tags: to all the boys i’ve loved before au, pdh, oneshot, fluff/sfw, fake dating, swearing, ~2.5k
a/n: my first aphmau post is here! dk if i should make a pt 2 or a gene ver (lmk what yall think my inbox is open!) & lmk if there were any misspellings. not proof-read. (11/12/25) update: part 2 here!
“Hey, kids!” Your dad greeted you and your sister as he stood in the kitchen, preparing dinner for the night, “Hi, dad.” Your younger sister greeted back as she threw her school bag on the couch.
You don’t waste any time, not bothered to kick your shoes off or place your bag down as you headed straight upstairs to your room in a rush. Heart thumping loud against your chest, breath heavy as you entered your room and straight to your small walk-in-closet.
“No,” you huffed out in disbelief.
On the top shelf, that one spot where your beloved hatbox sat was now empty.
You start pacing around, “No. No, no, no..” you slide your bag off your shoulders, it lands with a small thud against the carpet floor, running out your room and speeding down the stairs.
“Has anyone seen my hatbox? It’s green—sorta teal? it has fabric on top, it’s round and there’s a bow on it.” Your words are at lightning speed, not wasting a breath.
Your father blinks at you, “Woah, no ‘Hey dad! School was great, how was your day? What’d you get’—“
You cut him off, “Dad! I really need to know where my hatbox is, okay?” You turn to your sister, she almost looks tense, “Don’t look at me.” Her voice was quiet.
“Honey, maybe It had gone with the Goodwill boxes we’d sent out.” Your father shrugged.
You freeze in realisation, “The Goodwill boxes?”
That’s right, you remember being told by your parents to pick out anything from your messy room to send out at Goodwill, how could you forget? You probably had slipped your box inside without checking!
“You got mail by the way,” He points out on the kitchen counter, one of the letters you’d written sitting right on top.
You grab it, letting out a frustrated groan, “I hate everyone!” You yell out, voice fading as you make up your way to the stairs once again. Followed along with your door banging shut.
Your father takes a bite of his snack, “What’s her problem?” Your sister shrugs, “That time of the month?”
Earlier that day, you had woken up early for practice. Your best friend and volleyball captain Katelyn had picked you up that morning. You and your team held practice games for upcoming tournaments outside at the beach volleyball courts.
Halfway through practice, you spot Laurance jog over from his soccer team to Katelyn, the pair talking to each other and occasionally looking over at your direction before she nods at him and calls you over. You blinked at them in confusion, and passed the ball over to a nearby team mate.
“What’s up?” You ask as you stood beside your best friend, Laurance flashes a smile, “Can I talk to you, alone?” He asks. You and Katelyn glance at each other discreetly, you notice her biting back a smirk by pursing her lips together, you hum in response, nudging her side before following him.
The both of you walk out, standing beside the bleachers and a fair space away from the crowd and away from curious ears.
“So..” He starts, “So?” You repeat.
He scratches the back of his head, In a low and quiet voice, he says, “Look, I just wanted to say uh—I’m flattered, really, but I don’t think this is gonna work out for now.” Your eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, “I’m sorry, what?” You ask.
“Hey, I think it’s really cool that you think I have golden specks in my eyes and how you think my smile is very charming.” Something in his hands catches your eye, an envelope, if anything. Wait, is that your handwriting? Your letter? The one you’d written ages ago only for your eyes to see. Inside your box. Why and how did it end up his hand?
Oh, God. No. No. This isn’t happening right now. This isn’t real, this is a dream, probably a hallucination too. Your ears start to ring, his words muffling out whilst feeling yourself start to sweat.
“It’s just Michi and I, we’re in a really weird place right now, and—Woah!” And just like that, your body falls flat against the ground beneath you. Perfect.
Your heads spinning, it almost feels too hot. Laurance is crouching beside you, trying to wake you up and calling your name repeatedly.
“Hello? Y/n!” He calls out, you flinch awake, looking up to see his face, painted with concern. You almost catch yourself daydreaming, shaking your head and sitting up, “What happened?” You ask, “You, um, fainted. Do you want me to call someone? Get some water?” You shake your head, “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” You nod at him, completely out of it. A figure in the distance catches your eye, approaching you two, matter of fact. Jeffory – your neighbour, childhood friend, old crush, and most importantly, Katelyn’s boyfriend. And in his hands, another one of your confession letters that you had secretly written.
Your heart immediately drops, “Oh, my god.” You mumble out, Laurance looks at you in confusion, “Huh?”
“Oh, my god!” You’re panicking, and did the last thing you could have done in that situation. Your own body moved faster before you could even think at all. You grab onto Laurence, leaning over him, “Oh. Okay, wh—“ You press your lips over his, cutting him off.
And now the letters were out.
You continue to pace around your room. This can’t be happening right now. The letters were out. All of them, all four of them.
One was to a guy you met in camp when you were younger, which was held in your hands as he never received it (since you’d written the address to the camp itself).
The next one after that was Gene, typical bad boy, you had written it back in middle school. And you’d hate to admit it, he’s one good looking guy, maybe If he wasn’t such a dick. If he got the letter, you know he’ll never let you hear the end of it. He’ll probably use it for blackmail against you, even. You can already imagine the smug look on his face while he’d wave the envelope in front of you, the thought makes you curl in embarrassment, could this day get any worse?
Then came Jeffory’s, your first ever letter, the one that sparked your imagination and inspired you to write the letters in the first place. You liked him way before he and Katelyn were a thing, it was a small childhood crush. It was almost a canon event, no? Childhood friend, next-door neighbour kind of love. He was your first love, you’d say. You don’t like him anymore, of course, you couldn’t do that to Katelyn. He wouldn’t tell her about the letter, right?
And the final, most recent one, was Laurence’s, of course. Earlier this year, even last year when he had orange hair and was (unfortunately) still in the Shadow Knights, you’d gained a small crush and—just like with any other crushes you’ve had; you wrote a love letter to spill your feelings out. You’d written these letters for closure, but sometimes you’d notice the way your heart fluttered when you two held eye contact.
You peek out your window, catching a glimpse of Jeffory outside next door.
“What are you doing?” Your sister’s voice makes you jump, followed with the doorbell ringing, “None of your business.” You mutter.
“Y/n! Jeffory’s here to see you.” Your father called out from downstairs, your eyes widen, “You never saw me here.” You tell your sister, opening your window as you climb out, rolling down the roof before landing on the grass, “Ow!” You curse under your breath, immediately getting up to grab your bike and pedal out of there.
You let out a relieved sigh as you sit on the counter stool at your favourite diner. You thank Joan, the waitress, as she hands your regular, a strawberry milkshake to soothe your nerves from today.
“Hey again, L/n.” A familiar voice appears beside you, you look over to see Laurance once again, sitting on the seat right next to you, “Oh, anything for your friend?” Joan asked, rubbing your arm as she gave you a teasing look, “He is not with me.”
“Just a soda is fine, thanks.” He says, Joan nods before disappearing.
“So, what’cha doing here?” You break the awkward silence, Laurance hummed, “Came by your house today, but your sister said I’d find you here instead.”
You tap your fingers against the counter surface, nodding. He receives his soda from Joan, who he thanks.
“Look, I just want to be clear.. about earlier.” He clears his throat, “I appreciate It, I do—I think you’re cute, in a quirky way, If that helps—“ He’s stammering, wait, he thinks you’re cute? “But Michi and I, we just broke up, and I’m not really in a place to be someone’s boyfriend again—“
You blink at him, “Laurance Zvahl, I am not trying to date you.”
He blinks back at you, letting out a chuckle, “Then, what’s up with kissing me out of nowhere?”
“I kissed you because I don’t like you.” You start rambling, “I just had to make It look like I like you so somebody else wouldn’t think I liked them, d–does that make sense?”
Laurance nods, “Hm, alright. Who?”
“What?”
“Who?”
“It’s.. personal.”
He smirks at you, “I think I have a right to know about this mystery guy, since you pulled me into this little drama of yours. If there even is a guy.”
You huff in annoyance, “Jeffory.” You blurt out.
His eyebrows raise in surprise, “Jeffory.” He repeats, “As in.. the Jeffory that’s dating your best friend or..”
“Yeah..”
“Oh.”
“And he also got a letter, so you can see how awkward and complicated that one’s gonna get If he thinks that I actually like him—“ You continue rambling, he stops you, “Woah, woah, woah. Hold on.”
“I’m not the only one who got a letter?” You slowly shake your head.
“Wow, you really think you’re special and find out she actually wrote letters to two guys.” He says, leaning his arms against the counter and drinking his soda.
“Four.”
“Huh?”
“Four letters.”
“You wrote four love letters? Four guys?”
“Yeah.” You shiver.
“Damn, L/n. You’re a player.”
“Says you.”
He laughs, “Who else did you write love letters write to?” You take a sip of your milkshake, “If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”
His pale blue eyes look you up and down in thought, “Maybe.” He muttered out.
“Alright, some guy at camp back when I was younger.”
“And?”
“Okay, don’t laugh at this one.” He tilts his head in curiosity, eyes never leaving you.
“Gene.”
Silence falls between you two for a moment, before he bursts out in laughter.
“No way!” He exclaimed whilst you hid yourself in your hands.
“It was middle school!” You try to defend yourself, “C’mon, he might be annoying but he’s nice to look at.”
“You have a thing with seniors, I see. And Shadow Knights.” He comments, you nudge him and he raises his hands in defence, “Good luck dealing with him and that letter.”
“Don’t even.” You groan.
“Anyways, are we good here?” You finish off your milkshake, standing up and getting ready to leave, “Uh, yeah, we’re good.” He says, “By the way, Is that your sparkly bike out there?” You nod, and he flashes that charming smile at you once again.
Laurance parks his car by your house, “Thanks for driving me.” You say, “And sorry for the whole, situation, earlier this morning.”
“No, you’re good. Could’ve been worse, am I right?” He says, “So what’s happening with Jeffory, what are you gonna tell him?” You two step out of his car, and he helps grab your bike out from the back.
“Well, um, I’m just gonna have to tell him the truth.” You sigh in defeat, thanking him once more before taking your bike and walking towards your porch.
“Wait.” He calls out, jogging towards you.
“What If you.. don’t tell him?” He suggests, you tilt your head in curiosity, “What If we let people think we were actually together—not just him, I mean everybody.”
Wait. What? You must really be going crazy now.
You let out an awkward laugh, “Why would you want that?”
“Well, when Michi heard you kissed me in front of everyone, she went crazy. And If she thinks you and I are a thing, then she’d want to take me back.”
“So you want to use me as your pawn?”
He tuts at you, “Ah, ah, see, last time I remember, you used me as your pawn when you kissed me.”
You roll your eyes at him, “Got me there.”
He steps closer, “And you get to save face from Katelyn and Jeffory. Just think about it, alright?”
“Don’t hold your breath.” You smile up at him, turning around to place your bike down and walk up the porch.
You were restless that night. Tossing and turning about the events that happened today. You thought about Laurance’s offer, and for some reason, it made sense.
The next morning, practice rolled around once again, Katelyn hasn’t seemed to notice anything odd so you take it as a good sign that Jeffory hasn’t said anything, yet at least.
You wipe the sweat off your forehead with a small towel, taking a sip from your water bottle by the bleachers with Katelyn and your other team mates, your gym clothes felt all sticky with how much you were sweating you couldn’t wait to hit the showers. A well-known trio that sat at the top of the bleachers nearby catch your eye. You glance over and lock eyes with Gene himself, he pulls out an envelope from his blazer, waving it around with a smug look on his face and you freeze, you hear Sasha and Zenix snicker beside him. Just as you expected.
You swallow, turning away from them and looking out in the field, you spot Laurance and his team, his offer from yesterday still lingers in your mind.
Fuck it. It’s worth a shot.
“I’ll be right back.” You tell Katelyn while placing your belongings down, she stares at you in confusion.
You start walking out on the field, passing by the other boys in his team who were kicking the ball around and going straight towards him like you didn’t have a care in the world.
Laurance turned to see you, he almost looks surprised as you appear right in front of him.
“Zvahl.” You greet him.
“L/n.” He replies.
You two stare at each other for a while, before you break the silence, “Let’s do this.” You say.
He looks amused at first, before a small smirk appeared on his lips, he doesn’t hesitate to pull you towards him by your waist, leaning down and capturing your lips on to his, and you kiss him back.
Your cheeks felt like the were on fire, The small crowd around you stare in surprise, Katelyn drops the volleyball in her hands with her mouth wide open while she squints from the other side of the field.
You pull away, taken aback by his actions, “I’m going back to practice now.” You say, almost like you were recovering from the kiss. You turn around, beginning walking back whilst trying to hide your red cheeks, “Carry on!”
Laurance salutes, a small chuckle coming out of his lips, “As you were.”
Cw: NSFW under the cut, Diavolo is a lil weird in this but my excuse is he’s a demon, size kink, male masturbation, I’m so rusty at writing smut but I think parts of this is fine.
Demons were big, significantly bigger than humans, but it wasn’t until Diavolo met you that he realized just how much he liked the size difference.
At RAD meetings, you almost looked like a doll sitting in your chair, swallowed by the demon brothers surrounding you like bodyguards. At parties, Diavolo loved walking up to you and silently marveled at how you only came up to his ribs.
At night, alone in his bed, the prince wondered what it’d be like if you were his human.
If he had offered his home to you instead of handing you to the brothers, he’d see you way more often and perhaps even help you reach books or ingredients to cook with. He’d place a gentle hand on your head with a smile anytime you thanked him, taking an extra second to run his fingers through your hair.
Diavolo’s best fantasy of all was if you said yes to being his and allowed him to tower over you in his bed, hands barely able to hold on to his thick biceps as he showered you in kisses. The more he thought about it, the more obsessed he became, stroking his hardened cock at the thought of your hands wrapped around his horns as his lips trailed down to your cunt, lapping up every ounce of your arousal.
You were turned on by him, a demon twice the size of you.
He dreamed of it so often that Diavolo swore he could taste your sweetness, how wet he made you and how no lube found in the Devildom could compare.
Diavolo came with shuddered breaths, covering his hand as he wondered how you’d look covered in his spend.
He cursed as he relaxed against the mattress. He’d have to steal you from the brothers and see if you thought about him just as salaciously as he did you.
imagine, all the dates you've been going on suddenly cutting you off muttering a small and terrified "sorry uhh i...had something come up" or texting you 'sorry. can't come' or straight up shrieking and sprinting away at the sight of you on the road or in a bar, leaving you with your hand in mid–wave, standing awkwardly
lately you've been feeling like you're being followed. you'd turn around and find nothing. you feel like someone's looking at you through the window of your house, even seeing a shadow forming...but its just the tree and the breeze...
another time when you're on a date, and this douchebag doesn't wanna leave you alone and starts getting all handsy so you have to pry him off and dash towards your home while he whistles from behind for you
and the next day you wake up to a ring on your doorbell and a note stuck on the pavement...
'i don't agree with that annoying guy's ways. ps took care of him'
now obviously a rational part of you was scared thinking who was this man? why does he know this? but honestly you were more relieved over the fact that that guy is not gonna disturb you
an idea strikes you that if he was the guy who's been stalking you without any action, why not put him to work? so you start leaving grocery list on the doorstep on a sticky note before leaving for work and then coming back to a bag full of even medicines you were out of on the kitchen counter
he is this close to becoming your maid. he brings you groceries, midnight snacks, meds, household supplies, sometimes even slipping some money inside the bag. but honestly you can't really complain couse you feel like you're becoming rich now that the 'mystery man' has been helping you...but it can't be that guy whom you've been seeing frequently these days right?
— dottore , NEUVILLETTE , FLINS , varka , NOYYYY , valeriy , CHILDEEEEE , LOHENNN YES , blade (both), ASHVEIL , phainon , toji , gojo , sukuna (i think he'll be the scary) lucifer , mammon (bro's broke how he do dat) , BARBATOS , JADE , FLOYD
note:: obviously pls don't go stalking people you like just talk to them and take a no like a champ. i don't condone this behaviour its satire.
From the very first day you entered RAD, Lucifer tells you that when Mammon starts to take a liking to someone, fortune follows them around. You didn’t think much of it back then. Mostly because Mammon clearly hated you at first. He called you stupid, annoying, useless. He refused to say your name and always calling you “human”. You never once thought someone like that could ever like you.
But Lucifer ordered Mammon to stay close to you, and slowly, things changed. He started hanging around without complaining as much even to the point where he helped you with the TSL quiz willingly.
And then strange things began to appear in your room. A shirt that was definitely not yours, a D.D.D. charger you never bought, a small stack of Grimm on your desk and even a deck of cards tucked into a drawer. Sometimes he even let you keep the grimm which shocked you.
As time passed and you grew closer, a random gifts start to appear outside of your door. You thought it was a prank the first time until you opened it. Inside was a real gift. Another time, it was jewelry, and you froze because it looked far too expensive to be random. Sometimes it was just Grimm.
What you didn’t know was that Mammon watched every time. Hiding just out of sight, peeking around corners, heart racing as he waited to see your reaction. He didn’t understand why he cared so much, only that he did. He laughed quietly when you stared at the jewelry in shock. When he won tons of grimm from gambling, his first thought is about what he could bring for you on the way home.
Eventually, you figured it out. And one day, Mammon found a small gift outside his door too. He stared at it for a long time before picking it up with a warm cheeks realizing that his fortune had finally turned on him too.
childe’s just another one of those delinquent student that you were forced to deal with
warning(s): language, smoking(?)
part two, part three
masterlist + ko-fi
“you three again. i’m surprised the ginger didn’t get detention with you this time?” you said, pretending to care about what the trio had to say for themselves. you expected them to stay silent as they usually do; them, along with childe hates you. it’s hard to deny their accusations on you, saying that you’re extremely annoying — because you are. you love getting on their nerves, rubbing it in their faces that they’re a bunch of delinquents.
“aw, look at you, acting all know-it-all again.” the shorter one whose always in a foul mood — scaramouche, if you remembered correctly, tsked. you raised your eyebrow slightly, lifting your face from the paper on the desk. “sorry, what? i hadn’t thought to pay attention to you.” you smiled, “don’t be such a bitch yet, we’ve got all day, y/n.” scaramouche smiled back — but it was so insincere it made your skin crawl. “don’t smile at me like that.” you said with a frown, before going back to the papers.
writing reports about these three again — as you always do. they never fail to keep you booked and busy as a student council president. “dottore and signora, you’re done. go grab a seat.” you announced as you finished writing down the last detail on dottore. “so what were you saying, scara?” you asked once more as you recalled what he had just said.
“never call me that ever again. i’m not your friend, gross! ewwww.” he rolled his eyes. “i was saying, if the school’s student council president is this dumb, then there’s no hope for this school anymore.” he added, which confused you. “if you’re not gonna make any sense, i suggest you to shut up.” you snapped, which hit a nerve in scaramouche as he chuckled dryly. “what i’m trying to say is that— you’re dumb to think that childe didn’t get into trouble with us. it’s just that he’s in the boys’ locker room, smoking, dumbass. may god help you with your intelligence.”
despite not being dismissed, scaramouche took the initiative to join his other two friends in the detention room, leaving you at your table to process whatever he had just said. does he feel bad for ratting childe out? not really.
you quickly stood up from your sit, your chair almost falling back as you did. you rubbed your temples a little before walking out of the room to find childe.
"This spot is perfect," you dropped into the beach chair next to Tomura. Everyone else had ran to go swimming in the ocean, but you wanted to wait a bit. "You sure you don't wanna swim?
"No thanks," he mumbled, eyes glued to his switch.
You frowned, moving closer to look at him. It was strange—Tomura's eye contact was usually intense, practically staring a hole through you. Ever since you got to the beach, though, he refused to look up from his screen. Maybe he was sick? He looked fine, though. Just a bit red from the heat.
You rummaged through your bag, pulling out a bottle. "You should put some sunscreen on."
His eyes darted between your face, the sunscreen you were waving, and then back down at his screen. "Why, I'm in the shade, aren't I?"
Tomura's had one condition for coming to the beach: He'd stay in one of the chairs under the beach umbrella, no getting into the ocean.
Dabi had called him a princess when he first brought it up. You had argued that if Tomura didn't want to swim, he didn't have to. You could all enjoy the beach in your own ways. Now, you were beginning to agree with Dabi. Sunscreen was a non-negotiable. "Even if you're in the shade, there's still UV hitting your skin."
"No."
You leaned closer to him, inspecting his skin. Somehow, he was more red now than he was a second ago. You needed to hurry, he was going to burn to a crisp at this rate. "Skin cancer, Tomura. Melonoma rattling around your cells."
"Ugh, fine." He swiped the bottle from your hand.
"Great," you smiled, settling back into your chair. You were about to open the book you brought, when Tomura's flailing caught your eye. "You good?"
"It's hard with only four fingers," he strained to reach his back. Streaks of sunscreen crossed his pale skin in every direction, the uneven application sure to leave him burnt.
"Do you want help?"
He froze, eyes wide, before he sighed. "Fine, just," he handed you the bottle, making room for you on the chair. "Get it over quickly."
"Okay," you moved behind him, legs spread so he could sit between. "Scoot closer so I can reach you."
Wordlessly, Tomura followed your instructions, scooting back until you could feel the fabric of his swim trunks against your thighs.
"There we go." You squirt some of the sunscreen on your hand, bending closer to his ear so he could hear you, "sorry if it's cold."
"Fuck," he hissed, arching his back as you ran your fingers down his the curve of his spine, over the plane of his shoulder muscles, and back down by his waistband.
"Relax, it's just me." You murmured into his ear, his blue hair tickling your nose. "Can you hold the sunscreen while I make sure it's all rubbed in?"
"Uh, yeah." He said, sounding weirdly out of breath. The heat was probably getting to him. Maybe you'd grab him a drink from the cooler in a second.
You took your time, making sure every freckle, mole, and scar was covered in an even layer. "Okay, all done!" You stood, patting his shoulder. "I can take the sunscreen back, I need to put more on my—" you paused, glancing down at him.
There was a clear tent in Tomura's swim trunks, cock straining against the material despite his efforts to hide it. "Don't look, it's just—"
You swallowed your surprise, feeling your face heat up. "You want help with that too?"
You were even more suprised by his answer. "Fuck. Yes—" he stood quickly, avoiding your gaze as he quickly stood and adjusted his trunks. He grasped your wrist with long fingers, marching in the direction of the bathrooms. "Let's go."
MDNI - 18+ノWARNINGS :: Illumi zoldyck x fem!reader, BDSM/bondage (rope play), D/s dynamics, punishment roleplay, sexual restraint, coercive/forceful elements (consent is portrayed as complicated/ambiguous), verbal degradation/praise, and exhibitionism/voyeurism (exposed through a window), power imbalance + more wc :: 1.1k
DAY FIVE - BONDAGEノm.list ノkinktober m.list
It's late when your husband comes back. You're at home, lounging on the couch with a book in your hand, flipping the pages ever so often, awaiting Illumi's return. There were the occasional visits from Kikyo, but she made her trips short with Kalluto. If someone were to take a peek at the window outside the mansion, they'd see your white, silk night gown riding up your thigh, they would be in awe at your presence. Illumi would be furious.
Illumi doesn't get exhausted, but he does get irritated with his job sometimes, and today was one of those days. He will be blessed with the sight of you in your shared bed, looking so innocent and perfect, like an angel fallen from heaven, like you weren't just as stained with blood as he was.
"I'm home, dear," Illumi calls out from the door, hoping you would open the door. Excited hearing him, only a few moments pass, and he doesn't hear your soft voice in reply or the bedroom door opening.
He opens the bedroom door, and you still don't train your focus on him. The second he sees you, your soft, gentle eyes skimming the words in the book you were reading, the author familiar to him, 'Ana Huang', an author that you frequently indulge in, and his eyes trail down from your cleavage to your bare thighs peaking out teasingly.
You noticed a presence in the hall. Your eyes snapped up from the words scattered on the page, your mind being snatched from the love story between Christian and Stella. "Illumi!" You say joyfully, awaiting his return. That innocent little look you give him makes something snap inside him. "Let me know when you'd like to eat, I have prep-"
"Strip and get back on our bed."
Oh.
Your eyes widened in shock. Illumi had come home like this before, but he wasn't this forward, a little more discreet. Although you weren't complaining because his words sent an instant heat to your lower abdomen.
"You've been a tease," Illumi murmurs as he walks closer to you, his height slowly drawing your own as he makes his way over.
A giggle slips past your lips, "Who? Me? I wouldn't say that."
Illumi cups your jaw, eyes shutting as a gentle, smooth kiss connects both of you, his tongue slipping past your lips. You clench his light blue button-up shirt, a whimper sounding from you as your knees felt like jelly. You were glad that you sent him that teasing photo of yourself him at lunch today.
"Don't be like that, you knew what you were doing? I've been thinking about this since I left," he says, pulling away from the kiss, his hand slowly trails down from your neck before stopping at your breasts, fingers just about to slip into the cleavage. " I'll make sure you'll feel so good. But don't forget, this is a punishment as well, dear."
Illumi doesn't let you help, he is so precise with what he is doing to you that it isn't even fair at this point.
The heat between your thighs grows as you watch him roll up his sleeves, stripping his hands of his gloves. You wouldn't be surprised if arousal was leaking from your cunt all onto the sheets. Illumi knows that he doesn't have any ropes to tie you down with, and he never would use them; they are too rough on your delicate skin.
However, what he does know is that you have too many silk robes to count. And the sashes that come with them will do the job perfectly. He knows that you're eyeing everything he is doing and how it's affecting your body. He is purposely being slow, he isn't rushing because he will savour every minute.
You watch him, eyes curiously following him, pulling the sashes out from your silk robes, "Arms up. Stay still. I want to see you fall apart slowly."
The ropes are smooth. Cool on your skin. And the way he ties you? You can feel the tension in his fingers, that he craved doing this, you didn't know how long he was thinking about doing this too you but you are fucking glad he is now. He binds your wrists to the headboard with two clean knots, then your thighs, spread wide, roped in place.
You're panting by the time he finishes tying the last knot, wrists snug above your head, legs wide open and trembling from his feather-light touches. Illumi leans over you, not even breaking a sweat.
He's barely touched you, and your thighs are shaking.
"You're so mean," you whisper, breath shaky. "You tie me up and then don't even touch me, that's cruel."
"Now you're exactly where I want you," Illumi says, against your neck, causing you to whimper. The silk was tied to a point where it hurt, but it felt so good at the same time. You also know that with Illumi's knowledge of the body, he would never cause any harmful damage to you.
He starts by just watching you. Head tilted. One hand trails down your stomach, stopping just above where you need him most, but not quite touching you just yet, and it was beginning to make you agitated. With your own skills, you could get out within a moment, but your under his mercy and doubt you could even do it without him manhandling you back onto the bed.
"You're already wet?" He hums, a small smirk rising on his lips. "I haven't even touched you. Hm... are you really that needy?"
"Illumi, please," you whimper, arching into his touch. Your lips tremble. You're so close already, and he hasn't even slipped a finger in. "No, don't stop. Please. I want your fingers. Your mouth. Anything."
"Shh," he hushes. "You will let me take my time."
Kisses down your chest, your inner thighs, everywhere except where you ache. His tongue is cruel, flicking lightly, licking slowly, just to hear you whine and squirm against your binds.
"Look at you. Helpless. Dripping," Illumi taunts in a low voice, and that is the absolute worst part because he's being so calm while you are all helpless beneath him. "And still pretending you don't want this?"
You whine his name, legs trembling.
"What was that?" he murmurs, thumb brushing over the silk at your thighs. "Speak clearly. You're not leaving this bed until you beg for me."
He slides into you with a deep, slow thrust, holding your hips firm so you feel every inch. You're so wound up by now that the first stroke has your head tilting back, mouth open, gasping his name.
"That's it... Let go of me. You can't hide anything from me when you're tied up like this."
His rhythm is so unbelievably deep, his dragging strokes that leave you twitching and crying out. He grabs the ropes when you clench too hard around him, grounding himself with them so he doesn't lose control.
You're clawing at air, writhing in your binds, gasping, "I can't, I can't take it, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna-!"
"Good. That's what I want, cum for me, sweetheart. Let me hear you," he groans, breath warm against your neck. "You look so pretty when you're ruined."
Do not copy, steal, modify, use for ai, translate, etc.
Relogs and like are appreciated.
hey so i REALLY wanted to get to writing after that trailer.
nsfw below...
"aww, look at you. cat got your tongue?" lohen spoke condescendingly, slowly circling around your figure which was currently bound tightly to a wooden chair.
attempting to free yourself from the ropes by squirming around, you threw a sneer at his direction, "let me go, you bastard...!" he chuckled mockingly with a smile, "ah, ah, no can do, bunny." lohen stopped behind your form to lean down, "not unless you tell me where it is." his breath suddenly hitting your ear made you shiver with unfortunate delight, causing you to stutter, "w-what are you t-" he suddenly cut you off.
"you know what i'm talking about," he said, voice echoing ominously throughout the room as he sauntered over to the table, picking up a gun and twirling it around his finger.
"how about this? what if we play a niiiice, fun game?" he slowly walks over, stopping directly in front of you to drag the gun across your body in such a teasing manner—fuck, now's really not the time to be getting horny over this, but you just can't help it. the fear of what he might do had you frozen, shuddering in anticipation and slight want, no matter how shameful it felt.
you glared up at him when he tucked the barrel of the gun under your chin to tilt your head up. "hmm, a game of russian roulette, perhaps? you seem to be enjoying yourself, even while tied up and held at gunpoint," he scoffs with a mean grin, "you're such a dirty whore."
all you could do was stare to the side with embarrassment from his words that made your cheeks flush dark—you'd rather die than admit to the vice captain how you were enjoying this, but there's really no point if he's aware anyway.
"come on," lohen spoke, nudging the barrel towards the corner of your mouth, "open up. unless you want me to force that mouth of yours open." your eyes widened in disbelief and slight fear—this fucker really wasn't joking. reluctantly, you opened your mouth, giving small kitten licks as your senses were immediately flooded with the taste of iron.
"thaaat's it. get it all nice and wet for me," he drawled. a muffled whimper escaped your mouth as lohen suddenly shoved the gun deeper into your mouth, causing you to choke until he swiftly pulled it back out. the barrel glistened with your saliva and he paused for a moment to observe it. "ugh—you fucking freak," you spat out, a small line of drool dribbling from your lips.
"i'm the freak? have you even seen yourself? i bet you're sopping fucking wet down there," lohen giggles, reaching down to palm at your crotch. suddenly, he brings out his dagger to slice open your trousers, leaving you practically exposed for him to see. "h-hey, wait—!"
"oh? looks like all that bravado of yours is gone," lohen brings the gun towards your throbbing cunt, slowly dragging it up and down to coat it with your slick. before you knew it, he slowly inserts it into your wet hole, groaning as he heard a soft 'squelch.' letting out a loud moan, all you could do was babble incoherent words as you stared down at his hand in slight fear, yet excitement all at once—this entire situation was absolutely incredulous to you, though it's not like you could really think straight at the moment.
"oh, fuck! look at you, coming undone just from this? you really are some pathetic, dirty animal" he coos, quickly picking up the pace of his pumping hand as he berated you. "come on, i know you're close. cum for me, bunny," you threw your head back, immediately releasing all over the barrel as you let out a dragged whine, and all the shame of what just occurred flooded your brain.
all the thoughts left your head as you heard a sudden click. he turned the safety off.
there's no way. there's absolutely no fucking way. you glanced up to see a sadistic expression and a crazed grin on his face. "wait- wait, you wouldn't, please—"
"you've got a one in six chance, bunny. how good's your luck, hmm?" shutting your eyes closed, your soul practically left your body as—
click.
"hah. looks like you really did get lucky," he laughed loudly upon seeing you suddenly pass out. was it from the exhilaration? the fear? he'll find out soon enough, don't worry.
yeah so if anyone ever sees me tied up in a chair with lohen holding me at gunpoint do NOT help me im genuinely where i want to be. Please i know its been hours sicne his trailer released but im still not over it
Summary : In which, you find a poisoned meal at your doorstep every morning. And so, you make it your life's motto to savor it and provide your thoughts.
Much to Lohen's dismay, you never seemed particularly impressed by any of his carefully crafted poisons.
While most love stories begin with flowers, yours began with poison.
Most people reacted poorly to poison. They cried, screamed, and maybe even succumbed to death.
You, apparently smiled.
Lohen had first heard the rumor by accident.
"Apparently the new medic (Y/N) has a strange fascination with toxins," a knight muttered over drinks.
He hadn’t meant to care. He really hadn’t. But something about the word 'fascination' lodged itself under his skin like a splinter that refused to be ignored.
So, naturally, he did what any reasonable man with too much curiosity and too little restraint would do—he investigated.
Two alchemists confirmed it later, whispering that you had once voluntarily tasted diluted snake venom just to observe its effects.
That further piqued his curiosity.
And what better way to find out the truth than test the rumor himself?
After a day of locking himself in his house, he had come up with his very own poison. Made from the remains of a dendro slime, mixed with a few crushed petals of Dendrobium, and a generous splash of expired alcohol stolen from the Cat’s Tail.
He didn't know if it was truly toxic. In fact, he just mixed random ingredients he found revolting.
He wasn't planning on truly poisoning you after all. In its current concentration, it would merely cause temporary numbness (maybe).
And so he placed a cute little package in front of your house (he stole the documents that held information of those working under the Grand Master to find your address). Inside the package was a plate of Hash Brown he had cooked himself.
Of course, the poison was sprinkled on top as well.
He knocked on the door to your house and hid in a bush nearby.
He watched the door open, a shiver of excitement going down his spine.
But when you stepped out, his eyes widened. You weren’t what he had imagined. Not old, not bitter, not hunched over with tired eyes and stained robes.
You looked... young and composed. Normal in fact.
You glanced at the package, shrugged, and brought it inside.
The next day, he had half hoped there would be some commotion. Instead, nothing happened.
Lohen found that significantly more unsettling than if you had screamed.
Did you not open it?
Did you die?
Worse, did you throw it away?
By the second day, irritation curdled into curiosity again, and curiosity dragged him back to your house.
He hadn’t even reached the door when something stopped him.
A box.
His box.
He stared at it, then at the note pinned neatly on top.
It read-
---
Observation Log
Possible dendro slime derivative.
Taste profile:
Slight bitterness.
Floral aftertaste.
Perhaps traces of alcohol.
Symptoms:
Tingling lips.
Mild numbness in fingers.
Onset approximately twenty-five seconds.
Conclusion:
Sloppily made poison.
---
He stared at the handwriting. The faint smell of alcohol lingering on the hastily ripped paper.
'..... Sloppy?' he scoffed, annoyance creeping up into his face. He crumbled the paper, staring at the door with a sadistic smile.
"Fine then. I'll show you real poison."
The next morning, another box appeared at your doorstep.
Like last time, you took it into your home. You had no idea who was delivering these, but the last package being drenched in a mild toxin made it interesting enough for you to open.
You tore open the box.
This time, it was a plate of mushroom pizza.
"Oh, that looks delicious." you muttered to yourself, noticing the unusual purple coloring on the crust.
You reached and held a piece of the pizza near your mouth. And without a care, you took a huge bite from the area where the coloring was the brightest.
The following day, Lohen returned to find another note on your doorstep. This time it was more detailed than the last.
---
Observation Log
Low concentration of Aconitum.
Taste profile:
Initial sweet-bitter note.
Followed by burning sensation.
Symptoms:
Numbness.
Dizziness.
Loss of strength.
Conclusion:
Good posion. Easily countered.
Although, I liked the taste of the pizza.
(attached are my other observations)
---
There were six pages attached.
Six.
Lohen stared, flipping through the pages with a smile. "God. She's insane."
This started the exchange of poisons and paper notes.
The next package that Lohen put on your doorstep had a small note of his own.
---
To the Medic
Firstly, fuck you.
Secondly, you missed a secondary ingredient. (Hint : It was Naku weed)
Thirdly, thank you for complimenting the pizza.
I made it myself.
---
Your response appeared the next morning.
---
To the Poisoner
1. Rude.
2. I did not miss the ingredient. Naku weed has no toxic properties. Just color.
3. The posion on the crust was obvious. Are you perhaps new to this poisoning thing?
---
Your responses pissed the Vice captain even more. Because how dare a lowly medic like you have the audacity to critic his cooking?!
He tried even harder after that.
More precise blends. Better masking. Controlled dosages. Carefully calibrated ingredients. Tried perfecting the recipe so you couldn't find any faults.
Everything.
After making sure everything was perfect, he delivered the next package. A plate of Northern Apple Stew.
The reply next day was written in a crumbled paper with messy handwriting.
---
Rules for Future Poisoning
1. No explosive diarrhea.
2. No permanent injury.
3. No organ damage.
4. No blindness.
5. No poisoning children.
6. Food should remain edible
---
Lohen rolled his eyes at the rules. "Killjoy." To him these rules just were unnecessary boundaries that ruined his fun.
But he never wanted to stop this exchange between the two of you. It was much too entertaining for him.
Unknown to him, that night ended with you locking yourself in your room. Having non stop diarrhea for hours.
Soon the notes became longer than the poisons themselves.
One morning, the package you opened had a plate of Cream Stew.
And this time the note attached had a list of ingredients used.
---
Current Theory
The toxin should produce localized muscle weakness.
Estimated duration:
Two hours.
Possible side effects:
Dizziness.
Drowsiness.
Complaining.
Will you be able to guess what I used (Y/N)? °^°?
---
Three days later Lohen received something he could only call a report.
A dossier.
Twenty-two pages which included diagrams, charts, annotated symptom timelines.
And corrections.
So many corrections.
---
Page 14: dosage error.
Page 17: please stop using kitchen spoons as lab tools.
Page 19: “Did you eyeball the concentration?”
---
Unfortunately Lohen had. And he hated that you noticed.
Months passed and somehow it became a routine.
Your medic colleagues grew increasingly worried seeing you drowsy every other day.
"Do you know who keeps sending you poison?" one asked.
You shook your head. "No, not really."
"Shouldn't that concern you?"
You looked confused. "Why?"
"Because they're poisoning you...?"
You blinked. Honestly, if the person wanted to kill you, they could have used other deadly toxins. Yet, they always made sure to use small doses and non lethal ingredients.
You smiled to yourself. "They are very considerate actually."
"... Oh." the medic froze.
You tapped a finger on your cheek. "They also have lovely handwriting."
"..."
The medic walked away. Unable to continue the conversation.
Lohen, meanwhile, was also not doing well.
Varka had his suspicions when he first saw the crazed man laughing while tasting the exotic plants he had ordered.
One day, while Lohen was away on a mission, he broke the lock of his drawer and read through all the papers in there.
Papers about toxic plants. Possible ingredients. And of course, all the notes you had written to him.
He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell is happening in Mondstadt?"
Varka immediately dragged Lohen by the collar and pushed him into the store you worked in to apologize.
You looked up from your desk and instantly recognized him as your mysterious poisoner.
Not by his face. But by his hands.
The stained fingertips. The chemical burns. The ink marks. The quiet proof of obsession.
"Oh," you smiled softly. "It's you."
Lohen blinked.
Varka shoved him forward. "Apologise to the lady Lohen."
Oh. So his name was Lohen.
The boy looked deeply offended. "I don't want to."
"Apologize." The Grand Master repeated, his gaze cold.
Lohen sighed dramatically. Then glanced toward you. "...Sorry for poisoning you."
You immediately shook your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. "There is so need for apologies. I should be thanking you actually."
Silence.
Even Varka froze.
You continued, brighter now. "The poisons were genuinely fascinating."
Varka looked horrified.
"I learned to make dozens of new antidotes!"
Lohen stared. Mesmerized.
"Also the toxins were quite creative! Honestly, every morning became something to look forward to."
Varka took a breath, and turned his gaze to the ceiling, perhaps praying to Barbatos why they allowed these two people to exist.
"Also the notes were fun!" you added, opening your drawer and placing a the stack of notes you had carefully stapled.
Lohen wasn't even listening anymore.
Because you were smiling.
At him.
Because of him.
Because he had poisoned you.
It was a stupid conversation. The girl in front of him was grateful for poisoning her. It was reckless, idiotic and yet...
At that moment his heart made some several terrible decisions.
He realised.
With a lot of hesitation...
That-
'Oh.'
'Oh no.'
'You were kinda cute.'
He had known your name for months. Known where you worked. Known your habits. Your favorite medicinal herbs. The way your handwriting became messier when excited.
But seeing you in person? Actually talking to you?
He was finished.
Absolutely in love.
That night he didn't sleep. Instead he sat at his desk surrounded by herbs, powders, vials, and failed formulas, staring at his next experiment like it might hold divine answers.
Most men wrote poetry.
Most men gifted flowers.
Most men confessed.
But Lohen was not most men.
He lifted a vial of deep red liquid, watching it swirl under lamplight with a manic smile. "If she barely liked the last one... I'll just make one that is even better."
And thus began the greatest romantic pursuit in history.
Not through gifts or heartfelt letters.
But through an escalating series of increasingly sophisticated poisons.
Lohen's new life goal was simple.
Create a poison so fascinating, so beautiful so perfect....
That when you tasted it—
You'd fall hopelessly in love with its creator.
Unfortunately for him, the only thing you fell in love with was the chemical composition.
Fin
😭 😭 😭 I CANT WITH THIS GUY. I FEEL LIKE HE'S SOMEONE WHO'D GIFT YOU A BOMB CUZ HE LOVES YOU.
Some of the ingredients used r actually toxic while others r just bs. I tried making it as Canon as possible but I'm sure there r some mistakes. Sorry abt tht.
Anyway! Hope you enjoyed! Let me know your thoughts.
Description: Ever since you started working for him, Dottore’s impact on you cannot be understated.
Reader specifications: AFAB, gendered terms (girl), reader is a bit dense no lie, assistant!reader
Character specifications: He’s an asshole. Newest Il Dottore. 0 regard for his clones. Still a maniac.
Tags: [bimbofication, dumbification, reader cums like a lot, masturbation, use of sex toys, “pining”, dildos, yandere, drugging, consumption of sex fluids, kidnapping mentioned, chastity belt mentioned, fingering, degradation, humiliation, violation of scientific ethics]
Note: lord above. i have no excuse. please take it.
I am 18+, have read the tags, and consent to seeing the content of this fic [yes ⬇️] [no ↩️]
———
You don’t notice it. Of course you don’t notice it at first. Nobody would.
Dottore is… a strange boss. You’re not here by your own free will, but you do get paid. Paid well. You’re surprised your old lab partner would go to such an extent, to drag you out of Sumeru and personally recruit you into the Fatui. He says he did for this two reasons. The first is that he could tolerate being in a lab with you, and the second is because he could. It was a… rocky start to say the least, but you settled into a routine.
You perform supplementary experiments. You analyse samples. You get him the parts. To be entirely honest, you do rather little for such a generous salary.
Dottore doesn’t seem to mind. He’s never brought it up.
In fact, he’s rather hospitable.
He brings you food if you’re working on something. He makes sure you’re drinking enough. You always get free time.
Sometimes you wonder if you function more as company than an actual employee. The arrangements, the workload, the environment and Dottore himself- all far too good to be true.
And if it’s too good to be true, it probably is.
The first red flag is when he leaves you alone for a week on Fatui business, and your mind won’t stop going to him. It’s ridiculous. It feels wrong. You’re not “in denial” about any feelings for your kidnapper. It’s like your brain is completely out of your control, the image of him flashing on the insides of your eyelids. You’re unable to divert your thoughts away from him for more than an hour, despite how much you’d looked forward to this Dottore-free vacation. The night before he returns, you end up masturbating on your bed and you can’t steer your train of thought. The sheets twist under your body and your pleasure is so hard to reach fully, keeping you on edge until you shamefully whimper out the word “Dottore”, imagining the man himself is above you.
You lie awake that night, hoping it resolves itself soon. You couldn’t masturbate to your boss, your literal kidnapper, and expect your brain to not program some kind of response into you.
Appealing to your own sense of logic, you end up rationalising everything. So what if you experience a bit of sexual attraction for the man? You don’t want him romantically- a relationship with him sounds like hell. It’s probably just because he’s the one of few people you see regularly, and so your subconscious has decided he’s the only viable partner. Maybe you just need to get out more.
The flaw in that plan is that Dottore doesn’t like when you go very far. He suggests that you stay with him, asking you rhetorical questions that make you freeze in place, appealing to your sense of logic. Scaring you with tales of Fatui soldiers, and arguing that being asocial is a blessing within the Fatui. And it always ends with you dutifully returning to your place by his side.
When things are like that, the way Dottore wants, it seems to calm you down as well.
It only gets worse.
He touches you and his cold hands are a soothing touch to your heated body, yet they only leave you hotter.
Heat, because you’re always a little feverish. Your cunt drips during the day and you find your legs rubbing together involuntarily during experiments. You have to stop- stop thinking with your pussy, stop masturbating to the thought of him, because clearly this is only happening due to your habits in that department. You take to masturbating before work to try and clear your head, and you moan his name when you do that, too. At least it manages to sate you for most of the workday, but it only leaves you feeling guilty. You know you’re digging yourself into a deeper hole.
“You’ve been rather unfocused lately,” He remarks, putting both of his hands on your shoulders. To your surprise he starts to massage them lightly. You have to hold back a needy whine, and thank the archons he’s behind you so he can’t see your heating face. “Is something wrong?”
Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it.
You swallow dryly. “I think I might be coming down with something.”
“That’s no good,” He coos. Your legs rub. You try to still yourself. You squeeze your eyes shut. “Do tell me if it gets worse.”
“I will.”
He goes, fiddles around with something in the break room, and returns with a glass of water, placing it silently to your side.
“Oh- thanks, Dottore.”
And he’s away again, briskly walking to the other side of the lab to resume his analysis of some petri dishes.
Are you falling for his gestures of kindness? Kindness only specifically towards you? Kindness you only see when you’re alone with him?
No, you can’t be. You know what he’s capable of. He’s a despicable man.
But it doesn’t stop you from crying out his name again that night, face down into your pillow.
———
Your workwear is growing more risqué underneath your lab coat. Shorter skirts. You unbutton your blouses at the top. You start wearing those thigh-high stockings with a garter that peeks out, something you’d found at the bottom of your drawers. You buy more. The blouses become a little thinner. Your lacy bras are visible underneath. You usually wear flats in the lab just to be safe, but you find yourself picking out mary-janes with a small heel. Just something a little more adventurous, but not something that would clack obnoxiously on the ground. The last thing you would want to do is irritate Dottore.
After your morning masturbation session, you get dressed into these increasingly “scandalous” clothes, fix your hair, make sure everything looks presentable, and you smile going out the door, putting your lab coat on top.
You’ve never been so excited about going to work before. The behaviour should strike you as odd, but you’re being worn down by the mere thought of Dottore. So you’re having a little honeymoon phase with the crush on your boss. May as well enjoy it, right?
———
It’s getting disgraceful.
Your crush, that is. Can you even call it that, or is it just uncontrollable sexual desire?
You have to use some of your lunchbreak to go to the bathroom just so you can rub your pussy in peace. Legs spread on the toilet, moaning into the crook of your elbow, trying to cum as fast as possible as to not arouse suspicion. You use the small clock on the bathroom wall as a reference, stopping yourself when five minutes passes.
Unfortunately, this leaves you desperate to orgasm more times than not, walking out of the bathroom and back to lab with lust ignited in your body and that same stupid smile on your face.
You always wash your hands thoroughly and make sure not a hair is out of place, your makeup perfect.
You hadn’t worn makeup to work before this. Dottore was the only one you see frequently, and you didn’t want him to think you were wearing for it him.
Now, well… you have no other excuse. You are definitely wearing it for him. Maybe he’ll notice your effort, have a fling with you, and this whole thing can break your heart and be over with.
———
Dottore burns a pair of gloves whilst handling an experiment.
“You aren’t injured, are you?” You say, moving towards him.
“No, it only burnt the gloves. At least they did their job.”
“Let me clean that up for you, sir.”
He’s smiling underneath the mask. You’re so helpful, aren’t you?
“Ah, just dispose of the gloves, (Y/N). I can handle the rest.”
You bend down right in front of him, legs straight, and pick off the glove he’d hastily thrown to the floor.
One is completely fried. The other, barely singed. You pocket the more functional of the two, devious idea hatching in your head.
That night, you put your hand into the glove and finger yourself with it on, imagining with more realism how Dottore’s fingertips would feel against your gummy walls.
You cum so hard you see stars.
———
You can’t stop thinking about his dick.
You’re such a pervert. The stolen glove was already a stretch too far- this entire thing has gone too far, your little performance to try and attract his attention. But Celestia above, when you walk into the breakroom and see him relaxing, your thoughts immediately go to kneeling between his legs and sucking him off.
There has to be some way of staving these thoughts off.
Well… your daily masturbation sessions have needed some excitement. The only sex shop in the area lies in a dark alleyway, a small room with various sex toys lining the walls and a desk crammed into the corner.
You pick out a medium sized dildo with far less shame than anticipated, hoping it would be just what you needed. Mm… maybe something else? A small, metal plug catches your eye, a jewel embedded at one end. You only live once. To top off the purchase, a vial of lube, just in case.
The woman at the desk smiles up at you.
And when you open up your winter coat, reaching into the inside pockets for mora, you realise exactly how you look. Shirt slightly undone, bra visible underneath, skirt hiked up with your bare thighs revealed.
The woman doesn’t seem to care. She tells you to enjoy your purchase.
Snezhnaya is cold, but the heat in your loins burns bright at the excitement.
———
You start training yourself to deepthroat. You’re dedicated, the sessions taking place prior to your morning masturbation. Afterwards, you usually pop the plug into your ass before putting your panties over the top- it’s fun to squirm against it as you sit in the lab.
It’s like your energy is allocated to your sexual endeavours instead of your work.
And Dottore still doesn’t care. Perhaps his workload has also fallen off a little, because he’s assigning less to you. He also has you follow him around more, and do your own thing less. You don’t mind. You’re kept busy with more writing tasks that now take longer than you remember, filing the papers for his experiments. If you successfully manage to orgasm during your lunch break, you can regain some cognitive skills for the later part of the day. You still do some experiments, but if you don’t manage to orgasm it’s like your brain is completely fried. You try your hardest to stop staring at him, an act which is now accompanied by the instantaneous thought of a brutal pounding from his cock.
You giggle when he approaches you, you giggle when he touches you. You try to flirt a little, but you can’t tell if he’s being receptive or not. Your mind blanks out as you focus on his lips. You want to kiss him. Something, anything.
He ends up having to repeat himself more, yet doesn’t seem to mind. He’s never even gotten irritated with you before.
He’s very kind. All this time, and he still makes sure to get your meals alongside his.
There’s a voice in the back of your head that screams something.
The subconscious mind is really complicated stuff. You shake your head and get up to excuse yourself for a bathroom break. Your cunt desperately requires attention.
———
During one of your evening masturbations, you think: wouldn’t it be nice if you had a dildo on the seat you use in the lab? Recently you’ve been obsessed with feeling full. Another trip to the sex shop has you returning with a bigger plug, and two more sizes of dildo- one smaller, and one larger than your current one.
Occasionally, you end up keeping the smaller dildo inside of you as you walk into the lab, the only thing keeping it in place being your panties, which the base of the dildo is able to be strapped around. You love riding it when Dottore’s back is turned, bouncing slightly on your seat for some friction.
It feels so much better to masturbate in the same room as him. It’s so naughty. But if Dottore hears the chair creaking, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t even need to cry out his name the first time you cum in the lab, a usual prerequisite for actually reaching an orgasm. You grit your teeth and try to moderate your breathing. Having him there is enough.
There’s no shame nor horror at your lewd act. Just your hole spasming around the dildo and some post-orgasm clarity as you dutifully file the rest of the report.
You head to the bathroom immediately after to clean yourself up, changing your soaked panties. You always have to bring a change these days.
———
You still keep the glove to rub yourself with. But nothing, nothing is comparing to orgasming with him actually inside the room. You need something more.
You’ve been having nasty, dirty thoughts. You want to steal some of his underwear so you can sniff it as you masturbate. Gross- it should be gross. But it isn’t. You’re really far gone, you think, from the person that Dottore hired. Why are you even still here? You hardly do your previous workload, you shamelessly play with yourself during work hours. You’ll have to offer yourself to him eventually. Plead and beg with the man to fuck you.
And what if he says no? The thought makes you feel violently ill. It would do more than break your heart. You’d be willing to do anything to feel his cock inside of you if just for a moment. You’d be willing to worship him, kiss the ground he walks on, if it just means a taste of your deepest desires follows the act.
How long will it take until he notices? You’ve did a good job so far, covering it all up from him… haven’t you?
Any rational thought would guide you to the solution that he definitely knows, but you don’t really have rational thoughts anymore.
You don’t wear your labcoat, now. It effectively removes you from the rather foolish notion that you’re a scientist, with the slutty outfits you kept underneath it, with all the rubbing you do underneath your desk, the edging, the orgasms you save for when he’s close enough. You resign yourself to the paperwork, filing his reports. In the morning, he sometimes unbuttons your shirt by one button, revealing more of your breasts. He pretends to be wiping something off your shirt, and you just let him.
You’re just grateful for any attention that you can get, which is why you don’t really care that he’s started groping you. One day, you bend over to pick up a paper, and his hands run over the globes of your ass from behind. “Well? Aren’t you going to give it a little shake for me, darling?
You giggle and obey. You do a lot of that. Your pert ass shimmies in the air as you’re still bent over. Dottore gropes it hard before he walks off again.
One day, he tells you to go up to his residence and do laundry for him. He doesn’t keep any housekeepers despite his status, and you’re all too happy to assist without question. It’s a slow day in the lab, you suppose. Being in his home triggers a a strong state of arousal as soon as you walk through the door, one that’s hardly resolved when you finally, finally dig out his underwear from the pile. In the end, you masturbate with your face down in the pile of laundry, sobbing out “sir”s and “Dottore”s along the way. Only then do you actually start doing it, hanging it up and returning to the lab for dinner.
You can do more than just masturbate, though, and this proves it. You can do whatever pleases him. You take up whatever menial tasks he offers, anything to feel his hand condescendingly pat the top of your head and call you a good girl. Your whole world revolves around Dottore and making him happy.
Your wearing of panties also decreases. Sure, you can’t have the dildo in, but you can still have your plug in and pray that Dottore notices your desperation. If you spoil yourself too much with orgasms, you might end up less willing for Dottore, and you don’t want that. But that does come with its own host of problems, namely that there’s nothing to stop your juices from leaking all over the place.
“Oh, (Y/N),” He sighs in disapproval. Your body freezes. “Surely not you’re not headed to the restroom already? You’ve made another mess on your seat. Lick it up.”
“Yes, sir.”
And before you can stop yourself, you’re bent over, face buried into your slick, tongue cleaning every last drop. Dottore approaches you from behind. You flinch at how his cold hands caress your ass. Your skirt is hiked up further, and-
“Oh? How interesting.”
Two fingers grasp your plug, pushing and pulling it out of your asshole. You let out an unrestrained moan- finally, finally something more- and he puts it back into place.
“When did you get it?”
“A little while ago,” You reply. “Maybe five weeks, sir?”
“And when did you start wearing it to the lab?” He asks, idly playing with it again.
“As soon as I got it.”
He hums.
“You don’t know this (Y/N), and I’m going to be surprised if it registers fully through your thick skull, but you’re a very successful experiment.”
“Did… Did I make you proud?” You gasp out, feeling a thumb running over at your labia.
“Proud..? I’m not sure if that’s the right word, dear. Proud of myself, yes. I’m not exactly sure if I would consider myself proud of the little slut that rubs her cunt during work hours. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I’m pleased with you.”
“What-“
He puts two fingers into your pussy without bother and you squeal. “Nuance, (Y/N). I’m not entirely convinced your brain can cope with that anymore. I suppose I could fuck you, and you’d regain some of your intelligence temporarily, but I don’t think this-“
He emphasises by thrusting his fingers in and out, and even with no particular aim it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt. Better than the dildos, and far better than just playing with your clit. You cum dangerously fast, moaning his name through your orgasm and continuing to gasp it afterwards. Your body is alight with pure ecstasy.
“- is going away anytime soon.”
He plays with the plug again. You buck your hips towards him, presenting eagerly.
“Maybe if you had been any more invested in your job, you would’ve bought a chastity belt to restrain your whorish tendencies as you worked up a resistance to the drug.”
Dottore’s hand leaves you. You finish licking up your mess, acutely aware of a new one between your legs.
“I suppose it’s a bit late for that. But I may end up having to get you one if you fail to control yourself. Hmm…”
You finally stand up again, running a finger up the inside of your thigh and cleaning it with your mouth as you stare into his eyes, free from the mask. Your thoughts are blank. He’s right. You’re failing to process everything he says.
And his lips finally meet yours, tasting some of your slick in the process. You gasp, eager, kissing him back for the short duration that he’s there. When he draws back, your glassy eyes can only focus on him.
Dottore exhales. “Yet, there’s some merit in keeping you as a drooling, mindless nymphomaniac. Come, I’ve been waiting patiently for an eternity- unlike a certain someone. Let’s run some… preliminary tests.”
Within five minutes, you’re in the break room, kissing the tip of his erect cock. It’s the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen outside of Dottore himself. He even said you can get yourself off on his shoe after, but you don’t need that, as alluring as it sounds. It’s enough to finally be pleasuring him, listening keenly for his groans and learning exactly what he likes. He’s impressed when you take him all the way in as well, nose meeting his midriff. Dottore’s shaft fills your throat nicely, and your hips rock with need.
“Good girl,” He breathes. “Someone’s been practising, I take it?”
In response, you move back and forth. His hand finds itself caught in your hair and you gladly let him set the pace, fucking your mouth however he likes. It doesn’t take long until he pulls out of you, using his hand to finish off into your open mouth and waiting tongue. You take care to taste his load. Warm, heavy, salty. And you gratefully swallow, smiling as it goes down your throat. Your legs squeeze together tightly, and you somehow manage to orgasm with no sensation. It’s weak, but you still whine lightly, no sensation to allow you to really ride it out. You’re trembling, unaware of if Dottore realises this or not.
“My offer still stands.” Dottore tells you, shuffling his shoe against the ground.
“Mm… I think my…” You start to stand up, Dottore also beginning to readjust himself.
“Makeup… got ruined…”
Dottore looks rather indifferent. “Well, you should go fix it then, shouldn’t you?”
You nod, trotting off to the bathroom with your purse and stopping yourself at the mirror before entering one of the cubicles.
For a moment as you look into your reflection, there’s everything. Rage, disgust, disappointment, a moment of clarity in the world around you where everything makes sense- the betrayal, hopelessness, shame.
And it goes away. You start using wet paper towels to wipe away your mascara and lipstick, carefully reapplying them after with a skilled hand.
You pop your lips, adjust your blouse, making sure your bra barely peeks out of it. You adjust your hair and admire yourself from a few different angles to make sure everything’s perfect.
♡ TW: a lot of different stuff today, NSFW, noncon/dubcon, yandere, stalking, gangbang, harsh language, sexual exploitation, bondage, zero holes safe, and more, read at your own risk
♡ FEM reader
Pride is an artist, and you, poor dear, are lucky enough to be his muse.
You’d caught his eye one day simply by coincidence while working your part-time job as a barista.
And though it had been a rather unorthodox request—between balancing school and work and constantly finding yourself both strapped for cash and strapped for time—you’d decided to quit and take him up on his offer—as what he was offering was about twice what you could make at the cafe anyway.
He’s not that much older than you, but he’s old money. And while you're stuck in community college, he goes to an elite art school—which he doesn’t even show up to, 'cause why would he? They can't afford to kick him out anyway, given his father’s donations make up half of their yearly budget.
And so he's free to self-study as much as he wants.
Yeah... he’s a little too used to getting what he wants—exactly how he wants it—without delay. So when you struggle to come to your sessions on time due to having to take the bus to the other side of town, he decides to solve it by buying you a car. And when he doesn’t feel like that’s sufficient enough, he buys you an apartment right above his own studio. And when you try to reject, he only has three concise words for you.
“Don’t be stupid.”
The way he says it leaves very little up for debate. In fact, it leaves you mute each and every time.
It was nice in the beginning—you didn’t protest to anything other than his overpriced gifts. You were flattered and blushy and giddy and more than happy to sit pretty for him for hours at a time while he sketched and sculpted and painted and whatnot. It was essentially nothing in comparison to the luxuries he gave you in return.
But you think, at some point along the way, he must have forgotten that he only owns the artworks he makes of you—not you yourself.
“N-naked?” you stutter, looking at him wide-eyed where he stands in his usual apron—flecked with the proof of your countless sessions. Honestly, it was getting to be a little strange posing for him in a room stuffed with a myriad of sketches, paintings, and statues of yourself. Hadn’t he had enough?
“I can’t capture you correctly when you wear all these rags,” he says—clinically, though with a pinch of impatience just shy of vexation—eyeing you from head to toe, almost with a look of disgust while beholding your clothes, despite being the one who’d bought them. “They obscure everything. So take them off.”
You knew he’d probably had about a hundred models undress for him, and stand here—old, young, men, women—you knew it probably didn’t mean much to him. He probably regarded it the same way he does everything—without even batting an eye. However…
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do that…” You fiddle with your fingers, standing there, still dressed despite him standing ready at his easel, foot-tapping while waiting for you, already with a stick of charcoal between his fingers.
“Why are you making a fuss? You think I haven’t seen a naked body before?” he jokes, but without humor—no, rather strictness as if you’re wasting very precious time. “This is standard practice—don’t make it anything than what it is.”
There he goes again with those very final words that make you feel all in all kind of silly.
You bite your lip and mull it over before ever-so-begrudgingly uttering a weak little, “Okay…”
You suppose he was right. This is a job, and it’s just nudity—just another shape in the eyes of an artist—it doesn’t mean anything—is what you tell yourself while you undress. Still, you can’t help but feel flush—heart pounding in your chest as you fold your clothes all neatly for some other nervous reason.
“Resume the pose,” he says—almost like a drill sergeant. And you jump into place, timidly rushing over to the chaise where you lie down like before.
This does feel like it would be a better painting, you admit. More reminiscent of Renaissance art and such. Not that you know much about it, but thinking back to field trips through the museum, you seem to remember having seen plenty of portraits of naked ladies lying on pretty but uncomfortable sofas just like this.
He seems very invested, at least. A deep furl between his brows, nearly scowling at you while he works—though you’ve come to learn that it’s just his concentration face.
After a while, he sets his charcoal down and wipes his blackened hands on his apron.
You sit up, asking, “Are you done?” All but ready to leap from your seat to your clothes and finally cover yourself again.
“No, keep still,” he all but reprimands—voice intense as he stalks across the floor over to you with determination written plainly across his face.
You draw back in place as he rests his knee on the chaise and leans forward. It wasn’t uncommon for him to come and correct your pose, but you couldn’t help but flinch this time around, feeling just a bit too exposed.
His hands are warm and overworked, both dry and a bit clammy all at the same time. You didn’t mind much when you wore clothes, but it felt a bit too intimate now as he touched your bare skin. But you bear with it despite that.
Eyes closed, you repeat that same line from before—it doesn’t mean anything, this is standard practice, it doesn’t mean anything.
It works in calming your breath for a moment, but then he grabs your tit.
You gasp, jolting back while stuttering, “Wha–what are you doing?”
And yet, he keeps his steal gaze just as fixed and unfazed as before, sighing at you as if you were overreacting, before stating rather simply, “Getting a better understanding of your body.” He then reaches toward you again, showing no concern for how you shrink away. “It’s easier to replicate when I know it by hand.”
Again, you let his voice silence you, and again, you closed your eyes and let his hands wander—around your chest, up your neck, down your belly, and then—
“Wait! That can’t be necessary—” you blurt out, this time with your arms and hands shooting forth to distance him.
“Oh, trust me—it is.” Again, he pays you no mind, simply bearing over you with his entitled hands roaming whatever place he so wishes and chooses. Only clicking his tongue at you when you squirm, “Don’t fuss.”
You don’t exactly push him away, though you don’t exactly make his pursuit easier for him—lying there beneath his touches, wiggling and whimpering, though not really protesting either as he feels your slit.
Your fingers curl into his arms, gripping his messy shirt streaked with paint and coal—as his fingers run through your lips, teasing your entrance and your clit. He twists his hand around and presses his thumb down on the pearl after it perks for attention, then enters you with his pointer finger—drawing out wetness before promptly feeding you another.
You bite your lip as they curl and spread within you, testing you out while rubbing firm circles into your clit.
Gingerly, your hips return it, starting to move in tune with his ministrations. Thighs trembling, keeping your eyes squeezed tightly shut as you start to pant—small moans leaving your lips with every breath, feeling it build within you—a small flame at first, nursed until it fills and all but fights for room within you before finally bursting.
“That’s it—that’s the expression,” he purrs—voice much softer than usual—cupping your face with his other hand, holding you steady while taking in those dopey eyes sparkling with pleasure and those parted lips that never dare speak up—eyeing you like he's the proud owner of a prized possession. “Perfect.”
He hums, sounding pleased, then gets off you shortly after, sauntering back to his easel.
“You can get dressed now. I got what I needed,” he states, picking the stick of charcoal up again, ripping the last sketch off for a fresh sheet before starting anew as if nothing had happened.
And you, still lying there, are left just as mute as usual.
Wrath is your ex-boyfriend who refuses to get it through his thick skull that the two of you are over.
Any time you talk to another guy, he beats him up—to a fucking pulp, no less.
He’s always been that way, and still, it wasn’t always like this…
You started dating each other when you were young. He was rough around the edges, and you liked that about him—tattoos from his neck down to his ankles—the type your parents would have a heart attack if you ever brought home.
He was going to be a professional fighter, he’d say—mixed martial arts. He had all the rage and zero technique, but still, he’d land some of the best on their ass all through pure strength of will alone.
He was near impossible to train, though—always too wired to be able to take any pointers. And that’s why he needed you. You were his reliever. He’d fuck you like it was his last day on earth, and suddenly he’d be able to do anything. Like an enhancement drug, everything would start moving in slow motion, and he could somehow see all the moves of his opponent before they ever made them.
You admit you liked hearing him preach about it. It made you feel important—made you feel as if half the win, or at least some of it, was yours. And when he started raking in the dough as the champion, winning multiple titles across several tournaments, you were more than happy to be his lucky charm and cheer him on from the sidelines.
But then, you had this awful and sudden feeling of being just that—a tool for his success and nothing else. Sure, he’d give you presents—pretty things he thought suited you well—but you hadn’t gone on a date since his career started, nor had you had a proper sit-down dinner together either. He’d stick to his diet regime, be out training at the gym all day, and you’d be home, going about your own business.
And while you were doing that, you’d think—about the nature of your relationship. And what you found is that all it really entails in the end is him demanding a fuck whenever he needed it—before a tournament, before training, before an interview. And then, after coming to that glum conclusion, you can’t help but feel like nothing more than another one of those items he keeps loose in his gym bag.
And those thoughts only got validated when you tried denying him sex for the first time…
You were just curious, really—curious to see what he’d do. If he’d beg, if he’d plead, if he’d say boo, don’t be that way while down on his hands and knees for you.
But of course... he can’t get anything else but angry.
“If you’re not gonna give me the one thing you're useful for, then what the fuck do I keep you around for?” is what he’d said—no, barked. “You think you’re special? If you’re not gonna put out, I might as well go out and find me someone who will.”
He’d fucked off to some other room with a huff and left you standing there.
And you don’t know, amidst the shell shock and the ache of your heart coming undone... suddenly, you had no idea why you were there or with him or what you were supposed to do—and when you found no answer to any of those questions, it made no sense for you to stay. And so you went to your shared bedroom—or his bedroom, as a matter of fact, which you’d stayed in for the last months—quickly grabbed your things—your things specifically, and not all the other stuff he’d thrown at you—and stuffed it all haphazardly in your bag, then gone out to the entryway to put your shoes on.
That’s when he’d reared his head again with the gall of asking, “Where the fuck are you going?”
He hadn’t had that same raised tone as before. No, this time it was lowered—frayed—with a touch of urgency and unease as if balancing on the edge of a knife—as if he knew he'd done something wrong and was reaping the consequences and yet still hadn't the balls to simply apologize and correct it.
And so, you hadn’t answered him.
“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” he’d stated then, coming closer, ready to grab your arm with that hint of alarm in his voice increased. “Hey, I asked you fucking a question—”
That’s when you’d twisted around and slapped him. You’d put all your might into it as well, though you doubt it compared to much of what he’d felt in the ring.
And still, he’d looked at you as if he’d just lost all his titles.
He hadn’t said anything else after that—just stood there with his mouth agape as you opened the door and slammed it shut behind you. In fact, you don't think he even dared do so much as take a breath.
You’d gone and crashed at a friend's and rethought your life. There was no way you could ever go back, after all—not after what he’d said. Treating you like a stay-at-home whore. Who the fuck does he think he is?
What an asshole—you'd tried convincing yourself as you cried yourself to sleep…
The days and weeks after were nothing if not fucked up and toxic, to say the least. You’d go out to have a fun time and try to forget about him, but he’d always show up out of the blue to ruin everything—being his usual douche self.
Though… you can’t exactly claim to be any better than him—not after finding yourself in bed with his number-one up-and-coming rival.
Of course, it ends up all over the news—big headlines plastered on every gossip platform pushing your private affairs for all to see—a real media circus if there ever was one.
You end up back in his apartment. To talk, he’d said—a pretense you had a hard time believing in. He’s never been one to talk much. Honestly, you don’t know why you even bothered coming over when he asked. There might even be a chance he’ll kill you. This is how most homicides start, after all.
The two of you sit in silence for a couple of minutes. You look off to the side, waiting for him to speak because fuck knows you have nothing to say.
Meanwhile, he just stares at you—his big, hulking body leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands braided before his face. It’s the type of posture he’ll have when sitting in the corner of the ring—he’s got that same look in his eyes, too, deadset on you.
It makes you a little nervous, actually—maybe he really does plan on killing you.
“Why’d you do it?” he asks suddenly.
You almost scoff—almost roll your eyes, but you end up simply returning his dead glare. “Is that really what you asked me here for?”
He doesn’t answer that question. He just keeps staring at you.
You huff out a sigh, “I don’t know, maybe I just wondered what it would be like to be fucked like a woman for once and not someone’s toy.”
You don’t know why you decided to take it there when you both know why you’d done it. What other fucking reason would there be other than to get back at him? It’s a stupid question to begin with, and so you give it a stupid answer in return. And you won’t deny it feels fucking good—seeing him like this. Five o’clock shadow, eyebags, and uncut, disheveled hair.
He looks like a wreck, and rightfully so. Fuck knows what a mess you’d been before you finally managed to drag yourself out of bed. Funny what the single simple thought of revenge can do for someone so lost.
He scrapes his thumb down his jawline, over his stubble—a deep sigh running through him as he leans back on the couch. Offering no other reaction as he says, “I can sit here and act threatened, but you and I both know he was shit compared to me.”
He throws his arms up against the headrest, chin tipped up. Thinking he can hide it, thinking you can’t see right through him—to how hard he’s fighting to upkeep the poker face.
He’s forgetting who his opponent is.
“I know you, babe—I know your body. And there's no fucking way some shitstain you just met–”
“His dick was bigger,” you interrupt—face blank because two can play that silly game, and you do it better.
He’s shut up for a moment—you can see a vein pulse, but it’s quickly stifled, and he smirks instead, snickering despite his grit teeth, “Sorry, that must'a hurt given how much you cry with me.”
This time, you don’t refrain from scoffing and rolling your eyes, “That's all you have to say? Thought you were a fighter.”
“You want me to get jealous? Is that it?” he accuses then, starting to crack, throwing your scoff back at you, “Tch—should've fucked somebody important then.”
This time, you skip the eye-roll and flat-out laugh instead, “I'll keep that in mind. Next time, I'll call up your dad-”
That did it—got him out of his seat and everything. “Shut your mouth.” Standing big and hunched, all muscles and fury.
And you react in kind. Glad that you’re finally getting somewhere. “Make me.”
"You're fucking–" He clenched his fist in the air, scrunching his face in frustration, withholding a growl before releasing a heavy sigh instead.
Dropping his arms, shoulders slumping—hanging his head the same way whilst mumbling under his breath, “Fuck this… fuck this entire thing.”
And just as quickly as he’d sprung to his feet, he flopped down on the couch again.
“I don't wanna play games…” He looks up at you—now with the look of a starved and beaten dog. “I don’t want anyone but you.”
He reaches out slowly—big hands cradling your thighs, pulling you towards him gently, and you let him—put off by that strange new look in his eyes.
“You can fuck half the world, and I'd still only want you.”
It’s an odd confession. Unexpected coming from him. You’d anticipated more of a fight, not whatever this is. Looking at you with glossy eyes on the verge of tears. Suddenly, you feel kind of mean, struck with this sense of guilt for having reduced him to such a state.
“Don't take the high road. It doesn't suit you,” you declare, though without much bite.
And he just sighs, “Fuck that, we’re even now.” Pulling you even closer still—into his lap—he makes you straddle him. Forehead to forehead without kissing you yet. “So, are you gonna let me fuck you, or are you really gonna make me beg?”
And though you would kind of like to see what he’d look like on his knees, the sight of him like this was good enough proof that he’d learned his lesson despite it not being an apology.
Besides, he'd been all too right when he’d said the other guy couldn’t fuck you like him.
You volunteer at the homeless shelter and can’t help but feel extra sorry for him. He’s only around your age—so young yet with no future to speak of.
This winter, given it’s going to be an especially harsh one, all volunteers have been asked if they have any spare room they can be so kind as to give to those less fortunate. And though you’re not that well off yourself, you still have an extra room you’ve only been using as storage.
So, unable to look the other way, you decide to clean it out, get a bed, and host him.
You took precautions first, naturally—just to be safe. But, from what you could tell, he’s neither a drug addict nor has any criminal record to speak of. No, he’s just another abandoned kid who'd society had failed.
This is the least you can do to correct its wrongs.
And, of course, he falls in love with you for it. Not only do you give him a place of rest—but you make him warm food, give him fresh clothes, do his laundry, draw his bath, watch movies with him every night, and always ask him if he has everything he needs. You even cut his long, shaggy hair for him and give him luxuries such as face-lotion.
You’re a saint, too good for a filthy sinner like him, but he’ll never let you know that... No, your pity feels too nice—taking such good care of him—he’s going to leach off of you and your honeycomb heart for the rest of his life if he can help it.
He doesn't look too bad after he cleans up, and after a few more weeks of eating well and getting enough rest—he stops lurching and starts standing up straight, looking lanky and lean with muscle—at which point you can’t deny he’s even a little hot. You know… in that scrappy sort of way.
You feel weird about it, of course—guilty even. He’s a homeless guy you’re housing—you’d be nothing if not downright evil if you took advantage of him. But after a few weeks of settling in, he starts feeling like more of a normal roommate and not a stranger. And with that familiarity, you both lose the distance and become more lax and loose around each other—wearing less, talking casually, not afraid to brush up against each other, and before you even know it, you find yourself folded in half beneath him on the living room couch.
You don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into—but his cock’s so big he’s pounding the sense right out of you with every thrust.
He’s not even going fast. No, rather slow, actually—taking his time as if savoring it. But that doesn't take away from the pleasure bubbling up inside of you where his strokes hit so heavy, resting deep within, so fulfilling that it all but replaces your better judgment with the sole need to squeeze him with all you've got.
“Mh, you’re pussy’s so nice and warm—I could stay inside you forever.”
You’re so wet it’s ridiculous—like never before—like you’re the one who’s been starved and neglected and not the other way around. Getting your breath all but knocked out of you, getting fucked so utterly full, he’s making you kick your feet and curl your toes in the air, bucking your hips back into him like you’re desperately begging for more.
He’s got your knees hooked over his arms, keeping you neatly pressed under him. “You’re so good to me—so, so sweet, you must be the sweetest girl in the whole entire world. My guardian angel.”
All you’re able to do is babble and moan in return—misty- and cross-eyed with your dewy face cradled in his hands.
You just hold onto his wrists while he speaks fondly against your lips, “You saved me when no one else even bothered looking. Let me return the favor—give this pretty pussy all the thanks it deserves.”
When he re-angles and hits you in a different spot, the switch in your lower belly is immediate—making your whole body seize up and shiver, breath shuddering in your throat, followed swiftly by a pulse migrating from your core all throughout your body, tasting oversweet on your tongue enough to make you drool.
He locks lips with yours, slurping your spit up sloppily and keeping himself fully sleaved as you peak—feeling your wet, gummy walls tighten and flutter, rippling along his length like a rush of kisses.
Then, right before it fully dies down, he picks up the pace again and rekindles it—because fuck knows he’s well-rested and over-due and the farthest thing from done with you just yet.
You start off as a waitress at his restaurant. And yet, he’s the one who developed an appetite—for you and your pleasing smile and that busy-bee swing you have in your hip as you hop around from table to table.
He licks his lips at the sight of you more than he does the food he makes. He even had the uniforms altered in your image—made the skirts shorter and shirts tighter.
He's utterly shameless, but who can blame him? You’re such a little bite-sized treat—he just has to taste you.
And taste you, he most certainly does.
For breakfast and for brunch and lunch and dinner and supper, as well as a midnight snack.
“Your pussy juice is my favorite,” he groans from between your legs.
Fat-muscled chef’s arms, tattooed with all types of silly patches, curled tightly around your thighs, keeping you close despite those times you try and push away when it gets to be a little too much—because fuck knows he doesn’t have the same reservations. Nose and tongue and chin deep in your slit, slurping you down while filling you up with his words, “I want to flavor every meal I make with you.”
You keep a hand over your face, kissing your knuckles, sometimes with a bite—whimpering pitifully, “Gross…”
Of course, you can’t help but cringe when he says things like that. He’s your boss, after all, not a porn actor. Still, you don’t say it with much conviction. It’s just that you get so embarrassed you don’t know what else to say.
He chuckles, still with his face buried. “Don’t be childish.” Words muffled as he doubles down on his efforts of sucking on your clit like a piece of candy.
“I’m not,” you whine. “You're just weird.”
He smacks off of you at that, a refreshing sigh leaving him rugged and raspy, a devilish look in his eyes as if he’s about to eat you for real. “I’m a world-renowned chef—are you implying I don’t know my flavors?”
Everything in your gut coils with anticipation, nearly rumbling with need, while he pulls your lower half up and even closer—face glossy with the way he’d gorged himself already—licking his teeth now as he refocuses on your clit alone.
Flattening his tongue on it while he speaks, sounding like some type of beast, “I’ve tasted everything the world has to offer. And I'm telling you, this pretty little thing between your legs is the best there is.”
You can’t stand looking up at him. Beyond embarrassed, you hide your face with both hands. Mumbling out a weak, “Pervert...”
Again, he snickers, shaking his head as if he’s ripping into flesh when he’s really just got his tongue out—straight motorboating your poor pussy.
When done, he drops you onto the bed again, grinning while replying to your insult, “Can’t argue with that,” before promptly kissing and licking up your belly—with fingers replacing his tongue, pumping you on his knuckles, getting you ready.
He groans when his mouth reaches your chest, lips wrapped around a nipple, “If only these titties had milk. I could feast on you from every position.”
You don’t know if you should giggle or grumble—he’s such a baby—and a spoiled one at that. But really, his fingering is making it difficult to do anything but stammer and try and keep it together, “We talked about this—I’m not taking hormones just to breastfeed you, you weirdo.”
He whines then, “Please—it’s my only wish in the entire world—I need it.”
You struggle to argue, feeling like you’re under siege—an onslaught set out to make you breathless. “Well—” you pant, gritting your teeth and bearing it. “We can’t always get what we want.”
“Oh, I’ll see about that.” He takes it as a challenge, this time really locking his lips around your nipple and suckling—releasing just briefly to say, “I bet if I suck on these babies enough, they’ll give me what I want.”
He keeps his fingers working diligently while at it—used to multitasking—curling and spreading them out within you, pumping you so fast, you barely have the time to beg him to “Stop that—” before you’re already shaking and cumming for what must be the seventh time already.
He laughs breathily, kissing your teat goodbye as he lifts himself up again. Pulling his fingers out of you, he brings them to his lips and blithely sucks them off.
“You know I can’t stop, dear. I’m so hungry—I’m ravenous.”
You watch him from over the tips of your fingers. So hot and mortified you think you’re soon to pass out. Breathing heavily behind your hands, muttering, “You’re a glutton—that’s what you are.”
Again, he just cheerfully snickers, bowing down to your halfway-hidden face with a smile. “I hardly see how it’s my fault I can’t get enough of you.”
He spreads your legs again and finds his place between them.
“You’re the one who got me hooked—so you better take responsibility for it.”
Lust is your boss. He's the owner of the strip club where you work, your pimp when money’s tight, as well as the porndirector of all your lovely little films.
Yeah, you might as well have a tramp stamp of his name on your ass, the way he practically owns you…
He's around ten years older and has basically taught you all about sex from when you were only a fledgling in the industry. You live at his studio above the club since he keeps all your money in a bank account under his name, calling you his little sugarbaby and telling you you’ll get an allowance and that you can get more if and when you ask him nicely and tell him what it’s for.
“Don’t be a brat, baby. You know how I hate it when you're a bad girl,” he says when you raise the topic of moving out, treating it as if you’re a child threatening to run away from home.
“I don’t belong to you. Give me what you owe me.”
Honestly, you have no idea where you got the courage.
But is it courage? Or is it just plain stupidity? Because, though you’re increasingly more terrified as you quickly watch him lose his temper, it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. And so, if you knew this is what was going to happen—why the fuck would you put yourself through it?
Must be madness.
“I give you everything, don't I? Food, clothes, a home,” he chastises, bearing over you while you’re down on scuffed knees, holding your wrist in a bruising grip and your face just as fiercely—nearly tearing the skin off your cheeks with the bite of his nails.
“And still, you have the fucking nerve to act like a goddamn bitch.”
You hiccup on sobs, spluttering out a desperate “Please—I’m sorry–”
"You and your entire slut body belong to me, you understand that?"
"Yes-yes—please—I'm sorry! You're right! I belong to you! I'm sorry!"
That seems to calm him just a bit—at least enough to take the bite away from his voice, now cooing at you in an ugly mocking attempt at sweetness, “Yeah, you do every single little thing I ask. ‘Cause if you’re not gonna behave like a good girl, I have no other choice but to treat you like a bad one.”
He lets your audience be rowdier than usual that night, allowing them to slap and grab, then forces you to have an extra rough shoot afterward—with tighter bondage, more toys, bigger guys making use of you like a piece of meat, smacking and choking you as they find out how many cocks your holes can fit, every last one finishing on your face.
Then, when you’re all done and all used up for the day, he brings you upstairs—home, sweet home—where he treats you to some much-unwanted after-care...
You shiver and shake despite the hot water. Sitting in the bathtub, laying back with your spine against his chest, feeling thin like a sheet of paper, all crumbled up and torn—sniffling and sniveling as the after-shock of the day still ricochets through you like wind through a hollow husk.
“The shoot today was rough, huh?” he drawls, washing you with his own hands. Stroking your poor sore cunt despite how it makes you whimper. “Yeah... was it a little too rough for you, hm?”
You don’t do anything in return—but your body language says enough on its own, and he allows it to be your answer.
Sighing heavily, he wraps you up with both arms and squeezes you tighter, chin resting atop your head.
“You know… if you’d just be my good girl, I’d give you a good girl to-do list. Let you stay here all day, do some house chores while I’m gone, make love when I get home, hm? Doesn’t that sound better?”
He traces a welted bruise on the inside of your thigh, one you got from the shoot—roughly the shape of a hand, and a dozen more others layered on top of it. It makes you suck in a hiss.
“But if you’re gonna be a bad girl, then this is what you get.”
He settles into the grove of your neck, purring against your ear. “Are you gonna be my good girl from now on? Hm?”
You bite your lip, breath shuddering while nodding pitifully.
And still, he insists, “Say it so I can hear it.”
The water’s gone cold around you—just like everything else, as you say, “I’ll be a good girl.”
He seems pleased, at least. Nuzzling against your cheek with chin stubble and a smirk, asking, “Yeah? Whose?”
Your voice is small and pathetic, nearly a wince, “Yours.”
He groans then, “That’s right. My good girl.” Lifting his hand from the water, he takes hold of your chin, fingers pressing into those designated sore spots as he angles your face toward him and gives you a heartless kiss before growling against your lips, “And don’t you ever fucking dare forget it again.”
After he’s finished washing you up, he carries you out to bed. It's one you fear much more than the one down in the studio.
Because in this bed, just like every night in this hellhole… he starts teaching every last one of your holes who they belong to.
Or, well, no, he’s not your enemy, but you’re most certainly his enemy.
You’re just not aware of it because of what a ditzy and clueless airhead you are.
But fuck, he can’t stand you—you and your fake personality, acting all bubbly and sweet, cheering him on, always telling him to do his best—condescending little bitch acting like everyone’s friend—like he doesn’t see through you right to your rotten core. You don’t fool him—he knows you’re as bad as the rest of them, so just quit pretending like you’re better or something.
You’re under the false impression that the two of you are friends. You just think he has a strange sense of humor, but you laugh politely even when you don’t always get the joke.
Well, maybe it’s not so much politeness, but the fact that you have a big fat hopeless crush on him.
It infuriates him. He throws your niceties back in your face as insults, and you just laugh. How low do you think of him? Honestly? How tall is that high horse of yours that you have your head constantly in the clouds?
Poor you… you just think he’s so cool—always saying what he feels like, not a lame people-pleasing goodie-two-shoes such as yourself. You can’t help but follow him around like a lost puppy all day long. You’re always making sure you sit next to him during lectures—heart almost beating out of your chest, holding back from squealing when your prayers are answered, and the two of you are finally paired for a project together.
It really feels like the universe is on your side, and so you just can’t stop yourself from going the full mile—making chocolates and preparing him a hand-written love letter. You know he’ll think you’re a little silly, that he’ll make fun of you for it—but you can’t expect to get anywhere without putting your heart on the line, can you? For a chance at love, the risk must be worth it!
Yeah, you’re such a hopeless romantic—you feel it as he punches his fist through your ribs when he rips out your poor heart and stomps all over it.
“I fucking get it already! You’re little miss pretty and popular. Would you quit rubbing it in my face, or do I really have to spell it out for you? I. Don’t. Fucking. Like. You,” he seethes through grit teeth. “Go pick another one of the hundreds dying to be your partner and leave me the fuck alone!”
You shrink where you stand, shocked doe-eyes rapidly welling up like a flood, lips wobbling as you choke on your words, “Oh… okay… I’m sorry… I just… I–”
“You-you-you what?” he barks at your stuttering. “Spit it out already! What the fuck do you want?”
“I just-I-I just always thought you were amazing. So…”
His face contorts, scrunches up in a grimace different from anger, though not without it, as he spits out, “What the fuck are you on about now?”
But his voice is a little diminished now, with confusion usurping the place of his hate, suddenly feeling a little out of sorts because… what did you actually just say?
“I just, I really like you–” you repeat, hanging your head, only barely able to mumble through the tears blocking your throat. “But I guess I’ve just annoyed you all this time—I’m sorry...”
Only now does he notice you’re trying to hand him something—a flat little box with a pink note attached.
“This is for you, but I understand if you don’t want it.” Unable to look up, you just stretch your arms out until it gently bumps into him.
Baffled, he accepts without thinking.
“I’m sorry—I’ll leave you alone from now on.” And then you run off, disappearing with a sob that all but shoots him through the chest.
And slowly bleeding out, he remains standing there, eyes glued to where you'd left—mouthing the word what…
What did you just say?
Like? Him?
Did he mishear you, or did you just confess?
No way—that can’t be it, right?
But what the fuck is this heart-shaped letter, then?
"What the fuck did I just do?"
You look like you’ve been crying your eyes out all night the next day—your usual bubbly personality reduced to a ghost in a shell, walking the hallways like a zombie, slowly and without purpose, eyes on the ground—letting everyone bump into you.
You don't even so much as bat an eye when someone runs straight over you, fully knocking all your books and folders onto the floor.
You just get on your knees and start recollecting them.
A newfound hate flares up within him at the sight. “Hey, you!" He stomps over. "Watch where the fuck you’re going next time, dipshit.”
You look up at the sound of his voice—flinching before you notice it’s not directed at you.
No, rather, he’s got a boy up against the lockers, lifted by his collar onto the tip of his toes. Face only a few inches from his, glaring at him harsher than he’d glared at you yesterday.
“Now apologize to the girl before I punch your ugly face in.”
You stare at the altercation with large eyes, only able to blink as the boy who’d bumped into you starts spluttering on the verge of tears, “I–I’m sorry–I didn’t see you! Sorry!”
You don’t answer. Shocked and speechless, you remain on the floor in confusion, asking yourself why’s he doing this? Didn’t he cuss you out yesterday, or was it all a bad dream like you'd hoped?
He throws the boy on his way, then gets on his knees down alongside you—proceeding to help you gather your things.
You only watch on in wordless bewilderment until he starts muttering something under his breath.
“I’m sorry I made you cry yesterday.” He stacks all your things in a neat pile next to you while continuing his apology. “And for being an asshole. You didn’t deserve that.”
He keeps his eyes fixed to the floor where his hands busily roam around until there was nothing more to retrieve.
He then hesitantly looks up at you—eyes flittering—a little too ashamed to hold your gaze as he says, “Your chocolates were really good.”
That’s when your heart starts fluttering again—as if new life was just breathed in and revived it.
He can see it as well—how you light up like a rekindled candle.
“They were?” you gush, shuffling closer on your knees all excitedly—face brighter than the sun on cloudfree summer day.
It blinds him—nearly stunts him, only able to utter a meager, almost shy, “Yeah.”
He then slings his bag in front of him and pulls something out.
A lunchbox.
“I made you these..." he swallows thickly. "As an apology…”
He’s utterly red—from the tips of his ears to his neck and entire face, even his hands.
“For me?”
“Yeah..." He reaches it over stiffly. “They’re not as good as yours, though...”
You eagerly accept despite his nervousness, popping the lid off where the two of you sit—right there in the middle of the hallway floor, with other students walking around you like water passing two rocks in a stream.
His blush grows ever more intense as you pick one of his crudely made chocolates up, not even examining it before throwing one into your mouth.
It was his first time making anything that required a recipe. And they most certainly did not come out well, but he figured the embarrassment was part of his atonement.
He didn’t actually expect you to try them.
But there you are—lying through your teeth, saying, “I think they’re great!”
He can only scoff out a soft laugh. “Of course you would.”
Turns out, you really are just a nice person after all. You don’t have the heart to be mean at all, do you? Yeah, you don’t even have it in you to feel any of the ugly things he keeps inside. In fact, he bets you don’t even have the means of knowing such ugly things exist.
That must be what he’s envied about you all this time…
He doesn’t want to share you with anyone and gets viscerally jealous each time you hang out with others. It’s as if he feels boils rising beneath his skin, simmering with a violent need to kill anyone and everyone you ever come into contact with—even if it’s just a passerby who accidentally brushes against you.
He can’t stand other people—how they think they can just come along and be your friend when he’s been your friend since you both were in diapers. What? Do they really expect him to share you with them? Just like that? No way. You’re his best friend. They should all go find themselves their own.
Actually, the term best friend doesn’t even really cut it… It’s a little too childish. You’ve both grown out of it. And besides, it never really fully encompassed what the two of you actually are to each other. You’re so much more than just friends, after all. Yeah, what you really are is soulmates. Yeah, that sounds more right. Soulmates.
And the bond between soulmates is like the bond between an addict and their favorite drug. You wouldn’t ask an addict to share his favorite drug, now would you? No. Not unless you’re prepared to either kill or be killed.
But he can’t say he blames them for wanting you, either. Of course, they’d want you—anyone would.
He pities them, actually. And you make it no better for the poor suckers, stringing them all along—acting as if there’s enough of you to go around. Well, there just isn’t. And even if there was, he shouldn't have to share you with anyone.
Yeah, the problem here is you. You don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand that you’re his.
Well… seems like he’ll just have to teach you once and for all, now, doesn’t it?
“What’s… this?” you mumble groggily once you wake, sluggishly tugging your bound wrists—not yet aware of what they are. Your eyes blow wide once you do—voice turning sharply frantic, “What’s happening?”
“We’re having a play date like we used to.” He comes into view just as the panic sets in—and though his face has all the familiarity to be a sign of comfort, his words evoke no such feeling within you.
“Remember? How we used to play house?" he says. "Granted, we're a little older now… so I thought I’d change it up a bit.”
He stands before the bed you’re currently lying tied down on. But he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s something very wrong about all of him. Seeming way too at ease for the situation.
“Instead of making mud pies…” he continues. “I'm gonna fuck you and give you a creampie.”
Your heart lurches up into your throat at his words, and you choke. Your clothes from the day have been removed, leaving you naked. You spot them lying on the floor in a heap while you spastically look around for clues as to “What the fuck’s going on? This isn’t funny–”
“Shut up,” he says—his demeanor still as nonchalant as he climbs on top of you and pushes something past your lips, nudging it deep down in your throat.
Feeling it as it scrapes your tongue, you can tell it’s your lace panties, and you gag—shaking your head, trying to dislodge both it and his fingers, but he holds you steady.
“I have things to say. So, be a good friend and listen.”
You start crying then—brows cinched as you look up at him in terror, full-tremoring now while struggling under his weight and the all-too-intimate way he starts touching you.
“I'm glad you’re still a virgin…” he suddenly says, running his hands down your breasts, catching your nipples between his fingers.
You twist in disgust, halfway convinced you’re having some godawful fucked up dream—that this just can’t be happening—but somehow, at the same time, something deep in your gut that’s been lying there for a while ignored by your kind heart doesn't find it completely without warning, having felt how strange he'd been acting as of late—always looking at you a certain way and saying certain concerning things—certain concerning things he’s saying right now, “I’d kill all those little toy friends of yours if you were ever so stupid to let them have it.”
He glares at you—looking every bit angry, and yet you can’t describe it exactly. Something about that look in his eyes makes him seem like a complete stranger to you. Then he cracks a smile, and it makes it all the worse. Bowing down until his forehead presses clean against yours, noses rubbing against each other.
“But I think you knew. Didn’t you? Knew how it wouldn’t be right. Knew it was mine to take.”
He shuffles backward until he’s separating your thighs instead of straddling your waist. And you croak with an especially full-chested sob as his touches travel further down along with him—with savage goosebumps running rampant across your body once he rubs his thumb crassly over your slit.
“You see?” his breath shudders in his throat—thick with something mortifying that’s bound to ruin you forever. “It’s so happy to see me.”
You whine and scramble, trying to force your thighs shut—but he has the upper hand—keeping you spread with his body while two of his fingers slip through your lips and bully themselves inside.
He pumps them in and out with zero regard to how you recoil—only sneering at the way you worm in disgust, “At least your pussy understands where its loyalties lie.”
It’s not long before his ministrations draw wetness, and he pulls them out—inspecting them in the dim light he’s left on. Rubbing the digits together before putting them in his mouth.
You close your eyes with a whimper while listening to the sickening sounds of him sucking them clean.
He puts both hands around your neck next. He doesn't squeeze hard, but your breath stops nonetheless. Eyes stinging with both spent and still-welling tears.
“I’m upset with you,” he states, brushing his lips over your parted ones, still stuffed and silenced with your own underwear. “But I’ll forgive you if you apologize and swear to me that you meant it when you said we’d be friends forever.”
That look in his eyes—you still can’t explain it. Desperate, desolate, deranged, and enraged—something downright sick.
“But since you can’t talk right now, you’ll have to prove it some other way...”
One of the hands disappears, and you hear the following sounds of a zipper being undone, then the rustling of his pants being shoved down.
“Cum on my cock, and I’ll know.”
The room tastes of blood and something rotten as he frees his cock and graces your clit.
“Actions speak louder than words anyway, after all, don’t they? So cum on my cock, and I’ll cum in your pussy, so we can seal our friendship again—just like the time we married each other on the playground.”
He enters you, and you think you might just die in the mix of horror and grief.
And yet you remain perfectly alive—even as he rips through you and splits both you and your heart apart.
“You can think of this as the honeymoon,” he whispers. “Always and forever, happily ever after, never apart.”
synopsis!! everyone knows the creator doesn't favor diluc (everyone is wrong).
cw !! gn reader, reader is peak diluc simp 😐 somewhat self-aware characters, mild sagau themes (not too much), reader is recognized as the player, reader is a little shy at first. angst with reverse comfort!
note !! the plot feels a little everywhere but i tried to organize it as best as i can, i think i got carried away eheh honestly doesn't feel up to my standards but it was pretty enjoyable to write
word count !! 2.8k something
"No, it's definitely Outrider Amber, she was the first to ever be favored."
"Are you kidding me? Outrider Amber may be the first, but sir Kaeya was definitely loved. Have you seen the sword he was gifted with?" One growls.
"It's the Acting Grand Master Jean!" Someone slams the table with his beer mug, "Twice was she bestowed with fallen stars of gold."
"I'd say that wolf boy in the woods seem lucky."
"It has to be Bennett. I don't know why but that kid has two crowns! Two!"
"You're all missing out on Miss Lisa!"
"Stop, stop! You rowdy drunks! Every vision holder in Mond has been granted favor, this is just impossible to decide!"
There was a pause. "Well. . . not every." Someone mumbles under their breath.
"Not every? Who's the poor allogene that couldn't even get the Player's favo—" Shushing sounds break his sentence, the men glare at their companion, pointing to the redhead behind the bar.
It's useless, really.
Diluc has been listening in the entire time. He can't really help it when their voices were loud enough to reach where he stood. Still, he was merciful and pretended not to hear. He's not exactly bothered by what they're saying. It was the truth, after all.
For two years, vision holders all around Teyvat were being granted favor.
It often begins with a meteor shower gracing the sky.
A star gently falling into the hands of a vision holder, embracing them in warm light.
They call the ethereal sensation as something akin to "coming home".
The favored would then be given different things; quality weapons, enhanced abilities, beautiful crowns— Some allogenes were even gifted summer apparel (Mondstadt is proud that their Gunnhildr sisters were one of the very first). Even their equipped wings would change into ornamented works of art!
It's been two years, and it seems like every allogene he knows of has received the Player's grace.
He supposed he just wasn't favored. It isn't too difficult to believe that he isn't likable.
He convinces himself it's fine.
It's fine if his summoned weapon is a cheap claymore made of scrap metal. It's still efficient to have the extra blade while he manually carries around another claymore (commissioned from Wagner as the best money could buy). Or that his abilities can only be improved through hardwork, unlike the many who broke the limits of their power through your favor.
It's fine.
As the bar goers leave for the night, as Venti and Kaeya wave around their almost divine-looking five-star weapons to show the crowd, and as he's closing up the tavern and retreating to his upstair quarters for comfort, he convinces himself that the he'll be okay on his own.
•
The arrival of the Creator was festive and grand; The day the sky parted itself and glowed as the brightest of all stars fell with grace into Mondstadt's very own Windrise.
Teyvat rejoices in the ecstatic ideal of being loved.
A meeting of vision holders was quickly held in the Cathedral, discussing immediate plans as some of the most favored (Venti, Jean, Kaeya, Albedo to name a few) went ahead to fetch the Creator from the large tree.
While Diluc was often the center of any other meeting due to his authority and influence, this was something he chose to step back from. Standing by the windows, away from the meeting, he watched on as Eula and the rest conversed around the circular table.
He isn't even sure why he's invited. Perhaps they felt it was obligatory for vision holders, regardless of favorability? Then again, he could always offer a fraction of his mountain-loads of wealth to help with the festivities.
At least he's competent at being a wallet.
As the others pull out their crowns and stars, weapons and artifacts, eager to thank the one responsible for the gifts, an unknown emotion bubbles in his stomach. It's faint, but it's there.
He tries to look away.
"Everyone, everyone! They're entering the gates!" Fischl announces uncharacteristically to the room as her eye glows brightly, undoubtedly looking through Oz's eyes from the sky.
"We should wait by the statue to welcome them, right?" Barbara chirps in, hands clasped and wavy hair bouncing with every step.
Diluc watches as people steadily leave the room, following last as they walk down the steps to greet the approaching group. Some civilians gathered to see the scene, others didn't really understand what a Player or Creator was to a vision holder, while Diluc—
Diluc stood by the steps to see them crowd around you.
You, surrounded with words of gratitude and cheerful squeals. He sees the smile on your face and feels relief that you don't seem too overwhelmed.
He leaves the area without a second thought.
•
He doesn't exactly see you around the next few days. With Mondstadt celebrating a new festival, the taverns were always full and busy with customers (both local and foreign). You were probably busy too, spending time with the different allogenes and entertaining those who came from Liyue to meet you. He's heard of a funeral consultant with three crowns (are consultants that admirable of a job to you?) and an adeptus gifted with various five-star polearms (this was understandable for the adepti, unlike the consultant).
He doesn't expect to see you at all until you leave for the next nation, honestly.
That is, until the tavern settles into a more peaceful atmosphere and Jean rushes in with several other allogenes. It's unusual to see his childhood friend in the tavern; still, he greets her amicably and asks what brings her here.
"(Name) will be coming here soon with Kaeya and a few others. It's a little impromptu, but we were hoping for a place to settle in with drinks. Perhaps try some apple cider." She smiles, taking a seat by the bar.
(Name)? Jean was already on a first name basis with the Creator?
Diluc thinks perhaps Jean truly is the favorite, she does have a few golden stars in her home.
Somehow, it's not surprising at all to know that his apple cider was famous enough to drag you in. At least there's something about the Dawn Winery in your favor. He promptly gets his employees to work, clearing a few tables near the bar, rearranging the furniture to give space good enough for a group.
Your entrance into the bar was just as lively; with your favored allogenes chatting away with you, everyone falling into place at different parts of the tavern, ordering drinks and meals.
He's glad you enjoy apple cider.
•
You're trying to play it cool, really. Trying your best not to get overexcited and glomp everyone and everything.
You're taking things step by step as you converse with Jean, Lisa, and Albedo; as you share meals with Barbara and Sucrose; as you play with Klee and Diona; tour the city with Fischl and Bennett. There's plenty of time to meet everyone and your schedule has been filled to the brim with all the fun your having.
You'll see that glimpse of red hair again— one that was lingering by the Cathedral staircase. Diluc doesn't like crowds, so it's fine that he isn't approaching you. It's also fine that he hasn't visited at least once, unlike the several raging from Liyue to Sumeru who took the journey to meet you early.
Diluc is too busy a person to meet you; whether it's because of the winery or his darknight hero duties, you wouldn't dare take his time.
— but when are you supposed to give him all the gifts you've brought for him???
Your determination to build him up in one go, from Talent levels to Constellations to Artifacts and Weaponry, all came down to this moment — and the man was simply nowhere to be seen!
An unknowingly loud sigh escapes your lips, catching the attention of the Cavalry Captain next to you.
"Now, what's got our (Name) so down in the dumps?" Kaeya hums, glancing at your face as you stutter a response.
"Aah it's not that, it's just. . ."
Your brother is too busy, I just want to meet him!!
"I'm thirsty." You deflect, looking around for a stall. The streets of Mond were nothing like the minimized version you see in the game; with the city being ten times larger than what you remembered it to be.
"Oh! Oh! Klee suggests apple cider!" The little girl giggles, running around your legs in excitement, "Angel's Share is nearby and big brother Albedo alwaaays takes me there for apple cider!"
Angel's Share. Bartender. A great idea has appeared!
At the excited look on your face, Jean walks up ahead of you.
"Why don't I go and inform the tavern to prepare us a space first, it would save us the waiting time."
"That would be great, Jean!"
•
You hope you aren't being too obvious.
With the way your eyes would linger on him, casting side glances and hoping he would greet you to strike up a conversation, the way most allogenes do. You didn't want to abruptly disturb his work, nor do you want seem desperate, so you waited for his initiative.
Yet, Diluc lingers just a little outside your group's circle. Your food and drinks were refilled by Charles, you've talked with nearly everyone but the person you want to talk to.
"It's getting pretty late, we should head home for the night." Someone suggests.
What?
No!
"Hm? Do you still have something in mind?" Kaeya asks. You realized you said it out loud, catching the attention of nearby patrons.
With a frantic glance around the tavern, your eyes make contact with Diluc's. He pauses as well, wondering what caused your little outburst.
You are definitely not leaving, not when you don't know when you could catch Diluc in his free time again! You'd be leaving for Liyue by then!
Hands slamming the table to stand up and with a small burst of courage, you approach the bartender who turns away from Charles. He raises an eyebrow at your approach. It's odd the way you feel flustered and nervous, finally facing him.
Pausing just in front of him, he looks on curiously.
"Would you like a refill?" He asks.
"A-ah no, I mean, yes but that's not why I'm here. I. . ." You stutter, stumbling over your words as you try not to behave awkwardly. Should you start with a casual topic?
"You seem to be quite busy." You say.
Diluc blinks. He isn't sure what you're implying. Neither is Kaeya or Jean, who stopped to look at the exchange of words.
"I suppose. . . but as a winery, we do thrive in impromptu festivities." He replies curtly before realizing, was it rude that he never visited the Creator?
"Ah, is it my lack of visit? I apologize, I would have visited but it seems that you were quite satisfied with your favorites and-"
"No, no, no," You wave your hand, cutting him off, "I understand you're busy. You don't have to visit at all! How could I take your time— wait," You pause, recalling his words.
"Favorites?" You tilt your head, "What do you mean I seemed satisfied with my favorites? What do you mean by favorites?"
"Your favorites... allogenes who received your favor. Those you have granted gifts."
Your jaw laxes. Favorites? They decided you play favorites based on how much you've built them?
"You think. . ." You say carefully, not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings, "That I offer gifts to my favorites?"
Diluc nods slowly, unsure of your questioning.
Although it would be a lie to say you didn't have your personal favorites, it would still be inaccurate that it's based on gifts. After all, you built everyone who came home by chance. As an avid player, you did your best to farm and push everyone to their full potential.
Diluc, however, never came home no matter how much you wanted him to. It can't be possible that he doesn't know how much he is loved, right?
"Then what about you?" You blurt out, "How do you think I view you?"
He stares at you oddly. At this point, many around you had stopped to tune in. Everyone knew Master Diluc never received your favor, so why are you conversing with him?
Meanwhile, Diluc wonders if you want him to admit it. Must he say it in front of everyone how he never received gifts?
"I suppose. . . I'm not one of them. It's quite understandable. I don't intend to question your judgement—"
"What?" You exclaim, a look of shock crosses your face, "You think I don't like you?" Voice raised in disbelief, you feel the eyes of many turning to watch the scene.
Diluc mirrors your confusion.
"I can't believe you would– no, that isn't it at all!" You stutter over your words, a frantic need to prove him wrong goes through you, "You— you of all people!"
"Me?" He repeats.
"I've always wanted you!"
A silence settles over the tavern. Did you have to put it so bluntly? You freeze in shock at your own words. Diluc's expression of disbelief turns flustered, face turning as red as his hair.
Explain yourself.
"I- I mean, I've always wanted you to come home. Ever since the start, really! It's just that you never did-"
"Hmm... so it implies that it's out of your control, correct?" Kaeya piqued, looking on curiously. He's been listening in the entire time. You nod your head.
"Yes! It's a game of chance for me as well. It's not to say that favor is an accident, I truly wanted everyone to come home! It's just that—" You turn to Diluc, "You never did, no matter how much I wanted you to. How was I supposed to give you your gifts?"
Diluc snaps out of his shock, blinking at you, "Gifts?"
"Yes, gifts! I've been saving them up for you, ever since the start." You pause, shyly looking away, "When I said I wanted you since the beginning I meant it. I came here for you, after all."
He looks at you in disbelief, and probably half the tavern as well. You can't help the small chuckle from your lips. With an outstretched hand, something materializes between you. It glows a blinding golden light, before settling to reveal–
"Wolf's Gravestone. It's a weapon for you."
You didn't have to say it— anyone with eyes could see how it was practically made for Diluc. With large handles and a color scheme that matches his own, Wolf's gravestone doesn't look as divine or ethereal as the other weapons you've gifted, but it looked just as powerful, if not menacing.
With a gesture, Diluc grips the handle.
"Fits like a glove." Kaeya whistles, impressed. As does the rest of the tavern who stopped to stare.
Suddenly, flames burst forth from the weapon. It sears and glows red. Unlike the common claymore that can't handle the the prowess of Diluc's flames, Wolf's Gravestone embraces it. Like an extension of his own hand.
He breaks his gaze away from the weapon to look at you.
"Thank you. . ." He mutters softly, but it's genuine. You smile.
"That's not the last of it, you know."
"What?"
With another flick of your hand, artifacts and talent books materialize. They flow around him like a dance as more and more begin to appear, lighting up the tavern like the night sky.
"I told you I brought gifts!"
All the days spent farming for him and other pyro characters finally paid off. The glimmering artifacts reflected in his own red eyes as he stares, entranced.
Favor did not come to him in meteor showers like it did to the other allogenes; rather, it came to him in your form. Proof of him being loved. The spectacle continued— after the artifacts and talent levels were the constellation (the crowd ooh'ed and aah'ed at the sight), then came the five star apparel (a nostalgic sight to him, and it changed his flames to a darker red), and the ascension materials you passed off as trinkets.
By the end of it, he had a hand over his lower face, his red bangs hid just the ends of his eyes. "I just thought I wasn't that favorable. . ." He muttered and you leaned in to peek at his covered face, wondering why he was shying away.
But it was evident to the tavern— the pink dusted ears, the flushed cheeks, and the overwhelming emotion in his eyes. Diluc Ragnvindr was flustered, and it's a sight enough to make even the drunks place down their beers for a closer look.
You bit your lip, trying to prevent the widest of smiles, "Do you believe yourself loved now?" You ask and he gives the faintest of nods.
"Thank you," He says, "For favoring me."
m.list 2 || consider supporting me on ko-fi ! || sagau m.list
note !! THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE a very short brainrot that became a fic huhuhuhu
I don't often write creator sagau themes but here we are! this is like peak diluc simpery idk ive never been this down for a man. i wrote this immediately after getting his skin i just got so excited 😅 I wanted to spoil him so bad (but i gave all his mats to thoma before he came home :< )
Sakusa Kiyoomi who’s not so subtly obsessed with his girlfriend.
It all started lowkey, back when he just went pro and questions about the life of a promising player piled on to him, the clip of one of his first ever interview that happened off-court, and not in a conference room when they were all still covered in sweat and trying to breathe evenly, is still circling social media, the interviewer went with the anticipated question, “fans wish to know if there’s someone special outside the gyms, perhaps a partner?” to which Kiyoomi only nodded with the same level of sternness he carried during a match point.
Overtime it seemed to become much easier to let others in, he still appreciated privacy, but to know that people loved seeing him break out a grin whenever mentioning you after a good game was priceless. It was one time after an away game in Malaysia that they’d won in just two sets, he was approached by local reporters, swarming him with questions but one in particular stood out for him. So when he was asked “what do you miss about Japan?” he didn’t hold back the smile, instead leaning closer to the microphone and bluntly saying “my partner”.
Kiyoomi had already prepared for the worst when faced with the fame that’d come alongside success, he’d seen it happen before, the gossip and tabloids, people breaking up or even getting a divorce over others’ opinion, but seeing the feedback from his supporters each time a new photo of both of you walking around Osaka or visiting his family in Tokyo popped out only encouraged him to share you with the world further.
Eventually he had a whole highlight dedicated to photos of you in his instagram profile, stories piled up each year, sometimes domestic, candid ones where you’d be making cocoa or simply rearranging and cleaning his memorabilia that Sakusa had earned throughout his career, or less private moments of you walking around the streets of Rome when he took you with him to the training camp, moments from all across the world with you beside him.
It’s all gotten to the point where people recognise you in the stands when the Black Jackals are playing, some of Kiyoomi’s fans had even asked for a photo whenever you were wearing the jersey or jacket with his number.
One time on Valentine’s Day Kiyoomi had posted a photo of you sprawled out on your shared bed, hand on your heart and phone almost up your nose with a caption saying “sleeping through the special day”. He deleted it not even ten minutes later, but of course people had already screenshot it plenty of times, to this day remembering the random exposure that was gone in record time.
Safe to say one thing Sakusa was always good at was hard launching, brand deals, important events, friendships with players people wouldn’t even expect him to know, but one particular time outshined the rest of his shenanigans. It was nearing evening after a tough home game where they walked out with another win that Kiyoomi was stopped by a fan with camera angled at him, filming a video when they suddenly asked “what are you looking forward to after today?” when he simply lifted his hand, showing off the golden band on his finger, “seeing my wife”.
CW: sfw. 1.3K words. NOTES: !PLEASE COMPLETELY READ MY GENERAL RULES FIRST IF YOU'RE NEW IN MY BLOG! this was written on july 2024 and posted the file here before i deleted it shortly since this is a part of a series i've yet to finish. with few tweaks ofc, i wanted to post it again since it's his birthday tomorrow. also if athletes can't drink after a game, let's just pretend they can.
Regrets rarely visited the meticulous Kiyoomi and when it does, it doesn't just looms over, it consumes him.
It started when he just let your sight fade from his vision, a creeping touch reaching out to him slowly while their team entertained the press, mingled with sponsors, and indulged a bit of their fans, his people congratulating him and them—until regret covered him. Stagnant beneath his facade while everything happened.
Now as the loud music of the club blared around, everyone had their first round of shots to celebrate another win of the Jackals, he's barely there. Too lost in the past and waste in the future as he kept thinking about how he didn't just went for it and ask you out right then and there. When you were right there, so bright as you cheered for them, for him. Right there when you congratulated him, breathtaking words you tenderly said.
“You were incredible!.....you're incredible.”
Kiyoomi immediately downed his shot when they began. Washing away the cringe of the fresh memory of him just standing there and too flustered to reply a comprehensive thought before you bid goodbye as he was swept off by the chaos around them and he just let you. The high of the long game and their triumph instantly replaced with the ugly presence of regret.
It's only then one of them at last brought him out of his spiralling, finally saying something about it. “Why don't ya just call her and ask her out? It'll do everyone a favour.” Miya Atsumu rarely held anything back. The effects of the alcohol an immediate enabler to Kiyoomi's body— more from the sudden callout to him, red blushing on his cheeks that traveled to his ears and down to his neck.
Though he wasn't vocal about it at all, his lingering gazes and complete silence when you were there was more than enough for what anyone could say. They wouldn't leave him about it whenever it was just them.
A close friend of the head of their promotional team, you were introduced to them a few weeks ago. Four weeks ago precisely, he remembers. A writer and illustrator on the way to start a new work about a story revolving around volleyball, and what better way to learn you know nothing about than to ask a friend for help and bring you directly to the grounds of it. You found it easy to get along with the athletes as they were keenly enthusiastic to teach, tell about themselves, their stories, and simply be in their element as you spectate.
While Kiyoomi spectated you. He wasn't open with you like the others were a lot, barely contributing to what you were doing, at least that's what he felt like—you never missed a chance to say how everything to the smallest details anyone could miss or not care about that they tell you is a huge help either ways to your story building. Even to him, how he rarely talked to you and when he did, it's only short—yet you still treated him like everyone else.
Hah. Is the bar that low for him? But it is what it is.
“She might possibly like you, too!” Shouyou chirped as Kiyoomi remained unspoken after Atsumu did. He stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the ever jovial trio as Koutaro followed after—nonetheless his fondness for them, of course.
“She really does!” Koutaro added. That's not far off at all, he knows. Still, that didn't mean he couldn't brush it off as a mere—even barely an infatuation.
Yet he can't brush off that annoying gnaw from what he thinks he should have done.
“If yer still not gonna do shit. I'll just ask 'er out myself again, maybe she's changed her mind.” Atsumu goes again while he poured everyone shots for another round.
“What?” Kiyoomi sharply spoke, his boring gaze cold on the fake blonde. He knows damn well he's being baited but fuck all.
Atsumu smirked from the expected reaction but not saying anything then; Meian did as he laughed a bit. “He joked with her one time about asking her out if she's interested, she just said no.”
Kiyoomi's eye twitched. “I wasn't joking though,” Atsumu continued to taunt, taking another shot of his when he finished pouring all of them.
Kiyoomi sighed in frustration, forcing himself to relent to their trap, and he thought maybe it could at least take away a bit of what's bothering him. “Fine," he muttered begrudgingly before he held his phone again and looked for your account.
No amount of alcohol could soothe his nerves as he stared at your nonexistent conversation, but he's not a coward when he's being challenged, so Kiyoomi downed his shot again and pressed the call button after. He's gonna die.
He looks at no one as he laid his phone on his ear and waited for you to answer. Remaining to sit up straight in their booth with his phone still ringing, despite how he's leaning himself back, it's too clear he's tensed. His heart burned painfully when you picked up.
Your voice didn't waste a second to speak. The volume of his phone just loud enough for all of them to hear against all the sounds in the club. “Sakusa?” Surprised, nonetheless kind as always, he made out.
Kiyoomi's mouth parted a bit slowly with a faint breath he took. "Kiyoomi….Kiyoomi is fine," is what he said first, "I hope I can call you by your name as well.” His left hand that's on the edge of the table clenched to a fist to keep himself steady, keeping his eyes down as well and ignored the sheer presence of everyone's gaze on him. The trio are doing their best to keep themselves quiet, too giddy at what they're witnessing while the older men much invested as well but with just their proud smiles.
“Oh…it's more than fine,” you replied after taking it in, not at all keeping what you want to mean, he had observed that for quite a while. He feels the worry from your end ebb away after sensing there's nothing to be urgently worried about. “Kiyoomi," you echoed softly. He could see the smile you have right now, it made him blink firmly for a moment and not make himself weaker than he already is. His face is now utterly burning and the alcohol was barely the reason for it anymore. “Is there a reason you're calling? You guys are celebrating, right?"
“Mhmn, we are,” Kiyoomi answered. He unclenched his fingers with a tight force and chooses to just spit it out. “I think you're lovely.” No hesitance present but he did it benignly. He remembered your admiring words and he won't ever forgive himself if he doesn't return his gratitude for it. “You are lovely.” It's barely a murmur, yet it echoed loudly to everyone. He's hoping so much you won't take it in any wrong way, possibly think he's drunk or this is just a childish dare and he hoped as well you didn't think of him that lowly—therefore he made the advantage of the shortest silence from your end. “…I want to get to know you better..if you'll have me.”
You found your voice with a bit of soft laugh. “Kiyo…” That's a nickname he'll now engraved in him. “That's…that's beautiful," you said, and he's already breathing in relief from your acceptance, much more to your admission. “I'd love to let you.” The tender moment was all too fleeting because of the loud cheer of the men suddenly breaking through wildly.
Kiyoomi's left hand grasped on his mouth for a second, unable to withstand the trembling grin that he couldn't prevent. His heartbeat wild, the music and all the noise ringing in his ears but your laughter grounded him.
After finding his words with the rowdiness calming down, he spoke again. “Thank you." Because he is glad and damn thankful you reciprocated as much as he did. “Would dinner tomorrow night be okay with you? But whatever you're more comfortable with is better."
The agreement of your answer made the men howling once more with their feral cheers. It appears the Jackals have won twice on the same day
Finally, Kiyoomi felt like a winner and celebrated at last.
You're a very famous professional smut writer known for your filthy, kinky stories. Your biggest fan, Shigaraki, wrongly assumes you're as big a pervert as he is so he kidnaps you, and he wants to reenact all his favorite scenes from your books!
Smut. 18+. Fem Reader. Quirkless AU. Dubcon. Kidnapping. Bondage. Rough Sex. Humiliation. Overstimulation. Mind Break. Aphrodisiacs. Creampie.
Dividers by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more and @benkeibear! Any feedback/comments/reblogs are greatly appreciated!
“I told you, I can’t do it!” you yell, slapping your hand on the table.
The woman standing on the other side, your literary agent, rolls her eyes. “How are we supposed to do a book signing event without the author?”
You cross your arms. “I can stay behind a curtain. You can bring the books to me, I’ll sign them, then you can give them back to the readers.”
“And what proof will your fans have that I’m not signing them myself?” she asks, now tapping her foot impatiently.
Shit. You didn’t think of that. The curtain was your best idea. You’re certainly not going to show your face in public, not as the author of over thirty best selling smut novels. You write under a pen name for a reason: your books are absolutely filthy, and you’d die of shame if anyone in your private life found out about them.
“Well I guess we cancel the event,” you say.
Your agent looks positively livid. “Are you joking? It starts in twenty minutes! There’s already a crowd in the store!”
“Really?” you ask, stepping over to the door that leads from the break room you’re currently in to the main area of the bookstore. You crack it open and peek outside. Sure enough, there are dozens of people standing around, holding copies of your books.
In all honesty, you didn’t expect this. You thought people would be too embarrassed to show up, to let others know they read smut. You figured a couple of diehard fans might appear and be satisfied with the curtain trick. That’s the only reason you agreed to this in the first place.
Now, seeing the growing crowd of mostly young women, all smiling and chatting with each other while clutching your books, you feel stupid. And judgmental. And like a total bitch.
“How about this?” your agent says, and you turn around to find her holding a red hoodie. “Wear this and cover your hair. We’ll find some dark sunglasses and a mask. You’ll be unrecognizable but you can still interact with your fans. Hell, it might even make you a more alluring figure.”
You take the hoodie and pull it on. “I’ll try it.”
After you don the rest of your makeshift disguise, you give your agent a thumbs up, who signals to the staff in the store. You listen as someone tells the crowd to form a line, then you’re introduced as your pen name.
You step out of the door and find yourself behind a table. There’s a chair for you to sit in as well as a stack of copies of your latest book. A handful of pens lay neatly on the table.
Beyond that, you see a line of readers looking at you, their faces a mix of excitement and confusion, probably due to your appearance.
To your left, your agent explains that you’re a private person who wishes to remain anonymous. A few of the young women toward the front nod, understanding.
Feeling a little more comfortable, you take your seat as the first reader approaches the table. She’s sweet and friendly as she holds out a copy of your first book, telling you how much of a fan she is.
You wish she could see you smiling at her. Instead you thank her, sign her book, and wish her well.
It strikes you that most of these people seem so normal. Some of them seem a little shy, which is understandable, but the majority act like any reader of any other books. You honestly thought most of your readers are perverts. Now you feel guilty for that assumption.
There are even a few men! They seem a little more embarrassed to be here, but you appreciate them coming out at all. Your books are most often written from a woman’s perspective, using your own naughty fantasies as fuel.
Halfway through the event, a quiet young man sits down across the table from you. He’s cute, with shoulder length silvery-blue hair and pale skin. He’s wearing dark clothing and holding one of your books. But his most striking feature is his intense red eyes. Such an unusual color, and the way he’s staring at you, it feels like he’s looking right through your disguise.
He reaches you the book to sign, and you blink behind your sunglasses. It’s your third book, and your favorite, titled “Fuck Me Until I Love You”. You glance back at his face, your own suddenly heating up. You’ve always thought you could tell a lot about a person by which of your books they like best, which filthy scenario they gravitate toward.
This book in particular is your favorite because it’s based on one of your deepest, darkest fantasies. It follows a young woman being kidnapped by a cute guy who ties her up in humiliating positions, force feeds her powerful aphrodisiacs, and roughly fucks her until she can no longer live without his cock.
It’s one of your darker stories, and it didn’t sell quite as well as your other books, but you’ve always had a special place in your heart for it.
“So is this one your favorite?” you ask the young man, who looks around your age.
“Yeah,” he replies in a quiet voice, his eyes never leaving your face.
“It’s my favorite too,” you tell him, picking up a pen. “Who should I sign this to?”
He hesitates, then says, “Tomura.”
You write out the standard message on the inside flap: “Thanks for being a fan, Tomura!” Followed by your signature. You hand the book back to him as you say, “I really appreciate you coming out today, Tomura.”
This is the part where he’s supposed to smile, maybe thank you for signing the book, maybe even tell you some random tidbit about how he became interested in your books. But he doesn’t. He takes the book back, those red eyes staring at you so intently that they’re starting to seem creepy. “See you around,” he says as he stands up and walks away.
Huh? See you around? He doesn’t even know who you are. Maybe it was just the way he usually says goodbye to people. You feel a strange chill down your spine, wondering how he went from a cute guy you’d actually be interested in to someone you’re vaguely afraid of in such a short span of time.
The rest of the book signing goes well. The event ends, you’ve sold a lot of copies of your newest novel, and the store has closed. In the break room, you remove the disguise as you chat with your agent, who is gleefully going over sales numbers with you.
You peek out the door. Only a few store employees are left, cleaning up after the crowd.
“I should have left earlier,” you say. “I could’ve blended into the crowd.”
Your agent pats your back. “Don’t be so dramatic! The people who work here have probably seen a hundred smut writers. They don’t care!”
“I guess so,” you say. The employees do look like bored teenagers for the most part.
You pull on your jacket and sling your bag over your shoulder before saying bye to your agent and slipping out the door. You try to be as casual as possible as you pass through the store and exit to the street.
It’s nighttime, just past dusk, and the air is cool on your face when you reach your car. Just as you pull your keys from your pocket, you hear a familiar voice.
“Don’t fight.”
You whirl around to find the cute but creepy guy from before standing right behind you. He’s holding something in his hand… a cloth? “Wait! Do-“
Before you can finish the word, he lunges forward and presses the cloth to your face. You smell a vaguely chemical odor before you black out.
When you wake up, your head feels groggy and your body feels sore. You try to lift a hand to your forehead, but you can’t. Why can’t you? Actually… you can’t move anything!
You snap to sudden awareness when you realize you’re immobile. Looking down, you’re horrified to see that you’re completely naked. Not only that, but you’re tied up with thin rope in a pose you recognize from your own writing. You had to research bondage positions, because you’ve certainly never tried them yourself.
This one is called the “frogtie”. Your arms are tied behind your back and your calves are tied to your thighs, leaving your legs spread widely apart. You chose this pose for your story specifically because it exposes everything. Your tits and pussy are on full display, completely bare for anyone to see. The rope is tight, restraining all movement of your limbs, making you more vulnerable than you’ve ever been in your life.
You feel panic rising in your chest, your heart beating wildly as you try to remember how you ended up in this situation. You did the book signing, then you went to your car. Someone attacked you! It was the cute guy with the creepy red eyes! What was his name again? Tomura?
Oh god. This is how your book started. “Fuck Me Until I Love You”. He said it was his favorite.
Your eyes dart around frantically, trying to find something, anything, to help you. A clue about where you are, a weapon, a sharp object to cut the ropes.
The room is dimly lit save for a lamp directly above you, illuminating your naked body. It appears to be a bedroom, a messy one at that. You’re on an unmade bed, leaning back against a wall. In the corner sits a desk with a computer and a red gaming chair. There are several cans of energy drinks and soda sitting around, and piles of mostly dark colored laundry lying in the floor.
It’s such a typical room for a quiet, intense loner, you almost want to laugh. But you can’t. You’re in very real danger here! You don’t know what Tomura is capable of, what he intends to do with you besides the obvious.
You hear footsteps outside the door, and your whole body tenses up. He’s coming inside! He’s going to see you in such an obscene position! It’s several seconds later that it occurs to you: he’s the one who tied you up this way. He’s already seen everything. Somehow that doesn’t help your embarrassment at all when the door opens and Tomura walks inside.
“You’re awake,” he says, as if he’s surprised. His pretty red eyes move shamelessly up and down your bound form, but his expression remains maddeningly calm. If he’s the lonely incel type you think he is, why isn’t he blushing or looking awkward right now?
You feel your own face burning with shame. You’ve never in your life been exposed like this outside of a medical setting. Even then you had a sheet and the doctor was a woman. But you have to keep your wits about you!
“Tomura, right?” you ask, hoping you remembered his name right. He gives a slight nod, so you go on. “Please untie me. I promise I won’t go to the police. I won’t tell a soul about this. I know you like my book and maybe it gave you some ideas, but you haven’t actually hurt me yet, right? We can just forget this ever happened.”
He listens to you speak but his face shows no hint that you got through to him. “You said it’s your favorite book too,” he finally says. “Fuck Me Until I Love You.”
“It is,” you tell him, “but it’s just a book! It’s fiction, a fantasy, a-“
“A fantasy,” he says, cutting you off with your own words. “I read an interview with you in a magazine. You said you base your books on your own fantasies. So this is your favorite fantasy.”
Oh no. You did say that! That interview was two years ago. Just how long has this guy been studying you? But if he’s a fan, maybe you can talk some sense into him.
“Look, Tomura, it is my favorite fantasy, that’s true. But just because someone fantasizes about something, it doesn’t mean they want it to actually happen. You understand that, right?”
He shrugs, and you can’t help noticing the way his black shirt rides up, showing a glimpse of pale, surprisingly toned abs.
No! Don’t think about that! Don’t think about how cute his face is, how soft his hair looks, how strange and alluring his eyes are.
“If it’s your favorite fantasy,” he says, slowly stepping closer to you, “it must turn you on. Being kidnapped, tied up, helpless…”
“No!” you shout, trying to shrink back away from him but having nowhere to go. Your back is literally against the wall. You’re scared, not just of Tomura, but of the dark truth of his words. You are getting turned on. You’ve touched yourself while imagining this exact scenario too many times to count. And the guy who has you at his mercy is totally your type!
He reaches out a hand and lightly touches your face, his thumb brushing over your lips. His touch is gentle, warm, and it makes you feel more conflicted than ever. You don’t want this creepy stranger to touch you… but at the same time you want to feel more of him. What is wrong with you?!
You watch as he pulls something out of his pocket. A small clear bottle. “It took a while to find this online, but it’s the real deal,” he says, popping the lid off with his thumb. “It’s super potent too.”
As he pours the entire bottle into his mouth, you realize what it is, because you wrote this story yourself. It’s an aphrodisiac. You try to squirm away but he grips your face with his fingers and kisses you, his tongue prying your lips open so the liquid can pour into your mouth and down your struggling throat.
It’s sweet and thick, and leaves a strange aftertaste once he pulls away, strings of sticky saliva dangling between your lips and his. He uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe your mouth, then his own.
“It’s supposed to work fast,” he says as he sits down in his gaming chair to watch you. His gaze is heavy and hot, scorching your nude body and making you wish you could cover yourself or at least close your legs. The humiliation is unbearable.
For several minutes, you feel nothing out of the ordinary. But then it hits you like a truck - a sudden heat, a sudden arousal, a sudden desire to be touched. You shift on the bed, trying to turn away from Tomura’s stare. He was waiting for this, for the drug to take effect. Of course he’s going to notice!
At the slightest movement, cool air hits your bare pussy, and you can feel that you’re getting wet. You glance back at him, and he seems so much hotter now. You already found him attractive. Now he’s irresistible.
His own lips are parted and he’s breathing a little harder. That’s right, he had some of the aphrodisiac too. The bulk of it went down your throat, but he probably swallowed some as well. You can’t stop looking at him, your eyes moving from his mouth to the clearly visible bulge in his black pants.
Oh god. He’s hung.
He stands up from the chair and slowly approaches, a glimmer in his eyes that betrays his blank faced expression. When close enough, he presses one knee onto the mattress as he climbs into bed beside you.
You’re hyper aware of his warm body right up against your own, your emotions warring with themselves. You’re repulsed and terrified. You’re horny and desperate. You want to escape. You want him inside you.
He reaches one hand down between your tied open thighs and rubs your soft pussy, one finger dipping into your folds. “Guess it worked,” he says, holding up the hand to show you his glistening finger.
You turn your face away in shame, but he returns his hand, this time parting your flesh to let his fingers lightly stroke your quivering clit. You moan, your body trying to arch in the ropes, as he continuously rubs the exact spot that sets you off. You try to pull away, try to struggle against the ropes, but his fingers are relentless.
An embarrassing sound fills the silence of the room, the sound of his fingers sliding around in your own wetness. Two of them have slid inside you, making you wince, while his thumb continues to rub circles into your clit.
You can’t stop your body from trembling, can’t ignore the pleasure washing over you in waves or quiet the pathetic whimpers escaping your lips. It feels too good! You never imagined it could feel so amazing to have someone play with your body this way, while you’re tied up. Even though you wrote this scene in your book, you didn’t realize!
Finally you cum, your body straining against the ropes as a ragged moan bursts from your mouth. It leaves you panting and shaking, but you notice with alarm that Tomura hasn’t stopped. His fingers are still playing you like a violin.
Your orgasm has left you extremely sensitive, your poor clit throbbing under his merciless touch. You’re trapped in his bed, bound and defenseless, your body pulsing with stimulation. The pleasure is building again, way too quickly. Your heart is racing, your nerves on fire, as a second climax approaches.
But before you can cum again, Tomura suddenly slides off the bed and to his knees on the floor, facing you. His tongue replaces his fingers, his lips messily sucking on your clit. You cry out, slamming your own back against the wall behind you. Tomura’s face isn’t visible from this angle, only his hair as it softly brushes your skin.
You don’t know how something can feel so good and so terrible at the same time, how pleasure can be so intense it wraps around to become pain. But you’re feeling it now, tears dripping from your eyes as you beg him to stop, to wait, to just pause for a moment.
He won’t, because that’s not how you wrote the story.
Now you feel pity for your poor heroine who had to endure this, who had her clit toyed with until she was a weeping mess. You can hear the sounds of Tomura’s mouth, feel his wet tongue gliding over you, his warm hands on your thighs. It’s too much!
Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, wracking your body with spasms and twitches while you let out a long, throaty whine.
Tomura pulls away and stands up, looking down at you as he wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. His hair is messy, strands of it hanging in his eyes, but his expression remains neutral. It’s infuriating, how you can’t tell what he’s feeling or thinking at all.
He stares at you wordlessly for a moment, drinking in your pitiful state, watching your helpless body tremble from the sheer force of your climax.
He doesn’t wait long. Before you can even begin to recover, his knees are on the bed again, his body facing yours as his hands rush to open his pants. He pulls out his pale, girthy cock, leaving the rest of his clothes on. Somehow it makes you feel even more exposed.
“I bet this is your favorite part of the story,” he says, giving his shaft a few strokes. It’s plenty hard already, oozing from the flushed tip. Your eyes shift from his raging erection to his pretty face. The aphrodisiac is making you want him, making your body crave his cock, but the rational part of your brain keeps reminding you that he’s an unhinged fan who has kidnapped you. Who knows what he’ll do after he’s had his fun?
In your story, the heroine becomes so addicted to the sex that she falls in love with her kidnapper, choosing to stay with him in the end. But that’s ridiculous. You could never…
“Here it comes,” he says, his voice alarmingly calm, before he lifts your body slightly off the bed to give himself room.
“Wait, Tomura-“
He pushes in before you can finish your plea, sliding through your abundant juices until he bottoms out, stretching you wide. You hear his breath catch, then you look up at his face. Finally, his expression has changed. His lovely red eyes are widened, a pink tint to his cheeks, his mouth slightly opened. He looks like he didn’t realize how good it would feel to be buried to the hilt in your pussy.
For a moment, he stays still, remaining deep inside you. The stretch stings, making you wince and whimper. You’re unable to move, completely bound, your body open for him to use as he pleases.
And somehow, you’re turned on. Your pussy is clenching him, squirting out fluids as he finally begins thrusting. He pauses after a moment, his hands gripping your waist. He leans in close, like he might kiss you again, but instead says, “Oh. That’s right, the girl in your story gets fucked rough.”
Before you can argue or protest, he begins thrusting again, this time hard and deep. His motions are brutal and punishing, making your entire body jolt off the bed. It hurts, but there’s something primal about it, something urgent and needy about the way he grips you, the way his muscles flex beneath the fair skin of his abdomen.
It’s like he’s desperate for you, like he can’t live without feeling your softness wrapped around him. Such overwhelming desire is making you feel dizzy. When his hand slides over to where your bodies meet, and he begins rolling and pinching your aching clit between his thumb and finger, your mind goes blank.
Ripples of powerful pleasure run through you, filling your thoughts with nothing but Tomura, nothing but his thick cock hammering your pussy, his silky hair brushing your shoulders, his deep red eyes staring into your soul as you come unraveled.
By the time you cum for the third time, your brain has turned to mush. You sob out Tomura’s name as if he’s your longtime lover, as if your life is devoted to him. Minutes, or maybe even hours later, you hear Tomura groan under his breath as his cock twitches inside you. Then he cums, spilling his hot sticky load into your core.
Weeks later, you’re typing on your new laptop, banging out another smutty novel, when you hear the door to Tomura’s apartment open. You hurry to the living room to greet him, wearing nothing but sheer panties and a collar.
“Tomura,” you say in a pleading voice, stepping up to him, “hurry and come to the bedroom! I have a new scene we need to act out!”
Tomura smiles at you, a decidedly creepy smile, as he goes to the closet and pulls out some rope. “Show me what you came up with,” he says, following after you.
You’ve already written one novel since you began living here with Tomura. Readers felt it was darker and kinkier than your previous books, but felt more raw and real. They probably couldn’t imagine you were being tied up and fucked so hard you couldn’t think straight every single night.
It’s not the life you expected, but you’ve fallen for Tomura, for your kidnapper and biggest fan. You couldn’t be happier!
origamiaround
romaincrisis
discoholicmusic
2087
snowghoul
gummygunk
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
izzy806
