RIVALRY
pairing: niragi x male reader
synopsis: It starts as a fight in front of everyone at the Beach—Niragi talking too much, acting like he’s untouchable. You drag him off to a corner, and he tries to fight back, but you don’t let him. He struggles, whines, and eventually gives in, shaking and leaking, while you take control. By the end, he can’t hide how much he needs it.
content warnings: 18+, smut, rough sex, hair pulling, light choking, humiliation, degradation, pain kink, crying/tears, power play, brattiness, top male reader, consensual dub-con vibes, edging, no aftercare, pre-Beach collapse, implied Borderlands violence.
word count: 1.9k words
The Beach courtyard felt like a pressure cooker set to explode the second you stepped out. Hatter was on his soapbox—yada yada, Beach rules, nobody cares—but all the real heat was coming off Niragi. He was a live wire, pacing the dusty concrete like a wolf who'd caught the scent of fresh blood. One minute, he was fine; the next, he was shoving some random guy clear out of the way just because the dude dared to exist in his proximity.
Click. The sound of a collective turning away. Everyone at the Beach had mastered the art of selective blindness. You look away, you survive.
But you? You were never good at following the rules.
"Cut it out," you snapped, stepping directly into his path. It was a stupid, reckless move. You knew it the second the words left your mouth.
Niragi stopped dead. His pacing stuttered, his heavy boots scuffing the concrete. He stared at you like you were an abstract concept that had suddenly manifested in his reality. Disbelief. Then rage. His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, and that pissed-off, challenging half-smile, the one that promised violence, pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"You got a problem?" he asked, his voice a switchblade, sharp, too loud, slicing through the mundane hum of Hatter’s speech.
"Yeah," you fired back, meeting his glare head-on. "You're acting like a moron."
A few people froze, mid-conversation, mid-drink. They watched, terrified but glued, out of the corners of their eyes. You didn’t care. Niragi took a step closer, crowding your space. You didn't flinch. You didn’t back up.
"Oh, you think you’re tough?" he sneered and shoved your shoulder. It wasn’t a killer blow, just a test. A little nudge to see if you'd fold.
You didn't. You shoved back. Harder.
He actually stumbled. The crowd murmured. Hatter, mid-tirade, actually looked over.
That did it.
Niragi lunged. His fingers hooked into your shirt, ready to slam you into the nearest flimsy plastic table. But you were faster. You caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted the joint, and used his own momentum to force him back a full step.
For a heartbeat, his eyes went wide, pure shock. Then, the surprise melted away, replaced by something dark and utterly feral.
"You wanna fight?" he hissed, low and vicious.
"No," you said, your voice just a breath. "I want privacy."
Before he could process the sheer absurdity of the statement, you grabbed him by the back of his neck, a brutal, controlling grip, and hauled him away from the crowd. He cursed, a stream of filthy, furious Japanese, struggling and yanking against your hand, but you didn't slow down. You dragged him down one of the long, empty hallways, his heavy boots scraping and stuttering as he fought to keep up with your relentless pace.
"Let go, you little—" he snapped.
"Shut up," you said, and shoved him hard into a shadowed corner, hidden behind a towering stack of forgotten crates. No one ever came back here. Perfect.
He opened his mouth, fire in his eyes, ready to spit out whatever insult bubbled up, but you had him pinned before a single word could escape. Your hand slammed onto his chest, shoving him against the wall, while your other hand locked around his jaw, tilting his head.
He froze.
Not from fear. Never fear. But from pure, staggering surprise. Like he couldn't comprehend that you, of all people, would dare to manhandle the infamous Suguru Niragi in broad daylight.
"You really wanna pretend you don’t like this?" you murmured, your voice low and dangerously close.
His throat worked, bobbing hard. He glared, the hatred in his eyes warring with the fierce, betraying heat that was already flooding his face.
"Fuck you," he managed, the words a raw rumble.
You leaned in closer, your mouth almost brushing his ear. "Keep talking."
His breath hitched, a stuttered intake of air. That was all the admission you needed.
You shoved him harder against the wall, your thigh sliding aggressively between his legs. A quick, sharp gasp escaped him, a sound he immediately tried to choke down with a harsh scoff. Too late.
Your fingers tightened brutally in his hair. He hissed in pain, and you used the leverage to tilt his head back, forcing his mouth to part on instinct.
"Always running your mouth," you ground out, your voice a threat. "Always acting untouchable. But right now?"
You squeezed his jaw until his eyes fluttered.
"You’re shaking."
"I’m not," he started, his voice thick, but you silenced him with pressure, your thigh driving up and finding purchase between his legs. His hips bucked, a desperate, automatic move, before he could physically stop them.
That finally broke his mask.
"Please," he muttered, the word barely audible, a ragged plea torn from his chest.
You let a slow, utterly satisfied smirk spread across your face. "That easy?"
He looked absolutely furious with himself, like his own traitorous body had committed the ultimate betrayal. You didn't give him time to recover. You spun him around, his chest slamming against the cold wall, and your hand wedged hard between his shoulder blades to keep him locked there. His palms flattened against the rough concrete, and a shaky breath escaped him.
"On your knees," you commanded.
He didn't move. Pure, toxic pride held him rigid.
You didn't ask again. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, dragging his head down with a vicious yank. His knees hit the ground with a dull, painful thud, and he let out a choked sound that he instantly tried to swallow back.
"You look good like that," you said, circling him slowly.
"Shut up," he rasped, but the way he was squeezing his thighs together ruined the bite in his voice.
You pushed your thumb against his lower lip. "Open."
He hesitated. Two seconds of his pridefulness.
Then he opened.
“Good boy.”
You slid your thumb inside. He glared, but his lips sucked around the digit despite himself, his eyes already glassy with humiliation and something far, far needier. When you pulled your hand out, a glistening string of spit followed. His face flushed a deep crimson, his eyes flicking away, ashamed at the speed of his surrender.
"You’re gonna listen," you stated, your hand gripping the back of his neck like a leash. "Or I’ll leave you here like this, hard and desperate."
His breath hitched.
"Don’t," he whispered.
You smiled coldly "Then behave."
You forced him down again, his cheek pressed hard to your thigh, his breathing uneven. You grabbed his hips, yanked him closer to your body, and he let out a little choked noise, half pain, half an uncontrollable rush of want.
He hated how much he wanted this. You could feel the hatred shaking through him.
You pushed him down further, until he was braced against the floor with trembling arms, forehead bowed, his body completely open for you. Utterly broken down in a forgotten, dark corner of the Beach where no one could witness his spectacular fall.
"Good boy," you murmured, guiding him firmly into position. "Now stay still and take it as you need it."
He whimpered, a quiet, raw sound, and didn’t move an inch.
You pressed him closer against the wall, one hand still tangled possessively in his hair, the other gripping his hip. His knees dug into the unforgiving concrete, trembling; his arms braced against the dusty floor. Every inhale he took was a stutter, every exhale a small, desperate whine he tried and failed to swallow.
"You’re already leaking for me," you breathed, leaning in close until your mouth brushed the shell of his ear. "Even though you keep pretending you don’t need it."
He growled, his voice rough, chest heaving. "I, don’t—"
You cut him off with a firm press of your thigh, rocking him down, your hips grinding instinctively against his. He jerked violently, gasping, his fists scrabbling uselessly at the floor. His words tried to fight you. His body didn't care.
"Shut up," you said, your voice a low, dangerous growl. "Move your hands where I tell you."
He tried to resist, huffing curses and muttering, but you caught his wrists, pinning them roughly above his head. His chest hit the wall, forehead bowed, and you leaned in, your teeth grazing the delicate shell of his ear.
"You think holding out will make you strong? It won't," you whispered. "It’ll just make this worse for you."
He whimpered, a sound that was half protest, half plea, trying to twist away. You yanked his hair, forcing his head back, and he let out a sharp, choked noise. That’s the sound you’d been waiting for.
"Good boy," you murmured. "That’s it. Stop pretending you’re in control. You’re mine right now."
His hips bucked, an instinctive, total betrayal, even as his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed in furious shame. He hated it. Hated that he loved it. Hated that you had stolen this much power over him.
You slid your hand down to the front of his pants, brushing him roughly, teasing, dragging out every single reaction. He hissed, pressing forward, digging his nails into the floor, trying to push back without moving away.
"Say it," you demanded, low and sharp. "Say who you belong to."
He shook his head frantically. "I, don’t—"
You tightened your grip in his hair, tugging his head back further. "Louder. Now."
"I—I’m yours!" he spat out, the words cracking, his eyes watering with the humiliation.
You smirked. Perfect. That tiny, hairline crack in his armour. You yanked him down to his knees fully, spreading him roughly, and he let out a strangled, frustrated whine.
His pride was gone. His body was a complete, messy betrayal. You didn't even bother slowing down. Every brutal push, every possessive grab, every hard press was designed to make him submit completely.
He tried to hiss, tried to curse, tried to snap at you through gritted teeth, but each time his hips betrayed him again, each time his chest hit the wall or floor and he whimpered under your controlling hand, you knew he’d lost.
You drove into him, rough, deliberate. His body shook uncontrollably, arms braced, his back arching, cheeks wet with tears he desperately didn't want to show. He tried to keep his eyes on yours, tried to glare through the hazy desire, but all he could do was shiver and moan.
"Look at you," you murmured, your teeth grazing his shoulder. "All pride gone. Just taking it like you need it."
He hissed, head falling forward, lips trembling. "Stop… please… I—"
You pressed your hand into his jaw again, tilting his head up. "No talking. You’ll get used to being quiet soon enough."
His thighs clenched around nothing. His hands fisted the floor. He was a helpless, desperate, messy wreck, and you revelled in every second of it.
When he finally came, it was choking, small sobs breaking through, his body shaking like he couldn’t contain himself. You kept him pressed to you, riding him through every pulse, every shudder, letting him ride out every humiliating, desirable moment of broken pride.
"Good boy," you whispered again, dragging him back close. "Mine. Don’t ever forget it."
He whimpered, his chest heaving, his pride shattered, tears streaked across his face. He didn’t say anything. He couldn't. All he could do was let you have him, completely.
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