The Physical Nature Of Good And Evil, Pt 3

the physical nature of good and evil, pt 3

Summary: Dr. Bakugou Katsuki has always thought women and men had a natural place in the world, after meeting you, he’s not so sure. His alter ego, Mr. Hyde? Also unhelpful.

part 2

word count: 7,251

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CW: PLEASE READ Victorian Era Au, Dr. Jekyll!Bakugou Katsuki, Victorian Era Sexism, “Hysteria”, EXREMELY Dub!con, reader consents to be treated but the treatment is an orgasm, sooo, do with that what you will. Smut, cursing, arranged marriage, use of aphrodesiacs, predator prey kink, d*cryphilia(I mean it’s bakugou) dumbification, impact play, bondage, implied miscarriage, blood mention, use of culturally insensitive language about mental health, implied past abuse, murder, blood mention, Dr. Bakugou is in his late twenties. Reader is in their mid/early twenties, f!reader, has hair long enough to style in a victorian way, and that can be tucked behind your ear. bkg talks a lil more proper in this because its victorian england and also i said so. violence(physical)

if you liked this pls leave a comment or send an ask i am soft

When he gets home you’re sitting in the parlor a little more than halfway through the book he left you. Your dress is white and simple, spilling across the green velvet sofa you sat on, one hand holding your face, squishing your cheek as you support the weight of your head. You don’t jump when he comes in, you don’t move at all until he clears his throat, standing in the entrance hallway. Then you lift your head.

“Doctor?” You ask, voice soft, lilting. “How was your day?” You ask carefully, and he grunts, slipping out of his wool coat, hanging it on a hook.

“Fine.” He sits down next to you on the couch, gestures to the book. “Speak.”

“I mean, it’s interesting,” you say, “Generally, I prefer nonfiction, but the way that the book attempts to satirize and mock things that it itself is doing, I think it just barely skates by as self-aware humor. The absurdity is,” you pause, Bakugou watches your lips part as you inhale, thinking, “Well used. It was funny. I did laugh.”

“What else?” He demands, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I think,” you pause, “It’s interesting that it addresses its own means of creation, so far, I suppose,” you gesture to your thumb holding your place, “Like there are lots of plays about theatres but this is the first book I’ve read that’s in any way about publishing.” His head begins to throb, but he ignores it.

“Hm.” He rubs his chin. “I saw,” he looks across the room, staring at the fire flickering low in the brick hearth, “I saw a patient today.”

“I thought you saw several patients today,” you say, the sarcasm spilling from your lips before you can stop it. Instead of getting angry, he groans, burying his face in his hands.

“Oh my god.” He says, without looking up. “You know what he’s going to do to you if you do that, don’t you?” You swallow, and he lifts his head, looking at you with something new, pleading desperation. “And no one is going to help you.” Your eyes dull, and you put the book down on the table, losing your page and folding your hands in your lap.

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bos taurus | dogmeat series pt., i

mafia butcher Simon Riley x Reader

You don't question your brother when he sends you to drop off packages to his friends, but when the enforcer for the 141 shows up to teach the small-time dealer selling on their turf a lesson, you realize there are different ways to pay someone back with pounds of flesh.

(OR: your brother owes them, and Ghost is content to let you settle the debt. after all, if you wanted freedom, then you shouldn't have caught the eye of the butcher of the 141, should you?)

18+ SMUT. noncon. objectification. marking. kidnapping. threats of violence. unsafe sex (manipulation into unprotected sex). rough sex. size difference. breathplay. 10k of foreplay. light pussy slapping. overstimulation. mafia au.

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3

The goal is to be as quick and discreet as possible.

In and out, he says, looping the baggie around his index finger. Inside, a snowfall of white powder settles at the bottom.

Meth this time. Oxytocin the last.

He ties it tight before giving the bag a quick shake, breaking up the clumps. Satisfied with the way it looks, he turns toward you. Levels you with a sombre look, the picture of a concerned older brother.

You almost fall for it. Believe it. But the clouded, flat edge to his gaze undercuts his worry for what it really is. A farce.

“And if it seems sketchy—”

—run.

But your knees are locked, soles glued to the pavement. You can't move even though everything is screaming at you to flee.

The problem, maybe, is that there's nowhere to go. Escape cut off, filled by a body, a man—even though the idea, the mere notion, of thinking this behemoth as human, flesh and bone; blood and tissue, is laughable when he's so clearly a beast. A monster.

He fills up your field of vision. Your line of sight was eclipsed by the thickness of his waist, the broad expanse of his shoulders. Thighs that are as wide as the trunk of a tree. Arms boxing you in. A prison of obsidian. A black shadow.

In the panic that surfaces, surging to the top like an oil spill, you catch a pocket where he doesn't root. A small alcove between the bend of his elbow and the slot of his knee perched against the wall. Enough room for you to—

“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.”

His voice seems to shake the earth, rolling out of his broad chest like the low, brassy roar of a lion; a rumbling thunderclap.

You feel sick—

The leather covering his hand is cold when it closes around your arm, grip tight. Bruising. Trapping you with just the slightest effort.

“Go’ a problem, you and I,” he starts, and it's almost conversational. Might be, perhaps, if the clean, sleek outline of his gun inside the unclasped holster around his ungodly thick waist wasn't threatening you more than the grip he has on your arm. “How do you reckon we can fix it?”

You have a meagre twenty dollars in your pocket. Less money for them to take if things go awry. If they decide that the little girl standing in for her older brother was an easier target to rob—money and drugs—than to settle things fairly. Money, goods. Hand over hand.

Just like the movies, he'd said.

Just like the movies, you think when he leans in closer, bulk swallowing you whole.

There is a pockmark in the corner of his crooked, misshapen nose and the crease of his eye. A scar, maybe. It's circular—almost perfectly so; a silver-pink moon on the angular ridge of his nose. Uneven, craggy, like crumpled printer paper.

It looks almost like—

You think of the mark on your arm. Soot-stained. The smell of burning hair, tissue. The searing pain.

“I–I can pay you—” you stammer out, tearing your gaze away from the ugly mark on his skin. A cigarette burn. It makes you shudder.

He cocks his head slowly like a big, dumb dog, but there's something eerie in the ink spill of his eyes. The soft matte of a saltwater crocodile staring at you from beneath the murk. Calculative. Hungry.

“Pay me?” He echoes slowly, dragging the words out mockingly. “D’you know ‘ow much trouble your brother is in? For sellin’ ‘ere of all places?”

“No,” you swallow. It feels like your heart is stuck inside your throat. “I–I just—”

“Run ‘is errands,” he finishes cruelly but you can't deny it. “Ain't you a good little sister? Almost makes me wish I ‘ad somethin’ as sweet as you f’myself growin’ up.”

You don't answer. He doesn't seem to be looking for one, really; just empty words to fill space. To echo in your head, barbed wire around any sense of comfort you might have felt. Punishing cruelty.

He has the upper hand, it says. He's the one who makes derisive jokes while you tremble in his grasp, and try to make yourself as small, as unassuming, as possible. Hiding from the predator in plain sight. Hoping he passes you over for something bigger, more calorie-dense; the effort to catch and consume you expends more energy than the return. Hardly worth it in the long run. The comfort of a risk-reward ratio, right?

But he's opportunistic, it seems. A snacking scavenger.

Could eat, it says, like a basking tiger keeping a mouse trapped between his paws, letting it squirm and squeak as he slowly licks his lips. Not enough to fill its belly but enough to satisfy the gluttonous urge a predator has to eat. Sharpening its teeth on flimsy bones. Child’s play.

It's a fitting image, especially with the way he arches over you, looms; fingers looped around the thick of your arm, holding firm, but not—

Not as tight as he could.

It's a loose-fisted grasp. Lazy, almost. He knows you won't run—or, at the very least, knows you won't get far.

You peel your gaze away from his, dropping it to the curve of his shoulders—the width of them is just as dizzying as his height; broad, muscular. Pulling it further down the length of his arm, covered in a thick jacket. Black corduroy. Ashes stain the cuffs. A bulky watch juts out from his wrist. Gold. Glinting even in the grey-blue gloom of an overcast evenfall.

His muscles tense. Hand tightening around your arm, fingers digging hard. Rubbing muscle painfully against bone.

A warning, maybe. Stop looking—

But something else catches your eye. Blood red. The colour of meat. A fresh kill.

The back of his hand has a blooming rose. Petals spread out, unfurled. In the middle, a milky skull sits. Stencilled in boxy, yellow letters is ONE-FOUR-ONE—

You know what it means even as your mind whirs, gears turning, turning; plummeting into a tailspin, making excuses as it falls, dragging your heart down alongside it. An area code. Some special date. An inside joke.

But you've seen the marking around town before. Heard whispers about them from your brother, his friends. 141, they say, and then: mafia.

The real deal, he said, puffing around a joint his friend rolled. It's too tight. He scoffs, and rips it out from between his lips. Shitty roll, man, make another one—

Mob. Mafia. Gangsters. It seemed so extreme, Hollywood. Fiction, fantasy, all rolled into one. Tony Soprano. Ralph Cifaretto. Michael and Vito Corleone. Tony Montana. Larger-than-life men created on paper.

You think your brother thought so too. Child's play. Grown men selling weed to kids for two hundred an ounce. Buying themselves sleek, black cars—G Wagons, Escalades, Cullinans—on the Xanax they sell at clubs, parties. Cocaine. Heroin.

Nothing to worry about.

Then his friend went missing.

Sent out on a routine delivery to drop off cocaine to well-dressed men in suits outside of a local butcher shop. A normal, nondescript Tuesday.

But he wouldn't answer his phone. Texts were being delivered, read, but no chat bubble appeared. Nothing sent back. Calls went straight to voicemail. He wasn't at home. Wasn't at his mum's. No one saw him. Heard from him.

Your brother didn't call the police. Didn't report him as missing.

It's just not what they do, he said. You don't involve them. Ever.

The most shocking part of it was that no one saw anything. He just vanished. Disappeared—stock an’ all, your brother angrily spits—without a trace, picked up off the streets.

If it was the police, someone would have said something by now. They're hardly discreet. And a rival—

Well.

The biggest problem was that your brother was blindsided by his own small-time success. An accumulation of little wins bolstered his confidence. Overfed his ego. This fallout was tunnel vision. A refusal to see the bigger picture.

Or the storm clouds looming on the horizon.

You'd heard of the 141 in passing. Little quips, anecdotes from the passel of friends that congregated around your brother—often getting high on the couch and watching old cartoons; sharing a joint back and forth between gossip.

Through rheumy eyes, they'd talk about the real gangsters in town—much to the irritation of your brother—and swap tales of run-ins and feats they heard from a friend (of a friend, of a friend). Most of the guys were known already. Soap and Gaz are the biggest names that cropped up on the streets through reputation alone. Both fighters for a gym. MMA, mostly, but whispers of street fighting and extracurricular activities weren't uncommon.

Liked the thrill of it, they said. But the worst was a man simply known as the Ghost. An enforcer for the 141—a fucking butcher, more like, Liam cut in, jaundiced eyes widening—the guy who took care of problems.

“Can't be,” your brother scoffed, lifting off the couch to reach in his back pocket for his wallet. A small anthill of white powder poured into the glass table. “They don't get involved in our shit—”

And for the most part, you're sure that's true. Dealing to the same circle of people—outreach spread through word of mouth—seemed paltry in comparison to the scale of an operation that had a money laundering gym. But the problem was that your brother lacked common sense. His ego often got in the way of foresight. The shadow greed casts blocking out the bigger picture.

Like—

Territory is territory—regardless of what's being pushed.

You wish there was a modicum of surprise when his friend turned up. Barely recognizable. Sent right to the morgue as a John Doe.

Most would see the marks on the man's skin—the distinct lack of blood—as an indicator to abandon ship, find the boss, beg for forgiveness, and maybe even try to strike up a deal. But—

That picture is hidden under his anger. Greed. Selfishness.

He sends you instead.

You're somethin’ they ain't expectin’, he said. Won't mess with you.

Right.

He catches the realisation dripping down your brow—beads of sweat gathering at your hairline; anxiety, fear, churning your stomach—and hums. Cocks his head to the side.

“Was expectin’ ‘im t’show up, though—” he murmurs, hand tightening around your arm. The pressure, the sting, is eclipsed by the gnawing sense of dread biting viciously into you. “Told ‘im if I caught ‘im sellin’ on our streets again, there'd be trouble. Thought we ‘ad an agreement after ‘is friend. But—”

His eyes cut to yours. It feels like a knife to your guts, sinking into soft tissue. A pain you can't breathe around.

Won't mess with you, you think, and then viciously—sadly—he knew. Was warned by them and still sent you out. Let you take his place for whatever comeuppance they decided he deserved.

It should shock you. You almost wish it did. Desperately clinging to the threads of surprise that slip through your oily fingers, grasping onto the nothing but empty air. Numbed to the resignation that trickles in.

Of course he would leave you here to save himself. Letting you fend off whatever they threw at you alone. Leaving you trapped between a brick wall and a wall of a man.

The excuses are there. They pool on the tip of your tongue—it isn't me, don't do this, it's my (stupid, selfish) brother you want, not me—but you swallow them down and try not to wince at how quickly they dissipate when you do. It doesn't matter in the end because whatever you have to say won't negate the drugs in your backpack. The empty house you'll lead them to—your brother probably squirrelled away somewhere until this blows over. Half-hopeful you'd call him and say everything is fine, the deal went smoothly. You're on your way back. Or that the debt he racked up with them is settled by you.

It's half-hearted when it slips out again, caught between resignation and dread. A brittle whisper. A prayer—

“I can pay you. Whatever he owes, I can—”

He's already shaking his head.

“Too late for that, birdie. ‘sides, I don't want your money.”

He moves back, rocking on his heels to put a small measure of distance between your bodies. In that scant space, he drops his gaze, sweeping it over you. His eyes darken.

When he pivots them down, catching yours, you can't stop the shiver that crawls up your spine.

That calculative gleam is back.

“But I think we can work something else out.”

Something else turns out to be ushering you into the backseat of an old Ford pickup.

The door whines when he opens it. Rust flaking off, falling to the ground by your feet. Your mind reels. Spins comparisons to falling snow, dried blood.

He hauls you in with his hand wrapped around the nape of your neck, thick thigh sliding between your own to boost you up. The protest—a mindless, reactionary squeal at being manhandled—only makes him chuff. A brief flex of his fingers around the skin of your neck is the only warning he gives before it pulls away, and wraps tight around your waist. His thigh flexes, muscle drawing taut as he shifts his foot up to the running board, lifting your feet off the ground and seating you fully on his leg like a child.

(In his hands, you feel like one, too.)

The motion makes you slip, back glueing along his broad chest with a shallow thump. You feel the rumble of his laugh trembling up your spine before you hear it.

“Careful,” he drawls, oiled with amusement. “Might slip.”

Anything you could say in response is choked back when he bumps the corded steel of his thigh into the seam of your legs, pushing tight to your clothed cunt. His intention is unmistakable this time. Unignorable. And with the rasp of filtered, balmy air against your crown; the pull of a groan when you rock back into his groin, the noise still slicked with mirth, you feel a knot of dread spool tight in your belly.

Something else is dragged back to the forefront, coiling like wisps of smoke around you.

And you knew. It's shocking, you think, but not necessarily a surprise. To call it a dichotomy would be lying to yourself, and so, you settle against it. This notion that what he wants—wanted—is flesh. Not money. Not retribution.

Not to talk things out like you'd hoped he’d try (grabbing onto the idealistic thread, holding it tight to your chest); bringing you in and forcing you to convince your—stupid selfish greedy—older brother that quitting was the only option. Dangling you—baby sister—over his head in an appeal to his emotions. Familial bonds. Love.

That thread is cut. Snipped.

Probably severed when they first came to him with an offer. No strikes against him and yet—

The idea of using you to make him bend was expunged from the drawing board. It's not even a plan b, or c, or z.

And—

You knew. Have known. Maybe that's why it's so easy to swallow around the panic when it lances through your chest, climbs up your throat. You can think and feel and breathe around this dagger in your back like it was there the whole time and you've only just noticed it now.

Nothing but a small, whispered oh in the roiling polyphony of your emotions.

It sits there as he manuevers you into the passenger seat of his truck, your head spinning around the indescribable sensation of being woefully cognisant despite the paralysing fugue pressing against the bubble of stark awareness that keeps it at bay. It manifests itself as a numbed sort of shock. Or more accurately—

Indifference.

Defeat.

His hand brushes your cheek, the snag of dry leather against humid skin tugs uncomfortably at your flesh, stinging as they dance down to your jaw, the delicate line of your vulnerable throat, skimming over the curve of your breast—

And it's too much. Too present. Too real.

Autopilot. Dissociation. Derealisation. All of these concepts slip past the bubble of hypervigilance, skidding the surface like a pebble thrown over a lake. Out of reach as he unashamedly gropes you, barely making an effort to mask his actions as just buckling you in.

You pretend, though. Curl your fists around the sides of the seat, fingers digging into the worn foam. Head lulling back on the headrest. Eyes fixed out the window as he walked around the front, head and shoulders still visible in the windshield despite the height of the truck. It makes your heart leap, stuttering in your chest as the absurdity of his size is brought back into focus. Too big, you think. Grossly so.

There's a moment when you think about running. Toying with the idea of sliding your hand over the lock, pulling the door open when he's too busy on his side to notice. It'll give you an advantage—a head start. Enough time to slink through the dense forest of concrete buildings lining the industrial zone, and into somewhere safe. Help, a behemoth is chasing me—

But the door clicks. Swings open with a squeal of rusted metal just as your fingers twitch toward the handle. Hope evaporates with each lurch of the cab as he climbs inside, metal creaking under his weight when he settles in the seat.

From the corner of your eye, you can see his head tip. Chin angling toward you. Staring. Assessing.

When he speaks, you feel the words like cold fingers dancing maliciously down your spine.

“‘pected you t’run.”

It's said idly enough. Nonchalant. Tone even, if a little cruel, and you wonder if this is some test. One that you passed—and failed—in equal measure.

He doesn't look away. It takes less effort than you wish it did to peel your lips apart, to breathe in the stale, mulch scent of the cab—something overgrown, rotting, and damp—and mumble:

Where would I go?

It seems to amuse him. He hums around a mouthful of mockery before turning away, pawing at the ignition. Gloved hand curling over the wheel.

“Smart girl.”

You don't feel very smart. In fact, you feel very small. Stupid. Maybe you should have taken a stab at it—running. Tried, at least, to save your own life before the jaws of the beast closed over you like an iron bear trap around your ankle. Fought like hell. Clawed and kicked and screamed.

When most kids read the back of a cereal box, you learned about secondary locations. You know better than this.

But the truck sputters to life in a belly-deep rumble, hacking up soot into the air as he pulls the lever into DRIVE. The fight inside of you—however ephemeral it might have been—dies inside the smoke spilling out of his exhaust. Gone so quickly that you begin to wonder if it was even there at all—

Must be, you think, eyes listing outward. Keen. Mapping the twists and turns—a futile effort in the end: he doesn't bother hiding where he's taking you, and you've been down these old, grim streets more times than you can count.

It doesn't surprise you much when he turns down the street leading to the butcher shop. An old relic that still carries the marks of a booming farming town before it fell victim to industrialisation. Concrete skyscrapers in place of lush cornfields. Warehouses over old barns, ranches. Cattle, meat, produce—it all used to be a mainstay here but now hides under layers of steel.

The dark windows of the small shop gleam with hazy smears of neon blue, red, when you pull up, catching on the array of rowdy bars across the street. All clubs that belong to the 141. A playground of drugs, sex. More money than you'd ever see in your lifetime.

It's an uncanny juxtaposition to the quiet, assuming street right across from it. Barber, butcher, accountant firm, antique store. All dark inside and bathed in the smeared stream of glimmering neon as lights flash in the fading glow of twilight.

He pulls up to the curb in front of the shop. A bold move if the streets weren't so empty. Lifeless. The clubs won't be open for four more hours. Everything else follows the same nine to five as the rest of the world. The shops closed an hour ago, and everyone in town seems to know not to linger here after dark.

The air seems to stagnate in your lungs when he cuts the ignition. Slips the key into his pocket.

“Don't get any funny ideas in tha' pretty little ‘ead o’yours.”

“Funny ideas,” you echo, toneless. Flat. It rolls out with your exhale. Words that might have been smarter to swallow down. “Like following a stranger to a butcher shop?”

“Lippy little thing, ain't you?” He scoffs. The truck creaks when he shifts. “Ain't go’ no one t’blame but yourself. Told you what would ‘appen if you kept sellin’ in our territory. You should ‘ave known better.”

“That was my brother.” The words slip out before you can stop them. “Not me—”

“‘ow am I suppose t’know that? You were sellin’ where I told ‘im not to—” he has the gall to shrug. Spit these careless words at you like it wasn't life or death. “That's all there is to it, birdie.”

“That's not fair—”

The truck groans under his weight, shaking from side to side as he leans over to push his door open before turning back to you, rolling his eyes.

“Life ain't very fair, is it?”

The acerbic words are flicked out from between his teeth; an apathetic, droning curl clinging to each syllable. He doesn't care. Won't. What happens to you next is your choice, and yours alone.

And he's just doing his job—

“When I get out of ‘ere, you ain't gonna do anythin’ funny—”

His hand lashes out. Gloved fingers close over the thick of your throat in a blink. Fear lags by a beat, giving him enough time to sink his fingers over your neck, and when it catches up—heart rabbiting in your chest, thudding in your ears; roaring as your pulse thunders beneath the press of his thumb—he’s already got you in his hold. The width forces your chin to lift, stretching up to accommodate the curl of his hand around you.

Trapped like a rabbit. Cattle to the slaughter.

He tilts his head down, keeping his eyes on yours as he forces your crown into the headrest, chin lifted up. It's uncomfortable. The curve of your neck cuts off your airways. Constricts your breathing to shallow gasps. An ache grows in your nape.

The swell of panic, fear, in your eyes makes him hum. But there's nothing echoing back. An absence of light in the deep, placid pits. It looks like still water. A stagnant lake.

It's unnerving how dispassionately expressive his eyes are. Wild, wild. Vats of ink. Pools of obsidian. Ringed in red-lined ivory. Long, ashen lashes dusting over the smears of charcoal under his eyes. Sleepless nights, maybe. Fatigue. The corners are tattooed with coal, leaving behind a thumbprint in the crease.

But empty. Barren. No light.

Like black holes. Eating everything around it. Devouring all that gets too close, but giving nothing in return except a bottomless crater in the bruised-plum nebulous of space around it.

You're not sure you like it. You can't look away.

But in staring back so hard (getting pulled in deeper and deeper), you catch the twitch in his left eye. A shallow spasm. It throws off the symmetry when he blinks, one eye a sliver of a second behind. Desynchronized in a way that seems so—

Unlike him.

Disjointed.

You blink in response. Perfectly synchronous.

His lid twitches again. Just once. Brief. Pale, pink eyelids drop, unveiling a nebula of indigo veins on the smooth, thin surface as they roll down to half-mast over his eyes, now narrowed slightly in contemplation. Thought.

Whatever is happening in his head can't be good. It causes a ripple over the lake. Little rings rebound outwards.

He looks away first. A quick slide of his eyes to the corners, glancing out of the passenger side window. Whatever catches his attention is unknown to you. The anchor on his hand around your throat keeps you still. Immovable.

(Every instinct in your body compels you not to look away from him because nothing outside could ever be scarier, more dangerous, than him.)

A second later, he breathes in through his nose. The fabric of his mask is pulled into his nostrils from the force, forming little black holes under the crooked arch.

You hadn't really given much thought to his appearance outside of big, massive. But there's a strange asymmetry to the slopes and valleys beneath the balaclava. Trying to map his face, fill in the blanks with just black cloth and vague, lopsided outlines, is impossible. There are too many gaps. Too many missing pieces. You can only wonder, then, what he looks like under it.

Monstrous, you hope.

It's just a coincidence that he looks at you the moment the thought passes, but you flinch like a naughty child getting caught doing something you shouldn't when the heavy, dour weight of his impenetrable stare is levelled at you once more. Your heart stutters. It's loud in your ears. In the truck.

You wonder if he can hear it just as loudly as you do—

Another blink, and his gaze flickers down, settling on the gap between your lips, watching the little tremble they make with each shallow hiccup of air you greedily suck in. His head tilts to the side, eyes never leaving your mouth even as he leans down, masked lips brushing over the beading sweat gathering on your hairline.

It's a brief touch. A taste. You tremble when he pulls back, fingers tightening around your flesh.

His eyes are lavascapes.

“Are you, birdie?”

You almost forget what he's asking. The conversation hidden between the scant beats it took for him to measure your worth with the blistering intensity of his stare, and the tumult of your feelings still looping around each other in your belly. Knotting up tight into a ball. There's fear, of course there is.

But the rest—

You'd rather not think about.

The grip on your throat eases just enough for you to shake your head no to whatever he is asking. Doing anything funny, you think, scrambling at the tangle of memories flipping past, trying to connect the pieces to a puzzle you've already forgotten.

It must be the right response. Or maybe it's another question like before, a test where there’s no right answer.

Run, stay.

Smart and stupid.

But it seems to appease him—marginally. His eyes crease. Tightening. His other hand folds over your throat, sliding until his palms kiss the sides of your neck in a near-perfect symmetry.

Something frissons across the blank, placid lake of his expression. Another ripple. A shudder. He leans in for a moment, nose touching the apple of your cheek, and when he breathes in, it’s sharp, reedy. Cold air ghosts over your skin. Long, pale lashes flutter when you swallow.

He hums quietly under his breath before peeling back. The flatness to his gaze is back; a cold, impenetrable distance widening like a chasm as he uncoils around you. You almost fall for this—this indifference. An icy nonchalance. But you've been eating the minuscule quirks of him just as ravenously as he's been devouring yours.

There is something there. A fracture, maybe. A splinter.

But what leaks through from the other side isn't anything close to warmth. It's—

Hunger.

The shift in your throat draws his molten gaze to your neck, still wrapped tight in his firm grip. Your reflection blooms in the vat of black; eyes wide, all white. Pupils narrowed to a pinprick. Mouth slack, corners tugging downward from the pressure of his hand. The tilt of your head. His thumbs press under your chin, pushing you back further until it feels like your neck might break—

He stops. Shifts. You puff out a shallow breath.

What looks back at you is unremarkable in the murk. A sliver of fear. A slip of unease.

Eye of the beholder, you think when his breath chuffs out shallowly through the mask. When that hunger is ground down to a raw, esoteric fissure hairlining the black of his eyes. The widening expanse of his pupil.

You wonder if it's your fear that itches under his skin, dredging up something predatory in his hindbrain. The urge to chase. To bite.

But the nearly indiscernible flicker of his gaze has you brushing that idea aside when it snags on the expanse of his hand coiled around your throat. Easily swallowing it whole with just his palms.

You're not a small thing, but the indomitable size of him makes you feel insignificant.

You think he feels it, too.

His fingers flex over your nape, stretching. Pulling. It pushes the flat of his palm into your throat, ridges crushed against your trachea. But you can still breathe. It's shallow. Hoarse. A touch painful. Dizzying in a way that makes you feel like you're on a rollercoaster. A teacup ride that just spins and spins and spins—

The gap closes. A sliver of air snakes down your throat. Muscles flexing, shifting. Struggling to swallow around the pinch of his hand. A harrowing task when you feel the gloved fingers link to the first, then the second knuckle, tying together in a too-tight, impossible, noose around your neck. Thumbs overlap. Fingers slide into place. It forms a chain of his hands with no gaps between them. Not a single sliver of skin shows from under the leather of his gloves.

He makes a sound when they meet—a nasal groan in the back of his throat, mouth clenched shut so the air has no choice but to tear through his nose. It's raw. Fractured. The devastating moan of a tiger nuzzling at its meal.

Your vision blurs. A black fog presses into the edges, seeping over the arch of your peripherals. Dripping down slowly over the hazy smear of the man. The way the ochre sun peeks over the angular roof of the accountant's office illuminates his back and casts swaths of shadows over his front. Drenching him in murk.

Despite the flickering darkness shuttering over your sight, you don't blink. Even as the tears prickle at your eyes, they stay open. Fixed on him. Black holes, you think, watching as the fever marbling those obsidian pools recedes. Cools.

He makes that noise again. Softer this time. A purr from deep in his chest. A breath. And then he peels back. His hands go slack. His shoulders slumping back into the lax, easy spread from before as you gasp hard, nearly choking on the flood of air that roars down your throat.

Your cheeks feel hot for a moment, and then cold. Icy. You don't have to touch them to know that you're crying. That the deluge clinging to your lashline spilt over, dripping messily to the collar of your shirt.

The placid lake is back. In the stillness, you heave. Mouth hanging open, chin quivering. His thumb lifts, slides over the curve of your chin. You don't feel it. Numbed, maybe, by the brief kiss of hypoxia. But you see it. Watch as he slides it up to the jut of your lower lip, the black, angular tip tickling over your skin. He follows the seam between skin and lip, tracing it to the corner of your mouth. It's slick. Drool pools in the crease, dribbles over the top of his finger. His eyes drop when he mops it up, catching it on the pad.

He makes another noise. An arid rasp bubbling between the soft tissue behind the roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue. It's ugly. The shiver you try to fight back slinks through.

His hand peels away from your neck, movements lax. Slow. The unwinding gait of an idling tiger in no real rush, no hurry, because there's nothing in the frigid Arctic that can touch him.

You watch him with flared eyes as he brings his thumb to his clothed mouth, and rubs your spit into the fabric of his mask.

His eyes don't break away from yours once.

Your spit doesn't stand out against the black of balaclava, but the idea of it burns through you. Throwing you headfirst into a dazed stupor. Dizzy. Confused.

Satisfied with whatever it was supposed to mean, he clambers out of the truck before coming around to your side. Distantly, you're sure this is what he meant by funny ideas when he passes the headlight, head straight and eyes gliding around the empty street. An opening to run. You know where you are. It would be easy to flee. Hide in the construction zone just ahead, tucking yourself into the tightest corner you can find until help arrives.

Help, though.

Officer, please. I got caught selling meth in the mob's territory and now they're going to skin me alive. Please hurry—

Right.

They'd rather help bury your body than get in the way of the mafia. Gangland violence isn't their concern unless it tumbles out into the street. Fat wallets keep even the most compassionate person quiet. Willing to turn a blind eye.

You'd be thrown in a cell. Or dropped off at their doorstep.

Either way—

You won't be coming back alive.

There's nothing to steel, harden, when he pulls the door open, your nerves long since ground down to fine powder. Nothing to fight against, either. He hauls you out of the truck, hands firm on your skin. Bursting blood vessels easily between his fingers. Barely any effort at all to crack your bones.

The moment in the car seems miles away when he pulls you in front of him, hand curling over your nape. Any flicker of humanity rendered out when he pinches you tight and shoves you forward. Dragging you back to the butcher shop by the scruff of your neck, leading you down a narrow set of stairs to the basement where pale white carcasses hang from hooks on the ceiling. He laughs when you tense. When your heels dig into the brown-stained linoleum.

Ain't gonna hang you, he mocks, fingers dipping punishingly into the sides of your neck. “Not yet, anyway—”

It brings little comfort when he drags you to a room in the back, kicking open the door with the toe of his boot before pushing you inside with a nudge against your nape.

It's dark. Walls covered in stains; mould, mildew. Something you hope is just rust. A single mattress is shoved into the corner; sheets stained with sweat and grime. Tinged a pale brown. Two pillows sit at the top, lopsided and matted with use. Threadbare. A twisted, black heap of fabric sits at the bottom. Wisps of cotton poke out from the cigarette burns.

A pair of muddy, black boots sit against the wall at the end of the bed. A basket of clothes—jeans, black shirts, black sweaters—is piled on the wall across from the door.

The room smells of stale sweat and old cigarettes.

You don't want to be here. The thought is abrupt. Immediate. Unease prickles along your nape, warmed and damp under his gloved palm. Between the look of the room—the floors stained the same suspicious brown, the rumpled bed in a corner—and the smell, you know this is not a place you want to stay. To be trapped inside with a man cut from Everest; whose hands are more dangerous than the sharp end of a knife.

He must feel the tension brimming beneath your skin; the spark of adrenaline surging through your veins. The clamp of his hand on your nape digs in tighter. Holding firm.

A breath tumbles out, thickening with mockery. “Like I said,” he leans down, pressing the mountainous width of his chest into your spine. The accentuation in your size difference, how big he is in comparison to you, makes you feel like prey. Small. Brittle, thin. He eats you whole. Spares nothing for later. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

Another nudge and you're pushed further into the room. He leans away, foot shoving back on the door until it snaps shut with a noise that cuts through the gossamer that spun around you, bifurcating reality from dream. The haze is wafted away, and all that remains is a barren room with a lumpy mattress, the smeared stain of rotten blood coagulating on the floor, and his body boxing you in. No escape.

The rumble of his chest shakes loose the cobwebs spooling across your thoughts. A brush of humid air ghosts along the line of your jaw, dampening the skin below your ear as he leans in close, too close, and purrs:

“Go on now. Strip for me.”

Each scrap of clothing you slowly roll off of your body is exchanged for a slip of information about him—who he is (Simon Riley, the name rumbled through the split between his teeth; a low, brassy purr as his eyes gleam in the dark, drilling into the expanse of skin unveiled to him)—and what he wants—

Nothing, he tells you, lifting one massive shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug. Jus’ what's owed to me, pet. For stickin’ my neck out f’you.

You don't think he did. Not really. But you're harshly reminded of the unsubtle threat. The gun balanced on his massive thigh. So wide, so big, it seems to make it look smaller in comparison. Tiny. A toy.

Child's play.

It's made worse, somehow, as he lounges. Sprawls out on the bed, legs spread, pulling taut on the jeans that stretch around the thickness of his upper thigh, bunching around his calves in a half-tuck inside his black boots. Arms flexing. Folded over his broad chest. He rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbow, showing off an impressive tapestry of harsh, faded black ink. Crisscrossing lines. All asymmetrical. Guns, barbed wire. A bullet with a wide, toothy grin—

All of it knits together; woven into a tangled mass of muscle. Of man, hidden under scar tissue. Rope burns on his wrists cut so deep that the skin is permanently dented in. More cigarette burns hidden inside the mess of ink. Jagged lines—from a knife, maybe; bullet wounds.

His skin tells stories of a terrible life. Ink spills over the worst of them, but they're visible under the fading charcoal. A series of burns—acid, fire, chemical—and raw, torn skin. He looks like he's been mauled. Pressed into the cold metal of a wood chipper until chunks of flesh were taken out. But even with these deep gouges, craters of missing tissue, he's big. Bulky. Soft—like a tiger. Predatory muscle tucked away under a thick layer of fatty tissue.

The pillowed pouch of his belly, the softness around his biceps—

It belies the danger underneath. The steel.

But as scary as it is, it has nothing on his eyes.

Glinting in the dim room. Dark pools of obsidian that follow each movement with an almost clinical keenness. Sharpened to a razor's edge.

They might be pretty, you think, if they weren't so intense. So liquid. His eyes gleam like wet ink, languidly rolling along his lashline as you clumsily shed your jacket, your blouse. Shoes, socks. Pants. Until you're in nothing but your panties.

Swallowing around the influx of panic that flutters like little birds beating their wings against the soft walls of your throat, you slip your fingers into the hem, now or never, and—

And you hesitate.

There's a difference between undressing willingly and doing so to save your life. It should spurn you on—survive, survive, survive—but you freeze at the apex. The summit is within reach.

You know what happens when you climb it. Cross over the invisible threshold.

What you've been trying to ignore this whole time, ever since he shoved you into the room with a huff, taking his perch on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, but in such a terrifying state of vulnerability, nearly nude, you can't any longer. Can't avert your gaze to the stained linoleum in a thinly veiled effort to keep from glancing at the thickening bulge lying prone against his thigh.

His—

Well.

You knew what he wanted when he grabbed your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks until your lips pursed, puckered for him to run his finger along the inseam. Prying your teeth apart. Rubbing his finger over your tongue, eyes dark—full; black holes pulling, tugging you in, dragging you closer to the event horizon framed in a ring of arsenic—and locked on to the sight of his gloved knuckle disappearing into your mouth. Wanting. Hungry.

You knew. And now—

Committing to it is legions above what you’re mentally prepared for. Nausea brims, churns your stomach. Unease curdling inside of you like rotten milk.

You don’t want this. But you don’t have a choice, do you?

That notion, the idea, prickles along your nape, raising the fine, peach-fuzz there until it stands on end.

You freeze. Movements still as every muscle in your body tenses. Coils. You can't do it. Can't—

A huff is dragged out of his chest as he sits up, knocking the gun carelessly to the mattress. His eyes daggering, sharpening into needlepoints, as he stares at you.

“Gotta do everything f’myself, do I?”

A grunt and he’s up. Pulling himself to his feet with nothing but the flex of his abdominal muscles.

There's no reprieve. Not a moment graced to gather your bearings before he crosses the distance between you. Once a comfort, a chasm, now conquered in a single stride.

The tips of his gloves are cold when they brush over your skin, sliding down the slope of your waist until they meet the hem of your panties. The last piece of modesty you have—

But he doesn't wait.

You're aware that this isn't a non-consensual thriller where the lead looms over the hapless love interest, eyes blazing with passion and need. That each interaction is drenched in a thick, palpable tension tethering the two together. Urges coalescing. Threads pulling taut, magnetic, dragging them closer and closer to the brink until they tumble over.

This is reality. And he doesn't stare into your eyes with an all-consuming desire as he slowly removes that last scrap of fabric keeping him from devouring you. No.

His skin-warmed fingers push under the elastic band with a rough shove, curling into the fabric until it tightens across your pelvis and thighs, and then he huffs, annoyed, and pulls. Pulls—

Until something gives.

The lace yields to the tension in his flexing bicep, and scrapes over your skin as it rips apart in his hand, threads snapping. Popping.

It hurts. Stings. You hiss, but the noise is ignored when he peels the ruined scrap of fabric from your legs, shoving it into his back pocket with a grunt of satisfaction. He looks back to you, eyes rippling like the dark, ink-black surface of a lake during nightfall, and coos, mocking and mean—

“Not s’hard, was it?”

He leans closer to you, a hand skimming up your spine before his fingers curl around your nape, keeping you still for just a breath before he pulls you into him with too much force. Your hands lift, palms slapping against his thick stomach when the movement nearly topples you over and threatens to break your nose on his chest.

“Makin’ me do all the work when y’supposed t’be payin’ me back? Ain't very nice o’you, is it?”

He touches you like he's taking stock of your worth. Grabbing a heavy, rough palmful of your beast in his hand, squeezing. Testing the weight, the softness, how supple you were between his fingers like he might with a piece of fruit. Meat. Prodding into the flesh, feeling the ripeness there. Gauging whether or not it was a piece he wanted to keep.

It's demeaning. Humiliating. He treats you like cattle; presses into the elasticity of your muscle, examines every inch of your skin for blemishes. Scouring for imperfections. There's no softness in the way he grabs handfuls of your body—squeezing your breasts, pushing them together, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger; pinching your belly, your sides, your waist; curling his fingers under your thigh, lifting it until it hitches over his waist, cunt exposed and pressed tight to the bulge trapped in his jeans. Your ass is handled rougher than the rest. Each cheek sitting in a hand, squeezed and punched and spread embarrassingly wide.

He ruts into you as he does it. Pushes the thick, fat length of him into your belly, rolling his hips against you with a heavy, ragged puff of air.

He feels big.

Everywhere, of course—it’s not so much his height, but the absurd width of him that really digs into your hindbrain, crossing all those intricate wires until they're tangled up, knotted together. Seeing his thigh, the same scale as a tree truck, slotting between yours—a mere branch by comparison—makes your belly flop. Turn over itself.

The muddled wires spark. Heat pools between your hips.

He could crush your head between them like a bear pushing its paw down on a watermelon.

It's fear and heat.

The two work in tandem, forming a seamless cohesion, as they flit down your spine, brimming up the urge to sink to your knees, the need to roll over and show your belly. A paradoxical desire to both run and be chased.

You're not sure if he's tendering your meat to eat later or if this is the usual type of foreplay he engages in, but once satisfied you're softened up enough for him, he shoves his fingers between your thighs with an abrasive hum that reverberates through his belly, tickling your palms.

“Tired o’waitin’,” is what he says when your head jerks up, eyes widening in shock. Terror. Horror. “Don't look so surprised,” he huffs, dryly. Voice a rough scrap over your cheek. “What'd y’think was gonna ‘appen?”

“Wait—” but he doesn't.

His fingers twist, pushing through your folds to graze your clit. It isn't gentle. It's sudden, quick. You gasp more from shock than pleasure; the rough slide of leather feels strange on your flesh, and your head is too muddled to separate fear from bliss.

Despite that, your body heats. Reacts to his touch. Your lower lip wobbles. You bite back another sound that crawls up your throat when his knuckle catches on your clit again, the pressure just shy of too much.

The burn, the fever, melts the unease. Shallow gasps spill out. Your cunt clenches, fluttering around nothing—throbbing, growing sticky, slick; achy and empty—when he starts to glide his digit between your folds. Little sawing motions drag each groove and stitch of his gloves over your pebbled clit, each thrust of his hand between your thighs making heat pool between your hips. It's done so clinically, so detached, like his hand rubbing over your leaking pussy was nothing to him. An action to get done, a task to complete.

It's the shame of that, the embarrassment, that makes you want to weep. Your fingers dig into his chest, nails pulling uncomfortably on the pleated bumps of his jacket as you grip the fabric right between your fists, clinging to him like a newborn fawn—all wet-nosed, teary-eyed; knobbly knees threatening to buck.

“S–stop—” you mewl when the monotonous rhythm melts into something harder, more intense. Heart thudding in your chest, heat burning you up as he turns his hand, palm up, between your sticky, shaking thighs. He rubs his hand back and forth, curling his middle finger up when he passes your hole, tip pushing against your leaking rim.

The friction aches. The stretch stings. The leather feels strange, foreign when it pries your folds apart and dips inside of you.

You don't like it. It's too much—

He makes a sound—a tut—when you pull away from him, standing on the tips of your toes until the blunt curve of his finger slides out of you. He sucks his teeth in a mockery of disappointment before digging his fingers, hard, into the sides of your neck. A warning. You whine. Whimper—

It goes unheeded. And when you press your thighs tight together, shivering at the slip-slide of your skin rubbing against each other, he growls. The noise is inhuman. Animalistic.

Your act of deviance comes with a swift, bruising punishment.

His fingers tighten on your neck once again. A warning squeeze as he reaches down with his other hand, grabbing your hip. It keeps you still, immobile, as he bullies his boot between your feet, kicking your legs apart. You're not expecting it. When you stumble, he huffs in amusement. Can't hold yourself up? Want me that bad, huh? Needy fuckin' thing, ain't you?

You don't get a chance to respond. His palm splays wide over your hip, leather creaking as he flexes, stretching his fingers out, tapping some soundless beat out against your skin. Touching you like he's owed the privilege. The right. And in many ways—

Go’ a problem, you an’ I

—he does.

Brute strength, and an unmatched, almost laughable, dearth in your physicality ensures that he has the upper hand—even without the gun he left on the mattress; darker and flat, a full matte compared to what you were expecting.

(They're always so shiny in movies, aren't they?)

The threat of it—dull as it might be—roots you to the spot as he slides his hand down, thumb brushing over your belly button, dipping in; pressing until your stomach starts to ache—

It peels away when the whine wells up, sloping down, down. Teases your mound with the tips of his fingers, gentle swipes along the sensitive seam of your belly and pelvis, the sensation is an odd tickle that pulls at your navel, pulses at the apex of your thighs. You mewl—a slow, soft thing that barely makes it out from between your teeth—and he lets his hand drop. Palm flat against the soft flesh of your mons, fingers reaching, spreading, until they curl over your folds. Index and ring finger tucked tight into the hollow bend of your pelvis and thigh. The tip of his middle rubs gentle strokes over the skin above your clit. It's a whisper of pleasure. The idea of a touch.

Mindless, your hips flit, following his hand—

“Needy.”

It cows you. Douses you in icy shame. There's barely any mockery in his even, observant tone, but you feel it unfurl over your shoulders all the same.

He doesn't give you a moment to think, to let the ripples of humiliation take over, forcing you to pull away, hide. His fingers trail over your hood, the pebble of your clit. The sensation, the cool undertone in the leather of his glove, is unlike anything you'd felt before. The thick stitches in the fabric catch on your flesh, nerve endings flaring in pleasure. Heat blooms in your belly.

It feels good.

You gasp, head tipping back. His hand winds around your waist when your knees buckle, catching you with a rasping huff—

“Feelin’ good, ain't you?” He pulls you tight to his chest, finger rubbing circles around your throbbing clit. Your cunt clenches, empty, and you whine, needing something more. Something to fill the ache inside of you—

His finger slips. Slides easily between your folds, parting your lips around the thick of him until he reaches your drenched hole. The sounds it makes when he taps his finger against your fluttering core makes your toes curl. Has heat blistering over your cheeks, down the slope of your neck.

It makes him groan. The low growl makes you throb, clenching in needy little pulls, pulses, as his finger dips into the slick dripping out of you.

“Suckin’ me in,” he grunts, and pushes his finger inside, thrusting up to the last knuckle. Palm tapping against your folds as his index and ring finger close to give him more room to sink deeper into you. The messy, slick squelch is loud, rolling over the mewling gasps that tumble from your lips.

Heat floods your belly at the belly-deep groans he lets out when you squeeze around him.

“Stranglin’ my fuckin’ finger, birdie—”

He leans down, knocking his forehead against the side of your face. It's more intimate than you were expecting. Jarring. The proximity plays a twisted game inside your head—the urge to run, to roll over coalescing into a paralyzing tailspin. Rooting you to the ground when the warm, damp knit of his mask grazes your cheek.

The intimacy of his head on yours is eclipsed when you can feel the shape of his mouth through the fabric.

It's softer than you expected. A plush, fleshy give when he presses his lips against your skin. And—

A gap.

On the side of his mouth, there's a gouge. A pockmark. You feel the gap, the absence, of his flesh when he rolls it over your cheekbone. You try to read the asymmetry of his face—mapping all of these misshapen parts; his mauled lips, the crooked nose that digs into your skin and leaves behind a tacky smear of condescension when he breathes out through his nostrils in a heavy puff of air—and convince yourself that you're doing it so you can bring these patchwork pieces to the police later.

Survival, you think, your head tilting back as he noses down your neck, tickling along your skin.

(And when your cunt flutters around the rough, thick drag of his finger petting along your walls, you add: a bodily reaction. That's all it is.)

He takes another lungful of your scent before he rocks back on his heels, pulling away from you. Straightening up. Looming above you once more.

“Now—”

He pulls his finger out of you slowly and you try not to whimper at the empty feeling that brims up. The way your hips rock toward him, seeking and eager. Wanting.

Needy, just like he said.

Just a bodily reaction—

He holds his hand up to the dim light flickering over his head, fingers spreading apart as he takes in the glossy shine of his middle finger.

The gleam of it makes your ears feel hot. Shame pools in your belly as he makes another noise—a groan, deep and low, in the back of his throat. Eyes darkening as his pupils bloom, eclipsing his irises in an endless pool of black. They flicker toward you, listing half-mast in a way to leonine, so predatory, that it shudders through your bones. Run, run—

His hand flexes around your waist when you twitch. A warning. A threat. You tremble when he leans in, masked lips brushing over your cheek once more. Breath ghosting through the fabric, tickling the inside of your ear.

He smells of war. Of fire and brimstone. Napalm and nitroglycerine. You want to close your eyes, look away, but you can't. His proximity alone roots you to the spot. Turns you into a prey animal, frozen on instinct alone as he prowls around, creeping closer. Maw stretching wide, drooling dripping off razor-sharp canines—

“Let's see if y’worth all the trouble.”

—and he bites.

Knocks his palm into your sternum, roughly shoving you down on the mattress.

His hands fall to the button of his jeans. “Ready?” He asks, but doesn't seem to care about your answer. Opts, instead, to fall to his knee beside you. It pulls on his zipper, tugs it all the way down with a sharp, metallic sound that cuts through the stagnant air as each ring of teeth is pried apart.

You can't help it. You look. Dragged there by something primal, magnetic—the morbid curiosity to see the monster for yourself as it tries to take a bite.

And almost immediately, you wish you hadn't.

The spread of pale skin, dark curls jutting out from the split of his jeans, makes everything feel more real, and moving fast. Whiplash quick. Happening in a blink:

The shift of fabric as he pulls the mask up over his lips, letting rest on the crooked bridge of his nose. A flash of his mouth, mangled. Mauled. Full of ugly, pale pink scars. A gap where tissue once knit his upper lip together. The bite of crooked teeth as he brings the sticky, wet tip of his glove to his mouth, sinking in. Pulling. Tugging. The roll of skin—a rose, a gun, a skull—all encased in barbed wire; thick rivers of blue-green veins.

Another pull and it's free. Dangling between his teeth for a moment as he reaches up and shoves the jacket off his shoulders. Rolling and thick. Wide. A broad chest. Soft belly. There's an inch of flesh around the expanse of him—biceps, thighs, calves, chest, stomach, shoulders—but it's a buffer for the corded, streamlined muscle beneath. A layer of fatty tissue.

Like a tiger, hiding its dizzying musculature beneath a thick, loose pelt.

When he moves, it flexes. His shoulders roll; muscles bunching together, pulling taut under soft skin. The jacket slides off. Falls to the ground behind the mattress. Forgotten, discarded. The glove is next to go. Dropping from between his teeth, landing just beside your ankle with a muted thud.

He follows after it. Ink spilling over his lashline as his eyes drop, staring at the roll of his skin tucked on the outside of your thigh. Trailing up to your knee. Your hip. The split of your cunt beneath your other leg; knee tucked to your chest.

A flash of something, a flicker, is the only warning you get before the back of his hand is nudging the glove off of your skin, replacing it with the rough, calloused grip of his palm.

You jerk at his touch, flinching back—

He's intimidating above you like this. Leaning back on his haunches but still as tall as you are standing up. The sheer absurdity of his height—his width—is dizzying. Gives you vertigo when you look up.

His throat shifts when you move. A swallow. Coarse stubble grows down the column of his neck, dusting over his lower jaw, chin. The rest is swallowed by the balaclava bunched around his crooked nose.

He's not—

He's not handsome.

A smattering of crisscrossing scars, burns, skin pocked and gouged out in deep pockets along his flesh—the slide of a knife carving away at him, you think; digging down to his marrow—all take away from any sense of modern attractiveness you might feel for him with his broad, jagged nose and full lips.

But there's something rugged about him. Untamed. Wild. Appealing in a dangerous way.

You don't know if you would have let this happen under different circumstances. If this minacious beauty of his would have worked on you enough to want it outside of this awful, almost unfathomable trade.

He's too big. Wouldn't even fit inside of your house—

The graze of his thumb on your angle knocks the thought loose, and you're dragged back to the heat of his hand. Rough and coarse; palms slightly damp from the glove. It tugs on your flesh as he draws it up, a rubbery sort of pain as it catches on the soft, dry skin of your ankle. Your shin.

He follows behind a second later, pulling himself into the mattress with a huff, knees shuffling forward as he crawls over you. The jostling rocks your body. Makes your breasts shake as he lumbers on the bed, hand still sliding up, up, until his fingers curl over the bend of your knee.

The bed dips under his weight. Your body sagging, rolling into the divot beneath his knees. Tucked under him. Loomed over. He stares down at you through the cutout of his mask, eyes liquid in the gloam. Pools of melting, dripping obsidian. Black holes. Event horizon—

You look away before it drags you in. Submissive. Softened under the harsh burn of his flat, wide stare. He chuffs when your nose brushes over the thin skin of his wrist, mouth sliding over the thick, pulsing vein stretching down from his inner arm and curling into the bend of his hand. Your lips purse, and he makes that noise again.

Quietly amused, and—

He shuffles forward until the backs of your thighs are pulled over his, spread out on his lap. Bare. Open to him.

And he looks.

And looks.

Hungry, you think. Quietly amused and hungry—

The notion is wrenched out of your head when he shifts his weight. Watches the folds of your pussy open for him as he pulls your knees wider apart, head dropping between his massive shoulders, gaze drilling into the split of your thighs. Gasping at the sting, the sudden stretch, does little to deter him from shoving your leg down until the outside of your knee touches the bed. Muscles straining. Pinching. It hurts; hipbones twinging in agony.

But the embarrassment burning through you singes all the pain.

You're spread open under him. Bare. Legs tangled around his waist, stretched wide around the width of him. Ankles knocking into the hard plains of his lower back each time he shifts.

“Fuckin’ hell—” he grunts. Snarls. The word ripped up from the back of his throat, forced through the twisting channels of his nose. Nasal and ugly when it scrapes out between his teeth. “Gonna ruin this pretty pussy, birdie.”

It's a threat. A promise. You twist, mouthing your protests into the warm skin of his wrist.

There's something about his voice—that airy, brassy tone—that strikes a chord deep inside you. Makes heat pool between your thighs, leaking out in a syrupy mess—

His hand peels away from your knee, sliding down your sticky, damp inner thigh until his knuckles graze the sensitive slip of skin sitting between your outer lip and hip. That ticklish, belly-fluttering sensation blooms in your groin as he rubs his scarred knuckles over the crease, catching the slick gathered there on his thick, meaty thumb.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he groans, shifting his fingers until they cover the whole of your cunt, cradling you in his hand. He holds you like that for a beat, eyes locked on the way you're swallowed up by the broad stretch of his palm.

The rough drag of his skin over your folds feels good. An all-encompassing heat spreads over your tender flesh from the curve of your ass to the bump of your mons where his middle finger rests, almost touching the strip of skin between your loins and your belly. Held in his grasp. Cradled in his palm.

Your thighs twitch. A shallow jerk as your knees try to bend over his hand, but you can't. With his thumb and pinkie tucking into each crease between your outer lip and leg, it keeps you from closing your legs. Hinged by the wide, flat cup of his palm.

And it shouldn't bludgeon through you the way it does. All heat. All want. Need. A growing ache you can't think around.

(bodily reaction, you think even as the image of his hand—big with thick fingers, scarred knuckles; streaks of faded, ashy ink etched into milky, veined skin—laying over your pussy, swallowing it whole, sears into your mind—)

“Can feel your little cunt,” he grunts, feeling the pulse, the little throbbing pulls of your muscles as they twitch at the sight. The feeling. Clenching down around nothing. “Greedy little thing, ain't you, birdie?”

Anger paints his words as he rasps them out. A teeth gnashing, jaw clenching frustration that needles into the scorn, the fury, forced out between the tight seam of his crooked teeth.

You don't understand it. Can't, maybe.

But it's tucked away as quickly as it appeared, shifting into an ugly, mocking derision. Dry. Acerbic. His teeth flash, lip pulling upward in a sneer—a snarl—before he hums, sliding his hand down. The drag of his damp, rough fingers over your swollen folds has your knees falling open wider around his thick thighs, baring yourself willingly to him.

Want it bad, don't you? He mocks, and the sound of his voice alone has your pussy clenching tight, belly fluttering around the abrasive scrape of his tone. Brassy and full. Gritty. You whine, hips inching up—

His hand peels off of your slit. The rush of cold air drags another whimper out of you, hips pushing up to chase the heady, molten feeling of his skin on yours. And he's amused by it—a laugh echoes out, crackling in the hollow of his throat at your desperation—but you're too achy, too hot, to feel the simmer of humiliation nipping the apples of your cheeks.

He's not even making a real effort to pleasure you, to make you feel good, and yet—

Your hips twitch toward him in needy, mewling cants; please sits on the tip of your tongue, cradled between your teeth. Slips out on a shaky, breathless gasp when he meets you on the next buck of your hips, palm slapping over your wet slit.

The crack echoes through the room. Rough, dry skin on soaked flesh.

And it shocks you more than it hurts. The sting is there, of course, but it's just an afterthought to astonishment. An eye-widening disbelief masking the way your cunt smarts, throbbing from the slap. Nerves muffled behind the burn in your eyes, the searing heat pooling in your sinuses.

Wrenched open, unblinking as you stare up at him, your eyes begin to sting, to water. You blink, and feel something hot trickle down your cheek. A tear. His eyes snap to it. Pupils narrowing to a pinprick as he watches it slide down your face, little droplets clinging to your jaw.

“Poor baby,” he mocks, tilting his head as he tracks the teardrop. “Better behave.”

Behave. Like he's admonishing a child and not an adult.

It morphs; rots. Becomes yet another thing you shouldn't feel feverish over. The slick, sticky feeling grows between your thighs as your cunt flutters at the humiliation of it all.

And deeper—maybe—the bastardized sense of care—

(Punishment is affection in its own, special (awful) way and you've been aching for something just like it, haven't you—)

It's pushed down. Swallowed. And you know in the back of your head that if you keep eating these feelings, you're going to be sick. But you can't stop. Barely breathe around the idea of them sometimes—

“Tha’s’it,” he coos like he knows. Sees them bright and burning behind your irises. Little flickers of need, a smouldering want that you'll never grasp at yourself.

So he gives it to you.

The rough slide of his hand, all scarred and dry and calloused, scrapes over your slit once more. A full, flat stroke upward until your clit bumps into the ridge of his palm. Then down, down—

His fingers spread. Ring and index prying your folds apart as he pushes up once more, opening your seam to slip his middle finger through the slick, sticky mess that drips out of your burning cunt.

“Gonna be good f’me?”

The slide of his fingers drags the tip up to the bump of your clit. You stare down at it, fixed on the jut of his ink-black knuckles threading through your folds. The crease of his nail as he slips his fingers up higher, pad pushing over your pebbled clit. They're dirty. Grey-black under his nails. Congealed with dirt. Blood, maybe.

Your stomach churns even as your hips lift. Eager, searching. Hating yourself each second of it. It's gross. Disgusting.

You want his dirty, thick fingers inside of you—

“When I ask a question—” the tip circles over your clit. A shallow roll that pools heat between your thighs. “I expect an answer.”

“Y–yes,” you stammer out, hips flexing against his hand. Seeking more of that white-hot bloom of pleasure he brings with each pass of his finger.

“Good girl—” and you hate how it burns you up from the inside out. “Wasn't s’hard, was it?”

The retort is bitten back with the slow swipe of his finger drawing tight, small circles around your clit. His fingers are rough, scarred. Too dry. The abrasive drag over your soft sensitive flesh makes you whine—a drawn-out whimper nestled between clenched teeth.

It's too much.

Too harsh. Too sharp.

He rolls your clit under the pads of his fingers in jerking half-circles. Puts too much pressure on the bundle of nerves than you ever would—your touches are always soft, sickeningly sweet; gentling your flesh until you cum—and the sting, the burn, of it makes your toes curl. Body burn.

It's good.

And that's the problem.

It shouldn't be. His touch shouldn't make you so wet, growing slick and sticky between your spread thighs, bare to his hungry, prying gaze. Shouldn't make you moan. Hips twitching with each stroke of his fingers—

And then he peels away from you, but the time to mourn the loss of his touch, the fear of losing this trembling ember pleasure, is snuffed out when he presses his wet, slick fingers against the inside of your knee. The touch is intentional. Insistent. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat before pushing it down to the mattress. The twinge of pain swallowed up as quickly as it forms when he drops to his elbows between your thighs, forearms curling under your legs, and tugs you sharply into him.

Heat floods your belly when the backs of your thighs press tight to his broad, muscular shoulders, but it's nothing compared to the sight of him on his knees between your legs. It's so obscene you nearly weep—

And then he leans down and licks a long, broad swipe of his tongue over your cunt.

You hadn't expected it, maybe. His mouth on your pussy, his broken, jagged lips sealing over your pebbled clit. Going down on you seemed too intimate for what he was after. His end goal. It does nothing for him at all—

You realise your mistake when he dips his tongue into your hole and his hips jerk forward. Unconscious. Eager. Seeking. The shifting drags his jeans down his hips, and his cock slips free.

Most of the cocks you've seen—in porn, pictures, art—jut out from the person's groin. standing at attention, the nasty comments used to say. Jokes whispered on the playground. But his falls. Droops down between big, folded thighs. Skin marbled in shades of red, peach. Deep gouges dot his upper thighs, some sinking deep enough to reach bone. More scar tissue than flesh.

—than man.

It looks raw. Fresh. Some injuries not too dissimilar to the Wagyu hanging in the front of the storeroom, on display and oh, so out of place in a town where the richest man must be just a hair above the poverty line.

On paper, anyway.

You swallow, avoiding his gaze as he pauses, dark eyes watching you with his mouth pressed against your seam. Unmoving. Still as a predator between your thighs, cock visible between the bow of his torso, jutting sickeningly from mangled legs as you gawk at this hideous thing that makes several, half-hearted attempts to spring up towards you, spitting clear, milky liquid all over with each jerk. Tugged down by its own weight. Too heavy to fight against gravity like the rest of the cocks you've seen have done—

Normal cocks, you amend. Textbook.

His is anything but.

Ugly, you think again, stomach churning. Roiling. Obscene. An odd thing considering what you're looking at but all too fitting with the way it droops, big, flared head drooling pre-cum all over the bed in long, dangling stands that prickle over your jaws—half nauseous, half hungry, too. Saliva pools in your mouth even though the sight of his cock scares you. Fills your belly with dread. Misery.

It looks like a bruise. Skin smeared with purples, reds. Patches of pink. Long, thick veins run up from the fattened, full base to the divot of his frenulum. Thick. It hangs low. Drips.

He raises slightly and shoves his hand down between his thighs, big hand curling over the fat base of his cock. His grip is tight around himself, and he strokes up, from base to tip. It squeezes more precum from the flushed, fat head, and dribbles between your spread thighs in a thick, pearlescent puddle.

It makes your mouth dry. That twinge in your jaws coming back. Festering. You wonder if he'll make you take that thing in your mouth. Choke you on it. Taste his precum—

“Fuck,” he snarls into your cunt, hand jerking over his cock. “Keep lookin’ at my cock like tha’, birdie—”

You gasp at the rough grunt, the way it seems to tremble through your sensitive flesh. More, though, from the way he sounds. His voice brassy, rough. Unkind, but the words bloom a fresh heat behind your navel.

His voice does things to you. Things you're not allowed to like.

Those thoughts are knocked from your head when he bows down again, eyes still fixed on you, and seals his wicked mouth over your cunt. It's hard to compare it to anything else other than being devoured. Eaten in the truest sense of the word.

His tongue splits down your seam, tip digging into your slick hole. A groan bubbles up at your taste—the soft, fluttering clench of your body trying to drag him in deeper. Needing him deeper. A huff of air ghosts over you, dipped in the same derision as earlier but the harsh slap of skin on skin, his hand working furiously over his cock, makes you acutely aware of how much this affects him.

“Taste good, birdie,” he grunts, and then sucks your fold into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and teeth until the skin is tender, swollen. “S’fuckin’ good—”

Your breath catches when the crooked arch of his nose presses taut to your clit. Pleasure twisting in a dizzying pirouette inside your belly, winding tighter and tighter—

His nose jerks up on your clit. Lips moulded to your seam, you hear him rasp eyes on me, birdie. Don't fuckin’ look away—

The rough snarl trembles through your body, sinking its teeth into the coil until it snaps under its jaw. Your knees snap around his head as your release locks your joints tight. His name, Simon, a hoarse cry on your lips. You barely have time to bask in the ripples of pleasure throbbing through your body before he rips away from you with his teeth bared, and his chin wet.

“Fuck—!” he snarls again, shoving your knees apart as he lifts his massive body up from between your thighs. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gotta be inside your tight cunt—”

He towers over you, grinding his cock into the apex of your thighs. The drag of his cock—a little damp from being stuck inside his jeans all day; balmy—against the dry skin of your belly makes you shudder. Shivering beneath him as he huffs through the mask. Head bowing. Dipping to look at the way his cock slaps down on you. Cockhead nudging above your belly button, dribbling a small puddle of pre-cum that gets smeared into your skin when he rocks back on his haunches.

His hand wraps around the thick base of his cock once more, squeezing tight as he grips himself above you. It makes the head swell, engorged with blood. Thickening in his hand as globs of pre-spend leak out onto your belly. That feeling in your jaws comes back—nauseous and wanting.

He leans back with a hum. “Like my cock, eh, birdie?”

The crass words bring a fresh bloom of heat simmering in your veins, creeping up your collar. Like doesn't really cover what you feel when you stare at it—his inked hands running along the long, veined shaft—and the unsettled feeling in the pit of your belly rears when he nudges forward, the weeping head of his cock bumping your mound.

It's humiliating how much want floods through you just looking at it. At him. Disgust, dread, desire.

You don't answer. Not that you really need to—

Your silence is loud enough.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, the rasp thick in his throat. “M’gonna give it to you, pet—”

And he does just that. Slips the head of his cock down the slope of your mound, letting it graze your clit until you're panting, whining softly for more, and pulls it over your slit until his pre-cum is smeared over your drenched folds. You know exactly what this is even without glimpsing the ugly burn of his possessive desire smouldering in the back of his eyes—ownership. Greed. Hunger. It revels in the stain on your skin, from belly to slit; his, all his. Outside and soon—

In.

It shocks a creeping sense of worry into you. “Wait, what about a condom—”

He snorts, ugly and caustic. “What about ‘em?” He taunts, and it's flat. Playful.

“You should—”

He drags his gaze away from the pearlescent smear of his spend on your folds, your clit, and the even, placid look in that stagnant lake tells you everything you already knew.

“I've never—” you start, wincing at the kernel of fear lacing your hoarse words. “Not without a condom—”

It's the wrong thing to say. Near cataclysmic. He drops his head back with a groan that rumbles out of the slope of his throat, sounding like the rip of a chainsaw.

“Firsts for everything,” he purrs, and he nudges your entrance with the bare, weeping tip of his cock.

“But—”

His hand lifts, catching your jaw in the too-wide span of his palm. The force makes your teeth clack together.

“Need me to gag you, birdie?”

You swallow. It's not much of a choice. Gagged and fucked raw, or—

Just fucked raw.

No gag. No condom. You fight back a shiver and wish it was all just from fear.

“No,” you murmur, like you have a choice. “No gag.”

“An’?”

“Um. No–no condom, either—”

It's not enough. "What are you gonna let me do to this pussy, birdie?"

You know what he wants. What he's angling for. But there's a line, you think. A delineation between unwilling participant, coercion, and giving into the need that slinks down your spine, and rots inside your belly.

(Being forced to ask for it isn't permission, but what happens when you want it more than your next breath?)

The shame can come later, you think, and feel yourself give in.

"Cum—cum inside me—"

“Good girl, birdie.”

You hate what that does to you. How eagerly your body reacts to the dark possessive curl in his eyes when you do something he likes.

He nudges your entrance again, this time with purpose. Intent. A heavy pressure pushing on your rim. Too tight, you think, and the sting of the first inch he feeds—forces—into you burns, pulsing behind your navel. His tip isn't even in yet, and it's already too much.

You think about telling him so, offering up your mouth instead, but he leans down on his forearms, and catches your lips in a bruising, biting pantomime of a kiss. A blood-soaked parody with more teeth and tongue—sinking into your lips, nipping hard until the skin splits; catching all that spills with his tongue.

With his weight pressed against you like this, there's nowhere to run when he cups your throat in his hand, winding the other up above your head, forearm tight on your crown to cage you in. And then he shifts. Bears his hips down on yours until the fat head of his cock pops inside of you.

Your squeal is chewed up between his teeth, swallowed down with a rumbling groan.

Caught beneath him, trapped, he works himself into you demanding, heavy thrusts. Each inch burns more than the last. A stinging stretch that brings tears to your eyes. It's already too much and it's not even half. Barely even the tip.

“Can't—” you slur into his wet, demanding mouth. “No more. I–I can't—”

The breath rushes out between his teeth. Your watery eyes drop to the divot above his canine. A permanent snarl. A condescending sneer.

“You can,” he says decisively, words ground out from between crooked teeth. He presses them to your cheek, nipping at the skin under your eye. Possessive and wanting—

(Hungry for something you can't name—)

“And you will.”

—Or maybe you just don't want to. Can't look at the thunderous need draped over his mangled, battered face without thinking of the rumble in your chest that echos back against his thundering call—)

Stupid, foolish thing—

The dark promise of his words isn't a threat until his hand tightens around your neck, nails grazing your skin, and he adds, all of me, birdie as he grinds his hips into yours shallowly. Broad chest expanding with each ragged inhale. Cementing his taunt with a steel edge as you try not to come undone beneath him.

You'll take every fuckin’ inch—

He pulls back until only his glands stretch you open, and you know what's coming when his fingers grip the sides of your neck tight. Holding on. Anchoring you to the bed as he nudges his forearm tighter between your skull and the wall, a protective hold.

Before you can tense up, bracing for it, or even cry out no, please, don't, you can't take it, he huffs, and then slams his hips forward, splitting you open on the fat stretch of his thick, too heavy cock.

Maybe it's hysteria, delirium, but the blunt press of his length against your tender, sore walls balms the ache, the sting. The deeper he pushes, the less it hurts. A paradox that leaves you whimpering under his hand, heels digging into the broad stretch of his waist as you struggle to decide if you want to kick him away or pull him closer.

A war you don't have the power to win when he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt with a growl that shakes the fragile tendons surrounding your heart. Fear, misery. Pleasure, pain. It admixes. Coalescing into a dizzying sense of fullness, unbearable pressure. Catastrophic in its heaviness as your mind reels, struggles to come to terms with the gut-wrenching, heart-aching uncertainty of how you're supposed to go on without having him seated as deep inside of you as he can get. You've never known emptiness before him. Before now. Mere seconds ago.

And now, the thought of it leaves a palpable hollowness itching behind your ribs. Festering. Rotting tissue and bone.

“Simon,” you choke, sobbing his name out under the firm press of his hand. “Simon—”

But he knows.

His arm curls over your head like a crown, and you can easily forget the pinch of each thorn when he holds you tight. Protectively. Possessively. Securing you in his arms before he lifts up, palm sliding over the mattress, touch tender against your cheeks, and then settles it on the indent of your knee. Widening you for him as he spreads his thighs under yours until you're opened up for him.

Those dark eyes are dragged down to the split of your legs where his cock disappears into your slick, swollen cunt. You follow it down, gazing at the impressive width of his stomach bowing over you until they land on the jut of skin pushing out from a messy smatter of damp curls around the base of his cock.

The coarse hair of his groin unfurls as it sticks to your wet lips, and he rolls his head back over his shoulders he heaves through the too tight stretch of your walls over his length. You feel the pulse of him inside of you, thudding like a heartbeat. It blooms molten under the feverish weight of his lidded, dark gaze.

“Fuck, birdie,” he rasps, and it's scorched. Charred. “Look at you—”

As the world is condensed, narrowed down to nothing but the near impossible stretch of his cock seated as deep inside of you as he can get, he leans down, scarred, mangled lips brushing cruelly over your ear, and whispers, see? Told you'd take me.

Every fuckin’ inch.

Your hand jerks to your belly, fingers dancing over your navel as if to feel him there, bulging from under your skin. Nearly hysterical as you try to come to terms with the pulsing, white-hot ache of him inside of you, slowly acclimating to his girth, his length.

He grunts when he sees what you're doing, eyes flaring as your fingers skirt around your navel.

“It's—” you shudder, gasping for air. “It's too much, Simon, I can't take it—”

He rolls his hips with a groan. “m’cock too big for you, birdie?”

His usual cadence is flat, droll, but an unmistakable sense of masculine pride, a deep, egotistic sense of satisfaction, drapes itself over his brassy words. Glueing to the scorching rasp of his voice in a way that makes you unerringly certain that he likes it. Likes that his cock is too big for you. That it hurts.

“Y’can take it,” he prompts, forcing more of himself into you until something snaps. Splits. Makes room. Carves out a space for him to fit.

The brief flash of pain is soothed when he's seated deep. That same paradoxical balm making itself known as he flattens his hips into yours with a noise—half a grunt, or a growl; a lazy, pleasure-soaked snarl. You're not sure what it is, but the sound knocks the air from your lungs, igniting inside of you like a spark inside a tinderbox.

It's only when his balls are flush against you that the same masculine pride brims up again. Primal. Animalistic. The urge to present your soft belly rears up suddenly, and it's only stifled when he grunts again, looking down at you with lidded, black eyes.

“Now, be good and let me fuck your tight cunt.”

He's not looking for assent. Nothing you could say at this moment will sway his mind one way or the other. There's a nasty spool of determination welling up like blood on a pricked finger. Beading up to the surface in a clean, neat droplet as he rolls his broad shoulders, and shuffles into a comfortable position on his haunches between your spread thighs. The motion jostles his cock in a way that makes your breath hitch with each jerk.

It's not painful. Not particularly. But you're overwhelmed by the sensation of utter fullness in a way you've never experienced before. Each grind of his cock against your overly stretched walls deeping that incipient feeling of anxiety brewing in your belly that one wrong move and you'll tear. He's just—

Too big.

And despite his claims—or rather, in spite of them—you don't think you can do it. Don't think you can take him. It's too much. It feels like being turned inside out and then put back into place. An uneasy sense of discomfiture blooms with each too-tight, too-sharp tug of his cock pulling taut on your rim.

Almost deliriously, you think you can feel the pulse of his cock inside your goddamn throat.

“Simon—” you start on a tremulous breath but he cuts you off with a hum.

“Relax.”

You can't. Can't—

“Fuckin’ hell, bird,” he rasps, leaning down suddenly until his face was pushed tight into the curve of your neck, breath shallow on your thudding pulse. “Stop squirmin’ ‘round me like tha’ or I'll cum right fuckin’ now.”

Your heart stutters. Gallops painfully in your chest. His words make you dizzy because for as much as this feeling of him, his cock, inside of you dances on a delicate precipice of being more than you can feasibly handle and somehow the most incredible thing you'd ever experienced before, you hadn't considered how he'd feel.

Inexplicably, it pleases you.

There's something so strange—so extraordinary—about bringing a man like him, like this, to his knees. Pleasuring him by just heaving through the white-hot stretch of his cock inside of you. Making him bury his head in your neck, groaning about how he was gonna fuckin’ bust, pretty thing, fuck—

It was a powerful feeling.

Unwarranted, maybe. But incredible, nevertheless.

“Fuck,” he grunts, and you feel his throat work around a thick swallow. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gonna fuck this pretty cunt so fuckin' hard until you beg me stop—”

And he does just that. Rears back from your neck, and settles again between your thighs—quicker this time. With an urgency that makes you whimper when his cock grinds against your walls hard enough to bruise.

When he finally pulls out until only the flared head of his cock remains, you knot a fist into the thin pillow, clinging on, and latch the other onto his hip as if that could somehow stop the vicious promise in his eyes about poundin’ you into the goddamn mattress. There's a flash, a brief flicker of his eyes, and then he thrusts back inside of you with a grunt that makes your belly clench, and your back arch.

True to the promises he gave, it's brutal. Violent.

Any pleasure you feel is leached through osmosis. A tether bound around his own.

His arm is shoved under your back, angling your pelvis up. Thighs dangling over the thick spread of his own, ass seated in his lap. He drives into you, thrusts deep—grinds his hips until your moans break into hoarse screams, whimpers. Makes your eyes roll so far back, all you see is black even when you blink your eyes up at him.

He carves a spot deep inside of you with each delirious piston of his cock, pounding into you with brutal thrusts, and then holding tight when his balls slap against your ass. Digging the head of his cock into the seal of your womb until it aches behind your navel. Each breath feels like glass in your lungs—

“Tha’s it,” he slurs in your ear, mouth damp against your skin. “Take my cock so good, pretty birdie. Little pussy was made for it, weren't you? Tight cunt all mine—”

His gruff words tug on that tether until you're wrapped around him like a bow. Following him down this endless spiral as he slams inside of you over and over again, cooing in your ear about the sounds you made for him, pretty cunt so fuckin’ wet f’me, birdie, hear tha’? all f’me—

“Cum f'me, birdie. Want this pussy cummin’ ‘round my cock—”

“Can't—” you gasp, arching into him, desperate and needy. It rides a line between pain and pleasure; a needlepoint you wobble on. “Need—”

You try to reach down, to touch your clit, but grinds his hips into yours with a snarl. “Cum ‘around my cock, birdie.”

“Touch me—”

“Fuckin’ hell—”

It edges on too much. Pain and pleasure teetering on a knife's edge, split apart by a line the width of a razer. Looping and tangling around each other until you can't differentiate between the two. But it makes sense, you suppose, staring up at him arched above you like a black cloud of smoke. All hunger and fire. Consuming, devouring, everything in its path. A wildfire.

Butcher, you think again when his hand wraps around your throat. A mimicry of what he did in the truck, forcing your eyes on him. Your life tucked neatly against his palm.

These hands take lives. It's what they're made for. All scarred, and thick. Scar tissue and bone. Muscle and cartilage. Meant to render meat of cattle. Slaughterhouse in the shape of a man. Consumption personified.

But where there should be fear, all you feel is an echoing sense of hunger. Leatherbound to each other, maybe—

The look that passes over his eyes as he stares down at you, cupped in his palm, seems to fit perfectly into the fractured gaps inside yourself you try so hard to ignore. And what doesn't—

Well.

He'll make room to fit.

You reach up, curling your fingers around his thick wrist. His eyes flash, but he doesn't slow his thrusts. Doesn't stop. Just watches as you peel his hand away from your neck, bringing it up to your mouth.

On his palm, there's a piece of skin that's unblemished compared to the rest of his worn, burnt hands. A strip just big enough for you to sink your teeth into.

And you do.

“Fuck, Birdie—!” The snarl is ripped from his throat. His thrusts grow harder, sloppier. Each bit of strength in his muscled hips and thighs is used to pound into you until your vision blacks out. It hurts. Aches. Your heels slip down, catching on the broad expanse of his lower back. And you tighten them around his waist, pulling him closer. Deeper. “Fuck, Birdie, fuckin’ cunt was made f'me, wasn’t it? So cum on my cock. Now—”

Whining, you shake your head. “Can't. I can't. I need—”

You don't get to finish. With a huff of anger, he rips his hand off of the mattress, leaning back on his haunches, and shoves his hand between your thighs, scarred fingers stroking over your pebbled clit. It's rough. Sloppy. His anger hums through his body, skewering into you as he glared down, gaze swinging like a pendulum between the split of your thighs where his cock disappears into your swollen cunt, his fingers rubbing over your clit, and back up the hand around your neck, the tears staining your cheeks.

There's an edge to his thrusts. A viciousness in the way he pistons his hips into you. Dark eyes catching every flicker—each wince, gasp, moan, whine all meticulously catalogued and exploited. He finds the spots that make your hips jerk, twitching both toward and away from him. Angling into the ones that have your eyes rolling back into your head, drool dribbling past your slack lips as you gasp his name out into the dank, humid air.

It smells of sweat, sex, and him. Something brutal, bloody, and dark. Rotten leaves. Charred forests after a rain shower. Dangerous. Tinged with a slight acrid, chemical stench—benzene, oxidizing iron. It drips down your throat, and drenches your lungs. Staining you from the inside out.

And he exploits that, too. Leans in, and breathes heavily against your upper lip, your cheek. Drowns you in his scent. His sweat beads along his jaw, droplets raining down over your brow. Soaked in his essence. Unable to see, smell, or touch anything that isn't him.

With his hand over your mouth, teeth sunk into his palm, all you can taste is him, too. Leather. Gun oil. Blood.

The ravenous look in his eye sharpens, turning into deadly points.

“Such a pretty fuckin' bird.” He rasps, the words shattered, mangled in the back of his throat. They carry the scent of blood when you breathe them in, and you wonder if he forced them through glass. Pushed them out with his bloody fists.

You bite down harder in response, keening through the white-hot pain of his cock spearing deeper than before, stretching you past your limits. The taste of blood on your tongue, the rasping snarl pulled from his chest, his fingers toying with your clit, push you over the edge once more. Again and again, and again, and—

His hand peels away from your oversensitive clit, dropping down to the mattress beside your face. He follows quickly after several impossibly deep thrusts that shove you higher up on the mattress, pressing in until his balls sit flush against your ass, cockhead battering against your cervix, and he groans—deep and liquid—when he comes, spilling inside of you. Rooted deep, cock twitching, Simon drops to his elbow beside your head, smothering you under his weight as the tension in his body bleeds out.

Your teeth stick to the divots in his hand, and the sensation of ungluing them from the wounds you gave him makes you shiver. Slowly, you roll your tongue out, chasing the drops of blood, and breathe heavily through your nose as he burrows deeper inside of you, chest shuddering over yours.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, hips jerking into yours with a slap that echoes through the room. “Little tease, ain't you?”

Even with his cock softening inside of you, it's still thick. Fat. Stretching you open as he yawns out above you, bloodied hand dropping down to cup your neck again, forearm resting heavily between your breasts. He raises slightly on his elbow, black eyes glinting in the shallow dark of the room. Piercing as they drill into your sweat-slicked face.

It aches when he moves. When he presses his hips harder into yours, the muscles in your legs throb as his broad waist splits them apart. Your feet dangle, sliding uselessly down his back, over his ass, before coming to rest curled around his thighs. Melting into the mattress, tender and sore and all chewed up—

You feel like a massive contusion instead of a person. A pestle. His.

The thought makes you shiver, and his eyes flash in triumph like he knows.

The feeling of him pulling out of you draws a whimper from your lips. The drag on your sensitive, bruised walls is a strange mix of tender pleasure and pain. He chuckles at your mewl—dark and low; the sound of nightmares, you think. Crackling sap on charred wood.

You try to pretend it doesn't make you shudder, but the way he hums in response dashes the feigned oblivion before it can form. All you can do is heave on the bed, and watch him through narrowed slits as he leans back on his haunches once again, head cocking to the side. His dark eyes fixed on the split of your legs. The ache in your cunt growing sharp under his molten stare.

“Fuck,” he rasps, the shallow groan pulled out from between clenched teeth. You wonder if the mangled curse was unintentional. Ripped from his throat before he could clamp his jaws around it—a crack in the facade. A hairline splinter in the indomitable mask he wears.

Your heart lurches. None of this makes sense, but your head is too muddled, too syrupy, to think much at all. A quandary for later when he throws you from his bed with a harsh slap on your ass and a and don't think about doing this ever again.

But you don't think you can move. “Give me a minute,” you start on a trembling breath. “And I'll—”

His brows move but his eyes stay fixed on your sore cunt. You can feel him leak out of you, spilling on the mattress in thick globs. The sensation makes you shiver.

“You'll what?”

It looks like he has to forcibly tear his eyes away from you, reluctance forming a cold, angry crater between his brows. The brunt of his ire—white, burning—makes you want to supplicate yourself at his feet, roll over on your belly and show the beast you mean no harm.

(Run, and run far—)

He huffs. “You'll what, birdie?”

It takes a minute to find your voice through all the panic clogging your throat. “I'll leave, um—”

He peels away from you with a loud, rough snort, and drops to his his elbow beside you. Hands curling possessively over your waist, fingers tight. Unyielding.

“Not goin’ anywhere, birdie. Told you, didn't I? You're mine.”

“I'm—”

“Go to sleep.”

He pulls you roughly to his chest until your head is pillowed on his shoulder, and then rolls on his back, keeping you cushioned at his side. You try to move, but his arm wedges under your neck, curling over your shoulder. Trapping you to him.

The panic wants to come now. To rage against the shackle of his embrace, to run home and scrub your skin until it bleeds. But the exhaustion collapses over it all until your eyes feel too heavy to hold open. Too painful.

As you drift, aimless and dreamless, his voice cuts through the fog. “Gotta learn ‘ow to cum with nothin’ but my cock inside of you sooner or later, birdie. Or you won't be coming at all—”

It sounds like a threat. A promise. You fall asleep with the words echoing in your head, his arm an anchor around your waist.

He wakes up hungry.

A gnawing in his belly pulls him from the thin doze he fell into after fucking you three more times—with your face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air for him to rut against like a beast; teetering over his hips, the spread of them too wide for your thighs to split over leaving you precariously unbalanced and shifting your weight above him as neither knee sat comfortably on the mattress; and on your belly with him crushing you to the floor under his bulk. The memory of which makes his spent cock stir, twisting limply against his damp, sticky thigh. Matted down with drying cum, sweat, the slick wetness of being buried inside your messy cunt.

Filled now with his cum.

He groans low in his throat as he thinks about it. The sloppy way you let him take you over and over again until you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore, passing out before he finished. Letting him fuck his cum inside of you as you whimpered in your sleep—

Perfect little thing, aren't you? So good to him.

Simon can't remember the last time he fucked someone, much less when it was this enjoyable (an understatement, of course; in the back of his head, wheels spin round and round as he tries to come up with a plan to keep his cock buried inside of you at all times while still doing his work—), and the overflow of unquenched lust churns in his belly. A hunger he can now slake on your willing body. In the silence, he purrs—

But the effort, the exertion, dredged up a different need inside him.

Simple hunger. An appetite.

He could eat—

his eyes slant toward the top of your crown in the dark, and he amends it, quickly, to: in more ways than one.

He'll go home in a minute. Make himself a steak from the prime cut he butchered a few days ago, leftovers that no one had any qualms about when he took several pieces home with him.

(and really, why would they argue with the butcher who keeps their wallets fat and their bills paid?)

It was left on the counter earlier before he got the call that your brother was making another move. Now a perfect room temperature as it waits for him to come back. Cook it the way he likes—

Rare.

The perfect grill is a nice char on the outside, but bleeding red on the inside. Basted in duck fat and garlic. A sprig of rosemary in the pan, but not touching the meat. Just enough to give the juice that earthy, sweet flavour. Let it rest for ten minutes under foil with the rest of the fat poured over it from the pan. Served as is with maybe a dash of salt and pepper on the side.

Simple. But incredibly difficult to perfect, he finds.

Everyone tries to make it fancier than what it needs to be, but at the end of the day, meat is meat. And going from picking scraps from the garbage outside of the Italian butcher on the corner to ordering his own pretentious filet mignon still gives him a sense of unease. Whiplash, perhaps. Nothing to something—how about that, Tommy?

Maybe that's why he prefers to raise and butcher his own cattle. A never-ending supply of meat for him to sink his teeth into even if this whole thing goes belly up and he's back to begging for morsels on the corner. Tommy hiding in the shadows with a baseball bat waiting to ambush the richer men who happen to feel altruistic that day.

This practice bled over into his current occupation, too. The basement of that same Italian butcher shop he used to sneak expired sausage from out of the bins is now his home base of sorts. A money laundering front of the 141. Headquarters for them to congregate in secrecy upstairs. And here—

A torture chamber for those who tried to cross them. Strung up on meat hooks like the cattle they eat, the ones he feeds them, until he makes up his mind on what he wants to do to them.

It's where you should have been, he supposes, thumb brushing a spot of dried blood on your shoulder, right below a nasty bite mark on your forearm. The ring nearly black from the clotted blood pooling in the indents. It matches several others on your thighs—top, insides, back—and neck, belly, collarbones, sternum. All chewed up. Marked by the butcher.

In working for the old Italian man who ran the shop when he was eighteen, he learned that most of the butchers preferred to mark their carcasses when they came in. A little x on the fat to signify they'd be the ones carving up the prime meat.

He didn't think you could handle his knife, so he gave you his teeth instead. But the implication is clear.

His.

It's overkill considering his reputation, and the claim he already had on you. Because even before this, back when he saw you through the window of his shop as he was moonlit as a legitimate butcher and businessman instead of the enforcer, the brute, everyone already knew he was, his interest was clear. You were off-limits. His to deal with.

And while Price refers not to get involved in small-time street dealers, the warnings Soap and Gaz impressed onto your brother should have been the end of an irritating situation and not the beginning of a fuckin’ headache. But no. He had to push. And push.

Until Price gave the order to take care of it.

And that he did.

(With the added benefit of killing one bird and keeping the other in a pretty cage.)

Price probably won't like his solution, but Simon racked up enough favours to keep a little pet of his own. Been a good boy for a long, long time now, and he supposes he's owed a bone.

Or a sweet thing tucked tight to his side having passed out some two hours ago after he slaked his dizzying thirst on you over and over again even though it doesn't feel like it's been enough.

It's rare that he has an appetite for people. Even rarer that he lets this meagre hunger consume him like this. But there's something about you that makes his teeth ache in the same way they often do whenever he's hungry for meat.

He wants to devour you. Consume you. Eat you alive and save nothing for anyone else to taste.

(So—

Price will just have to let him keep you, won't he?)

The mattress vibrates under him. His phone buzzing with an incoming text. He reaches over, pulling it close enough to read the notification on his screen. It's from Soap.

All her stuff is on your porch.

He hums, but doesn't reply. Simply opts to drop his phone on his belly, and tug you closer to his broad chest. He'll wake you in an hour, and the stirring in his groin tells him it'll be for another round. Maybe he'll take you in the freezer. Make you cling to the hook hanging down from the ceiling as he fucks you like that. He has a pair of ties for ox, lamb legs, that he can loop around your wrists and heft you up on.

It'll hurt, he's sure. The binds weren't designed with comfort in mind, but he can easily bear your weight as he pounds into you from below, your pretty legs wrapped tight around his waist.

The image, the thought, alone has him thickening against his thigh. He reaches down, gripping the base tight in his hand as he pulls you even closer, burying his nose in your crown.

At the very least, he wouldn't be lying when he told Price he strung you up.

Three rounds—on your back, your hands and knees, perched above him like a pretty goddess he stole away from a temple—and he still isn't satisfied. Fuck. He breathes in your scent and doesn't think he ever will be.

He'll get you out of here, take you home. Make you the steak he likes for a late dinner, rare and simple—the same one he gave your brother weeks ago when he dragged him into the shop, strung him up on a hook, and demanded payment for his disrespect.

Who'd have thought that his payment would be you?

(fitting, though, since he'd had his eye on you for a while now—)

He nudges you when his phone chimes again with another message doubtless from Soap telling him all your things have been tucked away. Matters dealt with.

“C’mon,” he grunts, running his hand down your spine. “We’re leavin’.”

You blink at him slowly. “Leaving?”

He nods. “Get dressed.”

You're quiet as he turns, reaching for his jeans left in a heap beside the mattress, but he hears the hitch in your throat. The click when you swallow. Unbothered by it, he turns, giving you his back as he wedges his feet inside the trousers, pulling them up his legs.

The bed shifts behind him. “I—I can walk back to my brother's—”

The hope in your voice is a delicate thing. Fragile like fine china. A pretty, vulnerable tchotchke meant to be seen, admired, but not touched. Not handled roughly.

Unfortunately for you, he's never had much of a gentle touch.

When he throws a glance over his shoulder, he's not surprised to find your arm folded over your bare breasts as you kneel on the mattress, your palm resting flat between your parted thighs, wrist and forearm covering the slip of heaven between them from his greedy, prying gaze.

It paints a startling picture, he finds. One with you looking thoroughly ravaged. Taken. But presenting it in a soft sort of sensuality meant to make a man feel both hot under the collar and like an unrepentant voyeur.

Pretty bird, he thinks, and feels his cock stir.

He rises swiftly, hiking up his jeans around his thighs as he goes, and then turns to you with a heady desire to crush that gossamer of hope between his greedy hand like a silken cobweb that will stick to his fingers.

“Not goin’ to your brothers,” he says, pushing his tongue against his cheek to stem the ache burning in his muscles.

You shiver, eyes growing wide, frenzied with fear as you stare up at him. The shift of your throat when you swallow makes pre-cum dribble out of his fattened cock. He's never really had much of a taste for it, but he's overcome with the urge to see you cry—

“Where are we going?”

Amid the ache in his loins, the flickering fantasies of your pretty, lachrymal face gazing up at him helpless, hopeless, and needy, he catches the edge of panic when you speak. The razor-sharp tremble of fear.

But buried amongst it, hidden in the bruised look you give him as he towers over you with his cock bulging in his slacks and his eyes burning with want, he finds a keen sense of eagerness amongst the rubble. Agog, almost.

And fuck. If that doesn't do something awful to him.

“What?” He taunts, cocking his head to the side as your breath grows shallow and your eyes wide. “Did you think that was enough to pay your debt, birdie?”

“What? You can't—”

“Don't like it—” he lifts his shoulder up in a cool, indifferent shrug, enjoying the dismayed expression that falls over your brow more than he should. “—go to the police.”

“The ones on your payroll?” You spit, eyes flaring wide like an angry cat. “You—”

Several things might have continued in place of your choked, angry sob, but it's swallowed down as pragmatically as it was the first time he cornered you earlier today. And as beautiful as your ire is, he finds the cornered look on your face to be much more pleasing. Prettier.

“C’mon, bird,” he mocks, holding his hand out toward you with a tick of his lips. “All your stuff is at home. Don't be stupid.”

“Stupid?” You gasp in indignation, but there's a bruised look in your eyes. A wounded thing that makes his breath hitch in his lungs for reasons he can't really ascertain, but just knows that he likes it. Likes it a lot. “This is—insane.”

Again, he shrugs, but the indifference this time isn't the same manufactured callousness meant to inspire fear. The conversation is stale already. Grating on him. He's not used to having his orders ignored or questioned. What he says usually goes—either through association or reputation, or just the fact that no one has ever come close to filling the same measure of space as he does—and questioning him like this makes him feel too much like a boy, and not enough like the living ghost he pretends to be.

“You can't do this. It's not right.”

An appeal to his humanity. Cute. He huffs, reaching down to fasten the button of his jeans. The sound the zipper makes cuts through the room. “You're mine, birdie. Better get used to it.”

Catching your eye as he says it was only meant to reignite the kindling fear you have of him from extinguishing. A scared prey animal was a better pet than an angry one. But the look on your face catches him off-guard.

It reminds him of a flightless little bird shivering in a child's shoebox. Tiny broken thing his mum warned him not to touch or its mother would abandon it to die on its own.

“Until the debt is paid off.”

A statement, not a question. He shrugs, but doesn't respond. Tilts his head toward the door. “Let's go.”

His lack of reassurance doesn't soften the flint in your gaze, but the prospect of recompense seems to spurn you on. Another wishbone of hope to cling to. And despite himself, he lets you keep it. Lets your little finger wrap around the delicate bone for comfort because as much as you might think there's a fifty-fifty chance of getting the bigger piece, he has no intentions of letting something like that get in the way of his appetite even if you do.

(And his hunger has always been particularly voracious, hasn't it?)

“Come, birdie. Gotta get you home, and fed, don't I?”

3K notes View Post

maboiisuga

1 year ago

Title: An Ordinary Girl Obsessed Over By a Downer Deity

creators: umekoppe

-> link to purchase here (support the author!)

-> read free here

Summary: The protagonist has just found a new job, and will be leaving her prefecture in Spring to start. She heads to the rundown shrine near her to speak of the news, but finds a mysterious, weak-looking man passed out. She decides to nurse him back to health until spring... The otherworldly man finally comes to get some life in him, but his attachment to her grows to an unhealthy level. "I want to be with you forever." Before the protagonist realizes it, she has reached the point of no return.

‼️ Content Warnings: noncon / manipulation / yandere male lead / age gap / interspecies / creampie / knotting

62 notes View Post

maboiisuga

2 years ago

something revolutionary

viking bakugou x f!reader

summary: Born a prophesied king under an exploding star Bakugou Katsuki is used to getting what he wants. That includes you.

cw: Kidnapping, bondage, spitting, choking, rough sex, drowning, ocean stuff, boats, like vaguely viking style but honestly more like barbarian aesthetic, please please let me know if i missed anything. Yandere undertones but it’s historical. Cursing. NS/FW or for ramadan. Dub!con, but bakugou does make her ask for it. MINORS DNI, all characters in their mid twenties, breeding, bakugou slaps you once - BUT A HAPPY ENDING I PROMISE OK I PROMISE

The mist hangs low on the edges of the water, lapping the sandy banks of the bay. The seawater is freezing, and you avoid it touching your shoes at all costs. It was early spring, and it would be many months before the water was even bearable, even then it was too cold to swim in. Somewhere, the sun was rising, but all you could see was its light elegantly diffused across an expanse of grey clouds. The wool of your plaid skirt keeps the cool off you as you carry the freshwater across the beach, back to the village. The bucket is heavy, your arms ache, but the freshest, sweetest water could only be found on the northernmost point of the island, where the snowmelt meets the sea. You have the two buckets on a yoke over your shoulders when you first see him.

He stands, like some kind of eldritch god, arising out of the reeds by the mouth of the river, face obscured by the bright sky behind him. For a moment you think it could be a boy from the village, but the silhouette is unfamiliar, you’ve never seen a helmet like that.

That’s when you hear it, the angry song of the horn, signifying the first Viking raid that your clan has experienced in years. The man in front of you takes a couple of steps forward, watching your eyes flash with fear before they steel over. You stumble backwards away from him, and you can hear on the horizon, the shouts of men roused from their late slumber. You’re weighed down by the water, but you’re the daughter of the chief, you know your worth, and you can recognize the fire burning in this man’s vermillion eyes. You make a decision, and let him stalk closer to you.

He removes his helmet, blonde hair ruffled by the wind, suntanned skin freckled and unmarred by smile lines. He watches you carefully, eyes skimming your figure, barely visible in your warm dress, long skirt, and soft shirt, your shoulders wrapped in a scarf your mother had knit for you. He gets closer, and closer, but you keep your eyes on the horizon, not even flinching when he’s only a few feet away, boots making heavy marks in the wet sand. His armor is leather and steel, helmet under his arm. His jawline is sharp, mouth angry, eyes narrow. The buckets swing next to you, sloshing gently. You take a deep breath and he reaches out to touch you, to grab a fistful of any of the layers of fabric obscuring your form, but you twist quickly at his actions, twirling and hitting him squarely in the stomach with freezing river water before turning and running deeper into the forest. He yells loudly but you don’t turn around to watch him get angry, you have the advantage here, you know the terrain. It’s rocky, mossy, and unforgiving.

You leap over rocks, hopping over rotting downed trees in the forest, but you still hear the heavy pounding of footsteps behind you. You know what happens to the women the Vikings take, you know what’ll happen to you, your heart thrums, you bite down on the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste iron, tears well and then stream past your face, the wind in your hair.

You’re doing well, or so you think. You hope that you lost him as your chest heaves, when something hits you hard. He tackles you from behind, strong arms pinning yours to your sides, rolling with you, protecting your soft body from the uneven ground with his armored one. You land with his legs around your hips, he smells clean, of musk, of men , and seawater, but somehow better than any man you’d ever been chased by in your village. But you don’t have time to dwell on this, you have one last desperate move, drawing the knife concealed at your waist, used mostly for cooking and household chores, glinting in the grey morning light, and plunge it into the chink of his armor at the shoulder. He grunts, words spilling from his lips in an unfamiliar language, but he doesn’t roll off of you, in fact, it seems to have the opposite of the desired effect. He pins both of your wrists above your head with his bad hand, as if the hilt of your knife wasn’t sticking in his shoulder. You mewl and squirm but he smiles as he pulls a leather cord from his belt, yanking you to your feet, not giving you a chance to run, shoving your body roughly up against a mossy tree. You set your jaw as he ties your hands behind your back. You think he’s done but he takes the rope off of his belt and wraps it around your waist, and then your wrists, securing it and taking the end of it in his hand like a leash, and then pressing his chest against your back, leaning down to speak in your ear.

“Walk.” He growls, voice low and angry. The ropes around your chest scoop under your breasts, pushing them up, plush pillows peeking out of the top of your dress. You struggle against them as you move back through the forest towards the beach. “Faster.” He taunts from behind and you pick up the pace, the sooner the better, maybe one of your younger brothers, your father, your mother, someone will see you on the beach. Without your arms, your balance is off, and you step on a rock only to slip in the damp air. He jerks on the leash, catching you with it, righting you, then urging you forward once more. Just before you get to the beach, you turn to him, eyes wide and pleading.

“Please.” You beg, eyes flicking to the smoke from your village. “Please leave me.” He shakes his head, a huge hand shooting out and curling around your throat, bringing your face near his chest, then he bends down.

“Mine.” He growls. “Understand?” Tears prick at your eyes but you aren’t ready for them to spill. You lean back and spit in his face. He backhands you, hard, only letting you fall for a second when you lose your balance, drawing your face back to his. He can see the tears flowing unbidden now, but carefully notes that your mouth is set, you’re not ready to cry. “Understand?” He says again, his hand held up, ready to make a matching red mark on your opposite cheek.

“I understand.” You respond, throat tight. A huge boat, in a style you don’t recognize pulls up in the sand. An even larger man peeks his head over the boat, unnaturally red hair in an intricate braided style.

“Oi, Bakugou, we weren’t supposed to get prisoners!” The man calls, huge arms bowing with muscles as he waves to a friend.

“Not a prisoner.” Bakugou groans, lifting you up towards the deck. “I’m keeping this one.” The redhead hops out of the boat and snatches you away from him, holding you like a child.

“Hey there,” he says cheerfully, then leaps back up onto the deck of the boat with you, the men manning the oars groan as Bakugou climbs aboard and pushes out into the sea. Your eyes are trained on your home, the smoking ruins of the place you grew up. “So why this one?” Speaking as if you’re not right there.

“She stabbed me,” Bakugou growls, pulling the dagger out of his shoulder, wiping the blood on his pants. “I’m fine. She nearly got away.” The redhead laughs, touching your shoulder.

“I’m Kirishima.” he says to you, squeezing gently, “And that’s Bakugou, doubt he had the wherewithal to introduce himself. You can sit.” He says, gesturing to the deck. You don’t want to, you keep your eyes on the horizon disappearing behind you. “Alright,” Kirishima grunts, forcing you down your knees. “Sorry, I know I didn’t phrase that like a command.” You swallow, and stare blankly out at the ocean, cool wind whipping through your hair.

“She’s also the leader’s daughter.” Bakugou studies the knife. “It’s got her name engraved in it.”

“A match made in heaven.” Kirishima crows. “Hey,” he says, waving a hand in front of

you, trying to wrench your attention from your smoking village. Both men watch as you part your chapped lips.

“I’d rather you throw me overboard than have him touch me again.” You say, voice hitched and rough, but your tone is still defiant. Kirishima nods, sitting next to you and inspecting your bonds.

“Mind if I redo these?” He asks the blond, who just looks away, which is apparently permission for Kirishima to carefully retie the ropes holding you as the sea sprays in your face and men manning the oars groan. You square your shoulders, back arched, chin out, every inch a princess as you sail into the unknown. You watch the blonde attend to his own stab wound, bandaging it carefully, making sure to keep it clean.

“Does that hurt less?” Kirishima asks quietly, and you nod. “Good.” He glances at Bakugou. “He was just in a hurry.” You swallow, twisting to face the man sitting next to you.

“What’s going to happen to me?” You ask, eyes wide and he takes a breath.

“You’re ours.” He clarifies, gesturing to your bonds and the boat. You nod. “And uh, he seems to like you”

“What?” You say, voice light and vulnerable. Bakugou takes your chin in his hand, leaning down. “She just needs to be broken.” He turns away and walks down the side of the ship moving swiftly through the sea. You summon some courage.

“I’m not afraid of you.” You say, sticking your chin out. “I’m a princess. I’ve led through more difficult situations than this. My people will rescue me or I’ll escape.” Both men stare at you. Bakugou’s eyes flick to the rope around your waist.

“Tighten that.” He says darkly, coming to stand in front of you on the gently rocking boat. He squats, his handsome face inches from yours. “Princess, huh?” He says, as Kirishima fiddles with your bonds. He spits directly in your face.

“I will take your fuckin’ virginity in front of all these men.” He snarls. “I’ll fuck you over the side of the boat and then throw you into the ocean.” You laugh lightly, the sound explosive and unhinged, tossing your hair against the wind.

“Not a virgin. So do it.” You feel the wetness drip down your face. “I’d rather die than be yours.” He rears back and for a moment you think he’ll hit you, and but he doesn’t just snarls,

“I’m gonna make you beg for me.”

“I’m praying for a curse on your house.” You say, starting to stand and Kirishima catches the rope around your waist, pulling you back onto your knees.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough out of both of you.” Bakugou scowls and Kirishima quickly continues. “Uh, especially you.” He takes a strap of cloth out of his pocket and slips it between your lips, forcing your mouth open, and tying it tightly behind your head. To your dismay, your kidnapper, Bakugou, sits on the other side of you, close enough so that you shoulders brush.

“Not a virgin huh?” He says and you shake your head. “Good.” He stares across the sea. “Maybe you won’t cry when you take my fat fucking cock.” You turn your face away from him and he grabs your chin. “Look at me.” He growls. “You are my property now, princess. Not cause you’re a fuckin’ woman, but because I caught ya.” You stare up at him defiantly, even next to you, he’s much, much larger. He takes you roughly then and shoves your upper half down into his lap, laying your head on his leather bound thigh, fingers carding through your hair. You whimper, the loss of the horizon takes a toll on your stomach immediately.

“Oh,” he coos, “She needs to see the water, huh, that where you’re gettin’ all this dumb shit courage from?” You squirm a little and his fingers snap together, so that they pull painfully. “Stay still,” he growls. You freeze, and his touches become soft again, gentle almost.

“Be nice, Bakugou, she’s probably terrified.” Kirishima chastises, and you mewl plaintively from Bakugou’s lap. “We’ll take care of you, alright?” He coos. “Don’t worry.” You struggle a little and Bakugou shoves you off of him, spending the rest of the trip staring out at the ocean pensively, while Kirishima keeps a tight hold on your arm. You can feel when it grounds, and Kirishima pulls you to your feet. The men unload the cargo and immediately Kirishima and Bakugou are overwhelmed by several friends who jump onto the boat.

“What’s this!” A young woman with brown skin and soft pink hair notices Kirishima’s tight grip on your upper arm.

“Bakugou took her.” Kirishima shrugs. “She’s a local princess apparently, Mina.” He carries you onto the dock, thankfully they don’t seem to expect you to be able to move much in your current state.

“She doesn’t look scared.” One of the other boys, who came to see Kirishima and Bakugou, with glinting amber eyes and yellow hair remarks. Before Kirishima can respond, Bakugou does.

“She will.” He snarls, taking the length of rope hanging from your waist and pulling you forward at an unforgiving pace. Kirishima and the others stay behind to tie the boat up, but Bakugou drags you up a hill, you barely keep pace with him in the wet new grass, sparse amongst the rocks. You can see his village then, at the base of the valley, much much larger than yours, bustling with people. The men catch up to him, having tied the boat and they walk into the town square with cheers at the things plundered, one of those things being you. Bakugou walks you like a dog, and if you go too slowly he kicks the back of your calves. You get to the center of town, hot humiliating tears burning in your eyes. There are cheers, and people dance, but you’re already trying to imagine what’s broken in the place you come from, your house, your neighbors, the stone walls of your old run-down castle.

“Oi,” Bakugou gets your attention with a low growl. “Don’t try shit.” You feel him loosen the ropes a little, and blood rushes back to your appendages. He hears your sigh of relief and makes a mental note. He keeps a tight grasp on your upper arm as he undoes the leather cord around your wrists, then shoves you to the ground, your back against a thick stone pillar in front of a large bonfire. He takes your arms and ties them around the back of the stone pillar, more gently than he’d done it earlier. It might be your imagination but you feel a quick soothing touch on the welts. “You injured?” He asks, tugging the gag out of your mouth.

“Just a little bruised.” You breathe, his face is inches from yours.

“Where?” He asks and you shift your weight.

“I hit my shoulder when you tackled me.” He nods sensing you’re holding back.

“And?” He says, eyes flicking to your lips and then back to your eyes.

“And I’m a little thirsty.” That was far from the truth, you were dying for a sip of water, you’d been thirsty when you’d gone to fetch water that morning.

“I’ll see to your shoulder.” He mutters, standing, turning back to the party at which apparently he’s the guest of honor. You shrink back into the stone as people laugh and dance and drink as the sun moves across the sky. He disappears into the crowd of people and you close your eyes, unwilling to be aware of the stares you’re getting. He comes back with a bandage and he kneels next to you. “Stay still.” He removes the wool scarf your mother knit you, and folds it beside you. He tugs gently on the shoulder of your dress and inspects the back of the joint carefully. You can feel the eyes, on him, on you, on your exposed skin, and you let out a little whimper when he presses on the swollen joint.

“Shh.” He says, glaring at others who look your way. “You’re mine.” You feel him brace your shoulder with careful hands, gingerly moving around the swollen joint. “Still thirsty?” He asks when he’s done, squatting in front of you. You nod vigorously and he smirks. “Yeah, that’s not gonna cut it bitch.” Your mouth drops open and he shrugs.

“Everything you get, you get because I feel like giving it to you. And I think for water, you gotta beg.” You nod.

“I understand.” Your voice is hoarse already and his grin widens, he takes your jaw,

“Open.” He says, and you obey. He spits right in your mouth. “Swallow.” He growls and it’s disgusting, he kidnapped you, the blood on his men’s clothing is probably your neighbors, your family’s. You squirm with displeasure but he seems to like that. “Let me know when you really fucking want some water.”

“Bakugou!” You call, desperately, you can’t take it, you need it right now, throat burning, and the fire’s been blowing smoke on you for hours. “Please.” You say, a note of desperation creeping unbidden into your voice. He looks at you for a moment.

“One more.” He says, face set.

“Please, can I have some water, Bakugou?” You croak, lashes wet. He nods, stalking off towards the well. The celebration swirls around you, people drinking and dancing, the leather of his armor discarded, he’s now in a loose white shirt, it’s crisp and clean, his pants tight and the bottoms of them muddy. He’s holding a worn skin, and he places one hand on the back of your neck and tips the end of it between your lips. The water is cool and clean and you drink as much of it as you can before he takes it away.

“Are you hungry?” He asks in a low growl and you nod, keeping your mouth shut. He takes some bread off a passing tray and rips off a small piece of it. “Open.” He says, and your face burns with humiliation as he feeds you, slowly, letting you swallow before letting you eat another piece out of his open palm. “The fuck are you crying for?” He asks you after a few minutes.

“I’m worried about my family.” You say quietly. “I had little brothers.” He nods.

“They might be dead.” You close your eyes, inhaling through your nose. He moves swiftly, and for a moment you think he’s going to comfort you, but you feel him slice through your bonds, and pull you to your feet. You wobble for a moment before he throws you over his shoulder. There are a few cheers as he carries you out of the party. The sun is sinking below the treeline, and it’s getting chilly. He opens the creaking wooden door to a one-room cabin. You squint in the low light. It’s exceedingly clean, furs on a bed and the floor, a chimney in the corner, made with rough grey stone, flecked with gold. He sets you on the bed.

“Do you sleep in all that?” He asks and you shake your head. Your cheeks are still wet from earlier but you put your face back on. If this was going to happen you certainly weren’t going to give him any more satisfaction than you had to. “Undress.” He says, and you fumble with the lace at the back of your dress for a minute before he loses patience at your contortions, pulling you up and shoving you roughly against the wall, undoing them himself.

“C’mon.” He grunts, shoving you down onto the bed, now that you’re only wearing a petticoat, a loose slip that covers your whole body. The air gushes from your lungs when you’re pushed down, a soft musical cry escapes your lips as he lifts the furs and scoots you underneath them. You watch as he slips out of his pants so that he’s only wearing the long, loose white shirt. He roughly wraps an arm around your waist, pinning your back to his hard chest. His arms hook upward, and he palms your breasts roughly, groaning, and rutting his hips against your ass. You let out a little involuntary whimper.

“Don’t worry princess.” He practically spits the word. “I’m not gonna touch ya till ya beg me, remember?”

“T-that will never happen.” Your voice trembles. You feel his breath on your ear, and you shiver as he speaks again, the vibrations awakening something deep in your core.

“Know why I picked you?” He says and you shake your head, trying to focus on anything other than the deep sound of his voice, his rough hands on your soft skin.

“No.” You confirm quietly. Trying to hold onto some of your dignity, you close your eyes. You were a princess. A princess from a small fishing village, but a princess nonetheless.

“I was just gonna take your knife.” He confirms. “I liked it. Lost mine, and I’ve needed a new one.” You swallow, and he laughs. “And then, I saw that haughty little nose in the air, and I thought, tch, that won’t fuckin’ do now will it? Can’t have some bitch running around sayin’ I spared her life, callin’ me weak.” You try to scoot away from him on the bed but he chuckles and holds you fast. “Then, ya had the fuckin’ audacity, to hit me.” He snarls the words as he starts to massage your chest, you can’t hold back the soft mewl that falls from your lips as he rubs his thumbs across your nipples. “And run away.” You’re squirming against him in earnest now as blood pools in your cheeks. You elbow him as hard as you can in the ribs, and he laughs harshly, undaunted.

“B-bakugou,” you get out.

“I never told you my name.” He says. “That’s just what the others call me. To you, I’m Katsuki.” You whimper again. “Fuckin love that sound,” he growls, “Make more, be louder, I’m gonna fuckin’ wreck you.”

“P-please.” You say softly.

“What?” He says. “Do ya want me to stop, princess, if you do, tell me, tell me you want me to take my hands off you, I fuckin’ dare you.” You bite down hard on your lower lip. “Ooooh,” he coos, “She can’t, can she, where’s that high and mighty attitude now, bet you’re soakin’ my goddamn bed huh? Should we find out?” You bury your face in the blanket, willing yourself to have the courage to scream, the ability to fight, but it feels - it feels so good. He releases your chest and you whimper at the loss of sensation, then you feel his teeth on your ear. “Stay. Still.” He hooks one muscled arm around your waist, you can’t help but notice, in this close proximity, how much he smells like pine and leather, as his hand dips beneath your skirt. His fingers ghost your thighs and move upwards, brushing the outside of your sex. He runs one calloused finger up your slit and you clench your thighs together.

“I said stay still.” He slaps your thigh hard enough so that you cry out, pinning your leg between his own, holding you open. “You’re gonna have to learn to follow orders.” He says as he touches the softest parts of you, fingers moving between your folds, but his demeanor seems to shift at what he finds. “Oh, you’re fuckin’ soaked.” Your eyes well with tears.

“What’s wrong,” He coos, “Don’t like that you’re my fuckin’ bitch, even though I’ve barely touched you?”

“‘M not your-” you don’t get to respond as he grinds his thumb against your clit and you squeal loudly at the stimulation, but Bakugou doesn’t give you a moment to relax, plunging two fingers into your core, and your hips buck against him.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He snaps, “Do I have to tie you down, are you genuinely too stupid to follow orders?” You don’t answer, you can’t, you’re losing control under his careful touch. He can feel the way your soft walls are squeezing around his fingers, loves watching how you lean away from him and hide your face in his blankets. He lets go of your waist and grabs your chin, forcing you to look directly into his eyes as you gurgle and gasp.

“H-hurts,” You choke out and he shakes his head.

“Poor slut’s never cum before huh?” You start to fight him a little but he’s so strong, it’s like pushing against steel. “Well I’m not gonna finish ya,” he growls, “Till you beg for my cock.”

“What?” You breathe.

“Beg. Beg for help. Beg for me to fuck you.” He says, eyes narrowing, reaching up and closing his fist around your throat, scissoring his fingers inside of you. You’re reaching for logic, for dignity, but everywhere there’s only Katuski. Smelling of pine, and sweat, and man, everywhere you reach he’s there, and the coil in your stomach tightens painfully, you want this, you want him to help you make it stop.

“Please.” You whisper, and he smiles wickedly.

“Please. What.”

“Please, fuck me.” You whimper, “Please please, Katsuki, I want, I want you.”

“What are you?” He asks and your eyes shoot open, you’re so close to the edge of something it’s painful, the tears that have been welling in your eyes spill over and he kisses them off your soft face, “Tell me what you are.”

“I-I’m… I’m yours.” He chuckles.

“That’s fuckin’ right you are.” He says, shoving you roughly to the center of the bed and climbing on top of you, “And I’m gonna fuck my sons right into that soft fuckin’ womb of yours,” you cry out, “That’s goddamn right.” he says, shuddering as he runs the head of his cock along your slit. “I’m gonna breed this prissy fuckin’ pussy.” He roughly sheaths himself inside you, watching your face carefully for your reaction, and fuck, do you you deliver. Your mouth drops open, eyes screwed shut, a high pitched keen escaping from your lips. He groans loudly as he waits for you to adjust to his size, starting to move slowly.

“Fuck,” he swears quietly, feeling how soft your walls were, pulsing around him, warm and perfect, everything he’d imagined when he saw that spark of defiance in your eyes, vowing to extinguish it. “Good slut.” He praises, “Good fuckin’ girl.” You whimper, the stretch was both pain and pleasure, more than you’d ever felt before, and you gasp when he reaches down and adjusts your legs so that he can bury himself to the hilt inside of you. To his surprise, you reach for him, tangling your hands in his braided hair, pulling him down to kiss you. He obliges, setting a gentle pace at first, one of your legs draped elegantly over his shoulder, he finds that you’re more skilled than he expected. You trap his lower lip between his teeth, and he shudders as your nails find purchase on his sculpted shoulder blades, then he opens his eyes to see a slight smile playing on your face.

“None of that, bratty fuckin’ bitch.” He snarls, and pounds into you, you scream, he has no doubt your voice is travelling out into the night, into the village, and he doesn’t fucking care. “Yeah, is this what you wanted, wanted me to fuck you like you’re a whore, princess?” He spits on your face and you choke out a sobbing moan, “That’s what I goddamn thought.” He leans down to your ear, biting it hard, feeling you push him away at the burst of pain. “Uh, uh,” He snarls, picking up the pace, snapping his hips against yours. You see stars every time his cock brushes your cervix.

“F-fuck, Katsuki,” You choke out and he smiles evilly in his victory.

“Yeah, bitch?” He snarls, “Cum for me, cum all over my cock like the whore you are.” Your back arches and you scream again, lips parted, eyes glossy, as he grunts, fucking you like an animal, biting at your soft skin, leaving his mark all over you.

“Gonna fuck an heir right into you, princess,” he grunts, “Gonna breed you like a fuckin’ bitch.” You can barely hear him as your first ever orgasm rips through your body, tears streaming from your eyes as he presses his sweaty forehead to yours. “That’s a good girl,” he says, listening to your little whimpers, feeling you twitch and shake, grunting loudly as he paints your walls with his seed. He keeps fucking you, pushing his cum up further inside of you, but you seem to know what to do, lifting your hips as he slips a pillow underneath them, clenching your legs together when he pulls out and lies down next to you as you cry softly.

“Beautiful.” He says, savoring how messy you look, your hair like a nest, your face flushed, your lips trembling. He kisses your forehead. “And mine.” You nod.

“Yours.” He pulls you into his strong arms, rubbing your head absentmindedly.

“I took you,” He says quietly, “So you’re my responsibility.” You nod into his chest. He kisses your forehead again. “I saw you, and I knew you were mine.” You sleep intertwined, when you move he wakes up, making sure you’re still there, and not trying to escape. You wake well into the night, with a nightmare, you’re wandering through the smoldering ruins of your home.

“Shhhh,” He whispers when he hears you cry. “Shhhh princess,” he rubs soothing circles on your back.

“W-want to go home.” You cry desperately. He takes your chin in his hand firmly, forcing you to look at him.

“You are home.” He pats the bed.

“Y-yes Katsuki.” He nods, something in his face softening.

“I’m home.” He attempts to clarify, clumsy with his words, swinging big with the meaning. You blink a couple of times.

“What?” He points to his chest.

“I’m home.”

“Oh.” He moves you so that you’re lying on his chest.

“You’ll understand.” He mutters. “I’ll teach you.”

When you wake the next morning he hands you new clothes, your old is dress discarded in a corner of his wood-panelled home. In the daylight, you can see how well decorated the room is, clean and organized but full of rugs and furs, warm-toned yarn woven together telling stories you don’t recognize. The clothes he hands you are simple, a long linen dress and cloak, cream-colored, with simple flowers embroidered on it.

“Thank you.” You say quietly, and he nods, then reaches around your body, tying a rope around your waist that he holds onto like a leash, but this time doesn’t restrict your movement, just keeps you close to him.

“Go.” He says, pointing towards the door of the cabin. He pulls you down to a grand hall, a building made of wood and stone and mud, where people sit, eating together. He pushes a plate of food in front of you, hands you a utensil. Quickly, he’s crowded by the people from the boat yesterday, you’d watched them at the party. The redhead, Kirishima, shoots you a warm smile.

“How’d you sleep?” He asks politely.

“We know how she slept,” The yellow haired boy, with a wide, teasing smile responds. “Don’t we, Bakugou?” Bakugou swats at the boy.

“Shut the fuck up.” Kirishima reddens.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” He clarifies. You’re staring out the window, you can see the ocean from where you’re sitting.

“Oi,” Bakugou growls at you. “Didn’t you have questions for shitty hair?” You blink and then come back down to the ground, nodding, speaking softly.

“Are um, are my little brothers dead?” You ask quietly and he blanches, looking nervous.

“How little?” He asks finally.

“Very.” You say, voice barely audible over the chatter of people eating.

“We don’t kill children.” He says quickly. You nod, in a daze. So people did die, yesterday, while you were getting water. Bakugou watches you drift off into space, you push your plate away.

“That’s good, isn’t it stupid?” He hits the back of your head lightly and you shrug. “Eat.”

“I’m finished.” You say and he shakes his head.

“If you don’t wanna eat you won’t get any fuckin’ food.” He threatens, expecting you to bite back, to fight, but you don’t, you just nod.

“Alright.” He looks away. There’s an awkward silence and you go back to staring at the water, wondering how far you were from home. Wherever he goes through the small city, crowds part, and that means they part for you too. You cower, the unfamiliar faces and sounds making you jump. He reaches an arm behind him and to his delight you curl your body around it, holding one of his large hands with both of yours.

He notices though, that you’ve begun to slowly slip away from him. When you eat, it’s barely, and you don’t protest when Mina braids your hair, even when she yanks on a particularly tough tangle. You keep your eyes on him, where he leans on the doorframe, watching as all traces of your former identity wash away in the basin. All day, he catches you staring out at the ocean, even going as far as to walk you down to the water.

“Is this what you fuckin’ want?” He snarls. “Why won’t you talk to me?” For the first time in hours, you speak.

“Can we walk to the end of the dock?” He nods, so relieved to hear your voice he caves immediately, letting you lead the way until you’re standing a foot away from the endpoint, the sea spraying up and beading on your beautiful face. You turn to him. “My family is dead. Aren’t they?”

Bakugou has always been sure. Sure of his divine right to lead. Sure of who he was. Sure he was making the right decision, the best decision, he’d been born under a prophetic exploding star, signifying a new era, one he had decided would be an age of expansion. But he watches the tears fall down your face, as you refuse to cry, watches the pride he had admired in you crumble, watches you mourn, and suddenly that sureness ebbs from him. He takes a step towards you and you turn away, facing the ocean.

“It’s too cold to swim in here.” He says gruffly, and you nod, eyeing the rope around your waist. He tugs on it, but you stay where you are, watching the waves roll. “They aren’t dead.” He says. “Probably. Can’t account for anything that happened after we left.” You turn to him.

“What do you want from me?” You ask. “I’m submitting, I thought, I thought this was, what you wanted?” He struggles, clearly, it’s words you want, and he doesn’t have them. He doesn’t have an explanation.

“I was chosen,” he begins, and you laugh, it’s a harsh bitter sound. He yanks on the rope around your waist, drawing you back to him, forcing you to face him, his hips directly pressing against yours. “I was chosen,” he growls, “I was born under a broken star, to bring a new age to my people.” Your jaw sets and your eyes narrow.

“So you’re picking off fishing villages and stealing maidens from beaches?” Your lips curl into a sneer, you have nothing, absolutely nothing to lose, “What’s new or revolutionary about that?” You push against him and he moves backwards on the dock. “What’s new about war, about violence?” You ask the fire in your eyes back, you’re angry, and as the blood returns to your cheeks he recognizes you again.

“What’s new is the land, the ore, the riches -” You laugh again and he grabs your face in one huge hand.

“That’s pathetic.” You say as his eyes narrow, you’re testing his patience, you can tell but you don’t care, the hopelessness is finally gone from your stomach, as long as you can make this one point before he loses his temper and snaps your neck. You press a finger to his chest, “Peace. Peace would be revolutionary. Not violence, and plundering. You want to do something no man has ever done?” Your raised voice catches the attention of a few fishermen in their boats, who force themselves not to look. “Try impressing me.” You shove him, harder than you mean to, you’re angry, and you didn’t take into account the uneven planes of the dark wood dock, coated with salt and spray. But when he loses his footing and falls, you expect him to catch himself, to perform some kind of acrobatic athletic feat but he doesn’t, he just falls off the dock, it turns out under all that bravado, hes just a man. It happens almost in slow motion, wind whipping his little blond braid, the rest of his hair wild, expression livid, ready to swim back to shore, and make you pay, no doubt.

What he doesn’t count on, is a huge squall, a large wave pushing one of the canoes up, and bringing it down on his head. You see him go limp, then slip beneath the churning waves. You have seconds. Others are running, but they won’t get there in time, the current is strong, you can tell by the shape of the waves on the beach. You can let him die. You think. You could. And no one would blame you. No god, no man.

Time slows as you decide. You could let him die. You could. You could.

You rip your shoes off and dive into the black freezing waves. It’s been months since you’ve swum, but muscle memory is powerful and you counter each thrust of the ocean, opening your eyes in the burning salt, looking for your captor. A burst of sunlight, something catches his blond hair, glinting in the dark water, bubbles escaping from his lioa and floating towards the surface. You swim towards him, wrapping your arms around him tugging him towards the sky. He’s heavy, heavier than anything you’ve ever picked up on your own. You’re starting to feel the icy temperature of the water as the adrenaline wears off. The feeling in your fingers is the first to go, you’re holding him up on willpower alone as you finally break to the surface, gasping for air, kicking your legs desperately, taking a lungful of sea air before dragging him against the current towards the shore. His lips are purpled, a bad sign, and you’re losing feeling in your skin, the numbness starting to pinprick into sharp pain as the dark salty waters lap at your shoulders, your dress billowing underneath you. You summon the last vestiges of your strength. You can’t keep him above the water any longer and keep moving towards the shore. So as the men on the dock shout, their footsteps pounding on the wood, you take Bakugou back under, swimming perpendicular to the rip current towards the beach.

“She’s drowning him!” Someone shouts, but you ignore them, swimming down, swimming deep, you can hear the grind of the swirling sand, as your skin burns in the cold water, teeth chattering, pain ripping through your now stiff joints. You’re so close, just a few more feet.

You drag his body half out of the water onto the sand and immediately begin chest compressions with your trembling hands. Water gurgles out of his mouth, and when he begins to cough you collapse on his chest, shaking so hard you can’t sit still, your dress is heavy and soaked with seawater, you can’t move as practically the whole village thunders towards the beach and he moans. The first thing he sees is your face, cold, pallid, tendrils of hair sticking to your face. He reaches up and cups it, stroking your cheek as you shake and sob. He keeps coughing up water as the first people arrive on the scene. Kirishima falls to his knees next to Bakugou.

“She saved me.” He murmurs in a low growl. “You…” Your world starts to go dark at the edges, and you lose consciousness, falling on Bakugou’s chest. You wake, in warm soft water, the smell of wildflowers on the tip of your nose.

“Hi,” a voice says softly, Mina. “Hey there.” You’re alone, floating in a warm bath. You open your eyes, looking around a wood building filled with steam. “You’re alive.” She confirms and you sigh.

“Everything hurts.” You confirm. “So I know.” She lets you float in the steam room for a bit, leaving you alone, even if you hear the click of the lock on the door. You squint at the ceiling, bundles of dried wildflowers hang, which accounts for the scent. You take some water and wash your hair carefully, trying to get the sand out of it, out of your nail beds, out from between your toes. You don’t feel warm exactly, but neutral. The women come back in, they dress you and braid your hair, you don’t protest or fight them, sitting for hours on the floor with them, staring at nothing while they drink and talk.

“Where is he?” You ask after the sun starts to sink in the sky and Mina clears her throat.

“After you collapsed he gathered the men of the village for a raid.” She says quietly. “They’re all gone.” You nod. “When he comes back, he’s left instructions for your wedding.” You scoff.

“I’m sure he has.” Mina laughs.

“He’s rough around the edges, but I think he’ll be a good husband. Faithful, certainly.” You laugh and she shrugs. “He’s never been one to sleep around.” You spend the next week in routine, with the men of the village gone, the women work, feeding animals, cooking, and gathering. No one lets you do anything particularly strenuous, which come Friday afternoon, you’re beginning to resent.

Mina spots it first, a ship on the horizon while you’re all working on dinner. You squint at the brown dot. You’re stirring a pot, hair braided back, a couple of loose flowers in it from the field where you and Mina picked berries for dessert. She’s kind, but she never really knew what to say to you. You didn’t know either. She wrenches you away from the pot, pulling you into a large stone house by the river.

“We gotta get you ready!” She squeals, and you crack half a smile at her enthusiasm. “Come on.” You hear the men return outside, with unfamiliar voices, shouting and grunting, the stomping of boots on the muddy spring earth. The women paint your face in the traditional style, light black around the top of your eyes, they pinch your cheeks for a youthful glow, they dress you, in a linen gown with a low neckline and long draping sleeves, a soft pink, the color of the wildflowers they tuck into your hair. You don’t protest, letting them treat you like a little doll until Mina comes behind you and ties something over your eyes.

“Why?” You say, reaching out, and fumbling for something. “Is this traditional?” She snorts.

“Definitely not.” She leads you carefully out of the house, making sure that you don’t trip or fall. She takes your arm, and you make your way up some kind of outdoor staircase.

You can feel a cool breeze in your hair, your hands shake. What would he be like, this beast that had captured you, after a week away? Why didn’t he come to see you before he’d left? You’d been shocked he still wanted you, that the wedding was even being prepared at all. Mina lifts the blindfold from your eyes and your mouth drops. Standing in front of you is your father, dark eyes with crinkled edges, dressed in the traditional wool plaid of your family.

“My daughter,” He says in a low voice. “It would be my honor, to walk you down the aisle.” You burst into tears, throwing your arms around him, he smells of grass and linen and home. You’re standing at the end of an outdoor ceremonial ground, sculpted pews from cold grey stone, covered in lichen and moss. On one side, everyone from your home sits, some of them a little bruised, but each of your little brothers sits in the front row, even the baby squirming in your mother’s lap. The tears keep coming, as your best friend turns to you and smiles, giving a little wave. You wave back. You hear someone clear their throat and your attention turns to the altar. Bakugou Katsuki, dressed in your traditional ceremonial garb, stands in front of you, the smirk melting off of his face when he sees you, the angle of your jaw, the warmth in your eyes, the soft tendrils of hair in your face, it was all, perfect. Worth it. Your father takes your arm and leads you down the stone pathway, your leather boots tapping softly against the stone in the silence. The hills around you are muddy and green, and the sky is the kind of bright twilight blue that crackles with promise and electricity. A single puffy white cloud drifts across the sky. You stand in front of him, and he takes your shaking hands.

Wordlessly, he draws a knife from his pocket, your knife. He gets down on one knee, bows his head, and hands it to you.

“A life for a life.” He growls. You take the silver dagger with your name engraved in it and examine it. This glint of silver that had first caught his eye, that had brought you to the attention of Bakugou Katsuki. “If you will have me,” he looks up, “I will dedicate the rest of my days to provin’ that I am worthy of you,” he grins, “And uh, wipin’ that smug smile off your face.” You giggle, despite yourself, wiping your face clear.

“And if I won’t have you?” You counter, there are titters from the crowd.

“You’ve got the knife, princess.” He looks up, an evil grin on his face. You hesitate, turning it over in your palm. He rolls his eyes, and you can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face.

“Stand.” You say, and he leaps up and kisses you so quickly he knocks the breath from your lungs, lifting you off your feet and swinging you around. You laugh a little, and he wipes a few stray tears from your face. “You did this,” you say quietly, gesturing to your family, “For me.” He nods.

“Thought I’d try something revolutionary.” He says.

“Peace?” You offer and he grins, kissing your forehead before responding.

“Impressing you.”

2K notes View Post

maboiisuga

2 years ago

WHAT DOESN'T KILL ME MAKES ME WANT YOU MORE | HAITANI BROTHERS

haitani ran x fem!reader x haitani rindou

summary: being part of a stepfamily was difficult, but not for the reasons you had initially thought. the issues rose not in your stepmother, but in your new brothers instead.

warnings: fem!reader, dom!ran, mean!ran, dom!rindou, sub!reader, inexperienced!reader, stepcest, face fucking, ran’s a bit creepy at first ngl, corruption/kind of predator vs prey, kind of manipulative!ran, accidental noncon voyeurism, mentioned/taken prescribed sleeping pills, age gap (21/22 -> 30/31), humiliation, degradation, edging/orgasm denial, fingering, ran has an absolutely filthy mouth, pet names (doll, good girl, princess but only mockingly), dumbification, ran calls rindou a “sister-fucker” mockingly also brings up the fact that they’re siblings several times to taunt reader and rindou

wordcount: ... 16k don't let it flop :') pls

Notes: for tee’s stepcest collab and eris and abby's corruption collab @hanmas @kxeyas @munsonsins

taglist: @manjiroscum @mxnjiros @dxlucs @suyacho @meowdarame @semisgroupie @tokyometronetwork @muchoccino

“Mom got a new husband,” Ran announced as he walked into the vast lounge on the top floor of Bonten’s headquarters, stuffing his phone into the back pocket of his slacks and circling his glass, watching as the amber liquid sloshed to the top before settling back down. His feet dragged against the wood as he made his way toward where Rindou was reclined back on one of the dark couches, one arm thrown over the back as he tilted his head toward Ran, clicking his tongue sharply.

“Again?” Rindou asked, lips turned down and brows furrowed, just as displeased as Ran expected he would be. Rindou rolled his eyes when Ran nodded, downing the rest of his glass of whiskey before leaning forward and pouring himself another. “This is her third this year. You’d think she’d get sick of having to find a new wedding dress every couple months.”

Ran snorted, leaning against the wall next to the couch, taking a sip of his own drink, “I think that’s her favorite part,” he noted, sparing one last glance toward his younger brother as he laid back against the couch again, feet propped on the ebony table in front of the couch as he scrolled through his phone, lighting up another joint, unbothered by the news.

Ran drew his gaze from his brother toward the floor-to-ceiling windows looking over Roppongi. The sun was setting already, the building casting an eerie shadow over the streets, the cars were beginning to thin out on the busy roads as people returned to their homes after work for dinner. His thoughts ran amok as he considered his mother’s words, trying to figure out the best way of conveying them to Rindou before he finally decided to just come out with it.

“Mom wants us to meet him,” Ran said simply, ignoring how Rindou choked over the smoke he had inhaled, head snapping to the side to look at Ran. Ran only stared ahead, eyes following a plane headed west from the city.

“Meet him?” Rindou demanded, tone laced with disbelief, “She’s never made us meet any of them before. She’s run through like twelve different guys and never asked us to come meet them.”

Ran shrugged, head dropping to the side to meet Rindou’s wide-eyed gaze, “She says she really likes him, thinks we’ll get along.”

Rindou snorted loudly, “I doubt that,” he said but Ran could see from the way that Rindou’s jaw was tight and his nostrils were flared that he was unhappy with the sudden turn of events and Ran couldn’t say he blamed him. They did not have good experiences with the men that their mother brought into their lives--from their biological father right up until the last man that their mother had forced them to meet when they were in their early twenties.

Rindou let out a frustrated noise, inhaling another puff of smoke before tilting his head back and exhaling, letting his eyes slide shut, “When’s she want us to meet him?”

Ran bit down on his tongue for a moment, letting out a soft breath. “Now,” he said. Rindou’s eyes shot back open.

“You’re fuckin’ with me,” Rindou said unhappily but Ran only gave him a wry smile.

“I wish,” he said dryly, “She was insistent about it too. Says we haven’t even come to visit her in two months, the least we could do is come now.”

Rindou rolled his eyes so hard that Ran swore it must have hurt, “How mad will she be if we don’t show?” he muttered.

“On a scale of Fiji to Oslo?” Ran asked, tilting his head to rest against the wall. He noticed Rindou nod from the corner of his eye, “Definitely leaning Oslo. She already sounded pissed.”

“Fuckin’ bullshit,” Rindou put his glass back down onto the table, rising to his feet, looking back at Ran, “You’re driving.”

“And you’re changing,” Ran muttered, eyeing the bloodstained white button-up Rindou was wearing, “Go change out of that. I’ll go start up the car.”

---

There was a car in the driveway, your fingers twitched at your sides as you stood from your vanity, trying to get a better look out the window. You couldn’t tell who had shown up at the house--whoever it was must have come into the house while you were still getting dressed and drying your hair after your shower.

You took in a shaky breath, eyes darting down to your phone. There were no new messages from your father or your new step-mother telling you who had stopped by and you bit your bottom lip, glancing at the glass of water sat atop your nightstand.

You had to go to the kitchen to get your sleeping pills, your father didn’t let you keep them in your room--they were in the kitchen cabinet, past the sitting room, and if there really were guests over, you had no doubt that that’s exactly where they’d all be.

Anxiety ate at your stomach, your gaze flicked to the clock. It was getting late already and you had to be up for classes the next morning. You wouldn’t be able to sleep through the night if you didn’t take your pills, and if you took your pills any later, you’d sleep through your alarms.

You briefly shut your eyes, letting out a long exhale as you made your decision.

Fuck.

You grimaced as you stepped into your slippers, tugging down your silk shorts as you left your bedroom, arms wrapped around your torso. The halls were long and decorated with old, expensive paintings and antiques, the lights above were dim and flickering as a storm rattled the windows.

Mrs. Haitani was old money—your father was wealthy, yes, but the more you hung around with your new step-mother, the more you realized how vastly different her lifestyle was compared to the one you were used to. From spending habits right down to the way she talked and dressed, sometimes you genuinely believed Mrs. Haitani was from another world altogether despite technically being in similar class brackets.

And she was nice, you supposed, if not a bit pretentious. She doted on you like she would her own daughter, bringing you out to brunches, out shopping, gossiping with you over boys at your university.

She had always wanted a daughter, she would tell you but her first husband passed away before they could try again, and by the time she finally started dating around again, she was too old to have any more kids no matter how hard she tried.

She was older than your father—by a good twenty years, even if she didn’t look it—when he had first told you about her, you had been unhappy because it felt like he was trying to replace your mother. But you supposed that of all the women that your father could have remarried, Mrs. Haitani certainly wasn’t the worst pick.

You turned down another hallway. In the distance, you could hear voices talking—your father, Mrs. Haitani, and two unfamiliar male voices. You let out a shaky exhale, arms tightening around your torso.

In and out, walk through the room to the kitchen, get your pills, and leave.

You stepped into the large sitting room and immediately four gazes were on you. You felt sick, you had never been good with people, especially new people.

Mrs. Haitani smiled bright when she saw you, leaning against your father, curled up at his side. She called your name happily, “C’mere,” she said, “I want you to meet my sons.”

Your mouth was dry as your gaze flickered over to the two men sitting in one of the sofas—sharp lavender eyes, dark button-ups and slacks, sleeves rolled up above the forearms revealing matching tattoos on opposite sides.

The one with longer hair looked distinctly unimpressed, lounged back into the red cushions as he took one short look at you before returning to conversation with your father. The shorter-haired one, on the other hand, leaned forward, a sort of interest sparking in his eyes that had your hair on end.

“Haitani Ran,” he greeted smoothly, a warm smile tugging at his lips that would have lulled you into a sense of security had you not caught the calculating look in his eyes a second prior. He held his hand out to you and you hesitated before placing your hand in his, the cool metal of his rings sending a shiver down your spine. You prayed he didn’t notice how your fingers were trembling. From the way his smile widened and his grip on your hand tightened firmly, you knew your prayers went unanswered.

You swallowed thickly as you introduced yourself, pulling your hand away and letting it drop back at your side. Ran’s eyes glittered in amusement, teeth gleaming under the light of the room as he glanced at the longer-haired man, “Rindou, don’t be rude.”

Rindou rolled his eyes, tilting his head up and back to look at you again. You caught sight of the tattoo decorating his throat, a simple hanafuda design, “Rindou,” he introduced, eyeing you briefly from the corner of his eye as he turned back to your father.

Ran clicked his tongue in annoyance, eyes flashing cold for just a moment as looked down at Rindou before returning his attention to you. Your head tilted to the side in curiosity when you noticed that Ran had a matching tattoo on his throat.

“Why don’t you sit with us for a bit?” your father said, motioning to the armchair next to where he and Mrs. Haitani were sitting. “You guys should get to know each other, you’re family now, you know?”

The words didn’t not sit right with you. An uncomfortable feeling spreading throughout your chest at your father’s words, glancing back at Rindou and Ran once before shaking your head.

“No, dad,” you said quietly, “I only came down to get my pills. I have class in the morning.”

Your father opened his mouth to protest but before he could say anything, you turned your attention back toward Haitani Ran and Haitani Rindou. Rindou met your eyes for half a second before looking down at his phone while Ran kept his eyes on you. You shifted uncomfortably beneath his sharp gaze, “Nice meeting you,” you said half-heartedly, not entirely meaning it.

Rindou didn’t respond, Ran’s lips ticked up into a small, sly smile--one that you liked even less than the warm, artificial one. “Nice to meet you too,” he murmured.

You forced your gaze off him, a strange and unwelcome feeling stirring in you before you bid goodnight to your father and Mrs. Haitani, disappearing down into the kitchen, intent on grabbing your pills, returning to your room and going to sleep. You had a big day of presentations for your government class tomorrow, and the last thing you needed was for this to rattle you after you had been prepping all day.

It wasn’t like they’d be around often anyway, this was the first time you’d heard of them except for the pictures Mrs. Haitani had set up around the house from when they were younger. You were sure that they’d disappear again after tonight, so it was best to just push them from your mind.

Right?

---

“You’re a fuckin’ creep, y’know that?”

Ran raised his eyebrows, not even bothering to turn toward Rindou as he heard his brother approach from behind, eyes trained on you instead, watching as you shifted beneath your sheets, dead to the world.

“How you gonna explain this if she wakes up, hm?” Rindou continued, and Ran only rolled his eyes.

He turned his head over his shoulder from where he was leaning against the doorframe of your room, shooting his brother an annoyed, lazy look. With two fingers, he lifted the bottle of pills he had found in the kitchen cabinet prescribed to your name before flicking it over to Rindou. Rindou caught it easily, frowning as he read the prescription before scoffing, tossing it right back to Ran.

“She won’t be up for a while,” Ran grinned at Rindou before turning his attention back toward you, eyes lidded as he considered your sleeping form.

“I don’t get it,” Rindou shook his head, standing half-behind Ran as he eyed you for a moment before turning his attention back to Ran, waiting for him to explain. Ran ignored him. “Hello?” Rindou demanded, “I’m talking to you.”

“Yes, I know,” Ran said dryly, “I am ignoring you.”

Rindou gaped, face twisting in annoyance but Ran tuned him out as he spit a volley of irritated curses at Ran. Though Ran supposed he wasn’t ignoring him to be annoying, he didn’t really know the answer to his implied question. He wasn’t sure what it was about you that was drawing him in.

And it wasn’t like this happened often with Ran. If anything, it was always the opposite. Women were drawn to him and he took advantage of it--whether it was for trying to subtly gather information for Bonten or just for an easy fuck, Ran was never the one that was captivated by someone but…

He let out a breath, tilting his head to the side as he watched you shift in bed again, soft puffs of air escaping your lips, covers half-thrown off, strewn across the bed haphazardly. He could see your chest rising and falling with every breath in and out, the way your button-up pajamas had come half-undone in your sleep.

Sister, you were technically their sister now, weren’t you? he considered, unable to draw his eyes from you. Maybe that was why he couldn’t seem to get his mind off of you. Throughout all of their mother’s marriages, they never had a step-sibling before. It had always just been him and Rindou.

But even as the thought crossed through his mind, he knew it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t just interest because of the fact your father had married his mother. It was something else--but what?

Maybe it was your innocence? he thought as his eyes searched your sleeping form for an answer. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, eyes darkening. He supposed there was just something about the way you came down your hall in silk pajamas, arms wrapped nervously around your stomach, eyes darting around like a cornered animal, that had his blood running hot.

You were younger than them--your father had mentioned that you were still in college, and his mother had implied that your father had kept you rather sheltered. Ran had not a single doubt about that, your eyes were still wide and bright, unlike most of the other women that Ran usually encountered around the clubs in Roppongi, who became jaded and empty-eyed over the years. It had been a long time since he’d come across someone who hasn’t been made dull and apathetic by the realities of the world and…

And Ran wanted to fucking ruin you.

“Don’t fuck this up for mom,” Rindou said sharply as if he could read Ran’s mind. Maybe he could, Ran considered as he forced his gaze from you back to him, frowning. “Don’t look at me like that, you saw her with the new guy. She really seems to like him. Don’t be fuckin’ gross and try to fuck with his daughter.”

“She always seems to like the new guys at first,” Ran dismissed and Rindou let out a frustrated breath at Ran’s blatant way of ignoring Rindou’s main point. “She’s pretty.”

It was an innocuous comment--a lot tamer than anything else Ran could have said watching your shirt ride up your stomach--but Rindou’s lips still twisted in disgust, “You’re disgusting,” he said, “Mom married her father, she’s technically our fuckin’ sister, Ran, c’mon.”

“Not by blood,” Ran grinned, winking at Rindou, who only looked even more disgusted at Ran’s words, “You’re gonna switch up,” Ran said firmly, ignoring how Rindou let out a ‘yeah, sure’, “and when you do, ‘m not gonna let you hear the end of it.”

“Fuck off,” Rindou said half-heartedly. “I’m going back to bed. Stop fucking staring at her, it’s creepy.”

“Whatever,” Ran said, waving his hand, sparing you one last look as you let out a soft hum in your sleep. His mouth went dry when he noticed that your blankets had slipped off your leg, revealing your skin all the way up to your thighs.

“Ran,” Rindou said sharply, and Ran rolled his eyes, finally ripping his eyes off of you to quietly shut the door behind him, “Don’t.”

Ran only smiled, “Relax,” he murmured, mind already whirring as plans bounced around his head, “I wouldn’t do anything she doesn’t want.”

---

You let out a frustrated breath as you looked down at the wires in your hand and then back up at the television, unable to figure out which cord you had plugged in wrong. You were exhausted, and your body was sore from working out, and you just wanted to lay down on the couch and binge the latest season of your favorite show. Why your father had decided to unplug the television before leaving for work was a mystery to you, you had heard him complaining about the picture being more static than usual and calling an electrician over to look at it after having fiddled with it for an hour and giving up.

He could have at least put it back the way it was before he fucked around with it, you thought to yourself. But knowing your father, he didn’t know how to put it back the way he had found it.

You grit your teeth as you looked between the wires and television again, going in for the fifth attempt. As you fiddled with the wires, you heard the shower water turn off in the distance. You frowned, instantly shooting a suspicious look in the direction of the bathroom.

The brothers had been around more often since the night they had shown up a few days ago—Ran, in particular. You didn’t know why—they had claimed to their mother that it was because they hadn’t seen her too often over the past year but you had a feeling that the excuse was not the real reason.

The number of times you had come home to Rindou smoking a joint by the pool or Ran wandering around shirtless after a shower, tattoos broad on display, was ridiculous, really. You hated how nervous the two of them made you, you hated how Rindou would barely spare you a glance even when you tried to say hi to him, and you hated how Ran was so touchy with you and you hated even more the part of you that couldn’t seem to get enough of it.

They had you on edge—both of them did, albeit for different reasons.

“Need help?” your eyes widened as you turned your head to the side, eyes catching sight of Ran leaning up against the wall next to the fireplace, towel hanging low on his waist and another towel draped around his shoulders. Your mouth was dry as your gaze darted down, just as it always did whenever you caught him walking around shirtless, dipping down and tracing his tattoos right to his v-line before you went hot, realizing what you were doing and looking back up. He raised his eyebrows, the smirk on his face very telling of the fact he knew exactly what you were looking at.

Your face heated up in humiliation, you tried to remember what he had asked.

Help, he had asked if you needed help.

Your eyes darted between him and the television that you just couldn’t seem to hook up correctly--you wondered how long he had been standing there watching you struggle with it before he finally spoke up. You weren’t sure how long you had been lost in thought. Silently, you cursed your father yet again for unplugging it before he left for work.

You didn’t want to ask him for help, there was something about Mrs. Haitani’s older son that really, really rubbed you the wrong way. He was always nice to you, too nice, even, and it should be putting you at ease…

But…

Your eyes met his lavender ones, they were sharp, calculating, and you had a strange, distinct feeling, one that you couldn’t quite place but you were sure it was reminiscent of how a deer might feel when it’s cornered by a predator with nowhere to run.

You swallowed thickly, “Yeah,” you said quietly, looking away from him. Ran peeled off the wall, walking closer to you and your fingers twitched at your sides when he finally stood in front of you. Silently, you held out the wires you were trying to hook up and your breath caught as Ran reached out to take them, fingers brushing yours.

You stood there for a moment, unmoving. Ran raised his eyebrows again and you frowned, unsure of what he wanted. His lips twitched up, a sort of mocking amusement dancing in his eyes, “Gotta get past you, doll,” he murmured.

Your face went hot again as you realized you were standing right in front of where he had to get to, and just as you were about to move out of the way, your eyes widened, Ran pressed his hand against the small of your back, sliding past you. And you felt dizzy, the scent of his body wash was overwhelming, the feeling of his body brushing against yours, you could feel his skin--you felt light-headed and you didn’t even know why.

As if he could sense how the brief contact had flustered you, he tossed you a wink. You stood there, stiff and nervous as he shifted the television on the wall mount so he could access the plugs better.

“C’mere,” he said, nodding his head to you, “I’ll show you so you know how to do it next time.”

You swore your heart was in your throat. The area behind the television was small, too small, you would be pushed up against him if he wanted you to come watch him plug it in. Just as you were about to shake your head and take a step back, Ran reached forward, tugging you a little closer.

Your breath caught as your back pressed against his chest. He let out a quiet apology, not having meant to pull you that hard--but a part of you didn’t believe him even as you told him it was okay. You took a step away so that your body wasn’t flush against his but it didn’t help.

You could barely focus on the way his long fingers fiddled with the wires, connecting them correctly. His voice was low in your ear, smooth like honey as he explained what you were fucking up with. It had your blood running hot and your hair standing up all at the same time.

His words went in one ear, out the other—you were more absorbed in the way you could feel how his skin was still hot from the shower he had taken, in the way you could smell his body wash so intensely, in the way you could hear each and every subtle fluctuation in his tone.

You prayed to god that he didn’t ask you to hook the television up yourself after he was done explaining to prove you understood what he was saying. On one hand, you knew damn well he already knew just how affected you were by his proximity and you were sure the satisfaction of that would be enough for him but on the other, you had a distinct feeling that Haitani Ran was the sort of man that got off on humiliation.

He was dangerous, you realized to yourself thickly. Your father kept you sheltered, but you were not naive. You knew of the rumors circulating Tokyo surrounding the people that bore the tattoo marring your stepbrothers’ throats, and you knew that the rumors were more than just rumors.

An unsteady feeling curled in your stomach as Ran finished explaining. You stepped away, still feeling hot and unwilling to look at him as you made your way to the couch, shooting him a quiet, stuttered thanks as your shaky hand lifted the remote.

He sat next to you.

Too close. You could feel his skin brushing yours, you could see the way his towel loosened from the corner of your eye.

“What’re you gonna watch?” Ran asked curiously.

“A show,” you responded tensely, trying to loosen the way your jaw had clenched tight at his proximity yet again.

He was waiting for you to elaborate, you realized and you let out a soft breath as you told him the name of the show, stupidly mentioning that it was your favorite.

“Mmm, hit play,” he hummed, “I’ll watch a few episodes with you, don’t think I’ve got anything else to do today anyway.”

With a figure that trembled just a bit too much to be solely from the way the air conditioning was blasting in the house, you pressed play on the remote—desperately trying to relax yourself against the cushions and ignore the way Ran’s toned arm was draped on the couch behind your head, ignore the way that if you looked out of the corner of your eye, your gaze could dip down below his towel from the way he was sitting.

Haitani Ran was dangerous, you noted again, hoping he missed the way you had instinctively rubbed your thighs together, especially if he could throw you off kilter like this so badly, if he could fluster you so intensely with minimal actions.

He was dangerous in more ways than one, you glanced at the tattoo branding his throat again and then went hot when he flashed you another smile. Very dangerous and you had always hated danger, no matter how appealing the form it came in was.

And that realization was all you needed to know to come to the conclusion that you would stay the fuck away from Haitani Ran and his charming smiles and captivating words no matter what the cost.

—

Haitani Rindou could not understand. It took a lot to boggle him like this but his older brother’s obsession with you was certainly more than enough to render him to such a state.

And it wasn’t like he didn’t try to understand. He did, he swore he did. Especially after Ran made that comment about how Rindou would switch up, and he only tried to understand because he wanted to avoid what might cause the switch up just so Ran couldn’t hold that ‘I told you so’ over his head.

But he could not understand. He did not know why Ran was so captivated by you, he did not know why Ran was so insistent that Rindou would switch up, and he certainly did not know why you kept trying to talk to him despite the fact he was cold and aloof with you.

Or, well, maybe he did know. Rindou’s lips pulled up around his cigarette as he made his way through the house toward the back door. You could not stand Ran, that much was apparent from how you had begun to actively avoid him. Whenever he walked into the room, you were moving in the opposite direction almost instantly. Maybe it wasn’t that you couldn’t stand him, he considered, more than it was Ran having come on to you too strong.

You were a lot like a deer, Rindou noted, inhaling a deep breath of smoke before tilting his head back and exhaling, letting it cloud around him. Hesitant, wary, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger, and evidently, you had deemed Ran as dangerous. Rindou would be insulted, really, that you didn’t seem to view him as dangerous but he found it way more amusing watching the frustration cross Ran’s face every time you drifted over toward Rindou or whenever you fled the room as soon as he showed up.

Rindou pushed open the back door, making his way out toward the pool, pausing mid step when he caught sight of you floating in the pool on one of the pink inflatable pool mats. You lowered your sunglasses when you heard the door open, tilting your head up to look at whoever had come outside. Your lips had been twisted down in suspicion until you seemed to recognize Rindou. Your lips turned up and you lifted your hand to wave at him.

Rindou ignored you, trying to hide the smile that nearly touched his lips when he realized you must have been suspicious over the fact that it might have been Ran that came outside. He debated on going back inside but decided against it--Ran was arguing on the phone with Kokonoi and Sanzu, and Rindou knew it was only a matter of time before the argument started getting loud and he did not particularly want to deal with that.

Holding the cigarette between his lips, he took off his tank top, pulling out his phone as he sat down on the pool chair next to the water. He scrolled through the groupchat he had with Mochi and Kakucho, snorting when he realized that the two of them must be in the same room as Kokonoi and Sanzu, listening as the argument drew on between them and Ran.

16:33 Kakucho: Sanzu won’t shut the fuck up, think Ran might actually lose it this time?

16:34 Mochi: Oh yeah, there he goes

As if on cue, a crash came from inside the house. Rindou snickered, shooting a message to them before a splash from the pool caught his attention. His gaze darted up above his phone right as he pressed send. He raised his eyebrows when he caught sight of you wading toward him, head bobbing above the water as you leaned up against the side of the pool.

“Hi,” you said, eyes happy as you looked up at him. He wondered what changed from the first night he had met you when you could barely look him in the eye. Or he supposed that he did know, you considered him the lesser of two evils now.

“Hey,” Rindou responded, meeting your eyes for half a second before letting his gaze drift back toward the house. Ran was at the window, phone pressed to his ear, eyes dark when he noticed that you were initiating conversation with Rindou.

Rindou, who had been very much intent on ignoring you after you exchanged your greetings, abruptly had a much better idea.

He sat up from where he was leaning back against the pool chair, putting his phone down, legs spread and feet pressed on the ground on either side of the chair, elbows resting on his thighs. Your eyes brightened over the fact that he wasn’t ignoring you, Rindou bit back a smirk when he noticed the vile, frustrated expression that crossed over Ran’s face when he noticed.

Not as fun when you’re not the first choice, hm? Rindou jabbed silently toward his older brother, having been in that exact position for the majority of his life. He knew that the only reason Ran had been so arrogant with his, ‘you’ll switch up,’ was because he was certain that you would prefer him over Rindou anyway, as most women have. And now that it was becoming apparent that that was not, in fact, the case…

Rindou was suddenly a whole lot more interested in you, even if it were for all the wrong reasons.

You propped your elbows up on the edge of the pool, resting your chin on one of your palms as you looked up at him.

“Whatcha guys hanging around so often for now anyway?” you asked, eyes lidded in a way that had his thoughts taking a rather filthy turn. He scolded himself silently, hating the way his blood jumped as you looked up at him through your lashes, eyes wide and curious.

He supposed he could see the attraction. He calculated you as he gave you a half-assed answer as to why he and Ran were suddenly all over their mother’s place again. You were a pretty little thing, that was for sure, and Ran had always enjoyed pretty little things like you. Rindou too, of course, but he had never seen it grow to this much of an obsession.

He watched as you babbled on about one of your classes--he wasn’t even quite sure how the conversation changed to this, but in his defense he hadn’t really been paying attention, too focused on trying to piece together the mystery you had thrown on him. He was grateful for the sudden change in your demeanor--this way he could focus on trying to figure this out while you distracted yourself with your conversation. You had been quiet the night that they had met you--quiet and timid and nervous. You were still that way whenever Ran was around, but Rindou thought he might prefer this side of you--the bright smile and brighter eyes that decorated your expression as you chatted animatedly about your interests. Interests that he genuinely couldn’t care less about but he still found himself listening fairly intently to as you went on and on about world politics.

You wanted to be a lawyer specializing in international law, he learned, eyes tracing your lips as you told him about a presentation you had on about the geopolitical risks of nuclear technology.

He asked you a question about your presentation, he watched as your eyes lit up, as you pushed yourself out of the pool just a little more, his breath caught as your breasts bounced at the subtle movement. Momentarily, Rindou’s gaze dropped down, watching as water droplets dripped down your collarbone and between your breasts.

He dragged his eyes back up to your face, gaze slowly tracing up the water droplets still dripping down your body up to your lips, spread wide across your face in a sort of smile that ignited something in him that he didn’t expect. His mouth felt dry, his eyes met yours again. You didn’t notice--he supposed he should be grateful for that. The last thing he needed was for you to start thinking he and Ran were the same.

Oh.

Realization hit him slowly--in a sort of way that had his skin crawling and heart stuttering in his chest. He spared one last glance to the window he had seen his brother in not ten minutes before, eyes wide and panic beginning to hit because…

… because Rindou had a distinct feeling that he just fucked himself.

---

Like his brother, Haitani Ran also could not understand. He was absolutely baffled as to how he had gone so horribly wrong with you. He had been nice, friendly, he went out of his way to try to help you and he made sure that he kept his temper in check whenever you were around even when Rindou was purposefully needling him. He had done all of that, and yet you still refused to talk to him--go near him, even.

But somehow you were perfectly comfortable with Rindou, and Ran just couldn’t understand why no matter how hard he tried.

His thin temper was on the verge of snapping, and it would not be pretty for anybody if, or more likely when, it did.

His jaw was tight as he stared down at his glass of wine, watching the red liquid slosh back and forth as he circled his hand.

He didn’t even know why this was bothering him so much. Or he supposed he did, Ran was pretty sure this was the first time ever that a woman had not chased after him. And likewise, it was the first time ever that he had chased after a woman.

And that was what had Ran so confused.

Why the fuck was he chasing after you?

Why was it not working?

Why was he continuing to chase when it was apparent that it wasn’t working?

Well, the last question was easy to answer--Ran had always had trouble accepting defeat and this was turning into one of the most frustrating games of his life.

His finger hovered above the call button on his cell phone.

Humiliating, this would be fucking humiliating. Mochi’s number was displayed bright on his screen, and he knew that calling his friend would result in a number of jokes at his expense but Ran wasn’t sure what else to do.

He could practically hear the comments already and it had his face heating up in anger and embarrassment.

How the fuck was he supposed to explain that he was trying and failing to seduce his new step-sister without sounding like an absolute fucking loser?

There was no way, he realized mournfully, locking his phone and shoving it back in his pocket, downing the rest of his drink. He would have to figure it out by himself.

He glanced over to the clock on the wall. It was late, obscenely so, he hadn’t realized how quickly the time had passed, and Ran felt dread pooling in him when he remembered that he had a meeting first thing in the morning.

He let out a long sigh, tipping his head back and downing the rest of his glass. Placing the glass back down on the counter, head fuzzy from the alcohol, Ran began to make his way back toward his room.

A part of him hated you, truly. He felt it deep in his chest, flowing throughout his body. He never tried for anyone, ever, not until you--and you, the first person he genuinely tried for, only brushed him off, avoided him.

It was fucking embarrassing. Humiliating. He knew that Rindou was laughing at him whenever he got the chance, and he knew that if the others found out, they would be doing the same exact thing.

The fact that he had even been considering going to Mochi about this, to ask his advice concerning how the fuck to approach you, was a mystery in itself. Mochi would have never let him live it down and you should not matter to him this much.

Why the fuck did he care so much about what you thought of him? Why was he so desperate to make you see him, want him? He had never been that way with other women, why you?

Even if he had been right a few nights ago when he decided the reason he wanted you was because he wanted to taint that purity that seemed to cling to you like a second skin, it didn’t explain why he was trying so fucking hard when it was obvious you had no interest.

It was exhausting. And he was certain it was driving him half-mad, watching you hang around his brother like an elementary school girl with a crush all the while avoiding him like the plague.

He let out a heavy sigh, sparing your ajar bedroom door a hateful glare as he made his way toward it so he could pass it to get to his own room further down the hall.

It was a waste of his time, he told himself, he was better off forgetting you and going back to women at the club. But even as the thought crossed his mind, the picture of your wide eyes and long lashes looking up at him as he helped you hook up the television flashed through his head, he recalled your soft voice and even softer skin as he sat just a bit too close to you and all he could think of was how your body would feel beneath his, how you would sound crying out his name, wide eyes glassy and tears spilling over your cheeks as you begged him for more and begged him to slow down all at the same time.

Ran let out a low groan, shutting his eyes and tilting his head back against the wall next to your door.

Fuck, he thought to himself, letting out a shaky, heavy breath as he tried to work himself up to continuing back to his room.

You were so close, he swallowed thickly. You were just behind the door and Ran could practically picture the way you were fast asleep in bed, blankets strewn all over, one bare leg visible, pajama shirt riding up your stomach. Your lips would be wet and parted, soft puffs of air escaping your lips as you slept soundly, unaware of his presence on the opposite side of the door and the vile, vile thoughts running through his head.

Another noise escaped his lips, his eyes screwed shut. What the fuck was wrong with him? he wanted to scream at himself, he wanted to pick his feet up to keep moving down the hall but he couldn’t.

Especially when he heard noise coming from inside your room.

His head fell to the side, eyes trained on your door as he listened intently. You should be asleep, fast asleep, really, he had been in the kitchen with you when you took your sleeping pills earlier. Was he imagining it?

No, he definitely wasn’t. A quiet whimper resounded from your room, one that he would have missed had he not been listening for it.

There were no sounds of movement from behind the door, Ran was so still that he was certain if someone passed by they would’ve mistaken him for a statue.

He waited a moment—another, he recognized, swallowing thickly as he glanced at the door, a hot feeling pooling in his lower abdomen. Maybe you were having a nightmare? he considered, trying to figure out what to do.

His palm pressed flat against the ajar door, hesitating only for a moment before pushing it open. He winced at the creak, and cursed his mother for never replacing the hinges on the older doors in the house. And just as Ran was about to take a step into the room, he froze, because the next noise that escaped your lips was not a whimper.

His eyes ripped up to where you were laying, mouth going dry as his gaze landed on you, covers strewn on top of you, just like he expected, quick, heavy pants escaping swollen lips, chest rising and falling rapidly. You were wearing different pajamas tonight—a tank top that was half-falling off of you and a pair of shorts that barely covered anything—and Ran could not take his eyes off of you, and he wouldn’t have wanted to even if he could.

Your eyes were squeezed shut tight, sweat beaded at your skin, body shifting and squirming underneath the thin sheet—you had tossed your comforter off some time during the night. Another soft moan escaped your lips, unmistakable this time, and Ran’s cock twitched at the thought.

Fuck, he thought, his feet were pressed hard against the ground. He tried to force himself to turn on his heel and walk away but he couldn’t.

It would be the right thing to do, Ran told himself but Haitani Ran had never been a good man, and a part of him wondered why the fuck he should start now.

But Rindou’s words circulated through his head—don’t ruin this for mom—and more selfishly, a part of him really was worried you would wake up, no matter how illogical the fear might be (he had seen you take the pills), and if you woke up and saw him, any chance he had would be thrown out the window.

With that thought in mind and a litany of curses running through his head, he took a step out of your room, closing the door behind him. Just as he was about to quietly shut it, another noise left your lips.

His name.

Ran stared ahead blankly, scared, if only for a second, that you had woken up and seen him. He glanced back over his shoulder, a million excuses on the tip of his tongue, but his lips only parted in shock when he realized you were still asleep.

Oh fuck.

God was testing him, he realized. His throat felt tight, his head felt dizzy. He took in a deep breath. Fuck.

And it took absolutely everything Ran had in him to step out of your room and close the door behind him. His eyes slid shut as he leaned back against the door, trying to control himself.

His hand twitched toward the buckle of his pants, cock straining against the tightness of his slacks, abdomen tense and breath shaky. The sight of you squirming in bed, the sound of your whimpers and moans playing on repeat through his head—his name.

You wanted him.

The thought was almost enough to push him over the edge after having heard you moan his name in your sleep. For all of your avoidance and excuses, you wanted him, and it set a new sort of fire running through his blood, igniting the determination that had slowly faded after two weeks of rejection.

You and your father and his mother were going on vacation next week, Ran remembered, head half-dizzy and legs all but trembling as he made his way back to his room.

He would figure out a game plan while you were gone, and once you were back, he swore to fucking god, he would do this right.

—

Something had changed.

You weren’t sure how, or what exactly it was, but something had changed and it had you on edge.

At first it was just Ran that had thrown you off kilter, unnerved by how familiar he acted with you and unhappy with the very unwelcome feelings he had brought upon you. But now it was Rindou too, and you hated it because he hadn’t been the one to change. He was still aloof with you, he was still distant, but now every time he accidentally (was it really accidentally?) brushed up against you, your head felt fuzzy and your body felt hot.

It had been easy to avoid Ran, because you would run to Rindou instead, but now Rindou wasn’t an option because he was making you feel those same, equally unwelcome feelings.

You shut your eyes. You hated it.

School. Studying. Clubs.

That was your life.

You wanted to do well in university. You wanted to get into the best law school. You wanted to make a name for yourself.

And now you wanted them.

You wanted them, and you hated it.

You wished you could go back to before you had met them, you wished you had stayed in your room and gotten a shitty night of sleep because now you couldn’t focus on anything but them.

Every time your professor droned on in class, your mind would wander to the way that Ran’s body had felt pressed up against yours that day he helped you with the television, your head would feel dizzy as you wondered how he would feel pressed up behind you in different scenarios—on his bed, over your desk, against the door to your parents’ bedroom. Your mind would wander to Rindou and his ever-apathetic expression, and you wondered what expression he would make if you were on your knees in front of him, if he was hovering above you with your legs hooked over his shoulders, and every time you realized just how far your mind had drifted, your face heated up and your eyes got teary.

You had never been like this before. You hadn’t. You weren’t totally inexperienced, you’d had a boyfriend before, but you had never been so dumb and obsessed over some guy’s cock before. You weren’t the type to just sit there and fantasize for hours on end but now you were and it was affecting your studies and it was their fault.

And it wasn’t just some guy, you wanted to cry, they were your brothers. Your brothers. Your father had married their mother. They were your brothers, maybe not by blood, but they were still your family, and all you could think about was them having their way with you in any and every possible position.

“You okay, hun?” you nearly flinched at the sound of Mrs. Haitani’s voice, and you wanted to cry even more when you noticed the genuine concern. She was worried about you as if you hadn’t just been having vile thoughts about her sons.

“Yeah,” your voice cracked, “I’m okay.”

She didn’t believe you, but for once she didn’t push and you were grateful.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” she sat on the couch next to you. Her suitcase was packed by the door next to your father’s, she was dressed fancy in a nice fur coat and hat. “It’ll only take a few minutes to pack, there should still be an extra seat in first class near us.”

“I’m sure,” you said softly, “I have an exam in two weeks, I really need to study.”

Mrs. Haitani sighed, but she nodded, rising to her feet. “If you say so,” she sounded disappointed, but you couldn’t really bring yourself to feel guilty.

With your father and Mrs. Haitani out of the house, and the brothers thinking you were with them, you would have plenty of time to study and get yourself under control, and you would be sure to take advantage of it.

—

He had fucked up. He had so awfully, terribly fucked up that he didn’t know if he would even be able to recover from it. Rindou gasped for breath as he frantically tried to turn his bike on, holding his wounded side and grimacing as he sat on the seat. As quick as possible, he pulled out of the warehouse.

He had stumbled right into a fucking trap, and he had no one to blame but himself but he wasn’t going to admit that to anyone--not even his brother. He was the one who had pushed for accepting the deal from their rivals, Sanzu had been vehemently against it--claiming that they were just trying to set Bonten up--and Rindou had been stubborn, too stubborn, once he realized Sanzu was disagreeing with him. It had turned into a battle of egos because there was no way he would ever let Sanzu win because he knew damn well Sanzu would never shut up about it--Sanzu had it out for them ever since the Kanto Manji days, and it had only gotten worse over time.

He had wanted to prove the fucker wrong and all he had done was give him more ammunition against Rindou and his brother. Rindou was not prepared for the slew of insults and accusations that were going to be thrown his way at the next meeting.

Assuming he survived the night.

He couldn’t worry about that yet.

First, he had to get out of enemy territory, and then he had to get his wound closed up before he fucking bled out.

The speedometer ticked upwards as he sped down the streets, trying to lose the cars chasing behind him. Each little movement had pain shooting through his body so intense that it had his vision going spotty.

He might die, he realized, a sick feeling in his stomach as he took a sharp turn down another street, gasping as the movement ripped the wound open more.

He turned down another street, and another, and another after that. His vision tunneled and blurred, once he was certain that he had at the very least lost the immediate tails on him, he fumbled to pull his phone from his pocket.

It was night time, and it was drizzling, and he supposed he should be more careful but he also supposed that being reckless was really his only option right now--his chances of survival were already slim anyway.

He pressed the first number that popped up on his screen--Ran.

“What the fuck is going on?” Ran picked up instantly, voice panicked, and Rindou could practically picture the expression on his face. Guilt ate at his stomach. “Rindou, wh-”

“Was a fuckin’ trap,” the words were bitter to admit out loud. “I got shot, I lost the people chasing me. I’m gonna head to mom’s place, it’s closer than the apartment.”

Rindou could hear Ran choke, “You got shot?” he demanded, “What about all the backup-”

“Dead,” Rindou grunted, swerving dangerously as his vision started going out again, “We don’t have time for this right now. Mom and the new guy are on vacation, right? I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“They are,” he heard Ran say over the line, his voice tense, laced with worry, and Rindou hated that it was because of him, “I’ll be there in twenty. Slow the bleeding, okay?”

“Yeah, I know,” Rindou muttered, hanging up the phone and stuffing it back into his pocket as he came to a hasty stop at the front of the house. He let out a slew of curses as his feet hit the ground, pain shooting up his side again.

He stumbled into the house, eyes frantic and breath quick. It fucking hurt, he grit his teeth hard as he looked around. He couldn’t remember where his mother had kept the bandages or needle and thread to stitch the wound up.

Fuck, he thought to himself, side on fire as his gaze darted around. The bathroom?

Just as he was about to make his way to the bathroom, a noise made him freeze. Inhaling sharply, he reached for the gun holstered at its side, flicking the safety off and holding it up, ignoring how his side screamed in pain at the movement.

The hallway was dark and it took all of Rindou’s self control not to get trigger-happy. No one should be here--his mom, your father, you, you guys were all on vacation. The house should have been empty. His finger twitched as a shadow appeared in the hallway, a hesitant figure making its way toward him.

“Who-”

“Rindou?”

The anxiety that had been building in his chest disappeared in an instant at the sight of you standing at the edge of the hallway, dressed in pale pink silk pajamas, similar to the ones you had been wearing that first night. He dropped the gun to his side, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, “Y/n,” he breathed out, “the fuck are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with mom and your dad in Santorini?”

You shook your head, “No, I stayed home,” you said quietly, stepping into the sitting room. Your eyes darted around suspiciously before they finally focused on him, widening when you saw the blood staining his shirt and dripping down the side of his body. “You’re hurt.”

No shit, he nearly said but he bit the snippy words as soon as they reached the tip of his tongue when you rushed toward him, “Come, your mom keeps the medical stuff in her bedroom’s bathroom.”

You wrapped an arm around Rindou’s waist, careful to not put pressure on the wound and Rindou let out a shaky breath as he leaned into you a bit, not wanting to throw his whole weight on top of you and topple the two of you over. He let his eyes slide shut as you guided him through the halls.

You were talking, but your voice was wavering and he could feel the way you were trembling against him. You were scared, and Rindou supposed a part of him felt guilty for it, but in his defense, you were not supposed to be here.

You turned on the light of the bathroom, ushering him to sit on the closed toilet seat. You didn’t say anything as you kneeled in front of the bathroom cabinet pulling out a bunch of different items before shuffling back over to him. Rindou’s eyes felt heavy as he looked down at you, watching as you knelt between his legs.

“I’m going to take off your shirt,” you said after a moment, looking up at him, “To see the wound.”

Rindou only let out a grunt in response, grimacing as he forced himself to sit up straight. You fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, fingers shaky. Rindou liked to blame it on the blood loss-induced haze, really, because when he looked down at you, watching your fingers trace his skin as you wiped away the blood with an antiseptic wipe, he couldn’t help the way his mind wandered.

And a part of him wanted to punch himself in the face because here he was, bleeding out in his childhood home, his new step-sister helping patch him up, and the only thing he could think about was how fucking pretty you look on your knees in front of him.

Get a hold of yourself, Rindou spat at himself, gritting his teeth and letting his head fall back as you pressed the needle into his skin. A hiss escaped his lips at the sting and you apologized softly under your breath.

Rindou’s eyes were lidded as looked down at you, kneeling between his legs, elbows propped on his side as you stitched up the wound in his lower abdomen.

“How do you know how to do this?” he asked, which was evidently a mistake because your gaze shifted up toward him, looking up at him through your lashes with wide eyes.

God was testing him, he decided, forcing his gaze away from you and looking back up at the ceiling.

“My ex got into fights a lot,” you finally said. He did not like the thought of you having an ‘ex’ but he couldn’t linger on it long as you continued, he could practically hear the amused smile twitching at your lips, “he didn’t often win.”

Rindou snorted, but the action made him wince.

“The bullet went through, so i’ll stitch the other side and you should be fine,” you said after a few moments of silence, “… you’ll still probably wanna get this checked out by an actual doctor though.”

“Yeah, I will tomorrow or something,” not an actual doctor though, just one of the one’s on Bonten’s payroll. Going to a hospital was not exactly an option for him, and from the way you didn’t even question why he didn’t go to one, he had a feeling you knew that.

The bathroom door slammed open. Rindou jumped, fumbling for his gun, you let out a surprised shriek, just as he had a firm grasp on the grip of the gun, he realized who exactly had entered the bathroom with them.

“Ran, what the fuck?” Rindou demanded, heart racing as he relaxed back on the seat, “I thought you said twenty minutes.”

Ran shot him an irritated look, out of breath and still significantly frazzled, “You got shot,” was all he said in response, and Rindou wondered just how fast Ran had driven to get to the house so fast. “You don’t know how to patch up your own wounds you could have bled out.”

Rindou looked away. Ran was right, of course, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

“I thought you were on vacation,” Ran said, having finally noticed who exactly was kneeling in front of Rindou, stitching him up.

“I didn’t go,” you said quietly. Ran let out a hum, moving around you to sit down on the side of the tub next to Rindou, watching intently as you finished stitching the entrance wound. You tapped his thigh and Rindou took it as a cue to turn, straddling the toilet seat, facing the tank as you began to start on the exit wound.

Rindou made the mistake of looking at Ran, who was watching the two of you curiously. Rindou did not like the look on his face.

You stood up after a few minutes of tense silence, looking awkwardly between the two of them, “I’m gonna head to bed,” you said, “the stitching is pretty sloppy but it gets it done for now.”

“Thanks,” Rindou said, voice rough, and he felt a little bad because he should have been nicer—you just saved his ass, after all—but all he could focus on was how Ran was watching him with that stupid, knowing look on his face.

As soon as you left the bathroom, Ran was running his mouth, “You switched up,” he said so matter-of-factly that there was no arguing against it.

Rindou looked away, “Fuck you.”

“Bet you wish you were fucking her,” Ran countered in response and Rindou scoffed.

“Fuck you,” he said even louder, glaring at Ran heatedly. Ran only grinned, eyes bright. “Shouldn’t you still be sulky over the fact she won’t even look at you?” Rindou spit out, voice vile.

Ran looked unbothered and the thought had Rindou’s skin crawling because just a few days ago Ran had been furious and distressed over it.

What had changed?

“Why would I be?” Ran’s voice was teasing, too light to be of comfort.

“The fuck you mean why would you be? You’ve been shitty over the fact she likes me more for weeks,” Rindou snapped.

Ran’s smile had Rindou nervous.

“Oh, does she?” Ran cooed, “I don’t think it was your name she was moaning in her sleep, little brother.”

Rindou’s expression dropped, he stared at Ran, “You’re lying,” he hissed but Rindou knew that he wasn’t.

“Mmm, it seems our new baby sister likes me a bit more than she lets on, Rindou.”

—

You’d been tossing and turning for two hours. You couldn’t get your mind off of the brothers.

Again.

You had never seen Ran like that before, so serious, so scared. He had been terrified when he first burst through the bathroom door, and you weren’t sure you could exactly blame him. When you had seen Rindou stumbling through the sitting room, blood soaked through his shirt and dripping onto the floor, you swore that your heart was in your throat.

You sighed as you sat up in bed, hands pressed against the mattress behind you, head tilted back as you looked up at the ceiling.

Your hands were still shaking, you noticed, swallowing thickly as you shifted to sit off the side of the bed, feet dangling for a moment before you forced yourself to stand up. You had classes again tomorrow, but you couldn’t bring yourself to sleep. You were stressed over Rindou’s wound, you were stressed over whatever caused the wound, and you were stressed over the fact that no matter what you did, you could not take your mind off of either of them.

This was not like you. A part of you was angry that they had showed up--this was supposed to be your week to relax, your week to finally get yourself under control, to focus back on school and studying and all of the upcoming exams you were going to have to suffer through.

Instead here they were, and here you were, once again up half of the night thinking about them.

You should have taken your pills, you realized, but you were thrown off so badly by Rindou’s appearance that you had totally forgotten about them, and if you took them now, you wouldn’t be able to wake up for your 8 AM class tomorrow.

You let out another irritated breath, rising to your feet. You might as well go make yourself some sort of tea to try to help you doze off.

Just as you were about to make your way to the door, you paused when you heard a rather harsh knock at your door, two familiar voices behind it.

“Rindou, c’mon,” you heard Ran mutter.

“Fuck off,” Rindou snapped right back.

You sighed, speak of the devils. Your feet dragged against the ground as you made your way to your door, pulling it open and looking up at Rindou and Ran. The question on your lips died when you saw just how furious Rindou looked as he pushed past you into your room.

“Um-” you began, turning to look at him but he cut you off.

“You like stringin’ both of us along?” Rindou demanded, taking a step closer to you.

Your jaw went slack, your face was on fire. You took a step back, stepping right into Ran’s chest. Ran shot you a smile unfitting for the situation, one hand on your hip as he made you take another step forward, back into the center of the room so he could follow Rindou into the room, shutting the door behind him.

“I asked you a question,” Rindou said sharply, reaching forward to grab your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. Your eyes were wide as you stared at him, a dark look circulated behind his eyes but you couldn’t pinpoint whether or not it was anger or… something else.

You bit your bottom lip, trying to look away, but his grip tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stuttered over the words, you were sure Rindou could feel how hot your face was beneath his fingers. “I don’t know-”

“No?” Ran cooed, coming right up behind you again, just like that day where he was helping you with the television. Your breath shook as you felt his body press up against your back, fingers grazing your hips as he held you in place lightly. “Are you calling my brother a liar, doll?”

“I-I didn’t say that,” you said, trying to shake your head and failing when Rindou didn’t let you move your face.”I did not say th-”

“So you’re saying there’s some truth behind it?” Ran interrupted you. He leaned down, you could feel his lips brush the shell of your ear, you hated how your body shivered directly in response to it, and you hated how you knew damn well that Ran noticed if the chuckle he let out was anything to say about it. He clicked his tongue mockingly. “How filthy, doll, have you been fantasizing about your big brothers?”

You blanched, fingers trembling, body hot--and you weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment or from the feeling of both of them so close.

“Y-you’re not my brothers,” you cried out, trying to push away from them but you couldn’t get yourself free. “You are not my brothers, don’t say that, that’s so-”

“Oh?” Ran murmured, and you had a feeling that you had walked right into whatever trap he had laid out for you, “So you have been fantasizing about us?”

Your heart was in your throat, “No, no, I did not say that either-” you tried to shake your head again but couldn’t. Rindou scoffed, you felt tears spring to your eyes. “I didn’t-”

“You haven’t?” Rindou’s voice was harsh, mean, you took in a wet, shaky breath, “So then why the fuck were you moaning Ran’s name in your sleep, huh?”

You swore your world went still, your ears were ringing, his words rang in your head over and over and over again.

Moaning Ran’s name in your sleep-

“There’s no-there’s no way,” you couldn’t breathe, “You must’ve heard wrong, there’s no-”

You were lying through your teeth, you had woken up many times over the past few weeks from less than pure dreams about one, or both, of the brothers. But there was no way they had overheard you--you don’t sleep talk, there was no way. You had never sleep talked before as far as you knew.

“Mm, but you did, princess,” Rindou’s tone was laced with malice, eyes heated as he stared down at you.

“I didn’t,” you tried again, “I didn’t, I don’t think of you guys that way, I don-”

“You haven’t?” Ran cooed, his lips were still close to your ear, you couldn’t help the way your eyes fluttered shut, “Well, if you don’t think of us that way, then I guess you don’t wanna hear all the dirty little fantasies I’ve had about you, do you?”

Your breath caught, your mouth went dry, “H-huh?” was all you could say, and you wished that Rindou’s grip on your face would loosen so you could look back at him but Rindou forced you to keep looking at him.

“I’ve thought about you a lot,” he murmured, and you trembled when you felt his lips brush your ear before dipping lower, ghosting across the skin of your neck, breath hot and dizzying against your skin, “Thought about that pretty face of yours, havin’ those pretty lips wrapped around my cock. You think you could handle my cock, doll? … I don’t think so, but I think you’d look real good chokin’ all over me.”

You bit back a whimper, lips parting when the fingers on your waist trailed lower, tracing light patterns on your hip bone, sliding even lower, too low. Your breath was quick, you could feel your body reacting to his touches, and you could feel the way his lips were pulling up in amusement.

“Thought about that pretty pussy of yours too, thought about ruinin’ it,” he breathed out, teeth grazing your skin. This time you couldn’t hold back the whimper. “Stuffin’ you so full of my cum that it’s leakin’ from your cunt for days.”

You shifted, accidentally brushing against Ran’s cock. A gasp ripped from your lips when he let out a low groan against your skin, “Thought about bending you over that desk you’re always doin’ your work on, takin’ you over the hood of your dad’s fancy car, splitting you open while you try to focus during one of those dumb Zoom meetings for your club.”

“S’not right,” you gasped as one of Ran’s hands flattened against your lower stomach, pressing you harder against him, “We can-”

Your eyes snapped back open when a hand wrapped tight around your throat, pulling you right from Ran’s grasp and backing you up into the bed. You gasped as the back of your knees hit the mattress, falling back flat, Rindou hovering on top of you, eyes dark and lips twisted down.

“Rin,” you gasped, “We shouldn’t, your wound and-and our parents and-“

“Fuck the wound and fuck them,” Rindou spat out and a soft keen left your lips when he let go of your neck, lips attaching to the spot beneath your jaw instantly. His mouth sucked hard at your neck, and you knew it would leave marks come morning but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, while his tongue drew pretty patterns against your skin, as if he was trying to soothe the area his lips and teeth were violating.

He drew back momentarily, knees straddling your waist as he looked you over, shaking his head, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmured, pressing his lips back to the junction of your neck, voice muffled against your skin, “Never seen anything like it.”

One of his hands slipped beneath your silk pajama top, smoothing over your skin before sliding up your body, kneading one of your breasts firmly, thumb flicking over your nipple. You let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut as your back arched up off the bed and into his touch instinctively.

You could feel him smile against your neck, “You’re so sensitive,” he breathed out, pulling back to look over you. You watched as curiosity sparked in his eyes. “Have you ever…”

You knew what he was asking without him having to finish it, and you could feel the way your face heated up in humiliation at the question, “Yes,” you interrupted before he could speak it out loud. “Yes,” you hesitated, “I have…”

You have, that was true, but your ex-boyfriend wasn’t exactly adept in making a girl feel good. He was always more focused on his own pleasure. This was foreign to you, and you were nervous.

Not to mention the fact that a part of you still was hesitant.

You wanted them, god, you fucking wanted them. You’d been thinking about it nonstop since you had met them--it was eating your brain away, consuming your every thought. You hoped that letting them have their way with you once, you would get it out of your system, you’d be able to go back to focusing on your studies and your future.

But… you couldn’t shake the thought out of your head--they were your brothers. Maybe not by blood, but they were your brothers. They were. Your father had married their mother, and both of them wanted the three of you to get along as siblings would. Mrs. Haitani was very vocal about it and even your father had made comments about how nice it would be for you to have brothers to look out for you now.

This was wrong, you told yourself over and over and over again but instead of pushing Rindou off and telling him to stop, you tilted your head back, giving him better access.

“Atta girl,” you heard Ran say, feeling the bed dip next to you and Rindou let out a low grunt of agreement against your skin, “Flip her over, Rindou.”

“Wh-” you began but you were cut off as Rindou immediately did what his brother asked, grabbing you by the hips and flipping the two of you over so that you were straddling his hips. Ran shifted behind you and Rindou sat up, pressing his lips to yours.

Whimpering softly against his lips, your hands rose to intertwine with his hair, holding him close. Ran chuckled as he pressed up against your back, lips pressed to the nape of your neck, trailing wet kisses down your neck toward your spine. His fingers worked at the buttons to your shirt as Rindou kept you distracted, tongue tracing along your bottom lip before pushing into your mouth, pressing down gently on your tongue as Ran slipped your top off of your shoulders.

They moved fast, and efficiently. You just couldn’t keep up. You swore you felt like their hands and lips were everywhere, and it had you dizzy and reeling, you couldn’t even hope to make full sense of what was happening, all you knew was that you felt good, so fucking good that it almost felt like an alcohol-induced hazed had swept over you.

Ran’s lips moved slowly down your spine, and your body trembled under his touch, his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your silk shorts and you gasped into Rindou’s mouth, giving the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

“Shhh,” Ran hushed and your hips jerked as you felt his fingers ghost over your panties, drawing a light circle over your clothed clit, “You weren’t kidding, she is sensitive,” he chuckled.

You pulled away from Rindou for only a moment, “Ran,” you panted, trying to look back but Rindou’s hand returned to your jaw, grip rough.

“Pay attention to me,” he said, voice low, dragging your face back toward him, to press his lips hard against yours again.

Ran’s fingers dipped lower and he laughed, lips pressed to your shoulder, “You’re fuckin’ drenched, doll, how many times have you imagined this happening… have you tried to get yourself off thinking about us?”

You shook your head quick--too quick--tears springing to your eyes once again because you had. It was only once, and as soon as you realized what you were doing, you stopped yourself, reminding yourself who they were to you, and how you couldn’t be thinking of them that way.

“Oh you have, haven’t you?” Ran gasped in mock disbelief, “Dirty girl, aren’t you? How would your father react if he knew you were finger fucking yourself and pretending it was your big brothers’ cocks?”

You forced yourself away from Rindou again, trying to ignore the way Ran’s long fingers dipped beneath your panties, body shuddering as his pointer finger glided between your folds, gathering up the slick before smearing it all over your clit.

“Y-You’re not my brothers, stop saying that,” you stuttered, trying to convince no one but yourself, and from the way Ran snorted he knew that as well.

“Hmm? Then why were you so worried about our parents before?” Ran questioned, biting down gently on your skin as he sunk a finger deep, deep into you. Your eyes half-rolled back at the feeling, hips jerking yet again in a desperate attempt for more. Ran groaned against your skin, “Fuck, doll, you’re so tight. How the fuck’re you supposed to fit us in there when you can barely fit a finger?”

His words went in one ear out the other, too lost in the feeling of their bodies already. Ran pumped his finger in and out of you steadily, thumb rubbing gentle circles on your clit while his free hand slid up your body to your neck, keeping a firm hold on it as he held you back against him. Rindou took the opportunity to trail his lips down your collarbone to your chest, hair brushing your skin as he captured one of your nipples into his mouth, tongue flicking over the bud as he sucked on it while his hand played with your other breast, pinching your nipple softly and massaging the soft flesh around it.

It was too much, they were too much. You couldn’t even think straight, much less pray to do anything. All you could do was lay between them and let them have their way with you, panting, gasping for air, body twitching and jerking with every touch.

Ran slipped another finger inside of you, stretching your walls around him and your vision went spotty and your head felt fuzzy. Your body felt hot, too hot, and far too quick.

“Oh god,” you whimpered, “Oh god, ‘s, ‘s so-“

You didn’t even really know what you were trying to say. Rindou’s teeth grazed your skin and the noise you let out was obscene, Ran picking up the pace of his fingers in time with Rindou’s increase of aggression.

It was overwhelming, so fucking overwhelming, you tried to hold yourself together. You tried so hard but it was just impossible with their hands and lips all over your body, and with the incessant filth spewing from Ran’s mouth.

“God, look at you,” Ran groaned, “Tried to play all fuckin’ coy and innocent avoiding me these past few weeks. If I’d known the only thing you wanted was to be stuffed with cock I would’ve given it to you, but you had to be difficult, didn’t you?”

No response left your lips other than another high pitch moan when his thumb pressed down hard on your clit at the same time as he tried to push another finger into you.

And that was all it took to send you spiraling, crying out their names so loud that you swore your neighbors would be able to hear as you came all over Ran’s fingers, body spasming between theirs and the grip Ran had on your throat tightened to hold you in place.

Your vision was blurry and your body was shaking but Rindou and Ran didn’t even give you a chance to recover. You were still fully out of it as they manhandled your body around positioning you on top of Rindou, straddling his waist.

“H-hold on,” you began, “I need a sec-“

Your jaw went slack when you felt the tip of Rindou’s cock nudge against your entrance before pushing in.

And it hurt, even with Ran having loosened you up with his fingers before, it was no comparison to how bad Rindou’s cock was stretching you out. The tears in your eyes spilled over, streaming down your cheek. It burned and it stung, your fingers, Ran’s fingers, your ex’s cock, nothing could have prepared you for the sensation of being split open on Haitani Rindou’s cock.

“S’too big, s’too big,” you sobbed, “‘m gonna die.”

Ran only cooed, reaching from behind you to cup your cheek, wiping away the tears, “How cute,” he murmured, “How’s she feel, Rindou?”

Rindou was breathing heavy, “Fuckin’ tight, you weren’t kidding, fuck,” he moaned, hips jerking up, the tip of his cock nudging so deep inside you that you swore he was up in your guts somehow.

Your eyes rolled back and the pain slowly, slowly began to shift into pleasure, the burn of the stretch becoming bearable as Rindou rolled his hips up into you, waiting for you to adjust to his side.

And it was in no time, really, you had your hand braced against his abdomen, nails digging into his tattoos, careful to avoid the stitchs, arms trembling and your thighs tense as you tried to move your hips with him. You could feel every inch of his cock molding against your walls, the in-and-out drag had drool pooling at the corner of your mouth, heavy pants and high-pitched moans spilling from your lips.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Ran said quietly, and your eyes fluttered up, you turned your head to meet his eyes, unfocused and blurry, your hips still moving to fuck yourself on Rindou’s cock. “Feels good being split open by your big brother, doesn’t it?”

And his words were only partly registering as you nodded frantically, “F-feels s’good, feels s’good, Ran,” you cried, eyes sliding back shut, “Feels-“

Two hands fell heavy on your hips, bruising, stopping your own movements and Rindou’s in one fell swoop. You sobbed, Rindou let out a string of vile curses.

You forced your eyes back open to look at Ran again, and distantly, you recognized the cruel, playful look in his eyes as he watched you, “I want you to tell me every little filthy fantasy you had about me and my brother.”

You shook your head, opening your mouth to refuse but Ran’s smile only widened, “Then stay here, I’ll hold you here cockwarming him all night if I have to,” he told you, and the expression on his face let you know that he had every intention of following through.

Your lips wobbled, your eyes blurred with tears again, one of Ran’s hands slid to rub soft circles on your clit while the other held you down on Rindou’s cock. He leaned in close over your shoulder, lips so close to yours they were nearly brushing. You could feel his breath mixing with yours, hot and dizzying.

“You feel how good he’s stretching you out,” Ran murmured, and between his words and the circles he was rubbing on your clit, your walls clenched down hard on Rindou’s cock, you could hear him let out a shameless moan behind you and you whimpered. “Imagine how much better it’ll feel when I let go and let him actually fuck you, doll.”

God, you could practically feel it. You could practically feel Rindou’s fingers digging into your hips as he brought you down hard on his cock over and over and over again, hips thrusting up to meet yours every time, cock so deep inside you that it had your mind going numb. You could practically hear the lewd sounds of skin on skin resounding through the room, the sloppy sound of his cock driving into your cunt.

You needed it.

And Ran knew it, if his smile had anything to say about it.

“Go on,” he urged, “tell us and I’ll let go.”

A humiliated sob bubbled at your lips, your body felt like it was on fire and you knew it wasn’t because of the way Rindou’s cock was lodged deep inside of you. You tried to move your hips despite Ran’s grip but he was stronger than you, and he only laughed when he noticed your attempt.

“S’not gonna work, doll,” he cooed, voice cruel and mocking. “Only way you’re getting what you want is if you give me what I want.”

The noise that escaped your lips was pathetic, your cheeks were wet from the tears that had spilled over, your body trembled violently beneath his grasp. Looking down, you noticed that Rindou’s eyes were screwed shut and his jaw was clenched, fingers wrapped tight around the bed sheets as he tried to control himself.

“I-I’ve thought about you,” you finally cried, and Ran hummed behind you, kissing your shoulder as he continued to trace light circles around your clit, “Th-the day you were helping with the TV-“

Ran tutted quietly and you stopped talking immediately.

“Tell me something new,” he said, “I could’ve guessed that one.”

Your lips wobbled again, taking in another ragged breath. He kissed back up to your ear, biting at the lobe gently.

“I want you to tell me all the filthy thoughts you had while you were stuffin’ your pussy full ‘n pretending it was us,” Ran breathed out, the hand on your hip sliding up your body to palm one of your breasts, rolling your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger.

And distantly, you noticed your hips were free to move again but now any sense of coherence was gone as his tongue returned to tracing patterns on your skin, as one of his fingers continued to tease your clit while the other gave your breasts some much needed attention.

“I-I thought about both of you,” you couldn’t even see straight. You were dizzy as Rindou’s cock twitched inside you, begging for the chance to finally fuck you right; and your eyes were blurry as the tears fell faster, your body hot as embarrassment spread through you. “I thought-I thought about suckin’ you off while Rindou fucks me. ‘n-n I thought about doin’ it while our parents are in the house n-n Rindou keepin me quiet while you go down on me. ‘n I thought about tryna take you both at the same time-“ another sob ripped from your lips, “please, please let him fuck me please-“

Ran laughed, a mean, spiteful laugh that had you crying even harder, “Hear that, Rindou? Our pretty lil step sister is nothin’ but a cock hungry whore, and here we were thinking she was all cute and innocent.” Rindou didn’t answer, his breath heavy and quick as he tried to hold himself still. “I don’t think you can fit us both this time but maybe next time, yeah?”

Next time?

You didn’t get the chance to linger on the thought because at once your world spun and now instead of facing Rindou, you were facing Ran, Rindou’s cock still lodged deep inside of you, the slight switch in angle pushing him even further inside of you. You nearly fell forward, hands falling forward to brace yourself on Rindou’s thighs.

You felt a hand intertwine with your hair and you winced as it yanked your head up and back rather harshly, your eyes met Ran’s amused ones.

“We can put that pretty mouth of yours to work though.”

Ran didn’t even give you a chance to process his words before he was pushing your head down hard, he tapped the tip of his cock against your lips twice impatiently, “Open up,” he said sharply and your body reacted on its own as your lips parted on instinct, “Good girl.”

He was not kind as he pressed your head down even further, pushing his cock between your lips and into your mouth. He was big, longer and thicker than anything you had seen before and you had very little experience with giving head. You choked around him, struggling to take him in but he didn’t seem to care, only letting out a huff of amusement and then a groan as your throat spasmed around him.

You couldn’t breathe, and you couldn’t think straight to try to take in deeper breaths through your nose, although that wouldn’t have even mattered considering Ran held your face flush to his pelvis, cock stretching out your throat so much that you swore there was a bulge there.

“The fuck you waiting for, Rindou?” Ran asked his brother, and that was seemingly all Rindou needed because at once his hands found your hips, bringing you down hard as he thrusted up into you.

You choked on Ran’s cock, moan muffled and eyes half-knocked back at the feeling of him bullying his cock deep into you. Your mind felt absolutely blank and numb as Rindou began fucking up into you at a steady pace, the sloppy sound of his cock fucking into your cunt, the breathy moans spilling from his lips, the sound of you choking on Ran’s cock—it was all too much for you to handle.

“Don’t think I-fuck-forgot about you, Rindou,” Ran warned, “Actin’ all fuckin holier-than-thou that first night. Look at you now, fuckin’ your sister like a bitch in heat.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Rindou groaned, each snap of his hips getting just a bit rougher at his words—but you couldn’t even really register what they were saying, more focused on trying not to pass out because of the combined lack of air and intense pleasure.

“Hm?” Ran laughed, “That’s what you were tryna call me, wasn’t it? Who’s the sister-fucker now, Rindou?”

The noise that Rindou let out was shameless, “Fuck you, Ran,” Rindou choked out as his grip on your hips tightened, as he brought you down so fast and so hard on his cock that it had your vision flashing white as your body shuddered and trembled, hips jerking and thighs tense as you came all over his cock.

“Fuck,” Rindou moaned loud as he felt you clench down on his cock, fingers bruising your skin as he fucked you through your high.

Neither he nor Ran give you a chance to recover. Rindou picked his pace back up almost immediately and Ran had never even faltered in his.

He let out a low whistle before his grip on your hair tightened when you went half-limp trying to recover from your orgasm, continuing to rock his hips against your face at a steady pace, “That’s it, doll, relax your throat,” he said, but his words went in one ear out the other.

His pace shifted into a rougher, faster one, moving your head in time with your hips and you felt your vision start to go spotty. You couldn't breathe through your nose between each snap of his hips and even if you could, any air that might’ve made it to your lungs was torn right from them as Rindou drove his cock deep into you.

It was too much.

You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t think except for a few garbled thoughts, you couldn’t move, you couldn’t do anything except lay there and take it—the overwhelming pleasure, the pain of your throat being stretched out, the sound of all of the filthy noises resounding through the room and god the taboo of it all. What would your father think if he walked in on you choking over step-brother’s cock while getting railed by your other? What would Mrs. Haitani think?

The tears streaming down your face fell faster but even as the shame began to hit you, you could feel the heat pooling in your stomach again—faster, more intense this time. The burn of your lungs, the burn of the stretch of your throat and cunt, it was pushing you right back over the edge again.

You gagged at one particularly harsh thrust of Ran’s hips, trying to pull off to get some air only for him to press your face right back down, nose flush to his pelvis, grinding his hips against you. Your vision went spotty again as you felt his cock drag roughly against your throat.

“Gunna fuckin’ cum,” Rindou gasped, and he was fucking you harder, faster, faster than you thought was possible. His hips snapping up at a pace that had you clawing at Ran’s thighs trying to keep yourself steady, moaning and choking as Rindou fucked you into your third high.

You should be embarrassed, you thought to yourself distantly as another muffled cry around Ran’s cock signaled you were cumming again. You could feel the sticky mixture of your drool and Ran’s precum dribbling down your chin, your tears staining your face, you were shaking and trembling and weak, you couldn’t even hold yourself up anymore, rendered to such a humiliating state and the worst part was you couldn’t even bring yourself to care, too caught up in how good they were making you feel.

You felt Rindou’s hips stutter against you, his grip tightening on your hips as he grinded you down on his cock, cumming deep inside you with a shameless moan of your name. You felt full, too full, and warm, you could feel Rindou’s cum leaking from around his cock, dripping down your thighs.

You were barely conscious, your third orgasm having knocked all thought and reason from your mind, the only sensations you could make sense of were the feelings of their hands sliding against your body and their cocks buried deep inside you.

Rindou hissed when Ran didn’t let him pull you off of his cock, the overstimulation evidently a bit too much as his hips jerked instinctively against yours, but Ran was more concentrated on keeping you in place so he could finish himself off.

You heard him let out a pretty moan, and that was the only warning you had before he was stuffing his cum right down your throat. You choked and spluttered, trying your best to swallow what you could but it was just too much.

Ran pulled out of you after shooting half a load down your throat, seemingly pleased with having you gagging over his cum, attempting and failing to swallow it all. He held you in place by the hair as he stroked his cock a few more times, head tilted back and a low groan escaping his lips as he painted your face and chest white, releasing the rest of his cum onto your body.

He let go of your hair and you lost the only support you had, falling limp on Rindou’s thighs, unable to gather the strength to move. You whimpered as Rindou pulled out of you, shifting you off from where you were still limp on top of him onto the bed next to them.

You felt hazy and exhausted, your body already felt sore and you were trembling on the blankets as Rindou and Ran talked over you but you couldn’t even make out what they were saying.

And while your mind wasn’t exactly functioning properly in the moment, you somehow had a distinct feeling that your “fuck them to get them out of your system” plan just wasn’t going to cut it.

3K notes View Post

maboiisuga

1 year ago

LIMERENCE | jeon jungkook

[ mini series ] [ masterlist ]

lim·er·ence

noun

the state of being infatuated or obsessed with another person, typically experienced involuntarily and characterized by a strong desire for reciprocation of one's feelings but not primarily for a sexual relationship.

LIMERENCE | 18+ | s | a … ex!jungkook

ONE SHOT

summary: a recent discovery of old VCR tapes takes you down a rabbit hole of self-pity, remembering what you once had and how it all went down the drain over youthful mistakes. suddenly, you find yourself playing back the old tapes of the best relationship you’ve ever had and all you can think about is how to get it back—if you could get it back

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ exes au | Y2K | grunge┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

warnings: TBD. angst. smut. [jk and oc in videos: 18-20 | jk and oc now: 26]

COMING SOON

[ song inspo : do I wanna know — arctic monkeys {crawling back to you, ever thought of calling when you’ve had a few?}]

VIDEO LOGS :

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 3 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 8 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 11 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 14 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 19 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 22 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

․ ∘ ⊹ ✰ ┆ JJK 24 ┆ ✰ ⊹ ∘ .

COMING SOON

…

permanent taglist: @notmyfaultbutours @rerefundslocals @fandems @sugaluvmyg @guvgguk @kimyishin @libra04 @kooromiwrld @classycreationcupcake-blog g @alwaysdreamingnotsleeping @cherrymonlightt @nikkiordonez12 @asking4-sanity @thvlover r @saweetspoiled @uwu2rawr @shaybts-blog @babycandy111 @tearyjjeon @joons-uparupa @jeonninja @yellowcupid08 @02010802faves @knudsenheggedel @skzthinker @unnatae @aurorthi @beautywine @95ene @taekookstata @lilliankoo @shescharlie @annenakamura a @lesoleile @burnahtsw @babybella337 @kooloveys @ku-ku @chaelvrx @minnie-mouser22 @Imeneghd @whoa-jo @evajeonsworld @marvelbun @sunnikthv @kochycooky @heyhowyoudoin3 @acielelyseen @giselleswifeee @jeonjk25 @ilikeitlikethatt @bangmechanpls @lvr2seok @badbyeyoongi @jaerisdiction @watermelonjuice15 @artmsmaid @xyahrinx @angeleen777 @jooniesxbby @brillantdarling

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maboiisuga

3 years ago

storge, i.

. . . an affectionate love that slowly develops from friendship, base on similarity.

MINORS DNI.

—This series will have nsfw themes + scenes.

wc: 1.6k | hanamaki takihiro, matsukawa issei, camgirl!reader.

— fluff, angst, suggestive ; established relationship, slowburn, mentions of sugar mommy/sugar baby relationship, usage of ‘slut’+ so unlike oikawa’s series, this second four-parter is going to be heavily suggestive and will have nsfw scenes. only +18 kids are allowed in this one, i’m sorry. but the next one after this is more light and humorous and will have context on what happened here!

masterlist. ; tip jar ! ; next: storge ii.

It doesn’t surprise you when the iced tea splashes down thickly and cold down Matsukawa Issei’s head and neck. You saw it coming as soon as Makki elbowed you, looked up, and saw the darkened aura of her expression and the vice-grip she had on the glass.

“I hope you live a miserable life, Matsukawa,” she forced through gritted teeth and glittering eyes. She didn’t spare either you or Makki a glance as she walked out to her awaiting friends, giving out their own curses with their eyes as they took her in their arms and out of the mess hall.

Keep reading

122 notes View Post

maboiisuga

1 year ago

— heatwave

I’m suffering through the heatwave over here, and Bakugou is the only thing that could make it better or worse.

Warnings: 18+, not proofread, Bakugou is your roommate, sweaty sex, dirty talk, spanking, creampie.

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader.

Word Count: 3.8k.

“It’s too damn hot,” Bakugou growled as he lay the back of his head against the couch. Even the soft, worn fabric was uncomfortable against his back. Retaining more heat than necessary paired with his body temperature it had sweat pooling against his skin.

Life as an up and coming Pro-Hero had been rough. With long shifts, terrible hours and little pay he was stuck in this dingy, stuffy apartment. Waiting for the day he’d add an extra figure onto his paycheck to have enough to move out. Things like air conditioning were a lavish luxury that he couldn’t afford right now, so it meant suffering through the torridness with a small ice pack he’d grabbed from the freezer.

The only bonus was having a roommate like you.

Originally Bakugou had been adverse to living under the same roof as someone, unable to trust anyone living in close quarters with him. There was an entire cacophony of issues that could arise from picking the wrong person— from being kept up all night, the mess they could leave behind to having friends or hookups in his shared space.

But you had been a godsend, understanding of his unsocial work schedule and his house rules. You could even argue that you were a better roommate than he was, with his friends delighting in showing up unannounced and causing a mess in his apartment. Something that you were always so understanding of when you’d join them for movie nights or dinner.

You were a blessing. Or now that he thought about it, perhaps it was a curse. Now forced to watch you practically saunter around in the shortest short shorts known to man in a feeble attempt to try and deal with the extreme temperatures. Your top half not much better, the stringy vest top you wore— without a bra no less— exposed your midriff and the cute stiffened peaks of your nipples. Not that he was looking, and even if he was what did you expect him to do.

Rubbing sweat from his upper lip as he spreads his legs wide on the couch as you made your way into the kitchen, his crimson eyes roaming your figure as the shorts hugged the swell of your ass perfectly. Dipping in between the cheeks as he imagined pulling them apart to see what was hidden between them, the material dangerously close to revealing it to him anyway—

You were doing absolutely nothing to help quell the heat oozing through his body. In fact, Bakugou was certain you were making it worse. His cock jumping at the sight of you, pulsing beneath his shorts as his Adam’s apple bobbed. Praying that this sudden heatwave would cease and he could stop being tortured by the sight of you like this every damn day, it was bad enough when he’d catch peeks of you in a towel coming from the bathroom towards your bedroom, or forgotten panties left strewn around. But this? This was unbearable.

“I can’t deal with this heat,” The whiny tone to your voice had Bakugou silencing a growl deep in his chest, watching you hold the back of your hand to your forehead dramatically, “I wanna sit in the freezer.”

“Don’t you dare.” Bakugou knew from experience the heat alone would be enough to shut down the entire machine, and you both definitely didn’t have enough money to replace it if it did.

And that freezer was the only thing satiating the heat so far. Shoving his melting ice pack against his chest, the contents quickly changing form to liquid as he tried to make the most of it before it would have to go back inside the freezer.

“Let me feel,” You came around the couch to stand in front of him, his eyes set in a heavy glare as he tried to weigh up whether it was worth letting you feel how cold the pack was.

It was bad enough having you so scantily clad in such short proximity to him right now, certain he could now smell the saccharine of your perfume as you pulled the top of your vest down, exposing the swell of your breasts as you presented your sternum to him.

Bakugou pushes the pack to your chest and immediately regrets it when the sound you let out is downright sinful. You have to know what you’re doing to him, the way your lips curl into a delicious looking pout and your eyes roll to the back of your skull.

“Oh god, that feels so fucking good.” You moaned, eyes clenched shut to focus on the cool chill that slowly washed over your chest.

His cock jumps in his shorts as he tries to shift his hips to avoid you from noticing the now very evident bulge, the throb pounding through his veins as he feels a different kind of heat beginning to take over.

He should stop here, take his ice pack back and tell you to go and sit in front of your mini desk fan again. Get you out of the room and as far away as possible and save this for another day, a day when you’re both not delirious from the intense heat.

But his depraved thoughts have already consumed him, the thought of your plush body pressed against his while he slides his throbbing cock inside you now at the forefront of his mind as he presses the pack lower. Watching as you arch your back towards it, welcoming the cool chill as you lean forward to splay your sweaty palms against his thick thighs.

And whether he’s delirious from the heat, or it’s the desperate look in your eyes he doesn’t know. All he knows is he’s kissing you fiercely, the ice pack drops forgotten between your bodies in favour of grabbing your hips.

“Fuck,” You kiss him back, words swallowed by his chapped lips as you feel the bulge between his thighs press snug against your crotch.

Your hands reach up to card through messy blond spikes as your nails graze his damp scalp, your tongue swiped against his as he palms your ass. Calloused fingertips disappear beneath the flimsy fabric as he squeezes the fat of it, tugging you down against his hardness as he pulls more sultry sounds from your throat.

“It’s too hot for this, Katsuki.” You whine, breaking the kiss as you gasp for air in the humid room.

At this chance Bakugou’s lips venture lower, peppering kisses along your jawline towards your collarbones until he reaches the hem of your vest. Tugging the fabric down to reveal your round breasts, his tongue pokes out to wet his lips at the marvellous sight.

His nighttime fantasies can’t compare to the sight in front of him, crimson eyes shamelessly ogle your skin to commit the sight to memory as he leans forward.

“Shut up,” He rasps back gruffly while mouthing your breast.

You’re right, it’s entirely too hot for any kind of strenuous activity, especially when he’s sweating so much it already feels like he’s run a marathon. But the way your soft body feels pressed against his is too much to pass up. Especially when this is what he’s been dreaming about ever since he moved in with you, fisting his cock too. It’s too much to leave it to chance that he may get this opportunity again later. Bakugou’s always been a greedy man, and he wants to have you now.

“Fuck,” You cry out when his teeth graze your nipple, pushing your crotch against his with more urgency.

Certain you’ve leaked through the flimsy fabric, desire surges through you dense and fast. A stark contrast to your lethargic movements as you grind yourself down on his lap pathetically.

“Katsuki,” You whine.

His strong hands are doing all the work as he moves you how he pleases. Strong palms pick you up by the meat of your ass to drop you back down on his length. Grinding your puffy clit against his pelvis with each motion as he has you crying out in pleasure.

“Fuck, Katsu. S’too hot—”

You weren’t sure whether it was the humid air permeating the room or the way that Bakugou was looking at you with smouldering eyes that had your body aflame. Muggy, vapid air filling your lungs as clammy hands stroked along his bare torso. Mapping out a course of newly discovered territory as you let your thumbs brush against his pebbled nipples, his chest vibrating against your touch with more sultry groans.

“I know you are, sweetheart.” He hummed, his fingers brushing the crotch of your shorts, “Let me make you feel good.”

“Oh,” You gasped when you felt the calloused pads stroke your labia, involuntarily leaning forward to give him more space as Bakugou began to spread you apart for him. Fingers gliding through your messy folds, dragging your essence along your slit until he found your puffy clit.

The contact had you jolting forward, nails grazing his chest as he focused his attention on it. Circling it tentatively with the pad of his finger as you began to rock your hips back against him, uncaring about how debauched you looked as you began to seek your own pleasure.

“Yeah?” He rasped, and the gravelly husk did nothing but increase the desperation inside you, “You like that?”

“Fuck, please—“ You buried your head in the curve of his neck, your lips pressed against the slick skin as you tasted the saltiness of his sweat on your tongue.

“Please what, sweetheart,” He cooed.

“Please—“ You gasped when you felt his thumb press against your empty hole. He knew exactly what you wanted, he was toying with you.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Your fingers.” You were shameless, your hips grinding back against him as Bakugou finally took mercy on you and pushed his thumb into your sloppy entrance. The slightest penetration enough to drag a deep moan from your throat as he kept his focus against your clit, leaning his head back against the couch to try and see the blissful expression on your face as he worked you with precision.

“Got no damn idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this,” He husked against your ear, lips soft against the shell as you clenched around him in response, “Always walkin’ round in those fuckin’ short shorts got me wanting to bend you over every surface in this house.”

“Oh fuck,” You mewled, already feeling yourself teetering on the edge of your climax as he kept his pace constant against your clit, his thumb positioned to press against your spongy wall as his other hand tightened its grip on your ass. Spreading you open, as you found your bliss, “Katsuki.”

“That’s it, good girl.” He hummed, feeling your walls pulse around his digit as he kept his pace. Working you through your release as he pressed sloppy, wet kisses to your temple.

You’d lost count of the amount of times you’d wished the same, coming into the kitchen to see him still in full hero gear after work. Dirt and grime covering his body as his mask was pulled up over his forehead to show his blackened eyes, bending over to grab the carton of juice from the fridge as he held it up to his lips to chug it. Watching his Adam’s apple bob as the liquid flowed, giving you the perfect view of him as you tried to busy yourself to hide the fact you were blatantly staring.

Or the moments where he’d come out of the bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips to shout at you for using the taps in the kitchen while he was showering. The cheap apartment had one flow of hot water and it shut off that luxury whenever it was used elsewhere. The cold water catching him off guard as he glared at you, water droplets drooling down his perfect skin and making him look more like an ancient god or deity than your roommate.

“So why didn’t you?” You asked when you’d come down from your high.

“Huh?” Bakugou’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“Why didn’t you tell me how you felt before.”

“I like livin’ with you,” He shrugged, “Didn’t wanna jeopardise that.”

“You wouldn’t have,” You smiled, pulling yourself back from his neck to meet his gaze, “I like you too.”

“That mean I can finally eat this pretty little pussy?” He groaned, shuffling his hips, “Been thinkin’ about it since the day I met you.”

“Later, please—” You pawed at the hard bulge between his thigh, his pre staining the fabric as you pressed against the tip.

“Fuck,” He grunted, shamelessly bringing his fingers to his lips to get a taste of you. His tongue sweeping against his digits to clean them of your slick, “Gonna take you over every damn surface in this house, princess.”

Your fingers curled into the hem of his shorts, Bakugou lifting his hips off the couch to help you drag them down just enough to free his heady cock— the sight of it better than you’d ever imagined in those nightly fantasies.

He was thick and long, bulging veins that forked along the length of him only made him seem that much more intimidating as his balls sat heavy at the base. Neatly trimmed blond hairs decorated his pelvis as they created a pretty trail along his abdomen, unable to resist running your hand along it as his stomach folded at the touch. A sharp hiss sucked sharp through his teeth as you wrapped your hand around him at the base, holding him steady so you could see the tip. The head a swollen pink as pre continued to bead at the slit, drooling down towards his frenulum as you moved to settle between his thighs. Wanting a taste of him yourself as you swiped your thumb over the leaky tip of his cock.

“Oi, I thought you said later,” He teased, rough hands steady on your hips to stop you from moving.

“Please,” You whined pathetically, “Wanna taste you.”

You brought your thumb to your lips as your tongue swiped at the surface, tasting him on your tongue as your lashes fluttered. Crimson eyes focused on your movements as his cock twitched in appreciation, tempted to let you do whatever you pleased. But he’d been waiting far too long for this moment, and there was no way he could wait any longer.

“You little minx,” He groaned as you sucked your thumb, “I promise later.” He groaned, tugging at your shorts, “Do you like these?”

“Yeah, they’re— what the fuck, Katsuki?”

You gasped when you heard the sharp sound of ripping fabric, “I said I liked them.”

“Sorry,” You could tell from the smug grin on his face that he was anything but as he positioned you above his leaky cock, “I gotta have you now.”

You held onto his shoulders as he wrapped a large fist around his cock, dragging the tip through your slick as he felt it catch against your tight entrance. His other hand on your hip slowly dropping you down onto his length as you felt the pleasurable ache of him stretching you open ebb through your pelvis.

“I got you, sweetheart,” He groaned, watching his cock slowly disappear inside you as he felt your warm walls wrap snugly around him, “Gonna take such good care of you.”

You felt hot, the heat radiating from your sex sweltering and yet you didn’t want to let go. The thick girth of his cock filled you perfectly as you felt him pressed against every ridge and groove of your cunt like he was made for you.

Your lips move together languidly, tasting the saltiness from his upper lip as you move together in tandem. Wet and sloppy while his tongue strokes yours, desperation evident by the way you try to deepen the kiss. As though you’re trying to melt into him, to feel him devour you whole.

“Oh, shit.” You choke back a cry when you feel the tip of his cock hit a spot deep inside you, certain you’ve never had something quite so big before.

You struggle to lift yourself up with your legs spread wide over his thick thighs as you grind yourself against his lap. Your clit catching against the trimmed hairs at his base as you roll your hips with desire, your chest pressed taut to his as you start a lazy pace. The scorching heat inside the apartment makes it difficult to breathe as you writhe in his lap, his warm breath fans against your skin almost feels cooler than the thick air clouding the room.

“Kats. It’s too hot.” You whine pathetically, your pace clumsy and sluggish as the desire inside you burns hot and heavy.

“You started this.” He retorts cockily with a smug smirk on his face.

“I did not.” You pout, “This is your fault.”

“Stop whinin’” He reaches back to bring his palm down on your ass in a rough smack, the sweatiness of his quirk has his skin tacking to you as it increases the sensation, clinging to your skin as you gasp in surprise. A painful pleasure courses through your veins as the skin prickles beneath his touch, your pliant walls clamping down around his girth in retaliation.

Without hesitating he reaches his large palms back to cup a cheek in each hand, lifting you up languidly as he marvels the glossy sheen your slick leaves on his cock.

“You just sit there and look pretty, let me do the work.” He spread is thighs wider, giving himself more air as he shifted your weight. Picking you up and dropping you down on his length as he listened to the pretty sounds that spilled from you like a siren, drawing him in and capturing his heart as you pulsed around him.

“Why couldn’t you have got an ice quirk?”

Clammy hands paw at his shoulders as Bakugou repeats the motion, skin tacking to skin as he bounces you on his cock. The kinetic energy builds heat swiftly and harsh as you feel the stickiness against your skin. Your wetness seeps out against his pelvis and matts the hair at his base, catching your clit with each drop of your hips.

“Shut the fuck up,” He scoffed, “You won’t be sayin’ that come winter.”

The thought of having his warm body to warm you during those cold winter months, still being with him then— had you clenching around him.

“Oh yeah? You like the sound of that?” He grinned, “Can feel this pussy clenchin’ around me.”

“Fuck, Katsuki.” The heat was becoming unbearable, radiating from your core as it burned molten lava. The coil inside you dangerously close to snapping as you danced on the crux of your release, gasping for air as he changed tact. Holding your hips tight under sweaty palms as he planted his feet flat on the ground, pistoning his hips up into your pliant sex, “There— oh, god. Right there—”

“That’s it,” He rasped, watching your tits bounce with each rapid thrust, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

“‘m gonna cum,” You choked out between moans, feeling the curved tip of his cock drag against the spongy spot inside you with each thrust, “Oh shit—”

“Cum for me,” He growled, “Cum all over my cock.”

The tips of Bakugou’s thumbs pressed against your pelvis, tightening his grip as it only increased the pressure. Sweat trickling down your temples as he sent you vaulting over the edge into euphoria.

“Good girl,” He grunted, feeling your walls clamp down around his cock as you willed him to come with you, trying to milk him of his seed.

The pleasure was unlike anything you’d felt before, mind-numbingly intense as you cried out a jumbled mess of his name. Your nails digging crescent moons into his skin as he hissed beneath you, shamelessly searching for his own end as the heat radiated from your body. Sliding against each other from the sweat that now trickled down your skin, leaving a glossy sheen against you both as he used you for his own pleasure.

“I’m gonna cum,” Bakugou grunted, moving to lift you off his cock before you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, unbothered about the stifling heat in the room as you kept him tight against you.

“Cum inside me, Katsuki.” You gasped a he choked back a grunt, your words all it took to meet his own end.

His guttural moans are sinful, erotic as you cling to him with fervour. Committing the sensation to memory as though it’s the last time you’ll have him like this, as if the heat has him in this delirious state. And maybe it does—

You never thought Bakugou could look so pretty like this, completely vulnerable as he exposes his most intimate self to you. Thick, white spurts of cum spurt from his tip as he empties his balls inside you.

“Fuck, baby.” He breathes hot and heavy as you feel his chest rise and fall against yours.

Bodies slumped together on the couch as you feel the dampness of skin against skin, your vest that now sits useless around your waist is soaked and warm as the fabric clings to your body.

“I’m so sticky,” You whine childishly, making no attempt to move as Bakugou’s fingers trace absent-minded patterns along your exposed back.

“How the fuck dya think I feel?” He rasps, “My ass is stuck to the couch.”

“Eww,” You tease, running your nose along his collarbone as you take in the musky scent of him, “We’ll have to get another couch.”

He catches you by surprise as he presses the forgotten ice pack to the back of your neck, although it’s mostly melted it’s a stark contrast to your sweltering body as you flinch in surprise. Your cunt clenches around him at the sensation as Bakugou grunts from the attention.

“Oh shit, don’t do that sweetheart—“ He hisses, wrapping an arm around your back to hold you tight against him, “You’ll make me hard again.”

Something that you’re not sure you’d mind, even though your body is screaming out for a different kind of relief now. Desperate to cool your temperature down as you scrunch your nose in irritation.

“I feel so gross.” You complain as he gives your ass another playful spank as you barely move from the impact, your bodies stuck together with a mixture of heat and sweat.

“Got no one to blame but yourself, princess,” He groans, “I was just mindin’ my business until you came over in those little shorts.”

“You weren’t complaining when you were balls deep.” You moved your head back to glare at him.

“My balls feel like they’re on fire now,” He scoffs, leaning forward to peck your pouty lips, “Cold shower?” He asks, although he’s already decided he’s showering with you— he’s taking every moment he can with you now.

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