You’re Hot When You’re Pregnant
The rain had been falling for hours by the time Leonardo decided the night was right.
You had left Raphael’s apartment later than usual. The two of you had argued—nothing serious, just the usual push and pull that came with dating the hot-tempered red-masked turtle. He had been tense about a mission that had gone sideways. You had tried to soothe him. He had snapped. You had left. Simple. Ordinary.
You never saw the shadow that detached itself from the alley wall.
A gloved hand clamped over your mouth. Another arm locked around your waist with iron strength. You barely had time to scream before the world tilted and the wet pavement disappeared beneath your feet. The last thing you registered was the scent of leather, steel, and something cold and clean that had always belonged to Leonardo.
When consciousness returned, the first thing you noticed was the silence.
No city noise. No traffic. Only the low, steady hum of filtered air and the soft drip of water somewhere distant. You were lying on something firm but not uncomfortable—a cot, maybe—covered by a thin blanket. Your wrists were bound in front of you with soft but unbreakable restraints. Ankles too. The room was dim, lit only by a single blue-tinted lamp in the corner. Concrete walls. No windows. A heavy metal door.
Leonardo stood with his back to you, still in full gear, mask on, swords sheathed across his back. The green of his skin looked almost black in the low light. He was motionless, as if he had been waiting for the exact moment your breathing changed.
“You’re awake,” he said quietly. His voice was the same calm, measured tone you had always known—except it wasn’t. There was something underneath it now. Something tight and possessive and wrong.
You tried to speak. The gag was gone, but your throat felt raw.
“Don’t.” He turned. The eyeholes of the mask revealed nothing but shadow and the faint gleam of his eyes. “Don’t say his name. Not here. Not ever again if you can help it.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Where am I? What did you do?”
He crossed the room in three silent strides and stopped at the edge of the cot. Up close he was larger than you remembered—broader through the shoulders, the muscle denser, the presence heavier. When he crouched, the leather of his gear creaked softly.
“I took you,” he said simply. “Because you were his. And I decided that was no longer acceptable.”
The words landed like a blade.
“Possibly.” He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face with one gloved finger. The touch was gentle. Terrifyingly gentle. “But I’m also very patient. I’ve watched the two of you for months. The way he touches you. The way you look at him. The way you leave his place smelling like him.” His jaw flexed. “I tried to be the good brother. The disciplined one. The one who put the team first. But every time I saw his hand on your waist I wanted to break it.”
You jerked away from his touch. The restraints stopped you.
Leonardo’s hand followed, cupping your cheek with surprising care. “You don’t have to be afraid of the pain. I’m not going to hurt you the way he would if he found us. I’m going to take care of you. Properly. Completely. The way he never could.”
“I am listening.” His thumb stroked along your lower lip. “You’re going to fight. I expected that. You’re loyal. It’s one of the things I love about you. But loyalty can be redirected. And I have time.”
He stood and began removing his gear with methodical precision. The dual swords first, laid carefully on a nearby table. Then the leather straps, the belt, the gloves. Piece by piece the warrior came apart until only the turtle remained—green skin, hard muscle, the soft leather of his mask still in place. When he peeled that off last, his face looked almost soft in the blue light. Almost.
Almost, except for the way his eyes stayed locked on you like you were the only thing left in the world that mattered.
He sat on the edge of the cot. The mattress dipped under his weight. One large hand settled on your thigh, warm and heavy through the thin fabric of your clothes.
“I’m going to undress you now,” he said quietly. “You can struggle if it makes you feel better. It won’t change anything.”
You twisted, kicked as much as the ankle restraints allowed, tried to bite when his fingers came near your mouth. Leonardo simply waited out the worst of it, absorbing every frantic movement with calm strength. When you finally exhausted yourself, breathing hard and shaking, he began unbuttoning your shirt with the same careful patience he used to clean his blades.
Each button opened with a soft click. Cool air touched your skin. He pushed the fabric aside and looked at you for a long moment, expression unreadable.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “He never deserved this.”
The bra came next. He unhooked it with one hand, slid the straps down your arms, and set it aside. Your breasts were bare to the cool air and to his gaze. Leonardo’s breath left him in a slow exhale. He cupped one, thumb brushing over the nipple until it tightened. The touch was almost reverent.
“Sensitive,” he noted. “Good.”
You turned your face away. He caught your chin and turned it back.
“Look at me while I touch you. I want you to know exactly whose hands these are.”
His free hand drifted lower, unfastening your pants, sliding them and your underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. The restraints forced your legs to stay mostly closed, but he worked around them, baring you completely. When you were naked he sat back slightly and simply looked—eyes tracing every curve, every shiver, every place you tried to hide.
“I’ve imagined this,” he said, voice lower now. “So many nights. While he had you. While you were laughing with him. I imagined taking you somewhere he would never find you and teaching you what it feels like to be owned by someone who actually knows how to protect what’s his.”
His hand returned to your breast, kneading gently, then more firmly. The other slid between your thighs, finding the soft heat of you. You were dry with fear. He didn’t seem bothered. Two fingers stroked slowly along your folds, spreading you open, learning the shape of you.
“You’re going to get wet for me,” he said. “Even if you hate it. Your body will understand before your mind does.”
He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth.
The heat of his tongue was shocking. He sucked slowly, carefully, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch against your will. The fingers between your legs kept moving in the same unhurried rhythm—stroking, circling, never quite giving you pressure where you needed it and never stopping. Minutes stretched. Your breathing grew ragged. Against every conscious desire, slickness began to gather under his touch.
Leonardo made a low sound of approval against your breast.
“There it is,” he whispered. “That’s it. Your body already knows who it belongs to now.”
He switched to the other nipple, giving it the same focused attention while his fingers slid a little deeper, gathering the wetness and spreading it. One thick finger pressed inside you—just the tip at first, then more, slow and relentless. You clenched around him in protest. He waited until the resistance eased, then added a second finger, stretching you carefully.
“Tight,” he murmured. “He’s been careful with you. Or maybe he just doesn’t know how to take what’s his properly.” His fingers curled, finding a spot that made your hips jerk. “I’ll learn every place that makes you shake. And then I’ll use them until you forget anyone else ever touched you.”
He worked you open with agonizing patience. In and out. Slow circles. Occasional pressure against that sensitive place that stole the air from your lungs. All the while his mouth moved over your breasts, your collarbone, the soft skin of your throat. He left no marks—yet—but the promise was there in every careful bite.
When he finally withdrew his fingers they were shiny with you. He brought them to his mouth and tasted without looking away from your face.
“Sweet,” he said. “I knew you would be.”
He shifted, moving between your bound legs as much as the restraints allowed. The heavy weight of his cock rested against your thigh—thick, hard, already leaking. He didn’t push inside yet. Instead he rubbed the head through your folds, coating himself in the wetness he had forced from you, sliding back and forth until you were trembling.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he said, voice almost gentle. “And you’re going to take every inch. When I’m done, you’ll understand that Raphael never had a claim on you. Only I do.”
He lined himself up and began to press in.
The stretch was immediate and intense. Leonardo was bigger than Raphael—thicker, longer—and he didn’t rush. He worked himself into you in slow, controlled thrusts, watching your face the entire time. Every time you tried to turn away he caught your chin again. Every time you clenched he waited, breathing steadily, until your body yielded another fraction.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Open for me. You’re doing so well.”
When he was finally seated to the hilt he stayed still, buried deep, letting you feel the full weight and heat of him. One hand braced beside your head. The other stroked your hair with unexpected tenderness.
“You’re mine now,” he said. “Say it.”
You shook your head, eyes stinging.
Leonardo’s hips rolled in a slow, deep grind that forced a broken sound from your throat. “You will. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But you will. Because I’m going to keep you here until the only name left in your mouth is mine.”
The pace was deliberate—long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive place inside you. He angled his hips with precise control, finding the angle that made your thighs shake, then keeping it. The wet sounds of your body taking him filled the quiet room. His breathing stayed measured even as his cock pulsed inside you.
“I can feel how close you are,” he murmured against your ear. “Your body is already trying to come for me. Go ahead. I want to feel it. I want to know what you sound like when it’s my cock making you fall apart.”
His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He rubbed in tight circles timed to his thrusts. The dual stimulation was overwhelming. You tried to hold back—tried to deny him even that—but the pleasure built anyway, forced higher and higher by his relentless, controlled rhythm.
When the orgasm finally tore through you it was sharp and helpless. Your body clenched hard around him. A broken cry escaped before you could stop it. Leonardo groaned low in his throat, hips stuttering as he fucked you through it, drawing the climax out until you were shaking and oversensitive.
He kept moving, slower now, riding the aftershocks, watching every twitch of your face with dark, hungry focus. “Beautiful,” he said again. “I knew you would come for me. Even like this. Even when you hate it.”
He shifted, lifting your bound legs higher, folding you open so he could drive deeper. The new angle made stars burst behind your eyes. Leonardo’s control was beginning to fray—his thrusts growing harder, the wet slap of skin louder. Sweat gleamed on the green of his skin. His mask was long gone; his face was open in a way you had never seen, raw with possession and something almost like devotion.
“I’m going to fill you,” he said, voice rough. “I’m going to come so deep you’ll feel me for days. And when you wake up tomorrow I’ll do it again. And the day after that. Until the only thing your body remembers is me.”
His rhythm broke. He buried himself to the hilt with a low, guttural sound and came hard, pulsing hot inside you in thick waves. You felt every spurt, every throb, the way he held himself deep as if he could force the claim into your bones.
For a long moment the only sound was both of you breathing.
Leonardo stayed buried inside you, forehead resting against yours, one large hand still cupping the side of your face with that same terrifying gentleness.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered. “He’ll never touch you again. I’ll make sure of it.”
He eventually eased out, careful even in this. Come slipped from you onto the cot. Leonardo watched it with dark satisfaction, then cleaned you with a damp cloth he produced from somewhere, movements almost tender. When he was finished he lay down beside you on the narrow cot, one heavy arm draped over your waist, pulling you back against the solid heat of his chest.
His mouth brushed the curve of your shoulder.
“Sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll be right here when you wake up. And every time after that.”
You stared into the dim blue light of the room, body still trembling, the evidence of him warm and wet between your thighs. Somewhere above, the city continued without you. Raphael would be looking. He would tear the streets apart.
But down here, in the quiet dark, Leonardo’s arm tightened around you like a promise—and a warning.
And he had no intention of ever giving you back.
The warehouse reeked of oil, rust, and the faint metallic tang of the sewers beneath New York. You woke slowly, the world swimming back into focus through a throbbing ache at the base of your skull. Cold concrete pressed against your bare back. Your wrists were bound above your head with thick red bandanas—Raph’s signature color—looped tight around a rusted pipe. Ankles similarly secured, legs forced slightly apart. Your clothes were gone. Only the thin white tank top and cotton panties you’d worn to bed remained, both already damp with cold sweat.
He was sitting on an overturned crate a few feet away, elbows on his knees, watching you with those sharp emerald eyes. The red mask framed a face that looked carved from stone and fury. Muscles in his thick arms flexed every time he shifted. The leather straps of his gear creaked.
“Finally,” Raphael said. His voice was low, rough, almost soft. Almost. “Took you long enough, doll.”
You yanked against the bindings. The fabric bit into your skin. “Raph—what the hell—”
He stood. The movement was slow, deliberate, like a predator who already knew the prey wasn’t going anywhere. He crossed the short distance and crouched between your spread knees. One large, three-fingered hand planted on the concrete beside your hip. The other reached up and brushed a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness.
“You’re dating my brother.”
The words landed like a slap.
You opened your mouth. He pressed two thick fingers against your lips.
“Don’t. I watched you. Watched the way you look at him. The way he touches you like you’re something fragile. Like he deserves you.” His eyes darkened. “He doesn’t. Leo’s too clean. Too careful. He’ll never give you what you actually need.”
Your pulse hammered in your throat. “Raph, this is insane. Let me go. We can talk—”
“Talk?” He laughed once, a short, harsh sound. “I’ve been talkin’ to myself for weeks. Every time I see you two together it gets louder. So I stopped talking and started taking.”
He leaned in until his beak was inches from your mouth. The heat rolling off his plastron was intense. You could smell the faint musk of him—leather, steel, and something darker underneath.
“You’re mine now,” he murmured. “Not Leo’s. Mine. And I’m gonna take my time proving it.”
His hand left your face and trailed down the column of your throat, over your collarbone, then lower. He cupped one breast through the thin tank top, thumb brushing deliberately across the peak. The nipple hardened under the light pressure. You twisted, trying to pull away. The bindings held.
“Sensitive already,” he observed. “Good.”
He pinched lightly, rolling the bud between finger and thumb. A shameful spark shot straight between your legs. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound.
Raph noticed anyway. His mouth curved.
“There it is. That little twitch. You can hate me all you want, sweetheart. Your body’s already startin’ to listen.”
He peeled the tank top up slowly, exposing your breasts to the cool air. The fabric bunched under your armpits. He stared for a long moment, green eyes dark with something possessive and hungry.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you.”
Both hands came up. He weighed your breasts in his palms, squeezing gently at first, then harder, thumbs circling the nipples in slow, maddening strokes. Every pass sent another pulse of unwanted heat downward. You tried to turn your face away. He caught your chin and forced you to look at him.
“Eyes on me while I touch you.”
He lowered his head. The first drag of his tongue across your left nipple was hot and wet and devastating. You jerked hard against the restraints. He sucked the peak into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to sting, then soothed it with long, thorough licks. The wet sounds filled the quiet warehouse. He switched to the other breast without hurry, giving it the same focused attention—sucking, licking, lightly biting until both nipples were swollen and glistening.
Your breathing had gone ragged. You hated how your back arched toward his mouth.
Raph released one breast with a wet pop and sat back on his heels, studying the flush spreading across your chest.
“Pretty,” he said. “Gonna look even prettier when you’re dripping for me.”
His hands slid down your sides, over your ribs, to the waistband of your panties. He hooked his fingers and dragged them down your legs in one smooth motion, tossing them aside. You were completely bare now, legs forced open by the bindings at your ankles. The cool air kissed the wetness already gathering between your thighs.
Raph’s gaze locked there. He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Already wet.” He sounded almost reverent. “And I haven’t even started.”
He settled more fully between your legs, massive shoulders forcing your thighs wider. One large hand pressed flat against your lower belly, holding you still. The other traced a single thick finger up the inside of your thigh, stopping just short of where you were aching.
“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly. “Go on. Say it.”
You opened your mouth. The word wouldn’t come. Your body was thrumming, traitorous and hot.
Raph’s finger finally brushed through your folds, collecting the slickness there. He dragged it up to your clit and circled once, twice, with maddening lightness.
He began to stroke you in slow, deliberate circles. Not enough pressure to push you anywhere, just enough to keep the spark building. His eyes never left your face. Every time your hips twitched he adjusted, keeping the touch just shy of what you needed.
“Leo ever touch you like this?” he asked conversationally. “Real slow? Like he’s got all night to ruin you?”
You shook your head, more in denial of the situation than in answer.
“Didn’t think so.” He pressed a little harder. Your breath hitched. “He’s careful. Polite. I’m not either of those things.”
Two thick fingers parted your folds and slid through the wetness, teasing your entrance without pushing in. He rubbed the blunt tips back and forth, spreading you open, watching the way your body tried to clench around nothing.
“Gonna take my time stretchin’ this pretty cunt,” he murmured. “Make sure you feel every inch when I finally fuck you.”
He pushed one finger inside slowly. The stretch was immediate. Raph’s fingers were thick, rough with calluses. He worked the digit in and out with deliberate care, curling it on every withdrawal to drag against the sensitive front wall. Your hips rolled helplessly. He added a second finger sooner than you expected. The burn made you gasp.
He scissored them gently, opening you, then fucked them deeper. The wet sound of your body accepting him filled the space between you. His thumb found your clit again and rubbed in tight circles while his fingers curled and thrust.
You were panting now, thighs trembling. The dual stimulation was relentless. Heat coiled low and tight. You tried to fight it—tried to hold onto the anger, the fear—but Raph’s fingers were too skilled, too patient. He kept you right on the edge for what felt like forever, slowing every time your breathing hitched too high, speeding up when you started to settle.
“Please—” The word slipped out before you could stop it.
Raph’s eyes flared. “Please what?”
He removed his fingers completely. The sudden emptiness made you whimper. He brought the wet digits to his mouth and licked them clean, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
“You taste like you belong to me already.”
He shifted higher, bracing himself over you on one powerful arm. The heavy length of his cock pressed against your inner thigh through the fabric of his gear. Even half-hard it was massive—thick, ridged, and intimidating. He rolled his hips once, dragging the covered shaft against your soaked folds.
“Feel that?” he asked against your ear. “That’s what’s gonna be inside you. Gonna fill you so full you forget my brother’s name.”
He reached down and freed himself. The heavy cock slapped against your stomach, hot and already leaking. The head was broad, the shaft thickly veined and darker green than the rest of him. A pronounced ridge ran along the underside. He wrapped one hand around the base and guided the tip through your folds, coating himself in your slick.
“Look at how wet you are for me,” he growled. “Even when you’re tryin’ to hate it.”
He rubbed the blunt head over your clit in slow, firm strokes. Every pass sent sparks racing up your spine. You were shaking. The bindings creaked as you strained.
Raph lined himself up. The thick head pressed against your entrance. He didn’t thrust. He just held there, letting you feel the stretch of the first inch as your body tried to accommodate him.
You did. He pushed forward another inch. The burn was sharp. You cried out. He stopped immediately, one hand stroking your side in rough, almost soothing passes.
“Shh. I got you. Gonna go slow. Want you to feel every fuckin’ second of me claiming this cunt.”
He worked himself deeper in shallow, rocking thrusts, giving your body time to stretch around the impossible girth. Sweat beaded on your skin. Your walls fluttered and clenched, trying to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time. Raph’s breathing had gone harsh. The restraint was costing him.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he gritted. “Squeezin’ me like you don’t want me to leave.”
When he finally bottomed out, the head of his cock pressed against your cervix. You felt impossibly full. Stuffed. Claimed. Raph held still, forehead pressed to yours, letting you adjust. His free hand reached up and cupped your face.
“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Say it.”
You shook your head, eyes stinging.
He rolled his hips in a deep, grinding circle. The movement dragged every ridge along your sensitive walls. Pleasure spiked hard enough to make your vision blur.
Another slow grind. Then another. He kept the rhythm deep and deliberate, never pulling out more than an inch or two. Every movement ground against your clit. The dual pressure was overwhelming.
“That’s not what I want to hear.”
He shifted the angle. The next thrust dragged directly across that swollen spot inside you. Your back arched hard. A broken moan tore from your throat.
“There it is,” he praised. “That’s the sound I wanted.”
He began to fuck you in earnest—still slow, still controlled, but with more power behind each stroke. The wet slap of his plastron against your skin echoed. His hands pinned your hips down so you couldn’t escape the depth. Every thrust forced a soft, helpless sound from you.
“Gonna keep you down here,” he promised between thrusts. “Keep you full of me. Make you forget anyone else ever touched you. Leo can look all he wants. You’re not goin’ back.”
The coil inside you wound tighter. You were close—embarrassingly, devastatingly close. Raph felt it. He slowed again, drawing the pleasure out until you were writhing and cursing him under your breath.
“Not yet,” he said. “I decide when you come.”
He pulled almost all the way out, leaving only the head inside, then slammed back in to the hilt. The sudden depth punched a cry from your lungs. He did it again. And again. The pace stayed measured but the force increased. Your bound wrists ached. Your thighs shook.
Raph’s hand slid between your bodies. Two thick fingers found your clit and rubbed in tight, perfect circles timed to every deep thrust.
“Come on my cock,” he ordered. “Show me who you belong to.”
The orgasm crashed through you without mercy. Your walls clamped down hard around the thick intrusion. Pleasure ripped outward in waves so intense your vision whited out. You sobbed his name—couldn’t help it—as your body convulsed around him.
Raph groaned long and low, riding you through it with deep, grinding thrusts that prolonged every aftershock. When the intensity finally began to ebb he didn’t stop. He kept moving, slower now, working you through the oversensitivity until fresh tears slipped down your temples.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “Took it so well.”
He pulled out carefully. The sudden emptiness made you whimper. Thick ropes of your release coated his cock and dripped down your thighs. Raph stared at the mess he’d made of you with dark, satisfied eyes.
Then he lowered his head between your legs.
You jerked hard against the bindings. “Raph—wait—”
He ignored you. The first long drag of his tongue through your soaked folds was filthy and thorough. He licked up every trace of your orgasm, humming low in his chest like he was savoring it. When he reached your oversensitive clit he sealed his mouth over it and sucked gently, tongue flicking in soft, relentless strokes.
You were still trembling from the first climax. The second built faster, crueler. Raph held your hips down with both hands and ate you like a man starving—long, broad licks, pointed flicks, deep thrusts of his tongue inside you as if he could taste himself on you already. The wet, obscene sounds filled the warehouse.
You came again with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head as much as the restraints allowed. He kept licking through it, gentling only when you started to truly shake.
When he finally lifted his head his mouth and chin were shiny. He wiped them with the back of one hand and crawled up your body until he was covering you completely. His still-hard cock rested heavy against your stomach.
“We’re just gettin’ started, doll,” he said softly. “I waited too long for this. I’m not stoppin’ until you can’t remember what it felt like to belong to anyone else.”
He kissed you then—deep, claiming, tasting of your own release. You tried to turn away. He caught your jaw and held you still, tongue sliding against yours until you were breathless all over again.
When he broke the kiss he rested his forehead against yours.
“I’m gonna untie your ankles,” he said. “Not because I’m lettin’ you go. Because I want your legs around me when I fuck you next.”
He did exactly that. The moment the bindings loosened he pushed your knees up and out, opening you wider. Then he lined up again and sank back inside in one long, continuous thrust.
This time he didn’t hold back as much. The pace was still controlled, still deep, but there was a new urgency in the way his hips snapped forward. Every thrust forced a soft, punched-out sound from your throat. His plastron rubbed against your clit with every grind. One hand braced beside your head. The other reached up and tangled in your hair, holding you in place so he could watch your face.
“Look at me,” he demanded. “I want to see those eyes when you come on my cock again.”
You couldn’t look away. The intensity in his gaze was almost more overwhelming than the stretch of him inside you. Possessive. Obsessed. Completely unhinged in the quietest, most dangerous way.
He fucked you through a third orgasm that left you sobbing and clenching around him so hard his rhythm faltered. Only then did he let himself go. His thrusts turned shorter, harder. A low, guttural sound tore from his chest as he buried himself to the hilt and came. Thick, hot pulses flooded you. You felt every spurt, the sheer volume of it, the way it leaked out around his cock even while he was still buried deep.
Raph stayed inside you afterward, breathing hard, one hand stroking your hair with surprising tenderness.
“Mine,” he whispered against your temple. “Say it for me. Just once.”
Your voice was wrecked. “Yours.”
Something dark and satisfied settled over his features. He kissed the corner of your mouth.
He didn’t pull out. He simply shifted, settling more of his weight over you, still buried deep, still hard enough that you could feel him twitching inside the mess he’d made.
“Rest for a minute,” he said. “Then I’m taking you again. And again. Until that pretty cunt knows exactly who it belongs to.”
Outside, the city kept moving. Inside the warehouse, time slowed to the rhythm of Raphael’s breathing and the steady, possessive throb of his cock still lodged inside you.
And he had no intention of ever giving you back.
Yandere Nightwatcher: Claimed and Carrying
You shouldn’t have come looking for him.
The warehouse district is the last place a heavily pregnant woman should be after midnight, especially one whose belly is already round and tight with the evidence of what Raphael did to you months ago. The baby kicks hard against your ribs as you pick your way between rusted shipping containers, one hand braced under the heavy weight of your stomach. The night air is cool against the thin maternity dress clinging to your swollen curves. You tell yourself you’re only here to confront him. To demand answers. To end this.
The first sign that he has been waiting is the soft scrape of leather against metal somewhere above you. Then the heavy thud of boots landing on the concrete behind you. You freeze. Your heart lurches so hard the baby shifts again, a restless roll that presses outward against your palm.
The voice is low, rough, filtered through the black helmet that completely hides his face. Only the hard line of his jaw and the glint of white teeth show beneath the lower edge. The rest is shadowed, predatory. He is fully suited in the black leather biker gear that molds to every powerful line of his body—thick arms, broad chest, the heavy musculature of his thighs. The jacket is zipped high. The pants are tight. And the gloves… not the fingerless ones he sometimes wore. These are full black leather, seamless, covering every finger and the backs of his hands completely. They flex as he steps closer.
You try to turn. His gloved hand closes around your upper arm with careful, absolute strength and holds you still.
“Don’t run.” The words are almost gentle. Almost. “You know better.”
“Nightwatcher.” The correction is quiet and final. “You don’t get to use that name right now. Not when you’re carrying what’s mine and still trying to pretend you can walk away.”
His free hand settles over the heavy curve of your belly. The leather is warm from his body heat. He spreads his fingers wide, spanning as much of the taut skin as he can, and presses just enough to feel the baby move. A low, possessive sound vibrates in his chest.
“Still growing strong. Good. You’re taking care of him.” His thumb strokes slowly across the stretched fabric. “Or her. Doesn’t matter. Mine either way.”
You try to pull back. The grip on your arm tightens just shy of bruising. He steps fully into your space until the hard plane of his chest brushes the upper swell of your breasts. The helmet tilts down so the shadowed eye-slits are locked on your face.
“You came here alone. At night. Looking for me.” His voice drops lower. “That means you already know how this ends.”
“I came to tell you to stay away.” Your voice shakes. The baby kicks again under his palm as if in protest. “This—whatever this is—has to stop.”
He laughs once, soft and dark. The sound is muffled by the helmet but still sends a shiver straight down your spine.
That single word is the end of negotiation.
He turns you carefully, mindful of the weight you’re carrying, and walks you backward until your shoulders meet the cold corrugated metal of a shipping container. One gloved hand stays on your belly the entire time, protective and claiming at once. The other rises to cup the side of your face. Leather brushes your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.
“You’re scared,” he murmurs. “I can smell it. Heart’s racing. Baby’s restless because you’re restless. But you’re wet too, aren’t you?” His thigh presses between yours, the thick leather of his pants firm against the soft heat of your core. “Been wet since the second you decided to come looking for me. Admit it.”
You shake your head. The denial is weak even to your own ears.
His gloved thumb traces your lower lip. “Lying to me while you’re carrying my child. That’s bold.” The helmet dips closer. You can feel the faint heat of his breath through the lower opening. “I’m going to take my time with you tonight. No rushing. You’re too far along for rough. But you’re not too far along for thorough.”
The hand on your belly slides lower, following the heavy curve until his leather-covered fingers find the hem of your dress. He gathers the fabric slowly, inch by inch, exposing the bare skin of your thighs, the soft swell of your lower belly, the simple cotton panties stretched over your mound. The cool night air kisses the damp fabric between your legs.
“Already soaked through.” Approval roughens his voice. “Good girl.”
You make a small sound of protest. He ignores it. Both hands settle on your hips now, guiding you to turn so your back is fully against the container. He drops to one knee in front of you with controlled power, the leather of his suit creaking softly. The black helmet tips up. Even without seeing his eyes you feel the intensity of his stare locked on the place where your dress is bunched above the full roundness of your stomach.
Gloved hands slide up the outsides of your thighs. He takes his time, palms smoothing over soft skin, thumbs tracing the sensitive inner seams. When he reaches the edge of your panties he doesn’t pull them down yet. Instead he leans in and presses his covered mouth against the damp cotton, breathing you in through the leather of the helmet’s lower edge.
The contact is filthy and deliberate. You jolt. His hands clamp your hips, holding you still while he nuzzles deeper, inhaling like a man starved.
“Missed this,” he growls against you. “Missed the way you smell when you’re carrying my baby. All soft and full and mine.”
One gloved finger hooks under the crotch of your panties and drags the fabric aside. Cool air hits your slick folds. Then the warm leather of his tongue—no, not his tongue, the lower edge of the helmet and the heat of his breath—presses closer. He can’t taste you properly through the gear, but he doesn’t seem to care. He works the fabric aside further and simply breathes against your bare cunt, slow and heavy, while two leather-clad fingers begin to stroke the swollen outer lips.
The texture is maddening. Smooth, slightly warm leather sliding through your wetness, parting you carefully, never rough. He traces your entrance in slow circles, gathering slick, then spreads it upward to your clit. The pad of his thumb presses there in firm, lazy circles while two fingers continue their unhurried exploration lower.
“You’re so swollen,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Everything’s puffy and sensitive because of the pregnancy. Look at you. Dripping down my gloves already.”
You try to close your thighs. He simply shoulders them further apart and keeps going. The leather of his gloves grows shiny with your arousal. Every pass of his fingers is deliberate, mapping you, learning the new shape of your body under the weight of his child. When he finally sinks one thick finger inside you the stretch is slow and careful, but the leather makes every millimeter feel exaggerated. You clench around the intrusion with a broken sound.
“That’s it. Open up for me.” He works the finger deeper in lazy thrusts, curling just enough to find the soft spot that makes your knees threaten to buckle. A second finger joins the first after long minutes of this. The dual stretch burns sweetly. Your belly rests heavy against the top of his helmet as he leans in closer, still breathing against your clit while his fingers pump in and out with devastating patience.
He doesn’t rush toward any peak. He simply works you open, over and over, until your thighs are trembling and clear slick is running down the backs of his gloves onto the concrete. Only then does he withdraw. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper.
He rises in one smooth motion. The black leather of his full-body suit is tight across his chest and the heavy bulge between his legs. You can see the outline of him clearly—thick, long, already straining against the zipper. He doesn’t free himself yet. Instead he cups your face with both wet-gloved hands and tilts your head back so the helmet is inches from your mouth.
“Going to take you home now,” he says quietly. “My place. Not the sewer. The safehouse. You’re too far along to be out here in the cold.” One thumb strokes your cheek, leaving a faint smear of your own wetness. “You can fight me the whole way if you want. I’ll still carry you. I’ll still put you in my bed. And then I’m going to spend the rest of the night reminding your body who it belongs to.”
You open your mouth to argue. He simply lifts you.
It is terrifyingly easy for him. One arm under your knees, the other supporting your back and the heavy weight of your belly with careful strength. He carries you like you weigh nothing, the black leather of his suit creaking softly with every step. You could struggle. You could scream. Instead you stay rigid in his arms while the baby shifts restlessly between you, as if recognizing the deep rumble of its father’s voice.
The ride on his motorcycle is a blur of cold wind and the solid heat of his body. He settles you in front of him somehow, one powerful arm locked around your waist beneath the swell of your stomach, the other controlling the bike. The vibration of the engine travels straight through the seat and into your already-sensitive core. By the time he parks in the shadowed alley behind the nondescript brick building that serves as his safehouse, you are shaking.
He carries you inside without putting you down. The space is sparse, clean, deliberately anonymous—reinforced windows, heavy locks, a large bed already made with dark sheets. He sets you on the edge of the mattress with exaggerated care, then steps back just far enough to look at you.
The full black leather suit covers every inch of him. The helmet remains on. Only the lower edge lifts slightly when he speaks.
Your hands shake as you obey. The maternity dress pools on the floor. You are left in nothing but the soaked panties and the heavy, naked weight of your pregnant belly. Your breasts are full and sensitive, the nipples already tight. He stares for a long moment, the shadowed eye-slits of the helmet unreadable.
Then he steps between your knees.
Gloved hands settle on either side of your stomach, spanning the taut skin. He leans down and presses the hard curve of the helmet against the upper swell, breathing in the scent of your skin. His palms stroke slowly downward, over the sides, under the heavy curve, mapping every inch.
“Beautiful,” he says, voice rough. “Look at what I put in you. Look how full you are.” One hand slides lower, cupping between your legs over the damp cotton. “And still so needy. My good girl.”
He peels the panties down your legs with deliberate care and tosses them aside. Then he is on his knees again, this time between your spread thighs on the edge of the bed. The black leather of his gloves returns to your folds, parting you, stroking, circling your entrance without entering. He takes his time simply looking, the helmet tilted down so he can watch every glistening fold, every flutter of your cunt around nothing.
When he finally pushes two fingers back inside you the stretch is easier this time, your body already soft and open from earlier. He works them in slow, deep thrusts while his other hand presses gently on your lower belly, applying the lightest pressure that makes everything inside you feel tighter, more intense. The dual sensation—fullness from his fingers and the heavy weight of the pregnancy—has your breath coming in short, helpless pants.
“That’s it. Feel how ready you are for me.” His voice is pure gravel. “Been thinking about this for weeks. About how careful I have to be with you now. How deep I can still get without hurting either of you. About how you’re going to look with my cock in you and that belly between us.”
He adds a third finger. The stretch burns. You cry out and clutch at the sheets. He doesn’t stop. He simply slows further, working the three leather-clad fingers in and out with meticulous patience until the burn melts into something hotter and wetter. Slick sounds fill the quiet room. Your thighs shake around his shoulders.
Only when you are trembling on the edge does he withdraw again. He stands, the heavy bulge in his leather pants impossible to ignore. The zipper is loud in the silence. He frees himself carefully—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip—but leaves the rest of the suit and the helmet completely in place. The contrast is obscene: black leather covering every other inch of him while that single heavy length stands out hard and ready.
He steps closer, guiding the blunt head to your entrance. The first press is slow, almost gentle. The stretch is still intense. You feel every ridge, every thick inch as he sinks deeper, the leather of his hips eventually meeting the soft insides of your thighs. Your belly rests heavily against the hard plane of his abdomen. He stays there, fully seated, breathing hard through the helmet while his gloved hands stroke up and down your sides.
“Fuck,” he grits out. “Even tighter than before. Pregnancy did that. Made you softer and tighter at the same time.” One hand settles protectively over the top of your belly. The other braces beside your head on the mattress. “I’m going to move now. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
The first thrust is careful, controlled, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt. The leather of his suit creaks with every motion. The full gloves flex against the sheets. He sets a rhythm that is devastating in its patience—deep, rolling strokes that grind against every sensitive place inside you without ever becoming harsh. Your swollen belly shifts between you with every thrust. The pressure is constant, grounding, inescapable.
“Look at you,” he growls. “Taking me so well while you’re full of my baby. You’re not going anywhere after this. You know that, right? This is permanent. You, the kid, me. I’m keeping what’s mine.”
His pace stays measured, almost reverent, but the intensity never drops. Every thrust is deliberate. Every grind of his hips presses the head of his cock against the softest, deepest part of you. The leather of his gloves slides over your breasts, careful of the sensitive nipples, then returns to your belly to stroke and claim. He talks the entire time—low, possessive, relentless.
“You’re going to stay here until the baby comes. Longer. I’m going to wake up every morning with my hand on this belly and my cock inside you. You’re going to stop pretending you don’t want it. Stop pretending you can leave.”
The dual sensations—his thick length filling you over and over, the heavy weight of the pregnancy, the constant press of black leather against your skin—push you higher and higher. When the orgasm finally breaks it is deep and shaking, your body clenching hard around him while a broken cry tears from your throat. He doesn’t stop. He rides you through it with the same controlled rhythm, prolonging every pulse until you’re whimpering from overstimulation.
Only then does he let himself go.
His thrusts stay careful but grow just a fraction harder, a fraction deeper. The leather of his suit is hot against your inner thighs. His gloved hands frame your belly protectively as his rhythm stutters. When he comes it is with a low, guttural sound muffled by the helmet, pulsing deep inside you in thick, hot waves that you feel against the already-full pressure of the pregnancy. He stays buried to the hilt through every aftershock, breathing hard, one hand still stroking slow circles over the taut skin of your stomach.
Long minutes pass before he finally eases out. The sudden emptiness makes you flinch. He doesn’t go far. He strips the gloves off only long enough to clean you carefully with a warm cloth, then pulls them back on. The helmet stays. The rest of the suit stays. He climbs onto the bed beside you, gathering your body against the hard leather of his chest, one powerful arm locked securely around the heavy curve of your belly.
“Sleep,” he orders quietly. “You’re not leaving in the morning. Or the morning after that. I’ve got everything you need here. Food. Clothes. Medical supplies if anything goes wrong. You’re staying until the baby’s here and long after.”
His gloved hand spreads wide over the place where your child rests. The baby kicks once, hard, as if answering.
“Mine,” he says again, softer this time. Almost tender. “Both of you. And I’m never letting either of you go.”
You should fight. You should scream. You should try to leave the second he falls asleep.
Instead you stay exactly where he put you, the heavy warmth of his body at your back, the black leather of his suit against your skin, and the unmistakable evidence of his claim still leaking slowly between your thighs.
Outside, the city continues without either of you.
Inside the safehouse, the Nightwatcher keeps what is his.
Warning: This is explicit non-consensual erotica involving yandere possession, heavy pregnancy kink, forced intimacy, and extended foreplay. All characters are adults. Reader discretion advised.
You wake to the feel of rough, calloused fingers tracing the swollen curve of your belly.
The room is dim, lit only by the low orange glow of a scavenged lantern in the corner of the fortified safehouse Michelangelo has claimed as his own. Outside, the ruined city of New York groans under the weight of another night—distant gunfire, the occasional screech of something that used to be human. Inside, it is quiet except for the soft, wet sound of his breathing against the side of your neck and the slow, deliberate drag of his fingertips across your skin.
You try to shift away. The heavy chain around your left ankle rattles softly against the metal frame of the bed. He had bolted it there himself weeks ago, after the third time you tried to slip out while he was on a supply run. The chain is long enough to let you reach the bathroom and the small kitchenette, but not the door. Not the windows. Not freedom.
“Easy, bella,” Michelangelo murmurs, voice low and rough with sleep and something darker. His hand spans the full width of your heavily pregnant stomach, palm pressing down just firmly enough to make the baby kick against his touch. “You’re not goin’ anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.”
You swallow hard. Your throat is dry. “Mikey… please. Not again. I’m tired. The baby—”
“The baby is mine.” The words come out soft, almost tender, but his fingers dig in just a fraction. “You’re mine. This body is mine. This little life growing inside you is the only good thing left in this fucking wasteland, and I’m not letting anything—or anyone—take it from me. Including you.”
He shifts closer. The mattress dips under his weight. Michelangelo in The Last Ronin is not the easygoing party turtle you might have imagined from older stories. He is leaner, harder, scarred across the plastron and arms from years of fighting alone. The orange mask is gone; in its place is a darker, more practical bandana tied tight, and the eyes beneath it burn with a single-minded intensity that never fully softens, even when he looks at you like you are the last star in a dead sky.
His free hand slides up under the thin oversized shirt he lets you wear—one of his own, the fabric stretched tight over your breasts and the massive curve of your belly. He cups one heavy breast, thumb brushing the sensitive nipple until it tightens. You flinch. Your body has been traitorously responsive for months now, hormones making every touch feel amplified, every brush of skin electric whether you want it or not.
“Still so sensitive,” he whispers against your ear. “Even when you fight me. Especially when you fight me.”
You turn your face away. “I don’t want this.”
“I know.” He sounds almost pleased. “That’s why it feels so good when you finally stop fighting.”
His mouth finds the side of your throat. He doesn’t bite hard—not yet. He just mouths at the skin, slow and wet, sucking gently until the blood rises in a dark mark. One hand stays on your belly, rubbing slow circles that make the baby shift and roll. The other continues its unhurried exploration of your breasts, squeezing, lifting, rolling the nipples between thumb and finger until your breathing starts to hitch against your will.
You try to push his hand away. He lets you for half a second, then catches both your wrists in one large hand and pins them above your head against the pillow. The strength in his grip is absolute. You could struggle until your shoulders burned and it wouldn’t matter.
You keep your eyes closed.
When you finally open them, his face is inches from yours. There is love in those eyes. Twisted, possessive, absolute love. The kind that would burn the world down before it let you leave.
“You’re carrying my kid,” he says quietly. “You’re the only soft thing left. The only warm thing. You think I’m gonna let you walk out of here with my baby inside you? You think I’m gonna let you raise him somewhere I can’t see him every day? No. You’re staying. And you’re gonna take everything I give you until you stop pretending you don’t need it too.”
He kisses you then—deep, claiming, tongue sliding into your mouth like he owns the right. You try not to respond. You fail. Pregnancy has made your body a stranger; every nerve ending seems closer to the surface, every touch louder. When he finally pulls back, your lips feel swollen and your pulse is racing.
Michelangelo releases your wrists only long enough to strip the shirt up and over your head, leaving you completely bare. The cool air of the room kisses your skin. Your breasts are heavy, full, the nipples dark and tight. Your belly is enormous, round and tight, the skin stretched shiny in places. Stretch marks fan out from your navel like pale lightning. He looks at you the way other men might look at treasure.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you. So full of me.”
He lowers his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of your belly, right above the dark line that has appeared there. Then another. And another. He works his way upward in slow, wet kisses until he reaches the underside of one breast. His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your skin, before he takes the nipple into his mouth and sucks.
The sensation is sharp and deep. A low sound escapes you before you can stop it. He hums in approval and switches to the other breast, sucking harder, using the edge of his teeth just enough to make your hips twitch. One hand remains splayed across your stomach the entire time, feeling every kick, every shift of the life you share.
When he finally lifts his head, his mouth is wet. “Gonna take my time tonight,” he tells you. “You’re not getting off easy. Not after the way you looked at the door earlier.”
You had looked. You always look. The thought of running—of somehow making it past the traps and the patrols and the irradiated zones—never fully dies, even knowing how impossible it is. He sees it every time.
Michelangelo settles between your legs, spreading your thighs wide with his hands. The chain on your ankle clinks. You try to close them; he simply holds them open, thumbs pressing into the soft inner flesh. For a long moment he just looks at you—at the flushed, swollen folds already glistening despite everything, at the way your body has softened and changed to carry his child.
“Still so pretty down here,” he murmurs. “Still gets wet for me even when your mouth says no.”
He leans in and drags the flat of his tongue through your folds in one long, deliberate stroke.
Your back arches. The sound that leaves you is closer to a sob than a moan. He does it again, slower, savoring. Then he focuses on your clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue while two thick fingers press carefully into you. You are so wet that there is almost no resistance, but the stretch still makes you gasp. Pregnancy has made everything tighter in some ways, more sensitive in others. He curls those fingers and finds the spot that makes your thighs tremble.
“There it is,” he says against your skin. “That’s the spot. Gonna work it until you’re shaking.”
For what feels like forever he stays between your legs, eating you with single-minded focus. Long, slow licks alternating with focused suction on your clit. Fingers working in and out, scissoring gently, pressing upward until your hips start lifting helplessly against his mouth. Every time you get close he backs off, kissing the insides of your thighs, murmuring soft, filthy praise against your skin.
“So fucking responsive. My perfect little incubator. Look how wet you get when I take what’s mine.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes—frustration, arousal, the helpless knowledge that your body is going to betray you again. He notices. Of course he notices. He lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze while his fingers keep moving inside you.
“Cry if you need to,” he says gently. “Doesn’t change a thing. You’re still gonna come on my tongue. Then you’re gonna take my cock. And when I’m done you’re gonna thank me for keeping you safe and full.”
You shake your head, but the denial is weak. He lowers his mouth again and this time he doesn’t stop. The dual assault of tongue and fingers builds and builds until the pleasure tips over into something sharp and overwhelming. Your orgasm hits hard, thighs clamping around his head, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your body clenches around his fingers in rhythmic pulses. He works you through it, drawing it out until you are shaking and oversensitive, trying to twist away.
Only then does he ease back.
Michelangelo sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. His eyes are darker than before. He shoves his own pants down far enough to free his cock—thick, heavy, already fully hard and leaking at the tip. The sight of it still makes something low in your belly twist with equal parts fear and unwanted heat. He is big. He has always been big. And with the baby taking up so much space inside you, the stretch feels even more intense.
He doesn’t thrust in right away.
Instead he strokes himself slowly while looking at you, one hand still resting possessively on your belly. “Gonna put another one in you someday,” he says, almost conversational. “Soon as this one’s out. Keep you pregnant as long as I can. Keep you soft and round and tied to me.”
You make a soft, distressed sound. He smiles—small, sharp, utterly certain.
He positions himself between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance. One of his hands slides under your lower back, lifting your hips just enough to ease the angle. The other stays on your stomach, feeling the baby move as he begins to press inside.
The stretch is slow and relentless. You feel every inch as he works himself deeper, pausing when you tense, murmuring soft reassurances that sound almost like threats.
“Breathe. That’s it. Take it. You’re made for this now. Made to carry me. Made to take me.”
When he is fully seated, he stays still for a long moment, buried to the hilt, both of you breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours. His hand never leaves your belly.
“Feel that?” he whispers. “That’s me. All the way inside you. Right next to our kid. Nothing’s ever gonna come between us.”
The thrusts are deep and measured at first—long, grinding rolls of his hips that keep him pressed against that sensitive spot inside you on every stroke. The head of his cock drags along your walls; the base grinds against your swollen clit. Every movement makes your heavy belly shift. The sensation is overwhelming—pleasure and pressure and the constant reminder of the life between you.
You try to stay still. You try not to make a sound. Your body has other ideas. Soft, broken noises start spilling from your throat with every deep thrust. Your hands, still free, end up clutching at his shoulders, at the hard muscle of his arms, anything to anchor yourself as the pleasure builds again.
Michelangelo notices. He always does.
“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice rough. “Stop fighting it. Let it feel good. You’re allowed to feel good when I’m inside you. You’re supposed to.”
He picks up the pace gradually, hips snapping a little harder, a little deeper. One hand stays splayed across your stomach; the other slides up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your lower lip. When you open your mouth on a particularly sharp moan he slips the thumb inside, pressing down on your tongue.
“Suck,” he orders softly.
You do. You hate yourself for it, but you do.
The dual stimulation—his cock working you open, his thumb in your mouth, the constant pressure of his hand on your belly—pushes you higher. Another orgasm starts to coil low and tight. He feels it in the way you flutter around him and grins, dark and satisfied.
“Gonna come again for me,” he says. “Gonna squeeze me while I fill you up. Then I’m gonna keep you like this all night—plugged full of me, belly heavy with my kid, chained to my bed where you belong.”
The words, the rhythm, the relentless pressure—it all crashes together. Your second climax hits harder than the first, ripping a broken cry from your throat as your body clamps down around him. Michelangelo groans low and deep, thrusts turning sharper, more urgent, chasing his own release. A few more hard snaps of his hips and he buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing as he comes inside you in thick, hot pulses.
He stays there for a long time after, still buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. His hand never leaves your stomach. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost reverent.
“Mine,” he whispers. “Both of you. Always.”
He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead he shifts carefully onto his side, taking you with him so that your back is pressed to his plastron, his cock still softening inside you, one heavy arm draped over your belly. The chain on your ankle shifts with the movement. Outside, the ruined city continues its endless night. Inside, Michelangelo presses soft, open-mouthed kisses to the back of your neck and the curve of your shoulder, murmuring half-formed promises and threats that sound the same in his mouth.
“Gonna take care of you,” he says against your skin. “Gonna keep you full. Gonna keep you safe. You’re never leaving me. Not with my baby in you. Not ever.”
You close your eyes. Your body is still trembling with aftershocks. Between your legs you can feel the slow trickle of his release when he finally softens enough to slip free. His hand remains on your stomach, feeling the baby kick against his palm as if answering.
Sleep comes eventually, heavy and reluctant. You drift off to the feel of his mouth still moving against your neck, his fingers still tracing possessive patterns across the tight skin of your belly, and the quiet, absolute certainty in his voice every time he whispers the same word against your skin.
Hours later you wake again to the same sensation—his fingers between your legs, slow and deliberate, working two of them back inside you where you are still slick and sensitive. Michelangelo’s mouth is at your breast, sucking gently, and his free hand is once more spanning your stomach.
“Shh,” he soothes when you make a soft, protesting sound. “Just taking care of what’s mine. Gonna get you ready again. We’ve got all night. All the nights after that. All the years.”
He spends a long time just like that—fingers working you open with unhurried precision, mouth moving from one breast to the other, occasional soft bites that leave faint marks. When he finally replaces his fingers with his cock again, the stretch is easier, the slide smoother. He fucks you slower this time, deeper, one hand never leaving your belly, the other pinned over your heart so he can feel it race.
“Feel how full you are,” he murmurs against your ear. “Full of me. Full of our kid. This is where you belong. Right here. Under me. Carrying me. Taking me.”
You come a third time with his name broken on your lips and tears on your cheeks. He follows soon after, flooding you again, staying buried deep while the aftershocks ripple through both of you.
Only when the sky outside begins to lighten does he finally ease out of you completely. He cleans you with a damp cloth, gentle in a way that somehow feels more possessive than the rough handling, then pulls the thin blanket up over both of you. The chain remains. His arm remains locked around your waist, hand splayed protectively—possessively—over the curve of your stomach.
“Sleep,” he says quietly. “I’ll be here when you wake up. I’ll always be here.”
Somewhere in the ruined city a distant explosion blooms against the dawn. Inside the safehouse, Michelangelo presses one last lingering kiss to the side of your neck and settles in for whatever hours of rest the wasteland will allow.
His hand never leaves your belly.
Yandere Noncon: The Last Ronin’s Claim
You never should have come looking for him.
The city above was a graveyard of rust and neon ghosts, but the tunnels under what used to be New York still breathed. You had followed the rumors of the last turtle—the one who still fought, the one they called the Ronin—because some part of you still believed the old stories. Heroes. Family. Hope.
Michelangelo moved through the dark like he had never left it. The red mask was gone; in its place was a black headband, frayed and stained, tied tight over eyes that burned too bright. His shell was scored with old wounds. The nunchaku at his belt were not the playful weapons of the youngest brother anymore. They were tools that had killed.
He saw you the moment you stepped into the flooded chamber.
You made it three steps before a heavy, calloused hand closed around your ankle and yanked. Concrete scraped your palms. Then he was on you—massive, warm, smelling of iron and wet stone and something darker. One thick arm pinned both of your wrists above your head. His other hand clamped over your mouth before the scream could fully leave your throat.
“Shh.” His voice was a low rasp, almost gentle. “You’re real. You’re actually real.”
You struggled. His body was denser than it looked, pure muscle packed under scarred green skin. When you thrashed, he simply settled more of his weight across your hips and thighs until movement became a useless, exhausting effort. His free hand stroked your hair back from your face with surprising care, like he was afraid you might break if he handled you too roughly.
“I’ve been alone so long,” he murmured. “Years. Decades. Everyone else is gone. And then you walk into my tunnels like you belong here.” His thumb brushed the corner of your eye. “You do. You just didn’t know it yet.”
You tried to bite his palm. He only pressed harder, forcing your head back against the cold floor until your neck strained. His eyes—once full of jokes and pizza and light—were fixed on you with a hunger that had nothing playful left in it.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “Not the way you’re thinking. But I am going to keep you. You’re not leaving. You’re mine now.”
The words sank in slowly. Yours. Keep. Mine.
He waited until the first full-body shiver of understanding ran through you, then eased his hand from your mouth just enough for you to suck in air. You begged. Pleaded. Threatened. He listened to every word with the same soft, unblinking attention, nodding occasionally as if your panic was something precious he needed to memorize.
“I know you’re scared,” he said when you finally ran out of breath. “That’s okay. Fear’s honest. We’ll work through it.”
He shifted, straddling your thighs properly so both of his hands were free. One stayed curled around your wrists. The other began to explore. Fingers traced the line of your jaw, the soft skin under your ear, the frantic pulse in your throat. He lingered there, feeling the rapid beat against his pad.
“You’re so warm,” he whispered. “I forgot how warm people are.”
His touch moved lower. Over the collar of your shirt. Down the center of your chest. He didn’t tear anything yet. He simply mapped you through the fabric—the rise and fall of your breathing, the shape of your breasts, the way your stomach jumped when his knuckles brushed lower. Every small reaction was catalogued with quiet intensity.
When you tried to twist away, he pinned your wrists harder and leaned down until his forehead rested against yours.
“Don’t. Please don’t make me hold you down harder. I don’t want bruises on you. Not yet.”
The “yet” hung between you like a blade.
He kissed your temple. Then the bridge of your nose. Then the corner of your mouth, careful, almost chaste. You turned your head. He followed, catching your lower lip between his own and sucking gently until you made a sound you hated. His tongue slid along the seam of your mouth, patient, waiting for the moment your resistance faltered just enough for him to push inside.
The kiss was slow. Thorough. He tasted like metal and rain. When he finally pulled back, a thin string of saliva connected your mouths for a second before it broke.
“There,” he said softly. “That’s better.”
He released your wrists only long enough to strip your jacket and shirt. You fought him. He simply caught both of your hands again the moment the fabric was gone and pressed them back to the floor. The cold air raised goosebumps across your skin. His gaze dragged over every inch like a physical touch.
“Beautiful,” he breathed. “I knew you would be.”
His mouth found the side of your neck. He kissed, then licked, then bit—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make you arch. A low, pleased sound rumbled in his chest. He sucked a dark mark into the skin just above your collarbone, then another lower, then another, working with single-minded focus while his free hand cupped one breast through your bra.
The fabric was thin. He could feel everything. His thumb circled your nipple until it stiffened, then pinched lightly, testing. When you whimpered, he did it again, harder, watching your face the entire time.
“Sensitive,” he noted. “Good.”
He peeled the bra away next. The straps caught for a second; he snapped them with a sharp tug of two fingers. Cool air hit your bare breasts. Michelangelo stared for a long moment, pupils blown wide, then lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth.
The heat of him was shocking. His tongue was broad and rough, lapping in slow, deliberate strokes before he sealed his lips and sucked. Your hips jerked involuntarily. He made a soft approving noise and switched to the other side, giving it the same thorough attention—licking, sucking, grazing with his teeth just enough to sting.
One hand stayed locked around your wrists. The other slid down your stomach, fingers spreading wide as if measuring you, then lower still until they rested over the front of your pants. He pressed the heel of his palm against you and rubbed in a slow, firm circle. The friction was immediate and humiliatingly effective.
“Already getting wet for me,” he murmured against your breast. “Even while you’re shaking. Your body knows.”
You shook your head. He only pressed harder, grinding the seam of your pants against your clit until your thighs trembled.
“Liar,” he said gently. “But that’s okay. I’ll teach you to stop lying to me.”
He unfastened your pants with one hand, working the button and zipper open without ever releasing your wrists. You kicked. He simply shifted his weight and dragged the fabric down your legs in one smooth motion, taking your underwear with them. The cold concrete bit into your bare skin. You were naked beneath him now, completely exposed while he remained fully clothed in the dark, scarred gear of a survivor.
Michelangelo sat back on his heels for a moment and just looked.
His breathing had gone uneven. The front of his pants was strained. He reached down and adjusted himself once, then returned both hands to you—one still pinning your arms, the other spreading your thighs wider with firm pressure.
“I’ve thought about this,” he said quietly. “About finding someone. About keeping them. About not being alone anymore.” His fingers trailed up the soft inner skin of your thigh, stopping just short of where you were already slick. “I didn’t think it would actually happen. But here you are.”
He cupped you fully. Two thick fingers slid through your folds, gathering wetness, then stroked upward to circle your clit with maddening precision. Not rough. Not hurried. Just steady, relentless pressure that made your hips try to follow even as the rest of you tried to twist away.
“Feel that?” he asked. “That’s you answering me.”
You clenched your teeth and glared. He smiled—small, crooked, almost the old Mikey smile for half a second before it hardened into something else.
“I’ll make it good,” he promised. “I won’t rush the first time. I want to learn every sound you make.”
His middle finger pressed inside you slowly. The stretch was immediate; his hands were large, his fingers thick. He worked it in with short, careful thrusts until it was buried to the knuckle, then curled it upward and rubbed. Your back arched off the floor. A broken sound escaped before you could stop it.
“There,” he whispered. “Found it.”
He added a second finger. The burn made your eyes water. He waited, kissing the tears away when they spilled, murmuring soft nonsense against your cheek while his fingers stayed still inside you, letting your body adjust. Only when the tension in your thighs eased slightly did he start to move again—slow pumps that dragged against that same sensitive spot every time.
His thumb returned to your clit, rubbing in tight circles timed with the thrust of his fingers. The dual sensation built too fast. You tried to close your legs. He simply pushed them wider with his knees and kept going, watching every flicker of pleasure and panic that crossed your face.
“You’re going to come on my hand,” he said, voice low and certain. “And then you’re going to come again when I’m inside you. And after that we’re going to keep going until you understand that this is where you belong now.”
You shook your head again, harder. He leaned down and kissed you through the denial, swallowing the protest while his fingers fucked you open with patient, devastating accuracy. The wet sounds of it filled the chamber. Your own breathing turned into short, helpless gasps against his mouth.
The orgasm hit like a betrayal. Your walls clenched hard around his fingers. Your whole body locked, then shuddered through wave after wave while he kept stroking that same spot, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive and trying to pull away. He only followed, gentling the touch but refusing to stop completely until the last tremor faded.
When he finally withdrew his fingers, they glistened. He brought them to his mouth and licked them clean with slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
“Sweet,” he said. “I knew you would be.”
He released your wrists at last. Blood rushed back into your hands with a sharp prickle. Before you could scramble away, he caught both ankles and dragged you closer until your hips were flush against his. The hard line of his cock pressed against your soaked entrance through the fabric of his pants. He rocked once, twice, letting you feel the size of him.
“I’m going to take these off now,” he said. “And then I’m going to put myself inside you. You’re going to take all of me. And you’re going to look at me while you do it.”
He stripped efficiently. The rest of his gear hit the floor in a quiet pile. Naked, he was even larger than he had seemed—broad shoulders, heavy muscle, the thick, heavy curve of his cock already leaking at the tip. He settled between your thighs again, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding himself against you.
The blunt head nudged your entrance. He didn’t push yet. He simply held there, letting you feel the heat and the pressure, watching your face for every micro-expression.
“Breathe,” he instructed softly. “I’ve got you.”
The stretch was intense. Your body tried to reject the intrusion; he kept steady, inching forward in small, controlled movements, pausing whenever your breath hitched too sharply. One hand stroked your hip in slow, soothing circles. The other brushed damp hair from your forehead.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “Taking me so good already. Just a little more.”
He bottomed out with a low groan that sounded almost pained. Fully seated, he stayed still, forehead pressed to yours, giving you time. The fullness was overwhelming—thick, deep, inescapable. Every small shift of his hips made you feel him everywhere.
“Mine,” he breathed against your mouth. “You’re mine now. Say it.”
You refused. He rolled his hips in a slow grind that dragged the head of his cock against that same sensitive place inside you. Your breath broke on a moan.
“Say it,” he repeated, voice soft but iron underneath. “Or I’ll keep you right here on the edge until you do.”
He began to move properly—long, measured strokes that filled you completely on every thrust and left you empty and aching on the withdrawal. The pace never rushed. He fucked you like he had all the time in the world, like he intended to learn the exact angle and depth that made your toes curl and your nails dig into his shoulders.
Your hands had found his shell without conscious decision. He didn’t stop you. If anything, the contact seemed to please him; a low, continuous sound of satisfaction vibrated in his chest.
“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Hold onto me. I’m not going anywhere. Neither are you.”
The second orgasm built slower but deeper, rolling up from the relentless friction and the way he kept hitting that spot on every inward stroke. When it broke, you clenched hard around him, a broken cry tearing free. He groaned and fucked you through it, hips snapping a little harder, chasing his own pleasure now that yours had been wrung out of you again.
He came with a guttural sound, burying himself to the hilt and pulsing deep inside you. The heat of it was startling. He stayed locked against you, breathing hard, one hand cupping the back of your head as if to keep you from turning away.
For a long moment the only sound was water dripping somewhere in the dark and the two of you trying to catch your breath.
Then he kissed your forehead, almost tender.
“Round one,” he said quietly. “We’re just getting started.”
He didn’t pull out. Instead he rolled onto his back, taking you with him so you ended up straddling his hips, still impaled, still full of him. His hands settled on your waist, thumbs stroking the soft skin just above your hipbones.
“Ride me,” he ordered gently. “I want to watch you take what you need.”
When you didn’t move, he simply lifted his hips in a slow thrust that forced another soft sound from your throat. His hands guided your movements until your body began to cooperate on its own—rising and sinking in a rhythm that made fresh wetness slick down his length.
“Good girl,” he praised. “Look at you. Already learning.”
He sat up so your chests pressed together, arms wrapping around your back in a hold that was both protective and inescapable. His mouth found your neck again, sucking new marks while you moved on him. Every downward sink forced him deeper. Every upward lift dragged against oversensitive nerves until your thighs shook.
The third climax tore through you with almost no warning. You collapsed against his chest, shuddering. He held you through it, murmuring praise into your hair, hips still rocking gently to draw out every last tremor.
Only then did he finally ease out of you. The sudden emptiness made you flinch. Thick come slipped down your thighs. He watched it with dark satisfaction, then scooped some onto two fingers and pushed it back inside you with slow, possessive thrusts.
“Keep it in,” he said. “I want you full of me.”
He rearranged you carefully on the scavenged bedding he kept in a drier alcove of the tunnels—old blankets, a thin mattress that still smelled faintly of him. You were too spent to fight the positioning. He curled around you from behind, one heavy arm draped over your waist, one leg hooked over both of yours so you couldn’t easily slip away. His cock, still half-hard, rested against the cleft of your ass.
“Sleep,” he murmured against the nape of your neck. “I’ll be right here when you wake up. And then we’ll start again.”
His hand slid between your legs, cupping you possessively, two fingers resting just inside your entrance as if to keep his claim in place even while you slept.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he whispered. “Neither am I. And I’m never letting you go.”
The tunnels were cold. His body was not. The weight of his arm across your middle was heavy and final.
Somewhere above, the dead city kept its secrets.
Down here, Michelangelo had found something worth keeping.
And he intended to keep it forever—whether you agreed or not.
Hours later you woke to the feel of his mouth between your thighs.
He had shifted you onto your back again while you slept. Your legs were spread over his broad shoulders. His tongue dragged slow and thorough through your folds, lapping up the mess he had left earlier, then circling your clit with the same patient intensity he had shown from the start. Two fingers worked inside you in lazy thrusts, curling, stretching, preparing.
When your eyes opened and you tried to close your legs, he simply pinned your thighs wider with his hands and kept going, eyes flicking up to meet yours in the dim light.
“Morning,” he said against your skin, voice rough with sleep and want. “Or whatever passes for morning down here. I got hungry.”
He sucked your clit between his lips and flicked his tongue against it until your hips jerked. A third finger joined the first two, the stretch sharp enough to make you gasp. He soothed it with more soft licks, then returned to the steady rhythm that had already started rebuilding the heat low in your belly.
“You’re going to come on my tongue this time,” he told you. “And then I’m going to fuck you again. Slow. Deep. Until you stop looking at the exit and start looking at me like I’m the only thing left that matters.”
And he had all the time in the world to make sure you understood.
The hours that followed blurred into a haze of forced pleasure and possessive care. He took you on your back, then on your side with one of your legs hooked over his arm so he could watch every inch of himself disappearing into you. He held you face-down against the blankets and covered your body completely with his own, murmuring into your ear while he rolled his hips in deep, grinding thrusts that never quite let you catch your breath.
He fed you from his own supplies—water, ration bars, the occasional piece of scavenged fruit—always with one hand on you, always watching to make sure you swallowed. When you refused at first, he simply waited you out, stroking your hair, talking in that low, almost gentle voice about how he would take care of everything now. Food. Safety. Company. Pleasure. You only had to stop fighting the inevitable.
By the time he finally let you rest again, your body ached in places you hadn’t known could ache. Marks from his mouth and hands covered your throat, breasts, inner thighs. His come was still inside you, kept there by the way he occasionally pushed it back in with his fingers whenever it tried to leak out.
He curled around you once more, heavier arm across your waist, face buried in your hair.
“I used to be the funny one,” he said quietly into the dark. “The one who made everyone laugh. The one who never took anything seriously.” A soft, broken sound that might have been a laugh. “Guess the universe has a sense of humor after all. It left the clown alive and gave him the only thing that still matters.”
His hand slid down to rest over your lower belly, fingers splayed possessively.
“You’re it now. My whole world. And I’m going to keep you safe and full and here until you stop wanting to leave.”
You could feel the hard length of him already stirring against your back again.
Michelangelo—the last Ronin, the last brother, the last piece of a family that no longer existed—pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck and settled in to wait for the next round.
He had waited years for this.
He could wait a little longer for you to stop fighting.
But he would not wait forever.
And he would never, ever let you go.
Yandere Noncon: Brothers’ Claim
You never should have followed the sound of soft laughter and the low murmur of voices deeper into the sewers. Curiosity, or maybe the stubborn belief that the stories about the mutant turtles were just urban legends, had pulled you past the grate and down the damp concrete corridors. The air grew warmer the further you went, thick with the scent of damp stone, motor oil, and something faintly sweet—like citrus and ozone mixed together.
You rounded a corner and froze.
Two figures stood in the soft glow of hanging work lights. Green skin, shells, masks. One taller, leaner, purple mask tied neatly, goggles pushed up on his forehead, fingers already twitching like he was calculating every possible exit you might take. The other shorter, broader through the shoulders, orange mask askew, a wide grin already stretching across his face that didn’t reach the sharp, hungry look in his eyes.
You didn’t make it three steps.
Mikey’s hand closed around your wrist like a steel cuff, yanking you back hard enough that your feet left the ground for a second. You slammed into the solid wall of his plastron, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Before you could scream, Donnie was there, one long-fingered hand clamping over your mouth, the other already sliding under your chin to tilt your head back so you had no choice but to look at him.
“Shh,” Donnie murmured, voice low and almost gentle. “You’re not going anywhere. Not now that we’ve finally got you.”
Mikey’s free arm locked around your waist, pinning you flush against him. You could feel the heat of him through your clothes, the hard ridges of his plastron pressing into your back. His breath was hot against the side of your neck.
“We’ve been watching you for weeks,” Mikey said, voice bright and wrong. “Every time you walked past that alley. Every time you stopped to look down at the grate like you were thinking about us. Donnie said you were curious. I said you were already ours. Guess who was right?”
You tried to twist free. Donnie’s hand over your mouth tightened just enough to remind you how easily he could cut off your air. His thumb stroked once along your cheekbone, almost tender.
“Don’t fight,” he said. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself. Or better. Depending on how you look at it.”
Mikey laughed, the sound soft and delighted. He nuzzled into the curve of your neck, lips brushing skin. “She’s shaking. Feel that, Dee? She’s already trembling and we haven’t even started.”
Donnie’s eyes never left yours. Dark, focused, almost clinical in their intensity. “She’s perfect. Soft. Warm. Exactly the right size.” His free hand slid down, palm flattening over your stomach, fingers splaying wide. “I’ve thought about this. About what it would feel like to have you under us. To keep you.”
You made a muffled sound of protest against his palm. Mikey’s grip on your waist tightened until it almost hurt.
“We’re keeping you,” Mikey whispered against your ear. “You’re not leaving. Not ever. Donnie already locked the tunnels behind us. Nobody’s coming. It’s just us and you for as long as we want.”
Donnie slowly peeled his hand away from your mouth. The second your lips were free you sucked in a breath to scream. Mikey’s hand was there in an instant, two fingers pressing against your tongue, forcing your mouth open.
“No screaming,” he said cheerfully. “Unless it’s our names. Then you can scream as loud as you want.”
Donnie’s hand at your stomach slid lower, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your jeans, stopping just short of where you were already starting to heat despite the terror clawing up your throat. He leaned in until his forehead nearly touched yours.
“We’re going to take our time,” he said quietly. “I’ve waited too long to rush this. Mikey’s going to hold you open for me while I learn every sound you make. Then I’m going to hold you open for him. And we’re going to do it again. And again. Until you stop pretending you don’t want it.”
Mikey’s fingers curled against your tongue, pressing down lightly. “She’s so warm inside already. Bet she’s even warmer lower.”
You tried to bite. Mikey only laughed and pushed his fingers deeper for a second before withdrawing them, leaving a slick trail across your lower lip.
Donnie’s hand finally slipped fully beneath your waistband. Cool, clever fingers brushed over the front of your underwear, tracing the shape of you through the thin fabric. You jerked hard in their combined grip. Mikey’s arm around your waist didn’t budge an inch.
“Sensitive,” Donnie noted, almost to himself. “Good. I like sensitive.” His fingers pressed more firmly, rubbing slow circles over the growing dampness. “You’re already getting wet. Your body knows what we are even if your head is still fighting.”
Mikey’s mouth opened against the side of your neck, teeth scraping lightly. “She’s gonna look so pretty when she’s crying and coming at the same time. I want to see it. Do it again, Dee. Make her squirm more.”
Donnie obliged. His fingers worked with methodical patience, stroking along the seam of your underwear until the fabric was soaked through. Every time you tried to close your legs, Mikey’s knee forced them wider from behind. You were trapped between them, Donnie’s hand working you through the cloth while Mikey’s free hand slid up under your shirt, palm covering one breast and squeezing with casual possession.
“Soft,” Mikey murmured. “So soft. We’re gonna ruin you so good.”
Donnie’s fingers finally slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear. The first direct touch of his skin against yours made your whole body jolt. He didn’t push inside yet. He just traced, learning the shape of you, the way you clenched when he brushed over your clit, the way your breath hitched when he circled it slowly.
“There,” he said, voice gone lower. “That’s the spot that makes you shake. I’m going to spend a long time right here.”
Mikey’s hand left your breast only long enough to shove your shirt and bra up, exposing you to the cool sewer air. His mouth closed over one nipple without warning, sucking hard enough to draw a sharp cry from your throat. Donnie’s fingers never stopped moving between your legs.
You tried to push at Donnie’s chest. He caught both your wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head against Mikey’s plastron. The position arched your back, pushing your breasts more firmly into Mikey’s mouth and your hips more firmly into Donnie’s working hand.
“Struggle all you want,” Donnie said. “It only makes me harder.” He pressed closer so you could feel the thick ridge of him against your thigh through his pads. “Feel that? That’s for you. Both of us are. We’ve been hard for you since the first night we saw you walk past.”
Mikey released your nipple with a wet sound and licked a slow stripe up to your collarbone. “Gonna fill you up so full you forget how to walk without us. Gonna keep you down here and make you come until you can’t think about anything except our names and our cocks.”
Donnie’s fingers finally slipped lower, two of them pressing at your entrance. He didn’t push in yet. He just held there, feeling the way you fluttered around nothing, the way your body tried to pull him in even as your mind screamed no.
“You’re tight,” he said, almost reverent. “I knew you would be. I’m going to stretch you carefully. I want you to feel every inch when I finally push inside. I want you to remember the exact moment you stopped belonging to yourself.”
Mikey’s hand slid down to join Donnie’s, two sets of green fingers working between your legs now. One of Mikey’s thicker fingers pressed in alongside Donnie’s, just the tip, testing. The stretch burned. You cried out. Mikey moaned against your neck like the sound was the best thing he’d ever heard.
“Fuck, she’s clenching. She likes it even when she hates it. Do it deeper, Dee. I want to feel her from the inside while you touch her.”
Donnie pushed both his fingers in slowly, knuckle by knuckle, while Mikey’s stayed shallow, rubbing the sensitive rim. The dual sensation was overwhelming. Your hips jerked helplessly. Donnie’s thumb found your clit again and rubbed in tight, precise circles.
“Come for us,” Donnie ordered quietly. “You’re going to come on our fingers first. Then you’re going to come on our tongues. Then you’re going to come on our cocks until you can’t anymore. And every time you do, you’re going to know it’s because we decided you would.”
Mikey’s teeth sank into the side of your neck hard enough to bruise, not quite breaking skin. The sharp pain combined with the relentless working of their fingers dragged the orgasm out of you whether you wanted it or not. Your whole body locked up, thighs shaking, a broken sound tearing from your throat as you pulsed around Donnie’s fingers.
Donnie kept rubbing through the aftershocks, drawing it out until you were whimpering and trying to twist away from the overstimulation. Mikey only held you tighter, laughing softly against your skin.
“That’s one,” he said. “How many more you think she can take before she starts begging for real?”
“As many as it takes,” Donnie answered. He slowly withdrew his fingers, shiny with your release, and held them up for Mikey to see. Mikey leaned in and licked them clean without hesitation, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
“Sweet,” Mikey said. “Knew she would be.”
Donnie’s hands moved to your jeans, unbuttoning and shoving them down along with your underwear in one efficient motion. Mikey lifted you just enough for Donnie to strip them the rest of the way off, then set you back down so you were bare from the waist down, shirt still rucked up under your arms. The cool air against your soaked folds made you shiver.
Mikey spun you around so you faced him, then dropped to his knees with startling speed. His hands spread your thighs wide. Before you could close them again, Donnie stepped in behind you, arms wrapping around your middle, holding you open and upright for his brother.
“Look at her,” Mikey breathed. “All pink and wet and still twitching. She’s perfect.” He leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue through your folds in one long, slow lick from entrance to clit.
Your knees nearly gave out. Donnie’s arms tightened, taking more of your weight.
“Again,” Donnie said. “Slower. I want to feel her shake against me while you do it.”
Mikey obeyed. He licked you with devastating patience, broad strokes alternating with pointed flicks against your clit. Every time your hips tried to jerk away or push closer, Donnie’s hands controlled the movement, forcing you to take exactly what Mikey gave. When Mikey finally sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked, Donnie’s fingers returned, two of them sliding back inside you from behind while Mikey’s tongue worked.
The dual stimulation was too much. The second orgasm hit harder than the first, tearing a sob from your throat as you clenched around Donnie’s fingers and pulsed against Mikey’s mouth. Mikey groaned like he was the one coming, drinking down every drop he could get.
Donnie’s fingers crooked inside you, rubbing that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. Mikey’s tongue never left your clit. A third orgasm rolled through you almost immediately, weaker but no less devastating, leaving you hanging limp in Donnie’s arms, tears streaking down your face.
Only then did Mikey pull back, chin shiny, grinning up at you with pure adoration and pure possession.
“She’s so pretty when she cries,” he said. “I want to see it more.”
Donnie turned you again, this time pressing your back to the wall. He dropped to his knees in front of you while Mikey stepped in close at your side, one hand cupping your breast, the other sliding between your legs from the front to keep you open.
Donnie looked up at you for a long moment, studying the tears, the flushed skin, the way your chest heaved.
“I’m going to make you come on my tongue until you can’t stand,” he said. “Then Mikey is going to fuck you while I hold you. Then I’m going to fuck you while he holds you. And after that… we’re going to decide whether you get to rest or whether we start over.”
He leaned in and put his mouth on you.
Where Mikey had been enthusiastic and messy, Donnie was precise. He mapped every fold with the tip of his tongue, learned exactly how much pressure made your thighs jump, exactly how to curl his tongue against your clit to make your breath stutter. Mikey’s fingers stayed inside you the entire time, scissoring slowly, stretching you open while Donnie’s mouth worked.
You lost count of the orgasms after the fifth. Your legs gave out completely. Donnie and Mikey simply adjusted, Donnie lifting one of your thighs over his shoulder while Mikey took more of your weight. They kept going until you were sobbing openly, oversensitive and shaking, begging in broken fragments for them to stop even as your body kept responding.
Finally Donnie pulled back. His mouth was wet. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them.
Mikey made a low, hungry sound. “My turn first?”
“Yes.” Donnie rose and turned you, pressing your chest to the cool concrete wall. He gathered both your wrists in one hand again and pinned them above your head. With the other he reached down and guided Mikey’s thick cock to your entrance.
The blunt head pressed against you. You tried to close your legs. Donnie’s knee forced them wider.
“Take a breath,” Donnie murmured against your ear. “He’s not going to be gentle. He doesn’t know how with you. Not when he’s wanted you this long.”
The stretch burned. He was thick, and even with all the preparation it was almost too much. You cried out. Mikey groaned long and low as he sank deeper, inch by inch, until his hips were flush against yours and you could feel every ridge and pulse of him inside you.
“Fuck,” Mikey breathed. “She’s so tight. So hot. Dee, she’s squeezing me already.”
Donnie’s free hand slid around to rub your clit in slow, merciless circles while Mikey started to move. The thrusts were deep and deliberate at first, then faster, harder, the wet sound of him fucking into you echoing in the tunnel. Every time he bottomed out you felt it in your stomach. Every time he pulled back you felt empty for half a second before he drove in again.
Donnie never stopped touching you. His fingers on your clit, his mouth on the side of your neck, his voice low and steady in your ear.
“You’re taking him so well. Look at how your body opens for him. You’re going to come on his cock next. I can feel how close you are. Don’t fight it. Give it to us.”
The next orgasm tore through you with almost no warning. You clenched hard around Mikey. He cursed and fucked you through it, thrusts turning short and sharp until he buried himself deep and came with a broken moan, pulsing hot inside you.
He stayed there for a long moment, breathing hard against your back, before slowly pulling out. You felt the immediate rush of his release sliding down your thighs.
Donnie didn’t give you time to recover.
He spun you around, lifted you easily, and guided his own cock to your entrance. You were so slick with Mikey’s come and your own that he sank in with one smooth, relentless thrust that stole what little breath you had left.
Donnie was longer, the angle different. He filled you in a way that made your eyes roll back. He didn’t start slow. He fucked you with the same focused intensity he’d used with his fingers and tongue, every thrust calculated to drag against that spot inside you that made your vision white out.
Mikey stepped in close again, mouth finding yours in a messy, claiming kiss while one hand worked between your bodies to rub your clit. The dual stimulation of Donnie’s cock and Mikey’s fingers dragged another orgasm out of you almost immediately. Then another. Then another until you were barely coherent, hanging in Donnie’s arms while he used your body exactly the way he’d promised.
When Donnie finally came it was with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering as he emptied himself deep inside you. He stayed buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.
“Ours,” he said quietly. “You’re ours now. Every part of you. We’re going to keep you down here and fill you until you forget there was ever a world above. Until the only thing you know is how it feels when we take you.”
Mikey’s hand stroked over your hair, almost gentle. “We’re never letting you go. Not after this. Not ever.”
They didn’t pull out right away. Donnie stayed inside you while Mikey’s fingers kept petting and stroking, keeping you on the edge of overstimulation. When Donnie finally softened enough to slip free, the combined mess of both of them slid down your thighs in thick trails.
They carried you deeper into the lair after that.
You didn’t walk. Your legs wouldn’t hold you.
They laid you out on a nest of blankets that smelled like both of them. Donnie cleaned you carefully with a warm cloth, then immediately pushed two fingers back inside you like he couldn’t stand the idea of you empty. Mikey stretched out beside you, mouth finding your breast, sucking slow and proprietary while his hand stroked over your stomach.
“Rest for a little while,” Donnie said, voice still rough. “Then we’re going to start again. I want to feel you come around my cock while Mikey’s in your mouth. I want to see how many times we can make you break before morning.”
Mikey lifted his head long enough to grin at you, eyes bright and completely unhinged with affection.
“You’re never leaving,” he said, soft and final. “We love you too much already. And we always keep what’s ours.”
Donnie’s fingers curled inside you, slow and deliberate, already working you toward the next inevitable climax whether you wanted it or not.
And they had only just begun.
The air in the abandoned chemical plant hung thick and sweet-rotten, the kind of industrial decay that clung to the back of the throat. You had only come looking for a place to cut through after your shift, a shortcut past the chain-link and the rusted drums. You never expected the low, wet hiss that followed you between the empty tanks.
A shape unfolded from the shadows between two corroded vats.
Gutrot stepped into the weak spill of moonlight leaking through a broken skylight. His body was a tall, lean humanoid silhouette of mottled green-gray flesh, the surface of his torso translucent in places so that the slow swirl of luminous chemicals inside his gut was visible—shifting blues and sickly yellows that pulsed like a second, living heart. Flexible tubes and valve-like openings dotted his chest and arms. His face was elongated, almost elegant in its alien way, with large dark eyes that reflected the light in an oily sheen and a wide mouth that curled into something too soft to be called a smile.
“Found you,” he said. The voice was smooth, low, almost gentle. It carried a faint chemical aftertaste, like the memory of something sweet left too long in the sun. “I’ve been looking for a long time.”
You took a step back. He matched it without hurry.
“Don’t run,” Gutrot murmured. “You’ll only make the gas denser when I have to stop you. I don’t want to hurt your lungs. Not yet.” One long-fingered hand rose, palm open, and a pale pink mist drifted from the valves along his wrist. It smelled faintly of crushed flowers and something sharper underneath. “Just a little something to keep you calm. To keep you here.”
The first breath of it hit the back of your throat and warmth unfurled behind your ribs. Your legs felt heavier. The edges of the plant softened. You tried to turn, to put distance between you and the alien, but the pink haze thickened in the air around you like a living curtain. Your knees buckled. Gutrot caught you before you hit the concrete, arms sliding under your back and knees with careful, possessive strength. The chemical glow in his gut brightened as if in pleasure.
“There,” he whispered against your hair. “That’s better. You’re safe now. You’re mine now.”
He carried you deeper into the plant, past rows of silent machinery, into a cleared space where someone—him—had dragged an old mattress and layered it with scavenged blankets and plastic sheeting. The air here was already faintly tinted with the same pinkish mist, as if he had prepared the space hours ago. He laid you down with startling gentleness, then settled over you, knees bracketing your hips, one hand braced beside your head. His other hand stroked your cheek with the pads of his fingers. The skin of his hand was smooth and slightly cool, the texture of something that had never needed to be human.
“I’ve watched you for weeks,” he said, voice soft and intimate. “The way you walk home. The way you look when you’re tired. The way you smile at strangers like you don’t know how rare that is. I decided then. No one else gets to keep you. No one else gets to touch you. Only me.”
You tried to speak, to tell him to stop, but the gas had settled into your bloodstream and the words came out slow and thick. Gutrot smiled wider, the expression almost tender.
“Shh. You don’t have to talk yet. Just feel.”
He leaned down and pressed his mouth to the side of your throat. The kiss was careful at first—soft, exploratory—then his tongue dragged a slow line up the tendon. A thin, invisible gas seeped from the corners of his mouth, something that left a tingling warmth in its wake. Your pulse jumped under his tongue. He made a low, pleased sound and did it again, slower, tasting the flutter of your heartbeat like it belonged to him.
His hands moved next. They slid under the hem of your shirt with deliberate patience, palms spreading across your stomach, mapping the rise and fall of your breathing. The valves along his wrists exhaled tiny, controlled bursts of a different compound—something that left your skin hypersensitive, every brush of his fingers amplified until the simple act of him stroking your ribs felt indecent. He pushed the fabric higher, higher, until your shirt was bunched under your arms. He didn’t remove it fully. He wanted you half-exposed, the visual of you trapped in your own clothes while he looked his fill.
“Pretty,” he murmured, staring down at the soft curves of your breasts. The glow inside his torso pulsed brighter. “So soft. So warm. I’ve imagined this so many times.”
He lowered his head and closed his mouth over one nipple through the thin barrier of your bra. The fabric grew damp under the slow drag of his tongue. Another careful release of gas—this one warmer, almost spicy—made the sensitive peak tighten instantly. You arched without meaning to. Gutrot hummed in satisfaction and switched to the other side, giving it the same slow, thorough attention until both nipples were stiff and aching against the wet cloth. Only then did he slide the bra up as well, exposing you completely to the cool air of the plant and the heat of his gaze.
His mouth returned bare this time. He sucked gently, then harder, alternating pressure while his tongue circled and flicked. Every few moments a faint chemical tingle bloomed under the wet heat of his mouth, heightening the sensation until the simple act of him nursing at your breast felt overwhelming. One of his hands slid down your stomach, fingers tracing idle patterns that left trails of residual sensitivity. He worked open the button of your pants with unhurried precision, then the zipper, and eased the fabric down your hips. You tried to close your legs. He simply pressed a knee between them and kept going until the pants and underwear were tangled around one ankle.
“Don’t fight the feeling,” he said against your skin. “I’ve already decided you’re going to like this. Your body just needs a little help understanding.”
He settled lower between your thighs. The first touch of his mouth against your sex was startlingly careful—just the soft press of lips, then the slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue along your slit. Another controlled release of gas followed, this one designed to increase blood flow and nerve response. Heat flooded the sensitive folds almost immediately. You felt yourself growing slick under his tongue despite the protest still lodged in your throat. Gutrot made a low, hungry sound and licked deeper, parting you with the flat of his tongue, tasting every inch as if cataloguing you.
He was thorough. Painfully, obsessively thorough. He found the small, swollen peak of your clit and gave it long, slow strokes, then short flicks, then a gentle suction that made your hips jerk. Every time your body tensed or tried to twist away, he adjusted the composition of the gas leaking from the valves near his jaw—something that softened resistance, something that made the pleasure sharper, something that left you trembling between the urge to push him away and the urge to press closer. His hands held your thighs open with easy strength, thumbs stroking the soft inner skin in slow circles while his mouth worked.
Minutes stretched. He refused to rush. He licked and sucked and explored until your thighs were shaking and your breath came in short, helpless pants. Only when you were dripping and oversensitive did he finally lift his head. His mouth and chin glistened. The chemical light in his gut had brightened to a steady, hungry glow.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “Already so wet for me. You were made for this. Made for me.”
He crawled back up your body, settling his weight carefully over you. You could feel the hard length of him through the thin, flexible membrane that covered his groin—alien, thicker than a human cock, ridged in places, the surface faintly textured. He rubbed it slowly against your soaked folds, coating himself in the evidence of what he had done to you. Each drag sent sparks up your spine. He kept the motion unhurried, almost lazy, as if he had all the time in the world to torture you with the promise of more.
“I’m going to put it inside you now,” he said, voice still soft, still almost loving. “You’re going to take all of me. And you’re going to keep taking me until I decide you’ve learned who you belong to.”
He reached down, guided the thick head of his cock to your entrance, and pushed.
The stretch was immediate and intense. He was larger than anything you had taken before, the ridges catching and dragging in ways that made your breath hitch. Gutrot watched your face the entire time, eyes half-lidded with dark satisfaction. He fed another thin stream of calming, sensitizing gas into the air between your mouths as he pressed deeper, inch by careful inch, until his hips finally met yours and he was buried to the root.
He stayed there for a long moment, fully seated, simply breathing against your mouth. The chemical glow in his torso pulsed in time with the slow throb of his cock inside you.
“Perfect,” he whispered. “You’re perfect around me. I knew you would be.”
The first thrusts were slow, deliberate, almost gentle—long withdrawals that dragged every ridge along your inner walls, followed by deep, controlled pushes that seated him fully again. He kept one hand braced beside your head and the other under your lower back, angling you so that every stroke ground against the sensitive front wall. The gas in the air thickened again, a different blend this time, one that made the stretch feel less like invasion and more like something your body was being trained to crave. Heat bloomed low in your belly. Your inner muscles fluttered around him despite every mental protest.
Gutrot’s mouth found yours. The kiss was deep and claiming, tongue sliding against yours while more of that dizzying chemical warmth seeped from him into you. He fucked you through it with the same unhurried precision—deep, grinding strokes that never quite let you catch your breath or gather resistance. When your hands came up to push at his chest, he simply caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, the other returning to your breast to roll and pinch the sensitive peak in time with his thrusts.
“You can fight if you need to,” he murmured against your lips. “It won’t change anything. You’re still going to come on my cock. You’re still going to stay.”
He shifted the angle slightly and the next thrust dragged hard over a spot that made your vision spark. He noticed immediately. A low, pleased sound vibrated in his chest and he focused there, grinding into that place with every stroke until the pleasure became almost unbearable. The gas in the air adjusted again—something that sharpened sensation without dulling awareness, so that every wet sound of his cock moving inside you, every slap of his hips against yours, every soft chemical-scented breath against your mouth registered with painful clarity.
Your body began to tighten around him against your will. Gutrot felt it. His rhythm never faltered, but his eyes darkened with possessive hunger.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Give it to me. Let me feel you break.”
The orgasm tore through you in long, helpless waves. Your walls clenched and fluttered around the thick, ridged length buried inside you. Gutrot groaned softly and kept thrusting through it, dragging the climax out until you were shaking and oversensitive, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. Only when the last tremor faded did he slow again, still fully hard, still buried deep.
He brushed the damp hair from your forehead with surprising tenderness.
“Good girl,” he said. “But we’re not finished. I’m going to keep you like this for a long time. I’m going to learn every sound you make and every way your body answers me. And when I’m done, you’re going to understand that no one else will ever touch you again.”
He began to move once more—still slow, still thorough, the same obsessive attention to the way your body responded to every ridge and every grind. The chemical haze in the air thickened further, sealing the two of you inside a private, pink-tinged world of forced pleasure and quiet, relentless possession.
Outside the plant the night continued without you. Inside it, Gutrot fucked you with the patient, single-minded devotion of something that had already decided you were his forever—and that had all the time in the world to make sure your body agreed.
He did not stop when you came a second time, or a third. He only adjusted the gas, adjusted the angle, adjusted the pressure of his mouth on your throat and the grip of his hands on your wrists, and continued the long, deliberate claiming of every inch of you.
By the time the first pale light of morning began to filter through the broken skylight, your voice was hoarse, your body was marked with the faint chemical imprint of his touch, and Gutrot was still moving inside you—slow, deep, and utterly certain that you would never leave.
