Kaiser only bottoms when he's feeling vulnerable, which isn't rare, but him admitting he's feeling vulnerable is because he sucks at communicating his feelings. If that wasn't obvious, but it's not like you or Ness would judge him if he wants to lay down and be taken care of for a day.
That's why he's pinned between you two, technically. He's lying between Ness' legs, back pressing against his chest while you're between his legs – one hand on his thigh, the other wrapped around his cock. Your thumb teasing his slit, collecting all his pre-cum. "Getting so wet, Kaiser. All this cuz of us, hm?"
He tenses up. He isn't a fan of being teased, or at least he wants you two to believe that; he can't exactly lie about the fact his dick twitches each time any of you do.
"Shut up. You said you w-were gonna suck my dick, right? So get to fucking sucking–" His sentence his cut short when Ness grabs his chin, making his head to tilt back. He's forced to look up at Ness' face, an "innocent" smile plastered right across his face. "Now, now, Kaiser. Is that any way to talk to your partner? If you want something, I figure you should ask nicely, no?"
Now, Kaiser has two options. One, he can keep being defiant and fight for his dignity, or two, he doesn't fight, and he gets what he wants, losing a massive chunk of dignity. The thought alone has him gritting his teeth, eyes darting back at you and Ness.
"Please." Kaiser grumbles, pushing Ness' hand away from his face. You both know that's the best you're gonna get out of Kaiser – more than his ego would allow him, anyway.
Better than nothing.
You mouth around his tip, and Kaiser tugs at the sheets, eyes watching your every movement. Your tongue swirls around it once – twice – three times before you start moving your head down, taking him all the way in till his tip hits that familiar spot at the back of your throat.
Kaiser can't hold back anymore. He's moaning – loud. Each moan that comes out of mouth without his control causes his cheeks to flush. He's vocal until he isn't.
Confused, you look up only to see every single one of Kaiser's moans being muffled by Ness, tongues spiralling against each other, causing drool to dribble down the corner of Kaiser's mouth.
Now, isn't that such good encouragement?
You hollow your cheeks out, preparing yourself before speeding up. Kaiser chokes up, mouth opening up a lot wider, giving Ness even easier access. His tongue reaches deeper, really drinking Kaiser's moans this time.
Not long before the blowjob you're giving to Kaiser gets nastily sloppy, spit welling up in your mouth and all over his dick. Your nails dig into his thighs, surely to make nasty scratch marks that'll burn in the shower later, but he isn't paying attention to that, way too occupied with the two of you. Plus, Ness isn't even backing down either, barely giving Kaiser the option to breathe – pulling away to give him a break on occasion. If you could even call five seconds a break.
Kaiser's movements are starting to get a lot more jittery, too, hips bucking up into your mouth, hands rushing to pull at your hair, his chest heaving.
Ness pulls back from the kiss, looking down at you, "Stop. Lemme fuck him now."
You comply, pulling my mouth off of Kaiser's dick, which makes him groan in distaste, but you pay no attention to him. "Wasn't even done yet. Unfair."
Ness shrugs, making you swap positions with him, "Sit on his face if you're disappointed. Shut him up. Just in case he felt like complaining."
"Deal." You reply with a smirk. It's as if Kaiser wasn't even there listening to the both of you. Assholes.
for my annoying ahhh friend ( @kuonglazer ) as a late bday gift. kinda rushed.
Yandere Michael Kaiser pt 3 except now it’s kind of canon. This is supposed to be like a continuation of the panel of him from the new chapter where he’s watching isagi on the screen.
aryu’s hands would be all over you at every chance he can get, his touch both reverent and desperate, like he can never get enough of you. he would be so good with his fingers, scissoring you open with the patience of a saint, worshipful and filthy. splaying a hand in the middle of your chest as he pushes you onto your back, gently massaging one side of his favourite part of you before curling his fingers just enough to make you arch beautifully…
“Do you know why shibari is sacred?” he murmurs, the question so quiet it feels like it’s being whispered directly into your mind.
The sound of his voice is its own kind of worship—smooth, sinuous, heavy with reverence and authority. You can barely think enough to shake your head.
“It teaches the body obedience.”
Or, in which rope becomes scripture, and your body the altar.
notes:
this took up my whole afternoon, but i’m glad with where it landed (i’m sorry if it feels slightly all over the place, the words kind of flowed out of me and i haven’t really beta read it lol). forgive me if any characterization feels slightly off, and thank you for reading. enjoy! :)
The blue rope digs into your skin with a steady, deliberate cruelty.
It’s warm where it bites, like it’s alive—like it’s breathing with you. Each strand hums faintly with the energy of his jinki, threads of power woven into the fabric itself. You can feel it, a low thrumming that seeps beneath your skin, as though the rope recognizes you now, memorizing the shape of your body, the pulse that trembles beneath the surface. Every twist, every knot he ties becomes an extension of him. His will. His control.
The fibers are deceptively soft when they first touch you—like silk dragged across your bare skin—but the moment he tightens them, they shift. They dig. They sting. They remind you, painfully and beautifully, that this is his art. You can feel where each coil presses, how each layer stacks over the other, pressing into muscle, pinning down sensation until your entire body sings in one long, trembling note of pain and pleasure. You twitch, instinctively trying to ease the pressure, but the rope only bites deeper, the friction burning in a way that almost feels holy.
Your breath hitches, a sound strangled behind the gag. The yarn scrapes against your tongue, coarse and bitter with the faint metallic taste of energy. It prickled at first, enough to make your throat rebel, to make you gag until your eyes watered—but you’ve grown accustomed to it now. The discomfort has turned into something else, something that feeds the heat pooling low in your stomach. You breathe shallowly through your nose, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm, feeling the sting of every exhale as the ropes flex and adjust around your ribs.
Tamsy stands in front of you, silent at first. His posture is unhurried, confident. The soft light from the lamp catches in his hair, the strands gleaming silver-blue as his head tilts slightly to the side. His eyes rake over you, sharp and unblinking, yellow irises glowing faint blue as they track you like prey, watching the small shifts of your body—the way your thighs tremble, the way your pulse jumps in your neck, the way your lashes flutter when the ropes tighten. He studies you with an unnerving precision, a mixture of curiosity and control that feels both clinical and intimate.
His scar catches your eye, stark as a flash of lightning in a quiet sky, and you trace its path with your gaze before he moves again. He crouches, the faint sound of his fingers brushing against the rope as he checks the first knot. His fingers are careful, deliberate, tracing the path he’s created, ensuring that every coil lies exactly where it should. You can feel his touch even through the rope—warm, grounding, and terrifyingly gentle. When his fingertips ghost along the inside of your thigh, the breath you didn’t know you were holding escapes you in a muffled whimper. The sound seems to amuse him.
“Don’t tense,” he murmurs, his tone calm but firm, like a command dressed as kindness. His voice has that low, steady resonance—too measured to be comforting, too smooth to be innocent. “You’ll only make it worse.”
He says it without cruelty, without mockery. He’s simply stating a fact, and somehow that makes it worse. You want to obey, to unclench every trembling muscle, but the instinct to resist him—to fight against the ache he’s building in you—is stronger. Every time your body stiffens, the ropes answer in kind, tightening in small, merciless increments until your skin throbs and heat blooms like fire under your flesh.
He pulls again, slow and deliberate, and the rope whispers against your skin as it moves—dragging, rasping, alive. It glides up your ribs in a cruel caress, each strand warmed by the heat of your body, until it catches just below your sternum. The knot settles there like a heartbeat outside of your own—precise, unyielding, immovable. You can feel it every time you inhale; the rope tightens fractionally, pressing into the tender space between bone and breath, forcing you to feel your body in ways you never have before.
Tamsy ties with purpose. With reverence. With the quiet concentration of someone who’s spent a lifetime studying what makes the human form surrender. He knows exactly where to press to make your lungs catch. Exactly how tight to pull until the edge between pleasure and pain blurs. His movements are fluid, deliberate, almost meditative; the rhythm of a man both scientist and artist, taking you apart one careful knot at a time. His hands are unhurried, graceful in their cruelty. He doesn’t rush a single movement, because to him, the process is the pleasure.
The next length of rope slides lower. You feel it trace your waist, the fibers biting just enough to make your skin sting before the burn melts into warmth. He tightens the loop until your body reacts without thought—your spine arching, your chest rising, your back forced into perfect posture. You are pulled upright by geometry, by design, your breath fluttering shallow against the compression. You can hear the rope hum faintly when you exhale, vibrating with your pulse. You feel every heartbeat trapped beneath it—your own body playing accompaniment to the tension he’s composed.
He looks at you then, head tilted slightly, that same serene expression curving his lips—soft, knowing, cruel. It’s the look of a butcher admiring the symmetry of a suspended carcass. Beauty in the stillness. Perfection in the restraint.
Your lips part, the sound that escapes you caught somewhere between a gasp and a prayer. He hears it—of course he does. His eyes darken immediately, sharp and luminous all at once, like he’s feeding on the sight of your unraveling. On the way your breath falters. On the way your body instinctively strains against the rope even when it hurts. The pain blooms, rippling outward, twisting into something deeper, something that makes heat curl low in your belly until your knees threaten to give.
His hands move again—steady, methodical, merciless. The first knot above your sternum tightens with a flick of his wrist, and you shiver so visibly that his mouth curves. Not quite a smile—more like satisfaction made flesh. The rope continues upward and outward, tracing the lines of your ribs, the swells of your breasts, until it creates a web across you: a cage of twisted silk and precise intention. You can feel every intersection pressing into you like punctuation marks—his rhythm, his sentence, his story written in tension.
You are not simply bound. You are constructed. Something he’s made with his hands. Something only he can undo.
Then, with a soft tug, he draws the ropes just enough to make you whine—a small, involuntary sound that shatters the silence. He watches how your muscles twitch beneath the strain, how your breath catches halfway to a sob. It’s like he’s weaving not only rope but trust, a lattice that holds your body upright and your heart bare. In the small spaces between knots, you leave behind everything that isn’t him—your fear, your hesitation, your control.
The air in the room grows heavy, thick with the mingling scents of sweat, fiber, and something electric—tension so strong it hums in your bones. The dim light halos him as he steps closer, a faint chuckle spilling from him, low and amused. His presence fills the room the way smoke does—slow, invasive, consuming.
The rope isn’t a chain; it’s a question.
Every knot a word. Every pull a pause. Every sigh a reply. He writes on your skin with fiber and friction, composing a language that only the two of you understand. He asks without speaking, and you answer without sound.
His hands come to rest at your waist, fingers brushing the marks the ropes have already begun to carve there. His thumbs trace the indents tenderly, a ghosting touch that feels like both a benediction and a warning. A promise and a threat. His breath is steady as he looks down at you, eyes soft but burning with quiet hunger.
He waits. He always waits. That’s what makes him dangerous—his patience. He doesn’t demand; he lets the silence shape your need until it trembles on your skin. He waits until your body begins to sway toward him, until the ropes feel like they’re pulsing in time with your heartbeat, until every part of you aches for him to move, to claim, to finish what he’s started.
By the time the first whisper leaves your throat—a soundless plea, a breath caught in surrender—he already knows. He can feel it in the way you shake. He can hear it in the air between you.
His grin flashes like a blade catching light—brilliant, merciless, and alive with something that dances between mischief and cruelty. A few stray strands of hair fall loose to frame the sharpness of his face, and his eyes gleam with that unmistakable Tamsy glint: amusement laced with hunger. He looks devastatingly composed, still fully clothed while you’re stripped bare—bound, exposed, trembling under his gaze. The difference between you burns. It’s humiliating in a way that crawls under your skin, that feeds both the fear and the heat pooling low in your stomach.
He leans closer until the air between you is nothing but a pulse—his. Yours. The rope’s. His breath brushes your cheek, soft and steady, the warmth of it melting into your nerves until you want to flinch but can’t move. He doesn’t even need to touch you to make you feel small, undone. His control radiates from him like heat off metal, calm and cruel in the same breath.
“You look so pretty…” he says softly, voice curling around the words like smoke. “Real pretty.”
The words shouldn’t sound like a threat, but they do. They fall from his lips like an incantation, and the ropes seem to tighten in answer, the fibers creaking faintly as your body arches. His grin widens when you shiver, and you know he feels every reaction—sees every twitch of muscle, every ragged breath. He’s reading you, memorizing you, dissecting the way obedience takes shape in the lines of your body.
He circles you slowly, his steps measured and quiet, until he’s standing behind you again. Then his hand finds the rope at your ribs, fingertips dragging downward with agonizing care. The motion is feather-light at first, more a whisper of sensation than a touch, until his nails catch the edge of the fibers and pull slightly, teasing the pain back into the surface of your skin. It’s unbearable how good it feels—the sting, the warmth, the way the rope vibrates faintly with your pulse.
“Do you know why shibari is sacred?” he murmurs, the question so quiet it feels like it’s being whispered directly into your mind.
The sound of his voice is its own kind of worship—smooth, sinuous, heavy with reverence and authority. You can barely think enough to shake your head.
“It teaches the body obedience.”
Each word lands like a drop of molten gold, slow and deliberate. His touch trails lower, brushing beneath the arch of your breastbone, tracing the delicate stretch of skin where your breath catches. The sensation is unbearable in its precision, pleasure and pain braided together so tightly you can’t tell them apart anymore. Your pulse stutters wildly, and you swear the rope responds—tightening, constricting, listening.
“It makes you honest,” he says, his voice soft but absolute. His fingers stop at the knot just above your sternum, the heart of his creation. You can feel your heartbeat trapped there, fluttering like something caged. His thumb presses lightly against it, and the pressure sends a tremor through your chest.
“The moment you stop pretending you aren’t afraid…” he breathes, leaning forward until his lips hover just beside your ear, the warmth of his exhale ghosting down your neck. You smell him—steel, faint incense, the clean bite of ozone—and it sends your nerves into disarray. “…is the moment you’re free.”
The words settle into you like a brand. You can feel them under your skin, sinking deep, fusing with the rhythm of your pulse. Fear blooms in your chest, bright and trembling—but beneath it, there’s something else. Surrender. The quiet, terrible kind that rises when you realize you’re no longer fighting the rope. Or him.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and that’s when you see it—his smile.
It’s not cruel, not entirely. It’s serene. Almost holy. But there’s something monstrous about it too, the beauty of a god who delights in the faith of his worshipper. His eyes soften as he studies your face, and you know what he sees there: the collapse, the breaking, the transformation from resistance to devotion.
He loves it. Loves watching you come undone not from force, but from the quiet acceptance that this—the restraint, the stillness, the surrender—is sacred.
In his hands, shibari isn’t just art. It’s a ritual—and you are the prayer answered.
You’re suspended before you can even breathe. One moment, the ropes are shifting under his touch, the next, the ground is gone—stolen from beneath you like a secret. Your weight redistributes instantly, gravity tugging at every knot, every line of pressure that crosses your body. Your back arches beautifully, instinctively, and the air trembles around you. The ropes creak softly, singing their own low hymn of restraint.
The position forces you open—knees drawn apart, bound wide like the petals of a flower in bloom, trembling in invisible wind. The ropes bite into the tender skin behind your knees and the curve of your thighs, but there’s nothing cruel in the precision. The pressure holds you, not traps you. It is not a cage, but an embrace—one that hums with life, one that breathes when you do. Every shift in your chest, every small gasp, vibrates through the cords that cradle you. They hum back like a living thing, a second pulse twined with your own.
You can hear your heartbeat in the stillness—loud, uneven, echoing through your ribs. The tension of the rope presses there too, just beneath your sternum, making each inhale shallow. The faint sway of your suspended body reminds you that you are not separate from the system that holds you—you are the system. You are the instrument, and he the musician, and the music is your breath, your pulse, the soft creak of hemp shifting against skin.
When you finally open your eyes, he’s there in front of you. Tamsy. His gaze devours you, sharp and unblinking, like an artist staring at the perfect canvas—except his art is already alive and trembling. His grin flickers, the edges cruel but reverent. His hands rise to touch you, tracing the rope that cuts across your chest, following the curves it shapes as if reading the lines of a map he’s memorized.
Then—his fingers find your nipples. He tugs. Not gently. A sharp pull that rips a squeal out of your throat before you can stop it. The sound echoes in the silence, bouncing back at you, raw and helpless. His grin sharpens, and you swear you can feel it, even without looking—feel the satisfaction rolling off him like heat.
His fingers move lower, trailing down your stomach, skimming over the dips and hollows until his touch finds the sensitive flesh between your legs. He pauses there, deliberate, teasing, dragging the pad of his finger in slow circles over your clit. The rope trembles with the shiver that racks through you.
And then, he goes lower. Past your folds, past the slick warmth that’s already gathered there, until his fingers press inside you—slow, testing, deliberate. One, then two, slipping knuckle-deep, curling until you gasp. The stretch burns in the sweetest way, a sting that turns molten the longer he moves. He starts to build a rhythm, the movement firm and steady, filling the silence with the soft sound of skin and breath. You try to move with him, your body instinctively seeking more—but the ropes deny you.
Every twitch of your hips only tightens the lines, sending fresh waves of pain and pleasure colliding until you can’t tell which is which.
Your eyes tear up, lashes wet, and your breath catches on small, muffled sounds—half-whimpers, half-pleas. The ropes creak in time with the trembling of your thighs. He watches all of it, his expression serene, almost academic—except for his eyes. They glint, a sharp, dark blue that feels like lightning under water, and his grin is something too knowing, too alive.
Then, suddenly, he stops.
The world collapses into stillness. His fingers slip free, and all that’s left is the ache. The pain blooms sharp and unrelenting now that pleasure has fled. It throbs through you in waves, building pressure behind your ribs, making your fingers twitch helplessly where they’re bound. Tears spill freely this time, dripping down your cheeks, tracing the edges of the rope’s indentations. You can’t even wipe them away.
You blink—and he’s gone. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing. Then you feel him. Not see—feel. The warmth of his breath ghosts over your skin, first at your inner thigh, then closer. His fingers brush against your hips, steadying you in your suspended sway, and his voice is nowhere but everywhere.
Then—his mouth.
The first drag of his tongue is almost unbearable, hot and wet against the overstimulated skin. He licks a long stripe up your folds, slow and reverent, until he reaches your clit. The tip of his tongue circles it, soft, teasing, patient. You jerk instinctively, the movement sending sharp tremors through the ropes. He hums against you, the vibration melting up your spine.
Then he sucks.
Firm, deep, merciless. His mouth seals around your clit, pulling until your body seizes with the shock of it. The sound that tears from your throat is muffled by the gag, but it’s desperate enough to echo. The world narrows—his mouth, the rope, the air filling your lungs too shallowly. He alternates between sucking and flicking, methodical, relentless. Every time you shake, he steadies you by the hips, fingers digging in just enough to remind you who’s in control.
Your body begins to quake. Tears and sweat blur together on your face. The pain from the ropes merges into pleasure so intense it bends reality around it. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t speak. The only truth left is the rhythm of his mouth and the soft creak of the ropes that hold you—each sound a testament to your surrender.
He doesn’t stop. Not when you shake, not when you cry, not even when your back bows in the air like something divine breaking apart. He only holds you there—bound, trembling, suspended between agony and rapture—until your body becomes the music again, and every sound that escapes you belongs to him.
He pulls back just enough to draw breath—and then you hear it. The slick, obscene sound of him spitting between your legs. Hot, wet, deliberate. It hits your cunt with a lewd slap, sliding down the tender skin, and before you can even process the shock, he’s lapping it up again, tongue dragging through the mess he’s made. Then he does it again—spitting, licking, spitting again—each motion slow and calculated, like he’s rewriting what it means to be touched.
It’s filthy. Humiliating. Dehumanizing in the way only he can make it feel. And yet beneath the shame, something else curls—a pulse of molten heat that swells until it eats the edges of your reason.
The sound alone is enough to make you tremble; it’s wet, primal, unholy. Every time he spits, it feels like he’s claiming something wordless from you. Marking you not with tenderness, but with possession. His mouth returns to your clit, and the sudden contrast of warmth and softness makes your breath stutter. He circles it with maddening precision, tongue drawing figure-eights that blur into spirals. Then he sucks—slow and deep, his mouth sealing over you like he intends to drink every sound you make. The rhythm builds: lick, circle, suck, release, repeat. It’s relentless. A pattern of control that mirrors the tension of the ropes holding you aloft.
You squeal without meaning to, a sharp sound that fractures into a cry. The ropes groan in answer, tightening around you as if they’re alive—his silent accomplices. Pain flares where the fibers meet your skin, sharp and consuming, but it melts just as quickly into pleasure. The heat radiates through you, spreading like a fire under your flesh. You feel the burn along your thighs, your ribs, your wrists. The pressure blossoms into bruises you can already feel forming, deep and tender and holy in their own way.
You don’t fear the pain anymore. You welcome it.
The marks he leaves aren’t bruises; they’re sunsets—violet and gold, born of friction and surrender. Each one a signature, a temporary tattoo inked in ache and devotion. They’re proof that he’s been here. That you’ve survived him, and wanted it. The pain, the shame, the heat—it all coalesces into something that feels like peace. The paradox of it takes your breath away: this stillness that lives inside the suffering, this warmth in the fire.
You feel his pace shift. The rhythm of his tongue quickens, sharp flicks of movement that make your whole body jolt. You cry out, head tipping back as your toes curl, your body tightening around the ropes until every muscle trembles.
And then—his fingers. Two of them, sliding inside you again, slick and sure, curling at just the right angle. He moves them in the same rhythm as his tongue, in perfect synchrony. Each thrust is mirrored by a flick, each curl matched by a suck, until your body forgets how to separate one from the other. It’s all sensation now—heat and wetness and the low hum of the rope vibrating with your heartbeat.
You drool before you even realize it. The gag muffles your cries, and the saliva spills from the corners of your mouth, sliding down your chin in slow, warm trails. It stains the rope, darkening it, glistening where it meets your skin. Tears join it, indistinguishable now, both dripping down together until they blend into the same shimmering evidence of your undoing. The sight of it—the mess, the helplessness—seems to please him. You hear a small, satisfied noise from below, a quiet exhale that could almost be a laugh.
The ropes pull tighter still, adjusting with every tremor of your body. They bite deep now—so tight you can barely move. Each shallow breath makes them groan softly, reminding you that every inch of you belongs to his creation. You can’t reach for him. You can’t escape him. You can only hang there—crying, drooling, shaking—held in the cruel mercy of his precision.
And he watches. Always watches. That same maddening calm in his eyes, that faint curve at his mouth, like he’s studying the equation of your ruin and solving it with perfect grace. His tongue never falters, his fingers never slow, and in that terrible rhythm—wet, slick, divine—you feel the world narrowing down to a single truth:
There is no you without him.
No breath that isn’t borrowed from his touch. No sound that isn’t shaped by the ropes and the rhythm of his mouth.
So you let go.
It happens like the breaking of a dam—sudden, unstoppable, all-consuming. The pressure that’s been building in your stomach, curling and tightening with every flick of his tongue, bursts open all at once. Ecstasy tears through you like lightning under your skin, bright and merciless. Your breath catches on a sob, your spine bows hard against the ropes, and every muscle in your body shudders in violent, beautiful surrender. The ropes strain to hold you, trembling with your trembling, singing their low note of tension as your body convulses within the boundaries he built.
The world blurs. The pain, the pleasure, the fire—they’re the same now. They melt into one roaring sensation that drowns thought. You can’t tell where the burn ends and the sweetness begins. You can only feel: the trembling in your thighs, the pounding of your pulse, the way your vision flickers with spots of white that bloom like stars behind your eyelids.
Tamsy doesn’t stop. He never stops.
His hands tighten on your hips, steadying you, grounding you as you shake apart. His mouth stays at your core, insatiable, drinking everything you give him like it’s holy water. He licks through the flood of your release, tongue darting, catching, savoring every drop as though he’s starving. His mouth is hot, greedy, reverent—every movement slow enough to worship and desperate enough to devour. He slurps noisily, shamelessly, the sound wet and obscene in the heavy silence, and it only makes you tremble harder.
You gasp for air, chest heaving, tears and sweat clinging to your skin. The ropes creak with each trembling exhale, rubbing against raw, marked flesh. You can feel the way he eats you—like a man parched, like he’s been waiting for this taste all his life. His tongue moves with purpose, tracing the edges of your sensitivity, coaxing every aftershock until the tremors roll through you in waves.
Each ripple of pleasure feels like the afterglow of thunder. It’s unbearable, exquisite, endless. Your legs twitch, the ropes holding them spread wide, forcing you to take every second of it. You whimper helplessly, but it only fuels him—he hums low against you, the vibration making your body seize again, another small quake rippling through you.
When he finally slows, it’s not out of mercy—it’s because he’s had his fill. He licks you clean with languid precision, as if savoring the remnants of something sacred. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you. His lips are glistening, his chin wet, his breathing steady where yours is shattered. His eyes—those calm, sharp, knowing eyes—find yours, and for a moment, he looks almost serene.
Tamsy smiles faintly. Not cruel. Not kind. Just that same unreadable calm, like he’s watching the aftershocks of a storm he created. The ropes still hum around you, alive with residual energy, and your body still trembles within them—sweat-slick, flushed, undone.
“See?” he murmurs, fingers brushing your trembling thigh, the faintest touch. “This is what freedom looks like.”
Your lips part, but no sound comes out. You want to answer him, to whisper something—his name, a plea, anything—but your mouth feels foreign. Your tongue is heavy, the rope between your teeth slick with saliva, too thick, too wet, too real. You try to swallow, but the act feels impossible, your throat raw from muffled cries. Every nerve in your body hums like a live wire. You track him through the blur of your vision, eyes following the movement of his body as he rises, unhurried, from between your legs.
He straightens, rolling his shoulders with quiet grace, the air shifting around him as he steps closer. The soft creak of leather and the faint shuffle of his boots on the floor are the only sounds in the room, and somehow they sound louder than your own heartbeat. He looks down at you with that same unreadable expression, eyes half-lidded, the edges of his mouth neutral. Detached. He could be observing a specimen. A sculpture. A sinner.
When his hand reaches out, you tense without meaning to. His palm presses against your stomach first, tracing the path of the rope until it finds one of the darker bruises blooming beneath it—a perfect oval of pain wrapped in purple and heat. The touch isn’t rough. If anything, it’s almost gentle, but your body reacts anyway. You flinch. The movement sends ripples through the web of tension holding you suspended, and the ropes sing softly in response. A small sound escapes you—a whimper, broken and breathless, trembling out of you before you can swallow it back.
He sighs. It’s quiet, drawn out, and heavy with something you can’t quite name. Pity? Curiosity? Resignation?
“You poor thing,” he murmurs. The words should sound cruel, but they don’t. His tone is steady, devoid of inflection, emotionless even—but there’s a faint echo of softness buried somewhere underneath, a shadow of sympathy that might not even be real. It’s that uncertainty that unsettles you most. He says it like a fact. Like an observation. Like he’s not even talking to you, but to the fragile shape of what’s left of you.
Then he steps closer. So close that you can feel the warmth of his body radiating against your skin. The air between you is stifling, electric, alive with the residue of everything he’s done. You smell him—clean linen, faint sweat, metal, something sharp like ozone—and it makes your pulse stutter. His hand drops from your stomach, and his eyes stay on you as his head tilts slightly, studying the tilt of your chin, the way your lips part on a shallow breath.
And then he leans in.
His tongue drags a slow, wet line from your chin up along your cheek. The sensation is shocking, hot and humid, tracing over the salt of your tears, the slick of your drool. He licks deliberately, unhurriedly, savoring the taste of your humiliation like it’s wine. His breath is steady against your skin, his lips parting just enough for another sweep of his tongue, this time slower, deeper.
It’s intimate in the cruelest way—not passion, not lust, but curiosity.
He’s tasting you. Your tears. Your surrender. Your embarrassment. Every sound you’ve made tonight is still there on your skin, and he’s collecting them with quiet reverence.
When he pulls back, your breath hitches. For a brief, foolish moment, you think it’s over. That maybe he’s finished, that maybe the exhaustion trembling through your body will be allowed to settle. You can see his chest rise and fall, measured, calm. His gaze softens just slightly, and that faint hope flickers somewhere between your ribs.
Then you hear it.
The sharp, metallic click of a belt buckle being undone. The sound slices through the silence like a blade, echoing far too loud in the small room. Your eyes snap to him instinctively, and you watch as he slides the belt free from the loops of his trousers in one smooth motion. The leather hisses faintly, the buckle glinting in the dim light. He folds it once, then again, testing the weight of it in his palm. His expression doesn’t change. It’s calm. Measured. Like a man about to resume a lesson interrupted.
Your stomach drops.
In his other hand, something new appears—a length of black fabric, soft and matte between his fingers. A blindfold. The sight of it makes your heart lurch, thudding painfully against your ribs. You know what it means. The ropes already took your body. This will take the rest.
He steps forward again, unhurried, the belt coiled loosely in one hand, the blindfold in the other. The air thickens with anticipation, heavy and hot, and every muscle in your body strains against the ropes without moving an inch. You want to speak—to beg, to ask, to plead—but the sound doesn’t come. Only the tremor of your breath fills the air.
“Now…” His voice is low, steady. Not cruel. Not kind. Just final. “Round two.”
You can see his mouth curve faintly as he says it, that small, devastating smile that never quite reaches his eyes. The kind of smile that means he’s already decided.
He steps into your space, close enough that his breath ghosts against your face, and lifts the blindfold. The soft fabric brushes your temple as he ties it around your head, his fingers careful and sure as they knot it at the back of your skull. The world narrows, dimming, until the light fades completely.
And the last thing you see—before the darkness claims everything—is him.
Tamsy, smiling that calm, almost tender smile, eyes gleaming like blue fire in the low light. The look of a man who’s not cruel by accident, but by design.
And then—
Nothing.
notes:
thank you for reading! please let me know what you think and until next time! <333
feat. bunny iglesias
cw : gn!reader, no pronouns used, size difference so reader is implied to be shorter and/or smaller than bunny, slight manipulation if you rly squint
your weird friend bunny that gets a little saddened every time you don't show up to his barcha games since he's signed with them, outside plans always interfering—so he's more than delighted to hear when you say you'll be able to make it to his next one.
"are you going to wear my jersey?" he asks over dinner at your place one time. (he's always adamant on coming over to yours, despite his apartment being three times larger.)
you poke at your food. "uh, i was just going to borrow my friend's lavinho jersey," you say, a little flushed at his question. "he was going to drop it off here the morning of the game."
bunny lifts his eyes up at you.
"'he'?"
you can feel his red eyes bleeding into you, but you focus your gaze on the croquette plated before you. "yeah, you remember marcus? from my last job?"
bunny hums flatly with a smile still on his face.
"hm. no, not really," he murmurs without even attempting to recall his memory. "you don't have to do that, i can get you one by tomorrow."
"really?" you grin softly at his kind gesture. "that's so sweet, bunny. thanks!"
what you expect to be a lavinho jersey at the ready for you the next day is replaced by a familiar name gleaming in all white, the number 19 almost winking at you from the pearl vinyl.
you suppose you can't be too surprised—you think it's best anyway. you're there to support him after all. what does take you by surprise is how extensively large the jersey is... the hem of it reaching right above your knees.
"good morning, did you get it?" bunny asks first thing into the phone when you call him.
"yeah, but uh," you stare at your reflection in the mirror, the jersey looking more like a dress on you rather than shirt. "i think you got a size that's a bit too big."
the line is quiet for a moment, before bunny speaks up. "oh. i should've told you—that's one of my older jerseys. that's probably why."
you frown at his words, "you didn't get me a new one?"
it's only then that you can faintly smell the leftover cologne he wears on the collar of it, melded in with some laundry detergent that you can tell attempted to cover up the aroma of it.
"all my jerseys are sold out, i'm quite popular, you know," bunny remarks. although you can't see him, you know he's shrugging. "it can't be that bad. facetime me."
"... do i have to?"
"yes," he says without a beat to miss, "let me see you."
you're not one to refuse him, merely since you can't, really. he almost always gets his way—so you angle the camera towards your reflection at the mirror. it's not until the brief pause that indicated he picked up that you realize the jersey waterfalls over your sleep shorts—accidentally indicating that you could be—
bunny picks up after three brief rings before you have the chance to change to something more modest. he's lying in his bed lazily, camera angled down towards him and all his shirtless glory to your disdain. his hair is still messy, as though he had just woken up, with sleep still evident in his eyes.
though you can see they widen with interest when you come into view, especially at the view of your bare legs.
"i—" your breath gets hitched in your throat when you see him grin. "see. it's too big."
"really? i think it looks fine," he stretches his arm over behind his head, eyes studying you in his phone. you fight the urge to glance at the bulge of his bicep. asshole.
"bunny, it's too—"
"—perfect? yes, i agree," bunny finishes for you, chuckling at your frustration. "i've gotta go on my run now, but make sure to wear that on saturday, yeah? promise? you'll make me sad if you don't. i might lose the game."
you gawk when he lifts himself out of bed, his sheets rustling against the phone speaker. "hey! did you not hear me?"
"loud and clear," he sighs contently, going to admire your reflection in the mirror again. the half of his body is visible now to you, which makes you flip the camera to your flustered self. "seriously though, wear that. for me, please? for your dear friend bunny?"
Smut prompt: Gachiakuta boys pussy drunk and begging to cum inside
Edit: Someone suggested I specify this was an x fem reader. I’m not used to writing on here, so sorry for the confusion!
MDNI
Tamsy ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
His tokushin wraps around you in a gentle cradle, keeping your wrists tied behind your head while Tamsy’s hands push your knees against your chest. His usually kept hair is wild and sticking to him from sweat, brushing against your body every time he rocks his hips into you.
“You look so pretty,” he purrs, “All tied up for me… fuck, pussy’s taking me so well… you’ll let me cum inside, right? Won’t you? I’ve been making you feel so good—ah—it’s only fair…”
Your mouth opens and closes as you attempt to formulate any kind of coherent thought, but Tamsy is steady in keeping up his bruising pace, cock practically piercing into your cervix from how deep he’s going.
“That’s right,” he gasps softly, “You’ll let me, right? You will?” That cool demeanour of his slips up a bit as he’s overwhelmed with need. “Y-You won’t say no to me, right my dear? I can cum inside, right? Please let me, my dear—just look at how ready your pussy is to take me—ah!”
Your hips buck up into him as best you can like this. Tamsy’s too far gone to notice your feeble attempts at helping him reach his end, nails digging into the meat of your thighs as he desperately slams inside your sopping wet cunt.
“Y-Yeah, you’re my good girl, right?” He coos, “So you’ll definitely let me cum inside—fuck—I’m cumming, my dear, I’ll fill you up, pump you so full you’ll be leaking for days—oh, fuck!”
Tamsy throws his head back, spine going taut when he cums. Your hips press flush together, not letting anything escape.
“Yeah…” he rasps out, slowly relaxing, “Yeah… thank you my dear… you're my good girl… well done.”
Jabber ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
He’s whiny and desperate, large hands locked over your hips as he ruts up into you like a dog in heat. “Please,” he’s begging, “Please lemme cum inside, ma, I’ve been so good’fer ya, haven’t I? C’mon, lemme cum inside, in—hng, fuck!”
There’s drool slipping down his chin, his dreads splayed wildly on the pillow around him. Your nails drag down his chest as you rock your hips in an attempt to match his frantic rhythm, high whines and moans slipping out of you as you throw your head back.
He’s still talking, rambling on even as your juices drench his thighs. You don’t know how many times you’ve cum at this point, but Jabber’s become addicted to the warmth of your cunt, thrusting in and out of you without mercy.
“Please ma, please— please,” he begs, desperate and overwhelmed with desire, “Lemme fill ya up, pump ya full of’ma cum, please, ple— fuck, you’ll lemmie do it, right mama?” His eyes roll back, keeping your hips still as he digs his heels into the mattress to piston his throbbing cock in and out of your sopping cunt, “M’fuck, yeah, yer so good to me, ma, you’ll lemmie fill ya up, yeah, yeah! Yer pretty pussy always takes me s’well!”
You can't get a word in edge wise, moans being punched out of you with every brutal thrust. You wrap your hands around his throat to try and help, squeezing.
Jabber’s back arches off the bed, squeezing your hips tight as he slams you down and practically impales you on his cock when he cums. He releases the loudest, most guttural moan you’ve ever heard, body twitching as he tries to come down from the high of it.
“Yeah,” he whispers, slightly delirious, “Yeah, you’ll let me cum inside… thank you ma, thank you… fuck…”
Zanka ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
He’s got your hips in a vice grip, pulling you back to meet his every, sloppy thrust. “Darlin’,” he’s moaning, “Baby, baby— ah, m’fuck, m’cummin, gonna cum—“
He throws his head back, groaning loudly. The lewd squelching of your hips meeting rings in your ears. “Can I cum in?” He asks, “Inside? Can I do it? Please lemme do it, darlin’, don’ wanna pull out— fuck, yer pussy’s so good, so—ah—so wet, jus’ fer me—“
He hunches over your back, biting his lip as his thrusts become more frantic, more desperate. “Oh please baby,” he begs, still ruthlessly dragging your hips back into him, “Please, let me inside, I’ve taken good care o’ya, right? You’ll lemme, r-right?”
Your mouth opens but only filthy moans and the drool staining your pillow escapes you, clawing desperately at the sheets while he loses his mind behind you.
“Fuck,” he whines, watching the way you take him in, how red your ass is from his hips slamming against it, “Fuck, pussy so pretty, darlin’, feels good, g-gonna cum inside, okay? M’gonna fill ya up, fuck, y’feel so good, fuck, fuck!”
He yanks your hips back again in one more harsh thrust before he holds you there, hips twitching with every stream of semen released. He lets out soft, jerky moans as he tries to calm down and regain his sense of self. “Thank you,” he mumbles, rubbing his thumbs against your hips, “Always so good fer me… thank you…”
thinking about what a manipulative boyfriend BUNNY IGLESIAS is. you even think about leaving him and he’s standing there with your hands in his, a kind fake smile adorning his features as he speaks of how wrong you are. how silly you are. how your dumb little brain can’t fathom a life without him. how all the reasons you’d built up to break up with him were all untrue, how he wasn’t toxic—how you were the toxic one for considering these things. he’d somehow turned the tables so hard on you to the point of hugging him with tears in your eyes, telling him how sorry you are for even thinking of breaking up with him.
and it only took a whole day later for him to mistreat you once again. but it was this repeated cycle each time, how he leans in to whisper into your ear, telling you how much he loves you, how he would kill himself if you left him. how could you bring yourself to break up with him when he’s swearing these words in your ear, ringing in your mind the thought of him offing himself over losing you. you really believed it. the look of fear in your eyes as sweat dripped down your forehead, limbs trembling at the mere thought of being the reason for suicide, was the best part. even though he hated seeing people filled with joy—it made him want to die. but when he see’s you, his precious, scared little bunny, crying your clueless little eyes out all because of his words, he can’t bring himself to say sorry. you’re just too cute sobbing out for him!
if, for the day when you don’t fall under his spell of manipulation—he won’t let you go. his hand is flying to grab your wrist, his grip tight to the point of breaking your poor bones. the darkness in his blood red eyes has a shiver running down your spine as he’d pushed you against the wall, pressing his entire body weight onto you. he didn’t look as sweet as usual—didn’t have that sweet fake smile he always showed you. his lips were a tight line as his free hand held your hip, his lips crashing onto yours with urgency. if it wasn’t for his sheer strength and weight, you would have pushed him away.. but your brain turned too foggy to do anything once the kiss got deeper, once his leg between your own started rubbing, you’d forgotten about leaving in that moment.
your tears turned from fear and sadness to pain and pleasure as he transformed any thought you previously had of stupidly leaving him into him. loving him. staying with him. each cry of his name falling from your lips as he pulls on your hair and pounds into you is like a blessing to his ears—his smile is adoring as he’s fisting your hair to make you look back at him, so that he can see your tears for himself instead of stuffing your face into a pillow. the words escaping his lips are pure cruel for what you performed earlier—“yeah, keep whinin’, let me know how much it hurts”, “say it. tell me that you love me”, “fuckin’— s-shit, whore— probably was tryin’ta leave me to go find some new dick, huh, cariño?”—his voice was rough and mean as he forced the words out of your throat, forcing you to tell him just how much you need him, just how much you love when he’s fuckin’ you raw ’nd dumb like this.
because no matter how many times you walk out that door, how many tears you shed because of him, you’re just going to end up on that bed, bare body filled with bruises and bitemarks, covered in pain as his chest presses against your back, a reminder who you belonged to.
+ completely (un)necessary ‘n highly scientific breakdown of what’s actually going on down there (dick hcs)
warnings: 18+, mdni, literally whole post is tmi abt cock n balls. unrealistic descriptions of dicks. pubic hair. cum. wrote this 4 funsies. lots of bias in tamsy part srry. unedited ‘n messy writing. everyone is aged up ‘n is an adult ok. scents. gn! reader.
an: this is a filler post you’ll 4real have 2 pity like.
ENJIN — It isn’t thick but it’s Long. Definitely long. Pretty ‘n uncut. It’s a little curved, with veins on the underside. The sheer length alone has you cryin’ on it. He teases you about it, that sly, cocky smirk on his face. He knows he’s packing. He’s a shower and a grower, and oftentimes you can see the print through his sweats. Tan’ish colored tip, and he oozes out runny pre. He tastes kinda salty and he’s hairy, with a blonde happy trail. His balls are fat, round and he cum’s in ropes. Sticky, milky cum. Doesn’t really smell like anything. Prob has tats on it, maybe a piercing if you catch my drift.
GRIS — THICK. The grith is insane, stretches you out. 6-7 inches. It’s a little darker at the base, and also uncut. Angry red/pinkish tinted tip, leaky so so leaky. He gets hard and suddenly his boxers have a big wet patch on ‘em. He’s hairy, but not like jungle hairy, keeps his hair trimmed. He’s doesn’t have a taste but i feel like he’d have a musky scent. He takes good care of himself.
ZANKA — Long ‘n skinny, still manages to prod right at your cervix. Circumcised. Doesn’t have many veins, just the one running down his shaft but it’s enough to catch your eye. His tip’s pink ‘n flushed ‘n impossibly cute, and he’s soo sensitive. Tries to act like he isn’t, but just a little rub or lick to his tip, even a kiss and his slit’s already droolin’. No hair—feel like he’d wax, and if there’s any, it’s barely visible, thin and light. Probably tastes a little salty, though somehow with sweet undertones that throw you off. He’s well-groomed, duh. It’s legit Zanka.
TAMSY — Just like the rest of his appearance, his dick is also angelic ‘n really really pretty <33. Prettiest dick ever. Trust. A grower and he’s circumcised. His balls are so heavy ‘n round ‘n soft, they’re super sensitive. His cock curves a little, and his tip is a really pale pink, and when there’s pre on the tip, it’s shiny ‘n resembles a licked lollipop. He’s not that hairy, deff has hair but it’s blonde and thin, not super visible. Probably tastes salty sometimes, cause there is no way he’s not sweating under all those heavy ass layers of clothes.
JABBER — HUGE. He’s hung and big and massive. Uncut. A shower and a grower. Legit, gets bigger inside of you. Has a couple veins runnin’ down his cock, and he cums buckets. Big, fat breeder balls. His tip is crazy, round ‘n bulbous, and a bit darker than his actual skin tone. He’s hairy, like real hairy ‘n the hair is darker in color and kinda coils/curls. Might, have a piercing just ‘cause he likes pain ‘n just ‘cause I said so. He’s kinda gross ‘n probably tastes bitter. (still swallowing <3)
CORVUS — One look at this man ‘n you can just tell it’s big. He’s a shower. Circumcised. Really pretty, it’s curved to the right ‘n a couple veins. Cums in spurts and he’s thick, but not too thick to hurt. Feels sooo good when he’s inside ‘n he definitely knows how to use it. Minimal hair, and he tastes sweet, doesn’t have a particular scent. Well groomed and takes good care of himself.
“shiiit, so fuckin’ tight baby.” bunny groaned as he sank into you, hands gripping your waist tightly, keeping you close as he urged himself deeper and deeper inside of you. “aah, bunny—not so deep!” you whined, nails digging into his biceps as he ignored your protests. “why? can’t handle this?” he asked. “or does that boyfriend of yours jus’ not show you enough love?”
“hnnn—no—!“ you cried, still adjusting to his size as he stretched you out. “look at you creamin’ around me already. clenchin’ so fuckin’ hard too.” he said, fingers rubbing circles on your clit as he pushed himself even deeper inside you. “this must be why he keeps you so close to him, yeah? this filthy pussy of yours?” he asked, pulling back and slamming himself back in with force. “aah—bunny! shit—mmnngh—“ you were already gushing all over him, and he barely started moving.
“already? guess someone wasn’t doing his job.” bunny mocked, running a hand up your body to wrap around your neck. “does he not touch you? poor thing, you must’ve been dying for it.” he smirked. “but don’t worry, i’ll fuck you reaaaal good. okay?”
he didn’t even wait for a response before he started rutting into you, driving into you repeatedly with a force that made you scream every time his blunt tip hit your deepest spot. the room was filled with such obscene noises — the sound of your pussy squelching, the wet slaps of skin, and the lewd moans that left your lips — it fuelled the fire even more.
bunny wasn’t even worried about sae, seeing you squirt all over the place — clear liquid wetting the sheets, white cream forming a ring around the base of his cock — it didn’t fucking matter anyway. all he cared about was the fact that his name was the only thing you were screaming, and that made him ecstatic. “i wonder what sae would think if he saw you like this.” bunny said, with a smug grin plastered on his face. “his precious little girlfriend, spreading her legs wide open for me.”
pushing your legs apart even more, he leaned in, chest to chest with you, sucking on your neck. “such a good slut for someone who’s taken.” he murmured, leaving a bruise behind. “should i let you go back to him like this?” you shook your head frantically at his question — whimpering — unsure whether it was out of fear or desperation. for bunny or sae, you didn’t know either.
“then i’ll fuck you ‘til you forget about him, okay?” he asked, once again ramming into you harshly without waiting for a response. “you’re mine now.” and by the time you were done, you weren’t even conscious anymore, passed out in his arms.
sae wasn’t too happy when he was called to pick you up, covered in love marks from a certain rabbit.
Bunny or any bllk char with ftm reader, they be pounding that boy pussy aughhhh
answering this to tell you it’s been added to the queue!! bunny putting tboy reader into a mating press + orgasm denial + slight objectification
bunny with the stamina of a rabbit in heat.. pounding into you over and over, already spilled into you twice and he’s working on a third while you haven’t even came once.. each time you got close, gripped him just too sweetly, he’d stop to grind in circles until you’ve calmed just enough for him to continue thrusting with renewed vigor like you’re nothing but a toy to dump himself into..
(this will eventually be rewritten into an actual work)
