Sorry Guys, Going Inactive

Mostly NSFW Bungo Stray Dogs stories.

[nolongerpostingsorry]

Welcome to my page!

Requests are closed.

✦ smut (+18 minors do not interact)

✧ fluff/angst sfw

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

My rules

🤎 Dazai’s collection

🧡 Chuuya’s collection



🖤 Mori’s collection

💚 Ranpo’s collection

💜 Fyodor’s collection

💙 Atsushi’s collection

🩶 Fukuzawa’s Collection

🤎🧡 Dazai and Chuuya’s collection

Kinktober



[nolongerpostingsorry]

With a heavy heart I’ve decided to go inactive. For now I’ll leave all my posts up, if that changes in the future there’s a reason for it. Stay safe yall thank everyone who’s liked, commented, reposted. Thank you to everyone who’s been here since day one. It was fun while it lasted. Stay safe and take care of yourselves!

[nolongerpostingsorry]

I have this giggling feeling when I see some notification from you, hehe. 🫶🏽 I always think about your well-written (and hot as fuck) works, and that pfp with Dazai doesn’t help either (⸝⸝⸝>﹏<⸝⸝⸝). Hope you are feeling well!

Omg this means so much to me! You are literally my favorite author on this platform! I hope all of well with you too! I’m hanging in there🫶

[nolongerpostingsorry]

HAI IM BACK!

Walk with me… i’m about to yap. Was thinking of a cool request of dazai x reader getting back together after years apart. Once upon a time, reader and dazai were inseparable, him being the demon prodigy and her being the princess of yokohama. When mori introduced them, they clicked, first loves, first kiss, first everythings, something everyone was aware of. Obsessed with each other.

When dazai was going to leave the port, he planned on telling reader, but mori got to her faster, sending her overseas on a mission so that he doesn’t lose his two top execs ( related to fyodor ). fast forward to now dazai with ada but the ada is teaming up with the port, would be cool to have a surprise where reader is brought back by either mori or fukuzawa for questioning and BOOM. Reader thinks dazai left her and can lead to some angst, but ultimately them getting back together. praise smut love possessive you know it :3

(honestly, this could be a mini series, but i won’t be greedy LOL)

Unfinished

Nsfw

Warnings: smut, hickeies, praise kink, dirty talk other sexual acts.

Summary: Separated by lies, you and Dazai spent years believing the other had abandoned everything you built together. Until fate drops you back into the same room, sparks flying, wounds splitting open, and desire snapping like a live wire between you.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

“They call you a princess.” You glance sideways at the boy standing far too casually beside Mori’s desk, hands in his pockets, bandages peeking from beneath his sleeves. His voice carries mild curiosity, not reverence. Not fear.

You lift a brow. “And they call you a demon.”

A smile ghosts across his mouth, slow and amused. “Touche.”

Mori watches the exchange like a chess player admiring the board mid-game. “This is Osamu Dazai,” he says smoothly.

That was how it started. Not fireworks. Not drama. Just recognition flickering quietly between two dangerous minds.

By the end of the meeting, the adults were still discussing logistics and influence, and you and Dazai were leaned closer than etiquette allowed. “You hate this too, don’t you?” he murmurs without looking at you.

“Hate what?”

“All this boring meeting stuff.”

You exhale something that almost becomes a laugh. “You’re the first person who’s noticed.”

He glances at you then, something bright sparking behind the boredom. “Guess we’re already friends.”

Friends become partners within a week. “You’re overthinking the pattern,” you tell him one night over scattered maps and half-drunk coffee. “He wants you to anticipate chaos, not control it.”

Dazai sprawls across the table upside-down, hair brushing your notes. “You say that because you enjoy being right.”

“You say that because you hate admitting when someone outsmarts you.”

“Untrue,” he says solemnly. “I adore intelligent women. Especially when they’re correcting me.” You kick his shin. He laughs.

The Port Mafia begins whispering. You walk halls shoulder to shoulder. You finish each other’s tactical sentences. He brings you stolen sweets and outrageous theories about human stupidity. You bring him quiet moments and structure and grounding. Somewhere between late-night paperwork and bloodstained missions, his hand starts finding yours without either of you acknowledging it.

“You’re staring again,” you murmur during a briefing.

“I’m cataloguing,” he replies lazily. “If you die dramatically, I’ll need to remember the angle.”

You snort. “Romantic.”

“You love it.” You do.

Your first kiss happens in a shadowed stairwell after a mission goes sideways and your pulse hasn’t slowed yet. “You’re bleeding,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek.

“So are you.”

“The blood makes me prettier.”

“You wish.”

Your mouth finds his before the argument finishes. It’s clumsy. Breathless. Reckless. Everything neither of you ever lets yourselves be. When you pull back, he stares at you like he’s just discovered the meaning of life. “Well,” he says faintly. “That complicates things.”

You rest your forehead against his. “You’ll survive.” He smiles like he’s already doomed.

After that, the world simply accepts it. Executives raise brows. Subordinates whisper. Mori watches with an unreadable expression as his Demon Prodigy and his Princess orbit closer and closer, gravitationally locked. “You’re obsessed,” someone mutters once within your hearing.

Dazai only grins. “Correct.”

You become each other’s constant. He learns your tells. You learn the cracks beneath his humor. He becomes softer with you. You become braver with him. You talk about futures you’re not supposed to imagine. “We could disappear,” he says one night, dangling his legs over a rooftop edge beside you. “Steal a boat. Change our names. Terrorize a small seaside town.”

You hum thoughtfully. “You’d get bored in three days.”

“Two,” he concedes. “But you’d make it interesting.”

You bump his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Still yours.” Always.

When he decides to leave the Port Mafia, he doesn’t tell you immediately. He plans it carefully. Wants to offer you the truth instead of a vanishing act. He never gets the chance. A sealed envelope waits on your desk one morning. Overseas assignment. Long-term. Intelligence extraction tied to emerging networks surrounding a dangerous name. Fyodor. You depart before dawn. No goodbye kiss. No whispered promises. Just silence stretching thin and sharp between continents.

Months later, is when you hear the rumors. “Dazai defected,” someone says casually across a foreign table. “Vanished.” He never came for you. Never warned you. Never waited. Back in Yokohama, Dazai receives confirmation that your trail has vanished. Each of you believes the same lie. That the other chose a life without you.

It starts with your heels. Sharp against the marble spine of the Armed Detective Agency’s floor. The sound cuts through the quiet. Conversations taper. Chairs shift. Eyes lift, one by one.

Fukuzawa walks at your side, steady as a drawn blade returned to its sheath. His presence is measured, respectful, watchful. Kunikida trails half a step behind, glasses catching the hallway light. His gaze flicks between you and the corridor ahead like he’s mentally drafting three contingency plans.

You are not restrained. But not trusted either. You breathe in. Yokohama once bent around your footsteps. This building does not. He’s here. You sense him before you see him. In the careless laughter drifting. You step into the main office. Your posture never falters. Chin lifted. Expression composed into something sharp.

Dazai is leaning against a desk, half-slung, one leg hooked around the chair’s rung. He’s mid-comment to Atsushi, smile lazy, eyes bright with mischief. Then he looks up. Your gazes collide.

His body stills. Completely. The smile doesn’t vanish, but it freezes like glass caught mid-shatter. The room drains of sound. For a heartbeat, you see it in his eyes. The rooftop arguments. Laughter stolen between disasters. Youth carved into something sharp and unrepeatable.

The ghost of his past just walked into the room breathing. Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with unfinished grief.

He smiles wider. Like nothing ever broke. And that hurts more than any accusation. “Dazai,” you say quietly. Not Osamu.

His eyes flicker. Just once. A fracture line beneath the polish. “My,” he says lightly, voice warm and theatrical, “if this isn’t an unexpected plot twist. Yokohama really does enjoy theatrical returns.”

Your smile is thinner. “You always confuse drama with relevance.”

He pushes off the desk and strolls closer, movements loose, casual, deliberately unthreatening. He stops just shy of your personal space. “I thought you were still somewhere unpleasant and rainy,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Bergen,” you answer coolly. “And you’re right. Very rainy but not unpleasant.”

A beat. His eyes sharpen. “You’re actually here.”

“Regrettably.”

The air hums. Fukuzawa clears his throat, reclaiming the room with quiet authority. “Y/N is here at my request,” he says evenly. “She represents the Port Mafia intelligence network currently cooperating with the Agency. Her assignment involved long-term surveillance of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s operations. She will provide strategic intelligence for the duration of this alliance,” Fukuzawa continues. “Preliminary questioning will be conducted immediately.”

Kunikida adjusts his grip on his notebook, jaw tight but professional. Yosano’s gaze sharpens with interest. Dazai tilts slightly toward you, voice low. “Embedded again. You do enjoy complicated relationships.”

You don’t look at him. “Try not to romanticize espionage.”

A faint chuckle. “You always were cruel to my imagination.”

Fukuzawa gestures toward the inner office.

Your heels echo once more as you pivot. Dazai follows. Two steps behind. Close enough to feel. Not close enough to touch. The hallway narrows toward one of the Agency’s smaller interview rooms, the kind used for witnesses who weren’t quite suspects and suspects who weren’t quite innocent.

“It’s a standard inquiry,” Kunikida says briskly as he unlocks the door. “Nothing adversarial. The Agency requires verification of your background, your operational scope, and any connection you may have to Fyodor Dostoyevsky.”

You step inside without hesitation and take the chair across from the table, folding your hands neatly in front of you. “Making sure I’m not a double agent,” you say calmly. “That’s reasonable.”

Kunikida nods and takes his seat across from you. Behind you, the door closes with a soft click. Dazai doesn’t take a chair. He leans back against the wall instead, arms loosely crossed, posture relaxed in a way that is entirely intentional. Watching everything. “All right,” Kunikida says, opening his folder. “Your intelligence reports. Are they firsthand, or collected through intermediaries?”

“Both,” you reply. “If direct contact was safe, I handled it personally. Otherwise, I ran assets and coordinated extraction.”

Dazai tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Still delegating danger when possible. Very responsible of you.”

You flick him a glance. “This isn’t a reunion.”

He smiles faintly. “Pity. I would’ve brought flowers.”

“Focus,” Kunikida snaps, shooting Dazai a warning look before returning his attention to you. “Your exposure to Fyodor. Have you had any direct contact with him?”

“No,” you answer. “Only secondary channels. He doesn’t expose himself unless he has a plan.”

Kunikida scribbles quickly. “Assessment of his operational pattern?”

“He favors long games. Sacrificial pieces. Psychological destabilization over brute force. If you think you’ve cornered him, you’re already two steps behind.”

Dazai hums thoughtfully. “You’re describing someone dangerously handsome.”

You don’t smile. “You wish I was describing you.”

That earns a quiet chuckle. “Flattering.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “You’d have known more about his methods if you’d waited.”

Dazai blinks, surprised just enough to register. Then the humor slides right back into place. “Ah,” he says lightly, “is this the part where we discuss unresolved emotional baggage during an interview?”

Kunikida’s pen pauses. “If there’s relevant operational context—”

“There isn’t,” Dazai interrupts smoothly.

Your jaw tightens. “Are you always this smug, or is this a defense mechanism?”

“Both,” he replies pleasantly. “Multitasking is one of my many talents.”

“You vanished,” you say flatly. “No warning. No message. Nothing.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I like dramatic exits.”

“That’s not cute.”

“I wasn’t aiming for cute.”

Kunikida clears his throat sharply. “We are not here to discuss personal history.”

You don’t take your eyes off Dazai. “Then maybe he shouldn’t keep pretending this is a joke.”

Dazai’s gaze sharpens slightly, though the smile stays intact. “If I didn’t joke about uncomfortable things, I’d have to actually feel them. Terrifying concept.”

“Coward.”

“Ouch.”

“You left,” you press. “You didn’t even try to contact me.”

His expression stills for half a beat. Not enough for anyone else to catch it, but you. “You’re the one who disappeared,” he says lightly. “Very mysterious.”

You push back from the table and stand abruptly. The chair legs scrape against the floor. “I was on a mission,” you snap. “On Mori’s orders. I asked to see you before I left. He told me you refused.”

That lands. Dazai’s smile fades just a fraction, something unsettled flickering beneath the surface. “You believed that?”

“You didn’t show up.”

“I didn’t know you were leaving.”

“Then why did you defect while I was gone?”

Kunikida looks between you sharply. Dazai exhales slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “I was planning to leave the Port Mafia before you vanished. I intended to tell you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I couldn’t find you.”

“You didn’t try hard enough.”

His voice softens despite himself. “I searched.”

You scoff. “Funny. I rushed back the moment I could, wondering why the only person I trusted decided I was disposable. He ran off to play detective.”

That finally cracks the levity. Dazai straightens slightly from the wall. “Mori told me you volunteered for the assignment. That you wanted distance.”

You step closer, anger tightening your posture. “And you just believed him?”

A beat. Silence stretches. He doesn’t answer. Kunikida exhales heavily. “This interrogation is clearly compromised.” You sit back down slowly, composure reassembling piece by piece.

Dazai returns to leaning against the wall, but the ease is gone now. His gaze stays fixed on you, sharp and unsettled, like a puzzle.

“Detective Dazai,” you say coolly, “feel free to write whatever conclusion makes you comfortable.”

His smile returns, smaller and quieter than before. “Oh,” he murmurs, “this just became very uncomfortable.” His eyes don’t leave yours.

You barely remember the walk home. The interrogation ended shortly after the argument with Dazai, if it could even be called that. Kunikida had shut it down once the room started feeling unstable. Paperwork, stiff professionalism, forced distance.

Now you’re alone in your apartment, shoes kicked off near the door. You should feel numb. Instead, everything feels sharp. Mori’s voice echoes in your memory. Calm. Polite. Precise.

An overseas assignment. Immediate deployment. Non-negotiable.

You remember the envelope sliding across his desk. The mission details printed cleanly, clinically. You remember nodding, because obedience had always kept you alive. You remember leaving his office and going straight to Dazai’s. Waiting in the hallway outside his door. Checking your phone. Waiting longer.

Telling yourself he was busy. On a mission. In a meeting. Anywhere except ignoring you. You remember leaving before dawn anyway.

You don’t have proof yet. Not officially. But you know Mori manipulated the timing. You know he separated you on purpose. Your hands are still trembling when the knock comes. You freeze.

You shouldn’t answer. You’re not ready for anything. The knock comes again. Lighter this time. Before you can decide what to do, the door opens slowly. You didn’t lock it.

You see the familiar trench coat first. Then the bandages. Then his face, shadowed but unmistakable. “It’s really not a good habit to leave your door unlocked belladonna,” Dazai says mildly. “You’re lucky it’s just me and not a serial killer.”

You stare at him. “Are you following me?”

His hands lift slightly, palms open in a lazy gesture of surrender. “That sounds much creepier than it is.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“I needed to talk.” He clears his throat and steps farther inside, holding up a thin folder. “Before you slam the door in my face, you should probably see this.”

You hesitate. Then take it. Inside are copies. Communications logs. Altered timestamps. Mission routing discrepancies. Evidence that Mori coordinated multiple operations to overlap deliberately. Including Oda’s final mission. Your chest tightens.

“He died the day before you left,” Dazai says quietly. The humor has drained out of his voice. “Mori arranged it.”

You swallow hard. “That’s why I wanted to see you, before I left,” you whisper. “I knew him being gone would destroy you. I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone. I didn’t know Mori was involved.”

His gaze lifts to yours.

Your voice cracks before you can stop it. “I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t say goodbye to you, Osamu.” There it is. His name lands between you like a fragile thing.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Not ‘Detective’ anymore?”

You shake your head, frustrated tears threatening. “Don’t do that. Don’t joke right now. I waited for you. I thought maybe you just didn’t care enough to show up. For years I didn’t even know if you were alive.”

He takes a step closer, carefully. “I left because of Oda. He told me to be on the side that saves people. I wanted you with me. I really did. But I didn’t know where you were, and Mori made sure I couldn’t find you.”

“You still didn’t say anything,” you snap. “No message. No warning. You just vanished.” Silence settles for a beat. Your voice drops. “I thought I was just another game you got bored of.”

His expression tightens. “You know that’s not true.”

“I didn’t then.”

He reaches for you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. “You’ve always been unfair to yourself,” he murmurs. “You assume the worst when you don’t have answers.” He exhales quietly. “I should’ve broken every rule to get to you. I didn’t. That part’s on me.”

Your shoulders sag. The anger doesn’t vanish, but it loosens its grip. “Even when I was furious,” you admit softly, “I couldn’t hate you. I hated that I couldn’t.”

His gaze softens. “You’re still terrible at letting go.”

“So are you.”

The corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “Touché.” He touches your jaw like it's a secret. And you kiss him. Fierce. Hungry. Desperate. No warning this time. Your mouth finds his. He responds, teeth grazing, lips pulling, breaths ragged. His hands lock around your waist like anchors. You gasp against him, stumbling, the file discarded lifeless at your feet.

His tongue traces truths you couldn’t say aloud. Your nails dig into his shoulders, grounding yourself in the heat of him—and when his lips part to confess without words, you shatter. You clutch him like proof. He kisses like hellfire.

Your back hits the wall and his hands are already in your jacket, shoving it from your shoulders with zero ceremony. You claw at his shirt, tugging it from his waistband, desperate to feel skin. He groans into your mouth, like he’s starving, like kissing you is the only nourishment he’s had in years. “I missed you,” he mutters between kisses, every word raw. “Missed this mouth. Missed all of you.”

Your fingers tangle in the silky strands at the nape of his neck, yanking him closer. He laughs, low and wrecked, and shifts so your hips align, his arousal obvious against you.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, pupils blown wide with want. “Always were. My ruin. My salvation... my goddamn masterpiece.”

You breathe something like his name but it’s more of a confession. One that unlocks something dangerous in him. You step back, lips swollen, chest heaving. He follows without hesitation. Every backward step brings him closer until you reach the bedroom. The moment you cross the threshold, you drag him in by the collar. He kicks the door shut right behind him.

Clothes vanish quick and graceless—the product of urgency, not precision. He strips you down like every second covered is a crime. You clutch his belt, pull it free, and shove his pants down with a grin ghosting your lips. Then Dazai effortlessly, pushing you backward until your knees hit the bed. Another shove and you’re sent sprawling, hair fanning across the mattress.

Dazai follows you down. His mouth lands at your throat—biting, kissing, tasting. “You still make those sounds,” he murmurs, descending to your breasts where his tongue traces circles over sensitive skin. “Still shake for me. Still open so easy—like you’ve been waiting for this too.”

When his hand snakes between your thighs and his fingers brush over your clit in featherlight teases, you arch hard off the bed. “God, this—Osamu—”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he breathes against the swell of your chest. “Say it again. Scream it if you want. No one else gets to touch you like this.”

You gasp, spine curving as he slides a finger lower and back up, never quite giving what he teases. That damn smile is back on his lips, split wide, wicked. But you’re not passive in this. Never were. You flip him suddenly, your thighs straddling his hips. He groans low, hands gripping your ass instinctively. “Still fast,” he chuckles, head dropped back. “Still vicious.”

You smirk against his neck, your lips dragging slow along the skin you once branded with kisses. You bite, just enough to bruise, and his breath stutters. Your hand slips between you, wrapping around his cock—hard, hot, desperate against your fingers. He buckles beneath you, hissing.

“Fucking hell,” he growls. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’ve always wanted to die with a beautiful woman, how about because of one?” You whisper, voice dark silk. Dazai groans.

But he doesn’t let you linger in control for long. He flips you again with wicked ease, caging your wrists above your head with one palm, his other hand sliding down to your thigh, lifting it over his hip. “You’re my good girl,” he murmurs, reverent and filthy all at once. “Always so sweet for me. Letting me ruin you all over again.”

He kisses your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thigh. Every inch of skin is met with praise, like he’s carving devotion with his mouth. “I missed you so damn much,” he says again like it’s religion. “You have no idea. I thought I'd forget how to breathe without you.”

You’re panting now, trembling under the intensity in his eyes, the weight of his body ghosting over yours, the truth blistering between you. He kisses over your ribs, your sternum, and drags his lips back up to your mouth—gentle now, achingly so. “Are you ready?” he asks.

You nod. “Yes.”

But he doesn’t move. “Say it,” he whispers. “Say you want me.”

“I want you, Osamu,” you breathe, barely able to speak. “I need you.”

He slides into you in one deep, measured thrust, and the world falls away, leaving only this hot, high place made only for the two of you. “Good girl,” he gasps, forehead pressed to yours as your body clenches around him. “My good girl.”

Your back arches off the mattress, every drawn breath pushing your breasts higher as he thrusts into you with punishing precision. Your moan rips out of you—raw, desperate. The sound makes his eyes darken, makes the edge of his lips twitch in something feral.

He leans close, pace never faltering, and growls near your ear, “If I let go, will you stay put?”

You nod wildly. But that’s not enough. You know him. “Yes,” you whisper broken, breathless. “I’ll stay.”

His mouth curves into something wicked. “That’s my girl.”

He releases your wrists, and instantly, his free hand slides down your flushed, sweat-slicked body. Trails hotly over your ribs, down your stomach, until his fingers find the ache between your thighs. He doesn’t pause. He rubs circles against your clit, precise as a sniper. He keeps fucking you hard and fast, every thrust timed with the drag of his fingers.

“You gonna cum for me?” Dazai murmurs, voice rough like smoke and silk. “You always do when I talk to you like this. When I touch you just right.”

You whimper his name and he thrusts harder. Possessive. Brutal in rhythm, but so careful with where his lips land. He buries his mouth against your collarbone, teeth scraping before his lips suck harshly at the flesh.

The bruise streaks blossom almost instantly. He moves to the other side, dragging his tongue across the top swell of your breast before latching on again. “Mine,” he breathes against your skin, hot and unforgiving. “Do you hear me? This—” he drives into you, rubs faster, and your breath catches—“this belongs to me. And fuck, you feel like you know it.”

Your body coils, trembles. He doesn’t let up. He doesn't let you look away.

“You wanna cum,” Dazai growls. “Need to, don’t you? Need my hands, my cock—my voice—telling you how perfect you are. That you’ve always been. Even when you were gone, I wanted you like this. Still do. Always will.”

Your fingers seize the sheets. Your thighs quiver. Everything inside you bends toward release. “Say it,” he orders, his thumb never stopping its punishing rhythm between your legs. “Say you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you cry out. “I’m yours—God, I’m—”

You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you like lightning down spine. Your body clamps around him, your cry half-hoarse and half-ecstasy, and he doesn’t stop. Keeps going. Thrusting into aftershocks, hickies blooming across your skin like warnings and worship.

“Good girl,” Dazai breathes. “That’s it. Just like that.” He groans when you tighten again around him, hips stammering. His control slips. “Fuck, you feel too good—too good, baby, I’m gonna—”

His hips snap violently. Once. Twice— He pulls out on a curse, hot ropes of finish painting your thighs, your stomach, slick and obscene. For a long heartbeat, neither of you speak. Only the sound of your breathing—his heavy, yours uneven—fills the dark room.

You’re wrecked. Claimed inside and out. Hickies on your chest. You're still trying to remember how to breathe. The ceiling spins gently overhead, blurred by the tremble still running through your thighs and the erratic thud of your heart.

He leans closer, kisses your knee, and then straightens with a stretch that pulls tight over the hard lines of his body. “Where’s your bathroom?” he rasps, voice still dark.

You lift an arm and point vaguely toward the left. He grins like the devil himself, sweeps a lazy hand through your ruined hair, and presses a kiss to your temple. Then he's gone, leaving the bed colder in his absence.

Your thighs twitch with the aftershocks. Your nipples ache, an echo of the way he sucked bruises into the skin just above your breastbone like he wanted to mark his territory.

You hear the faucet run. Then it stops. Dazai returns moments later, a warm, damp towel folded in one hand. He raises an eyebrow when he sees you trying to shift into a sitting position. “Don’t you dare,” he says silk-smoothly, climbing onto the bed beside you. “You’re under mandated recovery protocol.”

You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. It dies the second he presses the towel between your thighs, cleaning you with deliberate, gentle strokes. You flinch at first. Too much. But he murmurs something low, unintelligible, and the warmth of the cloth laced with the intimacy of his care soothes the tremor.

“Do you see this?” he peels the towel higher, over your stomach, where a smear of his release glistens. “Proof that you were absolutely begging. Not that I needed the evidence.”

“Osamu.”

He lifts a hand innocently. “Just documenting my victories.” Then his gaze drifts up. He stops cleaning. “Hnh. What do we have here?” He brushes his thumb over the bruises on your chest, circling faint bite marks. “Look what I did.”

You close your eyes. “Excessive,” you murmur. “You were making a point?”

“No,” he corrects with a purr. “I was excited. It’s an important distinction.”

The towel drops. His fingers graze the fresh mark between your collarbones and you can feel the smug heat radiating off him. He leans in, tongue flicking over the bruise like a seal. Then he rolls off the bed.

“Be right back,” he says.

You watch him disappear again, unconcerned, moving through your place with too much familiarity for someone who hasn’t been here. You hate how natural he looks here. How intimately right it feels. You’re touching the bruise on your chest when you spot his shirt from earlier draped over the edge of the headboard. On impulse you grab it, dragging the fabric over your head.

It smells like him. You fold into it, half-buttoned, the hem barely covering the tops of your thighs, and pull your knees up to your chest. He comes back in, blinking when he sees you curled under the blankets in his shirt. He’s only in his boxers now, still barefoot, still gleaming with sweat. He stops at the foot of the bed, jaw slack. “I’ll need that to leave,” he says finally, like it’s the obvious next step of this insane little ritual you’ve repeated a hundred times. But never like this—not with so much broken trust behind it.

Your heart stutters. You meet his gaze dead-on. Let your voice drop quiet and clear. “I don’t want you to leave anymore.”

His smile fades. He crosses to you in two steps, climbing up onto the mattress like a storm blowing in. Before you can blink, he’s pressing close, kneeling by your curled form, eyes serious and searching. “Hey...”

You uncurl, just enough to touch his jaw, his cheek, his lashes. “I don’t want you to leave me ever again.”

The silence between you vibrates, charged and fragile. Dazai closes the space between you slowly, folding into you like returning home. He buries his face in your neck, breath hitching. His body warms yours. “Then I won’t,” he breathes. “You’re mine. Still.”

You press your forehead to his. “And you’re mine.”

You fall asleep like that—twined in his warmth, still wearing his shirt, your pulse finally beginning to slow.

Master List

[nolongerpostingsorry]

Hi! First off I love your writing sm! I was wondering if you could do a sfw where Reader is feeling down and Chuuya notices so he comes to her house late at night and they take a walk just to talk about stuff? (Very inspired by the Dazai and Midnight Icecream one lol) Ty!

Still Awake?

Sfw

Summary: You’re used to being the strong one. The dependable one. The one who doesn’t fall apart. Chuuya sees through it immediately—and quietly reminds you that you don’t have to be unbreakable with him.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

The knock comes late. Not sharp. Not frantic. Just firm enough to cut through the quiet hum of your apartment and pull you out of your thoughts. You stare at the door for a second too long before answering.

When you finally open it, Chuuya’s standing there—hat tipped low, coat hanging open, hands tucked into his pockets like he didn’t debate this decision at all. His eyes flick over you once, quick and practiced.

You’re in an oversized hoodie. Socks mismatched. Hair not done. The kind of look reserved for people who don’t plan on being seen. “…You know it’s almost midnight,” you say.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You know your lights are still on.”

You sigh, stepping aside. “You could’ve texted.”

“Did,” he says, brushing past you. “You didn’t answer.”

Your apartment is quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses in on your ears. There’s a mug of cold tea on the table, a blanket half-folded on the couch. Chuuya notices all of it. He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Rough day?”

You scoff lightly. “That obvious?”

“You didn’t complain to me even once,” he replies. “That’s how I knew something was wrong.”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile betrays you. “You make it sound like a science.”

“Please,” he says. “I’m a professional.”

You close the door, resting your forehead against it for just a second before turning back around. Chuuya’s watching you now—quiet, steady. No teasing glint. Just concern wrapped in familiarity. He clears his throat, suddenly all business. “Alright. Grab a jacket.”

You blink. “What?”

“We’re going for a walk.”

You stare at him. “Chuuya, it’s late. And cold.”

“Exactly.” He pushes off the counter and reaches for his hat. “Best time for it.”

You hesitate. “I don’t really feel like—”

“Nope,” he interrupts gently. “Not an argument. Just a walk.”

“…Fine,” you mutter, grabbing your coat.

He grins, satisfied. “See? Easy.”

Outside, the city feels different at this hour. Quieter. Streetlights hum overhead, casting long shadows across the pavement. Your footsteps echo faintly as you fall into step beside him. Chuuya doesn’t rush. He matches your pace like it’s second nature.

For a while, neither of you speaks. Then, casually, “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

You glance at him. “You dragged me outside.”

“Yeah,” he admits smugly, “here you are.” The silence stretches again—comfortable this time.

You exhale slowly. “I don’t even know how I’d explain it.”

“That’s fine,” he says immediately. “We can just walk.”

You look down at the pavement. “I feel stupid being this tired.”

Chuuya clicks his tongue. “Nah. You feel human.” That makes your throat tighten. He doesn’t look at you when he adds, “You carry a lot. Anyone would get worn down.”

You swallow. “You noticed?”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “I always notice.” You stop walking without realizing it. He stops too. For a second, the city hum fills the space between you. “You don’t have to be ‘on’ all the time,” he says, voice quieter now. “Not with me.”

You laugh softly. “You say that like it’s easy.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t say it was. Just said you don’t gotta do it alone.”

“I just feel like…” You trail off, searching for the words. “Like no matter how much I do, it’s never enough. There’s always something else. Someone else who needs me to hold it together.”

Chuuya nods slowly. “Yeah.”

You look at him again, surprised. “You get it?”

“More than you think.” He keeps his eyes forward. “Being the dependable one gets old fast.”

You kick lightly at the sidewalk. “I don’t even know when it started. I just… stopped letting myself fall apart.”

“That’s usually how it goes,” he murmurs. The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s heavy but not suffocating.

“I’m tired,” you admit. “And I feel guilty for being tired.”

Chuuya exhales through his nose. “That part’s bullshit.”

You blink. “What?”

“Feeling guilty,” he clarifies. “You’re allowed to be exhausted. You’re allowed to want a break.”

You scoff softly. “Try telling my brain that.”

He slows, gently tugging you to a stop. Turns to face you fully this time. “Hey,” he says firm enough to anchor you. “You don’t owe the world everything you’ve got.”

You swallow. “Feels like I do.”

He studies you for a long second, expression serious in a way that makes your chest ache. “You don’t have to be strong with me,” he says. “You don’t have to perform. Or explain. Or fix anything.” His thumb brushes once over your knuckles, grounding. “You can just… be.”

Your throat tightens. You look away quickly, blinking. “…I don’t know how,” you whisper.

“That’s okay,” he replies immediately. “I do.”

You laugh weakly. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Relax. I mean I’ll sit with you while you figure it out.”

You stand there for a moment, city lights reflecting in puddles at your feet. Then, quietly, you lean forward. Just enough that your shoulder presses into his arm. Chuuya stiffens for half a second, then relaxes, shifting so you’re supported properly. His arm comes around you, loose but sure.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “See? Breathing already.”

You close your eyes. The noise in your head dulls, just a little. After a moment, you pull back, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Why?” he asks. “I’m not.” He nudges your shoulder with his—light, grounding. Then, almost awkwardly, he offers his hand without looking. You take it. His grip is warm. Steady.

By the time you circle back toward your building, the weight in your chest hasn’t disappeared but it’s lighter. Shared. At your door, you hesitate. “…Thanks,” you say. “For coming.”

He tips his hat back onto his head. “Anytime.” Then, softer, “Next time you’re still awake this late for the wrong reasons?” You meet his eyes. “Call me,” he says. “We’ll walk it off.”

“…You wanna come in?” you ask, glancing back at him. “Just for a bit.”

He pretends to think about it, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Then he exhales through his nose. “Yeah. I do.”

Inside, the apartment is warm. Quiet. Familiar in a way that feels different now—less heavy, less isolating. You shrug out of your coat and toss it aside. Chuuya follows suit, setting his hat on the counter like it belongs there. You move toward the couch without really thinking about it. He joins you just as easily.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The city hum filters in through the window, distant and steady. Your body finally starts to register how tired you are now. Chuuya notices immediately. “You’re exhausted,” he says softly.

You shrug. “It’s catching up to me.”

He reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulls it over both of you without asking. The motion is casual, practiced. Like this has happened before. Like it was always going to. You lean into the warmth, your shoulder brushing his.

After a beat, he shifts—subtle, careful—so his arm settles behind you. You take it. Your head rests against his shoulder. He doesn’t tense. Doesn’t tease. He just adjusts slightly so you’re comfortable. “…Thanks,” you murmur.

“For what?” he asks.

“For not trying to fix it.”

He huffs softly. “Yeah, well. You didn’t need fixing.”

That settles something deep in your chest. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time doesn’t feel important right now.

Chuuya breaks the silence eventually, voice low. “You know you can lean on me, right? Not just tonight.”

You nod against his shoulder. “I know.”

His fingers shift slightly, brushing your sleeve. Grounding. Present. “You don’t have to carry everything,” he says. “Not all at once. Not alone.”

You close your eyes. “It’s hard to let go.”

“I know,” he replies. “That’s why I’m here.”

You breathe him in—leather, faint smoke, something familiar and safe. The steady rise and fall of his chest anchors you, pulling you out of your head and back into the moment. Your body relaxes before you even realize it’s happening.

Chuuya notices anyway. He smiles softly, almost to himself. “There it is.”

“…What?”

“You,” he says. “Relaxing.”

You hum, too tired to respond properly. After a while, he shifts just enough to tuck the blanket higher around your shoulders. His voice drops to a murmur. “Get some sleep,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

You don’t argue. Don’t overthink it. You let the warmth and the quiet pull you under. The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is the gentle press of his fingers against your arm—steady, reassuring.

Master list

[nolongerpostingsorry]

HEY GIRL HOW HAVE U BEEN!! hope ure not stressing urself too much :3 always remember to take breaks and take care of urself okay ?!?!!??!!????

okay Down to business. dazai. spitting in my mouth and callinf me a good girl then proceeding to finger me in a storage closet. i'm so genius i think this is the shortest request i've ever written ANYWAY hope ure doing good!! kiss kiss mwamwa

Storage Room Shenanigans

Nsfw

This one’s super short!

Warnings: smut, spit kink, dirty talk risk of discovery, other sexual acts

Summary: What starts as quiet archiving turns into something far more dangerous when a Dazai follows you and locks the door.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

“I’m heading to the records room to finish archiving those incident reports.” You announce it to the office. Your voice is even, clipped—as always.

From where Dazai is lounging at the edge of the couch, ankles crossed and smile lazy, your words summon something sharper in his gaze. “I’ll come supervise,” he offers airily, as if supervision has ever been in his vocabulary.

You shoot him a flat look. “Pretty sure you have no idea how to file.”

He’s already standing, already too close, brushing his fingertips along the edge of your sleeve. “Exactly,” Dazai hums. “I live to learn.”

You roll your eyes and head down the hallway. He’s at your heels a moment later, humming again. Off-key and amused. You push open the storage room door and step in, already focused on the week’s backlog. Files await. And then Dazai steps in behind you.

You pause instinctively, senses on high alert, pretending your pulse doesn’t flicker as the door clicks gently shut. You arrange yourself before the nearest cabinet and begin rifling through the folders. “You’re very well-behaved today.”

You don’t turn, but your fingers falter briefly on a report. “I’m working.”

“I noticed,” he says, voice dipping near amused reverence. “All diligence and straight lines. You should see your face when you’re sorting. Very serious. Very... competent.”

You glance at him over your shoulder with a half-smile. “Is that supposed to be praise or a pickup line?”

“Both,” he concedes. “Multitasking, sweetheart.”

You laugh. It slips out too easily, the kind of sound he always stops to listen to like it's rare music. He grins when you do, face softening in that way that only ever happens when the doors are closed. “You flirt in libraries, morgues, and now a storage room,” you tease, still turned toward the files. “Any more sacred places you’d like to defile?”

“Hmm,” he muses. “Have we tried the interrogation room?” You cover your smile with the next folder. Behind you, there’s a soft shuffling sound, then—

Click.

The lock turns like punctuation. You go still. Not immediately. Not obviously. But your body registers it before your brain can untangle the sound. Slowly, you twist to face him. “You locked it?”

Dazai shrugs like. “Didn’t want us to be interrupted. You’re working so hard—would be a shame to let your concentration go to waste.”

Your mouth goes dry. His smile remains soft, easy. He closes the space between you with that lazy, almost sleepy kind of elegance that only makes him more dangerous. “Dazai,” you say, and your voice is not as firm as you want it to be. “This is a bad idea.”

“But you haven’t told me to leave.” You swallow. His fingers gently tap the steel cabinet beside your hip. Not touching you. Not yet. But close enough that the heat of his body licks at yours. He leans in, breath tickling your ear. “Let’s have some fun.”

You pull in a shaky inhale, pulse thudding too loud against your ribs. “I have to finish this report,” you say, each word quieter than the last.

He hums sympathetically, lips near your temple now. “I’d never stop you,” Dazai murmurs. “I just want to… observe.” You feel him smile against you. “You’re blushing,” he notes giddily, almost reverent.

“No, I’m not.”

“Oh, you so are.”

You look away, duck your head. But your hands are trembling now, fingers curled too tightly against the edge of the drawer, and his presence behind you feels like a storm cloud soaked in longing. “Say the word,” he says, quieter now. “And I’ll behave.”

You don’t say it. Because you don’t want him to. He knows. Of course he does. That unshakable calmness laces through him. His hand, finally, slips along your arm, his knuckles brushing along your sleeve like a secret.

Then, nearer—his voice right at the shell of your ear. “Good girl.”

Your knees wobble before your heart catches. You barely register how fast his arm wraps around your waist, grounding you, pulling you back against him. You reach for him before you think. You face him, hands fisting gently into the front of his coat, your forehead tucked against his chest as your breath rushes, dazed and warm.

Dazai hums, amused—a dark little sound like velvet dragged along something wicked. His palm settling low on your back, guiding. You let him. His voice changes. The teasing lilt vanishes. Now it's calm. Now it's dangerous.

“Stay quiet,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. You nod once. Barely. “Listen.” Another nod, breath hitched. “Obey.” A small sound escapes your throat, thin and cracking like ice. “Say it,” he coaxes. “I want to hear it.”

“…Yes.” You whisper.

He releases a breath like he’s proud of you. “My good girl.” The words stroke the base of your spine like a hand. You nearly melt all over again. He waits until you’re still. Until your breathing evens out despite what it costs. Then: “Hands behind your back.”

You do it. Instantly. Fingers clasped, back straight. “Spread your feet. Just enough—yes, like that.”

Your pulse thunders between your thighs. Silent, but not unreadable. He feels everything in you just beneath the surface. One hand lifts your chin from behind, turns your face slightly. You can’t see him—just the edge of his coat sleeve and his silhouette skimming greedily close.

“Open your mouth.” You hesitate for less than a second. Then part your lips—slowly. “Mmm. You’re not just obedient—you’re eager.” You tense, just a flicker but it only sharpens his grin. “You know what’s coming.”

And then, slow as syrup and twice as filthy, Dazai spits. It lands hot on your tongue. You gasp, breathe shaking vulnerable and disbelieving. You don’t close your mouth. You don't pull away. He watches. You feel it like touch.

“That sound,” he murmurs, already closer. “That little moan you try to swallow? It’s perfect. You sound ruined. Like you’re thanking me.” His fingers skim your waistband, casual as breath. “Oh but we’re just getting started, aren’t we?”

His hand drops lower.

“I want your pants open,” he says. Like he’s placing an order. “But you don’t move. That’s my job.”

Your chest lifts on a trembling inhale. The first button pops with agonizing slowness.“You stand there. You take everything I give you. Just like that.” Then—the teeth of your zipper sigh apart under his fingers. He doesn’t pause.

He spits again. Right into your already open mouth. You moan. Small. Unabashed. And Dazai smiles like sin incarnate. “You needed that, didn’t you?” he purrs. “To be made into something quiet.”

His palm slides just inside the open fly, brushing soft skin beneath the hem. You shudder beneath his touch. The slight tremble earns a gentle lick of breath on your cheek.

His voice drops lower. “I said don’t move unless I tell you, belladonna.”

You exhale shakily. Nod again. Swallowed whole by the need riding the edges of your blood. Then the doorknob rattles.

Time snaps. You flinch instinctively. A startled flicker of sound tries to rush your throat— But he covers your mouth just in time, palm sealing you in silence.

You freeze. Soft footfalls outside. The faint curse of someone trying the handle. They mutter. Grumble. Leave. A beat of silence.

You tremble, still backed against the shelf, pants gaping open, Dazai’s hand over your mouth and heat flushed from your throat to your knees.

“I should leave you like this,” he whispers. “Panting. Open. Quiet. Because good girls know how to wait.” His hand curls tighter.

His hand slowly lifts from your mouth, fingers grazing your cheek like a goodbye without the leaving. His mouth grazes so close to your ear.

“But,” Dazai says, voice low and reverent. You swallow against the heat in your throat. “You’ve been such a good girl for me.”

That phrase again. You inhale shallowly as shame claws its way up your spine, only to crash into the want between your thighs.

He coasts his palms down your arms like calming water, then ghosts one hand back to your open waistband. His fingers rest at the hem of your underwear.

“Do you want me?” Your breath shivers. You nod. He chuckles. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

Your voice is barely there. “I want you.”

“That’s not begging.”

You close your eyes as his other hand bookmarks your hip, grounding you. “Please,” you whisper. “Please… touch me.”

He kisses your neck. Slow. Intent. Then pulls back only to spit, catching your jaw and letting it drip past your lips. You gasp—and he’s already pressing his thumb to your chin to coax your mouth open. “So good,” he praises darkly. “My filthy, obedient girl.”

His hand slides past the flimsy lace barrier. One finger. Then two. He pushes in with the kind of patience that makes you weep. He groans softly against your hair when you clench around him.

“Fuck. You’re soaked. You were like this the whole time, weren’t you?”

You nod helplessly, head lolling back as your breath breaks into jagged pieces. He curls his fingers deliberately, dragging them right against a spot that makes your spine arch.

“There. That’s where you want me?”

“Yes.” It barely escapes your throat.

He keeps that rhythm. Unforgiving in its slowness. His thumb finds your clit—circles it like he owns your pleasure. With exquisite control, he tethers you to him stroke by stroke. When your moans start to escape, he shushes you. His other hand lifts to your mouth. Two fingers rest against your bottom lip.

“Open.” You do. His fingers dip past your tongue, and the flicker of heat in his eyes says he might lose his control. “This mouth,” he breathes. “I won’t be kind to it next time.”

You whimper around his fingers, your body's trembling now—hips grinding into his hand. He matches the rhythm of his thrusts to the cadence of his praise.

“So needy. So perfectly fucked open for me already. And all we’ve done is start.”

You're burning up. Core clenching. With his fingers still deep inside you, coaxing you toward the edge, he turns his head, whispering three words into your skin.

Two fingers buried deep inside your dripping cunt. A slow thrust, curved too perfectly, coaxing your walls with every deliberate pull. “Want to cum for me, pretty girl?” Dazai murmurs, he brushes his mouth just beneath your ear.

You nod, frantic, your chin trembling as his fingers curl further. You're full—and not even close to full enough. His fingers twitch inside your mouth, and you gag softly around them.

“Ah ah,” he tuts gently, removing his fingers from your lips, then wipes the string of spit across your cheek like he's smoothing lipstick. “Say it.”

“P-please,” you gasp, swallowing down embarrassment and need. “Please, Osamu.”

The second his name hits the air, his face shutters with something dark and devastating. “There’s my good girl,” he breathes. A beat later, he spits into your open mouth. Hot. Wet. His eyes don’t leave yours. “Swallow it, sweetheart.”

You do, body flushed, head buzzing. Then a third finger pushes inside you, dragging your slick folds wider. His thumb finds your clit.

Your hands fist the tug of his coat near his waist, trying to ground yourself, but it’s too much. Too close. Every shift of your hips forces his palm against your aching clit and his fingers deeper inside. “Osamu, I—”

“You wanna scream for me, huh?” he purrs. “Make a show of how ruined you are?” One hand lifts and slides between your lips again. “Fall apart quietly,” he orders, fingers steady inside you now, dragging along that soft place again and again. “Be a good girl. That’s all I want from you.”

You are so close your vision whites out at the edges. Every slow curl of his fingers is practiced precision. His thumb finds your clit against and pushes harder. Your moan gets caught in your throat, eyes wide open as climax cascades through you like glass breaking.

The bookshelf shudders as your thighs clamp, helpless, around his hand. Your cry is choked off by his fingers still pressed to your tongue, your body convulsing in waves as you soar and keep soaring. Dazai doesn’t slow. Not until the last tremor fades from your spine.

Slowly, he pulls his fingers from your quivering cunt and slides them into his own mouth. He groans, eyes fluttering shut. “You always taste so good,” he murmurs, tongue dragging along one knuckle before he licks the next. Then he leans forward and kisses your temple, all molten smugness.

“You were such a good girl for me,” he whispers, hand drifting down to redo your waistband, fingers cool and precise.You breathe through the haze, heart drumming wild in your throat, still unsure if your legs will hold you.

Dazai casually smoothing your shirt down, brushing sweat-damp hair out of your eyes like he didn’t just murmur filth into your soul.

His smile is teasing again. Dangerous.

“Think your hands still work?” he says lightly. “Because I’d rather not do my report tonight.” You blink at him. He winks. “File it under favors owed, bella.”

And with a twist of the lock and the faintest brush of lips over your knuckles, Dazai is gone.

Master list

[nolongerpostingsorry]

gruhehehehe

Imagine being married to both Dazai and Chuuya, and fem!reader likes writing, so she writes in this small diary.

Dazai found it (courtesy of his fluffy ass cat doppelganger that he stole, I mean bought) and started going through it. It was mainly boring shit (you choose what) but then bro finda a 4 page long smut fanfic abt Childe (Tartaglia/Genshin impact).

Chuuya comes home to see Dazai reading a pink badazzled diary that has unicorns on it. Chuuya brushes it off as Dazai being weird (daily occurance btw, he reads random shit he finds on the roads) bit Dazai pulls him to read it and says "this is what our Bella wrote, isn't she js so talented?" And Chuuya, being experienced in writing himself (poet boy 🔛🔝) sees this and gets jealous asf

They recreate it, a lot and I mean a LOT of dirty kinks, with ofc aftercare (I love Chuyas aftercare sm) during aftercare Dazai gets jealous that Chuuya is making reader feel more happy 💔

.....

In the middle of the night the cat drops Chuuyas mug infront of him and he goes "this is why dogs are better!" But then proceeds to pet the cat like "are you okay????"

Two Critics, One Author

Nsfw

Warnings: smut, humiliation, dirty talk restraint, blindfolding, impact play, other sexual acts.

Summary: When your glitter-covered, diary is discovered, what begins as teasing curiosity spirals into something far more dangerous.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

You left the apartment smelling faintly of lavender and smug domesticity. The laundry was folded, and you had survived three whole days without a single unsolicited pen theft.

So, naturally, the universe rewarded you by reminding that you lived with Osamu Dazai. And his cat. No—your cat now, apparently. Joint custody via salmon treats. Apathy, luxurious menace in feline form, had been plotting. You should’ve sensed it. That little twitch in his tail from atop the bookshelf. The judgment in his stare every time you reached for your particularly pink, overly bedazzled, unicorn-covered monstrosity of a diary.

You kept the diary hidden inside an empty protein powder container under the bed. Not because you thought anyone was rifling through your things, but because if anyone ever read it—especially Dazai or Chuuya—it would result in your immediate expiration. Your soul would burst into sparkle-infused flames.

“Aha,” Dazai had murmured like he’d found a declaration of war rather than a pink notebook with glitter edging. “Apathy, you brilliant little saboteur.”

The cat preened.

Settled dramatically across the couch, Dazai ran his fingers along the embossed horn of the unicorn sticker. “Truly… just when I thought I’d seen every side of our precious Bella.”

He flipped open the clasp like it was the hinge of forbidden treasure. Page after page greeted him with a pastel cursive mixture of to-do lists~

* Buy tampons— threaten Dazai about misplacing them again

* Tell Chuuya about new poem

* Make Dazai clean the litter box

Character observations~

* Chuuya hums when annoyed

* Dazai….well asshole

* Apathy smarter than lets on!

And ideas for titles~

* “Midnight Ink & Ginger Whiskey,”

* “Two Idiots and My Last Nerve”

“This reads like a novel I want access to

permanently,” Dazai said aloud, knowing only Apathy could hear. “Ah, Bella… even your complaints are poetically adorable. Wait—”

He turned another page. Then another. Then he found… the pages. Four. Four full pages. Handwritten. In fiercely confidential cursive. Describing, in alarming detail, your fantasy involving Tartaglia from Genshin Impact.

Only—not really Tartaglia. Because somewhere on page two, the redhead evolved—grew shorter, angrier. The way he talked, more, thought in cruel metaphors.

“Chuuya’s hair… Dazai’s coat,” Dazai narrated softly, tracing the word ‘submit’ where it appeared half a dozen times. “Oh Bella… sweetheart… you naughty, repressed disaster.”

He turned the page and whistled at a paragraph built entirely on the phrase: ‘pinned.’

“If this isn’t a cry for help,” he mused with wicked pleasure, “then it’s certainly a cry for two very specific men to ruin her.” Then the front door clicked. “Hmm!” he chimed, delighted. “Right on time.”

Chuuya toed off his boots, glancing into the living room. “Dazai, if you ate the last spicy mochi, I swear on—”

Then he saw it. You weren’t home. Instead: Dazai. Lounging on the couch. One ankle perched on the opposite knee. Cat curled by his shoulder. And in his lap, more dangerous than any suit-case bomb: Your diary.

That pink, unicorn-abused, glitter-barely-clinging thing. “…what the fuck are you reading?” Chuuya asked, suspicious, narrowing his ocean eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t steal a notebook from a middle schooler.”

Dazai looked up, smiling like a wolf. “Who, me?”

Chuuya stalked closer. “Are those heart stickers?”

Dazai held up a finger. “Let me offer you a gift instead of an explanation.” He patted the couch beside him. “Our Bella’s writing. Her private writing.”

That stopped Chuuya in his tracks. His expression crumpled—then rebuilt itself into careful neutrality. He crossed his arms. “She let you read it?”

Dazai’s grin sharpened. “Oh no. She thinks it’s still hidden under the bed, inside an old container. Frankly, I’m insulted she thought that would be enough.”

Chuuya looked like he wanted to hit him. “If this is a joke—”

“It’s better. It’s literature,” Dazai purred. “Go on.” He handed over the open diary.

Chuuya took it like it might burn his fingers. He read. First, he scoffed. “So she thinks I hum when I’m tense? Dumb.”

One page turned. Then another. He slowed. The switches in tone. The shift from mundane to throbbing electric imagery. The verbs. The imbalance in control—then the snapping tension of obedience, of praise and degradation meeting like friction and spark. The shifting between fear and indulgent anticipation, the descriptions of marks inked across skin like signatures.

Chuuya’s jaw clenched. He blinked once. Twice. “You’re on the good page now,” Dazai whispered.

Chuuya didn't respond. His ears were flushed. His hands white-knuckled the diary. His voice, when it came, was low. Uncertain. “She… wrote this?”

“I knew you’d appreciate the detail,” Dazai said smugly, head tipping to the side. “My favorite part’s the mirror scene. But the one where ‘Tartaglia’ orders her not to come until he says—oof. Chilling, really.”

“She wrote that someone marked her… with permanent ink,” Chuuya muttered. “She specified the placement.”

Dazai was practically glowing. “Bella’s kink brain is not to be underestimated.”

Chuuya looked up finally, expression thunderous with something deeper than lust. The kind he only got when a poem clawed its way out of him. “She never writes like this with us.”

“Until now,” Dazai pointed out lightly. “It's all there. Trench coats and gloves and everything else. We’re her ‘Tartaglia.’ Together.”

Apathy, entirely uninterested in human moral dilemmas, licked his paw and stared unbothered. Then the doorknob rattled. Footsteps. Your hum, distant but cheerful, broke right through Chuuya's haze. Dazai sat straighter, diary still warm in his hands.

Chuuya didn’t move as if he hadn’t decided whether he wanted to yell, kiss, or kneel.

And then the door creaked open. “Hey, I bought soy milk—why does the hallway smell like rice vinegar?” You stepped in, shaking off your coat. “And where’s my—?”

You froze.

Two men. One couch. One unicorn diary. Open.

Your death would not be immediate. But surely, it had begun. Chuuya’s stare burned into you. Dazai raised an eyebrow.

Your knees went weak. You stand frozen by the front door. Dazai looks up at you, casually twirling a pink feathered pen between his fingers, the exact one you used to write all your most damning words. He quirks a brow.

“The author returns,” he says airily, snapping the diary shut with one hand. "We were just admiring your prose, belladonna."

You step forward too fast. "That's not—Give it back. Right now."

Your hand darts out to snatch it, but he lifts it over his head like he’s playing keep-away. Chuuya doesn’t even move. He just watches. Impossibly still.

“I can explain,” you say, breathless. Embarrassment bursts hot behind your eyes. You’re sweating. Trembling. “It’s not real. It’s just—writing. Practice.”

Dazai smirks. “Practice? Interesting.”

He opens it again with maddening grace and reads aloud, soft and slow: “‘Tartaglia’s breath ghosted over the inside of her thigh, fingers spreading her open with the kind of reverence reserved for—”

“Stop!” Your soul leaves your body.

Chuuya hums, low and unimpressed. “That’s the good part.”

“I hate both of you,” you croak, lunging again.

Dazai dodges easily, lazy and amused. “Now, now. No need to be shy. You wrote this, sweetheart. We’re just... appreciating the craftsmanship.”

Your stomach knots. The blood roars in your ears. You don’t know where to look—at Dazai, smug and unbearable, or at Chuuya, quiet and unreadable. That unreadability is so much worse. “Okay,” you gasp, backing a step. “Yes. I wrote it. Fine. But not about you. It was about... the character. Tartaglia. He’s fictional.”

“Tartaglia who has anger issues and enjoys wine.” Dazai teases.

“Tartaglia who apparently wears bandages and talks in riddles,” Chuuya adds.

You cover your face. “It’s fiction! I never thought anyone would read it. It meant nothing.”

A pause then laughter from Dazai, utterly delighted. “So dramatic for something meaningless.” He steps closer. You tangle your fingers together, trying to remember how oxygen works. “If you can imagine it,” he murmurs, almost as if sharing a joke, “why not write us into it next time?”

It should sound light. It doesn’t. There’s something dark behind his grin now—curiosity curling into hunger.

Chuuya remains seated, but you feel his gaze slice clean through you. Like he’s just realized something. It’s not just fiction. It’s you—wanting.

You swallow. “I needed an outlet. It was supposed to stay private.”

“So.” Dazai clicks the pen with a gleam in his eyes. “Tell us, then. Which parts are fantasy?”

You blink. “What?”

Chuuya speaks, low and unyielding. “And which parts are what you actually want?”

Your breath catches. “I—this isn’t fair.”

“Neither were those ridiculously accurate descriptions,” Dazai chuckles. “C’mon. You already confessed. Just tell us the rest.”

Your cheeks burn. But they’re not mocking you anymore—not entirely. The silence is heavier now. Anticipatory.

Dazai extends a hand. “Let’s write the next scene together, shall we?” Your breath shudders out of your chest as Chuuya rises. He doesn't speak. Just takes the other side of you. They flank you like fate and vice. And guide you toward the bedroom.

You barely feel your own feet. Just the sound of boots—Chuuya’s firm, deliberate tread. Dazai’s softer steps. Your bedroom door greets you. You step in, the door shuts behind you with a snap.

“Strip,” Dazai says. Nothing but the steady glide of command. No warmth. No jest. Just expectation.

Your hands fumble with your shirt. Not out of reluctance. Because you’ve dreamed of being told to. And never once were the voices in your fantasies as sharp as theirs, nor their gazes so dissecting. Chuuya’s watching the shiver down your spine like he already owns it. Dazai tilts his head, devil-mused.

“Already trembling,” Chuuya mutters. His voice is low. Reverent. “And we’ve barely started. She wants to be controlled that badly?”

“Oh, it's worse than that,” Dazai replies, lips curling as your skirt pools to the floor. “Look at her. So needy she’s dripping from a sentence. All she ever wanted... was to crawl.”

Your knees weaken. Your skin feels like it’s being read aloud.

“Crawl,” Chuuya orders. “To the bed, baby. Show us how easy it is to make you obey.”

You drop to your hands and knees. Humiliation flares. Heat follows. You move, their voices rise above you as you crawl.

“It’s adorable,” Dazai says. “She’s trying not to moan.”

“And failing,” Chuuya adds. “Hell, did you hear her breathing pick up when you said crawl?”

“She’s waited for this. Probably came up with this exact scenario. But it wasn’t Tartaglia, was it?” You reach the edge of the bed, chest heaving, face hot. “It was us,” Dazai finishes.

Chuuya steps behind you. Fingers grip your wrists, pulling them gently. “Hold still.” Soft fabric—your own ribbon—slips around your wrists. The knot is exact, tight without hurting. His voice brushes your neck. “That’s it. Doesn’t she look good like this?”

“A picture,” Dazai replies. “One I’d like to scribble notes on.” Then, near your ear, “Up. Kneel in the center. Chest forward.” You obey. Fast. Too fast. “There’s your desperation again,” Dazai murmurs, watching you shuffle awkwardly to the heart of the bed. “Do we even need to restrain her?”

“We will anyway,” Chuuya says.

They move with purpose. Dazai threads rope through the top bar of your four post bed canopy. Chuuya guides your bound wrists up so they’re secured above you, tight but safe, perfectly angled. You’re on your knees. Arms suspended. Chest exposed.

“Tie her down like this,” Dazai says, stepping back to admire. “And you can do just about anything.”

“That’s the plan.”

Then they kneel. Both of them. Dazai at your right. Chuuya at your left. They lean in together. And they take your nipple into their mouths—at once. You scream. Heat sears through your chest. Dazai’s tongue is methodical, flicking and curling around you with unfair precision. Chuuya suckles rougher, cheeks hollowing as he growls deep in his throat.

You arch instinctively. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. Their mouths pull twin gasps from your throat. Then they break. Chuuya rises, reverence smoldering in his gaze. His hands trail down your sides. “I’ve wanted to leave marks for days.”

He kisses the curve of your inner thigh. Then again. Lips softer than you expect until the sharp bite. Your voice breaks. Dazai cups your other breast, fingers teasing the abused nipple. The contrast is brutal. Controlled.

“You’re soaked,” he purrs. “I haven’t even touched your pussy, and you’re already leaking onto the sheets.”

Then they switch. Dazai’s ducks down. His mouth finds your opposing thigh. Licks, sucks. Chuuya’s hands cup your breast as he teases the bite Dazai left. His mouth trails back down your thigh, scoring red kisses all the way to the edge of what’s still untouched.

“Such a mess,” Chuuya mutters. “You wanted to be owned so badly it short-circuited your self-control.”

“More like rewrote it,” Dazai whispers across your chest.

“Every mark. Every tie. Every order.”

“You’ll be begging to be our toy before we've even used you properly.”

He licks—languid, slow—a final stroke that makes your body shudder. Then both rise.

“You’ve got options, baby,” Chuuya says, brushing sweat-damp strands from your cheek. “Pick wisely.”

Dazai ticks his fingers. “One,” Dazai begins, “we edge you for hours. Hands, mouths, toys. No release. Just praise and torment.”

“Two,” Chuuya continues, “we tie your thighs apart and blindfold you while we play.”

“Three,” Dazai says, grinning, “we gag you with your own panties and leave bite marks along every inch not yet claimed.”

“Four,” Chuuya hums, knuckle under your chin, “we take turns fucking you from behind while the other talks you through your own fantasy aloud.”

“Now,” Dazai murmurs, crouching so that both of them frame your trembling body again. “Which page should we write next, pet?”

Your thighs are shaking before they've even been touched. Breath caught in the back of your throat. You’re still trying to form words you can’t say, your eyes darting between Dazai’s smirk and the quiet heat simmering in Chuuya’s stare. You shiver. It’s too much. Too real now. “I-I can’t pick,” you stammer, voice tiny, broken. “I—please…”

Dazai purrs, “What a pretty little mess. Couldn’t even decide how you wanted to be ruined, huh?”

“Guess we’ll help you make up that filthy little mind,” Chuuya mutters, already climbing onto the bed behind you. You jump slightly when warm fingers brush your cheek. “You’ll take what you’re given,” he growls.

The blindfold comes first—sliding across your temples. Darkness blooms. You whimper as your sight vanishes and the world narrows. The vulnerable, breathless unknown.

Then your legs. Hands parting your knees wide, until the stretch makes your core clench. Thighs rough with goosebumps, you hear the rustle of straps binding you open. You’re exposed. Spread lewdly apart, your cunt dripping, open and helpless.

“A little offering,” Dazai hums. “Exactly how she wrote it.”

A touch between your thighs. Gentle. Curious. Two fingers slide through your folds slick and, slow. Someone exhales sharply. Then another hand does the same. Teasing. Testing.

“Now,” Dazai says, voice too damn smug. “Let’s play a game.”

You can feel your pulse in your clit before he even starts. One of them strokes your pussy again. Featherlight. The pad of a thumb brushes your clit, sending a zap straight to your core.

“Who touched you?” Chuuya murmurs. “Guess right...”

Your voice wobbles. “Dazai?”

A sharp slap cracks across your pussy. You cry out into the dark, back arching as pain blooms and melts immediately into pulsing heat. “Wrong,” Dazai says cheerfully, like a schoolteacher.

Another touch. Two fingers rubbing gently at your entrance, spreading your slick before ghosting upward. A moan slips from your lips. “Chuuya?” you gasp.

Another smack, sharper this time. “You suck at this,” Dazai coos.

You moan again, suspended in tension, your hands flexing against the ties. Then comes the soft scrape of fabric behind you. A pause. You can feel one of them moving.

“She made a mess,” murmurs Chuuya. “But not enough.”

You frown. Confused. “Wh—what are you...?”

Cold silk brushes your thigh, and your heart stutters. And then he says. “Your panties aren’t soaked enough. Gotta fix that.”

You whimper as the scrap of lace—your panties—is dragged slowly, through your folds. He presses them full against your slit, dragging them through your slick. You feel all of it. Sticky warmth. Shame. Need.

When the fabric is finally drenched in your wetness, he catches your chin and murmurs in your ear. “Open up.” You comply. He presses the ruined panties past your lips. “Time to taste what you want so badly.”

The gag fills your mouth with musky silk and embarrassment. It tastes like need. “That’s better,” Dazai whispers into your ear. “We do like our toys quiet.”

Time blurs. Fingers keep pressing, stroking, circling. You cry into the gag with every switch. Taunted by guessing games you’re doomed to fail, each wrong answer followed by a firm slap across your throbbing pussy. Your inner thighs feel hot, flushed, coated in your slick and shame.

Then the hunger shifts. You feel breath heat your left breast. A mouth—soft, dangerous. Tongue flicking your nipple. Then teeth graze it. You jolt. “Could write poetry about these tits,” Chuuya growls between sucks, before biting again.

The mouth at your right nipple is slower. Lapping. Licking lazily, as though savoring.

“Or... maybe just fiction,” Dazai murmurs.

You whimper, dizzy, nerves on fire. Then comes the whisper of pages. Your body goes taut. “Let’s revisit our inspiration, hm?” Dazai’s voice lowers. Sultry. Wicked. Pages rustle as he clears his throat—and then reads: “‘Her cunt was exposed—tied wide open, offered up. Even when she begged, there was no mercy. Only mouth. Only bite. Only obedience.’”

Your moan is strangled behind the gag. Chuuya mouths your stomach now—kisses licking downward in sharp, punishing circles. Biting sharply into soft places untouched until now.

Another passage is read aloud. Chuuya switches with Dazai, and the roles reverse.

Dazai’s tongue drifts in wet, dangerous sweeps over your inner thigh, leaving kisses over every scarless inch—your high hip, your pelvis, the crease right beside where you crave him most but he never touches.

Meanwhile, Chuuya reads in a low, reverent tone: “‘She didn’t need her eyes. Her body knew, tonight... was going to ruin her.’”

More kisses. More bites. Sharp and slow and hot. Their hands twist at your nipples, rolling them between thumb and forefinger, sometimes pinching until your legs kick against the binding. They soothe the sting with soft tongues follow it with more teasing bites.

Every part of you hums. Bound, blind, gagged, and caught in the dizzy ache of knowing this was your doing. Your diary did this. Your words. And now...

Fingers tug gently at the gag between your lips. Then: breathe at your ear. Sin-slick and low. Dazai.. “Now, little author,” he purrs hoarsely, a teasing growl underneath. “Think you're ready to be fucked like the filthy fantasy you wrote?”

Your vision swims as the blindfold is whisked off, fabric leaving your lashes damp with sweat and unshed tears. You blink against the dim light, against the sharp contrast of heat and chill, nerve endings raw and overstimulated. Your wrists are still bound, arms still straining above your head, spine arched into the softness of the bed.

But their faces are the first thing you see. Dazai sits like a king at the edge of the bed, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make you ache. His gaze traces your body. Chuuya kneels beside you on the mattress, forearms braced on either side of your thighs, heat radiating off him in waves.

Neither of them speak to you first. “She’s fucking soaked,” Chuuya growls, fingers sliding between your legs unapologetically. He doesn’t stroke—just taps your clit twice, like testing a switch. You jolt.

“Oh, I noticed,” Dazai murmurs, brushing the tip of one long finger over the swell of your nipple. He pinches it between thumb and knuckle, twisting just until you whimper. He hums like he’s proud of the reaction—like it was inevitable.

Chuuya slaps your inner thigh just hard enough to sting.

“Look how she jolts,” Dazai coos, eyes drifting lazily over the goosebumps on your skin. He drags a knuckle up the slick seam of your folds, feather-light, not enough. “Touch-starved, ruined on words… She’s just waiting for orders.”

“Waiting to be used,” Chuuya adds as his fingers circle your clit—once, twice—then pull away.

Your hips buck uselessly. That aching need gnaws deeper, sharper. Dazai smiles lazily. “So. Chuuya. How are we fucking her?”

Chuuya licks his bottom lip. “Hard. Deep. I want her crawling later.”

“I want her crying,” Dazai counters.

Your breath hitches. You’re panting now, thighs twitching involuntarily. Every word lands below your navel like lightning.

“I’ll go first,” Chuuya says, voice lower now. “You get your perfect view. And her mouth, if you ask nicely.”

“I’m always nice,” Dazai murmurs, eyes glinting. “Untie her.”

Chuuya moves quickly, efficient fingers working the knot. Your aching wrists fall forward, pins and needles dancing across your palms. He catches your arms before you sag too much, guiding you by the elbows into a new position.

“On your hands and knees,” Dazai commands. “Back arched. Let him see how much you need it.”

You obey slowly, trembling. You don’t look at them. You don’t have to. One hand strokes down your spine. Firm. Possessive. That’s Dazai. The snap of his palm against your ass follows a second later.

“Perfect. Keep her just like that.”

Chuuya slides behind you, hands steadying your hips. The stretch of him entering you is instant, undeniable—you gasp from the fullness, from the hot drag of his cock carving you open like it’s the only thing you were made for.

“Jesus, she’s tight,” he pants.

Dazai taps your lips with two fingers. “If she wants to talk, she can use her tongue.”

You suck his fingers in obediently as Chuuya begins rocking into you with slow, punishing rhythm—deep enough to make you moan around Dazai’s hand. The pressure is relentless. Your walls flutter around him again and again, each stroke aimed to break you. It's fury and finesse—heated, precise.

“That’s it,” Chuuya snarls, rolling his hips. “Grip me like that. Cum just from getting filled.”

Dazai replaces his fingers with his cock, guiding you to suck him in even as Chuuya thrusts forward. The back-and-forth of it threatens to undo you: the stretch at both ends, the helplessness.

“Such a talented mouth,” Dazai whispers. “But all that writing and she didn’t even warn us how pornographic she was.” He strokes your hair gently while you gag around him.

The pressure builds. Chuuya adjusts your hips slightly and that’s it. The angle changes, and you’re gone, cumming with a stifled scream muffled by Dazai’s cock. Every pulse of pleasure collapses your limbs.

But there’s no pause. Chuuya doesn’t stop. If anything, he moves sharper through your clenching aftershocks. “Keep sucking,” Dazai urges, pinching your nipple harder now. “You’ll get praise when you’ve earned every drop.”

“Switch.”

Chuuya pulls out. He flips you expertly, lays you flat with your legs stretched wide apart. The mattress dips as Dazai replaces him instantly. His cock nudges your dripping opening, and he pauses just enough to draw your attention.

“You’re already trembling. Do you even know how messy you are?” You nod. Barely. It's all you can do. “Good.” He slides in deep.

Dazai fucks you with a smile so wicked it dizzies. Focused and slow at first, until he notices the way your hips lift to chase him. Then the tempo shifts: hard and paced, rubbing that spot that makes your vision go white.

One hand on your throat. Not cutting air—just holding. Grounding. Possessing. The other dips to your clit, circles it harshly. “Cum again,” he commands. You do. Violently.

The pleasure rips you in half—limbs locking, thighs trembling. When it fades, you realize Chuuya’s behind Dazai, watching, one hand stroking himself. His lips are parted like he’s the one overwhelmed. “I want to finish in her,” he pants.

Dazai doesn’t stop. “She’ll take it. She asked for it—remember? Wrote it in her little glitter pen.”

Another orgasm and you can’t tell who caused it. You only know you're breaking apart, bare and fucked raw, slick spilling out of you, thighs coated. They change places again.

Chuuya pulls you into his lap until you’re straddling him, legs nowhere near steady. He sets the pace this time—grinding up into you, tightening his grip until your moans twist into something strangled. He kisses you this time. Hard. “Still with us?” he growls.

“Yes—yes,” you sob. “Please. Just—please—”

That’s all they need. Dazai bites your shoulder while Chuuya pounds into you from below, their hands working your clit, your breasts, your throat. It’s too much, but not enough. Not until you’re cumming again. Loud, unrestrained, drowning in it.

They follow quickly after—first Chuuya, buried deep with a low growl, then Dazai moments later, fisting your hair and spilling heat across your chest as you tremble through the fallout.

You collapse. Boneless. Breathless. Quivering. Their hands linger. “Look at this mess,” Chuuya breathes near your sweat-soaked cheek.

“Our favorite little author,” Dazai murmurs. He kisses your side just once.

“You’re ruined,” Chuuya adds, brushing hair from your face and offering the ghost of a smile. “And it’s perfect.”

You try to respond. Can't. Chuuya’s hand is warm against the small of your back. Each stroke of his thumb is deliberate, soothing. A grounding rhythm for your boneless, humming body. You’re still floating from everything, strung out and sated.

You nestle closer into him, your cheek pressed to his chest, damp skin slipping slightly against his as he shifts just enough to tuck the blanket tighter around your naked waist. “Breathe, doll.” His voice is a murmur against your temple. “Nice and easy.”

You do. Your exhale trembles, but it obeys, guided by the steady up-and-down of his breathing beneath you. He keeps his voice low, a whisper in the dark designed only for you.

“You did so good. Took everything we gave you without a single complaint.” His fingers trace lazy shapes between your shoulder blades. “Proud of you. So proud.”

Your throat tightens at that because something in his voice isn’t just praise. It’s awe. Reverence. As if you weren’t the one bare and undone, but the one who somehow gave him something priceless. “I didn’t think I could feel like this,” you whisper.

He brushes a kiss to your hair. “Like what?”

“Wanted.”

He freezes. Then shifts just enough to cup your cheek and tip your face to his, his face earnest and just a little shocked. “You are. Fuck… you are so wanted, sweetheart.”

You nod slowly, swallowing the lump in your throat, your hand curling into a fist against his chest—right where his heart beats its steady rhythm. Swear it echoes yours.

There’s quiet, then. The kind that wraps rather than yawns. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just stillness, laden with heat and the scent of musk, sex, and something sweet buried in the layers of sheets and each other.

But then you sense it. There, in the corner of the room, long limbs tucked into the shadows near the window: Dazai. Watching.

His head is tilted, one knee propped up lazily, one pale hand curled beneath his jaw. His usual smirk is there but it’s brittle. His eyes flick between you and Chuuya, and though the smile doesn’t falter, it doesn’t reach the places they usually do.

He’s masking it well—he always does—but it hits you all at once… He feels left out. Replaced. You ease yourself up from Chuuya’s chest slightly, just enough to reach an arm out. Toward Dazai. “Come here.”

He lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t move. “You two looked so cozy. Wouldn’t want to intrude on the newly bonded lovers and their mural of hickeys.”

“Dazai.” You don’t say it sharp. You say it soft. Intimate. For his ears only. Chuuya looks between you both. His hand still traces your back, but now it slips even higher, tugging the blanket up around your shoulder tenderly. “You’re not intruding,” you say, voice raw with honesty. “You’re part of this. I love you.”

Dazai stills. The air shifts. You don’t throw the word around. Neither does he. And the way his eyes go wide confirms that directly. After a second, he unfolds from the shadows and pads toward the bed, gaze lingering on where Chuuya’s hand curls around your waist—not with hostility, but acknowledgment.

As he kneels on the mattress, you reach out and pull him into your other side. He lets you. Chuuya doesn't flinch. Instead, he leans his head up and mumbles, “About time this mummy wandered back.”

Dazai smirks, but he’s already softer. Looser. Like that admission unlocked something in him he didn’t know needed unlocking. He rests beside you, forearm pillowed under your neck. “That diary of yours flipped everything, you know.”

“Oh?” you murmur.

“I thought I had you figured out…” His breath brushes your temple. “You have way better taste in the bedroom than previously thought.”

You let out a soft laugh, full of delirious affection, and snuggle into the warmth of both of them. This time, when sleep finds you, you’re not falling alone.

You wake in the dark. Warm weight presses against both sides of you—Dazai curved along your back, Chuuya sprawled against your front. A crash breaks the silence.

Chuuya jolts upright with a “What the fuck!” just as ceramic shatters across the floor. Apathy launches from the dresser, tail puffed like a feather duster, and sprints under the bed.

Chuuya stares at the mess, then throws his hands up. “This is why dogs are better!” The moment it’s out of his mouth, his expression flips. Horror. “Oh shit—Apathy? Are you okay!?” He’s already leaning over the side of the bed like a man possessed. “I didn’t mean that, I swear—come here—please don’t be bleeding—”

Dazai chuckles into your shoulder, and your laughter joins his, unstoppable and giddy.

Chuuya glances back with wide, mortified eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t serious.”

You wipe a tear from your eye, chest warm with amusement and affection. “You’re ridiculous.”

Dazai smiles against your neck. “He’s hopeless, but charming about it.”

Chuuya grumbles something about betrayal and cats, but returns to the bed sheepishly. He holds his arms out for Apathy, who does not oblige, and then gives up to wrap them around you instead. You sigh into the crooked warmth of the three of you. Safe. Relaxed. Home.

Master list

[nolongerpostingsorry]

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 :))

No Nut November

Nsfw

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.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

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?”

“What 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.

The storm begins soft.

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.

“Is that my shirt?”

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.

Game on.

“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."

"Do I need one?"

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.

“And you're evil.”

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—”

“Enough.”

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.”

“…Stop.”

“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.”

Delivered.

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.

He stiffens.

“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?”

“Goddamnit—Y/N.”

“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 ask next time?”

“Yes!”

“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?”

“N-No—I won’t—I swear—”

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?”

“Hmm?”

"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?”

“Little bit.”

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.

Master list

[nolongerpostingsorry]

I love your work, But some of it almost seems like an SA/Rape kink? are you able to clarify on this <3

Let me start off with saying I do not condone nor support SA/Rape at all.

There are kinks out there that may blur the line a bit, such as CNC, which is consensual non consensual.

In a lot of writing you’ll see it written as someone saying no but they’re body saying yes, or that they hate they want to do this, or they hate that they don’t hate what’s happening.

In real life you should set the boundaries before hand for CNC, and discuss what you are and are not okay with and always have a safe word.

A lot of survivors of SA/Rape enjoy CNC because it gives them control over a situation that they didn’t have control over before.

So to answer your question no, I don’t write SA or rape. There is a whole genre out there, Dark Romance, for people who enjoy those kinds of stories. I’ve written a few but am no expert on the mater.

I’d tell you to do some research on it and see what you find if you’re still confused.

If those stories do come off as that to you I implore you not to read them. I hope this clarifies what you were asking.

[nolongerpostingsorry]

Not a request, just wanted to say thank you for writing stuff even if you're not sure if ur doing it right and giving a handful of people smut that they'll actually enjoy!

I appreciate this! I have so many requests and it feels impossible to get through them all but I don’t want anyone to feel they are being ignored <3

[nolongerpostingsorry]

Hello! Can I request a story like Yandere Chuuya x Reader. He got rejected by her but he didn't stop instead he got a bit dramatic by kidnapping her or other stuff. He also use some BSDM stuff to make her obey him? Something like that about kidnapping, bsdm, yandre world? Ignore this if it's a bit disturbing! Thankyou!!!+

You Call This Love?

Nsfw

I’ve never really written a dark romance before, so there is room for improvement! If any of these elements are triggering please do not read. I hope I handled this correctly.

Warnings: smut, yandere, obsession, manipulation, possessive violence, kidnapping, BDSM elements, dark romance, dubious consent, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, captivity, coercive affection, other sexual acts.

Summary: A rejected confession spirals into obsession, captivity, and control; Chuuya’s protective tenderness blurs safety and possession, leaving no escape—only conditioning, surrender, and being claimed.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

The wind tangles your hair as you step beneath the flickering streetlight, scanning the outlines of the quiet canal. You feel him before you see him. Chuuya waits, leaning against worn brick. Fedora angled low, hands in his coat, the scent of smoke and something expensive lingering in the air between you like unspoken history. His eyes find yours immediately, soft but sharp.

“You came,” he says, voice low. Not surprised. Just... something else.

“You called,” you reply. “You said this was about intel.”

“It was,” he says, stepping forward once. Still a measured distance away. “Still is. But I needed to see you too.”

Suspicion flickers. Habit. “Why?”

His gaze holds yours. Steady. Vulnerable. “Do you ever wonder what we could be if we weren’t on different sides?”

“Chuuya—“

“I think I love you.”

A beat. The space between you inhales. “Chuuya…” you sigh. Your chest tightens, not with fear but disappointment. You look at him carefully, try to measure your words before they burn. “We’re friends,” you say, gently. “I value that. But I don’t feel the same way.”

His smile doesn’t falter. Not at first. “I just needed to say it,” he replies. He sounds calm. But his eyes... they shutter.

“I care about you,” you add, firmer now. “A lot. But crossing that line? It’s not you. It’s not us.”

“Got it.” He nods, like it’s simple. “Loud and clear.”

You exhale in relief. Rotate on your heel. Never hear the crack in the silence where something inside him collapses.

Days pass. You feel watched. You write it off as paranoia. You’re careful. You’re always careful. Until the night you let your guard down for a second. It was a long day of listening to Kunikida scream at Dazai. You were unfocused. You don’t remember the needle. Just the way the sidewalk tilted sideways. Sounds drowned in static. Then—

The world clips back into existence.

Soft.

Wrong.

Everything’s too quiet. There’s a weight on your wrists. Your legs. And you’re blindfolded. Panic floods first. You twist, jerk, thrash—your body waking before your brain catches up. Restraints cradle your limbs, unmovable. Cushioned straps across wrists and, ankles. The softness beneath you is unmistakably a bed. Sheets like silk.

But you are not dressed. Not completely, only in your bra and underwear. Your breath stays shallow. Controlled. Fear on hold while your mind calculates.

Then— Footsteps. Solid. Familiar cadence on hardwood. “Breathe,” he says.

You freeze. It’s him. Your mouth moves before your mind can tether a plan. “What—what the hell—?”

“You’re safe,” Chuuya murmurs, coming closer. “Finally safe.”

“Let me go.”

He sits beside you. You feel the mattress shift. His fingers brush your cheek, gloved, reverent. “No.” The way he says it breaks something inside you. “I had no choice,” he goes on. “You don’t see what they were doing. You don’t see how fucking exposed you were.”

“I wasn’t in danger—”

His hand tightens ever-so-slightly. “You don’t get it. They were watching you. Probing. Dazai. The Agency. Even some of my own sniffed close. If I hadn’t stepped in—who knows what they would’ve done?”

“Those are my coworkers— They weren’t—You kidnapped me.”

“I saved you.”

A long moment of silence stretches across the bed like a knife. You pull at the bindings again, testing. No give.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” Chuuya whispers, guilt and resolve wrestling quietly in his voice. “You said no because someone like you doesn’t know how to be okay with being loved. You said no because we’re from two different sides.”

“I said no because I meant it.”

“You didn’t,” he breathes. “Not completely. That hesitation—that little pause in your voice that night? That was truth. And I heard it.” You turn your head, as if sightless defiance still counts. “This room,” he continues, touching your arm as if introducing you to a place of worship, “was crafted for you. No windows. No clocks. Nothing that lets the world invade. Only structure. Only care.”

“You’re crazy.”

Chuuya exhales. “Maybe. But you’re safe with me. And eventually, you’ll feel it.” He stands. His warmth leaves the bed but his authority doesn’t. “We’re building a foundation,” he says. “So, rules.”

Your throat closes. He steps to the edge of the bed and recounts each one slowly, as if reciting a vow:

“Rule one: No back talk. Rule two: When the blindfold comes off, you give me eye contact. Always. Rule three: If you're overwhelmed or hurting—not scared, not nervous, truly hurting—you say 'Red.' That’s the only word that matters here.”

Your tone is a snarl when you growl, “No.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I expect pushback,” he says calmly. “You’re strong. That’s part of why I love you. But you’ll learn.” He kneels beside the bed. His hand cups your shin gently, fingers tracing slow shapes against your skin. “I don’t expect you to believe me today. Just feel.”

You jerk away from his touch. Or try. The restraints hold you in place. “You think this is love?” you whisper. There’s venom in it. And tears you won’t shed.

Chuuya presses his forehead to your knee. “I think love is staying when you push. Giving when you flinch.” A deep breath. “I think love is knowing someone better than they know themselves.”

You answer with silence, weighty and sharp. And he accepts it. For now. He lifts the blanket, tucks it over your tense limbs. “I’ll stay here tonight.”

You feel the mattress shift as he sits beside you again. Feel his hand settle at your waist. Heat. Pressure. Presence. Protective. Delusional.

You wake up with breath caught in your throat. There's no blindfold pressuring your lashes. No knot pulling at your wrists. Just soft sheets and silence that hums too loud, like it's hiding something cruel. Your arms move freely. Your legs, too. But the freedom feels hollow.

You sit up slowly. Every movement deliberate. You don’t remember falling asleep. But you remember the stroke of his voice, warm and invasive under your skull. “You’ll feel better after you sleep.”

The door opens before you can fully organize your panic. Chuuya steps in, his sleeves are rolled to his forearms, hair caught in a loose tie at the nape of his neck. In his hands, a tray. Coffee. Toasted bread. Blush-pink fruit. Cream. A folded napkin. Only one fork.

“Morning.” He smiles, but carefully—like too much emotion might break you more than the walls. You say nothing. He sets the tray on the plush bench across from the bed, then comes forward. “You slept all night, that’s good.”

“Go to hell.”

The smile doesn’t crack. He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear without hesitation. “Breakfast first. Then talking.”

You tilt your chin away, murmur, “I’m not hungry.”

“You didn’t eat yesterday,” he reminds you carefully. “Which is why I’ll be feeding you myself.” He takes a strawberry between his fingers and holds it near your lips. Your arms don’t move. You don’t open your mouth. You catch his gaze and don’t flinch.

“No.”

“It’s not a request.” He sets the fruit aside. “Get out of the bed,” Chuuya says, softly.

You don’t move. “Come,” he repeats, voice just as calm. “Kneel, right here.”

He points at the rug before him. Your answer is gutted in a single word: “No.”

Something in his expression shifts—less surprise, more confirmation. He already knew you’d resist. “Sweetheart,” he says, slow like molasses down a blade, “I don’t want to punish you. Don’t make this harder.”

Your jaw tightens. “I’d rather eat dirt than kneel in front of you.”

He nods gently, like it wounds him. A moment passes. Two. And then his hands move—not fast, not rough, but with decisive patience. He pulls the blanket from your legs. You scramble, knee catching the edge of the bed.

“Stop it!”

“You had a choice. You still do,” he murmurs while guiding you off the mattress. “Obey, and this stays gentle.”

You twist in his grip. Your nails rake at his arm, your heel kicks toward his shin. His hands immobilize you, one behind your neck, the other catching both your wrists. He doesn’t hurt you—just restrains.

“You always were proud,” he whispers, dragging you forward until you’re on your knees before him. “You think your fire earns you freedom, but we both know it makes you reckless.” He lets go. Slowly. “Hands. Here.” He taps his thigh.

You shake your head. “I said—” You spit the next word. “No.”

He sighs. Disappointed. Regretful. But not surprised. “I was hoping we wouldn’t start the morning like this.”

You blink, defiant… until you hear the soft click. Cold leather wraps around your wrists before you fully register he’s cuffed you. The binds aren’t tight—but they are final. Tethered together. “Chuuya, let me go—”

“I hate doing this,” he says, kneeling in front of you this time. His breath ghosts your cheek. “You know I do.” Then his hand slides beneath your chin, lifting your face gently. “But I will.”

He pulls you across his lap with calculated grace. The position renders you helpless, wrists useless in front of you, ass at his disposal.

“Count for me,” he murmurs.

“You can’t—”

The first slap lands across your ass like a sentence punctuated. You jolt. But it’s not pain. “One,” you hiss, unwillingly. The next swat is firmer. More deliberate. “Two.” Again. “Three.” You choke. Not from the pain, but the control.

By eight, your legs are shaking. By eleven, he’s paused long enough to murmur: “I’m doing this because you wouldn’t listen. Because you won’t kneel until you’re broken.”

You lose count at twelve. He strokes your thigh. “Start over.”

“What—No—”

“From one. Now.”

Your voice breaks. “One…”

This time, he doesn’t pause. Doesn’t flinch. Slow, precise strikes. You end at fifteen with a sob trapped in your throat. And still—he remains composed.

He pulls you back upright, places you on your knees again. Your wrists settle in your lap, cuffed neatly. “Try now,” he says. “Hands here.” He taps his thigh again. You place them there. Not for obedience. But because your body’s not yours just now.

He doesn’t touch you further. Doesn’t hush your quaking breath. He only watches a moment longer, admiring the shape of restraint across your shoulders. Then he stands. “I’m proud of you,” he says quietly. “Even now.”

You don’t respond. He steps away. The tray remains untouched, the fruit wilting slightly in cream. The door clicks shut.

You kneel. Quiet. Angry. Empty. The cuffs hum against your pulse. Your thighs burn. Your heart forgets how to beat in anything but rage. But you stay.

You know what’s expected of you now. Each morning comes with a checklist engraved in silence: eye contact as he enters, kneel by the tea set, thank him in a tone soft enough to soothe. You’ve followed the rules for days now and earned your spoils accordingly. Clothing, in careful increments.

Today, the outfit on the ottoman: a fleece-lined hoodie dyed grey, leggings, and warm cotton panties. You dressed with your jaw tight, ignoring the comfort it gave you, the illusion.

When he knocks, you’re standing in front of the mirror he positioned to “help you remember what’s his.” You don't look at your reflection. You turn. Chuuya steps in without waiting. He never does more than knock once—manners for show.

He watches the way your arms cross tightly over your chest. And he smiles. “Looking grounded today, doll.”

You stay silent, jaw set. He walks in slowly, gloved hands folded behind his back until he rounds the table and stops just shy of touching you. His gaze takes in the outfit he selected. His expression almost softens.

“You earned it,” he murmurs, and lifts a hand. You don’t flinch when he tucks your hair behind your ear. He notices. “I’m proud of the way you’ve been learning,” he whispers.

You raise your chin, just slightly. “Not all obedience is submission.”

His lips twitch at the edges. “No. But cumulative obedience?” he says, voice like velvet over steel. “That becomes surrender, whether you name it or not.” He leans in close enough that his breath warms the edge of your cheek. “I love you.”

Everything stalls. You feel it in your chest first—a spike, not a beat. Then in your hands. Clammy fists pressed at your sides. He waits. The silence stretches . . . then lingers. His gaze doesn’t waver.

And still you say nothing.

“Say it back.”

The words slip between you like smoke undeniable. You swallow. “I—I can’t.”

No breath. No backpedal. Just truth, bare and rasping. For a moment, everything inside him stills. Not with fury. With something quieter. More dangerous.

His gloves make a dry sound as he pulls them off, dropping them onto the table before stepping behind you. The air thickens. “That’s disappointing,” he murmurs against your ear, tonal honey. “But not unexpected.” One hand ghosts down your back, not quite touching. He steps back. “Strip.”

You blink. “Wh—what?”

He turns, crosses his arms. “Remove everything. Now.” The silence this time hurts. “Unless you want me to do it for you.”

Dread gnaws at your spine. Your knees want to give—but you don’t collapse. Slowly, shaking, you grip the hem of the hoodie and pull it over your head. The leggings follow. Then your underwear. You fold each piece with trembling discipline. Lay them on the ottoman, as instructed.

The relief doesn’t come.

“Corner,” he says simply. “On your knees. Hands on thighs.”

You obey. You don’t know why—but you do. He retrieves soft cuffs from a drawer you hadn’t seen before. Secures your wrists behind your back. Chuuya kneels behind you. You flinch at the slide of long fingers skimming up your sides. You can’t see him, only feel—the tips of his mouth nearly grazing the crown of your head.

Then: nothing. He leans back, just enough to ghost his lips along the line of your neck. “You think I need to hurt you to make you obedient,” he breathes. “But pain is blunt. Crude. Predictable.” His teeth skim your earlobe. Then withdraw. “I prefer restraint.”

Shivers lace down your arms, prickling hot. Then his hands move. Not harsh. Exploring. Tracing the shape of your ribcage with maddening delicacy. A sigh brushes your shoulder. A sound you’re ashamed made its way out of you. Your thighs clench.

He notices. One hand slides lower. Not between your legs. Just along the outside. Palm to outer thigh, dragging upward. Then gone. You arch slightly. No contact. Not even breathe. “Do you feel this?” he whispers. “This ache is punishment.” You try to turn your head, but he tsks. “You want comfort, but you won’t behave.”

Then his fingers return to your back. Tracing your spine as if reading a script only he can see. His lips barely meet your skin.

“But we’ll pace this properly. You need to learn that denial teaches deeper than cruelty.”

He stands fluidly. Leaves you there: naked, restrained, aroused beyond sense. Half-ruined by a touch that barely landed at all. As he moves toward the door, he glances over his shoulder.

“You’ll stay like this tonight,” he says. And with a soft click, he leaves you in silence. Breathing shallow. Knees trembling. Skin alight with want and shame and something worse: Curiosity.

You see it before you have time to think—an open door. A flaw. A chance. He always keeps such tight control... but even a spider misses a thread sometimes. You move. Barefoot, silent, shivering more from adrenaline than cold. for a breathless moment, you think—

You might make it.

Then the air shifts behind you. “You disappoint me, sweetheart.” His voice isn’t raised. Soft. Almost curious. And then you’re pulled backward with a tug. Your body lands against his, back to chest. Chuuya’s arms wrap around your waist, tight and inescapable. One hand rests low—over the shorts you earned five days ago. The other comes up and cradles your jaw.

“What were you hoping to find out there?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “That dangerous job? That the world has missed you?”

You claw at his wrist. Futile.

“You lied again,” he sighs, voice featherlight, filled with disappointment deeper than rage. “After everything I’ve done to keep you safe. After how soft I’ve been with you.”

“I—I didn’t—”

“Don’t insult us both,” he whispers. And then the air shifts again. In an instant, you’re bound. Silk curls around your limbs like smoke made tangible. Your knees are folded beneath you, thighs spread by a bar. Your wrists—flexed behind you, crisscrossed and lashed to a central ring that rests at the small of your back. Chest forward. Back arched.

He kneels before you, gloves slow as he tugs them off and sets them beside your ankle. Then he draws a finger down your throat, between your breasts toward your belly. “I let you breathe freely for days. Let you walk, talk, earn comfort. And you repay it with betrayal?” His eyes glint. Not angry. Hungry. “I think we both know you’re craving correction.”

“No—” you croak, tugging against the binds.

Chuuya tsks. “That’s not your word right now.” Then, he slides behind you again. You feel the warmth of his breath against your spine. Fingers ghost over your thighs, coaxing you to shudder. “We’ll try something new,” he murmurs. “Not pain. Not yet. Just… patience.”

He waits. The first strike comes minutes later. Open hand. Just firm enough to sting. You jolt, a yelp nearly escaping you.

“Stillness,” he says. “That’s all I want.”

You don’t respond. He doesn’t expect you to. Another slap. Your breath stutters. His hand smooths over the skin afterward—calming, caressing. Marking. Then another. Harder.

They escalate slowly. Not a flurry. No relentless rhythm. Each strike is purposeful. Spaced. Designed to sit inside you, linger like molten ink across paper. You writhe. Not from pain. But because your skin hums for it now—the attention. The precision.

Then: his fingers—his cruel, controlled fingers—drift down beneath the short hem of your clothing, over the wet cotton where heat has bloomed despite every scream inside you.

“Trembling already,” he whispers, voice low and mournful. “But you’re not ready yet. You don’t deserve it.” Your hips twitch toward his hand instinctively. He pulls it back. “No,” he says gently. “That’s not how you ask.”

“Please,” you whimper.

“Please… what?”

“Touch me. Let me—”

A loud slap. Harder. You cry out.

“Too loud.”

His palm soothes the burn instantly, fingers grazing over the dampness again, teasing—and stopping just before the relief.

“Please,” you whisper softer.

“Louder.”

“I need— Chuuya, I need—”

Another. Sharp. “Don’t beg for what you haven’t earned.”

His fingers trace the edge of your opening, sliding just enough to push your body toward the edge. It builds impossibly fast. Every knot between your thighs wound tight by his rhythm, his taunting commands. “Let me come,” you gasp.

“Not yet.” He flicks lightly at your clit—careful. Precise. Just enough to pull you right to the edge, panting.

You try to grind desperately but can’t move, can’t lower your hips, can’t reach it.

“You’re not allowed,” he whispers. “You’ll ask again. When you’re quieter. Wetter. More grateful.”

But you can’t stop. “I need—I—” Another strike. Hardest yet. A sob escapes. You shiver, breaking. Tears drip down your cheeks. And then—he rubs his hand over your heat again. Not to satisfy. Just to deliver one more cruel edge.

Then silence. He withdraws entirely. You hang there, trembling. Still bound, still knotted with frustration that pulses like second heartbeat between your legs.

He circles you slowly. “You break the rules. Plot your escape. Disobey.” He crouches before you now, knuckles gently lifting your chin. “And you want reward?”

You fall forward slightly, off-balance without permission. Your voice is broken when it comes. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh?” he hums. “Say it again.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Please—I tried to run. I was scared. I thought—”

Chuuya shushes you gently. You expect more pain. But it never comes. Instead, his touch wraps around you like silk. He pulls you into his lap slowly, maneuvering your tangled limbs until your body rests against his chest, head on his shoulder. Ropes still secure. You can’t shift without rubbing your skin into his shirt.

“I don’t punish out of cruelty,” he murmurs. “Only to teach.”

You sniffle, nodding into his collarbone.

“And what have you learned?”

“That I don’t—”

He presses two fingers to your mouth. “No,” he murmurs. “Say it right.”

“I need you.”

You feel him exhale like it’s the first breath he’s had in hours. “Good girl.”

Shame and need twist sharp in your chest. But you don’t move. You press closer. “I was scared,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

You expect silence. Instead, he responds with a kiss to the top of your head. Then another to your temple. Then your cheek.

He cradles you—still roped, still denied—the way a man holds something precious he almost lost. “You ran from me,” he says softly. “But I’ll keep you safe, even from your urges.”

You don’t speak. Just let yourself, just once, be held. Later, he lowers you onto the bed, untying rope with reverence, whispering praise. He dresses you again in his shirt—too big, too soft, too scented with steel and luxury.

You bury your face in his neck. “I won’t try again,” you whisper.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because next time… I’ll keep you tied until you forget how to run.”

His voice is silk. His grip is iron. His kiss is sweet. The only answer you have… is another apology. And the strangest ache in your chest when he calls you his.

You kneel without hesitation now. No command. No glance or whisper needed. The rug beneath your knees feels like ritual, not trap. Posture precise—knees parted, hands resting palm-up on your thighs, back straight, chin slightly lifted. Your eyes wait level with the door, never straying until instructed. This has become your instinct. A language of submission etched into muscle memory. It began as rebellion. Then resistance. Then reluctant obedience.

But tonight—tonight you kneel because it anchors you. Because being seen like this by him makes your heart beat like a whispered invocation.

The door opens. Chuuya’s entrance tells you everything. His footsteps are slow, reverent. When he sees you waiting, your name slips from him like a prayer. “My girl,” he murmurs, voice like molten wine. “You were meant for this.”

Heat ignites low in your belly. He walks a slow circle around you, the silk brush of his sleeve catching your cheek as he passes. Fingers ghost along your shoulder, your jaw, the bowed span of your neck. Then he halts in front of you.

“You remember your rules?” he asks softly.

You nod. He tsks. Your voice breaks the silence, steady despite your nerves. “Yes, Chuuya.”

“And who do you belong to?” he presses, thumb slipping under your chin with gentle force.

Your breath flutters. “You.”

“Say it fully.”

Your throat tightens, but the words fall free. “I belong to you, Chuuya.”

A smile splits across his face—hungry, beautiful. He cups your cheek. “Good girl.”

The words bloom inside you like firelight. He takes his time undressing you, fingers like reverent offerings against your skin. When you’re bare, he traces circles around your nipples with maddening patience, watching the way your breath shivers. Pinches. Teases. Flicks. Again.

You gasp, already warm. He doesn’t tell you to lie back. He simply guides you to the bed. You follow without hesitation. The restraints are waiting—soft silk. He ties your wrists first, then ankles, binding you open. At first you thought the stillness was punishment. Now it feels like worship.

“You’ve earned this,” he says, voice low against your thigh as he kneels at the edge of the bed.

And then he bends forward, sliding his arms under your legs. His mouth is gentle at first—one long pass of his tongue teasing your folds. Then sharper—the kind of precision that severs thought.

He moans softly into you as you writhe helpless, his fingers returning to your breasts, massaging one while his tongue presses deeper. He flicks your clit with cruel affection, driving you hard toward the edge.

Pleasure and restraint blur. His fingers pinch your nipple just as his tongue seals over your clit. You scream. He doesn't stop—not until you’re spent and blinking stars, body trembling. Then he climbs over you fully, muscles tense, control iron-bound. His cock is heavy against your thigh, and you reach for him instinctively—but the restraints hold. You whimper.

“Only I touch you,” he murmurs into your throat. “No one else. Never again.”

You nod frantically—needing him, needing the claim. “Only you.”

When he thrusts into you, it feels like finality. Like fire blooming inside. He holds your hips as he fucks you slow. Deep, bruising strokes made to be remembered. Every time his hips slam forward, he rolls your nipples between his fingers. Alternating touches—pleasure, pain, pleasure again—until you’re keening beneath him, breath stolen.

“You’re mine,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Say it, doll.”

“I’m yours, Chuuya. Yours.”

He groans into your mouth. And when you come—shattered and sobbing his name—he follows with a sound that’s more vow than climax. After, he unties you slowly. Wisps of reverence in each movement. Fingers rub warmth into your wrists, thumbs over your ankles like he’s tracing blessings.

Then, from the nightstand, he pulls something red and shining. The collar. Deep, blood-wine leather. The tag glimmers gold between his fingers—an engraved nameplate heavy with knowing. He sets it gingerly into your hand. His voice shakes slightly when he speaks. “You’ve earned this.”

You trace the words with your finger: Property of Chuuya Nakahara. You close your hand around it. Not as rejection. Not as surrender. As understanding.

He lies down beside you, arm around your waist, hand pressed to your heartbeat. “I’m the only one who will ever touch you again,” he whispers into your hair. Your body has already relaxed into him.

Tonight, you are seen. Held. Claimed. His.

You stand motionless beyond the sealed door, air still sharp against your skin where fleeting wind touched it. Your robe hangs loosely from your elbows, your breath caught somewhere between shame and defiance. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been here.

“Turn around.” His voice doesn’t rise. There’s no thunder in it. Only certainty. You turn because you have to. Because not turning wouldn’t stop what’s already coming.

He walks slowly toward you, but you don’t drop. Not immediately. You hesitate. A beat too long. A flicker of resistance. He stops once he’s within arm’s reach, lifts a single copper brow as his blue eyes draw a line down your body… and back up. “I thought we were past this,” he says, disappointed.

You open your mouth. Then close it again. You manage only one word—quiet, shaky. “No.” It’s not a shout or scream. Not defiance in fire, but in flickering cinder. Still… enough.

The look that follows seals your fate. He doesn’t rush. The robe slips from your shoulders. His fingers don’t tremble as he lifts the silk harness—a deeper red than blood—and sets it carefully in place over your skin.

One loop at a time. Intentional. Excruciating in its slowness. Wrist to shoulder. Across your ribs and over your thighs. Every twist of silk maps where you belong… and how little of your body is truly yours now.

He says nothing the entire time. Not even when your lip quivers. The room holds its breath with you. When the final knot is pulled tight between your shoulders, you’re marched—still bound—to the edge of the low platform where ritual always begins. You know what he expects.

You pause again, caught halfway between standing and kneeling. Your legs threaten to give out. When you finally lower yourself, it’s stiff. Not compliant, not grateful. Chuuya notices.

He watches you sit—heels under your hips, hands trembling in your lap—and he shakes his head once. “You’ve forgotten what this means,” he murmurs.

Then the paddle appears. Wider than his hand, smooth wood polished to a subtle gleam. You recognize it. He never used it before—not once. Until now.

You tremble, still kneeling, as he approaches. Still in silence. He slips behind you, pulling your harness taut. Your body is drawn forward across the bench—arched, displayed. You struggle, but the restraints hold firm.

“I don’t want to keep doing this,” he tells you calmly. “So you’re going to learn properly.”

The first strike is sharp. Then the second. And third. A rhythm builds. Deliberate. Almost ritualistic. He counts them softly under his breath, brushing one hand down your back at intervals—not for your comfort—but to remind you: this is slow because it must last. Discipline is no longer reaction, but structure.

By the twentieth, tears have spilled. Somewhere around the twenty-seventh, you stop crying and start breathing around your sobs. Hollow. Rib-deep. Your thighs quake with effort not to yearn for him when he shifts beside you, his gaze drinking in the helpless curve of your form.

Forty. Your skin sings—red where silk and wood left memory. He sets the paddle down. Your knees buckle. He doesn’t offer rest yet.

“We’re done with testing me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-damp hair from your temple. “You’ll move when I say. Speak when I say. And I... decide when you get relief.”

You nod. Not because you understand. But because there’s no voice left for any other answer. He finally lowers you into a horizontal position—back flat against cool stone, limbs still bound, but cushioned now beneath layers of crimson linen he prepared at some point you didn’t see.

His hand finds your center. You flinch, gasp, but don’t resist.It builds—slow again. Methodical. Fingertips dancing exactly where you’re made weakest. Your body responds before you permit it to. Pleasure becomes a command, not a gift.

You beg for climax with your whole being, but he withholds until your muscles lock, tremble, crave beyond reason. Only then—release. And afterward, still bound, you breathe shallow, lips parted but voiceless.

He touches your chin. You meet his gaze only when he lifts your head decisively. The rule already set: eye contact must be earned. “That’s better,” he whispers. “Now, you wait. Not ask. Not beg. Just wait.”

He brings water to your lips. He feeds you. Later, he changes the linens himself, cleans your thighs thoroughly, then settles you between cool sheets and warm blanket. The collar never removed. You sleep like that.

When morning comes, you don’t rise. You kneel. No one tells you to. You don’t speak. Not until he offers the command to do so. You no longer ask where his hands are going. You learn that his touch is no longer punishment—its presence. You no longer cry.

Not because you’re happy. But because the idea of leaving now feels… far away. Disjointed. Unreal.

He comes to you mid-afternoon, cups the back of your neck gently and tilts your chin upward. “See?” he breathes against your skin. “You’re safe now. You don’t have to choose anymore.”

You can’t answer. You just kneel deeper into the cushions as he strokes between your legs, and this time, he permits release with praise at your ear.

“You’re mine,” he whispers later that night, his forehead pressed against yours. A kiss to your temple, possessive yet tender. “And I’ll never let the world hurt you again.”

Master list

[nolongerpostingsorry]

OKAYY so!! civilian reader x pm!dazai meet at the bar, he is with ango and odasaku and she is alone

reader was drinking and sad because her boyfriend had break up with her (he was a asshole) and dazai put his eyes on her, he gets close and starts to talk with reader, she tells him about the break up and he see her like a little, naive, innocent and sweet doll and that makes dazai want to break reader and her innocence

well you decide how happens but he start to mess and tease her and they go to some place together and dazai breaks reader fucking her in so many ways

a lot of dirty talk, he playing with her in so many ways, fucking in a lot of position, places and dazai telling reader about how her shitty ex boyfriend lost and how he can't probably satisfy her like dazai, praise and degradation, a lot of kisses and touches, he getting obsessed with her boobs and everything you want

ACTUALLY i think would be cool if dazai decided to call her ex boyfriend and talk to him while he fucks reader and mock him

Forget Him, Remember Me

Nsfw

Warnings: smut, rough sex, dirty talk, degradation, praise, multiple positions, oral, possessive behavior, phone call, mild exhibitionism, Dazai’s manipulative streak, other sexual acts.

Summary: He found you in tears. He left you shaking for a different reason. Dazai Osamu didn’t come to comfort you—he came to ruin you. Soft words. Dirty hands. Cruel praise. His voice in your ear, whispering that he can make you forget all about that pathetic man. Later, when you’re bent over and breathless, he proves it. By the time he’s done, your ex is just another ghost and Dazai’s the one haunting every breath.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

The first drink one gave you warmth, drink two made the bar stool at Lupin feel like an anchor. Now, halfway through the third, you're dangerously weightless. Your wine bleeds red against your lips, deep and sacrificial. Bitter. Like everything your ex left you with.

You don't cry. Not yet. You're the kind of girl who grieves prettily, in silence. A glossed smile, flushed cheeks, and a thousand untold stories hiding behind your eyes. But heartbreak still shows when you think no one's watching.

Except someone is.

You feel it. A glance that licks up your skin with the lazy patience of fire. You turn your head slightly, unsure why your heartbeat catches in your throat. Three men sit across the bar. Quiet laughter, the rim of tumblers clinking, remnants of some half-finished conversation. The one who’s looking at you, his coat hangs loose, shirt unbuttoned a little, and the bandages around his wrists peek beneath his cuffs. Osamu Dazai.

You don’t know his name yet. But your wine glass trembles slightly at the way he looks at you. Like he's reading something you didn’t mean to write.

“Stop staring,” the man beside him murmurs. Slightly older, framed by sad serenity, cigarette smoke curling near.

Dazai just smiles, unconcerned. “She’s sitting there like she needs company. Can you blame me, Odasaku?”

The third man—neatly dressed, glasses pushed up his nose—barely looks up. “We’re here to talk business, Dazai. Not flirt with broken-hearted women.”

He shrugs with practiced elegance. “Business is boring.” And then he rises.

Your heart trips.

Oda watches him go. He exhales smoke and amusement in one slow breath. “There he goes again,” he says, not with judgment but with something like quiet resignation.

Ango doesn’t bother turning fully around, only adjusts his glasses and mutters, “He’s not coming back, is he?”

Oda’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Probably not.”

You try not to watch his approach, but it’s impossible. Something about the way he moves drags your gaze to him like gravity.

He slides into the seat beside you, slow and easy. “You’re drinking merlot,” he says casually, drumming the pad of one finger against the bar.

You nod, only glancing sideways. “It’s cheaper than therapy.”

A low, delighted hum leaves him. “Ah. Witty. But I was going to guess tragic.” You sip instead of answering. “Bad night?” he coaxes.

“Worst week,” you mutter, finally turning to look him full in the face. He studies you with an intimacy that doesn’t make sense. You shouldn’t speak. But something in his expression—quietly amused, patient, predatory—pulls the truth out of you. “My boyfriend broke up with me,” you say bluntly. Then you laugh, a short, raw sound. “Actually... dumped me. After cheating. Twice.”

His brows lift. “And yet you still miss him?”

You hesitate. “No. Just… It hurts. I loved an idea. And I lost... the illusion.”

“Ah,” he says, and there's something almost tender in his mockery. “You're one of those girls then.”

“Those girls?” you frown.

“The soft ones. Pretty things with hearts they keep handing out like candy. Hopeful even when the world teaches them not to be.” He leans closer.

You look away. “I’m not that soft. If you’re going to insult me, I should at least know your name.”

“Oh, darling,” he murmurs, grin close enough to brush your pulse. “You’re with feelings like that, you can’t hide your innocence.” Your breath hitches. “The names Dazai and that boyfriend,” Dazai continues idly, “was a fool. You’re a doll. A sweet little thing. So easy... to break.”

You should feel insulted. Instead, your thighs clench unconsciously where your dress barely kisses mid-thigh. “Don’t say things like that,” you whisper.

“Why not?” Dazai asks, voice low. He tips his head again. “If I gave you a night,” he muses aloud, “one soaked filled with sin instead of sorrow... do you think you’d still remember his name in the morning?”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when the space between you feels molten.

He places two fingers under your jaw, tilting your chin until your eyes meet. “Let me ruin you, pretty girl. Just a little. You’ll like how it feels when someone forgives you what you need.”

“You don’t even know me,” you whisper, dazed.

He chuckles. “I know enough. And I promise… by sunrise, I’ll know your every soft sound.”

Your glass is warm now. Forgotten. Just like your ex. Just like every reason you were sad an hour ago. You nod. “Y/N, that’s my name,” you breathe.

His grin deepens, dangerously charming. “Good girl. Come,” he murmurs, brushing a fingertip under your chin as if he’s already claimed the hinge of you. “Let’s take that pretty sadness somewhere and fix it.”

He leads you out of Lupin with effortless confidence, tipping two fingers toward Odasaku and Ango as though you were a story he’ll tell later. The air bites. You shiver, and he notices.

“Cold, belladonna?” he teases, mouth curving as he watches the shiver ripple through your bare arms. A gust slides up your skirt. Your breath catches. His hand shrugs free of a black trench coat. He drapes it over your shoulders like a benediction.

The coat swallows your shape, carrying his scent—smoke, gunpowder, something uniquely him. You’re grateful for the heat.

He gets busy with you without ever overstepping: thumbs the wine gloss from the corner of your mouth, smears it, then wipes it with the pad of his thumb. Lingers at your wrist where the pulse jumps, amused at how it misbehaves under his attention. “Look at you,” he says softly, almost reverent and utterly wicked. “You came to drown in a glass and ended up in my hands. Do you know what that makes you?”

“Impulsive,” you answer, trying to sound braver than you feel.

“Delicious.” He laughs and doesn’t let you look away. “And very, very fun to tease.”

By the time the elevator doors close behind you, the city hums underfoot, and your heartbeat is a matching metronome. You watch numbers blink upward. You feel his gaze on your mouth. He reaches, smoothing your hair away from your cheek like he’s tidying his prize. “Eyes up,” he murmurs, brushing your cheekbone with his knuckles as the elevator rises.

The doors open, you are met with floor-to-ceiling windows that hold the harbor like a living painting. Clean lines. Dark leather. Low lamps.

Dazai stands close enough that you feel the heat of him along your side without the comfort of contact. He reaches again—your cheek, your jaw, down the bared line of your arm. His fingers trail to your elbow and return, skimming, reacquainting. When a strand of hair drifts across your face, he tucks it behind your ear with a patience that feels far more intimate than a kiss.

“Innocent,” he says, tasting the word on his tongue like something expensive. He leans in until his breath warms your cheek. “So sweet it makes my teeth ache.” His smile is all teeth now. “I’m going to have fun breaking you.”

Your stomach flips. A whistle of arousal slides through your nerves like electricity. You hold his gaze because you want him to know—whatever breaking means, you’re not afraid of the way he intends to do it.

“Bedroom,” he suggests, soft and final.

You let him guide you down a short hallway, his palm light at the small of your back. He stops you just beyond the threshold and turns you to face him. “Do you want me to make you forget your shitty ex?” he asks, unblinking.

You swallow. The answer is already shaking inside you. “Yes.”

“And how,” Dazai breathes, bringing his mouth near your ear, “should I do that?” His voice drops into velvet menace. “Should I fuck you like my personal slut?” Heat detonates low in your belly. Your head nods before your mouth can catch up. He clicks his tongue. “Ah, ah.” A light tap under your chin brings your eyes to his. “Say it.”

The words crawl up your throat, burning with humiliation and desire. You wet your lips. “I want you to… fuck me like a slut.”

Dazai’s smile turns slow and devastating. “Good girl.” His hand ghosts down your arm to your wrist, turning your palm up like a question. He places one kiss in the hollow there, then releases you. “Slowly,” he instructs. “Undress for me.”

You reach for the zipper at your spine. The trench coat slides from your shoulders. The dress loosens. You let gravity pull it down inch by inch, mindful of his eyes. It pools at your feet.

His gaze maps you, hungry and patient, a predator who enjoys the view before the pounce. “Stockings,” he says softly. “One at a time.”

You hook your thumbs and peel them down, slow. He watches your legs bare themselves, watches tension ripple through your calves as you balance. He doesn’t touch. You feel touch anyway, everywhere.

By the end, you’re in your bra and underwear, skin prickling under the tempered heat of his attention. You expect him to devour you. Instead, he steps close without closing the distance, letting anticipation do the work. His knuckles skim your cheek. His thumb tucks another stray hair behind your ear, then drags down the slope of your neck to the edge of lace.

“Look at you,” he croons, voice thick with approval you didn’t know you needed. “Brave little thing.” He angles your chin, making you hold his gaze. “Say you belong to me tonight.”

You breathe in, out, steadying yourself on the edge of surrender. “I belong to you tonight.”

“Mm.” Satisfaction breaks across his face like dawn cracking open a darker sky. He leans lower, brushing his nose along your jaw, breathing you in. “Turn around.”

You do. The city is a curtain of light beyond the glass. Your reflection in the window looks like a secret. Dazai’s hands hover at your upper arms, then travel down until goosebumps crest across your skin.

“I bet you’re already forgetting him,” he murmurs against the back of your neck. “You’ll always remember me.” His mouth lands a single, owning kiss to the notch where your spine meets your skull. His hand slides back to your cheek, turns your face enough that he can see your eyes. “Eyes on me,” he says, smoothing your hair once more, the gesture almost gentle. “You’re mine tonight.”

He looks at you, your bra, your underwear, your breath. He looks like a man with every intention of making good on his promises. “Now,” Dazai whispers, savoring the moment before he pounces. “Climb onto the bed and kneel. We’re going to start slow and end messy.”

Your breath stutters, spine tingling as you crawl across the crisp sheets. You kneel at the center, heart hurling itself against your ribs. You feel the bed dip behind you. Then Dazai’s presence like smoke wrapping around you. His hands glide over your back before slipping under the bra with teasing patience.

One tug, then another—he doesn’t undo it entirely. Instead, his fingers hook beneath, pulling the cups down just enough for your nipples to be exposed to the cool air. “I need to see all of you. Bit by bit,” he murmurs, voice rough. One hand cups your breast while the other pinches a nipple between his dexterous fingers, rolling and tugging as you whimper. He hums in approval against your shoulder. “There’s that sound. So delicate.”

His wandering fingers explore like they’re cataloging you. Trailing your collarbones, drawing lazy shapes over your lower back, sneaking beneath the waistband of your panties just to feel. Your thighs twitch. He notices.

“Oh?” he muses, stroking once between your legs. You gasp. “Already soaked for me,” he says, reverent and filthy all at once. “I haven’t even opened you yet. Look at the mess you're making in your underwear, sweetheart. You're practically begging.”

You can’t form words. Only nod, breathless, trembling under the weight of his attention.

Dazai shifts in front of you, his knees touching yours. Your breath catches at the way he looks down at you, heat burning in those eyes. “Unzip me.” Your fingers go to work—hesitant at first—but he doesn’t let your concentration last long. He pinches your other nipple this time, rolling it deliberately as you gasp and falter. “Keep going,” he commands. “Don’t get distracted. I bet it’s hard… when I play with you like this.” He tugs at your nipple harder, sending a bolt down your spine.

You whimper but manage to unbutton the slacks, tugging down the zipper slowly until he shifts again. Once his pants are open, he gently grasps your shoulder and guides you off the bed. “Knees,” Dazai orders, voice darker now. You sink to the plush floor as he steps out of his pants. Your bra, still awkwardly askew, is adjusted by his careful hands. “There,” he smirks. “Pretty again.” His hand comes to rest on the back of your head, thumb brushing over your cheek before he tips your chin up. “Take it out,” he says.

You hesitate, daring to ask, “Can I undress more?”

His grin sharpens. “Not yet. You look perfect, kneeling on my floor with ruined panties and a bra falling off your shoulders. You deserve to sit in the mess you’re making.”

He guides your hands to his waistband, letting you pull down his briefs inch by inch. His cock springs free thick, flushed, already stiff with want. You take a shaky breath, lips parting. “Open wider,” he breathes, threading his fingers into your hair. When you close your lips over the head and slide down slowly, Dazai groans. “Just like that. Good girl.”

He doesn't thrust. Not yet. He lets you set the rhythm. Lets you explore the weight of him on your tongue, the faint salt of skin and musk, the way he twitches when you flatten your tongue against the underside. But as your pace builds, so does his control. His fist tightens in your hair. He tilts your head subtly, forcing your eyes up. “Mmm,” he chuckles, hips angling forward slightly. “What should I do to you next, belladonna?”

You moan around him. His hips flex.

“Should I fuck you on your back, see how wide your legs will open?” Another roll of his hips, deeper this time. “Or press you up against this window, let the city watch me split you open?”

You choke slightly on the momentary thrust, and he coos, stroking your cheek.

“Maybe on my lap. So you can bounce, that’s what you’re made for, isn't it?” he whispers between hitched breaths. “To be ruined. By me.”

Your hands cling to his thighs, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, your body alight with every lascivious promise he pours down your throat. And still, he doesn’t let go.

"Off," he said quietly, voice as low and deliberate as a blade edged gently under silk. Fingers brushed your flushed cheek, then guided downward. "Your bra. Slowly. I want to watch."

You obeyed. Your trembling fingers slipped beneath the lace strap of your bra. The clasp took longer than it should have. Probably because Dazai watched you like the predator who decided to stalk his prey instead of tearing it apart. When the fabric fell away, your breath left with it, nipples tightening under the bedroom’s lingering chill.

His smile was slow as sin. He flicked his gaze up. Your pupils blown wide, mouth parted in something shy and wild. “Get on the bed,” he said. Then, again, softer. “On your back, bella.” The pet name slid down your spine like warm honey. You climbed onto the sheets knee-first, heart thudding like a trapped bird. You'd been bare beneath men before. But never like this.

He joined you silently, the mattress dipping under his weight. He loomed above but didn’t touch you. Not yet.

Dazai hovered, a breath away, eyes locked on yours. And then… just one palm flattened against your sternum. Gentle. But commanding. “You don’t get to cover yourself,” Dazai murmured, catching your wrist as it wandered toward your chest reflexively. “Not from me.”

You gasped as his mouth dipped warm over your breast. His tongue was featherlight, then aching with suction. You cried his name when he bit the underside, drawing a tremble that traveled straight between your thighs. Your hands shot into his hair without thinking.

He chuckled against your skin, amused. Pleased. “You feel everything so fast,” he whispered, lifting his head slowly, cruelly. “So sensitive. Be honest, Y/N—how long have you been wanting someone to keep you like this? Open and desperate and ruined?”

“I–I don’t know,” you replied, barely audible, neck arched toward him.

“Liar. Ex-lovers don’t count.” He moved lower. Fingers sliding along your thighs, chest still pressed to yours just enough to trap you in sensation. His words scraped against your pulse. “But I’ll be gentle at first.” His mouth pressed beneath your navel. Then lower still, over the lace panties he’d refused to remove earlier. Ruined fabric clung to you, soaked through from too much waiting. He pressed a kiss over the center of your heat. “This is mine now. Say it.”

You tried to speak but whimpered instead.

“Say. It,” Dazai snapped and then, gentled it. “I don’t want your fear, Y/N. I want your pretty, honest voice.”

You met his gaze across the hollow space between bodies, and said it like a vow. “Yours.”

He growled softly in approval. Your panties were gone a second later, torn from the waistband like they were an inconvenience. He spread you with careful fingers, eyes going half-lidded as you twisted with tension below him. His mouth descended, hands bracing your thighs open. It started sweet, one slow lick that pushed your head back into the pillow. Then wicked. He dragged your pleasure out, lips teasing, tongue cruel and methodical.

Your fists knotted in the sheets, sobs catching in your throat as he pressed you harder into the mattress. He did nothing to end it. Nothing to tip you over. Just let you climb and break and climb again, edge balanced razor-thin. “Dazai, please,” you gasped, finally cracking.

He lifted his head, throat slick, smile feral. “There she is. My desperate girl.”

Then he slid two fingers inside you without warning. You arched up. Cried out. Didn’t care what you looked like or how messy this must seem. You wanted him. All of him. Rough and kind. Wanted his teeth on your skin and his name in your mouth and the scars of this on your body for days.

He thrust slow. Brutal. Mouth finding your breasts again, flicking and licking rhythm as you fell apart. “Tell me again,” he said raggedly. “Who do you belong to?”

“You!”

“Who will make you cum?”

“You!”

He kissed your stomach, your ribs, your mouth. As he slowed his hand and finally withdrew, leaving you trembling and kissed red all over. “I will ruin you so thoroughly,” he whispered onto your lips between breaths, “no one else will ever feel like enough.”

His fingers. Slow. Deep. Pressing deliberately into that soaked spot that made your legs tremble. The sheets stuck damply to your thighs, heat blooming in every breath as your hips involuntarily rocked against the rhythm he refused to let you control.

“You look wrecked already,” Dazai murmured, voice low and wicked against your ear. “But I have a question.” You swallowed hard, caught somewhere between humiliation and want. His fingers refused to stop. “Did he ever make you cum?” he asked. “Your ex.” Your breath hitched. He crooked his fingers just slightly inside you, dragging something sharp-sweet from your throat. “Or did you fake it like a good little actress?” he whispered, mouth brushing your jawline. “Be honest with me, sweetheart. I already know the answer.”

Shame crawled hot over your skin. “I... faked it,” you whispered, the confession tasting like acid. “Every time.”

“Oh, bella,” Dazai sighed with mock-grief, slowing his fingers almost to a stop. You whimpered. “Starved little thing,” he murmured, leaning down until his forehead pressed to yours. “But I’ll fix that…if you earn it.”

He let the words hang before withdrawing his fingers from your pulsing heat. A needy whimper caught in your throat, but he only smirked and brought his soaked fingers to his mouth. He licked them clean. Then, without warning, he grabbed your hips, dragged you down the bed, and notched himself at your entrance with deadly precision.

“No more pretending,” he growled, and slid into you — rough, hard, shattering.

You gasped, loud, raw. Every inch of him stretched you open, filled you past capacity, and still his sounds were louder.

His mouth found your throat, then your breasts—biting, kissing, praising, branding. Every collision of his hips into yours drew fire and need from your stomach to your spine. "Feel that?" he panted against your chest. "That’s what it’s supposed to feel like. Not his clumsy, apologetic little thrusts. This—" He bucked deeper. “—is how you teach a body how to beg.”

When a moan broke from your lips, delicate and fragile, you tried to muffle it. Bite it back. Hide it. His hand was at your throat before you could, not choking but pressing, firm and warning. “Don’t you dare hide from me,” Dazai hissed, dark eyes flaring. “Was that a moan, princess? Trying to be modest now?”

He thrust harder.

“Slutty little whimper wasted its moment. I want to hear it again. All of them. Every pretty, desperate sound that mouth has to offer.”

Your whole body burned. “I—” you gasped, hips bucking with each thrust, “—Dazai, I-I’m gonna—I’m close—”

He stilled. And you made a sound you’d never made before. Something close to a sob.

But he only smiled. “Not yet.” In one fluid motion, Dazai pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach, and yanked your hips up until your ass was cocked in the air.

His palm cracked against it. You cried out. “Say it,” he growled, inching back against you. “Say who you belong to.”

You sobbed into the pillows, ruined and aching, hips twitching from the sharp burn of his slap. “You—I belong to you, Dazai.”

Lips pressed into your shoulder blade, soft as a vow. Then his cock slid back inside, deeper, harsher, perfectly angled.

You're already trembling by the time Dazai fists your hair tighter, snapping your head back just enough that the Yokohama skyline flickers in the glass before you. His hips ram forward again, hard and merciless, slamming into the sweet spot that makes your knees threaten to buckle.

"Listen to that," he hisses, low and smug, the sound of your soaked core taking him over and over again lewd in the silence of the room. Another sharp slap arcs across your ass, the burn blooming instantly. You cry out, mouth open but no words formed.

He leans in, lips just brushing your ear. "You know what drives me wild, baby? The way you melt under both pretty words and filthy ones. Drip for me when I praise you... clench even harder when I talk down to you. Aren't you just a precious little masochist?"

Slap.

You jerk forward with the sting, only to push your hips eagerly back into him again. "So fucking greedy for it," Dazai groans, voice thickening as he picks up speed. "Can’t even pretend you don’t love it rough. Bet you’re soaking the sheets."

Two fingers snake around your hip, slipping between your thighs. You whimper. He finds your clit immediately, skilled and deliberate, the circles fast and relentless. "Are you close?" he breathes, rhythm steady even as your legs shake beneath you.

"Y-Yes!" you gasp, the word ripping from your lungs unsummoned.

And then he’s gone.

The sudden emptiness makes you whine in disbelief, back arching, walls clenching in desperation. You begin to shift, to glance over your shoulder—

“Don’t.” He doesn’t yell it. He doesn’t need to. That one command lodges in your spine. "Don’t move," Dazai orders from behind you. "Stay just like that."

You freeze, panting into the mattress. His footsteps retreat, soft against the floor. Something clinks. Then silence. The quiet stretches until it crackles with tension. Then he returns.

You don’t turn. You don’t dare. You feel him settle beside you again with… Your phone. “Unlock it,” Dazai says, tone calm—dangerously so.

You lift your head an inch, confused. “Why?”

CRACK.

His palm hits your ass again, harder than before, drawing a yelp from your throat. “I said,” he murmurs, voice sharp, “unlock it.”

You fumble awkwardly beneath your limp body, pressing your pin into the screen despite trembling hands. A beat later: the click of a contact being dialed. Singular. Intentional.

You try to lift your head again, try to ask, “Who did you—”

But you're cut off. Because in that exact second, he thrusts back into you. Hard. You scream. Startled, overwhelming pleasure. Everything inside you coils white-hot again.

And then you hear it. A click. “…Hello?”

Your ex.

You freeze, but Dazai doesn’t. He starts a slow, punishing rhythm, hips rolling against yours in practiced strokes, cock hitting that perfect spot over and over. “Ah,” Dazai murmurs sweetly, loud enough for the receiver. “Just the person I wanted to speak to.”

He reaches around your throat, pulling you upright until your back is pressed to his chest, phone on speaker barely inches away. “Recognize that sound?” he asks conversationally into the air, fucking you harder now, the wet slap of your body against his echoing.

On the other end, silence. Before a, “What the hell—”

“She’s mine now,” Dazai continues, panting but amused. “You ever hear her squeal like this before? You don’t remember because she never did, did she?” You jolt forward into the bed with a sobbing gasp. Dazai keeps thrusting. “She told me all about it,” he growls. “How she faked it. Every time. With you.”

“I don’t know who—” your ex spits, but Dazai talks over him, slamming into you.

“Wanna hear what she sounds like when it’s real?”

You’re gone. Embarrassment forgotten. Dazai picks up brutal speed. Your brain whites out. “Beg,” he breathes into your ear. “Beg me to let you cum. Make him hear it. Make him know you’re mine now."

“Please—please, Dazai—want to cum,” you cry, voice cracking. “Let me—please—”

His fingers slide back between your thighs, clit again, fast and slick, and that’s it.

You detonate. Your legs nearly give. A hoarse, wrecked wail is torn from your throat as your orgasm rips through you, a full-body convulsion of raw, feral pleasure. Everything blurs. You barely even hear your own voice, keening, choking on his name.

Through it all, Dazai doesn’t miss a beat. He stays inside you, only barely slowing. Then, with a devilish smirk, he lifts the phone higher.

“That,” he says, addressing the stunned silence on the other end, “is the sound of a real orgasm. Memorize it. You’ll never hear it from her again.”

He hangs up.

Drops the phone to the mattress.

And presses a soft kiss to your temple as you lay shaking beneath him.

Your body was boneless, pressed into decadent sheets, fingers twitching and thighs slick with the afterglow of debauchery. The scent of him clung to your skin. Sweat cooled along your spine. You didn’t move, couldn’t. Not with the dull, marvelous ache pulsing between your legs.

Next to you, Dazai exhaled a low sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a purr. His fingers grazed along your lower back, feather-light. Possessive. “You did so well for me,” he purred, voice thick with tired amusement. “So pretty. So obedient.”

You barely turned your head. Your breath still came in greedy sips. But even in your haze, the praise felt like a fire being lit.

He shifted beside you on the mattress. “But,” he hummed, lying flat on his back now and patting his stomach, “I think you deserve another. Come sit, doll.”

You blinked at him.

His eyes gleamed, lazy with sin. One finger tilted your chin when you didn’t move fast enough. “On top,” he coaxed. “Lift those pretty thighs and fuck yourself over me. Slowly.” He didn’t have to say it twice. Your limbs ached, but you climbed over him, straddling his hips. His cock was already hard again. Thick and gorgeous and twitching with anticipation. Still glistening with your slick.

You loved how he watched you. Loved how he didn’t blink as you lowered yourself, guiding him to press against your entrance. “Inch by inch,” he ordered softly. “I want to feel you tremble for it.”

You bit your bottom lip and obeyed. The stretch was wicked. Welcoming. Your walls clenched greedily around him, and the hiss he let loose rang like sex against your ear.

“God,” he moaned under his breath, neck arching slightly. “You—” His hands gripped your hips. “My perfect cockslut. Can’t believe someone like you was crying into cheap wine over that limp-dicked worm.”

Your head snapped down, flushed. The grind of him inside you, the filth in his mouth—it clawed at something dark and alive inside your chest. “He never made you beg,” Dazai continued lazily. “Didn’t make you bounce those dripping thighs for it. Didn’t ruin you the way you fucking need.”

You whined. Slowed. Your muscles weren’t enough. Your body felt like smoke stretching thin. And that’s when he snapped his hips up. Your scream echoed off the walls.

He smiled cruelly. “I said slow, not stop. If you can’t manage to fuck yourself like the greedy thing you are… I’ll do it for you.” He thrust up again, deep, punishing. Your back arched from the impact. Your nails scraped across his chest. “Every time you slow down, I’ll fuck the brat right out of you,” he murmured, intoxicated by your jolts of raw need. You sobbed his name. He smirked. “Good girl. Cry for it.”

He grabbed the back of your neck and dragged you down for a kiss—savage and wet. When he released you, you were gasping, your body undone. Then, with a sudden roll, he lifted you off, flipped your back to the sheets. You yelped but he was already between your thighs.

His hands pressed your knees apart until you lay spread and trembling. He clicked his tongue, eyes locked on the slick between your folds. “Messy little thing,” he scolded, voice low and fucking amused. “Look what you’ve done. All creamy and dripping.”

You tried to breathe but then he kissed your thigh. Then again. Higher. Teeth grazed skin. Nipped. Tongue flicked. Then, he dove in. A sharp gasp flew from your lungs. His mouth moved against your cunt. Licking through the mess with pointed precision, tongue curling into your folds and then dragging upward.

He moaned. “God, you taste so sweet,” he muttered, breaking contact to pant against your soaked core. He latched onto your clit then, sucking hard, and you nearly felt the world flip sideways. He didn’t stop.

Tongue. Lips. Gentle bites that made you thrash just to calm the aftershocks. He gripped your thighs tighter, holding you down, dragging every reaction from you until— “Dazai—I—please—I—”

And then it broke. The orgasm dragged you under like riptide. Your body spasmed. Your fingers clawed and your vision blurred. You came on his tongue with a desperate sob, choking out his name like prayer.

But even as you trembled, even as you collapsed, Dazai stayed where he was, licking into you like you were dessert and he hadn’t had enough.

Only when your thighs twitched too violently did he pull back. He looked up at you with mouth slick and sinful. “Told you,” he whispered darkly, “I’d help you forget.”

And somewhere, behind the haze of bliss and threat, you realized that Dazai was right at the beginning of this. You’ll never forget him.

Master list

[nolongerpostingsorry]

The Naught List

Nsfw

It’s a few days after Christmas but let’s pretend it’s not.

Warnings: smut, dom/sub dynamics, brat, oral punishment, denial, blindfold, bondage, dirty talk, other sexual acts.

Summary: A year of stolen moments, and crossed lines, finally comes due. Dazai isn’t interested in apologies—only obedience. Naughty girls don’t get forgiven. They get corrected.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

Snow clung to your boots as you pushed open the Agency’s door, the bite of winter fading into the comforting scent of cedar, ink, and freshly brewed coffee. The office always felt more like home during the holidays—strands of fairy lights looped across the windows, casting a soft golden glow over cases stacked beside busy desks. Somewhere to your right, Kunikida was muttering about paperwork, and Atsushi's laughter floated in from the hallway. But none of that mattered.

Because you knew he was here. Your fingers slipped into your coat pocket and brushed against something foreign. Folded. Crisp. Paper that hadn’t been there before. A quick glance confirmed your suspicions.

That handwriting. Looped, effortless, a touch lazy. Crafted with intention. Dazai’s. Your heart skipped. Of course it did. He was always three moves ahead, wasn’t he? You unfolded the note fast. Your pulse had spiked, the air thick and electric around you.

Y/N’s Year of Naughty:

• January: Stole my coat. Wore it. Nothing else.

• February: Lied about injury. Dragged me to bed as 'punishment'.

• March: Trapped me in the file room and demanded a kiss.

• April: Showed up at my door. Dripping from the rain. Asked if I’d warm you.

• May: Said you didn’t need me. Said it again. And again.

Your breath caught as you read further. Each bullet point wasn’t just a memory—it was a slow ribbon unraveling around your throat, heat curling in your belly.

“…Still reading?” The voice made your knees knock. You didn’t need to turn. He stood close. Too close. His scent was there before he was. Smoke and spice, winter wind caught in his trench coat, mahogany warmth aching at the edges. “Is that mine?” His voice dipped, smooth and velvet-dark, barely above a murmur. A quiet kind of danger.

You looked up. Mistake. His eyes were molten. Until they turned sharp with amusement, a predator watching a mouse wonder if it liked the trap. “I found it,” you said innocently, holding the paper. “You might want to keep your secrets better hidden if you don’t want curious minds discovering them.”

“Mmm. But which part exactly made you curious, belladonna?”

You hated that the way he said ‘belladonna’ made your stomach flip. Hated how he leaned in with that lazy elegance like nothing in the world mattered but your reaction. “The part where you said I asked you to warm me,” you replied coolly, though your voice betrayed you—just a breath too husky.

“Didn’t you?”

You meant to glance away. You didn’t. You both lingered in that space where the lines between memory and dare blurred. Tension shimmered in the air, heady and waiting. He stepped closer. You lifted your chin. “Are you implying you’ve been cataloging sins all year?”

He grinned. “I like keeping records.”

Everything about him wrapped around your nerves like silk wound tight across skin. You folded the page slowly, watching his eyes track every movement. “So… what? You give me a grade now? Naughty or nice?”

“Oh no,” he said, voice low and deadly sweet. “That was only some of your sins.”

The back of your knees hit the desk as he coaxed you back with presence alone, never touching, just orbiting with heat. You should have stepped aside. You didn’t.

His hands planted on either side of you, trapping you in the space of your own skipped heartbeats, leaving only inches between your bodies. You could feel it in the air: the collision waiting at the edge of restraint.

“You really think you can handle me?”

Dazai’s eyes went dark with something unnameable. Not just lust. Not just vengeance. It was memory, yearning, restraint manacled to walls shaking loose. “I’m going to unwrap you slowly,” he murmured. The office was warm, but your skin was on fire.

His face was so close now you could taste the ghost of his breath. And then —

The hallway door burst open behind you. “Y/N, have you seen—oh.” Atsushi.

You spun away from Dazai, heat coloring your neck like wine spilled too fast, too bold.

“Sorry! I can come back…?” Ataushi mumbled, already retreating, clearly trying not to look stunned.

“Do,” Dazai said smoothly, not even flinching. “Wrong door.”

The door shut again. Silence settled, thick as snow. You didn’t meet his gaze. Because if you did, you were going to either slap him for letting it get that far—or kiss him for not finishing it.

He leaned close. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “Next time, we won’t be interrupted.”

You bit your lip, pulse interior flames. And suddenly, you wanted to break every rule all over again. Even if he made you pay for it.

You stumble through the door with snow on your collar. The apartment is dim and warm; the radiator hums. You toe out of your boots, drop your keys, and head for the light coming from the bedroom because you know he’ll be there.

He is. Dazai stands at the foot of the bed, a patient storm contained. The duvet is his staging ground: neat rows of your favorite toys laid out with surgical care. Your cuffs, the black rope that bites, the plug you pretend not to love, the vibe that gets you every time, a bottle of lube warmed under the lamp. And at the center, like a signature, his list.

Your breath slides out on a laugh you can’t help. “Is Santa letting you borrow his workshop or…?”

“Coat,” he says. “Bag. And you stand right here.” He points to the rug at the end of the bed, two steps from the edge—close enough to feel him, not close enough to touch.

You shrug out of the wool and shake snow from the hem. You plant your feet on the mark he chose, chin tipped up like you haven’t already lost the battle.

His eyes flick to the list, then back to you. You lick your lips, tasting the cold you brought inside. He nods, approval skimming his mouth. “Good. Now,” he says, tapping the top page with one finger, “you and I are going to go through this properly. You’ll read. And I’ll decide what happens next.”

“Decide with all those?” You tip your chin toward the bed, shameless. “I thought this was a list, not a buffet.”

“Brat,” he murmurs, not unhappy. He gestures to the paper. “Start.”

You reach for the stack. The familiar scrawl makes your chest tight in a way you’ll never admit out loud.

“March,” you read. “I climbed through your window and took back my watch because someone is bad at ‘borrow and return.’”

He looks at you like you’re his favorite trouble. “Correction,” he says, tone soft and twice as smothering. “You broke in, flaunted it, and stole something from me because you wanted me to chase you.”

You smile, small and bright. “If I remember correctly, you took your time.”

You flip to the next line and bite your lip to hide the way your pulse jumps.

“April,” you read, letting the memory slide through you. “Records room. I locked the door. I asked for a kiss. Because you owed me.”

“I owe you nothing,” he says, lazy. “You staged a scene without permission and tried to take what you hadn’t earned.”

“You were busy pretending you don’t like kissing me,” you retort, sweetness sharpened.

He lifts one brow. “Use that tone again and I’ll skip this part and start the punishment and wish you’d been polite.”

“You’re cruel.”

“You moan when I’m cruel,” he counters. “June.” He skims past your fingers to flip the page himself. “Rooftop. Ledge.”

You swallow, heat crawling low at the memory. “I leaned. I dared you to pull me back.”

He doesn’t touch you, but you feel his palm anyway. Your core gets hot so fast you sway, and his eyes catch the movement like he’s been waiting for it. He thumbs ahead and grins without showing his teeth. “August. Hot spring.”

You exhale a laugh. “You refused to lay a finger on me all night like a sadist.”

His voice warms. “Correction: you performed, loud. You wanted me to break my no touching rule first.”

“I am very persuasive,” you say primly.

“You’re transparent.” He taps a line. “November.” He doesn’t wait for you to read. “You stole my scarf and ran three blocks in the rain.”

“It looked better on me.” You toss your hair.

“No, you wanted me to chase you.” He watches that sink into your cheeks.

Your heart misbehaves. You refuse to look away first. “If we’re checking for honesty, I should probably have a lawyer present.”

He points to the paper and lets you see the date that made Kunikida stop speaking to you for two days. “December twelfth.” His mouth curls. “Cafeteria dare.”

You try for innocence; the curve of your smile ruins it. “Public service. Agency morale.”

“Provocation.” He doesn’t bother pretending he didn’t love it. He lets you breathe for three seconds. Then gestures at the array on the bed like it’s a menu he wrote for you. “Choices,” he says. “Rope or cuffs. Blindfold or watch me. Plug or not. Spanking or… spankings.” His smile is sharp. “Your attitude has earned options.”

Your core flares hot under his tone, a sudden molten swing from playful to needy that makes your knees feel untrustworthy. He watches it happen like he’s turning a dimmer.

“Breathe,” Dazai says, almost gentle. He glances down, amused, and then reaches to the drawer you thought you knew everything about. What he draws out is new—sleek, dark, the tails a wicked spread of thin, flexible strips that look like they’ll kiss and burn at once. A flogger. Your breath catches hard enough to hurt.

“What’s that?” You lift your chin, dare wrapped in sugar. “A festive tassel?”

His mouth goes delighted and dangerous. “New toy. For sassy mouths.” He brushes the soft tips over his own fingers—light, testing—then lifts his eyes to your face in time to catch your pupils go greedy.

“Maybe it’s better for decoration,” you say, aiming for casual, landing in taunt. “You could hang it on the tree.”

He tilts his head. “One more,” he says, almost kind. “Last chance to sweeten your tone.”

You are absolutely incapable of doing what is good for you. You look at the list, then at the flogger, then back at his hands. “If we’re laminating things,” you say, light as frost, “we should probably start with your ego.”

For a heartbeat, nothing in the room moves. You can hear the radiator click and the snow soften against the window. He sets the list aside. Rolls up his sleeves. “Hands. Now.”

The cuffs lock around your wrists with a neat, unforgiving click. He looks smug and clinical at once, like he’s tuning an instrument he built from scratch.

The naughty list sits on the nightstand. Beside it waits the new flogger he debuted earlier. He lifts a pair of matte-black shears from the drawer and balances them against his palm. “Turn,” he murmurs.

You pivot, cuffed hands catching a faint pull. He sets the blades against your shirt and snips. Snips again. He doesn’t rip. He doesn’t maul. He cuts like a surgeon unwrapping a confession. Fabric peels, dropping in lazy drifts to the floor. Your pants go next. “That’s dramatic,” you mutter, chin tilting because you can’t stop being you.

“Festive,” he counters, voice warm as mulled wine and just as dangerous. “And you have been extravagant.” The final strap falls; the last layer surrenders. He sets the shears down where you can see them and takes a moment to look. You hate how your pulse flutters under the inspection.

His hand finds a small amber bottle. The cap clicks. He warms oil between his palms and then spreads it across your skin: shoulders, the long line of your back, the curve of your hips. It’s a slow, broad glide that leaves you gleaming. The scent is faint—clean, spicy, something that sits under your tongue like a dare. You breathe out despite yourself when his thumbs circles your ass, pressing, smoothing. He hears it. Of course he hears it.

“Don’t enjoy it too much,” he says softly, almost affectionate. Almost. “You’re here to learn.”

His hands slide around to your chest. Dazai palms your breasts, thumbs seeking peaks he knows too well. He teases first—rolls, pinches, draws little spirals that tug your breath into puffs. Your nipples gather under his fingers, slick, needy. You react and he watches the swell of your throat, the way you tip forward for an extra fraction of friction.

The reprimand is swift. A precise slap to one nipple, then the other. A sting that spikes and lingers. You flinch, gasp, stare. “Mm.” He purrs, not kind. “You’re enjoying a punishment. How very like you.” Another light smack lands, sharp enough to make you bite your lip. “You’ll enjoy when I say enjoy. Not before.”

“Try me,” you murmur, breath hitching as his thumbs circle lazily, treacherously, just to stop short.

He laughs under his breath and presses two fingers against the aching tip in warning. “Head up, mouth closed. Bend.”

He gestures to the mattress. You plant your knees and fold, cheek to the quilt. He reaches for clear gel and a plug. The sight pins heat under your skin and sets a tremor down your spine you hope he doesn’t notice.

Dazai notices everything. A cool line of lube drips where you’re most vulnerable. He spreads it with deliberation, coaxing and slicking, teasing the rim until your muscles flutter. His fingers breach you shallowly, then a little deeper. He doesn’t rush; he persuades. The plug’s tip brushes; he withdraws; he circles.

He seats the plug with patience. Press, pause, breathe, further, until the thickest part eases through and your body swallows it. The base fits snug against your oiled skin. The sensation spreads: full, intrusive, obscene.

A helpless sound slips free. A small, traitorous moan and his palm comes down across the curve of your ass in a crisp smack that ricochets through the plug and back again. “Punishment,” he reminds you, voice velvet and barbed. “Not a treat. You’re wearing this because you were naughty.” Another slap, lower. “Not because you were sweet.”

“You have a very biased grading system,” you snap, fighting the urge to push back into his hand.

“And you have a very spankable ass.” He rests his hand in the small of your back. The first few are clean, spaced, surgical. He works both sides, building heat in overlapping arcs that make you acutely aware of the plug seated inside you and the way oil turns every strike into a slide. The chain ticks when you tense. Your breath paces him, ragged and stubborn.

He doesn’t speak for a stretch. He watches. Listens. Adjusts. Then he starts weaving the list into the lesson. “Swapping files out of my coat at the exchange,” he says, conversational, right as his palm lands. “Bold. Messy.” He strokes the sting with a possessive pass of his fingers. “Ungrateful.”

“You’re welcome,” you shoot back.

Another slap. “Tampering with my calendar so I’d be trapped with you on a fake tail?” His hand warms your skin, then cuts sharper. “Ingenious. Irritating.”

“You loved it,” you say, and you know he did.

He threads his fingers into your hair, not pulling. Just controlling where your eyes go when he wants them. “I love that you think you can win.” His grip loosens; his hand drops; the next smack streaks fire along the crest of your hip.

You handle his tempo until you don’t. He changes angles, patterns, force. Your mouth refuses to stay quiet. You don’t whimper; you taunt. “Is that it?” you huff.

That laugh is a sin. “Greedy brat.” He drags two fingers over the base of the plug, and then gives you three fast, mean slaps that turn your breath inside out.

You still smirk. You can’t help it.

“Since your appetite is larger than your manners,” he says, reaching for the flogger, “we’ll escalate.”

You brace. The first pass is all whisper—tails gliding over oil-slick skin and up your thighs, a tease that makes gooseflesh spark across places already punished. Then comes the real thing: a soft thud that lands and blooms seconds later, warmer than a hand. He maps you in ranges, laying heat exactly where he wants. Some feathering along the edges to keep you guessing, some striking twice to stack sensation until your knees threaten to wobble.

“You will not receive praise,” he informs you between volleys, voice low and firm, “until you learn to be nice.” Another measured stroke. Another.

“Maybe you’ll run out of spots,” you rasp, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from making the sound he wants.

He tilts his head, devilish. “Will I?”

You angle your hips, arching. “You missed a spot.” The words come slick with daring. “Don’t get lazy, old man.”

His smile is criminal. “Did I? We can’t have that.” The flogger lands, then a little higher, then lower, then dead center. He fills in every gap with brutal efficiency, refusing to leave a square inch of your ass unaddressed. He runs the tails up between your thighs with just enough pressure to threaten madness and stops short of relief like a professional.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, and the next set ruins the word in your mouth before you can shape it.

You hold position. You refuse to whine even when his cadence switches to something syncopated and cruel. “Color?” he asks at the crest of a set, never careless.

“Green,” you answer, hoarse and shaking and proud of both.

“Good girl to tell me,” he says. “Shame about everything else.”

He finishes the sequence with two final kisses of suede that land like signatures. Then he eases off, trailing the tails down your calves, letting silence collect. The heater hums. Your pulse drums in your ears. The plug sits heavy and perfect, a reminder of exactly how owned you are when you make yourself his problem.

He steps in front of you and lifts your chin with two fingers, stopping your mouth from chasing his. The kiss he gives you is brief, biting, a brand, not a reward. You chase it anyway. He denies you anyway. “No,” he says, amused and merciless. “Not yet. Not for you.” He taps the list with his knuckle, then the flogger. “The spanking stops here. But your punishment is only beginning.”

“Up,” Dazai says, voice smooth and unhurried. “Off the bed. Kneel.” You slide, trembling, to the edge and slide. The rug bites soft against your knees. The cuffs tug your arms in a helpless arc. He watches the way you arrange your legs without being told and that small, pleased quirk of his mouth makes heat flare under your skin.

“There,” he hums, folding the paper and tucking it into the nightstand without looking away. “My belladonna remembers how to present.”

His hand slides into your hair, tightening just enough to pull up. His other hand roams lazily, indulgently cruel. Down your throat, over the heat of your chest. And then he pinches your nipple without warning. You gasp, clenching on instinct, hips twitching toward him.

“Sensitive,” he mocks softly, giving the peak a roll that sends sparks flickering down your spine. He taps your lip with two fingers, eyes gleaming. He kneels just long enough to nudge your knees wider and grab the black vibrator. You can feel your pulse in your throat at the sight. He flicks it on low, and sets it right where you’re swollen and desperate. You bite your lip hard, breath stuttering.

“Hands,” he reminds, not because you can move them, but because he knows it makes you clench when he says it. His thumb ghosts over your other nipple, then pinches in a quick, snap that makes you cry out and rock forward into the toy. He chuckles, delighted. “Look at you. The Agency’s terror on her knees because I pressed a button.” His fingers tighten in your hair, guiding your face only inches from the swell in his trousers. “Open.”

You obey, lips parting, tongue wet. He unbuckles his belt, metal clinking and loosens his pants in a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes your stomach pitch. He draws himself free, already heavy, flushed from watching you struggle not to chase the vibration.

“Pretty mouth,” he purrs, dragging the head of his cock over your lower lip until slick stitches across your tongue. “I’m not feeling generous.”

You shiver and angle forward, taking him in with a moan you can’t bite back. He slides between your lips like he has all the time in the world. No rush. No give. He sets the pace by doing almost nothing, letting your tongue worship, letting your cheeks hollow, letting your breath turn ragged as the toy hums merciless against your clit.

His hand stays in your hair, the grip alternating between possessive and playful. The other is aimless in the worst way—random. A flick to your left nipple makes you choke around him; a lazy thumb over the right draws out a whine you try to hide by taking him deeper. He laughs, low and cruelly fond. “Balance is important. I should be fair and touch them the same,” he muses, then proves a liar by pinching just one until you gasp. “But then you wouldn’t squirm.”

You try to breathe through your nose, saliva slicking your tongue, your chest pressing forward and back as your body fights to accommodate him and the vibration at once. The cuffs keep you from finding purchase; the plug inside you makes every tremor double. You’re shaking when he presses you further, his fingers in your hair tightening as he nudges your head down, guiding your throat to open around him. He watches your eyes when you take him deeper, expression sharpening into something dangerously satisfied when your gag is soft and your determination is hard.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “My brat trying so hard to be good.” He withdraws just enough to let you breathe, then slides in again, a slow pressure that has you moaning around him. “Careful now.”

The toy buzzes. Your pulse spikes. Your hips go wild to grind against it without permission. You know better, but it’s so close and your body starts to strain for that edge, mouth full of him, tears blurring the fairy lights into halos.

He feels the change in your breathing before you do. His laugh is a mocking. “About to cum?” His foot nudges forward and with obscene control he shifts the vibrator away, just enough that the pressure breaks. Your orgasm scatters with a gasp you swallow around him, ecstatic and devastated. “No.” His tone sits between indulgence and punishment. “You earn.”

You keen—barely a sound—eyes begging, tongue frantic, trying to make up for the loss by taking him deeper. He groans for real at that, head tilting back, throat working; then he refocuses and drags his thumb across your nipple again, rolling the peak, choosing a different cadence to torment any pattern you try to anticipate. Your entire chest feels wired, every touch a spark that misses and hits in the same breath.

He sinks deeper, the weight of him thick over your tongue, and you take it because you can’t do anything else. His hand in your hair tightens deliciously, a quick reconfigure that locks you at the angle he wants. He uses you without rushing. This is slow possession, not a sprint. Every now and then, he pauses to press the vibrator back where you want it, just long enough to start your climb again before he moves it with his foot and lets you fall.

“Look at you,” he whispers, mockery and knife-sharp. “Drooling. Kneeling. Hips begging for a shoe.” He nudges the toy aside once more. “You’ll cum when I decide you’re off the naughty list.”

Your eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t allow it. A tug at your hair bears you up, forces you to meet his gaze while his cock slides hot and relentless along your tongue. You hold eye contact until your lashes tremble and your throat gives a choked plea around him.

“Mm.” He pretends to consider mercy, then denies it by pinching both nipples at once. Your chin jerks, the sound you make wrecked and perfect. “You like that.” He smirks when your pulse slams. “You like being punished.”

You’re so close again, teetering, breath lifting into frantic little gasps and he knows it. The foot comes back, toy sliding away with infuriating precision. Your body snaps to emptiness, orgasm evaporating into need so raw it almost hurts. He takes two more slow strokes in your mouth, grunts, then catches your chin, tipping your face and easing himself out. He doesn’t cum.

He stands there, pupils blown and chest rising, need restrained into a line he refuses to cross yet, and the sight of it makes you want to crawl. His fingers loosen in your hair and then tighten again, a rhythm of ownership. He toys idly with your right nipple, almost absent-minded, like he’s deciding where your next bruise will bloom.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly, amused. He uses his foot to nudge the vibrator lightly against your clit again. A tap that doesn’t do anything but remind you it exists and moves it away before your brain can translate hope.

You’re a mess. Saliva on your chin, lips swollen, chest marked by his attention, wrists aching in the cuffs, plug a weight that turns every twitch into a plea. It would be humiliating if it weren’t exactly what you earned, exactly what you need.

He steps closer and lets the head of his cock rest against your mouth without letting you take him. “Tongue,” he instructs, and when you obey, he makes a pleased sound, then draws away again. He ignores the frustrated sound you don’t mean to make.

He watches you like the only answer he’ll accept is the one you can’t form without surrendering it all. “Are you going to be good?”

Your jaw hangs open, breath coming fast, and a slick string of drool slips over your lower lip and falls to the floor. Dazai notices before you do.

He tips your chin with two fingers and watches the next drop tremble. His smile is slow. “You forget what mouths are for, belladonna?” he asks, the tease as bright as a blade.

Heat crawls up your throat. You lick your lips on instinct, only to have his thumb press the wet back across your tongue, lazy and mocking. “Messy,” he murmurs, approving like it’s a flaw he enjoys. “Kneel and listen.”

Cotton slides. Bandage unspools from his wrist and whisper-wraps your eyes in cool, clean white. He ties the knot with clinical care at your temple, fingers resting there a second longer than necessary, pulse-check light. The world goes soft and blind. You feel him instead of seeing him—the warmth in front of you, the scent of his skin, the way his breath changes when your chest rises too quickly.

Metal clicks behind you. “Hands,” he says, and the word is command and possession both. You offer your wrists where they’re cuffed behind your back. He unbuckles with deft fingers, a glide of knuckles along your arm, then he brings your hands in front and closes the cuffs again. He tugs it once, rocking your balance. “Better,” he decides, and you feel his approval like heat down your spine. “Up.”

You rise, legs unsteady, plug seated inside you a constant, slick reminder of earlier lessons. He doesn’t let you wobble; one hand guides your nape, the other wraps the chain, and then he turns you so you’re facing the bed.

The first spank lands as a surprise. Your red ass takes it like a brand. Shock lances from cheek to core; the plug makes your body clench around fullness your knees threaten to buckle. He catches the motion, presses your hip, and gives you another—flat, precise, mean. You gasp and grip the cuffs to keep yourself from fleeing the heat.

“That’s one reminder,” he narrates, voice threadbare with amusement. His palm cracks across the other cheek, sharp, and the plug edges deeper. “That’s two.”

You bite your lip and try to hold still. It doesn’t save you. He keeps going measured, steady swats on skin already tender from the flogger earlier. Every strike drives your muscles tight around the plug, every involuntary clench earning a hum of satisfaction from him.

“Keep clenching,” he instructs, low and wicked by your ear. “You put it there. You earned it. You keep it.” Another smack. Another shameful whimper. You do as you’re told. When your breath has frayed into small, needy edges, he shifts. “On your back.”

He maneuvers you onto the mattress without hurry. The bed is cool beneath you; the blindfold turns the ceiling into a quiet void. He spreads your knees, the inside of your thighs prickling where heat still radiates from every spank, and lowers himself until his mouth is at your chest.

He doesn’t start gentle. His lips find your nipple and he sucks like he’s collecting a memory—slow pull, tongue circling, teeth flicking until your back arches on instinct. His other hand slides down, fingers parting you, finding your clit and pressing without pity. Your hips twitch against his palm; the chain of your cuffs bites your wrists when you clutch too hard.

“Apologize,” he says against your skin. “No performance. No bratty grin. Tell me you were naughty.” He pinches your nipple and presses harder on your clit, the dual bite turning your breath into a ragged sound. “Tell me you’re sorry.”

You swallow what wants to come out first and breathe. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, throat tight. “I’m sorry for pushing. For being naughty all year.” You tip your head toward his voice, blindfold damp at the corners where heat collects. “I’m sorry, Osamu.”

His mouth pauses at your breast, wet and warm. The hand on your clit slows, then draws a torturous circle that makes your toes curl. He drifts two fingers along the chain, testing your grip. Measuring sincerity.

“Again,” he murmurs, gentler and not at all less dangerous.

“I’m sorry, Osamu.” It shakes out of you, naked and real.

“Good.” That single word seeps through you, exactly what you crave. He rewards with heat, devours your nipple, sucks harder, tongues in slow, precise patterns that make your belly tighten. His hand works your clit with confident pressure, not rushing, not letting you chase. Then he leaves your chest to grab what he teased you with earlier.

The vibrator buzzes faintly when he picks it up. He kisses your sternum once, a wicked benediction, and plants the toy against your clit. You jolt and try to move; he pins your thigh with his forearm and steadies the angle until your breath breaks.

“Beg properly,” he says, the vibrator grinding with cruel patience. “Ask like you meant that apology.”

“Please,” you gasp, voice already shattered. “Please, Osamu—please let me cum. I want to be good. I want—”

He bites your other nipple, and your plea splinters into a cry. “More,” he prompts, voice silk laid over steel.

“Please let me cum,” you choke, clutching the chain to keep from writhing off the bed. “Please, Osamu. I’ll listen. I’ll—”

“Then do it.”

Permission detonates. The orgasm hits fast, brutal, and unmerciful. Your spine snaps off the mattress, sound tears out of your chest, and the blindfold catches the hot spill of tears you didn’t expect. He holds the vibrator where you can’t escape it, owns your release, watches you drown with the satisfied breath of a man whose plans always account for your worst behavior.

He keeps you there until your twitching turns small and your thighs go weak, then slides the toy aside. His palm opens on your belly, anchoring you while you come down. A kiss lands at your throat. Another at the corner of your mouth. “There,” he says, praise loosened and decadent. “That’s my naughty girl. You ask. You get.”

The mattress dips as he shifts above you. Fingers catch the chain between your wrists and draw your bound hands to your chest, pinning them there. You feel the heavy, dangerous press of him as he settles between your knees, the blunt head of his cock skimming through the slick he pulled out of you.

“This is still punishment.” The reminder is velvet against a blade. “Don’t forget.”

“Yes, Osamu.” Your voice is small and eager with it.

He doesn’t give you gentle. He pushes into you in one long, relentless stroke, thick stretch measured only by his tolerance for your whimpers. Your body knits around him, the plug sitting deep and obscene where every thrust makes your muscles clench helplessly against it. The bed frame answers with a quiet complaint when his hips set a pace that’s brutal and precise.

He uses the cuffs like a handle, pinning your arms so you can’t twist away from how he decides to take you. Blindfolded, the world narrows to his breath at your cheek, the slap of skin, the possessive bite he leaves along the curve of your breast.

“Stay right there,” he orders when you try to chase. “You wanted correction.” A laugh, unkind and intoxicating. “You get correction.”

Your body scrapes toward another peak on instinct. He notices, adjusts angle, reins you back with the chain biting into your wrists, controlling your hips with the weight of his. Denial is the new edge to your punishment; heat climbs anyway and he refuses you like it’s his right.

“Consequences,” he murmurs, breath roughening, and increases the pace. Shorter, faster, meaner. The bed thunders against the wall. Your name falls out of him like a warning and a claim at once.

He kisses the blindfold—cotton against mouth, sacrilege turned benediction. “Mine.” You feel how close he is in every ragged exhale, every tightening of fingers on the chain. You brace for the flood—only to be left bare when he pulls out at the edge. The sudden absence is sharp enough to make your body rebel.

His hand clamps the chain to keep you down; his other fist wraps around his cock, slick with you. He jerks hard, rough, breath ripping out of him in a sound that’s victory and surrender both. Heat paints your chest in hot stripes—first over your sternum, then across your breast and throat, messy and perfect. You gasp, blindfolded and pinned while he finishes on you, hips flexing, a groan that carves itself into your bones.

He strokes through the last shiver, then smears the mess along your collarbone with two fingers like he’s signing his name. A hum of satisfaction threads through his exhale.

His palm lands at your throat without pressure, thumb brushing your racing pulse. “Remember,” he says, voice warm and lethal in the exact way you crave. “Pretty apologies buy mercy. Punishments still get paid.” The smile you can’t see is audible now. “One more thing before you even dream of making it off my naughty list.”

His fingers skate up your sternum. You flinch when he touches the mess he left there, the slick map of his triumph. He reaches again, gathers some of it with two precise swipes, and then drags the damp of it over your bottom lip, possessive as a signature.

“Open,” he murmurs.

You do. He slides those fingers past your tongue, thick with him, salty-sweet and intimate in a way that makes your stomach drop.

“Lick,” he says, just for the command in it. “Clean my mess, belladonna.”

You wrap your tongue around them obediently, careful but hungry. He groans, soft, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. His other hand finds your breast, thumb circling lazily until the contact tightens into the kind of pinch that lifts your spine off the sheets. He lets go just when your back arches hard, then rolls the nipple, rubs, toys, playing you with the same attention he gives a puzzle—curious, exact, cruel.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching you suck him off his own fingers. “Taste it. I like you messy, but you clean up so nicely when I tell you to.” His thumb smears what’s left across your lower lip as he withdraws, then presses it back in so you chase after him automatically. “All mine. On you. In you. Remember that when you get nosy.”

“I wasn’t nosy,” you whisper around his thumb, words clumsy. “I was—”

“Testing?” he supplies, amused. His forefinger catches your nipple again and twists. You gasp. “Mm. How naughty.”

Heat pools low and heavy. Your cuffed hands flex, useless. He kisses the curve beneath your breast and shifts down your body, slow and proprietary. His mouth lands at your belly; then the mattress dips lower between your legs.

You feel his fingertips at your ass, clinical and patient, and your breath snags when he takes the base of the plug and begins to move it. Out, slow. In, steady. He doesn’t rush. He wants you to feel every stretching slide as he works you open again. A moan slips before you can catch it—high, helpless—and it earns you a pleased hum pressed hot against your inner thigh.

“This,” he says, rocking the plug until you’re panting, “is what happens to naughty girls.” Another pull, another push, precise enough to make your toes curl. “You get worked. You get reminded. You get put exactly where I want you.”

Your legs try to close; he won’t allow it. His knee hooks over your left thigh, keeps you spread and easy. The cuffs tug when your fingers twitch, nothing to hold, nowhere to hide. “Please,” you whisper, not sure if you’re asking for mercy or more.

“More,” he decides. There’s the light touch of silicone sliding along your inner thigh and then nudging your entrance. He angles the vibrator, presses, and eases it inside inch by aching inch until your mouth opens around a broken sound. He seats it deep, snug, a thick presence that makes everything clench.

“There we go,” he breathes, satisfied like a man setting a trap. His thumb flicks the control. A low hum blooms through you, steady enough to be cruel. You jump when his breath ghosts over your clit. He doesn’t give you time to prepare. His mouth seals around you, heat and wet and expertise, tongue stroking in slow, devastating circles that drag your nerves to a fine point and hold them there. The plug moves—out, in—just as his lips tighten, and the toy inside you vibrates deeper when he taps the setting up a notch.

“Osamu—” You gasp his name because words break apart in your throat.

“Use them,” he says, voice vibrating against you in a way that makes your thighs shake. “You got in trouble with words. You’ll get out of trouble with them, too.” He draws your clit between his lips and sucks until you cry out, then flattens his tongue and licks so slowly you want to scream.

“I’m sorry,” you pant, honest and breathless. “I’m sorry for the list. I’m sorry I was—” Another calculated push of the plug makes your apology fracture. “I was bad. I was naughty. Please.”

“Please what?” he prompts, smug against your skin.

“Please let me cum,” you manage, the plea cracking around the vibrator’s rhythm.

He chuckles, low, pleased and dangerous. “Not yet.” His fingers keep the plug moving with merciless patience while his mouth gets busy again, working you with long, obscene laps that say he’s got all night and your control belongs to him. “I told you I wouldn’t stop until the lesson sticks.”

He pins your hips when you start to chase. You can feel the smile when you try to grind and fail, held open and obedient. He plays with your nipple again without lifting his mouth, rolling it, pinching, timing every twist to a slow thrust of the plug and the steady thrum of the vibrator until you can’t tell which sensation is undoing you first.

He gives you with a suck so deep your head goes white around the edges. Your muscles flutter, tight around the toy, and he notices—the way he notices everything—and angles the vibrator until it hits exactly where it should. He keeps you right there, right at that burn.

You hiccup on your moans. He eases for a breath, then tightens again, dragging you higher, slower. The bandage makes it worse; every lick arrives without warning, every push of the plug reorders your bones. You babble apologies just to hear him hum approval against you—sorry for reading, sorry for bratting, sorry for making him write your correction out in ink.

“I like sorry,” he says, voice hot and smug against your clit. “I like obedient.” He nips lightly and you jolt, sliding closer to the edge with a helpless cry.

“Please,” you beg again. “Please, Dazai—”

He doesn’t answer. He just eats you, relentless and perfect, until the crest hits and you snap, cuming hard around the vibrator with a broken shout. He sucks through it, milking every throb, the plug moving in counterpoint until the aftershocks turn to breathless whimpers.

“Lesson,” he reminds, almost tender. Tender is the trap. He slows his tongue to lazy circles that make your thighs tremble, clicks the vibrator down a setting just long enough to let your breathing steady, then bumps it up again and seals his mouth over your clit. “You don’t stop when you’re tired. You stop when I say.”

You’re shaking. He holds you together with his hands and gently takes you apart with his mouth, drawing you toward a second edge you didn’t think you had. He plays your nipple until your focus knots on the heat between your legs again, and when you start to plead, he laughs like a man who’s already won.

“Ask properly,” he says.

“Please,” you whisper, wrecked and sincere.

“Cum for me.” He sucks you slow and deep, the vibrator thrumming steady and low, the plug forcing you to take every wave until the second release coils and drags you under. You cry, relief and heat spilling out of you, and he licks you gentle as you fall apart, tasting every sound.

The vibrator clicks off. The plug settles, seated firm and possessive. He kisses the inside of your thigh, a warm claim, and slides up your body, fingers skating over your stomach to your throat where he rests them just for the weight of it.

“Mm.” He strokes your lower lip with his thumb, wiping the last sheen of earlier from your mouth. His nose brushes your cheek where the bandage ties at the temple. Paper rustles somewhere, a whisper of mischief. You don’t dare move. He taps the blindfold with two fingers, gentle control wrapped in white linen. Your thighs tremble against the sheets when he finally pulls away from your pussy.

His breath fans hot across your slick skin, and the last press of his tongue leaves you buzzing. He kisses the inside of your knee, then the bend of your thigh, as if to say I could keep going, and then his voice slides in, smooth as the heat in his eyes.

“Color?”

“Green,” you murmur. Your voice thins with satisfaction and the remnants of obedience he forced out of you.

“Good. I’m taking my toys out of you first.”

He doesn’t touch your blindfold. He doesn’t even glance at the cuffs. He reaches between your thighs and finds the vibrator inside you with steady fingers. You shiver when he eases it free—slow, slick, unhurried—his thumb grazing your clit in a way that makes your back arch. He hushes you with a kiss to your thigh when you whimper.

“Greedy little thing,” he says softly. “I can feel you clenching just to keep it.”

“It’s warm,” you breathe.

His mouth tilts. “I warmed you.”

He sets the toy on the nightstand, then cups the curve of your ass and taps twice—a reminder—and moves to the plug. He rocks it, easing pressure, then coaxes it out with patience, the stretch stinging just enough. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “Relax your pretty muscles for me.”

You exhale on his count and the plug gives, slipping free with a quiet, obscene sound. He soothes over your hole with the barest glide of his finger, not crossing lines, just calming everything he wound tight.

“Such a good girl.” The praise curls through you like steam. Only after the toys are off the bed does he untie the bandage blindfold. He peels it away, slow. The world blurs to softness and then sharpens into him: tousled hair, flushed mouth, satisfied focus, bandage trailing over his wrist.

You blink up at him. “Hi.”

He smiles, all terrible sweetness. “Hi.”

The cuffs follow and your wrists fall into freedom. He massages the bands where metal kissed your skin, thumb pressing just enough to chase away the tingles.

“Hands.” You offer them. He brings each wrist to his mouth, kissing the marks. When you start to float, when warmth starts to turn into that liquid safety you know is worse for your bratting later, he lets your hands go. “Stay,” he says, and slips away.

You almost protest. Instead you watch him move silent and, purposeful to the side table where a bowl steams soft and ghostly. He returns with a warm rag. It’s possessive in a way that comforts you. Anchored.

“Up,” he whispers, and lifts the corner of the duvet.

You sigh into the sheets as he lays the cloth across your chest. Heat blooms. He cleans you first where he marked you. Across your sternum, the swell of your breasts. Slow strokes that catch on hardened nipples. Every motion is careful, indulgent in a different direction. He doesn’t erase the memory. He tends to it.

“I love these,” he says, circling one nipple with damp heat, then dragging the pad of his thumb over it until your stomach drops. “You look better ruined than anyone I’ve ever met.”

You drag your teeth across your lower lip. “You look better ruining me than anyone I’ve ever met.”

His laughter is a low, rolling sound. “Shameless.”

“I learned from the best.” You tilt your head and let him angle you, let him clean the line of your throat, the mark he bit into your shoulder. “You made the mess. I’m just praising your handiwork.”

He wipes down your stomach, slower when he reaches your hips, knuckles barely grazing the bruises he raised earlier. He checks your face when you suck in a breath, and his voice goes matter-of-fact and warm. Then cleans between your thighs. The cloth slides through your folds with a reverence that makes your skin prickle. He doesn’t tempt you with pressure. He doesn’t deny you when you try to chase it. He just keeps you comfortable, meets need with care, and kisses your inner thigh when he catches the way you shiver.

“You were dripping for me,” he says, almost delighted. “Still are.”

You hum. “You like me messy.”

He smiles without denying it. “I like you mine.”

“Same difference.”

He tosses the rag back into the bowl, warms a fresh one, and wipes a final line along the curve of your ass, then the last trace of slick from where the plug sat. He kisses the tender meat afterward, murmuring, “Blooming nicely.” The words go straight to your heartbeat.

“Will they last?” you ask, too sweet to hide the want.

“For days,” he replies, wicked. “You’ll have to be careful wearing short skirts. Imagine someone catching a hint of my handprint under your skirt.”

Your breath catches. “You’re horrible.”

“And you adore me for it.” He tears his bandage from his wrist and loops it loosely around your neck like a scarf he has no intention of tying, his fingers stroking the sensitive line of your throat. “I should keep you wrapped.”

“You did,” you point out, glancing at the cuffs on the nightstand and the toys gleaming like guilt. “Then you unwrapped me and brought me a bath in a bowl.”

“A portable apology,” he says, amused.

You nudge his chest with your knuckles, emboldened by the softness. “Make it cocoa and I’ll forgive everything.”

He leans down, kissing your nose. “You’re negotiating after punishment?”

“I’m efficient.” You grin. “And thirsty.”

“Mm.” He brushes hair away from your face the way only someone who pays attention would know to do. “You bratted. You apologized. You came. More than once. You’re clean. You deserve cocoa.”

“And kisses.” You loop an arm around his neck and pull him down for one. It’s unhurried, damp with steam, a little slow in the way that makes your bones warm. He stays there until you sigh against his mouth.

He pulls back and studies you like the most chaotic report he’s ever loved to read. “You still want sweeter?”

“Do you even know me?” You give me your pouty lips, the same look that gets you your way.

“Careful.” His thumb presses the midpoint of your palm where he traced the number earlier, and the familiarity makes you shiver. “You keep pouting like that and I’ll put you back across my lap.”

Your voice dips, wicked. “Promises.”

He inhales that, smile going crooked. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m yours.”

“That,” he says, “is the only thing you are that never causes me trouble.”

He bends to kiss you again—long, slow, the kind of kiss that turns rooftops into bedrooms and cold air into the heat between your thighs. You breathe him in like you believe softness is a rule he loves to break only for you.

Master List

[nolongerpostingsorry]

soooo i was thinking in a kinda of spoilled rich girl!reader x bodyguard chuuya

reader's father is an important politician and has connections with the mafia, but because a threat surrounding him, he asks mori to put someone to protect his daughter and mori chooses chuuya to protect her

at the start reader and chuuya HATE that idea and they don't like each other, reader says that she doesn't need a babysitter and chuuya says that he doesn't want take care of a spoiled brat

so everytime they fight a lot and she doesn't make it easy to him... always teasing, being a brat and going to a lot of clubs just to annoy, flirting to a lot of guys in front of chuuya, using short dresses and skirts, taking him to shopping and to watch romcoms together in her room

chuuya starts to tease reader back, putting she in her place when reader cross some lines in annoy him (he try to be a gentleman)

in some moment things start to softly between them and they kiss, chuuya panicked and try to push her away (ignoring or being kinda cold) and that makes reader angry, so she go to a club, make out with a guy in front of chuuya and your boy starts to see red, he throws her in his shoulders and take reader to his car

after this they kinda fight and wellll hate and angry car sex!!! reader riding chuuya, they in the backseat and heavy dirty talk!!! then more sex at her house (they are trying to be quiet because her dad is at home) soo they go to her room and welll chuuya fucks her in front of the mirror, he fucks her HARD and very angry with a lot of degradation, saying how much she pissed him and makes him lost his mind, a lot of hair pulling, biting and marks, spanking and chuuya being very dom, teasing reader about her dad in the next room without having idea about how nasty and slutty his daughter is !

well you decide the end :)) just pleaseee make the fic very funny, with a lot of plot, kinda long if you can and very nasty!! thanks 🩷

Collateral Damage

Nsfw

Very nasty? Hope this is good~

Warnings: smut, degradation, rough sex, spanking, hair pulling, dirty talk, biting, other sexual acts.

Summary: When threats close in, your powerful father hires Chuuya as your personal bodyguard. You don’t want him. He doesn’t want you. Too bad. Between constant fights, deliberate teasing, and jealousy neither of you will admit to, lines start to blur. One kiss ruins everything. One reckless night makes it worse.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

You snap the stem of a champagne flute without meaning to. Crystal fractures against your palm, a glittering fault line dripping gold onto the marble. Your father doesn’t flinch. “You asked Mori to put a leash on me?” You flick the broken stem into the sink, shoulders squared like you’re going into battle. “Is there a reason you skipped the part where you ask your daughter what she wants?”

He stands under the chandelier an important politician. Architect of deals that keep Yokohama’s lights on and its shadows fed. You’ve watched him shake hands with monsters and then bless himself for the cameras. Tonight his eyes are sharp and unyielding. He looks like a man who’s already paid for this decision with sleep he’ll never get back. “There’s a credible threat circling my office,” he says, each word measured. “And threats that circle me always land on you. I called Mori. Mori assigned a protector.”

“A protector,” you echo, mouth curving into something feral. “From the Port Mafia. You’re outsourcing parenthood to a crime lord now? Touching.”

He doesn’t rise to it. He never does when it matters. “You don’t need to like it.”

You laugh, bright and mean. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Unfortunately,” he replies, turning his watch face with a flick, “you don’t get a vote.”

The black-lacquered doors open before you can say more. He arrives with his hat shadowing his eyes, gloved hands loose at his sides like a gunfighter between duels. Chuuya Nakahara.

Compact and controlled, all expensive lines and restrained violence. Blue eyes sweep the room, catalogue your robe, your bare legs, the lipstick you chose. Those eyes don’t bother with politeness; they catalog you like a weakness to exploit. Your father gestures, “Chuuya Nakahara, an executive of the Port Mafia. He’ll be stationed here until the threats are neutralized.”

Your smile is sweet poison. “Stationed? What am I, a military base?”

Chuuya’s mouth curves without reaching his eyes. “You’re the assignment.”

You lean a hip into the island, letting your robe slide a careless inch. “And you’re the hall monitor.”

Your father’s already checking his phone, already halfway out the door. “You’ll behave, I’ll be out of town these next few weeks.” He tells you. To Chuuya, he offers a nod like a handshake across a line that doesn’t exist. “Keep her breathing.”

The door clicks shut. The penthouse exhales. You don’t. You lift a tumbler and pour bourbon until the room smells like rebellion. “Let’s speed this up. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Chuuya crosses his arms. “I don’t want to babysit a spoiled brat,” he returns, voice silk over a blade. “But here we are.”

Heat sparks up your spine. The insult lands clean and hot. You take a slow sip and don’t blink. “Then quit.”

“Not how this works.” He steps closer, the city’s glow catching on the stitch of his coat. “Ground rules.”

“Cute.” You swirl the drink. “Is there a quiz at the end?”

His jaw flexes. He’s trying to be cordial; you can see the effort like something strung taut in his shoulders. “You don’t leave this penthouse without me. You don’t open the door for anyone but me. You keep your phone on you and answer when I call. No clubs. No midnight drives. No disappearing acts.” His eyes lift to yours.

You set the glass down, step into his space until the brim of his hat nearly brushes your forehead. He smells like rain on asphalt and a bonfire you know better than to touch. “If I decide to go to a club,” you murmur, “what are you going to do? Put me in time-out?”

He leans in, not a millimeter of give. The air between you tightens, charged. “I’ll put you somewhere you can’t make trouble.”

“That a threat or a promise?” You pop his hat off with two fingers and drop it on your own head. It’s warm, and the felt steals heat from your skin like a kiss. “Because you really don’t look like a man who’s ever said please.”

Something hungry flashes behind his control. Then it’s gone. “Give the hat back,” he says, soft in a way that isn’t soft at all.

You tip the brim and smirk. “Make me.”

The temperature drops three degrees. When he moves, it’s a shift of intent: one gloved hand planting on the counter beside your hip, the other landing lightly at the small of your back. Not a hold. A warning. Your heartbeat writes itself against the heel of his palm anyway. “Listen carefully,” he says, the words a low current. “I’m here because Mori gave an order and I follow orders. I don’t care if you like me. I don’t care if you hate me. I care if you bleed.” He drops his voice further, a scrape of heat.

Your breath stumbles before you force it to behave. You tilt your chin, exposing your throat like a dare. “I could make this easier for both of us. How much are they paying you?”

His mouth stills. “No.”

“Name a number.” You slide a manicured finger along the inside of his wrist. His hand tightens—not enough to hurt, enough to show he can. “Double. Triple. I’ll wire it before you finish your next moody sentence. You walk out, I say I fired you, everyone wins.”

Chuuya actually laughs. It’s short and sharp, dangerous because it looks good on him. “You think I’m for sale?” He leans in, a breath from your cheek, and smiles with teeth. “Princess, if I could be bought, you wouldn’t be able to afford me.”

The word hits you like a slap. Princess. Your spine goes hot. “Don’t call me that.” It comes out lower than you intend.

He hears it. He likes it. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re trying to piss me off.”

“It’s working.” His eyes are molten now, patience burned to the wick. “So here are the rules again, since you’re hard of listening.” He ticks them off on his fingers, the other hand still a brand on your back. “You stay in my line of sight. You don’t touch the door. You don’t try to pay me off.”

“I don’t do rules.” You shove his hat into his chest and step around him, snatching your phone from the counter. “And if you call me princess again, I’ll —”

“What’s that princess? I can’t hear ya” he says immediately, almost lazy with it just to watch your fuse vanish.

Rage flares sweet in your throat. You stalk down the hall, every step a taunt on marble. He follows—of course he follows—boots silent. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

“Bed,” you bite out. “In my room. Alone.”

“Door stays open.”

You spin, the corridor’s low light carving him into something sculpted and lethal. “You really think you give the orders here?”

“I know I do.” He’s calm again, which is somehow worse. “Don’t test me.”

You grin, teeth and lipstick. “You just made testing you my favorite new hobby.”

You reach your door. He plants a palm on the frame above your head like a cage. You look up at him and imagine scraping your mouth over the knuckles of that glove just to see if he breaks. He drops his head until his lips are a wicked centimeter from your ear. “Go to sleep, princess,” he says, quiet and devastating. “We can talk about you learning to be obedient tomorrow.”

You hold his stare while your hand finds the knob. The rage, the thrill, the part of you that likes fire too much—they all purr the same answer. You slam the door in his face. The sound echoes like a gunshot through the penthouse. You lean against the wood, heart rattling your ribs, head full of blue eyes and a voice you want to strangle with your thighs.

On the other side, you hear the whisper of leather, the soft drag of his back finding the hallway wall. He’s not leaving. He’s not for sale. And he’s exactly the kind of trouble you swore you’d never want.

Two weeks turns the penthouse into a battleground where the weapons are stilettos, smirks, and the way his name tastes when you say it like a challenge.

In the beginning, he tried to be decent about it. Chivalrous, even. Chuuya kept his distance, called you Ms. (last name), held doors. He’d stand a respectful arm’s length away, voice level, eyes politely elsewhere when you drifted around in silk sleep shorts at noon. The perfect gentleman with hands in his pockets and patience in his jaw.

You hated it. You made a promise to yourself after that first slammed door: if he insisted on guarding you, you’d make guarding you hell. You weaponize every lipstick, every laugh, every hemline.

By day three, you test him in the wild. You drag him into a designer boutique and tell the staff to pull the filthiest selection of short skirts and bodycon dresses they have. You remember him sitting manspread, bored, as you twirl out in something crimson that clings like a second skin.

“Honest opinion,” you purr, pushing your hands against the dressing-room frame so he has to look at all of you. “Should I get it?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t even look.

You blink, “You aren’t even looking.” Chuuya finally looks up.

He doesn’t just look up, he stands. Two fingers hook in the hem and tug—it rides higher, obscene. He watches your throat work. “This is the third dress.” He steps close. “Just buy which ever one get us out of here fastest, princess. ”

That evening, you choose a new front—your room. You declare it Movie Night. He sets himself in the doorway, arms folded, eyes tipped toward the hall camera feed on his phone. You sprawl across the bed in a silk robe. Legs bare, one slipper dangling off your toes just to watch his line of sight flick and then freeze. You don’t invite him to sit. You invite him to watch you watching something he’ll despise.

Rom-coms. It happens during the third movie. A tiny, stupid joke. It’s not even funny. You fake a sob just to be annoying—and you hear it. A laugh. Soft, real, there. Chuuya coughs too late to cover it. You sit up. “Aha.”

His face goes back to blank like a shutter snapping shut. “You imagined that.”

“You laughed, Nakahara.” You toss a kernel at him, and he catches it without looking. “Crack in the armor. Congratulations—you’re almost human.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, princess.” He checks the hall again. “Eyes on the screen.”

You cut the movie at the first kiss and declare victory anyway.

So he tried gentleman. It didn’t get him anywhere. By week two, he stops pretending your games don’t reach him. He starts playing back.

In the elevator, you lean into his space just to hear him inhale. He answers by caging you with one palm beside your head as the doors glide open for a stranger. “You’re not nearly as untouchable as you think,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, then steps out like nothing happened while you burn.

In the kitchen, you reach for his hat. He catches your chin, thumb sweeping just under your bottom lip until your breath stutters. “Red looks good on you,” he says. “Might look better when it’s my handprint.”

You should hate the way you shiver. You pretend you do.

One morning you pad into the kitchen barefoot, wearing a slouchy T-shirt that slips off one shoulder. Chuuya stands at the counter already, sleeves shoved up. He glances at you, then back to the coffee like he’s pretending this morning is nothing special. “Morning,” you say, unable to keep your mouth from curving.

“Mornin’, princess.” His tone isn’t sharp. It’s low, warm enough to sink into.

He pours you a cup and slides it over. Your fingers ghost his. The tension that usually snaps between you… eases. He doesn’t yank his hand back. You can feel his pulse thrum through knuckles, the brush of heat.“You’re not bad at this,” you murmur. “Domestic. Almost cute.”

He huffs. “Don’t push it.” But he’s smiling—barely—and not at your expense. It hits you sideways how much you like it.

Outside, thunder rumbles. Inside, the quiet takes on a pulse. You step closer under the lie of reaching for sugar. He doesn’t move away. Your hip nudges the cabinet; his chest nudges your shoulder. “You’re staring,” he says but there’s a softness to it that makes your skin spark.

“You’re in my kitchen.” You look up. He’s already watching your mouth.

Something in you decides you’re done pretending. You rise on your toes, catch his collar, and kiss him. Gentle, testing, not an attack this time but a slow press that tastes like coffee and sleep and a promise you are stupid enough to want.

He freezes. A beat. Two.

Then he kisses you back. Careful at first, then deeper. His hand brackets your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in a way that feels too intimate to survive daylight. The rain hushes the city. Your pulse hammers. You open to him and he takes it, sighing against your lip like he’s been starving and you’re a sin he won’t confess. You smile into it. “Chuuya—”

It’s the sound of his name that breaks whatever spell was allowing softness. He jerks back like he touched fire. His fingers fall away from your face. His expression shutters, hard lines snapping into place where warmth used to be. “We can’t.” His voice comes out rough, clipped. “That was a mistake.”

The coffee turns bitter in your mouth. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

He reaches for his cup and doesn’t look at you. “This is a job.” Cold. Efficient. A blade sliding back into its sheath. “I’m supposed to keep you breathing. Not… complicate things.”

“Oh, right.” You laugh, and it’s not kind. “God forbid you feel something.” He doesn’t rise. He doesn’t fight. He just goes quiet and remote like the rain outside the window, and somehow that hurts worse than a shouted rule. Your jaw sets. “Fine,” you say. “Then do your job.”

You leave him in the kitchen because if you stay another second you might beg. Or break. Neither are options you allow yourself.

By nightfall, your fury has simmered down to a sharp, glittering point. You do the thing you know will slice him clean: you break his rule. Red lipstick. A dress your father would call shameful. The glimmering, disobedient pull of the club calls.

You don’t sneak. You want him to catch you. You want proof that ignoring you is a lie.

The bass rattles your sternum as you slide into the crush of bodies. It’s hot and damp and decadent. You pick a man with a pretty mouth, a careless grin, hands that know how to hover before they touch. You let him lead you into the crowd. “You come alone?” he says into your ear.

“For now,” you purr, watching the entrance over his shoulder.

You dance. You laugh. You let a stranger pull your body close. You wait.

Because you know Chuuya. You know the exact minute he realizes you’ve slipped the leash. His jaw will set, he will come for you, because not coming for you would hurt worse than admitting he wants you.

And then you see him. Leather jacket, rain in his hair, eyes like a storm. He doesn’t thread through the crowd. He cuts it apart. Every part of your body lights up like a warning.

Your smile goes wicked. You fist your dance partner’s shirt and drag him closer, mouth tipping up. You feel Chuuya’s gaze like a hand on your throat. He tastes like nothing like the danger you crave. You kiss him anyway. Slow, then with intent, tongue teasing, a performance designed for one furious mafioso.

Chuuya sees red. You don’t hear him over the bass. You feel him. A hard hand clamps your wrist; the stranger breaks away with a shout that never matters. Chuuya yanks you back and your balance tosses. The club blurs.

“Hey—!” You barely get the word out before the world flips.

Chuuya throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. Your breath punches out. You kick. You slap at his back. Your dress rides up horribly. “Put me down!” you snarl, heat flaming your face. His palm cracks against your ass. Sharp, shocking, obscene over the thunder of bass. It’s a claim. You gasp so loud he smirks without slowing. “Do that again and—”

He squeezes, the threat in his voice molten. “You keep fighting and I’ll do it again. Harder. You asked for consequences, princess. Don’t play like you didn’t.”

He muscles through the crowd and out into rain. You’re dropped to your feet beside his car, only to have his hand circle your waist, shoving you inside so fast the door nearly bites your calf.

The door slams. The city disappears into wet neon. You twist in the passenger seat, hair damp and wild, lipstick smudged in a way that screams everything. “You’re insane.”

Chuuya’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “You put your mouth on him.”

“Oh, now it matters? You get to shut me down at breakfast and act like a corpse until dinner, and I’m supposed to sit here and be good? Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you kissed me like you meant it.” Your voice cuts, too bright, too hurt.

He turns, slow and terrifying. “You think I didn’t feel it?” His eyes burn in the dim. “You think I haven’t been crawling out of my skin for weeks because every damn thing about you gets under it? I’ve been trying not to wreck us both.”

“Then stop trying,” you snap. The words leave you like a dare. “Or let me go.”

His mouth twitches—humorless. “Let you go where?”

“You don’t get to decide what I feel.” Your voice drops, dangerous with want. “And you don’t get to act like I’m nothing to you because it’s convenient.”

Silence crackles, close and volatile as a lit match. He leans across the console, crowding your space until you’re pressed against the door. His hand cups your chin, thumb rough against your smudged mouth.

His gaze drops to your lips. “Chuuya—”

He hits you with a kiss that steals the rest of your sentence. It’s not gentle. It’s not polite. His mouth slants over yours like a threat and a solution, tasting you deep, tongue tracing the seam just to force you to open. You do—no hesitation. You climb across the console to straddle him and he grips your thighs, snapping you closer until your dress rides up and the hot press of him makes your breath go wild.

“Still wanna fight?” he growls against your mouth.

“Yes,” you pant, fingers fisting his lapels. “Fight me.”

He laughs, dark and delighted, and kisses you harder. Your hips grind. His hand catches at the back of your neck and you arch into it. He swallows your defiance and gives you something meaner in return. Slow pulls, deep strokes, teeth on your bottom lip that make you gasp. “Mine,” he says. Not a question.

“Tonight,” you manage, throat tight and hot. “Tonight I’m yours.”

He drags your dress up with one hand, palm flattening under the hem. His other hand grips your ass where he slapped you, thumb pressing into the ache he made, promise humming there.

You roll your hips. He groans like he hates himself for it. Rain jumps against the windshield like applause. You grind down again, letting your lace panties drag across the bulge in his slacks.

He doesn’t bite back the groan this time. "You don't stop until I say. You understand?" Chuuya's voice is a hot snarl, right against your mouth. His fingers tighten at your waist. “I’ll ruin you if you try to finish without me.”

You nod, just once, but your hips betray you. Chasing friction like you’ve never needed anything but him. Then he moves. His hands slide between you, undoing his zipper with efficiency. You feel it when his cock springs free. Hot and hard and leaking against your thigh. He drags your panties aside with one gloved hand, letting the ruined lace stretch against your skin.

You sink onto him with a gasp, the stretch of him nearly spiritual. Chuuya’s head falls back slightly, his jaw locked so tight you can see the muscle twitch. “Don’t stop,” he growls. “Not until I say so, baby.”

You move. Slowly at first, dragging your hips back and forth, letting him feel every inch gripping him. Each slide in fills you up completely, like your body was made to fit around him, to take his commands and wear them like silk.

“You know what I love most about that mouth of yours?” he hisses, voice pitched low as hell and dangerous. “It says ‘no’ so damn loud—until it’s moaning my name just like that.” Your pace falters for half a second. His hand cracks across your ass. Sharp, fast, heat blooming. “Faster,” he snarls. “You wanted to ride me, so fucking ride me like you mean it.”

You obey or try, anyway. His cock hits that brutal spot inside you with every drop of your hips, stealing the air from your lungs.

“God, you’re tight,” he grits, pressing his forehead to yours. “Little brat can’t follow a simple rule, but she knows how to ride my cock like she was trained for it. Fuck.”

You clench, desperate. A whimper leaves you before you can catch it. He hears it.

“Oh, you’re close already?” he sneers, lips dragging up the shell of your ear. “Already trembling? You think I’ll let you come just because you're messy and pathetic on my lap?” You tremble. “No—” he grabs your hips and halts your movement with brutal force “—not until we’re back.”

You let out a shocked, broken sound. Your cunt grips him harder involuntarily, but he doesn’t let you move.

Instead, Chuuya picks you up, sliding your body off like every inch costs him resolve. He tucks himself back in slowly, deliberately, brushing his clothed cock against your still wet folds before zipping his pants. You're wrecked. Ruined. Still open. Still dripping.

“Get in the front seat,” he orders, voice steady and final. “You don’t get to cum until you’ve earned it.”

You climb into the front seat like you were told, thighs still shaking from the backseat war he started and didn’t let you win. The leather is cool under your legs. His knuckles are blood-warm on the wheel. “Sit back,” Chuuya says, voice even enough to cut. “Dress up.”

You lift your dress. Heat rushes your face when the air hits your skin.

“Panties to the side,” he adds. A glance from the road finds you. The low thrum in his voice winds through your belly like liquid fire. The car starts moving again. The city hums beside you. “Touch yourself.” You snap your gaze to him. Chuuya is rolled slightly toward you in the seat, one arm resting casually on the door. He doesn’t even glance at you. “I said, touch yourself,” he repeats, tone velvet and whip. “I want to hear how wet you still are from riding me.”

A beat of hesitation. Then your fingers dip under your dress, swipe through the mess he left you in. He hears the sound, leans closer.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, finally looking at you. “You’re soaked. Did it feel that good? Being filled and denied so fast?” Your fingers circle your clit once, twice. “Go slower. Don’t finish.” You obey, barely breathing. “Keep your legs open,” he smirks. “Eyes on me. I want you to remember this every time you sneak off to disobey again.” You pant quietly, thighs trembling. “You’ll cum when I say,” he murmurs. “Or not at all.”

Before you can answer, the car slows. You're home. Straightening your dress is humiliating in the best way. Your thighs stick as you move, slick an ever-present reminder. Chuuya doesn’t offer you his hand. Just smirks as he shuts the door and follows you into the elevator.

The lights flicker with each passing floor. You almost forget your father exists. Until the penthouse door opens and there he is. Sitting in the lounge with two assistants, reading documents, coffee steaming at his side.

His eyes flick briefly to you. Then Chuuya. But he says nothing as he returns to his files.

You don’t know if it’s mercy or preoccupation, but you nod slightly and head toward the hallway. Chuuya follows, boots on marble. Your room door shuts behind you with the softest click. And suddenly, you’re alone again.

You step toward your vanity, heart tripping, but Chuuya's already looming in the doorway, heat rippling off his figure. It’s clear from the darkness sweeping across his face: he’s finished playing. You don't get a word out.

He crosses the room in two smooth strides, one gloved hand shooting up to cup your jaw with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. His other hand snakes into your hair, coiling tight, yanking your head back until you’re exposed. Lips parted, eyes blown wide. The mirror catches both of you: his expression, wild. Yours, wanting.

He’s already taking his gloves off, pulling each fingertip with a neat, furious precision that makes your mouth go dry. He sets them on your vanity like they’re weapons laid down before a duel. “You like making it hard for me to do my job, princess?” He growls against your throat, voice all teeth and heat. “Quite your father’s a few doors down. Make a sound, and I swear I’ll make it worse.”

You nod, a pulse of wicked delight zapping through you. The fingers in your hair twist, pull hard enough to sting. You gasp, but bite it back. “Wanna act like a filthy little showgirl in front of the city’s lowlife?” he snarls at your reflection, lips split in a deadly curve. “Grind on some nobody in front of the whole fucking club?”

“Bend,” he says.

You hold his gaze in the mirror and do as you’re told. Your hands splay on the lacquered surface. He knocks your thighs apart with his knee and the sound that punches out of you is a curse swallowed by your teeth.

“Look,” he orders, crowding up behind you until your breath fogs the glass. His hands peel your underwear down slow, a taunt. “Keep your eyes open.” You hear the sharp rip of fabric. Cool air slaps between your legs. Chuuya’s torn your panties clean down the middle and dropped them to the floor. “Look at yourself,” he demands.

The first drag of his fingers through the slick he built in the car makes your knees almost give. He laughs into your neck, a warm, horrible mercy.

“The mess you are,” he murmurs, index finger teasing at your clit, barely there. “From my voice. From my rules.” His other hand comes up to your throat, thumb under your jaw, tilting your face so you can’t look away from the mirror as he draws lazy circles that are everything and not enough. “You’re going to keep quiet for me.”

“Make me,” you breathe.

He stills. Your reflection sees it before your body feels it—the change from cool control to something meaner. He steps closer until your spine is a line against his chest. When he speaks, it’s all red silk and razors. “You don’t get to run my patience into the ground and then tell me how to ruin you.” Fingers trail down and in, a gentled threat. “I decide what you get. I decide when you get it.”

He sinks into you in one steady push and your mouth drops open against your will. The mirror catches the exact moment your eyes roll back. He clamps his hand over your lips and groans a curse into your hair like the sound escaped him.

“Shh,” he says, voice shredded at the edges. “I said quiet, didn’t I?” he whispers darkly. “Unless you want Daddy to hear his precious daughter getting fucked like a whore.”

He fills you like a promise, like a punishment. Each thrust is clipped and deep, his hips hitting the back of your thighs with a precise violence he reins in for the sake of the house. His hand stays at your mouth, the other flat at your sternum, keeping you pinned to your own reflection so you have to watch yourself take him.

“Eyes,” he warns when they flutter closed. “Open.”

You drag them open, tears threatening the careful edge of your liner. You see what he sees—your flushed cheeks, the necklace glinting at your collarbones, the way your body gives for him and keeps giving. The way he looks behind you: sleeves pushed to his forearms, jaw tight, eyes dark enough to pull the light out of the room.

Chuuya shifts his angle and lights explode behind your eyes. You clench around him and his rhythm stutters; his hand flies from your sternum to your hip to hold you still and then you’re mewling into his palm, so close you can taste it. He hears it in your throat and yanks you back from the edge with brutal, infuriating mercy. “No.” He stills inside you, the word a command cut from steel. “Not yet.”

You keen, helpless and hungry. He lets you feel the breadth of him, twitching at the restraint it costs him, and then he draws back, punishing you with a slow drive that tears a strangled cry from your chest you barely smother in time.

Footsteps pass the door. You choke on your own heartbeat. He doesn’t stop—he goes very, very slow, the kind of slow that turns your bones to ash. The air hums with the possibility of discovery, the terror of it, the thrill. You hear your father’s voice in the distance. You feel Chuuya’s pulse hammering where his wrist braces under your jaw.

“Quiet,” he breathes, almost a prayer, almost a laugh. “Take it.”

The steps fade. The house exhales. He doesn’t grant you relief; he takes what he wants—another measured thrust, another, each one pulling a ruinous sound he steals with his hand. When you start to tremble again, when your muscles band and your vision whitens, he drags you back from the edge one more time with that same soft, merciless no.

Your eyes burn. “Please,” you whisper into his palm, the word so small you almost don’t hear it yourself. “Please.”

His gaze devours you in the mirror. The muscles in his forearms jump with the effort of not wrecking you into the furniture. His mouth curves like he’s bleeding on a smile and enjoying it. “What are you asking me for, princess?” His hand lifts from your mouth just enough for you to speak. “Use your words.”

You swallow. “Let me come.”

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice a heat that crawls down your spine. “Are you going to be a good girl?”

You meet his eyes in the vanity the way he demanded at the end of the last breath you had, your cheek already warm from the last slap he gave you for talking back. His gloves are folded beside your perfume tray like a threat you can smell, and his bare fingers spread over the small of your back as if they wrote the rules there. “Are you going to be a good girl?” he asks again, voice low enough to curl along your spine.

“Yes,” you breathe—too fast, too sweet. You can taste your lie and so can he.

His mouth tilts, not a smile. “Liar.”

He drags your hips flush to the edge of the vanity so your stomach sticks to cool wood and the mirror steals your blush. The silk hem you chose to provoke him is bunched at your waist. He palms your ass—possessive, testing—before snapping a sharp slap that rings through your bones. Heat blooms, a mean little flower.

“Count,” he orders, fingers digging in where the sting spreads.

“One,” you gasp, trying to hold yourself still because he told you to, because you said you would. The second strike lands on the other side. “Two.”

“Eyes up,” he says, and the warning in his tone makes you lift your head even as your body flinches for the third blow. “If you look away again I start over.”

“Three,” you hiss when it hits. Your reflection is flushed, pupils blown, lipstick smeared at the corner of your mouth. He watches you watch yourself while his hand paints heat into your skin. Four. Five. Six. By seven your knees wobble and he spreads his stance behind you, the hard line of him pressed to your sore flesh like a brand.

“Little problem with following orders,” he murmurs, rough affection hidden inside the edge. He smooths over the red with his palm, kindness only to feel the heat.

Then hits you again. “Eight.”

When you suck your lower lip between your teeth to bite back the sound clawing up your throat, he laughs softly, cruel and pleased. “Now you remember your father’s down the hall.” His hand closes around your nape, warm and unyielding. “A few doors, princess.”

“You’re sick,” you pant, and that’s the brat in you, the part that pokes the bruise just to feel it. He rewards you with a ninth—harder. Your breath stutters. “Nine,” you whisper, eyes watering, thighs slick.

“Mm. And you’re filthy,” he counters, pushing your legs wider with his knee until your stance is open and helpless. “Look at this.” His fingers slide between your thighs and drag through the mess he made with the car, with the ride home, with every denied heartbeat since. You whimper when he lifts his wet hand and smears it over your ass, then your hip, painting you with proof. “Dripping like you don’t have a thought in your pretty head except getting used.”

“Chuuya— Ten.” The slap is sharp, the count a cracked whisper. You’re shaking now, your body a pulled wire.

“Say thank you.”

You fight the word. He waits. His thumb presses, deliberate, at the hinge of your jaw until your mouth falls open and your lungs remember duty. “Thank you,” you whisper to your reflection. You hate how your voice trembles. You love that he hears it.

He leans in so close his breath fogs the glass beside your cheek. “Don’t forget who made you this wet,” he says, and his hand slips between your thighs again. He teases you with his knuckles, refuses to give you where you need it, just drags lazily until your hips chase without permission. He catches that movement with a low, pleased sound. “That’s it. Show me.”

“I’m showing you,” you snap, trying to grind back and failing because he lifts your hips and sets your feet a fraction wider.

“There she is,” he murmurs, laughter scraping the underside of your name. “My little performer.” His fingers leave, and you hear the metallic whisper of his belt. Your stomach drops into heat.

You feel him the way a city feels thunder—pressure, then strike. He pushes into you with a single deep, unforgiving thrust that knocks a startled sound out of your lungs and fogs the mirror fresh. Your hands clutch the vanity edge until your knuckles go white. He doesn’t give you time. His pace starts rough and just builds, merciless, the slap of bodies drowned in your bedroom’s expensive quiet.

“Watch,” he grits, fisting a hand in your hair and angling your head so there’s no escape from the image of yourself coming apart. “You wanted a show at the club. You danced for strangers. Thought I wouldn’t put you where you belong?”

“You weren’t going to—” Your protest breaks on a moan when he hammers into a spot that makes you see light. You choke the sound off because you remember that hallway, remember the way your father’s footsteps echo when he’s restless.

“Finish that sentence. Go on.” His mouth finds the place where your neck meets shoulder and bites. Deep. Claim carved into skin. You gasp his name and he licks over the wound like apology and promise in one. “You weren’t going to what? Stop me? You can’t even keep your voice down.”

“Maybe I want him to hear,” you throw back, because you have to, because if you don’t push he’ll think you’re already trained.

He laughs into your skin, filthy and dark. “Oh, you’d love that,” he says, punctuating his words with thrusts that make the perfume bottles rattle like applause. “Daddy dearest waking up to hear his daughter getting ruined by the man he hired to babysit her. Think he’d still shake my hand in the morning, princess? Think he’d still owe me favors while I’ve got you bent over your vanity, crying on the mirror?”

Your cheeks burn. It humiliates you how much that mental image coils heat low in your belly as his fingers slide forward to your throat, not squeezing, just the weight of them a reminder of how small defiance looks against his hand. He tips your head back, forces your eyes to meet the mirror again.

“No,” you whisper, breathless. “He’d—god—he’d kill you.”

“Let him try.” The cocky menace of it steals your breath because you know he means it. His hand leaves your throat and comes down in another smack over the curve of your ass. You jerk. “Eleven. I didn’t tell you to stop counting.”

“Eleven,” you whine, tearing up now as much from need as sting. He marks you again, this time on your shoulder blade, teeth catching skin and holding until you can’t do anything but arch into it. He lifts his head and you see it in the mirror: the heat in his eyes, the damp shine of your skin where his mouth has been. He looks possessed, almost reverent.

“Mine,” he says. Not loud. Not performative. A sentence he drags down your back with his teeth and his cock and his ruined patience. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you breathe. The word unlocks something in your spine and your body clenches around him. His answering groan is filth and victory.

He shifts his grip, both hands carving your waist to hold you right where he wants you, and the pace becomes brutal. He drives you into the vanity like he intends to leave an outline of your body in the wood. The mirror rattles under your breath. Your legs shake so hard he has to hook one arm under your thigh to keep you open for him. You feel obscene—wide and wet and displayed—and it makes you wetter. “Look at you,” he mocks, breath ragged.

“Chuuya,” you plead, the word breaking. “Please.”

His hand slides between your thighs and he barely touches you, just the lightest drag over where you’re unbearably swollen. The denial makes your knees buckle and he hauls you back up by your hair, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make your scalp sing. “You don’t beg pretty,” he says. “Try again.”

“You said—” The rest of your sentence is a strangled sound when he gives you two quick swirls of his fingers and then pulls away. Stars burst behind your eyes. You let out a loud strangled noise. He spanks you again—twice—hard enough to make your thighs shake. “That one was for moaning like a needy little slut while your father is on the other side of the door.”

“Please. Please, I’ll be good. I’ll—fuck—Chuuya, I’ll do anything.”

“Will you.” The skepticism in his voice is a caress and a cut. He kisses the hinge of your jaw, then bites it, then sucks until you swear you can feel the bruise blooming. His breath is heat against your ear. “Tell me anything.”

“Yours,” you gasp, desperation stripping you to the root. “I’m yours. I’m your—” You swallow it and he hears the sound of you choking on the word.

“Say it.” His pace doesn’t falter; if anything, it roughens, the headboard thudding twice against the wall and making your blood freeze with the sound. His next words are poison-honey. “How would daddy dearest feel knowing his daughter is my slut?”

Shame licks up your throat. You feel it, a pulse that makes you clench and see your mouth part in the glass. You want to say no. You want to spit in his face. Instead you hear yourself whisper, “He’d hate it.” Your eyes lock with his in the mirror. Your lip shakes. “I don’t.”

His laugh is raw and wrecked. “Good girl,” he says, and the words crack something open in your chest. He gives you what you’re starving for—his fingers back on your clit, relentless, cruel in how perfectly he knows you. Your whole body seizes up around the promise of it, the way you can feel the edge rise like a riptide.

“Please,” you beg. “Please, let me come. Please, Chuuya, I’ll be quiet, I swear—”

“Will you.” He slows just enough to make you see spots. Your hips chase and he denies you with a low, satisfied sound. His mouth brushes your ear, a whisper full of smoke. “I’m not sure I should. Not after the club. Not after the mouth on you.” His hand tightens in your hair until your scalp prickles and the only thing in the world is his voice. “And if you’re not quiet, princess? Your daddy’s going to hear exactly what kind of slut you are.”

You bite down on a scream and push your nails into polished wood as if you can claw mercy out of it. You keep your eyes on the mirror because he told you to and because you’re a little addicted now to the way you look under him—flushed, hair ruined, pupils blown and pleading.

His voice is there first, low and razor-clean. “Are you going to be a good girl?”

You nod. It’s too quick, too eager, and you hate that it makes heat flare in your cheeks. “Please,” you whisper, voice thin as silk pulled tight. “Please let me come, Chuuya.”

He huffs something that might be a laugh if laughter could cut. You feel his breath against your ear, his hand bracket your throat without squeezing—just a threat of control, just enough to make your pulse stumble.

His mouth ghosts along your jaw, cruelly fond. “You want permission that bad, dirty princess?” Your stomach drops and your hips roll into the vanity in reflex, the edge biting your skin. He doesn’t miss it. He never misses anything. “I asked you a question,” he murmurs, dragging his knuckles down the slope of your neck. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes.” You meet his eyes in the glass and feel reckless. “I want it. I want to come.”

“Of course you do.” His hand slides down your front, knuckles grazing your sternum, your ribs, the tremble of your stomach. He finds your clit with precision and nothing resembling mercy, circling it slow and tight until your knees attempt to fold. “Look at you.” He shakes his head like it’s a joke only he understands. “Spoiled slut. All you know how to do is take.”

Heat snaps through you at the word, shame mixing with the kind of hunger that leaves you lightheaded. “Please,” you breathe again, the sound breaking.

He lifts his hand from your throat—only long enough to curl two fingers under your jaw and angle your face higher, keeping your eyes trapped in the mirror. “If I let you,” he says, tone soft like gravel under velvet, “you’ll be quiet. You’ll do as you’re told. Or I’ll make the lesson stick.”

“I’ll be quiet,” you say, already halfway to lying.

“Mm.” His smirk is nothing but trouble. “You’ll try.” He spreads you with his knee and you swear you feel the floor tilt. The hand at your clit turns from slow to devastating. He works you with exact circles, then changes angle, then drags downward to tease. “Careful,” he murmurs. “Daddy dearest is a few doors down. You want him hearing how his daughter begs a Mafia executive to let her come?”

Your face goes hot enough to burn. He hums at the way your thighs quiver.

“Poor thing. You can’t help it.” He leans in, lips barely touching your ear. “You’re my dirty princess, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, shame slicking into want so fast you nearly choke on it. “Yours.”

His hand tightens on your hip, possessive and ugly-beautiful. “Say it louder.”

“Yours,” you say again, and you mean it more than you should.

He rewards you by speeding up, fingers working your clit fast enough that everything inside you starts to break apart in light. You try to stay quiet. You really try. But the first whimper slips free and then another, and he laughs under his breath, mean and delighted.

“That’s right,” he taunts, tone roughened by arousal. “Sing for me, little slut. Show me what I do to you.” He nips behind your ear and your knees buckle; he catches you, keeps you bent over the vanity, one hand firm between your shoulder blades. “Look at yourself. Look at the mess you are.”

You look. It’s a mistake. You look and you see the gloss of your mouth and the unsteady pull of your chest and the way your hips push back for him without permission. You look and you hear yourself say please again like it’s a prayer. “Chuuya—”

He shuts you up with a kiss at your nape. “Be good,” he says, voice lazy and lethal. “Or I’ll spank you until you cry.”

You don’t say you already might. You don’t say anything except, “Please let me come,” softer now, more careful.

“Ask like you mean it.” He rubs your clit harder, faster; your hips roll and you try to catch your breath and fail. “Ask like you know who owns it.”

You shiver. “Please, Chuuya. Please—let me come. I’ll be quiet.”

He clicks his tongue. “That’s my girl.”

Permission hits you like heat lightning, invisible and everywhere. He doesn’t say the word—you don’t need him to. You feel it in the way his hand changes, purposeful and urgent now, the rhythm etching into your bones. The first wave crashes and you bite your lip so hard you taste copper. The second knocks the sense out of your knees.

You get loud.

His palm cracks across your ass without warning and you gasp before you remember yourself. The slap stings sharp enough to make your toes curl. The sound it makes in the room is humiliatingly perfect. “Fuck I was right. Red does look better on you when it’s my hand print.” His hand strokes the curve of your hips, then slips down between your legs. “Count,” he orders.

“One,” you whisper, the word wobbly. The second strike lands on the other side and your spine arches reflexively. “Two.”

“Keep your eyes up,” he reminds you, and your gaze scrapes the mirror to find his—blue fire and intent. He taps your clit twice as if praising. Then spanks you again.

“Three.” The number comes out a little broken. He smiles. You hate how much you love it. He keeps the rhythm: tight circles on your clit, then a slap that lights you up, then a pause to make you breathe. “Four.” He grunts when your thighs tremble; “Five.” He makes you say six twice because you almost whimper instead of counting and he’s mean enough to enjoy it. “Seven,” you get right. “Eight,” you choke on.

“Shh,” he says, gentler than he should be, and speeds up. The edge rises fast, too fast. You feel your body bow against the vanity, cheek pressing to cool glass; he spreads you wider with his knee and pins you by the hips. “Dirty princess,” he mocks, fingers relentless. “You only learn when I make it hurt a little, don’t you.”

“Please,” you say again, quiet and so earnest it makes your own chest ache. “It hurts. I want—”

“You want to come,” he finishes for you, sounding wrecked now too, sounding like he’s devolving alongside you. “Then do it. Come for me.”

Your whole body shudders. The orgasm hits like a violent mercy; it’s too big, too loud, beyond anything you can hold in. A scream threatens your throat. He slaps his palm over your mouth the instant it rises, swallowing the noise, with the weight of his hand.

You cry into his palm, full and helpless, hips jerking against the vanity while his fingers keep working you through it. You feel the way he grinds against you at the same time, hard and needy; you moan into his hand and he growls like you’ve undone him. His next thrust makes your brain blank.

You whine into his palm; his breath goes dirty. “Fuck.” He buries himself each stroke measured and punishing. “Too loud, princess,” he scolds, voice trembling, and it’s not clear if he means you or himself. He keeps your mouth covered, keeps your body bent for him, fucks you with a pace that starts steady and builds fast into ruin. “You take me so good. Look at you.” He glances at the mirror, catches your eyes. “My slut. Mine.”

The word lands right in the center of your chest and explodes outward through every nerve. You can’t make a single sound; his hand won’t let you. So you say it with your eyes. So you say it with the way you push back for him, lost and obedient. “Ngh—” He laughs, breathless and mean and fond, mocking you even as his rhythm stutters. “You’re shaking. So messy. I should spank you again for every time you disobey.”

He speeds up. The slap of skin against skin is obscene in the quiet; you keen into his palm and feel your body claw for another peak. He catches your tempo like he knew the choreography of your bones before he ever touched you—and when you break again, he’s there with you, hips driving and teeth grit, a curse husked against your neck.

He finishes with you, pressed tight and deep, hand still over your mouth until the last tremor leaves his body. You feel him go slack a second later, breath rough, forehead dropping to your shoulder. His hand eases off your lips at last, leaving your mouth hot and tingling. “Shh,” he murmurs, a useless comfort now that the danger has passed. “You did good.”

You sag against the vanity, boneless, skin humming. He stays inside you for a moment longer like he can’t stand the idea of leaving your warmth, then withdraws with a guttural breath and collects you carefully. Carefully—like he remembers you’re precious at the same time he wants to ruin you. He turns you around and kisses your forehead before you can be embarrassed about how your legs don’t quite work. He doesn’t tease you for that. He doesn’t tease you for how your hands cling. He guides you to the bed, lays you down among wrecked sheets, and disappears just long enough to return with warm water and a cloth.

“Stay,” he says again, but softer. Less command. More… something else. He cleans you up with patience that doesn’t belong to monsters. The cloth is warm; his hands are warmer. He wipes between your thighs with reverence and no prying, no new humiliations—only care. He murmurs, almost to himself, “Too hard,” like a confession, like a problem he intends to fix. “I was too hard.”

You blink at him, at the impossible tenderness in the set of his mouth. “You warned me,” you say, voice frayed. “I asked.”

He escorts the cloth over the curve of your hip, then up your ribs, then sets it aside and follows with his mouth. He kisses the bruises he left—on your shoulder, your neck, the place he bit, the places he struck. Each press of lips feels like an apology carved into skin. He braces one hand at your waist and presses another kiss over a mark on your ass, breath a little shaky. “Sorry,” he says, quiet as a sin. “I should’ve waited. Should’ve—”

“Chuuya,” you whisper, reaching down to touch his hair. His head tips into your palm like he’s starved for your hand. “Don’t apologize for making me come.” You hate how sincere you sound. You hate that you mean it. “I liked it. I… trust you.”

His eyes lift—sharp and startled—and then soften in a way that makes your chest ache. Trust does something to him. You see it, how it unwires knots you didn’t know he had. He skims the cloth along the inside of your thigh one last time and tosses it toward the bathroom. He kisses your pulse. It’s ridiculous how your heart stutters.

“I shouldn’t want you like this,” he admits, voice a low rasp draped in silk. “Shouldn’t want you at all. Not with your father here. Not with half this city watching for an excuse.” He presses a slow kiss to the inside of your wrist. “But I do.”

You feel yourself smile, sleepy and dangerous. “Then keep wanting me.”

A breath of laughter escapes him, unruly and boyish, gone fast as it arrives. He climbs onto the bed instead of leaving like he should, instead of returning to the hallway and its ghosts. He drags you against him, one arm slipping under your shoulders, the other across your stomach. A hold that says both mine and safe. He fits his chin against the crown of your head.

“Still have rules,” he murmurs into your hair, automatic even in surrender. “Still your guard. Still your problem.”

“Mm.” You burrow closer, shameless. “Then keep guarding me. But you can do more than that.”

He doesn’t answer. The silence stretches warm. You feel him breathe—slowly, evenly, in a way you haven’t heard since this started—and realize you’re doing the same. Sleep sneaks in at the edges, uninvited and inexorable. You both do. Neither of you mean to. You find peace anyway—stolen, brief, fragile as a whispered apology. You don’t notice that Chuuya’s hand never really lets go of your wrist.

Master list

[nolongerpostingsorry]

okayyy one more for mafia princess and this one is after the Prequel :)

after their first time, they keeping having some quickies and hidden encounters after the sun goes down and in their offices during the day BUT then reader starts to avoid dazai because she is losing the focus and can't think when he is around and its starting to affect her work and this makes dazai pissed so he starts to teaser her

First: he starts sending several anonymous packages with lace lingerie with teasing messages and after he starts to send sex toys to her apartment, when she continues ignoring dazai, he gets angryyyy SO THE NEXT PRANK is kinda humiliating...

during an executive meeting, tachihara enters with a package for reader and in the box said to open immediately and when she opens there is a bdsm kit inside (whips, blindfold, ropes, handcuffs and more) reader gets very red and mortified (and she wants kill dazai who is fighting to not smile smug)

she starts stuttering trying to explain to her dad that the package is not hers (and mori who is not at all happy with the situation and demanding an answer starts to question her) and chuuya (not helping) takes the box and says something "but its saying it's for you" and she murmurs "you are not helping" and almost screams that she didn't buy this, someone tease reader saying "didnt know you are into this", dazai to make the situation worse, takes the note that came along and reads it out loud looking at the reader "maybe we can use it on our next night together" blinking and smirking to her and she wants to die of embarrassment and kill him, so she looks to her dad and say something like "probably some weirdo thinking he has a chance with me sent this, don't worry dad, if I find out who it was he'll have problems"

after this reader gets angry to dazai because if have one thing she doesn't play about is her reputation in mafia that she fight harder to maintain, she knows how to be as cruel as he is and is very good at what she does, so if dazai wanted to play, they would play.

her plan was to call dazai saying that he won and was going to wait for him in her apartment, when he arrived she was wearing one of the lingerie dazai bought and she starts teasing and distracting by kissing him, until she sits on his lap in a chair and ties him up with the ropes (obviously dazai could free himself, but the reader threatens saying that if he let go, he would never touch a finger on her again) with that she begins to punish him for the little pranks he made, rubbing herself on him, riding his cock, kissing and touching him, but never enough to let dazai cum.

reader puts dazai in his place and says that it's not him who always call the shots and he has to behave, basically reader dominates him A LOT!!!!! and after he learns the lesson she releases him, they kissed a lot and wellllll they go to her room and dazai gets a little evil... a lot of spanks, a little slutshaming, teasing her a lot, using the toys he brought and ripping a part her lingerie, he uses the bdsm kit too...

so yesss A LOT of plot, reader TALKING A LOT because we love a diva with personality, jokes, funny parts and a lot of smut, both of them dominating and fighting for the control, a little breeding kink from dazai side, cowgirl, dog style, bdsm things, degradation, dazai obsessed with her boobs (again), bites, spanking, dirty talk, possessive sex and everything you can put here 🩷

bonus: cute aftercare and romantic dazai

thank you againnn

Don’t Ignore Me

Nsfw

The Mafia Princess Series

Warnings: smut, dominance & submission, rope bondage, breath play, hair pulling, spanking, oral, orgasm control, creampie, dirty talk, manhandling, possessiveness, mild humiliation, other sexual acts.

Summary: You avoided Dazai for one week. One week. And the man took it personally. Anonymous lingerie. Sex toys to your door. A BDSM kit delivered to you during an executive meeting in front of your father. Fine. If he wanted a game— you’d play it better.

The first time wasn’t an accident.

It was inevitable. After that night in the office it stopped being a question of if and became a question of when. And the answer was: whenever you could get away with it.

At first, it was quickies. Stolen. Careless. Addicting.

A door that didn’t quite latch all the way shut. His hand around your wrist, pulling you into a dark side hall. Your back hitting cold concrete, his mouth already on your throat.“Miss me, princess?” Fingers already under your skirt, bandages rough on your thigh.

You’d pretend to scoff, breath catching. “I saw you two hours ago.”

“Exactly,” he’d say, like that proved his point. “Far too long.”

It became routine—

His hands on you the second the sun dipped low over Yokohama.

His shadow in your doorway when missions ran late.

Your clothes half-straightened and your hair suspiciously mussed when you walked back into the hall.

In your office, he’d appear at your back in the middle of a report, his chin settling on your shoulder. “You’re frowning at the paper again,” he’d murmur, breath warm on your ear. “Let me help you relax.”

You’d shove him away, weakly, already melting. “You are the reason I’m behind on work, you menace.”

“Mm. And the reason you’re still sane,” he’d reply, already slipping a hand between your thighs under the desk.

The nights were worse. Or better. He’d crawl in through your window after midnight like a ghost that smelled of cigarettes and steel, bandaged hands finding your sheets, your ankle, your waist. You’d wake up to his mouth between your breasts, his voice a low purr against your skin. “You sleep too far from me,” he’d whisper. “I had to fix it.” You let him. Over and over, you let him.

The problem was that it started to show. You missed a detail in a briefing. You mixed two files on missions that never should’ve touched the same stack. Once, you walked past Chuuya in the hall and didn’t even register he’d spoken until he snapped, “Oi, are you listening?”

Mori’s eyes lingered longer on you in meetings. Kouyou’s mouth pressed into a faint frown when you asked her to repeat something you should’ve already known.

You tried to shake it off. But your body had learned a terrible, wonderful habit: Dazai = relief. His voice, his touch, just being in the same room with him turned your brain into static.

So you did the only thing you could think to do. You started to avoid him.

It was small things at first. You changed your route through the building to avoid the corridors he liked to loiter in. You started closing your office door. When you heard his laugh down the hall, you pivoted, turning on your heel like you’d forgotten something urgent.

The first few times, he didn’t push.

You felt his gaze flick to you as you excused yourself from a room he entered, felt him reach for your attention with some lazy comment — “Leaving so soon, princess?”

—but you’d just toss back a quick, “Busy,” and disappear.

Then you started dodging midnight visits. You locked the window. You left the light off. You feigned sleep. He tapped on the glass once, twice. Waited. You lay rigid in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Eventually, the tapping stopped.

It worked… for about three days. By the fourth, he cornered you in the archives, cutting you off between shelves of dusty folders. “Did I do something?” he asked, tone light, but there was a tightness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

You didn’t look at him, fingers tapping against the file in your hands. “I have work. Unlike some people.”

“Oh?” Dazai tilted his head. “That’s funny. I seem to remember you enjoying my… interruptions.”

Your cheeks burned. You kept your gaze fixed on the paper. “We were getting carried away. I don’t have the luxury of being careless. I worked hard for my position here. I’m not going to lose it because you’re bored and handsy.”

Silence. You could feel his stare, heavy and unreadable.

When he spoke, his voice had changed—softer, not in a kind way. “Is that all I am to you? A distraction?”

You swallowed. “You’re… dangerous.”

“That’s why you liked it,” he said, too quickly. His hands flexed at his sides. “You weren’t complaining when you were begging on that office desk.”

Your temper flickered. “I’m not having this conversation.”

You stepped past him. He let you go. But the look in his eyes as you walked away said everything. You’d wounded his pride. And worse—you’d ignored him.

For a day, maybe two, everything stayed quiet. No midnight knocks. No hands in the hallway. No lazy voice at your ear during meetings. It should have been a relief.

It wasn’t.

Your chest felt wrong. Empty in places you hadn’t known existed before him. But you were getting your work under control again.

Your reports were back to flawless. Mori’s gaze passed over you without lingering. You told yourself that was what mattered.

One morning, you opened your door and nearly tripped over the first package. A sleek black box sat neatly on your apartment floor, tied with a satin ribbon. No sender name. Only your own. Your stomach dropped.

You should have kicked it aside. Left it. Ignored it. Instead, you brought it in and opened it on your kitchen counter. Inside: lace lingerie. Delicate. Obscene. And a small folded note.

Wear this when you decide to stop pretending you don’t want me.

Your face went hot. You shoved the lid back on, heart pounding. You didn’t text him. You didn’t call. You hid the box in the back of a drawer and tried to forget about it.

The next day, there was another package.

Another set. Skimpier. Rich red lace this time, with matching garters.

This one seems a better fit for you, the note said.

On the fifth day, the box was heavier.

You opened it and immediately slammed it shut, heat roaring up your neck. Sex toys. And another note.

If you’re going to insist on being alone, at least think of me while you fall apart.

You should have confronted him. You should have burned the letters. Instead, you pretended nothing was wrong. You pretended not to see the way he watched you in meetings, elbows on the table, chin resting on his hand, eyes glittering with some private amusement. You kept ignoring him.

You thought he’d get tired. He didn’t. He got angry. And when Dazai Osamu was angry, he didn’t shout. He didn’t sulk. He plotted. And his next move wouldn’t just be teasing—it would be humiliating.

Right in the middle of an executive meeting.

The morning of the incident started quietly. Too quietly. A bad omen, really. You were seated at the executive table beside Kouyou, across from Chuuya, Mori at the head. Dazai lounged two chairs down from you, twirling a pen, expression the picture of bored innocence. You didn’t look at him. He didn’t stop looking at you.

It was normal enough, until the knock on the door broke Mori’s briefing. Tachihara poked his head in. “Uh, boss? Sorry to interrupt but I have a delivery for…” He lifted the box. “…her.”

You froze. A sleek black package. No label but your name. The exact kind he’d used before. No. No way. He wouldn’t—

“Bring it here,” Mori ordered.

Your stomach dropped to the floor. Tachihara carried the box in, set it directly in front of you, and saluted awkwardly. “Says to open immediately.”

You wanted to faint. Or vomit. Or time-travel and murder Dazai’s parents.

“Open it,” Mori said, calm but sharp.

You felt Dazai’s stare burning into the side of your face.

Hands shaking, you lifted the lid. And every drop of blood in your body evaporated. Inside the box was a fully loaded BDSM kit.

Thick black rope. Metal cuffs. A leather blindfold. A plug. A flogger. A collar. Wrist restraints lined with velvet. A whip.

And the note.

The. Fucking. Note.

Every executive in the room went silent, air thinning to a dangerous pressure. Your face went scarlet. Chuuya leaned forward first, brows shooting up. “…that’s a lot of equipment.”

“I-it’s not mine.”

He picked up the box card. “But it says it’s for you, so—”

“YOU ARE NOT HELPING,” you hissed, mortified out of your soul.

He shrugged helplessly. “Just reading what’s there!”

Hirotsu cleared his throat, eyes politely averted. Kouyou covered her mouth, not quite succeeding at hiding her judgment. Someone snorted before choking on it. Someone else whispered— “Didn’t know she was into that…”

Your jaw dropped. You were going to commit homicide. Mori’s eyes narrowed, voice dangerously smooth. “Would you care to explain this?”

This could not get worse.

But it did.

Because Dazai reached casually across the table, plucked the note from the box, unfolded it slowly, and began to read aloud in a voice loud enough to echo: “Maybe we can use this our next night together.”

Then he winked at you. A slow, smug, I’m enjoying every second of your suffering wink.

Your soul left your body. You wanted to leap across the table and strangle him with the rope in the kit. You forced your face into something resembling composure and turned to Mori with the most furious glare you had ever worn in your life. “I didn’t buy this,” you snapped through gritted teeth. “This is probably from some delusional sick bastard who thinks he has a chance with me. Don’t worry, Father. If I find out who sent it, he will have problems.”

Dazai barely smothered a smirk. Mori nodded slowly, but his eyes stayed sharp on you… and on Dazai. “See that you do,” he said. “This kind of… gift reflects poorly on your discipline.”

You nodded stiffly. Inside, you were already planning murder. When the meeting adjourned, you stood so fast your chair screeched. You left the room without looking at anyone. Especially him.

Behind you, you heard Dazai’s soft laugh. And that was the moment you decided: If he wanted to play, then you’d play.

And you would win.

You didn’t calm down. Not after the meeting. Not after storming into your office. Not on the walk home. Every step fueled your outrage. Every muscle in your body burned with one clear message: Dazai Osamu was going to pay.

You spent the evening pacing, planning. A dozen ideas came and went. Most involved violence. Some involved public humiliation. One involved throwing him out a window.

But eventually, a better idea formed. One that would hit him exactly where it hurt— his ego, his control, his obsession and his cock.

You didn’t text. You called. He picked up on the first ring—of course. “Princess?” His voice curled over the line, honeyed and smug. “Calling me finally? Did you like your gift? Oh—” you could practically hear the grin “—which one was your favorite? I’m personally a fan of the red lace. But that BDSM—”

Your jaw clenched. You kept your voice sweet. “You win, Osamu,” you said lightly. “Come over. I’m done fighting it.”

A silence. Then a sharp inhale. “Well, well.” His tone dropped lower. “Looks like someone couldn’t resist me after a—” he chuckled “—long, exhausting day of embarrassment?”

You ignored that. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Fifteen minutes.” Then softer, more serious. “Don’t lock the window.”

You hung up without answering. He had no idea what he was walking into.

You changed into the lingerie he’d sent—

the red lace set he clearly spent too much time imagining on you. Stockings. Garters. Sheer bra. Tiny panties. You lit a candle. Let your hair fall loose. Put on lipstick just dark enough to make his pupils blow out.

You moved the chair to the center of your living room. Coiled the ropes he’d bought neatly on the table beside it. Set the handcuffs next to them.

Then you turned off all but one lamp. Perfect.

The window creaked open exactly fourteen minutes later. Dazai slid in like sin in human form. Coat swaying, hair messy from the wind, eyes immediately locking on you. And God, his expression. Shock. Hunger. Then pure, unfiltered desire.

“Princess…” he breathed, stepping closer, gaze devouring every inch of exposed skin. “You look—fuck. I take it you liked the gifts after all?”

You walked toward him slowly, hips swaying just enough. He swallowed hard. You placed your hands on his shoulders, lips brushing his jaw. “You win,” you whispered. “Happy?”

His hands went straight to your waist “Ecstatic.” He leaned down to kiss you and that’s when you pulled away. He blinked, startled.

You smiled. “Sit.” You pointed to the chair.

He laughed softly, thinking you were teasing. “You’re adorable when you try to—”

“Osamu.” Your voice dropped. “Sit.”

His smile twitched. That look—that flicker of oh, she’s serious was intoxicating. He sat. Curiosity wide in his pupils.

You straddled his lap slowly, your hands framing his face as you kissed him, deep, slow, hungry. His hands slid down to grip your hips.

And you caught his wrists. Guided them behind the chair. Tied them there with the rope.

He froze. “Princess…” A warning. A spark of adrenaline. He could break free in a second. With one twist. One flick of his fingers. You leaned close, lips brushing his ear.

“If you free yourself…” your voice a lethal whisper, “…you will never touch me again.”

He inhaled sharply. The rope stayed tied. His muscles relaxed. He let you do it. You tied the second knot. His chest rose and fell faster. His eyes were fixed on you. Wide, hungry, slightly nervous. So, so obsessed.

You smiled sweetly. “You wanted to play, Osamu?” Your nails dragged down his chest. “Then we’re playing.”

His breath hitched. “Fuck.” He tugged lightly at the ropes behind him, testing them, then looked up at you. Eyes blown wide and whispered: “…be gentle.”

You laughed softly. “No.” You rolled your hips over him, slow and devastating. “You don’t get gentle.”

Then your mouth was on his. Your hands were in his hair. Your body grinding down on him as he trembled beneath you completely at your mercy.

This time, you were the one in control. He’d gotten his way for weeks. He’d embarrassed you, teased you, tormented you, sent you lingerie and toys like he owned you. So seeing him tied to your chair, breathing hard, pupils blown wide and hands bound behind him, was the single most satisfying moment of your life.

Dazai Osamu, the Port Mafia’s prodigy, your tormentor, your obsession was finally helpless. And he knew it.

You straddle him again, slower this time. Letting the lace drag over his thighs, letting his breath stutter at the way the garters tugged against your skin. His eyes were fixed on your chest. He had always been obsessed with your breasts back then, now, probably forever.

He licked his lips. “So that’s how this is going to be…? Princess—”

You cut him off with a single finger pressed to his mouth. “No speaking.”

He swallowed, eyes locked on yours. God, he listened so fast. It was almost cute. Almost. You rolled your hips again, slow and firm, and his jaw clenched, breath leaving him in a hiss.

“Fuck…” he whispered. “That lingerie— I knew it’d look—”

You grabbed his chin. “I said no speaking.”

He exhaled through his nose, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. You kissed him then, deep, slow, claiming. He moaned against your mouth, his fingers flexing instinctively behind the chair, but he didn’t break free. Good. You’d make sure he stayed exactly where you put him.

You shifted, lining your body over his in a way you knew drove him wild. Your folds brushed his cock through his pants, slick from how badly he’d worked you up these past weeks. You circled your hips once. Lazy. Controlled. Cruel.

His head dropped back, breath shaking.

“Oh—fuck—princess—”

Your hand shot to his throat. Light pressure. Just enough to make him freeze. “Ignore me again,” you said sweetly, “and I won’t let you finish.”

His breath caught. “You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, desperate.

You smiled. “That’s the idea.”

You rolled your hips harder now, your head dropping to his neck. Your lips dragging over his pulse point as you moaned softly. Just loud enough to make him insane.

He bucked under you, once, but the ropes held. He shivered at the restraint.

“Behave,” you breathed. And he did. You tugged open his pants with one hand, sliding them down enough to free him. He was already hard— painfully so. You positioned yourself, and his eyes widened, hips straining up—

Oh, he wanted it. He wanted it bad. You sank down onto just the tip. His whole body jolted. “Please—god, please—let me—”

You lifted your hips again. He let out a strangled noise. You sat on his lap fully, thighs pressing tight, his cock trapped between your bodies, the friction unbearable.

He made a noise like he was about to lose his mind. Your mouth dipped to his ear. “You don’t get to come.” You dragged your hips in a slow, wet grind. “Not yet.”

His breathing tore out of him. “You’re— you’re torturing me—” He tugged against the ropes helplessly, muscles shaking.

“Good,” you whispered. “You deserve it.”

You rocked on him again. Slow, rolling, delicious torture. He bit his lip, hard, a groan escaping. His thighs trembled beneath you. His abs tightened. You could feel how close he was, how bad he needed it.

You leaned back, hands in his hair, your breasts bouncing slowly with every movement. His eyes rolled shut. “Princess… please…”

You smirked. “Not until you learn your lesson.”

You slid back, lifting off his lap, leaving him aching and fully exposed. His breath punched out of him. His cock throbbed against his stomach, red, desperate, leaking. You bit your lip and let your gaze drag over him. He nearly whimpered.

You trailed one finger lightly up his shaft. His hips jerked beautifully. Then you pulled your hand away entirely. He choked. “Don’t do this—”

You smirked. “Oh, but I am.” You knelt between his legs, lips hovering just close enough for him to lose composure but never close enough to touch. His thighs shook. You pressed a single kiss to his inner thigh. Then pulled away.

He swore, breathless. “Princess— I’m begging you— just let me—”

You rose to your feet, adrenaline hot in your veins. “Begging already?” You walked behind him, trailing your fingers over his shoulders. “You fold fast when you’re tied up, Osamu.”

He groaned. “Fuck— untie me— I swear, I’ll—”

You leaned down, lips at his ear. “I’m not done punishing you for the meeting.” His whole body shuddered. And then you left him there. Hard. Trembling. Unable to do a thing about it. You walked toward the bedroom door, lingerie hugging every inch of your body, and glanced back at him once.

He looked wrecked.

You smiled.

“Be good,” you said. “I’ll come get you when I’m ready.”

By the time you returned to the living room,

Dazai Osamu had clearly passed through every emotional stage known to man. Humiliation. Need. Frustration. Desperation. Obsession. And now the quiet, dangerous calm he got right before doing something completely unhinged. He sat exactly where you left him, tied to the chair, hair mussed, lips bitten red, chest heaving, cock painfully hard.

His pupils snapped to you the moment you stepped into view. “Princess,” he breathed. One word. One promise.

You crossed the room slowly, heels clicking.

His eyes traced you like a starving man. You untied the first rope. His exhale was sharp. Not relief, but anticipation. You untied the second.

He didn’t move. When the last knot slid loose, you leaned in close, lips brushing his cheek. “You can touch me now.”

That was all it took. He exploded. His hands were on you instantly. Your waist, your hips, your thighs, your ass—grabbing, pulling, claiming. He kissed you like he’d been drowning for hours, tongue sliding against yours, a low, broken sound leaking from his throat.

He stood so fast the chair nearly toppled behind him. Your back hit the nearest wall, his body pressing into yours, his mouth devouring every inch of skin he could reach. “Never—” he kissed you hard. “—never tie me up—” another kiss, rougher “—and leave me—like that—again.”

You laughed breathlessly against his lips. “I’ll do whatever I want, Osamu.”

He growled. Growled. “Oh, will you now?” His grip shifted to your thighs and suddenly you were in the air. Legs wrapped around his waist, your breath punched out at how effortlessly he lifted you.

“Osamu—!”

“Bedroom,” he snarled into your neck. “Now.” He didn’t just carry you he dragged you along the wall, kissing the column of your throat. Biting down the side of your jaw,

hands gripping your thighs so tight you’d bruise. “You ride me like that again,” he whispered against your ear, dangerous “and leave me tied up like some desperate fucking toy—” his teeth grazed your collarbone “—and I’ll ruin you for a week.”

You moaned, heat spiraling through your belly. He stopped mid-walk, pinned you to the wall with his hips. His cock grinding against your lace panties. “Say you want it,” he demanded. “Say it.”

You tugged his hair, breathless. “I want it.”

His breath hitched. “Louder.”

“I want you.”

His pupils blew wide. He looked feral. Worshipping you and furious with you at the same time. “You’re going to pay for teasing me,” he whispered, pulling you tighter against him. “You’re going to scream for me.”

Dazai kicked the bedroom door shut without looking. He laid you back on the sheets like you were fragile and then immediately crawled over you like a starving wolf. His hands gripped your ankles, dragging you downward. He hovered over you, panting, eyes devouring every detail of your lingerie-clad body.

“That little show you put on?” His voice was low, trembling. “Those noises you made on my lap?” He dragged a finger from your sternum down to your soaked panties. “Tying me up and telling me to behave?” He laughed—broken, breathless. “You’re insane. Absolutely insane.” His mouth slammed into yours again. Hands everywhere. Everywhere. Then he tore his lips away, snarling, “Take off the panties.”

You smirked, defiant. “No.”

He froze. “No?” A soft, dangerous laugh. “Princess… you think you still have the upper hand?” He sat back on his knees, hair messy. Shirt undone and hanging open, eyes dark and hungry. “Fine.” He leaned forward, palms pinning your thighs apart. “We’ll do this my way.”

He lowered himself between your legs,

breath ghosting over your soaked lace. His fingers hooked around the panties but didn’t pull them off. He pressed his mouth against them instead, tongue sliding up the damp fabric.

You gasped. He looked up at you, eyes wicked. “Round one you were in control.” He licked you again. “Round two, I take everything back.”

Your thighs trembled. Your breath hitched. Dazai lifted his head slowly from between your thighs, lips glistening through the lace he’d just kissed. He looked ruined already. Hair messy, chest flushed, pupils blown wide but the expression on his face? That was something else.

Something darker. Something you’d created.

“Round two,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, “starts now.” And then he snapped.

He tears the panties. Not pulls. Not slides. He tears them. The lace gives with a sharp rip, fabric shredding in his hands before he throws the scraps somewhere behind him. His breath hitched. “God—” His hands dragged up your thighs, almost reverent. “—I knew you’d ruin me, but I didn’t think you’d do it this fucking fast.”

He spread your thighs wider. You trembled. He noticed.

“Oh? Nervous now?” he asked, smirk curling. “You should be.”

His hand lifted and then crack. You cried out, the sound sharp and breathless. He groaned. Actually groaned.

“Fuck… that’s perfect. Do it again.” He spanked you harder, then soothed the sting with a slow glide of his palm, voice low against your ear. “Your ass looks even better with my handprint on it. I’m doing more of those.” He hit you again. You gasped into his shoulder. He shuddered.

He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand as he lowered his mouth to your breasts. He pulled your bra down with his teeth, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours.

Then he latched onto one nipple, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. You whimpered. He moaned. “God, these…” His mouth moved to the other, tongue circling, teeth scraping. “I could spend the rest of my life between your tits. You drive me insane.”

His free hand kneaded the other breast, thumb flicking your nipple with precision that made your thighs shake. “You should’ve known better,” he growled against your skin. “Messing with me. Tying me up. Walking around this apartment in that damn lingerie…” He bit lightly. You gasped. “That was your mistake, princess.”

He reached to the nightstand without looking, knowing somehow that’s where you placed the BDSM kit. He grabbed the rope he sent you, and smirked. “Thought you were clever earlier,” he said, dragging the rope over your stomach. “But you forgot something—” he flipped you quickly onto your stomach, “—I’m better at tying knots.”

In seconds your wrists were bound. Hands in front of you so he could drag you to the edge of the bed and pull your hips up. Ass presented, back arched perfectly. He spanked you once, light.

Twice, harder.

Three times, hard enough to make you gasp and pull at the rope. “That sound,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “That’s why you’ll never win.”

He grabbed a small vibrator from the kit. The exact one he’d sent to your apartment during your “avoidance era”. He clicked it on. Low. A quiet hum. Your breath stuttered. “Remember this?” he asked, dragging it slowly down your spine, over each curve. “You never even thanked me for it.”

He pressed it between your thighs. Just enough. Barely there.

You whined. He smirked.

“Beg.”

You shook your head. Absolutely not. Not after everything he’d done.

He laughed softly. “Oh, princess. That was the wrong answer.” He turned the vibrator up a level and pressed it right to your clit. Your whole body jolted. “Try again.”

You bit your lip. He waited. The tension stretched thin. Finally, you broke. ”Please…”

He turned it off completely. You choked on air. “Good girl,” he said, delighted. “Now we can start.”

He flips you again Your back hits the mattress. He climbs over you, mouth crashing into yours. The kiss is messy. Teeth. Tongues. Need. He kisses you like he’s starving for you like you starved him first. “You’re mine,” he murmured against your lips.

He lines himself up, the tip sliding through your slick. He pushes in. Hard. You gasp, nails digging into the rope binding your wrists. He groans, deep, guttural, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck— you feel too good. I’ve been thinking about this all goddamn week—” He thrusts again. Harder. Your voice breaks on a moan. “That’s it,” he pants. “Tell me. Tell me you want it.”

You shake your head again, soapily stubborn, but he grabs your jaw, forcing your eyes on his.

“Say. It.”

You whisper it l, barely audible. “I want it.”

He shivers. Completely loses it. “Then I’m gonna fill you,” he growls, thrusts slamming harder, “gonna fill you until you can’t think, until you’re dripping all over this bed. Gonna fuck you until your legs shake. Until you forget every stupid thought you had about ignoring me—”

His pace becomes bruising. Desperate. Perfect. Your breath catches. Your whole body tightens.

“Yeah,” he moans, voice breaking, “you like that? You want me to fuck you full, princess? You want every drop?”

You choke on a moan.

“Good,” he snarls. “Because I’m not stopping until you scream.” Dazai’s thrusts grew harder, sharper, more desperate. Each one deeper than the last, each one hitting that spot that made your brain completely short-circuit. But he wasn’t finished—not even close.

He pulled out abruptly, hands gripping your hips as he flipped you onto your stomach. Your breath hitched. You didn’t even get a warning before he dragged you up onto your hands and knees. Your ass in the air, your face pressed into the sheets.

“Pretty,” he murmured, voice wrecked and dark behind you. “Perfect.”

Your breath stuttered as he slid the head of his cock between your folds, teasing, circling your entrance. “Osamu—” you breathed, trembling.

He stilled. “Say that again.” His fingers pressed into your hips hard enough to bruise.

You smirked. You couldn’t help it. You lifted your hips just a little, rocking back against him. Not enough to let him push in, just enough to tease. “Osamu.”

A pause. “That’s what I thought,” he growled. He slammed into you in one brutal thrust. You cried out, your knees buckling. His hands slid from your hips up your back, pushing your shoulders down, forcing your spine into a deeper arch.

You felt him everywhere. Too deep. He leaned forward, mouth at your ear, breath shaking: “Look at you… already falling apart. And I’m not even close to done.”

He pulled back and thrust into you again. Hard.

You gasped but you didn’t break. You tilted your head just enough to throw him a bratty little smile over your shoulder. “That all you’ve got?” you whispered.

The room froze. Dazai inhaled slowly, like a man trying very hard not to explode. “…oh, princess,” he said softly, almost sweetly. “You really don’t learn, do you?”

His hand cracked across your ass in a sharp, stinging slap. You yelped.

He groaned. “That’s one,” he murmured, gripping the reddening cheek. “How many spankings will it take before my little mafia princess learns some goddamn manners?”

Your breath shuddered. You clenched around him. He laughed—low, dark, delighted. “Oh? You liked that.” His other hand slid up your spine and fisted in your hair, pulling your head back so your throat arched. “You get wetter every time I correct you.”

He thrust hard enough to push you forward on the mattress. You moaned—way too loud.

He spanked you again. “That’s two.” A third slap—harder. You whimpered. “That’s three.”

Then he leaned down, chest pressed to your back, hand still in your hair. “Be a good girl,” he whispered, “and maybe I’ll stop.”

You glared over your shoulder, breathless, trembling. “Make me.”

Everything inside him snapped. “Gladly.”

He tightened his grip in your hair and drove into you. Fast, brutal, relentless. The sound of your bodies filled the room, slick skin and sharp breathing. Your moans muffled as he pushed your face into the sheets again.

He didn’t let up. Not once. He angled his hips, chasing the way your thighs trembled,

chasing the noises you tried and failed to swallow.

“That’s it,” he groaned, rutting into you. “Take it—take all of it. That’s what you’re made for. That’s why you tied me up— you wanted this—you wanted me feral!”

Your walls clenched around him. He gasped. You were so close, shaking, right at the edge.

“Don’t fucking hold back,” he snarled. “Come for me. Now.”

You broke. Your climax ripped through you. Your whole body tightening and shaking around him. Your voice muffled in the sheets, your legs giving out entirely. That was it for him. “Fuck princess. I’m gonna—shit—” He slammed into you, once, twice and came, hard. Deep inside you, groaning your name into your shoulder.

He stayed there, trembling, panting, pressed completely to your body. You could feel his pulse through his cock, still twitching inside you. Slowly, very slowly, he loosened his grip on your hair and curled down over you, mouth brushing your shoulder. “Mine,” he whispered, barely audible. “You’re mine.”

The room was quiet except for your uneven breaths and Dazai’s heartbeat still thundering against your back. His body molded over yours in a way that felt less like dominance and more like claiming.

You felt the tremors in his arms small, barely there, the aftershocks of how hard he’d come. Slowly, he pulled out of you, breath catching at the sight of you shaking and stretched out beneath him. You collapsed into the sheets.

Your legs barely responded, your wrists still bound with the rope. For one long moment he didn’t move. He just looked. Looked at the marks he left, your thighs trembling. The red handprints blooming on your hips and ass. The bruises his mouth had created on your chest, the way you were filled with him —literally. Something soft flickered across his face.

Then he exhaled through his nose, low and fond and unbearably smug. “…you look ruined,” he murmured. You didn’t have the strength to glare. Or move. Or breathe properly. He smirked. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix you.”

Carefully, he slid the rope from your wrists,

massaging the red indentations it left behind. Each stroke was slow. Thoughtful. The opposite of the man who had just pounded you into the mattress. “You okay?” he asked softly.

“Mmph,” you managed into the sheets.

He laughed under his breath. “I’ll take that as yes.”

He leaned down and kissed the middle of your back. Soft, warm, lingering and the sensation nearly undid you all over again. His arms slid under your thighs and shoulders, and he scooped you up with that effortless strength he liked to pretend he didn’t have.

You rested your head against his neck,

breathing in the faint scent of cigarettes, steel, soap, and something that was just Dazai. He carried you to the bathroom

and set you on the edge of the counter, turning on the warm water. “I know,” he murmured when you shivered. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He wet a soft washcloth, wrung it out, and knelt between your legs. Dazai Osamu. Port Mafia’s demon prodigy. Infamous devil-child. Your personal disaster. Kneeling.

For you.

He wiped the bruises on your thighs with tender, gentle strokes. Cleaning you with such ridiculous care that your eyes burned with something suspiciously emotional.

He noticed. “You’re not allowed to cry,” he whispered. “Not unless I make you.”

You sniffed. He smirked and kissed your knee.

He cleans everywhere and when the cloth reached between your legs, you gasped. He paused. Looked up. Eyes dark and soft. “Tell me to stop. If it’s too much,” he murmured.

You shook your head.

He continued. Slow. Deliberate. Tracing every sensitive spot until you were trembling again. “Good girl,” he praised quietly. “Always so good for me.”

He carries you back to bed. Once you were cleaned and warm and steady, he wrapped you in one of his shirts and you didn’t even ask where it came from or why it was already in your room.

He lay you down and climbed in beside you,

pulling you against his chest until you were tucked neatly under his chin. His fingers stroked up and down your spine, slow enough to lull you into a half-dreamy state.

After a long moment of silence, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re not allowed to avoid me again,” he murmured. You hummed a sleepy protest. He chuckled. “No, princess. I’m serious.” His hand slid to your hip, squeezing gently “You’re mine. Not just when you let me tie you up. Not just when you decide to misbehave. Always.”

You muttered something incoherent into his collarbone. He pulled back enough to look at your face.

“You wearing that little tired pout at me?” he teased softly. “Adorable.” He kissed you—slow, soft, lingering. “You’ll be fine in the morning.” Then, more possessive: “And if anyone sees your marks… they’ll know you’re claimed.”

You groaned weakly, hitting his chest with your palm. He laughed and caught your hand, kissing your knuckles. “And tomorrow…” his voice softened, “…I’ll make you breakfast.”

You blinked. “…you? Cooking? Is that a good idea?”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed, settling you against him again. “You deserve something nice after letting me put you through hell.”

You closed your eyes. He wrapped an arm around your waist. The man who took you apart held you together just as carefully.

Master list

[nolongerpostingsorry]

Nsfw

Day 24, humiliation. I obviously have an OG post from Oct 24th, but I have had a few people reach out to me privately about it. So this is a rewrite. I used their suggestions on how to make it better. I hope this is to your liking, I’ve been working on this for a while now.

Kinktober master list

Warnings: smut, humiliation, degradation, bondage, dirty talk, spanking, overstimulation, other sexual acts.

Summary: You push him all day, daring him to snap. Jouno doesn’t raise his voice. What begins as punishment turns into a slow, deliberate stripping of pride, composure, and control. Bound and exposed, you’re forced to confront just how easily he can read you—every breath, every tremor, every humiliating need you try to hide.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

Jouno doesn’t raise his voice. He never needs to. He just stands in the doorway of your bedroom, head tilted slightly, that serene little smile fixed on his lips while you try to pretend you’re not trembling.

“You’ve been insufferable today,” he says softly. “So let’s correct that.” Before you can answer, his hand closes around your jaw, guiding—not forcing, just guiding—your body backwards until the back of your knees hit the bed. “Turn around.” A whisper. A command. You obey. “Hands on the bed frame.”

Your fingers curl around the wood, and the air shifts—the kind of stillness that means he’s listening to every tiny breath, every hitch in your chest.

“Good.” A soft hum. A compliment that somehow feels like mockery. His hand slides over your lower back, then— CRACK. The first slap lands across your ass so hard your knees buckle. You gasp, and his smile sharpens. “Oh? Already losing your composure?” His voice is light, airy, sweetly venomous. “How pathetic.”

Another slap, harder. Then another. A slow, deliberate rhythm meant to make you burn, to make you squirm, to make you remember who’s in control. You try to glare at him over your shoulder, but Jouno only laughs, a soft breath of amusement.

“Still bratting?” he murmurs, brushing his fingertips over the stinging skin as if soothing you. Only to grip your hip and pull you back into position. “Not for long.” His fingers slide up your back, to the hem of your shirt, and he pushes it up, exposing your chest to the cool air. “Keep your hands where they are.”

You do. Jouno steps closer, his body pressing lightly against yours as his hands cup your breasts from behind. So gentle at first you almost melt. Then his thumbs brush your nipples, teasing the sensitive peaks until they tighten. You whine under your breath.

He laughs. Quiet. Delighted. “You sounded so confident earlier,” he coos, rolling one nipple between his fingers, “and now you can’t even hold still.” His other hand delivers a sharp slap to your thigh, making you jolt. “Do you enjoy being punished this much?” His words drip with sweet cruelty. “Or are you just desperate for attention like a needy little toy?”

You shake your head, but he hears the lie in your breath.

“Oh, you do.” He pinches your nipple hard enough to make you gasp. “You love when I hurt you. You love when I talk to you like this.” His lips brush your ear, soft as a kiss. “You love being my pathetic little plaything.”

Your grip on the bed frame tightens. Your body trembles. Heat pools low and sharp.

Jouno hears everything. “Mmm… there it is,” he purrs. “That pretty sound you make when the humiliation finally sinks in.”

His hand drags slowly down your stomach, stopping just above where you desperately want him. “You’ve earned exactly one thing tonight,” he murmurs. “More punishment.” His fingers curl around your waist. “And then,” he whispers, voice dropping to something dark and promising. “I’m going to make you beg for every inch I give you.”

Your skin is already burning when Jouno delivers another harsh, perfect slap across your ass. You yelp into the sheets, your fingers tightening around the bed frame, but he only exhales a soft, pleased hum.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “That little cry you try so hard to hide.” He drags his nails up your thigh—slow, calculating, reading every tremor in your breath like notes in a song. “Tell me something,” he says lightly, as though discussing the weather. “Do you want to be humiliated?”

You shake your head without thinking. It’s reflex, pride, bratty defiance.

He spanks you so sharply you lurch forward.

“No lies,” he chides, voice dangerously calm. “Say it.”

Your throat tightens. He waits. Because he knows your silence will break before his patience does.

“…I…” You swallow. “I want… to be humiliated.”

His smile blooms—slow and wicked. “Good girl.” He steps back, giving you the illusion of freedom. “Stand up.” You wobble a little when you rise, legs unsteady from the sting and adrenaline. He tilts his head, listening to each shaky breath. “Now undress,” he orders softly. “All of it—except…” His hand lifts, fingertips grazing your hip. “Put on that little thong you think I don’t know about.”

Heat floods you, your embarrassment sharp and immediate. He smiles, hearing the spike in your pulse. You slip out of your clothes, each piece hitting the floor with a little whisper. When you step into the thong, Jouno hums approvingly.

“How obedient,” he murmurs. “So eager to be reduced.” Before you can exhale, he grabs your wrist and guides you back onto the bed, pushing you down on your stomach first. “Arms forward.”

You stretch them out, palms pressed together above your head. The position already feels vulnerable. He knots soft rope around your wrists, pulling until your arms are fully extended, the tension just enough to remind you you’re his. He checks the pressure. Then ties it off at the headboard.

“Now your legs.”

He slips behind you, hands gliding down your calves before he takes your ankles and ties them apart, securing them so your knees stay wide.

“Arch,” he commands.

You arch your back. He places a palm between your shoulder blades and pushes down lightly. Adjusting you like you’re something he’s positioning for inspection. Your thighs are spread. Your back is curved. Your ass is lifted just enough to be exposed, helpless, on display.

“There,” he whispers. “Perfect.” You try to close your legs on instinct. The ropes stop you instantly. Jouno laughs softly, delighted. “Already ashamed?” His fingers trail along the inside of your thigh, stopping just shy of where you want him. “Good. I want you to feel every drop of it.”

His hand grips your ass—possessive, certain. “Helpless, spread, and ready to be ruined.” The ropes bite sweetly at your wrists and ankles, holding you spread open.

Jouno stands at the foot of the bed, listening. To the shake in your breath. To the blood rushing through your ears. To the wet sound your body makes every time you shift in your restraints. “…pathetic,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You’re already dripping.”

His fingers trail up the inside of your thigh, barely touching, before stopping at the thin strip of your thong. He presses two fingers against the soaked fabric.

You gasp.

He laughs. “Look at this,” he coos, pulling the thong taut with a single hooked finger. “Barely anything to hide you.”

He releases it. Snap.

You jolt, heat flaring under your skin.

He hums. “Sensitive little thing.”

His fingers glide along the thong again, peeling it aside just enough to expose the wetness underneath before letting it fall back into place. “Tell me,” he says lightly, mockingly polite. “Is it embarrassing that you’re so wet it’s clinging to you?”

You try to turn your head away, cheeks burning, but he grabs your chin with two fingers and makes you face forward again.

“Don’t look away,” he whispers. “Answer me.”

“I—yes—”

His hand cracks against your ass, sharp and sudden. “Say it properly.”

Your voice shakes. “It’s… embarrassing.”

He shudders with pleasure at your honesty. “Mmm. I knew it.” His fingers slide back under the fabric, stroking the slick heat there—slow, humiliating. “You’re leaking like a shameless little slut.”

You whine, trying to cross your legs, but the ropes force you open.

Jouno smiles. “Oh? You want to hide now? After teasing me all day?” He snaps the thong again, only harder this time “Absolutely not.” His nails drag lightly down your inner thigh, just enough to sting, just enough to make your breath catch. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Squirm for me.”

He uses two fingers to push the thong to the side, baring you completely. Studying you without sight—just sound, heat, breath.

His tongue clicks softly.

“So wet,” he murmurs. “So messy.” He strokes you slowly, deliberately, using the humiliation more than the pleasure. “Is this what you wanted? To be tied up, spread open, dripping for me like some needy little nobody?”

You whimper.

He spanks you again. The kind that stings just enough to make your back arch deeper. “Use your words.”

“I—I wanted it,” you breathe.

“Wanted what?”

“I wanted you to humiliate me.”

His breath brushes your ear as he leans in, voice dropping to something low and filthy. “Oh, sweetheart.” His fingers slip between your folds, teasing, not giving enough. “You don’t just want it.” He snaps the thong against your clit. You cry out. “You were made for it.”

His hand cups you possessively, fingers spreading you open.

“Made to be displayed.” A slow drag of his thumb through your slick. “Made to be owned.” A soft slap to your pussy—enough to make you gasp. “Made to be my sweet, pathetic little slut.” Your whole body shivers.

He smiles like he hears heaven in the sound.

Your breath is a wrecked little tremor when Jouno drags his fingers down the soaked strip of your thong again, feeling how the fabric sticks to you.

“How adorable,” he murmurs. “You sound like you’re about to fall apart, and I haven’t even started.”

He hooks two fingers under the thin band between your thighs and pulls it upward.

Slow. Deliberate. Cruel.

The thong slides between your folds. Your hips jolt helplessly, a pathetic whine breaking out of your throat. Jouno freezes. Then he laughs—soft, breathy, delightedly cruel. “Oh my,” he whispers. “You moaned from that.”

He pulls the thong up again. Higher. Your breath hitches sharply.

“There it is again,” he coos. “You’re shaking… from your underwear.” You try to bite your lip to keep quiet, but he hears the sound anyway. “Pathetic, needy little thing,” he murmurs. “Moaning while I use a scrap of fabric to embarrass you.”

The thong snaps back into place, soaked and clinging. You gasp.

“And look,” he says, voice dripping with amusement. “It’s even wetter now. Do you understand how humiliating that is?”

His hand cracks lightly across your inner thigh.

You cry out.

“That wasn’t pain,” he chides, fingers gliding over the sting. “That was encouragement.”He grips your jaw, turning your head toward him even though he can’t see your face. He feels the heat of your shame. “You’re going to repeat exactly what I say,” he murmurs. His voice drops. “And if you take too long…” His hand slowly slides down your stomach. “…you’ll get another slap.”

You nod quickly.

“Good girl. Now repeat after me.” He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “I’m nothing but your desperate little slut.”

Your throat locks up. His fingers drag the thong up between your folds again—higher—forcing another helpless sound from your lips.

“Hmm,” he hums. “You didn’t say it.”

“—I’m… I’m your desperate little slut—”

His hand slams a sharp smack against your pussy. You choke on a gasp, body jerking hard in the restraints. “Too slow,” he says sweetly.

The next line curls off his tongue like poison honey. “I exist to be used and humiliated.” You hesitate one breath too long. His fingers slap your clit lightly but cruelly, just enough to make your back bow. “Say it.”

“I—I exist to be used and humiliated—!”

“Mmm. Better.”

His fingers trail back down, catch the thong, and pull it slow. Dragging the wet fabric through the sensitive cleft of your ass. You moan loud and unrestrained. Jouno laughs quietly, nearly shivering with joy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purrs. “You’re moaning from your underwear.”

He snaps the thong against you.

You yelp.

“You love this,” he accuses softly. “You love being opened, displayed, tied down like something made to be played with.” His voice drops to a whisper dripping filth. “Say it.”

You swallow. “I—I love being—being played with—”

He pulls the thong taut between your cheeks and lets it snap again. “Correct yourself,” he murmurs. “You love being used.”

“I love—being used!”

“There you go.” He strokes the sore skin, gentle after cruelty, which somehow makes it worse. “My obedient little slut.”

Your whole body is trembling by the time Jouno slides the thong back between your folds, dragging the soaked fabric through your slick with slow, devastating precision. You gasp—your hips jerk automatically—but the ropes keep you wide, helpless, spread.

He hums like he’s listening to a song. “Perfect,” he murmurs, guiding the thong so it slips right between your swollen folds, wedging against your most sensitive places before he… leaves it there.

“So easy,” he whispers. “So reactive.”

Your thighs twitch. The pressure is maddening—constant, wet, humiliating. You try to grind against it, even a little, but the restraints give you nowhere to go.

Jouno laughs under his breath. “Oh, sweetheart… are you really trying to rub yourself on your underwear?”

His mockery settles into your bones. Your cheeks burn.

“That desperate already?” His tone is bright, cheerful, cruel. “Your body is pathetic.”

Your breath shudders. He brings his hands to your chest, cupping your breasts from behind. His touch is warm, deceptively gentle. Just enough to make your back arch deeper. “Mmm,” Jouno sighs, thumbs brushing over your nipples. “These get hard so fast…”

He pinches. You cry out, hips bucking. Making you grind onto the fabric buried between your folds. He hears it. He hears everything.

“Oh? You liked that,” he says softly, flicking your nipple again. “You’re grinding yourself against a piece of cloth.”

You choke on a whimper.

“That’s not even my hand,” he adds lightly, as if that detail genuinely amuses him. “My touch isn’t even there. And look at you.”

He runs the pads of his fingers over your nipples. Circling, teasing, giving you just enough pressure to make your lungs seize but not enough to satisfy.

Not where you need it. You’re painfully aware of how close his hand is… and how carefully he avoids your throbbing core. He pinches your nipple again—firmer. You gasp, arching you forward, causing the thong to rub.

Jouno clicks his tongue. “A mess,” he murmurs. “A needy, dripping mess who thinks squirming on a string counts as pleasure.”

You whine broken and humiliated.

He leans close to your ear, voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me… does it hurt?” His fingers graze the thong, barely moving it. “Or does it just embarrass you?”

“B–both—”

SLAP. A quick, sharp smack to your inner thigh makes you gasp, thighs trembling in their restraints.

“Don’t stutter,” he chastises softly. “I can’t understand cowards.”

You swallow hard. “It… embarrasses me.”

He hums approvingly. “And yet you’re still pushing your little cunt against it.” His voice is warm. Sweet. Venomous. “Do you want more?”

You nod before you can stop yourself.

He doesn’t reward you. Instead, he moves his hands deliberately away from where you need them, returning to your nipples. Rolling, pinching, tugging just enough to send sparks of pain through your chest. Your hips jerk helplessly, the thong sliding and pressing deeper, the friction driving you into madness.

You whine, loud, desperate.

Jouno’s smile widens. “You’re losing your mind,” he whispers, twisting one nipple until tears prick your eyes. “And I’m not even touching your pussy.” He cups both breasts, squeezing them together. “But you feel everything, don’t you?” His voice melts into a dark purr. “You feel that fabric between your folds. You feel it pushing on everything you want me to touch.” His breath brushes your cheek. “And I’m going to leave you like this.”

You freeze. He laughs, delighted. “Oh yes. You’re going to lie there, open and dripping, grinding on your little thong while I play with everything else.”

His hands squeeze your nipples sharply again. You moan, broken and needy.

“And when you beg me to touch you…” He moves the thong, barely enough to feel different. Then lets it settle back. “…I’ll decide if you’ve earned it.”

After what feels like an hour Jouno finally moves one hand letting it slide beneath your stomach and down between your thighs.

But he doesn’t touch your skin. He touches the thong. He strokes you through the flimsy, soaked fabric, dragging his fingers up the wet line of it, pressing just hard enough to make your back arch violently.

You cry out.

“Oh?” He tilts his head. “Is that the sound you make from being touched through your clothes?” He presses harder—slow circles right over the spot that makes your legs shake. Your breath breaks. “You’re pathetic,” he whispers. “Pathetic and swollen and soaked like you’ve been begging for hours.”

You almost have. His fingers keep moving, deliberate, controlled, never giving you more than he chooses.

“And look at this,” he says softly, sliding the soaked fabric aside with two fingers.

You shudder as the cold air hits your slick skin. Jouno inhales sharply—he hears how wet you are. “My, my…” His voice drops to a low, mocking hum. “You’re absolutely ruined.”

You feel him drag one fingertip through your folds, slow enough to make your lungs seize. “So swollen you’re practically throbbing,” he says. “And I haven’t even really touched you yet.” His fingers spread you open, exposing everything to his warm breath. “Does it embarrass you,” he purrs, “that you’re this wet without me even touching you properly?”

You can’t answer. Your voice is gone.

He smiles. “Let me help.” He moves his finger through your slick again, slow. Cruel.

And then he presses a kiss right above your clit. Not quite on it. Just close enough to make you sob. “You want me,” he whispers against your skin. “You want my mouth, my fingers, my cock…”

His thumb drags the thong back into place, grinding it against your swollen clit.

“But all you get…” He presses the fabric harder. “…is this.”

Your thighs are shaking uncontrollably by the time Jouno settles between them, his breath brushing the swollen, pulsing heat between your legs. He doesn’t touch your clit. He doesn’t even brush near it. He just breathes.

“Mmm…” he hums softly. “You’re trembling so hard. Are you afraid? Or just desperate?”

You whine and he laughs quietly.

“Oh, sweetheart. That’s not fear.” His fingertips glide lazily up your inner thigh. “That’s need.”

Without warning, he presses his tongue to you but not where you want. He licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your pubic bone, deliberately avoiding the throbbing peak of nerves that’s begging for attention.

You choke on a gasp.

“Disappointed?” he murmurs, lips ghosting over the inside of your thigh. “Good.”

He does it again. A slow, luxurious lick that teases everywhere except your clit, leaving you shaking, breathless, ready to scream.

Your hips try to jerk toward his mouth but his hands hold you in place.

“Don’t move.” His voice is soft, but deadly. “You grind without permission again, and I’ll make this so much worse.”

You freeze, knowing Jouno of all people would know some sadistic way to make this worse.

“Good girl,” he whispers, tongue dragging lower… lower… stopping just before the point that would make you see stars. Your whole body arches.

He pulls away. And spanks you. A sharp, humiliating smack to your pussy. You cry out, the pain sharp but quick, heat blooming between your legs.

“You see?” he says lightly. “Disobedience makes me impatient.”

He grabs your nipples next. Rolling, pinching, tugging them until your breath breaks and your back bows. Then he slaps one, quick and stinging.

You gasp. “You still haven’t begged,” he reminds you, voice like sweet poison. His mouth returns to your folds, tongue flicking gently at the edges, grazing sensitive skin without giving you anything real.

The frustration is unbearable. Jouno sighs dramatically at the noise you make. As though you’re inconveniencing him.

“You want my mouth,” he says. “Don’t you?”

You nod ferociously.

Another sharp tap to your pussy makes you yelp.

“Use your words.”

“I—I want your mouth!”

“Where?” His breath is warm and cruel against your skin. “Be specific.”

Your voice trembles. “O—on my clit—”

He slaps your nipple again. “Say it without stuttering.”

Your eyes sting. “On my clit!”

He hums approvingly… but does not reward you. Instead, he drags his tongue up your folds again. Agonizingly slow. Stopping right below the throbbing point you begged for.

You sob.

Jouno smiles. “Oh, listen to you,” he whispers. “You’re shaking like you’re about to break.” He presses a single kiss to your clit. So light it barely registers. You gasp so sharply he shivers with delight. But he pulls away instantly. “No.” His voice drops, dark and merciless. “You don’t get that yet.”

Your entire body screams for him, trembling, desperate.

He tilts his head, listening to your pulse hammering through your skin. “Beg better,” he says softly. “Or suffer for me.”

You’re already trembling uncontrollably by the time Jouno settles between your legs again, his breath brushing your soaked, swollen heat like he’s savoring it. He tilts his head, listening.

His fingertips glide down your inner thigh,

You whimper. He sighs dramatically. “Pathetic little thing. Go on then.” A pause. “Beg.”

Your throat works, but nothing comes out. A sharp, humiliating smack to your pussy makes you jolt.

“Try again.”

“I—please—please touch me—”

Another slap, harder. Your breath shatters.

“Be specific,” he says, voice syrup-sweet. “I’m not rewarding vague desperation.”

You swallow hard, voice raw. “Please—please use your mouth—”

A slap across your sensitive nipple this time. You cry out, back arching painfully.

“Use. Your. Words.” His hand slides down your stomach, stopping just above your clit. Close enough to make you sob, far enough to be torture.

You tremble. “Please use your mouth on my clit. Please, Jouno!”

He exhales a soft, pleased hum. “Better.”

He drags his tongue along your inner thigh, slow and teasing. But nowhere near where you’re begging for.

Your hips try to jerk. His hands slam them still. He leans in again. His tongue grazes your entrance. Light. Soft. Barely there. Your whole body bows in the ropes. A broken moan spills out of you. He laughs into your skin. “That wasn’t begging,” he murmurs.

You’re sobbing now. Quiet, frustrated, ruined. “Jouno! Please, please, please! I need—”

Another quick strike to your pussy. More sting than pain, but enough to make your breath choke.

“You’re not telling me what you need,” he says calmly. “Tell me exactly what you’re begging for.”

“Please use your mouth—on my clit! Please, I need it! I feel like I’m going to break—please—please I can’t—”

He shivers. Actually shivers at the sound of you breaking apart. “Mmm…” His breath ghosts over your folds. “There it is.”

His thumb lifts your clit. Just slightly, just enough to expose it. And he presses the lightest kiss to it.

You sob so hard your wrists strain against the ropes. He pulls back instantly. “Look at you,” he coos, almost affectionately cruel. “Crying because I kissed you.”

He presses one hand flat on your lower back. While the other drags your folds apart with slow, humiliating precision. “Beg one more time,” he whispers. “But this time… as the whore you are.”

You choke on your breath. “I—I’m your slut—please! Please eat me—please! Jouno, I need your mouth—I can’t take the thong, the teasing, the slaps—please, I’m begging you—please, please—”

He smiles like he just won. Then he snaps. He drags his tongue up your slit. Directly over your clit. He moans into you, the vibration making your vision white out. “Oh, you taste desperate,” he purrs. “You taste like you’ve been begging for hours.”

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking just enough to make your legs thrash— Except they can’t. The ropes hold you wide open for him.

He devours you. Licking. Sucking. Grinding his tongue against you with expert cruelty.

Every time your moans get too loud, he pulls back. Slaps your pussy once. Then goes right back to licking you until you cry again.

You’re sobbing, shaking, losing every thought that isn’t him. And just when your orgasm builds too sharply. When you’re seconds from falling apart—

He stops.

You scream into the mattress. He kisses your inner thigh, gentle after the devastation. “Shh… not yet.” His thumb presses the thong back between your folds, grinding it against your aching clit. Your clit is throbbing under the soaked thong he pressed back against you, every nerve screaming, every breath broken. Jouno sits back on his heels between your spread thighs, admiring you with a soft hum—like he’s listening to a beautiful piece of music.

“You’re right on the edge,” he says, almost tender. “Your heartbeat is frantic. You’re gasping like you’re drowning.” He tilts his head, smiling

Jouno slides the thong aside again, exposing your swollen, dripping cunt to the cool air. You whimper at the sudden relief of being uncovered.

He tsks softly. “Oh no, sweetheart. Don’t sound so grateful.” His finger glides slowly through your slick. “This is not a reward.”

He lifts his hand, letting the wetness string between his fingers. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “You’re so wet you’re dripping down your thighs. You’re soaking the sheets.” A pause. “And you’re crying because you want to cum so badly.”

Your face burns. That’s the humiliation. He’s making you fall apart not by teasing. But by letting you see how undone you already are.

“You’re going to cum,” he says softly, “on my fingers.” His voice drops into pure filth. “Like an obedient little toy.”

His thumb presses directly onto your clit—finally, finally touching you raw. You scream.

Before the sound fades, two fingers sink inside you. Slow. Deep. Curling just right. Your back arches helplessly, your legs shaking against the restraints.

“Shh,” he coos mockingly. “Take it. You’re made to take this.” He starts fucking you with those fingers. Smooth, ruthless strokes that drag along every sensitive spot inside you. The wet sounds are obscene, loud, sloppy.

He groans. “You’re squeezing so hard,” he whispers, mesmerized. “Clenching like you’re afraid I’ll stop.”

You are. You’re terrified he’ll stop.

He speeds up, his thumb grinding your clit in tight. Devastating circles while his fingers pump you hard and deep.

Your whole body bows. Jouno senses it instantly. His fingers slam deeper—his thumb pins your clit. “Cum for me.”

You break. It hits you like a lightning strike. Violent, shaking, overwhelming. Your orgasm ripped out of you while he finger fucks you through it.

You scream his name. Your pussy clenches so hard around his fingers he groans with genuine pleasure. “Listen to yourself,” he whispers.

He doesn’t stop. He keeps stroking you through every aftershock until your body collapses against the restraints, twitching, overstimulated and ruined. You’re still gasping when he withdraws his fingers. And then you hear the sound of a zipper. Your heart jumps. “Oh?” he hums, amused. “You thought we were finished?”

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading you open even wider. “Sweetheart,” he purrs, lining up his cock against your still-trembling entrance, “I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

He pushes in. One long, slow, devastating thrust that opens you up and steals every breath from your lungs. You’re overwhelmed, already sensitive, already wrung out.

Jouno groans with a shiver. “So tight,” he whispers, sinking deeper. “Still fluttering from your orgasm.”

He grips your hips, leans over your back, and fucks you deep, your legs stretched wide in the ropes, your cunt still pulsing around him. He fucks you hard, slow, cruelly deep. The kind of pace that makes you feel every inch, every stroke, every claim.

Your tears drip onto the sheets.

Jouno licks one from your cheek, sighing. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t remember anything except my name.” Jouno fucks you through the end of your orgasm like he plans to wring another one out of you before you can even breathe. Every stroke is deep, deliberate, merciless, hitting the same raw, overstimulated spot again and again until your legs are shaking uncontrollably against the ropes.

Your voice breaks—high, strangled, involuntary. Jouno pauses only long enough to tilt his head. “Too loud,” he murmurs. Then he drags his slick fingers. Still wet from being inside you, up your cheek and shoves them straight into your mouth.

You choke around them, eyes widening. “Shh,” he coos, pressing his palm over your lower face while his fingers push deeper. “Bite them if you must. But you’re not going to scream the whole building awake.”

He thrusts hard. Your moan is muffled around his fingers, vibrating against his knuckles. He groans quietly at the feel of it. “There,” he whispers, fucking you in sharp, punishing strokes. “That’s better. My little slut stuffed full everywhere.”

You try to pull your head away, overwhelmed. He holds your jaw effortlessly in place. “No,” he says softly, pushing his fingers deeper. “You’re going to taste yourself while I use you.”

Your body jerks against the ropes, overstimulation burning under your skin, clit throbbing painfully under the soaked thong still caught between your folds. Your muffled cry is desperate—raw.

Jouno laughs breathlessly. His fingers slip from your mouth, strings of saliva and slick shining between them. Only so he can wrap that same hand around the back of your neck and force you down into the mattress while he pounds into you.

Your vision goes white. Your cunt spasms around him again, involuntary, uncontrollable. He moans the sound low, broken, rare. “Oh… there it is— gods, you’re squeezing me so hard—” He pulls out suddenly. Your body clenching around nothing, trembling violently at the loss. Just as his breathing breaks. “Stay still,” he commands, voice sharp.

He wraps a hand around his cock and strokes himself quickly, desperately, positioned just above your ass and lower back.

Warm, hot ropes of cum spill onto your skin. Your back. Your ass. Some splashes onto your thighs. You gasp from the heat of it. Jouno moans through his teeth, hand shaking faintly as he finishes, painting you with every pulse of his release. “Perfect,” he breathes when he’s done, voice hoarse. “My perfect, ruined mess.”

He drags two fingers through the cum on your back just to press it into your skin. “Marked,” he whispers, pleased. Jouno sits back on his heels behind you. His release is cooling on your skin, making you shiver.

He tilts his head. Listening. Every tremor, every shaky inhale, every uneven heartbeat.

“Mmm… you’re wrecked,” he murmurs, pleased. “As you should be.” He drags two fingers through the cum splattered across your lower back, until they’re coated. You gasp when he grips your jaw and turns your face toward him. “You know what to do.”

His cum-slick fingers press against your lips. You open without hesitation.

He smirks. “That’s better,” he whispers as you take them into your mouth. “So obedient when you’ve been properly fucked.”

Your tongue cleans his fingers. Warm, wet, tasting yourself and him together. He watches your lips close around them, breathing a quiet, satisfied sound. When he pulls his fingers out, a thin string of saliva follows. He wipes it across your cheek with a soft hum. “Messy,” he says, amused. “But adorable.”

Finally, he reaches up and begins untying the ropes around your wrists. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs with a laugh, “You can’t even hold yourself up.” He lowers your wrists gently onto the bed, then moves to your ankles. The ropes loosen one by one until your legs slide inward, shaky and sore.

The moment you’re free, your body curls instinctively—seeking warmth, protection, him. Jouno’s voice softens. Just a touch.

“Easy,” he whispers, sliding a hand to the back of your neck. “You’re done. I’ve got you now.” He guides your body onto your side, then slips onto the bed beside you, lifting your head so it rests on his thigh.

His fingers stroke lightly through your hair. But even now—softened, relaxed—he can’t resist the mockery curling under his breath.“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Shaking, spent, barely able to breathe.” He brushes a thumb under your eye, collecting a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. “You cry beautifully,” he adds with that gentle, cruel smile. “I should ruin you like this more often.”

You whine softly, leaning into his touch.

He chuckles warm and pleased.

“Oh, don’t pout,” he says, tapping your swollen lower lip. “You did wonderfully. Truly.”

His fingers slide slowly down your throat, tracing the fading imprint of where he held you. He bends down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. Warm, intimate, nearly tender. Then he adds, amusement lacing the words. “Now let me clean you up before you dissolve into a puddle on my sheets.”

Master list

[nolongerpostingsorry]

My Eyes Only

Nsfw

Part two of the stripper request! This is kinda short but here we go~

Warnings: smut, rough sex, jealousy, possessive behavior, spanking, begging, dirty talk, light degradation, praise, teasing, semi-public tension, other sexual acts.

Summary: He tried to play it cool. Really, he did. But one look at you on that stage, and Chuuya’s composure snapped. Now you’re bent over his lap, laughter tangled with breathless moans as his hand comes down again—sharp, claiming, needy. “You like putting on a show?” he growls. Tonight isn’t about jealousy. It’s about reminding you who you dance for.

𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐

The scent of perfume, and spotlight heat lace the room as you step onto the stage. Curtains fall behind you. You don’t dance to be watched. You dance to leave your body, just long enough to love it again on the descent back in. Tonight, you're wearing a wine-color and thigh-highs that kiss your insecurities into submission. One hand trails down the pole like a lover’s back, and when your hips roll, the stage murmurs for you.

You circle, slow... controlled. And then you see him. Crimson hair. Black hat. Sitting diagonal, tucked in a private booth that shouldn’t exist but always does for people like him. Chuuya.

Your pulse misfires. He doesn’t usually come to the club. Hell, he's the type to growl through his teeth when you mention work at all—"They're lucky I let you wear that for strangers instead of killing them for looking." But there he is: elbows braced on the table, gloved fingers steepled under his chin, watching you like you’re a storm he meant to summon.

You stumble. It’s half a hitch in your step, smoothed over so quickly even the seasoned regulars miss it but he doesn’t. His eyes flash like he felt your heartbeat go sideways. And that's how you know.

You’re fucked.

Your next spin is slower, calculated. You drop into a split so hard the floor sighs. When you rise, your head tilts just enough that you look at him through your lashes. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink.

By the time your song ends, you're vibrating with heat and a hunger not even money can touch. You take your bow. The crowd cheers vaguely. But when you sneak a glance back at that booth—

He’s gone.

No slow exit. No tip on the table. No lingering heat in his seat. Just vanished, like smoke. You’re still half covered in body glitter and perfume when you duck behind the curtains and head backstage.

Twenty minutes later, you’re slipping out of the clubs side exit, coat clutched over your cleavage, heels swinging from your fingers, face flushed with need and confusion.

Where the hell did he go?

The walk home is quiet, unusually so for this part of Yokohama. A cab offers a honk. You wave it off.

He didn’t even say anything. Didn't text, didn’t frown. Just… burned you alive with his attention and evaporated. The lights in your flat are off when you reach your building. Your apartment door is unlocked.

You pause.

Your boyfriend seated at your tiny dining table, long legs crossed, wine glass between his fingers like he's performed this trick in front of royalty. “Hi, doll,” he says, like it’s a regular Tuesday.

You shut the door behind you carefully. “You're inside my place. Drinking my wine.”

“That’s my wine,” he replies with that fucking smirk, glass tipping.

You cross your arms. “You came to the club. I saw you.”

“Oh, I saw you too,” he murmurs.

Your coat slips down one shoulder. “Then why’d you leave?”

His voice drops. “Would you have made it through your set if I didn’t?”

You flinch in spite of yourself, heat blooming low in your belly. “Asshole.”

“Mine,” he says simply, and downs the rest of the wine in one long, elegant swallow.

The chair scrapes back. His boots echo as he steps forward, slow, predatory. His jacket’s gone. Shirt unbuttoned low. No trace of his usual gloves. When he stops in front of you, one hand reaches out, curling around the edge of your coat to pull it fully off your shoulders.

“You wore this,” he murmurs, eyes devouring every inch of you. “This sweet little thing—for strangers?”

Your chin lifts. “For myself.” Leaning beside the kitchen counter, Chuuya’s jacket is already draped over your chair. His shirt’s undone at the throat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in that infuriatingly calculated kind of undone perfection.

“Didn’t expect you home so early,” he says, voice rough silk.

You narrow your eyes. “Didn’t expect you to leave the club without a word.”

He doesn’t flinch. The silence stretches like silk between the two of you.

“I saw the bastard watching you,” he bites, lips still painted in wine. “Front table. Grey eyes. Smiling like he already owned you.”

You step toward the living room, not backing down, not tonight. “What, you just vanish without saying anything because someone looked at me?”

Chuuya sets the glass down. Your breath catches. Because he’s moving. Two strides. Then he’s there. Crowding you. The scent of wine and storm-drenched leather coils into your lungs like a drug. “Did you dance like that for him?” he snarls.

Your back hits the wall with a soft thud. Not hard. Not cruel. But unmistakable. He pins you there by presence alone. No hand, no grip. Just Chuuya. And the furious, aching heat radiating off every inch of him.

His mouth claims yours before you can answer, hungry and hot and filthy. His hands grip the backs of your thighs and lift, just enough to pin you to the narrow hallway wall.

You gasp into his open mouth and claw at his hair, your body wrapped around his frame. “You wore this ass in front of everyone like you couldn’t see me starve. I should’ve fucked you right there in front of him,” he growls, low and molten. “Let all of them see what belongs to me.”

His hands are iron, gripping under your thighs as he marches down your hallway. Your arms are clutched around his neck, your skin buzzing like static, your feet dangling, bare and shaking. You feel every step resonate against your core and the way his lips curve into something closer to a snarl when he feels it too.

“Shaking your ass for a room of strangers.” He speaks the words against your jaw. “Was that for me, sweetheart? Or were you hoping one of them would look harder than I could stomach?”

You open your mouth to speak, to argue, to breathe but he’s already biting at your pulse, and your body betrays you with a whimper.

“Exactly,” he mutters darkly.

The bedroom door slams open from the force of his boot and your back hits sheets softer than you remember, scattered with the lavender scent you always find comfort in. It doesn't matter now. Because Chuuya’s eyes are pitch-black storm clouds, and you’ve called the thunder on yourself. “On your stomach,” he commands, voice cracked with hunger, layered in jealousy.

You obey. Face down, hips up as your breath catches in the silk beneath you.

Chuuya’s slow pulling of your lace underwear sounds loud. It stretches tight in his fists before he rips it in half like it offended him. The ruined fabric falls to your calves. “Fucking red lace,” he hisses. “Do you wear this delicate shit hoping someone else is gonna get close? Is that what that little dance was for?”

You try to lift your head, try to speak but his palm lands hard on your right cheek.

Smack.

You cry out.

Another slap. The left side this time. The next one comes after he parts your thighs further, spreading you open with rough, reverent hands while he lingers to see the wetness between them. “Dripping for me,” he murmurs, and then spanks you again. “If any of those fuckers in the club had seen how wet this pussy gets from just performing, I would’ve torn out every last one of their eyes.”

Your moan’s muffled by your own forearm as heat spreads from your skin all the way through bone. “Say it,” he growls, leaning over you until his mouth grazes the space behind your ear. “Say who you danced for.”

You pant. Your stomach flips. Your hips twitch. “For you,” you gasp. “It was always for you.”

A sound leaves Chuuya’s throat—somewhere between a curse and a groan—and in the next breath, he flips you over onto your back, manhandling you. He doesn’t waste a second. His mouth is on your breast, lips and teeth and tongue worshipping over your nipple like he’ll fucking die without it.

Two fingers plunge in without ceremony, rough and deep, and your spine curves off the bed. “Fuck—Chuuya—”

“You danced so pretty,” he murmurs against your breast, lips vibrating on your skin. “But this? This is the show I came for.”

He strokes deep, fingers curling, knuckles kissing your soaked entrance on every thrust. Your hands tangle into his hair, heel sliding up his back. His mouth won’t leave your chest, biting with reverence, sucking with ruinous rhythm.

Another curl of his fingers batters something electric inside you. Your cry makes him growl. “I make you scream like this… and you have the nerve to dance for anyone else.”

You try to answer. You try to breathe. But all that spills from your throat is his name—again, again, again. He doesn't stop. “Say it again,” he says.

“Chuuya—”

“No. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob.

His teeth drag across your nipple before he seals his mouth tighter around it, sucking so hard your body bucks all over his mouth and his hand, slick and shaking.

Your fingers twitch in the sheets. The mattress still creaks softly with the aftershock of what just happened of his hands, of your surrender.

His fingers pull out of you.

Chuuya snarls low and hooks your leg forward as he straightens behind you. You feel the rich silk of his voice thread through the base of your spine. “You gonna act like that didn’t do something to me?”

You barely choke out a breath before his hips draw back. Then slam into yours.

You cry out softly, not from pain. From the stretch, the welcome ache of him. One hand presses firm over your chest, the other slides around your neck. Not squeezing. Not trapping. Just there.

A warm, anchoring weight, right under your jawline. Your pulse thrums against his palm. His voice dips into gravel. “I want to feel you cum,” he says. “With my hand against your throat. With your thighs shaking just like that. You want that, doll?”

You nod before words reach you. Which earns you another slow thrust that forces sound from your lips.

“Say it.”

“I want it.”

“You want me to fuck you ‘til you forget his name.”

“Yes.”

“And what name do you scream when it’s unbearable, mm?”

You’re already climbing toward it. He shifts his hold, thumb and index finger firm beneath your jaw. Not hard. Just there. Just enough to let you know you’re still his. Every second, even like this. “Chuuya,” you whisper. Then say it again, louder this time. Unguarded.

He hums. Then flips you. You’re breathless, face in the pillows, arms under your chest as his hands grip your hips like wreckage. His cock drags out and slams back in — like a curse, like a prayer. You scream into the sheets. He fucks you like he needs to punish the ghosts out of your walls.

“Mine,” he grits. “All the parts you think no one should see. I worship every fucking inch. You get me? That bastard at the club? He couldn’t handle this.” He slaps your thigh hard enough to sting. “Not like I do.”

You moan, wrecked, as another slap punctuates his thrust.

He thrusts harder.

“Say it again. Tell me whose you are.”

“Yours,” you pant. “I’m yours. Always f–fuck, Chuuya—”

He bends over your back, thrusts shortening, breath sharp. “Gonna cum for me again?” he growls into your ear.

“Yes. With your hand... I need it—”

One hand returns to your throat, not cutting air, but threading through your vulnerability like silk and sin. The integrity of you breaks apart like glass in earthquake.

Your climax hits you with a sobbing moan. You can’t think. Can’t breathe without him. Chuuya’s hips stutter, a groan breaks in his throat as he finishes deep inside you, hips pressed flush, lips blindly finding your shoulder.

You both collapse. The air smells like sex and lavender. Minutes pass. Or maybe years. Your body arcs inward as his hands trace the aftermath.

“You okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing your spine.

“Mm.”

He shifts beside you, rolling to his back with a sigh so full of something it could be peace, could be anger. Could be something else entirely. You turn slowly until your cheek is against his chest. His hand moves thoughtlessly to your hair. And you fall asleep knowing you’re cherished .

Master list