Hiii it’s me again(I’m sorry) I love your works and how you executed my previous requests!!
I was thinking: nsfw fic where chuuya was being challenged to or had a bet involving no nut November, but reader(his gf) purposefully makes it difficult? You can choose how she makes it difficult
I love your works I hope this request is ok with you :))
We’re a little past November so my bad. This was very fun, hope you enjoy!
Warnings: smut, teasing, orgasm denial, ruined orgasms, spanking, toys, dirty talk, rough sex, other sexual acts.
Summary: Chuuya thought thirty days would be easy. A stupid bet. A harmless challenge. What he didn’t account for was you—wearing his clothes, whispering filth, pressing every button you know exists.
The lamplight in the Port Mafia’s lounge was buzzing. Some lieutenants were smoking at the table. Soft jazz spun from the old speaker near the bar. Chuuya leaned back in his seat, legs spread, one arm slung across the couch behind you, every inch of him radiating bored, detached power.
You knew better. Three fingers deep into his second glass of wine and still eyeing the stack of cash building on the poker table across the room, there was a tick in his jaw that hadn’t stopped since the conversation started.
Dazai tilted his chair lazily backward, boot nudging one of the poker chips. “Didn’t peg Chuuya as the… delayed gratification type,” he said, just loud enough to cut across the room. You raise an eyebrow. “Oh—he mention his little challenge this month?”
You blinked. Chuuya froze.
Dazai popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth, smile slow and foxish. “Abstinence. Thirty days. Purity of body, mind, and... other things.” He said it like a joke. Like a dare already halfway won.
But you saw the quick look exchanged between the men at the table. The pile of bills in the center. The way the air had changed, to tension crackling beneath the skin. This wasn’t banter, and this sure as hell wasn’t private.
“Well,” Dazai murmured, brushing off imaginary lint as he rose, “I’m sure you wouldn’t make it any harder for him.” And just like that, he left—whistling, satisfied, gone.
The silence between you and Chuuya was thunderous. He swallowed hard and finally turned. “Okay, look—” You said nothing. Not yet. “I was gonna tell you at some point.”
You cocked your head. “Before or after day thirty?”
He exhaled hard through his nose. “Don’t do that. Don’t pout.” You weren’t. Not exactly. “Listen.” He leaned closer, voice low. “It’s nothing serious. Just Dazai being shitty again. It’s not worth freaking out over.” He tried for a grin, falsely casual. “Thirty days, no sex... Big deal. I’m not gonna combust.”
You let the quiet stretch. He expected you to smack his arm. Or roll your eyes. Maybe give him grief about forgetting to tell you. What he didn’t expect was the smile that curled over your mouth. Sweet. Soft. Terrifying.
“Oh,” you murmured. “That’s interesting.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “...What is?” You just sipped your drink. Looked him over like you were assessing something valuable. “Okay, no,” he said, suddenly suspicious. “What the hell is that face?”
“The one that says I’m gonna die.”
You slid your fingers suggestively around the rim of your glass. “Is that fear, Chuuya?”
He bristled. “Of course not.”
“You sure? I mean… thirty days is a long time.”
“It’s nothing.” He sat up straighter, like that would make him more convincing. “We’ve had dry spells longer than that.”
“Have we?” you asked, tone light. Innocent. “Because if we have, I definitely wasn’t home.”
You watched the weight of that hit him. The memory of bodies slotted together between dirty sheets, the rail-bite of your knees around his ribs, the bruises your nails left on his throat. The tips of his ears flushed dark.
You rose slowly from the couch and bent to murmur in his ear. “I guess I’ll have to make your suffering worth the stakes.”
Chuuya groaned the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. “You’re not playing fair.”
“You signed up for the game, sweetheart,” you said, brushing past him with a delicious slowness. “And I’m so looking forward to it.”
As you walked away, hips swaying, you didn’t even have to look back to know his eyes were glued to every movement.
Chuuya Nakahara had made it through exactly three days. He had twenty-seven left… and you had no intention of making them easy.
A T-shirt. That’s all it takes. Technically his T-shirt. Washed, worn thin, black. It hangs off one shoulder and stops shamefully high up your thighs. The only thing you’re wearing under it is a pair of panties.
Chuuya’s back is to you when you pad into the living room. He’s mid-pour, wrist flexed as dark wine flows like blood into a heavy glass. You don’t announce yourself.
You just cross to the couch in silence and perch on the edge, knees drawn together, T-shirt riding high as you pretend to fiddle with something on your phone. You feel his stare before he says a word.
You hum lazily. “Thought you liked me in your clothes.”
His jaw twitches, just once. “You aren’t wearing any pants.”
You glance down like you forgot. “Oops.”
He says nothing for a beat. Then tips the rest of the wine into his mouth and downs it like a shot. It’s only when he sinks heavily into the chair across from you, spreading his thighs wide and stretching out a forearm over one side, that you feel the heat start to gather low in your belly.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded but burning.
“What? I’m just being affectionate.” You blink sweetly, then bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning.
Chuuya doesn’t answer. He just leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and you can practically see the tension radiating from him. Shoulders locked.
You go for the kill. “Chuuya.” You lilt his name like a sin, padding over on quiet feet until you’re standing between his knees. “Can I sit?” His breath stutters. “On your lap,” you clarify, already crawling onto him without waiting. Thighs straddling his.
His arms hover like he’s holding back from grabbing you by instinct.
Your cheek finds the scratch of stubble on his jaw. “Just to cuddle.”
“You’re cruel.” He mutters it into your hair, and you feel it vibrate against the crown of your head.
You glance up, lifting a brow. “What, cuddling’s off limits now?”
“You know it’s not that.” Chuuya closes his eyes and tilts his head back, like he's either praying for strength or imagining you bent over the arm of the couch and the sound your thighs would make as he slapped them apart.
His hands twitch once, rising to your waist—then stop, hovering. "You're not wearing a bra."
He grinds his teeth. You sigh dreamily and nuzzle in, letting one palm lazily trace lines up and down his chest. You can feel his breathing change. The way his heart stutters under your touch.
“You’re warm,” you whisper.
You giggle softly. “Careful, you’re sounding a little turned on for someone trying to win a bet.”
There’s a sound low in his throat. Not quite a groan. Definitely not a purr. He adjusts in his seat and you feel exactly why.
“Oh,” you breathe, feigning innocence. “Are you hard?”
“Don’t start,” he mutters through clenched teeth.
“Start what? I’m just—” you roll your hips slightly. Barely a nudge. “Getting comfy.”
“You’re askin’ for it.” His hands finally grip the couch arms. Tight. So tight his knuckles white.
You purr into his neck. “You gonna spank me for wearing your shirt?” He exhales a curse. “Or maybe hold me down and make me beg until I forget how my name sounds?” He grips the armrest even tighter. “I bet you’d fold me in half,” you continue, fingers wandering from his collarbone to the base of his throat, whispering in the softest voice possible. “Or maybe press me up against the glass. Let the whole damn city watch while you—”
You go quiet—but only a second. Just enough time for him to believe it. Then, softly, “I miss your cock.”
His entire body jerks beneath you. You settle your mouth beside his ear.
“I’d ride you slow,” you whisper. “So slow you’d bruise my hips holding back. I know you like watching me struggle to take it. Feeling me tremble and shake, begging for more but knowing I can’t handle it. You’d split me open, wouldn’t you, baby?”
Chuuya snaps up, sudden, and you lift your head with wide, blinking eyes. He paces. No warning—he just lifts you by the waist, stands, and deposits you on the couch cushion. Then he’s on his feet, one hand raking through his hair, the other bracing on the wall.
You curl your legs beneath you, watching with lazy fascination. He’s gorgeous when he’s like this. “Fuck,” he spits towards the hardwood.
“You okay, sweetheart?” you ask sweetly.
He turns, slowly. A muscle ticks in his jaw. "You're doing this on purpose."
You smile. “Of course not. I’m just… being affectionate.”
A twitch in his right eye. He says nothing, just storms to the kitchen. You hear the wine bottle uncork again, the glug of liquid hitting glass, and then another deep, sustained curse. It doesn’t stop him from chugging half of it down.
When he returns, he doesn’t look at you as he sits beside you, still tense. You lean against him anyway. Eventually the wine takes the edge off—but not the ache. Not the hard glare he flicks at you every few minutes.
It's only when midnight rolls around and the TV flickers gently in the dark that you make your soft move. You yawn. Then stand. Turn slowly. Let your shirt rise again as you stretch. “I’m heading to bed.” You look back at him. “Coming?”
He hesitates like a soldier stepping onto a minefield. “…Yeah.”
You’re waiting when he enters the bedroom, lighting dim, sheets turned down. You’re already under them, curled on your side—voice low and syrupy sweet.
When he slides in behind you, you wiggle back into his chest until there’s not a sliver of space. Your ass nudges right into the growing problem between his legs. You hum. Innocently. Affectionately.
He doesn’t move. You whisper it like a lullaby. “Bet you’d love to feel how wet I am for you.” His breath catches. “I’d suck you just to feel your hands in my hair. Let you fuck my throat until you forget why you’re being good.”
“I’d ride you till my voice goes raw. Till I forget about the bet, my own fucking name, and just beg for more—wanting you, Chuuya. Needing you.”
His fingers twitch on the bedsheet like he’s crushing it in a fist. “Swear to god,” he mutters thickly, “the second this bet ends—”
You smile into the pillow. “I know.” You drift off with him aching beside you.
You start the war before the sun even rises.
Chuuya stirs beneath you, breath deep and even. So you shift just slightly where you lie across his chest, your legs tangled with his, one bare thigh now brushing unmistakably high along his hip.
His breath catches. Guilty. You hum low in your throat, just enough to spark vibration where your lips rest against his collarbone. “Morning, handsome.”
His body stiffens. But you feel the struggle in it. He doesn’t answer, so you trail your hand up one inch higher, smoothing slowly across the expanse of hard-earned muscle.
“I was dreaming,” you murmur, a sleepy slur in your voice. “About the way you groaned last week when I called you beautiful.”
Chuuya makes a noise like a dying man hurling himself onto the altar. Could be a laugh. Could be a plea. “Seriously, doll?”
You blink up at him with wide, sleepy eyes. “What? You are. You get so tense when you’re trying not to touch me—I wish you could see it. That’s real strength, isn’t it? Not just power, but sheer, aching… control.”
He grits his teeth so hard you can hear the grind. There’s a tremor in his jaw, just enough to give you goosebumps. With a long, falsely innocent stretch, you lift yourself just enough that your lips reach his ear. Then, warm as breath you say it.
“I’m proud of you, Chuuya.”
He swears. Tries to sit up. Gives up halfway because your weight prevents him. “…Stop it.”
“Stop what?” Your fingers ghost down his chest one last time, then retreat as if nothing happened. You straddle his thigh as you sit up, stretching your arms overhead instead.
Chuuya chokes and throws an arm over his eyes. “If I gave in—if I said fuck the bet,” he says carefully, voice murderously hoarse, “you wouldn’t even be surprised, would you?”
You lean close toward his covered face, voice lilting and low. “I’d be disappointed.”
He leaves that night for a week-long mission.
There are no kisses goodbye. Not even a hug. He won’t let you past the line he’s drawn, so you fold your arms and smile instead. But from the moment he’s gone, you attack from distance.
Day 1: A mirror selfie angled just enough to flash the lacy red lingerie you know he buried beneath your sock drawer hoping you’d never find again. You caption it: “What kinda underwear does a girl wear when she’s proud of her boyfriend’s restraint?”
Day 2: Nothing but a polished shot of your thighs in his coat, bare skin glowing under the fade of lamplight. Sent in the evening with, “Wore this to dinner. Made a few mafioso sweat. Can’t blame them. It still smells like you.”
Day 3: A video. No sound, just you lounging across your bed, dragging one finger slowly down your own stomach, toward the edge of your sleep shorts. You don’t show anything explicit. But the frame cuts right when tension peaks.
His reply is one word: Stop. You don’t.
Day 5: You text, “Had a dream you broke the bet. Not 'cause I begged—but 'cause you did.” The dots bubble. Then disappear. Then bubble again. He doesn’t respond.
The door creaks at 2:14AM on the seventh night. You’re awake, sitting cross-legged on the couch in one of his oldest button-downs, nursing a glass of wine. When you look up, Chuuya’s framed in the gold light from the hallway, coat dragging off one shoulder, hat in hand.
He looks wrecked. And furious. And starving. You tilt your head. “Welcome home, baby.” He doesn’t speak. Just drops his coat on the hook, steps into the room.
You rise and cross the room to meet him, your hand brushing lightly over his upper arm as you pass.
“You survived an entire week without me climbing into your lap and whispering filth into your ears.”
He grits his teeth. “Don’t—”
You take his hat and toss it aside. “Don’t?” you purr. Your fingers slide just under the hem of his shirt as you reach up to fix the twist in his collar. “Because you’ll what? Put me on my knees? Bend me over the back of the couch? Fuck me so hard you break the furniture?”
His hands fist at his sides. You step closer. Mouth brush-close.
“I hope you break something,” you whisper into his ear like a benediction.
Chuuya makes a sound caught between desperation and despair. You trace the shell of his ear with your breath, then circle behind him.
“You’re so strong, Chuuya.” Your fingertips press lightly between his shoulder blades, slipping downward in a slow drag while you press into his back.
His voice is raw when he mutters, “This is torture.”
Not for the last time that night, your body ends up tucked into his side in bed, your leg thrown comfortably over his waist, one hand flattening over the slope of his stomach. You whisper to him as he lays there rigid and breathless beneath you. “My strong, stubborn man. Can’t even shift without pressing up between my thighs…”
He growls your name like a threat and stops.
“Gonna what?” you murmur. “Grip my hips till they bruise? Shove me to the mattress and make me beg?” His throat works. You answer for him. “Make me scream so loud the neighbors finally file a complaint?”
It’s cruel. What you’re doing. Every warm word from your lips should be soft. They’re not.
He lies awake long after you drift off, your breath puffing, palm spread possessively against his waist like a claim you don’t know you’ve made. And somewhere around four in the morning, when he’s sure you’re truly out—he whispers your name like a prayer. Because he wants to win this bet. He wants it more than the satisfaction of a smug Dazai stripped of his gloating rights.
But he wants you more. He always has. God help him...
You press send with a grin that’s half venom, half ache. The light flush of your skin glows under the dim bedroom light—a sinful contrast to the cherry-lace garter stretching tight over your thighs, the silk sheets rumpled behind you. You’re arching just right, fingers tugging down the front of Chuuya’s half-buttoned shirt—the same one you stole two nights ago and haven’t returned.
Camera angle: devastating.
Caption: “only a days left, or you can have it now.”
The reply comes fast. Predictably furious.
Love: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING
Love: I’M IN A FUCKING MEETING
Love: YOU WANT ME KILLED?
You hum, tossing your phone onto the pillow beside you. He’s furious. He’s flushed. He’s fucked. Perfect.
Panting. That’s the first sound you hear when Chuuya slams the apartment door. He doesn’t even take off his coat, storming down the hallway already mid-rant. “Are you out of your damn mind?! What if someone saw that photo?! You think I’ve got time to—”
"...Chuuya." It leaves you cracked and breathless. Just one word—barely louder than a whisper—but it slices through his fury like wire.
“Chuuya.” You say it again, this time drawn-out, laced between breathless sighs. No tease. No bite. Just need.
He’s moving before he registers it. Something stirs low in his ribs—panic? Desperation? Lust? He doesn’t know. Doesn’t stop to think. He throws open the bedroom door. Then freezes. Everything stops.
You’re sprawled across the bed, naked and glistening, a low buzzing sound humming through the charged silence. Legs spread wide, back arched so beautifully. There’s a sleek, violet toy nestled between your thighs. A vibrating dildo rocking in and out of you in slow, sinful pulses.
And you’re moaning his name like he’s something holy. He can’t move. He’s ruined in the doorway, fists balled at his sides, mouth slightly agape as if you’ve knocked every word from him. You tilt your head, lashes dragging open.
“Oh, baby…” Your voice catches on a moan as your hips twitch up into the toy. “You came home just in time.”
“Y/N—” It spills out like a gasp. Or prayer.
“I needed you.” You whimper, thighs quivering with each shallow vibration against your sensitive walls. Your hand slides to your breast, cupping it slow. “I was thinking about you all day. I sent that photo right before I stuffed myself full… can you tell how wet I am just from thinking of you?”
He tries to swallow. Fails. His knees lock. “Stop,” he says. But it’s weak. It doesn’t hold power.
You roll your hips again, just a little. His eyes drag down to the mess building between your legs. “What was that?” you ask, voice sticky with heat.
“I said—fuck, I said stop.”
“But I can’t.” Your hips buck. “You’re not here. You’re not touching me. So I have to do it myself.”
He twitches. You can almost see it—his self-control shredding inside his beautiful, disciplined mind. His jaw clenched hard enough to crack a molar, his boots rooted to the floor though his entire body strains forward.
You drag the vibrator out halfway, slowly, until the glossy tip glistens in the dim light. “What do you think, baby?” you moan, voice nearly a sob. “Think I can make myself cum just like this? While you watch?”
“You’d do it so much better,” you whisper. “Your fingers. Your cock. Your mouth right here...” You graze a hand down your spread thigh, trembling as you keep the toy right on that sweet rhythm. “Talk to me, Chuuya. I wanna hear your voice while I ruin myself.”
He finally steps forward, only to grab the edge of the dresser like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “You’re evil.” He chokes the words out. “You’re trying to break me.”
“I want you. Right now.” You pant. “Fuck the bet. Fuck your pride. Doesn’t it hurt, baby? Watching me like this? Knowing I’m dripping all over your bed and you still can’t touch me?”
His hands shake. One by one, war breaks out behind his eyes. “I said…” He exhales sharply, like it clears his lungs of you. “No.”
You let out a pretty, ruined sound. “Chuuya. Please.”
That does it. He whips around. He’s out the door in seconds. You hear the slam—not anger. Not fury. Just despair.
The moment you heard the front door slam shut, you knew your countdown had ended. Midnight had struck. And Chuuya Nakahara had just walked into the apartment like a man unraveling with nothing left to stop him.
You stood quietly in the center of the bedroom when he entered. His shirt draped over your frame, just barely covering the lacy black panties beneath. Bare legs. No bra.
His gaze hit you like a storm. Still in his coat, gloved hands twitching at his sides, he scanned you head to toe. One beat. Two. The silence screamed from his jawline to his clenched fists. "You think this is funny?"
You tilted your head, just slightly. A smirk played at your lips. "Didn't say a word."
The next second happened in a blur. Your breath caught as he crossed the distance in two furious strides, yanking you by the wrist. You gasped as he shoved you down on the bed, knees pressing into the edge. His hand splayed across your back, pushing until your arms were braced forward, spine arched, ass raised. "Hands. Stay. There." His command lashed like a whip.
You barely nodded before the first smack landed. Not cruel. Yet. A warning. Testing the tension. The second came fast after—a sharper sting this time, enough to make you suck in air through your teeth. Your thighs shifted tight together, your breath already hitching.
And then Chuuya inhaled slowly behind you, guttural and harsh. "This,” smack—harder, “is for the goddamn pictures."
The next one lit your skin, and a moan tore from your throat. "This is for the texts." Smack. “Every time I opened my phone just to see you with fuck-me eyes and a toy between your thighs.” Smack.
You whimpered, fingers curling into the blankets, body squirming as the spanks came hard and fast now. Brutal, deliberate, stacked so close the heat layered into you.
"This is for getting off in front of me," he spat, voice shaking with months of compressed lust. Smack. Smack. Smack. You cried out, both shame and exaltation tangled in every broken breath.
"For sitting in my lap half-naked." Smack. "And for being," his voice dipped lethal low, lips ghosting over your ear, "such a fucking tease." Four more, pounding into your backside until your legs trembled.
He stopped only when your body sagged, your voice gasping his name like it was holy. Then you felt it—his hand sliding up, fingertips skating beneath the hem of the shirt. He tugged the fabric up, exposing your back, your shivering skin, the fine line where lace met flushed flesh.
“Turn it around,” he growled. He flipped you in one movement—rough, sudden, and fluid. You landed on your back, shirt bunched up around your waist, your panties stretched thin over hot skin, your thighs wide open beneath him. His eyes were sharp daggers of blue, wild with things he hadn’t said aloud.
He yanked the shirt up, baring your chest fully. And then, slow and cruel, he grabbed a nipple between thumb and forefinger and twisted. You gasped. Arched. Eyes flaring wide. He rolled it, harsh and deliberate, before tugging it with a hiss. Then he did the same to the other, pinching until your cry echoed through the bedroom.
“Thirty fucking days,” he breathed, eyes flickering to your glassy stare. “You tortured me. Every damn night. Playing sweet, playing innocent, playing like you didn’t know I was two seconds from snapping.” A fingertip tapped just beneath your bruised nipple. Soft. Dangerous. “Well?” he rasped. “Your turn.”
Your breath hitched, lips parting to plead. But he stepped back. Not far. Just enough. His voice dropped low—velvet and venom caught in his throat.
"Grab the toy." Your stomach twisted in anticipation. You reached blindly toward the drawer.
He climbs up beside you on the bed. One hand drifts to your thigh, spreading it wider—casual, confident. His other hand grips the base of the toy.
“You’re going to take this for me,” he says, brushing it against your soaked folds, teasing the tip just over your entrance. “And you’re not going to touch me. Not even once.”
You nod, hips already arching toward the promise of pressure then gasp when he slides it inside. You feel it fill you perfectly, soft hum igniting low and deep. Your thighs quiver. His smirk is sharp as a blade.
“Look at you,” he purrs. “Spent an entire month trying to break me, and now I barely touch you and you're already clenching.”
He leans down, kissing your stomach before crawling up your body. You reach for him instinctively—but he pins your wrists to the mattress above your head, one strong hand locking them in place.
“Stay still,” Chuuya murmurs, brushing your lower lip with his free hand. “If you move, I’ll tie you down.”
You swallow a moan as he lowers his mouth, lips grazing your right nipple before he sucks it deep between his teeth. Your cry rips straight from your throat.
“Sensitive,” he chuckles against your skin. “Good. You listen better when you tremble.”
The vibrations deepen. His mouth switches to your other nipple, wet heat lapping over the peak before he bites—just enough to make you flinch. He looks up through lashes, eyes molten.
“I want you to tell me,” he says, voice all silk and steel. “The moment you’re about to cum. You don’t, and I’ll flip you over and spank your ass until you bruise for lying to me.”
You nod frantically, cunt clenching around the toy as the vibrations make your body jolt. Heat sores in your belly—dangerously close. “I-I’m close—Chuuya, I—”
The moment your voice breaks, he yanks the toy out and turns it off.
A ruined orgasm crashes over the edge of nothing. You sob, shaking, undone and unsatisfied. “Pathetic,” he whispers, dragging the toy across your thigh. His grin is wicked. “That’s what you sound like after one ruined orgasm?”
You pant, feeling empty and wrecked. “Chuuya—”
“One.” He smiles down like a devil content with his havoc. “You think that’s pain? Try thirty days of this. Of needing you, without being able to do shit about it.” He flips you over with a tug too easy and plants his hand on your lower back. “Knees up. Face down. And don’t move again.”
You whimper as you obey, knowing that voice, knowing he means it.
“If you move,” Chuuya drawls, fingers dragging down your spine, “I'll tie you to the bedposts like the plaything you are.”
You nod quickly, breath short, shame and arousal swirling as you feel him leave the bed for a moment. Another hum. Another click. When he returns, he’s holding a bottle of lube. The slosh of it makes your cheeks ignite.
“This part,” he says, running a cold streak between your cheeks, “is where the real punishment begins.”
You gasp, spine rippling inward. “Wait—” you start, but the crack of his palm silences you hard.
“Quiet.” Another firm slap makes you yelp. “Punishment, remember?”
Your head swims. Another line of lube paints your back entrance. He rubs it in slowly… deliberately. Circles, pressure, shallow touches until you're trembling. “Chuuya—”
“Say another word,” he says darkly, “and I’ll gag that smart mouth of yours and remind you what being helpless really feels like.”
You don’t speak again. He presses the tip of the vibrator to your asshole this time, slick and threatening. He pushes gently, then pauses, lets you adjust—then pushes more.
You jolt. “Take it,” he says, one hand steadying your hips. “You were so eager to tease. Be eager now.”
The toy finally slides into place with a low, almost obscene hum. Your walls twitch around the pressure. It’s thick, filling, all wrong and right at the same time. Then he turns it on.
Heat explodes like sparks up your spine. You're gone. Just when you think there’s no higher to climb, no further you can fall… you hear the soft sound of a zipper coming down.
Your body trembles, his shirt is bunched around your shoulders, your hands gripping the sheets like they can anchor you to this plane of existence. But nothing anchors you. Not when your soaked pussy is stuffed full of his cock and your ass throbs around the slick hum of the vibrator he pushed inside you.
He groans behind you then presses his palm flat between your shoulder blades, holding you down as he pulls the toy in your ass back a fraction, then thrusts it forward again.
"Fuck, baby. This how you like it? Cock in your pussy, toy up your ass?" You sob into the mattress, hips arching back instinctively. He laughs. It’s dark. Hungry. "Look at you. Wrecked. Shaking. Can’t even answer me with a goddamn word."
His hips snap forward, cock slamming home, thick and deep and hard enough to light your nerves on fire. At the same time, he presses the vibrator in deeper grinding against your hypersensitive walls from both sides.
Your vision whites out instantly. Your body shudders. “Ch… Chuuya—!
He hisses like you burned him, one hand curling tight around your hip, the other yanking your hair so your head jerks up. “Your pussy just clenched up. Did you just cum?”
You nod—then cry out when his hand cracks across your ass. Once. Twice.
“You didn’t ask me. You forget the rules already?” he growls, punctuating every word with a harsh thrust and another sharp spank. “Did all that teasing you did fry your goddamn brain? Huh, sweetheart? You cum without permission?”
“I—I’m sorry!” you sob, the burn of the spanks only heightening the bliss still pulsing through you. “I couldn’t—Chuuya, I couldn’t hold it—”
He leans down, voice molten in your ear. “You’re sorry?” His tone is cruel. Addictive. “Sorry doesn’t cut it. Sorry doesn’t stop me from wrecking this pussy again until you learn your fucking place.”
He slams into you, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. Your body gives out a little, but he fists your hair again, forcing you right back up where he wants you.
“Gonna torture me like that again? Send me pics with your fingers inside, tell me you’re wet while I’m in meetings trying not to lose it?”
Another thrust. Another swipe of the vibrator. “You gonna behave for me now, baby? Gonna be my good girl?”
“Please,” you whimper. “I’ll be good. I’ll be so fucking good. I’ll do anything, Chuuya, please—”
His hand finds your clit. The second he rubs it, everything inside you jerks like he’s yanked your soul from your skin. He groans behind you. “Beg for it. Proper.”
"Please, please let me cum again," you gasp. "I need it so bad—need you to ruin me. I swear I won’t treat you like that again, I swear. Just—just let me have it. Please, love."
He curses viciously. You calling him that? While he’s fucking you and playing your body like a finely tuned weapon? It breaks him.
“Oh, I’m gonna ruin you, baby. I’m taking you apart until you don’t remember how to stand without my cock keeping you up. I'm gonna fuck you until you're leaking out of both holes and crying into the sheets, and you're gonna beg every time you wanna cum. You got that?”
You scream when the next thrust punches your orgasm out of you. Your body jerks uncontrollably, fluttering around him, the toy buzzing against all your nerves as you tumble down all over again.
“Shit, fuck—that’s it,” he groans, and finally, finally his control snaps. He grabs your hips hard enough to bruise and slams into you twice more before he comes, hot and thick, spilling inside you with a string of curses and a low, guttural moan of your name.
He collapses over you, sweaty and panting, both of you breathing like the aftermath of a war—and that vibrator still buzzing as a cruel afterthought between you. Locked deep where Chuuya had twisted it in hours—minutes?—ago. Time is a smear now, like sweat across your clavicle, your thighs trembling and glazed with his affection.
When you whine, he chuckles darkly against the nape of your neck Chuuya kneels between your legs like a knight disarming a minefield. "Gotta get this out of you, darling," he murmurs, voice stained with reluctant reverence. He watches the way your breath snags in your throat when he brushes his fingers along your inner thigh.
With exquisite care, he slides the toy free. You gasp—more at the sudden emptiness than discomfort. He sets it neatly on a cloth before reaching for a towel from the nightstand. He doesn't leave you. He doesn't speak. He just cleans you the way only Chuuya can—tenderly, deliberately.
He lowers it to your thighs and begins swiping it upwards with slow strokes. Each pass is careful, like he's writing apologies in touch alone. “I hurt you?” he asks, though he’s already read your answer in how you moaned his name earlier.
“Not even close,” you murmur, voice lazy with endorphins.
He huffs gently through his nose, wiping away evidence, trailing upward between swollen folds with reverent discipline until he’s satisfied every trace of you is tended to. He tosses the cloth aside and leans in to kiss your forehead.
You loop your arms around his neck and tug him down atop you. He goes willingly, shifting you both onto the pillows in a tangled mess of warm skin and sleepy limbs. He curls in like gravity is sending you into orbit without him. “I can still feel it inside me,” you whisper into the cusp of his ear. “Phantom toy syndrome.”
He chuckles low in his throat, amusement rumbling against your bare chest. "You'll feel more than that tomorrow,” he says, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “I might've overdone the spanking.”
You roll your eyes. “Understatement of the month.”
“The whole point was to teach you a lesson, remember?”
You twist the covers tighter around you and draw back enough to look at him fully. “Mm. And what lesson was that again?”
Chuuya chuckles and before you can react, he flips you cleanly beneath him again, caging you in with his biceps on either side of your head. “That I can ruin you whenever I want,” he purrs, brushing his nose against yours.
You gasp, then grin. “Says the man who begged for thirty days to end.”
“Begged? You little—” You catch his wrist before he can retaliate with tickles or, worse, another spank. Your grin is smug and unrepentant, even as you yawn. He sees it. He softens immediately. “Alright, enough teasing for now,” he says, resting his forehead against yours. "You need sleep. I practically rearranged your guts."
You roll onto your side as he shifts behind you, strong arms slipping around your waist to mold your bodies together. He pulls the blankets higher, kisses the back of your neck, and melts against you like butter from a furnace.
You both lie there in silence for a beat. “Chuuya?”
"Can we do the vibrator again sometime? But like... not for punishment?"
His laugh is muffled in your hair. “You get an orgasm, and now you're greedy for more?”
He snorts affectionately. “You're lucky I'm completely gone for you.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t record your desperate noises all month. Could’ve blackmailed you for years.”
You feel him grin against your skin. One of his hands slides lower over your belly, settling protectively. For a moment, nothing exists outside these four walls. Just the aftermath of desperation, and something warmer blooming in its place.
He doesn’t say I love you. You don’t either. But with your bodies tangled and your breath steadying in sync, you don’t really have to. You both fall asleep right there, laughter still echoing in your sighs.
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