Monster boy x human woman where the males have complex courting rituals to prove their worthiness to potential partners. He starts nesting, building a soft, inviting cocoon for her when she visits. He hunts larger and fiercer prey to prove he can feed her. He fluffs up his fur and grooms himself to make sure he looks his best for her. When she comes over, he flops onto his back and exposes his tummy to show his submission and let her mount him, but she pats his belly instead, which leaves him frustrated. He's never met a woman who doesn't immediately takes what she wants, so why isn't she taking him??? He's trying sooo hard to show that he's fertile and willing, and she's clearly into him given the way she flushes when he purrs in her lap, so why isn't she mounting him already????
Bonus points if the monsters have sexual dimorphism where the females are bigger and stronger than the males, but males are still much larger than humans. He thinks the reason his human gf isn't taking charge is bc of his size, so he makes sure to crouch down or flop onto the ground so he's face-to-face or below her, in hopes she'll get the message. This just leads her to think he wants to cuddle. She's more than happy to scritch his belly and under his chin until she notices that he's been rock hard the whole time.
(ngl i was nervous abt posting hahaha-- anyways, this'll prolly be my only entry cos my year end exam is like. this week. haha. tho if i have the time, i'll prolly try to do the other prompts too)
You wake up groggy and disoriented, with a stale taste of metal and something clinically bitter in your mouth—cotton-tongue running over your gums, sensitive under the inspection, only to find that your teeth are missing.
Eyes wide at the horrific discovery, you shake the sleep off enough to correct yourself: they’re not gone, but definitely different—no longer sharp, but almost flat. When you’ve fully sobered up, you identify that they aren’t your teeth at all, but replacements—veneers installed in their wake.
Freaking out, you hold a hand over your mouth, only to find your claws had been filed as well—all the way down, leaving them no sharper than your fingertips. And your fur, too—groomed in your sleep and cut in odd places. Especially your ears—rubbing them between your digits, it’s almost as if they’ve been sheared.
It’s dark around you, and cold. The floor is a hard and coarse cement beneath a fleece blanket—the cheap kind you’d get for free on a plane, joined by this strange synthetic medical gown someone must have wrapped you in.
In front of you, a weak ceiling light casts a pattern, catching on something. Swivel-eyed and out of focus, you recognize it a moment later—a metal mesh.
You’re in a cage.
Scurrying back, you huddle into the corner with knees tucked to your chest before spotting the other poodles, each locked away in their own cages just next to yours, like in a pound. They’ve also been cut, you notice. It’s strange, but at first glance, you nearly mistook them for sheep.
A loud clanger rings out through the basement before you can further think about it, and a heavy metal door creaks open with more light spilling down a staircase at the end of the room, followed by footfall descending the steps—two pairs, the last heavier than the first.
“Remember, we’re only keeping one. The rest will go on the market in a week, so choose wisely.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
They come into view shortly—a big Shepherd of some kind walking in front, clad in business attire, his polished shoes tapping with stride against the concrete floors. Behind him, there’s an even bigger beast. Though slouched, walking with his hands shoved down his pockets, he’s still larger than the one in front—a Gray wolf—dressed leisurely in no shoes at all—just large paws and black claws scraping against the rough cement as he shuffles along—sleepy-eyed, shaggy-furred, bed-head and all.
“Ugh, none of these are right,” he growls groggily under his breath, yawning with massive canines on display, jaded eyes scowling at your fellow poodles as he stalks past the chicken wire, all of them growling back with flashed teeth gnashing despite being dull like yours.
It’s strange, but if anything… they look like herbivore teeth. For an odd second, you think you might have been right the first time—maybe they are sheep. But if that really were the case, then why the hell would you be here? And why the hell are they growling like dogs? You shake your head—still a little dazed, making you feel bewildered. But no, you were right in being wrong—they’re not sheep. They’re poodles just like you, and so that just makes you beg another question: what the fuck’s going on?
“Well,” the Shepherd sighs, ignoring the uproar with disappointed disinterest. “Making herbivores out of carnivores isn’t exactly an easy science, and it’s only the first test group. I’m sure we’ll find other methods of perfecting it soon enough—at least when it comes to training and–”
“The eyes are wrong,” the wolf adds, dismissing the other one. “Too sharp. Need ‘em more docile.”
“We have contact lenses that’ll fix that,” the Shephard assures, unbothered. “Just focus on picking one and we’ll make the last few adjustments from there.”
The wolf scoffs at that, “Tch—” His upper lip curled in disgust, he looks over the dozen poodles as if the very sight of them was making him sick. “None of these are worth keeping—just sell ‘em.”
Long legs as they have, they pass your cage in a flash without even looking at you, still arguing over whatever it is they’re talking about. And so you remain there, hidden away in the corner, still waiting to understand what’s going on, though not about to call them back and ask.
But before they’re fully gone again, the wolf comes to a sudden halt, as if having overheared your thoughts, then turns around and walks back, coming to a decided stop right behind the wire.
He doesn’t say or do anything other than stare right at you, hunched at the back, eyes large and reflective, glaring through the dark with his hands and claws hooking into the mesh like it were meat, lurching closer, so close his nose was peeking through.
“This one…” he says then, lowly in a murmur, so low it’s almost lost in the rumble of it. “Not bad.”
The Shepherd joins him shortly. More reserved, he appraises you with his arms folded across his crispy white dress shirt, sleeves bunched at the elbows, flexing with his head cocked sideways.
“Hmph, you’re right,” he agrees more nonchalantly. “Didn’t even notice her.”
His stare is different, not hungry like the wolf, but something else, something stoic and scrutinious. “Let’s have a closer look.”
He fishes forth the keys from his belt, and the other poodles settle at the sound, eyes peeled as he unlocks your cage. It swings inward, wide open. Though with both of them lurking just shy of the threshold, you remain where you are with your knees up under your chin, making yourself as small as possible.
“Come on then,” the Shepherd calls out—strictly yet with an undertone of something strangely encouraging—and you get a sense he's done this before, or at the very least something similar. “No need to be shy. We’re not gonna hurt you.”
Still, though, you don’t budge from your spot. In fact, as it stands, you barely even breathe or blink.
“She’s scared,” the Wolf makes plain.
To which the other dog scoffs with a sarcastic drawl, “Oh? I wonder why.” Looking at his partner, all bristled fur, seeming static in anticipation. He rolls his eyes, then switches his gaze back to you again. “Don’t mind him. He’s just excited, is all. We’ve been wanting to do this for a long time, but he never really believed it would actually work.”
You don’t understand what he’s talking about. Or actually, you think you might, but still, it makes no sense even when you voice it in your head—they’re turning poodles into sheep. Or, well, aesthetically in any case. You included. But why the fuck would anyone do that?
Before you’re able to find any answers, the Shepherd crosses the sill in a decided step toward you, continuing as he goes, “To be fair, I wasn’t so sure either. I mean, I figured we’d achieve some level of resemblance. But I must admit… looking at you closer, I can hardly spot the difference. Kinda looks like we wrangled a real one by accident.”
It’s when he’s only a short meter away that some sort of primal instinct takes over and sparks your body into moving—making you all but leap around him, going straight for the open gate in a thoughtless scramble for escape.
Of course, whatever that urge was, it had its sole focus on seizing the chance and zero regard for the other dominating presence standing there—big and broad like the door itself. For some inconceivable reason, your body seemed convinced it could somehow slip past him, but that idea was quite quickly quashed when his large paws grabbed you before you ever even managed to stick a single toe outside.
“Fuck, she even runs like prey,” he growls, though now no longer with a tone of unenthusiasm, but the total opposite—sneering, amused, chuckling with a grin right at your ear—voice husky and thick-steeped with something heated, “Head empty and heart racing—you’re just like one. It’s adorable.”
You don’t know what happens after that. A sting in your neck makes a numbness spread throughout your body, making you grow limp in the wolf’s arms.
You spot the Shepherd holding up an empty needle before your eyes droop closed once again.
You don’t know how long you’re out, but it feels like years—so long, you’re body’s become rigid, stiff all over, like you’ve fossilized in the wait. Unable to move, unable to open your eyes—senseless and dizzy, you slowly but surely regain the ability to feel.
You’re someplace different now, you gather after another moment. Lying in something softer, something warmer—not cement any longer, but a cushion of sorts. There’s a different scent in the air, as well—more intimate than the stale humidity of the cellar.
Still, there’s something heavy weighing around your ankle, solid and smooth, making your skin clammy beneath it—telling you that despite being out of the cage, you’re still trapped.
There are voices, too—the same ones from before. You lie still while listening to them talk.
“She’s so tiny…” the one you recognize as the wolf says, tone calm and soft as though not wanting to wake you. “Like a lamb.”
He’s close. Since you feel his breath waft with warmth across your face, you’d guess just shy of a foot away—words ticklish in your ears, with their content giving rise to goosebumps.
“I agree,” the Shepherd says. “It really is uncanny.”
There’s sounds of a nose sniffing, before a heavy sigh is released—an awful, gravely noise that makes you have to withhold a whimper, listening to him groan, “Mh—smells like grass.”
“So the fragrance is a success, then,” the Shepherd states, sounding pleased, but with a different objective—not really engaging with the wolf, so much as mumbling to himself. You can hear him pacing back and forth, along with the clicking of a pen, engrossed in jotting something down. “Good to know.”
There’s a rapsy laugh, the lazy sort, before the wolf drawls again, “Shit, you really thought of everything, didn’t yah?”
The other one hums absentmindedly, responding with a type of rehearsed answer—too busy with his scribbling, “When making a realistic experience, thinking of everything is a requirement.”
“Tch–yeah?” the wolf mocks. “Well, all this shit about perfume and veneers is kinda taking away from the whole realistic experience, just so you know...”
The Shepherd sighs then, clicking his pen again. “We’re here to assess what works and pinpoint other possible areas of improvement," he explains, then continues strictly, "If we plan to make a business out of this experiment, then we’d better make sure our product is perfect.”
To which the wolf just scoffs. “You’re thinking too much like usual. With a million-dollar idea like this–” You feel a claw scrape against your cheek, dipping into the fat of them just as his voice goes even lower. “There’s no way we can fail.”
There's a silence as the Shepherd broods, clicking his pen once, then twice before concluding, “Mh, I'm sure you're right… However, there's no fault in striving for perfection.”
“Tch—well, look no further, my friend.” The wolf's voice is seeped in sarcasm. And you swear you can feel the grin of it spreading in front of you despite not seeing it directly—the threat of its bite stirring your instincts as though they’ve got eyes of their own, peeled wide and dreadful. “She’s perfect.”
You struggle to lie still, to keep your breath in tune, to not heed the fight or flight alarm within you, making you restless to do something, despite not having a clue about what.
“Don’t you think?” the wolf eggs, even closer now, you think. “Lying there... playing dead like any other prey would as though I can’t hear her little heart beating for dear life.”
Your eyes open at that, looking back into that laser-focused gaze, which immediately has you spring up, already having forgotten about the metal cuff on your ankle.
None of it matters anyway. He tugs you down before you go anywhere, pulling you beneath him with large fangs on full display.
“Good morning,” he declares—bushy tail slowly wagging behind him like a beast on its own. Large hands with long black claws curl tighter around your upper arms as he leans in closer. “Wow, those contact lenses are no joke—looks just like the real thing.”
You’d noticed there was something off—feeling like a stray eyelash was stuck on your pupils, but now it made more sense.
“Look‘it.” Grabbing your face, he turns it to the side for the Shepherd to see. “You sure the hunters didn’t fuck up and kidnap a real one?”
Tears, having welled up since before, now slip past and coat your face while you sniffle. But whatever sympathy you might have expected is returned with enjoyment—a salacious type of awe as the wolf bows his head and sucks a soft bite into your cheek instead.
“Listen,” he groans under his breath. “She even bleats like one.”
It only makes you cry more, now fully sobbing as you try and struggle against the mass on top, but achieving nothing in return for the effort.
“You’re right,” the Shepherd agrees, fully ignoring you even while looking right at you. He only clinically clicks his pen and aims for his notebook again, mumbling to himself as he goes, “Suppose we won’t need to train her up in mannerisms. I wonder if that’s specific to Toy Poodles, or only her specifically–”
The wolf groans again with a growl at that, “Fuck, enough talk already.” In full exasperation now, putting some real bark in his bite. “You could figure out all that boring shit after we’ve had some fun.”
The Shepherd doesn’t seem all that frazzled by it—actually, not at all, where he stands, cocking a brow at the burly beast on top of you.
Still, though, he sighs out a reluctant “Fine,” then sets his book and pen down neatly on a counter not far away before coming back. “I suppose we might learn more by doing anyway...”
The next events are tough for you to comprehend—between watching them throw their clothes on the floor and tearing your synthetic tunic off in one swift rip.
In a moment, you lie in the lap of the Shepherd, your head on his pelvis, with the wolf bearing over you from above.
Looking up into his loud and longing stare with hopeless eyes, the question on your lips comes out in a shiver, “But–but why?”
He grins, hands hooked beneath your knees, spreading your thighs for him to fit between, feeling up the fat of them like putty. “But what?” he mimics your little voice, returning your ask with his own, taunting you.
“Why not–” you sniffle—confusion and anxiety, mixing together into this delayed horror. Because you’re still wracking your brain, and even though you know it’s the wrong question, it’s still the one you beg, “Why not real sheep?”
That’s when the Shepherd laughs—breaking face for the first time. He shakes his head and smiles from ear to ear, holding your pathetic little expression between his paws while leering down at you. “What an adorably stupid question to ask.”
He chuckles some more, rubbing circles into the raw puff of your cheeks, admiring his handy-work from your fake teeth to your fake eyes and the fake scent of freshly cut grass coming off you in ever-sweet waves, tickling his senses.
You really do look just like one.
But you're not.
No... you're better.
“Last time I checked, canines and ovines can’t breed,” he states plainly, followed by the wolf's remark, “So you tell us, what the fuck would be the point in that?”
And still, even though it seems to be more than obvious to the two of them, it does nothing to ease your confusion. “Then why–”
“Why make you look like one?” the Shepherd interrupts.
The impossible look on their faces while they chuckle among themselves makes your stomach curl.
They both turn their attention back to you with something in their eyes—something dark you don't want to understand.
You could never date him, but you love the way he fucks you.
He’s not even thinking about your pleasure. But you think, maybe, that’s precisely what makes it so good.
Most guys will let you do some of the work, but Ryusei doesn’t think of sex as a team effort. No, it’s just him and his goal, and he plays you just like he does the soccer field, leaving you feeling trampled in the best possible way.
He’s got you on your back, but only barely. His hands keep you lifted off the mattress, curled into the fat of your ass. It’s a common position, but Ryusei makes it anything but normal—propped on his toes and knees, wearing you like a belt, hunched over you like a beast with his tongue on your chest.
The pace is fast, and he never lets up, not even when you scream and cum for the third time—he just fucks you through it like a dog chasing a bone, and when he finally catches it, he only settles for burying it as deep as you go. And no, of course, he doesn’t wear a condom. He could fuck a blowup doll if he wanted to wrap his dick in plastic.
He’s crazy. Asking if you’d mind if he invited his buddy Sae to join—as if that’s just something you ask. He can’t see you as much more than a football the way he wants to pass you around.
Honestly, he’s the worst, and so, no matter how good he fucks you, you never stay the night. Both on principle and survival instinct. Getting familiar with a wild animal will only get you hurt in the end, after all.
And so, you pick your underwear up from the floor.
“What’s the rush?” he asks groggily. Hair down, messy and heavy with sweat, naked still, and glistening in the afterglow.
You pull your bottoms on and then proceed to gather your things. Answering unsympathetically, “I got work in the morning.”
“Boo.” He rolls over until he’s lying across the bed, his head falling over the edge, looking at you upside down where you walk around trying to undo his handiwork. “Just quit and become my sex slave.”
You crack a small laugh, “Psh, what’re the benefits?”
He rolls over onto his stomach, propping his head up under a hand. “Health care, housing, meals, endless shopping trips, oh, and fucking me, of course.” He smiles with a bite to his lip.
You try your best to deadpan when looking at him, but can’t help your lips curling into a smile.
“You’re silly,” is still all you say, continuing to collect your things. When he undressed you earlier, he somehow managed to throw things into every corner of the room. Maniac.
“Come on,” he drawls, once again rolling over—not about to tell you that he made sure to fling your pants under the bed. “Stay for round two, and I’ll fuck yah so hard you won’t even be able to leave.”
You just sigh, “I told you, I got work.”
“I’ll drive you in the morning,” he insists.
And so do you with another excuse, “I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Then quit,” he repeats—voice a little curt this time.
You look up from your search and see his upset pout—looking like a kid who’s been told no.
“You said that already,” you say softly, coming over to ruffle his unkempt hair.
“And I meant it,” he persists, taking your hand and pulling you down into the bed again, making sure to trap you by maneuvering himself on top before you had any chance of escaping.
He kisses your neck, burying his face there with a groan. “Fucking you before practice makes me feel invincible. Sex with you is like my good luck charm. When I don’t get it, it’s like I forget how to kick the ball—”
“You’re such a drama queen,” you laugh and roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious. I mean…” His voice turns soft then, and he nuzzles his face deeper into your neck, making his words come out muffled, “We don’t have to fuck if you don’t want to. But at least spend the night… for once.”
The tips of his ears are bright red. You’re not entirely sure what to make of it, but you’d have to have nerves of steel to say no a third time.
Wrapping his head in your hands, you pet his hair and kiss his crown.
♡ TW: implied arranged marriage, anxiety, pregnancy, reader with questionable taste, misogyny, chauvinism, mentions of passed bullying
♡ FEM reader
He’s back happy from another mission. Blood on his clothes from how much he dominated his opponent. And you’re scared to be the one to spoil his mood.
He’s already on you the second he spots you, without washing his hands clean of the death he’s wrought, zealously grabbing into your softer areas with entitled greed, like a dog wanting a treat after doing a dog’s work, mouth on your neck with teeth and hot and heavy huffs as his fingers move hurriedly to undress you.
It’s not that you’re scared he’ll lay hands on you if you speak up. Despite what people think and say, he doesn’t really do that. Not anymore, at least. No, not since you both grew up and you became his wife instead of the dumb little girl he’d once treat you as. No, though he may be a chauvinist through and through, he doesn’t see the merit in hurting you—not since he discovered that pulling your pigtails wasn’t what he really wanted.
He might still treat you worse, though… if you were anything like certain other women in the clan who’ll remain unnamed as you're not allowed to speak or even think about them, in the fear their bad behaviour will rub off on you and inspire you to do similar stupid things.
But you’re nothing like that. You’re a good girl, and you’ll remain a good girl, because only a truly good girl deserves to be the wife of the man who’ll inherit the clan. And even though it doesn’t always make any sense, you really want to be that good girl.
Of course, you know there could be other things for you out there, other freedoms you don’t have access to in here, under this man who’s such a monster to everyone but you. You’re not stupid.
Then again, perhaps you’re crazy, because, despite everything, you quite like being the one. The one person he can stand. The one person he can be bothered with. The one person with the ability to make him happy. It makes you feel special.
But… these news you have to share with him… you’re afraid it’ll put everything at stake.
It’s not as if you’ve really done anything wrong. In all fair common sense, it’s kind of his fault if anything. And yet, you’re not so sure he’ll see it that way. After all, the man’s not exactly known for his common sense. Especially when it comes to matters of female nature.
Still, though, despite not wanting to say it, you know better than to keep things secret from him, and so you squeeze your eyes shut and force the word out,
“I have to tell you something.”
It feels no less than confessing to a crime, and yet, “It can wait. I have something I need to do to you first,” is all the interest he shows.
Too busy removing the clothes from your body, cursing under his breath about how many times he’s told you to dress more simply—in his eyes, you really don’t need to bother with garments at all. “‘Swear, m’gonna burn that closet down.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s important,” you try again, though not with trying to thwart his efforts.
But, with the impatience radiating off him in waves, you were stupid to think he wouldn't take your little demands as an offense. But, of course he does, making him all but growl at you, “So important you have to interrupt?”
His eyes are hard and so is his grip now, already annoyed with you just like you feared, squeezing your waist in a bruising hold.
“No,” you squeak. “No, of course not, I'm sorry.”
He spots the tears welling up and how your soft little lips wobble and hates how it wrecks him. You’re such a handful sometimes.
His head drops, letting out a groan between your boobs, airing his frustrations before looking back up with a sigh, “What is it? Spit it out.”
He’s being graceful letting you dictate his actions like this, right as he got home and all. You really know how to pick your timing.
“Mh, I’m…”
He’s being so merciful, and still you have the audacity to waste his time with your mumbling.
“What?” he barks. He swears, if it’s about your wishes of remodeling the kitchen again, he’s going to lose his mind.
“I’m pregnant.”
Behind your closed eyes you see black. It goes hand in hand with the silence that pursues your confession.
Dead silence, until, “What?”
His voice is thin—just a whisper. Nothing you’ve ever heard from him before.
You hate it. You don’t know what it means. Is he angry or something else—something worse. You don’t know and so you spiral, “Well, I—I took a pregnancy test. It's positive. I’m—”
You open your eyes again, letting the tears through the floodgate.
His face gives you no more clues as to his state. His eyes looking off somewhere, through you, into nothing.
He’s so quiet, it gives you goosebumps.
“Are you mad?” you whimper.
He blinks then, brought out of it, saying “No,” with a tiny shake of his head. But he doesn’t sound sure. Almost saying it as a question.
He gets off you next, a tiny curl between his brows that’s never been there before as he sits himself in the sofa next to you instead, running his hands over his face then through his hair—his previous pursuit completely forgotten.
You’re afraid to ask, but something inside you demands to know. “Are you happy?”
His eyes snap back to you. They’re big—shocked, speechless, and that forbidden word—all things he’s not supposed to be, things he’s never been before.
He gets up abruptly, then very nearly storms out of the room, back out the way he’d come from.
Your breath leaves you with the sound of the door and doesn’t come back. Your eyes stare at it until they sting. And then you break, completely. The tears come and won’t stop, escaping you with cries loud enough to make the walls shiver.
You’re silent by the time he comes back. But your eyes are still wet, now swollen and red, cheeks streaked raw. And despite knowing how disrespectful it is, you don’t even acknowledge him with a look as he enters.
You hear him swallow thick before he silently makes his way over to you where you lie in the same spot he’d left you in.
He sits down softly, putting a hand on your leg.
“I’m not mad.”
You look at him then, peeking up from where you’d been drowning out your sobs in the pillow. He still doesn’t sound convinced, you think, and that look on his face isn’t giving you any confidence either.
“But you’re not happy,” you state with a croak. “You left.”
It’s an accusation. In any other circumstance, he’d tell you to watch your tongue, but right now, he allows it—even giving it credit by defending himself from it. Saying, “I needed to think.”
He doesn’t say he’s sorry, but that was about as close to an apology you’d ever come. It’s not his place to do such things. Nonetheless, it is your place to forgive him.
Being angry with him won’t solve anything. Especially when you can tell he regrets it.
And so, you pull yourself up slowly, climbing into his embrace. Sitting in the gap on his lap, with your head against his chest, listening to the fast drums of his heart as he drapes his arms around you and sets his chin down atop your crown—both of you silently acknowledging each other.
“I’m scared,” you murmur after a while.
He won’t say it out loud, but you can tell… he’s sacred too. Even though he denies it with unconvincing encouragement, “What's there to be scared about?”
Despite it being an obvious show of bravery, you still somewhat appreciate it—at least one of you should pretend to know what you’re doing. You’re happy he takes on the role.
Meanwhile, you’ll take on the role of voicing all those fears you know he can’t. Because that’s what he needs. For you to act just a little more hopeless than he feels, so that he can feel empowered by being the one who saves the day.
Fists curled in his shirt while hiding your face in his chest, your words come out all pitiful and muffled, stating the terrifying obvious, “I’ve never been pregnant before...”
He stiffens again, like earlier, hesitant. It’s not often he’s had to comfort you. Usually it’s the other way around. He thinks about what you usually tell him, hoping to find the right words.
“You were never a wife before this either, but… you're pretty good at that.”
You’re sure, if you snuck a peak of his face, he’d be blushing. “Really?”
“Yeah…” he says—voice nearly shaking, holding you tighter. “The best.”
Despite all his ways, he really is quite cute sometimes. Though, you’d never tell him that.
Instead, you reward him with a kiss to his neck—one that then travels up.
You reposition yourself for a better angle, straddling him, hands moving across his chest as you undo his buttons. Lips soft against his.
He’s usually over-eager—strong and rough, manhandling you and making you squeal the way he likes. But this time, he shows uncharacteristic restraint.
“Wait—” he whispers with a breath. Eyes searching yours, then your belly. “Won’t it hurt the…”
He’s even afraid to say the word.
“No.” You shake your head, smiling. Voice soft in his ear, “Though, it doesn’t hurt to be gentle.”
He lets out a breath of relief at that before letting his hands retake their place around your waist, squeezing you gently while pulling you flush against him.
It’s after getting caught red-handed tumbling out of seven minutes in heaven with a random guy you’ve only just met that you’re struck with the incomprehensible realization.
Seeing your bully’s face standing in the cheerful crowd of the party, all rumpled, all fierce, all murderous. You start to piece it together, but you’re too slow in understanding it. All those times he’s stuffed you inside your locker, smacked you upside the head, thrown your bag into the lake, pushed you down to the dirt, called you names, and overall made your life a living hell, what he’s really wanted to do is something much, much, much more fucked up.
Your eyes couldn't be wider, your heart couldn't beat faster, not unless it wanted to take flight and leave your body dead beneath him. His hand is half the size of your face, glued over your mouth with tightly sealed fingers. The muffled noises that leave it are lost in the chatter and thump of bass and drums coming from downstairs, where the party rages on, uncaring of the two of you having gone missing.
He’s drunk. But not drunk enough to use it as an excuse. No, he’s fully alert. A bit panicked even, realizing he’s gone too far, and yet, not able to stop himself.
“You’re not supposed to be here…” he says under his breath—so low and soft, in a growl you barely hear. His fingers play with the lace edge of your hiked dress, a look of restraint painted clearly on his face. “You’re not supposed to wear dresses like this.”
He sighs deeply, then swallows thickly. His tented crotch brushes against you, and you squirm, but at the same time, you’re too afraid to move. Like you’re trapped in a room with the worst predator.
Your hands twist. He had them tied up with his belt, behind your back, getting crushed beneath you, and only further spurring the panic in your chest as he takes hold of your face and leans in even closer, the tip of his nose gracing your jaw, taking in your scent with a slow sniff.
The goosebumps that erupt come out sharp, and you quiver with a whimper, feeling his lips smear your neck, his breath hot and wet against you, growling low, “You’re supposed to be at home, nose-deep in a book, thinking about the next exam… while I’m supposed to be here, dick-deep in some slut, thinking about you.”
His other hand, warm and gritty, slides up between your thighs, tenderly trespassing with a caution that tells you he knows he’s crossing a boundary.
“That’s how it’s supposed to be,” he insists, and yet, when his fingers reach your cunt, feeling its cozy heat and wanting it all to himself, all his restraint goes slack.
His body sinks against yours with a heavy outlet, buries his face in your neck, nuzzling there with what sounds an awful lot like a whimper.
“I have to fuck you,” he mutters darkly, like it’s a confession of some kind. “If I don’t, someone else here will…”His whole body shakes, unstable like a nuclear meltdown, seething with his teeth up against your ear. “And I refuse to let that happen.”
♡ AN: initially wrote this for 30.Kinktober BREEDING KINK, but strayed from the prompt quite a bit
♡ TW: noncon/dubcon, abortion, toxic ex-boyfriend, yandere, bullying, stalking, feelings of guilt, running away/found again
♡ FEM reader
Your name fires off his tongue like a warning shot out of the clear.
You stand stock-still as it rings through the air, a sharp chill succeeding it, before you, wide-eyed and ashen, look up to find that unwanted stare glaring back at you.
It had been a day like any other. You’d been on your way home from work, maneuvering through the turbulent streets in favor of stuffing yourself inside the overcrowded subway. You had leftovers waiting for you in the fridge and the remnants of a bottle of red you’d very much been looking forward to all day long.
You hadn’t been paying attention, eyes on your phone, opening your notes to see if there was anything on your shopping list that required you to drop by the supermarket first—hoping there wasn’t, with fingers crossed—when, out of nowhere, you’d bumped right into someone.
It was a day like any other. But opening your eyes, a feeling sank heavy in your belly at what you saw, a feeling you’d nearly forgotten, whispering at you in hushed and urgent whispers as though scared to be heard.
Run.
Shell-shock has you by the throat, making you swallow thickly beneath a flared breath, trying to keep cool, the same way you would when encountering any other wild animal—no sudden movements—talking to him just so, like a beast who could and very likely would kill you if you weren’t very, very, very careful.
“Hi…”
His lips move, talking to you, but you’re unable to catch any of it over the sound of your own blaring heartbeat. Ears ringing, rushing with blood, feeling faint, looking at the ghost-of-suppressed-past as if he’d come only to remind you of what you can’t forget.
“Grab coffee with me?” he asks eagerly, eyes bright, beaming, loud, looking as surprised as you felt, though without the fear, to have bumped into you like this—like a scene straight out of a movie.
It’s all odd and nothing short of terrifying. But even odder and more horrifying still, there’s a smile on his face—giddy looking, of all things.
It was a good imitation of normalcy. You’re sure, from an outsider's perspective, it couldn’t have looked any different from two estranged sweethearts stumbling into each other, a much-awaited long time, no see. And yet, despite the effort, none of it relieved the feeling of being robbed at gunpoint.
“Uh—I was just, uhm…” You struggle to find the words. Your throat is like a dry well, heaving up empty buckets, delayed in answering the first question, “Heading home.”
Eerily sharp, inspecting you like a security screener, his eyes don’t dither, and neither does his voice—pressing on, just as keenly as before, insisting, “My treat? For old times' sake?”
You can’t help but regard it the same way you would the gun being cocked. “Uhm…” Praying to whomever might take pity enough to listen to you, while you empty your purse for all the measly value that it’s worth.
“Okay.”
You’re led away by a grip on your wrist. It’s not too tight—nothing you wouldn’t be able to rip yourself free from if you tried—but for some reason, it still feels impossible. It’s the same when he ushers you down on a seat by a tiny two-seater table inside a cute sundae cafe while he goes to stand in line to order. Despite the many inner voices, some whispering and others screaming, telling you to go now that he’s got his back turned, you remain right there, statuesque, trying to remember how you’d usually make your feet move, but coming up empty-handed with a feeling of utter foolishness that all but jeers at you, telling you that you only have yourself to blame.
“I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just bought the most expensive thing,” he returns with two flamboyant, syrupy mocha coffees topped with whipped cream and marshmallows, sitting down opposite you.
“That wasn’t a brag—I’m just—I don’t know what to say…”
He seems nervous, too. Or no, not nervous, but excited, sitting strangely straight-backed on the tiny wooden café chair, both his hands wrapped around the acrylic of his cup, fingers locked, glistening wet with dewdrops dripping down its sides—it’s impossible to tell if any of it’s genuine or not.
You don’t touch your own. Actually, you don’t do anything. You just end up sitting there. Waiting, wondering, in anxiety, still rattled by the shock, partly in disbelief, thinking—hoping—you only fell asleep in your cubicle back at the office and are having the strangest nightmare you’ve had in a while.
“You’re nowhere to be found,” he suddenly states after your silence, making you snap out of your ponder, blinking at him, still startled to see him sitting there, in the flesh.
You can only muster up a “What?”
It makes him laugh—an awkward, slightly impatient type of laugh. “I mean.” He scratches the back of his neck and looks off to the side as if sheepish about something, explaining, “I couldn't find you anywhere on social media.”
Your face blanches anew.
He’s been looking for you? The thought makes your gut twist even tighter. You knew he would, but still? Has he been looking for you all this time? Did you really just stumble into him at random, or was all of this some twisted act? Why? What does he want?
Why can’t he just leave you alone?
You grab your drink, if only to let the taste of sugar distract you. Answering curtly, “Oh, yeah, I don’t use my real name anymore. So many scammers and stuff, you know...” You take a sip, aggressive enough to give you brainfreeze—thinking anything’s better than this burn that’s all but consumed you from head to toe.
He lifts his drink up to his mouth as well. “Smart girl. Glad to see you finally protecting yourself.”
You both drink for another long pause.
He drums a beat on the table while looking up at the ceiling, then out the window, in some way looking like he’s thinking up things to say, and in another way looking like he’s holding himself back from saying what he really wants.
He looks older—you notice against your will—bigger. Not surprising, given the years that have passed since you last saw each other, but still, you’d have thought he’d never grow out of that ever-present and ever-cocky smile of his. Right now, he seems, somehow, somewhat normal, sitting there—dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt. You don’t know why it strikes you as odd. It isn’t, really. You’re sure he wore the same things back then, but still, it seems off for some reason.
You suppose, what’s weird about it is that it makes him look like any other average person you would bump into on the street, even when he’s the farthest thing from it.
It just doesn’t make much sense—none of it.
“So, how’ve you been?” he asks suddenly, once again popping the awkward silence like an overinflated balloon at a little girl’s birthday party.
You keep waiting for a high-pitched cry to break out.
It’s those types of questions—trivial nothings anyone would ask anyone. Anyone but him. In his mouth, it’s a script, like an actor treating the world as his stage. He does it well, though—fitting in—he always has. But you know better this time than to believe it, having experienced it first-hand, how it only runs skin deep.
“Good,” is all you offer. Forgetting to return the question.
He doesn’t seem to mind. Unbothered, continuing on with his dialogue as if on cue, “Must have been hard moving away. Dropping everything like that. So suddenly.”
It’s more probing than his previous ask, more personal—but you’d say it alludes to more about him. Something about his tone, something accusational, something not quite polished enough to suit that fluffy exterior, making way for a bit of the real him to peek through, enough to make a fresh chill run down your spine.
You don’t have an immediate answer. Too caught up in the feeling of imminent threat—at the edge of your seat waiting for him to lose patience, as if he’d lunge at you from across the table, uncaring of the people around—even though, logically, you know he’d never do anything in public. Your thoughts from earlier return. Why is he doing this? What does he want? Why? All these years later, why can’t he let you go?
There’s another airy laugh before he flashes you a big grin. “I have to admit,” he says, chuckling. “It kind of felt like you were running away from me.”
He says it as a joke, but you know it isn’t. It’s got clear intentions—he wants to make you squirm, to make you beg, to apologize, to cry, and do all those things you used to do when he got upset.
A part of you still wants to, feeling like it’s the safest option. You almost indulge it, but instead you steel yourself. After all, you ran away from him for a reason.
And all these years later, you’re not about to go running back.
“I just needed to get away, is all,” you excuse. “I’d been so cooped up, I barely knew who I was or what I wanted out of life.”
It’s not really a lie. Then again, it’s also far from the full truth of it. And by the looks of him, you both know it. The way he eyes you calmly—hunting and hauntingly. That fluffy exterior, like sheep-skin on a wolf, peeling away, too rotted to hold itself together.
“Hmph.” Tilting his head, he eyes you condescendingly. “Yeah, you always were a bit of an airhead, weren’t you? Always following me around like you didn’t know where to go without me,” he grins, speaking as though it’s all fond memories. “Not that it ever bothered me, of course. Actually, I kind of miss it. Don’t you?”
You nearly flinch, almost making your drink fall and crash onto the ground, wishing you’d just left when you had the chance. If only you’d been able to shake the shock out of your body enough to allow your feet to move.
“It's a long time ago,” you say, voice thin, looking into the foam halfway down your fountain glass as you take another sip. Wherever the conversation is headed is not somewhere you want to go—especially with him leading the way.
“What does that mean? You don’t remember?” he snickers, knowing you do.
“We used to have so much fun…” His voice slips into a lower murmur, spilling your shared secrets over the table-top. “You’d sneak me in through your bedroom window at night. I’d have to climb your rose-wall like you were Rapunzel. Tch—you were so cute, shushing me, thinking your parents were gonna wake up.”
You stay silent as he laughs.
“Yeah, always such a goody-two-shoes. Remember how much you choked on your first drink? Granted, I’d maybe overshot the vodka on purpose. Your first smoke was just as bad, but shit—your first hit of the good stuff was the worst. You couldn’t stop coughing, and after your fourth hit, you weren’t even able to move. But I took good care of you, didn’t I? Getting you into your PJs and tucking you in tight. You remember?”
He doesn’t really give you any time to answer or stop him.
“I almost got you to take your first tattoo as well if you hadn’t been such a scaredy-cat. Tch—but no worries, I took a lot of your other firsts to make up for it.” Humming, his eyes go lazy—pictures of it all playing out behind them. “You really let me get away with everything… Like a Barbie doll—you’d let me dress you up the way I liked, and undress you wherever and whenever I wanted.”
He takes a moment to admire your face, all flushed and pouty, avoiding looking back at him, before he grins with another sly scoff. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
You think you might get sick if you stay any longer, and still, nothing—not even the feeling of that all-too-familiar collar being clasped around your neck—is enough to convince your body to get up and leave while he continues to tighten the leash.
“You’re right,” he admits when you don’t say anything. “It is a long time ago. It’s just… looking at you makes it feel like yesterday.”
You could say the same. Although you can’t say those would be the memories you’d choose. Or, at least, you wouldn’t have phrased them like that. Rather, you remember the time his hand left a bruise around your throat so deep you had to wear a scarf for two months waiting for it to disappear, and the way he’d lick and suck on it every time you were alone—telling you he was kissing it better when he was actually just making it worse. Or the time he didn’t allow you to wear a sweater to a party, forcing you to choose between leaving it in the car or walking home by yourself all the way to the other side of town, and the way he’d shown you and your bra off to everyone inside when you’d conceded—later praising you with sweet nothings and heated kisses in an off-limits bedroom even when you were begging him to take you home. Or that time he’d knocked your father’s teeth out in the driveway for having warned him to stay away from you. Or how, when you’d told him you had decided you were getting the abortion, he’d called you a baby-killing bitch, and said he’d never look or speak to you again if you went through with it.
You’d made sure he stood by those words. You’d made a decision and packed your bags, leaving your childhood home behind you with goodbye kisses to your parents, promising them you’d keep in touch despite moving as far away as your savings would allow. You took the first job you could get and worked your way up with only a high school degree to back you up.
You’d erased all traces of yourself—practically faking your own death.
And you hadn’t seen him since.
“Give me your contacts?” he asks, pulling his phone from his pocket, spinning it around, and sliding it across the short distance of the table separating you.
“Your phonenumber,” he clarifies. “It would be nice for us to catch up. It’s been so many years, I was beginning to fear we might never get the chance.”
You can’t really say that you agree. But the sight of his phone already in front of you, waiting for you to indulge him, somehow and someway, you still don’t have the guts to say no to him, even when typing up the numbers feels no different from signing a deal with the devil.
Finally—and thankfully—he releases you a short while after that.
He’d offered to walk you home, but you made up an excuse on the fly about going to see a friend—not sure if you were convincing or not.
Paranoid, you still get on the subway to another part of town, now a little happy about the crowd, before hailing a cab to take you back.
The stairs up to your apartment feel like an eternity, even as you rush up the flights. Your hands, cold and slightly trembling, struggle to put your key in the lock. And when you finally step inside, you instantly collapse against the door, breath knocked out of you, shaking from head to toe.
A phantom in your stomach makes the tears rush down your cheeks like acid rain, corroding the skin in its wake. It’s every emotion at once—shame, guilt, anger, terror.
You’re overreacting, you’re aware. But it doesn’t help. Thoughts racing, telling you you’ll have to move again, even farther away this time, maybe even out of the country, to someplace faraway he’ll never find you. But how did he find you? If he found you once, he’ll do it again. Meaning you’re not safe. There’s nowhere you can go. It’s only a matter of time before he hunts you down again, and again, and again, and again.
You clamber across the faux wood, running to the kitchen cabinet to pull out that bottle of wine along with a glass, topping yourself off to the very brim. A few drops spill over onto the floor in the rush.
A pling comes from the floor while you drink, making your eyes snap to view it—whole body on edge and convinced it was something deadly, only to see your phone where you’d left it on its back, screen lit.
You stare at it, regarding it with apprehension. Then, despite not wanting to move, your feet take you with them anyway, slowly walking over until you’re standing right above it, spotting an unknown number at the top, followed by an unwanted text.
it was good seeing you
made me realize how much I really miss you
maybe I can see your place this weekend. wanna know what you’ve been up to…
anyway tell your friend hi, and call me when you get home. let’s plan another…
There’s more to the messages, but you can’t see it without opening the chain. You only stare at it as it is. Reading it over and over. Unsure what you’re looking for outside of wanting it to go away until the screen goes back to black, snapping you out of it.
You end up leaving it there—choosing to walk yourself over to the couch instead. But you don’t really know what to make of yourself once you’re there, either—whether you want a sitcom as company or if you prefer the silence.
The silence gives room to more thoughts, and too many of them are bad, so you put on the first recommended thing.
More plinging from the floor disturbs your binging. Still, a full five twenty-minute episodes pass before the singular plings are exchanged with ringing.
You let it ring until it stops. Ignoring it without pausing the show in front of you. You just keep drinking your wine, staring at the screen without catching any of the contents, as more plinging and ringing chimes from the floor.
You close your eyes, and a couple of stray tears slip free from your waterline. You don’t even dare move. Sitting there, stiff and scared and helpless, like you’re back in time and still just a hopeless girl stuck beneath his thumb.
Funny enough, it’s when the noises stop for a full episode that you finally get your legs to move, slipping out of the blanket you’d wrapped yourself in, toes numb against the cold floors as you walk back over to your phone. You don’t know why—you still don’t want to look, but an indescribable urge all but forces you to open the chain, eyes peeled as you scroll through a mile of messages, each one worse than the one before…
it was good seeing you
made me realize how much I really miss you
maybe I can see your place this weekend. wanna know what you’ve been up to all these years without me
anyway tell your friend hi, and call me when you get home. let’s plan another date
don’t mean to blow up your phone, but your accounts are private, you need to accept my friend request
I know you’re with a friend, but it only takes a minute to reply
you should get better at checking your phone. what if it was something important?
pick up the phone, I need to talk to you
I’m not angry, I just really want to hear your voice
answer me
why are you being like this? we had a nice date and now you’re just going to ignore me?
you haven’t changed at all you know that? you’re still that same flighty fucking bitch you always were
answer the fucking phone right now
I swear if you keep ignoring me I’m gonna come over and make you regret it
Breath shallow and weak on your upper lip, you stare in deafening silence as another message is typed up. Three dots jumping, slowly compared to the rapid beat of your heart.
last chance
You almost toss the phone away when it rings, but manage to maintain your grip, breath coming out heavy—so heavy that the screen catches dew on every outtake. Finger hovering over the green button, somewhat itching to slide it, but remaining placid until the ringing eventually dies out, reverting back to the text chain.
You click the number at the top, slowly tapping Info, then the two red words at the bottom, blocking him. Then, you go back to the cartoon still playing on the TV and re-drape yourself with your still-warm blanket, hugging yourself tightly. Eyes sliding to peek at your phone now and again, relieved to see it simply lying on the coffee table, calm as usual.
You spend the weekend inside, ordering take-out. Using your computer to check out if you’ve left anything to be found online that could help him find your address if he somehow managed to check out your socials despite you blocking all his advances. You don’t think so, but still, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s somehow able to track you. It’s all silly, but even so, you end up deleting your accounts across every platform just in case, not even leaving your phone number in the end, thinking you’ll get a new one as soon as you can.
You consider staying home sick on Monday, but you wind up going anyway after double-checking that the office website and Facebook page hadn’t publicized your name or picture anywhere.
Still, you’re a nervous wreck all day, hardly getting any work done, even when you skipped lunch to sit in your cubicle. You keep wracking your brain with the same question—how’d he even find you in the first place? Was it really just some fucked up coincidence? Is that even possible? For him to just suddenly show up out of the blue, multiple cities away from the last place you saw him so many years ago? Had you maybe mentioned you wanted to move here? You’re certain you didn’t, you’re certain this place wasn’t even on your radar before you made the decision. Did your parents tell him? No, they wouldn’t, right? Maybe not on purpose. Using the work computer, you check out their profiles. But, just as you’d requested, there isn’t a single post about you or the few times they’ve flown out to visit you. Actually, scrolling through, it’s squeaky clean from top to bottom, so much so that it’s as if they didn’t have a daughter at all.
It doesn’t make any sense. How the fuck did he find you?
Well… it wasn’t easy…
The contractor he paid was one out of a dozen others before him. He suspects the first eleven were amateurs who only did a deep dive through the web, as if he couldn’t do that on his own. But this last guy, he was legit. A lot more expensive, too, but after years of trying to find you, he wouldn’t complain, especially when the guy somehow managed to track you down in less than two days' time.
He could barely believe it once he pinged him in the middle of the day with a picture of you—candid, you looked to be on your way somewhere, probably home with the somewhat tired look on your face, dressed in drab work clothes he’d never picture you in, older now and still, you were as beautiful as the day he lost you.
And, after so many years, he’s not about to let you slip away again. No matter how stubborn you are.
He watches you climb the stairs outside your building, tired in your step. You’d stayed late at the office, made him wait all day until dark, but somehow it was fitting. Romantic, in one way, and deserved in another—hunting you while you’re all alone at night. This way, he could make you pay a little, freak you out, scare you—get you to really regret it.
“Hey.”
You whip around like a bunny who’d heard a twig snap—eyes round, hand down your purse, stopped in the middle of fishing for the keys.
“What—what are you doing here?”
You sound worse than you did at the cafe. Just like his own, you’ve let the mask slip. Might as well, given there’s no one else but the two of you around.
“Why’d you block me?” He ignores your question in favor of posing his own. It’s a stupid thing for you to ask, anyway, given how obvious it is.
“What?” you continue to act stupid, still with your hand in your purse, trying to be smooth while you carefully feel around for your keys as though he can’t see exactly what you’re doing.
“You blocked me,” he clarifies, standing at the bottom of the short ten-step staircase, looking up at you. “Why?”
He can spot you swallowing thickly, in fact, he thinks he can even hear it, followed by your cheap excuses, all spluttered out like nervous word-vomit, still trying to keep up the charade in fear of the reality staring you in the face, “Oh–well, you know, I'm sorry–I sorta just keep touch with close friends so—”
“No boyfriends then,” he states—this time, fully like an accusation.
Your shoulders hike, and goosebumps break out across your arms. Still, you try to stay strong. “You’re not-”
“Careful.”
A heavy silence ensues at that.
The wind blows softly through the empty street. Everyone’s either eating a late dinner or already in bed with a movie. Meanwhile, you’re here, on the steps, looking down at him, waiting for a sudden air-strike or alien invasion—anything to make it break the deafening quiet.
When nothing happens, you find no other option but to break it yourself. Mustering up the courage, you finally break the act, asking him what’s been on your mind all along, “What do you want?”
A grin breaks out across his face then. Stating the obvious, “I want you to invite me in.”
Your hand whitens with the death grip you're giving your bag, stiffening up like a cadet trying to put some bite into her bark. “And if I say no?”
The smile curls, becoming something vile. “I’ll invite myself.”
You whip around, keys in a panicked hand, stupidly jabbing at the lock with no tact to make it work.
“Don’t.” He’s behind you before the first tear drops, and you let out a choked whimper, feeling his presence at your back like something from a horror movie. “Don’t make me angry.” He cyphons the chills out of you, voice tepid and smooth right at your ear, speaking to you like a lover. “You don’t want that. I don’t either… Just invite me in.”
You sniffle, biting back a cry, shaking against his chest as he wraps both arms around you.
Feeling possessed, you fiddle with the keys against the lock again, hand shaking so much that you drop them on the floor. Startled, you rush down to pick them up, promptly and still as clumsily trying for the lock.
Arms around you, his cold hand grasps yours, steadying it as he helps you slide the key in place, turning your hand in his, twisting it until the lock comes undone. He puts his paw on the knob and pushes down, letting the door swing in.
Another paw on your waist guides you inside with a steady nudge.
You black out as you climb the stairs one step at a time, feeling the rhythmic repetition lull you into catatonia. This time, when you reach the door, he confiscates the keys from your hand, and you let him, only silently watching as he effortlessly puts them in your lock.
“You know… I’ve been trying to find you for a while,” he mumbles against your neck, nosing your jawline, lips on the underbelly of your chin. “A really long while.”
You jolt as the door slams to a close behind you, feeling faint—as though he’s about to bite your throat out now that he finally has you alone. And yet, despite your body being immobile in light of the impending death threat, all he does is hold you, murmuring more words against your ear.
“It makes me feel like—I don’t know... maybe you were hiding from me.” You hold your breath, feeling stormed by his voice, twisting about in your head, leaving little room for anything else. “Do you really hate me that much?”
Overwhelmed, in some last-ditch effort, you try pushing him away while shaking your head, needing to get away, needing space to breathe, to think, to stop this urge of playing dead like you’re some helpless animal stuck on a hunter’s jaws.
But he only clicks his tongue at the attempt. Letting you go with a harsh push that has you drop to the floor. He follows quickly, on top of you, with a fierce grip around your throat.
“I told you already, don’t do that,” he repeats—tone tighter now, vexed. “I don’t want to be rough with you, but I will if you make this difficult.”
“Please–” you squeak, both hands wrapped around his wrist, trying to pull him off without succeeding.
He only tightens the hold as he leans down, teeth gritting, “Please, what? What do you think I’m gonna do that’s so goddamn bad? I’m genuinely curious, please what?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling spit fly from his gnashing, barking the words at you with his face only a short foot away.
“You afraid to say it or something?” he laughs, something just shy of unhinged. “Is he gonna kill me or fuck me—that’ what you’re thinking?”
There’s a silence. You keep your eyes closed while it prolongs—not sure what you’re waiting for—the latter or the former.
“I should kill you,” he says then. “Fucking off the way you did—my kid in your belly and all. What the fuck did you do, huh?”
You croak with another cry, stabbed with that same feeling from before, strangling your guts into unbearable knots.
“Yeah, thought so.”
You don’t even notice his hand when it lets go of your throat and joins the other in cradling your face—tenderly, but cagingly, holding you steady as you choke on your own onslaught of tears.
“How about I let you pick, hm?” he says, voice suddenly soft again, as if there’s kindness in giving you a choice, like he’s asking if you’d like chocolate or ice cream. “Which one do you want? Either I kill you—” His thumbs rub your cheeks while his forehead dips against yours. “Or we make a new one.”
The proposal doesn’t ease your sobbing, only further spurs it on as the ache inside gets twisted anew.
And still, he presses on, “Answer me, which is it?”
You shake your head, a sniveling mess, struggling to breathe, drowning under the pressure.
“Wow…” he grumbles coldly. “You’d really rather die?”
Letting go of your face, he straightens himself, looking down his nose at you like you’re this pathetic thing before abruptly scoffing, “Tch, it's not like it’s anything new. I mean, let’s be real, how many times have we done it, huh?” There’s a new sharpness to his tone as he continues, seething at you as he lays both hands down flat on either side of your head, catching your hair beneath his fingers. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve met a bigger slut than you, always begging to get fucked. That was always your answer to everything. Whenever you made a mistake, you’d make it up to me with sex, whenever I was upset, you’d calm me down with sex, whenever I wanted to talk to you about us, about our future, about wanting to make you my wife, my world, my fucking everything, you’d always shut me up with sex.”
He’s panting by the end of it—both in the same state, heaving for air through the thick of it. The touch of something hot dripping on your face makes you finally open your bleary eyes, blurry vision slowly focusing on the sight of his own reddened ones staring back down at you.
“Did you ever even love me? Hm? Even just a little?” his voice cracks as he asks it. Impatiently demanding your answer this time with tightness in his throat, “Come on, answer me.”
Still, you remain silent in shock as you try to make sense of the expression on his face and how it, despite everything, still has this godawful ability to make you want to reach out and give him every part of yourself in the hope it’ll be enough to make him happy.
“Answer me!”
This time, as he bangs his fist down next to your head, the answer all but springs out of you like convicts in a prison break, “Yes! Yes, I loved you—I love you… I–” It all pours out of you like it’s something you’ve been holding back since the day you left—feeling like a deathbed confession, this white-hot guilty burden you’d been denying, trying desperately to convince yourself wasn’t true.
“You lying to me?” he pushes, as needy as it is threatening, with lips down by the corner of yours and hand back to caressing your throat.
“No–no, I’m not lying–” you promise, putting your own hands by his pulse and cheek, looking at him as all those old feelings retake their rightful spot inside you, festering like a sickness you never fully got rid of. “I love you, I really–”
He kisses you then, and you, feeling desperate for any type of comfort, accept it with greed.
“Yeah?” he asks against your wet lips, gruffly, tasting you with rightful abandon, like he’s only retaking something that’s always belonged to him.
And you indulge him, beyond tired of fighting, you accept the crude peace of surrender all too easily. “Yes–”
He smiles against your kisses, grinning widely with a low snicker, pulling your lips between his teeth before letting go. Brow to brow, nose to nose, he takes your puffy eyes in with his.
Summary: A naive demon is waylaid by the Wind Hashira.
A/N: Might fuck around and get back into KNY…Sanemi is one mean bastard, and I’m here for it. Be warned—this is pretty brutal (not by canon standards, but still). ngl I’ve missed writing stuff like this 🥺
Tags/warnings: sadomasochism, noncon, hatefucking!!!! is def the best way to describe what happens in this fic, threats, violence, demon reader & demon things, primal, degradation, outdoor sex, bloodplay & marechi kink stuff, yandere? obsessive fixation ig, some creative liberties have been taken with canon
You’d almost forgotten what it feels like to be weak.
Strength came with the territory when you were turned into a demon, along with the hunger: all-encompassing, oppressive, like you’re starving every second you’re not eating. Apparently you’re better able to control your hunger than other demons, not that you’ve met many—none, actually, other than the one who turned you. He was the one who told you to exercise control, who told you that you’ve done well to stealthily pick off prey that wouldn’t be missed instead of attracting attention. He was the one who told you about demon slayers.
You almost laughed at the idea at the time. A group of humans who tried to resist demons? Tried to kill them? How? Every human you’ve encountered since you were turned—hunters, mostly, men who’d wandered into the woods looking for something to eat—has been pathetically weak against you. Life as a demon is simple. As long as you stay in the shadows and avoid the sun, you have nothing to fear.
Sometimes you daydream about making your way to a village and gorging yourself, but you don’t mind the hunger so much. You can get by on scraps. And besides, the demon who turned you warned you not to go overboard. He said to stay away from the humans’ notice—not that the threat of some human calling themselves a “demon slayer” bothered you. You know how strong you are; you can feel it in your blood, your muscles, your bones. You don’t understand how a flesh-and-blood human could threaten that.
You don’t understand…until you meet him. The Wind Hashira. You should’ve listened to the warnings about demon slayers.
Summary: During a rescue gone wrong, a rookie sidekick catches the attention of two villains.
A/N: Thanks for 1k followers!! This is the fic that made me create a smut blog/lowkey inspired this. imho this might be the spiciest thing I’ve ever written 😳 also wanted to call out @kazooli because this is highkey inspired by her lol thanks queen
Tags/warnings: quirk kink, reader’s quirk makes other quirks stronger, noncon, threesome, lots of foreplay, outdoor sex, mild overstimulation, degradation, mild violence, threats, chronological/temporal inaccuracies, fucking long
You can hardly be blamed for not recognizing them. It’s only been three weeks since you debuted as a pro, and you’re not even really a hero. You’re a sidekick, and apparently you’re not important enough to have been briefed on the major villains you need to look out for. You’re just…doing your duty. Rescuing civilians indiscriminately. Stupid, naive little sidekick. It’s not your fault that the lives you just saved belong to the two most notorious villains around.
Still, Shigaraki can’t wait to see the look on your face when you find out.
It’s really the last place Touya expects to see you, drunk off your ass, giggling and stumbling through the crowded house. Shoto has to be here somewhere too, your boyfriend never strays too far from your side and a raging house party is hardly your scene.
It’s not exactly his little brother’s scene either, but stranger things have happened.
He’s been watching you for a little while now, slowly sipping his beer as you dance and laugh in your own little world, eyes a little . You’ve always been such a sweet, innocent thing, but with your eyes blown wide and slightly glazed over from the alcohol, hair flowing free and that pretty fucking dress that’s shorter than your usual style, you look like a dream.
You dance like one too.
Is it your first time drinking like this? He thinks it must be, you’ve always been such a good girl whenever you come over to visit Shoto, polite and timid to a fault, especially around him. Maybe it’s because you’ve caught him with his hands down his pants, hand wrapped tight around his cock as he fucks it with your name on his lips. He can still remember how flustered you were, the stammered apologies you squeaked out as you all but ran from the room - you didn’t even wait for him to finish, what was the point of watching at all if you weren’t gonna stay for the grand finale? He keeps that image of you in his mind as he hurtles over the edge, hot cum spilling onto his stomach.
The long awaited Christmas Bash Bonten fic, hope it's worth the wait y'all <33
Bonten x female reader
wc. 8.3k
tw: yandere, noncon, dubcon, noncon drug use, murder, abuse, blood, violence, choking, dp, sex trafficking, kinda stockholm syndrome-ish, nsfw, manga spoilers
You’re not entirely sure what it is exactly that stirs you from sleep, only that it’s early, the first rays of dawn light just barely peeking through the window.
Kokonoi’s arm’s slung over your waist, red silken sheets pooling over bare skin, yet even with the warmth of his body lying beside yours, it’s not enough to keep the chill from seeping into your bones. Cool, but not freezing – just on the edge of discomfort.
There’s the temptation to simply roll over, curl up against Koko and drift off for another few hours. You’re still tired, and sleep – even in the arms of a man you despise – isn’t something you have the luxury of squandering. And yet the moment the thought enters your head, you push it aside. Despite the early hour and your seemingly never ending exhaustion, you can already feel the beginnings of restlessness setting in.
You can lie there, close your eyes and will yourself back to sleep, but you’ll only toss and turn – and risk waking Koko in the process.
No, you think, better to try and slip away. Across the hall and largely untouched is the room they’d given you. Your clothes are there, warmer blankets, a bed, your own bathroom with a shower. A far cry from the old, stained mattress they’d so graciously allowed you to use when you’d first arrived.
You can’t remember the last night you’d actually slept in there, but it is nice to have a space that’s just yours – even if it doesn’t truly belong to you at all. Nothing here does. Nevertheless, the thought of a hot shower and some temporary peace and privacy is an alluring one. It’s not just the exhaustion, your entire body hurts from last night, the finger shaped bruises that mar your hips and thighs the least of them.
Slowly – gingerly – you begin to wriggle out from under his arm, trying to extricate yourself without–
“Mmpfh.”
The groan is low and rough, heavy with sleep, and as his arm tightens around your waist dragging you back against him, Koko’s lips brush along your neck, “And where do you think you’re going?”
Your stomach knots. Months ago, you wouldn’t have noticed the faint, warning edge to his tone. Then again, months ago you’d been under the foolish assumption that out of all of them, he was the sane one.
The safest.
“Can’t sleep,” you reply.
He hums idly, long, lithe fingers trailing up your side.
“…That’s not what I asked you.”
He’s not mad per se, not yet. But it’s always a tightrope with Koko; one minute things are fine and you can almost pretend that whatever it is that’s between you two has any semblance of normality, but one tiny misstep; a thoughtless comment, flinching away at the wrong moment, and everything falls apart.
Koko might lack the hair-trigger penchant for violence that some of your other captors favour, but you haven’t been able to shake the unpleasant memories of the last time he’d flown off the handle.
The thought of testing those limits so early in the morning isn’t a pleasant one.
And so you roll over to look at him properly, careful to keep your expression neutral, sleepy even. As if the thought of slipping away from him wasn’t one born of desperation, but merely a whim of your semi-conscious state.
Your reply momentarily gets stuck in your throat, however, when you actually take him in. Naked, propped up against the headboard and bathed in the dim morning light, there’s a certain kind of striking beauty to the man. Even with long, silvery locks mussed and eyes glazed with sleep – those same eyes that flit over your features, narrowed as he awaits your answer.
“I was gonna go take a shower. I still feel all…” Somehow, telling him that you feel gross after spending the night with him doesn’t seem like a smart move, no matter the truth of it. “I didn’t want to wake you,” you amend.
Another half truth. Yet it seems to do the trick in placating him, his expression softening as he presses a chaste, almost affectionate kiss to your lips.
“You shouldn’t have worried. I need to get up soon anyway.”
He smiles as he says it – one you’ve learned better than to believe genuine – laying his hand to rest at the base of your throat. Instinctively, you stiffen, heart skipping a beat. No matter how long you’ve been here, the unspoken rules about leaving permanent damage, you still haven’t been able to shake that innate fear every time their fingers tighten around your neck.
And from the look in Koko’s eyes, the way his smile turns cold, he knows it.
His touch is delicate, teasing almost as his thumb sweeps along the column of your throat, and for a moment you’re confused by the sudden intensity in his expression–
Until he reaches a sore spot; the edge of a shallow cut, courtesy of one of the others, and cruelly presses down. It’s enough to draw a sharp gasp from you; one that’s quickly swallowed up by Koko’s mouth as it collides with yours.
Domineering.
Possessive.
His hips rock eagerly against your own, teeth nipping at your bottom lip – harsh enough to draw blood – and all thoughts of a peaceful, quiet morning go up in smoke.
“But we have some time, don’t we?” he pants between kisses, already drawing your naked body back under his.
It isn’t a question.
Stupid of you to think that it ever is.
—
The glowing red numbers on your old alarm clock tell you it’s a little after three in the morning when the door to your apartment slowly creaks open.
For the fifth time this week.
Squeezing your eyes shut, relief washes over you, the knot in your stomach easing as your brother’s familiar footsteps creep down along the hallway. He’s home. He’s safe, for tonight at least.
And just as you have every other night this week, and the countless nights before that, you feign sleep as he pulls back the curtain of your room, peeking in only to check that you’re where you’re supposed to be.
Tonight, however, he hesitates before leaving.
You can smell the booze and cigarette smoke wafting off of him. The faint, metallic tang of blood that almost – almost – draws you out from your charade. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done something stupid and gotten himself in a fight at some dingy bar downtown, but the air feels heavier tonight.
Something’s… off, and so you keep your eyes shut.
There’s a dull thud – the back of his head hitting the wooden doorframe. “Fuck,” he mutters, and then he’s gone.
—
“D’ya want some, babe?”
Sanzu’s cheshire grin widens, the scars either side of his lips stretching as you meekly shake your head. The same answer you’ve given every time he’s so generously offered to share his stash.
“Your loss,” he says with an unaffected shrug, shoving you back down to the couch. Just across the hall, in the other room, Mochi and Takeomi are deep in the middle of a discussion about an upcoming meeting, their voices floating down the hall.
You catch a snippet or two, something about distribution and profits – some mid level dealer getting a little too greedy for his own good – but it’s easy enough to tune it out.
And once upon a time, you’d be mortified at the thought that anyone could just walk in and see you like this; half naked and sprawled out before Sanzu like a whore. But this is practically tame compared to some of the other far more public displays you’ve been subjected to in the months since you arrived.
Besides, it’s not like either one of them would be in a position to judge. Only yesterday, Takeomi had you on your knees, sucking his cock under the table while he had his morning coffee and cigarette.
You hadn’t so much as blinked when Sanzu’d come home, splatters of fresh blood staining his pastel suit, and rather than heading into his own room to shower and sleep it off, had made a beeline straight for you. Ignoring the TV show you’d been absorbed in, he’d simply grabbed you by the arm and snapped at you to take off your top.
By now you know better than to argue.
“Lie still for me,” Sanzu instructs, but he’s barely paying attention as he grabs the baggie and taps out a small pile of coke onto your stomach. You watch, steadying your breath so as to not disturb the white powder while he takes out a card from his back pocket and begins cutting it into neat lines.
And despite how many times he’s done this, it never feels any less surreal. Why he chooses to snort drugs off of you when there’s a perfectly good coffee table less than a foot away is beyond you, but you’ve long since given up trying to make sense of the pink haired Bonten executive. All you can really hope for with Sanzu is that if you play along, you won’t get too badly hurt in the process.
A gamble at the best of times.
The leather of the sofa feels odd your bare skin, the room not quite warm enough to be comfortable, yet you’re fairly certain that it’s the way those big, blue eyes bore hungrily into your own that has your stomach tightening and goosebumps prickling at your exposed skin.
And you pretend that it doesn’t send a flood of heat rushing to your cheeks when those eyes flicker down to your breasts, nipples already pebbled, and his smirk widens.
But you only gasp, a shivery, pathetic sound, jerking in his grip – almost disturbing his carefully cut lines of cocaine – when his tongue darts out to swirl around your belly button instead.
The light slap to your face that follows doesn’t bother you nearly as much as the grating sound of his hyena-like laugh.
“I said, stay still,” he taunts, as if he wasn’t the one deliberately trying to rile you up.
You have to remind yourself that it could be worse. That he could have used the knife today, or decided he wanted to share you with the Haitani’s again. That he could just as easily tie you down and paint your skin black and blue, fuck you ‘til you pass out, make you choke on his cock or a thousand other horrible things.
He still might.
Closing your eyes, you murmur a halfhearted apology and let your head tip back as Sanzu leans over your stomach once more, this time with a finger pressing one nostril closed. The sharp snort and the drag of his nose along your skin are bad enough, but it’s the low, drawn out ‘Fuuuuck’ that leaves his lips that sends a shiver rippling down your spine.
Sanzu sniffs again, and even with your eyes shut, it’s impossible to mistake the sound of his belt unbuckling or the hiss of his zipper as he slides it down. Your heart rate picks up, anticipation and not a small amount of uneasiness unfurling inside of you, but you’re not surprised.
You’ve come to learn that Sanzu enjoys three things in life; drugs, sex and frankly terrifying displays of violence. The first two, from your experience, usually go hand in hand. From the dried remnants of blood on his clothes, flecks of it dusting his hands and his pale, scarred face, he’s already indulged in the latter this morning.
A small mercy, you suppose.
You brace yourself for his hands on your skirt, panties being ripped off, or maybe just shoved to the side if he’s feeling especially impatient, so the strange, plastic rustle that comes next takes you by surprise.
Your eyes snap open, head jerking forward just in time to see a little blue pill go into Sanzu’s mouth. And the relief that washes through you only lasts for a split second before his hand is in your hair, yanking you forward to slam his mouth against yours.
It hurts, both the sting of your scalp and the crushing force of his kiss, but the pain gives way to panic as his tongue forces its way past your lips, and you taste artificial sweetness, feel the weight of that little blue pill on your tongue.
“What the fu–”
Sanzu doesn’t let you finish the expletive, clamping his hand over your mouth and squeezing your nose shut.
“Swallow,” he leers.
The drug only takes minutes to kick in.
Warmth begins to seep through your veins. Slowly at first, matching the drag of Sanzu’s tongue along your throat, but it spreads, burns hotter until you’re shifting beneath him, soft little noises escaping you with every touch.
But they’re good noises. It feels good, the way he grabs at you, yanking your thighs apart so he can settle between them.
The press of his cock at your sopping cunt.
And it’s hard to focus, to think as the lights on the ceiling begin to dance, a dizzying haze sweeping through your head. Instead, you focus on Sanzu, the pretty pink of his hair, blue eyes blown wide and that manic, beautiful grin.
You’ve never felt more alive, every nerve ending electrified as he fucks you – you don’t care that you’re in plain view of the others, that you’re moaning and crying out like a two bit whore in a bad porno. All that matters is the delicious stretch of his cock every time he fills you, the buzzing pleasure building in your core with every frenzied thrust.
You’re chasing that high, delirious and in love, and you never want this to end.
—
‘Do you trust me?’
He’d asked you that, months ago now. Another late night, the two of you sprawled out on the old couch in your living room, mindlessly watching reruns of game shows. Or, at least, that’s what you’d been doing – your brother had come in later, bringing the food he was supposed to have brought hours ago, an odd expression on his face.
And the words had just… slipped out. He’d looked almost surprised by them, but glanced at you nevertheless to hear your response.
The answer back then had been the same as it is now; yes. Always.
How could you not, when he was your big brother? The one who protected you, who took you in after your parents left you both orphans at too young an age. He’s never been perfect – a little too rash, sometimes. Irresponsible. Childishly selfish, too, though to his credit he is trying to be better.
He wants the same as you do; a different life. A better one, where you don’t have to work for scraps and every month isn’t a struggle to make ends meet.
So yes, you trusted him. But you never asked for the details, and he never volunteered them.
And you trust him now, even as the pit of unease grows inside of you, and a thousand questions dart through your head. You did what he asked – left work when you got his frantic call, raced home to pack your things.
The only thing you’d faltered on was his last request.
“We have to leave and we have to do it quickly,” he’d told you. “We need the money more than we need those stupid rings, okay? Just… please. Do this for me.”
He was right, really. Your parents’ wedding rings may have been all that you had left of them, but if it came down to a choice of having a temporary roof over your head, and food for the next few days… well, it wasn’t much of a choice at all.
(You didn’t ask what happened to the money you already had set aside.)
That didn’t mean that watching the shopkeeper sniff disinterestedly before counting out a measly sum wasn’t like selling off a part of your soul.
You trust him, but as you return home, money in hand, and the door swings wide to reveal a dark haired stranger waiting for you in the living room, you wonder whether you should have offered that trust to him so blindly.
—
Tonight is a celebration.
For what, exactly, you’re not entirely sure. Another year of successfully flooding Tokyo with drugs and violence, maybe, more competition wiped from the map – they don’t share these things with you, and in all honesty you don’t particularly care.
The less you know about these things, the better.
Tonight, it means a black dress with a slit to your thigh and a choker at your throat that feels more like a collar. Yet it’s not some packed club in Shibuya that they take you to, but an old, abandoned warehouse down by the docks.
From the outside, the place looks like a dump, looming corrugated walls that were once white bleeding lines of rust and grime, the giant lettering out front faded and peeling. There’s not a soul in sight, the night almost eerie if not for the muted thumping of bass that creeps out from the cracked windows.
You can’t help but think back to the first and only time you’d been brought here, Sanzu and Takeomi driving you out in the early hours of the morning. Of course, it’d been different that night. You weren’t dressed up as arm candy for one, and the three of you hadn’t stayed long – just long enough to watch the weighted black bags sink quietly down into the depths of the ocean.
And you might be tempted to wonder if they had similar plans for you tonight, but the grim truth is that if they wanted you dead, they needn’t go to all that trouble. A bullet to the brain while you slept would do the job just fine. After all, they’ve made it abundantly clear by now – there’s no one left to miss you. No one left to care if your body suddenly turns up in some filthy alleyway downtown.
The thought doesn’t bother you as much as it used to.
“You remember the rules, don’t you?” Mikey asks, glancing sideways when you obediently fall into step with him.
He’s forgone his usual attire for a red suit, the colour bringing a flush of life to his normally pallid complexion. Even the dark circles around his eyes look less severe. Yet there’s something else in his expression tonight, a detached sort of… iciness that’s decidedly unsettling.
Whatever the reason they’ve come here – brought you along with them – you’re beginning to think it has very little to do with getting drunk on high end scotch.
“I remember,” you reply, taking his arm when he offers it.
And you do. Since this whole awful chapter began, you can count on one hand the number of times they’ve let you out of the tower, and the rules never change.
“I’ll be good.”
There’s a slight upturn to the corner of his mouth, but he says nothing more as Sanzu steps ahead to push the warehouse doors open.
You’re half expecting that despite the derelict appearance outside, the interior of the warehouse would be something lavish – that would account for Mikey’s suit, at least, the designer dress and heels they’ve shoved you in.
But it isn’t.
Mikey leads you in, Kakucho and Takeomi flanking either side with the others trailing behind, and the first thing you’re assaulted by is the heavy stench of smoke from cigars in the air – so thick it almost chokes you. There must be thirty or so guys inside, drinking, smoking, laughing, lounging back in their seats and hovering over poker tables.
And then there’s the women.
Young and beautiful, half naked as they flit between the men – some dancing, others balancing trays of drinks and food. You watch as one of them, a girl who could be no older than nineteen, pulled by her waist into the lap of an older man, his fingers sliding under the waistband of her thong. He doesn’t even look at her, too busy cackling with his friends over his own stupid joke.
Your stomach turns, and behind you, one of the others snickers.
Ran, you think.
Mikey, of course, doesn’t break stride. None of them do, tugging you along until three men step forward, the one in the middle – the oldest, heavyset with slicked back hair and a too wide grin – opening his arms in greeting with a short, respectful bow.
“Manjiro, my friends, welcome!”
Mikey blinks. “Junichi.”
The man – Junichi, you gather – eyes you for but a moment, dismissing you entirely as he snaps his fingers and two girls step forward with drinks in hand. “Come, let’s talk. The last shipment just arrived, and I think you’ll be more than pleased with the goods.”
Which is how, twenty minutes later, you find yourself perched on Kakucho’s lap, trying desperately to forget the terrified expressions of the women – girls – stuffed into cages, crying and sniffling and begging–
“Drink,” Kakucho murmurs, handing you a glass of amber liquor. You don’t even pause before knocking it back, wincing at the dry burn as it slides down your throat.
His knuckles graze your side, a low hum escaping him when you readjust yourself, but otherwise his attention turns back to Mikey and Junichi’s entourage. Back to the business at hand. Because that’s what this was to them; just business. Girls stolen, manipulated and lied to, forced into their brothels and onto the streets to make a quick buck.
Drugs, weapons, gambling, money laundering, murder; why not add sex trafficking to the list?
It’s not like you didn’t know this was going on, but knowing something to be true and actually having the evidence shoved in your face are two very different things. Those girls, that–
That could’ve been you.
Kakucho’s arm’s still loosely curled around your waist, but suddenly it’s stifling – too hot, too close, too smothering – and your stomach turns. He’s not even paying attention, at least, not until you start to pull away from him.
His brows knit, but he doesn’t say a word as you push to your feet, unsteady.
No, it’s Rindou, seated across from you on the other side of the table, watching you like a hawk, who pipes up, “Going somewhere?”
His bored expression betrays little, but you hear the underlying message clear enough. Keep your mouth shut, do what we say, and don’t leave our sight. The same rules they always have for you.
You can’t summon the energy to care about that right now.
“Bathroom,” you mutter, and don’t look back.
Except it isn’t the bathroom that you head to, but rather the emergency exit door that lies just beyond them. You’re not stupid enough to think you can run (there’s nowhere left for you to run to) but you need space, and air to breathe that isn’t tainted with stale smoke and too much cologne.
The cool night breeze bites at your bare skin; a thousand tiny pinpricks, but it’s a welcome discomfort. The wind that blows through your hair, the distant thrum of heavy machinery and the gentle slap of waves against the docks, even the aching pain in the balls of your feet from your heels, you hone in on them, let yourself be lost to them – even if it’s just for a minute.
You’re not an idiot, you know that one of them will come and retrieve you sooner or later, that you’ll inevitably have to listen to them chew you out, or worse, have to endure the teasing mockery while they make you apologise for breaking the rules.
But at the sound of the heavy door swinging open and footsteps echoing out, you can’t help the stinging disappointment that washes over you.
“I was coming back, I just… I just needed a minute,” you say, not even bothering to turn around.
The laugh that follows, however, isn’t a familiar one, and you jerk back around to find one of the men from inside leering at you instead. “No need to rush on my account, we got all the time in the world."
A very real trickle of fear slips down your back. You’re not so naive anymore to mistake the expression on his face as anything but pure hunger. Not so stupid as to think that if he did try coming at you, that you’d have any hope of fighting him off – not when he’s a full foot taller than you at least, and built like a tank.
He takes a single step towards you, his grin widening as you skitter backwards, almost tripping on your damn heels. “C’mon, don’t be like that. I wouldn’t hurt a pretty thing like you.”
“I-I’m not–”
Not what? Not like the girls inside? Tits out, stuffed into lacy g-strings and thigh high stockings to bend and serve Junichi’s men. Not like the girls in the cages, terrified and filthy, soon to be plied with drugs to make them nice and compliant.
He knows that. You hate yourself for even making the comparison, but the fact you’re fully dressed instead of just prancing around in your underwear should set you apart easily enough. And he had to have seen you come in with Mikey and the others, to know that you’re with them in all the ways that count.
Which, you realise with another stab of panic, means that he simply doesn’t care.
You’re with Bonten, but you’re not one of them.
Intentionally, he’s placed himself firmly between you and the door back inside, meaning that if you want to run the only option you have is the sprawling labyrinth of warehouses and shipping containers behind you. And that’s assuming you’re quicker than him.
If nothing else, you’ve learned that size doesn’t always impact speed.
You swallow tightly, legs shifting as you brace yourself to kick off your shoes and run if you have to–
“Gonna scream for help, girlie?” he calls out, his tongue swiping along his lower lip as he mirrors your stance. “They won’t hear you in there, so why don’tcha just make this easy and come to daddy.”
The words make you want to retch, but there’s no chance for you to react as the door behind him – the door to your freedom – flies open once more and a familiar figure steps out.
Kakucho’s mismatched eyes, one vermillion, the other a milky white, dart from you – shivering and terrified – to the hulking man standing only feet away, and narrow dangerously.
And if you’d bothered to glance at your would be attacker, you might have seen the way his face pales, how he straightens, hands reflexively coming up in front of his chest in a gesture of peace and apologies start to form on his lips.
But your attention is fixed on Bonten’s number three as Kakucho draws his gun from the holster hidden by his jacket, flicks off the safety, and with a casual ease that still terrifies you, shoots.
Once. Twice. Three times for good measure. The man’s dead before his bullet ridden body hits the ground.
“If you’re not careful, Mikey’s gonna put a leash on you,” Kakucho comments after a beat, stowing his sidearm and carelessly stepping over the corpse when it becomes clear to him you’re not gonna come on your own. “You don’t go anywhere without us.”
There’s a thousand things you could say in response to that, but as he grabs your jaw and forces you to meet his stare, the only words that slip from your mouth are, “Thank you.”
He almost smiles.
—
“Please– please, this…”
You look wildly from the dark haired man to the blonde sitting passively on your kitchen countertop.
“Whatever he’s done, I-I can fix it,” the words spill out faster than you can stop them.
An empty promise, to be sure – they know it as well as you do.
The taller of the two, the dark haired one with a scar slashed across his face, holds a gun in his hand. Holds it easily, comfortably, as if the weapon is merely an extension of his arm. As if he’s held it a thousand times, used it without breaking a sweat. And you know, with a sinking certainty, that whatever it is that your brother’s gotten himself mixed up in, ‘fixing it’ isn’t something that you’re going to be able to do on your own.
But you’re terrified. These strangers have broken into your home, your brother’s gone, and now there’s a gun and it’s all you can do to keep yourself from falling apart.
“I-if it’s money, I have some,” you stammer, reaching into your purse to pull out the cash from the pawn shop. “It’s only a few hundred, but–”
“Stop talking.”
Finally, the blonde speaks – and the rest of your rambling words die in your throat.
Tired, bloodshot eyes bore into yours, “Do you know who we are?” he asks.
Again, your gaze flickers between the two. Surely if your brother had mentioned either one of them, they would have made an impression, but there’s nothing.
He never told you anything, and if you’re supposed to–
“Are you deaf?” the dark haired one snaps when your petrified silence stretches too long. “Answer him.”
Wordlessly, you shake your head.
The two share a look of their own, and the blonde hops off the counter. “Unfortunate.”
He sweeps out of the room, not even sparing you a backwards glance… Leaving you alone with his terrifying friend.
Shit.
Time seems to slow, abject terror coursing through your veins as you spin back to face him, fully expecting to see the muzzle of his gun greeting you, a flash, a deafening bang–
But he hasn’t moved – the gun’s still in his hand, yes, but it hangs passively down by his side. Is this the part where you fall to your knees and beg? He hadn’t seemed moved by your pleading earlier, but just standing there mutely, shaking like a leaf while you scramble for something to do that’ll save you feels wrong too.
“Please,” you whisper, “my phone’s in my bag. Just let me call him and we can fix this, I– I can…”
There’s something in his mismatched eyes that robs you of your words. Not pity, exactly – somehow, he doesn’t strike you as the overly sympathetic type – but more a kind of grim understanding. As if he knows that whatever your brother was caught up in, you are a wholly innocent party – and it still won’t save you from what happens next.
“We’re past that now,” he mutters, holstering the gun as he marches forward to grab you by the arm. “C’mon, you’re coming with us.”
—
“Stop fucking whining, you can take it,” Rindou pants in your ear as another strangled gasp leaves you. “You always do.”
Because they never give you a damn choice.
The bathroom stalls at the bar weren’t built with three people in mind, but somehow you’re sandwiched in there between him and his brother, skirt hiked up, Rindou’s hand wrapped around your throat and your panties stuffed in Ran’s trouser pocket.
Ran fucking your cunt, and Rindou’s cock stuffed deep in your ass.
And it burns, every synchronised thrust bringing a fresh wave of searing pain. The tears come unbidden, and yet the sight of them only serves to make Ran grin, leaning down so he can lick them from your overheated face.
“Don’t be shy now, show us what a good little cock whore you are, hm? Takin’ us both like this,” he laughs, and all you can do is whimper when his lips crash roughly against yours.
It’s hardly the first time they’ve fucked you together like this, but back home there’s usually some kind of prep– not since the early days have they split you open without a care. Tonight, however, they’re on a tight schedule. Something about a meeting, a late dinner with the boss, the exact reason they’d given escaping you.
‘Just a quickie,’ Ran had promised with a wink when they’d cornered you on your way out of the bathroom, shoving you back into the seedy cubicle before you could so much as try to protest.
Rindou’s grip tightens, cutting off your air supply and making you jolt and jerk and writhe on their cocks, because between them you can barely stand. And every snap of their hips and the lewd, wet, squelching sound that accompanies it sends you closer and closer to the edge.
It hurts, fuck it hurts more than you remember, but as Ran’s hand slips down to where your bodies meet, and those calloused fingertips graze at your clit, your whole body shudders and shakes.
Dark spots begin to appear in the corners of your vision. You’re screaming, or moaning maybe – the choked noises are hard to decipher as your fingers claw at Ran’s back, trembling on your tippy toes when their rhythm starts to falter and instead they settle on a brutal pace to chase their own ends, fucking you deep and hard and fast.
It’s too much, you can’t breathe, and yet when Rindou’s teeth sink into your shoulder and Ran’s cock hits that sweet bundle of nerves that has you convulsing around them both, a wave of pleasure slams into you so hard that for a second there, you’re almost positive you pass out.
Neither one of them lasts long after that; the younger Haitani hammering into your asshole, cursing up a storm as thick, hot ropes of cum paint your insides, his older brother following only moments behind.
And you – oxygen deprived, stuffed to the brim and half delirious with the potent mix of pain and pleasure – tumble off that precipice right along with them.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Rindou’s grip eases off your neck after a moment. “Knew you fuckin’ liked it,” he snickers, pulling himself free. “Our little pain slut.”
Gulping down heaving breaths, you ignore him, choosing instead to collapse against the stall wall, closing your eyes and waiting for your racing heart to calm.
“She always does,” Ran agrees, and you ignore that too.
Already, you can feel their cum beginning to seep down your thighs, dripping down onto the tiled floor. Unfortunately for you, your underwear’s currently balled up in Ran’s pocket.
Swallowing down the last scraps of your dignity, you begin to turn to the older Haitani sibling to plead for them back when, with an audible bang, the door to the bathroom slams open.
Shit.
You freeze, eyes widening as footsteps approach your cubicle–
“Hey, shitheads,” Koko’s voice calls, and the burst of relief that washes over you is palpable. “We’re leaving, hurry the fuck up.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, footsteps receding and the heavy door swinging shut behind him.
“You heard the man,” Ran says, grinning all too smugly as he smoothes down the front of your skirt. “Fix yourself up, princess. Can’t keep the boss waiting.”
—
He’ll come for you.
Your brother is going to come.
The words are like a mantra, repeating them over and over again the only thing that keeps you from shattering completely when you lie down on that lumpy old mattress and will yourself to sleep after another night of being used and fucked and hurt for their pleasure.
He’s going to come and get you out of here, and the two of won’t ever look back.
… It’s been weeks now, hasn’t it? You’ve lost count of the days, one bleeding right into the next. A never-ending cycle.
Maybe you’ll start somewhere fresh, move to the countryside and find a job working at a bakery or a little shop – anything to put distance between you and this. You won’t ever have to wake up and wonder what fresh horrors are in store for you, whether today will be the day that one of them will finally reach their limit and end it–
He’ll come.
He’ll come.
He’ll come.
The tears arrive unbidden, silently streaming down your cheeks and seeping into your pillow while you shake fitfully with tiny sobs. So lost hurtling between misery and raw, flickering hope, that you don’t even hear the door, don’t realise that you’re no longer alone – at least, not until the light switches on.
“You’re not still crying, are you?” Ran – still wearing his three piece suit despite the late hour – asks mockingly, crouching down over your mattress.
You don’t reply as he pushes your hair back to revel in your red eyed, teary expression, but the watery glare you shoot him is answer enough.
His grin widens.
“Aw,” he tuts, “and here I thought you’d be happy to see me, especially when I come with a surprise. We brought it here just for you!”
You tense at that word, surprise, eyeing him warily, “What do you mean?”
Ran’s eyes glitter, and there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You’ve been here weeks now, months even – long enough to know that his idea of a surprise likely won’t bode well for you.
Then again, it doesn’t matter whether you’ll like this surprise or not, because Ran’s already straightening up, beckoning for you to follow with that same cruel smirk.
And you’ve learned by now that it’s easier, less painful, when you do as you’re told, so you quickly scamper to follow him.
He leads you to the elevator, presses the button for the 28th floor, and when the doors open again, you’re surprised to find that unlike the upper floors, this one’s hollowed out. Unfinished. Paint markers still on the walls, fluorescent lights flickering from the exposed ceiling above.
As if the construction crew had simply given up halfway through.
Your stomach twists into a knot. Something is wrong.
Ran steps out of the elevator smoothly, offering you his arm when you make no move to do the same. “Don’t wanna keep ‘em waiting,” he says with a wink.
On shaking legs, you reluctantly trudge after him. But as he leads you down a corridor, and the muffled sounds begin to get louder, clearer, and you hear grunting and laughter – someone howling in agony – you falter, tugging at his arm.
“Ran…”
“Shh,” he says, long fingers encircling your wrist and tightening painfully, “you’re gonna be good and stay nice and quiet. Can’t spoil the surprise now, can we?”
Even if you wanted to back out now, and damn the consequences, his grip on you is tight and you’re not strong enough to pull yourself free. So you walk with him, cold dread mounting with every feeble step.
The reasons for which become apparent as you round the corner of the hallway and the space suddenly opens up. There, in the middle of the empty room are three people. Sanzu, Rindou and a third bound to a chair, head hanging low and impossible to mistake–
Your brother.
The desperate noise that claws its way up your throat is smothered by Ran’s hand clamping over your mouth, his arm snaking around your waist to anchor you in place when you try to run for him. “What’d I tell you about being quiet, hmm?” he purrs, his nose nudging at your temple. “We’re just here to watch.”
And while both Sanzu and Rin meet your wide eyed, horrified gaze with amusement, your brother’s facing away from you, slumped over as much as the thick rope bindings will allow.
At the sound of your arrival, however, he stiffens, struggling to lift his head.
“Huh? W-who’s there?” he slurs. Before he can so much as turn, Rindou’s fist slams into the side of his face with a sickening thwack. Your brother grunts, spitting out a mix of blood and spit, and much to your horror, a tooth as the younger Haitani leans down to grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his face back up to sneer at him.
“Pay attention. We’re not done yet.”
But it’s Sanzu who takes the lead when Rindou shoves your brother off in disgust. “You can’t just fuck Bonten over like that, run off and think we won’t come after ya. Have you forgotten who the fuck we are?” he asks.
Your brother heaves in a ragged breath, shaking his head. “No, no, I didn’t– I gave–”
Another blow, this time to his nose, and he bellows out in agony as the cartilage cracks gruesomely and blood sprays.
Your stomach churns, a strangled cry of your own swallowed up by Ran’s palm – but you hear his laugh, soft as a lover’s touch if not for its malicious edge.
He’s enjoying this, you realise, tormenting you by hurting him. They all are.
They’ve fucked you, used you, hurt you. Made you beg and bleed and moan for them, but through it all, you don’t think you’ve ever felt the same bitter, seething hatred that you do right now.
“Gave what?” Sanzu presses, blue eyed gaze darting up to meet yours as that unsettling grin of his widens.
It takes a moment for your brother to answer him, a steady drip of blood seeping down his face as he waits for the pain to subside enough to speak. “Money,” he pants. “And– and her. My sister.”
The words don’t hit you right away. You can’t make sense of them, they–
They don’t make sense.
You don’t realise that you’ve gone completely still in Ran’s arms, that everyone else in the room, save your brother, is watching as your brain tries fruitlessly to process what you’ve just heard.
My sister… My sister…
My sister.
… No.
That– that can’t be right. You mustn’t have heard him correctly, he can’t have meant what you think he does…
He was going to meet you at the apartment.
He told you that he was going to meet you there, you just had to go and sell off the rings first. He– he was going to meet you there. You were going to leave together, but he got held up – that’s why he wasn’t there when you came back from the pawn shop.
He wouldn’t have sold you out, he wouldn’t have just left you… would he?
There’s a sound in your ears, a dull roar growing louder and louder by the second until it drowns out everything else. You’re shaking, you realise, trembling against Ran as you stare mutely at your brother, your supposed protector.
He gave you up?
“And what, ya think a few grand and some stupid slut was enough to wipe your debt?”
The backhanded insult slides right over you, lost to the pounding in your chest, the black, bitter nausea you feel clawing up your throat.
“Fine,” your brother spits, more blood splattering the concrete. “A peace offering then.”
A… a peace offering?
Ran’s murmuring something in your ear, but you can’t make sense of it, not as hot tears finally spill over and your legs start to give way.
He catches you, of course, lets you cling to him like a lifeline. But the hand that strokes your hair tightens and yanks, forcing you to turn back and watch.
Watch as Sanzu’s manic grin fades away, becomes something cold and predatory as he turns back to the table full of tools and takes up his revolver.
You know what’s coming.
Know it, but can’t make yourself move, can’t force a sound that isn’t a sob from your lips when Sanzu raises the gun and jams it against his forehead.
And as your brother starts to blabber, desperate, hoarse pleas spilling from his lips, Sanzu scoffs.
“Fuckin’ pathetic.”
BANG!
—
The sound of the lock turning draws you from your mindless boredom.
You briefly glance over, long enough to see Mikey slip silently through the door, before going back to staring out the lavish, floor to ceiling windows of his bedroom.
The clock on the wall tells you that it’s still early, but already the sun’s setting over the city, golden light bathing the towering skyscrapers. All your life you’ve lived in Tokyo, and yet before they’d brought you here, you’d never seen the city you loved from a bird's eye view like this.
So beautiful, the sky awash with pink and peach hues and scattered cirrus clouds. So… serene looking. The streets below, the thriving hustle and bustle you grew up in, it’s a world away now, the people down there little more than ants scurrying about.
Mikey hasn’t moved, watching you wordlessly from the doorway. Waiting, no doubt, for you to acknowledge him beyond that first cursory glance.
“You’ve been gone for hours,” you murmur eventually.
“I know.”
Distantly, you nod, drawing your knees up close to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. Still refusing to look at him. “You locked me in here.”
“I know,” he repeats, and that last vestige of lingering doubt that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t meant to leave you trapped in here when he left goes up in smoke.
And you’d thought that you were spent, all that anger and panic and broken desperation used up hours ago when you’d banged your fists against the door and screamed yourself hoarse.
Even then, you think you’d known the truth, but to hear him admit it with such… such indifference, as if locking you up like an animal is nothing, all those emotions bubble up to the surface once more. Your fists clench, blood pounding and fingernails biting into the palm of your hand and you have to force yourself to stop and breathe for a moment, to calm down enough that you won’t do or say something you’ll regret.
Because you forget sometimes, just exactly who Mikey is and what he’s capable of.
A good thing too, because when you finally deign to turn around and face him, you’re hit with the realisation that something’s off about him tonight. He hasn’t moved so much as an inch, but it’s more than that. There’s a sort of preternatural stillness about him as he stares, an emptiness in his expression that makes the little hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.
As quickly as your anger had come, it recedes, a cold pit forming in its wake.
“Mikey,” you begin, your tone softer as you slide from the same bed he left you in this morning. “Why? I woke up and you were gone and the door was locked and I couldn’t get out. I– was it… did I do something wrong?”
There’s a slight twitch in his jaw, but otherwise his expression doesn’t waver as you pad across the floor to him. He reminds you of a cornered animal, tensed and volatile, dark, tired eyes fixed on your every move when you tentatively reach for him, fingers featherlight as they cup his cheek.
Mikey relaxes, shutting his eyes and leaning ever so slightly into the touch. The knot in your chest slowly loosens at the sight, and you can barely hold back your sigh of relief.
Good, you think, you can work with this.
“It wasn’t a punishment,” he mutters.
“Then why?”
His eyes snap open, “So you wouldn’t go wandering.”
You jolt back at the sudden bitterness in his tone, the hand you have on his cheek slowly falling back to your side, “Mikey–”
His expression darkens, “Have you forgotten that I own you? You’re mine,” he snarls quietly. “I don’t owe you shit, and if I wanna make sure you stay where I fucking left you, you should be thankful I don’t just chain you to the bed.”
You shake your head desperately, scrambling backwards towards the bed. “No, t-that’s not what–”
“Shut up,” he snaps. “You still don’t get it. The only reason you’re not rotting away six feet under right now is because I let you live. You’re not here to settle a traitor’s debt, you’re here because your life belongs to me. You belong to me.”
He closes the distance between you in an instant, cornering you up against the bed frame. One harsh shove and you’re falling onto the mattress with a yelp, the air knocked from your lungs. Mikey doesn’t waste a beat, clambering up after you and yanking at the silk robe you’d thrown on that morning, tearing it from you before turning his attention to his own clothes.
“Mikey, please, just wait–” you gasp, only to fall silent at the dark glare he levels at you.
Grabbing you by the hips, he roughly flips you – ignoring your undignified yelp – drawing your ass back up until you’re on your knees, face shoved into the sheets. You only try to rise to your hands the once – he shoves you back down with a muted growl, one hand curling around the back of your neck to keep you in place.
Stay down.
And you suppose that you should be grateful that he takes a moment to spit on your cunt, before he lines his cock up and sinks himself inside of you.
You don’t know how long he fucks you for, how many rounds he goes, only that by the time he finally pulls out, spent and panting, the sky’s an inky black and every inch of your body aches.
He doesn’t say a word as he collapses beside you, but truthfully you don’t expect him to. Whatever it is that’s just occurred between you two, it’s changed something fundamental. Broken something, and even as you lie there mutely trying to comprehend it, you realise on some instinctive level that there’s no fixing this now, no going back.
But Mikey isn’t the only one utterly spent. There’s no tears left for you to shed tonight, and you’ve no energy to fight it when, after a minute or so, he lets out a frustrated grunt and pulls you close, shifting until you’re lying nestled against his side.
In the darkness of his room, no noise but the soft sounds of your breath and the warmth of Mikey’s body next to yours, drifting off to sleep should be easy. And yet, despite all that, and the bone tired exhaustion weighing you down, you find yourself oddly awake, staring once more out the massive windows.
Watching as a soft blanket of white snow begins to cover Tokyo.
The idea of soulmates sounds so lovely in your head.
The name that graces the skin of your forearm is supposed to be a gift. A blessing bestowed on the few; a partner born to love them in a way nobody else could ever hope to match.
That’s certainly how it was for your grandparents, for the sweet couple who live down the hall from you.
A shame then, that your reality is far less rose tinted.
—
The woman behind the counter doesn’t ask any questions when you arrive ten minutes early, cash in hand and a nervous expression on your face.
“There’s no undoing this once it’s done,” she tells you, leading you out into the dingy back parlour, complete with yellowed, flickering fluorescents overhead. “And it’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”
Undeterred, you nod. “I know.”
There’s a lone seat in the centre of the room, an old school style barber’s chair, covered in worn red leather and stretched out into a reclining position. Not for ease of access or to make you more comfortable during the procedure, but because once she injects the serum into your arm, the pain’s more than likely going to cause you to pass out.
At least, that’s what you’d read.
No one bothered to sugar coat this. The process of removing one’s soulmate mark isn’t to be taken lightly – the few genuine articles you’d managed to scrounge up had painted a grim picture. You’re ripping away a piece of yourself, obliterating a bond you were born with, or at least any visible sign of it; of course it’s going to hurt.
It’ll be agony.
Jerking her chin towards the seat and watching you awkwardly clamber on up, the woman sighs, “You know, if this is all ‘cause you and the boyfriend had a big, blowout fight–”
“It’s not,” you hasten to assure her, though you doubt she genuinely cares one way or the other. More likely, she just doesn’t want you coming back and complaining if in two weeks you suddenly decide you’re blissfully in love again.
Fat chance of that happening.
—
You sent him a message once.
Late at night, at your best friend’s giggling insistence. It was only a line or two, a tentative hand reached out across the internet.
I know this is kinda out of the blue, but I think you might be my soulmate?
If he ever saw it, he didn’t bother to reply.
—
“Holy fuck, you’re Rin’s girl!”
The delighted cackle doesn’t put your heart at ease, nor do the fingers tightly gripping your wrist, wrenching it back at an awkward angle to get a better look.
“W-what?”
In your defence, nothing about this situation makes much sense.
Your date is lying hunched over and moaning on the pavement, having made the mistake of accidentally knocking into the tattooed blond currently cutting off circulation in your arm as the two of you were exiting your train.
And you’re sure that he’d been about to hit you too, a wild look in his eyes as he’d whirled – only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight of your forearm. Or, more specifically, the shimmering letters of the name etched into said forearm.
Haitani Rindou.
“The fuck you doing with this asshole?” he laughs, easing his grip only when a small, discomforted noise escapes you. That amusement, however, fades when he regards your date once more, “You blind or something? Messing ‘round with a taken woman – one who’s got a damn soulmate at that? You that fuckin’ desperate to get your dick wet?”
Another vicious kick to his midsection, and your date grunts while you watch on in mute horror.
The blond spits on him for good measure, turning back to face you with a wide grin. “Ignore him. Name’s Madarame, you wanna come meet your soulmate?”
In hindsight, the massive red flags there should’ve been your first sign to run.
You hadn’t, though. Partially because the arm Madarame slung over your shoulder gave you very little choice in the matter, but mostly because despite everything, you couldn’t deny that there was a part of you that wanted this.
How could you not?
It occurs to you, as the blond leads you through the streets of Shinjuku, that there’s every chance he’s lying, that you’ve essentially followed a violent, quite possibly unhinged delinquent off to god knows where, and if you end up dead in an alleyway tonight you’ll only have yourself and your stupid romantic idealism to blame.
Thankfully, though, the two of you arrive at a neon lit bar near Kabukicho. Apprehension flutters in your stomach, a potent mix of fear and excitement, and it must show on your face because Madarame winks, holding the door open for you. “Ladies first.”
You’ve dreamed of meeting your Rindou a hundred times before, thousands. Of meet cutes where you’d stumble over each other in a coffee shop, or on a night out dancing with your friends. Maybe he’d track you down somehow, and you’d find him nervously waiting for you out the front of your work one afternoon, flowers in hand.
The specifics were always up in the air, ever changing. The one thing that remained a constant was that you’d recognize him the moment you saw him. You’d just know.
And you do. Sitting in a booth towards the back of the bar, nursing a glass of clear amber liquid, violet eyes meet yours and you physically feel the pleasant zing of electricity that shoots through you as your heart skips a beat.
It’s as if the rest of the world falls away. You’re not sure if you’re even breathing, standing there, softly gaping at your soulmate from across the room. Doesn’t matter, you don’t need oxygen.
You don’t need anything.
He’s… beautiful. There’s no other word for it. Hooded, violet eyes with long, fair eyelashes that sweep along his cheekbones. His jaw’s sharp, lips a soft cupid's bow. Even his hair – blond streaked with pale blue, carelessly pulled back into a bun – isn’t as jarring as it should be. It suits him.
So swept up in the moment, you fail to notice the long legged, dark haired beauty who saunters across the floor and settles into the booth beside him. Until painted red lips press against his jaw in a sultry kiss, that is, her hand slipping beneath the table to stroke at his thigh.
“Rin, baby, I’m bored,” she pouts.
Your stomach flips, the bright smile that’d appeared unbeknownst to you freezing upon your visage.
“Aren’tcha gonna go say hi?” Madarame snickers, giving you a little push that has you stumbling awkwardly forward.
People are staring now. Your mouth opens, then closes, cheeks burning as you glance between the two of them.
You need to do something – move, leave, speak; anything – and yet the longer you stand there under the weight of that bored gaze, the more you flounder.
Rationally, you know you have no right to the hurt that tightens in your chest at the sight of another girl pawing at him. You don’t own him anymore than he owns you, soulmates or not you’re still strangers, and you can hardly criticise him for doing something you yourself were guilty of.
You know all that, and it doesn’t lessen the sting any.
“Shion, don’t be rude,” a new voice interrupts. Dragging your eyes from your soulmate, you notice a taller man with braids approaching, a grin tugging at familiar looking features.
Rindou’s brother, you guess, judging from those startling, violet eyes boring into you.
“It’s not every day we get to meet Rin’s lovely little soulmate.”
You think it might have been better if someone just came up and slapped you across the face instead.
He… knows who you are? Which would mean that–
Jerking your head back to Rindou and the woman (his girlfriend? Lover? Fling?) you don’t know what you’re expecting to see. Cold apathy, however, isn’t it.
“I–” you begin, unsure of what exactly it is that you’re trying to say.
In the end, it makes no difference. He’s already turning his attention back to the girl to mumble something in her ear that has her giggling, brushing you off without so much as a word.
As if you’re nothing.
Something within your heart cracks, jagged edges catching with every breath you force into your lungs. It’s not merely a dismissal, it’s an outright rejection – of you, your bond, everything.
He doesn’t want you.
He doesn’t even know you and he doesn’t want you.
Your whole life you’ve waited for this moment, built it up in your head, imagined it every which way. How it would feel to see him for the first time, the conversations the two of you would share, the life you’d lead together.
Dreamed of what it would be like to be loved like that, unconditionally, unwavering, with every inch of their being.
This is more than cruel, this is the shattering of your very foundations – and it’s playing out like a tragedy for his friends at the bar to drink down and revel in.
Hot, fat tears well up, glistening at your waterline, a thick lump of choked back emotions sitting heavy in your throat.
Making a split second decision, you try to step back, to flee, taking your bitter, burning humiliation with you, only Madarame seems to have anticipated the move, placing himself between you and the door, blocking your exit.
Rindou’s brother, now directly in front of you, smiles delightedly at your stricken expression. “Don’t be shy, now,” he says, extending a pale, long fingered hand. “He’s just dying to meet you.”
—
The universe, you decide, is a cruel, hateful thing.
You’d spent hours stuck at that bar; Rindou ignoring you in favour of the voluptuous brunette on his lap, his brother Ran pouring you drink after drink, perfectly content with carrying on a one-sided conversation with you whilst you sat hands balled into fists in your lap, willing yourself not to cry.
Without a doubt, it was the single worst night of your life, and still, upon returning back to your apartment and collapsing into a fit of heart wrenching sobs, you resolved that you’d find some way of coming to terms with it.
Your soulmate didn’t love you, didn’t want you. That didn’t have to mean your life was over. Plenty of people found love and happiness without a soulmate, who’s to say that you couldn’t do the same after the dust and tears settle?
Perhaps the universe chose wrong and the mark on your arm was never meant to exist in the first place, like a calf born with two heads, destined to die through the night.
You weren’t going to beg for love, not from someone who so clearly wanted nothing to do with you. What else was left for you to do but pick up the broken pieces of yourself and move on as best you could?
That’s how it was supposed to have gone. One awful night you’d strive to forget, a name on your arm that didn’t truly belong to you.
And perhaps it might have, if not for Haitani Ran.
—
You’re burning from the inside out, mouth locked open in a soundless shriek, violently thrashing against the chair’s restraints.
They promised you’d pass out.
Oh god, why won’t you pass out?
—
There’s a mark on Ran’s arm too, elegant script laying out another girl’s name. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his arm dangling from your shoulder, it’s hard to ignore.
Once upon a time, either in the days following your initial message or at some point before that, Rindou had looked you up.
(Decided you weren’t worth it.)
You wonder distantly whether Ran’s done the same for her. Whether he cares at all about the girl – woman, you suppose – bound to him, because he certainly doesn’t act like it when he’s around you.
“I lost my job today,” you murmur, staring vacantly off in the direction Rin and this week’s fling had disappeared.
This one had the nerve to throw you a smug little grin as she passed, as if it was some big victory to be fucking your soulmate. He won’t remember her name once they’re done, if he bothered to learn it in the first place.
She, like the string of others before her, will be gone before long, nothing more than a pretty set of holes for him to fuck and forget about.
Perhaps more surprising was that Rindou had also glanced your way, expression tight, the faintest hint of agitation showing in the set of his jaw.
An agitation that remained, even as his features shifted into an arrogant smirk at having caught you looking back.
Ran, having been in the midst of scrolling through your phone, sets it down upon the table and raises an eyebrow, “Mm?”
You nod, “Yeah. One of my coworkers was jumped last night, two guys broke his leg, beat him up pretty bad. Turns out he’s my boss's son, and they seemed to think it had something to do with me.”
“Huh,” he says, making no attempt to hide the mirth that dances in his eyes. “Two birds with one stone, colour me impressed.”
You’re not seeking confirmation, you already know it was them.
Just like when one of your best friends had been mysteriously attacked on his way home from the gym. Or your neighbour, who used to smile and strike up a conversation whenever you’d pass each other in the hallway.
Your jaw tightens, so too does the grip you have on the drink he’d poured for you. “Why?”
“Why what?”
And like a cord wound too tight, the pressure of the last few weeks suddenly explodes without warning, and you roughly shoulder his arm off of you.
“Why all of it!” you cry. “Why you hurt them! Why you care who I talk to or what I do! Why you’re obsessed with hanging around like an overgrown parasite, ruining my life when Rin–” you break off with a shuddering gasp, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you furiously blink back tears.
When Rin’s made it so abundantly clear he doesn’t want you.
Long, lithe fingers grab at your chin, forcefully turning your head towards his.
Nestled into his side, close enough that the warmth of his breath kisses your neck with every exhale, he nudges his nose against yours, a wry smile twitching at his lips.
“There really isn’t a single brain cell in that pretty little head of yours, is there,” he says, flicking your forehead for good measure. “Why do you think?”
—
Caught between a soulmate who doesn’t want you, and the brother who keeps you leashed regardless, you learn very quickly the kind of men the Haitani brothers are.
Their sadistic, violent impulses of course come as no surprise, but you soon realise that that’s only the very tip of the iceberg.
Extortion, assault, drugs, robberies, prostitution, senseless, rampant killing; it seems there’s no limit to the lengths they’ll go to in the name of expansion. They don’t try to hide it from you. No, you’d go so far as to say the pair get a kick out of seeing you flinch and baulk over the grisly details.
As much as hearing about it chills you to the bone, what truly scares you isn’t the crimes they’ve already committed.
It’s the knowledge that no matter how much power or territory they gain, they’ll always want more. That one day they plan on running this city, and to achieve that they’ll inevitably – gladly – do so much worse.
It’s the thought that you might end up trapped here between them, forced to bear witness as your soulmate warps and twists into something wholly unrecognisable.
—
The final nail in the coffin comes the day you’re walking back to your apartment, and you realise that you’re being followed.
A big guy in a dark hoodie, tattooed hands stuffed into the pockets, an ugly scar slashed across his cheek.
You’ve seen him before – watching you on the platform at Shibuya station a few days back, and again yesterday as you were exiting the 7-Eleven a block down from the Haitanis’ apartment.
And it’s enough to have your blood running cold, fear taking root deep inside of you.
Enough that you’re frantically swiping open your phone, quickening your pace.
The phone rings once, twice–
“Ran’s busy. What?”
The voice isn’t the one you’re expecting; your heart leaps at the sound of it. “Rin, I– there’s some big, tattooed guy following me. I-I think I’ve seen him before.”
You’re not sure what it is that you’re expecting him to do. Rindou could be anywhere in the city, tied up with other, more important things. And that’s assuming he’d care enough to lift a finger in the first place.
Ran would, you think.
He’d almost snapped a guy’s wrist the other night for trying to cop a feel of your ass. Whatever fucked up kind of relationship he imagines he has with you, it’s certainly edged with a streak of possessiveness.
You’re not so sure the same can be said of your soulmate.
Images flash to mind; your body, lying bruised and battered, hooked up to beeping monitors in hospital. Worse – found in a back alley dumpster, used and discarded with yesterday’s trash.
On the other end of the line, Rindou curses softly.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” and the call goes dead.
He… hung up.
Your soulmate hung up on you.
There’s a noose around your neck, tightening with each passing beat. Your heart hammers so violently against your rib cage that you physically feel sick.
You called him for help, terrified, and he’d hung up on you.
Spying a 24-hour FamilyMart on the other side of the street, you dart across the road as quick as your legs’ll take you – barely managing to dodge the car that slams on its breaks to avoid hitting you.
The teenager restocking the shelves gives you an odd look as you scramble inside, shaking and nearly in tears. It shifts quickly when she follows your gaze and catches sight of your bona fide stalker, lurking on the other side of the glass, sliding doors.
Yet rather than entering the store, the man simply grins, gold teeth glinting in the low light, lifts two fingers to his temple, and salutes.
—
Rindou’s waiting at your apartment when you return, furiously pacing back and forth inside your living room.
Wastes no time in asking if you’re okay, or offering up comfort, merely snatches at your chin, roughly tilting your face this way and that until he’s satisfied with whatever it is he sees.
“Tell me everything,” he grits out, and once you’re finished, voice trembling and your nerves shot to pieces, he makes you tell it to him again.
He leaves, as he always does, without a goodbye, the sound of the locks on your front door clicking into place echoing in his wake.
—
You used to think disappearing would be enough.
Rindou wouldn’t care to stop you, and if you were meticulous in your planning, Ran wouldn’t have the chance to try.
You’d leave Tokyo, pick up a life somewhere else. If anyone asked about the name on your arm, you’d tell them your soulmate died before you met him, an accident, or a terrible childhood illness. A tragedy yes, but nothing insurmountable.
You could find another way to be happy.
Now, you know better. As long as those letters grace your arm, you’ll never be able to escape the Haitanis influence. There’ll always be a target on your back, a chain around your ankle, trailing right back to Tokyo and the brothers you left behind.
So you found a way to erase them.
—
“You trust us, don’t you?”
The question’s posed to you by the elder Haitani, perched at the foot of your bed, one foot idly dangling off the side of your mattress. His brother leans casually up against the open door frame.
Startled awake in the middle of the night, you lacked both the time and the foresight to hide your arm from their prying gaze. Your deception – your betrayal – laid bare for them to discover while you slept on, blissfully oblivious.
Now, cradling it to your chest, your knees tucked up close, you eye the two warily. Nothing about this situation puts you at ease, least of all the conversational tone he’s adopted.
Ran doesn’t want an answer, at least, not a genuine one. For all their faults, neither he nor Rindou are delusional to the point of believing that you in any way trust them. That you’ve gone to such lengths in the first place speaks plenty to that.
No, he wants to draw this out, a cat toying with a mouse before it strikes the killing blow. And like that mouse, caught between sharp claws and vicious grins, the only option you have left is to play dead in the hope that your predators soon lose interest.
Swallowing down the nauseating fear creeping up your throat (or is that bile?) you offer a tiny nod. Ran smiles approvingly, but it’s Rindou, pushing himself off the wall with a huff, who speaks next.
“You know I felt it – when you went through with it,” he tells you, stalking over to your bed. His eyes are cold, hard. And it’s ice, you think, not fire that burns in those pretty, violet hues as he braces an arm on the wooden headboard and leans in, “Knocked me flat on my ass, honestly thought I was dying there for a sec.”
As if in response, the skin where his name used to lie prickles, goosebumps rising to the surface.
“I-I’m sorry.” Clumsily, the words spill from your mouth – an impulsive attempt to appease them. “I didn’t think–”
He snorts, “Yeah, that much is obvious.”
The petty insult finds its home despite your best efforts to ignore it, blood heating your cheeks.
Once again, it’s his older brother who jumps to your so-called defence; “Aw, c’mon Rindou, don’t be so mean.” Ran clicks his tongue in mock sympathy, “Poor little idiot just made a mistake, that’s all.”
“A… mistake?” you echo.
The amusement fades from his features, the look in those dark, hooded eyes near caustic as they slide back to you, “She knows she fucked up, and she’s gonna let us fix it, aren’t you, baby?”
“Y-yeah,” you manage to utter, tongue darting out to wet your lips.
But it’s Rindou, lips brushing along the shell of your ear, who hammers the final nail home, “You try leaving us again, and next time it won’t just be some tattoos marking up that pretty skin, understand?”
