✶ as much as it seems like you own my heart ───we’re two worlds apart
m.list
ella⠀ ⠀21⠀ ⠀ fem. pronouns⠀ ⠀ aquarius ace studying pedagogy coffee addict ¿ small town german bitch officially married to reo mikage girl kisser in treatment for being hot and chronically depressed angst enjoyer owned by muzan
Like a silent threat, its silver strands delicate yet unyielding, glimmering with the kind of beauty that concealed destruction, the necklace gleamed in Fyodor’s hand. You stood before him in his dimly lit study, a statue carved from defiance and fear, yet his gaze made you feel like glass — fragile, transparent, breakable. With an eerie calm, he stepped closer, his shadow reaching you before his body did, the weight of his presence enough to still the air in your lungs.
“For you,” he said, the words brushing against your skin like frost. His voice was soft, almost reverent, but every syllable carried a quiet cruelty. He reached out, his fingers cold as they grazed the curve of your neck, and clasped the chain. The weight of it was slight, but it sank deep, an anchor tethering you to him. It wasn’t jewelry—it was a sentence. A final act of obedience, a symbol of submission, and you couldn’t tear it away even as your entire being screamed to fight.
You didn’t dare speak. Silence had become your armor, though it was one Fyodor pierced with ease. His lips curled into a faint smile then, the kind that spoke not of joy but of quiet triumph. “It suits you,” he murmured while his fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, tracing the silver as though ensuring the chains were secure. “A symbol of what we are to each other.”
The words twisted in your chest like a dagger. You weren’t anything to each other. You weren’t partners, weren’t lovers, weren’t equals. He had taken that possibility from you the day he sent that letter—the one with pristine handwriting, promising union or annihilation. The marriage was not a choice. It was a strategy, a transaction written in ink and sealed with your silent screams.
At first, you had fought. You were born into power, raised to lead, and rebellion had coursed through your veins as naturally as blood. On the day you were told of your engagement, you had stormed through the halls of your father’s office, your anger loud and blistering. The letter sat on his desk like a gravestone. Fyodor’s terms were clear: marriage would forge an alliance, but refusal would mean war—war your organization could not survive.
Your father, always a man of control, had looked tired in a way you had never seen before. His hands trembled as he passed you the letter, his voice weak when he said, “You don’t understand. If we resist him, it’s the end of us.”
And so, you had been handed over, a lamb to the slaughter. The man you met on your wedding day was everything you feared he would be. Fyodor Dostoevsky, the enigmatic leader of the Rats in the House of the Dead, was a vision of contradictions. His face was elegant, his voice velvet, but his eyes—God, his eyes—were endless voids, bottomless pools that swallowed light and spat out despair. From the moment you met him, you knew he was a man who moved through the world unchallenged, untouchable, as though every soul he encountered was a pawn waiting to be played.
Of course, you had tried to resist. In those early days, you refused to meet his gaze, refused to play the role of his obedient spouse. You pushed back at every turn, but Fyodor was patient. He didn’t demand your submission outright—no, he dismantled you with the precision of a craftsman.
Slowly, precisely, he turned your silence into a weapon against you. He took your rebellion and reshaped it, twisting your anger into futility. He unraveled you piece by piece, his manipulation a quiet, creeping thing that seeped into your mind until you began to question your own thoughts. His control was suffocating yet intangible, a noose you couldn’t see but always felt.
“You think you’re still free, don’t you?” he had said to you once, his voice soft, almost pitying. He had stepped closer then, much as he was doing now, his presence overwhelming as he brushed a stray hair from your face. “You mistake your stubbornness for strength. But all it does is amuse me.”
Now, as he took a step back to admire the necklace, his grin sharpened, his satisfaction cutting through the air like a blade. “You’ve come so far,” he said, tilting his head as if observing a masterpiece he had carefully crafted. His dark eyes glinted, and you shivered beneath the weight of his gaze. “Though I must admit, I do miss the fire in your eyes. It was… entertaining.”
As he stepped forward again, his movements were slow and deliberate, a predator circling its prey. His hand rose, pale fingers brushing your cheek, tilting your face toward him until his presence consumed every inch of your vision. His touch was cold, calculated, and unbearably gentle. It was the kind of gentleness that spoke of power, of control, of a man who knew he didn’t need to raise his voice or his hand to destroy you.
“You’re trembling,” he whispered, his breath ghosting against your skin. His lips curved into a smile so cruel it felt like a knife against your throat. “Do you fear me that much? Or is it something else entirely?”
When your breath hitched, his grin widened, sharp as broken glass. He leaned in, so close you could feel the chill radiating from him, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you. But no—Fyodor Dostoevsky never granted anything so human.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, the words coiling around you like chains, binding you tighter than the necklace ever could. “Body, mind, soul. And you will learn, дорогая, that there is no escape from me.”
The moment he finally stepped away, the room felt emptier, colder, as if he had taken all the air with him. The necklace burned against your skin, its weight a reminder of what you had become—a piece in his game, a pawn bound to his will. And as the door closed behind him, you realized that the chains weren’t just around your neck—they were inside you, woven into every corner of your soul.
c.n.
Gilding the air with an unnatural warmth that mocked the cold weight in Chuuya’s chest, the chandelier’s fractured glow cast delicate patterns across the room. Here, the hum of murmured negotiations and polite laughter filled the space, a symphony of half-truths and manipulation dressed up as civility. He sat beside you, his polished image immaculate, the perfect embodiment of devotion, his every movement orbiting around your presence as if it was the only truth he’d ever known. And you—you were stunning. Draped in shimmering silk, you moved like light itself, effortlessly drawing attention to your every gesture. The world seemed to revolve around you in that moment, and Chuuya, against his better judgment, let himself fall into its gravity once again.
Soft and melodic, you laughed, as though you truly found joy in his words, yet the sound was merely a blade twisting between his ribs. He felt the faint brush of your fingers against his arm, light as a whisper, and for one foolish second, he almost believed it. Believed you. But then his eyes found yours, and the illusion shattered.
Those eyes—unwavering, sharp, and devoid of the warmth your laugh so convincingly promised—were the heart of your performance. No one else saw it. To the room full of strangers, you were the doting wife, perfectly attuned to the man at your side. But to him, your gaze was ice, a silent reminder that every touch, every smile, every soft word was nothing more than part of the facade. And in that moment, the bitterness surged, hot, cruel, because Chuuya knew he had no one to blame but himself.
He hated how his heart still leapt when you leaned closer, how his breath hitched at the faint scent of your perfume, or the way his chest ached with longing for something he’d known from the start was never his to have. Though, most of all, he hated himself for falling in love with you. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was never supposed to be more than a duty, an arrangement dictated by the cruel logic of no one else but the Port Mafia. You were his spouse in name, his partner in deception, nothing more. Yet somehow, against his better judgment, against every warning he’d given himself, he’d let his heart betray him.
From the moment you’d stood beside him on your wedding day, your hand cool and distant in his as you exchanged hollow vows, he’d understood the nature of your bond. Yes, it was a means to an end, a calculated move to consolidate power, to present a united front to the world. Yet, clinging to the depths of his heart, there had been a part of him—a small, foolish part—that had hoped. Perhaps it was the way you tilted your head when you were lost in thought, the faint crease in your brow that appeared when you believed no one was looking, or the rare moments when the mask seemed to falter, revealing the faintest glimpse of something raw and unguarded beneath. Those moments had been his undoing, and now, sitting beside you in this gilded prison of duty and pretense, he couldn’t decide wether he despised you for giving him those glimpses or himself for clinging to them.
Ghostly so, the meeting dragged on, your laughter weaving seamlessly with his as you leaned closer, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered something for him alone. Chuuya didn’t hear the words, though, couldn’t focus on anything but the pounding in his chest and the bitter truth echoing in his mind: it was all a lie. Intertwined in a game he surely didn’t know how to win, he played the fool, and every moment he spent beside you only deepened the ache.
When the meeting finally ended, you stood gracefully, slipping your arm into his without hesitation as he guided you toward the exit. To anyone watching, you were perfect together, the embodiment of a partnership built on unshakable trust and devotion. However, the truth was a cold, unyielding weight between you, a chasm he could never hope to bridge. Spiralling like a lie—a cruel mockery of the intimacy he longed for but could never claim, his hand rested lightly at the small of your back, a gesture of possession and protection.
Only then, he finally spoke, low and sharp. “You’re good at this, aren’t you? Playing the perfect partner.”
“And you’re good at pretending this means anything.”
Chuuya stopped in his tracks, his jaw tightening, as you continued walking ahead, then. Letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, he stared at your retreating figure. wondering how he had allowed himself to become this. How had he, Chuuya Nakahara, a man who had carved his way through blood and chaos, been brought to his knees by something as simple, as cruel, as love?
He pitied himself for it, for the way his heart still reached for you despite knowing it was futile, for the way he let himself dream of a future where you might look at him with something other than indifference. It was a tragedy of his own making, and he bore it silently, playing the role of the devoted husband to a wife who would never be his, locked in a story that was never meant to have a happy ending.
d.o.
The night you discovered the truth about Dazai Osamu, the fragile scaffolding of your carefully constructed reality collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing but a cold, hollow emptiness in its wake. The marriage, the smiles, the fleeting moments of tenderness—they were all a facade, a cruel play in which you had been cast as an unwitting participant. At first, you convinced yourself he was just another victim of circumstance, bound to this arrangement as unwillingly as you were. He played the part of the devoted husband effortlessly, his easy smiles and warm laughter drawing you into the illusion he so carefully curated. You almost believed it. Almost. But now you realized how deeply you had underestimated the man who had promised you nothing and yet had taken everything.
That evening had been unremarkable at first. Draped in an almost serene stillness, broken only by the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the house was quiet. You had wandered to his study, intending to retrieve a book he’d borrowed—a trivial task, an innocent excuse to enter the space he kept so meticulously private. You hadn’t expected anything more than shelves of leather-bound books and perhaps a glass of unfinished whiskey on his desk. But what you found instead was a different kind of story, one written in blood and shadows, laid bare beneath the sterile glow of a desk lamp.
First, your eyes wandered to the photographs spread across the polished wood, stark black-and-white images of faces you vaguely recognized—politicians, businessmen, people whose names carried weight in hushed conversations. Then to the documents, dense with codes and schematics, annotated in Dazai’s elegant handwriting. And finally, to the symbol stamped in the corner of the pages, dark and unmistakable. The Port Mafia—a dark, ominous emblem you recognized from whispered rumors and hushed conversations.
Shallow and panicked, your breath caught, while your mind scrambled to process the enormity of what lay before you. This wasn’t just a secret; it was an entire life, an identity, concealed beneath the surface of the man you had called your husband. The realization was like a blade slicing your very own flesh, slow and excruciating, as the memories of his quiet smiles, his light teasing, his unshakable composure rearranged themselves into something darker, something insidious. Every moment with him suddenly felt tainted, every glance laced with a hidden agenda. Still, worst of all was the crushing weight of your own blindness—how you had let yourself be lulled into a sense of safety, of trust, when all along, he had been playing you like one of his carefully chosen pawns.
It was the soft creak of the floorboards that snapped you out of your daze, and as you turned sharply, the room spun with the force of your movement. Dazai stood in the doorway, his figure framed by the dim light from the hallway behind him. His expression was unreadable, those dark eyes fixed on you with a calm that made your heart race in fear. He stepped inside, then, the door clicking shut behind him, sending the sound to echo in the heavy silence between you.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said softly, his voice devoid of its usual lightness. There was no humor in his tone, no playful edge. Just quiet inevitability, as if this moment had been preordained and all you had done was stumble into it.
Although your lips parted, no words came out. The knot in your throat was too tight, the emotions too tangled—shock, betrayal, anger, fear, all warring for dominance. Finally, you managed to force out a single, trembling accusation. “You lied to me.”
Tilting his head ever so slightly, his lips curved into a faint, almost wistful smile. “Did I?” he murmured, his voice as smooth as silk. “Or did you simply believe what you wanted to believe?”
The question struck you like a physical blow, your chest tightening with a fury that burned hotter with every passing second. “How long?” you demanded, your voice breaking under the weight of the question. “How long have you been using me? Was it all a lie from the beginning? Every word, every touch—was any of it real?”
For a moment that, ultimately, felt like a lifetime, Dazai said nothing, his gaze steady, unyielding. Then he stepped closer, his movements deliberate, almost predatory, until the space between you was suffocatingly small. “What does it matter?” he asked, his voice low, each word dripping with a cruel, almost philosophical detachment. “Reality is nothing more than perception. You wanted to believe in the husband who smiled at you, who made you laugh, who held your hand. That was real to you, wasn’t it?”
Your breath hitched as his words twisted in your mind, tearing through the last fragile threads of your composure. “You bastard,” you whispered, the tears burning hot against your cheeks. “You ruined everything. You—”
Silently, his hand reached out, and for a moment, you thought he might touch you, might offer some kind of explanation or apology. But instead, he brushed past you, gathering the documents from his desk with the ease of a man who had nothing to hide. “I never promised you a happy ending,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “And you never asked for one.”
With a growing sense of despair, the full weight of what he was sinking in, you watched him. This was who he truly was—a man who danced on the edge of chaos, who played with lives as if they were pieces on a chessboard. And you, unwillingly, had been drawn into his game. The room felt colder now, the walls closing in, and as you stood there, staring at the man who had become your greatest fear, you realized you no longer knew where you ended and his web of lies began.
A/N: this req. has been sitting in my drafts for SO long and due to me being stupidly self-conscious i didn’t want to finish / post this fic but well, here i am. writing for fyodor enhanced my spirits. will definitely do that again ! oooo ! back on my angsty bullshit
ahi don’t even know if this is what yall want to read huh
sum. chuuya bought a piercing gun. a-fucking-what? i meant, a new toy. and he will most happily pierce your nipples. the catch? his dick gets rock hard! 3.3k
warnings. explicit sexual content (mdni), oral (throat-fucking), stigmatophilia, piercing play, breath and power play, manhandling, d/s, established relationship, praise, cursing, reader’s gender is not specified, anypov
CHUUYA NAKAHARA
“What… what’s all this?” you asked, wary, as you finally stepped into the apartment, locking your eyes on him.
“A new toy,” he said smoothly, lips curving into a smirk that was dangerous and magnetic all at once. Pushing off the doorway, Chuuya moved with that effortless grace he always carried, sauntering to the table. His gloved fingers wrapped around the piercing gun, caressing the metal like it was something precious. The way he handled it sent a shiver rippling through you.
“You’re not serious,” you murmured, though your voice wavered under his unrelenting gaze.
Tilting his head as his smirk deepened, he turned back to you. “Oh, I’m dead serious.” His eyes darkened, the predatory gleam in them sharpening as he stalked closer. “And of course, it’s for you. Who else?”
“Me?” you echoed, your pulse quickening.
Eyes narrowing just slightly, the heat of his gaze rooted you to the spot. “You trust me, don’t you?”
The way he said it wasn’t a question—it was a command dressed in velvet, impossible to resist. Your throat tightened, but you nodded before you could even think to stop yourself. “I… yeah. I trust you.”
“Good.” His voice dropped lower, that single word wrapping around you like a leash. He stepped closer, his scent—cigarettes and faint leather—curling around you. One gloved hand reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering in a way that made your skin tingle. “Take off your shirt.”
For half a heartbeat you froze, the words sinking in, but the command in his tone left no room for hesitation. With trembling hands, you grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head, letting it fall to the floor. The cool air of the apartment licked against your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and chest.
A possessive hunger gleaming in their depths, Chuuya’s eyes dragged over you, slow and deliberate. Of course, he didn’t bother to hide the way his gaze lingered on your bare breasts, the intensity of his stare making your stomach flip. “Perfect,” he murmured under his breath, as if talking to himself.
Without another word, he grabbed one of the alcohol swabs from the table, tearing the packet open with his teeth. The sharp, medicinal scent filled the air again as he stepped closer, swiping the cold swab across your nipple. You flinched at the sudden chill, though his other hand was already on your waist, steadying you with a firm grip that sent heat rushing to your cheeks.
“Hold still,” he breathed, the rough edge in his voice doing little to hide his excitement. Leaning in, his breath warm against your neck, his gloved fingers pinched your nipple, pulling it taut. The sensation was sharp, almost painful, and yet it sent a strange thrill shooting through you.
The sharp, satisfying click of the piercing gun echoed in the stillness, followed by stinging pain and the faintest gasp that spilled from your lips—a sound so soft, yet it sent a bolt of electricity straight through him. Chuuya’s gloved fingers lingered on your skin, his gaze fixed on the glint of the small metal bar now nestled against your flushed flesh. While his chest tightened, hot breath catching in his throat, a surge of heat and possession roared through his middle, his dick hardening ever so slightly.
Fuck, he hadn’t expected it to hit him this hard.
Yet, the sight of your body trembling under his hands, so vulnerable yet trusting, was enough to push him beyond reason. Every little sound you made—every hitch of your breath, every sharp intake of air left his blood thrumming with a visceral kind of hunger, one he could feel coiling low in his stomach and pooling between his thighs. It stoked the fire inside him, making his, still, clothed length twitch in need.
You were perfect. Too fucking perfect.
Almost glittering, the cool gleam of the piercing caught the dim light as he adjusted it with careful fingers, though his composure was fraying fast. His hands twitched, aching to touch you everywhere, to leave marks and claim you in ways that went beyond the smooth metal now decorating your skin. His gloves only heightened the frustration, a barrier between him and the heat of your body. It made him want to rip them off, to feel your softness and warmth directly, to let his bare hands roam freely. But no—he liked the control the leather afforded him, the precision. He couldn’t lose himself just yet. Not completely.
But God, the way your chest rose and fell, the way your body leaned into his touch despite the pain, had his head spinning. His cock strained against his pants, throbbing almost painfully as he watched you squirm under him. Pulse racing, his breathing grew heavier with each passing second. You weren’t even trying, and yet you were undoing him, piece by piece.
In contrast, the second piercing was worse—no, better. The sound you made this time wasn’t just a gasp; it was a moan, soft and breathless, and it went straight to his dick. A growl rumbled low in his throat, his control slipping as he worked the piercing into place. Feelingl the heat radiating off you, the way your thighs pressed together, as if you were trying—and failing—to fight off your own growing arousal. It made him grin, feral and wicked.
You were as undone by this as he was.
He couldn’t stop himself from brushing his fingers over the fresh piercings, watching the way you shivered, the way your lips parted as you sucked in a shaky breath. Twitching in response, his cock ached intensifying, growing by the second. It wasn’t just lust—it was something primal, something deeper. Seeing you like this, vulnerable and marked by him, flipped a switch in his brain. You were his now, utterly and completely.
Chuuya leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as his voice dropped, thick and rough with need. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he growled as his gloved hand slid down your side, gripping your hip hard enough to leave bruises. Momentarily, his teeth grazed your earlobe, and he let out a shuddering breath, barely holding himself together. “Seeing you like this—knowing I did this to you—fuck.”
His hand drifted lower, tracing the curve of your thigh before stopping just short of where he knew you wanted him. He chuckled darkly when you squirmed, tilting your head back to meet his burning gaze. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this, decorated like the possession you are,” he croaked, his voice thick with possession and desire. “You don’t even know how hard I am right now, do you?”
With rising hunger, he let his gloved fingers trail back up to your chest, brushing against the metal, barely even pulling on it, which made you gasp again. Yet, your aching sounds only drove him further in this abyss of utter lust, his body demanding more, more, more. His lips curled into a smirk, his pupils blown wide as he watched you unravel beneath his touch.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice a low, primal growl as his hand slid to your throat, gripping you just enough to make your pulse quicken. “Every fucking inch of you. I’ll make you never forget that.”
By now, the tension in the air was electric, a raw, unyielding charge that seemed to pulse between you. Chuuya’s piercing gaze locked onto yours, sharp and feral, as if every ounce of restraint had finally snapped. Before you could steady your breath, he was on you, his hands gripping your waist with bruising strength. The sheer force of him sent you stumbling backward until the edge of the table bit into the back of your thighs. In one fluid motion, he hoisted you up with ease, setting you down with enough force to make the table shudder beneath you.
“Stay,” he commanded roughly, yet he didn’t give you enough time to react, anyway, before his hands were on your shoulders. Forcefully, his brute strength pressed you back against the table, pinning you there with one hand splayed across your chest, the other braced on the desk beside you, the cool surface bit into your skin, a stark contrast to the overwhelming heat radiating from him as he loomed over you.
Chuuya’s breath had become uneven by then, his chest rising and falling heavily as he stared down at you. For a moment, it was as if he’d forgotten to move, frozen in place by the sight of you sprawled beneath him—vulnerable, trembling, and completely at his mercy. As though he was committing every curve and dip of your body to memory, his gloved hand trailed down the warm flesh of your stomach, slow and deliberate. His eyes darkened further, the hunger in them growing sharper with every passing second.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his voice thick with something primal as his fingers, yet again, trailed over your stabbed, swollen nipples, brushing against the small glint of metal and earning a sharp intake of breath from you. The sound made him falter, his jaw tightening as a groan rumbled low in his throat. “It’s—You’re unbearable.”
Stepping back slightly, enough to stand fully before you, his presence ever so towering and suffocating, he drank in the sight of you. His hands moved to his belt, undoing it with practiced ease, the sharp clink of the buckle making your stomach twist in anticipation. But he didn’t rush, didn’t make a move to strip further just yet. Instead, he leaned in close, his gloved hand gripping your chin as he tilted your head up to meet his gaze. His eyes burned with possession, every inch of him demanding your submission.
“Open up.”
Before you even realized you were obeying, your lips parted, your body responding to the sheer weight of his presence. The smirk that curved his lips was pure sin, feral and triumphant as he reached for the glove on his right hand, tugging it off with his teeth. The sight of his bare hand—strong, calloused, and utterly confident—made your heart pound in your chest.
“That’s it,” his tone was dripping with satisfaction as he slid his thumb into your mouth, pressing it against your tongue. Meant to make you feel the roughness of his skin, his touch was firm, unrelenting, as he explored the softness of your mouth. “So obedient,” he muttered lowly, almost like a growl. “Do you even realize how good you look like this? Completely laid out for me, marked like a pet, doing exactly what I say.”
While his thumb pressed down harder, making you suck instinctively, his pupils blew wide at the sensation. A sharp, guttural groan escaped him that made his hips jerk forward slightly, the strain in his pants unmistakable. “Shit,” he hissed, pulling his thumb free with a slick pop that made his cock twitch. “Gonna’ unmantle you for behaving so well today.”
The man straightened, then, his lips curling into a wicked grin as his gaze raked over you. His arousal was palpable, his cock straining visibly against his pants, the evidence of his need impossible to ignore. At this point, he was only barely holding himself together, the sight of you pinned beneath him, trembling, marked and pliant, fraying the last threads of his restraint.
One hand moved to his belt yet again, undoing the rest of it with a sharp, deliberate pull. He didn’t look away from you as he worked, the air between you heating up as his cock sprang free from his pants, flushed and hard, the tip glistening with arousal, sticky pre-cum hugging the tip.
Wrapping his own hand around the length of his dick, he let out a shaky breath, his restraint fraying as he stroked himself lazily. For a brief moment, his head tilted back, teeth biting down on his bottom lip, and he groaned so throaty it almost startled you. Drunk in this moment, driven by your very own blooming arousal, your gaze was demanding, pleading, maybe even fuck-faced, yet ultimately glazed by pure need. When his eyes returned to yours, they appeared to have gotten darker, almost feral.
“Now, you’re going to take care of me,” he commanded while his gloved hand returned to the back of your head, threading through your hair and tugging just hard enough to make your scalp tingle. He guided your face closer, his cock brushing against your lips as he grinned down at you, feral and dripping with lust. “And if you perform well enough, I might even allow you to cum afterwards. Is that clear?”
When you merely nodded breathlessly, his free hand abruptly shot to your chest, furiously flicking the metal barrel that divided your hardened nipple with his index finger. A pain—so abstract it jarred your brain chemistry—jolted through your body. “Fucking answer me,” Chuuya hissed.
“Y-yes.” A silent cry escaped your lips. “I’ll be good.”
“That’s better.”
The heat of him was overwhelming, the sheer size of his length making your breath hitch as the tip pressed against your parted lips, then. Driven by compulsion, he didn’t give you time to think, his gloved hand tightening in your hair as he roughly pushed forward, his cock sliding past your lips and onto your tongue.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice trembling as his head tipped back. The warmth of your mouth, the softness of your tongue—it was almost too much. His hips bucked forward slightly, forcing you to take him deeper, after a sharp gasp escaping your lips sent a bolt of pleasure straight through his every being. His bare hand gripped the edge of the table to steady himself, his knuckles white as he tried to keep from losing control completely.
“That’s it.” Speaking a foul language of its own, his gaze pierced through your soul. The sight of you, your lips stretched around him, your eyes wide and teary as you struggled to take him all—it was enough to make his cock throb, the ache in his body intensifying. “Aren’t you the prettiest with my cock in your tight little mouth?”
Upon maddening thrusts that forced you to take more of him, he sheathed himself inside your dripping mouth, hitting your throat in a way that made stars explode behind your eyelids. Controlling your movements as he guided you, his gloved hand tightened in your hair, setting a slow, yet demanding pace that had his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he breathed as he mentally fought to keep himself from snapping. “So fucking perfect—taking me so well, like you were made for this.”
With quickening pace, then, the sound of your muffled breaths and the wet slide of his cock in your mouth filling the room, his grip on the edge of the table tightened. His head tilted back again, a low, guttural groan spilling from his lips as he let himself indulge in the heat of your mouth, the way your tongue moved against him, the way your throat constricted as he pushed deeper.
“You’re mine,” he snarled, his voice rough with possession as he thrust into your mouth harder, the tension in his body coiling tighter and tighter. “Only mine.”
For you, however, the pain, perversely mixed with pleasure, was almost unbearable. Making it hard to breathe, your throat kept burning with each, merciless impact as he buried himself further, the slick pressure of your tongue sending him closer to the edge. Every motion felt like fire, consuming your body, no, fuelling it, as tears welled in the corners of your eyes.
“Fuck,” he growled, the word half-snapped and guttural, his voice rough with desperation. “You’re driving me insane—fucking perfect, just like this.”
Simply primal, the unrestrained hunger twisting into something sharper—more wicked, his gaze shifted, darkening further. His bare hand moved from the edge of the desk, sliding down your neck and wrapping firmly around your throat. The pressure wasn’t overwhelming at first, but it was enough to make your pulse race, the weight of his palm against your skin stealing a faint wisp of air.
“I like it when you struggle.”
Your breath hitched in response to the dual sensations of his cock hitting the back of your throat, while his hand added more than enough pressure around your neck. Ever so slightly, this constriction made you acutely aware of every inch of him—the hardness of his body, the heat radiating from his skin, the raw power in the way he dominated you completely.
With his grip tightening around your throat, the world began to dim around the edges, your vision tunneling as he held you in place, his cock buried to the hilt in your mouth.
He didn't say a word, didn't utter a sound. He didn't need to. The message was clear in the way he looked at you, his eyes burning with a ferocity that stole your breath and set your nerves alight. The way he moved, each roll of his hips a deliberate, measured thrust that forced your throat to stretch around his thick length.
Instinctively, your nails dug into his arms, a silent plea for mercy, for reprieve. But there was no mercy in his expression, only a ruthless determination to claim every inch of your body, to mark you, all while using your mouth like it was made for his pleasure alone.
Hyper-aware of you struggling beneath him, his cock twitched against your tongue as the tight coil of heat in his core threatened to snap. His hand on your throat flexed, his grip tightening as he leaned over you. “I owe you,” he snarled, his tone dripping with possession as his hand squeezed harder, cutting off your air completely for a moment. Panicked, your chest burned as you struggled to inhale. Still, the way your throat tightened reflexively around him sent him spiraling. “Fuck—gonna’ cum, don’t you dare spill one drop.”
It was the moment your throat spasmed again when he broke. The red-haired let out a guttural groan, his hips slamming forward as his orgasm ripped through him, violent and overwhelming. His hand tightened on your neck as he came, the pressure leaving you lightheaded as he spilled his semen into your mouth, the heat of him flooding your tongue like a warm welcome. The way you convulsed beneath him—helpless, gasping—only intensified the pleasure, his body trembling as wave after wave crashed over him.
“Swallow it,” he reminded before his grip on your throat, eventually, loosened slightly, just enough to let you suck in a shaky breath, but his hand didn’t leave your neck entirely. The possessive weight of it lingered, a reminder of who owned you.
When he finally pulled back, his cock slipping from your mouth with a wet pop, he stood over you, his chest rising and falling heavily as he caught his breath. Brushing over the faint marks left by his grip, his fingers lingered on your throat, and he smirked down at you, his expression dark and triumphant.
“You took it so fucking well.“ His eyes gleamed with sadistic delight as he straightened, gently tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, adding “Don’t worry,” as he leaned down to brush his lips against your forehead. “I promised I’d make you cum, too.”
your first kiss with kaiser is as dramatic and unpredictable as he is. he doesn’t plan it—he just acts on impulse. it happens after one of his games, when he’s still riding the high of a win, grinning like he owns the world. you’re teasing him, saying something about how he’d better not let it go to his head, and he suddenly leans in, cutting you off mid-sentence. the kiss is bold and confident, leaving no room for doubt about how he feels. when he pulls back, his signature smirk is firmly in place. “what can i say? i always score,” he quips, completely unashamed, but the slight pink on his ears betrays just how much that moment meant to him.
your first kiss with aiku is as smooth and teasing as he is, happening when you least expect it. it’s after a playful argument, the two of you bantering back and forth as he leans casually against the wall, a mischievous smirk on his lips. he tilts his head, watching you with that infuriatingly confident gaze, and just as you’re about to fire back a retort, he leans in and kisses you. it’s slow and deliberate, leaving no room for doubt about how he feels. when he pulls away, he chuckles softly at your stunned expression, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “i told you i’d shut you up one day,” he says, his voice low and teasing, though the warmth in his eyes gives away just how much the moment meant to him.
your first kiss with rin comes only after months of quiet, unspoken moments that slowly build into something deeper. rin doesn’t rush things—he doesn’t know how to. it’s late one evening, the kind of night where the world feels still, and you’re sitting side by side, closer than usual. the silence between you is thick with unspoken feelings, and rin’s eyes flicker between yours and your lips, his nerves barely hidden. he doesn’t say a word; he just leans in, his breath trembling against your skin, his lips brushing yours so gently it feels like a question. the kiss is soft and tentative, almost unsure, but there’s a quiet desperation behind it, like he’s pouring all the emotions he can’t say into that single moment. when he pulls back, his face is flushed, and he mutters, “don’t make this a big deal,” but the way his fingers linger against yours says he’s already thinking about the next time.
your first kiss with nagi happens in the quiet comfort of his room, months into your relationship, when the lines between lazy companionship and something deeper have blurred completely. it’s unexpected—he tilts his head lazily toward you during one of his long silences, his fingers absentmindedly playing with yours, and presses the softest, sleepiest kiss to your lips. when he pulls back, his cheeks are faintly pink, and he mumbles, “this is nice… let’s stay like this,” before resting his head against your shoulder, like kissing you was the easiest and most natural thing in the world.
your first kiss with reo is every bit as heartfelt and intentional as he is, happening after he’s spent weeks—maybe months—building up the courage. it’s late in the evening, after he’s walked you home, the soft glow of streetlights casting a warm hue around you. he stops at your doorstep, his usual confidence faltering as he lingers, his hand brushing against yours. with a gentle but determined look, he leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that’s tender but filled with the unmistakable passion he’s been holding back. when he pulls away, he’s grinning, his cheeks flushed, and he whispers, “i’ve been wanting to do that forever… it was worth the wait.”
your first kiss with isagi is sweet and unassuming, happening in a moment so ordinary it feels perfect. it’s after one of his matches, the adrenaline still buzzing in his veins as you walk beside him, laughing about something silly. he stops suddenly, his hand catching yours as he turns to face you, his eyes soft but determined. “i need to tell you something,” he says, his voice a little shaky, and before you can ask what, he leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that’s shy but full of emotion. when he pulls back, his cheeks are bright red, and he rubs the back of his neck, mumbling, “sorry, i couldn’t wait any longer.”
your first kiss with sae is deliberate, yet it still leaves you breathless. it happens one quiet evening, the two of you sitting side by side after his training. the air is crisp, his teal eyes catching the faint glow of the streetlights as he turns to you. “come here,” he says, his voice steady but low, and before you can respond, his hand brushes your cheek, guiding you closer. his lips meet yours, firm and confident, like he’s taking what he’s been waiting for. when he pulls back, his face lingers close, his breath warm against your skin. “you should’ve seen this coming,” he murmurs, a faint smirk playing on his lips, but there’s something soft in his eyes that makes your heart race.
“…the quiet understanding that, even in chaos, they are each other’s home.”
oo.1 :: during a sudden rainstorm, chuuya insists you dance with him in the middle of the empty street. he spins you around dramatically, ignoring how soaked you both get. he even lifts you off the ground in a final, cinematic twirl, laughing at your breathless smile.
oo.2 :: chuuya pretends to hate it when you ask to braid his hair, rolling his eyes and muttering something about how it’s “a waste of time.” but the second you start, he’s completely still, leaning back just enough for you to reach comfortably. he’ll grumble under his breath—“don’t make it look stupid”—but the soft way he closes his eyes gives him away. he secretly loves the feeling of your fingers in his hair, and though he’ll never admit it, he refuses to take the braid out until he absolutely has to.
oo.3 :: if a fight gets particularly heated, chuuya has this infuriating habit of silencing you with a kiss mid-sentence. he’s not doing it to dismiss your feelings—he just can’t stand the thought of you being upset with him for too long. “i hate seeing you mad at me,” he’ll say, his forehead resting against yours, voice quiet and sincere.
oo.4 :: one night, you convince chuuya to graffiti a wall with you. at first, he acts too dignified for it but eventually gets into it, creating surprisingly artistic designs. by the end, he’s smeared in paint, laughing, and calling it a masterpiece.
oo.5 :: chuuya challenges you to a cooking duel, complete with dramatic commentary and music playing in the background. he pretends to be a judge for your dish, acting overly critical, but it’s just to cover up how much he loves your cooking.
oo.6 :: sometimes, after a particularly stressful day, chuuya will wordlessly walk up to you, throw his arms around your waist, and bury his face in your shoulder. he doesn’t say much, just breathes you in like you’re the calm in his storm. if you run your fingers through his hair, he’ll let out the softest sigh, “just needed to hold you right now.”
oo.7 :: when you’re walking side by side, chuuya has an oddly romantic habit of grabbing your wrist. he’ll lift it up and press a small kiss to the inside, lingering for just a second longer than necessary. when you ask him why, he’ll shrug and smirk. “your pulse is there,” he’ll say, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
oo.8 :: he sets up a city-wide treasure hunt for your anniversary, complete with clues written in elegant script. each clue leads to places that are significant to your relationship—like the first place you met, or where you shared your first kiss. he acts all serious as you solve each riddle, but when you finally find the “treasure”—a simple, heartfelt note from him—he admits he just wanted to see your smile as you pieced everything together.
ྀ࿐ ˊˎ- you left a hickey on them · . smau · . BLLK MEN · . — THE SONGS ˚⋆°˖ ～ 🍂࿔ ฅ T.B.H. by qwer , nemonemo by yena , i was made for loving you by kiss , good looking by suki waterhouse , i don’t know why by hoa ≽ܫ≼ . . .ellalovesu
— drinks or coffee? ; jjk men & bllk men ; first date hc
rooftop dinner ( gojo & kaiser )
they would take you to the fanciest rooftop dinner imaginable, the kind where the menu doesn't even have prices. "Don't worry, babe, it's all on me," they'd say with a grin, ordering the most expensive champagne just to impress you.
spending half the night teasing you, leaning in too close and smirking every time you get flustered. But when the conversation deepens, he surprises you with his insight and how intently he listens to you, even leaning forward slightly as if hanging onto your every word.
as the evening ends, they make sure to call a car for you, but not before gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear and murmuring, "I had fun tonight. Let's do this again."
tucked-away coffee shop ( megumi & rin )
would take you somewhere quiet, like a late-night park stroll or a hidden coffee shop, both avoiding loud crowds like the plague. Trying to act cool and uninterested but side-eyeing you the entire time, making sure you're enjoying yourself.
awkward at first, hands shoved deep into their pockets as they avoid meeting your gaze, still noticing the little things about you, like how your eyes light up at certain pastries or the careful decoration or how you instinctively fix your hair when you're nervous.
by the end of the date, they'd walk you home in silence, the cool air filled with unspoken tension. When you thank them, they just nod, but the slight redness on their ears would give them away.
arcade ( yuji & isagi )
they'd love the idea of an arcade date, practically bouncing with excitement as they lead you inside. "Let's try everything!" they say, grabbing your hand and dragging you to the nearest game. While Isagi would be a mix of competitive and adorably nervous, especially when you beat him at a few games, Yuji would be hilariously bad at most of the games but doesn't care, laughing along with you and celebrating every small win like it's the greatest thing ever.
they insist on winning you a prize from the claw machine, muttering, "Okay, one more try," about ten times before finally handing you the plushie with a triumphant grin.
by end of the date, their cheeks would be flushed from laughing so much, and as they walk you home, they keep glancing at you like they can't believe you're real.
netflix and chill ( toji & nagi )
now there would be a shift in dynamics here! while Nagi would be too lazy for anything fancy outside, inviting you to his place to chill and play video games, Toji would just enjoy the casualty of staying in, wine and takeout.
of course, Nagi would be surprisingly good at making you laugh with his dry, offhanded comments about the game, and he doesn't even complain when you beat him. Toji, on the other hand, would be casual and teasing, but there's a warmth to the way he makes sure you're comfortable, throwing a blanket over you when you get cold without saying a word.
as the date winds down, they'd lean back on the couch, watching you with a small smile and muttering, "You're not half bad, y'know." For them, that's practically a confession. (bonus points for Nagi being casually touchy but never crossing boundaries.)
art museum ( nanami & sae )
for them, a quiet art museum date is ideal. They'd walk beside you in contemplative silence. When you linger too long at a particularly confusing abstract piece, they'd raise an eyebrow, saying "I suppose art is subjective," with a small smirk, letting you enjoy it without judgment.
their answers to questions about the art are minimal and to the point, like "It's fine" or "The composition's balanced." You find it frustrating but charming in a way.
before you leave, Sae'd hand you a small print of your favorite piece of art, his usual nonchalant attitude masking the thoughtfulness behind the gesture. "I notice things," he says with a shrug, but the subtle warmth in his eyes betrays him, while Nanami would let you browse the gift shop but insists on paying for whatever you choose, slipping the cashier the money before you can protest. When you thank him, he responds, "It's nothing," but you can see the soft smile hiding behind his usually calm exterior.
Boyfriend!Megumi who secretly lives for seeing you in his hoodies. He’ll grumble about you stealing them, saying “Don’t you have your own clothes?” but then hides his face when you twirl around in it. He’s this close to fainting every time you pull the sleeves over your hands.
who gets so shy when you compliment him that he mumbles, “You’re annoying,” but he’s beet red and looking at the ground like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
who doesn’t know how to text romantically, so he’ll send random pictures of the most niche stuff.
Boyfriend!Yuji who texts you “happy birthday” so fast it’s sent at 12:01 AM because he’s afraid he’ll forget later.
who shares all his snacks with you but cries a little inside when you eat the last chip. He’d never admit it, though, because “Your happiness matters more than chips.”
who is always down for a spontaneous adventure—whether it’s stargazing or hunting for the best ramen spot at midnight. “It’s not bad, right? Okay, maybe the sketchy alley was a bad idea…”
Boyfriend!Toge who listens to you ramble about your day with the softest smile, but halfway through, his head falls onto your shoulder, and he’s fast asleep. When you poke him awake, he signs “Keep going, I’m awake now.” He’s lying.
who loves stealing your food, but when you try to take his, he’ll sign “Hands off” dramatically while guarding it like a dragon.
who sends you texts that are just emojis and expects you to decipher the whole conversation. (Spoiler: it’s always him saying he misses you.)
Boyfriend!Choso who stares at you lovingly while you’re talking, completely zoning out because he’s too busy thinking, “How did I get so lucky?”
who tries so hard to understand memes because you keep sending them, and he doesn’t want to disappoint you. (He Googles half of them.)
who tucks you into bed like you’re royalty and refuses to let you get up without a kiss. “No kiss, no freedom.”
Boyfriend!Yuta who texts you good morning, goodnight, and random updates like, “Just saw a cool bird. Thought of you.”
who gets so flustered when you hold his hand that he forgets how to walk straight. “Wait, left foot first, right?”
who offers you his scarf in cold weather, even if it means he’s freezing. You have to force it back on him, but he’s just happy you cared.
Hii, fun fact about your santa tell me post. Kaisers birthday is actually the 25th of December, it's funny to think he will try to make his partner forget about his birthday since he gets sad for not knowing how to react when receiving gifts!
I love your writing and have a nice holiday season! 🩷
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