Just a few small nsfw thoughts about the yandere haikyuu cast
Tw: stalking, kidnapping, non-consensual photography/involvement in masurbation, foot stuff in Noya's, spitting, overall just real unfortunate habits they have
Thinking about Daichi Sawamura who is the natural option for you to run to when mysterious packages start showing up at your door. It’s all sorts of intimate items – pretty lingerie that somehow fits you perfectly, all in your favorite colors (and his, too, of course). Then it shifts towards just single items, no longer the pretty babydoll sets – silk thongs with an initial stitched in, collars with your name engraved in the metal tag, vibrators that slowly get longer and thicker. It’s only when one comes that’s much too realistic, leaning slightly to the left and with veins lining the top that you finally confide in Daichi. It all comes tumbling out, and it’s only when you show him the handwritten note with the most recent dildo – reading it’s modeled after my own, let me know how it fits - that Daichi softly sighs, throwing you a look and telling you that you know there’s nothing we can do about it. Creeps like that always get away with it, unfortunately. Just ignore the way his uniform pants are straining at seeing you all teary-eyed and dependent on him – cute. Maybe you’d like another gag – he’s noticed you haven’t used the last one yet.
Thinking about Koushi Sugawara who feels bad about installing the bug on your phone, but not bad enough to disconnect it. It’s not visual, is what he tells himself – it’s not creepy if it’s not looking at you, after all. It only picks up on sound when he activates it – which has let him into a whole other side of you. You bring your phone with you everywhere, he’s realized, and he’s always keeping his headphones on at any given time, playing the live feed and letting his cheeks turn red and his pants grow tight at the sound of you. Your voice, your laugh, your humming, your moans and whimpers and hell, even the sound of you peeing is enough to make him feel light-headed, connected to you in a way that gets his heart racing and his cock swelling. Maybe one day he’ll install the visual one, too, but for now the sound is enough – the audio recordings he takes of you is more than enough fodder should he ever need it.
Thinking about Asahi Azumane, whose apartment is basically your second home. You come over and spend the night often – often enough to have your own toothbrush permanently living at his place, set off to the side and out of the mainly used area of the bathroom counter. It’s a common brand, one that Asahi can find at the corner market – which he does, keeping a constant supply around so that he can replace it each time you use it. He keeps them all stacked nicely in a Ziploc bag, dating each in permanent marker so he can recount and remember all the times you’ve slept under the same roof as him, only a room away. And of course, this makes it much easier to slip the it between his lips and against his tongue, teeth grinding down against the bristles and his eyes fluttering closed because it just feels so very intimate. It’s embarrassing and he keeps everything well hidden from you, but the way he stares as he brushes his teeth beside you is a bit of a give-away that there’s something going on.
Thinking about Ryunosuke Tanaka who keeps a running list of the insults you throw at him. They’re never truly mean, always just jokes or digs at some niche thing about him and his Loverboy attitude, but Ryunosuke notices. He’s transcribing them into his Notes app on his phone, and when he gets home each evening he repeats the insult to himself out loud, saying the word over and over in a mimic of your own voice, letting his hands run down the length of his body as he closes his eyes and melts into memories of your expression, your tone, the way you’d been looking at him. He’s got something of a degradation kink, and he’s training himself to become aroused at the mere mention of a derogatory nickname – it's for the future, he’ll tell himself, so that when he’s got you straddling him, tying him up and keeping him pinned underneath you, he can preform exactly how you want him to. He’ll be good for you – just call him a freak again, please.
Thinking about Yuu Nishinoya always making jokes about feet because he knows it makes you squirm in discomfort, but soon it stops being a joke. He’s always tickling your feet, making exaggerating sucking sounds when you slip your shoes off, even snatching your socks and running around with them, the adrenaline of you chasing him and yelling his name and looking at him him him making him giddy. But then he’s managing to keep the sock one day, curiously rubbing a finger over it as he palms himself, running his leaking, bright red tip against the material and cursing. He’ll wind up using it as a sort of cocksleeve, fucking into it and leaving it so riddled with cum that it’s hard, and suddenly the next time he jokes about you letting him give just one suck, c’mon is less teasing and much more serious.
Thinking of Shoyou Hinata who doesn’t understand why you get so angry when he suggests switching underwear. He thinks it’s sweet – a sign of love and comfort with each other, really. He’ll step into the cute, flimsy panties he buys for you, pulling them up and face twisting up slightly as he adjusts himself, trying his best to get the thong to hold as much of his cock and balls as he can. He feels naughty, wearing them under his shorts when he runs to the store to pick up groceries, and with each step he can feel the lacey material – the very material he’d forced you to strip out of that morning, the material still warm. And of course, you were forced into his boxers – the same ones he'd slept in, smelling musky and feeling wet with something you don’t want to name.
Thinking about Tobio Kageyama who has a full body reaction when he hears you say his name. It’s not subtle, either – he’s going stiff as a board, eyes blowing wide and pupils dilating, visible goosebumps erupting all over his skin. His breathing gets a bit heavier, and every muscle in his body is flexed, clenched so tightly that he can hardly move. He’ll stare at you, lips focused entirely on your lips, murmurs leaving his own that sound vaguely like your name, vaguely like fuck. You’ll have to pull him out of the moment yourself, with a touch to his shoulder or waving your hand in front of his face, and it’s only then that he’ll clear his throat, shifting in his pants and realizing much too late that he’s visibly hard, a bit of sweat visibly staining his exercise shirt under the armpits. He’ll make some lame excuse and run away, but as he fists his cock and replays the moment over in his head, he’ll be whining your name and your name only.
Thinking about Kei Tsukishima who feels so, so very stupid but can’t help but bite his lip as he scrolls through Spotify. There’s a separate, private folder of playlists he’s curated, each lasting easily two hours, all with different, single word titles. Doggy, cowgirl, lotus, 69. There’s ten or so, and they get updated at least once a day. It’s music that he can almost too easily imagine touching you to – slowed, passionate, your favorite songs, almost all of them coming from recommendations you yourself gave him. He just can’t help the mental imagery that fills him the moment he hears the chords and the singer’s voice – immediately you’re perched in his lap, tits pressed against his own chest and grinding on him so slowly that he’s near tears, desperation filling him and suddenly his finger’s tapping before he knows it, the little ‘saved to edging’ notification popping up at the bottom of his screen. It’s mortifying, really, but so is the silence only interrupted by the bassy thump thump that would otherwise fill up his bedroom every night.
Thinking about Tadashi Yamaguchi who splurges for his birthday and buys himself a customized life-sized body pillow with you printed on it. He’d been bright red the whole time he’d been ordering, the prized photo of you – scantily clad in your cute, revealing pajamas with your breasts just barely contained by the top – uploaded to the cute little Etsy shop. The package had arrived not soon enough, and he’s both flushed and breathing erratically the moment he rips open the packaging, wide eyes nearly tearing up at the sight of you – well, almost you. He’d paid extra to have the little audio insert sent alongside it, and as he records an audio he’d saved of you teasingly telling him goodnight ‘Dashi, love you, he’s shivering in excitement. It’s a shame that he stains the fabric with cum the first night, but a quick wash leaves it good as new – leaves you good as new.
Thinking about Tooru Oikawa and the pretty dildo he’s got buried away in his closet. It’s smooth, a pale pink color that reminds him of Sakura blossoms – that reminds him of you. He doesn’t use it often; only when he’s been on long, long stints away from home, tournaments and games making his muscles sore, his eyes sag, his heart ache in his chest. But as he sprits your perfume on it and whines your name as he sits down on it, his eyes roll to the back of his head and he remembers how he snatched this from your own closet after having watched you fuck yourself on it through your bedroom window.
Thinking about Hajime Iwaizumi who absolutely loves the big, pretty mirror you have in your bedroom. It’s the first thing he notices when he walks in for the first time, and it’s also the first thing he looks up when he gets home that night. And when he’s got you spread out on his cock a few months later, the locks on the doors numerous with passcodes he’ll never tell you, he’s sure you’ll be a bit relieved to see something familiar on your new bedroom’s walls. And he’ll tell you as much, gruff voice in your ear as he bounces you in his lap like some kind of toy, telling you to look at the mirror, baby, lookin’ so pretty… And when you cry he’ll wince, but the way his cock throbs inside you is telling.
Thinking about Kotarou Bokuto who calls you when he’s touching himself, narrating to you exactly what he’s doing. Of course, it’s not from his own phone – he likes to think it’s more exciting if it’s an unknown number. Maybe he’s seen too many TikTok thirsts about men in masks and Scream, but he thinks you’ll like the mystery. So when you stop picking up, he’ll just leave voicemails – always groaning and moaning your name, putting the microphone on the phone right up next to his fist, the wet schlock schlock sounds loud and clear. It’s risky and dirty, and when you bring it up the next time he sees you, complaining and confiding in him that some fucking creep is leaving horrible messages for you, he’ll only play along, convinced you’re hiding your true feelings to avoid looking like a pervert. But that’s okay, he likes that you’re a pervert! So pick up next time, yeah?
Thinking about Keiji Akaashi who, when the late hours and pages upon pages of editing the same manga get to him, will switch over to edit the more lewd, more explicit series he’d recently been assigned. Yeah, maybe it’s illegal to be photocopying the pages when there’s particular scenes that appeal to him, and maybe there’s something ever so slightly creepy about printing your photos and cutting out your face, pasting them onto the hentai’s protagonist and doing the same with his own photos, but it’s not a big deal. At least, it’s not a big deal until you find the volumes upon volumes of different almost collaged panels with your photos, all strung together in Keiji’s own personal fantasies of exactly what he wants to do to you, fit with his own handwriting covering the neatly White-outted text bubbles.
Thinking about Tetsurou Kuroo who purposefully gets a desk at work that can be raised to standing height. It’s not often, but when his mind is wandering and he can’t sit still while thoughts of you become unbearable, he’ll bring the desk up slightly. Standing up, he’ll align the wood right below his groin, shuffling forward and gently resting his clothed erection against the surface, sighing and rolling his head back as he lightly thrusts forwards and back. The fantasy of having you bent over the desk is too strong to ignore, and when you – his oh so sexy little assistant – come knocking at his door, he’s thanking anything that’s listening that you can’t see the way wet spreads across the front of his slacks.
Thinking about Kenma Kozume who only plays Sims because he has characters for the two of you. There’s no other avatars, solely and only the two of you. He’s curated your character to have your hair, your eyes, your body proportions, even buying special packages and programming his own mods to make it happen. The house you’re both living in is, he’ll admit, a bit excessive – there’s beds in every room, and the very first thing he’ll do each time he opens the game is immediately press the WooHoo button, zooming in on the monitor to get as close to your pixelated forms as possible. He’ll gulp and palm himself, eyes unblinking and repeating the command until he’s panting and gasping and staring at the sticky mess he’s left behind.
Thinking about Lev Haiba who’s not good at the up-skirt photos he tries to take. He’s not subtle, the camera flash going off and making you stiffen up. It’s easy to brush off with him though, his little laugh and scratching the back of his neck, telling you that he’s just supposed to be taking ‘candid photos of myself, something my new agency’s been wanting! Hey, look at that bird over there, so cute right?’ The flash as you turn around is less noticeable, but the way he audibly groans at the sight of your pretty panties certainly isn’t.
Thinking of Wakatoshi Ushijima who can’t quite understand why you’re uncomfortable when he stands so close to you. He’s always creeping up behind you, unnaturally quiet for someone so large, and suddenly you’ll feel this looming, overwhelming presence behind you, his breath hitting the crown of your head and making your hair tickle your neck and throat. He’s standing nearly flush with you, his cock mere centimeters from your ass, the smell of his cologne invading every one of your senses. He’ll only stare, stonefaced when you yelp and whirl around, only swallowing when you lightly swat his chest, irritation rippling through your tone when you tell him don’t sneak up on me like that! He doesn’t mean to scare you, really, but there’s something about being so close to you that makes his heart race, and he’s heard from all his teammates in the locker rooms about how women ‘love it from behind’, and he can only assume this is what they mean. He doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but he’s convinced that with enough time, you’ll grow to enjoy him standing behind you like a shadow, breathing down your neck and audibly inhaling at the juncture of your neck – television tells him as much, so why do you always shy away when he tells you that you smell heavenly?
Thinking of Eita Semi who, despite his best efforts, can’t find it in himself to reject a band admirer when she approaches him after a show. It’s not you and he’s not initially interested in her at all, but as she stays persistent and his numerous texts to you remain unanswered, Eita finds himself noticing that you have similar lips, similar hair, similar hips. It’s not actually cheating if he pretends it’s you, right? It feels sacrilegious to touch another woman, sure, but he’s actively moaning out your name, telling her to shut up when she says something he doesn’t think you would. And it starts a troubling pattern – you won’t sleep with him and he doesn’t want to pressure you, but the sexual frustration of desperately wanting to touch you and being unable to makes him crazy, willing to do anything to get even a phantom taste of you. He’ll apologize profusely if you ever find out, getting to his knees and begging you to forgive him, claiming he did it for you, but it’s a temporary solution for now. Just until you give him a taste of what he’s been dreaming of for months.
Thinking of Satori Tendou who picked up photography as a hobby once his feelings for you formed. He’s still a bit unsure about photographing you without your consent, but then you go and do something that makes his throat dry up, his fingers unable to stay still because you’re just so damn cute and he can’t help himself. He keeps all the photos in a special box, placed neatly and gently in the corner of his closet. They’re all labeled on the back with the date, time, and location, even a few jots of what he was thinking at the time of the photo capture. They’re by and large mostly innocent, but there’s a few that he’d been rash with, snapping the photo and feeling guilt away at him. Writing down the fantasies he’d had with each time he uses the photo to masturbate had been embarrassing at first, but each time he rifles through the photos – which are perfectly pristine, not a drop of cum or even spit anywhere to be seen – he’s poring through his notes, biting his lip and curling his toes as he remembers particularly vivid fantasies, all driven forward by your smiling face or your unaware figure. And while he’ll never offer to show them to you, should you ask he’d reluctantly agree, watching with baited breath to see which ones you like – which fantasies you want to try out.
Thinking of Tsutomu Goshiki who still, even as a young adult, finds himself getting flustered when he watches porn. He’s consuming as many videos as he can find, but he often finds himself clicking off of the video almost as soon as the actual sex starts – he’s interested in the lead up, rather than the act itself. He’s diligently studying the scripts, the scenarios placed forward, the way the women seem to go crazy for a few common, simple lines. He’s noting everything down and practicing the lines, looking at himself in the mirror and adding in your name just to get used to saying it without blushing. He’s convinced that because the women in porn would like these lines, so would you – of course, you would not enjoy being told that he’s the delivery pizza guy and that you’ll need to pay with your body, but Tsutomu doesn’t quite understand that. Surely it’s real – it’s porn, and he’s sure that he’ll be able to fuck you just the way he sees on his screen. He’ll make you scream just like all the women do – he promises.
Thinking of Shinsuke Kita who will let you bathe on your own, but never alone. He’s pulling up a stool beside the bathtub before you can protest, those eyes unblinking as he gets nice and settled in. He’s smiling gently at you, asking you if the water is the right temperature, if you’d like to a use a bathbomb, if you want any help shampooing or scrubbing your body. It’s unnerving if only because the nonchalance is infuriating, but his hands stay perfectly still on his lap, palms flat against the material of his trousers. He’s visibly growing hard as you quickly wash your body, still staring, but he makes no move to act on it. It’s only once he’s watched you settle into bed, promising he’ll be up soon, that he makes his move. The water’s cold by now, but he still sinks into the porcelain with a stifled grown, letting the bath water slip past his lips and cover his face, enjoying every bit of residue of you.
Thinking of Atsumu Miya who’s notorious for PDA with you long before you’ve accepted your fate. He’s always inviting you to his games, getting you special seating so that you’re as close to the court as possible, and after each win he’s pulling you into a searing, bruising, loud kiss. It’s dramatic and it’s entirely too much, but the cameras flash and the headlines spur with details of his supposed relationship with you. It’s all for publicity, he’ll tell you, apologizing but telling you that y’understand, right? It’s for his career, he promises, to make himself look better for the media, but the way he’ll slowly pull away and whimper your name so that only you can hear isn’t quite as publicity-driven as he claims. At least, when he groans and lets his eyes flutter closed afterwards, it sure doesn’t feel that way.
Thinking of Osamu Miya who, of course, has a rather nasty habit of infusing his cooking for you with something salty, bitter, and off-white, but he’s got yet another secret hidden up his sleeve. It takes him a while to work up to coming in your food, desperation driving him mad with the urge to somehow stake a claim on you, but letting his lips pucker and spitting into the frying, sizzling meal he’s whipping up for you? Well, that’s much less sinister, isn’t it? It’s less creepy, he thinks, and it’s easier – he can spit once, twice, five times in a single dish, watching with hawk eyes when you groan and praise his cooking after the first bite. It’s a secret, and the only tell he has is that he’ll bite his lips, Adam’s apple harshly bobbing, his fist clenching and his pants getting tight because oh, you think it tastes good?
Little blurbs about assorted haikyuu characters because I finally got around to watching the Dumpster Battle. This will likely be the first part of a few thirst ramblings - sorry for the long hiatus, of course it's porn that brings me out of my cave of writer's block
Ft. Tetsurou Kuroo, Lev Haiba, and Tobio Kageyama
TW: dub-con/non-con, implied kidnapping, yandere, pegging, choking, fem reader, MDNI
Tetsurou Kuroo's a headpusher - there's no two ways about it.
Long, thick fingers twist and tangle into your hair, blunt nails digging at your scalp as he slowly applies pressure. He's not trying to push you at first, forcing himself to keep his hand steady and his breathing even. His eyes alternate between fluttering closed because the sensation of your tongue against the underside of his cock is too much, and snapping wide open because god you look good choking on him.
He's not trying to push, but as his head tilts back and his throat visibly bobs as he gulps, his control starts waning. His hips buck almost imperceptibly, little jolts forward that make your eyes squeeze shut as you force yourself to not gag. Each buck is accompanied by a muffled groan that comes from somewhere deep inside his chest, fingers tightening their grip in your hair.
And then you suck a certain way, drool slipping from the corner of your lips and Tetsurou catches sight of it and oh, he's grunting and slurring something that sounds like your name as his forearm flexes, every muslce in his body trying to fight the urge to hold you steady and fuck your mouth. His toes are curling and he's grimacing and oh oh oh -
It happens so fast that you can barely process it. He's cupping the back of your head and pushing you forward, cockhead ramming into the back of your throat and leaving you sputtering. But it only makes Tetusorou moan harder, the already pink flush on his cheeks blooming red because fuuuuck your throat gets so tight when you cough and choke and it feels so good he swears he's going to cum -
But then he feels your frantic taps against his thigh, dark eyes peeling open ever so slightly to see the way you're desperate, pushing against his hand to lean back and breath, and he's immediately pulling out, hissing slightly at the wet friction. He's squatting down to your height, cock still flushed, angry, and red against his stomach and shining in the light with the sheen of your spit. Shaking fingers push at your hair to keep it out of your eyes, his own dark gaze half-lidded in pleasure with a twinge of panic.
You okay? His voice is rugged and rough, the edges of a moan settling somewhere against his throat. When you nod, coughing one last weak, feeble time, he swallows.
Careful angel, wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. His thumb comes up to trace the line of your jaw, tongue flicking out to lick his lips. He moves forward then, eyes half-closing as he licks at your lips - long, slow strokes that are much too wet. When you cringe and automatically open your eyes, Tetsurou's already looking at you, dark eyes wide open as he licks and sucks at your mouth.
There's a whisper of your name against your skin as he pulls back, his cheeks still painted that pretty rose color, and for a moment you marvel at how truly beautiful he is.
You marvel until he's suddenly leaning back in again, teeth biting at your ear and murmuring well, since you're okay, this cock's not gonna suck itself, yeah?
And then he's standing up again, thumb and index finger gripping his base and slapping his shaft against your cheek. It's wet with a fresh coat of precum, and you try not to think about why he would've been aroused by the sight and sound of you choking.
He grabs his balls roughly as he slowly moves his hips up and down, rubbing his tip against the curves of your lips, nose, and cheek, biting his own lip and letting a wobbly, boyish sort of smile slip over his face.
And a few moments later, you'll find your nose tickled by the coarse, black curly hairs at his base and the salty taste of him filling your mouth, with his hand resting against the crown of your head once again.
Lev Haiba's a gentleman, or at least he likes to think so.
He gets that you aren't quite ready yet to touch him. Blah blah blah boundries, blah blah blah you're not ready for a physical relationship with him. It's all bullshit to him, of course, but you seem to really care about it and so he steels himself. It's the least he can do, really, when you smile at him so prettily and wear the lacey, silky lingerie he brings home new every night. Perks of a model's connections and salary, you suppose.
Take today, for example - you're dolled up in a soft, baby blue number, the crotchless panties and sheer bra cups leaving very little to the imagination. Lev's staring like a man starved, green eyes wide and trained on your curves, the soft expanse of your stomach, the way you squirm and shift under his ruthless gaze. So pretty, he murmurs, cock visibly throbbing under the pair of briefs sitting dangerously low on his hips.
He respects your desire to not touch him and not be touched, sure, but Lev's never been one to back down from a challenge. And so, here you are - dolled up in your lingerie, sure, but the complete opposite from your 'lover'. He's got only his briefs on, pale chest on full display as he leans back on the bed, propped up on an elbow. He's forced you to sit between his spread legs, no skin touching but only barely, and he's had you lay down on your stomach, arms folded below your chin and only mere inches away from his crotch.
The view's better this way, he'd told you, the dread in your stomach only sinking further down.
He worms his way out of his underwear with suspicous ease, cock springing up and smacking loudly against his stomach, a wet sort of splat that only serves to strangely humiliate and embarass you. But Lev's not embarassed - oh no, not if the excited, over-eager look on his face is anything to go by. And it's not long before slender fingers are curling around his shaft, pulling up and down and up and down over and over, a wet clicking noise filling the bedroom as his ragged breaths fill your ears.
D'you like this? He's asking, voice low and strained.
Does this make you wet? He licks his lips at the thought, gaze flashing to the sight of your thong-clad ass laying on the bed.
Do you want this? D'you want this cock? Want this cum? His hips surge forward as he says it, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as a bead of pearly, thick precum bubbles at his tip.
And of course, the deal is no skin-to-skin contact - you never said anything more than that. And when his eyes roll to the back of his head, hips bucking up and his hand desperately pointing the spurts of hot, runny cum right to your face, Lev can only half-laugh, half-groan. He's playing by your rules, after all, and fuck do you look good in white.
If you say absolutely anything about this to anyone, Tobio Kageyama will make you suffer.
That's what he'd told you at least. You hadn't bothered pointing out the fact that you don't see anyone besides him, let only speak to them. It hadn't been worth it. Besides, you weren't entirely sure what 'making you suffer' even meant - because right now, you're pretty sure he's doing it anyways.
It should be empowering, really, to have your captor on his hands and knees in front of you, cheeks flushed bright pink and pert, twitching asshole on full display. His balls droop right in front of them, pink skin convulsing ever few seconds, the tip of his cock barely visible behind them and only growing harder with every passing moment.
He doesn't have it in him to look back at you, his pride already so far out the window that he couldn't bare to look at you while in such a vulnerable - humiliating - position. Even if he'd been the one to ask for it.
It should be empowering, yes, but there's something about the depraved nature of the way he grinds back against the pretty, gray strap he'd forced you into that stops you from feeling like you're in control. He's pathetic, really, toned muscles clenching and jerking as he grinds up against you, the tip of the silicone cock rubbing right against the spot that makes his eyes roll back. And yet it still feels like he's the one using you - he's still calling the shots even with 'you' buried five inches inside him.
And when he peeks back behind him, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat from hours of prepping with your fingers and smaller toys, he averts his gaze. He's never been a particularly submissive man, but the sight of you - completely nude, inside of him - leaves Tobio flustered beyond belief, hips swaying against you in an effort to distract himself with pleasure.
But eventually it's not enough, and it's only when the small, mumbled f'me rings in your ears that you finally speak.
What? Your voice is quiet, audibly uncomfortable.
Tobio groans. You heard me.
Frowning, you bite your lip. No, I didn't, I promise.
He grumbles something under his breath, back muslces tensing.
It's quiet, but you're just able to make it out. Fuck me.
It's quiet for a few beats, before Tobio's fist clenches against the sheets of your 'shared' bed, back arching impatiently. Just do it already!
You scramble to move, hips awkwardly and clumsily pulling back and slowly pushing in again. The effect is immediate - Tobio lets out something between a moan and a shout, burying his face against the pillow he'd positioned under his chin. (It's your pillow - the one you sleep with and the one you've caught him humping multiple times, little black hairs sometimes appearing on the otherwise crisp white fabric.) His back arches impossibly, the globes of his ass clenching and his fist tigthening against the sheets as he moves with your thrusts, pushing back to get the strap to reach as deeply as possible.
After a few minutes your rythym gets steadier, and Tobio shifts his face to the side. His cheeks are an even brighter shade of red now, hair mussled and sticking in all different directions, lips moving wildly.
I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you -
Each thrust is punctuated with a chanted declaration of love from him, his words getting more and more slurred with little slips of your name filling the gaps.
The sound of clapping skin echoes through the room before Tobio suddenly gasps and seizes up, every muscle going taut as his mumbled chanting is replaced with a frenzied, desperate plea.
Tell me you love me, f-fuck, tell me you love me I need to hear it pleasepleasepleaseplease-
You mutter out a weak I love you and it's all it takes - Tobio's letting out a gasping groan, back going concave as something hot and sticky lands on your thigh, hole clenching so hard you can't get the strap to slide in or out.
And when he's manhandling you into settling down against his face, thighs caging in his head while he sucks and licks with such fervor that it makes you squirm in more than just pleasure, you'll hear it again - that same muffled m'love you, m'love you.
(Don't be surprised when that same wet, hot feeling splatters against your lower back and ass a few mintues later.)
Tw: stalking, dub-con turned non-con but the reader is still kind of into it, recording, non-consensual recording, physical assault, threats, reader's kind of a freak in this
Thinking of yanderes who are so, so desperate to be intimate with you that they’re willing to go by your terms and adhere to the conditions you lay out for them.
You don’t want to touch him, not really – not with everything you know he’s done. You know he’s stalked you incessantly, following you like your shadow for months on end with no sense of privacy or personal space, intruding on every aspect of your personal life with only a passing sense of guilt.
(He’s watched you sleep, even settling beside you on your bed and watching the rise and fall of your chest, listening to the soft inhales and exhales, even going so far as to let his mouth hover over yours, breathing in the air of your soft little snores. He’s watched you shower, setting up cameras and staring through windows to see even a peek of your nude figure, palming himself and practically drooling because fuck, he would cut off his own limb to be washing your hair for you or soaping down your back, your thighs, your tits…)
You know he’s threatened others, blackmailed friends, family, and partners, perhaps even permanently eliminated potential rivals. You know he’s gone to extreme lengths to keep you right where he wants you, to keep you within his imaginary grasp so that he can finally, finally make the final move to make you officially his.
He's a creep in every sense of word, but perhaps you’re a bit of a creep, too, because there’s something about the raw, carnal desperation he’s exhibiting for you that almost feels good. It’s flattering in a fucked up way, making your self-confidence skyrocket because here’s this grown man that’s absolutely whipped for you, willing to do all sorts of illegal and depraved things just for your allowance of him to breath the same air and occupy the same space as you.
You may not be a particularly egocentric person, but perhaps you can indulge his little obsession. Perhaps it’s boredom, excitement at just how pathetically eager he is, or maybe it’s even a genuine sort of fondness and attraction you’ve developed for him – regardless, the next time he begs for you to please, please just give him a single chance to show you that he can make you feel good, you’re biting your lip and nodding, interrupting his stuttered gasp and shocked r-really with a few conditions of your own.
And yet, no matter what conditions you lay forward, things don’t go quite as you’d planned, quite as you’d hoped. Somehow you lose control of the situation, and before you can stop it you realize you’ve opened the floodgates, the truly breadth of his yearning and disregard for morality uncomfortably obvious. Somehow, the creep manages to bend you to his whim – showcasing just how dangerous and strong his Loverboy, eager-to-please façade had been. Because now, the man hovering over you and groaning declarations of love and devotion is suddenly very strong and very impossible to push off of you.
And yet, his creep has rubbed off onto you, because you’re almost enjoying it.
And now, for the sake of imagination, let’s say you give one of three possible conditions…
He’s not allowed to touch you.
It’s a proposition that makes him whine, disappointment settling deep in his chest because how is he supposed to show you what you’re missing out on if he can’t kiss you or touch you or stuff you so full of his cock that you’re dazed and nonsensical?
It irritates him, but the prospect of getting to touch himself with you looking at him is enough to get him agreeing, and you’ll find yourself sitting in front of him, fully clothed even while he’s stripped down to nothing, red, swollen cock in hand as he furiously brings his wrist up and down. It’s loud – squelching and making bassy, tacky thump noises with each slam of his fist against his navel, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s too busy staring at you, eyes seemingly unblinking even when they’re half-closed in lust.
It’s arousing at first to watch a man so blatantly and needily masturbating to you, but the moment that your eyes stray from him and his body he’s faltering, fury sprouting from his gut because how dare you not be looking at him during this. How dare you not contribute the same amount of attention and intimacy that he is. How dare you ignore him like he’s just some little puny bug when he’s whining and gasping about every little explicit, detailed fantasy he’s had of you.
And he’s moving before you know it, grabbing your clothed wrists in a single hand and pinning them above your head, keeping your thighs trapped between his own as he ruts into his fist, the smell and sound overwhelming now as he hovers over you.
Look at me look at me look at me he’s chanting to you, voice strained and uneven as the pleasure mounts, the scared look in your eye only making him harder, precum oozing from his sensitive tip in copious amounts, even dripping down his knuckles and lightly staining your shirt.
It’s not long before he’s coming, crying out your name and pressing his crotch against your body, cum spurting out to cover your torso, even getting a little bit against your neck and chin, the hot, slimy sensation making you squirm.
He’s panting, and as he resumes stroking himself, hissing and wincing slightly at the overstimulation, he’ll only breathily laugh down at you, smile too wide and his cheeks too flushed as he reminds you that I’m not touching you, am I? Fabric separating us still, but isn’t this good? D’you like being covered in my spunk?
It feels like hours before he finally lets his fist slow down, cum covering your chest, but with the majority of his releases concentrated over the expanse of your cunt, seeping through the fabric of your jeans and leaving the skin below feeling wet, the sheer volume impressive and leaving you to wonder how he hasn’t passed out from exhaustion.
He’ll groan, eyes fluttering closed briefly before opening up wide, leaning down so that he’s merely a breath away from your lips, murmuring next time, we’ll do this again and I’ll stick to your fucking rules, but a condom counts as not touching, right? Right?
Maybe it’s a safety precaution, or perhaps this is the chance to play out some long-standing fantasy of a threesome you’ve had for longer than you’d care to admit. Regardless, he’s not pleased about the prospect of sharing you, but the months of wringing himself dry to the point of rashes and skin-rubbed-raw leave him babbling out a yes, promising to include whoever you desire.
Except, maybe you really are a sadist because of course you choose the man he hates most.
It’s a slap in the face but he manages to pull through, irritation already coursing through him the moment the three of you settle onto the bed, but things only get progressively worse. Almost immediately, the fucker is stealing your attention – pulling you in for a messy, loud kiss, and it makes his skin crawl to see the way your eyes close, how you lean into the kiss, how you guide his hands to cup your tits and grope at your thighs.
The intruder is far too comfortable, and as your yandere grabs you and physically puts you onto the other side of the bed so that he’s sitting between you two, he can only swallow. He’s immediately leaning in for a kiss of his own, lips working against yours in a fervor, hands unable to stay still as he yanks at the hem of your shift, ripping the material. He’s groaning against you, moving hurriedly as he tries to strip you, unwilling to let the intruder do anything as monumental and intimate as undressing you. But it’s too late, because the man is moving to your other side, pressing his navel against your ass and biting at your ear, and you’re breaking the kiss to moan and he thinks he’s going to be sick because the intruder’s hand is slipping under your skirt.
He slaps the man’s hand away, sending him a glare that makes even a shiver roll down your spine, before shoving his hand between your thighs instead, sucking in a breath because he knows what panties you’re wearing by feel, the pretty black ones that make your ass look so damn good, the one he’s stolen and jerked himself with so many times that it’s making a sort of Pavlov response hit him and oh oh oh no no no he can’t come yet oh please god no –
The moment is ruined, though, because the intruder’s kissing you again, suddenly slapping your thigh with his cock and telling you to beg for it, pretty girl, tell me you want it and something inside your yandere just sort of snaps.
He’s got the man on the ground before he can stop himself, fists raised and connecting with the man’s face, blood already covering his knuckles with just a few hits. He’s growling, a sort of inhuman sound that leaves his teeth bared, audible even over the man’s pained whimpers, even as the consciousness slips from his eyes and he goes limp against the ground, chest rising and falling very slowly.
And you’re still on the bed, staring with a dropped jaw and fear swimming in those pretty eyes as your yandere comes back to you, blood staining his palms and speckling his shirt, his breathing ragged as he shoves your head down to his crotch, telling you suck it clean or I’ll kill him, a smirk settling on his lips as you immediately hollow your cheeks.
And as he maneuvers you onto your knees, fingertips groping and kneading at your cheeks as he fucks into you from behind hard enough to leave your ass ricocheting and jiggling, it’s difficult to not hear the way he breathily laughs, thumb coming around to pinch at your clit as he tells you didn’t break your rule, there’s still another person in the room, isn’t there? Stupid fucker’s just not able to see how well you take my cock.
He’s shoving your face too far into the mattress to respond though, so he only answers himself with a slurred groan of ‘m coming, fuck take it take it –
Sanemi and Giyuu, Akaza and Douma, Oikawa and Kageyama, Kuroo and Daichi, Daishou and Kuroo, Tsukishima and Hinata, Shigaraki and Dabi, Endeavor and All Might, Nobunaga and Franklin
3. You want everything on camera.
Maybe it’s a kink for being recorded or maybe you simply want hard evidence to be able to use against him when you eventually take him to court, confident that he’ll let something incriminating slip out. Regardless, he’s very, very eager to fulfill your request, only growing slightly camera shy when the time finally comes.
It’s not a complicated set up, really – you’ve got a tripod of sorts with your phone balanced on it, the video rolling and centered on the bed where you’re settled in his lap. He’s clutching at you, making all sorts of little whimpers and whines as you kiss him, his lips eager and insistent and his tongue immediately pushing into your mouth the moment he can. It’s sticky sounding, and you’re sure the camera can pick it up.
When you pull back for air, letting your shirt come up and over your head, you’re almost embarrassed at the way he immediately shoves his face between your breasts, violently shaking his head back and forth, not paying attention to the way your bra cups poke at his eyes. He’s mouthing at your nipples over the fabric, even going so far as to dig one out of the cup, sucking and licking at it. His free hands travel down the expanse of your back, tracing the muscles under the skin and eventually settling at your ass, moving you to grind on his already very hard cock.
He pulls back with a little pop noise, licking his lips and looking up at you almost dazed. So pretty, he mumbles to himself, squeezing his hands, and you can only shiver in both excitement and discomfort as he starts rambling.
Been dreaming of this for so long, baby, stalked you for so long that I know exactly how to touch you, how to fuck ya… Been touching myself too much to the thought of you, huh? Feel how fucking hard I am just from a bit of kissing and touching?
He giggles at that, nipping at your nipple and enjoying the way you squirm slightly.
Broke into your apartment almost every day the last year, stolen your stuff and licked every utensil you own. Wore your panties and sucked on your toothbrush, stole your mail and hacked into your laptop and phone cameras just to get a front row view of you.
The information makes your stomach drop and you stiffen in his hold, his his insistent, guided grinds against his crotch only pick up.
Touched you while you slept, too, but I think you already knew that. You’re hard to wake up, y’know? And you make this cute little whine when I finger you, but this is much better right now. You’re hotter when you’re awake, but I’ll take you either way.
It’s ten more minutes of dreadful, disturbing admissions from him as he grinds you against him and suckles at your chest, leaving your nipples sore and bruised, puffy and overly-sensitive. The camera’s still rolling, and it’s only when he curls in on himself, a strained f-fuck spilling past his lips as something warm and wet seeps through his boxers that he slows down, stopping and cupping at your tits, squeezing harshly and burying his face in them once more for a brief moment.
He detaches himself, walking over to your phone and ending the video, before pulling his own out and replacing it with yours, walking back over to you and licking his lips.
Hey now that we’ve got yours and I’ve confessed to all the shit you wanted me to, it’s my turn, yeah? We make a video for you, now we make a sex tape for me. Oh, don’t make that face – ‘m not going to show it to anyone. Well, except maybe you, would you like to watch it back with me?
He doesn’t give you time to respond as he flips you onto your stomach, displaying a level of strength that shocks you, keeping you flat against the bed as he pulls you towards him so that you’re dangling off the edge, ass bared to the camera. He giggles, tracing a fingers against your clothed cunt, before slapping at it harshly, enjoying the way you squirm.
Let’s put on a good show, huh? I’m thinking…
He lets a leg stand on either side of your hips, settling himself so that his chest is pressed flush against your back, lips brushing at your ear as he murmurs we’ll start like this, the angle will be really good, I promise. Trust me, ‘ve watched a lot of porn – you’ll look good like this.
Then he’s forcing you into his lap, facing the camera and making your legs spread wide, a hand slipping into your shorts and toying with your clit. Then like this – think I can make you squirt? Think it’ll reach the camera from all the way over here?
Finally, he’s forcing you onto your knees while he stands over you, the camera right at your face level as he pets at your hair, sighing dreamily and saying and we’ll finish it like this – be loud, okay? Wanna see you gagging and choking. And if you don’t swallow, I’ll just have to do it again – thoughts on throatfucking?
And as he settles you onto your stomach, mounting you and letting the camera roll as he fucks into you hard enough to leave you screaming his name, he’ll only whisper in your ear between hearty groans and the slap of his balls against your ass remember, you wanted the video sweetheart.
Be careful what you wish for, because with your rule in place, they will bend it to work to their advantage – but don’t be too hard on yourself for enjoying it. After all, they know you better than you know yourself – can you really be surprised that they know exactly what will turn you on, too?
Tw: mild misogyny, physical assault, sexual harassment, he's icky nasty
“Y’know, you get this look when you’re mad.” He starts, and you straighten, back going taut as you wait for him to continue. Your back is to him, and you’re painfully aware of the heavy sound of his footsteps, slowly approaching you with a pace that makes shivers prickle along your arms.
“It’s like…” He starts, a noise following that you can only assume must be contemplative. “It’s like you’ve just missed the last train, or maybe someone cut you in line and got the last soda. It’s angry, sure, but it’s more like you’ve given up, if that makes sense.”
You peek at him, now, out of the corner of your eye. You’re not sure what brought this on – he’d just been out to get a coffee from the campus café, promising to be back in a few minutes. That’d been thirty minutes ago.
Working on the project together hadn’t been your choice, but when he turned to you in class and nudged you, quirking his brows and promising to work real hard, you’d merely shrugged, genuinely ambivalent. You didn’t know anyone else in the class, only taking it as an elective, and it was supposed to be pretty easy.
“See, you’re doing it right now.” He snorts a bit, and now you fully turn to look at him.
“Thirty minutes? The café’s next door.” You’re a little irritated, sure, but not terribly so. Working on the project wasn’t exactly your idea of fun, either.
He winces, eyebrows drawing together, but offers you an apologetic smile. “Yeah, yeah, sorry about that.”
He sits down next to you, the otherwise empty classroom making the squeaking chair echo. The smell of coffee fills the room as he sets down his own cup, steam billowing from the sipping slit. You’re about to open your mouth to ask him if he’s finally ready to get started, but when he places a to-go cup down in front of you, too, your mouth snaps closed.
“Just guessed what you’d want, sorry. For whatever it’s worth, your drink’s the one that took so long to make.”
You glance at him, finding his gaze already stuck on you, but you just smile a bit. “Okay, forgiven.”
He laughs, clapping his hands together in a praying motion. “Thank god.”
Your laptop’s open in front of you, and for a few minutes the only sound filling the room is the clicking of keys and occasional sipping. Much to your surprise, he’d managed to select a drink you didn’t mind. Taking a small sip, you sighed at the flavor. It was cold in the classroom and the warmth was welcomed.
“So, what are you thinking for colors? I like my PowerPoints to be pretty, but if you want it to be more simple then that’s okay.” You look over at him as you finish, watching the way he bites his lip.
“Mm, maybe black and white? Y’know, just real simple. Simple’s always good.” He winks at you, and you slowly nod.
“Okay, uh, sure.”
Truth be told, you didn’t know much about your seatmate – he’d ran into class five minutes late the first day, quickly rushing into the closest open seat which happened to be next to you. You’d been a little irritated at first at how his stuff sprawled out and invaded your space, but he seemed nice and was decently participatory in class, making you grow a bit fond of him. Besides, the professor always looked so thankful when he was the only one to raise his hand – and for that, you could let his more questionable behavior slide.
“You’re doing it again, you know.” He starts, a finger coming out to poke at the side of your arm.
Jumping, you whirl on him. “What?”
“Doing your angry-but-not-really face.”
“I’m not mad, I promise.”
“Sure, sure. Then hopefully you won’t be mad if I do… this.” He starts, before reaching out to flick your pencil over the side of the table.
You’re frozen for a second, before staring at him blankly. “What the fuck?”
He grins. “I just wanna see if that look gets worse when you’re for real irritated, y’know?”
You sigh, reaching down to pick it up off the floor. Fixing him a look, you cross your arms. “Better? Because I am definitely irritated now.”
He appraises you, leaning a few inches closer. “Mhm, just as I thought! Your lips get thinner, and your eyebrows get all tight.”
Rolling your eyes, you turn to face your laptop again. You only get a few words typed before he’s snickering under his breath, voice low as he mutters, “Most guys think that’s pretty unattractive, just so you know.”
Immediately you stop typing. Maybe partnering with him wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“What’s your problem?” You ask, and he looks at you again, hands poised over his own keyboard.
“What? Sorry if I hit a sensitive spot – girls are so weird about stuff like that. You’re pretty, don’t worry.”
You stay staring at him, and he only snickers. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s the look I’m talking about. Kind of kicked-puppy, like you’re real sorry for yourself.”
Standing up from your chair, you set your hands on your hips and face him. “Okay, listen you ass, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’m not dealing with this shit.”
You start to gather your stuff, but your partner only laughs a bit, before reaching out and flicking your pencil once more, this time a little bit further. With a huff, you smack at his arm and set your things down with a loud thud onto the wood, moving to the side of the desk and bending down to pick it up.
He’s quicker than you’d expected, given the frumpy sweatshirt and sweatpants he wears that hide the muscular physique underneath.
Hands encircle your wrists before you can think, body rotated harshly, back hitting the linoleum floor with enough force to knock the wind out of you. He’s above you, strong thighs caging your legs together underneath him. Your wrists are held up above your head, his single hand large enough to keep them pinned there. It isn’t until now that you realize just how tall he is, or how strong.
“What the fuck – “ You start, struggling and wiggling in his grasp. With growing panic, you realize you’re not able to make much progress, his muscles feeling like stone against you. A hand quickly comes down to slap over your mouth, muffling any yells or screams.
He’s staring at you, expression blank, something heavy simmering behind his eyes. Slowly though, the corner of his mouth tilts up, and it spreads, something resembling a grin stretching across his mouth – though his eyes don’t change.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a filthy mouth?” He asks, voice a bit quieter now, more of a whisper and deeper somehow – deep enough to make you freeze, momentarily stopping your struggle. His eyes are sharp, scary, too much – he’s too close to you, leaning closer and closer and making you press yourself harder and harder against the dirty classroom floor.
He laughs again. “But that’s okay, I like that about you. It’s like you’re wild, like you’re untamed. Real.” His eyes flash. “Raw. Ha, I just know girls love to hear that word.”
Your eyes go wide, the insinuation making your struggling pick back up again. You’re thrashing, but he only squeezes at your jaw, tutting at you.
“Nuh-uh, none of that, okay? And don’t worry,” he throws you a smile that makes your eyes feel wet, your nose tingling, “I’m not gonna do that. At least, not here. Y’know, I’ve got a little bit of decency, I know girls like mattresses, pillows, and shit like that.”
He licks his lips. “Anyways, back to that mouth of yours…”
Quickly, and without any warning, the hand over your mouth shifts up and down, two long, curling fingers plunging past your lips and laying heavily against your tongue.
Your face twists up, eyebrows knotting together in disgust because his fingers taste like salt. He grins again, and to your horror, his fingers start moving. Rubbing against your tongue, pressing down and down, the pads of his fingers feeling like sandpaper against you.
“You always get a look when you’re angry, sure, but did you know you get this look when you’re really happy, too? It’s like you’ve seen something Earth-shattering, like it’s something almost holy.” The fingers move and angle under, rubbing against the soft underside of your tongue, down and pressing against the space underneath your tongue. He shudders. “They say this part feels like pussy. That true?”
You can’t move, can’t even breath as he shoves his fingers down deeper, moving to run over all of your teeth, a whistle slipping past his lips. “But you’re real pretty when you’re smiling, you know. Makes me wanna stare at you. When you answer a question right and professor tells you ‘exactly!’, you get this big grin and it’s damn cute. Always staring at those lips of yours – they get thinner when you’re smiling, y’know? Stretched taut, always makes me think what all they can do. Just how much they can stretch, if you get what I’m saying.”
You do, but you wish you didn’t, and he must know that because his fingers move to dip into the lower corners of your mouth, slipping between your back molars and your inner cheeks, prodding and poking at the juncture between gum and cheek. “Pretty, pretty, pretty. Even like this – you’re puckered, which I guess isn’t the same thing, but I like it.”
He hums, taking his time as his fingers dip and poke at every inch of your mouth, running over every bump and curve of your teeth, pinching your tongue between his finger pads, thumb rubbing circles against the underside of your chin.
“Do you like this?” He murmurs, those eyes locked on the motion of his fingers inside your mouth, the imprint visible against your cheeks. He licks his lips again. “I’ve heard some girls like shit in their mouth. Obviously I think my cock’d be better, but this works too. Works for me, that’s for sure.”
He laughs at that, shifting his hips forward, and you whimper when you feel what you can only assume is his erection against your thigh. His nostrils flare at the sound. “Fuck babe, that’s good. Do that again.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately to pretend you’re somewhere else, but his grip on your wrist gets tighter, tight enough to hurt and oh ow ow ow –
You gasp around his fingers, the sound choking, and he whines lowly in his throat. “God, you’re fucking pretty. Your smile’s good, but you look good like this too, just so you know. All scared, shivering and squirming around… Ha, see? This is kind of like that angry face I was talking about. All terrified and self-patronizing, feeling back for yourself.”
He cocks his head to the side, fingers pushing in even further in a fluid motion, reaching to touch the back of your throat, making you gag. He bites his lip. “Kind of pisses me off that you’re so afraid of me, but I get it. I can forgive you. Besides…”
He leans down, nose nudging at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. Something warm and wet lolls out to run in languid strokes along your skin, the tee-shirt you’re wearing doing little to deter him. In fact, he takes the hem between his teeth, sucking at the fabric and letting his hair brush against your jawline. You shut your eyes again.
“I know what will make that face even better, how you’ll get even more angry.”
You stop, dread filling every muscle in your body.
He laughs against your skin, nibbling lightly and smiling at the way you jolt away. “Remember how I said I like your smile? How I think it’s just so damn pretty?”
You’re too frozen to move – not like you could, anyway. The linoleum feels especially cold against you.
He grins, pulling back to look at you. He presses a kiss against his hand, right over your lips. “Well, when we met up today and you looked at me like that, smiling at me – at me, I mean, what was I supposed to do?”
His cock’s pressing against your thigh again, humping lightly as it grows harder, bigger, more insistent. “I know you’re not stupid. Coffees don’t take thirty minutes to get. So you know what I did with the other twenty minutes, then, right? C’mon, you’re smart, think about it.”
He’s staring at you again, mirth swimming in his eyes. “Let’s just say my refractory period is damn short.”
Immediately there’s bile climbing up your throat because the salty taste of his fingers – his right hand, no less – is all too strong now, the smell of his pinky pressed up against your nose musky and heady and god, you’re going to be sick.
He’s quick to press harder against your mouth, though, tutting against at you. “Oh, don’t worry, I washed my hands after the first round. But then your drink was done, and I couldn’t keep you waiting, right? After all I know how you get when you’re mad.”
He sighs, leaning down to press his forehead against yours again. “Now, about that mouth.”
He grins, eyes sparkling as he ruts against your thigh and asks, “On your knees or on your back? I’ll let you choose, babe.”
Atsumu Miya, Kenji Futakuchi, Takahiro Hanamaki, Shoyo Hinata, Tetsurou Kuroo, young Enji Todoroki, Tomura Shigaraki, Kaigaku, some flavor of Tengen Uzui, Ryusei Shidou
I know I write about this kind of stuff a lot, but there’s just something about men humping inanimate objects that just really gets to me.
It’s the desperation that they can't control. It's the physical urge to move, to feel something underneath them, their body physically unable to stop itself from fucking something. It's the way their hips snap and buck and jolt all without them meaning it, their body betraying them on the most primal level because their subconscious is recognizing that they need something warm and soft and oh so pretty to sink into, to rut against until he's smearing pearls of white against soft, supple skin. It's the uncontrollable need to hump themselves against you, really.
Fucking their fist and mechanically bringing their wrist up and down again and again until cum oozes from the tip is fine and dandy, but they need more. They need the full immersion of the fantasy of fucking you, their brain needing the mental images and the physical motions of thrusting, pretending with every fiber of their being that its your warm, wet cunt sucking them in, the velvety feel of your walls leaving phantom touches against his skin.
(Some of them even go so far as to scratch at their own back, eyes rolling to the back of their head imagining that it’s you leaving your mark on him, that it’s your nails digging into his skin and digging into him, making him yours yours yours. They'll pinch at their own nipples, press fingertips hard against their biceps, even wrap a hand around his neck hard enough to leave the area red and irritated just to simulate the way that you'd touch him.)
Pillows, cushions, blankets, anything soft that could be a poor stand-in for your body is fine. Anything that he can clutch onto, that he can press his hips against tightly enough to be suffocating, something that can mold to the shape of him just as you would - all just to really feel like he’s got every single inch stuffed inside of you, giving everything he possibly can to you.
Even hard things will do in a pinch - perhaps the cover of a book you love and cherish, the texture of the binding leaving a slightly painful sting behind that blends into the pleasure and makes his eyes roll back. (Will you still smell the pages and sigh at that old-book smell, or will you perhaps notice the new presence of something slightly musky, slightly heavy, unexplainably male?) Your hairbrush - rutting against the handle he knows you’ve fucked your self with, alternating between rutting against it and bringing it up to his mouth to suck on, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to taste any traces of you.
The only rule is that it has to be something of yours, or something that connects to you in some way. Your pillow, a few wayward strands of your hair sitting against the plush, feeling like heaven and making him blush when he sees the way his sticky cum has left the hairs smeared again his skin, tacky and stuck to him. (The sight makes him suck in his breath, gulping harshly as he comes down from his high, a thumb coming out to carefully, nervously brush at the hair, unable to stop himself from feeling like the sight is somehow so very right.)
It’s better when things are stained - your underwear with discharge discoloration bleaching the fabric, your favorite skirt that you accidentally stained during your period, even a particular pair of socks that you once got dirt on. It’s been used and loved by you, and now he’ll use and love it, too, even leaving his very own stain behind.
There’s just something about it that makes everything feel better, more complete, more real. Of course nothing will ever compare to actually fucking you, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
And of course, the pinnacle, when he really gets desperate, is when he whips out one of the many, many photographs he's taken of you. (Or, photos he'd printed out from your social media accounts because he's too shy to actually photograph you - and this is less creepy, right? Right?) He's touching it with delicate fingers, barely pinching onto the corners, laying the image down on his bed and positioning himself to be right over it. He'll take his time to trace the outline of your face with the tip, sighing and biting his lip, before the urge takes over and soon he's groaning, hips rutting against the smooth surface of the photograph - your face, really.
(The cool feeling and the twinge of pain he gets when he angles wrong and catches the edge of the photograph only makes him grit his teeth, eyes squeezing shut harder because he has to do this - he has to keep fucking, to keep pushing himself because he needs to come for you, you deserve and he wants to give it to you so badly and oh oh oh - The photograph of you smiling is almost prettier with globs of his cum staining your pearly teeth and the apples of your cheeks.)
It's just so depraved, but they can't help it - they just want you so badly that they can't help it.
(In particular I'm thinking of the chronic humpers - Kageyama, who gets so, so whiny, his voice going high and pitchy and his face turning a bright pink color as his abs clench and flex, each drag of his hips making his arms shake even more, sweat beading at his temple leaving his dark hair matted to his forehead.
Or Sugawara, who tends to lay onto his back, humping at the pillow from underneath, pressing the cotton so hard against his pelvis that his biceps are taut, back arching and Adam's Apple bobbing as he chants yes yes yes under his breath, one hand even coming up to blindly grope and squeeze at the air where he imagines your bouncing tits to be.
Or Giyuu, who's thrusts start out slow, hesitant, embarrassed, as if he can't believe he's been reduced to his, worried to sully your good name. But then his hips get faster and he's burying his face into the crook of his elbow, whispering out a stuttered, broken p-please accompanied by your name as he cum seeps into the pillow material.
Or Tomura, who has all the fancy sex toys in the world that he's found on the deepest, most questionable parts of the internet, but finds that nothing is a good stand in aside from your pillow. He starts off animalistic, mounting the pillow and smacking at it, imagining the way your pretty ass would bounce back and ripple at the motion. But then his orgasm draws closer and the thrusts get deeper, more meaningful, like he's trying to reach as deeply inside of you as possible, and his grip is almost unbearably tight as his orgasm washes over him, hips quivering and twitching as he imagines the way you'd clutch onto him and thank him.
Or Feitan, who's biting into the pillow as he cock drags against it, teeth bared and practically snarling into the (stained) cotton, dark eyes squeezed shut as he tries so very hard to not whine your name.
Or even, on very, very specific occasions, Chrollo, whose sense of dignity flies out the window when you deny his romantic advances once again. You're just playing so very hard to get, and while he's invested into the game for the long run, he's still just a man - and the image of you spread out underneath him, wearing lacy, angelic lingerie and spreading those creamy, supple thighs of yours is enough to drive him mad.
It's just pathetic enough to be sweet, really, and although you aren't exactly flattered when you walk in on him heatedly grunting your name with the pillow tightly clutched between his thighs, just know he's doing it for you. Everything he does is for you.
Just a quick passing thought, but I think it's so interesting to know what different yanderes do right in the moment of their orgasm - do they freeze up? Do their hips keep plunging against yours, the movements strained and uneven? Or maybe they reach out and squeeze, needing something to ground themselves with while they whimper and gasp out your name over and over again?
Thinking about yanderes who freeze up and just stare as their orgasm washes over them. The ones who let out this choked gasp as they see white blurs in the edges of their vision, every muscle in their body going taut and freezing up and their jaw dropping wide open because fuck. You just feel too good and they can't help but stare down at your pretty body - naked and sweating and trembling all for them them them, your eyes glassy and wide and spit smeared across your lips from where they'd been kissing you. (More like eating you, really, with the vigor and amount of tongue, but it was passionate and sweet and only a little bit one-sided, so that's still kissing, right?) They're scared to move as their cock throbs and pulses inside of you, the feeling of your tight, warm walls making their head spin and honest to god tears well up in the corner of their eyes from the sensation of you.
You're just too much - if they were to move and feel friction against their oversensitive cock they'd let out this pathetic little whine, a sound that makes them flush bright red and avoid eye contact with you because it's just all so embarrassing and needy. So instead, they hover over you, abs clenching and balls noticeably pulsing against the curve of your ass as they feel each and every spurt of cum push into you, the sensation leaving them breathless and burying their face into your neck, little mantras and chants of your name filling your ears. Please come for me, please please please please - they tell you as the last few drops ooze out of them and directly into you.
Thinking of men who lose control of their hips as their orgasm hits them. As soon as the rushed, husky groan of 'm coming, take it, fuck take it slips out of them, the rest of it is a blur. They aren't in control of themselves - their hips move on their own, following some carnal, natural instinct to fuck into you deeper, harder, longer until he's absolutely spent. He's physically crushing you, his hips pounding into you so hard that you're moved further and further up the bed (or the floor, if they couldn't quite make it there), your body merely dead weight. It stems from this urge to fuck their cum into you as deeply as they can, an instinct to claim and mark and breed you overclouding their mind.
There's no moment of rest with them, even after they've given you everything they have - their hips still twitch, pushing forward ever so slightly and making them hiss in pain-twinged pleasure, the oversensitivity and the gooey, warm feeling of their cum coating your walls making them bare their teeth and practically glare at you. You just feel too good - they're an animal around you, truly, and it's only after they're spent that they'll swallow heavily, licking their lips and letting themselves really look at you. To see the way you're panting, how your eyes are all wide, to feel the stinging against their back where you've clawed at them. The afterglow makes them giddy, and even if they don't show it, you'll feel it - the way they slowly grow hard inside of you again is difficult to ignore, after all.
Thinking of men who have to reach out and grab something to ground themselves with as their high approaches. It feels like a tidal wave, like there's something warm and big and hot building up in their navel, the sensation making their toes curl and their eyes cross and their muscles spasm and a hand reach out blindly, feeling, squeezing, groping - It's their tether to Earth as the wave crashes and breaks, ropes of cum shooting from their swollen, sensitive tip, something vaguely resembling your name falling from their lips as they pant into your mouth. It's the only thing keeping them aware of their surroundings, of you, as the pleasure overwhelms them.
And they're not especially picky about where they're grabbing onto for support, either - anything that's fatty and nearby will do. Your thigh, your hips, your stomach, your breast, your arm, hell, even your neck will do. Thick fingers wrap around the flesh, squeezing hard enough to leave light, finger-shaped bruises on your skin, their muscles still twitching against you as they groan and grunt, hips occasionally bucking into yours but losing momentum. You can actually feel how their orgasm and your cunt are affecting them this way - the way they grasp onto you even tighter when you accidentally clench down on them, the hiss they let out through clenched teeth seeming to make that spurt shoot into you even harder. And their hand doesn't always stay idle, either - they're actively moving it around as their orgasm continues on, switching from your chest to your hip to your cheek and back against to settle heavily against your nipple, burying their face between your tits as they groan and pathetically hump at you. And while they'll feel a bit guilty for the marks the next day, they can't hide the tent forming in their pants or the way they have to clear their throat to avoid telling you that they needs to leave more.
My contribution piece for the lovely @iwaasfairy's Cherry Velvet event! Happy belated birthday:)) Please check out the works that other super talented writers are contributing for this event as they go live this weekend! The theme is seedy underbelly, and while I definitely didn't go the traditional route, hopefully this fits the prompt loosely enough! I recently watched Ghost in the Shell for the nth time and was inspired, so here's my attempt at combining that with the collab's theme. Akaashi is probably very ooc but maybe if we all pretend hard enough...
Synopsis: As the android designed to protect the life of the millionaire inventor Kiyoomi Sakusa, your life has purpose and routine. But with the arrival of a new coworker, things begin falling apart.
Tw: implied stalking, implied kidnapping, kind of drugging, non-consensual tampering with body parts, theft of body parts (?), borderline somnophilia, violence, elements of body horror so sorry if you're a little squeamish, murder, misogynistic undertones at times, mentions of sexdolls/using individuals as sex slaves, I'm sorry I made Sakusa an absolute ass in this fic but I promise I don't actually hate him, brief allusions to Keiji jorkin' it clothed what a chump, reader is an android, fem reader, MDNI
WC: 10.6K
The explosion is loud. Burnt air sears against your skin, the heat singing the ends of your hair slightly. You’d closed your eyes too fast to see the brunt of it, but you’d watched in almost slow-motion as the man clutched onto something small and metallic in the front row, something between a grimace and a grin flitting on his face. You’d watched as he mouthed something, your eyes narrowing to read his lips and spelling out f-i-n-a-l-l-y, before sudden realization dawned on you.
All things considered, his aim is terrible. The homemade bomb lands a good twenty meters to the side of you, hitting some poor civilian instead. The rally’s cries grow and crescendo and then shatter just as the deafening sound of detonation fills the plaza area.
Your body reacts just barely in time – jumping forward, chest bared and arms extended, taking the brunt of the heat and flying debris, a few pieces lodging themselves shallowly into your legs, stomach, hip. If you could feel pain, you’re sure it would be exploding through you as you sneak a glance down at the rather graphic image of a walking cane impaled through your calf. There’s no blood, but the skin is curled back in the wrong direction, looking pinched and stretched and all sorts of things that make you quickly avert your gaze.
There’s no time to dwell on it, though, as 04 behind you swiftly grabs your shoulder. Their hand is on you but their eyes aren’t, instead fixed on the stone-faced man behind you. Their voice is steady as they command, “We must go. Head east away from the rubble; 08 is waiting with the car.”
It’s a blur as you follow 04 and Sakusa, keeping yourself like a shadow behind the latter. A bullet lodges its way between your shoulder blade and spine, but it doesn’t slow your running. Keeping your body perfectly aligned with Sakusa’s is all that matters; keeping the attacks away from his weak, flesh-and-bone body is the priority.
The car’s engine is revving as Sakusa slips into it, 04 piling in while you follow. You have to grab the cane and dislodge it to fit, the wet sound as it comes clean not fazing you.
The car speeds off without a moment to spare, blowing past streetlights and rounding corners so quickly that you’re forced to clutch onto the door for dear life. It’s silent, mostly, with only 03 scanning over Sakusa’s body for visible signs of damage.
His eyes are closed and he’s leaned back against the plush, leather seat cushion, but there’s no damage to be seen. 03 relaxes, face returning to stare blankly forward, and your gaze wanders to look outside the window. Crisis averted, it seems, though the sounds of a street riot are still audible if you strain hard enough.
“You’ve seen better days, haven’t you?” Atsumu whistles, blonde hair disheveled as he wipes at the oil staining his hands. You don’t bother telling him that the towel’s covered in oil, too, and that all he’s doing is spreading it around.
“Good thing you’re here to fix me, then.” You know the routine by now – the mechanical wing of the foundation’s estate is vast, but the shop isn’t too hard to find. It’s connected by a series of winding hallways, sure, but even if you didn’t have a photographic memory system you’d just listen for the sound of power drills and stupidity.
Atsumu grins. “Aye, whatever you say your majesty.”
He swats you with the towel before throwing it over his shoulder. Your lips twitch up at the corner, and his grin only widens. “Well look at that – if it isn’t the infamous smiling response programmed into the later models.”
He creeps closer, but your smile doesn’t fade. As irritating as he can be, you can’t help but be entertained.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re awfully sexy for a robot?”
“Miya!” Someone barks, and Atsumu groans. “Back to work, pisshead!”
He sighs, giving you a pleading look and mouthing help me, before vanishing off to the workbench spanning the entire wall of the room. And that’s certainly no easy feat – the workshop is easily the size of a city block, with instrumentation and parts lining the walls. People mill about in every corner and direction, carrying warped metal objects and cans of paint, boxes of fibrous hair and molds of human teeth. There’s chattering and a radio playing in the background; some sort of jangly guitar song from long before you were assembled. Rows upon rows of storage containers sit back against the third wall, large towing vehicles moving and resorting the bulk materials in some sort of organization. It’s a chaotic sort of system, but you can’t help but watch for a few moments, admiring the efficiency of so many moving parts.
You’re sitting on one of the many metal slabs in this corner of the room, the clothing Sakusa had told you to wear this morning still sitting on your frame. Dirt and blood now stain the fabric, and distantly you wonder whose blood it could be.
“Alright,” Atsumu starts, and you turn to look at him. There’s another man with him, one you don’t recognize. Dark, wavy hair settles against his temples and tickles at his neck, equally dark eyes looking right at you with a blank sort of look in them. He’s wearing the same black uniform as Atsumu, with the small KS Corporation logo sitting on the upper left pocket. A small stitched patch reveals the man is K. Akaashi.
“Who’s that?” You ask, almost before you can help it. It’s not often that anyone aside from Atsumu works on you – there’s not many mechanics qualified to tinker with your system, given the recency of your activation. Too many updates had been made – a small emotional cognition center, enhanced durability, increased skin and tactile sensitivity, faster reaction time, even a more realistic female shape, just to name a few. And Atsumu, despite his boyishness and frequent immaturity, was the only one Sakusa felt was qualified enough to keep up with all these changes.
Atsumu throws an arm around the new man’s shoulders, and you watch as the other one’s face sours slightly. “This is Akaashi! He’s been working at the satellite facility in Kyoto for a while, but just recently started here. He’s pretty serious, but he’s a nice guy!”
To that, Akaashi sighs. “It’s nice to meet you.”
You nod, smiling a bit, and Akaashi’s eyes widen ever so slightly. Atsumu barks out a laugh. “She’s an updated one, see? Can smile and all the good stuff.”
Akaashi stares at you for a few more moments, dark gaze unreadable, before visibly swallowing. “I’ve only heard of the newer models; it’s amazing to see one in person.”
You shy away slightly under his gaze, unsure of how to respond to that.
“Anyways, she’s got a whole hell of a lot of damage, so we’ve got our work cut out for us! Looks like a bullet wound, full puncture through the calf, major scratch along the forearm…” Atsumu trails off, and it’s only as he’s prattling on about your injuries that you notice half of them.
It’s not long before they’re both diligently working away, screwdrivers and neural cables plugged into the back of your neck as they replace and unscrew the damaged parts. It’s always strange to watch; you’re craning into whatever position they tell you to, completely awake and aware and watching as they tear off sheets of skin, remove your entire leg below the knee, pull off your scalp to make a few quick adjustments to your synapses. Being cognizant isn’t the strange part, you suppose, if only because you don’t know any better, but something about it feels strangely intimate.
It’s not your body, really, considering that you’re a hand-designed model by Kiyoomi Sakusa himself, but still. These are your cable openings, your hands they’re unscrewing, the ones they replace them with feeling foreign even though they’re perfectly under your control.
Some thirty minutes later you’re fit as a fiddle, each joint and limb working just as designed. Atsumu’s demanding as he walks you through the exercises to ensure correct connectivity, but after the final flexibility movement, he claps you on the back.
“Well done, now don’t come back for a while okay? You’re great company and all, but I go through half my shipments on your replacements alone!”
You shrug. “I’m model 09, the artificial shield, in case you forgot.”
Atsumu’s smile falters a bit, and you see Akaashi stiffen slightly by his side.
“Yeah, sure.” Atsumu pauses awkwardly, and clears his throat. “Anyways, off with you!”
“It was nice to meet you.” Akaashi starts, bowing. “Please take care.”
The walk from the workshop to your charging quarters feels long as you wander back, the hallways seeming smaller than normal.
The KS Corporation is certainly not the only android company operating, but with such high name recognition comes significant risks. Threats and attempts on Sakusa’s life aren’t uncommon, and even as you settle down and lay in the white, oblong charger port with your model number stamped against the exterior, you can’t find it in yourself to be shocked at the day’s events. There’d never been any sort of mystery when it came to your purpose, your reason for creation – all of Sakusa’s designs had some specialty or another, some more obvious than others. 02, for example, has the highest computing capacity of all his models – the fastest on his feet, you like to think, capable of putting your thinking power to shame for how speedy and complete his programming is. 05 was designed to explore decision-making capacity in artificial brains, their impulsiveness almost jarring with how unlike your own it is. Most of the purposes are, of course, acceptable – nothing too extreme.
But the latest models – you, and model 10 – are really the cause of the recent public outcry. There’d been hostility about the development of androids since the beginning, of course, but your purposes had been the final straw. You, serving as a bodyguard and a shield to protect Sakusa from any wayward harm, and of course model 10. The recent updates did include a remarkably more feminine form, something that 10 was even more enhanced in.
Her charging quarters weren’t even in this wing of the corporation headquarters – she was on the north side, her room noticeably closer to Sakusa’s.
With a sigh, you blindly reach up to grasp onto the thick, gray sleeping charge cord. Seven sharp, thin prongs extend from the cord’s end, and you’re quick to flip the port flap on the back of your neck up. Plugging it in is seamless as always, precision and muscle memory taking over as you lay back down, your systems shutting down one by one. It’s a strange sensation, and one you liken very much to how humans describe falling asleep.
You wake up slowly, each system whirring to life and leaving your ears ringing. Air blows through your nostrils and past your lips without your control, the cooling system throughout your body automatically activating as your systems overheat in the attempt to start. It’s routine – you’ll be fine in exactly 26 seconds.
The room is stark white and extremely small. ‘Your’ room, as Sakusa likes to say. There’s a chest of drawers shoved into a corner with some ten pairs of identical white dress shirts and black slacks sitting inside.
It’s only when you clasp the last button on the shirt that you notice the missing panel on the underside of your forearm. It’s small – barely a centimeter wide and long, housing the import cord for enhancement injections in that arm. A port you haven’t really needed to use yet, if only because of the enhanced durability programmed into your body.
After a moment of staring, you smooth out the fold lines on the shirt, slipping on a pair of the nondescript, black loafers Sakusa insists on you wearing. Atsumu probably forget a replacement – not a big deal. Considering how damaged you’d been when you showed up yesterday, it’s a miracle he hadn’t forgot to replace anything else. You’re out the door a moment later, the resounding click of the automatic door shutting behind you barely even registering.
“Again? Jesus, you’re going to wear yourself out if you keep this up.” Atsumu scolds, something like worry edging into his voice despite the teasing.
You’re on the metal slab again, Atsumu’s hands surveying for damage. Kuroo had been lucky today that you were with him – a random assassination attempt in broad daylight, with the culprit rushing up with some sort of knife. It had been long, reaching nearly through your torso, and you’d barely been able to block the blow. A mere moment later would’ve been too late.
“Damn prick, making something just to abuse it.” Atsumu’s muttering under his breath, honey eyes dark and hard as he solders two wires back together on your left ribcage.
That’s a dangerous thing to say, really, considering Sakusa’s paranoia surrounding worker retaliation. Fame has made him far too jaded, or so you keep hearing from all the protestors of the company. Protestors of your existence.
“Akaashi! Grab me a wrench.” Atsumu yells over his shoulder, and a rustle from behind an adjacent door tells you his coworker is searching.
“How long will it take?” You ask, watching with a neutral expression as Atsumu curses and tries to maneuver the wires again.
“Til that jackass finally kicks the bucket? Not long enough.”
Sucking in your teeth, you repeat your question. “I meant the repairs.”
He sighs, leaning back and grabbing the wrench as Akaashi suddenly appears. “Probably two or three hours. Your whole lower response system is fried – the hole managed to go right through your central mainframe. It’s repairable, but we’ll need to shut you down and probably have you spend the night just to make sure there aren’t any sparks or fires.”
You nod, only to get a small comment from Akaashi, who’d helped Atsumu maneuver you onto your side for a better angle. “Please don’t move.”
You don’t respond, something akin to embarrassment creeping up your spine.
Instead, you shift your gaze to the bed beside you. 02 is in – not for any damages, but just a routine checkup. He’s sitting completely ramrod straight, hands folded in his lap, eyes trained straight ahead. 02’s scalp covers are pulled back, exposing the mound of wiring and chips shoved into his artificial skull. Another worker stands behind him, a metal tool in his hand that you don’t recognize. There’s a pointed piece at the end of the tool, alongside what looks to be a clamp.
His gaze meets yours without warning and you quickly look away.
“Miya! Get over here, there’s a problem with the main valve.” A voice calls, and you feel as Atsumu practically wilts over your body.
“Goddamit,” he mutters, gingerly pulling back from the exposed wiring of your torso. He wipes his hands off on his shop apron, licking his lips and giving you a glance. “Sorry sweet thing, but duty calls. Akaashi’ll take care of the rest. He knows how to set up the system shut-down, so don’t worry.”
Akaashi nods in response, still tightening a screw on your back as his coworker speaks.
And with that, Atsumu is gone, his stomps loud and clear as he works his way to the other side of the workshop.
It’s quiet for a long while, only the sound of metal clanking and mechanical whirring filling the space between you two as Akaashi continues working. For a moment you wonder whether he’s working on the emotional center programmed into you, because the discomfort of the silence is starting to make you fidgety.
“So Akaashi, how long have you been working for the company?” You ask, looking at him out of the corner of your eye.
He doesn’t respond right away, instead staying focused on the screwdriver in his hand. You almost consider asking the question again, but he abruptly stops, wiping at his forehead with the back of his palm.
“Eight years.” His voice is calm as always, and you hum in response.
“What did you do before that?”
Akaashi pauses for a moment, glancing at you. “I didn’t realize the newer models were programmed for small-talk, too.”
That same feeling of embarrassment descends on you, and you quickly look away. “I’m just used to it, Atsumu’s rather talkative if you didn’t notice.”
At that, Akaashi cracks a smile. “Yes, I’ve noticed.”
The silence feels warmer after that – not necessarily comfortable, but enough to keep you from trying again.
“I was an editor. Before I worked here.”
You blink. “Oh. Why did you switch?”
He’s quiet again for a moment. “Morals. I want to see the development of androids up-close, I suppose.”
You don’t respond to that. Instead, you count the bands of the workshop’s lights reflecting against the metal slab you’re laying on.
“Okay, I’m ready to take you to the shut-down room. Are you ready?” He asks, and you slowly stand up. There’s no pain to register, of course, but each of your limbs responds slower than normal as you begin to walk, your balance noticeably off.
Akaashi’s arm reaches out to help steady you, cold fingers pressed against the interior of your arm and elbow. “This way.”
The shut-down room is off to the side of the workshop space, nondescript aside from the numerous warnings on the outside of the door reading heavy electrical input and warning: door slams open unexpectedly. It’s entirely metal, the stainless steel walls and ceiling letting in no outside light. As you step through the threshold heavy, nearly-blinding white spotlights light you up, tracking along with your steps as Akaashi guides you towards the familiar white oval pod.
It follows radiation signals, Atsumu had told you the first time when he noticed your discomfort. The lights followed you as you moved, but not him as he grabbed supplies and tools off the shelves lining the room. Specifically follows the radiation frequency the models give off, just to keep things easier for us mechanics.
He’d thrown a joke in there somehow, too, but the tone feels much more serious as Akaashi guides you to lay down.
“You’ve done this before, right?” He asks, not looking over his shoulder as he grabs a series of long syringes and a pair of safety glasses.
“A few times.” You answer, letting your gaze wander back up to the ceiling. It’s nearly impossible to not squint but you try not to, especially as Akaashi turns back around.
“Close your eyes,” he instructs, and you immediately obey. Something plastic and hard brushes against your temples as you do, pushing back and moving slightly down to align with your ears. Something equally hard sits on the bridge of your nose. “Okay, open again.”
The light’s not so bright with the sunglasses on, and without thinking your lips are parting, eyes fully opening underneath the tinted material.
Akaashi’s smiling when you finally look over at him, his lips softly curved and a dimple sitting in the divot of his right cheek. “You’re already in bad shape, I wouldn’t want your vision to need repairs, too.”
You return the smile. “I didn’t even know we had sunglasses in this room.”
He clears his throat, slipping the latex gloves on. “We don’t.”
The gloves feel cold as he lays one down onto your shoulder, the other grabbing at the thick, gray cord dangling near your head. “While you’re asleep I’ll be operating.”
You nod, your eyebrows drawing in slightly. This was standard procedure, no need to explain anything to you.
“I’ll be rerouting your energy systems to the backup reservoirs first, then fixing the mainframe circuits. After that, I’ll fix the cabling connecting through your torso, and then the damages to your back and hip. I’ll finish up with skin regrafts, and then I’ll program the shut-down cycle to last until the workshop reopens for normal hours tomorrow morning. All the operations should go smoothly and without complications, but just for your knowledge.” His voice is monotone as he tells you all this, fingers already typing codes and commands into the monitor at your bedside.
“Sure,” you agree, turning your head when you see him approaching with the port cable. His hand is clutching onto the port while the other types a few more rapid commands on the computer.
He pauses as he approaches your neck, and bites his lip. “Could you please move your hair a bit? I can’t see the panel.”
You blink, but quickly gather the hair up into a fist, angling your head even more and opening the panel for him. He gives you a quick thanks, and gently lines up the prongs. It’s smooth as he pushes it in, his actions almost hesitant, until he hears the tell-tale click. Typing one more command, Akaashi turns to you.
“Sleep well,” he wishes, a hand coming up to pat you on your shoulder.
Darkness takes over soon after, your vision and motor functions dormant as you slip into something resembling unconsciousness.
It’s Atsumu who eventually wakes you up, that familiar grin the first thing you see as your systems come back on-line one by one. He’s standing at the foot of the pod, weight leaned on one leg and arms smugly crossed.
Once he sees your eyes focus onto him, he whistles. “Lookin’ good as ever, Robogirl. I wouldn’t have even guessed you were barely in one piece yesterday.”
His comment makes you smile a bit, your facial control slowly coming back to you.
He pushes off the edge of the pod and settles into the chair at the bedside. “Akaashi did a good job, no hiccups. You look fit as a fiddle.”
Letting the air finish blowing through your nose and lips, you shift. “Yeah, maybe you should be worried for your job. He might overshadow you, you know.”
He mocks offense, a hand coming up to cover his heart. “You wound me – for an android that heart of yours really is cold.”
“Lucky it’s not beating then, aren’t we?” The voice is cold, and immediately Atsumu stiffens. You’re tense, too, but you notice out of the corner of your eye the way Atsumu’s fist clenches against his thigh. “All looks clear, yes?”
Atsumu swallows, then stands up and faces the newcomer. “Of course, sir, Model 09 is cleared for return to duty.”
Sakusa hums, dark eyes fixed on Atsumu. “Any system damage that could slow it down?”
Atsumu’s fist clenches tighter behind his back. “No, all systems appear to be in optimal condition.”
“Good.” Sakusa takes a few steps closer to the pod, and gazes down at you. You return the gaze, unblinking.
“There’s a press conference this afternoon at 3. I expect your presence.” He tells you, dark eyes scanning down your figure and back up.
“Yes, sir.” You respond, keeping your voice flat. He nods, giving you one last look, before turning on his heel and slipping out of the room as quietly as he’d entered.
Once the door clicks back into place, Atsumu’s gritting his teeth. “Fucker, walking in here and calling you an ‘it’. Next time he comes in here I’m grabbing that wrench and shoving it so far up his ass he’s-“
“Atsumu.” You scold, sending him a look. He exhales slowly, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m unplugging you now.” He grabs the cable and pulls it back, the rather graphic schluck noise making him cringe. Rolling out your neck, you thank him.
“What do you say I give you some extra armor so I don’t have to see you later today after that conference? Maybe a shield, or maybe a suit of old-timey chain-male and – wait, stop moving.”
You freeze, glancing over at him in question. He grabs your arm, flipping your hand over and studying your palm. His eyebrows twitch inwards and he bites at his lip, turning your hand over again.
“Hm, that’s strange, I don’t remember seeing any damage to your hand.” He mutters, flipping it once again.
“What do you mean?” You ask, following his gaze.
He hesitates for a moment. “You see this line?” He points to the juncture of your ring finger and palm. The fake, thin skin looks normal to you, and you shake your head.
“There’s small incision lines – do you see that? Like needle marks – well, more like puncture marks.” He points to various spots along the juncture, and you mutter a small oh as you see what he means. They’re small – looking like dots and uniformly placed around the entirely of your finger’s connection to your hand.
“Maybe Akaashi noticed something.” You suggest, watching as he bites his lip again.
He’s quiet for a second, staring harder, before exhaling and releasing your hand. “Yeah, suppose so. There was a lot of damage, it’s easy to miss something like that.”
He claps his hands together, before rubbing them up and down. “Alright, so about that chain-male…”
You smile and he grins again, though it’s not quite as big as before.
“Mr. Sakusa! GRO News here, can you tell us more about your plans for the next model lines?”
”Mr. Sakusa, why is the corporation’s headquarters building closed to the public? Wouldn’t you agree that open transparency with the people would clarify the recent controversy?”
“Mr. Sakusa, do you have any comments about the recent protests in Osaka regarding Models 09 and 10?”
“Mr. Sakusa! Do you have anything to say about the recent uptake in black market android parts selling? What does this mean for the future of the Corporation?”
Sakusa’s face is neutral as he surveys the press audience, flashing cameras and microphones nearly shoved in his face. There’s a protective barrier between himself and the microphones, of course, as he demands, but his finger’s still tapping incessantly against the wooden podium. You watch the rhythm with rapt attention from his side, on edge as to hear what he’ll say.
“I have no comments on the recent events.”
The flashes get brighter, a few reporters scoffing under their breath and a new round of questions ringing through the conference room.
“But what of the dozen people who died during the protests against your work? Is that not innocent blood on your hands?”
"And what of the thousands of dollars spent trading your androids’ parts in the underground?”
”What do you have to say to the manufacturers who are getting death threats in the mail for stocking your creations?”
Sakusa’s eye twitches, and you stiffen up. He’ll be leaving soon, you’re sure of it, and it’s only expected that there will be some sort of need for you during his departure.
“What do I have to say?” He pauses for a moment, his fingers no longer tapping. “If you don’t want an android, you’re stuck in the past. Technological progress doesn’t stop just because it makes you uncomfortable.”
And with that he’s pulling up his mask and turning heel, descending the small set of stairs down the stage. You’re quick to follow, walking between him and the now desperate crowd, hands and microphones jabbing into your side and grabbing at you, frantic for another piece of audio or question answer. Sakusa doesn’t slow down, his gaze staying trained straight ahead as he approaches the black, luxury car waiting for him in the driveway. The reporters follow the group of security out of the building, practically toppling over one another to get close enough to pick up any piece of audio.
It’s pathetic, really, and you stand guard as Sakusa slips into the car, his voice agitated as he barks orders at the driver. Once he’s situated, you turn as well, stepping into the vehicle.
It’s only then that the building’s security team blunders, a man squeezing between two of them to reach forward and swipe his hand, fingers tangling into your hair. He grabs a fistful and pulls, a sickening ripping sound audible to you even over the loud crowd.
You pause, head yanked backwards, grasping onto the car doorframe for balance as the security team finally pulls the man back. There’s screaming and yelling now, the audience fighting amongst themselves as the reporters clamor for coverage of the assault and others berating the man for the unprovoked violence. You fully slip into the car, only sparing a passing glance back as the engine whirs and pushes you forward.
There’s a piece of your scalp on the cement, your hair splayed out and a few stray circuits still stuck to the interior material. No one in the audience touches it.
“Drive faster.” Sakusa orders, the dark sunglasses he’s donned doing little to hide the way he scowls.
“Does it ever hurt?” Akaashi asks quietly as he cuts the new scalp piece into the correct shape.
You’re brought out of your reverie, glancing over at him as deft, graceful fingers bend and twirl the grafted piece through the flashsaw to match the curves of your missing scalp. “What?”
“Do you feel any pain when things like this happen? I know the newer models don’t have any pain receptors, but is there anything phantom?” His voice is still soft as he asks, and you almost don’t hear it over the commotion of the workshop.
You look down at your hands, tracing over the artificial lines in your palms. You’ve often thought about who’s hands yours were patterned after, or if the pattern was real at all. Perhaps it was artificial, too.
“No.” You finally answer, not looking at him even as you see him glance at you out of the corner of your eye. “Never.”
He sighs, returning back to his task. “That’s good, I suppose.”
You nod absentmindedly.
"Do you ever wish you felt the pain?”
He’s not looking at you when you glance up at him, instead turning the scalp piece around in his hands over and over.
“Why would I wish that?”
He shrugs halfheartedly. “Just to experience it. Aren’t you ever curious about what human sensations feel like?”
You don’t respond.
It’s silent between you until he finishes, standing up and approaching you. He pauses momentarily before closing the gap between you, placing the scalp piece against the exposed cranial networks on your head. It’s evidently a good fit, as he reaches for the tool beside him.
“I’ll need to restrand the hairs one by one. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
You smile at that. “Not your fault, don’t apologize.”
Akaashi’s fingers are delicate as they press against your scalp, dragging the tool along the perimeter and sealing it in with a few sparks.
“Do you want the same color and texture that you have now? We have lots of options in the newest shipments if you’d like something new.” He offers, and you close your hands, no longer interested in tracing the lines.
“No, Sakusa would get mad. I’ll stick with what I have.”
Akaashi frowns at that, but mutters a small affirmation.
The process is long, and with each press of the hair injection tool against your head you feel yourself squirming slightly. The noise sounds vaguely like a stapler, and you find yourself tapping your finger in a faster rhythm against your leg to distract you.
You’re only about halfway through the hair injection process when it happens.
You’ve only seen 10 a handful of times – for what was supposed to be your ‘sister’, she was notoriously elusive to find about in the headquarters building. When she sits down onto the metal slab in front of yours, your eyes briefly widen. Akaashi’s must, too, because his hands momentarily freeze.
For human conventions, you know that she’s ethereally beautiful. Unnaturally so, really, though it doesn’t surprise you. High, defined cheekbones sit proudly under a pair of long-lashed, doe-shaped brown eyes, warm and soft and pretty as she flutters and blinks. Ruby red lips perfectly shaped into a bow are nibbled at nervously as she waits, even her teeth stark white and perfectly shaped. Curls of smooth, frizz-free black hair cascade down her shoulders to her lower back, sitting perfectly and looking soft to the touch.
But really, what makes your eyes widen is less her presence and more of her appearance – specifically, her clothing. All the times you’ve seen her she’s been in Sakusa’s company – sitting obediently by his side, letting his arm wrap around her waist, trailing behind him like some lost, stupid puppy. Hell, you’ve even seen her sitting in his lap a few times. And throughout all those encounters, she’s always been dressed in fine silks and draping satins, slits up the leg and revealing necklines showcasing the extremely generous bustline Sakusa had specifically designed for her. She’s always been smooth, perfect skin and exuding sex appeal, but the 10 before you looks nothing like that.
She’s still pretty, of course, but she’s wearing an ill-fitting, plain cotton pullover. It’s thin-looking, ratty really, with the KS logo sitting square on her chest. The sweatpants, too, are made of a similar material, nondescript and black and drowning her figure. Even her feet, which you’ve only ever seen clad in staggeringly high high-heels, are underdressed – in fact, they’re not dressed at all. Only a pair of dingy, pilled gray socks cover her feet.
And now that you’re looking at her, really looking at her, you notice something different about her face, too. Her hair’s less orderly, more frizzy and unkept, and her lips are cracked and dry. Her cheeks look haggard, and her neck looks puffy and sore, purple and red splotches arraying the area.
She looks bad, simply put. Bad in a way that an android shouldn’t look.
She catches your gaze, and for a moment she looks away, playing with her thumbs and seeming to shrink in on herself, before chancing a glance back at you. You’re still looking, and after a moment of eye contact, you find yourself smiling ever so slightly.
She returns the gesture, eventually breaking eye contact out of what you guess is bashfulness, but still sneaking glances at you every once in a while.
It’s not long before Akaashi’s fingers pick up their work again, the tool once again making that terrible noise so close to your ear, but you’re almost thankful for the distraction.
10 looks at you again, and opens her mouth to say something only to be interrupted by Atsumu. He whistles as he approaches, crossing his arms and appraising her. “It’s our lucky day, two high-level models coming into our quaint little workshop at once.”
10’s eyes quickly glance back at you, gauging you for your reaction, and for a moment you’re taken aback that she’s looking to you for guidance.
To Atsumu’s comment you only roll your eyes. “Yeah yeah, stare all you want.”
10 giggles a bit at that, and you find yourself smiling at her again.
Atsumu grins, before turning to 10. “Nice to meet you, I’m Atsumu, one of the head mechanics here. Is everything okay? We weren’t told you’d be arriving today.”
She stiffens up, clearing her throat and reaching into the pocket of her pullover to pull out a folded letter. She hands it to Atsumu, biting her lip and returning back to twiddle her thumbs. “I was told that the letter would be satisfactory explanation, but I’m not allowed to read it so I don’t know exactly why I’m here either.”
Atsumu cocks a brow, opening the letter and beginning to read. It doesn’t take long to see that the letter’s contents are making him angry, his face turning red and his nostrils flaring.
His hand is shaking slightly as he whips the paper down, his other hand coming up to cover his mouth in indignation. He walks away for a moment, evidently trying to keep quiet but still perfectly audible as he growls, “That fucker.”
10 stiffens up again, getting up and off the slab to go towards him, apologies already slipping off her tongue. “I – I-‘m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you! I can tell Kiyoomi that –“
“Kiyoomi?” You mutter, shocked. Sakusa absolutely never permits anyone to address him by his first name, even his own creations.
Akaashi’s stiffened behind you too, but he continues with his injections, his mannerisms feeling a little more forced than before.
Atsumu cuts 10 off with a soft pat on her shoulder, helping guide her back towards the slab. “No, it’s not your fault at all. Don’t worry.”
Once she’s seated, he reads through the letter again quickly, exhaling heavily and throwing the letter away in the nearby trash. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you either, but you’re here for, uh, a ‘medical’ checkup.”
She’s quiet, confusion obviously written across her face. You’re confused too, and wait impatiently for Atsumu to finish his explanation.
He’s visibly uncomfortable as he shifts his weight between his feet, not able to look 10 in the eye. “Apparently Sakusa’s worried you’ve been… overused, so you’re here to make sure all your systems are working and to replace a few parts that he thinks are damaged.”
10 relaxes at that, nodding her head. “I understand. My diagnostics looked normal when I came out of my charging pod this morning, but my durability scores have been low lately so I see why-“
Atsumu clears his throat. “No, I’m supposed to check other systems. Uh, your sexual systems.”
There’s a loud clang behind you that makes all three of you startle, and you whip around to see Akaashi looking pale as a ghost. His hand is frozen above your head in the same position, the tool clattering on the ground directly below him. His gaze whips to you as you turn.
It’s quiet for a moment, before Atsumu lets out an awkward, forced laugh. “Jesus, Akaashi, you scared the shit out of me! Can’t go dropping things like that, you’ll give me a heart attack.”
He claps his coworker on the back, but he’s still staring at you. His eyes are dark, but wider than you’ve ever seen them, an intensity that makes you quickly turn back to 10.
She’s frowning, obviously curling in on herself again as she tries to respond. “Oh, well that makes sense. Usage every night does wear a machine down, after all.”
You wince at the insinuation, and Akaashi’s hand falls to your shoulder, gripping harder enough to be uncomfortable.
Atsumu winces, too, and nods his head. “Yeah. Okay, so, uh, I think the easiest way to do this is maybe in the shut-down chamber? Or would you like to be awake?”
10 blinks, lips parting. She looks shocked, and that only makes Atsumu feel worse. “I get to choose?”
Suddenly the hand at your shoulder is ripped off and Akaashi’s storming out of the workshop, his steps deafening in the now silent space. Every worker has turned to watch the interaction, frozen mid-way through their tasks because of shock, curiosity, a desire to not work for a moment. It only makes it louder when the exit door slams shut behind Akaashi.
The patch of scalp he’d been fixing still isn’t finished but you can’t find it in yourself to care when Atsumu turns back to 10, nodding his head and telling her, “I’d prefer if you were awake. Just… just because.”
He’s leading her back to the shut-down room, but even as they get further away you can hear drifts of his voice. “Don’t worry, I’m not shutting you down. I’m just going to need access to the sexual response receptors and I don’t want you stripping down out here in front of everyone. I think we have some towels in the back that we can use to cover parts I’m not working on…”
You stay sitting there for a few more minutes, watching as the workshop slowly comes back to life, the chatter and radio once again playing as people try to brush off the discomfort of the moment.
You’re angry and you know it, the limited emotional cognition in your programming letting you know that something akin to rage is simmering in you. But the longer you sit there, the more the anger is overcome with something you liken to acceptance, because despite the rawness of 10’s mannerisms and expressions, you’re not exactly surprised. Perhaps that Sakusa would be so overt, sure, but it’s not as if you didn’t know his purpose for 10’s creation.
Eventually, you get to your feet, hands coming up to feel at the small hairless patch left. It’s in the back and not too noticeable. Sakusa hopefully wouldn’t notice it, and so you open the heavy steel door to traverse back to your room.
You decide to shut down early tonight, knowing that Sakusa wouldn’t need protection at this time in the evening and so your duties are absolved for the day. The charging port slips comfortably into its slot at the back of your neck, and your eyes slowly close.
When you wake up, your fingers idly prod at the hairless patch once more, just out curiosity. Not all your systems are back online yet, but as you blindly feel around, it occurs to you that it feels like less hair is there than yesterday evening. Frowning slightly, you pull your hand back, unsure of how that’s possible. Perhaps you just misremembered – faulty wirings aren’t uncommon, after all.
The workshop is busier when you next enter. There’s more chaos, and you almost feel guilty as you settle yourself down onto a metal slab and patiently await a mechanic’s attention. Despite vanity not playing a role in your system, the missing hair was starting to bother you a bit, and you were worried that Akaashi or Atsumu would somehow get in trouble if Sakusa were to notice. He was rather stringent about things like that, after all.
It's not long before you spot a familiar head of blond hair, Atsumu’s arms full with a rather large, heavy-looking box as he struggles to carry it across the workshop floor. Quickly you’re up and helping him, supporting the other side of the box and listening to him loudly yelp at the sudden weight alleviation.
“Good thing you’re here, I’m getting’ too old to do this shit by myself.” Atsumu groans, rubbing at his back once you’re finished.
You smile. “Aren’t you only 25?”
He tsks. “Sure, but you’re immortal, so you wouldn’t understand.”
You swat him lightly on the arm, and he fakes being wounded. “So, what brings you in?”
“I was hoping to find Akaashi, actually. I hate to bother him but I was hoping he’d be able to finish up reattaching my hair.”
Atsumu nods. “Ah, well, if he were here I’m sure he’d be happy to. But as it stands, I haven’t seen him since 10 came in a few days ago.”
“Oh.”
He’s quiet for a moment, before nodding. “Yeah, but I’m sure he’s just moping around in his room. You know we live on-base, too, right?”
You shake your head. “No, I had no idea.”
Atsumu grins. “Well, since the chump’s not showing up to work it seems, I’d be happy to send you to him instead. I’ve got too much stuff to get done today, but I wouldn’t want that pretty head of yours to go untouched. Let me go grab the tools and hair.”
You’re opening your mouth to disagree and tell him that you don’t mind waiting until he’s available, but he’s gone before you can.
And so, as you walk down the rather boring, non-descript hallways of the workers’ residence side of the building, you carefully hold the tub of materials he’d given you.
Room 285, room 285…
It’s not long before you find it, the steel door remarkably nondescript and plain. His neighbors have photos or even stupid cut-outs taped to their doors, but Akaashi’s remains empty. Only a small placard with his name and occupation sit on the metal, and for a moment you wonder whether that’s by his choice or simply because of how long he’s been here. It’s been six months since you’d met him, of course, but perhaps he needed longer than that to get settled in.
You knock three times, calling out rather timidly, “Akaashi? It’s 09, can I talk to you for a second?”
There’s a loud thump audible from behind the door that makes you jump slightly, then silence. You’re about to knock again when the lock clicks out of place, the door sliding open to reveal Akaashi.
Or, well, a version of Akaashi you’ve never seen. To be fair, you only know him in the context of his mechanic job – the bright lighting of the workshop space, blending in with the other workers diligently going about their duties.
But now he’s standing in front of you, sweatpants and a sweatshirt sitting loosely on his frame, hair tousled and eye bags prominent under those dark eyes. He’s staring at you as soon as the door reveals your face, something like shock and something else you can’t quite name apparent in his expression.
“Hi,” you start, the guilt starting to feel heavy. “I’m sorry to bug you, but I was just wondering if you’d be able to finish my hair-“
“Come in.” It’s not a request, and for a moment you hesitate. He steps to the side, though, and gestures into the room, and you follow.
The door closes behind you and you once again turn to face him. “I know you’re probably sick or under the weather since you haven’t been at work, but if it’s not too much trouble I’d really appreciate…“
You trail off as you look at him again, the dim lighting of his quarters making his eye bags seem even more prominent, his skin looking dull. There’s only a single lamp on in the corner, casting shadows across everything. You’re now seeing the state of disarray that is this room, with clothing on the couch and piles of books and magazines scattered all along the living room floor. Distantly, you’re surprised – this is not at all how you’d expected Akaashi’s living space to look. Not that you’d imagined it, really, but still.
It’s obvious now that he’s breathing hard. Hard enough that you can see the rise and fall of his chest even in the poor lighting, the sound of his labored breaths making you take a step closer.
Concern laces your tone as you set down the materials gingerly on the coffee table by your leg, barely finding a corner of empty space big enough. He’s standing a good ten feet away from you, practically glued against the wall as you take another step forward. “Akaashi, are you okay? You don’t look so good-“
“Is he fucking you, too?”
You freeze.
“Answer me. Is he fucking you, too? Just like he’s fucking 10?”
Your mouth opens and closes, synapses firing so fast that it’s dizzying as you try to make sense of what he’s saying.
His fists curls by his side, arms visibly flexing from below the rolled up sleeves of his crewneck. “Answer me, goddammit! Is he fucking you? Yes or no?”
“No!” You force out, your voice wavering and sounding unconvincing even to your own ears.
Akaashi’s jaw works as he runs a hand through his hair, the strands staying loosely in place and cluing you in to the fact that he hasn’t showered in a few days. His breathing only seems to get heavier as he starts pacing, small steps as he goes in circles.
He’s muttering something under his breath, and you take a step back, fear flaring up somewhere deep inside your chest.
The muttering gets louder, and soon he’s stopping and facing you, those eyes still impossibly wide as he stares at you. “It’s only a matter of time. You’re not stupid, you know that. I know you do.”
You take another step back, and Akaashi’s nostrils flare at that.
“Akaashi, I think I need to leave and-“
“No!” It’s a yell, and it makes you visibly jump, the fear becoming more potent. You’ve never felt like this before – this level of raw terror, making your body feel heavy and your movements uncoordinated despite your perfect programming.
He takes a deep, shaky breath. “No, don’t leave. No.”
You nod, unsure.
He takes a step towards you. “Has he fucked you yet?”
You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak.
He licks his lips. “Good, good. Have you ever thought he might want to?”
And though you have an inkling of how you should answer, his question makes you think. You’ve never really gotten the impression that Sakusa has sexually desired you, but is that really true? He has 10 around, so you’ve always assumed that he really wanted her and you were simply a more technical development where she was for comfort. But if that were the case, why did he go through the trouble of designing your model with breasts? Why give you pubic hair? Why did he take the time to design and create you with a working vulva, a working clitoris, a working vagina?
The silence must be too long for Akaashi, because he’s suddenly laughing, fingers tunneled into his hair and gripping at the roots. “God, for a machine you really should be smarter. Don’t you see it? 10 is his sex doll but so are you.”
You’re still frozen, but Akaashi doesn’t seem to notice.
“He’s a monster. Designing you with human emotion, human intellect, the capacity to be good and kind and funny and loyal and pretty and making you essentially human, but still only treating you as a warm hole to fuck. He’ll use you when 10’s done, washed up. When her body can’t handle any more modifications and repairs. When her pussy gets too loose because silicon doesn’t bounce back like human flesh and god, can’t you see it?”
He's practically ripping his hair out at this point, and you take a few more steps back, the feeling of danger and the oddly demanding sensation that you need to run now washing over you.
“He’s the devil, a madman, a disgusting piece of shit. And he’s been using you in the meantime to protect him from all the people who see him for what he is: a demon! He’s treating your body like a personal shield, like you aren’t living and sentient and not just a moving target to take bullets rightfully meant for him!”
Akaashi’s yelling again, and your back hits the wall. He takes a few more steps forward, that manic look in his eye slowly transforming into something calmer, more steady, and somehow much, much worse.
“But it’s okay. Everything will be okay. I promise, he won’t hurt you.” He keeps closing the distance until you’re only a foot or so away, and he lets out another shaky sigh. His hand is trembling as it comes up and gently clasps a few strands of your hair between his fingers, running his fingertips against the familiar texture. His eyes flutter closed for a moment as he breaths in deeply, holds it, and slowly exhales.
“No one will ever hurt you again.” He promises, and slowly releases your hair to let his hand rest at your waist. He licks his lips again. “I’ll fix your hair. I’m sorry it’s such a mess in here, I’ve just – I haven’t been myself these last few days.”
You don’t know what to say, but Akaashi only lightly chuckles. “I know this is probably overwhelming and I know you’re probably struggling to compute all this, but don’t worry. You don’t ever need to worry about anything again. Now, I’ll make space on the couch and we can fix you up.”
He moves his head slightly, leaning towards you, and you hear him take a deep, deep inhale. He leans back, adjusting the collar of his crewneck, and clears his throat.
“I’m flattered that you came to visit me here. I know the models aren’t supposed to be in the workers’ residential areas, so I appreciate that you saved me the trip.”
His hand moves to pull you by the waist towards the navy blue couch. You’re too stunned and confused to resist, instead letting him drag you and gently, almost reverently, help you to perch on the material. He has to slide away some items to make room for you, and you notice a split second too fast that the gray cloth at the top of the pile is presumably a pair of his boxers, and disgust wells up in you at the sight of something crusted and white in a loosely circular shape at the apex of the crotch.
He gently takes the bucket of material out of your hands, paying special attention to softly brush his fingers with your own. You hear his breath hitch at the contact.
He’s quiet as he slowly begins the hairing process, and for a moment you almost wonder if this is worse. Because this is so like the Akaashi you thought you knew – quiet, polite, hard-working, not this psychotic, rebellious side of him that you’d just been victim to. You’re on edge, every inch of your body overheating and beginning to twitch, desperation to move paralyzed by the emotional cognition center’s signal overproduction. You’ve never felt this frozen before, this helpless, and for the first time you curse Sakusa for implementing the emotional motherboard inside your chest.
Thinking his name, though, makes something else ugly rise up in your throat, Akaashi’s warnings about Sakusa’s true plans for you settling a new kind of fear inside you.
Akaashi finishes after what feels like hours, the fear and panic engulfing you enough that you jump when you feel his hand land on your shoulder and gently squeeze.
“I’m done. But please stay still for a few minutes more.”
You’re terrified, eyes racing in front of you as you listen to his movements behind you, the sound of metal slicing ringing in your ears and oh god is he smelling you again oh no no no –
“Thank you, this should be just enough.” His voice is nearly whispered, and you dare to glace behind you. He’s straddled, something visibly hard pressing against his sweatpants, but you’re more focused on the fistful of hair he has in his hand. Hair that he’s just cut from your head with a pair of scissors. Hair that he stuffs into the pocket of his sweatpants, visibly biting back a moan when he lightly brushes against the bulge.
At your questioning gaze, he only swallows. “Weapons are expensive these days, as I’m sure you know. But android parts only become more and more coveted, especially those from the latest models. There are more buyers than you might expect.”
You’re shaking even harder now, and Akaashi’s face returns back to that neutral expression. “Don’t worry, I’ve never taken anything that isn’t replaceable.”
Something wet slips down your cheek, and distantly you realize that you’re crying. You weren’t even aware you had tear ducts.
His thumb comes up to wipe at the tear, his expression unchanging. “Remember, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
And with that, he’s ushering you up and to the door, licking his lips once last time and telling you in that same monotone voice of his, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Enjoy your sleep, and please leave your door locked tonight. I know you sometimes forget to.”
The door slides shut before you can even hope to respond.
You don’t plug in your charging cord that night. Instead, you sit with your knees pressed against your chest and your face buried against them in the corner of the pod, air blowing from your nose over and over as your systems overload processing with the new information.
You’d locked the door, of course, though you’re not sure if you did because of Akaashi’s warning or not.
There’s several loud gunshots that eventually bring you out of your stupor. A glance at the clock – the only thing decorating your walls – tells you that it’s roughly four in the morning, and you immediately jerk upright.
There’s footsteps off in the distance outside your door, yelling and what sounds like fighting, but it’s too muffled for you to make out even with your enhanced hearing. You’re on your feet in an instant and immediately opening the door, the sound of gunshots even louder now that the metal isn’t dampening them.
Perhaps it’s your programming compelling you to find Sakusa, but your immediate priority is to assure his security. You briefly pause to consider Akaashi’s earlier words, but the programming outweighs any emotional response and soon your feet are running.
At the apex of the hallway, you’re met with a scene that is entirely unfitting of the ornate, impeccably clean headquarters building. There’s blood pooling against the lush wooden floors, dark red and staining everything in its path. Bodies scatter along the hallway, some you recognize as fellow residents of the building and others you don’t. The pools of blood are thicker around their abdomens, and you try not to think about that too deeply. The fighting seems to have moved even further down the hallway, and quickly you’re moving forward again, uncaring as your feet splash through puddles of blood.
With a small start you realize that the direction of the gun fire is towards Sakusa’s personal residence area, and it only speeds up your pace.
As you round the corner, you momentarily freeze. There’s easily ten people in the small entrance way leading into Sakusa’s personal chambers, with Sakusa himself standing in the back and surrounded by countless androids. You see 02, 03, 04, even 10 all standing around him, obviously trying to keep as tightly huddled as possible to eliminate any possibility of an attack landing on him.
You’re in shock, jaw dropped, and before you can really think about it you’re jumping forward to join the fray, throwing your body in the front to create another layer of protection.
The sound of the gunshot is loud, but you hardly register it as the bullet drives through your chest, your gaze locked on the five people pointing guns at the swarm of androids and their creator. Most of the faces are unfamiliar, but you recognize a few with a small, kindling sense of familiarity – people you’ve seen at numerous rallies, faces whose bullets and acids attacks you’ve taken the brunt of instead of Sakusa. And even people whose faces you recognize from news segments you sometimes eavesdrop on when Sakusa has you stay by his desk. Faces of people who are suspected to be a part of the black market, specializing in the trade of technology – biotechnology, really, with a particular emphasis on android scraps.
You’ve been through gunshots a million times, but even as you force yourself to keep standing, your body begins to stop responding. Your fingers will no longer move, and your knees are growing weak. Your thighs begin to feel weightless, and before long you’re slamming into the ground, body unresponsive and malleable. Darkness clouds the edges of your vision as you feel your systems forcefully shutting off, and it’s only as your eyes begin to close that you see Akaashi, something akin to a gun in his hands and pointing at you. He’s looking at you, of course, but only nods, face set, and marches forward with his gun now pointed at 03 behind you.
The waking up process is unusual. It’s not systematic, as you’re used to – it’s gradual, a sort of awakening that you can only assume is equivalent to what humans refer to as sleep paralysis.
You can’t move your body. That’s the first thing you notice.
Your eyes are open but your fingers won’t move, lips can’t talk, head can’t turn. It’s terrifying, and as you wait for your systems to adjust, the slow realization that they aren’t returning to normal only paralyzes you further.
Attempting to thrash and shake and just move in any possible way, it’s only a few moments later that you become aware of the fact that you’re not alone.
He’s quiet, as always. But what catches your attention isn’t him, but rather the sensation of something pinching at your hip. It’s bizarre – a feeling like peeling, as if you can feel each individual circuit connecting your fake skin to your wiring severing. You can see Akaashi’s face out of the corner of your eye, the familiar dark hair and the slope of his nose reminding you of your last few memories. A gunshot, 03’s face as you collapsed, the sensation of losing connectivity and pseudo-consciousness, the sight of Akaashi moving forward, the likelihood that Sakusa is dead…
“I know you’re awake.” Akaashi’s voice breaks through the silence. “Don’t worry, it’s expected that you can’t move or speak. I apologize, I know it must be scary. But this is my only option. You’ll get your connectivity back soon, I promise”
He’s still tinkering at your hip, and it’s only when he pulls away that you see what he’s done. There’s a large, six inch piece of your skin sitting in his hand, the artificial connective tissue keeping its shape despite the fact that it’s no longer attached to your body. The skin is smooth and supple, and Akaashi briefly stares at it, running his finger over it.
“I apologize, really. I’m sorry that I have to resort to this, but this should be the last time. This should sell for enough money to fund the relocation, and enough to pay back the debts for the parts for the android neutralization gun.”
You watch as he carefully places the hip piece into a sealing plastic bag, closing it and labeling the date with black marker. He gets off his chair, walking over to a shelf on the other side of the room. He places it inside a bin labeled ‘sell’, and you feel your struggling increase as you see three other similar bags in the same bin. The only date you can read from this vantage point is from five months ago.
He returns back to your side with a new, replacement hip part in hand. He’s quick to get to work, applying and sealing the material against your body, but you can’t help your gaze from wandering back to the shelf.
There’s two bins. The one he placed the baggie into, and another smaller one beside it. There’s no dates on the bags in that one, but you feel your stomach sour anyways. The bin is labeled in neat, perfect handwriting that’s so painfully typical of Akaashi ‘personal’, and that familiar wetness is back slipping down your cheeks as you see the contents.
A severed finger. A ring finger, no less. Clumps of hair. A piece of severed scalp. A few teeth. Something that looks suspiciously similar to the panel connecting your vaginal opening.
Akaashi follows your gaze, and he only sighs. “I know it’s probably overwhelming right now, and I understand why you’re scared. I’m sure I must seem like the villain. But you’ll understand soon that I’m setting you free. Sakusa is dead; he can’t enslave you with programming and servitude.”
He stops his work, looking at you earnestly. “You’re allowed to be human now.”
He pauses, biting his lip, and letting his hand wander up the expanse of your leg. Distantly, you note that his bare skin is touching yours – where had your pants gone?
“You’re allowed to be human, with me.”
The hand slides up to your thigh, fingertips digging in just a hair too tight.
He swallows, dark eyes plastered onto you again as he squeezes. “I’ll make you feel human.”
I don’t know if this appeals to anyone but me, but I’ve been watching a lot of period pieces about Regency Era England (specifically the 1995 Pride and Prejudice and Bridgerton) and I can’t stop thinking about the way women were actually treated like property, their only purpose to wed and produce children. Imagine the yandere possibilities, and the absolute lack of control you’d have over your fate.
Specifically, I can’t stop thinking about the lack of care and the disregard for social customs and norms yanderes could exhibit in that era. The rules are so very strict, and so very numerous – really, can he be blamed for not adhering to each and every one? Sure, he doesn’t treat any other woman this way, but is it such a crazy notion that he breaks a rule here or there? Surely not – not when it’s so very obvious that the proposal is coming, that he’s absolutely hell bent on keeping you pristine and pretty and pregnant in his own abode, not the pathetic pile of wood and roofing you call your home.
Maybe he’s always been one for attending the local and regional balls – for appearances, yes, but also because there’s nothing more that he loves than being in a room with all sorts of beautiful women and alcohol. Maybe he likes to play the politics game, stringing along every girl he can find so that he gets his pick of wives, so that he can bed any woman he so pleases without as much as a goodbye. Except that once his feelings for you form, his composure crumbles a bit.
He’s standing much, much too close to you throughout the entirety of your dance with him. His hips are tightly pressed against your ass as he follows the 1, 2, 3 of the waltz, the shuddering breath you hear at your ear making your skin crawl.
Maybe he’s insisted on keeping his hand much too low as he guides you through the dance, almost able to feel the hem of your underclothes under the layers of your dress, his fingers eager as he presses them tighter and tighter against you.
He’ll speak to you during the dance, his voice low and whispered and his mouth much too close to your ear, the audible wet sound of him licking his lips seeming louder than the quartet in the corner of the dancefloor.
He’s even asking you to remove your gloves, won’t you? I wouldn’t want to ruin the delicate silk – what would your dear mother think of me? And once they’re off (because really, his tone left very little room for rebuttal), his bare skin is pressing against yours, his palms clammy and sweating and absolutely engulfing yours with the way he keeps grabbing at more more more, wanting to feel every inch of you possible.
And then of course there’s those who aren’t as bold with physicality – no, the mere thought of being any closer to you than society permits is enough to get them hot under the collar, so nervous and flustered that they’re sure they’ll trip over themselves, that they’ll make an absolute fool in front of you. Instead, they resort to more classy measures – that is, it’s a bit jarring when they quickly approach you the moment you’ve entered the ballroom, swallowing harshly and asking in a voice that’s just a hair too high-pitched if they could perhaps have the honor of claiming your first dance this evening?
You can’t exactly say no – and even as you watch him eagerly scribble his name down on the first dance slot, then the second, then the third and fifth and tenth, what can you really say? He’s wealthier than your family, and your mother watches from the corner with a glint in her eye because oh, isn’t this just such an advantageous match?
Even the grouches who only attended the ball in which they met you upon a friend’s request act out in unexpected ways. They seem distracted, clutching onto their lemonade glass with a grip tight enough to turn their knuckles white, their shoulders visibly tense as their eyes scan the room over and over. They’re looking for you, of course. Mentally guessing at what colors you’d be donning this evening, how your hair is styled, what sorts of jewels and precious jewelry sits so prettily in the hollow of your throat or dangles against the sensitive skin of the juncture of your neck and jaw.
And once they've found you, they may not have the courage to speak with you or dance with you. But suddenly you've gained a permanent shadow for the evening. Where you go, he goes. He’s following you a good five feet behind, snaking around fellow attendees and keeping his eyes locked on your figure, biting his lip as he mentally notes who’s eye you’re catching, who’s speaking with you, who’s approaching you with a request to dance.
He’s standing directly behind you as you dance with some low-level baron, some insignificant man who can’t hold a candle to the riches, comfort and adoration that he can give you. And he's just staring, too – eyes like daggers as he watches the interaction, letting the anger simmer and fester until he finally, finally approaches you, his voice gruff and choppy as he compliments your dress (something like this dress is much more handsome than the last one you wore) and practically demands your next dance. Yes, it’s awkward, and yes, he leads far, far too much.
But really, the truly terrible thing to think about is what happens after the ball – when they call upon you in the sanctity of your own home, all sorts of love declarations falling from their lips that are much too hyper specific and draw upon knowledge you know you’ve never shared with him. But you must be kind; he’s of higher rank, after all, in a position where a few bad words could ruin your family forever.
It’s just that when he drops to one knee and proposes, it’s difficult to remember your delicate position because he’s managed to find the ring of your dreams, and he’s going on about how he’s had your bedchamber already decorated to fit all your tastes, how he has a wardrobe full of new dresses he’s had custom-fit to you, how he’s already decided that you’re to have a son first, but then all daughters and you’ll name them James, Eleanor, Kathryn, Marta…
And as he embraces you, the hug either much too tight or much too stiff, it’ll feel like a cage locking into place around you. Because really, what can you do? If you try to fight him, he has the wealth and connections to force your family into consenting. And even if your parents refuse to hand you off to a man you clearly despise and fear, it’s not so difficult to spread the rumors about your purity, to claim that he’d witnessed a servant passionately embracing you, that he’d seen you naked in the arms of some butcher’s boy…
It’s your word against his, and oh, isn’t he so kind for still having you after your reputation’s been destroyed? Isn’t he so dreamy and chivalrous for saving you from a life of destitution and outcast? Even if he’s the one to blame for that life in the first place?
And he’ll be so good to you, he promises. He’ll explain each and every aspect of the wedding night, of the consummation of a marriage, showing you exactly how deeply he’s been desiring you, how long he’s been craving you, how many times he’s fucked his fist and been thinking of you you you in those tempting dresses you wear, of those hips that you sway and move like a fucking minx at every dance you attend…
He’ll leave you wanting for nothing – aside from perhaps your freedom, and perhaps your sanity. But he’s sure you’ll learn to love him.
You must, after all.
Specifically the image of a few characters in the traditional regency dress is making me feral - imagine Aizawa, who's known as the reclusive Duke of the area, his public appearances next to none and his temperament difficult to handle. But alas, what's this? A few snarky comments from you - also standing against the ballroom's wall - about the ridiculousness of women's fashion and the discomfort of dancing in heels has him chuckling a bit, your obvious lack of knowledge of his position making him feel oddly seen. And when you find yourself falling into his company at the next ball he's forced to attend, Aizawa decides there's something particularly agreeable about your smile - finding himself wanting to know if your lips taste as good as they look. And when he loses his composure and blurts these words out, don't expect him to cut off contact with you - instead, he'll immediately speak with your father, requesting your hand in marriage and hoping that in time you might learn to forgive his dismissal of your opinion. Perhaps a child would help distract you, yes?
Imagine Rengoku, who's introduced to you by the ball's hostess, Shinobu. Imagine Rengoku, who immediately dances with you and keeps returning to fill up your dance card, that smile blinding as he spends the evening on the dancefloor by your side. Imagine Rengoku, who calls upon you everyday after first meeting you, his visits growing in frequency - sometimes multiple a day - and duration as the weeks drag on. Imagine the way he'll end each visit by grasping your hand in his and giving it a much-too-long kiss, assuring you that it's only taking this long for him to propose to and wed you because he's having an entirely new manor built - one he thinks you'll like a bit more. Nevermind that you don't wish him to continue his visits or leave you alone - do you like floral or patterned wallpapers more?
Imagine Akaashi, who's every woman's dream for both his looks and status. Imagine the way he holds you so delicately as he twirls you, those steel eyes of his practically cutting into you, his mid-dance questions starting off simple and innocent and slowly morphing into something that feels like an interrogation, something that feels too intimate and demanding and strange. Imagine the way he grasps onto your wrist - still gently but firm enough to eliminate your escape - as he guides you towards the refreshments table, insisting that you absolutely must drink something because he's noticed you haven't drunk anything since you arrived nearly an hour ago. But don't mention the fact that you didn't meet until roughly twenty minutes ago - long after you'd walked through the front doors.
Imagine Chrollo, who manages to charm his way into getting you alone with him on the balcony, those dark eyes smoldering as he compliments you. There's something stiff and rehearsed about it, and as you snort and ask him how many women he seduces in a night's work, something clicks in his brain. Imagine the way he doesn't leave your side for an instant after that, glued to your hip and seamlessly managing to evade each and every potential suitor from approaching you. Imagine the way he begins inviting you for long stays at his rather luxurious home, conveniently placing your bedchambers beside his own, spending night after night with his ear pressed against your shared wall and biting his lip as he fists his cock to the sound of you humming to yourself and washing your face with the pale of lukewarm water he'd used first then had the servants bring to you.
