Jealous!Sukuna: The idea of another man even existing in your space sets his blood on fire. When a salesman dares to approach you in public, Sukuna looms directly behind you, his eyes narrowed into slits of pure, murderous disdain while you offer a polite, unsuspecting smile. It's the reason why strangers steer clear of you in public, terrified to make a wrong move. You always return home wondering why the world treats you like glass; Sukuna merely offers a lazy, knowing shrug.
Jealous!Sukuna: He doesnât control what you wearânot since the day you slapped him across the face and demanded he fix his tone. He respects your fire, proud to possess a woman so beautiful and fierce. But out in the world, his touch is a possessive anchor. His hand never leaves your hip, his fingers digging into your skin with a warning pressure the moment another man's gaze lingers. It's almost like a leash at times, keeping you in check as much as it wards of men.
Jealous!Sukuna: If you test him by entertaining someone else's attentionâwhether out of innocence or pure defianceâhis correction of your behavior comes swift and feral. He will drag you into the nearest empty space, be it a public restroom or a dressing room, pinning you down and covering your mouth to swallow your screams. He spares no time taking you roughly, a relentless and deep invasion that leaves you breathless and weeping from the sheer intensity of it.
Jealous!Sukuna: Who loves having you completely at his mercy, your submission is like a drug. His affection a storm that leaves wreckage in its wake; there is rarely a time he takes you without breaking something in the process. The dining table, your desk, the couchâall casualties of a love that is violent, absolute, and all consuming. You always walk away aching and bruised, yet desperate for more, desperate to feel this thick cock stretching you open, to have his hand wrapped around your throat keeping you pinned beneath him as he fucks you into the mattress. He whispers to you, degrading or encouraging it depends on how good youâve been, yet each word sends a wave of euphoria over you.
GentleGiant!Dabura: You are his sanctuary. The idea of ever being harsh with youâof being anything less than a safe harborâis his ultimate nightmare. To the rest of the world, he is a fortress: calm, aloof, and detached. But with you, the walls crumble, revealing a effortless charmer who lives for your smile. Heâll never admit it out loud, but a quiet, fiercely proud look drifts across his face whenever he makes you laugh. Your giggles, the sudden warmth in your cheeksâhe treasures the knowledge that he caused them.
GentleGiant!Dabura: His loyalty is unwavering. You possess his heart and his hard-won trust, a sacred bond he would never dare jeopardize. He handles your devotion like a flawless gem. He may not be a man of grand, floral gestures, but his love is written in the constant, grounding weight of his touch. His lips are a permanent fixture against your skinâtracing your jaw, your forehead, the shell of your ear. He]'s always happiest with you tucked firmly into his lap, his large hands anchoring your waist and smoothing over your skin while you lose yourself in a book or a meal.
GentleGiant!Dabura: The day doesn't end until you're in bed beside him. If you're awake, chasing the end of a book under the glow of a lamp, he stays awake too. Heavy-lidded and exhausted, he will still listen to you vent and ramble, his gaze so thick with adoration it makes your chest ache. When the book is finally closed, he gathers you into his chest, swallowing you up in a tight, possessive hold that shields you from the rest of the world.
GentleGiant!Dabura: When he makes love to you, it's always slow, deep, and deliberate. He drinks in every breathless whimper, watching with dark fascination as you unravel beneath his touch. Every stroke feels like lightning; every kiss is laced with a quiet desperation. As if, without you, he might simply forget how to breathe.
Stalker!Geto: His obsession took root the very first day he walked into the cafĂŠ where you work. When you smiled sweetly and handed him his cupâcomplete with his name and a neatly drawn heartâsomething snapped. In his eyes, a soul as pure and radiant as yours had to be protected from this corrupt world. He decided that only he was worthy of guarding it.
Stalker!Geto: Who became your invisible bodyguard, lingering in the shadows of alleyways and across the street from your apartment, tracking you everyday to ensure you made it to and from your destinations entirely undisturbed. Youâd occasionally feel the prickle of eyes on the back of your neck, completely unaware that he was just a few paces behind, keeping the world at bay.
Stalker!Geto: Who has eliminated threats to your peace without a single shred of hesitation. That persistent, needy ex-boyfriend who suddenly stopped texting? The aggressive stranger at the bar who couldn't keep his hands to himself? The close friend who was slowly trying to cross the line into something more? They all vanished from your life permanently, handled quietly by a man who views his violence as a sacred duty to keep your orbit clean.
Stalker!Geto: He doesnât just watch; he studies. Geto mirrored your SIM cards and cloned your devices, treating your photos, notes, and messages like a holy text. He memorized everything about youâdown to your deepest sexual preferences. He began sending you cryptic, anonymous texts from an unlisted number; a dangerous game you found yourself playing into out of sheer curiosity, completely unaware you were speaking to your greatest worshipper.
Stalker!Geto: He treats your daily routine like his favorite show. During one of his silent, calculated break-ins while you were at work, he mapped out your home and planted hidden cameras in every square inch. He feels no shame in watching you shower, change, or touch yourself in the privacy of your bedroom, using the footage to fuel his deepest fantasies. But he equally treasures the quiet, mundane moments: you pouting when a recipe goes wrong, talking to yourself, or yelling at characters on the television screen. To him, you are flawless. And with all he's learned from watching you, he's built a habit of leaving small things. Money. Gifts. Groceries. Your favorite take out left at your doorstep on bad days.
Stalker!Geto: Every night spent away from you is an exercise in desperate, sweating worship. He ruins himself over you in the dark, pumping his cock to the stolen glances on his monitors or buried deep in a doll customized to match your exact proportions. He breathes in the scent of the worn panties he slipped out of your laundry basket, entirely consumed. His obsession peaks when he decides to let you in on his devotion, leaving an untraceable video file for you to findâa graphic, unhinged display of him coming all over a picture of your face, letting you know exactly how thoroughly you are owned.
Stalker!Geto:When he finally decides it's time to take you, he leaves no room for escape. Bound and entirely at his mercy, he fucks you from sundown to sun up. Itâs an unhinged, relentless haze of manhandling, treating your body like his own personal doll. He stretches you open on his thick cock over and over, ignoring your exhaustion until your pussy is completely raw and throbbing, and tears of pure, overwhelmed pleasure are spilling down your cheeks. He finally has his goddess right where she belongs.
Plug!Choso: Who always throws a little extra into your bag, acting completely nonchalant about it, though itâs entirely because you showed up looking gorgeous. Heâs observantânever missing a single detail about your appearance.
âNew hairstyle?â he muttered once, his gaze lingering just a second too long.
âI like the nose thing,â heâd murmur another time, clueless about makeup but fascinated by how your highlighter caught the light.
âI like that color on you,â he admitted boldly. Itâs a throwaway comment you never forgot, and now your wardrobe is practically full of that same shade.
Plug!Choso: Whoâs low-key co-dependent when it comes to social settings. Choso will find any excuse to convince you to come to parties with him, purely because he wants a familiar face there. The real highlight of the night for him isnât the party itselfâitâs the comedown. Itâs sitting in the quiet sanctuary of his car afterward, smoking, and watching your worries melt away while you talk about any and everything.
Plug!Choso: Who notices the little things. He bought you a designated clip for your blunts, delivering it with a quiet, âSo you don't mess up those pretty nails.â For a guy in his line of work, he possesses a strangely tender, protective streak just for you.
Plug!Choso: If you ever come up short on cash, heâs always willing to work out a "deal"âthough, truth be told, his prices are already criminally low for you. But because you refuse to take advantage of him, you make sure he gets his benefit. Those transactions usually end up with you riding him in the backseat of his car. Your vision crossed as the heat builds, Choso just leans back against the seat, keeping his warm hands on your hips, feeling on your body and tracking your movements with heavy, hooded eyes, thoroughly captivated by the sensual display you put on just for him.Â
Plug!Choso: Who loves pounding into you at a slow, lazy pace from behind. Heâll casually smoke a blunt, blowing rings over your shoulder while watching your every reaction in the mirror at the foot of his bed. He loves watching your ass bounce on his pelvis and he lives for the sounds you makeâthe muffled whimpers and breathless whines as your face is pressed into his mattress, your pussy fluttering and stretching around his thick cock.
Plug!Choso: Who has you saved as âMy favorite girlâ in his contact list. Itâs a silent, possessive claim he feels no need to broadcast to the worldânot when his actions speak loud enough. Every time youâre at his place, you end up sitting side-saddle on his lap while he packs product and rolls up. His heavy, calloused hands always find their natural resting place right on your thighs, anchoring you to him.Â
Plug!Choso: Who has a habit of grabbing you by the throat just to pull you in for a kiss, instantly dominating all your senses before you can even catch your breath. Itâs heavy and possessive, holding you entirely still in his space while he takes his time with your mouth. He loves the contrast of his cool, calloused knuckles pressed against the warm skin of your neck, trapping the breathless little gasp you let out right against his lips.
CONTENT: MDNI18+ FEM!Reader-FRAT!Gojo-Romance-Arguing-Makeup S*x-Toxic Relationship-Sneaking through bedroom window-Going back to him-Young love-College AU-That one guy you met at 19-Creampie-Manhandling-Dominant Gojo-Song: IloveitIloveitIloveit By Bella Kay
Word Count: 1.5k
Pairing: Frat!Gojo x Reader
Synopsis: Youâd been seeing Gojo for a few months now, a whirlwind that started at a crowded frat party just before the fall semester. Back then, he was everything everyone warned you aboutâcharming, effortlessly handsome, and possessing an uncanny ability to make you laugh.
The rumors whispered he was a notorious "lover boy," a serial player who never kept a girl around for more than two months. Youâd quietly hoped you were the exception. But now, hitting the three-month mark, the text replies were growing sparse and the excuses were piling up. Right on schedule, he was beginning to fade out.
You sat on your bed, halfway packed for Thanksgiving break, munching on snacks and aggressively trying to finish a last-minute essay. Your roommate had already slipped out during your afternoon nap, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the blinking cursor of your laptop screen. You only needed a few more words to hit the minimum word count, but your eyes kept drifting to your phone.
Debating.
Gojo hadnât texted you all week, even when you tried to start a conversation. But the moment you gave him the cold shoulder and ignored him the day before? He completely blew up your phoneâcalls, texts, notifications on every app. During your nap, heâd practically lost his mind, promising heâd come over the second he could.
Well, it was past the time he promised, and he still wasn't here.
Grumbling, you slammed your laptop shut and stood up to resume packing. Thud.
You blinked, warily approaching the window. Another thud. Sliding the window open, you peered down from the second floor to see a familiar shock of white hair. Gojo stood below, tossing pebbles at the glass. The moment he caught your eye, he flashed a wide, dazzling smile and waved eagerly.
You scoffed and immediately yanked the curtains shut.
âHEY!â his voice carried through the glass, laced with a tease. âDonât do me like thatâŚâ
Rolling your eyes with a heavy sigh, you parted the curtains and leaned out slightly. Your university hadnât bothered with proper window screens, leaving the space wide open. âWhat?â you snapped.
âWhatâs with the attitude, baby?â Gojo frowned, looking up at you.
The word made you cringe with offense. âThe attitude?!â you sneered. âMr. âI havenât texted my girlfriend in a weekâ is asking me about an attitude?!â You watched him flinch slightly.
âIâve been busy⌠frat stuff,â he countered.
âYeah, right.â
Gojo stepped closer to the brick wall. âCome on, sweetheart,â he pleaded. With practiced ease, he found the familiar footholds, scaling the side of the building toward your windowâa routine heâd perfected after dorm visitation hours closed.
You pouted, folding your arms tightly over your chest. âTrip and fall,â you muttered, turning your back to him. Yet, you left the window wide open.
You heard the window slide shut behind you. He approached stealthily, his arms reaching out to snake around your waist, but you violently shoved him away.
âWhat is your problem?â you huffed, glaring at him. âYou ghost me for a week and then just stroll in here calling me âbabyâ?â
He looked a mix of remorseful and mildly annoyed by the resistance. âDonât do thatâŚâ He shook his head. âCome on, I told you, I was busy with frat stuff. A car wash fundraiser.â
âYeah, I saw,â you snapped, the sting of it rushing back. âI saw your Snapchat story. Some random girl in a bikini licking whipped cream off your chest!â
It was clearly a stupid frat dare, but it still hurt. He couldnât text you back, but he could do that?
âIt was a dare,â he stated firmly, clearly distasteful of the memory himself.
âYou are so full of shit,â you said, shaking your head. âWhat do you even want?â
âTo say sorry.â
You stared at him, waiting for more.
Gojo sighed, stepping directly into your space. He was close enough that his warmth radiated against you, the scent of his cologne filling your senses. He reached out, his fingers aiming to catch your chin. You dodged him, tilting your head away and trying to look down your nose at him, despite the fact that he towered over you.
âCome onâŚâ he murmured.
Before you could dodge again, his hand shot out, capturing your jaw in a firm, dominating grip. His palm slid down to your throat, trapping you against him with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch.
âIâm sorry, okay? I fucked up,â he whispered, his tone suddenly dropping into something incredibly calm, incredibly gentle. âI shouldâve called. I shouldâve told you what was going on.â
The fierce pout on your lips began to melt. Your rigid posture relaxed against his hold.
âBaby, pleaseâŚâ
You hated when he begged, because it worked every single time. You had never fought like this before, but Gojo had a terrifying amount of leverage over you, and he knew it. He pulled you a fraction closer, keeping his grip firm on your throat as he locked his perfect, striking blue eyes onto yours.
His lips brushed against yours, his thumb rhythmically massaging your pulse point, melting away the last of your resistance.
âCome here,â he growled, his voice dropping an octave.
He didn't wait for permission. He crashed his lips onto yours in a desperate, messy kiss that stole the air straight from your lungsâa chaotic clash of teeth and tongues. He nipped at your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to look you dead in the eye, his breath hot against your skin.
âYou still mad at me?â
Your jaw clenched, your eyes darting away from his intense gaze. âYes,â you whispered.
A dangerous smirk touched his lips. âThen let me fix that.â
âSatoruââ you warned, but the reprimand was cut short as his lips slammed onto yours again. He drove you backward, walking you across the room until your spine hit the wall.
His hand slid down from your throat, his mouth trailing a hot path along your jaw and down the column of your neck. In one fluid motion, his hands locked beneath your thighs, hoisting you off the floor. Instantly, your instincts took over; your arms locked around his neck, and your ankles crossed tightly behind his lower back.
âYou gonna keep that attitude, or are you gonna let me fuck you?â he growled against your ear, his teeth nipping sharply at your lobe.
âFâŚfuck me,â you found yourself pleading, all your previous anger evaporating.
âHmm⌠good girl,â he hummed in satisfaction. He didn't waste a single second, hook-sliding his fingers beneath the elastic of your pajama pants to push them aside.
His long fingers brushed over your heat, his thumb instantly finding your clit and teasing it with a heavy pressure while his mouth worked over your jawline, deliberately marking your skin. âSo wet for meâŚâ he murmured against your throat.
You were soakedâhonestly, youâd been slick from the moment the argument started. The pad of his index finger circled your entrance before sinking inside, his knuckle curling at just the right angle to hit exactly what he was looking for. You shuddered, clinging to his broad shoulders as he kept you pinned effortlessly against the wall.
âLet me make you feel goodâŚâ he murmured. He picked up the friction, working his fingers in a steady, agonizing rhythm that pushed you straight toward the edge. Your walls throbbed around him, the tension coiling tight in your chest.
Just as you were about to tip over the peak, he abruptly hooked his fingers out. You gasped at the sudden emptiness. Gojo leaned back just enough to look you in the eye, slowly sucking his fingers clean. âSo fucking sweet.â
Before you could even protest, his hand dropped to his waistband. He popped the button of his jeans, freeing his cockâthick, heavy, and already fully hard. A desperate, needy whine escaped your throat.
Your reaction only made him chuckle. His hand tugged your shorts completely out of the way. âNo panties⌠dirty girl,â he smirked.
âJust put it in, Gojo,â you huffed, squirming against him.
He smiled, a dangerous, playful glint in his eyes as he lined the broad head of his shaft against your entrance. He teased you, barely pushing an inch inside, watching you writhe against the wall. âPatience,â he reminded softly.
âYouâre the one trying to apologize to meâŚâ you shot back, trying to regain some leverage.
He let out a low sigh, realizing you were right, before slamming all the way inside you in one deep, sudden thrust. You tensed up around the sheer size of him, a broken murmur escaping your lips. âGojoâŚâ
He huffed, immediately establishing a fast, brutal pace. He hit you deep, just the way you liked, his shaft bottoming out completely and fucking you senseless.
âHappy now?â he taunted, his breath hitching.
âShut upâŚâ you growled, tilting your head back.
He chuckled, the rough pace never faltering. âYou drive me insane, you know that?â he muttered, pressing a kiss just under your ear. Your only response was a breathless, desperate moan.
He groaned low and dark in your ear, the rhythmic sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the quiet bedroom. Your eyes rolled back, your gaze drifting away as the pleasure became too overwhelming.
âLook at me⌠look at me,â he commanded. Feeling your walls flutter and squeeze around him, he maintained those deep, punishing thrusts, locking his striking blue eyes onto yours. He only let out a sound when he hit particularly deep.
âWho does this pussy belong to?â he murmured.
âYâŚyouâŚâ you managed to choke out.
âI want to hear you say it,â he taunted, picking up the speed. âLouder. I canât hear you.â
âYours!â you cried out, your fingers digging into his back.
He pounded faster, the friction turning sloppy and loud. âYeah. And Iâm fucking it good, right?â He grinned, purely cocky, as you nodded frantically.
He kept up the relentless pace, driving both of you over the edge. âIâm⌠gonnaâŚâ he growled, slamming entirely deep and burying himself inside you as you tightened, your climax hitting you hard enough to make you fall apart right there against him.
"Fuck..." he breathed, lips falling against the column of your throat to kiss gently.
SugarDaddy!ShiuKong: Who spends most of his days buried in work, but the absolute second your name pops up on his phone, the rest of the world ceases to exist. Youâre his perfect doll, and in his eyes, his most important job isn't managing his assetsâit's keeping that pretty smile on your face, no matter what.
SugarDaddy!ShiuKong: Who lives for those exhausted, late-night hours after a grueling workday when you get needy for his attention. When you're willing to do anything to get it, youâll slip right under his heavy mahogany desk while he takes a slow drag from his cigarette. Thereâs no teasing when your hands unbuckle his heavy belt; you just get straight to work. He loves looking down to watch your head bobbing, listening to the sloppy, wet sounds of you taking his thick cock down your throat while you look up at him with wide, completely devoted eyes.
SugarDaddy!ShiuKong:Who secretly lives for the moments you give him attitude, purely for the satisfaction of handling you the second he gets home. Heâll bend you right over his knee, his heavy palm striking your ass in a relentless, bruising rhythm until you're sobbing and soaking through your panties. Some days heâll leave you high and dry just to teach you a lesson; other days, heâll pull your panties aside and play with your pussy until you're begging and crying for him to finally fuck you.
SugarDaddy!ShiuKong:Who ensures designated days just to take you shopping. Shiu happily strolls a step behind you through luxury boutiques, his hands loaded down with shopping bags without a single complaint, watching with a smug, satisfied grin as you go absolute wild with his black card.
SugarDaddy!ShiuKong: In public, his chivalry is unmatched. He always opens your doors, holds your hand, and guides you through crowds like a prize. If youâre wearing heels and complain that your feet hurt, he has no shame in kneeling right there on the pavement to take your heels off and kiss your arches. Before you can even protest, heâll happily hoist you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry you all the way back to the car.
SugarDaddy!ShiuKong: Â By the end of the day, he turns into a total parasite for your touch. Heâll pull you flush against him in bed, holding you so tight it steals your breath. He loves burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent, and leaving deep, dark marks against your shoulderânibbling and biting at you like a snack, until he finally drifts off to sleep.
SugarDaddy!ShiuKong: Who treats your body like his own personal stress relief pillow. Some afternoons, heâll come home, pull you onto the couch, and just bury his face into your soft tummy or smother himself in your tits to block out the world. Once he's decompressed, he takes all that lingering corporate frustration out on your pussy. His absolute favorite position is a heavy mating pressâpinning your knees to your chest so he gets a perfect, unobstructed view of your pretty face scrunching and flushing as his thick cock stretches your pussy, your wetness coating his shaft.
CONTENT: MDNI 18+ FEM!Reader-Office Romance-Smut-Dominant Nanami-Submissive Nanami-Submissive/Dominant Dynamics-Assistant!Reader-Overworked Nanami-P*ssy Eating-Oral S*x-Trapped in Elevator-Walk him like a dog-Feet Kissing-Step on him-Worship her-Public Smut-AssistantxBoss-Taboo-Two Scenarios
Word Count: 1.7k
Pairing: Kento Nanami x Reader
Synopsis: Nanami is an overworked man who, at only twenty-seven, is already desperate to retire. He possesses a weariness that makes him look wise beyond his yearsâattractive in that "distinguished older man" way that leaves you starved for his attention. As his assistant, you are with him constantly, always a single call away, and lately, youâve begun to wonder if the feeling is mutual.
The signs are there: stares that linger a second too long, eye contact that feels heavy with unspoken words, and a physical proximity that borders on the unprofessional. Sometimes his hand rests firmly against the small of your back as he guides you through the office; other times, his fingers drift up your thigh while you stand between his legs as he works at his desk. He treats you like his personal stress relief, squeezing and holding until you feel breathless and delusional.
It is the kind of behavior that warrants a call to HR, but youâve spent months convincing yourself itâs normalâuntil now. Trapped in the silent enclosure of a stalled elevator, the professional veneer finally cracks. He isn't looking at a report anymore; heâs looking at you like youâre his next meal.
Dominant Nanami
It had been an hourâsixty minutes since the elevator car groaned to a halt on the 77th floor, and sixty minutes since your lunch break was supposed to begin.
You stared down at the tips of your heels, heart hammering against your ribs. The heat radiating through your body wasn't born of claustrophobia, but of the man trapped with you.
Kento stood in the opposite corner, checking his watch for the nth time this minute as he waited for the emergency call to be answered. He looked livid.
For a man who lived by a strict scheduleâcompleting every task before a prompt departure to avoid the overtime he so loathedâthis was a disaster. The clock now ticked half past one; he had officially missed a meeting he would now have to laboriously reschedule.
You were already frantically typing on your phone. Your partnership worked because of this unspoken rhythm; you handled the friction of his professional life so he could breathe.
Without a word, you rescheduled his afternoon and cleared his plate to give him the break he craved.
In return, you knew heâd use you as his personal sanctuary. You were his human teddy bearâ always tucked onto his lap, his large hands kneading your thighs to massage his worries away.
Now, you felt his sharp, hazel eyes studying you.
"I rescheduled your meeting," you murmured, desperate to break the heavy silence. "Tomorrow morning, first thing. That way, you can head home right after we get out of here."
"Good... I need a break," he hummed. His gaze traveled up, then down, lingering on the black tights and pencil skirt you'd chosen specifically because you knew heâd appreciate the silhouette.
He checked his watch one last time before rolling up his sleeves. His voice was firm.
"Come here."
"Hm?" You blinked.
"Here." He snapped his fingers, pointing to the small space directly in front of him.
You obeyed, tucking your phone into your bag and clutching it tightly under your arm. "Yes, sir?" you whispered, looking up.
His hand reached out, cupping your jaw with a strength that made you instinctively lean in. His thumb swiped across your lower lip, intentionally smearing your gloss before his hand traveled to your nape. His fingers threaded through your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Nanami?" you breathed.
"Knees," he ordered.
He guided you down firmly. Your bag slipped from your shoulder, thumping onto the floor as you sank to the elevator floor. There were moments like this often, when the stress became a physical weight, where this was the only way he knew how to admit he needed you.
"Open," he whispered, his thumb pressing into your bottom lip.
You obeyed, taking his thumb into your mouth and suckling just as heâd taught you, your eyes locked onto his. He watched with pure, predatory satisfaction before pulling back, his wet thumb swiping your own saliva across your lips. Then came the metallic click of his heavy belt buckle being undone.
His veiny length sprang free, thick and heavyâcurving to the left. You leaned in eagerly, but he caught your hair, holding you back.
"Patience," he murmured. He wrapped his hand around himself, stroking slowly, tapping the tip against your lips to tease you.
You waited, watching a faint smirk curl onto his lips. "Go on."
Your tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of his pre-cum before you began to worship him. You moved with deliberate care, licking and kissing the length of his nine inches.
"Good girl... just like that," he encouraged, his voice dropping an octave.
With a soft moan, you took him in. Keeping your tongue flat and your cheeks hollow, huffing breaths through your nose as you relaxed your throat.
You started with a slow, rhythmic bobbing, mindful of his preference for a gradual build-up.
You watched his Adamâs apple bob as he released a low, shaky breath, his head falling back against the mirrored wall.
His hand twitched against the back of your head, wordlessly urging you deeper. You pushed forward until your nose brushed the blonde thatch of hair at his pelvic bone. You held him there for a beat, adjusting, before sliding back and taking a breath to repeat the motion.
He was a silent lover, offering only heavy groans and the tightening of his grip to signal his approval. You sucked harder, humming around himâa vibration that made his cock twitch deep in your throat. He began to thrust, his movements losing their usual calculated precision as he grew desperate.
Your breathing grew ragged. Your jaw relaxed, vision blurring with tears as saliva began to trickle down your chin, creating a wet mess that he seemed to relish. He kept you pinned there, his hips stuttering as a heavy groan finally tore from his throat.
You felt his warmth spill over your tongue, and you swallowed languidly, opening and closing your throat to milk every drop from him. A final growl left him as he eventually pulled away.
You gasped for air, your breathing uneven as he looked down at you.
"My perfect girl," he sighed deeply. He watched with a softened gaze as you leaned forward to press one last, lingering kiss to the tip of his lengthâa silent, devoted thank you.
Submissive Nanami
You and Nanami had just returned from a late-night meeting. His face was set in a hard sort of pout; heâd wanted to be home hours ago, yet here he was, still working. You watched from the corner of the office as he sat at his desk, typing roughly, taking his frustration out on the keyboard.
"Well, I don't like that attitude," you spoke suddenly. You took a seat in one of the plush chairs heâd set up in the cornerâa comfortable sitting area designed to trick partners into a deal. When people are comfortable, they are easy. That was the logic heâd shared with you.
"I'm just tired," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His tone was sharp, clipped.
Your eyes narrowed. "Repeat that," you ordered firmly, a silent demand for him to check his tone. You liked messing with him like this; oddly enough, it was the only thing that seemed to soothe him after a long day.
"Iâm just tired," he repeated, his voice dropping to a softer, more compliant register.
You hummed in response, nodding slowly. "Come here," you commanded.
"I have toâ"
"Close the laptop and come here."
Nanami obeyed. He shut the device and stood up, prepared to walk over, but you raised a single finger, wagging it in a silent no. Crossing one leg over the other, you added, "Crawl."
His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing for a brief second before he dropped to his knees. Seeing a man of his stature crawling toward you sent a cold thrill through your veins. When he finally knelt before you, you reached out with a manicured hand, grabbing his tie and pulling him forward like a dog on a leash.
You pressed the heel of your shoe into his chest, watching his face flush as a prominent bulge appeared in his slacks.
"I want you to look me in the eyes while you take my panties off with your teeth," you instructed.
He sucked in a sharp hiss of air, leaning in. His hands instinctively reached for your waist, but you kicked him back lightly. "No touching. Not today."
His eyes twitched, but he knew better than to argue. Bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, he watched as you hiked up your pencil skirt. His head dipped between your thighs, and he inhaled deeply, relishing your scent.
"Dirty boy," you laughed softly. Nanamiâs eyes met yours, desperate and dark, as his teeth caught the lace of your underwear. He pulled them down slowly, revealing your bare heat, struggling with the effort it took not to touch you.
"Be a dear and take my shoes off, too?" you pouted mockingly, rolling your ankle in his face. Without hesitation, he reached up and slipped off your red bottoms, beginning to massage your feet without being asked.
"Perfect," you sighed, watching him kiss your toes before he tucked your lace panties into his back pocket. You placed your foot back on his shoulder, murmuring, "I think my good boy deserves a treat after all that hard work."
Slowly, you spread your legs. Your grip on his tie tightened, pulling him flush against you. "Come on."
His hand rubbed over your ankle one last time before his mouth began to work its way up. He worshipped every inch of skin until he reached the center of your heat. He licked slowly, exactly the way you liked. You angled your hips, spreading wider to give him better access, but he teased you, dragging his tongue along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh instead.
"Don't tease me," you huffed.
He growled lowly, finally bringing his mouth to your dripping core. He kissed your clit first, a soft greeting, before his tongue flattened out to lap at you.
"Good," you praised, pressing your foot firmly into his shoulder to keep him pinned there.
He ate like a man starved, his sharp nose rubbing against your clit as he drank you in. Your body began to heat, your core gushing as you let your head fall back against the plush fabric of the chair. You began to ride his face, using him to vent your own stress.
Every sound you made only drove him further. He was barely breathing, slurping up your wetness while his own cock dripped, impossibly hard, against the fabric of his slacks. Your moans grew louder, your hand gripping his tie to pull him as close as humanly possible while you rode his nose into pure ecstasy.
Nanami groaned, a muffled sound of surrender, as he came into his slacks. He didn't pull back, even as you reached your peak, drinking down every drop of your release until you finally commanded him to stop. When he finally looked up, his face was gleaming, painted in your slick.
Your gaze shifted downward, lingering on the dark, damp spot spreading through his expensive slacks.
"You want to fuck me?" you questioned, your voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr.
He nodded desperately, his chest heaving as he looked up at you from his knees.
"Maybe another day," you sighed casually, the words cutting through the heavy tension like ice. You stood up, smoothing out your skirt with a cold, practiced indifference, leaving him high and dry on the office floor.
Synopsis: It started as a simple trip to the park on a Sunday, your self-care day. This was the day you dedicated to your weekly restarts: you spent time away from your phone, went out, tried new foods, took an "everything" shower, watched a drama, and simply relaxed.
But this day wasnât like the others. After your time at the park, you came home with something attached to you.
The morning had been too quiet to mean anything good.
Fresh dew from the incoming spring season clung to the grass, soaking the hem of your skirt as you sat on an old bench. The air felt... untouched, as if no one had sat there in a long time. But you liked thatâhaving a space of your own, a moment of calm while it seemed the world was falling apart.
You opened your bag, grabbed your current favorite book, and began to read. You were barely through the first page when you felt something light and fluffy brush against your leg. Your initial reaction was to flinch back, looking down as if offended, only to soften immediately at the sight of a fluffy white cat. Its coat was clean and silky, and its eyes shone like yellow amber as they looked right at you.
The cat mewled softly, making your heart melt. Book forgotten, you knelt, allowing it to sniff your hand before its head ducked and nuzzled into your palm.
âAwwâŚâ you effused, murmuring other incoherent words, happy to be chosen by such a precious creature. The cat turned, its tail swishing as it began to walk away. âBye-byeâŚâ you frowned, but then it stopped.
Those yellow amber eyes met yours again, waitingâŚ
âDo you want me to follow?â you spoke gently. The cat swished its tail again as if to say yes. And foolishly, you slipped your book back into your bag and began to follow. It led you deeper into the park, towards an area you hadnât even known existed. The trees were thicker here; the air was colder and thinner, making you shiver despite it being a nice spring day.
âArenât we a little⌠far?â you murmured, as if the cat could respond. But it kept going, stopping just before a split in the tree line.
There was a path of fluffy grassâfresh and untouched. The cat stopped here, looking at you expectantly. âOh⌠I lead the way now?â you questioned. The cat just meowed. You swore you saw it shrug before it turned its back to you once more and walked ahead.
Obviously, something was wrong; a strange cat leading you here raised several red flags. But staring down this path, something in your chest tightened, the hair on your arms standing up as if you were instinctively aware that you were no longer alone. You took a step forward, wrapping your arms around yourself and keeping your head on a swivel.
You were always the type to do random things "for the plot," but for once, you felt like listening to your instincts. You looked away from the cat, glancing toward the trees on your right. All of them felt oddly sentientâperfectly scattered, breathing with you, watching you. Then you looked to your left, sensing only stillness. Noticing a strange lack of life, you stopped short and looked ahead for the cat⌠but the white ball of fluff was gone. You were left stranded in this odd limbo.
You looked ahead where the trees stretched on, then looked behind you, but the park scene was gone. That sense of unease grew as you spun around, no longer knowing which way was forward and which was back.
You looked down at the plush grass, searching for your footprints, but even they were gone, as if youâd never walked there. That feeling of being watched grew worse; you looked up, and it watched you from behind; you looked right, and it stared from the left, and so on. You held yourself tighter, stepping back and constantly checking every angle.
You took another step back, your spine colliding with something hard. Your heart stopped, then painfully thumped against your ribs as you jumped and turned around⌠nothing. No one. Whatever it was, its presence told you to run in the other direction.
And you happily did so, rushing back down that path of grass until the tree line closed once more and spat you back out into the park. The cat was forgotten.Â
You were a fool to trust such a cute face.Â
One last chill ran over you, like sharp nails clawing at your cheek, down your jaw, and over your nape.
You walked faster, taking deep breaths to calm yourself as you made your way back toward the main park. Though the feeling of eyes on you never left.
You returned home in the late evening, after straying to take a quick trip to the store for ingredients to make an easy meal. Upon entering your apartment, you expected the warmth of the space to embrace you like a familiar hug, but tonight, the air felt thin.
The incident at the park refused to leave you; that phantom chill still clung to your skin like a film of oil. To drown out the silence, you flicked on the TV, letting a familiar sitcom provide a hollow sense of security. You retreated to the kitchen, intent on doctoring a bowl of ramen into something substantial.
The moment you turned your back to the stove, the air curdled. That presence was backânot just a feeling, but a heavy, suffocating pressure inches from your neck. You spun around, heart hammering against your ribs, only to catch a smudge of shadow dissolving into the corner of the room. Panic flickered in your gut. Suddenly, the kitchen felt exposed.
Too tired to play sentry in your own home, you abandoned the stove. You needed an excuse to stay in the light. Grabbing your phone, you ordered your usual comfort meal, the delivery app already knowing your cravings. You retreated to the couch, curling into the cushions to wait.
The living room was a battlefield of light and shadow, fought between a dim lamp and the flickering glow of the television. As you scrolled through your phone, your eyes drifted toward the TVâand snagged on the darkness behind it.
Your brow furrowed. You rubbed your eyes, desperate to blame sleep deprivation or the strain of a long work week, but the void in the corner didn't dissipate. It seemed to pulse, absorbing the light from the screen. You stared until your vision swam, tracing the faint, jagged geometry of what looked like a face. Before the silhouette could sharpen, a sharp knock at the door shattered the tension. Your phone buzzed. Dinner was here.
You glanced back at the corner. The shadow was gone, replaced by the mundane dullness of the wall. âAbsolutely not,â you muttered, your voice thin and brittle. You avoided that corner like a physical wound as you retrieved your food.
Safe under a plush blanket again, you ate with frantic speed, wishing to swallow your fear with the food. But as the clock crept toward midnight, exhaustion won. The TV watched you more than you watched it. Your head lolled back against the pillows, and you slipped into a heavy, suffocating sleep.
You woke to a world that felt "wrong." The TV was off, though you were certain you hadn't touched the remote. The silence was absoluteâno hum from the AC, no drone of cicadas from the street. It was the silence of a vacuum.
Stiff and aching, you stood to clear away the remains of your dinner. As you reached for a throw blanket to tidy the couch, something shifted in the periphery of your vision. A tall, spindly figure ducked behind the TV. You froze, waiting for the outline to reappear, for the face to show itself. When nothing moved, you made the mistake of looking away.
In an instant, your muscles turned to lead. You were rooted to the floor, unable to even tilt your head. Dread, cold, and paralyzing, flooded your veins as you heard the floorboards groan behind you. Something was manifesting in the darkâsomething heavy, something ancient.
The chill returned, but this time it was physical: sharp, invisible nails dragged slowly up the length of your spine while another set raked across your hip. You tried to gasp, but your lungs refused to expand, as if the darkness itself was leaning on your chest. The sensation peaked when a massive, freezing handâfar too large to be humanâpressed firmly against your stomach.
A strangled whimper broke from your throat. Your world tilted, the floor falling away.
Suddenly, you gasped awake.
The TV was blaring. The dim lamp hummed beside you. You hadn't moved; you hadn't even stood up. A dream? Sleep paralysis? You sat up, hissing as a searing heat radiated from your back. Your head throbbed with a rhythmic, violent pulse.
Desperate to prove it wasn't real, you stumbled into the bathroom and wrenched your shirt over your head. In the harsh fluorescent light of the mirror, the truth stared back. Deep, angry weltsâfive distinct claw marksâwere already scabbing over your spine. They weren't just scratches; they were brands. Bruised and raw, they pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You weren't alone in the park, and you weren't alone now.
You spent the remainder of the night barricaded in your bedroom. The door was bolted, with a heavy dining chair wedged under the handleâa pathetic, wooden prayer against whatever predatory force had managed to reach through your dreams and draw blood.
Determined to never be that vulnerable again, you moved with frantic precision. You latched the windows, drew the curtains tight to seal out the peering night, and checked the closet until you were certain only clothes hung in the dark. You even forced yourself to look under the bed, holding your breath until you saw nothing but dust. Only then, with your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, did you dare to lay your head on the pillow.
The next day arrived with a crushing weight. You had managed only four hours of fitful sleep, having spent the night watching every corner of your room until your body simply gave out.
Now, you stood before the bathroom mirror, brushing your teeth in the dark. When youâd first flicked the switch, the light felt like a physical blow to your eyes. You moved through your routine on autopilotâwashing your face, applying makeup to mask the hollows under your eyes, and dressing for the office.
The morning was choked with a thick, unnatural mist. You began your walk to the station with a single earbud in, trying to drown out the world while remaining hyper-aware of it. That was when you heard them: footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, and undeniably masculine.
You snapped your head back. The sidewalk was empty.
You sucked in a sharp, jagged breath, trying to steady your heart as you pressed on. But the moment you turned away, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud returned. You glanced over your shoulder againânothing but the swirling fog.
You decided to run. If you didn't give in to the fear, it couldn't hurt youâthatâs what the stories said, right? But the faster you moved, the faster the phantom steps followed, matching your desperate pace until you were sprinting. You ducked into the train station just as the air behind you seemed to coalesce into a freezing pressure.
You were left breathless, with visions of that nightmare pressing into your mind.
Work was a blur of mundane misery. You answered phones, fetched your bossâs lunch, and forced a receptionistâs plastic smile for every patient. It was meant to be a temporary job to get you through college, yet here you wereâa degree on your wall and no will to leave the front desk.
When lunch finally rolled around, you couldn't stand the quiet of the office. Couldn't stand the idea of that thing appearing again.
You needed a crowd.
You navigated the bustling city streets until you reached your favorite deli. They had your sandwich ready before you even reached the counterâthe perks of being a regular. As you walked back, clutching your brown-bagged lunch, a small storefront caught your eye.
Madam Seraphinaâs Emporium.
You doubled back, drawn by a strange, magnetic pull. The moment you stepped inside, the atmosphere curdled. The heavy scent of frankincense swirled violently, and the candles lining the shelves guttered as if hit by a sudden draft. It confirmed the dread youâd been carrying all day: the thing from the park hadn't just followed you. It had attached to you.
Before you could even offer a greeting, an older woman emerged from the beaded curtain at the back. She didn't look like a fraud; she looked like a warning. Her face, once beautiful, was now set in a mask of intimidating elegance.
"What have you brought into my shop." she snapped. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation.
"I... I think I need help," you stammered, your voice trembling.
"There is a rot on your soul," she whispered, beginning to circle you like a lioness evaluating a wounded animal. "A shadow that does not belong to you."
"I know," you sighed, the weight of the last twenty-four hours crashing down. "I went too deep into the park. Past the tree line. Something weird happened there, and ever since then, I haven't felt alone."
You hesitated, then reached for the hem of your blouse. With trembling fingers, you turned your back to her and lifted the fabric.
"I had a dream last night," you whispered. "But I woke up with these."
The woman leaned in, her eyes widening as she took in the angry, scabbing claw marks etched into your skin.
Madam Seraphina let out a sharp, hissed breath, and every candle in the shop suddenly extinguished at once, plunging you both into a suffocating, violet gloom.
"Child," she whispered, her voice trembling for the first time. "That was no dream. Youâve been marked for a harvest, and the collector is already standing right behind you."
The words hit you like a physical blow, a surge of cold terror so sharp that tears pricked your eyes.
âCan you help me?â you whispered, your voice cracking into a plea.
âThisâŚâ She shook her head slowly, stepping back into the shadows of her own shop. âThis is beyond my domain. I deal in spirits and stray energy. This is something older.â
âPlease,â you choked out.
âI cannot,â she snapped, her eyes darting to the space just above your shoulder. âBesides, he has made it very clear that I am not to interfere.â
âHe?â The word felt heavy, like lead in your mouth. Your eyes went wide, and though the room remained a blur of violet gloom, the air behind you suddenly solidified.
The presence was no longer just watching; it was pressing into you. You felt a terrifying, phantom weight against your backâa cold, dominating heat that felt less like a haunting and more like a claim. You couldn't see him, but you could feel the invisible tether tightening, possessive and absolute.
You returned home that night utterly defeated. The weight of his presence felt deceptively lighter, but the air still hummed with the tension of a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Skipping dinner entirely, you grabbed a meager snack and bolted for your room. You refused to linger in the hallways, terrified that if you stayed still for even a second, he would materialize out of the woodgrain. After a frantic, paranoid showerâthe thought of his gaze on your bare skin making your stomach churnâyou buried yourself in the most oversized, frumpy pajamas you owned. You barricaded the door exactly as you had the night before, fighting against a mounting headache and the siren call of exhaustion. Something told you that if you stepped back into the hallway, you wouldn't be coming back.
By 3:00 AM, the madness of the last twenty-four hours finally broke you. You were drifting in a haze of semi-consciousness, your head lolling to the side as your phone slipped from your numb fingers and clattered onto the floor.
You jolted awake to find your bedroom door standing wide open. The dining chair lay on its side, useless. A familiar, suffocating darkness had swallowed the room, leaving only the silver, spectral glow of the full moon bleeding through the curtains.
This was wrong. You had locked the door. You had barricadedâ
Your thoughts slammed into a wall of pure terror as a pair of massive hands clamped around your ankles. Another pair of arms braced against the mattress, the bed groaning under a sudden, colossal weight. This was no longer a shadow or a phantom chill; this was flesh, bone, and crushing power. You were pinned, blinded by a veil of darkness, your muscles locked in a state of primal paralysis.
"You're trembling..." the voice murmured, the sound vibrating through the very springs of the bed. It was taunting, savoring the rhythm of your racing heart.
A weak, pathetic whimper was all you could manage.
"Look at me," he snarled. When you hesitated, a handâcalloused and impossibly strongâseized your jaw, forcing your head up. "I said, look at me."
Your gaze finally collided with his, and the sheer heat of his presence made your skin burn. Towering over you was a nightmare made manifest. Four crimson eyes glowed with a predatory hunger, tracking your every breath. His face was a mask of sharp, cruel linesâa jagged jaw and a dominant, regal nose, framed by a shock of pinkish-red hair.
He was barely human, a humanoid titan with four massive arms covered in intricate black markings that seemed to writhe in the moonlight. His broad chest and corded muscles were so expansive you felt tiny beneath him, certain he was as wide as the mattress itself. You weren't just being haunted anymore; you were being claimed.
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the heat radiating from his skin like an open furnace. Two of his hands remained pinned to your wrists, while a third traced the scabbing marks on your spine with terrifying tenderness.
"You modern playthings are all the same," he rumbled, a dark, guttural chuckle vibrating against your chest. "You go poking into the rotted corners of the world, chasing 'stories' and 'fun' as if they were nothing more than ink on a page. You stepped onto the grass of a sanctuary that has been hungry for a thousand years."
He gripped your jaw tighter, forcing you to meet all four of those burning, crimson eyes.
"The cat wasn't a guide, little fool. It was a herald. By following it past the tree line, by treading on untouched soil and answering its call, you didn't just find a hidden park. You walked into a court and offered yourself as tribute. That 'tightness' you felt in your chest? That was the contract sealing."
He shifted his weight, the mattress groaning as he hovered over you, his massive silhouette blotting out the moon.
"There are no 'random things' here. You didn't do this for the hell of it; you did it for me. You crossed the threshold into my domain, you felt my eyes, and you stayed. Every step you took deeper into those trees was a word in a vow you can't unsay.â
âWâŚwhy?â you managed to choke out, your throat so dry it felt like swallowing glass.
The shift in the air was instantaneous. His grip on your jaw didn't loosen; instead, his thumb traced the line of your lower lipâa gesture that was sickeningly slow, a predator tasting his kill.
"Because the world has grown thin and weak," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that made your blood run cold. "I have no interest in a vessel that will shatter under my weight, nor a servant who will wither in a week. I watched you in those woods. You have a fire in you that hasn't been snuffed out by this soft, modern life."
He moved then, shifting his massive weight until he was caging you completely, his chest a wall of radiating heat pressing you deep into the mattress. One of his lower hands slid from your ankle, moving upward with a terrifying, possessive certainty until it rested flat against your abdomenâthe same place he had branded in your "dream."
"You have the constitution Iâve been searching for," he hissed, his four eyes narrowing, tracking the frantic pulse in your neck. "My blood is a curse that most cannot carry. It burns. It destroys. But you... you are a vessel primed for something greater than mere possession."
He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your skin, smelling of ozone and ancient, rusted iron.
"I am not here to simply haunt these halls or hide in your shadows. I am here to leave a legacy that this world will never forget. You are the soil where I will plant my heir."
Every bone in your body went rigid. This couldnât be real. This had to be another layer of the nightmare, another trick of a sleep-deprived mind. âYouââ
âI will have you,â he interrupted with a snarl, the words low, vibrating through your skin and settling into your bones like a death sentence. âAnd you will learn to crave the weight of your King.â
His hands roamed over you with a casual, devastating strength, the fabric of your pajamas shredding like paper beneath his touch. "Pathetic..." he sighed, the word vibrating against your skin.
The frigid air of the room rushed over your sudden nakedness, sending a violent shiver through you. Even as your legs trembled and your skin pebbled in the cold, a traitorous heat began to coil deep in your belly, leaving you slick and aching.
The shame of your own reaction burned hotter than his touchâwhy did a part of you crave this?
He looked down his nose at you, his four eyes tracking the flush spreading across your chest, scenting your arousal in the air. "So easy," he murmured, his tone dripping with bored superiority. One set of hands kept you pinned effortlessly to the mattress, while another slipped down to cup the wet heat between your legs.
The moment his calloused palm brushed over your center, you writhed, your hips bucking instinctively away from the intensity. The defiance earned you a sharp, heavy slap right against your core. The sting was sudden and jarring, forcing a ragged gasp from your lungs as you whimpered into the dark.
You glanced down in a haze of shock, watching as a jagged slit tore open across his muscular abdomen. An unnatural, massive mouth appeared, its long tongue unfurling like a velvet ribbon to lap greedily at your heat.
He chuckled at your expression, his primary eyes locked onto yours with cruel amusement while the mouth at his stomach busied itself with tasting you, expertly teasing you toward the edge. To your horror and delight, another mouth split open in the center of his palm, its tongue dragging from your taint to your core in a wet, rhythmic stroke.
The sensation was a sensory assaultâmonstrous, overwhelming, and utterly perfect. It drove every coherent thought from your mind, leaving you as nothing more than a trembling instrument for his pleasure.
Your head pressed back into the pillows, exposing the desperate arch of your throat to him. He seized the invitation, leaning in with his primary mouth to claim the soft skin, sucking and biting with a rhythmic, bruising pressure until he drew a copper-tang of blood. A low, guttural groan vibrated from his chest straight into your heart; he was revelling in the taste of you, intoxicated by the intoxicating mix of your arousal and your lifeblood.
His tongues worked in a wet, relentless symphony, driving you closer and closer to the precipice. Every moan robbed you of your breath as you began to unravel, your body arching violently into his touch, your legs spreading wider in a silent plea for more.
The massive hands that kept your arms pinned above your head shifted, his thick fingers threading through yours. It was a strangely intimate gestureâa tether of bone and muscle that felt more like a brand than a simple hold.
He remained silent, his four eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying, unblinking intensity as he drove you to the edge of madness. You were seeing stars, your vision blurring as a frantic, white-hot itch built deep within your marrowâa craving for a cure that only he could provide.
You were left panting and shivering as he pulled away, wasting no time in maneuvering you into position. He cleared the bed with a violent sweep of his arms, throwing pillows and blankets to the floor so you had nowhere left to hide.
He settled between your thighs, two hands gripping your hips and two pinning your knees back toward your chest. The robes at his waist fell away, revealing the terrifying reality of his biologyâtwo thick, pulsing members, one set above the other, both stone-hard and waiting.
Your expression crumbled into pure horror as he reached down, dragging your own slickness back toward your rear entrance. His fingers massaged the sensitive skin with clinical precision until you puckered for him, before he returned his grip to your thighs to anchor you.
Then, he decided you were ready. He lined himself up at both entrances simultaneously and pushed inward without a hint of remorse.
Your hand slapped over your mouth, eyes rolling back and crossing at the sheer force of the breach. The staggering fullness satisfied a hunger you hadn't known you possessed, filling every void with a single, devastating thrust.
But he was barely getting started. Keeping your legs pinned and your body crushed into the mattress, he began a brutal rhythm, pounding into you with enough force to rattle your bones. Your insides felt like they were catching fire, tightening instinctively around him as he claimed every inch of you.
You couldn't form words; you could only endure him. He was relentless and dominating. The only sound you could manage was a jagged screamâa sound that served only to confirm his prowess and drive him to hit you even harder.
The bed rocked violently, the headboard slamming against the wall in a rhythmic staccato that kept time with the wet, heavy sound of your coupling.
Under his assault, your mind finally fractured. You melted into the mattress, your thoughts blurring into a haze of white noise as a new knot of pleasure began to coil deep within youâa release he deceptively allowed you to reach.
"Did I tell you that I was finished?" he snarled, the vibration of his voice cutting through your daze.
You froze, your tear-filled eyes immediately locking onto his.
He hummed, a low, cruel sound that vibrated in his chest as he shifted positions once more. His multiple hands moved with terrifying coordination, dragging you across the bed until he was seated with his back against the headboard, holding you wide open before him.
In the mirror at the end of the bed, you were forced to confront the sight: your body splayed, his thick members lined up and waiting. His nails bit into your thighs as his other set of hands forced your knees up into a full nelson, exposing you completely to the glass.
"Watch," he commanded.
He snarled the word into your ear, ensuring your eyes stayed on the mirror as he resumed his rough lovemaking. You bounced on his lap, a helpless, whining mess, watching in a daze of shame and ecstasy as he stretched you open.
If a demon had to haunt you, a dark, primal part of you was glad it was this one. Your mind went blank and primitive as he drew yet another release from you, your whines growing low and desperate against the backdrop of his guttural groans. Each growl vibrated through his massive chest and over your skin, driving you to the brink.
His earlier words echoed through your mind like a bellâLegacy. Heir.
Your breathing grew shallow, your vision blurring until the mirror faded away. You settled into the heat of him, anchored by his strength. As he hit that precise, devastating spot one final time, he let out a deep, primal growl, drawing out his own release and cementing the claim he had made in the woods.
The violence of the moment ebbed into a heavy, pulsing silence, broken only by your ragged, broken gasps for air. He didn't pull away immediately; instead, he adjusted himself, draped over you, a mountain of dark muscle and cooling heat that pinned you deep into the mattress. One of his primary hands moved to your throat, not to squeeze, but to feel the frantic, terrified gallop of your pulse against his palmâa rhythmic reminder that you were alive, and you were his.
"Mine," he rumbled, the word vibrating through your exhausted frame like a death toll.
He withdrew with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you feeling cold and dangerously hollow. He didn't offer a blanket or a word of comfort. He simply sat at the edge of the bed, a titan in the moonlight, watching you shiver with those four unblinking, crimson eyes. You realized then that the locks on the windows and the chair under the handle hadn't been to keep him outâthey had been to keep you in.
When the sun finally began to bleed through the curtains, you jolted awake, your body screaming in protest. The room was deathly quiet. The door was shut, and the dining chair sat perfectly back under the handle, exactly as you had placed it before the madness began.
For a heartbeat, you allowed yourself the desperate hope that it had all been a fever dream, a manifestation of the trauma from the park. But as you tried to sit up, your legs gave way, trembling violently from the memory of his strength. You looked down, your breath hitching as you saw the distinct, darkening bruises in the shape of massive fingers marking your thighs.
He hadn't vanished. He had simply retreated back into the shadows of your home, satisfied and settled, waiting for the sun to go down so he could claim his tribute once more.
A/N: This is my first tumblr fic, I usually post on AO3 but since I've had a hard time committing to writing longer stories, I've decided to do short post. Hope you enjoy! <3
CONTENT. MDNI18+ Romance-Slight Angst-Smut-Yearning-Marriage in crisis/Restoration-Dominant Higuruma-Domestic Realism-FEM!reader-DILF!Higuruma-Submissive/Dominant Dynamics-P*eating-Gentle smut.
Word Count: 2.7k
Pairing: Higuruma x reader
Synopsis: You and Hiromi have been married for a year and a half now, having first met on a blind date that your best friend tricked you into attending, and his assistant coerced him into participating. Unexpectedly, you bonded instantly, and within six months, he proposed. Now you are happily settled, a stay-at-home mom to your nine-month-old daughter, Hikari. Hiromi chose that name; it means "light"âhis light and his life. His girls.
But things haven't always been so perfect. Lately, Hiromi has been preoccupied with a grueling case, representing a young manâa boy, reallyâjust 18 years old and barely starting university, yet already facing charges for the murder of his roommate. The litigation has kept him on edge for weeks; he has been pushing himself relentlessly, driven by a profound need to help others despite being acutely aware that the justice system rarely mirrors his own compassion.
He has been staying at the office late, working overtime, even though he loathes it and you despise it. Usually, you maintained a steady rhythm: he handled the baby in the morning while you prepared breakfast, then you packed his lunch and kissed him goodbye. All afternoon, you stayed home with the infant or ran errands, and by the evening, he returned to take over the night shift while you decompressed by cooking dinner. Hikari was typically fed by then, only requiring a bath and burping. Hiromi would handle those tasks so he could join you for your nightly "date nights" at the table, enjoying food and wine together before retiring to bed.
But that routine has been fractured. With him coming home late, he could no longer manage the night shift, and he spent the morning shifts half-asleep. This change left you feeling like a neglected housewife. It isn't just sorrow; you felt a simmering rage and bitterness. That's when the arguing beganâthe cold shoulder and the friction. You let him work while keeping your chin high and looking down your nose at him, making your displeasure undeniable.
He hated the tension but convinced himself you would speak to him when you were ready. However, after two weeks of this constant atmosphere, he finally reached his breaking point.
The apartment used to feel like a refuge. Quiet. Intentional. Every object was placed with care; every silence was shared instead of merely endured.
Now, it breathes wrong.
Hiromi stands just inside the doorway, briefcase still in hand, listening. Not for peace, he has long since stopped expecting that; instead, he listens for the pitch of the crying. It cuts through the apartment like a blade, thin and relentless. Your nine-month-oldâs voice had learned urgency faster than anything else.
And beneath it, nothing. No footsteps. No soft humming. No you.
He exhales slowlyâthe kind of breath that never quite fills the lungsâand sets his case down with practiced quiet. His coat follows. His movements are precise and controlled, habits from the courtroom bleeding into a home that no longer responds to order.
The nursery door is slightly ajar. Inside, Hikari writhes in her crib, face flushed and fists clenched in blind protest against a world that offers no reasoning. Hiromi steps forward immediately, his long fingers hesitating for only a second before lifting her. He is carefulâalways carefulâbut there is an unfamiliar stiffness in his hold, as if he is handling something fragile he doesn't fully understand.
âItâs alright,â he murmurs, his voice low and even. It is the same tone he uses with witnesses, with defendants, and with people on the verge of breaking.
The baby girl doesnât care. The crying continues. Of course it does.
There is a faint sound behind himâthe soft drag of fabric against the hallway wall. He doesnât turn right away. He already knows. You lean there, arms folded loosely, your hair unkempt and eyes shadowed in a way sleep cannot fix. You watch himânot the baby.
âYouâre late,â you say. Not sharp. Not loud. Just⌠tired.
âI had a case.â His response is automatic. Neutral.
âYou always have a case.â
He adjusts the baby slightly, his gaze fixed downward. âIt ran longer than expected.â
A hollow excuse. The truth is uglier: he didnât rush home. Silence stretches between you, filled only by the babyâs cries until it feels like the walls themselves are vibrating.
âYou didnât even text,â you add.
Hiromi finally looks at you. Really looks. There was a time your eyes softened when they met hisâa time when that look meant something warm and chosen. Now, it feels like standing across from opposing counsel: measured, guarded, and already anticipating disappointment.
âI forgot,â he says. Itâs honest, which almost makes it worse. Your lips press together as something flickers behind your expressionâhurt, anger, or perhaps bothâbut it dies quickly.
âOf course you did.â
The babyâs cries spike, sharp enough to sever whatever fragile thread remains between you. Hiromi tries again, shifting and murmuring, doing everything technically correct yet emotionally insufficient. You watch for another moment before pushing off the wall.
âGive her to me.â It isn't a request.
He hesitatesâjust a fraction too longâbefore stepping forward. Your hands brush as you take the child, and the contact feels alien, like touching someone he used to know. The crying doesnât cease immediately, but it changes. It softens. The baby settles against your chest as if recognizing something essential.
Hiromi notices. He notices everything.
âSheâs been like this all day,â you murmur quietly, swaying slightly. âShe wouldnât sleep. Wouldnât eat much. I didnât know what else to do.â
âYou could have called me.â
You let out a small, humorless laugh. âFor what? So you could tell me youâre busy?â
The accusation lands precisely where it hurts mostânot because it is cruel, but because it is true. He has no defense. In court, he lives for arguments and dismantling objections with logic. Here, the rules of engagement are gone. There is no precedent to save him.
âI would have answered,â he says quietly. It sounds weak even to his own ears.
You roll your eyes. âYour dinner is on the table.â You huff, turning your back to him in a clear dismissal.
Hiromi stands there, watching you leave with the baby quiet against you.
The kitchen is dark when he finally enters. The table is set with one place: his. There is a plate of cooling pasta and a glass of wine that has likely gone warm. He eats anyway, clearing his plate in the dark. He sits in the silence for a long while, listening as you shower and prepare for bed, before he finally washes his dishes.
The house is hushed when he finishes. He moves through it carefully, like a man navigating a battlefield of unspoken resentment. The bedroom is dark when he pushes open the door. You are already in bed, facing away from him.
But he won't accept thisânot the silence, not the distance.
He moves soundlessly, noting that you are half-asleep. He removes his shoes, his belt, and his slacks. His button-down shirt is the last to go, leaving him standing there in his boxers. Then, slowly and deliberately, he pulls the blankets off you, watching as you huff and roll onto your back to face him.
âWhat are youââ
You stop. Your eyes widen slightly, sleep and shock dulling your voice. Hiromi doesn't answer; he doesn't need to. The question was rhetorical anyway. He climbs over her, one knee settling between your thighs, hands finding her hips through the thin fabric of your nightgown. He feels for the panty line, finding it and immediately pulling the lace off. Your eyes remain locked on him, dilated and dark, as he lowers his head between your legs.
Your breath catches.
This isn't tenderness. This is a claim. This is an erasure of the day, if only for a fleeting moment. Hiromi is methodicalâhis mouth hot and insistent against your bare skin, his tongue finding the heat he knows you cannot withhold from him. Not even now. Especially not now.
You shift, thighs trembling, but your hands stay at your sides, clutching the sheets. You moan out desperately, your legs shaking with a sudden, violent jolting. Your reaction is immediateâa sharp, desperate sound that tears through the quiet of the bedroom, bypassing every logical argument youâve had today. He doesn't let up. If anything, your desperation feeds his own. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
He is relentless. This is the only apology he knows how to giveâthe kind that requires no words, only evidence.
Your head falls back into the pillows, toes curling as he lifts your legs over his shoulders. He watches youâthe way your neck arches, how your breasts rise and fall with each ragged, starving breath. His thumbs dig into your inner thighs, spreading you wider. He isn't gentle. He has never been gentle like this. This is need; this is an interrogation of the senses.
You spread so easily for him, melting right into the palms of his hands. That surrenderâthat immediate, unresisting softnessâis the only verdict he accepts.
He groans against you, the vibration humming straight into your core, and buries his face deeper. He worships you with an intensity that borders on the feral, licking and sucking until your thighs are trembling uncontrollably against his ears. The silence of the apartment is shattered by your broken sounds. You fight the urge to scream, instead kicking as a wave of pure pleasure crashes over you.
You arch off the bed, your back bowing, mouth open in a silent scream you manage to swallow for the sake of the sleeping child down the hall. Your fingers finally find his hairâclutching, pushing, and pulling him closer all at once. He feels your grip tighten just before you come apart, the first shuddering wave crashing through you.
He drinks it in. Every broken gasp, every twitch of your muscles. Your hips buck, your pussy rubbing against his nose, desperate for friction. He doesn't pull away. He lets you use him. He lets you grind against him, seeking that last, overwhelming edge of release. His nose presses hard against you, his tongue working furiously to meet every erratic roll of your hips. He is suffocating in you, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
Finally, you collapse into the mattress, arms falling above your head as you catch your breath. Your legs remain draped wide over him as he begins to kiss his way up your body. His mouth travels a slow, possessive pathâover your trembling stomach, between your breasts, up the sensitive column of your throat. He doesn't rush. Each kiss is a statement: Mine. Still mine.
When he reaches your jaw, he pauses, hovering just above your lips. "You going to keep that attitude?"
You shake your head, the movement slight against the pillow.
"Good."
Itâs a quiet verdict, but absolute. He lowers his weight fully onto you, finally letting his mouth cover yoursâtasting of salt and silence and you. The kiss is deep, demanding all the oxygen left in your lungs. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, one hand threading into your hair to keep you from looking away.
You frown, locking eyes with him.
"Don't start that again," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your furrowed brow. âYou know what I mean.â His voice is softer now, but no less firm. "The silence. The dismissal. That look in your eyes like youâve already decided Iâm not worth the fight."
His thumb traces your bottom lip, dragging it down slightly. "You don't get to do that after this."
You sigh, a heavy weight of guilt settling in your chest. "I'm sorry..." You pout, the expression small and vulnerable.
He sighs too, but his expression softens at the sight of it. It isn't enough to fix the weeks of tension, but itâs a start. He kisses the tip of your nose. "You're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to tell me I fucked up." His hand slides down to wrap around your throat, his touch light and grounding. "But you aren't allowed to shut me out like that."
You nod, leaning into his dominance, finding a strange comfort in the firm boundaries he sets. His thumb presses lightly against your pulse point as you lean into him. His other hand moves to cup your jaw, tilting your face up.
"Say it," he murmurs. "Tell me you understand."
"I understand..." you whisper.
"Louder."
It isn't a request. His grip stays gentle but firmâa reminder of the dynamic you both crave. He wants to hear it in your voice, clear and submissive. He wants to know you're truly present.
"I understand," you speak up, your tone soft but desperate.
He rewards you with a slow, satisfied nod. He releases your jaw, letting his hand slide down to rest heavily on your hip. "That's my girl," he breathes against your lips.
He shifts his weight, settling between your thighs againâheavy, hard, and unmistakably ready. He doesn't ask permission; tonight, the silence has been broken.
He thrust into you with deliberate slownessâpunishingly gentle strokes designed to remind you of every word spoken. His hand returns to your throat, not squeezing, but holding you there as he kisses you deeply. It is a reconciliation and a reclaiming of territory all at once.
"I want... I want..." you pant, your voice hitching.
"Tell me," he whispers against your mouth, his hips rolling languidly against yours. "Use your words...tell me what you want." His hand on your hip digs in, encouraging you to meet his slow, deep thrusts.
"You," you shiver, your lashes fluttering as you lock eyes with him, remembering why you chose him, why you built a life with this man. "All of you... please."
The words hit him deeper than any victory in court ever could. His jaw tightens, his rhythm faltering for just a heartbeat before he buries himself fully inside you. When he speaks, his voice is a low, jagged rasp.
"You already have it." He pulls back only to thrust deep again, harder this time, anchoring himself to you. "You've always had it."
âThen give me moreâŚâ you begged, the words coming out as a breathless, fractured prayer.
His eyes flash with something fierceâa volatile mixture of possessiveness, desire, and a deep, aching love. He knows exactly what youâre asking for. It isnât just the physical sensation; itâs a plea for more of his time, more of his care, more of the man who used to look at you like you were his only world. He sees the vulnerability in your eyes, the raw need to be seen, and it anchors him to the present, far away from the cold files and courtroom walls.
âItâs all yours, my dear,â he murmurs, his voice a jagged rasp against your skin. âEverything I am.â
He begins moving with a renewed sense of urgency, the slow, methodical pace from before giving way to a desperate, hungry rhythm. He isn't just making love to you anymore; heâs trying to fuse himself to you, to make up for every hour he spent away and every text he forgot to send. Each thrust is an oath, a silent promise hammered into the mattress beneath you.
As long as he held you, you knew you were safe. Even as your senses began to fray and your mind spun into a haze of white heat, the weight of him was your only reality. You arched beneath him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you chased that final, elusive edge.
When the end finally came, it was a total collapse. You cried out his name, a sharp, broken sound that he caught in his own mouth, swallowing your release as his own body finally gave way. He surged into you one last time, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in ragged, synchronised gasps.
The silence that followed was different than the one before. It wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence of resentment, but a soft, exhausted peace.
He didn't pull away immediately. Instead, he collapsed onto his elbows, shielding you with his frame, his hand sliding from your throat to cradle the side of your face. He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering there for a long time as the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a profound, quiet intimacy. In the dark of the bedroom, with the distant hum of the city outside and your daughter sleeping soundly down the hall, the fracture between you finally felt sealed.
Synpopsis: In the dazzling, high-pressure world of Formula 1, UA Racing stands at the top-its Blue and white cars legendary on circuits from Suzuka to Silverstone. Behind the wheel:
->Izuku: the quiet tactician, turns data into instinct, his driving style smooth and precise.
->Katsuki: raw and explosive, muscles the car through corners, driving not just with skill-but with fury.
Into this charged dynamic steps Y/N, a young but brilliant aerodynamicist hired as the team's new lead designer. At first dismissed as just another engineer, she quickly proves she can see what others miss- building a new car design so aggressive it might redefine what the team can do.
Art: @Simi_Storm (Twitter)
A/N I started this fic a while ago and barely finished it about halfway into January of 2026.đ¤
Pairing: Toji Zenin Ă Plus-sized Black Reader
Word Count: 12,292
Synopsis: Two worlds collide when reigning UFC champion Toji Zenin is reluctantly paired with Y/N, a gifted yet ruthlessly disciplined ballerina. What begins as a clash of tempers and lifestyles slowly forces Toji to confront parts of himself heâs spent years buryingâchanging him in ways he never thought possible.
Art: @_jtvll (Twitter)
A/N I wrote this all today, no breaks fr. Unfortunately, I couldn't find any black plus-sized ballerina pictures on Pinterestđ
