SERIES SYNOPSIS. after a string of casual dating mishaps leaves you unsatisfied, you find that the grass is greener in the front seat of your best friend’s car.
chapter length. 29.5k | coauthor @akitachi
chapter summary. reciprocated feelings come to a sudden head in a dizzying haze of frustration and desire.
chapter notes. more of reader and aki's history is revealed in this chapter, alongside aspects of reader's given backstory/personality. there may be some references that don't make sense just yet but they will soon... heheh...
-> click to read on ao3. read full warnings on ao3 before proceeding; this series contains adult content.
SERIES SYNOPSIS. after a string of casual dating mishaps leaves you unsatisfied, you find that the grass is greener in the front seat of your best friend’s car.
PART TWO LENGTH. 11.7k | coauthor @akishroom
PART TWO SYNOPSIS. during a midnight smoke beside the lake, with the heavy rains of a summertime thunderstorm pelting the windows of aki's car, he ruminates over the past, and you grasp at the future.
PART TWO WARNINGS. fem reader, nsfw (18+, minors do not interact): fantasizing; vaping, weed (smoking, hotboxing, aki rolls your joints for you bc he's sexy like that), violence (not toward the reader): fighter!aki (he beats ppl up for you HEHE don't forget he kicks ass in canon); aki is slutty and has a tongue piercing oops; aki calls reader 'princess' / 'spoiled brat'
NOTES ON DYNAMIC. reader has a personality and a backstory (single mom, no dad present), lots of history and childhood flashbacks between aki and the reader; somewhat dark/taboo dynamics because the reader views aki as an older brother figure before they get together (and he has a lot of internal conflict about this); aki and the reader are mutually obsessed; aki is overprotective and possessive, and also the slightest bit mean because he's frustrated and in love with u LOL
A/N. sorry i know i said there would be heavy smut in this but i had to give that its own part LMAO so the main filth will be in pt. 3 <3 thank you for all the lovely reblogs on pt. 1!!!! <33
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It feels like it’s been forever since he was here with you last.
The last time was before things got too hectic for the two of you to make the long drive out. But here you both are, looking out through the windshield again, watching the moonlight shine on the placid water of the lake. Not a single thing about this place has changed; it’s just the same as it always was. It’s so static, so unchanging in time, that you could both be trapped in a memory, reliving some summer night from your past without even knowing it.
Windows down, warmth thick in the air. The cool breeze meanders over the water, then stirs the leaves in the trees, before slipping into the car and making it all temperate.
He’s missed this place. It was always safe here—a haven to bring you to when you needed to get away. Somewhere to heal, at least for a little while. Usually it was just for a few hours, but sometimes, if you really needed it, the two of you would stay until dawn. He remembers how you’d watch the sun rise through heavy eyes. Those mornings that followed the nights when you were so tired you could barely keep your eyes open, but you weren’t ready to go home yet.
He remembers waking up to a pale sky through a foggy windshield, his eyes shifting to you before anything else. Your sleeping form in his passenger seat: face peaceful, breaths steady, his flannel still wrapped around you.
This was an escape. A shared place; a secret belonging to you and him and no one else in the world, stumbled upon one night by chance, forever ago. At least, high school feels like forever ago. His memory of that night in particular is hazy with the dreamlike tinge of time and fondness.
It can’t have been long after he’d gotten his license and fixed up his first car. You’d called him that night near tears, with your voice wavering over the phone. That was rare; you never were the type to cry easily.
I wish I could get out for a bit, you said.
Less than ten minutes later he was watching you slip out of your bedroom window, sneaking past the little bird bath to duck through the hedges bordering your yard. Then you were jogging to his car, a flurry of rushed movements as you pulled the passenger door open and hopped into the seat, and then the little space was full of your presence (your voice, your laugh, your smile), as you said giddily, Hurry, hurry, before my mom wakes up.
Where do you want to go?
Somewhere far.
So that’s where he took you. Far away: up twists and turns and through miles of forest, and somehow you ended up here.
And then, after that night, you ended up here over and over again. Whenever you needed to get away, he’d take you on the long, winding drive that ended at the lake, and he’d spend as many hours here as it took for you to feel better.
Aki thinks that he could still be that kid he once was, because those times were just like this. Just the two of you, and the gentle waters of the lake lapping at the shore, and all your memories hanging in the air, as heavy as the humidity.
There’s a sudden gust of wind over the lake. The summer breeze drifts through the car windows, carrying the scent of your perfume over to him.
“We used to come out here a lot,” you say softly.
Aki looks at you.
He sees the way the moonlight falls softly through the open windows and illuminates your face: all the little details he knows by heart suddenly cast in a new light.
He doesn’t know how the light could be new if it comes from the same moon he’s seen you under countless times, but he does know that—for some unfamiliar, convoluted, and incomprehensible reason—if he lets himself look at you for too long, the promise he made to himself earlier tonight (to put everything back to normal) will be impossible to keep.
So he looks away, fixing his eyes on the water.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “All the time.”
“I was always going through some shit,” you laugh. “And you were always bringing me here when I needed it.”
“Things were hard back then. But they turned out alright, didn’t they?”
You’re quiet for a second, and then: “Because of you. You took care of me even then.”
He thinks he hears a strange quality to your voice, and when he glances over at you, your usual smile is absent, replaced by a look he can’t quite put a finger on.
“I’ll always take care of you,” he says—simply, immediately, sincerely.
He sees your eyes widen, watches your mouth open, hears you murmur, “Aki—”
The rain starts.
A heavy rain, a hot summer rain. Heavy droplets hit the windshield, then roll downward; the glass begins to fog, the humidity suddenly thickening until it stifles. Overhead, there’s a sudden roll of thunder. The fickle weather of summer changes quickly; in a matter of seconds, the roaring rain of a summer storm fills the air, and high winds blow droplets in through the car windows.
“Wow,” you laugh, your voice drowned out by another boom of thunder as you shake water off your arm.
Aki rolls up the windows, and then the sounds of the storm (rain pelting, thunder cracking, trees rustling) are muffled. He turns the AC on high and watches the fog on the windshield spread.
He’s opening his mouth to ask What were you saying? when your phone chimes.
Aki has the sudden urge to ask, Is it him?
But it’s not his business. So he lays his head back on the headrest and gets comfortable as you check your phone, occupying himself with nicotine instead. Hit after hit off the vape, and the whole time Aki’s wondering who.
He doesn’t ask. But as it turns out, he doesn’t have to.
“Six hours late,” you’re saying, raising your voice so he can hear you over the storm, “but hey, at least he texted me an apology for bailing on me.”
“He’s a real stand up guy, isn’t he?”
His words come out muffled, the vape caught between his lips. They come out harsh, bristling with irritation, and he feels a pang of guilt. He doesn’t mean to take his frustration out on you. It’s not your fault that this guy’s an asshole. And it’s not your fault that the guy before him was also an asshole. And the guy before him…
It’s just that he’s losing his patience watching it happen in real time.
What’d he say? he wants to ask. This asshole cancels on you at the last minute, doesn’t even give you a reason, and then he texts you at midnight? What’s his excuse for wasting your time?
It better be good, he thinks.
“He said he got caught up at work.”
Not good enough.
“He got caught up for six hours?” Aki can’t help but laugh out loud, and before he can stop himself, he’s saying, “Bullshit.”
You raise your eyebrows, eyes wide with surprise, and then his stomach drops.
In all the years that he’s known you, he’s never snapped at you like that. He feels so out of control—what the hell’s wrong with him? He tastes guilt on his tongue, acrid; but even that’s not enough to overwhelm the bitterness that’s watching someone take advantage of you.
“Maybe he got off work earlier but was busy with something after,” you shrug. “When’d you get so cynical, anyway?”
“A little cynicism goes a long way. Not everyone has your best interests at heart.”
But Aki doesn’t even know if he means what he’s saying; he feels jumbled; he should apologize, but you’re already opening your mouth to say something—
Your phone chimes again.
You both look down at your phone screen at the same time. And he knows it’s wrong to look, but your screen is bright, angled up, and he can see your messages coming in perfectly.
[ 12:12 am ] Maybe we can reschedule for some other time if you want.
The lack of enthusiasm in that message gets under his skin. Canceling on you, then putting the imperative on you to reschedule—classy, he thinks.
Another chime, a new message.
[ 12:13 am ] What are you doing now? Are you in bed already?
Aki grits his teeth, thinking, I could fucking kill this guy.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” you laugh.
Aki pries his eyes away from the screen just in time to watch you look up from it. He’s lucky you didn’t catch him looking.
“Believe what?”
“He’s asking what I’m doing now. Just like that.”
“I believe it,” he says drily.
“He just asked me if I was in bed,” you muse. “How much do you want to bet he’s gonna angle for nudes after all of that?”
While you laugh, Aki’s clenching his jaw, fighting a surge of irritation and the passing urge to snatch your phone up and figure out this guy’s address so he can kick his ass. It’s a nice fantasy, anyway: having you tell the guy you’ll come over, only for Aki to be the one ringing the doorbell. Rolling his sleeves up, so he doesn’t get them dirty, because he doesn’t want to have to clean up after this guy any more than he already has. He’d like to watch the door opening, the instantaneous change on that stranger’s face—the drop from conceit to confusion—putting a crooked smile on his own.
Hey, pal. What’s the matter? Were you expecting someone else?—before dragging him out by the collar.
He’d just rough him up a little, nothing major; but maybe he’d let one heavy hit go, let his right fist connect with the guy’s jaw, the ring on his middle finger puncturing the flesh of some asshole who never deserved you to begin with. Aki just needs to land one hit hard enough to bruise up his knuckles. The kind that leaves a lingering sting even after he shakes his hand out. That’s all he’s itching for.
He puffs on the vape, letting his thoughts run wild. The guy’s lucky, he thinks. Lucky you made Aki quit smoking, because if he were to find out you were treated any worse than what he’s already seen, he’d turn him into an ashtray for his smokes.
That’s enough.
He reels himself in. It’s a nice daydream, but that’s all it is. Acting on those impulses is out of the question, because he knows it’s not what you want. So he can’t offer it to you, and he can’t do it of his own accord. But if you so much as said the word…
You sigh wearily, still eyeing out your texts. “I swear he must think I’m an idiot.”
“Don’t text him back.”
It comes out too rough. He knows he’s overstepping; it’s not his place to dictate what you do, even if it is his place to protect you.
“You’re giving me orders now?” you snort, eyebrows raised. “What are you, my dad?”
You’re right. Aki closes his eyes, kneading at the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.”
He knows he’s being too intense, coming off too strong. He doesn’t know why he’s so worked up tonight, but it feels like there’s a switch on that he can’t turn off, no matter how hard he tries.
“What’s up, Aki? Is something bothering you?”
He inhales deeply. Menthol in his mouth, in his lungs; you in his head, in his chest; nicotine in his veins, but not nearly enough.
“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s just…”
He rolls his head on the headrest to meet your eyes. In the dim moonlight that still filters in through the clouded windows, the raindrops traveling down the glass cast moving shadows on the face he knows better than any other. Your expression is so expectant it’s almost needy, and he feels his throat tighten, feels the imperative to do anything—anything in the world, anything at all—to give you whatever you need. To provide all of the things you deserve, to take care of you and protect you and keep you—
That’s enough.
He can’t keep you. You’re not his.
The menthol on his tongue tastes almost bitter at the thought. Stings. Another puff, and then the vapor from his mouth is clouding the space between you; he loses sight of you for a second, and all the while he’s thinking—losing you isn’t something he’d ever risk.
So Aki chooses his words carefully. Deliberately.
“If you’re not getting what you deserve,” he says, “if he’s not enough,” —but how could anyone be enough for you?— “then drop him.”
And then, because he’s worried it’s too harsh, that he’s overstepping again: “It’s your choice. I just don’t like to see you hurt. That’s all.”
Your face goes soft, eyes melting: fondness, maybe a little more than that—
No, he thinks. He’s imagining it; after all these years, why would there ever be anything more?
“I’m not gonna text him back,” you say. “You’re right. He’s an asshole.”
He can’t help but feel relieved. And you’re smiling again, joking: “Since no one is worthy of your blessing, it looks like I’ll just die old and all alone.”
He laughs a little, thinking, When have I ever left you all alone?
“You’ll find someone who treats you right,” he says. “Promise.”
There’s a line around the block. We just have to weed out the deadbeats.
You adjust in the seat to face him, tilting your head to rest your ear against the headrest. The storm’s still going outside the car. Thunder cracks; thick, rain-bloated clouds obscure the moon above, leaving the two of you in darkness. But there’s a flash of lightning far off, bright enough to illuminate your face for a second.
He’s struck by that sudden brightness; it casts you in bright blue, gives you a sudden intensity, but he can’t tell if it’s from the light or the look on your face that he sees before it goes dark again.
But then the clouds overhead are clearing, allowing the moonlight to filter back into the car, and your face is nostalgic as you murmur: “Back when we were kids…”
Back when you were kids…
It used to storm just like this, back when you were kids. He’d actually moved to town—to the foster home at the end of your street—at the start of the stormy season, that year his family died. But that year there’d been a dry spell, and for the few weeks that he’d spent getting acquainted with the daily walk from the foster home to the elementary school, there was only sun.
He met you on a sunny day, walking to school as he usually did—alone, with a quick stride, and his right earphone in. By that time he’d settled into the foster home (as much as he could, at least), and the walk to school had grown familiar.
Aki remembers, very clearly, hearing your footsteps for the first time.
Small footsteps behind him quickening to a jog, accompanied by a shout: Wait up!
A girl’s voice. And then the footsteps were at his side, and there was a head beside his left shoulder. There was a pipsqueak beside him.
That pipsqueak said, quickly and excitably, Are you new?
You didn’t even give him time to answer the first question before you fired off several more: Do you always walk to school? I walk every day, but I’ve never seen you. What time do you usually leave? What street do you live on? What’s your name? I’m—
You were a disruption to his usual routine. A little twerp who talked too fast. He put his left earphone in to block out the chatter and picked up his pace, hoping to leave you behind. But you picked up yours too, practically maintaining a jog to match his speed. When he glanced down at you, your mouth was moving, but he couldn’t hear you over his music.
He preferred to keep it that way, but you had the audacity to pluck his left earphone out and stick it into your right ear.
Hey—! he snapped.
You were already chattering again. Wow. What the heck are you listening to? It sounds so depressing. Who is it? Is this your favorite band? My favorites are—
You went on, and on, and on. Even when he crankily told you how terrible your taste in music was, you just laughed and kept pace with him. Eventually, he felt guilty about making you walk so fast, because you started to sound short of breath as you prattled on. Not that that deterred you from talking, but he slowed down a little nonetheless.
By the time you both arrived at school—the first bell ringing just as you passed through the front gate—you’d managed to wrangle out of him both his favorite band and what time he usually left in the mornings.
For whatever reason, he hadn’t had the heart to lie to you.
He couldn’t shake you after that first walk. Every morning afterward, you’d leave your own house early enough to walk with him, speeding down your driveway just as soon as you caught sight of him coming down the street. You’d pester him the entire walk to school, and then you’d pester him into the cafeteria, and through the breakfast line, and at the table—prodding at the food on his tray after you finished yours.
You were so annoying.
But then there was the day you didn’t show. The two of you must have been walking to school together for a month by then, at least, and your absence was palpable. No little nuisance came running down the driveway to meet him as he passed your house, but it wasn’t relief he felt as a result. It was the nagging feeling that, suddenly, something was missing, much like the intuition when you know you’ve forgotten something at home. Something you’re supposed to bring. An essential.
Aki figured you were running late. So he waited there in front of your house, frowning, with his hands shoved in his pockets. That was the first time he noticed the bench out front, and the leaning tree overhanging it, and the rays of sunlight cascading through the leaves to leave speckles of light on the wooden slats of the bench. Beyond that, centered in your family’s carefully-tended yard, was a stone bird bath full of calm water glinting in the morning light.
Aki waited there long enough that he started to memorize every flower in the little garden bordering the side of your house, wondering, absently, which kind was your favorite. But your front door still didn’t budge.
That was the first morning he spent alone since he’d met you. The whole way to school, he was wondering where you were, and if you were alright.
Arriving at school—late, several minutes after the first bell had already rung—he realized that he was lonely. Not in the way he’d become accustomed to after the death of his family (a strangely peaceful loneliness in the face of an irrevocable absence), but in a hollow way. Because the walk had been far too quiet. Because, if he was honest, he had missed you and your incessant, insufferable chattering.
In its absence, his thoughts had returned to the state they’d been in before he met you. Back to the hollow, lonely dark, and to his family. Then a realization hit him: he hadn’t thought of his family in the mornings for a long time, because he’d been too occupied listening to you. And without you, his only reprieve from his own thoughts, he felt lonelier than ever.
He waited for you again the next day. It was pouring that day—heavy rains that’d lasted through the night prior, tapping a rhythm onto the roof of the foster home. He was on the top floor, closest to the sky. Summer storms, the kid the next room over had said. We get them a lot here. Looks like the dry spell is over. Better bring an umbrella tomorrow—it’ll rain all night and all day.
When Aki woke up the next morning, the sky was still bloated and gray.
He was waiting by your gate with an umbrella when you came through your front door at the usual time—bright as the sun would have been, if it weren’t obscured by the dark clouds. Maybe even brighter, you were so glad to see him there.
Hey! You waited! With one hand over your head to shield yourself from the rain, you plodded your way down the driveway and then through a puddle to him. It’s so hard to catch up with you usually. You’ve got long legs. (You paused for a moment, surprised when he held the umbrella out to make space for you, then stepped under it.) You’re basically a giraffe.
Aki snorted. Well you’re basically a shrimp. A stupid shrimp. What happened to you yesterday, anyway?
At least I’m a stupid shrimp with clean teeth, you said with a big smile, hooking a finger into either side of your mouth to pull it open into an exaggerated grin. Dentist’s appointment. My mom let me skip the whole day. Which is so great, because I hate last period—
He didn’t even have the chance to respond before you launched into a monologue about your classes. You told him which you loved, which you hated; you chattered on and on as you followed him down the sidewalk, huddled close to him under the umbrella. And he was glad that you were there, and that he could listen to everything you had to say.
You missed me, didn’t you? you blurted suddenly, derailing your own train of thought. That’s why you waited.
What? he scoffed, scowling down at you. No way. If there’s anything I miss, it’s peace and quiet.
You studied him with a look on your face that was halfway between smug and shrewd. I bet you waited for me yesterday, too. Didn’t you?
No.
Liar, liar. Your cheeks are bright pink. Look at you!
You were beaming up at him then, and he found himself so overwhelmed by the adoration in your eyes that he had to look down at the sidewalk, sullenly kicking through a puddle as he listened to you snicker. The rain was running down the street; it was collecting in the grass, in the dips of the sidewalk. Your shoes were near-saturated, but you kept splashing through puddles, and he watched your shoelaces loosen with each pace until they came undone and dragged through the rainwater. But you didn’t seem to notice or care.
Aki stopped in his tracks; you stopped too, just a moment later, asking, What is it?
He sighed, turning to face you, and held the handle of the umbrella out to you. Hold this for a second, twerp.
You stood there, obediently holding the umbrella as he knelt in front of you to take the loose, rain-sodden shoelaces in his hands; and then he knotted them, looped them, pulled them tight. He was reminded of Taiyo, then, and how he used to do the same for him.
Thank you, Aki.
The sweetness of your tone made his cheeks burn.
It’s just because I know you’d trip and fall in a puddle if you keep walking around like that, he muttered. And then I’d have to go around with some dweeb covered in mud. You’re already embarrassing enough as it is.
You smiled. You know something? I’m really glad you’re my friend.
Despite his best efforts to curtail it, he could still hear the fondness in your voice. And despite his best efforts to deny it, he felt the same way.
Me, too, he said under his breath as he double-knotted your shoelaces, so quietly that the words were drowned out by the sound of the rain.
Droplets continued to fall all around the two of you, hitting grass and concrete and the rainwater already collecting in the low points of the sidewalk…
…More rain comes down, pelting the windshield harder. Aki exhales menthol, lost in the past, until another flash of lightning jolts him back to the present.
Another roll of thunder: the storm intensifies.
These summer storms are identical to the ones we got back then, Aki thinks. This town doesn’t change. And you…
Looking over at you, Aki knows he could easily fool himself into thinking you’re nothing like that little girl he grew up with. You’ve changed so much, grown so much, that he could convince himself you’re a completely different person. If only it weren’t for that expression on your face, the same look you’ve always given him: familiar, trusting. Adoring.
You’re exactly like you were back then.
That’s why he can’t give in to those thoughts he has about you. That’s why he has to stop thinking about you in ways that he shouldn’t. The fantasies from earlier are competing with years of history, and they’re losing; as much as he’d like to separate the you now from the you he grew up with so that he can truly feel all of the things you make him feel, he can’t. Because the you he grew up with is a person he came to love like the family he’d lost. And he still loves you in that way, which means he can’t love you in any other. It wouldn’t be right.
“...Back then,” you smile, “when we were kids…”
Your fond reminiscing snaps him out of his reverie, pulling him off that long train of thought and conflict destined to end up somewhere disastrous.
You smile. “...I used to think that the two of us should just make one of those pacts. If neither of us found someone we liked, we’d just have to marry each other.”
Just the whims of a little kid. Aki can’t help but laugh softly. “That’s cute.”
“Funny, right? I even remember telling my mom about it. You know she loved you.”
The thought of you saying that to your mom all those years ago makes him smile. He can picture you declaring it, a little kid with a personality twice her size and a mom who would nod along obligingly.
Your mom really did like him from the moment he walked in. Not that he really walked in; he was dragged in, more like, your vice grip of a hand pulling him through your front door as you blathered enthusiastically about all the DVDs upstairs that he absolutely had to see.
But before that, he managed to extricate his hand from yours in order to introduce himself to your mom. She was standing behind the kitchen counter, drying dishes with a strawberry-printed towel.
Can I help you with those? he asked.
Well, she smiled, aren’t you a nice young man? Give me a hand, then.
The plates went in the cabinet next to the fridge, the silverware in the drawer near the oven. When the dishes were done, your mom reached down to ruffle his hair, sending a grin your way as she joked: Maybe my daughter can learn some manners from you.
He could tell then that the two of you had already decided he was part of the family. And from then on he practically was. He was there all the time, because you invited him all the time, skipping up to the end of the street to let yourself in through the front door of the foster home (always left unlocked during the day for the multitudes of kids coming and going); you’d jog up the stairs, calling his name before bursting into his room to declare, We’re expecting you for dinner. You’re coming over, right?
Right, he’d say, tossing his book bag over his shoulders.
He always preferred your house. The foster home was too crowded, anyway. And there was something unnerving about the fact that all of the kids there were just like him: kids who had lost everything, kids who were all alone in the world. Even there in the home, where so many of them were together—where they were supposed to have each other—it felt lonely, impersonal; to him, it never really felt like family.
You and yours were different. Your house felt welcoming, full of the warmth of home—or at least an echo of the warmth he once knew. More often than not he’d go straight there with you after school. He remembers doing homework with you, your mom popping her head into the room to say Study hard!
You liked English, but sometimes you’d get stuck on math. Whenever that happened, you’d ask him for help; he was a grade ahead of you, so of course he was the authority on anything and everything you couldn’t figure out. He’d groan, but he’d help you nonetheless—because once you finished all of your homework, the two of you could go exploring or play games and watch movies until your mom called the two of you down for dinner.
He’d do the dishes after every dinner, and some nights he’d help your mom cook. She always liked having him around, because whenever he’d offer to help, you would too. The kitchen would be crowded, the three of you working together: your mom stirring a steaming pot, Aki chopping whatever vegetables she’d instructed him to, and you fumbling with a can opener that was too big for your hands. He’d usually end up helping you with your task after finishing his own.
Aki remembers every recipe he picked up from your mom. Several of them he still makes for the two of you on the nights you’re hanging out at his place—and he’ll sit with you at the dining table, reminiscing about your shared childhood, tasting every memory steeped in the flavors of his second home.
But he thinks his favorite memories must be of the summers.
It wasn’t just the school year he’d spend with you. After every school year, you’d invite him along for your annual vacation in the little beach town a half-day’s drive away. His foster parents always had so much on their hands that he barely ever had to ask for permission; they were more than fine with it, seemed almost relieved to have one less kid to worry about for the week he’d be gone.
The drive up to the shore was long and winding. He’d fall in and out of sleep every time, in the backseat with his head resting against the window and yours slumping onto his shoulder. You’d always drift off before him, snoring softly.
He’d smell the saltwater even before fully waking, some hazy dream about the ocean flitting through his mind for a split second before his bleary eyes would open to the real thing. The crashing of the waves was loud, audible even from inside your little vacation bungalow. You’d all drop your things off there first, and then—with the sun beaming down, the sand hot under his feet, and the ocean breeze buffeting against his skin—the three of you would make your way down the dunes, weighed down by beach chairs and umbrellas and coolers. You’d always take off ahead of them on the first day there, running down the shore and dropping your things haphazardly on the sand because you were so excited to touch the water.
The first year there, he made to follow you immediately after you took off. But your mom placed her hand on his shoulder, pulling him aside for a moment.
Watch the waves, Aki. Are you paying attention?
Her tone was serious. He nodded, looking forward, with his eyes on the ocean; but he wasn’t watching the waves so much as he was watching you among them—making sure, as you splashed through the water, that you were safe.
Good, he remembers her saying. Make sure you always look out for my little girl.
He’d already been doing that on instinct, but he took your mom’s words to heart. They’ve stuck with him; they’re something he still abides by now, over a decade later. The two of you are all grown up, but he still spends his summers with you—still lets you sleep on his shoulder when you’re tired, still makes sure you’re safe every time you step foot in the ocean. Every time you step foot anywhere, he’s looking out for you.
I used to think that the two of us should just make one of those pacts. If neither of us found someone we liked, we’d just have to marry each other.
In this little situation your childhood self thought up, he’d look out for you, too. If you couldn’t find someone else (and even if you could find someone else, because of course you could, he thinks, in passing) he’d take care of you. Just like he told your mom he would. Just like he always has.
But why would he dwell on a situation like that? He accepts that childhood dream of yours for what it is: a cute, far-fetched fantasy born from trust between kids who didn’t understand the implications of marriage. Kids who didn’t have to differentiate between one type of love and another, because the only love that existed for them was pure. Things were simpler then; these days, they’re different.
These days, he has to make sure he’s only looking out for you. Not looking at you. He’s toeing the line between one type of love—that pure childhood love that’s only strengthened through the years—and another. If he crosses that line, there’s no going back. That other kind of love, if it could be called that, is desirous, transformative. He’d cease to be your protector. Maybe wanting you in that way—the same way as all those other guys—would turn him into something just like them: a threat you need protection from. A shark circling that little girl wading in shallow ocean water all those years ago.
His obligation to you now is no different than it was to you then, back when you were a little girl. To protect you, he can’t want you. It’s out of the question.
“The things you used to think up. Little us, and a little wedding,” he laughs softly. His head’s still muddled with conflict; he’s hoping you don’t notice the strain in his voice, that he sounds normal.
“With little rings and everything,” you grin.
“And what’d your mom have to say about it when you told her?” With each passing second he feels more out of sorts, but he’s playing along as best he can.
“You’re her favorite. She was one hundred percent on board. Said you’d cook for me every night and always take care of me.”
Your mom always made it a point to entertain your whimsy. That’s all it was.
As lightly as he can, Aki jokes: “Doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”
“Definitely not. Really, we could keep everything the exact same, you and me.”
“Do you think so?” he murmurs.
This is just a silly little childhood fantasy, that’s all, he reminds himself, watching you root around in your bag for something. This conversation doesn’t mean a single thing.
“I know so,” you say. “In fact, you’d be eighty years old and still rolling my joints for me.”
Triumphantly, you come out of your bag with the grinder and rolling papers clutched in one hand. He’s relieved when you hold them out to him, expectant: it’s something to do, a shift in the conversation—a distraction from this topic.
He relaxes a little, taking the weed and papers from you before responding absently, “Would I?”
“You would. You’d treat me like a princess.”
Without a second thought, he’s popping up the console to pull out the rolling tray.
“Well. You are a princess, aren’t you?” But the words are teasing: light and fond. “A spoiled brat, too.”
“Can you blame me? You’re the one who’s always spoiling me.”
Maybe you’re right. Because other than the cigarettes, Aki never really cared to smoke like you do; that’s your thing, not his. But still he keeps the tray in his car to roll your joints on—and that old, empty cigarette box in the console is only still around because he tears pieces from it to make filters for them. Besides, how could he not spoil you? You look up at him like that—pleading eyes under heavy lashes, a slight smile on your mouth, your head tilted to the side (he can see your pulse, the quick fluttering under the skin of your throat)—and he’s weak; he’s always been a sucker for it. He’d do anything you asked.
That one look is enough to push the conflict out of his mind. He forgets, for now, about how wrong it is to want you—because he wants you, he does, how can he keep denying that?—and he forgets how out of sorts he is. For now, he allows himself to forget that it’s out of the question to want you, because that question is at the very back of his mind, and the single thing at the forefront is you.
Tray resting on the console, his hands twisting the bud in the grinder, he half-scolds, half-teases: “So you get on my case for the smokes, but you still make me roll your joints for you? That’s how this works?”
“That was a pack of cigarettes a day,” you pout. “This is just every once in a while. To blow off steam.”
“Right. And what if I refuse? I could tell you that you aren’t allowed.”
But even as he teases you, he’s untwisting the grinder and glancing down at the weed to make sure the texture is right to roll. The heavy scent of it has already saturated the air in the car when he looks back up to see you pulling out the full stops. Do you know what you’re doing, laying it on thick like that? Batting your lashes, knitting your fingers dramatically under your chin—do you really know what it does to him when you pout like the pretty, spoiled little brat that you are—
“Please, Aki? Don’t be mean. I need it so much….”
You don’t need to lean forward over the console to him like that, because then he can smell your perfume again; then he can see your dress falling open again; then he has to force himself not to look; he has to force himself to be normal, but he has no idea what normal is anymore—
“...I’m so stressed from everything, and you’re just so good at it…”
You don’t need to look at him like that; you don’t need to tell him how stressed you are; in fact, you really shouldn’t—because then he can’t help but think, just for a second, about the thousand different ways he could help you destress, about all the things he could do to make you feel so much better, about all the positions he could put you in; he can’t help but think of himself on top of you, of you face down in the backseat, his hand slipping under your stomach, fingers pressing into your skin—feeling himself inside, asking, Does it feel good when I get that deep? Can you take it all?
“...You do it better than anyone.”
You punctuate your words with a smile. Your eyes are wide, pleading—but you never had to beg. He was under your thumb from the very beginning.
God, Aki thinks, do you have any idea what you’re doing?
And with that question, suddenly another surfaces.
What am I doing?
You aren’t doing anything. It’s his imagination that’s at fault.
That realization is enough to bring the weight of his inner conflict crashing down, heavy enough to crush the desire blooming in him. Just in time, he remembers all the things he let himself forget for a little while: that you’re his best friend, practically family; that these things he’s thinking of are unsolicited, unreciprocated; that this is more than just wrong—you’d be disgusted at the things going on in his head. And he is, too.
His head clears, the you-induced delirium subsiding as he tears his eyes away from yours.
“Alright,” he laughs, strained, then clears his throat. “Alright. Fine.”
/ / / / /
Aki always gives you whatever you want.
You definitely didn’t have to beg. Despite all the teasing, you know he’ll roll you all the joints you want. He’d probably rob a bank for you if you asked him nicely. But not before emptying all the money from his account into yours and asking, Do you need some more?
That’s the thing about him. He’s not what he is on the surface.
Every guy you’ve ever gone out with hated him with a passion. It was sad, but you couldn’t call it surprising; you’d be hard-pressed to find a guy who’d cozy up to the idea of your best friend being another guy. And Aki was never just another guy; to all of them, he was a threat. Good-looking, tall, and so protective that anyone who didn’t understand the nature of your relationship could easily mistake it for jealousy. He’d look down his nose at anyone who made advances at you.
It was always a little funny to introduce Aki and the guy you were currently seeing. This is my good friend, Aki, you’d say to the boyfriend of the month, watching Aki begrudgingly hold a hand out to offer a terse shake. Nice to meet you, he’d say through his teeth, voice clipped—playing nice for you. But not too nice. The little things never slipped past you; he’d squeeze their hands hard, the cigarette between his lips jostling as his mouth turned up in a slight, artificial smile that didn’t reach his eyes. They remained critical and scrutinizing. A look in his eye that said, I don’t fucking like you. If you had grown up with a dad, that’s probably what he’d have looked like meeting the boy who wanted to take you to prom.
But Aki’s the only man in your life. That’s how it’s always been.
You know he made most of the guys you went out with feel small. His hands were always bigger; you’d notice that, watching the handshake while shifting your weight from foot to foot. He was always taller—tall enough to look down at most of them, but he’d still size them up until they went pale.
Overkill. The interactions were always a little funny at first, but inevitably, Aki would become a problem in every one of your relationships. A point of contention. Your boyfriends didn’t like the fact that the two of you were so close. You’d try to explain it to them—he’s like a brother to me, I’ve known him for over a decade—but they’d respond with skepticism.
You talk about him too much. You’re with him all the time. Didn’t you even mention that you would always crash at his fucking place before we met? Are you sure there’s nothing going on between the two of you?
You guess their instincts were right after all. They managed to see it years before you even felt it. Maybe that’s why no amount of convincing was ever enough for them. They didn’t like your history with him. They didn’t like him, and you guess you couldn’t really blame them for that; he was closed off, cold—suspicious and wary. And so protective of you. Any time any semblance of trouble came up in any one of your relationships, Aki would ask—Do you want me to talk to him?
You never wanted him to talk to them. Not in the way he was thinking, anyway. It’d end up just the same as the conversations he’d have with any guy who made you uncomfortable. It’d end up like the night some creep had harassed you at the bar when Aki had stepped away for a second: with Aki wiping blood from a split lip, and the other guy in much worse shape—doubled over from a knee to the stomach, one eye swelling shut, blood pouring from his nose to splatter onto the pavement. And Aki turning to you, asking, Are you okay?
Are you?
That’s the kind of problem solving Aki learned to do growing up in a foster home full of kids that pushed him around, and growing up in a small town that alienated him because of what happened to his family. That’s the kind of fighting Aki learned to do well enough to make money off of, after one of his foster siblings introduced him to the lucrative trade of throwing punches for the scumbags who bet on him at Foxclub.
You hate that place, still. The smell of sweat and liquor, it never becomes familiar; neither does the sight of him sitting on the locker room benches, counting his money—with his bare chest covered in sweat, his nose bloody, his knuckles purple with bruises, and a cigarette caught between his lips.
So whenever he’d offer to talk to your boyfriends, you’d always say no. No, Aki, I don’t want you to talk to him.
Not that it was him you were worried about.
But even without him interfering directly, the root of the inevitable breakups that came was always him. The guys would always ask, Is there something I should know? Why does he look at you like that?
And you’d deny it, tell your boyfriends one after another that they were imagining things; that Aki was just a friend. You’d say it until you were blue in the face, but there was fight after fight over him and he was none the wiser. You’d never tell him about the fights, or the real reason why you’d leave so many of those guys: so many of them would give you that ultimatum, him or me. And that choice was instantaneous, instinctual. It was always him. You’d choose that friendship every time, over everything else. It wasn’t even a question.
But you know that if you were to tell him about any of it—the amount of arguments you’ve spent defending him, the amount of heartbreak you’ve been through over him (even though every heartbreak was more than worth preserving your friendship)—it would devastate him. You know all he wants is for you to be happy. It’s just that, sometimes, in the process of trying to keep you happy and safe, Aki can go overboard.
None of them understood his intentions; they didn’t understand him.
But you—you understand Aki; why he is the way he is, and exactly the kind of person his trauma has molded him into: someone heavily guarded and suspicious of everyone. After what happened to his family, and the things he went through in his childhood afterward, he ceased to believe that this is a kind place. Aki doesn’t trust this world, or anyone in it. He’s someone lonely, self-reliant to a fault—this is the kind of person he was molded into, first by the death of his family, and then by the premature adulthood the incompetence of his foster family forced him into.
So no matter how much he feels on the inside, on the outside Aki remains frigid and apathetic. That’s the face he puts on for other people. That’s what he is on the surface. He’s cold to strangers, and he’s cold to himself. Cold enough to isolate himself, to afford himself no sympathy and deal with everything on his own.
But no matter how hard he tried to be lonely, you were there. And finally he let you in, and then you met the real him.
The same person who withholds so much from himself is also one of the most indulgent people you know. To those he cares about he’s soft, sacrificing, infinitely caring; someone who’d do and give anything and everything for the people he cares for. Time, money, effort; none of it’s an object. Aki never had a lot but it was always yours. Even when he started fighting in high school, if he was spending money on anything nonessential, it was always for you. And then, when he got his first real job fixing up beaters at the car shop, he got his first real paycheck and blew it on you.
He’s as indulgent now as he was back then, if not more so.
So of course he’s rolling your joint for you. All the pleading you did was just for fun—it’s always a little entertaining to put on puppy dog eyes and watch him melt through them.
And now you’re watching him get everything ready for you: leaned over the console (eyes down, long eyelashes brushing against his cheeks) as he tears a piece from an old cigarette box to fold a little filter for your joint.
He taps the weed from the grinder onto the paper. Quick, familiar, and with the same assuredness that his hands always have. With confidence. He’s been doing this for years. Even though he rarely smokes (with the exception of those times when you ask him to do it with you), he rolls up for you every single time.
His long, slender fingers cradle the rolling paper, rocking it back and forth until the weed is packed down. Both of you are leaned forward, closing the gap over the console; he’s intent on the joint, and you’re so intent on him that you can smell the menthol on him under the weed, see the slight shine of the ring on his finger. The tattoos on his skin are just amorphous shapes in the dim light of the moon that filters through the car windows, but you remember them better than you can see them.
He’s attentive: neat, accurate, consistent with everything he does. Especially this. Exactly the right texture, exactly the right amount every time—so precise that he never drops any while he’s rolling. And he’s always had a light hand, always been so gentle with everything for you.
He’s only ever treated you gently. You’ve only seen the rough side of him come out on your behalf, and even then he barely lets you see it. So tonight feels different. Not just for you—because by now you can admit that something within yourself, the way you feel toward him, has changed. But something about him feels different. Vulnerable. That he’s letting you see him so frustrated and so intense—that difference must mean something. A shift. A change.
But the movements of his fingers stay the same. Consistent, well-practiced; he preps the joint until it’s ready to seal, and then he’s tucking the lower edge down. It’s effortless when he rolls it upward between his fingertips. And you can’t stop looking at them.
You can’t stop that feeling building in the pit of your stomach that intensifies when you imagine him touching you with the same purpose—expert fingers on your body, and you know they’d know how to touch, because somehow Aki always knows what he’s doing, always shows you how things should be done the right way. That’s how it’s always been.
Eager to please, eager to give; you imagine him teaching you what that eagerness feels like with his fingertips.
He brings the joint up to his lips—licks up the top edge to wet the seal, the silver of the piercing on his tongue catching the low moonlight. And then you’re imagining it on you, imagining him running his tongue up your body the same way he’s treating the paper.
His tongue on you; his teeth on you.
The bite of the words on his tongue earlier—Don’t text him back.
Drop him.
He’s always been protective, but never quite like this. There’s something about tonight.
I could tell you that you aren’t allowed, he’d said.
Tonight, it feels like more than protection; it feels almost like possession. Like ownership. The imperative in his voice. You know the sting in it wasn’t meant for you, not directed toward you, but you like the feeling nonetheless. Maybe you like the feeling not just of being protected, but owned.
You suppose that’s the thing about you: you’ve always belonged to him in one way or another.
It shouldn’t have taken you so long to realize it. It’s been this way for years: craving his guidance over anyone else’s, his approval, both of those things as sacred to you as scripture; and what else could it mean—what else could it be but a desire for his control—that the only person you’d ever let dictate any part of your life, tell you what’s good for you, tell you what you need, is him?
What one person in this entire world would you entrust yourself to other than him?
And who deserves that trust more than him?
Take it further, you want to say. I know you want to. After all these years, it’s all hitting you at once, too. Isn’t it?
But even if it is, you know Aki is too good to take things any further. He’s too cautious—focused on the consequences of his actions, intent on protecting all the things important to him, after losing so much—to do selfish things on a whim. Aki doesn’t do things for himself; he puts all of his own desires aside to fulfill those of the people he cares for. Give him the option to give or take, and he’ll give up every part of himself before taking a single thing from someone else. So even on the off chance that he’d allow himself to accept whatever feelings he might have—even if Aki is dying to have more of you, all of you—there are certain boundaries he’d never cross alone. This is one of them: a little line in the sand separating the two of you at the point where friendship blurs into something else. He would rather help you find someone who treats you right and watch you be happy from a distance than risk a lifelong friendship by confessing that he wants more.
You want to say: It’s okay if you want to be greedy with me. I’m already yours.
Something isn’t really yours until you own all of it, right?
Maybe he’s too good to cross that line, but you—you want something, too; you want more, too; you want him to stop holding back so he can finally possess you with the same imperative that crept into his words earlier. You want to belong to him in a new way. To let him have you all the way.
Not just idling touches, but lingering ones that cover every part of you, leaving no inch of you unclaimed.
As much as Aki wants, for once, to take, you want to give him everything.
Maybe he feels you looking at him—all these thoughts passing in a split second as he seals the joint, fingers pressing the paper down until the seam adheres—because he looks up.
“What is it?” he asks, meeting your eyes, fingers still idling on the joint.
“I was just watching. You’re so good at that,” —(you’re so good with your hands, you think)— “you’re practically a pro.”
He smiles slightly, and you think it looks abashed as he holds the finished joint out to you between his fingers.
“Don’t flatter me, princess,” —he pulls back the joint slightly when you reach for it, as if to withhold it (but not by much)— “You just want to keep using me as your personal joint roller.”
“It gives you purpose,” you say, plucking it away from him. “Tell me you don’t live for being of service.”
“Depends on what the service is. And who it’s for.”
“Well. Aren’t I lucky, then?” you smile, leaning over the console toward him with the unlit joint waiting between your fingers.
He slips a hand into his pocket, comes back out with a lighter you’ve seen a thousand times before—because it’s the same lighter he used to carry for his smokes; and he still carries it now that he’s quit. There are no smokes left to light, and Aki doesn’t even need that lighter anymore. But he still carries it. Just for this, just for you:
Just to give you a light when you need it. When you’re leaned over the console like this, and it’s all so familiar that he knows exactly what you want before you even have to ask. He always leans in with you at the same time, actions synced, timing just right; his hand on the lighter—one flick, two, and then the flame is jumping to life in the small space between the two of you.
And in that little sphere of warm light, with the storm still coming down cold and blue and dark outside the car windows, you lean close to him; you bask in the warmth as you twirl the joint between your fingers, holding it over the flame he always lights for you, with a growing heaviness in your chest.
The fire eats at the paper; it catches, but the lighter’s still feeding the flame. You look upward. And there you find that Aki’s not even looking at the joint to make sure it’s caught. His eyes aren’t on the lighter he’s holding, either. They’re on you, watching your lips.
The heat flares, the orange glow on his face like firelight. He meets your eyes, and then that look is gone just as soon as you’ve caught it. The flame dies; he’s cast in darkness, in the indigo shadow of the storm. Aki tucks the lighter back into his pocket, and the car is dim again, except for the fire eating away at the end of the joint. It flares on the inhale.
Smoke in your lungs. A new strain from the same dealer, just to try it.
Something new, something different; just like all of this—for you, and now you’re absolutely sure of it: for him, too.
You bring your eyes up to his, exhaling smoke into his face.
“I can’t let anyone else roll up for me,” you smile. “No one does it quite like you.”
He holds his vape out through the smoke, and you bump it with the joint, the same as you used to do to his cigarettes—Cheers.
“To old times,” he says.
There’s something there. You’re sure of it. But maybe it’ll take a little push.
“New ones, too,” you say.
/ / / / /
Just like old times.
You kick back in his passenger seat and smoke until your eyes are low—until the air in the car is thick and hazy and swirling with the smell of weed and menthol. He breathes your secondhand smoke; you breathe vapor.
And when the first joint is smoked down, he rolls up for you again.
“God,” you laugh, taking the new joint from him with a lazy grin—voice relaxed, even more smiley than usual. “You always know how to make me feel so much better, Aki.”
That’s all I want, he thinks. To make everything all better for you.
You’ve always complained that he does too much for you. That it must be such a hassle to take care of you all the time.
Don’t you get tired of it? you’d asked him once.
He harbors a guilty little secret, something he’d never tell you: he’s a sucker for picking up the pieces. Don’t get him wrong—he hates to see you hurt, would do anything in the world to prevent it; but when you are hurt, Aki loves to be the one to kiss it better.
He’ll patch it all up for you, every single time, because he’s dying to make it all okay. If there’s a problem, he’ll talk you through it; and if that’s not enough—if you need more—he’ll give you whatever you ask. He’ll smoke you out until he can hear the relief in your voice, until he can see the relaxation in your posture. When you go up, and when you come back down, he’ll be there.
And there’s something about knowing that he’s the only one you’ll go to for it. There’s something about being the only one who gets to provide that for you that makes some dark part of him feel good.
The feeling he gets from tending to you never gets old; he’s had it since you were kids, knows he’ll always have it: the urge to protect you, to solve every problem for you. To keep you happy and safe.
So, no—he’ll never get tired of taking care of you; he’ll roll up joint after joint for you and keep leaning over just like this to light it, if only to keep a smile on your pretty face.
The lighter catches on the first flick this time, the flame illuminating your smile—dazzling in the darkish, hazy air of the smoke-filled car—as you twist the new joint over it. He can’t stop watching your face, the way the light falls on it, haze-obscured and beautiful.
Untouchable.
You’ve always been pretty; maybe too pretty for your own good, because there’s always been so much to protect you from. People who might look at you in ways they shouldn’t. People who might want you for the wrong reasons. And he’s always been here to shut it down, to guard you from it all; so now, why—why is he looking at you for all the wrong reasons?
Why is he looking at you in the exact way he shouldn’t? Why’s he imagining laying you down—getting you on your back, and watching all the expressions cross your pretty face when he shows you what it feels like to be treated right?
“Thank you, Aki,” you murmur.
The joint’s lit.
He’s slipping the lighter back into his pocket, throat tight. It’s hard to breathe. Not from the thickening haze in the car, but from the way you lean closer and closer the higher you get. Laughs lazy, movements sloppy. Dress straps slipping down your shoulders.
You’re always like this, and he’s always looking out for you. But this time, he’s catching a glimpse he shouldn’t. A split second of his eyes wandering and he’s looking down your falling neckline, seeing your cleavage and the lacy outline of your bra. And then—he doesn’t mean to, but he’s imagining pressing you down into the leather of his backseat, with your tits under his chest, and your thighs spreading to wrap around his waist, and your voice soft as you murmur into his mouth: You always know how to make me feel so much better, Aki.
He’s trying so hard to clear these thoughts—of making you feel better, putting his hands all over you and feeling how soft you are under him; of tasting the skin on your throat while he’s grazing his hands up your thighs, up your dress—as he slips the lighter back into his pocket with his heart hammering, watching you wrap your lips around the joint he rolled for you. He’s trying so hard he feels like it’s going to kill him when he forces himself to look away and rest back in the seat.
He takes another hit off the pen, needs the nicotine desperately. Something to tide him over. It’s quiet in the car, but the storm continues to thicken, heavy raindrops pelting at the windows. The odd roll of thunder. The car’s fogged up, full of smoke. Illuminated by the odd lightning strike from afar that casts the two of you, and the fog separating you, in split seconds of bright blue light.
“Can I admit something to you, Aki?”
He looks over at you through the haze. Your head back on the seat, eyes pensive, hazy as the air; you’re usually more talkative, which means something’s on your mind.
“Anything,” he says.
Another drag from the joint, and you blow the smoke out slowly, watch it hang in the thick air. “This whole casual dating thing is kind of a bummer.”
He shakes his head. “You know I don’t like to see you hurt.”
You force a smile. “I’m not hurt, Aki. I mean, it’s a bummer, but I’m alright.”
But you’ve always been like this, even when you were younger. I’m okay, Aki, you’d say, with a smile plastered on your face. I’m just fine—even when things were at their very worst, and you were one hairline fracture from shattering into a million pieces. But that was the point of bringing you here, where you could talk and wait and smoke it out until you really were okay.
“I’m just saying,” he says, “if someone’s not treating you right…”
“Then what?” you muse, with a fond smile on your face. “What’ll you do?”
“Whatever you want me to do to make it better,” he says simply.
You laugh, heavy eyes fluttering shut—lifted.
“I know you will,” you say, fixing him with a genuine smile as you bring the joint up to your lips again. “You’re a good guy.”
It’s quiet for a moment, both of you inhaling at the same time. You exhale; he holds his for a second, then breathes the vapor out a moment later, watching it join the smoke in the air. The two mingle, become indistinguishable.
“When I was younger I used to think all guys would be a little like you. Giving, selfless. Caring.” You pause to laugh, but this time it’s a little sardonic. “But I found out that most of them are the opposite.”
“How do you mean?”
“Depends on the guy,” you say. “Some are selfish. Some are just distant. Harsh. Cold. Among other things.”
He’s quiet for a second, puffing on the Juul—pretending that hearing about people being selfish, distant, harsh, and cold to you—among other things?—doesn’t get under his skin.
“I shouldn’t have let you set the standard,” you say through the smoke. “You gave them too much to live up to.”
Aki glances at you through the haze in the car as thunder rolls above, but you’re looking out through the windshield again. At the storm, at nothing in particular; the rain’s coming down so heavily everything outside is a blur. And your face is unreadable.
Set the standard? What do you mean by that?
That you’ve been looking for someone like him?
No, he thinks—he’s reading too much into it, too caught up in those fleeting thoughts from earlier and now he’s thinking all kinds of strange things. You couldn’t have meant anything by it.
“There have to be some good guys out there, right?” he says finally. “It can’t all be bad.”
That makes you laugh.
“Oh, it’s all bad,” you grin lazily around the joint. “I mean, I’ve told you most of it. But I never told you what a mess these guys are in bed, did I? That’s selfish on a whole new level.”
In bed?
Aki feels his mouth go dry, feels another image surfacing that shouldn’t be: that pretty dress pulled up, pulled off, leaving just the lace of your bra and panties beneath it, the rest of your skin bare; and then, hands on you—no, someone else’s hands on you—and that puts a pit in his stomach.
He grits his teeth. Takes another hit off the vape and mutters, “Oh. Really?”
Scumbag, he thinks, how are you any better than the rest of them? Maybe he’s the worst of them all. For fantasizing about you when you’ve trusted him like a brother your entire life. For the jealousy, and for the fact that the thought of you being with anyone else makes his skin crawl.
For the gutting realization that maybe these feelings aren’t because he wants to protect you, but for reasons that are far more selfish.
“Really,” —you study him through the smoke with a curious look on your face, and something in your eyes that’s almost mischievous, the punchline of a joke he’s not in on— “Do you want to know all the dirty details?”
He’s torn. Stuck somewhere between not wanting to know, and needing to know, the same way he needs to know about everything in your life that isn’t enough. Everything he can fix for you. All the things that fall short, so he can make them up to you.
But above all else—putting aside all these feelings that are as intense as they are confusing—when he says you can tell him anything, he means it.
“We can talk it out,” he says.
“Okay.”
And then you’re slouching forward over the console—just like old times: you’ve always been a bit of a gossip for him; you’d always run to him with the secrets you told your friends you wouldn’t tell a soul. You can’t tell anyone this, but… But you trusted him, made him the only exception to the rule, told him every single thing. You confided in him back then just like you are now: head tilted slightly to the side, joint between your fingers; so close, voice low, as if someone might hear—as if it weren’t just the two of you in the hazy warmth of his smoke-filled car.
On the bank of the lake, in the middle of the night, with the summer storm still coming down; with droplets rolling down the windows to melt your view of the surroundings, as if the entire world outside were made of water. And here, in this safe haven, it’s just the two of you, and you’re telling him all your secrets, the same way you always have.
You tell him secrets you know he won’t share with anyone else. Secrets meant for you and him only, just like this place, just like this proximity.
“Aki…”
Your lips turn up in a conspiratorial smile, the smoke drifting from your mouth; he waits, breathes in your secondhand, looking you in the eyes; and for a second, the closeness is dizzying, makes him feel as high as you look.
“... None of the guys I’ve been with have ever made me cum.”
author's endnote from @uppermocns: bello everyone, i hope u enjoyed the second part of menthol!! ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝) cassie and i are excited to be sharing what is easily one of our favorite elements of this story – fighter aki! we were inspired by chapter 45 of chainsaw man ("sorry for makin' you come by and school these guys!") so naturally, we thought – take aki's canon ability to kick ass, his protectiveness over dear menthol reader, and some other key moments of menthol aki's origins that will definitely be revealed in the prequel... next thing you know, menthol is like 850k and aki is a sexy badass that can and will beat up your exes. make sure u tell cassie how incredible their writing is & that u wuv them very much. the moment you've all been waiting for is coming soon!
SERIES SYNOPSIS. after a string of casual dating mishaps leaves you unsatisfied, you find that the grass is greener in the front seat of your best friend’s car.
PART ONE LENGTH. 5.5k words | coauthor @akishroom
PART ONE WARNINGS. slight nsfw (18+, minors do not interact): fantasizing; vaping + smoking; aki is a Car Guy ™ so he drives a slammed car, teaches you to drive stick, and fixes a car up for you; reader and aki have a long history, reader is in makeup and a sundress, reader has a backstory and a personality; there’s a slight age gap (less than two years), but it’s exaggerated as a running joke between them.
A/N. heavy nasty smut in the next part HEHE this one’s mostly just buildup <3 ENJOOOOYYY
DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING ADULT CONTENT.
“What time’s your date again? Six?”
“It was supposed to be,” you say, tilting your head to hold the phone between your ear and your shoulder.
The other end of the line is silent for a moment, aside from a dull crackling and the assorted sounds of traffic—his turn signal ticking, the faint rush of tires on concrete.
And then his dubious response: “Supposed to be?”
You exhale slowly, studying the recently-dried lacquer on your fingernails. “Yeah. It’s off.”
“He canceled on you?”
There’s a harsh edge to his voice; it’s the serrated, clipped tone of a protective older brother. Not that you know much of older brothers, as an only child. But he’s always been the closest thing you’ve had to one. Mostly stern; sometimes teasing, sometimes soft—but always defensive of you, always watchful.
“Yup,” you say. “Over text, too.”
“You’re joking.”
“It wouldn’t be a very funny joke, Aki,” you say, spotting a chip in the polish on your middle fingernail. “I’m sitting here in my date outfit like a made-up fool. Woe is me.”
“I’m sorry.” The edge in his voice is already gone, softened with sympathy.
“It’s fine. It would’ve only been the third date, so I’m not devastated over it.”
“Still.”
“Don’t worry about it,” you say, picking at the chip in the polish until it peels. “I didn’t even really like the guy.”
“Funny,” he says drily. “Neither did I.”
The petty irritation in his voice is so novel that it makes you laugh out loud. “You didn’t even know him.”
“Did I have to?”
You snort. “What are you up to, anyway? Driving somewhere?”
“I just picked up some beer from the store. I was heading to that party that the guys from the shop invited me to, but—”
“But?”
There’s a pause, and then: “But I’m taking the exit.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m on my way to your place.”
You scoff. “Don’t miss your thing. Stop worrying about me. I’m fine, really.”
“They’re not gonna miss me,” he says. That tone’s familiar, unbudging; his mind is made up. “I wasn’t planning on staying long anyway.”
You tap your fingers on your thigh, watching the chipped nail polish glare up at you woefully, as if disappointed that it was put on for a date who didn’t show up.
But mistakes can be covered, flaws remedied. You can paint over that chip, make it perfect. Or he could, like he’s done many times before, taking your outstretched hand in his just as soon as you’d ask (Can you paint them for me, Aki?): eyes focused, brows knit, brushing the polish carefully over your fingernails and leaving them perfect.
There’s no problem he can’t solve.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he says. “I’m about ten minutes out.”
“Okay. See you.”
Ten minutes, and then you’ll see the sleek-white of his slammed coupe on your street. You wonder how many times he’s done this routine before: pulling up, stepping out, waiting patiently for you. A tall form leaned back against a low car, exhaling smoke. Tapping ash from a cigarette, eyes tracking you when you come out—straight-faced, until you’re up close; and then the chill in his expression thaws.
Just like always.
It’s all familiar, everything about him. Especially his tendency to turn around when he doesn’t have to, because he always prioritizes you, always drops everything for you; and you don’t ever have to ask. You don’t have to say a single thing, because a near-lifetime of friendship means he can read you like a book. He knows when I’m fine means I need someone.
But not anyone. Just the person who always shows up.
For a moment, you wonder why, if it’s all so familiar, there’s a sudden, unfamiliar twisting feeling in your chest. But you resume your part of the routine—throwing your bag over your shoulder, swiping your keys from the table, making your way to the front door—before you have the time to stop and think about what that feeling might mean.
There’s no reason you should feel any different. It’s all familiar; it’s all the same, and this is just like any other time.
/ / / / /
It’s different this time.
This time, you’re already outside when he pulls up: sitting out in the warm summer air, on the little bench by your house that’s been there since you were kids, with your legs crossed and your skin bathed in sunlight. The sunset’s still a while off, but for now the sun’s cast everything in gold as it begins its slow descent, peeking over your shoulder like a halo fallen off its owner.
An angel in a sundress.
A fleeting thought, unsolicited. He shakes it off.
It’s a pretty dress you’re in. Flowy at the bottom, floral-printed. It’s flattering—the waist tight, the chest tight, the neckline a little low, maybe. Not that he should be noticing any of that, or where it cuts off.
(High on the thigh, bare skin in the golden sunlight—he barely allows himself a glimpse.)
Aki tears his eyes away, easing to a stop a couple inches from the curb.
By the time he’s put the car in park and rolled the windows down—engine idling, radio low—you’re right there, resting your arms on the edge of the driver’s side window as you lean through it. You bring the summer heat in with you, coming so close he can smell the perfume on your throat. A new scent, he thinks, but the same old proximity. You’ve never had much of a sense of personal space with him, and he’s never complained.
He doesn’t mind when you lean so far over into the body of his car that the neckline of your pretty dress falls open. But he keeps his eyes up.
But even looking at your face feels indulgent, somehow. You weren’t lying when you said you were done up; you took time and care, and now you’re looking down at him through heavy lashes, your lips (shiny with gloss) curving up into a smile.
He wonders what state of mind someone would have to be in to cancel on you.
“Are you the Lyft I ordered?” you grin.
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“One of us has to be the comedic relief.”
He studies your expression. You’re smiling, but then again, you’re always smiling. You’re good at faking it, but he’s attentive enough to tell the difference.
“How’s the comedic relief holding up?” he asks. “You alright?”
You let out a weary, dramatic sigh. “I told you, I’m fine.”
“Did he reschedule?”
“No.” There’s a but, but then you trail off.
“I see.”
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not a big deal. People cancel dates sometimes.”
“What kind of people? Assholes?”
There’s a moment of heavy silence, and then you let your smile relax.
“To tell you the truth,” you say earnestly, “I’m better now that you’re here. So thanks for coming.”
You’ve got your hand in the car, some of his hair twirled around your finger. Pesky—you’re always messing with his hair when he has it down.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, twisting the key to shut off the ignition. “I wanted to come.”
By the time he reaches for the handle and pushes the door open, you’ve disentangled your hand from his hair and stepped back. He steps out into the space, stands up; and then he’s the one looking down at you. He was always so much taller than you, even when you were kids. That’s probably when he picked up the habit of slouching and leaning around you so he wouldn’t tower over you so much.
On instinct, he rests his side against the car.
“So what do you want to do?” he asks. “Go somewhere? Or stay here? I still have that twelve pack in the back seat if you want to hang out inside.”
You chew your lip. “Sure. We can stay in, if that’s easier.”
Maybe if he didn’t know you so well he wouldn’t have noticed the almost-imperceptible fall of your expression. He knows it’s not that you mind staying in; you’re both content to do nothing in particular—cook, drink, talk, smoke (every type of nothing that doesn’t feel like nothing when it’s done with the right person)—at your place or his, until one of you gets tired and falls asleep on the other’s couch.
But then he takes another look at you, at how dolled up you got to go out, and he’s kicking himself for suggesting the opposite.
“Actually,” he corrects, “why don’t we go somewhere?”
“That sounds nice,” you smile.
He signals to the passenger side with a tilt of his head, and then he’s guiding you over. Your voice is eager, your expression bright. That’s better, he thinks, opening the passenger door for you.
You’re already settling into the passenger seat by the time he realizes it’s as far back as it is. He must have left it all the way back on its track after cleaning the car, forgetting to slide it forward to its usual spot. (Your spot—that’s how he thinks of it, since you’re usually the one sitting there.)
He rests a hand on the top frame of the car and ducks his head in, leaning over you to press his fingers to the little button on the side of the seat that moves it on its track.
“Sorry,” he says. “I meant to move it forward for you.”
There’s a high electronic whir as the seat inches forward, and Aki means to look up at you. But as he raises his gaze—from the button on the side of the seat, to where you’re sitting, with your leg resting just a few inches from his hand—his eyes catch on your thigh for a second.
Before he can think about what he’s doing, he’s letting his vision linger. He’s pausing with his eyes right where your dress has ridden up, high, leaving the skin of your upper thigh bare.
God, he thinks suddenly. That dress.
He tears his eyes away from your thigh, forces them up to meet yours instead. And he stalls there for a moment—frozen, with his finger on the button, looking at your face as he thinks about your dress and all the bare skin just beneath it.
He thinks—Who’d you put that pretty dress on for?
Someone who’d appreciate you in it?
Someone who’d show you off? Buy you all the pretty dresses you want?
“I could’ve moved the seat myself.” You’re laughing—oblivious to that glance, fortunately, and to all the thoughts that (out of nowhere) are running wild in his head. “I know how to press a button.”
He’s still reeling from that glimpse, barely even processing that he’s moved the seat forward more than enough; he’s brought you right up close without moving an inch himself, and now you’re face to face, and he’s looking you dead in the eyes, but his mind is still on that dress. That dress on you, and that smile on your face (familiar and comfortable, but isn’t it somehow a little different?), and that perfume filling his head—dizzying.
You cock your head to the side, still laughing. “It’s kind of nice, though. I don’t mind being taken care of.”
Taken care of…?
For a split second, something’s flashing through his head that absolutely shouldn’t be—his hands on your waist, on your hips; laying you down, pushing your dress up. Kneeling between your legs, with your thighs on his shoulders, and his fingers grazing over your skin. Taking care of you, treating you right, with your fingers tugging at his hair, and his tongue on your—
“Aki?” Your eyes are wide. “Hello? Are you alive? Are you astral projecting because I’m boring you to death?”
He pulls back the same second he snaps out of his daze, thinking, What the hell am I doing?
“Sorry,” he says quickly, “I was thinking about—”
Things I shouldn’t have, looking at places I shouldn’t have, and I have no idea why.
“—some parts for the car that I have to replace.”
He shuts the door.
“You know, I think it’s nice that you always open doors for me. It’s like the dying art of the gentleman,” you say, peering up at him.
Gentleman?
He has to suppress a wince. Hands on the frame, he thinks: If I were a gentleman, I wouldn’t have been looking at you like that.
He says: “Opening doors is the bare minimum.”
“Well. At least chivalry isn’t dead for one guy in this godforsaken town.”
And what about the rest of them? The guys who do next to nothing and call it enough, the ones who don’t even think to do the bare minimum for you—why even give them the time of day?
But that’s not any of his business, is it? Just like it’s not his business what you look like underneath your dress. He crossed a line, looking at you the way he did. He shouldn’t have been imagining any of that.
Just like he shouldn’t be sighing your name right now. And when you look up at him (eyebrows raised, expectant), he shouldn’t be saying with so much emotion, “You look really nice. I hope you know that.”
You smile. “Do you think so?”
“Yeah.”
Of course I do, he thinks. I always do. But he doesn’t say it, because he knows he shouldn’t.
What he should be doing is shaking off that momentary lapse in judgment. Those fantasies—where are they even coming from? That’s never been the nature of your relationship. And it never will be, because you don’t see him that way.
The worst thing about it all is that he knows exactly how you see him. Like family. And even knowing that, even after stepping into that role for years, he still had that filth on his mind.
Pervert, he thinks, stepping back from the window. Get your head straight.
“Thanks, Aki.”
“Yeah.”
He scrubs the remnants of those thoughts from his head as he rounds the car, crushing the feeling before he can say or think anything else that he shouldn’t. And by the time he slides into the driver’s seat, puts the key into the ignition, and hears the engine come to life, he’s back to normal.
Back to treating this as he should; that was just a little slip, and this time is the same as any other.
Back to normal, he promises himself.
“Where are we going?” you ask, fiddling with the volume and the AC until everything’s exactly how you want it.
“Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Me neither,” he says, pulling away from the curb. “But we’ll figure it out on the way.”
Just like always.
/ / / / /
It’s cold in the car.
It smells like mint, smells like him: the menthol of the vapor leaving his mouth, the same smell that lingers on his clothes and in the AC vents carried out on the cool air as he drives—one hand on the wheel, the other on the gearshift, with the Juul caught between his fingers.
The metal of the vape is the same black as the ink on the fingers holding it.
Little tattoos. Some meaningful, some not; all so familiar to you that you could draw them from memory. You know the tattoo on the back of his hand—lifted, bringing the vape to his mouth—like the back of your own.
He breathes in, out; the menthol intensifies, vapor hanging in the air before it dissipates. Faster than the cigarettes he used to smoke, but still the scent lingers, until everything smells cold.
Like cough drops, you think. It smells like cough drops, and the smoke from his old cigarettes, and the leather seats that smoke still hides in. And beneath all of that, the leather cleaner he always uses to keep his car spotless.
“Still no cigarettes?”
He looks over, quizzical. “You’re the one who wanted me to quit.”
“I do. But vaping doesn’t count as quitting.”
“I’ll get there,” he says. “I promise.”
You can’t complain; you know that promise is as good as gold, because Aki doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. And for you, promises come easy. All you have to do is ask. Sometimes you don’t even have to ask; sometimes you just mention something once, offhandedly—When are you gonna quit that shit, Aki? Smoking that much is awful for you—and you find that that’s all it takes for him to kick a habit of years.
He’d ditched the smokes for an alternative the next day.
Less harmful, he’d said. Just for now. Until I can get off nicotine completely.
The vape smells better, at least. The menthol smells good, actually: clean, fresh; but if you’re honest, you never really minded the smell of the cigarettes. Maybe because they were his.
“I was thinking,” he says, glancing over, “we can get food if you’re hungry. There’s the hotpot place you like, or the pizza place on 9th. Or we could grab stuff from the convenience store and eat at the park. Watch the sun go down. Maybe catch a late show afterward. You’ve been wanting to see that heist flick, right? Your call…”
You think on it, looking out through the windshield. The tint’s dark, probably too dark, but through it you can see the evening sun (a half-hour from setting, now) suspended above the horizon, bleeding pink into the sky and clouds surrounding it.
He gives you time with your options, drives in comfortable silence, taking hits off the vape. The menthol thickens in the air around you, that familiar smell growing stronger. More present. It’s comfortable, just like his presence beside you. It’s exactly what you need.
He has a knack for figuring out what you need. The magic touch to make it all better.
You’re glad he turned around. As much as it hurt to be canceled on, there could be no better remedy. Really, it’s hard to imagine that the date could have beaten this. You’re almost glad that your date never turned up, because you’d rather be here than anywhere. You’d rather be with the one person who always shows up. Reliable, consistent—safe.
It’s safe here, just like home. Eighty on the freeway but you’re anchored. They’re always comfortable, these aimless drives, accompanied by aimless conversations that last even after the moon is high. You could stay here forever—let him drive until the sun sets, then rises, then do it all over again, and you’d still be content.
“Can we just drive for a while?”
Whatever you want to do, wherever you want to go, he always says. Even if it’s nowhere at all.
He says it this time, too, obligingly, predictably: “Whatever you want.”
You’re on a long stretch of freeway, driving in the direction of the sun, when it starts to set. It sinks slowly, turning the pink sky orange and then red and then purple. There’s a lapse in the conversation, but it’s comfortable—spent watching buildings fly by, listening to the music and the flare of the exhaust.
The menthol cooling your head, the AC cooling your skin: it’s a chill as familiar as the drive. From suburban back roads to the city, through endless mazes of buildings, coasting down exits; even when the route becomes unfamiliar (further and further out of traversed neighborhoods, into places where the scenery is brand new) it all feels the same.
He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other switching gears between puffs of menthol vapor. His head back on the headrest, his attention on the road, except to glance at you when you talk. Even in the sunset’s final moments—when the sky is at its most radiant, its gradients most saturated—if his pale eyes leave the road, it’s only to look at you.
Another glance your way. Your eyes lock for a split second—his on yours in the dying light; the sun past set now, the last of the colors in the sky fading to indigo—before he looks away, turning his head to switch lanes. The tattoo on his neck peeks out from under his hair, ink warping with the movement as he checks his blind spot, and your mouth goes dry.
There’s that feeling again, the twisting sensation in your chest that you don’t quite understand.
You avert your gaze, looking for something else. A distraction. Anything to look at that’s not him.
Your eyes settle on the dashboard, then catch the gas indicator. At the beginning of the drive, the tank had been full; now the needle is just a little above the halfway point. You wonder how much he’s spent on gas because of you. Not just today, but over all the years he’s been driving you around.
Would the alternative have been any cheaper? If you’d taken him up on one of his earlier offers—to grab food, to catch a movie—how much would he have spent on you then? Because he always pays; he never lets you spend a dime when you’re with him, no matter how insistent you are.
There’s another pang in your chest, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach. So much for distracting yourself.
Because now you’re thinking about all the things he could be doing: drinking with friends, blowing off steam; he could be doing anything he wants, but instead he’s here. Driving you for hours, doing whatever you want. He’s covering for someone who fell short. A guy he never even met. But that doesn’t matter, because Aki always picks up the pieces; no matter who breaks you, he’s the one who puts you back together.
The car slows, rolling to a stop.
In the dark, just the two of you stalled at this stoplight, in a quiet neighborhood on a quiet night (so quiet that you could be the last two people on earth), you look up from the indicator and at his profile. Black eyelashes heavy around pale blue irises, black hair tucked behind his ear; his face basked in the red cast by the stoplight, the same color as the stud shining in his ear—
You suppress a shiver.
He must have caught the movement. With his hand darting out to the AC dial, he asks, “Are you cold? Your dress is…”
His eyes flit down to your thighs for a fraction of a second, where goosebumps are forming.
He trails off, his face going suddenly and uncharacteristically pale as you stammer, “No, I just—”
It’s not the cold your skin is reacting to. That, you’re accustomed to—his chill is biting, AC and menthol and cigarettes. He’s always liked cool air to wick the summer sweat off skin, often sticky from hours spent together in the heat. Hot to cold reminds you of years ago, lakeside days in heatwaves: your heads dipping under the surface of the water at the same time, bodies submerged.
“—Leave it,” you say. “I like it.”
It feels good. It feels like you.
The red cast on his face flicks green with the change of the stoplight. He looks forward, foot on the gas, hands back in place—ink on his wrists, on his hands; he shifts gears, stirring a dormant memory of a quiet night much like this one.
A memory of tattooed fingers brushing over yours in a dark, empty parking lot.
Aki, can you teach me how to drive stick?
How long ago was that, now? It’s been a few years since that night, at least.
But he was as obliging back then as he is now. It must’ve been past midnight, that night when you’d asked him to teach you. But of course he’d said yes—and that’s how you wound up in the empty parking lot of the old theater all those years ago.
You remember: he started by giving you a demonstration. Still sitting in the front seat, his movements were easy. Familiar and confident from years of practice, but still slow enough to be comprehensible to someone inexperienced.
Clutch. First gear. Second. Alright?
He gave you thorough explanations with his hand on the shifter. You remember his hands under the dim yellow of the parking lot lights: the veins over his knuckles, the slate of the ring on the middle finger of his right hand.
(That little ring: a half-joke of a gift you gave to him forever ago. Like friendship bracelets, but better, you’d said. He still wears it to this day, a perfect match for the half-joke you still wear on your own hand.)
You remember the flicker of the street light overhead, and above that, the moon full and bright in a deep indigo sky.
You remember that, after the full demonstration—after you had already switched seats so you were in his and he was in yours, and you were behind the wheel with your hand on the gearshift—you laughed, I think I already forgot everything.
It could be that he heard the tremor in your voice, or maybe he just knew that you needed reassurance the same way he always seems to know what you need without having to ask.
I’m right here. Don’t be nervous. Do you want me to show you what to do?
Please.
You remember his hand closing over yours on the gearshift: light enough to be respectful, warm enough for you to recall the sensation years after the fact. But don’t you remember it all? The heat of his skin in the chill of the car, the smell of him when he leaned closer: mint on his breath, cigarette smoke lingering on his shirt, mingling with the scent of his detergent.
Every patient instruction.
Foot on the clutch.
Every affirmation.
Good. You’re fine.
His hand tightening over yours on the gearshift. Black ink spidering over his skin, moonlit.
Move it like this.
Guiding your hand, left, right.
Put the car in neutral.
Like this?
Perfect.
Letting his hand linger for as long as you needed it: helping you shift into first gear, and even afterward.
There you go. You’re doing so well, you’ve got it.
Just a memory. But it’s so tangible—the feeling so raw, every sensation somehow so fresh after all those years—that it sends your heart racing.
You don’t understand.
Back then you hadn’t felt a thing. Why would you have? It was all so comfortable, familiar. There was nothing out of the ordinary about a light touch; he was a friend, practically family—why would it stir any emotion in you? There’s years worth of that in your memory: his hand brushing against yours, a graze here, arms brushing there, impersonal.
But thinking back on those memories, they feel suddenly different. Tinted in a new color, their details sharpened. Every touch from the past, once impersonal, now seems charged. The way his hands would linger—not the touch of a friend, not the touch of a brother, but something else.
Something yearning.
It’s not just the touches that suddenly stick out in your memory. It’s the fact that whenever you needed something, you’d go to him on instinct. Because you knew he’d do whatever you needed, and do it right, no questions asked.
It’s the years worth of him obliging you.
Can you help me move some boxes? Can you help me paint my room? Can you help me put this new dresser together?
It’s the years worth of him doing everything you asked, and so much more.
Can you show me how to change my oil?
He’d shown you how to check the oil in your car, and how to change it, but you never really had to put that knowledge to use. He’d do every oil change for you, return your car washed and waxed.
Your car—that’s another matter entirely.
The parking lot lessons lasted a few months, until you were comfortable driving stick. And then, on one random morning several months after that (sun peeking through the blinds, birds chirping), you’d woken up to a text from him.
Are you up yet, youngin?
Barely.
Sleepyhead. Come outside.
He was sitting on the hood of an unfamiliar car, with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and his hands in his pockets.
The car was souped-up. Shiny new paint job, mods like his own, a model similar to cars he’d flipped in the past—it rang his style, was clearly his own project.
You asked: Is this your new baby? You fixed it up?
Yeah. What do you think of it?
It was almost cute. Sitting on shiny, clean rims. Compact, sporty, made to burn rubber—the type of car that looked fun to drive.
You always liked Aki’s cars, but you loved that one immediately. There was something special about it. From the interior (spick and span, recently reupholstered) to the exterior (spotless, not a flaw in the paint), it had been treated with extra care. You wondered how much time he’d put into making sure everything was perfect. It must have taken him forever.
It’s amazing. I love it. The color especially.
Your favorite color.
It wasn’t a question, but you answered anyway.
Yeah. You skimmed a finger over the paint (smooth to the touch, glossy), still peering into the windows.
There was a jingling sound from his direction. You stopped ogling the car to look his way, and you were confused to see his arm extended, held out to you with a key ring dangling from his fingers. (His hands were still stained with oil, scraped up at the knuckles, nicked in places—he’d been working hard.)
It’s yours.
You were frozen in place, incredulous. What?
Now that you can drive stick, you can drive this.
You fixed this up for me? you asked shakily, taking the keys. How do I even repay you for this?
You don’t. He plucked the cigarette from behind his ear, slotted it between his lips. It’s a gift.
You’ve lost your mind, old man.
A half-smile around the cigarette. Then his lighter was out, the flame jumping to ignite the smoke as he rounded the car, his hand up to shield it from the wind.
You were still glued to the pavement on the other side.
Well? He rested his arms on top of the car from the passenger side, looking over it. Let’s go for a ride. See how you like it.
How many hours did he put into your car? How much time, how much money did it take to gut the insides, replace the old parts, do all of those mods?
His blood, sweat, and tears. And you’d thought it all friendly? Impersonal? That twist in your chest, that pit in your stomach—after all of that, and for all those years, you never felt it?
Until now.
Now, beyond the passenger window of his car, the city is quiet. You coast past apartment complexes shrouded in darkness, little windows (yellow-lit from within) dotting the night. You don’t think you’ve been in this area before. Nothing around looks familiar; you must be really far out. Even after fixing up that car for you, he still drives you anywhere you want to go in his own.
“Why do you do all of this for me?” you blurt.
Aki glances over with a look of confusion, and for some reason you’re thinking again about the parking lot. About how you’d feel this time. If his hands were on you again—if he were running his inked fingers down your skin, murmuring, There you go, you’re doing so well—how would you feel this time?
“What do you mean, why?” he asks.
“You don’t have to do all of this. Bailing on the party to drive me around. Being here whenever I need anything. My car. You do so much for me, and you never get anything in return.”
“In return?” he asks skeptically. “I don’t know how these guys have been treating you, but not everything is an exchange. Some people will do things for you just because they care about you.”
There’s that wrenching in your chest again—but stronger, this time. This time, it becomes a swell.
“I don’t do things expecting something back,” he says. “And I’m not here out of obligation. I’m here with you because I want to be.”
Larger and larger that swell grows, until you feel it bloom, like petals opening in your ribcage. Maybe that feeling was always there. Dormant for years, but—like a night-blooming flower awaiting the moonlight—fated to open at the right time.
Finally, you understand what that feeling is. You let yourself accept it. You resolve to do something about it—
“That’s what friendship is, right?” he murmurs.
—if, after all these years of friendship, he’ll let you.
SYNOPSIS. nothing weird’s gonna happen just because the two of you are all alone... right?
DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING ADULT CONTENT AND THE DARK CONTENT STATED IN THE WARNINGS.
11:00 A.M.
Katsuki gets a lot of pussy.
That’s absolutely not a fact that you should know about your own stepbrother. But it’s a fact that you do know, and can’t really help knowing — because he practically shoves it in your face every summer. It’s a fact that you can hear through the wall separating his room and yours.
Every fucking night for the last two summers. It’s like the girls he fucks are so shrill. So incredibly, terribly shrill that their voices are etched, permanently, into your brain.
Fuck me harder, Katsuki.
God, Katsuki, your dick is so fucking good.
The best dick I’ve ever had.
You scowl. Those obscene voices are playing in your head as you near the end of your annual drive home from college for summer break. It’s a long drive — from the south end of the state to the very middle of it.
You guess it’s a long drive for your stepbrother, too, who drives from the north end of the state down. The both of you have made the drive for the past two summers — ever since your mom and his dad shacked up, bought a nice little home in the burbs, and asked you both to drive over so you could all play house.
Like a big, happy family.
Your douche of a stepbrother is probably already home. His college lets out a week earlier than yours each summer.
You frown, staring at the road. You’re in the neighborhood now, driving past familiar houses, as you approach your own. You wonder how he’ll be this summer. If he’ll be just as bad as last summer and the one before. If he’ll be even worse.
Sometimes you think he does it just to deprive you of sleep. Just to piss you off. Because that’s just the kind of guy he is.
Either way, you’ve already mentally prepared yourself to get very little sleep, with the devil the next room over.
Speak of the devil; as you pull up to your driveway, you see his car parked there. It’s an obnoxious thing, slammed and spoilered. Your mom’s car, which is usually in the driveway, is nowhere to be found. He’s parked in the very middle of the driveway — so that, even though there should be room for your car next to his, there isn’t.
Asshole, you mutter under your breath, pulling into the street parking.
You step out of your car, adjust your top. Throw your duffel bag over your shoulder. It’s hot outside. Muggy. The sun beams down, intense. You trudge up to the house, peeling your tiny top away from your sweaty, sticky skin. You slot your keys in the front door, open it, and call out, flatly, “Kat.”
No response. The house is completely empty.
For some reason, you’re a little disappointed. Where’s your mom? Your stepdad? Where’s your dumb stepbrother — the one who should be tormenting you from the second you step in the door?
You frown. Why do you even care where your brother is? All he is is a pain in the ass, anyway. It would be better if he stayed gone, wherever he is.
You head up the stairs, to your room, lugging your duffel bag up the stairs. If Katsuki were here, you’d make him carry it up. Well — you’d try. He’d probably just tell you to fuck off.
What’s the use of having a brother if he won’t even carry your shit up the stairs?
You’re thinking about his terrible attitude as you jog back down the stairs and into the kitchen. The AC is on, and it’s chilly in the house, but you’re still cooling off from the heat outside. So you fill up a glass of water.
You’re leaning against the counter, sipping on it thoughtfully, when the front door opens.
He must have just gone on a run or something. Because he’s covered in sweat, wearing nothing but workout shorts and Nikes. No shirt. Sweat drips down his chest, snakes down the ridges between his abs.
You’ve always thought his build was absolutely ridiculous. Huge and obnoxious, just like his personality. You can hear the music in his airpods all the way from the kitchen — loud, bass-heavy. Something about fucking bitches, probably. He’s cliche like that.
You meet his eyes. You hate that scheming grin that crosses his face when he sees you. You could slap it right off. It’s just so annoying. He takes an airpod out of one ear, slamming the front door behind him, and says,
“What’s up, squirt? It’s been a while.”
You scrunch your nose up at the nickname, still sipping on your water as you watch him approach.
“Don’t call me that,” you say flatly. “You’re getting sweat everywhere,” you frown, glancing at a droplet making its way down his abs. The sweat rolls down his pecs. Down his neck, collecting in the little divot between his collarbones. “It’s gross.”
He eyes you out, sly, as he approaches the kitchen.
“A little sweat never hurt anybody,” he says, stepping around the kitchen island.
You feel like he’s always getting a little too close to you. Taking up a little too much space. It’s like his personality, his aggression, expands to fill whatever space he’s in. He’s always been big. And right now, he seems even bigger.
You don’t know what it is. He couldn’t have grown. It must just be the proximity. The emptiness of the house, the fact that he’s standing far too close.
You shrink away. “Go take a shower.”
He wrenches the glass of water out of your hand, cutting you off when you start to protest. “I’m not done working out,” he says, right before he takes a huge gulp of the water in your glass.
You’re staring at him, incredulous. Wondering how the hell he always finds a new way to piss you off. “You’re so fucking annoying,” you scoff, watching him down more of your water.
“What’s with the attitude?” he says, after drinking more than half of it. He runs his tongue over his lips, leaning against the counter. “I can’t believe you’re so rude to your big brother right off the bat.”
Big brother. Ever since your parents got together, he’s lorded that over you. As if a year age difference really means anything, considering you’re both in your twenties. As if he’s actually related to you.
“Give me that,” you snap, yanking the glass right back out of his hand.
You put a little too much force behind it; the water sloshes out of the cup, splashing onto your tits.
“Fuck,” you say under your breath, looking down at your tiny top, the wet spot on your chest. When you look back up at him, he’s looking down at your chest, with a satisfied smirk on his face. He meets your eyes, still smiling.
Blatant. That’s a good word for your stepbrother.
You break eye contact.
He’s a dog. You know that deep down, maybe on some level that you refuse to really acknowledge fully. You have known that since your parents first got together a couple of years ago. All the lingering glances, right off the bat. He’s always been like this.
But, even if you know that he’s a dog, it’s not something you acknowledge. Really, it’s better if you don’t. Because if you do…
If you do acknowledge what a dog he is…
Then you might have to confront your own stolen glances. The ones that happen just once every so often, when you’re not paying attention to what you’re doing, and you catch yourself looking at his body.
Like right now.
You realize suddenly that, while you were thinking about all of this, letting your mind wander, your eyes were wandering, too: down to his waistband, where his happy trail disappears under the elastic.
You look away quickly, and when you meet his eyes, there’s a knowing smile on his face.
You gulp, clearing the disgusting thoughts out of your head. “Where are mom and dad?” you demand.
“They didn’t tell you?” he says, stepping closer. You can smell the sweat on him; it’s sickly sweet, almost. “They’re gone for a week.”
You’re not surprised that they didn’t bother to tell you. They tend to default their interactions to your asshole of a stepbrother, usually forgetting that you exist. Because, somehow, Katsuki has ingratiated himself as the favorite child of both his dad and your mom.
He’s the pride and joy: at the top of his class, on a full ride to a prestigious college.
You frown, thinking about what he’d just said. Gone for a week? Leaving you here, with … ?
“Where are they?”
“Fuck if I know. All I know,” he grins, “is that they left me in charge.”
You roll your eyes. There he goes again — playing the big brother role so well, like the two of you are kids, left home alone for the night. Milking that role for all it’s got.
“Really,” you say flatly.
“Really,” he says, taking a step toward you. You step away instinctively; your back hits the counter. “You have to do whatever I say while we’re all alone,” he teases. “Mommy told me so.”
All alone. The way he says things — especially right now — seems so… so… suggestive.
“I might invite some friends over this week,” he’s saying, resting his weight against the counter, gauging your expression with a calculating eye.
You sigh. “Can you just chill out for one week?” you snap. “I want to decompress. The semester just finished.”
“Yeah?” he grins. “Why, because you worked so hard? Got a 4.0? Made the Dean’s List? Deserve some relaxation time, after all that hard work?”
You stare at him, indignant. You’ve never done all that well in school, and he knows that. That’s his area of expertise, you guess. Along with being the biggest douchebag known to man.
“Just fuck off,” you snap. “I don’t want your frat bros in the house. They’re gross. You’re gross.”
It’s true; they are gross. You’d met them when he’d brought them — uninvited — to the last family gathering, for whatever godforsaken reason. They’d all shown up in an obnoxiously loud car, and then they’d spent the entire night snickering amongst themselves. You’d overheard some of their whispers, and you could’ve sworn that some of the disgusting things you’d heard them saying to each other were about you —
“I’m gonna do what I want, Princess,” he says drily.
Princess. You hate that. The way he subverts the innocent nickname your mom uses for you. Makes it feel… grimy.
He plucks the glass out of your hand, and at this point you’re too lost in thought to fight him on it. Maybe it’s better that way, because your hand had been so tight around the glass that it was probably close to shattering. So you just watch him down the rest of the water from it.
Katsuki walks past you and to the kitchen sink, brushing your bare arm with his on the way there. You feel the sweat transfer from his skin to yours; disgusted, you wipe it off with your hand. He places the glass on the side of the sink — not bothering to put it in the dishwasher or even in the sink, like you ask him to do every summer.
It’s intentional, like everything else. Just to get under your skin.
You screw up your face in distaste, tracking him with your eyes. He rounds the kitchen island and leans over the granite, facing you — his chain swinging in the heavy, empty space. You walk to the opposite side of the kitchen island and stand there, just looking at him, with half a mind to lecture him about his glass.
“What?” he asks.
You decide against it. What good would it do, anyway?
“Nothing.”
“‘Kay,” he says sarcastically, pulling his phone out of his pocket.
He puts his chain in his mouth, sucking on it absently as he unlocks his phone. He’s leaning over the granite with his phone flat on the counter, and he must know that you can see everything on the screen from where you’re standing. He must know that you can see his obscene phone background — some model with her legs spread. You know he knows you can see it.
You watch him tap on a familiar red icon — a dating app. He starts to scroll through it, with a bored expression on his face.
“Hey,” he says, looking up at you, letting his chain fall from his mouth. “You don’t mind if I have someone over tonight, do you?”
His tone says it all: he’s not asking you. He’s telling you. He might as well say, You don’t mind if I fuck a girl’s brains out while you’re trying to sleep, do you?
“It’s not the frat bros,” he’s saying caustically. “Since I know you’d throw a fit about that.”
You clench your jaw, thinking about the noises you’re in for if he does decide to bring someone over. The bed creaking so loud you don’t even know how it’s still standing. The girls moaning like they won’t survive the night. The girls saying I’m cumming! so many times that they must be faking it. Because there’s no fucking way.
Those voices might drive you insane.
Fuck me, Katsuki - ! God, you’re so fucking deep.
Your dick is fucking amazing.
A different girl every fucking night.
Maybe it’s time to acknowledge it — he’s such a fucking dog.
“What?” he fake pouts. “Is someone jealous?”
Your eyes widen. “Jealous?” you stammer quickly.
You can’t believe he’d ask that. What does he even mean by that? Jealous of what, exactly? Jealous of those girls getting their brains fucked out the next room over? Jealous of the way they’re getting pounded into the mattress? Jealous of the amount of times he makes them cum? You can’t be jealous of that — can’t be jealous of girls for fucking your very own stepbr—
“Jealous that you’re not getting any anymore,” he says, studying you — sly. “Pops told me about your breakup.” His eyes narrow. “Why? What did you think I meant?”
You’re flustered. Your mouth feels like cotton. It’s that same feeling you’d feel as a little kid, getting caught in the act: pilfering something, maybe. Doing something your parents really wouldn’t like. “Nothing,” you say quickly.
There’s a smug look on his face; it’s replaced, slowly, by an expression of mock surprise. “Wait a minute,” he says caustically. “You didn’t think I meant… jealous of the girls I bring over, right?”
“Of course not,” you hiss under your breath — as if someone could hear you, even though it’s just the two of you.
Just the two of you, all alone in this house, for the week.
“Because that would be totally sick,” he says. Smug.
“I wasn’t thinking about that,” you say through your teeth.
“You should get your mind out of the gutter,” he chides. “I mean, I get it — you’re dick deprived. Must suck and all. But I’m your big brother, for god’s sake.” His tone is so caustic: sarcasm dripping off every word. Nasty, just like his personality.
You wonder what’s set him off. Why he’s being even worse than usual. Why he’s tormenting you so much. Because this is different from the little gazes across the years, the ones that you can pretend to ignore. This is blatant conversation, the type that you can’t just brush over. No skirting around the topic.
“Stop talking,” you say, because you’ll be damned if you devote any more attention to this awful conversation. “Just stop.”
“Man,” he grins, leaning over the kitchen island — getting right up in your face. So close. Too close. You take a step backward, and he laughs. “Imagine if your mom knew what went through your dirty mind.”
He’s being even more of a pain than usual. You don’t know what it is. This should just be like any other summer. Your parents have gone off before, left the two of you on your own in the house before, right…?
Well, now that you think of it, they’ve never gone away for this long before. They’ve taken a few days here and there, but never a week.
So is that it? The promise of being alone together for an entire week? Is he going to be like this the entire time?
Katsuki straightens up, locking his phone. “I can’t believe you, squirt,” he’s laughing. “Didn’t know you were so fucking sick in the head.”
“Shut the fuck up, Katsuki,” you say, shifting from foot to foot. “Just shut up. You’re being fucking disgusting. I wasn’t thinking of anything like that. I would never!”
You’d put a little too enthusiasm behind the last word, and you find yourself cringing at your own adamance. Because it’s so obvious that it was overdone.
Your brother smiles — a self-assured, knowing smirk. “I’m just fucking with you,” he says innocently. “Damn, why are you all worked up? Can’t you take a joke?”
You’re staring up at him indignantly. Furiously. He’s so nonchalant — as if he didn’t just imply that you wanted to fuck him. Him! Of all people. Your own stepbrother. You’re speechless, just glaring at him, without the faintest idea of how to respond.
He laughs, reaches across the counter to squish up your cheeks with his massive, rough hand.
“Relax, kiddo,” he chides — condescending. Sarcastic. “This isn’t a cheap porno. I’m your big brother. Nothing weird’s gonna happen just because we’re all alone.”
Then he’s laughing, pulling away from the counter, turning his attention back to flipping through the girls on his dating app as he walks off.
I’m your big brother.
You watch him walk up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The way his body flexes, covered in sweat, glinting in the light.
Nothing weird’s gonna happen.
Yeah.
11:45 A.M.
Katsuki is in great shape.
He takes pride in his body, hits the gym at college every single day after class.
So, of course, he won’t let that hard work go to waste. He has weights in his room. Makes use of them throughout the summer — doesn’t miss a single day.
That’s why he’s on the floor right now, laid out, pressing dumbbells: 30 pounds in each hand, easy.
Maybe he should get something heavier.
He’s thinking of you as he works out — quick, high rep sets, with sweat running down his face and music going in the background. He’s thinking of your secretive glances at his body. The flustered way you always peek at his abs. His arms. The hungry, absent gazes that linger on the waistband of his shorts.
His perverted little sister. He’s trying to keep count of his reps, but he keeps getting distracted, thinking about you.
He’s so glad you’re finally home. He hates that lull each summer. The way his college lets out a week before yours.
He wants you every single summer. Thinks about you, fucks other girls wishing it was your pussy clenching around his dick.
Usually, he can tide himself over — unloading in cunt after cunt. Sticky, messy cum in girls who are good for nothing else as he imagines you under him, your eyes rolling back, his hand around your throat.
It’s particularly bad this summer, the want for you. The anticipation. He feels like he’s been going crazy, ever since his dad told him that he’d be going off with your mom for a week, leaving the two of you alone in the house. He doesn’t even know where they’ve gone. Doesn’t remember, doesn’t care. Because as soon as he’d heard that, you were the only thing on his mind. That was when he started scheming.
That was when he’d made up his mind that he’d fuck you.
Katsuki’s been waiting too long for an opportunity like this — to have you all to himself in this big house.
Your parents left for the week a couple days ago. It’s been torture for him ever since. He’s had so much pent up energy, waiting for you to get home. So much desire. He’s been inviting girl after girl over.
(That’s normal; he does it every summer, fucks them to blow off steam. Fucks them to distract himself from you. And, every summer, he fucks them extra hard, gets them screaming extra loud, just to piss you off.
Just to show his little sister what she’s missing out on.)
Katsuki doesn’t have any trouble picking up girls. They trip over themselves to fuck him — so much pussy he’s fucking drowning in it. But he finds them pathetic. Boring.
He wants you — his dirty whore of a little sister. Because he knows, even though you give it up easily, you’ll put up a fight when it’s your brother.
You take things like this seriously. And he finds that annoying — that you’ll spread your legs for guys you don’t even know, but not him. He’s thinking of last summer, and the guys you’d bring home from your favorite bar, when it should’ve been him in your pussy.
But there’s one upside to all of this.
The thought of all of your uptight reactions to him, of all of that denial, when he knows you want it — that gets his dick so hard. I would never! you’d said. He’s licking the sweat off of his upper lip, thinking about how badly he wants your cunt, as he nears the end of his set.
His hookups haven’t been enough this summer, not nearly. No amount of pussy will satisfy him if he can’t have you. The promise of being alone with you for a week has been far too enticing. It has him so worked up that he jacks off practically as soon as his hookups leave. He finds himself doing it several times a day: one hand on his dick, the other on his phone — where he’s usually zoomed in on your ass, thinking about burying his cock in it. And he cums all over himself — sticky white spurting up onto his stomach, onto his heaving chest, with his lip between his teeth and his face contorted.
Sometimes he fucks a little pocket pussy he got with you in mind: strokes it, messy, over his dick. He dumps load after load into it, wishing it was your cunt. Thinks about how hot, wet, and tight you’d be. He likes to hold it in place, thrusting up into it. While he does, he imagines his hands on your hips, keeping you still as he pounds up into your dripping pussy.
You.
It’s been too long since he’s last seen you. When was the last time, anyway? Some family gathering. But he hears a lot about you from your mom. She’s taken a liking to him; she likes to keep him updated on his little sister. She thinks he’s talented, smart. And he is.
She thinks he’s a good kid.
He’s not.
He wonders what your mom would think of him if she knew how long he spends on your Instagram, especially at the end of each spring semester, when summer draws close. What would she think if she saw him zooming in on your party pictures to see your cleavage in your skimpy outfits? What would she think if she saw him showing all of his friends pictures of his nasty slut of a little sister?
Katsuki’s friends all know you. From afar. They’ve all spent nights with their dicks wrapped up in their fists, drooling over pictures of you.
They talk to your big brother about passing you around, stuffing you full. They ask your big brother when he’ll let them abuse all of your holes at once.
Katsuki’s arms are burning as he lifts the dumbbells. He doesn’t know what rep he’s on anymore. He’s lost count. He’s too distracted, thinking about what his friends keep saying about you. The way they keep egging him on.
That’s your stepsister?
You get all fucking summer with her?
This is your — what? — third summer with her?
You’re fucking insane if you haven’t fucked her yet.
They’re right.
A call starts to buzz on his phone. So he finishes the set and sits up, with burning arms.
It’s his friends. A group call.
He has half a mind to ignore it, to go back to his thoughts of you as he works out. Maybe he’ll fuck his fist again when he’s done, with you in his head. But he decides against it. He was pretty much done with the set, anyway.
He accepts the call, puts it on speaker.
“Yeah.”
“Katsu,” says a low voice. “What’s up, dude?”
“Nothing. Working out,” he says. “Well. I was trying to.” Clipped. He has a short temper to begin with, and he finds it particularly irritating when his friends interrupt his fantasies.
“Cool. Hey, how’s your little sis?” another voice crackles over the line.
“Slutty as ever,” he says, thinking of your little top. “Just walks around in these tiny fucking outfits. Tits out. No fucking bra. I swear she’s fucking asking for it.”
“Send a picture,” someone snickers.
He grins, wiping sweat off his face with the back of his hand. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“More for the spank bank,” someone says.
He scowls. Usually, Katsuki doesn’t mind sharing with his friends. He likes it: seeing girls get ruined right in front of him. But, for some reason, he’s feeling different about it right now. When it’s you…
At the very least, you’re going to be his before any of his friends get any.
“You fucked her yet?”
He snorts. “She’s been home for like an hour.”
“If it were me?” someone says. “I’d have had her face down ass up as soon as she walked through the fucking door.”
He’s thinking about that now. You, his cute stepsister, face down, ass up. His big hands spreading your ass cheeks. His dick moving in and out of your cunt. He keeps replaying that in his head, on a loop.
“God, yeah,” his other friend is saying. “Remember her ass in that one post?”
He’s zoning out as friends talk, thinking about your ass in your outfit today. Your tiny shorts. The little shirt you’re wearing — a strip of fabric that barely even qualifies as an article of clothing. Your nipples pressing against the thin material.
You must dress like that on purpose. You must post all of that slutty shit on purpose.
You must be doing it all to tempt him, just like the fucking slut you are.
“Hey, Kat,” someone says. “When are you gonna let us get a turn?”
His mouth twists up in distaste. Katsuki doesn’t like coming in second, not one bit. Especially not when it comes to you. He has dibs. “Me first,” he says, drily.
Once he gets a turn, though…
Someone laughs. “I bet her pussy is so fucking good,” they say. “Bet she takes dick like a champ. What do you think, Katsu?”
“Yeah. For sure.”
“Hey, Kiri,” says a voice — “what position would you want her in?”
“69,” answers Katsuki’s friend. “I’d make her ride my tongue. What about you, Kat?”
Katsuki suddenly hears something quiet, just under the buzz of his friends’ voices on the phone. Your footsteps: quiet, secretive. Your tread light. Pausing right outside his door.
Knowing you can hear everything he’s saying, your stepbrother says, “Doggy.”
“And why’s that?” comes a voice over the line.
Your brother knows you’re still idling outside his door, still listening. Waiting to hear what he says.
“Princess has a nice ass,” he says. “I wanna look at it while her pussy swallows up my dick.”
His friends laugh, agreeing. Katsuki hears a light footstep: you stepping away. And he’s suppressing a laugh, imagining that poor, embarrassed look on your face. It gets him hard, that humiliation.
He hears the shower turn on as his friends continue to talk about you and what position they’d like to fuck you in most. And he’s just thinking about you. About wanting to fuck you every summer. About how right now is his chance — now that he has you all to himself for the entire week.
“What’s she up to, anyway?” someone’s saying.
“She’s in the shower,” he answers. Scheming.
“Oh, really?”
There’s a heavy silence on the line, while everyone thinks about that. Imagines that — you in the shower, rubbing soap over your body.
“So what are you waiting for, Kat?” someone says.
He laughs. “Maybe I should go.”
Katsuki’s friends dog him for it, egg him on. They encourage him until he agrees — he’ll do something about it. He doesn’t need much convincing, anyway. Not at this point.
Katsuki ends the call and drops his phone into his pocket.
Then, your stepbrother steps out of his room and walks lightly to the bathroom, slipping his big hands into the pockets of his shorts. He’s looking at the bathroom door now, leaning his muscular frame against the wall next to it.
It’s slightly askew. Cracked open.
He can hear you moving in the shower. He’s listening to each movement, no matter how small. Imagining how you look in there. He hears you pop open the cap to the shampoo bottle.
And he’s thinking.
Scheming.
You don’t usually shower with the door open. He’s tried to open it before, actually. Once or twice, when he was feeling particularly malicious. It’s always been locked.
So why is it open now? Not just unlocked, but open?
What are you doing, leaving the door cracked like that — while you’re all naked and vulnerable, right on the other side of the thin shower curtain?
You’re fucking asking for it.
And he’s thinking about giving it to you. About stepping into the shower and surprising you. He’d cover your mouth and muffle the inevitable shriek of surprise, slot his dick into your pussy. He’d fuck you up against the shower wall, plunging in and out of your tight, wet cunt.
Katsuki steps into the bathroom, adjusting his hardening dick in his shorts.
The air in the bathroom is hot. Steamy, from the heat of the water.
He thinks he can hear something, just over the sound of the water hitting the floor of the tub.
It’s almost like… tiny whimpers.
Little pleasured gasps.
Katsuki grins. What is his perverted little sister doing in there, right on the other side of the shower curtain?
Before he does anything else, your brother pulls out his phone. Flips through his apps quickly, until he finds what he’s looking for — voice memos. He presses record, then sets his phone on the counter. Katsuki’s going to keep this forever; he’ll have your cute moans accessible whenever he needs something to stroke his dick to.
And, now that he’s capturing every noise you make, Katsuki takes a step toward the shower.
He pauses, feeling something soft underfoot. He lifts his foot and looks down at the floor, to find your discarded pile of clothes. The same tiny shirt you were wearing when the water splashed over your tits, the same obscenely small shorts.
And, right at the top of the pile, your panties.
Your whimpers are getting louder from behind the shower curtain. He crouches down, listening, his dick hard in his shorts for his stepsister’s adorable gasps.
You’re so filthy, such a slut for this: making yourself feel so good in the shower, with the door open, knowing his room is right next to it. He picks up your panties from the pile of clothes with one finger, grinning. Brings them to his face as your gasps get a little louder — as they turn into soft moans.
He inhales, deep. Gets his head full of pussy. Feels it cloud his mind, feels his dick getting even stiffer. He’s ravenous: a dog with a bone, practically drooling with your panties pressed to his face.
Katsuki’s a smart guy. He knows that the smart thing to do is to slip out of the bathroom right now. He could pocket your panties, bring them back to his room to jack off behind the safety of his locked door. But your moans sound too good. They have him chained to the floor, paralyzed. He doesn’t want to leave.
And then, he hears it.
Oh. Katsuki.
A breathy moan. Your breathy moan. So quiet that he’s not even sure he heard you right at first.
And then he hears it again. A little louder this time.
Fuck. Katsuki. Make me cum.
He grabs his dick through his shorts with his free hand, squeezes it, blood rushing between his legs fast. His name. You’re saying his name while you play with your pussy right behind the curtain. He wants to know just what you’re thinking of. What you’re imagining, what kind of sick scenarios you’re concocting with your big brother in the starring role.
With your panties still pressed to his face with his left hand, he shoves his right down his shorts, pulls his drooling dick out. There’s precum everywhere — sticky, oozing. That’s what his little sister does to him. He wants your pussy so bad. Smelling it isn’t enough. He wants to lick it, to fuck you with his tongue. He wants to eat you up.
He listens to your moans get louder from behind the shower curtain. More urgent. He’s thinking about how fucking filthy you are for that. Making yourself cum to the thought of him, after all of that resistance, all of that pretending.
I would never!
He knew you wanted him. And here’s the confirmation. And now, after these summers of pent up frustration…
Now, he’s gonna have you.
He keeps taking deep breaths with your panties pressed to his face. Panting into them, he squeezes his dick, uses his fist to drag the slick precum from the tip of it down. He jacks it, thinking about what way he’s gonna have his slutty sister for the first time.
Your moans are heightening as he slides his fist over his dick, precum dribbling onto the bathroom counter. He fucks his fist, listening to your moans, knowing he could make you sound so much better. Knowing your pussy would feel so much better wrapped around his cock.
He hears you, again: Kat, I’m gonna cum.
You’re feeling so good, right on the other side of the shower curtain. What do you want him to do to you?
He can imagine how you look with your eyes rolling back. He lets your panties fall to the bathroom counter, freeing his hand to grip the edge of it so hard his knuckles turn white. He keeps jerking his dick with his other hand, panting, his chest heaving.
You’re starting to cum — gasping and whimpering just a couple feet away from him — O-oh, god, Katsuki, I’m cumming.
That sends him over fast. He’s swearing under his breath, with the smell of your pussy still clouding his head, jerking his dick over your panties. All the tension boils over, releases in waves of pleasure. His cum starts to spurt out — thick, dripping down his fist, coating your panties, spilling onto the bathroom counter.
And he rides it out: groaning under his breath, his eyes rolled back, his head lolling back on his shoulders. Cum keeps shooting out with each wave, more and more of it onto the counter, onto your panties, until they’re drenched.
And when it’s done, he leans forward on the counter. Catches his breath, with sweat dripping down his chest.
Before you can finish your shower, he’s wiping the cum off of the counter with your ruined panties. He puts his dick back in his shorts, slips your panties into his shorts pocket. Grabs his phone, stops the recording.
Your stepbrother slips out of the bathroom door, and by the time he hears you turn the shower off, he’s back in his room.
12:15 P.M.
You finish your shower feeling absolutely filthy. So filthy that you even consider jumping back in, scrubbing your skin clean. Scrubbing all of your sins clean.
Why did you do … that?
You can barely even admit it to yourself, everything you just did. It’s sick, the way you leaned against the shower tile. The way you turned the showerhead to the massage setting and focused the stream on your clit. The way you came from imagining… him.
You’d heard all of those disgusting things your stepbrother and his friends were saying. All of the ways they’d fuck you. And you should have found it vile, because it was. If you weren’t as disgusting as them, you would have walked away and pretended they were talking about someone else.
But, instead, you listened. And, after hearing everything, you were so worked up — so tense — that you were desperate for some kind of release.
Why did you like those filthy things they were saying? It’s gross — the way you made yourself cum, thinking about all of those nasty things. The gross images in your head. The things you imagined:
You riding your stepbrother’s friend’s tongue, with him watching. His friend’s tongue on your clit, while he fucks your ass. You getting fucked doggystyle by your stepbrother, the way his fingers would feel digging into your hips. Your pussy swallowing up his dick, just like he said.
Just like he wants.
What you want, now that your head is clearer, is to erase that little mishap from your mind. The whole thing was wrong. Awful. So you decide you’ll pretend that it never happened. That you’ll forget all about it.
Yeah. That’s a good idea.
You try to forget about it as you run the towel over your body. You try to focus on something simple: just getting the water off of you. And it works.
When you’re all dried off, with the towel wrapped around you, you reach down to pick your dirty clothes up off of the ground.
You stall for a second, feeling your stomach twist. Something isn’t right. Something is missing. You rummage frantically through the pile of clothes, looking for something in particular.
But it’s no use. Your panties are gone.
Your stomach is in knots. Because, if they’re gone, that means he was here. Right here, in the bathroom, outside the shower curtain. Right here, while you were massaging your clit with the showerhead, moaning his name.
You frown. Does that pervert think you’re fucking stupid? That you won’t notice he took them?
… Does he think that you haven’t been noticing that they keep mysteriously vanishing from your laundry pile every summer?
What a fucking creep, you’re thinking. You’re trying to ignore the fact that your body seems to disagree, that you’re getting wet again. There’s no fucking way you’d get wet off the fact that your stepbrother is a panty stealer. A perv. Because what would that make you?
You exit the bathroom to see him stepping into his doorway with a towel slung over his shoulder. He’s even sweatier now, like he’s been working out hard. The veins are standing out on his forearms, on his hands. His face is flushed. His shorts are so low on his hips that it’s almost obscene.
“Took you long enough,” he says, with the most knowing smile plastered across his smug face. “What the fuck were you even doing in there, anyway?”
You gulp, speechless. So incredibly flustered. Your chest feels tight. You tighten the towel around you, feeling naked under his scheming gaze, like he can see right through the fabric.
He was there. Maybe he could hear…
What were you thinking, leaving the door unlocked? Worse — leaving it cracked open? That’s not like you. You always lock it. You must have forgotten, right?
Right. Because if you had left it open on purpose— knowing your disgusting brother wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation — that would be sick. Wrong.
“What do you think?” you retort shakily. “Showering. Fucking idiot.”
You turn away from him, storming past his room and into yours.
Once you’re in your room, you take a deep breath, listening to the racing of your own heartbeat with your back against the wall. You hear him laugh, right before his heavy footsteps recede down the hallway. He walks into the bathroom, slams the door shut behind him. The loud noise makes you wince.
You wait a second, for the little squeak of the faucet handle, and then the rush of the water coming from the showerhead. Once a few more moments have passed, you stick your head out of the doorframe. Just to make sure he’s still actually in the bathroom, and not sneaking around, like you are.
With a pounding heart, you creep out of your room and right next door, into his.
It’s surprisingly neat, for someone as disgusting as him. You glance around, then walk through the doorway. Still in just your towel. You shouldn’t be in here. And you have half a mind to leave when you see them — your panties, resting right at the top of his laundry basket. No attempt to hide them, not in the least. They’re just sitting there, soaked in cum.
You gulp, with a knot in your stomach. In just your towel, in the middle of your disgusting brother’s room. Staring at your cum-drenched panties in his basket, with your pussy dripping down your thighs.
You book it out of his room with your heart in your throat, leaving your panties right where they are.
12:45 P.M.
You’re reclined on the couch, watching some nonsensical show — distracting yourself from the strange events upstairs — when Katsuki comes down the stairs.
He’s showered now; his hair is wet, and he’s running a towel through it. He’s shirtless — water droplets adorning his heavily muscled chest — wearing nothing but sweatpants and socks.
You don’t look at him for too long. It would be best to just avoid him altogether, after what happened upstairs.
But it’s hard to avoid someone when they sit right next to you. The entire couch is open; it’s huge, spacious. It practically takes up half of the massive living room. And he decides to sink into it right next to you — so close that his leg is pressing against yours.
You glance down at his lap. At his sweats. You swear that you can see the massive outline of his… his…
You can feel his eyes on you, so you meet them. Instinctively. He’s grinning down at you. He was watching you look, just now. He reaches a bulky arm over your lap, snatches up the remote, then leans back into the cushions. You watch him start to flip through the stations. Casual.
“I was watching that,” you protest shakily.
“Oh, yeah?” he leers down at you — predatory. “Maybe you should keep your eyes on it, then. Instead of staring at my —”
You shoot to your feet with a racing heart, stomping over to the kitchen.
He laughs. Amused. Stands up off the couch and walks over to the TV to turn on the Xbox.
You’re watching him warily from behind the kitchen island, like a zoo visitor studying a wild animal. Primal alarm bells are going off all over your body — nerves everywhere telling you to run.
Katsuki slips his gaming headset over his head.
While you’re trying to calm your nerves, your stepbrother is connecting to a game. His friends must already be online, because you can hear their voices start to come in through the headset immediately. They’re so loud. So obnoxious, just like him. You can hear them warbling all the way from the kitchen, even though you can’t quite make out what anyone’s saying.
Someone says something — their tone lilting up at the end. A question for your big brother, you presume.
“Not yet,” he responds.
His friend replies, and you can see from Katsuki’s face that he’s not happy with whatever was just said. It was a jab, maybe.
“I’ll fucking bet you. By today. $20.”
You don’t know what he’s betting on, and you have a feeling that it’s better if you don’t know.
You need a distraction. You need to think about something. Anything. Dinner, maybe. You turn to the fridge, tear the doors open. You’re looking through it, not really processing anything that you’re seeing.
Usually, your brother cooks dinner. Katsuki’s a good cook, surprisingly. Actually, he’s good at everything he does.
But you have a feeling, based on the fact that he’s been particularly antagonistic toward you since you got home, that he won’t be cooking anything tonight.
You’re a shit cook, but you’re thinking — maybe if the two of you just eat dinner together, like normal siblings in a normal family, it’ll make things a little less weird. You’re willing to attempt a meal if it’ll dissipate some of the tension between the two of you. If it’ll help you move past that little incident upstairs.
So, you shout over to him, “Katsuki. What do you want for dinner? I’ll make something for us.”
He’s ignoring you on purpose. There’s no doubt about it; you’d yelled loud enough for him to hear, even over the game he’s playing. But he makes no effort to respond. He just keeps playing, saying crass things into the mic as he navigates his character through a wasteland.
Katsuki shoots at anything that moves.
You shout louder. “Katsuki.”
Now you’re pissed off. Here you are, trying to do something normal — something nice. Trying to be a good sister. And he’s just ignoring you, shouting obnoxiously into the headset, not sparing you a shred of attention. Your big brother won’t even give you the time of day.
That perverted douchebag. So he’s interested in you enough to steal your panties? To cum all over them? But he won’t even respond to anything you say?
You trudge over to the couch furiously.
He ignores you even when you’re standing right beside him with your hands on your hips, like a disappointed parent. He pretends you’re not even there. Like you’re invisible. He just maintains his position: hunched over, elbows on his thighs, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as his big fingers move deftly over the controller.
“Ka-tsu-ki,” you say, pulling one side of the headset away from his ear peskily. You let it go; it snaps back onto his head.
He doesn’t like that.
He rips the headset off, pulling it down around his neck roughly. “What?” he asks, looking up at you with a nasty scowl on his face. “Fuck off. Fucking pain in my ass.”
“I’m the pain in the ass?” you say, finding his attitude absolutely unbearable. You snatch the controller out of his hands, stepping backward. “I’m trying to figure out dinner,” you snap, waving the controller in the air.
“Eat shit,” he says, sparing a glance at your skimpy shorts.
“You’re a fucking dirtbag,” you spit. “I hate you.”
You take another step backward with the Xbox controller in your hand. You have half a mind to storm back to the kitchen and throw it in the trash. But, before you can escape his radius, he’s reaching a long arm out and grabbing you roughly by the front of your tiny shirt. You mumble a little cry of protest, right before you’re wrenched violently back to him. You stumble forward, breathless, still trying to hold the controller out of his reach.
“I fucking hate you, too, squirt,” he sneers, with a big fistful of your tiny top. He has it tugged so far down that your nipples are one small movement away from being exposed.
You’re flustered, so close to him, staring right into his eyes. And, now that you’re this close, you can hear everything his friends say as they continue to talk through the headset around his neck.
“So did you jump in the shower with her?” a low voice is teasing. “Or did you miss your chance?”
A thrill runs through your chest. Your eyes widen. There’s no way. Absolutely no way that they’re talking about you, right?
He grins, knowing you can hear every word. He’s getting off on the embarrassment on your face. On the shock. You’re slack-jawed. Because, maybe on some level you suspected this and denied it. But now there’s no doubt about it. No escape.
Katsuki wrenches the controller out of your hands; the force of it makes your tits jiggle. His eyes flick downward to them, hungry.
“If that was my stepsister,” someone’s snickering over the headset.
Your brother has you by the shirt; you’re not going anywhere. His other hand is holding the controller far out of your reach. You grab for it again, unsure why you’re still fighting for it. You’re so embarrassed, so flustered. You need to stop now. Stop moving, before your tits fall out of your shirt, before you hear more of the filthy things his friends have to say about you. Before this goes somewhere it shouldn’t.
You should stop, but you don’t.
“I'd be in her room every fucking night,” says a lazy voice. “Wake her up with some dick in her cunt. Bet she’d love that.”
Your brother’s grin deepens.
“I’d fuck her so hard her mom hears her screaming,” someone else says. “You should show your stepmom what a slut her daughter is, Kat.”
Katsuki laughs, watching you struggle for the controller, watching you get more flustered with each disgusting word his friends say through the headset.
“Give it to me,” you hiss through your teeth.
You grab for it one more time, knowing it’s futile — knowing that you could never beat him, not in anything, because he’s superior to you in every way: bigger, stronger, faster, smarter. He’s levels up on the food chain. An apex predator.
He could do absolutely anything he wants, especially now: now that the two of you are all alone in this big house. Now that no one’s around to stop him. You both know that very well.
He drops the controller onto the couch on the far side of him. His huge hands envelop your hips, and then — before you even realize what’s happening — your big brother is wrestling you onto his lap.
You look at him, wide eyed, breathing hard. You’re frozen in place, straddling him, with your heart in your throat. Under your thigh — which is bare, from your tiny shorts riding up — you can feel his dick growing through his sweats. Getting hard. Getting huge.
His dick is so big — bigger than any you’ve taken. You bet…
You bet he could stretch your pussy out so well.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you stammer breathlessly.
You make a shaky, halfhearted attempt to clamber off of his lap, but he grabs your hips and slams them back down. He jerks his hips upward, pressing his stiffening dick up against you.
“You want my dick,” he says, squeezing your hips. “Don’t you?”
“I’m serious, Katsuki,” you say weakly, as one of his hands comes up to your chest, pulls your shirt down roughly. You take a shaky breath, feel him grope your tits. Squeezing, rubbing. It shouldn’t, but it feels so good — his big, rough, warm hands on you. “What… what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
You feel hazy. Your pussy is wet, dripping onto the thin fabric of your shorts. Onto his lap.
You’re not even wearing panties.
And why is that, anyway? Was it because you were waiting for something like this to happen? Because you knew how easy it would be — how tempting — for him to pull your flowy shorts to the side and get his big fingers all wet in your dripping cunt?
This isn’t right. None of it is. He’s your… your…
You can feel his cock, so hard, pressing up against his sweats. Straining against your thigh. And it’s so painfully obvious where this is going — how desperately he wants to bury his dick in his slutty little sister’s wet pussy. How much his body wants you. How ready he is to abuse you, wreck you, split you open.
You hear his friends snicker through the headset. They’ve gone silent. Listening.
You can’t help the little breathy sigh that leaves your mouth as he slips his hot hands under the loose, flowy bottoms of your shorts. The way you gasp when he grips your ass in his big, rough hands. Kneads the flesh. Rubs it.
“I heard you in the shower,” he grins.
Your stomach drops — even though, on some level, you knew.
You shake your head furiously, playing innocent, demanding, “Heard what?”
He licks his lips, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your ass. His dick twitches against the underside of your thigh. It’s so big, so thick, so hard. And you can’t stop thinking of all the girls he brings home every summer, the way every single one of them sounds like they’re having the best fuck of their life.
God, your dick is so fucking good, I’m gonna cum.
Over and over and over again.
“You know what,” he grins, shoving your hips down again. His dick presses harder into your thigh. It’s taking every ounce of willpower in you not to grind down on it. You want so badly to pull it out, feel the weight of it in your hands, get your dripping pussy all over it.
“Oh, Katsuki,” he mocks, imitating your voice. “Make me cum.”
You feel a chill roll down your spine. He laughs, watching the surprise cross your face.
“Fuck you. You’re hearing things. You’re crazy.”
“Am I?” he laughs.
Your brother pulls his phone out, where his group chat with his friends is open. Because that’s where he sent the recording of you moaning in the shower.
He presses play, and it’s you! It’s you, saying, in the most obscene, lewd voice, “I wanna cum, Katsuki.”
You catch a glimpse of his screen, and the replies to the voice recording.
thanks kat. im gonna have so much fun with this.
“I’ll make you cum, little sis,” he taunts, dropping his phone to the couch so he can bring his hands back to your ass. “You just need some dick, don’t you?”
“Shut up,” you say, so flustered. This is all so wrong: the way his left hand is digging into the flesh of your ass, the way his right is wandering, lazily, between your thighs. The way he’s moving the damp crotch of your shorts to the side, gauging your reactions closely. “Fucking — god — just fucking shut up.”
“I wanna cum, Katsuki,” he mocks. Taunts. Condescending, with the filthiest grin on his face. “You wanna cum? Huh? All over your big brother’s dick?”
Your jaw is hanging open; his fingers hover right beneath your pussy, like he’ll decide whether or not to reward you with them based on your reaction.
“You’re fucking sick,” you say. You’re shocked. Absolutely incredulous. “Listening to me in the shower,” you say breathlessly. “Recording me? Fucking creep. Weirdo.”
And then, your big brother puts his long, thick fingers on your pussy.
They’re hot. Your eyelashes flutter; he runs them back and forth over your sopping, clenching hole — teasing it, watching you gasp and writhe on his lap, watching you lose your composure because it feels so good.
“You’re — fuck, oh god — you’re insane,” you mumble.
“You were the one moaning my name,” he says, dragging his fingers to your throbbing clit. His hands are so wet, slippery with your arousal. And as soon as he gets his fingers on your sensitive, twitching clit, your eyes are rolling back.
“If you wanted to get fucked,” he says, watching the pleasure on your face, massaging your clit with practiced hands, “you could’ve just asked me. You don’t have to play games. Walking around, dressed like a fucking slut. I can make you cum. I can make you feel real fucking good, little sis. Wanna sit on my cock and find out?”
You’re embarrassed, so flustered by how blatant he is. But his hands — they’re amazing. Irresistible. The best you’ve ever had. The pressure on your clit, the speed of the little circles he’s rubbing into it. Everything’s just right.
I can make you cum.
You’re already so close.
“This isn’t…” you’re starting, through hitching breaths. Your hands are on his bare chest now; you’re looking down at his face, feverish, as he pleasures you.
Your disgusting, ravenous brother — so incredible with his fingers.
“You can admit it,” he says, moving his fingers away from your clit — neglecting it, to tease over your dripping hole. “I’ll admit it.”
Your face is close to his; you’re breathing hard now, gasping against his mouth, your lips just brushing together. Your body doesn’t care about who he is; you’re responding to him, needing him — dripping wet, your hole fluttering each time his thick fingers brush over it.
“I’ve been dying for this pussy since I first saw you,” he drawls. “Want you every fucking summer. Look at your slutty posts and think about shooting my cum in my pretty little sister’s cunt.”
An obscene moan falls from your mouth, picturing that — your pussy glistening, dripping with your brother’s sticky, hot cum.
A snicker comes through the headset, sudden. You freeze, find yourself crashing back to earth.
You’d forgotten that your brother’s friends were on the line. That they’d been listening to him finger you, getting off on it. Probably stroking their dicks on the other end. You’d forgotten how completely fucked this entire thing is.
Or maybe you hadn’t forgotten. Maybe you’d liked it, gotten off on it, just like the rest of them.
Either way. You clamber off of his lap, backing away from him as you fix your shorts.
“This is… this is fucked up,” you spit. “God. You’re fucking disgusting, Katsuki.”
He laughs, watching you back up, amused — a cat studying a bird that’s already injured beyond recovery. You half expect him to stand up and grab you; instead, he shrugs, suddenly nonchalant, returning his headset to its original place atop his head.
“Keep acting like you don’t want it, sis,” he grins, licking his glistening fingers clean. “That’s why your pussy got so fucking wet, right?”
“Fuck off,” you say shakily, turning on your heel to storm up the stairs.
“That’s why you ruined my sweats, right?” he calls after you as you stomp up them. He laughs. Loud and obnoxious and pointed.
You get up to the den, breathless, and start to pace there. You’re trying to ignore the throbbing in your clit, the wetness between your legs. You’re trying not to think about the thickness of his fingers, the heat of them — the way they’d felt so good on your clit, the way they’d feel even better pumping inside of you.
But what you really want pumping in and out of you isn’t his fingers.
God, Katsuki, your dick is so fucking good.
You shouldn’t be imagining how your own voice would sound from the next room over. How you’d be screaming if you were the one getting pounded into the mattress by your dog of a stepbrother.
You need a distraction, quick. You wish he wasn’t downstairs hogging the TV. You wish he wasn’t even here, being so disgusting. Being a total fucking creep.
You find yourself walking into your parents’ bedroom. You know that, if you go into your own, you’ll start thinking about all those sleepless nights spent listening to the moans through the wall. You’ll start thinking of how hard your brother fucks, how good his dick must be to make every girl sound like that.
At least, here in your parents’ bedroom, you can distract yourself with the huge TV they have right in front of their bed. So you grab the remote, plop onto the bed with a huff, and flick it on.
Some action movie is playing. You turn the volume up, trying desperately to pay attention, to forget all about your gross brother and the way he got you so wet. The way he gets you so wet…
The movie continues to play; the protagonist is sprinting away from some masked pursuer. But you’re not paying attention to it, like you should be. Instead, you’re thinking about his dick. The size of it. The heat of it under your thigh. What he’d said —
I’ll admit it.
I’ve been dying for this pussy since I first saw you.
Look at your slutty posts and think about shooting my cum in my pretty little sister’s cunt.
You’re imagining your disgusting brother shoving his cock deep in your cunt, unloading his cum in you, shooting you so full of it that it drips out, thick, around his dick.
You can still hear him playing his game downstairs; his deep voice reverberates through the house. You turn the TV up, trying to drown him out. But it’s not enough; you can still hear him.
You get out of your parents’ bed and slam the door shut hard. Hard enough that you know he’ll hear it. And then, when that’s done, you trudge back to the bed and climb on, propping yourself up in the pillows.
All of the chaos of this movie should be the perfect distraction, right?
So why’s it not working?
Every fucking summer. He wants you every fucking summer.
You’re thinking about the cum on your panties. The way he’d left them out at the very top of the basket, not even bothering to bury them under his other clothes. It’s almost like he’d wanted you to see. Like he’d wanted you to know that he jacked off on them. And now you’re imagining that: him stroking his dick, making himself cum, spilling it all over them.
You’re wet. Dripping. It’s useless to keep trying to deny your body’s disgusting response to him. So you’ll just have to do something about this frustration building up. You’ll take care of it now — by yourself, of course! — and deal with how fucked up it all is later. But for now, you’re letting yourself think of his dick, and how it twitched under your thigh, aching for attention.
You’re slipping your fingers down your shorts, so frustrated, dragging them through your pussy as you think about how you’d please your big brother. How much attention you’d give him. You’re soaked, slippery, just from the thought of him. A little shudder escapes your mouth as you imagine the thickness of his dick moving in and out of your pussy, his fingers around your throat, his tongue in your mouth.
I’ll make you feel real good, little sis.
He could. You bet he could. You’re so worked up, so desperate — your legs spread, your lip between your teeth as you rub your clit. In your head, there’s just him. His body glistening in sweat, droplets of it rolling down his abs. That body — so cut, powerful. Bulky, huge on top of you. You’re tightening up, pushing your fingers into your pussy, smearing the slick back on your clit.
He’d listened to you in the shower, heard all of your little moans.
He could’ve stepped in then — could’ve relieved all of this tension. Could’ve made you scream in the shower of your parents’ house. That would’ve been so good. You can imagine it, vivid:
His fingers squeezing your throat as you choke in the steam-filled air. His dick plunging into you, splitting you open. Him shooting hot cum into your pussy as scalding water rolls down your body. His lips on your ear, saying the most filthy, disgusting things.
He’d fuck you with your parents home, you bet. Your parents would ask each other — Hey, where are the kids at? And he’d be right upstairs, right above their heads — fucking you hard into the mattress, making you moan, making your pussy clench up and drip around his dick.
You whimper, soft, under your breath, as the tension builds up higher and higher.
And then, the door swings open, sudden.
You freeze. You’re caught — mid-moan, with your pussy dripping and clenching onto your fingers to the thought of him! Your half-lidded eyes widen, and you look in shock at your stepbrother’s big figure in the doorway. His eyes are on your pussy, and his face is twisting into a filthy, satisfied grin.
You slam your legs shut, grabbing the nearest pillow and putting it on your lap to cover yourself. Your chest is heaving; adrenaline is rushing through you at the sudden, unexpected intrusion.
Because it was unexpected, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like you’d left the door unlocked on purpose. It wasn’t like you’d thrown a little tantrum earlier, slamming it so loud he’d have no choice but to come up and put you in your place.
“What the fuck?” you demand shrilly. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He’s laughing, putting his big hands on the top of the doorframe — so tall that the pose is natural. He leans in, grinning, like he can read your mind and all the disgusting thoughts there.
“What?” he taunts. “Are you mad that you got caught? Knuckle deep in your slutty cunt?”
Your stomach is in knots. “Shut up,” you say, breathless. “Fucking pervert. Fucking creep.”
You’re still wet, maybe even more turned on now, your cunt pulsing, clit aching. Your pussy needs attention, the stretch of his dick in his sweats.
“Aww,” he chides, condescending. “Are you worked up after all that shit downstairs? I thought you said I’m sick? And you came right up here to rub your pussy? Why?”
You’re glaring at him, incredulous. “Can you just fuck off?”
“Did you get your nut yet?” he laughs. “Fucking your fingers like a desperate little bitch. Did you cum?”
“No,” you seethe.
He smirks. You’re embarrassed that you even answered the question, because you shouldn’t have entertained it.
“Stop fucking talking to me,” you snap. “Just get the fuck out.”
“My fingers would feel so much better, little sis,” he says, his big hands on the doorframe — his fingers spidering outward, long and thick. “I can get so much fucking deeper in that pussy.”
You gulp, squeezing your legs together. “Fuck off. Go play your stupid fucking games with your stupid fucking friends.”
His smile deepens. He lets go of the doorframe, slips his hands into the pockets of his sweats. Steps into your parents’ room, getting closer.
“I see,” he says, taking another step forward. You’re watching him approach the bed, wide-eyed. “You’re jealous. Little attention whore.”
You shake your head furiously, clutching the pillow in your lap. He grins, then snatches it away from you, laughing when you scramble backward on the bed.
“I bet you wanna feel my cock in your pussy, right?” he says, looking at the wet spot on the crotch of your shorts. His dick is hard in his sweats, thick against his thigh. “Want me to make you cum?”
“No,” you say. But you’re losing your composure fast, with your eyes glued on his dick, thinking about how much you want it pumping in and out of you. “God, no.”
“Uh huh,” he condescends.
Suddenly, he’s grabbing you by the ankles and dragging you to the edge of the bed. It’s easy for him to overpower you. Effortless. You yelp, but you don’t bother to fight back — because you know that you stand no chance when it comes to your brother.
Now you’re flat on the bed, and he’s leaning over you — getting right in your face, a nasty leer. You feel like you’re suffocating, with all of that powerful bulk hovering just over you, his big hands caging you in on either side.
“Fuck you,” you spit. “You’re such a fucking sicko.”
“Yeah,” he grins, running his fingers up your thighs — up and up and up until his fingers are pressing into your clit, rubbing over the thin, soaked fabric of your shorts. “And you’re so fucking wet for me. So what does that make you?”
“I fucking hate you.”
He fake pouts, keeps rubbing your clit through the fabric of your shorts, watching you gasp beneath him. “Look how fucking needy you are,” he’s sneering — and you’re hazy, gasping, barely hearing him say, “Your poor little pussy just needs to get filled up.”
“You’re fucking gross,” you say, breathless, all of your juices leaking out of your pussy.
He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your shorts, rips them forcefully down your thighs and drops them to the floor. You take a hitching breath and lift your head up off the bed to watch, groggily, as he leans down and drops a big, messy glob of spit on your pussy.
“G-gross,” you stammer, watching him spread his spit over your clit with his fingers, massaging the sensitive little spot until you’re shuddering. Until you’re dropping your head back on the mattress, looking up at his hungry face. “You’re disgusting,” you gasp. “You know that, Katsuki?”
“You’re the one in mom and dad’s bed,” he says, playing with your clit — watching you squirm and gasp. He trails a finger down, teases it back and forth over your dripping, sensitive entrance. “I wonder what they’d say if they found out you were just fucking your fingers on their nice sheets.”
He pushes a finger into you, watches you tremble. Watches you melt.
“You better not say anything,” you choke between breathy moans, tightening up as he slides another finger in, fucking them in and out of your pussy. He curls them upward, watches your eyes roll back, your jaw dropping open. He can feel you tightening up, getting so wet. “Y-you — god — I’ll fucking tell them about all your sicko fantasies, Katsuki. The way you — oh, fuck — the way you jerk it to my panties. Shit. Fucking creep.”
His grin widens. He’s not ashamed. Not embarrassed. He’s pleased. Like he’s been waiting for you to notice your cum-soaked panties at the very top of the laundry basket. Like he’s been waiting for you to say something about them, so he can get off on it. It’s no wonder he didn’t bother to bury them.
You can feel his dick growing, pushed up against you. He’s getting off on the disgust in your voice, on the way you moan as his fingers curl against that sensitive spot in your pussy. And, after all that resistance, and all of that denial, you finally can admit that your big brother was so right. His fingers feel so much better.
He’s so fast, so good with his fingers. They feel delicious in you, amazing. And you can’t stop thinking about all of those girls he’s fucked, the way they kept saying how fucking good he is.
So fucking good. They were right. They weren’t faking. He is so fucking good — your big brother and his amazing hands, his thick, long fingers that know just how to work your pussy and make you cum.
“So fucking tell them,” he says.
He’s got you so wet now that your pussy is squelching with each pump of his fingers — loud noises that embarrass you, that turn you on even more, that make you drip all onto your parents’ bed sheets. “Go ahead and tell mom and dad,” he taunts. “I wonder who they’d believe. You? Or me?”
And he’s right. Because your disgusting, vile big brother is smart. A genius at the top of his class, on a full ride scholarship — one of many he was offered. He’s a dog with a squeaky clean track record. His dad’s favorite, your mom’s favorite — because, despite his “slight temper” — everyone knows he’s going places.
It’s all so fucked.
You’re looking up at his ravenous face. So much anticipation. His dick on your thigh, hard and hot through his sweats. Your legs spread wide around him as you let him fuck your cunt with his fingers.
“You know what I could tell them?” he taunts — his smile wide and satisfied. “I could tell them all about how my slut of a little sister fucks herself to the thought of me in the shower. I could show them the recording. The evidence.” He laughs into your face, watching you squirm, the pleasure from his fingers building up. “Where’s your evidence, little sis? Where are your panties? I bet you couldn’t find them if you looked.”
“You’re fucking evil,” you pant. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Shut me up, then,” he grins above you. “Give me some fucking pussy. You let me fuck your cunt? I won’t say shit.”
Katsuki lowers his face to yours, swallows your hitching breaths. He’s so heavy between your legs: rubbing his dick on you, and you’re panting, euphoric.
“God,” you say, breathy.
“What do you say, sis?” he teases against your lips as he ruts his dick on your thigh. His sweats are wet with precum. Sticky. “You don’t want your mom to find out about how much of slut you are, do you? God, she’d be so fucking disappointed.”
“You disgust me,” you moan — his fingers bringing you so close, the sensation of his cock on your thigh bringing you even closer.
“All you have to do is sit there and take it,” he says. His thumb is on your clit, playing with it as his fingers plunge in and out of you, everything so puffy and slick. “Let me fuck this tight little hole.”
You’re pausing, your chest heaving, trying not to give in. His fingers in you — that’s one thing. But his dick is another.
“This isn’t fucking right, Katsuki,” you stammer weakly. You lift your head up, look between your spread legs, where he’s breathing hard, rubbing his dick on your thigh. You watch his fingers pump in and out of you, filling you up — thick and hot, glistening each time they come out. You’re tightening up; you’ll cum soon, make a mess on his fingers.
“Isn’t that what makes it so much better?” he grins.
He’s right. So you give, letting your resolve go completely.
You’re too wrapped up in the way his fingers play you just the right way, the way they’re teasing an orgasm out of you. It’s so close to the surface, and you’ve been wanting this for far too long: craving his body, dying to get fucked like all the girls he brings home. So you let yourself give in, spreading your legs wider as he fingerfucks you, working out the tension that’s been building up for the past two summers.
And now that you’re really doing this —
You bring your hand to his cock, squeeze it through his sweats. Look up at his face, as if for approval, your lip between your teeth.
“There you go,” he leers.
You slip your hand down his sweats, wrap your fingers around his dick — finally. Feel a chill running through you, your pussy getting tighter, wetter around his fingers just from the sensation of his dick in your hand. You feel it, hot, heavy in your palm, for the very first time. And you think just the sight of it could make you cum all over his fingers — precum leaking down the tip, the massive, hard length of it.
He can see it in your face: the way it contorts. He can feel it around his fingers. You’ll cum soon. And it gets him so hard to see you looking so desperately up at him. He thinks you look so cute like that: all needy, with your eyebrows all furrowed up, desperate to get filled up with his cock — just like the little slut he knows you are.
“You wanted my dick so fucking bad, didn’t you?”
You nod, running your fist down his dick, and back up. Slow, the first time, then jacking it faster.
“Fuck,” he groans.
So good. Everything about him is so good. The tension is knotted up between your thighs, aching for release. Your pussy is clenching, sopping wet — gripping his fingers hard. One more curl of his fingers, abusing that sensitive spot inside of your tightening pussy, fucking you so well, and you’re about to go over.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper. “You’re gonna make me cum.”
You feel it building, feel all of the tension just about to release — when he pulls his dripping fingers out of you.
“Fuck,” you whine, frustrated. He loves that little pout on your face. “I was so fucking close.”
“I know,” he laughs, standing. He wipes his hand on his dick, smears all the juices from your pussy down it. Slips his sweats further down, then jerks his dick as he looks down at you from the side of the bed.
“Get on your knees,” he says. “Flip around. Show me that pussy.”
“I was so fucking close,” you protest.
“What the fuck did I say?” he sneers, standing right at the edge of the bed, using his free hand to grab your face. “Let your big brother see your cunt, Princess.”
The way he talks to you — it’s so blunt, it’s embarrassing. Shameful. But it’s all so fucked up, so disgusting — what’s one more nasty thing that gets you wet? You scrunch your nose up and grab his wrist, pulling his hand off of your face.
He’s laughing, watching you peel your shirt off and turn so you’re facing away from him. You can hear him jacking off behind you, at the edge of the bed, his precum-coated fist sliding over his cock as he watches you get on your knees, press your cheek to the sheets — face-down, ass up, just the way he likes it.
He slaps your ass hard, and you yelp, hearing his strokes get faster over his dick. Messier.
Katsuki crouches and spits on your pussy: a hot, thick, messy glob. You shudder, sloppy and embarrassed, exposed to your big brother. Listening to his pleasured breaths as he jerks off to your pussy.
“Spread your ass,” he says. “Show me.”
You’ve never been so embarrassed in your life. You’re complaining, telling him how disgusting he is, how much of a fucking dog he is — your own brother telling you to spread your cheeks. Telling him that he’s so sick that he can’t even keep his dick in his pants around his sister. But still, you’re doing it for him, letting him see everything: your glistening pussy, your juices dripping from your cunt onto your parents’ bed sheets.
Katsuki swears under his breath, jacking off to the sight of all the liquid oozing out of you. Your tight little hole. He’s thinking about how hot and wet you’ll be around his dick. How good it’ll feel when your pussy is gripping him, dripping all over him. He runs his fingers over your pussy, and it responds to him: your hole fluttering, waiting to get stretched out and bred by his dick.
His disgusting little sister.
“You’ve been hiding this pussy from me the whole time?” he says.
Katsuki’s wasted the last two summers. He sees that now. What he should have been doing is this. Playing with this wet hole every chance he got. He should’ve been sneaking into your room every night to use you, sinking his cock into you over and over again. He can’t believe he wasted his time on anyone else when this pussy was one room over.
He wants his dick coated in your juices, dripping wet.
Katsuki starts with a little lick to your pussy, gets your slick on his tongue. The taste of you is so good; it goes straight to his head, straight to his dick, a drug. And all of your embarrassed whimpers, the way your fingers dig needily into the flesh of your ass as he drags his tongue up your cunt — that’s intoxicating, too. He loves how spread open you are, because he can eat you messy. Sloppy.
He licks your clit, sucks it. Nips at it. Sticks his big tongue in your cunt, gets harder off the filthy moan that spills out of your mouth. He jacks off to the taste of your pussy, and to your little gasps, precum dribbling out of his dick and onto his hand.
More. You’re begging him for more.
So he gives it to you. Tilts his head, pushes his face deeper. Spits on your cunt again, runs his tongue over your clit. He pushes two big fingers into your dripping pussy, licks your clit at the same time.
It’s so good — his fingers fucking you, his tongue circling your clit as you spread yourself open for him. You can’t help the moans that keep spilling from your mouth. You’re loud, lewd and disgusting. You’re letting him do whatever he wants to you, no better than any of the other girls he fucks for the summer.
No — you’re definitely worse. Because you’re his sister, and you’d let him use you as nothing more than a tight hole to dump his cum in.
You’d let him enact every depraved desire on you.
And that’s what he’s doing right now: spitting on your ass, running his big tongue over it. Flicking little circles on the tight muscle, pushing his tongue against your clenching hole until it gives for him. And then he’s pushing his tongue into your ass, listening to your embarrassed cries of protest melt into fuck me, Katsuki, give me more, god it’s so good — right there. Fuck my ass, please.
Katsuki thinks his disgusting little sister tastes better than anything.
He’s not surprised you’re a slut for anal. So he gives you more of what you want: drops a big glob of spit onto his finger, eases it into your ass as he turns his head back to suck on your sensitive clit, dragging his tongue back and forth over it while he pumps a thick finger in and out of your ass.
And between laps at your clit, he’s asking you why you like all of this so much — why you love it when your big brother licks your pussy, why you love it when he fingerfucks your ass. He asks you if this is what makes a disgusting slut like you cum.
It feels so fucking good, Katsuki. So fucking good. And that’s all you can say, because the only thing on your mind is that you don’t want him to stop until you cum.
And maybe not even then.
He sticks his tongue in your pussy, drinking up your slick. Keeps pumping his finger in and out of your tight ass. Shoves another in. And then he’s licking up and down your clit, stimulating it just the right amount, because he knows how to make a pussy cum.
Your big brother is good at everything he does. Especially eating pussy.
His skilled tongue keeps playing with you, licking up all the arousal oozing out of your cunt. He eats you, fucks your ass with his fingers, until you’re drooling onto the bed sheets — your pussy dripping, quivering, right at the edge of your orgasm.
And you’re saying, over and over, Make me cum, Katsuki, make me cum, please.
He stuffs you full of his big fingers one more time, burying them knuckle deep. One more lick to your twitching clit and you’re hurtling right over the edge with a filthy moan.
Oh, god, I’m cumming, I’m - !
Like a fucking pornstar. Katsuki thinks his little sister sounds like his own personal pornstar.
Fuck, fuck - !
He feels your ass tighten. And then the muscles are contracting around his fingers, your thighs shaking, and you’re cumming right in front of his face, all spread out. He watches the slick drip out of your cunt as you cum, your slit twitching with each wave of pleasure — clenching and unclenching.
Your brother shoves his tongue in your pussy, feels it pulse as you moan, loud and obscene. He jacks his dick while you cum on his tongue, drinking up the liquid that drips out of your glistening pussy, licking up every last drop.
He keeps eating you even when your orgasm is done, keeps licking your clit until you’re begging for a second.
“Horny fucking slut,” he laughs against your pussy. “Now tell me more about how much you don’t want it.”
You choke out a nonsensical reply, trying to catch your breath as he stands, dragging his dick through your glistening pussy. Katsuki wants to feel it around his dick. He’s been waiting too long.
So he jerks his hips forward, buries his dick — for the first time — into his sister’s sopping, clenching hole. Feels it envelop him — warm, wet, and tight. Still twitching from your orgasm.
“Fuck, it’s wet.”
Katsuki feels his balls tightening up just from the feeling of sinking into your cunt for the first time. He could cum just like this — just from feeling how hot and wet you are around him. You’re so tight, squeezing all the precum out of him. Just what he’s been needing.
He fucks you, deep strokes, telling you how it’s the best pussy he’s ever been in. He can feel all of your arousal oozing out around his cock, thick at the base of it. He grips your hips, buries his dick into you over and over, fucking you so rough that you yelp, grabbing onto the sheets as he splits you open.
You’re whining about how sensitive you are, but he doesn’t care about that. He’s drunk on your pussy, feeling your walls clench and soak around his dick. He’s watching your ass bounce as he pounds into you. And he loves this position for that: the way he can see his dick sinking into you, deep. He can tell that you like it too, that you love to get fucked like this from the way you’re groaning and arching your back. From those breathless, incoherent gasps.
He’s wanted this for so long now, and it’s so fucking worth it. He wants to cum, to pump you full of it.
He grabs a fistful of your hair as he fucks you, pulling your head back. Looks down at your face: your brow all furrowed up, your eyes rolling back, practically drooling on yourself.
He watches your face as you take his dick, sees your eyelids flutter every time he buries his cock all the way in you.
“It’s — fuck, it’s so good,” you moan. “Deeper, deeper, please.”
He leans over, thrusting in deep. Tells you to open your mouth, and you do, for him.
He drops spit in your mouth, tells you to swallow it. And you do that, too, because you’d do anything for your big brother — because he’s giving you the best dick of your life.
“This is what you needed?” he pants, splitting you open. “Your brother’s dick in your pussy?”
You nod, slipping your hand between your legs to rub your clit as he fucks you. “Yes,” you moan. “I needed it so bad.”
“Needed what?” he leers, pulling your hair back harder. “Say it.”
“I needed my — my brother’s dick in my pussy,” you say, getting wet off of the filthy words, tightening up.
“Yeah?” he’s panting. “Fuck, I needed this too.”
You can hear the conflict in his voice: the relief in each stroke, slaking the tension inside of him. And the way it’s building it up at the same time, getting him closer and closer to the edge. “I needed this fucking cunt,” he’s saying. “I’ve been thinking about it all the fucking time. Every time I — fuck — every fucking time I jack off.”
“Oh, god,” you’re panting.
And then he’s getting up on the bed so he can fuck you harder, forcing you further up on it. He climbs on top of you on the mattress — dwarfs you on it.
He grips your hips in his huge hands, forcing them up until your back is bent into an arch that’s so severe it hurts. Then he’s grabbing a fistful of your hair, slamming your cheek into the mattress as he slips his dick back into your pussy.
You can’t respond, can’t form anything coherent, not with how hazy your head is. All you can do is drool onto the sheets, rubbing your clit, while he pounds into your cunt. He’s getting so deep, each thrust sloppy, squelching. His balls keep hitting your pussy, and the sounds are embarrassing to you — disgusting, but so good.
The bed is creaking so loud you think it might give. That he might break it from fucking you so hard. Beside the bed, the nightstand shakes, everything on the surface of it rattling. Your eyes keep rolling back and fluttering shut.
“Open your fucking eyes,” he says. “Look.”
You know exactly what he wants you to look at. So you open your bleary eyes, force yourself to focus on the family portrait of the four of you that wobbles on the nightstand; the frame nearly topples over with each hard thrust of his dick into your pussy.
You struggle to look at it, feeling so embarrassed as you do — like your mom can see you through it. He’s getting off on your embarrassment, loving it, his dick leaking more hot precum into your pussy.
“I bet your mom would be so fucking proud,” he’s panting, slamming his dick so deep into you that it hurts. You try to squirm away so he can’t get as deep, but he jerks your hips roughly up, back into position. “So fucking proud, if she found out her little girl was getting used like a fucking slut.”
All you can do is moan in response, crying about how deep it is. About how much it hurts. About how fucking good it feels. The pain. You’re tightening up, your toes curling. He can feel you clenching, feel you squirming each time his dick hits your cervix. But he keeps ramming into it, because the feeling of it on the tip of his dick makes him feel so good. It makes him want to dump all of his cum into you — load after hot, sticky load.
“You like taking cock in mom and pops’ bed?” he taunts, pulling your head up by the hair just to slam it back down onto the mattress. “Huh?” he sneers. “Answer me.”
Before you can even choke out a response, he’s spitting a hot glob onto your face, laughing when you flinch. And then he slams your head back down onto the sheets, and you’re moaning with spit dripping down your lips as he tells you to fucking answer him.
“Y-yes,” you stammer, your fists so tight in the sheets that they’re going numb.
“Yeah, you do,” he leers, between breathy pants. “All because you’re a dumb little slut for dick. You like this cock, little sis? Feels good? Gonna cum all over your big brother’s dick again?”
That does it — you’re moaning as all of the tension releases again, and he feels it. That tight squeeze right before the tension bursts and you start to cum on him. Again. “Fucking filthy,” he groans. “There you fucking go.”
He has to keep himself from cumming as he watches your orgasm rip through you, as he feels it: your walls getting wetter, gripping his dick over and over.
“Fuck,” he pants. “This pussy feels so fucking good.”
He fucks you through it, and he pulls out when you finish, your slick dripping off his cock and onto your skin while he watches your used hole twitch. He listens to you whimper as you come down, almost on the verge of tears — so much pleasure it hurts.
He slaps your hole with his dick, then shoves it in deep again, groaning when you cry out — getting off on you whining about how sensitive you are, the way you tremble under him and around him. Ruined.
Your head is off the mattress, and you’re whining, panting, about how it’s so sensitive.
Katsuki places a big hand on the back of your neck and slams your face into the mattress.
“Shut the fuck up,” he sneers, smashing your face down into the sheets. You can barely breathe; he keeps you pinned there. “This is what you wanted, right?” he says — shoving his dick against your cervix. “You wanted my dick, right? This is what you were begging for in the shower, right?”
Katsuki doesn’t care how sensitive you are. He’s not done with you.
“Yes, fuck,” you’re mumbling, so overstimulated. Your cunt is puffy, sensitive from cumming so many times.
“I’m gonna dump all my cum in your cunt,” he sneers, squeezing your neck. “And you’re gonna take it.”
“Oh, god,” you stammer, because now — now, he’s hitting just the right spot, and that sensitivity is feeling so good.
“Tell me you’re gonna let me use you until I cum.”
“Y-yeah,” you choke between moans. “Use me. Fuck, it feels so good —“
“Atta girl,” he says. Breathy. “Such a fucking slut for your big brother, aren’t you?”
You are. It’s clear from what you’re doing right now: biting your lip, letting him hit you so deep, rubbing your clit. You can feel him getting close, hear it in his heavy breaths. His dick is starting to twitch inside of you; his thrusts are getting deeper, more erratic.
“You’ve been such a good little sister for me,” he pants — euphoria in every breath. “Letting me use your cunt. I better give you something in return, right?”
You’re so perfect around him: tight, wet. So hot. He’s been waiting so long for this, and now that he has you under him — he wants to fill you up. To breed you. To dump all of his cum in you. He’s going to make up for all of the summers he’s wasted.
He’ll give you so much cum — the perfect reward for a slut like you.
“Are you gonna — fuck, Katsuki, fuck — are you gonna pull out — ?”
You should know better. He’s already pushing your face down into the sheets, forcing your hips further up so he can fuck you deeper. He leans over, crushing you under his weight, his head dropping to your neck as his thrusts lose their rhythm.
He breathes hard, digs his teeth into your shoulder until you cry out. And he gets deep, thrusts in hard and stays there, pressed against your cervix. Bites down harder, feeling the tension boil over.
“Are you — ?” you start shrilly.
But he’s already cutting you off with a low moan. “Oh, fuck.”
You feel his dick twitch again, right before he shudders, unloading deep in your pussy without warning.
“Fuck, I’m cumming,” he says — pumping his cum into you. Hot spurts against your cervix as you pant into the mattress, rubbing your clit. “Feels so fucking good.”
He thrusts several times as he rides his orgasm out, filling you up, cum gushing out of your cunt and onto his dick with each little jerk of his hips, each movement punctuated by a pleasured groan.
He’s euphoric — high on the feeling of you clenching around him, high on that little gasp of surprise as you feel his cum shooting into your pussy.
“Fucking — fucking asshole,” you moan, feeling so full of it. It dribbles out of your cunt, rolls down the outside, hot and sticky. “God, you’re fucking gross,” you pant, like you’re not getting off on the feeling of his dick twitching each time more cum shoots out. Like you don’t love the feeling of being stuffed so full of his cum that it leaks out of you, dribbling onto your parents’ bed sheets.
Then he’s pulling out, slamming you onto your back — so hard it knocks the breath out of you.
You’re groggy, hazy as he brings his face between your legs. You watch, wide-eyed, as your disgusting brother kisses your cum-drenched clit. He looks at your pussy — at all of the cum dripping out there — and then up at you.
“Look at you,” he says. “You’re such a fucking mess.”
You know you are. You can feel it, all of the cum dripping out of your slit and down, onto your ass. He brings his fingers to your cunt, pushes them in. Watches the cum gush out around them.
He takes them out of your pussy, brings them up to his face. And then, your vile, filthy brother grins up at you and licks his own cum off of his fingers. You’re staring down at him, slack-jawed, while he lowers his mouth to your cunt and starts to slurp his own cum out.
And the whole time, you’re telling him how nasty he is. How absolutely disgusting it is that he gets off on shit like this. But you can’t help the way you’re losing your nerve, spreading your legs wider for him to eat you deeper, your toes curling. Because he’s eating you so sloppy, lapping at your clit — messy and enthusiastic as he spreads his cum around with his tongue, stroking his dick at the same time.
He slurps at your hole, gets a mouthful of his own cum. And then he’s climbing up over you, his bulk making you sink further into the mattress. He wraps his fingers around your throat, brings his other hand to your mouth to pry it open.
You know what he wants, and you can see that he has a mouthful. So you open your mouth, stick your tongue out for him.
He lowers his face, spits the cum out. A big, hot glob on your tongue. Licks his lips off and says,
“Keep it there while I fuck you.”
So you do. While he slots his cock over your pussy again, rubbing the leaking tip of it back and forth over your clit, you keep it on your tongue. As you pant, some of it seeps off. You feel droplets of it running down your throat; some runs down your chin, mixing with your spit.
He shoves his dick back in your pussy, fucks the mixture of spit and cum into you as you watch him groggily, trying to hold the cum on your tongue. The impact of each thrust has some of it dripping off. And you keep panting, moaning, through your open mouth. You’re drooling onto your chin, swallowing little rivulets of cum.
“You’re fucking wasting it,” he sneers. “Stupid little bitch. Guess I better give you more, right?”
You moan something. Nothing coherent, with your tongue sticking out of your mouth. His face comes crashing down to yours, and you feel his tongue: eager in your mouth, licking the cum off of your own. Swallowing it.
With the taste of cum still lingering on your tongue and his, he hauls you on top of him — your back pressed to his chest. His big hands envelop your tits, squeezing them so hard you cry out. But you don’t even have time to process that sensation, because he’s already shoving his dick in your pussy from beneath you, sudden and deep.
“You’re gonna take more cum, huh?” he says into your neck, stretching you again, thrusting in deep. “I want your cunt so fucking full of my cum.”
He licks his fingers, brings them — wet, hot, and rough — to tweak your nipples. He gropes you as he fucks you — pinching your nipples. Slapping your tits, squeezing them, rubbing them. Abusing them until you’re whimpering.
You’re so sensitive everywhere, your obscene moans filling the air of your parents’ bedroom, your stepbrother stuffing your pussy full in their bed. And you’re enjoying yourself so much — dripping all over his balls, as you hurtle toward another orgasm.
“Tell me again how disgusting I am,” he’s saying breathily into your neck. “How sick. Little fucking whore. Look at you now.”
“Fuck you, fuck you,” you shudder, as he rubs your tits. He knows exactly how to touch them, just like every other spot on your body. Exactly what sensation makes you tighten up.
“I knew you’d be a good fuck, little sis,” he’s saying into your neck, bringing one hand between your legs to slap your clit. He laughs when your hips jerk up from the sensation, slaps it again. “All my friends want a piece. But I told them I was gonna try you out first.”
“The lot of you,” you choke. “You’re all fucking disgusting.”
You act like you don’t want it — like the thought of your brother’s vile friends ruining you right after him doesn’t get your heart racing. Like you don’t want to be passed around, filled up, over and over and over.
“And look how disgusting you are,” he’s panting. “How filthy.” Each word punctuated by a hard thrust — and each thrust causing cum to gush out of your pussy, dripping down his dick. “Your cunt’s a fucking mess.”
With one hand groping your tits, he brings the other to his mouth, licks his fingers. And when they’re all coated in his spit, he brings them down to your pussy, shoves them into you — beside his dick, stretching you more, filling you more. He forces them in, fucks them in and out of your pussy right next to his cock.
You’re so stretched out on top of him. Euphoric, full.
He brings his fingers back out of you, up to your face. Shows you how slick they are, how they’re coated in cum — swiped from your insides, remnants of his last load.
“Open.”
You do, and when you do — you get a mouthful of his messy, cum-covered fingers. A mouthful of yourself, and him. The taste of it sends you reeling, more tension building up fast. He shoves his fingers down your throat, makes you gag and choke on them.
“You’re getting so fucking tight,” he pants, taking his fingers out of your throat. “You like getting filled up by your big brother’s dick that much? Are you that much of a disgusting slut?” he asks, as you gasp for air. “Are you gonna cum again? Huh?”
“Y-yes,” you stammer, yelping as he grabs your head by the hair, yanking your head back roughly. And now, with your neck arched back painfully over his shoulder, he sneers against the side of your face —
“I bet you’d like it if I filled this cunt up again, wouldn’t you? You want another load in your pussy?”
“You’re fucking sick,” you moan — breathing hard, with his dick hitting a perfect spot inside of your pussy, massaging it with each thrust. “What if I get p—”
“Yeah, what if?” he says. “What if I empty my balls into your cunt? Fill this pussy up again? What if I get you all fat with my kids? What if, little sis?”
His words are disgusting — delicious, especially combined with the feeling of his cock stretching you out, filling up your needy, messy cunt. He brings his spit-covered fingers down to your clit, rubs it, gets you moaning. He knows you can’t respond — that you’re too drunk on pleasure to talk back anymore.
“What would you tell mom?” he sneers into your ear. “What do you think pops would say?”
He wraps one hand around your throat, squeezes your neck hard — until you’re squirming. Until you’re gasping for air, with his other hand abusing your clit. There’s so much pressure in your head; you’re choking, listening to his low voice in your ear.
“Do you think anyone would be surprised?” he’s saying between messy thrusts, his deft fingers getting you closer and closer to cumming again.
“You’re just a filthy whore,” he pants. “Everyone knows it. You fuck every guy you see.” He shoves his dick in deep — so deep, holding it there, pressed up against your cervix, letting out a breathy, pleasured groan. “Fuck,” he shudders. “Could be anyone’s kid. Definitely not mine.”
You’re getting closer and closer, with one of his hands toying with your clit and the other choking you. He knows you’re going to cum again from the way your back arches off his abdomen. So he picks up his speed, fucks you harder: splits you open over and over again, as you gasp for air.
“God, it feels so good, Katsuki,” you choke groggily, sounding just like all of the other girls he’s fucked. “Make me cum, make me cum, I’m gonna cum again — please.”
Both of his big hands grip the bottoms of your thighs, spreading them wider. He digs his fingers in, hard. “You wanna cum again for your big brother?” he sneers into your ear.
You nod. Murmur a tearful affirmation as you turn your head to the side, looking at his feverish face. You beg for it: hard, Katsuki. Fast. More.
He kisses you messily, sticks his tongue in your mouth. And he murmurs, between spit-laced kisses, “You’re gonna make a fucking mess on me?”
“Fuck, yes,” you’re drooling into his mouth — barely coherent, because he’s hitting every spot perfectly. And he’s doing it right here: right in the middle of your parents’ bed, with your legs held wide open and his feet planted on the mattress so he can thrust up harder. It’s disgusting, messy: cum dribbling out of you, onto his balls, and down onto the sheets.
He grips your thighs harder, shoving his dick into you over and over. You can tell, from the way his breaths come quick, his hazy groans — he’s close.
You came on him so many times, and your pussy is so wet — ruined, abused, as he keeps shoving his dick into you. You’re filthy, so nasty. Katsuki feels your pussy pulsing, feels you getting closer, squeezing his dick. And he thinks he can get you even filthier. Even wetter. Even nastier.
Katsuki wants to make you squirt, and he knows how to do it.
So, while you’re moaning, rubbing your clit, your brother pauses. Keeps his hips still, and just talks filth into your ear, getting you so worked up instead. His hands come to your waist, squeezing, holding you still — keeping you from moving your desperate body up and down his cock to make yourself cum.
He knows how to get girls dripping without even moving. Knows just what to say to get juices oozing down his cock. So he talks to you until the base of his dick is coated in slick. Messy, just how he likes it.
And then — you’re so worked up from his words alone, begging him to fuck you again.
Please. Please fuck me.
He doesn’t move, just keeps teasing you — a steady stream of filthy words, his hands tight on your waist to keep you from moving. He feels you tighten around him, feels your back arching, feels you start to cum just from his words.
I’m - ! Fuck!
Once your pussy is already contracting — that’s when your brother starts to move. He sticks two big fingers in your cunt, deep, massaging that spot at the front of your clenching walls, pumping his dick into the same hole, his thumb flicking your clit at the same time.
Katsuki’s never met a bitch that won’t squirt for him.
It hits you fast. It’s like your orgasm is starting all over. All of these sensations coming together: his dick hitting you deep, his fingers on that delicious spot inside of you, his thumb on your clit. There’s an unfamiliar pull in your pussy, tension building up fast and then bursting.
Kat, fuck it feels - ! Oh, god, I think - !
“Make a fucking mess,” he’s saying, still curling his fingers, still thrusting into you deep. He feels your cunt pulse, then there’s a second delay. He hears you whimper. Your toes curl, your head lolls back on your shoulders, and then it really hits you.
Liquid spurts out of your pussy, drips down his dick, drenching it.
Katsuki’s never met a bitch that won’t squirt for him — not even his little sister.
He fucks the squirt out of you — liquid gushing out around his cock as you cry out. He’s trying not to cum from your loud, obscene moans, and from the amazing feeling of the hot liquid rushing down his dick.
“Fuck,” he pants breathily. “Ah, fuck.”
He lifts you up off of his dick for a split second, breathing hard. If he stays buried in your wet cunt he’ll cum, and he wants to fuck you a little more first. So he gives you a second, lets you shake and gasp as he hovers you right over his glistening dick.
Liquid keeps gushing out of you in short bursts with each wave of pleasure racking your body, spraying down onto his dick. He drops you back down on it, groaning when he feels your contracting walls envelop his dick again.
“God, you fucking slut — oh, fuck, it’s wet.”
He thinks your moans sound so good, so nasty. Your squirt keeps coming out in short bursts, and he keeps curling his fingers in your pussy beside his dick, massaging that spot at the front of your walls — urging more and more liquid out of you. It drenches his fingers, drips down his dick, mixing with the cum coating his shaft. He can feel it all dripping down his dick, onto the sheets below both of you, ruining them.
“Fucking filthy,” he pants, trying to stave his orgasm off.
The amount of liquid gushing out of you, wetting his fingers, his lap — it’s so much. The way your pussy is pulsing around his dick, on his fingertips. You’re so filthy, messy — the nastiest bitch he’s ever had.
But it’s not enough; he wants to fill you up, to give you more, get you even messier.
He feels his balls tightening up, the muscles in his lower stomach clenching. He bites his lip, tries to hold off for a little more so he can keep fucking you. But it feels too good; his eyes are rolling back, and his hips are losing their rhythm.
It’s all too much. Your exhausted, pleasured whimpers. All of the warm liquid coating his dick. And you — his sister — taking his cock so deep, squirting all over him.
“I’m gonna — shit,” he pants, gritting his teeth, his head dropping back onto the mattress. “I’m gonna give you another fucking load.”
It’s too much; the tension is about to burst.
He’s about to go over, feeling your cunt pulsing around his twitching dick. And he’s groaning — fucking you so hard and fast that the bed sounds like it might give, that the happy family photo on the nightstand goes crashing to the floor.
You just keep provoking him, moaning, obscene, like the slut you are, panting — fill me up, give it to me, give it to me, fuck me.
“Take my cum,” he’s panting, losing it — shoving his cock deep in your pussy, all the way up against your cervix. He lets out a deep groan, feels the cum start to shoot through his dick. Pleasure crashes through him, works all of the tension out of his body. He fills you up: sticky, hot spurts of cum that mix with all of your juices, coating your puffy insides and spilling out around him with each pump. “Fucking take it all.”
And you just keep begging through it — “Fuck me, Katsuki, fuck me harder, I want more cum.”
So he gives his slutty little sister what she wants — more cum, more dick, more pleasure — fucking you as the pleasure rolls through him. He holds your waist tight — your back arched as he pumps into you, listening to your whimpers as he empties every single drop of his cum into your warm, wet hole. He fucks you even when his orgasm is over, shuddering, overstimulating his dick with each stroke.
And then, when he’s all done, and you are too — sighing, shuddering — he lays his arm across your stomach and pushes you down so your back is flush against his chest. He doesn’t want you moving, not yet — so he keeps you still, plugged full of all of his hot cum.
He kisses your neck — his tongue hot, messy on your skin — and his hands come to your tits, massaging them. You’re sensitive everywhere, shivering.
“What do you say?” he drawls into your neck as you come down. “Now that your big brother got you nice and filled up?”
“Thank you,” you mumble, allowing yourself to enjoy the feeling of his big fingers teasing your tits before you have to forget that any of this ever happened.
“That’s a good little fuck toy,” he laughs against your neck — condescending, as big an asshole as ever.
You frown, making a move to get up and off of him — remembering, suddenly, the gravity of everything you’ve just done — and how gross your stepbrother is.
He bars his arm across your chest, slamming you back down against him.
“Where do you think you’re going, squirt?” he grins into your neck.
“What the fuck do you mean?” you snap.
Over your own voice, you can hear a loud car coming down your street. That engine sounds familiar, somehow — like you’ve heard it before. The driver, whoever it is, is blasting the same kind of obnoxious, bass-heavy music that your brother listens to.
Katsuki glances at the clock on the nightstand.
“Didn’t you hear what I said earlier?” your brother says into your neck. You can hear the smile in his voice.
You think you recognize the sound of that car. You think that you can place it, now.
You recognize the sound of that car from a family gathering some time ago — when Katsuki invited his obnoxious friends over.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Outside, the driver of the loud car shuts the ignition off. You hear several doors open, then slam shut. Several deep voices start to converse as they approach the house. And they all sound terribly familiar.
Now that you’re nice and ruined — and now that his friends are here, punctual for the first time in their lives — your big brother says,
PAIRING. (very scummy) frat!bakusquad boys x fem!reader
LENGTH. 19.8k words (ao3 link)
GENRE. nsfw, aged up characters (20+)
EXTRA. art by @/crikeygatormate !! <3
CONTENT. gangbang, bukkake, virginity kink, corruption kink, sexual coercion + manipulation, very dubcon, tagging noncon just in case, power imbalance, intoxication, exhibitionism, creampie, noncon creampie, dacryphilia, double penetration (one hole & two), cum eating, cumplay, oral (m & f receiving), stomach bulge, spit kink, impact play (choking, slapping, biting), objectification, teasing (+ bullying), degradation kink, humiliation, praise kink, breeding kink, multiple orgasms, noncon recording
SYNOPSIS. are you sure you want to tag along to that frat party? your roommate’s friends might not have the best of intentions.
DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING ADULT CONTENT AND THE DARK CONTENT STATED IN THE WARNINGS.
WEDNESDAY, 8:15 P.M.
You’re leaning over your homework desk with your chin cradled in your palm and your pencil scratching at paper when you hear knocking at your door. It’s the kind of knocking a kid would do: a playful, familiar little rhythm you’ve heard tons of times before.
Your roommate locks her phone; the comedy skit that was playing on it just a moment ago ends abruptly. She rolls out of bed with a little huff, then crosses the floor of your shared dorm room to answer the door.
There’s the creak of the door opening, and then a cheerful voice saying, “Hey, Pinky.”
“Hey, Dinky,” your roommate replies, popping her gum. “Do you have my order?”
“You know it,” the stranger says, pulling a little ziploc bag from his shirt pocket. The pungent scent of the substance inside hits your nose immediately.
You put your pencil down and lean your chair back just slightly to peek over at the door. You’re trying to discreetly catch a glimpse of the newcomer over Mina’s shoulder. But your plan backfires; the stranger notices the movement behind Mina, and his eyes snap to yours.
His face breaks into a friendly smile.
“Hey,” he says brightly, leaning to the side to get a better view of you. “Who’s your cute little friend, Mina?”
Your eyes widen. He’s tall. Blonde, with a little streak of black going through his hair. And he’s pretty. His gold eyes are sleepy-looking and catlike in a way that’s almost effeminate. His nose is narrow, adorned with a little silver ring on the nostril.
This must be one of the guys in the crowd that Mina hangs out with. She talks about them all the time. Apparently, they had all graduated from high school together, ended up at the same university. And now the boys are in a frat together. This must be…
“Denki, y/n,” Mina says, shifting her body sideways and gesturing between the two of you as she introduces you. “Y/n, Denki.”
“Y/n,” says Denki with a wide smile, pushing past Mina to enter the room. “That’s a cute name.”
Mina rolls her eyes and shuts the door behind him. “Don’t get your disgusting cooties on my bed,” she scolds. “You’re filthy.”
“I was skating,” he pouts, plopping onto the beanbag in the middle of the floor.
Now that you take a good look at him, his clothes are a little grimy. His khaki chinos are dingy and littered with black marks. The socks peeking out beneath the rolled bottom of his pants are in even worse condition; you can just barely make out the naked pinup girls printed on them. And his old Vans are the worst of all; they’re filthy, faded, and ripping apart at the seams.
Denki sees you studying him; he meets your eyes with a smile.
“Whatcha workin’ on, cutie?” he asks curiously.
“Organic chemistry,” you answer shyly.
He finds your soft, demure voice adorable.
“Damn, o chem?” he whistles. “Well, aren’t you a little smarty pants?”
“No, nothing like that,” you say, shaking your head.
“She has a 4.0,” Mina interjects, like a proud mother.
Denki raises his eyebrows at you. “Oh yeah? Beauty and brains, huh?” he teases, fishing a little black canister out of his pocket. You smile sheepishly. He opens the canister, takes a pre-rolled joint out of it.
“Don’t embarrass her,” scolds Mina.
Denki chuckles, pulling a lighter from his pocket. He sticks the joint between his lips, then looks up at you with a grin. “I’m shit at chem,” he laughs; the words are distorted by the joint in his mouth.
“In fact, I might need a tutor,” he grins up at you. He flicks the lighter on, brings the flame to the joint until it catches, then takes a deep drag. “You free?”
“Oh… for tutoring?” you say hesitantly. “Well… I have my internship on the weekdays, and I volunteer on the weekends, so -”
“Aww,” Denki pouts, taking another drag and blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth. “Are you sure? I’d pay you well,” he teases, holding the joint up pointedly.
“I don’t smoke,” you laugh sheepishly.
“Oooh, she’s a goody-goody?” he taunts, looking over at Mina.
“Shut up,” Mina scolds; she’s sitting at her desk now, checking her makeup in a small circular mirror. “You’re totally making her nervous.”
“It’s okay,” Denki shrugs, smiling. He’s leaning back in the beanbag now, with his legs and arms spread out languidly. “I like good girls,” he says, deliberately. He takes another drag of his joint before outstretching a long arm to Mina. She accepts the joint, brings it to her glossed up lips for a puff, then passes it back.
Good girls… You look away awkwardly, fidgeting with your hands.
Denki continues to take long, slow drags from his joint, studying you with a look of amusement on his face. Mina’s mentioned you to him a few times. He remembers her saying that you’re an overachiever. That you’re very involved in school, very bookish. You definitely look the type. He likes that - that type. Cute little nerds like you, with your cute little reading glasses.
Cute, sweet, innocent girls like you. He smiles to himself, looking at your hard nipples poking at the fabric of your worn crew neck shirt. It’s chilly in here, and he’s very glad for it.
“You sure you don’t wanna try?” Denki teases, holding the joint out to you with an amiable smile. “I could take real good care of you for your first time, you know.”
He watches with amusement as your eyes widen. He wonders if you caught that little innuendo. Based on that flustered expression on your face, he thinks that you did.
“Oh, I shouldn’t,” you laugh nervously. “Really. I have to finish this homework by tonight. Thank you, though.”
He laughs. “Well, don’t let me bother you,” he says cheerfully, jerking his head toward your desk. “Go on, get to work.”
“Oh, um, alright.”
You flash Denki a weak smile as you rummage through your drawer. Once you find the pair of earphones you’re looking for, you plug them into your computer and focus your attention back on your pre-recorded lecture.
Denki decides that he’ll hang out for a while, at least until he finishes his blunt. He likes seeing Mina’s studious little roommate at work.
As Mina fixes her hair with her eyes glued on her small circular mirror, Denki chats to her about their friends. Mina’s not paying close attention to Denki, but if she were, she’d see him taking every free opportunity to glance your way.
Right now, he’s bringing his eyes down from your slightly messy hair to look at your pajama shorts. They have lollipops printed on them, and they’re just long enough to be modest. If he had to choose a superpower, he’d definitely choose x-ray vision, if only to get a glimpse at your panties.
His eyes wander downward, to your thighs. They look so soft. They’re bouncing a little as you tap your foot. He finds it so adorable, the way you bite your lip as you take notes, glancing between your paper and your computer.
“Gross, Mr. Recruiter,” Mina says, eyeing him out knowingly from her seat. “You’re such a perv, and she’s so sweet and innocent.”
Innocent… that word has his ears perking up. He’s a shark, and that word is blood in the water.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mimi,” he says, smiling.
“Yeah, right,” Mina laughs, watching him rise to his feet. He offers her the remainder of the joint; she accepts it, rests it between her fingers. You see Denki rise out of the corner of your eye, and take out your earphones to look over at him.
“I’m starving,” he announces lazily. “So I guess I’ll leave you ladies to it.”
“Okay,” you say, nodding. “Have a good night.”
“Tell the boys I said hi,” Mina says, taking a drag.
Denki passes you on the way out of the room. He pauses for a fraction of a second to give the back of your neck a light squeeze. A shiver goes down your spine, and you jolt upright. He chuckles.
Denki pauses at the door before opening it. He’s glad to see that your wide eyes are focused on him. He likes the attention from you.
“We’re throwing a party on Friday,” he says brightly. “At the frat house. Mina knows all the details. You should come, y/n.”
“Oh,” you stammer. “Well, like I said, on the weekends, I usually volun -”
“I have some friends that you might get along with,” he grins. “And I’d like to get to know you, too.”
“Um, alright,” you say awkwardly. “Maybe.”
“Okie dokie,” he says cheerfully, before bidding you and Mina one last goodbye and heading through the door. It closes behind him with a muted thump.
As you’re turning to Mina with raised eyebrows, Denki’s walking down the hallway at a lazy pace and pulling his phone out of his back pocket.
There’s a half-formed plan surfacing in his hazy, smoked out mind. It’s a plan for you, Mina’s innocent bookworm of a roommate. Really, he’s kicking himself for not making it a point to meet you ages ago. After all, he’s heard tons about you from Mina. Tons about how shy and quiet you are. He can’t believe it took him this long to scope you out.
A wicked grin spreads across his face.
Denki would bet his entire weed stash that you’re a virgin, and he wants to absolutely ruin you.
He opens his phone and taps to his messages.
To: ALPHA CHI BOYS - i found one, guys. she’s a real cutie.
FRIDAY, 3:45 P.M.
“So are you bringing your little friend tonight?”
It’s Denki’s voice crackling through the speaker on Mina’s phone. Several low voices come through the line too, wondering the same thing.
You peer over at Mina from your bed. It was a long day of classes, and you’ve just laid down to rest before starting your seemingly endless pile of schoolwork.
Mina shoots you an apologetic glance from her bed, before looking away to study her nails. “No, guys,” she says. “I don’t think she’d be down. I don’t think she’s the partying type.”
“Come on, Mina. Just ask her,” Denki pleads sweetly.
“I don’t know,” Mina sighs. “She looks super busy. But let me ask her.”
Mina pulls the phone away from her face, turning her head to look over at you. “Hey, y/n?” she asks, with a smile. “What are you up to tonight?”
“I have to finish my homework,” you say regretfully. “I was planning to go to bed early since I have my internship in the morning…”
“Aaaaw,” Denki whines over the phone; Mina clicks her teeth.
“Oh,” you say, frowning. “They’re having that party tonight, right?”
“Yeah,” Mina says brightly, perking up. “Why, do you wanna come?”
“Oh, no, I was just asking. I don’t think I can go,” you say sheepishly. “I just have so much to do…”
“Come on, y/n,” Denki urges brightly. “I can tell you work so hard. Don’t you think you deserve a break? At least a little one?”
“But I have my internship tomorrow morning,” you argue weakly.
Mina sighs. “You’ve never called in sick as long as I’ve known you. One day won’t hurt. Just come, y/n. It’ll be fun.”
“Yeah,” Denki pipes. “Pleeease?”
“I don’t even have anything to wear,” you stammer nervously.
“Let me lend you something,” Mina says cheerfully, sliding off her bed. “In fact, I have the perfect dress for you.”
You hear someone whistle over the phone; Denki laughs. Mina’s rustling through one of her drawers now, tossing clothes every which way. Finally, she finds the dress she’s looking for and brandishes it proudly, holding it out in your direction.
“Here, try it on,” she says, tossing it over to your bed.
You pick it up and look at it, frowning. “This dress is tiny, Mina,” you croak disapprovingly.
“Tiny?” a deep voice laughs over the phone. “Call us back on Facetime, let us see it on her.”
“Shut up, Kat,” Mina tells the stranger over the phone. “You’re such a tool.” Then she directs her attention back to you. “Go ahead, y/n,” she says, smiling. “Try it on.”
“Oh… okay,” you say nervously, as if the guys talking into the phone were actually in the room with you and Mina.
“Don’t worry,” Mina chirps, making a show of covering her eyes. “I won’t peek.”
“She’s shy?” comes an unfamiliar voice through the phone as you drop your clothes to the floor, leaving you just in your bra and panties. “That’s so sweet.”
You pull Mina’s dress over your head, smooth it over your body, then peek over at her.
“I’m ready,” you say demurely. “You can look now.”
She uncovers her eyes; her face lights up when she sees you. “Whoa. Do a spin for me,” she says, making a swirling motion with a manicured finger.
“Does she look as good as I’m imagining?” Denki laughs.
“Yeah. She looks great. Except for one thing.”
“What’s wrong?” you ask, frowning.
“You can’t wear a bra with that, silly,” Mina grins. “The entire back’s open.”
Someone over the phone lets out a mean-spirited laugh. You can hear something else in the background, too. Muffled shooting sounds. A video game, maybe.
“But…” you start, lowering your voice. “But what if my nipples show?”
“That’s the point, stupid,“ sighs Mina. "Now take your bra off.”
“Oh, okay,” you say slowly, turning around to unhook your bra and wrangle it off of yourself. You fix the top of the dress, then turn back to Mina.
“Did she free the nipple or what?” Denki teases.
“Yup,” Mina smiles. “She looks great. And she’s got a nice pair on her, too.”
“Send a picture,” someone snickers in the background of the call.
“You’re all dogs,” Mina laughs into the phone, before looking back at you. “You’re wearing that tonight, right, y/n?”
You stammer out a shaky, unintelligible response that Mina takes for an affirmative.
“So she’s in?” asks Denki.
“She’s in,” Mina says quickly, before you have the time to open your mouth and say something.
“Good,” Denki says. You can hear his smile even over the phone. “It would be a shame if she didn’t show that body off.”
Mina laughs. “Right? We’ll see you tonight.”
“Yeah.”
The call ends; Mina locks her phone, gives you a wide smile.
FRIDAY, 10:50 P.M.
The thick scent of weed hits your nose as you follow Mina through the door to the Alpha Chi frat house. For how stately the outside of the building is, you’re taken aback by the complete wreck that you see as soon as you step inside.
The lights are low, so you can barely see anything, but there’s an intermittent flashing - something like a strobe light - that illuminates everything in sporadic intervals. Each time the lights graze over the floor, you see a new atrocity.
Clearly, the party’s been raging for a while. You and Mina sidestep a pile of discarded beer cans leaking onto the sticky wood floor, before stepping over a guy who’s passed out in the middle of the entryway. There’s a grand staircase right in front of you, and there are several people passed out there, too. People are staggering up and down the stairs, spilling their drinks onto the carpet.
Mina says something to you, but you can barely hear anything over the deafening music and intoxicated, rowdy crowd packing the house.
“What?” you yell.
“It’s so fucking crowded in here,” she shouts back over the music. “I’m gonna call Denki.”
You nod, wincing as a group of people pushes past you, heading for the stairs. Mina raises her phone to her ear. Denki must answer immediately, because she starts to shout into her phone. You can’t make out the conversation, but it’s quick, and she’s hanging up not long after.
You and Mina have only been waiting for a few moments when you feel an arm enveloping your neck. You jump. When you look upward, you’re met by a wide, mischievous smile and sleepy gold eyes. Denki tightens his arm around your neck, looks over at Mina.
“Heeeey, you brought the cutie,” he laughs lazily to her. He’s smoking again, holding the joint between his lips.
“I told you I would,” she teases, plucking the blunt out of his mouth to take a drag from it.
He takes it back, takes a puff. Then he blows the smoke out slowly into your face and laughs when you flinch.
“That’s a cute dress,” Denki says, looking blatantly down at your tits. He meets your eyes with a grin.
As you babble a nervous thank you, Denki’s thanking his lucky stars for Mina. He can’t believe she got you to wear a dress like that. You weren’t kidding when you called it tiny over the phone. It’s so short that your ass is almost hanging out of the bottom of it. Of course, he’d gotten a nice, leisurely look when he’d approached you. But he needs much more than that.
If it was this easy for Mina to convince you to wear something so slutty, he bets that his plan will go much more smoothly than he’d expected.
Mina’s tapping intently down at her phone - texting someone, you think. Denki asks how the drive to the frat house from the dorms was. You speak to him in a shaky voice. You’re so quiet that he has to lean his head down right next to yours to hear what you’re saying.
Really, he’s glad for the excuse to get right up in your face.
“Hey,” Mina shouts suddenly. “Y/n, can I leave you with Denki for a bit? I have a, uh, friend waiting for me upstairs.”
Denki laughs. “Don’t forget to use protection.”
“Shut up,” she snaps, looking back to you for approval.
“Well, I -”
“Don’t worry about it,” Denki answers Mina, interrupting you. He looks down at you, smiling. “I’ve got you. I’ll take good care of you, I promise.”
“Great,” Mina chirps. “I’ll see you guys later, then.”
And then she’s off and up the stairs, and you’re still pressed tight up against Denki’s body, with his arm looped around your neck. He lets you go and leans back against the wall behind him, looking down at you curiously.
“What’s up, cutie?” he teases, raking his eyes over the bottom of your dress, which is riding high on your thighs. “Are you nervous or something?”
“I’m not used to parties,” you say softly, looking down at your feet.
“Awww,” he pouts. “I can tell.”
He laughs, then stands up straight and puts a hand on your back, leading you away from the entryway and down a long, dark hallway. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go sit down and relax for a bit.”
He’s asking you about your class schedule as he guides you through the crowd and into what seems like a living room. There’s a big couch against the wall opposite a massive TV. It’s dark in here, too, and the couch is bathed in the white light coming from the TV screen. There are several people sitting on the couch, a few passed out on it, and a couple making out on the far end. But there’s a little free space in the midst of all the chaos.
“So, with all that homework you do,” he says, leading you toward the couch, “I bet you don’t have time for video games, huh?”
“I’ve never played anything,” you admit sheepishly.
“No way,” he says incredulously, his eyes widening. “Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
“I guess so,” you mumble, watching him grab the Playstation controller off the coffee table and lower himself onto the free space on the couch. There isn’t room for you on either side of him, and you fidget awkwardly with your hands.
Denki grins knowingly up at your doe-eyed expression.
“What are you waiting for, pretty girl?” he teases. He settles further back into the couch cushions, spreading his long legs out, before patting his lap pointedly. “Come sit,” he says playfully, holding up the Playstation controller. “I wanna play with you.”
He laughs when your cheeks go bright red at the innuendo. “Don’t worry,” he winks, blowing smoke out of his nostrils. “I’ll show you the ropes.”
Denki rests the joint between his lips, then puts his hands out towards you with a sweet smile. You accept them, let him wrangle you onto his lap facing outward. You feel your pulse at your throat as he pulls you tight against him.
He reaches both arms around your waist to rest his forearms on your thighs - below where your dress ends, where it’s just your bare skin. You look down at your lap, watch his fingers move deftly over the controller. They’re slender and long; his fingernails are painted black.
“What game is this?” you ask shakily, feeling him rest his chin on your shoulder as he clicks through the menu screen.
“Resident Evil,” he says. His breath is hot against your neck, and it sends a chill down your spine.
“Wanna try it out?”
“Um -”
“Here, hold this,” he says, handing you the controller. You accept it, wrapping your hands around it. Then you watch his hands encompass yours.
Denki moves his fingers on top of yours on the controller, explaining what each button does. He’s talking into your neck, smiling. He can smell the perfume on your neck, feel the little tremors running through your hands. You’re so nervous, and he can’t help that he’s starting to get hard with you on his lap. Especially peeking down over your shoulder, where he has a perfect view of your dress falling open to reveal your tits. It’s riding up obscenely high on your cute thighs, too.
If he had it his way, he’d slip your dress up right here on this crowded couch and bounce you up and down his dick in front of everyone.
But he knows he has to share.
“You got it?” he asks, squeezing your hands under his.
“I think so.”
“Great,” he says against your neck, releasing your hands. He reaches up to his mouth to retrieve the joint from between his lips. He takes a deep drag, blows the smoke out against your neck. You squirm a little; it makes his dick harder.
“Just try not to die, ‘kay?” he says.
You nod, then start the game.
He watches, amused, as you shakily navigate your character through a dilapidated, snowed-in village. You’re alright until shapes start to fly at you through the screen. The controller starts to vibrate; you jump. Denki laughs, rests one hand on your thigh, drags a fingertip under the bottom of your dress.
As your character is swarmed by werewolves, you struggle to remember what button does what. You try to escape, but it’s futile. And before you know it, you’re dead.
You drop the controller on the couch with a pounding heart, looking down at Denki’s hand on your leg. He gives your thigh a little squeeze.
“Man,” you say shakily, turning your head back to look up at him with wide eyes. “That was scary.”
Denki grins, amused. He takes a final drag, blows the smoke out against the side of your face.
“You’re too fucking cute, you know that?” he says.
You break eye contact, nervous.
“I can’t wait to introduce you to my friends,” he says, grabbing your stomach to steady you as he leans forward to flick the remainder of his joint onto an ass-shaped ashtray sitting on the coffee table. You feel his dick press against you before he leans back, and you stiffen under his grasp.
“What’s up?” he teases. “You okay?”
“Y-yeah,” you stammer.
“Why don’t you try again?” he asks, picking the controller up and handing it back to you.
You obey. And this time, just a fraction of a second after you’ve started the game, he brings both hands to your thighs, slipping the bottom of your dress up slightly.
“I like this dress on you,” he says, with his mouth pressed against your neck.
You take a shaky breath, struggling to control your character in even the most basic ways. “I’m so bad at this,” you say quietly.
“Nah,” he teases, pressing a little kiss to your jugular that makes you shiver. “You’re doing great.”
You’ve just died for the second time at the hands of the werewolves when you feel Denki take his face off your neck.
“Hey, guys,” he yells.
You look in the direction he’s yelling and feel your stomach drop when you see who he’s addressing. It’s a group of three guys pushing through the crowd as they come into the room. You thought Denki was big - and he is. At least six foot, you’re sure of it.
But they’re monsters. Taller than Denki, towering over the people in the crowd. Especially the last guy, who has to duck through the door frame to enter the room. He smiles sheepishly, says something that you can’t hear to the blond guy he’s with.
“I swear they’re building door frames smaller these days, man,” the big one is saying.
“No, they’re not,” his blond friend replies irritably. “You just need to lay off the steroids.”
“How does that affect his height?” snickers their other friend. “You’re just salty that Kiri’s taller than you.”
“Fuck you, string bean,” replies the blond.
“My friends are gonna love you,” Denki laughs into your ear as they approach. Your heart is racing, watching their massive figures part the crowd.
“Kiri,” he says, pointing to the big guy with the red hair and friendly face.
“Bakugou.” The angry-looking blond with the tattoo snaking up his neck. “But we call him Kat, because he hates it.”
“Sero.” The lanky, dark-haired one with the cocky grin on his face.
As they round the couch, Bakugou snaps at the people beside Denki to clear out, opening seats up on either side of you. The displaced people leave the room, retreating somewhere into the dark depths of the frat house.
And now Denki’s friends are towering over you, staring down at you like a hungry pack of wolves. Bakugou smirks down at you, then raises his beer bottle to his mouth and takes a sip. Kiri and Sero eye you out appraisingly, passing a blunt back and forth.
You fidget nervously with the bottom of your dress as their eyes graze over you. You try to pull your dress a little down your thighs so there isn’t so much skin showing, but this just ends up pulling the fabric further down your tits. Bakugou’s grin deepens.
“This is Mina’s roommate, y/n,” Denki says, squeezing your thighs. “Isn’t she sweet?”
“Super sweet,” Sero grins, blowing smoke out into your face. He’s the first one to sit, settling into the couch on your left side. His eyes wander blatantly over your chest, where your dress is hanging obscenely low.
“What did I say about starting without us, short stack?” Bakugou sneers to Denki over your shoulder. He takes another sip of his beer, then leans down to you so he’s right up in your face. You flinch and lean back against Denki’s chest to put some space between you and Bakugou. Denki chuckles.
“You didn’t tell us she was this cute,” Bakugou grins. He brings his fingers to your cheek, gives it a hard, nasty pinch. You wince.
“Aw, sensitive little bitch?” Bakugou laughs. He gives your face a light slap; Sero snorts.
“Ouch,” you say quietly. Your eyes are tearing up from the treatment; you frown.
“Don’t be such a fucking asshole,” says Kiri, shoving Bakugou roughly toward the couch. Bakugou just laughs in response, then sits down on your right side with his leg touching yours.
Kiri crouches in front of you. He’s a giant: so big that crouching brings him to eye level with you. “Hi, sweetheart,” he says, smiling sweetly. “It’s nice to meet you. How are you?”
“I’m good,” you say, trembling slightly. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, concerned. “Is this little perv bothering you?” he jokes, jerking his head over your shoulder, toward Denki.
You shake your head quickly as Denki laughs. “I’ve been taking good care of her, big guy,” he says, bringing his arms around your waist and squeezing you close to him.
Kiri places a massive, hot hand on your knee and smiles amiably up at you. “You can tell me if he gets out of line,” he says reassuringly. “I’ll put him in his place, okay?” he smiles.
You nod. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he says, settling onto the ground close to your leg. “What are you up to, princess?” he asks, taking the blunt back from Sero and taking a long drag from it.
“Denki was showing me how to play Resident Evil,” you say demurely.
“It’s her first time,” says Denki, looking at his friends pointedly. “Can you believe that?”
“No way,” Sero drawls. “You popped her cherry without us?”
“Just for the game,” Denki says, smiling.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Sero laughs, handing you the Playstation controller. “You’re gonna show us what you learned, right?”
“Um… okay,” you say shakily.
They watch you navigate the village again, and you can feel them all staring at you as you keep your eyes glued to the screen.
“She’s doing great for her first time, huh?” Denki laughs against your neck.
“Yeah,” Kiri says, resting his head against your leg. “She’s doing so well.”
Even though you know what’s coming, it still startles you when the werewolves swarm your character.
You jump; a little yelp falls from your mouth. The still-vibrating controller falls from your shaking hands, bounces off your lap, and hits the carpet.
“She’s pretty jumpy, huh?” Bakugou grins at you, sipping his beer with his leg pressed up against yours. “What, are you really scared? From a little game?”
You frown. “Well, I —”
“Awww,” Sero says sarcastically. “I think you hurt her feelings. Poor little thing might cry.”
“You’re both such fucking assholes,” Kiri says. “No wonder nobody likes you.” He picks the controller up off the ground, hands it to you with a sweet, sympathetic smile.
“Thank you,” you say shyly.
“Whatever,” Bakugou says irritably. “This is boring as fuck. Let’s go play beer pong.”
Before you can argue, everyone rises to their feet. You’re dumped, standing, off of Denki’s lap. Someone’s big hands envelop your hips; another hand squeezes the back of your neck. A sneaky one gropes quickly at your ass as the four of them push you toward the table near the wall on the other side of the room.
There’s a huge mess on the table: blunt roaches, plastic cups, half-full cans everywhere. Several bottles are tipped over, leaking sticky liquid onto the tabletop.
Kiri grabs the big black bin resting against the wall and starts to sweep the mess into it. You hear the cans and bottles clattering on top of each other, the thick liquid sloshing into the bin.
Bakugou grabs a package of plastic cups off the floor and starts to set them on the tabletop in a triangle formation. Once there’s a triangle on each side of the table, he rummages through a cooler near the table and cracks open several beers, pouring them messily into the cups. Once the cans are empty, he throws them into the bin Kiri’s holding.
“Um, how do you play this?” you ask, tugging at Denki’s sleeve. “I’ve never really done something like this before.”
Denki laughs. “Of course you haven’t,” he says, pausing to bend over and grab a ping pong ball out from under the table. He brandishes it with a grin.
“So basically, you throw this ball. Try to make it into a cup in the other team’s triangle of cups. And if you make it in, they have to drink the beer out of that cup. Each team takes turns throwing. Whoever runs out of cups first loses.”
“But I don’t drink,” you croak weakly.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Sero interjects, smiling.
“Nah,” Denki says, rubbing your back reassuringly. “I’ve got you. I’ll drink for you.”
“Fuck that,” Bakugou says, from across the table. “We’ll raise the stakes, then, since you idiots are cheating. Everyone on the losing team has to take off one article of clothing.” His face twists up into a mean-spirited grin.
You gulp, fidgeting nervously with your hands. All you have on under your dress is a pair of panties. What if you lose? You look around the room with your heart racing in your chest. There are still tons of people around.
Kiri’s leaning back against the wall, taking his turn with the shared blunt. He looks at you, low-eyed. “That’s not really fair,” he argues, sparing you a sympathetic glance. “What about the lady? That’s fucked up, guys.”
“We’ll stack our team, then,” Denki shrugs to Kiri. “Three against two. Me, Sero, and y/n. Against you and Bakugou. We’ll have an extra, so there’s an advantage.”
Before you have the chance to ask how that really counts as an advantage, Kiri shrugs in agreement. And you completely miss the sly look that Denki and Sero exchange. Because neither of them has the slightest intention of letting your team win. Really, they’re all in on it, because they all want to see what kind of body you’re hiding under that slutty little dress.
The game doesn’t last very long.
For some reason, your teammates are awful at throwing. So the opposing team dominates. Bakugou and Kiri land the ball in your team’s cups every single turn and, soon enough, Denki and Sero are slurring their words and letting their curious hands grope your ass between turns.
It’s over before you know it, and your team has lost miserably.
Kiri must be on cleanup duty. He takes it upon himself to clear the plastic cups off the table again, sweeping the empty ones into the black bin that reeks of mixed alcohol.
“Go on, losers,” Bakugou says to your team with a wicked smile, downing the alcohol remaining in one of the cups.
Sero pulls his shirt off first. You gulp, try not to stare at his lean, lanky frame.
“You too, short stack,” Bakugou says to Denki.
“Fine. Pervert,” Denki slurs. He peels his shirt off, throws it to the side. You take a deep breath, eyeing out his exposed body. He catches you staring and offers you a wide, satisfied smile. He’s lean too, especially around the waist. But he’s well-built, with big shoulders and a solid V leading down into his waistband.
And the piercings: one on his belly button. Nipple piercings too. Little stick and poke tattoos scattered around his body. You avert your eyes.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a guy shirtless before,” Denki teases, laughing at your awestruck face. “You’re too cute.”
You’re babbling an incoherent response with burning cheeks when Bakugou points at you from across the table. “You don’t think you’re getting out of it, do you, loser?” he sneers, before downing the contents of one of the few remaining plastic cups and tossing it into the bin.
“Don’t make me come rip that fucking dress off you,” he grins, laughing when your eyes widen fearfully.
“Chill the fuck out, Kat,” Kiri says, taking a deep drag from his blunt. He’s resting back against the wall, looking at Bakugou distastefully. “You’re being a fucking ass, you know that?”
As you’re thinking about what a gentleman he is, Kiri’s picturing his friend ripping your dress off you and leaving it in shreds on the floor. He’d like to see you standing there all naked and vulnerable with your tits out. He wonders what kind of panties you’re wearing.
But he’s worked hard to curate his nice guy reputation, so he suppresses the perverted smile that’s threatening to surface on his face as he looks at your timid figure.
“I’m just enforcing the rules of the game,” Bakugou drawls.
“You know…,” starts Sero, turning to smile down at you. You feel like you’re shrinking in front of his hungry expression. “I guess it is only fair, y/n,” he laughs. “I mean, you did agree to it when we all started playing.”
“But what about all of the people in here?” you say weakly, shooting Denki a panicked look. “They’re gonna see… I’m not even wearing a bra…”
Bakugou’s grin deepens; he’s a second away from walking over there and grabbing you by the throat so he can tear the fabric off of you. And Kiri’s shifting against the wall, because his pants are getting tight from hearing your innocent voice whine in fear.
“It’s okay, cutie,” Denki says. He gestures between himself and Sero. “Look, we’re shirtless, too. Don’t even worry about it.” He smiles reassuringly. “You’re with all of us. No one’s gonna mess with you, ‘kay?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” you say shakily.
“Look,” Denki smiles, coming closer to you. He sits at the edge of the table, with his knee grazing your thigh as you stand in front of him, cowering. “You’re fine,” he says, bringing his long fingers to the bottom of your dress.
He’s getting impatient now; he’s been waiting way too long to see your cute body out of that dress.
“You’re fine,” Denki smiles, tugging your dress up slightly so it rides higher on your thighs. Sero smiles, watching the bottom of your ass pop out just slightly.
“I’ll even help you take it off, see?” Denki grins.
Kiri comes over to your side of the table now, handing the blunt off to Sero before leaning against the table to watch you curiously. His eyes flick back and forth between your face and your thighs. He can’t wait to get his big hands on you, to squeeze the fat of your thighs hard and make you yelp.
Bakugou finishes off the beer in the last remaining plastic cup, then tosses it into the trash can and comes to join the rest of his friends at your side of the table.
And now all of them are crowding around you like a ravenous pack of wolves, grinning down at you in anticipation. Your heart is going wild in your chest.
“Okay,” you agree weakly.
“Attagirl,” Denki laughs, gripping the bottom of your dress and pulling it up, further and further and further.
Denki’s friends watch intently as he pulls your dress upward. They savor every new inch of skin they see, licking their lips in anticipation like they’re going to eat you alive. And soon, they can see the apex of your cute thighs, your sweet little panties. They’re looking hard enough to see the outline of your pussy through the thin white fabric.
They can barely hold themselves back, watching Denki pull your dress off of you so slowly.
The best part of it is when Denki pulls your dress up over your tits. Their eyes go wide as they watch your tits bounce a little, coming free from the tight confines of the fabric.
Maybe if your dress weren’t obscuring your view, you’d be horrified at the predatory leers on their faces.
As Denki drops your dress to the floor, your hands shoot up to cover your chest. Your cheeks are burning with embarrassment. You’re sure the people in this crowded room are all looking right at you. But when you glance around, you find that no one but the four boys really seem to care.
It’s almost as if this is a regular occurrence here in this debauched frat house.
“Awww,” Bakugou sneers. “Look how shy she is.” He laughs when you flinch. “You’re gonna show us your tits, right?”
You look at the ground, too embarrassed to meet their eyes.
“Don’t be shy,” Sero smiles, blowing smoke in your direction. He passes the blunt to Kiri, who watches you with intent, puffy eyes. He’s waiting for another glimpse of your perfect tits, his dick throbbing hard against his pants.
“Come on, pretty girl,” Denki says sweetly. “Can we see?”
“Ah, guys,” Kiri says disapprovingly, failing to restrain the little smile pulling the corners of his mouth up. Little puffs of smoke come from his mouth and nose with each word. “This is a little fucked up, don’t you think?” he says.
But even as he says it, he’s eyeing out the way the fat of your tits spills between your fingers, and he wants to pin your weak little arms down so you can’t cover your chest up anymore. He’d like to amplify that sweet, embarrassed look you’re wearing on your face.
“Nah,” Denki smiles, wrapping his hands around your hips. “Who’s gonna bother her when we’ve got her?”
Bakugou laughs, takes a puff of Kiri’s blunt.
“You’re okay, right?” Denki asks, cradling your face sweetly.
You nod. He smiles, brings his greedy hands down to your ass and squeezes it needily before hoisting you up and turning to set you on the table. It’s sticky under your thighs, wet with spilled alcohol.
“Look, relax,” Denki says, nudging his hips in between your thighs and caging you in with a hand on either side of you. His friends tower behind him, leering down at you.
“We’ll take good care of you, cutie,” Denki says, placing his hands lightly on your thighs. He runs his thumbs over your skin lightly; you shiver. “We’ll keep you safe. ‘Kay?”
You’re still covering your chest shyly, and Denki’s sick of waiting to see your tits. He puts his hands out palm up with a sweet smile, gesturing for your hands.
“It’s alright,” he says, smiling. “We just wanna see how pretty you are.”
You nod hesitantly, then slowly take your hands off your chest and put them in Denki’s.
“That’s a good girl,” he says, looking hungrily down at your chest. You have such a nice pair of tits; he wants to pull you off the table, force you onto your knees, fuck your tits until he’s cumming all over your face.
But he has to share.
“Fuck,” Bakugou grins, reaching out to tweak one of your nipples roughly. “Why would you wanna hide these from us, baby?”
You flinch and try to pry your hands free of Denki’s to cover your chest again. But he tightens his hands around yours so you can’t get free. Bakugou laughs in your face.
You look around nervously, hoping one of the others will be nicer to you. Kiri’s finishing a can of beer. He crushes it in his big hand, then tosses it over the side of the table. You hear it clatter into the bin. Then you watch him glance down at your tits, running his tongue over his lips. He’s completely hard now, and he wants to bury his dick inside of you. He’s dying to spill all his cum in you, to see it dripping out of your pussy.
He looks up at your face, smiles sweetly.
“Why are you so nervous, huh?” Sero laughs, holding the blunt in between his lips. He adjusts his pants to give his hard dick more room. He thinks you’re a disobedient little brat, covering your tits up like that, and he wants to punish you for it.
“I don’t know,” you say shakily.
“Hey,” Denki coos sympathetically. “Why are you so worked up? Why don’t you relax, pretty girl? Can you do that for me?”
You nod. “I think so.”
“You’re so sweet,” he says, bringing a finger up to your chin. He nudges your face upward, smiling sweetly down at you. His pretty eyes are sending butterflies through your chest. He pushes a little further between your thighs, spreading them around his hips, as he brings his face to yours.
You can hear his friends snickering as Denki pushes his tongue between your lips. He grabs your ass, brings you right to the edge of the table so your legs are completely spread open around his hips. Your pussy is pushed right up against his hard, aching dick; you can feel the heat of it through the thin fabric of your panties.
He kisses you a little harder, and you reciprocate it, squeezing your hands on his shoulders.
If he had it his way, Denki would rip your panties off right now. He’d lay you out on this slick table and fuck the shit out of you in front of all his friends, just to show them all who you’ve been acting like such a little slut since you showed up at this party.
“Aw, she’s really getting into it,” Bakugou sneers. “How cute.”
You feel Denki supporting the back of your head. As he kisses you, he pushes you down until you’re laid out flat on the table, with his bare chest pressing into yours.
He pulls back, supporting himself on his left forearm with his right hand spanning across your waist. You use the chance to gasp for air, taking in your surroundings.
Denki’s friends are leaning over the table, watching you curiously as they ingest their substances. They all think you look absolutely adorable, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. And that embarrassed little expression on your face is just so cute. The best part of it is the way you squirm against Denki’s hard dick, with him pressed up against you, and your legs spread wide open. They all wish it was them between your legs. Each one of them thinks they would be the right one to give you just what you need.
Each of them wants to be the one to stretch out your tight, wet pussy for the very first time.
Denki watches your eyes dart nervously between the boys behind him. A look of embarrassment crosses your face.
“My friends think you’re so cute,” Denki says sweetly, still leaning over you. “They can watch, right? You’ll let them watch?”
“Oh… okay,” you agree demurely.
“Good girl,” Denki says.
“Does it hurt to have your head on the hard table, princess?” Kiri asks, towering over Denki’s shoulder. There’s a look of sweet concern on his face.
You nod, biting your lip.
“Poor thing,” Kiri says, frowning. “Let me help you.”
Kiri leans his big figure slightly over to pull his hoodie over his head. As soon as it comes off, your eyes widen. It’s not like you couldn’t tell he was big, especially with the way he dwarfs his friends. But maybe his sweet demeanor was preventing you from really realizing the extent of his size.
Now that he’s shirtless you can really take it in. He’s huge, so massive and cut that you’re afraid to look at him for too long. Like the just the sight of his ripped body could break you in half. You watch his arms flex as he folds his hoodie up into a little pillow for you.
“Lift your head up for me, princess,” he says, leaning over you.
You do, allowing him to slip the hoodie under your head. It’s soft, much more comfortable than the hard, sticky tabletop. And it smells deep and aromatic, just like him.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
You’re still slack-jawed, looking up at his body. Kiri moves a little hair out of your face, then laughs softly. He’s used to girls looking at him like this: apprehensive, awestruck, sometimes even a little bit fearful. And he likes that look best on innocent faces like yours, because it makes it even more rewarding to see your eyes rolling back when he splits you open on his dick.
“What’s up, huh?” he asks, with an anticipatory smile on his face. He’s thinking about how good it’ll feel to get your little virgin pussy used to the monster he’s hiding in his pants. “You good?” he says, feigning concern.
“Y-yeah,” you croak, letting out a little gasp as you feel hands spreading your thighs open even wider.
You prop yourself up on your elbows to look down between your legs. Denki’s spreading them wide open, standing back slightly to look down at your pussy. He runs his fingers lightly over your panties. You squirm, gasping, and all of the hungry eyes on you widen greedily.
Denki runs his teasing fingers slowly over your panties, watching you gasp. He wants to take his time getting you wet. Because it’s fun to make his friends wait. He knows that they get all worked up, and he likes to be the one to tease and tease while they just sit there, watching. His dick is throbbing in his pants, sticky with precum, but it’s worth it. Because he knows that the longer he waits to fuck you, the better it’ll feel when he finally gets his dick wet.
“Um, I’ve… I’ve never done something like this before,” you stammer nervously.
As you look back and forth between the four of them fearfully, their faces twist up into nasty grins. The way your virgin body is spread out so obscenely on the sticky, dirty table is driving them crazy. So is the puffy outline of your pussy that they can just barely see through your damp white panties.
They just can’t wait to absolutely ruin you. You’re so sweet, so innocent; they can’t wait to get their dicks wet, to hear what your demure little voice sounds like moaning as you take their dicks. They want to show you what it feels like to get fucked.
They want to initiate you.
“… So you’re a virgin?” Denki asks, feigning surprise.
You nod, biting your lip. “Is that okay?”
Bakugou laughs, takes a big swig of his beer. He thinks your confused, embarrassed face is the sweetest thing he’s ever seen; he wonders what you’d look like covered in cum.
Sero blows smoke out of his nose, grinning. “Even better,” he says.
Now that they know for sure that you really are as innocent as you seem, they’re getting even more excited to fuck you. Bakugou’s dick is aching, leaking precum on his thigh. It’s been a while since he’s fucked a virgin. He’s missed the feeling of turning an innocent, timid little thing like you into a nasty, screaming slut. And that’s his favorite thing about this: being the one to fuck that frightened little expression off your face until you’re moaning on his cock.
Denki laughs, squeezing your thigh softly. He knew from the first moment he saw you.
“I didn’t think you could get any cuter,” he says.
Kiri’s still leaning close to you over the table; he has been, ever since he gave you his jacket. He strokes your hair, trying to resist the urge to pull his dick out and shove it between your slightly parted lips.
“So you’ve never had your pussy eaten, then?” Denki grins.
You wince at the dirty words, then shake your head. The boys are thinking about how adorable it is that you can’t even stand to hear the words. They can’t wait to see how embarrassed you’ll be when Denki actually puts his face between your legs. They just know your face will be priceless. Bakugou shifts, adjusting his hard dick in his pants.
“I didn’t think so,” Denki laughs.
He brings his hand to your pussy again, runs his slender fingers over the outside of your panties until you’re squirming. He’s leaning over you a little now, and he loves how your expression is changing as he teases you: the way your eyebrows are furrowed up, your innocent little mouth hanging open.
“You’re so fucking sensitive,” he smiles, brushing his fingers over your clit, watching you shiver. He looks down at the little wet spot on your panties and bites his lip. He really wants to bury his face between your legs, taste those sweet juices leaking out of you.
He wants to be the first one to eat you.
“I wanna taste you,” Denki pouts. “Can I taste you?”
“I —” you start, but pause to twitch as he gives your clit a few light slaps through your panties. “Oh my god,” you say quietly.
“I promise it’s gonna feel good,” he says sweetly.
“I don’t know,” you say nervously.
The boys are starting to get impatient. They’re all so hard, aching to fill you up with their cocks. They want to stuff every single one of your virgin holes, touch every part of you that’s never been touched before. And each of them wants to be the first to feel the tight wetness of your pussy, to stretch you out until you’re screaming.
“What if my friends help you relax first?” Denki smiles. “You want them to get you nice and relaxed before I taste you, pretty girl?”
“Yes,” you say shakily. Your eyes dart up to Kiri, who’s still stroking your hair tenderly.
“Oh, you want Kiri?” Denki says sweetly. “You like the nice guys, huh?”
Bakugou and Sero both snicker, swapping substances. They’re not surprised you want Kiri. After all, that’s his thing. He works hard to get girls comfortable, because they’d be terrified of him otherwise — especially sweet little virgins like you. So he puts on his nice guy facade, gets them used to it until they look to him for protection.
And that’s okay with them. Because neither of them have the patience to play nice. They just want to abuse you.
“Well, go on, Kiri,” Denki teases, continuing to rub at your clit lightly through your panties.
Kiri smiles sweetly down at you, then leans further toward you over the table. You’re still propped up on your elbows when he brings his face down to yours. He can feel you trembling, and for some animalistic reason, it makes him want to fuck you even more.
“It’s alright,” Kiri says softly. “We’re gonna make you feel real good. You want that, princess?”
You nod, whimpering as Denki teases you a little harder through your panties. He crouches down, places light kisses on the inside of your thighs. A shaky moan falls from your mouth, and he squeezes his dick in his pants. He wants to hear you moaning more. Louder. Until you’re screaming his name, cumming all over his tongue.
“Shit, look at you,” Kiri says. He’s devouring the expression on your face; he loves to see your eyelids fluttering, your mouth hanging open. That expression is addicting to him. He bets you’d make even cuter faces if he shoved his hard dick into you and fucked you dumb.
“Feels good, huh?” he teases.
“Yes,” you say breathily.
Denki continues to place sloppy kisses on your thighs with his fingers pressed to your panties, feeling the fabric there get wetter and wetter. Kiri’s mouth meets yours, slow and gentle. And soon, you’re moaning into it, squirming desperately against Denki’s teasing fingers.
Kiri moves his mouth down your neck, places soft, sloppy kisses on your skin. He has one massive hand wrapped around the back of your neck, supporting your head; the other is kneading your tits gently. It’s taking everything in him to keep from squeezing them so hard you cry. But that’s okay; this is the price he has to pay to win your favor. He can tell from the way you grab desperately at his hair that you’ll let him stretch your tight little pussy out.
So he’ll be patient.
“You like this, baby?” he asks against your neck, rubbing your tits gently.
“Yes,” you gasp. You’re starting to get overwhelmed by the pleasure from the two of them toying with your body. Kiri’s licking your neck and squeezing your tits, and Denki’s kissing your thighs as he teases your clit.
Kiri brings his pointer finger and his thumb to his mouth, licks them to lube them up. He uses his fingers to tweak your nipples softly.
“Fuck,” he smiles, watching you squirm under his touch. “You’re so fucking adorable.”
Bakugou and Sero are leaning against the edge of the table with amused smiles on their faces as they watch you get groped by their friends. The two of them are excited to wreck you, but it’s taking so long. Sometimes it’s tedious for them to wait while the two nice guys get girls ready.
But it’s always worth it to go in and ruin a dripping pussy. They like taking advantage of their friends’ hard work. After all, the two of them aren’t patient enough to do the teasing themselves. They’d definitely lose control, end up fucking you with no prep.
So instead, they settle for trading substances as the nice guys test their patience. They watch the show intently together, getting higher and drunker.
Denki looks with sleepy eyes at the growing wet spot on your panties, drags his fingers lazily over it, savoring the feeling of the soaked fabric.
“Aw, pretty girl,” he says. “You’re so wet for us already.”
Denki licks his lips, then presses his mouth to your wet panties. He kisses and licks your clit softly through the fabric until you’re gasping.
Kiri wraps his hand up in your hair and pulls your head a little to expose your neck. He drags his tongue up your neck to your mouth, meets your lips in another messy kiss. Denki keeps licking your cunt through the damp fabric of your panties, and it has you gasping into Kiri’s mouth between kisses. The heat of Denki’s tongue is getting you wetter and wetter.
Kiri wants to be where Denki is; he bets your pussy tastes as good as your sweet mouth, if not better. But Mr. Nice Guy is getting impatient; his dick is aching in his pants, and he’s dying for some kind of relief.
So he wants to hurry this up.
“Can my friends touch you, too?” Kiri asks against your mouth.
You nod obediently.
“You’re such a good girl,” he says, as he lays your head gently back down on his jacket.
Sero laughs, taking one final puff from the blunt before flicking the roach into the bin. “Perfect timing,” he says, smiling.
“Always takes so fucking long to get them ready,” Bakugou says as he pulls his shirt off.
As Kiri brings his hungry mouth back to yours and pushes his big tongue deep into your mouth, Bakugou and Sero cage you in on either side. They’ve been waiting so long for this, and they don’t hold back when they start groping you. You flinch with each nasty pinch, each squeeze to your thighs and tits.
Denki’s starting to lick at your clit harder, and your hips start to lift off the table as you moan into Kiri’s mouth. Bakugou grabs you by the hips, slams you roughly back down onto the table.
“I thought you were a virgin,” Bakugou taunts. “So why are you moaning like such a little whore?”
You whimper into Kiri’s mouth. He kisses you deeply, ignoring the way his friends are manhandling you. Bakugou slaps and pinches your tits until tears are rolling down the side of your face. Your mind is hazy and confused, muddled by the combination of wet pleasure and stinging pain. The area between your legs is so swollen, and Denki just keeps teasing you through your panties.
You feel Sero’s mouth latch onto your nipple. He bites you hard, and you cry out into Kiri’s mouth.
“Don’t worry,” Kiri says sweetly against your lips. “They’re just a little overeager. But you’re a big girl… you can take it, can’t you? You’ll do that for me, won’t you, sweetheart?”
“Mhm,” you say tearily, nodding your head obediently.
Kiri pulls back and looks down at you curiously, watching you flinch as Sero delivers another nasty slap to your chest. Bakugou spits onto your chest right after, rubs the slick liquid over your tits.
“Is she ready?” Denki asks his friends, with his face still between your legs. He hooks his fingers over the sides of your panties.
“Do you want us to make you feel even better, princess?” Kiri smiles down at you.
“Please,” you whimper.
“She’s ready,” he says, grinning over your body at Denki.
Your heart jumps into your throat as you feel Denki pulling your panties all the way down until he’s untangling them from your feet. Kiri’s mouth comes back down to suck at your neck.
“Fuck,” Denki murmurs. “You have such a pretty little pussy.”
You wince at the words, tangling your hands up in Kiri’s hair as he works at your neck, squirming slightly each time Bakugou and Sero get too rough with your tits. Denki starts with a little lick at your pussy. Finally feeling his hot, wet tongue on you after so much teasing has your eyes fluttering closed.
While your eyes are closed, Bakugou and Kiri exchange glances. They switch places, so Kiri’s at your side, and Bakugou’s near your head.
Your pussy is extra sensitive after all of the teasing and touching you’ve endured. So the moans flow easily from your mouth as Denki licks your pussy and eats up all the juices dripping out of your slit. He lets out a soft mm, right before turning his attention to your throbbing clit. He sucks on it, gets your back arching off the table again.
“Look at her,” Bakugou laughs nastily, watching you squirm with a smirk on his face. “All that after just one lick to her pussy.”
“I bet she’ll cum before one of us even fucks her,” Sero grins.
“Such a cute little virgin,” Bakugou sneers. “Where do you even find these girls, Denki?”
“Fuck,” Denki groans into your pussy, squeezing his dick through his pants. He’s too distracted to answer his friend’s question, too drunk on your pussy. “You taste so good,” he says breathily.
He continues to lick at your clit, enjoying the noises he’s drawing out of you: demure, quiet little moans that make his dick twitch in his pants. His friends are all leaning over you, staring down at your squirming body hungrily. You look so good when you’re feeling good like that. They’re all wishing they could be in Denki’s spot. They want to taste your tight little pussy until your juices coat their tongues.
You shudder and squirm as Denki flicks his tongue faster on your clit, your hips raising off the table again. Kiri and Sero exchange a look over your body, and then you feel their hands on your hips, slamming you back down onto the table to keep you still for Denki.
“She’s doing so fucking well for her first time, isn’t she guys?” Kiri grins at his friends over your body. “You think she’ll cum for us soon?”
“Looks like it,” Sero laughs, watching your eyes roll back with an amused smile.
“Oh my god,” you whimper, balling your hands up into fists as Denki’s tongue teases your dripping slit.
“Feels fucking good, doesn’t it?” Bakugou leers. He brings his hand to your face to scrunch up your cheeks. “Open your eyes,” he commands roughly. “Look at me.”
You force your eyes open, making a conscious effort to keep them from rolling back. The feeling of Denki’s tongue lapping at your pussy as Kiri and Sero tweak your nipples is too much, and your muscles are starting to tense up.
“Such a cute rack,” Sero says, before delivering a sharp smack to your chest. You cry out, bringing a hand up in self-defense.
“Uh uh,” Bakugou says, shaking his head.
He grabs your hands roughly and wrenches them above your head, pinning them against the table with one hand. Your eyes are blurry with tears, but you can see the smile twisting his mouth up. And now that your arms are pinned above your head, Sero slaps your tits until you’re sniffling, tears running down your cheeks.
Denki spits on your clit and delivers a slap to it. Your hips jerk upward reflexively; Kiri bars his arm over them, slamming your body back down onto the table so you can’t move again.
“Is this what you wanted, wearing that tiny little dress here?” Bakugou sneers, leaning right over you. His chain swings over your face. “You nasty little bitch,” he laughs.
“I didn’t —” you start, but you trail off as you feel Denki’s hot tongue pushing at the entrance of your pussy. Bakugou frowns; he doesn’t like that — disobedient little bitches who can’t even answer simple yes or no questions.
“Answer me, you fucking slut,” Bakugou says, slapping your cheek. He tightens his fingers around your wrist, watching you wince. “At least tell me what a little slut you are,” he spits. “Say it.”
“I’m a slut,” you answer tearily.
“That’s right,” he grins. He loves that. An innocent girl admitting just how much of a whore she is really gets his dick hard.
Denki’s eating you sloppily now, drunk off the sweet taste of your pussy. He’s fucking his tongue in and out of your tight hole, rubbing his hand over his dick through the fabric of his pants. His little moans vibrate your pussy and heighten the incredible feeling of his mouth for you.
It’s too good. You can’t take it much longer. Your muscles are tightening, and your legs are clamping hard around his head, pulling his face so hard against your pussy that he can barely even breathe. But he loves that, because he loves to know that you’re feeling good, that you want his tongue to fuck you that badly.
“Gotta keep your legs spread open, sweetheart,” Kiri says, exchanging a scheming glance with Sero.
From their places at either side of your body, each of them grabs one of your legs and holds it open. Kiri uses his free arm to keep your hips held down.
Now that you’re pinned down on the table with your legs held open, Denki has more space between your legs. He brings his fingers up, draws soft circles over your clit and licks up and down your slit until you’re gasping for air.
“Wow, you’re sensitive,” Denki laughs from between your legs. “Fuck. You’re so cute. And you taste so fucking good.”
“If she tastes that fucking good and you don’t wanna share, why don’t you give her a little more, Kami?” Sero laughs. He uses his free hand to grab Denki’s hair, shoving his face into your pussy roughly.
“Damn,” Bakugou laughs into your fucked out face. “I bet we can turn this one into a little slut for dick. Look how much the cute little bitch loves getting her pussy eaten.”
You moan, making a futile attempt to free your aching wrists from Bakugou’s hand. When Kiri and Sero bring their faces to your tits to suck your nipples, you cry out. It’s so much, and you’re so sensitive, so stimulated everywhere, that you can barely take it.
“Feels fucking good, doesn’t it?” Bakugou laughs.
You’re too busy moaning to say anything in response, and Bakugou doesn’t like that one bit. He likes his bitches responsive. Obedient.
“What, are you fucking stupid?” he sneers down at you, slapping your face. “Can’t fucking answer me?”
“I’m sorry, I — I — oh my god,” you whimper, your mouth hanging open as the tension inside of you builds higher.
“I — I —,” Bakugou mocks you nastily. “Dumb bitch can’t even talk,” he laughs.
Bakugou’s pissed off now. If you’re going to act like a stupid whore, he’s going to treat you like one. So he leans over, spits messily onto your mouth. Most of it goes inside of your mouth, landing on your tongue; the rest of it splatters over your lips.
“Be a good little slut,” he laughs into your face, slapping your cheek hard enough that your eyes tear up. “Swallow that for me.”
Obediently, you choke his hot spit down, feeling Denki speed up his pace on your clit eagerly.
“There you go,” Bakugou leers.
“It — feels so good,” you gasp. Because the boys are all going at you eagerly now. Sero’s squeezing your thigh hard as he laps messily at your tits. Kiri’s pressing messy kisses to your stomach, marking your skin with hickies so you know just who you belong to.
Bakugou brings his mouth to yours and kisses you aggressively, nipping at your lips until you taste blood. He squeezes his hands tighter around your wrists.
“It’ll feel even better when that little pervert sticks his fingers inside of you,” Bakugou grins against your mouth.
“Inside of me?” you say shakily.
“Don’t be scared,” Denki says against your thigh. “It’s gonna make everything even better, pretty girl.”
“Okay,” you say fearfully, right before Bakugou’s mouth crashes back into yours. He forces his tongue into your mouth, wraps his free hand around your throat.
Denki presses his hot fingers against the glistening entrance of your pussy as he sucks eagerly at your clit. He pushes one inside of you slowly, waiting patiently for your pussy to stretch enough to accomodate the slender length of it.
“Fuck,” Denki says. “She’s so fucking tight.”
“Shit,” Kiri laughs breathily, looking down at your pussy. “Hurry up, Kami, let the rest of us get a turn.”
“You want that?” Bakugou laughs into your mouth as Denki starts to pump his finger in and out of you. “Do you want us to take turns using your little virgin body?”
“Y-yes,” you stammer obediently.
“You take forever, Denki,” Kiri laughs.
“We’ve gotta prep her a little or we’ll break her, big guy,” Denki laughs up at Kiri. Then he looks back down at his finger moving in and out of you, savors the way the slick of your warm, wet pussy coats his long finger as he eases it knuckle deep and back out again.
“That’s the fun, right?” Bakugou says, pulling away from your mouth to look up at his friends.
“I hope you know you’re not going first this time,” Sero says snidely to Bakugou. “You got the last few.”
“Then who the fuck is?” Bakugou retorts.
“Why don’t we let her choose?” Denki says. He’s curling his finger inside of you now, grazing against the sweet spot pulls the most delicious moans out of your innocent mouth. He presses a soft kiss to your clit, then spits on his hand to lube up his fingers so he can fit another inside of you.
While the boys are arguing over who should get you first, Denki’s fingers are curling inside of you against that sweet spot just right, and your moans are getting louder and louder.
“Fuck,” Bakugou grins, watching your flushed face get more and more euphoric. “She’s gonna cum.”
“Shit, look at that,” Kiri laughs. He’s looking at your thighs, watching the way they tense and shake as Denki’s fingers stroke your g spot. Each pump and curl into your twitching pussy feels better and better, and your dripping walls are starting to clench around his fingers.
“Hoooly shit,” Sero laughs. “Already?”
Denki sees how close you’re getting, and he’s dying to taste your cum, to get it squirting out all over his fingers so he can eat it up. So he latches his mouth back onto your clit and tongues it as he fucks you with his fingers. He keeps curling them, grazing them over the tightening walls of your pussy until chills are rolling down your spine.
His friends can all hear just how wet you are. They love the messy squelching sounds your pussy makes each time Denki’s fingers move inside of you. Those noises get them so hard that it hurts. They’re all aching to fuck your body, to relieve the tension building up inside of them.
Denki loves how sensitive you are. You’re so sweet, just dripping all over his tongue, all over his fingers.
“What a good fucking girl,” Kiri grins, watching the rapid rise and fall of your chest as you get closer and closer to cumming.
You’re shuddering, your pussy leaking out onto Denki’s fingers as they stroke against your g spot and build up the tension in you even higher.
“Come on,” Bakugou says, squeezing your neck so hard that you can barely breathe. “Be a good whore for us,” he sneers. “That little perv between your legs wants to drink up all your cum.”
“Oh,” you whine, gasping for air.
“Are you gonna cum in his mouth?” Bakugou leers.
“Y-yes,” you gasp.
“Tell me what you’re gonna do,” Bakugou commands. “Use your words like a big girl.”
“I’m gonna — oh, god, I’m gonna cum,” you gasp. Denki’s tongue hits your clit one more time, and all the tension starts bursting out of you. Your hips buck upward, met by Kiri’s big arm barring you against the table.
“She’s too fucking cute, cumming so quick,” Kiri smiles, holding your hips down and forcing your legs open as your pussy contracts around Denki’s fingers.
Denki can feel every little contraction, the way your convulsing walls get even wetter. Your cum gushes out onto his fingers, and he watches your clit twitch as you groan into Bakugou’s greedy mouth.
“What did I tell you?” Sero laughs to Kiri. “Look at her little toes curling,” he teases, playing with your tits.
Denki keeps curling his fingers until you’re whining and tearing up from overstimulation. And when you’re finally all done, he puts his two fingers in his mouth and licks all the wetness off of them, feeling his hard dick twitch in his pants. He brings his tongue down to your pussy again, licks the dripping juices from your slit.
“You’re such a nasty little slut, cumming from a couple fingers in you,” Bakugou laughs into your gasping mouth. “I bet you just can’t wait to cum all over a dick, huh?”
You’re still catching your breath, and you gasp obediently, “Yes, yes, I want to.”
“Whose dick do you want first?” he grins. “Hmm?”
“Give her a second,” Kiri laughs. “Damn, can’t you see that she’s still going through the aftershocks?”
But even though he’s being a gentleman, Kiri’s just as guilty as the rest of them. They’re all hard, aching, waiting impatiently for you to choose who will be the first of them to stretch out your pretty pussy.
“So fucking what?” Bakugou says, scowling.
“You okay?” Kiri asks disingenuously, moving your hair out of your sweaty face as you catch your breath.
You nod, looking around hazily.
“So?” Sero asks, looking down at you expectantly. “Who are you gonna take first?”
“F-first?” you stammer groggily.
Sero laughs. “I mean, you can take two of us at once, if that’s more your thing,” he says sarcastically.
“Don’t be such an ass,” Kiri scolds.
“Come on, pretty girl,” Denki says, leaning over you and wiping his wet mouth on the back of his hand. Now that he’s tasted you, he wants to feel you. Your pussy is so sweet and tight; he’s dying to feel you clenching around his cock. “Who do you want first?” he asks, smiling.
Your cheeks are burning, and you’re shying away from their towering figures.
“Don’t act so innocent,” Bakugou sneers. “You’re lucky we’re even letting you pick who goes first.”
They’re all looking down at you expectantly now — even Kiri, who has a slight smile on his face. Your eyes dart around until they settle, instinctually, on the one that’s shown you the most kindness tonight.
Kiri smiles. He’s glad that you picked him. But at the same time, he feels a little guilty for what he’s about to do to you.
“Interesting,” Sero laughs.
Bakugou shrugs, smiling. “It’s your funeral, baby.”
“W-what?” you squeak.
But no one bothers to clarify. Instead, the four of them grab you, rotating you over the table so you’re laying over it width-wise and slightly diagonally. They stop moving you once your head is hanging off one edge of the table and your ass is hanging off another.
Kiri’s between your thighs now, and the other three are clustered around your upper body. You’re staring right into their crotches. You gulp. You’re upside-down, taking in the big, rigid shapes of their dicks pressing against the fabric of their pants. You feel Kiri spread your legs wider, before bringing his massive hands to the sides of your ass and squeezing it hard.
You watch, wide-eyed, as Bakugou brings his hands to unbuckle his belt. He pulls it off, folds it in half, and strikes you across the chest before dropping it to the ground. You squirm, teary eyed, but Kiri keeps you pinned in place.
Bakugou crouches, brings his face right up to yours. You wince; his face looks even more malicious upside-down. You hear another belt hit the ground, a zipper being undone.
“Why are you being such a little slut for Kiri?” Bakugou laughs into your face. “That wasn’t a very smart choice. Didn’t you notice how big he is? He might rip your poor virgin pussy apart,” he teases.
Sero laughs.
You feel Kiri’s hands tighten around your hips, pulling you closer to him until your pussy’s pressed tight against the fabric of his pants. Your stomach drops when you feel the very hard, very big shape of his dick through them. You raise your head to look fearfully up at him as he unzips his pants.
“Aw,” Kiri smiles sympathetically. “Don’t listen to him, princess. It’s okay.”
Kiri brings two big fingers to his mouth, licks them messily, then brings them to your pussy. He drags them against you first, then pushes them inside of you one by one. His fingers are so big, so thick. Bigger than Denki’s by far. You gasp as he pushes them into you. And he starts to finger you, pumping them in and out of you brutally until you’re whimpering.
“God damn, you’re wet,” he grins. “And so tight.”
“Gimme your hand, pretty girl,” says Denki.
You look upward, reaching your hand out obediently to Denki as Kiri fingerfucks you. Denki brings your hand to his crotch, presses it against the hard outline of his dick.
“You’re so cute,” Denki says, smiling down at you. “See what you do to all of us? We’re so fucking hard, just from watching you.”
“Oh,” you say fearfully, letting him rub your hand over his dick. It’s thick, hot through his pants, which are wet with his precum.
“Did it feel good to cum in my mouth earlier?” Denki smiles.
“Yes,” you say, nodding eagerly as you look up at him.
“You should thank him,” Bakugou sneers, tugging at your hair roughly.
“T-thank you,” you whimper.
“Are you gonna make us feel good, too?” Denki asks curiously.
You nod.
“You’re so sweet,” he says. “Now come on, give Sero some love too.”
You reach your other hand out obediently and grab Sero’s dick through his pants. He inhales sharply through his teeth. Bakugou just watches it all happen, amused at how you’re struggling to focus with Kiri’s big fingers fucking you.
“Shhhit,” Denki laughs breathily. “You wanna feel us for real, cutie?”
You nod obediently, watching the boys on either side of you pull their dicks out. Your mouth forms a little O as you look back and forth between them. Bakugou’s amused at the shocked look on your face. Your mouth looks so perfect hanging open like that; he’d like to shove his dick in it, make you choke and gag around him.
“She’s getting so wet,” Kiri laughs from between your legs. He pushes a third finger inside of you, impatient to stretch you out so he can get his dick all coated in the juices that are leaking out of you.
“Kiri,” you whine tearily, “your hands are so big, please.”
“You can take it,” he says. “You’re such a good girl. I know you can take it.”
As Kiri slips a fourth finger inside of your pussy, Denki and Sero guide your hands to their dicks. They’re both so slippery, so big and heavy in your palms. You gulp, wrapping your hands around them weakly.
“Come on,” says Sero disapprovingly. “Grip it.”
He wraps his hand around yours, tightening it around his dick. “You can do better than that, right? Or do I have to show you step-by-step how to stroke a dick?”
You’re trying your best to focus, but Kiri’s fingers are filling you up so well that you’re struggling to even keep your eyes open.
“Fine,” Sero says nastily, pushing your hand off his dick.
He brings his hand to your mouth and forces his fingers between your lips. He shoves four fingers far back into your mouth until you’re gagging and choking, and he only stops when his fingers are lubed up with your spit.
“Since you’re gonna be a disobedient little bitch, I’ll give you easy to follow instructions, okay?” he laughs down at you, lubing up his dick with your spit.
Bakugou snorts, grinning.
“It’s not difficult,” he leers, watching you sniffle. “Hold it tight, and stroke it,” he says, jacking off in front of you.
“Got it?”
You nod obediently, bringing your hands out to wrap them around Sero and Denki’s dicks. You follow his example, jack the two of them off messily.
“Are you ready, princess?” comes Kiri’s voice from between your legs.
“Huh?” you ask groggily, keeping your hands moving on Denki and Sero as you look up.
Your eyes widen, seeing Kiri free his dick from his pants. Your jaw drops as you watch him drop a glob of spit onto it. He jacks a hand over the massive length of it, pushing his spit all the way down to the base, and you gulp. Bakugou was right — he might rip you apart. There’s absolutely no way he’ll fit inside of you.
“It’s so big,” you say shakily.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Bakugou sneers from behind you.
“But —”
“It’s alright,” Kiri grins as he rubs the slick, precum-coated tip of his cock over your glistening cunt. “You’re gonna be a good girl for me, aren’t you?”
“It’s too big,” you choke. “I don’t think it’ll fit.”
“You just took four fingers for me,” he says sweetly. “I know you can take my dick.”
“Oka—” you start, but before you can even get the word out, Kiri’s shoving the fat head of his cock inside of you, pushing in deep without even giving you a second to adjust.
“Oh my god,” you cry, with tears rolling down your cheeks. “It’s so big, it hurts.”
Kiri looks feverishly downward, watching your tight little pussy swallowing up his aching, leaking dick. It feels so good inside of your warm, tight hole. He bites his lip, closes his eyes, feels all of your slick wetness dragging down the thick length of it as he pushes further into you. He can barely keep himself from bottoming out on the first thrust. If he really wanted to, he could shove it all the way inside right now, make you scream, bruise up your cervix.
“It’s s-so big,” you choke.
“You’re okay, right, princess?” he breathes. “You can take the whole thing for me, can’t you?”
“The whole thing?” you say in alarm.
Your neck is getting tired now, so you let your head hang off the edge of the table. Bakugou leers down at you, laughing at your shocked, pained expression. Denki and Sero grin, groping your tits, watching as you squirm and struggle to take Kiri’s dick as you stroke theirs with shaky hands.
“It’s just a little more until I’m all the way in,” Kiri grins.
“What do you mean?” you say tearily, not sure how he could possibly be any bigger than what’s filling you up right now.
Kiri answers by pushing his cock the rest of the way in. Precum gushes out of the tip, lubricates your clenching walls. He bottoms out, balls deep, the tip of his dick pushing against your cervix painfully.
“Oh, it hurts,” you say tearily.
But for some reason, the pain is so good.
“It’s too bi — oh, god,” you moan.
The boys watch hungrily, intently, as your toes start to curl and your back starts to arch.
“Fuck,” Kiri says, feeling you start to tighten around his throbbing dick. “Does my cock feel good, princess?” he groans, grabbing the base of his dick. “You’re tightening so hard around me, shit.”
“It feels so good,” you gasp. “I think I’m — I’m gonna cum,” you say tearfully as the tension inside of you starts to release.
“Shit,” Kiri breathes, feeling your pussy start to contract around him.
“Cumming again, just like that?” Bakugou laughs down at you, squeezing his hand around your throat. “What a filthy fucking slut. She’s my new favorite.”
“Fuuuck,” Kiri groans. “She’s cumming all over my dick.”
He fucks you feverishly, watches your body squirm as you cum. You’re getting so wet, gushing so much slick out on his dick, that he can’t help but slam his entire cock into you over and over again as your pussy convulses.
“Holy shit,” Denki laughs, watching your face intently. He couldn’t see your face as you came earlier because his was buried in your pussy. He thinks your innocent, sweet face looks so hot like that, with your eyes rolling back, your mouth hanging all the way open as Kiri pounds into you.
“Don’t fucking stop stroking my dick,” Sero says. “I don’t care if you’re cumming.”
You try your best to obey, moving your hands shakily as your orgasm rips through you. Bakugou leans over and brings his mouth to yours, kissing you messily, letting you gasp against his lips.
Kiri knows he should hold back a little, because you’re so tiny compared to him. But it feels too good, so he just lets himself go. He slams hard into you over and over again, making you take the entire length of his dick. He loves the way your stomach bulges out each time he pushes all the way in. And the way you clench around him, getting his cock so wet as you cum, is better than anything he’s ever felt before.
He holds your hips tight, pounds into you until you’re crying. He really doesn’t want to hurt you, but right now he’s too focused on himself. It’s been so long since he’s been able to bury his entire dick into a sweet little virgin like you, and he needs to get the whole thing wet while he can.
He keeps fucking you like this even after you’re finished cumming. He digs his big hands into your thighs, watching feverishly as you pant. He just thinks you sound so cute like that, yelping into Bakugou’s mouth each time he bottoms out.
Bakugou stops kissing you to grin up at Kiri.
“The girls always think you’ll be the nicest, Kiri,” he laughs. “You do them so fucking wrong.”
“You should really stop making the poor virgins cry,” Sero snorts.
“She’s fine,” Kiri says breathily, pulling out almost all the way. “She’s taking my dick so fucking well. Aren’t you, baby?”
“Y-yes,” you gasp tearily, right before he slams all the way into you again.
Kiri picks up his speed, fucks you hard and fast with his big hands keeping your hips pressed hard into the table. Your moans are loud, punctuated by teary sniffles. Bakugou’s grinning down at you in amusement. He wraps his hand around your throat, brings his mouth to yours again as you cry out.
“Damn,” he sneers into your mouth. “For a virgin, you sure do moan like a fucking cockslut, huh?”
He looks up at his friends. “Hey, guys,” he says. “Don’t you think she’s getting kinda loud? Maybe I should shove my dick down her throat, shut her the fuck up.”
“Aww,” says Sero, watching you stroke his long, slippery dick. “But she sounds so pretty crying like that.”
“You’re such a whore,” Bakugou laughs into your mouth. “Letting us do whatever the fuck we want to you. It’s only your first time, and you’re already a disgusting little slut, aren’t you?”
You nod tearily.
“Have you ever sucked a dick before?” he sneers.
“No, I —”
“That’s okay,” Bakugou laughs. “I’m gonna fuck your little virgin throat until you get used to the feeling of having a cock in your mouth.”
You watch, trembling, as Bakugou unzips his pants and takes out his dick. He wraps his hand around it, jacks himself off a few times as he watches Kiri fuck you. Your heart is racing; you have no idea how his dick is supposed to fit in your throat. He’s way too big.
But Bakugou’s going to make it fit. He grips your face, smacks your cheeks with his dick until you’re tearing up.
“Open your fucking mouth,” he says sharply.
You obey, and he pins you down on the table by your throat, with your head just hanging off the edge.
“Stick your tongue out,” he commands.
You do, watching him grip his dick, squeeze it from base to tip until a glob of precum is dripping out of it. He rubs it on your tongue, shuddering.
“How’s it taste?” he laughs.
“S-so good,” you groan submissively, as Kiri bottoms out again.
Bakugou laughs, then shoves his dick in your mouth without warning, prodding at the back of your throat until it gives for him. You’re choking and coughing around the sudden intrusion, struggling to breathe. You try to free your hands to push him back and out of your mouth so you can take a breath, but Denki and Sero pull your hands back and wrap their fists around yours, forcing you to grip their dicks tightly.
Bakugou fucks your throat hard, holding your neck down against the table. He shoves his dick all the way in, fucks your throat raw until you’re gagging and crying. He looks down, watches you squirm as he thrusts his spit-coated cock in and out of your mouth. And each time he bottoms out, his balls slap your cute little face.
He loves seeing virgins like this: messy, disgusting, and absolutely humiliated.
“Fuck,” you hear Kiri groan as his hips start to move erratically. “I’m about to cum.”
“Wow, you usually last a little longer, huh, big guy?” Denki laughs.
“It’s too fucking good,” Kiri says feverishly. “I’m gonna — fuck — fill her pussy up.”
Kiri thrusts into you hard, and it pushes you back onto Bakugou’s dick. You choke, gagging as his precum coats the ridges of your throat.
“I wonder if she’d mind you shooting your cum in her,” Bakugou laughs, tightening his hand around your throat, feeling his dick move in and out of it.
“Shit, I wanna fill her up so bad,” Kiri groans, tightening his grip on your hips hard enough to bruise.
“Too bad we can’t ask her opinion, right?” Bakugou laughs. “It looks like she’s too busy gagging on my dick like a whore.”
The words have your core tightening; your back starts to arch again.
“It’s gonna feel so good to have my cum fill your pussy, princess, I promise,” Kiri groans. “Maybe we’ll even get you pregnant, keep you here with us so you can be our good little fucktoy forever.”
Your pussy tightens harder, and you’re moaning around Bakugou’s dick, your toes twitching.
“Shiiit, she likes that?” Denki breathes, moving your hand quickly over his dick. He flicks your tits, watches hungrily as your body tenses up. “What a little freak.”
“Maybe we won’t have to give her the plan B after all,” Sero laughs.
Your pussy keeps tightening, getting wetter and wetter, dripping onto Kiri’s dick as he fucks you.
“Man, it was so easy to turn you into a whore for dick,” Bakugou sneers as he continues to thrust into your bruised throat. You’re gasping for air, your nose running, your jaw aching, and it’s all so good.
Finally, the tension building inside of you reaches a head, and your pussy starts to twitch around Kiri’s dick.
“Shit, she’s cumming on me again,” Kiri groans. “Holy fuck, it’s so wet… I can’t hold it anymore… oh, shit,” he gasps.
He leans forward, shuddering, as he presses his big fingers hard into your thighs. His balls tighten up right before the cum goes shooting through his twitching dick. He lets it out inside of your contracting pussy, shoots his entire load deep inside of you.
“Fuck,” Bakugou groans. The moans you’re choking out are vibrating your throat around his dick. He’s picking up his rhythm, spurred on by your pathetic choking and crying. The tension inside of him is rising, too, and watching you squirm helplessly around Kiri’s twitching cock is doing it for him. He thrusts a few more times into your wet mouth, then buries his entire dick deep balls deep in your throat, shooting his cum out there.
He pulls out before he’s done, stuffs his balls inside your mouth, and jacks the rest of his load onto your chest. Your tits are coated in white now, heaving as you try to catch your breath.
Kiri’s leaning over to kiss your thighs, watching big globs of his thick cum drip out of your pussy and onto the floor.
“You’re so full, princess,” he says, shoving his fingers inside of you to push his cum even deeper. He’s already getting hard again, looking at how full he got you.
But he knows that he has to be nice and share with his friends.
You’re limp from your third orgasm, eyelids fluttering as Denki and Sero continue to jerk your hands over their slippery dicks, swearing under their breath. Bakugou wipes the rest of the cum off his dick, then smears it on the side of your face.
“Wake up, brat,” he says nastily, leaning over into your face. “You’re not fucking done.”
You blink the grogginess out of your eyes, watching Bakugou pull his pants up and rise to his full height.
“Where’s your stash at, Kami?” Bakugou demands, sweat beading and dripping down his chest.
“Shirt pocket,” Denki answers distractedly, jacking your hand over his leaking dick. “Lighter too.”
Bakugou retrieves a pre-rolled joint and a lighter from Denki’s shirt, handing it to Kiri. He grabs a can of beer off the floor and cracks it open. And the two of them lean back against the wall, catching their breath and swapping substances.
They’re both watching the show with mild amusement. The two of them have the most stamina of the four, and they could go again if they wanted, but they have to give their friends a turn. That’s part of the arrangement.
Bakugou snorts as he watches you. You’re clearly tired, struggling to move your burning arms enough to jack Denki and Sero off. He thinks it’s pathetic.
“Don’t get lazy, baby,” Denki pouts. “You better do a good job, or Sero’s gonna want to punish you.”
“Uh oh,” grins Bakugou.
Sero looks up at Denki, jerks his head toward the couch. You’re a lazy, disobedient little bitch, and you haven’t been giving him or Denki nearly enough attention.
“No way,” laughs Denki to Sero. “You’re so fucked up, dude.”
“Damn, you guys are ruthless,” Kiri says, blowing smoke out of his nose with a slight smile.
Bakugou already knows where this is going. So he goes ahead to clear the crowd off the couch, prepping the space for his friends.
You cry out in surprise as Sero hoists you over his shoulder. He delivers a hard smack to your ass, feels you squirm. When you look up, you see Denki and Kiri following, passing the joint between themselves.
Sero sits on the couch, wrangling you onto his lap so that you’re straddling him. Denki settles in right next to the two of you, with his leg pressed up against yours. You gulp, looking back and forth between the two of them.
“What are we doing?” you ask fearfully.
Kiri and Bakugou settle into the couch nearby, watching the events unfold curiously.
“You’ll see,” grins Denki.
Sero brings his mouth to your ear, using both hands to knead your ass. “How many times did we have to correct you back there?” he asks, nipping at your earlobe.
“I’m not sure,” you stammer. “A lot?”
Bakugou snickers.
“Yeah,” he laughs. “A lot.”
“I’m s-sorry,” you stammer quietly.
“See, we have to punish you now,” he pouts, kissing your ear. “I guess you shouldn’t have been so lazy.”
You look fearfully over at Denki, but he’s just smirking at you.
“Punish?” you croak.
“I think Kiri and Kat punished your poor little pussy and mouth enough,” Sero laughs, nipping at your ear. “But there’s another place they didn’t even touch, right?”
He brings both hands down hard on your ass, grins when you yelp at the stinging contact. He spreads your ass cheeks out, runs a finger over your tight hole.
“I bet your little virgin ass is so tight,” he laughs. “What do you think, Kami?”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” he agrees, smiling.
“Since you wanna be a disobedient, lazy bitch, you’re gonna find out how it feels to take a cock up your ass,” Sero laughs into your neck, gripping your ass hard.
“Damn,” Bakugou says, sipping his beer. “I guess she’ll be getting all her firsts today.”
“Yeah,” Kiri smiles, blowing smoke out as he stares at your ass. “Brutal.”
You squirm in Sero’s lap. He pulls back to look at you curiously, wrapping a big hand around your throat. He can feel your pulse racing, and it makes his dick twitch.
“Your heart is beating so fast,” he says. “Are you scared?”
You nod.
“Aw,” he pouts. “Come here, gimme a kiss.”
Sero pulls you to his mouth by the neck. He parts your lips with his softly, before meeting your tongue with his. He kisses you for a while, just enjoying the way you grind needily on his lap.
“Don’t forget about Kami,” he says, pulling back slightly. “He treated you so nice earlier… you wouldn’t want to ignore him, right?”
You nod obediently, then let Sero wrap his hand around your neck again to direct your face toward Denki’s mouth. You kiss Denki, listening to the messy sound of his fist moving over his dick.
“Can you stroke it for me?” Denki asks sweetly, pulling back from your face momentarily.
Obediently, you wrap your hand around his cock and pump your hand up and down the slick length of it until he’s gasping softly. And at the same time, you grind downward on Sero’s lab, rubbing yourself over his hard dick.
“Open up for me,” Sero says.
You pull back from Denki’s face and open your mouth for him. He dips four long fingers into your throat until you’re gagging, and only pulls them back when they’re coated in your slippery spit.
Then Denki pulls your face back to his hungrily, kissing you hard as you stroke his dick and grind on Sero’s lap.
You feel Sero’s hands spread your ass out, then his fingers teasing at your tight hole. You whimper into Denki’s mouth, let him rough up your tits as Sero teases you.
Sero plays with your ass until he can slip a finger in; it goes deeper and deeper, until you’re gasping against Denki’s lips. Sero brings his fingers to your wet pussy, drags the slick of your juices up from your slit to your ass to lube up his fingers as he tries to fit two into your tiny little hole.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Sero says through his teeth.
Denki groans into your mouth as you hit a particularly good spot on his dick. He’s so sensitive, so slick. He’s just aching for you, because he’s been waiting patiently for his turn to fuck you. He can’t wait to get inside of you.
You cry out when Sero buries his two fingers up to the knuckle inside your ass. Denki’s still groaning into your mouth at the same time, using his hands to squeeze your tits needily. Straddling Sero’s lap, you can feel the way he’s getting harder off watching you swap spit with Denki as his fingers stretch your ass out.
“Do you want another finger in your ass?” Sero asks, bringing his mouth to your throat.
You nod, mumbling an affirmation.
“Come here,” Sero says, “tell me.”
You bring your mouth to Sero’s and let Denki take his turn kissing your neck.
“Yes, I want another,” you say obediently.
So he gives you a third, squeezing it in beside the other two. Your ass is so tight around his fingers, impossibly tight.
“How does it feel?” he asks against your lips.
“It’s — oh, it feels weird,” you gasp as he buries his three fingers deep in your ass.
He smiles against your mouth, feeling his dick twitch. Because this is nothing compared to what he’s about to stuff you with.
Sero’s getting tired of prepping you; he’s just dying to relieve his aching dick in your tight ass. And Denki’s getting impatient, too — Sero can tell from the sloppy way he’s kissing your neck. Sero takes his fingers out of your ass suddenly, flips you around on his lap. He presses his hard dick against your ass, rubs the tip of it against your tight hole.
You can hear the messy, slippery sounds of Denki’s hand fisting his cock. He watches intently as Sero nudges the head of his dick against your ass. Denki thinks he might die from waiting for so long. He can’t believe his friends are getting to fuck you before he does.
“Oh, fuck,” Sero says, slipping the head of his dick in your ass. He relishes the submissive whimpers falling from your lips as he does. “It’s so fucking tight,” he groans.
“It hurts,” you say weakly.
“You gotta relax,” Sero says through his teeth, “unless you want it to hurt.”
He presses sloppy kisses to the back of your neck as he nudges more of his dick inside of you. Your ass is so tight, squeezing all the precum out of his dick. It lubes up your insides, lets him slip a little further inside. He lets out a groan.
Finally, he feels you relax a little. He feels the tight muscle give, just the smallest amount. He takes the opportunity to shove his dick deeper inside of you, moaning as he does.
You’re squeezing him so fucking tight. He’s never felt something clench around his dick this hard; he could cum just from the pressure of you squeezing him like this. He could pump all of his hot, sticky seed into you right now, if he wanted to.
But he wants to fuck your tight ass a little first.
When you’re finally able to sink almost all the way down on Sero’s long dick, Denki rises from the couch. He crouches in front of your spread legs, watching your ass swallow up Sero’s cock. You sink lower and lower until, finally, it’s all the way in. Denki rubs your clit, looks up at you from between your legs as your eyes roll back.
“Spread her out more,” Denki says. “Lean her back for me.”
Sero does, giving you a second to adjust to the full length of his dick inside of your ass. Denki brings his face right up to your pussy, watches the thick, creamy cum still leaking out of it from when Kiri came inside of you.
“Damn,” he grins, “you’re a mess. Do you want me to clean that cum up for you, pretty girl?”
“Please,” you whimper.
You watch, wide-eyed, as Denki brings his tongue to your pussy, licking the dripping cum out of you.
“You’re fucking sick, dude,” Bakugou laughs from the couch, adjusting his hard dick in his pants. Kiri just smiles as he smokes. He knows Denki is the most depraved of all of them; he’s not surprised by anything he does anymore.
“What?” Denki asks, grinning. He sticks two fingers inside of you, then drags Kiri’s cum out of you. He looks at his cum-coated fingers, then licks the white liquid off of them.
As Denki stands, Sero holds your legs up and spreads them a little wider.
“Are you gonna share with me?” Denki grins over your shoulder.
“Fine,” Sero laughs.
Denki plants his hand on the couch cushion behind your head, guiding his thick dick to the entrance of your puffy cunt. It takes him a second to slip inside. With Sero already stuffing your ass, it’s unbelievably tight in your pussy.
Denki thrusts in deep, and when he pulls his dick back out, it’s coated in Kiri’s cum. And soon, more precum is leaking out of Sero’s dick, and he’s gliding in and out of your ass easily, pushing all the way in and back out.
The two of them fuck you just like this: Sero holding your legs back and open, bottoming out in your ass and getting you so full while Denki slams into your pussy. You can feel them both moving at once inside of you, hear their soft moans in your ears. You’re too full; each time the two of them bottom out at once, you squirm. But with Sero’s hands securing your legs, you can’t really move. Really, you can’t do much but get pounded by both of them at the same time.
You watch hazily, still getting fucked in the ass, as Denki pulls his dick out. He looks down, runs his hand across the length of his dick, until his palm is coated with Kiri’s load. Denki looks at you, then grins as he licks the cum off his hand.
And then he leans down to kiss you, pushing his tongue into your mouth as he guides his dick to your pussy again and starts to thrust inside. You can taste Kiri’s cum coating his tongue as he fucks you. And you feel your pussy tightening up, your muscles tensing as the two of them use both of your holes at once.
Your toes are already starting to curl, and then they both hit a perfect spot inside of you at the same time. Your head drops back onto Sero’s shoulder. They can both tell you’re almost there.
“Are you gonna cum on my dick?” Sero asks.
“Yes, I’m gonna cum,” you whine.
Denki brings his hand to your clit again, rubs it as he fucks you until he feels you getting impossibly tight. The both of them shudder at the sensation, and then your pussy and ass contract hard around them. They fuck you through your orgasm, struggling to hold back their own.
“Shit,” Sero says through his teeth.
He digs his fingers into your spread thighs, feels the tension inside of him boiling over as your ass twitches on his dick. He can’t hold it, so he thrusts into you several times, buries his dick deep in your ass, right before his cum shoots out and coats your insides.
“Holy fuck,” Denki says, pulling out.
Sero lifts you up off of his dick, and the two of them watch the cum drip out of your gaping, twitching ass onto Sero’s lap.
Kiri smiles and hands his blunt to Bakugou, before rising off the couch. You can barely process anything; your mind is still dazed. But you can see how hard he is, and you’re still struggling to catch your breath, thinking that he can’t possibly —
“You ready to go again, big boy?” Denki laughs.
“Give her to me,” Kiri grins to Sero.
Sero hands you off, and you feel Kiri’s big arms enveloping you. He sits on the couch underneath you, moving you on his lap easily, like you’re a toy. As you’re still coming down from your orgasm, he hovers you over his massive dick, with Sero’s cum still leaking out of your ass and dripping onto his lap.
“You okay, princess?” he teases into your ear.
You nod groggily.
“Mm,” he smiles. “You want some more cum in you?”
“Yes,” you say obediently.
“Good,” he laughs. “Because we’re gonna breed you, baby.”
Kiri sits you down on his big dick, shoving the entire thing into your pussy at once, sinking you all the way down to the base. He lifts your legs up and moves them back until he has them behind your head, over his forearms, with his palms resting on the back of your head.
Now that he has you folded in half, with your head tilted downward, you can see the bulge in your stomach from Kiri’s dick stuffing you so full.
“Shit,” Denki says, jerking his slippery, lubed-up dick as looks at your stomach. And then he lowers himself to you again, sticks his dick inside of your pussy above Kiri’s.
You gasp, looking down at the both of them moving in you at once. They’re both so thick. You can’t believe they can both fit inside of your cunt. And it feels like they can’t, feels like they might rip you apart at any moment.
Denki fucks you quickly. He can’t last much longer; it feels so good, so tight inside your pussy. Each time his cock rubs up against your tight, wet walls, he gets closer and closer.
“You’re gonna take so much cum in you today, baby,” Kiri says from behind you. “Do you like being so fucking full of it?”
“Yes,” you gasp.
“That’s a good fucking girl,” he says.
“I’m cumming,” Denki groans, speeding up his pace as his dick starts to twitch inside of you.
He keeps fucking into you as he cums, shooting the hot, sticky wetness of it deep inside of you.
Kiri picks up his pace. He groans, because the feeling of Denki’s hot cum coating his cock as he fucks you is too good. It’s so wet, so messy inside of you as Denki’s cum mixes with Kiri’s first big load. You’re so full that the cum is leaking out of you and dripping down their dicks.
Denki brings his hand to your throat as he catches his breath. He chokes you lightly, kisses you with his dick still inside of you.
Now that Denki’s filled you up, it’s Kiri’s turn again. So he plants his feet on the ground, tightens his grip on you so you’re folded even tighter in half. He slams up into your pussy hard, over and over again. Cum gushes out of your pussy and onto his lap as he thrusts in and out of you. He loves the way you’re whining and crying into Denki’s mouth as his dick abuses you. He can hear your moans heightening in that familiar way, can even feel your ruined pussy trying to tighten around his cock.
“Are you gonna cum for us again, baby?” Kiri asks.
“Ye-e-s,” you groan, as he slams into you.
“Come on, give it to me,” he says sweetly.
Denki pulls away from your mouth and chokes you, watching you start to squirm, teary-eyed, as you cum again, your pussy contracting on both of their dicks. The sight of you falling apart on their dicks, combined with the hot, wet mess coating his cock is making him hard again.
“Mm… fuck,” says Kiri through gritted teeth. Each time your ass contracts he can feel a little bit of Sero’s cum gushing out onto his lap. Your moans are killing him, and he needs to pump another load into your cute body.
So he slams up harder into your twitching cunt, feels his balls tighten right before he blows another big, hot load in your pussy. He groans softly, drains himself inside you until there’s nothing left.
You’re so full now that the cum is just dripping out of you, white beads rolling down the shafts of their dicks.
Denki pulls out, plopping onto the couch next to you with a heaving chest. At the same time, Bakugou rises from the couch. He hands Denki the blunt before finishing off the beer in the can he’s holding. He crushes it, tosses the can onto the ground.
Kiri’s still fucking you slowly with his hard dick, using his massive hands to rub your tits gingerly. He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek as you catch your breath.
“My turn,” Bakugou grins down at you. You look hazily upward as Kiri lifts you up, handing you off to his friend.
The contrast between the two of them is apparent as soon as Kiri’s hands leave your body. Bakugou flips you over roughly so you’re on your knees, then grabs your hair and slams your face forcefully into the couch cushions.
Bakugou can see the cum in your pussy leaking out onto your thighs and dripping onto the couch. He loves this. You were so innocent before you met the four of them. And now look at you. You’re disgusting: face shoved in the couch cushions, sniffling, with cum dripping out of your ruined pussy and ass.
“God, you’re a fucking mess,” he says, slapping your ass hard until you’re shaking and crying into the couch.
Once he’s had his fill of abusing you, Bakugou shoves his dick into your ass with no prep. You cry out, but it’s muffled by the couch cushions he has your face shoved into.
“Still so fucking tight,” he says, pounding into your ass. He pulls your hair back hard as he fucks you, watches you squirm and cry. The other boys share drinks, watching him fuck you intently.
You’re struggling to take his dick, but Bakugou doesn’t really care. He just keeps fucking you balls deep, regardless of your panting and twitching. His dick is lubed up by Sero’s cum, and it feels good — wet and tight inside of you. So he doesn’t really care how you’re feeling, or if you’re comfortable.
“Arch your fucking back, take it deeper,” he leers down at you, pushing your back down with his free hand as he shoves your face so deep in the cushions that you can barely even breathe.
You arch your back as much as you can, feel him hit deep inside.
“That’s right,” he snarls. “Be a good fucking cumslut, show me how much you like to take a cock.”
You whimper demurely. Bakugou continues to fuck your ass as his friends jerk their hands over their cum-coated dicks. The way you’re taking his dick so deep in your ass, bearing the nasty abuse he’s giving you with tears rolling down your cheeks, has them all so hard again.
“You want more cum? You want it all over your pretty little face?” he sneers, grabbing you by the cheeks, forcing you to look back at him.
You nod tearily. “Yes, please,” you say.
He pulls out, then grabs a handful of your hair. You whine, clutching at your scalp as he drags you off the couch by the hair.
“Get on your knees, you filthy bitch,” he says.
You obey, sniffling, and the four boys crowd around you, stroking their dicks right into your face.
“What do you want from us?” Bakugou grins nastily down at you.
“I — I want your cum,” you stammer.
“Why don’t you ask us nicely?” Bakugou asks, slapping your face with his dick.
“Can I have your cum, please?” you ask tearily.
Your sweet, pleading face does it for Kiri first. He grabs your hair, fisting his big, thick dick quickly with his free hand.
“You’ve been such a good girl for us, taking so much cum,” he says breathily, as he jacks off into your face. “Let me give you some more.”
He groans, and you flinch as the first hot spurt lands right in your eye. He keeps stroking his cock until your cheeks and mouth are coated in his gooey cum, and then he’s stepping backward, collapsing onto the couch.
Denki cums right afterward, shooting his cum onto your chin, onto your neck, inhaling sharply through his teeth as he finishes.
Sero starts cumming before Denki’s even done, stroking his cum out onto your tits, until it’s coating your chest and dripping onto your nipples.
As his friends plop, exhausted, onto the couch, Bakugou grips your hair and leers down at your hazy, cum-coated face.
“Fuck, you look so fucking nasty. Open your fucking mouth for me,” he says. “Stick your tongue out.”
You obey, with drops of Kiri’s cum dripping from your lips onto your tongue as Bakugou jacks off between your lips. He lets out a soft moan, then shoots his load into your open, waiting mouth. The liquid hits the back of your throat, makes you cough. Bakugou thrusts without warning into your mouth several times as he finishes, pumping his cum into your throat.
When he pulls out, you cough tearily, resting your hands on your knees. You’re exhausted, shaky, with cum all over your face, neck, and chest. There’s some burning your eye, and some drying in your hair.
“Hey,” Bakugou laughs down at you. He points at his grinning face. “You have a little something right here.”
SATURDAY, 2:50 A.M.
You shut the light off in the unfamiliar bathroom with a sigh. You’ve gotten all of the cum out of your hair and off your face, but your eye is still red and burning.
Mina’s waiting for you against the wall opposite the bathroom door, smoking a cigarette.
“So,” she says, smiling knowingly.
“So?” you ask, rolling your eyes. You pluck the cigarette out of her hand, take a deep drag and exhale slowly.
“So, did they fall for your little innocent act?”
“Of course they did,” you smile, tapping ash on the sticky floor before handing the cigarette back to her. “Frat boys are too fucking easy.”
She laughs. “Especially the virgin hunters, right?”
“Mhm,” you say. “Did you get my video?”
“Yup,” she responds brightly. “Set the camera up right where you asked me and everything.”
“Perfect,” you say, studying your nails. “That was another one for the books.”
“Uh huh,” she laughs, looping her arm through yours. She looks over at you with a knowing smile.
“You’re not gonna call in sick for your internship tomorrow, are you?” she laughs.
this is PART ONE of the FIVE PART HORROR miniseries WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING.
itadori yuuji x reader x sukuna
dynamic // yuuji x fem!reader x sukuna
genre // smut + horror
aged up characters (25+)
heavy nsfw + dc, minors do not interact
part one word count // 12.8k
playlist // to devour
header by @dilf-uc thank u sora my beloved !!!!!
DO NOT POST MY WORK ON TIKTOK.
SERIES SUMMARY
a killer is ravaging the streets of your once-peaceful town. will your new roommate protect you from the nightmares that exist both in your head and out of it?
WARNINGS FOR PART ONE (please read)
horror + general cw - graphic imagery, nightmares; mentions and descriptions of gore, death, and cannibalism; reader smokes
It’s late October, the day is gray, and the sidewalk is empty.
It’s eerie, the way the leaves crunch underfoot just a little too loudly — the only sound in the air aside from your own footsteps. You suppose it’s been this way for a while now. Desolate. Ever since the killings started.
You glance over your shoulder, just to make sure no one’s following.
You really shouldn’t be out by yourself. That’s what the news reports all said, anyway: don’t go out alone. Don’t go out at night. Don’t live alone, not if you can help it.
The killer targets young women, especially those who live all alone. He breaks into their homes and takes them.
And then they turn up god knows where, with pieces of them missing. Pieces — chunks of their flesh gone, torn away. Some of the victims appear with handprints everywhere: large vestiges of cruelty littering their lifeless skin. And then there are the bite marks: deep and visceral, marring brutalized flesh. So many bites that there’s barely ever an inch of skin left untouched.
You glance backward again, just for good measure.
You shouldn’t be thinking about this. No use for mass hysteria, one reporter had said. Take precautions and you’ll be fine. We’re looking for him. We’ll find him.
You pick up your pace, digging in the recesses of your pocket, with your lips pursed around an unlit cigarette. It takes your numb, jittery fingers a second to grasp the lighter.
You cup a shaky hand over the cigarette between your lips, shielding it from the harsh wind. It’s been cold and dry lately; the air is so brutal, so bone-chilling and stripped, that your lips have scabbed over from splitting so many times.
They taste like blood every time you run your tongue over them.
You flick the lighter, hold the flame to the end of the cigarette until it ignites. You take a drag the same second it catches, feeling some of your stress subside as soon as you do — your body’s conditioned response.
Take precautions and you’ll be fine.
You’re trying to take precautions. You’ve been trying, to no avail. This is a last-ditch effort.
When you lift your arm to check your watch, you realize that you’re going to be late. That’s alright. You slow your pace, just slightly; you’ll give yourself a little more time with the lifeline between your lips.
☽☽☽☽☽
You’re only halfway finished with your cigarette by the time you make it to the cafe. But this should be enough to get you through — enough to take the edge off. Just enough, though. You drop its remains to the ground, crush them to ash under your foot, and open the door to the cafe.
If you hadn’t recognized the man you’re meeting by his strangely colored hair, you’d recognize him by the fact that he’s the only person in here — aside from the waitress, who’s typing away at her phone near the kitchen.
But he doesn’t notice you. Not yet, at least, because he’s sitting with his back to the door. That seems like such an odd choice to you. Such a vulnerable choice. You’d have chosen to sit on the other side, where you could keep an eye on the door of the cafe.
“Itadori?” you say, a little early — still approaching him from behind.
He looks back over his shoulder, wide-eyed, and gulps down a big, hurried bite of whatever he’s eating. Then he’s leaping to his feet, turning toward you.
“Y/n?”
“That’s me,” you say, extending a hand.
“You can call me Yuuji,” the stranger says genially, shaking your hand. His hand is large around yours. Rough and warm.
Warmth — you feel like it’s been a while since you’ve felt that. Everything has been dark and cold. Every surface you touch has been frigid, lifeless. You’re just realizing that now.
Yuuji’s handshake is as enthusiastic and exuberant as his smile. You’re almost sad when he lets go of your hand.
He gestures cheerfully to the bench opposite him and waits for you to sit before he does the same. You take off your scarf and he watches, taking a big gulp of his drink.
“Do you want something?” he smiles.
“Well,” you shrug. “I don’t want to put you out or anyth—”
But Yuuji’s already turning to call the waitress over, waving cheerily in her direction.
You’re struck by his demeanor. It’s too bright. It doesn’t fit, not here in this town — not with everything that’s happened. Darkness is the only thing that resides here; the sun abandoned this place long ago. Gloom fills the streets, stalks under the gray clouds that obscure the moon each night. No one is supposed to be happy. No one is supposed to be cheerful. Fear: that’s all anyone has known for the past six months. No one is allowed to feel anything else.
And that’s why, instantly, you take to him. Maybe that brightness is so out of place that it’s uncanny. But it’s so nice to look at the person across from you and realize that he hasn’t yet been consumed by the horror of the present. To you, it’s like seeing the sun after months of rain. You’re basking in it.
You’re so engrossed in the energy of his movements — your own so lackluster in comparison — that you completely miss what he orders for you.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, watching the waitress walk off.
“Oh,” he says quizzically. “I didn’t say I was gonna pay for it.”
You blink at him in confusion.
“I’m just kidding!” he laughs. “Of course I’ll pay for it.”
“Oh.” The joke is so ridiculous that you find yourself bursting into laughter. It’s the first time you’ve laughed in so long that the sound of it is almost strange — unfamiliar.
And now you’re even smiling over the table at him, matching his wide grin with your own, charmed. The first source of happiness you’ve found in this town in a long, long time.
“So, about your ad,” he’s saying, already moving onto the next topic of conversation — the cadence of his words quick and comfortable, like you’ve known each other for years. “I know you wanted a girl as a roommate, and I wasn’t trying to be weird by answering it or anything —”
“That’s alright,” you shrug. “The ad’s been up for a while now. Ever since… ever since, you know…”
You trail off, completing the thought in your head. Ever since the killings started ramping up, and I realized how dangerous it is for me to live on my own. And now I’m desperate, because no one wants to move into a new place, and there’s a fucking killer on the loose. One who might come crawling through my bedroom window one of these nights. And no one will be in the next room over to hear me scream for help.
You consider saying it, but you don’t want your desperation to scare him off. And saying it would make the whole thing seem too real, anyway. So, instead, you just let the unfinished sentence dangle in the air.
“No bites so far?” asks Yuuji. You watch as he gulps down the rest of his food eagerly.
Bites. What an awful word to use. You can’t hear it without thinking of those flesh wounds piercing the victims’ bodies. You can’t hear it without imagining incisors digging deep, so deep they puncture skin. And the teeth don’t stop there; they dig deeper and deeper still, not stopping until they reveal flesh, blood, gristle, bone.
You cringe, but Yuuji’s just looking at you innocently as he awaits a response.
“Nope. None so far,” you say. “Except yours, of course.”
“Sorry,” he laughs bashfully. “I know there’s a lot of bad stuff going on. I know it’s a weird time for some strange guy to message you. But I just figured… I need a place, and the rent is so cheap. It couldn’t hurt to try.”
Yuuji’s right about the rent being cheap. You’d dropped the price ridiculously low, trying to lure someone in. At this point, you’d pay someone to move in with you.
“Don’t worry about it,” you shrug. “I probably would’ve done the same if I were you.”
There’s a smile on his face. It’s open, friendly, and entirely non-threatening — the same smile he was wearing in his profile picture when he answered your ad. It’s that smile that had you thinking, Maybe a guy roommate is okay. He seems alright.
Yuuji’s talking about the job market now; apparently, it took him some time to find a job after he moved to town a while ago.
“What do you do?” you ask.
“I’m here and there,” he says brightly, lacing his fingers together. “Construction, mostly.”
You glance at his hands; they’re covered in scratches and bruises, a mess of fading colors.
“What’s with the bruises?”
“Boxing,” he says. “Just a hobby. It’s dangerous out there. Gotta stay safe.”
You nod, looking at his knuckles. His hands are big, calloused and rough — the kind that could knock a guy’s teeth out. Considering the scars littering his knuckles, they probably have before.
When you meet his eyes, you realize he’s been watching you study his hands. He looks mildly amused.
“Boxing,” you repeat. You’re reevaluating him — looking at him in a different light, now that this new information is on the table. You narrow your eyes, scrutinizing him. He’s not a huge guy, but he’s decently big. You bet he’s well-built under the hoodie. Maybe you can get a bodyguard out of this, and not just a roommate. “That’s pretty cool.”
Who better to have the next room over?
He shrugs, smiling genially. “It’s fun. What about you? What do you do for work?”
“I work for Sunny Hill Gazette.” Where I hear every single detail about this nightmare of a case, you’d add, if you weren’t so hesitant to darken his cheerful mood.
“Smart girl.”
“Oh, no,” you say, frazzled. “I’m not a journalist or anything. I’m just a receptionist.”
You don’t know if he was flirting with you just now; it was probably said innocently. Then again, the mischief in his tone and the little smile on his face say otherwise.
Either way, the unexpected praise has your stomach in knots. It’s been a while since you’ve had this kind of human interaction. You can barely even remember the last date you went on.
Not that this is a date, of course.
Yuuji smiles, throwing an arm over the back of the bench. “I’m still impressed,” he says. “All my brain’s good for is telling my body what to do,” he laughs. “I bet you hear some gruesome stuff, though.”
You nod. “Honestly, I would’ve quit forever ago if I wasn’t struggling to make rent.”
He looks at you sympathetically.
As if he knows just what you need — a distraction — he launches into a spiel about the woes of working construction. Lazy co-workers, short-term contracts, a shitty boss. Somehow, he manages to put a positive spin on everything, to turn it humorous. It takes your mind off of the killings, at least for the moment.
Time in this cafe seems nonexistent; you don’t know how much has passed when the waitress comes to set your food on the table.
Yuuji continues to chatter away as you bite into the wrap he ordered for you. It’s much better than you expected, and for the first time in forever, you actually have an appetite. You wolf it down, only pausing to cover your mouth and laugh when he says something funny.
As you eat, you find yourself soothed by the atmosphere of the cafe. In the warm light, with the gloom outside held at bay (the rain and cold stopping just short at the windows, instead of consuming you, for once), you feel safe.
It’s so nice to feel safe.
Soon, you’re finishing off your wrap as Yuuji pilfers fries off of your tray. You find it endearing, so you push the tray forward and pick at them with him.
But, inevitably, you find your thoughts wandering back to the killer. There’s no escaping him; he’s always hiding in your mind somewhere, waiting to devour any sliver of happiness that happens to find you.
“It’s crazy, what’s happening out there,” you say, looking out at the empty street. For a moment, your mind casts the street in darkness. You imagine, under the sinister cover of the night, a man dragging a girl down the fire escape across the street. In your head, she kicks and screams, clawing at his arms.
“Yeah,” Yuuji agrees. When you look back to him, he’s frowning, slightly pale. “It’s fucked up.”
You nod; you’re thinking about your apartment now. The darkness that fills the place every night after you turn out the lights. It gets heavier as time goes on, like more things are lurking there. You don’t even get a reprieve from the horror as you sleep — because the killer stalks your dreams, too, terrorizing your unconscious mind.
The nightmares plague you almost every night, nonsensical and gory.
“I can see why you’re looking for a roommate,” Yuuji’s saying. “It must be scary to be on your own.”
“Yeah.”
Dejectedly, you look down at your empty tray. You know this meeting is coming to an end. The prospect of leaving this place and losing this company — this warmth — is utterly gut-wrenching. Your apartment seems suddenly sinister and cold — as if something evil took up residence there while you were gone, and is now waiting for you to return.
Move in with me. For a moment, the words are at the tip of your tongue.
You allow yourself a desperate little fantasy; you imagine him coming home with you, warming up the entire place. You know the dark wouldn’t feel as suffocating with him there. But, as much as you want to drag him home with you right now, you didn’t come here with the intention of inviting him into your home right away. This meeting was just to test the waters.
You hadn’t anticipated being drawn to him this fast.
The waitress drops the check off at the table, and the fantasy dissipates. As much as you like him, you need to give it a little more time. You have to be cautious.
“Thank you,” you say as he grabs the check. “I think I’m going to wait a little longer. Maybe see if I get any other responses to the ad.”
“Yeah, okay,” Yuuji nods, good-natured. “I appreciate you meeting with me.”
You feel guilty, watching him count bills to put them in the check presenter. But he doesn’t seem to mind, still well-disposed as he downs the rest of his soda and stands, shoving his wallet into his back pocket.
“How about I walk you to your car?” he asks.
“I walked here,” you say sheepishly. It definitely wasn’t a smart move, but you didn’t realize the streets would be empty as they were. You’d just been craving some sunlight.
Not that you’d ended up getting any.
“I can walk you home?” he offers.
You’ve seen too many stalker films to allow him to walk you all the way, but maybe he can walk you halfway back.
“Okay,” you agree.
You feel comforted as you walk out of the restaurant behind him. He’s like an unlikely guard dog. A mastiff, maybe — some breed with a sweet face and sharp teeth.
He does have a sweet face; you keep peeking up at it as he walks beside you with his hands in his pockets, a light blush on his cheeks from the cold.
He catches you staring. “What?” he asks coyly.
You clear your throat, laughing. “Nothing,” you say, reminding yourself that this entire thing was just a meeting. Not a date.
It’s chilly out. Time really did disappear, back in the cafe. The sun will set soon; you’re grateful that he’s here beside you, walking you back. You’re grateful that you’re not an easy target.
He makes you feel so safe that you let him walk you almost all the way home. Just in case, you stop the street before yours. Just in case.
Guiltily, you look up at him and say, “Well, I can make it the rest of the way back, I think.”
“Okay,” he shrugs amiably.
You shift from one foot to the other. “Yuuji,” you blurt suddenly. “Can I have your number?”
He grins. “Yeah. Of course.”
“I meant for the apartment,” you say, fully aware that you could just as well message him on the site where you put the ad up. “In case I don’t get any other responses, I’ll call you.”
He agrees, pulls out his phone, and the two of you exchange numbers.
When it’s all done, you have a strange compulsion to hug him — drawn in like a moth to a lantern. He pauses for a second when you wrap your arms around him, surprised. But he reciprocates quickly, pulls you tighter against him.
It’s odd — two strangers embracing in the middle of the desolate sidewalk. You know it’s odd, but you don’t care. You just want to soak up what warmth you can. You’ll store it up for the days ahead, because you know that they will be — inevitably — lonely, terrifying, and cold.
You pull back after too long, embarrassed.
He’s a little stunned, but smiling. Blushing.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” you say sheepishly.
“Any time,” he says. “It was fun.”
“Yeah,” you say woefully. “I’ll be in touch.”
He nods. “Get home safe, okay?”
“I will.”
His warmth lasts you the rest of the walk to your apartment.
☽☽☽☽☽
Another death today.
It’s been two weeks since your meeting with Yuuji, and the killings have gotten more frequent. No one else has answered your ad.
The reporter talking on the television is a young woman whose face you’ve seen several times a week for the past six months. You wonder if she’s always looked this old. This tired. She can’t be much older than you, but it’s clear that these past six months have chewed her up and spit her out, the maw of a hungry beast.
The wind whips the reporter’s hair against her face. It sticks to her lips. They’re chapped, just like yours. You can see her nails every time she pauses to move the hair out of her face. They’re horribly short, chewed down to the quick. Crusted with blood.
She’s standing at the riverbank. There’s a thin layer of brown slush where the murky water meets the land. The sky is dark; the sun is hidden away, tucked behind the clouds — a well-kept secret.
There was still sun this time last year. This year is much darker than the last, colder.
The body was found right here on the riverbank.
The coffee in your mug tastes acrid. It’s murky, like the river.
You imagine that you can see a red tinge to the slush behind the reporter. For a split second, you can even visualize a body floating there on the banks of the river. It’s a gruesome apparition: washed ashore, green and bloated. The flesh eaten away. Most of it by the killer, of course, who left his rotten leftovers to be consumed by the things that come up from the depths of the river to feed.
The remaining flesh was covered in marks.
Bite marks. Bruises. Handprints. At this point, it’s predictable. Tired.
What was left of the remains were identified as belonging to the woman who disappeared some time ago from her apartment on 15th Street.
You feel your blood run cold. It all drains from your face, leaves your skin numb. Your mouth is dry, but you swallow anyway. 15th Street — just one street over.
She lived alone. The neighbors notified the police that they hadn’t seen her for some time. The police found her bedroom window smashed. There was dried blood on the windowsill. It was presumed that she had been dragged through the glass.
The killer could’ve walked just a little further, could’ve stalked up your street instead. He could’ve dragged you, kicking and screaming, through the jagged glass of your broken window. He still can.
Maybe you’re next.
That’s now one body found practically every other day, says the reporter.
Every other day. Maybe, the day after tomorrow, the killer will come through your window, and you’ll feel his teeth on your skin.
Every other day, she repeats.
It feels like a death sentence. A ticking time bomb.
You lose your tenuous grip on your mug, and it falls to the carpet, hitting the ground with a muted thump. Numbly, you look down at the coffee seeping from the mug. It stains the carpet, soaks into it. It’s evening, and that was your third cup of the day — an unsuccessful attempt to feel, for once, awake. Alive. Nightmares rob you of your sleep almost every night; lack of rest keeps you foggy during the day. Not that your waking hours are any less of a nightmare.
No matter how much coffee you drink, you can’t erase the exhaustion that’s settled deep in your bones.
Please stay safe, the reporter says wearily, as the coffee bleeds into the carpet by your feet. Do what you can to protect yourself.
You’re already grasping your phone in your shaking hand and tapping to a familiar name. The emergency broadcast cuts off abruptly, and then the evening news resumes. The man in the center of the screen smiles wearily at the camera.
In other news, he’s saying, the Sunny Hill Association welcomes you to claim a plot at the new community garden. A false, unnatural smile twists up his lips. Footage of the community garden starts to roll. It’s pathetic and gray; the flowers are wilting, the vegetables small and bruised.
You raise your phone to your ear as it rings, praying for an answer.
It comes after several rings.
“Hello?”
A bright voice, just the one you were hoping for. As soon as you hear it, relief floods your body.
“Yuuji?” you croak.
“Y/n,” he says, recognizing your voice immediately, the enthusiasm clear through the line. “What’s up? How are you?”
“Great,” you lie weakly. You might as well cut the bullshit. Get right to it. “Are you still looking for a place?” you ask abruptly.
“Oh,” he says. You can hear the confusion in his voice for a second; quickly, it’s replaced by eagerness. “Yeah, actually. I am.”
You look out the living room window. Night is beginning to fall, and the gray light filtering in gets dimmer by the second. Darkness comes earlier and earlier each night, swallowing the day whole.
Momentarily, you wonder if tonight will be the night that the killer comes to eat you whole. To rend your flesh from your bones. To devour.
And if not tonight, will it be tomorrow night?
“Can you move in tomorrow?” you ask hurriedly.
“Tomorrow?” he says, surprised. “That’s so soon.”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.” You’re too tired to offer an explanation, so you just punctuate your sentence with a shaky breath.
There’s a moment of pensive silence.
“Yuuji. Please,” you croak. “I’ll waive the rent for —”
“What?” he laughs. “Are you crazy? Don’t do that. I’ll try to pack my stuff tonight, alright? And I’ll be there tomorrow.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Okay. Thank you.”
☽☽☽☽☽
“That’s all of it?” you ask anxiously, watching Yuuji manhandle a box through the doorframe of what’s now his room.
You glance quickly out the living room window; the gloom outside is building, a pale blue. Night still won’t fall for a few more hours, but you don’t want him to leave, even if he has more to move. You want him to be settled. To be here, in case you need him.
“That’s it,” Yuuji says genially, setting the box down on the floor of his room. It’s a big box, heavy — you could tell that from the way his fingers dug into the cardboard at the bottom of it as he carried it. But, still, he seemed to lift it with so little effort. He’d moved everything easily, denying you every time you’d offered help.
He must be a lot stronger than he looks.
Not that he doesn’t look strong. You were right, back at the cafe. He is well-built. Lean, but strong. Powerful but lithe, like a fighter should be. You can see it through his clothes. His pants are baggy, but his shirt is light and thin, and it’s clinging to the sweat on his chest and stomach.
You’re relieved he’s here, especially now that you have a better idea of his physical abilities. He walks into the living room; you track him closely with your eyes, as if he’ll disappear if you lose sight of him. You need him here, have to make sure he stays, because you need him to protect you from the evil that lurks in the dark.
You don’t care that he plops onto the couch in the living room covered in sweat; at this point, he could do whatever he wanted, and you’d just thank him for being here.
“Perfect,” you say, delayed.
Now that he’s here with you — now that he’s moved in and settled — you know it’s psychological, but the gloom outside seems to recede. The apartment lights seem a little brighter, a little more intense; the glass on the windows feels a little thicker, the lock on the front door stronger.
Safe. This is exactly how you should feel in your own home. You’d forgotten what that’s like.
Yuuji plops onto the couch, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to wipe the sweat off of his face. You catch a glimpse of his stomach; it’s well-defined. Sweat snakes down his abs. It’s frigid in the apartment, but, still, he’s warm.
Yuuji drops his shirt, then looks up at you. Catches you staring. “What’s up?” he smiles.
“Oh, nothing,” you laugh nonsensically, slightly flustered. “Want some water?”
“Sure.”
He reclines on the couch; you fill a glass of water and bring it to him, sitting a little too close.
“Thanks,” he says, accepting the glass from you with a bright smile. “I was wondering where you keep these.”
“Top right, next to the fridge,” you laugh. You don’t even know why you’re laughing; you’re just so relieved that it’s making you giddy.
“Perfect,” he says, before gulping the water down.
“I’m glad you’re here,” you blurt, watching him drink.
You know that you shouldn’t be so frank, that you shouldn’t be sitting so close, that you shouldn’t be acting so overeager. You’re overstepping boundaries; you barely even know him. He’s only just moved in. And you definitely don’t want to weird him out, because you need him here. But you’re feeling comfortable, warm for the first time in ages, and you’re realizing how desperately you’ve been craving human connection.
“Me too,” he says, licking the water off his lips. “The rent was super high at my other place. And,” he says, smiling at you, “I’ve been hoping you’d call me back ever since the cafe.”-
“Because of the apartment?”
“Yeah, that too,” he laughs. “But nah. What I mean is, I think you’re cute.”
You sit there awkwardly, taken aback by how blunt he is. How frank. He’s just looking at you, unabashed and smiling.
“Oh,” you say. “Really?”
“Really. I’ve been wondering what the scoop is with you,” he smiles.
The scoop. You laugh. “Is that a newspaper joke?”
“Yeah, of course it is, Smarty Pants,” he teases.
“Well, I’m flattered,” you laugh. “I mean, you always could’ve called me if you wanted.”
He shrugs. “I thought about asking you out, but I didn’t want to creep you out or anything. Especially with everything… going on.”
“It’s not creepy,” you say, flustered. “You can still ask me out if you want.”
He grins boyishly. “Maybe I should ask you in? Considering we live together now.”
You’re beguiled by his charm, soaking it in after so long in the gloom.
An impromptu “date” with him, here in the apartment. You’re considering it. Would it be weird? Especially now that he’s living with you? Maybe, but you find yourself drawn closer and closer to him by the moment. The more you think about it, the nicer it seems.
“If you want, I mean,” he shrugs. “And it’s no hard feelings if you’re not into it, you know? Since we live together and all.”
“I’d like to go… in, actually,” you say sheepishly. “Like you said. I think it sounds nice.”
“Oh, great,” he pipes. “Should we put on a movie later or something?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Definitely.”
“Are you an early sleeper?”
“Generally, yeah,” you say. “Why?”
“Just wondering when we should put the movie on,” he says.
“Anytime is fine.”
“Lemme shower first, though,” he says, rising from the couch. “I’ll pick you up from your room at 8?” he teases.
☽☽☽☽☽
The pale, dying evening light filters in through the window, bathing the couch in twilight. You and Yuuji are already settled in, having eaten the takeout that he’d ordered beforehand. You’re slightly buzzed on a beer he cracked open for you, and you feel nice.
He’s scrolling through channels with one arm tossed lazily over the back of the couch.
“What do you want to watch?” he asks.
“Anything is fine,” you respond, laying a blanket out over yourself. You toss one over to him, and he sets it aside. “I really don’t mind,” you say.
Really, you don’t. You’re just grateful that he’s here; you couldn’t care less what he puts on for the two of you to watch. It’s enough that, for once, you’re not terrified to sit in the dark of your own apartment, worrying about who might be lurking in the shadows.
You’re content, watching him scroll through the channels.
“Alright,” he says brightly. “I’ll pick something good, I promise.”
“Great. Just nothing scary, okay?”
He peeks over at you curiously. His eyes are big and bright in the dying light, the blue of the TV dancing across his face. “I gotcha,” he laughs, grinning. “But you know I’ll protect you, right?”
You feel your stomach twist. He’d said it jokingly, but it’s just what you’d needed to hear. “Thank you,” you say.
“You like action movies?”
“That sounds good.”
“Great,” he pipes.
The movie opens with an intense scene of a car chase.
Outside, rain starts to fall, pattering against the glass of the window. You can smell him beside you, the soap on his skin from his shower. It’s a masculine smell, distinct. You find it comforting. And there’s something else about it, too.
It’s addicting, you think. Intoxicating.
The movie progresses. It’s not your kind of film, but that’s fine. All you can think about is him, his protective presence beside you. The heat coming off his body.
You adjust under your blanket, wrapping it tighter around yourself.
“It’s kind of cold in here, isn’t it?” Yuuji asks.
When you look over and up at him, his eyes are raking over your wrapped-up form. You know exactly what he’s doing, asking you that. It is cold, but he doesn’t even have a blanket over him; he’s just splayed out beside you in sweats and a hoodie.
He’s just trying to get you closer.
“Yeah,” you laugh sheepishly. “I don’t turn the heat on very high. It’s a habit. To save money, you know?”
“You can come closer if you wanna get warm,” he smiles. “I’m not gonna bite.”
There it is. And you’re going with it, playing along, with your stomach full of butterflies.
So you oblige, scooting close to him on the couch. He adjusts for you, props his arm up on the back of the couch so you can push your body up against his. The rush of warmth hits you; pleasure floods your limbs just from the proximity. You drop your head onto his shoulder, resting your hand lazily on his stomach. It’s easy to feel all of the ridges of muscle under his hoodie, his lean body — hard and powerful. He wraps an arm around you, envelops you in warmth. Pulls you closer.
Your stomach feels tight. It’s been a while since you’ve felt anticipation like this. You want him, crave him; it’s an intense desire. A hunger.
Before you really know what you’re doing, you’re slipping your hand under his shirt. You touch him, feel his stomach under your fingertips: firm, hot. His abdomen rises and falls as he breathes, steady under your splayed fingertips.
The movie plays for a few tense minutes. His fingers toy with the edge of your shirt lazily, warmth seeping through the fabric and onto your skin. His heat is addicting — a drug. You move your hand lower on his stomach, just slightly. And then, with a hurriedness that tells you he can’t restrain himself anymore, Yuuji slides his hand up your shirt.
You shudder at the first touch, his hand burning hot on your skin. It’s been so long since you’ve felt a touch like this — you need it.
“You’re okay?” he asks, breathy. It’s barely a question; just a few hasty, murmured words. You can hear the anticipation lacing his words, under the sounds of the movie that you’re watching with glassy eyes.
You nod, feel his fingers move over your stomach — exploring. He moves them lower, runs them lightly — teasingly — over your waistband, laughs softly when you gasp.
You’re breathing hard, feeling his fingers travel upward. They keep getting more curious, more eager. He covers every inch of your skin: squeezing, groping. And you want more, so much…
“More,” you murmur, hazy.
Yuuji pulls you onto his lap roughly, facing outward, slipping both hands under your shirt. His dick is already hard beneath you, pressing up against you. You feel his lips brush your neck; his breaths are hot on your skin, getting heavier the further up his hands get. As his hands come up to cup your tits through your bra, his mouth closes in on your neck: licking, sucking your skin. You shudder. His hands squeeze, eager. A little whimper escapes your mouth; he swears under his breath, rips your bra down roughly to free your tits so he can take one in each hand, groping hard.
“That feels so good,” you murmur. He’s too eager, groping too hard, but somehow it’s just right. The pain is so good, delicious. The want behind each touch has your stomach in knots.
“So fucking good, Yuuji,” you murmur, bringing a hand backward to pull at his hair.
He keeps kissing your neck, keeps running his tongue over it, wet and hot. Each time you tug at his hair he gets a little rougher. He nips at your skin — not hard, but just enough to make you shudder. His hands get more eager, groping your tits harder, his fingers pinching your nipples. You squirm in his lap, gasping, wet and desperate from being manhandled. A quiet groan spills from his mouth; he thrusts up against your ass, feverish.
“Want me to touch you some more?” he asks, heavily.
“Please,” you murmur desperately, grinding down on his dick. “Please, I need it.”
“It’s really cute when you beg,” he laughs against your neck, gripping your waist from behind.
Roughly, he wrestles you off of his lap, laying you out on the couch so he can climb on top of you. There’s that brute strength again, so much of it — a natural roughness, more strength than he knows what to do with. And as you’re thinking about the possibilities of what he could do with all of that strength and enthusiasm, he’s wrenching your arms roughly above your head, pinning them there with one hand. You wince, and he mumbles sorry, but you don’t even have the time to answer before his lips are meeting yours. He forces your mouth open with his tongue, pushes it into your mouth, eager.
The kiss is so hungry. Hot, wet — sloppy. His tongue gets deeper in your mouth, and he grinds down against you, pushes you further down into the couch cushions. You can feel the hunger in every single movement. The heat intensifies as he ruts his dick against you, thrusting hard through your clothes. You think the separation might drive you insane. You want to feel him; you’re feverish, getting more desperate each time he grinds his dick down against you. You keep bucking your hips upward, desperate for more pressure between your legs. He keeps kissing you, deep and messy, just pausing to nip at your lips before shoving his tongue in your mouth again.
As his tongue explores your mouth, he adjusts — brings his knee up between your legs, forcing them further and further apart. He doesn’t stop until his knee is pushing up against your pussy. You gasp; it’s just what you need. Pressure. Breathless, you squirm, moving your hips now that you have something to grind on.
“Does it feel good?” he asks, soft and teasing — pulling back just enough to talk with his lips still on yours.
You nod, faraway, drunk on the feeling as you rub your pussy on his knee for friction.
“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me how good it feels.”
“So fucking good,” you murmur as you move your hips, shuddering. “It feels so fucking good.”
He pushes his tongue back into your mouth, kisses you again — hungry and sloppy, until you’re gasping. Every so often he’ll pause just to tease into your mouth, low and breathless — Do you want me to fuck you? Do you wanna feel my dick inside of you? Do you want me to stretch this pussy out?
Yes, yes, yes. Please. While you’re murmuring desperate, breathless affirmations, he’s tightening his hand around your wrists, pinning them down harder. He ruts his dick against your thigh while you squirm against him, the both of you so desperate to use each other.
So fucking cute, he’s teasing, as he drags his dick up and down your thigh. You’re so fucking cute, begging like that.
You can feel the heat of his dick through your clothes, the size.
The tension between your thighs is building up as he pulls off of your mouth, trailing wet kisses down your chin. You need more; you’re a mess of want, squirming against his knee, wishing it was his dick pushing against your pussy. His breaths are hot against your skin, his mouth moving further and further down, licking and sucking your skin until he’s at your neck. He stops there, his tongue swirling against your throat, laughing softly as you buck your hips upward more desperately.
His hands are so tight around your wrists now that your fingers are going numb. Your head is hazy; all you can focus on is the feeling of his dick moving against your thigh, his hot breaths on your neck, the wetness dripping out of your pussy as you move it against him. His mouth keeps getting hungrier and hungrier on your throat, sucking on your skin so hard now that it stings — drawing blood to the surface.
There’s so much heat between your legs, and you’re dripping wet, needing more as you arch your back, begging for it. Yuuji, please.
“What do you want?” he says against your throat, squeezing your wrists. He adjusts, moving his knee back down while he brings his free hand down your body. Groggily, and with his mouth marking your throat, you feel him trail his fingers down until they’re between your legs. Instinctively, you spread your thighs. He presses his fingers against your pussy through your sweats, teasing.
“Tell me,” he says.
“I want...” you start, trailing off to shudder when he starts to move his fingers over your pussy, his touch just light enough to get you wanting more. You try to free your wrists, desperate for more than what he’s giving you, but he tightens his grip.
“What is it?” he grins against your neck, the heat of his fingers seeping through the fabric. He’s still humping your thigh, hard thrusts against it, breathing hard.
You’re arching your back, moving your hips to get more pressure from his fingers on your pussy. There’s so much tension built up in you already from all of this teasing — at this point, he could make you cum with barely any effort. You need him to.
“I want to cum,” you whimper breathlessly. You’d say anything, do anything to get him to fuck you. To make you cum. “I want you so bad, Yuuji,” you say, “don’t you want to feel my pussy?”
“Fuck.” He thrusts harder against your thigh. Laughs breathily into your neck. Then, finally, his touches get more urgent through your clothes. “Yeah, I want this pussy,” he slurs. “I bet it’s nice and wet for me.” He slaps your pussy through your clothes, and your hips jerk — the impact just right through the fabric. “I bet it’s gonna feel so good when I fuck it,” he says, breathy.
“Please,” you whimper.
Finally, he obliges — rutting against your thigh and sucking your neck as he slides his hand down the waistband of your sweats. He pins your wrists down harder above your head, pushes them further down into the couch. The anticipation is so much as his hand snakes downward; you’re already dripping wet, aching when his fingers come to hover over your clenching slit.
You let out a little whimper as he swipes his fingers over your pussy. He humps your thigh harder when he feels it, all that slick seeping out.
“So fucking wet,” he muses, teasing his fingers over your hole as he ruts against your thigh. “Fuck.”
He drags your wetness up to your clit, and you’re arching your back, sensitive. So much anticipation is building up between your thighs — your insides aching, puffy, begging for release.
While he presses his slippery fingers to your sensitive clit, you’re pleading for him to fuck you. Your pleas turn breathy, turn into hitching moans as he rubs your clit, grinding so hard into your thigh that you can tell — even doing all of this teasing, he’s just as worked up as you are.
He plays with your pussy until you’re right on the edge: swipes his fingers over your entrance, flicks over your clit at just the right pace, steady. Sucks your neck harder and harder as your back arches more, the tension building up so high it’s almost unbearable. You keep tightening up — more and more and more with each swipe of his fingers.
And then, when you’re right on the edge — one swipe of his fingers away from release, he takes his fingers away and shoves two of them deep inside your fluttering, dripping hole. You gasp at the sudden stretch — finally getting the intense friction that your aching insides have been needing so much. That stretch has the tension so close to bursting. You’re already clenching on his fingers, murmuring, oh, god, I’m gonna cum.
But he stops you right at the edge again, pulling his dripping fingers out of you. It leaves you so frustrated: your back arched, your chest heaving, nearly in tears from being denied the release you so desperately need.
“Fuck,” you choke.
Yuuji laughs softly into your neck, teasing his fingers over your fluttering slit as he waits for you to calm down. It’s only when the tension in you has subsided — just marginally — that he pushes his fingers back into your pussy. You shudder — sensitive, frustrated. His fingers curl against your dripping insides, drawing the tension back to the surface, quick. You don’t know how long you can last; he’s curling his fingers into your g-spot, pumping them in and out of you as his thumb toys with your clit.
You’re hurtling toward the orgasm he denied you, begging for him to let you cum. He thrusts against your thigh, grinning against your throat — It doesn’t take much to get you to beg. You really are desperate, aren’t you?
You are. He’s playing you just right, moving his fingers at just the right pace. You’re whimpering, gasping, tightening around them. As you get closer and closer to the edge, you’re slurring desperately for him to let you cum.
Yes, yes, just like that, right there, make me cum. Let me cum, I need to cum, please.
He’s humping feverishly against your thigh, his own breaths picking up. But he’s still toying with you, his breath hot on your throat, asking — Do you think I should let you? Do you think you deserve it?
You’re murmuring nothing coherent, just spreading your thighs and clenching up fast as his fingers curl faster, harder, squelching against your aching insides.
You’re right on the edge, quivering, with that sweet release just about to rack your body — when he pulls his fingers out again.
“Yuuji,” you sob, frustrated, “pleaseplease, don’t, I’m so close. Put them back in, make me cum, please.”
“I wanna taste you first,” he says, slipping his fingers out of your pants to suck them clean.
He releases your aching wrists and forces you upright to wrestle your shirt off of you, then drops it to the floor. And now that your hands are free, you’re running them all over him, whining for his dick, lifting his hoodie up impatiently. He obliges you for once — pulling his hoodie off, dropping it off the couch. He’s all sharp definition and lean muscle. You just stare for a second with your stomach in knots, looking between his body and his face.
He grins at your expression, reaching forward to wrap his fingers around your neck. Forcefully, he pushes you backward by the throat. He slams you down onto the couch so hard that it knocks the breath out of you; you barely have the chance to take gasp for air before he’s climbing back on top of you. You know it’s not purposeful roughness; it’s just a combination of eagerness and brute strength — so much of it that he can’t hold back.
Yuuji pins you into the couch cushions by the throat, bringing his mouth to your chest. He starts to move downward, leaving hot kisses all over your skin. They’re impatient, messy. You yelp as he rips your bra further down with his free hand, so hard that the clasp at the back breaks with a snap.
And now, with your bra out of the way, and your tits completely exposed, his tongue comes out. He runs it over your nipples: swirls and flicks at them while you gasp for air. His mouth closes in on one, then the other, sucking and biting lightly. All of these sensations are so intense; you’re squirming, your pussy dripping wet, drowning in your own anticipation.
When he’s had his fill of playing with your tits, Yuuji moves further down. You desperately need him to give your pussy some attention — it’s puffy, aching, dying to get fucked and filled. But he just keeps teasing you, taking his time licking down your body. He devours every inch of you on his way down: kissing, sucking, tasting. You put your hands on his head, pushing him further down urgently.
He’s far enough down now that his fingers leave your throat, letting you finally gasp for air. You fill your lungs as he sucks on the skin right under your belly button, hard enough to get you whimpering. You’re dying to fuck him. And, no matter how much of a tease he is, you can tell he’s dying to fuck you, too, from the desperate way he’s thrusting against the couch.
He moves painstakingly slowly over that final stretch of skin. You’re almost in agony by the time he finally gets his tongue right above the waistband of your sweats. You’re so desperate now, pushing his head down hard, bucking your hips up over and over. Yuuji shudders, hooks his fingers over your waistband. You think he’ll pull your sweats down, but he makes you wait one more time. With a teasing grin on his face, he kisses your pussy through the fabric.
His mouth is right above your pussy, the warmth of his breath seeping through the fabric. You’re dripping, clenching up in anticipation — so much of it that you know you’ll cum as soon as he puts his dick in you.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, because you want to watch when he finally gives your pussy the attention it needs. He looks up at you from between your legs, gauging your reaction as he pulls the waistband of your pants down.
You bite your lip, watching him pull your pants down. He rips your panties down with them, impatient. When they get tangled around your ankles, he rips them off forcefully. Eager.
And now he leans over you, his eyes glued on your pussy, like a dog drooling over a bone. He grips your thighs, spreads them. Positions himself between them.
Anticipation, desire, embarrassment. You’re feeling so many things, but the strongest of them is frustration, and it just keeps heightening as he lowers his face right over your pussy.
“Yuuji,” you whine as he hovers his face between your legs.
His breaths hit your cunt, hot and heavy. You watch him adjust his weight, sliding his hand down his sweats. His eyes don’t leave your pussy, not even when he pulls his dick out and starts to jerk it, dragging the precum down to the base.
The sight of him jacking off right between your legs, getting off on just the sight of your pussy, has your stomach tensing up. You’re so wet that you can feel it seeping out of your cunt, right beneath his face.
Maybe that’s what prompts him to finally stick his tongue out, to lower his face all the way down. You watch, still propped up on your elbows, while he licks up your dripping slit, jerking his hand over his dick.
That first lick: wet, hot, slick on your aching cunt, has you trembling. He moans, breathy.
He licks up your slit again as he strokes his dick, his eyes fluttering shut. He’s eager with his tongue. Enthusiastic, as he laps up all of the wetness pooling out of you. You keep yourself propped up on your elbows to watch through hazy eyes.
You see him drag his tongue all the way up, until it’s at your clit. He’s messy, inconsistent in the best way: switching from flicking his tongue over your clit to circling it to sucking it. But it feels so good — a new sensation each time he switches up, spending just the right amount of time on each action. You indulge in the pleasure as it builds — closing your eyes, spreading your legs wider so he can eat you sloppier, your head lolling back on your shoulders.
Then he latches his mouth onto your clit and gives you all the attention you’ve so desperately been needing. His mouth is hot as he sucks on it, circles it with his tongue. You lift your head back up, open your bleary eyes to watch him eat you. Everything’s so sloppy, so wet — his mouth and your cunt drenched in your arousal, his spit.
You can tell how much he likes it. He’s enthusiastic. Desperate, fucking into his fist while he eats you out. The little moans that escape his mouth each time he ruts his hips get trapped against your pussy. His voice — the heat of it on you, the anticipation in it — gets you wetter.
He licks up every drop of slick that leaks out of your pussy — and then, so eager to please, he goes back to your clit, swirls his tongue over it some more. All of these sensations are driving you crazy, so much intense pleasure and want. You want to cum right on his tongue, because you know he’ll eat up everything that gushes out, eager and enthusiastic.
You can feel yourself getting closer and closer, and you want to give him better access to your clit. So you rest your weight on one elbow, reaching the other hand between your legs to spread your pussy open for him.
He swears under his breath, fucking his fist harder. “Such a pretty fucking pussy on you,” he grins, looking up at you.
“Come on, Yuuji,” you whine.
He laughs. Pulls back slightly to spit on your pussy before he lowers his head back down, using his tongue to spread the spit over your clit. Feverish, hungry.
He latches his mouth back onto your pussy, uses his tongue sloppily again. It’s more intense this time, and you’re so close to the edge, closer with each flick of his tongue. He’s chasing his orgasm too, fucking his fist hard.
You need to cum; all of your muscles are tensing up as his tongue teases your orgasm to the surface. Everything’s throbbing, aching. And you’re breathless, your pussy clenching up around nothing as he brings you right to the edge.
You’re right there: murmuring a stream of breathless, pleasured pleas, because you need it so badly.
Don’t stop, just like that, please, I’m gonna cum, oh, god.
Each swirl of his tongue is more and more intense. Better and better.
Keep licking it, baby, just like that, right there, it’s so good.
Just a few more swipes of his tongue — that’s all you need to cum.
But he pulls away, again, with a grin. You know he was right on the edge too, from the way he was moaning against your pussy and fucking his fist so desperately. But he keeps denying you both of the pleasure you want so badly.
“Yuuji,” you whine, so frustrated that tears are brimming over in your eyes.
“Not yet.”
He adjusts between your legs, pulling his sweats down to free his dick. He’s so big, so hard, dripping precum from denying himself for so long. You watch him stroke it, so desperate to feel it inside of you. The blue light from the TV dances over the sweat glistening on his body.
“Not until I get my dick in you,” he says, jacking off while he looks down at your body. His eyes are glued on your pussy, wet with your juices and his spit.
“Fuck,” you whine. Your stomach is in knots. Too much frustration, too much teasing. Brought to the edge over and over. You’d do anything to cum. Anything for a release of all the tension he’s built up in your neglected insides. That’s how desperate you are.
He’s desperate too. So eager for such a tease. He pumps his hand over his dick, watching you squirm.
Then, finally, he’s had enough.
He grabs you by the hips, pulling you forcefully toward him. You lose your balance on your elbows, and your back falls to the couch as he leans over you, gripping the bottom of your thighs. He pushes them up, rough and impatient after too much waiting.
You’re yelping as he folds you roughly in half, pushing your thighs up until your knees are touching your shoulders. It’s uncomfortable, but there’s no time to complain because he’s already leveling himself over you, his face flushed with anticipation. He lowers his body downward until his weight is pressing you in half, your legs slung over his shoulders.
He brings one hand between his legs, grips his dick at the base. While you’re murmuring for him to put it in, put it in, he slaps it teasingly against your dripping slit.
“You want this dick in your pussy?” he says breathily. Such a tease, always such a tease — he slides his cock back and forth over your slick cunt instead of putting it in. Precum dribbles down, gets everything messier as he thrusts against the outside of your pussy, neglecting your clenching entrance.
His dick keeps catching your clit, and you shudder. His weight presses you down, down — further into the couch cushions.
“I need it,” you plead, nearly in tears from how badly you want him to fuck you. “I need to cum.”
“I know,” he laughs.
He leans further down, crushing your body with his as he presses his mouth to yours. His lips are wet, dripping with your slick. Like everything else he does, the kiss is sloppy and rough — smearing your own juices all over your mouth as he ruts his cock against your pussy, teasing over your entrance. You beg for it with tears in your eyes and his lips on yours.
“You want it that bad?” he says breathily. He’s feeling good, groaning as he humps against the outside of your pussy.
“So bad, so bad,” you pant. “I’d do anything.”
“Okay, okay,” he laughs, breathy, as he adjusts to reach between his legs.
Finally, finally — he positions the tip of his dick against your fluttering entrance.
He pushes it in, just a fraction of an inch. But you’ve been wanting his dick so badly that the first feeling of it stretching your aching walls has a loud moan spilling out of your mouth. He pushes it in further, groaning. You’ve been edged so many times; you’re so sensitive that you’re just struggling to last.
“Fuck,” he pants. He’s had enough of all the teasing; you can hear a new desperation in his voice now that he’s in you. “I knew it was gonna feel so fucking good,” he says through his teeth.
He leans his weight further onto you, folding you harder in half. And then he sinks his entire dick into your pussy, all the way to the base. You gasp sharply. And now, with your pussy wrapped around him, you can tell that he can’t hold back anymore. He pulls back, then starts to fuck you hard and deep. Fast thrusts, breathing hard into your mouth.
Your walls stretch to accommodate his dick as he buries it. This is what you’ve been needing. Friction. Your insides are already twitching, dripping around him. It’s taking everything in you to stave your orgasm off. You don’t want to cum yet; you want to keep enjoying the feeling of him sinking his dick into you over and over.
Eager, fast thrusts as he crushes you down into the couch with his weight. Feverishly, he tells you how fucking good your pussy feels squeezing his dick. How much he’s been needing this. He fucks you like he’s needed it, too — quick and hazy, panting and moaning into your mouth.
So much praise you can barely even take it.
Fuck, I knew your pussy was gonna be good.
Those feverish words, moaned into your mouth. You’re losing your composure, struggling to hold your orgasm back.
Such a good fucking pussy. So wet.
He’s so deep in this position that it has you squirming each time he bottoms out. But he has you crushed so hard beneath him, folded so tightly in half, fucked so far into the couch cushions that you can barely move.
“Yuuji, it’s so deep,” you gasp.
“You can take it,” he pants, hazy with pleasure as he slams his cock in deep. “Weren’t you just begging for my dick?”
You nod, wincing as your knees dig deeper into your shoulders.
“Take it just like that,” he slurs, focusing just on pumping his dick into you — on how good it feels. And soon enough, he’s fucking into some spot deep in your pussy that has your toes curling. When your eyes start to roll back, he fucks you harder, encourages you — You like it deep like that? Are you gonna cum on me?
You’re gasping as he keeps stimulating that spot in you, brutal and quick. You’re losing your composure, begging to cum again.
Yes, right there, don’t stop, don’t stop.
You know he won’t stop this time. He’s too focused on his own pleasure, feeling too good to stop as he chases his own orgasm. Slaking so much desire, fucking you with all the pent up frustration he stored up while he was teasing you earlier. You can hear his orgasm getting closer with each groan he lets out into your mouth. He just needs to fuck you — needs to keep burying his dick deep in you until he makes himself cum. So he doesn’t stop; he keeps going, pumping his dick into your pussy, hard and urgent. You’d wondered earlier what he could do with all that brute strength and energy, and here it is — each thrust getting harder, intense and brutal as he fucks all the tension out.
More, I’m so close, make me cum, you beg.
He obliges you, gives you deeper strokes, shoving his tongue in your mouth. Faster and harder as you start to tighten up — just what you need. He tells you, between messy kisses, how fucking good you are, how fucking good you’re making him feel. And you’re eating it all up — the praise, the pleasure of his cock plunging into you, that feverish look on his face: eyelashes fluttering, cheeks pink. He’s getting so close, gritting his teeth as he keeps ramming his dick into that spot inside of you that makes your toes curl. And soon, you’re right on the edge, tightening up around him hard.
“Oh, fuck,” he mutters. He pauses, takes a few deep breaths, trying not to cum before you do.
“Fuck me,” you beg.
So he grits his teeth and shoves his cock into you again, so deep and hard that you yelp. He groans through his teeth, fucks into you again and again — deep, deep strokes hitting you perfectly. One, two, three, and you’re done — hurtling to your orgasm, with your pussy clenching around him and your toes curling over his shoulders.
“Cum for me, cum for me,” he slurs, urgent as he fucks you hard and sloppy, desperate for his own release.
You’re already about to spill over as he keeps brutalizing your sensitive, quivering walls. Your cunt squeezes up around him, and his eyelashes flutter. The feeling spurs him on, makes him fuck you harder as you tighten.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper breathlessly.
“Shit,” he pants. You can hear the desperation in his voice, how hard he’s trying to hold back.
And then the tension bursts, and the first intense wave of pleasure racks your body. Your insides drip, keep getting more and more sensitive. Each thrust feels better, more intense. He’s feverish above you, his hazy eyes eating up the lewd expression on your face as you cum.
He keeps going, trying so hard not to cum so he can abuse your insides with his dick. You’re getting pounded down into the cushions, folded in half, with your pussy convulsing around him and the couch creaking so loudly it drowns out the sounds of the TV.
Waves of pleasure keep washing through you, over and over. He’s groaning, swearing under his breath, dropping into you while you cum around his dick, fucking your orgasm out. He’s relentless, even when it’s too sensitive — pulling more and more pleasure out. It intensifies each time he buries his dick in deep, each stroke so delicious and brutal. So intense, after so much buildup.
You’re drunk on the pleasure as it washes through you, slick coating his dick, seeping out of your hole each time he bottoms out, running down your ass.
Such a good fucking pussy, god, it’s so fucking good in this pussy, you’re gonna make me cum.
You can barely even process anything he’s saying; your mind is too hazy with pleasure, floating. But you can hear the urgency in his words, and it tells you how close he is, how hard he’s trying to hold his orgasm back. He’ll cum soon; you can feel it building in every urgent thrust. His head drops down; he grits his teeth, just trying to postpone his orgasm long enough to fuck you through the rest of yours. But his thrusts are getting erratic, sloppy, and his moans are building.
You know that if you don’t tell him to pull out, he won’t — not with the urgent way he’s fucking you. He’s too wrapped up in the feeling, too drunk on pleasure. But you don’t care — you want his cum, want it filling you up, dripping out of you. He can fuck your aching pussy until the feeling of it makes him cum.
While your orgasm is dying down, his is building up. He fucks you greedily, and the sensation of his dick against your sensitive walls is so intense that it hurts. But he’s too far gone now to care about your comfort; he’s just using you, taking out all of his frustration on your dripping, used insides.
You’d whine about how sensitive you are, and how much your body’s aching from being folded in half like this, but he can’t hold back, and you know it.
“I’m so fucking close,” he’s panting, as all that energy and eagerness comes to a climax. “You can take it until I cum, right?”
You nod, whimpering, and take it. Each stroke against your overstimulated walls. The pain subsides soon, makes way as pleasure starts to build up again. Your whimpers turn into moans as you watch his face start to contort.
“Fuck,” he slurs, the couch creaking so loud you can barely hear him. “Fuck, it’s so fucking wet, I’m gonna cum.”
You can see it, hear it in his messy, squelching strokes. His eyes roll back as it starts, and he shudders — pounds deep into you, erratic and needy. The sight of him cumming, the feeling of him slamming his dick into you over and over, unloading in your pussy — you can’t handle it, and it has you going over the edge again.
He fucks his cum into you, shoots it deep, groaning while your pussy starts to convulse around him again. And you whimper as you cum again, telling him how good his dick feels, how hard it makes you cum.
You think he’ll stop thrusting when his orgasm dies down, but he doesn’t, because yours is still going. He shoves his tongue deep in your mouth, keeps fucking you through yours — even though he’s overstimulated from his orgasm, shuddering. You cum hard with him abusing your pulsing, dripping walls. He moans into your mouth, jerking his hips forward — plunging brutally into your cum-filled, contracting pussy, so intense for you and him. You’re so messy, so full of his cum that each time he bottoms out a mixture of his cum and your arousal gushes out of your twitching hole, coating his dick, dribbling down your ass and onto the creaking couch.
He doesn’t stop until he’s fucked your second orgasm out.
Then, when it’s all done, he adjusts so you can unfold your aching body and lay out flat beneath him. He collapses on top of you, drowsy, burying his face in your neck.
☽☽☽☽☽
You’re running.
No — that’s not right. You’re trying to run.
It’s like trudging through quicksand. Your limbs are sluggish, unbearably heavy. For a second, you think that your feet are somehow adhered to the ground. That there’s something making you stick.
You look downward, through heavy eyelids, to find that your feet aren’t even touching the ground. Somehow, you’re floating above it. Just an inch. Suspended in the empty space between your feet and the bloodstained ground are teeth.
They’re everywhere. Some large, some small. All bloody at the root, as if they’ve just been wrenched from someone’s gums.
Someone is behind you, in pursuit. Ahead, there’s a sliver of light. It keeps stretching, getting further away. You’ll never reach it, not before he gets you.
You’re in an alleyway, and you don’t know how you got here.
Your pursuer is catching up quickly, his footsteps echoing off of the brick walls that cage you in. You want to look backward, to see how close he is. But when you try to turn your head, you can’t. All you can do is listen to his footsteps get louder as he gets closer.
You want to sob, to scream — but you have no mouth.
Nothing about this is right. What is this place?
Through the fog in your head, you realize — you’re in a dream. A nightmare.
He’s so close now. Just a few paces behind. You think that you can feel his breath on your neck — cold and frigid. Rotten. Something in his throat festers, decays. The air ahead of you is muggy. Hot, suffocating. You want to take a big gulp of air. You need it. But you can only inhale through your nose — shallow, pathetic half-breaths.
What happens if he catches you? Will you wake up? Or will you reside in this dream forever, feeling his teeth rip into your flesh over and over?
You will your limbs to move faster, but they don’t obey.
Please, god, help me — !
It’s a woman’s voice, unfamiliar and desperate. A muffled, raw plea from the maw of some ravenous beast. It echoes throughout the alleyway, fills the hot air with terror. An awful shriek follows, and your stomach churns. Bile rises up in your throat, with nowhere to go. It sits on your tongue, bitter.
If you had a mouth, you would scream too. You would beg. You would tell anyone who’s listening that he’s following you, that he’s going to catch you and eat you alive.
Let me go, please! I’ll do anything!
That voice again: louder now. It comes from all directions. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle under his putrid, frigid breath. His mouth is open wide, gaping and ready to consume. Just a few inches behind you. You don’t know if you’ll escape.
You reach forward, claw at the thick air, trying to rip through the walls of your nightmare.
What are you doing? Why are you doing this?
That woman’s terrified, desperate voice is everywhere. She begins to shriek. Somehow, her scream is tangible, swirling through the air. You feel it coming close. Closer and closer, until you feel it prying at the skin where your mouth should be. It’s sharp, piercing. The scream begins to rip through your skin, as if it has claws.
Please, she’s shrieking.
Her scream has ripped your mouth open now. Sinew and threads of flesh hang where your lips should be, filling your mouth with blood. You feel that entity that is her scream forcing your jaw open, crawling into the bloody cavern.
Are you the one devouring her?
Please don’t!
Her voice, in your mouth. As her voice slithers down your throat, you start to suffocate on it. It crawls further and further down until it molds with your esophagus, until you’re the one screaming please in both her voice and yours.
Her sobs echo in the air, defeated and pathetic, until they’re drowned out by the sound of gnashing teeth.
And then, as you scream in her stolen voice, you feel something close in on the back of your neck, sharp and hungry.
You wake covered in sweat, with a chill running down your spine. You jolt up and look around blearily; after a few moments, when your eyes focus, you realize you’re in your own bed. You can’t remember how you got here. Your mind feels foggy. Heavy. The last thing you remember is falling asleep on the couch with Yuuji. He must have carried you in here, but you can’t remember. You’re too tired to try to remember.
You’re so exhausted; you lay right back down, falling into a dream even more horrific than the last.
☽☽☽☽☽
“Good morning,” Yuuji greets brightly from behind the kitchen counter, watching you exit your room.
You’re groggy again, exhausted. Just like every other morning. You rub your puffy eyes. It’s been a few weeks since that first nightmare — a few weeks since Yuuji first moved in.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
“Well,” you lie.
The nightmares just keep getting worse. A different voice plagues your dreams every night, screaming for help. Muffled, horrific pleas. You’d tell Yuuji about it, talk to him, but you don’t want to bother him with it. You don’t want to dampen that brightness of his, because you need it. It’s the only thing keeping you afloat.
Yuuji’s a good roommate; the days have been so much easier with him here.
But the nights have been so much worse. Both in your head, and in this town, where the murders have increased in frequency.
Now, there’s a killing every night.
You’re so glad he’s here to protect you.
“Do you want some breakfast?” Yuuji’s asking as he cooks up something on the stove. Some kind of meat, you think. Sausages, maybe. Apparently, he likes to cook; he insists on cooking for you every single night. He’s so sweet. So caring. It’s just what you need, in a time like this.
“No thank you,” you say a tick late, wrapped up in your thoughts of that awful nightmare.
You suppose it could’ve been much worse. It could’ve been real. You could have been the girl of the night, and the killer could’ve broken into your room, stalked around the pitch black as you slept fitfully.
He could’ve been here. In your space.
You shudder, but Yuuji isn’t paying attention. He’s putting the meat on a plate, chattering to you about something or other as you try to shake the grogginess off. You lean against the counter, watching him talk.
He pauses. Pouts, when he realizes you’re not actually listening to him. “You okay?” he asks. “Tired?”
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m alright. Just drowsy, I guess.”
☽☽☽☽☽
You can’t escape the killer. Not even in the most mundane parts of the day, like right now, on the drive to work.
He exists in everyone’s minds, all the time. A plague. On the radio, between bright, cheerful songs that are supposed to heighten the collective mood in this town, the radio show hosts always end up talking about the killer.
Just a moment ago, an upbeat song was playing. And now…
You know what the worst part about it is? a man’s voice is saying through the speakers.
What? It’s a woman hosting the show with him; she sounds more tired than intrigued.
Those girls were all alive when he ate them.
How do you know that? the woman asks, disgusted.
It’s what the coroner said, apparently, the man on the radio responds. A new bit of information on the case that was just released. Those girls were drugged. They were awake when it happened.
That’s brutal, the woman says. This man is sick in the head. The whole thing, it’s just awful. Something is so deeply wrong with him.
Of course, the man says dismissively. I mean, who knows what’s going through his head when he eats them.
There’s silence for a second, and then the man says, Maybe what seasoning to use?
The woman scoffs in disgust.
What? the man taunts.
Don’t say things like that.
Why not? Do you think they call him The Gourmand for nothing?
Who the hell calls him that?
Everyone. It’s the new thing, the man says. You can hear his smile.
That’s awful.
Why?
It’s in bad taste, the woman says forcefully.
Taste? the man teases.
I didn’t mean it like that, the woman insists.
Morbid fascination, the man says. We all have it.
You’re disgusting. You’re part of the problem, you know?
Your stomach turns; your jittery hand darts out to shut the radio off.
You grip the wheel, sitting in silence as you drive through the gloom. It’s all-consuming, like the terror ravaging this town. Like the greedy hands and mouth of the killer stalking its streets. The Gourmand.
Ahead, the clouds gather, bloated and looming. You’re hurtling toward them at seventy miles an hour. Heading straight for the storm.
As the rain starts to come down, pattering on the windshield, you consider the fact that you might already be in the eye of it.
PLAYLIST. one (for the fluff) / two (for the sex lmao)
CONTENT. friends to lovers, mutual pining, fantasizing, fingering, dry humping, orgasm denial/edging (?) (self imposed tho), clothed sex, ripping clothes, soft/emotional sex, lots of fluff and sap.
SYNOPSIS. what happens when your best friend notices a hole in your leggings during an innocent game of cards?
AUTHOR’S NOTE. this was supposed to be a drabble based on an ask @what-the-fucdge-rin sent me about how the jjk men would react to you wearing leggings with holes in them ... but i got carried away and wrote this in a lovesick stupor bc i simply cannot get this man out of my head LMAO
DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING ADULT CONTENT. PLEASE DON’T REC ME ON TIKTOK.
Yuuji’s just finished his turn, setting his card — a two of hearts — at the top of the pile of cards that’s positioned between the two of you. He has to keep fixing the pile, because the cards keep sliding around haphazardly each time either of you makes a little movement on the mattress.
Why you decided that the two of you should play cards on your bed — and not on a flat surface, like the dining table — beats him. But he guesses it doesn’t really matter if he has to keep fixing the cards. He’ll always indulge you, no matter the situation — if only to see the smile on your face when he gives in after some whining.
Yuuji watches closely as you look between the two of hearts and your hand of cards. His turns are always quick; he’s impulsive — always listening to his first instinct, always setting down the first card that speaks to him.
He’s studying you as you consider your options. You’re not impulsive like he is; your turns almost always take longer. But he doesn’t care how much time you take; in fact, the more the better. Because that means he has more time to look at you. He could let hours pass like this — watching you think.
Not that he could ever tell you that. You look up at him suddenly, and he looks away, sheepish.
“What?” you ask.
“Hm?”
“I thought you were looking at me.”
“Oh,” he stammers, thinking of an excuse. “Well… I was, because you’re taking forever,” he blurts.
“Shut up,” you scoff, flustered. “That’s why I’m gonna win.”
He suppresses a smile; you look back down at your hand.
It’s just a few moments later that Yuuji sees it. He’s not looking on purpose; he just finds his eyes drawn to the area between your legs when you adjust to fold your legs in front of you, because there’s a sudden flash of red there. The pile of cards between you has shifted again, but this time, he’s too distracted to fix it. Right now, he’s looking — with burning cheeks — at the bright red lace of your panties peeking out obviously through a hole right in the crotch of your black leggings.
He tears his eyes away, looking sheepishly for something else in the room to fix his eyes on. He really didn’t mean to look. He doesn’t want to look at you — his best friend of years — like that. He feels like a bit of a scumbag for doing it, and his cheeks are still burning.
But there’s an instinctual part of him that can’t help but wonder what exactly those panties look like under your leggings. He chews his lip, wondering what kind of panties they are, how they look on your figure. Admittedly, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s thought about something like this.
He could throttle himself. What’s he doing? He clears his throat guiltily, watching you fix the disorderly pile before setting your own card down. When you look back up at him, smiling warmly, he pales for a moment. He feels odd — suddenly weak in the knees at all of the fondness in your expression, so much of it that he swears he feels his heart skip a beat.
He gulps. He should probably tell you about it, right? The… panties?
“You have — you have —” he blathers, trailing off. A hole in your crotch? That sounds weird. He laughs nervously and scratches his head, thinking about the best way to phrase it. But, before he can do that, he finds his eyes drawn — involuntarily — back between your legs for a fraction of a second.
Yuuji averts his gaze quickly, but to his chagrin, you’ve already seen.
“Huh?” You’re looking between your legs now, and you see it — that little hole through which your bright panties are glaring obviously. “Oh!”
He feels awful for embarrassing you. Maybe he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. But at the same time, some wicked part of him thinks you look so cute, all flustered and embarrassed like that. He feels his heart clench in his chest.
“Why were you looking?” you blurt, flustered.
“I don’t know,” he yammers, blushing and baffled, “why are you wearing holey leggings?”
“It’s not like I knew, dummy!”
Yuuji’s blushing hard now, averting his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t really know what to say, so he closes it again, clearing his throat awkwardly. As if he could hide behind them, he lifts his cards up to his face — pretending that he’s studying them. He gives it a good effort; he really tries to think about the cards in his hand. But, as it turns out, the only thing his mind can focus on is the red lace between your thighs. His brain is going haywire, conjuring up an image of you in a cute, bright red set.
He thinks he’d die on the spot if he saw you in something like that. You, of all people. His cheeks are burning so hot he thinks they might catch on fire. They keep getting hotter as the blood rushes to his face.
With panic, Yuuji realizes that there’s blood rushing somewhere else, too — right between his legs. He feels awful; he’s so worked up over those images in his head, and now he can’t get them out.
Why the hell is the fabric of his shorts so thin? He’s cursing himself for wearing athletic shorts. Couldn’t have he worn something thicker? Something that wouldn’t give away the growing shape of his dick away so easily? Desperately, he’s trying to distract himself — to curb the rush of blood between his legs. But, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t scrub that image of you in lingerie from his mind. His shorts are getting uncomfortably tight, and he’s still pretending to study his cards, avoiding your eyes. He hopes to god you’re not noticing what’s happening between his legs.
“Yuuji.”
Your tone is a little breathless. A little strange. Sheepishly, he lowers his cards — looking at you, wide-eyed and flustered. His stomach drops when he realizes that your eyes are fixed on his crotch, where his dick is stiffening on his thigh, straining against his shorts.
“Why are you looking?” he blurts.
“How can I not?” you exclaim. “You’re — you’re…”
You both stare at each other for a long moment — equally flustered, with the pile of cards between you falling into chaos.
Yuuji’s mind is falling into chaos, too. Maybe he’s used to acting on impulse with most things. But this isn’t most things. This is you. So right now he’s thinking about what he should do. Should he make the first move, after all these years? After never having the courage to?
And what if you’re not interested? He can’t fully read the look on your face. What if you don’t want him? It must’ve been weird, right? Catching him staring at your crotch, watching him get hard out of nowhere? He feels bad; he must’ve made you uncomfortable.
“I’m sor—“ he starts. But he trails off, watching your hand dart forward suddenly. He doesn’t really know what’s happening as he watches you grab a fistful of his shirt. For a moment, he marvels at how small your hand is against his chest. And then he finds himself yanked forward by the fabric of his shirt.
It takes his muddled mind a moment to process what you’re doing. But he gives under the force, lets you pull him further and further forward. And it’s only when your mouths meet — his lips crashing against yours — that he really gets it. That he understands: you’re the one acting on impulse, for once.
His head feels foggy, feverish. His heart is pounding in his chest. For a moment, he doesn’t even think this is real; he wonders if his mind conjured it up, a culmination of all of his desire for you. No, he thinks. The feeling of your lips, so soft against his, the smell of your shampoo, your fingers wrapping up in his hair and pulling slightly — it’s all, undoubtedly, real.
It’s real, and you’re pulling him further over you. He gives, shifts his weight over you, pushing you down onto the bed. Beneath you, beneath him, the cards scattered over the bed bend and warp, ruined — but it doesn’t really matter, does it? Because this is what he’s been wanting, waiting for, needing.
He’s surprised to feel you part your lips, to feel you pushing your tongue into his mouth. But he reciprocates, enthusiastic and eager. His first taste of you is hungry and messy and desperate — his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth. He runs his rough hand up your side, brings it up and up until it’s resting on your chest and he’s cupping you through your bra.
Is this okay? he murmurs through sloppy kisses. Can I touch you?
And, of course, the answer is yes. You’re rewarded with a rough squeeze. A needy, clothed thrust follows; he pushes you down into the mattress, ruins the cards beneath you further.
Touch me, but…
For a moment, he pauses. He’s afraid that he’s done something wrong, that he’s hurt you. But then you’re grabbing his wrist.
Here, you’re saying, guiding his hand between your legs. Right here, okay?
He mumbles a hasty okay into your mouth, runs his fingers over the damp fabric between your thighs. There’s a soft moan in response. He can’t believe how needy you are, how much you want it — just as much as him. He wonders if you’ve been wanting it for all these years, just like he has.
Yuuji’s fingers on the fabric are gentle at first. Slow. And, then, as your soft moans go to his head, the urgency behind them increases. He’s so hard, aching, precum leaking down his thigh. It’s the desperation that’s getting to him — the fervent way your tongue explores his mouth, your fingers tugging lightly at his hair, the way you’re spreading your legs wider for him. He thinks the way you buck your hips upward each time his fingers graze over your clit is so cute. That you must be so sensitive, especially under all of these layers of clothing. And he wants them off.
So when his fingers catch that little hole in your leggings — the one that started all of this — he finds his impulse taking over. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but he does it anyway: curls his finger into that little split in the fabric, rips it a little wider.
He doesn’t think you’ve noticed yet; your soft moans are euphoric, drowning out the sounds of the slowly ripping fabric. He thrusts a little harder, a little needier. The impact pushes you down into the mattress, bending the cards beneath your bodies a little more.
Yuuji’s trying his best to hold back, because he wants to be gentle with you, but he’s never really been the type to practice self-restraint. And his patience is wearing thin; it’s been so long, so long — years of wanting you. He can’t wait any longer, not even for your leggings to come down. And that’s why, while he’s slipping his tongue deeper into your mouth, he’s also slipping his rough fingers further into the tear in the fabric between your legs.
His stomach is all knotted up — desire, nerves. The sweet sounds that keep spilling from your mouth into his are getting him high, buzzing in his head. He just can’t help it anymore — and so he finds himself hooking his fingers around the tear and pulling, sudden and rough.
The fabric of your leggings gives easily under the force with a loud rip.
While you let out a little cry of surprise, he’s pulling back to glance feverishly between your thighs. He’s ripped a hole the size of his palm, and what he can see through it sends butterflies rolling through his stomach and another rush of blood between his legs. Your exposed thigh, your panties — and a big damp spot right in the middle of them.
You’re pinching his cheek, scolding him about the leggings (They’re actually expensive, you know?!) but he can hear the breathiness in your voice still, the anticipation. And when he looks back up to your face to murmur a sheepish apology — I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll buy you new ones, I promise — he finds that you’re smiling. And as another swarm of butterflies makes its way through his chest at all the emotion in that smile, you’re knotting your hands back in his hair and pulling his face back down to yours.
Of course, like always — he gives. This time, it’s with no resistance. He indulges you completely, lets you pull his face down until your lips are meeting again. He’d give you anything you want. Everything. This is exactly what he’s been waiting for.
This time, he takes control. He parts his lips as soon as they meet yours, kisses you deeply — with a hunger that’s built up over years. He’s feverish and hazy as he rips the hole in your leggings further open, tearing the fabric to expose your inner thighs more. And when he’s exposed enough of you, he runs his curious fingers up your inner thighs — squeezing, touching, rubbing until you’re gasping.
Heavy breaths — exchanged from your mouth to his, and then back again. They’re shaky, full of so much emotion he thinks he could drown in it.
He wants to. He wants to let all of these emotions through for the very first time, to let them take over. To drown in you and all of these feelings for you.
Yuuji brings his calloused fingers between your thighs and presses them — gently, at first, hesitantly — to the lace over your slit. Feels just how wet you are for him. A nervous, shaky exhale leaves his mouth. A soft laugh. You want him this much.
Maybe he really could drown in you.
Yuuji wants to play with you for a little while. He’s always liked to toy with you, to tease. He does it often — in almost every interaction — because he likes to see the little pout that always crosses your face. He’s always thought it was so cute. He thinks he’ll tease right now…
But the thought is short lived. As soon as he runs his fingers over your clit through your panties, a soft moan tumbles from your lips, and another rush of wetness dampens your panties. That’s it for him; he’d be insane to wait a second longer.
So he finds himself pushing his tongue deeper into your mouth, fumbling clumsily now with your panties — his self control completely thrown to the wayside. He pulls them roughly to the side, hears a stitch pop. He murmurs another apology, but it’s swallowed between sloppy kisses.
He’s always a little rougher than intended.
That poor pretty lace. But it’s alright, isn’t it? Because he’ll get you something even prettier after the two of you inevitably ruin these: you dripping all over them, him ripping the lace apart. He’ll get you something as pretty as you, because that’s exactly what you deserve.
He wants to give you everything you deserve. Every single thing you want. He’s thinking this as you start to moan desperately for him. He’ll give you what you want right now; how could he ever deny you this?
But, still, before he touches you — really touches you, for the very first time — he asks.
“Can I?”
It’s a breathy, hasty murmur into your mouth. And it’s heavy, because he knows there’s no going back after what’s to come.
Not that he’d ever want to go back to any moment before this. He waits for permission with his fingers hovering over your pussy. He can feel the heat of it just inches away, and his dick is aching against his thigh.
You nod, grabbing his wrist again to guide his hand forward. Slowly. His breaths pick up; he’s aching for you so much that he can’t help but thrust down against your thigh. Just to relieve a little of the aching in his dick, just to get some friction on it. To his surprise, you reward that action with the sweetest little murmur. The sound goes straight to his dick, gets him harder as you bring his hand forward. The little space between the two of you that his hand is crossing feels both impossibly vast and impossibly small.
And then, finally, he feels the heat of you against his fingers.
The wetness of you — velvety, soft. He feels your breaths catch in his mouth as he drags his fingers through your pussy. Feels your hips buck up, little noises spilling from your mouth that are getting him drunk. His mind is buzzing; his dick is twitching in his shorts. He wants to hear more. To hear you better. So he pulls back a little, starts to trail sloppy kisses down your chin, down your neck. He litters them across your throat, leaves them over your skin, like a gift.
“Oh, baby,” he slurs against your neck. “You’re so, so wet.”
You mumble something unintelligible. Almost a plea. He’s slow and gentle on your clit; you’re bucking upward, desperate for more. You don’t have to say anything, because he knows what you want. Even if you can’t form the words, even if he hasn’t known you like this before, he knows you like the back of his hand. He knows from the look on your face, from the tone of your voice, exactly what you need — so he gives it to you.
He sinks a finger into you. Feels you suck him in, your walls dripping wet and fluttering. He gets higher on the sweet noises you make as you part around him — pliant, malleable, desperate. He shudders against your throat, thrusts down again.
You ask for another. So he obliges, sucking softly on your neck as he sinks another finger into your pussy. He can feel your walls stretching around his fingers, then clenching. You’re getting wetter with each moment that passes. Needier. And he needs you too, so badly. There’s so much precum dripping out of his dick that he’s soaked through his shorts. He feels like he’s harder than he’s ever been.
Your pussy feels so good around his fingers. He’s dying to get all of this slippery heat — all of the twitching, dripping wetness of your insides — around his dick. He knows it’ll feel amazing, better than anything he’s ever felt.
But there’s another need that’s beginning to overwhelm that. It’s not the carnal intensity of needing to fuck you; it’s an overhwelming, heightening arousal that builds lazily with each pump and curl of his fingers inside of you, with each soft moan that you gift him with in response. Pleasing you, even if it means denying himself — it’s a feeling unlike any other. More than anything, he realizes that he just wants to please you.
To make you feel good. So, as much as he wants to be inside of you, he’ll wait a little longer — until you’re ready for him to give you what you need. Until you’re even wetter, until you’re stretched around his fingers, until it’ll feel best for you.
It’s always been you, hasn’t it? Anything for you.
So he takes his time stretching you out. His kisses are deep and hungry, betraying how much he really needs you. But he’ll deny himself until you’re ready — sinking his fingers into your pussy over and over again, high on the sweet noises each curl elicits from your pretty mouth. He pushes them in deep — all the way to the knuckle, feels you gasp and twitch around him.
He’s eager when he curls his fingers, maybe even a little rough — so enamored with how good you feel inside, with how your walls twitch and weep around his fingers. But you’re responding to that roughness, to the intensity of his fingers stroking over your g spot.
As your back starts to arch off the bed, he stops sucking your neck to ask, softly, almost innocently, Is it good? Do you like it? Does it feel okay?
And you answer, So good, so good, just like that, keep going.
He thinks that he might not even last to fuck you — that he might cum just from listening to your soft whimpers.
So when you reach between his legs, fumbling with his shorts between hazy gasps, he thinks that he really won’t last. Not with the way you’re taking his dick out — hard, hot and dripping — and wrapping your soft, warm hand around it. Not with the way you’re dragging the precum down it, that first wet stroke sending a shudder down his entire body. And when you start to pump your hand down his aching dick, with precum dribbling out of the tip and saturating the shredded fabric of your leggings, he has to grit his teeth to stop his orgasm from building.
He moans feverishly against your neck, still pumping his fingers into your pussy. He can barely focus; his head is cloudy, and his breaths are catching as he feels your soft, slick hands pump up and down his dick.
I want you so bad, baby, I can’t even take it, he murmurs against your throat, breathless.
He needs you so much. The feeling of your hands on his dick, the way you’re stroking it quickly — sloppy pumps as his wet fingers squelch inside of you, still curling roughly — is driving him insane. He’s losing his composure; you’re bringing him to the brink quickly.
So he begs, gasps, Slow down. Slow down, please, I don’t want to cum yet.
He wants to last. He wants to feel you around him before you make him cum. He knows he can make you feel even better, if he can just last until he’s inside you. And you’re so, so wet around his fingers. So wet that he thinks you’re ready for him.
He wants to make you feel even better, if you’re ready for it — wants to stretch you out more, fill you up more. He wants to hear how your sweet moans will sound when he’s moving in and out of your pussy. When he’s making you feel so good.
But the two of you are already both so close. You’re starting to clamp down on his fingers, and the feeling is sending him right to the edge. He’s whimpering softly, gritting his teeth as he tries to ignore that heightening, cresting pleasure.
At this point, he just wants to last until you cum, even if he’s not inside you when it happens.
But then he hears you murmur, Wait, I want, I want…
What do you want, baby?
I want you inside me.
He shudders. Feels his dick stiffen more under your grasp. That’s not something he’d ever thought he would hear you say. He’s painfully hard now; it’s a desire that he knows won’t be relieved until he’s inside you.
But, still, he asks feverishly, as he adjusts above you, Are you sure?
Of course you are — nodding, biting your lip, looking up at him desperately. And how could he ever say no to you? He doesn’t even know how long he’ll last when he gets inside, but he wants to give you this. So he slips his fingers out of you, slowly, all of your arousal dripping off of them.
Okay, he says breathily, wrapping his hand around his dick, stroking the slick wetness of you down it. He shudders, looking down at your face, studying you closely. It’s okay?
You nod again, impatient as he levels himself over you. He looks between your thighs, positions his dick to your dripping entrance. For a moment, he just marvels at the wet mess between your legs. He takes it all in with a shaky inhale, and a look of feverish fascination on his blushing face: your leggings torn to shreds, your inner thighs exposed and glistening wet.
And when he positions the dripping tip of his dick against your slit — seeping with arousal, fluttering with anticipation — it sucks him in slightly, ready for him. You let out a little sigh that sends his mind reeling; he’s just barely inside of you and he can already feel your walls clenching around him.
He doesn’t move. He just stalls there, barely in. Because he needs to capture this moment. His nerves have his heart in his throat, but he has to look at your face. Has to study all the bliss there in this moment — because you’re so pretty, the prettiest thing he’s seen. His head is foggy, faraway, but his heart is right here, pounding hard in his chest at this promise: to be inside of you, to have you completely.
He’s breathing hard — suffocating on the tension in this moment, listening to his heartbeat race.
And, like always, you break the tension. Soothe his nerves. You’re still flustered, but your mouth turns up in a smile that has his stomach in knots.
Softly, affectionately, and with all the tenderness in the world, you laugh, “I want you. I want this. It’s okay. Put it in already, dummy.”
He laughs too, with his cheeks burning and his heart racing with anticipation.
“Okay, baby,” he says breathily. “Okay.” And he thinks, Anything for you, anything you want, absolutely anything.
So he rests his weight on his forearms, his nose brushing against yours as he lowers his lips back down. Your tongues intertwine, sloppy, breaths heavy and desperate as he sinks down into your pussy for the very first time.
He feels that tight wetness envelop him. Feels every inch of his dick hugged tight, your walls fluttering and parting, giving easily for him as he pushes you open around him. You’re so wet for him, so ready — warm and pliant and so, so good. He shudders, feels the tension building again.
And when he sinks all the way into you, you moan. Soft and sweet, pleasured, better than anything he’s ever heard. The feeling of you, the sound of you — all of you is so good that it draws a little gasp, a breathless little moan from his own mouth. You’re sucking him in, greedy and clenching.
And now that he’s bottomed out, buried all the way inside of you, feeling your walls pulse around him — he wants to make sure it’s okay for you. That he’s not hurting you before he starts to move.
So he pulls back, just slightly, almost nervous to look at you — even after all of these years. Blushing, he murmurs, Does it feel okay?
Beneath him, you nod hazily. He can tell you’re lost in pleasure already — eyelashes fluttering, struggling to look up at him as you clench up around him. Your hands are knotted up in his hair, pulling on it needily. So he obliges — pulls out again, sinks in all the way. You’re enveloping him, completely, deeply — the both of you moaning softly each time he buries his dick all the way inside.
He thinks you look so pretty in this moment. You always look pretty to him, but this is different. Familiar, but brand new. As he feels your legs wrap around him, as your eyes flutter shut, he watches all the ways your face contorts with each movement. Your face — every angle so familiar, memorized, well-loved — but brand new. Loved, now, in a new way, in a situation he’s only ever dreamt of.
It’s an image he’ll never forget.
“It’s more than okay,” you’re murmuring hazily.
“Good,” he says breathily.
Yuuji feels you disentangle your hands from his hair to bring them to the sides of his face. You cradle it, and the simple action is filled with so much affection, so much tenderness, that a lump forms in his throat. He feels something inside of him break, feels emotions pour out. He’s inside of you — you. And you’re smiling up at him, and your thumb is tracing down the scar on the side of his mouth, and he’s feeling things he’s never felt. That look on your face: adoration, fondness, and longing to match his — longing that he’d never noticed until right this moment. It’s so plain on your face that he wonders how he could’ve ever missed it.
You run your thumb over his scar one more time, and, right before you pull his face back down to yours, he hears you murmur something.
“I’ve only wanted it forever.”
He swallows over the lump in his throat, feels his eyes burn. Forever.
“Forever,” he repeats against your mouth. His voice cracks at the end of the word, and his lips brush against yours. Soft, tender. “Me too,” he says quietly.
Forever. Right before he parts your lips with his again, he smiles. He can’t believe, after all these years, all it took was a pair of leggings.
this is my contribution for my wheel of misfortune kinktober horror collab!! i spun the prompts nightmares + drugged sex.
SUMMARY
a killer is ravaging the streets of your once-peaceful town. will your new roommate protect you from the nightmares that exist both in your head and out of it?
CHAPTER INDEX | a nightmare in five parts
(join the series taglist HERE to be notified of chapter releases)
01 | aftertouch (12.8k words)
horror + general cw — graphic imagery, nightmares; mentions and descriptions of gore, death, and cannibalism; reader smokes
horror + general cw - graphic imagery, fear, gore, mentions of death, hallucinations, confusion, derealization, warped reality (a big mindfuck)
nsfw cw - dark content heavy. monsterfucking - true form sukuna (3 meters+ tall, four arms, two dicks, mouths everywhere), drowning (not to the point of death), repeated loss of consciousness, breathplay, gore, double penetration (with tongues, then dicks), orgasm delay and denial, drugged sex, extremely dubcon (tagging noncon), body horror, nipple play, blood kink, blood drinking, fear play, pain play (ish), sadism + masochism, masturbation (m), spit kink (heavy), degradation, humiliation, biting (heavy), cervix fucking (ish), gaping, oral (m -> self and m -> f), begging (f), cum eating, clit nipping (?)
04 | choke (15k words)
general warnings: disorientation, derealization, confusion, mindfuck, hallucinations, gore throughout, near death experience (brought back from the verge of death), body horror, heavy graphic imagery and surreal horror + phobias (heights/falling, bodies of water, slithering creatures, blood/gore)
dark content heavy: monsterfucking (true form sukuna — 3m+ tall, two dicks, four arms, mouths everywhere), cumflation, noncon, noncon creampie, noncon somnophilia, dubcon throughout, cannibalism, blood, biting, blood drinking, violence, injury, dislocation, drugged sex, wound fucking (ish? just in case), cervix/womb fucking, fearplay, manipulation, stockholm syndrome? (sukuna is evil and manipulative, and the reader is unhinged and enamored with him), sadism, stomach bulge, drowning (not to the point of death)
other content/warnings: degradation (and a little praise), power dynamics, misogyny, objectification, size kink, orgasm delay, orgasm denial, begging, gaping, dacryphilia, tongue fucking, throat/ face fucking, breathplay, choking, suffocation, oral (both receiving, m -> self), double penetration (two holes, w/ tongues and dicks), hair pulling, humiliation, spit, cumshot on face, cum down throat, a lot of cum lmao, pussyjob (ish?), wall sex, cum eating, snowballing (but way worse), regurgitation, exhibitionism (implied)
