I need more people to start writing about chubby/dad bod tops and extremely fit and chiseled bottoms who get their brains fucked out since their top technically has more mass and strength than them. just being pounded by a big boy 2-3 times their own size that has a fatass cock to go with him
orrrr vice verse, where the bottom is chubby and has an extremely lean and muscular top bang the absolute hell out of them while they just take it, since their top has way more long-lasting stamina than they do. they just lay there while their top moves them into different positions and does the most they can to go as deep as possible each round
Synopsis: Toji, the TA, won't bump up your latest essay a couple marks, not with just some begging at least, so you try a different method:
good ol' pussy persuasion
Warnings: toji art by @/youKa.i on insta, smut, porn with a lil plot, nerd!toji, a couple years older than reader but both students, reader harasses him but don't save him he's right where he wants to be, some comedy aspect, college au, non curse au, f!reader, blowjob under the desk, unethical behaviour, fingering, cunnilingus, p in v, briefest choking, sex against the window, pússy inspection, belly bulging, overstimulation, spitting, a little fisting I guess or almost, Toji's poor so this is canon compliant jkjk, creampie and unprotected sex, brief pussyjob, size kink/difference, hidden sex, not proofread
Word Count: 10.7k
“For the last time,” he drawls, “I’m not bumping you up a grade.”
You groan, pushing your legs to catch up to him faster.
“Come on, I need this. I’m not asking you to break the rules. All I want is for you to reread my essay and find extra marks, which you will!”
Toji Fushiguro is a tough nut to crack, though he doesn’t look it — one glance at him and one would think he’s a laidback TA. He’s the exact opposite; he takes his job a little too seriously.
For days now, you’d been hounding him, pleading with him and degrading yourself all for him to ‘remark’ your last paper and ‘coincidentally’ find a few extra marks that would push you to the top performing spot you’d been eyeing since forever. Each time you rushed into his office, waited for him after his classes, and followed him to his apartment, he’d shrugged you off with the same ‘I don’t get paid enough for this’ look in his eyes.
Rounding the corner, his long legs making no accommodations for your shorter ones, he says, “No. If you wanted better results, you should have put in a better performance. Surely you’re smart enough to work out that that’s how life works.”
Hands grab his arm, yanking back with all your strength only to be dragged along with him and his burly body. Your heels scrape along the floor. People stare. You don’t care. “Don’t be an asshole. You know my essay was good. It was really good. Just give it a read. A proper one, and not the rushed job you do because you’re overworked and underpaid.”
He stops.
Your face bumps into this back, forehead nearly bruised by the hardness.
His brows rise above his glasses as he fixes you a look. “Kid, your essay was good — decent introduction, clear structure, sufficient evidence — but it’s not good enough for the extra marks to push you into the top band. Your closing argument fell flat ‘cause of your wishy-washy writing style, you didn’t adequately humour the counter arguments and undermine them to strengthen your thesis, and, worst of all, you misspelt ‘complement.’”
A frown graces your features.
“No, I didn’t. C. O. M. P. L. I. M—”
“No. With an I, it’s to flatter someone. With an E, it’s to enhance, pair well, or complete another thing.” Toji explains rather robotically, eyes still dead and voice monotone. “For example, if I said you’re a pretty girl, that’s a compliment. And if I said, your essay goes well with the trashcan over there, that’s a statement that suggests the two complement each other. See the difference?”
He’s already stalking off again, hands in his pockets, huge stature unwilling to accommodate the people walking down the hallway.
You break into a jog, panting embarrassingly by the time you reach him. “Dude, we’ve known each other for three years. We’ve gone through a lot together. We’re basically friends. Can’t you do your best pal a solid?”
Toji glances down at you. He pushes a door open, holding it a second longer than he needed to. You follow behind him. Somewhat amused, he replies, “We know each other because we’re on the same course, not by choice. And I don’t know what you mean by the whole ‘we’ve gone through a lot together’ thing — the most dramatic thing we’ve faced is when the projector didn’t work and we had to go into a different hall. And we’re definitely not friends.”
Well, fuck, you’re running out of rope.
“Then, let’s officially be friends,” you offer, elbowing him gently. “If you ever need help, buddy, I’ll always have your back.” Then, in an act of complete desperation, you begin shakily singing, “You’ve got a friend in me. You’ve got a friend in me. When the road looks tough ahead—”
A heavy hand shoves you away by your head. You stumble into a bulletin board.
“Enough,” he gruffs. “My day’s already fucked because the prof lost his papers and wants to blame me. I don’t need to lose my hearing on top of that.”
Your head flits around. “Did you guys see that?” People give you weird looks. “He just shoved me. The TA just shoved me. We need to protest his violent behaviour by demanding he remarks our papers. Who’s with me?”
Everyone walks past without another look at you.
Toji, on the other hand, lifts his glasses and runs a hand down his face. Muttering something under his breath, he pushes a door open and holds out a hand before you can mindlessly follow. “It’s the men’s bathroom. Tell me you’re not shameless and stupid enough to come in here.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
His eye twitches.
As though an idea comes to him, he straightens ever so slightly. “I’m gonna take a dump; you’ll be waiting a while.”
“That’s okay — I have no more classes so take your time but make sure you don’t stay sitting down longer than you need to,” you tell him, smiling innocently and standing aside to let a guy walk out, ignoring the freaked out face he makes at you. “You can get hemorrhoids."
He groans. “Jesus fucking Christ, woman.”
That seems to be as much of you he can tolerate because he walks in without another word to you. Opposite the door, you lean against the wall, whistling and coming up with alternative lines you can pull on him.
God, he’s so stubborn.
It’s not like giving you the marks docks his pay or lowers the professor’s opinion of him. He’s clearly just being an ass.
If he wasn’t such a good TA, a genuinely intelligent man, you would have gone above his head and asked for the prof’s personal assessment. But no, he has to be knowledgeable, a helpful source of information when you’re lost, someone who seems to know everything about any topic, who knows the exact pages of a textbook you should read to further your understanding, and who’s never declined a meeting for clarification on something you wrote.
For years now, you two have had a friendship-like relationship, often sharing snacks and exchanging brief words before or after lectures and classes, despite what he says.
Everyone gets along with him, though you’ve never actually seen him hang out with friends or go to parties. Maybe he doesn’t have any. Word on the street is he works part time in a couple different places. Some say so he can afford drugs, some for tuition.
The rumours never interested you, apart from any that mused about his love life, which seems to be nonexistent except for the many girls who hit on him. Not that you’re especially interested.
It’s just fun to be in the know.
Who knows how long has passed since he went in there. Your phone says fifteen minutes. Is that a normal amount of time for someone to be taking a dump?
Hesitantly, you push the door open and yell out, “Fushiguro? You doing okay? Is it stuck? For a couple extra marks, I’ll give you a hand.”
No one replies.
Brows furrowing, you bend down, looking through the stalls. No feet. What the hell?
Ahead, a window is ajar. Big enough for a man to squeeze through. Well isn’t that convenient? The kind of convenient that exists only in fiction.
Aggrieved and feeling bamboozled, you stomp back to your dorm room, slamming the door, jumping face down on the bed and screaming into the pillows. You’d feel better if you knew he had a grudge on you, if you bumped into him the first day and spilled his coffee all over himself and he’d never forgotten it. Instead, he’s just like that: does things by the book, does his job well, and achieves the best grades with ease.
Naturally, he’d become the professor’s assistant, a coveted position that seemed like it was made for him from the very beginning, and made your life a living hell because he won’t ever make concessions for you.
Sure, you shouldn’t ask him to, but it’s not like you’re asking for much. You’re generally a high performing student — punctual, hard working, ambitious — but you had one bad day which resulted in one bad essay and it lowered your average and now the internship you’d been eyeing could be snatched from your hands in a blink of an eye.
“It’s just not fair,” you cry out to your teddy bear. “It’s three marks. Three! Would it kill him to reread my essay and find those three marks?”
Mr. Teddy stares back at you and says, “He’s a grumpy man. Don’t take it personally.”
You sit up, blinking and processing his reply.
“Teddy…you’re right. He is a grumpy man, a TA with broad shoulders, yummy arms, and thick thighs with a bubble butt, but a man nonetheless. If he won’t pull favours for me, student to student, maybe he’ll pull favours for me man to woman.”
The plushie falls to the bed as you stand, staring at yourself in the mirror and formulating a plan.
With that you decide to seek him out the next day, sporting a new outfit and a different attitude.
.
.
.
“Hi.”
“Fuck off.”
The cafeteria’s busy. It always is. It’s loud enough that most people wouldn’t even hear the exchange — chairs banging on tile, trays clattering, someone laughing too loudly at a table nearby.
Toji’s hunched slightly over a bowl of udon noodles, chopsticks moving lazily as he slurps them down. Some sports clip plays on his phone, propped against his dented metal water bottle. Commentators yell about something you don’t understand. His sleeves are pushed up over his forearms, revealing ropey muscle and the faint silvery line of an old scar running across his wrist.
An old hoodie hangs off his shoulders over a plain white T-shirt. Distressed jeans, worn sneakers. He’s too big for the plastic chair, long legs spread under the table. When he saw you approach, his feet had hooked onto the chair legs, forcing you to fight to remove it from his clutches so you could take a seat.
So damn rude.
His glasses have fogged slightly from the steam of the noodles.
He doesn’t look up. But he knows it’s you. You can tell by the way his mouth tightens for half a second before he goes back to eating.
You snatch his phone away. His green eyes flick up, annoyed. You smile, arms pushing your breasts together so they spill over your tight top. Toji’s gaze doesn’t waver. He continues to stare at you like you’re a pest.
“You can’t take no for an answer?” he asks though it’s not a question at all. “Might want to retake the consent course.”
Manicured fingers walk up his bare forearm before scratching down from his elbow. His skin is warm. Light dusting of hair tickling your fingertips. “Oh, Toj, have I ever told you how handsome you are? Because you really are. You’re so damn hot I can hardly focus on the lectures.”
He snorts, still eating his noodles and still refusing to look at your cleavage. “That’ll explain why you’re missing marks.”
Jaw dropping, you force yourself to recover quickly. A heeled foot brushes against his calf, sliding his jeans up. You bat your lashes, sultrily saying, “The only thing I’m missing is your cock in me, big boy.”
Toji meets your eyes again. His scarred lips twitch. “I don’t need to tell you that was bad, do I?”
You cringe, foot dropping and whole body slumping back into the chair. “Yeah, I heard it as soon as I said it.” Then you sit up, handing him his phone, and asks, “Are the noodles good? I’ve never had them.”
Phone pocketed, he shrugs. “They’re just the cheapest deal on the menu. Growing girl like you should get something more filling.”
The menu’s extensive, and the only thing sticking out to you is the chicken burger and chicken tenders meal deal. It seems to be especially popular today but you’re not sure you can finish the whole thing.
“Hey, if I get the Meal Super Cluck Blaster, will you share it with me? I’ve got dinner plans later so I don’t want to fill up.”
That finally gets a reaction. Toji leans back a little and gives you a slow once-over. Tight top. Lacy bra peeking up. Glossy lips. More jewellery than usual. His eyebrow lifts. “That why you’re dressed like a hooker?” he asks lazily. “Hot date?”
“Nah,” you reply, waving him off. “Wore this for yo— Wait.” You lean forward, staring at him wide eyed. “Are you jealous? Are you in love with me already? Because for extra marks, I’ll cancel my dinner plans and promise myself to you for all eternity.”
Toji rolls his eyes. “Go get something to eat; you sound insane.”
You hop up. “Okay, but stay there, alright? Take my burger because I only want the tenders. Oh, and will you share a pot of cheesecake with me? I’m lactose-intolerant but I really want cheesecake right now.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He’s still here when you come back.
As soon as you hand him the wrapped up burger, he scarfs it down the way big men do, like they haven’t eaten in days. You push him the tenders too. You’d actually gotten a double serving of everything so you have your own portion of tenders and he gets to eat another burger. There’s no way a man his size could survive on udon noodles.
“Also, let’s not act like you didn’t leave me hanging outside the men’s bathroom yesterday,” you bring up after sipping your juice. “Can’t believe you left through the bathroom window just so you could get away from me.”
“I didn’t,” he says, mouth full and adjusting his glasses.
You frown, dipping a piece of chicken in hot honey. “No, you definitely did. I peeked and there were no feet in any of the stalls. Unless you’re telling me you can grow invisible.”
“Just lifted my legs when I heard you come in, which I knew your crazy ass would do, so I could finally leave in peace. Didn’t think it’d take you fifteen minutes though.”
A laugh escapes you. “You were waiting me out? Does that sound like the mature thing to do? Jeez, you need to act your age.”
Toji’s eyes meet yours. Your smile falters for the briefest second. “I’m not that much older than you,” he reminds you. “Only by two years.”
“And yet you call me kid or kiddo,” you retort, clearing your throat. Have his eyes always been that green and deep? And is his voice usually that husky and masculine? Because you could have sworn guys your age don’t sound like that.
He shrugs again, second burger finished in a blink of an eye. “Never hurts to remind yourself.”
“Remind yourself what?”
The legs of his chair screech as he pushes it back. He stands, picking up his tray, and answers, “Forget about it. Enjoy your dinner plans. And I’m taking the cheesecake — no one wants a gassy date.”
“Wait,” you call out before he can turn away. “My marks?”
A pat on the head ruffles your hair.
“Still a no, kid.”
.
.
.
“What if I suck your dick?”
Toji lifts his glasses to rub at his eyes. “I’ve got a ton of papers to grade for another class; I don’t have time for you.”
The door shuts behind you. His office is bare, not a single decoration littering the place, not a plant nor a picture.
His office is exactly how you remember it — disappointingly, aggressively empty. The walls are a dull institutional beige that makes the overhead fluorescent light feel even harsher. No posters. No photos. Not even a sad little plant struggling for life in the corner.
Just a desk. A filing cabinet. Two chairs that look like they were stolen from a waiting room. It’s the kind of office someone occupies temporarily, like he expects to leave at any moment and doesn’t see the point in settling in.
Leaning against the desk anyway, your fingers drum lazily along the edge.
You’ve been here before: once to argue about a paper he’d shredded with red ink, once because you’d missed an exam and needed him to sign a form, and once because you’d sworn you heard him swearing loud enough to be heard halfway down the hallway.
You grip his shoulder, squeezing as you scan the fat stack of papers on his desk — the prof’s particular about handwritten essays. There’s so much to read through; you do not want to be him.
“God,” you mutter, flipping through a few pages of the stack. “There’s like fifty here.”
“Seventy-two,” Toji corrects without looking up. His handwriting is sharp and aggressive, red ink slashing through entire paragraphs like he’s committing academic murder. You wince in sympathy for whoever wrote the paper currently being dismantled.
“Good thing you can multitask, can’t you? I’ll suck your dick under the desk, you grade papers, and you bump me up a grade. Easy.”
He shrugs you off, hulking body hunched over and pen scratching on the papers, leaving harsh circles and comments like, ‘what the hell does this mean?’ and ‘you can’t just say perchance.’
Toji gruffs, “I’m serious. Take your jokes elsewhere.”
Nah, you think to yourself.
With a massive struggle against his weight, you yank his chair back, wheeling him a distance from the desk and clambering under before he can fill the space again. He makes some noise above you but you pay him no mind. Your hands rest on his meaty thighs through his sweatpants, marvelling at the density, at the strength you find in them.
“You’re fucking ridiculous.” His foot nudges your knee. “Get the fuck out. I’ll cropdust you if I have to.”
You call his bluff by clutching his clothed cock. He jolts, grunting. Laughing softly, you muse, “You say all that but you have a semi already — did my proposition get you hard, Toji?”
You’re rubbing his hard on, trying not to get flustered by how big he feels, and how fat the girth is. Of course he’s big. In hindsight, you really shouldn’t have been so surprised; he’s a big man so naturally the proportions will match up.
“Suck my dick, don’t suck my dick, it doesn’t matter,” he says, sighing and probably pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not getting those marks.”
He thinks that’ll stave you off because he knows you’re whoring yourself out for a grade. What he doesn’t know is that your stupid little brain’s already forgotten about all of that the moment you felt his cock. Now all you can think about is how you’ll have to stretch your lips nice and wide to take him in, and even then, even when your throat is lax and loose, you won’t be able to take him to the base.
Toji grunts again, peering down at you. “You mouthing at my dick? Did’ya not hear what I said?”
Like you’ve been possessed, you press kisses to where his tip is, humming around it. “I heard, but your dick’s saying other things to me, and I know which I prefer to listen to.”
“My dick’s not marking your paper, so get the fuck up,” he growls.
“Don’t wanna.”
“You’re fucking killing me here.”
A heavy hand bundles your hair up, pulling but you fight against it, hooking your fingers under the waistband and releasing him from the constraints. His boxers have a hole, and yet you only find it endearing. Freeing his cock so it bounces up and smacks your cheek, it leaves a wet mark on your skin.
Tutting, he wipes away the wetness from your skin.
Oh fuck, he really is big.
With nothing between you and his dick, you can see him in all his glory in the partial shadow of under his desk — long, thick, flushed red, already shiny at the slit, veiny as hell, hairs at the base wild and unruly, with weighty balls to match. You’ve never seen anything better.
Tongue out, you lick him from base to tip, prodding at his frenulum.
“Quit it,” he commands through gritted teeth.
You moan wantonly, already addicted to the salt on his kin, to the texture of his veins, to the softness of his cockhead. “Toji, you’re so big. I don’t think this’ll fit inside me.”
The thing throbs, bobbing. A droplet oozes out and you quickly lick it up. The hand that was pulling your hair has grown slack, simply resting on the back of your head, keeping you from bumping the wood.
Voice hoarse, he mutters, “If anyone can make it fit, it’ll be your stubborn ass.”
Your eyes meet his from under the desk, mischief sparkling in them you’re sure. His cock throbs again. “I thought you had papers to mark, Fushiguro. Maybe you should get on that, no?”
A calloused thumb presses down on your lips, shushing you. It slides down, bringing your bottom lip down with it, before releasing it so it’ll bounce back in place. That same thumb holds your jaw open, hand guiding your mouth to his tip. You know what he wants. You also know that he knows that you both know that you won this time.
Wide as you can, you take as much of his length as possible. You don’t get much further than a third of the way, full beyond belief and overwhelmed by just how much of him there still is. Your nails dig into his thighs.
“If this is supposed to convince me to give you extra marks, then you’re failing real hard, doll,” he notes, gripping the base. “Can barely fit the head, can you?”
He’s acting like it’s your fault he’s so big.
Challenged, you loosen your throat to take him an inch deeper. You gag around the length. Toji curses under his breath. “Careful,” he mutters. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
You ignore him in favour of shallowly bobbing, sucking and licking what you can, as though he’s a lollipop. It’s actually kinda fun.
The familiar sound of pen scratching on paper and paper rubbing on paper echoes in the relatively quiet office. Only the wet sounds of your mouth sucking his cockhead pierces the silence.
Growing more and more used to his size, you flick your tongue around the head, letting your hands wrap around the rest of him, squeezing and tugging in time with your mouth. Occasionally, he makes a couple breathy noises — low grunts when your tongue laps up his tip, gravelly groans when you hollow your cheek to suck, and rough exhales through his nose when you grip his balls, massaging them, thumb rubbing the seam.
It becomes easier to forget why you were here in the first place; you’re just blowing him for your own entertainment now, wanting something to occupy your throat.
Then, he asks, as though he’s making casual conversation, “How was the date?”
“Hmm?”
Toji rolls his eyes. “The date,” he repeats. “How was it? He pay for the meal? Open doors, see you to your door, kiss you goodnight and shit?”
Your lips stretch into a smile. You release him with a pop! “I didn’t go on a date,” you tell him. “My friends hosted a housewarming party because they moved in together. I had a great time, thanks for asking.”
Is he pleased? Unaffected? Genuinely just making conversation? Hard to tell, except for the pushing of his hand, urging you back to his dick, and taking him further inside your throat, till his tip bumps the back of the gummy walls.
“Good,” he exhales out, thighs flexing around your body. “That’s real good.”
“My blowjob skills or that I had a great time?” you ask, words muffled and barely understandable.
“Both,” he answers. “Both, doll.”
A knock on the door has you both stiffening. Toji glares down at you and whispers, “It’s the prof. Do not make a sound.”
He didn’t need to tell you that — you’re well aware that if you get caught, you’ll both face disciplinary action, and will likely be kicked out of the university. That’s worse than not getting the internship.
The office falls quiet so suddenly you can hear the ticking of the wall clock. Toji’s hand tightens briefly against the desk as the knock comes again. “Come in,” he calls, voice steady.
The door opens before he even finishes the word.
“Ah, Fushiguro, there you are,” the professor says, stepping inside with a stack of papers tucked under one arm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d left already.”
From your position under the desk, you can only see shoes. Polished leather. Slow steps across the floor. You don’t slide his cock out of your throat, lest it makes a sloppy noise that’ll give you both away. So you breathe through your nose, being very, very quiet.
“No, I was just finishing up some grading,” Toji replies, cool as a cucumber.
His tone is annoyingly normal. Completely unbothered. He’s really convincing. Has he done this before? Is this a normal occurrence? Do a lot of girls offer to blow him for better marks, and does he take them up on it? Are you the one exception to his generosity?
“Good, good.” Papers shuffle. A chair creaks as the professor sits across from the desk. “I actually wanted to ask about the research methods essays.”
Of course he did.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
Toji shifts slightly above you — just enough that the movement brushes your shoulder — and then he leans back in his chair. “Yeah?” he says.
“I noticed something odd in the submissions this year,” the professor continues. “Half the class seems to misunderstand the section on sampling bias.”
He hums thoughtfully. “You mean where they’re supposed to explain the limitations of convenience sampling?”
“Exactly.”
A sheet of paper slides across the desk.
“You see this one here—”
From below, you hear Toji pick it up.
“—they describe the method correctly, but their conclusion contradicts their own analysis.”
There’s a pause whilst the TA reads. You stare at the underside of the desk and try not to shift your knees. God, this is like torture. Having a cock lodged in your throat and not being able to do anything with it is hell. Above the desk, they’re chatting away, talking about your fellow students, with the professor none the wiser that one such student’s under the desk.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “They’re treating correlation like it proves causation.”
“Precisely!” the professor says, sounding delighted. “It’s surprisingly common.” Another pause. You hear a pen tap the desk twice. “I was thinking next year we might restructure the lecture slightly,” the professor continues. “Maybe introduce a short case study before the assignment.”
“Could work,” Toji replies. “Give them something concrete, tangible, to analyse.”
Your legs are starting to cramp. Your lips tighten around his hot cock. Toji brushes your hair back from your face, a quiet act to show he hasn’t forgotten about you. The professor keeps talking, completely unaware.
“Also,” he says, shuffling more papers, “the literature review sections were stronger this year.”
“Mm.”
“I suspect the workshop helped.”
Toji lets out a quiet huff that might be agreement.
“You handled that well, by the way,” the professor adds. “The students seem to respond to your feedback.”
This is way too boring, you decide. In an act you might end up regretting for the rest of your life, your offended tongue prods his tip where he’s still leaking salty precum.
He grunts, knee crashing up on the wood.
The professor asks him if he’s alright, and Toji replies, “Fine. Sorry. Just had a cramp.”
A triumphant smile pulls at your lips, which is quickly wiped away by the sudden pinch at your cheek. You wince, unable to smack him in retaliation.
A sigh fills the room. “I fear you work too hard, Fushiguro. You ought to take a break here and there. Do something fun and wild, or whatever it is people your age do nowadays.”
“I am having fun,” Toji says, hand coming back to rest on your head, growing heavier and heavier until you’re forced to take him inside your mouth, deeper and deeper. “In my own way.”
He’s filling you up more than he was before, now more insistent, no longer so passive. You’re struggling to take him but he’s not letting up. Fuck, you’re soaked between the legs. Who knew you had an oral fixation?
“Well, good,” the professor says. He pushes his chair back. Your heart jumps in joy. “I won’t keep you any longer, I know those papers won’t mark themselves. Boy do I not envy you.” He laughs. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
“You too, Professor.”
Footsteps move toward the door. The handle turns. The door opens. Closes. Silence. Two seconds pass.
Then Toji peers down, licking his scarred lips, and mutters under his breath, “You needy fucking girl. Couldn’t wait, could you? Couldn’t resist not being a pain my fucking ass. If you want cock so badly, then here you go.”
His hips thrust up, hand keeping you in place. Your eyes fly open, throat stretching to take all of him in. Oh, he was as pent up, as frustrated, as you were. The force in which he’s rutting inside your throat displays that nice and clear.
“You’ll do anything for a good grade, won’t you? Even debase yourself like this. God, you drive me crazy.”
You gag around his cock but he doesn’t pay any mind to that. No, Toji’s just rutting inside your mouth over and over again, grunting louder and louder now.
Meanwhile, your hand seeks out the heat between your legs. You grind against the heel of your palm, moaning around his length. The vibration has his balls tightening up.
“Fuck!”
Hot cum bursts inside, coating the walls of your throat and your tongue.
Toji leans back in his chair, which creaks. You pull him out, coughing at the salty burn. Damn, even his loads are big. It’s like a cream puff exploded inside your mouth.
Hands carry you up, sitting you on his thigh. One rubs your back in circles, the other wipes away the tears at your eyes, licking at the wetness he’s collected on his thumb. “You good, kid?” he asks, brows furrowed.
“Yeah,” you respond, voice hoarse and not fooling anyone. “I’m good.”
You take a sip of his water from his water bottle, not caring about the fact that you’re drinking from where he had been, and if he cared that your mouth which had been sucking on his dick and cum is on his cup, he didn’t say.
He sighs, tucking himself back in and says, “Come by my place tonight. Hand me your essay again and I’ll reread it. But I’m not making any promises about finding extra marks, alright? It’s just a second chance, and the only one you’ll get.”
Dopily, you smile at him. “Throat game that good, huh?”
His lips twitch. He shoves you away, smacking your ass as you walk away.
“I’ll text you the time and place. Don’t be late.”
Nodding, you head for the door, not leaving however till you ask, “Should I wear matching underwear, or is this a strictly keep your clothes on meeting?”
“Fuck off before I regret it.”
“Lacy thong it is!”
.
.
.
“Should I spread my legs now or do you want me to fluff you first?”
Toji’s deadpan face meets you when he opens the door. He sighs as though he’s regretting this already. Regardless, he lets you in.
You can tell he showered recently — there’s the scent of cheap soap lingering on his skin and his hair is still a little damp.
His apartment is nice and clean, which surprises you somewhat. Most guys your age tend to be messy. But you should have known the TA would be neat and organised.
“I’m serious,” you begin, snuggling up to his side and batting your lashes up at him, “what position do you want me? I’m not the most flexible but I’m not too bad.”
Shaking you off, he pushes you in the direction of the living room where the coffee table is covered with carefully laid out papers he no doubt carried from campus to continue working on. “Go sit down, you horny gremlin. Make some room for your essay and let’s get this over with.”
You do as he says, folding your legs so you can sit by the coffee table on the rug. You take the essay out of your bag, shoving all the others to the side. With a frown, you ask, “So we’re really not fucking?”
He folds himself down too, sitting beside you, knee brushing yours. “I don’t solicit sex in exchange for academic favours. Dunno why you’re so surprised by that — can’t recall having done anything to make you think otherwise.”
“Well, you did give in after I blew you, so…”
“I was gonna offer before you did all that,” he informs you, snorting. “Just never promised to give you the marks.”
Toji adjusts his glasses, taking your papers and starting his reassessment of it. His lips purses, brows furrows, and he stares at the thing like it could tell him the answers to the universe. That or it’s so bad he just can’t fathom what you were thinking.
“Second paragraph, third line, why the hell is it so convoluted?” he asks, voice returning to that grumpy tone you’re more than familiar with now.
It’s the latter, it would seem. He really meant business. You shaved and everything for nothing. What a shame.
Leaning over, you rest your head on his big bicep, and, with a pout, reply, “I thought it sounded smart; I was pretty proud of that line actually.”
“No, doll,” Toji says, sighing. “The simpler the better. Don’t purposefully complicate your syntax. Only do what’s necessary to get the point across. If I, an expert in this topic, can barely understand what you mean, how is the ordinary person supposed to?”
“Yeah, okay. Simple is better, I get it.”
He continues reading, red pen in hand and making annotations as he goes. Meanwhile, you’re worming your way into his lap: one hand resting on his thigh at first, then a leg thrown over his. He notices what you’re doing — there’s no way he doesn’t know — but he doesn’t put up a fight. Eventually, you’re sitting in his lap, his chin resting on your head, and his arms caging you in.
Toji’s warm. He’s comfy to rest on despite all the muscles. Closer now, his soapy scent envelops you. It goes straight to your head. You find yourself squirming.
“Keep still,” he reprimands, underlining a phrase twice for emphasis. “You can’t just use jargon if you’re not going to explain it. It’s bad practice.”
“Got it.” Fiddling with his spare hand, running your fingers down his and over his palm, you ask, “Are academics supposed to have calluses?”
“They bother you or something?”
“No, not at all. I’m just curious.”
He hums. “I do odd jobs here and there, some more manual than others so yeah I built up some calluses.” Without missing a beat, he pivots the topic. “Tell me again what the difference is between compliment and complement.”
You bring that hand up to your breast, imploring him to grope your tits as you reply, “With an I is to praise someone or something, and with an e is to say something matches well with another.”
A moan escapes your lips when he squeezes in approval. Toji mutters, “Good girl. Guess you do listen to me.” Thumb brushing your hardened nipple through the thin material of your top, you squirm in his lap. His lips move against the top of your head. “No bra?”
“I figured you were going to take it off me anyway so I didn’t bother,” you say, still pressing his hand to your tit, riding the motions of every grope and flick of your nipple.
Another hum.
Slowly, you guide that hand down lower. He must know what you’re doing, where you want it to end up, but he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t reprimand or put up any resistance; he’s curious to see how far you’re willing to go. And you’re curious to see how much restraint he has, how long he can hold out before his façade of nonchalance breaks and he’s fucking up inside you.
You tease yourself, and him, first — his fingers, with your guidance, tease your bare thighs, following the hem of your tight skirt. Growing breathless, you ask, “What kind of odd jobs do you do?”
Toji’s calluses tickle the sensitive skin in your inner thighs just right. He’s still marking your paper, occasionally fact-checking your ideas and his theories in a textbook on the table. Amused, he retorts, “You curious about me, doll?”
“Hmm, I want to know exactly whose cock will be stretching me out in a minute.”
He snorts, patting your clothed pussy. You jolt with every impact. “I tutor on the side. Fix up some cars in the garage in town. I’m a physical trainer for three clients at the local gym too. And when I’m low on money, I sell risqué pictures of myself. That disgust you?”
All while he answers, Toji’s blunt nails scrape your slit through your panties. He’s not applying much pressure at all, if any, and yet every skim, every travel up and down has goosebumps rising on your skin.
“N-no,” you answer quickly. “I think that’s really cool. If I had a body like yours, I’d take pictures all the time too.”
His laughter rumbles in his chest. An odd sense of pride warms your own. He says, “Your body’s more than good enough to sell too, you know. Don’t act like you don’t know guys give you double takes all the time, or that your ass could stop traffic.”
Giggling, you lean back, gazing up at him with a smile. “Do you stare at my ass sometimes, Toji?”
God, you’re soaked. You can tell, though you’re not embarrassed whatsoever. If anything, you’re just itching for him to pull your panties to the side and touch you skin to skin, to plunge inside your pussy and make a mess out of you.
“Tell me where you can, and should, insert a semi-colon in paragraph six, and I’ll give you an honest answer.”
He nudges you with his chin. “Go on. Quit thinking with your pussy and give me the right answer.” A little aggrieved, you sit up straight, holding his wrist to keep his hand between your legs. Your eyes scan the section. Tentatively, you point to a full stop on the second line. Toji shakes his head and smacks your clothed pussy again. “Try again, and don’t guess.”
“Here,” you snarl, feeling way past pent up. “Now give me my reward.”
Toji huffs. “Semi-colons help for varying sentence structures. It’s in the little ways you can convey your points compellingly. Don’t underutilise the right punctuations.”
“Yeah, yeah, smarty pants. Rub my clit and answer my question already.”
Cool air brushes against your swollen, glistening lips. You sigh when his warm hand covers the entire slit barely a second later. His middle fingers are instantly coated in your wetness. He groans. “Fuck, doll, you’re dripping.” Toji doesn’t give you a moment to respond to that; his fingers rub at your throbbing clit in tight circles, drawing it out of his hood. You moan, back arching.
Finally, he answers, “I stare at your ass all the fucking time after I glare at the losers whose eyes wander from their laptop screens . I’m a big, fucking hypocrite — that what you wanna hear?”
“Fuck yes!”
Rustling of paper reaches your ears. Then two hands are on you: one furiously rubbing the bundle of nerves and the other gripping your throat. He squeezes threateningly. Your vision spots, jaw dropping. “Look at you, all desperate to have my cock inside you. And for what? For a couple marks? You’re not ashamed?”
Your ass is grinding back on his boner, sandwiching the hard thing between your cheeks as your own answer. How could you be ashamed when he wants you so bad too?
“I’m horny! Are you gonna fuck me or not?”
In a split second, you find your world spinning. Your back falls on something hard. You’re staring up at the ceiling, papers scattered beneath you. Rough hands tug you down by your thighs. When you peer down, Toji’s staring up at you from between your lips.
“Yeah, I’m fucking you. You already knew I was gonna. You gonna let me taste your pussy first?” A challenging brow quirks up, like he’s waiting for you to push him away.
Instead, your legs hook over his shoulders, ankles crossed. You grin at him.
Panties pulled to the side, his fingers spread your pussy for him. Those eyes scan every inch. He releases a shaky breath, cheeks flushed and Adam’s apple bobbing. “Even your pussy’s pretty. Fucking gorgeous.” Running a hand through his hair, he says, “You’re always such a pain, aren’t you?”
“I can’t help that every part of me’s pretty,” you reply, twirling your hair.
“Shut up and play with your tits — I like a show with my dinner.” Toji spits a fat dollop right on your clit. It slides down your slit but before it can disappear in the crevice of your ass, his tongue is collecting it and shoving it inside your cunt.
You gasp. “Fuck, Toji!”
In spite of his aggressive tone, you pull down your top, letting your tits bounce out. Those eyes follow every jiggle. “Good girl,” he rasps. “Squeeze them for me nice and hard. Good. Real fucking good.”
His glasses are foggy now with your own humidity, rattling with every movement. He’s eating your pussy out like he’s starved, like he’s never tasted anything better, like he’s going to make sure not a single trace of you can be found in his apartment after he’s done with you.
Growling, he spread your thighs wider. “Course you’ve got a sweet pussy,” he says, brows furrowing in what appears to be anger. “Course it’s sweeter than that fucking cheesecake. Course I’ll be craving you till I die.”
Fingers tangle in his hair, tugging for purchase. “Ngh, Toji, my clit…suck my clit!”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Those scarred lips, the very ones you’ve stared at more times than you can count, wrap around your clit, sucking hard the way you did when you were blowing him under the desk. Electricity sparks inside, sending tremors up from your lower belly to your tits to the very tips of your fingers. “Oh fuck, that’s so good.”
Filthy squelches are being wrung out of you, and you know he’s doing it on purpose, addicted to how responsive your body is to him.
Two fingers worm their way through your pulsing hole, basking in the rough textures of your entrance, stretching your gummy walls on their way to curling against that spot that has you oozing more cum out.
“You’re fucking tight,” he hisses. “You’re gonna struggle taking all of me later.” Then he barks a laugh, spare hand pressing down on your belly where the pressure builds up. Your toes curl. “A better man would take pity on you, go slow or wait another day, but I’ve already had my tongue inside your cunt so I’ll spare you the gentleman act.”
More fingers shove in, ignoring the screech that you let out. You’ve never had more than two and yet all four of his thicker, longer fingers are inside pushing your walls to their very limits.
Despite that, he remarks, entertained by the shock on your face which he studies through his glasses, “Suck it up, buttercup — my cock’s thicker than this, you know that.”
You do.
It’s all you’ve been thinking about all day. Hours after, your jaw’s still stretched out, sore and creaking after the workout you put it through. The thought of having something even thicker, longer than his four fingers has you growing dizzy, head handing over the coffee table.
“Yeah, my cock can’t wait to feel you too,” Toji says, not to you but to your pussy which is squelching lewdly and loudly. “Had to resist jerking my dick raw all day so you better make it good for me.”
Is it seconds later, or minutes, maybe hours, when you cum?
How ever long it is no one can deny it’s the strongest orgasm of your life.
Your entire body trembles, spasming beyond control. Are you screaming or silently moaning? Are your eyes shut or have you gone blind? And is he still pistoning his fingers inside you, damn near pushing all of his hand in?
“Stop,” you cry out. “No more, please!”
Mercifully, he yanks his hand out. Unfortunately, it leaves you feeling so empty you immediately crave the feeling of his hand gripping you from inside.
Lips and chin glistening, he kisses both inner thighs, which tremble.
Toji gathers you with one arm, showing off his strength as he carries you off the table and to the glass door which leads out to the balcony. It’s dark out and all you can see are the lights of people’s rooms in the apartment across. There are families lounging, dogs sleeping, TV’s blaring.
Behind you, you hear the rustling of his shirt as he throws it off carelessly. Bare skin grazes your own soon after his hands make quick work of the clothes you’re still wearing. In a flash, you’re naked. He bends down to pick up your fallen panties, inhaling the gusset deeply. Your legs cross tightly at the deeply satisfied groan he lets out.
“Next office hour,” he starts, lazily spreading your pussy lips and smearing your juices around so he can listen to the squelches and keep your squirming, “you better leave your panties with me. Consider it payment.”
You laugh. “Sure.”
Groggily, you try to keep your head up, wondering what you’re doing by the window, still a little out of it. A hand clutches your jaw, aiding you.
“I’m gonna fuck you against this window,” he announces, leaving no room for arguments. “You want those extra marks? Then you’re gonna be a good girl and take my cock like a champ.”
Ass gyrating back against the hot, heavy thing still confined in sweatpants, you wonder, “Do you have an exhibitionism kink?”
He lets go of you. You have to catch yourself by pressing your palms to the cold glass. Toji drags your hips back, foot kicking your legs apart. His cock plops onto your ass, scalding. “No, I have a ‘get my time’s worth from shameless women who waste my time with demands for better grades by humiliating them’ kink.”
“Sounds long. We should get that shortened,” you drawl.
His cockhead slides through your pussy, coating itself in your wetness. The fat thing bumps against your clit. You shudder.
Satisfied with your natural lubrication, he prods your entrance. “Yeah, we should. Let’s call it, Shut The Fuck Up And Take It.”
Then he enters you in one go.
You scream.
The window fogs up with your breath. Your eyes roll to the back of your head.
You’re taking so much of his length so quickly that it should be painful. Despite that, there’s not an ounce of pain, not one you didn’t like at least — only the overwhelming pleasure of being filled up is resonating.
Toji grunts. “Almost had to fist this cunt and you’re -hah fuck- still too tight.”
Pummelling his cock in, his hips don’t pause for a second. You gasp for breath, palms slipping and sliding on the condensation that’s built up on the glass. It’s like you can feel him in your lungs, so impossibly deep, so hot, so intimidating.
“God, it should be a crime to have a body like this,” he says, hands groping every part of your flesh he can reach. He slaps your ass to watch it jiggle for him. He’s an ass man, that much is clear.
The force of his thrusting has you pushed closer to the glass, so close now that almost your entire front is flush with the surface. The coldness grazes your nipples. You moan.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
He tugs you back to him, body sliding down the glass till your ass is jutted out. Toji carries your hips up so you can reach him, but it means your toes are only brushing the floor. You cling to the glass door as much as you can. Through the glossy haze, you see the marks you left on the glass, from the oils and sweat on your skin. You see the outline of your tits, all round and fat, the handprints you left and the smearing of them all over the place because you couldn’t grapple with one position to have them in.
Are people watching? Are you flashing a poor old man, are you reigniting a sexual appetite in a pitiful divorcee, making a housewife jealous, creating fantasies for some guy your age? Are people rubbing one out to the flashes of ecstasy on your face, to the swaying of your tits, to the rippling of your ass?
Toji’s fingers creep under you, furiously teasing your clit. You whine. “I think I’m gonna cum again.”
“Go on, gorgeous,” he rasps. “Lemme feel you cum around my cock. Make my dreams come true.”
Two fingers gather the cream that’s formed a ring at his base. He draws three letters on the glass for you to stare at. It spells out c u m.
God, he’s dirty.
Another orgasm ripples through you. Your thighs shake. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Toji!”
He growls out, hands tightening their grip on your hips, threatening to bruise, “Shit, you’re gonna make me cum early.”
Without waiting for you to come down from your high, he flips you around. Your back thuds against the door. His cock reenters you in a clean, easy slide, cunt beyond soaked and stretched out. Your arms and legs wrap around him.
Those glasses of him have fogged up so thickly now that they fail to serve their purpose. Toji takes it off with one hand, sliding it onto your head, like a headband keeping your face clear of your hair. “Don’t let them fall,” he orders. “They break and you won’t be getting that internship.”
And his lips?
They smack against yours.
He kisses you, all tongue and teeth and drool dripping down chins, like he’s been waiting weeks, months, perhaps years to do that. And you kiss him back just the same.
Inside you, his cock throbs. Toji’s hips swing back and forth, pelvis grinding on yours, rubbing your clit and wringing our more obscene squeeeelches.
“Oh god, I’m so full, Toji. You’re so fucking big.”
“You’re -hngh- t-taking me so well,” he praises, littering sloppy kisses all over your face and neck all while he pinches and rolls your nipples. “Moaning so adorably, all pretty and finally keeping this mouth quiet of smartass comments. You should be like this all the time.”
The rocking of his cock inside you is even better like this. The closeness, the warmth, the taste of him — you wonder why you waited so long to do this.
Tits squashed to his chest, your nipples scrape his skin, slipping and sliding with the sweat beading down your bodies. The hard planes of his chest feel magnificent. Nothing about his muscles are for vanity only, and the knowledge of the strength he’s holding back has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
“You’d miss my smartass comments,” you tell him, head thrown back and hips working their way down on his cock of their own volition.
Toji groans against your neck, licking droplets of sweat. “Yeah, maybe. I definitely wouldn’t miss your spelling errors though.”
Smiling, you tug his head up by his hair, and bite his bottom lip. You pull and let go so it’ll snap back into place like he’d done with your lip when you were under his desk. “Maybe if you taught me like this, I wouldn’t -hah- make so m-many mistakes— deeper, Toji! Fuck me deeper.”
His hips plough deeper inside, like you wanted, hitting that spot inside you till you’re sure it’ll be bruised in the morning. Moans after moans are fucked out of you; his neighbours will give him an earful tomorrow, you’re certain.
“Book more office hours just to see me and not because you want something from me, then we can see if I can fuck your stupidity out of you,” he retorts.
You peck his lips. “Aw, does poor, needy Toji want me to give him more attention? Does he miss me when I’m not there? What a cute little baby.”
“Yeah, he does, actually,” he says, smirking. “That a problem?”
“It will be if you don’t make me cum.”
Toji reminds you, “You’ve been cumming around my cock this entire time; you still want more? Greedy girl.”
He pulls away from the window, stalking over to the sofa instead. Each step burrows him deeper inside you, kissing your cervix and pushing out gasps from your lips, all of which he swallows.
Carelessly, he throws you on the sofa. You bounce with an oomph!
Ankles held by one hand, he keeps your legs upright, hips lifted up to meet his. Toji presses a kiss to your ankle bone before he pushes his cock back inside. Your back arches with a mewl. Like this, his huge body becomes even more glaring — he’s casting a shadow over you, completely dwarfing you, reminding you how easily he could break you, how he could take whatever he wants from you.
Every time he buries himself to the hilt, a bulge pops through your tummy, right under your belly button.
“Look at that,” he mutters, brushing a thumb over it. You whine. “Feel me deep inside you? You’ll be feeling me inside for days, won’t you? Once it starts to fade, you can always come back for another fill, you know.”
“Promise?” you ask, grinning ear to ear.
Toji pulls out, leaving just his tip before he slams back in, jostling you down on the sofa. His abs contract, cock throbbing at the sudden clenching of your walls around him. “Fuck, yes, doll. Promise. I fucking promise.”
His glasses have slid off, rattling somewhere on the sofa with the impact of every thrust. He doesn’t seem to care about them anymore. You’re nearing another orgasm, head whipping around at the intensity of the pressure building in your core. He’s bullying his cock relentlessly in your cunt, chasing after his own high and sending you to yours.
When your eyes clash with his piercing, green ones, unobstructed by his glasses, you explode with a scream.
“F-fuck,” he grunts, following soon after.
Searing cum spurts inside you, cock pulsing, cum painting your walls. His thumb rubs your clit, aiding you through your orgasm. Your moans are vibrating against the walls, definitely disturbing his neighbours, but so are his groans.
He slumps over, rolling the two of you on the sofa so you’re resting naked on his heated body, his heavy arm preventing you from falling off. Your pussy’s sore, a mix of your cum and his dribbling out and creating a sticky mess on your inner thighs.
Absentmindedly, as you both catch your breath, he rubs your back. You draw shapes and letters on his chest. Toji combs his hair off of his forehead, chest rising up and down with his breathing. The dirty marks you two left are still on the glass, though it’s no longer foggy.
Reaching up above him, he gracefully finds his glasses, sliding them on his face. You like him with and without them.
“So,” you begin, “about those extra marks.”
Toji lifts his glasses up to rub a hand down his face. “Jesus, yes, you’ll get the marks.”
“Thanks!” you chirp.
“God, you’re a pain in the ass.”
.
.
.
“Fuck, Toji,” you moan. “I already came three times. It’s too -hic- too much.”
Your TA ruts his cock inside you, face buried in the crook of your neck. His glasses are on your nose bridge, blurring your vision; he gets so frustrated when the thing gets in the way of kissing you or eating you out.
“Shut up,” he rasps, hand pressing down on your lower belly so you can feel him even more. “You’re the one who dragged me here. Take every orgasm I give you and be grateful.”
That’s true — you were supposed to have an office hour with him, which is really an excuse to see your boyfriend before you have to attend the internship induction session, but then you took one look at him and his amazing body and started soaking through your panties so here you two are.
Oh yes, you did say boyfriend.
After he blew your mind out, you’d been visiting his apartment after classes so often, you were practically living there, and he didn’t mind. It started out casual, but after realising you two would go grocery shopping, watch movies together, and text each other practically every day, you decided to just seal the deal and make it official.
In short, he fucks good, and he can tolerate your personality, so you two stuck together.
A month in, neither of you are really regretting it. At least, if his desperate thrusting and sloppy kisses to your neck’s anything to go by.
“Missed you so much, Toji,” you whine, hips fucking back into him.
Toji groans, hand groping your tit from under your shit. “Yeah, baby?”
“Mmm.”
“Missed you too,” he confesses, licking a stripe up your neck and scraping his teeth down. Goosebumps rise on your arms. “Been wanting to see you all morning.”
You giggle, holding onto the stall for purchase and so his thrusting won’t make you smack face first onto the door. “You’re so cute w-when you’re needy.”
“Fuck off,” he says with no real heat to his words.
In the near distance, the door to the men’s toilets opens with a dull metallic creak, the sound echoing faintly off the tiled walls. Feet pad in—slow, unhurried. The steady rhythm of someone who expects the place to be empty.
“Fushiguro?” a voice calls out. “You in here?”
The two of you go very, very still. Toji’s entire body stiffens behind you, muscles locking. His hand clamps firmly over your mouth for extra measure, warm palm pressing tight enough that you can feel the tension in his fingers.
Your heart slams against your ribs, loud enough that you’re half convinced it might echo under the stall. What the hell is the professor doing here?
“Susan told me she saw you walk in this direction. You got a minute?”
Toji releases a tense breath through his nose, annoyed at the interruption but left with no choice but to answer. He lifts you up so your feet hang over the floor and won’t be seen by the outsider. “Yeah, prof. But I’m kinda in the middle of something.”
The professor laughs. “Yes, yes, I’m sure. I do apologise for interrupting you. I was just locked out of my account and can’t send emails for the next hour. You know how terrible I am with technology.” He enters the stall next door. He unzips his pants. You cringe. “I only wanted to ask if you’re prepared to host the internship induction later.”
You go still, this time for a different reason.
Your boyfriend releases your mouth. Fingers creep over to between your legs, where you’re still connected to him, where he’s still throbbing inside you. He slowly rubs your clit, keeping you from squirming in complaint with his strong arms. Toji responds, “Yeah, got all my notes ready.”
The bastard’s trying to distract you…
“Ah good, good,” the older man joyfully responds. His stream hits the water, and you fight the urge to face palm. “I had a look over the plans and the schedule. Very well organised, I must say. The competition was fierce, which is a testament to the success of the event, so props to you.”
Do men hold conversation so casually in the toilets?
Toji carefully begins moving in slow and shallow thrusts, prodding your g-spot over and over with his fat cockhead. You bite your lips to keep from moaning. Your nails dig into his thick arm. He ignores you.
“Don’t mention it, Professor.”
The man zips himself back up and flushes, exiting the stall. Outside, the tap runs, and you’re both still as quiet as rocks, afraid that any sudden movement will out you both as sexual deviants.
He adds, “Oh, and thank you for handling the applications for me; you know I hate all that paperwork nonsense.”
Your jaw drops.
Beyond tense, Toji replies like he’s aware of the weight every word exchange carries, “I do what I can do to help out.”
“I couldn’t do what I do without you,” the professor continues, sincere and ignorant to the fact that you’re there. The rustling of paper towels echoes. “Well, I’ll see you later. Apologies again for interrupting.”
The exit door swings open and you relax, but then his voice fills the space again.
“Do say hello to your pretty, little girlfriend for me.”
Your heart?
Drops to the fucking floor.
Toji’s grip on you tightens just slightly, barely noticeable unless you’re pressed this close to him.
Your mind races. Did he see you come in? Did someone tell him? Did Susan, whoever the hell she is—
Toji speaks before you can spiral further, his tone sharper now, suspicion threading through it. “What do you mean, Professor?”
“Oh, you know, the girl you’ve been eyeing for a while now — she’s on the internship, yes?” Then he laughs the kind of laughter old men do, all paternal and wise. “Don’t worry, son, I’m not accusing you of pulling strings; I know she’s a very intelligent young woman. Ambitious too. Almost as ambitious as you. I hope you two work something out.”
Your heart slows its beating but you’re not any less tense.
Sighing, Toji responds, “I’ll let you know if we do.”
“Yes, yes,” the professor says before he leaves for good.
Finally, it’s just you two in the men’s toilets again. The silence and emptiness is maddeningly relieving. Although, you’re seething, practically vibrating with accusations and anger.
Toji lets you down. Your feet touch the ground again. You pull him out, whirling on him with a disbelieving glare. You snatch his glasses off your face with one hand and smack his chest with the other. The man doesn’t budge.
“You sneaky piece of shit!”
He gathers both of your wrists with one hand, rolling his eyes. Toji takes his glasses from you and slides it on his face. Seeing you clearer now, he guides his cock back to your pussy, re-entering with ease. You moan, allowing him to hike your leg over his hip so he can press in deeper.
Kissing your lips, he mutters against your lips, “I did what I had to to get your attention. Sue me.”
“God, you’re the worst,” you breathe out, chest jutting out to his, nipples aching and clit throbbing.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I’m the big, bad wolf, and you’re creaming all over my dick right now. Let’s not act like you got the short end of the stick here.”
“Master manipulator,” you hiss, kissing him back, fingers tangling in his hair as soon he lets go of your wrists to grope your tit and ass.
“Whore,” he fires back.
Then the two of you smile, clutching each other tightly as you both rock into each other, nearing your mutual orgasm and riding the pleasure growing in your bodies. Fuck, he feels so good.
“We’re gonna be together forever and ever, aren’t we?” you ask.
Ss of some of my fav parts from this masterpiece of a fic.
Holy fucking shit, this is hands down the best smut fic I've read in a hot while. The dynamic was insaneeeee, I'm shaking rn, my hands are shaking, I'm so horny. I FEEL LIKE A BITCH IN HEAT
the description, the dialogue, the little plot twists, the casual way they were bantering n just got down to the sexy part so naturally, the filthiness of it all Ohhh lorddd IT WAS SOOO DELICIOUS
mmmhhhmmgggg I need this man n big fat cock so bad, nerd toji is smth I didn't know my pussy or my heart needed. This fic simultaneously filled my heart n my pussy YEAH YOU READ THAT RIGHT, THANK YOU
Ps: I will reread it again in the future n reblog it n yap Abt it again I promise, it was soooo delicious, I wanna take care of this big man n give him the sloppiest heads. I WANT TO SUCK ON THAT COCK LIKE A LOLLIPOP HELLOO
@reignpage tagging op in case they didn't get the new update reversed
Taking a t-guy’s first time but it’s almost too much for him. I need to make sure it’s good for him, so I keep asking questions, even though he’s too fucked out and feels too good to be able to reply.
Asking him, “How’s this?” Every inch I sink into his tight hole. I made sure to stretch him, but there’s not much you can do when it’s his first time. He whines and squirms in pleasure, and I don’t even punish him for not replying with his words.
“Does this feel good?” I ask when I finally bottom out. He nods furiously and mumbles something I can’t catch.
“I’m so big inside you, aren’t I?” I gently grab his thigh, pushing it up, making me sink into him some more. He cries out and moans, nails digging into my skin. “Does this feel good?” I start moving, looking at his face and smiling when he’s so embarrassed he can’t even look at me.
“I bet you can feel it in your cervix, can you?” I try to aim for that spot inside of him. We’re so close that his cock rubs against my lower stomach. I point at the small bulge that keeps appearing every time I thrust into him. “Here, can you feel it? Does it feel good? You can’t even talk- is that how good it feels?”
I don’t even realize he’s crying until he lets out a sob, and I gently coo at him.
“Oh baby, shh,” I lean towards him, sinking deeper into him without my intention. He arches his back into it, and I gently grab his face, trying to wipe away the tears, kissing them away. “It’s okay puppy, feels so good, huh? Look at you.”
I gently put my hand around his throat, hand brushing through his hair before pulling to get his attention. His pathetic, beautiful teary eyes looking up at me.
“I’m gonna make you cum so good you never want another cock”
⚠️CW⚠️: gay, gay-sex, top Matt Murdock, bottom male reader, one-sided hate sex (I think), rough sex, slight choking, breeding, creampie, accidental voyeurism, voyeurism, slight religious play (or guilt), marking, some jealousy, masturbation, morning wood, somnophilia, maybe some angst, fluff, happy ending, and Matt jerks off to your moans.
Rating: Explicit
Requested: Yes
Word Count: 7.0k
Summary: Matt didn’t think much about his new neighbor next door until it began. He could hear your moans and the bed slamming against the wall while he slept. He endured countless nights of restlessness, but he was patient, politely knocking on your door and asking to keep it down; it didn’t work. He was at his wits' end. Maybe you need a dick down to learn.
Read before continuing: If you’re younger than 18 or any warnings make you uncomfortable, do not continue reading! You may continue reading if there are no problems.
Note: I haven’t watched Daredevil, so I’m going off on what I look up on the wiki.
Bang Bang Bang
Matt sighed, his eyes wide open as he stared at the ceiling, another sleepless night. The metal frame of your headboard is ramming into the wall with the force of an earthquake, shaking the building, and causing pictures and items on the shelves to shake. This happens four days a week, every single week, ever since you moved next door to him. It was infuriating for the man as he wanted to rest after a long day of dealing with the courts and clients – and vigilante duty. Yet, over time, that began to change.
Matt started to like it.
…
When you first moved into the apartment, Matt didn’t think anything of it. He gave simple greetings whenever he saw you and went about his day, not paying you any mind. He made the rightful assumption that you were gonna be another quiet neighbor that didn't bother or interfere with him or his work. However, the noises started a couple of days after you moved in.
He was tired. Eight hours of dissecting witness testimonies, negotiating, and standing in front of the jury to plead, and that wasn’t the end. His vigilante work also took another toll on him. His body ached after some bastard got a lucky punch on him, and he was experiencing sensory overload due to his heightened senses. He needed sleep.
After stripping off his clothing, Matt dove onto his bed. The mattress gave under his weight as he sighed and groaned in relief, the warmth and comfort of his bed already soothing his body. The stress and tension were expelled as he wrapped himself in his blanket and relaxed, his breathing calmed, and his eyes began to close. This was it; he was getting the rest he needed.
The blessed, blissful quietness.
…
…
…
Mmhh, ahh—
Matt’s jaw tightened. He could hear the muffled thumps against the wall, metal creaking under the weight being pressed on it. These sounds repeated until there was a steady, unmistakable rhythm of sex. Curse whatever the material was used when building the apartment complex, cause now he can hear his neighbor having sex. It didn’t help that his heightened sense of hearing meant he could hear everything.
He could hear two hearts beating, wet skin slapping against skin, labored breathing, and the cries of pleasure. There was one that stood out: you. He could hear you moaning loudly, begging for more and for whoever was fucking you to go faster. The other heartbeat in the room was in sync with yours, along with words of praise and degradation, leaving those same lips. Seems like you were the one receiving and being a bitch in heat.
Matt grunted as he pressed the palms of his hands against his ears to block out the sounds, but that didn’t help. He could still hear them, and they were getting louder. He tried turning onto his side and covering his ears with a pillow, but that didn’t work. It also didn’t help that his radar senses were mapping out every movement and position, creating a vivid image. Suddenly, he felt something throbbing in his pants: he was getting hard.
“Oh God… please forgive me,” Matt whispered, his voice heavy with a groan stuck in his throat. A special type of heat was pooling in his groin, his body reacting to your labored moans and cries for more. The brown-haired man hated this, hated how his body was responding to you. All those years of self-control were gone, all thanks to you. His cock was throbbing in his pants. He tried thinking of something else, attempting to clear his mind, but failed miserably.
Hhh… ahhh… fhh
The brown-haired man turned onto his back, pulled the covers over himself, and placed a pillow on his face. He suffocates himself with it, hoping to drown out any of the lecherous sounds. Yet, it did nothing to hide the traitorous ache in his boxers; if anything, it made his length more prominent to anyone looking. He unknowingly started thrusting his hips, his moans muffled against the pillow as his cock ached with need – the massive piece of meat throbbing and staining his boxers with precum. Matt groans to himself as he tries to control his wandering mind, but it is of no use.
He was gonna have a word with you in the morning.
Timeskip to the morning
“Fucking hell,” you groggily said, rubbing your eyes as the sunlight cut across your face. You’ve been meaning to put the blinds up but kept forgetting, maybe later in the day. You didn’t feel like getting up, though; the comfort of your bed, drowsiness, and your body pains were whispering to lie down and sleep for another five minutes. You fall for the temptation of more sleep, turning away from the sunlight and burying your head in the pillow.
[Insert Apple or any other phone alarm]
“I guess not,” you mumbled, huffing in displeasure as you cried on the inside. Despite not wanting to get out of your bed, you eventually did; you had work in a couple of hours.
You slowly pulled yourself up, stretching your muscles as you did. You gasped and groaned in pain as the soreness from last night was hitting you like a truck. Your thighs and legs protested first, followed by your hips and upper body; maybe it wasn’t a good idea to get bent a day before work.
“That was a bad idea,” you said with an itchy throat as you limped to the kitchen, looking for water. As you limped, memories of last night floated in your head: the sharp thrusts, praises, and degradation, his teeth grazing your skin. Now, the apartment was quiet. It seems your casual fling left already. You usually call him over whenever you need stress relief and a good pounding to help you forget about life.
You were chugging down a nice, cold bottle of water, the cold sensation flooding your mouth and running down your throat, and you sighed in comfort. You were pulled from your thoughts by knocking on the door; three knocks, which sounds like the person was impatient. You frowned, dragging yourself to the door, not caring about looking presentable.
Opening the door, you were greeted by Matt, your next-door neighbor. He wasn’t wearing his usual suit and tie; instead, he was shirtless, with gray sweatpants hanging low on his waist, revealing his V-line and boxer outline, and his red pair of glasses. One arm held his cane, and the other was over his chest. You couldn’t help but ogle his body; you were used to seeing him in his suit or jackets.
You admired the other man’s body, your mouth watering at the sight of those muscles, not too bulky, but lean and athletic. There were some marks and scars: A jagged scar that disappeared into his sweats, bruises on his abs, and cuts on his biceps. You never noticed your next-door neighbor like this until now.
Your eyes moved from his body to his face. You have never seen him without his tinted red glasses on; you’re sure his eyes are amazing, just like his body. His jaw was tight, muscles tightening as he clenched it, with a faint shadow of stubble darkening his chin and mouth. You were losing yourself, lusting for a man you barely knew and who knows nothing about you.
It was getting to the point where you were clenching your thighs, your hole aching as your cock jumped to life. It's not like Matt would notice since he’s blind, but that made it worse with that information.
But Matt did notice.
He could sense your heartbeat shifting, faster than usual, and your blood pressure was spiking, most likely helping to send blood to your cock. He could feel your eyes roaming his body, examining every nook and cranny of his skin. Your movements and breathing changed as well as you sucked in a breath, barely audible, but Matt heard it. Even the air between you two changed; it was faint but sharp, and he could even smell the scent of the other man who had his way with you.
With all the signals your body was giving, the vigilante could paint a picture in his mind: you were clenching your thighs to tame the aching erection and your hole was twitching and throbbing around nothing as it begged to be filled, filled by him. He could probably stretch your hole beyond belief, more than any other man has achieved, have you whimpering and crying on his cock as he rammed it deep into your tight depths. Your fingers digging into his skin, leaving behind marks of your coupling…
He wonders how did you feel, your hole clenching around his cock, desperately milking the piece of flesh with everything you've got. The vigilante pictured you begging for him to breed your tight ass, unload waves of cum… pumping loads inside you. He could see the way your face was filled with ecstasy and bliss. Your hole would tighten around him, milking his cock of all its cum, draining his balls after weeks of self-restraint.
Fuck, Matt could feel his cock becoming erect.
His jaw tightened, and his grip on the cane tightened as he tried to refocus his mind on the topic at hand. The vigilante’s mind was scrambled with being annoyed and embarrassed: annoyed because he was too tired to be dealing with this, his patience running thin as he wanted to get this over with, and embarrassed because he didn’t want to see or feel how your body was reacting to him, and how it was affecting him. I make his gut twist with temptation.
Yet, those two thoughts were being overshadowed by amusement, predatory amusement. There was a smug smile internally; you weren’t subtle about your obvious attraction, but you weren’t aware of his abilities. He may be blind, but he could sense everything.
“Ahem, I just wanted to talk to you about something.” Matt began, pushing those thoughts to the side as he reaffirmed himself back to his usual composure. He’s going to deal with those thoughts later in privacy.
“Oh, um, yeah! What was it you wanted to speak to me about?” you replied, shaking your head as Matt’s deep, morning voice pulled you from your thoughts. You didn’t realize how long you were staring; your mind was overwhelmed and amazed by Matt. Your cheeks flustered as you fixed your position and focused on what your neighbor wanted to say.
“I’m just here to say, please keep it down or go to a love hotel. Some of us come home after a long day of dealing with… nuisances.” Matt said politely, giving a small smile.
You choked on your spit at what Matt said, coughing and gagging as your spit burned your throat. Your embarrassment was shooting through the roof, amplified more by Matt's chuckling. “Oh my… I didn’t know! Thanks for telling me, though. I promise that won’t happen again,” you replied, scratching the back of your head with a nervous smile etched on your face. Your neighbor listened to you getting piped down… a part of you wondered if he liked that, though.
“Yes, you’re quite loud too. Thank you for listening.” Matt said, giving a wave before returning to his room. As he walked away, you noticed his back muscles. His broad shoulders sway and flex with each step. Your jaw dropped again, and the aching in your lower half returned.
You needed him, every piece of him. Your heart began to flutter and beat rapidly as you stared at the man walking away.
…
Matt was able to enjoy a couple of days of much-needed rest. He sighed in relief, lying down in bed, his bruised and aching body pressing against the plushness of his bed, the warmth of the sheets covering him, and the soft pillows holding his head. Another peaceful night to enjoy. Matt’s vision darkened as he was overcome by exhaustion and his body entered REM sleep.
But promises don’t last long.
Nnh—oh—ahhh—
…
…
Bang… bang… bang…
Matt continued to endure countless nights of your sexual escapades. The bed creaking and slamming against the brittle wall, the sharp rhythm of wet skin contact, and the muffled whimpers and moans slipping from your tongue. Even on days when he takes the day off, he listens to you fucking yourself with a dildo. The bed creaks under your weight as you ride a dildo, the massive piece of silicon hitting your deepest depths, especially that special spot that made you cry with ecstasy.
Like right now. Matt had nothing to do in court, so he decided to use the day for some personal activities and planning the next raid against some nearby mobsters, thanks to the newly provided intel. His senses picked up the sound of the door outside opening and slamming, indicating that you had come home early. He didn’t pay note to your arrival and continued his activities.
Minutes later, the sounds of clothes being hastily taken off, the bed creaking, and the sheets shuffling. Again, Matt didn’t think anything of it until soft moans began filling his ears.
This is the only time Matt curses his enhanced senses. Everything was betraying him. Every sound that you made was crystal-clear; every heartbeat, moan, and laboured breathing. The smell of sweat and arousal flooded his nostrils as the scents seeped through holes in the wall. The vigilante groans with exasperation, leaning back on his chair as his brain starts visualizing the scene happening next door.
No matter how hard he tried, he squeezed his eyes shut or pressed the palms of his hands against his ears, but it didn’t matter. The vigilante considered himself a patient, compassionate, and moral man, but he was losing it with you. He wasn’t the type to hate anyone; his religious beliefs made him believe hating is a sin… yet you were testing that.
Despite his feelings, his body was telling another story. His cock was responding to the loud moans and laboured breaths. He could picture everything in his head, even stored memories started picturing vivid images of you in debauchery positions: missionary, mating press, reverse cowgirl, six-nine, and from what he gathered, you appeared to like mating press the most. His senses and mind were flooded, a flurry of sin and lust.
Matt felt his throat go dry, his cock stirring in his pants, as if it was going to burst from his zipper.
“Forgive me, father…” he whispered, voice hoarse as he gave in.
…
It became a routine that Matt couldn’t change, despite the shame that filled his body afterwards; it felt so good to masturbate. Stroking his cock and squeezing his heavy balls, pearly beads of precum oozing from the cockhead as he listened to everything next door; you were his personal porn video. It was awkward whenever he ran into you in the hallway; he had to act like he wasn’t jerking off to you the night before.
Yet, Matt was still disgruntled with you since you were taking some valuable rest from him. The only good thing is that your moans and cries of pleasure are jerking off material. Matt viewed it as much-needed stress relief and sometimes would fall asleep after doing the deed.
It was another restless night. Matt lay naked on his bed, his boxer slipped below his waistline as he stroked his heavy cock. You were alone this time; Matt didn’t detect another person in the room. The vigilante bit back a groan as he listened to your voice, your moans piercing his ears as his cock twitched in his palms. The loud, wet slaps of the dildo against your skin made Matt’s mind swirl into the depths of filthy lust.
His skin was covered in sweat, his breathing hitched, and his chest heaving. His nails dug into the sheets and tightened around his massive length. Matt pumped his cock in tandem with each thrust of the dildo, imagining it was him… No! He can’t think that… fucking another man, the thought never crossed his mind. But the notion of it made his cock throb in his hands, and globs of thick precum oozed from the tiny slit at the thought.
What were you doing to him? He doesn’t understand what he’s feeling, but it's making him irritated and horny. He just wants to pin you down and ram his cock into your hole, spearing you on his cock and pounding you into oblivion. Sometimes, Matt wonders if you’re doing this on purpose… he could sense your clear arousal and interest in him, the way your heartbeat shifted and body reacted whenever you saw him.
His stroking became more vicious and rough, his teeth gritting as he squeezed his cockhead, preventing an orgasm from ripping through his body. God, Matt hated how he wanted to be in bed with you. Ripping that dildo out of your ass and replacing it with his cock. He could only imagine what it would feel like to fuck another man. Your warm, tight ass gripping his cock while he fucks you into oblivion, or your wet mouth wrapped around his cock, giving him a sloppy blowjob. His vulgar imagination continued to feed him as he stroked his cock faster.
He was pulled from his thoughts as his senses singled on one single word, drowning out the others, a word that confirmed his suspicion. You were moaning his name. The way it rolled off your tongue left the vigilante in a daze. That was the final straw… You must have wanted him to be desperate.
He should visit you one of these days.
…
Your body was coated with sweat, your legs wobbling, and your cock bouncing each time you rode the dildo. The room was heady with the smell of sweat and sex; the scent made your mind swirl. The only thing floating around your head was your neighbor, Matt Murdock. He became the center of attention ever since that day, a couple of weeks ago… your body was aching for him.
There was something about him that attracted you towards him. You wanted to feel his body rubbing against yours; you could tell his dick was large by the dick print in his sweatpants. You were doing everything to get his attention, hoping that he would come over and fuck you into bed. You couldn’t tell how Matt was reacting, but your gut was telling you that he felt the same as you.
You were pulled from your lust-hazed mind by loud knocking at the door. Your body went still, wondering who was at the door. Nervously and shakily, you got up – your legs felt like jelly, and your muscles screamed to go back to bed. Yet, you pushed your way through the pain and continued to the door. You wobbled to the door; the loud knocking didn’t cease, if anything, it got louder and more insistent to be let in. Whoever was beyond the door either wanted to demand that you be quiet or – that would be it. Your hand wrapped around the handle, slowly turning it to the right.
“Hello?” You didn’t have time to react until you felt your body being rammed into the wall. You were disoriented, unable to see who entered your apartment. You heard the front door being closed, and the familiar click of the lock echoed in the quiet space. Then, there was the familiar voice that’s been in your mind for weeks.
“I’ve had enough with you,” Matt murmured, the words coming out low and rough from his chest. His body pushed against yours as he pinned you to the wall.
You gasped, your face becoming more flustered as you realized that Matt was naked. His body was sweaty, glistening in the soft light as it pressed against yours. Your breathing hitched, and your cock throbbed by the feeling of Matt’s warm, sweaty body and hard, heavy cock pressing against your thigh. It felt heavy and thick, and pearly precum oozed from the cockhead – smearing your skin with the translucent fluid.
“This is what you’ve done to me. For weeks, I had to listen to everything.” Matt said in a gravelly tone, rubbing his heavy erection against your thigh, showing you what you’ve done to him. The vigilante’s breathing was heavy as he grunted into your ears; the heat from your body sent waves of exhilaration through his body. The tingling feeling that had been torturing Matt for weeks was appeased.
You never expected something like this to happen, but your body was responding with your cock throbbing and your hole aching to be filled. You let out breathy moans as Matt gave sloppy kisses and bites against your neck, his worn hands groping and squeezing your flesh as he continued to get off. Your mind was becoming foggy, and your body was melting from the contact, as it had been a while since a man had last touched you.
“I know you want this. I can feel the way your body is reacting to me. How about you take responsibility?” Matt purred, grinning as you responded to his touches. Without a second thought, he picked you and slammed his mouth on yours, pulling you into a bruising, heated kiss as you were carried to your room.
You were impressed by how Matt carried you and his ability to know where your room was without ever being in your apartment. You weren’t complaining, though, whatever it takes to get this fine man into your bed.
After a few moments, you were pushed onto the bed. Matt didn’t let you move, manhandling you onto your back and his grip rough on your thighs as he folded you, your knees nearly touching your shoulders. The stretch was sharp, pulling on your muscles as Matt slots himself between your ass, slapping his heavy cock against your gaping hole. You could feel the cockhead teasing your entrance, pressing and applying pressure to your tight ring of muscle before pulling back.
Matt followed every gasp and sharp inhalation, adjusting his angle and position until his cockhead was pressing against your tight entrance. He could hear the way your whimpers and whines grow louder, the moans making his cock twitch and balls churn. The vigilante could tell that your hole was ready. You don’t need that flimsy dildo when there’s a real cock.
You felt the air being torn from your lungs as Matt sheathed his cock deep inside you. A strangled cry left your mouth as the thrust was brutal; you could feel Matt’s massive cock reach depths you never thought could be reached. Every inch dragged against every raw, untouched nerve, making your body tremble, and your hole clenched around the vigilante’s cock.
“Fuck.” Matt groans as he snaps his hips hard into yours, his hands gripping your thighs. His heavy balls slapped against your ass, and the wet squelching sound of sex echoed in the room. Matt’s eyes roll back, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he fucked your tight ass. This was a new feeling for him… he never thought fucking another man would feel so good.
“You’re fucking tight, surprisingly. Is this what you needed? A real cock instead of some plastic toy… fuck… I can’t stop… I can’t…” You whined, voice breaking from the rough thrusts as Matt picked up the pace. Your hands moved from the sides and clawed their way into the vigilante’s back, digging into the flesh and drawing some blood. Usually, if any other man did that, you would tell him to stop his advances, but Matt was different. You wanted him for the longest, more than any other sexual partner. You wanted him to ravage you and your body, let him fuck his frustration onto you.
And you got what you wanted, like you always do.
Matt had you like a caged animal, his weight pressing down and pinning you down on the mattress. He had an iron grip on your thighs, his teeth gritting as he hissed. You looked up to see the vigilante’s body covered in sweat, his hairline stuck to his forehead, and some drool seeping through his lips. He looked like a god, your god. You wanted to worship every inch of that body, and you considered your body as an offering to the man fucking you into the bed.
Your moans were louder than Matt had heard them, and it was all because of him. The vigilante became more vocal as he bottomed out, grinding deeply inside as his cockhead rammed repeatedly into your prostate, which left you seeing the stars. Your body was spasming, your mind clouded with sex and lust. This was better than anything you’ve ever experienced. All those dildos and men paled in comparison. None of those things mentioned ever made you feel this euphoric or feel like your whole body was going to shut down. Now that you’ve finally gotten the taste, the feel of Matt, you know you wanted more. You were gonna be addicted to this man forever.
“You’ve driven me insane… every time you touched yourself or some guy fucked you… You wanted me like this… now look at you.” Matt groaned, his voice shaking with each thrust, peering down at your disheveled face with a grin on his face. He watched as you choked out his name, drool dripping from the sides of your mouth as you had a fucked out expression. ‘What a slut’ was the only thought Matt could think as the rest of his brain was rotted by lust and desire. At first, he thought he was being too rough with you and opted to give light reprimands, but seeing you like this: completely cock drunk and begging for more for him to ravage your body gave him reassurances.
“Changing positions,” Matt said as he pulled his cock from your gaping hole. You whined and complained, missing the feeling of the man’s cock lodged deep inside your guts, that you didn’t hear what was said. “No need to get all pissy. You’ll get what you want again soon.” Matt said as he flipped you round and onto your stomach. You felt the soft, warm fabrics press against your sweaty front and leaking cock.
“P-please, please! Need you again! Please, please, please.” You cried and babble, your words drowning and mixing into an incomprehensible mess of cries, begging to be filled again. You began pushing your ass back – going as far as to pull your cheeks apart to show off your hole. Matt just scoffs at the sight before him, softly laughing as he watches you desperately try to get him back into your hole.
“Needy boy. Are you that much of a cock slut? Can’t stand being empty for too long?” Matt grunts as he grabs your hips and pulls you against his, slotting his massive cock between your cheeks. The vigilante groans and moans lowly as he uses your cheeks like a sex toy, gliding his meat and teasing your hole before pulling back. Matt could feel his orgasm approaching, biting his lips as his cock throbbed and his nuts tightening as a load of come was gonna burst from the tiny slit.
Without wasting any more time, Matt positioned his cock at your entrance and slammed back into your tight body. There wasn’t much resistance the second time. Your sweet ass hugged his cock perfectly, despite him splitting your hole open; it remained tight as a virgin. Matt finally understood the feelings those men experienced when they came over. With no hesitation, Matt began fucking you again like an animal during mating season. The familiar sounds of skin and ass clapping as a tingly sensation began to grow and spread in your guts.
“Does that feel good? Happy that you’re getting what you wanted?” Matt groaned as he leaned down onto you. You could feel the warmth and weight of the vigilante’s body pressing against you as he lowered himself. His massive, sweaty frame molded against yours as he pinned you down onto the bed with his body. His hips snapped forward, ramming directly into your prostate as he chased his orgasm. Your mind and body became slack as you were just enjoying being ravaged by Matt, your head buried in the sheets and your hands gripping the blankets.
“Y-yes. I’m so happy.” You replied, your voice muffled. You faintly hear ruffling and feel the space beside your head dip into the mattress. Then, a meaty arm – bicep – wrapped around your chin and held you tightly against Matt’s head, his breath whizzing past your ear as he nibbled and bit it. What an amazing position: pressed under the man you wanted since the first day you moved in, the helplessness, and the rush. You were unequivocally his in the moment.
Which you wanted to last forever.
Matt’s pace quickened as he dragged his cock in and out of your sensitive hole. With each thrust, each push into your tight, warm hole made the vigilante feel breathless. He would groan and grunt into your ear with satisfaction and approval. Guess you were getting to him now. You untangled one hand from the blankets and tangled it in Matt’s soft brown hair, encouraging the man to continue his ministrations. You even started kissing the man’s biceps, which was approved with a precise thrust that sent your nerves and mind on fire.
“You feel so good. Should've done this since the first time you started becoming a nuisance.” Matt said into your ear before moving down to your shoulders. You yelped in pain and pleasure as the vigilante dug his teeth into your flesh. Matt feasts as he leaves bites, hickies, and some bruises on your shoulder as if you were a canvas and his marks were the art.
“I’m gonna, fuck… gonna!” Your ability to speak was limited as your body was going through the throes of an orgasm. As your orgasm built up, your hole clenched around Matt’s cock, feet curling, and fingers digging into the other man’s body. Your cock was grinding against the sheets and your stomach as your balls tightened.
“Tell me how much you want this. How much do you want my cum inside you?” Matt moans as his breathing and thrusts become more erratic and uncoordinated. He was teetering on the brink of his orgasm as he felt your hole clenching around him, pulling his cock deeper into the depths of your ass. His heavy balls pressed against yours as he halted his thrusts, attempting to hold back until you gave him a reply.
“I want your cum inside me! Please, please, please… cum in my hole!” You begged, and Matt granted you your wish. He gave a few more thrusts before giving one final thrust, slamming completely inside your hole. Matt let out a loud bellow and groan. You felt his cock twitching as ropes of hot, thick cum spurted and splattered your insides. The sensation of being filled and bred like a whore caused your cock to spurt its load. Matt’s hold on you tightened as he continued to cum – having been backed up. A week's worth of cum painting your insides white.
After that, everything blacked out. Matt, on the other hand, was spent after fucking and breeding you. His body was exhausted and slack as he rested against yours, sleep overcoming him.
…
The mornings after were always tough and a pain in the ass. Literally, yet, you felt alive and satisfied, something that your other sexual partners never gave. They would usually leave after having their way with you, but not this time. You felt content for the first time in a long time, despite the clear, enraging pain in your lower and upper body. Warmth continued to spread through you when you realized Matt stayed the night – and he was cuddling you! His body tangled with yours as if he refused to let go of you. His strong arms keep you in place as he buries his head into your neck. His soft, slow breaths glide over your skin with some shuffles in between.
Something snapped you out of the blissful morning. A thick, throbbing piece of meat is still lodged deep inside your ass. Matt never pulled out, and it seems the man was having the classic morning wood case that every man has experienced in the mornings. The idea that you kept Matt’s cock warm all night made your cock awaken. You were sure the man didn’t mind having a helping hand with his problem.
Angling yourself into a comfortable position, you began to push back against Matt. You made sure to muffle your moans as you rode the vigilante’s cock for the second time. As his cock went deeper, you could feel the cum dumped into you sloshing around your guts – the most erotic thing you’ve experienced. Matt’s breathing tightened and quickened as his grasp on your body became impossible to escape from. The vigilant began fucking you while he was still in a deep sleep, unaware that he was fucking and going to breed you again for the second time in under a few hours.
The room was silent besides the muffled moans, quiet groans, balls clapping, and the wet squelching as some leftover cum began to leak out as Matt started to thrust into your hole. You choked and swallowed as the man was hitting all your pressure points again. It seemed Matt wasn’t going to last long with the knowledge that his cock is sensitive from the nights and your ass is essentially milking him of every drop of cum.
As predicted, Matt didn’t last long as he gave a few more thrusts before dumping another thick load of cum deep inside – adding more to last night. The vigilante’s body went slack as he pulled you closer. You sighed as sleep overtook you again, leaning into Matt’s warmth and comforting body.
…
Perhaps Matt was ghosting you? Or just ignoring your presence.
Ever since that day, Matt readily ignored you. He never returned any waves or responded to anything you said. With hindsight, maybe you came on a little too hard, but that would be an understatement: the understatement of the century. The encounter between you and Matt could be classified as just rage-fueled sex, as the man was furious with you. There were no connections, but you felt one.
Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to do all of that. Perhaps you should’ve just introduced yourself and taken the normal route to gain someone’s affection, and cut off all your flings to certify your attraction to the man. You internally facepalmed at your shortcomings. You might have ruined any real opportunity to have a real connection with someone besides the lackluster, no-strings-attached flings.
You missed the awkward conversation during the mornings whenever you two bumped into each other – awkward because Matt listened to everything and had a faint blush on his cheeks.
Maybe you should’ve managed your stressful life in another way other than emotionless sex. Maybe you should’ve taken the leap of faith and approached Matt instead of being a coward and drowning out of your sorrows with sex – at least rejection would be more bearable than now.
Ever since that day, you cut off all your flings, deleting their numbers or blocking them. You ceased any sexual desires with other people, opting to use the various sex toys for pleasure. Of course, it wasn’t the same. You missed the actual connection, if there ever was one. Perhaps you were being delusional? Possibly delusional and desperate for the touch of another man.
Matt sensed the changes. For one, the insistent noises ceased, but it was replaced with quiet whimpers and sobs with the occasional moans and bed creaking as you rode your dildo to a pathetic orgasm. Unsatisfied. Your waves and wanting to have small talk ceased as well, but that was a result of him, which felt wrong for some reason. That tugged something in the man’s chest, pulling on his strings as it ripped out of him. What were these feelings? He didn’t know how to feel and ceased communication with you. Assuming that it would fade away, but it didn’t.
Did he have an attraction towards you? That was impossible. He despised you as a neighbor for being a nuisance and bothering him. He shouldn’t have these feelings for you. Maybe he did, though. After having sex with you, he would awake during the night and observe. He watched your sleeping form with precision as he took in everything about you: the way you snored or moved closer to him for comfort. He had all the chances and time in the world to leave and return to his apartment, but he didn’t.
He stayed behind and relished the comfort. Matt tried to reason that he fucked you out of rage, but he remembers leaving kisses on your lips and cheeks while soothing your aching muscles. He remembers cuddling you, wanting to give you the best comfort – perhaps he wanted to prove that he was superior to your other flings who left you high and dry.
It also doesn’t help when he realizes that you cut off your other flings – pride swelled inside him. He proved that he was better to the point where you didn’t want another man’s touch. You only wanted him – wanted his touch and affection. Maybe he did feel some type of way towards you, and it wasn’t the hate kind. To prevent his work and vigilante life from being affected, Matt was going to confront you.
…
You lie motionless in bed, scrolling on your phone with soft blankets covering your body. You didn’t feel like doing anything other than wallowing around and being dark. Usually on the weekends, you would be either productive, lazy, or having sex. You were succeeding in the lazy part, but that’s been going on for weeks after work, and worse on the weekends. It was stupid to be hung over a man who only fucked you because you were too much of an annoyance – best sex you’ve ever had though.
Knock, knock, knock
Three strong knocks pulled you from your thoughts. You groaned with annoyance as you pulled yourself out of bed, your bones snapped, and muscles ached due to the lack of exercise and movement. You shuffled slowly towards the door as another round of knocking began, groaning and mumbling under your breath that you’re coming. You didn’t know who was behind the door, most definitely not your family, so you assumed it was a friend or a co-worker coming to check in to see if you’re okay.
Opening the door, you didn’t expect to see Matt standing there.
“Hey, just thought we could have a chat,” Matt said without wasting time. You looked gobsmacked, analyzing Matt, who wore a simple outfit – plus his familiar glasses – and was gripping his cane. You were in a daze as your eyes raked over Matt’s body and face, your heart fluttering as it returned from the dead. The warmth you felt those days ago came back.
“Oh, sure, come in.” You replied, snapping out of daze and moving to the side to let Matt into the apartment. You followed close behind after closing the door. A pit was forming in your gut, nervous about what the man wanted to talk to you about. Your heart is pounding, and your ears are ringing as Matt takes a seat on the couch.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” You asked, taking long strides as you controlled your breathing before taking a seat not that far from where Matt was sitting.
“Well, I feel like we should start from the beginning. I’ve agreed with myself that I…” Matt paused, his words stuck in his throat as he attempted to say what he wanted to say. All those hours of practice wasted. “I like you.” You blinked twice – and your eyes darted around as you processed what Matt said to you. He likes you. He reciprocated your feelings. Now, the words were stuck in your throat.
“You like me?” You replied. Matt nodded in confirmation with a small smile on his face. You didn’t know what to feel in the moment, as your emotions were bouncing from relief to happiness to sadness.
“Yes, I do. Despite everything that happened. I’m sure you felt the same connection as I did, correct?” You nodded with a massive smile on your face.
“With that cleared, would you like to go out with me?”
THE END
Author’s Note: Hello, my strawberries! After a couple of months, this is completed and just in time for my Tumblr anniversary! Five years since I joined Tumblr and wrote fanfics for the masses. I hoped y’all enjoyed this, as I felt like it became sappy towards the end.
Very special thanks to my proofreader: @sagethegaywitch
SUMMARY: Y/N rebels consistently in church; Priest Anton teaches him a lesson to make him stay.
Y/n wakes up one day with his memory wiped out and his mind a mess. He goes to a Church for salvation and soon becomes embroiled with the handsome, all-knowing and almost otherworldly head priest, Anton. But soon, the priest’s affections become crazed, spiraling into a deadly obsession that threatens to ruin Y/n. (Perhaps the Priest Anton has had something to do with memories. But Y/n will never know that.)
referenced from my fic called twisted faith on my wattpad (linked in profile)! long overdue side story of what would’ve happened if Y/n ran away from him! welcome back anton; been a while since I wrote you…yes i do have something also pretty similar to this on my profile which i only remembered abt after this was written but still I hope you enjoy this!
art done by the incredibly reverenced_cicada!!!
please comment, reblog; and like this if you enjoyed it!!
**
He doesn’t remember the ruin; the blood soaked fingers that thread through his hair. Softly, gently, lovingly. He doesn’t remember his trembles beneath him, the soft, strangled moans, the claw marks left on his back. Y/n didn’t remember any of it — his memory is closed and bottled and gone and his mind is a mess. He remembers scratching at the door of the church for mercy, and being welcomed.
Y/n remembers first meeting him, the man clothed in white; the man with silky golden hair and cerulean blue eyes. The man who was so devastatingly and damningly beautiful that people stopped to stare at him; the man with the gentle smile that swallowed your rage. The man named Anton.
“Poor thing,” Anton had told Y/n, and his fingers had been warm then. Y/n would’ve mistaken anything for warmth; he was so horribly starved of touch and affection that even the simplest of words could feel like the sun to him. And so he basked in it. “Poor thing,” Anton said quietly, “you are at the mercy of God. At me.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Y/n choked out. He knew the emptiness gnawing at his brain. Chewing at nothing, with a bottomless hunger that had yet not been satiated. His fingers had clutched at the priest’s robes; he had nearly cried out from reprieve at seeing another human; another life form. He had stumbled on the bare roads alone. Something about the priest had seemed so familiar and it filled Y/n with indescribable relief.
“You’re trembling,” Anton had murmured softly and gently in return, his fingers brushing Y/n’s cheek. “How fortunate, then. You have stumbled upon the one place that you can be saved. The only place you will be saved.”
Y/n had drunk his words in at the point of time. He had been — ah, what’s that word? He had been docile, yes he had. He had been so painfully and ridiculously pliant to the priest’s needs then, so much like a lamb that had been reared for him, the shepherd — that he now laughed at the absurdity of it all.
The priest, who had been so charming at first, was a vicious monster. The smile never left his face; that ineffable mannerisms he had that was so graceful; so powerful, so divine…and yet Anton robbed people of their lives so easily; with a careless flick and a sanguine, saccharine smile. His fingers were bloody when they traced Y/n’s back, when they touched his face…when they left a crimson, unforgiving trail.
He will kill me, Y/n always thought, he will kill me one day. He will murder me; like he has murdered so many of his foolish believers who throw themselves at his feet…
“When will you kill me?” Y/n had begged once, after the thirty eighth slaughter, after the last of the flames had been snuffed out and burnt carcasses lay on the floor again. “Why did you welcome me? Why did you — why did you let me live and why do you treat me so well? Why do you treat me like I’m special — when you are simply going to kill me?”
Oh, yes, Anton treated him so differently. During service Anton rebuked those who tormented Y/n for being a new believer. Y/n watched as others poured their savings out for Anton and he didn’t bat an eye at them. But with Y/n…why? Y/n’s memories had not yet returned; and he was beginning to accept the bleak reality that it would never do so. And so now he was left to spiral here, in this crazed madness where the priest ruled this place like a cult and he had no answers and only him —
I should never have come, Y/n found himself thinking over this all the time, I should never have been on that path, walking towards the church. This is not holy: this is not divine.
“Oh, Y/n,” Anton sighed. “Oh, Y/n.” He stalked towards Y/n; his large strides making Y/n flinch and cower and summon the last vestiges of his strength to bare his teeth; like a dog that had yet not been tamed. The priest’s hands were cold this time round as he tipped the (h/c)-haired boy’s chin up. “You will never die. You are the Chosen One. The one who is my most beloved ordained proxy. The heavens have chosen you. I have chosen you.”
His words were sweet, coated in so much honey that Y/n wanted to vomit.
“You kill all of them,” Y/n choked out, “you -you cannot possibly believe that what you’re doing is —”
“You don’t understand,” Anton said sadly, “not yet; it seems.”
“Murder,” Y/n finished, “it’s fucking murder- do you hear me? I can’t believe I ever listened to you- I can’t believe I ever thought I would — kill me, just kill —”
“You were like this before,” Anton’s tone had hardened, but it held that tone of wistfulness from before. Almost stern; like a beguiling parent chiding a naughty child. “Then I went through all that trouble to do that…and still you rebel; still you fight. How many lessons do you need to learn?”
“Fuck you,” the words had slipped from Y/n’s throat before he knew it, “fuck your murderous tendencies and your cult and your deranged —”
Anton had taken his arm then, in a grip so tight it bruised, and had forced Y/n to stare at those unsettling eyes of his. Y/n had swallowed; Anton had looked hungrily at him; with thinly veiled desire and fondness and reluctance.
Reluctance…?
“It pains me to do this,” Anton said calmly, his voice soft. “But it seems punishment is needed for you. I shall not do something as extreme as what I did the last time…but you do need to learn a lesson.”
“No,” Y/n whispered.
“You will be declared holy. You will be consecrated. You will be freed from sin.”
The lessons would be the start of despair; of torment.
**
Y/n remembers his attempts at fighting. He remembers clawing at locked doors that won’t budge; the endless darkness that he was drenched in, the protest of not eating food and water. He remembers the corpses lined up in his mind, relentless and determined to make him miserable. He remembers screaming; until his throat is hoarse and until he is sure the Gods have grown tired of his misery. He remembers cursing God at his pain; at his situation.
“Will you surrender yet?” Anton asks softly. He holds a starved Y/n; his arms the only flicker of warmth. Y/n’s head, on his lap, the hallucinations driving him mad. He looks at the priest; he stares. He feels emptiness, hatred.
Starving himself had not worked; he had been forcibly fed. He had tried to stab the priest with a knife, and it had melted into a puddle of wax.
“Sin is resistance,” Anton tells him, smiling so serene, so beautiful. “I will purge you of it. You are Chosen, Y/n: remember that. I will allow no one to taint you; no one to touch you.”
Y/n remembers slipping into a haze. He remembers lips against his own. He remembers being too weak to fight back.
**
Days become weeks; and weeks — they become something completely indecipherable; slipping elusively through the cracks of time. Y/n doesn’t remember Anton ever harming him — not physically, at least; but Anton torments him. Anton bathes him; dresses him in all white, and prays over him with hands that linger too long on the throat. Y/n feels the anger dying in his mouth: but it is so bountiful, so full that it wriggles between his gum like cavities. Anton’s obsession is so sweet it rots Y/n’s teeth.
He speaks of the prophecy; at how they united together through divine matrimony — “You belong to me,” Anton says sweetly. He whispers quietly and presses their foreheads together while Y/n squirms and sobs.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Y/n says deliriously, “I cannot. I cannot — I cannot accept this: I cannot — I cannot live like this. Let me go, Anton. Let me go —”
Who was he before this? Has he ever been a person? What had the outside been like?
I am utterly isolated, Y/n realizes and he weeps; he weeps big, grieving, loud cries. I do not know anyone else except for him; why has Anton imbued me with only the knowledge of him?
Anton tilts his head and his voice is flat as he speaks. “You still choose to rebel.”
“I —”
“Was everything I did for naught?” He says tonelessly. He looks at Y/n. “I have gone to this extent and you want me to let you go,” he says. His tone is terrifyingly dark and Y/n is shaking, and oh god, the mantra of please let me go repeats in Y/n’s head and he’s stumbling and crying and —
“I declared that I would make you holy,” Anton says, smiling. But it is without mirth; it is completely empty.
“And so I will,” Anton says, “perhaps it’s time to purify you.”
Anton takes Y/n’s hand; very very gently. He pulls Y/n away; for once Y/n is out of that dark attic and he winces when light meets his skin and he wonders if the word purify has a negative or positive connotation to it because he’s free, and he’s seeing the outside world, and —
Oh.
There are hands tearing at his robes, there are harsh kisses pressed to his collarbone and Anton is undressing and there is an — altar; an incense burning in a censer and its smells sweet…Y/n hallucinates a lute playing; a pipe…
“After this I will give you a choice,” Anton says cruelly with a smile; “to leave. If you can walk, that is.”
**
Y/n learns that his moans are loud; strangled, like his screams. Or perhaps his moans and screams are blending together and he doesn’t know which is which; but he does know that they are ripped mercilessly from his throat and at least the constant thing in his life is that he is offered no mercy.
“This is what I was supposed to do,” Anton says, his voice a sigh. His eyes are impossibly dark and his expression is so cold and terrifying and warm at the same time…his fingers ghost over Y/n’s body and he shivers; he feels the touch glide up to his nipples and he feels teeth rest at the curve of his throat.
I can feel his pulse, Y/n thinks. I can feel him…entering me…breaking me…all of him.
Y/n knows his scream is loud when the priest pushes his large cock into his body; when he feels his walls tighten around painfully around him like they’re welcoming him, the traitorous hardening of his own cock that is left untouched. He feels delirious, delirious with painful pleasure when the thrusts become forceful and Anton is moving, he’s moving and pushing into him and each time Y/n accepts him, Y/n’s hands go to his back and they scratch and claw.
Their kisses are ravenous. They are dotted with sin, lined with pleasure and desire that should not exist. It is the forbidden fruit; they are falling from the Garden of Eden and Anton has claimed him. There are bottomless pools of blood in Y/n’s vision when he looks at Anton; when he cries for him to stop! And yet his own body aches; wants more. Y/n arches his back still, feels the delicate curve of his spine bending in submission and he twitches his hips while Anton takes more; he takes more and more and he does not stop.
“You will not leave,” Anton says in between his thrusts; as he nips Y/n’s ear. He smiles victoriously above Y/n’s body. “After I’m done…you shall be complete; perfect. I have held back for you.”
“Anton,” Y/n cries out. The name is stuck in his throat, hoarded in his mouth. Why is it all he knows? Where are his memories? Where is the past, the before? Where is his identity — is Anton right; does it rest with him?
(Chosen; chosen, chosen. You are the Chosen One. Why run away?)
“My darling,” Anton says; and he laughs. “Do you want me to continue? You want choices, don’t you? There it is. Do you want me to continue?”
Y/n whimpers below him. “Anton,” he repeats. His mind is broken; he cannot think but god everything is empty and the church is all he has, and —
“Beg,” Anton says, his voice stern. His fingers thrum against the expanse of Y/n’s flesh. He waits to take him apart, to peel him like a fruit and to devour him whole. The bruises on Y/n’s hip have a dull sort of pain. He cannot think.
“Do it, Y/n,” Anton coaxes, tone gentler this time. He kisses the tears off Y/n’s face. “Be good for me. You can do that, right? You can be so good…”
“Please,” the word leaves Y/n’s mouth. “Please ruin me. Please purify me. Please save me.”
Anton crashes his lips onto Y/n; drunk off his declaration; his plea, his piteous, soft cries. He knew Y/n would come around one day. He knew Y/n had to; he knew it was their fates intertwined, their destinies together melding into a singular line. The sex that follows is even more overwhelming; but it is glorious, it is divine.
After it is over, after Y/n is sprawled on the stained sheets and the sweet smell of the incense continues to permeate Y/n’s nostrils… Anton cradles him; soothes him after it’s over.
“Do you still wish to run?” He asks. Then, a more brutal question; “Can you still run?”
**
Y/n is given a choice. He remembers the ruin; the divinity; the purification. He is sanctified, he is pure, he is holy. He is made new.
Anton smiles. “Darling; do you still want to leave?”
Y/n feels a barrage of soft kisses on his forehead. The priest is gentle. The priest is kind. He is chosen.
(Forgive me, Y/n thinks to whatever God who has ignored him, Forgive me, for I no longer wish to be saved.)
**
PAST
“You disobey me,” Anton said quietly. “You slit your wrists; you run away. I have no choice but to start over; to erase your reality. To start from point one.”
“Stop,” Y/n screamed, “do you have enough of this? Do you have enough of —”
“I shall erase your memory,” Anton said, sounding pleased with himself. “Yes; that will be brilliant.”
“I will always run,” Y/n told him through his despairing tears, through the haze of pain and through the priest’s clutch on him. “I will run from you.”
Anton stared at Y/n, before he laughed. He laughed for a good minute; before he stared at Y/n like he had said something so painfully amusing.
“My darling,” Anton shook his head, “my dear. You will never stray from the divine path. You will find me. You will be helpless; you will knock on my door and you will beg for me.”
“No,” Y/n choked out, “I will not. I will kill myself before doing so.”
Anton looked fondly at Y/n. “You funny thing. I will bring you from the dead. You cannot run from me.”
The priest kissed Y/n for the last time; the (h/c)-haired male struggled viciously, but eventually slumped in the priest’s arms.
Anton smiled. Ah; yes, Y/n was his. Nothing could tear them apart; he was God; he commanded the will of the universe. He would wait. He would wait to purify him; to make him stronger; to make him holy…
To sanctify him.
**
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Goro x scoutmaster male reader. Had this thought for awhile and yeah. Basically watching him jerk off in the woods before being pushed into a mating press. As always, this is 18+ and you shouldn’t continue if you’re a minor!
Now, you didn’t mean too or plan to watch Sir Goro jerk off in the woods. You grew worried over the older man taking too long and volunteered to check on him. Everyone else was enjoying the time by the lake — doing the usual things that would make camp fun.
Walking in the same direction, you found Goro — leaning against a tree while stroking his massive cock, biting his bottom as he fucked his fist while tweaking his nipples until they were erected. You immediately ducked behind a nearby tree but continued to watch.
You were captivated by the sight.
The older man’s body glistening with droplets of water, the fluids dripping and coating every inch and crevice of his muscular body. You were more taken aback by the massive cock… it looked so thick, juicy, and heavy with a fat cockhead and large, cum-filled nuts as additions.
You could hear the familiar sound of his nuts slapping against his hand. The loud fapping sound had you imagining that you were the one stroking him. Feeling that heavy piece of meat in your palms, stroking and teasing it as his balls slapping against your hand.
Imagining Goro fucking your hand like a horny animal.
It was starting to grow tight in your swimming trunks. Pulling the your trunks down and grabbing a hold of your throbbing cock; you began stroking in sync with Goro. You peaked from behind to the tree, it was like those gay porn videos you watched on the internet — a voyeur watching a man jerking before joining or being fucked by said man.
Every part of your body was becoming needy. Everywhere felt hot — your cock throbbing and leaking precum from the tiny slit while your asshole was aching to be rammed into by the massive pole. Your breathing was becoming heavy as your mind was clouded with lust that you didn’t even notice Goro moving.
That’s how you ended up in your current predicament — body folded in half with Goro in between your legs.
This neck of the woods was filled with loud moans and groans with wet skin-slapping. Goro was balls deep inside you, his cock reaching places you thought could never be reached. Your poor ass was split opened and stretched beyond recognition.
“Naughty boy. If I had known you were like this, wouldn’t have to fuck my hand.” Goro grunted as he rocked his hips back and forth. A harmonic symphony of his heavy balls slamming against your ass and wet squelching mixed perfectly. He peers down to see your face completely fucked out, enjoying his cock like a bitch in heat.
The older man didn’t take you to be a voyeur but he’s not complaining. A nice warm hole to fuck and unload his cum into.
sometimes i have a hard time jerking off because i get so overwhelmed with pleasure when i get close to cumming that i can’t keep up the motions and i end up accidentally edging myself for like an hour. this is why i need someone to overstimulate me until i’m trying to squirm away from them but they don’t let me and keep going
synopsis: Two elite ice hockey players from rival national teams collide season after season, their on-ice hatred bleeding into something far messier off it. What starts as anonymous hookups and reckless make-outs turns into a heated rivalry fueled by jealousy, ego, and the growing terror of wanting something real. By the time they finally stop pretending it’s just sex, it might already be too late to walk away clean.
content warnings: 18+, smut, (making out, oral sex, eventual full sex), rivals-to-lovers, emotionally repressed men, bottom male reader, possessiveness, jealousy, public/private tension, fame pressure, unhealthy coping mechanisms, arguments, emotional avoidance, power dynamics, minor injuries, locker room scenes.
word count: 10.2k (i did NOT think it would be this long lmaoo) [req]
The Zurich tunnel was a concrete wind tunnel that smelled like damp equipment and floor cleaner. It was the kind of place that amplified every noise, making the post-game headache behind your eyes pulse with every distant shout from the fans still hanging around the stands. You stood there with your gear bag heavy on your shoulder, leaning your weight against the cold wall. You were just waiting for the Japanese media swarm to clear out so you could get to the bus without being shoved aside by a cameraman.
Then you heard him.
Satoru Gojo had a laugh that was built for stadiums. It was loud and effortless. He rounded the corner with a dozen reporters trailing him, his jersey draped over his shoulders. He looked pristine. You felt like you’d been through a rock tumbler. Your jersey was damp with sweat, and your hair was a flattened mess from the helmet.
He saw you and detoured away from the microphones, ignoring a reporter mid-question. He stepped into your space, stopping just short of actually touching you. He smelled like mint and the sharp, metallic scent of the rink. Up close, he was tall enough that you had to lock your neck back just to keep him in view.
"Great game, Miller," he said. He flashed a grin that was all teeth.
"My name isn't Miller," you said. You kept your voice flat. You weren't going to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even if your pulse was jumping in your throat.
"Right. Close enough." He leaned a hand against the wall next to your head, pinning you in place. "You were fast out there today. A little desperate on that last break, but fast."
"I was playing hockey. You were putting on a show," you replied. You could feel the heat radiating off him. It was a physical weight in the cramped hallway. "There’s a difference between a teammate and a mascot, Gojo."
The grin on his face didn't disappear, but it got sharper. He leaned in closer, his blue eyes scanning your face. He was looking at the sweat on your forehead and the way your jaw was locked. He was looking for a crack. He looked at you like you were a puzzle he’d already solved but wanted to take apart anyway.
"Is that what we're calling it?" he asked. He spoke softly, his voice dropping below the noise of the reporters ten feet away. "I thought I was just winning. You should try it sometime. It might help with that miserable look you've got going on."
"Move your hand, Gojo. My bus is leaving."
"Let it leave," he murmured.
He didn't move. He stayed there for several seconds, long enough for the silence to turn heavy and weird. You could see the individual spikes of his white hair and the way his pupils didn't even flinch under the bright fluorescent lights. It wasn't Sparks. It was static. It was the feeling of a thorn in your side that had been there since the first time your names appeared on the same scouting reports. You hated how everyone compared you to him. You hated that he seemed to know exactly how much that bothered you.
Then, just as quickly, he pulled away and snapped his fingers. He turned back to the cameras without a backward glance, leaving you standing in the hum of the tunnel with your skin crawling. He was already laughing at another question before you could even get your breath back.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
The training facility gym was tucked into the basement of the arena, a windowless box that smelled of industrial rubber and the heavy, metallic scent of iron. You were four sets into a back routine, trying to work out the knot that had settled in your neck after the tunnel incident. Every time you pulled the bar, the friction of your shirt against your skin felt like an irritant. You were focused on the rhythmic clanging of the plates, trying to drown out the fact that your team’s loss was the only thing on the morning news.
The door swung open, hitting the rubber stopper with a dull thud. Gojo didn't just walk in; he took up the entire doorway. He was with Suguru Geto, both of them dressed in black training gear that looked like it had never seen a drop of sweat. Gojo was tossing a medicine ball into the air with a casual, annoying ease. He didn't look at you, but he parked himself at the squat rack directly in your line of sight.
You focused on the mirror, watching your own form, but his reflection kept drifting into the frame. He was leaning back against the rack now, watching you with a look that wasn't quite a smirk but wasn't friendly either.
"I've noticed some guys lift like they’re trying to punish the equipment," Gojo said. He wasn't looking at you, but his voice carried perfectly over the gym’s playlist. "Too much ego in the grip. It’s a miracle they don’t snap a wrist before they even hit the ice."
You dropped your dumbbells. The noise echoed off the concrete walls, sharp and final. You grabbed your water bottle and wiped your face with a towel, staring at him through the glass.
"And some people talk because they’re afraid of what happens if it gets quiet," you said.
Gojo finally turned his head. He let the medicine ball drop and walked over. He stopped a few feet away, his eyes dragging over your shoulders with a clinical interest that made your skin itch.
"I'm just offering an observation," he said. "You're stiff. Your shoulders are up around your ears. You play the same way you lift, like you’re waiting for a car crash."
"I play with discipline. You wouldn't know what that looks like."
"Discipline is a boring word for being scared," Gojo countered. He stepped closer, dropping his voice so it stayed between the two of you. "You’re so worried about making a mistake that you're missing the actual game. I saw it yesterday. You had the lane, but you passed it off because you didn't want the weight of the miss."
"I played the smart move," you snapped. Your hands were balled into fists at your sides.
"You played the safe move," he corrected. He reached out, his hand stopping just short of the collar of your shirt. "Safe doesn't win tournaments. Safe just gets you a seat on the bus home."
You stepped back, breaking the proximity. The heat in your face had nothing to do with the workout. "Stay out of my head, Gojo. And stay away from my rack."
He laughed, a sharp sound that felt too loud for the basement. "I'm already in your head. I've been there since Zurich. Just admit it."
You didn't give him an answer. You turned and walked toward the showers, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on your back the entire way.
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The communal shower was a cavernous, tiled box that echoed with the heavy spray of water and the distant shouting of players further down the hall. Steam hung thick in the air, blurring the edges of the room into a grey haze. You stood under one of the corner heads, eyes closed, letting the hot needles of water hit the tension in your shoulders.
The rhythmic sound of footsteps on wet tile approached. A shower turned on two stalls over. You didn't have to open your eyes to know the silhouette.
You reached for the soap, blinking through the water, and your gaze inadvertently drifted. Gojo was standing with his back to the wall, head tilted back as he let the water wash over his face. He wasn't trying to hide anything. He never did.
Your breath hitched. You’d spent your life in locker rooms around athletes, but this was a different league entirely. Even flaccid, he was huge. It was hanging with a weight that made your own stomach do a strange, tight flip.
You looked away quickly, staring at the grout between the tiles until your eyes burned. You felt a sudden, sharp spike of heat that had nothing to do with the steam. It was an intrusive, vivid thought of exactly how that would feel, and it made your throat go dry.
Gojo didn't say a word. He didn't even look at you. He just went through the motions of showering with a casual, bored grace, as if he wasn't currently making every other man in the facility look like an afterthought.
The silence followed you back into the locker room. It was that heavy, pressurised quiet that happens when two people are thinking about the same thing but refuse to acknowledge it. You sat on your bench, eyes fixed on your gym bag, tugging on your socks with trembling fingers.
Gojo was across from you, pulling a grey hoodie over his head. He didn't look like the stadium-filling star right now. He just looked like a guy in a locker room. He leaned over to lace his sneakers, the fabric of his sweatpants straining against his legs.
He sat back up, catching your eye for the first time since the showers. The smirk wasn't there. Instead, there was a look of quiet, pointed observation. He knew you’d looked. He definitely knew.
"My hotel has a private lounge on the penthouse floor," Gojo said. His voice was casual, but the volume was low enough that it didn't travel past the row of lockers. "They serve the good Scotch. Not the watered-down shit they give the teams in the common area."
You stopped mid-motion, your hand resting on the zipper of your bag. You didn't look up. "I'm not a big drinker, Gojo."
"It's not about the drink," he replied. He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He took a step closer, stopping just short of your knees. "I’m staying at the Grand—room 402. Come over after the media briefing. Or don't. But stop looking at me like you’ve got something to say and just come say it."
He didn't wait for an answer. He walked out, the heavy door swinging shut behind him. You sat there in the sudden silence, the image of him in the shower burned into the back of your eyelids.
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The walk to the Grand was long enough for the cold air to settle into your bones, but not long enough to talk yourself out of it. You stood outside Room 402, staring at the brass numbers. Your brain told you to turn around and get back to your own hotel before this turned into something you couldn't undo, but your hand was already knocking.
Gojo opened the door almost instantly. He’d ditched the hoodie and was just in a black t-shirt and those grey sweatpants. The room behind him was a massive suite that looked out over the city lights, but the only thing you focused on was the way he looked at you.
He didn't say hello. He just stepped back to let you in.
"You actually showed up," he said, closing the door. The click of the lock was loud in the quiet room.
"I wanted the scotch," you said, though the lie felt thin the second it left your mouth.
"Sure you did." Gojo didn't move toward the bar. He just stayed by the door, watching you stand in the middle of the room with your jacket still on. "You’ve been looking at me for weeks. In the gym, the hallways, the showers. You've got this look on your face like you want to swing at me or crawl under my skin. Which one is it tonight?"
"You're full of yourself," you said, but your voice lacked any real bite.
Gojo crossed the room. He didn't stop until he was right in your space, forcing you to look up. He smelled like that same sharp mint and expensive soap from the locker room. He reached out, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw, tilting your head back.
"Then do something about it," he said.
You reached out and shoved him back a step, but only so you could grab the front of his shirt and haul him down.
The first time your mouths hit, it was messy. There was no grace to it, just a lot of built-up frustration finally snapping. Gojo made a low, rough sound in the back of his throat and crowded you backwards until your heels hit the edge of the sofa. He didn't let up, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting like the gin he’d been drinking.
His hands came up to frame your face, his fingers tangling in your hair to hold you still as he tilted your head to get a deeper angle. You gripped his waist, pulling him as close as the layers of your clothes would allow. Every time you tried to pull back for air, he followed you, his mouth staying glued to yours.
You heard the sound of heavy breathing and the rustle of fabric as you tried to get a better grip on him. Gojo’s hands drifted down, his palms flat against your back, pressing you flush against his chest. You could feel the heat coming off him, and lower down, the heavy, hard weight of him pressing against your thigh. Having it that close, knowing what was under those sweatpants, made your head swim.
He broke the kiss long enough to trail his mouth down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just above the collar of your shirt. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, your head falling back against the cushions.
"The bed," he rasped against your skin.
"Now," you said.
He didn't let go of you as he led the way, his hand locked firmly around yours. The clothes were gone before you even hit the mattress, a mess of discarded shirts and kicked-off shoes left on the floor.
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The sun hit the white hotel sheets with a brightness that made your eyes sting. You woke up with the weight of Gojo’s arm draped heavily across your chest, his skin hot even in the air-conditioned room. For a minute, you just lay there, staring at the expensive crown moulding on the ceiling and trying to piece together the last few hours.
The bed was a mess, but you were both still in your underwear. There were no discarded condoms, no lingering ache of having been taken. Just the heavy, sugar-sweet smell of spilt scotch on the nightstand and the hazy memory of a make-out session that had been so intense it felt like a physical bruising. You had stayed up until four in the morning, mouths raw, eventually passing out mid-sentence while Gojo was trying to explain why he hated the Swiss team's defensive structure.
Gojo stirred, shifting his weight and pulling his arm back. He didn't do the awkward morning-after flinch. He just opened his eyes, blinked at the ceiling, and reached for his phone.
"You're late for your team meeting," he said. His voice was thick and raspy with sleep, but the smugness was already back in place.
"I know," you muttered, sitting up and rubbing your face. Your head was pounding from the alcohol and the lack of sleep.
You felt his eyes on your back. The room felt smaller now that you were both awake. You looked over your shoulder and saw him watching you, his white hair a chaotic mess against the pillow. He looked soft for about three seconds before he smirked.
"Don't look so worried," he said, propping himself up on an elbow. "We didn't actually do the deed. You just fell asleep on me while I was getting to the good part of my story. It was a little insulting, honestly."
"I was drunk, Gojo."
"You were exhausted." He hopped out of bed, completely unbothered by his lack of clothes. He headed for the bathroom, his stride easy and confident. "But don't worry. I won't tell your coach you were busy failing to keep up with me."
You winced at the jab. It was a joke, a way to reset the board. By making it about the rivalry again, he was giving you both an out. If he treated it like a comedy of errors, it didn't have to be a secret. It didn't have to be anything real. You got dressed in the silence, listening to the water of the shower start to run.
You left the room before he came back out. The hallway of the Grand was quiet and smelled like expensive lilies, a sharp contrast to the way your skin still felt like it was humming with the static of his touch. You had a game in six hours, and all you could think about was the way he’d looked at you right before you fell asleep—like he was waiting for you to say something that wasn't a joke.
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The door clicked shut, and the lock turned with a heavy metallic thud. The sound was deafening in the small space. You were standing between two rows of tall shelving units packed with team bags and industrial-sized boxes of tape. The only light came from a single, buzzing bulb overhead that made the dust motes dance in the air.
"You're avoiding me," Gojo said. He didn't move from the door. He was still in his practice gear, the black compression shirt damp and clinging to the muscle of his chest.
"I'm busy," you said, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. You reached for a crate of pucks, but your hands were shaking.
"You're hiding." He moved toward you, his skates gone but his presence still taking up every inch of the room. He didn't stop until he was chest-to-chest with you, pinning you against the metal shelving. The scent of him—salt, ice, and that sharp mint—filled your head. "You left the hotel before I even woke up. No word. Just ran away like I’d done something wrong."
"We didn't do anything," you snapped, looking up at him. "We got drunk and made out. It wasn't a big deal."
"It felt like a big deal to me." He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck. His palm was hot, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. He leaned in, his breath hitting your lips. "Or maybe you're just scared of what happens when we aren't drunk."
You grabbed his wrists to push him away, but the contact only made it worse. You felt the static from the tunnel, the gym, and the showers all converge into one point of heat. You didn't push. You pulled.
The kiss was frantic. It was a mess of teeth and tongue, an outlet for a month of suppressed irritation. Gojo groaned, a deep, vibrating sound that you felt in your own throat. He hiked your hips up, shoving you onto the edge of a heavy wooden crate. The wood bit into your thighs, but you didn't care. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him flush against you.
He broke the kiss to trail his mouth down to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point. "I haven't been able to think about anything else since the showers," he rasped.
His hands were everywhere—under your shirt, gripping your thighs, fumbling with the button of your pants. He worked them down with a single-minded focus, his breathing coming in jagged stabs. When he finally had you exposed to the cool air of the room, he didn't hesitate. He dropped to his knees on the thin rubber floor mat.
You gripped the edges of the crate so hard the wood splattered into your palms. Looking down, you saw the crown of his white hair between your knees. The sight of him—the most famous player in the league, the man everyone wanted to be or be with—kneeling on a dirty floor for you made your head spin.
He took you into his mouth with a slow, deliberate suction that made your back arch. He didn't rush. He used his tongue to trace the length of you, his eyes flicking up to watch your face. He wanted to see you break. He wanted to see the moment you stopped being the "boring wall" and started being a mess for him.
"Gojo," you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair. You were past the point of worrying about the thin walls or the janitor in the hall.
He hummed against you, the vibration sending a jolt straight to your gut. He picked up the pace, his hand wrapping around the base of you to steady the friction. It was intense and overwhelming. Every time you thought you were about to reach the edge, he slowed down, teasing the sensation until you were practically begging him to finish it.
He swallowed you deep, his throat working as he pushed you over the limit. Your world narrowed down to the feeling of his mouth and the frantic beat of your own heart. When you finally came, you let out a strangled sound, your head falling back against the jerseys hanging on the rack behind you.
Gojo didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there for a moment, holding you, before he slowly sat back on his heels. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his blue eyes dark and blown wide with his own heat. He looked at you with a look that wasn't smug for once. It was hungry.
He stood up, his breath still heavy. He didn't help you with your pants. He just watched you adjust yourself, his gaze lingering on the flush of your skin.
"See?" he said, his voice finally regaining that sharp, playful edge. "Everything is better when you stop overthinking it."
He turned and slipped out the door before you could even find your voice, leaving you in the quiet, dusty dark of the storage room.
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The Gala was one of those high-stakes social traps where everyone pretended to be friends while checking for weaknesses. You stayed near the bar, the gin in your glass doing nothing to dull the sharp edge of your nerves. Across the room, Gojo was doing exactly what he was built for: dominating the space. He was leaning against a marble pillar, looking effortless in a tuxedo that probably cost more than your first car. He was deep in conversation with a blonde from the Swiss delegation, her hand resting on his forearm as she laughed at something he’d whispered.
You watched him. You watched the way he didn't pull back, the way he tilted his head toward her with that focused, intense charm he usually reserved for a puck. It shouldn't have mattered. You weren't his. But seeing him act like a free agent while your skin was still buzzing from the equipment room made your blood boil.
"He's a lot to look at, isn't he?"
You turned to find Elena standing next to you. She was a reporter you’d known for a couple of seasons. She was attractive and always easy to talk to. You’d gone out with women your whole life; it was familiar territory. It was safe.
"He's a headache," you muttered, offering her a tired smile.
"Come on," she leaned in, her perfume a soft, floral scent. "The music is terrible, and the drinks are worse. Let's go somewhere we can actually hear ourselves think."
You looked back at Gojo one last time. He caught your eye over the blonde's shoulder, his expression shifting into something cold and unreadable. Out of pure, jagged spite, you finished your drink and followed Elena out.
Her hotel room was a few floors up. The transition felt natural; the dimming lights, the soft click of the door, the way she pulled you toward her. This was what you knew. You’d been with girls since high school; you knew the rhythm, the expectations, the way it was supposed to feel.
When she pushed your jacket off and leaned in to kiss you, you leaned into it. You wanted to feel that familiar spark, that easy comfort of being with a woman. But as her hands moved over your chest, something was off. You weren't disgusted—you liked Elena, and she was doing everything right—but your brain was somewhere else.
It was like watching a movie with the sound turned off. You felt the physical contact, but the electricity was missing. Every time you closed your eyes, you didn't see her. You saw the flash of white hair in a dark storage room. You felt the ghost of a much larger, heavier hand on your neck. You tried to focus, tried to stay in the moment with her, but the more you tried, the more clinical it felt.
You pulled back, breathing hard, your heart hammering for all the wrong reasons.
"I... I can't," you whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Elena, I’m sorry. I think I’ve just had too much to drink."
"It's okay," she said, sounding more confused than hurt. "It happens. Long tournament, right?"
"Yeah. Long tournament."
You got out of there as fast as you could without making a scene. By the time you reached your floor, the frustration was a physical weight in your chest. You’d spent your whole life knowing who you were, and in one week, some arrogant Japanese superstar had dismantled all of it.
You rounded the corner to your room and stopped dead. Gojo was leaning against your door, his tie pulled loose and hanging around his neck like a noose. He looked like he’d been waiting for a fight.
"You took your sweet time," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.
"Get away from my door, Gojo." You fumbled for your key card, your hands shaking with a mix of adrenaline and shame.
"The reporter? Seriously?" He stepped into your space, his shadow looming over you. "I didn't think you were that desperate for a distraction. Was it worth it? Did she give you that 'discipline' you’re always bragging about?"
"It’s none of your business who I spend my time with," you snapped, finally getting the door to click.
He didn't let you close it. He shoved his way inside, forcing you to back up into the dark room. "It becomes my business when you’re out there making a fool of yourself just to get a rise out of me."
"I wasn't trying to get a rise out of you! I was trying to have a normal night with a normal person! Something you wouldn't understand!"
"Normal?" Gojo laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. He slammed the door shut behind him. "You think you can just go back to that? After the locker room? After the storage wing? You’re lying to yourself."
"I’m not lying about anything! I’ve always been with women, Gojo. This—whatever this is with you—it’s the mistake. It’s the outlier."
"Is that what we're calling it?" He grabbed the front of your shirt, his grip tight enough to choke. "A mistake? You looked at me in that shower like I was the only thing in the world, and now you’re going to pretend you’d rather be with some girl who doesn't even know your middle name?"
"At least she respects me! At least she doesn't treat me like a trophy she can win and then ignore!"
"I don't ignore you," he hissed, his face inches from yours. "I can't stop looking at you. That’s the problem. And it’s eating you alive that you feel the same way."
"I hate you," you whispered, though your grip on his forearms was tightening, pulling him closer.
"Good," he muttered, his eyes dark with a mix of fury and hunger. "Keep hating me. Just don't you dare go looking for a replacement again."
Neither of you mentioned the truth. Neither of you mentioned that you were terrified. You just stood there in the dark, the "no feelings" rule in absolute tatters on the floor.
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The semi-final against Canada was a mess. You were watching from the bench when Gojo took a hit that made the whole arena go quiet. He didn't just bounce off the boards this time. He hit the wood at a bad angle and stayed down, clutching his side. It took two trainers to help him off the ice, and for the rest of the game, the stadium felt weirdly empty without him peacocking around the blue line.
An hour after the final whistle, the arena was mostly dead. The cleaning crews were working way up in the stands, but the hallways downstairs were silent and smelled like floor cleaner. You found him in the back medical room, a tiny space that was basically just a closet with a padded table.
Gojo was sitting there with his shirt off, a huge pack of ice taped to his ribs. He wasn't on his phone, and he wasn't surrounded by reporters. He was just staring at a crack in the floor tiles.
"You're missing the press conference," you said. You stayed by the door, leaning your shoulder against the frame.
He didn't look up. "Suguru is doing it. He’s better at the corporate talk anyway."
His voice was flat. The usual energy was gone, and without it, he looked exhausted. The bright overhead lights showed every bruise and every scratch from the game. He looked less like a superstar and more like a guy who had just been through a car wreck.
"Trainer says it’s a hairline fracture," he said, finally glancing at you. His eyes were tired. "I’m playing the final, though. I’ll just get them to numb me up."
"That’s a bad idea. You’ll be slow. You won't be able to rotate your torso for a shot."
"I have to play." He reached for a water bottle and winced as he moved. He took a sip and then just stared at the label. "If I'm not out there winning, I don't really know what I'm supposed to be doing. People don't care about Satoru. They care about the guy who puts up four points a night. If I can't do that, I'm just a tall guy with a loud mouth."
You didn't try to comfort him with some cheesy line about how he was more than just a player. You knew as well as he did that in this sport, your value was usually tied to the scoreboard. You walked over and sat on a low stool a few feet away. You didn't touch him or try to be sentimental. You just sat there in the quiet.
"I don't really know who I am when the game stops," he said. He said it casually, like he was talking about a boring movie he'd seen. "Everything gets too quiet. I think that’s why I act the way I do. If I stop moving and making noise, I feel like I might just disappear."
You looked down at your shoes. "The noise is a lot of work, Gojo."
"Yeah," he whispered. "It is."
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. You stayed there for a long time. You didn't talk, and you didn't move. It wasn't some big romantic moment. It was just two people sitting in a cold room, hiding from the expectations waiting for them outside the door. For the first time, the wall between you didn't feel like a competition. It just felt like a place to rest.
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After the night in the medical room, the silence between you changed. It wasn't the competitive silence from before; it was heavy and awkward. You realised that seeing him look that human made it impossible to keep going the way you were. If you didn't stop now, the "no feelings" rule was going to collapse, and you weren't ready for what was on the other side of that.
You told him it was over on the bus back to the hotel. You didn't make a scene. You just leaned over the back of the seat and told him the equipment room was the end of it. Gojo didn't even look at you. He just kept his headphones on and nodded once, his jaw tight.
That lasted exactly six days.
It was the longest week of your life. Every time you were on the ice together, the tension was thick enough to choke on. He didn't make jokes anymore. He played with a jagged, mean energy, taking runs at people during practice and ignoring your existence entirely. You were just as bad, over-committing to hits and spending your nights staring at the ceiling of your hotel room, your body feeling restless and high-strung.
It snapped the night before the gold medal game.
You were in the hotel gym at 11:00 PM, trying to exhaust yourself on the cable machine so you could finally sleep. The door opened, and Gojo walked in. He wasn't wearing his gym gear. He was still in his suit from the team dinner, his tie gone and his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.
You didn't look at him. You just kept pulling the weights, the metal clanking rhythmically.
"Stop," he said. His voice was low and rough.
"I'm working out, Gojo. Leave."
He didn't leave. He walked over and grabbed the cable, forcing the weights down with a loud crash. You spun around to shove him, but he caught your wrists. He pinned them against the machine, his body slamming into yours. He smelled like heavy cologne and the scotch he’d clearly been drinking.
"A week," he hissed, his face inches from yours. "You think you can just turn it off? You think I’m just some drill you can finish and move on from?"
"I said we were done. It was getting messy."
"It was already messy!" He let go of your wrists only to grab the back of your head, his fingers digging into your hair. "You think I don't see you looking at me? You’re practically vibrating every time I walk into the room."
He shoved you back against the equipment and kissed you. It was nothing like the first time. This was angry. It was desperate and rough, a release of all the static from the last six days. You didn't fight him. You pulled him in, your hands clawing at the expensive fabric of his shirt, needing the contact just as much as he did.
He didn't lead you to a bed. He pushed you down onto one of the weight benches in the corner of the gym, away from the door. He was frantic, his hands shaking as he worked your pants down. He didn't wait. He dropped to his knees, his white hair a stark contrast to the dark floor, and took you into his mouth.
It wasn't the slow, teasing pace from the storage room. He was focused, his tongue and throat working with a desperate intensity that had you gasping, your fingers digging into his shoulders. You looked down at him, seeing the way his eyes were shut tight, his brow furrowed like he was in pain. It felt like he was trying to vent a week's worth of frustration out on you.
When you couldn't take the friction anymore, you pulled him up by the shoulders. You didn't want to just watch; you needed to feel him. You kicked your pants off and reached for the waistband of his trousers, tugging them down past his hips.
He was already hard, heavy and leaking, and the second you were skin-to-skin, the air seemed to leave the room. You gripped him, your hands slick, and pulled him flush against you. The feeling of him rubbing against you—frotting with a frantic, rhythmic heat—was almost too much to handle.
Gojo let out a low, broken sound against your neck, his weight pressing you down into the vinyl of the bench. It was raw and blunt. There was no finesse to it, just two bodies trying to grind the tension out of each other. You wrapped your leg around his waist to pull him closer, your heart hammering against your ribs as the friction built toward something white-hot.
You both came at the same time, a messy, shuddering release that left you both gasping for air in the dark gym. Gojo stayed slumped over you for a long minute, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin.
He pulled away slowly, the silence in the room feeling heavier than before. He didn't help you up. He just stood there, breathing hard, looking down at you with an expression that was almost a challenge.
"Still done?" he asked, his voice shaking.
You didn't answer. You just started reaching for your clothes, your hands trembling. The rule hadn't changed, but the stakes had. You weren't just sleeping together anymore; you were destroying each other.
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The gold medal game was brutal. You were playing the game of your life, logging heavy minutes because your team needed you to shut down the Japanese offence. Japan was leading 2-1 in the third period, and the energy in the arena was vibrating.
Gojo was stuck on the bench. He was dressed in his full gear, but his helmet was off, and he had a heavy coat draped over his shoulders to keep his core warm. He looked miserable. Every time you laid a hard hit on one of his teammates or cleared the puck, the camera found him. They wanted to see the frustrated star.
The incident happened during a puck battle along the boards. You took a heavy elbow to the ribs—the same spot Gojo had injured days prior—, and you went down for a second, gasping for air. You weren't badly hurt, but the wind was knocked out of you, and you stayed on one knee to catch your breath.
The Jumbotron didn't show the replay of the foul. It cut straight to the Japanese bench.
Gojo wasn't just watching; he was standing up, his hands white-knuckled as he gripped the top of the acrylic glass. He’d pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, and his eyes were wide, fixed on you with a raw, terrifying intensity. He looked like he was about to climb over the partition. There was no smirk, no arrogance, just a frantic sort of hunger as he tracked your movement.
The feed stayed on him for five long seconds. The entire stadium saw the mask slip. The commentators went silent for a beat before trying to pivot back to the play, but the damage was done.
By the time the final buzzer rang and Japan secured the 3-1 win, the clip was the only thing anyone was talking about.
The press conference was a disaster. You sat at the table with your silver medal around your neck, feeling the weight of the loss and the headache from the game. Gojo sat three chairs down, looking perfectly composed in his team jacket, but he wouldn't look in your direction.
"Gojo-san," a reporter asked, "your reaction to the hit on the opposing defenseman has gone viral. It looked very... personal. Would you care to explain your relationship with him?"
Gojo didn't hesitate. He gave a sharp, practised laugh. "I was just checking the officiating. It was a missed call, and I hate seeing a good game ruined by bad refs. I want to beat my rivals on the ice, not see them get handed free passes because they dived. There's nothing personal about wanting a fair game."
It was a cold, effective lie.
Then they turned to you. "And you? Did you notice the concern from the Japanese captain?"
"I was busy playing a game," you said. Your voice was flat and tired. "I don't watch the bench. People see what they want to see, but there’s no story here. We’re rivals. That’s the beginning and the end of it."
You felt Gojo’s hand tighten on his water bottle. The denial felt like a physical blow to the chest. You had both just stood in front of the world and called the only real thing in your lives a hallucination.
When the cameras finally cut, you stood up and walked out. You didn't wait for him. You didn't want to see the lie in his eyes anymore.
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The parking garage was a place that smelled like dust and melting ice. The celebration from the Japanese locker room was a distant, muffled throb several floors up. Gojo was leaning against a support pillar near the team bus, his gold medal tucked inside his jacket like it was something he was ashamed of.
"You're a coward," you said. You didn't raise your voice. In the empty garage, the words carried perfectly, flat and cold.
Gojo didn't move. He kept his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. "I just saved your career and mine. You should be happy we still have jobs tomorrow."
"I'm not talking about the press conference. I'm talking about the way you live." You walked closer, stopping just outside his reach. "You spend every second of your life performing. You hide behind that plastic charm and the jokes because you're terrified. You think if you stop smiling for one minute, people will see that you’re actually just a hollow person who doesn't know how to exist without a crowd."
Gojo finally looked up. His eyes weren't bright or playful. They were dark, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights above. "And you're any better? You spend all your time pretending you're some stoic wall that nothing can touch. You act like you don't care about anything, so you never have to risk losing. It's a pathetic way to live."
"At least I'm honest about who I am," you replied. "I don't need a script to get through a conversation."
"You aren't honest," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. He stepped into your space, his height looming over you. "You're just scared. You’d rather feel nothing than admit that I’m the only thing that’s made you feel alive in years. You’re using me as a distraction from your own boring life."
"I'm not using you. I was trying to find something real."
Gojo let out a short, bitter laugh. "There is nothing real here. You’re just another person who wants a piece of the 'Satoru Gojo' show, and I was stupid enough to think you were different. You’re just a fan with a jersey, and I'm bored of playing with you."
The air in the garage felt like it turned to glass. It was the kind of thing you couldn't take back. It wasn't a joke or a jab. It was a dismissal.
You looked at him for a long beat, waiting for the smirk or the punchline that would soften the blow. It never came. He just stared at you, his jaw tight, his eyes cold and distant.
"Fine," you said. Your voice was steady, which surprised you. "Enjoy the show, Gojo."
You turned and walked toward the exit. You didn't run. You just kept a deliberate pace, the sound of your boots on the concrete the only noise in the space. You didn't look back to see if he was watching. You just left him there, standing in the shadows of the pillar with his gold medal and his lies.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
The flight home was a ten-hour vacuum. You sat in the middle of your teammates, the silver medal heavy in your bag, listening to them talk about the next season. You didn't join in. You just looked out the window at the clouds and felt the physical weight of the distance growing between you and Tokyo.
The silence that followed wasn't a relief. It was pressure.
You went back to your domestic league. You showed up to practice, you hit the weight room, and you played your minutes. You were perfect on paper. You didn't take penalties, and you didn't miss assignments. Your coach called it "professionalism," but your teammates stopped joking with you in the locker room. You were a ghost in a jersey. You did your job, went home to a quiet apartment, and stared at your phone until the screen timed out.
Gojo’s name still popped up in your feed. You couldn't avoid it.
He was spiralling, though the media called it "unpredictable brilliance." He was taking dangerous risks on the ice, getting into fights with refs, and blowing off mandatory team events. There was a photo of him leaving a club at 4:00 AM, looking haggard and sharp, his hair a mess and his sunglasses crooked. He looked like he was trying to burn himself out from the inside.
You drafted a dozen texts. Are you okay? That was a low blow. I'm sorry. You never sent them. You would type a sentence, look at the blinking cursor, and realise there was no way to bridge the gap without breaking the silence you’d both built. You deleted every draft.
He never called. He never texted. There were no "missed you" notes or cryptic social media posts. There was just a total, crushing absence. You slept on one side of the bed. You stopped buying the mint tea he liked.
The months didn't make it easier. Time didn't heal the argument in the parking garage; it just let the words sink in until they felt like part of your bones. You weren't a fan with a jersey, and he wasn't just a performer, but you were both too proud to be the first one to admit that the lie had hurt.
By the time the rosters for the next international meet were announced, you felt like you’d aged a decade. You saw his name on the Japanese list. You saw your own on yours.
The prospect of seeing him again didn't feel like a reunion. It felt like a collision you couldn't avoid.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
The hotel in Prague was a labyrinth of limestone and heavy carpets. It was the kind of place that felt too old and too quiet for a bunch of hockey players. You saw the Japanese team bus pull up while you were standing at the lobby window. You didn't wait around to see him get off. You went straight to your room, shut the door, and sat on the edge of the bed until the sun went down.
The first time you actually ran into him was at the morning skate the next day. You were coming off the ice; he was heading on. Usually, this was when he’d lean over the rail and say something to get under your skin.
This time, he stopped three feet away. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a long flight, but a deep, structural exhaustion that seemed to have settled into his shoulders. He didn't have his usual designer glasses on. He just looked at you, and for the first time, he didn't have a comeback ready.
"You changed your hair," he said. His voice was scratchy and thin.
"You look like hell, Gojo," you replied. You didn't mean it as an insult. It was just a fact.
"Yeah." He shifted his weight, his skates scraping against the rubber matting. "I haven't been sleeping much. The noise in Tokyo is loud this time of year."
It was a clumsy conversation. It was restrained and careful, like you were both walking on ice that was way too thin to hold your weight. There was no heat in it, just a dull, aching awkwardness that made your chest tight. He lingered for a second longer than he needed to, then turned and skated onto the ice without another word.
That night, you didn't even have to wonder if he’d show up. You left the door unlocked.
When he walked in, he didn't turn on the lights. He just kicked his shoes off and moved toward the bed in the shadows. There was no bravado. No arrogant comments about how much you’d missed him. He just sat down beside you and stayed there for a long time, the only sound in the room being the distant hum of the city outside.
When you finally moved in together, it was slow. It was the quietest it had ever been. There was no frantic tearing at clothes or bruised skin. It was just skin on skin, a slow, deliberate exploration that felt more like a confession than a hookup. You stayed close, your hands moving over the familiar lines of his back, feeling the way his heart was thudding against your own.
You frotted against him, the heat between you building in a slow, steady climb. It wasn't about the release this time. It was about the fact that he was actually there, his weight heavy and real against you. When he finally came, he didn't make a sound. He just buried his face in the crook of your neck and held on until his breathing levelled out.
Afterwards, the room stayed dark. Gojo didn't get up to find his clothes. He didn't make a joke about your hotel room or ask if you were still "bored" with him. He just lay there on his back, his arm thrown over his eyes, silent.
That was the terrifying part. The jokes were his armour. They were how he kept the world at a distance. Without them, he was just a man lying in a dark room with nothing to hide behind. The silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating, and for the first time, you realised that the game was truly over.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
The practice rink was scheduled for maintenance at 3:00 AM. The overhead lights were dimmed to a low, orange hum, casting long shadows across the fresh sheet of ice. You were sitting on the player bench, your skates laced but your jersey left in the locker room. The cold was steady, the kind that got under your skin and stayed there.
You heard the heavy thud of the door, then the rhythmic scrape of blades on the rubber matting. Gojo didn't get on the ice. He sat down on the same bench, three feet away from you. He was wearing his team tracksuit, his hands tucked into his sleeves to stay warm.
"I can't play tomorrow if I don't get this out of my head," he said. He wasn't looking at you. He was staring at the goal crease on the far end of the rink.
"Then say it," you replied.
He let out a breath that puffed into a white cloud in the freezing air. "I've spent my whole life making sure everything I did was for the win. Every person I talked to, every girl I went home with, every interview. It was all just fuel for the image. It was easy because none of it was real."
He finally turned his head. His eyes were tired, stripped of the performative spark that usually defined him. "I'm scared. If I keep this up with you, it’s going to cost me the only thing I know how to be. I’m scared I’ll lose the version of Satoru Gojo that everyone wants, and I don’t know who’s left underneath that."
You looked at the ice, the smooth surface reflecting the dim light like a mirror. "It already cost me, Gojo. I haven't been the same player since that parking garage in Japan. I've been a ghost on the ice. I lost the peace I had when I was just a defenseman doing a job."
"I know," he whispered.
"We aren't the same people we were in Zurich," you said. "The 'rivalry' was a lie we told ourselves so we could keep touching each other. But the lie is dead now. We killed it at the press conference."
Gojo leaned back against the hard plastic of the bench. He didn't offer a promise. He didn't tell you he would change or that everything would be fine once the tournament was over. He didn't say he loved you, and you didn't say it back. Those words were too heavy for a cold bench in an empty rink.
"I don't know what happens next," he admitted. "I don't have a script for this. I don't know if we can even do this without ruining our careers."
"Neither do I," you said.
For the first time in months, the air didn't feel like it was about to snap. There was no performance, no ego, and no jagged edges. Just two people sitting in a cold, dark building, admitting they were lost. It was the most honest conversation you’d ever had, and it felt more permanent than any of the secrets you’d kept before.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
The hotel room was quiet when you returned, the only sound being the low hum of the heater fighting the Prague chill outside the window. There was no frantic fumbling for the key card this time. No slamming each other against the door out of spite or adrenaline. You walked in, and Gojo followed, closing the door softly behind him. The lock clicked, but it didn't feel like a barrier anymore; it felt like a boundary.
Gojo sat on the edge of the bed and just watched you. The light from the bedside lamp was a warm, dull yellow that caught the frayed edges of his hoodie. He looked like a man who had finally run out of things to say. When you moved toward him, it wasn't an impulse driven by a bad game or a bruised ego. It was a choice. You stood between his knees, and he rested his forehead against your stomach, his hands curling loosely around your waist. He took a long, shaky breath, the kind that sounded like he was finally letting go of a weight he’d been carrying since Japan.
He started undressing you with a slow focus. His fingers were steady, unbuttoning your shirt one by one, his eyes following the movement of his own hands. There was no performance for a hidden camera, no mask of the "greatest player in the world" to maintain. When it was his turn, you helped him out of his layers, feeling the solid, heavy muscle of his shoulders under your palms. He had a faint scar near his collarbone you hadn’t noticed before, and a few fading bruises on his ribs. He was just a guy.
He leaned over to the nightstand, pulling a small tube of lubricant from his travel kit. He didn't make a joke about it or try to deflect the intimacy with a smirk. He didn't try to be "cool." He just looked at you, a silent question in his eyes, and you nodded.
You lie back against the sheets, the fabric cool against your skin. Gojo moved between your legs, his weight a grounding, physical presence. He was patient. He used his fingers first, coated in the slick gel, moving with a careful, rhythmic pressure. He wasn't trying to get to the finish line; he was just making sure you were comfortable. He watched your face, his thumb occasionally brushing over your hip bone, waiting for your breath to hitch or your muscles to relax before he moved deeper. It was clinical in its care, but deeply human in its tenderness.
When he finally lined himself up, he paused. He stayed there for a beat, his forehead resting against yours, his white hair tickling your skin. The air between you smelled like hotel soap and the faint, metallic scent of the ice rink that always seemed to cling to your skin.
"Okay?" he whispered. His voice was low, stripped of all its usual theatrics.
"Yeah," you breathed out, your hands finding the back of his neck. "I'm okay."
He pushed inside slowly. It was a heavy, overwhelming sensation, a fullness that made the rest of the world feel like it was disappearing into the background. You gripped his shoulders, your knuckles white, but it wasn't out of pain. It was just the sheer reality of him finally being there, without the rivalry, without the lies. Gojo didn't rush. He stayed still for a long moment, letting your body adjust to the weight of him, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that felt more exposing than being naked.
When he started to move, it was with a deep, steady pace. There was no frantic friction, just a quiet, shared heat. Every thrust was a slow climb that felt like it was pulling something out of your chest. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer, wanting to close every millimetre of space left. It felt like a conversation you’d been trying to have for months—one where you finally didn't have to keep your guard up.
Gojo's composure eventually started to break. His breathing turned into jagged, uneven gasps, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his grip on your hips tightening. He wasn't the "sun”, or a "god”, or a "superstar." He was just a man who was terrified of being alone, clinging to the only person who actually knew the difference.
The release wasn't an explosion; it was a slow collapse. You both came in the quiet, your gasps muffled against each other’s skin. Gojo didn't pull away immediately. He stayed buried inside you, his head tucked against your shoulder, his chest rising and falling in time with yours as his heart rate eventually slowed down. He felt heavy, warm, and real.
The silence that followed wasn't scary anymore. It was just a shared space. No one was running for the door. No one was reaching for a drink or a distraction. You just lay there in the dim light, two people who had finally stopped playing a game they couldn't win.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
The morning sun in Prague was weak, filtering through the heavy hotel curtains in dusty slats of grey light. Gojo didn't leave in the middle of the night. When you woke up, he was still there, taking up more than his fair share of the bed, his face smashed into a pillow. Without the gel in his hair or the glasses on his face, he just looked like a person—one who happened to be a world-class athlete with a very loud mouth.
You sat at the small hotel desk, nursing a lukewarm coffee and watching the city wake up. You heard the bedsheets rustle.
"You're thinking too loud," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, the blankets pooling at his waist.
"I'm thinking about the flight schedules," you said. "And the fact that my coach is going to kill me if I’m late for the bus."
Gojo stayed quiet for a second. He looked at his hands, then back at you. The bravado was still missing, but he didn't look scared anymore. He looked resolved. "My season ends in three weeks. I have a gap before the summer camps start. I could... fly out. It’s a long trip, but I’ve got the miles."
It wasn't a grand romantic gesture. It was a logistical nightmare. Different leagues, different continents, two massive reputations that would eventually collide again under the glare of a Jumbotron. It was going to be complicated, invasive, and probably a little bit miserable when the media eventually found out.
"It's going to be a mess, Satoru," you said, leaning back in the chair.
He stood up, stretching until his joints popped, and walked over to you. He didn't lean over you with that predatory smirk from Zurich. He just rested a hand on the back of your chair, his thumb brushing against your shoulder.
"Yeah," he admitted, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's going to be a disaster. But I'm bored with playing it safe. Aren't you?"
You looked up at him and felt a strange, quiet sense of relief. The weight of the silver medal, the gold medal, and the lies didn't feel so heavy anymore. "I've been bored for a long time."
An hour later, you were standing in the lobby, gear bags at your feet. The Japanese team was boarding their bus out front, and a crowd of fans already gathered behind the barricades. Gojo was standing by the glass doors, adjusting his dark glasses, the "superstar" mask sliding back into place as he prepared to face the cameras.
He caught your eye across the busy room. He didn't wink. He didn't blow a kiss. He just waited until you walked toward the exit, passing him one last time.
"Watch your step," he said, his voice low and smooth, a soft echo of the very first time he’d stopped you in that tunnel.
You stopped, looking at him over your shoulder. You didn't roll your eyes this time. You just gave him a faint, steady nod.
"Try not to get in my way, Gojo."
He let out a short, real laugh—the kind that didn't care about the acoustics—and watched you walk out into the light.
SYPNOSIS. See, he bullies you because he loves you. When will you learn to understand that? When will you understand that you are simply lucky?
How close they are; everyone says. And how lucky [Name] is. How lucky he is to command the attention of Mikhail, golden boy. How close they are, everyone muses, look at those wide smiles, melodious laughter, sweet, sweet looks.
Your life, as everybody likes to say, became immeasurably lucky when Mikhail entered the picture. He’s all golden boy; excellent at studies, sports, and at socialising. His arms always loop yours, and the warmth — it is almost comforting. It almost anchors you; ties you down to sweet, tender love. His hands trace your scars and injuries and he kisses them; he looks at you with burning passion and he laughs; he always laughs.
Almost comforting because violence follows that; scars because those are the injuries he has inflicted, let it fester on your skin. Almost, because his love is so rotten that it makes you decay; that it makes you fall into bits and pieces, and he picks them up and puts them in all the wrong places. Almost, because he makes you feel loved and whole and then he breaks you.
“My darling [Name],” he says, coos. His hands are warm around your throat. It will leave marks, you know. Good thing your collar is up, good thing no one will know of this. Good thing Mikhail is so excellent at hiding his tracks. “I think you need to act better.”
“I am —” you manage out, choking, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s almost like you don’t love me,” Mikhail says very softly. “But you do, don’t you, my sweet? I could’ve sworn —” his hands are tighter now. More menacing. The decay is spreading from his fingertips to your bone; you feel the physical rot, the way your limbs seem to collapse in each other. “I could have sworn you gave me a dirty look when I glanced at you earlier.”
“I didn’t,” you say; and now tears roll off your cheeks — “I swear, Mikhail! I swear, I swear.”
Mikhail smiles. “And now you cry?”
“I’m sorry,” you continue, “I’m sorry, I’m—”
“Oh, keep quiet,” Mikhail sighs, “you’re fucking pathetic, you know that? Useless. Broken. You should’ve been pleased I even took an interest in you. I’m going the extra mile for you, don’t you know?”
He looks at you expectantly. “Well?”
“I-” you sputter, “I don’t understand. I —” Don’t fight, [Name]. You are fighting for nothing but you will be punished for everything.
His eyes are even colder. He lets go of your throat; he kicks you to the wall and you feel your breaths push from your body; flung from you and all you can think of is that: I am going to die. He will kill you.
“Thank me,” Mikhail leans down, and his voice is dangerous. “Thank me, [Name].”
He delights when a new idea sprouts in his head; “Ah, no. Kneel.”
“Don’t make me do this,” you shake your head, trembling. “Please; don’t.”
Dignity, pride. Those have been taken; you have been conquered. There’s a special kind of humiliation in admitting that you have been conquered, like something trampled. Something owned. It is a brutal intimacy that nobody wishes for.
Mikhail laughs. “Are you begging me now?”
“What did I do to you,” you rasp out. What did i do to deserve such misery.
“Tempt me,” Mikhail says sweetly. “You tempted me,” he breathes out shakily; drunk on power. “And now you pay the price.”
**
You met Mikhail at the beginning of high school. The meeting had been harmless; if you could turn back time, you would’ve killed yourself. All you had done was smile at him; treat him nicely, gently. All you had done was be his — be his friend. And yet he had chosen you, amongst all the unsuspecting students. And he had chosen you to be the victim.
He was nice, at first. His touches were soft before they became vicious. His kisses were sweet before they started to devour. His marks were pleasurable before they became violent.
“You’re so lucky,” everyone tells you. They miss the bruise in your neck, the scars on your arm. The tears well up in your eyes but they don’t leak out. “You’re so lucky to be with him.”
**
Someone notices, eventually, after you sob in a classroom. A classmate; Ray. He frowns as he looks at you.
“Something is off,” he says, “with you.”
“Don’t talk to me,” you rasp out. “Please- please don’t talk to me- don’t let - don’t kill yourself. What are you doing?”
“It’s not normal, is it,” Ray tells you, and his concern is written all over his face. “It’s — Mikhail — he’s bullying you, isn’t he?”
You stare. “No,” you manage. How did he know?
“I have a keen eye for these kinds of things -” Ray hesitates. “I know it. You don’t have to deny it.”
“Don’t,” you whisper.
“Bullies - they’re juvenile. You can report him to the police, [Name],” he says.
“He’s not juvenile,” you shake your head wildly. “He can kill you.”
“Kill,” Ray’s lips curl into a soft, pitying smile. “That’s silly.”
“It’s not- you haven’t seen him - you’re naive -"
“He - he really had a big impact on you.” Ray swallows. “Let’s get you the help, [Name]. Bullies are cowards. Bullies are nothing. I was bullied once, too,” he says quietly. “Trust me. I know how to get out of these situations.”
You look at him; you look at his beam. His smile. He seems so assured, so confident.
(Mikhail; he is a monster. He is not nothing. He is everything; can be anything.)
But still: you allow yourself to hope.
A foolish decision, really.
**
“He’s gone,” Mikhail says calmly, only a day after.
He’s cradling your cheek; you’re crumpled on the floor, lip bleeding, head spinning. The usual. The days smidge into an indecipherable blur of events; of Mikhail, of blood, violence. The hope flickers; you feel something pressing down on it to snuff it out. It’s replaced by bright, ugly fear.
“W-Who-”
“You fool,” Mikhail hisses, and his nails sink into your flesh, and you cry out sharply — “you fucking fool; you imbecile. I warned you,” he smiles, “I warned you, didn’t I?”
“Who’s gone,” you keep repeating, “who?”
“That boy who thought himself such a savior,” Mikhail says, almost bored. “I got rid of him; he won’t bother us ever again. But you entertained the idea of leaving. Do you really think I will allow you to leave, darling?”
“I’m sorry,” you convulse, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“
“But that’s not enough, is it,” Mikhail purrs. His fingers tug at your shirt; one button goes undone. “That is not enough.”
It is not enough; it is never enough.
**
(How close they were! Everyone says, And how good it is that Mikhail got rid of that pest. How sweet they are; how large their smiles are; how cute.
You’re so lucky to be with him, [Name].)
__
plz this was super rushed, meant for writing practice but eh no harm posting…likes, reblogs, comments r all appreciated!
