncontrollably under his relentless mouth.

He doesn’t stop, drawing out every last shuddering aftershock until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, and boneless beneath him. Only then does he release you, rising over you. He’s still fully dressed in his jeans, and the sight of him looming over you, his lips glistening with your arousal, is the most debauched thing you’ve ever seen.

He fumbles with his belt, his movements rushed. “Need to be inside you. Now.”

You reach for him, helping him with the button of his jeans, pushing them and his boxers down over his hips. He springs free, thick and hard and achingly ready. He positions himself at your entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against your sensitized flesh. He’s shaking with the effort of holding back.

He looks down at you, his chest heaving, his gaze searching yours one last time for any doubt. There is none. Only want.

“You’re sure?” He grins out, the two words costing him.

“Yes,” you pant, pulling him down for a desperate, messy kiss. “Please, Katsuki.”

That’s all the permission he needs. He pushes inside you in one long, slow, excruciatingly perfect stroke, stretching you, filling you completely. You both cry out into each other’s mouths, a shared gasp of relief and overwhelming sensation. He stays still for a moment, buried to the base, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, adjusting to the feel of each other.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “So fucking tight.”

And then he moves. He sets a punishing, deep rhythm from the start, each thrust driving the air from your lungs. It’s everything you imagined it would be—primal, intense, consuming. His hips snap against yours with a force that borders on roughness, but every movement is calculated to drag against that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

His hand finds its way back to your throat, not restraining your air, but holding you in place, anchoring you to the moment, to him. The combination of his relentless thrusts and his dominant grip sends you spiraling toward another climax far too quickly.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice a rough whisper.

Your eyes, which had squeezed shut, flutter open. His gaze is locked on yours, blazing with a possessive fire.

“You see who you belong to?” he grunts, punctuating each word with a deep, rolling thrust that makes you moan.

“Y-You,” you stammer, the confession torn from you.

“Damn right.”

He shifts suddenly, hooking your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half. The new angle is deeper, so much deeper. You shout as he hits a place that makes your entire body convulse.

“Katsuki!”

He doesn’t let you come down. Not even for a second. His hips piston into you with a brutal, unrelenting rhythm, the deep, claiming strokes of the mating press leaving you utterly breathless, utterly impaled. The angle is so deep you can feel him in your throat with every thrust, a fullness that borders on pain but tips violently into mind-numbing pleasure.

“That’s it,” he grunts, his voice a raw, guttural thing scraped from the depths of his chest. His eyes are locked on where your bodies join, watching himself disappear into you, over and over. “Fuck. Look at you. Taking all of me.”

Your moans are ragged, punched out of you with every jarring impact. Your legs are pinned back, your hands scrambling for purchase on the rug beneath you, but there is no escape from this exquisite onslaught. You are completely at his mercy, and the realization sends another violent shudder through your already quaking body.

His hand finds your throat again, not to choke, but to hold. A steady, dominant pressure that anchors you to the moment, to him. His thumb strokes your jawline, a shockingly tender gesture that contrasts violently with the animalistic drive of his hips.

“You feel that?” he demands, his voice low and intense, his breath hot against your ear. “That’s me. All of me. You’re so fucking perfect. So fucking tight around my cock. Made for this. Made for me.”

The praise, so raw and honest, undoes you more completely than any dirty talk ever could. It’s the vulnerability in his harsh tone, the awe layered beneath the possessiveness. A broken sob escapes you, and your inner muscles clench around him in a vise-like grip.

He growls, a feral, triumphant sound. “Yeah. That’s it. Gonna make you come again. Gonna feel you milk every fucking drop from me.”

He shifts his weight, leaning forward just enough to change the angle infinitesimally, and it’s all it takes. He hits a spot so deep, so sensitive, that your vision whites out. Your orgasm detonates, a silent, screaming wave of pleasure that seizes every muscle in your body, locking you in a rigid arc beneath him. You can’t even make a sound, your mouth open in a soundless cry.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through the convulsions, his own control fraying. His rhythm becomes erratic and frantic. His grip on your throat tightens, just for a moment, just enough to make the stars behind your eyes burst into supernovas.

“Fuck—gonna—!” he snarls, the words breaking apart.

With a final, deafening roar, he slams into you one last time, balls-deep, and pours himself into you. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release, each jet a claiming, a branding. He collapses forward, his forehead dropping to your sweat-slicked chest, his entire body shuddering through the aftershocks.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of your ragged, synced breathing and the frantic hammering of your hearts. He stays buried inside you, his weight a comforting, heavy blanket.

Then, he moves.

With a low grunt, he pulls out, a slow, slick withdrawal that makes you whimper at the sudden emptiness. Before you can even process it, his hands are on your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach with a possessiveness that leaves no room for argument. He manhandles you up onto your knees, your ass in the air, your cheek pressed against the rug.

You’re still trembling, boneless and oversensitive, but a fresh, sharp thrill of anticipation shoots through you. You feel exposed, presented. His.

He kneels behind you, one hand splaying across the small of your back to keep you in place. The other fist is tight in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make you gasp. The sharp sting melts into a deep, submissive warmth.

“Look at you,” he rasps, his voice hoarse with spent passion and renewed hunger. He guides himself back to your slick, swollen entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against you. “All messy and fucked out. My mess.”

He doesn’t wait. He sheathes himself inside you in one smooth, deep thrust, and you cry out, the sound muffled by the rug. This angle is different—deeper in a more primal way, hitting places that make you see stars. He sets a ruthless pace immediately, his grip on your hair keeping your back arched perfectly for him.

You feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, as he pounds into you. The room fills with the lewd, wet sound of your joining, the sharp slap of his skin against yours. His free hand slides from your back to your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh, surely leaving bruises. You hope they do.

“Wanted to see this,” he grunts, his breath coming in harsh pants. “Wanted to watch your back arch for me. To see this ass take my dick.”

He pulls your hair harder, forcing your spine into a deeper curve, and the shift in angle wrings a broken moan from your lips. You are completely at his mercy, a vessel for his pleasure, and the power of that surrender is the most potent aphrodisiac you’ve ever known. You can feel another orgasm building, coiling tight and low in your belly, fed by the raw, dirty talk and the overwhelming sensation of being used so perfectly.

His thrusts become more frantic, losing their rhythm. He’s close again. You can feel it in the tension thrumming through his body and hear it in the ragged edge of his groans.

“Gonna fill you up again and again still you can't think straight,” he promises, his voice a dark, delicious threat. “Make sure everyone fucking knows who you belong to.”

The possessive claim, the feeling of his body dominating yours, tips you over the edge. Your third orgasm crashes over you, a silent, shuddering wave that makes your entire body clench around him in rhythmic pulses. You collapse forward, but he holds you up by your hair, fucking you through it, drawing out every last second of your pleasure.

With a final, guttural shout, he slams into you one last time, his own orgasm triggered by your convulsing warmth. He holds himself deep, pulsing inside you, his grip on your hair finally relaxing to stroke your scalp as he rides out his climax.

He stays there for a moment, draped over your back, both of you panting, dripping with sweat, completely and utterly spent. The air is thick with the scent of sex and him.

Slowly, carefully, he pulls out. You whimper at the loss, feeling impossibly empty. He doesn’t go far. He collapses beside you on the rug, pulling you half onto his chest. His heartbeat is a frantic drum against your ear.

You expect him to say something gruff, to break the tenderness of the moment. But he just holds you, one arm a heavy, warm weight across your back, his other hand gently stroking your tangled hair.

His voice, when it finally comes, is rough but quiet, stripped bare. “…You okay?”

A soft, breathless laugh escapes you as you nod, the world still hazy and spinning from the sheer force of your climax. You turn onto your side, stretching your arms out to him, a silent, wordless plea for the comfort of his weight, the solid reality of his skin against yours.

He looks at you, his amber eyes dark and intense, studying the languid, open invitation of your body. His gaze is a physical caress, and you see the exact moment the heat rekindles in his blood. Feeling his cum cool on your stomach, on your thighs, but the possessive gleam in his eye is anything but spent. Seeing you like this—fucked out, pliant, and utterly his—gets him hard again. The evidence of it is immediate, his cock already thickening, rising against his thigh with a renewed, stubborn intent.

He doesn’t speak. He never needs to. He just moves, his body covering yours in a slow, deliberate eclipse. He pulls you into a deep, consuming kiss. It’s not like the frantic, desperate kisses from before. This one is slower, a languid exploration of your mouth that tastes of sweat and salt and something uniquely, fundamentally him. His tongue tangles with yours, a lazy dominance that makes your toes curl against the rug.

His hands are everywhere, mapping your skin as if memorizing you. One palm slides down your side, over the curve of your hip, while the other cradles your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, down the column of your throat, nuzzling into the sweat-damp skin there. He shifts, his powerful body moving between your legs, nudging them apart with his knees. You open for him willingly, a sigh of pure contentment escaping you as he settles his weight onto you.

This time, it’s different. The frantic, claiming pace is gone, replaced by a slow, grinding intensity that feels even more devastating. He guides himself to your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your sensitized, swollen flesh. You gasp at the contact, still so exquisitely tender from before. He pushes in with an agonizingly slow roll of his hips, filling you inch by exquisite inch. The stretch is a familiar, welcome burn, and you clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his back.

“Katsuki…” You breathe the name, a prayer, a plea, a thank you.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rumble against your ear.

Your eyes, which had fluttered shut, open to meet his. The raw emotion you see there steals the air from your lungs. The harsh lines of his face are softened in the dim light, his usual scowl replaced by a look of fierce, overwhelming focus. On you. Only ever on you.

He begins to move, a deep, steady rhythm that is no less powerful for its slowness. Each thrust is a deliberate, measured possession, a claim that goes deeper than skin, deeper than muscle, settling right into the marrow of your bones. He holds himself up on his forearms, his face hovering just above yours, his hot, ragged breaths mingling with your own. You can feel every ridge, every vein of him as he slides in and out, the friction building a low, simmering heat in your cunt all over again.

Tears you didn’t even realize were welling in your eyes spill over, tracing paths through the sweat on your temples. He sees them immediately. His brow furrows, not in anger, but in a questioning intensity. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows. He simply lowers his head, his lips finding yours in a kiss that is startlingly gentle before he shifts his attention to your cheeks. He kisses the tears away, his lips soft and insistent against your skin, his tongue catching the salty tracks.

“Don’t cry,” he whispers roughly into your skin, the command laced with a vulnerability that makes your heart clench. “I’ve got you.”

His hips never stop their slow, pistoling rhythm, each movement calculated to drag against that perfect, blissful spot inside you. You can feel another orgasm building, not as a violent detonation this time, but as a rising tide, warm and inexorable. You watch his face as you come undone, watch the way his eyes darken with awe, and the way his lips part on a silent gasp as he feels your internal muscles begin to flutter and tighten around him.

“That’s it,” he grunts, his own control starting to fray at the edges. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

His pace quickens, just a fraction, just enough to push you over that shimmering edge. Your climax washes through you like a warm wave, a deep, pulsing orgasm that makes you arch beneath him with a soft, broken cry. He follows you over instantly, his own orgasm tearing through him with a guttural groan. He buries his face in your neck, his entire body shuddering as he pours himself into you, his thrusts slowing to shallow, possessive grinds that milk every last shudder from both of you.

He collapses on top of you, his full weight a heavy, comforting blanket. For a long time, there is only the sound of your shared, slowing breaths and the frantic beating of his heart against your chest.

Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself up. His eyes are hooded, sated. He looks down at the mess cooling on your stomach, on your joined bodies, and his nose wrinkles almost imperceptibly. Without a word, he slides his arms under you—one beneath your knees, the other supporting your back—and lifts you easily against his chest. You are too boneless to do anything but cling to his neck, nuzzling into the hot skin of his throat as he carries you to the bathroom.

He sets you down gently on the closed lid of the toilet and turns on the shower, testing the water with his hand until it steams. Then his hands are on you again, but this time, they are all business, all gentle efficiency. He wets a soft cloth with warm water and wipes the evidence of your lovemaking from your stomach, your thighs, and between your legs. The care he takes is meticulous, almost reverent, his touch firm yet impossibly soft. He does the same for himself, quickly and without fanfare.

He helps you into the shower, following you under the spray. The hot water is a blissful relief on your aching muscles. He washes your hair, his strong fingers massaging your scalp, and soaps your body, his hands gliding over every curve as if reaffirming his claim. You return the favor, lathering the defined planes of his chest and his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift under your touch.

When you are both clean and the water begins to cool, he turns it off and wraps a large, fluffy towel around you, rubbing you dry with a brisk, no-nonsense efficiency that is so quintessentially him. He leads you to his bedroom, pulls back the dark covers, and tucks you into the cool sheets. He climbs in beside you, pulling you into his chest, your back against his front, his arm a heavy, secure band across your waist.

He nuzzles the damp hair at the nape of your neck and presses a final, soft kiss to your shoulder.

“Go to sleep,” he mutters, his voice already thick with exhaustion.

You smile into the darkness, surrounded by his scent, encased in his strength. Just as you are drifting off, his voice rumbles against your back, quiet and gruff.

𝔖𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔱 ℭ𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔞𝔰

You joined Squad Eight, prepared for chaos, mischief, and a captain who flirted with anything that breathed. Kyōraku Shunsui was everything the rumors promised—lazy smiles, spilled sake, a shameless tongue. You told yourself you were immune. You had to be.

C/W: Fingering, cream pie, praising, sub reader, Dom Shunsui, unprotected sex, penetrative sex (p inv), rough sex, fem reviving, outside sex, semi-public, wooden dildo, multiple rounds.

Wc: 3.8k

An: Day 15 Done. I hope you guys enjoy it. I'm still trying to catch up with days; don't beat me, please.

The afternoon sun spilled gold over the barracks of Squad 8, casting lazy rays across the open shoji doors. You had only been transferred for a week, yet everyone had already warned you about one thing: Beware of Captain Kyōraku.

Still, nothing had prepared you for the way he carried himself—so calm, so effortlessly commanding, yet quietly watchful under the guise of laziness. You stood outside his office, arms full of paperwork, taking a deep breath. Before you could even knock, a soft voice called out, “Ahh, now that spiritual pressure doesn’t belong to Nanao-chan… so, to whom do I owe such a lovely presence?”

The door slid open, revealing him: pink haori draped over his shoulders, straw hat tilted back just enough for you to see the curved, calm smile that seemed to see everything.

“Captain Kyōraku, I brought the mission reports,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

“Shunsui,” he corrected gently, stepping aside with a subtle bow. “Formality wilts the flowers, and you, my dear, are far too striking to wilt.”

You set the papers down, careful to avoid his gaze. “I’m here to work, not to be compared to flowers.”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and steady. “Fierce too. Camellias are beautiful… but dangerous when mishandled.”

Even in that small moment, you felt it—the way he noticed more than most. Not just the surface, but the parts you tried to hide.

Over the next week, he never stopped observing, never stopped being near. He watched you train late, noted the trembling of your hands after your first Hollow mission, the stiffness in your posture after criticism.

“You did well,” he murmured one evening as you wiped sweat from your brow. “But be careful not to let your heart become another battlefield.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Something was stirring inside you, something you didn’t want to name.

Then came the rumors. Captain Kyōraku was seen under the cherry trees with a Squad Three officer… He called her ‘pretty blossom.’ He poured her sake…

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. But it did.

One afternoon, walking past him and seeing him laughing with another woman, your chest tightened. You kept walking, not looking at him, trying to deny the ache forming in your stomach.

“Ah—Camellia-chan,” he called softly, his voice carrying a weight you couldn’t define. “Not even a hello?”

You kept moving, stomach twisting with conflicted emotion.

That night, you trained alone until your arms shook and your breath came in ragged gasps. You weren’t angry at him—not really. You were angry at yourself. Angry that you cared, angry that your chest ached for someone you couldn’t admit to liking.

“So that’s where you ran off to,” his voice drifted through the dojo, calm and steady.

“You should leave, Captain,” you said quietly, not looking at him.

He stepped inside. No hat, no sake. Just eyes—quiet, unwavering, holding you in place.

“If your sword grows any sharper,” he said softly, “you’ll have nothing left but loneliness to cut.”

“Go flirt with someone else,” you shot back, trying to keep your voice steady.

He blinked slowly. “Is that what you think I do with you?”

“That’s what you do with everyone,” you admitted under your breath.

The silence stretched, heavy and quiet. Then he moved closer. Your back brushed against the dojo wall, and he stopped your trembling hand before it could lift the blade again.

“If I only wanted your beauty,” he murmured, low and calm, “I would’ve sought your body. But I want your eyes. Your laugh. Even your silence.”

Your chest tightened. “Why… why me?”

His gaze softened, and for the first time, the casual tilt of his smile faded. “Because, little camellia… you’re the first person whose rejection I actually fear.”

The rain began softly outside, misting the air and blurring lantern light in the distance. Drawn by some instinct you didn’t fully understand, you found yourself wandering to the veranda. There he was, leaning against the railing, eyes steady, calm, and unyielding.

The cool evening air wrapped around you, carrying the faint scent of wet wood and distant cherry blossoms. Your steps quickened, heart hammering in your chest, every instinct telling you to leave, to run back to your quarters and sort out the storm of emotions you’d been ignoring.

“I… I should go,” you murmured to yourself, stepping toward the stairs.

Shunsui’s gaze followed you, calm and unwavering. “Going so soon?” he asked quietly, without teasing, with a weight that made your pulse falter.

You tried to look anywhere but at him. “I… I just… need some air,” you said softly, picking up your pace.

Before you could fully step away, his hand closed around your wrist. Not harshly, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks. The sudden contact sent a jolt through you, and your chest tightened.

“Leaving now… after everything?” he asked quietly. “You can’t walk away from this.”

You swallowed hard and looked down, wanting to hide from the truth reflected in his steady gaze. You tried to step back—but your body froze, held in place by your own feelings and by his calm, commanding presence.

The rain fell softly, the night air thick with the scent of cherry blossoms, and you finally understood the feeling you’d been ignoring. The ache in your chest, the fluttering in your stomach, the way your heart raced whenever he was near. You wanted him. You had always wanted him.

Shunsui released your wrist just enough to let the tension settle, but remained close, letting his presence hold the space between you. “You don’t need to speak,” he murmured. “I already know.”

And in that suspended moment—the mist, the rain, the quiet, the faint glow of lanterns—you finally accepted the truth. You couldn’t deny it any longer.

And now, there was no turning back.

The rain whispered against the veranda’s roof, a soft percussion to the thunder of your own heartbeat. Shunsui’s lips met yours, and the world dissolved into sensation. It wasn't a gentle, tentative kiss. It was a claim. A deep, languid exploration that tasted of expensive sake and unspoken longing. His mouth moved over yours with a practiced ease that should have felt arrogant but instead felt right, as if you’d been waiting your entire life for this specific pressure, this specific heat.

A low, ragged moan escaped you, the sound swallowed by his kiss. Your hands, which had been clenched at your sides, came up of their own volition, fingers twisting into the thick, soft fabric of his kosode. You weren’t pushing him away. You were anchoring yourself.

He broke the kiss, his breath warm against your wet lips. His dark eyes, usually heavy with lazy amusement, were now black pools of pure, undiluted want. “That,” he whispered, his voice a husky rasp that vibrated through your very bones, “is what I wanted to do that first day you walked into my office, all fire and defiance.”

Before you could form a coherent thought, his mouth was on yours again. This time, his tongue swept past your lips, a bold, intimate invasion you welcomed with a desperate shudder. One of his hands slid from the pillar to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, tilting you to a better angle. The other hand splayed across the small of your back, pressing your body flush against the solid, muscular plane of his chest.

The cool evening air was a stark contrast to the furnace of his skin through the thin layers of your shinigami robes. You could feel the latent power coiled in his frame, a predator’s strength held in perfect check. He deepened the kiss again, and a wave of pure, liquid heat pooled low in your abdomen, a throbbing ache beginning to build.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily. “Tell me now,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Tell me this isn’t what you’ve dreamed about when you’re alone in your bunk at night.”

You couldn’t lie. Not with your body screaming its approval. “Shunsui…”

His name was all the answer he needed. In one smooth, effortless motion, he swept you into his arms, your feet leaving the wooden floor. He carried you through the sliding door into his private quarters, the dimly lit room smelling of sandalwood and him. He laid you down on the deep blue futon as if you were something precious, following you down without breaking contact, his weight settling over you in a way that made you gasp.

His lips found the sensitive skin beneath your ear, then trailed down the column of your throat. Each press of his mouth was a brand. “I have imagined the sounds you would make,” he breathed against your pulse point, his voice thick with desire. “I have wondered if your skin would taste as sweet as it looks.”

His hands were everywhere, everywhere. One slipped beneath the hem of your shitagi, his calloused palm sliding up the outside of your thigh, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You arched into his touch, a wordless plea on your lips. He chuckled, a dark, sensual sound. “So responsive, my little camellia. So perfect for me.”

He found the tie of your kosode and loosened it with a deft tug. The fabric fell open, and his heated gaze dropped to your breasts, barely concealed by the thin cotton of your underrobe. The look in his eyes was one of pure, reverent hunger. He dipped his head, and through the fabric, his mouth closed over one taut peak.

You cried out, your back bowing off the futon. The sensation was electric, a jolt of pleasure so intense it was almost pain. He suckled you, his tongue circling the hardened nipple, the damp cotton creating a friction that made you whimper. His free hand found your other breast, kneading it gently, his thumb brushing over the peak in a rhythm that matched the thrust of his hips against your thigh.

“I need to feel you,” you gasped, your own hands frantically working at the obi of his hakama. “Please.”

He was more than willing to comply. He shrugged out of his pink haori and kosode with a fluid shrug, revealing a chest sculpted from a lifetime of battle, crisscrossed with faint scars you ached to trace with your tongue. You did just that, leaning up to press an open-mouthed kiss to a silvery line over his heart. He groaned, the sound ripped from deep within his chest, and his control slipped a notch.

His fingers, now impatient, made quick work of the ties of your hakama, pushing the fabric down your hips. The cool air hit your overheated skin, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the blistering heat of his touch. His hand slid between your thighs, and you jolted at the contact.

“So wet for me already,” he growled, his voice laced with triumphant awe. He parted your folds with two fingers, his touch exquisitely deliberate. “All this… because of me?”

You could only nod, biting your lip as he circled your clit with a tantalizing slowness that was pure torture. Your hips bucked, seeking more pressure, but he held you firm, drawing out the agonizing pleasure. He watched your face, memorizing every flicker of ecstasy, every helpless gasp.

“I want to hear you,” he commanded softly, his breath ghosting over your cheek. “I want to hear every sigh, every moan. Don’t hold anything back.”

He finally gave you what you needed, sliding two fingers deep inside you in one smooth, sure stroke. You cried out, the sound echoing in the quiet room as he filled you perfectly. He began to move his hand, a slow, building rhythm that had you clutching at his shoulders. His thumb found your clit again, applying a delicious, circling pressure that made you see stars.

The coil of pleasure tightened, threatening to snap. You were so close, teetering on the edge, your entire world narrowed to the feeling of his hand and the dark intensity of his gaze.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice rough. “Let go for me. I want to feel you come on my fingers.”

His words were the final push. Pleasure detonated, a silent scream caught in your throat as your climax ripped through you, wave after shattering wave of pure sensation. Your inner muscles clenched around his fingers, milking them as you shuddered beneath him.

Before the last tremor had even subsided, he was moving. He shifted his weight, settling between your legs. The blunt, heated head of his cock pressed against your soaked entrance. You were still pulsating from your orgasm, hypersensitive and pliant.

He looked down at you, his expression a mixture of raw need and something deeper, something that looked terrifyingly like affection. “Look at me,” he whispered.

Your eyes, which had fluttered shut, opened and met his.

“This…” he said, voice thick with promise as he began to push inside, “…is not a flirtation.”

He groaned as he filled you. Not just with the thick, impossible length of him, but with his presence, his weight, the scent of him that wrapped around you like a second skin. That first thrust stole the air from your lungs, a gasp becoming a broken moan as he seated himself to the hilt, stretching you in a way that was perfect, a claiming that your body recognized on some primal level.

“Kyouraku…” you breathed, the name a prayer, a curse, a surrender.

A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest, vibrating through where you were joined. “Say it again.”

He began to move, a slow, deliberate withdrawal that made you whimper at the loss, followed by a driving, powerful thrust that punched the air from your lungs. Again. He set a rhythm that was as lazy and deceptive as his demeanor, each stroke deep and measured, each one striking a place inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“You feel… gods… you feel like heaven,” he grunted, his forehead dropping to yours, his dark hair a curtain around your faces. His control was a tangible thing, a tightly leashed storm you could feel in the tremble of his biceps where you clung to him.

He shifted his angle minutely, and your world shattered. A cry, sharp and involuntary, tore from your throat as he found a spot that sent electric shocks of pure pleasure radiating through your entire body.

A wicked, knowing grin touched his kiss-swollen lips. “There?” he purred, and did it again, and again, each thrust a masterpiece of precision.

You were babbling, a stream of incoherent pleas and his name, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his back. The orgasm that had just wrecked you felt like a distant memory compared to the cataclysm he was building now, hotter, deeper, more.

Just as you felt the coil inside you wind to an unbearable tightness, he stilled. Deep inside you, buried to the root. You made a sound of pure, frustrated agony.

“Shhh, my fiery one,” he soothed, brushing the hair from your damp forehead. His eyes held a dark, playful light. “The night is young. And I have… other ways to worship this perfect body.”

With a final, gentle thrust that made you clench around him, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness was a physical ache. You watched, breath held, as he moved with that infuriating, graceful slowness. He reached for a small, ornate chest beside the futon. The lid opened with a soft click. Inside, nestled on dark velvet, lay an object of gleaming, polished duskwood, shaped with a familiar, tantalizing curve. It was a twin to the part of him you already craved again.

Your eyes widened. A flush that had nothing to do with exertion heated your cheeks, your neck, your breasts.

He saw your look and chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “A captain has many tools at his disposal.” He picked it up, the oiled wood catching the low light. “Do you trust me?”

You could only nod, your mouth dry, your heart hammering against your ribs. Yes. A thousand times, yes.

He knelt between your splayed thighs, his gaze hot and possessive as it traveled the length of your naked body. He poured a slick, floral-scented oil into his palm, warming it before coating the toy with a slow, deliberate stroke that had you squirming. The air thickened with the scent of plum blossoms and anticipation.

The cool, smooth tip pressed against your oversensitive flesh. You flinched, and his free hand came down to soothe your hip, his thumb making gentle circles on your skin.

“Easy,” he murmured. “This is just… an extension of me. Another part of me to please you with.”

He pushed. Just the head. A slow, inexorable invasion. Your breath hitched. It was different from his flesh—smooth, unyielding, a constant, firm pressure. He held it there, letting you adjust, his eyes locked on yours, reading every micro-expression that flickered across your face.

“More?” he asked, his voice a husky promise.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please, Shunsui… more.”

He sank it deeper, a long, slow glide that filled you utterly. A moan, long and low, was torn from you. He began to move it, a shallow, teasing rhythm at first, in and out, just a few inches. The unrelenting hardness of it was a new, shocking kind of pleasure, a relentless stimulation that had you clutching at the futon beneath you.

“Look at you,” he breathed, his own arousal evident in the strained tension of his body, the dark hunger in his eyes. “Taking this so beautifully. So hungry for it.”

His pace increased. Deeper strokes now, each one dragging against your inner walls, each withdrawal a sweet agony. His free hand drifted down, his fingers finding your clit, slick with your own arousal and the oil. He circled the swollen nub, his touch expert, maddening.

The dual sensations were too much. Too much. The deep, filling thrusts of the toy and the perfect, torturous circles on your clit built a pressure inside you that was terrifying in its intensity. You were sobbing now, pleading, words you didn’t recognize tumbling from your lips.

“That’s it,” he growled, his own control fraying. “Let me hear you. Come for me. Come on this.”

He crooked the toy inside you, pressing it hard against that devastating spot, and his thumb pressed down on your clit. The world exploded. White-hot, searing pleasure erupted from your core, washing over you in relentless, shattering waves. Your back arc

hed off the futon, a scream locked in your throat as you convulsed around the hard length of wood, your vision blurring at the edges.

Through the haze of your climax, you felt him move. The toy was gone. In its place was the hot, velvety steel of him. He sheathed himself inside your pulsating, sensitive core in one powerful thrust, a guttural groan tearing from his lips as your body clenched around him.

“Now,” he rasped, his voice raw with a need he could no longer contain. His rhythm was frantic, desperate, each drive of his hips claiming you, branding you. “Come with me.”

His mouth crashed down on yours, swallowing your cries as his own release tore through him. You felt the hot, pulsing rush of him deep inside, the final, perfect trigger that sent you spiraling over the edge again, a second, dizzying peak that left you boneless and trembling beneath him. He collapsed, his weight a comforting anchor, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.

For long moments, there was only the sound of your shared, labored breathing and the soft, persistent whisper of the rain. He shifted slightly, but didn’t pull away, keeping himself buried within you as if unwilling to break the connection.

“I want you to know,” he whispered, his hips giving the slightest, torturous shift that made me gasp, “that I mean every word I say to you.” 

𝕿𝖔𝖔 𝖍𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖑𝖊

In a modern world far from the seas, you meet Portgas D. Ace for a casual café date that quickly turns into anything but ordinary. What begins with playful banter, teasing smiles, and quiet confessions ignites into a fierce, undeniable pull.

C/W: Fingering, cream pie, praising, sub reader, Dom Ace, unprotected sex, penetrative sex (p inv), rough sex, fem reviving, bathroom sex, semi-public, almost being caught, multiple rounds.

Wc: 3.8k

An: Day 15 Done. I hope you guys enjoy it. I'm still trying to catch up with days; don't beat me, please.

You were already regretting wearing that cream-colored sweater dress when you spotted Ace leaning against the brick wall outside the café, arms crossed, black beanie pulled over his messy hair. Even with the cold nipping at everyone else, he looked warm—radiant, like a flame wrapped in denim. When his eyes landed on you, his grin spread slow and wicked.

“Look at you,” he drawled, pushing off the wall. “Showing up looking like trouble.”

“I could say the same,” you muttered, pretending not to stare at his rolled-up sleeves, the veins in his forearms, and the tattoo peeking out. Why was that legal?

He opened the café door for you, hand brushing the small of your back. Too casual to be an accident. Too precise not to mean something.

Inside, the café glowed with soft lights and music. He didn’t even look at the menu. Just looked at you. You ordered coffee. He ordered hot chocolate—with extra whipped cream “just to bother you.”

When it arrived, he dipped his finger in the cream and leaned across the table.

“Want a taste?”

You swatted his hand. “You’re disgusting.” He laughed. “So bossy.” A pause. Then, quietly—dangerously—“Bet you taste sweeter.”

Your cheeks burned. You looked anywhere but at him, stirring your drink as though it needed something. Ace lounged back, arm spread over the booth, watching you with lidded eyes and a smirk like he was planning something. Every time you glanced up, he winked. You cursed him under your breath.

Eventually, conversation sparked—stupid dares, burning toast, times he got lost for hours on a motorcycle ride. He asked about your week. You muttered about stress and people underestimating you. He didn’t joke. He listened. Really listened.

You caught him staring. “What?” You snapped, flustered. 

“Nothing…” His grin softened. “I’d fight anyone who makes you that upset. Even you.”

“You can’t fight me.” 

“I’d let you win.” 

Cocky bastard.

Rain began to patter against the windows, turning the outside world into a blur. The café emptied. Lights dimmed. Yet neither of you moved. At some point, Ace slid from across the booth to beside you, under the excuse of “a better view of the rain.” His thigh brushed yours. He didn’t move back.

“Cold?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.” His hand slipped under the table, resting over your knee, thumb pressing slow circles into your skin. “Let me warm you up.”

Your breath caught. “Ace…” He leaned close, voice low, warm as smoke. “If I’m making you uncomfortable, tell me to stop.” You didn’t. Your legs squeezed tight. He noticed.

“Shy now?” he murmured. “You were bold ten minutes ago, sweetheart.”

“I swear, if you call me that—”

“What?” He smirked. “Sweetheart?”

You hated how much you didn’t hate it.

“Y’know…” he whispered, thumb sliding just a bit higher, “… I could call you other things.”

“Like what?” you breathed.

His lips ghosted yours.

 “Mine.” A light flicked off at the counter. A barista stacked chairs. The spell didn’t break.  His  hand remained on your thigh. Your lips a breath apart.

“I’m not done with you,” he said quietly.

“Then don’t be.”

No grin this time—hunger. He stood, grabbed your wrist, and tugged you from the booth. “Ace—where—”

“Come here.”

He led you through the dim café, past empty tables, to a hallway in the back. The single-stall bathroom door clicked shut behind you—locked. Your back hit the wall. Gently. Firmly. Ace caged you in with an arm beside your head, the other gripping your hip. His voice dropped, fire and smoke.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathed. “Teasin’ me all night… lookin’ at me like that…” “Ace—” “Say my name again,” he demanded, lips at your jaw. “I wanna hear it when you can’t think straight.”

Your breath hitched, his words sinking into your skin like fire. The air between you crackled, thick with everything unspoken. You barely managed to whisper his name again before he closed the distance

His kiss wasn't gentle. It was a conquest. A claiming. His mouth moved over yours with a desperate, hungry heat that stole the air from your lungs and the sense from your head. One hand cupped the back of your neck, angling you perfectly for him, while the other slid from your hip to your ass, grabbing a handful of fabric and flesh and pulling you flush against the hard lines of his body.

You could feel every inch of him through the layers of your clothes—the rigid proof of his desire pressed insistently against your stomach. A low, appreciative groan rumbled in his chest, vibrating against yours. God, he felt good.

He broke the kiss, both of you panting, foreheads resting together. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want. “That damn dress,” he breathed, his voice gravelly. “Been driving me insane all night. So soft. So fucking perfect.” His fingers found the hem, sliding underneath to skim up the back of your thigh. His touch was electric on your bare skin. “Wanted to do this all through that conversation.”

His fingers dipped higher, teasing the lace edge of your panties. You shuddered, a small, helpless sound escaping you.

“Tell me,” he commanded, his lips brushing your earlobe. “Tell me you want this. Right here. Right now.”

“Yes,” you gasped, the word barely audible. It was all you could manage.

“Louder.”

“Yes, Ace. Please.”

His feral grin was back. “Atta girl.”

In one fluid motion, he spun you around so your back was to his front, your hands flat against the cool tile wall. His body was a furnace at your back, his denim jacket rough against your shoulders. He gathered your hair in one hand and swept it aside, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your neck. He sucked hard, and you knew he was marking you, and the thought made you moan, pushing your hips back against the solid ridge of his cock.

“Fuck,” he hissed against your skin. His hands were at your waist now, pulling the dress up, bunching it around your hips. The cool air of the bathroom hit your exposed skin, and you trembled. His palms smoothed over your ass, kneading, before one hand slipped between your legs from behind.

You jolted as his fingers found the soaked center of your panties, rubbing a slow, torturous circle over the fabric. “So wet for me,” he murmured, his breath hot on your neck. “All that teasing… you were thinking about this, weren’t you? About me, fucking you in some back alley… or a bathroom…”

You could only nod, your head spinning, your world narrowing to the feeling of his touch and the sound of his ragged breathing.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and dragged them down your legs. “Step out,” he ordered, his voice thick. You obeyed, kicking them aside. His belt buckle clinked as he undid it, the sound obscenely loud in the small room. The rasp of his zipper followed, and then his hands were on you again, turning you back to face him.

He was glorious—hair messy, lips swollen from your kisses, eyes burning with pure, unadulterated lust. He freed his cock from his jeans, and your breath caught. He was thick and firm, and the sight of him, ready for you, sent a fresh wave of heat crashing straight to your legs.

He didn’t wait. He hoisted you up, your back against the wall, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles. He supported you with an arm under your ass, the other hand guiding himself to your sweet cunt.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You met his fiery gaze.

He pushed inside.

It was a slow, stretching, agonizingly perfect invasion. You cried out, your head falling back against the wall as he filled you completely. He was everywhere, all you could feel, all you could smell—his cologne, his sweat, him.

“Christ,” he moaned, his own eyes squeezing shut for a second as he bottomed out. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He began to move. A slow, deep withdrawal, then a hard, driving thrust that made you see stars. The pace was relentless from the start, a frantic, building rhythm fueled by a night of pent-up tension. Each thrust rocked your entire body against the wall. The mix of sensations was overwhelming—the cold, hard tile against your back, the hot, slick friction where you were joined, the coarse denim of his jeans rubbing against the tender skin of your inner thighs.

He buried his face in your neck, his breaths coming in harsh pants that ghosted over your skin. “You feel… so fucking good… wrapped around me…”

You clawed at his shoulders, his back, anything to anchor yourself as he drove you higher and higher. Your own moans filled the small space, mingling with the slap of skin on skin and his ragged groans. The mirror over the sink was fogging up from your heat. You were lost in it, in him, in the raw, primal need that had taken over.

His hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. The direct contact was explosive. You cried out, your back arching, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he urged, his voice a rough whisper. “Come for me. I wanna feel you come on my cock.”

The coil in your abdomen tightened, unbearably tight, and then it shattered. Pleasure erupted through you, wave after wave of pure, white-hot ecstasy that made your vision blur and your entire body convulse around him. Your cry was muffled against his shoulder.

Feeling you clench around him pushed him over the edge. With a guttural groan that was all your name, he buried himself deep inside you and came, his cum pulsing deep into you as his body shuddered against yours.

For a long moment, you just clung to each other, panting, sweating, coming down from the high. The only sound was your combined, ragged breaths. He kept you pinned to the wall, his forehead resting on yours, his eyes closed.

A slow, sated smirk finally touched his lips. “Damn,” he breathed. “That was…”

A sharp, loud knock on the door made you both freeze.

Your eyes flew open, wide with panic. Ace’s head snapped up, his body instantly tense.

A bored, slightly annoyed voice called from the other side. “Hey. You almost done in there? I have to lock up.” It was the barista.

Ace’s shocked expression melted into that familiar, wicked grin. He looked from the door back to you, your bodies still intimately joined. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. 

“Yeah, could you just give me a few more minutes?”

“Sure, just don’t take too long; we close in about 15 minutes.” The barista said before walking away

A slow, wicked grin spread across Ace’s face at your sharp intake of breath. The barista’s footsteps faded into the background, replaced by the frantic pounding of your heart. His eyes, dark and full of dark promise, held yours.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice a velvet threat. “Wouldn’t want him to know what a good little mess you are for me, would we?”

He moved with a shocking, fluid grace. In one swift motion, he pulled out of you, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. A sharp, possessive slap landed on your ass. “Hands on the door,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Keep us quiet.”

Trembling, you obeyed, planting your palms flat against the cool, painted metal of the stall door. The pose arched your back, presenting yourself to him completely. You heard the soft, wet sound of him stroking himself, and then his hands were on your hips, pulling you back.

You felt his hot breath first, a ghost of sensation against your most sensitive skin. Then, the flat of his tongue. A long, slow, deliberate lick from your entrance all the way up.

You jolted, a choked whimper caught in your throat. Your fingers splayed against the door, your knuckles white.

“That’s it,” he growled against you, his voice vibrating through your very core. “Hold on.”

He didn’t tease. He feasted. His mouth was relentless, his tongue a wicked instrument of pure pleasure. He lapped at you, circling your clit with a firm, dizzying pressure before diving lower to taste the evidence of your shared climax, the mix of your release and his that coated your inner thighs. A low, appreciative groan rumbled from him, a sound of pure, primal satisfaction. “Fuck, you taste even better like this.”

His arms wrapped around your thighs, locking you in place, giving you no escape as he devoured you. The world narrowed to the humid, slick heat of his mouth and the cold, hard reality of the door under your hands. Every flick of his tongue, every soft suck, sent shattering tremors through you. You bit your lip hard, tasting blood, to keep from crying out.

Another series of knocks, louder this time, rattled the door against your palms. “Hello? Man, are you almost done in there? My boss is starting to nag me.”

Your body went rigid with panic. Ace’s grip on your thighs only tightened. He didn’t stop. If anything, his tongue worked harder, faster, a silent, wicked rebellion against the interruption.

“Yeah, sorry, man!” Ace called out, his voice startlingly clear and casual despite where his mouth was. It was an obscene contradiction that made your head spin. “Be out in a sec! Just… uh… stomach’s real upset.” He punctuated the lie with another deep, lavish lick that had your legs buckling.

A disgruntled sigh from the other side. “Hurry it up, alright?”

“You got it,” Ace said, his words muffled against your skin.

You heard the barista’s footsteps shuffle away again, but the reprieve was short-lived. Ace’s hands slid from your thighs to your ass, squeezing roughly as he buried his face deeper, his tongue plunging inside you now, fucking you with it, mimicking the relentless pace he’d set before.

The coil of pleasure, which had never fully unwound, tightened again with a vicious, breathtaking speed. You were so sensitive, every nerve ending screaming. You pressed your forehead against the cool metal of the door, a strangled sob of pleasure and desperation escaping your lips.

“Ace… please… I can’t…”

“You can,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. “You’re gonna come again. Right now. And you’re going to do it quietly for me.”

He replaced his tongue with two fingers, sliding into you with ease, curling them to find that perfect, devastating spot inside you. His thumb pressed down on your clit, rubbing tight, rapid circles. going to

It was too much. The risk of getting caught, the filthy, delicious things he was doing to you, the raw ownership in his touch—it all crested at once. A silent scream ripped through you as your climax shattered your senses. Your body seized, convulsing around his fingers, your vision whiting out at the edges. You would have collapsed if not for his iron grip on your hip and the door holding you up.

He held you through it, working you gently through the violent, pulsing waves until you were limp and breathless.

Only then did he slowly withdraw his fingers. You heard him stand, the rustle of his jeans. You were still leaning against the door, utterly spent, when his body pressed against your back. His hardness nestled against your sore, sensitive flesh.

His mouth found your ear, his voice a low, hungry rasp. “Hear that? He’s gone for a while this time. Now it’s just us again.”

His voice, a low growl against your ear, is a promise and a command all at once. My turn. Your entire body hums with the aftershocks of your last climax, the sensitive flesh between your legs still pulsing from the thorough, devastating attention of his mouth. You feel raw, exposed, and utterly his.

“Are you ready for me again?”

You can only manage a shaky nod, your forehead still pressed against the cool metal of the stall door. His hands slide from your hips to your waist, his touch both possessive and reassuring.

“Didn’t quite hear you, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you breathe out, the word barely a whisper.

“Louder.”

“Yes, Ace. Please.”

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest. “That’s my girl.”

His hands move again, but not to enter you. Instead, they spin you around firmly, your back now to the door. The sudden movement makes you gasp. Before you can even process it, he’s guiding you down, your knees meeting the cool, tiled floor. Your hands instinctively reach out, finding the solid, cold porcelain base of the toilet for support. The position is shockingly submissive, kneeling before him in the dim light of the bathroom, the faint, clean scent of disinfectant a stark contrast to the musky, primal scent of the two of you.

He stands over you, a tower of denim and desire. His cock, hard and glistening with your combined wetness, is right there. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His dark, hooded eyes hold yours, the intensity in them stealing the air from your lungs. This is about his control, his pleasure, and your complete surrender to it.

You lean forward, closing the distance, and take him into your mouth.

He lets out a sharp, guttural groan the moment your lips close around the head. His hand tangles in your hair, not forcing, but guiding, setting a slow, deep rhythm. “Fuck… just like that.” You relax your jaw, taking him deeper, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside. You can taste yourself on him, a salty, intimate flavor that only fuels your own rekindling arousal. His hips give a minute thrust, a barely restrained impulse, and you take him to the back of your throat, swallowing around him.

The sound he makes is pure, undiluted bliss. “Fuck… you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You lose yourself in the rhythm, in the weight of him on your tongue, the way his grip tightens in your hair with every pass. You look up at him through your lashes, and the sight of him—head thrown back, jaw clenched, a single vein throbbing in his neck—is more intoxicating than anything. He is completely unraveling, and you are the one doing it.

Suddenly, he pulls himself from your mouth with a wet pop. You’re left panting, lips swollen, looking up at him in a daze.

“Up,” he commands, his voice ragged. “Turn around. Hands on the bowl.”

A fresh thrill of dirty, exhilarating anticipation shoots through you. You scramble to obey, turning back around on your knees and gripping the cool, smooth rim of the toilet bowl for support. The position arches your back, presenting yourself to him completely, vulnerably. You feel the cool air on your wetness, and you shudder.

You hear the rustle of his jeans as he kneels behind you. His hands grip your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your ass. He spreads you open, and you feel exposed in a way that makes you burn.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with awe and lust. “So perfect. All mine.”

He doesn’t tease. He guides himself to your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your slick, sensitive folds. You’re so ready, so open for him, still throbbing from your last orgasm. With one powerful, relentless thrust, he sheathes himself inside you to the hilt.

A choked cry is ripped from your throat at the sudden, exquisite fullness. The angle is different and deeper, and he hits a spot that makes you see stars. Your grip on the porcelain tightens until your knuckles are white.

“Quiet,” he growls, his voice a harsh whisper against your back. He begins to move, setting a punishing, deep rhythm right from the start. Each thrust drives you forward, your body rocking against the sturdy toilet. The filthy, wet sound of your joining fills the small stall, a lewd soundtrack to your pounding hearts.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips to pull you back onto him, sliding up to palm your breast through your dress, then tangling in your hair to pull your head back, arching your spine. He leans over you, his chest a hot, solid wall against your back, his mouth finding the sweaty skin of your neck.

“You take me so good,” he rasps into your ear, his breath hot. “So fucking deep. You feel that? You feel how deep I am in you?”

You can only moan in response, the sensations overwhelming. The coarse denim of his jeans rubs against the tender backs of your thighs. The cold, unyielding porcelain is a stark contrast to the burning heat of his body surrounding you, filling you. Every nerve ending is alight.

His pace quickens, becoming frantic and desperate. The build-up from the café, the interrupted first round, the intimate act you just performed—it’s all crashing together into this single, driving need. You can feel your climax coiling again, tighter and hotter than before, fed by the raw, animalistic sounds he’s making, by the sheer dominance of his possession.

“I’m gonna come,” he grunts, his thrusts becoming erratic, deeper, and harder. “Gonna fill you up. You want that?”

“Yes! Ace, please…”

“Tell me.”

“I want it! I want you!”

His arm snakes around your waist, holding you impossibly close as he drives into you one last, final time. With a raw, guttural shout that he muffles against your shoulder, he pulses inside you, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release. The feeling of him coming, of his hot cum flooding you, triggers your own shattering orgasm. It crashes over you in a silent, breathtaking wave, your internal muscles clenching around him, milking every last drop from him as your vision blurs at the edges.

You both collapse forward, a sweaty, panting heap. Your forehead rests against the cool lid of the toilet, his weight a heavy, comforting blanket on your back. The only sound is your ragged, synced breathing, echoing in the small, humid space.

For a long moment, there is only this. The feel of him, still inside you. The scent of sex and sweat. The aftershocks are still tingling through your limbs.

Slowly, he shifts, softening and slipping out of you. He doesn’t pull away completely. Instead, he turns you in his arms, your back now against the toilet tank, and pulls you onto his lap. Your legs straddle his hips. He looks wrecked—hair stuck to his forehead, eyes glazed with sated lust, and a lazy, triumphant smirk playing on his lips.

He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch surprisingly gentle. “So,” he says, his voice still rough around the edges. “Ready to get out of here?” You give him a quick nod, to which he responds by giving you a quick kiss.

ℭ𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢

Summary: In a rain-soaked city, Officer Sanemi finally captures the elusive criminal who’s been taunting him for months—you. Dragged into an empty interrogation room, the chase turns into a dangerous confrontation charged with unresolved tension.

C/W: Fingering, cream pie, praising, sub reader, Dom Sanemi, unprotected sex, penetrative sex (p inv), rough sex, fem reviving, handcuffs, tit sucking, car sex, semi-public.

Wc: 4.2k

An: Day 11 Done. I hope you guys enjoy my favorite mean freak being a mean freak. Sorry if the story is a little fast; I'm trying to catch up on my days @blushinglemon

The rain drummed a frantic rhythm on the roof of the patrol car, a stark contrast to the heavy, static-laced silence inside. Sanemi’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, tendons straining, his gaze fixed straight ahead—refusing to look at you shivering in the back seat, wrists locked in cold, unforgiving steel. The drive from the precinct had been wordless. No threats. No curses. Just a storm contained within glass and metal. You should’ve stayed quiet. But your mind betrayed you, flickering back to where it began.

The alley had always been your escape route, a familiar labyrinth of brick and shadow. But tonight, with rain hammering down in sheets, it turned against you. Boots slapping wet pavement, you dashed into the dark, heart racing—and then you heard him. Not frantic. Not panicked. Steady. Inevitable.

“You think you can outrun me?” His voice cut through the rain like a blade.

Before you could blink, he was on you. Hands seized your wrists, slamming you into the brick wall. Your breath punched out of you as his body caged yours, golden eyes burning with fury—and something deeper. Darker.

“You’re insane,” you managed, trying to twist free. His grip tightened.

“Yeah,” he snarled, rain running down his jaw, “and you’re reckless. But I’m done letting you play this game.”

He dragged you through the storm, no umbrella, no cuffs yet—just pure, seething control. By the time he shoved you into the empty interrogation room, you were both drenched. He didn’t speak at first. Just paced. Tension coiled in every line of him. Then it snapped.

“You think this is funny?” He barked. “You taunt me, run circles around me, laugh in my face—what, you expect me to look the other way?”

“I like to live dangerously,” you whispered. He froze. Head lifting slowly. Eyes locking onto yours with something feral.

“You’re lucky I’m a cop,” he said, voice low and rough. “Because if I weren’t… you’d be begging by now.” Silence. Thick. Burning. “You think I’m scared of you?” you challenged.

He moved. In one stride, his hand tangled into your hair, slamming you against the wall. His mouth crashed onto yours—rough, punishing. You gasped, grabbing at his uniform, but he didn’t give you time to breathe. One hand braced beside your head, the other clamped at your waist, dragging you against him.

“You’re impossible,” he growled against your lips. “And I… can’t…” His breath shook. “I shouldn’t want this. But I do. God, I do.”

Your laugh trembled. “Then take it.”

That was it. His restraint shattered. He lifted you, pressing you onto the table, hips pinning yours. Every kiss was a bite. Every breath a curse. Heat warred with fury, his hands roaming, claiming, marking.

“You’ve got no idea,” he rasped. “How dangerous you are. How much I want to ruin you.”

Your fingers fisted in his hair, pulling him back to you. He groaned, raw, primal. Duty was gone. Only hunger remained.

“Say my name,” he demanded, breath ragged. “Say it.”

“Sanemi…” His eyes darkened. Possessive. Wild. “Good,” he whispered. “That’s mine.”

And now, here you were. Back in the patrol car. Back in the cold. He had cuffed you to the radiator after—after whatever that was—and, without a word, escorted you out. But this silence? This was worse. He killed the engine. Rain streaked the windshield, blurring the city lights below into molten gold. His breath was heavy. Shoulders tense. He still didn’t look at you.

“Why… why did you bring me out here?” you asked. “Because,” he muttered, voice raw, “I needed to remember I’m a cop.”

A breath. Heavy. “And because if I stayed in that room with you… I wouldn’t have stopped.”

The words hung between you—blistering, dangerous. Then, he moved.

In one fluid, predatory motion, he was out of the driver’s seat and yanking open the back door, the storm’s chill gust washing over you. He loomed in the frame, rain glistening in his disheveled white hair, golden eyes glowing with a feral light in the dimness.

“Get out,” he commanded, his voice a low rasp.

You didn’t move. “Or what? You’ll arrest me?” A sharp, humorless grin cut across his face. “We’re past that.”

He leaned in, the scent of rain and clean, furious man flooding the space. His hands closed around your arms, dragging you out of the car, your body sliding across the leather until your feet hit the soaked asphalt. Before you could catch your breath, he pinned you against the cold metal of the patrol car, his hips caging yours, breath hot and uneven on your face.

“You,” he growled, “have been a thorn in my side for six months. A ghost. A fucking obsession.”

One hand traced down, fingers brushing the steel of the cuffs still locking your wrists. His jaw clenched, rainwater dripping from his chin.

“Every time you slipped away, I’d lie awake. Furious. Seeing you. Hearing your laugh. Wondering where you were. Who you were teasing. Who you were looking at.”

His forehead pressed to yours, breath trembling. “You think I hated chasing you?” His voice cracked—anger melting into something more volatile. “I lived for it.”

His admission hung in the air, raw and shocking. You could feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing against your stomach, a blatant, thrilling contradiction to his angry words.

“Is that why you didn’t book me?” You whispered, your own breath catching. “So you could have me all to yourself?”

His answer was a rough, claiming kiss, nothing like the hesitant ones from movies. This was all teeth and desperation, a furious clash of lips and tongue that tasted of rain and pure, unadulterated want. You moaned into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his hunger. Your cuffed hands came up, resting on his chest, feeling the frantic, powerful beat of his heart beneath the soaked fabric of his uniform shirt.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting. “Yes,” he hissed, the word torn from him. “God, yes.”

His hands were everywhere at once, shoving your jacket off your shoulders, his palms sliding under your wet shirt to splay across the bare skin of your back. You arched into his touch, a small, broken sound escaping your lips as his fingers dug into your flesh. He kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue mapping your mouth with a savage precision that left you dizzy.

“Turn around,” he ordered, his voice thick with need.

He spun you, your front pressing against the cool, wet window of the car. You heard the jangle of the key and then the beautiful, metallic snick as one cuff was released, only for your newly freed wrist to be pulled behind your back and locked to the other. You were trapped, arms bound behind you, completely at his mercy, exposed to the night and his burning gaze.

His body molded against your back, his cock a firm pressure against your ass. One hand slid around your hip, dipping below your waistband, his calloused fingers seeking and seeking and finding the damp heat of you through your underwear. You cried out, the sound muffled against the glass.

“Soaked,” he murmured into your ear, his voice a dark, wicked thing. “And not from the rain. You’ve been wanting this. Hoping I’d catch you.”

His fingers pushed the fabric aside, and then two were sliding inside your tight cunt, and your world narrowed to that single, shocking point of contact. A sharp, relieved gasp was torn from your throat. He was rough, his pace relentless, his fingers curling inside you, stroking your G-spot, causing your legs to tremble.

“Sanemi!” you choked out, your hips bucking against his hand.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his breath hot on your neck. “Say my name. Let me hear you.”

He added a third finger, stretching you, the slight burn a perfect counterpoint to the building coil of pleasure. His other hand was on your hip, holding you steady, his own hips grinding against your ass in a rhythm that mirrored the thrust of his fingers. You were mewling now, little desperate sounds you couldn’t control, your forehead slick against the window.

Just as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, he withdrew his fingers. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, the cold air a shock. You heard the rustle of his clothes, the unmistakable sound of his zipper, and then the tear of a foil packet.

Then he was pressing against you again, his hands on your hips, angling you. The blunt, hot head of his cock nudged at your sloppy entrance. He paused, a moment of suspended, breathless tension.

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his voice strained, a last vestige of control. “Tell me, or I stop. I’ll take you back and book you. Right now.”

You knew he wouldn’t. You both knew. But the game, the dangerous precipice they stood on, was everything.

“Please, Sanemi,” you begged, twisting your head to look at him over your shoulder. “Please, I want it. I want you.”

A guttural groan ripped from his throat. With one powerful, possessive thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, all the way down to the base of his cock.

The world exploded. A cry was punched from your lungs at the sudden, overwhelming fullness, the stretch, and the sheer rightness of it. He didn’t give you a second to adjust. He set a punishing pace from the start, his grip on your hips iron-clad, holding you in place as he drove into you again and again. Each thrust was a claim, a conquest, a release of months of pent-up frustration and desire. The car rocked gently with their rhythm, the rain providing a private symphony for their sin.

“Fuck… so tight,” he grunted, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Taking me so fucking good.”

You could only moan in response, your body alight with sensation. The feel of him, hard and thick, moving inside you. The cool metal of the cuffs biting into your wrists with every one of his drives. The hot spray of his breath on your neck. The illicit thrill of being taken by the very man sworn to bring you in. It was all too much, and yet not enough.

He slid a hand around your front, his fingers finding your clit again, circling it with a brutal, perfect pressure. The dual assault was unbearable. Your orgasm built rapidly, a tidal wave of pleasure gathering deep within you, fed by every snap of his hips, every rough word growled in your ear.

“That’s it, come for me,” he urged, his voice raw with his own impending release. “Come on, on, my fat cock. Let me feel you.”

The command, the possession in his tone, shattered you. Your climax crashed over you, violent and all-consuming, your body seizing around him as a broken scream was torn from your throat. The pulsating clench of your inner muscles was his undoing. With a final, deep, grinding thrust, he followed you over, his own groan a savage, satisfied sound as he spilled into you, his body shuddering against yours.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and the relentless rain. He stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting between your shoulder blades, his weight a comforting, solid pressure. Slowly, the world began to trickle back in. The chill of the air. The hard press of the car door. The ache in your shoulders from the cuffs.

He shifted, softening, and gently pulled out. You winced at the sensitivity, the sudden feeling of emptiness. You heard him dispose of the condom and the sound of his zipper. Then, his hands were on your arms, and the key was in the cuffs again. The lock turned with a final, metallic click.

The cuffs fell away.

You turned, rubbing your freed wrists, to face him. His expression was unreadable in the dark, a mixture of satiated hunger and dawning reality. The storm inside him had passed, for now. He reached out, his thumb, surprisingly gentle, brushing a stray tear from your cheek that you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

His voice was low, hoarse, and stripped bare. “The backseat. Now.”

He said as he pushed you onto the backseat, the worn leather cool against your heated skin. The door slammed shut, sealing you in the intimate, rain-drummed darkness of the car. Before your eyes could adjust, his weight was on you, a heavy, welcome pressure. His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin where your pulse hammered wild and frantic. A low growl vibrated against your throat.

“I’m not done with you yet. You’ve. You’ve had your fun teasing me; now it’s my turn.”

His voice was a raw, possessive rasp that sent a fresh wave of liquid heat straight to your cunt. You arched into him, a wordless plea, your hands finding purchase on the damp fabric of his shirt.

He wasn’t asking.

His lips moved from your neck to your mouth, capturing yours in a kiss that was all about claiming possession. It was deeper than before, less about frantic anger and more about deliberate, devastating ownership. His tongue swept against yours, tasting of rain and the uniquely sharp, addictive flavor that was purely Sanemi. One hand fisted in your hair, holding you still for his exploration, while the other roamed down your side, his touch branding you through your soaked clothes.

He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh. “These clothes,” he growled, his fingers hooking into the collar of your shirt. “Off.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a decree. With a sharp, efficient tear, the wet fabric gave way, buttons scattering into the dark recesses of the car. The cold air hit your skin for a split second before his hands were on you, warm and rough, skating over your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebbled into tight, aching buds. You cried out, the sound swallowed by the relentless rain on the roof.

“You’re so fucking responsive,” he muttered against your skin, his mouth following the path his hands had blazed. He took one peek-peek into his mouth, his tongue laving, his teeth scraping with just enough edge to make you whimper and clutch at his shoulders. The contrast was everything—the harsh, almost brutal grip on your hip, the surprisingly tender, worshipful suction of his mouth. It was the war inside him, playing out on your body.

He stripped the rest of your clothes away with impatient, efficient movements until you were bare beneath him. His golden eyes glowed in the dim light, drinking in the sight of you splayed across his backseat. The look was one of pure, unadulterated hunger.

“Mine,” he breathed, the word a solemn vow.

He shifted, his own shirt tearing as he urgently shoved it off his shoulder so he could free himself. His cock, hard and thick, slapped against your thigh, and you shivered at the contact, at the promise of it.

But he wasn’t ready. His need for control, for dominance, demanded more.

He pushed your thighs apart, settling between them. His gaze was locked on where you were open and exposed to him, glistening and desperately wanting. He ran a single, calloused finger through your slick folds, and you jolted at the touch, so sensitive from your earlier climax.

“Still so wet for me,” he observed, his voice thick with a dark, pleased pride. “Even after all that. You just can’t get enough, can you?”

You could only shake your head, words beyond you.

He lowered his head.

The first stroke of his tongue was a flat, slow, devastating press against your cunt. You gasped, your back bowing off the seat. He held your hips down, pinning you as he tasted you, his tongue delving into you with a focused, relentless intensity that stole the air from your lungs. He explored every inch of you, learning what made you gasp, what made you moan and moan, and what made your legs tremble.

He was mapping you. Committing you to memory.

His tongue circled your clit, and your hips jerked uncontrollably. A low, approving rumble came from his chest. He focused there, suckling gently, then flicking rapidly, then applying a steady, building pressure that had stars exploding behind your eyelids. One of his fingers, then two, pushed inside you, curling upward in a devastating mimicry of what was to come.

“Sanemi…” you begged, your voice broken. You were already teetering on the edge again, the coil of pleasure winding dangerously tight.

He ignored your plea, instead redoubling his efforts. His mouth was a thing of wicked magic, his fingers a perfect, stretching fullness. The sounds were obscene, wet, and hungry, and his growls of satisfaction vibrated through your entire body. The combination was too much. Your second orgasm crashed over you without warning, a silent, blinding wave that clenched around his fingers and left you shuddering beneath him, seeing white.

As you came down, panting and boneless, he finally rose above you. His face was glistening with your pleasure. He looked feral, triumphant. He leaned down, his lips brushing yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“That’s two,” he whispered, his voice gravelly with need. “Now let’s see if you can make it a third time and come on my cock.”

He positioned himself back at your overstimulated entrance, the broad head of him pressing insistently against your sensitive flesh. You were still pulsing from your climax, oversensitive, but the need for him overrode everything. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

He pushed in.

It was a slow, inexorable stretch, a claiming that was more intense than the frantic coupling against the car. He filled you completely, a perfect, aching fit. You both groaned in unison, a raw, shared sound of pleasure-pain. He stilled, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged.

“Fuck,” he choked out, the word filled with a kind of agonized reverence. “You feel… God, you feel even better than before, like you were made just for me.”

He began to move, a slow, deep, rhythmic roll of his hips that hit a spot deep inside you that made you see stars. Each thrust was a deliberate, measured act of possession. You could feel every inch of him, the drag and friction erasing all thought, leaving only sensation. The smell of rain, of sweat, and of sex filled the cramped car. The only sounds were your mingled gasps, the slap of skin on skin, and the constant, drumming rhythm of the storm.

His pace quickened, losing some of its control, becoming more frantic, more desperate. His thrusts grew harder and deeper, each one punching a moan from your lips. He was chasing his own release now, and you were hurtling right along with him.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice strained.

Your eyes, which had fluttered shut, snapped open to meet his burning golden gaze. The intensity there, the raw, unfiltered need, was almost too much to bear.

“I want to see you,” he growled, his hips pistoning into you. “I want to see you fall apart on my cock.”

Your third orgasm built faster than the first, a rising tide pulled forth by his words, his gaze, and the relentless, perfect friction. Your nails dug into the hard muscle of his back as you felt yourself begin to spiral.

“Sanemi, I’m… I’m going to—”

“Do it,” he commanded, his own control fraying. “Come for me. Now.”

The command was all you needed, your body surrendering completely to the force of him. You shattered around him, a cry ripped from your throat as your inner muscles clenched and fluttered around his length. He followed you over the edge with a guttural, raw groan, his cum pumping into you, his body shuddering as he held himself deep.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of heavy, ragged breathing mingling with the relentless patter of rain on the car’s roof. His forehead rested against yours, his white hair damp and sticking to his skin. The heat between you was a living thing, a stark, sweaty contrast to the cool, damp air.

Then, he moved. With a soft, wet sound, he pulled out of you, leaving you feeling achingly empty. The loss of him was a physical shock. His golden eyes, still dark with lust and something dangerously close to possession, held yours.

“Turn around,” he ordered, his voice a low, used-up rasp. It wasn’t a request. It was the next phase of his conquest.

A fresh thrill shot through you. You pushed yourself up on trembling arms, your body humming with oversensitivity, and slowly, you turned, presenting your back to him. The cold leather of the seat kissed your stomach. You heard the rustle of his clothes and the soft clink of the handcuffs he’d discarded earlier.

His hands were on you in an instant, rough and claiming. They smoothed over the curve of your hips, down the backs of your thighs, spreading you open for him. You felt the blunt, wet head of his cock nudge against your entrance from behind, and you gasped, pushing back against him instinctively.

A dark, approving chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Eager little criminal. Can’t get enough, can you?”

He didn’t thrust. Instead, his hands gripped your hips tightly, lifting you, positioning you exactly how he wanted. Then he guided you down onto him.

It was an excruciatingly slow descent. You had to do the work, lowering yourself onto his thick cock, feeling every inch stretch and fill you anew. A broken moan escaped your lips as you finally settled, him buried to the hilt inside you. “Sanemi…”

“Now,” he growled, his breath hot against your spine. “Move.”

His hands never left your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh as he dictated your rhythm. He let you rise up until just the tip of him remained inside, then slammed you back down, forcing a choked cry from your throat.

“That’s it,” he gritted out, his own control a thin veneer over his desperation. “Ride me. Show me how much you need this.”

You braced your hands on the seat in front of you, meeting his punishing pace, each downward stroke sending jolts of electric pleasure through your cunt. The car was filled with the sounds of your union: the slick, wet slap of skin on skin, your ragged pants, and his low, animalistic grunts.

“Look at you,” he snarled, his voice dripping with a toxic mix of contempt and desire. “Taking my cock like you were made for it. My dirty, desperate criminal. Is this what you wanted all along? Is this why you kept running? Just to get caught? To get fucked by the cop hunting you?”

His words were a whip, each one lashing at your dignity and stoking the fire in your belly. You could only moan in response, your world narrowing to the sensation of him pistoning into you and the rough poetry of his degradation.

“You’re mine,” he stated, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more frantic. “Every time I put these cuffs on you, you’re mine. Every time I chase you, you’re mine. You belong to me.” His grip on your thighs was bruising, sure to leave marks you’d feel for days—marks you’d secretly cherish.

The coil in your abdomen wound tighter and tighter, a third orgasm building with terrifying, inevitable force. You were so close, teetering on the precipice, your entire body tensing.

“I’m… I’m gonna… again… t-too much.”

“I know,” he rasped, his own rhythm breaking. “I can feel you. Come on. Come all over me, you filthy thing.”

Just as the first waves of your climax began to crash over you, his hands yanked you back hard against him, holding you still. And then he pulled out completely.

The sudden, shocking emptiness was a physical agony. A sob of frustrated need caught in your throat. Your orgasm receded, a fading tremor, denied its full release. You were left panting, trembling, utterly exposed, and achingly empty on your hands and knees.

Sanemi’s breathing was harsh behind you. You felt his hand slide between your legs, his fingers stroking your slick, sensitive flesh, smearing your combined release. He brought his wet fingers to your lips.

“Taste it,” he commanded, his voice a dark whisper. “Taste what we are together.”

A sound, something between a whimper and a sigh, escaped you as you obeyed, your tongue flicking out to clean his fingers. The taste was musky, salty, uniquely him and you, a potent mix that made your head swim. You met his golden gaze, those piercing eyes watching you with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.

He let out a low, dark chuckle, the sound vibrating through the cramped space of the car. He pulled his fingers from your mouth, his smirk widening into a predatory grin. “Clean. Good.” His thumb stroked your bottom lip, a deceptively gentle gesture. “I guess you’re not a criminal, huh?” he mused, his voice a rough caress. “You’re just a dirty whore who likes to get used.”

The words should have stung. They should have filled you with shame. Instead, a fresh, hot thrill shot through you, coiling low in your belly. You didn’t deny it. You couldn’t. Your body was still thrumming with the denied climax, every nerve ending screaming for him.

𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔶 𝔅𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔚𝔬𝔩𝔣

Summary: In a remote, storm-battered cabin, you find yourself reluctantly aligned with Ogata Hyakunosuke—an unpredictable sniper with a predator’s calm. Tension builds as he returns injured from a clash with Sugimoto, bleeding yet unbothered. You attempt to help, and he allows it—not out of need, but curiosity.

C/W: Fingering, cream pie, praising, sub reader, Dom Ogata, unprotected sex, rough sex, exhibitionism, tit sucking, wolves watching, and multiple rounds.

W/c: 2.7k

An: Day 9 of Kinktober is done. I hope you guys like it. It's been a while since I wrote for Golden Kamuy, so I hope I got his character right. @blushinglemon

The wind screamed against the cabin walls, flinging snow like shards of glass. You sat by the fire, refusing to shiver, though the cold cut to the bone. Ogata Hyakunosuke stood at the narrow window, rifle in hand, golden eyes tracking the storm.

He hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. “You breathe too loud,” he finally said without turning. “You’ll scare off anything worth killing.” You scoffed. “You don’t talk enough. Maybe that’s what scares everything away first.”

He didn’t smile, but something flickered in his gaze—interest, maybe. He stepped from the window, crouching by the fire with a slow, predatory ease.

“You talk big,” he murmured, “for someone who couldn’t start this fire alone.” You didn’t answer. He wasn’t wrong. Your hands had trembled earlier—not from the cold, but from him.

His eyes slid toward you. “Scared?”

“I don’t scare that easy.” Ogata tilted his head, amused. “Everyone fears something. You just hide it better.”He stood, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “Keep the fire alive. If you don’t…” His eyes cut through you. “…I won’t save you.”

But at the door, he paused. “Lock it. Wolves hunt in pairs.”

He didn’t mean animals. You knew that.

Hours later, the fire was dying when footsteps dragged through the snow. You reached for your knife just as the door creaked open. Ogata stepped in—coat slashed, arm bleeding.

“Sugimoto,” he muttered. “That idiot won’t die.” He passed you, leaving red in his wake. You moved with bandages. His eyes snapped up. “I didn’t ask for help.”

“You need it.” Silence. Then, slowly, he let you near. His gaze never left your face. “Hate him that much? Sugimoto?”

“I hate illusions,” he replied flatly. “Men who pretend to be better than they are.” His hand shot forward, gripping your wrist. “You… want to understand me.” His voice dropped. “That’s worse.”

“Ogata—”

He moved first.

He kissed you.

Cold. Deliberate. A test, not affection. His lips pressed with calculated slowness, savoring your falter. When you leaned in—instinct, not thought—he smiled against your mouth.

Then pulled back. “That’s what you want? A monster to bite instead of bleed?” “I don’t—”

“Liar.”

His thumb brushed your cheek. Not gentle. Exactly. “You can stay,” he murmured. “But don’t ask me to be something I’m not.” You didn’t leave. The storm howled. The cabin groaned. You fed the fire, aware of his eyes on you.

“You’ll freeze first,” he said, laying one bedroll near the hearth. You stiffened. “Where do I sleep?” He glanced lazily. “Here. Unless you’d rather keep watch at the door. Test your luck with wolves.”

You settled beside him, pulse unsteady. “You think the kiss meant something,” he murmured in the dark. You flinched. “It didn’t. I only wanted to see…” His breath grazed your ear. “…how easily you’d break.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” Another lie. He heard it. Ogata shifted closer, lips brushing your jaw—not a kiss. A warning. “Yet you tremble.” Your hand rose, gripping his wrist.

He paused—not offended. Intrigued. A slow, unsettling smile curved his lips. “Careful,” he whispered. “If you stay beside me… you don’t get to run when it gets worse.”

The fire cracThe shadows danced over the walls, casting you and him as one twisted silhouette.ette.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly. “Not this close.” “I’m not cold,” you breathed, though your fingers scraped the icy floor.

“Cold isn’t just temperature.” His arm moved, resting across your waist—precise, calculated, claiming. “You want warmth. And control.” “Maybe I do.”

His eyes glimmered, predatory. “Curiosity can be dangerous.” You felt his breath. His presence. His unspoken promise. “You’ve stayed,” he murmured. “Now see if you can handle it.”

Outside, wolves cried in the storm.

Inside, you stayed beside one.

The storm’s howl was the only thing louder than the frantic hammering of your heart. Ogata’s arm was a heavy, deliberate weight across your waist, his breath a warm contrast to the chill seeping through the grounds. His lips had left a brand on your jaw, a phantom claim that still burned.

He was waiting. He was watching you with his unnerving, predatory eyes to see how you would respond to his warning.

Your fingers, still gripping his wrist, didn’t push him away. Instead, they slid down, tracing the lines of his palm, the calloused pads of his fingers. A question. An answer.

A low, almost silent sound rumbled in his chest. It wasn’t a chuckle. It was the acknowledgment of a challenge accepted.

His free hand came up, not to caress, but to possess. His fingers tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to expose the line of your throat. He didn’t kiss it. He watched the frantic pulse there, his eyes dark with a chilling, focused intensity.

“You’re still trembling,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper against the shell of your ear. “But not from the cold this time, is it?”

You shook your head, a minute movement constrained by his grip. A sharp, thrilling ache was already coiling deep in your belly. This was what you had stayed for. This terrifying, electric proximity to something feral.

His thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind your ear. “Tell me what you want. I want to hear you say it.”

“You,” you breathed, the word barely audible over the wind. “I want you.” His smile was a slow, cruel thing. “You have me. Now what will you do with me?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth crashed down on yours, and this time, it was nothing like the first calculated test. This was all hunger. A devouring. His tongue claimed yours with a ruthless precision that left you gasping, your hands scrambling for purchase on the rough wool of his coat. You could taste the faint metallic hint of blood from his earlier wound, a stark symptom of the violence that clung to him.

With a fluid, powerful motion, he rolled you beneath him, the hard planes of his body pressing you into the thin bedroll. The heat of him was immense, a furnace that finally chased the last of the chill from your bones. He broke the kiss, his gaze raking over your face, and with a deftness that spoke of lethal practice, he began to undress you.

Each button of your shirt was undone with a slow, torturous deliberation. The cold air hit your exposed skin, pebbling your nipples, and you arched into the sensation—and into him. His eyes tracked every reaction, every shiver, every hitched breath.

“Look at you,” he whispered, peeling the fabric open to reveal you to the dim, firelit room. His knuckles brushed over a taut peak, and you cried out, a sharp, broken sound. “So responsive. So… open.”

He lowered his head, and his mouth was hot and wet and exact on your breast. His tongue lashed the stiffened peak before he drew it deep into the heat of his mouth, sucking with a relentless rhythm that had your hips bucking against the hard ridge of his cock. The pleasure was so acute it bordered on pain, a direct line of fire straight to your cunt.

He shifted his attention to your other breast, lavishing it with the same brutal focus, his free hand skimming down your stomach, over the curve of your hip, to the waistband of your pants. He didn’t ask. He simply undid them, his fingers hooking into the fabric and dragging them down your legs along with your underthings in one swift, efficient motion.

You were completely bare beneath him, laid out on the ground before the roaring fire. The flames cast a shifting, golden light over your body, and a wave of dizzying vulnerability washed over you. He loomed above, still mostly dressed, a predator admiring his captured prey.

Then his gaze flickered over your shoulder, toward the window. A fresh gust of wind slammed into the cabin, and a sliver of the shutter tore free, banging against the wall and revealing a jagged view of the violent, snow-whipped night outside.

Ogata went utterly still, his eyes narrowing. He wasn’t looking at the storm. He was looking at the opening.

A new, darker spark ignited in his golden irises.

“They’re out there, you know,” he said, his voice low and hypnotic. “The wolves. Hunting. Watching.” His hand slid between your thighs, and you gasped as his fingers found your slick, aching cunt. “They can probably smell you. Your fear. Your… excitement.”

The thought should have horrified you. It should have made you scramble to cover yourself, to slam the tent closed. Instead, a shocking, dizzying bolt of raw desire shot through you. The idea of being seen, of your most intimate moments exposed to the wild, to the very danger he embodied, was perversely thrilling.

“Ogata…”

“Do you want them to see?” He pressed, his fingers beginning a slow, circular torture against your clit that made your vision blur. “Do you want them to know who you belong to? That you’re mine to take, right here, where anyone could witness it?”

You couldn’t form words. You could only moan, your head thrashing against the bedroll as his fingers worked you with merciless skill. The storm screamed its approval through the broken window, the sound mingling with your ragged breaths.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” you choked out, the confession torn from you. “Yes.”

His smile was triumphant, utterly wicked. He freed his cock from his own pants, his cock springing free, thick and impressively hard. He positioned himself at your slick-covered entrance, the blunt head pressing against you, promising a stretch that was just on the right side of unbearable.

He held himself there, teasing, his eyes locked on the broken opening of the tent, on the wild darkness beyond. “Then let them see.”

With one powerful, relentless thrust, he sheathed himself completely inside you. A cry was ripped from your throat, echoing in the small cabin, surely carried away by the wind. He filled you utterly, the shock of the intrusion a blinding pleasure-pain that stole your breath.

He didn’t move. He let you feel every inch of him, let your body clench and adjust around his girth. His hand came up to cover your mouth, not to silence you, but to feel the vibrations of your moans against his palm.

“Quiet,” he whispered, his breath coming in ragged gusts. “Or you’ll scare them away. And I want them to watch.”

Then he began to move.

His rhythm was brutal and possessive, each thrust a claim staked deep inside you. The wind shrieked through the broken window, a wild chorus to the rasp of his breath and the slick, driving sound of your joining. His hand remained over your mouth, his fingers pressing just hard enough to feel the shape of your cries.

He drove into you with a feral intensity, his golden eyes not on your face but fixed on the void beyond the shattered field. He was watching, waiting. And then you heard it—a low, answering howl that was not the wind. It was close.

A shudder, one of pure primal fear and excitement, racked your body, clenching tightly around him. Ogata’s eyes snapped to yours, a dark, victorious smile spreading on his lips.

“They’re here,” he breathed, the words a hot promise against your ear. “They can smell your fear. Your arousal. They know what we’re doing in here.”

He pistoned into you once, twice more, a punishing, delicious rhythm that made you see stars, before he stilled, buried to the hilt. He withdrew his hand from your mouth, his breath coming in ragged pants. “On your knees. Turn around.”

The command was absolute. You moved slowly, your limbs liquid and trembling, the cold air from the window washing over your sweat-slicked back as you shifted onto your hands and knees. The position was one of utter vulnerability, your back arched, your body offered to him and the watching night. Another howl, closer this time, sliced through the storm.

You felt him move behind you, his hands, calloused and hard, gripping the soft flesh of your hips. His thumbs pressed into the dimples of your lower back, holding you in place. The broad, wet head of his cock nudged against your entrance, and you gasped, pushing back against him, needing him to fill the aching emptiness.

He withheld, chuckling low in his throat. “So eager. You want an audience that badly?”

“I want you,” you managed to gasp, the words torn from you.

“Liar,” he whispered, and then he was inside you again in one smooth, devastating slide. You cried out, the sound swallowed by the groaning timbers of the tent. His grip on your hips tightened, his fingers sure to leave bruises—marks of possession you would wear tomorrow and crave again.

He set a relentless pace, using his hold on your hips to pull you back onto him, meeting every one of his thrusts. The angle was deeper, sharper, each drive of his hips hitting a place inside you that made your vision blur. You dropped onto your forearms, a low moan escaping you as you pressed your feverish cheek against the rough, cold floorboards.

“Look,” he commanded, his voice a guttural rasp. His thrusts never faltered. “Look at them.”

Your eyes, heavy-lidded with pleasure, focused beyond the jagged teeth of the torn opening of the tent. In the swirling veils of snow, you saw them. Pairs of glowing amber eyes, low to the ground, circling just beyond the weak halo of firelight. Wolves. Watching. Their silent, shadowy forms were a terrifying, thrilling audience to your debauchery.

The sensation was overwhelming—the searing heat of him plunging into you, the bite of the cold air on your exposed skin, the primal gaze of the wild things outside. It stripped away every pretense, every civilized thought. You were just two animals mating in the heart of a storm.

“They see you,” Ogata growled, leaning over your back, his chest pressing against your spine. His breath was hot on your neck. “They see how you take me. How you love it. My little wolf.”

The possessive term, the raw exhibitionism, sent a new torrent of heat flooding through you. Your inner muscles fluttered and clenched around him, a silent plea for more. He groaned, a deep, animal sound of approval.

“That’s it,” he panted, his pace becoming frenzied, losing its calculated precision. “Let them see you come for me.”

One of his hands slid from your hip, moving around your thigh, his fingers finding the sensitive, swollen apex of your pleasure. The contact was electric. He rubbed tight, furious circles against you, the dual assault of his touch and his thrusts pushing you mercilessly toward the edge.

You were babbling, pleading, words without meaning, lost to the wind and his groans. The glowing eyes outside seemed to multiply, to draw closer, hypnotized by the raw spectacle.

Your climax ripped through you with the force of the storm itself. It was a silent scream, a white-hot seizure of every muscle, your body clamping down on his in a vice-like grip, milking him, pulling him deeper than you thought possible. The world dissolved into nothing but the pulse of your own blood and the feeling of him so deep inside you.

Feeling you convulse around him, Ogata let out a raw, torn shout. His grip on you became bruising, his hips slamming into you once, twice, three more times in a final, shuddering rhythm before he stilled, pouring his cum deep into you with a guttural groan that was more beastly than man. You felt the hot, possessive pulse of his cum, a final claim in the vise-like part of you.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the wind. The eyes outside began to blink out, one by one, the spectators retreating into the blizzard, their curiosity sated.

Slowly, he pulled out of you, the loss of him making you feel empty and used in the most exquisite way. You collapsed onto the floor, spent. He remained on his knees behind you for a moment before he shifted, lying down beside you, his body radiating heat.

His hand, surprisingly gentle, brushed the sweat-damp hair from your forehead. You turned your head to look at him. His golden eyes were half-lidded, sated, but still held that unnerving sharpness. He traced the line of your jaw with a single finger.

“They saw everything,” he murmured, his voice husky. “Now they know you’re mine.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear.

𝔅𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔶 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢

Summary: After months of denied desire, you provoke Bokuto—a restrained vampire—by biting him first. Your bold act breaks his control, unleashing his long-suppressed hunger and turning restrained affection into fierce, possessive passion.

C/W: Fingering,Cream-pie, Praising, Sub Reader, Dom Bokuto, unprotected sex, penetrative sex (p inv), Rough sex, fem reviving, blood play, hair pulling, orgasm denial, tit sucking.

W/c: 2.8k

An: Day Kinktober 7 complete. I kind of don’t like this one, but I hope y’all enjoy it. also, I tried to give him more old man slang to match the vampire feel @blushinglemon

His cool hands were on your hips, again, gently but firmly lifting you off his lap, where you’d been grinding with desperate, aching friction against the hard line of his thigh. The velvet of the couch sighed beneath you as he set you aside like a misbehaving kitten.

“Bokuto,” you whined, the sound a frustrated plea as you scrambled to get close again. Your blood was singing, a hot, throbbing pulse between your legs that matched the frantic beat of your heart. You could smell the intoxicating scent of him—old books, winter air, and something uniquely, dangerously him—and it was driving you wild.

He caught your wrists with an effortless grace, his grip like polished marble. His dark eyes, pools of endless midnight, held a storm of conflict. “You know I can’t,” he murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated deep in your cunt. “You’re not ready.”

“I am! I am so ready,” you insisted, trying to press against him to make him feel the heat of you through your thin leggings. “How can you say that? I’ve never wanted anything more.”

“That’s precisely why.” He brought one of your captured wrists to his lips, not through a kiss, but by pressing your pulse point against the unsettling coolness of his mouth. You felt your heartbeat hammer against his skin. A shuddering breath escaped you. “This,” he whispered, his breath a ghost over your skin, “is why. The purity. The untouched vitality. It makes the blood… dizzying. A vintage beyond compare. To squander it on mere thirst, on a moment of weakness… it would be a crime.”

“It’s my blood,” you argued, your voice cracking with need. “My body. Don’t I get a say in what’s squandered? I want you to have it. All of it.”

For months, it had been this dance. He would brush his fangs against your neck when he kissed you, a promise that would always, always be withdrawn. His eyes would flash with a predatory crimson light, and then he would shut himself down, leaving you both aching and unsatisfied. He treated you like a sacred relic, a thing to be admired under glass, and you were starting to feel like you might shatter from the neglect.

Tonight, something cracked. The months of teasing, denial, and the electric tension that never found its release all coalesced into a single, reckless point of determination. You stopped struggling in his grip. You went pliant. You saw a slight surprise in his eyes and relaxation in his fingers. It was your only opening.

You surged forward, not for his mouth, but for his neck. You pressed your hot, open mouth against the impossibly smooth, cool skin just above his collarbone and then bit down. The pressure was not so intense as to break skin, but it was enough to make a desperate claim. You licked and sucked, a clumsy imitation of what you so desperately wanted him to do to you.

A guttural, inhuman sound ripped from his throat. It was the sound of a chain snapping.

His control vanished.

In a blur of motion too fast for your eyes to follow, you were on your back, pressed into the soft cushions of the couch. His body was a delicious, crushing weight atop you, and for the first time, it wasn’t gentle. It was possessive. His eyes were now a solid, blazing red, the pupils swallowed by the bloody hue.

“You foolish, exquisite girl,” he snarled, but there was no anger in it. There was only a raw, primal hunger that stole the air from your lungs. “You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed.”

“Show me,” you breathed, your defiance melting into pure, unadulterated want. “Please, Bokuto. Please.”

His mouth crashed down on yours, and it wasn’t the careful, measured kiss you were used to. This was a claim. His tongue plunged into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you with a centuries-starved urgency. You moaned into him, tangling your hands in the silk of his hair, holding him to you.

One cool hand slid under your shirt, palm skimming up your ribs to cup your breast. His thumb circled your nipple through the lace of your bra, and you arched off the couch with a sharp cry. The fabric was gone, torn away with a faint ripping sound that only heightened the feral energy crackling in the air. His mouth left yours, trailing a line of searing kisses down your jaw and your throat.

“You want me to taste you?” he whispered against the frantic flutter of your pulse. His voice was a dark caress. “You want to know what it feels like?”

“Yes! God, yes.”

His fangs grazed your skin—a sharp, terrifying, exquisite promise. You braced for the puncture, but it didn’t come. Instead, his hands hooked into the waistband of your leggings and underwear, dragging them down your legs in one swift, decisive motion. The night air kissed your heated skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as it raked over your naked body, finally laid bare for him.

He kneeled between your thighs, his red eyes drinking you in. “So perfect,” he breathed, a reverent prayer. “So pure.”

Then he lowered his mouth to you, but not to your neck.

The first swipe of his tongue against your cunt was electric. You screamed, a sound of pure shock and sensation. It was cooler than a human’s, a tantalizing contrast to your own scorching heat. He licked a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and your hips bucked wildly. He held you down, his strength absolute.

“Bokuto!”

He didn’t answer with words. He answered with action. His tongue found your clit and began to circle it with a devilish precision, flicking and sucking until you were a writhing, sobbing mess beneath him. The coil of pleasure tightened, unbearably fast, a storm gathering in your belly. You were babbling, pleading, your fingers clutching at the velvet cushions for an anchor in a world that had dissolved into nothing but this feeling.

Just as you were about to shatter, he stopped.

You cried out in protest, but he was already moving up your body. His weight settled over you again, and you felt the hard, thick length of him pressing against your wetness. His eyes locked onto yours, the red glow softening to a smolder.

“This is what you wanted?” he asked, his voice rough with a need that mirrored your own.

“Everything. I want everything.”

He captured your mouth in another searing kiss as he positioned himself at your entrance. You felt the broad head of him pressing, stretching you. There was a moment of sharp, bright pressure, a final barrier breaking. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, stilling for a moment to let you adjust.

The slight pain was already fading, replaced by a feeling of incredible, impossible fullness. He began to move, a slow, deep withdrawal followed by an even deeper thrust that made you see stars. Each movement was calculated to drag against that perfect, sensitive spot inside you. The pleasure built again, higher and more intense than before, a crescendo fueled by months of agonizing anticipation.

His lips were at your ear, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. “Now,” he whispered, the word a dark promise. “Now I taste you.”

His head dipped, his mouth finding the spot where your neck met your shoulder. You felt the sharp, stunning puncture of his fangs, a bright flash of pain that was instantly swallowed by a wave of the most profound pleasure you had ever known. It wasn’t one or the other; it was both, a sublime, terrifying synergy.

As he drank, drawing the very essence of you into himself, his thrusts became impossibly deeper. A low, broken moan tore from his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck. “Gods… it’s like sunlight and starlight… like the first sip of eternity…”

The dual sensations—the rhythmic, claiming thrusts and the deep, pulling suction at your neck—collided. Your orgasm detonated, a silent, screaming torrent of bliss that wracked your entire body. Your inner muscles clenched around him, milking him of all his cum. You felt his cool seed spill into you as he took one last, long pull from your vein, his body shuddering above you in ecstasy.

He went still, his body heavy atop yours. His mouth gently released your neck, his tongue lapping softly at the twin wounds. The world was hazy, a golden, spent glow. You could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart against your chest, a rhythm you were sure had been silent for centuries.

He lifted his head, his eyes now their familiar dark brown but softer, sated. He looked down at you, his thumb brushing your cheek. His voice was a whisper, filled with awe and a new, profound reverence.

His weight was a delicious anchor, pinning you to the warm leather of the couch, but the reverence in his soft brown eyes was already shifting. That deep, ancient hunger you’d finally unlocked was swimming back to the surface, darkening his gaze to something primal and possessive.

His thumb, which had been stroking your cheek with such tenderness, stilled. A low, possessive growl rumbled in his chest, a sound that vibrated through your entire body and sparked a fresh, aching need deep within you. “The couch is… insufficient,” he murmured, his voice a rough caress that was nothing like the awed whisper of moments before. It was edged with a new, terrifying promise.

In one fluid, powerful motion, he rose, lifting you effortlessly into his arms as if you weighed nothing. You clung to his shoulders, your head nestled against the cool, smooth skin of his neck, inhaling his scent of old books and winter night. He carried you through the dimly lit apartment, his steps silent and sure, until he pushed open the door to his bedroom.

It was a chamber of shadows and deep blues, lit only by the silver moonlight filtering through a single large window. He laid you down in the center of the vast bed, the dark sheets cool against your feverish skin. He stood over you, a statue of predatory grace, and just looked. His eyes trailed over every exposed inch of you—the pale curve of your hip, the delicate line of your collarbone, the vulnerable inside of your thigh—with a focus that was almost painful in its intensity.

“I have waited an eternity for a vintage this pure,” he said, his voice a low thrum that seemed to come from the shadows themselves. “One taste at your throat was a tease. A torment. It awakened a thirst I have spent centuries suppressing.”

He knelt on the bed, caging you with his body. His cool fingers traced a path from your ankle, up your calf, over the sensitive skin of your inner knee. You shivered, a breathy sigh escaping your lips. “Bokuto…”

“Hush, my love,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over your skin. "Tonight, I am not acting as the careful guardian. "Tonight, I am the claimer. And every part of you… every exquisite, throbbing part… is mine.”

He leaned down, his lips finding the soft skin of your inner thigh. You gasped as his tongue swept a long, languid stripe, but it was the sharp, sudden prickle of his fangs that made you cry out. Not in pain, but in shocking, white-hot pleasure. He didn’t drink deeply, not like before. It was a precise, piercing claim. A branding. You felt the brief, sharp sting, then the warm trickle of blood, immediately followed by the soothing, erotic lap of his tongue as he sealed the tiny wounds. The sensation was dizzying—a perfect, intoxicating cycle of sharp pleasure and soothing caress.

He was marking his territory.

A desperate, wanton moan was torn from your throat. Your back arched off the bed, seeking more. “Yes… please…”

A dark, satisfied sound escaped him. He moved, his cool body sliding up yours. His mouth found the pulse point at your wrist. Another sharp, exquisite pain. Another warm trickle. Another dizzying, healing lap of his tongue. Your blood was a sacrament, and he was worshipping at every altar of your body.

His lips and fangs explored your body, with each bite delivering a jolt of sensation that intensified the heat pooling between your legs. The swell of your breast, the tender curve of your hip, and the delicate skin just above your pubic bone. Each time, the same ritual: the sharp, breathtaking pierce, the warm spill of your life’s essence, and the slow, sinuous glide of his tongue that felt more intimate than any kiss. The room was filled with the soft, wet sounds of his feast and your ragged, pleading breaths.

You were writhing beneath him, a live wire of need. The coppery scent of your blood mixed with his dark, ancient aroma, creating an aphrodisiac that clouded your mind with pure, unadulterated lust.

He finally moved between your thighs, his eyes burning with a crimson-fired hunger. He sheathed himself inside you in one smooth, powerful thrust that made you see stars. You were so sensitive, so slick and ready for him; the friction was almost unbearable. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was meant to be savored.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice guttural.

Your eyes fluttered open. He held your gaze, his own mesmerizing and dark, as he lowered his mouth to the slope of your breast. You watched, mesmerized and breathless, as his fangs elongated. You felt the pressure, then the piercing ecstasy as they sank into the tender flesh. This time, he drank. Not the deep, pulling draught from your neck, but a slow, sensual sip, his throat working as he swallowed.

The dual sensation was utterly shattering. The rhythmic, claiming thrusts that filled you so completely, and the intimate, pulling suction at your breast. It was too much. It was everything. A scream built in your throat, a silent plea for a release that was already coiling, tight and unbearable, in your cunt.

His hips pistoned against yours, each movement wringing a new, sobbing gasp from your lips. The pleasure was a crescendo, a symphony composed of his thrusts, his bites, and his whispered praises. “Mine. All mine. Every drop. Every sigh.”

Your climax detonated, a silent, screaming wave of absolute rapture that tore through you with the force of a supernova. Your inner muscles clenched around him, milking his cum as he groaned, his cool essence flooding you. He drank one last, deep pull from your breast, his body shuddering in ecstasy above you.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your shared, ragged breathing. Then, with a tenderness that belied the ferocity of his claiming, he released your breast, his tongue softly sealing the wound. He carefully withdrew from your body, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness.

He didn’t go far. He gathered you into his arms, pulling you against his chest. He nuzzled into your hair, his cool lips pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. His hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on your back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice now soft, laced with a vulnerability you’d never heard before. “I lost myself. I was… rough.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. The crimson was gone from his eyes, replaced by a warm, soft brown that held a world of worry. You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw. “Don’t you dare apologize,” you breathed, your voice hoarse. “I’ve never felt this good before.”

A slow, genuine smile touched his lips, the sight so rare it made your heart ache. He shifted, pulling the soft duvet over your cooling bodies, cocooning you in warmth. He held you close, your head on his chest, and you could hear the steady, powerful beat of his heart—a rhythm you were sure had been silent for centuries, now beating for you.

“It was more than I ever dreamed,” he murmured into your hair, his voice full of awe. “Your blood… it doesn’t just sustain. It warms me. From the inside out. I haven’t felt this… alive… in a thousand years.”

You snuggled closer, tucking yourself into the curve of his body, and let out a contented sigh. The throbbing at the myriad of small marks on your skin was a pleasant, grounding reminder of his passion. The fear was gone, replaced by a profound, sleepy satisfaction. You were his, utterly and completely. And for the first time, you felt like he was truly yours, too.

His fingers gently carded through your hair. “Rest now,” he whispered, his voice the softest caress. “I will be here when you wake. I will always be here.”

As your eyes drifted closed, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heart and the safety of his arms, you felt his lips press one last, feather-light kiss to your forehead.

𝕿𝖜𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝕸𝖎𝖓𝖉

Summary: In a modern world, Loki manipulates a human into isolation through lies and illusions. When everyone turns against them, they run back to him—broken and believing his words were true—as he comforts them with a cruel, knowing kiss.

C/W: Fingering, Cream-pie, Praising, Sub Reader, Dom Loki, unprotected sex, penetrative sex (p inv), Rough sex, threesome, Riding, Finger sucking, Wax Play, Dacryphilia, Marking, Corruption,

Wc: 4.6k

An: This is one of my more darker romance stories I stuck with more of the trickier, evil Loki rather than Marvel nice Loki anyways Day 5 of Kinktober complete @blushinglemon

You first saw him on the subway.

He was simply a man in a black coat, standing motionless as the train swayed around him. He looked straight at you like he already knew your name. The eye contact alone made your stomach flip.

When you stepped off, your phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: You dropped your card. I picked it up for you.

Before you could even check your pockets, he was there, holding out your MetroCard with a polite, knowing smile. “Careful,” he said, voice velvet-smooth. “You’re far too trusting.”

You didn’t ask how he got your number. Somehow, you didn’t want to.

At first, Loki’s messages were small warnings: Don’t take that street tonight. Your friend is lying to you about why she cancelled. He’s going to betray you. Watch.

Sometimes he was right. Occasionally, he wasn’t. But each time, the seed of doubt he planted stayed with you.

Then came the “helpful” suggestions: Stop talking to her. She’s jealous of you. He only calls when he needs something. They’re all laughing at you when you’re not around.

And before you realized it, you were snapping at people you’d known for years. Yelling at your best friend for something small. Ghosting the coworker who invited you out. Getting into fights you swore you’d never start. Every time you broke another bridge, Loki was there, soothing you afterward like a balm on a wound he’d made.

“You’re better off without them,” he said one evening, sitting casually on your couch as though he belonged there. His emerald eyes flicked to you as he handed you a glass of wine. “Mortals are petty. Small. They don’t see you. Not like I do.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what’s happening to me,” you whispered. “I never used to yell at people. I never—”

“Of course you didn’t,” he purred, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You were caged by their expectations. I freed you. This—” he gestured at you, trembling in your living room—“is the real you. Strong. Honest. Unafraid.”

“But… I don’t have anyone left,” you said. Your voice cracked at the last word.

His smile was sharp and satisfied. “You have me. Isn’t that enough?”

Somewhere inside, you felt a flicker of panic. But then his hand touched yours, warm and steady, and the panic melted into confusion. Maybe he was right. Maybe everyone else had been using you. Maybe the situation was better.

A week later, you saw your best friend’s name light up your phone. We’re worried about you. Please call me. Another message: This individual isn’t like you.

You stared at the screen, fingers trembling. You hadn’t spoken to her in weeks—Loki had told you she was jealous and had whispered she was “using” you. But now, looking at the desperate tone in her texts, you felt a crack in the story he’d built.

That night, Loki was already waiting in your apartment, lounging on your couch like a cat with a new toy. “Why the long face?” he asked lightly, sipping your wine.

“I… I got a text,” you said quietly. “She said she’s worried about me. That this isn’t like me.”

Loki smiled slowly, tilting his head. “Of course she’d say that. They always say that when you start pulling away. When you become strong.”

“But what if she’s right?” you asked. “What if the culprit isn’t me?”

Something flickered in his eyes, but his smile stayed. “You’re worn out. Confused. They’re manipulating you now, trying to pull you back into their little world. I’m the only one who’s been honest with you.”

You stepped back. “No,” you said, your voice trembling but louder than before. “You’ve been twisting everything. You made me yell at her. You made me start those fights. You—”

“I suggested,” Loki cut in smoothly, “and you obeyed. This was due to your deep-seated desire to comply. I only revealed the truth.”

“No,” you repeated. “No, that’s not true.”

His smile vanished. “Careful, little mortal,” he said softly. “Don’t start biting the hand that’s saved you. Everyone else turned their back. I didn’t.”

Your phone buzzed again. Another text. Please. Just talk to me. You glanced at it, and for the first time in weeks, you thought, maybe she’s not lying. Maybe she’s the only one who’s been trying to help.

“I’m leaving,” you said, the words falling out like stones. “I’m going to call her. I’m done with you.”

Loki laughed—a low, rich sound, but there was an edge to it now, a glint of danger behind the humor. “And where will you go?” he asked, stepping closer until the air itself seemed to bend around him. “You’ve burned every bridge. Every friend, every ally. Because you listened to me. Because you trusted me.”

He tilted your chin up with a single finger. “There’s no one left but me. And I’m the only one who truly understands you.”

You pressed call. One ring. Two. Three. A click followed.

“Hello?”

It was her voice—your best friend’s. The relief nearly made you sag to the floor. “It’s me,” you said quickly. “Please don’t hang up. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s been—”

Her voice pierced you deeply. “Don’t bother.”

You froze. “W-what?”

“I’m done,” she said coldly. “You’ve been a nightmare. You screamed at me. You lied. You stole from work. Everyone’s saying you’ve lost it. Don’t call me again.”

Tears sprang to your eyes. “No, please, that wasn’t me, it—”

Click.

Silence.

You stared at the screen, breath hitching. The call was over. She was gone. Behind you, a soft, amused voice: “I told you.”

You spun around. Loki stood by the window, the city lights haloing his dark silhouette. His green eyes glinted like blades. “They don’t want you,” he said. “They never did. I warned you.”

Your knees gave out, and you sank to the floor. “She… she hates me. Everyone does. I have nobody left.” He moved closer, his voice gentler now, coaxing. “Not nobody.” You looked up at him through blurred vision. “You?”

“Yes,” Loki murmured, kneeling before you. “Always me. I told you—mortals are fickle. They flee at the first hint of chaos. But I… I stay.” His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. “You fought me. You doubted me. And still, here I am.”

You wanted to fight him, to scream, to run. But your chest hurt so much, the ache was so deep it swallowed the air itself. And his touch was warm. Steady.

“Let me ease it,” Loki whispered, his forehead resting against yours. “Let me take the pain. Stop thinking. Stop fighting. Just… come back to me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. You didn’t know if you were falling or surrendering. “Say it,” he coaxed softly. “Say you’re mine, and I’ll make the hurt go away.” A sob tore from you. You couldn’t say it. But you didn’t pull away, either.

Loki smiled faintly, the victory quiet but absolute. “Good enough,” he murmured, and then his mouth was on yours—a kiss like velvet and venom, soothing and suffocating all at once.

You began to cry even as you kissed him back, the tears hot against his cool skin. In that moment, you believed every word he’d said, every whisper, every lie. Maybe he really was the only one who saw you. Maybe this was where you belonged.

Loki drew back just enough to murmur against your lips, “Shhh… It’s over now. Let me take the pain. There will be no more uncertainty. No more running. Only me.”

And as you sagged into his arms, tears still falling, he held you—a god cradling his prize—while the city pulsed beyond your window, indifferent to the moment you surrendered.

His kiss wasn’t a comfort; it was a coronation. A final, searing brand of ownership that tasted of salt from your tears and the faint, electric tang of his magic. You whimpered against his mouth, a broken sound he drank down like fine wine.

“Shhh, now,” he murmured, his lips moving to your damp cheek, capturing a fresh tear with the tip of his tongue. A low, appreciative hum vibrated against your skin. “So honest. So pure. Even your sorrow is a gift for me.”

His hands, which had been cradling your face, slid down your body with a possessive certainty. One arm hooked behind your knees, the other supported your back, and he lifted you from the cold floor as if you weighed nothing. You didn’t fight. The fight had been bled out of you, leaving only a hollow, aching emptiness he seemed determined to fill.

He carried you to the bedroom, your sanctuary now his conquest. He laid you down on the rumpled sheets, his emerald gaze tracing the tracks of your tears in the dim light filtering through the window.

“They never deserved your tears,” he said, his voice a velvet caress. He leaned over you, one knee on the mattress, and brought his fingers to your lips. “Suck.”

The command was soft but absolute. You parted your lips, and he slid two long, cool fingers into your mouth. The taste of him was ancient and strange, like ozone and forgotten spices. You sucked obediently, your tongue moving over the smooth skin, and his eyes darkened with raw, open hunger.

“Yes, just like that,” he praised, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You learn your place so beautifully.” With a flick

He withdrew his glistening fingers and trailed them down your throat, over the frantic pulse there, leaving a cool, damp path that made you shiver. With deft, impatient movements, he parted your clothing, peeling the fabric away until you were bare before him. The air felt cold on your skin, but his look was a brand of heat.

He didn’t undress. Instead, he knelt over you, still in his black coat and trousers, a god observing his newest devotee. A flick of his wrist, a single, thick black candle appeared in his hand, its flame springing to life without a match.

“You feel too much,” he stated, his eyes locked on yours. The candle tilted. “Let me replace your pain with a different kind of feeling. This new feeling will be more intense. One I control.”

Your breath hitched. “Loki, wait—”

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice dangerously gentle. The question wasn’t a real offer. It was a test.

You swallowed, the memory of your friend’s cold voice echoing in your skull. You had nowhere else to go. No one else. This was your choice. This was your corruption. And a traitorous part of you, the part he’d nourished and coaxed into being, thrilled at it.

“No,” you whispered, the word a surrender. “Don’t stop.” His smile was a blade. “I knew you’d see it my way.” The first drop hit your collarbone.

You gasped. It was searingly hot, a sudden, shocking bloom of pain that rapidly melted into a deep, throbbing warmth. It pooled against your skin before cooling, sealing itself to you.

“Oh god…” You moaned, your back arching off the bed. “None of those here,” he chided softly, tilting the candle again. “Only me.”

Another drop. This one landed on the soft swell of your breast, just beside your nipple. The pain was brighter, more intense, a sharp sting that made you cry out before it, too, dissolved into a pervasive, aching heat that seemed to travel directly to your cunt. You were melting under his hands, your mind going blank, every thought scorched away by the precise, calculated points of fire.

“Look at you,” he breathed, his eyes devouring the sight. A third drop landed on your inner thigh, and you jolted, a broken ”Ah!” tearing from your throat. “Taking your lessons so well. Your skin is a canvas, and I am the artist.”

He set the candle aside, its magic winking out. He leaned down, his mouth finding the spot on your collarbone. He licked at the cooled wax, his tongue rough and demanding, then bit down gently on the tender skin beneath. You cried out again, the mix of sharpness and wet heat overwhelming.

“You are mine,” he growled against your skin, his hands sliding up to pin your wrists above your head. “Every tear, every gasp, every cry of pain or pleasure… it all belongs to me.”

He finally shed his clothes, his pale form elegant and powerful as he settled between your legs. You were wet, soaked for him, your body betraying any last pretense of resistance. He teased you, the head of his cock dragging through your slickness, and you whined, pushing your hips up in a silent, desperate plea.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice strained with his need. He pressed forward, just an inch, filling you just enough to make you delirious. “I want to hear the corruption on your tongue.”

You were so full of sensation—the throbbing warmth of the wax, the ache of his bites, and the unbearable need coiling tight in your belly. You were unraveling, and he was the only thing holding you together.

“I’m yours!” You sobbed, the admission tearing itself from you. “Loki, please… I’m yours!”

It was all he needed. With a groan that sounded like victory, he slammed into you, hilt-deep, stretching you perfectly, filling the terrible emptiness you’d felt on the floor. You screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure-pain, and he drank it in.

He set a ruthless pace, each thrust pounding away the last of your old self. The pain from the wax sites flared with every movement, a sweet counterpoint to the deep, internal friction. You were babbling, begging, ”More, please, right there, don’t stop—”

He cummed on your wrists, his hand snaking down between your bodies to find your clit. His touch was exact, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts, the pressure building until you were trembling on the edge.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his breath hot against your ear. “Come on, my cock, and show me what I own.”

The orgasm ripped through you, violent and absolute. Your world whited out, reduced to the feeling of him pounding into you, drawing out the waves of pleasure until they were almost too much to bear. You clenched around him, milking him, and with a final, deep thrust, he followed you over, spilling himself inside you with a low, guttural groan that was pure possession.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing. He collapsed atop you, his weight a welcome anchor. You could feel the faint ridges of the wax against his chest, a permanent marker of the night.

He shifted, rising on his elbows to look down at you. His expression was one of profound, dark satisfaction. He brushed the hair from your forehead, his touch almost tender.

“You see?” he whispered, his thumb tracing your swollen bottom lip. “I told you I would take the pain away. All that’s left is what I allow you to feel.” He leaned down, his kiss surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to the searing possession of before. “And I think I shall allow you to feel a wonderful deal more.”

His kiss was a soft, lingering promise that made your sore, well-used body hum with renewed anticipation. You were still sprawled beneath him, boneless and sated, the sharp scent of cooled wax and sex hanging in the air.

“And I think I shall allow you to feel a wonderful deal more.”

The words skated over your sensitized skin. You watched, mesmerized, as a slow, wicked smile spread across his perfect features. He held up a hand, palm open, and a shimmer of green-gold seidr coiled around his fingers like living smoke. The air in the room thickened, charged with ancient power, and a second form began to materialize beside the bed.

You gasped, your heart thudding against your ribs. It was him. Another him. Same raven hair, the same piercing green eyes that held a universe of mischief, and the same lean, muscular build. The clone wore an identical expression of predatory delight.

The original Loki shifted off you, settling onto his side to watch. His double stepped forward, his gaze raking over your naked, wax-spattered form with open hunger.

“What… what is this?” You breathed, your voice hoarse.

The new Loki’s smile was a mirror image of the first. “An enhancement.” His voice was the same velvet cadence, a symphony of temptation. “One god to worship you is a privilege. Two is…” He trailed off, his meaning clear in the heat of his stare.

The original Loki reached out, his cool fingers tracing a path from your knee up your thigh, making you shiver. “Do you see now the depths of my regard for you? I would share this ecstasy with none other. But I will share myself… for you.”

Before you could form a coherent thought, the new Loki was on the bed, kneeling between your legs. He leaned down, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was not soft but demanding and deep. You moaned into his mouth, your head spinning from the duality of it all. One set of hands—the original Loki’s—gently cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebbled into tight peaks. Another set—the clone’s—slid down your sides, his touch possessive and thrilling.

“So responsive,” the original Loki murmured against your ear, his breath cool. “So perfectly broken in for us.”

“Let us remake you,” the clone whispered against your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “Let us fill every space.”

You cried out as sensations multiplied. Four hands roamed your body; two mouths explored your skin. It was overwhelming, a delirious onslaught of pleasure that short-circuited your ability to think. You could only feel.

The clone pulled back, his eyes gleaming. He brought his fingers to your lips. “You remember what to do,” he commanded, his voice low.

You did. Your mouth opened obediently, and he slid two fingers inside. You suckled them, your tongue swirling around the digits, tasting the unique ozone-and-spice flavor that was purely Loki. You moaned around his fingers, the submissive act sparking a fresh wave of heat low in your belly. He watched you, enthralled, his other hand drifting down to stroke your inner thigh.

“She enjoys that,” the original noted, a hint of proud amusement in his tone. His fingers found the delicate nub of your clit, circling it with a torturous, knowing pressure. “She enjoys being used for our pleasure. Don’t you, pet?”

You could only nod, a desperate, pleading sound escaping you as his touch made you buck your hips. “Yes! Oh, gods, yes…”

The clone withdrew his slick fingers from your mouth with a soft pop. “Good girl,” he purred. He shifted, positioning himself at your entrance. You were already so wet, so ready for him. The original Loki moved behind you, pulling you back against his chest, his arms wrapping around you so his hands could continue their magic on your breasts and clit.

The clone drove into you in one smooth, powerful thrust. You screamed, the sudden fullness breathtaking. He was the same, the same size, the same feel, and yet the angle was new, the presence of the other Loki surrounding you making it all feel infinitely more decadent and taboo.

“Look at you,” the original Loki growled in your ear, holding you tight as his double began to move. “Taking us so well. Our perfect, mortal vessel.”

The clone set a relentless pace, his thrusts deep and claiming. Each one was punctuated by the original’s clever fingers on your clit, pushing you higher and higher. You were babbling, a stream of incoherent pleas and affirmations. “Please… don’t stop… more… it’s too much…!”

“It is never too much,” they whispered in unison, their voices a harmonic echo that vibrated through your very soul. “You were made for this. For us.”

The original Loki’s hand left your breast and snaked over your shoulder, his fingers finding your chin and turning your face toward his. “Now, the final sacrament,” he whispered. You watched as the guttering candle on the nightstand floated into the air, guided by his magic. It tilted.

A single, searing drop of scarlet wax fell onto your collarbone. You gasped, the sharp pain melting instantly into a deep, throbbing warmth that spread through your veins. “Ah!”

Another drop, this time on your stomach. You arched off the bed, a sob of pleasure-pain catching in your throat. The clone never stopped moving inside you, his grip on your hips bruisingly tight.

“Every mark,” the original Loki murmured, painting your skin with fire, “is a promise. My claim. Our claim. You are ours.”

“Yours!” You cried out, the confession torn from you as the clone hit a spot that pushed you over the edge; his own cum now hot and deep within you.

For a moment, there was only the sound of three sets of ragged breathing. The clone leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of you, and captured your lips in a deep, claiming kiss.

The original Loki held you tighter, nuzzling your hair. “Such a beautiful ruin you are,” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction. The clone dissolved into a shimmer of green light, the sensation of him inside you vanishing, but the satisfaction lingering. You were left alone in the original’s arms, utterly spent, covered in the evidence of his possession.

He turned you in his arms to face him, his green eyes glowing with possessive triumph. “Now,” he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Shall we begin again?”

The shimmering green essence of his clone had barely faded, leaving your skin tingling with its absence, when Loki’s arms tightened around you. His laugh was a low, wicked thing that vibrated against your back. “Begin again,” he’d said. And so he did.

With a strength that still startled you, he flipped you over, your back pressing into the soft duvet. He loomed above you, all sharp angles and sharper smiles, his green eyes pinning you in place more effectively than any physical restraint. "You are mine to play with," those eyes said. And we are far from finished.

“My turn for a better view,” he purred, his hands sliding down your sides to grip your hips. In one effortless motion, he lifted you, positioning you to straddle him. You gasped as you settled onto his lap, the hard, insistent cock of him pressing against your inner thigh, a promise and a threat. “Now. Ride me.”

Your hands came up to brace against his chest, feeling the rapid, powerful beat of his heart beneath your palms. It was a rhythm you were starting to know as well as your own. You shifted, trying to find an angle, a moment of control, but his grip on your hips was iron.

“Ah, ah, darling,” he chided, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “None of that. You don’t get to lead this dance. You only get to feel it.” His fingers dug in, guiding you, and then he helped you sink onto him in one slow, excruciatingly deliberate motion.

A broken cry was torn from your lips as he filled you, the stretch still a shock despite the readiness he’d wrought in your body. The sensation was so intense, so all-consuming, that your head fell back, a moan shuddering through you.

“Look at you,” Loki laughed, the sound rich and darkly amused. He didn’t move, letting you simply feel the fullness, the utter possession. “Completely gone, aren’t you? All that fight, all that pathetic mortal morality… melted away. I’ve hollowed you out and filled you with nothing but me. There’s no room for anything else in that pretty head now, is there?”

You could only shake your head, a weak denial that was really an admission. No. There’s no room. “Tell me,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. He brought one hand up, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Who ruins you so perfectly?”

“You,” you breathed, the word hitching as he gave a shallow, teasing thrust upwards.

“Who owns this?” Another thrust, deeper this time, making you gasp. “You do!” You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. His smile was a blade. “And who is the only thing that will ever matter in your lonely, beautiful little life?”

Tears welled in your eyes, a confusing mix of devastation and dizzying pleasure. You tried to form the words, but they caught in your throat. Instead, you began to move, rocking your hips, trying to chase the feeling, to lose yourself in it and escape the truth of his question.

Loki’s laugh was triumphant. “Use me, then. Use me to forget them all. They’re nothing. Shadows and dust.” He let you set a frantic pace for a moment, your breath coming in sharp pants, the slapping sound of skin on skin filling the room. Just as you felt the first flutter of an impending climax, his hands left your hips.

You whimpered at the loss of guidance, your rhythm faltering. “Not yet,” he growled. He brought his glistening fingers to your mouth. “Suck.”

Your eyes met his, blurred with lust and unshed tears. You hesitated for only a second before parting your lips, taking his fingers into your mouth. The taste of yourself was sweet and musky on his skin. You swirled your tongue around them, sucking gently, and the low groan it pulled from him was the most rewarding sound you’d ever heard.

“Good girl,” he rasped, his hips beginning to piston upwards, meeting your every movement with a punishing rhythm. “You see? Your presence is all you need. TYour presenceis all you are for now. My vessel. My creation.” He curled his fingers against your tongue, and you moaned around them, the vibration travelling straight down his spine. “The others left you empty. I,” he thrust hard, punctuating his words, “fill you. They hurt you. "I," he said, delivering another deep, perfect thrust that made you see stars, "make you feel wonderful." They abandoned you. I will never leave you. This… this feeling… is yours for as long as you are mine.”

His words were a spell, weaving through the pleasure, binding you to him. You were so close, teetering on the edge, your cries muffled by his fingers.

“Come on, then,” he urged, his voice guttural, his control fraying. His free hand snaked between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down with cruel, perfect precision. “Come for me. Show me how well I’ve replaced all that pain.”

The command shattered you. Your back arched violently as the orgasm ripped through you, a silent scream on your lips as you convulsed around him, your inner muscles clamping down on his cock in waves of ecstasy so intense they bordered on agony. Through the haze, you felt his own cum, a hot flood inside you, and his roar of triumph was the last thing you heard before everything went white.

You collapsed forward onto his chest, boneless and spent, his fingers slipping from your mouth. He held you there as you trembled, one hand possessively splayed on your back, the other stroking your hair.

“Shhh,” he soothed, his chest rumbling with a deep, satisfied hum. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”

You were drifting, floating in a sea of sensation and submission, when his voice, laced with a new, dark curiosity, cut through the haze.

𝓢𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓻𝔂

Summary: In the quiet shadows of a secluded temple, a dangerous obsession ignites. Geto watches, waits, and slowly draws you into his world of dark desire, where every touch is worship, every word a claim.

C/W: Fingering,Cream-pie, Praising, Sub Reader, Dom Geto, unprotected sex, penetrative sex (p inv), Rough sex, fem/male reviving,sex toy, tit sucking, nipple clamps, face fucking,hair pulling, NOT PROOF READ IF YOU SEE A GRAMMAR MISTAKE YOU ACTUALLY DIDNT

Wc:5.1k

An: An: Day 3 of Kinktober complete kinda of a long one I hope it’s good I finished this right at 11 so yeah @blushinglemon

The temple was silent when you pushed the doors open, incense hanging heavy in the air. Shadows stretched across the stone floor, broken only by the flicker of candlelight. Yet before your eyes adjusted, before you even saw him, you felt it—his gaze. Watching. Waiting. Not curious, but predatory. Like a lion studying its prey. Geto sat reclined on the worn temple steps as though he had been waiting for you all along.

He looked like a priest who had long since traded salvation for sin. His robe hung loose, sleeves pushed to his elbows, ink-dark hair spilling down his back. Less a man than a fallen god—beautiful in the way only the devil could be. And yet, the deliberate sweep of his gaze left no doubt: there was nothing holy about him.

Especially when his eyes dropped to your chest. Instinctively, you crossed your arms, trying to shield yourself. Too late. “Don’t hide,” he murmured, voice smooth as incense smoke. “It’s rude for a sorcerer like you to cover something so divine.”

The word struck you like a curse. Divine. He said it as though it were blasphemy, not praise. As though he worshipped what he shouldn’t. “I didn’t take you for a man who believed in gods, my lord,” you answered coolly, ignoring the heat rising beneath your skin. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. “I don’t,” he said. “But I believe in beauty. In strength. And yours…” His eyes fell again, lower this time, shameless. “…would silence even the filthiest of monkeys.”

Lately, his touches had lingered too long. His words carried too much weight. Not playful—possessive. Like you already belonged to him. Like he had plans for you. The thought unsettled you, but it didn’t repel you. If anything, it pulled you closer. “Your curse technique,” he said casually, rising to his feet and smoothing his robe as he approached. “It guards your heart, doesn’t it?” Wary, you nodded.

He stepped closer, heat radiating between you, until the air itself felt too tight. “Fitting,” he murmured. “But foolish.” “Why?” “Because it makes me want to break it.” His fingers hovered just below your collarbone, barely brushing the fabric, the threat unspoken but clear. He wasn’t fascinated by your technique. Not really. What he wanted was what it protected—and somehow, you couldn’t decide if that terrified you or thrilled you.

The temple air felt heavier now, thicker, as if it were holding its breath along with you. Incense curled in slow ribbons above the flickering candles, and the quiet pressed against your ears until even your heartbeat sounded too loud.

Geto hadn’t moved far, but the space between you had changed. Smaller. Charged. “You’re trembling,” he said softly, almost curious. “But not from fear.” You swallowed hard, but didn’t answer. His smile deepened—slow, predatory—like a man who’d just uncovered a secret. He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering just long enough to make you shiver.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured. “Standing there, pretending you don’t want me closer.” His thumb dragged across your lower lip, a ghost of a touch. “You’re too proud to admit it, aren’t you?” You stepped back, only for him to follow, each footfall echoing against the stone until your back nearly brushed one of the temple’s pillars.

He didn’t rush, didn’t lunge—just kept closing the distance until there was no more to close. “I don’t take what isn’t offered,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. “But gods, you’re making it hard to be patient.” Your breath caught when his hand slid down to your hip, fingers pressing lightly—not claiming, not yet, but promising.

The heat of his palm bled straight through the fabric of your clothes. “What do you want, little sorcerer?” he asked, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost your ear. “Tell me.” You tried to steady your voice. “You think you know me?” His chuckle was a dark purr. “No. But I will.” He tilted his head, eyes searching yours—hungry but measured, like a man savoring the last moment before a sin. “Last chance,” he murmured, thumb still at your hip, “to walk away.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t. And the smile he gave you then—slow, knowing, almost beautiful—was the kind of smile a predator gives when the hunt is finally over. Your back hit the wall before you could stop him—not harsh, not painful.

Just enough pressure to remind you how much stronger he was. How much he could take from you. But he didn’t. Not yet. He just looked. And smiled like he’d won something sacred. His hand—large, warm, unhurried—slid beneath your shirt now, knuckles grazing bare stomach.

He inhaled like he was savoring the moment, every inch he touched revealing some hidden truth only he could read. “You’re softer than I imagined,” he murmured. “And I’ve imagined this more times than I should admit.” You gasped when he reached higher—finally cupping your breast, bare under the fabric, thumb brushing over the peak with maddening slowness. “Fuck,” he whispered, breath catching, as though it was his body being touched. “You don’t even know what you do to me.” His mouth followed his hand, dipping down, lips trailing heat along your collarbone.

When he got to the curve of your chest, he paused—just breathing you in, letting his tongue flick just beneath the swell like it was a taste test before a feast. “You’re perfect,” he groaned. “So full, so soft… it’s not fair.” Then he sucked—open mouth, tongue greedy, teeth grazing just enough to make your knees buckle. “You were made to be touched like this,” he rasped against your skin, mouth wet, hands kneading your breast like he was trying to memorize it. “To be worshipped.

Used. Mine.” His other hand moved behind you, gripping your waist tight, forcing you to arch up into his mouth. The friction made you whimper. “You hear that?” he said against your nipple, his voice dripping with smug hunger. “That little sound you make when I touch you here?” He licked, slowly. “That’s what I dream about.” You moaned before you could stop yourself.

He grinned like a man possessed. “I knew it,” he whispered, mouth devouring you now. “I knew you’d fall apart for me.” And gods, you were. Your head tipped back. Your thighs pressed together. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. You didn’t care anymore. Not about pride, or danger, or what this would mean afterward. You just wanted more. And Geto?

He hadn’t even started. His mouth left your chest with one last wet suck, a strand of saliva clinging before he pulled back. He looked ruined already — lips swollen, eyes wild — but his smile was steady, sharp, deliberate. “You think you’ve felt worship,” he murmured, hand slipping into his robe, retrieving something that made your pulse stutter. Silver glinted in the candlelight — small, cruel, delicate. Nipple clamps.

You froze, chest heaving. His grin widened. “Relax,” he soothed, though his tone carried no mercy. “These aren’t punishment. They’re devotion.” Before you could protest, he rolled one nipple between his fingers, teasing it stiff until your body betrayed you with a gasp.

The cool bite of metal followed, closing snug and sudden, pulling another sharp sound from your throat. “Ahh… beautiful,” he whispered, breath shuddering like he’d just been blessed. His thumb brushed over the clamp, sending a lightning bolt through your chest. “So sensitive already. Let’s see the other, hm?” You tried to twist away — too much, too fast — but his hand pinned your waist, firm and unyielding.

His mouth toyed with your other nipple until it ached for more, until your body begged for what your mind resisted. Then the second clamp bit down. The sensation was sharp, electric, blooming heat through your chest until your legs trembled. “Look at you,” he rasped, dragging his thumbs across both clamps, watching you flinch and whimper. “Holy, trembling, coming undone — and I’ve barely touched you.” You arched when he tugged lightly, the tug sending waves straight to your cunt .

He smirked, tilting his head like a man admiring sacred art. “These make you mine,” he declared, voice low and reverent. “Every breath, every sound — it belongs to me.” His hand slid down, palm pressing between your thighs now, grinding against your clit he’d left neglected. The sudden friction with the clamps pulling tight made you cry out, half in shock, half in desperate pleasure.

“That’s it,” he growled, leaning in to kiss your throat, hot and wet. “Cry for me. Break for me. Show me what divinity tastes like.” And as his fingers pushed past the fabric, sliding between your slick folds with sinful precision, you realized he wasn’t going to stop until he wrung every last drop of devotion from you.

Your back pressed hard against the cold temple wall, the stone biting into your skin while every other inch of you burned. The clamps tugged with every shiver, every rise of your chest — tiny sparks of pain and pleasure twisting together until you couldn’t separate one from the other.

Geto’s fingers dragged lazy circles over your clit, spreading the slick that had already soaked your thighs. He groaned when he felt how wet you were. “Gods,” he whispered, breath heavy. “Your body begs even when your lips stay silent.” You tried to hold back, to keep control, but when he gave both clamps a deliberate tug — sharp, perfect — your hips bucked into his hand, chasing more. “There it is,” he purred, his mouth brushing your ear. “That desperate little twitch.

I could spend eternity pulling sounds like that from you.” His fingers thrust inside you now, deep and smooth, curling just right. Every time his palm rolled over your clit, the clamps bit down again with a delicious ache that made you cry out. The contradiction of sharp and soft, pain and bliss, made your head spin. “Don’t fight it,” he coaxed, voice dark silk. “Every time you squeeze around me, those clamps tighten, don’t they? Every spasm just makes you mine deeper.” Your nails raked down his shoulders, half begging, half trying to ground yourself as your climax built too fast, too sharp.

He kissed you then, hungry, teeth nipping your lip while his fingers pumped harder, faster, dragging you to the edge. His free hand pinched the chain linking the clamps and gave it a slow, deliberate pull. The sensation wrecked you. White heat shot straight through your chest and down to where his fingers worked you mercilessly. You shattered with a cry that echoed in the hollow temple — a sound that was pure surrender.

Your whole body shook, clamping down around his fingers as the orgasm tore through you. The pain of the clamps made it sharper, deeper, until you were trembling and gasping against him, unable to stop. He groaned low in his throat, burying his face against your neck, still fucking you through it, savoring every shudder, every broken sound. “That’s it,” he growled, voice rough, possessive. “Give it all to me. Every drop, every scream.

You’re sacred when you break.” When you finally sagged against him, ruined and trembling, he kissed your temple almost tenderly — then gave the chain another soft tug, making you jolt again, oversensitive. A wicked smile curved his lips. “We’re only beginning, little sorcerer,” he murmured. “You’ve got so much more to offer me.” Before you could even process the words, his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t a kiss of tenderness, but of claiming. His tongue invaded, tasting you, exploring the soft gasp you gave as his fingers found the delicate chain connecting the clamps. He gave it a gentle, teasing pull. A sharp, sweet jolt of sensation shot through your spent body, and you moaned into his mouth, your hips giving an involuntary twitch. He swallowed the sound, his free hand sliding down your back to cup your ass, pulling you firmly against the hard ridge of his erection straining against his robes.

Gods, he was so hard. The evidence of his own desire, so palpable and immense, sent a fresh wave of dizzying heat through you. He broke the kiss, his dark eyes gleaming with feral satisfaction. “You feel that?” he growled, grinding himself against you once, slowly, making you whimper as the friction, even through layers of fabric, sparked another desperate ache between your thighs. “That’s what you do to me.

That’s the effect your divine little breakdown has.” His hands went to the fastenings of his robes, and you watched, mesmerized, as he shrugged them from his shoulders. The fabric pooled at his feet, revealing the powerful, lean musculature of his torso, the dark tip of his that snaked across his skin seeming to writhe in the flickering candlelight. He was every inch the fallen god, magnificent and terrifying. He reached for you then, his large hands circling your waist, and in one fluid, effortless motion, he lifted you.

Your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips, the new position sending a fresh, delicious tension through the clamps on your breasts. He carried you the few steps to the worn temple steps where you’d first seen him, reclining like a king. He didn’t lay you down. He sat, settling you squarely in his lap, straddling him. The roughness muscles of his thigh was a harsh contrast to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

Your damp, aching cunt was positioned just above the formidable length of him, and you could feel its heat, its promise, through the remaining barrier of your clothes. “Look at you,” he breathed, his gaze raking over your face, your heaving chest, the silver clamps that declared you his. “Perched on my lap like an offering. My own personal goddess to ruin.” His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist, baring you to the cool air and his burning gaze.

He didn’t touch your cunt, not yet. He just looked, his expression one of rapt, sinful devotion. “So beautiful,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of your underwear. “But these are in the way.” He didn’t tear them. He peeled them down your legs with a slow, deliberate care that felt more intimate than any frantic act could. He tossed the damp fabric aside, his eyes never leaving the apex of your thighs.

Finally, his touch returned, his fingers spreading your folds, exposing your slick, swollen flesh. The air hit your clit, making you gasp, and the sound seemed to snap the last thread of his control.

“Now,” he commanded, his voice thick with want. “Take me. Take what you’ve been craving.” His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, lowering you onto him. The blunt, broad head of his cock pressed against your entrance, and for a heartbeat, he held you there, letting you feel the immense pressure, the impending stretch.

“Now,” he repeated, a guttural order. You sank down. The feeling of him filling you was utterly obliterating. It was a stretch that bordered on pain, a deep, consuming fullness that stole the air from your lungs. You cried out, a ragged, broken sound, as he sheathed himself inside you to the hilt. Geto’s head fell back, a raw, primal groan tearing from his throat. His hands tightened on your hips like vices. “Fuck.You’re so tight. So perfect. Like you were sculpted just for me.” He gave you no time to adjust, to recover.

His hands began to move you, setting a punishing, relentless rhythm, lifting you until only the tip of him remained inside before slamming you back down onto his cock. Each descent was a shockwave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, each retreat a breathtaking ache.

The clamps jangled with every bounce, each tug sending sharp, bright signals that fused with the deep, throbbing friction inside you. You clung to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, your own moans filling the temple, echoing his. “That’s it,” he grunted, his own breath coming in harsh pants. “Ride me. Take your pleasure. Milk my cock with that perfect, greedy cunt.” His words were filthy, degrading, and they made you clench around him impossibly tighter. He groaned in approval, his hips meeting your downward thrusts, driving himself even deeper.

One of his hands slipped between you, his thumb finding your clit, circling it with a brutal, perfect precision. The dual assault was too much. The coil in your belly wound tighter, hotter, a storm about to break. “I can feel you,” he rasped, his eyes locked on yours, watching you unravel. “I can feel you getting ready to come for me again. Do it. Come all over my cock. Mark me as yours.” His command was all it took. The orgasm ripped through you, violent and consuming.

Your back arched, a silent scream on your lips as your vision whited out. Your inner muscles clenched around him in desperate, rhythmic pulses, milking him exactly as he’d demanded. Through the haze, you felt his own control shatter. With a final, deep thrust that pressed his hips flush against yours, he buried himself inside you and came with a guttural roar, his warmth flooding you, his body shuddering beneath yours. For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the distant pop of candle wax.

You collapsed against his chest, boneless and spent, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against your cheek. His arms came around you, holding you close. One hand came up, his fingers gently, almost curiously, tracing the outline of a clamp. “Mine,” he whispered into your hair, the word a satisfied sigh.

Then his other hand slid down your spine, over the curve of your ass, his grip possessive once more. “Again,” Geto murmured, his voice already dark with renewed hunger. The word again was not a request.

It was a law, written in the shuddering aftermath of your climax, and your body was its subject. His arms held you tight against him, his own release still warm between you, his fingers tracing the metal that claimed your flesh. Mine. You were still breathing in ragged, uneven gasps when he moved.

In one smooth, terrifyingly strong motion, he lifted you off his lap. Your weakened legs buckled, but he held you upright, your back pressed flush against the solid wall of his chest. His heat enveloped you, a furnace against your sweat-slicked skin. “Shhh,” he murmured into your ear, his voice a dark caress.

“I have you.” His hands slid down your arms, his touch possessive and sure. Then, with a gentle but undeniable pressure, he turned you.

The world spun—the flickering candles became golden blurs, the scent of incense and sex filled your head—and then your palms were flat against the cold, rough stone of the temple pillar. The sudden chill was a stark, shocking contrast to the fever burning under your skin. He pressed against you from behind, his body caging you in.

You felt the hard, insistent length of him already rigid again against the small of your back. A broken sound escaped your lips—half-protest, half-plea. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?” His voice was a low rumble against your spine as he leaned over you, his lips finding the sensitive skin between your shoulder blades.

His hands found your hips, his long fingers splaying across them, thumbs pressing into the dimples of your lower back. His grip was absolute. “I’m nowhere near finished with you.” He guided your spine into a deep arch, positioning you, displaying you. The movement pulled taut the chain between the clamps, and a fresh, sharp jolt of sensation made you gasp and push back against him instinctively. A dark, gratified chuckle was his only response.

One hand remained anchored on your hip, a brand of ownership, while the other slid between your legs. His fingers found you effortlessly, stroking through the wetness that still coated your inner thighs, proof of your complete surrender. He groaned, a raw, visceral sound. “So greedy. Still so wet for me. You’re insatiable.” He guided himself to your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against you, not entering, just teasing. Promising.

Your body clenched around nothing, already aching for the fullness only he could provide. “Tell me you want it,” he commanded, his voice husky with need. “Tell me you want me to take you like this.” You tried to form the words, but all that came out was a desperate, shuddering moan. It was enough. It was everything. With a single, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself inside you to the hilt. The force of it drove a cry from your lungs, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the unyielding stone.

He was deeper like this, impossibly so, filling you in a way that bordered on overwhelming. He didn’t move, letting you feel every inch of him, letting you adjust to the consuming stretch. Then he began to move. His rhythm was relentless from the first stroke. A deep, pounding cadence that stole your breath and your thoughts. Each forward drive of his hips slammed you gently into the pillar, the cool stone against your heated cheek, his body a furnace at your back.

Each withdrawal was a sweet, torturous emptiness until he filled you again. His grip on your hips was iron, his fingers surely leaving bruises you would wear like medals tomorrow.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh, of his ragged breaths and your whimpers, echoed softly in the sacred space, a profane and beautiful symphony. “Look at you,” he growled, his voice strained with the effort of his control. One hand slid around your hip, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles that perfectly matched the punishing pace of his thrusts.

“Taking me so perfectly. Your body was made for this. Made for me to fuck.” The dual assault was devastating. Every deep plunge sent a shockwave through you that was amplified by the relentless pull of the clamps and the frantic friction on your clit. Pleasure, sharp and bright, coiled tight in your cunt, threatening to shatter you all over again. You felt his control begin to fray. His thrusts became less measured, more animalistic, driven by a hunger that mirrored your own.

The hand on your hip slipped lower, gripping the swell of your ass, holding you open for him as he drove into you, again and again. He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth finding your ear. “Come for me,” he demanded, his voice a guttural whisper that vibrated through your very bones. “I want to feel you come around my cock. I want to feel you lose yourself completely.” It was the crack in the dam. His words, his possession, the exquisite torture of his body claiming yours—it was too much.

Your climax erupted without warning, a seismic wave of pleasure so intense it was almost pain. Your entire body seized, clenching around him in violent, rhythmic spasms as a raw, broken scream was torn from your throat. The feel of you milking him was his undoing. With a ragged groan that was more roar than sound, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his own release pumping into you in hot, pulsing waves.

His body shuddered against yours, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades as he rode out the last waves of his climax, his grip on you the only thing keeping you both upright. For a long moment, the only sounds were your combined, ragged breathing. The temple air, once thick with incense, was now heavy with the scent of sex and sweat. He stayed buried within you, his weight a comforting, possessive pressure.

Slowly, he shifted, pulling out with a soft, wet sound that made you shiver. His hands turned you gently, until you were facing him, your body boneless and utterly spent. He looked down at you, his dark eyes blazing with a possessiveness that should have terrified you but only made your heart pound faster. A slow, wicked smile touched his swollen lips.

“You are ruinously beautiful when you come,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your cheek. His gaze dropped to your chest, to the silver clamps that still claimed you.

He gave the chain a gentle, teasing tug, and you jolted, a residual spark of sensation shooting through your oversensitive nerves. He laughed, low and dark. “Good. You’re still responsive.” His eyes met yours, gleaming with uncharted hunger. “Now… what shall we try next?” His thumb stroked your cheek once more, a gesture almost tender if not for the dark promise in his eyes.

That promise solidified into intent as his hand slid from your face to the back of your neck, his grip firm and unyielding. “I believe your mouth has been neglected,” he murmured, the words a low command.

His other hand found its place in your hair, fisting the strands not to cause pain, but to eliminate any possibility of retreat. “And I find myself craving its devotion.” He guided you down, the pressure on your neck and in your hair a relentless, gentle force. Your knees met the cool stone floor, the hard surface a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body.

He loomed over you, a fallen god demanding obeisance, and the sheer size of him, the intensity of his focus, made your breath catch. The silver clamps on your breasts gave a faint, metallic chime as you moved, a constant reminder of his claim. “Look at me,” he ordered, his voice a velvet-covered stone. Your eyes lifted, meeting his darkened gaze. He held it as his free hand worked the ties of his loose trousers, freeing his erection.

He was already fully hard, thick and heavy, the sight of him making your mouth water unconsciously. He smoothed a thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly. “Open.” The word was barely a whisper, but it reverberated through you with the force of a gong. You parted your lips, and he didn’t hesitate. He guided himself to your mouth, the broad head pressing against your lips before pushing slowly, inexorably, inside.

The stretch was immediate, the sensation of him filling your mouth both overwhelming and deeply satisfying. He let out a sharp, gratified sigh above you. “Yes. Just like that. Your mouth was made for this.” His grip in your hair tightened, not pulling yet, just holding you in place as he began to move.

His thrusts were slow and controlled at first, a shallow rhythm that allowed you to acclimatize to his size, to the musky, clean scent of him, to the way your own body throbbed in sympathy. “Take more,” he encouraged, his hips pushing forward another inch. You relaxed your throat, letting him slide deeper, the sensation triggering a reflex you fought to control. A tear welled in the corner of your eye

. He saw it and groaned, the sound full of dark pleasure. “Gods, yes. Let me see how well you take me.” His pace began to quicken, the shallow thrusts becoming longer, deeper. The hand in your hair began to guide you now, setting a rhythm that was entirely his own. You were an instrument he was playing with masterful precision.

The slick, wet sounds of your mouth on him filled the silent temple, a lewd counterpoint to his ragged breathing. “You have no idea,” he gritted out, his control fraying at the edges. “No idea what the sight of you on your knees does to me. Your lips stretched around me… your eyes watering… you are a vision of perfect corruption.” He thrust deeper, and you took him, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat.

You gagged lightly, and a shudder wracked his entire frame. “Again,” he demanded, his voice rough. He did it again, and again, each time holding himself there for a fraction of a second longer, watching your face, drinking in every strained breath, every tear that escaped.

It was an intimate violation, and you surrendered to it completely, giving him the control he craved. The pleasure-pain of the clamps on your breasts seemed to sync with the rhythm of his thrusts, a dual claim on your body. His movements became less controlled, more frantic.

His groans were louder, raw sounds torn from his chest. “I’m going to come down your throat,” he warned, his voice a hoarse promise. “You will take it. You will swallow every last drop of my devotion.” The hand in your hair held you firmly in place as his hips stuttered, his thrusts becoming shallow and rapid. With a guttural cry that echoed off the ancient walls, he spent himself, pulsing deep within your mouth.

You swallowed instinctively, taking everything he gave, the taste of him a potent, salty cum. For a long moment, he stayed there, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the aftershocks. Slowly, gently, he pulled himself from your lips. He looked utterly undone, his hair mussed, his chest heaving. His grip in your hair softened, transforming into something astonishingly tender. He lowered himself to his knees before you, his dark eyes searching your face.

His thumb, surprisingly gentle, wiped the tears and slickness from your chin. “You were magnificent,” he whispered, the predatory edge gone from his voice, replaced by a thick, warm awe. He leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. It was a gesture of startling tenderness, a silent praise that felt more intimate than anything that had come before. He reached for the silver clamps, his fingers careful as he released first one, then the other.

The rush of blood back to the sensitized peaks was a sharp, aching throb that made you gasp. He soothed the sting immediately with his palms, massaging the tender flesh with a reverent touch. “There,” he murmured, his voice still soft. “The marks will fade. And once they have you will be a new”He brought his fingers, glistening with your shared arousal, to his lips and tasted them, his eyes never leaving yours. “And once that happens you will sit behind hand and hand like you were meant to.